The Biblical Tour of Hell 9781472550859, 9780567604965

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgements
Abbreviations
Introduction
Chapter 1 The Hypnosis of Hugo Gressmann
Introduction
Modern Parable Studies
The American Shift
Re-Casting the Comparative Net
Conclusion
Chapter 2 Mimesis Criticism and Early Christian Narrative
Introduction
The Literary Context of the Gospel of Luke
Graeco-Roman Education and the Shadow of the Bard
Literary Mimesis and Ancient Composition
Mimesis Criticism and Early Christian Narrative
Conclusion
Chapter 3 The Tours of Hell Tradition
Introduction
The Homeric Tour of Hell
Post-Homeric Tours of Hell
Conclusion
Chapter 4 The Biblical Tour of Hell
Introduction
The Literary Context of the Rich Man and Lazarus
Luke 16.19-31 and Odyssey 11.1–640
Conclusion
Conclusion
Bibliography
Primary Sources Cited
Secondary Sources Cited
Index of Biblical and Other Ancient Sources
Index of Names

Citation preview

Library of New Testament Studies

485 Formerly the Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series

Editor Mark Goodacre Editorial Board John M. G. Barclay, Craig Blomberg, R. Alan Culpepper, James D. G. Dunn, Craig A. Evans, Stephen Fowl, Robert Fowler, Simon J. Gathercole, John S. Kloppenborg, Michael Labahn, Robert Wall, Steve Walton, Robert L. Webb, Catrin H. Williams

The Biblical Tour of Hell

Matthew Ryan Hauge

LON DON • N E W DE L H I • N E W YOR K • SY DN EY

Bloomsbury T&T Clark An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

50 Bedford Square 1385 Broadway London New York WC1B 3DP NY 10018 UK USA www.bloomsbury.com First published 2013 © Matthew Ryan Hauge, 2013 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Matthew Ryan Hauge has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury Academic or the author.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this books is available from the British Library. ISBN: ePDF:

978-0-56760-496-5

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

Typeset by Free Range Book Design & Production

For Olivia, Ryan, Mateo, and Cruz

B

Contents

Acknowledgements ix List of Abbreviations xi Introduction

1

1 The Hypnosis of Hugo Gressmann Introduction Modern Parable Studies The American Shift Re-Casting the Comparative Net Conclusion

3 3 7 14 22 32

2 Mimesis Criticism and Early Christian Narrative Introduction The Literary Context of the Gospel of Luke Graeco-Roman Education and the Shadow of the Bard Literary Mimesis and Ancient Composition Mimesis Criticism and Early Christian Narrative Conclusion

35 35 36 42 47 51 56

3 The Tours of Hell Tradition Introduction The Homeric Tour of Hell Post-Homeric Tours of Hell Conclusion

60 60 63 78 94

4 The Biblical Tour of Hell Introduction The Literary Context of the Rich Man and Lazarus Luke 16.19-31 and Odyssey 11.1–640 Conclusion

99 99 102 117 154

viii

Contents

Conclusion 159 Bibliography 161 Index of Biblical and Other Ancient Sources Index of Names

195 203

Acknowledgements Countless people have contributed in significant ways to the completion of this project. It is not possible to measure their influence, whether direct or indirect, or to repay the debt that is owed. Please receive these brief words as a humble prayer of thankfulness. This book is a revision of a doctoral dissertation completed in 2011 at Claremont Graduate University (‘A Biblical Tour of Hell: The Parable of Dives and Lazarus’). Let me begin with the members of my dissertation committee. First and foremost, I would like to thank my adviser and mentor, Dennis R. MacDonald. In a conversation in his office some years ago, he described himself as a midwife, guiding his students through the painful yet immeasurably rewarding process of the search for truth. In my case, he has been an inspiration, transforming my understanding of the purpose of early Christian literature and the ways in which the primitive church constructed a vision of the Christian life in the Graeco-Roman world. I am also grateful for the generosity of University of Southern California Professor Ronald F. Hock, who freely offered his time and expertise as an examiner and committee member. His insistence on a close reading of the primary literature was instrumental in the trajectory of the dissertation. And finally, Gregory J. Riley; his pedagogy broadened my interpretive horizon and deepened my appreciation of the Graeco-Roman landscape and its impact upon the emerging Christian communities. Thank you all for showing me the playground. For well over a decade, I have had the privilege of teaching at Azusa Pacific University. My colleagues and students have shaped me in ways that are difficult to describe. The contours of my growth as a Christian scholar are the unfolding product of the invaluable dialogical journey that we share. I owe a special debt of gratitude to Bill Yarchin, who inspired me as a student and welcomed me as a peer; thank you for your wisdom and support these many years. As a graduate student and inexperienced teacher, I would have been lost without Sheryl Lindsay, my administrative assistant and second mother. Many thanks to Kay Smith and Bobby Duke; the former gently encouraged me along the way and the latter sheltered a dispossessed vagabond and ensured the timely completion of the dissertation. And finally, Dick Pritchard, whose love was a light in a sometimes dark place. In my life, I have been the beneficiary of true friendship. Throughout these many years, Craig Anderson, Matt Flentie, and Sean Davidson have been my travelling companions on our lifelong wanderings together through the wilderness; it would not have been the same without you. In addition, I cannot

x

Acknowledgements

forget Michael Schufer and Ruben Dupertuis, fellow Claremont students who served as my own personal tour guides through the treacherous waters of our doctoral programme. But most importantly, I thank my family; my parents-in-law, Adeline and Dan, who supported our young family in the most difficult of times; my parents, Virginia and Stephen, who have always loved me unconditionally despite my shortcomings; my sister, Kristin, whom I have always admired as a strong and genuine spirit; my girls, Olivia and Ryan, whose big brown eyes make it all better for me; and my boys, Mateo and Cruz, whose big bright smiles make it all better for everyone. I love you all.

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Abbreviations AB Anchor Bible ABD Anchor Bible Dictionary. Edited by D. N. Freedman. 6 vols. New York, 1992 ANRW Aufstieg und Nïedergang des römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neuren Forschung. Edited by H. Temporini and W. Haase. 1972– AOAT Alter Orient und Altes Testament ASP American Studies in Papyrology AugStud Augustinian Studies BA Biblical Archaeologist BBB Bonner biblische Beiträge Bib Biblica BibInt Biblical Interpretation BICS Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies BJRL Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester BT The Bible Translator CB Cultura bíblica CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly CBR Currents in Biblical Research CJ Classical Journal CP Classical Philology CQ The Classical Quarterly EgT Eglise et théologie EPRO Etudes préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’empire romain EvQ Evangelical Quarterly ExpTim Expository Times FRLANT Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments GRBS Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies HSCP Harvard Studies in Classical Philology HTR Harvard Theological Review IB Interpreter’s Bible. Edited by G. A. Buttrick et al. 12 vols. New York, 1951–57 ICC International Critical Commentary Int Interpretation

xii JAAR JBL JFSR JHC JHS JJS JNES JQR JR JRelS JSNT JSNTSup

Abbreviations

Journal of the American Academy of Religion Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion Journal of Higher Criticism Journal of Hellenic Studies Journal of Jewish Studies Journal of Near Eastern Studies Jewish Quarterly Review Journal of Religion Journal of Religious Studies Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Study of the New Testament: Supplement Series JSOT Journal for the Study of the Old Testament JTS Journal of Theological Studies LB Linguistica Biblica LEC Library of Early Christianity LCL Loeb Classical Library MnemosSup Mnemosyne Supplement Series MP Modern Philology NAC New American Commentary NEchtB Neue Echter Bibel NICNT New International Commentary on the New Testament NIGTC New International Greek Testament Commentary NovT Novum Testamentum NovTSup Supplements to Novum Testamentum NRTh La nouvelle revue théologique NTD Das Neue Testament Deutsche NTS New Testament Studies Numen Numen: International Review for the History of Religions OCD Oxford Classical Dictionary. Edited by S. Hornblower and A. Spawforth. 3rd edn. Oxford, 1996 ÖTK Ökumenischer Taschenbuch-Kommentar PRSt Perspectives in Religious Studies RB Revue biblique REA Revue des étudies anciennes RNT Regensburger Neues Testament SBFLA Studii biblici franciscani liber annuus SBLABib Society of Biblical Literature Academia Biblica SBLDS Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series SBLMS Society of Biblical Literature Monograph Studies SBLSBS Society of Biblical Literature Sources for Biblical Studies SBLSCS Society of Biblical Literature Septuagint Cognate Studies SBLSP Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers SBLTT Society of Biblical Literature Texts and Translations Series

Abbreviations

­xiii­

SEÅ Svensk exegetsik årsbok SemeiaSup Semeia Supplements SHAW Sitzungen der heidelberger Akadamie der Wissenschaften SHR Studies in the History of Religions (supplement to Numen) SNTSMS Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series SP Sacra pagina SUNT Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments SwJT Southwestern Journal of Theology THKNT Theologischer Handkommentar zum Neuen Testament TPINTC TPI New Testament Commentaries TSAJ Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum TU Texte und Untersuchungen TUGAL Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur WBC Word Biblical Commentary WTJ Westminster Theological Journal WUNT Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament ZBK Zürcher Bibelkommentare ZNW Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche ZPE Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

­

Introduction Hell has always occupied a special place in my heart. As a child growing up amidst American evangelicalism, the prospect of eternal damnation haunted my early Christian experience. Little did I know that many years later I would willingly choose to descend into the fiery netherworld. In the fall of 1999, I enrolled as a doctoral student in the New Testament at Claremont Graduate University. As luck would have it, Professor Dennis R. MacDonald had recently been hired and was preparing for the publication of his watershed work, The Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark.1 From the very beginning, his method, textual comparisons, and reframing of ‘gospel truth’ captured my imagination and transformed my understanding of the purpose of early Christian composition. One day, after a class session in ‘Homer and the New Testament’, we sat in his office and discussed New Testament texts that he suspected were literary imitations of the Homeric epics. Among the many examples he noted, the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus in the Gospel of Luke immediately caught my attention – it seemed a descent into hell was in order. It is difficult to underestimate the significance of the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus within the biblical tradition. Although hell occupies a prominent position in popular Christian rhetoric today, it plays a relatively minor role in the Christian canon. The New Testament, when it does explore the fate of the dead, generally emphasizes the joy of eternal life rather than the dread of everlasting torment. The most important biblical texts that explicitly describe the fate of the dead, particularly the wicked dead, are in the Synoptic Gospels: Mk 9.43-48, Mt. 25.31-46, and Lk. 16.19-31. Mark and Matthew both identify this place of punishment as Gehenna, but Luke employs the classical postmortem destination known throughout the Greekspeaking world – hades. And among these three texts, only Lk. 16.19-31 is intent on explicitly describing the abode of the dead; it is the only biblical tour of hell. Not only is the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus unique among biblical traditions concerning the netherworld, it is also unique among the so-called ‘parables’, the short fictional narratives typical of the Jesus tradition in the Synoptic Gospels. It is the only parable that includes a named character; two actually, Lazarus and Abraham. Furthermore, it is the only parable that is set in a supernatural context. The parables characteristically feature concrete 1 Dennis R. MacDonald, The Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000).

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realities of first-century Mediterranean life, but the majority of Lk. 16.19-31 is narrated from the perspective of the dead. Recent developments in the study of the New Testament have challenged the dominant scholarly tradition on Christian origins and literary composition.2 The hitherto clearly marked boundaries between the Christian community and the Graeco-Roman environment have been successfully blurred; although Judaism remains an indispensable context for the study of early Christian literature, the interpretive relevance of the ‘pagan’ world can no longer be ignored. Over the past two decades, MacDonald has championed the mimetic-critical approach, investigating the literary relationship between the Homeric epics and the apocryphal Acts of Andrew, the Gospel of Mark, and Luke-Acts. Through his work and others, the stranglehold of form criticism is slowly losing its grip. The shift from historical criticism to literary criticism has succeeded in recasting the evangelists, not as mere collectors of pre-existent traditions, but rather as literary artists. This new perspective poses a direct challenge to the traditional interpretive model for the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus, warranting a reexamination of this most unusual story. It is the purpose of this book to explore the literary relationship between the Homeric descent in Odyssey 11.1–640 and the ensuing tours of hell tradition and the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus in Lk. 16.19-31. In Chapter 1 I survey the scholarly tradition on the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus, which has been shaped by four concerns: the problem of genre, the search for a literary model from antiquity, the question of literary unity, and the relationship of this text to the historical Jesus. In Chapter 2 I explore the mimetic ethos of Graeco-Roman education and ancient composition and the application of mimesis criticism for the study of early Christian narrative, paying special attention to the Homeric epics. In Chapter 3 I trace the development of the tours of hell tradition over which the Homeric journey to the underworld in Book 11 of the Odyssey cast a wide and dark shadow. And finally, in Chapter 4, I carefully analyse the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus, comparing and contrasting the Homeric and Lukan journeys to hades.

2 For a new and engaging treatment of Christian origins, see Gregory J. Riley, The River of God: A New History of Christian Origins (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2001).

Chapter 1 The Hypnosis of Hugo Gressmann Introduction The parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus in Lk. 16.19-31 has perplexed biblical exegetes for generations. In this passage, Jesus addresses his disciples and the Pharisees, who were earlier described by the evangelist as ‘lovers of money’ (16.14).1 He tells the story of an unnamed rich man and a poor man named Lazarus. The rich man was very rich; he wore expensive clothes and feasted every day. The poor man was very poor; he sat at the gate of the rich man, covered with sores, yearning for the scraps of food that fell from his table. They both die and their roles are reversed in the afterlife. Lazarus is escorted by angels to the side of Abraham while the rich man is tormented by the flame of hades. The rich man appeals to Abraham, begging him to allow Lazarus to dip his finger in water and cool his tongue. Abraham refuses, pointing out that during his lifetime he received all his good things and now he must suffer. Furthermore, there is a great chasm that separates the two, which cannot be crossed. The rich man, unable to relieve his own suffering, requests that Lazarus be sent to his father’s house to warn his five brothers. Abraham again refuses; they do not need a witness from the dead, they have Moses and the prophets. Luke 16.19-31 has traditionally been classified and subsequently interpreted as a ‘parable’, but what exactly is a parable and how did it function in early Christian literature? The term is popularly applied to the short fictional narratives typical of the Jesus tradition in the Synoptic Gospels.2 The English 1 Unless otherwise noted, the Scripture quotations contained herein are from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved. 2 The Gospel of John does not use the Greek term παραβολή or include any of the narrative parables that are typical of the synoptic Jesus. John does make frequent use of figurative language, but he prefers to designate this imagery as παροιμία. For example, see the figures of the sheepfold (10.1-5, 7-10), the good shepherd (10.11-18), and the vine and the branches (15.1-8). Apart from the Synoptic Gospels, the non-canonical Gos. Thom. and the Ap. John are the only other sources of the parables of Jesus. For more information concerning their use of the parable tradition, see Bernard Brandon Scott, Re-Imagine the World: An Introduction to the Parables of Jesus (Sonoma, CA: Polebridge Press, 2001), 22–25. Within the New Testament, the only occurrence of παραβολή outside of the Synoptic Gospels appears in the book of Hebrews (9.9; 11.19).

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word ‘parable’ is a transliteration of the Greek word παραβολή, which is a combination of the verb βάλλειν, ‘to throw’, and the preposition παρά, ‘beside’. Simply put, the term παραβολή denotes throwing something beside something else, which has led many to conclude the parables are a type of comparison.3 Unfortunately, there is no consensus among the evangelists on what exactly the term παραβολή designates.4 All three of the Synoptic Gospels identify the Sower (Mt. 13.3, 10, 18; Mk 4.2, 10, 13, 33-34; Lk. 8.4, 9-10), the Wicked Tenants (Mt. 21.33, 45; Mk 12.1, 12; Lk. 20.9, 19), and the Fig Tree (Mt. 24.32; Mk 13.28; Lk. 21.29) as parables.5 Mark and Matthew both designate the Mustard Seed as a parable as well (Mk 4.30-32; Mt. 13.31), but Luke does not. The situation becomes increasingly muddied in Q and the special material. Luke introduces the Lost Sheep (Lk. 15.3) and the Entrusted Money (Lk. 19.11) as parables, but Matthew does not. Matthew describes the Leaven (Mt. 13.33) and the Feast (Mt. 22.1) as parables, but Luke does not. They do both agree that the Unclean Spirit, On Settling Out of Court, and the Two Houses are not parables. The Matthaean material introduces the Good Seed and Weeds (Mt. 13.24) as a parable; the classification of the Hid Treasure (Mt. 13.44), a Merchant in Search of Pearls (Mt. 13.45), and a Net Thrown into the Sea (Mt. 13.47-48) is unclear, but the broader literary frame (Mt. 13.53) suggests that they are parables as well. The Lukan material designates the Rich Fool (Lk. 12.16), the Barren Fig Tree (Lk. 13.6), the Unjust Judge (Lk. 18.1), and the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (Lk. 18.9) as parables. The Sprouting Seed in the Markan material is not identified as a parable, but once again, the larger literary framework (Mk 4.2, 33-34) implies that it is a parable. In addition, the evangelists employ the term παραβολή not only for short fictional narratives, but also for aphorisms, proverbs, simple images, and even discourse. The image of the householder is designated as a parable by Luke (Lk. 12.41), but not by Matthew (Mt. 24.43). Matthew (Mt. 15.10-20) and Mark (Mk 7.15-17) describe the aphorism about defilement as a parable; they (Mt. 24.32; Mk 13.28; Lk. 21.29-30) all agree the image of the fig tree is a parable. Luke (Lk. 6.39) identifies the aphorism about the blind leading the blind as a parable, but Matthew (Mt. 15.10-20) does not. They each (Mt. 9.1617; Mk 2.21-22; Lk. 5.36-38) include the twin aphorisms of the new patch on an old garment and new wine in old wineskins, but only Luke regards them as a parable. The Beelzebul controversy and the appended aphorisms are designated as parables in the Gospel of Mark (Mk 3.23-29), but Matthew (Mt. 12.25-32) and Luke (Lk. 11.17-23) do not agree. The inconsistent use of the term παραβολή and its broad semantic range within the synoptic tradition is problematic. Together, they render the literary

3 E.g. Scott, Re-Imagine, 15. 4 Charles W. Hedrick, Parables as Poetic Fictions: The Creative Voice of Jesus (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1994), 13–25. 5 Among these parables, the Fig Tree is not a story; it is simply an image lacking characters, plot, and setting.

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classification, and subsequently, the proper interpretation of the parables an alluring mystery, one which modern critics have attempted to solve.6 As a whole, the narrative parables in the Synoptic Gospels conform to the rhetorical definition of παραβολή: a literary form with unnamed characters and rich depiction of everyday life (John Doxapatres, Hom. In Aphthon. 3 [Walz 1835: 2.273]).7 The one exception is Lk. 16.19-31. The presence of named characters has drawn special attention from biblical interpreters. For example, the second-century apologist, Tertullian, and the fourth-century bishop of Milan, Ambrose, both regarded the use of proper names as proof that this was not a parable, but historical narrative.8 This was a particularly useful conclusion for Tertullian, who used this text as evidence for his doctrine of the corporeal soul. Although both Lazarus and Abraham are featured in the parable, the lesser known Lazarus has been the source of greater speculation. The name occurs only twice in the New Testament; here in Lk. 16.19-31 and in Jn 11.1–12.11.9 The name Lazarus (Λάζαρος) is the Greek abbreviated transcription of the Hebrew ‘rzF(fl;)e’, which is shortened to ‘rzF(;la’ in Aramaic, meaning ‘God has helped’.10 God may indeed have helped Lazarus, but he plays a rather insignificant role within the narrative itself. For example, there are 244 words of dialogue in this passage; in their negotiations, the rich man and Abraham each utter sixty-nine words distributed among three remarks, but Lazarus says nothing.

6 For a detailed discussion of the trajectory of modern parable studies, see David B. Gowler, What Are They Saying About Parables? (New York: Paulist, 2000), 3–40; Norman Perrin, Jesus and the Language of the Kingdom (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1976), 89–205; and William A. Beardslee, ‘Recent Literary Criticism’, in The New Testament and its Modern Interpreters (ed. Eldon Jay Epp and George W. McRae; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1989), 175–89; Craig L. Blomberg, Interpreting the Parables (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 1990), 29–167; Klyne Snodgrass, ‘Modern Approaches to the Parables’, in The Face of New Testament Studies: A Survey of Recent Research (ed. Scot McKnight and Grant Osborne; Grand Rapids: Baker, 2004), 177–90. 7 See Ronald F. Hock, ‘Romancing the Parables of Jesus’, PRSt 29 (2001): 12–13; and ‘The Parable of the Foolish Rich Man (Luke 12.16-20) and Graeco-Roman Conventions of Thought and Behavior’, in Early Christianity and Classical Culture: Comparative Studies in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe (ed. John T. Fitzgerald, Thomas H. Olbricht, and L. Michael White; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 185 n. 17. 8 Alfred Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Luke (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1975), 391; also, see Hock’s comment on his citation of Plummer (‘Romancing the Parables’, 13 n. 13). 9 It is almost universally agreed the two texts are not related, despite the shared unusual name and common themes of death and return; see further, Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Gospel According to St. John (vol. 2; New York: Seabury, 1980), 341–42. 10 Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke X–XXIV (AB 28A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1985), 1131; Samuel Tobias Lachs, A Rabbinic Commentary on the New Testament: The Gospel of Matthew, Mark, and Luke (Hoboken, NJ: Ktav, 1987), 315 n. 6. On the problem of the shortening of the name in Aramaic, see Joseph A. Fitzmyer, ‘Another View of the “Son of Man” Debate’, JSNT 4 (1979): 62–64.

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Ironically, the most significant character in the parable is the unnamed rich man. Throughout the history of the transmission of this text, scribes, interpreters, and popular Christian tradition have attempted to fill in the blank left by the evangelist. Traditionally, this story is known as the parable of Dives and Lazarus. The name assigned to the rich man is the result of a misunderstanding of the Vulgate’s rendering of Lk. 16.19, ‘Homo quidam erat dives’. Dives is the adjective for ‘rich’, but over time in the ensuing popular tradition the rich man assumed the proper name of Dives.11 By the late Middle Ages, the tradition was firmly in place.12 Far more important in the text, and equally unusual, is the setting of the parable. Besides Lk. 16.19-31, the supernatural can only be found in one other parable – the Rich Fool in Lk. 12.13-21. At the conclusion of the parable in v. 20, God comments on the greed of the rich man, ‘Fool! This night your soul is required of you; and the things you have prepared, whose will they be?’ This is the only parable which features God as a character with dialogue, but he plays a rather minor role in the story itself. This fact is reflected in the version from the Gospel of Thomas, which omits this divine declaration.13 Although God does not appear in the parable of Dives and Lazarus, the supernatural plays a far more significant role. The story begins with a simple setup: a description of a very rich man in 16.19 and a very poor man in 16.2021. Like the other narrative parables, the characters are identified strictly by their social classification. However, in 16.22 the parable shifts dramatically; the land of the dead dominates the narrative for the remaining nine verses. After v. 22, the story is inundated with the unusual: the angelic pole bearers, the bosom of Abraham, the flame of hades, the impassable chasm, and the negotiations between the ancient ‘great father’ and the newly deceased Dives. Despite the distinctive features of this parable, it has received much less attention than one might expect and a surprising level of scholarly consensus.14 11 Bruce Metzger, ‘Names for the Nameless in the New Testament: A Study in the Growth of Christian Tradition’, in Kyriakon: Festschrift Johannes Quasten (vol. 1; ed. Patrick Granfield and Joseph A. Jungmann; Münster: Aschendorff, 1970), 88; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, ‘Papyrus Bodmer XIV: Some Features of Our Oldest Text of Luke’, CBQ 24 (1962): 175–77; and Henry J. Cadbury, ‘A Proper Name for Dives’, JBL 81 (1962): 399–402. The copyist of P75 names the rich man ‘Νευης’ (K. Groebel, ‘. . . Whose Name was Neves’, NTS 10 [1963–64]: 373–82). ‘Ninevah’ occurs in later Sahidic homilies; see further, Louis T. Lefort, ‘Le nom du mauvais riche (Lc 16,19) et la tradition copte’, ZNW 37 (1938): 65–72. Adolf van Harnack argued ‘Ninevah’ was a corruption of ‘Phinehas’ (cf. Exod. 6.25; Num. 25.7); for his argument, see ‘Der Name des reichen Mannes in Luc. 16,19’, TU 13/1 (1895): 75–78. Finally, a marginal note in a thirteenth-century manuscript reads ‘Amenofis’ (M. R. James, ‘Notes’, JTS 4 [1902–1903]: 242–43). 12 E.g. see the illuminated manuscript, Codex Aureus of Echternach (c. 1030 ce). Among the sixteen full-page miniatures (each with three scenes) is an elaborately decorated depiction of Lk. 16.19-31; in the third scene the suffering rich man in hades is identified as Dives. For coloured plates of this medieval treasure, see Peter Metz, The Golden Gospels of Echternach, Codex Aureus Epternacensis (London: Thames and Hudson, 1957). 13 Gos. Thom. 63. 14 Ronald Hock surveyed the literature regarding this parable in the comprehensive bibliography on the parables by Warren Kissinger (‘Lazarus and Micyllus: Greco-Roman

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The history of interpretation, which is best understood in the light of the framework of parable studies over this past century, has been primarily shaped by four concerns: the problem of genre, the search for a literary model, the question of literary unity, and the relationship of this text to the historical Jesus.

Modern Parable Studies For centuries, Christian interpretation of the parables was shaped by the allegorical school. According to Irenaeus, the second-century Christian theologian, proper interpretation of the parables should yield a ‘like interpretation from all’.15 And yet, a brief survey of his own writings on the parables as well as Tertullian, Clement of Alexandria, Origen, Augustine, and other church fathers reveals this is simply not the case.16 Contrary to the opinion of Irenaeus, the diverse and complex allegorical explanations of these simple narratives reflect the difficulty of the interpretive task. The birth of modern parable studies took place in 1886 with the publication of Die Gleichnisreden Jesu by Adolf Jülicher.17 In this seminal examination of the Synoptic parables, Jülicher sternly rejected the allegorical method and instead posited that the parables express a single moral point.18 Furthermore, he drew a distinction between the parables of the historical Jesus and the parables as they are found in the Synoptic Gospels. The parables have been reshaped with allegorical flourishes that must be removed in order to uncover the true meaning of these powerful stories.19 Backgrounds to Luke 16.19-31’, JBL 106 [1987]: 447 n. 1). Hock found 254 studies for the parable of the Prodigal Son, 123 for the parable of the Good Samaritan, and only 68 for the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus. Also, in a number of important treatments of the parables, he notes that the Rich Man and Lazarus is not discussed at all. See Warren S. Kissinger, The Parables of Jesus: A History of Interpretation and Bibliography (ATLA Bibliography Series 4; Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press, 1979). 15 Irenaeus, Haer. 2.27. 16 For early allegorical interpretations of the parables, see Kissinger, Parables, 1–33; Robert H. Stein, An Introduction to the Parables of Jesus (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1981), 42–47; and Lane C. McGaughy, ‘A Short History of Parable Interpretation (Part I)’, Forum 8.3–4 (1995): 229–45. 17 Originally, his examination of the parables spanned two volumes; the later edition combines both volumes in their original, untranslated form (Adolf Jülicher, Die Gleichnisreden Jesu [Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1969]). 18 Although his rejection of the allegorical method has been widely embraced, there have been some reappraisals of the value of allegory in parable studies in the past fifty years. See Raymond E. Brown, ‘Parable and Allegory Reconsidered’, NovT 5 (1962): 36–45; Matthew Black, ‘The Parables as Allegory’, BJRL 42 (1959–60): 273–87; John Drury, ‘The Sower, the Vineyard, and the Place of Allegory in the Interpretation of the Parables’, JTS 24 (1973): 367– 70; and Hans-Josef Klauck, Allegorie und Allegorese in synoptischen Gleichnistexten (Münster: Aschendorf, 1978). 19 Jülicher was especially concerned with avoiding an allegorical reading of the parables, which led him carefully to distinguish between simile and metaphor. A metaphor is indirect speech that says one thing but means another; he considered this too much like an allegory. A

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As support for his radical new approach, he employed Aristotelian rhetoric to define and classify the Synoptic parables.20 In their original form, the parables were agents of comparisons (i.e. similes), which he divided into three forms: Gleichnisse (‘similitudes’), Parabeln (‘parables’), and Beispielerzählungen (‘example stories’).21 The third form, example story, refers to a freely invented story that actually illustrates the truth it was meant to demonstrate.22 Jülicher identified four example stories in the Gospel of Luke, including Dives and Lazarus (16.19-31).23 He was troubled by the distinctive features of this particular parable, especially the underworld setting, which he attributed to popular notions (Volksvorstellung) of the afterlife.24 In addition, his insistence on a single moral point led him to conclude the parable must be a composite of two loosely connected stories: the reversal of fortune in vv. 19-26 and the fate of the five brothers in vv. 27-31.25 The first part of the parable was a product of the historical Jesus, but the story of the five brothers was a secondary, pre-Lukan addition.26 The evangelist received the tradition, which included both stories, intact and made only minor editorial changes.27 Unlike many of the Synoptic parables, this text is not camouflaged in allegorical foliage; as a result, the morality of the story comes shining through. In the spirit of the Blessings and Woes (Lk. 6.20-26), the poor will be rewarded and the rich will be punished.28 Although Jülicher recognized the influence of folklore upon the depiction of the afterlife in this parable, he made no attempt to identify a specific tradition. In 1918, Hugo Gressmann filled this void with the publication of Vom reichen Mann und armen Lazarus.29 Following in the footsteps of Jülicher, Gressmann simile, however, is direct speech that is simple and self-explanatory (Jülicher, Gleichnisreden, I.52–58). 20 Aristotle, Rhetoric (trans. John Henry Freese; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1926). 21 The similitude (e.g. the parable of the Children Playing in the Market in Mt. 11.16-19; Lk. 7.31-34) describes an occurrence from daily life and calls upon the interpreter to discover the point of comparison. The parable proper (e.g. the parable of the Sower in Mt. 13.1-9; Mk 4.1-9; Lk. 8.4-8) is an imaginary story that takes place in the past, but functions the same way as the similitude and has all of its attributes (Jülicher, Gleichnisreden, I.112–15). 22 His system of classification was almost universally adopted, but the Beispielerzählungen have been the subject of intense debate. For a comprehensive examination of the legacy of Jülicher in this regard, see Jeffrey T. Tucker, Example Stories: Perspectives on Four Parables in the Gospel of Luke (JSNTSup 162; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998). 23 Also, the Good Samaritan (10.30-35), the Rich Fool (12.16-20), and the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (18.9-14). 24 Jülicher, Gleichnisreden, II.623. 25 Strictly speaking, Jülicher argued the original story concluded in v. 25; v. 26 functions as an editorial bridge (Gleichnisreden, II.634). 26 Jülicher, Gliechnisreden, II.634. 27 Jülicher, Gleichnisreden, II.634, 638–39. 28 Jülicher, Gleichnisreden, II.635, 638. 29 Hugo Gressmann, Vom reichen Mann und armen Lazarus: Eine literargeschichtliche Studie (Abhandlungen der königlichen preussichen Akademie der Wissenschaft phil.-hist. KL. 7; Berlin: Königliche Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1918).

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also divided the parable into two parts. He identified an Egyptian folktale as the model for the reversal of fortunes in vv. 19-26; however, contrary to his predecessor, he argued the fate of the five brothers in vv. 27-31 is a concluding addition from the historical Jesus. The Egyptian parallel is from a Demotic text written sometime in the second half of the first century ce, but the tale itself is thought to be much older.30 It is the story of Setme Khamwas, the high priest of Ptah at Memphis and his son Si-Osiris. Si-Osiris was the reincarnated great magician, Horus-son-ofPaneshe, born miraculously to a childless couple. He was allowed to return from the dead to confront and defeat a powerful Ethiopian magician. Before he reached the age of twelve and vanquished the foreign magician, Setme and his son witnessed the burial of two men – one rich, one poor. Naturally, Setme expressed his wish to receive a rich burial; in response, his son took him on a tour of the seven halls of Amente, the Egyptian realm of the dead.31 The rich man was in the fifth hall, with the pivot of a door rotating in his eye socket. In contrast, the poor man was elevated to a high rank near Osiris. Si-Osiris explained to his father that the good deeds of the poor man outnumbered his bad deeds, while the bad deeds of the rich man outnumbered his good deeds. The story of the two burials was embedded within the larger narrative of Setme Khamwas and Si-Osiris, but it existed independently in folklore and was well known in Jewish circles.32 According to Gressmann, Alexandrian Jews brought the tradition to Palestine, where it was repeated in seven Jewish versions. The earliest of the versions is found in the Palestinian Talmud, the story of a rich tax collector, Bar-Ma’yan, and a poor Torah scholar (y. Sanh. 23c; y. Hag. 77d).33 The two men die on the same day; the tax collector receives an elaborate burial, but the Torah scholar does not. In a dream, a fellow Torah scholar and friend of the poor man sees his companion in paradise, relaxing in a garden with trees and a running spring. In contrast, the rich man is being tormented in hell, reaching in vain for water with his tongue along the bank of a river. The friend also learns the poor man sinned only once and the rich man performed a good deed only once, for which each man received punishment and reward respectively through their burial.34 Gressmann claimed the similarities between Lk. 16.19-31 and the rabbinic versions could be explained by their common origin in the Demotic tale.35 30 The story was originally published as a transliteration of two translations; see F. L. Griffith, Stories of the High Priests of Memphis: The Sethon of Herodotus and the Demotic Tales of Khamuas (Oxford: Clarendon, 1900), 41–66, 142–207. 31 Amente literally means ‘West’, where the sun sets. Amente is both a name for the abode of the dead and the personified ‘Goddess of the West’. See Jan Zandee, Death as an Enemy: According to Ancient Egyptian Conceptions (New York: Arno Press, 1977), 91–92. 32 Gressmann, Vom reichen Mann, 31–32. 33 For the text, see Sanhedren in Gerichtshof (trans. G. A. Wewers; Übersetzung des Talmud Yerushalmi 4/4; Tübingen: Mohr, 1981), 148–49. 34 The only good deed of the tax collector was to invite the poor in town to a dinner in honour of the town councillors, who did not come (cf. Lk. 14.16-24; Mt. 22.1-10). 35 Gressmann, Vom reichen Mann, 53–54.

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And although he agreed in principle with Jülicher’s two-part literary analysis, he defends the unity of the parable. Jesus made use of this well-known folktale to rebuff popularly held notions of the return of the dead to deliver messages to the living concerning the afterlife; he added his own conclusion to the story – they should listen instead to Moses and the prophets.36 In 1921, Rudolf Bultmann criticized the usefulness of Gressmann’s Egyptian model and questioned the authenticity of the parable as a whole in his seminal work, The History of the Synoptic Tradition.37 He noted the dissimilarities between the parable and the Egyptian and Jewish stories, especially the varying systems of differentiation in the afterlife. In the folktale, Bultmann observed, the central point was the ‘proof of divine justice by the assimilation of destinies in the world to come’.38 In other words, sin will be rewarded and righteousness punished. In the parable, however, there is no explicit description of good or bad deeds. The reversal of fates in Luke functions solely as a consolation to the poor and condemnation of the rich – the ‘leveling of earthly relationships’.39 Furthermore, the burial of the two men plays a significant interpretive role in the folktale, but this is not the case in the parable.40 Instead, he calls attention to a competing Jewish legend as the source of the parable, the story of a rich and godless couple.41 The woman opens a gate outside of their home leading to hades, into which she is dragged. The husband sends a servant boy to find her, who is guided by a giant to the place of punishment. He finds the wife, sitting in fire, forced to quench her unending thirst with melted lead; she is being punished for her many sins, including her neglect of the widow and the orphan. The boy returns with his postmortem message; the husband repents and enters heaven. The legend as it is known now is rather late, but it resembles an earlier Jewish story which lies behind the parable. The messenger from the dead was replaced with an admonition to listen to Moses and the prophets, an editorial touch which disrupted the unity of the story.42 Bultmann, like Gressmann before him, maintained Jülicher’s two-part literary structure of the parable: vv. 19-26 drew upon the Jewish legend, consoling the poor and damning the rich; vv. 27-31 declared the sufficiency 36 Gressmann, Vom reichen Mann, 56–59. 37 Rudolf Bultmann, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (trans. John Marsh; Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1963). 38 Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 196. 39 Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 196 n. 1. 40 Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 204. 41 For the original story, see Micah Joseph Berdichevsky, Der Born Judas 2: Legenden, Märchen und Erzählungen (ed. Emmanuel bin Gorion; Wiesbaden: Insel, 1973), 60–64. Bultmann also points to parallels in the last chapters of 1 En., but he mentions it only in passing (Synoptic Tradition, 203). For fuller treatments of the parallels, see Sverre Aalen, ‘St. Luke’s Gospel and the Last Chapters of 1 Enoch’, NTS 13 (1966–67): 1–13; and George W. E. Nickelsburg, ‘Riches, the Rich, and God’s Judgment in 1 Enoch 92–105 and the Gospel According to Luke’, NTS 25 (1979): 324–44. 42 Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 178, 197.

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of Moses and the prophets, a thoroughly Jewish sentiment (cf. Deut. 30.1114) placed in the mouth of Jesus.43 Thus, he concluded the entire story was pre-Lukan and could not be traced to either the historical Jesus or the early church.44 Although his form-critical approach, generally speaking, was celebrated, his analysis of Dives and Lazarus won few converts.45 He did, however, successfully raise the question of authenticity and challenge those who might follow to respond. In the larger landscape of parable studies, the most significant voice after Jülicher was C. H. Dodd. In 1935, he published his Schaffer lectures given at Yale Divinity School under the title, The Parables of the Kingdom.46 By far, his most lasting contribution was a working definition of the parable: ‘At its simplest the parable is a metaphor or simile drawn from nature or common life, arresting the hearer by its vividness or strangeness, and leaving the mind in sufficient doubt about its precise application to tease it into active thought.’47 His definition emphasized the realism of the parables. A parable is not an allegory, but a ‘natural expression of a mind that sees truth in concrete pictures rather than conceives it in abstractions’.48 Thus, the parables faithfully represent peasant life in the first-century Mediterranean world and a proper interpretation must take into account their Sitz im Leben.49 It should not come as a surprise, given the centrality of everyday life in his understanding of the parable, that Dodd chose not to discuss Lk. 16.19-31. His silence is illustrative of the status of Dives and Lazarus – the black sheep of the Synoptic parables. Despite this, his definition shaped the perception of this story; the distinctive features became increasingly problematic and many hoped to uncover a Sitz im Leben as the interpretive key to this most unusual parable.50 43 Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 203. 44 According to Bultmann, v. 14 is a Lukan introduction to the parable as a whole, while v. 15 introduces the reversal of fates in vv. 19-26 and vv. 16-18 the admonition to listen to Moses and the prophets in vv. 27-31 (Synoptic Tradition, 178). 45 E.g. see E. Earle Ellis, The Gospel of Luke (Greenwood, SC: Attic, 1966), 340; and Fitzmyer, Luke, 1127. 46 C. H. Dodd, The Parables of the Kingdom (London: Nisbet & Co., 1935). He largely follows in the footsteps of Jülicher; however, he shifts the debate from a single moral point to a ‘realized eschatology’. The primary purpose of the parables is to proclaim the presence of the kingdom of God. 47 Dodd, Parables, 16. 48 Dodd suggests the parables of Jesus are similar to the rabbinic parables, which were often used by Jewish teachers for illustrative purposes. In a Hellenistic environment, however, the parables of Jesus were largely misunderstood. The widespread use of allegorical interpretations of well-known myths as ‘vehicles of esoteric doctrine’ led the early Christian community down the wrong interpretive path (Parables, 15). 49 Dodd, Parables, 20–21. 50 E.g. David Mealand argues the parable is a product of the famine of the late 40s ce in Jerusalem (Poverty and Expectation in the Gospels [London: SPCK, 1980], 39–40, 48–49). Friedrick W. Horn attributes vv. 19-26 to a Jewish-Christian sect in the late first century ce and vv. 27-31 to the evangelist (Glaube und Handeln in der Theologie des Lukas [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1983], 152, 181).

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The Biblical Tour of Hell

The most important post-World War II German parable scholar, Joachim Jeremias, openly acknowledges his debt to the work of Dodd, particularly his emphasis upon the Sitz im Leben of the parables.51 He grew up in Palestine under missionary parents, which gave him a particularly vivid understanding of Palestinian life. He was also heavily influenced by the emerging work of form critics, especially Rudolf Bultmann. The form critics had been working on the pre-literary tradition of the parables, developing a framework for a discussion concerning the transmission of the parables though oral tradition. In 1954, Jeremias published his own work on the parables, The Parables of the Kingdom, which he divided into two sections. Part 1 explores the ways in which the early church altered the parables and part 2 describes the various themes of the parables in the context of the ministry of Jesus.52 He was primarily concerned with the original words of the historical Jesus; fortunately, the methods by which the early church reshaped the parables of Jesus were not random, but orderly. Thus, the earliest attainable form of the parables could be recovered if these laws, or ‘principles of transformation’, could be described.53 In his analysis of Dives and Lazarus, he argued the presence of the twicerepeated historic present in 16.23 (ὁρᾷ) and 16.29 (λέγει) is ‘clear evidence’ of a pre-Lukan tradition.54 In Luke’s adaptation of the Markan material, the evangelist retains only one historic present (Lk. 8.49) out of ninety occurrences. And yet, the historic present can be found five times within Lukan parables (13.8; 16.7, 23, 29; 19.22) and is used once to introduce a parable (7.40).55 Following the lead of Jülicher and Gressmann, he divided the parable into two parts, and warns ‘it is essential’ to recognize the influence of the wellknown Egyptian folktale.56 For Jeremias, the story of Setme and Si-Osiris provided a necessary backdrop to explain the moral dimension of the parable, According to the wording of v. 25 it might appear as though the doctrine of retribution which is here expounded is of purely external application (on earth, wealth, in the 51 Joachim Jeremias, The Parables of Jesus (trans. S. H. Hooke; London: SCM Press, 1972), 23. 52 Jeremias also published an examination of the parables for a more popular audience (Rediscovering the Parables [New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1966]). 53 The ‘principles of transformation’ include allegorization (e.g. the parable of the Sower in Mk 4.1-9), allegorizing touches (e.g. the parable of the Great Supper in Lk. 14.15-24), moralizing conclusions (e.g. the parable of the Unjust Steward in Lk. 16.1-13), and providing setting (e.g. the parable of the Good Samaritan in Lk. 10.25-37). After trimming the parables of these later additions, the heart of their message clearly emerges: the kingdom of God is in the process of realization in the ministry of Jesus. He further divides the parables into thematic categories related to the kingdom of God: ‘The Great Assurance’, ‘Now Is the Day of Assurance’, ‘God’s Mercy for Sinners’, ‘The Imminence of Catastrophe’, ‘The Challenge of the Crisis’, ‘Realized Discipleship’, ‘The Via Dolorosa of the Son of Man’, ‘The Consummation’, and ‘Parabolic Actions’ (Parables, 23–114). 54 Jeremias, Parables, 182–83. 55 Jeremias, Parables, 182–83. 56 Jeremias, Parables, 183.

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life beyond, torment; on earth, poverty, in the next life, refreshment). But, quite apart from the contradiction in the text (vv. 14 f.), where has Jesus ever suggested that wealth in itself merits hell, and that poverty in itself is rewarded by paradise? What v. 25 really says is that impiety and lovelessness are punished, and that piety and humility are rewarded; this is clearly shown by comparison with the folk-material made use of by Jesus.57

Since the first part is clearly drawn from popular culture, the emphasis must lie on the new ‘epilogue’ added by Jesus: Jesus did not intend to comment on socio-economic conditions or the afterlife, but to issue a warning to those who live selfish, carefree lives resembling the surviving five brothers.58 Thus, he renames it the parable of the Six Brothers.59 It is difficult to overestimate the influence of Adolf Jülicher and Hugo Gressmann upon the scholarly tradition. A two-part literary analysis and the Egyptian folktale have held subsequent scholarship, barring few exceptions, in an almost hypnotic trance.60 Together, they provided an explanation of 57 Jeremias, Parables, 185. 58 Jeremias, Parables, 186. 59 Jeremias, Parables, 186. 60 The following bibliographic survey is indebted to the work of Ronald Hock and Outi Lehtipuu (see Hock, ‘Lazarus and Micyllus’, 449 n. 5, n. 7; and Outi Lehtipuu, The Aferlife Imagery in Luke’s Story of the Rich Man and Lazarus [Leiden: Brill, 2007], 17 n. 33, 18 n. 35). For those who accept a two-part literary structure, see Burton Scott Easton, The Gospel According to St. Luke (New York: Scribner, 1926), 254; John Martin Creed, The Gospel According to St. Luke (London: Macmillan, 1953), 208; Walter Grundmann, Das Evangelium nach Lukas (THKNT 3, 2nd edn; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1961), 325; Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 203; Ellis, Luke, 205; J. Ernst, Das Evangelium nach Lukas (RNT 3; Regensburg: Pstet, 1977), 472; Gerhard Schneider, Das Evangelium nach Lukas (ÖTK 3/2; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1977), 340; Rodolfo Obermüller, ‘La miseria de un rico: Un juicio neotestamentario– Lucas 16,19–31’, in Les pobres: Encuentro y compromise (ed. J. Severino Croatto, Hans-Hartmut Schroeder et al.; Buenos Aires: La Aurora, 1978), 48; I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1978), 632; A. Feuillet, ‘La parabole de mauvais riche et du pauvre Lazare (Lc 16,19-31) antithèse de la parabole de l’intendant astucieux (Lc 16,1-9)’, NRTh 111 (1979): 216; Aimo Nikolainen, Luukkaan evankeliumi (3rd edn; Hämeenlinna: Kirjapaja, 1980), 283–84; Jacob Kremer, Lukasevangelium (NEchtB 3; Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 1988), 166; Christopher F. Evans, Saint Luke (TPINTC; London: SCM Press, 1990), 615; and Johannes Hintzen, Verkündigung und Wahrnehmung: Über das Verhältnis von Evangelium und Leser am Besipel Lk 16,19-31 im Rahmen des lukanischen Doppelwerkes (BBB 81; Frankfurt am Main: Anton Hain, 1991), 347–51. For those who accept the Egyptian folktale as the model of the parable, see Easton, Luke, 254; Thomas W. Manson, The Sayings of Jesus: As Recorded in the Gospels According to St. Matthew and St. Luke (London: SCM Press, 1949), 297; MacLean S. Gilmour, The Gospel According to Luke (24th edn; IB 8; Nashville: Abingdon, 1952), 289; Creed, 209–10; Wilfred F. Knox, The Sources of the Synoptic Gospels 2: St. Luke and St. Matthew (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1957), 96; Grundmann, Lukas, 325; Ellis, Luke, 205; Otto Glombitza, ‘Der reiche Mann und der arme Lazarus Luk16,19-31. Zur frage nach der Botschaft des Textes’, NovT 12 (1970): 166–67; Schneider, Lukas, 340; Ernst, Lukas, 472; Eugene S. Wehrli, ‘Luke 16,19–-31’, Int 31 (1977): 276; John Drury, Tradition and Design in Luke’s Gospel: A Study in Early Christian Historiography (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1977), 161; Obermüller, ‘La miseria de un rico’, 64; Marshall, Luke, 633; Walter Schmithals, Das Evangelium nach Lukas (ZBK 3;

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the peculiarities of the text and a legitimate means to ignore them. Joachim Jeremias illustrates this beautifully in his examination of the parable: if something is strange and unusual, it is a product of foreign influence and therefore must not be essential to the ‘true’ meaning of the story.61 Rudolf Bultmann’s counter-proposal represented a lonely voice of dissent and was not warmly received. He did successfully challenge the authenticity of the parable as a whole, but few have agreed with him completely.62 And although C. H. Dodd did not specifically address Lk. 16.19-31, his definition of a parable magnified the peculiarities of this parable. And more importantly, his emphasis on the Sitz im Leben led to a counter-movement in parable studies in the second half of the twentieth century that would have significant implications for the trajectory of future research on Dives and Lazarus.

The American Shift After World War II, American scholars led the way in parable studies. In the 1960s and 1970s parable scholarship, which had centred on historical criticism and the quest for the historical Jesus, shifted to a concern for their literary qualities. This shift was due in large part to the work of three men: Amos Wilder, Robert W. Funk, and Dan O. Via, Jr. In 1964, Amos Wilder lambasted the severely historical approach of his predecessors and peers and introduced the function of the imagination into the Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 1980), 170; Robert Maddox, The Purpose of Luke-Acts (FRLANT 126; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982), 49; Eduard Schweizer, Das Evangelium nach Lukas (18th edn; NTD 3; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982), 172; Fitzmyer, Luke, 1127; Klaus Berger and Carsten Colpe, Religionsgeschictliches Textbuch zum Neuen Testament (Texte zum Neuen Testament NTD, Textreihe 1; Göttingen and Zürich: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987), 141–43; Kremer, Lukasevangelium, 166; John T. Carroll, Response to the End of History: Eschatology and Situation in Luke-Acts (SBLDS 92; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 65; Eckart Reinmuth, ‘Ps.-Philo, Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum 33,1-5 und die Auslegung der Parabel Lk 16.19-31’, NovT 31 (1989): 28; J. Gwyn Griffiths, The Divine Verdict: A Study of Divine Judgment in the Ancient Religions (SHR 52; Leiden: Brill, 1991), 277; Robert H. Stein, Luke (NAC 24; Nashville: Broadman, 1992), 422; J. Gwyn Griffiths, ‘Cross-Cultural Eschatology with Dives and Lazarus’, ExpTim 105 (1993–94): 8–9; Nicholas T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God: Christian Origins and the Question of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 2.255; Klaus Berger, Im Anfang war Johannes: Datierung und Theologie des vierten Evangeliums (Stuttgart: Quell, 1997), 42.206; and David Powyss, ‘Hell’: A Hard Look at a Hard Question: The Fate of the Unrighteous in the New Testament (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1998), 218. 61 Jeremias, Parables, 186. 62 E.g. the Jesus Seminar, which consisted of over one hundred New Testament scholars, reported that the fate of the five brothers (vv. 27-31) was nearly unanimously considered secondary, while 46 per cent attributed the reversal of fortune (vv. 19-26) to the historical Jesus. See Robert W. Funk, Bernard Brandon Scott, and James R. Butts, The Parables of Jesus: Red Letter Edition (Sonoma, CA: Polebridge Press, 1988), 64, 100–106. To the contrary, several defend the authenticity of the parable as a whole, see Wehrli, ‘Luke 16,19-31’, 276; Nikolainen, Luukkaan, 284; Fitzmyer, Luke, 1127–28; and William R. Herzog II, Parables as Subversive Speech: Jesus as Pedagogue of the Oppressed (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), 116.

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study of biblical literature in his eighteen-page chapter on the parables in The Language of the Gospel: Early Christian Rhetoric.63 In contrast to Dodd, he rejected the use of the term ‘parable’ because it misleads one to assume there is a ‘single pattern’.64 The parables are not mere windows into the ancient world; they are literary works of art and as works of art, their purpose is not to exemplify, but to reveal.65 Wilder argued that the parables must be extricated from their Gospel contexts and their original form must be reconstructed, although he does not describe how this is to be done.66 In the original context of the ministry of Jesus, the real authority and power of the parables emerge: ‘Faith and expectation are identified with daily life and with God’s operation there.’67 In a similar vein, Funk argued that the parable was not a direct form of communication, but a language event that reshaped the world. His essay, ‘The Parable as Metaphor’, published in 1966 in his book, Language, Hermeneutic, and Word of God, represented a decisive contribution to understanding metaphor as the essential element in the parables of Jesus.68 The parables in their original form did not include applications – there is a tendency within the Synoptic tradition to provide generalizing conclusions to stabilize the interpretive tradition.69 As Dodd correctly identified, ‘it is not possible to specify once and for all what the parables mean’.70 The open-ended nature of the parables is due, in part, to their metaphoric quality, which reveals ‘the mystery of kaleidoscopic reality directly apprehended’.71 As a metaphor, the parable draws the listener into participating in the story. Each participant creates a unique meaning, whether they be a member of the early Christian community, one of the evangelists, or a modern reader.72 For the first time, 63 Amos N. Wilder, The Language of the Gospel: Early Christian Rhetoric (New York: Harper & Row, 1964). He never wrote a book dedicated exclusively to parables, but he did publish a collection of his seminal essays devoted to recovering the imaginative and symbolic depth of the parables (Jesus’ Parables and the War of Myths [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982]). 64 Wilder, Language, 81. 65 Wilder emphasized the metaphoric element of the parables; through the powers of metaphor, the parable shocks the imagination of the hearer with its own vision of reality. And although he considered the parables’ metaphoric language, he stressed their vivid realism. In fact, the parables of Jesus are sui generis only in so far as they perfectly unite the extraordinary with the ordinary (Language, 80, 81, 84). 66 Wilder, Language, 90. 67 Wilder, Language, 93. 68 Robert W. Funk, Language, Hermeneutic, and Word of God (New York: Harper & Row, 1966). See also, Parables and Presence: Forms of the New Testament Tradition (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982). 69 Funk, Language, 134. 70 Funk, Language, 135. 71 Funk, Language, 140. Unlike a simile, which clarifies the lesser known by the better known, a metaphor juxtaposes two discrete and not entirely compatible elements. The ‘hermeneutical power’ of the parable lay in its resistance to interpretive reduction (Language, 136, 152). 72 Funk, Language, 162. For a classic treatment of this approach, see Mary Ann Tolbert,

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the dynamic that occurs between a parable and the reader was raised as a significant interpretive reality. In 1967, working concurrently but independently of Funk, Via redefined the parable as an ‘aesthetic object’, attempting to overcome the limitations of historical criticism as practised by Jeremias and Dodd in The Parables: Their Literary and Existential Dimensions.73 In particular, he offered a compelling critique of a ‘severely historical approach’: (1) the Gospels are ‘non-biographical’ in nature so one cannot determine in exactly what concrete situations parables were originally uttered; (2) the historical approach ignores the basic human element in the parables and underestimates the problem of translation; (3) the historical approach threatens to render the parables irrelevant for the present; and (4) the historical approach ignores the aesthetic function of parables as literary works of art.74 Via concluded that it was impossible to determine the Sitz im Leben of any of the parables and ‘the only important consideration is the internal meaning of the work itself’.75 Dives and Lazarus is never mentioned in the work of these three men, but their research signalled a paradigmatic shift in parable studies, one which would change the interpretive conversation on Lk. 16.19-31. For example, Jülicher’s ‘single moral point’ led him (and many others) to conclude the parable must be a composite of two loosely connected stories; after all, there is more than one point.76 The search for a ‘single moral point’, which was a staple of parable studies for over half a century, was convincingly debunked by Wilder, Funk, and Via. As literary works of art, the parables are characteristically polyvalent; the two points of the story (i.e. the reversal of fortunes and the fate of the five brothers) could no longer be used as conclusive evidence for the disunity of the parable. Furthermore, a re-examination of the literary structure of the parable would eventually challenge the interpretive significance of Gressmann’s Egyptian folktale, which was widely assumed to be the source of the first story in vv. 19-26.

Perspectives on the Parables: An Approach to Multiple Interpretations (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979). 73 Dan O. Via, Jr, The Parables: Their Literary and Existential Dimension (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1967); see also ‘Parable and Example Story: A Literary-Structuralist Approach’, Semeia 1 (1974): 105–33. 74 Via, Parables, 21–24. 75 Via, Parables, 77. He supported his classification of the parables as aesthetic objects by adopting a standard twofold division of basic plot movements (i.e. tragedy and comedy) from modern literary criticism. In a tragic parable the plot falls towards catastrophe and the protagonist becomes isolated from society (e.g. the parable of the Talents in Mt. 25.14-30), while in the comic parable there is an upward movement towards well-being and the inclusion of the protagonist into a renewed society (e.g. the parable of the Prodigal Son in Lk. 15.11-32). In their original context, these tragic and comic fictions were powerful language events; the ‘purpose of interpreting them is that that event might occur once more in the exposition’ (Parables, 52, 95–96, 110, 145). 76 Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 20. For example, Bultmann argues for the disunity of the parable because there are two incompatible points in the story (Synoptic Tradition, 193).

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John Dominic Crossan made the contributions of Wilder, Funk, and Via accessible to a wider audience in 1973 with the publication of his book, In Parables: The Challenge of the Historical Jesus.77 In this creative exploration of the ‘historical Jesus’, Crossan explicitly states he is not interested in the faith or self-consciousness of Jesus, but rather the language of Jesus through ‘the reconstructed parabolic complex’.78 In his estimation, the Synoptic parables, including almost all of the parables in the Lukan special material, originated with the historical Jesus.79 Crossan divided the parables into three modes reflecting the temporality of the kingdom of God: advent, reversal, and action.80 He classified Dives and Lazarus as a parable of reversal; unfortunately, in the process of transmission, parables of reversal were transformed into example stories and the original points of these parables were lost.81 If a parable involves a ‘morally significant action it may not be at all so clear if he is giving examples (act/do not act like this) or telling parables’.82 As a result, the ambiguity of the original parable must be restored. Crossan followed the lead of Jülicher, dividing the parable into two parts and arguing that the fate of the five brothers is secondary. The links between the discussion of the resurrection of the rich man in vv. 27-31 and the resurrection 77 John Dominic Crossan, In Parables: The Challenge of the Historical Jesus (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1973). Following in the footsteps of Funk, Crossan juxtaposes sayings of Jesus and the Argentine author, Jorge Luis Borges, demonstrating that both are literary iconoclasts (Raid on the Articulate: Cosmic Eschatology in Jesus and Borges [New York: Harper & Row, 1976]). 78 Crossan, In Parables, xiii. He carefully distinguishes between allegory and parable; an allegory can be explained, but parables are metaphoric language that expresses the inexpressible. Crossan shares the viewpoint of Derrida that all language is metaphoric, which creates a void of meaning (In Parables, 8–10). 79 John Dominic Crossan, The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1993), 434–50 in Appendix I. 80 Crossan, In Parables, 37–52, 53–78, 79–120. The kingdom of God and its parables manifest the advent of a radical new world (e.g. the parable of the Sower in Mk 4.3-8; Mt. 13.3-8; Lk. 8.5-8; Gos. Thom. 9), a reversal of expectations (e.g. the parable of the Good Samaritan in Lk. 10.30-37), and a call to action as the expression of a new world (e.g. the parable of the Wicked Husbandmen in Mk 12.1-12; Mt. 21.33-46; Lk. 20.9-19; Gos. Thom. 65). 81 He sharply attacked the notion that the parables originally existed as written words and demonstrated that in orality what is remembered is not the words themselves, but the structure. As a poetic metaphor, the parables create participation in the metaphor’s reference because one can only experience its reality by risking entrance into it. Crossan asserts that reality is language and while myth establishes world, parable subverts world and invites us to live without myth so that any information one might obtain from it can only be received after one has participated through the metaphor in its new and alien referential. The parable contains a new world, ‘the permanent presence of God as the one who challenges the world and shatters its complacency repeatedly’. For a fuller treatment of these strands of his thought, see The Dark Interval: Towards a Theology of Story (Allen, TX: Argus Communications, 1975); Cliffs of Fall: Paradox and Polyvalence in the Parables of Jesus (New York: Seabury Press, 1980); and In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1983). 82 Crossan, In Parables, 56.

