Studies in Matthew and Early Christianity (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neuen Testament) 9783161525438, 9783161525445, 3161525434

Table of contents :
Cover
Preface
Table of Contents
Introduction
Graham Stanton (1940–2009)
Content and Purpose of this Volume
Part I: Matthew
Part II: New Testament Studies
Part III: Justin Martyr and Early Christian-Jewish Encounters
Part I: Matthew
Chapter 1: The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel: Matthean Scholarship from 1945 to 1980
I. Recent Matthean Scholarship
II. Matthew as Evangelist
III. Matthew as Polemicist or Apologist
IV. Matthew as Theologian
V. The Origin of Matthew’s Gospel
VI. Whither Matthean Scholarship?
VII. Select Bibliography
Chapter 2: Matthew’s Gospel: A Survey of Some Recent Commentaries
Major Critical Commentaries
Medium Length Commentaries
Shorter Commentaries
Concluding Observations
Bibliography
Chapter 3: Matthew: ΒΙΒΛΟΣ, ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ, or ΒΙΟΣ?
1. Βίβλος γενέσεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (Matt 1,1)
2. Matthew: the First to Refer to His Writing as a εὐαγγέλιον?
3. Matthew’s Gospel as a βίος
Chapter 4: The Communities of Matthew
I
II
III
IV
Chapter 5: Revisiting Matthew’s Communities
I. Genre and Geography
II. External Affairs
III. Internal Affairs
Chapter 6: Ministry in Matthean Christianity
1. Jesus and the Disciples
2. Ministry to the World
3. Leadership Roles
Chapter 7: The Early Reception of Matthew’s Gospel: New Evidence from Papyri?
Early Papyri of Matthew’s Gospel
The Origins of the Codex Format
Part II: New Testament Studies
Chapter 8: Presuppositions in New Testament Criticism
I. Prejudices and Presuppositions
II. The Effects of Presuppositions
III. Presuppositionless Exegesis?
IV. Pre-understanding and the Text
V. Possible Safeguards
Chapter 9: Form Criticism Revisited
Chapter 10: The Gospel Traditions and Early Christological Reflection
I
II
III
Chapter 11: On the Christology of Q
Chapter 12: Incarnational Christology in the New Testament
Chapter 13: Messianism and Christology: Mark, Matthew, Luke and Acts
1. Q Traditions
2. Mark
3. Matthew
4. Luke and Acts
5. Conclusions
Bibliography
Chapter 14: Rudolf Bultmann: Jesus and the Word
I
II
III
Chapter 15: Stephen in Lucan Perspective
Chapter 16: Paul’s Gospel
Paul and his Predecessors
The Gospel as God’s Initiative Through His Son
Christ Crucified and Raised for Our Salvation
Justification
Reconciliation
The Gospel Came in Power, and in the Spirit
Chapter 17: The Law of Moses and the Law of Christ: Galatians 3:1–6:2
I. Galatians 3:1–5: By Works of the Law or by Believing?
II. Abraham: Galatians 3:6–9 and 15–18 and 4:21–51
III. The Curse of the Law: Galatians 3:10–12
IV. The Origin and Purpose of the Law: Galatians 3:19–25 and 4:1–10
V. The Law of Christ: 4:21b, 5:14, and 6:2
Chapter 18: What is the Law of Christ?
The Law of Christ as the Teaching of Jesus
The Law of Christ as the Norm or Principle of Love
What is the Law of Christ?
Chapter 19: Interpreting the New Testament Today
Part III: Justin Martyr and Early Jewish-Christian Encounters
Chapter 20: The Two Parousias of Christ: Justin Martyr and Matthew
I
II
Chapter 21: ‘God-Fearers’: Neglected Evidence in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho
I Trypho’s Companions
II Dialogue 23: ‘God-fearers’
III Dialogue 122–123: ‘Proselytes’
IV Concluding Observations
Bibliography
Chapter 22: Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho : Group Boundaries, ‘Proselytes’ and ‘God-fearers’
1. Trypho’s Companions
2. Dialogue 8 and 9: Group Boundaries
3. Dialogue 23: ‘Godfearers’
4. Dialogue 47: Tolerance and Intolerance
5. Dialogue 122–3: ‘Proselytes’
6. Concluding Observations
Bibliography
Chapter 23: The Spirit in the Writings of Justin Martyr
I. The Role of the Spirit in Justin’s Conversion
II. The Prophetic Spirit
III. Father, Logos-Son and Spirit
IV. The Gifts of the Spirit
Chapter 24: Justin on Martyrdom and Suicide
1. A Triple Martyrdom in Rome: 2 Apology 1–2 (c. 155 C.E.)
2. Suicide and Martyrdom: 2 Apology 4
3. ‘Semen est sanguis Christianorum’ (Tertullian, Apol. 50.13)
4. Socrates and Christ
5. The Acts of Justin Martyr
Conclusion
Chapter 25: Aspects of Early Christian and Jewish Worship: Pliny and the Kerygma Petrou
Pliny
The ‘Kerygma Petrou’
Conclusions
Chapter 26: Jewish Christian Elements in the Pseudo-Clementine Writings
1. An Overview of the Extant Writings
2. Towards a Tradition History
3. The Letter of Peter (EpPet) and the Contestatio (C)
4. Anti-Paul Traditions in the Homilies
5. An Apologia for Jewish Believers in Jesus [Recognitions 1, parts of 27–71]
6. Conclusions
Appendix: Graham Stanton’s Publications
Acknowledgements
Index of Ancient Sources
Old Testament
Old Testament Pseudepigrapha
Qumran
Philo
New Testament
Josephus
Early Christian Texts
Pseudo-Clementine Literature
Rabbinic Texts
Greco-Roman Texts
Papyri
Inscriptions
Index of Modern Authors
Subject Index

Citation preview

Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Herausgeber / Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich) Mitherausgeber / Associate Editors Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) James A. Kelhoffer (Uppsala) Hans-Josef Klauck (Chicago, IL) Tobias Nicklas (Regensburg)

309

Prof. Graham Stanton (1940–2009)

Graham Stanton

Studies in Matthew and Early Christianity Edited by

Markus Bockmuehl and David Lincicum

Mohr Siebeck

Graham Stanton (1940–2009); 1969 PhD from Cambridge; 1970–98 Professor at King’s Col‑ lege London; 1998–2009 Lady Margaret’s Professor of Divinity, University of Cambridge and Fellow of Fitzwilliam College. Markus Bockmuehl, born 1961; 1987 PhD from Cambridge; since 2007 Professor of Biblical and Early Christian Studies, University of Oxford and Fellow of Keble College. David Lincicum, born 1979; 2009 DPhil from Oxford; since 2012 University Lecturer in New Testament, Oxford and Caird Fellow in Theology, Mansfield College.

e-ISBN PDF 978-3-16-152544-5 ISBN 978-3-16-152543-8 ISSN 0512-1604 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http: / /dnb.dnb.de. © 2013  by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, Germany.  www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproduc‑ tions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset by Martin Fischer in Tübingen using Times typeface, printed by GuldeDruck in Tübingen on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany.

Preface This collection of some of Graham Stanton’s shorter writings has been under‑ taken by the editors on behalf of Esther Stanton, Graham Stanton’s widow and the literary executor of his estate. The assistance and enthusiastic support she rendered greatly facilitated the production of this volume. We are grateful to the publishers who offered their kind permission to reprint Stanton’s essays for this volume; full details of their original publication can be found in the ‘Acknowl‑ edgements’ at the end of the volume. Moreoever, we are indebted for practical help received from several quarters. Nick Ellis performed an invaluable work of supererogation in converting scans of the original publications into usable files. Benjamin Edsall undertook the laborious task of correcting the initial files and standardizing the formatting; his careful attention to detail has put both the editors and readers of this volume in his debt. Nick Moore conducted an impres‑ sively careful proof-reading of the manuscript and corrected numerous errors. The Leverhulme Trust and the Bethune Baker Fund kindly supplied funds that assisted in the production of this volume. Thanks are also due to Dr. Henning Ziebritzki of Mohr Siebeck, along with Prof. Jörg Frey and the co-editors of WUNT, for welcoming this volume into the present series. The production team at Mohr Siebeck were characteristically precise and helpful. Finally, we hope that this volume will be a small contribution to honouring the life and legacy of its author. Oxford, Advent 2012

Markus Bockmuehl David Lincicum

Table of Contents

Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Part I Matthew Chapter 1: The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel: Matthean Scholarship from 1945 to 1980 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 I. Recent Matthean Scholarship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 II. Matthew as Evangelist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 III. Matthew as Polemicist or Apologist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 IV. Matthew as Theologian . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 V. The Origin of Matthew’s Gospel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 VI. Whither Matthean Scholarship? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 VII. Select Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Chapter 2: Matthew’s Gospel: A Survey of Some Recent Commentaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Major Critical Commentaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Medium Length Commentaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Shorter Commentaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Concluding Observations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

77 78 81 85 85 86

Chapter 3: Matthew: ΒΙΒΛΟΣ, ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ, or ΒΙΟΣ? . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 1. Βίβλος γενέσεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (Matt 1,1) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 2. Matthew: the First to Refer to His Writing as a εὐαγγέλιον? . . . . . . . . 92 3. Matthew’s Gospel as a βίος . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97

VIII

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Chapter 4: The Communities of Matthew . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 IV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 Chapter 5: Revisiting Matthew’s Communities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 I. Genre and Geography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120 II. External Affairs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 III. Internal Affairs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 Chapter 6: Ministry in Matthean Christianity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 1. Jesus and the Disciples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 2. Ministry to the World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142 3. Leadership Roles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 Chapter 7: The Early Reception of Matthew’s Gospel: New Evidence from Papyri? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 Early Papyri of Matthew’s Gospel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 The Origins of the Codex Format . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162

Part II New Testament Studies Chapter 8: Presuppositions in New Testament Criticism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 I. Prejudices and Presuppositions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174 II. The Effects of Presuppositions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176 III. Presuppositionless Exegesis? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179 IV. Pre-understanding and the Text . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181 V. Possible Safeguards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 Chapter 9: Form Criticism Revisited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187 Chapter 10: The Gospel Traditions and Early Christological Reflection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200 II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205 III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206

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Chapter 11: On the Christology of Q . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209 Chapter 12: Incarnational Christology in the New Testament . . . . . . . . . . 223 Chapter 13: Messianism and Christology: Mark, Matthew, Luke and Acts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237 1. Q Traditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239 2. Mark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242 3. Matthew . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244 4. Luke and Acts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 5. Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257 Chapter 14: Rudolf Bultmann: Jesus and the Word . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261 I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261 II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262 III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266 Chapter 15: Stephen in Lucan Perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269 Chapter 16: Paul’s Gospel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281 Paul and his Predecessors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 282 The Gospel as God’s Initiative Through His Son . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283 Christ Crucified and Raised for Our Salvation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285 Justification . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286 Reconciliation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288 The Gospel Came in Power, and in the Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289 Chapter 17: The Law of Moses and the Law of Christ: Galatians 3:1–6:2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293 I. Galatians 3:1–5: By Works of the Law or by Believing? . . . . . . . . . . . 297 II. Abraham: Galatians 3:6–9 and 15–18 and 4:21–51 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 300 III. The Curse of the Law: Galatians 3:10–12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303 IV. The Origin and Purpose of the Law: Galatians 3:19–25 and 4:1–10 . 305 V. The Law of Christ: 4:21b, 5:14, and 6:2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 308 Chapter 18: What is the Law of Christ? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311 The Law of Christ as the Teaching of Jesus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313 The Law of Christ as the Norm or Principle of Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318 What is the Law of Christ? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319 Chapter 19: Interpreting the New Testament Today . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323

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Part III Justin Martyr and Early Jewish-Christian Encounters Chapter 20: The Two Parousias of Christ: Justin Martyr and Matthew . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339 I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 340 II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 344 Chapter 21: ‘God-Fearers’: Neglected Evidence in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 351 I Trypho’s Companions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 354 II Dialogue 23: ‘God-fearers’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355 III Dialogue 122–123: ‘Proselytes’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 358 IV Concluding Observations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 360 Chapter 22: Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho: Group Boundaries, ‘Proselytes’ and ‘God-fearers’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 363 1. Trypho’s Companions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 364 2. Dialogue 8 and 9: Group Boundaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365 3. Dialogue 23: ‘Godfearers’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 367 4. Dialogue 47: Tolerance and Intolerance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 370 5. Dialogue 122–3: ‘Proselytes’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 372 6. Concluding Observations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 373 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 374 Chapter 23: The Spirit in the Writings of Justin Martyr . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 377 I. The Role of the Spirit in Justin’s Conversion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 378 II. The Prophetic Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 381 III. Father, Logos-Son and Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 384 IV. The Gifts of the Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387 Chapter 24: Justin on Martyrdom and Suicide . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 391 1. A Triple Martyrdom in Rome: 2 Apology 1–2 (c. 155 c.e.) . . . . . . . . . 393 2. Suicide and Martyrdom: 2 Apology 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 395 3. ‘Semen est sanguis Christianorum’ (Tertullian, Apol. 50.13) . . . . . . . 398 4. Socrates and Christ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 401 5. The Acts of Justin Martyr . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 401 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 403

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Chapter 25: Aspects of Early Christian and Jewish Worship: Pliny and the Kerygma Petrou . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 405 Pliny . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 406 The ‘Kerygma Petrou’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 414 Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 417 Chapter 26: Jewish Christian Elements in the Pseudo-Clementine ­ Writings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419 1. An Overview of the Extant Writings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421 2. Towards a Tradition History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 423 3. The Letter of Peter (EpPet) and the Contestatio (C) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 427 4. Anti-Paul Traditions in the Homilies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 429 5. An Apologia for Jewish Believers in Jesus [Recognitions 1, parts of 27–71] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 432 6. Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 438 Appendix: Graham Stanton’s Publications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441 Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 447 Index of Ancient Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 449 Index of Modern Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 471 Subject Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 479

Introduction Graham Stanton (1940–2009) During his 21 years at King’s College London and nine years as Lady Margaret’s Professor of Divinity at Cambridge, Graham Stanton (1940–2009) became one of the world’s best-known and warmly admired scholars of the New Testament. He exercised extensive influence on a generation of his graduate students, many of them now in positions of leadership from Singapore and Australia to Britain and the US, in whom he took a passionate and ever-encouraging interest. He rose to international leadership of the profession as President of the Society for New Testament Studies and long-term editor of its flagship journal New Testament Studies and of the International Critical Commentary series (for which he oversaw the publication of a dozen volumes). In 2002 he led the University of Cambridge’s 500-year celebrations of its oldest chair – the Lady Margaret’s Professorship of Divinity. This is not the place to offer a full review of his scholarly work, let alone an intellectual biography (James D. G. Dunn and others have provided a start for both of these tasks in a series of well crafted and appreciative obituaries1). Leslie Houlden, at one stage his rival for the chair at King’s College London, in a review identified Graham as virtually “the leader of British New Testament scholars”.2 Although Stanton commanded an enviable competence across the full breadth of New Testament scholarship, his written work specialized with particular acuity and engagement on issues surrounding the origin and reception of the Gospels. After a published dissertation on Jesus in New Testament preaching,3 his most formative and influential work concerned the Gospel of Matthew – an interest which in later years expanded to produce a number of significant contri‑ butions on the process of the writing, copying, distribution and reception of the 1  Note the obituaries of James D. G. Dunn (The Guardian, 13 Sept 2009), David M. Thomp‑ son (The Independent, 16 Oct 2009), Richard A. Burridge (The Church Times, 9 Sept 2009), and the unsigned obituaries in The Telegraph (10 Aug 2009) and The Times (21 July 2009). 2  Leslie C. Houlden, Review of Graham N. Stanton, Jesus and Gospel (Cambridge: Cam‑ bridge University Press, 2004), Theology 108 (2005), 208. 3  Jesus of Nazareth in New Testament Preaching (SNTSMS 27; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974; reissued in paperback, 2004).

2

Introduction

Gospels in the first and second centuries.4 Yet he was never merely a specialist, and it is a mark of his commitment to the wider outreach and public engagement of his scholarship that his best-known book is an introduction to Jesus and the Gospels that continues to be very widely used as an undergraduate university textbook (and is currently under consideration for a third, posthumously updated edition).5 Graham Stanton was widely admired as a man without guile or manipulation, of unwaveringly sunny and hopeful disposition even in the darkest times; he saw the best in everyone he met – not infrequently at considerable cost to himself – and he did not hesitate to express this goodwill in unnumbered references and endorsements for students and colleagues. This commitment to the advancement of others, together with his faithful editorial and institutional leadership, meant that during his academic career his literary output, although impressive, did not always live up to his own expecta‑ tions, at least in quantity. In this connection he laid plans for a monograph on Justin Martyr, which he hoped in his retirement to complete, and a commentary on Galatians for the International Critical Commentary series. As his final illness took its toll over several years, he realised with humility and some understand‑ able disappointment that these were among a number of tasks to be handed on to others. Only preliminary studies from both unfinished projects could be seen through to publication, just as a number of other projects throughout his career resulted in learned and significant articles that time did not permit him to gather into a sustained and longer argument.

Content and Purpose of this Volume While friends and students have honoured Graham Stanton’s life and work in a Festschrift (2005)6 and a volume of essays in his memory (2011),7 it seemed appropriate to collect and group together some of his scattered smaller publica‑ tions under the heading of key themes that have characterized his scholarship. This volume, then, presents a collection of twenty-six of Stanton’s essays, all but one previously published. Rather than a comprehensive collection of all 4  A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1992); Gospel Truth? New Light on Jesus and the Gospels (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1995); Jesus and Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). 5  The Gospels and Jesus (2nd ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). 6  Markus Bockmuehl and Donald A. Hagner, eds., The Written Gospel (Cambridge: Cam‑ bridge University Press, 2005). 7  Richard A. Burridge, Joel Willitts and Daniel M. Gurtner, eds., Jesus, Matthew’s Gospel and Early Christianity: Studies in Memory of Graham N. Stanton (LNTS 435; London: Con‑ tinuum, 2011).

Introduction

3

previously published short writings,8 the intention here is to offer a coherent selection of writings on what are perhaps Graham Stanton’s most prominent con‑ tributions to scholarship: the Gospel of Matthew (Part I), other New Testament writings (Part II), and early Jewish-Christian encounters with a special focus on Justin Martyr (Part III).

Part I: Matthew Stanton’s work as an interpreter of the Gospel of Matthew and the New Testa‑ ment is well known. Thus, Part I begins with two critical overviews of the field of Matthean studies by a recognized expert in the discipline. Chapter 1 (‘The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel: Matthean Scholarship from 1945 to 1980’) presents a wide-ranging survey of literature on Matthew, but one that presses beyond mere cataloguing of alternative views to insightful criticism. Here one observes Stanton articulating his own well-known position on Mat‑ thew’s stance toward Judaism as one of an extra muros debate, but also an authoritative presentation of many of the key issues in Matthean scholarship in the period under consideration. Given the ongoing pace of scholarship, this survey is understandably more useful as a guide to mid-20th century exegetical opinion than as a current status quaestionis, but the interpreter of Matthew will find much of lasting worth in Stanton’s judgements. Stanton ended his survey with the statement that new commentaries on Matthew were urgently needed; Chapter 2 (‘Matthew’s Gospel: A Survey of Some Recent Commentaries’), revisits the state of affairs fifteen years later in light of the many commentaries that did in fact appear since Stanton originally wrote those words. These two surveys of research are then followed by five individual studies on particular elements of Matthew’s Gospel. Chapter 3 (‘Matthew: ΒΙΒΛΟΣ, ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ, or ΒΙΟΣ?’) takes up the question of the genre of the Gospel. Arguing that Matthew did not intend 1:1 to be the title of the book, Stanton further suggests that it is Matthew (rather than Mark before him or Marcion after) who lays claim to the innovation of using the term εὐαγγέλιον to refer to a written narrative account of the story of Jesus. Moreover, conceding that he had not pressed his earlier (1974) observations about the biographical character of Matthew far enough, Stanton now agrees with Richard Burridge and others that 8  As the bibliography of Stanton’s works in the ‘Appendix’ below makes clear, several of Stanton’s essays had already been collected to form the substance of his own books. While some sections of one or two of these essays also found their way into his books, and occasionally the essays overlap with one another (e.g., Chapters 21 and 22 share some material), it seemed worthwhile to include the full text of all these original essays. Apart from a few minor cor‑ rections and a certain amount of standardization (though we have sought to exercise a ‘light touch’), the essays are here presented as originally published, indicating original page number‑ ing in double brackets for ease of reference.

4

Introduction

Matthew is best understood as a βίος, an ancient biography. Next are two essays that examine the nature of the Matthean community (or communities) and seek to extend Stanton’s earlier contention that the Gospel functions as a legitimizing document for a ‘new people’. In Chapter 4 (‘The Communities of Matthew’), Stanton argues that Matthew was composed as a ‘foundation document’ to legiti‑ mate a mixed community of Jewish and Gentile Christians who were still living in the wake of a painful separation from Judaism. The next chapter (‘Revisiting Matthew’s Communities’) continues the inquiry into the nature of Matthew’s communities, and addresses challenges leveled against Stanton’s own views on the matter, especially those by Anthony Saldarini. He interestingly now con‑ cedes, drawing on Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho (and anticipating some of his later work), that attitudes toward Judaism in the community may have been more varied than he initially proposed. Part I is concluded by two further studies on Matthew. Chapter 6 (‘Ministry in Matthean Christianity’) examines the theme of Christian ministry in the Gospel. Acknowledging the propriety of bringing systematic-theological concerns to the New Testament, Stanton here first contends that the ministry of Jesus in Matthew is a model for his followers and that Matthew expects the people of God to minister to the world, before also examining the leadership structure of the communities addressed by the evange‑ list. Finally, in Chapter 7 (‘The Early Reception of Matthew’s Gospel: New Evi‑ dence from Papyri?’), Stanton examines recently published papyri of Matthew as a window on the use of the Gospel in the years after it was first composed.

Part II: New Testament Studies Part II (‘New Testament Studies’) collects twelve studies on various New Tes‑ tament themes. The first two of these are methodological in nature. Chapter 8 (‘Presuppositions in New Testament Criticism’), in dialogue with Bultmann, Barth, Gadamer and others, critically reflects on the role of presuppositions in exegesis. The next chapter (‘Form Criticism Revisited’) addresses itself to the ‘stagnant discipline’ of form criticism, and asks probing questions about some (then) widely accepted form-critical axioms. While Stanton wants to refine rather than to discard the tool, his essay was one among a number of critiques that led to a certain fall from prominence for a method that dominated mid-20th century research on the Gospels. The next five chapters take up the question of early Christology, examining in turn early gospel traditions, the hypothetical Q source, the question of incar‑ nation in the New Testament, aspects of continuity and discontinuity between Jewish messianic hopes and early Christology, and an influential book by Ru‑ dolf Bultmann. In Chapter 10 (‘The Gospel Traditions and Early Christological Reflection’), Stanton makes a case for seeing the Gospels as concerned with the

Introduction

5

past of Jesus, a position unfashionable in the early 1970s when the essay was first published, by re-evaluating the biographical elements in the Gospels and by proposing a Sitz im Leben for interest in the past of Jesus in the early church. The following chapter (‘On the Christology of Q’) suggests that Q is concerned with the identity of Jesus as an agent of God, but equally with the demands Jesus makes of his followers. Stanton also criticizes those who would draw a sharp line of division between Q and passion material, suggesting that the two could quite well exist alongside one another in a community. Chapter 12 (‘Incarnational Christology in the New Testament’), originally part of an assessment of the con‑ troversial book, The Myth of God Incarnate, takes up the theme and suggests that the authors of the New Testament often do, in fact, utilize what Stanton terms ‘incipiently incarnational language’ to describe Jesus. One of the most recent essays in the book follows (‘Messianism and Christology: Mark, Matthew, Luke and Acts’). Here Stanton ranges widely over Q, the synoptic Gospels and Acts, and suggests that the Christological reflections of each of these attest elements of both continuity and discontinuity with Jewish messianism. Chapter 14 (‘Rudolf Bultmann: Jesus and the Word’) presents Stanton’s short review essay of an oddly neglected book by Bultmann, that Stanton provocatively calls ‘one of the most important theological books of this [i.e., the 20th] century’. Several contributions then take up various New Testament themes. Luke’s portrait of Stephen in Acts 6 and 7 is treated in Chapter 15, ‘Stephen in Lucan Perspective’, in which Stanton offers a sustained reading of Stephen’s speech and seeks to demonstrate the coherence of the theology in it with the rest of Acts. Next, drawing on his extensive work on ‘gospel’ elsewhere, Stanton offers a brief but comprehensive investigation of this concept in Paul’s writings (Chap‑ ter 16, ‘Paul’s Gospel’). The following two essays investigate the ‘law of Christ’. In the first (Chapter 17, ‘The Law of Moses and the Law of Christ: Galatians 3:1–6:2’), Stanton, who had carried out some preliminary work for an unfinished commentary on Galatians in the International Critical Commentary series, as‑ sesses Paul’s stance toward the law in Galatians 3–6. He ranges broadly across those chapters, drawing on Justin Martyr for interesting comparative perspec‑ tives along the way. The second essay devoted to the theme (Chapter 18, ‘What Is the Law of Christ?’), in a more theologically constructive vein, takes Paul’s statement about fulfilling the law of Christ in Gal. 6:2 (once more, with help from Justin Martyr) as a means of penetrating to the heart of the ethical teaching of the New Testament. The final essay in Part II was originally Stanton’s inau‑ gural address as Professor at King’s College London, and offers a programmatic vision for New Testament study (Chapter 19, ‘Interpreting the New Testament Today’). Eschewing the rejection of the historical critical method on the one hand, and of theological concern on the other, Stanton’s essay contends for the necessity of both approaches and still makes for lively and worthwhile reading in the current climate of New Testament scholarship.

6

Introduction

Part III: Justin Martyr and Early Christian-Jewish Encounters Toward the end of his life, Stanton was engaged in writing a book on Justin Martyr in the context of early Christian and Jewish dialogue. Though he did not live to complete the project, he published a number of preliminary studies toward that end that are included in Part III, together with two related essays and one previously unpublished paper. The first essay in this section (Chapter 20, ‘The Two Parousias of Christ: Justin Martyr and Matthew’) bridges Stanton’s interests in Matthew and Justin with an examination of the development of the notion of two comings of Christ, the first in lowliness but the second in glory. He contends that Matthew and Justin develop the notion independently in response to Jewish polemic. The next two essays explore the evidence for ‘God-fearers’ and group boundaries in Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho. Chapters 21 (‘“GodFearers”: Neglected Evidence in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho’) and 22 (‘Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho: Group Boundaries, “Proselytes” and “God-fearers”’) draw attention to several places in the Dialogue where Justin may have Gentile sympathizers with the synagogue in view, even if Stanton is clear that these texts cannot be used straightforwardly to support a widespread hypothesis that the success of early Christianity is due to its ability to win ‘God-fearers’ through evangelism. In Chapter 23 (‘The Spirit in the Writings of Justin Martyr’), Stanton examines Justin’s famously obscure thought on the Spirit, suggesting that paying attention to the biblical roots of his thought rather than to later dogmatic formulations paves the way to greater understanding. A previously unpublished paper (Chapter 24, ‘Justin on Martyrdom and Suicide’) seeks to redress the neglect of Justin’s evidence in discussions of early Christian martyrdom and identity formation. In Chapter 25 (‘Aspects of Early Christian and Jewish Worship: Pliny and the Kerygma Petrou’), Stanton uses Pliny’s out‑ sider perspective together with the insider perspective of the Kerygma Petrou to argue that there were significant differences between early Christian and Jewish worship. While Christians clearly owed much to their Jewish roots, ‘much was simply abandoned’. The final essay in the volume (Chapter 26, ‘Jewish Christian Elements in the Pseudo-Clementine Writings’) comprises a re-examination of a perennial theme: the use of the Pseudo-Clementine literature as a witness to Jewish Christianity. With sensitivity to the challenges posed by the complexity of these writings, Stanton steers a course between those who follow F. C. Baur in maintaining the crucial importance of these texts for earliest Christianity on the one hand, and those who deny their relevance at all on the other. Finally, the Appendix ends the volume with a complete bibliography of Stan‑ ton’s major writings, thus superseding that included in the Festschrift published in his honour in 2005.9  Bockmuehl and Hagner, eds., The Written Gospel, 296–300.

9

Part I

Matthew

Chapter 1

The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel: Matthean Scholarship from 1945 to 1980 I. Recent Matthean Scholarship [[1890]] Matthew’s gospel has frequently received a bad press. The evangelist’s use of the Old Testament, far from buttressing his presentation of Jesus, has been considered to be arbitrary and to underline just how far we are today from Mat‑ thew’s religious and cultural world. Matthew’s denunciations of Jewish leaders have been seen as the starting-point of the long sad line of Christian anti-Sem‑ itism. The alleged legalism of Matthew has often been attacked. Some scholars grudgingly express gratitude to the evangelist for preserving so fully the sayings and parables of Jesus, but hastily add disapproval of many of the modifications (or distortions, as they have sometimes been called) which Matthew has made to his sources. Some of the traditions found only in Matthew, such as Pilate’s wife’s dream and the account of the death of Judas, are felt by some not only to be legendary but also to be among the least significant parts of the four gospels. In sharp contrast, much of the material found only in Luke’s gospel is considered both by historians and by theologians to be of considerable value. Some of this deep-seated prejudice against Matthew’s gospel is based on serious misconceptions. And not all contemporary assessments of the value of the evangelist’s work are negative or hostile. K. Stendahl (1968, p. xiiif.),1 for example, concludes that Matthew “is a witness to a far smoother transition from Judaism to Christianity than we usually suppose. Luke is irenic by effort, as his Acts show. Matthew is comprehensive by circumstance, and that makes it a rich and wise book.” E. Käsemann (1960, p. 83) suggests that Matthew, who writes for Gentile Christians out of a wide knowledge of Jewish-Christian tradi‑ tion, may well be nearer, in the material peculiar to him, to primitive tradition than Mark or Luke. Attitudes to Matthew in the first centuries after its composition were rather less mixed than they are today. In spite of its ‘Jewishness’ it quickly became more widely used than the other three gospels and it deeply influenced the faith 1  Full details of literature cited in an abbreviated form may be found in the ‘Select Biblio­ graphy’ at the end of this article (pp. 1945 ff. [68–75 in this volume]).

10

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

and life of both Jewish Christianity and almost the entire Gentile Church.2 The firm belief that, unlike Mark and Luke, Matthew was written by a disciple of Jesus partly accounts for its popularity, as does Matthew’s carefully ordered account of the life of Jesus. Perhaps the apparently contradictory emphases of the gospel, which fascinate and bewilder scholars today, were seen in the early church as part of its glory; certainly the canvas on which Matthew painted was wide and his colourings rich. Indeed, a century ago it was suggested that Mat‑ thew was the first harmony of the gospel traditions;3 this may be an exaggeration, but there is more than a grain of truth in it. [[1891]] For whom was the evangelist writing? What sources did he use and on what principles did he order and construct his gospel? Did the evangelist in‑ tend his lengthy discourses and his narratives to be read as a New Pentateuch (or Hexateuch) and that Jesus should be seen as the New Moses? How strongly was Matthew influenced by the opposition of contemporary Judaism to his Christian community? Does Matthew mark a retrogression from the teaching of Jesus or Paul? Does he have a distinctive understanding of the significance of Jesus? Is the evangelist rather more concerned with Christology than with ecclesiology? These are just some of the questions with which recent Matthean scholarship has been concerned. It will be apparent that they are of importance both to the Christian theologian and to the historian of first century Judaism and Christian‑ ity. As we shall see, Matthew’s gospel has received a very considerable amount of scholarly attention since 1945, even though major commentaries have been conspicuous by their absence. In the pages which follow more attention will be paid to literature which has appeared since 1965 than to the period from 1945 to 1965. This is partly because several thorough discussions of the earlier literature are available and partly in the interests of brevity. Even so, no attempt has been made to discuss every sin‑ gle book and article on Matthew which has been published; in the past 15 years there has been such a flood of scholarly literature that a comprehensive survey would become a mere catalogue.4 I have concentrated on the origin and purpose of the gospel and on some (but not all) of the evangelist’s distinctive emphases. I have attempted to set out the issues at stake and to interact critically with some of the more important scholarly contributions rather than to summarize every view which has been advanced.  See E. Massaux (1950) and G. N. Stanton (1977).  C. Weizsäcker, Untersuchungen über die evangelische Geschichte, ihre Quellen und den Gang ihrer Entwicklung, Tübingen-Leipzig, 1864, 2 ed. 1901, p. 129. I owe this reference to M. Devisch, p. 71 n. 1. 4  For details of all the scholarly literature on Matthew, the following reference works are invaluable: New Testament Abstracts, Cambridge, Mass., published three times per annum; Elenchus Bibliographicus Biblicus, Rome, published annually; Internationale Zeitschriften‑ schau für Bibelwissenschaft und Grenzgebiete, Düsseldorf, published annually; G. Wagner, An Exegetical Bibliography on the Gospel of Matthew, Rüschlikon-Zürich, 1974. 2 3

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

11

It is often hazardous to attempt to isolate turning points in scholarship but in the case of Matthew’s gospel the period immediately after 1945 is particularly important. In 1946 G. D. Kilpatrick published the first major study in English since Bacon (1930). In 1948 G. Bornkamm’s extremely influential essay ‘Die Sturmstillung im Matthäusevangelium’ first appeared. Whereas Kilpatrick considered the whole gospel and a wide range of issues, Bornkamm examined one pericope in detail in order to shed light on the evangelist’s method. Kilpatrick’s discussions of Matthean style, the relationship of Matthew to Judaism and the genre of Matthew influenced later scholarship considerably. In some parts of his book, Kilpatrick anticipated the later development of redac‑ tion criticism. It is Bornkamm’s essay, however, which marks the beginning of the thorough-going redaction critical approach, the method which has dominated Matthean scholarship for three decades. [[1892]] Bornkamm assumes that Matthew has used Mark’s account of the stilling of the storm and he pays close attention to the additions, modifications and omissions which Matthew has made, as well as to the different context in which the pericope has been placed. He concludes that Matthew is not merely handing on the Marcan story but is expounding its theological significance in his own way: Matthew is seen as the first exegete of the Marcan pericope. The period immediately after 1945 not only saw the development of redac‑ tion criticism but also the discovery of fresh evidence: the Dead Sea Scrolls.5 It was not until K. Stendahl’s pioneering work in 1954 that the new discoveries made a direct impact on Matthean scholarship. In my view the importance of the Dead Sea Scrolls for our understanding of the nature and purpose of Matthew’s gospel can easily be exaggerated. But the Scrolls have undoubtedly increased very considerably our knowledge of first century Judaism. Their discovery has stimulated interest in various aspects of Judaism in the period in which Matthew was written. Although I have singled out 1945 as marking a new phase of Matthean schol‑ arship and have stressed the importance of the development of redaction criti‑ cism it is worth noting that earlier scholars did anticipate redaction critical work on Matthew to a much greater extent than is usually appreciated. In 1930 Bacon entitled one chapter in his book ‘Traits of the Redactor’ and on p. 132 f. he wrote as follows: “Much can be determined concerning the general characteristics of our first canonical evangelist by the mere observation of the structure and salient traits of his compilation, and in particular his treatment of Mark … Our relatively late and wholly unknown evangelist is more than a skilful compiler 5  The Nag Hammadi documents may well turn out to be almost as important for Matthean scholarship as the Dead Sea Scrolls, but their significance is only now beginning to be ap‑ preciated. See Ε. Schweizer (1977) and G. N. Stanton (1977, pp. 79 ff.) and a forthcoming London Ph.D. dissertation on Petrine controversies in first and second century Christianity by one of my research students, T. V. Smith.

12

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

and editor. He has blended diverse elements together into a unit, a whole which is more than a mosaic.” In the closing pages of his ‘Geschichte der synoptischen Tradition’ (2nd ed. 1931) R. Bultmann had discussed the methods used by the evangelists in their editing of the narrative material and the composition of the gospels; he emphasised the extent to which Matthew is much more the master of his material than is Mark. In his major commentary on Matthew, A. Schlatter (1929) anticipated some aspects of modern redaction critical work on Matthew. Schlatter saw the evangelist as an author in his own right and attempted to deduce from Matthew a picture of Matthew’s Church; he claims that a quite bitter enmity between the primitive Palestinian community and Judaism can be detected. Schlatter was able to adopt this approach to Matthew even though he rejected Marcan prior‑ ity and form criticism, both of which were to become axiomatic in all the early redaction critical work on Matthew.6 [[1893]] As we shall see in III, many redaction critics have discerned behind Matthew tensions or polemic among Christians and have attempted to locate the gospel within a particular understanding of the development of early Chris‑ tianity. Once again, there is earlier precedent: in the 1840’s F. C. Baur and his younger colleagues began to apply ‘Tendenzkritik’ to the gospels in a way which anticipates much recent scholarship.7 G. Volkmar, for example, accepted Marcan priority (unlike Baur who utilised the Griesbach hypothesis) and saw Mark as a representative of Pauline Christianity.8 Then came the conservative Petrine Jewish Christian reaction which Luke attempts to counter by showing that Paul is not inferior to Peter. And then came Matthew: he is seen as a Jewish Christian sympathetic to Paulinism; he accepts the Gentile mission but stresses the motif of the fulfilment of the Old Testament in the ministry of Jesus. There is a sense, then, in which the sudden rash of redaction critical studies of Matthew since 1945 can be seen as a natural development of earlier work.9 But even though some aspects of redaction criticism were anticipated long before Bornkamm’s 1948 essay, in retrospect this brilliant study of Matthew’s account of the stilling of the storm clearly marks a most important turning point in Matthean scholarship. This is borne out by contrasting with Bornkamm’s essay R. Bultmann’s comments on Matthew, written twenty years earlier:  See, for example, pp. 410, 501, 665, 672.  F. C. Baur, Kritische Untersuchungen über die kanonischen Evangelien, Tübingen, 1847. 8  G. Volkmar, Die Religion Jesu, Leipzig, 1857. For further details, see C. M. Tuckett, The Griesbach Hypothesis in the 19th Century, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 3 (1979), pp. 29–60; R. H. Fuller, Baur versus Hilgenfeld: A Forgotten Chapter in the Debate on the Synoptic Problem, New Testament Studies 24 (1978), pp. 355–370. 9  For further discussion of the precursors of redaction criticism, see J. Rohde (1968, pp. 31– 46), Unfortunately Rohde overlooks the work of P. Wernle, Die synoptische Frage, Freiburg 1899 and R. H. Lightfoot, History and Interpretation in the Gospels, London, 1935 and Idem, The Gospel Message of St. Mark, Oxford, 1950. 6 7

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

13

“The note of ecclesiastical piety which pervades the Gospel affects the arrange‑ ment too. Nevertheless Matthew’s portrayal is not so consciously motivated by the Christian church’s outlook as was Mark’s. It is much more an unconscious influence in Matthew, and that is why the literary form of his work is not to the same extent as Mark’s dependent on this outlook.”10 Bornkamm on the other hand, sees the Matthean reinterpretation of the Marcan account of the stilling of the storm as offering “proof of definite theological intentions” for it interpreted with reference to discipleship and to “the little ship of the church” (pp. 55 ff.). In the first two decades after 1945 a number of studies of Matthean themes or sections of the gospel appeared, all of which drew attention to Matthew’s distinctive theological viewpoint. The first redaction critics all simply assumed that the writer of the first gospel (whom we shall refer to as Matthew simply for convenience) used both Mark and Q; the main assumptions and conclusions of form criticism were also accepted without discussion. Matthew’s modifica‑ tions and re-arrangement of his sources were examined in detail; attempts were made to spell out his purposes in writing his gospel. The gospel is not simply an anthology of the teaching of Jesus: close scrutiny of the evangelist’s methods can shed light on [[1894]] the history, convictions and structure of the Christian community from which the gospel stems. I have already referred to the dangers of isolating turning points in the history of scholarship. Nonetheless, it does seem possible to distinguish two phases in Matthean scholarship from 1945 up to the present day. The first phase may be said to have ended about 1965. By then the pioneering redaction critical studies of G. Bornkamm (Herrenworte, 1954, and Enderwartung, 1956), Ε. Haenchen (1951), Ο. Michel (1950), H. Greeven (1955), N. A. Dahl (1955), W. Trilling (1959), G. Barth (1960), H. J. Held (I960), G. Strecker (1962) and R. Hummel (1963) had become widely-known. The essays by G. Bornkamm, G. Barth and H. J. Held which were first published together in 1960 as ‘Über‑ lieferung und Auslegung im Matthäusevangelium’ were particularly influential in the English-speaking world as a result of the translation which appeared in 1963. Although the scholars just mentioned were in disagreement at many points, their general approach and methods were strikingly similar. In this first phase of modern Matthean scholarship three books were published which are not, strictly speaking, redaction critical studies. K. Stendahl’s ‘The School of St. Matthew’ (1954) is primarily a detailed study of Old Testament quotations in Matthew. Although one section of W. D. Davies’s ‘The Setting of the Sermon on the Mount’ (1964) is concerned with Matthew’s theological in‑ tentions and although he proposes quite specific historical circumstances for the origin of chapters 5–7, the author paints on a much larger canvas than do most  I have quoted from the revised edition of the English translation (1972, p. 357).

10

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1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

redaction critics.11 Davies stresses strongly that the Sermon on the Mount cannot be understood in isolation from the rest of the gospel, but his attention is focused very much on these three chapters, whose setting in first century Judaism and early Christianity is explored with learning and insight. Ε. P. Blair’s ‘Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew’ (1960) includes a survey of Matthean scholarship and a discussion of Matthean Christology; he suggests, rather implausibly, that the au‑ thor of Matthew may have belonged to the circle of Stephen and the Hellenists. Even though 1965 does not mark an important watershed in the history of Matthean scholarship, there are several reasons why it may be seen as the end of the first phase of research since 1945. First, several surveys and assessments of the pioneering redaction critical studies of Matthew were published shortly after 1965. J. Rohde’s thorough survey (1966) was published in English in 1968. The translation provided for the English-speaking world a clear exposition of the methods used by redaction critics and a useful critical survey of their results. The second edition of K. Stendahl’s ‘School’ (1968) included a short survey of Matthean scholarship. G. Strecker (2nd ed. 1966), R. Hummel (2nd ed. 1966) and W. Trilling (3rd ed. 1964) all published new editions of their mono‑ graphs which included discussions of one another’s work. In 1963 P. Bonnard published the first commentary to apply redaction criticism to the whole gospel. [[1895]] Secondly, in the period from 1945–1965 almost all redaction critical work on Matthew was done by German scholars. But since 1965 this basic ap‑ proach to the gospel has been adopted by scholars from many different countries; in recent years American scholars have been particularly prominent. Thirdly, in the first phase of modern Matthean scholarship Marcan priority and some form of the Q hypothesis were accepted as axiomatic. Since then, quite unexpectedly, the two-source hypothesis has been under attack from several different angles. As we shall see in II,2, attempts have been made to expound Matthew’s distinctive emphases without presupposing that Matthew used and reinterpreted both Mark and Q. Finally, whereas Kilpatrick (1946), Stendahl (1954), Blair (1960) and Davies (1964) all published important studies of Matthew which did not use redaction criticism, since 1965 all books and major articles on Matthew have adopted the assumptions and methods of redaction criticism. The gospel has been subjected to more and more intensive study and scholars have tended to fo‑ cus on shorter and shorter sections! The results have often been most impressive: since 1965 there have been many studies which offer considerable advances in our understanding of the gospel. But, as I shall suggest in II,1 and VI, the time has now come to take stock and to reconsider some of the premises on which 11  Davies does refer briefly to the work of the first redaction critics as “the turning of the tide in gospel criticism”. (p. 13 n. 1) In his preface he expresses regret that the work of G. Bornkamm, G. Barth, and H. J. Held (1960) and W. Trilling (1st ed. 1959) appeared too late for detailed use in the body of his book. (p. ix)

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

15

recent work has been based. Unless this is done, and unless other approaches to the gospel are explored, Matthean scholarship will quickly become stagnant.

II. Matthew as Evangelist 1. Redaction Criticism The single most significant advance in scholarly study of the synoptic gospels has undoubtedly been redaction criticism. The preceding two decades were dominated by form critical studies which focussed attention not on the evange‑ lists but on the early communities which transmitted traditions about Jesus orally in small units and placed their own stamp upon them. With the development of redaction criticism the distinctive theological viewpoint of the evangelists has been appreciated much more keenly. The term ‘Redaktionsgeschichte’ and the customary but rather wooden Eng‑ lish translation ‘redaction criticism’ are used to refer to two methods of study which are quite distinct and which need not be used in harness. The first approach concentrates on the modifications made by the evangelists to their sources; the ‘redaction’, it is usually alleged, is consistent and reveals the evangelist’s own theological stance and his particular purpose in writing. The second method, which is sometimes referred to as ‘composition criticism’, considers the overall structure of the gospel, the structure of individual sections and subsections and the order in which the evangelist places the traditions at his disposal. This latter [[1896]] method is particularly appropriate where (as in Mark) sources can no longer be identified with precision. In most Matthean redaction critical scholarship these two methods have been combined. Recently, however, several scholars have urged that insufficient at‑ tention has been paid to the second method; the work of J. D. Kingsbury (1976) and D. E. Garland (1979), both of whom accept the two-source hypothesis, may be cited as examples. W. G. Thompson (1970 and 1971), who has been fol‑ lowed by P. F. Ellis (1974) and O. L. Cope (1976), places even more emphasis on composition criticism. These scholars have attempted to study Matthew with‑ out source critical presuppositions. While comparison of Matthew with Mark and Luke (which Thompson refers to as ‘horizontal analysis’) is not repudiated, they insist that Matthew must be read ‘in terms of Matthew’ (which is dubbed ‘vertical analysis’). Thompson notes that most redaction critics pre-suppose that Matthew depended directly on Mark, and emphasises that this pre-supposition greatly influences their methods and procedure. He claims that his own horizon‑ tal analysis of Matthew 18.1–9 has shown that the data is so complex that the mechanical and uncritical acceptance of the two-source theory does not seem

16

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justified. Each evangelist “may have worked from an unknown common source (Ur-Marcus, Aramaic Matthew) adapting it to meet the needs of his community. Because the question of sources must remain open, it seems unwise to make any one particular theory an absolute presupposition for determining Matthew’s re‑ dactional activity and distinctive interpretation of the gospel tradition.” (p. 151) Thompson’s reminder that preoccupation with close analysis of Matthew’s modifications of his sources can lead one to lose sight of the whole gospel is most welcome. But most scholars would agree that the attempt to make sense of the gospel as it stands without recourse to source critical hypotheses is rather like trying to play a violin or cello with one’s left hand tied behind one’s back: rather limited results are still possible, but that is all that can be said! To isolate changes Matthew makes to his sources and to concentrate our at‑ tention on them, as many redaction critics tend to do, is to do less than justice to Matthew. If we concentrate on the distinctive elements introduced by the evangelist, we fail to appreciate that he frequently uses his traditions with lit‑ tle or no modification simply because he accepts them and wishes to preserve them and make them part of his portrait of Jesus and of his message to his own Christian community. J. Rohde for example, claims that the material peculiar to the evangelist is particularly unsuitable for an investigation of the theological conceptions of the evangelist and the ‘Sitz im Leben’ of the gospel concerned (p. 91). This is surely a short-sighted approach: a careful study of Matthew’s infancy narratives will soon show just how closely they are related to the evange‑ list’s emphases elsewhere. A more balanced approach is offered by A. Kretzer (1971) who stresses that Matthew uses material from his tradition in service of his own major themes and ‘Tendenz’ (p. 303). If Mark and Luke were no longer extant, we should find that it would be very difficult indeed to isolate Matthew’s sources and to trace his redaction of them; we should be forced to take his gospel as it stands and pay closer atten‑ tion [[1897]] to all his material than we have been accustomed to do since the development of redaction criticism. Thorough exegesis of Matthew is impos‑ sible without a synopsis, but that indispensable tool of modern gospel criticism may lead us to direct our attention too rigidly to the modifications Matthew has made to Mark and to Q. A further serious weakness of much recent redaction criticism is the assump‑ tion that the differences between Matthew and Mark in a modern critical edition of the Greek text represent Matthean redaction at one particular time. There are several reasons for urging caution at this point. (i) It is often overlooked that there is sufficient continuing uncertainty about the text of both Matthew and Mark to call in question some forms of statistical analysis which are used to establish Matthean vocabulary and style. (ii) Is it not at least possible that the text of Matthew as we now have it in modern critical editions includes some redaction which took place after the gos‑

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

17

pel left the hand of the individual or group primarily responsible for it? Many scholars concede that this may have happened to the Fourth Gospel, so why not to Matthew? While it is difficult to rule out this possibility a priori, it is not easy to see how one could hope to establish criteria by which later additions to the evangelist’s text could be spotted. There will rarely be sufficiently clear stylistic evidence, so a decision would need to be based on an alleged ‘awkwardness’ or ‘unMattheanism’ in the text – and that assumes that the evangelist must have been logical and consistent. (iii) How do we know that Matthew used Mark’s gospel as we now have it? The version of Mark used by Matthew may have undergone minor revision (or even major redaction) after it became available to Matthew or his community. Redaction critics often assume too readily that once Mark was written no further development of the Marcan tradition took place. But the transition from oral tradition to an exclusively written tradition may have been much more gradual than most students of the gospels have supposed.12 (iv) As several scholars have suggested, the sources on which Matthew drew may well have been modified or conflated prior to the compilation of the gospel. In his important study of Matthew’s passion narratives, N. A. Dahl concedes that this may have been so, but until quite recently few scholars took account of this possibility. E. Schweizer is an exception. In his commentary (1973) he suggests that the Q sayings contained in the Lucan sermon on the plain (Luke 6.20–49) were already supplemented in the Matthean community and altered for the purposes of catechism prior to the composition of the gospel. The three Q beatitudes may have been supplemented prior to the evangelist’s final redaction to form a group of seven: a pattern based on ‘seven’ appears to crop up occasion‑ ally in the pre-Matthean tradition. Many of the examples of pre-Matthean redaction which have been proposed are plausible. But it is difficult to establish criteria by which pre-Matthean redac‑ tion [[1898]] can be differentiated from the evangelist’s own work. To take one example: if we accept that the version of the Lord’s Prayer found in Matthew 6.9–13 is an expansion of an originally shorter version similar to Luke 11.2–4, when were the additional words and phrases added? Was Matthew 6.14 added to the Lord’s Prayer by the evangelist himself? If so, why did he fail to bring τὰ παραπτώματα into line with τὰ ὀφειλήματα in 6.12? Or was this Marcan logion associated with the prayer in pre-Matthean tradition? In spite of the difficulties just mentioned, there are good grounds for main‑ taining that the formation of Matthew’s gospel may have been the result of a

12  For a fuller discussion of this point, see G. N. Stanton, Form Criticism Revisited, in: What About the New Testament? Essays in Honour of Christopher Evans, eds. M. D. Hooker and C. J. A. Hickling, London, 1975, pp. 13–27 [187–198 in this volume].

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much longer and a much more complex process than the ‘one-stage’ redaction commonly envisaged. Theological factors are frequently advanced as explanations of the modifi‑ cations made by Matthew to the sources at his disposal. In many cases such explanations are convincing; or if they are not, they are often plausible. But as a general rule insufficient attention is given to the possibility that the evangelist’s modifications are stylistic rather than theological. An excellent example of a stylistic modification is given by F. Neirynck (La rédaction Matthéenne, 1967, p. 51). He shows that whereas Matthew’s account of the feeding of the five thousand has often been said to reflect more clearly than Mark’s the institution of the eucharist, on closer inspection Matthew’s alterations of Mark turn out to be completely consistent with purely stylistic modifications he makes elsewhere. One of the fundamental presuppositions of redaction criticism of the gospels is that individual changes made by the evangelists to their sources form part of a consistent pattern of redaction which reflects the evangelist’s purpose and dis‑ tinctive emphasis. But Matthew does not always keep to the rules and includes apparently divergent sayings of Jesus. As J. Jeremias noted, “This unconcerned juxtaposition of conflicting traditions is almost a characteristic of his …. This may be one of the fundamental reasons why redaction-critical analysis of the first gospel cannot achieve success.”13 This is an unnecessarily pessimistic view, but as is well known, Matthew’s own attitude to the law is far from easy to discern! There is a real danger that in his zeal to establish Matthew’s dominant theo‑ logical emphases or the particular ‘Sitz im Leben’ in which the gospel was writ‑ ten, the redaction critic will explain away inconsistencies too readily. It is all too easy to shunt off one strand of the evidence as ‘tradition’ and accept the other as ‘Matthean’. Careful separation of tradition and redaction can often be carried out successfully, as G. Strecker’s work shows again and again. But if tradition and redaction are contrasted too sharply, we have to acknowledge both that Matthew develops a fresh viewpoint quite creatively and also that he is a faithful transmit‑ ter of his traditions: and there is an inconsistency par excellence! Perhaps the evangelist was rather less consistent than some of his modern students. As we noted at the end of I, in the most recent phase of redaction critical work selected short sections have been studied very intensively. In many cases far-reaching conclusions about the purpose and distinctive theology of Matthew [[1899]] have been drawn quite prematurely. A further and rather different ten‑ dency can also be observed. Even where attention is given to the structure of the gospel and where Matthew is read ‘in terms of Matthew’, the gospel is being studied in a historical and theological vacuum: other strands of early Christian‑ ity and first century Judaism are ignored. Whereas W. D. Davies’s ‘Sermon’ explores the ‘setting’ of Matthew 5–7 in early Christianity and first century Ju‑ 13

 J. Jeremias, New Testament Theology I, London, 1971, p. 307 n. 1.

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

19

daism without at the same time offering a detailed study of Matthew’s handling of his traditions, J. D. Kingsbury, who is the most prolific writer on Matthew at present, concentrates rather too narrowly on redaction critical questions with‑ out at the same time considering the ‘setting’ of Matthew within first century Christianity, Judaism and Hellenism. B. Przybylski’s important monograph, which was published towards the end of 1980, seems to me to be a step in the right direction. Przybylski accepts and uses redaction criticism, but he explores carefully one of the distinctive features of Matthew, its emphasis on righteous‑ ness, against the background of first century Jewish writings. In the preceding paragraphs I have attempted to draw attention to some of the weaknesses of current redaction critical work on Matthew. I am suggesting that the method needs to be refined, not replaced. Even if it does eventually prove possible to isolate with confidence some pre-Matthean redaction, the importance of the evangelist’s own contribution will not be called in question. Recent stud‑ ies have shown that consistent patterns of Matthean redaction can be observed: Matthew’s vocabulary, style, structure and distinctive emphases have been clari‑ fied. But at some points the confidence of many redaction critics is misplaced: we shall have to move more cautiously and to accept (however reluctantly) that some of our results are less securely established than others.

2. Source Criticism In the first phase of Matthean scholarship after 1945 Matthew’s use of Mark and Q was assumed without discussion. In 1951 B. C. Butler launched the first modern full-scale attack on Marcan priority, but his attempt to revive Au‑ gustine’s solution of the synoptic problem did not attract many followers and it was not influential on Matthean scholarship. In 1964 W. R. Farmer revived the Griesbach hypothesis and he has continued to champion it vigorously. On this view, Matthew’s gospel was the first to be written, Luke used Matthew, and Mark used both Matthew and Luke. If the Griesbach hypothesis (or a modern modification of it) were to be accepted, many of the conclusions accepted by most Matthean specialists would be falsified, for they rest on the presupposition that Matthew used two sources, Mark and Q, as well as oral tradition not found elsewhere in the gospels. Hence it is not surprising to find that the origin and re‑ lationship of the three synoptic gospels has been debated fiercely in recent years. Many scholars are now prepared to concede that it is extremely difficult, it not impossible, to prove any one solution of the synoptic problem since so many of the arguments which have been used in the past are reversible. But redaction criticism does in fact offer a possible way forward, for the results which rival [[1900]] theories offer at the redactional level can be compared. For example on the assumption that Matthew’s source was Luke’s gospel it would be possible

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to examine the modifications made by Matthew and then consider whether this hypothesis offers a more coherent explanation of Matthean redaction than the assumption that Matthew’s sources were Mark and Q.14 Both the Augustinian and Griesbach solutions of the synoptic problem can be tested along these lines. While it is possible to offer some explanation of Mark’s abbreviation and redaction of Matthew on the Augustinian hypothesis and some explanation of Lucan and Marcan redaction of Matthew on the Griesbach hypothesis, Marcan priority offers a more plausible and coherent account of the origin and distinctive purpose of Matthew and Luke. J. M. Robinson claims, surely correctly, that the success of ‘Redaktionsgeschichte’ in clarifying the theologies of Matthew and Luke on the assumption of dependence on Mark is perhaps the most important new argument for Marcan priority.15 But there is one particular difficulty to be faced. On the hypothesis of Marcan priority, Matthew has used Mark in two quite different ways in the two halves of his gospel: in the second half Mark’s order is followed most carefully, but in the first half of the gospel Matthew alters the Marcan order very considerably. This discrepancy has often been seized on by scholars who deny direct dependence of Matthew on Mark.16 How can Matthew’s apparent inconsistency be explained? F. Neirynck has faced the problem squarely and has examined carefully Matthew’s rearrange‑ ments of Mark’s order. He shows that it is only in Matthew 4.12–11.1 that a problem is posed by the departure from Mark; indeed Matthew 4.12–22 is closely related to Mark 1.14–15, 16–20 and these verses are, as it were, the title of this section of Matthew. Within the section 4.23–11.1 Matthew’s liberty of order is only relative, for Mark’s order can still frequently be traced; where the Marcan order is changed by Matthew, he can be shown to have been inspired by his sources. In short, on the hypothesis of Matthean use of Mark, Matthew’s redactional activity is not arbitrary but consistent and coherent. In recent years the Griesbach hypothesis is not the only alternative to Marcan priority which has been championed. It is not possible or necessary to summa‑ rise every attempt to overthrow Marcan priority, but two such proposals may be singled out for comment. X. Léon-Dufour (1967 and 1970) insists that in passages where Matthew and Mark are quite similar, Mark’s version is not always the most primitive; any attempt to settle the matter by comparing the minutiae in parallel texts will be inconclusive since the kinship and the divergence of expression are ultimately  C. M. Tuckett, The Griesbach Hypothesis in the 19th Century, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 3 (1979), p. 48. 15  J. M. Robinson, On the Gattung of Mark (and John), in: Jesus and Man’s Hope I, ed. D. G. Miller et al., Pittsburgh, 1970, p. 101 f. 16  See, for example, J. C. O’Neill, The Synoptic Problem, New Testament Studies 21 (1975), pp. 273–285. 14

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

21

amenable to highly subjective and uncertain criteria. It is certainly true that re‑ daction [[1901]] critical studies of Matthew which have taken Marcan priority as axiomatic have not been able to give a completely convincing account at every point of the changes made by Matthew to Mark. But a quite consistent pattern of Matthean redaction has, in many cases, been firmly established and this seriously weakens the force of Léon-Dufour’s point. Léon-Dufour favours the hypothesis developed by A. Gaboury. On this view, an argument from order is crucial: Gaboury isolates those passages in the triple tradition which are found in the same order in all three gospels and claims that this ‘gospel’ is the foundation on which all three synoptic gospels have been built. But why should it be assumed that an evangelist would be reluctant to alter the order of his primary source, however highly he valued it?17 In a recent monograph J. M. Rist (1978) rejects firmly both the Griesbach hypothesis and Marcan priority and argues that Matthew and Mark are independ‑ ent of one another. Rist acknowledges the importance of arguments from order in synoptic source criticism and stresses that general agreements in order do not necessarily presuppose detailed agreements about order within individual pericopae. As many other scholars have done, he draws attention to the consider‑ able divergences of order from Mark in Matthew 4.12–13.58; these variations, Rist insists, contrast sharply with the similarities of order in the second half of the gospel. Rist then isolates a relatively short list of sections where all three gospels are both parallel in order and contain a high percentage of near-identical vocabulary. The order of some of these sections is logical; the rest, it is alleged, can be explained from memory. And so the case for Matthew’s dependence on Mark collapses. But, we may ask, why should Rist’s list of passages in the same order in Mat‑ thew and Mark be confined to those with a high degree of verbal similarity? The extent of the common order of pericopae in Matthew and Mark is very striking even where there are variations in wording within individual pericopae: a hy‑ pothesis of independence will have to account for this much more satisfactorily than Rist has done.18 Three British scholars, A. M. Farrer (1954), H. B. Green (1975) and M. D. Goulder (1974) have acknowledged that there are sound reasons for concluding that Matthew’s main source is Mark, but have challenged the exist‑ ence of Q. Farrer argued that the Q hypothesis wholly depends on the incred‑ 17  A. Gaboury, La structure des évangiles synoptiques, Novum Testamentum, Suppl. Vol. 22, Leiden, 1970. For a thorough discussion of Gaboury’s hypothesis, see F. Neirynck (1972). 18  Unfortunately Rist is unaware that his hypothesis was anticipated by E. Lohmeyer, but judged by most scholars to be the least satisfactory part of his incomplete commentary. Rist is also unaware of Neirynck’s thorough discussion (1967) of Matthew’s modifications of the Marcan order.

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ibility of Luke’s having read Matthew’s book. “It needs no refutation except the demonstration that its alternative is possible.” (p. 62) Once rid of Q, Farrer believed, we are rid of a progeny of nameless chimaeras, and free to let St. Mat‑ thew write as he is moved. Most scholars have conceded that while Farrer’s account of Luke’s use and redaction of Matthew is ingenious, it is implausible. [[1902]] Goulder has taken up and adapted Farrer’s emphasis on Mat‑ thew’s creative freedom. He claims that Matthew has expanded Mark (his only source, apart from a small handful of oral traditions) by means of midrash. Mat‑ thew’s gospel is, quite simply, a very free midrashic exposition and expansion of Mark. Why did Matthew want to write in this way? Goulder’s answer is novel, to say the least: Matthew’s gospel was developed liturgically and was intended to be used liturgically; its order is liturgically significant, for the author has taken the Jewish Festal Year and its pattern of lections as his base. With a wave of the lectionary wand, Q is consigned to oblivion. We shall return to Goulder’s lectionary hypothesis in IV,5. Much more likely to gain scholarly acceptance are some of his observations on Matthean vocabulary and style. But doubt remains about the suitability of the term ‘mid‑ rash’ to describe Matthew’s method of rewriting Mark. On Goulder’s view, within a decade Mark has become sufficiently ‘authoritative’ as ‘Scripture’ to be re-written (midrashically) with very considerable creativity. This is not in itself improbable, though we do not seem to have comparable examples of similar midrashic activity within such a short space of time. If, however, Mark has become so authoritative for Matthew that it can be handled midrashically and expanded in a way comparable to rewritings like Chronicles or Jubilees, why has Matthew abbreviated Mark so frequently and so consistently in his redaction? But what of Q? Goulder refers to the difficulties for the Q hypothesis of the minor agreements of Matthew and Luke against Mark and claims to be able to show that where Luke and Matthew have different versions of the same logion, Matthew’s version is consistently more primitive. On this latter point there is a good deal of special pleading. But perhaps Goulder’s hypothesis is even more vulnerable at another point. Goulder accepts that Matthew’s distinctive style, vocabulary and his redactional modification of Mark can be traced confidently. But if Luke has used Matthew, why is it so difficult to find traces in Luke of Mat‑ thew’s expansions, abbreviations or modifications of Mark’s content and order? And why has the Matthean material which, on this hypothesis, Luke has used, been so drastically re-arranged? Goulder is not unaware of such objections, but his appeal to a lectionary hypothesis will convince few.19

19  For an able defence of the Q hypothesis, see J. A. Fitzmyer, The Priority of Mark and the “Q” Source in Luke, in: Jesus and Man’s Hope I, ed. D. G. Miller et al., Pittsburgh, 1970, pp. 131–170. See also M. Devisch (1972).

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

23

In recent years several source critical hypotheses which were written off as dead many decades ago have reappeared rather unexpectedly. But these ghosts from the past seem unlikely to shake confidence in the two-source hypothesis. As far as Matthean scholarship is concerned, it has yet to be shown that any of the alternatives to the assumption that Matthew has used Mark and Q provide a more plausible and coherent account of Matthean redaction than the generally accepted view. Unexamined assumptions are as dangerous in gospel criticism as in any other scholarly discipline. So the various attempts to challenge the consensus that both Matthew and Luke depended directly on Mark and Q are to be taken seriously. [[1903]] While some of the arguments which were used in the past to support the two-source hypothesis have now been shown to be untenable, or, at least reversible, no more satisfactory account of the phenomena presented to us by the text of the three gospels has yet been produced. The two-source hypothesis is not without some difficulties, but these are minimal in comparison with those raised by rival hypotheses.

3. Structure and Style The structure of Matthew’s gospel has intrigued scholars for a very long time. Many have claimed that by means of the structure of the gospel Matthew gives the reader clear guidance concerning his purpose and main theological concerns. While all agree that Matthew’s gospel is well-ordered and carefully planned, there is no unanimity on the structure of the gospel. Three main expla‑ nations have been proposed, all of which have been supported by distinguished Matthean specialists and all of which pre-date modern redaction criticism In 1918 Β. W. Bacon published an article which was to have a profound influ‑ ence on Matthean scholarship. Its title, ‘The “Five Books” of Matthew against the Jews’ summarises Bacon’s main thesis: he believed that Matthew had gathered together teaching material from his sources into “five great discourses corresponding to the oration codes of the Pentateuch, each introduced, like the Mosaic codes, by a narrative section, each closing with a transition formula as the reader passes from the discourse to narrative.”20 If this analysis of the gospel is accepted, the main intention of the evangelist is clear. G. D. Kilpatrick accepted Bacon’s analysis and claimed that Matthew is closely connected with rabbinic Judaism at the end of the first century. Although the gospel is very ‘Jewish’, it draws a strong contrast between Jesus and the Law. “Bacon has convincingly developed the view that the Gospel is the new Law and that the fivefold division of chapters iii–xxv is a deliberate imitation of the  This quotation is taken from Bacon’s later book (1930, p. xvf.).

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Pentateuch. The mountain of the sermon is meant to recall Sinai, and Jesus him‑ self is a greater lawgiver than Moses. Hence Jesus is the fulfilment of the Law and revises both it and the oral tradition. The central position that Judaism gave to the Law, the Gospel gives to Jesus.” (pp. 107 ff.) This quotation shows how closely an analysis of the structure of the gospel can be linked to an understand‑ ing of the overall intention of the evangelist. Bacon’s analysis does draw attention to one of the most prominent features of the gospel, the five lengthy discourses each of which ends with a ‘formula’: 7.28; 11.1; 13.53; 19.1; 26.1. In each case the first words of the formula are identical: καὶ ἐγένετο ὅτε ἐτέλεσεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς. In three cases τοὺς λόγους τούτους follows (7.28; 19,1; 26.1); at 11.1 the second half of the formula is διατάσσων τοῖς δώδεκα μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ, and at 13.53 it is τὰς παραβολάς ταύτας. Bacon believed that the five ‘books’ of Matthew each contained a section of narrative followed by a discourse; chapters 1 and 2 were seen as the preamble to [[1904]] the gospel and chapters 26–28 as the epilogue. But, as many scholars have noted, the opening and closing chapters are rather more important than this analysis suggests. There are certainly five ‘formulae’ at the end of five major dis‑ courses, but are there just five discourses in Matthew? E. J. Goodspeed (1959) (among others) noted that the familiar five-sermon structure neglects either chapter 23 or chapters 24 and 25; “there are in fact six discourses in Matthew”. (p. 27) Chapter 11 can also be seen as a discourse, so H. B. Green (Structure, 1968, p. 48) suggested that Matthew contains seven great discourses. In addition to the ‘major’ discourses there are several ‘minor’ discourses: 12.25–45; 16.21–28; 19.23–30; 21.28–22.14. This suggests that Bacon’s broad division of the gospel into five discourses each of which is preceded by a narra‑ tive section is an over-simplification. Did Matthew intend to imitate the Pentateuch and to present Jesus as the new Moses? W. D. Davies has explored this aspect of Bacon’s hypothesis very thoroughly and concludes that the restraint with which the New Exodus and New Moses motifs are used is noticeable. “Evidences for these two motifs are not sufficiently dominant to add any significant support to Bacon’s pentateuchal hypothesis, which must, therefore, still remain questionable, though possible. While these motifs have influenced Matthew’s Gospel, it is not clear that they have entirely fashioned or moulded it.” (p. 93) J. D. Kingsbury (Structure, 1975, p. 5 f.) is less cautious. He insists that Bacon’s outline “will not do”, and notes that scholars who have followed Bacon’s view, even with modifications, have tended to see the whole gospel rather one-sidedly as a paraenetic document. Kingsbury is anxious to emphasise the importance of Christology: this is seen as the evangelist’s primary concern. Attention is drawn to the ‘formula’ which appears at 4.17 and 16.21: ἀπὸ τότε ἤρξατο ὀ Ἰησούς …. Several scholars had earlier suggested that these two pas‑ sages provide the structure of the whole gospel; in particular, E. Krenz (1964)

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

25

had claimed that Matthew’s prologue extends from 1.1 to 4.16.21 Kingsbury argues that Matthew 1.1 introduces the whole of the first section of the gospel, 1.1–4.16, which he entitles ‘The Person of Jesus Messiah’. The second section, from 4.17 to 16.20, is entitled ‘The Proclamation of Jesus Messiah’, and the third section, 16.21–28.20, ‘The Suffering, Death and Resurrection of Jesus Mes‑ siah’. Kingsbury notes that on his analysis the second and third sections each contain three ‘summary’ passages, 4.23–25; 9.35 and 11.1 in the central section and 16.21; 17.22–23; 20.17–19 (the passion-predictions) in the final section. These summaries are of importance in Matthew’s presentation of his material, but their distribution in Kingsbury’s final two sections may be no more than a coincidence. The broad outline defended vigorously by Kingsbury now has the cautious support of W. G. Kümmel in the latest revision of his ‘Introduction’, but I am [[1905]] not myself persuaded that it is correct. 4.17 does not seem to mark the beginning of a new section; there is no sharp break with the preceding material. 4.17 is to be taken with 4.12 ff., for Matthew wishes to stress that Jesus, on whom the Spirit has been bestowed, continues John’s proclamation of repentance and of the Kingdom of Heaven. At this point in his gospel the evangelist has been influenced more strongly by Mark than by ‘structural’ considerations. The third way of analysing the structure of the gospel is based on a geographi‑ cal framework. It has been proposed, with various modifications, by a number of scholars. 1.1–2.23 is taken as the prologue; 3.1–4.1 as ‘Preparation for the Ministry’; 4.12–13.58 ‘Jesus in Galilee’; 14.1–20.34 ‘Around Galilee and To‑ wards Jerusalem’; 21.1–28.20 ‘Jesus at Jerusalem’.22 This purely topical outline may be useful for the modern reader of the gospel, but it is not at all clear that the evangelist intended to divide his material in this way. As Kingsbury notes, this form of outline does not enable one to comprehend better the nature and purpose of Matthew’s gospel as a whole. (Structure, p. 2) But it is also worth asking two questions which few students of the gospel seem to consider. Did the evangelist intend to provide a broad overall structure at all? If he did, did he intend to use the structure of his gospel as a way of underlining his main purpose? If so, then he has not been very successful, for his intention is not at all clear to the modern reader. While it may be difficult to determine the structure of the whole gospel, Matthew has taken great care over the composition of the shorter sections. The five ‘major’ discourses are obvious 21  F. Neirynck (1967, p. 56 n. 67) notes that this division of the gospel was suggested by T. Keim, Die Geschichte Jesu von Nazareth I, Zürich, 1867, pp. 52 ff. See also, H. Milton, The Structure of the Prologue to St. Matthew’s Gospel, Journal of Biblical Literature 81 (1962), pp. 175–181. 22  E. Schweizer (Gemeinde, 1974) accepts, with Krentz and Kingsbury, that the pro‑ logue extends from 1.1–4.16. But in Schweizer’s view the second action runs from 4.17 to 11.30; the third section from 12.1 to 16.12; the next from 16.13 to 20.34; then from 21 to 25, and 26 to 28.20. These are the divisions adopted in his commentary.

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examples, but chapters 8–9, 11 and 23 have also been carefully composed by the evangelist. We turn now to consider briefly some of the examples of Matthew’s careful methods of composition to which scholars have drawn attention. G. Bornkamm (Bergpredigt, 1978) has noted that while the opening and closing sections of the Sermon on the Mount (chapter 5 and chapter 7.13–27) are carefully organised, the central section seems at first sight to be no more than a collection of disparate material. On closer inspection, however, the evangelist has arranged his mate‑ rial to correspond with the petitions of the Lord’s Prayer. Perhaps the parallels observed by Bornkamm are not quite close enough to make his hypothesis fully persuasive, but some of them are, nonetheless, striking. Ρ. Gaechter (1965) has emphasised Matthew’s concern for symmetry, of‑ fering numerous examples, many of which also include chiasmus. J. C. Fenton (1959) has also listed many examples of chiasmus. Apparently independently, both scholars suggested that the five discourses may have been constructed as one large chiasmus: chapters 5–7 and 24–25 correspond, as do chapters 10 and 18; the central discourse, chapter 13, is particularly important in Matthew’s de‑ sign. H. Schieber (1977) focusses attention on the chiastic structure of 28.16– 20, and lists 6.25–35 and 19.16–22 as further examples. D. Wenham [[1906]] (1979) suggests that there is a chiastic structure in chapter 13 taken as a whole. Matthew is clearly a skilled craftsman,23 even if some writers tend to find ‘de‑ sign’ in rather unlikely passages.24 His gospel is punctuated with summaries, and, as Goulder has shown, his prose has rhythmical and poetic qualities unequalled by the other evangelists.25 And yet at some points he tantalises the modern reader. In chapters 8 and 9, for example, he has gathered together from Mark and Q ten miracle stories and he handles the order of the Marcan traditions with considerable freedom. But his precise intention is far from clear. What significance, if any, is to be attached to the number ten? Are the ten miracle stories intended to be a deliberate parallel to the ten wonders associated with the first Moses at the Exodus, as H. J. Schoeps has suggested?26 Why do the general comments on the numbers healed and the fulfilment of Isaiah 53.4 come in the middle of this section, at 8.16 ff., rather than at the end? Why have the verses on discipleship (8.18–22) and the verses on the 23  See, from among many further examples which could be cited, O. L. Cope (1976) and the perceptive remarks of H. Frankemölle (1974, pp. 332 ff.). 24  In a curious book which contains a whole series of ill-founded speculations on Matthew’s numbers and on the origin of the gospel, C. Rau argues that the gospel is to be divided into nine sections which correspond to the nine clauses of the Lord’s Prayer: Das Matthäus-Evangelium: Entstehung, Gestalt, Essenischer Einfluß, Stuttgart, 1976. 25  Goulder devotes a most interesting, chapter of his ‘Midrash and Lection’ to Matthew’s poetry (pp. 70–94) and a chapter to the evangelist’s imagery (pp. 95 –15). 26  Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums, Tübingen, 1949, p. 93. W. D. Davies (1964, pp. 98 ff.) discusses and rejects this view.

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

27

call of Matthew and fasting (9.9–13) been included in a collection of miracle stories? Has the construction of these two chapters been determined rather more by theological than by literary considerations?27 Matthew is undoubtedly the supreme literary artist among the evangelists. And he certainly writes with distinctive theological emphases. But whether we are considering the structure of the whole gospel or the construction of shorter sections, the precise relationship between his literary skill and his theological intentions is not at all easy to determine.

III. Matthew as Polemicist or Apologist In the preceding section the methods used by the evangelist in the composition of his gospel have been discussed. We turn now to consider Matthew’s purpose or purposes in writing. If Mark has been used as the main source, is Matthew’s gospel quite simply a second edition of Mark into which much [[1907]] ad‑ ditional material has been incorporated? Most scholars have rejected the view that the gospel is merely an anthology on the grounds that a close comparison of Matthew and Mark reveals that Matthew has reshaped his main source. Why, then, did Matthew write his gospel? For whom was he writing? Did he expect or hope that his gospel might be read by non-Christian Jews (and Gentiles)? Or is he writing for his own Christian community? If the latter, is he concerned to refute the views of Christian ‘opponents’ who may or may not have belonged to his own community? To what extent is the evangelist concerned to ‘respond’ to contemporary Judaism? What is the relationship between Matthew’s community and the synagogue ‘across the street’? These questions were discussed long before the development of redaction criticism; in recent years they have been considered very intensively. Although redaction critical methods might have been expected to clarify the intention of the evangelist, answers proposed by redaction critics to most of the questions listed above have been very varied. Many scholars have claimed that parts of the gospel are polemical or apolo‑ getic. But as the terms ‘polemic’ and ‘apologetic’ have been used in a variety of ways, confusion has often resulted. Both terms can in fact be used with reference to Matthew’s gospel in three quite different ways. ‘Polemic’ might involve a direct attack on opponents with the hope or expec‑ tation that they will read or hear the words used. Secondly, ‘polemic’ might be used with the clear recognition that the critical remarks will be heard or read only 27  For an interesting study of these chapters, see C. Burger, Jesu Taten nach Matthäus 8 und 9, Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 70 (1973), pp. 272–287. See also J. Kingsbury, Akolouthein (1978) and B. Gerhardsson, Mighty Acts (1979).

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by members of the evangelist’s own community and not by those who are being attacked. Or, thirdly, vigorous ‘polemic’ may be directed at a particular group (whether they are real or imagined opponents) but the primary concern of the evangelist may be to warn his own community that they should not in any way follow the example of those who are being criticised; in other words, the attack may be designed as ‘an attack on home’ rather than on an ‘enemy’. The term ‘apologetic’ may also be used in three very different senses. ‘Apolo‑ getic’ can be used to refer to a carefully worked out direct response to actual criticism levelled at the convictions of the evangelist or his community, whether or not the opponents are expected to hear or read the response. Or we may con‑ sider that the evangelist is primarily concerned to set down his own convictions, but with some reference to the kind of objections which might be anticipated. Finally, we may conclude that the evangelist’s intention is ‘apologetic’ in an even broader sense: his gospel may be seen as ‘answering’ a very different religious stance even though particular disputed issues are not in view. To complicate matters still further, both ‘polemic’ and ‘apologetic’ have been used in literature on Matthew’s gospel in most of these senses to refer both to Jewish opponents and to Christian opponents. Many scholars have accepted G. Bornkamm’s and G. Barth’s claim that the evangelist is “fighting on two fronts: he is concerned to oppose both the leaders of contemporary Judaism and Christian antinomians.” In spite of the strong criticisms of this view which were advanced by G. Strecker (1962, p. 137, n. 4)28 and by R. Walker (1967, [[1908]] p. 135 f.), it continues to be accepted widely. We may cite recent mono‑ graphs by J. Zumstein (1977, pp. 171–200) and G. Künzel (1978, p. 163) as examples. For the sake of convenience, the two fronts on which Matthew is considered to be attacking (or defending) will be considered separately.

1. Matthew and Contemporary Christianity W. D. Davies has discussed at some length (Sermon, pp. 316–366) various claims that Matthew composed the Sermon in order to combat the influence of Paul on the church. Attention is concentrated on Matthew 5.17–19, where anti-Paulinism has been detected: Davies notes that several scholars have fol‑ lowed J. Weiss and have found in the use of ἐλάχιστος in 5.19 a veiled reference to Paul’s own self-designation in I Cor. 15.9 as ‘the least of all the apostles’. Davies concludes that while the use of ἐλάχιστος in 5.19 may possibly suggest anti-Paulinism,29 unless there is clear evidence elsewhere in Matthew for anti Strecker’s strong criticism of G. Barth is repeated by J. Rohde, p. 58 f.  R. Bultmann also suggests that 5.19 may possibly refer to Paul (R. Bultmann, Theol‑ ogy of the New Testament I, London, 1952, p. 54). 28 29

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Paulinism, ἐλάχιστος should not be interpreted in this way. Such evidence is lacking; ὁ ἐχθρὸς ἄνθρωπος in 13.28 cannot be taken as a cryptic reference to Paul, for in 13.36–43 the phrase is identified explicitly with the devil. Davies goes on to argue that Paul shared with Matthew a common understanding of Christ and his words: the Sermon on the Mount would not have appeared to Paul as an alien importation into the faith. (p. 366) With the exception of M. D. Goulder, the relationship of Matthew and Paul has not been discussed at length since W. D. Davies’s book was published.30 Goulder argues that Matthew is a Christian scribe and that the rabbi to whom he owes far and away the most is Paul. Goulder recognises that Matthew’s sympathies are far apart from Paul’s, but he claims that there is strong evidence that Matthew drew directly on Romans 2, I Thessalonians 2.4–5, and Ephesians 2 and that he was strongly influenced by Paul’s writings. Goulder is unlikely to receive support for this rather novel hypothesis. The alleged parallels between Pauline and Matthean passages do not necessarily suggest literary dependence, but some of the similarities noted by Goulder are striking; they confirm that it is inappropriate to see Matthew’s gospel as anti-Pauline. In his influential essay, ‘End Expectation’ (1956), G. Bornkamm hinted that Matthew was opposing antinomians.31 This view was set out in some detail by Bornkamm’s pupil, G. Barth (1960). Barth claims that the opponents in face of whom Matthew emphasises the abiding validity of the law are clearly seen, in Matthew 5.17 ff.; 7.15 ff.; and 24.11 ff. (pp. 161 ff.). Barth denies that one can see in [[1909]] the antinomians opposed by Matthew a Pauline group. He concludes, with B. W. Bacon (p. 348), that they can best be denoted as Hellen‑ istic libertines, even though Gnostic influences seem to be absent. “Thereby the possibilities of stating something certain about these opponents are exhausted. More cannot be said. Matthew opposes a group who appeal in support of their libertinism to the fact that Christ has abolished the law; these opponents rely on their charismata, their spiritual gifts, but not on their πίστις.” (p. 164) Barth’s view was accepted by R. Hummel (1963, pp. 64–66), but Hummel did not offer any fresh considerations in favour of the hypothesis.32 Barth’s view has been adopted by many scholars,33 but it has not gone uncontested. G. Strecker  But see A. Lindemann, Paulus im ältesten Christentum, Beiträge zur historischen The‑ ologie 58, Tübingen, 1978, pp. 154–58, who concludes that Matthew is not anti-Pauline, but simply un-Pauline. See also B. Przyblyski’s (1980) comparison of righteousness in Matthew and Paul (esp. pp. 2 ff. and pp. 105 ff.). 31  Bornkamm believes that 5.17–19 are directed against a tendency to abandon the law. (p. 24) 32  In his second edition (1966, p. 169 n. 60) Hummel continues to accept this view, in spite of G. Strecker’s objections. Hummel believes that the dominant theme of Matthew is the evangelist’s strong opposition both to Pharisaism and to antinomians. (p. 165) 33  See, for example, E. Schweizer (1970, p. 216 ff.); A. Sand, Die Polemik gegen ‘Ge‑ setzlosigkeit’ im Evangelium nach Matthäus und bei Paulus, Biblische Zeitschrift 14 (1970), 30

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points out that μη νομίσητε in 5.17 does not refer to a particular group; as with the identical phrase at 10.34 (where it is a redactional addition from the hand of the evangelist) it is to be interpreted as a rejection of a theoretical possibil‑ ity; 7.15–20 is unspecific and “die in dem vormatthäischen V. 22 erwähnten Charismen sind nicht speziell häretische …” (p. 137, n. 4). The evangelist uses ἀνομία as a general reference to disobedience to the ‘will of the Father’; it is not to be limited to antinomians. Similarly, 24.10 ff. is to be taken as a general warning against false prophecy of the end-time; Matthew’s warnings about false prophecy do not go beyond the similarly indefinite comments about heresy which we find in passages such as I Timothy 6.3 ff.; Titus 1.16 and Didache 11 ff. R. Walker (1967) has protested vigorously against G. Barth’s view, claim‑ ing that antinomians are not in view at 5.17 ff. “Vielmehr erweist sie Matthäus selbst als ‘radikalen Antinomisten’, der 5.18 f. durchaus nicht wörtlich nimmt.” (p. 135 f.)34 In his detailed study of Matthew 17.22–18.35, W. G. Thompson found plenty of evidence of internal dissension, but he rejected the view that Matthew is in conflict with antinomians. (1970, p. 262, n. 26) As far as I am aware, the only recent thorough defence of G. Barth’s hypoth‑ esis has been undertaken by J. Zumstein (1977). Zumstein examines the pas‑ sages referred to by Barth and adds, rather cautiously, 13.41; he also discusses in some detail “la terminologie de la lutte contre l’hérésie”: ἀνομία, πλανάω, σκάνδαλον – σκανδαλίζω, and ψευδοπροφήτης (pp. 171–181), but he does not attempt to refute Strecker’s observations referred to above.35 While it must remain possible that Matthew opposed a group of antinomians, the evidence for their existence remains very scanty indeed. There is very lit‑ tle, if any, evidence in Matthew’s gospel of intra-Christian polemic or [[1910]] apologetic.36 The evangelist is frequently very critical of members of his own community and offers plenty of advice. But it is difficult to find traces of a group of Christians either within or outside Matthew’s community about whose doctri‑ nal views the evangelist is concerned.

2. Matthew and Contemporary Judaism Few issues in Matthean scholarship have been more keenly debated than the relationship between Matthew’s community and Judaism. Four main ways in which that relationship has been seen will be set out. The divisions are somewhat pp. 112 ff.; Ε. Cothenet (1972, p. 300); M. D. Goulder (1974, p. 308). 34  W. Trilling (3rd ed. 1964, p. 211) considers that G. Barth’s portrait of the antinomians is too colourless to be convincing. D. Hill (1976, p. 338) makes the same point most effec‑ tively. 35  See G. Strecker (3rd ed. 1971, p. 276). 36  This is also K. Stendahl’s view in his 2nd ed. 1968, p. xi.

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artificial, since the views of some scholars straddle two of the divisions. And, as we shall see, there are important differences of emphasis even within these broad divisions. a) The ‘Traditional’ View On this view, the single most distinctive feature of Matthew’s gospel is its ‘Jew‑ ishness’. This is accounted for by its origin as the first gospel, written in Hebrew or Aramaic by a disciple of Jesus for a Palestinian Jewish Christian community. Although this view is considered by almost all modern students of Matthew to be quite untenable, it influenced the interpretation of Matthew’s gospel right up to the middle of this century. Its roots can be traced back to the strong tradition in the early church about the origin and purpose of Matthew. About 130 A. D. Papias claimed that Matthew put together in “the Hebrew language” the logia and each person translated them as best he could. Scholars have frequently discussed whether, in his use of the word logia, Papias was referring to the whole gospel or to one of its sources. Irenaeus is a little more specific: he claims that Matthew preached among “the Hebrews” and produced “in their language a writing of the Gospel”. Origen believed that Matthew wrote “in the Hebrew language for the believers from Judaism”.37 As is apparent from these brief quotations, the traditions about the origin and purpose of Matthew became more specific in the course of time. Today most scholars are reluctant to place much weight on the historical accuracy of these traditions, since they cannot be supported by the internal evidence of the gospel itself. The ‘traditional’ view was still defended, albeit with considerable learning and sophistication, by A. Schlatter in his large commentary on Matthew which was first published in 1929 and which has been reprinted many times since then; the sixth edition appeared as recently as 1963. Schlatter assumed that Mat‑ thew was the first gospel to be written and that it predates the separation between [[1911]] Christianity and Judaism: its author was a disciple of Jesus who was bilingual in Hebrew and Greek.38 By 1929 most scholars had accepted that as the author of Matthew had used Mark in Greek, he was unlikely to have been a disciple of Jesus. Schlatter explicitly rejected Marcan priority, but he was unable to stem the tide of scholarly opinion which believed that Marcan priority had been firmly established.  For a full discussion of the early church traditions about the origins of Matthew, see P. Nepper-Christensen (1958, pp. 37–75). 38  In recent discussions of the relationship of Matthew’s community to Judaism, Matthew 21.43 (which is the evangelist’s redactional addition to his Marcan source) has been particu‑ larly prominent. In a large commentary which discusses nearly every verse, 21.43 is by-passed completely by Schlatter. 37

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Since Schlatter’s day the ‘traditional’ view has rarely been defended. One exception is P. Gaechter. In his commentary (1963) and his ‘Die literarische Kunst im Matthäus-Evangelium’ (1965) he has claimed that the gospel was writ‑ ten by the apostle in Hebrew. b) Matthew’s Community is closely related to Judaism post A. D. 70 Once Marcan priority was accepted, it became impossible to equate the ‘Jewish‑ ness’ of Matthew with a very early date and a setting in Palestine. The strong Jewish character of the gospel had to be explained in other ways. Von Dobschütz (1928) argued that the author was a converted rabbi who had probably been trained in the school of Johanan ben Zakkai immediately after the fall of Jerusalem in A. D. 70. As we saw in our discussion of the structure of Matthew, Β. W. Bacon (1918) believed that chapters 3–25 are a Matthean imitation of the Pentateuch designed to show to Jews that Jesus is a greater lawgiver than Moses. Both scholars linked the ‘Jewishness’ of Matthew’s gospel to the Judaism of the decade or so after A. D. 70. In 1946, right at the beginning of the period with which we are primarily concerned, G. D. Kilpatrick developed this general approach to Matthew very considerably. In a chapter entitled ‘The Gospel and Judaism’, which is perhaps the finest in the book, Kilpatrick examines Matthew against the background of relations between Christianity and Judaism between 70–135 A. D. Mark and Matthew are contrasted sharply: “Mark reflects Jewish Palestine before the War of A. D. 66–70, while Matthew is more akin to the Rabbinism which worked out its programme at Jamnia and subsequently became dominant in Judaism.” (p. 106) Kilpatrick emphasises that the ‘Jewish’ features of Matthew are not necessarily to be explained as retention of original features, for they could be ‘rejudaization’. Kilpatrick argues that the pronominal genitive in the phrase συναγωγὴ αὐτῶν is distinctively Matthean.39 It is to be linked with the insertion of the ‘Birkath ha-Minim’ into the eighteen benedictions of the synagogue liturgy; the additional clauses were composed by Samuel the Small at Jamnia in about 85 [[1912]] A. D. As a result, Christian Jews were excluded from the synagogues of the Pharisaic party. Kilpatrick concludes that Matthew’s gospel came into being in an essen‑ tially Jewish Christian community, where the building up of a church life in independence of Judaism was in progress. “It is significant”, he writes, “that the attitude to Judaism displayed by the book enabled this community to take 39  See pp. 110 ff. Kilpatrick argues (not entirely convincingly) that at Mark 1.23, 39 and Luke 4.15, the only passages outside Matthew where συναγωγὴ αὐτῶν is found in the gospel, αὐτῶν is to be omitted as an assimilation in most strands of the textual tradition to the distinc‑ tively Matthean idiom.

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over so much from Judaism and at the same time it radically distinguished the Church from the Synagogue.” (p. 123) Kilpatrick suggests, but just in passing, that that opposition between Christianity and Pharisaism is for the evangelist an opposition “within Judaism.” (p. 122) All of these issues have been examined in much greater detail more recently by writers who acknowledge their debt to Kilpatrick. Once again we find that the main lines of current Matthean scholarship were laid down in the period immediately after 1945. In his essay ‘End-Expectation’ (1956) G. Bornkamm accepted and developed Kilpatrick’s view that Matthew’s Jewish Christian community had not yet broken its links with Judaism (p. 22, n. 1). Bornkamm refers to the pericope about the Temple tax (17.24–27). “It shows that the congregation which Mat‑ thew represents is still attached to Judaism and that it in no way claims for itself exemption from the taxation of the diaspora congregations, but accepts it, though clearly conscious of its own special position: the disciples of Jesus pay the Tem‑ ple tax as free sons, merely in order not to give offence.” (p. 19 f.) In the final section of this article Bornkamm insists that “the Messiahship of Jesus and the validity of his teaching are presented and defended throughout in the framework of Judaism, and in the saying in 23.34, in which significantly a Wisdom-saying is put into the mouth of Jesus (cf. Luke 9.49), the disciples are characterised only by Old Testament-Jewish expressions, as the prophets, wise men and scribes sent out by Jesus. The struggle with Israel is still a struggle within its own walls.” (p. 39) R. Hummel’s ‘Die Auseinandersetzung zwischen Kirche und Judentum im Matthäusevangelium’ (1963) defends a similar position. In the opening sentence Hummel stresses that Matthew “ist als Ganzes nicht für das Judentum geschrieben”, but nonetheless a controversy with Judaism runs like a scarlet thread through all 28 chapters. Hummel, who acknowledges his debt to Bornkamm and Kilpatrick, also believes that the gospel reflects controversy with Juda‑ ism after A. D. 70, rather than in the life-time of Jesus. But he insists, against Kilpatrick, that it was written before the Birkath ha-Minim was inserted into the synagogue liturgy. “Die Zahlung der Steuer (17.27) ist ein Ausdruck der bewußten Zugehörigkeit zum jüdischen Verband.” (p. 32) Hummel claims that while Matthew’s community is clearly developing a life of its own, it still be‑ longs to the “Synagogenverband ”. (p. 159) W. D. Davies (1964) also accepts that the struggle with Judaism took place intra muros and uses Bornkamm’s very phrase (p. 290 and p. 332). Davies provides a very lengthy study of the reconstruction of Judaism, which took place at Jamnia following the fall of Jerusalem in A. D. 70. The so-called Jamnian period, 70–100 A. D., is to be seen as a many-sided response to the need for unity and for [[1913]] adaptation to changed conditions. Davies claims, with due caution, that Jamnian Judaism was consciously confronting

34

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Christianity (p. 286), and then goes on to ask whether the developments within Pharisaism at Jamnia were known to Matthew and whether they affected his Church. He suggests that a number of passages in the gospel, and chapters 5–7 in particular, may be seen as the Christian answer to Jamnia. “Using terms very loosely, the Sermon on the Mount is a kind of Christian, Mishnaic counterpart to the formulation taking place there.” Matthew’s manifesto is best explained as arising from the desire and necessity to present a formulation of the way of the New Israel at a time when the rabbis were engaged in a parallel task for the Old Israel. (p. 315) In a lengthy review of Davies’s book, G. Strecker accepts by and large Davies’s account of what happened at Jamnia, but is not convinced that there is a direct link with Matthew.40 K. Stendahl notes that if Matthew is the Christian answer to Jamnia, it is in a completely different key, for it contains ethics and exhortation rather than halaka. He also insists that the influence of Palestinian Judaism on Matthew can hardly be as direct as Davies’s study presupposes for the evangelist works in Greek, primarily with Greek traditions, Mark and Q.41 There have been two recent independent studies of the impact of Jamnia and the ‘Birkath ha-Minim’ on early Christianity.42 Both writers urge caution: New Testament research tends to place too much weight on uncertain Jewish histori‑ cal data; Jamnia was rather less decisive for early Christianity than has often been supposed. This warning is timely. Nonetheless, if Matthew’s gospel is in any way related to contemporary Judaism, the quest for as much information as possible about the history of Judaism in the Jamnian period is most important for the student of Matthew. Even if Davies’s hypothesis that the Sermon on the Mount is the Christian answer to Jamnia is unlikely, his lengthy discussion of Jamnia remains invaluable. It is not without significance that in their attempt to elucidate Mat‑ thew’s relationship with Judaism both Kilpatrick and Davies refer not only to the ‘Birkath ha-Minim’, but also to a number of passages in Justin’s ‘Dialogue with Trypho’: they believe, surely rightly, that many of the issues at stake be‑ tween Justin and Trypho are not unrelated to questions with which the evangelist was concerned half a century earlier. As we shall see in c) below (pp. 1914 ff.), many scholars now accept that Matthew’s gospel should be linked in some way to Judaism of the Jamnian 40  The review is printed in the 3rd edition (1971) of ‘Der Weg’ (pp. 257 ff.) and also in New Testament Studies 13 (1967), pp. 105 ff. 41  K. Stendahl (2nd ed. 1968, p. xii). 42  See G. Stemberger, Die sogenannte “Synode von Jabne” und das frühe Christentum, Kairos 19 (1977), pp. 14–21 and P. Schäfer, Die sogenannte Synode von Jabne. Zur Tren‑ nung von Juden u. Christen im ersten/zweiten Jh. n. Chr., Judaica 31 (1975), pp. 54–64 and 116–124; reprinted in: P. Schäfer, Studien zur Geschichte und Theologie des rabbinischen Judentums, Leiden, 1978.

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period, but reject the view that the struggle of Matthew’s community with ‘the synagogue across the street’ was intra muros. Even G. Bornkamm, with whom the phrase intra muros is especially associated, modified his position between his 1956 essay [[1914]] quoted above and a study of Matthew 18 (The Author‑ ity to “Bind” and “Loose”), published in 1970. He notes, with reference to 18.19 f., that Matthew’s community “knows itself to be cut off from the Jewish community; gathered no longer about the Torah, but in the name of Jesus, in faith in him and in confession of him, and as such to be assured of his pres‑ ence.” (p. 41) But Bornkamm’s earlier position is still defended. M. D. Goulder (1974) argues that Matthew was written just before the crisis caused by the introduc‑ tion of the ‘Birkath ha-Minim’ into the synagogue liturgy: “he belongs to Jewry and expects to be persecuted for his heterodoxy.” (p. 152) S. Brown (Gentile Mission, 1980) has recently argued that the gentile mission may have been an object of current controversy within the evangelist’s community, He claims, with Hummel, that the distinctively Matthean phrase συναγωγὴ αὐτῶν need imply no more than that Matthew’s Jewish Christians were holding separate religious assemblies. “The absence in the gospel of any explicit reference to excommu‑ nication, even where such a reference is present in a Lucan parallel (Luke vi 22; cf. Mt. v 11), suggests a date before the decision at Jamnia. Furthermore, it is difficult to believe that Matthew would have allowed a recommendation of Pharisaic teaching (Mt. xxiii 2 f.) to stand in his gospel if his community had definitely separated from Judaism.” (p. 216) These points are still worthy of consideration, but while Goulder, Brown and Hummel (in an appendix to the 2nd edition of his monograph) are able to debate with scholars who claim that it is the Gentile rather than the Jewish features of Matthew which are most distinctive, they are unable to bring fresh arguments in support of their view that Matthew’s community has still not parted company with a very diverse Judaism immediately after A. D. 70. If this view is to remain plausible, it will need to be set out much more thoroughly and the criticisms which have been made of it will have to be met. It may prove possible to make some progress by exploring the ‘limits of toler‑ ance’ within first century Judaism. There must have been ‘boundaries’ beyond which innovation was considered unacceptable, But even if our knowledge of the development and structures of post A. D. 70 Judaism increases, this view will probably still founder on exegetical considerations in passages such as 21.43, διὰ τοῦτο λέγω ὑμῖν ὅτι ἀρθήσεται ἀφ᾿ ὑμῶν ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ δοθήσεται ἔθνει ποιοῦντι τοὺς καρποὺς αὐτῆς, and 28.15 where, in the only such passage in Matthew, Ἰουδαίοι is used in a thoroughly Johannine way and seems to indicate that the Matthean community saw itself as a separate and quite distinct entity over against Judaism.

36

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c) Matthew’s Community is Extra-Muros yet still defining itself over against Judaism The view that Matthew’s community stands, even if rather awkwardly, within Judaism has been contested by a large number of scholars. Some are so im‑ pressed by the Gentile features of the gospel (at least in its final redaction) and by the ferocity of Matthew’s attack on Judaism that the evangelist himself is seen as a Gentile: his community has long since given up any interest in debate or [[1915]] dialogue with ‘the synagogue across the street’. This position will be considered further in d) below p. 1916 ff. Many other scholars concede that Matthew’s community has cut its ties with Judaism and that large numbers of Gentiles may have been accepted into the community, but they insist that the Jewish features of the gospel are so strong that it must be seen as a Jewish Chris‑ tian or, perhaps, a Hellenistic Jewish Christian gospel. Matthew’s community is undoubtedly extra-muros, but it is still ready to debate with the synagogue and to hope that even if Israel has been rejected by God, individual Jews will be converted. On this view the gospel can be seen, at least in part, as an apology – a defence of Christianity over against non-Christian Judaism. We need not dwell at length on this particular understanding of Matthew’s re‑ lationship to Judaism, for it is essentially a ‘mediating’ position which modifies the ‘intra muros’ view, discussed in b) above pp. 1911 ff., and rejects firmly the arguments of the scholars to whom we shall turn in d) below pp. 1916 ff. As a representative of this view we may cite K. Stendahl’s comments: “Matthew’s community now existed ‘in sharp contrast to the Jewish community in town’. For in this church things Jewish meant Jewish and not Jewish Christian versus gentile Christian. In such a setting traditions could be preserved and elaborated in a style which in other communities had become suspect or outdated. On the basis of such traditions and in such a milieu Matthew brings his gospel to completion. That he was once a Jew cannot be doubted. That he had had Jewish training in Palestine prior to the War is probable. That he belongs to a Hellenistic community is obvious. That this community includes gentiles is sure. What does this make the gospel? A witness to a far smoother transition from Judaism to Christianity than we usually suppose.” (2nd ed. 1968, p. xiiif.) C. F. D. Moule (1964) has suggested that the gospel was compiled by a scribe (in the secular, not the rabbinic, sense). He may or may not have been a Jew him‑ self, but he belonged to a Christian group who lived so close to antagonistic Ju‑ daism that it needed to be well informed about the credentials of Christianity and about the best way to defend itself against non-Christian attack. Christianity is true Judaism over against the spurious Judaism of the anti-Christian synagogue. More recently, E. Schweizer has insisted that the Jewish Christian character‑ istics of the gospel cannot be overlooked or confined to the traditions used by the evangelist. The Pharisees are undoubtedly Matthew’s most important ‘conversa‑

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

37

tion partners’. Schweizer accepts that whereas Luke 6.22 seems to assume that Christians have been excluded from synagogues, the parallel passage in Mat‑ thew, 5.11, speaks much less specifically of general abuse and persecution. This might be taken as an indication that the community has not yet parted company with Judaism, but passages such as 23.34 and 10.23 which refer to persecution from town to town and, indeed, of the ‘death and crucifixion’ of those disciples sent out by Jesus, confirm that the relationship between church and synagogue is most definitely not intra muros. (Gemeinde, 1974, p. 11 f. and p. 36 f.)43 [[1916]] The fourth way of understanding Matthew’s relationship to Juda‑ ism, to which we are about to turn, is still a minority view even though it has been propounded with vigour and with detailed arguments by several scholars. It is probably true that the general consensus of opinion still rests with the third rather than the fourth view. In his widely-used and influential ‘Introduction to the New Testament’ (2nd English edition 1975), W. G. Kümmel concludes that the church of Matthew sees itself as over against Judaism; the evangelist is a birthright Jew writing for Jewish Christians. (p. 114) But there are difficulties with this view which have rarely been faced squarely in recent discussion. If Matthew’s community is to be described as ‘Jewish Christian’, does this term not have to be understood in a highly idiosyncratic way which calls in question the whole concept of ‘Jewish Christianity’, as usually understood? And if ‘Hel‑ lenistic Jewish Christianity’ is preferred, what are its characteristics and where do we look for close parallels? d) Was Matthew a Gentile whose Community was no longer arguing with contemporary Judaism? If Matthew’s community has clearly cut all its ties with Judaism, is it not possible that the evangelist is a Gentile Christian whose community is neither attacking nor defending itself against any strand of Judaism in the Jamnian period, 70–100 A. D.? Was Matthew’s community predominantly Jewish at an earlier phase of its development, long before the evangelist’s day? But perhaps at the time when the gospel was written most members of the community were Gentiles for whom discussion with Judaism had become either impossible or irrelevant. An explanation along these lines of the relationship of the Matthean commu‑ nity to Judaism was very much a minority view until a decade or so ago. Since then it has been seriously proposed by a number of scholars, who, although they differ in their approach and emphases, all stress the distance between Matthew’s community and Judaism. 43  G. Künzel (1978, pp. 215 ff.) refers to further passages in Matthew and to other scholars who take this general view. See also L. Cope (1976, pp. 214 ff.) who concludes that the gospel was written by a Jewish Christian whose church was already separated from Judaism – though Matthew is less close to full separation than John’s gospel.

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Some stress the historical distance. S. van Tilborg (1972) for example, claims that Matthew lived in a world in which Judaism was no longer a serious competitor. “If one wishes to call the Jews who have refused to be converted hypocrites, evil people, murderers and imposters, there must be a fairly great and satisfactory distance on a historical level.” (p. 171) For R. Walker (1967) Israel is ‘distant’ in a rather different sense: Matthew’s interest in Judaism is purely theological, not historical, for Israel is considered to be a “zurückliegendes Phänomen der Heilsgeschichte.” (p. 145) The attempt to see the gospel as a po‑ lemical or apologetic document must be rejected as faulty. “Die ‘apologetischen’ und ‘polemischen’ Züge des Evangeliums sind in Wahrheit Ingredienzen seiner heilsgeschichtlichen Darstellung.” (p. 145) [[1917]] Κ. W. Clark raised the first modern protest against the almost univer‑ sally accepted view that it is the ‘Jewishness’ of Matthew which must be counted for in any discussion of its origin and purpose. In his article ‘The Gentile Bias in Matthew’ (1947), Clark insisted that the reasons for believing that Matthew was written by a Jewish Christian are “more traditional than rational.” (p. 165) He claimed that passages such as 8.12; 12.21; 21.39; 28.16ff; the parables in 21.1– 22.14 and in chapter 25 confirm that the rejection of Israel is the central theme of the gospel. Matthew’s permanent rejection of Israel is so clear and strong that it must be regarded as evidence that his gospel was written by a Gentile, since no Jewish Christian would have been capable of such a view of Israel. A decade later P. Nepper-Christensen raised a similar protest against pre‑ vailing views. He answered with a very firm ‘no’ the question posed by the title οf his monograph, ‘Das Matthäusevangelium – ein Judenchristliches Evange‑ lium?’ (1958) Nepper-Christensen shows how insecurely based were many of the arguments used to support the ‘traditional’ view. He does not set out a particular view of the origin and purpose of the gospel,44 though he does ten‑ tatively draw a distinction between the tradition which the evangelist received and the evangelist’s own emphases, a distinction which has been much more sharply drawn by recent writers who deny that the ‘Jewishness’ of the gospel is a distinctive feature of the final redaction. Almost simultaneously, and quite independently, G. Strecker and W. Trilling also rejected the assumption which had been almost axiomatic in Matthean scholarship, that Matthew was a Jewish Christian gospel.45 After considering at 44  Nepper-Christensen’s book has been criticised for this reason; see, for example, G. Bornkamm (End Expectation, 1963, p. 51) and G. Strecker (Weg, p. 15 n. 4). But the force of his challenge to the traditional view was considerable: C. F. D. Moule, The Birth of the New Testament, London, 1962, p. 73 conceded that the evangelist may not have been a Jew, and W. D. Davies (1966, p. 325) noted that the Jewish Christian character of Matthew had been too readily assumed in modern scholarship. 45  G. Strecker (Weg, p. 15 n. 5) notes that Trilling’s and Nepper-Christensen’s work, which mark a turn in Matthean scholarship, appeared at almost the same time as his 1958/9 thesis on which his book is based.

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some length whether or not the evangelist was a Jewish Christian, Strecker concludes that the Jewish features of the gospel do not confirm that the gospel comes from Jewish Christian circles. “Es hat sich vielmehr gezeigt, daß die für Redaktor charakteristischen Aussagen eine Distanz nicht nur zum palästinischen sondern zum Judentum überhaupt erschließen lassen …. Die unjüdischen Elemente der Redaktion legen nahe, den Verfasser dem Heidenchristentum zuzuordnen.” (p. 34) With rather more caution than some of his critics have sup‑ posed, Strecker distinguishes between an earlier Jewish Christian phase in the life of the Matthean community, and the Gentile Christianity which had become dominant in the Evangelist’s own day. W. Trilling also suggests that the community had developed from an early Jewish Christian phase to a point where strong Gentile Christian emphases are prominent. “Matthäus als der Endredaktor denkt entschieden [[1918]] heidenchristlich-universal.” (p. 215)46 But the distinction between Jewish and Gen‑ tile Christianity is drawn much less sharply than in Strecker’s monograph and in the work of some more recent writers who emphasise the distance between Matthew and contemporary Judaism. For Trilling, “Leserkreis und letzter Verfasser legen von einer Geisteshaltung Zeugnis ab, die weder typisch heidenchristlich noch typisch judenchristlich genannt werden kann.” (p. 224) Matthew is poised at a half way point. In the pericope concerning payment of the Temple tax, 17.24–27, freedom from and association with the mother religion still lie firmly side by side. (p. 224) Trilling’s central thesis, that Matthew’s commu‑ nity sees itself as ‘true Israel’, also indicates just how important contemporary Israel is considered to be. Both the church and ‘false’ Israel claim to be the Israel of election and promise, and this explains the polemical situation of the gospel. “Da das wahre Israel nur ein ‘Volk’ sein kann, muß dem anderen jeder Anspruch versagt werden.” (p. 95) Did Matthew’s community see itself as the ‘true Israel’, the ‘new Israel’ or simply as another people, non-Israel? In ‘The Theme of Jewish Persecution of Christians in the Gospel According to Matthew’, 1967, D. R. A. Hare has reject‑ ed Trilling’s conclusions. Hare attaches particular importance to Matthew’s use of ἔθνος in 21.43, the evangelist’s own addition to the Marcan allegory of the Wicked Tenants. The Kingdom of God is not being transferred from one part of Israel to another – from false Israel to true Israel, or from old Israel to new Israel. “The transfer is from Israel to another people, non-Israel. It is this radical discontinuity between Israel and her successor which requires that we regard the rejection of Israel in Matthew as final and complete.” (p. 153)

46  W. Trilling (p. 215) notes that in various forms this view has been defended by a number of scholars, starting with F. C. Baur and A. Hilgenfeld.

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Hare believes that the evangelist, writing about 80 A. D., looks back at the era of Jewish persecution of Christians: but that period is over and belongs to the past; henceforth the mission is to the Gentiles! (p. 127) Unlike most of the recent writers who have emphasised the ‘distance’ of Matthew from contemporary Judaism, Hare rejects Clark’s thesis that the evangelist was a Gentile, primarily because it fails to explain the intensity of Matthew’s anti-Pharisaism which is found especially in the redactional elements of the gospel. “Whereas the Gentile Luke speaks of the synagogue with the de‑ tachment natural to one for whom it is a foreign institution, Matthew speaks as one for whom it has only recently become an alien institution.” (p. 165) As we saw above, it was the strength of Matthew’s anti-Pharisaism which led Clark to conclude that Matthew was a Gentile! Van Tilborg (1972) has also concluded that the simplest explanation of the strong anti-Jewish currents in the gospel is that he himself was not a Jew. (p. 171) But surely Hare’s observa‑ tion is correct. I have myself argued that 5 Ezra, which may have been written shortly after 135 A. D., has been strongly influenced by Matthew’s gospel. This short document bears the marks of deep Christian anguish over Israel. Not only is Israel completely and finally rejected, but she is to be scattered (1.33; 2.7) and to have no posterity (1.34; 2.6); (Stanton, 1977, p. 74). In 5 Ezra God is turning to [[1919]] “a people soon to come” (1.35, 38), “another people” (1.24) who will replace Israel. The anti-Jewish and pro-Gentile views are even more pronounced than they are in Matthew, but from its form and its contents there can be no doubt at all that its author is a Jewish Christian. But observations along these lines by no means settle the issue. G. Strecker, R. Walker, S. van Tilborg, L. Gaston (1975) and J. P. Meier (1976) all claim that in redactional passages the evangelist betrays his ignorance of Jewish parties and laws. Gaston (p. 34) describes Matthew’s ignorance as “astonishing”. It is impossible to discuss here all the points which have been raised. But perhaps we may refer briefly to one of the most intractable problems of all: Mat‑ thew’s references to the Sadducees. J. P. Meier claims that no Jew could write a sentence such as 16.12, which speaks of the doctrine common to the Pharisees and Sadducees as one entity: “Matthew must have been ignorant of the exact doctrine of the Sadducees.” (p. 19) Matthew uses the phrase ‘Pharisees and Sadducees’ five times; there is no example of a linking of this kind outside the gospel. Matthew does not seem to be aware of any differences between the two groups and simply lumps them together as opponents of Jesus. J. le Moyne’s judgement is surely sound: “c’est un assemblage artificiel qui ne représente pas la réalité historique.”47 But what significance is to be attached to Matthew’s puzzling usage? Strecker (p. 140) concludes that the references to the Sadducees are part of the evange‑  Les Sadducéens, Paris, 1972, p. 123.

47

1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

41

list’s ‘historicising’; they reflect not the situation within contemporary Judaism, but the theological position of the Matthean community. If we conclude that Matthew is a Gentile who betrays his ignorance of the Sadducees, we have by no means solved all the problems. Why did the evangelist add references to the Sad‑ ducees in just two places in his gospel: 3.7, where Pharisees and Sadducees go to John for baptism, and 16.1–12 where there are four references in all.48 Why are there redactional references in these particular passages and not elsewhere – are there not plenty of passages in which Sadducees might well have been latched on to the Pharisees as opponents of Jesus? If Matthew knew little or nothing about the Sadducees, why did he bother to introduce them at all? Would his argument have been weakened by their omission? And does 16.12 necessarily imply that the evangelist thought that the διδαχή of Pharisees and Sadducees was identical? We know comparatively little about the Sadducees either before or imme‑ diately after A. D. 70: most of the information we have comes from opponents of the Sadducees. So perhaps it is not surprising that the evangelist’s usage is so puzzling. Similar problems arise with most of the alleged examples of Mat‑ thew’s ignorance of contemporary Judaism. There are simply too many gaps in our knowledge of Judaism in the period 70–100 A. D. to enable us to pronounce a confident verdict on the extent and accuracy of the evangelist’s knowledge of Judaism. [[1920]] Whether or not we decide that Matthew must have been a Gentile, the strength of his polemic against Israel remains such a distinctive feature of his gospel that some account must be given of it. Some acknowledge, with great regret, that Matthew’s attacks on Israel were intended to be taken at face-value. L. Gaston, for example, claims that since Matthew taught the church to hate Israel, the redactor Matthew, as distinguished from the tradition he transmits, can no longer be part of the personal canon of many Christians. Gaston appeals, with W. G. Kümmel, to Luther’s hermeneutical dictum: “urgemus Christum contra scripturam”. (p. 40) But not all scholars have concluded that Matthew intended to mount a direct attack on Judaism. In a sensitive discussion of ‘anti-Judaism’ in Matthew, S. Légasse (1972) emphasises that it is inappropriate to see the gospel as ‘against the Jews’. The evangelist is primarily concerned to instruct his Christian com‑ munity; he is as harsh on unfaithful Christians as he is on unbelieving Jews: Christians can also be called ‘hypocrites’ (7.5) and condemned as such (24.51). Judgement on Christians can be severe – as 22.11–12 confirms. (p. 426) For many Christians today, Matthew 23 poses particular problems. At the outset of his thorough discussion of the evangelist’s intention in this chapter, D. Garland (1979) notes that the unremitting acrimony of the attacks on 48  Strictly speaking, 16.1–4 and 5–12 are separate pericopae, but on any reckoning they are very closely related.

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scribes and Pharisees seems to contrast sharply with passages such as 22.38 and 5.43–48 which speak of love of one’s neighbour. He lays particular emphasis on the fact that at 23.1 crowds and disciples are unequivocally addressed together and on the same level in a Matthean discourse. (p. 37) The inclusion of disciples indicates that Matthew intended the discourse to be a warning to the leaders in his own church. The ‘crowds’ represent those who were ultimately dissuaded from their initial impulse to follow Jesus by their false leaders and have consequently become participants in their guilt. Matthew is warning his community not to go the way of Israel. For Garland, Matthew 23 has a pedagogical function: the same judgement which befell the leaders of Israel awaits the unfaithful leaders of Christ’s community. (p. 215) A similar view is defended by Schweizer (1974, p. 38 and pp. 116 ff.) and by van Tilborg (p. 168 f.). Most scholars accept that individual Jews are still being welcomed into Mat‑ thew’s community, even though it includes many Gentiles. But is Israel as an entity rejected? Does the climax of the gospel, μαθητεύσατε πάντα τὰ ἔθνη 28.19, include Israel, or not? There has been a lively debate on this important point. In a joint article, D. R. A. Hare and D. J. Harrington (1975) insist that πάντα τὰ ἔθνη in 28.19 should be translated “all the Gentiles”; Israel is rejected finally and completely. In a reply J. P. Meier (1977) argues that in 21.43, the crucial Matthean redac‑ tional addition to Mark’s parable, the ἔθνος to whom the Kingdom will be given, includes both Jews and Gentiles. 24.14 also confirms that πάντα τὰ ἔθνη should be translated “all nations”. W. G. Kümmel insists that while 23.39 does not presuppose the conversion of Israel in the End-time, it does imply that there are Jews who will greet with praise the risen lord when he appears at the parousia. (p. 116) And, we may add, if the evangelist intends his references to the disciples and the crowds to be ‘transparent’ and to refer partly to Christians in his own [[1921]] community, then he would seem to envisage a continuing mission to Jews as well as to Gentiles. We shall return to this point in IV,2. What, then, is Matthew’s attitude towards Judaism? Which of the four gen‑ eral explanations we have sketched out is the most plausible? There are clearly a large number of inter-related issues which are relevant. I myself believe that, on balance, the third view is to be preferred to its rivals. Many scholars have as‑ sumed too readily that the evangelist was a Jewish Christian, but the evangelist is unlikely to have been a Gentile. Many parts of his redaction seem to rest on thoroughly Jewish presuppositions: for example, Matthew has been influenced by Jewish currents of thought found in 4 Ezra and 1 Enoch.49 49  See G. N. Stanton (1977) and his forthcoming article on Matthew 25.31–46 for a de‑ tailed defence of this view. See also B. Przyblyski (1980) who is able to show important links between Matthew’s concept of righteousness and that found in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Tannaitic writings.

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43

The evangelist is probably not attacking real Jewish opponents: he is not engaged in direct polemic, but his gospel can be seen in a very broad sense as an apology. It is not tout court the Christian answer to Judaism, but in many passages the evangelist writes with more than half an eye on known Jewish objections to Christian teaching. Contemporary Judaism is not simply ignored or set at a historical or theological distance: the evangelist develops a subtle dialectic and stresses equally strongly both continuity and discontinuity.

IV. Matthew as Theologian The development of redaction criticism has led to a much greater appreciation of the distinctive theological emphases of the evangelist. In the paragraphs which follow it will be possible to refer only to the more important work which has been done on selected topics. At the outset, it is worth noting that several scholars have recently emphasised that it is possible to over-emphasise Matthew’s creative abilities as a theologian. T. Thysman (1974, p. 6 f.) reminds us that the term ‘theologian’ does not ac‑ cord well with the evangelist’s rather pastoral orientation and the inconsistencies which can be seen in his redaction. D. P. Senior (1975, p. 348) warns that the attempt to isolate Matthew’s dominant theological perspective, must be tempered by avoidance of ‘over-interpretation’, and L. E. Keck (1971) has asked some per‑ ceptive questions which have not always been considered by scholars who have expounded the theology of the evangelist. Keck asks about the relationship of the verses in chapter 18 which refer to church discipline to the Sermon on the Mount. Does the Sermon indicate commands which, if violated, require the disciplinary procedures laid out in chapter 18? And how, in turn, is this action related to chap‑ ter 13, according to which wheat and tares are to be separated only [[1922]] at the End? How, asks Keck, do all these materials cohere in Matthew’s mind? While it is possible to set out with some confidence Matthew’s theological intentions in individual passages, it is less easy to relate particular parts to the whole. C. Burger (1973) also insists that some scholars have made rather too many assumptions about the evangelist’s theological achievement. “Es sei zugegeben, daß die redaktionsgeschichtliche Betrachtung stets in Gefahr ist, bewußte Gestaltung und originelle Konzeptionen zu erkennen, wo vielleicht nur Nachlässigkeit oder Zufall gewaltet haben. Der Scharfsinn der Exegeten ist gelegentlich größer als die Sorgfalt der Evangelisten.” (p. 283) In the sections which follow, four of the most important of Matthew’s theo‑ logical emphases will be considered: Christology, Ecclesiology, the evangelist’s use of the Old Testament, and his attitude to the Law. These sections are fol‑ lowed by a brief discussion of the main ways in which the evangelist’s overall purpose in writing his gospel has been summed up.

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1. The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel

The first two full-scale monographs devoted to the theology of the evangelist were written independently. Whereas W. Trilling (1st ed. 1959) emphasised the centrality of Matthew’s ecclesiological concerns, G. Strecker, (whose 1st ed. 1962 was based on his 1958/9 thesis) insisted that since the interest of the redactor is directed to the past, to the time of Jesus’ life, the gospel must be ex‑ plained in terms of Christology, not in terms of ecclesiology. Since then, some scholars have claimed that the evangelist is primarily interested in Christology, while others emphasise ecclesiology. J. Kingsbury (1975, p. 36), for example, insists that the gospel is “principally Christological in nature”: it is Matthew’s Christology, not his ecclesiology, which has moulded both his concept of the his‑ tory of salvation and his carefully developed topical outline. On the other hand, E. Schweizer (1974, p. 15) writes, “Das Matthäusevangelium ist schon seinem Aufriß nach viel weniger Christologie als Ekklesiologie.” Other scholars have (surely correctly) emphasised the importance of both these major themes and refrain from claiming that one or the other is predominant. G. Künzel (1978), for example, stresses strongly that Matthew’s Christology and his Ecclesiology are very closely related.

1. Christology In an essay which has been particularly influential on Matthean scholarship, O. Michel (1950) drew attention to the importance of the closing verses of the gospel and emphasised its close relationship to the Son of Man enthronement scene in Daniel 7.13–14 and to the Christological hymn in Philippians 2.6–11. Michel claimed that 28.18–20 is the key which unlocks the whole gospel. Many scholars have noted that these verses summarise the main themes of the whole gospel. Some have seen them as the Christological vantage point from which the evangelist has interpreted the traditions at his disposal. Few passages in the gospel have been studied more intensively: in addition to several fine articles, two full-scale books have been devoted to these verses in recent years. In his very lengthy monograph J. Lange (1973) argues that the [[1923]] whole pericope is a Matthean creation so closely modelled by the evangelist on Matthew 11.27/Luke 10.22 that it can be called a ‘new edition’ of this logion. (p 488) Lange offers a detailed study of the evangelist’s use earlier in his gospel of the words and phrases of 28.16–20 and notes that in the closing verses the evangelist comes back to themes prominent elsewhere in the gospel. Other scholars have also noted how strongly ‘Matthean’ the closing verses are, but have drawn less radical conclusions about the evangelist’s crea‑ tivity. G. Bornkamm (1964), for example, has noted that the three originally independent logia lying behind 28.18–20 have been carefully redacted by the evangelist.

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In the second monograph which has been devoted to these verses B. J. Hubbard (1974) concentrates on their literary form. The author claims that in the narratives of commissionings of patriarchs and prophets in the Old Testament common features recur, most of which can be readily discerned in Matthew 28.16–20. Behind these verses and the parallel material in John 20.19–23 and Luke 24.36–53 there is a “primitive apostolic commissioning” which has been redacted by the evangelist to bring it into closer correspondence with the form and language of the Old Testament commissionings. In his careful discussion of Hubbard’s hypothesis, J. Meier (1977) asks whether there is any special commissioning ‘Gattung’ over against the general ‘Gattung’ of a theophany or angelophany; he believes that the form of the closing verses of Matthew is sui generis and a combination of tradition and redaction. While there is general agreement that these verses are crucial for Matthean Christology, views differ on their precise Christological focus. J. Kingsbury (Matthew 28, 1974) rejects the views of earlier scholars who have interpreted these verses in terms either of a Kyrios or of a Son of Man Christology; he claims that they are throughout the composition of the evangelist and that they have been informed by a Son of God Christology. Unless one accepts Kingsbury’s view that the title Son of God is the central Christological category of the whole gospel, this seems to be a lop-sided interpretation of the closing verses. Surely it is more plausible to accept that 28.16–20 contains a cluster of related Matthean themes. The Christological titles used by the evangelist have attracted considerable in‑ terest. In his essay on the evangelist’s re-interpretation of the Marcan account of the stilling of the storm Bornkamm noted that κύριος is used in a distinctive way in Matthew. Whereas in Mark Jesus is referred to by the disciples as διδάσκαλε and in Luke as ἐπιστάτα, both human titles of respect, in Matthew κύριε is used: other examples of Matthew’s use of κύριος confirm that it is “a divine predicate of majesty”. In a later essay Bornkamm noted that though Matthew frequently uses διδάσκαλος and ῥαββί, with the one exception of Judas Iscariot these forms of address are never used by disciples. “The Pharisees and strangers call him διδάσκαλε. His disciples call him κύριε.” (End-Expectation, 1956, p. 41) Most scholars have accepted this view. Matthew’s redactional use of the title ‘Son of David’ in six passages was noted in several of the first redaction critical studies of the gospel. Three recent studies have taken discussion further, but, in my view at least, Matthew’s use of this title remains something of an enigma. J. Kingsbury (Son of David, 1976) elaborates the points made in his book, ‘Matthew: Structure, Christol‑ ogy, Kingdom’ (1975). [[1924]] He is anxious to show that this title is more limited in scope than many scholars have assumed and that it is secondary to the title ‘Son of God’. Kingsbury notes that ‘Son of David’ is never used by the disciples in an address to Jesus; it is associated not with the teaching and

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preaching of Jesus, but only with his healing activity. The title is used positively to characterise Jesus as the royal Messiah from the house of David promised and specifically sent to Israel. D. C. Duling (1978) also observes that the title is especially associated by Matthew with healing. He shows how in redactional passages the evangelist “broadens the base” of the healing activity of Jesus and draws special attention to this in his summary passages and in other ways. These points seem to me to be soundly based, but I am still puzzled by the evangelist’s association of ‘Son of David’ with healing. Why is this title used in this way? Duling’s own answer is that the evangelist is in contact with, yet opposed to, Jewish concep‑ tions of ‘Son of David’; but the Jewish evidence he adduces is not particularly convincing. B. Nolan (1979) offers a thorough wide-ranging study of the Christology of Matthew 1 and 2; these chapters are said to expound “a Christology shaped by the covenant with Saint David.” (p. 243) Nolan has little difficulty in show‑ ing that Davidic motifs are prominent in chapters 1 and 2, and are also found in chapters 3–28. He shows how arbitrary it is to focus attention on a title such as ‘Son of David’ without considering related motifs. But he also tends to use phrases such as ‘Davidic mysticism’ and ‘Davidic mystique’ loosely and to as‑ sociate rather too many Matthean themes with ‘royal, Davidic theology’ which, he claims, integrates the evangelist’s Christology. Kingsbury devotes a lengthy chapter of his book (1975) to ‘Son of God’ in Matthew. He claims that this title is the central and dominant title in the evan‑ gelist’s Christology; this is the one Christological predication which extends to every phase of the ‘life’ of Jesus: conception, birth and infancy; baptism and temptation; public ministry; death; and resurrection and exaltation. Many points are well made, though just as Nolan tends to over-emphasise Davidic themes, so Kingsbury places too much weight on ‘Son of God’. As D. Hill (1980) has noted, it is hard to see why one title needs to be understood as ‘most exalted’, ‘foremost’, ‘principal’ or ‘pre-eminent’. Kingsbury shows just how prominent a ‘Son of God’ Christology is in Matthew, but other themes are not necessarily subsumed under this title. In view of the intense scholarly debate in the last 15 years on the origin and meaning of the phrase ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου in the gospel traditions, it is surprising just how little attention has been given to Matthew’s distinctive use of this term. A concordance and synopsis quickly reveal that Matthew’s redactional use of ‘Son of Man’ is almost entirely confined to apocalyptic pas‑ sages. Whatever this phrase may have meant at earlier stages in the history of the tradition, in Matthew it is undoubtedly a title. Why does the evangelist in his redaction emphasise apocalyptic motifs, including his use of Son of Man, which seem to be related in some way to 1 Enoch and 4 Ezra? The title ‘Son of Man’ occurs in an apocalyptic context at the end of the final discourse at

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25.31, as the introduction to the parable of the sheep and the goats. Since the concluding verses of all Matthew’s discourses, sections and sub-sections seem to be particularly important in [[1925]] the evangelist’s eyes, this ‘Son of Man’ passage is of special intent. But scholarly opinion on the interpretation of these verses is deeply divided.50 In his study of Matthew’s servant Christology D. Hill suggests that it gives content to the evangelist’s Son of God Christology. Hill examines a number of passages and attaches particular importance to the citation οf Isaiah 42.1–4 in Matthew 12.18–21: this passage expresses the evangelist’s conception of the role of Jesus as servant and the nature of his ministry in obedient lowliness and mercy. Hill tentatively accepts O. L. Cope’s view that this citation contributes to the structuring of chapter 12 and draws attention to Β. Gerhardsson’s (1973) impressive treatment of the broad themes of ‘servanthood’ in Matthew. A quite fresh contribution to Matthean Christology has been given by M. J. Suggs (1970). He notes that in several Q passages Jesus is related closely to personified Wisdom, Sophia. But whereas in Q Jesus is the representative of Sophia, as a result of Matthew’s redactions of these traditions, Jesus himself be‑ comes Sophia. Suggs examines carefully Matthew 11.19; 11.25–27 and 28–30; 23.34–36 and 37–39 and suggests that “it would not greatly overstate the case to say that for Matthew Wisdom has ‘become flesh and dwelled among us’ (John 1.14).” (p. 57) This stimulating study raises as many questions as it answers. If, as Suggs suggests, Jesus is ‘Sophia incarnate’ for Matthew (p. 58) how is this Christological motif related to the evangelist’s other themes? And why is it found, with the possible exception of 11.28–30, only in Q passages within two sections of the gospel? How firmly established was the Sophia ‘myth’ at the end of the first century? These and other questions are raised by M. D. Johnson (1974) in his appreciative but critical examination of Suggs’s proposals. Many scholars have drawn attention most effectively to the Christological themes which Matthew underlines in his redaction of the traditions he uses. It is worth stressing at the conclusion of this section that these emphases run far beyond Christological titles, important and prominent though they are. In his 1957 dissertation H. J. Held followed Bornkamm’s study of the ‘Storm Still‑ ing’ and showed how deeply the evangelist’s Christological concerns influence his redaction of miracle stories. More recently, D. Senior (1975) has underlined Matthew’s debt to Mark, even in his redactional emphases, and has singled out the evangelist’s heightened Christological portrait as the most striking feature of Matthean redaction in the passion narratives.

50  See D. R. Catchpole, The Poor on Earth and the Son of Man in Heaven. A Re-appraisal of Matthew XXV.31–46, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 61 (1979), pp. 335–397. On p. 355 Catchpole lists almost all the studies of this passage that have occurred in the last 25 years.

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2. Ecclesiology Matthew has long been recognised as the most ‘ecclesiastical’ of the four gos‑ pels. The advent of redaction criticism has sparked off renewed interest in this [[1926]] distinctive feature of Matthew. G. Bornkamm’s essay ‘End-Expecta‑ tion and Church in Matthew’, which was written in 1953, has been particularly influential on modern scholarship. He noted that whereas no other gospel is so shaped by the thought of the church, it contains only the most meagre beginnings of a real ecclesiology. Bornkamm drew attention to the close relationship which can be traced in many parts of the gospel between Matthew’s conception of the church and his expectation of the end. The role of the disciples and of Peter, as well as church discipline, are discussed sensitively: these topics have been prominent in more recent studies. Bornkamm has returned to the theme of church discipline in his essay ‘The Authority to ‘Bind’ and ‘Loose’ in the Church of Matthew’s Gospel’ (1970). He notes that the whole of chapter 18 is so carefully composed as a unity that this discourse must be seen as a “Gemeindeordnung”. The relationship between 16.17–19 and 18.15–18 is explored, passages in which both ἐκκλησία and ‘binding and loosing’ occur. Bornkamm concludes that in the terms ‘bind‑ ing and loosing’ teaching authority and disciplinary authority are inseparably intertwined. The congregation which acts in 18.15–18 knows itself as founded on the teaching of Jesus as guaranteed through Peter. W. Pesch (1966) has also examined Matthew 18 in some detail. He suggests that the Matthean discourses should be seen as ‘sermons’: although Jesus is ad‑ dressing his disciples, the disciples are, as it were, ignored, and in their place we find Matthew addressing Christians in his own day with words of Jesus. This approach to the gospel is shared by many recent scholars. Pesch sees the evangelist as one of the greatest pastors of the first century church (p. 75). This point is also made strongly by R. Thysman (1974), who believes that the gospel was composed by a teaching pastor who is addressing pastors, teachers and mis‑ sionaries in order to give them a basis not only for their catechetical teaching but also for their own lives: the disciples in Matthew are ‘prototypes’ of pastors in the evangelist’s own day. A much more detailed study of Matthew 17.22–18.35 has been undertaken by W. G. Thompson (1970) in his ‘Matthew’s Advice to a Divided Community’. This section of the gospel is a “unified and artistic composition” (p. 267) which is designed to help the members of his congregation confront the problem of internal dissension, for scandal and sin were dividing the community. The domi‑ nant tone is proverbial rather than legal or prescriptive; the evangelist is giving advice rather than setting out a ‘Gemeindeordnung’. A most thorough and stimulating study of Matthean ecclesiology has been provided by H. Frankemölle (1974). He takes as his starting point the phrase

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μεθ’ ὑμῶν in 1.23, 18.20 and 28.20. The importance of these verses and their relationship to one another had been noticed earlier by several other scholars who observed that Matthew’s gospel ends on the same note which sounds out clearly very near the beginning of the gospel: Christ is always with his people. But Frankemölle develops this observation considerably and emphasises that the phrase μεθ’ ὑμῶν, which is one of the major theological ideas of the evangelist, has its basis in Old Testament covenant theology. Jesus is ‘with’ his disciples in the same way as Jahweh is with his people to assist and guide them. The evangelist’s [[1927]] models are the Deuteronomist and the Chronicler: he is concerned, as they are, to show that God has been faithful and loyal to his peo‑ ple. Since Israel has been unfaithful, she has been replaced by the church: God has come to be ‘with’ his people and to renew his covenant in the person of Jesus. G. Künzel (1978) also stresses the importance of the evangelist’s theology of history for his Christology and ecclesiology. Although Matthew’s theological perspective is spelled out rather less precisely than in Frankemölle’s study, his rather broader understanding of the theological framework of the gospel may reflect the evangelist’s views more accurately. Künzel includes an interesting history of the interpretation of Matthean ecclesiology from the first half of the nineteenth century. (pp. 11–40) He observes that the Matthean community has the task of proclaiming ‘the gospel of the Kingdom’ just as Jesus has done in Galilee (4.23; 9.35). Like Jesus, the community teaches, forgives and heals: it shares his authority. As ‘Light of the World’ (5.14) it advances the messianic work of Jesus who was ‘light’ for ‘Galilee of the Gentiles’ (4.15 f.). The com‑ munity can only carry out this role if it is ready to follow Jesus’ path of suffering (5.10 ff.). J. Zumstein (1977) has written a wide-ranging study of the way Matthew expounds the meaning of Christian existence. He takes as his starting point the paradigmatic function which the evangelist attributes to the disciples, the opponents and even the sinners. Matthew is concerned to underline “la valeur typologique” of these different groups. The companions of Jesus are the image of the believing community; the opponents correspond to those who oppose Mat‑ thew’s church; the sinners who are called and forgiven pre-figure the welcome given to pagans. (p. 81) Zumstein also explores the Christological basis of the community, its leadership and its divisions. In the final sections the relation‑ ship of the individual to his Lord and ethical and ecclesiological themes are considered. Many passages are discussed carefully, but the author’s approach seems to me to be too schematic, a weakness not unknown in other expositions of Matthean theology! In several essays published between 1970 and 1974 E. Schweizer has given a fresh interpretation of the nature of Matthew’s community. He notes, with many other scholars, that even though chapter 18 is concerned with the order‑ ing of the life of the community, there are no allusions to special leaders, such

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as presbyters, or bishops, who are distinguished from other members of the church. So close attention is paid to terms which may be references to groups within the Matthean community, ‘these little ones’, ‘the prophets’, ‘the scribes’, and ‘the righteous’.51 These groups are not to be sharply distinguished from one another. Every disciple is a prophet, a teacher and a righteous man. Since the evangelist is not at all sceptical about a charismatic life in the church, some members of the Matthean community may well have been itinerant charismatic prophets who wandered from place to place seeking to serve and to teach the church: they imitated quite [[1928]] literally the pattern of Jesus’ own ministry. Schweizer suggests that they can be “compared with the itinerant prophets mentioned in the ‘Didache’”, and claims that the recently published Nag Ham‑ madi ‘Apocalypse of Peter’ provides support for this rather bold hypothesis. This latter community saw itself, as did Matthew’s community, as a group of ‘these little ones’ (the phrase recurs several times in a relatively short docu‑ ment); the ‘little ones’ joined issue with those “who let themselves be called bishop, and also deacons, as if they had received authority from God, who recline at table after the law of the places of honour.” Schweizer believes that the ‘Apocalypse of Peter’ provides a most important parallel to Matthew and gives us the first direct evidence of an “ascetic Judaeo-Christian group of ‘these little ones’ with no bishops or deacons, still experiencing heavenly vi‑ sions and prophetic auditions.” (The “Matthean” Church, 1974, p. 216) I have myself observed that 5 Ezra, which may have been written shortly after 135 A. D., provides a further interesting parallel, for it also stems from a community which sees itself as ‘the little ones’ and in which Christian prophecy continues. (Stanton, 1977, pp. 80 ff.) Schweizer has probably exaggerated the role of prophets in Matthew’s community,52 but 5.12, 7.22 f., 10.41, and 23.34 confirm their existence. E. Cothenet (1972) has also provided a detailed study of the Matthean references to Christian prophets and to false prophets. U. Luz (1971) has examined in detail the evangelist’s presentation of the disciples. He contrasts two approaches. G. Strecker claims that the disciples are ‘historicised’ by Matthew: like Jesus himself, they are set in an unrepeatable holy past period of time. On the other hand, several scholars have concluded that the references to the disciples are ‘transparent’, for they refer to the church in the evangelist’s own day. Luz himself accepts this latter view, noting (with G. Barth, 1963, pp. 105 ff.) that Matthew has eliminated Mark’s emphasis on the misunderstanding of the disciples. In Matthew μαθητής, with which αδελφός 51  E. Schweizer (Observance of the Law, 1970, pp. 221 ff.); (The “Matthean” Church, 1974, p. 216); (Gemeinde, 1974, pp. 138 ff.). These views are also referred to in his commentary. 52  Schweizer’s views on itinerant charismatic prophets in the Matthean community are discussed and criticised by J. Kingsbury (The Verb Akolouthein, 1978, pp. 62 ff.).

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and μικρός are synonymous, is an ecclesiological term: behind the disciples of Jesus stands the Matthean community. P. S. Minear (1974) explores references in Matthew to the crowds as well as to the disciples. He observes that in at least ten passages Matthew adds ὄχλοι when it does not appear in Mark. The ὄχλοι appear either in the introduction or the conclusion of all five ‘sermons’ and play a highly positive role as followers of Jesus. The μαθηταί, on the other hand, form a much more limited and spe‑ cialised group; they are those chosen and trained as successors to Jesus in his role as exorcist, healer, prophet and teacher. Minear concludes that when the modern reader finds Jesus speaking to the crowds he may usually assume that Matthew was speaking to contemporary laymen; when Jesus speaks to disciples, the evangelist has in mind the vocation of contemporary leaders as stewards of Christ’s household. (p. 41) [[1929]] Few passages in the New Testament have caused as much debate and controversy as the words of Jesus to Peter in 16.17–19: “on this rock I will build my church.” This passage has been approached from a new angle by redaction critics. Whereas earlier studies were primarily concerned with the origin of these logia, there is now much more interest in these verses as part of the evangelist’s overall presentation of Peter. In 1973 a thorough joint study of traditions about Peter in the New Testament by a group of Roman Catholic and Lutheran ex‑ egetes was published, edited by R. E. Brown, K. P. Donfried and J. Reumann. The “disconcerting inconsistency” found in 14.31, 16.17–18 and 16.23 is noted. This group of scholars left open one particularly important issue: the extent to which Peter’s power of ‘binding and loosing’ is a power shared by all, since what is said to Peter in 16.19c is said to other disciples in 18.18. More recently J. Kingsbury (1979) has provided a fine study of the Matthean portrait of Peter; this article includes many most useful bibliographical referenc‑ es. Kingsbury contrasts two explanations of Matthew’s presentation of Peter which have been made by redaction critics. R. Hummel, G. Bornkamm (Bind‑ ing and Loosing) and C. Kähler (1976) see Peter in Matthew as the ‘supreme Rabbi’ whom Jesus has invested with the ‘office of the keys’, or the authority of teaching, and on whom Jesus has therefore built his church. Kähler even refers to Matthew’s gospel as ‘a Peter gospel’. On the other hand, in G. Strecker’s view (Weg, p. 205), which is followed and developed by R. Walker, Peter is portrayed as a ‘typical’ disciple who provides the individual member of Mat‑ thew’s church with an example of what it means, both positively, and negatively, to be a Christian. Kingsbury himself firmly rejects the view that in Matthew Pe‑ ter is a ‘supreme rabbi’ or that the gospel is a ‘Peter gospel’, but he also suggests that Strecker and Walker have ascribed too modest a role to Peter. Peter’s place is within the circle of disciples, but he does have a ‘salvation-historical primacy’. Peter is the ‘rock’, not because he has been elevated to an office above, or apart from, the other disciples, but by reason of the fact that he was the ‘first’

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of the disciples whom Jesus called to follow him. (p. 76) Kingsbury attempts to integrate these conclusions with his understanding of the theology and or‑ ganisation of the Matthean church: he stresses, surely correctly, that exegetical decisions concerning individual passages have to be made in the light of what one holds to be the overall structure of Matthew’s thought. (p. 81) There now seems to be general scholarly agreement that the evangelist devel‑ ops and reinterprets the traditions at his disposal with the needs of his own com‑ munity firmly in mind. Matthew’s distinctive portrait of the disciples (including Peter) is very much part of his ecelesiological interest. The evangelist takes pains to show that the message and deeds of the disciples are identical with the message and deeds of Jesus (compare 10.7 f. with 4.17 and chapters 8 and 9); the reader of the gospel knows full well that the disciples are to expect the opposi‑ tion and rejection Jesus himself experienced. In short, Matthew’s ecclesiology is grounded in his Christology. Nowhere is this expressed more clearly than in the logion addressed by Jesus to the disciples: ὁ δεχόμενος ὑμᾶς ἐμὲ δέχεται, καὶ ὁ ἐμὲ δεχόμενος δέχεται τὸν ἀποστείλαντά με. (10.40) [[1930]]

3. Matthew’s Use of the Old Testament The Old Testament is cited and alluded to in many passages in the gospel in broadly similar ways to those found in the other three gospels.53 But in Matthew there is a set of quite distinctive ‘fulfilment formula quotations’ which have long intrigued scholars. These quotations have been prominent in many recent discussions of the origin and purpose of the gospel. The most recent full-scale discussion by Soares Prabhu (1976) draws attention to three characteristics of these quotations which confirm that they should be considered together: they all contain a striking introductory fulfilment formula whose key word is the passive of πληρόω; they all function as ‘asides’ of the evangelist and not as part of his narrative (hence the widely used term ‘Reflexionszitate’); they have a mixed text form less close to the Septuagint (LXX) than other passages in Matthew where the Old Testament is cited. (p. 19) There are ten passages which are generally accepted as forming a distinctive group: up to four further passages are also included by some scholars. G. Kilpatrick (1946), following up and developing the observations of ear‑ lier scholars, noted that, in contrast to the other citations of the Old Testament in Matthew, the formula quotations do not show dependence on the LXX. He suggested that the two types of quotation came from different backgrounds. “It 53  For a useful survey of recent scholarship, see D. M. Smith, The Use of the Old Testament in the New, in: The Use of the Old Testament in the New and other essays, ed. J. M. Efird, Durham, N. C., 1972, pp. 3–65.