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of Jesus in Lk. 24.1-53 suggest the ending must not be original; it is likely a pre-Lukan, post-resurrectional application.83 This is a surprising statement from Crossan, given that the resurrection of the rich man is never in question – it is Lazarus. With regards to the first part of the story, he offered another unexpected comment, ‘It has already been established in scholarship that the story of situation reversal in 16:19-26 has basic affinities with folkloric material in both Egyptian and Jewish tradition.’84 In his estimation, Gressmann had solved the form-critical problem. Despite his rather unoriginal examination of the parable as a whole, he did depart briefly from his predecessors on one point. He argued that the moral dimension of the folktale was intentionally omitted – a fact which led him to argue for the authenticity of vv. 19-26. ‘Its literal point was a strikingly amoral description of situational reversal between the rich man and Lazarus.’85 In fact, the unexpected, unexplained reversal of fortunes is what makes the first part of the story a parable, in which the ‘Kingdom’s disruptive advent could be metaphorically portrayed and linguistically made present’.86 In 1989, Bernard Brandon Scott followed in the tradition of Wilder, Funk, Via, and Crossan in his work, Hear then the Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus.87 Scott began by defining the parable as ‘a mashal [l#$m] that employs a short narrative fiction to reference a transcendent symbol’.88 Scott was certainly not the first (nor the last) to argue the Semitic mashal provides the essential background for interpreting the Synoptic parables, but he was the first to examine the parables systematically and comprehensively within this literary context.89 The Hebrew noun l#$m has an even broader range of application than παραβολή in the Synoptic Gospels; it is used to describe narratives (e.g. 83 E.g. Crossan points to the theme of disbelief in the resurrection in 16.31 and 24.11, 25, 41. Also, see the usage of ‘Moses and the prophets’ in 16.29, 31 and 24.27; the resurrected one in 16.31 and 24.46; and finally, ‘they will repent’ in 16.30 and Acts 2.38; 3.19; 8.22; 17.30; 26.20 (In Parables, 66–67). 84 Crossan, In Parables, 67. 85 Crossan, In Parables, 68. 86 Crossan, In Parables, 68. 87 Bernard Brandon Scott, Hear Then the Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989). 88 Scott, Hear Then, 8. 89 Throughout the history of modern parable studies, it has been widely assumed that the Hebrew Bible and rabbinic literature provide the only appropriate material for comparison with the Synoptic parables. E.g. see Paul Fiebig, Altjüdische Gleichnisse und die Gleichnisse Jesu (Tübingen: Mohr, 1904) and Die Gleichnisreden Jesu im Lichte der rabbinischen Gleichnisse des neutestamentlichen Zeitalters (Tübingen: Mohr, 1912); Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 166; Jeremias, Parables, 20; Thomas W. Manson, The Teaching of Jesus: Studies of its Form and Content (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963), 64–66; Stein, 16–18; Kenneth E. Bailey, Poet and Peasants (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1976) and Through Peasant Eyes (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980); Madeleine I. Boucher, The Mysterious Parable: A Literary Study (Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1977), 11–13; and John Drury, The Parables in the Gospels: History and Allegory (New York: Crossroad, 1985), 7–20.

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Ezek. 17.2-10), brief figures (e.g. Ezek. 24.3-5), traditional proverbs (e.g. Jer. 23.28), lamentations (e.g. Ezek. 19.1-9, 10-14), and sayings (e.g. Hab. 2.6).90 Generally speaking, mashal appears to describe any dark saying whose meaning is not readily apparent.91 As a result, Scott carefully distinguishes the parable from other forms of the meshalim, like proverbs and riddles.92 These short fictional narratives participate in the mashal tradition, but reference the kingdom of God; together, the narrative and the kingdom ‘create parable’.93 Drawing upon methods from social science, he divides the Synoptic parables into three categories of first-century Mediterranean life.94 Scott classifies Lk. 16.19-31 as a parable of ‘Family, Village, City, and Beyond’, which emphasizes socio-economic responsibility. His analysis of the text, which he renames ‘The Rich Man Clothed in Purple’, begins with a discussion of the parable proper.95 He rejects Bultmann’s assessment of the Jewish origin of vv. 27-31, drawing largely upon the internal stylistic observations of Jeremias and Crossan. He concludes that the ending must be secondary, appended by the evangelist ‘to relate the parable to Jewish disbelief in Jesus’ messiahship’.96 With regard to the parable proper, he offers a three-step analysis: (1) redaction, (2) reading, and (3) the kingdom of God.97 Methodologically, he follows in the 90 Charles W. Hedrick, Many Things in Parables: Jesus and his Modern Critics (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2004), 17. 91 For a detailed discussion of the mashal in Hebrew literature, see David Stern, Parables in Midrash: Narrative and Exegesis in Rabbinic Literature (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994). 92 Scott, Hear Then, 8–19. 93 Scott, Hear Then, 51–62. In his first book, Scott analysed the underlying narrative structure of the parables and identified five theses that form a consistent horizon of parable. Utilizing these five theses and two models (the structuralist actantiel model of Greimas for narrative parables and the structuralist model of Levi-Strauss for one-liners), he constructed a unified model in which the ‘Kingdom of God’ is at one end and ‘The Accepted’ is at the other as a semantic axis that generates the arrangement of images in the parables (Jesus, Symbol-Maker for the Kingdom [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981]). 94 The parables of family (e.g. the parable of the Prodigal Son in Lk. 15.11-32), village (e.g. the parable of the Rich Fool in Lk. 12.16-20; Gos. Thom. 63), and city (e.g. the parable of the Unjust Judge in Lk. 18.2-5) make use of horizontal aspects of society. ‘Masters and servants’ is divided into parables of departure and return (e.g. the parable of the Wicked Husbandmen in Mk 12.1-12; Mt. 21.33-46; Lk. 20.9-19; Gos. Thom. 65) and parables of accounting (e.g. the parable of the Unjust Steward in Lk. 16.1-8a); they draw upon the dynamic patron–client relationship that dominated the Mediterranean mindset. And lastly, the parables of home (e.g. the parable of the Yeast in Mt. 13.33; Lk. 13.20-21) and farm (e.g. the parable of the Mustard Seed in Mk 4.30-32; Mt. 24.32; Lk. 13.1819; Gos. Thom. 9) explicitly employ the semiotic sign itself (Scott, Hear Then, 79–98, 205–15, 301–19). 95 In his assessment, the mentioning of the chasm by Abraham signals the conclusion of the parable proper, ‘for it has exhausted its possibilities’ (Scott, Hear Then, 146). 96 Scott, Hear Then, 146. 97 First, Scott examines the function of the parable in its present context(s) in the Synoptic Gospels and the Gospel of Thomas. The surface structure, which can be identified as mnemonic features of oral language (e.g. formulas, chiasmus, and word plays), forms a bridge between the ‘performance’ of the evangelist and the ‘originating structure’. Second, he reads the parables as fictive narratives which generate two levels of meaning independent of their Sitz

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footsteps of Funk, paying special attention to the dynamic between reader and text. The ‘surface structure’ reveals a two-part redaction of narration (vv. 19-23) and dialogue (vv. 24-26). He draws attention to literary parallelism and the chiasm that supports the plot development – the reversal of fortunes.98 His ‘reading’ of the parable highlights two points of the story which would have provoked a Jewish audience: the unexplained condemnation of the rich man and the manner in which the divisions in the afterlife reflect those in this life.99 His final step, ‘kingdom of God’, reflects the degree to which Gressmann’s folktale had taken a stranglehold upon interpreters of this parable. ‘Customarily a study of the parable begins with a reference to Hugo Gressmann’s collection of parallel Egyptian and Jewish stories. Since our entrance to the story was through its conclusion, perhaps it is fitting to conclude with the mandatory beginning.’100 Scott did not necessarily endorse the genetic relationship posited by Gressmann; rather, he focused on a shared folkloric motif addressing the problem of theodicy. These ‘tales from the past’ provide the ‘mandatory’ interpretive framework in which the power of the parable emerges: ‘The kingdom of God is the manifestation of God’s righteousness in the face of injustice.’101 From its inception, modern parable studies were driven by the quest for the historical Jesus, but after Wilder, Funk, and Via the literary and aesthetic qualities of the parables were brought into sharper focus. The parables were not merely windows into the past; they were literary works of art in and of themselves. Crossan and Scott represent full treatments of the parables in the light of this shift in perspective. Despite their innovative work on the parables as a whole, however, Crossan and Scott are rather unoriginal in their examination of the parable of Dives and Lazarus. For the most part, they operate within the interpretive framework established at the turn of the twentieth century, but there are two developments worthy of further reflection. Throughout the scholarly tradition, the rationale for the reversal of fortunes has troubled exegetes. Jeremias captured the emotional content of this problem perfectly: ‘Where has Jesus ever suggested that wealth in itself merits hell, and that poverty in itself is rewarded by paradise?’102 For Jeremias, and almost everyone else, the unique system of judgement in the parable was unacceptable, particularly in the light of their understanding of the historical Jesus. Thankfully, the problem had been solved for them. Jülicher broke the parable into two, enabling Gressmann to insert his folktale and provide the moral framework. im Leben: situational meaning (i.e. ‘real reader’) and the second level of literary meaning (i.e. ‘implied reader’). In other words, Scott hopes to capture the dynamic by which the text seeks to structure itself while being structured by the response of the reader. And third, he explores the parabolic effect that emerges from the juxtaposition of the story and the kingdom (Hear Then, 74–76). 98 Scott, Hear Then, 148. 99 Scott, Hear Then, 148–55. 100 Scott, Hear Then, 155. 101 Scott, Hear Then, 157. 102 Jeremias, Parables, 185.

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The American shift in parable studies changed the interpretive framework; the historical Jesus was no longer the point of reference – it was the text itself. As a result, Crossan was the first interpreter of the parable to embrace fully the apparent amorality of the story. Bultmann had already highlighted the absence of sin and piety in the parable, but primarily as a means to reject Gressmann’s folktale. He argued that they had varying systems of judgement in the afterlife and therefore must not be literarily related. Naturally, it comes as a surprise when his own competing Jewish legend operates within a similar moral system involving a ‘rich and godless married couple’.103 In the parable, however, there is no explicit indication that the six brothers are ‘godless’. Of course, Dives also requests that a message be sent via Lazarus, but the content of that message is unclear. If, like the husband, the brothers must repent, what exactly are they expected to repent of? For Crossan, the punishment of the rich and consolation of the poor was not a point of embarrassment which required explanation; on the contrary, the power of the parable could only be experienced through a violent confrontation with this shocking truth. Crossan and Scott both agree the first part of the parable participates in Gressmann’s folk tradition, but they do not endorse his argument for literary dependence. Crossan argued that the historical Jesus intentionally reshaped the tradition to shock and provoke, but Scott followed a more traditional path. Like many before him, he emphasized the moral framework provided by the folk tradition, paying special attention to the Jewish versions of the story. Given his understanding of the parable as a mashal, this should not come as a surprise. In the interest of maintaining the uniqueness of the historical Jesus, many early modern historical-critical parable scholars after Jülicher insisted on distinguishing the teaching of Jesus from the rabbis; the Synoptic parables were popularly considered sui generis. The shift in parable studies, from historicalcritical to literary-critical, over the past fifty years has led many to reconsider the wider literary context of antiquity for interpreting the parables, especially the Jewish meshalim.104 Mashal is often translated as παραβολή in the Septuagint (twenty-eight of forty occurrences), a fact which certainly lends weight to the interpretive relevance of the meshalim for parable studies.105 The historical Jesus and early Christian literature were undoubtedly influenced by Jewish Scripture and the rabbinic tradition, but there are two significant hurdles.106 First, there are few narratives in the Hebrew Bible which resemble the short fictional narratives of the Jesus 103 Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 197. 104 E.g. see Lawrence Boadt, ‘Understanding the Mashal and its Value for the JewishChristian Dialogue in a Narrative Theology’, in Parable and Story in Judaism and Christianity (ed. Clemens Thoma and Michael Wyschogrod; New York: Paulist, 1989), 159–85. 105 Klyne Snodgrass, Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 10. 106 E.g. a recent article identifies nearly all of the sayings of Jesus as meshalim, dividing them into aphoristic meshalim and narrative meshalim (B. Gerhardsson, ‘The Secret of the Transmission of the Unwritten Jesus Tradition’, NTS 51 [2005]: 1–18).

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tradition in Gospel literature.107 Second, rabbinic parables do not appear until long after the emergence of the Synoptic tradition. For example, the Mishnah, the earliest collection of rabbinic material (c. 200 ce), contains only one parable.108 The rabbinic parables that are typically used for comparison with the Synoptic parables do not appear until the fifth century.109 Furthermore, they occur in a set form in which the parable illustrates the proper exegesis of the Torah; the Synoptic parables do not appear in this form nor do they perform this function.110 Scott and many others locate the Synoptic parables within the mashal tradition despite the late dating of rabbinic parables.111 His justification is revealing: ‘There is no contemporaneous evidence of parable tellers at the time of Jesus. We should probably conclude that Jesus is at the beginning of the common folk tradition of the parable and for that reason his parables are not as stereotyped in form as those of the later rabbis.’112 Given the strict boundaries of his comparative net, Scott is forced to posit that the historical Jesus was participating in the birth of a new storytelling tradition. Fortunately, there are more immediate parallels in antiquity, but they lie beyond the traditionally legitimate context for interpreting the parables.

Re-Casting the Comparative Net In 1987, Ronald F. Hock published an article in the Journal of Biblical Literature, ‘Lazarus and Micyllus: Greco-Roman Backgrounds to Luke 107 Cf. Ezek. 17.2-21; 19.1-9, 10-14; Judg. 9.8-15; 2 Sam. 12.1-4; 14.5-7; Eccl. 9.14-16. 108 Scott, Re-Imagine the World, 15. 109 For a collection of rabbinic parables, see Harvey K. McArthur and Robert M. Johnston, They also Taught in Parables (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1990). For a more detailed discussion of the use of parables in rabbinic literature, see Clemens Thoma, ‘Literary and Theological Aspects of the Rabbinic Parables’, in Parable and Story in Judaism and Christianity (ed. Clemens Thoma and Michael Wyschogrod; New York: Paulist, 1989), 26–41. 110 Günther Borkamm comments on this fact, ‘The rabbis also relate parables in abundance, to clarify a point in their teaching and explain the sense of a written passage, but always as an aid to the teaching and an instrument in the exegesis of an authoritatively prescribed text. But that is just what they are not in the mouth of Jesus, although they often come very close to those of the Jewish teachers in their content, and though Jesus makes free use of traditional and familiar topics. Here the parables are the preaching itself and are not merely serving the purpose of a lesson which is quite independent of them’ (Jesus of Nazareth [New York: Harper & Row, 1960], 69). 111 See also, W. O. E. Oesterley, The Gospel Parables in the Light of their Jewish Background (London: SPCK, 1936); Norman Perrin, The Kingdom of God in the Teaching of Jesus (London: SCM. Press, 1975), 80–89, 110–14, 116–21; Brad H. Young, The Parables: Jewish Tradition and Christian Interpretation (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1998); Jesus and his Jewish Parables: Rediscovering the Roots of Jesus’ Teachings (New York: Paulist, 1989); Meet the Rabbis: Rabbinic Thought and the Teachings of Jesus (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2007); and David Stern, ‘Jesus’ Parables from the Perspective of Rabbinic Literature: The Example of the Wicked Husbandmen’, in Parable and Story in Judaism and Christianity (ed. Clemens Thoma and Michael Wyschogrod; New York: Paulist, 1989) 42–80. 112 Scott, Re-Imagine the World, 15.

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16.19-31’, in which he departed from the interpretive trajectory established by Jülicher and Gressmann and called for a recasting of the ‘comparative net’.113 Surprisingly, after a century of scholarship on this parable, this article represented the most critical assessment of their legacy to date. Hock is the first to admit others have questioned the ‘Gressmannian hypothesis’, but these ‘scattered disagreements’ have not posed a significant challenge to the entrenched consensus.114 From the outset, he is careful to point out that he does not discount a possible relationship between the parable and the Egyptian folktale; however, if there is one, it is at best indirect.115 A comparison of the two stories reveals important differences. For example, the parallels only apply to the first half of the parable (vv. 19-26). In addition, as Bultmann had already noted, the focus of the Egyptian tale lies in the distinctive burials of the two men, but in the parable the burials are of minor importance.116 Most importantly for Hock, the folktale fails to clarify the most mysterious element of the parable – the rationale for the reversal of fortunes. On this point, Hock astutely observes, ‘Consequently, scholars are confused and so have sought an explanation that conforms more to their own values than to the parable itself and the world it reflects.’117Although Dives is described strictly in terms of his luxurious lifestyle, interpreters are reluctant to view his wealth as the decisive criterion for judgement.118 It is almost universally agreed that the neglect of the miserable beggar at his gate (cf. v. 19) and failure to heed the warning of Moses and the prophets (cf. vv. 29-31) is the ultimate undoing 113 Hock, ‘Lazarus and Micyllus’, 455. 114 Hock, ‘Lazarus and Micyllus’, 452. 115 E.g. C. H. Cave claimed the Egyptian folktale, the Jewish versions, and the parable merely share a common theme (τόπος) used in storytelling. Instead, he suggests Genesis 15, where Abraham and Lazarus (Eliezer) both appear, is a more relevant parallel (‘Lazarus and Lucan Deuteronomy’, NTS 15 [1968]: 319–25). Elpidus Pax also denied any formal relationship and argued the conventions of Clandenken provide sufficient explanation for any similarities shared by the parable and the folktale (‘Der Reiche und der arme Lazarus: Eine Milieustudie’, SBFLA 25 [1975]: 254–68). 116 Strictly speaking, there is no explicit mention of the burial of Lazarus in the parable. 117 Hock, ‘Lazarus and Micyllus’, 453. 118 For those who deny the parable is criticizing wealth, see Plummer, Luke, 390, 396– 97; K. H. Rengstorf, Das Evangelium nach Lukas (NTD; 9th edn; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1962), 193, 195; Jeremias, Parables, 185; Crossan, In Parables, 66; Ernst, Lukas, 472–73; and Fitzmyer, Luke, 1132. Some suggest his fine clothing and feasting do not imply excess; see Easton, Luke, 251; Rengstorf, Lukas, 193; Jacques Dupont, Les Béattitudes (3 vols; Louvain: Nauwelaerts, 1973), 3.174; Pax, ‘Milieustudie’, 257; Ernst, Lukas, 473, 476; Schweizer, Lukas, 172; and Horn, Glaube, 149. Others claim Dives is without guilt; see Grundmann, Lukas, 327; Rengstorf, Lukas, 193; Pax, ‘Milieustudie’, 257; Ernst, Lukas, 473; and Schweizer, Lukas, 173–73. Scholars who claim the parable provides no explanation for Dives’ condemnation include Groebel, ‘Whose Name’, 374; Rengstorf, Lukas, 194; and Franz Schnider and Werner Stenger, ‘Die offene Tür und die unüberschreitbare Kluft’, NTS 25 (1978/79): 280. And still others argue the parable is amoral, especially in vv. 19-26; see Crossan, In Parables, 67; Pax, ‘Milieustudie’, 257; Ernst, Lukas, 473; Luise Schottroff and Wolfgang Stegemann, Jesus von Nazareth: Hoffnung der Armen (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1978), 41; and Horn, Glaube, 145.

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of Dives in the netherworld.119 On both these points, however, the folktale is silent. Likewise, the folktale offers no explanation for Lazarus’ good fortune in the afterlife. The scholarly tradition often overlooks this equally enigmatic element of the parable. If it is addressed, typically the unique presence of a proper name and its etymology is used as sufficient proof of his piety – God has helped him because of his faithfulness.120 After laying the ‘Gressmann hypothesis to rest’, Hock turns his critical eye to the division of the parable into two loosely connected stories.121 Once again, Hock recognizes that he is not the first to contend for the unity of the parable. In the late 1970s, structural critics Franz Schnider and Werner Stenger offered the first significant critique of Jülicher’s division.122 They argued for the structural unity of the parable by identifying themes that appear throughout the parable; of course, they too divided the parable into narrated world (vv. 1923) and dialogical world (vv. 24-31).123 Without the folktale, Hock contends Jülicher’s division is both arbitrary and unnecessary. With regards to the former, the division takes place in the middle of Abraham’s conversation with Dives – a bumpy literary seam indeed. On the latter point, if Schnider and Stenger are correct in their assessment of the overall literary unity of the parable, ‘the notion of seeking two points also becomes unnecessary, as do the various complex tradition histories of the parable – that is, whether Jesus, Luke’s tradition, or Luke himself is understood to have added a new conclusion to a familiar story of reversal’.124 Finally, if the legacy of Jülicher and Gressmann is in doubt, so too is the question of authenticity raised by Bultmann in the light of the framework they provided.125 Hock begins his own contribution to the conversation with a question: ‘How far can we legitimately cast our comparative net?’126 As we have seen thus far, parable scholars predominantly turn to Palestinian Jewish materials as an interpretive aid, but Hock encourages an expansion of the comparative net, particularly in the direction of the Graeco-Roman literature, which is rarely considered. Why is an entire body of contemporaneous literature largely ignored? For Hock, there are at least three reasons. The first is theological: 119 E.g. Plummer, Luke, 394; Easton, Luke, 253; Grundmann, Lukas, 329; Rengstorff, Lukas, 193; Crossan, In Parables, 66; Dupont, Les Béattitudes, 3.181–82; Ernst; Lukas, 473, 476; Robert J. Karris, ‘Poor and Rich: The Lukan Sitz im Leben’, in Perspectives on Luke-Acts (ed. C. H. Talbert; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1978), 122; Marshall, Luke, 635; Schnider and Stenger, ‘Die offene Tür’, 281; Schweizer, Lukas, 173; and Fitzmyer, Luke, 1128. 120 E.g. Grundmann, Lukas, 327; Rengstorf, Lukas, 194; Jeremias, Parables, 183, 185; Ellis, Luke, 205; Ernst, Lukas, 474; Marshall, Luke, 635; Schnider and Stenger, ‘Die offene Tür’, 277; Schweizer, Lukas, 173; and Fitzmyer, Luke, 1131. 121 Hock, ‘Lazarus and Micyllus’, 454. 122 See also the structural reading of Erhardt Güttgemanns, ‘Narrative Analyse synoptischer Texte’, LB 25/26 (1973): 50–73. 123 Schnider and Stenger, ‘Die offene Tür’, 275–83. 124 Hock, ‘Lazarus and Micyllus’, 455. 125 Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 178. 126 Hock, ‘Lazarus and Micyllus’, 455.

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scholars imagine the teachings of Jesus as a unique revelation, unaffected by and superior to his immediate context. The second is sociological: a Galilean peasant would have had little if any contact with Graeco-Roman intellectuals. The third is disciplinary: parable scholars are trained in institutions that are more familiar with Judaism than they are with the broader Graeco-Roman environment. All prejudices aside, a wider casting of the comparative net yields a large and varied catch. For example, the term κόλπος from the expression ‘bosom of Abraham’ in vv. 22 and 23 has parallels in sepulchral epigrams and on grave markers.127 Alternatively, the structure of the parable could be compared with two school exercises, comparison (σύγκρισις) and characterization (ἠθοποιία), which often involved extreme examples of the rich and poor.128 Hock, however, focuses his attention upon imperial Cynic literature; in particular, the Gallus and Cataplus of Lucian of Samosata. The parallels between the parable and these Lucianic materials are many and important, despite what some have suggested previously.129 They are especially helpful in reconstructing the social and intellectual milieu, bringing to light some of the darkest features of the parable, most notably the criteria for judgement in the afterlife. The Gallus and Cataplus both feature rhetorical comparisons of Micyllus, a poor shoemaker, and a handful of rich men – an obvious parallel to the parable. Like Lazarus at the gate of Dives (v. 20), Micyllus is described as the neighbour of the wealthy Simonides (Gall. 14) and the tyrant Megapenthes (Cat. 16). Lazarus longs for the scraps from Dives’ table (v. 21), while Micyllus is tantalized by the smell of the meat from Megapenthes’ banquets (Cat. 16). Along with banquets and feasting, clothing is also a shared, albeit conventional, indicator of life’s blessings (i.e. τὰ ἀγαθά); for example, the purple clothing of Dives (v. 16), Megapenthes (Cat. 16), and Simonides (Gall. 14). After the death of Dives and Lazarus (v. 22), the parallels between the parable and the Cataplus are especially illuminating. The failed negotiations of Dives with Abraham (vv. 24-31) are echoed in the desperate bargaining of Megapenthes with Clotho (Cat. 8, 9, 12, 13). While Dives and Megapenthes are denied water (v. 23; Cat. 28–29), Lazarus finds comfort in Abraham’s bosom (v. 22) and Micyllus in the isles of the Blessed (Cat. 24). 127 E.g. see Richard Lattimore, Themes in Greek and Latin Epitaphs (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1962), 211–12, 243, 302, 304. 128 For more information on the use of extreme characterizations of the rich and poor in rhetorical education, see D. A. Russell, Greek Declamation (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 27–30; and Frank W. Hughes, ‘The Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus (Luke 16.19-31) and Greco-Roman Rhetoric’, in Rhetoric and the New Testament (ed. Stanley E. Porter and Thomas H. Olbricht; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), 31–36. 129 E.g. Rudolf Helm and Hans Dieter Betz point out only minor parallels, while Luise Schottroff and Wolfgang Stegemann examine the parallels only to minimize their interpretive significance. See Rudolf Helm, Lucian and Menipp (Leipzig: Teubner, 1906), 66; Hans Dieter Betz, Lukian von Samosata und das Neue Testament (Berlin: Akadmie, 1961), 82, 97, 195; and Schottroff and Stegemann, Hoffnung, 133–35.

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In addition to these striking parallels, the Cataplus includes a judgement scene which identifies the rationale for their reversal: judge Rhadamanthus inspects their souls for the signs (στίγματα) of wicked and righteous deeds (Cat. 24). The soul of Micyllus is pure (Cat. 25), but Megapenthes is covered with stigmata (Cat. 28). It is not his wealth which condemns him, but his hedonistic lifestyle – a common Cynic critique.130 His resources and lack of self-control (ἀκρασία) supply the opportunity for his undoing, while the lack of resources and opportunity promotes self-control (σωφροσύνη) and, consequently, the virtue of Micyllus. In contrast to Gressmann’s Egyptian folktale, the Cynic views on wealth and poverty clarify the implicit criterion of judgement in the parable. Simply put, the great wealth of Dives implies a hedonistic lifestyle worthy of condemnation; likewise, the extreme poverty of Lazarus promotes virtue worthy of reward. Furthermore, in lieu of this comparison, Jülicher’s twopart structural analysis does not survive scrutiny – the unity of the parable must be preserved. After all, the characterization of Dives and Lazarus (vv. 19-21) leads to their mutual deaths (v. 22) and reversal of fortune (v. 23), the permanence of which is reinforced in the ensuing dialogue (vv. 24-31). In 1991, Richard Bauckham continued the destabilization of the scholarly tradition with his article, ‘The Rich Man and Lazarus: The Parable and the Parallels’.131 He began with a comparative analysis of Gressmann’s Egyptian folktale and the Jewish version in the Palestinian Talmud, noting three points of agreement over and against the parable. First, in both the Egyptian and Jewish stories, the plot hinges on the contrasted burials of the two men, but in the parable the burials do not play a key role. Second, the reader alone learns of the fate of Lazarus and Dives in the parable, but in the Egyptian and Jewish stories a character within the story receives this revelation. Third, unlike the Egyptian and Jewish stories, there is no explicit reference to the good deeds of Lazarus or the bad deeds of Dives in the parable.132 Furthermore, the story of a rich man and a poor man whose fates are reversed in the afterlife is a common folkloric motif found in many stories. Together, these observations leave the interpretive significance of the Egyptian model as a source of the parable in considerable doubt. Like Hock, Bauckham laments the dominance of Gressmann’s parallels which has restricted the interpretive conversation and led to ‘unfortunate circumstances’ in the history of scholarship

130 Hock, ‘Foolish’, 181–96. 131 Richard Bauckham, ‘The Rich Man and Lazarus: The Parable and the Parallels’, NTS 37 (1991): 225–46. 132 In addition to these observations, Lehtipuu adds that it is clear in the parable that the two men are neighbours, but in the Egyptian and Jewish tales there is no indication that the two men know each other (Afterlife Imagery, 135–36). Gressmann acknowledged this difference; according to him, in the Egyptian tale it is reasonable to assume they knew each other because the rich man is required to give his burial cloth to the poor man. With regards to the Jewish tale, he considered it a possibility that the tax collector’s one good deed was directed towards the Torah scholar (Vom reichen Mann, 50–51).

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on this parable.133 After demonstrating the weaknesses of the Gressmannian hypothesis, Bauckham turns his attention to three elements of the story: the reversal of fortunes, the proposed return of Lazarus, and Abraham’s refusal. It has often been stated that the parable does not supply a rationale for the reversal of fortunes. On account of this, interpreters were forced to provide some rationale for condemning the rich man – he misused his wealth, or he acquired it unjustly, or he neglected the poor man at his gate.134 Likewise, Lazarus is not just poor, he must also be pious.135 Bauckham insists there is no cause to look beyond the parable. The reason is clearly stated in v. 25, ‘But Abraham said, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony”.’ The stark inequality in the living conditions of the two men demanded divine justice, which was remedied in the afterlife. On this particular point, the Egyptian folktale diverges from the parable significantly. Righteous deeds are rewarded and wickedness is punished; social position is irrelevant. Bauckham criticizes Hock for being unable to accept the reality of the parable. He agrees the ‘comparative net’ should be cast wider; the Gallus and Cataplus are relevant parallels, but they are not necessarily more relevant. Two points of contention are the most significant: (1) the parable does not condemn the rich man because of his lavish lifestyle as the Cynic perspective suggests, rather, their reversal is simply based on the condition of their previous lives according to v. 25; and (2) although Hock wants to maintain the unity of the parable, the Lucianic materials do not parallel the second part of the story (vv. 27-31), which he rarely mentions in his analysis. In sum, Cynic literature is relevant in so far as it provides further evidence that the reversal of fortunes of the rich and poor was a widely shared motif in the Mediterranean world. The question of the unity of the parable must be approached via the proposed return of Lazarus in vv. 27-31, which requires a wider casting of our ‘comparative net’. The motif of a dead person’s return with a message for the living was also a commonplace in the ancient world, taking two primary forms: the return of one who was temporarily dead and the return in the form of a dream or as a ghost.136 Bauckham provides a number of examples of both 133 Namely, the Egyptian folktale provided support for Jülicher’s division of the parable which encouraged the impression that the two stories were unrelated and drawn from different sources. And it also led many to assume the criterion of judgement in the Egyptian folktale was implicit in the parable (Bauckham, ‘Rich Man and Lazarus’, 225, 230–31). 134 E.g. see Plummer, Luke, 390, 392; Oesterley, Gospel Parables, 208, 209; Jeremias, Parables, 185; J. D. M. Derrett, Law in the New Testament (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1970), 90; I. H. Marshall, Luke, 632; and Fitzmyer, Luke, 1132. 135 E.g. see Oesterley, Gospel Parables, 209; Jeremias, Parables, 185; and I. H. Marshall, Luke, 632. 136 E.g. Lacy Collison-Morley, Greek and Roman Ghost Stories (Oxford: Blackwell, 1912); Franz Cumont, Lux Perpetua (Paris: Librairie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1949), 78–108; Raymond A. Moody, Life After Death (New York: Bantam, 1975); Johann Christoph Hampe, To Die Is Gain: The Experience of One’s Own Death (trans. M. Kohl; London: Darton, Longman &

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of these types, but highlights two significant models: the ‘myth of Er’ from Plato’s Republic and the Book of Jannes and Jambres. The ‘myth of Er’ is the tale of Er the Pamphylian (Resp. 10.614B–621B), a warrior who was slain in battle and later revived. Upon his death, Er travelled with a group of souls to a mysterious place of judgement. There were two openings side by side in the earth and two openings side by side in heaven. Out of one opening in the earth came filthy souls while out of one opening in the heaven came pure souls. The group of souls with whom Er was travelling were also judged, some being sent through the other opening in the earth if they were wicked and some being sent through the other heavenly opening if they were righteous. Er, however, was not allowed entry because he was to return to the living as a witness. This story was not only a vehicle for Platonic teaching on the fate of souls after death, but more importantly, a commentary on how to live well and wisely in this life. The Book of Jannes and Jambres, Bauckham suggests, offers a compelling parallel to the second part of our parable.137 It is a fragmentary text of possibly Jewish or Christian origin, dated no later than the early third century ce. It tells the story of two Egyptian magicians who opposed Moses in the book of Exodus. As divine punishment for his wrongdoing, Jannes dies, but Jambres summons his brother’s shade from hades using their magical arts. Jannes warns his brother of the torments of hades, recognizing his own just punishment for opposing Moses and admonishing Jambres to lead a good life to avoid this dreaded fate. This kind of familial concern is also present in the parable (vv. 27-28), although Dives does not request that he be sent back personally to warn his brothers – Lazarus is the would-be messenger. Despite this, Bauckham concludes, ‘The resemblance is close enough to make the possibility suggested in Luke 16:27-28 one which could have been familiar to Jesus’ hearers from a traditional Jewish story.’138 The Book of Jannes and Jambres, albeit fragmentary, confirms that the motif of the return of one from the realm of the dead to deliver a message to the living was present in Jewish storytelling. In the light of this, the proposed return of Lazarus from the abode of the dead is not a surprising development in the parable despite the energy interpreters have spent trying to ‘solve’ this problem. In fact, Bauckham suggests the naming of Lazarus is intended to ‘assist the impression that the parable belongs to the category of such stories, in which a revelation from the

Todd, 1979); and Carol Zaleski, Otherworld Journeys: Accounts of Near-Death Experience in Medieval and Modern Times (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 257–66. 137 For the Latin fragment, the Vienna papyrus fragments, and the Chester Beatty papyrus fragments, see The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (ed. James H. Charlesworth; London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1985), 2.437–42. Fragments of the Rainer collection have not yet been published; see James H. Charlesworth, The Pseudepigrapha and Modern Research with a Supplement (SBLSCS 75; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981), 134. 138 Bauckham, ‘Rich Man and Lazarus’, 242.

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world of the dead to the living may be expected to occur’.139 When the parable is compared with these stories, it is quite clear that the ‘problem’ is not the request, but Abraham’s refusal to send Lazarus as a messenger from the dead. It is this folkloric motif which also unites the parable; before v. 26 the reader would expect someone to return from the dead to reveal the post-mortem fate of the two men, but only after v. 26 would this expectation be turned on its head. At this point, Bauckham argues, the story assumes the function of a parable – to make a point. In contrast with Setme and Si-Osiris or Lucian’s Cataplus, the refusal of an apocalyptic revelation redirects the attention of the reader back towards the gross injustice of the coexistence of extreme poverty and wealth. Bauckham continues the expansion of the ‘comparative net’ cast by Hock and correctly recognizes that most stories from antiquity participate in a literary tradition. He identifies the ‘myth of Er’ as an early example and model, but notes that the story is ‘already a conscious literary creation, though whether Plato borrowed and reworked some existing story, perhaps of oriental origin, has been inconclusively discussed’.140 Given this comment, it is surprising he fails even to mention the oldest and best known apocalyptic revelation in antiquity – the journey of Odysseus to the underworld (Od. 11.1–640). This journey is the subject of Michael Gilmour’s article in 1999, ‘Hints of Homer in Luke 16:19-31?’141 The Homeric and Lukan traditions share several common themes: the value of burial, a journey to ᾅδης, a wise man in the afterlife, a chasm of separation, unsatisfied thirst, the uselessness of worldly wealth in the afterlife, and concern for loved ones. These features, however, are present in other literary descents to the underworld.142 Hock drew parallels between the parable and Cynic literature via rhetorical exercises; in order to establish a point of contact between the evangelist and the bard, Gilmour expands upon this strategy. The Homeric epics were cultural monuments in the ancient world and a staple in rhetorical education. As part of the learning process, students would memorize words, sentences, and examples from Homer – even children educated in Palestine.143 ‘Can Luke be linked to this rhetorical tradition?’144 Gilmour notes the strategy of fear in the parable recommended in oration by Aristotle (Rhet. 2.5.1). The audience, in part, consisted of the Pharisees, who are identified as ‘lovers of money’ in v. 14. According to Gilmour, they would have identified with the wrongdoing of the rich man and his deserving

139 Bauckham, ‘Rich Man and Lazarus’, 244. 140 Bauckham, ‘Rich Man and Lazarus’, 237. 141 Michael Gilmour, ‘Hints of Homer in Luke 16:19-31?’, Didaskalia 10 (1999): 23–33. 142 For Jewish and Christian examples, see Richard Bauckham, The Fate of the Dead: Studies on the Jewish and Christian Apocalypses (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 9–48. 143 On Homer’s role in Hellenistic Judaism, see Martin Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism (trans. John Bowden; London: SCM Press, 1974), 1.65–78. 144 Gilmour, ‘Hints of Homer’, 25.

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punishment in the afterlife. He concludes, ‘Clearly, Luke had some rhetorical training to his credit.’145 Gilmour is self-conscious of suggesting yet another source for the parable, but notes that the Odyssey has never received serious consideration. He intends his comparative discussion to be complementary to previous scholarship, especially Gressmann, Hock, and Bauckham. In Book 10 of the Odyssey, the goddess Circe instructs Odysseus to visit the dead seer Teiresias to learn why his efforts to return home have been thwarted (10.491). In his conversations with the dead, several ‘common threads’ with the parable can be observed.146 First, the chasm which separates Dives from Lazarus (v. 26) also separates Odysseus from the shade of his mother, Anticlea, whom he attempts to embrace but cannot because she lacks flesh and bone (11.218–20). The chasm which permanently divides the two men in the parable parallels the Homeric ‘chasm’ which separates the living from the dead. Second, Dives’ longing to cool his tongue with just a drop of water (v. 24) is clearly reminiscent of the torments of Tantalus, who is constantly tantalized by water and fruit he cannot reach (11.583–87). Although Dives does not suffer from unsatisfied hunger, Gilmour argues ‘the reversal-of-fortunes theme in the Lucan parable must certainly involve the subject of food, which so distinguished Lazarus from Dives in life (Luke 16:19-21)’.147 Third, the uselessness of wealth in the afterlife, a lesson Dives painfully learns in the flames of hades, is powerfully echoed in the words of the mighty Achilles, ‘Never try to reconcile me to death, glorious Odysseus. I should choose, so I might live on earth, to serve as the hireling of another, some landless man with hardly enough to live on, rather than to be lord over all the dead that have perished’ (11.488–91 [Murray, LCL]). Odysseus attempts to encourage the dead hero, but wealth, power, and fame in this life are meaningless in the abode of the dead. This reversal, Gilmour notes, is common in secular and religious, Greek and Jewish writings, although he does not point to specific examples. Fourth, concern for loved ones, which was central to Bauckham’s support for the Book of Jannes and Jambres, is also expressed by the dead in Homer (e.g. 11.170–79, 370–76, 457–61). In fact, it is an ever-present concern of all those who have departed from those they love, ‘And other spirits of those dead and gone stood sorrowing, and each asked of those dear to him’ (11.541– 42 [Murray, LCL]). Like the Homeric dead, Dives pleads with Abraham concerning the fate of his surviving brothers. 145 Gilmour, ‘Hints of Homer’, 26. For a discussion of evidence of rhetorical education in the Gospels, see Burton L. Mack and Vernon K. Robbins, Patterns of Persuasion in the Gospels (Sonoma, CA: Polebridge Press, 1989). 146 A critical examination of these ‘common threads’ will be presented in Chapter 4, in which the points of contact between the Homeric epic and the parable will be explored in detail. For now, what follows are merely the results of Gilmour’s literary comparison of these two traditions. 147 Gilmour, ‘Hints of Homer’, 29.

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Fifth, it is the shade of Elpenor who appears first to Odysseus to demand a proper burial, lest he become a curse upon them (11.51–80). Unbeknownst to Odysseus, Elpenor had fallen from the house of Circe and died (10.552–60); without a proper burial, he was not allowed to enter hades.148 In the parable, Dives is buried, but Lazarus is ‘carried away by the angels’ (v. 22). Gilmour suggests Jesus is offering a twist on this commonly held cultural value, ‘even a proper burial cannot afford peace in the afterlife’.149 Sixth, the presence of a wise man in the afterlife is also a common thread. In Homer, Odysseus seeks advice from the blind seer Teiresias (11.90–150); likewise, Dives looks to Abraham for understanding. In the context of the Gospel of Luke, the presence of Abraham in the afterlife is unexpected, but Gilmour notes Jewish tours of Heaven and Hell frequently feature legendary heroes like Abraham and Moses.150 After briefly discussing a handful of parallels between Homer and the parable, Gilmour turns to the observations of Saul Lieberman in Hellenism in Jewish Palestine.151 According to Liebermann, Greek philosophy was banned by the rabbis, but Homeric texts were not; the contents of the epics were well known even in Jewish circles.152 If this is true, Gilmour asks, Is it possible that Jesus used a familiar story, replete with pagan views of the afterlife, and ‘demythologized’ its contents? By doing so, he maintained the form of the story but incorporated (true) theological content. Background parallels can then be understood as a vehicle for Jesus’ message and the Lord’s message itself as a subtle polemic against erroneous views of the afterlife.153

Gressmann had essentially made the same argument, that is, the historical Jesus made use of a well-known tradition to offer a competing vision of the afterlife. Drawing upon a shared rhetorical education, Gilmour simply replaces the Egyptian folktale with Homer. Finally, returning to Aristotle, Gilmour addresses the problem of genre. He accepts Jülicher’s identification of the parable as an example story. According to Aristotle, the example story (παράδειγμα) includes both the fictitious and historical (Rhet. 2.20.2). As a παράδειγμα, Gilmour suggests Lk. 16.19-31 includes both: the use of indefinite pronouns signifying the fictitious nature of the story and the appeal to the literary world of hades, exemplified by the Odyssey, pointing to the past. 148 This theme is also present in the Il.: Patroclus appears to Achilles in a dream, pleading with his friend to bury him so that he can cross into the house of Hades (23.71–74). 149 Gilmour, ‘Hints of Homer’, 30. 150 For examples, see Louis Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1909). 151 Saul Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine (New York: Jewish Theological Society of America, 1962). 152 Liebermann, Hellenism, 100–14. 153 Gilmour, ‘Hints of Homer’, 32.

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With the publication of Hock’s recasting of the comparative net, the unquestioned reign of Gressmann effectively came to an end. While Gressmann speculated that wandering Alexandrian Jews brought the legend to Palestine, Hock explored a shared rhetorical style to connect the literary traditions. His sustained critique of the interpretive relevance of the Egyptian folktale in favour of Cynic literature also undermined Jülicher’s division of the parable. Without the folktale, the disunity of the parable was increasingly difficult to maintain. The significance of Hock’s article can be immediately felt in Bauckham’s response four years later. While Hock challenged the relationship between the folktale and the parable, Bauckham questioned the link between the folktale and the Jewish versions. The deconstruction of the Gressmannian hypothesis was well under way. Bauckham also felt compelled to address Hock’s counterargument; Gressmann now had legitimate competition (cf. Bultmann). Bauckham follows in the methodological footsteps of Hock, casting the comparative net even further to include a broader range of Graeco-Roman and Jewish materials. Given the unrivalled status of the Homeric epics in the ancient world, especially in the Greek educational context, Gilmour confesses surprise that the bard has not even been considered in the scholarly tradition. Like those before him, he points to common themes, but it was Hock’s use of rhetorical exercises that inspired Gilmour to explore the educational context as connective tissue. Unfortunately, he appears more concerned with sanitizing the Christian use of ‘pagan views of the afterlife’ than fully exploring their literary connectivity and interpretive implications. Nevertheless, over the past twenty years the everexpanding comparative net has led to a greater appreciation of the significance of the literary context of antiquity for interpreting this most unusual parable.

Conclusion This survey highlighted four concerns that have shaped the scholarly tradition, none more critically than the problem of genre. In the Lukan ‘travel narrative’ (9.51–19.27), there are twenty-two stories commonly identified as parables by modern scholars, but only five are designated explicitly as such by the evangelist: the Rich Fool (12.13-21), the Barren Fig Tree (13.6-9), the Thief in the Night (12.39-40), the Faithful and Unfaithful Steward (12.42-46), and the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (18.9-14).154 154 There is no standard list of parables for any Gospel, but the following are often classified as parables in the ‘travel narrative’: the Good Samaritan (10.25-37), the Friend at Midnight (11.5-8), the Father and Children’s Requests (11.11-13), the Mustard Seed (13.18-19), the Yeast (13.20-21), the Two Ways (13.23-27), the Great Banquet (14.15-24), the Tower Builder (14.28-30), the Warring King (14.31-33), the Lost Sheep (15.1-7), the Lost Coin (15.8-10), the Prodigal Son (15.11-32), the Unjust Steward (16.1-8), the Rich Man and Lazarus (16.19-31), the Humble Servant (17.7-10), the Unjust Judge (18.1-8), and the Talents and Pounds (19.11-27).

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Strictly speaking, Dives and Lazarus is not a parable, but it is clear this text belongs to the Lukan storytelling tradition. Of the ten extended narratives in the ‘travel narrative’, nine begin with the introductory words, ‘a certain man’ (ἄνθροπός τις), including Dives and Lazarus.155 Perhaps the literary classification ‘parable’, while convenient, may be inappropriate when referring to these beloved stories; after all, only the Rich Fool is introduced as a parable.156 Despite this, clearly the evangelist imagined these stories as a literary family, related by their opening sounds and rhythm, giving form and substance to the journey to Jerusalem. Unfortunately, this literary connectivity serves only to intensify the problem of genre. Dives and Lazarus is not only unique among the short fictional narratives typical of the Jesus tradition in the Synoptic Gospels, but it is also an odd member of the ἄνθροπός τις family. It does share a minor trait with the Rich Fool – the inclusion of the supernatural – perhaps this explains the variant in Codex Bezae, ‘And he spoke another parable’ (Εἶπεν δὲ καὶ ἕτεραν παραβολήν; 16.19). In any case, the purpose of literary classification is to illuminate the interpretive process, but identifying Dives and Lazarus as a parable only complicates the task. How does one read a parable that is so uncharacteristically parabolic? From the beginning, the solution in the scholarly tradition was to search for a literary model in antiquity that could explain the presence of the distinctive features of this peculiar text. This search began with Jülicher, but his reaction against the allegorical school misled the scholarly tradition for over half a century. His insistence on a single moral point led him to tear apart the narrative, which in turn, provided the necessary support for Gressmann’s model. After all, the Egyptian tale and the Jewish versions parallel only the first half of story (vv. 19-26). This portion could now be attributed to folklore and its relevance minimized; the emphasis shifted to Moses and the prophets (vv. 27-31), a product of the historical Jesus. The American shift in parable studies brought the reign of the single moral point to an end and called into question the widely assumed twopart structural analysis. As attention was redirected to the textual level, the concept of ipsissima verba Jesu waned and an appreciation of the literary artistry of the evangelists waxed.157 The wandering Alexandrian Jews were

155 I.e. the Good Samaritan (10.25-37), the Rich Fool (12.13-21), the Great Banquet (14.15-24), the Lost Sheep (15.1-7), the Prodigal Son (15.11-32), the Unjust Steward (16.1-8), Rich Man and Lazarus (16.19-31), the Unjust Judge (18.1-8), and the Talents and Pounds (19.1127). The exception is the Lost Coin, which involves a female character; hence, the introductory words in 15.8, ‘what woman’ (τίς γυνὴ). 156 This parabolic designation is missing in the majority of Greek manuscripts. See Fitzmyer, Luke, 1125–26. 157 In particular, the emergence of redaction criticism brought to light the distinctive features of each parable as they are found in each Gospel and celebrated the role of the evangelist in shaping the traditions. E.g. see Michael D. Goulder, ‘Characteristics of the Parables in the Several Gospels’, JTS 19 (1968): 51–69.

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replaced by Greek παιδεία and the expansion of the comparative net to include ancient education revealed a new interpretive horizon, the subject of Chapter 2.

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Chapter 2 Mimesis Criticism and Early Christian Narrative Introduction The distinctive features of Lk. 16.19-31, and consequently, the problem of genre have troubled interpreters throughout the reception history of this text. From the birth of modern parable studies in the late nineteenth century, exegetes of Dives and Lazarus have sought interpretive clarity through the lens of ancient literature. The survey of the scholarly tradition in Chapter 1 clearly reveals an interpretive tendency to search for a Jewish literary model, none more influential than Hugo Gressmann’s Palestinian Talmudic legend of BarMa’yan. The re-casting of the comparative net by Ronald Hock awakened the scholarly tradition from the hypnotic trance of the Gressmannian hypothesis; in addition and equally important, Hock relocated the interpretive conversation within the context of ancient education. Shortly thereafter, MacDonald began his journey into the world of ancient epic and early Christian composition with the publication of Christianizing Homer: The Odyssey, Plato, and the Acts of Andrew.1 In this controversial study, he argued the apocryphal Acts of Andrew was a mimetic transformation of Homer, Euripides, and several Platonic dialogues. His method, ‘mimesis criticism’, was a relatively new approach for comparing texts, one which was based upon the mimetic ethos of Graeco-Roman education and ancient composition. At each curricular stage, primary, secondary, and tertiary students were taught to read and write through the practice of literary imitation (μίμησις; Lat. imitatio) of the canonical models of Greek literature, especially Homer. In advanced rhetorical and literary composition, pedagogues encouraged their students to borrow from multiple models, concealing and advertising their model so that the reader may benefit from the comparison. This literary practice involved both μίμησις and ζῆλος (Lat. aemulatio), a friendly rivalry in which the imitator strove to improve upon his model.

1 Dennis R. MacDonald, Christianizing Homer: The Odyssey, Plato, and the Acts of Andrew (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). See also his earlier examination of this same apocryphal tradition, The Acts of Andrew and the Acts of Andrew and Matthias in the City of the Cannibals (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 1990).

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Over the past two decades, MacDonald has investigated the influence of Greek literature on early Christian narrative, especially the Gospel of Mark and Luke-Acts.2 Chapter 2, following in the footsteps of Hock and MacDonald, examines the mimetic ethos of Graeco-Roman education and ancient composition and the application of mimesis criticism for the study of early Christian narrative, paying special attention to Homer, the model κατ’ ἐξοχήν.3

The Literary Context of the Gospel of Luke The authorship of the Third Gospel has long been the object of ecclesial unanimity and academic debate. Strictly speaking, the text does not identify the author, a trait shared among the canonical gospels, but not characteristic of early gospel traditions as a whole (cf. Gos. Thom. incipit; Gos. Pet. 60; Prot. Jas. 25.1; Inf. Gos. Thom. 1). The evangelist does employ the first person on two occasions in the prologue (1.1, 3), which distinguishes the Third Gospel from the other canonical gospels, but provides little in terms of authorial identification. Despite the lack of evidence within the text itself, the Third Gospel has consistently been attributed to ‘Luke’ throughout its reception history.4 The earliest manuscript evidence of the traditional title, Εὐαγγέλιον κατὰ Λουκᾶν, is found at the end of the Gospel in P75, a papyrus codex dating from 175–225 ce.5 Among witnesses to the Third Gospel, this title never varies; it is always Εὐαγγέλιον κατὰ Λουκᾶν. The consistency in the manuscript tradition led Martin Hengel to assert this authorial identification must have originated with Theophilus, the wealthy patron of the evangelist.6 While this consistency is noteworthy, it only serves to demonstrate that the attribution of the Third Gospel to ‘Luke’ was early, not necessarily original. Once the tradition is ‘received’, and without internal evidence to the contrary, there would be no reason for a scribe to alter the title. 2 On the Gospel of Mark, see Homeric Epics. On Luke-Acts, see Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? Four Cases from the Acts of the Apostles (New Haven: Cambridge University Press, 2003). For a brief autobiographical sketch of his journey as a mimetic critic, see ‘Introduction’, in Mimesis and Intertextuality in Antiquity and Christianity (ed. Dennis R. MacDonald; Studies in Antiquity and Christianity; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2001), 1–3. 3 On the ubiquitous sentiment of the pre-eminence of Homer in antiquity, see A. M. Harmon, ‘The Poet κατ’ ἐξοχήν’, CP 18 (1923): 35–47. 4 For a more thorough treatment of ‘the making of “Luke”’, see Mikael C. Parsons, Luke: Storyteller, Interpreter, Evangelist (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2007), 1–11. The Greek name ‘Λουκάς’, meaning ‘from Lucania’, an ancient district in southern Italy, is a masculine name; as such, when appropriate, the male pronoun may be used to refer to the evangelist. 5 Paprus Bodmer XIV (ed. V. Martin and R. Kasser; Cologny-Genève: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1961), plate 61. 6 Martin Hengel, Die Evangelienüberschriften (SHAW; Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1984), 1–51.

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The earliest patristic evidence linking the Third Gospel with ‘Luke’ is found in Irenaeus (late second century ce), ‘Luke also, the companion of Paul, recorded in a book the gospel preached by Paul’ (Haer. 3.1.1 [Keble]).7 A similar tradition is also found in the oldest surviving New Testament canon list from roughly the same time period, the Muratorian Fragment, ‘The third book of the Gospel, that according to Luke, was compiled in his own name on Paul’s authority by Luke the physician, when after Christ’s ascension Paul had taken him to be with him like a legal expert.’8 Although ancient manuscripts do not place the two texts together, the Muratorian Fragment identifies ‘Luke’ as the author of the Acts of the Apostles as well. Patristic writers identified this ‘Luke’ as the physician and companion of Paul (cf. Phlm. 24; Col. 4.14; 2 Tim. 4.11), a supposition apparently supported by the so-called ‘we passages’ in Acts (16.10-17; 20.5-15; 21.8-18; 27.1–28.16) in which the narrator suddenly shifts from third-person to first-person narration, suggesting the presence of an eyewitness. By the beginning of the third century, these two volumes began to be ascribed with certainty to ‘Luke’.9 Modern scholars agree in part with the patristic writers; the two volumes were written by the same author.10 Generally speaking, the scholarly tradition places the composition of the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles in the late first century. For example, in a recent commentary in the highly regarded Hermeneia series, François Bovon observes casually and without justification, ‘It is fairly certain that he composed his two volumes between 80 and 90 c.e., after the death of Peter and Paul, and definitely after the fall of Jerusalem.’11 7 Unfortunately, the opinion of Papias (c. 70–160 ce) about the Third Gospel was not preserved; in addition, neither Marcion (c. 100–165 ce) nor Justin Martyr (c. 100–163 ce) attests the name ‘Luke’. See François Bovon, ‘The Reception and Use of the Gospel of Luke in the Second Century’, in Reading Luke: Interpretation, Reflection, Formation (ed. Craig Bartholomew, et al.; Scripture & Hermeneutics; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2005), 379–400; also Andrew F. Gregory, The Reception of Luke and Acts in the Period before Irenaeus (WUNT 2/169; Tübingen: Mohr, 2003). 8 Bruce M. Metzger, The Canon of the New Testament: Its Origin, Development, and Significance (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987), 305. Although generally located in the latter part of the second century, the time and place of composition is rigorously debated. E.g. see A. C. Sundberg, Jr, ‘Canon Muratori: A Fourth-Century List’, HTR 66 (1973): 1–41. 9 For a detailed list of this patristic unanimity, see Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke I–IX (Anchor Bible 28; New York: Doubleday, 1981), 40. 10 E.g. see C. Kavin Rowe, ‘History, Hermeneutics and the Unity of Luke-Acts’, JSNT 28 (2005): 131–57; Markus Bockmuehl, ‘Why Not Let Acts Be Acts? In Conversation with C. Kavin Rowe’, JSNT 28 (2005): 163–66; Luke T. Johnson, ‘Literary Criticism of Luke-Acts: Is Reception-History Pertinent?’ JSNT 28 (2005): 159–62; Michael F. Bird, ‘The Unity of Luke-Acts in Recent Discussion’, JSNT 29 (2007): 425–48; C. Kavin Rowe, ‘Literary Unity and Reception History: Reading Luke-Acts as Luke and Acts’, JSNT 29 (2007): 449–58; Andrew Gregory, ‘The Reception of Luke and Acts and the Unity of Luke-Acts’, JSNT 29 (2007): 459–72; and Patrick E. Spencer, ‘The Unity of Luke-Acts: A Four-Bolted Hermeneutical Hinge’, CBR 5 (2007): 341–66. 11 François Bovon, Luke 1: A Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 1:1–9:50 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2002), 9.

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The certainty of which Bovon speaks is largely a derivative of the synoptic problem, Markan priority, the ‘we passages’, and the authorial claim to have received traditions ‘handed on to us by those who from the beginning were eyewitnesses and servants of the word’ (Lk. 1.2). Needless to say, a date in the second century would preclude eyewitness accounts. And yet, the concern with apostolic succession to which the prologue alludes is reflective of the second-century church and is notably absent in Mark, the other Gospel not attributed to an apostle and widely considered to be earlier. In his masterful commentary on the Gospel of Luke, Joseph Fitzmyer asserts Irenaeus ‘clearly identifies the author of the Third Gospel as ‘Luke’, an ‘inseparable’ companion of Paul, to solidify the apostolic origin of the text’.12 To further complicate the issue, Tertullian (c. 160–220 ce) distinguishes between ‘apostles’ (i.e. Matthew and John) and ‘men of apostolic times’ (i.e. Mark and Luke) as a means to diffuse Marcion’s use of the Third Gospel. He writes, ‘Luke, however, was not an apostle, but only a man of apostolic times; not a master, but a disciple, inferior indeed to a master – and at least as much later as the Apostle whom he followed, undoubtedly Paul’ (Marc. 4.2.2 [Evans]). Although Tertullian supports placing Luke-Acts in ‘apostolic times’ (i.e. the first century), he clearly distinguishes between earlier (better) and later (lesser) material. Despite Lukan claims of apostolic succession (Lk. 1.2), neither Luke nor Acts is well attested before Irenaeus and the Muratorian Fragment. The lack of evidence for a first-century date led John Knox to conclude these two volumes were composed in the early second century to counter Marcionite exploitation of Paul and Luke, but his proposal fell on deaf ears.13 Although few agree with his thesis, an early second-century date for the final form of the Lukan corpus has received renewed attention and support.14 A date in the so-called ‘Second Sophistic’ was the subject of a recent article in the Journal of Biblical Literature by Laura Nasrallah.15 According to Nasrallah, Luke presents a ‘Christian geography that conforms to the geographical thinking of the Roman Empire, but it does so via the prestige of Greek paideia and of second-century Greek city leagues’.16 The Second 12 Fitzmyer, Luke I–IX, 38. 13 John Knox, Marcion and the New Testament: An Essay in the Early History of the Canon (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1942), 114–39. 14 E.g. see Todd C. Penner, ‘In Praise of Christian Origins: Stephen and the Hellenists in Lukan Apologetic Historiography’, PhD diss., Emory University, 2000; Christopher Mount, Pauline Christianity: Luke-Acts and the Legacy of Paul (NovTSup 104; Leiden: Brill, 2002); Richard I. Pervo, Dating Acts: Between the Evangelists and the Apologists (Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge Press, 2006); and Acts: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2009), 5–7. 15 Laura Nasrallah, ‘The Acts of the Apostles, Greek Cities, and Hadrian’s Panhellion’, JBL 127 (2008): 533–66; also, Christian Responses to Roman Art and Architecture: The Second Century Church amid the Spaces of Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 87–118. 16 Nasrallah, ‘Acts of the Apostles’, 536.

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Sophistic was a movement defined by a renaissance of all things classically Greek; for example, Hadrian created the Panhellion, a Greek ethnic coalition that encouraged city-states to establish their identities via the revered Greek past. It is within this context, Nasrallah argues, that the author of Luke-Acts sat down to compose a narrative of Christian origins reflective of these secondcentury cultural values.17 The tendency of the early church fathers to historicize apostolic origins is widely recognized.18 Modern scholars largely reject the patristic identification of ‘Luke’, the companion of Paul, as the author, and yet the ancient concern with apostolic origin (i.e. historicity) continues to be a significant factor in modern conversations of literary classification.19 The most widely accepted generic model for Luke-Acts, ancient historiography, was enshrined by the work of two form-critical scholars looking for a bridge to the past, Henry J. Cadbury and Martin Dibelius. Cadbury drew attention to a distinctive Lukan style in both volumes, but insisted the author’s literary creativity was within the boundaries of GraecoRoman historiography.20 ‘The form of his work is narrative, and narrative carries with it the intention of supplying information. No matter how much Luke differs from the rhetorical historians of Greece and Rome and the pragmatic historians of Israel, his narrative shares with them the common intention of informing the reader concerning the past.’21 For Cadbury, ‘Luke’ was an historian first and author second; as a result, Luke-Acts is a faithful, yet stylized, transmission of the traditions handed down ‘from the beginning’.22 Dibelius agreed in part with Cadbury, ‘Luke’ was an author and historian, but posited that Luke and Acts function differently in this regard.23 In the Gospel, the evangelist drew upon his predecessor Mark and was restrained by a variety of literary sources available to him. There was no precedent for a sequel, however, and more importantly, considerably fewer sources of little or no historical value. Thus, in his estimation, ‘Luke’ was a conservative editor in the Gospel, but exercised a greater degree of literary creativity in the sequel.24 17 Nasrallah, ‘Acts of the Apostles’, 534–35. 18 For his acute observations on this tendency, see Fitzmyer, Luke I–IX, 35–41. 19 For a fuller treatment of the problem of genre, see Marianne Palmer Bonz, The Past as Legacy: Luke-Acts and Ancient Epic (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000), 1–14. 20 For his analysis of Lukan material, see Henry J. Cadbury, The Style and Literary Method of Luke (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1920), 1–38. 21 Henry J. Cadbury, The Making of Luke-Acts (2nd edn; London: SPCK, 1958), 299– 300. 22 Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, 2. 23 Martin Dibelius, Aufsätze zur Apostelgeshichte (Göttingen, Germany: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1951); also The Book of Acts: Form, Style, and Theology (Fortress Classics in Biblical Studies; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004). 24 The scholarly successors of Cadbury and Dibelius were Ernst Haenchen and Hans Conzelmann. For their subtle contributions to their legacy, see Ernst Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary (trans. B. Noble and G. Shinn; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1971) and Hans Conzelmann, The Theology of St. Luke (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982).

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Cadbury and Dibelius both appealed to the double prologue (Lk. 1.1-4; Acts 1.1-5) as decisive evidence that the author composed a type of ‘history’.25 Even though Luke-Acts may not have been written by an apostle or someone who knew an apostle, they secure the historical reliability of the Lukan corpus via genre.26 Their approach to literary classification reflected the historicalcritical perspective that dominated the landscape of biblical interpretation in the first half of the twentieth century, but with the emergence of literary criticism in the 1960s a new paradigm was taking shape. In 1974, C. H. Talbert published Literary Patterns, Theological Themes and the Genre of Luke-Acts, an innovative reframing of the question of genre.27 Cadbury had noted the similarities between the characterizations of Jesus and Paul, but Talbert drew attention to a comprehensive system of parallels and contrasts throughout the entire composition; he suggested the Gospel (account of the teacher) and sequel (account of the teacher’s followers) derived from the biographical genre.28 In addition, he explored a wider array of potential literary links with the Graeco-Roman world, including Diogenes Laertius’ Lives of Eminent Philosophers and Virgil’s Aeneid.29 Despite the originality of his study, Talbert was widely criticized for his tendency to force literary parallels.30

25 An examination of ancient historiography, however, clearly reveals a tendency of ancient historians to include legendary material. Loveday Alexander is particularly sensitive to this potential problem; in her examination of Lk. 1.1-4, she distinguishes the Lukan prologue from that of Thucydides and concludes the style of the evangelist is more akin to what is found in ‘scientific’ or technical handbooks. See Loveday Alexander, The Preface to Luke’s Gospel: Literary Convention and Social Context in Luke 1:1-4 and Acts 1:1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 102; also, Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, 114 and 213–38. 26 Others have attempted to revise the work of Cadbury and Dibelius, locating Luke-Acts within a subgenre of Hellenistic historiography, but essentially approaching the problem of genre from the same perspective. E.g. see Eckhard Plümacher, Lukas als hellenistischer Schriftsteller: Studien zur Apostelgeshichte (SUNT 9; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972); and Gregory Sterling, Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephus, Luke-Acts, and Apologetic Historiography (Leiden: Brill, 1992). 27 C. H. Talbert, Literary Patterns, Theological Themes and the Genre of Luke-Acts (SBLMS 20; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1974). 28 See C. H. Talbert, What Is a Gospel? The Genre of the Canonical Gospels (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977); also, ‘The Acts of the Apostles: Monograph or Bios?’, in History, Literature, and Society in the Book of Acts (ed. Ben Witherington III; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 58–72; and Richard A. Burridge, What Are the Gospels? A Comparison with GraecoRoman Biography (SNTSMS 70; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). 29 Talbert, Literary Patterns, 67–70. Talbert argues the evangelist reshaped the Gospel of Mark in the same manner as Hellenistic biographies of ancient philosophers; this theory originated with Hans von Soden, Geschichte der christlichen Kirche (vol. 1: Die Enstehung der christlichen Kirche; Leipzig: Tübner, 1919), 73. 30 For critiques of Talbert’s study, see David L. Balch, ‘The Genre of Luke-Acts: Individual Biography, Adventure Novel or Political History?’ SwJT 33 (1990): 6–7; and David Aune, The New Testament in its Literary Environment (ed. Wayne A. Meeks, LEC 8; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1987), 78.

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His emphasis on literary patterns and compositional unity as the key to genre, however, won many converts, most notably Robert Tannehill.31 Not counted among them was Richard I. Pervo, who questioned the unity of the two volumes in his 1987 publication, Profit with Delight.32 He did adopt Talbert’s generic identification of the Gospel as a kind of ancient biography, but proposed the sequel conforms to the Greek novel.33 With regards to the latter, he focused his comparative analysis upon Xenophon’s Cyropaedeia (early fourth century bce) as a primary example, but extended his net to include a more sophisticated historical novel modelled on the Odyssey, Heliodorus’ Aethiopica (fourth century ce).34 His argument in favour of literary disunity was not well received; the observations of Talbert, Tannehill, and others heavily supported narrative unity. In addition, most were unwilling to imagine the sequel as a form of Christian entertainment.35 In The Past as Legacy, Marianne Palmer Bonz proposed a new genre for consideration that creatively combined ‘Luke the historian’ and ‘Luke the writer’ while maintaining literary unity – ancient epic.36 According to Bonz, the challenges posed by emerging gentile Christian communities paralleled the Imperial identity crisis of the Augustan age. In response, the evangelist drew upon the foundational epic of the Roman Empire as a model, crafting a Christian Aeneid.37 Virgil created his epic by appropriating and transforming Homer; Luke, likewise, appropriated and transformed the Septuagint.38 The author ‘decided to recast his community’s sacred traditions in a style and manner that would make the Christian claim a powerful and appealing rival to the ubiquitous and potentially seductive salvation claims of Imperial Rome’.39 With regards to historicity, she claims the epic qualifies as ‘history-telling’

31 Robert Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation (2 vols; Philadelphia/Minneapolis: Fortress, 1986–94). See also, Robert L. Brawley, Centering on God: Method and Message in Luke-Acts (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1990); and William S. Kurz, Reading Luke-Acts: Dynamics of Biblical Narrative (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993). 32 Richard I. Pervo, Profit with Delight: The Literary Genre of the Acts of the Apostles (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987); see also, Mikael C. Parsons and Richard I. Pervo, Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 43–64. 33 See also, Marie Praeder, ‘Luke-Acts and the Ancient Novel’, in Society of Biblical Literature 1981 Seminar Papers (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981), 269–92. 34 Pervo, Profit with Delight, 90. 35 Balch, ‘The Genre of Luke-Acts’, 10–11. 36 In an innovative study of the Hebrew Bible, Meir Sternberg suggested Jewish historiography has more in common with Homer and Hesiod than Thucydides. See Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985), 10, 77–78. 37 Bonz, Past as Legacy, 26. 38 This was first proposed by Thomas L. Brodie, ‘Greco-Roman Imitation of Texts as a Partial Guide to Luke’s Use of Sources’, in Luke-Acts: New Perspectives from the Society of Biblical Literature Seminar (ed. C. H. Talbert; New York: Crossroads, 1984), 17–46. 39 Bonz, Past as Legacy, 86.

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because it conveys truth about the past in mythological language.40 Ancient epic was indeed the most widely recognized and highly regarded genre in antiquity, but the Aeneid was written in Latin – a text few could access directly. If ‘Luke’ did in fact imitate the Latin epic, he would have been the only Greek writer to do so before Quintus Smyrnaeus in the third century.41 Even a cursory survey quickly reveals the complexity of the problem of authorship, dating, and literary classification – all of which are interrelated. Clearly the Third Gospel and the sequel represent a decisively new step in gospel traditions. They have been and continue to be a subject of intense curiosity and discord, often referred to as a ‘storm centre’.42 Despite the lack of consensus, literary comparisons, whether with ancient historiography, biography, the novel, or the Graeco-Roman epic, have demonstrated Luke-Acts is quite ordinary. The author displays an intimate familiarity with literary traditions and compositional techniques that were common in his age.43 Whoever he may have been, whenever he may have written, and for whatever purpose, ‘Luke’ was groomed within the literary hallways of ancient education.44

Graeco-Roman Education and the Shadow of the Bard The classical treatments of Greek and Roman education drew primarily upon the elite educationalists, but more recent studies have incorporated the growing number of papyri, ostraca, and tablets from Graeco-Roman Egypt that reflect the educational practices of more diverse strata of ancient society.45 Graeco-Roman education was largely a private enterprise, but there was remarkable consistency among educational practices from the fourth century 46 bce to the fifth century ce. Raffaella Cribiore comments on this unexpected phenomenon: 40 Bonz, Past as Legacy, 15. 41 MacDonald, Does the New Testament, 8. 42 W. C. van Unnik, ‘Luke-Acts, a Storm Center in Contemporary Scholarship’, in Studies in Luke-Acts (ed. Leander E. Keck and J. Louis Martyn; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1980), 15–32. 43 Milton C. Moreland, ‘Jerusalem Imagined: Rethinking Early Christian Claims to the Hebrew Epic’, PhD diss., Claremont Graduate University, 1999, 287. 44 See further, Gregory J. Riley, One Jesus, Many Christs: How Jesus Inspired not One True Christianity, but Many (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1989), 64–69. 45 For the classical treatments, see Henry Irénée Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity (trans. George Lamb; New York: Sheed & Ward, 1956), 142–85; and Stanley Frederick Bonner, Education in Ancient Rome: From the Elder Cato to the Younger Pliny (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1977), 165–249. For the more recent discussions, see Teresa Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Rafaella Cribiore, Writing, Teachers, and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt (ASP 36; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996); and Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001). 46 Peter Heather, ‘Literacy and Power in the Migration Period’, in Literacy and Power in the Ancient World (ed. Alan K. Bowman and Greg Woolf; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 177–97.

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Education was based on the transmission of an established body of knowledge, about which there was wide consensus. Teachers were considered the custodians and interpreters of a tradition and were concerned with protecting its integrity. Education was supposed to lead to a growing understanding of an inherited doctrine. Admiration for the past gave rise to the aspiration to model oneself on one’s predecessors and to maintain the system and methods that had formed them.47

The static nature of education in antiquity was a reflection of its purpose as a ‘marker of Greek identity’ and beyond the primary stage, a social indicator of the aristocrat; education served as a means to train children to become ideal Greek citizens.48 And as Teresa Morgan notes in her study, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds, cast over this ideal was the shadow of the bard: ‘Reading Homer is, among other things, a statement of Greek identity.’49 Education in the Graeco-Roman world was divided into roughly three stages: primary, secondary, and tertiary.50 The first stage of education could be taught in the home or supervised in the classroom of a ‘teacher of letters’ (γραμματιστής).51 Students began by learning to identify and write the letters of the alphabet as well as copying and pronouncing increasingly difficult syllabic combinations.52 After mastering the alphabet, they turned to reading proper. The students would be asked to copy word lists arranged alphabetically or topically; it is at this early stage that they would be introduced to the model κατ’ ἐξοχήν, Homer.53 In her analysis of the extant word lists, Cribiore documents the overwhelming presence of Homeric names, especially those that figure

47 Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 8. 48 Rubén René Dupertuis, ‘The Summaries in Acts 2, 4 and 5 and Greek Utopian Literary Traditions’, PhD diss., Claremont Graduate University, 2005, 52. 49 Morgan, Literate Education, 75. For a thorough treatment of the role of Homer in Graeco-Roman education, see the discussion by Ronald F. Hock, ‘Homer in Greco-Roman Education’, in Mimesis and Intertextuality in Antiquity and Christianity (ed. Dennis R. MacDonald; Studies in Antiquity and Christianity; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity International Press, 2001), 56–77. 50 For an excellent discussion of the historical development of the standard curriculum, see Morgan, Literate Education, 1–49. 51 Alan D. Booth, ‘The Appearance of the “Schola Grammatici”’, Hermes 106 (1978): 117–25; also ‘Elementary and Secondary Education in the Roman Empire’, Florilegium 1 (1979): 1–14; and Cribiore, Writing, 173–284. 52 For more detailed treatments of the primary stage, see Marrou, Education, 150–54; Bonner, Education, 166–72; and Cribiore, Writing, 37–43 and 175–96; also Gymnastics of the Mind, 50–53 and 160–84. 53 Pliny the Younger (61–112 ce) notes that Homer is the first lesson in school (Ep. 2.14.3). This statement is substantiated by Roger A. Pack’s examination of the Egyptian papyri; according to his count, there are over 670 extant fragments of Homer, eighty of Demosthenes, over seventy of both Euripides and Hesiod, forty-three of Isocrates, forty-two of Plato, twentyeight of Aeschylus, twenty-seven of Xenophon, and ten of Aristotle (The Greek and Latin Literary Texts from Graeco-Roman Egypt [2nd edn; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1965]).

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predominantly in the epics.54 According to Janine Debut, these lists functioned not only as a tool for practising reading, they were also used to instruct students in the cultural heritage of antiquity, including mythology, history, geography, and philosophy.55 Word lists were then replaced with small pieces of poetry, maxims and χρεῖαι, and eventually longer passages, typically from Homer.56 At this point, students were expected to learn to write not only with precision, but with speed.57 In short, the primary level of education trained students to reproduce their literary models accurately and efficiently; along the way, however, a more profound lesson was absorbed: ‘A god, not man, was Homer’ (Θεός οὐδ’ ἄνθρωπος Ὅμηρος).58 For most students, their education would conclude after acquiring these basic scribal skills, but some would continue under the tutelage of a ‘teacher of language and literature’ (γραμματικός).59 At the secondary stage, students learned the fundamentals of grammar, following a more sophisticated progression introduced at the primary level.60 They learned the difference between consonants and vowels, the metric value of syllables, and the eight parts of speech (i.e. noun, verb, participle, article, pronoun, preposition, adverb, and conjunction). In addition, longer passages from Homer, Euripides, and Menander were not only read, copied, and memorized, but also interpreted. The primacy of Homer continued at this stage as well, though the early books of the Iliad appear as models more frequently.61 Students were exposed to the epics by memorizing a set number of lines each day aided by scholia minora, reading paraphrases of the books known as catechisms, and in grammatical textbooks.62 The standard grammar of Dionysius Thrax, for example, often 54 Cribiore, Writing, 42–43, 196–203, 269–70, 274–76, 280–81, and 283; see also Morgan, Literate Education, 101–4 and 275–87; Pack, Literary Texts, 137–40; and Janine Debut, ‘Les documents scholaires’, ZPE 63 (1986): 251–78. 55 Janine Debut, ‘De l’usage des listes de mots comme fondement de la pédagogie dans l’antiquité’, REA 85 (1983): 261–74; see also, Morgan, Literate Education, 77 and 101–102; cf. Cribiore, Writing, 42–43. 56 The χρεία is a brief reminiscence that takes the form of an anecdote reporting a saying and/or an edifying action. 57 Cribiore, Writing, 43. 58 This line occurs on a waxed tablet and an ostracon; for the tablet, see D. C. Hesseling, ‘On Waxen Tablets with Fables of Babrius’, JHS 13 (1892–1893): 296; for the ostracon, see Papyri and Ostraca from Karanis (ed. Herbert Chayyim Youtie and John Garrett Winter; Michigan Papyri 8; 2nd series; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1951), 206–207. 59 Booth, ‘“Schola Grammatici”’, 117–25. Most students would not advance to the secondary level, as Morgan notes in Graeco-Roman Egypt (Literate Education, 163). 60 For more detailed treatments of the secondary stage, see Marrou, Education, 160–85; Bonner, Education, 189–249; and Morgan, Literate Education, 152–89. 61 According to Morgan, of the ninety-seven Homeric texts used, eighty-six were from the Iliad and eleven from the Odyssey (Literate Education, 105). However, it should be noted that prose authors imitated the Odyssey more than any other book in the ancient world; see further, MacDonald, Homeric Epics, 5. 62 The scholia minora were glosses on words or phrases translated from poetic Greek into Koine; see further Cribiore, Writing, 50–51, 71–72, and 253–58; also Gymnastics of the Mind,

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used Homer to illustrate grammatical lessons.63 As in the primary curriculum, ‘facility with Homer was expected and frequently demonstrated’.64 After completing their training under a γραμματικός, an even smaller number of students would advance to rhetorical or philosophical training.65 As would be expected, most students chose rhetoric as the essential tool for success in literary composition, and more importantly, public life.66 These elite students were introduced to the fundamentals of rhetorical argumentation through pre-rhetorical compositions known as the προγυμνάσματα.67 The fourteen exercises from Aphthonius of Antioch became the standard curriculum; each exercise was a building block for the next, gradually providing students with the skills to compose advisory, judicial, and celebratory speeches.68 Like the previous stages of education, the tertiary curriculum was based on the imitation of the ‘canonical’ authors.69 As George C. Fiske notes in his study, Lucilius and Horace, the προγυμνάσματα were ‘designed to codify for the benefit of the student the practice of theory and good usage as illustrated by the great classical models in the genres of epic, drama, oratory, history, and other forms of prose and verse’.70 Once again, Homer was frequently used as a model, especially in three individual προγυμνάσματα: the διήγημα, the γνώμη, and the ἠθοποιία.71 After finishing with these pre-rhetorical exercises, students turned to rhetorical composition proper. At this point in the educational process, facility with Homer is simply assumed, and as a result, Homer appears less often in the 206; and John Lundon, ‘Lexeis from the Scholia Minora in Homerum’, ZPE 124 (1999): 25–52. 63 For the text, see Dionysii Thracis Ars grammatica (ed. G. Uhlig; Grammatica graeci 1.1; Leibzig: Teubner, 1883), 3–100; for an English translation, see Alan Kemp, ‘The Tekhnê Grammatikê of Dionysius Thrax: English Translation with Introduction and Notes’, in The History of Linguistics in the Classical Period (ed. Daniel J. Taylor; Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 1987), 169–89. There are no known grammatical texts before the Roman period; see Morgan, Literate Education, 58 and 154–62. 64 Hock, ‘Homer’, 67. 65 For a more detailed treatment of the tertiary stage, see Marrou, Education, 186–216; and on rhetorical education proper, see Bonner, Education, 277–327. 66 Marrou, Education, 194–96. 67 Four examples of προγυμνάσματα survive from antiquity: Theon of Alexandria, Hermogenes of Tarsus, Aphthonius of Antioch, and Nicolaus of Myra. For a summative discussion of these materials, see George A. Kennedy, Greek Rhetoric under Christian Emperors (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 54–72; Ruth Webb, ‘The Progymnasmata as Practice’, in Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity (ed. Yoon Lee Too; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 289–316; and Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 221–30. For a recent English translation, see Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 3–72. 68 Hock, ‘Homer’, 70. 69 Marrou, Education, 162 and 200. 70 George C. Fiske, Lucilius and Horace: A Study in the Classical Theory of Imitation (New York: Herder and Herder, 1964), 35. 71 The διήγημα is a specific incident set within a larger narrative (διήγησις). The γνώμη is an aphorism or maxim intended to offer instruction in a compact form. The ἠθοποιία is a speech that might have been spoken by someone on a specific occasion. For the special use of Homer in these προγυμνάσματα, see Hock, ‘Homer’, 71–75.

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rhetorical handbooks.72 The kind of literate education expected at this stage is beautifully illustrated in the symposium narrated by Athenaeus, in which each diner participates in a game of wits, taking their turn citing Homeric lines.73 The pre-eminence of Homer as the model κατ’ ἐξοχήν is unparalleled at each educational stage.74 In her examination of ancient school texts, Morgan identified core and peripheral texts used in the classroom – at the heart of the ancient curriculum stood Homer alone.75 The rhetorician, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, agrees – Homer is at the top of his recommended reading list for would-be rhetors (De imit. 9.1.1–5.6).76 For over eight hundred years, the educational practices of this private enterprise were anchored by the great poet.77 In the fourth century bce, the cultural influence of the bard led Plato to lament, ‘This poet has been the educator of Hellas’ (Resp. 10.606e [Shorey, LCL]).78 A few centuries later, the first-century Stoic philosopher and Homeric allegorist, Heraclitus, put it more poetically: From the very first age of life, the foolishness of infants just beginning to learn is nurtured on the teaching given in his [i.e. Homer’s] school. One might also say that his poems are our baby clothes, and we nourish our minds by draughts of his milk. He stands at our side as we each grow up and shares our youth as we gradually come

72 On the assumed knowledge of Homer, see Aristotle, Rhet. 1.6.20–25, 7.33, 11.9 and 12, and 15.13; and Hermogenes, On Ideas 1.11 and 2.10. 73 See Ronald F. Hock, ‘A Dog in the Manger: The Cynic Cynulcus among Athenaeus’s Deipnosophists’, in Greeks, Romans and Christians: Essays in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe (ed. David L. Balch, Everett Ferguson, and Wayne A. Meeks; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 20– 37. 74 See further, MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 17–34. 75 According to her study of the educational papyri from Graeco-Roman Egypt, fiftyeight texts are from Homer, twenty from Euripides, seven from Isocrates, and seven from Menander. At the core of the curriculum stood Homer alone; the second tier was occupied by Euripides, Isocrates, and Menander; the third tier represented a wide array of literature the teacher could use as supplementary material. In addition, Morgan discovered elite authors tend to cite more frequently these core texts and less frequently those increasingly at the peripheral. See Morgan, Literate Education, 69, 97–100, 313, and 317–18. 76 The list survives only in an epitome; for the text and French translation, see Germaine Aujac (ed.), Denys de Halicarnasse, opuscules rhétoriques, vol. 5, L’Imitation (fragments, épitomé), premiére lettre à Ammée à Pompée Géminos, Dinarque (Collection Budé; Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1992), 25–40. Dionysius refers to this corpus of acceptable models for rhetorical teaching as ‘the books’ (τὰ βιβλία; [Rhet.] 298.1), the same phrasing used by Chrysostom in the fourth century ce to refer to the Christian testaments (Arthur G. Patzia, The Making of the New Testament: Origin, Collection, Text and Canon [Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1995]), 118. 77 See further, Tim Whitmarsh, Ancient Greek Literature (Cultural History of Literature; Cambridge: Polity Press, 2004), 18–32. 78 Cf. Isocrates, Paneg. 159; Aristophanes, Ran. 1034. On Homer the educator, see Marrou, Education, 162; Werner Jaeger, ‘Homer the Educator’, in Paideia: The Ideas of Greek Culture (2nd edn; vol. 1; trans. Gilbert Highet; New York: Oxford University Press, 1945), 35–56; and Félix Buffière, Les Mythes d’Homère et la pensée grecque (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1956), 10–11.

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to manhood; when we are mature, his presence within us is at its prime; and even in old age, we never weary of him. When we stop, we thirst to begin him again. In a word, the only end of Homer for human beings is the end of life. (All. 1.5–7 [Russell and Konstan])79

And a few centuries after that, the emperor Julian in an effort to quell the growing power of Christendom, banned the Christians from being instructed in poetry, rhetoric, and philosophy, over which Homer held court.80 According to Theodoret, Julian lamented, ‘For we are, according to the old proverb, smitten by our own wings; for our authors furnish weapons to carry on war against us’ (Hist. eccl. 3.8). In sum, at each educational stage ancient students learned to read and write through the constant, repetitive imitation of the canonical models, especially Homer: Names from Homer were some of the first words students ever learned, lines from Homer were some of the first sentences they ever read, lengthy passages from Homer were the first they ever memorized and interpreted, events and themes from Homer were the ones they often treated in compositional exercises, and lines and metaphors from Homer were often used to adorn their speeches and to express their selfpresentation.81

This poet educated not only Greeks, but Romans and Christians alike – the shadow of the bard was indeed cast far and wide.

Literary Mimesis and Ancient Composition The term μίμησις does not appear until the sixth century bce and figures prominently in the later works of Plato.82 Plato used μίμησις broadly to speak of the imitative nature of all human activities – ‘human, natural, cosmic, and divine’.83 At the same time, however, he also applies the term more narrowly to distinguish three types of poetic styles: ‘pure narrative, in which the poet speaks in his own person without imitation, as in the dithyramb; narrative by 79 In a similar statement from Dio Chrysostom (first century ce), he recommends that for the orator in training ‘Homer comes first and in the middle and last, in that he gives himself to every boy and adult and old man just as much as each of them can take’ (Orat. 18.8 [Cohoon]). 80 See Robert Lamberton, Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist Allegorical Reading and the Growth of the Epic Tradition (Transformation of the Classical Heritage 9; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 138. 81 Hock, ‘Homer’, 77. 82 Gert J. Steyn, ‘Luke’s Use of ΜΙΜΗΣΙΣ? Re-Opening the Debate’, in The Scriptures in the Gospels (ed. C. M. Tuckett; Louvain: Louvain University Press, 1997), 551–52. 83 Richard McKeon, ‘Literary Criticism and the Concept of Imitation in Antiquity’, MP 34 (1936): 5; see also Hermann Koller, Die Mimesis in der Antike: Nachahmung, Darstellung, Ausdruck (Bern: Francke, 1954); and Erich Auerbach, Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953).

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means of imitation, in which the poet speaks in the person of his character, as in comedy and tragedy; and mixed narrative, in which the poet speaks now in his own person and now by means of imitation’ (Resp. 3.392d–94c [Shorey, LCL]).84 By the Hellenistic age, μίμησις was being used widely in the context of rhetoric and literary composition – it became ‘μίμησις τῶν ἀρχαίων’ – a poetic practice that revived the sacred past thorough imitation of the great masters.85 The best surviving treatments of this poetic practice come from five ancient rhetoricians and pedagogues: Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Seneca the Elder, Seneca the Younger, ‘Longinus’, and Quintilian.86 The Greek historian and teacher of rhetoric, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, flourished during the Augustan age. His work, De imitatio, is a fairly extensive treatment of μίμησις in three books: the first discusses the nature of the process, preserved only in fragments; the second lists desirable models; and the third explains how the process should be carried out, but it did not survive.87 He is best known for the beloved parable of the ugly farmer, praising the benefits of imitating a range of models. This ugly farmer, out of fear of begetting children who would look like him, showed his wife beautiful pictures every day; he then lay with her and successfully fathered handsome children (9.1.2–3). In this allegory of literary μίμησις, the ‘ugly farmer’ was the imitator, the ‘beautiful pictures’ were the desirable models, and conception was the process of literary creation. For Dionysius, ‘the importance of reading is to be found in the fact that it lays the spiritual foundation for imitation’.88 Seneca the Elder (c. 54 bce–39 ce), a Roman rhetorician and writer, composed a treatise on deliberative oratory, the Suasoriae, in which he discusses what an orator should and should not do. He comments on Ovid’s use of Virgil, ‘The poet [Ovid] did something he had done with many other lines of Virgil – with no thought of plagiarism, but meaning that his piece of open borrowing should be noticed’ (3.7 [Winterbottom, LCL]). In his estimation, a skilled rhetor must clearly advertise the model being imitated so that the oration achieves its desired effect.89 84 See further, Gerald F. Else, ‘“Imitation” in the Fifth Century’, CP 53 (1958): 73–90. 85 D. A. Russell, ‘De Imitatione’, in Creative Imitation and Latin Literature (ed. David West and Tony Woodman; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 2; and Fiske, Lucilius and Horace, 37. 86 For fuller treatments of literary μίμησις, see Fiske, Lucilius and Horace, 25–63; Elaine Fantham, ‘Imitation and Decline: Rhetorical Theory and Practice in the First Century after Christ’, CP 73 (1978): 102–16; Russell, ‘De Imitatione’, 1–16; Brodie, ‘Greco-Roman Imitation’, 17–46; and MacDonald, Homeric Epics, 3–7. 87 According to Russell, the suggested literary models in Book 2 served as the model for Quintilian; see Russell, ‘De Imitatione’, 6. For a fuller treatment of De imitatio, see Tim Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 71–75. 88 Russell, ‘De Imitatione’, 36. 89 E.g. in a humorous account of a symposium that ended violently, the second-century satirist, Lucian of Samosata, wrote, ‘Histiaeus the grammarian, who had the place next him, was reciting verse, combining the lines of Pindar and Hesiod and Anacreon in such a way as to make out of them a single poem and a very funny one, especially in the part where he said, as

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Seneca the Younger (4 bce–65 ce), Roman philosopher and statesman, perhaps best describes the practice of literary μίμησις in one of his letters, Epistula 84:90 We should follow, men say, the example of the bees, who flit about and cull the flowers that are suitable for producing honey, and then arrange and assort in their cells all that they have brought it … It is not certain whether the juice which they obtain from the flowers forms at once into honey, or whether they change that which they have gathered into this delicious object by blending something therewith and by a certain property of their breath … We should so blend those several flavours into one delicious compound that, even though it betrays its origin, yet it nevertheless is a clearly different thing from that whence it came. (3–5 [Gummere, LCL])91

Seneca describes literary μίμησις as a mysterious process that is both concealing and revealing, recommending the eclectic use of multiple literary models to create something ‘clearly different’. The most celebrated pedagogical text of the Roman period, De sublimitatae, is attributed to ‘Longinus’, an unknown author of the first century ce.92 It is a discussion of the quality and thought that renders a composition sublime, including a compendium of over fifty works spanning over one thousand years. In De sublimitatae 13–14 he examines the role of literary μίμησις, which he considers the path to the sublime. We too, then, when we are at looking at some passage that demands sublimity of thought and expression, would do well to form in our hearts the question, ‘How perchance would Homer have said this, how would Plato or Demosthenes have made it sublime or Thucydides in his history?’ Emulation will bring those great characters before our eyes, and like guiding stars they will lead our thought to the ideal standards of perfection. Still more will this be so, if we give our minds the further hint, ‘How would Homer or Demosthenes, had either been present, have listened to this passage of mine? How would it have affected them?’ (14.1–2 [Fyfe, LCL])

For ‘Longinus’, literary μίμησις presumed a ‘generous rivalry’, that is, imitation (μίμησις) and emulation (ζῆλος) were complementary aspects of

though foretelling what was going to happen: “They smote their shields together,” and “Then lamentations rose, and vaunts of men”’ (Symp. 17 [Harmon, LCL]). 90 For a fuller treatment of Epistula 84, see Thomas M. Greene, The Light in Troy: Imitation and Discovery in Renaissance Poetry (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982), 70– 74; and Karl Olav Sandnes, ‘Imitatio Homeri? An Appraisal of Dennis R. MacDonald’s “Mimesis Criticism”’, JBL 124/4 (2005): 725–27 91 Seneca was not the only one to imagine the literary artist as a bee gathering honey; e.g. Macrobius, Sat. 1, pref. 4; Horace, Carm. 4, 2, 27. 92 For a fuller treatment of De sublimitate, see Whitmarsh, Politics of Imitation, 57–71.

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the same creative process in which the masters were present in a spirit of competition.93 The key to successful literary μίμησις lay in ‘the choice of object, the depth of understanding, and the writer’s power to take possession of the thought for himself’.94 The most comprehensive treatment of literary μίμησις comes from Quintilian (c. 35–95 ce), the Roman rhetorician and head of the school of oratory in Rome for over twenty years. In his twelve-volume textbook on rhetoric, Insitutio oratoria, Quintilian outlines a comprehensive educational programme, from boyhood to manhood, for the training of the perfectus orator. He divides his discussion of oratory into five canons: inventio (discovery of arguments), dispositio (arrangement of arguments), elocutio (style), memoria (memorization), and pronuntiatio (delivery). In Institutio oratoria 10, Quintilian describes how the student can acquire a ‘firm facility’ by reading, writing, and imitating good exemplars; imitation is necessary because few possess the natural abilities to equal the classical models (2.3). He writes to other teachers of rhetoric, ‘There can be no doubt, that in art no small portion of our task lies in imitatio, since, although invention came first and is all-important, it is expedient to follow whatever has been invented with success’ (2.1 [Butler, LCL]). Imitatio is not a mechanical affair; on the contrary, the student must understand why the model is worth imitating and be able to draw useful qualities from a range of models. Ideally, the perfectus orator will ‘speak better’, rising above the achievements of his predecessors, but imitatio cannot supply the vital qualities of the rhetor – invention, spirit, and personality (5.5).95 These ancient treatments of literary μίμησις identify five markers of the mimetic ethos of Graeco-Roman composition: intimate familiarity with the model(s), advertisement and concealment of the model(s), eclectic and creative use of multiple models, and most importantly, rivalry with the model(s). The most sophisticated form of literary μίμησις was an attempt to ‘speak better’, a creative enterprise involving critical study and imitation of a plurality of models in which the imitator both concealed and revealed, and above all, graciously competed with the canonical authors.

93 See also, ‘Longinus’, [Subl.] 13.2–14.3. This rivalry is clearly expressed in Pliny the Elder, who describes the imitative process as a fight and competition (Nat. pref. 20–23; De. Or. 2.22.90–92; cf. Velleius Paterculus, Res Gestae Divi Augusti, 1.17.6–7). The relationship between the model and the imitator, however, should be characterized by respect and admiration, never jealousy. E.g. Aristotle carefully distinguished between emulation (ζῆλος) and envy (φθόνος) in his rhetorical handbook (Rhet. 1388ab). 94 Russell, ‘De Imitatione’, 10. 95 In his Panegyricus, Isocrates says that it is possible to speak about old things (τὰ παλαιά) in new ways (καινῶς): ‘it follows that one must not shun the subjects upon which others have spoken before, but must try to speak better than they’ (8–10 [Norlin, LCL]).

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Mimesis Criticism and Early Christian Narrative The first New Testament scholar to read biblical narrative in the light of the mimetic ethos of Graeco-Roman composition was Thomas L. Brodie. In a series of articles written over a span of twenty-five years, Brodie explored the role of literary μίμησις in the New Testament, especially the book of Acts.96 He was particularly adept at identifying a range of mimetic techniques in the New Testament drawn from Greek and Roman poetry.97 Brodie focused his considerable efforts almost exclusively on the Septuagint, but MacDonald recast the comparative net to include Greek literature as potential models of literary μίμησις in early Christian composition, especially the Homeric epics. The mimetic ethos of ancient composition is now widely recognized, but determining the intentional use of one text by another is no easy task. The most significant obstacle to the detection of literary μίμησις is the disparity between two mundi significantes, the chasm that divides the conceptual world of the text and the modern interpreter.98 Ancient readers were experts in detecting imitation, but this cultural expertise has naturally been lost with the passage of time. A range of relationships can exist between texts, and as such, each case of potential imitation should be tested and assessed individually.99 The second obstacle involves the problem of disguise. As Seneca the Younger illustrated through his wandering bees, imitation at its best creates something ‘clearly different’. Students were taught to disguise their dependence upon a model through a variety of techniques (e.g. altering vocabulary, varying order, length, and structure of sentences, improving content, and formal transformations) to avoid charges of plagiarism and pedantry.100 Identifying the range of mimetic possibilities is a monumental task, but an essential step towards improving the detection of literary μίμησις.101 In addition to the problem of disguise, how does one distinguish between an author’s conscious evocation of a particular source and a chance combination 96 Brodie, ‘Greco-Roman Imitation’, 17–46; ‘The Accusing and Stoning of Naboth (1 Kgs 21:8-13) as One Component of the Stephen Text’, CBQ 45 (1984): 417–32; ‘Intertextuality and its Use in Tracing Q and Proto-Luke’, in Scriptures in the Gospels (ed. C. M. Tuckett; Louvain: Louvain University Press, 1997), 469–77; ‘Luke-Acts as an Imitation and Emulation of the Elijah-Elisha Narrative’, in New Views on Luke-Acts (ed. Earl Richards; Collegeville, MN: Michael Glazer, 1990), 78–85; and ‘Towards Unraveling the Rhetorical Imitation of Sources in Acts: 2 Kings 5 as One Component of Acts 8,9-40’, Bib 67 (1986): 41–67. 97 Dupertuis, ‘Summaries’, 64. 98 See further, MacDonald, Homeric Epics, 171–72. 99 Dupertuis, ‘Summaries’, 68. 100 In his discussion of hypertextual (imitative) practices, Gerard Genette distinguished between formal transpositions (e.g. translation), which affect meaning by accident, and thematic transpositions, which were deliberate in their alteration of the hypotext (model). As he notes, one of the most important types of thematic transposition is transvaluation, in which there is any operation of an axiological nature bearing on the value that is implicitly or explicitly assigned to an action or group of actions (Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree [trans. Channa Newman and Claude Doubinsky; Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997], 367–75). 101 For a sophisticated taxonomy of literary μίμησις, see Genette, Palimpsests.

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of words, images, or concepts? Literary comparison is a subjective enterprise; as such, many scholars have proposed varying ways to assess literary parallels. Generally speaking, they can be divided into three camps: philological fundamentalists, literary universalists, and those that vacillate between.102 Philological fundamentalists require unmistakeable markers of dependence, such as shared vocabulary, similar genres, and distinctive grammatical or poetic constructions.103 A textual parallel that does not meet their strict criteria is considered an accidental confluence (i.e. a literary τόπος). For example, in Ovid’s Art of Imitation, Kathleen Morgan argued that clear philological criteria (e.g. choice of words, position of the words, metrical anomalies, and structural development) must be met in order to escape the pitfalls created by the thematic traditions of the genre.104 Unless the potential parallel comes close to verbatim quotation, it must simply be a common literary τόπος.105 These criteria provide a degree of certainty that is comforting for the mimetic critic, but they do not conform to ancient discussions of literary μίμησις nor to the vast majority of widely acknowledged imitations. At the other end of the spectrum are literary universalists who argue that meaning occurs in the act of reading. The reader is equipped with a treasury of information from many texts, making intertextual associations regardless of authorial intention.106 ‘Intertexuality’ is a term associated with the fields of linguistic theory and literary criticism popularized by Julia Kristeva in the 1960s.107 According to this theory, the author is hermeneutically irrelevant because all texts exist in an interconnected web of meaning. For example, in his intertextual study of Latin poets, Gian Biagio Conte concluded that identifying the traces of one particular text is impossible because poetic language already contains within it the memory of previous texts.108 ‘Intertexuality’ occurs when the reader chooses to see texts in relationship to one another.

102 MacDonald, Homeric Epics, 7–8. 103 Stephen Hinds, Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of Appropriation in Roman Poetry (Roman Literature and its Contexts; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 19. 104 Kathleen Morgan, Ovid’s Art of Imitation: Propertius in the Amores (MnemosSup 47; Leiden: Brill, 1977), 3. 105 See similarly, R. F. Thomas, ‘Virgil’s Georgics and the Art of Reference’, HSCP 90 (1986): 173. 106 For more detailed discussions of intertextuality in the field of biblical studies, see Timothy K. Beal, ‘Intertextuality’, in Handbook of Postmodern Biblical Interpretation (ed. A. K. M. Adam; St. Louis, MO: Chalice Press, 2000), 128–30; Thomas B. Hatina, ‘Intertextuality and Historical Criticism in New Testament Studies: Is there a Relationship?’ BibInt 7 (1999): 289–43; and David R. Cartlidge, ‘Combien d’unités avez-vous de trios à quatre? What do we mean by Intertextuality in Early Church Studies?’ in Society of Biblical Literature 1990 Seminar Papers (ed. David J. Lull; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990), 400–11. 107 E.g. Julia Kristeva, Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art (ed. Leon S. Roudiez; trans. Thomas Gora, Alice Jardine, and Leon S. Roudiez; New York: Columbia University Press, 1980). 108 Gian Biagio Conte, The Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and Poetic Memory in Virgil and Other Latin Poets (trans. Charles Segal; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986).

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The middle position is occupied by those who apply more flexible criteria and have not abandoned authorial intention.109 A good example among Latinists is Stephen Hinds, who dismissed philological fundamentalism as unreflective of the mimetic ethos of ancient composition in Allusion and Intertext.110 There are many possible relationships between texts, some of which identify authorial intent (e.g. citation, reference, allusion, and echo) and some of which are more general in nature (e.g. shared τόποι and intertextual resonance).111 He carefully distinguished between ‘source passages’ and ‘modeling by code’ in an effort to overcome the fine line separating direct allusion and the use of literary τόποι.112 A literary τόπος is the result of the repeated imitation of a particular author or text; thus, according to Hinds, the allusion is intended to invoke a specific model within the mind of the reader, while the τόπος draws upon an intertextual tradition collectively.113 In New Testament studies, scholars who compare biblical literature with non-biblical literature tend to apply the strict criteria characteristic of philological fundamentalism.114 From their perspective, the only legitimate markers of literary μίμησις are direct, word-for-word parallels. It is important to note, however, when comparing New Testament literature with materials from the Hebrew Bible, these same scholars apply more generous criteria.115 Literary comparison is a complex poetic task that requires criteria that can be consistently yet flexibly applied. Brodie has suggested that these criteria be left undefined so that potential literary imitations are not rendered invisible because of methodological blinders.116 The remarkable variety of mimetic practices in antiquity requires a certain degree of methodological flexibility, but set criteria need not inhibit the comparative vision of the interpreter. To this end, MacDonald has developed six criteria in his study of early Christian narrative: accessibility, analogy, density, order, distinctive traits, and interpretability.117

109 E.g. Ellen Finkelpearl, ‘Pagan Traditions of Intertextuality in the Roman World’, in Mimesis and Intertextuality in Antiquity and Christianity (ed. Dennis R. MacDonald; Studies in Antiquity and Christianity; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity International Press, 2001), 78–90. 110 According to David Cartlidge, ‘Intertexuality in respect to the traditions of Late Antiquity must account for characteristics peculiar to the nature and operation of texts in that period’ (‘Intertextuality’, 407). 111 Dupertuis, ‘Summaries’, 68. 112 Hinds, Allusion, 40–49. 113 Hinds, Allusion, 34. 114 Brodie, ‘Intertextuality’, 270–71. 115 MacDonald, Homeric Epics, 169–71. 116 Brodie, ‘Greco-Roman Imitation’, 34–37. 117 See especially Christianizing Homer, 302–27; Homeric Epics, 8–9; and Does the New Testament, 2–7. Richard Hays proposes seven criteria in his intertextual study of the Pauline letters and the Septuagint: availability, volume, recurrence, thematic coherence, historical plausibility, history of interpretation, and satisfaction (Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989], 29–32).

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The first two criteria, accessibility and analogy, are environmental in nature and attempt to assess the cultural significance of the model in question. Accessibility is concerned with four issues: the physical distribution of the model, the popularity of the model in art, literature, and education, the dating of the model relative to the imitation, and the accessibility of the model to the intended audience of the imitation. On this last point, critics are quick to point out that while the Homeric epics were ubiquitous in the Graeco-Roman world, they were not common among the New Testament authors (i.e. Palestinian Jews).118 Even if they were writing in Aramaic or Hebrew, Palestinian Jews were not exempt from the cultural impact of Hellenism.119 Greek composition, however, was a skill that could only be acquired through Graeco-Roman education, a curriculum based upon the imitation of the canonical authors, most notably Homer.120 The New Testament is heavily indebted to Jewish literature and culture, but this does not exclude Greek influence. The second criterion, analogy, asks whether the model was frequently imitated. The more often a model was the target of imitation, the more likely it is that other imitations exist. Needless to say, Homer was by far the most popular model of literary μίμησις in antiquity. In the Saturnalia, the Roman grammarian Macrobius (fl. 395–423 ce) recounts a series of historical, mythological, and grammatical discussions held at the house of Vettius Agorius Praetextatus during the Saturnalia festival. On the celebrity of the bard, he notes it is to the glory of Homer that he is copied by so many striving to compete with him and yet like an ‘ocean-rock’ he stands unmoved (Sat. 6.3.1 [Davies]). On this point, it has been argued that imitations of the epics are limited to highly cultured authors (e.g. Virgil), but the New Testament authors were not highly cultured. This objection fails on two counts. First, imitations of the epics can be found in literature intended for more popular audiences, such as Josephus, the book of Tobit, and the romances.121 Second, the presupposition that the New Testament authors were not well educated has been called into 118 For two critiques of MacDonald’s criteria and application, see Sandnes, ‘Imitatio Homeri?’; and Margaret Mitchell, ‘Homer in the New Testament?’, JR 83 (2003): 244–60. 119 See further, Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism; and Catherine Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (TSAJ 81; Tübingen: Mohr, 2001). 120 The role of Homer as the foundational text of Graeco-Roman culture is highlighted in Philo’s extensive discussion on encyclical education; see further, Peder Borgen, ‘Greek Encyclical Education, Philosophy and Synagogue: Observations from Philo of Alexandria’s Writings’, in In Honour of Stig Strömholm (Uppsala: Kungl. Vetensekapssamhället í Uppsala, 2001), 61–71. 121 For Josephus, see Louis Feldman, Josephus’s Interpretation of the Bible (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 171–72; for Tobit, see Dennis R. MacDonald, ‘Tobit and the Odyssey’, in Mimesis and Intertextuality in Antiquity and Christianity (ed. Dennis R. MacDonald; Studies in Antiquity and Christianity; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity International Press, 2001), 11–40; for the romances, see Ronald F. Hock, ‘The Educational Curriculum in Chariton’s Callirhoe’, in Ancient Fiction: The Matrix of Early Christian and Jewish Narrative’ (ed. Jo-Ann A. Brant, Charles W. Hedrick, and Chris Shea; Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series, no. 32; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005), 15–36.

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question and, in the case of ‘Luke’, debunked. More than any other New Testament author, ‘Luke’ quotes from Greek literature, including the didactic Greek poet Aratus (Acts 17.28) and the Athenian tragedian Euripides (Acts 21.39; 26.14) – he clearly possessed a literate education.122 Two recent studies suggest ‘Luke’ advanced to the early stages of a rhetorical education, but in any case, at each educational stage, primary, secondary, and tertiary students were trained in the art of copying, the fundamentals of grammar, and the complexities of rhetorical composition through ‘μίμησις τῶν ἀρχαίων’.123 These two criteria clearly identify Homer as the most accessible and the most imitated model in antiquity, but they also introduce a more formidable obstacle. If the epics were in fact the cultural encyclopedia of the GraecoRoman world, it increases the likelihood that similarities are due merely to a shared Greek cultural identity. Also, it increases the possibility that the model is being imitated indirectly, that is, through another imitation. The comparative criteria that follow specifically address these potential pitfalls. Density and order highlight the points of contact between texts, paying particular attention to the number and volume of the similarities and the relative sequencing of the proposed model and the proposed imitation. There is considerable disagreement over what constitutes a parallel, but examples include shared vocabulary, grammar, proper names, settings, characterizations, and motifs. In every case, the quality of the parallels is much more important than the quantity. Philological fundamentalists point out that density and order cannot be used as evidence of imitation because two texts of the same genre can share similar features without any kind of genetic relationship. The fifth criterion, distinctive traits, addresses this very problem by identifying mimetic flags. A mimetic flag is a characteristic uncharacteristic of the genre as whole, such as a proper name, a telling word or phrase, literary context, or motif.124 If present, the distinctive trait can be the most compelling evidence for binding 122 Phaen. 5, Ion 8, and Bacch. 795 respectively. For discussions of the relatively high level of education indicated by the evangelist’s literary style and language and knowledge of Greek literature, see Plümacher, Lukas; Sterling, Historiography; Pervo, Profit with Delight; and Robert Morgenthaler, Lukas und Quintilian: Rhetorik als Erzählkunst (Zurich: Gotthelf Verlag, 1993). 123 On the rhetorical education of ‘Luke’, see Todd C. Penner, ‘Civilizing Discourse: Acts, Declamation and the Rhetoric of the Polis’, in Contextualizing Acts: Lukan Narrative and Greco-Roman Discourse (ed. Todd C. Penner and Caroline Vander Stichele; Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series, no. 20; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 65–104; and Mikael C. Parsons, ‘Luke and the Progymnasmata: A Preliminary Investigation into the Preliminary Exercises’, in Contextualizing Acts: Lukan Narrative and Greco-Roman Discourse (ed. Todd C. Penner and Caroline Vander Stichele; Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series, no. 20; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 43–64. 124 E.g. in his comparison of the casting of lots for Matthias in Acts 1.15-26 and the casting of lots for Ajax in Iliad 7, MacDonald notes the presence of Homeric vocabulary not found anywhere else in the New Testament; in addition, no known imitations of the Homeric scene exist, which eliminates the possibility of indirect influence (Does the New Testament, 105).

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two texts together. At its best, distinctive traits is a cumulative criterion in which a constellation of mimetic flags point to literary μίμησις, rather than form criticism. As with the criteria of density and order, not all interpreters agree on what constitutes a distinctive trait. Philological fundamentalists require a type of verbatim agreement that is discouraged by ancient rhetoricians, but a mimetic flag need only be unusual for that particular literary genre and context. Unfortunately for modern interpreters, these same rhetoricians encouraged their students to conceal their model; though desirable, this criterion is not always applicable. The final criterion is interpretability, which examines the strategic differences between texts. Does the model help bring the imitation into interpretive clarity? This criterion is one of the most sharply criticized. If differences between texts are markers of imitation, what are indicators that imitation is not taking place? In her review of The Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark, Margaret Mitchell refers to this as the ‘have your cake and eat it too’ methodology.125 She complains that this final criterion renders any proposed imitation incapable of invalidation because parallels and divergences can be used as evidence of influence. This criterion must remain flexible, however, to account for the mysterious transformative process of literary μίμησις described by Seneca’s wandering bees. Together, these environmental and comparative criteria project an interpretive horizon for comparing texts bounded by five questions. (1) Was the model widely available? (2) Did other writers imitate the model? (3) How similar are the texts? (4) Are there any mimetic flags? And (5) does the model make sense of the imitation? The interpretive reward for detecting literary μίμησις is rich, but it is an exceedingly difficult task coupled with a lack of methodological agreement. Despite the challenges, it can be an invaluable contribution to the interpretation of an ancient text, especially one riddled with abnormalities.

Conclusion There is considerable disagreement concerning the authorship, dating, and literary classification of Luke-Acts, but comparisons with a variety of ancient literary genres have yielded significant results. In particular, Bonz has assembled a compelling case for placing Luke-Acts within the literary context of ancient epic. She successfully identified many shared compositional techniques, literary themes, and plot devices, but these literary parallels are not unique to the Aeneid, they are shared by Greek and Latin epics alike.126 The inaccessibility of the Latin epic, even for an educated author like ‘Luke’, forced Bonz to posit the existence of a Greek paraphrase, but this is 125 Mitchell, ‘Homer’, 252. 126 See further, MacDonald, Does the New Testament, 7–9.

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unnecessary. As MacDonald has argued extensively and persuasively, Virgil and ‘Luke’ share the same Greek literary model – Homer.127 If the author of this two-volume narrative of Christian origins imitated the Homeric epics in order to compete with the foundational myth of the Roman Empire, why didn’t ancient readers recognize this compositional strategy? First and foremost, it must be recognized that many modern readings of biblical literature have no confirmation in the history of interpretation, including the contributions of source, form, and redaction critics. In the case of Luke-Acts, by the end of the second century Christian tradition had attached these two volumes to a man of ‘apostolic times’, thereby legitimizing his direct link to the past. If ‘Luke’ had access to eyewitnesses and first-hand accounts, why would he need to imitate Greek poetry? In addition, the great exegetes of the third and fourth centuries, such as Origen, Basil, and Gregory of Nazianzus, were all under the spell of the allegorical school popularized by Philo of Alexandria. It is possible literary μίμησις was simply assumed and did not warrant comment; after all, divine truth lay ‘beneath’ the surface of the text. Lukan scholarship has undergone a transformation over the past forty years, from ‘Luke’ the historian to ‘Luke’ the theologian and writer. As a ‘historyteller’, the evangelist was not merely a passive redactor of received traditions, he was the poet of Christian origins. His literary artistry displays a ‘firm facility’ with the best practices of ancient composition. The unrivalled hegemony of Homer among grammarians, educationalists, and elite writers bears witness to the divine status of the epics in antiquity among Jews, Christians, and pagans alike.128 Ancient authors, including ‘Luke’, tested their compositional mettle through imitation (μίμησις) and emulation (ζῆλος) of the master in the spirit of reverence and rivalry.

127 E.g. ‘Luke’s Eutychus and Homer’s Elpenor: Acts 20:7-12 and Odyssey 10–12’, JHC 1 (1994): 5–24; ‘The Soporific Angel in Acts 12:1-17 and Hermes’ Visit to Priam in Iliad 24: Luke’s Emulation of the Epic’, Forum ns. 2.2 (1999): 179–87; ‘The Shipwrecks of Odysseus and Paul’, NTS 45 (1999): 88–107; ‘The Ending of Luke and the Ending of the Odyssey’, in For a Later Generation: The Transformation of Tradition in Israel, Early Judaism and Early Christianity (ed. Randal A. Argall et al.; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000), 161–68; ‘Paul’s Farewell to the Ephesian Elders and Hector’s Farewell to Andromache: A Strategic Imitation of Homer’s Iliad’, in Contextualizing Acts: Lukan Narrative and Greco-Roman Discourse (ed. Todd Penner and Caroline Vander Stichele; Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series, no. 20; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 189–203; ‘Lydia and her Sisters as Lukan Fictions’, in A Feminist Companion to the Acts of the Apostles’ (ed. Amy-Jill Levine, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2004), 105–10; and ‘The Breasts of Hecuba and those of the Daughters of Jerusalem: Luke’s Transvaluation of a Famous Iliadic Scene’, in Ancient Fiction: The Matrix of Early Christianity and Jewish Narrative (ed. Jo-Ann Brant, Charles W. Hedrick, and Chris Shea; Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series, no. 32; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005), 239–54. 128 See further, Margalit Finkelberg, ‘Homer as a Foundation Text’, in Homer, the Bible, and Beyond: Literary and Religious Canons in the Ancient World (ed. Margalit Finkelberg and Guy C. Stroumsa; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 75–96.

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Unfortunately, the interpretive relevance of the bard has been woefully neglected in modern biblical scholarship, as Brodie humorously notes: The Anchor Bible Dictionary, for instance, is a wonderful application – I treasure it – and one might expect it to be a good source from which to learn about one of the greatest writers of all antiquity, someone whose work was essentially complete before the Pentateuch: Homer. The Anchor Bible Dictionary does indeed have an entry under Homer: Homer [Heb homer]. See Weights and Measures. That entry, in so magnificent a work, is a symptom of the degree to which, as a group, we have lost our way. We have forgotten the priority of the literary.129

In addition, The Encyclopedia of Early Christianity, The Encyclopedia of the Early Church, and The Oxford Dictionary of the Early Church do not contain entries on Homer. Even the primary editions of the Greek New Testament, which include a compendium of possible citations and allusions, omit Homer entirely. The absence of Homer in these critical tools projects an image (or lack thereof) of the bard in direct contradiction to the historical evidence, summed up nicely by Mitchell: This deficiency in English-language reference works is to some degree ameliorated by the collection of counterevidence provided in the article on Homer by G. J. M. Bartelink in the Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum. Bartelink documents the impressive aggregate of direct citations and allusions – positive and negative, and neutral – to Homer in the writings of authors such as Aristides, Justin, Tatian, Theophilus of Antioch, Athenagoras, Irenaeus, Tertullian, Minucius Feliz, Clement of Alexandria, Hippolytus, Gnostics (such as the Naasenes, the Simonians, and the Sethians), Origen, Ps-Justin, Methodius of Olympus, martyrological texts, Cyprian, the Cappadocians, Epiphanius, John Crysostom and Theodoret, Ambrose, Jerome, Augustine, and authors of Homeric centones on Christian narratives or themes, such as the empress of Eudocia. This list of Christians who grappled with Homer in a variety of ways reads rather like a ‘who’s who’ of patristic writers and thinkers. They could not, it seems, avoid Homer.130

The comprehensive discussion of Mesopotamian, Egyptian, and biblical metrology in the Anchor Bible Dictionary is impressive, but for those who seek the poet they will need to access the less known Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum.131 The chasm that separates the mundi significantes of the ancient author and the modern interpreter is wide and deep. Without question, the New Testament writings reflect a commitment, both culturally and religiously, to the Jewish 129 Thomas L. Brodie, ‘Towards Tracing the Gospel’s Literary Indebtedness to the Epistles’, in Mimesis and Intertextuality (ed. Dennis MacDonald; Studies in Antiquity and Christianity; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000), 104–105 n. 1. 130 Mitchell, ‘Homer’, 244–45. 131 See further, M. A. Powell, ‘Weights and Measures’, ABD 6.897–908.

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Scriptures. Their literary commitments, however, are a natural by-product of a Graeco-Roman education: they were wandering bees, gathering honey from the canonical models of antiquity. Literary comparison is an art, not a science; as such, Lukan scholars will continue to debate issues of literary comparison, influence, and dependence. Those who spend their lives studying the past readily acknowledge that certainty is a rare luxury, but this much can be said: ‘If any author of the New Testament was capable of imitating Homeric epic it was the author of Luke-Acts.’132 In the light of the potential reward of a more comprehensive and dialogical reading of Dives and Lazarus, Chapter 4 will compare Lk. 16.1931 and Odyssey 11.1–640, applying the six criteria developed and tested by MacDonald while remaining sensitive to the need for methodological flexibility. In the meantime, an a priori decision to exclude the wider literary context of antiquity impoverishes any reading of a biblical text, especially one set in the δόμον Ἄιδος, the mundus significans of Chapter 3.