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may be that quotations which derive from lectionary association keep closer to the LXX, while those which exhibit some freedom would come from the stock quotations of the sermon.” (p. 95) In 1954 K. Stendahl published the first detailed study of Matthew’s use of the Old Testament in his ‘The School of St. Matthew’. He claimed that in the formula quotations the biblical text is treated in somewhat the same manner as in the Habakkuk scroll discovered at Qumran. Matthew contains a number of examples of a special type of biblical interpretation, a pesher translation which presupposes an advanced study of the Scriptures (in the ‘school’ of Matthew) and familiarity with the Hebrew text and the traditions of interpretation known to us from the versions. (p. 203) Stendahl also noted that outside the formula quotations, the form of other citations of the Old Testament in Matthew is, on the whole, that of the LXX. (p. 195) Stendahl’s work attracted a good deal of interest, partly because it was one of the first books by a New Testament scholar to utilise the Dead Sea Scrolls. B. Gärtner (1954) has offered a perceptive critique: he denied that the Habak‑ kuk scroll was produced by the artificial ad hoc exegesis which Stendahl had proposed for Matthew, and claims that the formula quotations did not originate as scholarly desk work but from the ordinary techniques of preaching. G. Strecker’s wide-ranging and influential study includes a section on the fulfilment formula quotations. He also noted that whereas Matthew normally uses the LXX, the formula quotations contain a very mixed text; in addition, [[1931]] Matthean words and phrases are missing. Strecker concluded that although the formula which introduces Matthew’s fulfilment citations contains Matthean wording, the citations themselves cannot be the work of the evangelist. (p. 50) The citations are often merely pedantic additions which set the history of Jesus back in the past as a chronologically and geographically distant event. (p. 85) Matthew’s use of the Old Testament thus becomes one of the mainstays of Strecker’s view that the evangelist, who was a Gentile and not a Jewish Christian, ‘historicised’ the life of Jesus as the central period in the history of salvation. A radically different approach is advanced by R. H. Gundry in ‘The Use of the Old Testament in St. Matthew’s Gospel’. Although published in 1967, Gundry’s book was completed several years earlier and makes no reference to Strecker’s views. Gundry provides an extremely detailed study of the quotations and allusions to the Old Testament; he attempts to reverse the widely accepted view that the text form of Matthew’s fulfilment formula quotations is distinctive. Gundry argued that the text forms of the formula quotations are mixed and are broadly comparable with the forms found in the rest of the synop‑ tic material. It is the close adherence to the LXX found in the Marcan quotations used by Matthew which is out of line with the rest of the synoptic material; all of the latter can be traced back ultimately to the Apostle Matthew who was his

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own targumist and drew on his knowledge of the Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek textual traditions of the Old Testament; the evangelist drew on his own ‘body of loose notes’ made during the ministry of Jesus. (p. 172) Many scholars have acknowledged the value of the detailed evidence of Old Testament textual traditions painstakingly assembled by Gundry. But his at‑ tempt to trace the text form of allusions to the Old Testament, as well as citations, has been strongly criticised. And Gundry’s conclusions about the origin of the gospel traditions and the role of the Apostle Matthew have been firmly rejected. In a monograph on ‘Law and Prophecy in Matthew’s Gospel’ McConnell (1969) enters into an extended debate with Strecker. He concludes that Mat‑ thew himself chose and formulated his quotations from the Old Testament in or‑ der to adapt them more precisely to his theological interpretation of the figure of Jesus. Whereas Strecker claimed that the evangelist’s insertion of the formula quotations led to changes in the immediate context in the gospel, McConnell concedes that the evangelist drew at least some of his quotations from a collec‑ tion of quotations to which he had access, but insists that Matthew altered them further to suit his own theological purposes. (p. 135) W. Rothfuchs’s study ‘Die Erfüllungszitate des Matthäus-Evangeliums’ (1969) is rather more detailed and more theologically perceptive than McConnell’s, but similar conclusions are reached. Rothfuchs also envisages that the evangelist himself played a greater role in the shaping of the quotations than that allowed by Stendahl or Strecker. The formula quotations have a mixed text form; the evangelist has drawn on and adapted written prophetic traditions. Rothfuchs pays particular attention to the introductory formulae and empha‑ sises [[1932]] (over against Stendahl) that the quotations are not intended to be interpretations of chosen passages from the prophets, but rather of the transmitted history of Jesus. (p. 180) “Hier wird mittels der alttestamentlichen Prophetie die ganze Geschichte Jesu in ihren Einzelheiten von ihren Anfängen an als Offenbarung Gottes, und zwar als Heilsoffenbarung Gottes, verstanden und verkündigt.” (p. 182) Van Segbroeck (1972) has provided a most valuable discussion of the con‑ tributions of Gundry, McConnell and Rothfuchs. He also makes a number of his own useful observations. He notes that the four explicit citations from Isaiah (which Rothfuchs had treated as a special group) all fall within chap‑ ters 4 to 13, “qui portent des traces d’une rédaction matthéenne plus poussée.” (p. 126) But why did the evangelist turn to Isaiah? Van Segbroeck’s answer is that no prophet is as preoccupied with the salvation of Israel, even though he underlines in his preaching that his work is fruitless. In a rather unconventional but interesting study of Matthew’s use of the Old Testament, L. Cope (1976) does not examine in detail all the fulfilment formula quotations. He claims that the evangelist was a Jewish Christian thoroughly fa‑ miliar with the Old Testament and with Jewish traditions of its interpretation who

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employed this knowledge as a key to the organisation of a number of parts of his gospel. In a number of passages (13.1–52; 12.9–50; 15.1–20; 10.35–37; 11.9–15; and, with reservations, 9.14–34) an Old Testament citation is seen as a ‘mid-point text’, the structural key to the composition of the passages in which they occur. Not all of Cope’s observations are convincing but, in some passages at least, he is able to show that the Old Testament citation is no mere after-thought. In the most recent monograph on this topic, Soares Prabhu (1976) returns to the problem which has exercised so many students of Matthew: if the Septuagint is the evangelist’s Bible from which he habitually quotes and to which he redac‑ tionally conforms quotations taken from Mark, then the fulfilment formula quota‑ tions, which show few if any traces of the Septuagint, cannot stem from the hand of the evangelist. Soares Prabhu argues that the quotations which Matthew has in common with Mark and Luke do not show one certain instance of closer as‑ similation to the LXX. If any such assimilation has taken place, it is more likely to have been at the pre-redactional stage. Since the evangelist himself shows no special preference for the Septuagint, there is no good a priori reason for denying him the authorship of the non-Septuagintal formula quotations. (p. 83 f.) Soares Prabhu concludes that the formula quotations are free targumic translations made from the original Hebrew by Matthew in view of the context into which he has inserted them. (p. 104) So, on this view, it is the evangelist himself who is responsible for the fulfilment formula quotations, not his ‘Matthean exegetical school’ (Stendahl), and not a testimony book or source (Strecker). It will be apparent from the preceding discussion that almost the only point on which there is general agreement is that there are important differences between the fulfilment formula quotations and the other citations of the Old Testament found in the gospel. But we may well ask whether such a sharp division does jus‑ tice to the evidence. If an individual text form has been translated in a targumic [[1933]] manner (at whatever stage), or if the form of a citation has been adapted either to, or by, the context in which it is set, it becomes difficult to prove that individual quotations are drawing on a particular text form. But that is not the end of the matter. It is now becoming clear that both the Hebrew and the Greek textual traditions of the Old Testament were very much more fluid in the first century than the scholars to whom we have referred assume. In the preface to the 2nd (1968) edition of his book, Stendahl underlines the importance of recent research in this area and refers especially to F. M. Cross’s work: there is little doubt that the manuscript evidence now available points to a series of attempts to bring the Greek Bible into conformity with a changing Hebrew textual tradition. (p. ii) Stendahl readily concedes that some of his own results are called in question by more recent advances in our knowledge of Old Testament textual traditions. “New data are about to allow new and better founded hypotheses about text forms available in the first century A. D. Such a promising yet unfinished state of affairs both hinders and helps further progress

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in the study of the Matthean quotations. It makes it more probable that readings found in Matthew could witness to text forms actually available in Greek, prior to Matthew. It makes the recourse to testimonies less compelling as an explana‑ tion of textual peculiarities.” (p. iv) The importance of this work for the student of Matthew’s gospel can hardly be over-estimated. Yet even though Stendahl drew attention to these new advanc‑ es in scholarly knowledge nearly twelve years ago, they have not yet been taken seriously in Matthean scholarship.54 One partial exception is R. Brown (1977) who, in his study of the infancy narratives, refers briefly to the multiplicity and fluidity in the first century A. D. of Hebrew and Greek textual traditions, as well as of Aramaic targums. “When we add to these the possibility of a free render‑ ing by the evangelist himself, the avenue of deciding what citation is Matthean and what is pre-Matthean on the basis of wording becomes uncertain.” (p. 103) Surely this observation is correct. Brown goes on to hint at what I myself take to be a likely path forward: when the evangelist introduces as a formula citation a passage that was already known in Christian usage, he is likely to have repro‑ duced the familiar wording, but if Matthew himself was the first to see the pos‑ sibilities of an Old Testament fulfilment, he is likely to have chosen or adapted a wording that would best fit his purposes. In short, there may not be a hard and fast distinction to be drawn between the fulfilment formula quotations which are found only in Matthew and the other citations of the Old Testament found in the gospel. In both cases it may well be [[1934]] that some are pre-Matthean and have been ‘reinterpreted’ or redacted long before the evangelist’s day, while oth‑ ers stem from and have been redacted by the evangelist himself. At the moment we can claim reasonable certainty at only one point: the introductory fulfilment formulae which precede many of the citations of the Old Testament are undoubt‑ edly a distinctive and most important Matthean refrain.55

4. Matthew’s Attitude to the Law Matthew’s gospel seems to contain such disparate or even contradictory state‑ ments on Jesus’ attitude to the law that it is not surprising that M. J. Suggs (1970, 54  Van Segbroeck does refer briefly to Stendahl’s ‘Preface’ to his 2nd edition and rec‑ ognises its importance. In the most recent (and in many ways admirable) monograph on the formula quotations, G. M. Soares Prabhu (1976) does not refer to Stendahl’s ‘Preface’; he is particularly concerned with the Matthean infancy narratives but his monograph ranges much more widely than the title suggests. In another recent study of the infancy narratives, B. Nolan (1979) devotes only two pages to the fulfilment formula quotations. 55  For a perceptive discussion of wider issues, especially the way in which quotations, al‑ lusions and other results of scriptural exegesis functioned as communication from author to reader, see L. Hartman, Scriptural Exegesis in the Gospel of St. Matthew and the Problem of Communication, in: L’Évangile selon Matthieu, ed. M. Didier (1972, pp. 131–52).

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p. 112) has concluded that the evangelist’s presentation makes jugglers of all of us! J. P. Meier (1977, p. 43) believes that the carefully constructed views of many recent scholars on ‘Matthew and the Law’ rudely collide with certain re‑ dactional texts in Matthew and – worse still – with statements made by the schol‑ ars themselves elsewhere in their own monographs. A careful examination of the literature will soon confirm that this judgement is scarcely an exaggeration. Although three recent major studies of attitudes to the law in the synoptic tra‑ dition do make some reference to the evangelist’s redactional emphases,56 Mat‑ thew’s attitude to the Law has not been discussed as frequently as many other Matthean topics.57 For example, the splendid collection of essays on Matthew which originated at the ‘Journées Bibliques de Louvain’ (ed. M. Didier, 1970) does not contain one study of this question. And some of the scholars who have tackled this topic are at least as interested in reconstructing the attitude of the historical Jesus to the Law as in Matthew’s own attitude.58 As we have noted several times, G. D. Kilpatrick’s work (1946) and G. Bornkamm’s early essays have exercised a profound influence on modern Matthean scholarship. Although their comments on Matthew’s attitude to the Law were relatively brief, they have formed the starting point for a number of scholars. Kilpatrick accepted B. W. Bacon’s view that the Gospel is the new Law and that the fivefold division of Matthew is a deliberate imitation of the Pentateuch [[1935]] The mountain of the sermon on the mount recalls Sinai and Jesus is himself a greater lawgiver than Moses (p. 107 f.). “The central position that Ju‑ daism gave to the Law, the Gospel gives to Jesus.” So, for Matthew, the Law has an important though subordinate place in the Christian scheme” (p. 108 f.). As we saw in II,3, Bacon’s analysis of the structure of the gospel has been strongly criticised. Most scholars have concluded that Matthew’s attitude to the Law was rather more conservative than Kilpatrick believed. Bornkamm (End-Expectation, 1956) emphasised that for Matthew the Law is binding down to the jot and tittle. He hints that 5.17–19 is directed against a tendency to abandon the Law. The third, fifth and sixth of the antitheses in 5.21–48 are inconsistent with 5.18 f. which confirm the continuing validity of the Law. This inconsistency arises from the evangelist’s careful retention both of Jesus’ own words and the Judaising Jewish Christian formulation of 5.18 f. Bornkamm stresses that for Matthew the right interpretation and the essence of 56  R. J. Banks, Jesus and the Law in the Synoptic Tradition, Cambridge, 1975; K. Berger, Die Gesetzesauslegung Jesu I, Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testa‑ ment 40, Neukirchen-Vluyn, 1972; H. Hübner, Das Gesetz in der synoptischen Tradition, Witten, 1973. 57  As far as I am aware, J. D. Kingsbury, the most prolific writer on Matthew, has not yet discussed this topic at all. 58  See, for example, R. S. McConnell (1969) and R. J. Banks (Matthew’s Understanding of the Law, 1974).

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the Law is summed up in Jesus’ command of love to God and to one’s neighbour (22.40) and in the evangelist’s formulation of the golden rule (7.12), an obser‑ vation which has been made by many other scholars. Bornkamm also hints at the importance for Matthew of the prophetic interpretation of the Law, for the evangelist twice quotes Hosea 6.6: “I desire mercy and not sacrifice.” (9.13; 12.7) This point has become one of the central themes in A. Sand’s (1974) excellent monograph. Bornkamm’s pupil G. Barth (I960) explored all of these points in his dissertation on ‘Matthew’s Understanding of the Law’. For Barth, Matthew is opposing two views: against antinomians who wish to abolish the law, he stresses its continuing validity, an hypothesis which was discussed above in III,1; against rabbinic Judaism he emphasises the right interpretation of the law. For Matthew the love-commandment is raised to be the criterion of the inter‑ pretation of the law: it is the evangelist’s Christology which leads him to adopt this position. (p. 104) Barth stresses that Matthew is less concerned to set the teaching of Jesus in opposition to the law of Moses than to contemporary rab‑ binic interpretation of it. (p. 158) In an interesting section on Matthew’s attitude to the Sabbath, Barth refers to 24.20, the evangelist’s redactional reference to flight on the Sabbath. This has often been taken as a knock-down argument confirming the evangelist’s thorough-going adherence to the law. But Barth notes that if the evangelist had regarded flight on the Sabbath as sin, he would have been adopting a stricter view than that known by the rest of Judaism at that period: it is much more likely that Christians fleeing on the Sabbath would have been recognised all too easily by their Jewish opponents, or, possibly he is concerned that no offence should be given. (p. 92) Hence, Barth concludes, Matthew’s community observes the Sabbath, but no longer as strictly as in the Rabbinate. In several essays and in his commentary E. Schweizer adopts very similar conclusions to Bornkamm and Barth. He discusses the important but difficult Matthean addition to 5.18, ἕως (ἄν) πάντα γένηται: this refers to the fulfilment of the Law by Jesus and his Church. Fulfilment means an active obedience to the law, as it is now interpreted by Jesus. Thus 5.18 is very similar to 5.17; in that verse ‘fulfil’ has the meaning it has in 1.22 and all the introductions to the Old Testament [[1936]] quotations: in Jesus there has come true what the Law and the prophets only announced. But what, then, does 5.19 mean, with its reference to ‘these’ commandments which must not be broken? Schweizer suggests in his commentary that in its present Matthean context this logion refers to the commandments taught by Jesus, which follow in the gospel. This hypothesis has been carefully defended by R. Banks (1974). In a thorough study which examines all of the evangelist’s references to the law, R. Guelich (1967) explains 5.19 along rather different lines: whereas Mat‑ thew has carefully redacted 5.17 f. in order to set out in nuce his attitude to the

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law, in 5.19 he has simply taken over a logion from his tradition without modify‑ ing it at all. Guelich recognises, along with most other scholars, that 5.17–20 is a ‘programmatic’ statement on the law, but he is well aware that every phrase bristles with difficulties. So he wisely first examines relevant passages elsewhere in the gospel, then the antitheses in 5.21–48, before he turns to 5.17–20, where he attempts to separate carefully tradition and redaction. Guelich’s own con‑ clusion is that “the law’s validity is set in the eschatological tension between the Schon–jetzt and the Noch–nicht of the age of salvation. On the one hand, the law seen from a legal standpoint had been at times transcended and at times set aside (5.21–48) in view of the fulfilment which had come in Jesus’ person (5.17, 18d). On the other hand, the law as the legal principle of this world was to remain in force until the final consummation (5.18bc).” (p. 267) Guelich is clearly using his own particular understanding of the evangelist’s eschatology in order to hold together the gospel’s emphasis on the continuing validity of the law and on its interpretation by Jesus. If this seems to be a somewhat artificial strait-jacket, it is worth noting that many other scholars who discuss Matthew’s attitude to the law have found themselves forced to appeal to their own understanding of the whole structure of Matthean theology. This point is illustrated clearly by J. P. Meier’s monograph (1977). Before discussing the vexed questions which 5.17–48 raise, he sketches out his under‑ standing of Matthew’s carefully drawn-up schema of salvation-history. Its great turning-point is the death-resurrection of Jesus seen as an apocalyptic event, the decisive breaking-in of the new aeon. Meier examines 5.17–20 in consid‑ erable detail and concludes that these verses do not contain, as many scholars have conceded (often almost in desperation), disparate material loosely strung together. The ‘core’ of 5.18 is a traditional ‘conservative’ statement which has been redacted by the addition of the final clause ἕως ἄν πάντα γένηται: the most insignificant part of the law will not lose its binding force until all things proph‑ esied come to pass in the eschatological event, the death-resurrection of Jesus. (pp. 63 f.) 5.17 (which has been heavily redacted by the evangelist) and 5.20 (probably a Matthean creation) are interpreted along these lines. Even though Meier is anxious to stress that Matthew is consistent, he is forced to concede that 5.19 seems like an ‘undigested morsel’, a ‘literary fossil’ (pp. 165 f.), which probably originated as a corrective of ‘moderate’ Jewish-Christians over against the very stringent position taken in the original version of 5.18. In Meier’s view, when the new age breaks in at the death-resurrection of Jesus (the culmination of the fulfilment of all prophecy), the letter will fall in [[1937]] favour of the prophetic, eschatological fulfilment of the Law which Jesus brings. The antitheses (5.21–48) then exemplify this prophetic fulfilment of the Torah. And so the way is open to interpret some of the antitheses as revok‑ ing the letter of the Mosaic Law (the third, fourth and fifth) while the other three simply radicalise the Law.

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Meier’s exegetical conclusions on 5.17–20 and on 5.21–48 are similar to those reached by several recent scholars. But his salvation-historical schema seems to me to be too rigid: for Matthew, it is the birth and ministry of Jesus (see especially 4.12–17) as well as the death and resurrection of Jesus which mark the inauguration of the new aeon. Meier urges that Matthew’s voice should not be dismissed as hopeless‑ ly legalistic or re-Judaising. (p. 171) This general conclusion is supported by Η. Hübner (1973) who rejects both the view that the evangelist has ‘re-ju‑ daised’ his traditions, and also R. Walker’s view that the evangelist is a ‘radical antinomian’. Hübner’s own mediating conclusions are not unlike those reached by G. Bornkamm. M. D. Goulder believes that the evangelist does adopt a more conserva‑ tive stance than his primary (and almost sole) source Mark. He claims that the evangelist’s “greatest theological achievement is his reconciliation of the radical position of Mark with the continued validity of the full Torah”. (p. 19) Although the evangelist constantly strives to minimise the radicalism of Mark, he is un‑ able to carry this through consistently. (p. 20 f.) For Goulder’s overall view of the origin and purpose of Matthew (as a cycle of lessons following the Jewish festal lectionary), it is important to establish the conservative way the evangelist, a Christian scribe, handles his traditions. But in order to sustain this position, Goulder is forced to concede that the evangelist is not consistent. Most scholars would accept Goulder’s view that, on the whole, the evange‑ list adopts a more ‘conservative’ stance than Mark. But there is also a fairly wide consensus that Matthew has carefully redacted the traditional ‘Jewish-Christian’ logia (especially 5.18 and 19) in a less conservative direction. For Matthew, Jesus’ ‘fulfilment’ of the law (5.17) is crucial. There is general agreement that ‘fulfilment’ implies that Jesus modifies in some ways contemporary understand‑ ings of the Law But it is far from easy to spell out precisely what ‘fulfilment’ and ‘modification’ mean. As we have seen, several scholars have appealed, not always convincingly, to Matthew’s Christology or to his eschatology in order to expound the evangelist’s attitude to the Law. But even when this is done, it is far from easy to determine exactly how Mat‑ thew’s community practised the law from day to day. An appeal to the structure of Matthew’s theology does not necessarily solve all the problems. We may simply have to accept that the evangelist was less creative as a theologian than some of his modern students have supposed. There may well have been diverse attitudes to the law in the Matthean community: perhaps the evangelist has made use of disparate traditions at his disposal and has not always striven hard to be fully consistent. [[1938]]

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5. The Purpose of the Gospel In III and in the preceding sections of IV, various explanations of the purpose of the gospel have been considered. Even when individual scholars have singled out one particular purpose or theological emphasis as primary or predominant, they have usually recognised that the evangelist’s intention cannot be confined to one purpose. To take but one example: in the closing pages of his monograph, W. Trilling discusses various explanations of the evangelist’s primary purpose and of the form of the gospel and underlines the many and varied concerns of the evangelist. “Das Gesamtwerk sollte sowohl nach außen den Anspruch der Kirche, das wahre Israel zu sein, erweisen und dem Judentum jeden Anspruch in dieser Richtung abschneiden, als auch nach innen eine neu geordnete, didaktisch brauchbare Zusammenfassung der Jesusüberlieferung bieten. Dabei ist das apologetisch-polemische Motiv mehr dem Rahmen des ‘Lebens Jesu’, das didaktische mehr der systematischen Gliederung des Buches zugeordnet. Einen genau zutreffenden und knappen Formbegriff dafür zu finden, dürfte sehr schwierig sein.” (p. 219) Several scholars have indicated their general agreement with the cautious way Trilling sums up the evangelist’s intentions and many others have expressed similar views. In 1974, however, two major books were published, both of which offered a quite fresh account of the evangelist’s purpose. M. D. Goulder believes that, apart from a very few pieces of oral tradition, Matthew’s only source was Mark. The evangelist has expanded Mark by means of midrashic methods. The gospel is a liturgical book; it was developed liturgi‑ cally and was intended to be used liturgically. G. D. Kilpatrick had suggested that the gospel “has the features of a liturgical book” (p. 100) and that Mark, Q and possibly M may have been read in worship in the Matthean church for twenty years before they were incorporated into a book produced to meet the needs and convenience of liturgical practice. (p. 70) Goulder’s hypothesis is much more far-reaching. He believes that the evan‑ gelist has taken the Jewish Festal year and its pattern of lections as his base. Matthew is a series of ‘Gospels’ used in worship week by week. (p. 172) Mark is a lectionary book for half a year – after all, Mark only promised to give, us “the beginning of the Gospel”! (p. 201) Matthew has expanded Mark into a lection‑ ary book for a full year. Not to be outdone, Luke has also written a lectionary for a full year, but has preferred the annual sabbath cycle of lections to the festal cycle followed by Matthew. At last we can understand why Luke has re-written and, in particular, re-ordered Matthew. With a wave of the lectionary wand, Q is consigned to oblivion. Two questions must be pressed. Were the scriptures read in first century synagogues in the way Goulder supposes? Does this reconstruction square with such evidence as we have of Christian worship in the first and early second

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centuries? In neither case will evidence drawn from later centuries do, for we know that there was considerable development in both Jewish and Christian worship. [[1939]] The relevant rabbinic evidence suggests that in the first century the Pentateuch was read neither over one year nor over three years. Several ‘trienni‑ al’ cycles probably date from the end of the second century A. D., but Goulder does not claim to be able to trace a triennial cycle behind Matthew. The annual cycle which he does discern behind Luke’s Gospel and behind the Matthean infancy narratives is almost certainly even later than the triennial lectionaries. Goulder’s case for the origin of Matthew rests largely on his reconstruc‑ tion of a lectionary reading for the six feasts and two major fasts. The Matthean church, he argues, continued to read the lections for these occasions; in their light the evangelist developed an annual lectionary of Christian readings. Par‑ ticular scriptural readings probably were associated with the feasts in the first century A. D., but there is no evidence that there was a set ‘festal lectionary’: indeed, there seems to have been considerable variation in the passages used. Do we know how the feasts and fasts were celebrated in Palestine or Syria prior to the destruction of the temple? Goulder assumes, without argument, that the readings associated with temple worship on these occasions were also used in synagogues. As far as I am aware, there is no evidence that this was so. Even if we could be confident that first century synagogues used a festal lectionary, further awkward questions would remain. If Matthew’s church did keep the feasts and fasts, particular traditions about Jesus may well have be‑ come associated with these important occasions and understood in the light of traditional O.T. lections. But why should Matthew have wanted to develop an annual cycle of readings from a festal lectionary? Goulder anticipates the question and argues that the work of the Chronicler provides a precedent as he wrote a liturgical book for use over one year. But here conjecture triumphs over evidence and argument. Some early Christian communities did continue to follow closely traditional Jewish patterns of worship. And Matthew’s church may have been more ‘con‑ servative’ than other Christian communities. But there is no interest in the Jew‑ ish feasts in Matthew and very little evidence that Christian observance of any of the feasts or fasts survived for long. Goulder wants us to believe that Luke developed a Christian lectionary in the light of an annual cycle of O.T. readings. Justin Martyr’s famous comment on Christian worship surely rules this out. Jus‑ tin, who almost certainly knew Luke’s Gospel, notes that the O.T. Scriptures and the ‘memoirs of the apostles’ were read ‘for as long as time allows’. (Apology 1.6–7) In Justin’s day, at least, there was no prescribed length for the readings and hence no lectionary. Η. Frankemölle’s monograph is equally provocative. In IV,2 mention was made of his perceptive exposition of Matthew’s use of the phrase μεθ᾽ ὑμῶν.

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His final chapter makes a series of interesting observations about the genre and purpose of the gospel. Many scholars have assumed that in spite of all its distinctive features Mat‑ thew belongs to the same literary genre as Mark. Frankemölle, however rejects the view that Matthew is simply a ‘new edition’ of Mark: we might as well say that it is a ‘new edition’ of Q! (p. 331) Matthew’s prologue, epilogue, lengthy discourses and careful structure all underline just how very different it is from [[1940]] Mark. Matthew’s gospel is a literary work written with a distinc‑ tive unifying perspective. To refer to both Matthew and Mark as ‘gospels’ obscures the extent to which Matthew has been influenced by the literary ‘Gattung’ of Jewish history writing, especially Deuteronomy and Chronicles. Some of the evangelist’s phraseology is strikingly similar to passages in Deuteronomy; the ‘rounding-off’ statements at the end of the discourses are dependent on Deuteronomy 31.1; 31.24; 32.44 ff. (p. 340) Even more important is the way Matthew, Deuteronomy and Chronicles share the same historical and theological perspective. All aspects of Matthew’s thought are dominated by a ‘theology of history’ (pp. 394 ff.); indeed the gospel is to be seen as a ‘Buch der Geschichte’. This does not mean, however, that the evangelist has a ‘salvation history’ perspec‑ tive. Frankemölle strongly rejects the views of G. Strecker and R. Walker, both of whom believe (though they differ in detail) that the evangelist is setting out a life of Jesus as ‘past history’, and expound Matthew’s ‘salvation history’ in ways reminiscent of Η. Conzelmann’s interpretation of Lucan theology. For Frankemölle, however, Matthew is concerned primarily with the pre‑ sent: the evangelist does not distinguish between the past life of Jesus and the ‘present’ exalted Lord. “Im MtEv darf Jesus als das redende Subjekt weder in historisierender Weise nur als der irdische Lehrer und Rabbi dargestellt werden, noch in theologischer Überinterpretation einzig als der erhöhte Herr. In der literarischen Fiktion des Mt spricht der irdische Jesus unmittelbar vor seinem Tod zu seinen Jüngern, faktisch spricht in der Autorität des erhöhten Herrn der Theologe Mt zu seiner Gemeinde.” (p. 351) Frankemölle seems to me to have exaggerated the importance of Deuter‑ onomy and Chronicles, though he has certainly uncovered important parallels. As A. Sand shows in his monograph published in the same year (1974) as Frankemölle’s, the evangelist frequently uses prophetic words, concepts, themes and citations: although the gospel is not a prophetic book, is has been deeply influenced by the prophetic writings. Frankemölle’s concern to stress that Matthew is a unified work is wellfounded. But he does not do justice to the tension between tradition and redac‑ tion which is so evident in many parts of the gospel. Perhaps it is significant that he does not comment on the evangelist’s attitude to the law, the point at which this tension is most acute.

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Nor am I persuaded that the evangelist intends to dispense with a distinction between ‘past’ and ‘present’. Traditions of the actions and teachings of Jesus in the recent past have been reinterpreted so that they can speak clearly and directly to the needs of the evangelist’s community. However much we emphasise the creativity of the evangelist, in most parts of the gospel Matthew is closely de‑ pendent on Mark and Q. Goulder and Frankemölle both show just how indebted the evangelist is to the Old Testament and how creatively he handles his traditions. But neither at‑ tempt to provide a carefully worked-out account of the origin, genre and purpose of the gospel seems to me to be successful. The evangelist is deeply [[1941]] indebted to many parts of the Old Testament as well as to both Mark and Q. His theological emphases are rich and his purposes in writing are varied.

V. The Origin of Matthew’s Gospel 1. The Geographical Location of Matthew’s Community The gospel has been examined very closely for possible clues about its place of origin and a wide variety of other factors have been appealed to. There is a strong consensus in favour of Antioch: this Greek-speaking city contained several Jew‑ ish synagogues; the first clear evidence of use of Matthew comes from Ignatius, Bishop of Antioch at the beginning of the second century. G. D. Kilpatrick rejected this widely-accepted view. He believed that if the gospel had been written in Antioch, it would have shown more signs of Pauline influence; he also noted that since B. W. Bacon had made out a strong case for Antioch as the place of origin of Luke-Acts, Matthew was probably not written there. (p. 130) Kilpatrick attempted to show from a close comparison of Mat‑ thew and Mark that Matthew was written for a city church. The gospel contains a number of contacts with Syria, especially Phoenicia; if one of the southern Phoenician cities must be selected, Tyre or Sidon would meet the requirements of Matthew as well as anywhere. “But perhaps it is better to rest content with the general advocacy of Phoenicia as the place of origin.” (p. 134) Kilpatrick added that Tyre was much more likely to have been in close contact with the Judaism of Jamnia than Antioch. Kilpatrick’s solution has found few supporters. Since we know very little about Tyre, Sidon or Phoenicia in the final quarter of the first century, it is not easy to make out a strong case either for or against them as places from which the gospel may have originated. Antioch is supported, for example, by E. Schweizer (1974, p. 138 f.), who notes that the central role played by Peter in 16.16–19 points to Syria, since An‑ tioch probably came under strong Petrine influence after the dispute with Paul

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recorded in Galatians 2.11 ff. G. Künzel (1978, 252 ff.) accepts and develops this view by making a number of observations on the use of Matthew in second century circles which are linked in some way with Syria. L. Gaston (1975, p. 34) believes that in all probability Ignatius was bishop of the church in Anti‑ och in which the final redaction of the gospel took place.59 In recent years several fresh suggestions have been made. S. van Tilborg (1972, p. 172) proposes Alexandria, on the grounds that it was known in the first [[1942]] century both as a centre of Jewish culture and as a bulwark of antiJudaism. R. E. Osborne (1973) claims that parallels between the material and Zoroastrian Mithraic and Buddhist teachings point to Edessa. B. T. Viviano (1979) has attempted to build up a case in favour of Caesarea Maritima. He notes that Caesarea, which was a predominantly Gentile, Greek speaking city with a large Jewish population in political tension with the major‑ ity, fits the internal evidence of the gospel well. Viviano attaches some weight to Jerome’s comment that the Hebrew text of Matthew is preserved “to this day” in the library at Caesarea. A further fresh proposal has been made by H. D. Slingerland (1979). He believes that Matthew 4.15 and 19.1 both reveal the intentional redactional hand of the evangelist and confirm that the author is writing somewhere east of the Jordan. Hence both Antioch and the Phoenician sea coast are unlikely. Slingerland suggests Pella: the continuing struggle with Judaism would make sense in Pella, as would the intra-mural struggle between Christians over the Law and the Gentiles. If we accept that the gospel was written from a Greek-speaking community which contained some Gentiles and which was still at least aware of the syna‑ gogue ‘across the street’, it is clear from this brief survey that there is no short‑ age of possible cities from which the gospel may have originated. Since most of the external evidence adduced in discussions of the origin of the gospel is itself either ambiguous or of doubtful historical value, a case built on evidence of the evangelist’s own redaction is much more likely to attract scholarly support than some of the recent fresh suggestions. I myself find Slingerland’s arguments in favour of an origin east of the Jordan to be particularly perceptive, but I am not persuaded that we need look no further than Pella.

59  Cf. V. Corwin’s comment: “It must be considered as nearly certain as anything in this early period can be that Ignatius knew Matthew well, although we cannot be as certain that he had the gospel in exactly its present form.” (St. Ignatius and Christianity in Antioch, Yale Publications in Religion 1, New Haven, 1960, p. 60).

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2. The Date of Matthew’s Gospel Almost all scholars have accepted that the gospel was written after the fall of Je‑ rusalem in 70 A. D. and before Ignatius uses Matthew about 115 A. D. Ignatius’s Epistle to the Smyrneans 1.1 (ἵνα πληρώθη πάσα δικαιοσύνη) seems to reflect his knowledge of Matthew 3.15. Although G. Strecker (p. 35) suggests that Ignatius may have cited a “kerygmatic formula” which draws on Matthew, even on this view the gospel must have been written before 115 A. D. There is general agreement that 22.7, ὁ δὲ βασιλεὺς ὠργίσθη καὶ πέμψας τὰ στρατεύματα αὐτοῦ ἀπώλεσεν τοὺς φονεῖς ἐκείνους καὶ τὴν πόλιν αὐτῶν ἐνέπρησεν is the evangelist’s own addition to the parable of the Great Supper and that this verse reflects the events of 70 A. D. W. D. Davies, for example, accepts this view and claims that the context in which Matthew places 23.37 f. (Ἰερουσαλὴμ Ἰερουσαλήμ … ἰδοὺ ἀφίεται ὑμῖν ὁ οἶκος ὑμῶν ἔρημος) also offers a fairly direct indication of the importance attached by the evangelist to the fall of Jerusalem. (p. 298 f.) J. A. T. Robinson (1976) has challenged this consensus. He acknowledges that 22.7 is from the evangelist himself and concedes that it is “the single verse in [[1943]] the New Testament that most looks like a retrospective prophecy of the events of 70 A. D.” (p. 20) However, he strongly denies that this verse neces‑ sarily refers to the fall of Jerusalem by appealing to K. H. Rengstorf’s view that 22.7 represents a fixed description of ancient expeditions of punishment and is such an established topos of Near Eastern, Old Testament and rabbinic litera‑ ture that it has no relevance for the dating of Matthew. Robinson believes that all three synoptic gospels were written in the late 50s or early 60s (p. 116) and challenges nearly all the usual assumptions on which New Testament writings are dated. Even if his conclusions are improbable (and I myself think that they are), his questioning of widely-held views is valuable.60 In his forthcoming commentary R. H. Gundry also claims that Matthew was written before 70 A. D. He appeals to some of Robinson’s arguments and insists that since Matthew 17.24–27 was written by the evangelist himself and shows his concern to win Jews, the gospel must have been written before the destruction of the temple. Since Luke’s gospel, which (according to Gundry) was written about 63 A. D., reflects some knowledge of Matthew, Matthew must have been written even earlier.

 Unfortunately Robinson does not discuss the sharp criticisms of Rengstorf’s view which have been made by Trilling (p. 85) and R. Walker (p. 56 n. 49). It is worth noting that Strecker and Robinson draw opposite conclusions from the observation that the fall of Jerusalem is not prominent in Matthew: Strecker believes that the gospel must have been written well after A. D. 70; Robinson concludes that it must have been written well before the fall of Jerusalem. 60

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These two minority views are unlikely to overturn the consensus that Matthew was written between 70 and 115. Within that relatively long period of time, the only ‘fixed point’ for the dating of Matthew is the introduction of the ‘Birkath ha-Minim’ into the synagogue liturgy about 85 A. D. Scholars who believe that Matthew’s community had not yet parted company with Judaism usually argue that the gospel must have been written before this date. But, as we saw in III,2, there is a sharp division of opinion on the relationship of Matthew’s community to Judaism: many (perhaps the majority) believe that since the gospel reflects an irrevocable parting of the ways with Judaism, it must have been written shortly after 85 A. D.

VI. Whither Matthean Scholarship? The pace of scholarly engagement with Matthew has quickened steadily since 1945. The number of books and major articles which have appeared between 1970 and 1980 is quite remarkable. As we have seen, some of the work has been of great distinction. There has, however, also been a marked tendency to overlook the gaps in our knowledge of first century Christianity and Judaism and to offer rather superficial or over-confident judgements on crucial ques‑ tions. Several [[1944]] scholars have focussed rather one-sidedly on one or two aspects of Matthew and have failed to do justice to other parts of the evidence or to other Matthean themes or concerns. And, as we stressed in II,1, many of the basic assumptions of redaction criticism have not yet been subjected to suf‑ ficiently rigorous scrutiny. There have undoubtedly been considerable advances in our understanding of this gospel. We now have a much greater appreciation of the evangelist’s literary skill. We are learning to see his gospel as a unified whole, though attempts to ex‑ pound the theological structure of the evangelist’s thought have not always been particularly successful. We may have to concede that the evangelist was rather less consistent and less lucid as a theologian than we would like to suppose. It is perhaps rash to ‘play the prophet’ and suggest ways in which Matthean scholarship may develop over the next decade or two. But fresh approaches are now being explored, some of which will undoubtedly be more prominent in the future. I suspect that before long several attempts will be made to expound system‑ atically the evangelist’s thought. J. D. Kingsbury (Matthew, 1978, p. xi) has announced that he hopes to present a “comprehensive overview of what may be termed the theology of Matthew.” Even though this plan is fraught with difficul‑ ties, the outcome will be awaited eagerly. There is an urgent need for several fullscale commentaries on the gospel. Matthew has not been as well served in this respect as have the other three gos‑

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pels. The task is daunting, for we need commentaries which will not only assess critically recent Matthean scholarship but which will also attempt to develop individual lines of interpretation of the whole gospel. Scholarly interest in many aspects of first century Judaism is keen and sig‑ nificant advances are being made, especially by J. Neusner and his colleagues. As yet comparatively few Matthean specialists have taken these advances suf‑ ficiently seriously. A notable exception is B. Przybylski (1980) who examines righteousness in Matthew, the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Tannaitic writings. Although there has been plenty of interest in the relationship of Matthew’s community to Judaism, few scholars have followed the example of M. Simon and L. Goppelt and set this question in the much wider context of ChristianJewish relationships in the first and second centuries.61 Work now in progress on both Hebrew and Greek textual traditions of the Old Testament in the first century will undoubtedly be of great interest to Matthean specialists. There are also some grounds for hoping that the new interest of students of early Christianity in the social sciences will bear fruit in the future. Several attempts have already been made to provide structural analyses of passages in Matthew. Pham Hüu Lai (1973), for example, has made a detailed study of 27.57–28.20 using Greimas’s semiotic square. H. Frankemölle (Evange‑ list, 1979) has begun to apply some of the principles of modern linguistics to the interpretation [[1945]] of Matthew. J. D. Kingsbury (Akolouthein, 1978, pp. 62 ff.) has explored briefly the social setting of Matthew’s community. But perhaps we should not be too optimistic: Matthew’s gospel may well lend itself to analyses along these various lines rather less readily than other early Christian writings. Matthean scholarship between 1945 and 1980 has been dominated by the development of redaction criticism. In future years this method will need to be refined if it is to continue to be fruitful. And if our understanding of the origin and purpose of the gospel is to be clarified further, it will certainly need to be complemented by a variety of other approaches.

VII. Select Bibliography Abel, E. L., Who Wrote Matthew?, New Testament Studies 17 (1970–1), pp. 138–52. Albright, W. F., and Mann, C. S., Matthew, Anchor Bible 26, New York, 1971. Bacon, B. W., The ‘Five Books’ of Moses against the Jews, The Expositor 15 (1918), pp. 56–66. Id., Studies in Matthew, London, 1930. 61  L. Goppelt, Christentum und Judentum im ersten und zweiten Jahrhundert, Beiträge zur Förderung christlicher Theologie 2, 55, Gütersloh, 1954; M. Simon, Verus Israel, Bibliothèque des Écoles Françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 166, 2nd ed. Paris, 1964.

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Banks, R. J., Matthew’s Understanding of the Law: Authenticity and Interpretation in Matthew 5:17–20, Journal of Biblical Literature 93 (1974), pp. 226–42. Barth, G., Matthew’s Understanding of the Law, in: G. Bornkamm, G. Barth and H, J. Held, eds., Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew, Eng. Tr. London, 1963. Berner, U., Die Bergpredigt: Rezeption und Auslegung im 20. Jahrhundert, Göttinger theologische Arbeiten 12, Göttingen, 1979. Betz, H. D., The Sermon on the Mount: Its Literary Genre and Function, Journal of Religion 59 (1979), pp. 285–97. Blair, E. P., Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew, New York, 1960. Bonnard, P., L’Évangile selon Saint Matthieu, Commentaire du Nouveau Testament 1, Neuchâtel/Paris, 2nd ed. 1970, Id., Matthieu, éducateur du peuple chrétien, in: Mélanges bibliques en hommage au R. P. Béda Rigaux, eds. A. Descamps and A. De Halleux, Gembloux,1970, pp. 1–7. Bornkamm, G., Die Sturmstillung im Matthäusevangelium, first published in: Wort und Dienst. Jahrbuch der Theologischen Schule Bethel 1 (1948), pp. 49–54. English trans‑ lation in: G. Bornkamm, G. Barth and H. J. Held, eds., Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew, London, 1963. Id., Enderwartung und Kirche im Matthäusevangelium, in: The Background of the New Testament and its Eschatology: Studies in Honour of C. H. Dodd, eds. W. D. Davies and D. Daube, Cambridge, 1956; Eng. Tr. in: Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew. Id., Der Auferstandene und der Irdische. Mt. 28, 16–20, in: Zeit und Geschichte, Fest‑ schrift für R. Bultmann, ed. E. Dinkler, Tübingen, 1964; Eng. Tr. in: The Future of our Religious Past, ed. J. M. Robinson, London, 1971, Id., Die Binde‑ und Lösegewalt in der Kirche des Matthäus, in: Die Zeit Jesu, Festschrift für H. Schlier, eds. G. Bornkamm and K. Rahner, Munich, 1970; Eng. Tr. in: Jesus and Man’s Hope I, ed. D. G. MILLER et al., Pittsburgh, 1970. Id., Der Aufbau der Bergpredigt, New Testament Studies 24 (1978), pp. 419–32. Brown, R., Donfried, K. P. and Reumann J., eds., Peter in the New Testament, Minneapolis/ New York, 1973. Brown, R., The Birth of the Messiah, New York, 1977. [[1946]] Brown, S., The Matthean Apocalypse, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 4 (1979), pp. 2–27. Id., The Matthean Community and the Gentile Mission, Novum Testamentum 22 (1980), pp. 193–221. Burger, C., Jesu Taten nach Matthäus 8 und 9, Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 70 (1973), pp. 272–87. Butler, B. C, The Originality of St. Matthew, Cambridge, 1951. Clark, K. W., The Gentile Bias in Matthew, Journal of Biblical Literature 66 (1947), pp. 165–172. Cope, Ο. L., Matthew: A Scribe Trained for the Kingdom of Heaven, The Catholic Bibli‑ cal Quarterly, Monograph Series 5, Washington, 1976. Cothenet, E., Les prophètes chrétiens dans l’Évangile selon saint Matthieu, in: L’Évangile selon Matthieu, ed. M. Didier (see below), pp. 281–308. Dahl, Ν. Α., Die Passionsgeschichte bei Matthäus, New Testament Studies 2 (1955–56), pp. 17–32. Davies, W. D., The Setting of the Sermon on the Mount, Cambridge, 1966.

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Devisch, M., Le Document Q, source de Matthieu. Problématique actuelle, in: L’Évangile selon Matthieu, ed. M. Didier, pp. 71–98. Didier, M., ed., L’Évangile selon Matthieu. Rédaction et Théologie, Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 29, Gembloux, 1972. Dobschütz, E. Von, Matthäus als Rabbi und Katechet, Zeitschrift für neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 27 (1928), pp. 338–48. Donfried, K. P., The Allegory of the Ten Virgins (Matt, 25:1–13) as a Summary of Matthean Theology, Journal of Biblical Literature 93 (1974), pp. 415–28. Duling, D. C., The Therapeutic Son of David: An Element in Matthew’s Christological Apologetic, New Testament Studies 24 (1978), pp. 392–409. Ellis, P. F., Matthew: His Mind and His Message, Collegeville, Minn., 1974. Farmer, W. R., The Synoptic Problem, London, 1964. Farrer, A. M., On Dispensing with Q, in: Studies in the Gospels, ed. D. E. Nineham, Oxford, 1955, pp. 59–88. Fenton, J. C., Inclusio and Chiasmus in Matthew, Studia Evangelica I, Texte und Unter‑ suchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 73, ed. F. L. Cross, Berlin, 1959, pp. 174–79. Id., Matthew and the Divinity of Jesus: Three Questions Concerning Matthew 1.20–23, Studia Biblica 1978, 2, ed. E. A. Livingstone, Sheffield, 1980, pp, 79–82. Frankemölle, H., Amtskritik im Matthäus-Evangelium, Biblica 54 (1973), pp. 247–62. Id., Jahwebund und Kirche Christi, Neutestamentliche Abhandlungen N. F. 10, Münster, 1974. Id., Evangelist und Gemeinde. Eine methodenkritische Besinnung (mit Beispielen aus dem Matthäusevangelium), Biblica 60 (1979), pp. 153–90. Gaechter, P., Das Matthäus-Evangelium, Innsbruck, 1964. Id., Die literarische Kunst im Matthäus-Evangelium, Stuttgarter Bibelstudien 7, Stutt‑ gart, 1965. Gärtner, B., The Habakkuk Commentary (DSH) and the Gospel of Matthew, Studia Theologica 8 (1954), pp. 1–24. Garland, D. E., The Intention of Matthew 23, Novum Testamentum, Suppl. Vol. 52, Leiden, 1979. Gaston, L., The Messiah of Israel as Teacher of the Gentiles, Interpretation 29 (1975), pp. 25–40. [[1947]] Gerhardsson, B., Jésus livré et abandonné d’après la Passion selon saint Matthieu, Revue Biblique 76 (1969), pp. 206–227. Id., Gottes Sohn als Diener Gottes. Messias, Agape und Himmelsherrschaft nach dem Matthäusevangelium, Studia Theologica 27 (1973), pp. 25–50. Id., The Mighty Acts of Jesus according to Matthew, Lund, 1979. Grass, J. M., Purpose and Pattern in Matthew’s Use of the Title ‘Son of David’, New Testament Studies 10 (1964), pp. 446–464. Id., The Son of God as Torah Incarnate in Matthew, in: Studia Evangelica IV, Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 102, Berlin, 1968, pp. 38–46. Goodspeed, E. J., Matthew, Apostle and Evangelist, Philadelphia, 1959. Goulder, M. D., Midrash and Lection in Matthew, London, 1974.

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Green, Η. B., The Structure of St. Matthew’s Gospel, in: Studia Evangelica IV, Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 102, Berlin, 1968, pp. 57–59. Id., The Gospel According to Matthew, The New Clarendon Bible, Oxford 1975. Greeven, H., Die Heilung des Gelähmten nach Matthäus, Wort und Dienst 4 (1955), pp. 65–78. Grundmann, W., Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, Berlin, 3rd ed. 1972. Guelich, R. Α., “Not to Annul the Law Rather to Fulfill the Prophets”: An Exegetical Study of Jesus and the Law in Matthew with Emphasis on 5:17–48, Diss. Hamburg, 1967. Gundry, R. H., The Use of the Old Testament in St. Matthew’s Gospel with Special Reference to the Messianic Hope, Novum Testamentum, Suppl. Vol. 18, Leiden, 1967. Id., Matthew: A Commentary on His Literary and Theological Art, Grand Rapids, 1982. Haenchen, E., Matthäus 23, Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 48 (1951), pp. 38–63. Hamerton-Kelly, R. G., Attitudes to the Law in Matthew’s Gospel: A Discussion of Matthew 5:18, Biblical Research 17 (1972), pp. 19–32. Hare, D. R. Α., The Theme of Jewish Persecution of Christians in the Gospel According to St. Matthew, Society for New Testament Studies, Monograph Series 6, Cambridge, 1967. Id. and Harrington, D. J., “Make Disciples of all the Gentiles” (Mt. 28.19), Catholic Biblical Quarterly 37 (1975), pp. 359–69. Harrington, D. J., Matthean Studies since Joachim Rohde, Heythrop Journal 16 (1975), pp. 375–88. Held, H. J., Matthew as Interpreter of the Miracle Stories, in: G. Bornkamm, G. Barth and H. J. Held, eds., Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew, London, 1963. Hill, D., The Gospel of Matthew, London, 1972. Id., False Prophets and Charismatics: Structure and Interpretation in Matthew 7.15–23, Biblica 57 (1976), pp. 327–48. Id., Son and Servant: An Essay on Matthean Christology, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 6 (1980), pp. 2–16. Hoffmann, P., Der Petrus-Primat im Matthäusevangelium, in: Neues Testament und Kirche. Festschrift für R. Schnackenburg, ed. J. Gnilka, Freiburg, 1974, pp. 94–114. Hubbard, Β. J., The Matthean Redaction of a Primitive Apostolic Commissioning: An Exegesis of Matthew 28.16–20, SBL Dissertation Series 19, Missoula, 1974. Hübner, Η., Das Gesetz in der synoptischen Tradition, Witten, 1973. Hummel, R., Die Auseinandersetzung zwischen Kirche und Judentum im Matthäusevan‑ gelium, Beiträge zur evangelischen Theologie 33, Munich, 1st ed. 1963, 2nd ed. 1966. Johnson, M. D., The Purpose of the Biblical Genealogies. With Special Reference to the Setting of the Genealogy of Jesus, Cambridge, 1969. [[1948]] Id., Reflections on a Wisdom Approach to Matthew’s Christology, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 36 (1974), pp. 44–74. Kähler, C., Zur Form‑ und Traditionsgeschichte von Matt. xvi. 17–19, New Testament Studies, 23 (1976–77), pp. 36–58. Käsemann, E., The Beginnings of Christian Theology, in: E. Käsemann, New Testa‑ ment Questions of Today, London, 1969. Keck, L., The Sermon on the Mount, in: Jesus and Man’s Hope II, ed. D. G. Miller et al. Pittsburgh, 1971.

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Kilpatrick, G. D., The Origins of the Gospel According to St. Matthew, Oxford, 1946. Kingsbury, J. D., The Parables of Jesus in Matthew 13, London 1969 Id., The Composition and Christology of Matt. 28:16–20, Journal of Biblical Literature 93, 1974, pp. 573–84. Id., Matthew: Structure, Christology, Kingdom, London, 1976. Id., The Title ‘Son of David’ in Matthew’s Gospel, Journal of Biblical Literature 95 (1976), pp. 591–602. Id., Matthew: A Commentary for Preachers and Others, London, 1978. Id., The Verb Akolouthein as an Index of Matthew’s View of his Community, Journal of Biblical Literature 97 (1978), pp. 56–73. Id., The Figure of Peter in Matthew’s Gospel as a Theological Problem, Journal of Biblical Literature 98 (1979), pp. 67–83. Kratz, R., Auferweckung als Befreiung: Eine Studie zur Passions‑ und Auferstehungs‑ theologie des Matthäus (besonders Mt. 27,62–28.15), Stuttgarter Bibelstudien 65, Stuttgart, 1973. Krentz, E., The Extent of Matthew’s Prologue, Journal of Biblical Literature 83 (1964), pp. 409–414. Kreitzer, Α., Die Herrschaft der Himmel und die Söhne des Reiches, Stuttgarter bib‑ lische Monographien 10, Stuttgart, 1971. Kruijf, T. de, Der Sohn des lebendigen Gottes. Ein Beitrag zur Christologie des Mat‑ thausevangeliums, Analecta Biblica 14, Rome, 1962. Kümmel, W. G., Introduction to the New Testament, revised Eng. Tr. London, 1966. Könzel G., Studien zum Gemeindeverständnis des Matthäus-Evangeliums, Calwer the‑ ologische Monographien, Reihe 1, Bibelwissenschaft 10, Stuttgart, 1978. Lambrecht, J., The Parousia Discourse: Composition and Content in Mt. XXIV–XXV, in: L’Évangile selon Matthieu, ed. M. Didier (see above), pp. 309–342. Lange, J., Das Erscheinen des Auferstandenen im Evangelium nach Matthaus, Forschung zur Bibel 11, Würzburg, 1973. Id., ed., Das Matthäus-Evangelium, Wege der Forschung 525, Darmstadt 1980. Légasse, S., L’antijudaisme dans l’Évangile selon Matthieu, in: L’Évangile selon Mat‑ thieu, ed. M. Didier (see above), pp. 417–428. Léon-Dufour, X., Interprétation des Évangiles et problème synoptique, in: De Jésus aux Évangiles, ed. I. de la Potterie, Gembloux, 1967, pp. 5–16. Id., Redaktionsgeschichte of Matthew and Literary Criticism, in: Jesus and Man’s Hope 1, ed. D. G. Miller et al., Pittsburgh, 1970. Ljungman, H., Das Gesetz Erfüllen. Mt. 5.17 ff. und 3.15 untersucht, Lunds Universitets Arsskrift N. F. 1, 50, 6, Lund, 1954. Lohmeyer, E., Das Evangelium des Matthäus, ed. W. Schmauch, Göttingen, 1967. Lohr, C. H., Oral Techniques in the Gospel of Matthew, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 23 (1961), pp. 403–435. Luck, U., Die Vollkommenheits-Forderung der Bergpredigt, Theologische Existenz heute 150, Munich, 1968. Luz, U., Die Jünger im Matthäusevangelium, Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wis‑ senschaft 62 (1971), pp. 141–71. [[1949]] McConnell, R. S., Law and Prophecy in Matthew’s Gospel, Basel, 1969. Martin, R. P., St. Matthew’s Gospel in Recent Study, Expository Times 80 (1968–9), pp. 132–6.

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Massaux, E., Influence de L’Évangile de saint Matthieu sur la littérature chrétienne avant saint Irénée, Louvain, 1950. Meier, J. P., Law and History in Matthew’s Gospel, Analecta Biblica 71, Rome, 1976. Id., Two Disputed Questions in Matt. 28,16–20, Journal of Biblical Literature 96 (1977), pp. 407–424 Id., Nations or Gentiles in Matthew 28.19?, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 39 (1977), pp. 94–102. Id., John the Baptist in Matthew’s Gospel, Journal of Biblical Literature 99 (1980), pp. 383–405. Michel, O., Der Abschluß des Matthäusevangeliums, Evangelische Theologie 10 (1950– 1), pp. 16–26. Minear, P. S., False Prophecy and Hypocrisy in the Gospel of Matthew, in: Neues Tes‑ tament und Kirche. Festschrift für R. Schnackenburg, ed. J. Gnilka, Freiburg, 1974. Id., The Disciples and the Crowds in the Gospel of Matthew, Anglican Theological Re‑ view, Supplementary Series 3 (1974), pp. 28–44. Moule, C. F. D., St. Matthew’s Gospel: Some Neglected Features, Studia Evangelica 11, Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 87, Berlin, 1964, pp. 91–99. Neirynck, F., La rédaction Matthéenne et la structure du premier évangile, in: De Jésus aux Évangiles, ed. L. de la Potterie, Gembloux, 1967, pp. 41–73. Id., A Critical Analysis of A. Gaboury’s Hypothesis, in: L’Évangile selon Matthieu, ed. M. Didier (see above), pp. 37–69. Id., The Minor Agreements of Matthew and Luke against Mark, Bibliotheca Ephemeri‑ dum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 37, Leuven, 1974. Nellessen, E., Das Kind und seine Mütter, Stuttgarter Bibelstudien 39, Stuttgart, 1969. Nepper-Christensen, P., Das Matthäusevangelium  – ein judenchristliches Evangeli‑ um?, Acta Theologica Danica 1, Aarhus, 1958. Nolan, B., The Royal Son of God: The Christology of Matthew 1–2, Diss. Freiburg; Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 23, Göttingen, 1979. Osborne, R. Ε., The Provenance of Matthew’s Gospel, Studies in Religion /Sciences Religieuses 3 (1973), pp. 22–25. Pesch, W., Matthäus, der Seelsorger, Stuttgarter Bibelstudien 2, Stuttgart, 1966, Pham Hüu Lai, Production du sens par la foi: autorités religieuses contestées/ fondées. Analyse structurale de Matthieu XXVII.57–XXVIII.20, Revue de Sciences Religieuses 61 (1973), pp. 65–96. Pregeant, R., Christology Beyond Dogma: Matthew’s Christ in Process Hermeneutic, Semeia, Suppl. 7, Philadelphia, 1978. Przybylski, B., The Role of Mt. 3.13 and 4.11 in the Structure and Theology of the Gospel of Matthew, Biblical Theology Bulletin 4 (1974), pp. 222–235. Id., Righteousness in Matthew and his World of Thought, Cambridge, 1980. Rist, J. M., On the Independence of Matthew and Mark, Society for New Testament Stud‑ ies, Monograph Series 32, Cambridge, 1978. Robinson, J. A. T., Redating the New Testament, London, 1976. Rohde, J., Rediscovering the Teaching of the Evangelists, Eng. Tr. London, 1968. Rothfuchs, W., Die Erfüllungszitate des Matthäus-Evangeliums, Beiträge zur Wissen‑ schaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament 88, Stuttgart, 1969. [[1950]]

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Sand, Α., Das Gesetz und die Propheten: Untersuchungen zur Theologie des Evange­li­ ums nach Matthäus, Biblische Untersuchungen 11, Regensburg, 1974. Schlatter, Α., Der Evangelist Matthäus, Seine Sprache, sein Ziel, seine Selbständigkeit, 6th ed. Stuttgart, 1963. Id., Die Kirche des Matthäus, Beiträge zur Förderung christlicher Theologie 33,1, Gü‑ tersloh, 1930. Schieber, H., Konzentrik im Matthäusschluß: ein form‑ und gattungskritischer Versuch zu Mt. 28:16–20, Kairos 19 (1977), pp. 286–307. Schmid, J., Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, 5th ed. Regensburg, 1965. Schniewind, J., Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, 12th ed. Göttingen, 1968. Schultz, S., Die Stunde der Botschaft. Einführung in die Theologie der vier Evan‑ gelisten, Hamburg, 1967. Schwark, J., Matthäus der Schriftgelehrte und Josephus der Priester. Ein Vergleich, in: Theokratia: Jahrbuch des Institutum Judaicum Delkzschianum 2, 1970–2, Leiden, 1973, pp. 137–154. Schweizer, Ε., Observance of the Law and Charismatic Activity in Matthew, New Testa‑ ment Studies 16 (1969–70), pp. 213–30. Id., The ‘Matthean Church’, New Testament Studies 20 (1974), p. 215. Id., The Good News According to Matthew, Eng. Tr. London, 1976. Id., Matthäus und seine Gemeinde, Stuttgarter Bibelstudien 71, Stuttgart, 1974. Senior, D. P., The Passion Narrative According to Matthew, Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 39, Leuven, 1975. Sheridan, M., Disciples and Discipleship in Matthew and Luke, Biblical Theology Bul‑ letin 3 (1973), pp. 235–55. Sherriff, J. M., Matthew 25:1–13. A Summary of Matthaean Eschatology, in: Studia Biblica 1978, 2 ed. E. A. Livingstone, Sheffield, 1980, pp. 301–305. Slingerland, H. D., The Transjordanian Origin of Matthew’s Gospel, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 3 (1979), pp. 18–28. Soares Prabhu, G. M., The Formula Quotations in the Infancy Narrative of Matthew, Analecta Biblica 63, Rome, 1976. Stanton, G. N., 5 Ezra and Matthean Christianity in the Second Century, Journal of Theological Studies 28 (1977), pp. 67–83. Stendahl, K., The School of St. Matthew and its Use of the Old Testament, 1st ed. Lund/ Copenhagen, 1954; 2nd ed. Philadelphia, 1968. Strecker, G., Der Weg der Gerechtigkeit, Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 82, 1st ed. Göttingen, 1962; 2nd ed. 1966; 3rd ed. 1971. Id., Das Geschichtsverständnis des Matthäus, Evangelische Theologie 26 (1966), pp. 57– 74. Id., Die Makarismen der Bergpredigt, New Testament Studies 17 (1970–1), pp. 255–75. Id., Die Antithesen der Bergpredigt, Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 69 (1978), pp. 36–72. Suggs, M. J., Wisdom, Christology and Law in Matthew’s Gospel, Cambridge, Mass., 1970. Suhl, Α., Der Davidssohn im Matthäus-Evangelium, Zeitschrift für die neutestamentli‑ che Wissenschaft 59 (1968), pp. 57–81. Tagava, K., People and Community in the Gospel of Matthew, New Testament Studies 16 (1969–70), pp. 149–162.

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Thompson, W. G., Matthew’s Advice to a Divided Community: Matthew 17:22–18:35, Rome, 1970. Id., An Historical Perspective in the Gospel of Matthew, Journal of Biblical Literature 93 (1974), pp. 243–62. Thysman, R., Communauté et directives éthiques: la Catéchèse de Matthieu, Recherches et Synthèses, Sect. d’Exégèse 1, Gembloux, 1974. [[1951]] Trilling, W., Das Wahre Israel, Studien zum Alten und Neuen Testament 10, 2nd ed. Leipzig, 1961; 3rd ed. Munich, 1964. Id., Amt und Amtsverständnis bei Matthäus, in: Mélanges bibliques en hommage au R. P. Béda Rigaux, eds. A. Descamps and A. de Halleux, Gembloux, 1970, pp. 29– 44. Van Segbroeck, F., Les citations d’accomplissement dans l’Évangile selon Matthieu d’après trois ouvrages récents, in: L’Évangile selon Matthieu, ed. M. Didier (see above), pp. 107–130. Van Tilborg, S., The Jewish Leaders in Matthew, Leiden, 1972. Viviano, B. T., Where was the Gospel According to Matthew Written?, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 41 (1979), pp. 533–546. Vögtle, Α., Messias und Gottessohn. Herkunft und Sinn der matthäischen Geburts‑ und Kindheitsgeschichte, Düsseldorf, 1971. Waetjen, W. C., The Genealogy as the Key to the Gospel according to Matthew, Journal of Biblical Literature 95 (1976), pp. 205–230. Walker, R., Die Heilsgeschichte im ersten Evangelium, Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 91, Göttingen, 1967. Walker, W. O., A Method for Identifying Redactional Passages in Matthew on Functional and Linguistic Grounds, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 39 (1977), pp. 76–93. Wenham, D., The Structure of Matthew XIII, New Testament Studies 25 (1979), pp. 516– 22. Wrege, H.-T., Die Überlieferungsgeschichte der Bergpredigt, Wissenschaftliche Unter‑ suchungen zum Neuen Testament 9, Tübingen, 1968. Zumstein, J., La Condition du croyant dans l’évangile selon Matthieu, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 16, Fribourg/Göttingen, 1977.

Chapter 2

Matthew’s Gospel: A Survey of Some Recent Commentaries [[131]] Until recently Matthew was not as well served by scholars as the other three Gospels. Twenty years ago only three or four books in English could be listed as “essential reading”, and the finest full-scale commentary was available only in French (P. Bonnard, 1963; 2nd ed. 1970). Many of the most perceptive studies of this Gospel were tucked away in journal articles or Festschriften avail‑ able only in large theological libraries. This dearth of high quality readily available literature has now been rectified to such an extent that even specialists find it difficult to do more than dip into the flood of commentaries and recent books. It is now difficult to select for a reading list the five most important books on Matthew. Three outstanding multi-volume commentaries are nearing completion, and a large number of “medium scale” commentaries have recently been written from several different perspectives. In this survey I shall concentrate on commentaries published in English in the last ten years or so. I shall begin by considering the larger critical commentaries, before turning to those of medium and shorter length. In addition to the commentaries on the whole Gospel which are referred to below, there are also several excellent commentaries on parts [[132]] of Mat‑ thew’s Gospel. Raymond Brown has recently published an updated edition of his acclaimed commentary on the infancy narratives (New York 1977; 2nd edition 1993). His discussion of Matthew 1 and 2 is detailed, clear and stimulating. The same can be said of his masterly two volumes on the passion narratives which have just appeared (New York 1994). In the earlier volume Matthew 1 and 2 and Luke 1 and 2 are discussed separately. With some hesitation Brown decided to comment on the passion narratives incident by incident, rather than to discuss the Gospels one by one. However the narrative flow and distinctive features of each Gospel are by no means neglected. Several excellent commentaries on the Sermon on the Mount are now avail‑ able. R. A. Guelich (1982) is very thorough, especially on Matthew 5. The Ger‑ man Lutheran scholar Georg Strecker (1982; ET 1985) and the Belgian Roman Catholic scholar Jan Lambrecht (1985) have published excellent medium length, accessible commentaries on the Sermon. It is also worth noting that the serious student of Matthew’s Gospel is well ad‑ vised to consult recent books and articles on Matthew, as well as commentaries.

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Current Matthean scholarship is surveyed in my introduction to a set of “clas‑ sic” essays on Matthew (Stanton, 2nd ed. 1994). My own recent book (Stanton 1992) discusses the origin, social setting, and purpose of Matthew and includes a bibliography of books and articles on Matthew. Full bibliographical references of the writings discussed in this survey are given at the end of this article.

Major Critical Commentaries 1. The new International Critical Commentary by W. D. Davies and D. C. Al‑ lison (Vol. I, 1988; II, 1991) is an outstanding achievement. The second volume reaches the end of chapter 18; the final volume is eagerly awaited. This is such a fine commentary that it is likely to be a standard reference tool for at least as long as the original ICC on Matthew by W. C. Allen (3rd ed. 1912) which is still in print. The Welsh scholar W. D. Davies is the doyen of Matthean scholars. He is working closely with a very able younger American scholar, D. C. Allison. This traditional commentary pays close attention to individual words and phrases, and provides numerous cross-references to biblical, Jewish and early Christian writings. Discussion of each block of text is usually divided into five sections. Brief comments on structure and sources are followed by clause by clause detailed exegetical commentary; smaller type is often used for discussion of technical matters. The “concluding observations” discuss, often very percep‑ tively, some of the wider theological issues raised by the text. A full bibliography on each block of text is included, but no translation. Volume I includes four excursuses which provide more extended treatment of major topics such as the beatitudes and the Lord’s Prayer. Volume II has ten excursuses, half of which are devoted to discussion of the structure of large blocks. Bible translators who consult this commentary and who have a good knowl‑ edge of NT Greek will find helpful information and stimulating [[133]] obser‑ vations on every page. However, some may find themselves overwhelmed by the details provided: now and again minor points are pursued with more vigour than is warranted. One can readily appreciate that considerations of space have led to the omis‑ sion of a translation. However, translation is the ultimate goal of exegesis. Inclusion of a translation might well have encouraged the authors to discuss some knotty problems which always baffle translators. Three examples will have to suffice, (i) How should makarioi in the beatitudes be translated? Is “blessed” satisfactory for most modern English speakers? (ii) In five verses in chapter 8 (vv. 2, 6, 8, 21, 25) Jesus is addressed as kyrie. Davies and Allison consistently translate the vocative (without discussion) as “Lord”. The stand‑ ard recent translations are divided. GNB uses “Sir” in the first four passages,

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“Lord” at v. 25. REB uses “Sir” three times, followed by “Lord” in vv. 21 and 25. In all five verses NRSV uses “Lord”. There are exegetical and theological questions at stake here which should be addressed in a major commentary. (iii) The translation of adelphos is not an easy matter in countries where po‑ litical correctness stalks the land. REB translates all four uses in chapter 18 as “brother”. NRSV uses “a member of the church” in vv. 21 and 15, “brother or sister” in v. 35 (and also in 5.22, 23, 24 and 47). Once again there is more to this than meets the eye. 2. Ulrich Luz (I, 1985; II 1990) is also engaged on a three volume commentary; only the first volume has as yet been translated into English (1989). Luz’s work is being published in an excellent series edited and written by both Protestant and Roman Catholic scholars as an ecumenical project. This accounts for some of Luz’s particular emphases, but his ecumenical concerns are not prominent and are not foisted onto the text. This is a superb commentary by an outstand‑ ing Swiss scholar who now teaches in Berne. In my view it will eventually be recognised as one of the finest commentaries on any book of the Bible by a twentieth century scholar. Each section opens with a bibliography and a translation. Analysis (which includes discussion of structure and of Matthew’s sources) is followed by de‑ tailed verse by verse exegetical comment. Discussion of the textual variants and of the views of other commentators is relegated to footnotes. The layout of the commentary is excellent. Luz writes clearly; readers with limited German should certainly persevere. The most distinctive feature of this commentary is the Wirkungsgeschichte with which comment on each section ends. Although the history of the inter‑ pretation of the text by later commentators is not neglected, Luz’s concerns are broader. He sketches (often fully and always perceptively) the effect Matthew’s text has had on the theological and ethical tradition of the church down through the centuries. His Wirkungsgeschichte often ends with reflections on the mean‑ ing of the text for the life of the church today. These comments are never bland. They will encourage lively preaching with a richer theological content than is often customary. The author once told me that the Wirkungsgeschichte took about three times as long to prepare as the traditional exegetical [[134]] material. This immense labour has not been in vain: Luz’s work will continue to enrich the life of the church for a long time to come. It would be invidious to compare in detail two excellent commentaries which are not yet complete. They undoubtedly complement one another: the serious student will always consult both with profit. Davies and Allison often have the edge on historical questions and on parallels in early Jewish writings. Luz is often more precise and penetrating in his exegesis, and stronger in theological perception, but the English translation is not always felicitous.

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3. The American scholar Donald A. Hagner (1993 and 1994) has recently pub‑ lished a fine two-volume commentary in the well-established Word series. He hopes that his commentary will be useful for readers who may find Davies and Allison, or Luz, too technical or too detailed, but this is not a light-weight com‑ mentary. Although Hagner’s thorough exegesis is based firmly on the Greek text, the first occurrence of a Greek word or phrase is always accompanied by a translation. So this commentary is the most substantial which is accessible to readers without Greek. Hagner’s general approach is moderately conservative, but he is always fair to other views. Each section of the commentary opens with an excellent up-to-date bibliogra‑ phy which is followed by the author’s own (usually fairly free) translation of the passage. Brief technical notes on the translation and on textual variants follow. These notes are more helpful than in some of the other commentaries in the Word series, and will be of special interest to translators. The first section of the commentary on each passage is headed (as in other volumes in the series) “Form / Structure / Setting”. This section includes com‑ ments on the origin of the traditions, their setting within Matthew, and on parallel passages. Thorough and careful verse by verse exegesis follows. A brief final section entitled “Explanation” often includes helpful comments on the wider theological implications of the passage and sometimes a brief comment on the significance of the passage for Christians today. Those concerned with translation are well served. Hagner frequently discusses his reasons for adopting a particular translation. For example, his translation of the opening beatitude as “Happy are the oppressed, because to them belongs the kingdom of heaven” is defended thoroughly. Comments on modern translations are few and far between. However Hagner does note helpfully that a particular interpretation of the much-debated Matthean “exception” to Jesus’ teaching on divorce (5.32 and 19.9) has now found its way into the New Jerusalem Bible: “no divorce except for the case of an illicit mar‑ riage”. Hagner rejects this interpretation (probably rightly) and concludes that from Matthew’s perspective followers of Jesus are still not in this new era rid of their hard hearts; hence divorce and remarriage will continue to occur among them, just as it did among the people of God in the OT. Mt 5.22a raises a cluster of problems for the translator. Hagner translates as follows: “But I say to you that everyone who is filled with [[135]] wrath against his brother or sister, shall be guilty in the judgment. And whoever says to his brother or sister, ‘Raka’, shall be liable to the Sanhedrin. And whoever says, ‘Fool’, shall be liable to fiery Gehenna.” Compare REB: “But what I tell you is this: Anyone who nurses anger against his brother must be brought to justice. Whoever calls his brother ‘good for nothing’ deserves the sentence of the court; whoever calls him ‘fool’ deserves hell-fire.” In my view Hagner as‑ sists modern readers by translating adelphos as “brother or sister”, but surely

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“Raka” and “Gehenna” should not be left untranslated. “Sanhedrin” is perhaps more marginal. This example suggests that modern translators of the Bible into minority languages will do well to look closely at several modern English translations. A close comparison will uncover many of the key issues on which a good commen‑ tary should provide elucidation. Hagner will rarely disappoint. His commentary provides excellent value for money: the very reasonable price of each volume will be a pleasant surprise for those on a tight budget.

Medium Length Commentaries The single volume commentaries referred to in this section fall into two groups: those written from literary perspectives, and those which draw on redaction and historical critical observations of a kind which will be more familiar to most readers of this survey.

1. Literary “Readings” of Matthew’s Gospel In recent years scholarly discussion of Matthew’s Gospel has taken quite new forms: many have found fruitful insights in the work of modern literary critics. Literary studies of Matthew have followed rather belatedly on the heels of rap‑ idly increasing interest in literary critical approaches to the other three Gospels, and to the biblical writings in general. Over the last decade or so, however, per‑ haps as many as half of the scholarly books and articles published in English on Matthew have been written from literary perspectives. In a moment I shall refer to three recent commentaries which have been written with avowedly literary interests in mind. The reasons for this new development within Matthean scholarship are com‑ plex. Some have turned to literary approaches convinced that source critical uncertainties have undermined redaction criticism. Other scholars have become frustrated with traditional historical methods which seem to be subject to a law of diminishing returns: more scholarly endeavour leads only to an increased awareness of the gaps in our knowledge. Others find literary approaches less threatening than historical criticism to their conservative views of the Bible and their traditional Christian theological convictions. Still others have turned from historical to literary criticism with more positive hopes: they sense that literary criticism will produce more and better religious fruit. Such hopes (which in my view are too optimistic) are bolstered by the conviction that literary criticism will bridge the gap between antiquity and the end of the twentieth century, whereas historical criticism merely draws attention to its breadth. Others have found –

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as I have myself – that modern literary theory is an attractive [[136]] dancing partner: although theoretical studies are bewildering in their rich and varied profusion, with eclectic use many biblical writings may be read more sensitively and with a new appreciation of the “final form” of the text. Jack Dean Kingsbury’s book, Matthew as Story (1986; 2nd ed. 1988) is a help‑ ful way of sampling a literary approach to Matthew. Although this book is not, strictly speaking, a commentary, three chapters do expound Matthew’s overall story line, section by section. Kingsbury notes that whereas redaction critics have largely scrutinised Matthew’s Gospel so as to reconstruct the theology of the evangelist or the social situation of the community to which he belonged, his own narrative-critical approach attends to the very story told by the Gospel. “When one reads Matthew, one temporarily takes leave of one’s familiar world of reality and enters into another world that is autonomous in its own right” (Story, 2). These comments are strongly reminiscent of the school of modern literary criticism known as New Criticism, whose advocates insist on a “close read‑ ing” of texts solely in terms of the text itself. Kingsbury’s approach, however, is not as radically ahistorical or “text immanent” as that of many New Critics. Although socio-historical considerations are largely absent from his exposition of Matthew’s story world, in his book he includes a final chapter on the com‑ munity of Christians for which Matthew’s story was originally written, and he concedes that what can be inferred from the text about the intended readers may be supplemented by “occasional glances at Mark or Luke or at other historical data …” (147). Kingsbury’s book shows the value of attending carefully to the story lines (or plots and sub-plots) of the Gospel and to the ways individuals and groups are characterised. At one point he draws on the novelist E. M. Forster’s distinc‑ tion between “flat” and “round” characters. Other narrative critics have drawn even more heavily on the work of modern literary theorists. One of Kingsbury’s pupils, Mark Alan Powell, has now written a helpful guide, What is Narrative Criticism? (Philadelphia 1990). There is no doubt about the value of this general approach. Some translators will find the three recent commentaries which have drawn on it very helpful, for they undoubtedly enable the reader to appreciate the flow of Matthew’s whole story. At times some of the larger traditional commentaries are inclined to miss the wood for the trees. On the other hand individual words and phrases, as well as particular historical problems, often receive scant attention. Margaret Davies (1993) includes a thorough if rather technical introduction to her literary approach, but the commentary itself is refreshingly free from literary jargon. The text is discussed section by section, with few references to parallel passages in the other Gospels, to first century Jewish or Christian writings, or to the work of other scholars. Davies usually singles out and comments effec‑

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tively on the key points in each section of the text. In many places, however, her treatment is thin. For example, on 5.17–20, one of the most crucial passages in the whole Gospel, there are only two long paragraphs which hardly even hint at the problems a careful reading of this passage raises. From time to time Davies includes helpful reflections on the relevance of the text for modern readers. [[137]] David Garland (1993) writes in a new series “Reading the New Testa‑ ment” which aims to present “cutting-edge research” to a wide range of readers. In his foreword to the series General Editor Charles Talbert explains that “the volumes in this series do not follow the word-by-word, phrase-by-phrase, verseby-verse method of traditional commentaries. Rather they are concerned to un‑ derstand large thought units and their relation to an author’s thought as a whole. The focus is on the final form of the text.” These volumes involve a concern both for how an author communicates and what the religious point of the text is. Care is taken to relate both the How and the What of the text to its Christian, Jewish (scriptural and post-biblical), and Graeco-Roman milieu. Garland has kept to his brief admirably. The author draws on his deep knowl‑ edge of Jewish writings most effectively, but does not blind his readers with strings of cross-references. The term “literary” in the sub-title of the commen‑ tary is somewhat misleading, for in most respects literary concerns are no more prominent in this commentary than they are in most “traditional” commentaries. There is one important exception. In line with the intended focus on “the final form of the text”, Garland does not discuss Matthew’s sources. But why should Mark be ignored in a commentary which refers so helpfully to a wide range of other roughly contemporary writings? Matthew expands and reshapes Mark with both literary and theological skill, and these achievements should not be ignored. Daniel Patte (1987) has written a very different kind of “literary” commen‑ tary. He expounds Matthew from a structuralist perspective and explains in an admirably lucid introduction what this means. Matthew’s faith, or “system of convictions” is taken as the starting point. Patte works with two basic premises. (i) Since the evangelist’s faith is of the utmost importance to him, we may expect him to have taken pains not only to set out what he wants to say, but also what he does not want to say. “Oppositions set in the text are the primary mode of expres‑ sion of such convictions (that comprise the faith the author wishes to convey), because the author cannot take the risk that they might be misunderstood.” (6) Patte identifies a large number of “narrative oppositions” in Matthew and claims that they allow us to identify the main points of a passage. (ii) The themes of a passage express the evangelist’s convictions in terms of the readers’ “old knowl‑ edge”. Since Matthew hopes to communicate to his readers something they do not know – something new – particular emphasis is placed upon tensions in the text between the “old” and the “new”. From this sketch it will immediately be apparent that this is a completely fresh approach. Patte squeezes every possible drop out of the “oppositions”

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and “tensions” he discerns in the text. Where there are few or none at all, he is prepared to use other literary approaches. Quite often this simply means read‑ ing the text carefully in the light of what the evangelist has told us earlier – a wholly admirable method. Readers reared on traditional commentaries will feel at home in the notes, which include some references to the standard secondary literature, and which discuss some historical and linguistic points. By and large the notes are quite unrelated to the main body of the text; they seem to have been [[138]] added (perhaps at the behest of the publisher) to meet the needs of the students. In short, a structuralist and a traditional approach are juxtaposed rather awkwardly in this commentary. Some readers may share my disappoint‑ ment: after working through Patte’s commentary, I have a better understanding of structuralism, but not of Matthew’s Gospel.

2. Traditional medium length commentaries The commentaries in this category are a mixed bag. Albright and Mann’s 1971 contribution to the Anchor Bible is not in the same league as Joseph Fitzmyer on Luke, and Raymond Brown on John in the same series. On many passages there are notes on various linguistic and historical points, but little or no exegeti‑ cal comment at all. F. W. Beare (1981) published a large commentary towards the end of his distinguished career, but it lacks sparkle and insight and does not represent his best work. The German Roman Catholic W. Trilling (1969) published a two volume com‑ mentary “for spiritual reading” which many have found helpful. Trilling made a number of important more technical contributions to Matthean scholarship. The Australian conservative evangelical Leon Morris (1992) has recently published a commentary which has some affinities with Trilling’s work: both give prec‑ edence to pastoral and homiletical concerns. For many years now David Hill’s 1972 commentary has been the standard medium length book used by students. This was the first widely used commentary in English to set out in accessible form a redaction critical approach. Although in some respects it is now dated, many readers will find in it the information and help they are seeking. The American evangelical scholar R. H. Gundry (1982) published a learned commentary which focussed on Matthew’s “literary and theological art”. By “literary” Gundry does not mean modern literary theory, rather use of redaction criticism to uncover Matthew’s radical reshaping of Mark. Gundry’s thoroughgoing redaction critical approach has ruffled the feathers of many of his Ameri‑ can fellow-conservatives, but once one accepts that Matthew has used Mark it is impossible to refute Gundry’s general approach. This is an impressive piece of work, in spite of some idiosyncrasies. Gundry is often sharp and penetrating, where other commentators are shallow and bland. Unfortunately he does not

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refer to the work of other scholars, so the uninitiated are not always aware of the points at which Gundry is striking out on his own path. Don Carson’s 1984 contribution to Volume 8 of the Expositor’s Bible Com‑ mentary will frighten fellow-conservatives rather less than Gundry. This is a 600 page commentary by an American scholar who adopts a traditional approach and finds room for careful notes on textual variants and linguistic matters. The series is based on the NIV, but Carson does not follow the NIV slavishly. This is one of the few recent commentaries to give careful attention to modern translations and to some of the problems faced by translators. The American Roman Catholic scholar Daniel Harrington (1991) adopts a moderate redaction critical approach in a commentary which students will find particularly helpful. Harrington places special emphasis [[139]] on the extent to which Matthew draws directly or indirectly on the OT and later Jewish tradi‑ tions.

Shorter Commentaries The reader who wants to consult a shorter commentary on Matthew is well served. K. Stendahl’s 1962 contribution to Peake’s Commentary on the Bible is a minor classic. H. B. Green (1975) is solid and clear. R. T. France (1985) draws most effectively on his extensive knowledge of Matthean scholarship, as does Douglas Hare (1993) in a commentary based on the NRSV. My own favourite shorter commentary is by E. Schweizer (1975). The GNB is quoted at the beginning of each section, but not discussed in the commentary proper which has been translated from the original German. Schweizer always goes to the heart of each verse and passage. His comments are clear and felici‑ tous, and from time to time he shows how the text challenges and encourages readers today.

Concluding Observations The multi-volume commentaries on Matthew by Davies and Allison, Luz, and Hagner are as fine as any of the full-scale commentaries available on Mark, Luke and John. In terms of commentaries, Matthew is no longer the “Cinderella” among the Gospels. The recent commentaries written from a literary perspective raise sharp fresh questions about the nature of a commentary which will be on the agenda of Matthean specialists for some time to come. None of the “literary” commentaries avoids completely the Gospel’s historical, social and religious setting. However their focus on larger units and one the final form of the text does mean that readers looking for help on specific words and phrases will often

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be disappointed. It remains to be seen whether it will be possible to combine literary and traditional concerns. In spite of the plethora of medium length com‑ mentaries now available, I am convinced that there is still room for a judicious one volume commentary which combines traditional and literary approaches more effectively than has been the case so far. Translators have every reason to complain that some of their interests are rarely addressed by commentators. Why is it so difficult to find careful appraisals of the decisions taken in the most widely used modern translations?

Bibliography Albright, W. F., and Mann, C. S., Matthew, Anchor Bible 26, New York 1971. Allen, W. C., A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to S. Mat‑ thew, ICC, Edinburgh, 3rd ed. 1912. Beare, F. W., The Gospel According to Matthew, San Francisco and Oxford 1981. Bonnard, P., L’Évangile selon saint Matthieu, Neuchâtel 1963; 2nd ed. 1970. Carson, D. A., “Matthew”, in The Expositor’s Bible Commentary 8, ed. F. Gaebelein, Grand Rapids 1984, 3–599. [[140]] Davies, Margaret, Matthew, Readings: A New Biblical Commentary, Sheffield 1993. Davies, W. D. and Allison, D.C., A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel ac‑ cording to Saint Matthew, ICC, Edinburgh I, 1988; II, 1991; III forthcoming [[2000]]. Fenton, J. C., The Gospel of St. Matthew, Harmondsworth 1963. Filson, F. V., A Commentary on the Gospel according to St. Matthew, London 1960. France, R. T., The Gospel according to Matthew, Leicester 1985. Garland, David E., Reading Matthew: a Literary and Theological Commentary on the First Gospel, London 1993. Green, H. B., The Gospel according to Matthew, New Clarendon Bible, Oxford 1975. Guelich, R. A., The Sermon on the Mount: a Foundation for Understanding, Waco 1982. Gundry, R. H., Matthew: a Commentary on his Literary and Theological Art, Grand Rapids 1981. Hagner, D. A., Matthew, Word Biblical Commentary Vols. 33A and 33B, Waco 1993 and 1994. Hare, Douglas R. A., Matthew, Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching, Louisville 1993. Harrington, Daniel, The Gospel of Matthew, Sacra Pagina I, Collegeville 1991. Hill, D., The Gospel of Matthew, New Century Bible, London 1972. Kingsbury, Jack Dean, Matthew as Story, Philadelphia, 2nd ed. 1988. Lambrecht, Jan, The Sermon on the Mount, Wilmington 1985. Luz, U., Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, EKK, Zürich I 1985; II 1990; III forthcoming [[1997; vol. IV, 2002]]; ET Edinburgh I 1989 [[revised, 2007; vol. II, 2001; vol. III, 2005]]. McNeile, A. H., The Gospel According to St. Matthew, London 1915. Morris, Leon, The Gospel according to Matthew, Grand Rapids 1992. Patte, Daniel, The Gospel According to Matthew. A Structural Commentary on Matthew’s Faith, Philadelphia 1987.

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Schweizer, Ε., Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, NTD, Göttingen 1973; ET The Good News According to Matthew, Atlanta 1975 and London 1976. Stanton, G. N., A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew, Edinburgh 1992. Stanton, G. N., ed., The Interpretation of Matthew, Edinburgh, 2nd ed. 1994. Stendahl, K., “Matthew”, in Peake’s Commentary on the Bible, ed. M. Black and H. H. Rowley, London 1962. Strecker, G., The Sermon on the Mount: an Exegetical Commentary 1985; ET Edinburgh 1988. Trilling, W., The Gospel according to St. Matthew for Spiritual Reading, 2 vols., London 1969.

Chapter 3

Matthew: ΒΙΒΛΟΣ, ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ, or ΒΙΟΣ? [[1187]] The first step in the interpretation of any writing, whether ancient or modern, is to establish its literary genre.1 The reader usually does this instinc‑ tively by comparing the writing with other similar writings with which he or she is familiar; occasionally further acquaintance with the text may lead to a revised assessment of its genre, and so of its interpretation. A decision about the genre of a work and the discovery of its meaning are inextricably inter-related; different types of text require different types of interpretation.2 The literary critic Alastair Fowler, who has extended and given greater sophis‑ tication to his mentor E. D. Hirsch’s work on genre, writes as follows: “Genre is ubiquitous in literature, as the basis of the conventions that make literary communication possible”.3 Fowler notes (surely correctly) that genre “is a com‑ munication system for the use of writers in writing, and readers and critics in reading and interpreting”.4 A literary genre is not a strait-jacket either for an author or for her or his read‑ ers. Authors regularly adapt or extend existing genres which are familiar to their readers. But they are able to do this only if they are confident that communica‑ tion with their readers will still be possible. If an author were to invent a totally new genre, readers would be baffled and communication would be impossible. In this way genre acts as a constraint on an author, even though it offers readers an initial framework for the determination of meaning, Recognition of the importance of the genre of the Biblical writings for their interpretation has been almost universal in modern Biblical scholarship.5 It is surprising, therefore, to find that the importance of genre has not always been appreciated by scholars who have recently [[1188]] discussed Matthew from a  Cf. E. D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1967, p. 76: “All understanding of verbal meaning is necessarily genre-bound”. 2  On this see A. Fowler, Kinds of Literature, Oxford, Clarendon, 1982, p. 38; E. D. Hirsch, ibid., p. 113. 3  A. Fowler, ibid., p. 36. 4  A. Fowler, ibid., p. 256. See also E. D. Hirsch’s extended discussion of the paramount importance of genre, ibid. pp. 68–126; see especially p. 74: “An interpreter’s preliminary generic conception of a text is constitutive of everything that he subsequently understands, and … this remains the case unless and until that generic conception is altered”. 5  As an interesting recent example, see the opening chapter of J. S. Kloppenborg, The Formation of Q. Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections, Philadelphia, Fortress, 1987. 1

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literary perspective,6 even though Alastair Fowler and other influential literary critics have recently re-emphasized the importance of literary genre for inter‑ pretation. On the other hand, several scholars whose approach to the gospels is historical rather than literary have considered the genre of Matthew’s gospel. W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison have suggested that Matt 1,1 Βίβλος γενέσεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ υἱοῦ Δαυὶδ υἱοῦ Ἀβραάμ, was intended to be the title of Matthew’s writing.7 H. Koester has claimed that Marcion was the first to refer to a “gospel writing” as a εὐαγγέλιον in the middle of the second century; this was a “revolutionary novelty”.8 M. Hengel had earlier made a very different proposal: some eighty years before Marcion, Mark’s work, as the εὐαγγέλιον Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, repre‑ sented a “revolutionary innovation”; “only Mark’s work rightly bears the title εὐαγγέλιον”.9 In this paper I hope to show that Matthew did not intend 1,1 to be the title of his whole writing, and that the evidence, taken cumulatively, points more clearly to Matthew than either to Marcion or to Mark as the innovator in the use of εὐαγγέλιον for a written account of the story and significance of Jesus. I shall also suggest that Matthew wrote a βίος. I hope that this small piece will be of interest to Frans Neirynck, whose writings on the gospels are always rigorous and perceptive. Although he has written three magisterial studies of the structure and composition of Matthew’s gospel,10 as far as I know he has not discussed its literary genre. [[1189]]

 See, for example, S. Moore, Literary Criticism and the Gospels: the Theoretical Challenge, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1989, who completely by-passes genre in his stimu‑ lating book; the term does not appear in his Index which covers virtually every other aspect of literary criticism. Moore refers to Matthew much less frequently than to the other gospels.  7  Matthew (ICC), I, Edinburgh, Clark, 1988.  8  From the Kerygma-Gospel to Written Gospels, in NTS 35 (1989) 361–381, p. 381; Ancient Christian Gospels: Their History and Development, London, SCM, and Philadelphia, Trinity, 1990, pp. 1–48. At several key points Koester is more cautious in his NTS article than in his book.  9  The Titles of the Gospels and the Gospel of Mark, in M. Hengel, Studies in Mark, E. T. London, SCM, 1985, pp. 64–84, p. 73 and p. 83. Hengel cautiously suggests that there may have been even earlier “Petrine” roots: see Titles, pp. 82–83; also Literary, Theological and Historical Problems in the Gospel of Mark, ibid. pp. 53–58. 10  La rédaction matthéenne et la structure du premier évangile, in ETL 43 (1967) 41–73, reprinted in F. Neirynck, Evangelica: Collected Essays (BETL, 60), ed. F. Van Segbroeck, Leuven, University Press – Peeters, 1982, pp. 3–36; ΑΠΟ TOTE ΗΡΞΑΤΟ and the Structure of Matthew, in ETL 64 (1988) 21–59, reprinted in F. Neirynck, Evangelica II: Collected Essays 1982–1991 (BETL, 99), ed. F. Van Segbroeck, Leuven, University Press Peeters, 1991, pp. 141–182; Matthew 4,23–5,2 and the Matthean Composition of 4,23–11,1, in D. L. Dungan (ed.), The Interrelations of the Gospels (BETL, 95), Leuven, University Press Peeters, 1990, pp. 23–46.  6

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1. Βίβλος γενέσεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (Matt 1,1) Did the evangelist intend his opening sentence, Βίβλος γενέσεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ υἱοῦ Δαυὶδ υἱοῦ Ἀβραάμ, to be the title of his writing? This view, which goes back to Jerome, has recently been revived by W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison in the first volume of their International Critical Commentary (1988). It has had some modern support, most notably in Theodor Zahn’s commentary (1903).11 If Matt 1,1 is taken as the title of the whole writing, rather than as the introduction to the genealogy in 1,2–17, then it must be translated either as “Book of the His‑ tory of Jesus Christ …” (so Zahn) or as “Book of the New Genesis (Creation) brought about by Jesus Christ …” (so Davies and Allison).12 If either view is accepted, there are important implications for the genre and interpretation of Matthew. Most modern scholars have insisted that Matt 1,1 must be translated as “re‑ cord”, or “book” of the “genealogy” or “origin” of Jesus Christ. They note that the opening line refers either to the genealogy which follows in 1,2–17, or, just possibly, to the whole of chapter 1. The only two examples of the phrase Βίβλος γενέσεως in the Septuagint, Gen 2,4 and 5,1, together with the use of ἡ γένεσις in Matt 1,18 (where it must refer to the birth of Jesus) are usually considered to rule out the view that 1,1 is a title which refers to the whole book. The attempt by W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison to take Matt 1,1 not only as a title, but also as a reference to the “new creation” brought about by Jesus Christ is interesting but unconvincing. While Paul (and perhaps John 1,1) sees the com‑ ing of Jesus as the counterpart of the creation account narrated in Genesis, there is no evidence which suggests that Matthew did so. Davies and Allison concede that Gen 5,1 and Matt 1,18 incline one “to think that Βίβλος γενέσεως (in 1,1) has special reference to the story of Jesus’ origin”. They then suggest that 1,1 has “more than one evocation”: it refers to the genealogy, to the birth of Jesus, to his life story, and to the whole new creation which begins at his conception. These comments seem to me to be over-subtle. Some of the detailed points made by Davies and Allison support the view that 1,1 refers to the whole of chapter 1, rather than just to the genealogy. Their claim that 1,1 is a general title for the whole book rests largely on an appeal to the introductory use of seper or Βίβλος or βιβλίον in ancient Jewish and Christian literature. But later Christian [[1190]] usage is hardly relevant. Of the Jewish examples cited, only Tobit 1,1 seems to be a close parallel. 11  W.D. Davies and D. C. Allison, Matthew I (n. 7), p. 150, n. 6 list other modern scholars who support this view; see also J. D. Kingsbury, Matthew: Structure, Christology, Kingdom, London, SPCK, 1975, p. 10, n. 54. 12  See their detailed defence in Matthew I (n. 7), pp. 149–155; see also W. D. Davies, The Setting of the Sermon on the Mount, Cambridge, University Press, 1964, pp. 67–72.

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The closest parallels to Matt 1,1 and 1,18, however, are undoubtedly Gen 2,4 and 5,1. These two verses confirm that the opening line of Matthew refers either to the genealogy which follows, or to the account of the “origin” of Jesus in 1,2–25.13 If Matt 1,1 is not a title, how would Matthew and his first readers have referred to the whole writing? Is it possible that they may have referred to it as a “gospel”?

2. Matthew: the First to Refer to His Writing as a εὐαγγέλιον? There is general agreement that in earliest Christianity εὐαγγέλιον refers to oral proclamation of the significance of the death and resurrection of Jesus, not a written account of the story of Jesus. There is also general agreement that in the second half of the second century εὐαγγέλιον was used to refer to a “gospelbook”. But opinions differ markedly on the identity of the individual responsible for this new way of using εὐαγγέλιον. Was it Mark, or Marcion, or should we look elsewhere? In tackling questions of this kind it is often helpful to work backwards from the point at which a new development is well attested. From the end of the sec‑ ond century and the first half of the third century there is clear evidence from papyri, the Old Latin and the Coptic versions, and from Irenaeus, Clement of Alexandria, and Tertullian, that the titles εὐαγγέλιον κατά Μαθθαΐον, Μάρκον κτλ. were widely used.14 In the middle of the second century Justin, 1 Apol. 66,3 provides the first example of the plural εὐαγγέλια to refer to “gospel books”. Justin states explicitly that the ἀπομνημονεύματα τῶν ἀποστόλων (a phrase he uses thirteen times in Dialogue 100–107 and once more in 1 Apol. 67,3–4) are εὐαγγέλια.15 13  So also, for example, U. Luz, Matthäus I (EKK), Zürich, Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn, Neukirchener, 1985, p. 88; R. H. Gundry, Matthew: a Commentary on his Literary and Theological Art, Grand Rapids, Eerdmans, 1981, p. 13; and R. E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah, Garden City, NY, Doubleday, 1977, pp. 58–59. 14  See M. Hengel, Titles (n. 9) p. 66 f. Hengel argues convincingly against the widely held view (which is reflected in the titles of the four gospels in the 26th edition of the Nestle-Aland text) that a shorter form (κατά Μαθθαίον etc.) of the later titles was original. 15  Luise Abramowski gives good reasons for rejecting the suggestion that the reference to εὐαγγέλια in 1 Apol. 66,3 is a later gloss; see Die “Erinnerungen der Apostel” bei Justin, in P. Stuhlmacher (ed.), Das Evangelium und die Evangelien, Tübingen, Mohr, 1983, pp. 341– 353, here p. 341. She accepts Bousset’s theory that Justin incorporated his own earlier short commentary on Psalm 22 in Dialogue 98–107, and suggests that the phrase was used in Justin’s earlier writing out of anti-gnostic concerns. The theory seems to me to be plausible, but it does not explain fully why Justin’s use of ὑπομνημονεύματα τῶν ἀποστόλων is confined to two sections of his extant writings, 1 Apol. 66–67 and Dialogue 100–107: there are plenty of other passages in his writings where the phrase would have been appropriate. O. Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy: a Study in Justin Martyr’s Proof-Text Tradition: Text-Type, Provenance,

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[[1191]] Less than a decade earlier Marcion almost certainly referred to his version of Luke as “the gospel”.16 H. Koester has recently claimed that Mar‑ cion’s concept of a written gospel was a “revolutionary innovation” which Justin took over.17 Koester partly undermines his own case by making two concessions. (i) Even before Marcion’s day liturgical readings from the written gospels may well have been introduced as “the gospel”.18 (ii) Koester accepts Hengel’s claim that the canonical gospels must have circulated under the name of a specific author from the very beginning, but he denies that the original titles were identi‑ cal with the later “Gospel according to …”.19 It is almost inconceivable that the name of the author would have been attached to copies of the gospels without a title of some kind.20 But what title would have been used, if not εὐαγγέλιον?21 There is in fact evidence that εὐαγγέλιον was beginning to be used to refer to a writing in the decades before Marcion. (a) II Clement 8,5 introduces one of his quotations of words of Jesus with λέγει γαρ ὁ κύριος ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ. The writing concerned is probably Luke’s gospel, 16,10a and 11.22 [[1192]] Theological Profile (NTSuppl, 56) Leiden, Brill, 1987, p. 221, n. 81, finds it difficult to evaluate Bousset’s theory, but he does not offer an alternative explanation. 16  See A. von Harnack, Marcion: Das Evangelium vom fremden Gott, Leipzig, Hinrichs, 1921, pp. 165*–166*. 17  Kerygma-Gospel (n. 8), pp. 377–381, the phrase quoted is used on p. 381. While at first sight it does seem unlikely that Justin would adopt a usage introduced for the first time by his arch-rival Marcion, this is not impossible. Rivals often influence one another to a much greater extent than they are aware. 18  Kerygma-Gospel (n. 8), p. 381, n. 1. Koester acknowledges the force of this suggestion made by Henry Chadwick in the discussion which followed his 1988 SNTS paper. M. Hengel had made the same point in some detail earlier. See his Titles (n. 9), pp. 74–81. 19  Kerygma-Gospel (n. 8), p. 373, n. 2. 20  See M. Hengel, Titles (n. 9), p. 65. At a very early point Papias refers to the names of the writers of the gospels without using εὐαγγέλιον, but he is commenting on the origin of the writings – not referring to the title of a manuscript. 21  Koester, Kerygma-Gospel (n. 8), p. 374, suggests that what Papias says about both Matthew and Mark reveals that these “gospels” had incipits which were similar to those still preserved in the gospels from the Nag Hammadi Library. But this does not take us further forward. According to Koester’s own survey in Ancient Gospels (n. 8), pp. 20–23, most of the incipits and colophons of the Nag Hammadi “gospels” are either missing or are clearly later additions to the manuscripts. Matthew and Mark are most unlikely ever to have been referred to as “Secret Sayings”, or “Secret Book”! 22  In his revised edition (Leicester, Apollos, 1990, p. 65) of J. B. Lightfoot and J. R. Harmer, The Apostolic Fathers (London, Macmillan, 1891), M. W. Holmes suggests that the quota‑ tion may be from The Gospel of the Egyptians. K. Wengst, Schriften des Urchristentums II, Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1984, pp. 221 ff., claims that the quotations of words of Jesus in II Clement all come from a gospel writing which is a harmonised version of Matthew and Luke. The date of II Clement is disputed. Although suggestions range from A. D. 98–100 on the one hand, to late in the second century on the other, there is general support for a date prior to Marcion. See, for example, M. Hengel, Titles (n. 9), p. 71 (“from the first decades of the first century”), and H. Koester, History and Literature of Early Christianity II, Philadelphia,

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(b) In two of his letters Ignatius (c. A. D. 110) refers to τὸ εὐαγγέλιον to refer to proclamation of the cross and resurrection of Jesus. In Philad. 9,2 τὸ εὐαγγέλιον includes the coming (παρουσία, here undoubtedly the life) of Jesus Christ, as well as his suffering and resurrection. This suggests that a writing rather than oral proclamation is being referred to, but the latter interpretation is possible.23 In the letter to the Smyrneans, however, there is less room for doubt. The letter opens with a credal summary of Christological convictions which refers to the baptism of Jesus by John, ἵνα πληρωθῇ πάσα δικαιοσύνη ὑπ᾽αὐτοῦ. The verbal agreement with Matt 3,15, a verse which bears the stamp of Matthew’s redac‑ tional hand, is sufficiently close to persuade most scholars that Ignatius is here quoting Matthew’s gospel.24 In the same letter (5,1) Ignatius notes that neither the prophecies, nor the law of Moses, nor τὸ εὐαγγέλιον has persuaded his opponents. The juxtaposition of τὸ εὐαγγέλιον with scriptural writings strongly suggests that in this letter at least, Ignatius is referring to a writing, most probably Matthew’s gospel which he has quoted just a few paragraphs earlier. A similar juxtaposition of τὸ εὐαγγέλιον with scriptural writings is found two paragraphs later at 7,2. Here Ignatius urges his readers to “pay attention to the prophets and especially to the gospel (τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ) in which the Passion has been made clear to us and the resurrection has been accomplished”.25 (c) In Didache 8,2; 11,3; 15,34 f. there are four references to τὸ εὐαγγέλιον. The first passage introduces a quotation of the Lord’s prayer with wording which is close to Matt 6,9–13. The other two passages allude to Matthew’s versions of sayings of Jesus. Since few scholars doubt that the Didache is dependent on Matthew, these [[1193]] references confirm that τὸ εὐαγγέλιον was used to refer to a gospel writing, almost certainly Matthew, some decades before Marcion.26 Fortress, 1982, pp. 233–236 (“before the middle of II CE”). In Ancient Christian Gospels (n. 8), pp. 17–18, however, H. Koester suggests “ca. 150 CE probably even later”. 23  W. R. Schoedel insists (but in my view without compelling arguments) that Ignatius always uses τὸ εὐαγγέλιον to refer to oral proclamation, not a writing. See his fine Hermeneia commentary Ignatius of Antioch, Philadelphia, Fortress, 1985, p. 208 n. 6; p. 234. 24  For recent discussion see W. Köhler, Die Rezeption des Matthäusevangeliums in der Zeit vor Irenäus (WUNT, 24), Tübingen, Mohr, 1987, pp. 73–96; Ο. Knock, Kenntnis und Verwendung des Matthäus-Evangeliums bei den Apostolischen Vätern, in L. Schenke (ed.) Studien zum Matthäusevangeliums FS W. Pesch (SBS), Stuttgart, Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1988, pp. 167–168. 25  I have quoted M. W. Holmes’s light revision of J. B. Lightfoot’s translation (n. 22). The final verb, τετελείωται, has puzzled exegetes. I take it to be almost synonymous with πληρωθῆ, as at John 19,28: prophecies concerning the passion and resurrection have been brought to fulfilment in the gospel. 26  H. Koester, Kerygma-Gospel (n. 8), pp. 371 f., assigns these passages rather arbitrarily to the final redaction of the Didache which he dates to the end of the second century. This late dating and his denial of the dependence of the Didache on Matthew are accepted by few other scholars.

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If Marcion was not the first to use the term εὐαγγέλιον to refer to a written account of the story of Jesus, was Mark the innovator, some eighty years ear‑ lier? Mark uses the noun seven times: 1,1.14.15; 8,35; 10,29; 13,10; 14,9. With the exception of 1,1 and 1,14, the noun is used without any modifying word or phrase. For Mark τὸ εὐαγγέλιον is the proclaimed message about Jesus Christ. His usage is close to Paul’s even though Mark, unlike Paul, sets out a narrative of the teaching and actions of Jesus as a “sermon” on, or expression of, the gospel.27 This is how Mark’s opening line ἀρχὴ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, should be interpreted. Whether τοῦ εὐαγγελίου is taken as a subjective or as an objective genitive, 1,1 refers to “proclamation”, not a “written report”.28 While it is true that Mark’s development of Paul’s use of εὐαγγέλιον paves the way for later reference to the written story of the life of Jesus as a εὐαγγέλιον, Mark did not take that step himself. Matthew, however, did so. In order to show this, we must examine closely the differences between the use of εὐαγγέλιον in Matthew and in Mark. Matthew omits five of Mark’s uses of εὐαγγέλιον (Mark 1,1; 1,14 and 15; 8,35; 10,29) and expands the other two (Mark 13,10 and 14,9). With the exception of Mark 1,1, in all these passages Matthew is following Mark, so the omissions are striking. They have led M. Hengel to conclude that Matthew uses εὐαγγέλιον “only in a markedly reduced sense”.29 Since in his very much longer gospel Matthew re‑ tains only two of Mark’s seven uses of the noun and adds it to only two other pas‑ sages, this seems to be a reasonable conclusion. On closer inspection, however, it is clear that Matthew’s use of this key word is an important new development. First of all we must account for Matthew’s omission of five of Mark’s uses of εὐαγγέλιον. Mark 1,1 is omitted as it would have been [[1194]] an inappropriate introduction to the genealogy Matthew included. Mark 1,14 and 15 are omit‑ ted as part of Matthew’s concern to bring out clearly the close correspondence between the proclamation of John the Baptist (Matt 3,2), Jesus (4,17), and the disciples (and followers of Jesus in his own day) (10,7): they all proclaim the coming of the kingdom of heaven. Mark 8,35; 10,29 are omitted because they confirm that for Mark “the gospel” is something distinct from Jesus himself. In both verses we read “… for my sake and the gospel’s”. Matthew, however, saw the earthly Jesus, his teaching and actions, as “gospel” and so omitted the 27  W. Marxsen’s discussion of Mark’s use of τὸ εὐαγγέλιον has been influential. See his Mark the Evangelist, Nashville, Abingdon, E. T. 1969, especially pp. 126–138. For similar views, see (among many others) E. Best, Mark: the Gospel as Story, Edinburgh, Clark, 1983, pp. 37–43; R. Guelich, Mark I (Word Biblical Commentary), Dallas, Word, 1989, pp. 8–10. 28  W. Marxsen suggests that it is almost accidental that something in the way the report also appears, Mark the Evangelist (n. 27), p. 131. R. Guelich argues strongly that 1,1 is not a title for the whole work since syntactically it must be linked with the sentence which follows. See his Mark, p. 9 (n. 27), and more fully in The Gospel Genre in P. Stuhlmacher (ed.), Das Evangelium und die Evangelien (n. 15), pp. 183–218, esp. pp. 204–208. 29  Titles (n. 9), p. 83.

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Marcan passages. An alternative explanation of Matthew’s omission of καὶ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου from Mark 8,35 and 10,29 is equally plausible: the phrase may not have stood in the “edition” of Mark which Matthew used. Unlike Luke, who does not use the noun at all in his first volume (and only twice in Acts), Matthew is not averse to the noun.30 He uses it in two key pas‑ sages, 4,23 and 9,35, to summarize the proclamation of Jesus as “the gospel of the kingdom”. From the context it is clear that in both passages he has the teach‑ ing of Jesus in mind. These passages are central pillars in Matthew’s construc‑ tion of the first half of his gospel: between these pillars he places the Sermon on the Mount in chapters 5–7 and his cycle of miracle traditions in chapters 8–9. Although some phrases in these two almost identical verses are taken from Mark 1,39 and 6,6b, τὸ εὐαγγέλιον τῆς βασιλείας is Matthew’s own choice of phrase to refer to the proclamation of Jesus. The two passages in which Matthew retains Mark’s use of εὐαγγέλιον are equally revealing. In 24,14 Matthew expands Mark’s absolute use of the noun at 13,10 to τοῦτο τὸ εὐαγγέλιον τῆς βασιλείας. In 26,13 Matthew has τὸ εὐαγγέλιον τούτο; once again Mark’s absolute use of the noun at 14,9 is modified. In both passages the addition of τούτο is very striking. The redactional phrase ὁ λόγος τῆς βασιλείας at Matt 13,19 is clearly closely related to 24,14 and 26,13. What is “this gospel of the kingdom” (or “word of the kingdom”, 13,19) with which the readers of Matthew are to confront the whole world? No definition or explanation is given in any of these three passages, but Matt 26,13 provides an important clue. This verse, which refers to the woman’s act of anointing the head of Jesus with costly oil, shows that for Matthew “this gospel of the kingdom” includes not only the teaching of Jesus, but also accounts of his actions.31 [[1195]] As J. D. Kingsbury notes, the evangelist simply assumes that his readers will know what “this gospel” is on the basis of their acquaintance with his written document.32 We may conclude with Kingsbury that the phrase “this gospel of the kingdom” is Matthew’s own capsule-summary of his work.33 30  Once this point is noted, the omission by both Matthew and Luke of καὶ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου in Mark 8,35 and 10,29 cannot be considered to be a “minor agreement” against Mark. 31  So also U. Luz, Matthäus I (n. 13), p. 182. W. Marxsen, Mark the Evangelist (n. 27), p. 124, claims that for Matthew the “gospel is of a piece with his speech complexes”, but 26,13 surely rules that out. On p. 141 he concedes that there is “a kernel of truth” in the hypothesis that Matthew’s addition of τούτο is intended to set up a connection between the gospel as such and the book of Matthew. 32  J. D. Kingsbury, Structure (n. 11), p. 130, and also p. 163. 33  Structure, p. 131. Kingsbury refers to several earlier writers who have supported the same conclusion. R. H. Gundry, Matthew (n. 13) p. 480, accepts this view, as does U. Luz, Matthäus I (n. 13), p, 181, who quotes Kingsbury’s comments with approval. See also W. Schenk, Die Sprache des Matthäus, Göttingen, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987, p. 265. In Ancient Gospels (n. 8), p. 11, n. 4, H. Koester rather rashly claims that all modern commentaries agree that “this gospel” in Matt 26,13 cannot refer to Matthew’s gospel, thus overlooking not only the scholars just mentioned, but also the commentaries of J. Schniewind and W. Grundmann.

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Matthew probably did not provide a title for his writing, but he intended his full account of the teaching and actions of Jesus to set out for his readers the content of “this gospel of the kingdom”. As soon as an individual or a commu‑ nity had access to more than one narrative account of the life of Jesus, it would have been necessary to distinguish between them by means of a title, especially in the context of readings at worship.34 That first happened as soon as Matthew had completed his writing, for the evangelist (and perhaps some of the commu‑ nities to which he wrote) then had two accounts of the story of Jesus: his own, and Mark’s. We may conclude then, that long before Marcion’s day “gospel” was used for a written account of the story of Jesus. But since Mark’s usage is closer to Paul’s and is very different from Matthew’s, Mark is not the “radical innovator”.35 Need we look any further than the evangelist Matthew?36 By his insistence that the teaching and actions of Jesus are “gospel” (4,23 and 9,35) and by his addition of τούτο to Mark’s τὸ εὐαγγέλιον in 24,14 and 26,13, he indicates clearly to his readers that there is a close correspondence between the “gospel of Jesus” and “the gospel” which is to be proclaimed in his own day. He also emphasizes that his writing is “a gospel”.37 [[1196]]

3. Matthew’s Gospel as a βίος It is time to sum up my argument so far. Matthew did not intend his opening line in 1,1 to be a title for his writing. The evangelist may not have added a title to his writing, but one was needed very soon after he wrote. The natural choice was likely to have been a version of the phrases Matthew did use twice to refer to his writing: “this gospel of the kingdom” (24,14) and “this gospel” (26,13). 34  This point is made most impressively by M. Hengel in Titles (n. 9); see his section enti‑ tled “The practical necessity of the titles”, pp. 74–81. 35  M. Hengel, who sees Mark as the innovator, does not discuss the differences between Matthew and Mark in Titles. I accept Hengel’s point that Mark may have been referred to as “the gospel” as soon as it began to be used in readings in worship. If so, then this usage would have influenced Matthew. However, the first explicit evidence for the use of τὸ εὐαγγέλιον for a writing is found in Matthew’s gospel, not Mark’s. 36  U. Luz, Matthäus I (n. 13), p. 182, is cautious: “the identification of εὐαγγέλιον with the Matthean work is not yet drawn directly, but it already ushers it in”. He suggests that the iden‑ tification of εὐαγγέλιον with a book is first made in the Didache, which is strongly influenced by Matthew’s gospel. I am unable to see a major difference between Matthew and the Didache in the usage of εὐαγγέλιον. 37  For a very different view, see H. Frankemölle, Jahwebund und Kirche Christi, Münster, Aschendorff, 1974, who claims that Matthew is a literary work, a Buch der Geschichte mod‑ elled on Jewish history writing such as Deuteronomy and Chronicles. This is an exaggerated claim which does not do justice to the importance for Matthew of the OT prophetic writings and of Mark.

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Since this use of τὸ εὐαγγέλιον was an innovation, it was of limited value in guiding the expectations of the first recipients concerning the genre of the writing. Literary critics remind us that a totally new literary genre will baffle listeners and readers: it will not provide a framework for communication. So Matthew’s use of τὸ εὐαγγέλιον does not resolve the question of the literary genre of his writing. What were the expectations of the first readers and listeners? In the case of ancient writings, there are three considerations which help us to answer this question. (i) A title or a preface may indicate the genre of the writing; occasion‑ ally an ancient author even includes explicit comments on the genre of his work. (ii) Early readers’ comments on the genre of the writing in question may prove helpful, but one must bear in mind the possibility that its genre was misunder‑ stood. (iii) The form and content of the writing must be considered together.38 It must then be compared and contrasted with its closest relatives. Here we need to recall Alastair Fowler’s observation that genres are families which are subject to change. 39 (i) The first consideration is of little help in the case of Matthew. As we have seen, Matt 1,1 is not intended to be either a title or a preface to the whole writ‑ ing; the traditional title may well have been added to the original text at a very early stage, but it would not have provided the first recipients with the key to its literary genre. (ii) Consideration of early readers’ comments on Matthew, however, is more fruitful and points us in the right direction. Writing about A. D. 155, Justin Martyr referred to the Gospels as ἀπομνημονεύματα τῶν ἀποστόλων – “mem‑ oirs of the apostles” (Apology 66,3; 67,3; Dialogue with Trypho thirteen times; note especially 103,8 and 106,3). Justin’s use [[1197]] of this phrase is almost certainly intended to recall Xenophon’s Memorabilia (= ἀπομνημονεύματα), a “biography” of Socrates.40 While the evidence is a little less clear, it is probable that three decades earlier Papias viewed Mark as ἀπομνημονεύματα, which he understood as “memoirs” which were “not artistically arranged”. However Papias seems to have believed that Matthew had gathered together the sayings of Jesus in a more polished or finished form. Hence within two generations of the composition of Matthew’s

38  A. Fowler, Kinds of Literature, pp. 55 f., notes that Aristotle (“and the best of the older theorists”) kept external and internal forms together in discussing genre; “and the best modern criticism concurs”. See R. A. Burridge’s valuable discussion, What are the Gospels? A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biography (SNTS MS, 70), Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1992, pp. 126–127. 39  I have adapted Fowler’s list of four kinds of evidence for earlier states of genres. See Kinds of Literature (n. 2), pp. 52–53. 40  See L. Abramowski, (n. 15), pp. 341–353, esp. pp. 345–347.

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gospel (or three, if we exclude Papias), at least some readers of the gospels con‑ sidered them to be a type of biography.41 (iii) Was this early assessment of the genre of the gospels correct? For several decades earlier this century it was generally accepted that Justin was mistaken; some even suggested that Justin had been misled by his education in the Greek rhetorical tradition. Rudolf Bultmann and several other influential form critics insisted that in terms of their genre the gospels are sui generis: they are not to be read as biographies, whether ancient or modern. Bultmann firmly denied that Hellenistic biographies provide an analogy to the genre of the gospels. However, his assessment of ancient biographical writing was surprisingly inaccurate. Some years ago I drew attention to the ways in which the conventions of ancient and modern biography differ; the details (which have been generally accepted) need not be repeated here.42 I concluded that while the gospels were much closer to ancient biographical writings than most scholars at that time were prepared to concede, there are important differences which mark them off from ancient biographies. I have rightly been criticised for failing to see that the logic of my own evidence confirmed that the gospels do belong to the Graeco-Roman biographical tradition.43 At that time I did not appreciate fully either the extent to which genres may be adapted or the fact that the evangelists may have been influenced (even if only indirectly) by the Graeco-Roman literary tradition.44 However, I now accept that the [[1198]] gospels are a type of Graeco-Roman biography. In a careful and thorough study which will remain the standard dis‑ cussion for a long time to come, R. A. Burridge has recently shown that while the gospels do diverge from Graeco-Roman βίοι in some respects, they do not do so to any greater extent than βίοι do from one another.45 41  See D. E. Aune, The New Testament in Its Literary Environment, Philadelphia, West‑ minster, 1987, pp. 66–67. I am less confident than Aune that the comments of Papias reveal a knowledge of technical rhetorical terms and conventions. 42  See G. N. Stanton, Jesus of Nazareth in New Testament Preaching (SNTS MS, 27), Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1974, pp. 117–136. 43  See C. H. Talbert, What is a Gospel? The Genre of the Canonical Gospels, Philadel‑ phia, Fortress, 1977, p. 131, n. 44; P. L. Schuler, A Genre for the Gospels. The Biographical Character of Matthew, Philadelphia, Fortress, 1982, pp. 89–90; R. A. Burridge, What are the Gospels? (n. 38). 44  More recently in The Gospels and Jesus, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1989, pp. 19– 20, I noted that the gospels can be linked with the Graeco-Roman biographical tradition only with very considerable qualifications: “Many features of Mark’s gospel would have puzzled readers familiar with the techniques of ancient biographical writing: the evangelist’s concentra‑ tion on the death of Jesus; his enigmatic opening which sets out ‘the beginning of the gospel’ as the fulfilment of prophecy and which seems to assume that his readers know something about Jesus; his curiously abrupt ending; and his avoidance of entertaining anecdotes”. In his What are the Gospels? (n. 38) R. A. Burridge has shown that this assessment is too cautious. 45  What are the Gospels? (n. 38). So also D. E. Aune, Literary Environment (n. 41) pp. 46– 76.

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I do not think that it is possible to link Matthew closely with any one particular strand of the Graeco-Roman biographical tradition.46 Philip L. Shuler has argued that Matthew is an encomium or laudatory biography, “a bios genre of consider‑ able importance in antiquity, whose primary purpose was to present a portrait of a person in such a way as either to elicit praise from an audience or to per‑ suade an audience of the subject’s praiseworthiness”. Shuler sets out examples of laudatory biography selected from the works of Isocrates, Xenophon, Philo, Tacitus, Lucian, Josephus and Philostratus.47 But the writings which are alleged to belong to the same sub-genre, laudatory biography, are much more varied in both form and content than Shuler allows.48 Some of the features (e.g. use of the techniques of amplification and comparison) which seem at first sight to indi‑ cate that they belong to the same sub-genre, are in fact shared by other kinds of biography. Conversely, many of the features of Matthew to which Shuler draws attention can be found in biographies which are not laudatory. There are further difficulties with this proposal, the most important of which concerns the response Matthew intended to elicit from his readers and listen‑ ers. Shuler concedes (p. 105) that Matthew writes in order to elicit a response of faith from his readers. “Faith” however is very different from “praise”, the response elicited in an encomium biography. Matthew does not present Jesus as a hero, a striking individual whose feats and character traits were intended to evoke adulation. [[1199]] I am puzzled by Shuler’s failure to note that in terms of their genre Matthew and Mark have a strong family resemblance.49 Shuler claims that source critical considerations are irrelevant in the determination of genre.50 This is only partly true. If we accept that Matthew has incorporated most of Mark into his gospel, then an important corollary follows: Matthew has accepted and modi‑ fied the genre of Mark. But the case for linking Mark with encomium biography is even weaker than it is for Matthew, for many of the features which led Shuler to link Matthew with encomium biography are not present in Mark. Matthew is undoubtedly closer to Mark than to any other ancient biography. Quite apart from the evidence which leads most scholars to conclude that Mat‑ 46  For a thorough discussion of the claim that the gospels conform to ancient lives of philoso‑ phers, see D. E. Aune, The Problem of the Genre of the Gospels: a Critique of C. H. Talbert’s What is a Gospel?, in R. T. France and D. Wenham (eds.), Gospel Perspectives: Studies of History and Tradition in the Four Gospels, vol. 2, Sheffield, JSOT, 1981, pp. 9–60. 47  P. L. Shuler, A Genre for the Gospels (n. 43), p. 86. 48  Shuler himself concedes (ibid., p. 85) that a comparison of any of the works which he has linked together (with the possible exception of Isocrates and Xenophon) would yield almost as many differences as similarities. 49  Shuler claims that he has chosen Matthew for special study because it has received the least attention from scholars who have discussed the relationship of the gospels to ancient biographies (ibid., p. 92). 50  See ibid., p. 92 and p. 121, n. 13.

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thew has incorporated a revised and abbreviated version of almost the whole of Mark’s gospel, consideration of the genre of Matthew encourages us to compare the two gospels closely. At this point I may seem to be labouring the obvious. I do so because some scholars who use literary approaches to Matthew claim that the relationship between the two gospels is irrelevant to a “reading” of Matthew. Once we accept that Matthew has included most of Mark’s gospel, then it is clear that he as adapted the genre of Mark. As noted above, adaptation of a liter‑ ary genre is more common than its close imitation. By his addition of infancy narratives and his fuller passion and resurrection narratives, Matthew links his gospel even more closely to the Graeco-Roman biographical tradition.51 Like many ancient biographers, Matthew sets out the life of Jesus in [[1200]] order to persuade readers of his significance. Matthew takes pains to emphasize that the disciples of Jesus (and his later followers) proclaim the same message of Jesus (10,7; cf. 4,17; 28,20) and act in the same ways (10,8; cf. chs. 8 and 9); there is a strong implication that they will share the same fate as Jesus (5,11; 10,18.25; 23,34). There is a sense in which even though Jesus as Son of God is clearly set apart from his followers, his story is their story.52 Since ancient writers frequently wrote with apologetic and polemical aims,53 we shall not be surprised to find that Matthew has also done so.54 D. E. Aune 51  In her excellent study, Sowing the Gospel: Mark’s World in Literary-Historical Perspective, Minneapolis, Fortress, 1989, Mary Ann Tolbert has recently proposed that the genre and literary strategies of Mark are closer to the ancient novel than to ancient biographies (pp. 59–70). In my view the differences in form and content between the gospels and ancient novels are much more striking than the similarities. Unlike the gospels, ancient novels were intended primarily to provide entertainment (which often included titillation), for in antiquity there was little appreciation of the modern commonplace that fiction is instructive about the human condition. Tolbert shows that Mark and the ancient romances do share some literary conventions. Most of them, however, are also found in biographical writings. Tolbert’s reasons for setting biography aside in discussion of the genre of Mark (pp. 58–59) are inadequate and apply even less to Matthew than to Mark. Mary Ann Beavis also considers Mark against the background of ancient novels, but correctly links Mark more closely with the biographical tradition; see her Mark’s Audience, The Literary and Social Setting of Mark 4,11–12 (JSNT SS, 33) Sheffield, JSOT, 1989, pp. 35–9. In addition to the literature of the Greek romances cited by Tolbert, see P. G. Walsh, The Roman Novel. The Satyricon of Petronius and the Metamorphoses of Apuleius, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1970; E. L. Bowie, The Greek Novel, in P. E. Easterling and B. M. W. Knox (eds.), The Cambridge History of Classical Literature I, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1985, pp. 683–698; G. Anderson, Ancient Fiction. The Novel in the Graeco-Roman World, London, Croom Helm, 1984. 52  A. T. Lincoln stresses that readers of Matthew are encouraged to emulate the disciples rather than Jesus the Son of God. See his valuable study, Matthew – a Story for Teachers, in D. J. A. Clines, S. E. Fowl and S. E. Porter (eds.), The Bible in Three Dimensions, Sheffield, JSOT, 1990, pp. 103–126. Although Matthew’s Jesus is undeniably unique, there are nonethe‑ less many ways in which his followers are encouraged to emulate him. See also D. B. Howell, Matthew’s Inclusive Story (JSNT SS, 42), Sheffield, JSOT, 1990, pp. 249–59. 53  See R. A. Burridge, What are the Gospels? (n. 38), p. 151 and pp. 187–188 for examples. 54  For details, see Chapters 5–11 of my A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew, Edinburgh, Clark, 1992, pp. 113–281.

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perceptively notes that the “unconscious functions of Greco-Roman biography involve the historical legitimation (or discrediting) of a social belief / value system personified in the subject of the biography”.55 This is precisely the social function I envisage for Matthew’s biography of Jesus.56 The conclusion that Matthew is an ancient biography is important for current discussion of the appropriate methods for study of the gospels. Since the ancient biographers gave prominence to character portrayal for blame or praise, the recent interest of narrative critics in Matthew’s character portraits is certainly not out of place. However, they have looked to modern literary theorists for insight into the evangelist’s methods of characterization and have failed to note that some of the techniques used by modern writers were unknown in antiquity. In ancient biographical writing (including Matthew) there is a deeply-rooted convention that a person’s actions and words sum up the character of an indi‑ vidual more adequately than the comments of an observer.57 In his own direct comments to the reader Matthew does [[1201]] occasionally link carefully the actions and words of Jesus (4,23 and 9,35) but by and large they are simply juxtaposed and allowed to speak for themselves. Psychological analysis of character traits and interest in the development of an individual’s personality are commonplace in modern biographies and in modern novels, but both are largely missing in ancient writers. Matthew’s use of extended discourses and his frequent topical arrangement of material are both found in many ancient biographies. Lucian’s Life of Demonax and Plutarch’s Life of Cato the Elder 7–9 are good examples. However, as a re‑ sult of paying more attention to the story-telling techniques of modern novelists than to the methods of ancient biographers, narrative critics have emphasized the “story-line” and plot of Matthew at the expense of doing justice to his five extended discourses.58 Like many ancient biographers, Matthew was concerned to give particular prominence to the sayings of Jesus (28,20a). In this paper I have emphasized the importance of the literary genre of Mat‑ thew’s gospel for its interpretation. Since titles and prefaces obviously influ‑  The New Testament in its Literary Environment (n. 41), p. 35.  See Chapters 4 and 5 of my A Gospel for a New People (n. 54), pp. 85–145. 57  See, for example, Xenophon, Memorabilia, I, iii, 1; Isocrates, Evagoras 76; Aristotle Rhetoric, I, ix, 33, 1367b. For a fuller discussion see my Jesus of Nazareth in New Testament Preaching (n. 42), pp. 122 ff. For recent studies, see C. B. R. Pelling (ed.), Characterization and Individuality in Greek Literature, Oxford, Clarendon, 1990. 58  In the first edition of his Matthew as Story, Philadelphia, Fortress, 1986, J. D. Kingsbury had little to say about the five discourses. In the second edition (1988) he added a chapter on them, pp. 106–14. Although several helpful observations are made, their importance is underplayed. In his Matthew’s Inclusive Story (n. 51) D. B. Howell pays scant attention to Matthew’s discourses; the Sermon on the Mount receives only two paragraphs, the other four a paragraph each. 55 56

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ence the recipients’ perceptions of its genre 1 have considered and rejected the possibility that Matt 1,1 was intended as a title or preface to the whole writing. I have argued that Matthew’s use of τὸ εὐαγγέλιον to refer to his own writing was an important innovation within earliest Christianity. In later decades it in‑ fluenced considerably the development of ‘gospels’ as a distinct sub-set of the literary genre βίος, but that is another story. In Matthew’s own day however, his first readers and listeners responded to his writing quite instinctively as a type of Graeco-Roman biography.59

59  For Matthew’s probable acquaintance with the Graeco-Roman rhetorical tradition, see my A Gospel for a New People (n. 54), pp. 77–84. I do not rule out the importance of biographical traditions within the OT and later Jewish writings, especially for the genre of Mark. See my Jesus of Nazareth in New Testament Preaching (n. 42), pp. 126–129. However, in comparison with the Graeco-Roman biographical tradition, I consider such influences to have been second‑ ary. This is especially clear when we consider Matthew’s adaptation of the genre of Mark. For recent discussion of the genre of Mark, see the literature cited by H. Koester, Ancient Gospels (n. 8), p. 1, n. 1 and p. 13, n. 2.

Chapter 4

The Communities of Matthew [[379]] Why should we try to reconstruct the main features of the communities for which Matthew wrote? Would it not be preferable to concentrate our attention on the text of the Gospel itself, on the evangelist’s story of Jesus? These are fair questions that ought not be ducked. Whenever a text is read or listened to, the recipients bring assumptions and expectations from their background. They may be surprised by the text, they may even find that their assumptions are overturned, but nonetheless their initial “horizons of expectation” are clearly important. So as soon as we inquire about the ways the original recipients would have appropriated the text of Matthew’s Gospel, we find we must try to clarify their social and religious setting. Who were they? Where and when did they live? What political, cultural, and religious assumptions shaped the ways they understood the text? Were they Christians, both Jews and gentiles, who saw themselves as a sect or party within Judaism? Or were they conscious of a recent painful parting from local synagogues? Were their Christian communities racked with internal divisions? If so, what “hereti‑ cal” views did Matthew oppose? Such questions have nearly always been on the agenda of students of Mat‑ thew’s Gospel.1 Their place on the agenda, however, has varied. Redaction critics and scholars who advocate social-historical or sociological approaches place them near the top. Literary critics, on the other hand, give a higher [[380]] priority to a sensitive reading of the text itself. But most Matthean literary crit‑ ics have spurned the radical ahistorical or text-immanent approaches that were advocated by many literary theorists during the heyday of New Criticism in the 1950s and 1960s, views that are still having an afterlife in the work of some New Testament scholars. “Text-immanent” perspectives that deliberately set aside the social context of the author and the original recipients of writings in order to concentrate attention solely on the text itself are now out of favor with literary theorists. The distinguished Cambridge literary critic Frank Kermode, for example, has recently noted that “more and more people are turning away from the idea that literary works should be treated as autonomous and without significant relation 1  See esp. G. D. Kilpatrick’s influential study The Origins of the Gospel according to Saint Matthew (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1946), p. 2.

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to the world in which they are produced and read.”2 I hope that these wise words will be heeded by Matthean scholars. If they are not, and if “reader response criticism” ignores the horizons of expectation of the first-century recipients of Matthew, interpretation will be like a picnic – a picnic to which the evangelist brings his text, and we all bring our meanings.3 As soon as we establish that a quest for the original recipients of Matthew is imperative, we discover that it is much more perilous than we might have supposed. Unfortunately we do not know either when or where the Gospel was written. Along with most scholars, I accept that Matthew’s carefully revised and considerably extended edition of Mark must have been written some time after the traumatic events of A. D. 70, probably between 80 and 110, and within this period earlier rather than later.4 But it is impossible to be more precise. This is a real frustration since both Judaism and Christianity were developing very rap‑ idly in these years. It is obviously hazardous to link the origin and setting of the Gospel to any particular historical event within this broad period. Although it has often been suggested that the Gospel was written in Antioch, there is no conclusive evidence, and the cumulative case is not compelling.5 We know a good deal about earliest Christianity in Antioch6 and a certain amount about the social makeup of the city itself.7 If only we could be certain that Mat‑ thew’s Gospel were written in Antioch, its social setting would be much clearer.  See his Poetry, Narrative, History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), p. 49.  I have adapted the words of the literary critic Northrop Frye, as quoted by E. D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1967), p. 1. 4  A date well before A. D. 115 is probable because al about that time a redactional phrase from Matt 3:15 was cited by Ignatius Bishop of Antioch in his letter to the Smyrneans. In his otherwise very illuminating article in The Social History of The Matthean Community, ed. D. L. Balch (Minneapolis Fortress Press, 1991), William R. Schoedel is too cautious on this point. In his response to Schoedel in the same symposium, John Ρ. Meier shows that beyond reasonable doubt Matthew’s Gospel was used by Ignatius. 5  For a fuller discussion see Graham Ν. Stanton, “The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel: Matthean Scholarship from 1945–1980,” in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, II, 25 3 (Berlin Walter de Gruyter & Co., 1985), pp. 1941–42 [[reprinted in this volume]]. Ulrich Luz accepts that Antioch “is not the worst of the hypotheses,” but leaves the question open. The Gospel originated in a large Syrian city whose lingua franca was Greek, Matthew 1–7: A Commentary, Eng. trans. (Minneapolis Fortress Press / Edinburgh Τ & Τ Clark, 1991), p. 92. In the first volume of their International Critical Commentary (Edinburgh Τ & Τ Clark, 1988), W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison are almost equally cautious: Antioch “remains no more than the best educated guess,” p. 147. See also L. Michael White, “Crisis Management and Boundary Maintenance” in Social History, pp. 213–15, and Rodney Stark, “Antioch as the Social Situation for Matthew’s Gospel,” also in Social History, pp. 189–210. 6  See Raymond Ε. Brown and John Ρ. Meier, Antioch and Rome: New Testament Cradles of Catholic Christianity (London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1983). In their preface (p. ix) the authors concede that their attempt to set Matthew within the history of earliest Christianity in Antioch is speculative. 7  See esp. G. Downey, A History of Antioch in Syria from Seleucus to the Arab Conquest (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961). 2 3

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I do not even think we can assume that Matthew was written in an urban setting. This almost universally held view is based on two main points. As G. D. Kilpatrick noted, Mark uses “city” eight times in his Gospel, Matthew twenty-six times; Mark uses “village” seven times, only three of which were retained by Matthew. However, these statistics are no more than straws in the wind.8 More frequently, scholars claim that the rapid dissemination and the early popularity of Matthew suggest that it originated in a large thriving urban Chris‑ tian community. But even this point is less secure than most have supposed. F. W. Norris has recently noted that church history will not sustain the presup‑ position [[381]] that influential writings must come from large urban centers, since many often copied writers in the patristic period did not live or work in major centers.9 Would that we knew as much about the communities for which Matthew wrote as we do about the recipients of the Pauline epistles. As Wayne Meeks and other social historians have shown, our knowledge of the social setting of the Pauline communities in the middle of the first century is immensely helpful. Of course, Matthean scholars can draw to good effect on our increasing knowl‑ edge of the Greco-Roman world, but our inability to date and locate Matthew’s Gospel with any precision is a considerable handicap. Specific evidence concerning the setting of the Gospel that comes from out‑ side the text is sparse. We are forced to rely on inferences in the text itself. This raises immediately the specter of the hermeneutical circle: in order to read the text responsibly, we need to know about the circumstances that elicited it, but in our quest for its setting we have only the text of the Gospel itself. There is no way of avoiding this dilemma in the case of Matthew nor, indeed, in most forms of historical reconstruction. One can only read and reread the text with as much sensitivity and rigor as possible – and that includes openness to the possibility that one’s preliminary judgments may have to be corrected. Even when we rely on inferences from the text itself, the path of our quest for the social setting of the communities for which Matthew wrote is far from smooth and straight. There are two more obstacles to be negotiated. The first is a general point that has been overlooked surprisingly frequently. Whereas Paul wrote letters to specific Christian communities whose foibles he knew well, Matthew wrote a Gospel, a particular kind of Greco-Roman biography whose primary focus is on the story and significance of Jesus of Nazareth. Matthew’s primary aim was to set out the story of Jesus. That he does so from a particular 8  Origins, pp. 124–25. Four of the additional references to “city” are redactional, but are less striking than Kilpatrick implies: Matt 8:34, 9:35, 21:10, 18. More significant are the references in 10:23 and 23:34 to the flight of the disciples from city to city. 9  “Artifacts from Antioch” in Social History, pp. 249–50.

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perspective is undeniable. What is less clear is the extent to which that perspec‑ tive is directly related to the views and circumstances of the addressees. Many redaction critics cheerfully ignore the genre of the Gospel and assume much too readily that every pericope provides an uninterrupted vista onto one or more facets of the community life of the original recipients. How do we know which parts of Matthew were intended to challenge or change the views of the readers or listeners? In the New Testament letters, it is difficult enough to make this distinction; the genre Matthew has chosen makes this doubly difficult. Secondly, we need to note that in a quest for the social setting of a writing, the social historian’s eye often alights on incidental details in the text. In the case of Matthew, however, it is often difficult to know whether such details reflect the community life of the recipients of the Gospel or that of an earlier period. Take, for example, Matthew 5:23 and 24, verses in which Jesus insists that reconciliation with one’s brother (or sister) should precede the offering of a [[382]] sacrificial gift at the temple altar. Do these verses reflect the religious practices of Jesus and his followers in his own lifetime? Or do they put us in touch with the period immediately after Easter when, according to the early chapters of Acts, followers of Jesus continued to frequent the temple? Or do they suggest that at a still later time Matthew’s readers continued to offer sacrifices at the temple? In the latter case, the Gospel must have been written before the destruction of the temple in A. D. 70, and since sour personal relationships can hardly have been a rarity, Matthew’s readers must have lived within easy trave‑ ling distance of Jerusalem. I much prefer an alternative explanation: Matthew knew full well that his readers would be able to appropriate the key point in Matthew 5:23–24 concern‑ ing reconciliation, even though it was impossible for them to offer sacrifices at the temple in Jerusalem since it had been in ruins for a decade or more. The corollary is that these verses reflect a social world that was very different from the context for which Matthew wrote; they tell us next to nothing about the social and religious world of Matthew’s readers and listeners.

I Now that we have read our map and noted the obstacles, it is time to set out on our quest for the “horizons of expectation” with which the first recipients of the Gospel responded to the text. Our guides? Redaction criticism, literary criticism, social history, and sociology are all friendly, and they should not squabble with one another. In fact, the quest is so hazardous that we would be wise to take the advice of at least two of them. Our guides all point out that the conflict of Jesus and his followers with the Jewish leaders is a central theme of Matthew’s Gospel. One of the most impor‑

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tant horizons of expectation of the first recipients was their acute awareness that they had parted painfully from local Jewish synagogues. The evidence that points to this conclusion is cumulative and impressive.10 (1) In Matthew, Jewish religious leaders and groups – and, in particular, scribes and Pharisees – are consistently placed in a negative light. The invective against the scribes and Pharisees in chapter 23 brings to a climax the hostility that pervades the Gospel, a hostility that is sharper and more sustained than in the other Gospels. Whereas Mark refers to the Pharisees as hypocrites only once (7:6) and Luke not at all, Matthew has twelve such references, six of which are in chapter 23. The bitterness is unrelieved by any suggestion that some individual scribes or Pharisees might be sympathetic to Jesus or his followers. There is no sign in Matthew of the friendly Pharisees who, according to Luke 7:36 and 14:1, invited Jesus to dine with them; nor is there a reference to Pharisees who (help‑ fully) [[383]] warned Jesus that Herod wanted to kill him (Luke 13:31). Mark’s sympathetic scribe (12:28) becomes a hostile Pharisee in Matthew (22:35). So it is no surprise to find that in his important summary statement at the end of the Sermon on the Mount (7:29), Matthew carefully distances Jesus from the scribes by adding “their” to the reference to “the scribes” at Mark 1:22. Matthew 8:18–22 is all of a piece. The eager scribe who seeks to follow Jesus merely on his own initiative and without a prior “call” from Jesus is repudiated, but someone else, who is not a scribe, is portrayed as a disciple and reminded sharply of the radical nature of discipleship.11 In typical Matthean fashion, the repudiated scribe addresses Jesus as “teacher,” while the true disciple addresses Jesus as “Lord.” At 9:18–26 Matthew revises radically Mark’s striking portrait of Jairus whose daughter Jesus heals. Mark refers to Jairus four times as a “ruler of the syna‑ gogue” (5:22, 35, 36, 38). In Matthew he is still portrayed as a man of faith, but he loses his name and becomes merely an anonymous “official” (9:18, 23); there is not even a hint that he has any connection with a synagogue.12 Matthew and Luke both include the Q tradition of the healing of the centurion’s servant (Matt. 10  For a fuller discussion, which includes critical appraisal of alternative explanations of the evidence, see Graham Ν. Stanton, A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew (Edinburgh Τ & Τ Clark, 1992), pp. 113–45. 11  See Jack D. Kingsbury, “On Following Jesus: The ‘Eager’ Scribe and the ‘Reluctant’ Dis‑ ciple (Matthew 8.18–22),” ATS 34 (1988), 45–59. RSV and NRSV translate 8:21 as “another of the (his) disciples,” thereby implying that both men are scribes and are accepted by Jesus as true disciples. NEB and REB correctly translate “another man, one of his disciples,” thereby avoiding any suggestion that he is a scribe. 12  NEB incorrectly translates Matt 9:18 as “a president of the synagogue”, the error was spotted by the REB translators, who have “an official.”

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8:5–13 = Luke 7:1–10), but there is no sign in Matthew of Luke’s note that the centurion loves the Jewish nation and has built a synagogue (7:5). In Matthew, Jewish leaders are always at odds with Jesus and his disciples (and later followers), so a “ruler of the synagogue” cannot be a “man of faith,” and a scribe cannot be portrayed as a true disciple. The wide gulf between scribes and Pharisees on the one hand and Jesus and his disciples on the other reflects the circumstances of Matthew’s day: “synagogue” and “church” had parted company. (2) Matthew explicitly associates scribes and Pharisees with synagogues (23:6, 34; cf. also 10:17). His sustained hostility to the former is echoed in his refer‑ ences to synagogues. At 4:23; 9:35; 10:17; 12:9; 13:54, all passages where Matthew’s own hand is clear, he uses the phrase “their synagogue(s)”; at 23:34 he uses the redactional phrase “your synagogues.” With these slight changes Matthew drives a wedge between Jesus and his disciples on the one hand and the synagogue on the other. Matthew refers to “synagogue” in only three further passages, 6:2, 5; 23:6. In each case there is a strong negative connotation: Disciples of Jesus are not to follow the example of scribes and Pharisees in the synagogue.13 These passages strongly suggest that for Matthew (but not for Mark) the “synagogue” had almost become an alien institution. (3) Over against synagoge stands the ekklesia founded by Jesus himself and promised divine protection (16:18). Matthew uses “church” three times (16:18 and twice in 18:17), but this term is not found in the other three Gospels. The church has its own entrance rite: baptism in the triadic name (28:19). Matthew’s [[384]] reshaping of Mark’s account of the last supper (26:26–30) reflects li‑ turgical usage and thus confirms that the church in Matthew’s day had its own distinctive central act of worship. In a series of striking passages, disciples of Jesus (and their later followers) are promised that Jesus will be present with them in their community life in ways analogous to the manner in which God was understood to be present in temple and synagogue (8:23–27; 14:22–33; 18:20; 28:20). At 23:21 Matthew confirms that many Jews continued to regard God’s presence (his shekhina) in the temple as a central belief.14 But Matthew emphasizes that whereas the Jerusalem temple 13  At 6:2, 5 “hypocrites” are referred to, but 5:20 informs the reader that they are none other than “the scribes and Pharisees.” 14  See also Psalm 135:21, 11QTemple 29.7–10, m. Sukkah 5:4. In TDNT VII, art. “synagoge,” Wolfgang Schrage lists a number of rabbinic traditions that emphasize that God’s shekhina is present in the synagogue as well as in the temple (p. 824) In their present form these traditions may be no earlier than c. A. D. 300, but since synagogue and temple were considered even in the first century to be equivalent in many respects, it seems probable that God’s shekhina was associated with the synagogue.