132 MacDonald, Does the New Testament, 7.

Chapter 3 The Tours of Hell Tradition Introduction In the documentary film, Hell House, George Ratliff captured the production of a Christian haunted house (i.e. ‘hell house’) sponsored each Halloween by the Trinity Assembly of God Church in Dallas, Texas.1 The film documents the emergence of this American phenomenon, which began in 1990 and has since spread to hundreds of churches worldwide. Thousands of guests each year are escorted by tour guides, dressed as demons, through a series of grisly scenes depicting school massacres, date rape, AIDS-related deaths, fatal drunk-driving accidents, and botched abortions. After their death, the sinners are dragged away by demons to the eternal torments of hell.2 The final room of the house depicts heaven and the rewards for those who are righteous; the participants are then given the chance to meet with counsellors to repent of their sins and accept Jesus Christ as their lord and saviour.

1 The modern English word ‘hell’ is derived from the Old English ‘hel’ (c. 725 ce), referring to the netherworld of the dead reaching into the Anglo-Saxon period and ultimately from the Proto-Germanic ‘Halja’, meaning one who covers up or hides something. The word has cognates in related Germanic languages, such as the Old Frisian ‘helle, hille’, the Old Saxon ‘hellja’, the Middle Dutch ‘helle’, the Old High German ‘hella’, and the Gothic ‘halja’. See Robert K. Barnhart, The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1995), 348. The word may also derive from the Old Norse ‘Hel’; the thirteenth-century Poetic Edda and Prose Edda, the most important sources of Norse mythology and Germanic heroic legends, describe a goddess named ‘Hel’ who rules over an underworld of the same name. See further, Rasmus B. Anderson, Norse Mythology (Boston: Longwood Press, 1977), 387–90. Although in the modern English-speaking world, ‘hell’ is used popularly to refer to an abode of punishment for the wicked dead, strictly separated from the realm of the righteous dead, historically the term has been used widely to speak of the dwelling place of all of the dead. In this chapter, ‘hell’ will be used in the latter (broader and more historically applicable) sense. 2 According to Steve Wilkens, Trinity Broadcasting Network reported that geologists had drilled a well ten miles down in Siberia until they had reached what they believed to be the centre of the planet; they lowered microphones through the hole and detected the screams of those suffering below in temperatures reaching 2,000 degrees (The Original Dr. Steve’s Almanac of Christian Trivia: A Miscellany of Oddities, Instructional Anecdotes, Little-Known Facts, and Occasional Frivolity [Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2007], 87).

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The ‘hell house’ may be a modern American phenomenon, but the tour of hell is an ancient, cross-cultural literary tradition.3 The modern Christian rhetorical preoccupation with the torments of hell does not reflect biblical concerns, which only rarely treat the punishment of the wicked dead; rather, the grisly scenes of death and punishment in the ‘hell house’ are more akin to the masterpiece of the medieval Italian poet, Dante Alighieri. In the Divina Commedia, Dante is taken on a tour through Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso, bearing witness to the punishments of various types of sinners, the atoning work of those in limbo, and the rewards for those who lived righteously. His work became the cornerstone of the evolution of Italian as an established literary language, and more importantly, would assume a canonical position in the popular imagination of Christendom, much like John Milton’s Paradise Lost. In the Inferno, his most influential otherworldly tour, Dante is escorted by the Roman poet Virgil, who functions as a footnote directing the informed reader to the Aeneid, which narrates its own journey to the underworld in Book 6. Despite Dante’s natural preference for the Latin author, the journey of Aeneas to the realm of the dead is only one example of a rich literary tradition in antiquity; in fact, these journeys were such a common literary tale a special name was given to them, νέκυια.4 Originally, the term νέκυια (or νεκυομαντεία) referred to a magical rite conjuring the dead to question them about the future, but it became a popular title for the Homeric descent into the underworld (κατάβασις) in Book 11 of the Odyssey and was later applied to all similar visitations with the dead.5 Apparently, Dante was misinformed when he 3 For an excellent collection of articles that highlight the widespread evidence of this theme in Mesopotamian, Ugaritic, Phoenician, Greek, Christian, Jewish, Islamic, and medieval literature, see Claude Kappler (ed.), Apocalypses et voyages dans l’au-delà (Cerf: Paris, 1987). 4 Richard Harrow Feen, ‘Nekyia as Apocalypse: A Study of Cicero’s Dream of Scipio’, JRelS 9 (1981): 29. 5 The act of νεκυομαντεία often occurred at local grave sites, but entrances into the underworld (πλουτώνια) were also located at pits or caves (χάσματα). In particular, the heroic dead were often consulted as oracles; their grave sites typically featured a monument and a special precinct where sacrifices and votive gifts could be offered. On the hero cult, see Lars Albinus, The House of Hades: Studies in Ancient Greek Eschatology (Oxford: Aarhus University Press, 2000), 69 n. 9; Erwin Rohde, Psyche: The Cult of Souls and Belief in Immortality among the Greeks (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1925), 162, 171, and 186–87 n. 23; Margaret Visser, ‘Worship your Enemies: Aspects of the Cult of Heroes in Ancient Greece’, HTR (1982): 403–28; Walter Burkert, Greek Religion (trans. John Raffan; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1985), 203–208; A. D. Nock, ‘The Cult of Heroes’, HTR 37 (1944): 141–74; J. N. Coldstream, ‘Hero Cults in the Age of Homer’, JHS 96 (1976): 8–17; and Gregory J. Riley, Resurrection Reconsidered: Thomas and John in Controversy (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 43–47. The proliferation of these Greek sites led the Roman Empire to strictly regulate access to the dead, incorporating them into Roman city life and state-sanctioned festivals. For example, each municipality formed a sacred space marked by a sacred boundary (pomerium) where a lined pit (mundus) was capped with a single stone. Each year on 24 August, 5 October, and 8 November, the stone was removed, allowing the spirits of deceased loves ones (manes) to return so that the living could make offerings to appease them. During the Parentalia (13–21 February), the living would offer token sacrifices to their deceased parents; if not properly appeased, these potential patrons

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commented before embarking upon his trip to the netherworld that only two similarly privileged individuals had made this journey before him, Aeneas and Paul.6 In The Formation of Hell: Death and Retribution in the Ancient and Early Christian Worlds, the medieval historian Alan E. Bernstein published a 392page treatment of the subject in antiquity, which began as an introductory section of a single volume on Dante and the history of hell in the Middle Ages. His reflections on this change of course are germane to the task of this chapter: Since my training is in the field of medieval history, I never intended to write an independent study of hell in antiquity. Nonetheless, one cannot work on a later period without appreciating its debts to the previous one. That observation applies particularly to a religious subject in the Middle Ages, because medieval authors persistently refer to biblical authority and repeatedly drew on the church fathers, writers of roughly the first four Christian centuries, who themselves accepted and rejected pagan mythology and philosophy only selectively. As I pursued this background material, there came a time when, like a pilot passing a point of no return, I found myself enmeshed in a quantity, richness, and variety of material I could not escape. In order to establish my bearings or, so to say, define my terms, I have unabashedly followed my fascination with these sources to assess the various options from which the tradition’s founders chose.7

Given the canonical status of Homer in the ancient world, it should come as no surprise Bernstein begins his aeronautical journey with the νέκυια proper, Odyssey Book 11.8 could become spiteful opponents. During the Lemuria (observed during odd numbered nights in March), the living would protect themselves from the dead by ritually sweeping them out of the house and making a token offering of beans. These Roman festivals are commonly compared to the Greek Genesia and Anthesterion. According to Livy, however, these ceremonies to appease the dead were established by Numa, the successor of Romulus (Ab urbe condita 1.20.7). See further, Alan E. Bernstein, The Formation of Hell: Death and Retribution in the Ancient and Early Christian Worlds (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993), 99–102; and Hans-Joseph Klauck, The Religious Context of Early Christianity: A Guide to Graeco-Roman Religions (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 76–77. After Homer, the Greek term νέκυια is used to describe all subsequent journeys to the underworld, even Jewish literary traditions; see further, Thomas Francis Glasson, Greek Influence in Jewish Eschatology (London: SPCK, 1961), 8. 6 Cf. 2 Cor. 12.1-15. 7 Bernstein, Formation of Hell, x. 8 In the Mediterranean world, there are several literary traditions that predate Homer that describe the netherworld and/or narrate visitations with the dead, including the Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh and the Descent of Inanna/Ishtar and the Egyptian Book of the Dead, the Book of Am-Tuat, and the Book of Gates. For the Mesopotamian texts, see Vera Schneider, Gilgamesh (Zurich: Origo, 1967); Jeffrey H. Tigay, The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982); William Sladek, ‘Inanna’s Descent to the Underworld’, PhD diss., Johns Hopkins University, 1974; Edwin Yamauchi, ‘Life, Death, and the Afterlife in the Ancient Near East’, in Life in the Face of Death: The Resurrection Message of the New Testament (ed. Richard N. Longenecker; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 29–39; Bauckham, Fate of the Dead, 10–12; and Riley, River, 136–38. For the Egyptian texts, see S. G. F. Brandon, The

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The Homeric Tour of Hell The Odyssey (c. 743–713 bce) is a Homeric νόστος, recounting the long voyage home of the suffering sojourner from the Trojan War.9 Within this larger poem, the bard has incorporated two νέκυαι (11.1–640; 24.1–204) that feature a journey to the netherworld, descriptions of the conditions there, and dialogues with the dead.10 The so-called deutero-νέκυια in Book 24 is a fitting end to the epic and the wicked suitors, who follow Hermes and his golden wand, ‘gibbering’ like ‘cave bats’ to the land of the dead (24.7 [Murray, LCL]).11 Unlike Odysseus in the νέκυια proper, however, the suitors will not return to tell their tale. Odysseus first learns of this terrible task from the goddess Circe in Book 10, who informs him he must travel ‘to the house of Hades and dread Persephone, to seek prophecy from the ghost of Theban Teiresias, the blind seer, whose mind [φρένες] remains steadfast. To him even in death Persephone has granted reason, that he alone should have understanding, but the others flit about as shadows’ (491–95 [Murray, LCL]).12 Odysseus weeps for his misfortune, but Judgment of the Dead (New York: Scribner’s, 1967); Zandee, Death as an Enemy; Wallis Budge, The Egyptian Heaven and Hell (La Salle, IL: Open Court, 1974); Erik Hornung, Aegyptische Unterwetlsbücher (Zurich: Artemos, 1984); Yamauchi, ‘Life, Death, and the Afterlife’, 21–29; Bauckham, Fate of the Dead, 12–14; and Riley, River, 140. 9 On the identity of Homer and the dating of the Homeric tradition, see Albinus, House of Hades, 21–26; Richard Janko, Homer, Hesiod, and the Hymns: Diachronic Development in Epic Diction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 231; and Christiane SourvinouInwood, ‘Reading’ Greek Death to the End of the Classical Period (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 1–16. 10 The relationship between the Homeric κατάβασις in Book 11 and comparable accounts (e.g. the κατάβασις of Heracles and Orpheus) is debated. According to Albinus, the theme of κατάβασις was a popular element of heroic myth before the composition of the Homeric epics; for example, he suggests the Odyssey may be familiar with the κατάβασις of Theseus and Perithous (11.631; Albinus, House of Hades, 68). 11 It has been argued the Homeric νέκυαι are interpolations; see Rohde, Psyche, 32; cf. Emily Vermeule, Aspects of Death in Early Greek Art and Poetry (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979), 28–29. In particular, the deutero-νέκυια in Odyssey 24 is considered by many to be a late seventh or sixth-century addition to the Homeric epic; see further, SourvinouInwood, Reading, 59–60; and Albinus, House of Hades, 83. 12 Teiresias was a popular character of ancient authors (e.g. Sophocles, Oed. tyr., Ant.; Aeschylus, Sept.; Euripides, Bacch., Phoen.) and was often employed as a blind seer of the future (e.g. Apollodorus, Library 3.6.7; Hesiod, Melampodia 2–3; Lucian, Dial. mort. 9; Ovid, Metam. 3.316–38). The most popular tradition blamed Hera for his blindness. According to the tradition, Teiresias witnessed two snakes copulating; afterwards, he killed the female snake. As a result, he became female, married, had children, and years later once again saw two snakes copulating. This time, however, Teiresias killed the male and became male again. Meanwhile, Zeus and Hera were arguing over which gender experienced the most pleasure during intercourse. They asked Teiresias, who responded that women enjoy the greatest pleasure. Hera was enraged and blinded him, and Zeus, taking pity on his punishment, awarded him with the powers of foresight. According to Apollodorus, however, it was thought he was blinded because he revealed the secrets of the gods to men (Library 3.6.7). Yet another tradition says that he was blinded by Athena because he saw the goddess naked. Later, Athena felt pity for him and gave him the power

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Circe encourages the weary traveller, issuing a series of specific instructions to guide his way (504–40). The book concludes with the death of Elpenor, a fellow sailor who falls to his death from the rooftop of the sacred house of Circe unbeknownst to Odysseus – an event that foreshadows the arrival of the hero in the underworld in Book 11 (550–60).13 With tears and sorrow, Odysseus and his crew set sail the next morning, guided by a fair wind sent by Circe, across Oceanus that encircles the inhabited earth like a river (1–12). The long journey of the black ship is a mysterious one, where ‘all the ways grow dark’ in a land ‘wrapped in mist and cloud’ (12 and 14 [Murray, LCL]). Although the description of the journey is unclear, it is clear the realm of the dead is far beyond the realm of the living.14 Even the heroic Odysseus objects to the impossibility of the task, ‘Who, Circe, will guide us on this journey? To Hades no man ever yet went in a black ship’ (10.501–502 [Murray, LCL]). Without the assistance of the goddess, even the cunning Odysseus would have been lost. After beaching their ship, the intrepid crew arrives at the sacred groves of Persephone and the entryway to the house of Hades, which lies beneath the surface of the earth where the four rivers meet (13–22; cf. 24.204).15 In of divination (Callimachus, Hymn. lav. Pall. 57–133). Teiresias was also a popular character in ancient art. In many depictions of the blind seer, his bisexuality is emphasized by his feminine wardrobe. For example, a scene from the Homeric νέκυια is illustrated on an Etruscan mirror from the late fifth century. Odysseus and Hermes are both naked, but Teiresias is clothed like a woman (Luc Brisson, Le Mythe de Tirésias: Essai d’analyse structurale [Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’empire romain 55; Leiden: Brill, 1976], plate 6). In another example, an Italian crater from the late fourth century depicts a scene from Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus. Teiresias, draped in a woman’s dress, is led by a young child to Oedipus, who is barely clothed (Brisson, Le Mythe, plate 7). There are other examples of Greek art that clothe Teiresias like a woman, while the other characters, particularly Odysseus, are usually nude. Although his unusual wardrobe was a popular subject of Greek artists, it is not part of the literary tradition. 13 MacDonald has argued the death of the young man named Eutychus in Acts 20.7-12 is a strategic imitation of the story of Elpenor in Od. 10.552–60; 11.72–80; 12.8–15. See further, ‘Luke’s Eutychus’, 11–24. On the popularity of the story of the unlucky Elpenor in antiquity, see Apollodorus, Epitome 7.17; Pliny, Nat. 15.119; Theophrastus, Hist. plant. 5.8.3; Pausanias, Descr. 10.29.8; Martial 11.82; Juvenal 15.22; Ovid, Ib. 485–86; Tristia 3.4.19. 14 Robert Garland notes there is ‘an innate Greek insistence on the preservation of categorization which, in turn, in this instance, was designed to keep the world of the living rigidly apart from that of the dead’ (The Greek Way of Death [New York: Cornell University Press, 1985], 121). See also, Burkert, Greek Religion, 196; Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 25; and Klauck, Religious Context, 72. 15 In Hesiod’s Theog. (c. 700–665 bce), the realm of the dead is also beyond Oceanus and beneath the earth (767–80), but Hesiod refers to it as ‘Tartarus’ (841, 851, and 868). Tartarus is also personified as the father of Typhoeus, a dragon with a hundred heads whom Zeus conquered and banished into Tartarus (823–80). ‘Hades’ is strictly reserved for the God of the Dead in the Theog. (311, 455, 768, and 850), whereas in Homer it is both the name of the divine realm and the divine king. In a fragment, Parmenides compares his philosophical journey to that of Odysseus, who sailed to the end of the world where the sun goes down into the underworld (see further, J. S. Morrison, ‘Parmenides and Er’, JHS 75 [1955]: 59–68; and Walter Burkert, ‘Das Proömium des Parmenides und die Katabasis des Pythagoras’, Phronesis 14 [1969]: 1–29).

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between Erebus and the riverbank, Odysseus drew his sword, dug a pit, poured a libation, and cut the throats of the sheep over the pit, allowing the blood to flow while making vows to the dead and to Hades and Persephone (23–47; cf. 10.516–34).16 The ‘strengthless heads of the dead’ began to gather and press him from every side, coming up ‘from out of Erebus’ (49 and 38 [Murray, LCL]). Homer emphasizes the moment of death, as ‘men slain in battle appear, wearing their blood-stained armour’, but Odysseus brandishes his sword to prevent them from drawing near to the blood until he could speak with Teiresias (41 [Murray, LCL]).17 It is not exactly clear what the dead have to fear, but Odysseus staves them off until the shocking appearance of Elpenor, who steps forward and addresses his former captain (51–83).18 His unburied comrade implores Odysseus to perform the burial rites for his discarded body, ‘Do not, when you depart, leave me unwept and unburied and turn away; I might become a cause of the god’s wrath against you’ (72–73 [Murray, LCL]).19 A saddened Odysseus vows to perform this sacred duty upon his return for his unlucky friend (cf. 12.1–35). Elpenor indicates that if he remains unburied he will become a curse upon Odysseus, but the text does not explicitly say why.20 The answer can be found in Book 23 of the Iliad. After falling to the hero of Troy, Patroclus appears to Achilles and urges him to carry out the burial rites quickly, ‘Bury me with all speed, let me pass inside the gates of Hades. Far do the spirits keep me away, the phantoms of men that have done with toils, and they do not yet allow me to mingle with them beyond the river, but vainly I wander through the wide-gated house of Hades’ (72–74 [Murray, LCL]).21 Like Patroclus, Elpenor occupies 16 On the cult of the dead and chthonic sacrifice, see Burkert, Greek Religion, 199–203; and Klauck, Religious Context, 68–70. 17 The dead retain the marks (στίγμα) of their death as an essential identifying feature; see further, Riley, Resurrection, 50–51. 18 According to Riley, the impalpability of the dead was a common theme in the poetic conception of the dead, but there are many examples of palpability contrary to this motif. For example, the dead were often described as if they were living: resting, walking, conversing, playing games, eating, and drinking (Resurrection, 51–58). This may explain the fear the dead display at the sight of the sword of Odysseus. On the impalpability of the dead, see Robert Renehan, ‘On the Origins of the Concepts of Incorporeality and Immateriality’, GRBS 21 (1980): 105–38. 19 Tales of the deeds of the dead on earth (i.e. ‘ghost stories’) was a lively one in antiquity, spanning a variety of genres from the fifth century bce to the second century ce. These stories reveal that the dead haunted the living for a myriad of reasons, especially because of a lack of proper burial, but also to punish offenders, to seek vengeance, to return favours, and to seek love. See further, Cumont, Lux perpetua, 78–108; R. C. Finucane, Appearances of the Dead: A Cultural History of Ghosts (London: Junction Books, 1982); Collison-Morley, Ghost Stories; and Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 92–99. For example, Sisyphus ‘instructed his wife to neglect the burial rites and so he is sent back to the upper world to remind his wife of her duties, but his escape from Hades is short-lived’ (Burkert, Greek Religion, 197). 20 On the cursing and blessing of the heroic dead, see Riley, One Jesus, 58–59. 21 According to Burkert, ‘the subterranean rulers are enthroned in a palace whose most distinctive feature is the Gate of Hades through which all must pass, never to return’ (Greek

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the same ambiguous position that is unacceptable to the divine order; he is no longer living, but not welcome among the dead. As Odysseus sits commiserating with his fallen comrade, an even greater shock arrives – his dead mother Anticleia – who comes forward after Elpenor, but Odysseus turns her back from the blood libation to make way for the blind seer (84–89). The brief appearance of someone so dear to his heart, whom he has not seen since departing for the Trojan War, further reinforces the importance of the ancient burial rite.22 Even though Circe clearly instructed Odysseus to speak first with Teiresias (cf. 10.535–37), the unburied dead take precedence.23 After this brief interruption, the Theban Teiresias appears bearing his ‘golden staff [χρύσεον σκῆπτρον]’ and like the unburied Elpenor, recognizes and addresses the hero without partaking of the blood libation (91 [Murray, LCL]).24 Teiresias describes the realm of the dead as a place without light and joy; although punitive punishment is not present, it is an existence without pleasures of any kind (90–94). Even though the seer clearly possesses his mental faculties (10.491–95), he requests that Odysseus withdraw his sword so that he could drink the dark blood and ‘speak the truth’ to him (96 [Murray, LCL]). After ingesting the truth serum, Teiresias informs Odysseus that he has made an enemy of the lord Poseidon after blinding his son, the Cyclops Polyphemus, in Book 9 (102). The blind seer warns the hero to leave the sheep of Helios unharmed and to make a pleasing offering to Poseidon upon returning to the Religion, 196). The ghosts of the slain suitors are allowed to enter the house of Hades, despite not being buried (Od. 24.98–204). According to Sourvinou-Inwood, this reflects a ‘relaxation of the rule that the unburied cannot enter Hades (‘Crime and Punishment: Tityos, Tantalos and Sisyphus in Odyssey 11’, BICS 33 [1986]: 51). For example, see the discussion of the funeral rites of Patroclus in Albinus (House of Hades, 27–42). 22 A proper burial included washing and laying out the corpse, mourning and lamentation, as well as burning and burying the body with a tomb and grave marker – ‘for this is the privilege of the dead’ (Homer, Il. 16.456–57 [Murray, LCL]). On the essential stations of the funerary ritual, see Burkert, Greek Religion, 192–94; and Klauck, Religious Context, 70–73. Surviving members of a family were expected to care for their dead at the grave site, bringing various offerings on the anniversary of their death. Tombs were also frequently supplied with an offering table and holes to convey food to the deceased. According to Franz Cumont, ‘No religious ceremony was more universally performed in the most diverse regions of the Empire than this cult of the grave. At every hour of every day families met in some to celebrate there an anniversary by eating the funeral meal’ (After Life in Roman Paganism [New York: Dover Publications, 1959], 55). See further, Riley, Resurrection, 44–47; Garland, Greek Way, 108–11; J. M. C. Toynbee, Death and Burial in the Roman World (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), 61–64; and Klauck, Religious Context, 75–76. 23 Although the powerlessness of the dead (cf. 11.49) is a theme throughout the account, they also must be appeased; see further, Garland, Greek Way, 1–2; and Sarah Iles Johnston, Restless Dead: Encounters Between the Living and the Dead in Ancient Greece (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 8–9 and 80–81. 24 MacDonald has argued the story of blind Bartimaeus in Mk 10.46-52 is a strategic imitation of the appearance of the blind seer in Od. 11.90–149. For his argument, see MacDonald, Homeric Epics, 97–101.

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land of the living; if he does so, he will die peacefully of old age surrounded by prosperity (100–37). After learning what he must do to return home, Odysseus inquires about his mother: ‘I see here the ghost of my dead mother; she sits in silence near the blood and cannot bring herself to look upon the face of her own son or speak to him. Tell me, my lord, how may she recognize that I am he?’ (141–44 [Murray, LCL]). Teiresias explains that whomever he allows to drink the blood will speak the truth with him, but whomever he turns away will go back into the shadows (145–49). According to the blind seer, the dead require the chthonic concoction to ‘speak the truth’, but what about Patroclus and Elpenor? Clearly, the unburied dead are not fully dead, that is, they have not fully transitioned from the land of the living to the land of the dead. They have not passed through the gates of Hades, and as such, they still partially possess the powers of life, but what about the blind seer? He alone possesses reason and understanding among the dead, but he is unable to ‘speak the truth’ without drinking the blood first. Lars Albinus notes the staff (σκῆπτρον) that Teiresias carries is a priestly symbol, which in this context indicates his ability to speak.25 Only after drinking the dark blood, however, is he empowered to speak truly – to speak as an oracle. Thus, the blood represents the ‘chthonic complex of heroic divination’.26 Every shade that consumes the oracular potion either provides information for the applicant to follow (e.g. Teiresias) or shares their own story that further clarifies the position of the applicant (e.g. the subsequent dialogues with the dead in 155–627).27 Despite having completed his mission, Odysseus remains to speak with his mother, who after drinking the blood immediately recognizes her son and remarks in astonishment, ‘My child, how did you come beneath the murky darkness, being still alive?’ (155–56 [Murray, LCL]). The hero describes his mysterious journey to the house of Hades and inquires of the origin of her unexpected demise as well as news of his father, son, and wife (163–79). Anticleia speaks of the faithful Penelope, the valiant Telemachus, and the grief-stricken Laertes; it was unbearable grief that was ultimately her undoing (180–203). Stricken by grief himself, Odysseus leaps forward to embrace his mother and console his broken heart, but ‘three times she flitted from my arms like a shadow or dream’ (207–208 [Murray, LCL]). A dejected Odysseus asks his mother about this cruel trick, ‘Is this some phantom [εἴδωλον] that august 25 House of Hades, 71 n. 13. Cf. Teiresias with Minos (569), who also wields a σκῆπτρον while proclaiming judgement over the dead. 26 Albinus, House of Hades, 72. 27 In Book 11, Elpenor represents the lone exception, but he does not drink the blood. His demand for the funeral rites is a personal request that does not advance the narrative or provide Odysseus with a new vantage point for his path going forward. He does learn that if he fails to bury his shipmate the gods will punish him, which would presumably prevent him from realizing the prophetic prediction of Teiresias. See further, Albinus, House of Hades, 72 n. 16 and 73.

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Persephone has sent me so that I may lament and groan still more?’ (213–14 [Murray, LCL]). Anticleia explains that it is not a cruel deception, ‘for the sinews no longer hold the flesh [σάρκας] and the bones together, but the strong force of blazing fire destroys them, as soon as the spirit leaves the white bones, and the ghost [ψυχή], like a dream, flutters and is gone’ (219–22 [Murray, LCL]). This scene recalls a similar episode in the Iliad. After agreeing to carry out the burial rites quickly, Achilles attempts to embrace the spirit of his beloved Patroclus: So saying he reached out his hands, yet clasped him not; but the spirit [ψυχή] like smoke was gone beneath the earth, gibbering faintly. And Achilles sprang up in amazement, and struck his hands together, and spoke a piteous word, ‘Well now! Even in the house of Hades there is something – spirit [ψυχή] and phantom [εἴδωλον] – though there is no mind [φρένες] at all; for the whole night long has the spirit [ψυχή] of unlucky Patroclus stood over me, weeping and wailing, and charged me concerning each thing, and was marvelously like his very self’. (23.99–107 [Murray, LCL])

Homer uses the terms ψυχή and εἴδωλον interchangeably in reference to both Elpenor (Od. 11.51 and 83) and Patroclus (Il. 23.104).28 The ψυχή, which does not possess sensations, feelings, or consciousness, departs the σάρξ at death and crosses the gates of Hades if properly buried, becoming a permanent resident of the realm of the dead. The εἴδωλον, on the other hand, is a means to identify the dead – a visible and recognizable form of the ψυχή – ‘as a mold gives specific form to a bronze casting’.29 However, the ψυχή is not just an εἴδωλον, for it retains its identity and memory.30 After the appearance of Elpenor, Anticleia, and Teiresias, a collective mass of women appear, sent by their matron Persephone (225–34). Odysseus allows them to drink the dark blood, one at a time, so that he might question them. Homer organizes these women according to rank, the wives and daughters of princes: Tyro, who bore two children to Poseidon (235–60); Antiope, who slept with Zeus and conceived two sons (260–65); Alcmene, the mother of Heracles and Megara, his wife (266–70); Epicaste, the mother and wife of another blind seer, Oedipus (271–80); Chloris, queen of Pylos (281–97); Leda, mother of Castor and Polydeuces, who alternate spending this day among the living and the next among the dead (298–304); and Iphimedeia, the mother of handsome 28 See further, Burkert, Greek Religion, 195–96; Albinus, House of Hades, 43–56; Jan N. Bremmer, The Early Greek Concept of the Soul (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 73–80; and Riley, Resurrection, 48–50. 29 Riley, Resurrection, 48. 30 Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 27. In the deutero-νέκυια, the blood drinking is entirely absent; they speak freely without the life-infusing potion. It is precisely these kinds of inconsistencies that have led some to conclude Book 24 is a later addition. According to Burkert, however, ‘contradictions are freely tolerated’ (Greek Religion, 196). On these ‘contradictions’ and the redactional history of Odyssey 11, see Denys Page, The Homeric Odyssey (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1976), 21–51.

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giants (305–20).31 The procession of women concludes with two sets of three: Phaedra, Proclis, and Ariadne, the daughter of Minos; and Maera, Clymene, and Eriphyle, who betrayed her husband for gold (321–28). After a short break in the narrative (328–84), Odysseus resumes his tale with the arrival of the princes proper, Agamemnon and the others who were slain by the betrayal of Aegisthus (385–89). ‘He knew me instantly, when he had drunk the dark blood, and he wept aloud, and shed big tears, and stretched out his hands toward me eager to reach me. But no longer had he anything of strength or might remaining, such as of old was in his supple limbs’ (390–94 [Murray, LCL]). Like the scene involving Anticleia, the memory and identity of Agamemnon’s ψυχή is reactivated by the blood, and like Odysseus with his mother, the downtrodden king attempts to embrace his former friend, but is unable to do so. Odysseus then inquires about the king’s death, as he did with his mother, presuming a glorious end in battle or a tragic shipwreck by the hand of Poseidon (395–403). The humiliated Agamemnon recounts how his wife Clytemnestra and her lover Aegisthus carried out his assassination upon his return from Troy (404–23). It is evident that the memory of his death weighs upon him as his ψυχή vividly describes the moment, ‘And as I lay dying with the sword in my chest, I raised my hands and let them fall to the ground. But she, bitch that she was, turned away, and did not deign, though I was going to the house of Hades, either to draw down my eyelids with her fingers or to close my mouth’ (423–26 [Murray, LCL]). Even before drinking the blood, the ψυχή of Agamemnon appeared ‘sorrowing’ as if frozen in the tragic moment of his death (388 [Murray, LCL]). The pain and anger of the humiliated king comes from the continuation of emotion at the time of death, not from the fact that he died or the conditions of the underworld itself.32 This becomes increasingly clear as he berates all women for Clytemnestra’s infidelity, who ‘has shed shame on herself and on women yet to be, even on her who does what is right’ (433–34 [Murray, LCL]).33 Although Agamemnon praises wise Penelope, a counterpart to the 31 In many ancient cultures, life in the underworld was simply a continuation of one’s earthly life – if one ruled in life, one also ruled in death. For example, hierarchy among the dead is attested in the fifth-century Greek tragedians (Aesch., Pers. 681–93; Cho. 354–62; Soph., El. 836–39). As such, social status played a crucial role in the funerals of the Archaic Age in Greece; see further, Ian Morris, Burial and Ancient Society: The Rise of the Greek City-State (New Studies in Archaeology; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 46–48. Cicero would later criticize this popular notion, ‘For since the bodies fall into the earth and are covered with earth (which is why one speaks of them as “buried”), it was believed that the dead would continue their life under the earth. This view led to great errors, and the poets have only made these errors greater’ (Tusc. 1.36 [King, LCL]). 32 Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 28. 33 According to Euripides’ play, Iphigenia at Aulis, Agamemnon sacrificed his daughter to Artemis to ensure a fair wind to usher the Greek ships to the city of Troy. This post-Homeric tradition provides motive for Clytemnestra’s betrayal, but is missing entirely in Homer’s account. See further, Riley, One Jesus, 51–52.

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guileful Clytemnestra, he advises Odysseus to return home secretly ‘for no longer is there faith in women’ (456 [Murray, LCL]). The one possible consolation for the spiteful king would be news of his son Orestes, whom he did not get the chance to see before meeting his tragic end. Agamemnon knows that his son has not yet perished, which suggests the dead are aware of those who are members of the house of Hades, but sadly Odysseus has no news to report (461–64). This episode reveals that even in death, knowledge of living kin is a soothing balm in a land without pleasure. The suffering of Agamemnon is accentuated by the contrast between the king and the sojourner, not only with regard to their wives, but also their sons. Agamemnon prophesies that Odysseus will be reunited with his noble son (450–51), but for the king, even news of his son’s fate is denied him; the triumphant νόστος of Odysseus is framed by the tragic νόστος of Agamemnon.34 ‘Sad words’ and ‘big tears’ are interrupted by the arrival of Achilles, Patroclus, Antilochus, and Ajax (465 and 466 [Murray, LCL]). Without drinking the oracular potion, the son of Peleus addresses the man of many devices, ‘How did you dare to come down to Hades, where dwell the unheeding dead, the phantoms of men outworn?’ (475–76 [Murray, LCL]).35 Odysseus laments of his eternal sufferings, contrasting his cursed life with the most blessed of the Achaeans, ‘No man before this was more blessed than you, Achilles, nor shall be hereafter. For before, when we were alive, we Argives honored you equally with the gods, and now that you are here, you rule mightily among the dead. Therefore, grieve not at all that you are dead, Achilles’ (482–86 [Murray, LCL]). From the perspective of the living (i.e. Odysseus), the near-divine honours paid to Achilles in life must surely be present in death, but from the perspective of the dead (i.e. Achilles) there is no consolation in the house of Hades. ‘Never try to reconcile me to death, glorious Odysseus. I should choose, so I might live on earth, to serve as the hireling of another, some landless man with hardly enough to live on, rather than to be lord over all the dead that have perished’ (488–91 [Murray, LCL]). Death is a time of sorrow; no honours in the realm of the dead, if they existed, could compensate for the loss of life. The allusion to choice in this famous statement from the dead warrior recalls Book 9 of the Iliad: For my mother the goddess, silverfooted Thetis, tells me that twofold fates are bearing me toward the doom of death: if I remain here and fight about the city of Trojans, then lost is my return home [νόστος], but my renown [κλέος] will be imperishable [ἄφθιτον]; but if I return home to my dear native land, lost then is my glorious renown, yet my life long will endure, and the doom of death will not come soon to me. (410–16 [Murray, LCL])36

34 Albinus, House of Hades, 75. 35 Sourvinou-Inwood, Reading, 81. 36 On the problem of fate and free will, see Riley, One Jesus, 44–48.

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Achilles chose κλέος ἄφθιτον, but now in death a new perspective has emerged, an eschatological critique of the misplaced values of the living.37 Like the previous dialogue with Agamemnon, the νόστος of Odysseus is contrasted with the νόστος of Achilles, who chose unending fame over an enduring life. It is this choice that haunts Achilles, which clearly differentiates him from Agamemnon, who suffers from the shame of his death. Achilles chose unwisely and he suffers from regret, ‘If only in such strength I could come, even only for an hour, to my father’s house’ (501 [Murray, LCL]). Like Agamemnon, Achilles seeks news of his family, particularly of his father Peleus and son Neoptolemus. Although Odysseus has no news of his father, he reports that Neoptolemus rose to prominence among the Achaeans after his father’s death – wise in council, first in battle, unmatched in beauty, and alive and well (504– 37). A son’s regret is replaced by a father’s pride, as Achilles departs with ‘long strides over the field of asphodel, joyful in that I said that his son was preeminent’ (539–40 [Murray, LCL]). The tension between Agamemnon and Achilles, which propels the narrative movement of the Iliad, continues after death and, from this new perspective, is brought into sharper focus. In death, the great king is left with only bitter memories; he learns nothing of his son, but more importantly, has learned nothing about himself. The great warrior, on the other hand, realizes that he was author of his own demise. If given the chance to live again, he would choose a different path. The remorse Achilles demonstrates is contrasted with Agamemnon, who is consumed with rage and spite, frozen in the moment of his death; for this man, there is no consolation. For the repentant Achilles, the nobility of his son is a ‘joyful’ reward, which no honour could replace, even if he were the king. After the triumphant departure of Achilles, ‘other ghosts’ appear, ‘sorrowing’ and asking about ‘those dear to them’ (541–42 [Murray, LCL]). In this transition statement, Homer summarizes the condition of the dead – they suffer from loss and longing, mitigated only by news of loved ones. Among these miscellaneous dead, Odysseus notices a particularly wrathful ψυχή, Telamonian Ajax, who is still angry with the man of many devices for defeating him in a contest for the arms of Achilles (543–52). Like Agamemnon, Ajax is frozen in the bitter emotion of his death, a moment of shame and loss.38 It is not exactly clear if Ajax recognizes his former friend (having not drunk the dark blood), but Odysseus addresses him with ‘winning words’ as if a 37 Cf. Sarpedon’s exhortation to Glaucus in Book 12 of the Iliad, ‘Ah friend, if once escaped from this battle we were for ever to be ageless and immortal, neither should I myself fight among the foremost, nor should I send you into battle where men win glory; but now – for in any case fates of death threaten us, fates past counting, which no mortal may escape or avoid – now let us go forward, whether we shall give glory to another, or another to us’ (322–28 [Murray, LCL]). On κλέος ἀνδρῶν (‘fame among men’) and κλέος ἄφθιτον (‘unwilting fame’) in Homer, see Riley, Resurrection, 23–26. 38 The Homeric account is vague concerning the exact nature of his death, but it is clear his defeat at the hand of Odysseus was instrumental in his demise (553–62).

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connection had been made between the two.39 In either case, without a word, the unconquered warrior rejoins the countless ghosts of the dead (553–67). Together, the humiliated king and the humiliated warrior form an inclusio, accentuating the unique perspective of the god-like Achilles. Agamemnon and Ajax suffer from their unfulfilled longing for κλέος ἄφθιτον, which was denied them in life in the manner of their death; for each man only shame remains, whether from deadly betrayal or singular defeat. Among them, Achilles stands alone, having received in life the unfading fame that all men seek in glorious battle. In death, the enlightened warrior laments of the hollow reward of κλέος ἄφθιτον – only the longing for life remains – even the life of a peasant. After the brief encounter with Ajax, there is a shift in the vantage point of the hero. Up to this point, the dead ascended from the pit and gathered around Odysseus, pressing him from every side to drink from the dark blood (cf. 36–43). From this point forward, however, Odysseus becomes aware of new sights as if he could see into the ‘wide-gated house of Hades’ (571 [Murray, LCL]). The episodes that conclude the account, Minos, Orion, Tityos, Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Heracles, are linked with similar introductory clauses: ‘I saw’; ‘after him I became aware’; ‘I saw’; ‘I saw’; ‘I saw’; and ‘after him I became aware’ (568, 572, 576, 582, 593, and 601 [Murray, LCL]).40 From this new vantage point, Odysseus sees King Minos, holding the ‘golden scepter [χρύσεον σκῆπτρον]’ that Teiresias also carried (cf. 91), seated among the dead and issuing judgement at their request (569 [Murray, LCL]).41 Although the description is terse and lacks clarity, Minos does not appear to function as a judge of the dead; rather as judge for the dead, resolving disputes that are brought before him by the dead themselves.42 After Minos, Odysseus ‘became aware of huge Orion’ carrying an unbroken club, herding wild beats on the meadow of asphodel (572 [Murray, LCL]). It is unclear if this is intended to be a punishment or, like the previous episode, merely a glimpse of daily life in the realm of the dead.43 According to pseudo39 Sourvinou-Inwood, Reading, 81. 40 According to R. D. Dawe, ‘there is a widespread agreement that Minos, Orion, Tityos, Tantalos, Sisyphus, and Heracles together constitute a late addition’ (The Odyssey [trans. R. D. Dawe; Sussex: The Book Guild, 1993], 460). Cf. Sourvinou-Inwood, Reading, 84–89. 41 Minos is identified later as the friend of Zeus in Book 19.178–80. 42 Although Minos does not judge the dead, divine judgement is present in Homer. The silencing of Thamyris (Il. 2.591–602) and the blinding of Lycurgus (Il. 6.130–43) are such examples, but they do not occur postmortem. The Erinys, the avenging spirits of the underworld, punish the dead who have broken an oath (Il. 3.278 and 19.260), but it is not explicitly linked to an underworld mythology (Albinus, House of Hades, 77 n. 27). According to Burkert, ‘an oath formula in the Iliad plainly invokes those “who beneath the earth punish dead men, whoever has sworn a false oath;” these powers are called Erinyes. This does not presuppose a judgment of the dead: the Erinyes are simply an embodiment of the act of self-cursing contained in the oath. Nevertheless, the Erinyes cannot be acting on shades that are entirely devoid of consciousness’ (Greek Religion, 197–98). 43 Burkert suggests the dead ‘persist in their activity of life or situation on earth: Orion the hunter hunts, Minos the king dispenses justice, and Agamemnon is surrounded by those who were slain with him’ (Greek Religion, 196).

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Hesiod, Orion threatened to exterminate all of the animals on the island of Crete so Earth intervened and sent a scorpion to kill him; afterwards, Zeus immortalized him (and the scorpion) among the stars (Astronomy 4). It is possible Orion is being punished in Homer – an inversion of his activity in life – perpetually herding the very animals he had slain. Bernstein counters that it is also possible the herd is a trophy, emphasizing his ‘promotion to heavenly status as a constellation’.44 The perpetuity of the activity, however, is a potential connective thread with the three figures that follow, suggesting he is in fact suffering a form of punitive punishment for his crime against the divine order. Orion’s fate in the underworld may be unclear, but those of Tityos, Tantalus, and Sisyphus are not: Tityos is stretched out over nine hundred feet while vultures tear at his liver, unable to ward them off with his hands (576–81); Tantalus is perched between receding sources of water and fruit that he cannot reach despite his efforts to do so (582–92); and Sisyphus is seen repeatedly pushing a monstrous stone up a steep hill only to have it roll back again (593– 600).45 Of these three, only the guilt of Tityos is explicitly stated, having abducted and attempted to rape Leto, the ‘honored consort of Zeus’ (580 [Murray, LCL]).46 Leto was also the mother of Apollo and Artemis, but Homer chooses to emphasize her relationship to Zeus; this transgression not only violated the honour of the goddess, but more importantly, the reign of Zeus and his established order.47 As a result, he is punished by immobility and the continuous tearing of his organ of desire and passion – ‘a reversal of his role as sexual aggressor’.48 Like a corpse, Tityos lies there powerless, as the carrion birds eat away at his flesh.49 The crimes of Tantalus and Sisyphus are not described, which might suggest they were generally known. According to Walter Burkert, they became ‘unforgettable symbols precisely because there is no commentary, no fabula

44 Formation of Hell, 31. 45 For discussions of all three, see Rohde, Psyche, 40–41 and 238–42; W. Büchner, ‘Probleme der homerischen Nekyia’, Hermes 72 (1937): 113–15; Vermeule, Aspects of Death, 8 and 127–28; Garland, Greek Way, 60 and 156; and especially, Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Crime and Punishment’, 37–58. The order of the three sinners reflects a descending movement from the divine to the mortal, from the Giant Tityos to Tantalus, the son of Zeus, to the common man, Sisyphus, born from human parents (Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Crime and Punishment’, 55–56). On the genealogy of Sisyphus, see M. L. West, The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women: Its Nature, Structure, and Origins (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), 63–64 and 173–76. 46 On the myth of Tityos, see Pindar, Pyth. 4.90–92; Pausanias, Descr. 10.4.4. 47 As a Giant and son of Gaia (Od. 11.576; 7.324), Tityos belongs to a group traditionally identified as the enemies of Zeus. On the role of the Giant in Greek mythology, see Claude Calame, ‘Les figures grecques du giagantesque’, Communications 42 (1985): 147–72. 48 Souvinou-Inwood, ‘Crime and Punishment’, 38. On the liver as the seat of desire, see Plotinus, Enn. IV 4.28.15–19. 49 Compare the punishment of Tityos with that of Prometheus (Hesiod, Theog. 507–22).

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docet, not a word about their offence or guilt’.50 The Iliad does describe Sisyphus approvingly as the ‘craftiest of men’, which may be an allusion to his successful escape from death (6.154 [Murray, LCL]).51 According to the dominant tradition, prior to his death he ordered his wife not to bury his body.52 After arriving in the underworld, Sisyphus persuaded Hades to allow him to return to censure his wife for not properly carrying out the burial rites.53 Sisyphus refused to return until he died in old age; Hades then forced him to roll a stone to prevent him from escaping again. At the same time, it also reminded him repeatedly of the vanity of his trickery, escaping to the upper world only to be brought back down again.54 Tantalus, on the other hand, does not appear elsewhere in Homer, but he was well known to ancient writers. According to the Boeotian poet, Pindar (518–438 bce), Tantalus was dissatisfied with his great wealth and offered up his son Pelops as a sacrifice, dicing and boiling him as food for the gods (Ol. 1.23–53).55 In addition, Pindar notes he stole the nectar and ambrosia that the gods had used to make him immortal and shared it with mortal men (Ol. 1.60–64).56 Although Homer does not identify his crime, the punishment fits the tradition perfectly; for his savage violation of the dinner table of the gods, food and drink are forever just beyond his reach.57 Ultimately, Homer is silent 50 Greek Religion, 198. 51 In other sources, he was being punished for interfering in the love life of Zeus (Apollodorus, Library, 1.9.3; Pausanias, Descr. 2.5.1). However, in the dominant tradition, it is this interference that directly leads to his plan to escape death. See further, Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Crime and Punishment’, 48. A play called Sisyphus was written by Critias (460–403 bce), an Athenian politician and playwright, but only fragments survived. One fragment contains a theory of the human origins of belief in the gods in which Critias posited two innovations in the transition from anarchy to laws: (1) men devised laws based on retribution to deter crime, but the law could not control hidden deeds; and (2) a wise man invented the fear of the gods who could know whatever is thought or done in secret. See further, Ancilla to the Pre-Socratic Philosophers (trans. Kathleen Freeman; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1948), 157–58. 52 On the myth of Sisyphus, see Theognis, i.701–12; A. C. Pearson, The Fragments of Sophocles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1917), 2.184–85; Rohde, Psyche, 53 n. 82; and Vermeule, Aspects of Death, 26. 53 Sophocles alludes to his trickery in Phil. 624–25. 54 Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Crime and Punishment’, 52–53. On the possibility of the stone being a grave marker, see Donna C. Kurtz and John Boardman, Greek Burial Customs (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1971), 56–57. 55 On the myth of Tantalus in Pindar Ol. 1, see Adolf Köhnken, ‘Pindar as Innovator: Poseidon Hippios and the Relevance of the Pelops Story in Olympian 1’, CQ 24 (1974): 200– 202. On the cannibalistic banquet of Tantalus in general, see Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Crime and Punishment’, 40–45. In Orphic myth, cannibalism was the great sin committed by the Titans when they ate Dionysius; after being destroyed by lightening, humankind emerged from their ashes (see further, M. L. West, The Orphic Poems [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983], 140–75). 56 See also, Apollodorus, Epitome 2.1–3. The theft of divine food and drink functions symbolically as the opposite of the savage (i.e. cannibalistic) food and drink offered to the gods by Tantalus. 57 Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Crime and Punishment’, 42 and 46. In some later sources, the traditional Homeric punishment is combined with a stone hanging over his head as well (cf.

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on the crimes of Tantalus and Sisyphus, which significantly contributed to the notoriety of these mythical criminals; unlike Tityos, Tantalus and Sisyphus were available for embellishment in later traditions.58 The palpability of these special dead is clearly implied throughout this brief account; their punishment, which is an inversion of their crime, hinges on physical sensation and consciousness. They suffer from the perpetual afflictions that plague all of humanity: pain and immobility, hunger and thirst, and unending toil and physical exhaustion. In sum, all three sinners are punished without end ‘for crimes which constituted offences against the cosmic order which they had endangered, as well as personal offences against the gods who are its guarantors, and also offences against the social order which the cosmic order grounds’.59 These three mythical criminals are clearly distinct from the common dead, who emerge from the pit to speak with Odysseus. Odysseus ‘becomes aware’ of Minos, Orion, Tityos, Tantalus, and Sisyphus, but they appear to reside in the house of Hades.60 According to Bernstein, Tityos, Tantalus, and Sisyphus are actually in Tartarus, but Homer does not utilize this place of punishment specifically in Book 11, even though it is known to him: ‘I shall take and hurl him into murky Tartarus, far, far away, where is the deepest gulf beneath the earth, where the gates are of iron and the threshold of bronze, as far beneath Hades as heaven is above earth’ (Il. 8.13–16 [Murray, LCL]).61 In the Iliad, Tartarus is a special prison for the enemies of Zeus, an appropriate destination for these three men who offended the gods, but Homer is content with merely describing their perpetual suffering.62 Once again, Odysseus ‘became aware’ of a new sight, ‘the mighty Heracles – his phantom [εἴδωλον]; for he himself among the immortal gods takes his joy in the feast’ (601–603 [Murray, LCL]).63 The double position of Heracles is a unique occurrence in the νέκυια: his image belongs to Hades, but Heracles Apollodorus, Epitome 2.1; Pausanias, Descr. 10.31.12). While in other sources, only the stone is present (cf. Pindar, Ol. 1.54–64). 58 Burkert, Greek Religion, 198. 59 Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Crime and Punishment’, 54. 60 Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 59. 61 Formation of Hell, 32–33 and 38–39; also Jan Bremmer, The Rise and Fall of the Afterlife: The 1995 Read-Tuckwell Lectures at the University of Bristol (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 4. This description of Tartarus is similar to what is found in Hesiod’s Theogony, which narrates the establishment of the divine order and the punishment of the tyrant gods who rebelled against the Olympian system; the Olympians imprisoned the Titans in Tartarus, a fearful dungeon far beneath the earth (713–35). In both Homer and Hesiod, Tartarus is imagined as a remote location, strictly separated from the realm of the living and the dead. For the scholarly tradition on Hesiod, see Ernst Heitsch, Hesiod (Wege der Forschung, 44; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1966). For a detailed analysis of the Tartarus tradition in Hesiod, see David M. Johnson, ‘Hesiod’s Descriptions of Tartarus (Theogony 721–819)’, Phoenix 53 (1999): 8–27. 62 Garland, Greek Way, 60; Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Crime and Punishment’, 54; and Albinus, House of Hades, 78. 63 Cf. Hesiod, Theog. 523–33.

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himself (αὐτός) dwells with the gods.64 In the epics, Heracles is one of a select few apotheosized figures, which also includes Menelaus (561–68) and Ganymedes (Il. 20.232–34).65 Menelaus is granted immortality because he was the son-in-law of Zeus, carried away by the gods to the Elysian plain, ‘where life is easiest for men’ (Od. 4.565 [Murray, LCL]).66 In contrast to the joyless house of Hades, Homer describes Elysium as a place of endless ease and beautiful weather (566–68).67 In Book 11, Homer does not explicitly state that Heracles is in Elysium, but it does indicate that he has taken his place among the immortals as an eschatological reward for his ‘hard labors [χαλεποὺς ἀέθλους]’ and ‘woe beyond measure [ὀιζὺν ἀπειρεσίην]’, enjoying the divine feast in perpetuity (622 and 620–21 [Murray, LCL]).68 Even though only his εἴδωλον remains, the dead flee from the mighty warrior ‘as of birds flying everywhere in terror’ 64 Albinus comments on the peculiarity of this tradition: ‘Due to other instances of this semantic opposition, we may expect αὐτός to refer to σῶμα [‘corpse’], while εἴδωλον may implicitly encompass the notion of ψυχή. What, in any case, makes the distinction astonishing is that it is atypically conferred on the afterlife, so that the corpse, and therefore the self, are believed to survive in the world beyond separated from the realm of remembered images’ (House of Hades, 79). According to the scholiasts, the appearance of the εἴδωλον of Heracles is an interpolation attributed to Onomacritus, the sixth-century Orphic poet (A. T. Murray, Odyssey [vol. 1; Loeb Classical Library; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995], 445 n. 17; Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 60 n. 25; and Albinus, House of Hades, 79 n. 33). Lucian would later mock the dual citizenship of Heracles; in addition, he would interpret αὐτός as referring to the ψυχή, not the σῶμα (Dial. mort. 11). Later traditions also place Achilles, Helen, Ajax the son of Oileus, Ajax the son of Telamon, Patroclus, and Antilochus in the White Isle (Philostratus, Heroikos 54.2–55.5; and Pausanias, Descr. 3.19.11–13). For modern discussions of the White Isle, see A. T. Edwards, ‘Achilles in the Underworld: Iliad, Odyssey, and Aethiopis’, GRBS 26 (1985): 215–27; and I. P. Culianu, Psychanodia I: A Survey of the Evidence Concerning the Ascension of the Soul and its Relevance (EPRO 99; Leiden: Brill, 1983), 38–39. 65 The epics generally stress that everyone dies; Menelaus and Ganymedes are exceptions to the rule (Souirvinou-Inwood, Reading, 17; and Johnston, Restless Dead, 13). 66 ‘Elysium’ is an obscure name, but it eventually designated some place or someone who was struck by lightning; of course, to be struck by lightning meant death, but also implied election. In the Homeric tradition ‘to enter into Elyisum is to avoid death; this is the exceptional fate of the elect few’ (Burkert, Greek Religion, 198). ‘Elysium’ is often used interchangeably with the ‘Isles of the Blessed’, which is also attested in Egyptian and Mesopotamian literature (see further, Sourvinou-Inwood, Reading, 51; and Klaas Spronk, Beatific Afterlife in Ancient Israel and in the Ancient Near East [AOAT 219; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchen Verlag, 1986], 89 and 123). In Helen, Euripides’ version of Helen’s captivity, it was the wraith of Helen that was carried off by Paris to Troy. The true Helen was carried by the gods to the land of Egypt, remaining there until she might be reunited with her husband, Menelaus. At the conclusion of the play, the twin brothers, Castor and Pollux, comment on the fate of these lovers. ‘As for the wanderer Menelaus, fate and gods have ordained for him a life on the Island of the Blest. The gods do not hate the nobly born. But they endure more hardship than do men of no account’ (1676–79 [Kovacs, LCL]). Ganymedes is abducted by Zeus to be his cup-bearer because of his great beauty, but there is no explicit mention of Elysium (Il. 20.232–35). On the prize of immortality generally, see further, Riley, One Jesus, 56–57. 67 Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 60. 68 Albinus, House of Hades, 81 n. 41.

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(605–606 [Murray, LCL]). Like the previous sights, Odysseus becomes aware of Heracles, but unlike the other figures, the son of Zeus emerges from the house of Hades, recognizing and speaking to the son of Laertes without drinking the dark blood (615–16; cf. 627). Heracles laments of their shared misery; like Odysseus, he too descended into the underworld to retrieve the hound of Hades (617–25).69 Despite being a son of Zeus or one ‘sprung from Zeus’, they both were destined for an ‘evil lot’ (617 and 618 [Murray, LCL]). After speaking, the εἴδωλον of Heracles returned to the house of Hades; Odysseus would have remained, hoping to see Theseus and Peirithous, but the κατάβασις of Odysseus concludes as it began, with the eerie cries of the countless dead and a pale fear seizing the man of many devices (632–33; cf. 43–44). Thus, Odysseus returned to the black ship and his comrades, and together, they were carried away by a fair wind (636–40; cf. 7). The Homeric νέκυια in Book 11 narrates a loosely structured κατάβασις, featuring a series of episodic encounters with the dead. The account begins with an intentionally mysterious description of the journey of Odysseus to the house of Hades, emphasizing the strict separation of the living from the dead. After carrying out Circe’s instructions for the νεκυομαντεία, dialogues with the dead propel the narrative, offering the bard a new and unique vantage point for poetic expression. From the very beginning, Homer emphasizes the moment of death, as warriors appear wearing blood-spattered armour, but it is the unburied one who rises above the strengthless masses demanding the privilege of the dead. A few notable exceptions aside, the dead suffer a uniform fate, a shadowy existence without pleasure of any kind; even the lowliest slave is thought to be happier than the most celebrated dead. Amidst this eternally unaltered state, only news of loved ones can mitigate their joyless condition. As each dialogue with the dead unfolds, the dark blood alone reactivates the ψυχαί for a short time, allowing Odysseus to learn the truth about his frustrated νόστος, news of his family, and the empty promise of κλέος ἄφθιτον. Rather abruptly, however, Odysseus becomes aware of new sights within the house of Hades, and consequently new possibilities for life after death: for those who violate the divine order, perpetual suffering imagined as a reversal of their crimes; and for those who suffer miserable woes, joyful feasting with the gods.70 The seeds of a mechanistic afterlife – judgement, punishment, and

69 According to Hesiod, Cerberus guards the gates of Hades; whoever enters is greeted kindly, but anyone who tries to escape is devoured (Theog. 311 and 770–73). 70 Despite the distinct possibility of interpolations throughout the account, which may explain the presence of contradictory elements, the present form of the tradition was known centuries before the Roman era (Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 59 n. 16). ‘In people’s beliefs about the afterlife, there are present from the very beginning a large number of overlapping and contradictory themes’ (Walter Burkert, Lore and Science in Ancient Pythagoreanism [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1972], 359). Or as Sourvinou-Inwood put it, ‘poetry articulated theology and mythology, but of course the versions it offered were not authoritative. Though poets were inspired by the Muses, the Muses also lied’ (Reading, 12).

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reward – were sown in Homeric soil, fertile ground in which a magnificent harvest would be reaped in the ensuing tours of hell tradition.71

Post-Homeric Tours of Hell The famed Greek traveller and geographer, Pausanias, in his ten-volume Description of Greece, described in depth a painting of the κατάβασις of Odysseus at Delphi by Polygnotus.72 The painting is an eclectic work, reflecting the influence of a variety of ancient traditions, but Odyssey Book 11 provides the essential framework for the artist, including depictions of Tityos, Elpenor, Teiresias, Anticleia, Agamemnon, Achilles, Ajax, Sisyphus, and Tantalus. This fifth-century vision of the underworld bears witness to the fecundity of the tours of hell tradition and the primacy of the Homeric νέκυια at a very early stage.73 In his description of the painting, Pausanias alludes to two now lost epic poems that included journeys to hades: the Minyad, which described the κατάβασις of Theseus and Peirithous (10.28.2); and an unknown νέκυια narrated in the Νόστοι (10.28.7). Homer alludes to the former at the conclusion of Book 11, but Odysseus is frightened away before he could see ‘Theseus and Peirithous, glorious children of the gods’ (631 [Murray, LCL]).74 The κατάβασις of Heracles to ‘fetch the hound of Hades’ is also known to Homer (623 [Murray, LCL]), but there is no mention of the tradition in Pausanias.75 71 Bauckham, Fate of the Dead, 27. After Homer, the earliest hint of the division of the dead comes from the seventh/sixth-century Hom. hDem., but it does not narrate a νέκυια. In this text, Hades promises Persephone that those who give her honour will be rewarded, but those who do not will be punished forever (367–69). This promise is the centrepiece of the foundational myth of the Eleusinian Mysteries – the most widely practised mystery religion in the ancient world – established at Eleusis, twenty to thirty kilometres west of Athens. The fourth-century philosopher, Isocrates, acknowledged the double gift of Demeter, ‘the fruits of the earth, which have enabled us to rise above the life of the beasts, and the holy rite which inspires in those who partake of it sweeter hopes regarding both the end of life and all eternity’ (Paneg. 4.28 [Norlin, LCL]). Despite this statement, however, Isocrates values κλέος ἄφθιτον more. On the Eleusinian Mysteries, see Paul Foucart, Les mystères d’Eleusis (Paris: Picard, 1914); Karl Kerényi, Eleusis: Archetypal Image of Mother and Daughter (trans. Ralph Manheim; New York: Pantheon Books, 1967); George Immanuel Mylonas, Eleusis and the Eleusinian Mysteries (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961); Mary Lynn Keller, ‘The Eleusinian Mysteries of Demeter and Persephone: Fertility, Sexuality, and Rebirth’, JFSR 4 (1988): 27–54; and Walter Burkert, Ancient Mystery Cults (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 1–29. On the possibility of a blessed afterlife in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, see Larry J. Alderink, ‘Mythical and Cosmological Structure in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter’, Numen 29 (1982): 1–16. 72 Pausanias, Descr. 10.28–31. 73 Bauckham, Fate of the Dead, 28. 74 According to Pausanias, a lost poem by Hesiod also narrated the descent of Theseus and Peirithous (Descr. 9.31.5). 75 A poem on this theme, which may have been authored by Pindar, survived in fragments (for the text, see Hugh Lloyd-Jones, ‘Heracles at Eleusis: P. Oxy. 2622 and P.S.I. 1391’, Maia 19 (1967): 206–29. The descent of Heracles appears to be the target of the comedic wit of the

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Orpheus, however, is depicted in the painting (10.30.6); a well-known account of a journey to the underworld, Descent to Hades (Εἰς Ἅιδου κατάβασις), was attributed to the mythic poet, but it is not extant.76 Centuries later, Lucian would refer in passing to the descents of Odysseus, Heracles, and Orpheus as if they were cultural monuments, known in some form or another to everyone (Men. 8).77 The popularity of the Homeric νέκυια, in particular, attracted the critical gaze of the philosophical schools.78 Diogenes Laertius recorded a tradition concerning the κατάβασις of Pythagoras, the late sixth-century philosopher

Athenian playwright Aristophanes (c. 450–385 bce) in the Ran. The satire was written about four months after the death of Euripides for public performance during the Athenian festival of Dionysus, drawing upon common knowledge of the mysteries and vividly contrasting the fate of the good and wicked dead. The play narrates the descent of a common citizen, Dionysus, who seeks to bring Euripides back from the underworld because there is a shortage of good poets in Athens. Before embarking on this dangerous journey, Dionysus consults Heracles for advice, who describes terrifying punishments for those who offended the gods as well as the happy band of mystics who rest in the shade of myrtle groves (145–58). The response of Dionysus is particularly noteworthy, ‘You can’t scare me, I’m still going to go’ (143–44 [Rogers, LCL]; cf. 280–82). Aristophanes depicts Heracles as a manipulator of postmortem fears, which may function as a criticism of his literary ancestors. According to Bernstein, this play is a pivotal document in the history of a discriminatory afterlife: ‘Initiation in the mysteries, therefore, provides the knowledge necessary to teach one’s fellows how to avoid the hazards of the underworld and enjoy a blissful life after death’ (Formation of Hell, 47). The benefits of the mysteries in general are also testified by Plato, ‘And I fancy that those men who established the mysteries were not unenlightened, but in reality had a hidden meaning when they said long ago that whoever goes uninitiated and unsanctified to the other world will lie in the mire, but he who arrives there initiated and purified will dwell with the gods’ (Phaed. 69c [Fowler, LCL]). On the relationship between the Ran. and the Eleusinian Mysteries in particular, see Bauckham, Fate of the Dead, 29–31. 76 Otto Kern, Orphicorum Fragmenta (Berlin: Weidmanns, 1922), 304–306. It is virtually impossible to reconstruct Orphism as it existed in the Archaic period. The first few surviving signs come from just before the fifth century bce; traces can be recovered from Pindar (frag. 121; 133; Ol. 2), Plato (Resp. 364b–e; Leg. 701c; Crat. 400c; Gorg. 493a; Meno, 81b), and Aristotle (De an. 410b). In addition, a number of thin gold tablets were discovered in Orphic graves in southern Italy dated to the fourth or third century bce. One of the tablets contains instructions for the deceased on what to say to the judges of the underworld (see further, Alberto Pajares Bernab and Ana Isabel Jimnez San Cristbal, Instructions for the Netherworld: The Orphic Gold Tablets [Leiden: Brill, 2008]). Orpheus was a mythical prophet and singer from the time before the Trojan War. As the son of Apollo and Kalliope, a large body of later literature concerning the origin of the soul and the afterlife was attributed to him and preserved by Orphic priests. For a sketch of the Orphic framework, see Riley, River, 143–46; Burkert, Greek Religion, 276–304; West, Orphic Poems; Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 42–46; Larry J. Alderink, Creation and Salvation in Ancient Orphism (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981); and W. K. C. Guthrie, Orpheus and Greek Religion (New York: W. W. Norton, 1966). 77 On the widespread knowledge of the Orphic and Homeric traditions, see Diodorus of Sicily 1.96.4–6. In his analysis of descents to the underworld, Richard Bauckham notes, ‘These descents [Odysseus, Heracles, and Orpheus] probably provided the Greeks of the classical period and later with much of their information about the world of the dead’ (Fate of the Dead, 27). 78 On the philosophical treatment of the fate of the soul, see Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 83–97.

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and mathematician.79 In a fragment of Hermippus, the one-eyed Athenian playwright describes how Pythagoras disappeared in his cellar for several years, during which time he claimed he had been to hades (8.41).80 According to Heironymus Rhodius, while in hades Pythagoras ‘saw the soul of Hesiod bound fast to a brazen pillar and gibbering, and the soul of Homer hung on a tree with serpents writhing about it, this being their punishment for what they had said about the gods’ (8.21 [Hicks, LCL]). The Pythagorean κατάβασις is known only through later fragments, but it clearly condemned the two poets who suffer a fate akin to Tityos, Tantalus, and Sisyphus, the great offenders of the gods. This Pythagorean tradition issued a vague accusation, but a far more detailed and even-handed criticism of the Homeric νέκυια is available in the Platonic masterpiece, the Republic.81 In the opening lines of Book 3, Socrates examines the political implications of the Homeric νέκυια and posits the need for ‘supervision’ of the educational curriculum: ‘Concerning the gods then,’ said I, ‘this is the sort of thing that we must allow or not allow them to hear from childhood up, if they are to honor the gods and their fathers and mothers, and not to hold their friendship with one another in light esteem.’ ‘That was our view and I believe it right.’ ‘What then of this? If they are to be brave, must we not extend our prescription to include also the sayings that will make them least likely to fear death? Or do you suppose that anyone could ever become brave who had that dread in his heart?’ ‘No indeed, I do not,’ he replied. ‘And again if he believes in the reality of the underworld and its terrors, do you think that any man will be fearless of death and in battle will prefer death to defeat and slavery?’ ‘By no means.’ ‘Then it seems we must exercise supervision also, in the matter of such tales as these, over those who undertake to supply them and request them not to dispraise in this undiscriminating fashion the life in Hades but rather praise it, since what they now tell us is neither true nor edifying to men who are destined to be warriors.’ (386a–c [Shorey, LCL])

As the pedagogue of the Greek world, Homer undermined the utility of κλέος ἄφθιτον for ‘men who are destined to be warriors’; they learned to fear witless death more than slavery, to fear the postmortem fate of Achilles more than the life of a peasant.82 Why should they desire to die in battle for the welfare of the 79 For a hypothetical reconstruction of the descent, see Isidore Lévy, La Légende de Pythagore de Grèce en Palestine (Paris: Librairie Ancienne Honoré Champion, 1927), 79–128. 80 On the relationship between this tradition concerning Pythagoras and the sanctuary of Demeter, see Burkert, Lore and Science, 155–63. 81 For an excellent overview of the Platonic view of the soul and the afterlife, see Riley, River, 147–56. 82 Plato was not the only one concerned about the valour of soldiers in the light of popular conceptions of a meaningless afterlife. In The Histories, Polybius (c. 200–118 bce) praised Roman religion for celebrating the community’s heroic dead: ‘who would not be inspired by the sight of the images of men renowned for their excellence all together and as if alive and breathing?’ (6.53.10 [Paton, LCL]; cf. 6.52.11, 6.54.3, and 6.55.4). A similar sentiment was also shared by Cicero (99–55 b.c.e.) in the Rep.: ‘for all who defend, aid, and expand the fatherland,

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state, if their fate in the underworld is not differentiated from that of the slain suitors, gibbering like bats in some mysterious cave?83 Socrates concedes the notoriety of the bard – ‘Homer is the most poetic of poets and the first of tragedians’ – but is careful to distinguish aesthetics from truth (10.607a [Shorey, LCL]).84 The gadfly recommends not only supervision of ‘such tales as these’, but the removal of specific Homeric lines (Od. 11.489–91; Il. 20.64; 23.103; Od. 10.495; Il. 16.856; 23.100; and Od. 24.6–10), along with any and all similar passages.85 In the light of these suggested excisions, Socrates concludes by offering this apology: ‘We will beg Homer and the other poets not to be angry if we cancel those and all similar passages, not that they are not poetic and pleasing to most hearers, but because the more poetic they are the less are they suited to the ears of boys and men who are destined to be free and to be more afraid of slavery than of death’ (387b [Shorey, LCL]).

there is a specific place set aside in heaven, where the blessed will enjoy an unending age of happiness’ (6.13 [Keyes, LCL]). In his critique of the Epicurean maxim, ‘Live unknown’, the middle Platonist, Plutarch (c. 50–120 ce), agrees with Plato that the pious dead will be rewarded (Mor. 1130c). However, the impious dead do not suffer, ‘For no vultures tear at the liver of the wicked as they lie stretched on the ground – since it has been consumed in fire or has rotted away – nor does the bearing of any heavy burden crush and wear out the bodies of those punished, for their sinews no longer hold together flesh and blood, and the dead have no remnant of the body that could sustain the weight of crushing punishment. No there is in truth but one penalty for those who have lived ill: obscurity, oblivion, and utter effacement’ (Mor. 1130d–e [Einarson and DeLacy, LCL]). 83 In the Phaedrus, Plato addresses a second implication of the Homeric depiction of the afterlife – the absence of postmortem retribution for the wicked dead. ‘We ought to bear in mind, that, if the soul is immortal, we must care for it, not only in respect to this time, which we call life, but in respect to all time, and if we neglect it, the danger now appears to be terrible. For if death were an escape from everything, it would be a boon to the wicked, for when they die they would be freed from the body and from their wickedness together with their souls. But now, since the soul is seen to be immortal, it cannot escape from evil or be saved in any other way than by becoming as good and wise as possible’ (107b–d [Fowler, LCL]). Socrates elaborates on this problem, explaining that the dead do not suffer a common fate; rather, after death, each soul is judged and determined to be one of four types: holy, indeterminate, curable wicked, or incurable wicked (113d–14c). 84 On the Platonic attack on Homer, see Heraclitus, Homeric Problems (ed. Donald A. Russell and David Konstan; Writings from the Greco-Roman World 14; Leiden: Brill, 2005), xix–xxi. Plutarch was also concerned with the education of young men regarding the bard. In his essay on how to read poetry as preparation for the study of philosophy, he explains that Homer composed a ‘mythical fabrication which has been created to please or astound the hearer’ (Mor. 17b [Babbitt, LCL]). Homer did not really believe in his ‘monstrous tales of visits to the shades’; rather, ‘fable and falsehood in plenty have been mingled with them like poison in nourishing food’ (Mor. 17b–c [Babbitt, LCL]). Essentially, Plutarch repeats the Platonic argument that young men must be educated in the distinct goals of the poet and the philosopher – the pursuit of beauty versus the pursuit of virtue. 85 The phrase, ‘such tales as these’, suggests an indictment of multiple traditions, but Plato only explicitly cites Homer.

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Plato offers his own complete redaction of these tales as the culmination of the dialogue in Book 10, the famous ‘myth of Er’.86 According to MacDonald, ‘Socrates provided his own interpretation of the netherworld in order to replace Homer’s version of life after death with one that not only punished the wicked but also rewarded the righteous, ‘It is not, let me tell you,’ he says, ‘the tale to Alcinous told [by Odysseus] that I shall unfold, but the tale of a warrior bold, Er, the son of Armenius’ (614b).87 This Platonic ζῆλος of the Homeric νέκυια begins with the resuscitation of Er on the funeral pyre, a warrior slain in battle twelve days earlier (614b).88 After reviving, he describes his journey with a large group of souls to a mysterious place of judgement where there were two openings side by side in the earth and two openings side by side in the heavens, with judges placed in between (614c). After receiving judgement, the righteous were sent upwards and to the right into the heavens marked with a sign of approval, while the wicked went down and to the left into the earth with the scars of their wicked deeds on their backs (614c–d).89 At the same time, out of the twin openings, pure souls descended from the heavens while filthy souls ascended out of the interior of the earth; Er, however, was instructed to keep his distance and observe everything so that he could to return to the living as a messenger (614d–e). The souls that emerged from their respective openings camped at a meadow and told of all that they had seen and experienced (614e). Each soul returning to the meadow had completed an afterlife of a minimum of a thousand years; if they had lived just lives they were rewarded, but if they were unjust they were punished according to their misdeeds (615a–c). Every thousand years, the souls within the earth were tested; if the soul was incurable (usually tyrants) or had not been sufficiently purified, the mouth-like opening would bellow

86 According to Joel C. Relihan, the ‘myth of Er’ inspired a Cynic genre that taught that words and myths cannot express transcendent truths (Ancient Menippean Satire [Blatimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993], 33–34 and 179–84. 87 MacDonald, ‘Luke’s Eutychus’, 14. ‘Longinus’ recommends Plato to his students as the preeminent example of literary imitation and emulation of Homer ([Subl.] 13–14). Compare these statements with Bauckham’s comment on the literary ancestry of this Platonic tale, ‘This is already a conscious literary creation, though whether Plato borrowed and reworked some existing story, perhaps of oriental origin, has been inconclusively discussed’ (‘Rich Man and Lazarus’, 237). 88 Plato describes a mechanistic afterlife in the Phaed. (107–15) and the Gorg. (523–26), but only the Res. (10.614b–21b) narrates a νέκυια proper. 89 In the Gorg., Plato describes how Zeus reformed the judgement of the dead after assuming control from his father, appointing judges carefully to examine the spirits of the dead: Rhadamanthus, judge of Asia; Aeacus, judge of Europe; and Minos, judge over all (523a–24a). Plato distinguishes Minos from the other judges by quoting a Homeric line, ‘holding a golden scepter, speaking dooms to the dead’ (526d [Lamb, LCL]). Each soul would come before their judge naked, separated from their body (523e). In this way, the marks of righteousness and unrighteousness would be clearly visible, embedded on the naked soul (524d–25a). If the soul was wicked, it was deemed either curable or incurable and sent to Tartarus, but if the soul had lived a holy life and not been a busybody it was sent to the Isles of the Blest (525b–26c).

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and ‘savage men of fiery aspect’ would torture the soul and hurl it back into Tartarus (615e [Shorey, LCL]).90 After seven days in the meadow, the souls were required to continue their journey to the pillar of light, around which the cosmos rotates (616b–17d). Under the supervision of the Fates and bound by Necessity, the souls drew lots, and in turn, selected from a variety of lives, both animal and human, peasant and king (617d–18b). At this point in the story, Socrates explains to Glaucon that the most important task is to determine ‘what habit of soul operates for good or for evil, and what are the effects of high and low birth’ so that ‘he will be able to make a reasoned choice between the better and the worse life’ (618d [Shorey, LCL]).91 The story resumes in 619b as Er notes that the souls who had suffered in the earth chose their next life carefully, but the souls who had been comforted in heaven chose hastily because ‘there were unexercised in suffering’ (619d [Shorey, LCL]).92 Er then noticed several souls of notoriety choosing their next life: Orpheus, the life of a swan; Thamyris, the life of a nightingale; Ajax (out of spite for not winning the arms of Achilles), the life of a lion; Agamemnon (out of hatred for the sufferings of humanity), the life of an eagle; Atalanta, the life of an athlete; Epius, the life of an arts and crafts woman; Thersites, the life of an ape; and finally, Odysseus, who ‘from memory of its former toils having flung away ambition, went about for a long time in quest of the life of an ordinary citizen who minded his own business, and with difficulty found it lying in some corner disregarded by the others’ (620c [Shorey, LCL]). After selecting their life, each soul was bound to it by Necessity and made to drink from the River of Forgetfulness to prepare for yet another birth (620d–21b).93 90 When discussing incurable souls in the Gorgias, Plato quotes Homer as precedence of ‘those who are punished everlasting in the nether word – Tantalus and Sisyphus and Tiyos’ (525e [Lamb, LCL]). On this point, Bernstein notes, ‘Plato interprets Homer as testifying to eternal punishment for the incorrigibly evil’ (Formation of Hell, 57). 91 In particular, Socrates points to the evils of ‘riches’ and ‘tyrannies’ (619a [Shorey, LCL]). On the eternal dangers of wealth, Plato notes, ‘We ought always truly to believe the ancient and holy doctrines which declare to us that the soul is immortal and that it has judges and pays the greatest penalties, whensoever a man is released from his body; wherefore also one should account it a lesser evil to suffer than to perform the great iniquities and injustices. But to these doctrines the man who is fond of riches but poor in soul listens not, or if he listens he laughs them (as he thinks) to scorn, while he shamelessly plunders from all quarters everything which he thinks likely to provide himself, like a beast, with food or drink or the satiating himself with the slavish and graceless pleasure which is miscalled by the name of the Goddess of Love; for he is blind and fails to see what a burden of sin – how grave an evil – ever accompanies each wrong-doing; which burden the wrong-doer must of necessity drag after him both while he moves about on earth and when he has gone beneath the earth again on a journey that is unhonored and in all ways utterly miserable’ (Ep. 335a–c [Bury, LCL]). 92 In the Phaed. 246a–49a, Plato compares the soul to a charioteer with two horses, one good and one bad. The good horse pulls the soul upwards toward the gods, while the bad horse pulls the soul downwards towards the earth. The latter must be disciplined by reason, the ‘pilot of the soul’ (247d [Fowler, LCL]). 93 In later literary traditions, this river is called Lethe (e.g. Virgil, Aen. 6.714).

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Er, however, was not allowed to drink from the waters and he returned to his body upon the funeral pyre (621b). Socrates concludes the ‘myth of Er’ with an exhortation: ‘it will save us if we believe it’, but it appears few did (621c [Shorey, LCL]). One of the best sources of popular conceptions of life after death in antiquity are Greek and Latin epitaphs because they represent such a broad spectrum of ancient society.94 Richard Lattimore sifted through thousands of these inscriptions in his book, Themes in Greek and Latin Epitaphs. From his extensive examination of these data, dating from as early as the seventh century, he found that only a small fraction expressed even a hint of a hope for a meaningful afterlife.95 It is not surprising, given the popularity of the Homeric epics generally, and the κατάβασις of Odysseus specifically, that the vast majority of ancients imagined death as a shadowy existence in a land without pleasure. Whether the Homeric νέκυια influenced popular notions about the underworld or merely reflected them is difficult to assess. It is clear, however, that Plato targets the poetic vision of Book 11 as the model κατ’ ἐξοχήν of ‘such tales as these’.96 As the concluding reflection on the immortality of the soul, Socrates offers this sober critique of his own vision of life after death: Now it would not be fitting for a man of sense to maintain that all this is just as I have described it, but that this or something like it is true concerning our souls and their abodes, since the soul is shown to be immortal, I think he may properly and worthily venture to believe; for the venture is well worth while; and he ought to repeat such things to himself as if they were magic charms, which is the reason why I have been lengthening out the story so long. This then is why a man should be of 94 Lattimore, Themes, 16. 95 Lattimore, Themes, 48–82. 96 The Roman Epicurean poet Lucretius (first centruy bce) took a different tack in his attempt to challenge Homeric hegemony in De rerum natura. Whereas Plato offered his own counter-νέκυια, Lucretius demythologized Homer; Tantalus, Tityos, Sisyphus, Cerberus, the Furies, and fiery Tartarus exist in this life, not the next. For example, ‘And of a surety, whatsoever things are fabled to exist in deep Acheron, these all exist in this life. There is no wretched, as the story goes, fearing the great rock that hangs over him in the air and frozen with vain terror; rather it is in this life that the fear of gods oppresses mortals without cause, and the fall they fear is any that chance may bring’ (3.978–83 [Rouse, LCL]). Lucretius is the rare ancient who denied the existence of any afterlife; if not properly liberated from the imaginary terrors of postmortem punishment, ‘the fool’s life becomes a hell on earth’ (3.1023 [Rouse, LCL]). On Lucretius and the afterlife, see Diskin Clay, Lucretius and Epicurus (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1983), 197–98; Dieterich Lemke, Die Theologie Epikurus (Munich: Beck, 1973); Jean Salem, La Morte n’est rien pour nous: Lucrèce et l’ethique (Bibliothèque d’histoire de la philosophie; Paris: Vrin, 1990); Paul Eugene Lortie, ‘Crainte anxieuse des enfers chex Lucrèce: Prologomènes’, Phoenix 8 (1954): 47–63; Gian Biagio Conte, ‘Il trionfo della morte e la galleria dei grandi trapassati in Lucrezio III, 1024–1053’, Studi italiani di filologia classica 37 (1965): 114–32; André Desmouliez, ‘Cupidité, ambition, et crainte de la morte chex Lucrèce (De R. N. III 59– 93)’, Latomus 17 (1958): 317–23; Phillip Mitsis, Epicurus’ Ethical Theory: The Pleasures of Invulnerability (Cornell Studies in Classical Philology, 48; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988); and M. J. Edwards, ‘Treading the Aether: Lucretius, De Rerum Nature 1.62–79’, CQ 40 (1990): 465–69.

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good cheer about his soul, who in his life has rejected the pleasures and ornaments of the body, thinking they are alien to him and more likely to do him harm than good, and has sought eagerly for those of learning, and after adorning his soul with no alien ornaments, but with its own proper adornment of self-restraint [σωφροσύνη] and justice and courage and freedom and truth, awaits his departure to the other world, ready to go when fate calls him. (Phaed. 114d–15a [Fowler, LCL])

The philosopher acknowledges that any attempt to describe the netherworld is speculative and reason dictates scepticism, but the Platonic afterlife is ‘worth while’. It is a belief worth risking for those who adorn their immortal souls with ‘σωφροσύνη’. To this end, the ‘myth of Er’ is the Platonic gauntlet laid before the bard – the pursuit of virtue supersedes the pursuit of poetic beauty.97 In his utopian city, the κατάβασις of Er replaced the κατάβασις of Odysseus in the educational curriculum, but beyond the Republic the Homeric νέκυια still reigned supreme. As the Greek world was undergoing a seismic transformation, from the Classical to the Hellenistic Age, a librarian from Alexandria composed the only extant Greek hexameter epic between Homer 97 Plutarch wrote a clever imitation of the Homeric νέκυια and the ‘myth of Er’ in his essay on the efficacy of punishment after death, On the Delays of the Divine Vengeance (on Plutarch’s literary models, see MacDonald, ‘Luke’s Eutychus’, 15–16; and Frederick E. Brenk, In Mist Apparelled: Religious Themes in Plutarch’s Moralia and Lives [Lugduni Batavorum: Brill, 1977], 26 and 134–38). In order to refute the supposition that the delay of justice indicates the absence of divine supervision and to posit the superiority of punishment after death, Plutarch narrates the κατάβασις of Aridaeus (cf. Plato, Resp. 10.615e), whose recovery from a near fatal fall brought him back from the realm of the dead to recount all that he had heard and seen (Mor. 563d; see also the κατάβασις of Timarchus, Mor. 590b–92e). His story begins in the meeting-place of the souls where he is greeted by a higher soul who will serve as his guide (Mor. 563f–64d; cf. Plato, Phaed. 107d). Adrasteia, daughter of Necessity and Zeus, is given jurisdiction over all crimes, aided by three personified avenging deities: Poine, who brings swift, visible external retribution to the body; Dike, who takes those who had not been punished in the world and exposes them, shames them, and punishes them; and the Erinys, who imprisons the incurable dead in oblivion (Mor. 564e–65b; cf. Plato, Gorg. 524b–25b; Resp. 10.617c–d). His guide then takes Aridaeus a far distance over two great chasms; in the second chasm he witnesses diverse tortures designed to refine souls (Mor. 565e–67e). After they have been cleansed of their wickedness, the souls are then beaten and shaped into their new lives (Mor. 567e–f; cf. Plato, Resp. 10.620a–d). As he is watching this process, a woman approaches Aridaeus with a hot rod to engrave these memories on him, but he is rescued by another kindly woman and is cast back into his body (Mor. 568; cf. Plato, Resp. 10.621b). Despite describing in great detail the various punishments meted out to the wicked dead, which Plato does not, Plutarch ridiculed those who live in fear of these very same postmortem visions: ‘The abysmal gates of the nether world swing open, rivers of fire and offshoots of the Styx are mingled together, darkness is crowded with spectres of many fantastic shapes which beset their victim with grim visages and piteous voices, and, besides these, judges and tortures and yawning gulfs and deep recesses teeming with unnumbered woes. Thus unhappy superstition, by its excess of caution in trying to avoid everything suggestive of dread, unwittingly subjects itself to every sort of dread’ (Mor. 167a [Babbitt, LCL]). On Plutarch and the afterlife, see Roger Miller Jones, The Platonism of Plutarch and Selected Papers (New York: Garland, 1980), 40–67; Jean Hani, La religion égyptienne dans la pensée de Plutarque (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1976); J. Gwyn Griffiths, De Iside et Osiride (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1970); and Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 93–97.

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and the Latin Aeneid, the Argonautica.98 In this creative imitation of the Homeric epics, Apollonius Rhodius narrated the adventures of Jason and the Argonauts and their search for the golden bough, which included an implied κατάβασις in Book 3: after Jason performed the νεκυομαντεία (1207–11; cf. Homer, Od. 10.516–34 and 11.23–47), the dread goddess Hecate appeared and ‘fear seized Aeson’s son, but not even so did he turn around as his feet bore him forth, till he came back to his comrades’ (1221–23 [Seaton, LCL]).99 Apollonius invites the reader to imagine the descent of the hero into the underworld; perhaps this is one of the reasons ‘Longinus’ and Quintilian considered the poem average ([Subl.] 33.4; Inst. 10.1.54). Regardless, the epic served as a major influence on Virgil, who succeeded masterfully in his imitation of the Homeric νέκυια in Book 6 of the Aeneid.100 In contrast to the Argonautica, Quintilian admonished the perfectus orator to study the Latin imitation alongside the Greek master: It is therefore an admirable practice which now prevails, to begin by reading Homer and Vergil, although the intelligence needs to be further developed for the full appreciation of their merits: but there is plenty of time for that since the boy will read them more than once. In the meantime let his mind be lifted by the sublimity of heroic verse, inspired by the greatness of its theme and imbued with the loftiest sentiments. (Inst. 1.8.5 [Butler, LCL])

The κατάβασις of Aeneas is an expansion of the Homeric vision, including a comprehensive survey of the entire realm of the dead; in addition, the various dialogues with the dead have been harmonized into an extensive conversation with the hero’s father, Anchises, the singular source of oracular truth in Virgil’s tale.101 98 Strabo, Geog. 14.2.13. 99 On the imitation of Homer, see Malcolm Campbell, Echoes and Imitations of Early Epic in Apollonius Rhodius (Leiden: Brill, 1981); and Studies in the Third Book of Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica (New York: Olms, 1983). 100 For a detailed examination of the literary relationship between the Aeneid and the Argonautica, see Markus Hügi, Vergil’s Aeneis und die hellenistische Dichtung (Bern und Stuttgart: Paul Haupt, 1952). According to Macrobius, Virgil’s dependence on Homer was widely recognized (Sat. 5.18.1). For a detailed comparison of Homer and Virgil, see Georg Nicolaus Knauer, Die Aeneis und Homer: Studien zur poetischen Technik Vergils mit Listen der Homerzitate in der Aeneis (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979); and Conte, Rhetoric of Imitation. On the relationship between Greek and Latin literature, Brodie notes, ‘The most prestigious writing of the Roman Empire, Vergil’s Aen., involved a thorough reworking of Homer. Roman literature as a whole was largely built on that of Greece. Literary dependency occurred not only within particular genres that were quite diverse, as when one epic poet imitated another, but also between genres that were quite diverse’ (‘Towards’, 107). 101 ‘Whereas Odysseus traveled to the gates of the land of the dead and glimpsed the victims of divine torment, and Plato probed the inner earth’s anatomy, Aeneas traversed the whole jurisdiction of Pluto. He crossed the Acheron, stared down the gorgorian forms within the cavern’s mouth, traversed the dusky plain just within, glimpsed dark Tartarus from a hillside

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After the Trojan refugee arrives on the shores of Cumae at the beginning of Book 6, he wanders through the forest to a temple to persuade the Sybil to guide him on his difficult journey (1–123). The priestess explains that ‘night and day the door of gloomy Dis stands open; but to recall thy steps and pass out to the upper air, this is the task, this the toil!’ (127–29 [Fairclough, LCL]).102 Although she indicates the descent is easy, Aeneas must first recover the golden bough, the key to the underworld, which he discovers hidden in a shady tree with the aid of his mother Venus (133–211). Upon returning to the beach, he finds his shipmates grieving over the body of their fallen comrade, Misenus, whom he dutifully buries before continuing his journey (212–35).103 After performing the νεκυομαντεία, the Sybil ‘plunged madly into the opened cave’ followed by the intrepid Aeneas (236–63). Within the gates of the underworld, the hero is confronted with monstrous forms, including Centaurs, Gorgons, and Harpies; the warrior quickly draws his sword, but unlike Odysseus and the crowding souls, the priestess explains that steel is useless against shadows (282–94). They arrive at the waters of Acheron, where countless spirits wait to make the fateful passage, but Charon refuses to ferry those who have not been properly buried; only after they have roamed these shores for a hundred years are they allowed to cross (295–330). When Aeneas and the Sybil approach, the ferryman objects to the presence of the Trojan hero, suspecting mischief, but the priestess presents the golden bough and they are allowed to pass (403– 10).104 Although the heavy (i.e. living) body of Aeneas tips the boat, they arrive across the waters unharmed and pass through a cavern on the other side unmolested after drugging the ever-watchful Cerberus (411–25). Inside the cave, they encounter five groups of the dead who died prematurely: those who died in infancy, those executed for crimes they did not commit, suicides, those who died of love loss, and those distinguished in battle (426–534).105 The fate of the morally neutral is determined by Minos, who presides over all souls, learning of their ‘lives and misdeeds’ (433 [Fairclough, LCL]).106 Like the blood-stained warriors in the Homeric house of Hades, the above its gates, strolled through the Elysian Fields with his father, and returned alive to fulfill the paternal prophecy’ (Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 61). 102 The Romans referred to the Greek Hades as Pluto, which in Latin is Dives – ‘the rich one’; Dives was often shortened to Dis. See further, Eduard Norden, P. Vergilius Maro, ‘Aeneis’, Book VI (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1957), 199; and R. G. Austin, P. Vergili Maronis, ‘Aeneidos’, Liber Sextus: Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977), 111–12. 103 For a literary comparison of Elpenor, Misenus, and Palinurus (cf. 337–83), see MacDonald, ‘Luke’s Eutychus’, 16–18. 104 Charon objects because he has been betrayed by descending heroes before, namely Theseus and Perithous, who tried to kidnap Persephone, and Heracles, who stole Cerberus (391– 97). 105 Those who died of love loss and in battle are separated from the others, spending their days wandering in the ‘Mourning Fields’ (440 [Fairclough, LCL]). 106 Austin argues Minos presides only over the falsely accused, offering them an honest trial; Bernstein counters that the ‘court of the silent’ is a reference to the unjustly executed who

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dead bear the physical signs of their demise, including the hero’s former lover, Dido, who turns away from him with ‘wound still fresh’ (450 [Fairclough, LCL]). After weeping over these sad souls, his guide ushers Aeneas forward to a division in the road: to the right, Elysium, and to the left, Tartarus (535– 43). Despite her wishes, Aeneas turns to the left, but he abruptly stops upon seeing an enormous castle under a cliff, encircled by a river of fire (544–58). After hearing terrible cries rising up from the impenetrable fortress, Aeneas beseeches his guide, ‘What forms of crimes are these? Say, O maiden! With what penalties are they scourged?’ (560–61 [Fairclough, LCL]). Although Aeneas cannot enter the dreaded Tartarus, the priestess describes in vivid detail what she witnessed when Hecate guided her on a tour of this place of punishment (562–65). Outside the castle, Rhadamanthus presides with an iron fist, rebuking the wicked, exacting confession from those who failed to atone for their sins while alive; in addition, the Fury Tisiphone guards the entrance, leaping on the guilty as they pass and whipping them with her lash (566–74). Inside the ‘infernal gates’, the monstrous Hydra dwells outside the Tartarean abyss, ‘stretching into the gloom twice as far as is yon sky’s upward view to heavenly Olympus’ (574; 578–79 [Fairclough, LCL]). Inside the deep prison, the Titans brood, along with the twin sons of Aloeus and Salmoneus (580–94).107 Tityos is seen stretched over nine acres, as a vulture gnaws at his immortal liver; next, a rock hangs over the heads of Ixion and Pirithoüs while they are tantalized by ‘festal couches’ and ‘a banquet in royal splendor’ (603–605 [Fairclough, LCL]).108 Beyond these mythical figures are several groups of the unnamed wicked dead, who are identified only by their crime, the largest of which are those who ‘brooded in solitude over wealth’ (610 [Fairclough, LCL]).109 These mortals ‘dared a monstrous sin’ and for their crimes endure various punishments, including rolling a huge stone, while Phlegyas gives warning to all, ‘Be warned; learn ye to be just and not to slight the gods!’ (623–34; 620 [Fairclough, LCL]).110 After learning of the eternal fate of the unjust, Aeneas is led by the Sybil to their final destination, Elysium. Laying the golden bough before the gates, the hero is allowed to pass into the ‘land of joy’ (638 [Fairclough, LCL]). Within these Cyclopean walls, they see various just spirits of renown, including the serve as potential jurors over all the dead (432–33 [Fairclough, LCL]; see further, Austin, Vergili Maronis, 156; and, Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 66–68). 107 The twin sons of Aloeus, Otus and Ephialtes, are the sons of Iphimedeia in the Odyssey (11.305–307). 108 The same punishment for Tityos is described in earlier Greek traditions (cf. Homer, Od. 11.576–81; Pindar, Pyth. 4.90–92; Pausanias, Descr. 10.4.4). Although Tantalus is not named, the punishments of Ixion and Pirithoüs are identical (cf. Homer, Od. 11.582–92; Apollodorus, Epitome 2.1; Pausanias, Descr. 10.31.12; Pindar, Ol. 1.54–64). 109 According to Pindar, the crimes of Tantalus are directly related to his discontent with his great wealth (Ol. 1.23–53). 110 A similar punishment is described for Sisyphus in Homer (Od. 11.593–600), although he is not named in the Latin account.

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warriors of Troy and good bards, wrestling, exercising, dancing, and singing, accompanied by the lyre of Orpheus (637–65).111 Among them is the legendary poet and disciple of Orpheus, Musaeus, who guides Aeneas to his oracle – Anchises (666–78). Like Odysseus and Anticleia, Aeneas tried to embrace his father, but ‘thrice the form [imago], vainly clasped, fled from his hands, even as light winds, and most like a winged dream’ (701–702 [Fairclough, LCL]). At the same time, the tearful Aeneas observes groups of people rushing to the banks of the river of Lethe and asks his father about this strange sight (703–12). This affords the poet the opportunity to explain that there are three types of souls in Elysium: the perfect, those who complete their purification through mental or physical exercise, and those who require purification through additional lives and must drink from the waters of forgetfulness (713–51). As one of the perfected, Anchises prophecies of the heavenly descent of the founders of Rome from this third group, but despite being less than perfect, reincarnation does not function as a form of punishment – ‘as Roman conquerors, they have work to do!’ (752–892).112 After filling his son’s ‘soul with love of fame that was to be’, Anchises guides the two visitors through the ivory gates and the hopeful Aeneas returns to his ship and sets sail for the second half of his journey (889 [Fairclough, LCL]). In the Saturnalia, Macrobius notes that the Aeneid is a ‘mirrored reflection’ of the Homeric epics; for example, ‘for the consultation of the dead, in Homer, we have the descent of Aeneas to the world below in the company of the priestess’ (5.2.13 [Davies]). Despite being a mere reflection of the bard, Virgil has ‘happily appropriated the words of the older poet as to make them seem to be his own’ (5.3.16 [Davies]). In this exemplary aemulatio of the great master, Virgil gave ‘birth to a new story’, transforming the postmortem vantage point for the oracular proclamation of a safe homecoming into a prophetic blueprint for the building of a new home (5.17.1 [Davies]).113 Beyond the boundaries of the philosophical schools and the palace walls, the influence of the Homeric νέκυια can also be felt in more popular forms of literature, including the Greek novel, which Thomas Hägg referred to as ‘the epic of the Hellenistic period’.114 For example, The Alexander Romance, 111 Cf. the fate of the bard in the Pythagorean κατάβασις (Diogenes Laertius 8.21). 112 Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 72. 113 According to Bauckham, Virgil probably drew upon the descents of Orpheus and Heracles as well: ‘Virgil was consciously writing in the already ancient and well-known genre of descents to Hades and took not only Odysseus as the model for Aeneas in his descent’ (Fate of the Dead, 28). Macrobius states Virgil borrowed certain passages from Latin authors who had imitated Homer, but Book 6 is not identified (Sat. 6.3.1). On the adaptation of the Homeric νέκυια to reflect the sensibilities of the Roman period, see Outi Lehtipuu, ‘The Imagery of the Lukan Afterworld in the Light of Some Roman and Greek Parallels’, in Zwischen den Reichen: Neues Testament und Römische Herrschaft (ed. Michael Labahn and Jürgen Zangenberg; Tübingen and Basel: Francke, 2002), 138–42. 114 Thomas Hägg, The Novel in Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 111. For an excellent introduction to the Greek novel, see Ronald F. Hock, ‘The Greek Novel’, in Greco-Roman Literature and the New Testament: Selected Forms and Genres (ed.

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which recounts the adventures of Alexander the Great and his correspondences with Darius and Poros, is a ‘descendent of the adventure narrative, which goes back – who could expect otherwise? – to the roots of Greek literature, the poetry of Homer’.115 In Book 2, Pseudo-Callisthenes describes the journey of Alexander to the end of the earth where the sun ceases to shine, ‘the Land of the Blest’ (2.39 [Dowden]). 116 He travelled on with his soldiers and arrived at a misty place, where the road divides: on the left, a well-lit rocky path; and on the right, a dark level plain (2.39). Alexander went to the left, but the route proved impassable, so he marched onto the right and came to a place with translucent waters, salt fish, an immortal spring, and birds with human faces (2.39–40). One bird instructed Alexander to turn back for this is the ‘land that is God’s alone’, but another bird prophesied that the East ‘calls you and the kingdom of Poros shall be assigned in victory to you’ (2.40 [Dowden]). Despite the brevity of the account, the journey to a dark, misty place and the oracular proclamation recall the κατάβασις of Odysseus. David E. Aune; SBLSBS 21; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 127–48; B. E. Perry, The Ancient Romances: A Literary-Historical Account of their Origins (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967); and B. P. Reardon, ‘The Greek Novel’, Phoenix 23 (1969): 291–309. For evidence of Homeric influence upon the novel, see MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 6–10, 24–27, and 310–14; and Thomas Hägg, Narrative Technique in Ancient Greek Romances: Studies of Chariton, Xenophon Ephesius, and Achilles Tatius (Skrifter utgivna av Svenksa Institutet: Athen. 8.8; Uppsala: Almquist & Wikells Boktryckeri Aktiebolag, 1971), 306–35. 115 Pseudo-Callisthenes, The Greek Alexander Romance (trans. Richard Stoneman; New York: Penguin Books, 1991), 18. In addition, the νεκυομαντεία in Odyssey 11.23–47 served as the model for Heliodorus in his ambitious novel, An Ethiopian Story (Collected Ancient Greek Novels [ed. B. P. Reardon; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989], 486 n. 165). In Book 6, Heliodorus narrates the nocturnal rites of an old Egyptian woman, who is seeking advice from her recently dead son to learn if her one surviving son might return to her safely. ‘Supposing herself now secure against any intrusion or observation, the old woman began by digging a pit, to one side of which she lit a fire. After positioning her son’s body between the two, she took an earthenware bowl from a tripod that stood beside her and poured a libation of honey into the pit, likewise of milk from a second bowl, and lastly of wine from the third. Then she took a cake made out of fine wheat flour and shaped into the effigy of a man, crowned it with bay and fennel, and flung it into the pit. Finally, she picked up a sword and, in an access of feverish ecstasy, invoked the moon in a series of grotesque and outlandish names, then drew the blade across her arm. She wiped the blood onto a sprig of bay and flicked it into the fire’ (6.14 [Morgan]). She then whispers into the ear of the corpse, causing him to nod his head. The dead son rises to his feet and begins to speak, condemning his mother for her black arts and predicting the death of his brother. 116 The Alexander Romance is an eclectic composition whose final form can be firmly placed in the third century ce; the novel was falsely attributed to Alexander’s personal historian of his military exploits against the Persians, Callisthenes. A νέκυια was also present in The Wonders Beyond Thule, the second-century novel by Antonius Diogenes, but it is only known through the epitome of the ninth-century patriarch of Constantinople, Photius. The Wonders Beyond Thule narrates the adventures of Dinias and his son Demochares. Upon arriving at the island of Thule, Dinias takes Dercyllis as a mistress. Dinias learns of her wanderings with her brother, including a journey to Rhodes. He recounts, ‘While among these people, he learned, she saw Hades and learned much about it, making use of her personal maidservant Myrto as her informant; Myrto had died long ago and returned to the dead to instruct her mistress’ (109a–b [Sandy]).

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During the period in which the novel was flourishing, Lucian of Samosata composed a brilliant piece of his own prose fiction, Vera historia.117 According to Karl Sandnes, imitations of Homer were so commonplace the Syrian rhetorician produced ‘a satirical imitation of the practice of emulating Homer’.118 In Book 1, Lucian identifies the literary value of the present work: ‘They will find it enticing not only for the novelty of its subject, for the humour of its plan and because I tell all kinds of lies in a plausible and specious way, but also because everything in my story is a more or less comical parody of one or another of the poets, historians and philosophers of old, who have written much that smacks of miracles and fables’ (2 [Harmon, LCL]). Lucian continues, advertising the ultimate target of his satire, ‘Their guide and instructor in this sort of charlatanry is Homer’s Odyssey’ (3 [Harmon, LCL]).119 In Book 2, the satirist narrates a sea voyage to a series of islands, including the Isle of the Blest and Isles of the Wicked. On the Isle of the Blest, Rhadamanthus rules, judging the dead who come before him, including Ajax and Menelaus (6–8).120 The righteous live in a beautiful city of gold and spend their days dining in the Elysian Fields, singing the Homeric epics, and engaging in various games despite not having bodies (11–22). The unjust are sent to the Isles of the Wicked, where there is a terrible smell, the burning of flesh, a murky fog, and the wailing of suffering souls; the severest punishment, however, is reserved for those who have written what is not true (27–32). These wicked dead attempted to escape while Lucian was watching the Games of the Dead conducted by Achilles, but they were subdued by the heroes (23). Homer wrote an account of the battle that began, ‘This time sing me, O Muse, of the shades of the heroes in battle’, but Lucian lost it on his voyage home (24 [Harmon, LCL]). In the conclusion of his prologue, Lucian notes, ‘I am writing about things which I have neither seen nor had to do with nor learned from others – which, in fact, do not exist at all and, in the nature of things, cannot exist. Therefore, my readers should on no account believe in them’ (1.4 [Harmon, LCL]). Credulity is the theme of Philopseudes as well, in which two νέκυαι are narrated during a dinner party.121 The first account is given by the host 117 Reardon, Greek Novels, 619–20. 118 Sandnes, ‘Imitatio Homeri?’, 730; see also, MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 311. Lucian assumed facility with Homer in his writings, as demonstrated by the Symposium, in which the participants, including the uninvited Cynic philosopher Alcidamas, cite lines from the poet in their argument over the arrival of this unwelcome guest. See further, Hock, ‘Homer’, 67–68. 119 Homeric lines and allusions occur throughout the account (e.g. 1.11, 17, 40; 2.32–33). The Wonders Beyond Thule may also be another source and target; see further, J. R. Morgan, ‘Lucian’s True Histories and the Wonders Beyond Thule of Antonius Diogenes’, CQ 35 (1985): 475–90; and C. P. Jones, Culture and Society in Lucian (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), 53–54. 120 Homeric characters figure prominently throughout the account (e.g. 2.6–8, 15, 17, 19, 25–26). 121 In a text celebrating Lucian’s Cynic teacher, Demonax, Lucian mocks the popular

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himself, Eucrates, who describes how five years ago in the woods he was approached by Hecate and her dogs (22). He held on to a tree as a great chasm opened in the ground: ‘Then I saw everything in Hades, the River of Blazing Fire, and the Lake, and Cerberus, and the dead, well enough to recognise some of them. My father, for instance, I saw distinctly, still wearing the same clothes in which we buried him’ (24 [Harmon, LCL]). Emboldened by his host and not to be outdone, Cleodemus countered with the story of his own κατάβασις. After suffering a fever for seven days, a man in a white cloak appeared and guided him through a chasm to hades, which he realized after seeing ‘Tantalus and Ixion and Tityos and Sisyphus’ (25 [Harmon, LCL]). When he arrived before the court of Pluto, however, the king noticed he was not on the list of those fated to die and sent him home promptly (25). This tours of hell tradition not only provided Lucian with the fuel for his heated criticism of the great poet and the gullibility of the masses, it also proved to be a powerful literary vehicle for social commentary. Although a descent is not narrated, the Dialogi mortuorum is a delightful collection of humorous conversations among renowned underworld personalities, including Tantalus, Teiresias, Heracles, Ajax, Agamemnon, Minos, and Achilles. Throughout the account, each character voices the author’s perspective: ‘In Hades all are equal, and all alike’ (433 [Harmon, LCL]).122 This summative line is delivered by Menippus, a favourite character of Lucian and the title of his most popular νέκυια.123 It is a Cynic sermon that begins with the return of Menippus from his κατάβασις, dressed in the costume of Heracles (1). A friend recognizes Menippus and asks him about his strange appearance; he explains that as a boy he read Homer and Hesiod, but as he grew older he realized that these poets contradicted the laws of the land (3). This struggle to discern the right way to live from competing sources of ‘truth’ compelled Menippus to take dire action: ‘Friend, ’twas necessity drew me notion of returning from the dead to report news of the experience: ‘When Herodes, the superlative, was mourning the premature death of Polydeuces and wanted a chariot regularly made ready and horses put to it just as if the boy were going to drive, and dinner regularly served for him, Demonax went to him and said: “I am bringing a message from Polydeuces.” Herodes was pleased and thought that Demonax, like everyone else, was falling in with his humour; so he said: “Well, what does Polydeuces want, Demonax?” “He finds fault with you,” said he, “for not going to him at once!”’ (Demon. 24 [Harmon, LCL]). And later in the text, ‘When someone asked him: “What do you think it is like in Hades?” he replied: “Wait a bit, and I’ll send you word from there!”’ (Demon. 43 [Harmon, LCL]). 122 The virtue of poverty is also the postmortem lesson in the Gall. and the Cat., which have already been treated in detail by Hock and summarized in Chapter 1. Also, consider the last line of Charon, ‘How silly are the ways of unhappy mankind, with their kings, golden ingots, funeral rites and battles – but never a thought of Charon!’ (24 [Harmon, LCL]). 123 According to Diogenes Laertius, the third-century famed humorist Menippus of Gadara authored a lost νέκυια (6.99–101) that some have argued served as the model for Lucian’s Menippus. For a thorough discussion of their literary relationship, see Helm, Lucian and Menipp; and Joel C. Relihan, ‘Menippus in Antiquity and the Renaissance’, in The Cynics: The Cynic Movement in Antiquity and its Legacy (ed. R. Bracht Branham and Marie-Odile Goulet-Caźe; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 265–93.

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below to the kingdom of Hades, there to obtain, from the spirit of Theban Teiresias, counsel’ (1 [Harmon, LCL]). For this dangerous journey, Menippus secured the services of a guide, Mithrobarzanes, who put him in costume and instructed him to say he was Heracles, Odysseus, or Orpheus if asked (6–8).124 After Mithrobarzanes dug a pit, slaughtered sheep, and sprinkled their blood the whole region began to quake and the ground opened, revealing the ‘Lake’, the ‘River of Burning Fire’, and the ‘palace of Pluto’ (10 [Harmon, LCL]). Charon thought Menippus was Heracles, so he ferried him promptly across the lake and guided the two on their way to the court of Minos, who was issuing judgement over each spirit based upon the testimony of their shadow (10–11).125 The unjust were sent to the ‘Place of the Wicked’ and punished in proportion to their crimes, except for those ‘swollen with pride of wealth and place’; they were stripped of their clothing and forced to review their ‘happy life among us as if it had been a dream’ because they did not aid the poor who waited outside their gates for alms (12 [Harmon, LCL]). In this place of punishment, each spirit was tortured for their ‘excesses’; among them, only the poor received preferential treatment (14 [Harmon, LCL]). In addition, he saw ‘all that is told of in the legends’: Ixion, Sisyphus, Tantalus, and Tityos (14 [Harmon, LCL]). Menippus and his guide then made their way to the Acherusian Plain, the dwelling place of the tribes of the impalpable dead, crowded together, one on top of another, some of them ‘ancient and mouldy’ (15 [Harmon, LCL]). The friend interrupts the story to inquire about the fate of kings – ‘are they no more highly honoured there than the common dead?’ (17 [Harmon, LCL]). On the contrary, Menippus explains, they are reduced to poverty and suffer as the most common of slaves (17). The friend continues, asking about the fate of the philosopher, to which Menippus describes how Socrates wanders around questioning everyone while Diogenes laughs at the misery of those who once enjoyed good fortune (18). After being reminded by his friend, Menippus recounts the passing of a new motion by the governing body of the dead: Whereas many lawless deeds are done in life by the rich, who plunder and oppress and in every way humiliate the poor, be it resolved by the senate and people, that when they die their bodies be punished like those of other malefactors, but their souls be sent back up into life and enter into donkeys until they shall have passed two hundred and fifty thousand years in the said condition, transmigrating from donkey to donkey, bearing burdens, and being driven by the poor; and that thereafter it be permitted them to die. (20 [Harmon, LCL])

124 For his costume, Menippus was given a cap, lion’s skin, and lyre. This effort to disguise the one descending to gain passage is also found in Aristophanes’ Ran., in which Dionysus descends into the underworld dressed as Heracles. 125 The function of the shadow may be of Zoroastrian origin; see further, Arda Wiraz Namag: The Iranian ‘Divina Commedia’ (trans. Fereydun Vahman; Scandinavian Institute of Asian Studies Monograph Series, 53; London: Curzon Press, 1986); and The Ardai Viraf Nameh (trans. J. A. Pope; London: Black, Parbury, and Allen, 1816), 52–101.

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Finally, Menippus reports, he found Teiresias who knew why he had come and answered, ‘The life of the common sort is best’ (21 [Harmon, LCL]). The blind seer issues an oracular proclamation that recalls the infamous statement of the mighty Achilles, who if given the chance, would choose the life of a peasant if only to live again (cf. Homer, Od. 11.488–91). As Bernstein aptly notes, Menippus ‘indicates the depth of familiarity a secondcentury audience could be expected to have with the many tales of descent into the underworld’.126 Indeed, there were many tales of descent – Odysseus, Heracles, Orpheus – but among these the iconic status of the Homeric νέκυια remained unmoved as attested by painters, philosophers, poets, novelists, and satirists, who competed with the bard for the hearts and minds of the ancient world.

Conclusion In the field of biblical studies, the most influential examination of the tours of hell tradition concerned the literary ancestry of the second-century apocryphal Apocalypse of Peter, which narrates a revelation of Jesus given to Peter on the Mount of Olives.127 The account includes a vision of postmortem judgement (E 3–6) and the reward for the righteous (E 14), but it is the crimes of the wicked dead and their quid pro quo punishments that lie at the heart of this revelation (E 7–13).128 In a German monograph published in 1893, Albrecht Dieterich argued that the Apocalypse of Peter, which had been recently discovered in a Greek version on parchment leaves in the grave of a Christian monk in 1887, was an early Christian imitation of the lost Orphic-Pythagorean νέκυια – Descent to Hades.129 126 Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 87. 127 Strictly speaking, a κατάβασις is not narrated; rather, Peter witnesses the postmortem vision via the hand of Christ, which functions as a kind of cinematic screen. Richard Bauckham dates the apocalypse to the time of the Bar Kochba Revolt (132–135 ce), suggesting that the antiChrist figure in the apocalypse is Bar Kochba (‘The Two Fig Tree Parables in the Apocalypse of Peter’, JBL 104 [1985]: 269–87). Regardless, a date in the early second century is generally agreed upon. The place of origin, however, is still debated although a Palestinian origin has been suggested; see further J. K. Elliot (ed.), The Apocryphal New Testament: A Collection of Apocryphal Christian Literature in an English Translation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 595. 128 The Apoc. Paul (fourth or early fifth century ce) narrates a Pauline νέκυια based upon the tradition in 2 Cor. 12.1-5, in which Paul claims to have been taken to Paradise. In chs 31– 42, an angel accompanies him to a place of darkness and sorrow where he witnesses various punishments that are described in great detail, much like the Apoc. Pet. 7–13. However, the author sought to mitigate the severity of divine justice in the Apoc. Pet. and emphasize divine mercy by allowing the condemned a day of rest each week from their suffering. See further, Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 292–314. 129 Albrecht Dieterich, Nekyia: Beiträge zur Erklärung der neuentdeckten Petrusapokalypse (Leipzig: Druck & Verlag von B. G. Teubner, 1893); cf. Radcliffe G. Edmonds, Myths of the Underworld: Plato Aristophanes, and the ‘Orphic’ Gold Tablets (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 15. Long before the discovery of a text, the Apoc. Pet. was

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He identified and traced an Orphic-Pythagorean tradition from the sixth century bce into the Common Era through grave inscriptions, the teachings and myths of Empedocles, Pindar, and Plato, as well as various other literary pieces.130 According to Dieterich, the κατάβασις of Orpheus not only influenced the Apocalypse of Peter, but also Jewish apocalyptic literature, including Ezra, Daniel, Enoch, and the teachings of the Essenes, all of which share similar descriptions of the sins and punishments of the wicked dead.131 Dieterich concluded that this lost poem was the most important νέκυια in antiquity, influencing Greek, Roman, Jewish, and Christian literature. Despite writing over a hundred years ago and relying heavily upon a hypothetical text, Dieterich’s brief study continues to exert a Gressmannianlike influence, largely due to the absence of competing voices. Martha Himmelfarb attempted to fill that void in 1983 with the publication of Tours of Hell: An Apocalyptic Form in Jewish and Christian Literature.132 She heavily criticized Dieterich’s sweeping claim of an exclusively Greek origin for the Apocalypse of Peter, so she swung the pendulum in the other direction, positing that the apocryphal text was part of a literary tradition that was exclusively dependent upon now lost Jewish sources.133 known through canon lists and patristic citations. The Muratorian Canon, the Stichometry of Nicephorus, and Eusebius include the Apoc. Pet. among their ‘disputed’ texts, while it is listed among canonical texts in Codex Claromontanus (Elliot, Apocryphal New Testament, 593). For an exhaustive discussion of the use of the Apoc. Pet. in the early church, see Dennis D. Buchholz, Your Eyes Will Be Opened: A Study of the Greek (Ethiopic) Apocalypse of Peter (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 20–81; and M. R. James, ‘A New Text of the Apocalypse of Peter’, JTS 12 (1910): 380–83. In 1887, the grave of a monk in Akhmim yielded a Greek manuscript of the eighth or ninth century identified as the missing Apoc. Pet.; this manuscript contained only half of the original apocalypse, but it was a critical discovery. Two other Greek portions of the apocalypse have been discovered, the Bodleian and Rainer texts. James argues that these two fragments are from the same text (M. R. James, ‘The Rainer Fragment of the Apocalypse of Peter’, JTS 32 [1931]: 270–79). The Rainer fragment is typically dated to the third or fourth century, while the Bodleian fragment is placed in the fifth century. A complete Ethiopic text was published among Pseudo-Clementine literature between 1907 and 1910, but was only later identified by James as the Apoc. Pet. Another Ethiopic text was allegedly discovered by R. W. Cowley (‘The Ethiopic Work which is Believed to Contain the Material of the Ancient Greek Apocalypse of Peter’, JTS 36 [1985]: 151–53). 130 For the details of his argument and the evidence he assembled, see Dieterich, Nekyia, 84–162. 131 Dieterich, Nekyia, 214–24. 132 Martha Himmelfarb, Tours of Hell: An Apocalyptic Form in Jewish and Christian Literature (Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press, 1983). 133 A. F. J. Klijn also argued the Apoc. Pet. (and the Acts Thom.) was dependent upon lost Jewish sources. An exhaustive comparison of the Acts Thom. and the Apoc. Pet. reveals the similarities that they share concern the various punishments, but this does not necessarily imply dependence; these same punishments appear in the Jewish texts, Gedulath Mosheh and the Revelation of R. Joshua ben Levi. Furthermore, the temporal nature of the punishments, which is unique to the Acts Thom., can also be found in the Revelation of R. Joshua ben Levi. Although these Jewish texts are later than the apocryphal tours, Klijn dismisses potential influence from Christian texts. Therefore, these tours are all dependent upon earlier lost Jewish sources. For the full argument, see the Acts Thom. (Leiden: Brill, 1962).