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is “forsaken and desolate” (23:38), with the coming of Jesus “something greater than the temple is here” (12:6).15 Adolf Schlatter is one of the few who have ap‑ preciated the importance of this bold Matthean christological claim; he notes that “God is present in Jesus to a greater extent than in the temple.”16 Whereas the reading of torah and instruction in it were central in the syna‑ gogue, in the church the commands of Jesus took precedence. Although Matthew insists strongly on the continuing importance of the law (5:17–19), hearing and doing the authoritative words of Jesus are of paramount importance (7:24–27), for the words of Jesus are “commands” for the life of the church (28:20). Matthew’s communities seem to be developing structures that were quite independent of the synagogue. They exercised, with divine sanction and on the authority of Jesus, the right of inclusion into and of exclusion from the commu‑ nity (16:19; 18:19). Some groups within Christian communities were modeled on their Jewish counterparts: There seem to have been Christian prophets (10:41; 23:34); Christian scribes (13:52; 23:34); and Christian wise men (23:34). But in contrast to the synagogue, no individual or group within the life of the church was to be accorded special honors or titles (23:6–12). The ekklesia founded by Jesus continued to have a firm commitment to torah, but it had accepted gentiles and developed its own patterns of worship and of community life. Its self-understanding was quite distinct from that of the syna‑ gogue. (4) Further compelling support for the conclusion that in Matthew’s day syna‑ gogue and church were going their separate ways is provided by passages that speak about the “transference” of the kingdom to a new people who will include gentiles. At 8:5–13 Matthew links two Q traditions (Luke 7:1–10 and 13:28–29) in order to state starkly that “those born to the kingdom” will be replaced by gentiles – including the Roman centurion whose faith is commended – who will sit with faithful Israel (Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob) at the banquet in the kingdom of heaven. At 15:13 Matthew adds a strongly polemical saying to a Markan tradition. The Pharisees are no longer considered to be “a plant of the heavenly Father’s plant‑ ing.” By implication their place will be taken by another people. This becomes [[385]] explicit at 21:41 and 43 in Matthew’s redaction of Mark’s parable of the Wicked Husbandmen. The Jewish leaders will be rejected by God. The vineyard will be transferred to other tenants – a people who will yield the proper fruit.  Matthew has modeled 12:6 on the “greater than Jonah” and “greater than Solomon” Q logia he uses at 12:41and 42. 16  Der Evangelist Matthäus. Seine Sprache, sein Ziel, seine Selbständigkeit, 6th ed. (Stutt‑ gart: Calwer, 1963), p. 396. Although Schlatter assumes that 12:6 is an authentic Jesus logion, he would have agreed that it also represents Matthew’s view. See also J. A. Τ. Robinson, Redating the New Testament (London: SCM Press, 1976), p. 104. 15

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(5) At the climax of his story at 28:15 Matthew addresses his readers directly and refers explicitly to the relationship between synagogue and church in his own day. He tells them that a rival account of the resurrection of Jesus – his disci‑ ples stole his body from the tomb – “has been widely circulated among Jews to this very day.” This comment brings out into the open what has been hinted at again and again throughout the Gospel: Jews who have not accepted Christian claims are set at a distance and referred to as an entity quite distinct from the new people. They have an alternative story that Matthew claims can be shown to be patently absurd. (6) Matthew’s communities still felt seriously threatened by Jewish opposition at the time the Gospel was written: Alongside 5:10–12 we may set 10:17–23, and 23:34 and 37.17 Immediately after the reference to opposition and persecution in 5:11, disciples are warned that the persecution endured by the prophets of old is experienced anew by Christian prophets in their own day. This point is made much more explicitly and vigorously in 23:34, where once again Matthew’s own hand can be traced. These passages strongly suggest that the Christian communities to which Matthew wrote were coming to terms with the trauma of separation from Judaism and with the perceived continuing threat of hostility and persecution.

II The communities for which Matthew wrote are clearly at odds with contempo‑ rary Judaism. From the text of the Gospel itself, we may infer that the evangelist and the recipients of his Gospel were also at odds with the gentile world. In the Sermon on the Mount there are three derogatory references to the gentiles: 5:47; 6:7; and 6:32. The second reference was probably added by Mat‑ thew himself; the other two were taken over from Q. In the mission discourse in chapter 10, the disciples are told much more explicitly than in Mark 13 to expect hostility from gentiles as well as from Jews (10:18, 22). In Matthew’s fourth discourse, the Markan tradition that gives a warning not to cause one of the little ones to stumble is set in an eschatological context by an additional logion inserted by Matthew himself: “Woe to the world for temptations to sin. For it is necessary that temptations come, but woe to the man by whom the temptation comes” (18:7). This apocalyptic saying was taken from Q in order to introduce a woe on the entire world as a part of the proph‑ 17  For a careful discussion of these passages, see D. R. A. Hare, The Theme of Jewish Persecution of Christians in the Gospel According to St. Matthew, SNTSMS 6 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967), pp. 80–120. However, I am not persuaded that by the time Matthew wrote these threats belonged to history. See Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 159–60.

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ecy of the eschatological terrors that were expected soon. Here, Matthew has heightened an apocalyptic theme – as he does elsewhere – and he indicates that his communities [[385]] were alienated from a threatening world. Later in the same discourse, at 18:17, there is a further derogatory reference to gentiles; as at 5:46–47, they are linked with tax collectors in a general reference to society outside the Matthean communities, a society with which these communities had little to do. At 24:9 there is yet another reference to the hostility that Matthew’s communities may expect from gentiles at the end-time; the specific reference to gentiles is Matthew’s own addition to the Markan tradition. The evangelist’s firm commitment to a mission to the gentiles is well known. But there is a string of other references to gentiles and to the world in general that is often overlooked. In many of them Matthew’s own hand can be discerned. They suggest that the Matthean communities, just like the Pauline and Johan‑ nine communities, had an ambivalent attitude toward society at large: They were committed to the task of evangelism “to all nations,” but saw themselves as a group quite distinct from the “alien” world at large.

III We have now seen that the Matthean communities perceived themselves to be under threat of persecution from the Jewish religious leaders, a somewhat beleaguered minority at odds with the parent body and, to a certain extent, with the gentile world. These are well-known features of sectarian groups, as are the very stringent moral requirements (5:20, 48; 18:8–9; 19:11–12) and the strong internal discipline of Christian communities (18:5–19), both of which Matthew emphasizes.18 Some readers of this article will resist my suggestion that Matthew’s Gospel betrays a sectarian outlook. Their own knowledge or even experience of inward looking or bigoted modern sects will rule this out. But once we set Matthew’s communities alongside minority first-century groups, the case for reading the text this way becomes strong. The openness of Matthew’s Gospel (especially to the gentiles in 28:18–20) and the breadth of his theological vision will seem to some to be far removed from the outlook of a sectarian. However, since sects need to recruit in order to survive, partly open community boundaries are typical. And the evidence suggesting a broad theological vision is counter-balanced by contrary evidence. 18  See, e.g., L. M. White, “Shifting Sectarian Boundaries in Early Christianity,” BJRL 70 (1988), 7–24, esp. pp. 7–9. B. R. Wilson’s writings have been influential. See esp. Religion in Sociological Perspective (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982); The Social Dimensions of Sectarianism: Sects and New Religious Movements in Contemporary Society (Oxford: Clar‑ endon Press, 1990).

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For example, a similar juxtaposition of a broad theological vision and a sectar‑ ian outlook is found in John’s Gospel. Since sects often change their character quickly, especially when they are successful, the rapid dissemination and wide acceptance of Matthew within early Christianity do not tell against its sectarian origins. Sectarian communities, whether ancient or modern, are usually very con‑ cerned about their internal cohesion. Apostates who reject totally the world-view and values of the community can be ignored, but “heretics” who still share some [[385]] of the values of the community, as well as erring or unfaithful members, are often roundly condemned. Several passages in Matthew’s Gospel can be read from this perspective. In contrast to Luke’s version of the parable of the Lost Sheep (15:1–7), where a sinner outside the community is in view, in Matthew 18:10–14 the “church” (18:15) is urged to search out the erring member of the community, the “little one” who has gone astray. Several passages pronounce judgment on unfaithful members of the commu‑ nities. In 7:19 those who do not bear good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire. In the pericope that follows, judgment is pronounced on those whose deeds are evil (7:23). In the explanation of the parable of the Weeds (13:36–43), a passage in which Matthew’s own hand is evident, the “sons of the evil one” are evildoers who will be thrown into the furnace of fire at the close of the age. In 24:51 Matthew made a redactional change to the Q tradition he was using and stresses that unfaithful Christians will share judgment with “the hypocrites,” that is, with the scribes and Pharisees on whom judgment is pronounced in chapter 23. In short, Matthew was as ferocious in his denunciation of his fellow Chris‑ tians as he was of the Jewish religious leaders. Is it possible to say more about the “heretical” views of some members of Matthew’s communities? Many scholars have accepted Gerhard Barth’s view that Matthew was “fighting on two fronts”: He was opposing both the leaders of contemporary Judaism and Christian antinomian heretics.19 Barth claims that Matthew’s emphasis on the abiding validity of the law in 5:17–19; 7:15–20; and 24:11–13 was directed at antinomian opponents who can best be described as Hellenistic libertines; they were to be equated with the false prophets of 7:15 and 24:11. While Matthew clearly levels harsh criticisms at his Christian readers, I am not persuaded that he was attacking one particular “heretical” group. In his com‑ posite picture of the opponents Barth appeals to several passages and themes. But Matthew may have had in mind several different groups, or he may have been addressing his readers in very general terms. Matthew uses “lawlessness” three times to refer to Christians (7:23; 13:41; 24:12); these are general refer‑ 19  Günther Bornkamm, Gerhard Barth, Heinz Joachim Held, Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew, Eng. trans. (London: SCM Press, 1963), pp. 62–76, 159–64.

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ences to disobedience to the “will of the Father” and are not to be limited to antinomians. Matthew’s warnings about false prophecy do not go beyond the similarly indefinite comments about heresy that we find in passages such as I Timothy 6:3–5; Titus 1:16; and Didache 11:1–8.20 Use of the text of New Testament epistles to “mirror” opponents and their arguments is fraught with difficulties.21 We do well to be even more cautious in our use of redactional passages in Matthew to identify groups who were being opposed. Hypotheses based on a possible interpretation of one verse, or even of a cluster of verses, are likely to be insecure. The only opponents who are in view from the beginning to the end of Matthew’s Gospel (from 2:1 to 28:15) are the Jewish leaders. [[388]] Many redaction critics have assumed that Matthew’s relationship with his readers was rather like Paul’s intimate relationship with the Christian communi‑ ties to whom he wrote. That view needs to be reconsidered. I have already em‑ phasized that Matthew wrote a Gospel and not a letter and that it is most unlikely that Matthew intended to counter the views of a particular group. A further consideration suggests that the Pauline analogy is inappropriate. First-century Christians met in houses; it would have been difficult for many more than fifty or so people to crowd into even a quite substantial house. Is it likely that Matthew would have composed such an elaborate Gospel for one relatively small group? Is it not much more likely that Matthew, like Luke, envis‑ aged that his Gospel would circulate widely? If, as I envisage, Matthew wrote for a cluster of small Christian communities, then it is no surprise to find that his criticisms of them are severe but imprecise. Matthew was well aware of the tensions and pressures his readers faced, but we must not read his Gospel as if it were Galatians, First or Second Corinthians, or even Romans.

IV Matthew wrote following a period of prolonged dispute and hostility with fellow Jews. He and his opponents were heirs to the same scriptures and shared many religious convictions, but differences ran deep. Mutual incomprehension led to mutual hostility and, eventually, to a clear parting of the ways. With considerable literary, catechetical, and pastoral skill Matthew composed a Gospel for a “new people”: fellow Christians (both Jews and gentiles) in a cluster of Christian communities. Although they were minority groups still liv‑ 20  See Georg Strecker, Der Weg der Gerechtigkeit, FRLANT 82 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1962), p. 137, n. 4. See also J. E. Davison, “Anomia and the Question of an Anti‑ nomian Polemic in Matthew,” JBL 104 (1985), 617–35. 21  See John Barclay’s careful discussion, “Mirror Reading a Polemical Letter: Galatians as a Test Case,” JSNT 31 (1987), 73–93.

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ing in the shadow of thriving local Jewish synagogues, they had grown rapidly: Shallow faith and dissension were much in evidence. For this reason Matthew encouraged community solidarity in the face of perceived hostility from external sources. Matthew wrote with several strategies in mind. His primary intention was to set out the story and significance of Jesus as a “foundation document.” But in many respects Matthew’s Gospel is an apology, for it contains a whole series of “legitimating answers” for the new people.22 It responds both directly and indirectly to polemic from the parent body,23 and it defends vigorously its own distinctive convictions and self-understanding. Matthew legitimated the recent painful separation of his communities from Judaism by providing divine sanction for the parting of the ways: As a result of the hostility of the Jewish leaders to Jesus and his followers, God initiated the rupture and transferred the kingdom to the new people (21:43; 8:12; cf. also 15:13–14). Matthew repeatedly reinforces Christian convictions concerning the significance of Jesus that shaped the community life of the new people. God disclosed [[389]] to the new people that Jesus is the Son of God (3:17; 11:25–27; 16:17; 17:5). Jesus was sent on God’s initiative (1:20; 10:40; 21:37). Through Je‑ sus, God is present with God’s people (1:23; 8:23–27; 14:22–33; 18:20; 28:20); these verses have deep roots in Old Testament references to the presence of God with his people: An old theme is transposed into a new key. One of Matthew’s “legitimating answers” is particularly prominent. He in‑ cluded as part of his story a sustained defense of open and full acceptance of gentiles. He carried this out with such literary skill that it is highly likely that it was a matter of continuing importance for the new people.24 Even if the principle were largely accepted when Matthew wrote, it was still necessary to repeat the explanation of how this step had been taken, a step that ultimately proved to be crucial for the parting of the ways with Judaism. Matthew’s crowning achievement in his foundation document for the new people is undoubtedly his provision of five major and several shorter carefully arranged discourses. Matthew took great care over the composition of the dis‑ courses because he valued the sayings of Jesus highly. The sayings of Jesus were to be prominent in the missionary proclamation and catechetical instruction of 22  In The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (Har‑ mondsworth: Penguin Books, 1966), p. 31, Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann note that “not only children but adults ‘forget’ the legitimating answers. They must ever again be ‘re‑ minded.’ In other words, the legitimating formulas must be repeated.” 23  See Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 169–91 and 278–81. 24  Whispers gradually become a trumpet blast. In 1:1 and 3:9 references to Abraham allude to his role as the father of many nations. The four women in the genealogy (1:2–17) were considered at the time to be non-Jews. The magi come from right outside Judaism (2:1–12). In 4:15 and 8:18–21 scripture is cited as divine sanction for a mission to the gentiles. See also 5:13–14; 10:18; 24:14; 26:13.

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the new people (28:18–20). The closing verses of the Sermon on the Mount emphasize strongly the importance of hearing and acting on the words of Jesus (7:24–27). For Matthew, “the will of the heavenly Father” was equated with carrying out the sayings of Jesus (7:21; cf. Luke 6:46). In some respects, the sayings of Jesus (and Matthew’s Gospel as a whole) must in practice (though not in theory) have taken priority over the law and the prophets in the community life of the new people. The Gospel provided the new people with a prayer of Jesus (6:9–13) which probably became central in their worship quite soon; this is strongly suggested by Didache 8:3, written just a generation or so after Matthew’s Gospel and deeply dependent on it. With even more confidence we can affirm that the traditions in Matthew concerning baptism (28:19), the eucharist (26:26–28, which reflects liturgical shaping of the Markan tradition), and community discipline (16:19; 18:16–18) were central in the life of Matthean communities. Above all, Matthew’s Gospel provided the new people with a story that was new, even though it had deep roots in scripture. [[Notes originally on pp. 389–391]]

Chapter 5

Revisiting Matthew’s Communities [[9]] What political, cultural, and religious assumptions shaped the ways the initial recipients of Matthew’s gospel understood the text? Although interpreters differ on the level of priority which should be given to this question, most agree that it must be addressed. But this is far from easy, for it raises a set of further questions which have been on the agenda of careful students of Matthew for a long time. Were the first recipients of this gospel Jews or Gentiles? If some were Jews, and some Gentiles, which group was numerically dominant? Where and when did they live? Did they see themselves as a sect or party within Judaism – perhaps as a reforming movement? Or were many of the original recipients con‑ scious of a recent painful parting from local synagogues? Were their Christian communities racked with internal divisions? If so, is it possible to identify the ‘false views’ which the evangelist is most concerned about? In this paper I shall try to go a little further through the same narrow gate and down the difficult path I followed in my 1992 book on Matthew.1 I hope to show that some of my more recent work on other early Christian writings, especially Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho, is a further reminder of the value of set‑ ting Matthew in the broadest possible context within early Judaism and early Christianity. I shall also respond to some of the recent literature published on Matthew’s gospel and to some of the points made by reviewers of my book; in both cases I gratefully acknowledge the stimulus I have received, especially from those whose views differ from my own. In the first section of this paper I shall suggest that it is much more difficult to reconstruct the social setting of Matthew’s gospel than most recent interpret‑ ers have supposed. However, all is not lost. In section two I shall return to the relationship of the original recipients to local Jewish communities. In my final section I shall look briefly at some features of the internal life of the communities for which Matthew wrote. [[10]] 1  A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew (Edinburgh: Τ & Τ Clark, 1992; Louisville: Westminster / John Knox, 1993). See also four of my more recent articles [[all reprinted in this volume]]: ‘Matthew: ΒΙΒΛΟΣ, ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ, or ΒΙΟΣ?’ in ed. F. van Segbroeck et al., The Four Gospels 1992 (FS F. Neirynck) (Leuven; University Press and Peeters, 1992) II, 1188–1201; ‘The Communities of Matthew’, Interpretation 46 (1992) 371–91; ‘“Ministry” in Matthean Christianity’, in a forthcoming Festschrift; ‘Matthew’s Gospel; a Survey of Recent Commentaries’, The Bible Translator 46, Jan, 1995.

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I. Genre and Geography (i) Genre The interesting set of essays edited by David Balch, Social History of the Matthean Community: Cross-Disciplinary Approaches (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), contains surprisingly little reflection on the difficulties Matthew poses for the social historian. Only in Jack Dean Kingsbury’s fine ‘summing up’ is there any reference to the literary genre of Matthew. Kingsbury notes that unlike Igna‑ tius, Matthew has not written a Graeco-Roman letter: ‘what Matthew purports to do is to tell neither his own story nor that of his audience but the story of Jesus of Nazareth.’ (p. 261) This important point needs to be underlined firmly, for it has been overlooked by a number of recent writers. The first step in the interpretation of any writing, whether ancient or modern, is to establish its literary genre. I have argued that Matthew (and the other three canonical gospels) are a type or sub-set of GraecoRoman biography, and this view now has wide support.2 The primary aim of an ancient biography is simply to set out the βίος of its subject, and I am convinced that is also the case with Matthew. Does this aim conflict with my claim that Matthew wrote his gospel as a ‘foundation document’ for a cluster of Christian communities which saw them‑ selves as a ‘new people’, minority Christian communities over against both Judaism and the Gentile world at large? I have even suggested that in some respects Matthew is an apology (A Gospel for a New People, p. 378). I do not think that these two proposals are incompatible. Ancient biographies often set out the βίοι of their subjects with several different intentions; apologetic and polemical aims are certainly not unknown.3 David Aune perceptively notes that ‘the unconscious functions of Greco-Roman biography involve the historical legitimation (or discrediting) of a social belief / value system personified in the subject of the biography.’4 This is precisely the social function I envisage for Matthew’s βίος of Jesus.5 As we attempt to uncover the social setting of the original recipients of the gospel, we may well find ourselves wishing that Matthew had written a letter or two. But a moment’s reflection will quickly convince us that a Matthean letter 2  G. N. Stanton, ‘Matthew: ΒΙΒΛΟΣ, ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ, or ΒΙΟΣ?’ as cited above [[reprinted in this volume]]. See in particular, R. A. Burridge, What are the Gospels? A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biography (Cambridge: CUP, 1992). In their articles on Matthew in the Neir‑ ynck Festschrift, D. C. Allison (1203–22) and B. Standaert (1223–50) also accept that Matthew should be read as an ancient biography. 3  See R. A. Burridge, What are the Gospels? 149–52. 4  The New Testament in its Literary Environment (London: James Clarke, 1988) 35. 5  See Chapters 4 and 5 of my A Gospel for a New People, 85–145.

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might have been almost as problematic as his gospel. Take Paul’s letter to the Romans: to what extent is it a systematic exposition of Paul’s gospel, and to what extent does it reflect Paul’s indirect knowledge of the Christian communities in Rome? Has Paul projected into his letter to Rome, perhaps inadvertently, some of his experiences with Christian communities elsewhere? The same questions can and should be asked of I Peter, though they seem to me to have been given [[11]] little attention in the recent literature. Similarly Ignatius of Antioch, who used Matthew, which he may sometimes refer to as εὐαγγέλιον.6 Ignatius wrote six letters to Christian communities in Asia Minor and another to Rome. At many points in those letters it is difficult to know whether his comments reflect his knowledge of the circumstances of the recipients of his letters or his earlier experiences as Bishop in Antioch. A gospel is not a letter. Since letters do not always provide a clear window onto the social circumstances of the recipients, we must be even more careful with gospels. The examples of Paul, the author of I Peter, and of Ignatius raise two further points which must be considered. Perhaps Matthew did not have first hand information about the circumstances of all the Christian communities for which he wrote. Perhaps, like the author of I Peter, the evangelist wrote for a loose network of communities over a wide geographical area. If this suggestion is plausible, an important corollary follows: Matthew’s gospel should not be expected to provide us with detailed information about the social setting of the first recipients. I am convinced that Matthew’s choice of literary genre and the evidence of the text of the gospel itself both point in this direction.

(ii) Geography Where did the first recipients of Matthew’s gospel live? Over the years I have made several unsuccessful attempts to persuade myself that Matthew was writ‑ ten in Antioch. So I am pleased to discover that the old consensus is crumbling.7 Andrew Overman has suggested Galilee,8 with claims which are ‘extremely cogent’ according to Alan Segal. However Segal does not want to reject Syria as the provenance of Matthew, and notes that ‘Galilee and Syria should be considered as a single geographical area … at least from the point of view of the development of Jewish and Christian hostility … Galilee and Antioch were 6  So too John P. Meier, ‘Matthew and Ignatius: A Response to William R. Schoedel”, in ed. D. L. Balch, Social History of the Matthean Community, 186. 7  For discussion of earlier proposals, see G. N. Stanton, ‘The Origin and Purpose of Mat‑ thew’s Gospel: Matthean Scholarship from 1945–1980’, ANRW II. 25. 3 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1984) 1941–2 [[reprinted in this volume]]. 8  J. Andrew Overman, Matthew’s Gospel and Formative Judaism: the Social World of the Matthean Community (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990).

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merely two fixed points in a rather loosely confederated group of congregations, united by missionaries who were more or less constantly on the move at first.’9 I concur with this suggestion, which is consistent with the very limited hints which can be gleaned from the text itself. It is also consistent with the broader considerations concerning early Christian-Jewish relationships to which Segal appeals. Matthew’s gospel should not be read as if it were a Pauline letter. We should stop supposing that the gospel reflects the evangelist’s close relationship with one group of Christians in one house church in one particular urban geo‑ graphical location. [[12]] Let me take this latter point a little further. In the Herodian quarter of Jerusa‑ lem several splendid villas which were destroyed in 70 CE have recently been excavated. In some respects they are strikingly similar to villas at Pompeii. They remind us of the extent to which Roman fashions in house architecture and in‑ terior decoration were mimicked all over the Empire. Even if the Christians to whom Matthew wrote met for worship in a rather grand urban house on the scale of the ‘Palatial Mansion’ in Jerusalem, or of the House of the Vettii in Pompeii, or of the villa at Sepphoris or of the villa at Anaploga at Corinth, no more than fifty or so people could have assembled in its largest room.10 Surely Matthew’s carefully crafted, very full account of the βίος of Jesus was not written for such a small group of people: surely we should envisage a loosely linked set of com‑ munities over a wide geographical area. If as I am arguing, Matthew intended to set out the βίος of Jesus for a number of loosely linked communities, then we should be wary of attempts to link gospel to a precise set of social, historical, or religious circumstances. Expositions of Matthew’s concerns which are based on only one strand of the evidence or one particular passage, or on an over-confident use of ‘transparency’ are not likely to be compelling. Janice Capel Anderson has provided a salutary warning concern‑ ing transparency: we must ‘resist treating a gospel as an allegory with a one to

 9  ‘Matthew’s Jewish Voice’, in ed. D. L. Balch, Social History of the Matthean Community, 26–7. See also L. Michael White’s interesting discussion, ‘Crisis Management and Boundary Maintenance: The Social Location of the Matthean Community’ in the same volume of essays, 211–47. White plausibly suggests that Matthew may have come from ‘a Syro-Phoenician area from Upper Galilee northward to Coele-Syria.’ (229) However I am not persuaded by his sug‑ gestion that we can pinpoint a particular political and religious crisis as the fons et origo of the gospel. 10  See N. Avigad, The Herodian Quarter in Jerusalem (Jerusalem: Keter 2nd ed., 1991), 75. Although the recently excavated villa at Sepphoris dates from the first decades of the third century, it also supports the general point I am making; see E. M. Meyers, E. Netzer, C. L. Meyers, Sepphoris (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1992). See also the forthcoming book by A. Wallace-Hadrill, Society in Pompeii and Herculaneum, and Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, St. Paul’s Corinth: Texts and Archaeology (Collegeville: Michael Glazier, 1983) 161–8.

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one correspondence to particular persons or events, an allegory that allows us to see directly through a window into the Matthean community.’11 It is difficult to reconstruct the social and religious setting of the first listen‑ ers to and readers of Matthew without in effect treating the text as an allegory and without giving free rein to our own assumptions about several aspects of earliest Christianity. However there is general agreement that in spite of the difficulties, the attempt must be made: an appreciation of the ‘horizons of ex‑ pectation’ brought by the initial recipients of a text plays an important part in interpretation. So how do we proceed? In A Gospel for a New People I suggested one way forward, though it is certainly not the only way: redaction criticism, and literary and social-scientific approaches all have their place, though they must all be kept under rigorous critical scrutiny. I also insisted that Matthew’s gospel should be set as firmly as possible in the context of early Christianity and Judaism. I have not changed my mind on these disputed questions though I am now more wary of the dangers of ‘transparency’. However, I do not think it is illegitimate to relate the text cautiously to the life of the communities to which the evangelist wrote. The text itself provides some encouragement to do this: there are a number of passages in which readers in the author’s own day are [[13]] addressed directly in asides in the story, and there are several passages which presuppose a postEaster setting.

II. External Affairs The relationship of Matthew’s communities to Judaism has been keenly debated for some time now. Discussion has been vigorous because a decision on this is‑ sue influences the interpretation both of many individual passages and also of the sweep of the whole story. In my earlier work on Matthew I tried to assess the various views which have been advanced in modern scholarship, and to set out the reasons why I think that the evangelist is writing to communities which have separated painfully from Judaism but are still defining themselves over against the parent body. I do not propose to rehearse the arguments here. However, since an assessment of the social setting of Matthew’s gospel cannot avoid this issue, I shall offer several further considerations in support of my view. At several points I shall be looking over my shoulder at Anthony Saldarini’s recently published book, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1994). This excellent book is the most sustained defense of a view which I consider to be the main rival to my own: Matthew ‘addresses a 11  Response at the 1993 SBL Meeting to Dennis Duling, ‘Matthew and Marginality,’ SBL 1993 Seminar Papers (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993) 642–71.

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deviant group within the Jewish community in greater Syria, a reformist Jewish sect seeking influence and power (relatively unsuccessfully) within the Jewish community as a whole.’ (p. 198).

(i) Blurred boundary lines At the outset I must mention one respect in which I would now want to modify my position. Further study of Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho has convinced me that the relationships of individuals and groups within Matthew’s communities to Jewish communities were probably much more varied than I had assumed to be the case. Justin’s Dialogue indicates that in the middle of the second century both Judaism and Christianity were concerned to maintain tight boundaries. Trypho complains that Christians (unlike Jews) do not mark themselves off from pagans (10.3). He also mentions that some Jewish teachers forbid Jews to enter into conversation with Christians – lest they be persuaded by ‘blasphemous’ Chris‑ tian claims (38.1; 112.4). Justin’s references to alleged Jewish persecution of Christians also point to Jewish anxiety lest community boundaries be breached. Justin is concerned to maintain tight boundaries on the Christian side. He will not tolerate Jewish Christians who are not in full fellowship with Gentile Christians. Justin is very sensitive about Jewish Christians who persuade Gentile Christians to keep the law: he suspects that under their influence some Gentile Christians may move over completely to the Jewish polity. And yet in spite of the concerns of Trypho and Justin to maintain tight bounda‑ ries around Judaism and Christianity, there is movement across both boundary lines. This has happened in the past, and there is an expectation that it will hap‑ pen in the future. In short, there is keen ‘on the ground’ rivalry. Justin’s Dialogue suggests that there were different levels of attachment to both communities. On the Jewish side there were proselytes whose status was often ambiguous; would-be proselytes, such as Trypho’s companions; other Gentile sympathizers; some Jews who acknowledged Christ, but were not in full [[14]] fellowship with Gentile Christians; and some former Gentile Christians who had ‘gone over’ to Judaism. On the Christian side there were two kinds of Jewish Christians, one accept‑ able to Justin, and one not. There were also Gentile Christians who seemed likely to ‘go over’ to the Jewish polity. No doubt both sides hoped to consolidate the level of commitment of those on the ‘fringes’ of their communities. From a later period a tradition expresses what is likely to have been the case in Justin’s ‘school’ as well as in synagogues: ‘… when the sage takes his seat to expound doctrine, many strangers become proselytes.’ (CantR 1.15; cf. 1.3 and 4.2)

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Justin’s Dialogue confirms that long after ‘Christianity’ had emerged as a religious entity quite distinct from Judaism, at ‘grass roots’ level there was considerable fluidity.12 This is even more likely to have been the case in Mat‑ thew’s day, even though it would be rash to suppose that this fluidity is reflected explicitly in the text itself.13

(ii) The crowds One of the main pillars in Anthony Saldarini’s case is his insistence that Mat‑ thew’s harsh polemic against the various leaders of Israel should not lead us to suppose that Israel as a whole has been rejected, or even that the evangelist and his readers have parted company with their fellow-Jews. Saldarini suggests that ‘Matthew meant the crowds to symbolize the Jewish community of his day, which he hoped to attract to his brand of Judaism.’ (p. 38) ‘The crowds seem to represent the people of Israel who must still be won away from their false leaders.’ (p. 40) I accept that Matthew’s presentation of the crowds strongly suggests that the evangelist still hopes that individual Jews will be ‘won over’. However, a ‘one to one’ correspondence between the crowds and the Jewish community of Mat‑ thew’s day is too simplistic.14 Matthew’s initial presentation of the crowds is subtle: it plays an important but usually overlooked role in his story. Matt. 4:14–16 alerts the reader to the fact that the coming of Jesus will fulfil Scripture (Isaiah 9:12) and be a light for [[15]] Galilee of the Gentiles. The evangelist’s summary of the teaching and healing ministry of Jesus in 4:23–25, which plays such an important part in the structure of the gospel, develops this point. Matthew notes that the fame of Jesus spread throughout Syria. Whether Matthew has in mind the whole Roman province  For a fuller discussion, see my forthcoming paper, ‘Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho: Group Boundaries, “Proselytes”, and “God-Fearers”’ [[reprinted in this volume]]. 13  In a letter to me dated 6 October 1992, Sjef van Tilborg of Nijmegen makes a similar point, but without reference to Justin. ‘If this plurality of communities is a historically correct supposi‑ tion, one can imagine that the troubles with violent and opposing Jews are not the same at all places and at the same time. Matthew would then be an author who is aware of a very delicate situation … He knows that some group(s) have departed from synagogue(s), but that others remained connected to or at least in close contact with the synagogue(s) and the leaders. He is writing for readers in different situations who do not know exactly where they stand; whether they have separated; whether they have to go; whether they should stay notwithstanding the troubles they are confronted with etc … What I want to say is that Matthew with his gospel gives the arguments to leave, but he does not reject the communities which did not (and / or do not) take that decision.’ 14  Although Saldarini correctly stresses that the crowds are fundamentally friendly, but un‑ reliable (37), their roles are even more diverse than he suggests. See especially Warren Carter, ‘The Crowds in Matthew’s Gospel’, CBQ 55 (1993) 54–67. 12

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of Syria (so U. Luz, Matthäusevangelium, I, p. 181 n. 16), or a narrower area ‘perhaps extending approximately from Damascus to Antioch and on to the east’ (so W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison, Matthew, I, p. 417), Gentiles as well as Jews are certainly in view. 4:25, which contains Matthew’s first use of ὄχλοι, makes the same point. The large crowds which followed Jesus and which form part of the audience for the Sermon on the Mount, came from Galilee and the Decapolis, as well as Jerusa‑ lem and Judaea, and from the Transjordan area. Reference to ‘Galilee’ may recall ‘Galilee of the Gentiles’ at 4:15. This is made probable by Matthew’s inclusion of the Decapolis in his list of places from which crowds came. Matthew’s read‑ ers would certainly have known that the cities of the Decapolis were strongly Hellenistic in character. An important Greek inscription mentions a prefect of the Decapolis in Syria: i.e., at the time Matthew wrote, the Decapolis, endowed with a certain autonomy, was attached to the province of Syria.15 Although Jews lived in Syria and the Decapolis, they were very much in the minority; both regions were known first and foremost as centres of Graeco-Roman culture. In short, in his initial presentation of the crowds who play such an important role in his story, Matthew hints broadly that they include Gentiles.16 This is all of a piece with the way the evangelist skilfully reminds his readers ever more insistently that ultimately the story of Jesus has implications for Gentiles as well as Jews. Matthew’s crowds, then, do not ‘represent the people of Israel who must still be won away from their false leaders.’ (Saldarini, Matthew’s ChristianJewish Community, p. 40) Even if we were to grant this point, a sharp distinction between hostile Jewish leaders and ‘ordinary’ Jewish people open to the claims of followers of Jesus would not necessarily support the proposal that the evangelist and his com‑ munities are still within Judaism. Three or four generations later in Justin’s day there is a yawning gap between Judaism and Christianity in spite of the blurred boundary lines to which I have referred above. Yet in the opening exchanges be‑ tween Trypho and Justin in chapters 8 and 9 both claim that the other person has been led astray by false teachers. Trypho claims that Justin has been led astray (ἐξαπατηθῆναι) by false speeches, and has followed men of no account.17 Justin retorts that Trypho has ‘obeyed teachers who do not understand the Scriptures, and has prophesied falsely (ἀπομαντευόμενος), saying whatever comes into his mind’ (9.1). Justin then insists that he wants to show Trypho that Christians have not been led astray (πεπλανήμεθα); the context suggests that false teachers are in 15  See Jean-Paul Rey-Coquais, art. ‘Decapolis’, Anchor Bible Dictionary (New York et al.; Doubleday, 1992) II, 118. 16  Warren Carter, ‘The Crowds’, 65, makes the same point, but only in passing. 17  This is an allusion to Justin’s earlier report of his encounter with a venerable old man through whom he is introduced to Christian claims.

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mind.18 Both single out false teachers as [[16]] responsible for the false stance taken by the other. Both hope that once the sway of the false teachers is shaken off, their rival will be able to change sides. This is a major theme in the Dialogue. In numerous passages Justin tries to separate Trypho (and ‘ordinary’ Jews) from Jewish leaders who are hostile to Christian claims.19 By blaming the leaders for the separation of the two com‑ munities, Justin and Trypho leave the door ajar for individuals to change sides: neither expects the other religious community to capitulate completely. I do not think that matters were very different in Matthew’s day.

(iii) συναγωγή and ἐκκλησία Scholars who have insisted that Matthew’s gospel does reflect a parting of the ways with Judaism have often appealed to the evangelist’s use of ἐκκλησία at 16:18 and 18:17. This term, they claim, is used in order to differentiate Matthean communities from local synagogues: over against the latter stands the ἐκκλησία founded by Jesus himself and promised divine protection (16:18). Saldarini has set the cat among the pigeons by insisting that it is significant that Matthew has no name for his group. (pp. 7, 27, 116) So what about Matthew’s use of ἐκκλησία? Saldarini is well aware that this might be thought to be the Achilles’ heel in his case, so he defends his position carefully. He accepts that Matthew probably used ἐκκλησία to denote his group in order to differentiate himself from his opponents in the Jewish community. (p. 119) Just as the Jewish leaders claimed to lead the assembly (συναγωγή) of Israel, so Matthew claimed to lead the assembly (ἐκκλησία) of Israel according to the teachings of Jesus. In other words, a general Christian concept of ‘church’ should not be read into Mat‑ thew’s usage of ἐκκλησία. Matthew’s group is a Jesus-centred form of Judaism. (pp. 119–20) Now it is the case that many of the approximately 100 examples of ἐκκλησία in the LXX are synonymous with συναγωγή and that both terms often have a non-technical sense, ‘assembly’. However we have no first century evidence that ἐκκλησία was ever applied to the Jewish community in a given place. Philo and Josephus refer to sabbath meetings of Jews to hear the scriptures read, but they

18  These charges and counter-charges of ‘false prophecy’ and ‘leading astray’ have deep roots in early Christian-Jewish polemic and apologetic. See A Gospel For a New People, 237–42, and G. N. Stanton, ‘Jesus of Nazareth: a Magician and a False Prophet who Deceived God’s People?’ in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ, eds. J. B. Green and Μ. Μ. B. Turner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994) 166–182. 19  See Dialogue 9.1; 36.2; 38.1–2; 43.5; 48.2; 62.2; 68.7; 71.1; 110.1; 112.4–5; 117.4; 120.5; 133.3; 134.1; 137.2; 140.2; 142.2.

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do not use the term ἐκκλησία for such meetings.20 On Saldarini’s explanation, Matthew’s use of ἐκκλησία to denote ‘the assembly of Israel according to the teachings of Jesus’ would be unique. While this is possible, it is surely much more likely that Matthew’s use is dependent, whether directly or indirectly, on Pauline and other early Christian usage.21 [[17]] On the other hand, we must not suppose that in Matthew’s day συναγωγή stood for Judaism over against Christianity, ἐκκλησία. I am sure I have oc‑ casionally been guilty of that anachronism. I have already noted that the evi‑ dence of Justin’s Dialogue warns us that in all probability boundary lines were blurred. Justin also reminds us that even three or four generations after Matthew, συναγωγή and ἐκκλησία had not yet become metonyms for Judaism and Chris‑ tianity, two distinct religions opposed to one another. There are only two passages in the Dialogue where συναγωγή and ἐκκλησία are juxtaposed, 63.5 and 134.3. Both passages are baffling until one realises that they must be read in the light of 53.4. Dialogue 53 contains Justin’s exposition of the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem in the light of Gen. 49:11 and Zech. 9:9; in the chapter as a whole Matthean phraseology and emphases are prominent. In 53.4 Justin insists to Trypho that the ‘beast of burden and the ass’s colt’ referred to by Zechariah was a ‘foretelling of those of your συναγωγή who should believe on him (Christ), and also of those who should come from the Gentiles.’ Here συναγωγή is used in a neutral sense to refer to Jewish people, and not to Judaism as a hostile religion over against Christianity. In 63.5 Justin claims that Psalm 45:6–11 refers to those who believe on Christ, ‘as men of one soul and one συναγωγή and one ἐκκλησία ….’ Once again συναγωγή means simply ‘Jewish people’; ἐκκλησία, rather unusually, means ‘Gentiles’. Justin is stressing the unity of believers in Christ: they include both Jews and Gentiles. Similarly Dialogue 134.3, where Justin is interpreting typo‑ logically the story of Jacob, Leah and Rachel: ‘Now Leah is your people καὶ ἡ συναγωγή, but Rachel is our ἐκκλησία. And Christ still serves for these, and for his servants that are in both.’ Once again Justin is using συναγωγή and ἐκκλησία to denote Jewish people on the one hand, and Gentiles on the other, from both of whom come believers in Christ. Matthew’s relationship to Judaism will be debated for a long time to come. Anthony Saldarini is making me think hard about many points, but I have to 20  See W. A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians (New Haven and London: Yale, 1983) 79–81 and esp. 222 n. 34. In addition to the literature cited by Meeks and Saldarini, see also George Johnston, The Doctrine of the Church in the New Testament (Cambridge: CUP, 1943); the lin‑ guistic evidence is discussed fully in chap. III, 35–45. 21  Saldarini notes that ἐκκλησία ‘is used most frequently of ‘Christian’ assemblies outside Israel and Syria. Only the author of Acts uses the term of mid first-century believers in Jesus in Jerusalem and Antioch and his usage may be anachronistic’ (118). This point is undermined by Gal. 1:22.

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confess that I have not changed my mind. The sweep of Matthew’s story per‑ suades me that the evangelist wrote his gospel as a ‘foundation document’ for a cluster of Christian communities. Although ‘on the ground’, boundaries were sometimes blurred, the evangelist and most of the original recipients of the gospel saw themselves as a ‘new people’, over against both local synagogues and the Gentile world at large. The gospel contains a whole series of ‘legiti‑ mating answers’ for the ‘new people’. It responds to polemic from the parent body which was directed at all the central moments in its own ‘new’ story: the virginal conception of Jesus (1:18–25), the teaching of Jesus concerning the law (5:17–48, especially 5:17), the exorcisms of Jesus (9:34; 10:25; 12:24, 27), his prophetic teaching (27:63), his resurrection (28:12–15).22 And even more fully and [[18]] prominently, the gospel defends vigorously the distinctive convictions and self-understanding of the ‘new people’. Matthew’s ἐκκλησία has its own entrance rite, baptism in the triadic name (28:19). Matthew’s account of the last supper (26:26–30) reflects liturgical usage and thus confirms that Matthew’s ἐκκλησία had its own distinctive act of worship. Whereas the reading of torah and instruction in it were central in synagogues, in the ἐκκλησία the words of Jesus were very prominent. Matthean Christians are sent by the Risen Christ to make disciples of all nations by teach‑ ing them to keep all the ‘commands’ of Jesus. No doubt this was taken to include instruction in torah as interpreted by Jesus, but 28:20 strongly suggests that in community life the commands of Jesus took precedence: they were the filter through which torah was viewed, not vice versa. The self-understanding of the ἐκκλησία is quite distinct from that of the synagogue.

III. Internal Affairs Discussions of the social setting of Matthew’s gospel have concentrated on the relationships of Matthew’s communities to local synagogues and have often neglected internal affairs. The evangelist directs as much vigorous polemic at followers of Jesus as he does at the religious leaders. I shall sketch the terminol‑ ogy used to refer to groups of disciples. As we shall see, it is distinctive within earliest Christianity. But it is rarely noted that most of Matthew’s terminology for groups of disciples did not survive. Why not? Most of Matthew’s other em‑ phases influenced second century Christianity strongly.

22  See G. N. Stanton, ‘Jesus of Nazareth: a Magician and a False Prophet who Deceived God’s People?’ (as in note 18 above), and ‘Early Objections to the Resurrection of Jesus’, in Resurrection: Essays in Honour of L. Houlden, eds. S. C. Barton and G. N. Stanton (London: SPCK, 1994).

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(i) Patterns of ministry One strand in Matthew’s story stands out more clearly than in the other gospels. For Matthean Christians the story of Jesus offered a model of discipleship and ministry. In numerous redactional passages Matthew emphasizes that the proc‑ lamation, healing actions, meekness, humility, and compassion of Jesus are all models for his disciples and, we may add, for his followers in later times. There is also a darker side to the lines of correspondence Matthew carefully draws between Jesus and his disciples. This is expressed in a number of passages, most notably and powerfully in the important redactional saying Matthew has added at 10:25b: ‘If they have called the master of the house Beelzebul, how much more will they malign those of his household?’ In the preceding verses the dis‑ ciples have been warned that they are to expect rejection and persecution. Now they are told that they are to expect even greater abuse than that heaped upon Jesus himself, abuse which has already been referred to explicitly at 9:34.23 Since the sayings in the second part of Matthew 10 refer so clearly to the post-Easter period, 24 10:25 implies that the persecution of Christians in the evangelist’s own day will include this form of abuse. In other words, the accusation that both Jesus and his followers are in league with the prince of [[19]] demons is not a matter of past history; for Matthew and his readers it is a present experience. Even though Jesus is set apart as the Son of God, the Davidic Messiah, the Kyrios, his story is also the disciples’ story. These themes influenced later Christian thought very considerably. However, this was not the case with the terminology which is used in Matthew to refer to all the followers of Jesus, and to particular groups. The demise of this terminol‑ ogy is puzzling. Of the terms used to refer to disciples of Jesus, οἱ μικροί is the most intrigu‑ ing. The phrase first appears at 10:42, the climax of a set of three sayings of Jesus at the end of the Mission Discourse. The opening saying (10:40), which is a Matthean development of a Q logion, draws an exact parallel between the authority given to Jesus by God and the authority given to (all) the disciples byJesus: ‘whoever receives you receives me, and whoever receives me receives the One who sent me.’ 10:41, which is probably the evangelist’s own expansion of the preceding logion, refers to the rewards which will be given to those who welcome a prophet and a righteous person. 10:42 is Matthew’s version of Mark 9:41; among the changes he makes is the introduction of the phrase οἱ μικροί to

23  For a full discussion of the threefold accusation that Jesus is in league with the prince of demons (Matt. 9:34; 10:25; 12:24, 27), see A Gospel for a New People, 169–91. 24  See U. Luz, ‘Disciples’, in ed. G. N. Stanton, The Interpretation of Matthew (London: SPCK, 1983) 98–128, especially 100.

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refer to the disciples.25 From the immediate context (and from Matthew’s use of the phrase at 18:6, 10, and 14; and his use of the superlative at 25:40 and 45) it is clear that οἱ μικροί is Matthew’s characteristic way of referring to all disciples, not a special inner group. The first reference to οἱ μικροί in the fourth discourse is striking. At 18:6 Mark 9:42 is expanded in order to state explicitly that οἱ μικροί believe in Jesus – the only time such a phrase is used in the synoptic traditions.26 Here the evangelist uses a post-Easter confessional phrase – a broad hint that readers in the evange‑ list’s own day are being addressed. Who are the ‘prophets’ and the ‘righteous’, terms probably introduced in 10:41 by Matthew himself? The latter is the more difficult term, since it is not used elsewhere by the evangelist to refer to disciples. As we shall see in a mo‑ ment, ‘prophets’ are a particular group within the Matthean communities. Hence it is likely that ‘the righteous’ are too; the parallel reference in 10:41 to a reward appropriate for ‘a prophet’ and for a ‘righteous person’ strongly suggests that this is the case. The verb δέχομαι (and the wider context) implies ‘welcome with hospitality’, so both the prophets and the righteous are probably itinerant fol‑ lowers of Jesus. But it is impossible to say more about the role of ‘the righteous’ with any confidence.27 There is rather more evidence for prophets within Matthean circles. Matthew’s warnings against the activity of false prophets in 7:18–23 presuppose the activity of true prophets, an activity which is referred to at 5:12 (implicitly); 10:41 and 23:34. Matt. 7:22 confirms that the false prophets prophesied, exorcised demons, and performed healing miracles. Matthew does not indulge [[20]] in polemic against these activities: prophets are rejected only when they fail to ‘do the will of the heavenly Father’. One further special group of disciples is referred to. At 23:34 the scribes and Pharisees are told that they will reject and persecute ‘the (Christian) prophets and wise men and scribes’ who will be sent to them. The ‘wise men’ and ‘the scribes’ are almost certainly the same group.28 Matt. 13:52 also alludes to a Christian scribe: this person has been ‘discipled’ for the kingdom of heaven. I am now inclined to accept the traditional view that this is the evangelist’s own self-portrait at the centre-point of his gospel – it is like an artist’s signature in a corner of her or his painting. 25  Matthew takes the phrase from Mark 9:42, the only place in Mark where it is used meta‑ phorically of the disciples. As in many other passages, Matthew takes over a phrase from Mark and uses it himself several times in key passages. See A Gospel for a New People, 326–45. 26  A number of MSS do have ‘believe in me’ at Mark 9:42, but I take this reading to be a harmonisation of the Matthean tradition. 27  U. Luz speculates that at the pre-Matthean stage they may have been a special group of devout disciples, perhaps wandering ascetics who were not prophets. 28  See the fine study by D. E. Orton, The Understanding Scribe (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988).

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Christian scribal activity is implied by the references to ‘binding and loosing’ at 16:19 and 18:18. In Jewish communities one of the scribe’s tasks was to pro‑ nounce on the interpretation of the law, i.e., what is still binding and what is not. So too within Matthean Christian communities: God’s will (as expressed par‑ ticularly in the sayings of Jesus) had to be discerned. In Matt. 16:19 and 18:18, however, authority to do this is given to Peter and to the whole community, not to one particular group. Within Matthean communities special ministries were exercised by three groups: prophets, the righteous, and ‘wise men and scribes’. No doubt these groups were not mutually exclusive: some prophets may also have been scribes. As Eduard Schweizer has noted, ‘there is not the slightest indication of a spe‑ cially emphasized ministry to which certain things are reserved that not every community member can do.’29 In making that comment Schweizer was referring to chap. 18, the ‘church order’ discourse. In my view his comments are a fair summary of the very limited evidence Matthew’s gospel as a whole gives us concerning ministry. In none of the passages referred to is there a suggestion that these groups en‑ joyed a particular status or used titles of honour. This observation is confirmed by Matt. 23:8–12: in contrast to synagogue communities, followers of Jesus are not to be concerned with status or titles of honour. ‘The greatest among you must be your servant’ (23:11). However it would be rash to conclude from these passages that Matthew’s communities were egalitarian, without any structures at all. Down through the centuries Christian groups have criticized other Christians for their alleged failure to put Matt. 23:8–12 into practice, but in fact within their own circles the critics themselves have often had strongly hierarchical patterns of leader‑ ship.30 Autocratic leaders have often claimed to be the servant of the whole community! In the early decades of the second century the term οἱ μικροί seems to have survived only in the circles in which the Nag Hammadi Apocalypse of Peter and 5 Ezra were written.31 There are a number of references to Christian prophets in [[21]] this period, but Christian ‘righteous’ and ‘wise-men and scribes’ seem to have disappeared. Within a generation or so Matthew’s gospel was used by the compiler of the Didache. In several respects the ethos of the Didache echoes that of Matthew’s

 ‘Matthew’s Church’ in The Interpretation of Matthew, 140.  I am grateful to my colleague Dr. Francis Watson for reminding me of this. My colleagues Professor Leslie Houlden and Dr. Judith Lieu and members of our New Testament research seminar at King’s College London made a number of helpful comments on an earlier version of this paper. 31  For details, see A Gospel for a New People, 256–77. 29 30

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gospel, but it contains an almost completely different set of terms for Christian groups and leaders. The references in Didache 11–13 to itinerant teachers, apostles, and prophets are intriguing. Are we to assume that these three groups were quite distinct? Or are we to assume that while all true apostles were prophets (as is implied in 11:45), the reverse was not the case? Were all prophets also teachers, as 13:2 implies? Apostles appear only in 11:36. This passage refers briefly to their welcome, permitted short stay in the community, and their departure, but nothing is said about their role in local community life. There is no suggestion (except in the later title of the Didache) that the apostles were identical with the twelve dis‑ ciples of Jesus. If, as in Paul’s day, apostles were primarily missionaries who established communities and then moved on to evangelise other areas, this would account for the failure of Didache 13–15 to say anything about their role in community life. Or perhaps by the time of the final compilation of the Didache the apostles’ hey-day was over. In the Didache prophets are discussed much more fully than apostles and teachers. They can exercise freedom in leading worship (10:7). The marks of true and false prophets are set out at some length (11:7–12). Prophets are ‘your high priests’ (13:2) and are to be supported when they decide to settle in the community (13:1–7). Didache 15:1 refers to the choice of ‘bishops and deacons’, who, apparently, are not itinerant. The same phrase is used in Phil. 1:1, but not otherwise in the New Testament. The community addressed by the Didache is encouraged strong‑ ly to be evenhanded in its treatment of itinerant teachers, apostles, and prophets on the one hand, and its own ‘settled’ bishops and deacons: both groups are to be given the same respect, for their ministry is similar. This may suggest that the choice of local ‘settled’ bishops and deacons is a recent innovation, perhaps to counter the influence of wandering charismatic prophets. The Didache assumes that a Christian community may have several bishops who share leadership with teachers, apostles, prophets, and deacons; there is no trace here of the single pre-eminent bishop whose importance is stressed strongly by Ignatius in about AD 100. The disappearance of Matthew’s terminology and the use of a largely differ‑ ent set of terms in the Didache is baffling. The different genre of Matthew and the Didache provides part of the answer. Unlike the compiler of the Didache, Matthew has written a gospel: his primary purpose is to set out the story and significance of Jesus for his readers, not to give a full account of ministry within the communities to which he is writing. We are given no more than a few hints concerning the self-understanding of Matthean communities and the terminol‑ ogy used to refer to groups of disciples.

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(ii) ἀνομία In numerous passages erring or unfaithful disciples are roundly condemned. For example, in 7:19 disciples are warned that those who do not bear good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire. In the pericope which follows [[22]] judge‑ ment is pronounced on those whose deeds are evil (7:23). In the explanation of the parables of the weeds (13:36–43), a passage in which the evangelist’s own hand is clearly evident, unfaithful disciples are in view: the ‘sons of the evil one’ are evildoers who will be thrown into the furnace of fire at the close of the age. In 24:51 the evangelist makes a redactional change to the Q tradition he is using and stresses that unfaithful disciples will share judgement with ‘the hypocrites’, i.e., with the scribes and Pharisees on whom judgement is pronounced in chapter 23. In short, Matthew is as ferocious in his denunciation of his fellow disciples as he is of the Jewish religious leaders. Is it possible to say more about the ‘he‑ retical’ views of some members of Matthew’s communities? Many Matthean specialists have accepted Gerhard Barth’s view that the evangelist is ‘fighting on two fronts’, i.e., that he is opposing both the leaders of contemporary Judaism and antinomian heretics in his own communities.32 Barth claims that Matthew’s emphasis on the abiding validity of the law in 5:17–19; 7:15–20; and 24:11–13 is directed at antinomian opponents who can best be described as Hellenistic libertines; they are the false prophets of 7:15 and 24:11. While Matthew clearly levels harsh criticisms at disciples – and by implica‑ tion at his readers, I am not persuaded that he is attacking one particular ‘hereti‑ cal’ group. In his composite picture of the opponents Barth appeals to several passages and themes. Matthew uses ἀνομία three times to refer to disciples (7:23; 13:41; 24:12). These are general references to disobedience to the ‘will of the Father’ and are not to be limited to antinomians. Matthew’s warnings about false prophecy do not go beyond the similarly indefinite comments about heresy which we find in passages such as 1 Tim. 6:3–5; Titus 1:16 and Didache 11:18.33 The points I made above concerning genre and geography make this view even more plausible. Since Matthew is writing a gospel, not a letter, we should not expect an explicit repudiation of a particular false view. And since he is writ‑ ing to a cluster of communities, with at least some of which he may not have had a close relationship, he is much more likely to be making general points about erring followers of Jesus than to be attacking a ‘heresy’. I have argued that we should take the genre of Matthew seriously and be wary of attempts to link the gospel to a precise set of social, historical or reli‑ 32  G. Bornkamm, G. Barth, H. J. Held, Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew (E.tr. Lon‑ don; SCM, 1963) 62–76; 159–64. 33  See G. Strecker, Der Weg der Gerechtigkeit FRLANT 82 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1962) 137 n. 4. See also J. E. Davison, ‘Anomia and the Question of an Antinomian Polemic in Matthew’, JBL 104 (1986) 617–35.

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gious circumstances. We do not know as much about Matthew’s communities as we would like, but we know enough about the evangelist’s purposes and the ‘horizons of expectation’ of the initial recipients to enable us to read the text sensitively. The point at which any text ends is crucial. Matthew’s gospel is no exception – nor is this paper. In Matthew’s final sentence, the disciples are told to go from the mountain in Galilee where they had met Jesus, and make disciples of all nations. How are they to do this? By baptizing in the triadic name, and by [[23]] teach‑ ing people to observe all the commands Jesus had given them. The commands of Jesus are set out fully in Matthew’s βίος of Jesus, which he refers to as ‘this gospel’ in 24:14 and 26:13 (cf. also 13:19). So for Matthew’s communities, the text of this gospel is to be central in their ‘discipling of the nations’: text and context are linked inextricably.

Chapter 6

Ministry in Matthean Christianity [[142]] I am delighted to have been asked to contribute to this volume of essays in honour of Bishop Penelope Jamieson. Although I have not met her personally, I have a special interest in her ministry as Bishop of Dunedin. I was brought up in Dunedin in the Salvation Army and I recall vividly from the 1950s the minis‑ try of several outstanding women who far outshone their husbands as preachers and as pastors. Ever since those formative years I have valued the ministry of women. In due course I received my theological training in Dunedin for the ministry of the Presbyterian Church of New Zealand. At that time Presbyterians were slowly (and in some cases reluctantly) recognizing the ministry of women, but at least we were then several steps ahead of Anglicans! I also have a long-standing interest in the Anglican see of Dunedin. My first piece of serious historical research was a MA thesis on one aspect of the minis‑ try of the first Bishop of Dunedin, Bishop Samuel Nevill.1 From 1885 to 1907 Bishop Nevill led, or was closely associated with various efforts to establish Anglican work on a firm footing in Fiji, Samoa and Tonga.2 I hope that, unlike Bishop Nevill, Bishop Jamieson does not have to endure sniping from corre‑ spondents to the Otago Daily Times. On 14 August 1885, just prior to Bishop Nevill’s departure [[143]] for Tonga and Samoa, a correspondent claimed that the Bishop’s task did not include either an attempt to convert the heathen in the Pacific Islands or to reconvert the Wesleyans: there was a vast mission field open for the Bishop’s efforts in his own diocese! More recently some of my research has focused on Matthew’s Gospel and its setting in early Judaism and in early Christianity. Although Matthew’s Gospel has often been dubbed the ‘most ecclesiastical’ of the four canonical Gospels, this is not the corner of early Christianity to which modern Christians interested in ‘ministry’ naturally turn. Nonetheless, I hope to show that Matthew provides the careful reader with a number of points to ponder. 1  The early years of the diocese of Dunedin were marred by the Jenner controversy. Jenner had been precipitately consecrated as Bishop to a see in New Zealand, but his claim to the see of Dunedin was not upheld and eventually Nevill was recognized as the first Bishop of Dunedin. 2  On re-reading my thesis over thirty years later, I am grateful for the grounding in historical research, and especially in the use of unpublished material and other primary sources, which I was given by the History Department at the University of Otago. My supervisor was Angus Ross; my other teachers were W. P. Morrell, Gordon Parsonson and Austin Mitchell.

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I concede immediately that in the paragraphs which follow I am bringing some of the concerns of systematic theology to the text of Matthew’s Gospel. Along with many contemporary theologians, I want to emphasize that ‘ministry’ should be not be confined to issues of ‘office’, to ‘who does what, and on what authority’. The whole people of God is called to ‘ministry’: ministry to God in worship and in carrying out God’s will; ministry to one another in the life of the Christian community; ministry in the name of Christ to the world, especially to those in need. The ordained ministry should be considered only in the light of these basic convictions.3 New Testament scholars are instinctively reluctant to read any early Christian writing from a standpoint which smacks of systematic theology. Many would go further and insist that they are not merely reluctant to do this: they are vehe‑ mently opposed to such a strategy. The text should not be forced artificially into a modern theological mould, we are told endlessly. On the other hand, a neutral, detached reading of a text is impossible: the reader always brings her or his initial assumptions and questions to the text. So why should a specifically theo‑ logical starting point be ruled out? Problems arise only when an initial doctrinal stance predetermines exegetical results. A reading of the text can be stimulated by theological concerns, and, of course, vice [[144]] versa. Surely systematic theology and New Testament studies can and should live with one another in a symbiotic relationship. Matthew’s Gospel comes to us from a quite specific religious and social set‑ ting, attention to which warns us against using the Gospel as a set of prooftexts to prop up our current theological concerns. The Evangelist wrote to communities which had recently parted painfully from Judaism, communities which were en‑ couraged by the Evangelist to see themselves as a ‘new people’. In some respects Matthew’s Gospel reflects a ‘sectarian’ outlook. The Evangelist’s instincts are those of a pastor rather than those of a theologian. His primary aim is to set out the story and significance of Jesus, to write a Gospel rather than a handbook on the nature of Christian ministry.4 A careful reading of the text cannot bypass these various considerations. If ‘ministry’ is understood in the broad way I have sketched, then almost the whole of Matthew’s Gospel is relevant to the theme of this volume of essays. 3  The important and influential WCC statement, Baptism, Eucharist and Ministry (Geneva: WCC, 1982), § 7 (b), p. 21, correctly emphasizes the calling of the whole people of God to ‘ministry’: ‘the word ministry in its broadest sense denotes the service to which the whole peo‑ ple of God is called, whether as individuals, as a local community, or as the universal Church’. However, the statement as a whole is lopsided: far more discussion is devoted to the ordained ministry than to ministry in the broad sense. 4  See G. N. Stanton, A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1992); see also idem, ‘Revisiting Matthew’s Communities’, in E. H. Lovering (ed.), Society of Biblical Literature 1994 Seminar Papers (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), pp. 9–23 [[reprinted in this volume]].

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Since I cannot possibly discuss all the relevant passages in this paper, I have de‑ cided to focus on three central issues which are all distinctively Matthean. First, I hope to show that the Evangelist insists that the ministry of Jesus is a model for his followers. Secondly, I shall discuss passages which are (or have seemed to some to be) concerned with the ministry of the people of God to the world. Thirdly, and quite deliberately at the end rather than at the beginning, I shall turn to the Evangelist’s hints concerning leadership roles within the Christian communities to which he is writing.

1. Jesus and the Disciples Matthew’s second major discourse plays at least as important a role in the Evan‑ gelist’s story as the Sermon on the Mount.5 In the mission discourse the twelve are given authority over unclean spirits to cast them out, and to cure every dis‑ ease and sickness. They are told, ‘Go, proclaim the good news, “the kingdom of heaven has come near”. Cure [[145]] the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons’ (10.1, 7–8). In the important summary passage which introduces this discourse, the Evan‑ gelist notes that Jesus himself ‘went about all the cities and villages … proclaim‑ ing the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and sickness’ (9.35). The verbal correspondence is striking: the disciples of Jesus are sent to proclaim the same message of the good news of the kingdom which Jesus himself has proclaimed, and to carry out the same acts of healing as Jesus. Matthew has had this crucial point in mind from a much earlier point in his Gospel. In fact it is no exaggeration to claim that in the opening eleven chapters he has radically reshaped his primary source, Mark, to draw attention to the ways in which the ministry of the disciples (ch. 10) is to be modelled on that of Jesus as set out in chs. 5–9.6 The Evangelist’s own summary of the proclamation and actions of Jesus in 4.23–24 is followed by extended examples of his proclamation in the Sermon on the Mount (chs. 5–7) and by a cycle of miracle stories in chs. 8 and 9 which illustrate the summary references to the healing activity of Jesus. In the mission discourse in ch. 10 both the proclamation of the disciples and their healing actions are modelled closely on those of Jesus: they are to continue his ministry. But there is a crucial difference: although the disciples are sent out on their mission bearing the full authority of Jesus as his formal representatives (10.40), Jesus is the unique messiah, the Son of God. This is made clear in the Q 5  For a fine study of this discourse, see U. Luz, ‘The Disciples in the Gospel according to Matthew’, in G. N. Stanton (ed.), The Interpretation of Matthew (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, rev. edn, 1995), pp. 115–48. 6  In his later chapters Matthew follows Mark’s order very closely.

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pericope which immediately follows the mission discourse in 11.26. Here the ac‑ tions and proclamation of Jesus are seen as the fulfilment of Isa. 35.56 and 61.1; they are messianic in the broad sense of that term. In 11.2 Matthew adds to his source a redactional phrase which is much more explicit and which differenti‑ ates Jesus and his disciples: the deeds (erga) of Jesus are those of the messiah.7 The reader is made aware of this close correspondence between the ministries of Jesus and the disciples at the point at which Matthew introduces his account of the ministry of Jesus in 4.12–22. The first pericope [[146]] in this introductory section is not paralleled directly in the other Gospels. The journey of Jesus from Nazareth to his base in Capernaum is seen as the fulfilment of Isa. 8.23–9.1; 58.10: the coming of Jesus is the dawning of a ‘great light’ for the people of Gali‑ lee of the Gentiles. Matthew carefully presents Jesus as the light of the world.8 In the Sermon of the Mount disciples of Jesus are called to the same ministry: ‘You are the light of the world’ (5.14). The second pericope in this extended introduction is taken from Mark. James and John are called to follow Jesus, a call which is so urgent that their father Zebedee is left behind (4.22). First-century readers would recognize the radical nature of Jesus’ demand more readily than their modern counterparts: in anti‑ quity family ties were abandoned only in the most exceptional circumstances. Matthew’s story has already implied that in this respect disciples also follow the pattern of the ministry of Jesus: the family circle of Jesus disappears from view at 2.21. When the mother and brothers of Jesus reappear at 12.46, Jesus point‑ edly notes that the ‘new family’ of the circle of disciples takes precedence over biological family ties.9 Several aspects of Matthew’s portrait of Jesus are quite distinctive. His meek‑ ness and humility are stressed much more strongly than in Mark. The one born ‘king of the Jews’ is the child Jesus, the Davidic messiah (2.2–6). Jesus is the one who is ‘meek and lowly in heart’ (11.29), the self-effacing chosen Servant of God (12.17–21), ‘the humble king’ (21.5). All these passages bear the stamp of the Evangelist himself. In several passages disciples of Jesus are urged to bear the same character traits as Jesus himself. As the Evangelist does in numerous other places in his Gospel, he takes over a logion from one of his primary sources and expands or repeats it elsewhere.10 From Q Matthew takes the blessing on the poor in spirit (5.3); he  7  The NRSV correctly translates Christos here by ‘messiah’ to make the point clear to mod‑ ern readers. On Jesus as Son of God, note especially 3.17 and 4.1–11. Jesus is first presented as Son of God ‘in a casual, almost inadvertent manner’ in 2.15; so D. Verseput, ‘The Role and Meaning of the “Son of God” Title in Matthew’s Gospel”, NTS 33 (1987), p. 537.  8  See Jn 8.12 where Jesus himself claims to be the light of the world.  9  See further the fine study by S. Barton, Discipleship and Family Ties According to Mark and Matthew (SNTSMS, 80; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). 10  For examples and full discussion of this distinctive Matthean literary technique, see Stan‑ ton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 326–45.

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repeats the saying with different wording in 5.5, where the very word ‘meek’ used of Jesus in 11.29 and 21.5 is used to describe the disciples. At 26.26–28 Matthew takes over almost verbatim the striking Markan sayings (10.43–45) about true greatness and true service (or ‘ministry’ in [[147]] the broad sense): ‘whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant … just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many’. Matthew uses part of this material redactionally at 18.4, and again (more fully) at 23.11–12. In the latter passage there is an extended comparison between alleged patterns of ministry among the scribes and Pharisees on the one hand, and the disciples of Jesus on the other. I shall return to this passage below. My present point is that these verses provide a further example of the way Matthew emphasizes that the disciples are to model their ministry on that of Jesus him‑ self. Once again there is also differentiation: unlike Jesus, the Son of Man, the disciples do not give their lives as a ransom for many. One further example is particularly interesting. At 6.34 Mark refers to the compassion of Jesus on the crowd ‘because they were like sheep without a shepherd’, and then shows how Jesus himself expressed his compassion for them by ‘teaching them many things’ and by satisfying their hunger (Mk 6.34–44). Matthew takes over the reference to the compassion of Jesus (9.36), and to the crowd ‘like sheep without a shepherd’.11 But whereas in Mark Jesus himself acts as a compassionate shepherd to the crowd, by reordering his sources Matthew emphasizes that the compassion of Jesus is expressed through the ministry of the disciples (9.37 and 10.1–42). Elsewhere in Matthew there are plenty of refer‑ ences to the compassion of Jesus towards those in need (for example 11.28–30 and 14.14); at 9.36–10.1 followers of Jesus are called to model their ministry of compassion on his. So far I have noted that in numerous redactional passages Matthew empha‑ sizes that the proclamation, healing actions, meekness, humility and compassion of Jesus are all models for his disciples and, we may add, for his followers in later times. There is also a darker side to the lines of correspondence Matthew carefully draws between Jesus and his disciples. This is expressed most power‑ fully in the important redactional saying Matthew has added at 10.25b: ‘If they have called the master of the house Beelzebul, how much more will they malign those of his household’. In the preceding verses the disciples have been warned that they are to expect rejection and persecution. Now they are told that they are to expect even greater abuse than that heaped upon Jesus himself, [[148]] abuse which has already been referred to explicitly at 9.34.12 11  Matthew adds a description of the crowd which is not found in Mark: they are ‘harassed and helpless’. 12  For a full discussion of the threefold accusation that Jesus is in league with the prince of demons (Mt. 9.34; 10.25; 12.24, 27), see Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 169–91.

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Since the sayings in the second part of Matthew 10 refer so clearly to the post-Easter period,13 10.25 implies that the persecution of Christians in the Evan‑ gelist’s own day will include this form of abuse. In other words, the accusation that both Jesus and his followers are in league with the prince of demons is not a matter of past history; for Matthew and his readers it is a present experience. This theme is found both earlier and later in the Gospel. In Matthew 2 Jesus and the wise men flee for their very lives from persecution. In this chapter the implacable opposition of the religious authorities to Jesus is foreshadowed. The reader of the Gospel does not have to wait long to learn that disciples of Jesus are to expect the same fate. In the final beatitudes (5.1–12), where Matthew’s own hand is once again evident, the disciples (and later readers) are promised that they will be blessed and rewarded by God when they are persecuted and reviled. The theme returns in a different key towards the end of the catalogue of woes heaped upon the scribes and Pharisees in ch. 23, a chapter which embarrasses acutely readers today who do not appreciate its original social setting  – and even those who do. The reader is told that some of the Christian prophets, sages and scribes sent to the religious leaders in the Evangelist’s day will be killed and crucified; some will be flogged in synagogues and hounded from town to town (23.34). Since crucifixion was a Roman but not a Jewish form of capital punishment, this verse is not intended merely to allude to later Jewish persecu‑ tion of followers of Jesus. The point is rather that disciples (and later followers) of Jesus must be prepared to share his ultimate fate, which may even include crucifixion. As we shall see below, in one key passage they too are promised vindication by God. In the preceding paragraphs I have noted several ways in which the ministry of Jesus functions as a model for the disciples, even though Jesus is portrayed as the promised messiah, the Son of God. In many respects his story is their story. Since the reader readily identifies with the disciples, the pattern of their ministry is clearly intended to be a model for later readers of the Gospel. [[149]]

2. Ministry to the World The fourth of Matthew’s five discourses is concerned with ministry within the community of followers of Jesus.14 Only in this chapter (18.17 twice) and at 16.18 is the word ‘church’ used. Whereas in Lk. 15.37 the parable of the lost  See Luz, ‘Disciples’, pp. 98–128, especially p. 100.  ‘Teaching about the kingdom’ is the bland, unhelpful subheading which precedes Mt. 18 in the REB; NEB has an equally unhelpful header at the top of the page, ‘Jesus and the Disci‑ ples’. The NRSV and NIB eschew headings at the top of the page and subheadings within the text. In my view this is preferable to the misleading headings found in many places in the NEB and the REB. In many other respects, however, the NEB is excellent and the REB even better. 13 14

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sheep speaks of God’s love for those on the margins of society, tax collectors and sinners, in Mt. 18.12–14 the parable is used to encourage followers of Jesus to care for the ‘straying’ member of the community. In the same chapter ‘regula‑ tions’ for settling disputes within the community are set out (18.15–18). Matthew’s clear interest in ministry within the community is balanced by many passages in which disciples of Jesus are urged to exercise a ministry to the world. A number of examples have been noted in the preceding section; two further passages deserve close attention. The Beatitudes, the first words Jesus addresses to his disciples, are concerned with the characteristics of discipleship (5.1–12). These qualities are to be shown both within the life of the community and in the disciples’ relationships with those outside the community. The disciple is to be gentle, merciful and a peace‑ maker, for example, in both settings. The carefully structured verses which follow the Beatitudes are concerned with the ‘ministry’ of followers of Jesus to the world: they are to be ‘salt to the world’, and ‘light for all the world’ (5.13–14). It is difficult to determine the precise sense in which the community is to be ‘salt’. In antiquity salt was used as seasoning, for purification, for preservation (of meat, fish and vegetables), and also (in small quantities) as a fertilizer. Which quality is in view here? ‘Salt’ has been taken by ancient and modern interpreters to refer to the wisdom of the disciples, their proclamation, their willingness to sacrifice, and their manner of living.15 Since the most common use for salt has always been as seasoning for food, this is the probable sense here. The disciples do not exist for [[150]] themselves but for ‘the world’ beyond the community.16 This line of interpretation is con‑ firmed by the ‘light’ saying, and by 5.16, which brings both the ‘salt’ and the ‘light’ sayings to a climax. The characteristic qualities of disciples and their good works have a missionary function: followers of Jesus are called to minister to the world by their lives and their deeds.17 The concluding pericope in Matthew’s fifth and final discourse (25.31–46) has often been taken to insist powerfully and dramatically that Christians (or men and women in general) will be separated like sheep and goats on the basis of their concern and care for the poor and needy. On this ‘universalist’ interpreta‑ tion, ministry to the world is in view, and this passage is directly relevant to our 15  For details and a thorough discussion, see U. Luz, Matthew 1–7 (ET; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1990). 16  So too Luz, Matthew 1–7. 17  REB translates 5.16 ‘Like the lamp, you must shed light among your fellows’ (similarly, NEB). This is misleading, since to modern readers ‘fellows’ suggests fellow-followers of Jesus; this runs counter to the thrust of 5.13–16. The ‘politically correct’ NRSV changes RSV’s ‘Let your light so shine before men…’ to ‘let your light shine before others’. In this case the change is wholly welcome.

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present theme. It is hardly surprising that this interpretation has become one of the pillars of liberation theology. However, an alternative interpretation is now winning the day among Matthean specialists: the non-Christian nations (among whom Israel may or may not be included) will be judged on the basis of their acceptance or rejec‑ tion of Christians (or a particular group within Christian communities, such as missionaries or apostles).18 ‘The least of these my brothers’ (25.40, 45) are not the poor and needy of the world, but Christians, who form a minority within society at large. If this ‘particularist’ interpretation is adopted, the pericope has the same general purpose as some apocalyptic writings: to offer consolation and encouragement to minority communities who are hard pressed by the dominant society which surrounds them and which is perceived to be threatening.19 More specifically, the pericope functions as an answer to the question, ‘Why are the enemies of the gospel allowed to trample over the followers of Jesus?’ Or, ‘Why do the nations triumph?’ The Evangelist’s answer to [[151]] his readers is that God will ultimately bring the nations to judgment. To their great surprise, those who have shown active caring concern for Christians will receive their reward, for in accepting the messengers and representatives of Jesus, the Son of Man, they will have accepted Jesus himself. The nub of the exegetical dispute can be put quite simply. Is this pericope concerned with the attitude of the Christian community (or the world in general) to the needy (the ‘universalist’ interpretation), or is it, rather, the world’s attitude to the church which is in view (the ‘particularist’ interpretation)? A decision de‑ pends very largely on answers given to two questions. Who are ‘all the nations’, gathered at the throne of the Son of Man for judgment (vv. 31 and 32)? Who are ‘the least of these my brothers’ (vv. 40 and 45), for whom deeds of mercy have been done? Elsewhere in his Gospel (especially 24.9 and 14; 28.19) Matthew uses ‘all the nations’ to refer to Gentiles, over against Christians or Jews; the phrase is never used to refer to Christians (i.e. the evangelized nations) or even to Christians and non-Christians together. In this apocalyptic discourse it is the nations opposed to God’s people who are to be assembled for judgment. Who are ‘the least of these my brothers’? Once again priority must be given to Matthean usage elsewhere. In Matthew ‘the little ones’ is a quite specific term for disciples (10.42; 18.10, 14). The phrase ‘one of the least of these’ in 25.40, 45 is very similar to the phrase in 10.42, ‘one of these little ones’, so we can  The history of interpretation has recently been fully documented by S. W. Gray, The Least of My Brothers: Matthew 25.31–46: A History of Interpretation (SBLDS, 114; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989). For a full discussion of this passage, see Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 207–31. 19  In my discussion of this passage (see the preceding note) I have emphasized the impor‑ tance of these parallels. 18

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be all but certain that it refers to disciples. Why is the superlative form of the adjective used in ch. 25? It can be argued that the superlative here has almost the same sense as the positive. In the New Testament ‘true’ superlatives are very rare; superlatives with an elative sense (‘very’) are much more common. The REB catches the nuance of the elative superlative here: ‘one of these, however insignificant’. The difference between ‘the little ones’ (10.42) and ‘the insignifi‑ cant ones’ (25.40, 45) is not great.20 The phrase ‘my brothers’ which is found in 25.40 (but not in v. 45) strengthens still further the conclusion that in our pericope the nations are to be judged on the basis of their acceptance or rejection of Christian disciples. Matthew uses ‘brothers’ 18 times to refer to fellow members [[152]] of the Christian family; no fewer than 12 of the 18 are redactional. As in many other cases, Matthew has taken a word found in his sources and used it himself so frequently that it becomes part of his distinctive vocabulary. There is a further consideration which strongly supports the interpretation I am defending. Perhaps the most startling aspect of this passage is the identifica‑ tion of the Son of Man, the King, with ‘the least of these my brothers’. There are no other passages in Matthew, or in early Christian writings generally, which identify Jesus with the poor. It is, of course, just possible that Matthew did take a bold and unprecedented step. But from what we know of the Evangelist’s methods elsewhere, it is much more likely that in the final pericope of his final discourse he would develop points made elsewhere in his Gospel rather than set out a wholly new idea. On the other hand, if we take ‘the least of these my brothers’ to be a refer‑ ence to followers of Jesus, then the identification of Jesus with them is not unexpected. The claim at the very opening of the Gospel that the birth of Jesus means that God is with his people (1.23) is matched by the closing promise of the Exalted Christ at the very end of the Gospel to be with his disciples to the end of the age (28.20). The closing logia of the missionary discourse, 10.40–42, foreshadow 25.31–46, the closing pericope of the final discourse.21 In v. 40 Jesus identifies himself closely with his disciples: ‘he who receives you, receives me’. Verse 42 is an extension of this theme: acceptance of ‘one of these little ones’ by giving a cup of cold water because he is a disciple is acceptance of Jesus himself. I noted above several ways in which the ministry of Jesus is seen as a model for the ministry of his disciples. In 10.40–42 and in 25.31–46 their close rela‑ tionship is taken further. Whereas early Christian writings do not identify Jesus  It is just possible that the superlative has been chosen to identify one particular group among the disciples. But if that was Matthew’s intention, I think he would have been more specific about the group he had in mind. 21  D. Marguerat, Le jugement dans l’évangile de Matthieu (Geneva: Labor et Fides, 1981), p. 485, notes that Mt. 10.40–42 is a ‘hermeneutical canon’ for the ‘particularist’ interpretation of 25.31–46. 20

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with the poor and needy, the close identification of Jesus with his disciples is a thoroughly Matthean theme which is also found elsewhere.22 I accept without hesitation that many strands of both the Old and New Testa‑ ments exhort God’s people to minister to the marginalized in [[153]] society, and I believe strongly that the church today is constrained to take this bias to the poor with the utmost seriousness. In short, on theological grounds I am predisposed to read Mt. 25.31–46 as a solemn exhortation to the church (and indeed, to all men and women) to give priority in ministry to the hungry, thirsty and needy of the world. As an exegete, however, I conclude with some reluctance that in Mt. 25.31–46 both the Evangelist’s intentions, and the ways the first recipients understood this passage, were very different.

3. Leadership Roles I turn finally to ‘ministry’ in the narrow sense, that is, to the patterns of leader‑ ship within Matthean Christianity. The reader of Matthew soon observes that the crowds play a much fuller and more clearly defined role in Matthew than in the other Gospels. Since the crowds are often positive in their response to Jesus, what is their relationship to the disciples? A reader of a story naturally identifies with one of the main characters – though the storyteller may spring surprises and force the reader to abandon an initial allegiance. With whom were the readers of Matthew’s Gospel intended to identify, the crowds or the disciples? In an influential article P. S. Minear claimed that when the modern reader finds Jesus speaking to the crowds, he may usually assume that Matthew was speaking to contemporary laymen. When he finds Jesus teaching the dis‑ ciples, he may usually suppose that Matthew had in mind the vocation of contemporary leaders as stewards of Christ’s household.23

The key word in these two sentences is ‘usually’. Minear’s theory accounts for some of the evidence (especially 14.13–21 and 15.3–29), but by no means all of it. In 26.47 the crowds oppose Jesus; in 12.46–50 and 13.10–17 they appear in a poor light in comparison with the disciples.24 A more nuanced view has recently been advanced by Warren Carter. He correctly notes that the crowds are recipients of Jesus’ compassionate ministry, a ministry to be continued by disciples. At times crowds exhibit some perception that God is at work in [[154]] a special way in 22  See also 1 Cor. 8.12; Acts 9.4–5; 22.8; 26.15; Ign., Eph. 6.1; Did. 11.4; Justin, I Apol. 16.9–10; 63.5. 23  ‘The Disciples and the Crowds in the Gospel of Matthew’, ATR Supplementary Series 3 (1974), p. 41. 24  So too W. Carter, ‘The Crowds in Matthew’s Gospel’, CBQ 55 (199J), p. 55.

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Jesus, yet they lack both the faith and understanding manifested by the disciples and the hostility displayed by the Jewish leaders.25

In short, the disciples and the crowds do not foreshadow the later distinction between ordained and lay ministries. We must now ask whether the Gospel provides other evidence of patterns of ministry within Matthean Christianity. From very early times right up to the present day many readers of the Gospel have concluded that in Mt. 16.13–20 Peter is singled out by Jesus and given su‑ preme authority over the church. Modern scholars have interpreted this passage in diverse ways, but they all accept that it should not be considered in isolation from other evidence within the Gospel concerning Peter’s role. Some scholars conclude that Peter is presented by the Evangelist as the ‘su‑ preme rabbi’ within the church, the ‘guarantor’ and ‘transmitter’ of its tradition of teaching. Other scholars see Peter’s role very differently: he provides the individual member of Matthew’s church with an example of what it means, both positively and negatively, to be a Christian.26 Two points are crucial. Although Peter plays a leading role in many passages in Matthew, in some he is less prominent than in the corresponding passage in Mark. Compare, for example, Mk 16.7 and Mt. 28.7; Mk 11.21 and Mt. 21.20. And secondly, and even more importantly, the authority to bind and loose which is given by Jesus to Peter in Mt. 16.19 is given to all the disciples in 18.18. By paying close attention to the ways Peter is first introduced to the reader, J. D. Kingsbury has shown that Peter is the ‘rock’, ‘not by virtue of his being elevated to an office above, or apart from, the other disciples, but by reason of the fact that he was the “first” of the disciples whom Jesus called to follow him’.27 Of the terms used to refer to the disciples (or to some of them), ‘the [[155]] little ones’ is by far the most intriguing, as we have seen above. The phrase first appears at 10.42, the climax of a set of three sayings of Jesus at the end of the mission discourse. The opening saying (10.40), which is a Matthean develop‑ ment of a Q logion, draws an exact parallel between the authority given to Jesus by God and the authority given to (all) the disciples by Jesus: ‘whoever receives you receives me, and whoever receives me receives the One who sent me’. 10.41, which is probably the Evangelist’s own expansion of the preced‑ ing logion, refers to the rewards which will be given to those who welcome a prophet and a righteous person. 10.42 is Matthew’s version of Mk 9.41; among the changes he makes is the introduction of the phrase ‘the little ones’ to refer  W. Carter, ‘The Crowds’, p. 64.  For details and a full discussion with which I am largely in agreement, see J. D. Kingsbury, ‘The Figure of Peter in Matthew’s Gospel as a Theological Problem’, JBL 98 (1979), pp. 67–83. See also R. E. Brown, K. P. Donfried and J. Reumann (eds.), Peter in the New Testament (Min‑ neapolis: Augsburg; New York: Paulist Press, 1973), and T. V. Smith, Petrine Controversies in Early Christianity (Tübingen: Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1985). 27  ‘Peter in Matthew’, p. 76. 25 26

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to the disciples.28 From the immediate context (and from Matthew’s use of the phrase at 18.6, 10 and 14, and his use of the superlative at 25.40 and 45) it is clear that ‘the little ones’ is Matthew’s characteristic way of referring to all the disciples, not to a special inner group. The first reference to ‘the little ones’ in the fourth discourse in ch. 18 is strik‑ ing. At 18.6 Mk 9.42 is expanded in order to state explicitly that ‘the little ones’ believe in Jesus – the only time such a phrase is used in the Synoptic traditions.29 Here the Evangelist uses a post Easter confessional phrase – a hint that readers in the Evangelist’s own day are being addressed. Who are the ‘prophets’ and the ‘righteous’, terms probably introduced in 10.41 by Matthew himself? The latter is the more difficult term, since it is not used elsewhere by Matthew to refer to disciples. As we shall see in a moment, ‘prophets’ are a particular group within the Matthean community. Hence it is likely that ‘the righteous’ are too; the reference to a reward appropriate for a ‘righteous person’ strongly suggests that this is the case. The verb ‘receives’ (and the wider context) implies ‘welcome with hospitality’, so both the prophets and the righteous are probably itinerant followers of Jesus. But it is impossible to say more about the role of ‘the righteous’ with any confidence.30 [[156]] There is rather more evidence for prophets within Matthean Christianity. Matthew’s warnings against the activity of false prophets in 7.18–23 presuppose the activity of true prophets, an activity which is referred to at 5.12 (implicitly); 10.41 and 23.34. Mt. 7.22 confirms that the false prophets prophesied, exorcized demons and performed healing miracles. Matthew does not indulge in polemic against these activities: prophets are rejected only when they fail to ‘do the will of the heavenly Father’. There is some evidence to suggest that prophecy was known in later Christian communities which also saw themselves as ‘the little ones’. E. Schweizer has claimed that the Matthean church was ‘the body of these little ones who are ready to follow Jesus’, a group with an ascetic charismatic character, which found its continuation in the church of Syria, finally merging into the monastic movement of the Catholic church.31 Part of this bold hypothesis received unexpected sup‑ port from the Nag Hammadi Apocalypse of Peter. There is no doubt that this community saw itself as a group of ‘these little ones’ (the phrase recurs several 28  Matthew takes the phrase from Mk 9.42, the only place in Mark where it is used meta‑ phorically of the disciples. As in many other passages, Matthew takes over a phrase from Mark and uses it himself several times in key passages. See Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 326–45. 29  A number of MSS do have ‘believe in me’ at Mk 9.42, but I take this reading to be a har‑ monization of the Matthean tradition. 30  Luz (‘Disciples’) speculates that at the pre-Matthean stage they may have been a special group of devout disciples, perhaps wandering ascetics, who were not prophets. 31  E. Schweizer, ‘Observance of the Law and Charismatic Activity in Matthew’, NTS 16 (1970), p. 229.

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times in a relatively short document). ‘The little ones’ joined issue with those ‘who let themselves be called bishop, and also deacons, as if they had received authority from God, who recline at table after the law of the places of honour’.32 Schweizer believes that the Apocalypse of Peter offers the first direct evidence of ‘an ascetic Judaeo-Christian group of “these little ones” with no bishops or deacons, still experiencing heavenly visions and prophetic auditions’.33 I have argued that 5 Ezra offers further support for this conclusion, for it too stems from a Judaeo-Christian community which sees itself as ‘the little ones’ and in which Christian prophecy continues.34 In the final verse, which is very similar to the conclusion of the Apocalypse of Peter, Ezra is instructed by the angel of God to go and convey to the Christian community his prophetic vision (2.48); he is also commanded to take the words of the Lord to them (2.10). Ezra is portrayed as a prophet who speaks against Israel very much in the manner of Old [[157]] Testament prophets (see for example 2.4, 8, 12, 15). Whereas Israel rejected the Old Testament prophets (and Ezra himself, 2.33), the clear implica‑ tion is that the ‘coming people’ will not only obey the Old Testament prophets but will accept the prophetic words and visions given by God through Ezra. At 2.26 there is probably an explicit reference to Christian prophets: ‘Not one of the servants whom I have given you will perish, for I will require them from among your number.’35 I have considered briefly evidence for two groups, prophets and the righteous, within the circle of ‘the little ones’ – a self-designation of followers of Jesus in the Evangelist’s day. There is one further reference to a special group within Matthean Christianity. At 23.34 the scribes and Pharisees are told that they will reject and persecute the (Christian) ‘prophets and wise men and scribes’ who will be sent to them. The ‘wise men’ and the ‘scribes’ are almost certainly the same group.36 One other passage probably alludes to Christian scribes. Mt. 13.52 speaks of a scribe who has been ‘discipled’ for the kingdom of heaven. This may even be the Evangelist’s own self-portrait at the centre-point of his Gospel – like an artist’s signature in a corner of her or his painting. Some scholars have claimed that Mt. 8.19 also points to the existence in the Evangelist’s day of Christian scribes. However, a careful reading of the text rules out this interpretation. The eager scribe who seeks to follow Jesus merely on his own initiative and without a prior ‘call’ from Jesus is repudiated, but someone 32  E. Schweizer, ‘The “Matthean” Church’, NTS 20 (1974), p. 216; there is a similar brief note in ZNW 65 (1974), p. 139. Schweizer refers to Mt. 23.6–10 and 18.10. 33  Schweizer, ‘The “Matthean” Church’, p. 216. 34  See Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 256–77. 35  The French recension of the Latin text has been quoted: the Spanish manuscripts do not differ significantly. 36  See the fine study by D. E. Orton, The Understanding Scribe (JSNTSup, 25; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988).

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else, who is not a scribe, is portrayed as a disciple and reminded sharply of the radical nature of discipleship.37 In typical Matthean fashion, the repudiated scribe addresses Jesus as ‘teacher’, while the true disciple addresses Jesus as ‘Lord’. Christian scribal activity is implied by the references to ‘binding and loosing’ at 16.19 and 18.18. Just as in Jewish communities one of the scribe’s tasks was to pronounce on the interpretation of the law, that is, [[158]] what is still binding and what is not, so too within Matthean Christian communities God’s will (as expressed particularly in the sayings of Jesus) had to be discerned. In Mt. 16.19 and 18.18, however, authority to do this is given to Peter and to the whole com‑ munity, not to one particular group. I have suggested that within Matthean Christian communities special minis‑ tries were exercised by three groups: prophets, the righteous, and ‘wise men and scribes’. No doubt these groups were not mutually exclusive: some prophets may also have been scribes. As E. Schweizer has noted, ‘there is not the slightest in‑ dication of a specially emphasized ministry to which certain things are reserved that not every community member can do’.38 In making that comment Schweizer referred to ch. 18, the ‘church order’ discourse. In my view his comments are a fair summary of the limited evidence Matthew’s Gospel as a whole gives us concerning patterns of leadership. In none of the passages referred to is there a suggestion that these groups en‑ joyed a particular status or used titles of honour. This observation is confirmed by Mt. 23.6–12. In contrast to synagogue communities, followers of Jesus are not to be concerned with status or titles of honour. ‘The greatest among you must be your servant’ (23.11). I hope I hardly need to add that the absence in Matthew of bishops, deacons and elders is not significant. In historical studies it is always rash to build a case on the silence of one’s sources. Matthew’s primary purpose is to set out the story and significance of Jesus for his readers, not to give an account of ministry within the communities to which he is writing. We are given no more than a few hints concerning the self-understanding of Matthean communities and their patterns of ministry. These hints provide us with several points to ponder. For Matthean Chris‑ tians the story of Jesus offered a model of discipleship and ministry. His story is their story, even though Jesus is set apart as the Davidic messiah, the Son of God, the Kurios. Within Matthean communities special but not exclusive  See J. D. Kingsbury, ‘On Following Jesus: The “Eager” Scribe and the “Reluctant” Dis‑ ciple (Matthew 8.18–22)’, NTS 34 (1988), pp. 45–59. RSV translates 8.21 as ‘another of the disciples’, thereby implying that both men are scribes and are accepted by Jesus as true disci‑ ples. NEB and REB correctly translate ‘another man, one of his disciples’, thereby avoiding any suggestions that he is a scribe. 38  ‘Matthew’s Church’, in Stanton (ed.), The Interpretation of Matthew, p. 140. 37

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forms of ministry were certainly known, but status, rank and titles of honour were eschewed. In the following generations the Matthean patterns of ministry seem to have survived in the circles in which the Nag Hammadi Apocalypse of Peter and 5 Ezra were written. But by no stretch of the imagination were these circles prominent and influential in the second and later centuries. The future lay elsewhere. [[159]] Within a generation or so Matthew’s Gospel was used by the author or com‑ piler of the Didache and by Ignatius; in both cases there are very different pat‑ terns of ministry. The references in Didache 11.1–3 to itinerant teachers, apostles and prophets are intriguing. Are we to assume that these three groups were quite distinct? Or are we to assume that while all true apostles were prophets (as is implied in 11.4–5), the reverse was not the case? Were all prophets also teachers, as 13.2 implies? Apostles appear only in 11.36. This passage refers briefly to their welcome, permitted short stay in the community, and their departure, but nothing is said about their role in community life. There is no suggestion (except in the later title of the Didache) that the apostles were identical with the twelve disciples of Jesus. In Paul’s day apostles were primarily missionaries who established com‑ munities and then moved on to evangelize other areas (see Rom. 15.20; 2 Cor. 10.15–16). If this was still their primary role when the Didache was written, this would account for its failure to say anything in chs. 13–15 about their role in community life. Or perhaps by the time of the final compilation of the Didache the apostles’ heyday was over: in contrast to the situations described in 1 Cor. 12.28–29 and Eph. 4.11, here they do not head the list of ‘ministers’; they are less prominent than teachers and prophets. In the Didache prophets are discussed much more fully than apostles and teachers. They can exercise freedom in leading worship (10.7). The marks of true and false prophets are set out at some length (11.7–12). Prophets are ‘your high priests’ (13.2) and are to be supported when they decide to settle in the community (13.1–7). Did. 15.1 refers to the choice of ‘bishops and deacons’, who, apparently, are not itinerant. The same phrase is used in Phil. 1.1, but not otherwise in the New Testament. The community addressed by the Didache is encouraged strongly to be evenhanded in its treatment of itinerant teachers, apostles and prophets on the one hand, and its own ‘settled’ bishops and deacons: both groups are to be given the same respect, for their ministry is similar. This may suggest that the choice of local ‘settled’ bishops and deacons is a recent innovation, perhaps to counter the influence of wandering charismatic prophets. The Didache assumes that a Christian community may have several bishops who share leadership with teachers, apostles, prophets and [[160]] deacons; there is no trace here of the single pre-eminent bishop whose importance is stressed strongly by Ignatius in about 100 CE.

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These later developments within the Didache and the writings of Ignatius, two strands of later ‘Matthean’ Christianity, will be seen by some as inevitable, by others as highly desirable, and by others as retrogressions. But that is another agenda. I have chosen to focus my attention elsewhere, on the evidence of Mat‑ thew’s Gospel itself, some of which has not received the attention it deserves in discussions of ministry within earliest Christianity. I hope I have shown that Matthew’s Gospel is a rich source for contemporary reflection on the ministry of the people of God.

Chapter 7

The Early Reception of Matthew’s Gospel: New Evidence from Papyri? [[42]] What happened to Matthew’s Gospel in the first decades after it was writ‑ ten? How was it used, and where? Who were the first Christian writers to quote or allude to this Gospel? Did the Evangelist Matthew write for one Christian community or for all Christians everywhere? Scholars who have participated in recent discussion concerning the early reception of Matthew’s Gospel would readily agree that we have more questions than answers. I shall not attempt here to offer bold new solutions to long-standing puzzles. My aim is modest: I hope to show that recently published papyri fragments of Matthew’s Gospel are relevant to discussion concerning its early reception. Before I turn to the new evidence, I shall sketch briefly some of the issues that have been prominent in recent discussion. If we accept that the Evangelist Luke has used Matthew’s Gospel in the com‑ position of his Gospel (whether or not he also used Mark), we not only deem Q to be an aberration in modern Gospel criticism, but we have also found impor‑ tant evidence for the early reception of Matthew. On this view the Evangelist Luke was so unimpressed by Matthew that he vandalized this carefully crafted Gospel and reshaped many of its traditions. This very early negative reception of Matthew would be in stark contrast with its almost universal popularity in later decades and centuries. Along with most scholars, I do not accept that Luke dismantled Matthew, but dissenting voices are still heard.1 [[43]] If, as a minority of scholars believes, either the Fourth Evangelist or earlier editors of Johannine traditions had a copy of Matthew to hand, then it would not be so much a case of vandalism as of benign neglect. Nonetheless, this would be an interesting example of the early reception of Matthew. In my view Mat‑ thew and John share some emphases, and have a similar social setting, but are independent of one another.

1  See esp. Allan J. McNicol, ed., Beyond the Q Impasse: Luke’s Use of Matthew (Valley Forge: Trinity, 1996). See also Mark S. Goodacre, Goulder and the Gospels: An Examination of a New Paradigm, JSNTSup 133 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1996), for a judicious discus‑ sion of Michael D. Goulder’s views concerning Luke’s use of Matthew.

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The possibility that I Peter knew and used Matthew has been canvassed again recently.2 However, in the two passages that are most often referred to, the evi‑ dence is hardly overwhelming. I Pet. 3:14 and 4:14 seem to echo Matt. 5:10, but there are only three Greek words in common. Matt. 5:16 and I Pet. 2:12 are strikingly similar in content, but they have only four Greek words in common. Did the author of I Peter have a copy of Matthew to hand, or did he know some Matthean traditions by heart? A decision is difficult, and there is a third option which is made a little more likely by some considerations advanced in the final section of this paper: the author of I Peter may have possessed a notebook with a collection of Matthean verses in it. These questions have also been asked with reference to the Apostolic Fathers. Scholarly opinion has keenly divided for several decades. In 1950 Edouard Massaux detected the use of Matthew’s Gospel in many early Christian writings outside the New Testament; some 40 years later his huge study was translated into English and published in three volumes with some additional material.3 In his 1954 thesis which became influential in its published version,4 Helmut Koester defended a minimalist position, but without discussing Massaux’s work. Koester claimed that most of the apparent references in the Apostolic Fathers to the Synoptic Gospels (and to Matthew in particular) were best explained by the survival of oral tradition. [[44]] Wolf-Dietrich Köhler’s 1987 monograph on the same topic reaches conclusions which are closer to Massaux’s than to Koester’s.5 Stalemate seems to have been reached. More recently the early reception of the Gospels has been tackled from a fresh perspective in a symposium edited by Richard J. Bauckham.6 For decades now most writers on the Gospels have accepted as axiomatic that the four Evangelists all wrote for their own particular Christian communities. Writers on Matthew have assumed that on the basis of the text of this Gospel (and especially the Evangelist’s redaction of Mark), it is possible to reconstruct the make-up, ten‑ sions, and concerns of “the Matthean community.” The essays edited by Bauck‑ ham offer a “new paradigm”: the Evangelists did not write for one Christian 2  Cf. Ulrich Luz, Matthew 1–7 (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 19S9), 93: “I believe one must seri‑ ously consider the possibility that I Peter presupposes Matthew.” Rainer Metzner, Die Rezeption des Matthäusevangeliums im 1. Petrusbrief, WUNT 74 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1995), claims that Ι Peter is the first witness to Matthew’s Gospel. 3  Edouard Massaux, The Influence of the Gospel of Saint Matthew on Christian Literature before Saint Irenaeus, ed. Arthur J. Bellinzoni (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1993). 4  Helmut Koester, Synoptische Überlieferung bei den apostolischen Vätern. TU 65 (Berlin: Akademie, 1957). 5  Wolf-Dietrich Köhler, Die Rezeption des Matthäusevangeliums in der Zeit vor Irenäus, WUNT 2/24 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1987). 6  Richard J. Bauckham, ed., The Gospels for All Christians: Rethinking the Gospel Audiences (Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1998). See also Philip F. Esler, “Community and Gospel in Early Christianity: A Response to Richard Bauckham’s Gospels for All Christians,” SJT (1998): 235–48; and Bauckham’s reply (249–53).

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community, or even for a cluster of Christian communities, but for all Christians everywhere. I welcome many of the essayists’ concerns. In recent years I have become increasingly uneasy about the constructs, “the Q community,” “the Matthean community,” “the Johannine community” and so on.7 However, firm new evi‑ dence for the actual circulation of the first copies of the Gospels is not set out in any of the essays edited by Bauckham. The essayists focus on the intentions of the Evangelists and have little to say about the evidence for the early reception of the Gospels. Conspicuous by its absence from all the above discussions of the early recep‑ tion of Matthew is the evidence of the earliest surviving copies of this Gospel. Similarly, in the recently published major commentaries on Matthew, as well as in the continuing flood of monographs, next to nothing is said about the evidence for the early circulation and reception of Matthew which is provided by the earli‑ est surviving papyri. So in the first part of this paper I shall discuss the earliest papyri fragments of Matthew, with special reference to the Oxyrhynchus papyri published in 1997 and 1998.8 These papyri force us to reconsider the [[45]] widely held view that in contrast to the carefully produced contemporary copies of Graeco-Jewish writ‑ ings, early copies of the Gospels were the “workaday,” “utilitarian”, handbooks of an inward-looking sect. The recently published early papyri of Matthew (and of John’s Gospel) are all in the codex format, rather than the roll. This comes as no surprise, for very nearly all the earliest surviving copies of New Testament writings are in this for‑ mat. Nonetheless, these papyri fragments from codices force us to return to two basic questions which I shall discuss in the second part of this paper. Why did Christian scribes become obsessed with the codex in the 2nd and 3rd centuries at a time when the roll was the norm in non-Christian circles? What light does use of the codex format shed on the early reception of the Gospels?

Early Papyri of Matthew’s Gospel Several Greek paleographers have been more astute than Matthean scholars in their use of the evidence of the earliest copies of the Gospels for their early 7  See Graham N. Stanton, “Revisiting Matthew’s Communities,” 1994 SBL Seminar Papers, SBLASP 33 (Atlanta: Scholars, 1994), 9–23 [[reprinted in this volume]]. 8  E. W. Handley et al., eds., The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 64 (London: Egypt Exploration Soci‑ ety, 1997); M. W. Haslam et al., eds., The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 65 (London: Egypt Exploration Society, 1998). For discussion of the textual evidence of these papyri, see J. K. Elliott, NovT, forthcoming [[“Seven Recently Published New Testament Fragments from Oxyrhynchus,” NovT 42 (2000): 209–13]].

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reception. In his important Schweich lectures, Manuscript, Society and Belief in Early Christian Egypt, Colin H. Roberts broke new ground.9 As his title implies, Roberts shows how early Christian manuscripts shed light on the social and religious setting of early Christianity in Egypt. I am convinced that Roberts was asking the right questions, but the recently published papyri force us to modify several of his conclusions – conclusions which have influenced a number of New Testament scholars. First I must sketch the consensus view, of which the paleographers Roberts and Sir Eric G. Turner10 are the most distinguished proponents. In their view, manuscripts written in Greek in the early centuries of the Christian era can be divided into two groups: “bookhands” and “documentary [[46]] hands.” Bookhands were used for literary works; they were carefully written by very skilled scribes, often by slaves. Bookhands use upright, independent letters, often with serifs. They are usually bilinear; i.e., individual letters rarely protrude beyond two imaginary horizontal lines on the papyrus or parchment. Manu‑ scripts prepared carefully in this way were more expensive; they were used by the more educated elite. The “classic” examples of Christian manuscripts from the 4th century in this style are Codex Sinaiticus, a “pulpit edition” of the whole Greek Bible, and Codex Vaticanus, a “pulpit edition” of the Gospels, Acts, and most of the Pauline corpus.11 Documentary hands were used for workaday documents of all kinds. They were written rapidly, usually with long lines, and with little concern for bilinear‑ ity. Ligatures were often used (i.e., some individual letters were joined together). Manuscripts written in this way were often used in a business setting or for pri‑ vate use. In comparison with “bookhands,” they were “downmarket.” However, it is important to note that documentary hands were sometimes used for literary works. For example, a copy of Aristotle’s Politeia Athenon on a roll from the end of the 1st century has obviously been written very quickly, with little regard for the appearance of the text.12 Presumably this was a private rather than a library copy. In his 1977 Schweich lectures Roberts contrasted sharply the “hieratic el‑ egance of the Graeco-Jewish rolls of the Law” with the “workaday appear‑ ance of the first Christian codices (whether of Old Testament or of Christian  9  Colin H. Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief in Early Christian Egypt (London: Oxford University Press, 1979). 10  Eric G. Turner, The Typology of the Early Codex (Philadelphia; University of Pennsylvania Press, 1977). See also Gugliano Cavallo and Hernig Maehler, Greek Bookhands of the Early Byzantine Period, A. D. 300–800, BulletinSup 47 (London: University of London Institute of Classical Studies, 1987). 11  For an important fresh discussion of the origin of Sinaiticus and Vaticanus, see T. C. Skeat, “The Codex Sinaiticus, the Codex Vaticanus, and Constantine,” JTS 50 (1999): 583–625. 12  Eric G. Turner, Greek Manuscripts of the Ancient World, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford Uni‑ versity Press, 1983).

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writings)  …” (pp. 19–20). With a few exceptions, Christian manuscripts are “based … on the model of the documents, not on that of Greek classical manu‑ scripts nor on that of the Greco-Jewish tradition” (p. 20). Roberts concluded that if Christian communities are faintly mirrored in their books, they would seem “to have been composed not so much of the intellectuals or the wealthy as of ordinary men of the middle or lower middle classes” (p. 25). In the same year Turner made similar observations in his now classic study of papyrus codices of the 2nd or 3rd centuries. He noted that it is not [[47]] easy to find examples of calligraphy among papyrus codices of that time: “Their hand‑ writing is in fact often of an informal and workaday type, fairly quickly written, serviceable rather than beautiful, of value to a man interested in the content of what he is reading rather than its presentation.” Turner then lists some examples, including the majority of the Chester Beatty codices: “These give the impression of being ‘utility’ books; margins are small, lines usually long”; their status is second-class in comparison with contemporary papyrus roll.13 The views of these two giants among paleographers have been echoed by several New Testament scholars. In his impressive 1995 study, Harry Y. Gamble notes that a bookhand is rarely found in Christian texts before the 4th century; with Sinaiticus and Vaticanus “a barrier was broken”: “never before had Chris‑ tian books been so fine.”14 Up until this time, Christians had little aesthetic regard for their literature; neither do they seem to have had a cultic attitude towards their books. In contrast, Jewish Greek manuscripts are better written: they “usu‑ ally display an even, formal script with tendencies not only toward a bookhand but toward a somewhat decorated style with footed and serified letters.”15 Similar comments have been made recently by Loveday Alexander16 and Bart D. Ehr‑ man.17 Hence it is not an exaggeration to claim that the Roberts-Turner view has become the consensus among New Testament scholars. The Oxyrhynchus papyri published in 1997 and 1998 force us to modify the consensus view. I shall set out below what are almost certainly the seven earli‑ est surviving papyri of Matthew’s Gospel. There is general agreement that these seven papyri are all from no later than the middle of the 3rd century, though papyrologists are always rightly wary about dating precisely what are often very fragmentary writings. I shall set out the papyri according to their P number (as  Turner, The Typology of the Early Codex, 37.  Harry Y. Gamble, Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 80. 15  Gamble, 79. 16  Loveday Alexander, “Ancient Book Production and the Circulation of the Gospels” in Bauckham, The Gospels for All Christians, 71–111. 17  Bart D. Ehrman, “The Text as Window: New Testament Manuscripts and the Social His‑ tory of Early Christianity,” in The Text of the New Testament in Contemporary Research, ed. Ehrman and Michael W. Holmes, Studies and Documents 46 (Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerd‑ mans, 1995), 372–75. 13 14

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used in modern editions of the Greek [[48]] text); this corresponds closely to the order in which the papyri were first published.18 I. P1 (= P. Oxy. 2). This small fragment of Matthew’s genealogy (1:19, 14–20) is usually dated to the early 3rd century. The hand is generally bi‑ linear, with only a few ligatures. It is perhaps halfway between a bookhand and a documentary hand. When this fragment was first published in 1898, it was considered to be “the oldest known manuscript of any part of the New Testament.”19 II. P45 (= P. Chester Beatty I). This codex, which is usually dated to the first half of the 3rd century, contains parts of the final chapters of Matthew (20:24–32; 21:13–19; 25:41–26:39), as well as parts of Mark, Luke, John, and Acts. The first editor noted that the codex is written by a competent scribe, but without calligraphic pretensions, in a small and very clear hand; the letters have a decided slope to the right, as opposed to the uprightness generally found in Roman hands of the first two centuries.20 T. C. Skeat, the doyen of contemporary papyrologists, has recently observed that in con‑ trast to P64 + P67 + P4 (Number IV below in this list of early Matthean papyri), P45 was “not intended for liturgical use.”21 III. P53 (Ann Arbor, University of Michigan, Inv. 6652). This small fragment of 26:29–35 published in 1937 may date from the middle of the 3rd century. The hand is described as “semi-uncial,” with upright symmetrical letters.22 IV. P64 (Magdalen College, Oxford, Gr, 18, 1957) + P67 (P. Barcelona I, 1961). These fragments of Matthew 3, 5, and 26 are from the same codex as the more extensive fragments of Luke 1, 3, and 5 known as [[49]] P4 (Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Suppl. Gr. 1120, 1892). P64 was consid‑ ered by its first editor, C. H. Roberts, to date from the end of the 2nd cen‑ tury. In spite of the attempt of Carsten Peter Thiede to date P64 and P67 to the 1st century, Roberts’s dating is still generally accepted.23 Skeat’s theory

18  For fuller details of Numbers I to V in my list, see Kurt Aland, Repertorium der griechischen christlichen Papyri (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1976). 19  Bernard P. Grenfell and Arthur S. Hunt, eds., The Oxyrhynchus Papyri Part 1 (London: Egypt Exploration Fund, 1898), 4. There is a good reproduction of this fragment as the Fron‑ tispiece to this edition. 20  Frederick G. Kenyon, ed., The Chester Beatty Biblical Papyri II (London: Emery Walker, 1933), viii–ix. 21  T. C. Skeat, “The Oldest Manuscript of the Four Gospels?” NTS 43 (1997): 1–34, cited in Stanton, “The Fourfold Gospel,” NTS 43 (1997): 328 n. 36. 22  See Aland. A separate sheet, probably not from the same codex, contains Acts 9:33–10:1. 23  For full discussion and references, see Graham N. Stanton, Gospel Truth? New Light on Jesus and the Gospels (Valley Forge: Trinity, 1997), 1–10; the 1997 paperback edition includes an Afterword with further references. See also Harald Vocke, “Papyrus Magdalen 17 – Weitere Argumente gegen die Frühdatierung des angeblichen Jesus-Papyrus,” ZPE 113 (1996): 153–57.

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that P64 + P67 + P4 are from the same four Gospel codex is winning wide support.24   Roberts recognized that P64 was an early example of a biblical uncial hand: “a thoroughgoing literary production, i.e., a predecessor of Codex Sinaiticus and Codex Vaticanus.”25 V. P77 (Ρ. Oxy. XXIV 2683, 1968). Another fragment from the same page of Matthew 23 has recently been published (P. Oxy. LXIV 4405, 1997) The first editor of P. Oxy. 2683, Peter J. Parsons, noted that P77 is “delicately executed with a fine pen,” to be dated to the late 2nd century, and hence among the oldest New Testament texts.26 Roberts noted its elegant hand, and its use of “what was or became a standard system of chapter division as well as punctuation breathings.”27 VI. P103 (= Ρ Oxy. 4403,1997). This small fragment of Matthew 13 and 14 is dated by its recent editor, J. David Thomas, to the late 2nd or the early 3rd century.28 In Thomas’s opinion “the hand is quite elegant, with noticeable hooks at the top of most hastas and occasional serifs elsewhere.” The hand is so similar to P. Oxy. 4405 = P77 (V above) that Thomas allows the pos‑ sibility that they may be from the same codex, though he concludes that it is “safest to treat the papyri as from two different codices.” [[50]] VII. P104 (= P. Oxy. 4404, 1997). Thomas considers that this fragment of Mat‑ thew 21 may be assigned “with some confidence to the second half of the second century, while not wishing to exclude altogether a slightly earlier or a slightly later date.”29 Thomas notes that the hand is very carefully writ‑ ten, with extensive use of serifs; bilinearity is strictly observed. Once again Thomas refers to the hand as “elegant.” In formulating what I have dubbed above “the consensus view,” Roberts drew on a list of what he considered in 1977 to be the 10 earliest Christian biblical papyri and the four earliest Christian nonbiblical papyri.30 Roberts emphasized  Skeat, NTS 43 (1997): 1–34.  Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief, 13. Skeat noted that in this codex “organized text-division is now carried back well into the second century”; NTS 43 (1997): 7. I have com‑ mented on the significance of the two columns in this codex; see Graham N. Stanton, NTS 43 (1997): 317–46, esp. 327–28. In a letter to me dated 30 March 1996, Skeat notes that the hand of P64 + P67 + P4 is quite clearly a literary one. 26  Peter J. Parsons, in The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 34 (London: Egypt Exploration Society, 1968). 27  Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief, 23. 28  J. D. Thomas, in Handley et al., The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 64, 5–6. 29  Thomas, 8. 30  C. H. Roberts, “Books in the Graeco-Roman World and in the New Testament,” in The Cambridge History of the Bible, ed. Peter R. Ackroyd and Christopher F. Evans, 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970): 48–66. 24 25

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that, with three exceptions, “there is no calligraphic hand in the group.”31 In 10 cases out of 14, Roberts detected “basically a documentary hand”; these earliest papyri might be described as “reformed documentary.”32 The three exceptions were Numbers IV and V in my list above, along with P. Oxy. I, 1, one of the three Greek fragments of the Gospel of Thomas. In the list above of the seven earliest papyri of Matthew’s Gospel, Numbers IV and V are not, as Roberts supposed, exceptions to the general pattern of “reformed documentary” hands; they are the rule! The recent publication of Numbers VI and VII has altered the picture very considerably: four of the earli‑ est seven papyri of Matthew are at least as close to “bookhands” as they are to “reformed documentary” hands, It is worth noting that even though dating papyri is a skilled art rather than a science, the more literary hands among the seven (my Numbers IV, V, VI, and VII) have the strongest claims to be the earliest of the group. The fact that four of the seven earliest surviving papyri of Matthew are care‑ fully written in an elegant hand is significant, but it is of course possible that future publication of further papyri may spring further surprises. My main point is that the consensus view now needs to be modified: the earliest surviving cop‑ ies of the Gospels present a much more diverse picture than recent scholarship has allowed. The seven earliest papyri of Matthew suggest that this Gospel was used both in private and in public [[51]] settings; it was not considered by some of those who copied it and used it in the second half of the 2nd century to be of “second-class” status, quite without literary pretensions. My insistence that the consensus view needs to be modified is supported by several recently published papyri of John’s Gospel. (i) P90 (P. Oxy. 3523), fragments of John 18 and 19 first published in 1983, is dated confidently to the end of the 2nd century.33 Its decorated style with small serifs is considered to be similar to P104, Number VII above, described as an “elegant” hand.34 (ii) P95 (= Florence, P. Laur. Inv. 11/31), an early 3rd century fragment of John 5 first published in 1985, is in the biblical uncial or majuscule style, i.e., not unlike IV in my list above.35 Two of the four codex papyri fragments of John’s Gospel published in 1998 provide further confirmation of a greater degree of diversity among early cop‑  Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief, 12–13.  Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief, 14. 33  See W. J. Elliott and D. C. Parker, eds., The New Testament in Greek, 4: The Gospel According to St John, 1: The Papyri (Leiden: Brill, 1995), for details and plates (47a and b). T. C. Skeat, in The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 50, ed. A. K. Bowman et al. (London: Egypt Explora‑ tion Society, 1983), 38, notes that the codex may possibly have contained two Gospels. 34  Thomas, 8. 35  S. R. Pickering, Recently Published New Testament Papyri: P89–P95, Papyrology and Historical Perspectives 2 (Sydney: Ancient History Documentary Research Centre, Macquarie University, 1991), 49. See Elliott and Parker for details and plates (48b and c). 31 32

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ies of Christian writings than has usually been accepted. (iii) P108 (= Ρ. Oxy. 4447) is in a “handsome, medium-size, upright capital hand,” “firmly bilinear.” (iv) P109 (= P. Oxy. 4448) is “a very plain, upright, un-ligatured round hand”: an “inept one of literary pretensions fashioned with a blunt pen.”36 Several further points need to be noted. By the latter half of the 2nd century many copies of Matthew and John were made with great skill and at some ex‑ pense. The communities for which they were made must have been reasonably wealthy, perhaps with a higher degree of literacy than has usually been sup‑ posed.37 The carefully made copies, some with signs of punctuation, strongly suggest that they were used for public rather than [[52]] private reading. They confirm Justin Martyr’s comment from the middle of the 2nd century that “the memoirs of the apostles,” i.e. the Gospels, were read in the context of worship “as long as time permits” (1 Apol. 67). There is no reason to doubt that the Gospels were often also used as “worka‑ day,” “utilitarian” handbooks, or even as “school handbooks” or “manuals of the teaching traditions of this pragmatically oriented group.”38 But the recently published papyri suggest that by the second half of the 2nd century, much earlier than has usually been assumed, their literary qualities and their authoritative status for the life and faith of the Church were widely recognized. I noted above that Roberts and Gamble have both drawn a sharp contrast between the “hieratic elegance” of Graeco-Jewish writings with their “even, for‑ mal script with tendencies not only toward a bookhand but toward a somewhat decorated style with footed and serifed letters” and the “workaday appearance” of first Christian codices.39 The recently published evidence suggests that Rob‑ erts and Gamble were incorrect to differentiate Christian and Jewish attitudes to authoritative texts on the basis of the handwriting styles used. The most strik‑ ing difference is the marked preference of early Christian scribes for the codex format and their use of nomina sacra.40 This observation is confirmed by two of the papyri published in 1998 in vol‑ ume 65 of the Oxyrhynchus Papyri. P. Oxy. 4442 is a fragment of an early 3rd century codex of a Septuagintal text of Exodus 20; it has a “good-sized formal

 P. Oxy. 4447 and 4448 are edited by W. E. H. Cockle in Haslam et al., The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 65:16–20. 37  Eldon Jay Epp, “The Codex and Literacy in Early Christianity and at Oxyrhynchus: Is‑ sues Raised by Harry Y. Gamble’s Books and Readers in the Early Church,” Critical Review of Books in Religion 10 (1997): 29–32, suggests that the papyri from Oxyrhynchus encourage at least a questioning of the 10 to 20 percent average literacy for the entire Graeco-Roman world proposed by W. Harris. 38  Alexander, 105. 39  Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief, 1920; Gamble, 79. 40  On the latter, see esp. Larry W. Hurtado, “The Origin of the Nomina Sacra: A Proposal,” JBL 117 (1998): 655–73. 36

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majuscule, upright and basically bilinear.”41 It is broadly comparable with P64 + P67 (Matthew) and P4 (Luke), Number IV above, and therefore closer to a bookhand than to a documentary hand. On the other hand, P. Oxy. 4443 is a late 1st or early 2nd century roll with a Septuagintal text of Esther. K. L. Luchner, its editor, notes that it is “fluent and broadly bilinear, but with its frequent ligatures, cursive forms, enlarged initial letters and tall risers / deep descenders … it perhaps owes more to official documentary styles than to bookhands.” Its roll rather [[53]] than codex format strongly suggests that it is Jewish rather than Christian. I shall turn to early Christian adoption of the codex format shortly. The recently published early papyri fragments of Matthew and John confirm that these Gospels were particularly popular in the town of Oxyrhynchus. This is no surprise, for Matthew and John were the two favorite Gospels in the early centuries, no doubt partly because they were both considered to have been writ‑ ten by apostles. Not all the Oxryhynchus papyri were written in Egypt, so some of these papyri codices of Matthew and John may have been written elsewhere. Some are in Latin, which would have been known by few in Oxyrhynchus where the papyri were discovered. Ρ. Oxy. 30, the codex in Latin now usually entitled De Bellis Macedonicis, probably originated in Rome.42 A fragment of Irenaeus, P. Oxy. 405 (a roll), travelled all the way from Lyon to Oxyrhynchus within 20 years of its production, “not long after the ink was dry on the author’s manu‑ script,” to quote Roberts’s memorable comment.43 Although our knowledge of the social setting of early Christianity in Oxyrhynchus is still limited, there is no reason to suppose that the evidence of the Christian papyri discovered there is unrepresentative.44

The Origins of the Codex Format All the early copies of the Gospels (and nearly all early copies of Christian writ‑ ings) use the codex format (the forerunner of the modern book) rather than the roll, which remained preponderant outside Christian circles until the beginning of the 4th century. As expected, the recently published papyri of Matthew and John are all in the codex format. This further evidence for early Christian prefer‑

 D. Colomo, the editor of P. Oxy. 4442, in Haslam et al., The Oxyrhynchus Papyri.  Joseph van Haelst, “Les Origines du Codex,” in Les Débuts du Codex, ed. Alain Blanchard (Turnhout: Brepols, 1989), 27. 43  Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief, 53. 44  See esp. Eldon Jay Epp, “The New Testament Papyri at Oxyrhynchus in Their Social and Intellectual Context,” in Sayings of Jesus: Canonical and Non-canonical, ed. William L. Pe‑ tersen, Johan S. Vos, and Henk J. De Jonge. NovTSup 89 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 47–68. 41 42

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ence for the codex over the roll forces us to consider once again the reasons for early Christian obsession with the codex. The codex was a development of the earlier use of wooden tablets, [[54]] several of which could be held together by a cord which passed through holes in the tablets. Codex was the Latin word for a set of tablets held together in this way. Tablets were covered in wax which was incised with a stylus and used for notes of various kinds, including school exercises; they could be readily reused. We now have a number of surviving examples of such stylus tablets from the 1st and later centuries.45 Until recently it was generally assumed that stylus tablets were the standard writing material for letters and documents in those parts of the Roman Empire where papyrus was not readily available. However, the publication in 1983 and 1994 of the very large number of writing tablets from Vindolanda (Northumber‑ land, England) which date from ca. A. D. 100 necessitates a reappraisal of this view. The Vindolanda discoveries have not yet received the attention from New Testament scholars which they deserve. They came too late for discussion in Roberts’s volume, and unfortunately they receive no more than passing mention in van Haelst’s major study46 and in Gamble’s fine survey.47 The Vindolanda tablets are “thin slivers of smooth wood which are written with pen and ink,” and may conveniently be referred to as “leaf tablets.”48 Most were used for official documents, as well as for letters and drafts of letters. However, at least one of the Vindolanda tablets contains a literary text, a line of Virgil; three others may be literary or semiliterary.49 In the light of their pub‑ lication, it is probable that some of the many literary references in 1st and 2nd century writings to notebooks (pugillaria) may be to leaf tablets rather than to stylus tablets.50 In 1983, the editors of the Vindolanda tablets accepted that for two reasons the tablets could not be described as a primitive codex: the “concertina” format of many of the tablets, and the fact that with only a couple [[55]] of partial excep‑ tions they were not written on both sides of the leaf. However, they also noted

45  For full details and references, see Alan K. Bowman and J. David Thomas, Vindolanda: The Latin Writing Tablets, Britannia Monograph Series 4 (London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, 1983), 33–35. 46  Van Haelst, 15–16. Van Haelst under-estimates the importance of the Vindolanda tablets for the origin of the codex on the basis of the “concertina” format and the absence of writing on both sides (15 n. 5). However, as I have noted above, there is now further evidence of diversity in format. 47  Gamble, 268 n. 35. 48  Bowman and Thomas, Vindolanda, 32. 49  Alan K. Bowman, Life and Letters on the Roman Frontier: Vindolanda and Its People (New York: Routledge, 1998), 18. 50  Bowman and Thomas, Vindolanda, 43.

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that the existence of this wooden notebook in this format at a period which was clearly an important one for the development of the codex is significant.51 In 1994 the tablets were re-edited, together with the considerable finds from the 1985–89 excavations. The editors note that there was no standard format for documents, though a diptych format, with the address written on the back of the right-hand half of the diptych, is the norm for letters.52 Somewhat surprisingly, the editors do not comment further on the relationship of the leaf tablets to the origins of the codex. But there can now be little doubt that with the very thin Vindolanda leaf tablets from ca. A. D. 100, inscribed with pen and ink, we have extant examples of notebooks which were the forerunners of the codex.53 They are a more direct antecedent than reusable stylus tablets covered in wax, even though we have more extant examples of the latter. It has been generally accepted for some time now that parchment or papyrus notebooks (membranae, membranai) were also the forerunners of the codex,54 even though the earliest extant examples are from the end of the 2nd or the 3rd century A. D. There is plenty of literary evidence which confirms that they were well known and widely used much earlier.55 Quintilian’s comments from ca. A. D. 90 are particularly important: “It is best to write on wax owing to the facility which it offers for erasure, though weak sight may make it desirable to employ parchment by preference …. But whichever we employ, we must leave blank pages that we may be free to make additions when we will” (Inst. Or. 10.3.31–32). The reference here to wax tablets and to pages on the left side being left blank confirms that Quintilian is aware of the advantages of the notebook. [[56]] Perhaps it is not surprising that examples of parchment or papyrus notebooks from an earlier period have not survived, and that only recently have excavations at Vindolanda and a few other sites brought to light wooden leaf tablets. These notebooks were used for letters, and for ephemeral notes and documents of vari‑ ous kinds, but not for writings which might be treasured by a later generation. For my present purpose, the literary evidence for the widespread use of different types of notebooks together with the extant examples from the end of the 1st century confirm that for some people in the Graeco-Roman world notebooks were part of everyday life.  Bowman and Thomas, Vindolanda, 40–44.  Alan K. Bowman and J. David Thomas, The Vindolanda Writing-tablets: Tabulae Vindolandenses II (London: British Museum, 1994), 40–46. 53  Bowman, Life and Letters on the Roman Frontier, 10, notes that with writing-tablets still coming out of the ground in the 1990s, conclusions can only be tentative and provisional. 54  Cf. van Haelst, 20: “Le carnet de parchemin est une étape intermédiaire indispensable entre la tablette de cire et le codex. Ce sont ses feuillets qui, multipliés selon les besoins, pourront éventuellement contenir une oeuvre littéraire de quelque étendue.” 55  See C. H. Roberts and T. C. Skeat, The Birth of the Codex (London: Oxford University Press, 1983), 15–23; and van Haelst, 18, for details and bibliography. 51 52

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We are still unable to reconstruct with confidence how, why, and when the more substantial papyrus and parchment codex evolved out of the wooden, parchment, or papyrus notebook.56 But literary evidence confirms that by the end of the 1st century the codex was being used by a small number of non-Christian writers for more substantial writings than notes, documents, drafts, and letters. As we shall see below, some of these writings were literary: it is a mistake to assume from the origins of the codex that this format was reserved solely for utilitarian writings or handbooks.57 At present there are two rivals for the accolade of the earliest extant codex: P. Oxy. 30, a parchment codex in Latin from ca. A. D. 100 which is usually known as De Bellis Macedonicis, and P52, the well-known papyrus fragment of John 18 which probably dates from ca. A. D. 125. Although P. Oxy. 30 is fragmentary, it is clearly a historical writing, and not an ephemeral set of notes. Was the codex format a Christian invention? The earliest extant examples just noted do not settle the question. Their paleographical dating is not certain, and in any case there is literary evidence for earlier non-Christian use of the codex which must be weighed carefully. Writing between A. D. 84 and 86, the Roman poet Martial refers to the avail‑ ability of parchment codices for travellers: pocket editions of Homer, Virgil, Cicero, Livy, and Ovid which are referred with the words in membranis or in pugillaribus membraneis (Ep. 1.2, and 14.184–92). Although [[57]] Roberts and Skeat claimed in their influential The Birth of the Codex, that Martial’s “experi‑ ment was still-born,”58 their arguments have not carried the day. We do have a sprinkling of codices of non-Christian writings from the 2nd century. Although they make up only 2 percent of the total (the remainder are on rolls), they cannot be dismissed as insignificant. One is a parchment in Latin (P. Oxy. 30, noted above). Three are parchment codices in Greek; 14 are papyrus codices in Greek. Many are literary writings.59 The evidence of P. Petaeus 30 (first published in 1969) is particularly impor‑ tant. This letter in Greek, which can be dated confidently to the 2nd century, but not more precisely, refers to eight parchment codices (membranai) which were purchased and six more which were not. P. Petaeus 30 “implies a touring bookseller offering literary membranae in the second century.”60 The social setting 56  Roberts and Skeat, 10, correctly note that the transition from papyrus to parchment was of an entirely different character from, and quite unconnected with, the transition from roll to codex. They allow the possibility that the papyrus codex and the parchment codex may have developed in parallel (29). See also Turner, The Typology of the Early Codex, ch. 3. 57  Roberts and Skeat, 5 n. 1, note that it is quite wrong to describe the papyrus codex as a “Bastard-form.” 58  Roberts and Skeat, 29. 59  See the slightly different lists with full details in Roberts and Skeat, 71; and van Haelst, 23–25. 60  Eric G. Turner, Greek Papyri, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1980), 204.

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is important: these codices were part of a mobile bookshop. Martial, it will be recalled, refers to pocket editions of literary codices (membranae) which trav‑ ellers would find useful. The earliest non-Christian codices seem to have been used for a variety of writings, including literary writings in the “classical canon” of the day. As far as we can judge, they first became popular with travellers.61 Is it more likely that non-Christian scribes were influenced by Christian scribes in the initial development of the codex, or vice versa? Neither the earli‑ est extant codices nor the literary evidence is absolutely decisive.62 However, in my view the literary evidence from Martial and the evidence of P. Petaeus 30 strongly suggest that codices were not unknown in non-Christian circles in the latter half of the 1st century, i.e., at the time of the composition of the NT writ‑ ings. At this time it is most unlikely that invention [[58]] of the codex format by Christian scribes would have been imitated and developed by non-Christian scribes, albeit in a limited way. So in all probability the roll was used for the original copies of the New Testament writings. Luke-Acts offers some support: like many writers of his day, Luke designed his two volumes to fit onto a stand‑ ard sized roll apiece. Within a couple of generations of their composition, the earliest Christian writings began to circulate in codices. If Christian scribes did not invent the codex, why did it become the almost universally accepted format for Christian writings, perhaps from ca. A. D. 100? In a recent publication I discussed the various explanations which have been offered and then set out my own: Early codices, whether Roman or Christian, were quite small in size and therefore much more portable than rolls. Christian scribes preparing writings to be carried by mission‑ aries, messengers, and travellers over long distances would have readily appreciated the advantages of the codex.63 Their general countercultural stance would have made them more willing than their non-Christian counterparts to break with the almost unanimous preference for the roll and experiment with the unfashionable codex.64

I also noted that copying and using the Old Testament scriptures and their foun‑ dation writings in a new format was one of the ways Christians expressed their sense of “newness.” Once the new format began to be adopted, its usefulness for  Michael McCormick, “Typology, Codicology and Papyrology,” Scriptorium 35 (1981): 331–34, suggests that the literary as well as the grammatical fragments may have been used by travelling teachers. 62  Several more recent writers have been reluctant to accept the view of Roberts and Skeat that Christians invented the codex. See, e.g., van Haelst, 13–35; Robin Lane Fox, “Literacy and Power in Early Christianity,” in Literacy and Power in the Ancient World, ed. Alan K. Bow‑ man and Greg Woolf (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 140; also Epp, Critical Review 10 (1997): 15–16, who is now more hesitant than in some of his earlier publications. 63  See esp. Michael McConnick, “The Birth of the Codex and the Apostolic Life-style,” Scriptorium 39 (1985): 150–58. 64  Stanton, NTS 43 (1997): 338–39. 61

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collections of writings such as the four Gospels and the Pauline corpus would have enhanced its value. Eldon Jay Epp has recently added a further important consideration. The likely content of the codices carried by early Christian missionaries and teachers (whether Mark, Old Testament testimonia, the Pauline corpus, the four-Gospel codex) is less important than the mere presence and use of the codex “in the highly charged setting of evangelism and edification in pristine Christianity – especially when a respected visitor is present with this new mark (i.e., a codex) of his / her calling.”65 All these factors were instrumental in encouraging Christian scribes [[59]] to use the new codex format. But they all relate to what I would now call stage two: the rapid acceptance of the new format. How are we to explain stage one: the initial use of the codex format by Christian scribes at a time when in all probability rolls of Christian writings were in existence, and when the roll was the norm in society at large? I am now convinced that use of papyri codices for Gospels, for Pauline Epistles, and for Christian copies of the Septuagint was preceded by Christian use of parchment or papyrus notebooks. As we have seen above, several types of notebooks were widely used in the Graeco-Roman world in the 1st century. The first followers of Jesus (pre-Easter, as well as post-Easter) will have been familiar with them.66 So it is natural to suppose that notebooks will have been used for collections of scriptural passages, for collections of sayings of Jesus, and for drafts of letters.67 It would not have been easy for Christian missionaries or teachers to carry a handful of rolls of favorite Christian scriptures such as the Psalms and Isaiah on their often arduous journeys. So we can readily understand why notebooks may have been used. In words attributed to Paul, 2 Tim. 4:13 provides important support for this suggestion: “When you come, bring the (traveller’s) cloak I left with Carpus at Troas, and the books (in roll format), particularly my notebooks (malista tas membranas)” (or possibly, “my books in codex form”).68 What were the contents of the notebooks (tas membranas) which a writer of a later generation associated

 Epp, Critical Review 10 (1997): 21.  Luz, 46–47, suggests that Q traditions may have been collected in a rather large notebook “bound together with strings on the margin. It permitted an insertion of new leaves at any time.” See also Migaku Sato, Q und Prophetie: Studien zur Gattungs‑ und Traditionsgeschichte der Quelle Q, WUNT 2/29 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1988). Alan R. Millard, Discoveries from the Time of Jesus (Oxford: Lion, 1990), 167–69, draws attention to archaeological evidence for the amount of writing being done in lst century Palestine and suggests that reports of Jesus’ sayings and actions may have been recorded in notebooks. 67  E. Randolph Richards, The Secretary in the Letters of Paul, WUNT 2/42 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1991), 164–65 and 191, suggests that Paul kept notes for his letters in notebooks. 68  See McCormick, Scriptorium 35 (1981): 331–34. 65 66

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with Paul the traveller? Perhaps a collection of “faithful sayings,” or favorite Old Testament passages, or even Jesus traditions! I do not think that any of the “big bang” theories which have been advanced for the adoption of the codex by Christian scribes is convincing.69 Once they discovered how useful the codex format was, it very [[60]] quickly became the norm for copies of the Gospels, of Paul’s letters, and for Christian copies of the scriptures. I have set out above the reasons why I think this happened. The speed with which the new format was adopted universally within early Christianity is astonishing, as is the rapid deployment and development of nomina sacra. Both factors are directly relevant to any inquiry into the early reception of the Gospels. At first sight they seem to offer support for the claim that the Gospels were written for all Christians, rather than for a set of individual Chris‑ tian communities.70 However, in my judgment the codex became the norm for copies of the Gospels only a couple of generations after they were first written. There is a further consideration which has an even more direct bearing on the early reception of the Gospels, and of Matthew in particular. We need not suppose that once the codex began to be used, notebooks with Jesus traditions (or of favorite passages of scripture) immediately ceased to be used. Quintilian speaks of seeing Cicero’s own notes for some of his speeches, which were still in circulation more than a century after the author’s death!71 So why should we not suppose that notebooks with Jesus traditions, some in their Matthean form, continued to be used even after copies of Matthew’s Gospel began to circulate? Christian communities which did not have a copy of a full Gospel may have had to make do with parchment or papyrus notebooks for some time. This suggestion takes us back to the opening paragraphs of this paper: the stalemate reached in discussions of the early reception of Matthew’s Gospel. As I noted, some scholars consider that the evidence points unequivocally to the use of oral traditions, while others appeal to use of a written copy of Matthew’s Gospel. However, the evidence needs to be scrutinized afresh. If Christian mis‑ sionaries and teachers continued to use papyrus or parchment notebooks with Jesus traditions (and Old Testament passages) alongside copies of the Gospels and oral traditions, we should not be surprised at the varied ways Matthean traditions are cited or alluded to in the Apostolic Fathers and in Justin Martyr. The recently published papyri encourage us to reconsider several other widely accepted views. The often-repeated claim that the Gospels were considered at first to be utilitarian handbooks written, by and large, in a “reformed [[61]] documentary” style needs to be modified. I have emphasized that the customary division of scribal hands into “bookhands” and “documentary hands” is an over‑  See Stanton, NTS 43 (1997): 336–39, for details.  Bauckham, The Gospels for All Christians. 71  Quintilian Inst. Or. 10.7.30–31. I owe this reference to Alexander, 93. 69 70

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simplification as far as the earliest papyri of the Gospels are concerned. Some of the papyri of the Gospels are carefully written in hands which are closer to the literary than to the documentary end of what should be considered as a spectrum of styles of handwriting. Many of the earliest papyri of the Gospels do not, as has been claimed, dif‑ fer markedly from the Graeco-Jewish writings of the period, though Christian preference for the codex and use of nomina sacra do set them apart. By the latter half of the 2nd century, if not even earlier, some (but by no means all) codex copies of the Gospels were prepared as carefully as were some rolls of GraecoJewish writings. In both cases the care lavished on their preparation reflects their authoritative status for the life and worship of the communities in which they were treasured. Early Christian obsession with the codex does not call these conclusions into question. As we have seen, the codex was a natural development from the wide‑ spread use of wooden, papyrus, and parchment notebooks. But we should not suppose that the contents of the codex were necessarily considered to be “second class.” Martial confirms that towards the end of the 1st century the codex was used by travellers for literary writings; our earliest extant non-Christian papyrus codex is a historical work, and we do have a handful of 2nd century codices with literary texts. Christians had their own good reasons for preferring the codex to the roll. What continues to surprise is the rapid and almost universal adoption of this format by Christian scribes, as well as their use of nomina sacra. That both “fashions” caught on so quickly and so universally suggests that Christian com‑ munities were in much closer touch with one another than we have usually sup‑ posed. Students of Matthew’s Gospel, and indeed of all the NT writings, would do well to ponder anew the implications of this phenomenon.

Part II

New Testament Studies

Chapter 8

Presuppositions in New Testament Criticism [[60]] Why do the conclusions of New Testament scholars differ so widely? Any‑ one who begins to read books about the New Testament soon becomes aware that competent scholars defend with equal vigour and sincerity widely differing approaches to the New Testament. The variety of viewpoints often causes great perplexity both to theological students and to the church at large. Occasionally bewilderment leads to abandonment of serious historical critical study of the Scriptures in favour of a supposedly simple and direct “devotional” approach. Theological students are prone to the temptation to regard a listing of scholarly viewpoints and names in support of a particular opinion as serious exegesis. As many parts of this book show, there is an on-going discussion about critical methods. But this hardly accounts for the extent to which scholarly conclusions differ; there is now considerable agreement among Protestant and Roman Catho‑ lic scholars about the appropriate tools and methods to be used in exegesis. The presuppositions adopted either consciously or unconsciously by the interpreter are far more influential in New Testament scholarship than disagreements over method. The question of presuppositions in interpretation arises in all historical stud‑ ies, in literary criticism, and also in scientific studies.1 Historians frequently differ considerably in their assessment of the same source material. Literary critics are no more likely than New Testament scholars to reach agreement about the interpretation of ancient or modern literature. But there are, as we shall see, some questions which arise in a particularly acute form only in connection with the interpretation of the Bible. As soon as we recognize the importance of presuppositions in all scholarly inquiry, we are bound to ask whether it is possible to abandon them in the in‑ terests of scientific rigour. If not, which presuppositions should be allowed to affect interpretation, and which not? Behind these questions lurk philosophical problems about the nature of knowledge; indeed, the task of philosophy can be

1  The standard work is H.-G. Gadamer, Wahrheit und Methode (Tübingen 1973; E. T., Truth and Method, London 1975). In both the second (1965) and the third editions (1973), Gadamer interacts with his critics and with the recent literature. For a useful summary and critical dis‑ cussion, see E. D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation (New Haven 1967), especially pp. 245 ff.

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defined as “the logical analysis of presuppositions.”2 A discussion of presup‑ positions has even wider implications: it is only a slight exaggeration to claim that the history of the church is the history of the interpretation of Scripture; the whole of church history revolves around the [[61]] presuppositions adopted in study of the Bible in different times and in different circumstances.3 Although discussion of presuppositions has frequently continued alongside scholarly study of the New Testament since the time of F. D. Schleiermacher, it has recently become much more prominent, particularly in association with the new hermeneutic.4 As C. E. Braaten stresses, renewed interest in hermeneuti‑ cal philosophy has encouraged exegetes to become self-conscious about their presuppositions.5 Presuppositions are involved in every aspect of the relationship of the in‑ terpreter to his text. Our theme is so wide and has so many implications that we cannot attempt to cover all aspects of it.6 We shall discuss first some of the prejudices and presuppositions which are, or have been, involved in exegesis of the New Testament. An examination of presuppositions must be the first step taken in scientific interpretation. This is no easy task; for it is so hard to see the spectacles through which one looks and without which one cannot see anything clearly at all. We can attempt to do little more than underline the wide variety and all-pervasiveness of presuppositions at work in interpretation; a full-scale critique of various major theological positions is obviously not possible here. We shall then consider whether or not exegesis can be undertaken without presuppositions, for an allegedly neutral un-biased approach has often been appealed to in the past, and will always seem to be an attractive possibility. Finally, we shall discuss pre‑ suppositions which cannot be dispensed with and which ought to be involved in interpretation; in particular we shall discuss the interpreter’s pre-understanding.

I. Prejudices and Presuppositions “Prejudice” and “presuppositions” are often used loosely as synonyms. Although the two words cannot be completely separated, it may be useful to distinguish  A. Nygren, Meaning and Method: Prolegomena to a Scientific Philosophy of Religion and a Scientific Theology (London 1972), pp. 160–1 ff. 3  Cf. G. Ebeling’s lecture, Kirchengeschichte als Geschichte der Auslegung der Heiligenschrift (Tübingen 1947); reprinted in G. Ebeling, Wort Gottes und Tradition (Göttingen 1964), pp. 9–27; E. T. The Word of God and Tradition (London 1966), pp. 11–31. 4  See J. M. Robinson, “Hermeneutic Since Barth” in J. M. Robinson and J. B. Cobb (ed.), The New Hermeneutic (New York 1964), pp. 1–77. 5  C. E. Braaten, History and Hermeneutics (London 1968), p. 52. 6  This chapter should be read in close conjunction with F. F. Bruce’s preceding chapter “The History of New Testament Study” and A. C. Thiselton’s discussion of “The New Hermeneutic” in chapter XVI [[of the volume in which this essay originally appeared]]. 2

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between the personal factors which affect the judgment of the interpreter (preju‑ dices) and the philosophical or theological starting point which an interpreter takes and which he usually shares with some others (presuppositions).7 An interpreter’s work is always affected by human foibles and fallibility. Prej‑ udice arises in all scholarly disciplines. The individual’s personality will play a part in his work, even though this will usually be an unconscious influence; an optimist and a pessimist may well assess a literary or a historical document differently. Historians are usually well aware that their own political standpoint cannot be discounted; sometimes a particular political stance is taken quite delib‑ erately. Cultural factors are also important; the interpreter may be so conditioned by his environment that he is almost automatically biased in one direction or else he is quite unable to consider all the alternative approaches. Scholarly politics should not be neglected as a factor in interpretation. Young‑ er scholars are often under considerable pressure to publish their results as quickly as possible; short cuts are sometimes taken, awkward [[62]] evidence ignored, and hypotheses all too often become proven results. Scholars rarely criticise the work of colleagues and friends as rigorously as other work.8 There may be subtle pressures from a publisher with an eye on his market and, in the case of the biblical scholar, from various official or denominational quarters. The New Testament scholar’s interest in original results often leads to an overemphasis on the distinctive theological perspective of different parts of the New Testament.9 Recent redaction criticism of the gospels provides several examples of this.10 There is no doubt that Matthew and Luke speak with different accents; both evangelists have modified and re-shaped the sources at their disposal. But a number of scholars assume too readily that a fresh theological outlook is the only factor at work.11 These varied pressures must be taken seriously. But they are not necessarily negative factors to be avoided at all costs. Without debate and without schol‑ arly pressures advance would be slower. If all idiosyncratic features were to be eliminated from an individual performer’s interpretation of a Beethoven sonata, how much poorer we should be! Hence different conclusions which arise from

 Cf. A. Nygren, op. cit., pp. 187 ff.  Cf., for examples, W. R. Farmer’s discussion of the history of synoptic source criticism, The Synoptic Problem, (New York and London 1964), esp. pp. 94 ff. and pp. 287 ff.  9  This danger is, however, less serious than the widespread assumption that all the writers of the New Testament speak with the same voice. 10  See S. S. Smalley’s discussion of redaction criticism in chapter XI [[of the volume in which this essay originally appeared]]; also M. D. Hooker, “In his own Image?” in What About the New Testament, ed. M. Hooker and C. Hickling (London 1975), pp. 28–44. 11  I have argued elsewhere that some of the alterations Luke makes to his sources are not theological (as several scholars have supposed) but stylistic. G. N. Stanton, Jesus of Nazareth in New Testament Preaching (Cambridge 1974), pp. 31–66.  7  8

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the prejudice of the individual interpreter are not necessarily undesirable; they are bound to arise, even where similar presuppositions are shared. The interpreter must beware of and attempt to allow for the prejudice which may influence his judgment. But, as Gadamer has strongly stressed, a completely detached and unbiased stance is impossible: “Even a master of historical method is not able to remain completely free from the prejudices of his time, his social environment, his national position etc. Is that to be taken for a deficiency? And even if it were, I regard it as a philosophical task to reflect as to why this de‑ ficiency is never absent whenever something is done. In other words I regard acknowledging what is as the only scholarly way, rather than taking one’s point of departure in what should be or might be.”12 Here, Gadamer overstates his case in debate with an opponent, E. Betti. But his main point is valid, even though he comes close to making a virtue out of a necessity. If an individual’s prejudice is so deep-seated that, in effect, a verdict is passed before the evidence is even con‑ sidered, then, surely, prejudice negates the possibility of understanding a text.

II. The Effects of Presuppositions A brief perusal of the history of the interpretation of Scripture is sufficient to confirm that the classical creeds of Christendom and particular doctrinal pre‑ suppositions have exercised a profound influence on interpretation right up to the present day.13 Interpretation of the Bible has often involved little more than production of proof texts to support an already existing doctrinal framework. Later theological reflections have often been read back, often unconsciously, into the New Testament documents. W. Wrede saw the history of New Testament scholarship in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as the constant struggle of historical research to cut itself loose from [[63]] dogmatic prejudgments.14 The impact of doctrinal convictions on historical and exegetical studies can also be seen in Jewish scholarship; J. Neusner has recently argued that in this respect Jewish scholarship is 150 years behind New Testament research. Neusner shows that the rabbinic traditions have often been used for apologetic purposes by both Jewish and Christian scholars who have failed to study them from a rigorously historical perspective.15 12  Wahrheit und Methode (3rd ed. 1973), pp. 483 f. (E. T. pp. 465 f.). I have used J. M. Rob‑ inson’s translation, The New Hermeneutic, op. cit., p. 76. 13  Doctrinal presuppositions have also exercised a profound influence on interpretations of church history! 14  See R. Morgan’s interesting discussion of W. Wrede, The Nature of New Testament Theology (London 1973), esp. p. 22. 15  J. Neusner, The Rabbinic Traditions about the Pharisees before 70 (Leiden 1970), Vol, III, pp. 320 ff.

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It is hardly necessary to list examples of the profound effect theological presuppositions have had on exegesis. But we must take time to illustrate this important point briefly before we consider whether or not it is possible to avoid the impact of presuppositions. The parables of Jesus have always been central in hermeneutical discussion; this is not surprising since the meaning of a parable is rarely made explicit in the gospels, but it is left for the hearer or interpreter to discover for himself. Hence presuppositions can influence exegesis of the parables even more easily and strongly than other parts of the Bible. Allegorical interpretation of the parable of the Good Samaritan was all but universal in the early church and in the middle ages, and it has persisted until modern times.16 Origen’s interpretation is a good example of allegorical exegesis. For Origen (who lived from c. 185–c. 254 A. D.), the man who fell among thieves is Adam. As Jerusalem represents heaven, so Jericho, to which the trav‑ eller journeyed, is the world. The robbers are man’s enemies, the devil and his minions. The priest stands for the law, the Levite for the prophets. The good Samaritan is Christ himself. The beast on which the wounded man was set is Christ’s body which bears the fallen Adam. The inn is the Church; the two pence, the Father and the Son; and the Samaritan’s promise to come again, Christ’s Second Advent. Why will this simply not do? Such an interpretation presupposes that the original hearers of the parable were already completely familiar with a system‑ atically organised summary of “classical” Christian doctrine. This is the presup‑ position which unlocks the meaning of the parable; if one does not have the key, the parable remains a mystery. In allegorical exegesis of this kind, the text becomes a coat-hook on which the interpreter hangs his own ideas; the exegete can draw from the parable almost whatever he likes.17 Interpretation becomes an “in-game”. Not surprisingly, the two pence given by the good Samaritan to the inn-keeper provided plenty of scope for imaginative exegesis. Some of the early fathers suggested that they represented the Old and the New Testaments, others the two commandments of love, or faith and works, or virtue and knowledge, or the body and blood of Christ; less frequently, the promise of present and future life, or historical and anagogical interpretation, or a text and its interpretation were mentioned.18 We have chosen an extreme example in order to underline as clearly 16  For valuable detailed studies, see W. Monselewski, Der barmherzige Samariter: eine auslegungsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zu Lukas 10, 25–37 (Tübingen 1967), and H. G. Klemm, Das Gleichnis vom Barmherzigen Samariter: Grundzüge der Auslegung im 16./17. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart 1973). 17  Not all allegorical exegesis is as fanciful as the example given. I do not accept that all trac‑ es of allegory in the parables must stem from the early church rather than from Jesus himself. 18  For the details and the references, see H. G. Klemm, op. cit., p. 22 f., n. 23 and W. Mon‑ selewski, op. cit., pp. 45 ff.

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as possible the impact which presuppositions, particularly doctrinal presupposi‑ tions, always have on interpretation.19 Ian Paisley’s strident attack on the New English Bible illustrates the same [[64]] point. Paisley explicitly adopts a doctrinal standpoint from which he judges the New English Bible: “The Shorter Catechism, that great little compen‑ dium of Biblical Theology”.20 Paisley argues that the translators of the NEB have with diabolical cunning deliberately attacked a number of cardinal Christian doctrines; their presuppositions have influenced their translation of the text.21 Most of Paisley’s criticisms are patently absurd. But one cannot suppose that while his own presuppositions are clearly stated, the translators of the NEB have managed to eliminate their own presuppositions and have simply translated the text with sound scholarly methods. For all translation involves interpretation and interpretation without any presuppositions is, as we shall argue later, an unattainable goal. The history of life of Jesus research provides further confirmation of the im‑ pact of presuppositions on historical research and on exegesis. Albert Schweitzer introduced his survey of scholarly lives of Jesus with the observation that there is no historical undertaking which is more personal in character than the attempt to write a life of Jesus.22 And the position has hardly changed since Schweitzer’s day: once the assumptions and presuppositions of the author are known, it is not difficult to predict the main outlines of his portrait of Jesus.23 C. E. Braaten notes cynically but correctly that nothing makes an onlooker so skeptical of New Testament scholarship as observing the frequency with which there occurs a convenient correspondence between what scholars claim to prove historically and what they need theologically.24 Presuppositions in New Testament exegesis are as frequently philosophical as doctrinal, though a sharp distinction is impossible. The miracle stories in the gospels and in Acts provide an example of the interplay of philosophical and doctrinal presuppositions. The interpreter’s prior decision about the possibility or impossibility of miracle is bound to influence his conclusions about the histo‑ ricity of the miracle stories even more than his literary analysis of the traditions; doctrinal or theological presuppositions will influence his assessment of their  For a discussion of the influence of presuppositions on recent interpretation of the parables, see N. Perrin, “The Modern Interpretation of the Parables and the Problem of Hermeneutics”, Interpretation 25 (1971), pp. 131–148. 20  Ian R. K. Paisley, The New English Bible: Version or Perversion? (Belfast, no date), p. 6. 21  Paisley concentrates largely on the judgment of the NEB translators in an area with which he himself is not familiar: textual criticism. 22  The Quest of the Historical Jesus (London 1953), p. 4. 23  See, for example, R. Slenczka’s discussion, Geschichtlichkeit und Personsein Jesu Christi (Göttingen 1967). See also H. K. McArthur’s useful collection of excerpts from a wide range of recent writing on the life of Jesus, In Search of the Historical Jesus (New York 1969). 24  History and Hermeneutic, p. 55. 19

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significance for Christology.25 Existential exegesis also involves philosophical and theological presuppositions. R. Bultmann’s comment is apposite: “Every exegesis that is guided by dog‑ matic prejudices does not hear what the text says, but only lets the latter say what it wants to hear.”26 Neither the conservative nor the radical scholar can claim to be free from presuppositions. But this does not mean that the interpreter must attempt to become a neutral observer; on the contrary, empathy with the subject matter of the text is an essential presupposition. Before we take up this point in more detail, we must examine briefly the alternative approach: presupposition‑ less exegesis.

III. Presuppositionless Exegesis? Once the close relationship between the interpreter’s own assumptions and convictions and his exegetical and theological results is appreciated fully, [[65]] the attraction of interpretation which does not read into the text what is not there becomes apparent.27 Is it possible to set aside completely one’s own presupposi‑ tions, and to approach the text from a neutral detached viewpoint with an agreed historical critical method and so reach scientific, objective results quite untainted by dogma? Can we, for example, locate the “pure” facts of the life and teaching of Jesus behind the early church’s interpretation of him? This possibility has frequently teased Biblical scholars. Indeed, as confidence in the historical critical method grew in the nineteenth century, so too did the appeal of presuppositionless exegesis. In 1860 Benjamin Jowett claimed that the interpretation of Scripture had nothing to do with any opinion of its origin; the meaning of Scripture was one thing, the inspiration of Scripture was another.28 Although “spectator” exegesis is associated particularly with the latter half of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth, it has continued to be championed by a few scholars. E. Stauffer, for example, claimed that in his attempt to write what he called a history of Jesus, the evangelists’ interpretation of Jesus, the interpretation offered by the dogmas of the church, even his own personal interpretation of Jesus were barred.29 No doubt the aim seemed to some  For a useful discussion, see H. van der Loos, The Miracles of Jesus (Leiden 1965).  “Is Exegesis without Presuppositions Possible?”, English translation in Existence and Faith, ed. S. M. Ogden, (London 1961 and 1964), p. 343. Page references are to the 1964 paperback edition. 27  Cf. Κ. Frör’s discussion, Biblische Hermeneutik (Munich 1967), pp. 51 ff. 28  “On the Interpretation of Scripture”, in Essays and Reviews (1860), pp. 350 f. I owe this reference to C. W. Dugmore (ed.), The Interpretation of the Bible, (London 1944), p. vii; cf. the essay by T. W. Manson in the same volume, pp. 92–107. 29  Jesus and His Story (London 1960), p. 13. 25 26

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to be laudable, but the results were disappointing. Stauffer’s own prejudices and assumptions were clearly revealed on almost every page. Whenever scholarly results diverge strongly, and whenever influential “schools” of exegesis arise which are heavily dependent on particular presup‑ positions, a supposedly neutral uncommitted approach will always seem to offer an attractive way forward. Secure, firmly established results will always appeal to many scholars and laymen, however meagre the results turn out to be. Nor may we suppose that whereas exegetical or theological judgments are very much at the mercy of presuppositions, historical and literary questions need not be open to the distortion of the interpreter’s standpoint. An historian cannot approach either an ancient or a modern text without asking particular questions of his sources; behind his questions lurk his presuppositions. A completely detached stance is not even possible in textual criticism; when‑ ever the textual evidence is ambiguous the scholar’s decision will be influenced, however indirectly, by his own presuppositions. The Jerusalem Bible provides an interesting reminder that doctrinal presuppositions are at work in textual criti‑ cism, even when least expected. At John 1:13 all the Greek manuscripts have a plural verb: it is those who believed in the name of Jesus who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God. A weakly attested variant has a singular verb: the verse then refers to Jesus who was born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh … but of God. The variant is almost certainly not original; it is more likely that a reference to the virgin birth has been introduced rather than removed by an early scribe. The scholarship which lies behind the Jerusalem Bible is generally of a high standard, but in this case preference for a most [[66]] unlikely variant would seem to stem ultimately from a desire to find within the New Testament a further strand of evidence which supports the Virgin Birth. Bernard Lonergan has recently called presuppositionless exegesis “the Prin‑ ciple of the Empty Head”. “On this view,” he writes, “the less one knows, the better an exegete one will be … Anything over and above a re-issue of the same signs in the same order will be mediated by the experience, intelligence, and judgment of the interpreter.”30 This is surely correct. It is possible to minimise the influence of presuppositions; it is not possible to begin to interpret a text without approaching it from a particular angle – and behind the choice of that initial stance from which one asks questions of a text lie presuppositions. The attempt to interpret the New Testament from a neutral detached stand‑ point with methods which were assumed to be strictly scientific has largely been abandoned. At the height of its popularity this approach had its own widely shared assumptions, those of classical liberalism.  B. J. F. Lonergan, Method in Theology (London 1972), p. 157.

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IV. Pre-understanding and the Text Although R. Bultmann launched a series of attacks on the assumptions of nine‑ teenth century scholars and developed his own distinctive understanding of the role of presuppositions in interpretation, it was Karl Barth who took the first decisive step in a new direction in interpretation, with the publication of his commentary on Romans. The brief preface, written in 1918, is a powerful and moving theological statement. It begins: “Paul spoke as a son of his own time to his own contemporaries. But there is a much more important truth than this: Paul speaks as prophet and apostle of the Kingdom of God to all men of all times.”31 At the beginning of the twentieth century almost all New Testament scholars took it for granted that the task of exegesis was to establish as exactly and as fully as possible what the text meant in its own time. For Barth the more impor‑ tant and dangerous question was the present meaning of the text.32 The preface continues, “The reader will detect for himself that it has been written with a sense of joyful discovery. The mighty voice of Paul was new to me, and if to me, no doubt to many others also.” Barth had no desire to reject the historical critical method as such; he states this explicitly in the preface to his commentary as well as in later writings.33 For Barth the historical critical method was the starting point in exegesis, though, as many of his critics have maintained with not a little justification, Barth himself frequently paid only lip-service to his own principle. The interpreter does not observe the text from a safe distance; interpretation means confrontation with the text – and this means the confrontation of blind and sinful man with the sovereign and gracious God. In the light of recent scholarly preoccupation with hermeneutics and with presuppositions in particular, it is surprising that Barth did not comment explicitly in much greater detail on the relationship of the interpreter to the text.34 [[67]] R. Bultmann quickly joined forces with Barth (though in later years they disagreed on many basic theological issues). Bultmann and Barth both insisted that exegesis which merely interprets the text in its original historical situation cannot uncover the meaning of the text. In an important essay published in 1950 Bultmann discussed the interpreter’s presuppositions at some length. He stressed that presuppositionless exegesis is impossible; understanding is continually  Der Römerbrief, 1st ed. 1919; Ε. Τ. The Epistle to the Romans (London 1933), pp. 1 f.  I have oversimplified Barth’s position for the sake of clarity. Elsewhere Barth insists that the interpreter is dealing not so much with the text per se as with the “reality” which lies behind the text. 33  See, for example, Church Dogmatics 1/2 (E. T. Edinburgh 1956), pp. 464 ff. and 722 ff. 34  For more detailed discussions, see G. Eichholz, “Der Ansatz Karl Barths in der Herme‑ neutik” in Antwort: Karl Barth zum siebzigsten Geburtstag (Zollikon-Zürich 1956), pp. 52 ff.; F.-W. Marquardt, “Exegese und Dogmatik in Karl Barths Theologie”, Die kirchliche Dogmatik, Registerband (Zürich 1970), pp. 651 ff. 31 32

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informed by a definite way of asking questions of the text, and this includes a pre-understanding of the subject matter of the text.35 In a second essay on the same theme Bultmann insists that the one presupposi‑ tion which cannot be dismissed is the historical method of interrogating the text. The interpreter must pay attention to the meaning of words, to the grammar, to the style and to the historical setting of the text.36 But the most important part of the essay is Bultmann’s exposition of the interpreter’s pre-understanding (Vorverständnis). If history is to be understood at all, then some specific perspective is always presupposed. “Can one understand economic history without having a concept of what economy and society in general mean?… Only he who has a relation to music can understand a text that deals with music.”37 This is surely correct. It is not surprising that Bultmann’s notion of pre-understanding has been extremely influential in recent theological writing. The so-called new herme‑ neutic takes this aspect of Bultmann’s work as one of its main starting points. If one accepts that the interpreter must have a pre-understanding of the subject matter of his text, one is driven to the conclusion that there can never be a defini‑ tive interpretation of a text. “The understanding of the text,” insists Bultmann, “remains open because the meaning of the Scriptures discloses itself anew in every future … Since the exegete exists historically and must hear the word of Scripture as spoken in his special historical situation, he will always understand the old word anew. Always anew will it tell him who he, man, is and who God is …”38 Here we have one answer to the problem with which we began: the variety of conclusions reached by scholars committed to the historical critical method. If exegesis cannot be conducted at a safe distance from the text, from a neutral perspective, then there are bound to be a variety of interpretations, since the questions asked of the text by different scholars or readers will differ. If each interpreter must approach the text with his own pre-understanding, we are bound to ask which kinds of pre-understanding are valid and which are not. Bultmann himself insisted that the historian must be “self-conscious about the fact that his way of asking questions is one-sided and only comes at the phenomenon of the text from the standpoint of a particular perspective. The 35  Verstehen II (Tübingen, 1952), pp. 211–235: E. T. Essays Philosophical and Theological (London 1955), pp. 236–261. 36  “Is Exegesis without Presuppositions Possible?” Existence and Faith, p. 344. Bultmann insists that “the historical method includes the presupposition that history is a unity in the sense of a closed continuum of effects in which individual events are connected by the succession of cause and effect … This closedness means that the continuum of historical happenings cannot be rent by the interference of supernatural transcendent powers …” Bultmann’s main point is that historical science as such can neither prove nor disprove that God has interfered in history; “it can only leave every man free to determine whether he wants to see an act of God in a his‑ torical event that it itself understands in terms of that event’s immanent historical causes.”(ibid., p. 345). Bultmann does not wish to deny that God has acted in history. 37  Ibid., p. 347. Similarly, “Das Problem”, op. cit., p. 218 f. 38  “Is Exegesis without Presuppositions Possible?”, op. cit., p. 351.

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historical perspective is falsified only when a specific way of raising questions is put forward as the only way – when, for example, all history is reduced to economic history.”39 Bultmann did not always put this sound theoretical prin‑ ciple into practice. His own particular way of asking questions of the text from an existentialist perspective became not [[68]] just one approach among many others, but was elevated to a commanding height from which the whole New Testament landscape was surveyed.40 But even if Bultmann was inconsistent himself, he did quite rightly insist that the interpreter’s pre-understanding is not in any sense to be regarded as definitive for it must be open to modification by the text.41 This is a most important point to which we shall return in a moment.

V. Possible Safeguards If it is not necessary for the interpreter to lay aside his own preliminary under‑ standing of the subject matter of the text, have we not succumbed yet again to the tendency of Christian scholars right through history to read the New Testament through their own doctrinal spectacles? There are important safeguards against this threat, but no guarantees that it will be avoided. The first is that the interpreter who is aware of the danger is more likely to avoid it than one who is not. Hence the importance of the history of exegesis for the theologian. Such a study underlines the need to refrain from allowing a doctrinal framework to dominate the text; it also reminds one that the Word of God must be heard anew in every generation. The latest exegesis or the latest theological insight is not the first time that new light has been shed on the text – nor will it be the last. The second safeguard is the historical critical method. This at once rules out, for example, fanciful allegorical exegesis. The current flight from careful schol‑ arly historical study of the Bible is surely only a passing fashion. The meaning of the Scriptures must not be restricted to what the text seems to be saying to me today. The critical methods used by biblical scholars (and discussed in later chapters in this book) are a fence which keep the interpreter’s doctrinal assump‑ tions or convictions in check. The methods themselves must be open to constant scrutiny and reappraisal lest they too become a framework which locks the text rigidly into one position. The third safeguard is even more important. The interpreter must allow his own presuppositions and his own pre-understanding to be modified or even  Ibid., p. 346.  So also, among many others, C. E. Braaten, op. cit., p. 134, and A. Nygren, op. cit., pp. 200 ff. (cf. also pp. 131 ff. and 299 ff.). 41  “Is Exegesis without Presuppositions Possible?” op, cit., p. 347 f. 39

40

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completely reshaped by the text itself. Unless this is allowed to happen, the interpreter will be unable to avoid projecting his own ideas on to the text. Ex‑ egesis guided rigidly by pre-understanding will be able to establish only what the interpreter already knows.42 There must be a constant dialogue between the interpreter and the text. The hermeneutical circle is not only unavoidable but desirable.43 Indeed, one must go still further: the text may well shatter the interpreter’s existing pre-understanding and lead him to an unexpectedly new vantage point from which he continues his scrutiny of the text. Once the text is given priority and once the interpreter ceases to erect a barrier between himself and the text, he will find that as he seeks to interpret the text, the text will, as it were, interpret him. When this happens, the authority of Scripture is being taken seriously; God’s Word is not a dead letter to be observed coldly but a Word which speaks to me in my situation. This important hermeneutical principle helps us to see in a new light a [[69]] problem which often arises in discussions of the exegete’s presuppositions. Must the interpreter share the convictions and faith of the New Testament writer or can the New Testament be interpreted by a non-Christian? Many would want to affirm that since the New Testament documents were written by men deeply and passionately committed to the person of Jesus Christ, the faith of the original writers must be shared by the interpreter. For if full understanding includes not only what the text meant, but also what it means now, faith must be necessary if the intention of the text is to be exposed. Some, on the other hand, would want to stress that many parts of the New Testament were written to awaken faith, not to confirm it. The parables of Jesus do not presuppose that the hearers share Jesus standpoint, for many of them are deliberately designed to break through the defences of those who listened. Many parts of the gospel traditions were used primarily in the missionary preaching of the early church. Luke almost certainly wrote his two volumes for interested but uncommitted readers; the Fourth Gospel is evangelistic in intention. Surely it is legitimate for the interpreter to stand where the original readers or hearers stood: they did not necessarily share the convictions of the writer or speaker. Hence, it might be argued, we must not insist that the text can be understood fully only from the standpoint of faith. How is this dilemma to be resolved, for both positions can be defended co‑ gently? We cannot suggest that while the parts of the New Testament which were written originally to Christian believers can be understood fully only in the light of faith, the “evangelistic” sections do not require any such prior commitment. The New Testament cannot be divided up neatly into these two categories.  Cf. D. O. Via, The Parables (Philadelphia 1967), p. 50.  On the hermeneutical circle, see A. C. Thiselton’s discussion below, p. 316 [[i.e., in the volume in which the essay originally appeared]]. 42 43

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If as we have argued, interpretation involves dialogue with the text, to ask whether or not the interpreter must be a Christian believer is, in a sense, to ask the wrong question. It would be a valid and important question if it were possible for the interpreter to isolate himself from the text in the safety of a detached posi‑ tion, for in that case, even if he claimed tο be working without any presupposi‑ tions, his own convictions and understanding would be the spectacles through which the text would always be viewed. But, as we have stressed, “spectator” exegesis is both impossible and undesirable. Once exegesis is seen as an ongo‑ ing dialogue between the interpreter and the text the interpreter’s starting point becomes less important than his willingness and readiness to run the risk that the pre-understanding with which he comes to the text may well be refined or completely renewed: he must be prepared to be interpreted by the text. That is the necessary presupposition with which he must attempt to operate. The exegete cannot allow either his own personal bias or prejudice or his preunderstanding to dominate the text. They cannot be avoided completely, but they must be no more than a door through which the text is approached. The text is prior: the interpreter stands before it humbly and prays that through the scholarly methods and the questions with which he comes to the text, God’s Word will be heard afresh. This is the exciting task to which the [[70]] interpreter is called. But it is also a dangerous task: God’s Word sweeps away my comfortably secure presuppositions; it is a Word of judgment as well as of grace.

Chapter 9

Form Criticism Revisited [[13]] Form criticism of the gospels is a stagnant discipline. This is a disturbing situation. For it quickly leads to a quite unwarranted confidence that this method of gospel criticism is not only asking the right questions of the text but is pro‑ ducing valid answers. The implications of form criticism have been discussed often enough in recent decades. Although numerous scholars, especially in the English-speaking world, have rejected the more radical conclusions of some form critics, most have accepted without critical discussion the main principles of form criticism. But a counsel of moderation is not enough: nearly all aspects of form criticism are overdue for serious reconsideration.1 Biblical scholars are well aware that interpretation has been and is deeply influenced by doctrinal and philosophical presuppositions. But it is all too easy to behold the speck in the eye of Augustine, Luther, Calvin or Barth, and to neglect the log in one’s own eye; presuppositions cannot be dispensed with, but they must be constantly over-hauled. The scholar’s methods are also his presup‑ positions; they too need to be kept under constant surveillance in order to ensure that they do not lock the text rigidly into one position. The immense difficulties which beset the path of the student of the gospels should also encourage extreme vigilance over the methods used. Christopher Evans wisely warns his undergraduate students that scholarly study of the gos‑ pels is more demanding as an intellectual discipline than any other undertaken in a modern university. In view of the importance of form criticism for all serious study of the gospels, there has been surprisingly little debate about its fundamental [[14]] assump‑ tions and axioms.2 The pioneer form-critical works of Rudolf Bultmann and Martin Dibelius have become standard textbooks for both German and English speaking students.3 Few books have had such a profound and lasting effect on 1  For a useful but uncritical exposition of form criticism, see E. V. McKnight, What is Form Criticism?, Fortress Press 1969. 2  There are notable exceptions which prove the rule: H. Riesenfeld, ‘The Gospel Tradition and its Beginnings’, Studia Evangelica I (TU 73), 1959, pp. 43–65; B. Gerhardsson, Memory and Manuscript, Lund 1961; T. Boman, Die Jesus-Überlieferung im Lichte der neueren Volkskunde, Göttingen 1967; E. Güttgemanns, Offene Fragen zur Formgeschichte des Evangeliums, Munich, 2nd ed. 1971. 3  R. Bultmann, Die Geschichte der synoptischen Tradition, first published 1921; 8th ed., Göttingen 1970. (The Ergänzungsheft, 4th ed. 1971, includes a discussion of recent literature

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biblical studies. Dibelius’ classic has been particularly influential in the Englishspeaking world and is likely to remain so now that the English translation has been reprinted. Most scholars would readily agree that neither book is immune from serious criticism, yet comparable studies of the origin and transmission of the gospel traditions have not been written since. Form criticism has led to several new phases of scholarly study of the gospels. The so-called ‘new quest’ for the historical Jesus arose out of Ernst Käsemann’s dissatisfaction with some of the theological conclusions drawn by Bultmann from his form-critical studies. The ‘new quest’ led on to a vigorous and profit‑ able debate about the criteria which may be used to isolate traditions which are indubitably authentic,4 but it did not, as might have been expected, encourage a reassessment of the basic principles of form criticism. Similarly, although redac‑ tion criticism is a logical development from form criticism and is closely related to it, it has not provoked a fresh appraisal of form criticism.5 Sustained attempts to refine or replace the discipline have been few and far between.6 In spite of some vigorous attacks in the last two decades, the two-source cita‑ del of source criticism has not fallen, but its foundations have been re-examined and partially relaid; many scholars are now less confident than they were that the synoptic problem has been solved once and for all. A similar phase of debate about form criticism is long overdue, even though a general retreat is unlikely.7 In this essay we shall outline briefly some of the problems which surround several widely accepted form-critical axioms. We shall raise a number of ques‑ tions and hint at few answers. But in the nature of the case that is not only inevitable but desirable. by G. Theissen.) ET, History of the Synoptic Tradition, 2nd ed., Blackwell 1968. M. Dibelius, Die Formgeschichte des Evangeliums, first published 1919; 6th ed., Tübingen 1971; ET, From Tradition to Gospel, 1934; reprinted by James Clarke, 1971. 4  See, for example, H. K. McArthur, ‘A Survey of Recent Gospel Research’, Interpretation 18, 1967, pp. 39–55; N. Perrin, Rediscovering the Teaching of Jesus, SCM Press 1967; M. D. Hooker, ‘On Using the Wrong Tool’, Theology 75, 1972, pp. 570–81; R. S. Barbour, Traditio-Historical Criticism of the Gospels, SPCK 1972, pp. 14 ff.; W. O. Walker, ‘The Quest for the Historical Jesus: a Discussion of Methodology’, ATR 51, 1969, pp. 38–56. 5  See J. Rohde, Rediscovering the Teaching of the Evangelists, SCM Press 1969, and R. H. Stein, ‘What is Redaktionsgeschichte?’, JBL 88, 1969, pp. 45–56. Redaction criticism also needs careful reappraisal. See C. J. A. Hickling’s interesting discussion of Marcan redaction criticism in Religious Studies 10, September 1974, pp. 339–46. On Luke, see G. N. Stanton, Jesus of Nazareth in New Testament Preaching, Cambridge University Press 1974, pp. 31 ff. 6  W. G. Doty has assembled a thorough bibliography and has discussed the history of form criticism: ‘The Literature and Discipline of New Testament Form Criticism’, ATR 51, 1969, pp. 257–321. The cynic might suggest that preoccupation with the history of a scholarly disci‑ pline is a sign of its stagnation. 7  As examples, see W. R. Farmer, The Synoptic Problem, Macmillan 1964; D. L. Dungan, ‘Mark – the Abridgement of Matthew and Luke’, Jesus and Man’s Hope I, ed. D. G. Buttrick, Pittsburgh Theological Seminary 1970, pp. 51–97; A. Gaboury, La Structure des Évangiles Synoptiques, Leiden 1970; D. Wenham, ‘The Interpretation of the Parable of the Sower’, NTS 20, 1974, pp. 299–319.

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The first premise of all form-critical study of the gospels is that behind the gos‑ pels as we now have them lie originally independent pericopae. Any reader of Mark’s gospel can quickly learn to separate the individual gospel traditions from the framework in which they are set. The gospel traditions, we are frequently reminded, are like pearls on a string. This may be taken as an assured result of form-critical studies. But some of [[15]] the widely accepted corollaries are not as firmly established as is often supposed. Once one is able to remove the individual pearls from the string, one’s atten‑ tion is focussed on the pearls, not the string. The framework of Mark’s gospel is usually held to be secondary: it may shed light on Mark’s own theological intentions, but it is of little value for the historian. C. H. Dodd firmly rejected this form-critical assumption and claimed that Mark had at his disposal a skeleton historical outline of the career of Jesus into which he fitted the individual pericopae or groups of pericopae; the evangelist’s procedure was a compromise between a chronological and a topical order.8 Dodd’s article has frequently been quoted by opponents of the more radical conclusions of form criticism, but his hypothesis did not win the day. Indeed, in the wake of redaction criticism, the view which Dodd rejected is held more tenaciously. Although it would be difficult to defend Dodd’s argument, his inter‑ est in the origin of the Marcan framework was not misplaced. In his detailed critical discussion of Dodd’s hypothesis, D. E. Nineham asked: what Sitz im Leben could plausibly be posited to account for the existence of a chronological outline of the life of Jesus in the early Church.9 As Nineham pointed out, there is no independent evidence for the existence of a chrono‑ logical outline of the life of Jesus.10 Nor, we may add, is there any precedent within late Judaism for Mark’s apparently ‘biographical’ approach, with its loose chronological and topographical structure. When we look at roughly compara‑ ble rabbinic traditions such as Pirqe Aboth or at the Gospel of Thomas, we are immediately struck by the amount of narrative material about Jesus which is found in the traditions on which Mark drew and which the Marcan framework extends rather than contracts, as seems to have happened in some circles in the early church. Indeed, on the grounds of the criterion of dissimilarity which is so beloved of many form critics, the framework of Mark emerges with strong claims to historicity!  8  C. H. Dodd, ‘The Framework of the Gospel Narratives’, ExpT 43, 1931–2, pp. 396–400; reprinted in a collection of Dodd’s essays, New Testament Studies, Manchester University Press 1953.  9  D. E. Nineham, ‘The Order of Events in St Mark’s Gospel – an examination of Dr Dodd’s Hypothesis’, Studies in the Gospels: Essays in memory of R. H. Lightfoot, ed. D. E. Nineham, Blackwell 1955, pp. 223–39. Cf. C. F. D. Moule’s comments in JTS, NS 7, 1956, pp. 280 ff. 10  Nineham dismisses too readily Dodd’s appeal to the speeches in Acts, though he correctly concludes that Acts 10.37–41 and 13.23–31 afford only the most limited support to the historic‑ ity of Mark’s order: ibid., pp. 228 ff.

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Mark’s method of presenting material about Jesus was by no means as obvi‑ ous an approach as it seems to modern readers of his gospel. Very few of the numerous attempts to find a compelling historical or theological reason for the emergence of Mark take sufficiently seriously one of the most distinctive features of his gospel: originally independent traditions have been set within a loosely ‘biographical’ framework. [[16]] There seem to be only two possible avenues open. Either we must accept that Mark acted without a precedent of any kind – and continue to search for an explanation of his method – or we may consider the possibility that Mark’s achievement was rather less spectacular and original. Mark was simply extending a well-established practice: early Christian communities had long been in the habit of linking together in a loose chronologi‑ cal and topical structure traditions about Jesus. The latter alternative is much less fashionable than the former, but for that very reason it should be pursued all the more vigorously. But this suggestion brings us face to face with a further corollary of the formcritical axiom that behind the gospels lie originally independent pericopae. Most form critics have accepted the dictum of M. Kähler: just as the light from the sun is reflected in every drop of the bedewed meadow, so the full person of our Lord meets us in each little story of the gospel traditions.11 Many pericopae do make a point which is quite independent of their present context in the gospels. But they make a much greater impact and present a fuller portrait of Jesus when set alongside other pericopae. If each gospel pericope was considered by the early church to be completely self-contained, why were so many of them retained with details which seem ir‑ relevant to its main point? Frequently details which appear either to be irrelevant or secondary when a pericope is considered in isolation link up with others to provide a portrait of Jesus which is striking and which is often unconventional judged by the standards of the day. Particular traits, such as Jesus’ attitude to women and children, his acceptance of tax collectors and other outcasts of soci‑ ety, his penetrating insight or his compassion and humility, emerge clearly only when several pericopae are placed together. How would an individual pericope have been used in the early church? Whether we think of missionary preaching, catechetical instruction, debates with opponents, or worship, it is easier to imagine that traditions about Jesus were used in groups than that they were used in splendid isolation. Such groups of pericopae would be expanded or contracted according to the circumstances; if so, summaries of parts of the traditions would arise naturally. The suggestion that groups of pericopae lie behind Mark is not new, though there has been little agreement on the nature and extent of such earlier collec‑ 11  The So-Called Historical Jesus and the Historic Biblical Christ (originally 1896), ET Fortress Press 1964, p. 81. Cf. G. Bornkamm, Jesus of Nazareth, ET Hodder 1960, p. 25.

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tions.12 But if pericopae were linked together loosely in [[17]] groups which were enlarged or abbreviated in order to meet particular needs or circumstances, we should not now expect to be able to find clear traces of such groupings behind Mark’s gospel. If we did not possess Mark, should we have guessed that behind Matthew’s gospel lies a lengthy connected source? The passion narratives and the Q material offer partial parallels. Many parts of the passion narratives do make sense in isolation from the rest of the passion story, but they make a much greater impact when set within a larger context. Is it not possible that the passion narratives were used in longer or shorter versions according to circumstances? Perhaps the quest for an original ‘core’ passion narrative which was gradually expanded by the addition of other traditions is misplaced. Q may also be seen as a partial anticipation of Mark: the Q traditions have a loose structure; some parts were very probably grouped together before the final redaction of Q. Folklore traditions also provide some support. In its early development as a discipline, form criticism of the gospels was deeply influenced by studies of the transmission of oral folklore traditions. The ‘story’ element in such traditions is always strong and ought to have made form critics wary of placing too much emphasis on the individual pericope. Mark’s achievement was considerable: the ‘gospel’ pattern which he devel‑ oped was to influence Matthew and Luke, and possibly John. But we must also recognize that Mark did not work in a vacuum. He was partially anticipated by some early Christian preachers and teachers, for they also used groups of tradi‑ tions about Jesus. Even if parts of the framework were composed by Mark him‑ self, were they not, on the whole, modelled closely on the traditions themselves? Form criticism and redaction criticism have been held apart too rigidly as separate disciplines. The former has concentrated attention on the individual unit of tradition, while the latter has attempted to uncover the distinctive theologi‑ cal perspective of each evangelist. As a result we have come to accept without demur the notion that the writing of Mark is a dramatic development within the early church: no longer are we concerned with an anonymous group and individual pericopae, but with a theologically sophisticated evangelist who has created something quite without parallel. But Mark was not the first person in the early church to group together traditions about Jesus. [[18]] And why should we suppose that the traditions which he used suddenly ceased to be used by the communities which had treasured and used them for a long period? Form critics have always insisted that the traditions on which Mark drew were oral and not written. Reference is usually made to Paul’s use of technical terms 12  For a thorough recent discussion (though with largely negative results) see H. W. Kulm, Ältere Sammlungen im Markusevangelium, Göttingen, 1971.

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for the transmission of oral tradition (I Cor. 15.3 ff. and 11.23); to the importance of oral tradition within Judaism generally; to the comments of Papias (c. AD 130): ‘I supposed that things out of books did not profit me so much as the utter‑ ances of a voice that lives and abides’ (Eus. HE III. 39.4). The earliest Christians are often alleged to have been illiterate or at best only semiliterate; in any case they are said to have inherited traditional Jewish suspicion and avoidance of any written documents apart from Torah. The latter two points are open to question: literacy was very widespread in Palestine (and in the Hellenistic world generally); the Qumran documents as well as the Nag Hammadi material suggest that we have over-estimated Jewish and early Christian suspicion of writing.13 The simple question, ‘Why did Mark write his gospel?’ has not been answered. The more strongly the role of oral tradition in the early church is stressed, the more difficult it becomes to account for the transition from oral tradition to Mark’s comparatively lengthy and not unsophisticated document. We do not wish to argue that written traditions existed before Mark,14 but form critics have neglected to examine carefully the relationship between oral and written tradition, and the development and use of writing in the early church. Most studies of the transmission of oral folklore traditions have been based on societies which did not have access to writing.15 Should we not concentrate our search for possible parallels to the transmission of the gospel traditions on societies which had access to writing, but in which oral tradition was still very much alive? To what extent did Mark’s decision to write a gospel lead automatically to a change of perspective? This is a most important question which form critics have not usually stopped to ask. The transition from oral to written tradition is normally assumed to have been a natural and smooth one: the fact of writing per se is of comparatively little significance. Mark wrote a gospel from traditions about Jesus which had [[19]] long been used in close support of the preaching of the church: so argued M. Dibelius and many other form critics. The standard

13  We urgently need a full-scale study of the extent of literacy and of the uses to which writing was put in Judaism and Hellenism in the first century AD. Although B. Gerhardsson’s Memory and Manuscript is sub-titled Oral and Written Transmission in Rabbinic Judaism and Early Christianity, his comments on written tradition are brief. But see G. Widengren, ‘Tradition and Literature in Early Judaism’, Numen 10, 1963, pp. 42–83; C. H. Roberts, ‘Books in the Graeco-Roman world and in the New Testament’, The Cambridge History of the Bible, Vol. I, ed. P. R. Ackroyd and C. F. Evans, Cambridge University Press 1970, pp. 48–66. 14  But see R. H. Gundry’s defence of this possibility, The Use of the Old Testament in St Matthew’s Gospel, Leiden 1967, pp. 182 ff. 15  See, for example, the influential study of Jan Vansina, De la Tradition Orale: Essai de Méthode Historique, Musée Royal de l’Afrique Centrale, Tervuren, Belgium 1961. Most of the evidence on which he draws comes from societies without writing.

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form-critical view can even appeal to Irenaeus, for he claimed that the evange‑ lists set down in writing the apostolic preaching (Haer. III.i.i). E. Güttgemanns has recently launched a spirited attack on this view of the ori‑ gin of the written gospels.16 He asserts that form critics have mistakenly believed that there is continuity between oral and written tradition; the way back from the literary form of the gospel to the individual oral traditions is much more precari‑ ous than form critics have supposed.17 Güttgemanns claims that studies of folk‑ lore traditions carried out in Yugoslavia by M. Parry and A. B. Lord prove that there is a decisive difference between oral and written tradition: they belong to quite different genres which are not to be confused.18 Mark’s gospel is both more than and quite other than the sum of its parts. In short, we should concentrate our attention on the ‘gospel’ form, on the structure and intention of Mark, rather than continue the futile attempt to study the individual oral pericopae with our present inadequate methods; the future lies with redaction criticism, not form criticism.19 Güttgemanns’ work is to be welcomed warmly; it is one of the few recent at‑ tempts to reopen discussion of basic form-critical principles.20 But his attempt to drive a firm wedge between oral and written tradition is unconvincing; the work of M. Parry and A. B. Lord does not support the far-reaching conclusions he has drawn from it. Parry and Lord sought to shed new light on the origin of the Homeric tra‑ ditions: Homer is the most talented representative of a tradition of oral epic singing.21 They began collecting material in the 1930s, when the Yugoslav oral epic was accessible, alive and distinguished; it has now almost completely disap‑ peared, killed by the spread of literacy and the influence of written ‘authoritative’ texts. Lord’s brilliant book includes a chapter on the relationship between writ‑ ing and oral tradition. He repeatedly emphasizes that the use of writing in setting down oral texts does not in itself have an effect on oral tradition.22 The transition from oral to written techniques is ‘a process, or better, the acceleration or aggra‑ vation or extension of a process that continually goes on in oral composition’.23 16  E. Güttgemanns, Offene Fragen zur Formgeschichte des Evangeliums, Munich, 2nd ed. 1971. Somewhat surprisingly, Güttgemanns does not refer to the Irenaeus passage, even though he strongly criticizes Dibelius’ ‘preaching’ theory. 17  Ibid., pp. 78 ff. 18  See especially A. B. Lord, The Singer of Tales, Harvard University Press 1960. 19  Güttgemanns uses the structural linguistics of Ferdinand de Saussure in an attempt to break new ground in gospel criticism. 20  As yet it has not received the attention it deserves; this is partly because the use of modern linguistics takes most New Testament scholars into new and difficult terrain. But see the critical review-article by H. Thyen, ‘Positivismus in der Theologie und ein Weg zu seiner Überwind‑ ung?’, EvTh 31, 1971, pp. 472–95. 21  With Güttgemanns’ use of the work of scholars primarily interested in Homer, we have once again a cross-fertilization of New Testament and classical studies. 22  The Singer of Tales, pp. 124 ff. 23  Ibid., p. 130.

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An oral tradition dies, not when writing is introduced, but when ‘published’ song texts are spread among singers and begin to be thought of, not as the recording of a moment of the tradition, but as the song. [[20]] The standard form-critical view associated particularly with M. Dibelius is not refuted, but finds some support from the work of Parry and Lord. There is no rea‑ son to suppose that Mark’s gospel is quite other than the sum of its parts. Indeed their work provides some further points of interest for students of Mark’s gospel. The introduction of writing leads to longer songs, greater thematic freedom and a frequent tendency towards episodic structure. ‘When a tradition or an individual goes from oral to written, he, or it, goes from an adult, mature style of one kind to a faltering and embryonic style of another sort.’24 It is perfectly possible for writing to exist side by side with oral tradition, just as it is possible for an oral poet steeped in oral tradition to write his own text. There is no reason to doubt that it was not the writing of Mark’s gospel, but the later slow acceptance of Mark as a fixed and authoritative text which led to the death of oral traditions about Jesus. Matthew and Luke, after all, were able to combine written and oral traditions without difficulty. Güttgemanns’ position is also undermined by such evidence as we have of the relationship of written and oral tradition in Judaism. Not surprisingly, he has paid scant attention to Jewish traditions, though they are surely at least as relevant as studies of Yugoslav oral epic poets! The Mishnah very probably reproduced collections of notes which had already been written before; ‘Tannaim’ continued to repeat Tannaitic texts orally long after these had been reduced to writing.25 The Jewish evidence poses its own particularly difficult problems, but it ought not to be ignored. We have been assuming, without discussion, that studies of folklore and Jewish traditions are of relevance to the student of the gospels; we must now take up briefly this most important form-critical principle. Form critics have analysed the gospel traditions according to their ‘form’ and have then used this analysis to trace the history of the traditions.26 The formal analysis of the traditions was deeply influenced by alleged parallels in Jewish, Hellenistic or folklore tradi‑ tions. The similarities are often striking, but form critics have often paid insuf‑ ficient attention to the dissimilarities. The form and content of the oral traditions  Ibid., pp. 132 ff.  J. Kaplan, The Redaction of the Babylonian Talmud, Bloch Publishing Company 1933, pp. 272 ff. Cf. also the article ‘Mishnah’ in Encyclopaedia Judaica, Jerusalem 1971. 26  T. W. Manson’s often-quoted attack on form criticism does not do justice to the form crit‑ ic’s attempt to use his analysis of the traditions to reconstruct their history. Manson claimed that ‘a paragraph of Mark is not a penny the better or the worse for being labelled “Apophthegm” or “Pronouncement Story” or “Paradigm”, (‘The Quest of the Historical Jesus – Continued’, Studies in the Gospels and the Epistles, ed. M. Black, Manchester University Press 1962, p. 5). 24 25

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have often been considered separately. But form and content are interdependent; their relationship needs to be examined much more carefully. [[21]] The distinctive and unique situation in which traditions about Jesus were transmitted inevitably means that parallels from other oral traditions must al‑ ways be partial and must always be treated with care. Studies of traditional Jewish techniques of teaching and transmission of tradition are relevant, but the early Christians were not attempting to transmit the teaching of rabbi Jesus and to develop a ‘school of interpretation’.27 Hellenistic pedagogical method is rele‑ vant, but even though the intelligence and the education of the earliest Christians is regularly underestimated, they are unlikely to have been acquainted with so‑ phisticated Hellenistic literary techniques. Study of folklore traditions is relevant but K. L. Schmidt’s famous description of the gospels as Kleinliteratur rather than Hochliteratur can be pressed too far. The gospel traditions were neither a saga nor a song-cycle honouring the memory of a long-dead hero; they were not preserved, as were most folklore traditions, by inward-looking ‘conservative communities’; they are not traditional in the sense that the Yugoslav oral poems are.28 We have no exact parallels to the gospel traditions; for even if we were to confine our attention to the transmission of other Christian oral traditions, the evidence is so much later than the gospels and so sketchy that it is of little use. This is a counsel of warning, not of despair. The traditions about the actions and teaching of Jesus were transmitted in quite unique circumstances and this factor must be considered in analysis of their form and history. But the earli‑ est Christian communities were always open to a variety of influences, for they were certainly not enclosed in glass cases. To what extent did the unique circumstances of the early church and the unique content of its traditions about Jesus influence the form in which those traditions were transmitted? The form critic can never hope to be in a position to answer that question with absolute confidence, but it is a question which he avoids at his peril. Closely related to the problems which are involved in the formal analysis of the traditions is yet another form-critical assumption which needs careful scru‑ tiny. The ‘form’ of the gospel traditions is usually linked closely to their use in early Christian communities. Traditions about Jesus were retained and used only in so far as they met the needs and interests of the early church. In a sense the latter observation is a truism: it was a very long time [[22]] before the development of the canon encouraged the Christian church to retain documents which were of little interest and which sometimes seemed to be of  Cf. W. Wiefel, ‘Vätersprüche und Herrenworte’, Novum Testamentum 11, 1969, pp. 105– 120. 28  Cf. the concluding words of A. B. Lord’s book: ‘Yet after all that has been said about oral composition as a technique of line and song construction, it seems that the term of greater sig‑ nificance is traditional. Oral tells us “how”, but traditional tells us “what”, and even more, “of what kind” and “of what force”.’ The Singer of Tales, p. 220. 27

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little direct relevance! But what were the needs and interests of the early church? Form-critical study of the gospels always involves a circular argument. The form critic must either study the traditions with a particular understanding of the early communities in mind, or he must attempt to use his analysis of the traditions to shed light on the needs and interests of the early church. M. Dibelius adopted the former alternative and R. Bultmann the latter. The dangers are obvious, but not always heeded: it is all too easy to allow a particular view of the needs of the early church to influence judgment of the Sitz im Leben of various parts of the tradition, or vice versa. The dangers of a circular argument cannot be avoided entirely, but they can be minimized by paying close attention to evidence from outside the gospels. The epistles, Acts and Revelation give us some insights, admittedly often only partial, into the self-understanding of Christian communities. The gospel traditions belonged to the same Hellenistic communities as Paul and John.29 Unless we accept that there were two ‘branches’ in the early church, one of which transmitted traditions about the life of Jesus, while the other, the Pauline branch, took no interest in such traditions,30 such evidence as is found outside the gospels must be taken very seriously indeed. One example must suffice. For some time now many scholars have followed R. Bultmann’s lead and claimed that a number of sayings attributed to the his‑ torical Jesus in the gospels originated as sayings of the risen Christ speaking to the church through early Christian prophets. This may well have happened. But such evidence of prophetic activity as we have from outside the gospels does not suggest that the influence of Christian prophets was as pervasive as is often supposed. The epistles and Acts indicate that the apostles, not early Christian prophets, were the leaders of the communities; another group, however impor‑ tant, can hardly have possessed the authority speak in the name of the risen Lord and have such declarations accepted.31 We do have some evidence from outside the gospels which can partially avoid circular arguments, but the form critic must frequently acknowledge that our knowledge of the early church is limited.32 Gaps in our knowledge must not be filled by our own understanding of the nature and role of the church.33 [[23]]  Cf. E. Käsemann, New Testament Questions of Today, SCM Press 1969, pp. 40 f. and 49.  This view has been suggested by several scholars. See, for example, U. Wilckens, ‘Hel‑ lenistisch-christliche Missionsüberlieferung und Jesustradition’, Theologische Literaturzeitung 89, 1964, cols. 518 ff. 31  D. Hill, ‘On the Evidence for the Creative Role of Christian Prophets’, NTS 20, 1974, p. 274. The same point is made by F. Neugebauer, ‘Geistsprüche und Jesuslogien’, ZNW 53, 1962, pp. 218–28. 32  Cf. F. G. Downing, The Church and Jesus (SBT 2.10), 1968. 33  In particular our notion of what ‘preaching’ should be today can easily be read back into the New Testament. It would be very instructive to investigate the debates about the nature and role of the church which took place in the first two decades of this century; the first form critics’ understanding of the primitive church may well have been influenced by contemporary discussions. I owe this point to Dr. H. Willmer. 29 30

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The relationship between the ‘form’ of a given tradition and its Sitz im Leben in the early church cannot be determined as easily and as confidently as some form critics have supposed. Judgments about the Sitz im Leben of a pericope have often differed considerably. But there are more important reasons for cau‑ tion. Recent research into oral tradition points to a much more flexible situation. Almost every ‘form’ of oral tradition may be used in a wide variety of ways. Similarly, any given situation can utilize very different forms.34 There is evidence from within the New Testament itself which confirms this principle. The christological hymns which are quoted in the Pauline or postPauline epistles have survived only because they were found to be useful in a secondary paraenetic setting: the same ‘form’ of tradition has more than one Sitz im Leben.35 The Pauline epistle is a distinctive literary genre; it was found to be useful in very different circumstances in the post-Pauline period; in the Pastoral Epistles the Sitz im Leben has changed while the genre has remained constant.36 Hence the form critic cannot be confident that his observation of a change in the form of a pericope suggests a new Sitz im Leben. Nor can he assume that similar forms of traditions were used in the same way in the early church. It is very probable that gospel traditions were used in a wide variety of settings and circumstances with little or no change in their form being necessary. The long-standing debate about historicity continues. In the last few years the tide of opinion has swung firmly behind a more moderate approach than that usually associated with the earlier form critics. Three factors have been particu‑ larly influential. The work of H. Riesenfeld and B. Gerhardsson was attacked vigorously: there are serious weaknesses in their similar positions. But their work has served to remind us that even though the early church did not proclaim Jesus the rabbi, traditions about Jesus were transmitted for some time in a Jewish milieu which took tradition seriously. The debate about the appropriate criteria which may be used to isolate authentic traditions has shown how absurd it is to maintain that the only indubitably authentic traditions are those which can be paralleled neither in contemporary Judaism nor in the early church. But perhaps the most important factor has been the work of H. Schürmann, a scholar whose [[24]] writings are not yet widely known in the English-speaking world. He has argued that the origin of some of the gospel traditions is to be located not merely within the life of the primitive church, but in the community life and missionary

 H. Kuhn, ‘Zur Typologie mündlicher Sprachdenkmäler’, Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, phil.-Hist. Klasse, Sitzungsberichte 1956, Heft 5, Munich 1960, p. 21. 35  R. Deichgräber, Gotteshymnus und Christushymnus in der frühen Christenheit, Göttingen 1967, pp. 190 ff. 36  W. G. Doty, ‘The Literature and Discipline of New Testament Form Criticism’, ATR 51,1969, p. 307. 34

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preaching of the disciples before Easter.37 Schürmann has opened a new phase in the debate about the ultimate origin of the gospel traditions; he has done so not by rejecting form criticism, but by using several form-critical principles in a fresh and illuminating way. Our comments on the historicity of the traditions have deliberately been very brief. But we do not mean to suggest that this is an unimportant issue or that it is so intractable that little or nothing can usefully be said. All too often debates about historicity have distracted attention away from discussion of the central axioms of the form-critical method. Some agreement about the limitations and possibilities of the discipline itself must precede any fruitful debate about the historicity of the traditions. A number of form-critical axioms have been touched on.38 Few can be shown to be false, but the optimism and confidence of some scholars is ill-founded. As we have hinted more than once, the evidence often does not allow us to be certain; new evidence is unlikely to be forthcoming. On the other hand, such evidence as there is has not always been scrutinized sufficiently rigorously. Form criticism is a most useful tool; it is unlikely that a replacement for it will ever be found. But it is a blunt tool which urgently needs resharpening.

37  ‘Die vorösterlichen Anfänge der Logientradition’, Der historische Jesus und der kerygmatische Christus, eds. H. Ristow and K. Matthiae, Berlin 1962, pp. 342–70. Schürmann’s main arguments have been accepted by a number of scholars. See especially E. Trocmé, Jesus and his Contemporaries, SCM Press 1973; the main thesis of Trocmé’s book may be seen as a considerable extension of Schürmann’s view. 38  Two further widely accepted form-critical axioms need reconsideration: the early church was not interested in the ‘past’ of Jesus and the gospels are not biographies; both are discussed in some detail in my book, Jesus of Nazareth in New Testament Preaching, Cambridge Uni‑ versity Press 1974.

Chapter 10

The Gospel Traditions and Early Christological Reflection [[191]] It is not surprising that motifs such as ‘Jesus as the Man for others’, and, indeed, the humanity of Jesus in general, should be so prominent in the recent work of systematic theologians, whether or not one agrees that the most adequate modern christology will start ‘from below’. Much more surprising is the width of the gap between this current interest in the life and character of Jesus of Nazareth and the conclusions of many New Testament scholars. For many New Testament specialists are becoming more and more vociferous in their insistence that there was no close relationship between early christological reflection and the life and character of Jesus; the most primitive christologies did not arise from the church’s interest in or memory of the type of person Jesus showed himself to be in his teaching, actions, and relationships with others, but from expectations of an imminent parousia which were deeply influenced by apocalyptic. If the primitive church was not interested in the ‘past’ of Jesus, why, then, did the church produce gospels which, at a cursory glance at least, look so much like lives of Jesus? A wide variety of answers has been given, all of which ar‑ gue that only at a relatively late stage in the long development from the earliest preaching of the gospel to the church’s acceptance of four gospels did the church understand its traditions about Jesus as historical or biographical reminiscence of any sort. Some point to the important step taken by Mark when he first linked gospel traditions together to make a ‘story’ about Jesus; many others insist that Luke is the innovator, for he has carefully placed his biography of Jesus within the framework of his overall understanding of the Christian message; others point to the effect of the so-called delay of the parousia, to the needs of the Hel‑ lenistic churches or to a reaction [[192]] which set in against primitive Christian Enthusiasmus which had partly overlooked the earthly Jesus. When the gospel traditions did eventually come to play a more central role in the life and faith of the church, they were understood in the light of firmly established christologi‑ cal convictions; convictions which, it is often argued, deeply influenced or even largely created the church’s traditions about Jesus. The systematic theologian is placed in something of a quandary by exposi‑ tions of the development of the christology of the early church which proceed along these lines. If the humanity of Jesus is to be central in christological think‑ ing and if the christology of the New Testament is to be taken at all seriously, the earliest stages of christological reflection must be by-passed deliberately

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and attention paid to later developments. Just conceivably, the systematic theo‑ logian may be tempted to throw his hands in the air and conclude that since New Testament scholars cannot provide a consensus of opinion and since the various christologies in the New Testament arose at different stages and clash so strongly with one another, he is forced to work out his christology in isolation from historical uncertainties. I should want to argue that various lines of evidence, taken cumulatively, in‑ dicate that Luke and Mark have done little more than use their literary and theo‑ logical talents to refine a pattern which is very much earlier: in its proclamation of Jesus, especially in its initial missionary proclamation, the primitive church included reference to the past of Jesus of Nazareth, to his life and character, and often used gospel pericopae for this very purpose. Opponents will immediately retort that this is a naïve view which can be defended, firstly, only by reading the gospels and the traditions they enshrine as biographical documents, thus totally misunderstanding their perspective, and, secondly, only by assuming that the primitive church was interested in the ‘past’ of Jesus, for which there is in fact no Sitz im Leben. I make no apology for advancing an unfashionable point of view by re-exam‑ ining these two widely cherished convictions. New Testament scholarship has moved so quickly in recent decades that reconsideration of generally accepted conclusions is very much [[193]] the order of the day. New theories may or may not emerge, but an intensive resifting of the evidence will, by indicating which conclusions are well grounded and which not, provide firmer foundations for further research.

I The often-repeated dictum ‘the gospels are not biographies’ needs careful reap‑ praisal. I certainly do not want to argue that the clock must now be turned back many decades and the gospels read as biographies. The gospels are unique. There is little point in considering which ancient biography is closest in form to the gos‑ pels. But a comparison of the gospels with roughly contemporary biographical writing is by no means irrelevant, for it underlines some important characteristics of the gospels which have often been overlooked in recent discussion. The fundamental difference between the gospels and all biographical writing, whether ancient or modern, has often been used as a quick way of confirming that the gospel traditions were not originally understood as ‘historical reminis‑ cence’ or ‘biographical’ portrait of Jesus. The gospel form [writes Norman Perrin] was created to serve the purpose of the early Church, but historical reminiscence was not one of those purposes. So, for example, when we read an account of Jesus giving instruction to his disciples, we are not hearing

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the voice of the earthly Jesus addressing Galilean disciples in a Palestinian situation but that of the risen Lord addressing Christian missionaries in a Hellenistic world.1

Standard New Testament textbooks usually point out that the gospels are not at all comparable with Hellenistic biographies, for they make no attempt to set out a detailed chronological record of the events in the life of Jesus, nor do they depict the main stages in the psychological development of Jesus, nor do they contain either a sketch of the character of Jesus or a description of his appearance, nor do they set Jesus against the wider historical background of his time; Luke, it is admitted, is a partial exception. [[194]] The gospels and the gospel traditions which circulated in the church before and after Mark wrote are not related to any biographical interest on the part of the early church. They are proclamation, not report. Such conclusions are usually taken, if not as an axiom, then at least as an assured result of the form critical revolution; the word ‘biographical’ has become to a form critic like a red rag to a bull. But this general understanding of the perspective of the gospels is bound up with a quite surprisingly inaccurate assessment of ancient biographical writing. Greek and Roman biographical writing reached its zenith shortly after the gospels were written, in the work of Tacitus, Plutarch and Suetonius; but all three writers drew, in different ways, on traditional techniques. When some of the literary conventions used in depicting the life of a significant person in the Graeco-Roman world of the first and early second centuries are examined, the profound difference which emerges is not so much between ancient biographical writing and the gospels, as between all forms of ancient biographical writing and its modern counterpart. The gospels do show comparatively little interest in chronological order when compared with modern biographical writing, but the loose structure of the gospels is by no means unique. It was once customary for classical scholars to divide ancient biographical writing into two streams: chronological order was a feature of the Peripatetic biographers by whom Plutarch was deeply influenced; the Alexandrian biographers, and later Suetonius, dealt with a life per speciem, grouping together material on topics such as conduct, business, family, attitude towards society, friends. However, since the discovery of fragments of Satyrus’ Life of Euripides, the only first-hand Peripatetic biography extant, this division is seen to have been an oversimplification. Although Satyrus was one of the last Peripatetic biographers, writing in the second half of the third century B. C., the extant sections of his work reveal a clear tendency towards an orderly grouping of material, but only one section which can in any way be called chronological. There is now little doubt that the Peripatetics, who so strongly influenced both Greek and Roman [[195]] biographical writing of the first century A. D. and later, ordered their material by topics, not chronologically.  N. Perrin, Rediscovering the Teaching of Jesus (1967), pp. 15 f.

1

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Nor does Plutarch make any attempt to adopt a precise chronology; the chron‑ ological expressions he does use are nearly all vague, phrases such as ‘about this time’, ‘some time after this’, being common. Campaigns are presented chronologically, but Plutarch’s basic method is per speciem. Later writers, such as Arrian, Philostratus and Diogenes Laertius present a similar picture. Concern for chronological order was not a characteristic of ancient biographical writing; Tacitus and Cornelius Nepos are partial exceptions who prove the rule. As a stylistic technique, presentation of material per species is much more common than a precise chronological order or framework. Since chronological order was not common, it is not surprising to find that to trace development of character was not a sine qua non of ancient biographical writing. Early encomiasts, such as Isocrates and Xenophon, were not interested in development of character, for they attempted to delineate their subjects in terms of their own notions of exemplary character traits. Nor did Peripatetic biographers, and those who later inherited their techniques, trace development of character or personality, though the phenomenon of human alteration was not unknown. Instead of tracing character development, ancient biographical writing from Plato onwards generally started and finished with the mature character of the person concerned. The idea that a person can be understood only by tracing the development of his personality is modern and is hardly found in the ancient world. Nor is the brief character sketch a common convention in ancient biographical writing. Plutarch, for example, sometimes does include a character summary, but he makes no attempt to analyse internal development of personality. Plutarch aimed to ‘paint personality’, but he did not always do this in his own words. Much more prominent as a method of character portrayal is the recognition that a person’s actions and words sum up his character more adequately than the comments of an observer. This is a deeply rooted tradition in ancient biographi‑ cal writing. In his [[196]] Agesilaus Xenophon states that the deeds of a man best disclose the stamp of his nature. Direct analysis of the subject’s character was almost certainly rare in Peripatetic biography; the actions and words of a person were allowed to speak for themselves. At the beginning of his life of Al‑ exander Plutarch expounded the principles on which he worked: ‘In the most illustrious deed there is not always a manifestation of virtues and avarice, nay, a slight thing like a phrase or a jest often makes a greater revelation of character than battles where thousands fall, or the greatest armaments or sieges of cities.’ This method of indirect characterisation, in which the personality of the author himself remained in the background, was a widely practised technique in ancient biography generally. The gospels also show little interest in character development, portraying Jesus from the beginning to the end of his ministry in essentially the same way and allowing his actions and words to show the sort of person he was. While it is

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impossible to find clear traces of ancient biographical conventions in the gospel traditions, the gospels’ presentation of the life of Jesus is much less distinctive than has been claimed. Attention has often been drawn to the fact that, unlike ancient biographical writing, the gospels fail to set Jesus against the wider historical background of his time. But this feature of modern biographical writing was not known among the Greeks, for consciousness of different historical epochs was lacking in antiquity. Biography and history were carefully held apart. There is a little more justification for drawing attention to the absence of per‑ sonal descriptions of Jesus from the gospels, but even this was not a universal feature of ancient biographical writing. Xenophon only rarely mentions traits of physical appearance. Both Plutarch and Diogenes Laertius have descriptions in some but not all of their biographies. Tacitus gives only a very brief account of the appearance of Agricola, while Nepos omits such a description of Atticus. It is not difficult to draw attention to the wide gulf between the gospels and ancient biographical writing; the gospels have nothing comparable to the many personal anecdotes, some of which were [[197]] widely used ‘stock’ situations which Plutarch and Suetonius included simply to satisfy the curiosity of their readers. The travellers’ tales cast in biographical form perform a similar function in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana. The gospels must be read against the backdrop, not of modern biographical writing, but of their own times. When this is done, the gospels do not emerge as biographies of Jesus, but their presentations of the life of Jesus are seen to be much less distinctive than is usually believed. Recognition of the fact that, unlike Plutarch, Suetonius and other ancient biographers, they do not draw on a long literary tradition, supports this conclusion. For if the modern preoccupation with chronological precision, historical background, personal appearance and character development are all largely missing in ancient biographical writing with its literary tradition, their absence is even less surprising in the gospels, which can scarcely be described as literary productions. ‘Sophisticated’ ancient biographical writing very often used the simple technique of portraying charac‑ ter by allowing the actions and words of a person to speak for themselves; hence there is no reason to agree that ‘unsophisticated’ gospel traditions can appear to portray the character of Jesus by reporting his words and actions only if their intention is misunderstood. However Hellenistic the gospels may be, they are firmly anchored in the Jew‑ ish world. But Jewish accounts of the life and character of a person comparable in any way with the gospels are almost non-existent. The Qumran literature, for example, reminds us that it was by no means the usual practice in the ancient world to compile an account of the life of a founder of a community such as Qumran, nor even of many other types of significant figures. In spite of the influence and importance of Qumran’s Teacher, the community seems to have

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survived on a minimum of tradition about him. The nature and extent of material relating to the life and character of the Teacher show clearly that by comparison the gospels are rich in material about Jesus, however the historian may evaluate it. Similarly, the variety and richness of the gospels’ materials about one person stand out when they are placed alongside the rabbinic literature. We [[198]] know exceedingly little about the life of Yohanan Ben Zakkai, one of the most important and influential rabbinic teachers. Rabbinic traditions refer to almost as many different rabbis as there are pericopae. That the uniqueness of the gospels lies primarily in the impact of the resurrec‑ tion on the primitive church is not in doubt. But the uniqueness of the gospels also lies not so much in the ways they differ from Greek and Roman biographical writ‑ ing, as many have insisted, but in the fact that in Jewish writings, from the Old Testament right through to the rabbinic corpus, there is nothing comparable to the gospels’ concentration on the words, actions and relationships of one person. The dictum ‘the gospels are not biographies’ is still as firmly established as the standard solution to the synoptic problem, but this dictum cannot be used to deny that the gospels and the gospel traditions were intended to portray the life and character of Jesus. If, as one of his main purposes, Mark had wished to set out an account of significant aspects of the life of Jesus and to indicate the sort of person Jesus was, would the end result have been strikingly different from the gospel we now have? Once this understanding of the perspective of the gospels is acknowledged as plausible, it is by no means difficult to accept that there is a good deal of material in the four gospels which portrays the character of Jesus. Many traits emerge from the gospel accounts of the actions and teaching of Jesus, and of his relationships with others. To this extent the gospel traditions may be described as ‘biographical’. However, this expression has so many modern connotations (especially concerning personality) which are foreign to the ancient world that (if it is not to be misleading) it can be used of the gospel traditions only with careful definition. But it is certainly true that no tradition about Jesus was retained by the church solely out of historical interest or biographical curiosity, for the traditions are kerygmatic and were used in the service of the preaching of the primitive church. There is no reason either to quarrel with this general conclusion or to rehearse the reasons which lie behind its widespread acceptance since the [[199]] rise of form critical study of the gospels. But the very commonly suggested corollary, that since the gospel traditions are kerygmatic they are neither ‘historical’ nor ‘biographical’ in their perspective, is untenable: the kerygmatic role of the gospel traditions has not smothered interest in the life and character of Jesus. The dual perspective of the gospel traditions is inescapable: they intend to proclaim Jesus, they are also concerned with his life and character. To by-pass or minimise either aspect is to miss the finely-held balance of the traditions themselves: they are nei‑

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ther purely ‘biographical’ nor ‘historical’, nor are they kerygmatic to the exclu‑ sion of concern with more than the mere fact of the historical existence of Jesus. The earliest preaching of the Christian message must surely have taken pains to sketch out briefly the kind of person Jesus was, in the context of its call to commitment to the one raised by God from the dead. Since the gospel traditions ‘report’ the life of Jesus and ‘portray’ his character, they were particularly ap‑ propriate for use in the initial missionary preaching of the church. This is not to deny that gospel traditions were used in ethical instruction, in apologetic, in instruction of believers, in worship, and in a variety of other ways in the life of the church.

II In the preceding paragraphs we have been using the dual perspective of the gos‑ pel traditions to establish their Sitz im Leben in the primitive church. This pro‑ cedure looks dangerously like a circular argument: the interest of the primitive church in the past of Jesus is established from the form of the traditions, but the very form of the traditions is interpreted in the light of their use in the primitive church. At this point we must also take up briefly the objection that since the primitive church was at first uninterested in the life of Jesus, the gospel traditions cannot have been understood and used in the way we have described. However, there are other lines of evidence which minimize the risk of a circular argument and also suggest that the early church, especially in its missionary preaching, was interested in the past of Jesus and that [[200]] traditions about Jesus were understood and used, as far back as we can trace them, as both proclamation and report about Jesus. The only explicit accounts of initial missionary preaching in the New Testa‑ ment period are to be found in Acts.2 While it is impossible to date the traditions lying behind the speeches in Acts with any precision, these speeches (especially Acts x.30–43 and Acts xiii.16–41) are certainly pre-Lucan and seem to stem from a very early period. Luke indicates that as soon as the gospel was preached to audiences unfamiliar with the story of Jesus, the first evangelists included in their preaching a sketch of the life and character of Jesus. Peter’s speeches in Acts make it quite clear that the primitive church did not proclaim the risen Christ and overlook the pre-resurrection events and the character of Jesus of Nazareth. As Paul refers to the content of his initial missionary preaching only rarely in his epistles, he may well have used gospel traditions in his preaching but there 2  The arguments which are advanced briefly in the following paragraphs have been explained and defended in much greater detail in my forthcoming book, The Primitive Preaching and Jesus of Nazareth [[i.e., Jesus of Nazareth in New Testament Preaching]].

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is, of course, no explicit evidence for this in the epistles. Paul’s knowledge and use of gospel traditions must be left as a partially open question. But even if Paul did not refer to the life of Jesus precisely in the form of the gospel tradi‑ tions which have come down to us, there are good grounds for maintaining that Paul was neither ignorant of, nor uninterested in, the life and character of Jesus and that his preaching included some reference to the sort of person Jesus was. The proclamation of Jesus was used in the primitive church to proclaim him. Jesus’ message is already, in nuce, a message about himself; his actions and words are inseparable. Jesus’ message is very much bound up with his conduct and character, his ‘obscure’ background and the unpromising outward circumstances of his ministry. The nature of Jesus’ proclamation encouraged the primitive church to sketch out his life and character including the ‘scandal’ of his background as part of its proclamation of him. The very fact that Jesus could not be fitted into any of the categories of the day meant that the primitive church could not [[201]] simply make a theologi‑ cal pronouncement about him, and assume that no further explanation either of what sort of a person he was or of what sort of a life he had lived was necessary. For Jesus broke all Jewish preconceptions about the promised one; Hellenistic categories were no more adequate.

III If then, the primitive church included a sketch of the character of Jesus in its preaching, it had a stake in transmitting and using traditions which it understood as referring to the past of Jesus; it was also much more aware of the distinction between the ‘past’ and the ‘present’ of Jesus than many scholars have recently argued, and it was therefore less likely to confuse its own understanding and experience of the risen Christ with its account of who Jesus of Nazareth was. And if the earliest christological proclamation and traditions about Jesus were not at first separate entities which were only later linked together, there are still further implications for our understanding of primitive christology. What were the factors which influenced the earliest christological reflections of the church? The church’s experience of the risen Christ, its apocalyptic ex‑ pectations of an imminent parousia and its interpretation of the Old Testament are all seen as influential at particular points. But the christological terminology employed by the primitive church in its confession and proclamation of Jesus Christ was partly developed in the light of its traditions of the teaching, actions and character of Jesus. Take, for example, the confession ‘Jesus is Messiah’, one of the earliest, if not the earliest, ways in which Jesus was proclaimed. Why was Jesus called Messi‑ ah? Whether Jesus avoided the title completely (either because it was politically

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dangerous or because he did not consider himself to be Messiah), or whether he was simply extremely reticent about using it, there is a gulf between the ex‑ plicit teaching of Jesus and the preaching of the primitive church. One currently popular answer argues that the Palestinian church used Messiah of Jesus in the specific context of his parousia, [[202]] as an equivalent for the apocalyptic title, Son of Man; hence there was no danger of confusing the title with the political type of Messiah.3 This view places a great deal of weight on Acts iii.20 which is understood to mean that at the parousia Jesus will return as ‘the Christ appointed for you’. But this is not the most natural interpretation; the immediate context confirms that Jesus is already Messiah, not merely at his parousia. And in addi‑ tion there are serious objections to be raised against the view that Son of Man was an apocalyptic title first used by the church in connection with its parousia expectations, then of the passion and resurrection of Jesus, and finally applied to the ministry of Jesus. The hypothesis that the primitive church’s christological reflection (especially its use of Messiah-Christ, Son of Man, and even its inter‑ pretation of Old Testament passages) moved ‘backwards’ from the parousia to the life of Jesus is surely an oversimplification of the evidence. Nor can one answer the question ‘Why was Jesus called Messiah?’ merely in terms of the resurrection. What was there about the resurrection which led the earliest believers to make a link between Jesus and Messiahship? One may legitimately insist that the resurrection confirmed, declared or even revealed the Messiahship of Jesus, but the resurrection alone did not make Jesus Messiah. Peter’s speech to Cornelius points us in a rather different direction: ‘God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power (made him Messiah-Christ, echrisen). He went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, for the active presence of the Holy Spirit of God was with him’ (Acts x.38).4 The primitive church announced the Messiahship of the one raised by God from the dead because of its conviction, now confirmed by the resurrection, that this Jesus had been anointed by God’s Spirit, for his life and ministry were not merely consistent with this claim, but provided evidence that God had begun to act in a new and decisive way in Jesus of Nazareth. The proclamation of Jesus as Messiah was no doubt filled out and [[203]] supported by traditions about the life of Jesus for example, by traditions which showed that his relationships with others, which were so revolutionary as to prompt constant critical questioning, were grounded in his unique relationship to God, and by traditions which claimed that Jesus’ actions were not those of a madman but were done by the finger or Spirit of God. The kind of person Jesus showed himself to be by his actions and relationships with others, and not merely such explicit  R. H. Fuller, The Foundations of New Testament Christology (1965), p. 159.  See W. C. van Unnik, ‘Jesus the Christ’, New Testament Studies, VIII (1961–2), 101 ff., and ‘“Dominus Vobiscum”: the Background of a Liturgical Formula’ in A. J. B. Higgins (ed.), New Testament Essays in Memory of T. W. Manson (1959), pp. 270 ff. 3 4

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teaching as he gave about his own person, may very well have influenced the kind of christological confessions the church made about Jesus. But there remains the possibility that this understanding of Messiahship in terms of the anointing of Jesus with God’s Spirit is Luke’s theological achieve‑ ment, for it is certainly an important theme in Luke-Acts. At the opening of Luke’s account of Jesus’ ministry, Jesus announces in the synagogue at Naza‑ reth: ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed (echrisen) me, he has sent me to announce good news to the poor’ (Luke iv.18 f.). Isaiah lxi.1 f. lies at the heart of both Acts x.38 and Luke iv.18 f. But in both passages Isaiah lxi.1 f. is tightly woven together with other Old Testament passages in a way which is typical of early Christian exegesis of Old Testament texts, but not typical of Luke himself. In addition, both passages contain a number of features which are not characteristic of Luke, but point to pre-Lucan tradition.5 And it would be rash to argue that the portrait of Jesus has been created by the church, for many aspects of the gospels’ portrait of Jesus are represented so widely in various sources, strata and forms of the gospel traditions that their substantial reliability is established on the basis of the criteria of multiple at‑ testation, coherence and consistency. Perhaps we shall never know precisely the influences at work in [[204]] the earliest christological reflections of the church. To claim that the christological beliefs of the primitive church have not left their mark upon the gospel traditions would be to fly in the face of clear evidence to the contrary. But we may be sure that traditions about the life and character of Jesus played an important part not only in the preaching of the primitive church, but also in its christological reflection: both began with Jesus of Nazareth.

5  Luke vii.22 (Q) also weaves together Isaiah lxi.1 f. with other Old Testament passages. Isaiah lxi.1 f. is alluded to in another Q passage, Luke vi.20 f. H. Schürmann has recently sug‑ gested that Luke iv.10–30 contains some material, including the citation of Isaiah lxi.1 f., which is characteristic of the Q material, but not of Luke or his L material. (‘Zur Traditionsgeschichte der Nazareth Perikope Lk 4,16–30’, in Mélanges Bibliques en hommage au R. P. Béda Rigaux, eds. A. Descamps and A. de Halleux (1970), pp. 187 ff.) If this is so (and Schürmann’s case is strong), Isaiah lxi.1 f. must have deeply influenced the theology of the Q material.

Chapter 11

On the Christology of Q* [[27]] The Q material in the Gospels has exerted a powerful fascination on New Testament scholars for a long time. So many diverse and even contradictory es‑ timates of the nature of Q have been made that it is not surprising that opponents of the Q hypothesis have been quick to point a ridiculing finger at the lack of any kind of scholarly consensus.1 But the Q hypothesis cannot be rejected quite so easily. The cumulative case for the existence of Q remains compelling.2 Not surprisingly, Q has recently attracted renewed interest in the wake of redaction criticism. What distinctive christological emphases are found in Q? What was its original purpose? Have Matthew and Luke, by subsuming Q into Mark’s ‘Gospel’ Gattung, all but obliterated an early christology – a christology quite different from their own? The most recent answers to such questions have been rather less diverse than earlier phases in the study of Q would lead one to expect.3 There is now general agreement that Q was not intended primarily to provide catechetical or hortatory material for Christian believers;4 christology belongs not merely to a preface5 or to a few isolated [[28]] sections, but is so much part and parcel of the docu‑ ment that the original purpose of Q can be clarified only by laying bare its main christological emphases. Several recent writers have taken a further step and have argued that it is possible, from a discovery of important christological in‑ novations made by the Q community to the traditions at its disposal, to underline * A modified version of this article was delivered in Cambridge in July 1972 as the Tyndale New Testament Lecture for 1972. 1  Cf. S. Pétrie, ‘“Q” is only what you make it’, Nov. T. iii (1959), pp. 28–33. 2  For a recent careful defence of the Q hypothesis, see J. A. Fitzmyer, ‘The Priority of Mark and the “Q” Source in Luke’, in Jesus and Man’s Hope I (Pittsburgh, 1970), pp. 131–70. In this essay Q is assumed to have been a written document. But I regard the distinction between Q as a written document and Q as a layer of oral tradition with a fairly fixed order as comparatively unimportant. 3  For surveys of earlier studies of Q, see H. E. Tödt, The Son of Man in the Synoptic Tradition (E. T. London, 1965), pp. 235–46; W. D. Davies, The Setting of the Sermon on the Mount (Cambridge, 1964), pp. 36 ff. 4  See H. E. Tödt, Son of Man, pp. 243 ff.; W. D. Davies, Sermon, pp. 370–80; D. Lührmann, Die Redaktion der Logienquelle (Neukirchen, 1969), p. 95. 5  A. Harnack argued that Q contained a christological introduction (the baptism and tempta‑ tion narratives), but that the rest of the Q material reflected a very different understanding of Jesus. The Sayings of Jesus (E. T. London, 1908), pp. 243 ff.

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the extent to which the christology of Q is distinctive – indeed, unique, within primitive Christianity. H. E. Tödt’s discussion of Q’s Son-of-Man christology is proving to be as in‑ fluential on current study of Q as A. Harnack’s work was over fifty years earlier. In his study of Q, Tödt concentrates on the title Son of Man, arguing that the purpose of the Q material can be uncovered by elucidating the Q community’s use and development of Son-of-Man sayings. Tödt concludes that the Q com‑ munity was deliberately continuing Jesus’ proclamation of the imminence of God’s kingdom. The community did not develop a passion kerygma, but was convinced that Jesus, who has re-established fellowship with his followers as the risen one, is also the one who, as the coming Son of Man, will be the escha‑ tological guarantor of that fellowship.6 Similar conclusions about the purpose of Q have been defended by D. Lührmann and R. A. Edwards.7 Both scholars modify the details of Tödt’s interpretation at a number of points, but both agree that the dominant theme of Q is a strong expectation of coming judgement in which Jesus will appear as Son of Man. A Son-of-Man christology and an expectation of coming judgement are both prominent in Q. But are they so central to the theological understanding of the Q community that they provide the key to the purpose of Q? In spite of a web of carefully developed arguments, there are a number of weak threads on which a good deal of weight hangs. Before taking up some of them, other important and very different christological themes in Q will be discussed – themes which have been [[29]] given insufficient attention in recent studies of Q and which suggest a rather different understanding of the purpose of Q. Scant attention has been paid to the opening sections of Q in recent discus‑ sions of its christology and purpose.8 This is a little surprising in view of the obvious importance of the opening sections of documents which might be seen as offering a rough parallel to Q: the Old Testament prophetic writings and Pirke Aboth, to say nothing of the opening verses of Mark’s Gospel. It is not easy to re‑ construct the opening sections of Q with precision. But on the widely held view that Luke preserves fairly faithfully the order of Q, some important theological

 H. E. Tödt, Son of Man, p. 273.  D. Lührmann attempts to drive a thin wedge between tradition and redaction by applying the methods used in recent redaction critical studies. For the Q community, ‘Jesus is not the One who is proclaimed, but the content of the proclamation of the coming judgement, in which Jesus, as Son of Man, will save his community.’ Logienquelle, pp. 96 ff. R. A. Edwards also underlines (by a rather different approach) the importance of the Q community’s identification of Jesus with the Son of Man who was expected to appear soon to bring God’s judgement. The Sign of Jonah in the Theology of the Evangelists and Q (London, 1971), pp. 54 f. See also, M. J. Suggs, Wisdom, Christology and Law in Matthew’s Gospel (Harvard, 1970), p. 94. 8  Cf. Ε. Bammel, ‘Das Ende von Q’, in Verborum Veritas (Festschrift for G. Stählin), eds. O. Böcher and K. Haacker (Wuppertal, 1970), pp. 39–50. 6 7

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emphases can be located in the opening sections of Q.9 In the discussion which follows, Matt. 11:2–6 = Luke 7:18–23 is taken as the starting point; we shall then seek to demonstrate that the main themes of this passage are also prominent in the preceding opening sections of Q, as well as elsewhere in Q. Matt. 11:2–6 = Luke 7:18–23 stands at the beginning of a comparatively lengthy section of material about Jesus and John which has been linked together loosely in Q. Although both Matthew and Luke have introduced some impor‑ tant modifications,10 the ‘core’ of the pericope is found almost verbatim in both Gospels and is undoubtedly Q material. John’s question σὺ εἶ ὁ ἐρχόμενος; and the reply of Jesus which utilises phrases from Isaiah both contain important christological implications. Jesus neither denies nor explicitly affirms that he is ὁ ἐρχόμενος and this is a weighty argument in favour of the authenticity of Jesus’ answer.11 But how did the Q community interpret these words? The words of Jesus allude to Isa. 29:18 f.; 35:5 and 61:1 f. The first two pas‑ sages provide the general theme of an eschatological time when [[30]] the deaf will hear, the blind see and the lame walk. But the climax clearly comes with the allusion to Isa. 61:1, πτωχοὶ εὐαγγελίζονται.11a Only with these words do we have a hint of a more specific answer to John’s question about the person of Jesus: it is not God himself but the one anointed with God’s spirit who announces good tid‑ ings to the poor – Jesus. For the Q community this was the point of Jesus’ reply; this is not the only Q passage for which Isa. 61:1 f. provides the background – πτωχοὶ εὐαγγελίζονται is followed immediately by a μακάριος logion which also has its background in Isa. 61:1.12 Was Jesus understood to be hinting that he was an eschatological prophetic figure, or even that he was Messiah? There is now clear evidence that at the time of Jesus Isa. 61:1 was being interpreted in a quite specific way as referring to the eschatological prophet.13 The recently discovered 11Q Melchizedek,14 although  9  It is just conceivable that the Marcan order has influenced both Matthew and Luke to place Q traditions about John near the beginning of their Gospels. But it is difficult to envis‑ age baptism and temptation narratives in any position other than at or near the beginning of Q. 10  I take τὰ ἔργα τοῦ Χριστοῦ (Matt. 11:2) to be a Matthaean addition and Luke 7:21 to be a Lucan addition. The longer Lucan introduction may well be original in view of Matthew’s tendency to abbreviate his sources. Cf. Matt. 8:5–13 = Luke 7:1–10. 11  Cf. W. G. Kümmel, Promise and Fulfilment (E. T. London, 1957), pp. 109 ff. 11a  In a few mss. νεκροὶ ἐγείρονται is seen as the climax and is placed at the end of the list. 12  Cf. P. Stuhlmacher, Das paulinische Evangelium I (Göttingen, 1968), p. 219. In addition to the references cited in n. 3 and n. 4, note A. Finkel, The Pharisees and the Teacher of Nazareth (Leiden, 1964), pp. 155–8. Finkel suggests that the Beatitudes are a kind of pesher interpreta‑ tion of Isa. 61:1 ff. 13  P. Stuhlmacher, Das paulinische Evangelium, pp. 142 ff. with reference to 1QH 18:14. ‫ לבשר ענוים‬is cited from Isa. 61:1 – cf. Q, πτωχοὶ εὐαγγελίζονται. 14  See the editio princeps, A. S. van der Woude ‘Melchisedek als himmlische Erlösergestalt in den neugefundenen eschatologischen Midraschim aus Qumran Höhle 11, OTS xiv (Leiden, 1965), pp. 354–73; also, A. S. van der Woude and M. de Jonge, ‘11Q Melchizedek and the New Testament’, NTS xii (1965–6), pp. 310–26.

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fragmentary and difficult to interpret in detail, contains a cluster of allusions to Isa. 61:1 f.15 Line 18 reads ‫והמבשר הו[אה מ]שיח הרו[ח] אשר אמר‬.16 In the context Isa. 52:7 is quoted in full – ‫ המבשר‬is the eschatological herald of good tidings. The line can be translated ‘And he that brings good tidings, he is the one anointed by the spirit, about whom he says …”17 [[31]] The herald of good tidings of Isa. 52:7 is closely linked with Isa. 61:1 and is identified as ‘the anointed one’.18 Although it has frequently been assumed that the reply of Jesus to John would be understood as an indirect claim to be Messiah,19 there are some grounds for caution, even in spite of 11Q Melch. For it is difficult to find clear-cut evidence that Isa. 61:1 was referred to the Messiah in late Judaism.20 On the other hand, the ‘herald of good tidings’ of Isa. 52:7 was often identi‑ fied as the Messiah although other identifications were also suggested.21 Both Matthew and Luke interpret the pericope in this way. Matthew links the reply of Jesus to τὰ ἔργα τοῦ Χριστοῦ – a phrase which he adds to the Q pericope (Matt. 11:2). Luke almost certainly understood ὁ ἐρχόμενος as the Messiah, especially in the light of Luke 4:17 f.22

15  See Μ. P. Miller, ‘The Function of Isa. 61:1–2 in 11Q Melchizedek’, JBL lxxxviii (1969), pp. 467–9. Miller argues convincingly that Isa. 61:1–2 stands behind the unfolding pesher material in 11QMelch.; he shows that the three major texts quoted (Lev. 23:13; Isa. 52:7; Ps. 82:1–2) ‘unfold their inner relation and meaning for the community with reference to Isa. 61:1–2’ (p. 469). 16  At line 18 the editio princeps read ‫והמבשר הו[אה המ]שיח הוא[ח] אשר אמר‬. The emendation quoted has now been accepted by several scholars. M. de Jonge and A. S. van der Woude note the remarkable parallel to CD 2:12 which speaks of ‫ משיחי רוח קדשו‬with reference to prophets; the term ‘anointed ones’ is also used in the plural to denote prophets in CD 6:1 and 1QM 11, but 11QMelch. line 18 is the first instance in the Qumran literature of a singular use of that expression to denote a prophet; ‘11Q Melchizedek’, NTS xii (1965–6), pp. 306 f. 17  Ibid. p. 302. 18  Cf. Acts 10:36 where Isa. 61:1 and Isa. 52:7 are both alluded to, but not linked closely together. In addition to the literature noted above, see P. Stuhlmacher, Das paulinische Evangelium, pp. 142 ff. and 218 ff. More recently, J. A. Fitzmyer, ‘Further Light on Melchizedek from Qumran Cave II’, JBL lxxxvi (1967), pp. 24–41; J. Carmignac, ‘Le Document de Qumran sur Melkisédeq’, RQ vii (1970), pp. 343–78. Fitzmyer accepts that line 18 refers to ‘the Anointed One’ and translates ‘And the herald is that Anointed One (about) whom Daniel said …’. Fitz‑ myer notes that this definite use of ‘Messiah’ is paralleled also in 1Q Sa 2:13, and 4Q Patr. Bless. 3; art. cit. p. 40. 19  Ε.g. C. K. Barrett, The Holy Spirit and the Gospel Tradition (London, 1947), p. 118; W. G. Kümmel, Heilsgeschehen und Geschichte (Marburg, 1965), p. 434; D. Lührmann, Logienquelle, p. 26. 20  See P. Stuhlmacher, Das paulinische Evangelium, p. 145 n. 4 and p. 219 n. 2; A. S. van der Woude and M. de Jonge, NTS xii, p. 308; M. de Jonge, ‘The Word “Anointed” in the Time of Jesus’, Nov.T. viii (1966), pp. 132–48, esp. pp. 141 ff. 21  See the references cited by J. A. Fitzmyer, JBL lxxxvi, p. 30, and P. Stuhlmacher, Das paulinische Evangelium, pp. 148 f. 22  At Luke 19:38 Luke defines ὁ ἐρχόμενος as ὁ βασιλεύς (cf. Mark 11:10).

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While in this passage ὁ ἐρχόμενος could well be taken as a reference to the eschatological prophet, the related Q passage Matt. 3:11 f. = Luke 3:16 f. (where ὁ δὲ ὀπίσω μου ἐρχόμενος Matt. 3:11 is probably from Q) does not fit the prophet, but does fit the Messiah.23 In the very next closely related Q pericope (Matt. 11:9 ff. = Luke 7:26 ff.) [[32]] Jesus indicates that John is greater than a prophet; indeed, he is the greatest of those born of women; for the Q community, not Jesus, but John is the eschatological prophet, since John is certainly not ὁ ἐρχόμενος.24 The reply of Jesus to John stands at the beginning of a very important section of Q which revolves around the questions, ‘Who is Jesus?’ and ‘What is John’s relationship to him?’ The Q community interpreted this passage christologically: Jesus claimed that the prophetic eschatological promises were being fulfilled in his actions and words. This Q passage lays less emphasis on the person through whom God is acting than on the evidence of God’s actions (as is also the case in 11QMelch.). But in the light of John’s initial question, σὺ εἶ ὁ ἐρχόμενος; it is difficult to resist the conclusion that for the Q community the actions and words of Jesus were those of the Messiah. The ἐν ἐμοί of the concluding logion indicates that the signs of the dawn of the new age and the proclamation of Jesus are linked inseparably to the person of Jesus. The logion also stresses that some have taken offence at Jesus. As we shall note below, the rejection of Jesus is a theme which runs through a good deal of the Q material. These conclusions would be strengthened considerably if we could be sure that Luke 4:16–30 stemmed from Q, for there the main themes of Jesus’ reply to John are all stated more explicitly and fully. The similar way Isa. 61 is used in both passages has often been noted as particularly striking and as not a little puz‑ zling.25 A few scholars have suggested that Luke 4:16–30 stems from Q, but this possibility has not been taken seriously in research on Q. However, H. Schür‑ mann has recently defended this hypothesis with such skill and learning that it cannot be neglected.26 Schürmann argues that Luke 4:17–21 and 25–7 are later [[33]] additions to the original pericope and do not come from Luke’s own hand; 23  D. R. Catchpole, ‘The “Triumphal” Entry’, The Zealots and Jesus, eds. C. F. D. Moule and E. Bammel (Cambridge, forthcoming). See also D. H. Catchpole, The Trial of Jesus (Leiden, 1971), p. 164 n. 1; M. A. Chevallier, L’Esprit et le Messie (Paris, 1958), pp. 53 f.; W. G. Küm‑ mel, Promise, p. 110. 24  Cf. G. Friedrich, art. προφήτης, TDNT vi, p. 839. The Q form of Matt. 11:12 f. = Luke 16:16 is probably to be taken as an indication that the appearance of John marks the dawn of the new age. 25  See, for example, R. H. Fuller, The Foundations of New Testament Christology (London, 1965), p. 170; P. Stuhlmacher, Das paulinische Evangelium, p. 227. 26  H. Schürmann, ‘Zur Nazareth-Perikope Lk. 4:16–30’, in Mélanges Bibliques en hommage au R. P. Béda Rigaux, ed. A. Descamps and A. de Halleux (Gembloux, 1970), pp. 187–205. Schürmann notes several earlier attempts to assign parts of Luke 4:16–30 to Q and includes J. V. Bartlet. But Bartlet was arguing against the standard two document hypothesis! ‘The

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he then attempts to show that the original pericope is not merely a Lucan rewrit‑ ing of Mark 6:1–6. Up to this point Schürmann’s argument is well-grounded. In the concluding section of his article Schürmann suggests that the original pericope and the two later additions (verses 17–21 and 25–7) all stem from Q. This is an attractive suggestion, but the evidence offered in support is not completely convincing.27 Schürmann has shown that some of the emphases of Luke 4:16–30 can be related to Q themes, but he has not demonstrated that this material cannot stem from L. Schürmann argues that an Old Testament citation comparable to Luke 4:17 f. would be quite unusual for L, but not for Q. But is there any other passage in Q comparable to Luke 4:16–30 which, on Schür‑ mann’s view, consisted of three originally separate traditions not merely placed side by side but woven together closely in Q? Schürmann suggests that since Isa. 61:1 f. is used in a similar way in Luke 6:20 f., Luke 7:18–23 and Luke 4:17 ff., all three passages would seem to stem from Q. But Isa. 61:1 is also used in Acts 10:38; here Isa. 61:1 forms part of a section of pre-Lucan (but not Q!) tradition revised and reshaped by Luke himself. On Schürmann’s view, Luke 4:16–30 would have stood near the beginning of Q, and may possibly have arisen within the Q tradition as a further development of Matt. 11:2–6 = Luke 7:18–23.28 But if so, then Q would have begun with a clear and explicit christological understand‑ ing of the nature and purpose of the ministry of Jesus, to be followed by John’s question σὺ εἶ ὁ ἐρχόμενος; and the indirect and somewhat enigmatic reply of Jesus. If Luke 4:16 ff. is a development from Luke 7:18 ff., would the latter pas‑ sage have been retained in its present form?29 There is insufficient evidence to enable us to appeal to Luke 4:16–30 as Q material. However, several passages which undoubtedly do come from Q support the conclusions drawn from the reply of Jesus to John. Matt. 13:16 f. = Luke 10:23 f. also emphasises that God’s new age is dawning and is to be seen in both the actions and words of Jesus. [[34]] Those who see the actions of Jesus and hear his words are μακάριοι, for they are witnessing the long hoped for fulfilment of God’s promises.30 In the opening Beatitude ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ is promised (Matt. 5:3 = Luke 6:20b). But in the light of the two closely related Beatitudes which follow in Luke, who stands closer to Q, this must be taken as referring to the future, in spite of ἐστιν. However, μακάριοι οἱ πτωχοί undoubtedly refers to the present. Once again Isa. 61:1 f. is in view in fact this passage lies behind the first three Sources of St Luke’s Gospel’, in Studies in the Synoptic Gospels, ed. W. Sanday (Oxford, 1911), pp. 315–63. 27  Schürmann readily admits that many of the individual points he makes are not conclusive; he rests his case on the force of a cumulative argument. 28  Op. cit. pp. 203 f. 29  In addition, it is not easy (in spite of the explanations Schürmann offers) to understand why Matthew would have by-passed this Q material in favour of other traditions. 30  W. G. Kümmel notes that the juxtaposition of seeing and hearing, as evidence of the time of fulfilment, does not correspond to Jewish parallels, but to Matt. 11:5 f.; Promise, p. 112.

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Lucan (Q) Beatitudes.31 In the Q Beatitudes which stand at the head of a lengthy section of Q material, Jesus announces that the eschatological promises are now being fulfilled. In Matt. 12:28 = Luke 11:20 Jesus claims that his exorcisms provide evidence of the presence of God’s kingdom. Jesus’ insistence that his actions and words mark the dawn of God’s new age is deeply rooted in the Q material; Matt. 11:26 = Luke 7:18–23 is no isolated phenomenon. Matt. 12:28 = Luke 11:20 also emphasises that it is because of his relationship to God that Jesus exorcises demons. Here, as in Jesus’ reply to John, we have an implied christology. Jesus’ relationship to God and the grounds of his authority are also firmly underlined in two closely related passages which stood near the beginning of Q: the temptation and baptism narratives. Most scholars accept that the temptation narratives, Matt. 4:1–11 = Luke 4:1–13, stood in Q.32 If we accept the Matthaean order as original,33 the first two temptations are introduced by εἰ υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ. Whatever may have been the ori‑ gin of these verses, in their present form they are christological: Jesus’ authority as God’s Son is challenged but vindicated, υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ is very probably a Mes‑ sianic title here especially in view of 4Q flor, and the hints in this passage [[35]] of polemic against false understandings of Messiahship.34 Matt. 11:25–7 = Luke 10:21 f. also contains an important ‘Son’ christology, but the two passages do not seem to have been related to each other by the Q community: in the temptation narratives υἱός is anarthrous and linked with τοῦ θεοῦ in both cases. A ‘Son’ or ‘Son of God’ christology is not developed into a central theme in Q; christologi‑ cal titles are of less interest to Q than the grounds of the authority of Jesus. Q almost certainly contained an account of the baptism of Jesus.35 The tempta‑ tion narratives indicate a prior appointment as God’s Son and also Jesus’ recep‑ tion of the Spirit.36 Hence the Q version of the baptism of Jesus was probably 31  See J. Dupont, Les Béatitudes ii (Paris, 1970), pp. 92–9; A. Finkel, The Pharisees, pp. 155–8. 32  D. Lührmann suggests that Matthew and Luke have had access to independent traditions as this material differs markedly from the rest of Q. But the verbal agreement is much closer than in many other passages which Lührmann accepts as Q material. Logienquelle, p. 56. 33  This is the usual view, but H. Schürmann argues that Matthew has altered the Q order. Das Lukasevangelium i (Freiburg, 1969), p. 218. 34  See P. Hoffmann, ‘Die Versuchungsgeschichte in der Logienquelle’, ΒΖ xiii–xiv (1969– 70), pp. 207–23; also F. Hahn, The Titles of Jesus in Christology (E. T. London, 1969), p. 158 and p. 208. 35  See B. H. Streeter, The Four Gospels (London, 1924), pp. 186 ff.; H. Schürmann, Lukasevangelium, p. 197. D. Lührmann does not accept that Q contained an account of the baptism of Jesus. He notes that there is no evidence of Q material in the baptism narratives and adds, ‘überhaupt ist Q ja kein Evangelium!’ But one suspects that here, as in his discussion of Matt. 4:1–11 = Luke 4:1–13, Lührmann’s source-critical conclusions are determined partly by pre‑ conceived notions about the nature of Q. Logienquelle, p. 56 n. 2. 36  The Marcan account of the temptation seems to have influenced Matthew and Luke’s ver‑ sions only very slightly, if at all.

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very similar to the Marcan account; this is not the only point at which Mark and Q seem to have overlapped closely. If this is so, it is not rash to suggest that Q’s account of the baptism contained three themes: the new age is dawning in which God again speaks, and in which his Spirit is again active; Jesus enters upon his eschatological task as God’s Son (or, perhaps originally, God’s servant); and, having received the Spirit, Jesus can accomplish his word and work with real authority.37 The baptism and temptation narratives cannot be considered merely as a christological preface which can be removed leaving a very different kind of document.38 For the themes prominent in these verses are also found in a number of Q passages. Or, to put our point another way, even if it could be proved that Q did not contain baptism and temptation narratives, there is plenty of evidence to confirm that for the Q community the actions and proclamation of Jesus marked the [[36]] dawn of the new age, for Jesus was claiming to fulfil the prophetic promises. The opening Beatitudes and Jesus’ reply to John are to be read against the backdrop of Isa. 61:1 f. Jesus is the one anointed with the Spirit of God who has been sent to bring good news to the poor. The ‘past’ of Jesus, as well as his soon-expected parousia, is important to the Q community. Jesus’ reply to John’s question is followed by two closely related pericopae. Together they form an important central section in Q. At the end of the third pericope two christological themes emerge in Q for the first time: Jesus as Son of Man and Jesus (and John) as Wisdom’s representative(s).39 Both have attracted considerable attention in recent studies of the Q material. Can either be claimed to be so central in Q as to provide an answer to the puzzle of the purpose of Q? While a number of Q logia may be said to be wisdom sayings, there are four passages in which Jesus may possibly stand in a definite relationship to personi‑ fied Wisdom, Sophia. The parable of the children in the market place concludes with the logion καὶ ἐδικαιώθη ἡ σοφία ἀπὸ πάντων τῶν τέκνων αὐτῆς (Luke 7:35)40 Matthew’s version reads καὶ ἐδικαιώθη ἡ σοφία ἀπὸ τῶν ἔργων αὐτῆς, and represents his secondary modification of the logion. At the very beginning of this section of three pericopae Matthew interprets the miraculous actions of Jesus as τὰ ἔργα τοῦ Χριστοῦ (Matt. 11:2); right at the end of this section ἔργα are emphasised  – Jesus’ messianic deeds are again in view, but now Jesus is

 F. Hahn, Titles, p. 338.  Cf. Η. Ε. Tödt, ‘In the narratives about the baptism and temptation, Jesus is seen as the Son of God; but Harnack is right in insisting that the Q material must be interpreted independently of this prefixed introduction’, Son of Man, p. 264. 39  Son of Man may possibly have occurred earlier in Q. Cf. Luke 6:22 ἕνεκα τοῦ υἱοῦ τοῦ ἀνθρώπου and Matthew’s equivalent logion ἕνεκα ἐμοῦ, 5:11. 40  πάντων in Luke 7:35 may stem from the evangelist’s interpretation of the logion. F. Christ, Jesus Sophia, Die Sophia-Christologie bei den Synoptikern (Zürich, 1970), p. 79. 37 38

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explicitly identified as Sophia.41 In the Q logion Jesus and Sophia are not identi‑ fied; Jesus and John are Sophia’s representatives. An alternative interpretation would identify Jesus as Sophia who is rejected by ‘the men of this generation’, but justified by a particular group, in this context the tax collectors and sinners.42 But this is unlikely to be the meaning of the Q logion, as it concludes three peri‑ copae in which John is very closely associated with Jesus. In addition, in order to identify Jesus with Sophia in this logion, it is [[37]] necessary to read it against the background of a fully-fledged tradition about Sophia who is scorned by the majority, but received by only a few. Whether or not this logion is interpreted as part of an explicit Wisdom chris‑ tology in Q, it is the present earthly ministry of Jesus to ‘this generation’ which is in view: at the end of this section of Q material the rejection of Jesus (and John) is underlined.43 There is no doubt that the Jubelruf (Matt. 11:25–7 = Luke 10:21 f.) comes from Q and that it is to be interpreted almost in its entirety against the back‑ ground of Wisdom motifs.44 But need the corollary be that Jesus is here identi‑ fied as Sophia?45 It is possible to read Matt. 11:28–30 Δεῦτε πρός με … as the invitation of Sophia,46 but it is much less easy to read the preceding verses in this way, unless one accepts as a presupposition that a Wisdom christology lies at the heart of Q. The third so-called Wisdom passage in Q, Matt. 23:34–6 = Luke 11:49–51, also bristles with difficulties. Luke’s introduction reads διὰ τοῦτο καὶ ἡ σοφία τοῦ θεοῦ εἶπεν ἀποστελῶ εἰς αὐτοὺς προφήτας …. Matthew has dropped the reference to σοφία, making the passage into words of Jesus, and has changed the tense of the verb into the present: διὰ τοῦτο ἰδοὺ ἐγὼ ἀποστέλλω πρὸς ὑμᾶς προφήτας …. Luke’s version is closer to Q; Matthew seems to remove some of the difficulties and to identify Jesus with Sophia by placing the words in the mouth of Jesus.47 But does Jesus speak as the Wisdom of God in the original Q passage? This is unlikely, especially in view of the aorist εἶπεν; the words are probably an oracle of Wisdom given as a quotation from a now lost document. Once again there is more than a hint of the rejection of Jesus.

 M. J. Suggs, Wisdom, Christology and Law in Matthew’s Gospel (Harvard, 1970), pp. 33 ff.; F. Christ, Jesus Sophia, p. 76. 42  F. Christ, Jesus Sophia, p. 73. 43  Cf. D. Lührmann, Logienquelle, pp. 30 f. 44  Although one might suspect that revelation to babes rather than to the wise would run counter to the Wisdom tradition, denial of wisdom to the wise and its revelation to the humble is a firmly established theme found in a number of passages. F. Christ, Jesus Sophia, pp. 83 f. 45  Cf. F. Christ, ‘Die Sohn-Christologie ist also zugleich auch Weisheitschristologie’, Jesus Sophia, p. 87. 46  It is now widely accepted that Matt. 11:28–30 did not follow Matt. 11:25–7 in Q. 47  M. J. Suggs, Wisdom, pp. 13 ff. 41

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The logia which follow in Matthew (Matt. 23:37–9 = Luke 13:34–5), Ἰερουσαλὴμ Ἰερουσαλήμ, ἡ ἀποκτείνουσα τοὺς προφήτας …, also contain a number of wisdom motifs. It is quite possible that [[38]] Matthew has linked two separate Q passages; if he does identify Jesus as Sophia in the preceding verses, the identification may well continue into this passage.48 But it is not nec‑ essary to assume that Jesus is identified with Wisdom in the original Q tradition. As W. G. Kümmel notes, ‘Jesus could very well use of himself the traditional picture of a mother hen; besides there is no authority anywhere for connecting the wisdom myth with the expectation of the coming Messiah (Matt. 23:39)’.49 The extent to which Wisdom motifs are present in all four passages is striking; in other parts of the Synoptic traditions, with the exception of Matt. 11:28–30, they are much less conspicuous.50 The Q community seems to have been inter‑ ested in Wisdom traditions, but Q does not contain a fully developed Wisdom christology.51 If there is one theme which is common to all four Wisdom pas‑ sages (though it is not always equally prominent), then surely it is that Jesus has been sent by God (perhaps as Sophia’s representative) but has been rejected by many of those to whom he has been sent. As there is little or no evidence to suggest that the Q community has devel‑ oped or extended a Wisdom christology beyond the traditions to which it had access, it would be hazardous to draw conclusions about the purpose of Q from the christology of these four passages.52 Conclusions about the christology and purpose of Q have been drawn by H. E. Tödt and other recent writers from the Son-of-Man logia in Q. If one as‑ sumes that the Son of Man of Jewish apocalyptic, to [[39]] which the Synoptic logia must be related, is a transcendent figure with ‘traditional attributes’,53 and that it is on the basis of a few authentic ‘future’ Son-of-Man sayings that the Q community developed a Son-of-Man christology, then it is not surprising that the  Cf. M. J. Suggs, Wisdom, pp. 63 ff.  W. G. Kümmel, Promise, pp. 80 f. 50  F. Christ lists Luke 2:40–52; Matt. 2:1–12; Mark 6:2; Matt. 12:38 = Luke 11:31. Jesus Sophia, pp. 61 f. 51  M. J. Suggs argues that Sophia is a christological title in Matt, and Paul, but not in Q or among Paul’s opponents. Wisdom, p. 58 and p. 130; cf. D. Lührmann, Logienquelle, p. 99. The opposite view is taken by F. Christ who reads a fully developed Sophia tradition into each of the Q passages discussed above. Cf. also U. Wilckens, art. σοφία in TWNT vii, pp. 515 ff. 52  J. M. Robinson has attempted to do this from a rather different angle. He argues that Q belongs to a particular Gattung, Logoi Sophōn, ‘Sayings of the Sages’, which can be traced in Jewish, Christian and gnostic literature; Q belongs to the same Gattung as Pirke Aboth and the Gospel of Thomas. There are striking similarities between the various collections of sayings Robinson discusses, but their content and form both differ so markedly that clarification of the Gattung of Q seems to tell us little about its theological stance and purpose. ‘Logoi Sophōn: on the Gattung of Q’, in The Future of our Religious Past (Bultmann Festschrift), ed. J. M. Rob‑ inson (E. T. London, 1971), pp. 84–130. 53  H. E. Tödt, Son of Man, pp. 22 ff. 48 49

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theology of Q is considered to have been dominated completely by expectations of an imminent parousia. On this view, the Son-of-Man sayings in Q which refer to the earthly ministry of Jesus are generally considered to have been created by the Q community as a secondary development of its convictions about Jesus as the coming Son of Man. I do not propose to rehearse the now familiar arguments in favour of a very different approach, which, taking Dan. 7 as the primary background of Son of Man, accepts as authentic some Son-of-Man sayings in all three of the groups into which the Son-of-Man traditions are usually (but misleadingly) divided. The Son of Man is not simply an apocalyptic figure who appears at the end of time to act as judge; ‘rather it is because he is Son of Man now – i.e. elect, obedient, faithful and therefore suffering – that he will be vindicated as Son of Man in the future: the eschatological role of the Son of Man is based upon his obedient re‑ sponse to God now’.54 On this view it is the ‘present’ Son-of-Man sayings, rather than the ‘future’ sayings, which may be seen as the central element in a Son-ofMan christology. And if this is a plausible approach to the whole Son-of-Man question, a very different understanding of the purpose of Q becomes possible. This is not the only aspect of Tödt’s discussion of Q against which a firm question mark must be placed. Tödt argues that the Q community resumed Jesus’ preaching concerning the soon expected coming of the Kingdom, but deliber‑ ately by-passed the passion and resurrection of Jesus. ‘The passion and resurrec‑ tion were not what had to be preached, but what enabled them to preach.’55 Tödt suggests that the Q community had come into existence thanks to the risen one’s once more turning towards them in love – only on this basis could the preaching of Jesus be taken up again.56 Is it possible to accept that the resurrection [[40]] was crucial – indeed axiomatic for the Q community, but to argue that it did not form part of its proclamation? And if the resurrection was axiomatic, then surely the community must have asked itself the awkward question, ‘Why did Jesus die?’ – however unsophisticated the answer may have been. Tödt assumes that the community quite deliberately failed to face up to this question: ‘The events of Jesus’ being executed, laid under the curse of the cross and turned out of Israel could not fail to cast doubt upon the authority of his teaching.’57 But a number of Q sayings, some of which have been noted above, suggest that the scandal of the rejection of Jesus during his ministry, if not his ultimate 54  M. D. Hooker, The Son of Man in Mark (1967), p. 190. See also (with differences) O. Betz, What do We Know about Jesus? (E. T. London, 1968), pp. 109 ff.; F. H. Borsch, The Son of Man in Myth and History (London, 1967), pp. 43 ff.; C. F. D. Moule’s review of H. E. Tödt’s Son of Man, in Theology lxix (1966), pp. 172 ff.; R. Leivestad, ‘Exit the Apocalyptic Son of Man’, NTS xviii (1972) pp. 243–67. 55  H. E. Tödt, Son of Man, p. 250. 56  Ibid., also p. 273 57  H. E. Tödt, Son of Man, p. 250.

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rejection, was not obliterated or by-passed, and was not understood as undermin‑ ing the authority of Jesus. In Matt. 11:19 = Luke 7:34 Jesus states that critics of his conduct have written him off as a glutton and a winebibber, a friend of tax collectors and sinners. In Matt. 8:20 = Luke 9:59 Jesus states that while foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head: the logion speaks of the homelessness of Jesus – to be understood as his alienation from his family or his rejection by those among whom he moved. In short, if the Q community was able to accept the notion that the earthly Jesus was rejected by ‘this genera‑ tion’, then some kind of answer to the question, ‘Why did Jesus die?’, must have been possible. The eschatological expectations of the Q community are hardly likely to have smothered all interest in the ‘past’ of Jesus. Once one concedes that the resurrection was axiomatic for the Q community, even though it is not mentioned explicitly in Q, then it is most unlikely that the Q community did not have any kind of theological understanding of the death of Jesus. There are, then, good reasons for hesitating to accept that a ‘future’ Son-of-Man christol‑ ogy is the central christological theme in Q and that the proclamation of the Q community was concerned solely or even primarily with impending judgement. Recent attempts to grapple with christological themes in the New Testament have concentrated rather too rigidly on christological titles. This is particularly noticeable in recent studies of Q. There is one important christological title, Son of Man, in Q, but Q contains such a variety of other christological themes which are rarely related closely [[41]] to each other that Q can be called a christological document only with cautious qualification.58 The relationship between Q and passion material has always puzzled scholars. If Q is not merely catechetical or hortatory material which supplemented a pas‑ sion and resurrection kerygma,59 and if the Q community was not so concerned with the future coming of Jesus as Son of Man that we need conclude that it deliberately by-passed the passion and resurrection of Jesus in its proclamation, is there a plausible alternative? The Q material answers the questions, ‘Who was Jesus? With what authority did he act and speak?’60 In other words it does contain christological material – in the broadest sense of the term. But it was also concerned with the question, ‘What demands did Jesus make on those who would follow him?’ In addition Q  Cf. P. Stuhlmacher, Das paulinische Evangelium, p. 218.  See the references given in note 4 above. 60  Cf. A. P. Polag, ‘Zu den Stufen der Christologie in Q’, Studia Evangelica iv / i (1968), pp. 72–5. Polag also draws attention to Jesus’ reply to John. His brief but perceptive article seems to summarise the results of his research on Q. Unfortunately I have not had access to his two unpublished dissertations, Der Ursprung der Logienquelle (Trier, 1966), and Die Christologie der Logienquelle (Trier, 1968). See also K. Berger, ‘Zum traditionsgeschichtlichen Hintergrund christologischer Hoheits‑ titel’, NTS xvii (1971), pp. 391–425, esp. pp. 396 ff. 58 59

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contains a number of traditions about John – not because the Q community was involved in polemics with John’s disciples, but because of the deep conviction that the Christian story started with John; the relationship of Jesus to John was bound to be of interest and significance. Q contains such varied material that it is impossible to locate one specific purpose for which it was used. Q traditions would surely have been useful both for instruction of those within the community and in an evangelistic context. The clear warning note of impending judgement, as well as Q’s strong interest in the ‘past’ of Jesus, would have been appropriate in both contexts. There is no reason to regard Q either as solely kerygmatic material or solely didactic material – for the customary division is often both artificial and misleading. Since the Q community accepted that the one anointed with God’s Spirit, whose words and actions marked the dawn of God’s age of salvation, was rejected by those to whom he was sent, passion material would not have been incongruous alongside, but separate from Q. [[42]] There is no reason to assume that Q contains all the theological convictions of the Q community. There is good Old Testament and late Jewish precedent for a document like Q – but not for Mark. Hence it is not surprising that at first passion material was not linked explicitly with Q. And in view of the fact that both Matthew and Luke (and presumably also their communities) had access to two very different and originally separate kinds of material about Jesus (Q and Mark), is it not at least possible that the Q community also had two different kinds of material? If so, we might envisage traditions which set out the teaching of Jesus, but underlined the grounds of his authoritative words and actions, being used in instruction of those within the community and also in an evangelistic context. And, alongside Q, traditions which told the story of the ultimate rejection of Jesus by men, but proclaimed his vindication by God – such traditions being used primarily in the worship of the community.

Chapter 12

Incarnational Christology in the New Testament [[151]] The essays gathered together in The Myth of God Incarnate raise a num‑ ber of inter-related issues. Two of them are of particular interest to the student of the New Testament. The contributors share the conviction that unless the New Testament documents are read in the light of much later doctrinal statements, the traditional doctrine of the incarnation is less easy to find in its pages than is usually supposed. Several of the essayists insist that the origin and development of incarnational language was culturally conditioned, both in the New Testament period and in christological reflection and controversies in the following three hundred years. Some readers may be surprised that I have not seized immediately on the word ‘myth’, the word which provoked the rather frenzied reaction to the publication of the essays. I should not be unhappy to refer to the incarnation as ‘myth’, since ‘myth’ can be defined carefully with a positive sense which allows room for a historical element. However ‘myth’ is a word I should prefer to avoid with ref‑ erence to the incarnation since it is used in very varied ways and is often taken (even by theologians) to mean ‘untrue’ or ‘delusive’.1 In recent decades ‘de‑ mythologizing’ has been discussed frequently by New Testament scholars and many have attempted (not always successfully) to draw a distinction between functional and ontological language. Further questions concerning the nature of christological language have not received the attention they deserve. Metaphor, analogy, symbol, parable, story and myth are all found in the earliest christologi‑ cal confessions, acclamations and statements. What is the significance of this? Why are some christological expressions used in particular contexts, but not in others? To what extent is there a difference between language about God and language about Christ? Before progress can be made in that direction it is important to consider as carefully as possible the theological principles which are being expressed by New Testament writers who do use what may be called incipiently incarnational language. The phrase ‘theological principles’ has been chosen deliberately. To ask [[152]] whether the doctrine of the incarnation is to be found in the New Testament is to ask the wrong question. For one is then bound to argue either that 1  Cf. M. Wiles, ‘Myth in Theology’, The Myth of God Incarnate, ed. John Hick, SCM Press 1977, p. 164.

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the New Testament evidence is in line with, or that it is out of line with the clas‑ sic christological formulations of the Patristic period. The first-century evidence will be read in the light of one’s own convictions about Chalcedon. Some of the christological emphases of the New Testament writers were not central in the later debates and some of the later concerns were of little interest within the New Testament period. Judged by later standards parts of the New Testament may seem to reflect a very ‘low’ christology, but in a first-century Jewish context those same affirmations about Jesus may have been extremely bold and even quite unprecedented. One could well argue that some of the chris‑ tological expressions which seem to be most closely related to later incarnational christology were, in a first-century context, not necessarily among the most ‘far-reaching’ and ‘radical’ christological claims. The pre-existence of Jesus, which seems to us to be a difficult notion, is perhaps a good example: given firstcentury presuppositions, it was not an unnatural affirmation for some of the first Christians to make. New Testament writings must be considered as thoroughly and sensitively as possible against the background of the varied Jewish and Hellenistic currents of the first century. They must not be pressed for answers to later questions and problems. An insistence on reading the New Testament writings in their first-century context raises immediately the question of cultural conditioning. Of course the earliest christological claims about Jesus were culturally conditioned! How could the earliest followers of Jesus have expressed their convictions about him without drawing on the categories with which they (and their hearers and read‑ ers) were familiar? If they had not done this, expression and communication of their claims would have been impossible. This is such an obvious point that it is surprising that so much space is taken up in The Myth of God Incarnate dem‑ onstrating that incarnational language used by Christians in the first and later centuries was culturally conditioned. The much more significant point (which is scarcely made in The Myth) is that when New Testament ‘incarnational’ chris‑ tology is examined carefully with the tools of historical criticism, it frequently runs against first-century Jewish and Hellenistic religious currents. Available categories are used, but always with qualification. No one category is ever taken over and used on its own; each category is always profoundly modified by be‑ ing set in juxtaposition with one or more other categories. [[153]] The earliest Christians frequently stole the clothes of those to whom they were seeking to say something about Jesus, but the clothes had to be redesigned before they could be of use. I am prepared to follow the lead of first-century Christians. Their clothes may have to be refurbished, but I am not prepared to throw them away. Even if it is an exaggeration, Gerhard Ebeling’s hermeneutical dictum must be taken seriously:

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‘The same word can be said to another time only by being said differently.’2 The traditional doctrine of the incarnation may need restatement, but the theologi‑ cal principles being expressed by New Testament writers can and must still be taken seriously. In the pages which follow we shall not lose sight of the question of cultural conditioning, but we shall concentrate on some New Testament passages which refer to the ‘sending’ of Jesus by God. Although the phraseology of the various passages differs, they all stress the initiative of God in the ‘sending’ of Jesus. They are certainly incipiently incarnational, even though they were not always at the centre of later christological discussion. Our starting point is one of the most striking passages in the Pauline epistles, Galatians 4.4 f.: ‘When the time had fully come, God sent forth his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons.’ Paul uses ‘Son of God’ much less frequently than ‘Lord’, but statistics are often misleading. ‘Son of God’ is found in a number of passages in which carefully phrased theological statements concerning the rela‑ tionship of Jesus to God are being used. It is no coincidence that ‘Son of God’, or, more often, ‘his Son’ is nearly always used immediately after a reference to God. Paul’s letters do not lead us to suppose that a ‘Son of God’ christology is being advanced for the first time, as Paul assumes that his readers are familiar with the phrase from initial missionary preaching. In several passages there are good reasons for supposing that Paul is quoting an earlier ‘formula’, though this can‑ not be established conclusively. A ‘Son of God’ christology is certainly found within a very few years of the crucifixion. It is not a late development which arose as a result of contact with the Hellenistic world or with Samaritan views.3 What christological affirmation is intended by ‘God sent his Son’? Within the Old Testament and later Jewish writings, as well as in the New Testament itself, there are many references to the sending by God of prophets, wise men, scribes, messengers and [[154]] other men. Could ‘his Son’ in Galatians 4.4 be taken as a reference to Jesus as a prophet? After all, both Israel and the king are referred to as ‘Son of God’ in the Old Testament. For Paul, Jesus is ‘Son of God’ in a unique sense. The opening phrase of Gala‑ tians 4.4, ‘in the fullness of time’ reflects Paul’s eschatology which is so central in his theology. The sending of Jesus is both the fulfilment of God’s promises and the inauguration of a new humanity. The purpose of the sending is redemp‑  G. Ebeling, ‘Time and Word’, The Future of our Religious Past: Essays in Honour of Rudolph Bultmann, ed., J. M. Robinson, SCM Press 1971, p. 265. 3  Cf. M. Hengel, ‘Christologie und Neutestamentliche Chronologie’, Neues Testament und Geschichte, Festschrift für Ο. Cullmann, Mohr, Tübingen 1972, pp. 43–67. See also my note ‘Samaritan Incarnational Christology?’ in this volume [[i.e., in the volume in which this essay originally appeared]]. 2

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tive; Jesus is not merely a herald of salvation, for God’s sending of him is itself God’s redemptive act. While the phrase ‘his Son’ does not necessarily imply the pre-existence of Jesus, there are a number of passages in Paul’s writings in which it is implied, so we may assume that this is the case here. The Son’s humanity is stressed: he is born and lives as a Jew of his time. Side by side with this, but without a hint of an uncomfortable juxtaposition, the Son sent in the fullness of time is, for Paul, pre-existent. Here we have the elements of an incarnational christology, but the accent is not on the incarnation as such, or on the Son as a heavenly teacher or revealer (as in some later incarnational christologies), but on God’s initiative in redemption by sending Jesus at a par‑ ticular point in time. In this passage Paul’s eschatology, his soteriology and his christology merge together. Indeed, we can go further, for the following verses speak of God’s sending of the Spirit whereby Christians (as adopted sons) are enabled to cry ‘Abba Father!’ The opening section of Galatians 4 contains one of the most important tap-roots not only of incarnational christology, but also of trinitarian theology. The pre-existence of the Son is found in Paul, but it is rarely developed. What is its background? The closest parallels are to be found in Hellenistic Jewish writings which refer to the sending of God’s power, wisdom or logos, and to the logos as God’s Son. The background of Galatians 4.4 (and further confirmation that pre-existence is implied) is probably to be found in Wisdom of Solomon 9.10 and 17.4 Here the sending of Wisdom from heaven and the sending of God’s Spirit from heaven are set alongside each other, just as the sending of the Son and of the Spirit are in Galatians 4. Solomon prays to God: ‘Send her (Wisdom) forth from the holy heavens … so that she may labour at my side and I may learn what pleases thee … Whoever learnt to know thy purposes, unless thou hadst given him wisdom and sent thy holy spirit down from heaven on high?’ Here Wisdom is a guide or teacher. In Galatians, however, the sending of the Son is not a timelessly valid statement, but a unique and definitive act. There is no parallel in [[155]] Hellenistic Judaism to the sending of the Son as one who had died a shameful death just a few years earlier. In Galatians, but not in the Wisdom of Solomon we have an eschatological and soteriological note. The parallel passage from Wisdom provides a good example of cultural conditioning, but also of Paul’s modification and qualification of notions which were to hand. Earlier in Galatians there are two important passages which shed further light on the ‘sending of the Son’. At 3.13 f. redemption and the gift of the Spirit, which are so central at the beginning of chapter 4, are both mentioned. But in this sec‑ tion of his letter Paul insists that the one who overcomes the curse of the Law is 4  Cf. Ε. Schweizer, ‘Zum religionsgeschichtlichen Hintergrund der “Sendungsformel” Gal. 4,4 f.; Rom. 8,3 f.; Joh. 3,16 f.; 1 Joh. 4,9’ in his Beiträge zur Theologie des Neuen Testaments, Zwingli, Zürich 1970, pp. 83–96; W. Kramer, Christ, Lord, Son of God, SCM Press 1966; J. Blank, Paulus und Jesus, Kösel, Munich 1968, pp. 250–303.

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Abraham’s heir. In other words, however unique and decisive the sending of the Son is, that sending is to be related to God’s acts in the history of Israel. In the second passage (Gal. 2.20), it is not God who sends forth his Son, but the Son of God who takes the initiative himself and ‘gives’ himself: ‘… I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.’ Galatians 2.20 and 4.4 f. provide an example of actions and intentions being shared by God and Jesus, or transferred from one to the other. Galatians 2.20 also confirms just how closely the ‘sending’ of Jesus is related to the crucifixion for the immediate context of this verse suggests that here Paul has in mind the death of Jesus rather than his coming into the world. The same verb, ‘give’ or ‘give up’, is used at Romans 8.32, where there is a clear allusion to the sacrifice of Isaac: ‘God did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all …’ Here the initiative is God’s and the ‘giving up’ includes the cross. At Romans 8.3 God’s sending of his Son into the world and the death of Jesus are probably both in mind. In all these passages the ‘sending’ or ‘giving’ of the Son is soteriological. There is no speculation or emphasis on pre-existence. Paul’s concern is with the saving activity of God. This is confined neither to the ‘sending’ of the Son into the world (the ‘incarnation’) nor to the crucifixion, for both are in view. For Paul the sending, as well as the death and the raising of Jesus, mark the dawn of the eschatological time of salvation.5 Paul affirms both that the Son was sent in the fullness of time for us and that Jesus has been vindicated and is now exalted as Lord. How are these two quite different kinds of christological statement related to one another? The ‘kyrios’ christology expresses the authority of the Lord over the indi‑ vidual and the Christian community and it is often related to ethical statements. The ‘Son of God’ christology expresses the close relationship between God and Jesus and the initiative of God [[156]] in redemption.6 These two christologies are used in different contexts and are very rarely brought together by Paul. This should cause us to hesitate before attempting to decide which of the two is chronologically prior. There is, however, one passage where the two christologies are brought to‑ gether quite deliberately. At Romans 1.3 f. Paul quotes an early credal formula in which the designation of Jesus as ‘Son of God’ is linked with the resurrection. This is quite unlike the use of ‘Son of God’ in the other Pauline passages. But right at the beginning of the credal formula Paul’s favourite phrase ‘his Son’ is used7 and it is linked closely to the gospel of God: Paul,… set apart for the gospel  See W. G. Kümmel, ‘Jesus und Paulus’, NTS 10, 1963–4, p. 172.  1 Thess. 1.9 f. is the only passage in Paul where the ‘Son’ is linked with the parousia but even here the emphasis is on the divine initiative. 7  Paul’s usual phrase is ‘his Son’ rather than ‘the Son’ or ‘Son of God’. Exceptions are 1 Cor. 15.28; 2 Cor. 1.19; Eph. 4.13; Gal. 1.16 is imprecise. The sense could be similar to that found in Rom. 1.3b, or more probably, Gal. 4.4 f. 5 6

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of God … the gospel concerning his Son …’ A few verses later Paul refers again to the ‘gospel of his Son’ (1.9) and at 1.16 the nature of the gospel is clarified: it is the power of God for salvation to every one who has faith. ‘Gospel’, ‘Son’ and ‘salvation’ are closely related and in each case ‘God’ is the subject. In this emphasis on the redemptive activity of God through his Son we are very close to Galatians 4.4 f. In Romans 1.3 f. the initial reference to ‘his Son’ is characteristi‑ cally Pauline, but the reference to Son of God in the clauses which follow (‘declared Son of God … by his resurrection from the dead’) is not found elsewhere in Paul: for this and other reasons it is taken by most scholars to be a quotation of an earlier credal formula. Paul modifies the traditional statement by prefixing ‘his Son’ in a way which alters the accent of the formula which follows. He wishes to say more about Jesus than the credal formula’s statement that Jesus was a prophet (or Messiah) of David’s line who was raised from the dead: it was God’s Son who was descended from David according to the flesh and declared Son of God in power … by his resurrection from the dead. The result may be clumsy: its very awkwardness confirms that here we have two different christologies which are not fully integrated. For Paul a ‘kyrios’ christology and a ‘Son of God’ christology are comple‑ mentary. If either were taken in isolation, the underlying conception would move too close to well-known Jewish or Hellenistic categories. The Son of God is not merely a heavenly revealer; Jesus is not merely a human being exalted as Lord and given an authority ‘independent’ of God. In Romans 1, as in Romans 8.3 and 32 and Galatians 4.4 f. the ‘sending’ of the Son is soteriological; it is a unique and decisive event which marks God’s fulfilment of his promises. The sending and crucifixion of the Son and the resurrection / exaltation of Jesus as Lord are inseparable in Paul’s thinking, even though they are rarely (and then only awkwardly) brought together. [[157]] The so-called christological hymn at Philippians 2.6–11 is an exception. Here the two forms of christology we have been discussing are found side by side.8 Although Son of God is not used, it would not have been inappropriate, for the opening phrases into which so much is packed so tersely must surely be taken as incipiently incarnational. In a number of Pauline passages (not all of which have we referred to) we find the beginnings of an incarnational christology. But Paul is often silent just at the point where his readers in later centuries have craved for more explicit state‑ ments. What Paul does not say is almost as important as what he does say. Very little is said about the pre-existence of Jesus and little about the precise relation‑ ship of Jesus to God. On the one hand, it is not the sending of the Son into the 8  R. P. Martin notes that the relation of the pre-existence of Jesus and his exaltation in Phil. 2.6–11 has rarely been discussed: Carmen Christi, Cambridge University Press 1967, pp. 247 f. Martin summarizes J. Jervell’s view that two diverse christologies are set cheek by jowl in the hymn.

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world which per se is redemptive. On the other hand the death of Jesus is never important just because the Son is pre-existent.9 The incarnational elements in Paul’s christology are eschatological and soteriological; the sending of the Son is not an epiphany, for the humanity of Jesus is never lost sight of. Did Paul consider Jesus to be ‘divine’? The answer would appear to be clear: Jesus stood in the closest possible relationship to God for his favourite phrase ‘his Son’ points to the similarity, as it were, of God and Jesus, rather than to their ‘difference’. But this raises the question of ‘cultural conditioning’ in an even more acute way. For the most important influence of all on Paul was the Old Testament. How could Paul square his convictions about Jesus with the strong monotheistic teaching of the scriptures? While the scriptures spoke freely of theophanies, of angels and even of intermediaries, this was never at the expense of monotheism. The strength of this conviction can hardly be over-estimated. Within the varied currents of first-century Judaism, with their increased interest in God’s angels, helpers or intermediaries, there was always resistance to binitarian or ditheistic thinking. Some of the boldest steps were taken by Philo. He can speak of the ‘second God’ (deuteros Theos) who is the logos of the Most High One. But Philo rebuts any possible charge that he is compromising monotheism by insisting that the ‘second God’ is only the visible emanation of the High, ever-existing God.10 Philo was not alone. In apocalyptic traditions which are roughly contemporary with the first decades of Christianity and in Jewish mystical traditions, some of which may go back to the same period, there is no shortage of speculation on angels and mediators. At times these traditions come within a hair’s breadth of positing a ‘power’ in heaven independent of God. But such traditions do not [[158]] seem to have aroused the ire of more ‘orthodox’ Jews, presumably be‑ cause they were not felt to compromise monotheism. There are a number of rabbinic traditions in which sects which did posit ‘two powers in heaven’ are attacked as heretical. These polemical traditions, which have often baffled scholars, have recently been studied with more refined his‑ torical methods and dated confidently to Palestine in the early second century, though the polemic may well be much older.11 The rabbis did not object to heavenly beings, but they were particularly scrupulous to avoid the suggestion that any heavenly being could exercise independent authority. Whom were they attacking? In all the earliest traditions the second figure is seen as a complemen‑ tary figure, a divine helper; it is clear that in many cases Christians are in view.12  R. Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, I, SCM Press 1952, p. 293.  A. F. Segal, Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and Gnosticism, Brill, Leiden 1977. 11  Ibid., p. 8 n. 12  Segal argues that whenever the second figure in heaven is seen as negative, we are dealing with a radically gnostic system; this happens in the later traditions.  9 10

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It is impossible to trace a direct line from this Jewish polemic against Chris‑ tians back to Paul. But we may be confident that Paul was aware of the danger that his christological statements could be taken to compromise monotheism. It is for this reason that Paul is reluctant to call Jesus Theos. God is one.13 This particular ‘cultural conditioning’ must be borne strongly in mind in discussion of Paul’s christology. It is quite likely that Paul chose to speak of Jesus as God’s Son in some of his most carefully measured theological statements because he wished to stress as clearly as possible the ‘closeness’ of the relationship between Jesus and God as well as the humanity of Jesus. But Paul did not play into the hands of his Jewish opponents by portraying Jesus as an independent authority in heaven who descended to earth on his own initiative to disclose to men the knowledge of their redemption. Paul’s rich and varied christological expressions do include elements which can be called incarnational. Of these, one of the most important is his use of ‘Son of God’. This is undoubtedly ‘culturally conditioned’, but as we have seen, the closest parallel in Hellenistic Judaism serves to underline distinctive and important features in Paul’s thinking about Jesus. God’s sending of his Son is a unique and decisive act of redemption; it is wholly ‘new’ but it is in continuity with God’s relationship with Israel and marks its fulfilment – Redemption and reconciliation are on God’s initiative, not man’s discovery. With a nice turn of phrase Frances Young contrasts Arius and Athanasius: ‘Where Arius severed the mediator from God, Athanasius severed him from the world.’14 Paul held both together tenaciously and insisted both that God sent forth his Son into the world to redeem men, and that Jesus was born of a woman, born under the law. [[159]] In the Johannine writings there are close parallels to the Pauline ‘send‑ ing’ passages.15 John 3.17 and Galatians 4.4 are strikingly similar in structure, even though the wording is not identical: God sent the Son into the world … in order that the world might be saved through him. God sent forth his Son … in order that he might redeem those who were under the law.

Since there is no question of direct dependence of the fourth evangelist on Paul’s epistles, many scholars have concluded that John and Paul are drawing inde‑ pendently on an early christological ‘formula’. This seems very probable. John and Paul certainly share several important convictions about Jesus. But does the fourth evangelist move far beyond Paul in his incarnational theology? In par‑ ticular, has Paul’s ‘born of a woman’ been lost sight of, so that the earthly life of Jesus is an epiphany? Does the incarnation in itself have redemptive significance?  Rom. 3.30; Gal. 3.20; 1 Cor. 8.4, 6; Eph. 4.6; and cf. 1 Tim. 1.17 and 2.5.  F. Young, ‘A Cloud of Witnesses’, The Myth of God Incarnate, ed. J. Hick, SCM Press 1977, p. 27. 15  John 3.17 (cf. 3.16); 1 John 4.9. 13 14

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E. Käsemann’s famous dispute with Bultmann over the interpretation of Jo‑ hannine christology has sharpened up the issues at stake. Käsemann quotes two passages from Bultmann’s commentary which summarize Bultmann’s position: If the glory had not been there, there could be no talk of revelation. But this is precisely the paradox, which runs through the whole Gospel; the doxa is not to be seen alongside the sarx or through it, as through something which is transparent, yet it is to be seen nowhere else than in the sarx and our regard must continually and firmly be fixed on the sarx and never allow itself to be drawn away, if its desire is to see the doxa. Revelation is therefore present in a peculiar hiddenness. But it is man and only man who is immediately accessible and not the Logos; that this man is the Logos, I can in any event know only outside of and alongside my knowledge of him as man. But this means that, in any such understanding of the Logos, becoming man is never seen as the decisive event of revelation. Thus the Johannine portrayal of the Revealer who has become flesh has no trace of immediate accessibility; to meet him is to be faced with a question, not to be persuaded of something.

Käsemann maintains emphatically that he who has become flesh does not cease to exist as a heavenly being; that he undergoes no ‘transformation’.16 Incarnation for John is really epiphany. For Käsemann the centre of gravity in the evange‑ list’s christology is not, ‘the Logos became flesh’, but, ‘we saw his glory’. At this point, at least, Bultmann is correct. Käsemann believes that it is not without reason that two millenia have loved the [[160]] Fourth Gospel because it portrayed Jesus as the God who walked the earth. There are parts of the Fourth Gospel which could easily be misconstrued in this direction, but there are many passages which clearly run in the other direction.17 For example, the signs are not open proof that the Logos has become flesh. They do not compel belief. The first sign at Cana concludes: ‘and his disciples believed in him’, but nothing is said about the response of others who witnessed what happened. In the following verses Jesus is asked by the Jews for a sign to support his extraordinary conduct in ‘cleansing’ the Temple (2.18). The Jews want, but are denied, open proof. In this passage not even the disciples understand the words of Jesus; only after the resurrection did they believe the scripture and the word which Jesus had spo‑ ken. At 12.37, which, according to C. H. Dodd’s analysis, opens the epilogue to the Book of Signs, the evangelist himself carefully points out that signs do not necessarily lead to faith. There is a ‘secret’ in the Fourth Gospel which the opponents of Jesus are un‑ able to unravel: they may speak with Jesus and see his actions and fail to discern  E. Käsemann, ‘The Structure and Purpose of the Prologue to John’s Gospel’ in New Testament Questions of Today, SCM Press 1969, p. 153 f. See also E. Käsemann, The Testament of Jesus, SCM Press 1968. 17  Cf. G. Bornkamm, ‘Zur Interpretation des Johannes-Evangeliums: Eine Auseinanderset‑ zung mit Ernst Käsemanns Schrift “Jesu letzter Wille nach Johannes 17”’, in Geschichte und Glaube I, Kaiser, Munich, 1968, pp. 104–21. 16

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anything significant. Morna Hooker has observed that in every debate between Jesus and the Jews where the teaching of Jesus is rejected, the point at issue is the question of Jesus’ origin: those who reject him fail to recognize that he is ‘from above’. The ‘secret’ which is hidden from the crowd is not the mystery of the kingdom, not the messianic identity of Jesus, but the glory spoken of in the Prologue.18 ‘We have seen his glory’ (1.14) does not mean that John’s Jesus is God strid‑ ing the earth with feet which barely touch the ground. There are passages which, taken in isolation, might seem to suggest this, but they are exceptions which prove the rule. One such passage is 18.6, where those sent to arrest Jesus fall back to the ground when Jesus says ‘Ego eimi; I am’. Nonetheless Jesus does not escape arrest and the evangelist quickly repeats the unwitting prophecy of Caiaphas, ‘it is expedient that one man should die for the people’ (18.14). In this way the evangelist draws particular attention to the purpose for which the Son was sent into the world: he died not for the nation alone, but to gather together the scattered children of God (11.52). In one of the most dramatic statements in the gospel Jesus proclaims, ‘I and the Father are one’ (10.30). This might seem to support Käsemann’s position, but there are passages which expound that statement in another direction. For example, at 12.44–50, where the evangelist carefully summarizes the themes of the preceding discourses, Jesus says, ‘He who believes in me [[161]] believes not in me, but in him who sent me … I have not spoken on my own authority; the Father who sent me has himself given me commandment what to say and what to speak.’ The evangelist may well have been aware of Jewish polemic against those who believed that there were ‘two authorities in heaven’. Jewish opposition to the Johannine community would have echoed the words of 10.33, ‘We stone you for no good work but for blasphemy, because you, being a man, make yourself God’. But the evangelist takes great pains to stress in passages such as 10.36 ff. and 8.29 that Jesus, the Son of God, is sent by the Father and does not speak or act independently. Käsemann has exaggerated the difference between Johannine Christianity and other strands of early Christianity. The heart of ‘incarnation’ christology in the Fourth Gospel, as in Paul, lies in the sending of the Son, who was born of a woman, the Logos who became flesh. ‘We saw his glory’ (1.14) and ‘We have received grace …’ (1.16) are the cries of the believing community in the light of the crucifixion / exaltation of Jesus; the ‘glory’ is never displayed except to the eyes of faith. In the Fourth Gospel the ‘incarnation’ is not to be separated from the passion. There is a sense in which the whole work is a ‘passion gospel’, for the procla‑  M. D. Hooker, ‘The Johannine Prologue and the Messianic Secret’, NTS 21, 1974–5, p. 44.

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mation of Jesus’ death is at least as prominent in the gospel’s first half as in the second. With respect to allusions to the crucifixion, there is no turning point in John comparable with Mark 8.19 There are, then, important theological principles which Paul and John share. Neither has a doctrine of the incarnation in the sense that the incarnation has significance independent of the crucifixion and resurrection / exaltation of Je‑ sus. This happens for the first time in Ignatius, and is found frequently in later Christian writers.20 But both Paul and John have ‘incarnational’ elements in their christologies. Both insist that the sending of the Son is God’s redemptive act: it is God’s initiative, not man’s discovery. For both there is a sense in which the significance of Jesus as the Son sent by the Father is a response of faith: the earthly life of Jesus is not an open epiphany, it does not provide proof. There is one further passage in which the sending of the Son is prominent. In the parable of the vineyard and the tenants, which is found in Matthew, Mark and Luke, as well as in the Gospel of Thomas, various servants are sent to collect from the tenants the owner’s share of the produce: some are treated violently, others killed. Finally the owner of the vineyard sends his own dear son, [[162]] but he is recognized as the heir, is killed and his body is flung out of the vineyard. The evangelists clearly intended the parable to be treated allegorically: the servants are the rejected prophets and the one sent finally as God’s own dear Son is Jesus. The sending of Jesus to God’s people is related to the sending of the prophets, but the evangelists all take pains to distinguish Jesus from the proph‑ ets: Jesus is not merely the final messenger, he is sent as God’s Son. In what sense did Mark understand Jesus to be God’s Son? The phrase used in the parable, ‘my beloved Son’ (Mark 12.6) recalls the words of the voice from heaven at the baptism of Jesus (Mark 1.11) and again at the transfiguration (Mark 9.7). In the former passage Sonship is associated closely with the gift of the Spirit (just as it is, with reference to Christian believers, in Gal. 4.6f). The verses which follow the transfiguration are notoriously difficult, but the passage does stress that Sonship involves suffering and death. This latter theme becomes even more explicit at Mark 14.36 where in Gethsemane Jesus addresses God directly as Abba, Father; to be God’s Son is to be dedicated unconditionally to God’s will, even to the point of death. The evangelist, then, uses the parable to express in a different genre the same themes found in other passages in the gospel which speak of the Sonship of 19  So R. T. Fortna, ‘Christology in the Fourth Gospel’, NTS 21, 1974–5, p. 502. Fortna argues that the Fourth Gospel is ‘neither passion-narrative-with-introduction nor aretalogy with sequel, but one continuous passion narrative, that is, a single account of Jesus’ revelatory glorification via his death and resurrection.’ Ibid., p. 504. 20  For a recent thorough discussion, see M. Hubaut, La Parabole des Vignerons Homicides, Gabalda, Paris 1976. Rather surprisingly, M. Hubaut does not refer tο the Pauline and Johan‑ nine parallels we have discussed, nor does he consider the obvious link with the other Marcan ‘Son’ passages.