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She isolated two formal features among a select group of Jewish and Christian texts that constituted this literary tradition.134 The first feature was a shared narrative structure, which included a guide, questions, and explanations. The second feature was sin-and-punishment, which she divided into measure-for-measure punishments and environmental punishments.135 Using these two features as a template, she traced the development of this tradition, creating a complex family tree of literary ancestry. According to this family tree, the Apocalypse of Peter was dependent upon the Hebrew account of the visit to hell by Isaiah, the Latin fragment of the Apocalypse of Elijah for the hanging punishments, and another lost Jewish source for the geographical fiery punishments.136 In the introduction of her study she issues this rather unexpected caveat, ‘In order to arrive at the most balanced evaluation of textual parallels, the widest possible range of evidence must be considered.’137 This is an extraordinary statement, given the fact that she almost completely ignores pagan literature even though educated Jews studied the ‘books of Homer’ (Yadayim 4.6 [Neusner]).138 She does reference Odyssey Book 11, but only as it is necessary to point out the derivation of the term νέκυια and its association with the Homeric κατάβασις and the ensuing literary tradition.139 134 Her examination included the following seventeen texts, preserved in five languages and spanning a thousand years: the Apoc. Pet., the Acts Thom., the Apoc. Zeph., the Apoc. Paul, the Ethiopic Apoc. Mary, the Ethiopic Apocalypse of Baruch, the Apocalypse of Gorgorios, the Greek Apoc. Mary, the Greek Apoc. of Ezra, the Vis. Ezra, the T. Isaac, the Life of Pachomios, the Darkhei Teshuvah, the Hebrew accounts of visits to hell by Isaiah and Joshua ben Levi, the Gedulat Moshe, and the Latin fragment of the Apoc. Eli. For a brief discussion of each text, see Himmelfarb, Tours of Hell, 8–40. There are no tours of hell in the Hebrew Bible so she is forced to rely upon extra-canonical material. In addition to the sources listed above, 1 En. 17–21 narrates Enoch’s journey through Sheol, where the spirits of the dead are held until the final judgement, but there are no descriptions of sins and punishments, which is why she excludes it from her survey. All of the above texts have been studied extensively; for an exhaustive bibliography, see Richard Bauckham, ‘Jewish Visions of Hell’, JTS 41 (1990): 355–56 n. 1. For an excellent summary of the scholarly tradition, see Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 119–55. 135 Himmelfarb illustrated the continuity of punishments among these texts in several tables, including sexual sins, measure-for-measure punishments, hanging punishments, fire punishments, and punishing worms, beasts, and angels (Tours of Hell, 70, 83, 87–89, 114, and 117 respectively). 136 Himmelfarb, Tours of Hell, 171. On the late date of Jewish parallels to the Apoc. Pet., see A. Marmorstein, ‘Jüdische Paralleln zur Petrus-apocaylpse’, ZNW 10 (1909): 297–300. 137 Himmelfarb, Tours of Hell, 6. 138 Glasson, Greek Influence, 5. Several explanations of the expression ‘books of Homer’ have been proposed; see further, Robert Gordis, ‘“Homeric Books” in Palestine’, JQR 38 (1948): 359–68. 139 Himmelfarb, Tours of Hell, 41. Her analysis of the ‘patterns of distribution of sins and punishments’ is exhaustive and does aid in establishing evidence of a literary tradition, even if she does exclude a vast body of relevant ancient literature. See further, Himmelfarb, Tours of Hell, 68–126. Outi Lehtipuu published a revision of his dissertation in which he traced the ‘Hellenistic matrix’ of dividing the dead in a fashion similar to Himmelfarb, but he includes Greek literature as well (Afterlife Imagery, 45–162).

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MacDonald offered his own treatment of the apocryphal tours of hell in his chapter on the νέκυια in Christianizing Homer.140 According to his study, the κατάβασις of the young maiden in the Acts Thom. 55–57, in which she witnesses great chasms and the various punishments of the wicked dead, was dependent upon the missing νέκυια in the Acts of Andrew – the Christian Odyssey.141 The author of the Acts of Andrew imitated Homer and Plato extensively, but unfortunately the most reliable manuscripts do not include a journey to the realm of the dead.142 The Acts Andr. Mth. 31–32, however, foreshadows the event: while in Myrmidonia, Andrew cast fifteen people into hades and later revived them, but they surprisingly reported nothing of what they had seen or heard. MacDonald insisted a description of their visit to the underworld most certainly would have been narrated in the original text. In addition, MacDonald demonstrated the raising of the young maiden in the Acts of Thomas was an imitation of the raising of the Myrmidons in a recent textual witness to the Acts of Andrew, Paris Graecus 1313.143 His analysis of 140 See MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 77–112. 141 Cf. M. R. James, who believed the dependence of the Acts Thom. upon the Apoc. Pet. was so obvious that his comparison of the texts is rather brief. In his analysis, he highlights, among others, the following parallels: the use of flaming fire, mire, and the worm, the sin of the perversion of the union between man and woman, and the hanging punishments (tongue, feet, and hair). He does not discuss the significance of the parallels, but merely identifies them and assumes that they are evidence of literary dependence. James also points out several parallels between the Apoc. Pet. and Apoc. Paul, claiming that these similarities are indicative of literary dependence. James assumes the Acts Thom. and the Apoc. Paul are dependent upon the Apoc. Pet. because it is earlier. Unfortunately, he does not develop his thoughts any further. Also, he fails to address the relationship between the Acts Thom. and the Apoc. Paul, besides the common dependence they share upon the Apoc. Pet. See further, M. R. James and J. Armitage Robinson, The Gospel According to Peter and the Revelation of Peter (London: C. J. Clay and Sons, 1892), 37–82; and M. R. James The Apocryphal New Testament (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1924), 390 n. 1. The Acts Thom. is the only one of the five great acts that survives in its entirety. The complete text is known in two primary versions, the Syriac and the Greek. The complete Syriac was published by the British Museum in 1871 and dates from the seventh century. The complete Greek is known from an eleventh-century manuscript, although there are eighty-five extant Greek texts. The differences between these versions has generated some discussion. A comparison of the different passages suggests that the Syriac is a catholicized version. Therefore, it is commonly assumed, although the Acts was most likely written in Syriac, that the Greek text is closer to the original composition. The text most likely emerged within the Syrian church in Edessa in the third century. For a more detailed discussion of the original language of the manuscript, see F. C. Burkitt, ‘The Original Language of the Acts of Judas Thomas’, JTS 1 (1900): 280–90; R. H. Connolly, ‘The Original Language of the Syriac Acts of Thomas’, JTS 8 (1907): 249–61. 142 The Acts Andr. was written some time in the early third century, either in Alexandria or Syria. For a more detailed discussion of this important text, see Dennis R. MacDonald, The Acts of Andrew and the Acts of Andrew and Matthias in the City of the Cannibals (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 1990). The author also imitated Euripides; see further, MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 211–86. 143 MacDonald published this fifteenth-century Greek manuscript for the first time. He admits the text is full of secondary additions and errors, but it can be used to reconstruct some of what occurred in the original composition. The most important contribution of Paris Graecus

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the woman’s speech revealed that the framework of the story relied upon the ‘myth of Er’, but the torments were taken from the Apocalypse of Peter.144 Thus, he suggested it was more plausible that the Acts of Andrew imitated Plato and the Apocalypse of Peter and the Acts of Thomas subsequently borrowed from the Acts of Andrew.145 Given the celebrated status of Homer and Plato, the author of the Acts of Andrew would have known the ‘myth of Er’ was an imitation of the Homeric νέκυια; therefore, ultimately the νέκυια in the Acts of Andrew was also an imitation of the κατάβασις of Odysseus. In sum, the author of the Acts of Andrew imitated three models – Homer (themes and characters), Plato (narrative framework), and the Apocalypse of Peter (punishments) – gathering honey from the poet, the philosopher, and the apostle to create something ‘clearly different’. As was customary, early Christian authors imitated the great masters, exploring the realm of the dead as a vehicle of oracular truth. The δόμον Ἄιδος provides the literary landscape of the abnormal Dives and Lazarus as well, but in light of the Homeric νέκυια and the ensuing tours of hell tradition the abnormality of Lk. 16.19-31 vanishes entirely. If the only example of postmortem dialogue in the biblical tradition is reunited with its literary family, the distinct possibility of Lukan μίμησις and ζῆλος emerges, the subject of Chapter 4.

1313 is the parallels between the raising of the Myrmidonians and the raising of the young woman in the Acts Thom. This comparison demonstrates not only that the Acts Thom. imitated the Acts. Andr., but that the raising of the Myrmidonians in Paris Graecus 1313 was originally in the Acts. Andr. For his analysis of Paris Graecus 1313 160–161 and the Acts Thom. 53–54, see MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 83–84. 144 For his discussion of the parallels between these texts, see MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 87–93. MacDonald notes that the ‘myth of Er’ also influenced a Jewish νέκυια; see further, G. H. McCurdy, ‘Platonic Orphism in the Testament of Abraham’, JBL 61 (1942): 213–26. 145 His argument rests upon the following assertions: (1) the Apoc. Pet. and the Acts. Andr. share a common dating and provenance, unlike the Acts Thom.; (2) the anticipatory passages in the Acts Andr. Mth. are remarkably fulfilled by the Apoc. Pet.; (3) it is simpler to argue that the Acts. Andr. imitated Plato and the Apoc. Pet., rather than claiming that the Acts Thom. borrowed from the Acts. Andr., Plato, and the Apoc. Pet.; and (4), the Acts. Andr. is heavily dependent upon Plato throughout the narrative, unlike the Acts Thom.

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Chapter 4 The Biblical Tour of Hell Introduction In 1968, Günter Glockmann issued this statement in an influential study on the presence (or lack thereof) of Homer in early Christian literature: In den zahlreichen von mir untersuchten christlichen Schriften, die im 1. Jahrhundert und in der ersten Hälfte des 2. Jahrhunderts entstanden sind und unter dem Begriff ‘urchristliche Literatur’ zusammengefaßt werden können, vermochte ich weder eine Äußerung über den Dichter der Ilias und Odyssee noch ein Zitat aus diesen beiden Epen oder irgendeine Anspielung auf eine Homerstelle su finden.1

Despite the absence of explicit references to Homer, Glockmann noted this does not necessarily indicate first-century Christians were unfamiliar with the epics.2 In fact, among the authors of the New Testament, Glockmann observed casually, ‘Luke’ would have been the most likely candidate to be familiar with the bard.3 According to his survey, the earliest explicit reference to Homer is found in Justin Martyr: And let these too persuade you of the same – human beings seized and convulsed by the souls of the dead – whom all call demon-possessed and frenzied – and the oracles, as you call them, of Amphilochus and of Dodona and of Pytho, and the other things of that sort, and the teachings of the writers, Empedocles and Pythagoras, Plato and Xenocrates, and the pit in Homer and the descent of Odysseus to visit them, and those who say the same sort of things. Receive us, at least like these, since we believe in God not less, but rather more, than they do: we who expect even to receive our own bodies again, after they have died and been put in the earth, since we say that nothing is impossible for God. (1 Apol. 18.4–6; Minns and Parvis)4 1 Günter Glockmann, Homer in der frühchristlichen Literatur bis Justinus (TUGAL 105; Berlin: Akademie, 1968), 92. 2 Glockmann, Homer, 92. 3 Glockmann, Homer, 92. 4 Justin’s first work appears to have been his treatise Adversus haereses, attacking Simon Magus, Menander, and Marcion. Later he composed his Apologia, now divided into two parts, which is addressed to Antoninus Pius and his two adopted sons. See further, Robert M.

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It is not surprising this former Greek philosopher alluded to the κατάβασις of Odysseus as an authoritative reference in his defence of the Christian claim of the postmortem existence of the soul; as the second-century Christian apologist and prolific author, Tertullian, succinctly put it, ‘de vestris sumus’ (Apol. 18.4). Glockmann discovered Homeric citations scattered throughout the writings of this important early church apologist, which according to Margaret Mitchell, ‘was a sign of the maturation of Christian literary culture in its second century’.5 Mitchell relied upon his survey of early Christian literature as conclusive evidence that the New Testament authors did not imitate Homer, but neither Glockmann nor Mitchell are sensitive to the diverse practices of literary μίμησις in ancient composition.6 If Laura Nasrallah and Richard I. Pervo are correct, as discussed in Chapter 3, the Gospel of Luke may also represent a ‘maturation of Christian literary culture’ and the author located among new contemporaries, Justin and Lucian for example, both of whom drew extensively upon the epics.7 Lucian, in particular, illustrates beautifully the mimetic ethos of this period. He imitated and competed with the Homeric νέκυια repeatedly, embracing the utility of the postmortem perspective as a source of oracular truth while simultaneously satirizing the tours of hell tradition. Although his treatment of Homer may seem inconsistent, the tension between the satirist and the bard merely reflects the tension between μίμησις and ζῆλος.8 In addition, like Grant, Greek Apologists of the Second Century (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1988); and Oskar Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy: A Study in Justin Martyr’s Proof-Text Tradition (NovTSup 66; Leiden: Brill, 1987). 5 Mitchell, ‘Homer’, 248. On the presence of Homer in Justin, see Glockmann, Homer, 165–92. 6 The literary relationship between Odyssey 11.1–640 and Lk. 16.19-31 was briefly examined by Michael Gilmour and summarized in Chapter 1. He identified thematic similarities, or ‘common threads’, shared by the two traditions: the value of burial, a journey to ᾅδης, a wise man in the afterlife, a chasm of separation, unsatisfied thirst, the uselessness of worldly wealth in the afterlife, and concern for loved ones. Gilmour wisely followed the trajectory established by Ronald Hock, exploring Greek rhetorical exercises as a means to connect Homer and ‘Luke’, but he also demonstrated a lack of sensitivity to the mysterious process by which a bee transforms the delicate flower through a kind of fermentation (cf. Seneca, Ep. 84.3). 7 As Henry Cadbury observed, ‘Luke’ is ‘the only littérateur among the authors of the New Testament books’ who ‘seems to have a cosmopolitan outlook’ (Making, 239–40). For scholars who argue for a second-century dating of Luke-Acts, see Penner, ‘Christian Origins’; Mount, Pauline Christianity; Pervo, Dating Acts; and Nasrallah, ‘Acts of the Apostles’, 533–66. In his literary comparison of the writings of Josephus and Luke-Acts, Steve Mason concluded, ‘I cannot prove beyond doubt that Luke knew the writings of Josephus. If he did not, however, we have a nearly incredible series of coincidences, which require that Luke knew something that closely approximated Josephus’ narrative in several distinct ways … Of course, if Luke did know Josephus, then we can fix the date of Luke in the mid-90’s or later, for Josephus finished the Antiquities, the major work in question, in 93’ (Josephus and the New Testament [Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003], 292–93). For his comparative analysis, see 251–93. 8 Justin relied upon the ‘descent of Odysseus’ as an ally in his defence of the immortality of the soul in 1 Apol., but in 2 Apol. he speaks approvingly of Plato’s decision to expel Homer and

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a wandering bee, Lucian did not limit himself to one particular model; for example, in Vera historia, he imitated the descent of Odysseus to consult the blind seer in Odyssey Book 11 and the Platonic counter-νέκυια in Book 10 of the Republic.9 ‘Luke’ undoubtedly imitated and competed with multiple models as well, both Greek and Semitic.10 On this point, Nasrallah agrees, ‘Luke-Acts collects extant sources and creates its own literary memory theater for early Christianity, where past stories are newly used, transformed, and embedded in the narrative.’11 In the prologue of the Gospel, the evangelist positions his own composition in relation to past early Christian narratives: Since many have undertaken to set down an orderly account [διήγησιν] of the events that have been fulfilled among us, just as they were handed on to us by those who from the beginning were eyewitnesses and servants of the word, I too decided, after investigating everything carefully from the very first, to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus [Θεόφιλε], so that you may know the truth [ἀσφάλειαν] concerning the things [λόγων] about which you have been instructed.12

In this brief moment of authorial reflection, ‘Luke’ reveals that he ‘too decided’ to compose a διήγησις.13 After the μῦθος, the διήγημα was one of the foundational pre-rhetorical exercises in the προγυμνάσματα of Aphthonius of Antioch, which became the standard curriculum.14 Secondary students were taught the difference between διήγημα (specific incident) and διήγησις (entire narrative) and this distinction was reinforced at the tertiary stage; in his chapter on διήγημα, Aphthonius cites Homer repeatedly as an example to distinguish the two types.15 Hermogenes of Tarsus also cites Homer repeatedly in a similar discussion on ποίημα (portion the poets from his republic: ‘But he, throwing Homer and the other poets out of the city, taught men to shun wicked demons and those who did what the poets said, and urged them to knowledge, through rational enquiry, of the God who was unknown to them, saying “the father and creator of all is not easy to find nor is it safe for one who has found him to declare him to all”’ (10.6 [Minns and Parvis]; cf. Plato, Resp. 3.387b–92c). 9 Dupertuis, ‘Summaries’, 76. 10 On the possibility of a plurality of models, Mitchell recommends a ‘study of how early Christian authors incorporated – sometimes integrating, sometimes merely juxtaposing – a range of cultural references, fragments, artifacts, and concepts into their writings, and, further, investigation of what that process and result mean for the rhetorical construction, historical makeup, and readerly possibilities of their presumed audiences’ (‘Homer’, 256). E.g. see Roy D. Kotansky, ‘Jesus and Heracles in Cádiz [τά Γάδειρα]: Death, Myth, and Monsters at the “Straits of Gibraltar” [Mark 4:35–5:43]’, in Ancient and Modern Perspectives on the Bible and Culture: Essays in Honor of Hans Dieter Betz (ed. Adela Yarbro Collins; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 160–229. 11 Nasrallah, ‘Acts of Apostles’, 553–54. 12 This preface is recapitulated in Acts 1.1-5. 13 See further, Kennedy, Greek Rhetoric, 61. 14 Hock, ‘Homer’, 70. 15 Aphthonius Progymnasmata 2 (2.16-18 [Rabe]).

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of poetry) and ποίησις (larger poetic composition). In particular, Hermogenes highlights three significant ποιήματα, including the νεκυομαντεία in Odyssey Book 11.16 In the creation of a διήγησις, the evangelist potentially drew upon numerous διηγήματα, including episodes from previous Gospels, Jewish Scripture, and Greek literature. In addition, as Theon of Alexandria demonstrates, Greek poetry could also serve as a model for narrative. In his discussion of the διήγημα, Theon encourages his students to imitate the narrative style of the Homeric epics.17 The creation of a ‘literary memory theater’ that hoped to demonstrate the maturation of Christian literary culture in the second century without imitating and competing with the bard would feign credibility in the wider Graeco-Roman world. As Gregory J. Riley observed, ‘it was the appeal of the early Church to the wider Greco-Roman society that fueled its rise, and that appeal was very much a result of its success in modeling the ideal of the culture as a whole’.18 The unrivalled hegemony of Homer in Graeco-Roman education and the definitive status of the κατάβασις of Odysseus in the tours of hell tradition firmly established Odyssey Book 11 as the ποίημα κατ’ ἐξοχήν of postmortem revelation in antiquity for the purposes of literary μίμησις and ζῆλος. Chapter 4 posits that the distinctive traits in Lk. 16.19-31 are the direct result of a strategic imitation, creative transformation, and Christian transvaluation of the Homeric νέκυια and the tours of hell tradition.19

The Literary Context of the Rich Man and Lazarus The story of Dives and Lazarus opens with the refrain, ‘Ἄνθρωπος δέ τις ἦν πλούσιος’ (16.19), immediately locating Θεόφιλος within a Lukan motif that permeates the entire Gospel – poverty and wealth.20 This motif occupies centre stage from the very beginning of the unfolding drama.21 For example, 16 Hermogenes Progymnasmata 2 (4.10-13 [Rabe]). 17 For an example from the Iliad and the Odyssey, see Theon Progymnasmata 4 (1.184, 4–9; 1.193, 3–5 [Walz]). 18 ‘Mimesis of Classical Ideals in the Second Christian Century’, in Mimesis and Intertextuality in Antiquity and Christianity (ed. Dennis R. MacDonald; Studies in Antiquity and Christianity; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2001), 92. 19 According to Jon Whitman, the episodic treatment of a given model is typical for this period; see further Interpretation and Allegory: Antiquity and the Modern Period (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 35–37. 20 On this motif, John R. Donahue commented, ‘No NT writings deal more extensively than Luke-Acts with the dangers of wealth, the proper use of possessions, and concern for the poor’ (The Gospel in Parable: Metaphor, Narrative, and Theology in the Synoptic Gospels [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988], 174). The Homeric epics also offer a critique of misplaced values – the hollow prize of κλέος ἄφθιτον – which Lucian would interpret in the context of the Roman Empire as the misplaced love of wealth in his satirical νέκυιαι. 21 The Lukan concern with poverty and wealth wanes in the sequel. In the early chapters

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in the Infancy Narrative (1.5–2.52), which functions as a literary overture for the entire Gospel, Mary sings a song of praise to God after being informed of her divine selection: My soul [ψυχή] magnifies the Lord, and my spirit [πνεῦμα] rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant [δούλης]. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed [μακαριοῦσιν]; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His mercy [ἔλεος] is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts [καρδίας]. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones [θρόνων], and lifted up [ὕψωσεν] the lowly; he has filled the hungry [πεινῶντες] with good things [ἀγαθῶν], and sent the rich [πλουτοῦντας] away empty. He has helped his servant [παιδός] Israel, in remembrance of his mercy [ἐλέους], according to the promise he made to our ancestors [πατέρας], to Abraham and to his descendants forever. (1.46b-55)22

In the Magnificat, the rhetoric of reversal is introduced, paving the way for the evangelist to explore this motif throughout the remainder of the διήγησις.23 of Acts, the church in Jerusalem renounced all personal goods and wealth and held everything in common (cf. 2.44-45; 4.32-35). Later in the narrative, wealthy converts (e.g. Sergius Paulus in 13.4-12 and Lydia in 16.14-15) are not asked to give their possessions to the poor or the church. It is possible that the evangelist merely fails to mention it, but considering the consistency of this theme throughout the Gospel of Luke and the early chapters of Acts, it is unlikely. The sharing of all goods in common, which plays such an important role in the burgeoning church, fades from prominence as the mission expands beyond the walls of Jerusalem. On this problem, see John R. Donahue, ‘Two Decades of Research on the Rich and the Poor in Luke-Acts’, in Justice and the Holy: Essays in Honor of Walter Harrelson (ed. D. A. Knight and P. J. Paris; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 129–44; François Bovon, Luke the Theologian: Thirty-Three Years of Research (1950–83) (Alison Park, PA: Pickwick Publications, 1987), 390–96; Karris, ‘Poor and Rich’, 112–25; and John Gillman, Possessions and the Life of Faith: A Reading of Luke-Acts (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1991), 11–35. 22 According to Raymond E. Brown, the infancy narrative is deeply concerned with the poor. They are representative, suggests Brown, of the impoverished in the Jerusalem church. For his argument, see The Birth of the Messiah (New York: Doubleday, 1977), 350–55. On the literary relationship between the Lukan infancy narrative and Menippean satire, see Nils Neumann, Lukas und Menippus: Hoheit und Niedrigkeit in Lk 1,1–2,40 und in der menippeischen Literatur (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008). This concern for the poor also provides the moral framework for the Unjust Judge in 18.1-8, which features another lowly woman, not a peasant girl, but a powerless widow. In Jewish Scripture, widows were often grouped with the poor (e.g. Deut. 14.28–15.11; 24.14-17). The judge, though caring not for God or the widow, grants her request because of her persistence. For a more detailed discussion of this tradition and its relationship to poverty and wealth in Luke-Acts, see J. D. M. Derrett, ‘Law in the New Testament: The Parable of the Unjust Judge’, NTS 18 (1971–72): 178–91; Edwin D. Freed, ‘The Parable of the Judge and the Widow’, NTS 33 (1987): 38–60; and Robert M. Price, The Widow Traditions in Luke-Acts (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997). 23 According to John O. York, the pattern of reversal is a favourite Lukan narrative device; see further, The Last Shall Be First: The Rhetoric of Reversal in Luke (JSNTSup 46; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 92–93, 160–63, 182–84; and Larry Drake, ‘The Reversal Theme in Luke’, PhD diss., St Louis University, 1985. On the reversal of values in the New Testament generally, see Riley, River, 167–69.

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The privileged status of the ‘lowly’ within the Lukan kerygma is first articulated in the synagogue at Nazareth – the first recorded act of public ministry in the Gospel. In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus gains renown as an exorcist and healer in Capernaum (1.21-34) and is rejected in his hometown much later in the story (6.1-6a; cf. Mt. 13.54-58). ‘Luke’ relocated these miracle traditions after his rejection in Nazareth (4.31-41), although he reveals his editorial hand in 4.23b: ‘Do here also in your hometown the things that we have heard you did at Capernaum.’ His redaction of Mark highlights the significance of the Nazareth event and its function as a programmatic mission statement within the Lukan narrative.24 After being handed the scroll of Isaiah, the literate Jesus reveals his mission to the amazement of his family, friends, and neighbours: ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed [ἔχρισεν] me to bring good news [εὐαγγελίσασθαι] to the poor [πτωχοῖς]. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year [ἐνιαυτόν] of the Lord’s favor [δεκτόν]’ (4.18-19).25 This young man they have known their entire lives announces unexpectedly and abruptly that he is the one commissioned (ἔχρισεν) to announce the good news (εὐαγγελίσασθαι) of the dawning of a new age (ἐνιαυτόν) of the divinely ordained favour (δεκτόν) of the poor (πτωχοῖς). His audience is captive, but incredulous, and Jesus responds in kind: ‘Truly I tell you, no prophet [προφήτης] is accepted in the prophet’s hometown’ (4.24).26 After describing the rejection of Elijah and Elisha in Israel, the synagogue is filled with rage and they try to kill him, but he mysteriously slips away. Given the divine privilege of the poor in the Lukan kerygma, a theme associated with discipleship throughout the Gospel is the abandonment of possessions.27 The evangelist retained practically all of the Markan material 24 Markan priority is assumed. For those who argue the inaugural sermon in 4.16-30 is a Lukan manifesto, see Esler, Community and Gospel, 164; Jeffrey S. Siker, ‘First to the Gentiles: A Literary Analysis of Luke 4.16-30’, JBL 111 (1992): 75; and Jack T. Sanders, The Jews in LukeActs (London: SCM, 1987), 165. 25 This mission statement is repeated in Lk. 7.18-23, in which John the Baptist sends his disciples to inquire about Jesus. Jesus instructs his disciples to report: ‘Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them’ (22). The mission of Jesus in Luke is unique to the Third Gospel; in Mk 1.15 and Mt. 4.17, Jesus has not come ‘to bring good news to the poor’, but to proclaim the arrival of the ‘kingdom of God’ and the ‘kingdom of heaven’ respectively. The Nazareth event in Lk. 4.14-30 and the Jerusalem event in Acts 2.14-36 are literary parallels. In Luke, Jesus reads from a prophet (Isaiah), addressing a Jewish population in Nazareth; in Acts, Peter reads from a prophet (Joel), addressing a Jewish population in Jerusalem. In both cases, the evangelist employs midrash to reshape the prophetic traditions. And in both cases, the event is programmatic for the rest of the narrative. 26 The rejection of Jesus at Nazareth is also narrated in the Gospel of Mark (6.1-6) and the Gospel of Matthew (13.54-58). In all three accounts, Jesus is rejected after teaching in the synagogue, but only in Luke is this teaching articulated. See further, David Hill, ‘The Rejection of Jesus at Nazareth (Luke 4, 16-30)’, NovT 13 (1971): 161–80. 27 David P. Seccombe interpreted ‘the poor’ as representative of Israel and their suffering under this age of wicked rulers. The material on wealth and poverty highlights the role of Jesus

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related to poverty and wealth, but his redaction of the material on discipleship reveals an editorial tendency to harshen the severity of the Markan sayings.28 For example, after the calling of Peter, James, and John in 5.1-11 and Levi in 5.27-28, only in Luke do they leave everything behind to follow Jesus (cf. Mk 1.16-20; 2.13-14; Mt. 4.18-22; 9.9).29 As Jesus would explain to his disciples as the saviour of Israel, or ‘the poor’. Thus, ‘the poor’ in Luke-Acts is not an economic or social indicator, but represents the salvific needs of the nation of Israel. The renunciation of possessions is not a call to aid the needy, but a way to describe the limitless demands of discipleship. With this view, Seccombe argued that the primary goal of the Lukan writings was evangelistic. His community consisted of Hellenistic God-fearers who appreciated the Jesus movement and Judaism, but were weary of new religions and the sacrifices that following Jesus demanded. See further, Possessions and the Poor in Luke-Acts (Linz: A. Fuchs, 1983). The Rich Ruler in 18.18-30 (cf. Mk 10.17-22; Mt. 19.16-22) and Zacchaeus in 19.1-10 function as contrasting responses to the radical renunciation of possessions associated with discipleship in the Gospel of Luke. When Jesus asked the former to sell all that he owned, give the proceeds to the poor, and follow him, he ‘became sad; for he was very rich’ (18.23). Zacchaeus, on the other hand, upon inviting Jesus into his home, vowed to give half of his possessions to the poor and make amends with those he had defrauded; in response, Jesus declared, ‘Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham’ (19.9). Hans-Joachim Degenhardt posited that μαθητής in the Gospel of Luke referred to specific officers within the church that were required to meet more stringent expectations, including the renunciation of personal possessions. These officers, or Amtstragern, consist of travelling apostles, missionaries, and evangelists. The common members of the church, as is evidenced in Acts (e.g. 13.4-12; 16.14-15), are asked only to give generously to the poor in their community. Likewise, Zacchaeus does not abandon everything and is saved. See further, Lukas-Evangelist der Armen: Besitz und Besitzverzicht in den Lukanischen Schriften (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1965), 215–22. Walter Pilgrim suggested poverty is not a symbol of piety, but a state of economic and social marginalization. Pilgrim claimed that Jesus had come to offer a promise of hope to societal outcasts, but also to the rich if they participate in the kingdom by caring for those in need. In this way, Luke addresses both the rich and poor in his community. The renunciation of possessions is not a true expectation, but an ideal that he hopes will shape his community. Thus, the true disciple is like Zacchaeus, who after being converted gave half of his wealth to the poor. See further, Good News to the Poor: Wealth and Poverty in Luke-Acts (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1981). 28 The traditions include the interpretation of the Sower and the tendency of the riches to choke the development of the word (Mk 4.19; Lk. 8.14); the saying about gaining the world but losing one’s life (Mk 8.36; Lk. 9.25); the Rich Ruler (Mk 10.17-22; Lk. 18.18-23); the difficulty for the rich to enter the kingdom of God (Mk 10.23-27; Lk. 18.24-27); the rewards promised to the disciples for leaving their families and possessions (Mk 10.28-31; Lk. 18.28-30); the condemnation of the scribes who devour the property of widows (Mk 12.38-40; Lk. 20.45-47); and the power of the offering of the widow (Mk 12.41-44; Lk. 21.1-4). The anointing of Jesus in Mk 14.3-9 is heavily redacted in Lk. 7.36-50. In the Markan tradition, Jesus is in Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, but in Luke he is at the dinner table of a Pharisee. In Mark, the disciples rebuke the woman for wasting expensive ointment to anoint Jesus, ointment that could have been sold to aid the poor. Jesus responds by saying, ‘Let her alone; why do you trouble her? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me’ (14.6-7). This saying and the rebuke is naturally omitted by the evangelist because of the distinctive mission statement in Lk. 4.18-19. On the Lukan redaction of Mark, see Mealand, Poverty, 16–20. 29 Friedrich W. Horn maintained that the radical renunciation of possessions is part of the tradition that Luke received. This tradition is most clearly visible in the early chapters of Acts (2.44-45; 4.32-35), in which the emerging church shares everything in common. The real danger

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before telling the story of Dives and Lazarus, ‘No slave [οἰκέτης] can serve [δουλεύειν] two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve [δουλεύειν] God [θεῷ] and wealth [μαμωνᾷ]’ (16.13). Matthew has an almost identical saying in 6.24, except that οἰκέτης is absent and instead Matthew has ‘no one [οὐδείς]’.30 In the Gospel of Luke, each character is a ‘slave’, and as such, must choose a master – Θεός or Μαμωνᾶς.31 The Blessings and Woes in 6.20-26 explicitly articulate this binary between the ‘lowly’ and the ‘powerful’ introduced in the Magnificat (cf. 1.52). In vv. 20b-21 Jesus addresses the poor and hungry, ‘Blessed [Μακάριοι] are you who are poor [πτωχοί], for yours is the kingdom of God [βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ]. Blessed [μακάριοι] are you who are hungry [πεινῶντες] now, for you will be filled [χορτασθήσεσθε].’ The Matthaean parallel varies slightly, but is strikingly different, ‘Blessed [Μακάριοι] are the poor [πτωχοί] in spirit [πνεύματι], for theirs is the kingdom of heaven [βασιλεία τῶν οὐρανῶν]. Blessed [μακάριοι] are those who hunger [πεινῶντες] and thirst for righteousness [δικαιοσύνην], for they will be filled [χορτασθήσονται]’ (5.3, 6).32 The esoteric language of of wealth is Weltlichkeit, ‘worldliness’; as the church grew and matured towards the end of the first century, the community was faced with the real danger of emulating the world, rather than the teachings of Jesus. Thus, the renunciation of possessions became a distinguishing mark of the Christian community, a community identified by personal sacrifice and love for each other. See further, Glaube und Handeln. On the relationship between the church and the pagan world with regards to wealth, see Louis William Countryman, The Rich Christian in the Early Church of the Early Empire: Contradictions and Accommodations (New York: Mellen, 1980), 131–48. 30 According to the critical edition of Q, Matthew retains the original tradition, but the Lukan rendering is also attested in 2 Clem. 6.1 (The Critical Edition of Q [ed. James M. Robinson, Paul Hoffmann, and John S. Kloppenborg; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000], 462–63). In a forthcoming monograph, Two Shipwrecked Gospels, Dennis MacDonald proposes a new solution to the synoptic problem, which he calls the Q+/Papias Hypothesis; with regards to Luke-Acts, he posits the evangelist used Matthew, Mark, Papias’ Exposition, and a lost source (Q+) that informed Mark and Matthew. 31 On the etymology of μαμωνᾶς and the personification of wealth, see John Nolland, Luke 9.21–18.34 (WBC 35B; Dallas: Word, 1993), 804–808. 32 If ‘Luke’ used Matthew as a source, the evangelist clearly redacted this tradition to suit his thematic agenda, removing the language of ‘spirit’ and ‘righteousness’ in the Matthaean version and refocusing this tradition on the concrete reality of poverty and hunger. The Lukan concern for the poor is also present in the Great Dinner (14.15-24). A parallel tradition is found in Mt. 22.1-14, but only in Luke does the owner of the house invite ‘the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame’ (14.21). Philip F. Esler attempted to identify the impact of social and political pressure at the end of the first century upon Lukan theology. He located the composition in a Hellenistic city of the Roman east, suggesting that the community was socially mixed. According to Esler, the Great Dinner in Lk. 14.15-24 is a perfect example of the manner in which the evangelist addressed his diverse audience. In this parable, the master of the house first invites his social equals, but they refuse to come. He then instructs his servant to extend the invitation to the poor. The places of honour in the kingdom are reserved for the poor, but the rich are solemnly warned and their redemption is intimately tied to their provision for those that are in need. See further, Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts: The Social and Political Motivations of Lucan Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987).

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the Matthaean version stands in stark contrast to the concrete reality of poverty and hunger in Luke.33 Luke concludes the blessings with this summative exhortation, ‘Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward [μισθός] is great in heaven [οὐρανῷ]; for that is what their ancestors [πατέρες] did to the prophets [προφήταις]’ (6.23). Matthew summarizes the Beatitudes with a similar saying in 5.12, but the addition of the woes in Lk. 6.24-26 reinforces the binary that is absent in the First Gospel: But woe to you [οὐαὶ ὑμῖν] who are rich [πλουσίοις], for you have received your consolation [παράκλησιν]. Woe to you [οὐαὶ ὑμῖν] who are full [ἐμπεπλησμένοι] now, for you will be hungry [πεινάσετε]. Woe [οὐαί] to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep [κλαύσετε]. Woe to you when [οὐαὶ ὅταν ὑμᾶς] all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors [πατέρες] did to the false prophets [ψευδοπροφήταις].34

The Blessings and Woes echo the rhetoric of reversal introduced via song in the Magnificat, filling the hungry with ‘τὰ ἀγαθά’, but the rich have received their παράκλησις and are sent away empty (1.53). The hymn concludes with an allusion to the promise given to Abraham; the patriarch will later remind 33 Jacques Dupont viewed the Lukan community as primarily consisting of the poor. In his exhaustive three-volume analysis of the Beatitudes, Les béatitudes, Dupont argued that the Beatitudes are blessings pronounced upon those within the church who are suffering persecution. The poor does not refer to a spiritual state, however, but to those who are in actual physical need. The poor do not have to wait for some future undisclosed date for their situation to change; rather, the coming of the kingdom is a direct attack upon their sordid conditions and a realization of change. The rich are those outside the Lukan community who are condemned outright in the woes (6.24-26); they are blinded by their wealth, just as unbelieving Israel was blinded from the truth. See further, Les beatitudes (vol. 3; Louvain: Nauwelaerts, 1973), 19–206; also, ‘The Poor and Poverty in the Gospel and Acts’, in Gospel Poverty: Essays in Biblical Theology (ed. Michael D. Guinan; Chicago: Franciscan Herald, 1977), 25–52. The work of Dupont and his concern for the poor reflect the influence of Albert Gelin, who in 1953 renewed academic interest in the impoverished in the Bible. Drawing primarily upon Zeph, he claimed that the ‘poor’ was not an economic category, but represented the faithful to God, or ‘spiritual poverty’. For his argument, see The Poor of Yahweh (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1964). 34 Luke Timothy Johnson was the first seriously to address the possible symbolic use of possessions in Luke-Acts; he argued the poor represent the socially marginalized and the rich those who have rejected Jesus (The Literary Function of Possessions in Luke-Acts (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1977). Johnson is reticent to discuss the actual community in which these texts emerged; for his reservations, see ‘On Finding the Lukan Community: A Cautious Cautionary Essay’, in Society of Biblical Literature 1979 Seminar Papers (ed. Paul J. Achtemeier; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1979), 87–100. Four years later, in a more provocative work, Sharing Possessions: Mandate and Symbol of Faith, he claimed that possessions function symbolically, revealing the condition of the heart. According to Johnson, Luke-Acts follows a dramatic pattern, ‘the story of the Prophet and the People’, which structures the entire work and reveals the metaphorical use of possessions. Within this framework, poverty reflects acceptance of the message of Jesus, while wealth is indicative of a blinded soul. See further, Paul S. Minear, To Heal and to Reveal: The Prophetic Vocation according to Luke (New York: Seabury Press, 1976), 19–30; and Tannehill, Narrative Unity, 127–32.

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the rich of this simple ἀσφάλεια in a postmortem dispute, ‘Child, remember that during your lifetime [ζωῇ] you received your good things [τὰ ἀγαθά], and Lazarus in like manner evil things [τὰ κακά]; but now he is comforted [παρακαλεῖται] here, and you are in agony’ (16.25).35 Evan though the Gospel of Matthew does not contain this caustic indictment of the rich in Lk. 6.24-26, the evangelist is not averse to the proclamation of woes. In Mt. 11.21-24, Jesus reproaches three unrepentant cities, in which he performed miraculous deeds: Woe [Οὐαί σοι] to you, Chorazin! Woe [οὐαί σοι] to you, Bethsaida! For if the deeds of power [δυνάμεις] done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented [μετενόησαν] long ago in sackcloth and ashes. But I tell you, on the day of judgment it will be more tolerable for Tyre and Sidon than for you. And you, Capernaum, will you be exalted [ὑψωθήσῃ] to heaven [οὐρανοῦ]? No, you will be brought [καταβήσῃ] down to Hades [ᾅδου]. For if the deeds of power [δυνάμεις] done in you had been done in Sodom, it would have remained until this day. But I tell you that on the day of judgment it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom than for you.36

Luke has a similar tradition in 10.13-15, except the reference to Sodom precedes the woes in v. 12 (cf. Mt. 10.15), which are embedded between the sending of the seventy (10.1-12) and their joyful return (10.17-20).37 Instead, the evangelist concludes the woes with this warning in v. 16: ‘Whoever listens [ἀκούων] to you listens [ἀκούει] to me, and whoever rejects you rejects me, and whoever rejects me rejects the one who sent me.’38

35 Thomas E. Schmidt argued there is little sympathy for the poor in the synoptic tradition. Hostility to wealth is the established tradition within the Synoptic Gospels, not determined by socio-economic factors, but a ‘fundamental religious-ethical tenet consistently expressed’ (Hostility to Wealth in the Synoptic Gospels [Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1987], 12). This theme is also found in the Semitic ethical tradition, particularly the criticism of the wealthy when they unjustly treat the widow, orphan, and the poor. He marches passage by passage through Mark, Matthew, and Luke, but gives special attention to the Rich Ruler (Mk 10.17-31; Mt. 19.1630; Lk. 18.18-30) as the largest and best textual example from the triple tradition. From his survey, he concludes that hostility to wealth and the demand for the renunciation of possessions is merely a way of expressing Gottvertrauen, or ‘God-trust’. See also his earlier article, ‘Hostility to Wealth in Philo of Alexandria’, JSNT 19 (1983): 85–97. 36 According to Ezek. 16.49, Sodom was destroyed because of excessive pride, food, and prosperity; in addition, they did not aid the ‘poor and needy [LXX πτωχοῦ καὶ πένητος]’. 37 Other ancient authorities (e.g. ‫ א‬A C L W Θ Ξ Ψ) read ‘seventy-two’. On the significance of both numbers, Nolland comments, ‘The number seventy or seventy-two is used symbolically by Luke, who invites us to think of the traditional number of the nations of the world (in Gen 10 there are seventy names in the Hebrew OT and seventy-two in the Greek OT). While in fact these messengers will have spoken only to Jews (and perhaps Samaritans), the mission of Jesus is intended finally for the peoples of all the nations’ (Luke, 558). 38 The theme of ‘listening [ἀκούω]’ is found throughout the Gospel and Acts (Lk. 6.27, 47; 8.8-15, 18, 21; 9.35; 10.16, 39; 11.28; Acts 3.22-23; 4.19; 28.28). See further, Abraham J. Malherbe, ‘The Christianization of a Topos (Luke 12:13-34)’, NovT 38 (1996): 131.

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Previously in Capernaum, Jesus had taught on the Sabbath and exorcised a demon in the synagogue (4.31-38a; cf. Mk 1.21-29), which according to the Jewish elders of the city was built by a centurion (7.3-5). In 7.1-10, Jesus returned to Capernaum and healed this man’s slave, who was deathly ill. In the parallel tradition in Mt. 8.5-13, the slave is paralysed and the Jewish elders and their synagogue are absent, but Jesus issues this judgement upon Israel that is not recorded in the Lukan parallel, ‘I tell you, many [πολλοί] will come from east and west and will eat [ἀνακλιθήσονται] with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven, while the heirs of the kingdom will be thrown into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping [κλαυθμός] and gnashing of teeth [βρυγμὸς τῶν ὀδόντων]’ (vv. 11-12; cf. Lk. 13.28-29). In the Gospel of Matthew, many (πολλοί) will dine with the patriarchs in the kingdom of heaven, but in Luke the door is narrow and only the few will enjoy the eschatological banquet in the kingdom of God (cf. 13.22-29). The κατάβασις of Capernaum in Lk. 10.15 and Mt. 11.23a may be an allusion to the κατάβασις of the king of Babylon in Isa. 14.14-15, ‘I will ascend to the tops of the clouds, I will make myself like the Most High. But you are brought down [LXX καταβήσῃ] to Sheol [LXX ᾅδου], to the depths of the Pit.’39 The satirical lament of this fallen tyrant begins, ‘When the Lord has given you rest from your pain and turmoil and the hard service with which you were made to serve, you will take up this taunt [l#$fm@fha] against the king of Babylon’ (vv. 3-4a).40 This ‘taunt’ is identified as a mashal, which is usually translated as παραβολή in the Septuagint; however, in this instance, it is rendered as ‘dirge [θρῆνος]’, or ritual expression of lament for the dead.41 The prophet describes the tumult in the underworld upon the arrival of the oppressor: ‘Sheol [LXX ᾅδης] beneath is stirred up to meet you when you come; it rouses the shades [LXX γίγαντες] to greet you, all who were leaders of the earth; it raises from their thrones all who were kings of the nations’ (v. 9).42 Sheol is usually still and silent, but in v. 10 these royal dead sing in 39 The Septuagint translated sixty-one of the sixty-five appearances of ‘Sheol [lwO)#$;]’ with ‘hades [ᾅδης]’. On the relationship between Sheol and hades in Isaiah, see further, John G. W. Watts, Isaiah 1–33 (WBC 24; Dallas: Word, 2005), 263. 40 Cf. Ps. 82.1-8; Ezek. 28.11-19. On the fallen gods tradition, see further, The Fall of the Angels (ed. Christoph Auffarth and Loren Stuckenbruck; Leiden: Brill, 2004); and Archie T. Wright, The Origin of Evil Spirits: The Reception of Genesis 6:1-4 in Early Jewish Literature (Tübingen: Mohr, 2005). Cf. the death of the king of Babylon (Isa. 14.4-20) and king Herod (Acts 12.20-23), who both feign divine honours and are eaten by worms. 41 At the conclusion of the Iliad, the funeral procession of Hector, which in this context is certainly not a ‘taunt’, is described as a θρῆνος (24.721). For the use of mashal to describe other taunting songs, see Num. 21.27; Isa. 28.14. On taunt meshalim, see Jeremy Schipper, Parables and Conflict in the Hebrew Bible (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 12–14. 42 The inhabitants of Sheol are ‘ghosts [My)ipfr]: ’; this Hebrew term is also used to describe a race of giants in ancient Palestine (cf. Gen. 15.20; Deut. 3.11). The unclear origin of the term led the Septuagint and the Vulgate to translate the Hebrew as γίγαντες/gigantes. For other occurrences of γίγας in the Septuagint, see Gen. 6.4; 1 Chron. 20.8; Jdt. 16.6; 3 Macc. 2.4; Job 26.5; Isa. 13.3; 14.9; Bar. 3.26; Ezek. 32.21; cf. Homer, Od. 7.206; 10.120; Hesiod, Theog. 185. Also, consider the Homeric Tityos, the giant among the dead in hades (Od. 11.576–81).

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chorus, ‘You too have become as weak as we! You have become like us!’43 The fate of the Babylonian tyrant is described in vivid detail: All the kings of the nations lie in glory [LXX τιμῇ], each in his own tomb; but you are cast out, away from your grave, like loathsome carrion, clothed with the dead, those pierced by the sword, who go down to the stones of the Pit [LXX ᾅδου] like a corpse trampled underfoot. You will not be joined with them in burial, because you have destroyed your land, you have killed your people. May the descendants of evildoers nevermore be named! (14.18-20)

The punishment for this inglorious king is severe; his body is left unburied like carrion to be devoured by scavenger animals and his name is forever forgotten.44 In the Gospel of Luke, however, τιμή is not reserved for those who are properly buried nor is the desecration of the corpse a cause for shame. Furthermore, fallen enemies are not cause for celebration; rather, ‘rejoice [χαίρετε] that your names [ὀνόματα] are written [ἐυγέγραπται] in heaven’ (10.20; cf. Mt. 7.22-23).45 The proclamation of woes is not reserved for prosperous cities alone.46 In Mt. 23.1-36, the evangelist issues a scathing indictment of the scribes and Pharisees to the crowds and his disciples, ‘Woe [Οὐαί] to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you clean the outside of the cup and of the plate, but inside they are full of greed [ἁρπαγῆς] and self-indulgence [ἀκρασίας]. You blind [τυφλέ] Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup, so that the outside also may become clean’ (vv. 25-26). The Gospel of Luke has a similar tradition, except the scribes are lawyers and the setting is the dinner table of one of the Pharisees.47 Upon sitting down to dine, Jesus confronts his host, ‘Now you Pharisees clean the outside of the cup and of the dish, but inside you are full of greed [ἁρπαγῆς] and wickedness [πονηρίας]. You fools [ἄφρονες]! Did not the one who made the outside make

43 Riley, River, 139; and Watts, Isaiah, 263. 44 ‘The observations of those who view the corpse reflect their astonishment and horror. The body has not been buried but has been abandoned like garbage (v. 19). He shares the fate of the dead among the poorest people: like the “aborted fetus,” like the clothes of one stabbed in a brawl, one killed in a fall, or one trampled by a mob or on a battlefield, he is simply dumped in a pit and left to the birds and animals’ (Watts, Isaiah, 265). 45 Cf. Riley, River, 103; and Nolland, Luke, 566. In 10.18, the evangelist replaces the adversary of Israel (i.e. king of Babylon) in Isa. 14.12 (cf. T. Sol. 20.16-17) with the adversary of God (i.e. Satan). On the origin of Satan, see further, Neil Forsyth, The Old Enemy: Satan and the Combat Myth (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987); and Jeffrey Burton Russell, The Devil: Perceptions of Evil from Antiquity to Primitive Christianity (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977). 46 According to Sean Freyne, the villages of Galilee that were situated near the fertile plain of Ginnosaur (Josephus, J.W. 3.10.8), including Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum, enjoyed great prosperity. For an excellent discussion of the micro-ecologies of Galilee, see Jesus, A Jewish Galilean: A New Reading of the Jesus Story (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 24–59. 47 For an earlier confrontation with a νομικός in the Gospel of Luke, see 10.25-37.

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the inside also? So give for alms [ἐλεημοσύνην] those things that are within; and see, everything will be clean for you’ (11.39-41). In both versions, the Pharisees are condemned for their greed, but Luke juxtaposes ἁρπαγή with wickedness, not self-indulgence. Furthermore, they are foolish, not blind. The prescription for their folly is simple: do not ‘clean the inside of the cup’ – give alms – and everything will be clean.48 Shortly after this meal, Jesus will tell the story of the Rich Ἄφρων in 12.15-21 and instruct his disciples in clear and certain terms, ‘Sell your possessions, and give alms [ἐλεημοσύνην]’ (12.33a). However, in the Gospel of Matthew the greedy (and self-indulgent) have little hope, ‘You snakes, you brood of vipers! How can you escape being sentenced to hell [γεέννης]?’ (23.33).49 Alongside song, sermon, and discourse, the Third Gospel includes a rich storytelling tradition that dramatizes the Lukan kerygma. According to Mikael C. Parsons, these stories constitute a special collection of ‘twinned’ parables in the journey to Jerusalem (9.51–19.27).50 Parsons posits that this νόστος, which is described in 9.51 as an ἀνάλημψις: In this context, the ‘L’ parables become landmarks for instructing the disciples along this way. They serve to remind the reader that the journey of Jesus is also their journey, and that journey is filled with unexpected twists and turns. Along the way, outsiders can become insiders and insiders can become outsiders. Along the way, the exalted can be humbled and the humble exalted.51

The narration of the unexpected is beautifully executed in one set of ‘twinned’ parables – the Foolish Rich Man (12.15-21) and Dives and Lazarus (16.1931) – which both begin with the verbal parallel, ‘ἄνθρωπός τις πλούσιος’ (cf. 12.16; 16.19).52

48 George W. E. Nickelsburg compared Luke with 1 En. 92–105 and concluded that the accumulation of wealth is inversely related to the possibility of salvation in these texts (cf. ‘Riches’, 324–44). 49 Γέεννα is the Greek form of the Hebrew name for the ‘Valley of Hinnom [Mn%&hi yg%']’ (cf. Josh. 15.8; 18.16; Neh. 11.30). This is the name of the valley south of Jerusalem where sacrifices were offered to Molech during the reign of Ahaz and Manasseh (cf. Jer. 7.31; 19.1-5; 32.35; cf. 2 Kgs 16.3; 21.6). On γέεννα, see further, Lloyd R. Bailey, ‘Gehenna: The Topography of Hell’, BA 49 (1986): 187–91; Chaim Milikowsky, ‘Which Gehenna? Retribution and Eschatology in the Synoptic Gospels and in Early Jewish Texts’, NTS 34 (1988): 238–49; and Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 271–77. 50 The ‘twinned’ parables include the Good Samaritan (10.30-35) and the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (18.9-14); the Shameless Neighbour (11.5-8) and the Unjust Judge (18.1-8); the Foolish Rich Man (12.15-21) and the Rich Man and Lazarus (16.19-31); the Returning Master (12.36-38) and the Dishonest Steward (16.1-9); and the Barren Fig Tree (13.6-9) and the Lost Sons (15.11-32). For his insightful discussion of this uniquely Lukan parabolic complex, see Luke, 119–23. 51 Parsons, Luke, 122. 52 Although the parable is popularly known as the ‘Rich Fool’, he is explicitly called a rich man who is later identified as foolish; hence, a more appropriate title would be the ‘Foolish Rich Man’ (see further, Hock, ‘Foolish’, 182 n. 6).

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A comparison of the Foolish Rich Man in the Gospel of Luke and the Coptic Gospel of Thomas provides the starting point for appreciating the relationship between these ‘twinned’ parables.53 Lk. 12.15-21

Gos. Thom. 63

And he said to them, ‘Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.’ Then he told them a parable:

Jesus said,

‘The land of a rich man produced abundantly.

‘There was a rich man who had much money.

And he thought to himself, “What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?” Then he said, “I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods.

He said, “I will use my money that I may sow and reap and plant and fill my storehouses with fruit so that I shall lack nothing.” This was what he thought in his heart.

And I will say to my soul, Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.” But God said to him, “You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?”

And that night he died.

So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.’

Whoever has ears let him hear.’

The two versions both feature a rich man, but the plot unfolds in divergent ways. In the Gospel of Thomas the rich man plans to invest his wealth in farming so that he will ‘lack nothing’. In the Gospel of Luke, the rich man is already the beneficiary of an abundant harvest. His intention is not to farm the land, but to build bigger barns to store his excessive ‘crops [καρπός]’. The future tense in the Gospel of Thomas stands in sharp contrast to the Lukan past 53 Parallel versions of the Foolish Rich Man can also be found in Sir. 11.14-20; 1 En. 97.8-10 (cf. T. Jud. 18–19).

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tense; furthermore, the rich farmer desires not only to ‘lack nothing’, but to lack nothing for ‘many years’. In both versions, the internal discourse of the rich man is revealed, but the ‘thought in his heart [6ht]’ in the Gospel of Thomas is intensified with the additional material in Luke: ‘And I will say to my soul [ψυχή], Soul [ψυχή], you have ample goods [ἀγαθά] laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry [εὐφραίνου]’ (12.19).54 The introduction of the ψυχή is an unexpected turn in the plot that broadens the narrative horizon of the Lukan version. In the Gospel of Thomas, the sudden death of the rich man concludes the story, but the presence of the ψυχή in the Gospel of Luke suggests postmortem consequences.55 The divine proclamation in v. 20 reinforces the gravity of the situation: ‘But God said to him, “You fool [Ἄφρων]! This very night your life [ψυχή] is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?”’56 In the passage preceding the Foolish Rich Man, Jesus issues this mysterious warning, ‘I tell you, my friends, do not fear those who kill the body [σῶμα], and after that can do nothing more. But I will warn you whom to fear: fear him who, after he has killed, has authority to cast into hell [γέενναν]. Yes, I tell you, fear him!’ (12.4-6). This saying is not exactly clear, but the syntax implies the σῶμα can be killed and thrown into Gehenna. However, if the body is dead, what does the body have to fear? This warning is partially explained in the introduction to the Foolish Rich Man in vv. 13-15. Jesus is addressed by a man in the crowd concerning a family quarrel with his brother over their inheritance. After explaining that he was not appointed to resolve their dispute, he warns the brother to beware the dangers of greed (πλεονεξίας), ‘for one’s life [ζωή] does not consist in the abundance of possessions’ (12.15b).57 54 On the juxtaposition of ψυχή and τὰ ἀγαθά in this parable, see Hock, ‘Foolish’, 189– 95. For a discussion of the hedonistic lifestyle implied by ‘eat, drink, be merry’, see Abraham J. Malherbe, ‘The Beasts at Ephesus’, JBL 87 (1968): 71–80. 55 Beyond Lk. 12.15-21, the Greek ψυχή only appears four other times in the Gospel of Luke. The first occurrence is in the opening line of the Magnificat, ‘My soul [ψυχή] magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant’ (1.46b–48a). The second occurrence is in the introduction to the parable of the Good Samaritan, in which Jesus instructs the lawyer concerning eternal life: ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul [ψυχή], and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself’ (10.27). The third and fourth occurrences are immediately after the Foolish Rich Man, in which Jesus encourages his disciples to sell their possessions and give alms: ‘He said to his disciples, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life [ψυχή], what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. For life [ψυχή] is more than food, and the body more than clothing”’ (12.22-23). 56 Cf. Horace, Sat. 2.3.159. 57 The poor is not the primary concern of Luke-Acts, suggested Wolfgang Stegemann, but the rich. Drawing upon Cynic and Stoic teachings, he argues that the vilification of the wealthy and the celebration of the poor is a criticism of the rich within the Lukan community. These rich Christians, claimed Stegemann, are guilty of φιλαργυρία (cf. Lk. 16.14) and πλεονεξία (cf. Lk. 12.15). These two traditional Hellenistic concepts reflect a concern for the ethical use of possessions. Stegemann draws

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In the narrative proper, however, ζωή does not occur; instead, the narrative shifts to the ψυχή of the rich farmer.58 Consequently, when the one arrives who has the authority to cast into Gehenna, he demands his ψυχή, not his σῶμα. The rich man is a fool because he failed to understand his ζωή consists not only of the care of the σῶμα, but the nurturing of the ψυχή as well and that folly carried grave consequences.59 The summative statement in v. 21 frames the story and issues a final warning to those who are ‘not rich toward God’. 60 Unfortunately, the text does not narrate the postmortem consequences for his ζωή, which would have been a fitting eschatological revelation for the brother with misplaced values.61 However, after the story concludes, Jesus does issue these encouraging words for the one who lacks clothing and food, ‘Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life [ψυχῇ], what you will eat, or about your body [σώματι], what you will wear [ἐνδύσησθε]. For life [ψυχή] is more than food, and the body [σῶμα] more than clothing [ἐνδύματος]’ (12.22-23). The presence of a moralizing introduction (προμύθιον) and conclusion (ἐπιμύθιον) to the Foolish Rich Man (12.15, 21), which are not present in the Gospel of Thomas, is a common feature in the Lukan storytelling tradition as a whole.62 This use of morals to summarize a story is characteristic of a genre familiar to all throughout the Mediterranean world – the aforementioned μῦθος,

upon Zacchaeus (Lk. 19.1-10) as an exemplar of the redemption of the wealthy. If the rich would heed the words of Jesus and give freely to the poor, then a ‘concrete social utopia’ would be realized. There would no longer be rich or poor, but a community that shares its goods for the betterment of the whole. See further, ‘The Following of Christ as Solidarity between Rich, Respected Christians and Poor, Despised Christians (Gospel of Luke)’, in Jesus and the Hope of the Poor (ed. Luise Schottroff and Wolfgang Stegemann; Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1986), 67–120; Joel B. Green, ‘Good News to Whom? Jesus and the “Poor” in the Gospel of Luke’, in Jesus of Nazareth, Lord and Christ: Essays on the Historical Jesus and the New Testament (ed. Joel B. Green; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1984), 59–74; Malherbe, ‘Christianization’, 123–35; and Hock, ‘Foolish’, 181–96. 58 On the infinite value of the soul, see Riley, River, 147–52. 59 Hock, ‘Foolish’, 195. 60 Verse 21 was omitted by some ancient manuscripts, but the evidence overwhelmingly supports its inclusion. In addition, some witnesses read, ‘ταῦτα λέγων ἐφώνει· ὁ ἔχων ὦτα ἀκούειν ἀκουέτω’ (cf. Bruce M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament [Stuttgart: Deutsche Biblegesellschaft, 1994], 135). 61 An eschatological revelation may have been expected, as attested by the sayings on eschatological readiness in 12.35-56. The delay of such a revelation may have served to build dramatic tension, a natural byproduct of ‘twinned’ parables separated by narrative time. 62 Cf. Lk. 12.15 and Phaedr. 4.12. The Jewish parallel to the story in Sir. 11.14-20 also contains a προμύθιον and an ἐπιμύθιον. The following stories in the Synoptic Gospels have either a προμύθιον, ἐπιμύθιον, or both: the Wicked Tenants (Mk 12.1-11; Mt. 21.33-45; Lk. 20.9-18), the Unmerciful Servant (Mt. 18.23-35); the Labourers in the Vineyard (Mt. 20.1-16); the Two Sons (Mt. 21.28-32); the Wedding Feast (Mt. 22.2-14); the Ten Maidens (Mt. 25.1-13); the Talents (Mt. 25.14-30); the Foolish Rich Man (Lk. 12.15-21); the Unjust Steward (Lk. 16.1-9); the Persistent Widow (Lk. 18.1-8); and the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (Lk. 18.9-14). These morals are considered by many to be secondary; for a discussion of free-floating sayings of Jesus that were later attached to stories by the evangelists, see Eta Linnemann, Parables of Jesus: Introduction and Exposition (London: SPCK, 1966), 16–18.