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Jesus. Although the parable is also concerned with Israel’s rejection of Jesus, it expounds, in an indirect but powerful way, the significance of the death of Jesus: the death of Jesus involved God, for it is the Son sent by God who was crucified. Although the pre-existence of the Son is not even hinted at21 and although the redemptive significance of the death of Jesus does not become explicit in the parable, the parallel with the ‘sending’ passages in Paul and in the Fourth Gospel is striking. Whatever may be the origin of the parable (and in all probability an earlier form goes back to Jesus himself),22 Mark, like Paul and John, emphasizes that the sending of the Son is on God’s initiative and is inextricably related to the cross. The sending of the Son is not a demonstration of ‘divine power’ in the usually accepted sense, for it involves rejection and death, and, above all, obedience to God’s will. The precise sense which the evangelist and his readers would have attached to ‘Son of God’ is much disputed, but it is clear that while for Mark Jesus is a messianic prophet, he is more than this, for his full significance is seen only in the cross and resurrection. If ‘Son of God’ did suggest to Hellenistic readers in the first century a [[163]] ‘divine’ wonder worker (and this is in fact very doubt‑ ful) this notion has also been drastically redefined; for Mark the Sonship of Jesus involves obedience, rejection, suffering and death. It is Jesus’ cry ‘Abba, Father’ in Mark 14.36, his acceptance of the cup of suffering and his obedience to God which most clearly spell out the meaning of Sonship. The incipiently incarnational christology which is found in the New Testament is culturally conditioned. Wherever there are similarities to first-century Jewish or Hellenistic religious expressions, there are also profound changes. No one category by itself is used to express the significance of Jesus. Modification and juxtaposition of several categories always go hand in hand. The cultural conditioning runs at an even deeper level. New Testament writers were expressing the significance of Jesus within the context of varied currents within Judaism which held resolutely to monotheism and within a Hellenistic environment in which there were many ‘gods’ and ‘lords’, as Paul acknowledges in 1 Corinthians 8.5. Some of their claims could easily have been said to under‑ mine monotheism, but those same claims in a different setting could well have been dismissed as those of religious hucksters. In studying the origin and development of early christology one cannot rest content with tracing ‘parallels’ and ‘influences’. Pannenberg is surely correct when he reminds us that ‘in the history of ideas nothing is clarified and under‑  Contra R. Fuller, The Foundations of New Testament Christology, Lutterworth 1965 p. 194. Cf. M. Hubaut’s discussion, op. cit., p. 42. 22  It is impossible to discuss here the use and understanding of ‘Son of God’ found in Mat‑ thew and Luke. Recent scholarship has concentrated rather narrowly on the origin and develop‑ ment of the christological titles and has not given enough attention to the particular emphasis of the individual New Testament writers. 21

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stood by the phrase: this or that has ‘influenced’ something or other …. In order for an ‘influence’ of alien concepts to be absorbed, a situation must have previ‑ ously emerged within which these concepts could be greeted as an aid for the expression of a problem already present.’23 It is not the ‘cultural conditioning’ which is surprising but the ways in which the earliest Christians drew on and yet flew in the face of contemporary religious categories and in ways which ran the risk of ridicule in both a Jewish and in a Hellenistic environment. T. S. Eliot’s dictum, ‘Christianity is always adapting itself into something which can be believed’, which is quoted in the Preface to The Myth of God Incarnate, is no more than a half-truth. In this essay we have concentrated on two of the issues raised in The Myth of God Incarnate. Some aspects of the question of cultural conditioning have been explored briefly, but this is a major issue with wide implications. There can be no doubt that an incipient incarnational christology is found in a number of New Testament writings, but we have not attempted to discuss all the relevant [[164]] passages. Instead we have sought to uncover the theological principles which lie behind one important strand of the evidence, passages which refer to the ‘sending of the Son’. Jesus as Son of God is sent into the world on God’s initiative; this is God’s supreme act of redemption. It is the ‘sending’ or ‘giving up’ of Jesus to the cross which is redemptive: the Son is no mere revealer who discloses heavenly secrets during a brief appearance on earth. The Son who is sent is unique, but his send‑ ing is not unrelated to the sending of the prophets to Israel; the parable of the vineyard makes this point particularly clearly, as does the epistle to the Hebrews (even though ‘sending’ is not mentioned explicitly). The ‘sending’ passages em‑ phasize that the significance of Jesus is not to be seen in his achievements, his example of noble endeavour. God’s salvation is not reward, it is gift and grace. These theological principles must be retained in any attempt to restate the doc‑ trine of the incarnation. They remind us that ‘incarnation’ must not be separated either from God’s relationship with Israel or from the cross and the resurrection of Jesus. The incarnation must be central in Christian theology, but it must not be isolated (as it often has been) as the focal point. The New Testament writings do rule out some estimates of Jesus which ap‑ peared in the first century and were to reappear again and again: Jesus was ‘the prophet’ par excellence, but he was more than this, however difficult it was to spell out the ‘more than a prophet’. Jesus revealed God to men, but he was not a gnostic revealer of heavenly truths who appeared veiled in flesh. The New Testament writers spell out the significance of Jesus in a wide and amazingly rich variety of ways; they were unwilling to compromise either his uniqueness or his humanity. Should we not follow their lead?  W. Pannenberg, Jesus – God and Man, SCM Press 1968, p. 153.

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Chapter 13

Messianism and Christology: Mark, Matthew, Luke and Acts [[78]] To what extent were convictions about the significance of Jesus shaped by the messianic expectations of some of his earliest followers? How and when were aspects of Jewish messianism transformed into early Christology? How prominent were debate and dispute on this issue between followers of Jesus and their opponents? My brief in this chapter is to tackle these questions with special reference to three New Testament writers: Mark, Matthew and Luke. Given the complexity of the issues and the evidence, even that narrower focus is a tall order. In spite of well over a century of lively scholarly discussion, and the avail‑ ability of a mountain of new or re-assessed evidence, the relationship between messianism and Christology is now even more problematic than it was 120 years ago. In 1886 V. H. Stanton claimed that his book was ‘the first attempt either in England or on the Continent to examine systematically and thoroughly the historical relations of Christian Messianic beliefs to Jewish, and to appreciate their significance …’1 Again and again he anticipates current discussion. He is alert to the possibility that Christian views may have been affected by Jewish developments, even though he gives prominence to the more usual view that there was considerable Christian transformation of Jewish conceptions of the Messiah.2 He repeatedly shows how central interpretation of Scripture was to debate and dispute. A. Edersheim’s claim that some Septuagint passages appear to give a specifically messianic turn is brushed aside: ‘We cannot, however, rely upon the text of the LXX as we now possess it for information respecting purely Jewish opinion.’3 By comparison with current discussion, the primary sources on which V. H. Stanton drew were limited and heavily weighted towards rabbinic writ‑ ings. Nonetheless it is still rewarding to keep an eye on his agenda, for he was grappling with issues which cry out for even more scholarly attention following the ready availability of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

 Stanton 1886.  Stanton 1886: 2. 3  Stanton 1886: 114. 1 2

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It is arguable that Stanton’s book was not in fact the first to grapple with the relationship between messianism and Christology. If we allow a little scholarly licence, Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho, written ca. A. D. 160 has a good claim to that accolade. [[79]] In his initial challenge to Justin, Trypho the Jew insists that Christian claims concerning the Messiah are misleading and mistaken: ‘You Christians … have formed (or even “remoulded”) for yourselves a Christ for whom you are blindly giving up your lives’ (Dial. 8.4; χριστὸν ἑαυτοῖς τινα ἀναπλάσσετε). In reply, Justin quotes chunks of Scripture back at Trypho, insisting that Christians are interpreting Scripture aright. If we take the view that in this passage Justin is putting his own opinions into Trypho’s mouth, this is a plausible, striking concession from the Christian philosopher-teacher. Justin is accepting that Christians are shaping a Messiah for themselves, a Messiah somewhat at odds with Jewish expectations. Christians are doing that on the basis of Scripture, and thus Justin concedes that there is a gulf between Jews and Christians concerning messianism and Christology. The verbs used by V. H. Stanton and by translators of Justin Martyr’s Greek, ‘formed’, ‘transformed’, ‘re-moulded’, ‘shaped’ are all attempts to gloss ἀναπλάσσετε, a hapax in the New Testament, but used by Hellenistic writers with the sense, ‘to form anew’. Melito uses the verb of a potter who reshapes a vessel he has spoiled, while Barnabas draws on ἀναπλάσσω to speak of a person’s ‘spiritual transformation’.4 The semantic field is broad, but at its heart continuity and discontinuity are held together. The questions posed at the outset of this chapter touch raw nerves in Jew‑ ish-Christian relationships. They also bring to the fore considerable confusion among scholars and translators (and even teachers and preachers) concerning the use of the terms ‘Messiah’ and ‘Christ’. Is it appropriate to follow the NRSV and REB and translate χριστός by ‘Messiah’ where pre-Christian ‘messianism’ is prominent, and by ‘Christ’ where a christological title or a ‘surname’ for Jesus is being used? Why do the NRSV translators use ‘Messiah’ to introduce and to conclude Matthew’s genealogy (Mt. 1.1, 16, 17 and 18)? The REB translators, on the other hand, muddy matters by translating Matthew’s first and fourth uses of Ἰησοῦ Χριστός as ‘Jesus Christ’, while Χριστός is translated as ‘Messiah’ in verses 16 and 17. By indicating that ‘Messiah’ and ‘Christ’ are synonymous terms, are the REB translators seeking to reflect first-century readers’ views or to assist today’s readers? Definitions and delimitation of sources could run and run, so I must make do with a mere sketch. I take ‘messianism’ to refer to the expectation of a divinely anointed royal Davidic person who will fulfil Scripture and inaugurate a new age. I shall assume without discussion that the Psalms of Solomon 17 and 18  See BDAG for details and references.

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are an explicit expression of messianism from the first century B. C., and that 4 Ezra and the Similitudes of Enoch include passages which predate Christian modification or transformation of messianism. The Dead Sea Scrolls contain a rich vein of traditions, even though they are difficult to mine. Traditions in 4Q521 and 4Q246 overlap in part with Psalms of Solomon 17 and 4 Ezra.5 Nor must passages within New Testament writings be neglected; Mt. 2.4; Lk. 1.69; 2.26; and 3.15, for example, contain some of our most important evidence of first-century Jewish messianic views. [[80]] In short, as far as first-century messianism is concerned, I shall be taking a via media through the minefield. I shall not assume that Jewish views were so diverse and diffuse that we can only talk about ‘messianisms’. Nor shall I adopt a revisionist position and assume that most first-century Jews held strikingly similar views concerning a coming Davidic Messiah.6

1. Q Traditions Χριστός/Messiah is not found in Q traditions shared by Matthew and Luke. That has led some scholars to claim that Q traditions were transmitted by early follow‑ ers of Jesus who made no messianic claims about him, and who confessed Jesus merely as Wisdom’s envoy (or saw him in some other role as an intermediary) rather than as Christ crucified. However, too much should not be made of the absence of Χριστός from Q. Christopher Tuckett wisely insists it would be rather bold to deduce from the nonuse of the term in Q that the idea of Jesus’ ‘messiahship’ was actually prob‑ lematic for the Q Christians: Q’s nonuse of the term may be purely coincidental.7 What is surprising is the extent of traditions in Q which are compatible with messianic convictions.8 Several Q traditions refer to God’s fulfilment in the present of eschatological hopes set out in Scripture.9 In some cases there is a clear hint that this eschatological fulfilment is taking place through the ‘kingly’ actions and the words of Jesus himself. For example, Jesus links his exorcisms to his claim that God’s kingly rule is breaking into the present era, ‘If it is by the finger of God that I cast out the demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you’ (Mt. 12.28 = Lk. 11.20). The implied comparison between the preaching of Jesus, Solomon and Jonah is striking: ‘Something (neuter) greater than Solomon is here … Something (neuter) greater than Jonah is here’ (Mt. 12.41–42 = Lk. 11.31–32). Although  See Abegg and Evans 1998; also Brooke 1998.  See Neusner et al. 1987; also Schürer 1973–87: 2.488–549 (§ 29 ‘Messianism’). 7  Tuckett 1996: 214. 8  See especially Meadors 1999; also Dahl 1991: 397. 9  Stanton 1973. 5 6

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the focus is on the preaching of Jesus, the person of Jesus is accorded greater authority than wise King Solomon or the prophet Jonah. So who is this Jesus? If ‘messianic’ is used in a loose sense, then this passage may well have evoked messianic hopes for some. Similarly, Mt. 13.16–17 = Lk. 10.23–24. Jesus says to his disciples: ‘Blessed are the eyes that see what you see! For I tell you that many prophets and kings desired to see what you see, but did not see it, and to hear what you hear, but did not hear it.’ The fulfilment of eschatological hopes is linked implicitly both to the actions and to the words of Jesus, but the status of Jesus himself is left open. Two Q traditions, however, are much more explicit than the passages just referred to. The temptation of Jesus, with the devil’s twofold challenge, ‘If you are the Son of God’ (Mt. 4.1–11 = Lk. 4.1–13), was almost certainly preceded by Q’s account of the baptism of Jesus.10 The temptation narratives indicate a prior [[81]] appointment as God’s Son and also Jesus’ reception of the Spirit. In the first two temptations the authority of Jesus as God’s Son is challenged: ‘If you are the Son of God …’ We now have evidence from 4Q246 and 4Q174 that ‘Son of God’ was interpreted in some Jewish circles with messianic significance. In the former passage we read, with reference to a king: ‘“Son of God” he shall be called, and they will name him “Son of the Most High”.’ In the exposition of 2 Sam. 7.14 in 4Q174 the promise of the Lord that the throne of the Branch of David’s kingdom will be established for ever is followed by an assurance: ‘I [will be] his father and he shall be my son.’11 So the devil’s jibe, ‘If you are the Son of God’ may well reflect resistance to messianic claims. In the reply of Jesus to John the Baptist’s enquiry, the wording of Mt. 11.26 and the parallel passage in Lk. 7.19, 22–23 is almost identical. The list of the actions of Jesus comes to a climax with ‘the dead are raised to life, the poor are brought good news’. With the exception of ‘lepers are cleansed’, the items in the list are all allusions to phrases in Isa. 29.18; 35.5–6; and 61.1–2. If we were writing out that list, we might be inclined to place ‘the dead are raised to life’ as the dramatic conclusion. However the list unexpectedly reaches its climax with the clear allusion to Isa. 61.1, ‘the poor are brought good news’. Jesus is claiming that both his actions and his proclamation of God’s good news are fulfilment of scriptural promises. One of the fragments of the so-called Messianic Apocalypse discovered in Cave 4 at Qumran and known as 4Q521 provides a significant parallel and sheds fresh light on the interpretation of this Q passage.12 Frag. 2 col. II 1 [for the heav]ens and the earth will listen to his anointed one,…11 And the Lord will perform marvellous acts such as have not existed, just as he sa[id] 12 [for] he will heal 10  Stanton 1973: 35. See now the revised edition of U. Luz’s commentary: Luz 2002: 210 and 223 n. 23. 11  Collins 1995: 154–64. 12  The translation is taken from García Martínez and Tigchelaar 1997–8: 2.10–45.

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the badly wounded and will make the dead live, he will proclaim good news to the poor 13 and […] … […] he will lead the […] and enrich the hungry. 14 […] and all […]

Once again phrases from Isaiah are woven together. In line 12 we find an aston‑ ishing parallel with the reply of Jesus to John in the Q tradition. ‘He will heal the wounded, give life to the dead and preach good news to the poor.’ The order is identical: in both passages proclamation of good news to the poor forms the climax of the list of actions to be carried out by God. In both passages allusion to the fulfilment of Isa. 61.1 is unmistakable. This fragment of 4Q521 opens with an almost certain reference to the Mes‑ siah, ‘his anointed one’. In the lines which follow it is God who cares for the various needy groups, and raises the dead. God does not usually ‘preach good news’; this is the task of his herald, messenger, or prophet.13 So the herald or messenger referred to in this fragment is the Messiah: Isa. 61.1 is interpreted messianically. [[82]] There is further support for this interpretation in another Qumran fragment. In lines 15 and 16 of 11Q13 (known earlier as 11QMelchizedek) Isa. 52.7 is quoted in full. The herald of good tidings of Isa. 52.7 is closely linked with Isa. 61.1 and is identified as ‘the anointed one’, the Messiah.14 So we now have clear evidence that before the time of Jesus, Isa. 61.1 with its reference to the anointed prophet being sent to preach good news to the poor, was understood to refer to a messianic prophet. It is highly likely that when Jesus referred to his own actions and words in terms of this passage (and the related passages in Deutero-Isaiah), he was making an indirect messianic claim. He was not merely a prophet proclaiming God’s good news, he was himself part of the good news. Note how this Q tradition concludes. ‘Blessed are those who take no offence at me.’ That saying clearly implies that there were those who did take offence at the actions and words of Jesus. We know from both Christian and Jewish sources that Jesus was seen in his own lifetime to be a false prophet who led Israel astray, a magician whose healings and exorcisms were the result of col‑ laboration with the prince of demons.15 So this passage raises the question of the relationship of Jesus to God. Was Jesus a messianic prophet fulfilling Isaiah 61 and proclaiming God’s good news to the poor? Or was he a false prophet lead‑ ing Israel astray? Jesus’ proclamation of God’s good news, his gospelling if you like, was in competition and dialogue with an alternative story. ‘Redemption’ met with ‘resistance’. 13  Collins 1995: 116–23. For discussion of more recent literature and support for the view taken here, see Collins 1998, esp. 112–16; Evans 1999: 585–8. 14  For text and translation, with recent bibliography, see García Martínez and Tigchelaar 1997–8: 2.1206–9. For earlier discussion and bibliography see Stanton 1973. 15  See Stanton 2004: 127–47.

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I am not claiming that royal, Davidic themes are prominent among the Q traditions. However some of those traditions are not out of kilter with messianic claims. In two such passages resistance to such claims lurks in the background.

2. Mark Whereas Matthew and Luke use their extended birth narratives to spell out the significance of Jesus as the promised Davidic Messiah, Mark gives us only a single line of introduction which in some manuscripts has one word alongside ‘Jesus’: he is ‘Christ / Messiah’.16 So in this opening line does ‘Christ’ function as no more than a ‘surname’ for Jesus, as it so often is for Paul? By no means! The opening verses of Mark do not take us very far in our quest. The affirma‑ tion of the voice from heaven that Jesus is ‘Son of God’, and the opening sum‑ mary of the proclamation of Jesus in terms of God’s kingly rule are both set in the context of the fulfilment of Scripture. While it may be appropriate to describe that context as ‘messianic’, Jesus is not portrayed explicitly as the royal Davidic Messiah either in Mk 1.1, or in the chapters which follow. In order to defend the view that Mark’s reference to ‘Christ’ in his opening line reflects his own (and his readers’) understanding of the profound significance of [[83]] Jesus as Χριστός, I shall turn to the evangelist’s final comment on the messiahship of Jesus, for it is even more revealing than either Peter’s so-called confession of Jesus’ messiahship at Caesarea Philippi (Mk 8.29), or the positive response of Jesus to the high priest’s question, ‘Are you the Messiah, the Son of the Blessed One?’ (Mk 14.62). For it allows two themes to interpret one another: ‘Kingship’ and ‘Messiahship’. In Mark’s passion narrative, Jesus is mocked three times in his final hours. Roman soldiers hail him as ‘King of the Jews’ (15.18), as do passersby and the two bandits crucified with Jesus (15.27 and 32). The phrase ‘King of the Jews’ is used five times in this context (15.2, 9, 12, 18, 26), followed by the synony‑ mous ‘King of Israel’ on the lips of the chief priests and the scribes (15.32). The six-fold repetition of this death knell heightens the dramatic atmosphere. But there is more than dramatic tension at stake in the final words attributed in this Gospel to the religious leaders. ‘He saved others; he cannot save himself. Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe’ (15.31–32). These words are packed with dramatic irony. In his study of Mark’s use of irony, Jerry Camery-Hoggatt offers a sophisticated exposition of the ways irony functions, though curiously he has next to nothing to say about the verse I shall 16  The longer reading, with ‘Son of God’ as an epexegetic comment on Christ may well be original.

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focus on in a moment. He notes that irony forces the reader to decision; it divides listeners into ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ and thus aids in group-boundary defini‑ tion. In Mark irony may even be parabolic.17 Precisely! The final words of the religious leaders fill the death knell phrase, ‘King of Israel’, with soteriological comment: ‘He saved others; he cannot save himself.’ ‘Let him come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe.’’ Morna Hooker refers to the ‘supreme irony’ in the words attributed to the Jewish leaders, for if Jesus is to save others, he cannot save himself.18 Morna Hooker’s further astute comments on Mk 15.31–32 are all soteriological. Alas, along with most exegetes, she misses the importance of the jibe for Mark’s Christology. This is the final comment by a religious leader on the significance of Jesus: Jesus is the Messiah, the King of Israel. It is counterbalanced by the Roman centurion’s confession: ‘Truly this man was God’s Son’ (Mark 15.39). The religious leaders are unwitting mouthpieces for the evangelist’s own stance. They have no way of knowing that for Mark himself, and for his readers and listeners, their designation of Jesus as ‘Messiah, King of the Jews’ is ex‑ actly right. Donald Juel correctly noted that in Mark’s passion narrative Jesus’ enemies, whether Jewish or Roman, do not understand in what sense the words they speak are true. Contrary to their intentions and beyond their ability to un‑ derstand, they speak the truth. ‘The irony in the story is pronounced, but it only works if Jesus is the Christ.’19 As is well known, the evangelist uses Χριστός sparingly. In the light of his decision to focus his story on the crucified Messiah, there can be no doubt that in his opening line (1.1) ‘Messiah’ is more than a surname. It is part of the [[84]] evangelist’s way of setting up the tension between what he himself and his read‑ ers confess concerning Jesus, and the struggles of the characters in the story to understand the significance of Jesus. As for the Messianic Secret, Robert Fowler astutely notes that ‘inasmuch as the readers know from the very beginning that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, there is never any question of a Messianic Secret for the reader of the gospel.’20 This is the christological conviction that undergirds Mark’s Gospel. So for Mark the evangelist, Jesus is the crucified Messiah. This understanding of the significance of Jesus both opens and closes Mark’s Gospel: it is his first and his last comment on the messiahship of Jesus in Mk 1.1 and 15.31–32.

 Camery-Hoggatt 1992: 45.  Hooker 1991: 374. 19  Juel 1992: 453. 20  Fowler 1981: 159. I owe the reference to Camery-Hoggatt 1992: 93. 17 18

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3. Matthew The opening line of Matthew’s Gospel makes a bold assertion about the sig‑ nificance of Jesus: he is the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham. Whereas Mark and Luke use the title ‘Son of David’ for Jesus only four times, Matthew uses it ten times. In five passages the evangelist adds ‘Son of David’ to his sources (9.27; 12.23; 15.22; 21.9, 15). Why is the title ‘Son of David’ of particular interest to the evangelist? Before I tackle that teasing question, I shall underline briefly the extent to which the ‘messiahship’ of Jesus dominates Mat‑ thew’s thinking and even the structure of his Gospel. Matthew’s reference in 1.1 to Jesus Christ as ‘son of David’, ‘son of Abra‑ ham’, provides the framework for the genealogy which follows. The genealogy is divided into three groups of fourteen names: from Abraham to David, from David to the Babylonian exile, and from the exile to ‘the Christ’ (Mt. 1.17). The number fourteen seems to have been chosen deliberately in order to underline the Davidic descent of Jesus, for the Hebrew form of ‘David’ has a numerical value of fourteen. The genealogy concludes with Joseph, who is a son of David. He is not the father of Jesus, but Jesus is ‘in-grafted’ into David’s line through his conception by the Holy Spirit (Mt. 1.20). ‘Joseph can acknowledge Jesus by naming him, and that makes him “son of David”; the Holy Spirit has to act and God has to designate Jesus through revelation to make him “Son of God”.’21 The first theological theme Matthew associates with Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, is as the one who will save his people from their sins (Mt. 1.21). The son whom Mary will bear will be ‘Son of God’, even though that title is not used explicitly in 1.18–25. Van Egmond correctly notes that ‘this notion of the Davidic Messiah as “son of God” is now well attested at Qumran in such texts as 4Q369 and 4Q174.’22 Even though Messiah Jesus is only a baby, Matthew sketches a ‘clash of kings’ with telling subtlety and irony. When King Herod hears of the homage the wise men wish to pay to King Jesus, ‘he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him’ [[85]] (2.3). So King Herod enlists the assistance of the wise men in his search for the child Jesus. Once again ‘redemption’ is met with ‘resistance’. Near the climax of his story Matthew emphasizes the turmoil caused by Jesus in Jerusalem by making a series of redactional changes to Mk 11.1–11 at Mt. 21.1–11. From the evangelist’s point of view, the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem is ‘messianic’; it is in fulfilment of Scripture:

 Brown 1993: 135. See also pp. 50–1.  Van Egmond 2006, esp. 50–1.

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Tell the daughter of Zion, Look, your king is coming to you, Humble, and mounted on a donkey …

The crowds … were shouting, Hosanna to the Son of David … When Jesus entered Jerusalem, ‘the whole city was in turmoil’ (Mt. 21.10) just as it had been when the wise men reached Jerusalem to pay homage to the long of the Jews (Mt. 2.2–3). Matthew opens and closes his story by emphasizing the significance of Jesus as the Davidic Messiah whose redemptive coming is welcomed by a few, but resisted by many.23 The structure of Matthew’s Gospel is strongly influenced by Mark’s Gospel. But in the opening main section in chapters 5 to 9 Matthew reshapes Mark radi‑ cally in order to present Jesus as ‘Messiah of Word’ in the Sermon on the Mount (Mt. 5–7) and as ‘Messiah of Deed’ in chapters 8–9. And just in case the reader misses the latter point, the evangelist underlines it at Mt. 11.2 with a redactional comment: John hears in prison ‘what the Messiah was doing’, a reference to the actions of Jesus recorded in Mt. 8–9. In short, the evangelist extends and underlines ‘messianic’ themes in his sources, often linking them closely with his portrayal of Jesus as ‘Son of God’. This juxtaposition of Son of God and Messiah is hardly distinctively Matthean, however, for it is also found in Mk 14.61 and Lk. 22.67, 70.

Resistance to Jesus the Son of David In four redactional passages acknowledgement of Jesus as the ‘Son of David’ by participants in Matthew’s story provokes hostility from the Jewish leaders. Since no other major christological theme in Matthew elicits such sustained opposi‑ tion from the Jewish leaders, our suspicions are roused: are the ‘Son of David’ passages intended by the evangelist to be a response to critics in his own day? Although the christological disputes in Matthew’s Gospel are neither as intense nor as sustained as they are in John’s Gospel, they are an important and often overlooked feature. Matthew expands Mark’s three references to the title ‘Son of David’ to nine: 1.1; 9.27; 12.23; 15.22; 20.30, 31 (= Mk 10.47, 48); 21.9, 15; 22.42 (= Mk 12.35; the title Son of David is implied). Why does Matthew open his Gospel with a reference to Jesus as ‘Son of David’ and then proceed to add redactionally further references in contexts which are broadly Marcan (9.27; 12.23; 15.22; 21.9, 15)? [[86]] As several writers have noted, Matthew connects the ‘Son of David’ title 23  Cf. Beaton 2002: 4–5, who notes that in Mt. 12.18–21 the evangelist uses his quotation of Isa. 42.1–4 to present Jesus as the enigmatic Davidic Messiah who is surrounded by increasing hostility evidenced in his interactions with various people and groups in Mt. 11–13.

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with the healing ministry of Jesus, but that observation hardly accounts for the evangelist’s strong emphasis on this particular christological theme.24 Most scholars have overlooked the fact that in addition to the healing motif, another theme is equally prominent in the ‘Son of David’ passages which come from the evangelist’s own hand. In four such passages (Mt. 2.3; 9.27–28; 12.23; 21.9, 15) acknowledgement of Jesus as the ‘Son of David’ by participants in Matthew’s story provokes hostility from the Jewish leaders.25 These four pas‑ sages all come at critical points in the evangelist’s presentation of one of his ma‑ jor themes: the conflict between Jesus and the Jewish leaders.26 Matthew insists vigorously that Jesus is the Son of David, even though he is aware that some of his readers will soon learn that this claim is unacceptable to their Jewish rivals. Why does the evangelist stress so strongly in four redactional passages that Jesus is the Son of David?27 Why is acknowledgement of Jesus as ‘Son of David’ so vigorously opposed by the Jewish religious leaders? And why does Matthew set out so carefully this fourfold pattern of positive response by some and rejec‑ tion by the Jewish leaders? We are in contact with claims and counter-claims being made at the time Matthew wrote. The evangelist is well aware that his readers and listeners will face fierce opposition to their claims that Jesus was indeed the Davidic Messiah. Matthew insists that this claim is part of the very essence of Christian convic‑ tions about the significance of Jesus. But at the same time in several redactional passages he sets out a portrait of the Davidic Messiah which differs from many current expectations. The one born ‘king of the Jews’ is the child Jesus, the Da‑ vidic Messiah (2.2–6); in accordance with prophecy Jesus heals every disease and infirmity (8.17); Jesus is the one who is ‘meek and lowly in heart’ (11.29), the chosen Servant of God (12.17–21), ‘the humble king’ (21.5). All these pas‑ sages bear the redactional stamp of the evangelist himself. They convey a quite distinctive portrait of Jesus, every facet of which is embedded in Scripture. Matthew is deeply indebted to messianic themes in his sources. He has de‑ veloped many of them, but on the whole he is a conservative redactor. Like his predecessors, he insists that the messiahship of Jesus is firmly anchored in Scripture. His most creative step is to extend considerably Mark’s use of ‘Son of David’. I have claimed that in some of these passages we overhear dialogue and dispute between the evangelist and some of his critics who resist aspects of Matthew’s transformation of messianism and its application to Jesus. [[87]]

 So, for example, Burger 1972: 72–106; Gibbs 1964; Kingsbury 1976; Duling 1978; Luz 1991. 25  A notable exception is Verseput 1987; he does not discuss the reasons for this link. 26  See Kingsbury 1987. He fails to note that confession of Jesus as ‘Son of David’ provokes hostility from the Jewish leaders. 27  For exegetical discussion of the four passages, see Stanton 1992: 180–5. 24

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4. Luke and Acts In both Matthew’s and Luke’s infancy narratives Jesus is portrayed as the Da‑ vidic Messiah promised by Scripture. Although there are significant similarities, there is no question of direct literary dependence. Luke’s emphasis on the Da‑ vidic messiahship of Jesus in his opening chapters is not sustained strongly later in his Gospel, though, as we shall see, it is prominent in two speeches in Acts.

The annunciation to Mary: Luke 1.32–33, 2 Sam. 7.9–16 and 4Q174 Luke’s account of the annunciation of Gabriel to Mary (Lk. 1.26–38) is the first christological statement in Luke’s Gospel and thus particularly important. Mary is told that the son she will bear will be ‘great and will be called Son of the most High’, and he will be given by God ‘the throne of his ancestor David’; ‘he will reign over the house of Jacob forever and of his kingdom there will be no end’ (1.32–33). The similarity of the phraseology to parts of 2 Sam. 7.9–16 has often been noted.28 Even more important for our present purposes are lines 10–13 of 4Q174: 10 [And] YHWH [de]clares to you that 2 Sam 7.12–14 ‘he will build you a house. I will raise up your seed after you and establish the throne of his kingdom 11 [for ev]er. I will be a father to him and he will be a son to me.’ This (refers to the) ‘branch of David’, who will arise with the Interpreter of the law who 12 [will rise up] in Zi[on in] the [l] ast days, as it is written: Amos 9.11 ‘Ι will raise up the hut of David which has fallen.’ This (refers to) ‘the hut of David which has fal[len’, w]ho will arise to save Israel.

Luke (or his source) and 4Q174 both interpret 2 Sam. 7 messianically. Raymond Brown’s comment is fully justified: ‘there is nothing distinctively Christian in vss. 32–33 of Luke, except that the expected Davidic Messiah has been identi‑ fied with Jesus.’29 In Lk. 1.35 the angel responds to Mary’s poignant, ‘How can this be, since I am a virgin?’ with the affirmation: ‘the Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be called holy; he will be called Son of God.’ The angel’s words recall Isa. 11.12, with its reference to the eschatological coming of the Spirit upon a branch from the stock of Jesse. Gabriel’s final ‘christological’ comment in v. 35 repeats the opening claim in v. 32a that Jesus will be called ‘Son of God’, thus echoing 2 Sam. 7.14 for a second time. The link between ‘Son of God’ and the Davidic

28  Strauss 1995: 889 helpfully sets out side by side Lk. 1.32–33 and the similar phrases in 2 Sam. 7.9–16 and Ps. 89.26–36. 29  Brown 1993: 311.

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Messiah could hardly have been made more strongly or more clearly. As we shall see, this is not the last time this link is forged in Luke’s two volumes.

Zechariah’s prophecy: a horn of salvation for us … the dawn from on high (Luke 1.68–79) Davidic Messiahship is central in Zechariah’s prophecy, the Benedictus, spoken while he was filled with the Holy Spirit (1.68–79). Some scholars have argued that [[88]] all these verses, usually set out as a poem or hymn in modern transla‑ tions, were composed by Luke himself, while others have insisted that most of this passage was a purely Jewish, pre-Lucan composition. A third view also has strong support: this passage was composed or redacted by Jewish Christians who shared with their fellow Jews hopes of messianic and Davidic deliverance ‘from our enemies, out of the hands of all who hate us’ (v. 71). The verbs in the opening two verses imply that those hopes had already been fulfilled with the coming of Jesus. The Old Testament, Qumran and early Jewish parallels are extensive and strik‑ ing.30 One parallel will suffice here. The Fifteenth Benediction of the Shemoneh Esreh (which may well stem from the first century) includes words which echo Lk. 1.69: Let the shoot of David (Your servant) speedily spring up and raise his horn in Your salvation … May you be blessed, Ο Lord, who lets the horn of salvation flourish. Luke 1.69: (the Lord God of Israel) has raised up a horn of salvation for us31 In the house of his servant David.

In this verse, as in verses 68 and 70–71, Jewish hopes of political and national deliverance are prominent. Mark L. Strauss has correctly noted that in these verses ‘Luke continues to define the role of the coming Davidic king in language reminiscent of the political and national deliverance of the Old Testament and Judaism.’32 In verses 76–77 Zechariah prophesies that John, who will be called ‘prophet of the Most High’ will give ‘knowledge of salvation to his people’ (1.76–77) and promises that ‘the dawn (ἀνατολή) from on high will break upon us’ (1.78). The meaning of ἀνατολή has been much discussed. Does the noun refer to the rising of a ‘shoot’ or ‘branch’, a term often used of the messianic king? If so, 4Q174 11–12 (quoted above) is again relevant. If this is the meaning of ἀνατολή, the

 They are set out by Brown 1993: 386–9.  NRSV translates ‘a mighty saviour for us’, while REB has ‘a strong deliverer’. 32  Strauss 1995: 101. 30 31

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finale of the Benedictus forms an inclusio with its opening theme, the Davidic Messiah as the ‘horn of salvation’ (v. 69). However an equally strong case can be made for taking ἀνατολή as the ris‑ ing of the dawn’s light from on high. On this reading, the next clause (v. 79) is epexegetical: the ἀνατολή ‘will give light to those who sit in darkness’, recalling Isa. 9.2, 6–7 and Num. 24.17 where light imagery is used to refer to the coining of the Davidic king. Perhaps both ‘the rising of light’ and ‘branch’ or ‘shoot’ are in mind. T.Jud. 24.16 (whether Jewish or Christian) links the motifs of rising light and the Da‑ vidic shoot or branch: And after these things a star will arise to you from Jacob in peace. And a man shall arise from my seed like the sun of righteousness …. This is the branch (βλαστός) of God Most High. [[89]]

In either case, there is a clear messianic reference to Jesus.33

A Davidic Saviour, Christ the Lord (Luke 2.11) In his account of the birth of the Messiah (Lk. 2.1–20) Luke notes that Joseph took Mary to Bethlehem, the city of David, for the birth of her son, ‘because he (Joseph) was descended from the house and family of David’. The significance of this double reference to the Davidic background of the birth of Jesus becomes clear in the words of the angel to the shepherds in 2.11: To you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is the Messiah, the Lord (χριστός κύριος).

Luke sets all three titles in a Davidic context. ‘Saviour’ refers to God at Lk. 1.47 and to Jesus at Acts 5.31 and 13.23, all in broadly messianic settings. The noun ‘salvation’ in Lk. 1.69, 71 is used similarly with reference to God’s fulfilment of Scripture through Jesus. In spite of these anticipations, Luke’s reference to Jesus as ‘Saviour’ is striking, for, to quote Raymond Brown, ‘it is cast in the format of an imperial proclamation, as part of Luke’s gentle propaganda that Jesus, not Augustus, was the Savior and source of peace whose birthday marked the beginning of time (i.e. the eschatological “this day”)’.34 Brown wrote these words as far back as 1977, wisely emphasizing that the imperial setting is only secondary to the messianic setting. 33  Simon Gathercole 2005 has recently revived the view that ἀνατολή refers not only to a Davidic Messiah, but also to a heavenly, preexistent figure. Gathercole notes that his theory fits well with William Horbury’s suggestion of the ‘superhuman’ nature of the Messiah: see pp. 473–4, 479, 487, with reference to Horbury 1998: 86–108. 34  Brown 1993: 424.

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Luke makes a similar point in Paul’s speech in Pisidian Antioch: ‘Of David’s posterity God has brought to Israel a Saviour, Jesus, as he promised’ (Acts 13.23). Given that the imperial cult was prominent in Antioch, there is a subtext to the Davidic, messianic themes in this speech, as in the annunciation of the angel at Lk. 2.11: Jesus, not the emperor or any other person or god, was Saviour, God’s provision of salvation.35 I shall return to this point below. Χριστός is often said to be Luke’s most important christological title, so it is a surprise to find that his first use of it in his two volumes is baffling.36 Why does Luke use the double title, Χριστός κύριος? The double title is unexpected, though there is a parallel in Pss. Sol. 17.32. I do not think we need to resort to textual emendation or to the poorly sup‑ ported variant. Elsewhere Luke juxtaposes awkwardly two titles, and so here. In Acts 2.36 Luke writes that God has made Jesus both Lord and Christ. When Jesus is taken before Pilate in Lk. 23.2, he is said to have claimed to be ‘the Mes‑ siah, a king᾽. The seriousness of the allegation is underlined with an explanatory gloss for Pilate (and for many of Luke’s readers): Messiah implies kingship. Hence in the double title Χριστός κύριος in 2.11, κύριος should be read [[90]] as Luke’s explanation of Χριστός for non-Jewish readers. Once Luke has made this key point in 2.11, he has no need to labour it.

Redemption and resistance (Luke 2.25–38) In the lengthy account of the presentation in the Temple (2.25–38) Luke states once again that Jesus is the promised Davidic Messiah, and adds two fresh points. Simeon is portrayed as looking for ‘the consolation of Israel’ (2.25). The very next verse explains that this hope is to be equated with the coming of the Lord’s Messiah. The phrase used a few verses later to sum up Anna’s expecta‑ tion, ‘the redemption of Israel’ (2.38), is surely synonymous. Luke then notes for the first time that the messianic salvation promised for Gentiles has been fulfilled (2.30–32). For my present purposes a further fresh note is even more striking. Simeon’s blessing is accompanied by these blunt words to Mary: ‘This child is destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed’ (2.34 NRSV). I take ‘falling and rising in Israel’ to refer to the two responses Jesus will ultimately elicit among his own people, a point which will become prominent in Acts. In Jewish expectation the messianic king often faces opposition and war from the Gentile nations, but here it is ‘many in Israel’ who will fall, and who stand

 Stanton 2004: 456.  See, for example, Fitzmyer 1981–5: 1.197.

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in opposition to the ‘sign’.37 As in Matthew, the promised redemption meets resistance. Luke’s insistence that Jesus is the promised Davidic Messiah permeates the infancy narratives. Unlike Matthew, Luke does not cite Scripture explicitly, but his portrayal of Jesus in rich and varied poetic images is set against the colourful backdrop of pastiches of Scripture, especially Isaiah.

Luke 3–24 Luke does not neglect messianic themes in the remainder of his Gospel, but in comparison with his opening chapters, they are rarely prominent. More often than not, Luke is content to rephrase or clarify a Marcan messianic tradition. In the paragraphs which follow only the most striking passages will be mentioned. In the middle of his summary of the proclamation of John the Baptist (Lk. 3.3–18) Luke springs a surprise. John’s prophetic, radical ethical preaching has led people to ask whether perhaps John might be the Messiah (Lk. 3.15). Once again Luke shows his awareness of a general messianic expectation on the part of many. From the context it is clear that the evangelist has in mind royal Da‑ vidic themes, even if in fact ‘the crowds’ addressed by John had more varied expectations. John’s implicit denial that he is the Messiah is found only here in the Synoptic tradition. Does Luke present the baptism of Jesus as a messianic anointing (Lk. 3.21– 32)? The evangelist is less clear than we might suppose, and more terse than we might wish. Even if we adopt the traditional version of the voice from heaven with its allusion to Ps. 2.7, ‘You are my Son’ (rather than the so-called Western reading), this is not necessarily a messianic anointing. [[91]] In spite of Luke’s interest in the verb χρίω elsewhere, he does not use it here with reference to the Spirit, as we might have expected. For that use, we have to wait until Jesus refers to his baptism by means of his citation of Isa. 61.1 in the synagogue scene in Nazareth (Lk. 4.18), and in the summary given to Cornelius by Peter (Acts 10.36–43). But although those passages refer to the anointing of the Spirit, they do not refer explicitly to a messianic anointing. Luke’s fullest comment on the baptism of Jesus as a messianic anointing is part of the prayer of Peter and John in Acts 4.24–9 with its citation of Psalm 2: ‘“Why did the Gentiles rage ?… The kings of the earth took their stand against the Lord and against his Messiah”… For in this city, in fact, both Herod and Pi‑ late … gathered together against your holy servant Jesus, whom you anointed’. Resistance to the Lord’s Messiah is prominent in the foreground, but from  Strauss 1995: 120.

37

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Luke’s perspective God’s anointing of Jesus at his baptism forms the backdrop: ‘You are my Son.’ Luke’s interpretation of Ps. 2.7 in Davidic messianic terms in Acts 13.33 provides further evidence that Luke intends his somewhat minimalist account of the baptism of Jesus with its allusion to Ps. 2.7 to be a messianic anointing. Many scholars have shared Bultmann’s view that the baptism of Jesus is his consecration as Messiah. This is, strictly speaking, incorrect, for the voice from heaven, ‘You are my Son’, doesn’t necessarily need to be understood in terms of messiahship.38 However, we have seen from several other passages in Luke-Acts that Luke does interpret the baptism of Jesus as a Davidic messianic anointing, even if this is the only place in the New Testament where Ps. 2.7 is applied to an event other than resurrection. Luke’s account of the visit of Jesus to his synagogue at Nazareth should be interpreted similarly. Jesus reads part of Isaiah 61 from the scroll and claims that God’s promised anointing of him with the Spirit has now been fulfilled, and that he (Jesus) has brought good news to the poor. Although we now have evidence from 4Q521 and 11Q13 that Isa. 61.1 ff. was interpreted messianically at the time of Jesus,39 this was a possible but not a necessary reading of this passage. Since there is no explicit reference to the Davidic royal Messiah in Lk. 4.16–30, it is possible that Luke intends to portray Jesus as a prophet or even as a messianic prophet rather than as the Davidic Messiah. Possible, but unlikely. For in his pointed redaction of Mark just a few verses later in Lk. 4.41, Luke not only emphasizes that ‘Son of God’ and ‘Messiah’ are synonymous titles,40 but that they are appropriate responses to Jesus on the part of the exorcized demons. And from previous passages it is clear that Luke has in mind royal, Davidic messiahship. In the later chapters of the Gospel the evangelist continues to clarify and modify references to the messiahship of Jesus found in his sources, especially Mark. Although the later passages are all of interest, they add little to the general picture sketched in the preceding paragraphs. [[92]] In Luke 24, however, two significant points call for comment. On the road to Emmaus, Cleopas and his companion refer to their hope that Jesus of Nazareth ‘was to be the liberator of Israel’ (Lk. 24.21).41 This view is repeated in Jerusa‑ lem in the apostles’ question to the Risen Lord: ‘Is this not the time at which you are to restore sovereignty to Israel?’ (Acts 1.6). The phraseology differs, but the line of thought is similar. To these passages Lk. 1.68 (Benedictus); 2.38 (Anna); and 21.28 (end-times), must be added. Here a major point is being made. First So too Fitzmyer 1981–5: 1.480, 485.  See Stanton 2004: 16–17. 40  See also Acts 9.20–22. 41  Fitzmyer 1981–5: 1.156–4; ‘delivering Israel from Roman occupation, a hope alive among Palestinian Jews of the time … and echoed in Pss. Sol. 9.1’. 38 39

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century messianic expectation includes the hope that Israel will be redeemed, that she will be delivered from Roman occupation, that ‘the kingdom’ will be restored to her. There are plenty of Old Testament, early Jewish, and Qumran parallels.42 But from Luke’s perspective this element of messianic expectation has to be transformed radically or abandoned. In the light of the gift of the Spirit, Luke clearly understands God’s eschatological plans to be ‘universal rather than nationalist’.43 Conversation on the road to Emmaus includes a second topic of direct rel‑ evance to the present discussion. The Risen Lord rebukes Cleopas and his com‑ panion for their failure to believe ‘all that the prophets have said. Was not the Messiah bound to suffer in this way before entering upon his glory?’ (Lk. 24.26, and similarly 24.46). The sufferings of the Messiah are referred to again at Acts 3.18 (Peter), Acts 17.3 (Paul in the synagogue at Thessalonica), and Acts 26.23 (Paul to Agrippa). This time the reverse process has taken place. It is not a question of a strand of Jewish messianic expectation being transformed by followers of Jesus as with the ‘deliverance of Israel’ passages. Here we have a distinctively Christian conviction being linked de novo to ‘messianism’, for we have no early Jewish evidence for a suffering Messiah. Now the move is not from messianism to Christology, but in the reverse direction. And ‘a suffering Messiah’ is not merely a Lucan theologoumenon, Paul recognizes that proclamation of a crucified Christ ‘is an offence to Jews’ (1 Cor. 1.23) and quotes an early tradition: ‘Christ died for our sins’ (1 Cor. 15.3). Even if Paul usually used Χριστός as a (sur)name for Jesus, as a learned Jew he was well aware of its links with messianism.

Peter’s Day of Pentecost Speech: Acts 2.14–36 Several passages from Acts have already been referred to in the comments above on Luke’s Gospel. They confirm that Davidic messianic themes are prominent in Acts as well as in Luke’s Gospel. However in Acts Luke’s focus shifts. Peter’s Day of Pentecost speech in Jerusalem, and Paul’s speech in the synagogue in Pisidian Antioch are set-piece speeches. They are intended to show the readers of Acts the content and method of Christian proclamation to be used in Luke’s own day. Like the other speeches in Acts, Peter’s Pentecost speech is thoroughly Lucan in its present final form, though it almost certainly draws on earlier pre-Lucan traditions. The speech opens with citation of Joel 3.1–5 in 2.14–21. Here God’s [[93]] pouring out of his Spirit ‘in the last days’ is linked to eschatological  They are set out conveniently by Brown 1993: 38–69.  Barrett 1994–8: 1.767.

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themes, to general messianic expectations. At v. 22 there is an abrupt change to royal Davidic themes as the heart of christological proclamation; this section concludes with the declaration that God has made ‘this same Jesus, whom you crucified, both Lord and Messiah’ (Acts 2.36). Peter develops his defence of the resurrection and exaltation of Jesus via his reading of Ps. 16.8–11 (LXX 15.8–11). The patriarch David spoke as a prophet with foreknowledge of the resurrection of the Messiah (v. 31). God had sworn to David that one of his own direct descendants should sit on his throne. The fulfilment of a royal Davidic psalm in the death and resurrection of Jesus the Messiah is set out vigorously. The final verses of Peter’s speech develop what may seem to us to be a quaint line of argument: Ps. 110.1 with its reference to exaltation to God’s right hand is cited. Since it was not David who ascended to heaven, David (speaking as a prophet, v. 30) must have been speaking of another, Jesus, the one exalted to God’s right hand. Through his exaltation Jesus has been vindicated and en‑ throned as the Davidic Messiah.

Paul’s Speech in Pisidian Antioch: Acts 13.16–41 Paul’s speech in the synagogue at Pisidian Antioch is Luke’s first and only ex‑ ample of Paul’s proclamation in a synagogue setting. The structure and content are broadly similar to Peter’s Day of Pentecost speech. This is no coincidence, for one of Luke’s purposes in Acts is to show that Peter and Paul are theological twins. Luke introduces Paul as a preacher in a memorable way. Immediately after his baptism Paul proclaimed Jesus publicly in the synagogues in Damascus, declaring him to be the Son of God (Acts 9.20). Undaunted by opposition, Paul confounded the Jews of Damascus ‘with his cogent proofs that Jesus was the Messiah’. ‘Son of God’ and ‘Messiah’ form an inclusio in this pericope (Acts 9.19b–22), and are almost synonymous terms here. The ‘cogent proofs’ are from the Scriptures, as the earlier chapters have shown. The reader will not be surprised to learn that proclamation of the messiahship of Jesus led to intense opposition and the hatching of a plot. This narrative in Acts 9.19b–25 is Luke’s ‘template’ for all his later references to Paul’s preaching in diaspora synagogues. Following his escape from Damascus, and then Jerusalem, Paul moves off stage to make room for Peter. When Paul returns to centre stage, Luke uses his ‘template’ as the basis of his elaborate account of Paul’s proclamation of Jesus as Messiah in the synagogue in Pisidian Antioch (Acts 13.13–52). Luke takes pains over his description of Paul’s audience: ‘men of Israel, and you others who worship God’ (Acts 13.16, 26). In the narrative that follows, they become ‘many Jews and Gentile worshippers’ (v. 43). Paul’s first christological

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comment to this ‘mixed’ audience is that Jesus is a descendant of King David. In fulfilment of God’s promise, Jesus is a saviour brought to Israel (Acts 13.22–23). Paul and his companions are the people to whom the message of salvation has been sent. The Davidic Messiah’s coming is for the redemption and salvation of Israel. Luke’s readers know that this is in accord with the angel’s announcement at the birth of Jesus (Lk. 2.11; cf. also Acts 5.11): ‘to you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is the Messiah, the Lord.’ [[94]] Given the care Luke takes in his description of the synagogue audience, there may be some significance in his choice of saviour and salvation. The royal Mes‑ siah of David’s line is clearly in mind, and there are deep biblical roots. But there may be a subtext for those ‘God-worshippers’ and Gentiles who heard or read this speech. Is it a coincidence that ‘saviour’ and ‘salvation’ were prominent in the language of the imperial cult, and that the imperial cult was prominent in the Roman colony of Antioch?44 In the final section of this speech, the resurrection of Jesus is declared to be the fulfilment of God’s promise ‘in the second Psalm’: ‘You are my son; this day I have begotten you’ (Acts 13.32–33). C. K. Barrett notes that here Jesus is the messianic Son of God and refers to Pss. Sol. 17.23 f. ‘Ps. 2 is a royal and hence a messianic Psalm; when the king accedes to the throne he is adopted into the divine family. Jesus is both the Son of David (cf. Rom. 1.3) and Son of God; these are complementary, not contradictory expressions.’45 As earlier in Damascus, so in Pisidian Antioch. Paul’s preaching in the syna‑ gogues drew a mixed response: acceptance on the part of some, fierce resistance on the part of others. Luke’s references to Paul’s preaching in synagogue settings follow the same pattern. Proclamation focused on Jesus as the promised Mes‑ siah and on Paul’s interpretation of scriptural passages. Debate ensued. There was a mixed response and on occasion Paul and his companions were hounded out of town. Luke’s accounts of what happened in the synagogues in Iconium (14.1), Thessalonica (17.1–3), Beroea (17.10), Athens (17.16–17), Corinth (18.4–6), and Ephesus (18.19) are terse. Luke does not need to repeat either the content of Paul’s preaching or the response it received. The reader knows that Paul based his claims concerning the messiahship of Jesus on Scripture. The rare variations from the pattern stand out. The necessity for the Messiah to suffer is underlined in the synagogue in Thessalonica (17.3; cf. 26.23 in front of Agrippa). And Luke notes several times over that Paul’s proclamation of Jesus as Messiah was not confined to Jews: in some audiences there were Godworshippers and Gentiles.

 Stanton 2004: 45–6.  Barrett 1994–8: 1.646.

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One question calls for further comment, especially given the role it has played in theological discussion. In Luke’s view, when did Jesus become the Messiah sent by God? At his baptism, his resurrection, his ascension, at Pentecost, his ex‑ altation, or his parousia?46 Strauss insists that Luke presents Jesus’ messiahship as achieved in various stages. From his birth he is the Messiah-designate. At his baptism he is anointed by the Spirit and empowered for his messianic task. ‘Only at his exaltation-enthronement, however, is Jesus installed in the full authority as reigning Christ and Lord.’47 This is by no means an unusual conclusion. However it rests on the assump‑ tion that Luke intended his two writings to be read as one work. The literary and [[95]] theological unity of Luke’s two writings are now taken for granted by most scholars. But Kavin Rowe and Andrew Gregory have recently reminded us that Luke’s Gospel and Acts circulated separately in the early church: we have little or no evidence that they were read as two volumes of one work.48 If we take seriously the possibility that Luke may have intended both his Gospel and Acts to be intelligible on their own, there is a corollary for our present question.49 The exaltation of Jesus as Messiah and Lord is prominent in Acts, but with only a couple of possible exceptions (Lk. 9.31, 51, and 24.51 [s.v.l.]), conspicuous by its absence in Luke’s Gospel. Now there may be an easy explanation: Luke’s purposes in his Gospel may not have required reference to the exaltation-enthronement of Jesus as Messiah. However it is also possible that Luke was less interested in christological preci‑ sion than we usually suppose. Or perhaps his own views developed between the writing of his Gospel and Acts. Several scholars have insisted that Χριστός is the most important christologi‑ cal title in Luke’s writings. Some have gone a step further and rejected claims that Luke downplays Χριστός in favour of κύριος.50 I do not think that Luke is in‑ terested in issues of precedence, but there can be no doubt that one of his primary aims in both his writings is to stress that Jesus is the promised Davidic Messiah.

5. Conclusions In the opening pages of this chapter I referred to the cluster of verbs used by ancient and by modern writers to spell out the relationship between ‘messianism’ and ‘Christology’. No single verb in the semantic field with ‘transformation’  J. A. T. Robinson’s view that Jesus was predestined to become the Messiah when in the future he is sent as such has not won support. For discussion, see Barrett 1994–8: 1.190, 202–7 47  Strauss 1995: 144–5. 48  Rowe 2005. 49  Hence the subheading for this section is ‘Luke and Acts’, not the more usual ‘Luke-Acts’. 50  Tuckett 2001, esp. 149–61, p. 161 n. 104. 46

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at its heart adequately sums up the views of Mark, Matthew and Luke, for the three evangelists differ in their emphases. Nonetheless they share convictions concerning the messiahship of Jesus. They all insist that there is a measure of discontinuity between first-century Jewish messianism and their own views concerning Jesus the Messiah. But they all underline continuity by insisting that the messiahship of Jesus is the fulfilment of scriptural hopes and expectations. The early post-Easter decades witnessed steadily increasing engagement with the questions raised at the outset of this chapter. One can trace a trajectory from the Q traditions which are messianic only in a broad sense, to Mark’s Gospel, and then to Matthew’s and Luke’s more extensive engagement with messianism and Christology. In Peter’s Day of Pentecost speech (Acts 2.14–36) and in Paul’s speech in Pisidian Antioch (Acts 13.16–41) we are in some respects well on the way to Justin’s Dialogue with his Jewish opponent Trypho. Justin and Trypho are at odds over the interpretation of scriptural passages alleged to refer to the Messiah, and these issues dominate their agenda. [[96]] But a conclusion along these lines has to be qualified. The crucifixion of Jesus forced his followers to accept that their claims concerning ‘Messiah crucified’ were at odds with first-century messianic expectations. Here there was radical discontinuity right at the outset, as there was over rejection of messianic tradi‑ tions which held out hopes of military success against the Romans. At several points we have noted resistance to the ways followers of Jesus were interpreting messiahship. The words of Jesus, ‘Blessed are those who take no offence at me’ (Mt. 11.6 = Lk. 7.23) follow his implicit claim to messiahship. The threefold mocking of the crucified Jesus as ‘King of the Jews’ (Mk 15.18, 27, 32) at the climax of Mark’s story reflects resistance to Christian claims. Resistance is more overt and more extensive in Matthew’s and Luke’s Gospels. Luke’s repeated references in Acts to the mixed response to Christian proclama‑ tion probably reflects in part the experience of preachers in Luke’s own day. Although we have discussed only some of the strands of earliest Christianity, a set of fascinating issues has emerged. Followers of Jesus, whether Jews or Gen‑ tiles, insisted on the importance of his messiahship as the fulfilment of scriptural promises. This was one way ‘church’ emphasized her continuity with Israel. That claim was regularly juxtaposed with the conviction that God’s promised age of redemption, a new creation, had broken in with the sending of Messiah King Jesus, great David’s greater Son.

Bibliography Abegg, Martin G., Jr. and Craig A. Evans (1998), ‘Messianic Passages in the Dead Sea Scrolls.’ In Qumran-Messianism: Studies on the Messianic Expectations in the Dead Sea Scrolls, 204–14. Ed. J. H. Charlesworth et al. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

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Barrett, C. K. (1994–8), The Acts of the Apostles. ICC. 2 vols. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. Beaton, Richard (2002), Isaiah’s Christ in Matthew’s Gospel. SNTSMS 123. Cambridge/ New York: Cambridge University Press. Brooke, George J. (1998), ‘Kingship and Messianism in the Dead Sea Scrolls.’ In King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East, 434–55. Ed. J. Day. Sheffield: Shef‑ field Academic Press. Brown, Raymond E. (1993), The Birth of the Messiah: A Commentary on the Infancy Narratives in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke. 2nd edn, New York: Doubleday. Burger, Christoph (1972), Jesus als Davidssohn. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Camery-Hoggatt, Jerry (1992), Irony in Mark’s Gospel: Text and Subtext. SNTSMS 72. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Collins, John J. (1995), The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature. New York: Doubleday. – (1998), ‘Jesus, Messianism and the Dead Sea Scrolls.’ In Qumran-Messianism: Studies on the Messianic Expectations in the Dead Sea Scrolls, 100–19. Ed. J. H. Charlesworth et al. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Dahl, Nils Alstrup. (1991), Jesus the Christ: The Origins and Development of New Testament Christology. Minneapolis: Fortress. Duling, Dennis C. (1978), ‘The Therapeutic Son of David: An Element in Matthew’s Christological Apologetic.’ New Testament Studies 24: 392–409. Evans, Craig A. (1999), ‘Jesus and the Dead Sea Scrolls.’ In The Dead Sea Scrolls after Fifty Years, 573–98. Ed. P. W. Flint and J. C. VanderKam. Leiden: Brill. Fitzmyer, Joseph A. (1981–5), The Gospel According to Luke: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AB 28. 2 vols. New York: Doubleday. Fowler, Robert (1981), Loaves and Fishes: The Function of the Feeding Stories in the Gospel of Mark. Chico: Scholars Press. García Martínez, Florentino and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, eds., (1997–8), The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition. 2 vols. Leiden/Grand Rapids: Brill/Eerdmans. Gathercole, Simon (2005), ‘The Heavenly ἀνατολή (Luke 1:78–9).’ JTS 56: 471–88. Gibbs, J. M. (1964), ‘Purpose and Pattern in Matthew’s Use of the Title “Son of God”.’ NTS 10: 446–64. Hooker, Morna D. (1991), A Commentary on the Gospel According to St. Mark. BNTC. London: A & C Black. Horbury, William. (1998), Jewish Messianism and the Cult of Christ. London: SCM. Juel, Donald H. (1992), ‘The Origin of Mark’s Christology.’ In The Messiah: Developments in Earliest Judaism and Christianity, 449–60. Ed. J. H. Charlesworth. Minne‑ apolis: Fortress. Kingsbury, Jack D. (1976), ‘The Title “Son of David” in Matthew’s Gospel.’ Journal of Biblical Literature 95: 591–602. – (1987), ‘The Developing Conflict between Jesus and the Jewish Leaders in Matthew’s Gospel.’ Catholic Biblical Quarterly 49: 57–73. Luz, Ulrich (1991), ‘Eine thetische Skizze der matthäischen Christologie.’ In Anfänge der Christologie, 223–26. Ed. C. Breytenbach and H. Paulsen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. – (2002), Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (Mt 1–7). Rev. edn, Vol. I/1. Düsseldorf/ Zürich: Benziger. Meadors, E. P. (1999), ‘The ‘Messianic’ Implications of the Q Material.’ JBL 118, no. 2: 253–77.

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Neusner, Jacob, William Scott Green, and Ernest S. Frerichs, eds., (1987), Judaisms and their Messiahs at the Turn of the Christian Era. Cambridge etc.: Cambridge University Press. Rowe, C. Kavin (2005), ‘History, Hermeneutics and the Unity of Luke-Acts.’ JSNT 28: 131–57. Schürer, Emil (1973–87), The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ. Ed. G. Vermes. 3 vols. Rev. edn. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. Stanton, Graham N. (1973), ‘On the Christology of Q.’ In Christ and Spirit in the New Testament, 27–42. Ed. B. Lindars and S. S. Smalley. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. – (1992), A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. – (2004), Jesus and Gospel. Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press. Stanton, V. H. (1886), The Jewish and the Christian Messiah. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. Strauss, M. L. (1995), The Davidic Messiah in Luke-Acts: The Promise and its Fulfilment in Lukan Christology. JSNTSup. Vol. 110. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Tuckett, Christopher M. (1996), Q and the History of Early Christianity. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. – (2001), ‘The Christology of Luke-Acts.’ In The Unity of Luke-Acts, 133–64. Ed. J. Ver‑ heyden. BETL 142. Leuven: Leuven University Press & Peeters. Van Egmond, Richard (2006), ‘The Messianic “Son of David” in Matthew.’ JGRChJ 3: 41–71. Verseput, Donald (1987), ‘The Role and Meaning of the “Son of God” Title in Matthew’s Gospel.’ NTS 33: 533–37.

Chapter 14

Rudolf Bultmann: Jesus and the Word I [[324]] Many who have a nodding acquaintance with twentieth-century theol‑ ogy associate Bultmann with radical scepticism concerning the historicity of the gospels, with lack of interest in the historical Jesus, with ‘demythologizing’ and with use of existentialism in interpretation of the NT. On each of these questions Bultmann has frequently been misunderstood. But whether or not one accepts his conclusions, his writings are of the utmost importance for contemporary theology. The issues they raise will be on the theologian’s agenda for a long time to come. There is probably no better way to approach the work of Bultmann for the first time than by a careful reading of Jesus and the Word, for the main lines of his later thought can nearly all be discerned here. The importance of this book, which was first published in German in 1926 with the simple title Jesus, is out of all proportion to its size. Jesus and the Word has had a rather curious history in the English-speaking world. An English translation by L. P. Smith and E. Huntress was published in New York in 1934 and in London in 1935. Over the next fifteen years several influential British scholars did discuss Bultmann’s use of form criticism in The History of the Synoptic Tradition,1 the first edition of which had appeared in 1921, but the publication of Jesus and the Word seems largely to have been ignored.2 My own first introduction to study of the gospels was A. M. Hunter’s The Work and Words of Jesus. This book was widely used in the English-speaking world in the 1950s, but it is difficult to detect in it any use of Bultmann’s writ‑ ings on the gospels. In his survey of scholarship, Interpreting the New Testament, 1900–1950, however, A. M. Hunter did include three paragraphs on Jesus and the Word. ‘When we learn that Bultmann, the most sceptical critic since Strauss, 1  For British reactions to The History of the Synoptic Tradition, see V. Taylor, The Formation of the Gospel Tradition [1933] and W. Manson, Jesus the Messiah [1943]. 2  T. W. Manson’s The Teaching of Jesus [1931] contains many references to scholarly Ger‑ man literature, but neither of Bultmann’s books on the gospels is referred to. In the brief ad‑ ditional notes to the second edition published in 1935 there is one (positive) reference to each book (330). In later years Manson was very critical of Bultmann: ‘Professor Bultmann’s History of the Synoptic Tradition is an account, not of how the life of Jesus produced the tradition, but of how the tradition produced the life of Jesus. And when the work of the tradition has been undone, there is very little of Jesus left’ (Studies in the Gospels and Epistles [1962], 6 f.).

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is also one of the “dialectical” theologians, we are tempted to murmur, “Is Saul also among the prophets?” For, in Bultmann’s view, there is not much in the Gospels we can trust. Most of it is to be ascribed to the creation of the early Christian communities. In spite of this, Bultmann feels that he is in a position to reconstruct the message of Jesus.’ These comments on Bultmann’s scepticism are typical: most English-speaking scholars were usually too busy attacking his form critical work to take his book on Jesus seriously. Hunter’s final point is rather more perceptive. ‘The charge which Windisch and others have brought against him is that he confuses critical scholarship with theological exegesis. The charge has point. Years ago Tyrell complained that Harnack’s Jesus was but the reflection of a liberal Protestant face. Bultmann’s Jesus might be said to be the reflection of a Barthian face. C’est dialectique, mais ce n’est pas histoire’ (p. 54). To what extent has Bultmann’s reconstruction of the historical Jesus been influenced by his own theological position? We shall return to this impor‑ tant question below. In 1958 Bultmann’s Jesus and the Word was reprinted as a Fontana paperback. This edition was widely available until recently, but even though for many years its price was just 2/6, it does not seem to have been particularly influential. Why was such an important book overlooked so frequently? By 1958 interest in Bult‑ mann’s work in the English-speaking [[325]] world was centred on his famous ‘demythologizing’ essay which had sparked off a lively theological debate. In the following year James Robinson’s A New Quest of the Historical Jesus turned scholarly eyes towards the so-called ‘post-Bultmannian’ quest. When Günther Bornkamm’s Jesus of Nazareth first appeared in English in 1960 many review‑ ers welcomed it as a less sceptical ‘popular’ account of Jesus than Bultmann’s book and it probably replaced Jesus and the Word in students’ reading lists. In the wake of the ‘new quest’ the reviewers had tended to stress the differences and to miss the many similarities between the master and his disciple. When I first read Jesus and the Word in 1965 I shared the widespread AngloSaxon prejudice against Bultmann’s work. I quickly found Bultmann’s exposi‑ tion of the teaching of Jesus to be immensely powerful and very readable. Again and again familiar verses made a fresh impact. On re-reading it, my admiration has grown still further. I am convinced that at some points it is open to serious criticism, but it is one of the most important theological books of this century. Of its continuing importance there is no doubt, for it raises issues which are (or should be) central in contemporary theological discussion.

II In the opening eight pages of Jesus and the Word Bultmann sets out his basic method and his understanding of the historian’s task. He insists that history

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cannot be observed objectively as can natural phenomena. In every word which the historian says about history he is saying at the same time something about himself. ‘History does not speak when a man stops his ears, that is, when he assumes neutrality, but speaks only when he comes seeking answers to the ques‑ tions which agitate him’ (11 f.).3 Bultmann concedes that there is an approach to history which seeks by its method to achieve objectivity. It is extremely successful in dealing with that part of history which can be grasped by objective method, for example in determin‑ ing the correct chronological sequence of events. ‘But an approach so limited misses the true significance of history’ (12). Bultmann then stresses that he does not wish to lead the reader to any ‘view’ of history, but to a highly personal encounter with history. In a few deftly worded opening paragraphs Bultmann has parted company with a long tradition of historiography. His own approach was so bold and so new that perhaps it was not surprising that the translators of Jesus and the Word misunderstood its significance. The opening sentence of their preface to the 1958 edition runs as follows: ‘Professor Rudolf Bultmann’s Jesus, here trans‑ lated, is a strictly historical presentation of the teaching of Jesus in the setting of the thought of his own time’ (5). Bultmann, on the other hand, takes pains to emphasize that he is not primarily concerned to provide a ‘strictly historical presentation’, but a ‘continuous dialogue with history’. For Bultmann the actual encounter with history takes place only in the dialogue. ‘This dialogue is no clever exercise of subjectivity on the observer’s part, but a real interrogating of history, in the course of which the historian puts this subjectivity of his in ques‑ tion, and is ready to listen to history as an authority’ (11 f.). Bultmann insists that the historian cannot ‘observe’ history from a neutral detached standpoint. In his later important essay, ‘Is Exegesis without Presup‑ positions Possible?’ this point is expounded more fully: the exegete always has his own specific perspective, his own ‘pre-understanding’, his own definite way of asking questions of the text.4 This is surely correct. But it raises immediately the further question of the appropriate starting point in interpreting the NT. For Bultmann, reconstruction of the earliest stage of the Palestinian tradition is carried out with the conscious conviction that the words of Jesus do have something to say to the present. ‘They meet us with the question of how we are to interpret our own existence. That we be ourselves deeply disturbed by the prob‑ lem of our own life is therefore the indispensable condition of our inquiry’ (16). Whether or not one accepts his conclusions, Bultmann’s preference on theo‑ logical grounds for some parts of the synoptic traditions can be appreciated,  Page references to Jesus and the Word are to the 1958 Fontana edition.  For a fuller discussion, see my essay ‘Presuppositions in New Testament Criticism’ in ed. I. H. Marshall, New Testament Interpretation (Exeter [1977]), 60–74 [[reprinted in this volume]]. 3 4

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as can his use of the language of existentialism to draw out the significance of the teaching of Jesus for modern man. But already in Jesus and the Word, and even more clearly in later writings, he takes a further step which is much more questionable. Bultmann does not merely allow his own theological convictions to guide him in his exposition of the teaching of Jesus, he also allows his own vantage point to determine which parts of the tradition are relevant. In short, he deliberately unites historical and theological interpretation.5 The criteria which are used for accepting or rejecting parts of the synoptic tradition are not simply strictly historical. Bultmann is interested only in those parts of the synoptic traditions which confront us with the question of how we are to interpret our own existence. He is even prepared to utilize passages which he believes (on historical grounds) to belong to a later stratum of the tradition. With reference to Lk 11:27–28 and Mk 3:31–35, Bultmann states that the early Church has shown vividly how the decisive Either-Or (the call to decide for the kingdom of God) dominates the preaching of Jesus, how every other interest disappears before the exclusiveness of [[326]] the demand of God (32 f.). With reference to Mt 6, he suggests that perhaps it is an old oriental proverb that Jesus or the Church has appropriated and used to make clear to the hearer the Either-Or (75). Sayings which stem from the early Church or from first century Judaism rather than from the historical Jesus can be accepted if they are judged to be consistent with those parts of the tradition which Bultmann wishes to utilize. Bultmann states quite explicitly that in Jesus and the Word he is concerned with the con‑ tent, meaning and validity for us of what is taught in the gospels. The corollary is hardly surprising: the question of how much the historical Jesus and how much other people have contributed to that content is of secondary importance (91). Bultmann tells his readers that he presupposes the critical conclusions he reached in his The History of the Synoptic Tradition. In that book his rigorous study of the development of the synoptic traditions suggests that the historicity of many parts of the synoptic gospels is in doubt and that there are immense difficulties to be overcome if the teaching of the historical Jesus is to be re‑ constructed. Yet in Jesus and the Word he was able to devote 150 pages to an exposition of that teaching! Are we to conclude that Bultmann changed his mind between 1921 and 1926? It is no accident that between the publication of the History and Jesus and the Word Bultmann reviewed with a considerable degree of agreement Karl Barth’s Römerbrief and published an essay on the problem of a theological exegesis 5  For a full discussion (to which I am deeply indebted) see R. Morgan, The Nature of New Testament Theology, (London [1973]), 37 ff. See also N. A. Dahl’s comments in The Crucified Messiah and Other Essays (Minneapolis [1974]), 90 ff.

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of the NT. A. M. Hunter’s quip that Bultmann’s Jesus might be said to be the reflection of a Barthian face is not completely wide of the mark. In the History Bultmann is concerned with thorough analysis of the development of the syn‑ optic traditions. Five years later in Jesus and the Word he does not ignore his earlier historical conclusions, but he is engaged on a fundamentally different task, an interpretation of the contemporary significance of what he takes to be the ‘central core’ of the tradition about Jesus. It is for this reason that he is able to write: ‘By the tradition Jesus is named as the bearer of the message: according to overwhelming probability he really was. Should it prove otherwise, that does not change in any way what is said in the record. I see then no objection to nam‑ ing Jesus throughout as the speaker. Whoever prefers to put the name of “Jesus” always in quotation marks and let it stand as an abbreviation for the historical phenomenon with which we are concerned is free to do so’ (18). Bultmann was able to publish his impressive exposition of the teaching of Jesus and yet maintain firmly throughout his career that the kerygma was not concerned with more than the Dass (the mere fact) of the existence of Jesus of Nazareth. How was he able to do this? In his later writings Bultmann emphasized the gulf between Jesus the proclaimer and the early Church’s proclamation of him in the kerygma: the proclaimer became the proclaimed. But at the same time for Bultmann there is continuity between the teaching of the historical Jesus and the proclamation of him in the first post-Easter communities.6 Bultmann’s interpretation of the preaching of Jesus is remarkably similar to his interpretation (elsewhere) of Pauline and Johannine theology.7 This becomes particularly clear in the closing sentences of Jesus and the Word. Jesus is the one sent by God as bearer of the word, and in the word he as‑ sures man of the forgiveness of God. ‘Man is constrained to decision by the word which brings a new element into his situation, and the word therefore becomes to him an event; for it to become an event, the hearer is essential … Whether his word is truth, whether he is sent from God – that is the decision to which the hearer is constrained, and the word of Jesus remains: “Blessed is he who finds no cause of offence in me”’ (153 f.). The decision to which the hearer of the words of Jesus is called is a decision for or against Jesus as the one sent from God. In concluding his book thus, Bultmann scarcely conceals that he is interpreting the teaching of Jesus in the light of his understanding of the kerygma of the early Church.

6  Most scholars have failed to observe that in this respect and in many other ways Bultmann anticipated many of the emphases of the so-called ‘new quest’. 7  So also W. Schmithals, An Introduction to the Theology of Rudolf Bultmann (Eng. tr. London [1968]), 208 f.

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III Bultmann’s fusion of historical reconstruction and theological interpretation is both the strength and the weakness of Jesus and the Word. Bultmann’s primary concern, like Barth’s in his Römerbrief, was to allow first century texts to ‘speak’ anew to modern man. By adopting a particular theological vantage point Bult‑ mann was able to develop an exposition of the teaching of Jesus which is often very moving. The reader can hardly doubt the appropriateness of his use of ex‑ istentialist categories for interpreting parts of that teaching. By using theological rather than strictly historical criteria Bultmann is also able to present an account of the teaching of Jesus which stresses its coherence. A brief sketch of the historical background of the ministry is followed by three chapters which make up the main part of the book; they are described as three concentric [[327]] circles in each of which we are concerned with the same question (18). The first chapter expounds Jesus’ teaching of the coming of the kingdom of God: its coming confronts men with a decision to live their lives in accordance with the will of God. The second chapter discusses the ethical teach‑ ing of Jesus and leads to the conclusion that the eschatological message and the preaching of the will of God are to be comprehended as a unity (95). In the final chapter we reach the smallest of the concentric circles, the ‘common centre’ which is expounded under the title ‘God the Remote and the Near’. But at what price coherence, clarity and a calling in question of modern man’s habitual ways of self-understanding? By concentrating on a theological interpre‑ tation of the teaching of Jesus which will confront twentieth-century man with a call for decision, Bultmann fails to carry through sufficiently rigorously the task of historical reconstruction: there is more than a grain of truth in the criti‑ cism that Bultmann’s Jesus looks very much like a twentieth-century German Lutheran preacher! Bultmann does not set Jesus sufficiently firmly in the context of first-century Judaism. Jesus is referred to frequently as ‘a prophet and a rabbi’. But his use of ‘rabbi’ with reference to the first century is almost certainly an anachronism and there is no doubt that Jesus differed very considerably both from ‘prophets’ and from ‘rabbis’.8 The disciples of Jesus are conspicuous by their absence, yet Jesus’ relation‑ ship with his circle of disciples is a particularly distinctive and important trait. Bultmann’s account of the message of Jesus opens with a reference to Lk 10:23 f. in which the actions as well as the words of Jesus are seen as marking the begin‑ ning of the kingdom of God, but the actions of Jesus are rarely referred to in the pages which follow. Yet the traditions repeatedly point to the close link between

 See M. Hengel, Nachfolge und Charisma (Berlin [1968]).

8

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the actions and the teaching of Jesus. Ernst Fuchs’ contention that Jesus’ conduct was the framework of his proclamation is no exaggeration.9 Bultmann believes that Jesus was finally crucified as a messianic prophet, but not as Messiah (27). There are, however, good grounds for accepting the histo‑ ricity of the inscription of the charge, ‘The King of the Jews’ (Mk 15:26). When Jesus was confronted with the charge that he thought himself to be the Messiah, he accepted the accuracy of the charge by his silence, if not in any other way.10 Since neither the resurrection faith of the earliest Christians nor their study of scripture can explain satisfactorily the application of the title Messiah to Jesus, we are driven to the conclusion that the actions and teaching of Jesus led at least some to accept that Jesus saw himself as Messiah. Taken as an exposition of some of the central emphases of the teaching of Jesus, Jesus and the Word is quite superb and has few if any rivals fifty years later. No less clearly than Barth’s Römerbrief, this book marks a watershed in modern theology. There will surely be attempts from time to time to see the es‑ sence of Christianity in a particular reconstruction of the historical Jesus or in the example of Jesus, at the expense of the kerygma of the Cross and Resurrection. Whenever that happens, Bultmann’s denunciation of those who make Jesus into an appealing religious hero will need to be heard again. My main criticism of Jesus and the Word is not that Bultmann reaches exces‑ sively sceptical conclusions. That complaint has been heard often enough before, but all too rarely on the basis of sustained critical interaction with Bultmann’s form critical work.11 To revive that criticism of Jesus and the Word would be to overlook Bultmann’s insistence that he is not concerned to set out for ‘observa‑ tion’ all that critical scholarship can say about the historical Jesus. Rather, I believe that in his attempt to expose the contemporary significance of Jesus Bultmann has cut historical corners. By isolating those parts of the tradition which can most easily be used to bridge the gap between the first and twentieth centuries, Bultmann has failed to do justice to the richness of the syn‑ optic traditions of the teaching and actions of Jesus. Some parts of those tradi‑ tions may well not cohere very easily with other parts. And some parts may not seem to make any kind of sense in the modern world, but they may need to be heard nonetheless. Whenever the distinction between historical reconstruction and theological interpretation is blurred, there is always the danger that the text will be allowed to say precisely what the modern exegete or theologian wishes. In this respect, Bultmann’s Jesus and Barth’s Römerbrief are twins.  Studies of the Historical Jesus (Eng. tr. London [1964]), 21.  N. A. Dahl, The Crucified Messiah and Other Essays, 10 ff. 11  For a modest attempt to do this, see my essay ‘Form Criticism Revisited’, in M. D. Hooker and C. J. A. Hickling (ed.). What About the New Testament? (London [1975]), 13–27 [[reprinted in this volume]].  9 10

Chapter 15

Stephen in Lucan Perspective [[345]] Of the many puzzling passages in Acts, chapters 6 and 7 have good claims to be considered as the most enigmatic. They have teased scholars for a very long time. Not surprisingly, it was F. C. Baur who, in 1829, made the first significant attempt to grapple with the historical and theological problems raised by these chapters.1 Baur was well aware of the difficulties posed by Acts 1–5, but he had no doubts about the historicity of the speeches and felt that with Stephen and the Hellenists Luke was at last on firm historical ground. In this paper I shall say very little about the origin of the speech in chapter 7 and I shall not attempt to offer a historical reconstruction of Stephen’s teaching. I want to explore a further point made by Baur. Baur claimed that there are two kinds of apologetic speech in Acts, one of which believes that Christianity is to be reconciled with the Jews (Peter’s speeches) and the other doubts whether the Jews can be converted (Stephen’s speech). I wish to argue that Baur set scholarly study of these chapters on the wrong track by insisting that Stephen’s speech was unlike the other speeches; on the other hand, Baur’s observation that parts of Acts do reflect apologetic vis à vis Judaism is correct. Since Baur’s day scholars have pondered over the Hellenists, the seven, Ste‑ phen’s opponents, the nature of the OT textual traditions on which the speech has drawn, the so-called trial, the reference to the Son of Man, and the extent to which Luke has used sources in these two chapters. But even though opinion has been deeply divided on all these issues, scholars have drawn a whole series of bold conclusions about Stephen’s place in the development of early Christi‑ anity. A few scholars [[346]] have suggested that Stephen was a solitary figure among early Christian leaders.2 Much more frequently, Stephen has been linked with a particular group in the early church. He has been associated with parts of 1  See W. G. Kümmel, The New Testament: the History of the Investigation of its Problems. (E.Tr. London, 1973), pp. 127 ff. and the references given there; see also M. Hengel, “Zwischen Jesus und Paulus: Die ‘Hellenisten’, die Sieben und Stephanus (Apg. 6,1–15; 7,54–8,3)”, ZThK 72 (1975), pp. 151–206 again with references. 2  M. Simon, St. Stephen and the Hellenists in the Primitive Church (London, 1958); M. H. Scharlemann, Stephen: A Singular Saint, (Rome, 1968). In the second edition of his The Theology of Acts in its Historical Setting (London, 1970) J. C. O’Neill suggests that Stephen was not a Christian; the references to Jesus in 6.8–8.3 are taken as later additions (probably by Luke himself) to the source (pp. 87ff).

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Matthew,3 with some of the material behind Mark4 with Q,5 and with the Fourth Gospel.6 Many scholars have seen Stephen as the precursor of Paul;7 some have seen him as closely related to the opponents with whom Paul is disputing in II Corinthians.8 Others have linked Stephen with the Epistle to the Hebrews.9 But that is not the end of the matter. Stephen, it has been suggested, was sympathetic to Samaritan views.10 It has even been argued that the speech in ch. 7 stems originally from James, and represents Jewish Christian theology in Jerusalem.11 One is tempted to say in desperation: will the real Stephen please stand up!12 In almost all of these discussions two important preliminary questions have rarely been asked and even more rarely been faced squarely: what does Luke understand the teaching of Stephen to have been and how are these two chapters to be related to Luke’s own emphases in his two volumes? All too often either the speech in ch. 7 has not been studied alongside the other speeches in Acts, or 7.2–50 has been separated from ch. 6, or both. M. Simon quoted approvingly W. L. Knox’s view that the first step towards understanding Stephen’s message is to separate the speech from the story as a whole.13 In his important article on the Hellenists, the seven and Stephen, M. Hengel concentrates on chapter 6 and makes very little use of the speech.14 In the first two editions of his book, Die Missionsreden der Apostelgeschichte U. Wilckens completely by-passed  E. P. Blair, Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew (New York, 1960).  R. Scroggs, “The Earliest Hellenistic Christianity” in Religions in Antiquity: Essays in Memory of E. R. Goodenough, ed. J. Neusner (Leiden, 1968), pp. 176–206.  5  T. Boman, Die Jesus-Überlieferung im Lichte der neueren Volkskunde (Göttingen, 1967), pp. 112 ff. Mr. R. Piper (one of my research students) is investigating the relationship between Stephen and Q in his forthcoming dissertation on wisdom traditions in Q.  6  O. Cullmann, The Johannine Circle (E.Tr. London, 1976).  7  See especially M. Hengel, art. cit. Hengel concludes thus: “Sie (die Hellenisten) allein kann man im vollen Sinne des Wortes die ‘vorpaulinische hellenistische Gemeinde’ nennen”.  8  G. Friedrich, “Die Gegner des Paulus im II Korintherbrief”, Abraham unser Vater ed. O. Betz, M. Hengel, P. Schmidt, (Leiden, 1963), pp. 181–215.  9  W. Manson, The Epistle to the Hebrews (London, 1951), chapter II. 10  A. Spiro, “Stephen’s Samaritan Background”, in J. Munck, The Acts of the Apostles (New York, 1967), pp. 285–300; M. H. Scharlemann, Stephen: A Singular Saint (Rome, 1968), pp. 36–51. See also R. Pummer, “The Samaritan Pentateuch and the New Testament” NTS 22 (1975/6), pp. 441–3; E. Richard, “Acts 7: An Investigation of the Samaritan Evidence”, CBQ 39 (1977), pp. 190–208; R. J. Coggins, “The Samaritans and Acts” forthcoming in NTS. [[NTS 28.3 (1982): 423–434]] 11  H. J. Schoeps, Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums (Tübingen, 1949). 12  For a brief history of research on Acts 6 and 7, see J. Kilgallen, The Stephen Speech: A Literary and Redactional Study of Acts 7.2–53 (Rome, 1976), pp. 3–26. In addition to the literature cited by Kilgallen, see G. Stemberger, “Die Stephanusrede (Apg 7) und die jüdische Tradition’ in ed. A. Fuchs, Jesus in der Verkündigung der Kirche (Freistadt, 1976), pp. 154–174. R. Pesch, Die Vision des Stephanus (Stuttgart, 1966); W. D. Davies, The Gospel of the Land (Berkeley and London, 1974), pp. 267 ff.; E. Grässer, “Acta-Forschung seit 1960”, ThR 41 (1976) pp. 141–194, 259–90. 13  M. Simon, Stephen, p. 3 f., quoting W. L. Knox, Acts, pp. 23 f. and 72. 14  M. Hengel, ‘Zwischen Jesus und Paulus’.  3  4

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Stephen’s speech,15 as did E. Schweizer in his influential and perceptive article on the structure of the speeches in Acts.16 E. Haenchen seems to have been very uneasy about ch. 7: in his commentary he argued that Luke had used a nonpolemical, edifying Palestinian homily into which he inserted a small handful of verses. However, in a short discussion of more recent scholarly work which was added to later editions of the commentary, Haenchen conceded in passing that he thought that the speech was rather more important for Luke’s theology than he had believed earlier.17 In this respect, at least, Haenchen was on the right track, though he was unable to follow this path very far. I wish to challenge the frequent assumption that many problems melt away if the narratives about Stephen are separated [[347]] from the speech. The speech in ch. 7 is much longer than any of the other speeches in Acts: it is as long as the major speeches in chapters 2 and 13 put together. It takes up one twentieth of Luke’s second volume and it must have been included by him for quite definite reasons. Stephen’s speech may seem to some modern readers to be a rather tedi‑ ous recital of OT history, but from Luke’s point of view it is a most important part of his work. Acts 7 is a ‘set-piece’ speech comparable with the ‘set-piece’ speeches in chs. 2, 3, 4, 10, 13, 14, 17. Since Luke relates his speeches most carefully to their contexts, he is likely to have done so here. Although there are good grounds for supposing that in ch. 7, as well as in the other speeches, Luke has made use of traditional material, here, as elsewhere, the speech reflects Luke’s own style and theological emphases.18 However extensive Luke’s source or sources may have been, he has covered his tracks with such great skill that it is entirely in order to look at the Stephen material, as it were, in Lucan perspective.

* The accusations made against Stephen in 6.11, 13 f. are often said to be dealt with inadequately or only in part in the speech.19 As far as I am aware, few if any writers have asked about Luke’s intentions in listing the accusations in 6.11 15  U. Wilckens, Die Missionsreden der Apostelgeschichte (Neukirchen-Vluyn, 1961 and 1962). Prof. S. G. Wilson has kindly pointed out to me that in the third edition, 1974, (to which I have not had access) Wilckens does include a discussion of Stephen’s speech. 16  E. Schweizer, ‘Concerning the Speeches in Acts’ in Studies in Luke-Acts, ed. L. E. Keck and J. L. Martyn (London, 1968), pp. 208–216. 17  E. Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles (Oxford, 1971), E.Tr. of the 14th German edition (1965), p. 128. 18  See especially J. Kilgallen’s appendix, ‘Some Literary Traits in the Speech of Stephen’, The Stephen Speech, op. cit., pp. 121–163. Kilgallen fails to refer to stylistic traits which many scholars have taken as not typically Lucan. 19  Compare Lake and Cadbury’s opening comment on the speech in Beginnings of Christianity, Vol. IV (London, 1933), p. 69; ‘This is not a rebuttal of the charges brought against him’.

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and 13 f. Does Luke intend his readers to take these verses as an accurate report of what Stephen said? In verse 11 we are told that Stephen’s opponents secretly instigated (ὑπέβαλον) men to state that they had heard his blasphemous words against Moses and God. And in v.13 Stephen’s accusers are said explicitly to have been false witnesses. Surely Luke intends the reader to understand that these accusations are unfair! Surely the false witnesses do not give an accurate account of the teaching of Stephen. This is confirmed by the way Luke presents accusations elsewhere in LukeActs. The accusations brought against the apostles in the early chapters and especially those brought against Jesus and Paul either have no truth in them at all, or else they need to be modified very considerably. Luke usually presents accusations of opponents in direct speech and rebuts or modifies them strongly with a speech. [[348]] At Luke 23.2 ff. three accusations are made against Jesus before Pilate: ‘We found this man perverting our nation, and forbidding us to give tribute to Caesar, and saying that he himself is Christ a king.’ The reader of the earlier chapters of Luke’s Gospel knows well that these accusations are not entirely fair or accurate. In Athens Paul is accused of presenting ‘new teaching’ (Acts 17.9); the speech which follows shows that Paul’s teaching is not entirely new. In the later chapters in Acts Paul is frequently wrongly accused and the reader is left in no doubt that the accusations which are being made are false. Acts 21 is especially important. Paul is told by James and the elders that Jews ‘who have believed’ have heard that Paul teaches Jews among the Gentiles to forsake Moses. A few verses later we are told that Jews from Asia accuse Paul of teaching men everywhere ‘against the people and the law and this place; moreover he also brought Greeks into the temple, and he has defiled this holy place.’ (21.28) The accusations made here against Paul are strikingly similar to the accusations made against Stephen. The verbal agreement is impressive and suggests that Luke’s own hand can be discerned: compare Acts 6.13; ὁ ἄνθρωπος οὗτος οὐ παύεται λαλῶν ῥήματα κατὰ τοῦ τόπου τοῦ ἁγίου (τούτου s. v. l.) καὶ τοῦ νόμου with Acts 21.28; οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ ἄνθρωπος ὁ κατὰ τοῦ λαοῦ καὶ τοῦ νόμου καὶ τοῦ τόπου τούτου πάντας πανταχῇ διδάσκων …  καὶ κεκοίνωκεν τὸν ἅγιον τόπον τοῦτον. The reader of Acts 21 is left in no doubt at all that these accusations against Paul are quite unwarranted. These parallels suggest that in Acts 6 Luke considers that the accusations against Stephen are mischievous and indeed that is the tone of the narrative. On the one hand Stephen speaks τῇ σοφίᾳ καὶ τῷ πνεύματι (6.10), while his oppo‑ nents instigate men secretly to bring accusations against him; the opponents are false witnesses, Stephen (as 22.20 makes explicit) is the true witness. So the attentive reader of Luke-Acts expects that these accusations against Stephen will be shown to be false or at least misleading. And that is what I take the speech to be doing, at least in part. [[349]]

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* Did Stephen attack Moses and the law, as his accusers alleged? Of course not. In his reply Stephen places Moses on a pedestal and devotes half of the speech to him. Verse 37 refers to the prophet like Moses whom God would raise up – Luke’s readers will not miss the Christological allusion, as this has been pre‑ pared for at 3.22. Moses, Stephen insists (in v. 38), received the law (λόγια ζῶντα) to give to God’s people – to us (ἡμῖν) says Stephen, carefully including himself. A number of manuscripts (including ‫ א‬and B) read ὑμῖν, but in view of the references in verses 38 and 39 to οἱ πατέρες ἡμῶν this reading is almost certainly an example of the frequent scribal confusion between ἡμῖν and ὑμῖν which were pronounced alike.20 As we shall see a little later, Luke aligns Stephen carefully with Moses: Ste‑ phen, like Moses, the prophets, Jesus (and Paul) is rejected by part of Israel. So the accusation that Stephen spoke blasphemous words against Moses (6.11) is plainly ridiculous. Stephen returns to the law in the final words of the speech: the law was delivered by angels, but it was not kept. So how can Stephen be said by his opponents to have spoken against the law (6.13)? How could he have said that Jesus would change the customs delivered by Moses (6.14) when he emphasised that it was his opponents (and, by implication, not he himself) who had failed to keep the law? So much for the accusations concerning the law. In Luke’s view neither Stephen nor Paul rejected the law: at 25.8 Paul rebuts the similar accusations which have been made against him. But what about the other accusation made against Stephen? Did he speak κατὰ τοῦ τόπου τοῦ ἁγίου (6.13)? Did Stephen say that Jesus would destroy the temple (καταλύσει τὸν τόπον τοῦτον 6.14)?21 This is a very much more difficult question than Stephen’s (and Luke’s) attitude to the law. I have suggested that accusations in ch. 6 are intended by Luke to be seen by his readers as mischievous, as indeed the speech shows the accusation about the law to have been. How, then, is the reply in the speech to the accusation about the temple to be interpreted? Is this accusation simply conceded to be correct? It is not impossible that the speech accepts that one of the accusations is valid but that the other is invalid,22 but this would not be consistent with Luke’s methods elsewhere. [[350]] Nearly all exegetes accept that in the speech Stephen attacks the temple, even though elsewhere in Luke’s two volumes the temple is frequently placed in a  See also below, where attention is drawn to the importance of the switch in verses 51 and 52 from ‘our father’ or ‘our fathers’ (used 13 times in the speech) to ‘your fathers’. 21  The accusation in 6.11 that Stephen spoke blasphemous words against God may also refer to the temple. 22  Cf. B. S. Easton, Early Christianity (London, 1955), pp. 115–118; also Lake and Cadbury, Beginnings of Christianity, Vol. IV, p. 69. 20

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favourable light and there is hardly a trace of a negative attitude. As soon as we look at Acts 6 and 7 in Lucan perspective, Stephen’s attitude to the temple becomes a particularly difficult question. There would seem to be three possible explanations: (i) Luke has retained without modification a source which contains a very different attitude to the temple to his own; (ii) Luke’s own attitude is not quite as consistently positive as I have just indicated; (iii) the final verses of Stephen’s speech should not be construed as a full-scale assault on the temple and an acceptance of the accusa‑ tion of 6.13 f. The first possibility is undoubtedly an attractive solution and it cannot easily be ruled out. However, as we shall see, so much of Acts 6 and 7 can be seen as thoroughly Lucan that it would be surprising if Luke had failed to alter such a discordant note. The second explanation has been set out by J. C. O’Neill. He suggests that in Luke-Acts there are several hints that the Temple is to be destroyed and that piety centred on the temple will fail. ‘Paul is arrested and accused of profaning the Temple at the very moment when he is paying particular attention to its pu‑ rificatory requirements. (21.21 ff.) Just as God had told him to go to the Gentiles as he was praying in the Temple, so he is arrested and begins his fateful journey to Rome when he is about to complete the days of purification. It seems that God himself is driving Christians out of the Temple, and showing that they can‑ not confine themselves to its limitations’.23 But this is surely over-subtle. In the final chapters in Acts Luke takes pains to emphasise that Paul did not attack the temple or the law. At 25.8 Paul roundly declares that he has not committed any offence against either the law of the Jews or the Temple or Caesar. In the next chapter Paul tells Agrippa that he was seized by the Jews in the temple (26.21) and in the final chapter Paul explains to the leaders of the Jews in Rome that he had done nothing against the people or the customs of the fathers (28.17, 19). Luke’s presentation of Paul’s attitude is so consistent that O’Neill’s own ques‑ tion is pertinent: ‘If Luke was content to show the church slowly discovering what God really meant about the Temple, why did he bother to construct an elab‑ orate [[351]] foretelling of this and insert it so early’?24 O’Neill’s own resolution of the difficulty is drastic: in the section 6.8–8.3 the four references to Jesus are insecurely anchored and were Christian interpretative additions to a source in which Stephen was not a Christian. But the more strongly Lucan redaction of a source (or sources) is appealed to, the more difficult it becomes to understand why Luke has placed an attack on the temple at this point in his narrative. Even though the third solution runs counter to the usual exegesis of 7.44–50, it must be considered carefully. I wish to suggest tentatively that Luke’s inten‑  J. C. O’Neill, The Theology of Acts, op. cit. p. 81.  Ibid., p. 88.

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tion has frequently been misunderstood: in Luke’s eyes at least, Stephen did not reject totally the temple and the law. The speech is intended by Luke (whatever the original intention of any earlier tradition may have been) to show that both accusations against Stephen were misrepresentations. However, the speech is not just intended to provide a reply to the accusations; as we shall see, the main theme is a counter charge which runs through the whole speech, steadily becom‑ ing more prominent as the speech proceeds to the climax of vv. 51–53. At the end of the speech Stephen rounds on his accusers, and, not surprisingly, arouses their fierce opposition. Two related criticisms are made by Stephen: his accusers have resisted God’s Holy Spirit (ἀεὶ τῷ πνεύματι τῷ ἁγίῳ ἀντιπίπτετε) and disobeyed God’s law; the betrayal and killing of Jesus was all of a piece with the persecution and killing of the prophets. We shall return to the latter of these two themes later. Stephen’s insistence on the disobedience of part of Israel is, in effect, a sum‑ mary of the argument of the two sections of the speech which immediately precede the climax of vv. 51–53. These two sections are strikingly similar. Both conclude with an explicit citation of Scripture (7.42 f. and 49 f.) which is very closely related in each case to the immediately preceding narrative. In both cases the Scripture citation merely underlines the charge which precedes it. Verse 50, οὐχὶ ἡ χείρ μου ἐποίησεν ταῦτα πάντα; not only marks the climax and the key to vv. 44–50, but the work of God’s hands (v. 49 f.) is set in stark contrast to the work of men’s hands (v. 48) and to the delight of those who rejected Moses and rejoiced in the works of their own hands (v. 41) and who worshipped the figures which they made (v. 43). [[352]] These two sections, then, are constructed in the same way and are so closely related to one another that we expect to find that they are making a similar point. In the first section (7.39 ff.), those who disobeyed and rejected Moses not only offered a sacrifice to an idol and delighted in the work of their own hands: they disobeyed God, with the result that God’s promise to Abraham that his posterity would worship him in the promised land could not be fulfilled (cf. verse 7 and verse 42). Amos 5.25 ff. is not cited from the LXX to argue against sacrifices: the point is rather that in the wilderness period Israel offered sacrifices to idols rather than to God; idols which they made were worshipped (προσκυνεῖν is added to the LXX citation) rather than God. The second of these two related sections (44–50) also insists that God does not dwell in objects made with hands (ἀλλ᾿ οὐχ ὁ ὕψιστος ἐν χειροποιήτοις κατοικεῖ). The argument of this section turns on v. 50, the final clause in the citation from Isaiah 66.1–2: οὐχὶ ἡ χείρ μου ἐποίησεν ταῦτα πάντα; the work of God’s hands is contrasted strongly with the work of men’s hands (cf. v. 49 f. with v. 48). Lake and Cadbury note that Is. 66.1 is also used in Barnabas 16.2, but they fail to observe that Barnabas does not include the next verse in Is. 66, the verse to which I have just referred as crucial to Stephen’s argument

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(v. 50).25 Isaiah 66.1 is cited in Barnabas as part of an extremely vigorous antitemple polemic which is completely different in its argument and in its tone from Acts 7.26 Acts 7.44–50 is not an attack on the temple, as so many exegetes have assumed. There is no implication that in building the temple Solomon was disobedient. The point is rather that ὁ Ὕψιστος (the term chosen is surely significant here) does not dwell ἐν χειροποιήτοις (v.48) for his hand has made heaven and earth. In the light of the related preceding section the implication would seem to be not that the temple was a ghastly mistake (any more than sacrifices were) but that in supposing that ὁ Ὕψιστος dwells ἐν χειροποιήτοις he has not been truly worshipped and has been spurned. The argument of the passage is then picked up immediately in verse 51b, ὑμεῖς ἀεὶ τῷ πνεύματι τῷ ἁγίῳ ἀντιπίπτετε ὡς οἱ πατέρες ὑμῶν καὶ ὑμεῖς. This exegesis is advanced tentatively. Not all of the difficulties of these verses have been solved. Some may well have arisen as a result of Luke’s inadequate redaction of a source. In particular, it is not easy to see why the period of [[353]] the σκηνὴ τοῦ μαρτυρίου is apparently compared so unfavourably with the pe‑ riod of the temple. But on the interpretation just offered the speech does confirm (as we expect from Luke’s methods elsewhere) that the accusations against Ste‑ phen were mischievous. An attack on false worship rather than on the temple as such is more consistent with Luke’s attitude throughout his two volumes. As we shall see shortly, Luke links Stephen and Paul so very closely that he is unlikely to have assumed that they had a radically different attitude to the temple, espe‑ cially when he shows very clearly that they shared a similar attitude to the law.

* In vv. 51–53, which form the climax of the speech, the accusations against Ste‑ phen are not forgotten, but Stephen’s counter-charge is much more prominent. The ire of Stephen’s opponents is not roused by a repudiation of the temple, (contra E. Haenchen and many other exegetes) but by his attack on the stub‑ bornness of part of God’s people who even persecuted some of the prophets and ‘killed those who announced the advent of the δίκαιος’. But this is not a theme which emerges for the first time at the conclusion of the speech, for it holds the whole speech together.

 Beginnings of Christianity, Vol. IV, p. 81 f.  Lake and Cadbury note that both OT passages (Amos 5.25 ff. and Is. 66.1) are quoted by Justin, Dialogue 22 and suggest possible use of testimony books. However, (as Haenchen also notes) this is unlikely as the two passages are not cited by Justin in succession and Justin gives the exact source of both quotations. Justin does not include Is. 66.2, which clinches the argu‑ ment in Acts 7; Amos 5 is used by Justin to make a rather different point. 25

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In the light of the accusation that Stephen spoke ‘blasphemous words against Moses and God’ (6.11) and ‘words against this holy place and the law’ (6.13) the fact that Abraham is Stephen’s starting point is significant. Abraham is referred to as ‘our father’: Stephen insists that he and his opponents share Abraham as their father. This is more than captatio benevolentiae. One of the features of the speech is the repeated use of ‘our father’ or ‘our fathers’ to refer to Israel’s lead‑ ers of old. This happens thirteen times in the speech, making the switch at the climax in verses 51 and 52 to ‘your fathers’ especially striking.27 Stephen aligns himself with part of Israel, but not with the whole of Israel. The phrase ‘our fathers’ is also used at 3.13 (Peter’s speech), 5.30 (Peter and the apostles), 13.17 and 32 (Paul), 15.10 (Peter), 22.14 (Paul, quoting Ananias), and 26.6 (Paul).28 In Paul’s final statement, which comes as the climax to the whole book, there is an equally dramatic switch from ‘our fathers’, the usual phrase to which the reader has become accustomed, to ‘your fathers’ (28.25): Luke makes Paul and [[354]] Stephen speak with the same voice. I take the central point of vv. 2–8 to be God’s twofold promise of the land: in verse 5, in spite of the fact that Abraham did not have a child, and in verse 7, in spite of Israel’s enslavement in Egypt.29 The short summary of the Joseph traditions is simply a linking section. Why should Luke not summarise the story of God’s people, for it was his story too? It is noteworthy that in Paul’s speech in the synagogue in Pisidian Antioch, where there is another sketch of the history of Israel, the patriachal period is covered in one verse, 13.17. So Luke devotes these few verses to Joseph: there is no need to search for any deeper significance.30 Verse 17 is especially important: here Luke reminds the reader most carefully of God’s promise of the land to Abraham. And since it is through Moses that God fulfilled his promise, Moses is placed on a pedestal and approximately half of the speech is devoted to him. Since Moses is treated so thoroughly here, it comes as no surprise to find that he is not even mentioned by name in Paul’s historical sketch in chapter 13.

27  7.38 may possibly be an exception, as ὑμῶν is read by some manuscripts, ἡμῶν, however, fits the context more naturally but could readily have been replaced by ὑμῶν, as the two words were pronounced alike. 28  At 3.25 some manuscripts read ‘your fathers’, but if the switch from the first person plural to the second person plural at 28.25 is intentional, the original reading may have been ἡμῶν (contra B. M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary). 29  See N. Α. Dahl, ‘The Story of Abraham in Luke-Acts’ in Studies in Luke-Acts, op. cit., pp. 142 ff. 30  J. Kilgallen, op. cit., pp. 46–63 and p. 97, suggests that Joseph is portrayed as a forerunner of Christ. But if Luke had intended to use the Joseph traditions typologically surely this would have been done more explicitly. As H. Conzelmann notes in his commentary, the sufferings of Joseph are almost passed over.

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The major theme of the whole speech, the ‘rejection’ theme, emerges explic‑ itly at verse 25. As the following verses make clear, Moses is rejected by his own brethren, ‘the sons of Israel’. In verses 35, 37 and 38 Moses is referred to with touches of Lucan rhetorical artistry: and this is precisely the point at which the argument of the speech begins to gather momentum: τοῦτον τὸν Μωϋσῆν … οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ Μωϋσῆς … οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ γενόμενος. The importance of Moses could hardly have been underlined more firmly: he is portrayed as a prophet, sent by God to his people, but rejected. The lengthy part of the speech devoted to Moses is directly related to Stephen’s final denunciations of his op‑ ponents in verses 51–53. The first half of the speech is not a tedious recital of OT history which shows ‘no purpose whatsoever’,31 but part and parcel of the argument. The speech as a whole is concerned with the contrast between, on the one hand, Abraham, Joseph (God was with him, verse 9), Jesus the δίκαιος, Stephen himself, (and, later, Paul) and, on the other hand, that section of Israel which rejected Moses, the prophets, Jesus, Stephen (and, later, Paul). But it is not just God’s messengers who have been [[355]] rejected; it is God himself who has been opposed (v. 51b). God promised Abraham that his posterity would possess the land and worship God in the land (v. 7). God fulfilled his promise through Moses, but part of Israel did not truly worship God either in the wilderness period or later when the temple was built. Stephen’s accusers oppose the Holy Spirit, but in stark contrast Stephen himself, full of the Holy Spirit, gazes into heaven and sees the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God (v. 55). In short, God faithfully fulfils his promises, but part of his people consistently fails to serve and to worship him; Israel is split into two: some reject (later in Acts it is clear that this is the vast majority, in spite of Luke’s accounts of mass conversions of Jews), some accept. Peter’s speech in chapter three is concerned with similar themes. Peter, like Stephen, stresses that he and his hearers share the God of their Father Abraham. Both speeches stress that Jesus the δίκαιος, whose coming was foretold by the prophets, was rejected and killed. In chapter three those who reject the prophet like Moses will be rejected or destroyed utterly from the people (3.23). It is not a question of God rejecting the whole of Israel, but of a split within Israel, precisely as in ch. 7. These two speeches are not unalike, in spite of obvious differences: both are full of Lucan emphases.

* I turn, finally, to the relationship of the Stephen material to the rest of Luke-Acts. I have stressed that the speech and the accusations must not be separated. I have  M. Dibelius, Studies in the Acts of the Apostles (London, 1956), p. 168 f.

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also suggested that the speech should be studied alongside the other speeches in Acts. Luke’s selection of material in the speeches is not haphazard: some points mentioned in the speeches in chapters 2, 3 and 4 are developed much more fully in ch. 7. Some of the OT material given in detail in ch. 7 is not repeated in ch. 13. It is clear that whether or not Luke has drawn on earlier sources or traditions, the speeches have been constructed with great skill. But it is possible to go further than this. Acts 6 and 7 form an integral part of one of Luke’s main themes. The prophets sent by God to his people ware rejected and killed, as Luke emphasises not only in Stephen’s speech but also at Luke 11.49ff, using Q material. Jesus, Stephen and Paul were [[356]] all rejected – mischievous charges were brought against them. The reader is left in no doubt of their innocence. They did not pervert or mislead God’s people, they did not reject the law and the temple root and branch. As we have seen, it is striking just how similar are the accusations made against Jesus, Stephen and Paul – surely we catch here an echo of Jewish attacks on Christianity in Luke’s own day which Luke is most anxious to rebut. In his two volumes Luke is concerned to stress that Christianity should be seen in Roman eyes as harmless. It is also clear (and this point has been noted much less frequently) that Luke has pondered deeply on Israel’s rejection of the Gospel and on the main lines of Jewish apologetic and polemic. Luke also emphasises that God’s cause triumphs in spite of Jewish rejection. Jesus is denied and killed, but God raises him from the dead. Stephen is rejected and killed, but God triumphs. The Stephen material comes at a most important point in Luke’s story of the triumphant spread of the Christian movement. The persecution which arose following the death of Stephen leads directly to the next stage in Luke’s story, 8.4 to 11.18, as 8.1, 8.4 and 9.31 make clear. The section of Acts which then follows, 11.19 to 15.35, is also linked directly to the Stephen material by Luke’s careful note in 11.19. The reader of Acts discovers that Gamaliel the Pharisee was correct: this plan or undertaking of the followers of Jesus is not of men, for it did not fail – it is of God, and could not be overthrown. Finally, Paul is similarly wrongly accused and rejected: the reader knows full well that he will suffer a similar fate to Je‑ sus and Stephen. But in spite of rejection by the Jews the Christian cause will continue to triumph. In this article I have attempted to relate the accusations against Stephen in ch. 6 to the speech in ch. 7. I have argued that these two chapters do not fit awk‑ wardly into Luke’s overall argument, for it is possible to see Stephen in Lucan perspective. I have taken a further step more tentatively and have suggested that the usual account of Stephen’s attitude to the temple is mistaken, for even this is not out of line with Luke’s own attitude. Whether my exegesis of vv. 44–50 is plausible or not, it is clear that the main theme of the speech is thoroughly Lucan: the story of God’s people is a story of God who fulfils his promises to his people;

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even though part of his people has constantly rejected God and his messengers, God’s cause triumphs ultimately. [[357]] The main reason for the inclusion of the Stephen material in Luke’s two vol‑ umes has been expounded along two very different lines. Some have argued that Luke intends to stress that God’s people must always be on the march and must pull up their stakes as Abraham did and leave national particularism behind. This is often taken to be the point of the opening verses of the speech.32 But Abram’s journey into Egypt, which would have been grist to this mill, is passed over in silence. And there is no attempt to hide the fact that God’s promise to Abraham that his people would possess the land was fulfilled – indeed fulfilment of the promise is stressed.33 Nor is the Stephen material given such prominence by Luke because he wants to stress that Stephen’s death marks the final rejection of Israel and the turning to the Gentiles. Stephen’s death leads to persecution, but the Hellenists do not move out immediately into Gentile territory. Even at 11.19, after the whole Cornelius episode and the Gentiles’ Pentecost, the Hellenists, except for a minority, are speaking to Jews only. I have tried to consider Acts 6 and 7 as part of Luke’s overall purpose in his two volumes. I do not wish to suggest that nothing can usefully be said about the historical Stephen and his teaching. But before we can even begin to consider Stephen’s place in early Christianity and the relationship of his theological views to Paul’s, we must learn to look at the Stephen material in Lucan perspective. For Luke, Stephen’s death is important because it marks the first involvement of Paul with the Christian movement – and Luke reminds his readers of this at 22.20. But for Luke the even more important point is that Stephen and Paul shared the fate of Jesus; neither Jesus, nor Stephen, nor Paul ever intended to alienate Israel. Luke’s Stephen is the precursor of Luke’s Paul.

32  W. Manson, The Epistle to the Hebrews (London, 1951) chapter II. W. D. Davies, The Gospel and the Land (Berkeley and London, 1974), pp. 267 ff. 33  See J. C. O’Neill, The Theology of Acts, op. cit., p. 80.

Chapter 16

Paul’s Gospel [[173]] Paul uses a cluster of related terms to refer to his initial missionary preaching and to the proclamation at the heart of his letters. The nouns ‘gos‑ pel’ (euaggelion), ‘word’ (logos or rhēma), ‘preaching’ (akoē), ‘proclamation’ (kerygma), and ‘witness’ (martyrion) are often used almost synonymously, as are the corresponding verbs. The most important of these terms is undoubtedly the noun ‘gospel’, which is used 48 times in the undisputed letters; the verb ‘to proclaim good news’ is used 19 times. Paul probably inherited the distinctive early Christian use of ‘gospel’ from those who were followers of Jesus before his own call or conversion. In‑ deed the noun may well have been used by Greek-speaking Jews in Jerusalem and Antioch very soon after Easter. The noun ‘gospel’ is rarely used in the Old Testament, and never in a religious context with reference to God’s good news. So early Christian use of this noun must be understood against the backdrop of current usage in the cities in which Christianity first took root. Literary evidence and inscriptions both confirm that the term ‘gospel’ was closely associated with the imperial cult in the cities of the eastern Mediterranean. One particular inscription provides striking evidence. In 9 or 10 BC a decree in praise of Caesar Augustus was erected in the market-place in Priene and in numerous other cities of Asia. The birthday of Augustus, ‘our most divine Caesar’, is equated with ‘the beginning of all things’, for he gave ‘a new look to the entire world’. His birthday ‘spells the beginning of life and real living’. ‘The birthday of our God signalled the beginning of Good News [euaggelia – plural] for the world because of him.’ In this inscription, and in the other non-Christian examples, the noun ‘gospel’ is used in the plural. In the first century, the accession of each individual Ro‑ man Emperor was regularly considered to provide new hope, the dawn of a new era, ‘good news’; hence there could be more than one set of ‘glad tidings’ or ‘gospels’. For Paul, and in all NT usage, the noun is always used in the singular: the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus was God’s ‘once for all’ disclosure of ‘a glad tiding’. [[174]] The use of the verb ‘to proclaim good news’ in Isa. 52:7 and 61:1 may well have encouraged Paul and his predecessors to develop the distinctive Christian use of the noun ‘gospel’ in counterpoise to usage in the imperial cult. In Rom. 10:15 Paul cites Isa. 52:7 (LXX) in summary form, ‘how beautiful are the feet

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of those who bring (God’s) good news, (who announce salvation)’. Paul imme‑ diately equates his use of the noun ‘glad tiding’ with the verbal form ‘those who proclaim glad tidings’ used in this quotation (Rom. 10:16). What were the central themes of Paul’s ‘gospel’? At some points in his let‑ ters certain theological themes are prominent, but those very themes are con‑ spicuous by their absence elsewhere. This phenomenon has often prompted the observation that Paul’s gospel is like a chameleon: it changes colour and shape according to the background against which it is set. As we shall see, however, there is a set of convictions concerning the gospel from which the apostle never wavered, even though the circumstances of the recipients of his letters elicited varying emphases.

Paul and his Predecessors In 1 Cor. 15:13 Paul acknowledges that the central themes of the gospel he had passed on to the Corinthians were transmitted to him by his Christian predeces‑ sors: ‘For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received.’ In verse 1 Paul uses the noun ‘gospel’ and the verb ‘to proclaim good news’ together, as he does at 1 Cor. 9:18; 2 Cor. 11:7; Gal. 1:11. In verse 3 Paul uses two verbs for the transmission and reception of the gospel (paradidōmi and paralambanō) which recall the semi-technical terminology used for the careful transmission of teaching from one generation of Jewish teachers to another. The gospel which the Corinthians had received from Paul is the very gospel which he in turn had received from his Christian predecessors. The content of that gospel is set out in 1 Cor. 15:3–7 in a series of short state‑ ments. The first set of four are all introduced by ‘that’ (hoti), giving them the ring of a credal formula: ‘that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, that he was buried, and that he was raised on the third day in accord‑ ance with the scriptures, and that he appeared to Cephas, and then to the twelve’. In a number of other passages in which Paul refers to his proclamation or gospel, the turns of phrase or the theological concepts are not typically Paul’s own, so there are often good grounds for concluding that he is drawing on and sometimes adapting earlier traditions. In this respect, [[175]] 1 Thessalonians, Paul’s earliest letter, is particularly instructive. In 1 Thess. 1:9–10 Paul records succinctly the main features of the Thessalonians’ response to his initial mis‑ sionary preaching in Thessalonica. A sharp contrast is drawn between ‘the liv‑ ing and true God’ Paul proclaimed and the idols from which the Thessalonians have turned. The language used is drawn from scripture and from traditional Hellenistic Jewish polemic against idols; it is not distinctively Pauline. The reference to the Thessalonians’ eager awaiting of God’s Son from heaven is the only reference in Paul’s writings to Jesus as God’s Son in the context of the

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parousia. The use of the verb rhuomai (‘deliver’) rather than Paul’s usual sōzō (‘save’) to refer to the deliverance from the coming wrath is a further probable example of non-Pauline language. Hence these two verses may contain several traces of the content of early missionary proclamation to which Paul himself was indebted. The absence of a reference to the death of Christ gives some sup‑ port to this view. In 1 Thess. 4:13 Paul turns to the Thessalonians’ anxieties concerning their fellow believers who have died. As part of his assurance that ‘through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died’, Paul quotes a credal summary: ‘we believe that Jesus died and rose’ (4:14). Since Paul does not use the verb anistēmi (rise) in this sense elsewhere, he may be quoting here a short, early summary of the content of the gospel, as he does at 1 Cor. 15:3–8. In the immediate context it is the resurrection which is the focal point of the credal ‘formula’. In the credal summary in 1 Thess. 5:9–10, however, Paul spells out the significance of the death of Christ: Christ died for us, for our salvation, so that we may live with him now and after death. Similar phraseology is used in 1 Cor. 15:3; Rom. 5:6; and 8:3. In all these passages Paul is probably draw‑ ing on and expanding an early formula: ‘Christ died for our sins.’ The profound exposition of the significance of the death of Christ in Rom. 3:25–6 probably also draws on earlier traditions. In Rom. 1:2 Paul refers explicitly to ‘the gospel’; the summary of its chris‑ tological content includes several ‘un-Pauline’ turns of phrase. In his insist‑ ence that God sent his Son for redemption (Gal. 4:4–8; Rom. 8:3) Paul may be drawing on a very early soteriological ‘sending’ formula which is found quite independently in the Johannine writings (John 3:17; 1 John 4:9). These examples (and more could be added) confirm the extent to which Paul is indebted to his predecessors for the central themes of his gospel. Nonetheless Paul develops and applies those themes in his own distinctive ways. [[176]]

The Gospel as God’s Initiative Through His Son Paul repeatedly insists that the gospel is God’s initiative, the good news of God’s fulfilment of his plan and his purposes for humankind: its focal point is Jesus Christ, God’s Son. Paul comments fully and forcefully on the nature of the gos‑ pel as God’s initiative in Rom. 1:16–17: ‘For I am not ashamed of the gospel; it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith, to the Jew first and also to the Greek. In the gospel the righteousness of God is revealed through faith for faith …’ Here Paul sets out two programmatic statements about the gospel which resonate throughout the remainder of the letter, and which echo or develop several passages in his earlier letters. So these two verses are a succinct compendium of the central themes of Paul’s gospel.

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Paul’s reference to the gospel as God’s effective saving power echoes 1 Cor. 1:18: ‘the message [logos] about the cross is foolishness to those who are per‑ ishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.’ Its availability to Jew and Gentile alike and without distinction is underlined explicitly in Gal. 3:28 – indeed it is the central argument in Galatians. Paul’s reference to the ap‑ propriation of the gospel through faith or by believing recalls Gal. 2:16; 3:2, 5: ‘a person is reckoned as righteous not by works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ’. Rom. 1:17 explains why the gospel is effective for salvation: it is God’s disclosure or unveiling of his righteousness, his ‘rightwising’ activity through Christ,1 a theme we shall discuss further below. The reader already knows from 1:34 that Paul’s gospel is God’s declaration concerning Jesus Christ as his Son. Paul had made precisely the same points concerning God’s gospel in his ear‑ lier letter to the Galatians. In the opening chapter of Galatians Paul emphasizes emphatically that the gospel is God’s disclosure of Jesus Christ as his Son. In 1:1 Paul notes that the gospel is God’s, a key point which is filled out in Paul’s threefold denial in 1:11c and 12 that his gospel has merely human origins; here he is probably responding directly to the jibes of his opponents. Paul’s positive statement about the origin of his gospel at the end of verse 12 is one of the most important in the whole letter. Paul insists that he received the gospel ‘through a revelation (apokalypsis) of Jesus Christ’. This NRSV translation preserves the ambiguity of the Greek, which can be construed either as ‘Jesus Christ’s disclo‑ sure of the gospel’ or as ‘God’s disclosure of Jesus Christ as the content of the gospel’. The latter is preferable, especially in view of Paul’s further comments in 1:15–16, which emphasize God’s initiative in the revelation or disclosure of his Son. [[177]] The key noun in verse 12, apokalypsis, is usually understood in the light of Jewish first-century apocalyptic writings, where it often refers to the unveiling of something or someone previously hidden; hence the gospel is God’s ‘revelation’ or ‘disclosure’ of Jesus Christ. As noted above, Paul’s use of the noun ‘gospel’ in the singular underlines its eschatological character. In contrast to repeatable ‘glad tidings’ concerning the Roman Emperor, God’s ‘glad tiding’ is his ‘once for all’ disclosure of Christ. This is so axiomatic for Paul that although it is implied in the passages from Galatians 1 and Romans 1 just referred to, it is rarely spelled out. Gal. 4:4–5, however, is notable. In this rich christological statement Paul develops the theme of God’s sending of the prophets to Israel: God’s Son is sent ‘in the fulness of time’, to fulfil ‘once for all’ his purposes for redemption, so that all who are ‘in Christ Jesus’ (cf. Gal. 3:26–9) might receive adoption as God’s children.

1  The Anglo-Saxon verb ‘rightwise’ conveys the gist of the Greek better than any current English word.

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Paul refers to Christ as God’s Son in only fourteen passages. In half of those passages, the reference is linked to Paul’s gospel or proclamation (Rom. 1:3–4 (twice); Rom. 1:9; Rom. 8:3; 2 Cor. 1:19; Gal. 1:16; Gal. 4:4). However, Paul also uses other christological titles and phrases to emphasize that Christ is the focal point of his gospel. In 2 Cor. 4:4, for example, Paul notes that the gospel is about the glory of Christ, and then adds a powerful explanation: Christ is the image (eikōn) of God (cf. also Phil. 2:6; Col. 1:15; 1 Cor. 15:49). As R. P. Martin notes, this means ‘that Christ is not only the full representation of God, but the coming-to-expression of the nature of God, the making visible of who God is in himself’.2

Christ Crucified and Raised for Our Salvation We noted above that ‘Christ crucified and raised’ was at the heart of the gospel transmitted to Paul by his predecessors and cited at 1 Cor. 15:3–7. Paul makes the same point himself in several important passages in his letters. In 1 Cor. 1:17 Paul emphasizes that he had not been sent to baptize but to proclaim the gospel. Here Paul uses the verb euaggelizomai, ‘to preach good news’, though he might well have used the noun euaggelion with a verb such as kērussō, ‘to announce’ (like a herald), which he uses elsewhere (e.g. 1 Thess. 2:9; Gal. 2:2). Paul’s message or gospel is about ‘the cross of Christ’, ‘Christ crucified’ (1:17, 18, 22). Here ho logos is synonymous with to euaggelion, as also at 1 Thess. 1:6; 1 Cor. 2:4; 15:2. [[178]] There is a striking similarity between 1 Cor. 1:18, 24 and Rom. 1:16, Paul’s programmatic statement about the gospel. In both passages ‘the word’ or ‘the gospel’ is God’s powerful, dynamic act in Christ for salvation for Jew and Gentile alike. As in the credal summary of the gospel in 1 Cor. 15:3–8, ‘Christ crucified for our salvation’ is the central theme of Paul’s gospel. The precise sense of the words ‘Christ died for our sins’ (1 Cor. 15:3) has been much discussed. C. K. Barrett plausibly suggests that a hint of a double meaning may be conveyed here: ‘Christ died on our behalf, that is, to deal with our sins.’3 The theme is referred to in 1 Thessalonians, Paul’s earliest letter (5:10; cf. 4:14). It is stated boldly in the opening greetings of Galatians (1:4), and it is expounded much more fully in Romans, especially at 3:2–16 and 5:6–11. In the summary of the gospel Paul cites in 1 Cor. 15:3–7, the death and the resurrection of Christ are both said to be ‘in accordance with the Scriptures’, but we cannot be sure which scriptural passages are being alluded to. The more important point is that the gospel is not a human invention, but fully in accord  2 Corinthians, WBC 40 (Waco, TX: Word, 1986) 79.  The First Epistle to the Corinthians (London: A. & C. Black, 1968) 338.

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with God’s will as set out in scripture. In Gal. 3:8 Paul makes a similar point: ‘Scripture, foreseeing that God would justify the Gentiles by faith, declared the gospel beforehand (proeuēggelisato) to Abraham.’ Paul’s gospel includes God’s raising of Jesus on the third day. Reference to the burial of Christ is included in the summary of the gospel quoted in 1 Cor. 15 to underline the reality of his death and to confirm that the appearances of the risen Christ were neither hallucinations nor the mere revival of memories of Jesus be‑ fore his death. The sequence ‘died’, ‘buried’, ‘raised’, ‘appeared’ implies that on the third day, the tomb was empty. The passive verb ‘was raised’ implies God’s involvement. As we have noted at several points, the gospel is God’s dynamic, salvific act through Christ. Rom. 10:8 also confirms that the resurrection is an integral part of the gospel. Here Paul refers to ‘the word of faith that we proclaim’ (i.e. the gospel) and then expounds its central themes: confession of Jesus as Lord, and belief that God raised Jesus from the dead. Acceptance of that proclamation leads to salvation. What is striking here is that salvation is linked to the resurrection, not the cross, as is more usually the case. But this is not the only passage which makes that point. In 1 Cor. 15:14 the validity of Paul’s proclamation and of the Corinthians’ faith is based squarely on the conviction that Christ has indeed been raised from the dead by God. And in Rom. 4:24–5 the raising of ‘Jesus our Lord from the dead’ was ‘for our justification’ and the handing over of Jesus to death was ‘for our trespasses’; here salvation is linked both to the death and to the resurrection of Christ. [[179]]

Justification For Luther, as for many other interpreters of Paul, ‘justification by faith’ is seen as the hub of Paul’s gospel: all Paul’s other theological convictions are said to be linked to this over-arching theme. Luther believed that Paul was attacking Jew‑ ish legalism, which maintained that one’s standing before God, one’s righteous‑ ness, was grounded on careful observance of the law. Luther used his interpreta‑ tion of Paul to attack the Catholicism of his day and the general belief that one could earn salvation by one’s own efforts: for Luther’s Paul, justification of the individual was by faith in Christ, not by carrying out the requirements of the law. Over the last two or three decades this interpretation of Paul’s gospel has been repudiated firmly by most scholars. What accounts for this volte-face? The traditional interpretation has been undermined by two main lines of argument. In 1977 E. P. Sanders developed considerably the work of earlier scholars. He insisted that with the exception of 4 Ezra, in the Old Testament and in later Jew‑ ish writings Israel’s covenant relation with God was basic: obedience to the law was never thought of as a means of entering the covenant, of attaining that spe‑

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cial relationship with God. Carrying out the requirements of the law (‘the works of the law) maintains one’s position in the covenant, but it does not earn God’s grace as such.4 In 1983 Sanders clarified his position: ‘The question is not about how many good deeds an individual must present before God to be declared righteous at the judgement, but … whether or not Paul’s Gentile converts must accept the Jewish law in order to enter the people of God.’5 This radical reinterpretation of Jewish teaching and of Paul’s gospel coincided with the re-emergence of what had long been a minority interpretation of Paul’s theology. Several scholars insisted that Paul’s doctrine of justification by faith is not the heart of his gospel, for it is found only in passages in which Paul is engaged in polemic with Jewish Christians, that is, in Galatians and in Romans (and in passing, as it were, in 1 Cor. 6:9 and in Phil. 3:9). In 1977 K. Stendahl expounded this point of view vigorously and insisted that justification by faith was hammered out by Paul for the specific and limited purpose of defending the rights of Gentile converts to be full and genuine heirs to the promises of God to Israel.6 This volte-face is often now referred to as ‘the new perspective’ on Paul. The broad outlines of this approach are widely accepted. However, some scholars question Sanders’ claim that observance of the law was for Jews not an en‑ try requirement, but only a means of maintaining one’s standing before God. While one cannot deny that Paul’s teaching on justification is more prominent in Galatians and Romans than in his other letters, in both [[180]] these letters it is closely associated with Paul’s gospel. Hence it can hardly be sidelined as a peripheral theme in Paul’s theology. This becomes clear in Paul’s account of his dispute with Peter at Antioch (Gal. 2:11–14). Paul insists that nothing less than ‘the truth of the gospel’ was at stake (2:14; see also 2:5). The strong language Paul uses in his vigorous repudiation of Peter’s decision to stop eating with Gentiles confirms that Paul and Peter were at odds over fundamental issues. In 2:16, one of the most important verses in Paul’s letters, the apostle expounds the central theological issue: ‘a person is justified not by works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ’ (2:16). In this verse the phrase ‘works of the law’ is used three times and contrasted sharply with ‘faith’. Paul is refuting the claim made by the agitators in Galatia (and im‑ plicitly by Peter when he ‘compelled Gentiles to live like Jews’, verse 14) that one’s standing before God is dependent on carrying out the requirements of the Mosaic law. ‘Works of the law’ is taken by some scholars to refer particularly to the Jewish ‘identity markers’ of sabbath, circumcision, and dietary laws, rather

 Paul and Palestinian Judaism (London: SCM, 1977).  Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People (London: SCM, 1983) 20. 6  Paul among Jews and Gentiles (London: SCM, 1977). 4 5

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than to the Mosaic law per se, but the negative comments on the law which fol‑ low in Galatians 3 suggest that the latter is more likely. Paul insists that a person is ‘reckoned as righteous’ by God (NRSV footnote) on the basis of ‘faith in Christ’. The meaning of the latter phrase is keenly discussed. Although some scholars insist that Paul is referring to Christ’s own faithfulness to God, as in the NRSV footnote, the traditional view that it refers to the believer’s faith in Christ is preferable. Paul probably formulated his convictions about ‘justification by faith’ in the light of his dispute with Peter. But this is not the only facet of Paul’s gospel which was first honed in the course of polemic or dialogue with those with whom Paul disagreed. What is clear from Galatians is that Paul’s primary concern is not so much the individual’s standing before God, as God’s acceptance of Gentiles on the basis of their faith in Christ: Gentiles need not be circumcised, that is, become Jews, in order to be accepted by God. These themes recur in Rom. 1:16–17 and 3:21–31; in both passages Paul insists that God accepts freely both Jews and Gentiles on the same terms, that is, faith in Christ. There is a longstanding debate over the interpretation of the phrase ‘the righteousness of God’ in Rom. 1:17 and 3:21. Does it refer to a qual‑ ity to be attributed to God, that is, is Paul stating that God acts towards human‑ kind on the basis of his own righteousness? Or does this phrase refer to God’s justifying or rightwising activity7 that is, God’s deliverance and provision of sal‑ vation for all who believe? Several OT passages in which righteousness is almost synonymous with salvation suggest the latter, though some scholars insist that in his use of this phrase Paul is holding together both lines of thought. [[181]] For Paul, justification is more than mere acquittal of the guilty sinner. In Rom. 3:26, for example, the verb ‘to justify’ is used: God declares that the one who has faith in Jesus is justified. For Paul this involves God’s act of restoring people to their proper relationship with him; it is very closely related to God’s act of forgiveness, as Rom. 4:6–8 makes clear.

Reconciliation Paul’s teaching on reconciliation is a further example of a basic theme of his gospel which is expounded in detail in only two letters, in 2 Cor. 5:18–21 and Rom. 5:8–11.8 Reconciliation is on God’s initiative: God has replaced enmity between himself and humanity with peace; hence Paul’s use of ‘peace’ is closely related (cf. Rom. 5:1). Reconciliation takes place ‘in Christ’, that is, through the sacrificial death of God’s Son (Rom. 5:9–10; 2 Cor. 5:14–15).  See n. 1 above.  The use of the word-group in Col. 1:20–2 and in Eph. 2:16 is slightly different.

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The word-group has its roots in the Greek world rather than the OT scriptures. S. E. Porter has recently shown that Paul is the first attested Greek author to speak of the offended party (God) initiating reconciliation, using the verb in the active voice.9 As with a number of his key words and phrases (including ‘gos‑ pel’), Paul has taken a concept familiar in the Greek world of his day and filled it with ‘biblical’ content. Reconciliation is closely related to justification, as Rom. 5:8–11 confirms. As with justification, the initiative in reconciliation is God’s: he proves his love to‑ wards us in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us (verse 8). In verses 9 and 10 both justification and reconciliation are effected through the death of Christ; both have salvation (here in the future) as their outcome. In the other sustained exposition of reconciliation, 2 Cor. 5:18–21, additional key points are made. God who reconciled the world to himself through Christ has entrusted to us (to Paul and his co-workers, or more probably, to all believers) ‘the word (ho logos) of reconciliation’. As we have seen, Paul often uses ‘the word’ synonymously with ‘the gospel’, so we need not doubt that reconciliation is a central strand in Paul’s gospel. In 2 Cor. 5:20a Paul refers to himself and others as ‘ambassadors’ for Christ. The word-group was widely used in the Greek-speaking eastern provinces of the Roman Empire to refer to the ‘ambassadors’ or legates of the Roman Emperor who were entrusted to convey imperial propaganda. Christ and Caesar are set strikingly in parallel: both have their ambassadors. However, the message of Christ’s ambassadors, ‘be reconciled to God’ (5:20), is not one heard from the lips of Caesar’s ambassadors. To whom is this gospel of reconciliation addressed (5:20)? Opinion is divided. Some writers insist that Paul and the Corinthian believers are being [[182]] en‑ trusted to take to the world at large the ‘missionary’ call, ‘be reconciled to God’. If so, we would then have here a rare example of the content of Paul’s initial gospel preaching. Others claim that Paul and his apostolic circle are appealing to the Corinthians themselves to be reconciled to God. A decision is difficult, for the context does not readily settle the matter. In any case it would be rash to differentiate the gospel Paul proclaimed to unbelievers from the gospel he ad‑ dressed to his house-church communities.

The Gospel Came in Power, and in the Spirit At several points in the preceding pages we have noted that the gospel is the glad tidings of God’s once for all dynamic salvific act through Christ. The gos‑ 9  S. E. Porter, Katalassō in Ancient Greek Literature, with Reference to the Pauline Writings (Cordoba: Ediciones El Almendro, 1994).

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pel is not merely a set of statements to be affirmed in response to the rhetorical persuasion of a street-corner philosopher: at the opening of his most sustained exposition of his gospel Paul emphasizes that the good news he proclaims is ‘the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith’ (Rom. 1:16). Paul had already made this point in his earliest letter, 1 Thessalonians. In the opening thanksgiving Paul stresses that his initial proclamation of the gospel in Thessalonica was not ‘in word only, but also in power, in the Holy Spirit, and with full conviction’ (1:5; see also 1 Thess. 2:37). Here Paul carefully chooses a triad of terms to balance the triad ‘faith, love, hope’ in the same sentence. In this thanksgiving (as in many other passages in his letters) Paul’s own rhetorical skills are on display. There is an obvious irony in this, for Paul is using rhetoric to emphasize that the gospel did not make its impact on the basis of his own powers of rhetorical persuasion, but through the power and conviction of God’s Spirit. Paul comments much more fully on the dynamic power of the gospel in the opening chapters of 1 Corinthians. In 1 Cor. 14 Paul repeatedly distances himself from those who rely on rhetoric to make their appeal. He opens his discussion of this point by noting that Christ did not send him to proclaim the gospel ‘with eloquent wisdom’ (1:17). By comparison with the wisdom of the wise, Paul’s proclamation (kerygma) (of the gospel) is foolishness, but it is God’s wise plan for salvation (1:18, 21), for Christ is the power of God and the wisdom of God. Paul reminds the Corinthians that his initial preaching in their city was not ‘with plausible words of wisdom, but with a demonstration of the Spirit and of power’ (2:4). Why does Paul seem to harp on this point? He is doing this, he insists, so that the faith of the Corinthians might rest not on wisdom but on the power of God (2:5; see also 2:13). At the climax of this section of [[183]] his letter Paul repeats his key point: ‘the kingdom of God depends not on talk but on power (4:20)’.10 In the preceding pages some of the most prominent strands in Paul’s gospel have been discussed. We have repeatedly noted that the gospel is God’s initia‑ tive, and suggested that this emphasis was made in deliberate counterpoise to the contemporary association of the ‘gospel’ word-group with the imperial cult. The gospel is about God’s provision of salvation for Jew and Gentile alike, not the hoped for beneficence of the Roman Emperor towards his subjects. The gospel is both God’s powerful activity (through the Spirit) which elicits faith and also a set of traditions about Christ transmitted from Christian to Christian. The focal point of Paul’s gospel is the death and resurrection of Christ. The death of Christ is salvific, that is, Christ was crucified ‘for us’, ‘for our salvation’. 10  D. Litfin, St Paul’s Theology of Proclamation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994) 195 notes that the verbs Paul uses to describe his public speaking, such as euaggelizō, kerussō, kataggellō, and martureō, are not verbs used by contemporary rhetoricians. ‘His [Paul’s] assignment was simply to make Christ known, non-rhetorically and the Spirit of God would take care of the rest’ (196).

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This is an important theme already in 1 Thessalonians, Paul’s earliest letter; it echoes throughout Paul’s other letters, in several of which it is developed much more fully. As we noted, soteriological significance is also attached to Christ’s resurrection: ‘Jesus our Lord was raised from the dead for our justification’ (Rom. 4:25). The ‘reconciliation’ word-group is prominent only at 2 Cor. 5:18–21 and Rom. 5:8–11, but since related themes are found elsewhere, too much should not be made of this. The same is true of ‘justification’ and ‘righteousness’: while this word-group is much more prominent in Romans and Galatians than in the other letters, we should not rush to conclude that Paul developed this facet of his gos‑ pel only in disputes with ‘Judaizing’ opponents. This word-group is also related to several other prominent Pauline themes. And we should not forget that Phil. 3:9 (and its immediate context) contains a succinct exposition of Paul’s teaching on righteousness: it does not come from the law, but from God, on the basis of faith. Nor should we forget that our knowledge of the content and contours of Paul’s proclamation is more limited than we would like, for his letters are not treatises on the gospel. Discussion of Paul’s gospel should not be confined to his usage of the noun and the related verb. We have found that several other terms, especially ‘the word’, are used in contexts where Paul is undoubtedly expounding his gospel. Although Paul varies his emphases from letter to letter in line with the needs of the recipients, there is a set of convictions concerning the gospel which run like a thread from 1 Thessalonians to Philippians, probably his first and final letters. The gospel is the good news of God’s once for all disclosure of Jesus Christ as his Son, sent for our salvation so that ‘we might receive adoption as God’s children’ (Gal. 4:4–5).

Chapter 17

The Law of Moses and the Law of Christ: Galatians 3:1–6:2 [[99]] My brief for this Symposium is surely the most difficult of all. There are several reasons why this is so. Galatians 3 to 6 are related even more intimately than Paul’s other discussions concerning the law to a quite specific historical, social, and theological context. Although most scholars agree that this context can be reconstructed in general terms, exegesis of these chapters often totters precariously on shaky reconstructions of particular details of that context. Paul’s terse comments on the law continue to puzzle and confuse his readers.1 Recon‑ struction of the premises on which Paul grounds some of his statements is at least as difficult as reconstruction of the views of his opponents. Gal 3 and 4 contain a number of passages which have always been central in discussions of Paul and the law. I shall insist that consideration of them must start at Gal 2:15, if not even earlier in the letter. And in order to appreciate fully the vigour and subtlety of Paul’s teaching on the law in Galatians, one must not overlook the surprising twist introduced in Gal 4:21b, 5:14 and 6:2. Since it is all but impossible to excise Paul’s comments on the law from his sustained argu‑ ment in Galatians, our agenda turns out to be the whole letter. And to complicate matters further, we have Romans! To what extent should Romans be used as a commentary on Galatians? Where terse or enigmatic state‑ ments in Galatians seem to be expressed more fully or more clearly in Romans, is it always illegitimate to refrain from referring to Romans? Some would urge us not to do so on the grounds that Paul’s views changed considerably between the writing of Galatians and Romans.2 I shall not join that debate. As far as pos‑ sible I shall try to interpret Galatians by Galatians, even [[100]] though recent writers on Galatians have frequently used passages from Romans to clinch exegetical points they wish to make.

1  Richard B. Hays describes the central ‘theological’ section of Galatians as ‘a vexing ex‑ egetical puzzle’: The Faith of Jesus Christ: An Investigation of the Narrative Substructure of Galatians 3:1–4:11, (Chico, Calif.: Scholars, 1983) 193. His own discussion is a major contri‑ bution to many of the puzzles of Galatians. 2  See especially Hans Hübner, Law in Paul’s Thought (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, E.tr. 1984). On p. 36 he rightly notes that familiarity with Romans often leads us to read Galatians in the light of Romans – with harmonising presuppositions.

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I do not propose to summarise and assess critically recent discussion of Ga‑ latians 3 to 6.3 I shall focus on some of Paul’s key points concerning the law in these chapters. An adequate discussion of Paul’s thirty-two references to the law in Galatians would involve detailed exegesis of the whole letter, a task which cannot be attempted here. Before I set out my observations on the passages in these chapters which relate most directly to the theme of this symposium, I would like to make a preliminary point which has not been prominent in the plethora of recent writing on these chapters, a point which needs to be worked out much more fully in due course. Galatians is an oral text. Paul dictated most of this letter to a secretary (6:11). It was written to a cluster of ἐκκλησίαι in Galatia (1:2): presumably a messen‑ ger took the written text from community to community, as was the case with 1 Peter. Some of the initial recipients of Galatians may have studied the written text closely; when they did so, they would almost certainly have read it aloud themselves, for silent reading was rare in antiquity.4 However most of the recipi‑ ents are likely to have heard Galatians read aloud, presumably in the context of worship and perhaps on several occasions. On hearing the text, they would have learned it by heart much more readily than we do today. Since Galatians was composed and received initially as an oral text, we need to attend to the ‘sound map’ of this letter.5 We need to listen attentively to the stylistic devices used in antiquity in oral texts: to the repetition and parallelism of key words and phrases, to the use of alliteration, to the repeated use of rhe‑ torical questions, to sentences which round off sections of the argument pithily, to the ways in which key points are set out forcefully and then explained and developed later. In short, rhetorical analysis of Galatians should not be confined (as in much recent discussion) to examination of the literary genre of this letter; the rhetorical techniques used in oral persuasion within short sections and even within individual sentences also need to be considered.6 [[101]] 3  See especially Douglas Moo, ‘Paul and the Law in the Last Ten Years’, SJT 49 (1987) 287–307, and Stephen Westerholm, Israel’s Law and the Church’s Faith (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988). 4  See G. N. Stanton, A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew, Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1992, 73–6. 5  I owe this term to a stimulating paper by Brendan B. Scott and Margaret Dean, ‘A Sound Map of the Sermon on the Mount’, in ed. E. H. Lovering, SBL Seminar Papers 1993 (Atlanta, Scholars Press, 1993). 6  In his fine commentary (268) H. D. Betz touches on but does not develop this point. Betz seems to envisage that Paul uses key phrases from his own initial oral preaching. Betz draws attention to Paul’s use of numerous ‘theological abbreviations’ – ‘… brief expressions, most of them prepositional phrases. All of them are abbreviations of theological doctrines. Their origin is unknown, but they can be most likely explained as coming from the oral transmission of Paul’s theology.’ See esp. P. Achtemeier, ‘Omne verbum sonat: The New Testament and the Oral Environment in Late Antiquity’, JBL 109 (1990) 3–27. G. Walter Hansen, Abraham in Galatians: Epistolary and Rhetorical Contexts (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989) 55, notes that Galatians

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Let me develop this point briefly. On listening again and again to the text of Galatians, I have been struck, as have many other exegetes, by the way 2:16 functions as a ‘text’ which is then expounded at length from many angles throughout the rest of the letter. The strong antithesis between those who are ἐξ ἔργων νόμου and those who are ἐκ πίστεως is sustained right through chapters 3 and 4, with later echoes. νόμος and πίστις function like key musical notes in contrasting thematic phrases which are developed with subtle variations in a movement in a symphony. In chapter 3 the πίστις word group is used sixteen times; νόμος is used fifteen times. Alongside both πίστις and νόμος are set ‘satellite’ words and phrases which are repeated and expounded. On the πίστις side are ranged the δικ‑ word group, υἱοί and τέκνα (of Abraham, of God), ἡ ἐπαγγελία, ἡ κληρονομία, and, finally, the ἐλευθερία word group. On the νόμος side, ἡ κατάρα and, more and more strongly in ch. 4, the δοῦλος word group. At the climax of the argument in 4:31 and 5:1 we have a sharp antithesis between freedom and slavery, an antithesis which I take to be synonymous with the antithesis first set out in 2:16 between those who are ἐξ ἔργων νόμου and those who are ἐκ πίστεως. In view of the repetition of these key words and phrases, and their ‘satellites’, I do not think that the initial listeners could possibly have missed the main point Paul was making. Modern exegetes ponder (quite rightly) the precise nuance of every word and phrase, and the precise line of Paul’s argument. They then use words like ‘difficult’, ‘terse’, ‘enigmatic’, ‘contorted’ to describe this letter. But there is a real risk that we shall miss the wood for the trees. If we attend to the ‘sound map’ of these chapters, Paul’s main point is crystal clear: πίστις and νόμος are at odds with one another.7 There is an important corollary. Paul’s comments on the law in Gal 3 to 6 are all set within this sharply antithetical line of argument which I have sketched. In this rhetorical context it is not surprising that Paul refers repeatedly to the law in such negative ways. As we shall see, what is surprising is the way Paul changes direction radically in 4:21b, 5:14 and 6:2. [[102]] There is one further point to be mentioned at the outset. From time to time I shall refer to Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho. The differences between Galatians and the Dialogue go far beyond different literary genres and a chronological gap of just over one hundred years. Whereas Paul is terse, Justin rambles. Whereas Paul quotes explicitly only a handful of brief passages of Scripture, Justin quotes is ‘similar in many ways to oral speech’, but largely confines himself to questions of genre and structure. 7  My colleague Dr. Francis Watson helpfully notes that the general point I have been making in the preceding paragraphs would also apply if the text were read rather than heard. I take this point, but I think that many of the ‘patterns of persuasion’ used in Galatians are particularly ap‑ propriate when the text is read aloud and heard. Further consideration needs to be given to the difference between reading and studying a text, and reading it aloud and hearing it.

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numerous enormous chunks of text. Whereas Paul is countering the influence of Jewish Christian agitators, Justin is primarily concerned with objections raised by his Jewish opponent, Trypho. Whereas Paul alludes to, but does not spell out the arguments of his opponents, Justin allows Trypho to state his case.8 Whereas Paul only hints at the existence of more radical Christians who stressed the ‘new‑ ness’ of Christianity even more strongly than he himself did, Justin is regularly looking over his shoulder at gnostics and Marcionites. Nonetheless there are sufficient similarities in both social context and theolog‑ ical argument to make comparison fruitful. Paul and Justin are both struggling to hold together the continuity and the discontinuity of the church with Israel and her Scriptures. Neither Paul nor Justin will tolerate Jewish Christians who stress continuity and who are not in full fellowship with Gentile Christians, nor will either tolerate Jewish Christians who persuade Gentile Christians to keep the law. In the latter case Justin suspects that under their influence some Gentile Christians may move over completely to the Jewish polity. Similar fears may well have been in Paul’s mind, even though they are not expressed explicitly in Galatians.9 There is now broad scholarly agreement concerning Paul’s purposes, and at the moment I see no reason to challenge the consensus. Justin’s purposes in writing the Dialogue are less clear. I do not think that his main aim was to ‘win over’ Jews such as Trypho, or Gentiles already as closely attached to Judaism as Trypho’s companions. If that had been his expectation or hope, he would not have allowed Trypho and his Gentile companions to go their own way untrou‑ bled and unmoved by Justin’s proclamation and apologetic. I think that Justin wrote with more than half an eye on Gentiles broadly sympathetic to both Juda‑ ism and Christianity – Gentiles who did not appreciate the differences. Although Paul’s immediate aim in writing Galatians was very different, is it not possible that in some of the Galatian churches his letter functioned similarly? [[103]] Justin did not know Galatians, and used Romans only to a very limited ex‑ tent.10 And yet (as I hope to show below) there are several similarities in the lines of argument developed by Paul and Justin. Of course we cannot solve the

 In places Trypho is no more than a ‘straw man’, but in many passages Trypho expresses widely held Jewish convictions and well-known Jewish objections to Christian claims.  9  In a forthcoming paper [[included as chapter 22 below]], ‘Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho; Group Boundaries, “Proselytes”, and “God-Fearers”’ I have argued that in Justin’s day there were different levels of attachment to both Jewish and Christian communities, as well as keen ‘on the ground’ rivalry. I strongly suspect that in the Galatian churches in Paul’s day there were more strands of opinion and levels of commitment than the text of Galatians would lead us to suppose. 10  See further below. It is difficult to account for Justin’s failure to mention Paul, and his minimal use of Paul’s writings. However, I hope to show that this is not to be attributed to dis‑ like or suspicion of Paul.  8

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exegetical problems of Galatians by appealing to Justin’s Dialogue, but Justin does help us to approach Galatians with some fresh questions in mind.

I. Galatians 3:1–5: By Works of the Law or by Believing? These verses are notable for the striking emotive language Paul uses to counter the success of the agitators in the Galatian communities. They are also notable for the fact that Paul’s argument is not grounded on Scripture, as it is at nearly all the key points in chapter 3. Instead Paul appeals to the Galatians’ initial reception and continuing experience of the Spirit. And most important of all for my present purposes, Paul sets out a sharp antithesis between ἐξ ἔργων νόμου and ἐξ ἀκοῆς πίστεως as the ground of the Galatians’ Christian experience. This contrast is first developed in the initial statement of his central conviction in 3:2b; it is then repeated in 3:5 which rounds off the argument of this short section. The phrase, ‘the works of the law’, is used five times within eleven verses (2:16 three times; 3:2, 5). The repetition of this phrase as part of a sharp an‑ tithesis was intended to make a strong impact on the initial hearers: the initial recipients could hardly have missed the contrast Paul was drawing between two different ways of establishing one’s standing before God. We are clearly touch‑ ing the nerve centre of Galatians. It is generally agreed that 2:15–6 is a programmatic statement which is ex‑ pounded and underlined in the sections of Galatians which follow.11 To what does the phrase ‘works of the law’ refer in 2:16, and then in the partial develop‑ ment of this verse in 3:16? I am convinced that Paul is refuting the agitators’ claim that one’s standing before God was dependent on carrying out the require‑ ments of the Mosaic law. I am well aware that my previous sentence is controversial. I concede that Paul’s first use of the phrase ‘works of the law’ in 2:16a is triggered by the issues which dominate the preceding discussion in Gal 2, circumcision and food laws. But as the initial listeners heard the argument of the following verses unfold, they were left in no doubt that Paul was concerned about far [[104]] more than these ‘test cases of Jewish distinctiveness over against Gentiles’12: Paul rejects the agitators’ claim that one’s standing before God (past, present, and future) is determined by carrying out the requirements of the law. 11  James Dunn, Galatians (London: SPCK, 1993) aptly refers to G. S. Duncan’s comment: “This is the text on which all that follows in the Epistle is commentary.” 12  The quotation is from James Dunn’s commentary, 136. In a lengthy discussion of 2:16 in his commentary, and also in ‘Yet Once More “The Works of the Law”: a Response’, JSNT 46,1992, 99–117, and in The Theology of Galatians (Cambridge: CUP, 1993) he clarifies and modifies some of his earlier comments on ‘works of the law’. Note, for example, ‘Yet Once More’, 100: “… ‘works of the law’ characterize … the conviction that status within the cov‑ enant (= righteousness) is maintained by doing what the law requires (‘works of the law’).”

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In later sections of this paper I hope to offer some support for this view. For the time being I want to draw attention to two points. (i) The future passive tense in 2:16d, δικαιωθήσεται, should not be swept aside as a mere fossil which has survived as a result of Paul’s quotation of the LXX of Psalm 143:2. In fact Paul does not give his listeners any explicit indication that a citation is being offered:13 he could have altered the tense of the verb, but chose not to do so. Hence 2:16d offers a broad hint that (pace E. P. Sanders) it is not just maintenance of one’s standing before God which is at stake, but one’s ultimate status. (ii) 3:5 also calls in question the distinction which has become familiar in re‑ cent discussion between ‘getting in’ ἐξ ἀκοῆς πίστεως and ‘staying in’ ἐξ ἔργων νόμου. Once again Paul’s choice of tense is important: in this verse both parti‑ ciples are in the present tense. Paul uses a rhetorical question in order to elicit the close attention of his listeners: he hopes they will agree that God continually gives his Spirit and works miracles among the Galatians ἐξ ἀκοῆς πίστεως and not ἐξ ἔργων νόμου.14 ‘Faith’ is not to be confined to ‘getting in’: it is a continu‑ ous process – it is as necessary for ‘staying in’ as it is for ‘getting in’.15 The question which Paul presses in 3:2b is instructive. Since reception of the Spirit cannot be distinguished from ‘getting in’, it seems likely that the agitators claimed that ‘getting in’ as well as ‘staying in’ was on the basis of carrying out the requirements of the law. Does Paul’s question in this verse imply that his op‑ ponents taught that salvation, ‘getting in’, was on the basis of keeping the law? This ‘traditional’ line of interpretation runs against the grain of much recent writ‑ ing: ever since the publication of E. P. Sanders’s Paul and Palestinian Judaism in 1977, it has found few supporters. I am convinced that Sanders (and others) have shown that in the past too many Christian scholars have accepted uncriti‑ cally that all strands of early Judaism were legalistic. [[105]] However I am not yet convinced that early Judaism was univocal on this point. At least some of the evidence discussed by Sanders is not clear-cut. And in spite of its polemical thrust, surely some of the evidence of the gospels and of Paul’s epistles points in another direction, and is relevant in a reconstruction of the ‘pattern of religion’ of early Judaism.16 13  So too Christopher D. Stanley, Paul and the Language of Scripture, (Cambridge: CUP, 1992) 234 n. 179. 14  For a fuller discussion, see especially Heikki Räisänen, Paul and the Law (Tübingen: Mohr, 1983) 189. 15  Similarly John Barclay, Obeying the Truth (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1992) 237: ‘If Paul requires ‘faith in Christ’, this is not just as an ‘entry requirement’, but it is the fundamental determinant of all Christian behaviour.’ See also R. H. Gundry, ‘Grace, Works, and Staying Saved in Paul’, Biblica 66 (1985) 1–38; here, 8–12. 16  Similarly, D. Moo (1987) 292. In a written comment on an earlier draft of this chapter, my colleague Dr. Francis Watson makes the following interesting observation: ‘How can a require‑ ment be unnecessary for getting in but necessary for staying in? If, as I consider getting in, I learn that I must keep the law in order to stay in, then a willingness to keep the law is integral to getting in’.

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As far as I am aware, important evidence in Justin’s Dialogue has been overlooked in the recent vigorous discussions of this point.17 Following Justin’s autobiographical sketch which is designed to legitimate his Christian claims (cf. Galatians!), Justin and Trypho both state their central convictions vigorously in chapter 8, a passage which sets the agenda for the discussions which follow (cf. Gal 2:15–16!). In a quite un-Pauline way Justin urges Trypho to follow his example and pay attention to the words of Christ: ‘rest most delightful comes to those who carry them out in practice.’ If Trypho is sincere in his quest for salva‑ tion, he should ‘trust in God’, ‘know the Christ of God and become an initiate’ (τελείῳ γενομένῳ).18 In response, Trypho pleads with Justin: ‘first be circumcised, then keep (as the law commands) the sabbath, and the feasts and God’s new moons, and, in a word, do all the things that are written in the law (τὰ ἐν τῷ νόμῳ γεγραμμένα πάντα ποίει), and then you will indeed find mercy from God (ἴσως ἔλεος ἔσται),19 In this passage a learned Jew expresses the view that one’s standing with God is dependent on carrying out the whole law. No doubt some will recall the evidence set out by E. P. Sanders and others which confirms that for early Judaism, ‘get‑ ting in’ was by grace, and not, as Christians have so often believed, by ‘works of the law’. They may then conclude that Trypho is here simply a mouthpiece for Justin’s mistaken Christian perception of Judaism. However before we rush to this conclusion, two points need to be borne in mind. Is it likely that two Christian thinkers who both wrestled with the question of the law should have operated independently with a mistaken view of Jewish opinion on such a crucial point? Although Trypho is sometimes no [[106]] more than a puppet who feeds Justin lines which can then be readily refuted, in nu‑ merous passages it can be shown that Trypho does indeed set out Jewish views which are well-attested elsewhere. So why should we not at least consider this possibility in Dialogue 8:4? In short, I am inclined to think that Galatians and the Dialogue suggest that for at least some strands of Jewish opinion, ‘getting in’ was on the basis of keeping the law of Moses. I do not think it at all unlikely that many Jews in the first and second centuries would have accepted that entry into the people of God was on the basis of acceptance of God’s gracious covenant with his people and at the 17  Heikki Räisänen (1983) does discuss helpfully and at some length Justin’s disputes with Trypho concerning the law, but not the passage to which I am drawing attention. E. P. Sanders does not discuss this passage in his Paul and Palestinian Judaism (London: SCM, 1977). 18  This is probably a reference to baptism. 19  In the most widely used English translation of the Dialogue A. L. Williams (London: SPCK, 1930) translates ἴσως conventionally as ‘perchance’. However this hardly makes sense in the context. T. Stylianopoulos, Justin Martyr and the Mosaic Law (Missoula: Scholars, 1976) 8 n. 4 (following J. K. T. von Otto, 1876–81) shows that ἴσως was sometimes used with the meaning ‘indeed’.

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same time have maintained that carrying out the law was a sine qua non for past, present and future acceptance by God.

II. Abraham: Galatians 3:6–9 and 15–18 and 4:21–51 In 3:6 Abraham is introduced for the first time; he remains on stage until 5:1, though at times he lurks in the background. Given the prominence of Abraham in numerous early Jewish writings, it is not surprising that Paul should also appeal to parts of the Abraham story.20 Paul’s main aim is to use the story of Abraham to support his own argument. Is he also refuting the agitators’ version of Abraham traditions? I think that this is likely, though the dangers of ‘mirror-reading’ must be kept in mind.21 Paul and the agitators were both giving priority to different parts of the Abraham traditions; they were probably appealing to some of the same traditions, but interpreting them very differently. I shall comment briefly on the parts of the ‘Abraham’ passages in Gal 3 and 4 which are most closely related to the theme of this symposium. Paul takes his listeners immediately to Gen 15:6 and then to his adapted ver‑ sion of Gen 12:3 in order to argue that οἱ ἐκ πίστεως (including Gentiles) are sons of Abraham. Longenecker notes that ‘Paul cites Gen 15:6 without any reference to Abraham’s meritorious deeds of Gen 14 as a basis for his reception by God or to Abraham’s acceptance of circumcision in Gen 17 as a condition.’ He suggests (as have other exegetes) that in Gal 3:6 ff. Paul is refuting the Judaizers’ use of these passages. There is plenty of evidence which suggests that in his interpretation of Gen 15:6 Paul is at odds with the way this passage was understood by many Jews [[107]] at the time, and probably also by the agitators in Galatia. References to the circumcision of Abraham (Gen 17:4–14) are less common.22 Nonetheless I think it is likely that the agitators did refer to this passage. Since we can be certain that the agitators were promoting circumcision (6:12), and since circum‑ cision and the covenant with Abraham are linked in a number of early Jewish traditions, we may be confident that the agitators referred to Abraham’s circum‑ cision.23 This is made a little more likely by the evidence of Justin’s Dialogue, evidence which seems to have been overlooked in recent discussion of Galatians. 20  See the helpful Appendix, ‘Abraham in Jewish literature’ in G. Walter Hansen, Abraham in Galatians (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989). Hansen shows that the story of Abraham was used in different ways by different writers. See also the excursus, ‘Abraham’s Faith and Faithfulness in Jewish Writings and in Paul’ in Richard Longenecker’s fine commentary, 110–2. 21  On the dangers of ‘mirror-reading’, see John Barclay, ‘Mirror-Reading a Polemical Letter: Galatians as a Test Case’, JSNT 31 (1987) 73–93. 22  See the evidence gathered by Hansen and Longenecker, as in n. 20. 23  So also G. Walter Hansen, Galatians (Downers Grove, Ill.: IVP, 1994).

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The very first passage of Scripture which Trypho throws at Justin is Gen 17:14: ‘That person who is not circumcized on the eighth day will be cut off from his people.’ Trypho goes on to remind Justin that this command refers alike to ‘strangers (ἀλλογενῶν) and to purchased slaves’. Those who despise this covenant (with Abraham, with circumcision as its sign) necessarily neglect all the other commandments of the law. Trypho completes his initial challenge to Justin by urging him to show him how Christians can have any hope at all, if they do not keep the law (Dialogue 10:3–4). Justin knows just how strong this opening gambit is, so he replies (not very convincingly) at length. Even if Justin has placed this reference to Gen 17:14 into the mouth of Trypho its importance for the rhetoric of the whole Dialogue can hardly be overestimated. Justin knows that the issue at the top of the agenda in any discussion with Jewish opponents (and with Jewish Christians, cf. Dialogue 46 and 47) is circumcision and the law, and he knows he must support his case with Scriptural argument. I am not claiming that a line can be traced back from Justin to Paul. But the Dialogue does suggest that the relationship between Gen 15:6 and Gen 17:14 is likely to have been prominent in the disputes in Galatia. So why does Paul not discuss Gen 17? Perhaps his failure to do so was deliberate: his silence may have been a shock tactic, designed to set the Galatians thinking. Perhaps Paul was saying in effect: Gen 15:6 is the key passage, not Gen 17:14; I know what the agitators have been saying about this verse, but here is its true meaning.24 Paul clinches his argument forcefully in 3:9: ‘Those who have faith are bless‑ ed with Abraham who believed.’ He repeats it and develops it further at 3:14 the climax of the next step in his argument: Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law that the blessing given to Abraham might come to the Gentiles through Christ Jesus, so that by faith we might receive the promise of the Spirit. [[108]] Abraham continues to be prominent in the verses which follow. In 3:16 Paul cleverly accepts the slogan repeated ceaselessly by the agitators: ‘The promises were spoken to Abraham and his seed.’ Paul even agrees that the phrase in the singular, ‘and to your seed’ is crucial, but he claims that it refers to a single person, Christ. For our present purposes, the next verse, which concludes the argument of this section, is even more important. The agitators were insisting that God’s covenant with Abraham was based on his good works (cf. 3:6) and probably that Abraham’s circumcision was the sign of the covenant (Gen 17:10–14). They may well have echoed several strands of Jewish opinion which claimed that Abraham’s circumcision confirmed that he kept the whole Mosaic law. As C. K. Barrett notes, ‘They probably took the view that the Abrahamic covenant had been redefined by the Sinaitic.’25 Paul will have 24  Similarly, C. K. Barrett, ‘The Allegory of Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar in the Argument of Galatians’, in his Essays on Paul (London: SPCK, 1982) 159. 25  ‘The Allegory’, 167.

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none of this. God’s covenant with Abraham was based on faith; it was not set aside, supplemented, or reinterpreted by the law, given 430 years later. Like most Jewish teachers, Paul appealed to the Scriptural traditions about Abraham. But his priorities were often different, and when he did turn to the same passages as the agitators, he interpreted their favourite verses along radi‑ cally new lines. In the Abraham passages I have considered briefly so far, there is a consistent pattern: Paul rejects firmly any suggestion that God’s covenant with Abraham was based on circumcision rather than faith, or that it was modified in any way by the Mosaic law introduced 430 years later. In short, Paul removes circumcision and the law from the pedestal on which they had been placed. Is the final reference to Abraham in Galatians, the allegory in 4:21–5:1 con‑ cerning Abraham’s two sons, consistent with the earlier Abraham traditions as far as the law is concerned? There are two main reasons which confirm that this is the case. (i) Once again Paul is refuting the agitators’ reading of some of the Abraham traditions. Along with a number of recent writers, I find Barrett’s 1976 article compelling. He begins by noting that the Hagar-Sarah allegory has often been neglected or treated as a mere appendix to Gal 3 and 4. The same tendency can be observed in more recent exegesis. R. Longenecker and G. Walter Hansen both pay careful attention to the Abraham traditions in Galatians, but they downplay the lines of continuity in Paul’s references to Abraham by assigning Paul’s two main uses of the Abraham story to different sections of the letter: 3:6–29 is said to substantiate Paul’s rebuke to his Galatian converts for their desertion from the gospel, while the Hagar-Sarah allegory belongs to the request section of the letter and serves as scriptural [[109]] support for his ethical imperatives. I am not yet persuaded by their claim that Galatians is an example of a rebuke-request letter.26 Barrett notes that Paul is unlikely to have introduced the Hagar-Sarah allegory of his own accord, for its value from his point of view is anything but obvious, and the method of interpretation is unusual with him. In fact, ‘its plain, surface meaning supports the Judaizers, not Paul’. Hence it stands in Galatians ‘because Paul’s opponents had used it and he could not escape it.’27 The agitators seem to have claimed that they were the sons of Isaac, the le‑ gitimate children of Abraham; that belonging to the people of God must involve circumcision and keeping the law; that the church in Jerusalem supported their views; that Paul and those who accepted his views were like the Ishmaelites, illegitimate children. Paul subverts their claims by insisting that those freed by Christ (both Jews and Gentiles) belong to the Sarah-Isaac line as children of promise; those under  See my review of Hansen, Abraham in Galatians (1989) in JTS 43 (1992) 614–5.  ‘The Allegory’, 163. So too John Barclay, Obeying the Truth, 91, in spite of his hesitations over mirror-reading. 26 27

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the law belong to the line of the slave woman Hagar and her son Ishmael. For our present purposes v. 25 is important: here by means of the theme of ‘slav‑ ery’, Paul links Hagar, Mount Sinai in Arabia (= the law) and the present city of Jerusalem. Heikki Räisänen’s conclusion cannot be avoided: ‘It is the law itself that enslaves those under it’.28 In Paul’s re-interpretation of the traditions concerning Abraham’s two sons, those who belong to Christ trace their line of descent directly back to Abraham, by-passing completely Mount Sinai and the law. (ii) The original listeners in the Galatian churches may have had as many difficulties with this passage as many modern commentators. But the introduc‑ tion, the conclusion, and the sustained antithetical contrast are crystal clear. Paul addresses ‘those who want to be under the law’ and contrasts their slavery with the freedom Christ has brought (4:21, 31 and 5:1). In view of the sustained contrast which begins at 2:15 between those whose standing before God is based ἐξ ἔργων νόμου and those whose standing is ἐκ πίστεως, the original listeners would have grasped readily that ‘faith’ and ‘freedom’ on the one hand, and ‘law’ and ‘slavery’ on the other were diametrically opposed to one another. The link between the law and slavery had already been established in 3:22–4 and 4:1–10; the contrast between circumcision – law – slavery, and freedom in Christ Jesus had already been drawn in 2:3–4. The Hagar-Sarah allegory is no mere awkward appendix; it recalls one of the passages in the narrative section of Galatians, and brings to a climax the argument Paul has been developing since 2:15–16. [[110]]

III. The Curse of the Law: Galatians 3:10–12 Although it is difficult to establish the precise meaning of these verses and to be certain of their relationship to one another, Paul’s basic point is clear: those who rely on carrying out the requirements of the law are under the curse of the law. But why does the law bring a curse, rather than a blessing? What is wrong with the law? There are three major cruces. What does 3:10 mean? What do 3:11 and 12 mean and how are they related to 3:10? And what is the relationship of the three citations of Scripture in these verses to one another?29 In the preceding verses, 3:6–9, Paul has been insisting that οἱ ἐκ πίστεως are sons of Abraham and blessed with Abraham who believed. In verse 10 Paul turns to οἱ ἐξ ἔργων νόμου. Once again Paul draws a strong contrast between those who are ἐξ ἔργων νόμου and those who are ἐκ πίστεως, a contrast which is

 Paul and the Law, 44.  3:13, ‘Christ … became a curse for us …’ will not be discussed since it is not directly relevant to our theme. 28 29

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first worked out in 2:16, and which must have sounded to the first listeners like a refrain by now.30 Why does the law bring a curse? Paul answers the question by quoting Deut 27:26, but his answer has been understood in two very different ways in modern discussion.31 Some (the majority, according to Räisänen)32 assume that Paul is implying that it is impossible to carry out the requirements of the law: since those who try to carry out the requirements of the law fail to keep the law completely, they are accursed. On this view there is a solemn warning to the Galatians: be‑ ware of the law’s siren voice, for it brings a curse, not a blessing. Räisänen defends this view strongly by appealing to Gal 5:3 and Romans 1:18–3:20. He accepts Hübner’s view that taken together, Gal 3:10 and 5:3 seem to reveal ‘an enormously rigorous attitude.’ The corollary of this line of interpre‑ tation is that 3:11 and 12 make a rather different point. Although 3:11 [[111]] is introduced as if it were a proof for v. 10, ‘from the point of view of its content it looks more like a new argument.’33 Other exegetes have interpreted 3:10 rather differently and more closely in line with the view of the law which seems to underlie 3:11 and 12.34 The fault with the law is not that it cannot be carried out completely, but ‘rather that it drives man to do things’; v. 10 shows that ‘what is important in the sphere of the law is doing.’35 The citation of Lev 18:5 in 3:12 has baffled some exegetes. How is this cita‑ tion related to the quotation of Hab 2:4 in 3:11? The former seems to have been ruled out of court by the latter: living by faith leaves no room for living by the re‑ 30  Although 3:10 is related to 3:9 by a simple γάρ, the antithesis is so stark that the REB translation of the opening of 3:10, ‘on the other hand’, is not out of order. 31  See the references to the supporters of the two views in Räisänen, Paul and the Law, 94, notes 2 and 4. Justin also cites Deut 27:26, at Dial 95:1 ff. Since the wording of his quotation is very simi‑ lar to Paul’s, and since both seem to agree against the LXX, several scholars have concluded (largely on the basis of this passage) that Justin knew Galatians. For example, O. Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy (Leiden: Brill, 1987) writes, ‘No doubt Justin had Gal 3 before his eyes when writing Dial 95 f.’ However Skarsaune and T. Sylianopoulos (n. 19) fail to note that Paul’s citation of Deut 27:26 includes phrases from Deut 28:58 and 30:10, The key phrase τοῖς γεγραμμένοις ἐν τῷ βιβλίῳ τοῦ νόμου recurs as a formula throughout Deut 28–30; this ‘makes it hazardous to rule out the possibility that the words might have crept into Paul’s Vorlage as a result of scribal harmonization, despite the lack of manuscript support for such a reading.’ C. D. Stanley, Paul and the Language of Scripture (Cambridge: CUP, 1992) 240. 32  H. Räisänen, Paul and the Law, 94. 33  H. Räisänen, Paul and the Law, 96. 34  For a recent defence of this view, see James Dunn’s commentary. He does not refer to Gal 5:3, the verse which is a pillar in Räisänen’s case. 35  This is Räisänen’s summary (94) of Chr. Maurer’s view (1941). In the version of this chapter prepared for the Symposium in Durham, I noted that since proponents of both views would be sitting around the same table, they could well debate the exegesis of 3:1–12. No doubt mainly because of the complexity of the exegetical issues, they failed to take up my challenge.

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quirements of the law.36 Christopher Stanley has recently shown that by dropping ἄνθρωπος from the LXX of Lev 18:5 Paul has brought the two quotations into near-perfect parallelism, ‘thus throwing into sharp relief the inherent contradic‑ tion (in Paul’s way of thinking) between their respective contents.’ Stanley goes on to draw attention to the importance of verbal cues to meaning in antiquity, a point I have emphasised above.37 Surely the two citations are intended to form yet another strong contrast. In v. 11 Hab 2:4 underpins Paul’s argument concerning faith; in 3:12, Lev 18:5 confirms that the law has to do with carrying out the requirements of the law and living by them. J. L. Martyn has recently noted that in 3:11–12 Paul uses the rhetorical form of contradiction in order to distinguish the true promise of Hab 2:4 from the false one of Lev 18:5.38 In Gal 3:10–12 we are looking at only one side of the coin: Paul’s comments on the law are pointed and harsh. But the other side of the coin, the verses which follow immediately in 3:13–14, is much more attractive. These verses form the climax of Paul’s argument: Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law … so that we might receive the promise of the Spirit through faith. In focussing on Paul’s attitude to the law we do not do justice to the richness of the apostle’s thought. [[112]]

IV. The Origin and Purpose of the Law: Galatians 3:19–25 and 4:1–10 The general pattern of 3:10–14 is repeated in 3:19–29. Negative comments on the origin and purpose of the law in 19–25 are a step towards the positive finale of 3:26–9, verses which are as theologically powerful and positive as any other passage in Paul’s writings. There can be no doubt that in 3:19–25 Paul comments negatively on the origin and role of the law. It is by no means easy to determine just how negative his statements are. Once again we need to bear in mind the overall impact this set of comments on the law would have had on the first lis‑ teners. Although it is possible to interpret one or two of Paul’s comments, taken in isolation, in a ‘neutral’ or possibly even in a positive sense, the thrust of the whole argument is inexorable: Paul is even more antagonistic to the law in this passage than elsewhere in Galatians. The main points will be considered briefly in the order in which they occur.  See John Barclay, Obeying the Truth, 67.  C. D. Stanley, Paul and the Language of Scripture, 244–5. 38  J. L. Martyn, ‘Christ, the Elements of the Cosmos, and the Law in Galatians’, in ed. M. White and L. Yarbrough, The Social World of the First Christians, Essays in Honor of Wayne A. Meeks (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995) 16–39, here 36 n. 53. For a rather different line of exegesis, see J. Lambrecht, ‘Curse and Blessing: a Study of Galatians 3, 10–14’ Collationes 21 (1991) 133–157, now included his Pauline Studies (Leuven: University Press, 1994) here 284–5. 36 37

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(i) Gal 3:19a and b: The law was added (to the promises) because of transgres‑ sions, until the Seed … had come. There can be little doubt about the force of προσετέθη: it ‘marks the law as supplementary, and hence subordinate to the covenant.’39 χάριν is not so straight‑ forward. Here there are two main possibilities.40 Was the law given ‘to bring about a knowledge of transgressions’,41 or was it given ‘to cause or increase transgressions’? On the former view, the law has a positive role: it enables us to recognise sin for what it is. Since this positive note is out of character with the comments which follow immediately, and with the general tenor of Galatians as a whole, the latter sense is preferable. However, unless passages in Romans are allowed to settle the matter, a confident decision is not possible. The verb προσετέθη had already hinted at the temporary nature of the law, ἄχρις οὕ is explicit: the law’s role is limited to the period between Moses and Christ. In nearly all strands of Jewish thought, and presumably in the view of the agitators, the law had been given by God permanently. Paul strikes a very different note. The temporary character of the law which is stated so unequivo‑ cally here prepares the way for the παιδαγωγός metaphor which follows in 3:24. (ii) 3:19c and 20: The law was ordained through angels by a mediator. Now a mediator involves more than one party; but God is one. (NRSV)42 [[113]] The precise sense is much disputed. There are plenty of traditions which as‑ sociate angels with the giving of the law, starting with Deut 33:2 (LXX); the involvement of angels is usually set either in a neutral or a positive light. But what is their role here? Is Paul simply saying that God allowed angels to pass on his laws to Moses? Or is he hinting that the angels were the source of the law, perhaps even as demonic beings? Or is there a via media: not an outright denial of the role of God, but a subtle distancing of God from the giving of the law? Supporters of the first view take διαταγείς as a ‘divine passive’. Although this interpretation is just possible, it is by no means necessary; the context and (as we shall see in a moment) 3:20 rules it out. Since weighty objections have been made to the second view,43 I think the latter view is the most likely. The immediate context confirms that the first listeners were bound to notice the absence of explicit reference to the involvement of God in the giving of the  E. D. Burton, Galatians, ICC, (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1921) ad loc.  H. Räisänen, Paul and the Law, 141, lists the most influential supporters of these two views and notes a third: the intervention of the law makes sin a conscious and wilful activity; it makes man guilty. 41  James Dunn takes an even more positive line here: ‘(the law was added) in order to provide some sort of remedy for transgressions.’ 42  διαταγείς is translated as follows: REB: ‘promulgated through angels’; NIV ‘put into ef‑ fect through angels’; GNB: ‘handed down by angels, with a man acting as a go between’(!). 43  Räisänen rejects Hübner’s claim (which is similar to Albert Schweitzer’s) that the angels were ‘demonic beings’, with evil intentions. 39 40

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law. I have drawn attention repeatedly to the antithetical words and phrases which are found almost right through Gal 3 and 4. In this case ‘promise’ and ‘law’ are set opposite one another. Gal 3:18 refers to God’s gracious gift to Abra‑ ham through a promise; God’s role is emphasised by the placement of ὁ θεός at the end of the sentence. In the very next verse the giving of the law is referred to, but ‘God’ is not mentioned explicitly; the silence is telling. The most natural interpretation of 3:20 supports this conclusion. Räisänen (1986) p. 130, notes that 3:20 is a famous crux, ‘but mainly because interpreters are not willing to swallow Paul’s message … God, being One, needs no media‑ tor between himself and mankind. A mediator was needed, therefore God was not involved. A mediator was necessary, because both parties involved consisted of many persons; unlike God, neither party was ‘one’.’ Of course the idea is strange, as Räisänen concedes, but the gist of it is clear. (iii) Gal 3:24–5: The law was our παιδαγωγός. Paul’s striking metaphor has been understood in various ways. In recent years an enormous amount of material has been gathered concerning the role of the παιδαγωγός in antiquity.44 But this huge pile of references has only muddied the water: the role of the παιδαγωγός was thought of in very different ways in different circles, many of which can be applied plausibly to the law. Which one did Paul have in mind? Is the law, like the παιδαγωγός, seen primarily in an educative role, a disciplinary role, or in a temporary restrictive role? Paul’s metaphor could have been understood by the listeners in many different ways. In this respect it is not unlike Matthew’s use of the metaphor of [[114]] ‘salt’ for disciples in 5:13. Metaphors are often ‘open’ comparisons which need a context in order to allow their precise sense to become clear. Paul has already given his listeners clear guidance in 3:23 concerning the sense of παιδαγωγός: before faith came, we were ‘kept in custody’, ‘confined’ until faith should be revealed. The law, like the παιδαγωγός, provided unpleasant restraint for a lim‑ ited period.45 (iv) Gal 4:1–10: The law and τὰ στοιχεία. In these verses Paul draws a comparison between the Galatians’ present plight as they hanker after the law, and their plight before they became Christians. Formerly they were enslaved to the στοιχεία; now they want to be enslaved all over again. But does Paul go further than this and, as some have suggested, include the law among the enslaving στοιχεία?  See especially D. J. Lull, ‘The Law was our Pedagogue’ JBL 105 (1986) 481–98; N. H. Young, ‘Paidagogos: The Social Setting of a Pauline Metaphor’, NovT 29 (1987) 150–76; R. N. Longenecker, Galatians (1990). 45  Similarly, S. Westerholm, Israel’s Law and the Church’s Faith, (1988) 196. Longenecker puts the cart before the horse when he interprets 3:23 in the light of his conclusions about the role of the παιδαγωγός. 44

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What are the στοιχεία? Two suggestions have been prominent in discussion. If the στοιχεία are understood as ‘demonic powers’, then this would not square with even the most negative points Paul has made about the law in the preceding verses. But in fact a link between στοιχεία and the demonic is hard to establish until much later than Paul’s day.46 If, however, στοιχεία means ‘the basic elements from which everything in the natural world is made and of which it is composed’, then a direct link with the law is probable. J. L. Martyn has recently argued persuasively that the Galatians are almost certain to have taken the expression ‘the elements of the cosmos’ long before they laid eyes on either Paul or ‘the Teachers’ to refer to the earth, air, fire, water, with the possible addition of the stars. When Paul speaks in 4:3–5 of liberation from the enslaving elements of the cosmos, he has in mind ‘not earth, air, fire, and water, but rather the elemental pairs of opposites listed in 3:28, and emphatically the first pair, Jew and Gentile, and thus the Law and the not-Law.’47 On this view once again Paul speaks negatively about the law, though his pri‑ mary concern is to remind the Galatians of their liberation from the στοιχεία, and so to encourage them to turn aside from further enslavement.

V. The Law of Christ: 4:21b, 5:14, and 6:2 Right up until 4:21b Paul speaks negatively about the law, and in every case he has the law of Moses in mind. It is no exaggeration to claim that from 2:16 [[115]] to 4:21a, Paul’s portrait of the law is ‘consistently malignant’.48 ὁ νομός, ἐξ ἔργων νόμου, ἐκ νόμου, ἐν νόμῳ and ὑπὸ νόμον have been pounding relent‑ lessly in the Galatians’ ears since 2:16. However in 4:21b, 5:14 and 6:2 Paul’s tone changes dramatically: νόμος is clearly used in a positive sense. In the first clause of 4:21 Paul speaks with heavy irony: ‘Tell me now, you that are so anxious to be under law.’49 Here ὑπὸ νόμον is used in what has become a familiar way to Paul’s hearers. But in 4:21b Paul urges his hearers to listen to what the law really says: the law suddenly and unexpectedly does have positive things to say. Paul does not speak about a different law in 4:21b, or a principle: as in all the earlier uses of νόμος in Galatians, it is the law of Moses which is referred to. J. L. Martyn paraphrases Paul’s point: ‘Do you really hear what the law says when it bears its evangelistic witness?’50

 See especially R. N. Longenecker, Galatians, 165; J. L. Martyn (n. 38) 19.  J. L. Martyn (n. 38) 31. 48  J. L. Martyn (n. 38) 36. 49  In his commentary at this point James Dunn refers appropriately to Paul’s bantering tone. 50  J. L. Martyn (n. 38) 37. H. D. Betz’s comment is similar: ‘… to understand Torah is to understand its allegorical meaning.’ 46 47

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Paul had partially prepared his readers for this important positive role for the law of Moses in 3:8. There ἡ γραφή, foreseeing that God would justify the Gentiles through faith, had declared the gospel to Abraham beforehand. In 4:21b it is not ἡ γραφή but ὁ νόμος, heard aright, which bears witness to the gospel in the allegory of Hagar and Sarah which follows. In the light of this understanding of 4:21b, 5:14, with its reference to fulfill‑ ing the law in loving one’s neighbour, is not ‘the most unexpected development of Paul’s thought in this letter.’51 There is an important distinction between 5:3, ‘keeping the entire law’, and 5:14, ‘fulfilling the whole law’: it is not the differ‑ ence between ὃλος ὁ νόμος and ὁ πᾶς νόμος, or the difference between the law of Moses and some other ‘law’,52 but the difference between the verbs. In 5:14 πληροῦν is used, a verb not used with νόμος in the LXX or in Greek Jewish literature.53 Barclay notes that in 5:14 Paul uses the verb ‘to describe the total realization of God’s will in line with the eschatological fulness of time in the coming of Christ.’54 As many exegetes have observed, 6:2, with its reference to the law of Christ and its use of ἀναπληροῦν, is closely related to 5:14. Although ‘Christ’ and ‘law’ have regularly stood in stark contrast earlier the letter, in 6:2 they are [[116]] brought together in a striking and memorable phrase. Since ‘fulfilling the law’ in 5:14 refers to the law of Moses, the use of the similar verb in 6:2 strongly suggests that ‘law’ here also refers to the law of Moses – as ‘redefined through Christ’, as ‘redefined and fulfilled by Christ in love’ (John Barclay), or, ‘as it has fallen into the hands of Christ’ (J. L. Martyn).55 4:21b, 5:14, and 6:2 stand in counterpoise to Paul’s other references to the law of Moses in Galatians. These verses confirm that in spite of the numerous negative comments on the law elsewhere in this letter, Paul did not repudiate the law of Moses. We might reasonably wish that he had explained a little more fully what he meant by ‘the law of Christ’. Paul does so in Romans (albeit only indirectly), but that is another story.

51  Graham Shaw, The Cost of Authority (London: SCM, 1983) 50. I owe this reference to John Barclay, Obeying the Truth, 126. 52  H. Hübner’s denial that Paul is referring to the law of Moses is dubbed ‘ingenious’ by John Barclay, but rejected. See Barclay’s discussion, with further references to the secondary literature on this point, Obeying the Truth, 137. 53  See J. Barclay, Obeying the Truth, 138. 54  Obeying the Truth, 140. Barclay also suggests that Paul chose this vocabulary partly be‑ cause of its ambiguity! To say that ‘the whole law is fulfilled in one command’ leaves unclear the status of the rest of the commandments. 55  J. Barclay, Obeying the Truth, 134 and 141; J. L. Martyn (n. 38) 39 n. 60. Similarly (with further references to the secondary literature), James Dunn: ‘it means that law (Torah) as inter‑ preted by the love command in the light of the Jesus-tradition and the Christ-event.’

Chapter 18

What is the Law of Christ? [[47]] In recent years the ethical teaching of the NT writings has not been at the top of the agenda of most specialists. Yet the central issues must be taken seri‑ ously by those of us who want to practise theological interpretation of Scripture. Here are what I take to be some of the key questions. (i) How is the ethical teaching of the NT writers related to their theological or chris‑ tological concerns? (ii) What is distinctive about the ethical teaching of the NT writings? How does it differ from the conventional Jewish and Graeco-Roman ethical teaching of the day? (iii) What is the theological relationship between the ethical teaching of the OT and that of the NT? This latter question touches raw nerves today. For example, is it the case that the New Testament’s teaching on love of enemy and reconciliation should be given priority over some strands of the OT in which retribution is prominent and in which capital punishment is enjoined in specific circumstances?1 (iv) To what extent should the teaching of Jesus be given priority in our theological reflection over Paul or other NT writers? (v) How do we move from those first century writings to our own day? To what extent should we take on board the insights of the moral philosophers of our time – virtue ethics and all that? And what about the ethical teaching of the non-Christian religious traditions?

That is quite an agenda! How can we tackle parts of it, given the constraints of time and of my competence? I have decided to use one verse as my focal point. “Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Gal 6:2). To use but one verse as a way of addressing some of the questions in the agenda above will seem rash to many. But Gal 6:2 is one of the most inter‑ esting and difficult verses in Paul’s most terse and profound letter. I hope I shall be able to show that a wide-ranging discussion of this one verse takes [[48]] us to the heart of the ethical teaching of the NT writings and is relevant to some of the issues listed above. Perhaps too much discussion of NT ethics has dallied with generalities at the edge of the pool and has not plunged into the refreshing exegetical waters. 1  See especially C. D. Marshall, Beyond Retribution: A New Testament Vision for Justice, Crime, and Punishment (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001).

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What is the law of Christ? As we grapple with this question, what should be our theological and hermeneutical presuppositions? I shall use what I now like to call “chastened historical criticism.”2 I am most certainly not prepared to abandon historical criticism, but, like many others, I am now more keenly aware of its limitations than I was twenty and more years ago. In particular, the tools of historical criticism can help us to recover Paul’s intention and the circumstances which elicited his letter to the Galatian churches. But if we confine ourselves to historical questions, we are leaving Paul’s letter back in the 50s on a shelf in one of the Pauline house churches somewhere in Asia Minor. In this symposium, however, we are concerned with the theological interpretation of Scripture for the ongoing life of the church today. I accept that there is no such thing as presuppositionless exegesis, so I have no hesitation in taking as an initial assumption the conviction that Paul’s ethical teaching can speak to us in our very different world. I take this assumption to be one of the main planks of theological interpretation. I am convinced that theological interpretation of Scripture can be greatly as‑ sisted and stimulated by tracing some of the influences of the text on the life of the church in later centuries. This perspective, known as Wirkungsgeschichte, is just beginning to make an impact on Biblical scholarship in fruitful ways.3 Wirkungsgeschichte, the history of the effects of the text, includes the history of the interpretation of the text in commentaries and sermons, but it may also trace the influence of the text on poetry and hymnody, on art and architecture, and on liturgy and doctrine. By attending to the influence of the text we may be forced to consider or to reconsider some awkward exegetical questions. If we believe, as I do, that in countless ways the Spirit has given life to the church through the bare bones of the text, then we may dare to hope and pray that this may happen in our own day. So I do not apologize for painting on a broader canvas than is customary for exegetes in a symposium paper. As compensation, I shall focus on just one verse! I shall refer to a few of the ways the concept “the law of Christ” has been influential on the life of the church down through the centuries. My choice of examples is related to the main ways Gal 6:2 has been interpreted, but I shall not limit myself to explicit use of Paul’s striking phrase. [[49]]

2  I owe the phrase to the General Introduction to The Oxford Bible Commentary (eds. John Barton and John Muddiman; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 1. I have been using the principles they have in mind for some time, but not their helpful term. 3  See, for example, the excellent commentaries by Ulrich Luz on Matthew (so far only vol‑ umes 1 and 2 are available in English, Augsburg/Fortress, 1989 and 2001), Anthony C. This‑ elton on 1 Corinthians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), Markus Bockmuehl on Philippians (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 1998).

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The Law of Christ as the Teaching of Jesus I shall begin in an unexpected place, the important opening section of Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho. Justin’s Jewish opponent Trypho issues a strong challenge: Justin and his fellow-Christians claim to worship God, but fail to make their lives different from Gentiles in that they keep neither the feasts nor the sabbaths, nor have circumcision, nor carry out God’s commandments (10:3). In short, Christians are law-less. As a key part of his extended response Justin refers to Christ as the new law‑ giver (ho kainos nomothetēs, 12:2 and 14:3), through whom “the poor have the gospel preached to them, and the blind receive their sight” (cf. Matt 11:5/ /Luke 7:22). The sayings of Jesus are understood here as the gift of the new lawgiver. Justin’s most explicit statements concerning the sayings of Jesus occur in his account in the Dialogue of his conversion to Christianity which he dubs “phi‑ losophy safe and simple” (8:1). He tells Trypho that at the time of his conversion he experienced a passionate desire for the prophets and for those men who are the friends of Christ, presumably the apostles. He then expresses the hope that all people should be as keen as he is not to distance themselves from the Saviour’s words (mē aphistasthai tōn tou sōtēros logon), for they evoke profound awe (deos). Their innate power puts to shame those who turn aside from the right way, while pleasant rest (anapausis) comes to those who carry them out (8:2). It is quite clear from this passage, and from Justin’s well-known references to “the memoirs of the apostles,” that for him the teaching of Jesus embedded in the Gospels is “the law of Christ.”4 Although Justin does not refer explicitly to Paul or to his letters, at numerous points he betrays knowledge of them. So it is possible that his understanding of Christ as the new lawgiver has been influenced by Gal 6:2. Matthew’s Gospel was probably an even more direct influence on Justin, even though it too is not named in Justin’s writings. The evangelist intends to portray Jesus as the “new Moses” who gives the “new law” to his “new people.” I am not suggesting that Matthew knew Galatians. Indeed, that is most unlikely. But the evangelist does view the teaching of Jesus as “the law of Christ,” even though he does not use that phrase. Matthew has taken great care over the composition of his five discourses because he values the sayings of Jesus so highly. The sayings of Jesus are to be prominent in the missionary proclamation and catechetical instruction of the “new people” (28:18–20). The closing verses of the Sermon on the Mount emphasize strongly the importance of hearing and acting on the words

4  For a fuller discussion, see G. N. Stanton, “Jesus Traditions and Gospels in Justin Martyr and Irenaeus” in The Biblical Canons (eds. J.-M. Auwers and H. J. de Jonge; Leuven: Peeters, forthcoming 2002).

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of Jesus (7:24–27). For Matthew “the will of the heavenly Father” is equated with carrying out the sayings of Jesus (7:21, cf. Luke 6:46). [[50]] Matthew’s Gospel provided the “new people” with a new set of authoritative traditions to be set alongside the law and the prophets. The evangelist does not spell out as clearly as his modern interpreters would like the precise relationship of “new” and “old.” Matthew’s Jesus does not repudiate the law: its continuing importance is affirmed very strongly (5:17–19). The love commandment of Jesus is singled out as expressing the very essence of Scripture (7:12; 22:37–39), but in no way does this contradict the law, any more than do the so-called antitheses in 5:21–48. I shall return to the love commandment below and insist that its use in Gal 5:14 must be allowed to play an important part in the interpretation of our key verse, Gal 6:2. Matthew hints – but no more – that the sayings of Jesus are the criterion for the interpretation of Scripture, but his primary emphasis is on the ways the sayings of Jesus strengthen and fulfill the law and the prophets. The notion of Christ as the new lawgiver was all pervasive in the later tradition of the church. I shall now refer briefly to a handful of examples. First of all, the magnificent thirteenth century statue of Christ the lawgiver from the south side of Chartres Cathedral in France. For many years now a photograph of this statue has been prominently displayed in my study. Here Christ is depicted holding up one arm in blessing. His other hand is offering a beautifully bound codex which I take to be the Gospels. In other words, Christ is offering his own teaching as a new law. Protestants probably underestimate the powerful influence a statue such as this had on the on-going Christian tradition. From the thirteenth century we jump to the sixteenth. Luther, Zwingli and Calvin wrote extensively on the Sermon on the Mount as “the law of Christ.” They all insisted that Matt 5–7 represents the true interpretation of the law of Moses which had been obscured in Judaism. On the whole they emphasized the continuity between the “law of Christ” and the “law of Moses” more than their Catholic opponents. Luther also discussed the Sermon in terms of “law” and “gospel.” In some of his writings he emphasized that the Sermon is the “law of Christ” that makes people aware of the gospel of God’s grace through Christ: “we are not able properly to fulfill one tittle out of our own strength … but must always crawl to Christ.” But in other passages Luther stated that the Sermon is not just the accusing law that points to sin: it is also “gospel.” This is especially true of the Beatitudes (5:3–12). Christ “does not press, but in a friendly way entices and speaks: ‘Blessed are the poor.’” (For further discussion see J. Pelikan, “Luther the Expositor,” Luther’s Works, Companion Volume, St. Louis: Concordia, 1959, 65–70.) [[51]] By referring in different passages in his writings to the Sermon both as “law” and as “gospel,” Luther confused some of his later followers. Many Lutheran theologians have stressed that the Sermon is the law that awakens knowledge of

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sin. But some (notably J. Jeremias, The Sermon on the Mount, Philadelphia: For‑ tress, 1963) have claimed that the demands of Jesus in the Sermon are preceded by “gospel,” that is, by his proclamation of the kingdom and by his encourage‑ ment to his disciples to share his own sense of sonship. In many parish churches in England to this day two panels painted with Scripture texts hang behind the altar: the ten commandments on the left, and the Lord’s prayer on the right. This practice goes back to the late sixteenth century, with even deeper roots in the medieval period. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries it became almost universal, though more recently some of these panels have been relegated to another part of the church building or placed in a dusty room beneath the tower. The setting up of these panels is related to the catechism in the 1552 Book of Common Prayer. Every person brought before the bishop for confirmation was expected to be able to recite the ten commandments and the Lord’s prayer, as well as the brief explanations of both texts in the catechism. Perhaps the panels often acted as a crib for those with short memories! The impact of this practice on the life of the church is clear. The ten com‑ mandments are singled out as the essence of the law of Moses, while the Lord’s prayer is assumed to provide the essence of the “law of Christ.” The theological instincts which lie behind the erection of those two panels of texts are profound, and in my view profoundly correct. They have a direct bearing on the theme of this symposium. Here, then, is a very long and rich tradition of biblical ethics and of theological interpretation. While the phrase the “law of Christ” is not all that common, the concept is all but universal in the Christian tradition. It has two primary roots in the NT writings: Matthew’s presentation of Jesus as the “new lawgiver,” and a widely held interpretation of Paul’s use of the phrase “the law of Christ” in Gal 6:2 (and in a related phrase in 1 Cor 9:21) as the teaching of Jesus. We must now ask the hard question. What did Paul intend to convey by the phrase, “the law of Christ”? Given the strength of the tradition I have just sketched, it is no surprise to discover that Gal 6:2 has often been taken as a reference by Paul to the importance he attached to the teaching of Jesus. There have been several influential modern supporters of this interpretation. In his ICC commentary on Galatians (1921, p. 329) E. C. Burton wrote: “… this is one of the few passages in which the apostle refers to teaching of Jesus transmitted to him through the Twelve or their companions.” Burton, however, failed to list the Jesus traditions which might have been in the apostle’s mind. [[52]] C. H. Dodd was more specific, arguing in 1951 and 1953 that Gal 6:1–5 was an adaptation of Jesus’ teaching in Matt 23:4 and 18:15–16.5 At about the same 5  John Barclay, Obeying the Truth (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1988), 129 n. 70, astutely notes that in 1935 Dodd had denied that Gal 6:2 could mean the “Torah of Jesus,” but had changed his position by 1951 in his Gospel and Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 64–83.

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time Dodd’s pupil W. D. Davies was equally adamant. “When he (Paul) used the phrase nomos tou Christou (the law of Christ) he meant that the actual words of Jesus were for him a New Torah.”6 More recently R. N. Longenecker has defended a more sophisticated version of the same interpretation. He takes “the law of Christ” to refer to those “prescriptive principles stemming from the heart of the gospel (usually embodied in the example and teachings of Jesus), which are meant to be applied to specific situations by the direction and enablement of the Holy Spirit, being always motivated and conditioned by love.”7 The difficulty with this general line of interpretation is that Paul alludes very rarely to sayings of Jesus, and refers explicitly to them even less often.8 There is limited evidence in 1 Corinthians and in Romans 12–14, but even less evidence in Galatians. When the phraseology of Gal 6:1–5 is compared closely with the synoptic tradition, there are only two words in common, barē and phortion, and even they are not used in similar contexts. Does this mean that we should cast aside the long tradition of Christ as the new lawgiver sketched above? By no means! Although I do not think that it is supported by Gal 6:2, the concept is a fair summary of Matthew’s concerns in the Sermon on the Mount. But an important proviso must be added. For Matthew, and indeed for several early Christian writers, Christ is both the new lawgiver and is himself the new law: Christology and ethics are inseparable. I shall give three examples, the first of which is from the evangelist Matthew. Jesus may be portrayed as a “new Moses,” but the full significance of the Sermon on the Mount (and of the teaching of Jesus more generally) can only be discerned in the light of the conviction that Jesus is “God with us” (Matt 1:23). With his coming, in fulfillment of Isa 9:1, “light has dawned” (4:16). The Sermon on the Mount is proclamation of the good news of God’s kingly rule (4:17, 22). It is both gift and demand; it is not a new set of rules and regulations.

See also Dodd’s important article “Ennomos Christou,” reprinted in his More New Testament Studies (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1968), 134–138. 6  In his Paul and Rabbinic Judaism (London: SPCK, 1948), 144, Davies went somewhat further than Dodd in claiming that there was rabbinic evidence (albeit somewhat limited) to suggest that in the new age mere would be a new “law of the Messiah.” See especially W. D. Davies, The Setting of the Sermon on the Mount (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963), 109–190. H. Schlier also insisted that the “law of Christ” is “die Tora des Mes‑ sias Jesus” (Die Brief an die Galater, 12th ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1961, 272). As there are major problems over the dating and interpretation of the handful of rabbinic passages Davies and Schlier cite, their case has won little scholarly support. See especially R. J. Banks, Jesus and the Law in the Synoptic Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), 65–81. 7  See especially R. N. Longenecker’s Word commentary on Galatians (Dallas: Word, 1990, 275–276). 8  For a recent cautious assessment, see D. C. Allison, “The Pauline Epistles and the Synoptic Gospels: the Pattern of the Parallels,” NTS 28 (1982): 1–32.

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My second example is from Justin Martyr, who also discerned the theologi‑ cal importance of the link between Christology and ethics. For Justin, Christ is not only “the new lawgiver,” he is himself given by God as the final and eternal law (Dialogue 11:2, twice) and the new law (11:4, ho kainos nomos).9 Justin elaborates his point in a splendid creedal passage in 43:1: by the will of the Father Christ was born Son of God by means of the Virgin; he was proclaimed by the prophets as about to come “as an everlasting law and a new covenant for the whole world.” Justin insists that the law given by God to Moses at Mount Horeb is antiquated and belongs to Trypho and his fellow-Jews alone, whereas Christ, the new law, was given to all people (11:2). Justin does not believe for one [[53]] moment that the law of Moses has been abolished, though he does have difficulty spelling out precisely how Christians should use it, as, of course, did Paul himself. The third example is in the Kerygma Petri, which was probably written in the first half of the second century.10 Alas, all we have from this treatise are a hand‑ ful of fascinating quotations in later writers, especially Clement of Alexandria. Three times Christ is himself called “the Law.” Christians worship God neither in the manner of the Greeks nor the Jews. “We worship God through Christ in a new way.” “For we have found in the Scriptures, how the Lord says: ‘Behold, I make with you a new covenant, not as I made (one) with your fathers in Mt Horeb.’ A new one he made with us. For what has reference to the Greeks and Jews is old. But we are Christians, who as a third race worship him in a new way.”11 What is the relationship of these passages to Paul’s intriguing phrase in Gal 6:2, “the law of Christ”? Justin does not refer explicitly to Paul or to his letters, but he does know at least some of them well. In their references to Christ as “the new Law,” Justin and the Kerygma Petri have in effect offered a profoundly christological interpretation of Paul’s phrase: the “law of Christ” is Christ him‑ self. Matthew’s view is similar, though the evangelist’s knowledge of Paul’s letters (whether direct or indirect knowledge) must be left as an open question. I do not think that Paul himself would have been unhappy with the notion that “the law of Christ” is Christ himself, for he too linked Christology and ethics together closely.

 9  The most accessible translation of the Dialogue is by A. Lukyn Williams, Justin Martyr, The Dialogue with Trypho: Translation, Introduction, Notes (London: SPCK, 1930). 10  As O. Skarsaune suggests (The Proof from Prophecy, Leiden: Brill, 1987, 72–73) Justin may well be dependent on the Kerygma Petri. 11  For the texts and bibliography, see J. K. Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 20–23; more fully, W. Schneemelcher (ed.) New Testament Apocrypha (Cambridge: Clarke, and Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1992), 2.34–41.

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The Law of Christ as the Norm or Principle of Love The final paragraphs in the preceding section confirm that for several early Christian writers “the law of Christ” is about Christology as well as ethics. This important point is taken much further in another interpretation of Gal 6:2. Here the word “law” is taken to refer to a principle or norm, rather than “law” in the usual sense. In support, appeal is made to Paul’s occasional use of nomos in a more general sense, perhaps most clearly at Rom 3:27, “the ‘law’ of faith” and Rom 8:2, “the ‘law’ of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus.” Interpreters who defend this general approach always link Gal 6:2 closely to Gal 5:14: “For the whole law is summed up in a single commandment, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’” The admonition in 6:2 to “bear one another’s burdens” is then taken as an exposition of the “love commandment” of 5:14. The strength of this interpretation is twofold. Its strong insistence that “the law of Christ” in Gal 6:2 must be understood in the context of Gal 5:14 is quite [[54]] correct and very important. This reading of Gal 6:2 underlines firmly the relationship between Christology and ethics, for “the norm of love” is not only “love of neighbour” and “bearing one another’s burdens,” but it is shown su‑ premely in “the Son of God who loved me and gave himself for me” (Gal 2:20). This interpretation of Gal 6:2 has also influenced the ongoing Christian tradi‑ tion strongly. In his first commentary on Galatians (1519) Luther wrote several powerful and perceptive paragraphs on Gal 6:2, which he describes as “a very beautiful and thoroughly golden maxim.” “Love is the law of Christ,” he wrote. This led him to expound the meaning of love in a memorable way, even though he loses sight of the phrase “the law of Christ.” “To love means to wish from the heart what is good for the other person, or to seek the other person’s advan‑ tage … Love is not even able to exist if there are none who err and sin, who, as the philosophers say, are the proper and adequate ‘object of love’ or the ‘material of love’.” Luther then offers an eloquent and profoundly theological interpretation of Gal 6:2, even though he fails to mention Gal 5:14 explicitly!12 He notes that those who want their own burdens to be borne are “the kind who disdain having the uneducated, the useless, the hot-tempered, the foolish, the troublesome, and the surly as companions in life but look for people who are cultured, pleasant, kindly, quiet and saintly. That is, they want to live, not on earth but in Paradise, not among sinners but among angels, not in the world but in heaven.” In his 1535 commentary on Gal 6:2 Luther goes even further. “The Law of Christ is the law of love,” he writes three times over. “After redeeming and re‑ generating us and constituting us as His church, Christ did not give us any new 12  Luther is clearly aware of the relationship between 5:14 and 6:2, for he insists that “all laws are summed up in love.”

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law except the law of mutual love (John 13:34–5).” “To love does not mean, as the sophists imagine, to wish someone else well, but to bear someone else’s burdens, that is, to bear what is burdensome to you and what you would rather not bear.” Two centuries after Luther, J. A. Bengel echoed Luther’s interpretation in a typically pithy statement in his influential Gnomon Novi Testamenti (1742): Lex Christi, lex amoris, “the law of Christ is the law of love.” The same interpreta‑ tion is set out much more fully in V. P. Furnish’s standard textbook (The Love Command in the New Testament, London: SCM, 1968, pp. 59–65) and supported by many other writers. It is probably the consensus interpretation at present. Who would want to deny the importance of love in Paul’s ethical thinking? In Gal 5:14 love is said to sum up the whole law. Love heads the list of the fruits of the Spirit in Gal 5:22, a list which ends with the ironic comment, “there is no law against such things.” Nonetheless, I am not convinced that this interpretation does full justice to Paul’s intention in Gal 6:2. [[55]]

What is the Law of Christ? So far we have considered two very different interpretations of the “law of Christ,” both of which have influenced the Christian ethical tradition strongly. If we take the phrase to refer to Christ’s “new” law which complements or fills out the law of Moses, i.e., the teaching of Jesus, we are doing more justice to the evangelist Matthew than to the apostle Paul. If we take “the law of Christ” to be the principle or norm of love, the love commandment which sums up the whole law of Moses, we miss the full significance of both “law” and “Christ” in Paul’s phrase. As J. L. Martyn notes, Gal 6:2 is the thirty-first of Paul’s references in Gala‑ tians to nomos, law. “In all the other significant instances the reference is to the Law,” i.e., the law of Moses.13 So it is most unlikely that without alerting his listeners Paul changes tack and refers to the teaching of Jesus as “law,” or to “showing love for others” (i.e., bearing the burdens of others) as “law.” In Gal 6:2 Paul speaks about the law positively, but not quite for the first time in this explosive letter. It is no exaggeration to claim that from 2:16 to 4:21a Paul’s portrait of the law is consistently negative: in every case he has the law of Moses in mind. Ever since 2:16 “law” has been pounding relentlessly in the Galatians’ ears with a negative beat. However in 4:21b, 5:14 and 6:2 Paul’s tone changes dramatically: nomos is clearly used in a positive sense in all three verses.  J. L. Martyn, Galatians (Anchor Bible Commentary; New York: Doubleday, 1997), 555.

13

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In the first clause of 4:21 Paul speaks with heavy irony: “Tell me, you who desire to be under the law.” Here “under the law” is used in what has become a very familiar way to Paul’s hearers. But in 4:21b Paul alters tack: he urges his hearers to listen to what the law really says. The law suddenly and unexpectedly does have positive things to say. Paul does not speak about a different “nonMosaic” law in 4:21b, or a principle or norm: as in all the earlier uses of nomos in Galatians, it is the law of Moses to which reference is made. Paul had partially prepared his readers for this important positive role for the law of Moses in 3:8. There “Scripture,” foreseeing that God would justify the Gentiles through faith, had declared the gospel to Abraham beforehand. In 4:21b it is not “Scripture” but “the law,” heard aright, which bears witness to the gospel in the allegory of Hagar and Sarah which follows. In the light of this understanding of 4:21b, the reference in 5:14 to fulfilling the law in loving one’s neighbour, is not “the most unexpected development of Paul’s thought in this letter,”14 but an appropriate development of the earlier verse. There is an important distinction between 5:3, “keeping the entire law,” and 5:14, “fulfilling the whole law”: quite different verbs are used. It is the verb “fulfill” in 5:14 which would have caused Paul’s listeners to prick up [[56]] their ears. For this verb is not used with “law” in the LXX or in Greek Jewish litera‑ ture.15 What does “fulfilling the law” mean? John Barclay’s exposition is apt. He notes that in 5:14 Paul uses the verb “to describe the total realization of God’s will in line with the eschatological fullness of time in the coming of Christ.”16 As many exegetes have observed, 6:2 with its reference to the law of Christ is closely related to 5:14: verbs from the same root are used. Although “Christ” and “law” have regularly stood in stark contrast earlier the letter, in 6:2 they are brought together in a striking and memorable phrase. Since “fulfilling the law” in 5:14 clearly refers to the law of Moses, the use of the similar verb in 6:2 strongly suggests that “law” here also refers to the law of Moses, and not to a norm or principle. As we noted above, those who claim that Paul uses the term nomos in a more general sense in Gal 6:2 have to appeal to Rom 3:27 and 8:2. But it is rarely wise to interpret Galatians with the help of Romans! The careful reader of Galatians can hardly fail to miss Paul’s insistence that Christ himself “bore the burdens of others.” Paul’s expansions of his opening “grace and peace” formula in his letters are always important. Like the thanks‑ givings which usually follow, they foreshadow several of the letters’ main theological themes. This is certainly the case in Galatians. In 1:4 Paul notes that Christ “gave himself for our sins.” Christ’s self-giving love forms the climax of what is probably the richest section of the letter, Gal 2:15–20: “the Son of God 14  Graham Shaw, The Cost of Authority (London: SCM, 1983), 50. I owe this reference to J. Barclay, Obeying the Truth, 126. 15  See Barclay, 138. 16  Barclay, 140.

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loved me and gave himself for me.” Christ has fulfilled the law himself in his self-giving in love for others. At last we are in a position to offer a provisional answer to our question, What is the law of Christ? In Gal 6:2 it is the law of Moses redefined by Christ, with the “love commandment” and “carrying the burdens of others” as its essence; it is fulfilled by Christ in his own self-giving love.17 Several further comments are in order. First, Gal 4:21b, 5:14, and 6:2 stand in counterpoise to Paul’s other references to the law of Moses in Galatians. These verses confirm that in spite of the numerous negative comments on the law elsewhere in this letter, Paul did not repudiate the law of Moses, as some of his later followers (most notably Marcion) and some of his opponents (see Acts 21:28) wrongly supposed. Second, the immediate context emphasizes that those who live by the Spirit are not free to gratify the desires of the flesh (5:16). However Paul does not spell out the precise ways in which the law of Moses is to be retained now that believ‑ ers in Christ have been set free from the present evil age (Gal 1:4). No one will be right-wised by God on the basis of carrying out the law of Moses (2:16), but the law is not to be ignored or discarded, for it is not opposed to the promises of God (3:21). [[57]] Perhaps Paul continued to mull over this antinomy. The apostle takes a fur‑ ther step in Romans 13:8–10. “Love is the fulfilling of the law” to be sure, but this axiom does not mean that the commandments concerning adultery, murder, theft, and covetousness may be ignored. This passage seems to have encouraged the later strong Christian conviction that the ten commandments are the core of the Mosaic law; they (and for some, they alone) have abiding significance for Christians. A further step was taken in the middle of the second century in Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora: the moral and the ritual law are differentiated, a step Paul himself did not take. Third, I noted above that it was the encouragement to bear one another’s bur‑ dens which caught Luther’s eye. H. D. Betz sees this as a commonplace maxim “in the Socratic tradition and the Greek doctrines about ‘friendship.’” If this is the case, and the case seems to be strong, a well-known maxim is transposed by Paul into a new key. We should welcome Paul’s appropriation of the conventional ethical teaching of his day at several points in Gal 5 and 6, and especially in the lists of virtues and vices in Gal 5:19–23. For in so doing Paul has given us an example to follow. Why should we not appropriate some of the insights of the moral philosophers of

17  Cf. Barclay’s explanation (p. 134): the law of Christ is “the law as redefined and fulfilled by Christ in love”; and also Martyn’s comment on the phrase: “the law as it has fallen into the hands of Christ.”

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our day and set them in a firmly drawn theological framework, as Paul himself does? I have insisted that “the law of Christ” in Gal 6:2 is not a reference to the teaching of Jesus, even though that understanding of the phrase has been domi‑ nant throughout the Christian tradition. I have also suggested that to interpret the phrase as “the law or principle of love” does less than justice to Paul’s intentions. In Gal 6:2 “the law of Christ” is the law of Moses redefined with the “love com‑ mandment” and “carrying the burdens of others” as its essence; it is fulfilled by Christ in his own self-giving love. However, if we are forging a Biblical ethic for our own day which takes the whole canon of Scripture seriously, then of course we need not confine ourselves to Gal 6:2 in expressing what “the law of Christ” is for us today. We may well wish to complement Paul’s understanding with Matthew’s presentation of the teaching of Jesus as “the law of Christ.” We will want to hold together Christol‑ ogy and ethics, as both Matthew and Paul did in their different ways. And we may find that Justin Martyr’s comments enrich our theological reflection, for as we have seen, he insisted explicitly that Christ himself is both “the new law” and the “new lawgiver.”

Chapter 19

Interpreting the New Testament Today1 [[63]] Politicians love to proclaim chaos and doom and then offer recipes for recovery. So too, no doubt, do some scholars giving inaugural lectures. I am tempted to do this, for it would not be difficult to dwell on the disarray in my discipline: too many scholars are ploughing very narrow furrows with tools which are either inappropriate or inadequate. Some fields are over-worked, while others are adjudged quite prematurely either to be barren or too daunting to contemplate. One could say that in New Testament scholarship at the present time the harvest is sparse, even though the labourers are plentiful! There are, however, signs of vitality. This is especially so in study of the gos‑ pels. My predecessor, Professor Christopher Evans used to tell his students that rigorous study of the gospels was as demanding and complex as any work being undertaken in any department in a University. Up until a few years ago, at least we could accept as a starting point some results established by source, form and redaction criticism. Now that confidence is turning out to be misplaced. Several scholars are refusing to bow before those twin pillars of source criticism, Marcan priority and Q. Form critical assumptions are being challenged for the first time for many decades. Some scholars are insisting that some aspects of redaction criticism, the method used to clarify the distinctive theological emphases of the individual evangelists, should be scrutinised carefully.2 I do not think either that these methods will be replaced or that the generally accepted results of their use will be overturned, but we are learning to work more cautiously and sensitively. Alongside these and other attempts to reconsider basic methods and conclu‑ sions, some New Testament scholars are striking out in new directions and are flirting with new partners: sociology and the method of literary criticism called  This is a slightly expanded version of an Inaugural lecture delivered at King’s College on 14 November 1978, following my appointment to the Chair of New Testament Studies in the University of London. In the introduction to the lecture, I referred to the debt I owe to several New Testament scholars: to Professor T. E. Pollard, my first New Testament teacher in New Zealand; to Professor C. F. D. Moule, who guided my doctoral studies in Cambridge; to my pre‑ decessor, Professor C. F. Evans; and, more recently, to Professors E. Schweizer and M. Hengel, with whom I worked for short periods. 2  See, for example, two essays in the Festschrift presented to Professor Evans: M. D. Hooker, ‘In his own Image?’ and G. N. Stanton, ‘Form Criticism Revisited,’ [[reprinted in this volume]] in M. D. Hooker and C. J. A. Hickling (ed.), What About the New Testament? (London, 1975), pp. 13–44. 1

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structuralism. It is too early to pronounce on the value of these liaisons but it is already clear that some new insights into familiar material are likely to emerge. In recent years, the pace of scholarly engagement with the cultural, political and religious environment of early Christianity has quickened, stimulated espe‑ cially by the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi library. Perhaps in the long run the importance of this new material for study of the New Testament will be seen to lie primarily in the ways it enables scholars to fit into the jig-saw puzzle of early Christianity a number of pieces which have been available for a long time. We are also finding that some of the pieces we thought we had placed correctly are misfits and that some belong to a different jig-saw puzzle altogether! Exciting and important though all these signs of vitality are, I wish to concen‑ trate today on one aspect of my discipline which has been on the agenda of New Testament scholars for a very long time but which has recently begun to receive renewed attention. Fifteen [[64]] years ago Stephen Neill surveyed scholarly study of the New Testament over the past one hundred years; in his concluding chapter he sketched out a dozen major positive achievements and then listed a dozen matters to which, he felt, immediate attention should be given.3 The first of his ‘assured results’ of a century of scholarship was, not surprisingly, the almost universally accepted axiom that the New Testament should be studied critically with historical methods. I should want to keep this item at the top of any list of ‘assured results’ but at the same time I should insist that in a list of items needing urgent discussion, this one should have priority. For I take one of the most important tasks facing Biblical and theological scholarship today to be to clarify the role of the historical critical method. What are its strengths and its limitations? How can it be used creatively and intelligently in interpretation of the New Testament? Or is its role much more limited than we have usually supposed? If I may adapt the words of a distinguished literary critic, Northrop Frye, is interpretation of the New Testament like a picnic – a picnic to which the New Testament writers bring their words, and we all bring our meanings?4 What is meant by the historical critical method? It involves careful historical investigation of the Biblical writings in order to set them squarely in the cultural, religious, political and literary environment of their own times. The Biblical writings are studied with the same scholarly methods as any other documents from the ancient world: their origin is explored; in their interpretation the origi‑ nal intention of their authors is considered and any further or deeper significance discerned by later generations is set aside The roots of this way of approaching the Bible are very deep. They reach back as far as the humanism of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; some would want  S. Neill, The Interpretation of the New Testament 1861–1961 (London, 1964), p. 338.  N. Frye, as quoted by E. D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation (New Haven, 1967), p. 1.

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to trace them back even further. Among the many scholars whose work eventu‑ ally led to a quiet revolution in Biblical interpretation, Martin Luther stands supreme. While it is true that in some ways Luther continued a long tradition of Biblical interpretation which enabled the Church to draw directly on Scripture for her life and doctrine, his importance for later developments can hardly be over-estimated. Luther not only drove a wedge between what he took to be the teaching of the New Testament writers and the doctrines and practices of the Church of his day but he also developed a theological criterion which he used to interpret and evaluate the New Testament writings. Luther’s Christological principle, ‘Was Christum treibet,’ that which urges or proclaims Christ, became a commanding height from which he approached the New Testament. As we shall see, the reverberations continue to the present day. The emergence of philosophical issues and historical methods of interpreta‑ tion in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is a fascinating tale too long and too intricate to pursue today. Many scholars began to claim that it was possible to open up gaps not only between Scripture and the tradition of the Church (as Luther had done), but also between the original events and the record of them in the Bible. The battles between those who accepted what came to be known as the historical critical method and those who rejected it were long and furious. They continued right up until the last couple of decades, since when the historical critical method has been accepted, at least in principle, in all the major branches of Christendom – even within parts of the Orthodox tradition and parts of the charismatic movement. When one considers the depth of the feelings aroused among Christians at various times over the past two hundred years and the vig‑ orous attacks made by opponents of the Christian faith in the name of historical scholarship, the almost universal victory of the historical critical method is somewhat surprising The role of the historical method in Christian theology is discussed in the famous [[65]] correspondence between Harnack and Barth in 1923. Harnack, in his day the greatest exponent of the historical method, opened the correspond‑ ence by posing fifteen questions to the ‘despisers of scientific theology.’ He began by asking whether the message and religion of the Bible is so completely a unity that in relation to faith, worship and life one may speak simply of ‘the Bible.’ If this is not so, could the determination of the content of the gospel be left solely to the individual’s experience, or is there not a need for historical knowledge and critical reflection? In his reply Barth insisted that he did not reject the historical critical method out of hand. He was concerned – and this is the crucial point – to fit that method into the work of theology in a meaningful way.5 As a theologian Barth towers above his critics, but his failure to carry out 5  I owe the reference and the translation to J. M. Robinson, ‘Hermeneutic since Barth,’ in The New Hermeneutic, ed. J. M. Robinson and J. B. Cobb (New York, 1964), p. 11. See also

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this aim and to work out more precisely the relationship between the historical method and Christian doctrine, as well as his failure to grapple with other issues which arise in Biblical interpretation, are weaknesses in his great achievement. The debate between Harnack and Barth led to an impasse, but the issues at stake are still of fundamental importance fifty years later At the risk of caricature, the dilemma facing contemporary theology may be put like this. Whenever the theological message of the Biblical material is brought into a central position and allowed to speak directly to the present day the historical method tends to be forced into the background. Whenever the his‑ torical method is taken seriously, the Biblical scholar tends to remain in his own domain and to be content to recover some ‘assured results’ of historical criticism to pass on to the systematic theologian to make of them what he will in his at‑ tempts to construct a viable Christian theology for today. More often than not, the proffered dish is spurned and the systematic theologian goes his own way. On the rare occasions when the Biblical scholar’s rather meagre ‘assured results’ are accepted eagerly, the Christian theology which emerges seems to be an anaemic child hardly likely to withstand the ravages of a secular world. In recent years there has been renewed interest in the relationship between historical criticism and theological interpretation. Not surprisingly, very differ‑ ent approaches have been taken. They can be divided broadly into two groups. Some scholars have minimised, ignored or rejected the historical method; others have accepted that it is axiomatic, but have drawn attention to its limitations. In the 1960’s the scholars whose work became known as ‘the new herme‑ neutic’ emphasized that the task of the interpreter was not, as had usually been assumed, to ‘observe’ the text as an ‘object’ but to ‘listen’ to the text and to al‑ low it to ‘interpret’ him. In the ‘listening’ process the historical method almost disappeared without trace. For very different reasons the traditional concerns of historical scholarship have been deliberately ignored in most structuralist analyses of Biblical tradi‑ tions. Structuralists concentrate on clarifying how the text as it now stands functions as a constructed whole. Many of them have no interest in the original setting and meaning of the traditions being analysed; quite frequently inferior modern translations are used. In his important and stimulating book The Use and Abuse of the Bible, Den‑ nis Nineham emphasises the size of the gap between the cultures of the Biblical writers and the cultural world of twentieth century western man. While he does not reject historical study of the Bible, he is doubtful about the usefulness for contemporary Christian theology of its results, for they show that the Biblical H. M. Rumscheidt, Revelation and Theology, An Analysis of the Barth-Harnack Correspondence of 1923 (Cambridge 1972). Rumscheidt’s commentary is helpful, but he does not seem to me to have grasped the full force of Harnack’s opening question, to which I have referred.

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writings are intimately linked with a completely different cultural setting. Dennis Nineham qualifies the importance of the original meaning of the [[66]] text with a strong insistence on discovering ‘what other meaning a sober and sensitive interpretation can find in it.’6 I shall return to these points a little later. A very different path has been taken by several scholars who accept that historical criticism must not be ignored by contemporary theology, but urge that the relationship between historical and theological interpretation should be reconsidered. In his short book The Bible in Human Transformation Walter Wink ruffled the feathers of his fellow Biblical scholars in the United States when he asserted that Biblical criticism is bankrupt. In Germany Ferdinand Hahn and Peter Stuhlmacher, whose work in this area is not yet well-known in the Englishspeaking world, have also been concerned with the limitations of the historical critical method. The French philosopher Paul Ricoeur is making distinguished contributions along similar lines.7 These scholars all note that in setting the New Testament writings as firmly as possible in their original context, historical criticism ‘distances’ the text; it does nothing to bridge the gap between ‘then’ and ‘now.’ Hahn stresses that the his‑ torical critical method has a one-sided orientation – backwards towards the past. The historical method ‘neutralises’ the intention of the text. This is the burden of Wink’s complaint. When the Bible is studied like any other book, from a socalled scientific, detached position, justice is not done to the original intention of much of the Biblical material. This method, Wink believes, is incapable of allowing Scripture to evoke personal and social transformation today. Stuhlmacher draws attention to the influence of Ernst Troeltsch on the de‑ velopment and use of the historical critical method and argues that the doubt inherent in Troeltsch’s principles must be counter-balanced by ‘empathy’ with the claim of the text. Interpretation must be carried out in such a way that faith becomes active in exegesis. Stuhlmacher stresses the importance of the work of the Tübingen scholar Adolf Schlatter (1852–1939) for contemporary Biblical and theological scholarship.8 For Schlatter, his own Christian faith, his Bibli‑ cal and historical work, and his theological effort towards an understanding of Christ and faith appropriate to the present day were quite inseparable. These scholars all insist that in spite of its limitations (which have not always been recognized) the historical method cannot be rejected. It offers positive ad‑  D. E. Nineham, The Use and Abuse of the Bible (London, 1976), p. 198.  W. Wink, The Bible in Human Transformation (Philadelphia, 1976); F. Hahn, ‘Probleme historischer Kritik,’ ZNW 63 (1972), pp. 1–17; P. Stuhlmacher, Schriftauslegung auf dem Wege zur biblischen Theologie (Göttingen, 1975) (One of the essays from this collection has now been translated and published as Historical Criticism and Theological Interpretation of Scripture (London, 1979)); Ρ. Ricoeur, The Conflict of Interpretations (Ε. Tr. Evanston, 1974), and also his essays in Exégèse et Herméneutique ed. X. Léon-Dufour, (Paris, 1971) and in Exegesis, ed. F. Bovon and C. Rouiller, (Neuchatel, 1975). (E. Tr. Pickwick, 1978). 8  P. Stuhlmacher, ‘Adolf Schlatter’s Interpretation of Scripture,’ NTS 24 (1978), pp. 433–446. 6 7

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vantages for the theologian engaged in the task of interpretation. In particular, it prevents him from reading his own ideas into the text: the text must not be allowed to say merely what we want it to say. The conclusions of the scholars I have mentioned differ, but they are bringing into current discussions of the task of interpreting the New Testament a breath of fresh air which needs to be fanned into a breeze.

*    *    * The task of New Testament scholarship is viewed in two quite different ways. Some scholars are primarily concerned with historical reconstruction of early Christianity and discovery of the original meaning of the New Testament writ‑ ings in their first century setting. Many do not have any particular convictions about the importance or relevance of their work for the present, while others are prepared to leave this task to the systematic theologian. I have no quarrel with those who take this general approach – with just two provisos. First, it is often claimed that scholarship which eschews any interest in the theological [[67]] significance of the texts is the only proper ‘scientific’ method. As we shall see in a moment, this claim cannot be upheld. And secondly, some scholars who concentrate on historical investigation at‑ tempt to appropriate statements of the New Testament directly as teaching for today, bypassing any theological reflection or interpretation. This is a misguided approach. Ebeling’s dictum is surely correct: the same word can be said to an‑ other time only by being said differently.9 I find myself in company with New Testament scholars who are concerned not only to work as careful historians of first century Judaism and Christianity, but also to persevere with the demanding theological task of expounding the significance of the New Testament writings for contemporary Christian theol‑ ogy. While the origins and development of Christianity can be studied without any interest in the contemporary significance of the texts, the theologian dare not deliberately ignore historical criticism, for there is always the possibility (however remote) that his theological convictions may be falsified by historical evidence. Indeed, it is not unfair to ask the systematic or doctrinal theologian to what extent his work takes account of current historical critical scholarship; in some cases the silence is deafening. The initial starting-point and stance of the individual scholar is crucial, wheth‑ er he is concerned with reconstruction of early Christianity or with theological 9  G. Ebeling. ‘Time and Word,’ in J. M. Robinson (ed.), The Future of our Religious Past Essays in Honour of Rudolf Bultmann (E. Tr. London, 1971), p. 265. See also W. Pannenberg. ‘The Crisis of the Scripture Principle’ in his collected essays, Basic Questions in Theology Vol. I. (E. Tr. London, 1970), p 9.

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interpretation. New Testament scholars have often supposed that their work could be undertaken from a neutral ‘objective’ standpoint. This has been called ‘spectator’ exegesis – detached observation from a distance. Bernard Lonergan derided this as ‘the principle of the Empty Head.’ ‘On this view,’ he wrote, ‘the less one knows, the better an exegete one will be.’10 In one of his most important essays Bultmann insisted, surely rightly, that in all scholarly work not only is it impossible to work without presuppositions, without some particular starting point, but it is undesirable to try and do so. In his magnum opus on interpretation, Gadamer makes the same point: one cannot ask a question which makes sense without having an inkling of the answer.11 It is not difficult to see that one’s own theological convictions will influence one’s judgment of the theological significance of particular traditions. A nod‑ ding acquaintance with the history of the church is confirmation enough that this is bound to happen. Many who concede this point maintain none the less that purely historical reconstruction of earliest Christianity is immune from such dangers for it can be undertaken from a detached perspective. While this is obvi‑ ously a desirable aim, I do not believe that it can be carried out. A Marxist historian studying the French Revolution may try quite deliberately not to allow his historical work to become propaganda, but his initial stance is bound to affect profoundly his way of approaching the evidence and his critical judgment. Some very important work on the New Testament and on early Christianity is being undertaken by Jewish scholars and by other scholars who would not claim to be Christians. Such work is often invaluable, but it is not necessarily less bi‑ assed and more objective than work by Christian scholars. It may well be superior as scholarship, and indeed it often is, but it does also have its own starting-point. It has recently been claimed that in study of the gospels a closed field is being investigated by a closed shop.12 There is no closed shop in New Testament stud‑ ies. All scholars, whether Christian or not, bring presuppositions and some form of motivation to their work. Neither the one nor the other can be set aside. Historical reconstruction without presuppositions is a nineteenth century dream, but it [[68]] is a dream which some scholars still have. In a review in The Sunday Times the distinguished historian Professor Hugh Trevor-Roper claimed that only the most acute and imaginative scholarship can penetrate the smooth impervious front of the gospels; such scholarship will not be misdirected by too much faith. Faith, he implied, necessarily distorts the evidence.13  B. J. F. Lonergan, Method in Theology (London, 1972), p. 157.  R Bultmann, ‘Is Exegesis without Presuppositions Possible?’ E. Tr. in Existence and Faith (London, 1961), H. G. Gadamer, Truth and Method (E. Tr. London, 1975). 12  J. Drury, Tradition and Design in Luke’s Gospel (London, 1976), p. 43. 13  H. Trevor-Roper in his review of M. Smith, Jesus the Magician in The Sunday Times, 1 October 1978. 10 11

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In his Ethel M. Wood lecture delivered before the University of London, Dr Dennis Nineham called upon New Testament scholars to set out to explore the nature of New Testament Christianity in the same impartial spirit in which Ma‑ linowski interpreted the religion of the Trobriand Islanders or Evans-Pritchard that of the Azande.14 Dr Nineham acknowledged that presuppositionless exege‑ sis of the New Testament is impossible and went on to suggest that the presup‑ positions in the light of which the text is interpreted should be the doctrines-feltas-facts by first century men, and not by the Fathers, the Reformers or people of our own time This seems to be an attractive path to follow, but it runs through impossible terrain. Can the interpreter shed his own cultural and religious herit‑ age and become, in effect, a first century man? Dr Nineham also suggested that scholars working as he desiderates would not rule out any possibility a priori. ‘They would simply behave as characteristic representatives of an historical age, assuming as a working hypothesis the truth of its presuppositions, including its assumption … that all past events form a single causally interconnected web and that no event occurs without this-worldly causation of some sort.’ But this starting point is not impartial, for it accepts without qualification Troeltsch’s principle of analogy and it does rule out a priori the possibility of a unique divine intervention in human history. I am not suggesting for one moment that anthropologists and historians should not turn their attention to early Christianity in the way suggested, but such work is bound to have its own particular assumptions which will affect profoundly the way the evidence is construed and interpreted. This is so even if a bold attempt is made to look at the evidence in the light of first century presuppositions. Completely impartial historical reconstruction is impossible. The scholar can attempt to avoid prejudice which prejudges conclusions in advance, but he cannot shed his own presuppositions. An initial starting point or ‘pre-understanding’ (to use Bultmann’s term) is not only unavoidable but desirable. I have stressed that the scholar interested primarily in historical reconstruction is as much at the mercy of his own pre-understanding as the scholar concerned to interpret the theological significance of the texts. In both cases there must be openness to criticism and to modification of that initial stance. In order to avoid sheer prejudice, it is necessary to allow the text or evidence to reshape one’s preunderstanding. Unless this is done quite deliberately, there is always the risk that one’s starting point, instead of acting as a window to the evidence, will become a filter through which the text is always read – and distorted. There is a further important step which must be taken if prejudice and rigidity are to be avoided. In both historical and theological work on the New Testament writings the scholar’s own understanding of key concepts such as ‘history,’ 14  D. E. Nineham, ‘New Testament Interpretation in an Historical Age,’ reprinted in his Explorations in Theology I (London, 1977), pp. 160 ff.

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‘revelation,’ ‘miracle,’ ‘eschatology,’ ‘resurrection’ – and even ‘God’ – will be very influential in his work.15 Since the texts of early Christianity cannot be understood without reference to these concepts, the way the reader understands them will determine the way the texts are interpreted. The implication of this observation is most important: critical analysis of one’s own convictions is an essential part of the task of interpretation. Once again it becomes clear that there is no such thing as a purely scientific reconstruction of earliest Christianity. Neither the [[69]] Christian nor the non-Christian scholar can afford to ignore critical reflection on his own assumptions: whether this analysis is deemed to be philosophical or theological does not alter my point. There is a further corollary to the observation that the individual’s judgment is affected by his understanding of a cluster of key theological concepts. Once one concedes that an individual scholar cannot set aside his own theological convictions, his own ‘systematic theology,’ in his interpretation of the New Testament, it becomes inappropriate to see the discipline known as ‘New Testa‑ ment Theology’ as a strictly objective, reporting discipline in which the scholar confines his attention to the first century and leaves the systematic or doctrinal theologian to wrestle with the contemporary significance of the theology of the New Testament.16 I have been suggesting that the individual’s theological convictions must inevitably be taken as a starting point or vantage point in theological interpretation of the New Testament. This is so for the further reason that within the several strands of earliest Christianity there are varied theological emphases. Given that there is diversity, there is no way of avoiding a decision whether to give greater weight, say, to Galatians rather than to James. Unless one is prepared to stake everything on a historical search for a pot of pristine gold at the end of the rain‑ bow of early Christianity, such a decision must be taken on theological rather than historical grounds. This conclusion has often been fiercely resisted. But it is all too easy to behold the speck of dust in another’s eye and to miss the log in one’s own eye. Luther’s Christological criterion, that which proclaims or urges Christ, has often been said to have prevented him from doing justice to parts of the New Testament. Bultmann has been criticised for using existentialism as a criterion with which to approach both historical reconstruction and theological interpretation. Ernst Käsemann has been rebuked by Hans Küng for allowing justification by faith to become his criterion for assessing New Testament writ‑ ings and so becoming more Biblical than the Bible, more faithful to the centre of the New Testament than the New Testament itself, more evangelical than the 15  See the excellent exposition of this point in G. Turner, ‘Pre-Understanding and New Testa‑ ment Interpretation,’ SJT 28 (1975), pp. 227–242. 16  For a fuller discussion, see R. Morgan, The Nature of New Testament Theology (London, 1973), pp. 33 ff.

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Gospel, and more Pauline than Paul!17 And so one could go on. But are such criti‑ cisms necessarily valid? Is one not bound to exercise discrimination in using the New Testament writings today and to give priority to some parts at the expense of others, however strongly one stresses the ‘givenness’ of the New Testament as the Church’s Scripture? If decisions based on theological criteria are unavoidable, we are faced in an acute way with the problem of valid preferences. How are arbitrary decisions and personal whim to be avoided? I believe that the only safeguard is a continu‑ ous quest for the central theological convictions of the New Testament writers, the unifying factors amidst their diversity, the ‘essence’ of early Christianity. Such a quest is both necessary and possible. Since the initial starting point of the interpreter must always be open to criticism and modification, the provisional character of the results must be recognised. Some scholars are so impressed by the diversity of early Christianity that hands are thrown up in horror at the very suggestion of expounding ‘the central theological convictions’ of the New Testa‑ ment writers. This is a symptom of a widespread disease in Biblical scholarship at present: the impossibility of certainty in understanding is often confused with the impossibility of understanding. I have been stressing the importance of the interpreter’s own role in the task of interpretation. I have also stressed that the interpreter’s own pre-understanding must be open to modification. Does it not follow that the ‘meaning’ of the text changes? Are we not very [[70]] close to the position that the text ‘means’ what it says to me today? The relationship between the original meaning intended by the author and the meaning discerned by the interpreter has been carefully con‑ sidered by literary critics. I have already adapted Northrop Frye’s often quoted adage and have asked whether interpretation of the New Testament is like a picnic to which the New Testament writers bring their words and the reader the meaning. Literary critics have been debating the so-called ‘intentionalist fallacy’ ever since in an essay published in 1946 Wimsatt and Beardsley argued that the meaning of a poem or other literary work should not be confined to the original intention of the author.18 Some literary critics have claimed that the original intention of the author is of no importance, but many do defend an appeal to the author’s intention. Dame Helen Gardner, for example, takes success as a critic to be ‘the recognition of a poem’s intention, which leaves me free to enjoy the poem. If this is to be guilty of “the intentionalist heresy” I am quite content to be excommunicated for it. A poem is not whatever I choose to make of it. It is 17  So G. Maier, Das Ende der historisch-kritischen Methode (1974), p. 42. I owe this refer‑ ence to P. Stuhlmacher, Schriftauslegung op. cit., p. 104. 18  W. K. Wimsatt and M. C. Beardsley, ‘The Intentional Fallacy,’ now reprinted in D. New‑ ton-DeMolina, On Literary Intention (Edinburgh, 1976).

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something which its author made with deliberation, choosing that it should say this and not that.’19 Few literary critics have put up a sterner defence of the importance of the original intention of the author than E. D. Hirsch. Since self-evidently a text can mean anything it has been understood to mean, on what grounds is one meaning to be preferred to another? In his book Validity in Interpretation Hirsch stressed that to banish the original author as the determiner of meaning was to reject the only compelling normative principle that could lend validity to an interpretation. In a more recent essay Hirsch argues powerfully that the normative dimension of interpretation is always in the last analysis an ethical dimension, ‘To treat an author’s words merely as grist for one’s own mill is,’ he insists, ‘ethically anala‑ gous to using another man merely for one’s own purposes.’20 For the Christian theologian there will be an additional reason for taking the original intention of the New Testament writers seriously. A religious poem may be full of insight and intensely moving but its status for Christian theology is not the same as that of the New Testament writings. Since the stance of individual interpreters is not constant, ‘meaning’ drawn from the text will not be constant. There is no reason to insist that every perfor‑ mance of a Mozart symphony must utilise Mozart’s instrumentation and tempi. But unless there is some limit to adaptation and individual preference there comes a point at which it is not Mozart’s but the conductor’s music which is being performed. My point is summed up in the words of Paul Ricoeur: ‘If there is no objective meaning, then the text no longer says anything at all; without existential appro‑ priation, what the text does say is no longer living speech.’21 I am fully aware that in taking this position I shall be castigated as a ‘Biblicist,’ in spite of the various qualifications I have tried to spell out. But I am in good company, for Bultmann has also been castigated for being a ‘Biblicist,’ for seeking to discover ‘the meaning’ of the New Testament as the criterion for defining the Christian faith.22 I do not see how the Christian theologian can do otherwise, unless he is to decide for himself what Christian faith is. The role of the interpreter is crucial in interpretation of the New Testament, but he must [[71]] not allow it to deter him from seeking to recover the origi‑  H. Gardner, The Business of Criticism (London, 1959), p. 75.  E. D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation, (New Haven, 1967). I have quoted from his essay, ‘Three Dimensions in Hermeneutics,’ reprinted in D. Newton-De Molina, On Literary Intention (Edinburgh, 1976) p. 208. See also E. D. Hirsch, The Aims of Interpretation (Chicago, 1976). 21  P. Ricoeur, ‘Preface to Bultmann’ in his collected essays, The Conflict of Interpretations (Ε. Tr. Evanston, 1974) p. 398. 22  D. E. Nineham, The Use and Abuse of the Bible (London, 1976), p. 220 f. Cf. J. Bowden’s preface to his translation of W. Schmithals, An Introduction to the Theology of Rudolf Bultmann (E. Tr. London, 1968) p. xiv. 19 20

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nal meaning of the various New Testament writers. There must be a dialogue between the interpreter and the text: in order to clarify the original meaning historical methods must be used; in order to clarify his own pre-understanding, the interpreter must be willing to analyse, criticise and modify his own theologi‑ cal convictions. This is the so-called hermeneutical circle which is operative in all interpreta‑ tion and understanding. However, there is a particular difficulty to be faced. If it is true that there is no seeing and understanding of history without reference to the present, are we not forced to conclude that we are trapped in the present and that historical reconstruction and understanding of the past is impossible? Is the hermeneutical circle a vicious circle? Just how difficult is it for men of different eras to understand each other? There are two points to be mentioned, both of which need fuller discussion than is possible here. First, as Gadamer insists, the present is seen only through the intentions and ways of seeing bequeathed from the past. The interpreter stands in the present, but he stands in a tradition, so the present is not a prison which necessarily forbids historical reconstruction of different cultural eras. Secondly, the task of understanding a different cultural era is difficult but not impossible. We know from our own experience that it is not time itself which rules out the possibilty of communication. Every moment is different and yet we still find we can understand one another. In our own era we find that it is possible to communicate with men and women who live today in significantly different cultural situations. To claim that our twentieth century western culture makes understanding of the past impossibly difficult is surely an exaggeration, for cultures are not homogeneous. When Christian missionaries first travelled to New Zealand in the early dec‑ ades of the nineteenth century and attempted to communicate with the Maoris, the cultural gap could hardly have been wider. There was a cultural clash, but not of such a kind that precluded understanding. Both among Maoris and mis‑ sionaries there was rejection of the opposing religion and culture. But, as a fascinating recent study has shown, in the warfare of ideas, as in actual fighting the combatants learned from each other and in their conflict they became more, not less similar. ‘The missionaries and those who had sent them had probably not anticipated that influence would be mutual, or that dialogue would be more var‑ ied than one of acceptance or rejection.’23 In the clash between the two cultures there was no immediate assimilation, but neither side was unchanged. In his account of the way in which the past and the present are brought into re‑ lation with one another in the process of understanding Gadamer uses the helpful analogy of a conversation. What occurs in conversation is the fusion of horizons  J. M. R. Owens, Prophets in the Wilderness (Auckland, 1974), p. 147.

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(Horizontverschmelzung) by means of an elevation of the partners to a new comprehensive horizon which comprises the two originally separate horizons.24 Dennis Nineham makes a similar point when he encourages us to ‘pass over’ into the minds of the Biblical writers and really know what it is to be St. Mark or St. Paul; when we do this, he believes, we will come back to the present changed men and women, alive to new demands, opportunities, problems and possibili‑ ties in every sphere.25 This is a most helpful suggestion. If our exercise of im‑ agination is to be more than an intuitive ‘jump’ or mere guess work, however, sound critical methods will be needed in order to recover the original meaning of the text. We shall also need to make sure that we are not indulging [[72]] in what has been called the ‘popular shortcut’ of putting oneself into the skin of Moses or Paul. Since my name is neither Moses nor Paul, the historical method is needed to ensure that the gap between ‘then’ and ‘now’ is not obliterated. Indeed, the fact that we are now more acutely aware of cultural diversity may well mean, as John Ashton has suggested, that we have a better chance of arriving at a proper understanding than most interpreters of earlier ages.26 The interpreter, then, is involved in a dialogue or conversation with the text in which the ‘pastness’ of the text is taken seriously. It is not so much a question of a hermeneutical circle in which the interpreter is trapped as of a spiral: the interpreter’s own understanding is continually clarified and extended. I have been insisting that interpretation of the New Testament is not a closed shop: the philosopher, the historian and the literary critic all provide stimulus and assistance. The earliest Christians were also faced with the task of interpretation. Their principles are certainly not irrelevant. If I may use Professor Evans’s characteristically vivid metaphor, Christianity is unique among the world religions in being born with a Bible in its cradle.27 And since with the notable exception of Marcion, the early Christians refused to throw their Bible out of the cradle, they were faced with the task of interpreta‑ tion. They used what later came to be called the Old Testament in a wide variety of ways, but they all insisted on the one hand that Scripture was to be read from the new perspective of their convictions about Jesus, and on the other hand that it shed light on their current experience. Past tradition and current experience were brought into contact with one another. In addition, there is an extraordinary freedom to modify and even at times to part company with Scripture. One of the most striking features of the teaching of Jesus is the extent to which he referred to the experience of his hearers rather than to Scripture.  See W. Pannenberg’s exposition and discussion of Gadamer’s point in Basic Questions in Theology (E. Tr. London, 1970), pp. 115 ff. 25  D. E. Nineham, The Use and Abuse of the Bible (London, 1976), pp. 207 ff. 26  J. Ashton, ‘What Use is the Bible Now?,’ The Month, June, 1977, p. 186. 27  C. F. Evans, ‘The New Testament in the Making,’ ed. P. R. Ackroyd and C. F. Evans, The Cambridge History of the Bible Vol. I (Cambridge, 1970), p. 232. 24

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In a similar way, the early Christian communities handled the traditions about the life and teaching of Jesus (and other earlier traditions) with creative but responsible freedom. Traditions were retained carefully, but they were also modified to meet new circumstances. This freedom to modify earlier traditions is striking. It seems to stem from a recognition of their importance and from confidence that modification was being carried out in the service of faith, in accordance with the Spirit. So within early Christianity there were theological convictions which governed the transmis‑ sion, interpretation and evaluation of past traditions. In II Corinthians 3 Paul draws a distinction between the ‘letter’ which kills and the Spirit which gives life. By ‘letter’ Paul means Scripture seen merely as past tradition: old formulations do not in themselves give life, but they are not to be discarded, for through God’s Spirit, they can give new Life. Paul’s aim, if I may quote the vigorous words of Ernst Käsemann, is ‘the critical Bible reader and the critical congregation, both able to distinguish between the will of God and the letter. The following formulation of the position is extremely dangerous,’ continues Käsemann, ‘but we need this kind of exaggeration today: it is the Spirit alone who makes possible a critical and proper hearing of Scripture.’28 In interpretation of the New Testament today, we must take its ‘pastness’ seriously, set it in its original context and seek to discover the intention of the New Testament writers. For these tasks we need the historical critical method. We must freely acknowledge that our understanding of the past will be affected by our present stance, influenced as it is by tradition, and, in the case of the Christian, by his Christian faith. This present stance must [[73]] be open to criti‑ cal analysis. The ‘pastness’ of the text and the present stance of the interpreter must be allowed to illumine each other: from that open-ended dialogue the interpreter’s understanding is deepened and broadened. The preceding paragraphs were written some six years ago. In the intervening years I have become increasingly convinced that the issues discussed in this lec‑ ture are crucial both for scholarly study of the New Testament and for theology. Interest in the borderlands between exegesis and theology has continued to grow, as this Symposium confirms. What I referred to above as a ‘breath of fresh air’ is being fanned into a stiff breeze.29

 E. Käsemann, New Testament Questions of Today (E. Tr. London, 1969), p. 271.  See especially A. C. Thiselton, The Two Horizons: New Testament Hermeneutics and Philosophical Description with special reference to Heidegger, Bultmann, Gadamer and Wittgenstein (Exeter, 1980). 28 29

Part III

Justin Martyr and Early Jewish-Christian Encounters

Chapter 20

The Two Parousias of Christ: Justin Martyr and Matthew [[183]] Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho provides invaluable insights into the development of early Christian thought and the impact on it of Greek philos‑ ophy and rhetoric, the textual traditions of Old Testament writings, and the early reception of New Testament writings. However, there is an even more important reason why the Dialogue deserves closer scholarly attention than it has received recently: it is the first surviving Christian writing to tackle fully the issues which separated Christians and Jews in the period after the ‘parting of the ways’. Justin wrote his Dialogue some five to ten years before his martyrdom in c. 165 CE. He set his extended discussions with the learned Jew Trypho some twenty years earlier, in the period immediately after the end of the second Jew‑ ish Revolt against the Romans. According to Eusebius (Hist. Eccl. IV.18.2), who may have gained his information from the missing preface to the Dialogue, the discussions took place in Ephesus. This chronological and geographical set‑ ting may be a wholly artificial device invoked for literary purposes. The sparse references in the Dialogue to Justin’s travels and to the geographical location of his discussions with Trypho also fit several other coastal cities in the eastern Mediterranean. On the other hand, however, there is nothing in the extant text (and no other relevant evidence) which rules out the strong probability that part of the Dialogue is based on discussions Justin had with a learned Jew in Ephesus shortly after 135 CE. In many passages Trypho is undoubtedly no more than a straw man. He is frequently allowed to ask a question or to raise an objection simply in order to allow Justin to press home his own Christian line of apologetic. But both Justin and his opponent are usually well-informed about contemporary Judaism, and there are good reasons for concluding that [[184]] the Dialogue often records genuine Jewish objections to Christianity.1 One of the many interesting christological themes of Justin’s Dialogue is the extended use of a schema of two parousias, a theme which has not received the attention it deserves.2 In a large number of passages Justin stresses that Christ’s first coming without honour and glory is in sharp contrast to his second coming 1  See further G. N. Stanton, ‘Aspects of Early Christian-Jewish Polemic and Apologetic’, NTS 31 (1985), pp. 377–92, which is now included in A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew (Edinburgh: T. & Τ. Clark, 1992), pp. 232–55. 2  On Justin’s Christology, see D. C. Trakatellis, The Pre-Existence of Christ in Justin Martyr: An Exegetical Study with Reference to the Humiliation and Exaltation Christology (Mis‑

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in glory and upon the clouds.3 This theme is developed as a Christian response to Trypho’s objection that the life of the Christian Messiah did not fulfil scriptural prophecies. This Jewish objection and the Christian response in terms of the ‘two-advents’ schema appears explicitly for the first time in the Dialogue. The two-parousias schema was developed in a number of ways by later Christian writers, often with a similar setting in controversy.4 In this article I shall explore this theme within Justin’s Dialogue, and more briefly his Apology. I shall try to show that in spite of the highly stylised way the two-parousias schema is developed in the Dialogue, it is used by Justin to counter Jewish insistence that Christian messianic claims do not correspond with the prophecies of Scripture. I shall then suggest, more tentatively, that an early form of this schema is found in Matthew’s Gospel where it has been developed for similar reasons. It is a pleasure to offer this essay to Marinus de Jonge, to whom I owe a great deal. Even if he is not persuaded by the more speculative parts of this article, I am confident that he will approve of my attempt to set New Testament passages in a wider context than is often the case in current scholarship. [[185]]

I In Dialogue 31 Justin asks his Jewish opponent Trypho a rhetorical question: ‘If great power accompanies the dispensation (οἰκονομία) brought in by the suf‑ fering of Jesus Christ, how great will be that which will be seen in his advent (παρουσία) in glory?’ Justin then answers his own question by quoting Dan. 7.9–28.5 Trypho accepts Justin’s exegesis of Daniel 7, but immediately raises an objec‑ tion: soula, MT: Scholars Press, 1976). Trakatellis discusses the ‘two parousias’ only in passing on pp. 159–60. 3  See Dialogue 14.8; 31.1; 32.2; 34.2; 36.1; 40.4; 49.2; 49.7; 52.1; 52.4; 110.2; 120.4; 121.3. 4  See, for example, Tertullian, Adv. Jud. 13 and 14; Origen, Contra Celsum, I. 56 and II. 29 (discussed below). In Nicholas de Lyra’s early fourteenth century treatise Against the Jews, the Christian response to the Jewish objection that Dan. 7.13 does not apply to Jesus is that there is a second coming. See A. L. Williams, Adversus Judaeos (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935), p. 411. 5  I have used and quoted J. C. T. Otto’s edition of the Greek text, Corpus Apologetarum Christianorum Saeculi Secundi, I (Jena: Frider Mauke, 1847). With some minor modifications English translations are from A. Lukyn Willams, Justin Martyr: The Dialogue with Trypho (London: SPCK, 1930). See in particular, O. Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy: A Study in Justin Martyr’s Proof-Text Tradition: Text-Type, Provenance, Theological Profile (Leiden: Brill, 1987). I have learned a great deal from Skarsaune’s fine study. However he does not note the important parallels in Origen’s Contra Celsum and in Matthew’s Gospel which are discussed in this article.

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Sir, these and other similar passages of Scripture compel us to await One who is great and glorious, and takes over the everlasting kingdom from the Ancient of days as Son of man. But this your so-called Christ is without honour and glory, so that he has even fallen into the uttermost curse that is in the law of God, for he was crucified (Dialogue 32.1).

In other words, Trypho insists that since the life of Jesus does not correspond to scriptural prophecies concerning the coming of the Messiah, Jesus cannot be the promised Messiah. In reply, Justin refers Trypho to two points he had made earlier – he recalls his earlier use (at 13.4) of Isaiah 53 as scriptural support for the ignominious death suffered by Jesus. He also refers to his earlier exposition (at 14.8) of the two advents of Christ: ‘one in which he was pierced by you, and a second when you will recognize him whom you pierced, and all your tribes will lament …’ (Zech. 12.10–14).6 In Dialogue 14.8 Justin had insisted that some passages in the [[186]] prophets (including Isa. 55.3–13 which he quotes) referred to the first coming of Christ ‘without honour and without form and mortal’, while others refer to his second coming ‘in glory and upon the clouds’7: ‘your people will see and will recognize him whom they pierced, as Hosea [obviously a mistake for Zechariah], one of the Twelve prophets, and Daniel foretold’. This exchange between Justin and Trypho in Dialogue 31, together with the points made in the related parts of chs. 13 and 14, form the backdrop to a number of passages in later parts of the Dialogue. This key passage may be interpreted in two ways: Trypho’s comments may reflect a genuine Jewish objection to Christian claims, or Justin may be allowing Trypho to intervene merely so that he can set out one of his major christological themes. At first sight the latter explanation looks more probable. The numerous two parousias passages in the Dialogue are highly stylised. Similar phrases are repeated a number of times. The simple rhetorical strategy of ‘negative com‑ parison’ is used: the first coming ‘without glory’, and ‘without honour’ is con‑ 6  Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy, p. 78 notes that in references to Zechariah 12.10–12 at Dialogue 14.8; 32.2; and 64.7 Justin reads ἐπιγνώσεσθε instead of ἐπιβλέψονται (LXX). He suggests that Justin may have taken the reading from the καίγε recension of the LXX. While this explanation is plausible, it is also possible that Justin has altered the verb deliberately in order to allow for a possible eventual positive response on the part of the Jewish people. 7  In the Dialogue ‘glory’ is regularly associated with references to the coming of the Son of man which are clearly based on Dan. 7.13–14. Skarsaune (The Proof from Prophecy, p. 286 n. 101) notes that δόξα is not found in any of Justin’s OT testimonies concerning the second parousia; since it is found in the Anabathmoi Iakobou II source of the Pseudo-Clementines (Recognitions I. 49.2 ff. and I. 69.34), the two traditions are related. I do not doubt this. How‑ ever, attachment of δόξα to references and allusions to Dan. 7.13–14 seems to have been a well established convention in both Christian and Jewish exegesis. See Mt. 19.28; 25.31; I En. 45.3; 49.2; 55.4; 61.8; 62.5; 69.27, 29; 71.7.

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trasted with the second coming ‘in glory’ and ‘as judge’.8 References to the first coming of Christ usually allude to Isa. 53.23; phrases from Dan. 7.13–14 or Zech. 12.10–12 (or both, as at Dialogue 14.8) are prominent in the references to Christ’s second coming. However, several considerations taken cumulatively suggest that first appear‑ ances are deceptive and that the two-parousias schema is Justin’s response to known or to perceived Jewish objections. First, in a large number of passages in the Dialogue readers are reminded that one of the main issues on which Justin and Trypho are at odds is whether the life of Jesus corresponds to scriptural prophecies [[187]] concerning the coming of the Messiah (36.1; 39.7; 49.1, 7; 89.1 and 90.1; 110.1–2, for example). The two parousias passages are part of this broader theme which is one of the central issues in the Dialogue as a whole. For my present purposes the ‘messianic’ passages can be divided into three groups. (a) In two cases Justin and Trypho are able to agree that scriptural proph‑ ecies refer to a future coming of the Messiah. As noted above, at 32.1, Trypho accepts Justin’s interpretation of Daniel 7 and similar (unnamed) passages; at 39.7 Trypho refers back to this earlier agreement. At 49.2 Justin elicits (and receives) Trypho’s agreement that Mal. 4.5 refers to the role of Elijah as the forerunner of the promised Messiah. (b) Trypho (or his teachers) agree implicitly that three further passages refer to the coming Messiah – Zech. 12.10–12 (Dialogue 32.1–2); Gen. 49.8–12 (Dialogue 52, 53, and 55.1; 120.4–5) and Micah 4 (Dialogue 109, 110.1–2). In each case Justin claims that these passages refer in part to the first coming of Christ, and in part to his future coming. (c) Justin insists on a messianic interpretation of a large number of further passages. In many cases Justin is aware that his Christian interpretation is at odds with Jew‑ ish non-messianic interpretation. In Dialogue 32–6 and 83, for example, he attempts to refute Jewish claims that Psalms 24, 72 and 110 refer to Solomon and / or Hezekiah. In none of the passages in this third group is the two parousias schema used. In all three cases Justin is almost certainly well aware of current Jewish inter‑ pretation of the biblical passages he cites. Some caution, however, is necessary since the clearest evidence for Jewish exegesis of the passages in question is often found in targumic or rabbinic traditions which are difficult to date.9 On the other hand, I do not know of a single case where Justin’s own assumptions concerning current Jewish messianic (or non-messianic) interpretation of scrip‑

 Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy, p. 155 sets out the key phrases in a convenient chart.  For details see Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy, pp. 260–88 and the revised edition of E. Schürer, ‘Messianism’, in The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ II, (ed. G. Vermes, F. Millar and M. Black, Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1979), § 29 pp. 488–549. See also Judaisms and their Messiahs at the Turn of the Christian Era (ed. J. Neusner, W. S. Green and E. S. Frerichs; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987). 8 9

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tural passages is demonstrably at odds with the relevant Jewish evidence. In short, there are good grounds for supposing that Justin is [[188]] using the twoparousias schema with known Christian-Jewish disputes over Scripture in mind. Secondly, in 1 Apol. 52 Justin uses the two-parousias schema in a quite differ‑ ent way. He argues that since the first coming of Christ which was proclaimed in advance through the prophets has already happened, so ‘those things which were similarly prophesied and are yet to happen will certainly take place’. This line of argument is not used in the Dialogue, where the strikingly different set‑ ting of the two-parousias schema seems to have been elicited by very different circumstances.10 1 Apol. 52 shows how Justin might have argued in the Dialogue if he had intended solely to give christological instruction. Thirdly, there is further independent evidence that at the time Justin wrote his Dialogue other Jewish objectors were levelling the same charge against Chris‑ tians, and were receiving a similar response. In the middle of the third century Origen quotes the objection raised by Celsus’s Jew (c. 177–180): ‘The prophets say that the one who will come will be a great prince, lord of the whole earth and of all nations and armies, but they did not proclaim a pestilent fellow like him (Jesus)’ (Contra Celsum II, 29). But Origen treats the criticism with disdain by appealing to the ‘two-advents’ schema he had expounded earlier – there he noted that critics of Christianity who based their case on the interpretation of Scripture ‘failed to notice that the prophecies speak of two advents of Christ. In the first he is subject to human passions and deeper humiliation … in the second he is coming in glory and in divinity alone, without any human passions bound up with his divine nature’ (Contra Celsum I, 56).11 In these passages there is no sign of direct dependence on Justin. Even though in his response to Celsus Origen develops one of his own distinctive christo‑ logical themes, both the Jewish criticism and the [[189]] Christian response are strikingly similar to Trypho’s complaint and Justin’s reply.12 There is, then, a strong cumulative case for concluding that Justin has devel‑ oped the two-parousias schema as a Christian response to known Jewish objec‑ tions to Christian messianic claims. While it is probable that in the Dialogue Justin has drawn extensively on his own earlier writings or on other sources, the  Similarly, Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy, p. 156.  Skarsaune (The Proof from Prophecy, pp. 285–86) notes a further important reference to the ‘two parousias’ in the Anabathmoi Iakobou II source of the Pseudo-Clementines: ‘He (Moses) therefore intimated that he (Christ) should come, humble indeed in his first coming, but glorious in his second …’ (Recognitions I, 49). This tradition may well stem from about the same time as Justin’s Dialogue. Unlike the two parousias schema in the Dialogue, however, it is not used explicitly as a Christian response to a Jewish objection. 12  I have quoted H. Chadwick’s translation, Contra Celsum (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer‑ sity Press, 1953), and I have accepted his date for Celsus’s lost writing which Origen quotes at length. 10 11

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Dialogue is the first extant writing in which the two-parousias Christology forms part of Christian-Jewish controversies.13 But the roots of such disputes may well be much deeper. Early in the postEaster period Christians began to claim that their convictions about Jesus were ‘in accordance with the Scriptures’. It would not have been difficult for op‑ ponents to refute such claims on the basis of Scripture. In particular, in Jewish circles where there were lively expectations concerning the triumphant Davidic Messiah, it would have been natural for opponents to insist that Christian claims concerning the Messiah did not correspond to Scripture.14 A Christian counterclaim in terms of the ‘two advents’ of the Messiah, both foretold in Scripture, would have been an obvious response. This line of apologetic may well have been developed long before Justin’s day. [[190]]

II I now want to suggest that an early form of the two-parousias schema is found in Matthew’s Gospel as part of the evangelist’s response to Jewish criticism of Christian claims. As far as I know, this is a fresh suggestion. Before I set out the evidence which points to Matthew’s use of a two-parousias schema, I shall discuss several passages in which Matthew refers to the criticisms of the Jewish religious leaders, in particular the Pharisees, and responds directly or indirectly. 1. At the very end of his Gospel Matthew refers explicitly to the rival explana‑ tions of the empty tomb held by Christians and Jews in his own day (28.1–15). The evangelist takes great pains to refute the alternative ‘story’. This passage strongly suggests that rival assessments of the significance of Jesus may well be reflected earlier in Matthew’s Gospel. 2. Two hostile comments from the opponents of Jesus are of particular inter‑ est. They are both found in passages in which Matthew’s own redactional hand is evident and are closely related to the double accusation against Jesus which is found in a wide range of early Christian and Jewish writings: Jesus was a magi‑ 13  On the basis of meticulous traditio-historical studies O. Skarsaune has argued that in the Dialogue Justin has drawn extensively on two sources: (i) A ‘kerygma’ source found in many parts of chs. 11–47 and 108–41 which may possibly be related to the Kerygma Petrou, and which contains most of the ‘two parousias’ passages; (ii) a ‘recapitulation’ source found in parts of chs. 48–108 (but not 56–60 and 98–106) which may come from Aristo of Pella’s lost Controversy of Jason with Papiscus. The presence of ‘doublets’, especially passages once in a LXX form and once not, and the numerous digressions in the line of argument make it all but certain that Justin has drawn extensively upon earlier sources. However I am not persuaded that one of his two major sources is Aristo’s Controversy. Origen refers to this writing as a ‘lit‑ tle book’ (Contra Celsum IV, 52), a point overlooked by Skarsaune; on his hypothesis Aristo’s Controversy was a substantial writing. 14  Luke refers to disputes between Christians and Jews over the interpretation of Scripture, but provides few details: Acts 17.2–3; 18.4; 19.8; 28.23–28.

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cian and a deceiver. The accusation that Jesus was a deceiver was a stock jibe which is found in some Jewish traditions (which are admittedly difficult to date) and in a remarkably wide range of early Christian writings.15 In many of these writings (most notably Justin Dialogue 69, b.Sanh. 43a and b.Sanh. 107) it is linked with a second critical comment: Jesus was a magician (μάγος). In Matthew, the opponents of Jesus repeatedly claim that his exorcisms are carried out ‘by the prince of demons’: 9.34; 10.25; 12.24, 27.16 In other words, Jesus is a demon-possessed magician or sorcerer. The response is direct and clear: Jesus carries out his exorcisms by the Spirit of God and as a result of the coming of God’s kingly rule (12.28). Following the burial of Jesus the Pharisees go and ask Pilate to make the tomb secure. They refer to Jesus as ‘that deceiver’ (ἐκείνος [[191]] ὁ πλάνος) and sum up his life as ‘deception’ (πλάνη, 27.63–64). In this passage the Pharisees, who have hitherto not been mentioned specifically in Matthew’s passion narratives, reemerge as the arch-opponents of Jesus. The evangelist does not take the trouble to respond to this jibe. Presumably he considers that his whole Gospel is suf‑ ficient proof of its absurdity. 3. There is a further set of passages in Matthew which are related to disputes with Jewish opponents in the evangelist’s day concerning the significance of Jesus. Matthew expands Mark’s three references to the title Son of David to nine: 1.1; 9.27; 12.23; 15.22; 20.30, 31 (= Mk 10.47, 48); 21.9, 15; 22.42 (= Mk 12.35) where the title Son of David is implied. Why does Matthew open his Gospel with a reference to Jesus as Son of David and then proceed to add five further references in contexts which are broadly Marcan (9.27; 12.23; 15.22; 21.9, 15)? As several writers have noted, in four of the six redactional passages Matthew connects the Son of David title with the healing ministry of Jesus,17 but that ob‑ servation hardly accounts for the evangelist’s strong emphasis on this particular christological theme. Most scholars have overlooked the fact that another motif is equally promi‑ nent in the Son of David passages which come from the evangelist’s own hand.18 15  For details, see G. N. Stanton, ‘Aspects of Early Christian-Jewish Polemic and Apolo‑ getic’, NTS 31 (1985), pp. 377–92, which is now included in A Gospel for a New People, pp. 232–55. 16  See further Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 171–80. 17  So, for example, C. Burger, Jesus als Davidssohn (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1970), pp. 72–106; J. M. Gibbs, ‘Purpose and Pattern in Matthew’s Use of the Title “Son of God”’, NTS 10 (1963–64), pp. 446–64; J. D. Kingsbury, ‘The Title “Son of David” in Matthew’s Gospel’, JBL 95 (1976), pp. 591–602; D. C. Duling, ‘The Therapeutic Son of David: An Ele‑ ment in Matthew’s Christological Apologetic’, NTS 24 (1978), pp. 392–409; U. Luz, ‘Eine the‑ tische Skizze der matthäischen Christologie’, in C. Breytenbach and H. Paulsen (eds.), Anfänge der Christologie (Festschrift F. Hahn; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), pp. 223–26. 18  A notable exception is D. Verseput, ‘The Role and Meaning of the “Son of God” Title in Matthew’s Gospel’, NTS 33 (1987), pp. 533–57. Verseput does not discuss the reasons for this link.

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In four such passages acknowledgment of Jesus as the Son of David by par‑ ticipants in Matthew’s story provokes hostility from the Jewish leaders. These four passages come at critical points in the evangelist’s presentation of one of his major themes: the conflict between Jesus and the Jewish leaders.19 This is the very first conflict in [[192]] the Gospel (2.1–6); two passages are found at important turning points in the evangelist’s story (9.34; 21.9, 15); the fourth passage (12.23) is an integral part of the important set of claims and counterclaims in ch. 12. In these four redactional passages acknowledgment of Jesus as Son of David is vigorously opposed by the Jewish religious leaders. Why? And why does the evangelist stress so strongly that Jesus is the Son of David? Why does Matthew set out so carefully this fourfold pattern of positive response by some to Jesus’ Davidic Messiahship and its rejection by the Jewish leaders? I suggest that once again we are in contact with claims and counter-claims being made at the time Matthew wrote.20 The evangelist is well aware that his communities will face fierce opposition to their claims that Jesus was indeed the Davidic Messiah. Matthew insists that this claim is part of the very essence of Christian convictions about the significance of Jesus. But at the same time in several redactional passages he sets out a portrait of the Davidic Messiah which fulfils scriptural prophecies even though it differs from many current expecta‑ tions.21 The one born ‘king of the Jews’ is the child Jesus, the Davidic Messiah (2.2–6); in accordance with prophecy Jesus heals every disease and infirmity (8.17); Jesus is the one who is ‘meek and lowly in heart’ (11.29), the chosen servant of God (12.17–21), ‘the humble king’ (21.5). All these passages bear the stamp of the evangelist himself. They convey a quite distinctive portrait of Jesus, a portrait elicited, as it were, by objections to Christian claims.22 I have set out above three Jewish criticisms which Matthew is anxious to refute: the disciples stole the body of Jesus from the tomb; Jesus was a magician and a deceiver; Jesus was not the Davidic Messiah. I now wish to show that Mat‑ thew responds to the latter line of criticism by developing an early form of the two-parousias schema [[193]] which occurs in a more fully developed form in Justin and in Origen.23 In a series of redactional passages Matthew emphasizes 19  See J. D. Kingsbury, ‘The Developing Conflict between Jesus and the Jewish Leaders in Matthew’s Gospel’, CBQ 49 (1987), pp. 57–73. Kingsbury does not note that confession of Jesus as ‘Son of David’ provokes hostility from the Jewish leaders. 20  Several other passages in Matthew may well be a response to hostile allegations: e.g. 1.18–25; 5.17–20. 21  Jewish messianic expectations were very varied, but there is no doubt that in some circles there were lively hopes for a future triumphant Davidic Messiah. See n. 7 above. 22  See the discussion of these passages by G. Barth in G. Bornkamm, G. Barth and H. J. Held (eds.), Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew (London: SCM Press 1963), pp. 125–31. 23  H. Conzelmann (The Theology of Luke [London: Faber, 1961], p. 17 n. 1) noted that it is

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much more strongly than the other evangelists the humility of the earthly life of Jesus the Son of David, the glory of his future coming as Son of Man and judge, and the contrast between the two ‘comings’. The main features of Matthew’s distinctive portrait of Jesus as the humble servant of God in his first coming have been sketched above. Matthew’s exten‑ sion of the apocalyptic themes found in his sources is well-known. He repeatedly emphasizes redactionally the future glorious coming of Jesus as Son of Man;24 he is the only evangelist to use the word παρουσία of the future coming (24.3, 27, 37, 39). Although Matthew does not refer to the life of Jesus as his παρουσία, he does contrast sharply the humble life of the Davidic Messiah with his future coming in glory in ways which are reminiscent of the later two-parousias schema. The Jesus who must go to Jerusalem and suffer many things (16.21–3) is contrasted much more sharply than in Mark with the Son of Man who will come in the glory of his Father and then reward each person for what he has done (16.27–8). The ‘humble king’ who enters Jerusalem (21.5) will come in glory, sit on his throne, and as king he will judge the nations (25.31–46). At the hearing before the Sanhedrin Jesus is asked by the high priest, ‘Are you the Christ, the Son of God?’ The reply of Jesus is either evasive or hesitant. By adding to Mk 14.62 a strongly adversative πλήν and ἀπ’ ἄρτι, Matthew contrasts the present role of Jesus with his future role as Son of Man and judge (26.64). A further observation lends support to my case. In Matthew’s day, as in Justin’s, Christians and Jews could agree that certain passages in the prophets referred to the future coming of the Messiah, but agreement concerning the ‘first coming’ was another matter. The burden of proof clearly lay with Chris‑ tians, for they were making the novel claims. In these circumstances it is no surprise to find that nine out of Matthew’s ten distinctive formula quotations claim that the ‘first coming’, the teaching and the actions of Jesus, is in fulfil‑ ment of [[194]] Scripture.25 And it is no surprise to find that four of the five key passages (all redactional) which set out Matthew’s distinctive portrait of Jesus as the humble servant stress that his first coming as the Davidic Messiah did fulfil the prophetic promises of Scripture (2.2–6; 8.17; 12.17–21; 21.5; and, indirectly, 11.29). We may conclude, then, that in Matthew there is an early form (perhaps the earliest) of the two-parousias schema which was one of the ways Christians countered Jewish claims that the life of Jesus did not correspond to the prophe‑ cies concerning the future coming of the Messiah. Matthew’s redactional jux‑ quite justifiable to speak of ‘two advents’ in Luke, even though the actual terminology is not found. However he did not relate this observation to later Christian apologetic. 24  See Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 161–5, 222. 25  See Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 346–63.

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taposition of the present humility of Jesus and his future coming in glory is not related to the incarnational pattern found in other New Testament writings in which the one who was with God humbled himself among men (even to death) and was exalted by God (e.g. Phil. 2.6–11; 2 Cor. 8.9). Nor is it related to the pattern of reversal found in Acts: in raising Jesus God reversed the actions of those who put Jesus to death (e.g. Acts 2.23–4; 3.13–15). Matthew simply sets the two contrasting parousias side by side, just as Justin and Origen were to do much later. The development of the two-parousias schema in the second and third centu‑ ries may have been partly influenced by Matthew’s Gospel, but there are no signs of direct literary dependence. In Matthew, Justin and Origen, the two-parousias schema is a response to the sharp criticisms of Jewish opponents who insisted that Christian claims about the Davidic Messiahship of Jesus were not in accord‑ ance with the prophets. There is one further observation to be made. Matthew’s stark contrast between the humility and meekness of the life of Jesus the Son of David and his glorious future coming as Son of Man and judge reflects (in part) the self-understanding of the communities for which the evangelist wrote his Gospel. Christology and ecclesiology are interrelated. Matthew’s Christian readers are encouraged to live by the conviction that since their Lord who was sent by God (10.40; 21.37) is also the humble servant of God who was confronted at every turn by his opponents, they themselves must reflect that role. Their message and ministry are the same as those of Jesus himself (4.17; 10.7–8). They are ‘the little ones’ (10.42; 18.6, 10, 14; 25.40), ‘the [[195]] poor in spirit’, ‘the meek’ (5.3, 5), ‘the simple unlearned ones’ (11.25) who, like Jesus himself, must face fierce opposition (5.10–12; 10.11–42; 23.34), but their cause will be vindicated at the future coming of the Son of Man (25.31–46; and cf. 5.12; 10.41–2), for which they are urged to be ready. They are promised that until that final vindication takes place, the risen and exalted Lord is with them (28.20). In many ways Matthew’s Christology is very different from Justin’s. But there are some similarities. Both writers are keenly aware of Jewish objections to Christian claims about Jesus. Their Christology has been shaped (in part) by the experiences and self-understanding of minority communities at odds with their Jewish neighbours.26 There is no evidence of a direct link between Matthew’s early form of the twoparousias schema, and Justin’s richer version. Quite independently, two early Christian writers have developed a similar christological theme as an apologetic response to Jewish polemic. If there is any merit in these suggestions, there is a 26  Some of the christological themes of the fourth evangelist are related to a similar social setting.

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further corollary. They suggest that students of earliest Christianity may find it advantageous from time to time to work back (with due caution) from the clearer fuller evidence which second-century writers often provide, to New Testament passages which are much less easy to interpret and to place in a specific social setting.27

27  After completing the above study I came upon a further, second-century example of the ‘two parousias’ schema in the Muratorian Canon. In lines 23–26 the four Gospels are all said to declare the two comings of Christ: ‘the first despised in lowliness, which has come to pass, the second glorious in kingly power which is yet to come’. However this passage is not related to Jewish criticisms of Christian messianic claims.

Chapter 21

‘God-Fearers’: Neglected Evidence in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho [[43]]Why did Christianity take root so quickly in parts of the eastern Roman Empire? Unlike ancient historians like Edwin Judge, New Testament scholars do not usually think about questions as big as that! The standard books always mention one crucial factor in the success of early Christianity: Christians were particularly successful among Gentile sympathizers or ‘God-fearers’ who were attracted to many diaspora synagogues. On the back of success among ‘Godfearers’, Christianity made its way rapidly in the Roman world. Scholars have often assumed without discussion that the book of Acts supplies plenty of evi‑ dence to support this explanation for the success of early Christianity. The wide consensus on this point is most impressive, perhaps even surpris‑ ing: scholars who have taken quite different views of the historicity of Acts have supported this general reconstruction. Its linchpin is the assumption that Gentiles were attracted to and welcomed by diaspora Jewish synagogue communities in large numbers. In 1933 Kirsopp Lake raised doubts about the existence of a dis‑ tinct category of ‘God-fearers’, but he did accept that Gentiles were associated in different ways with synagogue communities. Numerous scholars in the preced‑ ing and following decades shared that assumption, most of whom overlooked Lake’s hesitations about the evidence for a distinct category of ‘God-fearers’. In 1981 this consensus was rudely shattered by two articles. Max Wilcox reconsidered meticulously the evidence of Acts and argued that the phrases ‘God-fearers’ (οἱ φοβούμενοι) and ‘those who revere God’ (οἱ σεβόμενοι τόν Θεόν) ‘ought not without further external evidence be interpreted as referring to a class of Gentile synagogue adherents rather than to members of the Jewish community, whether Jewish by birth or by conversion’ (115). However it was A. T. Kraabel’s article which sparked off a vigorous debate: it ranged more widely than Wilcox’s article, it made bolder claims, and it had an arresting title, ‘The Disappearance of the God-Fearers’. Kraabel insisted that ‘the evidence presently available is far from convincing proof for the existence of such a class of Gentiles as traditionally defined by the assumptions of the secondary literature’ (121). According to Kraabel, the ‘God-fearers’ in Acts were part of Luke’s Christian theological schema rather than evidence for a social reality in diaspora Judaism. He claimed that the absence of references to God-

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fearers in inscriptions was a telltale sign which suggested that the evidence of Acts should not be taken at face value; the literary evidence could be discounted, because it was habitually read by scholars in the light of Acts! Lively discussion of both the inscriptional and the literary evidence contin‑ ues to this day, as the bibliography included at the end of this article confirms. Further momentum was provided by the publication in 1987 of the now justly famous lengthy Aphrodisias inscription, with its reference both to proselytes and to ‘God-fearers’, an inscription which seems to many scholars to have un‑ dermined Kraabel’s case. Before I turn to neglected literary evidence, two further inscriptions will be noted briefly. An emancipation inscription (probably first century A. D.) from Panticapaeum on the north coast of the Black Sea states that a former slave is to continue to visit the synagogue and that [[44]] ‘protection (of his or her freedom) is provided by the synagogue of the Jews and the God worshippers’ (CIJ 683a; CIRB 71):          … ἐπι‑ τροπευούσης τῆς συναγω‑ γῆς τῶν Ἰουδαίων καὶ θεὸν σεβῶν.

Several scholars accept that the ‘ν’ in the middle of θεὸν σεβῶν (which is also the end of a line) was a mistake by a stonemason unfamiliar with this fairly rare word (e.g., Trebilco, 156; Siegert, 158 f.). If so, the synagogue community referred to in the inscription contained two groups, Jews, and ‘God-fearers’. A well-known inscription in a Roman theatre at Miletus (CIJ 748; perhaps late second century, or third century A. D.) refers to ‘reserved seats’ in a section of the fifth row of seats from the front of the theatre: τόπος Εἰουδέων τῶν καὶ θεοσεβίον.

In 1927 Deissmann (451–2) claimed that this inscription referred to one group, ‘Jews who are also called the pious ones’. However, since θεοσεβεῖς is often used to refer to pagans, it is unlikely that Jews would be singled out (by the thea‑ tre management) for their piety. In 1975 Hommel claimed that the theatre seats were reserved for ‘“Jews” who are also called (more precisely) God-fearers’. This theory has not found favour, mainly because the only evidence that Godfearers were ever called Ἰουδαίοι comes from Dio Cassius. I am convinced that a third explanation is more plausible: in the heat of the day the stone mason made a mistake and cut τῶν καί instead of καὶ τῶν. If so, seats were reserved for two groups: Jews and ‘God-fearers’. This explanation, which goes back to Emil Schürer (III, 174), has recently been supported by Tessa Rajak (258). Although neither scholar offers evidence of inversion of common words in an inscription, I have found an important example in an epitaph from Leontopolis (early first century A. D.): here the very common ‘formula’ χρηστὴ

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χαῖρε is reversed carelessly by the stone cutter (CIJ 1503; see also W. Horbury and D. Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt [Cambridge 1992] § 79, 150 f.). The further inscriptional evidence which suggests that Kraabel’s claim was much too rash need not be discussed here. (See especially Trebilco, 152–66; P. van der Horst, ‘A New Altar of a Godfearer’, JJS 43 [1992] 327.) The literary evidence for the existence of God-fearers comes from a wide variety of writings: pagan (e.g. Juvenal, Satires 14: 96–106; Epictetus, Dissertations II.9: 19–21); Josephus (e.g. Antiquities 14. 110); Philo (e.g. Life of Moses II. 41; Special Laws II. 42); and rabbinic writings (see the references and discussion in Siegert, 110–126). Taken cumulatively, the inscriptional and literary evidence is impressive and confirms that Gentiles were associated with Jewish communities in the diaspora. However, we should not think of a clearly defined category of Gentiles. The varied sources and the varied terminology (φοβούμενοι or σεβόμενοι in liter‑ ary sources, ‘metuentes’ or θεοσέβεια in inscriptions) suggest that in different places and at different times, Gentiles attached themselves in different ways to local Jewish communities. Indeed in some passages no special term is used for Gentile ‘sympathisers’; this is the case, for example, in the passages in Epictetus and Philo noted above, and in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho, to which I now turn. [[45]] In this paper I hope to show that Justin’s Dialogue, written about 160 A. D., provides important evidence which has been overlooked by those who have written on this topic recently. The Dialogue is the first surviving writing which sets out fully the issues which separated Christians and Jews. It draws on earlier Christian exegetical traditions; in places it has very deep roots in Jewish-Chris‑ tian polemic and apologetic. How plausible is Justin’s claim that his Dialogue records an extended discus‑ sion he had with a learned Jew, Trypho, shortly after the second Jewish revolt? Opinions have differed widely. My own view is that the Dialogue is neither a verbatim account of a two-day debate which took place in Ephesus between a Christian and a Jew, nor is it a wholly artificial compilation of Christian polemi‑ cal traditions which is unrelated to discussions between Christians and Jews in the middle decades of the second century. There are points at which Trypho is little more than a puppet: he is allowed to say only what Justin wants him to say. However, many of the arguments and responses of both Justin and Trypho are found in other writings from this period. In several key passages Trypho echoes widely held Jewish objections to Christian claims and sets out Jewish basic convictions or interpretations of Scripture which are well attested elsewhere. If my reading of a set of key passages in the Dialogue is in certain respects fresh, then it is not the result of any new evidence which has come to hand, but rather of my use of a method which has been used to good effect in recent studies

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of the New Testament gospels. I shall draw on some of the insights of modern literary critics by emphasizing the relationship of Justin’s characterization of Trypho’s companions to his overall purposes.

I Trypho’s Companions Several scholars have commented on Justin’s characterization of Trypho the Jew. They have stressed that Trypho is a pleasant courteous Jew, and that un‑ like many later Christian and Jewish disputants, Justin and Trypho respect one another. However the role in the Dialogue of Trypho’s companions has usually been quietly ignored, from Eusebius right up to the present. In the very first extant sentence of the Dialogue, Justin is met by an unidenti‑ fied man who is accompanied by companions; the latter are referred to as the man’s ‘friends’ in the second sentence. The reader’s curiosity is aroused imme‑ diately. Who is the person who engages Justin in conversation, and who are his companions? Before Trypho identifies himself and states that he is a circumcised Jew who has recently fled from the Bar Kochba war, his ‘followers and compan‑ ions’ inform Justin (and the reader) that they are keen to hear ‘some profitable discourse’ from Justin. But we are not told anything about the background of Trypho’s companions at this point. This silence turns out to be significant. The extended discussions between Justin and Trypho take place on two days, on both of which Trypho (but not Justin) is accompanied by friends. Indeed Jus‑ tin notes that some additional companions turned up with Trypho on the second day (85.6; cf. also 56.13). Occasionally the companions intervene in the discus‑ sions to remind the reader of their presence. They never defend a point of view which differs from that of Trypho, but as we shall see, they are distinguished from Trypho in important respects. In the very last chapter (142), Trypho is still accompanied by his companions as he and Justin go their separate ways after praying for one another. Although his companions are firmly in Trypho’s court, Justin takes pains to distinguish between their reaction to his Christian claims and Trypho’s own reaction. Trypho’s [[46]] companions are portrayed as being more cynical about Justin’s Christian claims than Trypho himself: they are therefore even less likely to become Christians. This distinction is set out clearly in the opening chapters, and is maintained consistently thereafter. The first seven chapters are a prologue to the Dialogue as a whole. Justin tells Trypho about his intellectual pilgrimage and his conver‑ sion to Christianity. In response Trypho smiles and replies courteously, but his companions ‘laugh aloud’ (8.3). In the next chapter the reader is told that they ‘laughed aloud again and began to shout quite rudely’ (9.2). Not surprisingly, Justin takes the huff and starts to break off the discussion. Trypho urges him

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to keep his promise and to continue. Justin agrees, with the proviso that the companions must behave themselves and listen quietly. At this point two of the companions disappear, ‘with some jokes, and some jests at our zeal’, Justin says ruefully. The remaining companions sit down quietly with Justin and Trypho and, after a brief conversation about the Bar Kokbha war, they listen to the dis‑ cussions between Justin and Trypho. The hostility of Trypho’s companions is not confined to the opening chapters. Towards the end of the second day of the discussions their rudeness is referred to again: ‘some of those who had come on the second day’ protested at one of Justin’s claims, and ‘cried out as though in a theatre’ (122.4). Justin has taken pains to portray Trypho’s companions carefully. They are not merely part of the stage scenery; nor can their presence be accounted for as a convention of the dialogue genre which goes back to Plato and Xenophon. The genre reappeared in the second century A. D. For example, in Plutarch’s Moralia we have dinner party conversations of a group of wise men. In the only extant work of Athenaeus, The Learned Banquet, which was written at the end of the second century, a Cynic philosopher is introduced as a foil to the twenty-three men at the banquet. But the dialogue tradition does not usually contain the sharp differentiation between two groups on the same side which is so striking in Justin’s Dialogue.