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or ‘fable’.63 On the relationship between the moral and the fable, Doxapatres says, ‘Just as the task of the introduction is to make the audience attentive to what will be said in the narrative, so the task of (composing) a μῦθος is to prepare the audience for accepting the ἐπιμύθιον, or moral, of the μῦθος.’64 In his watershed publication, Die Gleichnisreden Jesu, Adolf Jülicher adapted a system of literary classification for the Synoptic parables from Aristotelian rhetoric (i.e. similitudes, parables, and example stories).65 With regards to the parable proper, he noted, ‘Die Mehrzahl der parabolai Jesu, die erzählende Form tragen, sind Fabeln, wie die des Stesichoros und des Aesop.’66 In his own work, he avoided the designation Fabel (Lat. fabula, ‘story’) because of its association with animal stories; instead, he used the term Parabel. After Jülicher, modern parable scholars continued to use Graeco-Roman literary classifications, but they posited that the Jewish meshalim provided the essential literary backdrop for interpreting the Synoptic parables.67 The availability of the Aesopic tradition and the growing interest in Greek and Latin literature has revived the significance of his observation in 1886.68 On the interpretive relevance of the fable, Charles W. Hedrick commented, The fabula is a very old and distinguished form in wisdom literature and is at least as promising a venue for contextualizing the parables of Jesus as the rabbinic literature and Hebrew Bible, if not more so, because of the dating problems with rabbinic literature. No problems exist with dating the fable, as it antedates Jesus. No problems exist with accessibility of fables to first-century Palestine, since they were widespread throughout the early Roman Empire.69

63 Kennedy, Greek Rhetoric, 60–61; and Madeleine I. Boucher, The Parables (Wilmington, DE: Michael Glazier, 1981), 11. For the definitive treatment of the fable in antiquity, see Francisco Rondríguez Adrados, History of the Graeco-Latin Fable (trans. Leslie A. Ray and F. Rojas Del Canto; 3 vols; Leiden: Brill 1999–2003). 64 Doxapatres 2.125, 15–19 (Walz); see further, Hock, ‘Foolish’, 194–95. 65 Aristotle uses the word παραβολή to describe the fable (Rhet. 2.20.2–3). On the relationship between parable and fable, see Klaus Berger, ‘Hellenistische Gattungen im Neun Testament’, ANRW II.25.2 (ed. H. Temporini and W. Haase; New York: de Gruyter, 1989), 1110–24. 66 Jülicher, Gleichnisreden, I.98. 67 E.g. Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 166; M. Hermaniuk, La parabole évangelique (Louvain: Bibliothecs Alfonsians, 1947), 194–264; Boucher, Mysterious Parable, 11–21; and Stein, Introduction, 15–21. 68 The earliest extant manuscripts of Aesopic fables are dated to the mid second century; this is roughly the same date as a fragment of the Gospel of John and Papyrus Egerton 2, which are the earliest known manuscripts of the Gospels. For the Aesopic tradition, see Aesop without Morals (trans. Loyd W. Daly; New York: Thomas Yoseloff, 1961); Babrius and Phaedrus (trans. Ben Edward Perry; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1965); and Aesopica (trans. Ben Edward Perry and R. M. Dorson; Salem, NH: Ayer, 1952). 69 Hedrick, Many Things, 20.

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In support of this observation, Hedrick identified two Aesopic fables that were attributed to Jesus in the Gospel of Thomas; clearly, this is evidence of a shared tradition.70 The Greek fables, which figure prominently in all stages of the ancient curriculum, have traditionally been attributed to Aesop, who according to Herodotus was a sixth-century Phrygian slave from Samos (Hist. 2.134).71 Along with maxims and χρεῖαι, the γραμματιστής taught primary students elementary composition through the process of hearing, reciting, and writing these fables.72 For example, Quintilian recommended that his students ‘should learn to paraphrase Aesop’s fables, the natural successors of the fairy stories of the nursery in simple and restrained language and subsequently to set down this paraphrase in writing with the same simplicity of style’ (Inst. 1.9.1 [Butler, LCL]). Beyond simple paraphrasing, the γραμματικός taught the fundamentals of grammar through the manipulation of fables, much like the grammatical exercises performed on the χρεῖαι.73 The fable was also present in the προγυμνάσματα; Aphthonius, for example, includes the μῦθος as the first of fourteen pre-rhetorical exercises. According to the rhetorician Demetrius, the malleability of the fables made them particularly suitable for integration into larger literary compositions, especially oratorical declamations (Eloc. 3.157).74 In his introduction to the critical edition of two fable collections, Ben Edward Perry describes the fable as a topical narrative in the past tense, relating an action or saying carried out by certain characters, often conveying an ethical or moral truth about a particular person, thing, or situation.75 Mary Ann Beavis agrees, but adds that many fables also contain religious truths involving the relations between humans and gods.76 In addition, these fables 70 Cf. Gos. Thom. 8 and Babrius 4; and Gos. Thom. 102 and Perry, Babrius and Phaedrus, 9–10, no. 4 and 597, no. 702. Aesopic fables were also employed by the satirist Lucian (cf. Fug. 13; Pseudol. 5). 71 Pre-Aesopic fables are found in Homer, Hesiod, and Archilochus as well and collections of fables were made by Demetrius of Phaleron (fourth century bce), Phaedrus (late first century bce), and Babrius (early second century ce). See further, W. M. Edwards, ‘Fable’, OCD 584. 72 Marrou, Education, 173. 73 Ronald F. Hock and Edward N. O’Neil, The Chreia in Ancient Rhetoric. Volume I: The Progymnasmata (SBLTT 27; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986), 72–73. 74 Aristotle describes the fable as an invented example (παράδειγμα); as such, they were far more flexible for argumentation than examples taken from actual events (cf. Rhet. 2.20.2– 3). According to Jülicher, there are four ‘example stories’ in the Synoptic Gospels: the Good Samaritan (Lk. 10.30-35), the Foolish Rich Man (Lk. 12.16-20), the Rich Man and Lazarus (Lk. 16.19-31), and the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (Lk. 18.9-14). 75 Perry, Babrius, xx–xxi. 76 Mary Ann Beavis, ‘Parable and Fable’, CBQ 52 (1990): 477. Fables that narrate human activities or the relations between gods and humans constitute a significant minority of extant fables (17 per cent of Babrius’ anthology of 143 fables; 30 per cent of Phaedrus’ collection of 127; 16 per cent of ancient fables preserved in prose paraphrase [Beavis, ‘Parable and Fable’, 479 n. 32]).

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often include an element of extravagance and reversal that is characteristic of many Synoptic parables; of course, the supernatural is largely absent in these parables, but she does note two exceptions – the Foolish Rich Man and Dives and Lazarus.77 The presence of προμύθια and ἐπιμύθια in the Lukan storytelling tradition suggests a familiarity with the manipulation of the μῦθος attested in the ancient curriculum. The presence of an introductory and concluding moral in the Foolish Rich Man reflects this educational exercise, but a summative moral is absent in Dives and Lazarus.78 The Abrahamic declaration in 16.31, however, is characteristic of another feature of the fable – the γνώμη – a summative declaration from a main character on the action of the story.79 In her article, Beavis includes an insightful comparison of the Foolish Rich Man with a fable from the Babrius collection, but a parallel fable for Dives and Lazarus does not exist.80 The Lukan treatment of the Foolish Rich Man and Dives and Lazarus may imitate the treatment of the Greek fable, but for the setting, characterization, and plot, the evangelist turned to the ποίημα κατ’ ἐξοχήν of postmortem revelation in antiquity to craft a μυθικὸν διήγημα as a vehicle of oracular truth – a fraternal twin of the seemingly incomplete story of a foolish rich man who intends to celebrate (εὐφραίνου) every day, but whose life is unexpectedly taken.81

Luke 16.19-31 and Odyssey 11.1–640 The verbal parallel that links the Foolish Rich Man and Dives and Lazarus, ‘ἄνθρωπός τις πλούσιος’, occurs one other time in the Gospel of Luke – in the story of the Unjust Steward (16.1).82 In ch. 15, Jesus tells the parable of the 77 Beavis, ‘Parable and Fable’, 480–81. 78 In addition, note the shift from the future tense in the Coptic version of the Foolish Rich Man to the past tense in the Lukan version, which is characteristic of the fables. 79 Kenney, Greek Rhetoric, 61–62. On the γνῶμαι and the prominence of Homeric maxims in these exercises, see further, Hock, ‘Homer’, 72. Concluding commentary from a main character is a common feature in many of the Matthaean and Lukan parables (e.g. Mt. 18.32-33; 20.13-15; 25.12, 26-28; Lk. 12.20; 13.8-9; 15.31-32; 16.30; 18.4-5). Cf. the divine commentary in Lk. 12.20 with Babrius 30, 63, 117, and Phaedrus 4.11 (see further, Hedrick, Many Things, 19–20). 80 For her analysis of these two traditions, along with Gos. Thom. 63, see Beavis, ‘Parable and Fable’, 489–93. 81 The Greek εὐφραίνω occurs in the Foolish Rich Man (12.19), the Prodigal Son (15.23, 24, 29, 32), and Dives and Lazarus (16.19). In the Prodigal Son, however, the celebration is clearly a special occasion, whereas the foolish rich man plans to celebrate for years to come and Dives celebrates each and every day (see further, Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 424). On the suddenness of death in relationship to the accumulation of wealth, see Lucian, Cat. 17; Dial. mort. 1.3; Seneca, Ep. 101.4–9. 82 On the problem of the literary parameters of the Unjust Steward, see D. J. Ireland, ‘A History of Recent Interpretation of the Parable of the Unjust Steward (Luke 16:1-13)’, WTJ 51 (1989): 293–318; and John S. Kloppenborg, ‘The Dishonoured Master (Luke 16:1-8a)’, Bib 70 (1989): 474–95.

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Lost Sheep (vv. 3-7), the Lost Coin (vv. 8-10), and the Prodigal Son (vv. 1132) to a diverse audience (vv. 1-2), but then turns to his disciples and recounts the story of a rich man and his manager.83 After concluding that a slave cannot serve God and wealth (16.13), a secondary audience appears – the ‘lovers of money [φιλάργυροι]’ (16.14).84 After hearing all that was said, these eavesdropping Pharisees ridiculed (ἐξεμυκτήριζον) him, literally ‘turning their noses up at him’ (16.14).85 The remainder of ch. 16 is a response to these Pharisees (vv. 15-31), after which, he turns back to the disciples and issues one more woe: Occasions for stumbling [σκάνδαλα] are bound to come, but woe [οὐαί] to anyone by whom they come! It would be better for you if a millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea than for you to cause one of these little ones to stumble [σκανδαλίσῃ]. Be on your guard! If another disciple [ἀδελφός] sins, you must rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance [μετανοήσῃ], you must forgive. (17.1-3)

A parallel tradition exists in Mk 9.42-48 and Mt. 18.6-9 and 15-18, except in both cases, Jesus additionally encourages selective amputation, rather than suffering entirely in the fire (πῦρ) of Gehenna (Mk 9.44, 47-48; Mt. 18.8-9). In Luke, this warning is unnecessary and illogical; the unrepentant brother is already suffering in the flame (φλογί) of hades.

83 Lehtipuu notes the striking similarities between Dives and Lazarus and the Prodigal Son: unclean animals (15.16; 16.21); dialogue between father and son (15.31; 16.25); seeing from a distance (15.20; 16.23; cf. 18.13); a father’s house with brothers (15.18, 20; 16.27); a sumptuous dinner party with fine clothing; and, the contrast between being dead/alive (Afterlife Imagery, 28 n. 85). Snodgrass argues the behaviour of the unjust steward and the rich man is contrasted (cf. 16.9, 26); Dives failed to ‘make friends with unrighteous mammon’ and is not welcome in the eternal tents (Stories with Intent, 424–45). 84 Halvor Moxnes claims this epithet describing the Pharisees is used as a literary τόπος by the evangelist. As ‘lovers of money’, the Pharisees represent the main opponents of the ministry of Jesus. They are not part of the Lukan community, but represent those who uphold the Law while ignoring the needs of the people. Moxnes employs the patron–client relation to explain the Lukan social world, a world defined by a hierarchy of those who have and those who have not. From the emperor to the peasant, the patron–client relationship is defined by social and economic inequality, and yet the Gospel of Luke calls for a radical break from this pattern. For Luke, the only patron is God, who rewards those who care for the needs of others, expecting nothing in return. See further, The Economy of the Kingdom: Social Conflict and Economic Relations in Luke’s Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988). On the Lukan characterization of the Pharisees, see David P. Gowler, Host, Guest, Enemy and Friend: Portraits of the Pharisees in Luke and Acts (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 1991); John A. Darr, On Character Building: The Reader and the Rhetoric of Characterization in Luke-Acts (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 85–126. The anti-Pharisaic rhetoric is reserved primarily for Luke; in Acts, the Pharisees legitimate the Christian faith (e.g. 5.34-39; 23.9). See further, Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 168–69. 85 Joel B. Green, ‘Narrative Criticism’, in Methods for Luke (ed. Joel B. Green; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 101. In this verse, it says the Pharisees ‘heard all this’, which may also refer to 15.1-32 and even 14.1-24.

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After the Pharisaic sneering in v. 14, Jesus responds sternly, ‘You are those who justify [δικαιοῦντες] yourselves in the sight of others; but God knows your hearts [καρδίας]; for what is prized [ὑψηλόν] by human beings [ἀνθρώποις] is an abomination [βδέλυγμα] in the sight of God’ (16.15).86 The time of the divinely ordained favour of the poor has arrived (cf. 4.18-19). They imagine themselves to be obedient to the law (16.18; cf. 18.11), but they will inevitably discover a simple truth the Pharisee and the Tax Collector would later dramatize (18.9-14).87 The one who recognizes the need for repentance ‘went down [κατέβη] to his home justified [δεδικαιωμένος] rather than the other; for 86 Cf. the ‘lovers of money’ with Croesus in Herodotus. Solon, a famous lawgiver from Athens, visited Croesus in Sardis and was given a royal welcome. The servants of Croesus displayed the great wealth and prosperity of their master to their visitor. After the grand tour, Croesus inquired, ‘My Athenian guest, we have heard a lot about you because of your wisdom and of your wanderings, how as one who loves learning you have traveled much of the world for the sake of seeing it, so now I desire to ask you who is the most fortunate man you have seen’ (1.30.2 [Godley, LCL]). Croesus, expecting Solon to praise him and his great wealth, was bitterly disappointed by his response. Solon answered: Tellus of Athens. He described him as a man of a prosperous city, whose children were noble and established, but most importantly, Tellus died a glorious death in battle. Solon continued, citing Cleobis and Biton as next in line. They were known for their great strength and sufficient wealth. After aiding their mother in her duties at the temple, she prayed to the goddess that her sons should receive a great prize. After the prayer, the two young men ate, fell asleep, and never woke again. Apparently, the goddess considered death the greatest reward she could grant. Croesus was infuriated by his response, expecting that his guest would honour him and his great prosperity. Solon responded to his indignation, ‘Croesus, you ask me about human affairs, and I know that the divine is entirely grudging and troublesome to us. In a long span of time it is possible to see many things that you do not want to, and to suffer them, too’ (1.32.1–2 [Godley, LCL]). After mentioning the jealousy of the gods, Solon continues, ‘So, Croesus, man is entirely chance. To me you seem to be very rich and to be king of many people, but I cannot answer your question before I learn that you ended your life well. The very rich man is not more fortunate than the man who has only his daily needs, unless he chances to end his life with all well’ (1.32.4–5 [Godley, LCL]). After hearing this, Croesus dismissed him as a foolish man. After Solon departed, however, ‘divine retribution fell heavily on Croesus; as I guess, because he supposed himself to be blessed beyond all other men’ (1.34.1 [Godley, LCL]). The first calamity to fall upon him was the loss of his son, Atys, but further doom lay in store for Croesus. He desired more than anything to conquer the Persian king, Cyrus. After consulting the Delphic oracle, he was instructed that ‘if he should send an army against the Persians he would destroy a great empire’ (1.53.3 [Godley, LCL]). Croesus, like the Pharisees, held misplaced values; he prized what was a pollutant in the sight of the gods – excessive pride – he could not see that the ‘great empire’ was his own. 87 On the interpretive complexities of 16.9-18, see Luise Schottroff, The Parables of Jesus (trans. Linda M. Maloney; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 157–70; John Dominic Crossan, ‘Parable and Example in the Teachings of Jesus’, Semeia 1 (1974): 79–81; Olubiyi Adeniyi Adewale, ‘An Afro-Sociological Application of the Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31)’, BT 4.1 (2006): 27–28; Donahue, Gospel in Parable, 162–74; F. Gerald Downing, Christ and the Cynics: Jesus and other Radical Preachers in First-Century Tradition (JSOT Manuals 4; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988), 182–84; Luke T. Johnson, The Gospel of Luke (SP 3; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1991), 249–51; Joel B. Green, The Gospel of Luke (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 586–610; C. H. Talbert, Reading Luke: A Literary and Theological Commentary on the Third Gospel (New York: Crossroad, 1989), 153–59; and Scott, Hear Then, 141–59 and 255–66.

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all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted’ (18.14). The misplaced values of the ψυχή (Coptic ‘heart [6ht]’) of the Foolish Rich Man have already been revealed and these ‘lovers of money’ will suffer the same unexpected fate.88 They have also been deceived by the κλέος ἄφθιτον of the false prophets, the ‘yeast of the Pharisees’ (12.1) that is a pollutant (βδέλυγμα) in the sight of God.89 Alas, those who are exalted will be brought down into ᾅδης, but the poor and hungry, whose names are remembered, will be lifted up and filled with τὰ ἀγαθά, unveiling the κλέος ἄφθιτον of the prophets.90 Death (16.19-22) As the curtain is drawn back upon this μυθικὸν διήγημα, the evangelist paints the portrait of two lives divided by a gate. On one side, a certain rich man (ἄνθρωπός τις πλούσιος) dressed (ἐνεδιδύσκετο) in purple (πορφύραν) and fine linen feasting and celebrating (εὐφραινόμενος) splendidly (λαμπρῶς) each and every single day.91 On the other, the diametrically contrasted image of 88 On the inherent trap of power and riches, Hugh Lloyd-Jones comments, ‘The rich and powerful … are more prone to sudden disaster than the others. Clearly this is not simply because they are rich and powerful, but because their wealth and power are in themselves a temptation not only to laziness and softness, but to pride and boastfulness’ (The Justice of Zeus [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971], 68). The prosperous are not worthy of divine punishment simply because they are successful, but because their excessive happiness provokes them to sin. Great wealth and power, without exception, lead to satiety (κόρος), and satiety to arrogance (ὕβρις), and arrogance to sin, and sin to divine punishment (E. R. Dodds, The Greeks and the Irrational [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1951], 31). 89 For an insightful discussion of religious pollution (μιασμός) in the Graeco-Roman world, see Riley, River, 172–78. 90 On the reversal of traditional values in the New Testament, see Riley, River, 167–69. 91 For a comparable depiction of culinary opulence, see Lucian, Gall. 7–15; Men. 12; Juvenal, Sat. 11.120–160; ‘Dinner at Trimalchio’s’ in Petronius, Satyricon; Longus, Daphn. 4.16– 17. On clothing and food as symbols of wealth and status in antiquity generally, see Klaus Berger, Identity and Experience in the New Testament (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 40–43; and Gildas Hamel, Poverty and Charity in Roman Palestine, First Three Centuries ce (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 57–93. For a sociological reading of Lk. 16.19-31, see Richard L. Rohrbaugh, The Biblical Interpreter: An Agrarian Bible in an Industrial Age (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1978), 69–85; for a liberationist reading, see Justo L. Gonzalez, ‘A Latino Perspective’, in Methods for Luke (ed. Joel B. Green; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 134– 43; and, for a semiotic reading, see Walter Vogels, ‘Having or Longing: A Semiotic Analysis of Luke 16.19-31’, EgT 20 (1989): 27–46. In Mk 15.16-20, Jesus is clothed in a purple cloak and a crown of thorns placed upon his head while the soldiers mock and beat him. An almost identical scene is in Mt. 27.27-31, except the cloak is scarlet (κοκκίνην). Luke omits this scene entirely, and instead, has the soldiers mock Jesus while he is being crucified (22.36). The purple cloak (πορφύραν) is clearly a symbol of royalty in the Markan tradition (cf. Judg. 8.26; Prov. 31.22; 1 Macc. 8.14; Sir. 45.10; Est. 1.6; 8.15), but Luke reserves this imagery for the rich man alone. Cf. this consumer of purple with Lydia in Acts 16.14-15, ‘A certain woman [τις γυνή] named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth [πορφυρόπωλις]. The Lord opened her heart [καρδίαν] to listen [ἤκουεν] eagerly to what was said by Paul. When she and her household were baptized, she urged us, saying, “If you have

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a certain poor man (τις πτωχός), who had been cast (ἐβέβλητο) by the gate (πυλῶνα) of a wealthy estate.92 This miserable figure, dressed in wounds (ἕλκη), suffered each and every single day from the tantalizing vision of his neighbour’s perpetually overflowing dinner table (τραπέζης), longing to be satisfied (χορτασθῆναι).93 His only companions, the guards (κύνες) of the gate, who licked up (ἐπέλειχον) the crippled beggar in preparation for their own imminent festive feast.94 Unexpectedly, Thanatos arrives for the two men divided by a gate, but there is no barrier the great equalizer cannot cross. As Athena warned Telemachus, death is common to all and even the gods cannot thwart pitiless fate (Homer, Od. 3.236–38). The text does not explicitly state the poor man was buried, but Richard Bauckham suggests this is highly unlikely in a Jewish context; rather, the textual silence indicates the burial would have been ‘unceremonious’.95 This is certainly possible, but within the narrative world constructed by the evangelist, a wounded cripple attended by licking dogs outside the gate of a rich man’s estate while he feasts at the table followed immediately by the beggar’s death suggests another possibility – a mimetic battle standard of brutality.96 judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home.” And she prevailed upon us.’ In contrast to the rich man, she listened and repented before death arrived. 92 The passive βάλλω is often used to describe someone who is disabled (cf. Mt. 8.6, 14; 9.2; Rev. 2.22; Josephus, J.W. 1.32.3; Ant. 9.10.2). 93 The text does not explicitly mention eating and drinking, but it is implied through the use of the Greek εὐφραίνω (cf. 12.19). For a graphic description of the gluttony of the wealthy in sharp contrast with the meagre portions of the poor in the Roman Empire, see Juvenal, Sat. 1.130–44. Also, for a contrasting example of a good neighbour who will inherit ‘eternal life [ζωήν αἰώνιον]’, see Lk. 10.25-37. 94 This is the only occurrence of the Greek πυλών in the Gospel of Luke and the Book of Acts in which the object functions as a socio-economic boundary marker (cf. Lk. 7.12; Acts 3.10; 9.24; 10.17; 12.10, 14; 14.13; 16.13). 95 ‘Rich Man and Lazarus’, 228 n. 7. 96 This is the only occurrence of the Greek κύων in the two volumes; besides Lk. 16.21, dogs appear only a handful of times in the New Testament. In every instance, certain social types are described as dogs for the purpose of defamation: evil workers (Phil. 3.2), sorcerers (Rev. 22.15), fornicators (Rev. 22.15), and the unclean (Mt. 7.6). The story of the Syro-Phoenician woman in Mk 7.24-30, in particular, bears remarkable lexical similarity to the depiction of Lazarus in vv. 19-21: ‘From there he set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, “Let the children be fed [χορτασθῆναι] first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs [τοῖς κυναρίοις βαλεῖν].” But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs [κυνάρια] under the table [τραπέζης] eat the children’s crumbs [ψιχίων].” Then he said to her, “For saying that, you may go – the demon has left your daughter.” So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone’ (cf. Mt. 15.21-28). Traditionally, the dogs have been interpreted as a foil to the rich man, comforting the miserable Lazarus (e.g. Rengstorf, Lukas, 194; and Schweizer, Lukas, 173). For example, consider the comments of Cyril of Alexandria, ‘Yes, it says that even the dogs licked his sores and did not injure him. Animals relieve their own sufferings with their tongues, as they remove what pains them and gently soothe

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According to Charles Segal, the maltreatment of the dead is a motif that dominates the climax of the Iliad, affecting the major figures of the poem – Achilles, Hector, and Patroclus – in Books 16–24.97 The opening lines of the epic introduce the theme, warning of the disastrous consequences of the wrath of Achilles. ‘The wrath sing, goddess, of Peleus’ son Achilles, the accursed wrath which brought countless sorrows upon the Achaeans, and sent down to Hades many valiant souls [ψυχὰς Ἄϊδι] of warriors, and made the men themselves to be the spoil for dogs [κύνεσσιν] and birds of every kind; and thus the will of Zeus was brought to fulfillment’ (1.1–5 [Murray, LCL]). Oftentimes, the maltreatment of the dead is depicted through the mutilation of the corpse by the ‘dogs of Troy’.98 For example, consider the death of Eurypylus and the lament of Patroclus, And in streams down from his head and shoulders flowed the sweat, and from his gruesome wound [ἕλκεος] the black blood was gushing, yet his mind was firm. At sight of him the valiant son of Menoetius had pity on him, and with wailing spoke to him winged words, ‘Ah you wretched men, leaders and lords of the Danaans, thus then were you destined, far from your friends and your native land, to glut the swift dogs in Troy [Τροίῃ ταχέας κύνας] with your white fat.’ (11.811–18 [Murray, LCL])

The wounded wretch is discarded on the battlefield, a pitiful sight, but a festive discovery for the salivating dogs. The brutality of the treatment of the slain steadily increases as the savagery of war eats away at the virtues of civilization in the final third of the epic. In this first stage of the theme of the mutilation of the dead there are two pivotal moments. The first is the death of Patroclus in Book 17; Hector boasts over the sores. The rich man was crueler than the dogs, because he felt no sympathy or compassion for him but was completely unmerciful’ (Commentary upon the Gospel according to St. Luke [trans. R. Payne Smith; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1859], 453–54). According to Adewale, the saliva of the dogs may have had a healing impact on the sores (‘Rich Man and Lazarus’, 34–36). 97 According to Segal, the beauty of Homeric composition consists in the manipulation of standard motifs and recurrent formulaic details. Of course, not all repetitions are created equally; ‘important’ repetitions must not occur too often, should involve major characters, and play a role in emotionally intense plot situations. See further, The Theme of the Mutilation of the Corpse in the Iliad (Leiden: Brill, 1971), 1–8. 98 Cf. the role of the dogs in the mutilation of Jezebel in 2 Kgs 9.30-37, ‘When Jehu came to Jezreel, Jezebel heard of it; she painted her eyes, and adorned her head, and looked out of the window. As Jehu entered the gate, she said, “Is it peace, Zimri, murderer of your master?” He looked up to the window and said, “Who is on my side? Who?” Two or three eunuchs looked out at him. He said, “Throw her down.” So they threw her down; some of her blood spattered on the wall and on the horses, which trampled on her. Then he went in and ate and drank; he said, “See to that cursed woman and bury her; for she is a king’s daughter.” But when they went to bury her, they found no more of her than the skull and the feet and the palms of her hands. When they came back and told him, he said, “This is the word of the Lord, which he spoke by his servant Elijah the Tishbite, ‘In the territory of Jezreel the dogs [LXX κύνες] shall eat the flesh of Jezebel; the corpse of Jezebel shall be like dung on the field in the territory of Jezreel, so that no one can say, This is Jezebel.’”’

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his body, removing the armour from the corpse to cut off the head and give the remains to the ‘dogs of Troy’, but the Achaeans intervene lest the ‘trusty comrade of lordly Achilles is torn [ἑλκήσουσιν] by swift dogs [κύνες] beneath the wall of the Trojans’ (127 and 557–58 [Murray, LCL]). The death of his dearest companion stirs Achilles to rejoin the fight, leading to the second pivotal moment and the climax of the theme in Book 22. After threatening to allow the dogs (κύνες) to tear (ἑλκήσους) at his corpse, Hector feebly implores the angry warrior, ‘I beg you by your life and knees and your own parents, do not let the dogs [κύνας] devour me by the ships of the Achaeans’ (339 [Murray, LCL]). Achilles responds, wishing that madness would compel him to carve up his flesh and eat it raw, for ‘there lives no man that will ward off the dogs [κύνας] from your head’ (348 [Murray, LCL]). In one last effort, Hector appeals to the compassion of his heart ‘lest perhaps I become a cause of the gods’ wrath against you’ (358–59 [Murray, LCL]; cf. Od. 11.72–73). Alas, the wrath of Achilles would not be abated and as Hector spoke ‘the end of death enfolded him; and his soul [ψυχή] fleeting from his limbs was gone to Hades, bewailing its fate, leaving manliness and youth’ (361–63 [Murray, LCL]). In Book 23, the violent depravity of Achilles begins to ebb in this second stage of the theme; the special concern for the proper burial of the dead takes precedence over revenge and retribution. The shade of Patroclus appears to his bloodthirsty companion, requesting he waste no time in performing the burial rites for his fallen friend; until then, his ψυχή cannot cross the river into hades (72–74). The appearance of Patroclus softens the vengeful Achilles, eventually leading him to offer the body of Hector for ransom so that he too might receive a proper burial. The final stage of the theme takes shape in Book 24; the assembly of the gods in the beginning of the book signals the reestablishment of a more humane order. For example, as Achilles dragged the corpse of Hector behind his chariot, ‘Apollo kept all defilement from his flesh, pitying [ἐλεαίρων] the warrior even in death, and with the golden aegis he covered him wholly so that Achilles might not tear his body as he dragged him [ἑλκυστάζων]’ (18–21 [Murray, LCL]). The Iliad is a cruel and savage tale, and yet to act without mercy (ἔλεος) is a loathsome thing (βδέλυγμα) and earns the reproach of both gods and men. Homer paints three of his most important characters, Priam, Hector, and especially Patroclus, with the hues of gentleness, compassion, and mercy.99 Throughout his examination of the Iliad, Segal notes the presence of the theme (though not as pervasive) in the Odyssey as well. Like Patroclus, it is the shade of Elpenor who takes precedence among the swarming dead when Odysseus arrives in the underworld in Book 11, demanding a proper 99 It is the gentleness of Patroclus that Achilles longs for at the conclusion of this tragic tale, ‘So I wail alike for you and for my unlucky self with grief at heart; for no longer have I anyone else in broad Troy who is gentle to me or kind; but all men shudder at me’ (24.773–75 [Murray, LCL]).

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burial (51–83). And like the Iliad, the maltreatment of the dead arouses moral outrage; for example, the true nature of the suitors is revealed through their barbaric threats to Eumaeus, ‘Where, pray, are you carrying the curved bow, miserable swineherd, you man distraught? Soon among your swine, alone and apart from men, shall the swift dogs [κύνες ταχέες] devour you, dogs you yourself reared, if Apollo is gracious to us, and the other immortal gods’ (21.363–65 [Murray, LCL]; cf. 14.133–34). In Book 3 of the Discourses of Epictetus, Arrian records his master’s comments on the prevalence of false Cynics in the Roman Empire, whom he describes as ‘dogs of the table [τραπεζῆας], guards of the gate [πυλαωρούς]’ (Diatr. 3.22.79–80 [Oldfather, LCL]).100 This Lukan contemporary quotes from one of the most beautifully tragic moments in the Iliad, in which Priam reflects on his own canine companions, Myself then last of all before my doors will dogs [κύνες] that eat raw flesh tear apart, when some man by thrust or cast of the sharp bronze has taken the spirit from my limbs – the dogs that in my halls I reared at my table [τραπεζῆας] to guard my door 100 The history of Cynicism is catalogued by Diogenes Laertius in his book, The Lives of the Eminent Philosophers. He traces its beginnings from Antisthenes (c. 446–366 bce), a student of Socrates, up until the second century bce. The Cynics influenced all aspects of GraecoRoman life, but were particularly important in the development of Stoicism. Stoicism, which was founded by a Cynic philosopher, Zeno (333–261 bce), drew upon many of the uniquely Cynic teachings. The most outspoken critics of the wealthy were the Cynics, who openly practised and celebrated poverty while condemning the lifestyles of the rich. The name, ‘Cynic’, derives from the Greek κύων, which was given them as a reflection of their behaviour and appearance. These ‘doggish philosophers’ completely disregarded the social conventions of their day, appearing and behaving like animals. They dressed shabbily, wearing a thin cloak and carrying a begging bag and staff, which became their identifying features (Diogenes Laertius 6.13, 22–23, 83, 93; cf. Lk. 10.4). They typically had long hair, which was unkempt, and walked around without shoes. Their behaviour was also shocking and unconventional. The most well-known Cynic, Diogenes of Sinope (c. 404–323 bce), for example, was reported to have stolen from the temples, shared wives and children in common, and eaten human flesh (Diogenes Laertius 6.72–73). The Cynic disregard for appearance was based upon their ethical concerns, which lay at the heart of their practice. They had no use for the standard disciplines practised in other schools, such as music, geometry, astronomy, and grammar, but emphasized actions over words as the road to happiness. Generally speaking, the Cynics sought to challenge all shared opinions, but were particularly critical of what they perceived as misplaced values. For example, ‘Very valuable things, said he [Diogenes], were bartered for things of no value, and vice versa. At all events, a statue fetches three thousand drachmas, while a quart of barley-flour is sold for two copper coins’ (Diogenes Laertius 6.35 [Hicks, LCL]). For the Cynics, the greatest misplaced value lies in the love of wealth (cf. Lk. 16.14). It is wealth, claimed the Cynics, that is the ultimate source of immorality and suffering. ‘Now I have often seen beggars enjoying health because of want, and rich people ailing from the intemperance of their unfortunate stomach and penis. For you are titillated for a short time by pleasure, which then displays great and grievous pains’ (Abraham J. Malherbe, The Cynic Epistles, Sources for Biblical Study 12 [Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1977], 122). Thus, the Cynics desired that the sons of their enemies live in luxury, while wishing poverty upon their friends and followers. See further, D. R. Dudley, A History of Cynicism from Diogenes to the 6th Century a.d. (London: Methuen, 1937); and Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers (Minnesota: Fortress Press, 1989).

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[θυραωρούς; also, πυλαωρούς] – which then having drunk my blood in the madness of their hearts, will lie there in the gateway. For a young man it is wholly fitting, when he is slain in battle, to lie mangled by the sharp bronze; dead though he is, all is fair that can be seen. But when dogs [κύνες] work shame on the gray head and gray beard and on the nakedness of a slain old man, that is the most piteous thing that falls to wretched mortals. (22.66–76 [Murray, LCL])

There is κλέος ἄφθιτον to be had in glorious battle, but there is no more miserable end than to be devoured by dogs. Τhe ascensive use of ἀλλὰ καί in the curious addendum to Lk. 16.21 suggests the dogs intensify the misery of the disabled beggar, paralleling the function of the flame of hades in v. 24b.101 If the licking dogs alleviated the suffering of Lazarus, this would be the only positive depiction of dogs in the biblical tradition; they are always portrayed in an ambiguous and/or negative light.102 In addition, the verb ἐπιλείχω (‘to lick up’) is rare; compare, for example, the function of the licking dogs after the death of King Ahab, ‘They washed the chariot by the pool of Samaria; the dogs licked up [LXX ἐξέλειξαν] his blood, and the prostitutes washed themselves in it, according to the word of the Lord that he had spoken’ (1 Kgs 22.38-39).103 In the epics, Homeric dogs are tame, but never truly civilized; the dog is a thief, a scavenger, and is faithful only to the one who can purchase its affections with appetizing gifts.104 The lone exception is Argos, who faithfully awaits the return of his master and then promptly dies (Od. 17.290–327).105 This faithful companion is differentiated from the devourers of corpses by giving him a proper name and a virtuous disposition. Generally speaking, however, the presence of dogs outside the gate of a wealthy estate suggests they are domesticated guards, which is a recurrent theme in the Odyssey.106 101 Hock, ‘Lazarus and Micyllus’, 458 n. 41; see also M. E. Thrall, Greek Particles in the New Testament (Leiden: Brill, 1962), 14; cf. Fitzmyer, Luke, 1132; Johnson, Luke, 252. 102 They function as shepherds (e.g. Job 30.1), but most often are depicted as scavengers (e.g. Mt. 7.6; 15.26-27; Mk 7.27-28) and devourers of corpses (e.g. 1 Kgs 14.11; 16.4; 21.19, 23, 24; 22.38; 2 Kgs 9.10, 36; Ps. 22.16; 68.23; Isa. 56.11; Jer. 15.3; Phil. 3.2; Rev. 22.15). The most positive depiction of a dog in Jewish literature is in Tobit, the travelling companion of Tobias (5.6; 11.4). For a survey of the role dogs played in ancient literature, see Janet E. Spittler, Animals in the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles: The Wild Kingdom of Early Christian Literature. Tübingen: Mohr, 2008), 141–45. 103 Every occurrence of the Greek ἐκλείχω in the Septuagint is foreboding (cf. Num. 22.4; 1 Kgs 18.38; Jdt. 7.4). 104 Cf. Spittler, Animals, 141–42; James Redfield, Nature and Culture in the Iliad (Durham: Duke University Press, 1994), 193. For examples from the Iliad, see 1.159, 225, 231; 3.180; 9.373; 10.216. 105 For an exceedingly positive evaluation of the dog in antiquity, see Plato, Resp. 375a–76c. 106 Cf. William Beck, ‘Dogs, Dwellings, and Masters: Ensemble and Symbol in the Odyssey’, Hermes 119.2 (1991): 158–67. On guard dogs and wealthy estates, see for example, Alciphron, Ep. 3.11. For scholars who argue they are scavenger street dogs, see Grundmann, Lukas, 327; Jeremias, Parables, 184; and Ernst, Lukas, 474; cf. J. D. M. Derrett, ‘Fresh Light on

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Consequently, the presence of the nameless licking dogs that were reared at the table (τραπέζης) and guard the gate (πυλῶνα) may imply the desecration of the corpse of a certain crippled beggar wounded (εἱλκωμένος) by neglect, thereby retaining intact his ‘evil things [τὰ κακά]’; in this case, however, the dogs of Troy need not be swift.107 The glorious brutality of war has become the inglorious brutality of poverty.108 Thanatos arrived mercifully for the poor man, but this is the last time the text will refer to him as πτωχός – his proper name becomes operative postmortem.109 It is only fitting the discarded would continue to be neglected after death. In contrast to the ‘unlucky’ one whose body was left ‘unwept and unburied’, the one whom ‘God helps’ will not become a curse upon the living and an angelic escort arrives unexpectedly, waving a mimetic flag of τὰ ἀγαθά.110 Beside Lazarus, no one is left unburied in the New Testament; even the crucified are given a proper burial.111 In addition, although angels (ἀγγελοί) perform a variety of tasks in both Luke and Acts, this is the only instance St Luke XVI: Dives and Lazarus and the Proceeding Sayings’, NTS 7 (1961): 372; and Nolland, Luke, 828–29. 107 When the Greek ἕλκος occurs in the biblical tradition, denoting sores or ulcers, it is always associated with a divine curse (cf. Exod. 9.10-11; Deut. 28.35; Job 2.7; Rev. 16.2). If this is the meaning intended in Lk. 16.20-21, then it implies the poor man is being punished by God, which is incongruent with the postmortem reversal in vv. 22-26. 108 According to Lehtipuu, ‘the burial – or the absence of it – plays no role in Luke’s story’ (Afterlife Imagery, 33 n. 106). 109 After his death, the narrator (16.23), the rich man (16.24), and Abraham (16.25) refer to him exclusively as ‘Λάζαρος’. It is possible the evangelist and his audience may not have known the etymology of this name (‘God has helped’), which may explain why he does not define it as he does elsewhere (cf. Acts 4.36; 13.8). However, in this particular case, the evangelist reveals the meaning of the name through the plot itself, that is, the postmortem reversal in vv. 23-24 and the Abrahamic verdict in v. 25. Even if the audience was unaware of the meaning of the name, the plot reveals what the name could not. Hence, the name symbolically reflects the programmatic mission statement in Lk. 4.18-19; the age of divine favour for the poor has begun. On the name of Lazarus as the interpretive key to the story, see Harald Sahlin, ‘Lasarus-gestalten I Luk 16 och Joh 11’, SEÅ 37–38 [1972–73]: 168–70). On a potential link between Lazarus in Lk. 16.19-31 and Abraham’s servant Eliezar in Gen. 15.2, see Vincent Tanghe, ‘Abraham, son fils et son envoyé (Luc 16,19–31)’, RB 91 (1984): 555–77. 110 Although the priority given to the unburied Elpenor in Odyssey Book 11 and the urgent request of the dead Patroclus in Iliad Book 23 suggest burial was necessary properly to secure the dead in hades, the ghosts of the unburied suitors are guided by Hermes to hades and join the rest of the common dead (Od. 24.1–18; cf. the depiction of hades in Pindar, Ol. 9.33). After the ghost of Agamemnon inquires about their arrival beneath the dark earth, the ghost of Amphimedon responds in a tone of betrayal all too familiar to the fallen king, ‘Now the swineherd brought his master, dressed in poor clothing, in the likeness of a wretched and aged beggar, leaning on a staff, and miserable was the clothing that he wore about his body; and not one of us could know that it was he [Odysseus]’ (156–60 [Murray, LCL]). With the aid of his wife and son, the cunning Odysseus took possession of his great bow and killed the helpless suitors as they revelled and feasted. ‘Thus we perished, Agamemnon, and even now our bodies still lie uncared for in the halls of Odysseus’ (186–87 [Murray, LCL]). 111 Cf. Mk 15.42-47; Mt. 27.57-61; Lk. 23.5-56; Jn 19.38-42.

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in which they function as a guide of the dead.112 Traditionally, this task was reserved for the ψυχοπομπός of the dead – Cyllenian Hermes – who was also often called an ἄγγελος.113 In the κατάβασις of Odysseus a ψυχοπομπός was unnecessary because the living man of many devices received detailed instructions from Circe. In this μυθικὸν διήγημα, however, the unburied require a proper escort to ensure narrative clarity.114 For the seemingly unlucky beggar, the time of τὰ κακά has come to a merciful end.115 After the arrival of the Lukan ψυχοπομποί, they carry the poor man into the bosom of Abraham (εἰς τὸν κόλπον Ἀβραάμ).116 This expression is unattested 112 According to Gustav Davidson, the role of the angels in this text is unprecedented in Jewish literature until the second century (A Dictionary of Angels: Including the Fallen Angels [New York: Free Press, 1994], 11). Cf. the ascension of the righteous with the aid of angels in the T. Asher 6.4-6 and the description of the abode of the dead with the angels in 1 En. 22.1-14 (cf. T. Ab. A 11.5; 12.1-3; 13.12-13; 14.8; Apoc. Zeph. 4.1-7; Apoc. Mos. 37.3-6); for rabbinic parallels, see Lachs, Rabinnic Commentary, 314–15. On the various functions of the ἄγγελος in the Lukan corpus, see Lk. 1.11, 13, 18-19, 26, 30, 34-35, 38; 2.9, 10, 13, 15, 21; 4.10; 9.26; 12.8-9; 15.10; 20.36; 22.43; 24.23; Acts 5.19; 6.15; 7.30, 35, 38, 53; 8.26; 10.3, 7, 22; 11.13; 12.7-11, 15, 23; 23.8-9; and 27.23. For an insightful discussion of the evangelist’s special interest in angels, see Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis, Luke-Acts: Angels, Christology and Soteriology (Tübingen: Mohr, 1997). 113 Cf. Hom. hDem. 377–85; hHerm. 571–72; Homer, Od. 24.1–15; Sophocles, Aj. 831– 32; Euripides, Alc. 743–44; Herm. Vis. 2.2.7; Sim. 927.3; Diogenes Laertius 8.31. See especially the humorous account of a tardy ψυχοπομπός, who was delayed after the brief escape of the tyrant Megapenthes (Lucian, Cat. 1–4). Hermes functions as the ψυχοπομπός in grave-site epitaphs (cf. Lattimore, Themes, 35–36, 51); on white-ground oil jars used in tomb-cults (cf. Garland, Greek Way, 11, 54, 57, 154); and, on a cycle of pictures from a Roman cemetery, an angelus bonus leads the dead Vibia into the Elysian fields where she participates in the meal of the bonorum iudicio iudicati (Franz Cumont, Les religions orientales dans le paganism romain [Paris: E. Leroux, 1929], plate 4.1). In Hom. hDem. 407, Hermes is depicted as ἐριούνιος ἄγγελος ὠκύς (cf. Hom. hHerm. 572; Plato, Crat. 407e). The divine herald is mentioned once in Acts 14.12; in Lystra, Barnabas is mistaken as Zeus and Paul as Hermes because he was the chief speaker. For Christian epigraphic evidence of angelic guides of the dead, see Lattimore, Themes, 304–305. For the Cynic as an ἄγγελος of Zeus, see Epictetus 3.22.23–25; and Margarethe Billerbeck, Epiktet: Vom Kynismus (Philosophia Antiqua 34; Leiden: Brill, 1978), 78. 114 In Lk. 21.25-28, the evangelist omits the angels who gather the elect in Jesus’ apocalyptic discourse to emphasize their mimetic role in this text (cf. Mk 13.24-27; Mt. 24.29-31). 115 If a body was left unburied in the Roman period, it was widely held this had ‘unpleasant repercussions on the fate of the departed soul’ (Toynbee, Death and Burial, 43; cf. Cumont, After Life, 64–69). On the value of burial in Jewish tradition, see Deut. 29.26; Jer. 8.1-2; 16.1-4; Ezek. 29.5; Tob. 1.16–2.10; Josephus, Ag. Ap. 2.29. 116 The Greek κόλπος occurs two other times in the Lukan corpus; in Lk. 6.38 it refers to the fold of a garment and in Acts 27.39 it refers to an ocean bay. In a fresco from the Rila monastery in Bulgaria, Martin O’Kane noted, ‘Abraham nurses Lazarus and is flanked by Isaac and Jacob on either side holding the souls of the just in the folds of a garment. The souls are thus sheltered in two senses: first by the patriarchs’ intimate and fatherly protection and second by the walled enclosure of paradise which acts as a haven, a bay, from the stormy ocean of life’ (‘The Bosom of Abraham’ (Luke 16:22): Father Abraham in the Visual Imagination’, BibInt 15 [2007]: 491). The rendering in the Vulgate, sinus Abrahae, heavily influenced Western iconographic depictions of this tradition; Abraham is often depicted holding Lazarus in various types of garment (see further, Jérôme Baschet, Le Sein du père: Abraham et la paternité dans l’Occident medieval [Paris: Gallimard, 2000], 206–209; and ‘Medieval Abraham between Fleshly Patriarch and Divine Father’, Modern Language Notes 108 [1993]: 738–58). Κόλπος does occur twice in

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in pre-Christian Jewish literature and the other writings of the New Testament, but it does occur in the Testament of Abraham.117 In the final chapter of this pseudepigraphal text, the soul of Abraham is received by angels and God issues these instructions, ‘Take, then, my friend [φίλον] Abraham into Paradise [παράδεισον], where there are the tents [σκηναί] of my righteous ones and (where) the mansions of my holy ones, Isaac and Jacob, are in his bosom [ἐν τῷ κόλπῳ αὐτοῦ], where there is no toil, no grief, no moaning, but peace and exultation and endless life’ (A. 20.14-15 [Sanders]).118 The similarities are noteworthy, but the text is late and the blissful description of ‘Paradise’ merely echoes the Homeric depiction of Elysium, ‘where life is easiest for men’ (Il. 4.565 [Murray, LCL]). The Greek παράδεισος as a postmortem destination is known to the evangelist, but it is not one of the descriptors used in vv. 23-31 (cf. 23.43). Additionally, before the arrival of Abraham’s soul, Isaac and Jacob are already in his bosom, which E. P. Sanders described as ‘illogical’.119 The illogic of these verses is resolved if the comparative net is recast. Ronald F. Hock discovered numerous parallels to this postmortem bosom imagery in sepulchral epigrams and on grave markers, including one epigram that uses the same Lukan phrase.120 In these epigraphic examples, the term κόλπος is used to denote care and protection, particularly the covering and embracing of the dead within mother earth (μᾶτερ γαῖα).121 In one notable epitaph, a grief-stricken father asks Persephone to lay the infant son ‘in the bosom [ἐς κόλπους]’ of his mother (Anth. pal. 7.387 [Paton, LCL]).122 Thus, within the Gospel of John, but it is never used in a postmortem setting; it is used to denote the intimacy between father and son in the prologue (1.18; cf. Homer, Il. 6.400) and the honoured place of the beloved disciple at the last supper (13.23; cf. Pliny, Ep. 4.22.4; 2 Clem. 4.5). Most scholars agree the use of κόλπος in Lk. 16.22-23 connotes the place of honour at the banquet table as attested in Jn 13.23 (e.g. see Easton, Luke, 252; Grundmann, Lukas, 328; Rengstorf, Lukas, 194; Jeremias, Parables, 184; Ernst, Lukas, 173; Schnider and Stenger, ‘Die offene Tür’, 278 n. 20; Schweizer, Lukas, 173; F. Planas, ‘En el seno de Abraham’, CB 15 (1958): 148–52; and P. Haupt, ‘Abraham’s Bosom’, AJP 42 (1921): 162–67). In addition, others suggest κόλπος refers to the Jewish tradition of sleeping with one’s ancestors (e.g. 1 Kgs 1.21; 2.10; 11.21; 4 Macc. 13.17); see further Spronk, Beatific Afterlife, 240–41. Cf. this Jewish tradition with similar Greek epitaphs, Imre Peres, Griechische Grabinschriften und neutestamentliche Eschatologie (WUNT 157; Tübingen: Mohr, 2003), 69–72. 117 For the reception history of the phrase, ‘Abraham’s Bosom’, in English literature, see A Dictionary of Biblical Tradition in English Literature (ed. David Lyle Jeffrey; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 11. 118 Cf. the occurrence of σκηνή in Lk. 16.9; the phrase, ‘eternal homes’, is not found elsewhere in the New Testament or earlier extra-biblical writings (see further, Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 276–77). 119 James H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (2 vols; London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1985), 895 n. l. 120 Lattimore, Themes, 302. 121 E.g. Anth. pal. 7.61, 321, 368, 476, 619; Lattimore, Themes, 211–12, 243, 304. For a Greek inscription that describes ‘the black bosom [κόλπος] of gloomy Hades’ welcoming the wise on the ‘hallowed couch of the pious [ὁσίην]’, see B. F. Cook, Greek Inscriptions (London: Published for the Trustees of the British Museum by British Museum Publications, 1987), 26. 122 Cf. Homer, Il. 14.219; Pindar, Ol. 6.31; Callimachus, Hymn. Del. 214.

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Jewish and Christian visions of the comforted dead, ‘Μᾶτερ Γαῖα’ becomes ‘Πάτερ Ἀβραάμ’, and the one who was cast out is now embraced within.123 In the light of this evidence, Abraham (the person) can be logically embraced within the bosom of Abraham (postmortem destination); likewise, Hades (the person) dwells in hades (postmortem destination). The Testament of Abraham attests to a tradition that is already known, which is why an explanation within the text is unnecessary. Thus, in Lk. 16.22-23 the poor man can be carried into the bosom of Abraham in which Abraham can also reside. For the rich man, however, his burial signals the final splendid celebration of his characterization.124 In Book 24 of the Odyssey, the spirit of Agamemnon recounts the splendid funeral of the ‘fortunate son of Peleus’ who died in glorious battle (36 [Murray, LCL]). The son of Atreus describes the lavish preparation of his body for burial, seventeen days of lamentation and mourning, and finally, the ‘flame [φλόξ] of Hephaestus’ that consumed the one honoured as a god among men (71 [Murray, LCL]). Death comes to all, rich and poor, fortunate and unfortunate alike, paving the way for a mimetic oracular proclamation in hades. In Hades (16.23) This verse signals a pivotal moment in the narration; after the arrival of the great equalizer, the setting shifts to hades – stage two of the drama – a mimetic flag planted in the Greek underworld.125 This uniquely Greek setting, which is unattested in the biblical tradition, is the interpretive key that some textual traditions (‫ *א‬lat; McionA) removed entirely. Without ‘ἐν τῷ ᾅδῃ’, however, the veil of literary imitation could not be removed and the interpretive wealth of a dialogical reading would be woefully lost to the hypnosis of the scholarly tradition. The Greek κατάβασις occurs once in the New Testament and it recalls the dreaded journey that Odysseus must make into the abode of the dead in Odyssey Book 11. In Lk. 19.37, the evangelist describes Jesus taking the path down (καταβάσει) from the Mount of Olives into Jerusalem to face his greatest test – death. For Jesus and Odysseus, this path down is freely taken, albeit begrudgingly, but the rich man is unexpectedly brought down to hades and now suffers in torments (βασάνοις). In v. 28, the formerly rich man identifies his postmortem locale in clear and simple terms – ‘this place of torment [τόπον τοῦτον τῆς βασάνου]’.126

123 In Western iconography, depictions of Abraham’s bosom are often accompanied by the words, ‘Pater Abraham’ (see further, O’Kane, ‘The Bosom of Abraham’, 497–98). 124 For a comparable royal funeral, see the description of the burial of Callirhoe (Chariton, Caer. 1.6.2–5; cf. 1 En. 103.5–6). 125 There are three other examples of two-stage stories in the Gospel of Luke: the Great Dinner (14.15-24), the Prodigal Son (15.11-32), and the Talents and Pounds (19.11-27). 126 The Greek βάσανος is used to refer to the tortures in the netherworld (cf. Wis. 3.1; 4 Macc. 13.15), as a synonym of unquenchable fire (cf. 2 Clem. 17.7b), and as a descriptive of a locale in the netherworld (cf. 2 Clem. 10.4).

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The Greek βάσανος occurs only one other time in the New Testament; in the Gospel of Matthew those afflicted with ‘various diseases and pains [βασάνοις]’ seek out the famous healer (4.24). Outside the New Testament, however, the term was widely used in the context of court-ordered procedures used to extract confession.127 Given the ensuing dialogue and the Abrahamic verdict in v. 25, it is reasonable to infer the rich man now suffers perpetual torment by order of the divine court. After the brief but poignant, ‘where he was being tormented’, the narrator introduces the possibility of differentiated postmortem fates through the perspective of the condemned, just as the poor man was visually and painfully aware of life on the other side of the gate.128 This new perspective is articulated through an unusual and vivid phrase, ‘ἐπάρας τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς αὐτοῦ’, literally, ‘lifting up his eyes’.129 The same phrase can also be found in the Pharisee and the Tax Collector, in which the latter, standing far away (μακρόθεν), would not dare to ‘look up to heaven [ὀφθαλμοὺς ἐπᾶραι εἰς τὸν οὐρανόν]’ (18.13). According to the ἐπιμύθιον in v. 14, this man went down (κατέβη) justified (δεδικαιωμένος). In contrast to the tax collector, however, the tormented man lifts up his eyes, but he does not see οὐρανός; instead, he sees and recognizes Abraham and Lazarus from afar (ἀπὸ μακρόθεν).130 127 E.g. Herodotus, Hist. 8.110; T. Sol. 1.3; Josephus, Ant. 12.255; 13.241; 16.245; J.W. 1.635; Mart. Pol. 2.3–4; 1 Clem. 6.1; 2 Clem. 17.7a. 128 The bilateral visibility, the ensuing dialogue, the necessity of a chasm, and the request that Lazarus be sent ‘from the dead [ἀπὸ νεκρῶν; 16.30]’ suggest they are in a bipartite underworld, just as Odysseus becomes aware of new sights within the ‘wide-gated house of Hades’ that are also mysteriously separated from the common dead that emerge out of Erebus (Homer, Od. 11.568, 572, 576, 582, 593, 601; cf. 1 En. 22; 4 Ezra 7.74-101). The early church fathers, for example, located the bosom of Abraham in the upper area of hades (see further, L. J. van der Lof, ‘Abraham’s Bosom in the Writings of Irenaeus, Tertullian and Augustine’, AugStud 26 [1995]: 109–23). The topography is unclear, but it is important that the evangelist place the two men side by side, divided but visible, as in their previous lives. 129 The identical phrase occurs immediately before Jesus delivers the Blessings and Woes in 6.20, ‘Then he looked up [ἐπάρας τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς αὐτοῦ] at his disciples.’ Lehtipuu posits this is an imitation of Septuagintal style and does not indicate spatiality (Afterlife Imagery, 265 n. 1; cf. Fitzmyer, Luke, 107; and Grobel, ‘Whose Name’, 379). According to Robert Alter, however, ‘The formulaic chain, “he raised his eyes and saw,” occurs frequently in these stories as a means of indicating a shift from the narrator’s overview to the character’s visual perspective’ (Genesis [New York: W. W. Norton, 1996], 122; cf. Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, 74; and Fitzmyer, Luke, 114). The same verb is used to refer to the ‘raising of one’s voice’ in Lk. 11.27; Acts 2.14; 14.11. 130 Many scholars suggest the recognition of Lazarus by the tormented man signifies his knowledge of him in their previous lives, and consequently his culpability, but they routinely fail to explain how he recognizes Abraham (e.g. Fitzmyer, Luke, 1133; and Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 239). It is more likely that postmortem recognition is merely a literary device, rather than an inference of relationship (cf. Lk. 13.28). After all, how does Odysseus identify the new sights he observed from afar? On the extent of distance implied with the use of μακρόθεν, see Lk. 22.54; 23.49. For the visibility of the dead in two distinct locales, see 2 Esd. 7.85, 93; 2 Bar. 51.5-6. The spatiality in the postmortem setting also illustrates beautifully the rhetoric of reversal articulated in the Magnificat (1.46-55) and the woes to unrepentant cities (10.13-16); in the latter, hades and heaven are juxtaposed spatially as below and above respectively.