II Dialogue 23: ‘God-fearers’ At the end of a series of scriptural citations in chapters 21 and 22, Justin brings his argument to a climax by challenging Trypho and his companions: ‘If this is not so, tell me what you all think about the matters under discussion’. And when no one answers, Justin adds: ‘Therefore to you, Trypho, and to those who wish to become proselytes (καὶ τοῖς βουλομένοις προσηλύτοις γενέσθαι) I proclaim the Divine message …’ (23.3). This is the first time the reader is given any specific information about the companions: they ‘want to become proselytes’. This phrase can be understood in three ways. The companions could be either Jews or Gentiles who want to be‑ come proselytes to Christianity. Or they could be Gentiles who want to become proselytes to Judaism. Perhaps our first inclination is to assume that Trypho’s companions are fel‑ low Jews who are seriously interested in becoming Christians. That might seem appropriate in view of Justin’s opening appeal to Trypho which we have just noted. However, the sustained hostility and cynicism of the companions makes this unlikely. In addition, the immediate context rules out the possibility that the companions are Jews. This passage comes at the climax of an extended discus‑ sion about circumcision which follows the programmatic chapters 8 and 9. Two

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sentences after the reference to the companions who wish to become proselytes, Justin makes an impassioned plea to them: ‘Stay as you have been born’ (μείνατε ὡς γεγένησθε). And a familiar line of argument about Abraham’s justification [[47]] before circumcision then follows: the latter was just a sign. If Trypho’s companions were Jews, there would not be any need to urge them to stay as they are and not to bother with circumcision. So they must be Gentiles. Are they Gentiles who wish to become proselytes (i.e. convert fully) to Juda‑ ism, or to Christianity? The latter view has been influential, largely as a result of the most widely available English translation by A. L. Williams (1930). Williams clarifies the ambivalent Greek by adding in brackets after ‘proselytes’, the phrase ‘to the true faith’, In other words Williams thinks that Trypho’s companions are keen to become ‘proselytes’ to Christianity. This interpretation has been defended by Stylianopoulos (174–6). However his arguments are unconvincing. (i) Stylianopoulos places great emphasis on two passages in the Dialogue which refer to Christian proselytes. First, at 28.2, Justin states that there is only a short time left for ‘proselytizing’ to us (προσήλυσις, a hapax in Justin), i.e. for becoming Christians. But this is a des‑ perate plea in the form of a threat to Trypho and his companions; there is no sug‑ gestion that the companions are at all keen or likely to become Christians – on the contrary. Secondly, in the only passage in the Dialogue in which προσήλυτοι refers to ‘proselytes to Christianity’ (122.5), Justin is referring to himself and to fellow Gentile Christians – certainly not to Trypho’s companions. As far as I can discover, this is the first time in extant writings in which προσήλυτοι is used to refer to converts to Christianity – in fact it is used only comparatively rarely in later Christian writings in this sense. In this highly rhetorical passage Justin contrasts ‘the old law and its proselytes’ with ‘Christ and his proselytes’. The reference to Christian proselytes is modelled on the well established Jew‑ ish usage. With this single exception, in the Dialogue the noun ‘proselyte’ (10 out of 11 times) always means ‘converting completely to Judaism by means of circumcision’. (ii) Stylianopoulos claims that Justin does not distinguish between Trypho and his companions and thus misses the point I have emphasized above. On his view the appeal, ‘Stay as you have been born’ is addressed to both Trypho and to his Jewish companions. However Stylianopoulos does not explain what this appeal would mean if addressed to Jews. The context is a discussion concerning circumcision. Why would Justin urge circumcised Jews (Trypho and his com‑ panions) to remain as they were born? On my interpretation, which now has the weighty support of L. H. Feldman, even if only in one sentence (402; see also O. Skarsaune 258), Justin is keen to dissuade Trypho’s companions from taking the final step of circumcision. For Justin knows (probably from experience) that it is even more difficult to convert to Christ those have become proselytes to Judaism than it is to convert Jews like

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Trypho. So he argues vigorously and at length that circumcision was not part of God’s original purposes. At the beginning of their lengthy discussion on this topic Justin lets Trypho have first say. Justin seems to be generous in allowing Trypho to deal the first card, but as we shall see, Justin himself holds the trump card. Trypho’s first card (10.3) is the very first of the numerous explicit citations of Scripture in the Dialogue: Gen. 17.14; ‘The person who has not been circumcised on the eighth day shall be cut off from God’s people’. Trypho then claims that this command refers not only to born Israelites, but also to foreigners (including Justin himself) (ἀλλογενῶν), and to purchased slaves. In interpreting Gen. 17.14 to refer to three groups, Trypho goes further than the MT or the LXX which refer to only two groups: born Israelites and (foreign) purchased slaves. But Justin ignores the point at this stage in the Dialogue and concentrates on his own arguments concerning circumcision. At the climax Justin attempts to trump Trypho’s card [[48]] concerning Gen. 17.14 by pulling it over to his side of the table by insisting once again that circumcision was given as a sign, but not for righteousness. The sentences which follow are highly rhetorical. ‘Under‑ stand that the blood of that circumcision has been made useless, and we have believed the blood that brings salvation … Jesus Christ circumcises all those who will … Come with me, all who fear God (φοβούμενοι τὸν θεόν), who wish to see the good things of Jerusalem. Come, let us go in the light of the Lord, for he has set his people free, even the house of Jacob …’ (24.3). These words are addressed directly to Trypho and his companions. The plea, ‘Come with me, all who fear God,’ is intriguing. These words may be addressed directly to the companions: they fear God, and wish to see the good things of Jerusalem and Justin urges them to join his side. I think it is possible, but far from certain, that Trypho’s companions are referred to here as ‘those who fear God’, a phrase found in several passages in Acts (10.2, 22, 35; 13.16, 26). I am more confident (along with Feldman, 357) that at 10.4 the phrase ‘those who fear God’ refers to Gentiles sympathetic to Judaism. In this passage Trypho complains that Christians who claim to know God do not keep the command‑ ments yet even those who fear God do (οἱ φοβούμενοι τὸν θεόν). Perhaps Trypho even has in mind his own companions, as well as other Gentiles sympathetic to Judaism. It is important to note that in both 10.4 and 24.3 the phrase ‘those who fear God’ is a very general way of referring to those sympathetic to Judaism; it is not a technical term. (The other examples of this phrase in the Dialogue, 1.5; 98.5; 106.1, 2 are not relevant in this context.) Justin’s identification of Trypho’s companions as Gentiles closely attached to Judaism who wish to become proselytes is striking. The companions are ‘Godfearers’, even though Justin does not explicitly refer to them as such. In recent years (especially since the discovery of the Aphrodisias inscription) literature on ‘God-fearers’ has become a growth industry. As far as I can see, none of the

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recent writers on this topic refers to Justin. This is unfortunate. I am convinced that when Justin’s evidence is set alongside the other varied and often baffling evidence, we are forced to conclude that Gentiles were attracted to Judaism for many reasons and that their relationship to Judaism took many forms. In short, we are not to think of ‘God-fearers’ as a technical term which refers to one dis‑ tinct group whose status remained constant. I hope to show later that the same is true of ‘proselytes’. Before we leave chapter 23, we must ask why Justin has so much to say about circumcision in his opening exchanges with Trypho. First, he is responding to Jewish criticisms, well-grounded in Scripture, of Christian claims. Secondly, he is deliberately ringing alarm bells for his Christian readers, some of whom were attracted to Judaism. And most important of all for my present purposes, he is appealing to Gentiles who have some form of attachment to Judaism not to become proselytes, for he knew that proselytes were even less likely than Jews such as Trypho to respond to Christian preaching.

III Dialogue 122–123: ‘Proselytes’ These two chapters contain a set of vigorous exchanges over the interpretation of Isa. 49.6 and 42.6 ff., passages which refer to Israel as a ‘light for the Gen‑ tiles’. Justin says to Trypho (and his companions): ‘You (plural) indeed suppose that this (i.e. Isa. 49.6) was said of the stranger and the proselytes (τὸν γηόραν καὶ τοὺς προσηλύτους). But in reality they were said of us who have been en‑ lightened through Jesus …’ (122.1). Justin continues, ‘These things also (Isa. 42.6 ff.), Gentlemen, have been spoken with reference to the Christ, [[49]] and concerning the Gentiles that have been enlightened. Or will you say again: with reference to the Law and the proselytes he says these things?’ (122.3). Then some of Trypho’s companions who had come on the second day cried out as though in a theatre: ‘What then? Does He (God) not say them with refer‑ ence to the Law and those that have been enlightened by it? Now these are the proselytes’ (122.4). In his reply Justin insists that Isa. 42.6 does not refer to ‘the old law and its proselytes, but Christ and His proselytes, us Gentiles, whom he enlightened …’. There are several points of particular interest in this passage. (i) When Justin denies that the two passages from Isaiah refer to proselytes to Judaism, Trypho’s companions fly into a rage. Their reaction suggests that they attach great store by these passages: they insist that they themselves, as would-be proselytes, are en‑ lightened by the law. A number of passages in Jewish writings argue that the law is the light of the world, especially for proselytes (see Skarsaune, 353–4). Trypho and his companions quote this well-established Jewish exegetical tradition and insist that it refers to them. Justin, however, takes it over and replaces the law

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with Christ. In short, Justin and Trypho are rivals, both seeking ‘proselytes’ among Gentiles; both claim that Scripture supports their appeal to Gentiles. (ii) Justin claims that proselytes not only do not believe, but utter blasphemies against Christ’s name doubly more than Trypho himself, and wish both to kill and to torment those who believe in Him (122.2). No doubt the reference to the excessive enthusiasm of proselytes is rhetorical exaggeration. Justin immedi‑ ately adds his own wry, but perceptive comment: ‘For they are eager to become like you in everything’. This suggests that they are uneasy about their status and need to prove themselves, even though Justin alludes to the well-known rabbinic tradition that a circumcised proselyte ‘is like one who is native born’ (123.1; cf. b.Yeb. 47b and 62a). In his recent important article on proselytes, Shaye Cohen concludes that ‘the proselyte probably has an ambiguous status in the Jewish community’ (1989, 29). Although Cohen does not refer to Justin, this passage in the Dialogue supports his conclusion. (iii) Most important of all for my present purposes, in 122.1 ‘the stranger’ is at least partly distinct from ‘the proselytes’. Here we have further evidence for two groups with different levels of attachment to Judaism.

IV Concluding Observations I hope I have shown that the Dialogue contains important neglected evidence for the existence in the middle of the second century of ‘God-fearers’, even though Justin does not use a specific term for Gentiles who have some attachment to the synagogue. Justin’s Dialogue indicates that in the middle of the second century both Judaism and Christianity were concerned to maintain tight boundaries. Trypho complains that Christians (unlike Jews) do not mark themselves off from pagans (10.3). He also mentions that some Jewish teachers forbid Jews to enter into conversation with Christians lest they be persuaded by ‘blasphemous’ Christian claims (38.1; 112.4). Justin’s references to alleged Jewish persecution of Chris‑ tians also point to Jewish anxiety lest community boundaries be breached. Justin is concerned to maintain tight boundaries on the Christian side. He will not tolerate Jewish Christians who are not in full fellowship with Gentile Christians. Justin is very sensitive about Jewish Christians who persuade Gentile Christians to keep the law: he [[50]] suspects that under their influence some Gentile Christians may move over completely to the Jewish polity (47.3–4). And yet in spite of the concerns of both ‘synagogue’ and ‘church’ to maintain tight boundaries, there is movement across both boundary lines. This has hap‑ pened in the past, and there is an expectation that it will happen in the future. In short, there is keen ‘on the ground’ rivalry – and this is surely the mainspring of the intolerance expressed on both sides.

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Justin’s Dialogue suggests that there were different levels of attachment to both communities. On the Jewish side there were proselytes whose status was often ambiguous; would-be proselytes, such as Trypho’s companions; other Gentile sympathizers; some Jews who acknowledged Christ, but were not in full fellowship with Gentile Christians; some Gentile Christians who had ‘gone over’ to Judaism. It is surely a mistake to think of two groups which can be clearly defined, ‘proselytes’ and ‘God-fearers’. On the Christian side there were two kinds of Jewish Christians, one accept‑ able to Justin, and one not; there were also Gentile Christians who seemed likely to go over to Judaism (47.1–4). No doubt both sides hoped to consolidate the level of commitment of those on the ‘fringes’ of their communities. From a later period a tradition expresses what is likely to have been the case in Justin’s Christian ‘school’, as well as in synagogues: ‘… when the sage takes his seat to expound doctrine, many stran‑ gers become proselytes’ (Song of Songs Rabbah 1.15; cf 1.3 and 4.2). Why did Justin write his Dialogue? I do not think that his main aim was to ‘win over’ Jews such as Trypho. If that had been his hope and expectation, he would not have allowed Trypho to go his own way at the conclusion of their vig‑ orous discussions spread over two days. Justin must have recognized that some Gentiles (such as Trypho’s companions) were so strongly attached to Judaism that their conversion was unlikely. Perhaps his primary appeal was directed (via his Christian ‘school’) to Gentiles who were broadly sympathetic to both Juda‑ ism and Christianity – Gentiles who did not appreciate the differences, Gentiles with a weak level of attachment either to Christianity or to Judaism. In short, the Dialogue may have been written with half an eye on ‘Godfearers’. However this fascinating writing does not provide evidence in support of the widely held view that early Christianity enjoyed considerable evangelistic success among ‘God-fearers’. That is a further question which needs to be reconsidered most carefully. [[51]]

Bibliography I: ‘God-fearers’ Bernays, J., ‘Die Gottesfürchtigen bei Juvenal’ (1877) reprinted in Gesammelte Abhandlungen, ed. H. Usener, II (Berlin 1885) 71–80. Cohen, S. J. D., ‘Crossing the Boundary and Becoming a Jew’, HTR 82 (1989) 13–33. Cohen, S. J. D., ‘Respect for Judaism by Gentiles according to Josephus’, HTR 80 (1987) 409–30. Deissmann, Α., Light from the Ancient East, Eng. tr. (4th edn; London 1927). Feldman, L. H., ‘Jewish “Sympathizers” in Classical Literature and Inscriptions’, ΤΑΡΑ 81 (1950) 200–8.

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Feldman, L. H., ‘The Omnipresence of the God-Fearers’, BAR 12.5 (1986) 58–63. Feldman, L. H., ‘Proselytes and “Sympathizers” in the Light of the New Inscriptions from Aphrodisias’, REJ 148 (1989) 265–305. Feldman, L. H., Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World (Princeton 1993). Finn, T., ‘The God-Fearers Reconsidered’, CBQ 47 (1985) 75–84. Gager, J., ‘Jews, Gentiles, and Synagogues in the Book of Acts’, in G. Nickelsburg and G. Macrae (eds), Christians Among Jews and Gentiles (Philadelphia 1986). Gempf, Conrad H., ‘The God-Fearers’, Appendix 2 in C. Hemer, The Book of Acts in the Setting of Hellenistic History, WUNT 49 (Tübingen 1989) 44–47. Hommel, H., ‘Juden und Christen im kaiserzeitlichen Milet’, now in his Sebasmata II (Tübingen 1984) 200–30. Jervell, J., ‘The Church of Jews and Godfearers’: J. B. Tyson (ed.), Luke-Acts and the Jewish People (Minneapolis 1988). Kraabel, A. T., ‘The Disappearance of the “God-Fearers”’, Numen 28.2 (1981) 113–26. Kraabel, A. T., ‘Greeks, Jews, and Lutherans in the Middle Half of Acts’, in Christians Among Jews and Gentiles, eds G. Nickelsburg and G. Macrae (Philadelphia 1986). Lake, K., ‘Proselytes and God-Fearers’ in F. J. F. Jackson and K. Lake (eds), Beginnings of Christianity V (London 1933) 74–96. Levinskaya, I., ‘The Inscription from Aphrodisias and the Problem of God-Fearers’, Tyndale Bulletin 41 (1990) 312–318. Lifshitz B., ‘Du Nouveau sur les “Sympathisants”’, JSJ 1 (1970) 77–84. Marcus, R., ‘The Sebomenoi in Josephus’, Jewish Social Studies 14 (1952), 247–50. Overman, J. A., ‘The God-Fearers: Some Neglected Features’, JSNT 32 (1988) 17–26. Rajak, Tessa, ‘Jews and Christians as Groups in a Pagan World,’ in J. Neusner and E. S. Frerichs (eds), ‘To See Ourselves As Others See Us’. Christians, Jews, ‘Others’ in Late Antiquity (Chico Ca. 1985) 247–62. Reynolds, J., and Tannenbaum, R. F., Jews and God-fearers at Aphrodisias (Cambridge 1987) 47–67; earlier literature is listed on 74. Schürer, Ε., Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes im Zeitalter Jesu Christi (4th edn: 1909); revised edn: E. Schürer, G. Vermes, and F. Millar (Edinburgh 1973–87). Segal, A. F., Paul the Convert: the Apostolate and Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee (New Haven and London 1992). Siegert, F., ‘Gottesfürchtige und Sympathisanten’, JSJ 4 (1973) 109–64. Tannenbaum, R. F., ‘Jews and God-Fearers in the Holy City of Aphrodite’, BAR 12.5 (1986) 54–7. Trebilco, Paul, Jewish Communities in Asia Minor (Cambridge 1991) esp. ch.7. [[52]] Van der Horst, P. W., ‘A New Altar of a Godfearer?’, JJS 43 (1992) 32–7. Wilcox, M., ‘The “God-Fearers” in Acts: A Reconsideration’, JSNT 13 (1981) 102–22. Williams, M. H., ‘Θεοσεβὴς γὰρ ἦν – The Jewish Tendencies of Poppaea Sabina’, JTS 39 (1988) 97–111.

II: Justin Martyr Editions used here: Otto, J. C. Th., Corpus Apologetarum Christianorum Saeculi Secundi, I, Jena, 2nd edn: (1847); (Greek text, with translation and notes in Latin).

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Williams, A. Lukyn, Justin Martyr, the Dialogue with Trypho, (London 1930); (English translation, introduction and brief notes).

Secondary Literature Barnard L. W., Justin Martyr, His Life and Thought (Cambridge 1967). Chadwick, Η., ‘Justin Martyr’s Defence of Christianity’, BJRL 47 (1965) 275–297. Cohen, Shaye, ‘Crossing the Boundary and Becoming a Jew’, HTR 82 (1989) 13–33. Feldman, L. H., Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World. (Princeton 1993). Hulen A. B., ‘Dialogues with the Jews as Sources for the Early Jewish Argument against Christianity’, JBL 51 (1932) 58–71. Prigent, P., Justin et l’Ancien Testament, (Paris 1964). Remus, Harold, ‘Justin Martyr’s Argument with Judaism’, in S. G. Wilson (ed.), AntiJudaism in Early Christianity II (Ontario 1986) 59–80. Shotwell, H. A., The Biblical Exegesis of Justin Martyr (London 1965). Skarsaune, O., The Proof from Prophecy; a Study in Justin Martyr (Leiden 1987). Stanton, G. N., ‘Aspects of Early Christian Jewish Polemic and Apologetic’, NTS 31 (1985) 377–92, now reprinted in A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew (Edinburgh 1992). Stanton, G. N., ‘The Two Parousias of Christ: Justin Martyr and Matthew’, in M. C. de Boer (ed.), From Jesus to John: Essays on Jesus and New Testament Christology in Honour of Marinus de Jonge (Sheffield 1993) 183–195 [[reprinted in this volume]]. Stanton, G. N., ‘Jesus of Nazareth: a Magician and a False Prophet who Deceived God’s People?’ in J. B. Green and M. M. B. Turner (eds), Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ (Grand Rapids 1994) 166–182. Stylianopoulos, T., Justin Martyr and the Mosaic Law (Missoula 1975).

Chapter 22

Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho: Group Boundaries, ‘Proselytes’ and ‘God-fearers’ [[263]] Justin’s Dialogue is the earliest surviving writing which sets out fully the issues which separated Christians and Jews. This fascinating Dialogue was writ‑ ten about 160 CE. It draws on earlier Christian exegetical traditions; in places it has very deep roots in Jewish Christian polemic and apologetic. Although Justin and Trypho argue vigorously, they do not resort to personal abuse or to name-calling. At the end of the Dialogue, they agree to disagree; after praying for one another they go their separate ways. Most later Christian antiJewish writings are less moderate in tone; unlike Trypho, the Jewish opponent(s) often cave in and accept the ‘truth’ of Christianity. However, if we have twen‑ tieth-century understandings of ‘tolerance’ in mind, it would not be appropriate to claim either Justin or Trypho as models of ‘tolerance’. Both the Christian and his Jewish partner in dialogue not only set out their respective very differ‑ ent religious positions, they go further: they appeal vigorously to one another to change sides, with the clear implication that the other side is wrong-headed. How plausible is Justin’s claim that his Dialogue records an extended discus‑ sion he had with a learned Jew, Trypho, shortly after the second Jewish revolt? Opinions have differed widely. My own view is that the Dialogue is neither a verbatim account of a two-day debate which took place in Ephesus between a Christian and a Jew, nor a wholly artificial compilation of Christian polemical traditions which is unrelated to discussions between Christians and Jews in the middle decades of the second century. There are points at which Trypho is lit‑ tle more than a puppet: he is allowed to say only what Justin wants him to say. However, many of the arguments and responses of both Justin and Trypho are found in other writings from this period. In several key passages Trypho echoes [[264]] widely held Jewish objections to Christian claims and sets out Jewish ba‑ sic convictions or interpretations of Scripture which are well attested elsewhere. In this chapter I shall discuss a set of passages which set out Justin’s view of the boundaries marked out by both Judaism and Christianity, i.e. passages which are directly relevant to the theme of this volume. The Dialogue undoubtedly reflects one prominent Christian’s perception of the Judaism and the Christian‑ ity of his own day. Within the space available it will not be possible to discuss the extent to which Justin’s views correspond to historical reality. I shall have to content myself with the assertion that at least as far as the themes of this chapter

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are concerned, Justin rarely misleads us. As we shall see, the Dialogue contains important references both to ‘God-fearers’ and to ‘proselytes’ which have been overlooked in recent scholarly discussion of these topics. If my reading of a set of key passages in the Dialogue is in certain respects fresh, then it is the result not of any new evidence which has come to hand, but rather of my use of two methods which have been used to good effect in recent studies of the Gospels. I shall draw on some of the insights of modern literary critics by emphasizing the relationship of Justin’s characterization of Trypho’s companions to his overall purposes.1 I shall also appeal briefly to sociological insights, in particular to social conflict theory and to the varying levels of com‑ mitment often found in groups.

1. Trypho’s Companions Several scholars have commented on Justin’s characterization of Trypho the Jew. They have stressed that Trypho is a pleasant courteous Jew, and that, un‑ like many later Christian and Jewish disputants, Justin and Trypho respect one another. However, the role in the Dialogue of Trypho’s companions has usually been quietly ignored, from Eusebius right up to the present. In the very first extant sentence of the Dialogue Justin is met by an unidenti‑ fied man who is accompanied by companions; the latter are referred to in the second sentence as the man’s ‘friends’.2 The reader’s curiosity is aroused imme‑ diately. Who is the person who engages Justin in conversation, and who are his companions? Before Trypho identifies himself and states that he is a circumcised [[265]] Jew who has recently fled from the Bar Kochba war, his ‘followers and companions’ inform Justin (and the reader of the Dialogue) that they are keen to hear ‘some profitable discourse’ from Justin. But we are not told anything about the background of Trypho’s companions at this point. This silence turns out to be significant. The extended discussions between Justin and Trypho take place on two days, on both of which Trypho (but not Justin) is accompanied by friends. Indeed, Jus‑ tin notes that some additional companions turned up with Trypho on the second day.3 Occasionally the companions intervene in the discussions to remind the reader of their presence. They never defend a point of view which differs from 1  I also accept that in the study of Justin’s Dialogue, ancient literary conventions need to be considered much more fully than they have been recently. 2  Most scholars accept that the expected opening dedication is missing and that it probably mentioned Ephesus as the location of the dialogue; see Eusebius, H. E. 4.18.6. 3  ‘One of those who had come with them on the second day, called Mnaseas, said: “We are glad that you undertake to repeat your words again for us”’ (85.6). At 56.13, the fourth of those who had remained with Trypho contributes to the discussion.

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that of Trypho, but, as we shall see, they are distinguished from Trypho in impor‑ tant respects. In the very last chapter (142), Trypho is still accompanied by his companions as he and Justin go their separate ways after praying for one another. Although the companions are firmly in Trypho’s court, Justin takes pains to distinguish between their reaction to Justin’s Christian claims and Trypho’s own reaction. Trypho’s companions are portrayed as being more cynical about Justin’s Christian claims than Trypho himself: they are therefore even less likely to become Christians. This distinction is set out clearly in the opening chapters, and maintained consistently thereafter. In the first seven chapters, which are a prologue to the Dialogue as a whole, Justin tells Trypho about his intellectual pilgrimage and his conversion to Christianity. In response Trypho smiles and replies courte‑ ously, but his companions ‘laugh aloud’ (8.3). In the next chapter the reader is told that they ‘laughed aloud again and began to shout quite rudely’ (9.2). Not surprisingly, Justin is offended and starts to break off the discussion. Trypho urges him to keep his promise and to continue. Justin agrees, with the proviso that the companions must behave themselves and listen quietly. At this point two of the companions disappear, ‘with some jokes, and some jests at our zeal’, Justin says ruefully. The remaining companions sit down quietly with Justin and Trypho, and after a brief conversation about the Bar Kochba war, they listen to the discussions between Justin and Trypho. The hostility of Trypho’s companions is not confined to the opening chapters. Towards the end of the second day of the discussions their rudeness is referred to again: ‘some of those who [[266]] had come on the second day’ protested at one of Justin’s claims, and ‘cried out as though in a theatre’ (122.4). Justin has taken pains to portray Trypho’s companions carefully. Hence they are not simply part of the stage scenery – merely a convention of the dialogue genre which goes back to Plato and Xenophon, a genre which reappeared in the second century CE. For example, in Plutarch’s Moralia we have dinner party conversations of a group of wise men. In the only extant work of Athenaeus, The Learned Banquet, which was written at the end of the second century, a Cynic philosopher is introduced as a foil to the twenty-three men at the banquet. But the dialogue tradition does not usually contain the sharp differentiation between two groups on the same side which is so striking in Justin’s Dialogue. Just like Justin himself, for the time being I shall leave my readers in suspense concerning the identity of Trypho’s companions.

2. Dialogue 8 and 9: Group Boundaries In terms of the literary structure of the Dialogue, these two chapters are pro‑ grammatic. They mark the transition from the Prologue to the main body of the

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Dialogue. Their structural role is confirmed by the fact that only here (8.3), and at the beginning4 and the end (141.5) of the whole Dialogue does Justin address Marcus Pompeius, the person to whom the Dialogue is dedicated. Most of the themes which will be discussed in the 133 chapters which follow are foreshad‑ owed here. Justin appeals to Trypho to become a Christian: ‘If you seek salvation seri‑ ously and have trusted in God, it is open to you, once you know the Christ of God and have become an initiate,5 to live happily.’ Trypho immediately makes a counter-appeal to Justin. ‘When you have for‑ saken God (καταλιπόντι τὸν θεόν)6 and placed your hope on a man, what kind of hope yet remains (περιλείπεται) for you?’ Trypho acknowledges Justin as a friend and then urges him to be circumcised, then (as is commanded in the law) to keep the sabbath and the feasts and God’s new moons, and, in short, to do all the things that are written in the law, and then perchance he will find mercy from God (8.4). Trypho then summarizes his own views concerning the Messiah, and alleges that Christians have shaped a kind of Messiah for themselves. A little later Trypho [[267]] criticizes Christians for their failure to mark out a boundary between themselves and pagans (10.3). The issues which separate Justin and Trypho are set out clearly: Justin ap‑ peals to Trypho ‘to know the Christ of God’; Trypho urges Justin to ‘do all the things that are written in the law’. Their agendas are very different. Both refer to a rather different ‘rite of entry’ into their respective communities, baptism and circumcision. Both claim that the other person has been led astray by false teachers. Trypho claims that Justin has been led astray (ἐξαπαταθήναι) by false speeches, and has followed men of no account.7 Justin claims that Trypho has οbeyed teachers who do not understand the Scriptures, and has prophesied falsely (ἀπομαντευόμενος), saying whatever comes into his mind’ (9.1). Justin then insists that he wants to show Trypho that Christians have not been led astray (πεπλανήμεθα); the context suggests that false teachers are in mind. I have tried to show elsewhere that these charges and countercharges of ‘false prophecy’ and ‘leading astray’ have deep roots in early Christian-Jewish polemic and apologetic.8  Marcus Pompeius was probably addressed in the missing opening lines of the Dialogue.  τελείῳ γενομένῳ, a phrase not used elsewhere in the Dialogue. W. Bauer, W. F. Arndt and F. W. Gingrich, A Greek Lexicon of the New Testament and other Early Christian Literature, note (with references) that τέλειος is used as a technical term to refer to one initiated into the rites of the mystery religions. Here Justin is referring to Christian baptism. Cf. also 14.1–2. 6  Cf. 17.1 and 108.2. From Trypho’s perspective the failure of Christians to keep the law confirms that they are ‘godless’. 7  This is an allusion to Justin’s account in the opening chapters of his encounter with a vener‑ able old man through whom he is introduced to Christian claims. 8  See Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, 237–42, and ‘Jesus of Nazareth’. 4 5

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For my present purposes, however, I want to focus on another striking feature of this passage. In these two programmatic chapters the ‘group boundaries’ and the ‘rites of initiation’ of the rival religious communities are set out. In both cases the social boundaries are tight, but that does not preclude openness to outsiders. This is confirmed by the parallel appeals to change sides, and by the references to false teachers. Justin and Trypho do not write one another off absolutely. Both single out false teachers as responsible for the false stance taken by the other.9 Both hope that once the sway of the false teachers is shaken off, their rival will be able to change sides. In other words, from Justin’s perspective, both synagogue and church hope that adherents of the rival community will be won over. In spite of tight social boundaries on both sides of the divide, movement is possible. As we shall see, the language of movement, ‘going over’, is found more explicitly in Dialogue 47.

3. Dialogue 23: ‘Godfearers’ At the end of a series of scriptural citations in chapters 21 and 22, Justin brings his argument to a climax by challenging Trypho and his companions: ‘If this is not so, tell me what you all think about [[268]] the matters under discussion.’ And when no one answers, Justin adds: ‘Therefore to you, Trypho, and to those who wish to become proselytes (καὶ τοῖς βουλομένοις προσηλύτοις γενέσθαι) I proclaim the Divine message …’ (23.3). This is the first time the reader is given any specific information about the companions: they ‘want to become proselytes’. This phrase can be understood in three ways: the companions could be either Jews or Gentiles who want to be‑ come proselytes to Christianity; or they could be Gentiles who want to become proselytes to Judaism. Perhaps our first inclination is to assume that Trypho’s companions are fel‑ low Jews who are seriously interested in becoming Christians. That might seem appropriate in view of Justin’s opening appeal to Trypho which we have just noted. However, the sustained hostility and cynicism of the companions makes this unlikely. In addition, the immediate context rules out the possibility that the companions are Jews. This passage comes at the climax of an extended discus‑ sion about circumcision which follows the programmatic chapters 8 and 9. Two sentences after the reference to the companions who wish to become proselytes, Justin makes an impassioned plea to them: ‘Stay as you have been born’ (μείνατε ὡς γεγένησθε). And a familiar line of argument about Abraham’s justification be‑ fore circumcision then follows: the latter was just a sign. If Trypho’s companions 9  In a series of passages Justin tries to separate Trypho from Jewish teachers: 9.1; 36.2; 38.1– 2; 43.5; 48.2; 62.2; 68.7; 71.1; 110.1; 112.4–5; 117.4; 120.5; 133.3; 134.1; 137.2; 140.2; 142.2.

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were Jews, there would not be any need to urge them to stay as they are and not to bother with circumcision. So the companions must be Gentiles. Do they wish to become proselytes (i.e. convert fully) to Judaism, or to Christianity? The latter view has been influential, largely as a result of the most widely available English translation, by A. L. Williams (1930). Williams clarifies the ambiguous Greek by adding in brackets after ‘proselytes’ the phrase ‘to the true faith’. In other words Williams thinks that Trypho’s companions are keen to become ‘proselytes’ to Christianity. Although this interpretation has been defended by Stylianopoulos, his argu‑ ments are unconvincing.10 (i) Stylianopoulos places great emphasis on two pas‑ sages in the Dialogue which refer to Christian proselytes. First, at 28.2, Justin states that there is only a short time left for ‘proselytizing’ to us (προσηλύσεως), i.e. for becoming Christians.11 But this is a desperate plea in the form of a threat to Trypho and his companions; there is no suggestion that [[269]] the compan‑ ions are at all keen or likely to become Christians – on the contrary. Secondly, in the only passage in the Dialogue in which προσήλυτος refers to ‘proselytes to Christianity’ (122.5), Justin is referring to himself and to fellow Gentile Chris‑ tians – certainly not to Trypho’s companions. As far as I can discover, this is the first time in extant writings in which προσήλυτος is used to refer to converts to Christianity.12 In this highly rhetorical passage Justin contrasts ‘the old law and its proselytes’ with ‘Christ and his proselytes’. The reference to Christian proselytes is modelled on the well-established Jewish usage. With this single exception, in the Dialogue the noun ‘proselyte’ (ten out of eleven times) always means ‘convert completely to Judaism by means of circumcision’. (ii) Stylianopoulos claims that Justin does not distinguish between Trypho and his companions – and thus misses the point I have emphasized above. On his view the appeal, ‘Stay as you have been born’, is addressed to both Trypho and his Jewish companions. However, Stylianopoulos does not explain what this appeal would mean if addressed to Jews. The context is a discussion concerning circumcision. In that context why would Justin urge circumcised Jews (Trypho and his companions) to remain as they were born? On my interpretation (which now has the weighty support of L. H. Feldman, even if only in one sentence),13 Justin is keen to dissuade Trypho’s companions from taking the final step of circumcision, for he knows (probably from experi‑ ence) that it is even more difficult to convert to Christ those have become pros‑  Stylianopoulos, Justin Martyr and the Mosaic Law, 174–6.  The noun προσήλυσις is not found elsewhere in Justin. 12  προσήλυτος is in fact used only comparatively rarely to refer to Christian converts. The next example is in Clement of Alexandria. See G. W. H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon, Oxford 1961–8. 13  Feldman, Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World, 402. After coming to the conclusion defended above I discovered that it was first proposed by Zahn (1886), whose view is accepted (without discussion) by Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy, 258. 10 11

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elytes to Judaism than it is to convert Jews like Trypho. So he argues vigorously and at length that circumcision was not part of God’s original purposes. At the beginning of their lengthy discussion on this topic Justin lets Trypho have first say. Justin seems to be generous in allowing Trypho to deal the first card, but, as we shall see, Justin himself holds the trump card. Trypho’s first card, (10.3) is the very first of the numerous explicit citations of Scripture in the Dialogue, Genesis 17:14: ‘The person who has not been circumcised on the eighth day shall be cut off from God’s people.’ Trypho then claims that this command refers not only to born Israelites, but also to foreigners (including Justin himself) (ἀλλογενών), and to purchased slaves. In interpreting Genesis 17:14 to refer to three groups, Trypho goes further than the MT or the LXX which refer to only two groups: born Israelites and (foreign) purchased slaves. [[270]] But Justin ignores the point at this stage in the Dialogue and concentrates on his own arguments concerning circumcision. At the climax Justin attempts to trump Trypho’s card concerning Genesis 17:14: he insists once again that cir‑ cumcision was given as a sign, but not for righteousness. The sentences which follow are highly rhetorical: Understand that the blood of that circumcision has been made useless, and we have believed the blood that brings salvation … Jesus Christ circumcises all those who will … Come with me, all who fear God (φοβούμενοι τὸν θεόν), who wish to see the good things of Jerusalem. Come, let us go in the light of the Lord, for he has set his people free, even the house of Jacob … (24.3)

These words are addressed directly to Trypho and his companions. The plea, ‘Come with me, all who fear God’, is intriguing. These words may be addressed directly to the companions: they fear God, and wish to see the good things of Jerusalem and Justin urges them to join his side. I think it is possible, but far from certain, that Trypho’s companions are referred to here as ‘those who fear God’, a phrase found in several passages in Acts (10:2, 22, 35; 13:16, 26). I am more confident that at Dialogue 10.4 the phrase ‘those who fear God’ refers to Gentiles sympathetic to Judaism.14 In this passage Trypho complains that Christians who claim to know God, do not keep the commandments – yet even those who fear God do (οἱ φοβούμενοι τὸν θεόν). Perhaps Trypho even has in mind his own companions, as well as other Gentiles sympathetic to Judaism. It is important to note that in both 10.4 and 24.3 the phrase ‘those who fear God’ is a very general way of referring to those sympathetic to Judaism; it is not a technical term.15 Justin’s identification of Trypho’s companions as Gentiles closely attached to Judaism who wish to become proselytes is striking. The companions are ‘God So too Feldman, Jew and Gentile, 357.  The other examples of this phrase in the Dialogue (1.5; 98.5; 106.1, 2) are almost certainly not relevant. 14 15

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fearers’, even though Justin does not explicitly refer to them as such. In recent years (especially since the discovery of the Aphrodisias inscription) literature on ‘God-fearers’ has become a growth industry.16 As far as I can see, none of the recent writers on this topic makes more than a passing reference to Justin. This is unfortunate. I am convinced that when Justin’s evidence is set alongside the other varied and often baffling evidence, we are forced to conclude that Gentiles were attracted [[271]] to Judaism for many reasons and that their relationship to Judaism took many forms. In short, we are not to think of ‘God-fearers’ as a tech‑ nical term which refers to one distinct group whose status remained constant. I hope to show below that the same is true of ‘proselytes’. Before we leave chapter 23, we must ask why Justin has so much to say about circumcision in his opening exchanges with Trypho. First, he is responding to Jewish criticisms, well grounded in Scripture, of Christian claims. Secondly, he is deliberately ringing alarm bells for his Christian readers, some of whom were attracted to Judaism. Thirdly, and most important of all for my present purposes, he is appealing to Gentiles who have some form of attachment to Judaism not to become proselytes, for he knew that proselytes were even less likely than Jews such as Trypho to respond to Christian preaching.

4. Dialogue 47: Tolerance and Intolerance Several observations made so far are confirmed in Dialogue 47. We have already seen that the programmatic chapters 8 and 9 imply that there is movement in both directions between Judaism and Christianity: this is what both Justin and Trypho assume in their opening appeals to one another. At 47.1 Justin reminds his readers of Trypho’s initial appeal to him in 8.4 to become a proselyte. In response to a question from Trypho, Justin concedes that Jews who have become Christians and still wish to keep the law fully are to be accepted as long as they do not persuade Gentiles (μὴ πείθοντες αυτούς) to keep the law, and as long as they have full fellowship with Gentile Christians. Justin refers to this issue three times in this one fairly short but very important chapter.17 The third reference is particularly important. Justin concedes, somewhat reluctantly, that perhaps Gentile Christians who have been persuaded by Jewish Christians to keep the law will be saved (σωθήσεσθαι ἴσως ὑπολαμβάνω). Justin notes that there are some Gentile Christians who are much less tolerant than he is: they will not converse or share table-fellowship with those who acknowledge Christ and keep the law. 16  For full recent discussions, see Feldman, Jew and Gentile, 342–83; Wander, Trennungsprozesse zwischen Frühem Christentum und Judentum, 173–91. 17  In his very detailed study, Proof from Prophecy, Ο. Skarsaune refers only once in passing to chapter 47!

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Why is Justin himself so cautious about Jewish Christians, and why are some of his fellow Christians so intolerant? Justin gives one answer himself: Jewish Christians who insist on keeping the law [[272]] arouse the suspicion of Gentile Christians because they may try to persuade Gentile Christians to keep the law, a position Justin will not tolerate (47.3). But this answer is not entirely satisfactory. Why should Gentiles who ‘be‑ lieve on this Christ’ not be encouraged by Jewish Christians to ‘live in accord‑ ance with the law appointed by Moses’? Why is Justin, tolerant in many other respects, so intolerant at precisely this point? Perhaps some Jewish Christians are insisting that the law should be kept as a sine qua non as far as salvation is concerned. However, Justin does not say that this is their position. He implies that they are encouraging Gentiles to keep the law alongside their faith in Christ. I suspect that there is a partly hidden agenda at this point. The clue to a prob‑ able explanation comes in 47.4: Justin notes that some Gentile Christians who have been persuaded to keep the law have moved over completely to the Jew‑ ish polity (μεταβάντες ἐπὶ τὴν ἔννομον πολιτείαν); they have denied that ‘this is the Christ’, and therefore cannot be saved. Justin suspects that some Jewish Christians who encourage Gentile Christians to keep the law may in fact be re‑ sponsible for turning them into proselytes to Judaism. The continuing attraction of Judaism to Gentiles, whether Christian or not, suggests that this is a plausible explanation. So I suggest that Justin is extremely sensitive concerning the status of Jews who have become Christians because he fears that some of them will encourage Gentile Christians to keep the law and that will prove to be the crucial step on the path towards a complete transfer to Judaism. This explanation is strengthened by sociological considerations. Justin’s Dialogue provides ample evidence that in his day Judaism and Christianity were such keen rivals that sporadic conflict was always likely. Sociologists remind us that where groups are in conflict, the sharpness of the reaction to the ‘inner enemy’ is in proportion to the sharpness of the conflict with the outer enemies. A group at odds with its archrival will react with even more hostility to a heretic than to an apostate, for a heretic still shares many of the goals of his former fel‑ low members.18 Hatred is directed, not in the first place against opponents of its own view of the world order, but against the dreaded ‘internal enemy’ who is competing for the same end.19 In these terms, Jewish Christians who seek to persuade Gentile Christians to keep the law are an ‘inner enemy’, ‘heretics’, whose [[273]] influence is to  Lewis Coser, The Functions of Social Conflict, London, 1956, 169 n. 4 and 70–1. See also H. Himmelweit, ‘Deviant Behaviour’, in J. Gould and W. L. Kolb (eds.), A Dictionary of the Social Sciences, New York, 1964, 196. 19  Coser, Social Conflict, 70. Coser refers to the work of Robert Michels in order to establish this point. Michels is primarily concerned with political rivalries, but his observation has wider relevance. 18

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be feared. Trypho (and other Jews who do not ‘anathematize’ Christians) are ‘apostates’ who can be portrayed comparatively sympathetically. Not surpris‑ ingly, in this chapter and elsewhere, Justin is very hostile towards the ‘outer enemy’, Jews who, he claims, have ‘anathematized and still anathematize’ (καταναθεματίζοντας) in the synagogues those who believe in ‘this Christ’ (47.4).

5. Dialogue 122–3: ‘Proselytes’ These two chapters contain a set of vigorous exchanges over the interpreta‑ tion of Isaiah 49:6 and 42:6 ff., passages which refer to Israel as a ‘light for the Gentiles’. Justin says to Trypho (and his companions): ‘You all indeed suppose that this [i.e. Isa. 49:6] was said of the stranger and the proselytes (τὸν γηόραν καὶ τοὺς προσηλύτους). But in reality these words were said of us who have been enlightened through Jesus …’ (121.1). Justin continues, ‘These things also [Isa. 42:6 ff.], Gentlemen, have been spoken with reference to the Christ, and concerning the Gentiles that have been enlightened. Or will you say again: with reference to the Law and the proselytes he says these things?’ (122.3). Then some of those who had come on the second day cried out as though in a theatre: ‘What then? Does He [God] not say them with reference to the Law and those that have been enlightened by it? Now these are the proselytes’ (122.4). In his reply Justin insists that Isaiah 42:6 ff. does not refer to ‘the old law and its proselytes, but Christ and His proselytes, us Gentiles, whom he enlightened …’ There are several points of particular interest in this passage. (i) When Justin denies that the two passages from Isaiah refer to proselytes to Judaism, Trypho’s companions fly into a rage. Their reaction suggests that they set great store by these passages: they insist that they themselves, as would-be proselytes, are en‑ lightened by the law. A number of passages in Jewish writings state that the law is the light of the world, especially for proselytes.20 Trypho and his companions quote this well-established Jewish exegetical tradition and insist that it refers to them. Justin, however, takes it over and replaces the law with Christ. In short, Justin and Trypho are rivals, both seeking ‘proselytes’ among Gentiles; both claim that Scripture supports their appeal to Gentiles. (ii) Justin claims that proselytes not only do not believe, but [[274]] utter blasphemies against Christ’s name doubly more than Trypho himself, and wish both to kill and to torment those who believe on him (122.2). No doubt the refer‑ ence to the excessive enthusiasm of proselytes is rhetorical exaggeration. Justin immediately adds his own wry, but perceptive, comment: ‘For they [proselytes] 20  See Skarsaune, Proof from Prophecy, 353–4, who refers to passages in Philo; Joseph and Asenath; the Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs; rabbinic traditions; Rom. 2:17–20.

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are eager to become like you [Trypho and his fellow Jews] in everything.’ This suggests that proselytes are uneasy about their status and need to prove them‑ selves, even though Justin alludes to the well-known rabbinic tradition that a circumcised proselyte ‘is like one who is native born’ (123.1; cf. b. Yeb. 47b and 62a). In his recent important article on proselytes, Shaye Cohen concludes that ‘the proselyte probably has an ambiguous status in the Jewish community’.21 Although Cohen does not refer to Justin, this passage in the Dialogue supports his conclusion. (iii) Most important of all for my present purposes, in 122.1 (quoted above) ‘the stranger’ is at least partly distinct from ‘the proselytes’. Here we have further evidence for two groups with different levels of attachment to Judaism.

6. Concluding Observations Justin’s Dialogue indicates that in the middle of the second century both Judaism and Christianity were concerned to maintain tight boundaries. Trypho complains that Christians (unlike Jews) do not mark themselves off from pagans. He also mentions that some Jewish teachers forbid Jews to enter into conversation with Christians – lest they be persuaded by ‘blasphemous’ Christian claims (38.1; 112.4). Justin’s references to alleged Jewish persecution of Christians also point to Jewish anxiety lest community boundaries be breached. Justin is concerned to maintain tight boundaries on the Christian side. He will not tolerate Jewish Christians who are not in full fellowship with Gentile Christians. Justin is very sensitive about Jewish Christians who persuade Gentile Christians to keep the law: he suspects that under their influence some Gentile Christians may move over completely to the Jewish polity (47.3–4). And yet in spite of the concerns of both ‘synagogue’ and ‘church’ to maintain tight boundaries, there is movement across both boundary lines. This has hap‑ pened in the past, and there is an expectation that it will happen in the future. In short, there is keen ‘on [[275]] the ground’ rivalry – and this is surely the mainspring of the intolerance expressed on both sides. Justin’s Dialogue suggests that there were different levels of attachment to both communities. On the Jewish side there were proselytes whose status was often ambiguous; would-be proselytes, such as Trypho’s companions; other Gentile sympathizers or ‘God-fearers’; some Jews who acknowledged Christ, but were not in full fellowship with Gentile Christians; and some Gentile Chris‑ tians who had ‘gone over’ to Judaism. It is surely a mistake to think of two groups which can be clearly defined, ‘proselytes’ and ‘God-fearers’.  Cohen, ‘Crossing the Boundary and Becoming a Jew’, 29.

21

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On the Christian side there were two kinds of Jewish Christians, one accept‑ able to Justin, and one not; there were also Gentile Christians who seemed likely to go over to Judaism (47.1–4). No doubt both sides hoped to consolidate the level of commitment of those on the ‘fringes’ of their communities. From a later period a tradition expresses what is likely to have been the case in Justin’s ‘school’ as well as in synagogues: ‘when the sage takes his seat to expound doctrine, many strangers become pros‑ elytes’ (Cant. Rab. 1.15; cf. 1.3 and 4.2). As we have seen, the Dialogue contains important neglected evidence for the existence in the middle of the second century of ‘God-fearers’, even though Justin does not use a specific term for Gentiles who already have some attach‑ ment to the synagogue. Why did Justin write his Dialogue? I do not think that his main aim was to ‘win over’ Jews such as Trypho. If that had been his hope and expectation, he would not have allowed Trypho to go his own way. Justin must have recognized that some Gentiles (such as Trypho’s companions) were so strongly attached to Judaism that their conversion was unlikely. Perhaps his primary appeal (via his Christian ‘school’) was to Gentiles who were broadly sympathetic to both Juda‑ ism and Christianity – Gentiles who did not appreciate the differences, Gentiles with a weak level of attachment either to Christianity or to Judaism.

Bibliography Editions used Otto, J. G. Th., Corpus Apologetarum Christianorum Saeculi Secundi, 1, Jena, 2nd edn 1847 (Greek text, with translation and notes in Latin). Williams, A. Lukyn, Justin Martyr, the Dialogue with Trypho, London, 1930 (English translation, introduction and brief notes).

Secondary sources Barnard, L. W., Justin Martyr, His Life and Thought, Cambridge, 1967. Bauer, W., Arndt, W. F., and Gingrich, F. W. (eds.), A Greek Lexicon of the New Testament and other Early Christian Literature, 4th edn, Cambridge, 1952. Chadwick, H., ‘Justin Martyr’s Defence of Christianity’, BJRL 47 (1965), 275–97. Cohen, Shaye, ‘Crossing the Boundary and Becoming a Jew’, HTR 82 (1989), 13–33. Feldman, L. H., Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World. Attitudes and Interactions from Alexander to Justinian, Princeton, 1993. Hulen, A. B., ‘Dialogues with the Jews as Sources for the Early Jewish Argument against Christianity’, JBL 51 (1932), 58–71.

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Prigent, P., Justin et l’Ancien Testament, Paris, 1964. Remus, Harold, ‘Justin Martyr’s Argument with Judaism’, in S. G. Wilson (ed.), AntiJudaism in Early Christianity, Waterloo, Ontario, 1986, II, 59–80. Shotwell, Η. Α., The Biblical Exegesis of Justin Martyr, London, 1965. Skarsaune, O., The Proof from Prophecy: A Study in Justin Martyr, Leiden, 1987. Stanton, G. N., ‘Aspects of Early Christian-Jewish Polemic and Apologetic’, NTS 31 (1985), 377–92; now reprinted in A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew, Edinburgh, 1992. –, ‘The Two Parousias of Christ: Justin Martyr and Matthew’, in M. C. de Boer (ed.), From Jesus to John: Essays on Jesus and New Testament Christology in Honour of Marinus de Jonge, Sheffield, 1993, 183–95 [[reprinted in this volume]]. –, ‘Jesus of Nazareth: A Magician and a False Prophet who Deceived God’s People?’, in J. B. Green and M. M. B. Turner (eds.), Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ, Grand Rapids, 1994, 166–82. Stylianopoulos, T., Justin Martyr and the Mosaic Law, Missoula, 1975. Wander, B., Trennungsprozesse zwischen Frühem Christentum und Judentum im 1. Jahrhundert n. Chr., Tübingen and Basel, 1994. Wilson, S. G., Related Strangers. Jews and Christians 70–170 CE, Minneapolis, 1995.

Chapter 23

The Spirit in the Writings of Justin Martyr [[321]] Justin Martyr has often been chided for his alleged failure to set out clear and coherent teaching on the Spirit. But expressions of bewilderment have not deterred scholars from attempting to bring order out of chaos.1 All too often, however, discussion of the teaching on the Spirit of this outstanding secondcentury Christian philosopher and martyr has been dominated by fourth-century rather than second-century agendas. Is Justin’s theology binitarian? Does Justin understand the Spirit in personal terms? Does Justin conceive the relationship between Father, Son, and Spirit in triadic or embryonic trinitarian ways? These important questions will be touched on in the pages that follow, but my own focus is rather different. I shall start by offering a brief reading of the im‑ portant opening chapters of Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho; here the references to the Spirit have regularly been overlooked. I shall then discuss Justin’s favourite terminology for the Spirit, that is, the phrase ‘the prophetic Spirit’. Only then will triadic passages be examined. Finally, I shall turn to Justin’s comments on the gifts of the Spirit. The biblical and New Testament roots of Justin’s under‑ standing of the Spirit will be given more attention than its relationship to later patristic thought. Given the theme of this Festschrift and the prominence of the Spirit (and es‑ pecially Christian experience of the Spirit) in the writings of our distinguished [[322]] honoree, there are several reasons for turning to the writings of Justin. Jimmy Dunn’s exposition in his first book of Luke’s understanding of the Spirit, Baptism and the Spirit (1970) is still at the centre of current discussion of this topic – and that is a quite remarkable achievement. But neither Jimmy Dunn nor more recent writers on the Spirit in Luke-Acts have stopped to consider Justin’s comments on the Spirit, even though Justin clearly betrays the family likeness of his ‘grandfather’, Luke. When Jimmy Dunn did discuss briefly the understanding of the Spirit found in second-generation writings in what I consider to be one of his finest books, Jesus and the Spirit (1975), he did so under the banner ‘the Vision Fades’. He claimed that in order to extend his researches into the second generation, ‘much 1  See, e.g., E. R. Goodenough, The Theology of Justin Martyr (Jena, 1923; repr. Amsterdam: Philo Press, 1968), pp. 176–88. Eric Osborn, Justin Martyr (Tübingen: Mohr, 1973), p. 102 notes that Justin’s doctrine of the Holy Spirit is difficult to understand.

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chaff would have to be winnowed for a much poorer return of grain.’2 But what of the third and fourth generations? Even more chaff? Perhaps we shall not have to wait long for the answers, for the third volume in Jimmy’s trilogy Christianity in the Making will cover the period AD 70 to 150, now dubbed ‘the second and third generations’ of Christianity.3 So we can hope that the role of the Spirit in Justin’s writings will receive due attention in that volume. In the meantime, here is a starter. I shall argue that if we refrain from reading Justin through Pauline or Johan‑ nine spectacles and give due weight to the setting and purpose of his writings, his understanding of the Spirit turns out to be rich and many-sided. Justin’s writings are lengthy, riddled with textual problems, and often difficult to interpret.4 The First Apology was written very shortly after AD 150, the Dialogue with Trypho about 160. However it is unwise to try to trace development in Justin’s thinking from the earlier writing to the later. Some sections of the Dialogue were almost certainly written before the Apology and inserted lock, stock, and barrel into Justin’s account of his conversations with Trypho.5 [[323]]

I. The Role of the Spirit in Justin’s Conversion There has been no shortage of scholarly comment on Justin’s lengthy account of his initial conversation with his Jewish adversary Trypho ‘in the cloisters of the colonnade’.6 In the opening eight chapters of the Dialogue Justin regales Trypho and his friends with his quest for the truth via his participation in the most prominent philosophical schools of his day. The philosophical themes are of perennial interest, but for my present purposes Justin’s encounter with a mysterious unnamed elderly man not far from the sea is especially important (Dial. 3.1). This encounter leads to Justin’s conversion to ‘philosophy safe and beneficial’, that is, Christianity. The old man rebukes Justin for his devotion to Plato, Pythagoras, and their ilk. ‘A long time ago’, he insists, ‘there were men of greater antiquity than all  Jesus and the Spirit, p. 345.  See Jesus Remembered, p. 7. 4  Quotations from Justin are taken from Miroslav Marcovich’s critical editions of the Greek text, Iustini Martyris Apologiae pro Christianis (Patristische Texte und Studien 38; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1994) and Iustini Martyris Dialogus cum Tryphone (Patristische Texte und Studien 47; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1997). Marcovich regularly proposes additions and corrections to the Parisinus codex (dated 1363), the one surviving manuscript of any importance. Marcovich’s editions provide a solid platform for fresh study of these fascinating writings; nonetheless they remind us that the text of Justin’s writings is in a parlous state. Translations are my own. 5  See esp. O. Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy: A Study of Justin Martyr’s Proof-Text Tradition: Text-Type, Provenance, Theological Profile (Leiden: Brill, 1987). 6  According to Eusebius (H. E. 4.18.6), this took place in Ephesus. 2 3

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these so-called philosophers. These men were blessed, righteous, and beloved of God. They spoke by the divine Spirit, and foretold things of the future which are now coming to pass. They are called prophets,… they were filled with the Holy Spirit’ (Dial. 7.1). Here a prominent theme in the Dialogue, the role of the Spirit in the prophets’ witness, is mentioned for the first time. The writings of the prophets, which may be consulted by anyone, do not com‑ pel assent on account of the ‘logical proof they contain, but rather on the grounds that their prophecies have taken place and are now taking place’ (Dial. 7.2). In order to shore up his claims, the old man appeals to the prophets’ miracles which glorified God and proclaimed Christ as his son. In stark contrast, he refers to ‘the false prophets’ who, filled with the seducing and unclean spirit, performed ‘miracles’ which amazed some and thus gave glory to the spirits of error and demons (i.e., they were magicians).7 The clear implication is that the prophets were filled with God’s Spirit (Dial. 7.3). The old man disappears as mysteriously as he had appeared. Who is he? Proposals have ranged from ‘a non-Christian barbarous stranger’ to (most re‑ cently) the view that the old man is Christ himself.8 In my judgement (shared [[324]] with variations by several scholars), the old man is simply a respected Christian whose witness to the prophets and to Christ triggered Justin’s conver‑ sion. At an early point in his discussion with Justin, the old man shows his hand. ‘Can man’s mind ever see God if it not be adorned with the Holy Spirit (ἁγίῳ πνεύματι κεκοσμημένος)’ (Dial. 4.1)?9 Surely this is a comment of a Christian! Ιt foreshadows the old man’s final recorded words to Trypho in which he insists that true insight is given only to those to whom God and his Christ give under‑ standing (Dial. 7.3).10 Justin notes that immediately after the old mans disappearance, ‘a fire was kindled in my soul (πὺρ ἀνήφθη), and a passionate desire possessed me for the prophets, and for those great men who are the friends of Christ’ (Dial. 8.1). ‘Fire’ evokes the Spirit, as it does in Justin’s account of the baptism of Jesus. Justin notes that when Jesus went down to the water, ‘fire was kindled in the Jordan (πὺρ ἀνήφθη), and as he rose up from the water the Holy Spirit fluttered down on  7  In Dial. 69.7 Justin claims that some of the contemporaries of Jesus considered him to be ‘a magician and a deceiver of the people’ rather than one who fulfilled the prophecies of Scripture. See further G. N. Stanton, ‘Jesus of Nazareth: A Magician and a False Prophet Who Deceived God’s People?’ in my Jesus and Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 127–47.  8  For the latter, sec Andrew Hofer’s intriguing but unconvincing claim in ‘The Old Man as Christ in Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho’, Vigiliae Christianae 57 (2003): 1–21. Hofer offers a critical assessment of the main proposals concerning the identity of the old man. I am grateful to my colleague Dr. James Carleton Paget for drawing my attention to this article.  9  κοσμέω does not seem to have been used by Christians prior to Justin to refer to the role of the Spirit. M. Marcovich notes (with references) that Irenaeus, Clement of Alexandria, and Origen use similar phraseology of the Spirit (Iustini Martyris Dialogus, p. 76). 10  Cf. Marcovich’s comment on 4.1: ‘inde apparet senem incognitum Christianum esse’.

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him, as the apostles of this our Christ have written’ (Dial. 88.3). Justin is draw‑ ing in part on a non-Synoptic tradition, but the linking of fire and the Spirit in the context of baptism recalls the Q tradition, ‘he will baptise you with the Holy Spirit and with fire’ (Matt. 3.11 = Luke 3.16). Elsewhere Justin emphasizes that baptism with the Holy Spirit is the initia‑ tory rite for Christian believers; they have no need of ‘that other baptism (i.e., circumcision)’ (Dial. 29.1; cf. 14.1). Baptism with the Spirit is of the essence of being a Christian, hence Justin must have accepted that his own conversion was a baptism with the Holy Spirit, even though in his short account of his conversion he refers only to ‘the kindling of fire’ and not explicitly to the Spirit. The role of the Spirit in Justin’s conversion is also implied by the reference to the ‘passion’ (ἔρως) with which he turned to Scripture. Justin’s conversion involves a radical change from a philosophy based on intellectual and rational argument to a ‘Christian philosophy’ grounded in his personal experience of the writings of the prophets and ‘the Saviour’s words’ (Dial. 8.2). The latter are said to evoke profound awe (δέος). Justin expands on these comments in a further appeal to Trypho in the very next chapter. He promises Trypho that he will show him that Christians do not believe in empty fables, or in words that cannot be proved (presumably philosophical arguments). Rather, Christians believe in ‘words that are full of the Divine Spirit’, and are ‘gushing forth with power (δυνάμει βρύουσι), and teeming with grace’ [[325]] (Dial. 9.1). From the context, the words in question are the words of the prophet and the words of the Saviour. The link between the Spirit, power, and the words of ‘Scripture’ is striking,11 and it underlines the extent to which there is a very strong experiential basis to Justin’s conversion. Many scholars have been so bewitched by the possible literary parallels to the role played by the old man in the opening chapters of the Dialogue that they have sidestepped a basic question. Why does Justin include an eight-chapter account of his philosophical quest and his conversion to Christianity as the prolegom‑ enon to his dialogue with Trypho? The remaining 134 chapters of the Dialogue focus almost exclusively on disputes between a Christian and a Jew concerning the interpretation of Scripture, not philosophical arguments. And unlike Justin himself, Trypho does not undergo a conversion to Christianity. At the close of two days of discussion Justin and Trypho go their own ways, agreeing to pray for one another. I do not think that Justin’s main aim was to ‘win over’ Jews such as Trypho. If that had been his hope and expectation, he would not have allowed Trypho to go 11  I have argued elsewhere that for Justin the sayings of Jesus have the same standing as the words of the prophets. See G. N. Stanton, ‘Jesus Traditions and Gospels in Justin Martyr and Irenaeus’, in J. M. Auwers and H. J. de Jonge, eds., The Biblical Canons (Leuven: Leuven University Press and Peeters, 2003), pp. 355–70; this article is now included in my Jesus and Gospel, pp. 92–109.

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his own way. Justin must have recognized that some Gentiles (such as Trypho’s companions)12 were so strongly attached to Judaism that their conversion was unlikely. So his primary appeal (via his Christian ‘school’) was to Gentiles who were broadly sympathetic to both Judaism and Christianity – Gentiles who did not appreciate the differences, Gentiles with a weak level of attachment either to Christianity or to Judaism. In that context, Justin’s account of his abandonment of the leading philoso‑ phies of the day and of his conversion to ‘the true philosophy’ is entirely ap‑ propriate alongside his extended discussions with Trypho. Justin records his own dramatic conversion experience in the hope that others will also follow this path. Hence his strong insistence that baptism with the Holy Spirit is the entry rite to ‘the true philosophy’, and not ‘that other baptism’, circumcision (Dial. 29.1). [[326]]

II. The Prophetic Spirit In the preceding paragraphs attention has been drawn to Justin’s insistence that the words of the prophets and the words of the Saviour are ‘full of the Divine Spirit’. Justin refers to the prophets’ experience of the Spirit repeatedly, nor‑ mally using his favourite phrase ‘the prophetic Spirit’.13 This phrase is found 25 times in the two Apologies14 and 12 in the much longer Dialogue.15 The phrase is nearly always used in the context of the fulfilment of prophetic predictions: what the ‘prophetic Spirit’ predicted through Moses, David, Isaiah, or the other prophets has now been fulfilled. Two passages may be mentioned as typical of many others. In 1 Apol. 31.1 Justin notes that there were ‘certain persons among the Jews who were prophets of God, through whom the prophetic Spirit announced beforehand things that were to come to pass before they happened.’ In his first use of his stock phrase 12  For a defence of the view that Justin’s companions are Gentiles, see G. N. Stanton, ‘Jus‑ tin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho: Group Boundaries, “Proselytes” and “Godfearers”’, in G. N. Stanton and G. G. Stroumsa, eds., Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 163–78 [[reprinted in this volume]]. 13  Justin’s favourite way of referring to the Spirit is echoed in the use of the phrase ‘the Spirit of prophecy’ by several writers as a shorthand term to sum up Luke’s understanding of the Spirit. The debt to Justin’s terminology goes unacknowledged! See, e.g., Max Turner, Power from on High: The Spirit in Israel’s Restoration and Witness in Luke-Acts (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996); R. P. Menzies, Empowered for Witness: The Spirit in Luke-Acts (Shef‑ field: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994). 14  1 Apol. 6.2; 13.3; 31.1; 32.2; 33.2, 5; 35.3; 38.1; 39.1; 40.1, 5; 41.1; 42.1; 44.1, 11; 47.1; 48.4; 51.1; 53.4, 6; 59.1; 60.8; 63.2, 12, 14. If Marcovich’s plausible conjecture at 1 Apol. 35.5 is accepted, this is a further reference. 15  Dial. 32.3; 38.2; 43.3, 4; 49.6; 53.4; 55.1; 56.5; 77.3; 84.2; 91.4; 139.1.

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in the Dialogue (32.3) Justin notes that in the words of ‘the blessed David’ (in Psalm 110) Christ has been called Lord by ‘the holy prophetic Spirit’. There is a striking echo of Justin’s stock phrase in the two most reliable recen‑ sions of the accounts of the martyrdom of Justin and his companions. Justin is asked by the prefect Rusticus to give an account of the doctrines he practises. In his reply Justin refers to his belief in God the Creator and in Jesus Christ, and then includes these words: ‘I acknowledge the prophetic power (προφητικήν τίνα δύναμιν), for proclamation has been made about him whom I have just now said to be the Son of God. For you know that in earlier times the prophets foretold his coming among men.’16 Here the phrase ‘the prophetic power’ is used in a context very similar to Justin’s repeated uses of ‘the prophetic Spirit’. Since Justin’s favourite phrase is not used in either the LXX or the New Testament (though the concept is undoubtedly present), and since it is not a stock phrase either in early Jewish or Christian writings, its use on the lips of Justin in the accounts of his martyrdom is not likely to be coincidental. Here is [[327]] one reason (and there are others) for accepting that authentic traditions lie behind the accounts of Justin’s martyrdom. It is not easy to uncover the roots of Justin’s favourite phrase, though the concept of the Spirit’s inspiration of the prophets is not hard to find.17 In his vo‑ luminous writings Philo uses the phrase ‘the prophetic Spirit’ only twice (Fuga 186; Vit. Mos. 1.277). Although there are some similarities with Justin’s use of the phrase, there is no question of literary dependence.18 In earlier Christian writings the only example of the phrase is in the Shepherd of Hermas 43.9 (= Mand. 11.9) in the context of a discussion on how one differ‑ entiates between true and false prophecy.19 None of Justin’s 37 uses of the phrase resembles this passage. So Justin may well have coined the phrase himself. Certainly his repeated emphasis on the fulfilment of the words of the prophets 16  For the Greek text and a translation, see The Acts of the Christian Martyrs, ed. H. Musuri‑ llo (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), pp. 42–61. 17  Eduard Schweizer’s often quoted dictum is apt: ‘Luke … shares with Judaism the view that the Spirit is essentially the Spirit of prophecy’ (TDNT, 6:409). For recent discussion of Jewish evidence, and especially for a critical assessment of scholarly discussion on Luke’s view of the Spirit, see Archie Hui, ‘The Spirit of Prophecy and Pauline Pneumatology’, TynB 50 (1999): 93–115. 18  There is a third reference at Quaest. in Exod. 2.105, extant only in Armenian: Aaron is possessed by God ‘and by the prophetic Spirit’. See David T. Runia, Philo in Early Christian Literature (Assen and Minneapolis: Van Gorcum and Fortress, 1993), pp. 97–105, on Justin’s knowledge of Philo. Ο. Skarsaune is very cautious about links between Justin and Philo; see esp. The Proof from Prophecy, p. 234, where he emphasizes the apologetic tradition of Hellen‑ istic Judaism as the link. He also notes that there is still more work to be done in relating Justin to the whole scope of Jewish apologetic and missionary literature in Greek. Runia is in broad agreement, but notes that Hellenistic Judaism ‘is more a supposition than a reality’ (p. 104). 19  See Marcovich’s references (in his note to 1.6 of 1 Apol. 6.20, p. 40) to Athenagoras, Leg. 10.4; 18.2; Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 1.13.4.

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as the result of their inspiration by the ‘prophetic Spirit’ is the most prominent feature in his understanding of the role of the Spirit. Several exceptions to this general way of using the phrase are noteworthy. (i) The phrase is used by Trypho in his objection to Justin’s insistence that Elijah has already come as John the Baptist: ‘It seems to me strange that God’s pro‑ phetic Spirit which was in Elijah has also been in John’ (Dial. 49.6). Justin has placed his favourite phrase in Trypho’s mouth simply in order to allow Justin to press home his claim that as God transferred some of the Spirit that was in Moses to Joshua (Num. 27.18; Deut 34.9), so also God was able to cause Spirit from Elijah to come upon John. Here the bestowal of the Spirit is linked to leadership rather than to predictive prophecy. (ii) At Dial. 55.1 Justin once again places his favourite phrase in the mouth of Trypho. Justin is challenged by Trypho to show that ‘another God besides the maker of all things is accepted by the prophetic Spirit (ὑπὸ τοῦ προφητικοῦ [[328]] πνεύματος)’. Justin appeals to the appearance of God to Abraham at the oak of Mamre in the form of three men to support his view that there is a ‘God and Lord other than the Maker of all things, who is also called “Angel” (ἄγγελος)’ (Dial. 56.4; cf. Gen. 18.1–3). Justin claims that ‘the holy prophetic Spirit’ states (in Scripture) that God the Creator was one of three who appeared to Abraham (56.5). In both cases the phrase ‘the prophetic Spirit’ seems to mean no more than ‘inspired Scripture’; there is a hint (as so often elsewhere) of predictive prophecy (cf. also 56.15). As the lengthy debate between Justin and Trypho concerning the identity of the three men unfolds, it becomes clear that Justin’s primary focus is Christology. He does not claim that one of the three men is the Spirit; unlike the Ascension of Isaiah, he does not identify the Angel as the Spirit.20 (iii) In 1 Apol. 63.2, 12, and 14 the prophetic Spirit rebukes ‘the Jews’ via Scripture. The same verb is used of Jesus Christ, who is said to have rebuked the Jews because they did not know the nature of the Father and the Son; a version of Matt. 11.27 = Luke 10.22 is then quoted. Justin brings this part of his argument to a climax by insisting that the Jews are rebuked ‘both by the prophetic Spirit and by Christ himself, for they knew neither the Father nor the Son’ (63.14). In each case the verb ἐλέγχω is used. Dial. 38.2 also refers to the role of the pro‑ phetic Spirit in rebuking Jewish teachers for their failure to interpret Scripture aright, though here textual disruption forces editors of the Greek text to propose emendations. It is not easy to determine the precise nuance attached to ἐλέγχω by Justin. I have used ‘rebuke’ above in all five cases, though some translators prefer ‘up‑ 20  See Loren Stuckenbruck’s fine study, ‘The Holy Spirit in the Ascension of Isaiah’, in this volume [[The Holy Spirit and Christian Origins: Essays in Honor of James D. G. Dunn, G. N. Stanton, B. W. Longenecker, S. C. Barton, eds., Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004]], pp. 308–20.

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braid’ or ‘censure’. A judicial sense, ‘convict’, is probably not implied by Justin in any of the five passages. Hence one should be cautious about making a link between this aspect of the role of Justin’s prophetic Spirit and the role assigned to the Paraclete in John 16.8–11 (cf. John 8.46). In John 16.8 the future tense is used (not the present, as in Justin), and a judicial sense is almost certainly present. Although there are some interesting exceptions, as we have just seen, Justin’s stock phrase is used in a rather wooden way. He insists that the prophetic Spirit enabled the prophets to predict what is now being fulfilled. Or, conversely, belief in the fulfilment of prophecy implies the inspiration of the prophetic Spirit. This theme lies at the heart of Justin’s apologetic. Only rarely does Justin say more about the nature of that inspiration. In two passages he states explicitly that two prophets were in a state of ecstasy (Daniel, Dial. 31.7; [[329]] Zechariah, Dial. 115.3). If these two, then Justin may have envisaged that the presence of the prophetic Spirit led to ecstasy for the other prophets, but we cannot be certain about this.21

III. Father, Logos-Son and Spirit In two passages in the First Apology ‘the prophetic Spirit’ is mentioned in yet another context, in ‘triadic’ statements concerning the Father, the Son, and the Spirit. In the first strong theological statement near the beginning of the First Apology, Justin is adamant that Christians are not atheists with respect to the most true God, the father of righteousness. ‘We worship and adore (σεβόμεθα καὶ προσκυνοῦμεν) both him and the Son who came from him and taught us these things, and the army of the other good angels, who follow him and are made like him, and the prophetic Spirit; we give honour to him (the Father) in reason and truth. To everyone who wishes to learn (μαθεῖν) we willingly hand over (παραδίδοντες) what we have been taught’ (1 Apol. 6.12). The strong emphasis on worship of ‘the father of righteousness’, the Son, and the Spirit, as the context of this confessional statement is striking. This is among the earliest evidence we have for worship being given to the Spirit alongside Christ and God, though Justin does not elaborate on this.22 Justin insists that the truths of the faith taught by Christ himself are to be transmitted carefully in his 21  See, less cautiously than above, R. M. Grant, The Letter and the Spirit (London: SPCK, 1957), p. 75. For a different view, see Osborn, Justin Martyr, p. 102, who suggests that as Justin nowhere uses the word ‘ecstasy’, it seems unlikely that he regarded this as the normal prophetic state. 22  Loren Stuckenbruck notes that the earliest evidence is in the Ascension of Isaiah, See his ‘The Holy Spirit in the Ascension of Isaiah’, in this volume [[cited in note 20 above]], pp. 308–20.

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own day (cf. also 8.3). But it is of course the clause in italics in the quotation in the preceding paragraph which catches the eye, for it disrupts the triadic confes‑ sion. For my present purposes I need not comment on the significance of the good, ‘Christ-like’ angels who are worshipped.23 I need merely note that here, as elsewhere in Justin’s triadic statements, the Spirit is referred to, but without comment or elaboration. This is in stark contrast to Justin’s comments on God the Father / Creator and the Son / Logos. [[330]] A reason for this imbalance emerges in an elaboration of this passage in ch. 13; here Justin’s stock phrase ‘the prophetic Spirit’ is used once more. The con‑ text is once again worship and the transmission in Justin’s day of Christ’s own teaching. In this even more clearly credal and triadic passage, Justin notes that Christians are charged with madness (μανίαν) for giving to ‘a crucified man sec‑ ond place after the unchangeable and eternal God, begetter of all things’ (13.4).24 Since opponents of Christians are ridiculing their christological views, it is not surprising that a full statement concerning Jesus Christ ‘crucified under Pontius Pilate, procurator in the time of Tiberius Caesar’ is included. Christian views on the Spirit were not the subject of ridicule, so elaboration was not called for. In this passage, there is, however, a brief comment on the Spirit which must be noted. Christ is ‘in second place (ἐν δευτέρᾳ χώρᾳ) to the true God himself’ (13.3; cf. 12.7). The prophetic Spirit is in the third rank (ἐν τρίτη τάξει). Christ and the Spirit are clearly differentiated, though without implying different de‑ grees of subordination. Although one might be tempted to see here a partial an‑ ticipation of later trinitarian formulations, Justin is not concerned with doctrinal precision, for this terminology is not repeated elsewhere in his writings. In the traditional doctrinal statements Justin has received from his predecessors, the Spirit is referred to after statements concerning ‘the Maker of all things’ and Je‑ sus Christ, that is, in third position. For Justin, the Spirit and the gifts of the Spirit are given to Christian believers anew after the ascent of Christ to heaven (Dial. 87.5), so the Spirit’s ‘rank’ is third. It is primarily a chronological position rather than one of subordination, though there does seem to be a hint of the latter.25 In Justin’s further triadic statements in 1 Apol. 61.3, 13; 65.2; 67.2 the ter‑ minology of rank is conspicuous by its absence (as is the phrase ‘the prophetic Spirit’), thus confirming that Justin himself attaches little or no significance to his earlier comment that the Spirit is ‘in the third rank’. In the first of these pas‑ 23  In his fine study Lord Jesus Christ (Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2003) Larry Hurtado does not comment on this passage. But see L. W. Barnard’s comments in his Justin Martyr: The First and Second Apologies (New York/Mahwah, N. J.: Paulist, 1997), p. 110. Barnard notes that this is one of the most enigmatic passages in 1 Apol., and rightly dismisses attempts to evade the clear sense of the text. 24  See M. Marcovich’s list of later, similar accusations of Christian madness or folly, Apologiae, ad loc. 25  This point is made explicitly by Origen, Cels. 1.46: after the Saviour was sent by the Father, then the Holy Spirit was sent (by the Father).

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sages, Justin notes that Christian baptism is a ‘washing in water’ in the name of God, ‘the Father of all and Master, and of our Saviour Jesus Christ, and of the Holy Spirit’ (61.3; similarly 61.13). The phraseology is strikingly similar to Matt. 28.19, though perhaps not close enough to suggest direct literary depen‑ dence. In the much-discussed account of the baptismal eucharist in 1 Apology 65, the ‘president’ or ‘ruler’ sends up praise and glory to the Father of all, ‘through [[331]] the name of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and offers thanksgiving at some length …’ Justin concludes his account of the baptismal eucharist with very similar phraseology: ‘For everything we receive we bless the Maker of all through his Son Jesus Christ and through the Holy Spirit’ (67.2).26 Justin’s lack of precision concerning the role of the Spirit is nowhere clearer than in 1 Apology 33 where Justin merges Matthean and Lucan traditions in his account of the annunciation of the birth of Jesus. Justin informs his readers that ‘the power of God (δύναμις θεοῦ) overshadowed the virgin, and that the angel brought her good news: “You will conceive in the womb of the Holy Spirit and will bear a son …”’ (33.4–5)· Justin then adds this surprising comment: ‘Thus the Spirit and the Power from God cannot be understood as anything else than the Word (τὸν Λόγον), who is also the first-begotten (πρωτότοκος) of God.’ He then continues in similar vein by noting that the prophets are inspired by none other than the divine Word (33.9; cf. also 36.1) – not, as many other passages in Justin lead us to expect, by the prophetic Spirit. Here Justin seems to have grafted his convictions concerning the Logos rather awkwardly onto traditional phraseology concerning the role of the Spirit.27 Although some scholars have maintained that this passage confirms that for Justin the Spirit and the Logos were two names for the same person, E. R. Good‑ enough rightly insists that this conclusion outruns the evidence, for Justin is not making a general or formal statement.28 When one considers all the references to the Spirit in the Apology,29 traditional triadic formulations are more promi‑ nent than the apparent confusion between the Spirit and the Logos just noted. Justin attaches considerable importance to earlier Christian traditions and shows himself to be heir (however indirectly) to triadic passages such as Matt. 28.19 and 2 Cor. 13.14.

26  The traditional chapter division is misleading at this point; 67.1–2 belong with the preced‑ ing account of the baptismal eucharist and not with Justin’s account of Sunday worship, which follows in 67.3–8. 27  Similarly, Osborn, Justin Martyr, p. 101. Osborn notes that the miraculous conception by the Word is a view which lingered on until the middle of the fourth century. 28  E. R. Goodenough, Justin Martyr, p. 181. 29  It is difficult to account for the absence of triadic formulations from the Dialogue.

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IV. The Gifts of the Spirit In several passages in the Dialogue the role of the Spirit in the experience of Christian believers is emphasized. I have already drawn attention to the promi‑ nence of the Spirit in Justin’s account of his conversion, and to his insistence [[332]] that baptism with the Holy Spirit is the entry rite to ‘the true philosophy’. In Dial. 54.1 Justin notes that the Holy Spirit is continually (ἀεί) present in those who receive the forgiveness of sins through baptism. I shall now refer to several further passages in the Dialogue which refer to Christian experience of the Spirit. In 39.2 Justin refers to Jews who are becom‑ ing Christians in his own day; he claims that this is a daily occurrence. Having been enlightened (by baptism; cf. 1 Apol. 61.12) through the name of Christ, they receive gifts (δόματα). ‘For one receives the Spirit of understanding, one of counsel, one of strength, one of healing, one of foreknowledge, one of teaching, one of the fear of God’ (Dial. 39.2). A similar list of the seven gifts of the Spirit is found at 87.2, where there is explicit reference to, and closer correspondence with, the list in Isa. 11.13. In Justin’s first list of the sevenfold gifts in 39.2 the absence of a reference to Isaiah and the less close correspondence are not sur‑ prising, for three allusions to 1 Corinthians 12 are woven into the list: ‘healing’ recalls 1 Cor. 12.9b; ‘foreknowledge’ is Justin’s interpretation of ‘prophecy’ in 1 Cor. 12.10b; and ‘teaching’ alludes to 1 Cor. 12.28.30 These allusions strongly suggest dependence on 1 Corinthians (even if only indirectly). The sentences which follow leave no doubt at all about Justin’s knowledge of Ephesians. Justin notes that it was prophesied (in Ps. 68.19, LXX) that after the ascent of Christ into heaven he would give gifts (δόματα), but the wording quoted in 39.4 is much closer to Eph. 4.8 than to Psalm 68, as it is also in Justin’s second reference to this passage in 87.6.31 From the immediate con‑ texts of both passages, it is clear that the ‘gifts’ given by the ascended Christ are gifts of the Spirit, as in Acts 2.33. Justin elaborates this point in Dial. 87.5–6 (cf. also 82.1). Immediately after the quotation of Ps. 68.19/Eph. 4.8, Justin refers to another prophecy: ‘And it shall be that after these things I will pour out my Spirit on all people, and upon my servants both men and women, and they will prophesy.’ The phrase ‘after these things’ is closer to Joel 3.1, LXX, than to Acts 2.17, but the addition of ‘my’ points to use of the version of Joel cited in Acts 2.17–18. O. Skarsaune suggests that this text maybe the work of someone (perhaps prior to Justin) con‑ densing the Acts testimony into a much shorter and tighter text, concentrating on 30  These allusions to 1 Corinthians 12 are missed by J. E. Morgan Wynne in his helpful survey, ‘The Holy Spirit and Christian Experience in Justin Martyr’, Vigiliae Christianae 38 (1984): 172–77. 31  See the ‘Synoptic’ comparison set out by Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy, p. 100.

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the gift of prophecy.32 I believe that this is undoubtedly the case, for immediately after the citation Justin comments on its continuing significance: he notes that ‘among us’, that is, in his own day, both men and women have been granted gifts (χαρίσματα) by the Spirit of God. Justin has in mind primarily the gift of prophecy, but the plural ‘gifts’ should be noted, as should the switch from the δόματα of Ps. 68.19, LXX / Eph. 4.8 to Paul’s favourite word in 1 Corinthians 12, χαρίσματα. Here is unexpected evidence for the continuance of gifts of the Spirit in Justin’s day among both men and women, a decade or so before the emergence of Montanism. There is further evidence for the prominence of women in the church in Rome in Justin’s day in 2 Apol. 2.1–20.33 An unnamed woman has become a Christian through knowledge of the teachings of Christ (as had Justin himself). Marital discord with her non-Christian husband incites him to press charges against Ptolemaeus, her Christian teacher. Ptolemaeus and two other Christians are condemned to death. Peter Lampe has shown that the unnamed woman was a Roman Christian woman of considerable status and cautiously identifies her as Flora, to whom the well-known Letter of Ptolemaeus to Flora was written.34 Rather surprisingly, he does not refer to the further evidence from the Dialogue just noted which confirms that women were prominent in the church and exercised the gifts (χαρίσματα) of the Spirit. In Dialogue 87–88 Justin develops his view of the gifts of the Spirit in an‑ other unexpected way. He reminds Trypho that one or two of the powers of the Spirit were given by God to the prophets, but they all found their resting place in Christ. ‘The Spirit rested therefore, in other words ceased, when Christ came  …  But after him, it was necessary that those gifts should cease (being among you) … and be given by the grace of the power of the Spirit to those who believe in him …’ (87.5–6; cf. also 88.1).35 Justin claims that whereas Israel had experienced the gifts of the Spirit in a limited way before the coming of Christ, with his coming they ceased to be in evidence among the Jewish people and were given in full to Christian believers. The argument is taken further in Dial. 135.3–6. ‘We, quarried from the bowels of Christ, are the true race of Israel.’ On the basis of Isa. 65.9–12 and Isa. 2.5–6 Justin concludes that there are ‘two races, two houses of Jacob, the one born of flesh and blood, and the other of faith and the Spirit.’

 The Proof from Prophecy, p. 123.  Eusebius was so impressed by the sorry saga that he quotes Justin’s lengthy account in full (H. E. 4.17.1–13). 34  Peter Lampe, From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries (Germ. ed. 1989; rev. for Eng. trans.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), pp. 237–40. 35  On ‘the powers’ and the gifts of the Spirit, see esp. C. Oeyen, ‘Die Lehre der göttlichen Kräfte bei Justin’, SP 11, ed. F. L. Cross (TU 108; Berlin; Akademie-Verlag, 1972), pp. 215–21. 32 33

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This stark contrast takes us to the heart of the rhetoric of the Dialogue. There is an allusion to the terminology of John 1.13 in the phrase ‘flesh and blood’. Even more significant for our present purposes is the allusion to 1 Cor. [[134]] 12.9 and Gal. 3.14 in Justin’s insistence that what differentiates Jews and Chris‑ tians is faith and the Spirit. Of course Justin’s understanding of the Spirit is less profound than that found in the Pauline and Johannine writings. Nonetheless Justin’s understanding of the role of the Spirit is much less wooden than his use of his stock phrase ‘the pro‑ phetic Spirit’ would suggest, for he refers to the Spirit in varied ways. Although his debt to Old Testament and to Jewish traditions is clear, he does develop distinctively Christian views. Justin’s claim that the prophets were inspired by the Spirit did not surprise Trypho, for Justin shared this conviction with Trypho and his fellow Jewish teachers. But Justin’s insistence that the predictions of the Spirit-filled prophets have been fulfilled in the coming of Christ or were being fulfilled in his own day was unacceptable and incomprehensible to Trypho. The distinctively Christian aspects of Justin’s understanding of the Spirit have deep roots, primarily within the New Testament writings themselves. Echoes of Matthew, John, Luke-Acts, 1 Corinthians, Galatians, and Ephesians have been noted. Only in the case of 1 Corinthians 12 and Eph. 4.8 is direct literary dependence likely, but there is no doubt that in his understanding of the Spirit Justin has been influenced, however indirectly, by a wide range of New Testa‑ ment passages. Justin rarely goes further than his Christian predecessors. With the exception of his fleeting reference to worship of the Spirit in 1 Apol. 6.2, his thought is no closer to later trinitarian doctrine than that of any of the New Testament writers. His occasional failure to differentiate sharply between Christ (or the Logos) and the Spirit has earlier precedents. In one important respect, however, Justin goes his own way. His double claim that among the Jewish people prophecy ceased with the coming of Christ and that the gifts of the Spirit were evident only among Christian believers strikes a shrill note. But even here Justin’s views may be seen as a corollary (in the highly rhetorical context of the Dialogue) of his conviction that Christians are the true Israel (Dial. 11.5; 123; 135.3), a ‘third race’ – and that claim has earlier roots in passages such as Matt. 21.43, 1 Cor. 10.32, and Gal. 6.16.

Chapter 24

Justin on Martyrdom and Suicide1 We cannot exaggerate the importance of the martyrdom of Christians for the development and self-understanding of the church. This is so whether we are considering the three centuries before Constantine, the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, or Christian martyrs in our own day. Here politics and religion are not merely intertwined, but engaged in a life and death struggle. There are important reasons for considering Justin’s stance toward martyrdom and suicide carefully. Justin’s account in his Second Apology of the martyrdom of three people from his own circle in Rome, dates from c. 155 c.e. and is one of the earliest, if not the earliest, narrative of Christian martyrdoms we possess.2 Yet it has rarely received the attention it deserves. As far as we know, Justin was the first Christian writer to repudiate vigorously voluntary martyrdom (2 Apol. 4). This fact is also rarely noted, even though there was considerable discussion of voluntary martyrdom right up to Augustine. As we shall see, there are further passages in Justin’s writings that are important both for our understanding of the social setting of second century Christianity and for our appreciation of the theological significance he attached to martyrdom. The account of Justin’s own martyrdom in Rome c. 165 c.e. is one of the earli‑ est formal accounts we possess of a judicial interrogation and verdict passed on a Christian dissident. The main rival for the tag of ‘earliest’ is the much longer account of the martyrdom of Polycarp in Smyrna which many scholars now date to 155–160 c.e., in spite of the date of 167 given by Eusebius and some support for 177, the latter of which would put Polycarp’s death up to a decade after Justin’s. The Martyrdom of Polycarp was included in the rather arbitrary seventeenth century collection of early Christian writings known as The Apostolic Fathers. Hence it is more widely known and more readily accessible today than the accounts of Justin’s martyrdom. In fact it is instructive to compare Polycarp and Justin. We have Justin’s com‑ ments on martyrdom as well as accounts of his own martyrdom, but with Poly‑  [[Previously unpublished, this chapter was originally a paper presented to the Cambridge New Testament Seminar, 11 October 2005. This version has been revised by the editors but still retains its oral formulation and remains less developed than had Stanton prepared it for publication.]] 2  Cf. P. Lampe, From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003). 1

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carp we have only the latter. Polycarp had very little to say about martyrdom in his sole surviving writing, his moving letter to the Philippians. In a striking pas‑ sage he urges the Philippians to imitate Christ Jesus, but it is the patient endur‑ ance (ὑπομονή) of Christ which is singled out (8.2), as in 1 Pet. 2:18–23, rather than Christ’s death at the hands of the Roman authorities. Towards the end of his letter, Polycarp urges his readers to ‘pray for kings and powers and rulers, and for those who persecute you and hate you, and for enemies of the cross’ (12.3). But persecution does not necessarily include execution. Polycarp probably wrote these words shortly after the death of Ignatius in Rome, but his own readers were more likely to have been facing state-sponsored hostility rather than death. Matters were very different several decades later when, according to the lengthy account of his martyrdom, Polycarp himself refused to swear by the Genius of Caesar and to revile Christ. In response to the proconsul’s attempts to persuade him to recant, he said simply, ‘I am a Christian’ before being burnt alive. Within a few years of one another, Justin and Polycarp, two of the giants of the second century church, were put to death for their refusal to honour Lord Caesar above Lord Christ – Justin in Rome and Polycarp in Smyrna. These two Christian leaders would have made an impact on succeeding generations even if they had not been martyred, but the manner of their deaths undoubtedly height‑ ened their influence and importance.3 Before we proceed, a word about terminology. Justin uses the martus word group in the broad sense of ‘witness’, as in the New Testament writings, rather than in the technical sense of ‘martyr’, ‘martyrdom’ which starts to emerge in Christian writings at about this time, especially in the Martyrdom of Polycarp.4 The technical usage is found for the first time in Latin in about 180 c.e. in the Scillitan Martyrs: Nartalus dixit: Hodie martyres in caelis sumus. Until the mid‑ dle of the second century, martus never refers to someone who dies for a cause.5 Now that is a controversial statement, especially with reference to the New Testament writings. At Acts 15:20 the AV has Paul state: ‘And when the blood of thy martyr Stephen was shed, I also was standing by.’ But in my judgement, in this passage, Stephen (like Antipas in Rev. 2:13) is not a martus because he was slain, but a witness who was slain.6 Of course it is legitimate to use the terms ‘martyr’ and ‘martyrdom’ in the customary sense with reference to Jesus and 3  It is intriguing to note that Justin receives the appellation ‘Martyr’ while this is not given to Ignatius or Polycarp, inter alia; the reasons for this, however, including Justin’s entrance into the official register of Christian martyrs, would take us beyond the remit of the current paper. 4  μάρτυς is found in the Apologies only twice: 1 Apol. 23.3; 2 Apol. 12.4; μαρτύριον only at 1 Apol. 53.2 in the sense of ‘testimonies’. In the Dialogue with Trypho, the words are used more frequently: 7.2; 14.4; 36.2, 6; 37.4; 61.1; 64.4; 67.3; 79.2; 88.1; 122.1; 123.4; 132.2; 141.3. 5  G. W. Bowersock, Martyrdom and Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 5. Ignatius never uses μάρτυς in the sense of ‘martyr’. 6  I owe the phraseology to Bowersock, Martyrdom and Rome, 5.

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some of his early followers who were put to death in the first century. But we must not lean on the martus word group for support.

1. A Triple Martyrdom in Rome: 2 Apology 1–2 (c. 155 c.e.) Justin’s account of the martyrdom of Ptolemaeus, Lucius, and a third unnamed person is one of the most powerful and moving passages in his writings. The triple martyrdom in Rome must have made a profound impact on Justin and his circle. This saga is almost certainly the reason why, after completing what we now know as his First Apology, Justin took up his pen again and composed his Second Apology.7 The Second Apology opens with a reference to troublesome events that have recently happened in Rome while Quintus Lollius Urbicus was the city prefect.8 We know that Urbicus held this post from about 146 to 160 c.e. In his opening appeal Justin does not specify explicitly to whom this Apology is addressed, but he clearly hopes that the Roman authorities will take his plea seriously.9 In his closing sentences Justin urges them to make his petition (βιβλίδιον) available widely so that its readers may be converted. His ultimate aim is evangelistic. Justin’s initial rhetorical flourish is significant. He insists that although the Roman elite may act harshly towards Christians, both parties share a common humanity: ‘you are of like passion and are our brothers.’ While this might be dismissed as the captatio benevolentiae of an apologist, later in this Apology Justin is willing to concede that a ‘seed of logos’ has been implanted in everyone, even if some do not strive to live by it (8.1–3). Justin comes to his key point quickly: under the sway of ‘the wicked demons’ (1.2), the Roman authorities are putting Christians to death. Why? The authori‑ ties are not mere puppets in the hands of the demons: their hostility to Christians has been provoked by the ways Christians have rebuked them for their sins. Justin uses the same phrase, ‘the wicked demons’ again in six passages (7.1, 2, 3; 7  That the Second Apology was composed shortly after the First is referred to by Marcovich as a prevailing consensus in current scholarship; moreover, the Second Apology may have been ‘prompted by the triple martyrdom described in 2A., c.2’ (M. Marcovich, ed., Iustini Martyris, Apologiae pro Christianis, Dialogus cum Tryphone [Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2005], 10). If so, then the effect of three martyrdoms on Justin and his circle in Rome was very considerable. As for the date of composition of the Second Apology, Marcovich follows Harnack in suggesting that the First Apology should be dated a few years after 150, with the Second Apology shortly therafter; so too, O. Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy: A Study in Justin Martyr’s Proof-Text Tradition. Text-Type, Provenance, Theological Profile (NovT‑ Sup56; Leiden: Brill, 1987), 9. 8  Urbicus is mentioned again in 1.3, 2.12 and three times in 2.15–16. 9  There are several indications of textual disruption in ch. 1, but the reading given above is not in doubt. The opening address, ‘O Romans’, is omitted by several editors as a later clarifica‑ tion of the addressees. See Marcovich, Iustini Martyris, ad loc. for details.

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10.6; 12.3; 13.1) in this short Apology (and a dozen times in the First Apology); in seven further passages (5.3, 5; 6.5, 6; 8.2, 3; 11.1) the demons are mentioned with no descriptive adjective. Justin’s appeal to the role of the wicked demons was not without earlier Chris‑ tian precedent. As is well known, the evangelists struggled to account for the betrayal of Jesus by Judas. Luke notes that Satan entered into Judas before he went off to confer with the chief priests and officers of the temple police about how he might betray Jesus, but there is no suggestion that Judas himself was not responsible for his actions (13:2). In an aside at the beginning of his account of the last meal of Jesus with his disciples, the fourth evangelist mentions that the devil had already put it into the heart of Judas to betray him (John 13:2). In a further aside at the climax of this narrative in verses 27–30, the reader is informed that Satan ‘entered into Judas’ immediately after he received the bread given to him by Jesus. Jesus then says to Judas, ‘Do quickly what you are going to do.’ The disciples fail to understand these words. The double reference in John 13 to the devil/Satan makes it plain to the reader that Satan is controlling Judas, though as in Luke, Judas is not thereby excused as a mere tool in the hands of the devil / Satan. After mentioning the role of the wicked demons in putting Christians to death, Justin narrates the saga that led to the martyrdom of three Christians from his circle. An unnamed woman of high social status who had become a Christian sought to divorce her husband on the grounds of his outrageous behaviour. The husband sought revenge, ‘saying that she was a Christian’ (λέγων αὐτὴν Χριστιανὴν εἶναι, 2.7). The husband then turned his wrath against Ptolemaeus, who had been her teacher ‘of Christian beliefs’ (μαθημάτων) (2.9). He persuaded a centurion to seize Ptolemaeus and ask him whether he was a Christian (2.10). When he confessed that he was a Christian, he was imprisoned for a long time. In due course Ptolemaeus was brought before the city prefect Urbicus, and asked whether he was a Christian (2.12). In response he confessed the ‘doc‑ trine (διδασκαλεῖον) of divine virtue’ (2.13), though precisely what this entails remains somewhat obscure. The prefect of Rome then gave his verdict: Ptole‑ maeus must be ‘led away’ (2.15). From the context, this is a euphemism for ‘led away to death.’ Lucius, a fellow Christian, rashly challenged the legitimacy of the verdict by insisting that Ptolemaeus’s only crime (ἀδίκημα) was to confess that he was a Christian. Urbicus responded tersely: ‘You seem to me also to be a Christian’ (2.17). Lucius answered, ‘Most certainly’ and was then led away. Justin adds in a single terse final sentence that a third unnamed person came forward and was sentenced to be punished (2.20). Here there seems to be a hint that this was a voluntary martyrdom. But Justin is deliberately vague about this, for a few paragraphs later he vigorously repudiates the legitimacy of voluntary martyrdom.

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In the opening chapters of the 2 Apology, the same question is posed four times over in indirect speech. Justin records, with minor variations, that in each case the question was simply whether or not the individual was a Christian. There is no additional accusation. The affirmative replies are equally unadorned. The Latinate formulation, moreover, suggests that the appellation originated from outside the Christian community: adherents to the Jesus movement are ‘Christ partisans’.10 Here we catch an echo of the formal procedures of Roman trials and of the accounts of Justin’s own martyrdom. I shall return to this point below.11

2. Suicide and Martyrdom: 2 Apology 4 Justin quotes a jibe thrown generally at Christians by the Roman authorities: ‘You should all commit suicide, go right now to God, and stop causing trouble to us’ (4.1).12 First of all, we should note an ambiguity in the terminology. While the translation offered here as ‘commit suicide’ is possible, the Greek is more neutral: ‘go kill yourselves’. Suicide is a defensible rendering, but some prefer to see here a reference to ‘voluntary martyrdom’. This jibe suggests that Christians were sufficiently numerous to be perceived by the authorities as troublemakers. Justin’s vigorous response strongly suggests that in his day this taunt was regularly thrown at Christians and hence could not be ignored. There is plenty of evidence to confirm that this was the case. Not long after Justin reported this taunt in his Second Apology, Celsus, the first pagan critic, wrote as follows: ‘(Christians) deliberately rush forward to arouse the wrath of an emperor or governor which brings (upon them) blows and tortures and even death’ (Origen, Contra Celsum 8.65).13 10  See, e.g., Martin Hengel and Anna-Maria Schwemer, Paul Between Damascus and Antioch: The Unknown Years (trans. J. Bowden; London: SCM, 1997), 225–30, 451–56. 11  On the label Χριστιανός, which was susceptible to different evaluations from insider and outsider perspectives, see Acts 11:26; 26:28; 1 Pet. 4:16; Ignatius, Rom. 3.2 et al.; cf. Tacitus, Ann. 15.44; Suetonius, Nero 16; and see the discussion by D. Horrell, “The Label Christianos: 1 Pet 4.16 and the Formation of Christian Identity,” JBL 126 (2007): 361–81. 12  Πάντες οὖν ἑαυτοὺς φονεύσαντες πορεύεσθε ἤδη παρὰ τὸν θεὸν καὶ ἡμῖν πράγματα μὴ παρέχετε. Immediately after Justin’s account of the three martyrdoms, there is some uncertainty over the original order of the chapters of the Second Apology. In his lengthy quotation of the first half of this Apology, Eusebius includes at this point Justin’s own anxieties about a possible plot against him by Crescens and others. Crescens claims publicly that Christians are ‘godless and impious’ (3.2), an anti-Christian charge Justin notes several times elsewhere (1 Apol. 5.14; 6.1; 26.29–31; 27.10; Dial. 10.1). However if the order of the Parisinus manuscript is accepted, Justin’s account of the martyrdom of the three Christians is followed immediately by his measured response to the suggestion of some that all Christians should go and commit suicide. 13  H. Chadwick, ed., Origen: Contra Celsum. Translated with an Introduction and Notes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953). Cf. Lucian of Samosata, who recounts how Peregrinus, an apostate Christian who may have been a contemporary of Justin’s, burned

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So we need not be surprised that voluntary martyrdom was known in Justin’s day. What is surprising, however, is Justin’s vigorous rejection of it, for there was no explicit biblical condemnation of suicide. When Judas was portrayed as hanging himself, the New Testament mentions no comment on his suicide. Nor were Greco-Roman authors unanimous in their condemnation of suicide. With the exception of the Pythagoreans (and their intellectual heirs, the Neoplaton‑ ists) no philosophical school in antiquity condemned the practice of voluntary death.14 Justin’s pointed repudiation of martyrdom by suicide is eloquent even though it is expressed rather awkwardly (4.2–3). He first notes that God did not create the world for no purpose, but for the sake of the human race. He includes a refer‑ ence back to his extended discussion in 1 Apol. 10.2–5 of the purpose of God’s creation: humankind was created in order to live in ways pleasing to God, who is displeased with those who cling to what is worth less either in deed or word. So suicide martyrdom is no part of God’s purposes for his creation. Justin follows this with what may seem to be a rather feeble point. ‘If we all commit suicide, we will become the reason why no one should be born, or instructed in the divine teachings or even why the human race should not ex‑ ist.’ Justin has taken the jibe that all Christians should commit suicide literally, rather than as rhetorical exaggeration. Justin’s final claim picks up his opening comment: ‘If we commit suicide, we ourselves will be acting in opposition to the will of God.’15 In his opposition to suicide Justin is, as it were, a voice in the wilderness. Ignatius longed for death; he strove to imitate Jesus – he hoped that he would be ground up by the teeth of animals so that he can become the pure bread of Christ. His letters do not contain any suggestion that he was opposed to volun‑ tary martyrdom, no suggestion of opposition to suicide.16 The only possible rival, as we have seen, for the accolade of the first Christian to oppose voluntary martyrdom may be the author of the Martyrdom of Polycarp. The date of the Martyrdom’s composition is keenly debated, and dates as early as 155 or as late as 177 have been proposed. While it falls beyond this paper to adjudicate these debates, a decision rests partly on decisions about the himself at the stake during the Olympic Games in Athens, to crown an exemplary life by an exemplary death. Note also the text from Tertullian, ad Scap. 5, cited below. 14  Arthur J. Droge and James D. Tabor, A Noble Death: Suicide and Martyrdom Among Christians and Jews in Antiquity (San Francisco: Harper, 1992), 42. 15  Cf. L. W. Barnard, St. Justin Martyr, The First and Second Apologies (Ancient Christian Writers 56; Mahwah, New Jersey: Paulist, 1997), 189 n. 21: ‘The view that suicide is the nega‑ tion of a man’s or a woman’s responsibility as a member of the corporate body of humanity and so frustrates the will of God has not lost its cogency in the modern world.’ 16  Bowersock, Martyrdom and Rome: ‘Ignatius betrays no knowledge of the language or concept of martyrdom. But he certainly longed for death’ (6).

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extent of possible interpolations. But either way, it is no earlier than Justin’s 2 Apology, and may well be slightly later. In any case, in comparison with Justin, the Martyrdom of Polycarp is much less directly negative about voluntary martyrdom or suicide. Most interesting for our purposes is ch 4. A Phrygian named Quintus forced himself and others to face martyrdom voluntarily.17 However, he recanted and ‘swore the oath and offered the sacrifice’ (to the emperor). Then follows the writer’s solemn warn‑ ing to his fellow Christians: ‘For this reason, therefore, we do not praise those who hand themselves over, since the gospel does not so teach.’ We do not praise them – somewhat milder than Justin! Several scholars have suggested that Montanism with its home in Phrygia and special enthusiasm for martyrdom is represented by Quintus in chapter 4.18 Ter‑ tullian’s enthusiasm for voluntary martyrdom is linked with his Montanist phase. Indeed some have gone further and linked voluntary martyrdom with sectarians or heretics. But evidence for such clear-cut differences is hard to find – and of course the whole notion of heresy and orthodoxy is somewhat anachronistic for the middle of the second century. As William Tabbernee, one of the leading specialists on Montanism, argues: Nor can the contention that voluntary martyrs were invariably Montanists be substanti‑ ated. Although some Montanist oracles may appear to have encouraged the desire for martyrdom … there is no evidence to suggest that, whilst Montanists might pray to be deemed worthy to receive the martyr’s crown, they answered their own prayers. Montanist and Catholic theology, in fact, differed little on the issue; both condemned voluntary martyrdom as irresponsible.19

One further passage in the Martyrdom of Polycarp calls for brief comment. In chapter 17 a sharp distinction is made between the love of martyrs and the worship of Christ. This is clearly a reaction against exaggerated veneration of martyrs. There are also doubts, possibly well-founded, about this chapter as part  William R. Schoedel, “Polycarp, Martyrdom of,” in The Anchor Bible Dictionary (ed. D. N. Freedman; New York: Doubleday, 1992) 5.392–95. As Schoedel suggests, MPol. 1.2; 4 (i.e., the Quintus episode) ‘not only reflects an awareness of the dangers of enthusiasm for institutional stability and social respectability’, but is also ‘clearly directed against a misunder‑ standing of martyrdom’ (393–94). 18  See Schoedel, “Polycarp,” 394. Bart Ehrman mentions ‘the Montanists who later appeared in Quintus’s home territory of Phrygia and who believed in voluntary martyrdom’ (Ehrman, The Apostolic Fathers [LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003], 1.359). Droge and Tabor (Noble Death, 136–37), follow von Campenhausen in suggesting ‘it was the Montanists who voluntarily gave themselves up to death … and were condemned for this by the majority of orthodox Christians, who accepted martyrdom when it came to them but never sought it.’ Von Camphenhausen thus thinks that chapter 4 was a later addition to the Martyrdom of Polycarp as an anti-Montanist polemic. 19  William Tabernee in G. H. R. Horsley, ed., New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity 3: A Review of the Greek Inscriptions and Papyri Published in 1978 (Macquarie: Macquarie University, 1983), 133. 17

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of original composition, though most recent editors have argued for the integrity of the text as we possess it. Christian opinion was somewhat divided for some after Justin. On one side stands Tertullian. His report of what happened in the province of Asia in the late 180s still sends shudders down the spine. The Roman governor was quite unexpectedly confronted with a large group who claimed to be Christians and urged the governor to do his duty and put them to death. He started to oblige, and sent a few of them away for execution. The excited Christians clamoured for a similar reward. In exasperation Arrius Antoninus cried out to them: ‘You wretches, if you want to die, you have cliffs to leap from and ropes to hang by.’20 Moreover, a couple of decades later Tertullian used this tale to threaten the Roman Governor in North Africa that this curious event might be repeated in Carthage on a grand scale: voluntary martyrdom was an ever-present threat to the Roman government.21 It falls to others to trace the trajectory of Christian opposition to suicide from Justin to Augustine, whose views won the day and were unchallenged for cen‑ turies.22 Justin, of course, even if he does oppose voluntary martyrdom is not against martyrdom as such, nor does he deny the premise that Christian martyrs go on to enter their celestial home in the permanent company of the Lord, as 2 Apol. 2.18–19 is sufficient to suggest. We turn now to the positive function of martyrdom in Justin’s works.

3. ‘Semen est sanguis Christianorum’ (Tertullian, Apol. 50.13) Tertullian’s dictum about the catalytic effects of martyrdom is well-known: ‘The more we are mown down, the more in number we become; Christians’ blood is seed’ (Apol. 50.13). But Justin, some decades before Tertullian, demonstrates already the way in which martyrdom attracted onlookers to the early Christian movement. In 2 Apol. 12.1–2, Justin notes that before he became a Christian, ‘when I was delighting in the teachings of Plato’, he was impressed by Christians who were fearless of death. Christians cannot be sensual or intemperate, otherwise they would not welcome death: ‘they would try to escape the observation of the rul‑ ers’. In chapter 13 Justin mentions that he strove to become a Christian because, in spite of similarities of teaching of Plato and Christ, ‘they are not in every respect equal.’ All this suggests the clear implication that his own conversion was in part the result of the impact made by Christian martyrs. This passage, part  Tertullian, ad Scap. 5.  Tertullian, ad Scap. 5. 22  For an overview of this history, see Droge and Tabor, Noble Death, 129–83.

20

21

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of which was quoted by Eusebius (H. E. 4.8.5), may have made an impression on Tertullian.23 Moreover, this may bear some connection to the statement at the end of the Apology to which I have already alluded. In 15.2, Justin expresses hope that his Apology will be published, and thus ‘we will make it manifest to all, that they may be converted (μεταθῶνται); for we composed this treatise for this end alone.’ So Justin’s hope is that his ‘apology’ for the innocence of Christians in the face of hostility and persecution leading to death will have an evangelistic end. It is worth recalling a passage from the Dialogue with Trypho which, along with the whole of the 2 Apology, is extremely important for our appreciation of the development of the Christian concept of martyrdom. In Dial. 110.4, Justin writes, For though we are beheaded and crucified, and exposed to beasts and chains and fire and all other forms of torture, it is plain that we do not forsake the confession of our faith, but the more we are persecuted, the more do others in ever-increasing numbers embrace the faith and become worshippers of God through the name of Jesus. Just as when one cuts away the parts of the vine that have borne fruit, it so bursts forth that other flourishing and fruit bearing branches shoot up – in that very way so it is also with us. For the vine that has been planted by God, and Christ the Saviour, is His people.

This highly rhetorical passage anticipates and perhaps even influenced Tertul‑ lian whose succinct phrase, semen est sanguis Christianorum is quoted in all the books. The use of the image of flourishing new branches appearing on the vine that has been pruned by persecution is a sophisticated exposition of the positive gains of martyrdom. The context of this passage is important.24 Justin has just quoted at length Micah 4, which includes ‘And every person shall sit under his own vine’ and the promise that the Lord will make her that is afflicted a remnant and her that is oppressed a strong nation.25 This is a classic ‘two parousias’ passage, a very important theme in the Dialogue.26 Justin says to his Jewish opponent Trypho: I am aware that your teachers admit that this passage refers to Christ. Justin continues: I also know that they affirm that Christ has not yet come. He then 23  See the references to Tertullian’s Apology in A. Wartelle, ed., Saint Justin, Apologies. Introduction, texte critique, traduction, commentaire et index (Paris: Études augustiniennes, 1987), 311. 24  Dial. 108 or 109 is taken by many as the start of Part III of the Dialogue; see further An‑ ette Rudolph, “Denn wir sind jenes Volk …”: die neue Gottesverehrung in Justins Dialog mit dem Juden Tryphon in historisch-theologischer Sicht (Bonn: Borengässer, 1999), 67–82, and Skarsaune, Proof from Prophecy, 182–90. 25  This is the only time Micah 4 is used by Justin (though note 1 Apol. 39 which uses Isa. 2:3–4, which is parallel to Micah 4). On the text, see Skarsaune, Proof from Prophecy, 18–19, 466 with reference to the work of D. Barthélemy. 26  See my “The Two Parousias of Christ: Justin Martyr and Matthew” [[reprinted in this volume]] and Skarsaune, Proof from Prophecy, 155. One finds a strikingly similar passage in Diognet. 7.8; see further the references in Marcovich, Iustini Martyris, ad loc. Dial. 110.4.

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says, ‘But they have missed the point of all the cited passages, namely that two comings of Christ have been proclaimed: the first, in which he has been shown to be subject to suffering and crucified (σταυρούμενος), without glory or honour; and the second, in which he will come from the heavens in glory.’ Then follows Justin’s claim that Christians in his own day are fulfilling Micah 4, deriving this ability ‘from the Father through the crucified one (σταυρωθέντος)’. Given the emphasis on Jesus’s crucifixion in this context, it is all the more strik‑ ing to notice Justin describe Christians as ‘crucified’ (σταυρούμενοι) in his own day. There seems to be a clear reference here to the crucifixion of Christians as imitatio Christi. The repetition of σταυρόω, twice referring to Jesus, then once to Christians confirms this. As striking as this is, it is notable that martyrdom as imitatio is not more explicit in Justin, contrary to what we might have expected.27 But let’s inquire further. Were Christians in Justin’s day crucified or is this refer‑ ence a touch of fancy rhetoric, perhaps in indirect or even direct dependence on Matt. 23:34? The same question can be asked of Matt. 23:34: Jesus addressing scribes and Pharisees: ‘I am sending to you prophets, sages and scribes (Christian prophets and Christian sages and scribes), some of whom you will kill and crucify, and some you will flog in your synagogues and pursue from town to town …’. The parallel passage in Luke 11:49 does not refer to ‘crucifixion’. Does Matt. 23:34 imply that Christians in the evangelist’s day were actually crucified? Now the commentators do not know what to do with Matt. 23:34. Some are aware that it does not make sense to suggest that Jewish opponents of Matthean Christians will crucify them, for crucifixion was not a Jewish pun‑ ishment. So they fudge: they either say that Jewish leaders will incite Roman authorities to crucify Christians or they suggest that the reference to crucifixion may be a later gloss. Or they ignore the problem. John 21:18–19 is equally fascinating and equally problematic. Peter is told that when he grows old: ‘You will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.’ The Johannine narrator adds: Jesus said this ‘to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God.’ Is this a reference to Peter’s crucifixion? I think not, though this passage was soon interpreted in this way in the Acts of Peter, in the famous Quo Vadis scene. In his letter to the Romans, Ignatius writes: ‘Let fire and cross and battles with wild beasts … come upon me, only let me reach Jesus Christ’ (5.3). Ignatius yearns to imitate the cross of Christ, but does he really expect ‘fire and cross’? Perhaps he does, for as Tacitus recalls, writing c. 120 c.e. concerning the Great 27  Recall that the same is true of the Martyrdom of Polycarp: in ch. 10 where imitatio is explicit, there are good grounds for seeing this as a later interpolation.

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Fire in Rome under Nero: ‘Those commonly called Christians … who confessed were arrested … convicted not so much on a charge of arson as because of their hatred of the human race …. They were nailed to crosses to be set on fire’ (Ann. 15.44). So it is not impossible that Justin has in mind memories of actual cruci‑ fixions of Christians, though of course it is difficult to be certain.

4. Socrates and Christ I have suggested that there is a hint of the theme of imitatio Christi in Dial. 110, but for Justin the primary comparison is with Socrates. We therefore turn briefly to two key passages. In the first Justin points to a similarity. As the demons incited people who rejoiced in wickedness to plot the death of Socrates, so too with us: And when Socrates tried, by true reasoning and definite evidence, to bring these things to light, and deliver people from the demons, then the demons themselves, by means of people who rejoiced in wickedness, compassed his death, as an atheist and impious person, on the charge of introducing new divinities; and in our case they show a similar activity (1 Apol. 5).

In the second passage it is the difference between Socrates and Christ that is un‑ derlined. The death of Socrates did not inspire others to follow his example. But many from all walks of life have come to believe in Christ – and to despise death: Socrates was accused of the very same crimes as ourselves …. For no one trusted in Socrates so as to die for this teaching. But in Christ, who was partially known even by Socrates … not only philosophers and scholars believed, but also artisans and people entirely uneducated, despising both glory, and fear, and death (2 Apol. 10).

Here once again we have a restrained reference to the motif of imitatio Christi. Justin’s observation that both the elite in Rome and uneducated folk became Christians is, moreover, an interesting reflection on the social makeup of the church in Rome in the middle of the second century.

5. The Acts of Justin Martyr Gary Bisbee’s study of Pre-Decian Acts of Martyrs and Commentarii is worth bringing into the discussion.28 His work was a close study of ὑπομνηματισμοί (or commentarii), the legal term for records of trials taken down by official scribes. We now have about a hundred or so of these from the second and early third 28  Gary A. Bisbee, Pre-Decian Acts of Martyrs and Commentarii (Harvard Dissertations in Religion 22; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988).

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centuries, many among the Oxyrhynchus papyri. Often these seem to be private copies made from the official records, suggesting that there was easy access to these records – perhaps when the commentarii were posted publicly before being transferred to permanent archival storage. Thus, it was possible for Christians to obtain copies through normal (legal) channels. Bisbee draws four basic conclusions from his study: (i) records of trials, commentarii, from the same period are of a consistent form; (ii) the overall form of the commentarius may be divided into four sections: caput, body, krisis, and concluding matters; (iii) within these four sections there are smaller units that also assume definite forms; (iv) form criticism can be used to analyze acta martyrum according to commentarius-form and thus reveal whether the acta were derived from a commentarius. Therefore, we should not exclude the possibility that a commentarius may lie at the base of a tradition or that the commentarius form could have influenced the form given to oral traditions about the trials of martyrs – Jesus’ trial before Pilate included. As it happens, the trial of Jesus before Pilate does not reveal significant links to the commentarius form, but the Acts of Justin do. As Bisbee suggests, it is ‘probable that Acts of Justin are ultimately derived from the commentarius of Justin’s trial.’29 This is not to suggest that one can recover the ipsissima verba of the trial (there are clearly strong rhetorical tendencies at work in the Acta), but we do discover in the Acts of Justin some striking similarities in form to the triple martyrdom in Rome with which we began. These pre-Decian Acta tend to open with one of two concerns: i) a demand to swear allegiance to the Emperor or the gods; or ii) posing the question: are you a Christian? In the Second Apology, immediately after Justin describes the three recent martyrdoms in Rome, he records his expectation that the Cynic philosopher Crescens will plot against him (2 Apol. 3). Eusebius later cites Tatian to the effect that this Crescens was, indeed, the cause of Justin’s betrayal to death (H. E. 4.16.7–9). According to the Acts of Justin, Justin faces questioning as to whether he is a Christian: ‘The prefect Rusticus said: “You do admit, then, that you are a Christian?” [Χριστιανὸς] “Yes, I am” [Ναί, Χριστιανός εἰμι], answered Justin’ (3.4 [Rec. A]; similarly Chariton, Charito, Evelpistus, Paeon, Hierax and Liberian).30 In the end, in conjunction with his confession to be a Christian, Jus‑ tin is also condemned for refusing to sacrifice to the gods (5.6). As in the triple martyrdom that he narrates in his 2 Apology, Justin, if the Acts that bear his name  Pre-Decian Acts, 118.  It is striking to note the apparently early form of Christology expressed previously in the Acts, in which Jesus is referred to as παῖς: ‘The prefect Rusticus said: “What belief do you mean?” Justin said: “The belief that we piously hold regarding the God of the Christians, whom we alone hold to be the craftsman of the whole world from the beginning, and also regarding Jesus Christ, the son / servant (παῖδα) of God who was foretold by the prophets as one who was to come down to mankind as a herald of salvation and a teacher of good doctrines”’ (2.5 [Rec. A]); cf. Acts 3:13, 26; 4:27, 30; Matt. 12:18; Did. 9.2–3; 10.2–3. 29 30

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can be taken as preserving the essence of a commentarius from his hearing, also comes to his end for his identity as a Christian.

Conclusion By way of conclusion, we can pose a few questions and hear the answers Justin supplies. Why were Justin and some of his contemporaries put to death by the Roman authorities? From 1 Apol. 5, the charge appears to be introducing new divinities and, by implication, rejecting the gods of Rome. From the opening of the 2 Apology, we see that the Christians were opposed by those who have been reproved by them for their faults. Here and in the Acts, mere confession of the name Χριστιανὸς seems to be enough to merit prosecution, for such people were deemed to be subversives. To what extent can the influence of Jewish and / or Greco-Roman traditions be detected in the passages discussed in this chapter? This question has been keenly debated in recent discussions of the emergence of second century Chris‑ tian views of martyrdom. Some scholars have emphasised the role of the Roman tradition of philosophers who were put to death. G. W. Bowersock, for example, has defended a radical version of this hypothesis and denied that the Jewish tra‑ dition of martyrdom, especially that of 2 and 4 Maccabees, played a significant role. In his opinion, ‘martyrdom’ first came into being in the Roman Empire and was inextricably rooted in a society and culture peculiar to that world – hence the title of his book, Martyrdom and Rome. On the other hand, the traditional view that 2 and 4 Maccabees were very in‑ fluential on the emerging concept of martyrdom still has supporters. It is difficult to find any explicit trace of either of the Maccabean writings in Justin, though we do see the importance of Socrates as a martyr-figure. This is of course not enough to settle the debate, but can be seen as an important straw in the wind. Bowersock’s further claim, however, that Asia Minor ‘was the homeland of the whole phenomenon of Christian martyrdom’31 can only be sustained by ignoring Justin, as he cheerfully does, for Justin’s accounts of the triple martryrdoms (and indeed his own martyrdom) are all set in Rome. How prominent is the imitatio Christi motif? Perhaps not as prominent as we might have expected, but as I hope to have shown, there are hints of this in Justin. Arguably in Justin we see the beginning of a trajectory that comes to fuller fruition in the decades and centuries after his death. Justin, moreover, underlines the importance of the death of martyrs for mission and evangelism. Again, we find ourselves at the beginning of a trajectory (recall Tertullian half a century after Justin).  Martyrdom and Rome, 79.

31

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Finally, I hope I have shown that there are several passages in Justin’s writ‑ ings that deserve more prominence than they have received in discussions of the emergence of the concept of martyrdom in early Christianity. Justin is an important witness to some nascent themes in connection with early Christian discourse about martyrdom and suicide, and he deserves to be taken seriously as an important witness to this burgeoning tradition.

Chapter 25

Aspects of Early Christian and Jewish Worship: Pliny and the Kerygma Petrou [[84]] In my view none of Ralph Martin’s many distinguished contributions to New Testament scholarship surpasses his fine doctoral dissertation published in the SNTS Monograph series in 1967 as Carmen Christi. Philippians ii. 5–11 in Recent Interpretation and in the Setting of Early Christian Worship. In the opening pages he discusses briefly the comments on early Christian worship which Pliny, Governor of Pontus and Bithynia, passed on to the Roman Emperor Trajan in AD 111–12. He then examines other references to early Christian wor‑ ship from this period before embarking on his detailed and meticulous study of Phil. 2.6–11. I am convinced that this method is sound: it is often helpful in studies of earliest Christianity to work back from later, clearer evidence to the more prob‑ lematic evidence of the New Testament writings. In this paper I shall also start with Pliny’s comments on early Christian worship before turning to the Kerygma Petrou, which was written at about the same time as Pliny’s letter to Trajan.1 Pliny wrote as an astute ‘outsider’ who would have been aware of many of the differences between pagan, Jewish and Christian worship. The fragmentary Kerygma Petrou, written from the perspective of a Christian ‘insider’, underlines the differences explicitly. I hope to show that while less astute pagan observers than Pliny would have been struck by the many similarities between Jewish and Christian worship, both Jewish and Christian ‘insiders’ would have been well aware of striking differ‑ ences. Taken together, these writings confirm that early in the second century Christian worship differed [[85]] in several fundamental respects from syna‑ gogue worship. I do not doubt for a moment the enormous influence of Temple and synagogue worship on the development of Christian worship, but there were important differences, some of the roots of which are very deep.2

1  Since the fragments on early Christian worship in the Kerygma Petrou do not refer to the use of hymns, they are not discussed in Ralph Martin’s Carmen Christi. 2  For a useful discussion of recent scholarship on both Jewish and Christian worship, see Paul Bradshaw, The Search for the Origins of Christian Worship (London: SPCK, 1992), especially pp. 1–55. Bradshaw does not discuss either Pliny’s comments or the Kerygma Petrou.

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Pliny In his letter to Trajan Pliny refers to some former Christians who had abandoned their faith; they were now worshipping Trajan’s statue and the images of the gods, and were prepared to curse Christ. They asserted that this had been the sum total of their guilt or error, namely that on a fixed day (stato die) it was their custom to meet before dawn, to sing a hymn by turns (i.e. antiphonally) to Christ as to a god (carmenque Christo quasi deo dicere secum invicem), and to bind themselves by oath, not to some crime, but not to commit theft or banditry or adultery, not to betray a trust, not to refuse a deposit if requested. After doing this they were in the habit of parting and coming together again for a meal, but food common and harmless; they had stopped doing this after my edict, by which ac‑ cording to your instructions I had banned clubs.3

This is the first report on early Christian worship which we have from an ‘out‑ sider’. Before discussing five points which are of particular interest, I shall comment on its social and religious setting. The Graeco-Roman religious context does not need extended discussion here, but since this passage is not normally considered in the context of contemporary Judaism, I must first show why it is plausible to read Pliny’s comments from this perspective. Pliny must have had dealings with Jews during his prominent legal and political career in Rome before his appointment to Bithynia and Pontus in AD 109 or 110. His uncle and adoptive father, Pliny the Elder, included a number of factual references to Jews in his Natural [[86]] History, a work which Pliny knew and greatly admired (see Letters III.5). Pliny’s friend, close associate and correspondent Tacitus comments extensively (and at times inaccurately and adversely) on the origin, laws, rites, and history of the Jews (History V.1–13).4 Although Pliny does not mention Judaism or Jews in any of his letters to Trajan, it is highly likely that he would have known about the presence of strong Jewish communities in Bithynia and Pontus.

3  I have quoted Molly Whittaker’s translation, Jews and Christians: Graeco-Roman Views (Cambridge 1984), p. 151. However I have translated the crucial phrase Christo quasi deo as ‘to Christ as to a god’ rather than ‘to Christ as God’. See A. N. Sherwin-White, The Letters of Pliny: a Historical and Social Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon, 1966). Sherwin-White notes (p. 702) that on the whole students of the development of early Christian liturgy have not made effective use of this passage. 4  Ronald Syme suggests that Tacitus’ proconsulate of Asia may have been concurrent with part of Pliny’s tenure in Bithynia, and his experiences comparable. Tacitus (Oxford: Claren‑ don, 1958), I, p. 81; see also II, pp. 466–9 and Appendix 23, ‘Tacitus’ Proconsulate of Asia’, pp. 664–5.

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Perhaps as many as a million Jews lived in Asia Minor at the time Pliny wrote.5 We now have evidence of over fifty Jewish communities in the region.6 About sixty or seventy years before Pliny wrote to Trajan, Philo noted that there were Jewish ‘colonies’ (ἀποικίαι) in ‘most of Asia, right up to Bithynia and the corners of Pontus’ (Leg. 281–2). Some thirty years before Pliny wrote to Trajan about troublesome Christians, Luke had referred to the presence of Jews from Pontus in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost (Acts 2.9), and had mentioned that in Corinth Paul met Aquila, a Jew from Pontus (Acts 18.2). An even more influential Aquila came from Pontus in Pliny’s day: Aquila the Jewish proselyte who translated the Hebrew Scriptures into Greek.7 Several important Jewish inscriptions have been found in Bithynia.8 Further indirect evidence for the presence of Jewish communities in Bithynia and Pontus comes from the northern coast of the Black Sea. Jewish communities there were probably established as offshoots of Jewish communities in Bithynia and Pontus on the southern coasts of the Black Sea.9 A number of Jewish inscrip‑ tions have been found in and near Panticapaeum, one of which is dated 377 of the Bosporan era, i.e. AD 81. Another particularly important inscription (prob‑ ably [[87]] first century AD) almost certainly refers to a synagogue of ‘Jews and God-worshippers’.10 Evidence from the provinces to the south of Bithynia and Pontus, especially Phrygia and Caria, is much more extensive. Recent archaeological discoveries confirm the accuracy of literary references to thriving Jewish communities.11 In short, in Pliny’s time as governor in Bithynia and Pontus, Christians and Jews are likely to have lived and worshipped cheek by jowl as minority com‑ munities in a dominant pagan environment. Almost without exception, wherever Christianity flourished in the early second century there were also thriving Jew‑ ish communities. There is increasing evidence that they were frequently rivals.

 5  This is P. van der Horst’s estimate, ‘Juden und Christen in Aphrodisias’, in Juden und Christen in der Antike (Kampen: Kok, 1990), p. 126. Van der Horst argues that in Aphrodisias (and perhaps elsewhere nearby) the Jewish community may have been so strong that Christian‑ ity failed to take root in the pre-Constantinian period.  6  See P. Trebilco, Jewish Communities in Asia Minor (Cambridge: CUP, 1991), p. 11.  7  See E. Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, Vol. III.1 (Rev. ed.: ed. G. Vermes et al.; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1986), § 33A, pp. 493–8.  8  E. Schürer, The History of the Jewish People, Vol. III.1, § 31, p. 36.  9  Philo does not mention Jewish communities on the northern coast of the Black Sea, but they were probably established there soon after his day. 10  See P. Trebilco, Jewish Communities, pp. 155–6; J. Reynolds and R. Tannenbaum, Jews and Godfearers at Aphrodisias (Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society, 1987), pp. 48–66. 11  In addition to the books cited in the previous note, see E. Schürer, The History of the Jewish People, Vol. III.l, § 31, pp. 1–176.

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Both were seeking to attract God worshippers; ‘Judaism and Christianity were waging a war over the pagan soul’.12 Many pagan observers at the beginning of the second century must have noted that in contrast with their own diverse patterns of religious practise, in several important respects Christian and Jewish worship was similar. (a) Some pagan religion was annual (e.g. Saturnalia), some was seasonal (e.g. harvest festivals), some was daily (e.g. offerings to the lares et penates at household shrines), some was irregular (e.g. oracular consultations), but there were no regular weekly observances. On the other hand, for both Jews and Christians worship on a fixed day each week was central. (b) Jews and Christians used the same Scriptures in weekly worship, and even shared some of the same methods of interpretation. (c) There were no ‘sermons’ in any of the diverse forms of pagan worship. In both Jewish and Christian worship, however, expositions of readings from au‑ thoritative writings were prominent. (d) Temples, sacrifices, and statues were of the very essence of pagan religion. All were conspicuous by their absence from Jewish and Christian worship in Asia Minor.13 Jews and Christians alike spurned the local cults. With their monotheistic worship and [[88]] high ethical standards, Jews and Christians could easily have been confused by fellow inhabitants of many city states in Asia Minor. In spite of these obvious similarities, more perceptive observers such as Pliny would surely have been struck by the differences between Jews and Christians in their patterns and forms of worship. In the paragraphs which follow I shall discuss Pliny’s brief comments to Trajan on early Christian worship from this perspective. At the outset, however, a note of caution. Pliny does not give a full account of early Christian worship. He tells Trajan only as much as he needs to. His primary concern is to stress that while on the one hand the disloyalty of Christians to the emperor called for drastic measures, on the other their high ethical standards confirmed that they were not common criminals but adherents of a ‘degrading superstition’.

1. Worship on a Fixed Day Pliny’s phrase ‘stato die’, ‘on a fixed day’, confirms that he is aware that Chris‑ tians do not worship on the same fixed day of the week as Jews. Early in the second century most Romans in public life were well aware of the Jewish Sab‑

12  P. W. van der Horst, Ancient Jewish Epitaphs. An Introductory Survey of a Millenium of Jewish Funerary Epigraphy (300 BCE–700 CE) (Kampen: Kok, 1991), pp. 135–6. 13  Tacitus, Histories V. 5.4, notes that the Jews ‘allow no statues in their cities, much less in their temples. This compliment is not accorded to kings nor honour to the Emperor.’

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bath.14 For example, Pliny’s friend Tacitus (History IV.11–18) knew about the Jewish Sabbath, as did Pliny’s uncle and adoptive father Pliny the Elder (Natural History 31.24).15 If Christians in Bithynia and Pontus in Pliny’s day worshipped on the Jewish Sabbath, he would not have used the phrase ‘stato die’. By the early second century Sunday worship seems to have been the norm for most Christians. Writing about the same time as Pliny, Ignatius of Antioch refers to Christians ‘who no longer keep Sabbath, but live in accordance with the Lord’s day …’ (Magnesians 9.1).16 From the context it is possible that Ignatius does know of some Christians who were advocating Sabbath observance. Why did Christians abandon Sabbath observance and worship on a new day? In comments which follow the passage just quoted, Ignatius [[89]] explicitly links Sunday worship with the Lord’s resurrection. The Epistle of Barnabas, written perhaps a decade after Ignatius wrote to the Magnesians, makes the same link. In Chapter 15 Barnabas uses a string of OT passages to attack Sabbath ob‑ servance. At the culmination of his argument he quotes Isa. 1.13 and then writes, Do you see what God means (in Scripture)? It is not your present Sabbaths that are ac‑ ceptable, but the Sabbath which I have made, in the which, when I have set all things at rest, I will make the beginning of the eighth day which is the beginning of another world. Wherefore we keep the eighth day for rejoicing, in the which also Jesus rose from the dead, and having been manifested ascended into the heavens. (15.8–9).

A generation later in his Dialogue with Trypho Justin developed still further an ‘eighth day’ theology as part of his rejection of Sabbath observance, and his de‑ fence of Christian worship on Sunday. The ‘eighth day’ is the first day of the new week, on which Christ rose. (See especially Dialogue 41.4; also 24.1; 138.1). In Ignatius, Barnabas, and Justin there is a similar pattern of argument. All three writers reject Sabbath observance and underpin Christian Sunday worship by stressing that Sunday is the Lord’s day, the day of resurrection. Differentia‑ tion from Judaism and ‘resurrection day’ theology go hand in hand. Which came first? The traditional answer stresses that Christian convictions about the resurrection of Jesus were decisive in the shift from Sabbath to Sunday. The historical evidence, however, is not quite so straightforward. For the follow‑ ers of Jesus in the immediate post-Easter period, proclamation of the gospel to Gentiles and worship on a new day would have been equally dramatic departures from established practice. Whereas in some New Testament traditions proclama‑ 14  For Graeco-Roman comments on the Jewish Sabbath, see Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, ed. M. Stern (3 vols.; Jerusalem: Israeli Academy of Sciences and Humani‑ ties, 1974–80); M. Whittaker, Jews and Christians: Graeco-Roman Views, pp. 63–73. 15  In this brief note Pliny the Elder states, but without comment, that ‘In Judaea there is a stream which dries up every Sabbath’. 16  The exact date of the epistles of Ignatius cannot be established. A date between AD 100 and 118 is now generally accepted. See W. R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), p. 5.

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tion of the gospel to all nations is linked inextricably to the resurrection of Christ (Mt. 28.18; Lk. 24.47; cf. Rom. 1.3–4, 16; Gal. 1.12–16), traditions about the resurrection do not contain even a hint that henceforth followers of Jesus were to worship on a new day. In my judgement 1 Cor. 16.2; Acts 20.7; Rev. 1.10; Didache 14.1 all refer to Sunday worship, but in none of these passages is choice of a new day for worship explicitly legitimated by reference to the resurrection. The evidence for the origin of Sunday as the Christian day for worship is mea‑ gre, and some of it is very difficult to interpret. Even though we cannot trace the earlier roots of their defence of Sunday [[90]] worship, theological convictions about the resurrection of Jesus were probably influential long before Ignatius, Barnabas and Justin wrote in the second century. Social factors almost certainly played a role: in order to differentiate themselves sharply from local Jewish synagogues, Christians chose a new day on which to worship. The proportion of theological and social factors probably varied from place to place, and time to time.17

2. Exclusive Worship of Christ Pliny knows that Christian worship of Christ differs from pagan observance of the cults of local gods. He informs Trajan that some former Christians had confirmed their apostasy by ‘worshipping both your statue and the images of the gods and cursing Christ’. If worship of Christ could simply have been added on to observance of local cults, there would not have been a problem. It was the unyielding insistence of Christians on exclusive worship of Christ which was perceived to be politically subversive, for it carried as a corollary disrespect for the official cults of the state gods and of the Emperor himself. If, as I have argued, Pliny knew a good deal about Jews and their distinc‑ tive patterns of worship, he must have been aware that in spite of similarities, Christian worship was quite distinctive in one crucial respect: it was focussed on Christ. Pliny surely shared his good friend Tacitus’s knowledge that Christ had been executed in the fairly recent past by the procurator Pontius Pilate (Annals 15.44.2 f.).

17  The standard discussion of the origin of Sunday remains W. Rordorf, Sunday (ET; Lon‑ don: SCM, 1968). In his From Sabbath to Sunday (Rome: Gregorian University Press, 1977), S. Bacchiocchi claims that the need for Gentile Christians to differentiate themselves from Judaism was an important factor in the early Christian choice of Sunday for worship. Although he overstates his case, this general point is well made. However, his claim that the adoption of Sunday as a new day of worship first took place in Rome early in the second century (and hence has no support in the NT writings) is not convincing.

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3. Hymn Singing Pliny’s comment that Christians sang a hymn antiphonally to Christ is equally intriguing. Hymn singing and the use of musical instruments were prominent in many forms of pagan worship, so ‘singing a hymn’ in the context of worship would not have seemed unusual to Pliny.18 If [[91]] Pliny was well informed about synagogue worship, would Christian use of hymns have been seen as a similarity or a difference? It is not as easy to answer this question as we might suppose. Prayers, and readings and exposition of Torah and the prophets were undoubtedly at the heart of synagogue worship, but the use of hymns in the first and second centuries AD is not well attested. It is often claimed that unlike Temple worship in Jerusalem, music was not used in synagogues until Byzantine times.19 Although both Philo and Qumran seem to provide contrary evidence on closer inspection that evidence is not directly relevant. Philo’s comments on the ‘char‑ ismatic’ worship of the Therapeutae are striking. The President ‘expounds the sacred scriptures’ and then ‘sings a hymn composed as an address to God, either a new one of his own composition or an old one by poets of an earlier day …’. Hymn singing, often antiphonal, by choirs which include men and women then follows (Vit. Cont. 78–89). Eusebius was so impressed by similarities with early Christian worship that he believed that Philo was referring to the first generation of St Mark’s Christian converts in Alexandria (Hist. Ecc. ii.17)!20 Philo, however, is not describing a gathering on the Sabbath for worship. The references to hymns in worship summarised in the previous paragraph form part of Philo’s description of a special festival occasion, probably Pentecost. Philo does refer briefly to the Therapeutae’s composition of hymns and psalms for use in solitary daily spiritual exercises (Vit. Cont. 29), but in his comments on their Sabbath assemblies he does not say anything about the use of music (30–9). The Qumran Thanksgiving Hymns (1QH) were probably intended for private use, or for use in the liturgical services of the Qumran community. G. Vermes speculates that they may have been used during the feast of the renewal of the covenant on the Feast of Weeks (Pentecost) and draws a parallel with the Thera‑ 18  On pagan hymns, see, for example, Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians in the Mediterranean World from the Second Century AD to the Conversion of Constantine (London: Penguin, 1988), pp. 114–16. 19  See I. Elbogen, Der jüdische Gottesdienst (1931; 3rd ed. Hildesheim: Georg Olms), p. 502. Cf. Paul Bradshaw, The Search for the Origins of Christian Worship, p. 23: ‘There is … an almost total lack of documentary evidence for the inclusion of psalms in synagogue worship.’ 20  This view has been revived without success in modern times. See R. H. Colson’s discus‑ sion in his introduction to De Vita Contemplativa in Vol. IX of the Loeb edition of Philo’s writings (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard, 1941), pp. 103–111.

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peutae, the Egyptian ‘contemplative Essenes’.21 Be that as it may, there is no evidence in the [[92]] Qumran writings which suggests that the Thanksgiving Hymns were used in a Sabbath liturgy. Philo and the Qumran writings, then, do not refer to the use of music in syna‑ gogue worship on the Sabbath. However, two recently published inscriptions offer important fresh evidence. An epitaph from a Jewish catacomb in Rome reads, ‘Here lies Gaianos, secretary, psalm-singer (ψαλμωδός), lover of the Law. May his sleep be in peace.’22 The term ψαλμωδός refers to his formal role as a cantor in synagogue worship. The inscription is difficult to date, but others from the same catacomb come from the third or fourth century AD. The now justly famous third century inscription from Aphrodisias records a charitable donation to a synagogue community by Jews (including a few proselytes) and ‘God-worshippers’.23 On face a, line 15 refers to Benjamin, a psalm-singer (ψαλμο[λόγος?]). The editors conclude their careful discussion by suggesting that it looks as though ψαλμο[λόγος?] here makes it even more probable that psalm-singing (in Greek, no doubt) was common in synagogue services in the western diaspora by the third century, and that it involved a choir, or at least individual singers, rather than general congregational singing alone.

These two inscriptions are much later than Pliny’s day, but they suggest that early in the second century Christian use of psalms and hymns in regular weekly worship may well have had some precedent in synagogue worship.24 The refer‑ ences in 1 Cor. 14.15, 26; Col. 3.16; Eph. 5.19 to the singing of psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs suggest that they were prominent, perhaps even central, in early Christian worship. Two of these passages link worship and Christian ex‑ perience of the indwelling Christ (Col. 3.15) or the Spirit (Eph. 5.18). Clearly this is a distinctive feature of early Christian worship and experience. From the evidence which has come down to us (and fresh discoveries may well modify the picture unexpectedly), psalms and hymns seem to have been more prominent in Christian worship than in the synagogue liturgy, but we cannot say more than that. [[93]] Pliny’s reference to a carmen in Christian worship probably points to a characteristic emphasis of Christian worship in comparison with synagogue worship, rather than to a unique feature.

 The Dead Sea Scrolls: Qumran in Perspective (London: Collins, 1977), p. 57 and p. 178.  For the full Greek text and discussion see G. H. R. Horsley, New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity (Macquarie University, 1981), I, pp. 115–6. 23  For the text and full discussion see Reynolds and Tannenbaum, Jews and Godfearers at Aphrodisias. 24  Reynolds and Tannenbaum, p. 46, refer to 3 Macc. 6.32, 35; 7.13, 16 as a probable indica‑ tion from the first century BC or first century AD that Jewish congregational worship (at least in Alexandria) included the singing of psalms and hymns. 21 22

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4. The Oath Pliny’s reference to the oath (sacramentum in Pliny can only mean an oath) taken by Christians in the context of worship has been much discussed. Christians bound themselves by oath ‘not to commit theft or banditry or adultery, not to betray a trust, not to refuse a trust of a deposit if requested’. Since the last two items are not part of the Decalogue, this should probably be taken as a general list of Christian (and Jewish) ethical teaching rather than as a reference to the use of the Decalogue in Christian worship.25 Jewish and Christian use of the Decalogue is fascinating. In synagogue wor‑ ship recitation of the Decalogue before the shema is attested from about 150 BC in the Nash papyrus. In the middle of the second century (most clearly in Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora) Christians began to single out the Decalogue as that part of the Law which should be kept by Christians who had abandoned its ‘ritual’ aspects. The Decalogue was later dropped in synagogue worship. Why? A rabbinic tradition (j. Ber. 21a; b. Ber. 12a) says that its use was discontinued because of the ‘insinuations of the sectarians’. This may well be a rare case of early Christian practice influencing the development of Jewish liturgy: the rab‑ binic tradition may be a reaction to the priority and centrality given by Christians to the Decalogue at the expense of the rest of Torah.26

5. Parting and Coming Together Again for a Meal Unfortunately Pliny’s comment on a second meeting for a meal is too enig‑ matic to enable us to make meaningful comparisons with contemporary pagan and Jewish worship.27 Pliny notes that at the end of the meeting before dawn, Christians ‘were in the habit of parting and coming together again for a meal, but food common and harmless; they had stopped doing this after my edict, by which according to [[94]] your (Trajan’s) instructions I had banned clubs’. We do not know at what time of the day the second meal took place. Was it a simple communal meal, the Agape perhaps? Or was it a eucharist? The phrase ‘com‑ mon and harmless food’ (cibum promiscuum et innoxium) could refer to either. There is a further puzzle. Who was prepared to abandon the second meeting following Pliny’s edict banning clubs? The Latin is unclear at this point. If Pliny 25  See A. N. Sherwin-White, The Letters of Pliny, pp. 706–7, for a discussion of suggestions that sacramentum is a reference to baptism and/or the eucharist. 26  See further, E. Lerle, ‘Liturgische Reformen des Synagogengottesdienstes als Antwort auf die judenchristliche Mission des ersten Jahrhunderte’, NovT 10 (1968) pp. 31–42, esp. 34–5. 27  E. Schürer, The History of the Jewish People, Vol. III.1, pp. 144–5, notes that just as with the pagan cult-associations, ‘festival meals’ were arranged by Jewish communities, even in the diaspora.

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intended to indicate that the apostates stopped attending a second meeting, then it may well have been a eucharist. But if he is referring to the whole Christian community, then it is unlikely that they would have been willing to agree to stop meeting for a eucharistic meal.

The ‘Kerygma Petrou’ I now turn to comments from an ‘insider’ which were written at about the same time as the ‘outsider’ Pliny’s report on the nature of early Christian worship. In nine passages in his writings Clement of Alexandria quotes from or refers to the Kerygma Petrou. Clement has a high regard for this work, which he assumes was composed by Peter. Since it was used by the Valentinian Gnostic Heracleon in the middle of the second century, and by the apologist Aristides who wrote during the reign of Hadrian, it was almost certainly written at about the same time as Pliny wrote to Trajan, or only shortly afterwards.28 By far the longest quotation concerns early Christian worship. Clement quotes (and comments briefly on) four paragraphs which [[95]] clearly originally be‑ longed together in the Kerygma Petrou. The extract opens with a statement about the one God ‘who created the beginning of all things and who has the power to set an end’. It is followed by an exhortation ‘not to worship this God in the manner of the Greeks’ and standard Christian polemic against idols and animal sacrifices. The two paragraphs which follow are of particular interest: Neither worship (σέβεσθε) God in the manner of the Jews; for they also, who think that they alone know God, do not understand, serving (λατρεύοντες) angels and archangels, the month and the moon. And when the moon does not shine, they do not celebrate the so-called First Sabbath, also they do not celebrate the new moon or the feast of unleav‑ ened bread or the feast (of Tabernacles) or the great day (of atonement)…

28  For a fuller discussion of the date of the Kerygma Petrou, see W. Schneemelcher in New Testament Apocrypha II, ed. E. Hennecke (ET; London: Lutterworth, 1965), pp. 94–8. (The section on the Kerygma Petrou in the fifth German edition of Neutestamentliche Apokryphen II, ed. W. Schneemelcher [Tübingen: Mohr, 1989], contains only a few changes from the English translation of the fourth German edition). See also R. M. Grant, Greek Apologists of the Second Century (London: SCM, 1988), pp. 34–43. Grant accepts that Aristides probably depends on the Kerygma Petrou. The literary relationship seems to me to be so close as to leave little doubt. Chapter 14 of the Syriac version of Aristides seems to be an abbreviation of the Kerygma Petrou; the reference to the shining of the moon (discussed below) has been omit‑ ted, no doubt because its significance was no longer appreciated. For an English translation of both the Greek and Syriac versions of Aristides, see the Additional Volume of the Ante-Nicene Christian Library, ed. A. Menzies (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1897). For an introduction, critical edition of the text, and commentary, see J. Geffcken, Zwei griechische Apologeten (Leipzig and Berlin: B. G. Teubner, 1907), especially pp. 82–3 on ch. 14.

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Worship (σέβεσθε) God through Christ in a new way. For we have found in the Scriptures, how the Lord says: ‘Behold, I make with you a new covenant, not as I made (one) with your Fathers in Mount Horeb’. A new one has he made with us. For what has reference to the Greeks and Jews is old. But we are Christians, who as a third race (τρίτῳ γένει) worship him in a new way.29

Although Pliny does not relate early Christian worship directly to pagan or to Jewish worship, in my comments above I have tried to show that his report to Trajan can be considered from this perspective. The Kerygma Petrou provides strong support, for it differentiates sharply Christian worship from the worship of the (pagan) Greeks on the one hand, and from the Jews on the other. The fragment quoted above is our earliest explicit evidence for Christian self-identi‑ fication as a tertium genus, a ‘third people’ over against both the Graeco-Roman world and Judaism;30 the roots of this view are found in several New Testament writings.31 There is fierce polemic against the ‘old’ Jewish way of worshipping God by ‘serving’ angels and archangels, and the month and the [[96]] moon. By switching from σέβεσθε to λατρεύοντες, the author makes a careful distinction between true worship of God and what he takes to be mere cultic observances. Since, as we shall see in a moment, the polemic against Jewish celebration of the (first) Sabbath, new moon, and festivals is quite specific and can be correlated with Jewish evidence, it is probable that the author intends to describe a current Jewish angel cultus. Whether he has understood and interpreted it correctly is another matter.32 The reference in the Kerygma Petrou to the shining of the moon as a pre‑ requisite for the celebration of the ‘first Sabbath’, the new moon, and the three great annual festivals is elucidated by the Mishnaic tractate, Rosh ha-Shanah 1.1–3.1. At the time the Kerygma Petrou was written, and probably until the first half of the fourth century AD, the duration of each month (and hence the date of the festivals) was not fixed in advance; it had to be determined by ob‑ servation of the new moon’s appearance by trustworthy witnesses. If the sky

29  I have quoted (with modifications) George Ogg’s translation in New Testament Apocrypha II, pp. 99–100 (as cited in the previous note). (Ogg translates both σέβεσθε and λατρεύοντες by ‘worship’, thus missing the point to which I shall drawn attention below). I have quoted the Greek text from E. Klostermann’s critical edition, Apocrypha I (Kleine Texte 3; Bonn: Marcus und Ε. Weber’s Verlag, 1908), pp. 13–15. 30  See also Aristides, Apology (Syriac) ch. 14; The Epistle to Diognetus chs. 1 and 2; Justin, Dialogue with Trypho 10; Origen, Contra Celsum, 1.26. 31  See especially 1 Cor. 1.22–4; 10.32; 1 Pet. 2.19 f.; Mt. 21.43 and 24.9. On Matthew, see G. N. Stanton, A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1992), pp. 160–1 and 378–80. 32  For a fuller discussion and a rather different view, see L. Hurtado, One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion and Ancient Jewish Monotheism (London: SCM, 1988), pp. 33–4.

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was covered by clouds, then the new moon could not be hallowed.33 Following formal declaration of observation of the new moon, messengers were sent to the diaspora. According to rabbinic traditions which are difficult to date, if the mes‑ sengers did not reach the diaspora in time for Passover, Tabernacles or the Day of Atonement, an additional festival day could be observed in order to provide for doubts.34 The author of the Kerygma Petrou would not have bothered to comment in detail and to pour scorn on these practices unless he and his readers knew about them at first hand. We do in fact have evidence which confirms that it was the general practice in synagogues of the diaspora to celebrate new moons and the annual festivals, as well as the Sabbath.35 And we also know from first century writings, as [[97]] well as from the Kerygma Petrou early in the second century, that many Christians rejected completely these Jewish religious observances. Gal. 4.9 confirms that in Paul’s day some Galatian Christians were adopt‑ ing the Jewish calendar. Since the verb παρατηρέω which Paul uses to refer to observance of ‘days and months and seasons and years’ is not used in the LXX or the New Testament to refer to religious observance, commentators have long been puzzled. But perhaps παρατηρέω can be given its more usual sense, ‘watch’ or ‘observe’ (literally). The Kerygma Petrou may help us to appreciate Paul’s polemic: perhaps he is ridiculing Jewish religious observances which all depend (ultimately) on literal observance of the arrival of the new moon. Rom. 14.5 is also to be read in the light of the Jewish religious calendar. Some Christians in Rome (perhaps a Jewish Christian congregation) stress the impor‑ tance of meticulous observance of ‘days’, i.e. Sabbaths and feast days; other Christians (perhaps another congregation) judge all days to be alike.36 Col. 2.16 is more specific: observance of festivals, new moons, and Sabbaths are linked (and rejected), as in the Kerygma Petrou. Since there is no trace of direct dependence of the Kerygma Petrou on Gal. 4.9, Rom. 14.5, or Col. 2.16, we have important evidence that in the middle of the first century and early in the second century Christians took pains to distance themselves from Jewish religious observances. In all four cases local rivalry 33  See the full discussion in E. Schurer, The History of the Jewish People, Vol. I, Appendix III, pp. 587–601; The Jewish People in the First Century (Compendium Rerum ludaicarum ad Novum Testamentum), Vol. II, ed. S. Safrai and M. Stem (Assen / Amsterdam: Van Gorcum, 1976), pp. 834–64, esp. pp. 848–9. 34  See The History of the Jewish People, II, p. 852. 35  See H. Hegermann, ‘The Diaspora in the Hellenistic Age’, in The Cambridge History of Judaism (Cambridge: CUP, 1989), II, p. 153; E. Schürer, The History of the Jewish People, I, p. 144–5, See, for example, Josephus, Antiquities, xiv. 213–16 (Delos); xiv. 241 (Laodicea); xiv. 256–8 (Halicarnassus). For inscriptions from Rome, see H. J. Leon, The Jews of Ancient Rome (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1960), p. 196. 36  See especially F. B. Watson, Paul, Judaism and the Gentiles: A Sociological Approach (Cambridge: CUP, 1986), pp. 84–8.

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between Jews and Christians may well be in the background. Since observance of the Sabbath, new moons, and annual festivals are linked already and criticised fiercely in Isa. 1.13–14, this line of Christian anti-Jewish polemic is a develop‑ ment of earlier ‘inner Jewish’ polemic.37

Conclusions The Kerygma Petrou stresses that on the basis of the new covenant Christians worship God through Christ in a new way. Unfortunately we are not told what forms that new way of worship took, though it [[98]] certainly did not include celebration of the Sabbath, new moons, or the Jewish festivals. Although early Christian worship was deeply indebted to Jewish worship, much was simply abandoned. Why were only two of the Jewish festivals (Passo‑ ver and Pentecost) taken over and adapted by Christians? In modern times many Christians have rediscovered the value of linking worship to the rhythms of the seasons. In the first and second centuries, however, Christians were more coy about adapting the religious festivals of their rivals. The only two which were ‘Christianised’ could be associated readily with the ‘story’ of Jesus Christ. Since the others could not, they were abandoned. The ‘outsider’ Pliny’s report to Trajan and the ‘insider’ who wrote the Kerygma Petrou both remind us that early Christian worship quickly became quite distinctive. Christians met on a new day and sang hymns to Christ ‘as to a god’; the new way of Christian worship was through Jesus Christ. Both writings con‑ firm that it was convictions about Christ which lay at the heart of early Christian patterns of worship which were quite unlike pagan religious practices, and, in spite of some similarities, very different from synagogue worship.

37  For positive references which link observance of the Sabbath, of the new moon, and of the annual festivals, see Judith 8.6 and 1 Macc. 10.34.

Chapter 26

Jewish Christian Elements in the Pseudo-Clementine Writings [[305]] The Pseudo-Clementine writings have tantalized scholars for over three hundred years. Early interest in these writings focused on their possible histori‑ cal value for the life of Clement of Rome, who is named as their narrator. Once their pseudonymity was generally accepted, attention shifted to evidence alleged to reflect christological controversies in several periods of early Christianity. For over two hundred years there has been perennial interest in their evidence for the existence and beliefs of early Jewish believers in Jesus. This chapter will emphasise strongly that if these writings are to be used as evidence for Jewish believers in Jesus, we must proceed gingerly and in a critically responsible manner. James Carleton Paget has recently noted that the complex corpora present literary-critical problems of an almost insurmountable kind.1 If anything, that is an understatement. The basic problems which face students of the Pseudo-Clementine writings can be stated quite simply. (1) We have four sets of writings (and eight writings in all) whose precise relationship to one another cannot be determined with confidence: the very lengthy Homilies, and the similar and equally lengthy Recognitions; three short “introductory” writings; and three epitomes, two of the Homilies and one of the Recognitions. (2) There is general agreement that at least some of these writings draw on earlier sources, and also that they were in‑ terpolated by later hands. But even after three centuries of discussion, the nature and extent both of earlier sources and of later redaction and interpolations is still disputed. (3) The texts are extant in eight languages; some are fragmentary, some in a parlous state. (4) Elucidation of the passages here and there among the ex‑ tensive Pseudo-Clementine writings which reflect the existence and distinctive beliefs of Jewish believers in Jesus is at least as complex as the interpretation of any early Christian writings. [[306]] In spite of these formidable hurdles, there has been no shortage of hypotheses concerning the origin and purpose of alleged Jewish Christian traditions, but sig‑ nificant scholarly agreement has been rare. Although Ferdinand Christian Baur was not the first to draw attention to the importance of the Pseudo-Clementine writings, his famous essay “Die Christuspartei in der korinthischen Gemeinde”  James Carleton Paget, “Jewish Christianity,” CHJ 3:732.

1

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(1831) set the agenda for later research. Baur claimed that the Homilies provide crucial evidence for the continuing hostility of some parts of Jewish Christian‑ ity to Paulinism and for the wide gulf between early Jewish and early Gentile Christianity. Rather surprisingly, Baur did not comment on the Recognitions at all.2 Even though his own views on the Pseudo-Clementine writings now attract little support, his long shadow still falls on many of the scholars who turn to these baffling texts. The key role played by the Pseudo-Clementine writings in Baur’s and the Tübingen School’s reconstructions of early church history is a subject in itself.3 Many would now accept that the Pseudo-Clementine writings were given “a wholly disproportionate importance by the Tübingen School, who, putting them very early, saw in the narratives of Simon Magus a reflection of the fierce conflict between ‘Petrinism’ and ‘Paulinism’ in pre-Catholic Christianity.”4 In spite of the complexity of the issues and the diverse conclusions reached ever since the sixteenth century, some genuine advances have been possible more recently. Scholars now have at their disposal fine critical editions of the Greek text of the Homilies,5 and of Rufinus of Aquileia’s Latin translation of the Recognitions.6 Two translations into English of the Latin and Syriac texts of an important section of the Recognitions considered below (in section 5) have been published.7 Several substantial monographs,8 as well as very detailed histories of scholarship have been published.9 Nonetheless, for the reasons mentioned [[307]] above, it is far from easy to locate firm footholds in the mire which sur‑ rounds these complex writings. 2  Ferdinand Christian Baur, “Die Christuspartei in der korinthischen Gemeinde” TZTh 4 (1831): 116. 3  See especially Georg Strecker, Das Judenchristentum in den Pseudoklementinen (TU 70; 2d ed.; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1981), 1–34. See H. Harris, The Tübingen School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1975). 4  See the unsigned article, “Clementine Literature,” The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church (ed. F. L. Cross and E. A. Livingstone; 3d ed.; Oxford, 1997), 365–66. 5  Bernhard Rehm and Georg Strecker, Die Pseudoklementinen I: Homilien (GCS 42; 3d ed.; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1992). 6  Bernhard Rehm and Georg Strecker, Die Pseudoklementinen II: Rekognitionen in Rufins Übersetzung (GCS 51; 2d ed.; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1994). 7  F. Stanley Jones, An Ancient Jewish Christian Source on the History of Christianity: Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions 1.27–71 (Christian Apocrypha Series 2; Texts and Transla‑ tions 37; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars, 1995). 8  See especially Strecker, Judenchristentum; Robert Ε. Van Voorst, The Ascents of James: History and Theology of a Jewish-Christian Community (SBLDS 112; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1989); Jones, Jewish Christian Source. 9  See especially Strecker, Judenchristentum, 134; Franz Paschke, Die beiden griechischen Klementinen-Epitomen und ihre Anhänge: Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Vorarbeiten zu einer Neuausgabe der Texte (TU 90; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1966), 13–47; F. Stanley Jones, “The Pseudo-Clementines: A History of Research” SecCent 2 (1982): 1–33; 63–96; Van Voorst, Ascents, 127.

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This chapter opens with a short overview of the text and date of the writ‑ ings as a whole before considering whether their “final form(s)” provide any evidence for Jewish believers in Jesus. Only then shall we discuss the alleged earlier sources and their relevance for our current quest. This method is adopted deliberately. Scholars have all too often paid scant attention to the forms of the text for which we have firm textual evidence. They have started back to front, so to speak, and isolated earlier sources with breathtaking confidence as a prelude to reconstruction of their redaction by later editors.10 The influence of redaction critical studies of the Gospels on some recent studies of the Pseudo-Clementines is all too apparent.11

1. An Overview of the Extant Writings 1.1. The Homilies The Homilies recount at great length the life of Clement of Rome. They are extant in Greek in two codices with a similar text: Ρ (Parisinus) from the 11th or 12th centuries; Ο (Ottobonianus) from the 14th century. A Syriac manuscript from Edessa which is dated to 411 contains parts of the Homilies (Homilies 10 to 17) and also parts of the Recognitions (books 1 to 3), so we have a terminus ante quem for both writings. The general consensus that in their final form the Homilies were compiled in the middle decades of the fourth century and the Recognitions a little later rests primarily on apparent links with Arian controversies.12

1.2. The Recognitions The Recognitions also narrate the life of Clement of Rome in racy autobiographi‑ cal style. The similarities and differences between the Homilies and the Recognitions suggest that they are both based on an earlier source usually known [[308]] 10  Note, for example, Rehm’s opening sentence in his Homilien: “Das früheste Stadium des Klemensromans, das uns eingermassen greifbar ist, ist die Grundschrift (G).” For a recent ex‑ ample of hypothetical redaction critical reconstruction, see Bernard Pouderon, “Aux origines du roman clementin. Prototype païen, refonte judéo-hellénistique, remaniement chrétien,” in Le Judéo-Christianisme dans tous ses états (ed. Simon C. Mimouni and F. Stanley Jones; Paris: Cerf, 2001), 231–56, who claims that a first century C. E. pagan novel has first been redacted by a Jewish author editor, and then redacted (radically) a second time by Ebionite editors at the beginning of the third century. 11  This is especially clear in Strecker’s influential monograph, Judenchristentum. His discus‑ sion moves from the reconstructed sources of the Grundschrift to the final form of the Homilies and the Recognitions. 12  Strecker claims that the Homilist is an Arian who wrote just before Nicea: Strecker, Judenchristentum, 268. Cf. also Jones, “Pseudo-Clementines,” 84.

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as the Grundschrift. Here we have a synoptic problem whose complexity turns the inter-relationship of the synoptic Gospels into child’s play. Just as a minor‑ ity of scholars claim that Luke knew and used both Q and Matthew, so some scholars have insisted that the Recognitions are based both on the Grundschrift and on the Homilies.13 And just as an even smaller minority of scholars believe that Matthew used Luke’s Gospel, so a few have claimed that the author of the Homilies has used the Recognitions. With the exception of only a few small fragments, the Recognitions have not survived in Greek.14 However Rufinus of Aquileia who translated some of Origen’s writings into Latin, did the same for the Recognitions, perhaps in 407.15 Over one hundred manuscripts of Rufinus’s translation have survived, so its popularity and influence in the west are clear. Rufinus’s comments on his own translation are important. “To the extent that we were able, we applied ourselves to diverge not only not from the meaning but also not from the wording and the modes of expression. Though this procedure renders the style of the narrative less ornate, it makes it more faithful.” In spite of these claims, Rufinus does ad‑ mit that he omitted some material “about the Ingenerate God and the Generate and about a few other subjects.”16 In view of Rufinus’s own ambivalence about his role as translator, the precise extent of his redaction of the original Greek text of the Recognitions is uncertain. As noted above, part of the Recognitions is also extant in Syriac, including the section of special interest to students of early Jewish Christianity (1.27–71) which will be discussed below. We now have two recent translations of this sec‑ tion into English, with translations of the Latin and Syriac set out in columns.17 There seem to be good grounds for accepting F. S. Jones’s conclusion that the two versions are “of approximately the same value, and neither deserves abso‑ lute priority.”18 Retroversion of the Syriac into Greek has been attempted.19

 Most notably Rehm, Homilien, viii.  See especially Wilhelm Frankenberg, Die syrischen Clementinen mit griechischem Paralleltext: Eine Vorarbeit zu dem Literargeschichtlichen Problem der Sammlung (TU 48; Leipzig: J. C. Heinrichs, 1937). 15  So Caroline P. Hammond, “The Last Ten Years of Rufinus’ Life and the Date of His Move South from Aquileia,” JTS 28 (1977): 428. I owe this reference to Jones, Jewish Christian Source, 43. 16  Here I quote Jones’s translation (Jewish Christian Source, 42–43) of Rehm, Recognitionen, 11. 17  Jones, Jewish Christian Source, also includes a translation of the Armenian fragments first published in 1978; apparently the Armenian version is an independent translation of the Greek. 18  Jones, Jewish Christian Source, 49. 19  Frankenberg, Clementinen. 13 14

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1.3. The Shorter “Introductory” Writings Both Greek codices of the Homilies include two letters addressed to James: the Epistula Petri (EpPet), the lengthy Epistula Clementis (EpClem), as well as a [[309]] writing known as the Contestatio (C) or Diamartyria. Were some or all of these writings attached to the Homilies by its author, or by a later scribe? Did at least some of them preface the Grundschrift? Although confident answers to these questions have been offered in support of particular theories, it is more prudent to acknowledge that answers continue to elude us. Rufinus knows the EpClem, but does not include or refer to the other two introductory writings in his translation of the Recognitions. He notes that he did not include the EpClem because it is of later date, and because he had already translated and published it elsewhere.20 Did Rufinus know the other shorter writings, but omit them as part of his editorial work? This is possible, perhaps because Rufinus was unimpressed by the “Jewish Christian” character of the Epistula Petri and the Contestatio.

1.4. The Epitomes There are two later epitomes of the Homilies in Greek, Several of the ca. 30 manuscripts of the older epitome known as “E” date from the eleventh century. “E” makes some alterations on dogmatic grounds, and abbreviates and occasion‑ ally rearranges the text. Many more manuscripts of “e,” a later, shorter version of “E,” are extant. In addition, there is an epitome of the Recognitions in Arabic which is independent of Rufinus’s translation into Latin. There are about 190 extant witnesses in all, so there can be no doubt about the later popularity of the epitomes.21 Anyone who has read the full text of either the Homilies or the Recognitions will readily understand why epitomes of their rambling, loosely organized narratives were made.

2. Towards a Tradition History I have already emphasized the importance of working backwards from extant texts to earlier stages. In other words, we must start from the epitomes, and then consider the Recognitions and the Homilies in their final form, before turning to possible earlier sources. 20  Rehm includes Rufinus’s Latin translation of the EpClem in his edition of the Greek text, Homilien, 5–22. 21  See Paschke, Epitomen. In 1966 Paschke announced that a new edition of the two Greek epitomes was in preparation; apparently it has never been completed.

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The epitomes were designed to make the Homilies and the Recognitions more “user-friendly,” and, in particular, more useful in liturgical and hagiographical contexts. The numerous extant manuscripts of the later epitome (“e”) of the Homilies suggest that this writing circulated very widely indeed. None of the epitomes contains modifications, additions, or abbreviations which suggest that they were either prepared or transmitted by Jewish believers in Jesus.22 [[310]] The Recognitions do include some Jewish Christian traditions, the most exten‑ sive of which is discussed below (in section 5), but these traditions play a minor role in the writing as a whole. Teaching on the unity of God, idolatry, and sexual ethics is set within a lively autobiographical framework. The received form of the Recognitions is a romance with a clear didactic intention. As in the epitomes, hagiographical concerns are prominent. In the view of most, in its present form this writing is “orthodox” or “catholic” and written later in the fourth century than the Homilies.23 With the Homilies matters are not so straightforward. In both Greek codices (P and O) the Homilies are prefaced by three “introductory” writings. The letter of Clement to James (EpClem) is much the longest, and is written in a style quite different from that of the other two “introductory” writings. With the possible exception of the opening salutation addressed to “James, the lord and the bishop of bishops, who rules Jerusalem, the holy church of the Hebrews” and the prominent role given to Peter as the one who “ordains” Clement, it does not contain traditions relevant to our present concerns. Rufinus’s judg‑ ment may well be correct: the EpClem may have been written later than the Recognitions. Perhaps it was compiled as an introduction to both the Homilies and the Recognitions to legitimate their accounts of the life of Clement, for one of its purposes is to narrate Peter’s ordination of Clement as bishop shortly before his martyrdom.24 But why are the Homilies (but not the Recognitions in Rufinus’s translation) also introduced by two further shorter writings of some importance for our pre‑ sent concerns? The letter of Peter to James and the Contestatio25 do not refer to Clement at all and sit uneasily alongside the EpClem. One can only suppose that the name of the writer of the letter, Peter, and the name of James, the “bishop” who responds in the Contestatio as well as possible links with some traditions within the main body of the Homilies were sufficient to ensure the retention  For full details of the epitomes, see Paschke, Epitomen, 309.  See, for example, Oscar Cullmann, Le problème littéraire et historique du roman pseudoclémentin (Paris: Félix Alcan, 1930). Rehm, followed by Strecker, saw the author of the Recognitions as an orthodox Catholic who eliminated what he considered to be heterodox. The Recognitions are dated to ca. 350 in Syria or Palestine. 24  Strecker defends a very different view, Judenchristentum, 90–92: the letter of Clement was written by the author of the Grundschrift. I accept the view of several scholars that this letter has been modelled on the EpPet. 25  Rehm, Homilien, refers to this writing as the Diamartyria. 22 23

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of these two writings. They contain dire warnings against inappropriate use of the “books of Peter’s preaching,” and seem to be designed as “introductory” ­writings. But “introductory” to what? Their relationship to the Homilies has been explained in three quite different ways. (1) Perhaps the most plausible theory (and also the simplest) is that they were originally intended to introduce the Grundschrift and were then retained in the redacted and expanded Homilies, but omitted in the slightly later Recognitions. (2) Bernhard Rehm, who prepared the now standard critical edition of the Homilies (1969), believed that the Homilies did not circulate widely, for at first [[311]] they were treated with suspicion in the “orthodox” church. However, they met with a positive response among the Ebionites who interpreted them to suit themselves, especially by means of the addition of EpPet and C. The favora‑ ble reception of the Homilies in these circles encouraged orthodox Christians to produce their own version of the traditions, the Recognitions, based on both the Homilies and the Grundschrift. On this view EpPet and C are late additions, an elaborate literary fiction rather than a cornerstone of the Pseudo-Clementine writings. (3) In his influential monograph (1958; 2d ed. 1981) Georg Strecker defended and developed a very different theory proposed by H. Waitz (1904) and oth‑ ers.26 Strecker claimed confidently that EpPet and C introduced one of the two Jewish Christian sources of the Grundschrift, the Kerygmata Petrou. The short introductory writings and the reconstructed source are allowed to interpret one another. Strecker insisted that the Kerygmata Petrou was an Ebionite writing from about 200 C. E. Strecker’s claim that the Kerygmata Petrou was one of the two main “Jewish Christian” pillars of the Pseudo-Clementine writings has been very influential, but it has recently come under considerable fire. Although there is now general scholarly agreement that the Homilies and the Recognitions are expanded, re‑ vised versions of a Grundschrift, the attempt to isolate an earlier source of the Grundschrift, the Kerygmata Petrou, has been deemed by several scholars to have failed, partly because it seems to be impossible to differentiate the style and vocabulary of the Grundschrift and the alleged source.27 Strecker himself recognized some of the weaknesses in his theory: 26  Strecker did not modify this theory in the revised second edition of his monograph (1981); the second edition adds some supplementary comments and notes, but the main text is unaltered. 27  See especially Jürgen Wehnert, “Literarkritik und Sprachanalyse: kritische Anmerkungen zum gegenwärtigen Stand der Pseudoklementinen-Forschung,” ZNW 74 (1983): 268–301, and the literature referred to by Jones in his lengthy note: F. Stanley Jones, “A Jewish Christian Reads Luke’s Acts of the Apostles: The Use of the Canonical Acts in the Ancient Jewish Chris‑ tian Source behind Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions 1.27–71,” SBLSP 34 (1995): 617–35, 618–19, n. 5.

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… in reconstructing the KP-source (Kerygmata Petrou) we must proceed only from the introductory writings, the Epistula Petri and the Contestatio, isolating on the basis of conceptual and material parallels those contexts in the Pseudo-Clementines which display the same trend or tendency. Admittedly it is always only portions of the basic document that are thus laid hold of; statements regarding the Kerygmata cannot be wholly freed from the relativity that is theirs through their having been selected and interfered with by the author of the basic document.28 [[312]]

The circular nature of the theory is apparent: a link between the hypothetical KP source and the EpPet and C is assumed, and confirmatory evidence is then sought. Gerd Lüdemann has put his finger on the Achilles’ heel of the theory: it is a hypothetical source said to lie behind another hypothetical source.29 Jones notes that in his forthcoming overview of the Pseudo-Clementines he will argue that “the time has come to abandon a hypothesis which has long dominated and mired Pseudo-Clementine research, namely, the hypothesis that a writing entitled the Kerygmata Petrou was a (determinative) source for the PseudoClementines.”30 Although it may not be possible to isolate a major Jewish Christian source within the Grundschrift, it does contain some Jewish Christian traditions, the most important of which will be considered in section 4 below. Alongside these traditions are much more extensive traditions that do not necessarily reflect the distinctive interests of Jewish believers in Jesus, though they may well have been preserved in such circles. The Grundschrift may tentatively be dated to the mid‑ dle of the third century.31 The relationship of the EpPet and C to the Grundschrift is best left as an open question, but it remains probable that the two shorter writ‑ ings were originally intended as an introduction to this extensive source which lies behind both the Homilies and the Recognitions. The alleged Kerygmata Petrou as an early Jewish Christian source of the Grundschrift seems to be disappearing into thin air. However this is not the fate of a Jewish Christian source behind parts of Recognitions 1.27–71. As we shall see below (in section 5), confidence in its existence seems to be growing. This 28  Edgar Hennecke and Wilhelm Schneemelcher, eds., Writings Relating to the Apostles: Apocalypses and Related Subjects (vol. 2 of New Testament Apocrypha; ed. E. Hennecke and W. Schneemelcher; trans. and ed. R. McL. Wilson; 2d ed. Cambridge: Clarke, 1992), 105–6. In the second English edition of this standard reference work (1992 = 5th/6th German edition), the Kerygmata Petrou no longer appears as a separate chapter, but is incorporated within the chapter on the Pseudo-Clementines. In the new edition, immediately after the comments quoted above, an additional paragraph is included which acknowledges that the existence of the Kerygmata Petrou source has been called into question by some (489). 29  Gerd Lüdemann, Opposition to Paul in Jewish Christianity (trans. M. E. Boring; Min‑ neapolis: Fortress, 1989), 169–70. 30  Jones, Jewish Christian Source, xii. See also n. 26 above. 31  Cf. Cullmann, Problème littéraire, who dated the Grundschrift between 220 and 230, and positively affirmed its Jewish Christian nature. However, Strecker claimed that the author of the Grundschrift was neither a Catholic nor a Jewish Christian and dated it to ca. 260.

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source, which may date from the middle of the second century, differs consid‑ erably in its genre and emphases from other Jewish Christian traditions in the Pseudo-Clementine writings, so it is not directly related to them. Much remains uncertain, but some tentative conclusions may be drawn con‑ cerning the tradition history of the Pseudo-Clementine writings. We may be confident that the final stages of the whole trajectory, i.e., the epitomes and the Homilies and the Recognitions in their final form, do not reflect the concerns of Jewish believers in Jesus, for Jewish Christian traditions within these writings are not at all prominent. Nonetheless, a handful of Jewish Christian traditions are retained in the Homilies and also in the Recognitions. We can only speculate on the reasons for their inclusion: the links seem to be literary and superficial rather than substantive. [[313]] A further conclusion may be drawn with rather more confidence. Once doubt is cast on the existence of the Kerygmata Petrou with the letter of Peter to James and the Contestatio as its introduction, it becomes clear that the Jewish Christian traditions behind the Pseudo-Clementines may be disparate: we must not assume that they reflect the views of one individual or circle. Only in the case of the Jewish Christian traditions behind Recognitions 1.27–71 may we be reasonably confident that we are dealing with a coherent source rather than with a cluster of passages with different tradition histories. In short, early disparate Jewish Christian traditions were retained, against the grain so to speak, in writings with very different concerns, especially the epito‑ mes, the Recognitions and the Homilies, and perhaps even the Grundschrift. If so, there were precedents in earlier Christianity. For example, Justin’s Dialogue and Matthew’s Gospel both juxtapose awkwardly at times Jewish Christian and Gentile Christian traditions.

3. The Letter of Peter (EpPet) and the Contestatio (C) We turn now to one of the most baffling sets of traditions in the Pseudo-Clementine writings. We have noted above that the origin and purpose of the short letter of Peter to James and the related Contestatio has been understood in quite diverse ways. Hence it seems prudent to discuss their relevance for our concerns without drawing on other parts of the Pseudo-Clementine writings to control or aid their interpretation. In his letter to “James, the lord and bishop of the holy church,” Peter urges James not to communicate the “books of my preachings to anyone of the Gen‑ tiles, nor to anyone of our own tribe before testing” (EpPet 1.2). The same point is reiterated later in the letter (EpPet 3.1). Gentiles are not excluded, but there is ambivalence about them, for some among the Gentiles have rejected Peter’s law‑ ful preaching (EpPet 2.3). During Peter’s lifetime some have misinterpreted Pe‑

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ter’s words, claiming that he taught (but not openly) “the dissolution of the law” (EpPet 2.4). Peter expresses alarm at the possibility that after his death, some will misinterpret his words even more radically than they did during his lifetime (EpPet 2.7). Those to whom the books are committed are to adjure solemnly (but “not swear, for that is not lawful”) that they will carry out fully the instructions concerning the communication of the books of Peter’s preaching (C 1.2). Peter underlines his very strong commitment to the law of God: it was spoken by Moses and “borne witness to by our Lord” in a version of Matt 5:18: “The heavens and the earth shall pass away, but one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law” (EpPet 2.5). However, some Gentiles have rejected Peter’s lawful preaching (νόμιμον κήρυγμα) and have preferred a “lawless and absurd teaching (ἄνομόν τινα διδασκαλίαν) of the man who is my enemy (τοῦ ἐχθροῦ ανθρώπου)” (2.3). [[314]] Who is Peter’s enemy? Is it Paul? Is this a veiled attack on Paul’s “lawless” teaching? The only other candidate for the label “enemy” seems to be Simon Magus who plays a major role in both the Homilies and the Recognitions. He is portrayed as Peter’s opponent in Acts 8:14–24 and in the Acts of Peter (passim). But nowhere does Simon Magus make annulment of the law the main theme of his preaching.32 So we can be all but certain that EpPet includes a thinly veiled attack on Paul. But unless this passage is interpreted (as it often has been) in the light of other passages in the Pseudo-Clementines, we cannot say more. A close reading of EpPet confirms that its primary concern is not Peter’s enemy, but the careful preservation and correct interpretation of the books of Peter’s preach‑ ing. This is the focus of the adjuration which follows; Peter’s “enemy” does not reappear, though there is a general reference to those who misinterpret Peter’s preaching (C 5.2). On reading Peter’s letter, James “sent for the elders” and read it to them before adding his own comments. James emphasizes Peter’s insistence that the books of his preachings should not be communicated at random and then introduces several restrictions that are not in Peter’s letter. The books should be commu‑ nicated only to “one who is a good and religious candidate for the position of a teacher, a man who has been circumcised and is a believing Christian” (C 1.1). This person is to be proved for not less than six years; there is no suggestion that this person may be a Gentile. James emphasizes that the one to whom the books of Peter’s preaching is entrusted is to vow that he will be ultra cautious concerning their dissemination. He will hand them over to a third party only after proving him (as he himself had been proved) for no less than six years, and in agreement with his bishop. The recipient must be “a religious and good candidate for the position of a teacher.” There is no further restriction to a circumcised person (cf. C 2.2), but this is prob‑  So too Strecker, Judenchristentum, 187.

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ably taken for granted in view of James’s initial instruction (C 1.1). If so, then with due caution we may take a further step. The difference of opinion between Peter and James can hardly be missed. Whereas Peter allows that Gentiles may be recipients of his preaching, James insists that it should be confined to those who have been circumcised. Differing views among Jewish believers in Jesus are reflected here.33 These two writings seem to reflect the distinctive concerns of Jewish believers in Jesus who are committed to the law of Moses, and its confirmation by Jesus. Some seem to accept Gentiles as fellow-believers; all are very wary indeed about misinterpretation of the law (and of Peter’s teaching) by contemporaries. Peter is defended against the accusation that he rejected the law, just as Luke’s Paul is in Acts 18:13; 21:28; 24:10–21; 25:8–10. The interpretation of both the ambivalence towards Gentiles and the attack on the preaching of the man who is Peter’s enemy will always be closely related to decisions concerning the origin and purpose of these two short writings. But as we have seen, there are no easy answers to those questions. Further puzzles remain. Why is the very different letter of Clement (the EpClem translated by Rufinus as a separate writing) also used as an introduction to the Homilies in the two extant Greek manuscripts (P and O)? And in particular, why are the letter of Peter to James and the related Contestatio retained as intro‑ ductions in the two extant manuscripts of the Homilies given that there are only minimal links between them?

4. Anti-Paul Traditions in the Homilies The preceding section has raised an issue that has always been prominent in discussion of the Pseudo-Clementine writings: the nature and extent of anti-Paul polemic. The locus classicus in the Homilies is 17.13–19. Simon repudiates Peter’s claim that understanding of the teaching of Jesus comes via one’s eyes and ears, not by a vision or apparition (17.13:1; ὁράματι ἢ ὀπτασίᾳ). Peter insists that the person who trusts in apparitions or visions or dreams is insecure, for an evil demon or deceptive spirit may be responsible (14.3). Following an extended discussion, Peter insists that the Son was revealed to him by the Father (18.1; ἀπεκαλύφθη), not “from without” by means of ap‑ paritions and dreams, for they are statements of wrath (18.15). Statements to a 33  Strecker, Judenchristentum, 141 notes the differences, but attributes them to literary con‑ siderations. “Da die Beschneidung im übrigen weder hier noch in den KP2 genannt wird, ist die Fiktion der Anordnung in Cont. 1,1 evident.” But if, as I have suggested, other parts of the Pseudo-Clementine writings should not be allowed to control the interpretation of the EpPet and C, matters are very different.

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friend are made face to face, not through riddles and visions and dreams, as to an enemy (18.6; πρὸς ἐχθρόν). Peter then presses his attack more vigorously. “If then, our Jesus appeared to you in a vision … and spoke to you, it was as one who is enraged with an adver‑ sary; and this is the reason why it was through visions and dreams, or through revelations that were from without that he spoke to you” (19.1; ἀποκαλύψεων ἔξωθεν). “How are we to believe you when you tell us that he appeared to you? (19.3; ὤφθη σοι). And how did he appear to you, when you entertain opinions contrary to his teaching?” “Don’t quarrel with me who accompanied him” (19.4; εμοὶ … μὴ μάχου). “You now stand in direct opposition to me, who am a firm rack, the foundation of the church” (19.4). Peter then reminds Simon that God revealed the Christ to him and pronounced him “blessed on account of the revelation” (19.6). Finally Peter urges Simon to “learn from us what we have learned from him (Christ)… and become a fellow-worker with us” (19.7). This is one of the most subtly argued and rhetorically sophisticated sections of the Pseudo-Clementine writings. There can be no doubt at all that behind the mask of Simon Magus stands Paul.34 Nowhere else in the Pseudo-Clementines [[316]] does Simon Magus appeal to his own visionary experiences.35 Peter has to defend carefully his own moment of revelation by the Father and differentiate it sharply from the claim that “Simon” / Paul received his gospel through a direct revelation of Jesus Christ rather than via a human source or teaching (cf. Matt 16:17; Gal 1:11, 15). Paul’s claim that the Risen Christ appeared also to him (1 Cor 15:8) is called into question by the claim that it was as one who is enraged with an adversary (19.1). There even seems to be a grudging concession that “Simon” / Paul may have become an apostle for a single hour (19.4)! In this passage there are striking verbal links with Paul’s dispute with Peter at Antioch (Gal 2:11–14). In 19.4 Peter claims that “Simon” / Paul withstood him (ἐνάντιος ἀνθέστηκάς μοι); in Gal 2:11 Paul uses the same verb with reference to Peter: ἀντέστην. The verb in the following clause in Gal 2:11, κατεγνωσμένος, is used in the next sentence in 19.4, and then cited explicitly: … ἤ εἰ κατεγνωσμένον με λέγεις …. Here we have a firm rebuttal of Paul’s stance at Antioch, but, rather surprisingly, without any references to the causes of the dispute. The whole passage Homilies 17.13–19 runs to three large pages of Greek text in B. Rehm’s critical edition. It is dominated by one single issue: who enjoys God-given authority, Peter or Paul, and on what basis? Paul’s authority is obvi‑ ously being undermined. The silence of this passage on circumcision, the law, and the terms on which Gentiles may be accepted is deafening. We can only as‑ sume that some of the distinctive concerns of Jewish believers in Jesus lie behind 34  See especially Eduard Schwartz, “Unzeitgemässe Beobachtungen zu den Clementinen,” ZNW 31 (1932): 184–87. 35  Strecker, Judenchristentum, 192.

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the appeal of Peter to “Simon” / Paul to “learn first of all from us what we have learned from him (i.e., Christ).” It is almost impossible to determine the origin and date of this passage. Strecker sets it alongside the letter of Peter and the Contestatio discussed above as part of the Kerygmata Petrou source of the Grundschrift and dates it ca. 200.36 This may still be a plausible date even if, as suggested above, the hypothetical Kerygmata Petrou source is crumbling under sustained scholarly attack. But unless this passage is linked closely with other Jewish Christian traditions in the Pseudo-Clementine writings, we cannot be confident about the dating. There are some superficial similarities between this passage and the two short writings discussed in the preceding section. Both underline Peter’s authority, and both undermine Paul. But the differences should not be overlooked, as has happened frequently. Whereas the letter of Peter and the Contestatio focus on the law, its careful transmission by Moses to seventy teaching elders, and Peter’s cautious acceptance of Gentiles, these issues are conspicuous by their absence from Homilies 17.13–19. Hence we must not assume without further ado that they stem from the same Jewish Christian circles. Gerd Lüdemann claims that there is a further short anti-Paul passage at Homilies 2.17.4, which he cites as follows: “first a false gospel from a deceiver must come, and after the destruction of the Holy Place, the true gospel must be [[317]] sent out secretly, in order to correct the heresies that are to come.”37 Lüdemann believes that a contrast is being drawn between the false Pauline gospel and the true Petrine gospel. Only after 70 does the true gospel emerge; the whole Chris‑ tian period prior to 70 is deemed to have been corrupted – of course, by Paul. Lüdemann even claims that in this passage the Gentile mission is not denied to “Simon” / Paul. “It was through him, so to speak, that Peter’s approach to the Gentiles was first motivated.” This is a serious misinterpretation, prompted in part by reading the passage in the light of EpPet 2.3 discussed above, a common move we have already called into question. Lüdemann fails to note that the words quoted above are the words of the true Prophet, i.e., Christ: they are Christ’s teaching concerning the end-times, and have nothing to say about the Petrine and Pauline missions. This passage is a free rendering of parts of Matt 24:11–31, not parts of Acts 8–11! The short section ends on a strong eschatological note: the true Prophet has told us that “towards the end, anti-Christ (with the false gospel) must come first, and then our Jesus must be revealed to be indeed the Christ (the true Gospel). And after this, the eternal light having sprung up, all the things of darkness must disappear” (17.4–5).

 Ibid., 219.  Lüdemann, Opposition, 190.

36 37

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This misreading is a reminder that it is all too easy to read the Pseudo-Clementines wearing F. C. Baur’s spectacles and then discover anti-Pauline polemic in too many places.38 We have discussed above the only clearly anti-Pauline passages in the Homilies and in the associated “introductory” writings. As we have seen, they are quite different in their focus, and probably have different tradition histories.

5. An Apologia for Jewish Believers in Jesus [Recognitions 1, parts of 27–71] In recent decades no monograph on the Pseudo-Clementines has been more influential than Georg Strecker’s study of Jewish Christianity. Building on and developing the work of earlier scholars, he isolated two independent Jewish Christian sources behind the Grundschrift: the Kerygmata Petrou (KP) and the Anabathmoi Jacobou (AJ II). As we noted above, support for the former is crum‑ bling. But there is now an even stronger consensus than when Strecker wrote that a Jewish Christian source can be isolated behind parts of Book I of [[318]] the Recognitions. Although the two recent detailed studies of this source differ in their approach and in some of their conclusions, they both affirm without hesita‑ tion the existence of an earlier source behind parts of Recognitions 1.27–71.39 Ever since Adolf Hilgenfeld first drew attention to the importance of this section of the Pseudo-Clementines in 1848, it has been prominent in scholarly research. In 1849 K. R. Köstlin first noted the similarities between part of this section and the Anabathmoi Jacobou mentioned by Epiphanius in Haer. 30.16. Strecker developed the theory considerably and argued that Recognitions 1.33–44.2; 53.4b–71 should be attributed neither to the author of the Grundschrift (who inserted 44.3–53.4a) nor to the Kerygmata Petrou (whose perspec‑ tive differs). Strecker accepted the link with the Epiphanius’s Anabathmoi and suggested that both traditions drew on a common archetype dubbed AJ. He referred to the former as AJ I, and the source behind the Recognitions as AJ II. 38  Lüdemann, Opposition, 190–91, also suggests that Homilies 11.35.3–6 (and the parallel at Recognitions 4.34–35) is anti-Pauline: no one should be accepted who has not submitted his kerygma to James. Lüdemann concedes that, taken by itself, this passage does not suggest any particular anti-Pauline element, but taken in connection with other sections, it does appear to have traces of an anti-Pauline attitude. Once again EpPet is assumed to be the key which unlocks other passages. Strecker, Judenchristentum, 1981: 194–95, is even more confident that Homilies 11.35.3–6 is an anti-Pauline passage. 39  Van Voorst, Ascents, and Jones, Jewish Christian Source. Neither writer allows that this source should be classified as Ebionite. Richard Bauckham has now argued strongly to the contrary. See his “The Origin of the Ebionites,” in The Image of the Judaeo-Christians in the Ancient Jewish and Christian Literature (ed. Peter J. Tomson and Doris Lambers-Petry; Tübin‑ gen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 167–80.

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More recently doubt has been cast on the closeness of the parallel with the Anabathmoi mentioned briefly by Epiphanius, so the “AJ I and AJ II” terminol‑ ogy should be dropped as it presupposes a link.40 So what should this source be called? Lüdemann (1989) dubs it simply “R I,” but the reconstructed source in question is only part of the first book of the Recognitions. Van Voorst entitles his monograph on this source, The Ascents of James (1989), a variation on Strecker’s terminology, though the sub-title is appropriate: “History and Theol‑ ogy of a Jewish-Christian Community.” F. S. Jones (1995) refers to the source as An Ancient Jewish Christian Source on the History of Christianity. This is closer to the mark, though to dub this source a “History of Christianity” overlooks its opening section: here we read a tendentious history of Israel from Creation (or, on some reconstructions, from Abraham) to Jesus, the prophet promised by Moses; in its genre this section is not unlike Acts 7 and 13. Jones has also referred to the source as “a Jewish Christian ‘acts of the apos‑ tles’” and suggested that it may have been intended to replace Luke’s Acts.41 The source certainly depends on Acts and offers alternative accounts of some of Luke’s traditions. Nonetheless so many of its traditions are unrelated to Luke’s Acts that rivalry as a primary purpose should not be pressed too far. As we shall see in the paragraphs that follow, the source sets out a selective history of Israel and of the earliest church in Jerusalem in order to legitimate the distinctive views [[319]] of Jewish believers in Jesus. Hence my preferred title for this source: “An Apologia for Jewish believers in Jesus.” There is now general agreement that that this source existed, and that mate‑ rial has been interpolated into it at Recognitions 1.44–52, perhaps by the author of the Grundschrift. At this point, for example, the “prophet like Moses,” one of the distinctive themes of this source disappears, and is replaced by the “true prophet,” the term which is prominent throughout the Pseudo-Clementines. Not surprisingly given its hypothetical nature, views on its origin, date, extent, and purpose have differed.42 As there are some links with passages in the Homilies (especially in Recognitions 1.27–32), the source may have been incorporated into the Grundschrift. If so, why was the source included in the Recognitions at this point but (largely) omitted in the Homilies? The redactor of the latter may have been out of sympathy or even uninterested in some of its concerns. On the other hand, the redactor of the Recognitions may have found it relatively easy to weave this lengthy source into the narrative by means of a simple introduction at 1.26 and a rather more clumsy link at 1.72. Although a close reading soon uncovers aporias with the surrounding narratives, the distinctive Jewish Chris‑ 40  Pace Oskar Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy. A Study in Justin Martyr’s Proof-Text Tradition: Text-Type, Provenance, Theological Profile (NovTSup 56; Leiden: Brill, 1987), 252: “This name (AJ II) is as good as any other and seems to have gained some acceptance.” 41  Jones, “A Jewish Christian” 619 and 634–35. 42  See Jones, Jewish Christian Source, 4–38 for a detailed account of the history of research.

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tian emphases of the source are swallowed up, as it were, by the Recognitions as a whole, where Jewish Christian concerns are conspicuous by their absence. Recognitions is not the only early Christian writing to incorporate a source with an ethos and emphases which differ from the final form of the text. The first major apologetic explanation concerns the origin, practice and ces‑ sation of sacrifices. Israel had learned to sacrifice to idols in Egypt (36.1). As a concession to Israel’s weakness, Moses permitted sacrifices “to God alone” (36.1, Latin) until Israel should learn from the promised prophet like Moses (i.e., Jesus) that God desires mercy and not sacrifice (37.2). Unexpectedly, “the land” and “sacrifices” are presented as opposites: “Whenever they observed the law without sacrifices, they were restored (to the land) and ransomed … Whenever they observed the law without sacrificing and returned to their place (i.e., the land) and offered sacrifices, they were thrust out and were cast forth from it, so that they might cease sacrificing forever” (37.4).43 The prophet like Moses in‑ structed Israel to cease sacrifices, and lest they conclude that forgiveness of sins would no longer be possible, he instituted baptism by water (39.2). The sentences that then follow are startling: those who believe in the Mosaic prophet and are baptized in his name will be “preserved unharmed from the war that is impending on the unbelieving nation and the place itself” (39.3 Latin), “Nonbelievers will be exiled from the place and the kingdom” so that they might come to their senses and believe God (39.3 Latin).44 Here the destruction of the [[320]] temple and of Jerusalem in 70 C. E. are seen as punishment for Israel’s unbelief. The reference to the exile of non-believers may be an allusion to Had‑ rian’s decree following the Bar Kokhba revolt (135 C. E.). Several scholars have gone much further and interpreted the promised preser‑ vation of believers as a reference to the tradition recorded by Eusebius that the Jerusalem church fled to Pella at the outbreak of the revolt of 66–70 C. E.45 If this interpretation is correct, this “Apologia” contains important evidence concerning the history of early Jewish Christianity. The possibility emerges of a direct link between the earliest Christians in Jerusalem and the Jewish Christians in Pella in the middle of the second century. However this is unlikely. At 37.2, but only in the Syriac, believers are told that they will be led in safety “to a fortified place of the land” and thus preserved safely at the time of the battle. Although this pas‑ sage is more specific than 39.3 (quoted above), Pella was not “in the land,” but in the Decapolis. The promised preservation of believers lacks specific details; it 43  I have quoted Jones’s translation of the Syriac, Jewish Christian Source, 67; essentially the same points are found in the Latin, but with different phraseology. 44  Jones’s translation of the Latin; the Syriac is similar. 45  See Craig Koester, “The Origin and Significance of the Flight to Pella Tradition,” CBQ 51 (1989): 90–106, and Jozef Verheyden’s reply, “The Flight of the Christians to Pella,” ETL 66 (1990): 368–84. Verheyden is unimpressed by Koester’s preference for the more specific Syriac over the Latin. See also Strecker’s “Nachträge” to the 1981 edition of his Judenchristentum, 283–86.

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refers to the immediately preceding promise of eternal life given to those whose sins are forgiven through baptism.46 This source provides an apology for Jewish believers in Jesus who are bewil‑ dered by the fact that sacrifices are no longer practiced in their own day, even though they are prominent in Scripture. Continuity from Moses to the prophet like Moses is underlined – with the notable exception of baptism introduced by Jesus to replace sacrifices as the means whereby sins are forgiven. The sustained anti-sacrifice apologetic becomes a prominent theme throughout the source (cf. also 54.1; 64.1–2). The source’s explanation for the acceptance of Gentiles is equally intriguing. “But since it was necessary for the nations to be called in the place of those who remained unbelievers so that the number that was shown to Abraham might be filled, the saving proclamation of the kingdom of God was sent out into all the world” (42.1 Latin).47 There is no question of the Gentile church replacing Israel, but only unbelieving Jews within Israel.48 For the first seven years “after the passion of Jesus” the church grew so rapidly that it became more numerous than unbelieving Jews. Even the priests began to fear lest “the entire people should come to our faith” (43.1–3). At this point the “insider” / “outsider” terminology is striking. “They” frequently ask “us” to speak to them about Jesus, and to show “us” whether he is the prophet foretold by Moses, “the eternal Christ.” (The latter phrase is found in both the Syriac and the [[321]] Latin texts.) “For only in this regard does there seem to be a differ‑ ence between us who believe in Jesus and the unbelieving Jews” (43.2 Latin).49 There is no suggestion that Jewish believers in Jesus differed from unbelieving Jews in law observance, either in the writer’s day or at any earlier point (cf. 68.4 and 69.1). The one exception is sacrifices. The failure of unbelieving Jews to accept that at the coming of Christ baptism had replaced sacrifices leads directly to the destruction of the temple, the erection of “the abomination of desolation in the holy place,” and “the proclamation of the gospel to the nations” (64.2). The rapid growth in numbers of Jewish believers in Jesus is presented as an astonishing success story which is halted only by the intervention of “a certain hostile person” (70.1). Nonetheless even during “the golden era” objections were raised by opponents such as the high priest (55.1), a Samaritan (57.1), one of the scribes (58.1), a certain Pharisee (59.1), one of John’s disciples (60.1),50

 Pace Van Voorst, Ascents, 100–101.  I have quoted Jones’s translation of the Latin, Jewish Christian Source. The Syriac text is shorter, but not significantly different. 48  Cf. Skarsaune, Proof from Prophecy, 330. 49  The Syriac is almost identical. 50  John is neither called “the Baptist,” nor is he said to baptize. Presumably this is because it is Jesus, not John, who introduces baptism as a replacement for sacrifices. 46 47

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and Caiaphas (44.2; 61.1–2; 62.1–2). One by one the twelve apostles refute the objections raised. Gamaliel is the only Jewish leader who is portrayed differently. He is de‑ scribed as the “head of the people,” a secret believer who had been advised by believers to stay among the “unbelievers” as a double-agent; this key point is re‑ peated more fully a few verses later (cf. 65.2 and 66.4–5). When Gamaliel urges caution (at some length), Caiaphas’s suspicions are aroused and he asks James to debate on the basis of Scripture “whether Jesus is the Christ or not” (67.1–68.2). James accepts the challenge and during the next seven days he speaks to such good effect that he persuades all the people and the high priest to make haste immediately to acquire baptism (69.8). At that moment a “certain hostile person with a few others” enters the temple and asks why they have been swayed by people who have been deceived by the magician Jesus (70.2). The “hostile per‑ son” listens to the counter-arguments and is “overcome by James the bishop.” However James’s response turns out to be in vain, for it serves only to incite “the hostile person” to violence, initially by using a firebrand from the altar. Much blood is shed. James is thrown from the top of the stairs, but as he is presumed to be dead, he is not attacked further (70.3–7). Even though the believers are more numerous than their opponents, they do not retaliate, and some are killed (71.1). “Before dawn, we went down to Jericho, in number about 5,000 men” (71.2). Three days later the believers learn from Gamaliel directly (Syriac) or indirectly (Latin) that Caiaphas had commissioned (with letters) “that hostile person” to persecute (Latin) or massacre (Syriac) all those who believe in Jesus. The arch-opponent went off to Damascus because he thought that Peter had gone there – and that is the last we hear of Saul. There is no reference to his conversion or call on the way to Damascus (cf. Acts 9:1–3), [[322]] and no reference to his acceptance of Gentiles or his alleged hostility to the law. The silence is deafening. The “Apologia” ends with a brief account of the miraculous annual whitening of the graves of two believers: this is said to have suppressed the anger of the believers’ opponents, “for they see that our people are held in remembrance with God” (71.6 Latin). This is a tendentious and imaginative retelling of selected traditions from Acts 1–12. The narrative underlines the numerical strength of believers in Jesus and clearly implies that but for the intervention of “that hostile person,” impressive growth would have continued. The twelve apostles had successfully repudiated the objections of non-believing Jewish leaders to their claims concerning the Messiahship of Jesus; but for “that hostile person,” the Jewish leadership might even have been won over to the faith. Here we have a “foundation narrative” of a community of Jewish believers in Jesus. It is an optimistic account of its origins and an explanation for its failure to live up to early expectations. The rather curious ending leaves a door open for the possible future conversion of some fellow-Jews, for their bitter antagonism

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is no longer in evidence. By means of the forthright responses of the twelve apostles to the objections raised by Jewish leaders to claims about Jesus, a strong line of apologetic is sustained. Explanations for the cessation of sacrifices and for the acceptance of Gentiles are prominent, as is acceptance of Jesus as the prophet like Moses, “the eternal Christ.”51 This intriguing “Apologia” leaves many questions unanswered. Continuing antagonism towards Paul is implied. But why does the focus fall on his pre-con‑ version hostility to Jewish believers in Jesus rather than on his post-conversion years? Are Gentiles expected to be circumcised? Why is the apostolic decree not mentioned? The importance of observance of the law is underlined firmly by James (69.1–3), but nothing is said about the Sabbath or about food or purity issues. Nonetheless, this “Apologia” is one of our most important pieces of evi‑ dence for Jewish believers in Jesus. Can anything further be said about its date? I have suggested above that at 39.3 there is probably an allusion to Hadrian’s decree following the Bar Kokhba revolt (135 C. E.). There are enough similarities with Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho to suggest a date close to the middle of the second century.52 Like Justin’s Dialogue, this “Apologia” responds to the objections of learned unbe‑ lieving Jews, yet leaves a door open for their possible conversion, The teaching in chapters 49 and 50, and again in 69.4, on the “two parousias” of Jesus (the first in humility, [[323]] the second in glory) is strongly reminiscent of Justin,53 as is the objection that Jesus was a magician and not the expected prophet like Moses (but, by implication, a false prophet).54 O. Skarsaune has shown convincingly that the sustained polemic against sacrifices is a more primitive, original version of the line of argument found in Justin and in Barnabas.55

 See also Claudio Gianotto, “Alcune riflessioni a proposito di Recognitiones I, 27–72; la storia della salvezza,” in Le Judéo-Christianisme dans tous ses états (ed. Simon C. Mimouni and F. Stanley Jones; Paris: Cerf, 2001), for further discussion. However his claim that this source contains a soteriology opposed to that of Paul is unconvincing; see O. Skarsaune’s review in Mishkan 36 (2002): 127–30, 129. 52  So too Strecker, Judenchristentum, 253–54 and Skarsaune, Proof from Prophecy, 252–53. 53  See Graham N. Stanton, “The Two Parousias of Christ” in From Jesus to John: Essays on Jesus and New Testament Christology in Honour of Marinus de Jonge (ed. M. C. de Boer; Shef‑ field: Sheffield Academic, 1993), 183–95 [[reprinted in this volume]]. Although chapters 49 and 50 are part of the section generally considered to be an interpolation from the Grundschrift, both Strecker, Judenchristentum, 236 and 249–50, and Skarsaune, Proof from Prophecy, 286 argue that they come from the original source. 54  See Graham N. Stanton, “Jesus of Nazareth: A Magician and a False Prophet Who De‑ ceived God’s People?” in Jesus and Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 127–47. 55  See Skarsaune, Proof from Prophecy, 296–98, and 316–18. 51

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6. Conclusions In his helpful discussion of Jewish Christianity in the Pseudo-Clementines, F. Stanley Jones notes that there have been two tendencies in research.56 Some scholars have maintained F. C. Baur’s general position by dating Jewish Chris‑ tian elements early in their history and by emphasizing the importance of Jewish Christianity in the history of the early church. A very different trend in schol‑ arship has tried to refute Baur either by denying the importance of the Jewish Christian element in the Pseudo-Clementines or by assigning a late date to it. In my judgment both approaches are somewhat simplistic. The evidence is complex and must be treated with due caution and rigor. The later stages of the long history of Pseudo-Clementine traditions (the epitomes, and the Homilies and the Recognitions in their final form) have been shaped by didactic and hagi‑ ographical concerns rather than by any distinctively Jewish Christian emphases. But what about the earlier traditions incorporated within the Pseudo-Clemen‑ tine writings? I do not think there is sufficient evidence to enable us to call the compiler of the Grundschrift a “Jewish Christian,” unless we assume that EpPet and C were intended to introduce it. Only one Jewish Christian coherent source can be uncovered within the Pseudo-Clementine writings, the fairly substantial and important set of traditions behind parts of Recognitions 1.27–71, which I have dubbed “an Apologia for Jewish believers in Jesus.” This “Apologia,” which may date from the middle of the second century, sheds considerable light on the views of some Jewish believers in Jesus. Here we have a “community foundation story” from believers in Jesus; their “story” of the first seven years after the [[324]] passion functioned for them as a form of legitimization. They are anxious to retain their Jewish identity even though they seem willing to ac‑ cept Gentiles. The other clearly Jewish Christian traditions are unrelated to this “Apologia,” and probably have different tradition histories.57 This is strongly suggested by the varied anti-Pauline references. In the “Apologia” the focus is on Saul’s preconversion persecuting activities. In EpPet 23 the preference of some Gentiles for Paul’s “lawless teaching” is noted. In Homilies 17 the claim that Paul’s au‑ thority is based on his revelatory experiences is undermined. It is easier to set down what the Pseudo-Clementine writings do not tell us about early Jewish believers in Jesus than to set out distinctive Jewish Christian concerns common to the disparate traditions we have discussed. We have not found explicit evidence for the history of Jewish Christianity, though others are  Jones, “Pseudo-Clementines,” 87.  Hence one should be cautious about linking the Jewish Christian traditions within the Pseudo-Clementines to specific groups such as the Ebionites. See further ch. 14 of this book [[Oskar Skarsaune, “The Ebionites,” in Jewish Believers in Jesus: The Early Centuries (eds. Os‑ kar Skarsaune and Reidar Hvalvik; Peabody: Hendrickson, 2007), 419–462]] and n. 39 above. 56 57

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more confident of links to the Pella traditions. On the other hand, cumulative evidence pointing to the origin of the “Apologia” in the middle or late second century is strong; it is more difficult to be confident about the date of the other Jewish Christian traditions. While there are christological emphases of considerable interest, especially the depiction of Jesus as the promised prophet like Moses in the “Apologia,” they are not markedly “unorthodox” by later standards. The esteem in which Peter and James are held is clear in the traditions we have discussed, but that is also the case with the Pseudo-Clementine writings as a whole. The continuing importance of the law is underlined strongly, but we learn much less than we would like about the precise ways in which the law was observed. Evidence for ambivalence towards Gentiles is clearer than evidence for their rejection, but we are not told whether circumcision was required. Puzzles remain, but the PseudoClementine writings contain several strands of traditions that contain invaluable evidence for the distinctive ethos and views of Jewish believers in Jesus.

Appendix: Graham Stanton’s Publications 1971 With A. A. Macintosh and D. L. Frost. “The ‘New English Bible’ Reviewed.” Theology 74: 154–66. 1972 “The Gospel Traditions and Early Christological Reflection.” In Christ, Faith and History: Cambridge Studies in Christology 191–204. Ed. S. W. Sykes and J. P. Clayton. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reprinted as chapter 10 in this volume. 1973 “On the Christology of Q.” In Christ and Spirit in the New Testament 27–42. Ed. B. Lindars and S. S. Smalley. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reprinted as chapter 11 in this volume. 1974 Jesus of Nazareth in New Testament Preaching. Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series 27. London: Cambridge University Press. Reprinted 2004. 1975 “Form Criticism Revisited.” In What About the New Testament? Essays in Honour of Christopher Evans 13–27. Ed. M. Hooker and C. Hickling. London: SCM. Reprinted as chapter 9 in this volume. 1977 “5 Ezra and Matthean Christianity in the second century.” Journal of Theological Studies 28: 67–83. Reprinted in A Gospel for a New People (1992). “Presuppositions in New Testament Criticism.” In New Testament Interpretation: Essays on Principles and Methods 60–71. Ed. I. H. Marshall. Exeter and Grand Rapids: Pater‑ noster and Eerdmans. Reprinted as chapter 8 in this volume. 1978 Interpreting the New Testament Today. An Inaugural Lecture in the Chair of New Tes‑ tament Studies, delivered on 14 November 1978 and published by King’s College, London. Reprinted in Ex Auditu 1 (1985): 63–73 and as chapter 19 in this volume. 1979 “Incarnational Christology in the New Testament.” In Incarnation and Myth: The Debate Continued 151–65. Ed. M. D. Goulder. London and Grand Rapids: SCM and Eerdmans. Reprinted as chapter 12 in this volume. “Mr Cupitt on Incarnational Christology in the New Testament.” In Incarnation and Myth: The Debate Continued 170–73. Ed. M. D. Goulder. London and Grand Rapids: SCM and Eerdmans.

442

Appendix: Graham Stanton’s Publications

“Samaritan Incarnational Christology?” In Incarnation and Myth: The Debate Continued 243–46. Ed. M. D. Goulder. London and Grand Rapids: SCM and Eerdmans. “Rudolf Bultmann: Jesus and the Word.” Expository Times 90: 324–28. Reprinted as chapter 14 in this volume. 1980 “Stephen in Lucan Perspective.” In Studia Biblica 1978: Sixth International Congress on Biblical Studies, Oxford, 3–7 April, 1978, 3: Papers on Paul and other New Testament Authors: 345–60. Ed. E. A. Livingstone. Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series 3. Sheffield: JSOT Press. Reprinted as chapter 15 in this volume. 1982 “Matthew 11.28–30: Comfortable Words?” Expository Times 94: 3–9. Reprinted in A Gospel for a New People (1992). 1983 Editor, The Interpretation of Matthew. Issues in Religion and Theology 3. London and Philadelphia: SPCK and Fortress. “Introduction: Matthew’s Gospel: A New Storm Centre.” In The Interpretation of Matthew 1–18. Ed. G. N. Stanton. Issues in Religion and Theology 3. London and Philadelphia: SPCK and Fortress. “Matthew as a Creative Interpreter of the Sayings of Jesus.” In Das Evangelium und die Evangelien: Vorträge vom Tübinger Symposium 1982 273–87. Ed. P. Stuhlmacher. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 28. Tübingen: Mohr (Sie‑ beck). Reprinted in A Gospel for a New People (1992). 1984 “The Gospel of Matthew and Judaism.” Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester 66, no. 2: 264–84. Reprinted in A Gospel for a New People (1992). 1985 “Aspects of Early Christian-Jewish Polemic and Apologetic.” New Testament Studies 31: 377–92. Reprinted in A Gospel for a New People (1992). “Interpreting the New Testament Today.” Ex Auditu 1: 63–73. Reprinted as chapter 19 in this volume. “The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel: Matthean Scholarship from 1945–1980.” In Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, 2.25.3:1889–1951. Ed. H. Temporini and W. Haase. Berlin and New York: de Gruyter. Reprinted as chapter 1 in this volume. 1987 “Colossians and Philemon.” In Guidelines to the Bible, 67–81. Ed. A. E. Harvey. London: Bible Reading Fellowship. “The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount.” In Tradition and Interpretation in the New Testament: Essays in Honor of E. Earle Ellis for His 60th Birthday 181–92. Ed. G. F. Hawthorne and O. Betz. Grand Rapids and Tübingen: Eerdmans and Mohr (Siebeck). Reprinted in A Gospel for a New People (1992). 1988 “Matthew.” In It is Written: Scripture Citing Scripture: Essays in Honour of Barnabas Lindars, SSF 205–19. Ed. D. A. Carson and H. G. M. Williamson. Cambridge: Cam‑ bridge University Press. Reprinted in A Gospel for a New People (1992).

Appendix: Graham Stanton’s Publications

443

1989 The Gospels and Jesus. Oxford Bible Series. Oxford: Oxford University Press. (Trans‑ lated into Japanese and Korean). “‘Pray that Your Flight may not be in Winter or on a Sabbath’.” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 37: 17–30. Reprinted in A Gospel for a New People (1992). 1990 “Historical Jesus.” In A Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation 285–90. Ed. R. J. Coggins and J. L. Houlden. London and Philadelphia: SCM and Trinity Press International. “Matthew, Gospel of.” In A Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation 432–35. Ed. R. J. Cog‑ gins and J. L. Houlden. London and Philadelphia: SCM and Trinity Press International. “The Revised English Bible: New Wine in Old Wineskins?: New Testament.” Theology 93: 41–46. “Sermon on the Mount.” In A Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation 625–28. Ed. R. J. Cog‑ gins and J. L. Houlden. London and Philadelphia: SCM and Trinity Press International. 1991 “Interpreting the Sermon on the Mount.” In Fundamentalism and Tolerance: An Agency for Theology and Society 51–60. Ed. A. Linzey and P. Wexler. Canterbury Papers Se‑ ries. London: Bellew. Reprinted in A Gospel for a New People (1992). 1992 “Aspects of Early Christian and Jewish Worship: Pliny and the Kerygma Petrou.” In Worship, Theology and Ministry in the Early Church: Essays in Honor of Ralph P. Martin 84–98. Ed. M. J. Wilkins and T. Paige. Journal for the study of the New Testament Supplement Series 87. Sheffield: JSOT Press. Reprinted as chapter 25 in this volume. “The Communities of Matthew.” Interpretation 46: 379–91. Reprinted as chapter 4 in this volume. A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. “Matthew: ΒΙΒΛΟΣ, ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ, or ΒΙΟΣ?” In The Four Gospels 1992: Festschrift Frans Neirynck, 2: 1187–201. Ed. F. Van Segbroeck et al. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 100. Leuven: Leuven University Press and Peeters. Reprinted as chapter 3 in this volume. “Matthew’s Christology and the Parting of the Ways.” In Jews and Christians: The Parting of the Ways A. D. 70 to 135: The Second Durham-Tübingen Research Symposium on Earliest Christianity and Judaism, Durham, September 1989 99–116. Ed. J. D. G. Dunn. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 66. Tübingen: Mohr (Siebeck). Reprinted in A Gospel for a New People (1992). “Sermon on the Mount/Plain.” In Dictionary of Jesus and the Gospels: A Compendium of Contemporary Biblical Scholarship 735–44. Ed. J. B. Green et al. Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press. 1993 “The Two Parousias of Christ: Justin Martyr and Matthew.” In From Jesus to John: Essays on Jesus and New Testament Christology in Honour of Marinus de Jonge 183–95. Ed. M. C. de Boer. Sheffield: JSOT Press. Reprinted as chapter 20 in this volume. 1994 “Early Objections to the Resurrection of Jesus.” In Resurrection: Essays in Honour of Leslie Houlden 79–94. Ed. S. C. Barton and G. N. Stanton. London: SPCK. Reprinted in Stanton, Jesus and Gospel (2004).

444

Appendix: Graham Stanton’s Publications

“Jesus of Nazareth: A Magician and a False Prophet Who Deceived God’s People?” In Jesus of Nazareth Lord and Christ: Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology [Festschrift for I. H. Marshall] 164–80. Ed. J. B. Green and M. Turner. Grand Rapids and Carlisle: Eerdmans and Paternoster. Reprinted in Stanton, Jesus and Gospel (2004). “Revisiting Matthew’s Communities.” In SBL Seminar Papers, 1994 9–23. Ed. E. H. Lov‑ ering, Jr. Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers 33. Atlanta: Scholars. Reprinted in Hervormde Teologiese Studies 52 (1996): 376–94, and as chapter 5 in this volume. Editor, with Stephen C. Barton. Resurrection: Essays in Honour of Leslie Houlden. London: SPCK. 1995 “A Gospel among the Scrolls?” Bible Review 11: 36–42. “Matthew’s Gospel: A Survey of Some Recent Commentaries.” Bible Translator 46: 131–40. Reprinted as chapter 2 in this volume. Gospel Truth? New Light on Jesus and the Gospels. London and Valley Forge: Harper‑ Collins and Trinity Press International. (Translated into French, Dutch, Spanish and Italian). Editor, The Interpretation of Matthew. Studies in New Testament Interpretation. 2nd revised and expanded edn. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. “Introduction: Matthew’s Gospel in Recent Scholarship.” In The Interpretation of Matthew 1–26. Ed. G. N. Stanton. Studies in New Testament Interpretation. 2nd revised and expanded ed. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. 1996 “The Law of Moses and the Law of Christ: Galatians 3:1–6:2.” In Paul and the Mosaic Law 99–116. Ed. J. D. G. Dunn. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testa‑ ment 89. Tübingen: Mohr (Siebeck). Reprinted as chapter 17 in this volume. “Ministry in Matthean Christianity.” In The Call to Serve: Biblical and Theological Perspectives on Ministry in Honour of Bishop Penny Jamieson 142–60. Ed. D. A. Camp‑ bell. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic. Reprinted as chapter 6 in this volume. “Other Early Christian Writings: ‘Didache’, Ignatius, ‘Barnabas’, Justin Martyr.” In Early Christian Thought in its Jewish Context [Festschrift in Honour of Morna Hooker’s 65th Birthday] 174–90. Ed. J. Barclay and J. Sweet. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. “Revisiting Matthew’s Communities.” Hervormde Teologiese Studies 52: 376–94. Re‑ printed as chapter 5 in this volume. Consultant editor. A Dictionary of the Bible. Edited by W. R. F. Browning. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 1997 “The Fourfold Gospel.” New Testament Studies 43: 317–46. Reprinted in Stanton, Jesus and Gospel (2004). Gospel Truth? Today’s Quest for Jesus of Nazareth. 2nd edn. London: Fount. “Jesus Traditions.” In Dictionary of the Later New Testament and Its Developments: A Compendium of Contemporary Biblical Scholarship 565–79. Ed. R. P. Martin and P. H. Davids. Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press.

Appendix: Graham Stanton’s Publications

445

1998 “‘God-Fearers’: Neglected Evidence in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho.” In Ancient History in a Modern University, Vol. 2: Early Christianity, Late Antiquity and Beyond [Festschrift for E. Judge] 43–52. Ed. T. W. Hillard et al. Sydney and Grand Rapids: Macquarie University Ancient History Documentary Research Centre and Eerdmans. Reprinted as chapter 21 in this volume. Editor, with G. G. Stroumsa. Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Early Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. “Introduction.” In Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Early Christianity 1–6. Ed. G. N. Stanton and G. G. Stroumsa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. “Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho: Group Boundaries, ‘Proselytes’, and ‘God-Fear‑ ers’.” In Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Early Christianity 263–78. Ed. G. N. Stanton and G. G. Stroumsa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Re‑ printed as chapter 22 in this volume. “Foreword.” In David J. Powys, ‘Hell’: A Hard Look at a Hard Question. The Fate of the Unrighteous in New Testament Thought. Paternoster Biblical and Theological Mono‑ graphs. Milton Keynes: Paternoster. 1999 “Matthew, Gospel of.” In Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation, 2: 136–41. Ed. J. H. Hayes. Nashville: Abingdon. 2001 “The Early Reception of Matthew’s Gospel: New Evidence from Papyri?” In The Gospel of Matthew in Current Study: Studies in Memory of William G. Thompson, S. J. 42–61. Ed. D. E. Aune. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Reprinted as chapter 7 in this volume. “Galatians.” In The Oxford Bible Commentary 1152–65. Ed. J. Barton and J. Muddiman. Oxford: Oxford University Press. “Message and Miracles.” In The Cambridge Companion to Jesus 56–71. Ed. M. Bockm‑ uehl. Cambridge Companions to Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. “What is the law of Christ?” Ex Auditu 17: 47–59. Reprinted as chapter 18 in this volume. 2002 The Gospels and Jesus. Oxford Bible Series. 2nd edn. Oxford: Oxford University Press. “‘I think, when I read that sweet story of old’: A Response to Douglas Campbell.” In Narrative Dynamics in Paul: A Critical Assessment 125–32. Ed. B. W. Longenecker. Louisville: Westminster John Knox. 2003 “1 Peter.” In Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible 1493–503. Ed. J. D. G. Dunn and J. W. Rogerson. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. “Jesus Traditions and Gospels in Justin Martyr and Irenaeus.” In The Biblical Canons 353–70. Ed. J.-M. Auwers and H. J. de Jonge. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologi‑ carum Lovaniensium 163. Leuven: Leuven University Press and Peeters. Reprinted in Stanton, Jesus and Gospel (2004). “The Law of Christ: A Neglected Theological Gem?” In Reading Texts, Seeking Wisdom: Scripture and Theology 169–84. Ed. D. F. Ford and G. N. Stanton. London: SCM. Re‑ printed in Stanton, Jesus and Gospel (2004).

446

Appendix: Graham Stanton’s Publications

“Paul’s Gospel.” In Cambridge Companion to St Paul 173–84. Ed. J. D. G. Dunn. Cam‑ bridge Companions to Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reprinted as chapter 16 in this volume. With Patrick Collinson and Richard Rex. Lady Margaret Beaufort and her Professors of Divinity at Cambridge: 1502–1649. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Editor, with David F. Ford. Reading Texts, Seeking Wisdom: Scripture and Theology. London: SCM. 2004 “Early Christian Preference for the Codex.” In The Earliest Gospels: The Origins and Transmission of the Earliest Christian Gospels – The Contribution of the Chester Beatty Gospel Codex P45 40–49. Ed. C. Horton. Journal for the Study of the New Testa‑ ment Supplement Series 258. London: T&T Clark International. Reprinted in Stanton, Jesus and Gospel (2004). Jesus and Gospel. Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press. “The Spirit in the Writings of Justin Martyr.” In The Holy Spirit and Christian Origins: Essays in Honor of James D. G. Dunn 321–34. Ed. G. N. Stanton et al. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Reprinted as chapter 23 in this volume. Editor, with Stephen C. Barton and Bruce W. Longenecker. The Holy Spirit and Christian Origins: Essays in Honor of James D. G. Dunn. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. 2005 “Terrorism and Reconciliation.” Theology 108, no. 845: 331–37. 2007 “Jewish Christian Elements in the Pseudo-Clementine Writings.” In Jewish Believers in Jesus: The Early Centuries 305–24. Ed. O. Skarsaune and R. Hvalvik. Peabody: Hendrickson. Reprinted as chapter 26 in this volume. “Messianism and Christology: Mark, Matthew, Luke and Acts.” Pages 78–96 in Redemption and Resistance: The Messianic Hopes of Jews and Christians in Antiquity. Edited by Markus Bockmuehl and James Carleton Paget. London: T&T Clark. Reprinted as chapter 13 in this volume.

Acknowledgements All the following essays are published with permission, gratefully acknowledged:   1. “The Origin and Purpose of Matthew’s Gospel: Matthean Scholarship from 1945– 1980.” Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.25.3 (1985): 1889–1951.   2. “Matthew’s Gospel: A Survey of Some Recent Commentaries.” Bible Translator 46 (1995): 131–140. This article is reprinted by permission of the United Bible Societies, granted by the editor.   3. “Matthew: ΒΙΒΛΟΣ, ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ, or ΒΙΟΣ?” Pages 1187–1201 in The Four Gospels 1992: Festschrift Frans Neirynck. Edited by F. van Segbroeck, C. M. Tuckett, G. van Belle and J. Verheyden. BETL 100. Leuven: Peeters, 1992.   4. “The Communities of Matthew.” Interpretation 46 (1992): 379–391. Also reprinted as pages 49–62 in Gospel Interpretation. Edited by J. Kingsbury. Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 1997.   5. “Revisiting Matthew’s Communities.” Hervormde teologiese studies 52 (1996): 376– 394.   6. “Ministry in Matthean Christianity.” Pages 142–160 in The Call To Serve: Biblical and Theological Perspectives on Ministry in Honour of Bishop Penny Jamieson. Edited by D. A. Campbell. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996.   7. “The Early Reception of Matthew’s Gospel: New Evidence from Papyri?” Pages 42–61 in The Gospel of Matthew in Current Study. Edited by David E. Aune. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001.   8. “Presuppositions in New Testament criticism.” Pages 60–71 in New Testament Interpretation: Essays on Principles and Methods. Edited by I. H. Marshall. Exeter: Paternoster Press, 1977.   9. “Form Criticism Revisited.” Pages 13–27 in What about the New Testament? Essays in Honour of Christopher Evans. Edited by M. D. Hooker and C. J. A. Hickling. Lon‑ don: SCM Press, 1975. © SCM Press. Reprinted by permission of Hymns Ancient and Modern Ltd. 10. “The Gospel Traditions and Early Christological Reflection.” Pages 191–204 in Christ, Faith and History: Cambridge Studies in Christology. Edited by S. W. Sykes and J. P. Clayton. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972. © Cambridge Uni‑ versity Press. Used with permission. 11. “On the Christology of Q.” Pages 27–42 in Christ and Spirit in the New Testament. Edited by B. Lindars and S. S. Smalley. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973. © Cambridge University Press. Used with permission. 12. “Incarnational Christology in the New Testament.” Pages 151–65 in Incarnation and Myth: The Debate Continued. Edited by M. Goulder. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1979.

448

Acknowledgements

13. “Messianism and Christology: Mark, Matthew, Luke and Acts.” Pages 78–96 in Redemption and Resistance: The Messianic Hopes of Jews and Christians in Antiquity. Edited by Markus Bockmuehl and James Carleton Paget. London: T&T Clark, 2007. 14. “Rudolf Bultmann: Jesus and the Word.” Expository Times 90 (1979): 324–28. 15. “Stephen in Lucan Perspective.” Pages 345–60 in Studia Biblica 1978, III. Papers on Paul and Other New Testament Authors. Edited by E. A. Livingstone. JSNTSup 3. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1980. 16. “Paul’s Gospel.” Pages 173–84 in The Cambridge Companion to St Paul. Edited by J. D. G. Dunn. Cambridge Companions to Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge Univer‑ sity Press, 2003. © Cambridge University Press. Used with permission. 17. “The Law of Moses and the Law of Christ: Galatians 3:1–6:2.” Pages 99–116 in Paul and the Mosaic Law. Edited by J. D. G. Dunn. WUNT 99. Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996. 18. “What Is the Law of Christ?” Ex Auditu 17 (2001): 47–59. Used by permission of Wipf and Stock Publishers. www.wipfandstock.com 19. “Interpreting the New Testament Today.” Ex Auditu 1 (1985): 63–73. Originally published by King’s College London, 1978. Used by permission of Wipf and Stock Publishers. www.wipfandstock.com 20. “The Two Parousias of Christ: Justin Martyr and Matthew.” Pages 183–95 in From Jesus to John: Essays on Jesus and New Testament Christology in Honour of Marinus de Jonge. Edited by M. C. Boer. JSNTSup 84. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993. 21. “‘God-fearers’: Neglected Evidence in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho.” Pages 43–52 in Early Christianity, Late Antiquity and Beyond. Volume 2 of Ancient History in a Modern University. Edited by T. W. Hillard, R. A. Kearsley, C. E. V. Nixon and A. M. Nobbs. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998. 22. “Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho: Group Boundaries, ‘Proselytes’ and ‘Godfearers’.” Pages 263–78 in Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Christianity. Edited by Graham N. Stanton and Guy G. Stroumsa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. © Cambridge University Press. Used with permission. 23. “The Spirit in the Writings of Justin Martyr.” Pages 321–34 in The Holy Spirit and Christian Origins: Essays in Honor of James D. G. Dunn. Edited by Graham Stanton, Bruce W. Longenecker and Stephen C. Barton. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004. 24. “Justin on Martyrdom and Suicide.” Previously unpublished. Presented to the Cam‑ bridge Senior New Testament Seminar, 11 October 2005. 25. “Aspects of Early Christian and Jewish Worship: Pliny and the Kerygma Petrou.” Pages 84–98 in Worship, Theology and Ministry in the Early Church: Essays in Honor of Ralph P. Martin. Edited by Michael J. Wilkins and Terence Paige. JSNTSup 87. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992. 26. “Jewish Christian Elements in the Pseudo-Clementine Writings.” Pages 305–24 in Jewish Believers in Jesus: The Early Centuries. Edited by Oskar Skarsaune and Rei‑ dar Hvalvik. Peabody: Hendrickson, 2007. Used by permission of Baker Academic, a division of Baker Publishing Group.

Index of Ancient Sources Old Testament Hebrew Canon Genesis 2:4 91, 92 5:1 91, 92 12:3 300 14 300 15:6 300–301 300–301 17 17:4–14 300 17:10–14 301 17:14 301, 357, 369 18:1–3 383 49:11 128 49:8–12 342 Exodus 20 161 Leviticus 18:5 23:13 Numbers 24:17 27:18

304–305 212 249 383

Deuteronomy 27:26 304 28–30 304 304 28:58 30:10 304 31:1 63 31:24 63 32:44 ff. 63 33:2 (LXX) 306 34:9 383

2 Samuel 7 7:9–16 7:14

247 247 240, 247

Psalms 251–252 2:7 16:8–11 254 22 92 24 342 128 45:6–11 68 (LXX) 387 68:19 (LXX) 387, 388 72 342 82:1–2 212 89:26–36 247 110 342, 382 110:1 254 135:21 110 143:2 298 Isaiah 1:13 1:13–14 2:3–4 2:5–6 8:23–9:1 9:1 9:2 9:6–7 9:12 11:12 11:13 29:18 29:18 f. 35:5

409 417 399 388 140 316 249 249 125 247 387 240 211 211

450

Index of Ancient Sources

35:5–6 140, 240 42:1–4 47, 245 42:6 ff. 372, 358 49:6 358, 372 52:7 212, 241, 281 341 53 53:4 26 53:23 342 55:3–13 341 58:10 140 61 213 61:1 140, 240–241, 281 61:1–2 212, 240 61:1 f. 208, 211, 212, 214, 216 61:1 ff. 252 388 65:9–12 66 275 66:1 276 66:1–2 275 66:2 276 Daniel 7 7:9–28 7:13 7:13–14

219, 340, 342 340 340 44, 341–342

Hosea 6:6

58

Joel 3:1 3:1–5 Amos 5 5:25 ff.

Micah 3 399 4 342, 400 Habakkuk 2:4

304–305

Zechariah 9:9 12:10–12 12:10–14

128 341–342 341

Malachi 4:5

342

Apocrypha / Deuterocanonical Books Judith 8:6

417

1 Maccabees 10:34

417

Psalms of Solomon 9.1 252 239 17 17–18 238 17.23 f. 255 17.32 250 Wisdom of Solomon 226 9:10 9:17 226

387 253

4 Ezra

42, 46, 239

276 275–276

Old Testament Pseudepigrapha 1 Enoch 45.3 49.2 55.4 61.8 62.5

42, 46, 239 341 341 341 341 341

69.27 69.29 71.7

341 341 341

5 Ezra 1.24

40, 50, 132, 149, 151 40

451

Index of Ancient Sources

1.33 1.34 1.35 1.38 2.4 2.7 2.8 2.10 2.12 2.15 2.26 2.33

40 40 40 40 149 40 149 149 149 149 149 149

2.48 2.67

149 40

3 Maccabees 6:32 6:35 7:13 7:16

412 412 412 412

Testament of Judah 249 24.16

Qumran 1QH 411 18.14 211

4QPatriarchal Blessing 3 212

1QM 11 212

11Q13 15–16

1QSa 2:13

212

11QMelchizedek 212 18

4Q174 11–12

240, 244, 247 248

11QT 29.7–10

110

CD 2.12 6.1

212 212

4Q246 239–240 4Q369 244 4Q521

252 241

239, 240, 241, 252

Philo De fuga et inventione 186 382

Questions et solutiones in Exodum 2.105 382

Legatio ad Gaium 407 281–282

De vita contemplativa 29 411 30 411–39 78–89 411

De Specialibus legibus 353 2.42

452 De vita Mosis 1.277 2.41

Index of Ancient Sources

382 353

New Testament Matthew 1 1–2 1:1 1:1–2:23 1:1–4:16 1:2–17 1:2–25 1:14–20 1:16 1:17 1:18 1:18–25 1:19 1:20 1:22 1:23 1:39 2 2:1 2:1–6 2:1–12 2:2–3 2:2–6 2:3 2:4 2:15 2:21 3 3–25 3–28 3:1–4:1 3:2 3:7 3:11 3:11 f. 3:15 3:17 4–13

46, 77, 91 25 3, 25, 90–92, 103, 238, 244, 245, 345 25 25 91 92 158 238 238, 244 91–92, 238 129, 244, 346 158 116, 244 59 49, 116, 145, 96 46, 77 115 346 218 245 140, 246, 346–347 244, 246 239 140 140 158 23, 32 46 25 95 41 380 213 66, 94, 106 116, 140 54

4:1–11 4:12–22 4:12 ff. 4:12–11:1 4:12–13:58 4:14–16 4:15 4:15 f. 4:16 4:17 4:17–16:20 4:22 4:23 4:23–11:1 4:23–24 4:23–25 4:26 5 5–7 5–9 5:1–12 5:1–19 5:3 5:3–12 5:5 5:10 5:10–12 5:10 ff. 5:11 5:12 5:13–14 5:13–16 5:14 5:15–20 5:16 5:17 5:17–19

140, 215, 240 20, 140 25 20 21, 25 125 65, 126 49 316 25, 52, 95, 101, 316, 348 25 140, 316 49, 96–97, 102, 110 20 139 25, 125 126 26, 77, 158 13, 18, 26, 34, 96, 139, 245, 314 139, 245 142–143 57 140, 214, 348 314 141, 348 154 112, 348 49 35, 37, 101, 112 50, 131, 148, 348 143 143 49, 140 134 143, 154 30, 59–60, 129 28–29, 111, 114, 134, 314

Index of Ancient Sources

5:17–20 5:17–48 5:17 ff. 5:18 5:18 ff. 5:19 5:20 5:21–48 5:22 5:23 5:23–24 5:24 5:32 5:43–48 5:46–47 5:47 5:48 6:2 6:5 6:6 6:7 6:9–13 6:12 6:14 6:25–35 6:32 7:5 7:12 7:13–27 7:15 7:15–20 7:15 ff. 7:18–23 7:19 7:21 7:22 7:22 f. 7:23 7:24–27 7:28 7:29 8 8–9 8:2 8:5–13 8:6 8:8 8:12

59–60, 83, 346 129 29–30, 59 59–60, 428 30, 57 28, 59–60 59, 110, 113 57, 59–60, 314 79–80 79 108 79 80 42 113 79, 112 113 110 110 96 112 17, 94, 117 17 17 26 112 41 314 26 134 30, 114 29 131, 148 114, 134 117, 314 30, 131, 148 50 114, 134 111, 117, 314 25 109 52, 101 26, 96, 245 78 110–111 78 78 38, 116

8:15 8:16 ff. 8:17 8:18–22 8:19 8:20 8:21 8:23–27 8:25 8:34 8:35 9 9:9–13 9:14–34 9:18 9:18–26 9:23 9:27 9:27–28 9:34 9:35 9:36 9:36–10:1 9:37 9:41 10 10:1 10:1–42 10:7 10:7–8 10:7 f. 10:8 10:11–42 10:14 10:17 10:17–23 10:18 10:22 10:23 10:25 10:34 10:35–37 10:40 10:40–42 10:41

453 79 26 246, 346–347 26, 109 149 220 78–79 110, 116 78–79 107 79 52, 101 27 55 109 109 109 244–245, 345 246 129–130, 141, 345–346 25, 49, 96–97, 102, 107, 110, 139 141 141 141 130 112, 130, 139, 142 139 141 95, 101 139, 348 52 101 348 114 110 112 101, 112 112 37, 107 101, 129–130, 141–142, 345 30 55 52, 116, 130, 139, 147, 348 145 111, 130–131, 147–148

454

Index of Ancient Sources

10:41–42 348 10:42 130, 144–145, 147, 348 10:44 50 11 26 11–13 245 25 11:1 11:2 140, 212, 216, 245 11:2–6 211, 214 11:5 313 11:5 f. 214 11:6 257 11:9–15 55 11:9 ff. 213 11:19 47, 220 11:25 348 47, 116, 215, 217 11:25–27 11:26 140, 215, 240 11:27 44, 383 11:28–30 47, 141, 217–218 11:29 140–141, 246, 346–347 11:30 25 12 47, 346 12:1–16:12 25 12:5 140 12:6 111 141 12:7 12:9 110 12:9–50 55 12:17–21 140, 246, 346–347 12:18 402 12:18–21 47, 245 12:21 38 12:23 244–246, 345–346 12:24 129–130, 141, 345 25 12:25–45 12:27 129–130, 345 12:28 215, 239, 345 12:38 218 12:41 111 12:41–42 239 12:42 111 12:43 415 12:46 140 146 12:46–50 13 26, 159 13:1–53 55 13:10–17 146 13:16–17 240

13:16 f. 13:19 13:28 13:36–43 13:41 13:52 13:53 13:54 14 14:1–20:34 14:13–21 14:14 14:22–23 14:31 15:1–20 15:3–29 15:13 15:13–14 15:22 16:1–4 16:1–12 16:5–12 16:13–20 16:13–20:34 16:16–19 16:17 16:17–18 16:17–19 16:18 16:19 16:21 16:21–23 16:21–28 16:21–28:20 16:23 16:27–28 17:5 17:22–23 17:22–18:35 17:24–27 17:27 18 18:1–9 18:4 18:5–19 18:6

214 96, 135 29 29, 114, 134 114, 134 111, 149 25 110 159 25 146 141 110, 116 51 55 146 111 116 244–245, 345 41 41 41 147 25 64 116 51 48, 51 110, 127, 430 51, 111, 117, 132, 147, 150 25 347 25 25 51 347 116 25 30, 48 33, 39, 66 33 35, 43, 48–49, 78, 132, 142, 148 15 141 113 131, 148, 348

Index of Ancient Sources

18:7 18:8–9 18:10 18:12–14 18:14 18:15 18:15–16 18:15–18 18:16–18 18:17 18:18 18:19 18:19 f. 18:20 19:1 19:9 19:11–12 19:16–22 19:23–30 19:28 20:17–19 20:24–32 20:30 20:31 21–25 21:1–11 21:1–22:14 21:1–28:20 21:5 21:9 21:10 21:13–19 21:15 21:18 21:20 21:28–22:14 21:37 21:39 21:41 21:43 22:7 22:11–12 22:35 22:37–39 22:38 22:42

112 113 131, 144, 148, 149, 348 143 131, 144, 148, 348 114 315 48, 143 117 110, 113, 127, 142 51, 132, 147, 150 111 35 49, 110, 116 25, 65 80 113 26 25 341 25 158 245, 345 245, 345 25 244 38 25 141, 246, 346–347 244–246, 345–346 107, 245 158 244–246, 345–346 107 147 25 116, 348 38 111 31, 35, 39, 42, 111, 116, 389 66 41 109 314 42 245, 345

23 23:1 23:2 f. 23:4 23:6 23:6–10 23:6–12 23:8–12 23:11 23:11–12 23:21 23:29 23:34 23:34–36 23:37 23:37–39 23:37 ff. 23:38 23:39 24–25 24:3 24:9 24:10 ff. 24:11 24:11–13 24:11–31 24:11 ff. 24:12 24:14 24:20 24:27 24:31–46 24:37 24:39 24:51 25 25:31 25:31–32 25:31–46 25:40 25:41–26:39 25:45 26 26–28 26:1

455 25–26, 41–42, 109, 114, 134, 142, 159 42 35 315 110 149 111, 150 132 132, 150 141 110 218 33, 37, 50, 101, 107, 110–112, 131, 142, 148–149, 348, 400 47, 217 112 47, 218 66 111 42 25–26 347 113, 144, 415 30 114, 134 114, 134 431 29 114, 134 42, 96–97, 135, 144 59 347 143 347 347 41, 114, 134 38, 145 47, 341 144 42, 145–146, 347–348 131, 144–145, 148, 348 158 131, 144–145, 148 158 25 25

456 26:1–28:20 26:13 26:26–28 26:26–30 26:29–35 26:47 26:64 27:63 27:63–64 28:1–15 28:7 28:12–15 28:15 28:16–20 28:16 ff. 28:18 28:18–20 28:19

Index of Ancient Sources

28:26–28

25 96, 97, 135 141 110, 129 158 146 347 129 345 344 147 129 35, 112, 115 26, 44–45 38 410 44, 113, 117, 313 42, 110, 117, 129, 144, 386 49, 101–102, 110–111, 116, 129, 145, 348 117

Mark 1:1 1:11 1:14 1:14–15 1:15 1:16–20 1:22 1:23 1:39 5:22 5:35 5:36 5:38 6:1–6 6:2 6:17–21 6:25–27 6:34 6:34–44 7:6 8:29 8:35 9:7 9:41

95, 242–243 233 95 20 95 20 109 32 32 109 109 109 109 214 218 214 214 141 141 109 242 95–96 233 147

28:20

131, 148 9:42 10:29 95–96 10:43–45 141 10:47 245, 345 10:48 245, 345 11:1–11 244 11:10 212 11:21 147 12:2 233 12:28 109 245, 345 12:35 13 112 13:10 95–96 14:9 95–96 14:36 233–234 14:61 245 14:62 242, 347 15:2 242 15:9 242 15:12 242 242, 257 15:18 15:26 242 15:27 242, 257 15:31–32 242, 243 15:32 242, 257 15:39 243 16:7 147 Luke 1 1:26–38 1:29 1:32 1:32–33 1:35 1:47 1:68 1:69 1:69–79 1:70–71 1:71 1:76–77 1:78 1:79 2 2:1–20 2:11 2:25

77, 158 247 239 247 247 247 249 248, 252 248–249 248 248 248–249 248 248 249 77 249 249–250, 255 250

457

Index of Ancient Sources

2:25–38 2:26 2:30–32 2:34 2:38 2:40–52 3 3–24 3:15 3:16 3:16 f. 3:21–32 3:3–18 4:1 4:1–13 4:16–30 4:16 ff. 4:17–21 4:17 f. 4:18 4:18 f. 4:20–30 4:25–27 4:41 5 6:20 6:20–49 6:20 f. 6:22 6:46 7:1–10 7:5 7:18–23 7:18 ff. 7:19 7:22 7:22–23 7:23 7:26 ff. 7:34 7:35 7:36 9:31 9:49 9:51 9:59 10:21 f. 10:22

250 239 250 250 250, 252 218 158 251 239, 251 380 213 251 251 32 215, 240 213–214, 252 214 213 212, 214 251 208 208 213 252 158 214 17 208, 214 35, 37, 216 117, 314 110–111 110 211, 214–215 214 240 208, 313 240 257 213 220 216 109 256 33 256 220 215, 217 44, 383

10:23 10:23–24 11:2–4 11:20 11:31 11:31–32 11:44 ff. 11:49 11:49–51 13:28–29 13:31 13:34–35 14:1 15:1–7 15:37 16:10 16:11 19:38 21:28 22:67 22:70 23:2 23:2 ff. 24 24:21 24:26 24:36–53 24:46 24:47 24:51

214 240 17 215, 239 218 239 279 400 217 111 109 218 109 114 142 93 93 212 252 245 245 250 272 252 252 253 45 253 410 256

John 389 1:13 1:14 47, 232 1:16 232 2:18 231 3:16 230 3:17 230, 383 8:12 140 232 8:29 8:46 384 10:30 232 10:33 232 11:52 232 12:37 231 12:44–50 232 13 394 13:2 394

458

Index of Ancient Sources

13:27–30 394 13:34–35 319 16:8 384 16:8–11 384 18 160, 165 232 18:6 19 160 20:19–23 45 21:18–19 400 Acts 1–12 436 252 1:6 2 271, 279 2:9 407 2:14–21 253 2:14–36 253, 257 2:17 387 2:17–18 387 2:22 254 348 2:23–24 2:30 254 2:31 254 2:33 387 2:36 250, 254 3 271, 279 3:13 277, 402 3:13–15 348 3:18 253 3:22 273 3:23 278 277 3:25 3:26 402 4 271, 279 4:24–29 251 4:27 402 4:30 402 5:11 255 5:30 277 249 5:31 6 270, 272, 279, 280 6–7 269, 274 6:10 272 6:11 271–273, 277 6:13 271–273, 277 6:13 f. 272, 274 6:14 273 6:8–8:3 269, 274

7 7:2–50 7:2–8 7:5 7:7 7:9 7:25 7:35 7:37 7:38 7:39 7:39 ff. 7:42 7:42 f. 7:43 7:44–50 7:48 7:49 f. 7:51 7:51–52 7:51–53 7:55 8–11 8:1 8:4 8:4–11:18 8:14–24 9:1–3 9:4–5 9:19–22 9:19–25 9:20 9:20–22 9:31 10 10:2 10:22 10:30–43 10:35 10:36 10:36–43 10:38 11:19 11:19–15:35 11:26 13 13:13–52

270, 271, 276, 279, 280, 433 270 277 277 275, 277–278 278 278 278 273, 278 273, 277–278 273 275 275 275 275 274–276, 279 275, 276 275 276, 278 277 275–276, 278 278 431 279 279 279 428 436 146 254 254 254 252 279 271 357, 369 369 205 357, 369 212 251 207–208, 214 279–280 279 395 271, 279, 433 254

459

Index of Ancient Sources

13:16 13:16–41 13:17 13:22–23 13:23 13:26 13:32 13:32–33 13:33 13:43 14 14:1 15:10 15:20 17 17:1–3 17:2–3 17:3 17:9 17:10 17:16–17 18:2 18:4 18:4–6 18:13 18:19 19:8 20:7 21 21:22 ff. 21:28 22:8 22:14 22:20 24:10–21 25:8 25:8–10 26:6 26:15 26:21 26:23 26:28 28:17 28:19 28:23–28 28:25

254, 357, 369 205, 254, 257 277 255 249–250 254, 357, 369 277 255 252 254 271 255 277 392 271 255 344 253, 255 272 255 255 407 344 255 429 255 344 410 272 274 272, 321, 429 146 277 272, 280 429 273, 274 429 277 146 274 253, 255 395 274 274 344 277

Romans 228 1 1:2 283 1:3 255 1:3–4 284–285, 410 1:3 f. 227–228 1:9 228, 285 1:16 228, 285, 290, 410 1:16–17 283, 288 1:17 284, 288 304 1:18–3:20 2 29 2:17–20 372 3:21 288 3:21–31 288 3:26 288 3:27 318, 320 3:30 230 4:6–8 288 4:24–25 286 291 4:25 5:1 288 5:6 283 5:8 289 5:8–11 288–289, 291 5:9 289 5:9–10 288 5:10 289 8:2 318, 320 8:3 227–228, 283, 285 227–228 8:32 10:8 286 10:15 281 10:16 282 12–14 316 13:8–10 321 14:5 416 15:20 151 1 Corinthians 1:1–3 1:17 1:18 1:21 1:22 1:22–24 1:23 1:24

282 285, 290 284, 285, 290 290 285 415 253 285

460

Index of Ancient Sources

2:4 285, 290 2:5 290 2:13 290 4:20 290 6:9 287 230 8:4 8:5 234 8:6 230 8:12 146 9:18 282 9:21 315 10:32 389, 415 11:23 192 12 387, 388, 389 12:9 387, 389 387 12:10 12:28 387 12:28–29 151 14 290 14:15 412 14:26 412 15 286 15:2 285 15:3 253, 283, 285 15:3–7 282, 285 283, 285 15:3–8 15:3 ff. 192 15:8 430 15:9 28 15:14 286 15:28 227 15:49 285 16:2 410 2 Corinthians 1:19 4:4 5:14–15 5:18–21 5:20 8:9 10:15–16 11:7 13:14

227, 285 285 288 288–289, 291 289 348 151 282 386

Galatians 1:1 1:2

284 294

1:3 1:4 1:11 1:12 1:12–16 1:15 1:15–16 1:16 1:22 2 2:2 2:3–4 2:5 2:11 2:11–14 2:14 2:15 2:15–16 2:15–20 2:16 2:20 3 3–6 3:1–12 3:1–6:2 3:2 3:5 3:6 3:6–9 3:6–29 3:6 ff. 3:8 3:9 3:10 3:10–12 3:10–14 3:11 3:11–12 3:12 3:13–14 3:14 3:15–18 3:16 3:18 3:19 3:19–25

282 320, 321 282, 284, 430 284 410 430 284 227, 285 128 297 285 303 287 430 287, 430 287 293, 303 297, 299, 303 320 284, 287, 295, 297–298, 304, 308, 319, 321 227, 318 288, 293, 295, 297, 300, 302, 304, 307 5, 294 304 293 284, 297–298 297–298 300–301 300, 303 302 300 286, 309, 320 301 303–304 303, 305 305 303–305 305 303–305 305 301, 389 300 297, 301 307 306 305

461

Index of Ancient Sources

3:19–29 3:20 3:21 3:22–24 3:23 3:24 3:24–25 3:25 3:26–29 3:28 4 4:1–10 4:3–5 4:4 4:4–5 4:4–8 4:6 f. 4:9 4:21 4:21–5:1 4:31 5 5:1 5:3 5:13 5:14 5:16 5:19–23 5:22 6 6:1–5 6:2 6:11 6:12 6:16

305 230, 306–307 321 303 307 306 307 303 284, 305 284, 308 226, 293, 295, 300, 302, 307 303, 307 308 225–228, 230, 285 284, 291 283 233 416 293, 295, 303, 308–309, 319–321 300, 302 295, 303 284, 321 295, 303 304, 309, 320 307 293, 295, 308, 309, 314, 318–321 321 321 319 293, 321 315, 316 5, 293, 295, 308, 309, 311–322 294 300 389

Ephesians 2 29 2:16 288 4:6 230 4:8 387, 388, 389 4:11 151 4:13 227 5:18 412

5:19

412

Philippians 1:1 2:6 2:6–11 3:9

133, 151 285 44, 228, 348, 405 287, 291

Colossians 1:15 1:20–22 2:16 3:15 3:16

285 288 416 412 412

1 Thessalonians 1:5 1:6 1:9 1:9–10 2:3–7 2:4–5 2:9 4:13 4:14 5:3–8 5:9–10

290 285 227 282 290 29 285 283 283 283 283

1 Timothy 1:17 2:5 6:3–5 6:3 ff.

230 230 115, 134 30

2 Timothy 4:13

167

Titus 1:16

30, 115, 134

1 Peter 2:12 2:18–23 2:19 f. 3:14 4:14 4:16

154 392 415 154 154 395

462 1 John 4:9

Index of Ancient Sources

230, 283

Revelation 1:10 2:13

410 392

Josephus Antiquities 14.110 14.213–216

353 416

14.241 14.256–258

416 416

Early Christian Texts Acts of Justin 2.5 [A] 3.4 [A] 5.6

402 402 402

Aristides Apology 14

414, 415

Athenagoras Legatio pro Christianis 10.4 382 18.2 382

94 11.3 11.4 146 11.4–5 151 11.7–12 133, 151 11.18 134 11.35 133 11.36 133, 151 13–15 133, 151 13.1–7 133, 151 133, 151 13.2 14 410 15.1 133, 151 15.34 f. 94 Diognetus 1–2 7.8

Barnabas 15 15.8–9 16.2

409 409 275

Epiphanius

2 Clement 8:5

93 93

Adversus haereses (Panarion) 30.16 432

Didache 94 8.2 8.3 117 9.2–3 402 10.2–3 402 10.7 133, 151 11 ff. 30 11–13 133 11.1–3 151 11.1–8 115

415 399

Eusebius Ecclesiastical History 2.17 411 3.39.3 192 4.8.5 399 4.16.7–9 402 388 4.17.1–13 4.18.2 339, 364 4.18.6 364, 378

Index of Ancient Sources

Shepherd of Hermas 43.9 382

Ignatius of Antioch Ephesians 6.1

146

Smyrnaeans 1.1 5.1 7.2

66 94 94

Magnesians 9.1

409

Philadelphians 9.2

94

Romans 3.2 5.3

395 400

Justin Martyr 1 Apology 1.6 1.6–7 5 5.14 6.1 6.2 6.12 6.20 8.3 10.2–5 12.7 13.3 13.4 16.9–10 23.2 26.29–31 27.10 31.1 32.2 33 33.2 33.4–5 33.5

382 62 401, 403 395 395 381, 389 384 382 385 396 385 381, 385 385 146 392 395 395 381 381 386 381 386 381

386 33.9 35.3 381 35.5 381 386 36.1 38.1 381 39 399 39.1 381 40.1 381 40.5 381 41.1 381 42.1 381 44.1 381 381 44.11 47.1 381 48.4 381 51.1 381 52 343 53.2 392 53.4 381 53.6 381 59.1 381 381 60.8 61.3 385–386 61.12 387 61.13 385, 386 63.2 381, 383 63.5 146 63.12 381, 383 63.14 381, 383 65 386 65.2 385 66–67 92 92, 98 66.3 67 161 67.1–2 386 67.2 385, 386 67.3 98 67.3–4 92 67.3–8 386 2 Apology 1–2 393 1.2 393 1.3 393 2.1–20 388 2.7 394 2.9 394 394 2.10

463

464

Index of Ancient Sources

2.12 393, 394 2.13 394 2.15 394 2.15–16 393 2.17 394 398 2.18–19 2.20 394 3 402 3.2 395 4 391, 395 4.1 395 4.2–3 396 5.3 394 5.5 394 6.5 394 394 6.6 7.1 393 7.2 393 7.3 393 8.1–3 393 8.2 394 8.3 394 10 401 10.6 394 11.1 394 398 12.1–2 12.3 394 12.4 392 13.1 394 13.2 394 Dialogue with Trypho 357, 369 1.5 3.1 378 4.1 379 7.1 379 7.2 379, 392 7.3 379 8 299, 355, 365, 367, 370 126 8–9 8.1 313, 379 8.2 313, 380 8.3 354, 365–366 8.4 238, 299, 366, 370 9 355, 365, 367, 370 9.1 126, 127, 366–367, 380 9.2 354, 365 10 415

395 124, 313, 357, 359, 366, 369 10.3–4 301 10.4 357, 369 11–47 344 11.2 317 11.4 317 11.5 389 12.2 313 13 341 13.4 341 14 341 14.1 380 14.1–2 366 14.3 313 14.4 392 14.8 340–342 17.1 366 21 355, 367 276, 355, 367 22 23 355, 358, 367, 370 23.3 355, 367 24.1 409 24.3 357, 369, 369 28.2 356, 368 29.1 380, 381 31 340–341 31.1 340 31.7 384 32–36 342 32.1 341, 342 32.1–2 342 32.2 340, 341 32.3 381, 382 34.2 340 36.1 340, 342 36.2 127, 367, 392 36.6 392 392 37.4 38.1 124, 359, 373 38.1–2 127, 367 38.2 381, 383 39.2 387 39.4 387 39.7 342 40.4 340 41.4 409

10.1 10.3

Index of Ancient Sources

43.3 381 43.4 381 43.5 127, 367 46 301 47 301, 367, 370 370 47.1 47.1–4 360, 374 47.3 371 47.3–4 359, 373 47.4 371, 372 48–108 344 48.2 127, 367 49.1 342 49.2 340, 342 49.6 381, 383 340, 342 49.7 52 342 52.1 340 52.4 340 53 128, 342 53.4 128, 381 54.1 387 55.1 342, 381, 383 56–60 344 56.4 383 381, 383 56.5 56.13 354, 364 56.15 383 61.1 392 62.2 127, 367 63.5 128 64.4 392 64.7 341 67.3 392 127, 367 68.7 69 345 69.7 379 71.1 127, 367 77.3 381 79.2 392 82.1 387 83 342 84.2 381 354, 364 85.6 87–88 388 87.2 387 87.5 385 87.5–6 387–388

87.6 387 88.1 388, 392 88.3 380 89.1 342 90.1 342 381 91.4 95.1 ff. 304 98–106 344 98–107 92 98.5 357, 369 98.5 369 100–107 92 103.8 98 106.1 357, 369 357, 369 106.2 106.3 98 108 399 108–141 344 108.2 366 109 342, 399 110 401 110.1 127, 367 110.1–2 342 110.2 340 399, 399 110.4 112.4 124, 359, 373 112.4–5 127, 367 115.3 384 117.4 127, 367 120.4 340 120.4–5 342 120.5 127, 367 121.1 372 121.3 340 372 122–123 122.1 358, 359, 373, 392 122.2 359, 372 122.3 358, 372 122.4 355, 358, 365, 372 122.5 356, 368 123 389 123.1 359, 373 392 123.4 132.2 392 133.3 127, 367 134.1 127, 367 134.3 128, 389 135.3–6 388

465

466 137.2 138.1 139.1 140.2 141.3 141.5 142 142.2

Index of Ancient Sources

127, 367 409 381 127, 367 392 366 354, 365 127, 367

Kerygma Petrou ll. 99–100 414–415 Maryrdom of Polycarp 397 1.2 4 397 10 400 397 17

340, 343 344 395

Polycarp Philippians 8.2 12.3

392 392

Ptolemy Letter to Flora

321, 388, 413

Tertullian Adversus Judaeos 13 340 14 340

Origen Contra Celsum 1.26 1.46 1.56

2.29 4.52 8.65

415 385 340, 343

Apologeticus 15.2 50.13

399 398

Ad Scapulum 5

396, 398

Pseudo-Clementine Literature Contestatio 1.1 1.2 2.2 5.2

428, 429 428 428 428

Epistle of Peter 1.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.7 3.1

427 427–428, 431, 438 428 428 428 427

Homilies 2.17.4 10–17 11.35.3–6 14.3 17

431 421 432 429 438

17.4–5 17.13–19 17.13.1 18.1 18.6 18.15 19.1 19.3 19.4 19.6 19.7

431 429, 430, 431 429 429 430 429 430 430 430 430 430

Recognitions 1–3 421 1.27–32 433 1.27–71 422, 426–427, 432, 438 1.33–44.2 432 1.44–52 433 1.49 343 341 1.49.2 ff.

467

Index of Ancient Sources

1.69.34 1.72 36.1 37.2 37.4 39.2 39.3 42.1 43.1–3 43.2 44.2 44.3–53.4 49 50 53.4–71 54.1 55.1 57.1 58.1 59.1

341 433 434 434 434 434 434, 437 435 435 435 436 432 437 437 432 435 435 435 435 435

60.1 61.1–2 62.1–2 64.1–2 64.2 65.2 66.4–5 67.1–68.2 68.4 69.1 69.1–3 69.4 69.8 70.1 70.2 70.3–7 71.1 71.2 71.6

435 436 436 435 435 436 436 436 435 435 437 437 436 435 436 436 436 436 436

Rabbinic Texts Babylonian Talmud

Mishnah

b. Berakot 12a 413

m. Avot

b. Sanhedrin 43a 107

345 345

b. Yebamot 47b 62a

359, 373 359, 373

Jerusalem Talmud j. Berakot 21a 413

189

m. Rosh HaShanah 415 1.1–3.1 m. Sukkah 5.4

110

Midrashim Song of Songs Rabbah 1.15 124, 360, 374 1.3 124, 360, 374 4.2 124, 360, 374

Greco-Roman Texts Epictetus Dissertations 2.9.19–21

Juvenal 353

Satires 14.96–106

353

468

Index of Ancient Sources

Martial Epigrams 1.2 14.184–92

Suetonius Nero 16

165 165

395

Tacitus

Pliny the Elder

Histories 4.11–18 5.1–13 5.5.4

409 406 408

409

Annals 15.44 15.44.2 f.

395, 401 410

Cato the Elder 7–9

102

Quintilian

Moralia

365

Letters 3.5

406

Natural history 31.24

Plutarch

Institutio Oratoria 10.3.31–32 164 10.7.20–31.1 168

Satyrus

Xenophon

Life of Euripides 201

Agesilaus 202

Papyri Bibliothèque Nationale, Suppl. Gr. 1120.1892 (P4) 158, 159, 162 P. Barceclona 1.1961 (P67) 158–159, 162 P. Chester Beatty 1 (P45) 158 P. Laur. 11/31 (P95)

160

P. Magdalen 18.1957 (P64) 158–159, 162 P. Mich. 6652 (P53)

158

P. Oxy. 1

160

P. Oxy. 2 (P1)

158

P. Oxy. 30

165

P. Oxy. 2683 (P77)

159

P. Oxy. 3523 (P90)

160

P. Oxy. 4403 (P103)

159

P. Oxy. 4404 (P104)

159–160

P. Oxy. 4405

159

P. Oxy. 4442

161, 162

P. Oxy. 4447 (P108)

161

P. Oxy. 4448 (P109)

161

P. Petaeus 30

165–166

Rylands Library Papyrus P52

165

469

Index of Ancient Sources

Inscriptions CIJ 683a 748 1503

352 352 353

CIRB 71

352

Index of Modern Authors Abegg, M.  239 Abramowski, L.  92, 98 Achtemeier, P.  294 Aland, K.  158 Albright, W.  83 Alexander, L.  157, 161, 168 Allen, W. C.  78, 85 Allison, D.  78, 79, 80, 90, 91, 106, 120, 126, 316 Anderson, G.  101 Anderson, J.  122 Arndt, W. F.  366 Ashton, J.  335 Aune, D.  99, 100, 101, 120 Avigad, N.  122 Bacchiocchi, S.  410 Bacon, B. W.  11, 23, 24, 29, 32, 57, 64 Balch, D.  120, 121, 122 Bammel, E.  210, Banks, R. J.  57, 58, 316 Barbour, R. S.  188 Barclay, J.  115, 298, 300, 302, 305, 309, 315, 320, 321 Barnard, L. W.  385, 396 Barrett, C. K.  212, 253, 255, 256, 285, 301, 302 Barth, G.  13, 14, 28, 29, 30, 50, 58, 114, 134, 346 Barth, K.  4, 181, 264, 266, 267, 325, 326 Barthélemy, D.  399 Bartlet, J. V.  213 Barton, J.  312 Bauckham, R. J.  154, 155 , 158, 168, 432 Bauer, W.  366 Baur, F. C.  12, 39, 269, 419, 420, 432, 438 Beardsley, M .C.  332 Beare, F. W.  84

Beaton, R.  245 Beavis, M. A.  101 Bellinzoni, A. J.  154 Bengel, J. A.  319 Berger, K.  57, 220 Berger, P. L.  116 Best, E.  95 Betti, E.  176 Betz, H. D.  294, 308, 321 Betz, O.  219 Bisbee, G.  401, 402 Black, M.  342 Blair, E. P.  14, 270 Bockmuehl, M. N. A.  2, 6, 312 Boman, T.  187, 270 Bonnard, P.   14, 77 Bornkamm, G.  11, 12, 13, 14, 26, 28, 29, 33, 35, 38, 44, 45, 47, 48, 51, 57, 58, 60, 114, 134, 190, 231, 262, 346 Borsch, F. H.  219 Bousset, W.  92, 93 Bowden, J.  333 Bowersock, G. W.  392, 396, 403 Bowie, E. L.  101 Bowman, A. K.  160, 163, 164 Braaten, C. E.  174, 178, 183 Bradshaw, P.  405, 411 Brooke, G.  239 Brown, R. E  51, 56, 77, 84, 92, 106, 147, 244, 247, 248, 249, 253 Brown, S.  35 Bruce, F. F.  174 Bultmann, R.  4, 5, 12, 28, 99, 179, 181, 182, 183, 187, 188, 196, 229, 231, 252, 261–267, 329, 330, 331, 333 Burger, C.  27, 43, 246, 345 Burridge, R.  1, 2, 3, 98, 99, 101, 120 Burton, E. C.  315 Burton, E. D.  306

472

Index of Modern Authors

Butler, B. C.  19 Buttrick, D. G.  188 Cadbury, H. J.  271, 273, 275, 276 Camery-Hoggart, J.  242, 243 Carleton Paget, J.  379, 419 Carmignac, J.  212 Carson, D.  85 Carter, W.  125, 126, 146, 147 Catchpole, D. R.  47, 213 Cavallo, G.  156 Chadwick, H.  343, 395 Christ, F.  216, 217, 218 Clark, K. W.  38, 40 Coggins, R.  270 Cohen, S.  359, 373 Collins, J. J.  240, 241 Colomo, D.  162 Colson, R. H.  411 Conzelmann, H.  63, 277, 346 Cope, O. L.  15, 26, 37, 47, 54, 55 Corwin, V.  65 Coser, L.  371 Cothenet, E.  30, 50 Cross, F. L.  420 Cross, F. M.  55 Cullmann, O.  270, 424, 426 Dahl, N. A.  13, 17, 239, 264, 267, 277 Davies, M.  82, 83 Davies, W. D.  13, 14, 18, 24, 26, 28, 29, 33, 34, 38, 66, 78, 79, 80, 85, 90, 91, 106, 126, 209, 270, 280, 316 Davison, J.  115, 134 de Jonge, M.  211, 212, 340 Dean, M.  294 Deichgräber, R.  197 Deissmann, A.  352 Devisch, M.  22 Dibelius, M.  187, 188, 192, 193, 194, 196, 278 Didier, M.  56, 57 Dodd, C. H.  189, 231, 315, 316 Donfried, K. P.  51, 147 Doty, W. G.  197 Downey, G.  106 Downing, F. G.  196 Droge, A. J.  396, 397, 398

Drury, J.  329 Dugmore, C. W.  179 Duling, D. C.  46, 123, 246, 345 Duncan, G. S.  297 Dungan, D. L.  90, 188 Dunn, J. D. G.  1, 297, 304, 306, 308, 377, 378 Dupont, J.  215 Easton, B. S.  273 Ebeling, G.  174, 224, 225, 328 Edersheim, A.  237 Edwards, R. A.  210 Efird, J. M.  52 Ehrman, B.  157, 397 Eichholz, G.  181 Elbogen, I.  411 Eliot, T. S.  235 Elliott, J. K.  155, 317 Elliott, W. J.  160 Ellis, P. F.  15 Epp, E. J.  161, 162, 166, 167 Esler, P.  154 Evans-Pritchard, E.  330 Evans, C. A.  239 Evans, C. F.  188, 323, 335 Farmer, W. R.  19, 175, 188 Farrer, A. M.  21, 22 Feldman, L. H.  356, 357, 368, 369, 370 Fenton, J. C.  26 Finkel, A.  211, 215 Fitzmyer, J. A.  22, 84, 209, 212, 250, 252 Forster, E. M.  82 Fortna, R. T.  233 Fowler, A.  89, 90, 98 Fowler, R.  243 Fox, R. L.  166, 411 France, R. T.  85, 100 Frankemölle, H  26, 48, 49, 62, 63, 64, 68, 97 Frankenberg, W.  422 Frerichs, E. S.  342 Friedrich, G.  213, 270 Frör, K.  179 Frye, N.  324 Fuchs, E.  267

Index of Modern Authors

Fuller, R. H.  12, 207, 213, 234 Furnish, V.  319 Gaboury, A.  21, 188 Gadamer, H.-G.  4, 173, 176, 329, 334 Gaechter, P.  26, 32 Gamble, H.  157, 161, 163 García Martinez, F.  240, 241 Gardner, H.  332, 333 Garland, D. E.  15, 41, 42, 83 Gärtner, B.  53 Gaston, L.  40, 41, 65 Gathercole, S.  249 Geffcken, J.  414 Gerhardsson, B.  27, 47, 187, 192, 197 Gianotto, C.  437 Gibbs, J. M  246, 345 Gingrich, F. W.  366 Goodacre, M.  153 Goodenough, E. R.  377, 386 Goodspeed, E. J.  24 Goppelt, L.  68 Goulder, M. D.  21, 22, 26, 29, 30, 35, 60, 61, 62, 64, 153 Grant, R. M.  384, 414 Grässer, E.  270 Gray, S. W.  144 Green, H. B.  21, 24, 85 Green, W. S.  342 Greeven, H.  13 Gregory, A.  256 Greimas, A. J.  68 Grenfell, B. P.  158 Griesbach, J. J.  12, 19–21 Grundmann, W.  96 Guelich, R.  58, 59, 77, 95 Gundry, R. H.  53, 54, 66, 84, 85, 92, 96, 192, 298 Gurtner, D.  2 Güttgemanns, E.  187, 193, 194 Haenchen, E.  13, 271, 276 Hagner, D.   2, 6, 80, 81, 85 Hahn, F.  215, 216, 327 Hammond, C. P.  422 Handley, E. W.  155 Hansen, G. W.  294, 300, 302 Hare, D. R. A.  39, 40, 42, 85, 112

473

Harmer, J. R.  93 Harrington, D. J.  42, 85 Harris, H.  420 Hartman, L.  56 Haslam, M. W.  155 Hays, R. B.  293 Hegermann, H.  416 Held, H. J.  13, 14, 47, 114, 134, 346 Hengel, M.  90, 92, 93, 95, 97, 225, 266, 269, 270, 323, 395 Hennecke, E.  426 Hickling, C. J. A.  188 Hilgenfeld, A.  39, 432 Hill, D.  30, 46, 47, 84, 196 Himmelweit, H.  371 Hirsch, E. D.  89, 106, 324, 333 Hofer, A.  379 Hoffmann, P.  215 Holmes, M. W.  93, 94, 157 Hommel, H.  352 Hooker, M. D.  175, 188, 219, 232, 243, 323 Horbury, W.  249, 353 Horrell, D.  395 Horsley, G. H. R.  412 Houlden, L.  1, 132 Howell, D. B.   101, 102 Hubaut, M.  233, 234 Hubbard, B. J.  45 Hübner, H.  57, 60, 293, 304, 306, 309 Hui, A.  382 Hummel, R.  13, 14, 29, 33, 35, 51 Hunt, A. S.  158 Hunter, A. M.  261, 262, 265 Huntress, E.  261 Hurtado, L.  161, 385, 415 Jamieson, P.  137 Jeremias, J.  18, 315 Jervell, J.  228 Johnson, M. D.  47 Johnston, G.  128 Jones, F. S.  420, 422, 425, 426, 433, 434, 435, 438 Jowett, B.  179 Judge, E.  351 Juel, D.  243

474

Index of Modern Authors

Kähler, C.  51 Kähler, M.  190 Kaplan, J.  194 Käsemann, E.  9, 188, 196, 231, 232, 331, 338 Keck, L. E.  43 Keim, T.  25 Kenyon, F. G.  158 Kermode, F.  105 Kilgallen, J.  270, 271, 277 Kilpatrick, G. D.  11, 14, 19, 23, 32, 33, 34, 52, 57, 61, 64, 105, 107 Kingsbury, J. D.  15, 24, 25, 27, 44, 45, 46, 50, 51, 52, 57, 67, 68, 82, 91, 96, 102, 109, 120, 147, 150, 246, 345, 346 Klemm, H. G.  177 Kloppenborg, J.  89 Klostermann, E.  415 Knock, O.  94 Knox, W. L.  270 Koester, C.  434 Koester, H.  90, 93, 94, 69, 103, 154 Köhler, W.  94, 154 Köstlin , K. R.  432 Kraabel, A. T.  351, 352, 353 Kramer, W.  226 Krentz, E.  24, 25 Kretzer, A.  16 Kuhn, H.  197 Kulm, H. W.  191 Kümmel, W. G.  25, 37, 41, 42, 211, 212, 213, 214, 218, 226, 269 Küng, H.  331 Künzel, G.  28, 37, 44, 49, 65 Lai, P. H.  68 Lake, K.  271, 273, 275, 276, 351 Lambrecht, J.  77, 305 Lampe, G. W. H.  368 Lampe, P.  388, 391 Lange, J.  44 le Moyne, J.  40 Légasse, S.  41 Leivestad, R.  219 Léon-Dufour, X.  20, 21 Leon, H. J.  416 Lerle, E.  413

Lieu, J.  132 Lightfoot, J. B.  93, 94 Lightfoot, R. H.  12 Lincoln, A.  101 Lindemann, A.  29 Litfin, D.  290 Livingstone, E. A.  420 Lohmeyer, E.  21 Lonergan, B.  180, 329 Longenecker, R.  300, 302, 307, 308, 316 Lord, A. B.  193, 194, 195 Luchner, K.  162 Luckmann, T.  116 Lüdemann, G.  426, 431, 432 Lührmann, D.  209, 210, 212, 215, 217, 218 Lull, D. J.  307 Luther, M.  318, 319, 321, 325, 331 Luz, U.  50, 79, 80, 85, 92, 96, 97, 106, 126, 130, 131, 139, 142, 143, 148, 154, 167, 240, 246, 312, 345 Maehler, H.  156 Maier, G.  332 Malinowski, B.  330 Mann, C. S.  83 Manson, T. W.  179, 194, 261 Manson, W.  261, 270, 280 Marcovich, M.  379, 381, 382, 385, 393, 399 Marguerat, D.  145 Marquardt, F.‑W.  181 Marshall, C. D.  312 Martin, R. P.  228, 285, 405 Martyn, J. L.  305, 308, 309, 319 Marxsen, W.  95, 96 Massaux, E.  10, 154 Maurer, C.  304 McArthur, H. K.  178, 188 McConnell, R.  54, 57 McCormick, M.  166, 167 McKnight, E. V.   187 McNicol, A.  153 Meadors, E. P.  239 Meeks, W.  107, 128 Meier, J. P.  40, 42, 45, 57, 59, 60, 106, 121

Index of Modern Authors

Menzies, R. P.  381, 414 Metzger, B.  277 Metzner, R.  154 Meyers, C. L.  122 Meyers, E. M.  122 Michel, O.   13, 44 Michels, R.  371 Millar, F.  342 Millard, A.  167 Miller, D. G.  20, 22 Miller, M. P.  212 Milton, H.  25 Minear, P. S.  51, 146 Monselewski, W.  177 Moo, D.  294, 298 Moore, S.  90 Morgan Wynne, J. E.  387 Morgan, R.  176, 264, 331 Morris, L.  84 Moule, C. F. D.  36, 38, 189, 219, 323 Muddiman, J.  312 Murphy-O’Connor, J.  122 Musurillo, H.  382 Neill, S.  324 Neirynck, F.  18, 20, 21, 25, 90 Nepper-Christensen, P.  31, 38 Netzer, E.  122 Neugebauer, F.  196 Neusner, J.  68, 176, 239, 342 Nevill, S.  137 Newton-De Molina, D.  333 Nineham, D. E.  189, 326, 327, 330, 333, 335 Nolan, B.  46, 56 Norris, F. W.  107 Noy, D.  353 Nygren, A.  174, 175, 183 O’Neill, J. C.  20, 269, 274, 280 Oeyen, C.  388 Ogg, G.  415 Orton, D.  131, 149 Osborn, E.  377, 384, 386 Osborne, R. E.  65 Otto, J. C. T.  340 Overman, A.  121 Owens, J. M. R.  334

475

Paisley, I.  178 Pannenberg, W.  234, 235, 328, 337 Parker, D. C.  160 Parry, M.  193, 194 Parsons, P. J.  159 Paschke, F.  420, 423, 424 Patte, D.  83, 84 Pelikan, J.  314 Pelling, C.   102 Perrin, N.  178, 188, 200, 201 Pesch, R.  270 Pesch, W.  48 Pétrie, S.  209 Pickering, S. R.  160 Piper, R.  270 Polag, A. P.  220 Pollard, T. E.  323 Porter, S. E.  289 Pouderon, B.  421 Powell, M.  82 Przybylski, B.  19, 29, 42, 68 Pummer, R.  270 Räisänen, H.  298, 299, 303, 304, 306 Rajak, T.  352 Rau, C.  26 Rehm, B.  420, 421, 423, 424, 425, 430 Rengstorf, K. H.  66 Reumann, J.  51, 147 Rey-Coquais, J.-P.  126 Reynolds, J.  407, 412 Richard, E.  270 Richards, E. R.  167 Ricoeur, P.  327, 333 Riesenfeld, H.  187, 197 Rist, J. M.  21 Roberts, C.  156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 192 Robinson, J. A. T.  66, 111, 256 Robinson, J. M.  20, 174, 176, 218, 262, 325 Rohde, J.  12, 14, 16, 28, 188 Rordorf, W.  410 Rothfuchs, W.  54 Rowe, K.  256 Rudolph, A.  399 Rumscheidt, H. M.  326 Runia, D. T.  382

476

Index of Modern Authors

Saldarini, A.  123, 125, 126, 127, 128 Sand, A.  29, 58, 63 Sanders, E. P.  286, 287, 298, 299 Sato, M.  167 Schäfer, P.  34 Scharlemann, M.  269, 270 Schenk, W.  96 Schieber, H.  26 Schlatter, A.  12, 31, 32, 111, 327 Schleiermacher, F. D.  174 Schlier, H.  316 Schmidt, K. L.  195 Schmithals, W.  265, 333 Schneemelcher, W.  317, 414, 426 Schniewind, J.  96 Schoedel, W. R.  94, 106, 397, 409 Schoeps, H. J.  26, 270 Schrage, W.  110 Schuler, P. L.  99, 100 Schürer, E.  239, 342, 352, 407, 413, 416 Schürmann, H.  197, 198, 208, 213, 214, 215 Schwartz, E.  430 Schweizer, A.  178, 306 Schweizer, E.  11, 17, 25, 29, 36, 37, 42, 44, 49, 50, 58, 64, 85, 132, 148, 149, 150, 226, 271, 323, 382 Schwemer, A.-M.  395 Scott, B. B.  294 Scroggs, R.  270 Segal, A.  121, 229 Senior, D. P.  43, 47 Shaw, G.  309, 320 Sherwin-White, A. N.  406, 413 Siegert, F.  352, 353 Simon, M.  68, 269, 270 Skarsaune, O.  92, 304, 317, 340, 341, 342, 343, 344, 356, 357, 368, 370, 372, 378, 382, 387, 393, 399, 433, 435, 437, 438 Skeat, T. C.  156, 158, 159, 160, 164, 165, 166 Slenczka, R.  198 Slingerland, H. D.  65 Smalley, S. S.  175 Smith, D. M.  52 Smith, L. P.  261 Smith, M.  329

Smith, T. V.  11. 147 Soares Prabhu, G. M.  52, 55, 56 Spiro, A.  270 Standaert, B.  120 Stanley, C. D.  298, 304, 305 Stanton, G. N.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 10, 11, 17, 40, 42, 50, 78, 99, 106, 109, 112, 116, 120, 121, 127, 129, 130, 138, 139, 140, 141, 144, 148, 149, 150, 155, 158, 159, 166, 168, 175, 188, 239, 240, 241, 246, 250, 252, 255, 294, 313, 323, 339, 345, 347, 366, 379, 380, 381, 383, 415, 437 Stanton, V. H.  237, 238, 239, 240, 241 Stark, R.  106 Stauffer, E.  179, 180 Stein, R. H.  188 Stemberger, G.  34, 270 Stendahl, K.  9, 11, 13, 14, 30, 34, 36, 53, 54, 55, 56, 85, 287 Stern, M.  409 Strauss, M. L.  247, 248, 251, 256 Strecker, G.  13, 14, 18, 28, 29, 30, 34, 38, 39, 40, 44, 50, 51, 53, 54, 55, 63, 66, 77, 115, 134, 420, 421, 424, 425, 426, 428, 429, 430, 431, 432, 433, 434, 437 Streeter, B. H.  215 Stuckenbruck, L.  383, 384 Stuhlmacher, P.  92, 211, 212, 213, 220, 327, 332 Stylianopoulos, T.  299, 356, 368 Suggs, M. J.  47, 56, 210, 217, 218 Syme, R.  406 Tabernee, W.  397 Tabor, J. D.  396, 397, 398 Talbert, C.  83, 99 Tannenbaum, R.  407, 412 Taylor, V.  261 Theissen, G.  188 Thiede, C. P.  158 Thiselton, A. C.  174, 312, 336 Thomas, J.  159, 160, 163, 164 Thompson, D.  1 Thompson, W. G.  15, 16, 30, 48 Thyen, H.  193 Thysman, T.  43, 48 Tigchelaar, E.  240, 241 Tödt, H. E.  209, 210, 216, 218, 219

Index of Modern Authors

Tolbert, M. A.  101 Trakatellis, D. C.  339, 340 Trebilco, P.  353, 353, 407 Trevor-Roper, H.  329 Trilling, W.  13, 14, 30, 38, 39, 44, 61, 66, 84 Trocmé, E.  198 Troeltsch, E.  327, 330 Tuckett, C. M.  12, 20, 239, 256 Turner, E. G.  156, 157, 165 Turner, G.  331 Turner, M.  381 Tyrell, G.  262 van der Horst, P.  353, 407, 408 van der Loos, H.  179 van der Woude, A. S.  211, 213 van Egmond, R.  244 van Haelst, J.  162, 163, 164, 165, 166 van Segbroeck, F.   54, 56, 90 van Tilborg, S.  38, 40, 42, 67, 125 van Unnik, W. C.  207 van Voorst, R. E.  433, 435 Vansina, J.  192 Verheyden, J.  434 Vermes, G.  342 Verseput, D.  246, 345 Via, D. O.  184 Viviano, B. T.  65 Vocke, H.  158 Volkmar, G.  12 von Campenhausen, H.  397 von Dobschütz, E.  32 von Harnack, A.  93, 209, 210, 262, 325, 326 Wagner, G.  10 Waitz, H.  425

477

Walker, R.  28, 30, 38, 40, 51, 60, 63, 66 Walker, W. O.  188 Wallace-Hadrill, A.  122 Walsh, P. G.  101 Wander, B.  370 Wartelle, A.  399 Watson, F.  132, 295, 298, 416 Wehnert, J.  425 Weiss, J.  28 Weizsäcker, C.  10 Wengst, K.  93 Wenham, D.  26, 100, 188 Wernle, P.  12 Westerholm, S.  294, 307 White, L. M.  106, 113, 122 Whittaker, M.  406, 409 Widengren, G.  192 Wiefel, W.  195 Wilckens, U.  196, 218, 270, 271 Wilcox, M.  351 Wiles, M.  223 Williams, A. L.  299, 317, 340, 356, 368 Willitts, J.  2 Willmer, H.  196 Wilson, B. R.  113 Wilson, R. McL.  426 Wilson, S. G.  271 Wimsatt, W.  332 Wink, W.  327 Wrede, W.  176 Young, F.  230 Young, N. H.  307 Zahn, T.  91 Zumstein, J.  28, 30, 49

Subject Index Acts – Messiah  253–256 – Paul’s preaching  254–255 – Pentecost  253–254 – Stephen  269–280 Alexandria  65 Ancient Biography  99, 100–102 Anti-Judaism  41, 42 Antinomianism  29–30, 58 Antioch  64–65, 106 Aphrodisias Inscription  352, 357, 370, 412 Apocalypse of Peter  50, 132, 148–149, 151 Apocalyptic  46, 59, 112–113, 144, 199, 206–207, 218–219, 229, 284 Apostolic Fathers  154, 168 Arius  230 Ascension of Isaiah  383 Athenaeus, Deip.  365 Athanasius  230 Bar Kochba  354–355, 364–365, 434, 437 Barth, Karl – Interpretation  181, 325–326 Beatitudes  142–143, 214–215 Birkath ha-Minim  32–35 Bultmann, Rudolf – and Barth  264, 266–267 – History  262–236 – Interpretation  181–182 – Jesus and the Word  261–267 Christ – Resurrection  290 – Crucifixion  285 – Death  290 – Son of God  285 Christology  44–47, 199–208, 224

– Titles  45–46 Circumcision  356–358 Clement of Alexandria  92, 317, 414 Codex  157, 161 – Christian  166–169 – Origin  162–168 Communities  195 Dead Sea Scrolls  11, 53, 324 – Messiah 239–241 Decalogue  413 Demons  131, 139, 148, 215, 239, 252, 379, 393–394, 401 – Prince of  130, 142, 241, 345 Didache  50, 94, 132–134, 151–152 – Bishops  133, 149, 151 – Prophecy  133, 151 Ecclesiology  48–52 Eighteen Benedictions  32, 248 Ekklesia  110–111, 127–129 Folklore  191, 194 Form Criticism  5, 187–198, 323 Galatians – Abraham  300–303 – Hagar-Sarah  302–303 – Law  293–309 God-fearers  351–360 – Inscriptions  352–353 Gospel of Thomas  189 Gospel tradition  196 Gospel – Imperial  281, 284 – of God  283 – Old Testament  281 – Origin  285–286 – Spirit  289–291

480

Subject Index

– Traditions  190, 192, 199, 205, 282–283 – Biography  200, 204 Graeco-Roman biography  201–203 Hermas  382–383 Hermeneutics  174, 184 – Circle  334–335 History of interpretation  183 Homer, epic tradition  193 Ignatius of Antioch  94, 121, 400–401 Incarnation  223, 225, 231, 233–235 Jamnia  343–35, 37, 64 Jerusalem – Destruction  108, 122, 431 – Fall 32–33 Jesus – Accusations  272 – Crucifixion  257, 400 – Family 140 – Kyrios  227, 248–249 – Messiah  207–208, 212–213, 249 – Ministry  139–140, 145 – New Quest  188 – Pre-existence  226, 234 – Proclamation of  200, 206 – Prophet  211 – Resurrection  207, 219–220, 227–228, 233–235, 254–256, 285–286, 290–291, 409–410 – Salvation  227 – Saviour  249 – Son of God  225–226, 233, 235 Jewish Christianity  6, 32–33, 37, 38 124, 296, 416, 419, 426–429, 432–439 Jewish Christians  360, 370–371, 373–374 John the Baptist  240, 248, 251 John – Christology  230–233 – Logos  231 – Messiah  251 Justification  286–288 Justin Martyr  passim – Abraham  301 – Acts 402

– Baptism  366 – Boundaries  128, 359, 363, 365–367, 373 – Christology  348 – Dialogue  4, 339 – False teachers  125, 367 – God-fearers  355, 357, 360, 364, 367, 369–370, 373–374 – Israel  296 – Judaism  6, 34, 124, 299, 342–343, 353, 363 – Law  370–372 – Law of Christ  313, 317, 322 – Logos  385–386 – Martyrdom  391–395, 402–403 – Messiah 342 – Messianism  238 – Parousia  340–349 – Philosophy  378–380 – Prophetic Spirit  381–384 – Proselytes  356, 358–360, 364, 367–368, 372–373 – Spirit  377–389 – Spirit, gifts of  387–388 – Suicide  395 – Trypho  124, 126–128, 238, 257, 296, 299–301, 313, 317, 339–343, 353–360, 363–374, 378–381, 383, 388–389, 399 – Worship  384 Kerygma Petrou (Petri)  405, 414–417 – Law of Christ  317 Kerygmata Petrou  425–427, 431–432 Law  293–309 – of Christ  5, 308–309, 311–322 – Curse of  303–305 – of Love  318–319 – Origin  305–308 – Purpose  305–308 Letter, oral  294–295 Literacy, ancient  161, 192 Literary Criticism  81–94, 89, 105, 123 Lucian  102 Luke-Acts  256 Luke – Annunciation  247 – Baptism  251–252

Subject Index

– Messiah  247–253 – Purpose  256 Marcion  3, 90, 92–95, 97, 321, 335 Mark 60 – Composition  189–194 – Genre  63, 100 – Messiah 242–243 – Ministry 141 – Priority  20 Martyrdom  5, 391–404 – Blood  398–399 – by Suicide  395–398 – 2/4 Maccabees  403 Martyrdom of Polycarp  391–392, 396–397 Matthew  3, 9, 16 – Apology  27–28, 101 – Brothers  145 – Christology  44–47, 49, 348 – Church  110 – Commentaries  67, 77–86 – Communities  4, 105–117, 119–135 – Community  32, 36–37, 48–49, 50, 155 – Crowds  51, 125–126, 146–147 – Date  66, 106–107 – Disciples  52, 130–131, 139, 143 – Ecclesiology  48–52 – Eschatology  59 – Fulfillment  54 – Genealogy  91 – Genre  3, 63, 89–90, 95, 98, 100, 107, 120 – Gentiles  38–39, 113, 126 – Geography  64–65, 121 – Gospel  95–96 – Judaism  3, 12, 30–43, 54–55, 58, 62, 65, 68, 109, 112, 123, 128–129, 345 – Judgement  144 – Law  18, 56–60, 111 – Leadership  146–150 – Lectionary  62 – Legitimation  116, 120 – Messiah 244–246 – Ministry  138–152 – Mission  139–140, 143 – Nativity  77 – New people  117

481

Old Testament  52–56 Origin  64–67 Papyri  155, 158–160, 169 Persecution  112, 142 Polemic  27–28, 101, 114 Prophecy  131 Prophets  148, 150 Purpose  10, 61 Reception  153–155, 168 Redaction  11–14, 17–19, 21–22, 39, 42, 45, 47, 56, 84, 114, 141, 346–347 – School  53 – Scribes  149–150 – Sectarian  113–115 – Son of David  244–246 – Structure  23–25 – Style  23, 26–27 – Theology  43, 138 – Tradition  17, 54 – Two parousias  344, 347–349 Meal, Christian  413 Memoirs  98 Messiah   238 – Jewish expectations  250–251 – Secret  243 Messianism  237, 256–257 Method – Historical-Critical  183, 324–328 Mirror reading  115 Mishnah 194 Missionary preaching  205 Montanism  397 Moses  57 Myth  223, 235 – – – – – – – – – –

Nag Hammadi  132, 148, 151, 192, 324 Nations, the  144–145 New Criticism  82 New English Bible  178 New Testament – Ethics  311 – Interpretation  173, 176, 180, 185, 323–336 – Theology  328, 331–333 Opponents, Jewish  43, 58, 127, 230, 301, 348, 363, 400 Oral tradition  192–195

482

Subject Index

Origen – Interpretation  177 – Two parousias  343 Oxyrhynchus  157–162 Paleography  156–157 Papias  31, 98–99, 192 Papyri – Exodus  161–162 – John  160 – Matthew  155, 158–160, 169 – Notebooks  164–165 – Roll  166 Parousia  42, 199, 206, 207, 216, 219, 227, 283, – Two   339–349, 399, 437 Passion narrative  191 Paul  29, 121 – Ambassador  289 – Christology  225, 230 – Gospel  281–291 Pentateuch 62 Persecution  37. 39–40, 112–113, 124, 130, 141–142, 275, 279–280, 359, 373, 392, 399 Peter  51, 147 – Ps.-Clementine Literature  427–432 Pharisee  40, 109–110, 149, 345 Philo  229 – Prophetic Spirit  382 Pliny – Christians  406 – Judaism  407 – Letter to Trajan  406–414 Plutarch  102, 201–202 Polycarp  392 Prayer – Christian  411–412 – Jewish  411 Prejudice  174–176 Presuppositions  4, 173–185, 329 Prophets  131 Ps.-Clementines – Anti-Pauline  429–432 – Apologia  432–433, 436–437 – Contestatio  423–426, 427–429 – Ep. Clem.  423–426 – Ep. Pet.  423–426, 427–429

– Gamaliel  436 – Gentiles  435 – Grundschrift  422–423, 425–427, 431–433, 438 – Homilies 419–421 – Israel  434 – James  423–424, 427–429, 436–437, 439 – Law  429 – Peter  427–432 – Recognitions 419–422 – Redaction  433 – Tradition history  424–427 Q  13–14, 16, 20, 111, 191 – Baptism  215–216 – Beatitudes  214–215 – Christology  209–221 – Community  155, 209, 211 – Eschatology  220 – Judgement  210 – Messiah  213, 215, 218, 239–241 – Old Testament  214 – Purpose  209, 219–221 – Son of Man  210, 219 – Temptation  215–16 – Wisdom  216–217 Qumran  53, 192, 203, 212, 240–241, 244, 248, 411–412 Reconciliation  288–289 Redaction Criticism  15–18, 105, 108, 115, 123, 175, 188 Righteousness, of God  284 Sabbath  408–409, 415–416 Sadducees  41 Salvation History  59, 63 Satan  394 Scribes  132 Septuagint  55 Sermon on the Mount  14, 26, 29, 34, 43, 57, 77, 96, 112, 139–140, 313–316 Simon Magus  420, 428–431 Social Scientific Criticism  68, 123 Socrates, martyrdom  401 Son of David  345–346 Source Criticism  19–23

Subject Index

Spirit – Fire  379–380 – in Prophets  379, 389 Stanton, Graham – Life  1–2 – Work  2 Stephen  269–280 – Abraham  277, 280 – Accusations  271–272 – Exodus  277 – Israel  275, 278 – Law  273 – Luke-Acts  278–280 – Moses  278 – Speech  270–271 – Temple  273–276 Structuralism  83 Suicide  395 Sunday  409–410 Synagogue  6, 27, 32–33, 35–37, 61–62, 64, 67, 109–112, 127–129, 254–255, 351–352, 359, 367, 372–374, 405, 410–413, 416–417

483

Synoptic Problem  20–23, 60 Syria  62, 64–65, 121–122, 124–126, 148 Tertullian, martyrdom  398–400 Text Criticism  180 Theological Interpretation  312 Translation  78, 80, 82 Vindolanda tablets  163–164 Wirkungsgeschichte  79, 312 Wisdom  216–219, 226 Works of the law  284, 287–288, 295, 277–299 Worship  6 – Christian  407–417 – Hymns 411–412 – Jewish  407–413, 415 – Pagan  408, 410, 415 Yohanan ben Zakkai  204 βίος  97–103, 120, 122, 135 εὐαγγέλιον  90, 92–97, 103