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The narrator already located Lazarus in the bosom of Abraham in v. 22, but in v. 23 the tormented man also becomes aware of his elevated position in life after death. Additionally, the text indicates that he is not in the bosom (τὸν κόλπον) as in the previous verse, but ‘by his side [ἐν τοῖς κόλποις αὐτοῦ]’. This may not seem significant at first, but the singular bosom (κόλπον) has been replaced by the plural bosoms (κόλποις), suggesting this vision may be one of postmortem reversal in which the tormented man now suffers the premortem fate of Lazarus.131 In addition to the bosom imagery in sepulchral epigrams and on grave markers, many of these epitaphs and tomb reliefs describe and depict the dead dining and feasting in postmortem repose – ‘the banquet of the blessed [τὸ τῶν μακάρων συμπόσιον]’ (Lucian, Ver. hist. 2.11 [Harmon, LCL]).132 Richard Lattimore notes, ‘the μάκαρες are those whose lot after death is blessed … The term μάκαρ was a regular epithet of the gods, and it may well be that the authors of such epithets had the idea vaguely in mind that to survive in paradise after death meant the same thing as to become deified.’133 Strictly speaking, the postmortem plot in vv. 23-31 does not explicitly describe Lazarus dining with Abraham, though v. 24 implies the presence of water (ὕδωρ).134 The interpretive key may be found in the Greek abode of the dead, in which Odysseus becomes aware of a new sight and a honey-laden flower for the wandering bee – the heroic figure of a man who suffered an ‘evil lot [κακὸν μόρον]’ and ‘woe beyond measure [ὀιζὺν ἀπειρεσίην]’ (Homer, Od. 11.618 and 620–21 [Murray, LCL]). As an eschatological reward for the unmatched miseries of the mighty Heracles, the tragic figure has taken his place at the dining table of the gods (601–603). During their brief interview, the noble Heracles recounts his most difficult task (623–26), which is a parallel inversion of the κατάβασις of Lazarus. Heracles kidnapped the hound (κύων) of Hades that devours those who try to escape, while Lazarus was devoured by hounds (κύνες). Heracles escaped the abode of the dead with the aid of the Homeric ψυχοπομπός (Hermes), while Lazarus was taken to the abode of the dead by the Lukan ψυχοπομποί (Angels). For both men, however, divine favour only becomes operative postmortem, ‘For not even the mighty Heracles escaped death, albeit he was most dear [φίλτατος] to Zeus, son of Cronos, the king, but fate overcame him, and the dread wrath of Hera’ (Il. 18.117-18 [Murray, LCL]). Needless to say, Lazarus was not sprung from Zeus, but Walter Burkert notes, ‘The figure of Heracles, 131 Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are depicted nursing the souls of the just and feeding them the fruits of paradise in an early eleventh-century wall painting in the Coptic monastery of Deir al-Surian in Egypt. According to O’Kane, this painting reflects a popular prayer found on Coptic gravestones, ‘May God repose his soul in the bosom of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob’ (‘The Bosom of Abraham’, 503). 132 E.g. ‘He has been made to recline on the holy couch of the pious ones’ (Lattimore, Themes, 52; cf. Dio Chrysostom, Orat. 30.29; Lucian, Aen. 6.656–57). 133 Themes, 52. 134 On the series of ‘Totenmahl’ (death-feast) reliefs in which postmortem life was one long drinking party, see Garland, Greek Way, 70–71.

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however unique in myth, was to become the prototype for the most daring hopes for an afterlife.’135 The singular identification of Abraham, despite the presence of bosoms, provides further justification for the juxtaposition of Heracles and Lazarus. According to Isaiah – a favourite Lukan literary source – Abraham was the one whom God loved (41.8; LXX ἀγαπάω; cf. 2 Chron. 20.7). In the New Testament, James alludes to their special relationship as if it is common knowledge in 2.23, but he calls him a ‘friend [φίλος] of God’. The only other person known to be a friend of God in Jewish and Christian tradition was Moses (cf. Exod. 33.11), but he is reserved for the latter part of the story. Thus, the one whom God loved (Abraham/Heracles) and the one who suffered τὰ κακά beyond measure and was eschatologically rewarded (Lazarus/Heracles) are bosom companions – a mimetic invitation to the feast at the table of the μακάριος.136 Father Abraham (16.24-26) In v. 24, the narrator fades away and the text shifts to the father and child, the only instance of postmortem dialogue in the biblical tradition.137 The sole purpose of the κατάβασις of Odysseus was to consult the blind seer concerning his frustrated νόστος, and yet he remains among the dead after completing his mission. In the ensuing dialogues with the dead, the cause of their demise is revealed and they ask for news of their family; simultaneously, his own position is further clarified, and he is given information to follow when he returns to the land of the living. This is also true of the κατάβασις of Theophilus; in vv. 24-26 the truth of the tragic νόστος of the tormented man is revealed and in vv. 27-31 he requests that Lazarus be sent to his family; simultaneously, Theophilus is given an eschatological revelation that confirms the Lukan kerygma thus far and foreshadows events that are to come in the remainder of the two volumes. Postmortem dialogue in hades may be uniquely Lukan within the biblical tradition, but it is the mimetic calling card of the Homeric νέκυια. The conversation begins with the cry of the tormented man, who ‘called out [φωνήσας εἶπεν]’ to ‘Father Abraham [Πάτερ Ἀβραάμ]’. The combination of φωνέω, εἶπον, and πατήρ occurs one other time in the two volumes, and it is also associated with death. ‘Then Jesus, crying out [φωνήσας] with a loud voice, said [εἶπεν], “Father [Πάτερ], into your hands I commend my spirit [πνεῦμα].” Having said this, he breathed his last [ἐξέπνευσεν]’ (23.46). Jesus 135 Greek Religion, 198. 136 Several textual traditions agree (D Θ l 2211 it); along with the ‘bosoms’ of Abraham, they also describe Lazarus resting and relaxing (ἀναπαυόμενον). See further, James A. Metzger, Consumption and Wealth Consumption and Wealth in Luke’s Travel Narrative (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 141 n. 120. 137 Each character (except the angels) in the story is male (i.e. the rich man, Lazarus, Abraham, the rich man’s father, and the five brothers of the rich man); additionally, two of them function as fathers.

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expectedly dies, entrusting his spirit into the hands of the Πατήρ, a Lukan addition to Ps. 31.5 which the evangelist quotes in this final statement before the κατάβασις of Christ.138 The only occurrence of the Greek ᾅδης in Luke is in 16.23, but it occurs twice in the sequel.139 In Acts 2.14-36, immediately after the appearance of the fiery tongues (γλῶσσαι ὡσεὶ πυρός), Peter lifted up his voice (ἐπῆρεν τὴν φωνὴν αὐτοῦ) and pleaded with the brothers (ἀδελφοί) to listen to these things (ἀκούσατε τοὺς λόγους τούτους), issuing the programmatic mission statement for the Acts of the Apostles – the Spirit of God shall be poured out upon all flesh (vv. 17-21). As confirmation of the dawning of this new age, he points to the crucified Jesus, whom the brothers killed. ‘But God raised him up (ἀνέστησεν), having freed him from death (θανάτου), because it was impossible for him to be held in its power’ (v. 24). As biblical evidence for this unprecedented act of God, Peter cites the prophecy of the great king of Israel: For David says concerning him, ‘I saw the Lord always before me, for he is at my right hand so that I will not be shaken; therefore my heart was glad [ηὐφράνθη], and my tongue rejoiced; moreover my flesh [σάρξ] will live in hope. For you will not abandon my soul [ψυχήν] to Hades [ᾅδην], or let your Holy One [ὅσιον] experience corruption [διαφθοράν]. You have made known to me the ways of life [ζωῆς]; you will make me full of gladness [εὐφροσύνης] with your presence.’ Fellow Israelites, I may say to you confidently of our ancestor David that he both died and was buried, and his tomb is with us to this day. Since he was a prophet [προφήτης], he knew that God had sworn with an oath to him that he would put one of his descendants on his throne. Foreseeing this, David spoke of the resurrection [ἀναστάσεως] of the Messiah, saying, ‘He was not abandoned to Hades [εἰς ᾅδην], nor did his flesh [σάρξ] experience corruption [διαφθοράν].’ This Jesus God raised up [ἀνέστησεν], and of that all of us are witnesses [μάρτυρες]. (vv. 25-32)

In his defence of the rising up (ἀνέστησεν) of Christ, the evangelist cites Ps. 16.8-11, but the Petrine interpretation in v. 31 reveals his apologetic technique. In the Psalm, the ‘flesh [σάρξ]’ lives in hope because the ‘soul [ψυχή]’ will not be abandoned to hades, but in the Petrine version, ‘he’ is equated with ‘soul [ψυχή]’ and ‘flesh [σάρξ]’ with ‘Holy One [ὅσιον]’.140 The rearrangement of the 138 The Greek πατήρ occurs twice in the Lukan crucifixion narrative (cf. 23.34); both sayings are unique to the Third Gospel, although some manuscripts lack v. 34. Beyond this narrative, πατήρ occurs clustered in two Lukan stories, the Prodigal Son (15.12, 18, 21) and the Rich Man and Lazarus (16.24, 27, 30). In the former, the story narrates the conflict between two brothers over their inheritance, reminiscent of the narrative framework of the Foolish Rich Man (10.13-15), which is the fraternal twin of the latter. On the descent of Christ into hades, see Bauckham, ‘Fate of the Dead’, 40–44; and Bernstein, Formation, 272–82. 139 Outside Luke-Acts, ᾅδης occurs twice in Matthew (11.23; 16.18) and four times in Revelation (1.18; 6.8; 20.13, 14). 140 On the use of ὅσιος and δίκαιος to refer to ordinary human beings, see Plato, Leg. 2.663b; Gorg. 507b; Polybius 22.10.8.

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syntax manufactured biblical precedence for bodily resurrection; in this case, an embodied ψυχή of one who died, descended into hades, and returned physically intact (cf. Lk. 12.4-6). The tormented man, on the other hand, who unexpectedly died discovers himself abandoned in hades, crying out to the father. In the κατάβασις of Odysseus, there is only one character who died and was not entirely abandoned to hades – the one who suffered τὰ κακά beyond measure. According to Homer, only the ‘phantom [εἴδωλον]’ of Heracles dwells in the house of Hades, ‘for he himself [αὐτός] among the immortal gods takes his joy in the feast’ (Od. 11.601–603 [Murray, LCL]). Despite merely being a ‘phantom’, the dead flee ‘everywhere in terror’ as he emerges out of the house of Hades and speaks without the animating potion of life (Od. 11.605 [Murray, LCL]). On the double position of Heracles, Lars Albinus noted, Due to other instances of this semantic opposition, we may expect αὐτός to refer to σῶμα (‘corpse’), while εἴδωλον may implicitly encompass the notion of ψυχή. What, in any case, makes the distinction astonishing is that it is atypically conferred on the afterlife, so that the corpse, and therefore the self, are believed to survive in the world beyond separated from the realm of remembered images.141

The Homeric precedence for the postmortem survival of the self apart from the ‘realm of remembered images’ was indeed golden honey. In the first postmortem appearance of Jesus in the Gospel of Luke (24.13-35), two men are walking to a village called Emmaeus, talking about the death of their master, when ‘Jesus himself [αὐτὸς Ἰησοῦς] came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him’ (vv. 15b-16). After speaking with them for a short while, Jesus himself was recognized, ‘When he was at the table [κατακλιθῆναι] with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes [ὀφθαλμοί] were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished [ἄφαντος ἐγένετο] from their sight’ (vv. 30-31).142 The second postmortem appearance to the disciples (24.36-49) contains many of the same themes: While they were talking about this, Jesus himself [αὐτός] stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’ They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost [πνεῦμα; D has φάντασμα, ‘apparition’]. He said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself [ἐγώ εἰμι αὐτός]. Touch me and see; for a ghost [πνεῦμα] does not have flesh [σάρκα] and bones [ὀστέα] as you see that I have.’And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence. (vv. 36-43)143 141 House of Hades, 79. 142 On the theme of recognitions in the Homeric epics and the Gospels of Mark and Luke, see MacDonald, Homeric Epics, 44–54; and ‘Ending of Luke’, 161–68. 143 On the theme of post-resurrection physical demonstration, see Riley, Resurrection, 94–96.

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In addition to the shared awkward syntax (αὐτός), the Lukan and Homeric postmortem appearances share several themes in common – recognition, fear, dialogue, palpability, banqueting – but the evangelist is careful to make one crucial distinction. When Heracles appears, the dead recognize him (εἴδωλον/ψυχή) and are terrified, but Odysseus explains that Heracles himself (αὐτός/σῶμα) is feasting with the gods. Likewise, when Jesus appears to the disciples they recognize him and are terrified, imagining that they are seeing a ghost (πνεῦμα). Jesus himself (αὐτός) explains that he is not a πνεῦμα, for he is embodied in flesh (σάρκα) and bones (ὀστέα) unlike the impalpable Homeric dead, whose ψυχαί are only recognizable via the εἴδωλα of their former bodies, and he feasts with the disciples. As Peter would later explain concerning the κατάβασις of Jesus, like Heracles, his σάρξ survived intact beyond the grave, but unlike Heracles, he does not occupy a double position – his ψυχή and σάρξ were not abandoned to hades. How is this possible? After the death of Jesus, the women arrive at his tomb and discover his body (σῶμα) is missing; ‘two men [ἄνδρες δύο]’ appear and ask why they are looking for the ‘living among the dead [τὸν ζῶντα μετὰ τῶν νεκρῶν]’ (Lk. 24.3, 5). These two men are later identified as angels (ἀγγελοί) in v. 23, the Lukan ψυχοπομποί in 16.22. In the Gospel of Luke, however, they are not the guides of the dead – they are the angelic escort of the living who have died. Lazarus was carried away (ἀπενεχθῆναι) into the bosom of Abraham, but Jesus rose up (ἀνέστησεν) from hades and was carried up (ἀνεφέρετο) into heaven – a Christianized Homeric postmortem embodied apotheosis (cf. Lk. 16.22, 31; Acts 2.32; Lk. 24.51).144 The early Christian community was routinely criticized and mocked for maintaining the physical resurrection of the dead; the Graeco-Roman intelligentsia considered it grotesque and ludicrous.145 Not surprisingly, Lucian, who openly mocked the gullibility of the Christian community in De morte Peregrini, also ridiculed the double position of Heracles in Homer (cf. Dial. mort. 11). For his gullible contemporary, however, Heracles presented a golden opportunity to defend the Christian claim of bodily resurrection through ‘μίμησις τῶν ἀρχαίων’, demonstrating the maturation of Christian literary culture and joining his fellow apologists in the second century engaged in a rhetorical battle with their pagan counterparts.146 144 Cf. Justin, 1 Apol. 18.4–6. According to Peter W. van der Horst, the evangelist used the verb ἀποφέρω because the ἀπο in compound verbs connotes ‘back to where it belongs’; thus, Lazarus was carried back to his rightful place (‘Abraham’s Bosom, the Place Where he Belonged: A Short Note on ἀπενεχθῆναι in Luke 16.22’, NTS 52 [2006]: 142–44). 145 Cf. E. G. Weltin, Athens and Jerusalem: An Interpretive Essay on Christianity and Classical Culture (AAR Studies in Religion 49; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 44; and Ramsay MacMullen, Christianizing the Roman Empire (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1984), 12. 146 E.g. Justin, 1 Apol. 8; Tatian, Oratio ad Graecos 6; Theophilus, Autol. 1.8; Athenagoras, Leg. 36. For a superb analysis of this ongoing debate, see Riley, Resurrection, 58– 68. The apologists of the second and third centuries were preoccupied with demonstrating their

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In Lk. 16.23-31, the evangelist does not explicitly describe the postmortem appearance of the tormented man or Lazarus, but palpability is clearly assumed. This much becomes clear in v. 24; after addressing Father Abraham, the tormented man cries out for mercy (ἐλέησόν), begging his potential benefactor to ‘send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water [ὕδατος] and cool my tongue [γλῶσσαν]; for I am in agony [ὀδυνῶμαι] in these flames [φλογί]’.147 Thankfully for the master of the house, the guards of the gate left one piece of the wounded beggar intact – his finger.148 The tormented man does not request a glass of water, or even better, a bucket of water to put out the flame; he requests a wet finger. The imagery of the finger, which vividly describes his desperation, beautifully recalls a discarded Lazarus who longed for the discarded scraps of bread used to wipe the fingers of the rich man; and now, the tormented man longs for tainted water from the finger of Lazarus.149 The syntax is unclear, but the water appears to be located within the vicinity of the supplicant, below not above. Whatever physical distress the man is suffering, he chooses to describe his distress psychologically, as emotional agony (ὀδυνῶμαι). The Greek ὀδυνάω occurs in Lk. 2.48 and Acts 20.38; in both cases, it used to denote a sense of loss and longing of something dear. In this instance, the tormented man suffers from a vision of the life he once lived and has lost. Certainly, this parallels the agony of the poor man, tormented outside the gate by the vision of the sumptuous feast, but the constellation of recognition, palpability, and emotional agony located in the Greek underworld recalls the offenders of the divine order who are juxtaposed with the judge of the dead and the one feasting with the gods in the Homeric νέκυια. Within the house of Hades, Odysseus becomes aware of three palpable figures, whom he identifies as Tityos, Tantalus, and Sisyphus (Od. 11.576– 600). In the narration, Odysseus describes the sexual crime of Tityos and the Iliad alludes to the escape of Sisyphus from hades, but Homer is silent on the criminal activity of Tantalus. Odysseus observes Tantalus from afar in ‘bitter antiquity; for example, they claimed Greek culture was borrowed from Moses (see further, Arthur J. Droge, Homer or Moses? Early Christian Interpretations of the History of Culture [Tübingen: Mohr, 1989]). 147 The Greek ἐλεέω occurs in two other passages in the Gospel, but is not attested in Acts. In 17.11-19, Jesus cleanses ten lepers that beg for mercy; likewise in 18.35-43, a blind man near Jericho pleads for mercy and is healed. This is the only time the petitioner is refused, but the postmortem setting and the Abrahamic verdict in 24-31 imply the time for ἐλεημοσύνη has passed (cf. 11.39-41; 12.33a). 148 His mutilated corpse would have been unwelcome at the ‘banquet of the blessed’, but as Clement encouraged the church in Corinth, the resurrected body is reborn, as the Phoenix rises from the ashes (cf. 1 Clem. 25). Clement is employing a well-known fable about the Phoenix (cf. Herodotus, Hist. 2.73; Pliny, Nat. 10.2; Tertullian, Res. 13). 149 Cf. Jeremias, Rediscovering, 146; Parables, 184; Herzog, Parables, 118; Green, Luke, 606; and C. G. Montefiore, The Synoptic Gospels (2 vols; London: Macmillan, 1927), 2.538. Some manuscripts (‫א‬2, A, D, W, Θ, Ψ, 063) add ‘tiny crumbs [ψιχίον]’ to v. 21, but this is probably a reflection of Mk 7.28 and Mt. 15.27 (see further, Fitzmyer, Luke, 1131).

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torment’, ‘wild with thirst’ and ‘eager to drink’, perpetually and desperately reaching down for ‘water [ὕδωρ]’ that is ‘swallowed up’ by the earth (583, 584, 585, 586).150 Additionally, over his head is a feast of ‘fruits [καρπόν]’, including ‘pears’, ‘pomegranates’, ‘apple trees’, ‘sweet figs’, and ‘luxuriant olives’; each time he would reach up for them they would be tossed up into the ‘shadowy clouds’ (588, 589, 590, 591 [Murray, LCL]).151 The description is brief, but the tormented figure would become an unforgettable symbol and a popular object of embellishment in later literature.152 Pindar, for example, describes Tantalus as a man dissatisfied with his great wealth, offering up his son Pelops at the feast of the gods (Ol. 1.2353). In addition, Pindar notes he stole the nectar and ambrosia that the gods had used to make him immortal and shared it with mortal men (Ol. 1.60-64; cf. Apollodorus, Epitome 2.1–3). Although Homer does not explicitly define his offence, the perpetual longing for the basic necessities of life (i.e. water and food) establishes a trajectory of his guilt, which Pindar identifies as a violation of the divine feast. For the tormented Tantalus, he suffers a punishment that is an inversion of his crime by order of the divine court for offending the ‘social order which the cosmic order grounds’.153 His suffering, in contrast to that of Tityos and Sisyphus, hinges on the emotional agony of the vision of life that is hopelessly beyond his reach. By the first century bce, Tantalus was commonly associated with wealth and greed, as attested by Horace: Tantalus, thirsty soul, catches at the streams that fly from his hips – why laugh? Change but the name, and the tale is told of you. You sleep with open mouth on money-bags piled up from all side, and must perforce keep hands off as if they were hallowed, or take delight in them as if painted pictures. Don’t you know what money is for, what end it serves? (Sat. 1.1.68–74 [Fairclough, LCL])154 150 Heraclitus notes that if the poetical tradition did not have philosophical theory or allegorical trope, it would be as if the tongue (γλῶσσα) of Tantalus was unchastened (Homeric Problems, 3). 151 Cf. the harvested crops (καρπούς) of the Foolish Rich Man who has stored up goods (τὰ ἀγαθά) and whose soul (ψυχή) plans to feast (εὐφραίνου) in Lk. 12.17, 19. 152 Tantalus was a malleable figure; for example, the singular Tantalus becomes Ixion and Pirithoüs in Virgil; additionally, they are tantalized by visions of a royal banquet (Aen. 603–605). Tantalus was a stock character in hades, even in Jewish literature: ‘And indeed the Greeks seem to me to have followed the same notion, when they allot the islands of the blessed to their brave men, whom they call heroes and demigods; and to the souls of the wicked, the region of the ungodly, in hades, where their fables relate that certain persons, such as Sisyphus, and Tantalus, and Ixion, and Tityus, are punished; which is built on this first supposition, that souls are immortal; and thence are those exhortations to virtue, and exhortations from wickedness collected; whereby good men are bettered in the conduct of their life, by the hope they have of reward after their death, and whereby the vehement inclinations of bad men to vice are restrained, by the fear and expectation they are in, that although they should lie concealed in this life, they should suffer immortal punishment after their death’ (Josephus, J.W. 8.11.156–57 [Whiston]). 153 Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Crime and Punishment’, 54. 154 Lucian also associated the punishment of Tantalus primarily with thirst (Dial. mort. 7).

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For the lyric poet, Tantalus was not punished for his great wealth; he offended the gods because of his excessive greed, for not using his riches for the proper end (cf. Lk. 11.37-41).155 In the Homeric νέκυια, there are many tormented shades, most notably the ‘sorrowing’ Agamemnon, but the impalpable dead are incongruent with the physical torments of Lk. 16.24.156 In the figure of Tantalus, the evangelist discovered a palpable character of great wealth and greed who offended the gods while feasting; as punishment, he suffers perpetual distress within the house of Hades by order of the divine court.157 In the Lukan account, both men are tantalized, implying the connectedness of their divided lives. The poor man was denied the substances of life (i.e. water and food) hopelessly beyond his grasp and now the offender of the divine order is denied the substances of life (i.e. water and food) hopelessly beyond his grasp below and above – a mimetic marriage licence signed in hell.158 The distance between Odysseus and these offenders of the divine order within the house of Hades, which are clearly distinct from the common dead who emerge out of Erebus, suggested to some they must reside in Tartarus.159 According to Iliad 8.13–16, the murky prison is a special holding cell for the enemies of Zeus deep beneath the earth, which would have been a fitting location for these divine foes, but Homer is content describing their perpetual punishment within hades. In the Lukan corpus, the Greek Τάρταρος does not occur; in fact, it is only mentioned once in the biblical tradition (cf. 2 Pet. 2.4). Given the prominence of the Iliad in the educational curriculum, however, it is reasonable to assume the evangelist would have some knowledge of this 155 The Middle Platonic philosopher Plutarch authored a treatise, Fort., identifying riches as the breeding ground of discontent and corruption despite the fact that he himself was a wealthy, successful aristocrat. He criticized the rich as money-hoarding thieves, who seal away their money while amassing more and wrangling with their servants, farmers, and debtors (525a). ‘As for you, unhappy wretch, is one not to be astonished that living as you do – a miser, unsocial, selfish, heedless of friends, indifferent to country – you nevertheless suffer hardships, lose sleep, engage in traffic, chase after legacies, and truckle to others despite this abundant provision for a life of ease, your meanness?’ (525c–d [Einarson and DeLacy, LCL]). The rich are driven by their wealth, unable to enjoy their lives. They care for nothing, except for growing wealthier, and this at the expense of others. For Plutarch, the antidote to the corrupting agent within wealth was self-criticism. See further Malherbe, ‘Christianization’, 126–27. On Roman ascetical theory, see Richard Valantasis, ‘Musonius Rufus and Roman Ascetical Theory’ GRBS 40 (1999): 207–31. 156 In the Latin imitation of Homer, the Aeneid, the righteous dead play sports, wrestle, dance, brandish their weapons, and ride their horses and chariots; the wicked dead are punished with chains and various scourges (6.557–58, 642–55). See further, Riley, Resurrection, 55–58. 157 As the son of Zeus, Tantalus is not subject to death, and yet in Homer he exists in hades physically intact. In other words, he has passed from life to life after death; thus, he is a Homeric postmortem character available to the evangelist for imitation. Additionally, the tormented man appears to be immobile (‘send Lazarus’; 16.24, 27) and cannot escape from hades (‘great chasm’; 16.26), which bears resemblance to the punishment of Tityos and Sisyphus as well. 158 On tantalization in the tours of hell tradition, see Himmelfarb, Tours of Hell, 92–94; also, for a Talmudic example, see Schottroff, Parables, 51. 159 E.g. Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 32–33, 38–39; and Bremmer, Rise and Fall, 4.

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postmortem place of punishment, but he is bound by his model – the Homeric hades. At the conclusion of v. 24, however, the evangelist adds a narrative detail that is missing in Tantalus, but necessary in Lk. 16.19-26 – ‘in these flames [φλογί]’.160 In their previous lives, the rich man feasted and the poor man longed to be satisfied (χορτασθῆναι); in life after death, Lazarus feasts and the agonized man longs to be satisfied.161 For the postmortem reversal to be complete, however, one more insult is necessary; the licking dogs must become the licking flame.162 The presence of Abraham and divine retribution through flames is also present in a fiery proclamation by John the Baptist in Lk. 3.7-9: You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance [μετανοίας]. Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor [Πατέρα]’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham [τέκνα τῷ Ἀβραάμ]. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire [πῦρ βάλλεται]. (3.7-9)

According to John the Baptist, the tree that does not bear fruit will be thrown (βάλλεται) into fire (πῦρ), which creates a beautiful rhetorical symmetry with the poor man who was once thrown (ἐβέβλητο) outside his gate. The Gospel uses this Greek term for fire three other times in the context of divine punishment, but on every occasion the πῦρ originates in heaven and is sent down to earth (cf. Acts 2.19; 28.5). After a Samaritan village refuses to receive Jesus, the disciples inquire, ‘Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven [πῦρ καταβῆναι ἀπὸ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ] and consume [ἀναλῶσαι] them?’ (9.54). In Lk. 12.49, Jesus declares, ‘I came to bring [βαλεῖν] fire [Πῦρ] to the earth [ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν], and how I wish it were already kindled!’163 And finally, when describing the destruction of Sodom, the city that the evangelist does not include in his list of unrepentant cities who will be brought down to hades in 10.13-16, Jesus explains, ‘it rained fire [πῦρ] and sulfur from heaven [ἀπʼ οὐρανοῦ] and destroyed [ἀπώλεσεν] all of them’ (17.29). In contrast to the annihilating force of πῦρ from heaven, the φλόξ found in hades is used by the evangelist one more time, and in this instance as well, the subject within the φλόξ is not destroyed by it. In Stephen’s speech to the 160 For flames associated with hades, see Sir. 21.9-10; 1 En. 10.13; 63.10; 103.8. For the flames (LXX πῦρ) of Sheol, see Isa. 66.24. 161 For thirst as form of postmortem torment, see 2 Esd. 8.59; for water in hades, see 1 En. 22.9. 162 Before death, the rich man is comforted, while the poor man is tormented; moreover the dogs lick up his flesh. After death, the poor man is comforted, while the rich man is tormented; moreover, the flames lick up his flesh. The symmetry of the narrative remains intact if the dogs, like the flame, accentuate his τὰ κακά. 163 The Matthaean parallel has ‘peace [εἰρήνη]’, not fire (10.34).

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council, the first martyr describes a fiery theophany witnessed by Moses, ‘Now when forty years had passed, an angel appeared to him in the wilderness of Mount Sinai, in the flame [φλογί] of a burning [πῦρ] bush. When Moses saw it, he was amazed at the sight’ (Acts 7.30-31a). The evangelist is faithful to the Septuagintal reading, except he omits the reason for his astonishment, ‘and the bush was blazing [LXX πυρί], yet it was not consumed [LXX κατακαίω]’ (Exod. 3.2b). Within the Gospel of Luke πῦρ is a consuming force and the bush will not survive; thus, the source of his amazement is left unstated.164 The unrepentant tree described by John the Baptist will be destroyed by the πῦρ as well. Consequently, πῦρ is not available as an environmental punishment in the context of postmortem palpability.165 In the biblical tradition, postmortem fiery punishment was reserved for Gehenna, but in the one occurrence of γέεννα in the Lukan corpus (Lk. 12.5), the redactor is careful to avoid its association with πῦρ, as attested in Mark and Matthew (Mk 9.42-48; Mt. 5.21-30; 18.6-9; cf. Jas 3.6).166 In the Homeric hades, πῦρ and φλόξ are both present in one of the rivers mentioned by Circe that flows into hades, ‘Pyriphlegethon [Πυριφλεγέθων]’ (Od. 10.513 [Murray, LCL]). The names of the other rivers vary in the tours of hell tradition, but ‘Pyriphlegethon’ or ‘Phlegethon’ are stable throughout.167 More often than not, this fiery river functions as an identifying feature of the Greek hades, rather than as an ‘instrument of punishment’.168 In the satires of Lucian, however, Pyriphlegethon and fiery torments are both present (cf. Men. 10, 14; Luct. 3, 8; Philops. 24; Ver. hist. 2.31). ‘Luke’ was also fond of fire as an agent of punishment, but πῦρ is reserved for retributive annihilation from above. In the Lukan hades, not only does the tormented man suffer the agony of a visible banquet above and inaccessible water below, he is also ‘in the flame [ἐν τῇ φλογί]’; canine saliva has been replaced by the flaming tongue of Phlegethon – a mimetic topographical marker in hades.169 164 Not surprisingly, πῦρ and φλόξ are commonly used to describe the funeral pyre; for example, after the death of Achilles his body is given to ‘the fire (πυρί)’ and the ‘flame [φλόξ] of Hephaestus’ (Homer, Od. 24.65, 71 [Murray, LCL]). This latter phrase occurs three times in the epics; the ‘flame’ of Hephaestus is always φλόξ, never πῦρ (cf. Il. 9.469; 23.33). The φλόξ of Hephaestus was also known to be unquenchable (cf. Il. 17.89) and he himself was ‘ablaze with fire [πυρὶ φλεγέθοντι]’ (cf. Il. 21.358). As an agent of the source, it is possible the ἄγγελος is protected. 165 For a detailed discussion of the role of environmental punishments, esp. fire, in postmortem accounts, see Himmelfarb, Tours of Hell, 106–21. 166 The Gospel of Matthew is particularly fond of eschatological unquenchable fire (cf. 3.10, 12; 7.19; 13.40, 42, 50; 18.8; 25.41). Γέεννα is unattested in the Septuagint, Philo, and Josephus; the earliest reference is in 1 En. 27, but fire is not mentioned (cf. Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 271 n. 27). 167 E.g. Plato, Phaed. 114a; Strabo, Geogr. 5.244; Virgil, Aen. 6.255, 550. 168 Himmelfarb, Tours of Hell, 111. 169 Cf. Acts 2.1-4, ‘When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues [γλῶσσαι], as of fire [ὡσεὶ πυρός],

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In v. 25 the dialogue shifts to Abraham; the contrastive ‘but [δέ]’ that ushers in his reply does not bode well for the agonized man. There was no consolation for the poor man cast by his gate and now there appears there will be no consolation for the once festive rich man as well. Abraham affirms their relationship, but he invites the ‘child [τέκνον]’ to remember, framing his response in terms of their past lives.170 ‘Remember [μνήσθητι] that during your lifetime [ζωῇ] you received your good things [τὰ ἀγαθά], and Lazarus in like manner evil things [τὰ κακά]; but now he is comforted here [ὧδε παρακαλεῖται], and you are in agony [ὀδυνᾶσαι].’ In vv. 19-21, the narrator provides little biographical detail concerning the two divided lives; one is rich and full, the other poor and hungry.171 After death, they undergo a complete reversal, but the text fails to narrate a judgement scene in which their postmortem fate was determined (cf. Mt. 25.31-46). In v. 25, Abraham does not issue judgement upon the rich man after which he is sent to the place of torment; rather, he hears the tormented man’s request and explains the judgement that has already been passed. The role of Abraham as judge of the formerly rich man is unexpected, given the association of the patriarch with wealth in early Jewish literature.172 His function in the story may be explained by his later characterization as a man of virtue and hospitality – a ‘friend of God’ – which was largely based upon his reception of three strangers in Gen. 18.1-15.173 After the postmortem appeared among them, and a tongue [ἕνα] rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.’ The evangelist is careful to point out the fiery tongues are like πυρός; otherwise, the disciples would be consumed instead of empowered. Additionally, ‘tongues’ of fire do not rest on them; rather, one tongue rests on each. In other words, the evangelist describes the appearance of fire as a singular tongue; hence, the singular ‘φλογί’ in Lk. 16.24. 170 C. H. Cave argued the designations, ‘Lazarus’ and ‘child’, are present only to facilitate the dialogue in the second stage of the story (‘Lazarus’, 323; also Bauckham, ‘Rich Man’, 244). While it is true that ‘poor man’ and ‘rich man’ would create cumbersome dialogue, it is difficult to imagine the proper name was so serendipitously chosen given the postmortem reversal. Additionally, after their death it would be inaccurate to identify Lazarus as πτωχός and his counterpart as πλούσιος, which is why the text does not use these descriptors in the postmortem setting. The binary that permeates the Gospel also applies to the sons of Abraham; there are rich sons of Abraham who do not repent before it is too late and rich sons of Abraham that do (i.e. Zacchaeus; cf. 19.9). On the sons of Abraham, see also 3.7-9. According to Josephus, Abraham was the father of all Hebrews (Ant. 14.10.22). 171 According to G. Sellin, this story fits the category of ‘dramatic triangle’ in which two persons of equal status but opposing functions are juxtaposed with an authority figure (‘Lukas as Gleichniserzähler. Die Erzählung vom barmherzigen Samaritar (Lk 10.25-37)’, ZNW 65 [1974]: 166–89). 172 E.g. Gen. 13.2; 14.13-24; 23.13-16; 25.7-11. Additionally, the role of Abraham as a benevolent father is also problematic given the sacrifice of Isaac in Gen. 22.1-19. In Christian iconography, the sacrifice of Isaac and the image of Abraham’s bosom are often juxtaposed to illustrate the differentiated fates of the sons of Abraham. See further, Baschet, Le Sein du père, 150–53. 173 E.g. Philo, Abr. 107.114–16, 132; Josephus, Ant. 1.196–200; T. Ab. A 1.1–25; 2.2; 4.6; 17.7; 20.15; B 4.10; 13.5. See further, Samuel Sandmel, Philo’s Place in Judaism: A Study

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journey of the patriarch in the Testament of Abraham, for example, a Christian scribe added this concluding exhortation, ‘Let us too, my beloved brothers, imitate the hospitality of the patriarch Abraham and let us attain to his virtuous behavior, so that we may be worthy of eternal life’ (A. 20.15 [Sanders]). Josephus agreed, describing the patriarch as a ‘man of incomparable virtue, and honored by God in a manner agreeable to his piety towards him’ (Ant. 1.256 [Whiston]). The prominence of Abraham in Lk. 16.22-31 is not surprising given the importance of the patriarch throughout the two volumes.174 The presence of a talking Abraham – a functioning character – is unprecedented in New Testament literature, but so is the postmortem setting. The role this prosperous ‘friend of God’ plays is reminiscent of another favoured one of Ζεύς – Minos, the postmortem judge.175 According to Odyssey Book 19, Minos was appointed king by the great Διός, with whom ‘he held converse [ὀαριστής]’ (179 [Murray, LCL]).176 Dio Chrysostom described Minos as the man ‘who has the highest reputation among the Greeks for justice’ (Orat. 11 [Crosby, LCL]).177 He was the friend and pupil of God.178 In the Lukan account, these ‘friends of God’ have been seamlessly interwoven.179 They carry out their duties within the postmortem setting, resolving disputes, and delivering revelatory oracles, but unlike the judges in the post-Homeric νέκυιαι, they do not determine the fate of those who have died.180 of Conceptions of Abraham in Jewish Literature (New York: KTAV, 1971), 84–85; Daniel J. Harrington, ‘Abraham Traditions in the Testament of Abraham and in the “Rewritten Bible” of the Intertestamental Period’, in Studies of the Testament of Abraham (ed. George W. E. Nickelsburg; SBLSCS 6; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1976), 165–71; Roy Bowen Ward, ‘Abraham Traditions in Early Christianity’, in Studies of the Testament of Abraham (ed. George W. E. Nickelsburg; SBLSCS 6; Missoula, MT: Scholars, 1976), 173–84; and Paul D. Hansen, Abraham in Galatians: Epistolary and Rhetorical Concepts (JSNTSup 29; Sheffield Academic Press, 1989), 187, 195. 174 He is referenced in twelve passages (Lk. 1.46-55, 67-79; 3.8-9, 23-38; 13.10-17, 2829; 16.19-31; 19.1-10; 20.27-40; Acts 3.13-26; 7.1-53; 13.16) and seven identify him as the father of the Jewish people or discuss his offspring (Lk. 1.55; 3.8; 13.16; 16.22-31; 19.9; Acts 3.25; 13.26). 175 Additionally, in the Homeric νέκυια Minos and the blind seer Teiresias both carry the ‘golden staff’, their shared symbol of priesthood that indicates their ability to proclaim oracular truth within the postmortem setting. 176 In Greek kinship terminology, the term ‘ὀαριστής’ connotes the relationship of mother and son (M. Miller, ‘Greek Kinship Terminology’, JHS 73 [1953]: 48). In the Septuagint, κόλπος appears thirty-six times to translate the Hebrew noun "qyx',” which can refer to sexual intimacy (e.g. Gen. 16.5; Deut. 28.56), but most often denotes the relationship between mother and child (e.g. 1 Kgs 17.9; Ruth 4.16; Lam. 2.12). See further, O’Kane, ‘The Bosom of Abraham’, 491–92. 177 According to Lucian, Minos judged Tantalus (Jupp. conf. 18). 178 Cf. Dio Crysostom, Orat. 11. 179 On ancient Graeco-Roman composition as weaving a fabric, see John Scheid and Jesper Svenbro, The Craft of Zeus: Myths of Weaving and Fabric (trans. Carol Volk; Revealing Antiquity 9; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996), 141–55. 180 Cf. Pindar, Ol. 2.59; Virgil, Aen. 6.566; Lucian, Cat. 13, 23–29; Ver. hist. 6–10; Luct. 7; 1 En. 14.20-23; 90.20-38; 4 Ezra 7.33-44; T. Ab. A 13.2–8. For postmortem judges mentioned in epitaphs, see Peres, Griechische Grabinschriften, 60–63.

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The absence of a judgement scene is surprising, given its widely attested presence in the tours of hell tradition.181 Lucian, for example, was particularly fond of this feature of postmortem narration, which he humorously described in the Cataplus and Menippus.182 In the Cataplus, Lucian contrasts diametrically the lives of the poor Micyllus and the rich tyrant Megapenthes, a narrative technique employed in Lk. 16.19-21 as well. The poor Micyllus describes his counterpart as ‘distressed’ when he was dragged to hades, leaving behind his ‘gold and silver and clothes and horses and dinners’ (15 [Harmon, LCL]). For the shoemaker, however, death was a relief, for he had ‘nothing at stake in life’ (15 [Harmon, LCL]). When the poor Micyllus arrives before the judge of the dead, he has already stripped off his clothes for inspection; unlike the rich tyrant, his body does not bear the marks of wickedness, and he is dismissed (25). When Megapenthes arrives, Hermes summons the lamp and bed of the accused to testify against him, which they do so in vivid detail (27). Rhadamanthus vacillates between condemning the man to the River of Burning Fire or Cerberus; with the help of Cyniscus, they decide to place him next to Tantalus and prohibit him from drinking the water of Lethe, forcing him to remember his former life of luxury (28–29).183 In Menippus, a similar judgement scene is described, except Rhadamanthus has been replaced by Minos and inanimate witnesses have been replaced by the shadow of each person under examination (10–11).184 Furthermore, Micyllus would not be nearly as relieved in this postmortem setting; the rich and poor alike are punished, although the poor are given preferential treatment (14). In the place of punishment, Menippus observes ‘all that is told of in the legends – Ixion, Sisyphus, Tantalus the Phrygian, who was certainly in a bad way, and earthborn Tityos’ (14 [Harmon, LCL]). Menippus continues, describing the ‘ancient and mouldy’ dead piled on top of one another in the Acherusian Plain, when the story is interrupted by a friendly inquiry and a mimetic flag (14 [Harmon, LCL]). ‘But tell me, 181 E.g. Plato, Gorg. 523c; 1 En. 62–63; 4 Ezra 6.55–7.44; 2 Bar. 15.8; T. Jud. 25.4; Apoc. Ab. 13.12. The judgement scene and the reversal motif is especially prominent in the Epistle of Enoch (1 En. 91–104), which condemns the rich for oppressing the poor (cf. Nickelsburg, ‘Riches’, 326–27; ‘The Apocalyptic Message of 1 Enoch 92–105’, CBQ 39 [1977]: 309–28; and ‘The Epistle of Enoch and the Qumran Literature’, JJS 33 [1982]: 333–48). 182 On Lucian, see further, Hock, ‘Lazarus and Micyllus’, 457–62. 183 Cf. Plato, Resp. 10.621b. In Lk. 16.24-25, it is possible the request for a small quantity of water and Abraham’s response to ‘remember’ immediately after implies the liquid is in fact Lethe-water. Although he would continue to be tantalized, he would not be tantalized by the memory of his past life. The bitter memories of the dead are a prominent theme in the Homeric νέκυια and the water of forgetfulness is an ingenious solution to this problem once the hope of a blessed afterlife (given birth to by Heracles) becomes more widely embraced. In any case, the agonized man is denied the fluid and forced to remember. 184 In the one example narrated by Lucian, Dionysius of Sicily is charged with ‘dreadful and impious [ἀνόσια] crimes’; Dion is the prosecutor and the shadow appears as ‘witness [καταμαρτυρηθέντα]’ (Men. 13 [Harmon, LCL]; cf. Cat. 27).

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Menippus; those who have such expensive, high monuments on earth, and tombstones and statues and inscriptions – are they no more highly honoured than the common dead?’ (16 [Harmon, LCL]). The friend imitates Odysseus, who assumes that Achilles must ‘rule mightily among the dead’ in the Homeric νέκυια (Od. 11.485 [Murray, LCL]). Achilles famously responds that he would rather be a living slave than a dead king. The kings in Menippus should have listened to the shade of Achilles; for their punishment they are reduced to poverty and forced to live as slaves (17). The Lucianic Teiresias agrees with the Homeric Achilles, ‘the life of the common sort is best’ (21 [Harmon, LCL]). For the satirist, death was the great equalizer, a pervasive theme in Homer as well.185 Men and women, kings and slaves, suffer a uniform fate – a gloomy existence without pleasure of any kind – even the most celebrated dead desires to live again, even if that life is one of slavery. The most powerful figures in the Iliad – Agamemnon, Achilles, and Ajax – appear sorrowing, remorseful, and angry, suffering from bitter memories like Megapenthes.186 The dead masses also carry the marks of their death, the signs of their demise, and in some cases, their culpability. There is a courtroom in the Homeric hades as well, but the shadowy dead bear witness to their own undoing, like Achilles who testifies against himself and his folly. Likewise, in Lk. 16.25 Abraham forces the tormented man to remember, and his memory is the only witness necessary. Even if he chooses to forget, the shadow at his gate now follows him in life after death, a perpetual visual witness of their interconnected but divided lives. In v. 26, Abraham confirms the finality of his postmortem fate, ‘Besides all this [ἐν πᾶσι τούτοις], between you and us a great chasm [χάσμα μέγα] has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.’187 The presence of Abraham, the ‘banquet of the blessed’, and the unbridgeable χάσμα that divides the blessed from the cursed is strikingly reminiscent of the eschatological banquet in 13.22-29:

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185 Cf. Cat. 20; Men. 17; Dial. mort.1, 26. See further, Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 173–

186 The lone exception is the man who suffered τὰ κακά beyond measure; as for Micyllus and Lazarus, death signified a release from the miseries of his life (Od. 11.601–26). 187 The Greek phrase, ‘ἐν πᾶσι τούτοις’ (lit. ‘in all these things’), occurs in other eschatological contexts (Mt. 25.31-46; 1 En. 18.11-16; 21.1-10; 22.1-14). The Greek χάσμα denotes a yawn or gape (Herodotus, Hist. 4.85; Josephus, J.W. 5.566, Ant. 6.27; 7.242; 2 Sam. 18.17). The earliest occurrence of the word appears to be in Hesiod; he uses it as a divider between the living and dead (Theog. 740). Oedipus speaks of the bottomless chasms in Tartarus (Euripides, Phoen. 1604–605; cf. 1 En. 18.9-12). As a divider between the wicked dead and the righteous dead, see Diogenes Laertius, 8.31 (cf. 1 Esd. 7.10-15). On the relationship to finality, see 2 Clem. 8.3; Pindar, Ol. 2.53–78. The Greek χάσμα does occur in the myth of Er, but it is not used to separate anything (Plato, Resp. 10.614c–d). See further, Eric F. F. Bishop, ‘A Yawning Chasm’, EvQ 45 (1973): 3–5; D. de Bruyne, ‘Notes de philologie biblique: I. Chasme (Luc 16, 26)’, RB 30 (1921): 400–405.

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Jesus went through one town and village after another, teaching as he made his way to Jerusalem. Someone [τις] asked him, ‘Lord, will only a few be saved?’ He said to them, ‘Strive to enter through the narrow door [θύρας]; for many, I tell you, will try to enter and will not be able. When once the owner of the house has got up and shut the door [θύραν], and you begin to stand outside and to knock at the door, saying, “Lord, open to us,” then in reply he will say to you, “I do not know where you come from.” Then you will begin to say, “We ate and drank with you, and you taught in our streets.” But he will say, “I do not know where you come from; go away from me, all you evildoers [ἐργάται ἀδικίας]!” There will be weeping [κλαυθμός] and gnashing [βρυγμός] of teeth [ὀδόντων] when you see [ὄψεσθε] Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and all the prophets [προφήτας] in the kingdom of God [βασιλείᾳ τοῦ θεοῦ], and you yourselves thrown out [ἐκβαλλομένους]. Then people will come from east and west, from north and south, and will eat [ἀνακλιθήσονται] in the kingdom of God [βασιλείᾳ τοῦ θεοῦ]. Indeed, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last.’188

This salvific vision, which begins with the inquiry of a certain someone (τις), echoes the rhetoric of reversal that permeates the Gospel and the story of a certain rich man and a certain poor man.189 The setting is defined spatially by a door (θύρας), which permanently divides the invited from the uninvited.190 This narrow entryway stands in sharp contrast to the ‘wide-gated house of Hades [εὐρυπυλὲς Ἄϊδος δῶ]’ that welcomes the rich who closed their πύλη to the poor and crippled (cf. Mt. 16.18).191 Even though they once dined with the master of the house, these ‘evildoers [ἐργάται ἀδικίας]’ should not be surprised by their eschatological suffering.192 In all 188 The Gospel of Matthew has a similar tradition, but it is fragmented and scattered. The messianic banquet is narrated within the context of the healing of the centurion’s son in 8.11-12, but there are no rejected observers. Additionally, in 7.13-14 the narrow door (θύρας) is a narrow gate (πύλη) and in vv. 21-23 the workers of injustice (ἀδικίας) are the workers of lawlessness (ἀνομίαν). The statement in Lk. 13.25 parallels 16.16, ‘The law and the prophets were in effect until John came; since then the good news of the kingdom of God is proclaimed, and everyone tries to enter it by force’ (cf. 1 En. 62.14). 189 In the Gorgias, Plato describes three judges of the dead, Rhadamanthus, Aeacus, and Minos (523e–24a; a fourth judge is featured elsewhere in Plato (e.g. Apol. 40c–41c; Resp. 10.614c–d). These three figures could have easily been replaced by ‘Luke’ with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – the honoured guests of the eschatological banquet – but there is only one judge among the dead in the Homeric hades and only one in the Lukan hades. In Christian iconography, Abraham is frequently flanked by Isaac and Jacob and they each hold the souls of the just in their bosoms (e.g. O’Kane, ‘The Bosom of Abraham’, 491 fig. 1; 502 fig. 4; 503 fig. 5). 190 Cf. the dividing function of the narrow door with the two gates in the T. Ab. 11; one for the righteous and the other for the wicked. 191 On the distinctiveness of the ‘Gate of Hades’, see Burkert, Greek Religion, 196. 192 Cf. these labourers (ἐργάται) with the shortage of labourers (ἐργάται) for the plentiful harvest in 10.2; it is a narrow door indeed. The Greek ἀδικία is used four more times; in each instance, ἀδικία is associated with the abuse of power and/or wealth (16.8-9; 18.6; Acts 1.18). The personification of δίκη can be found in Acts 28.4, ‘When the natives saw the creature hanging from his hand, they said to one another, “This man must be a murderer; though he has escaped from the sea, justice [δίκη] has not allowed him to live.”’ On the concept and personification of

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but one of the four banquet scenes in the Gospel, Jesus is hosted by a Pharisee and issues a scathing indictment of these foolish ‘lovers of money’ (7.36-50; 11.37-54; 14.1-24).193 In the one exception, he is dining with Levi and other tax collectors, but he still finds the time to rebuke the Pharisees while feasting with sinners (5.29-39). In the final banquet with a leading Pharisee, Jesus issues two explicit instructions. First, ‘all who exalt [ὑψῶν] themselves will be humbled [ταπεινωθήσεται], and those who humble [ταπεινῶν] themselves will be exalted [ὑψωθήσεται]’ (14.11). And second: When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers [ἀδελφούς] or your relatives or rich [πλουσίους] neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor [πτωχούς], the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed [μακάριος], because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection [ἀναστάσει] of the righteous [δικαίων]. (14.12-14)

Simply put, those who desire to be blessed (μακάριος) must join the humbled (ταπεινῶν).194 Do not invite your wealthy brothers; open the gate to the poor, disabled neighbour and feast splendidly (cf. Lk. 14.21).195 This is the exalted (ὑψωθήσεται) path of the just (δικαίων), the one who will rise up (ἀναστάσει). This is the key to the narrow door in 13.24 and after passing through to the other side, the μακάριος will recline at meal (ἀνακλιθήσονται) with the patriarchs while the ἐργάται ἀδικίας beg, suffer, and watch.196 In the Gospel of Luke the criteria for divine judgement have already been issued and only need be remembered: Blessed [Μακάριοι] are you who are poor [πτωχοί], for yours is the kingdom of God [βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ]. Blessed are you who are hungry [πεινῶντες] now, for you will be filled [χορτασθήσεσθε]. Blessed are you who weep [κλαίοντες] now, for you will laugh. Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you [ἐκβάλωσιν τὸ ὄνομα ὑμῶν ὡς πονηρόν] on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven [μισθὸς ὑμῶν πολὺς ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ]; for that is what their ancestors [πατέρες] did to δίκη in antiquity, see Eric A. Havelock, The Greek Concept of Justice: From its Shadow in Homer to its Substance in Plato (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1978). 193 On the Lukan motif of table-fellowship, see Dennis E. Smith, ‘Table Fellowship as a Literary Motif in the Gospel of Luke’, JBL 104 (1987): 613–38. For a discussion of the similarities between these dinner parties and the Hellenistic symposium, see E. Springs Steele, ‘Luke 11:37-54 – A Modified Hellenistic Symposium?’, JBL 103 (1984): 379–94. 194 E.g. Jesus was known as a ‘drunkard and glutton, a friend of tax collectors and sinners’ (7.34). 195 In the Matthaean parallel, poverty and disability are not mentioned; instead, the slaves gather good and bad guests (22.10). 196 The verb ἀνακλίνω occurs four times in the Gospel of Luke. In 2.7 it is used to describe Mary laying the infant Jesus in the manger, but in the other three occurrences it is associated with dining (7.36; 9.15; 12.37).

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the prophets [προφήταις]. But woe [οὐαί] to you who are rich [πλουσίοις], for you have received your consolation [παράκλησιν]. Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry [πεινάσετε]. Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep [κλαύσετε]. Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors [πατέρες] did to the false prophets [ψευδοπροφήταις]. (6.20b-26)197

The one whose name is cast out (ἐκβάλωσιν) as worthless (πονηρόν), the poor and hungry one, will bear witness to the oracular proclamation of Jesus, ‘Blessed [Μακάριος] is anyone who will eat [φάγεται] bread in the kingdom of God [βασιλείᾳ τοῦ θεοῦ]!’ (14.15). The poor and hungry will be rewarded, but the rich and full have received their consolation, a truth eschatologically revealed in 16.25.198 Despite the obvious thematic and lexical parallels among these texts and 16.19-31, the χάσμα is located in the Greek hades, not in relation to the kingdom of God or heaven.199 This great yawning is absent in Homer, but there is clearly a distinct separation from the common dead and the one who suffers perpetual torment within the house of Hades that Odysseus observes from afar. Lucian articulated this Homeric division with the same image, ‘He led me through a chasm [χάσματος] to Hades; as I realised at once when I saw Tantalus’ (Philops. 25 [Harmon, LCL]).200 The dividing πυλών has become the unbridgeable χάσμα, the Homeric demarcation of the offenders of the divine order.201 Moses and the Prophets (16.27-31) The unexpected, ‘καὶ ἐν τῷ ᾅδῃ’, in Lk. 16.24 is a mimetic flare, signalling the arrival of a new, but ancient setting of eschatological revelation. This revelation arrives in the form of a bitter remembrance in v. 25 that echoes the postmortem witness of another tormented man who testified to the folly of his previous life.202 ‘Sad words’ and ‘big tears’ usher in the great hero of the Iliad, 197 Green, ‘Narrative’, 110. 198 Cf. the μισθός for Judas in Acts 1.18; for the foolish rich man, the rich man, and Judas death comes unexpectedly. This is not the case for the wounded, crippled Lazarus. 199 On the possibility that hades is an interim abode, see Plummer, Luke, 393–94; Gilmour, Luke, 290; Ellis, Luke, 206; Ernst, Lukas, 474–75; Evans, Luke, 614; Carroll, Response, 67; Marshall, Luke, 636; Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 240, 245–46; and Green, Luke, 60. Medieval exegetes and iconography imagined Abraham’s bosom as a temporal restorative abode between death and the final resurrection; see further, Naomi Meiri-Dann, ‘Ecclesiastical Politics as Reflected in the Mural Paintings of San Pietro al Monte at Civate’, Assaph: Studies in Art History 6 (2001): 139–60. On the similarities between the Lukan account and 1 En. 22, see L. W. Grensted, ‘The Use of Enoch in St. Luke xvi. 19-31’, ExpTim 26 [1914–15]: 333–34; and Carroll, Response, 66–78. For an excellent analysis of the problem generally, see Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 265–71. 200 Cf. Men. 10; Dial. mort. 4. 201 Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 240; Adewale, ‘Rich Man and Lazarus’, 37; and Metzger, Consumption, 144. 202 See further, Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 171–86; and Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 424.

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the son of Peleus, who addresses the sojourner without drinking the oracular potion.203 Odysseus begins by describing their seemingly contrasted lives; the tragic wanderer suffers perpetual woes (κακά), ‘whereas no man before this was more blessed [μακάρτατος]’ than Achilles and ‘nor shall ever be hereafter’ (Homer, Od. 11.481–83 [Murray, LCL]). One imagines that he is cursed and the other blessed, but the repentant shade rebukes the misguided Odysseus, ‘Never try to reconcile me to death, glorious Odysseus. I should choose, so I might live on earth, to serve as the hireling of another, some landless man with hardly enough to live on, rather than to be lord over all the dead that have perished’ (488–91 [Murray, LCL]).204 Achilles chose unwisely, and he suffered from regret, ‘If only in such strength I could come, even only for an hour, to my father’s house [πατέρος δῶ]’ (501 [Murray, LCL]). This famous statement from the valiant warrior recalls the fateful choice he made in Book 9 of the Iliad. The warrior chose κλέος ἄφθιτον in glorious battle, but now in death a new perspective has emerged, an eschatological critique of his own misplaced values. It is the memory of this choice that haunts Achilles, a memory the tormented man has chosen to forget, but Abraham summons, ‘Remember that during your lifetime you received your good things [τὰ ἀγαθά], and Lazarus in like manner evil things [τὰ κακά]; but now he is comforted here [παρακαλεῖται], and you are in agony [ὀδυνᾶσαι]’ (Lk. 16.25).205 The repentant Achilles remembers without provocation and he is rewarded; Odysseus informs the downtrodden man of the nobility of his son and he departs joyfully. In the Homeric νέκυια, Achilles and Agamemnon are juxtaposed for the sake of contrast. Like the tormented man, death would come unexpectedly for Agamemnon, but in his case a murderous dog would devour him. If only the exalted king would have descended into hades, perhaps ὕβρις would not have been his ultimate undoing; after all, it is the shade of Agamemnon that warns Odysseus to return to Ithaca in secret.206 Without the advantage of the eschatological perspective, however, he returns home in grand style and is met 203 On the relationship between epic and the hero, see Gregory Nagy, The Best of the Achaians: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1979). 204 Cf. the postmortem Achilles with the depiction of Agamemnon’s dreaded choice in Iph. Aul. The fleet of Greek ships waits at Aulis, without a wind to bear it to Troy. The prophet Calchas instructs Agamemnon that if he sacrifices his daughter a wind will be sent and victory given them over Paris and the Trojans. While struggling with this dilemma, Agamemnon complains to his servant. ‘I envy you, old man, envy any mortal who passes, unknown to fame, through a life without danger. I feel less envy for those in authority’ (16–19 [Kovacs, LCL]). King Agamemnon reveals his desire to trade stations with his servant. He continues, lamenting of the hostility of the gods. ‘This what is admired is a slippery thing: high honors, though sweet, cause pain when they light upon you. At times the gods do not grant success, and at others you are crushed by the opinions of men, many and peevish they are’ (21–27 [Kovacs, LCL]). 205 Cf. 1 En. 98.9. 206 On the dangers of ὕβρις, see Riley, One Jesus, 51–52.

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with the retributive stroke of the blade of Clytemnestra – the ‘δωμάτων κύνα’ (Aeschylus, Ag. 607). In life after death, this powerful figure who once sat upon a throne was reduced to a shell of his former self (Homer, Od. 11.393–94). Despite his helplessness, the humiliated king continues to pine for κλέος ἄφθιτον, bemoaning that ‘bitch [κυνώπης]’ who watched him writhe pitilessly as his life faded away (424 [Murray, LCL]).207 The only soothing balm for the unrepentant king would be news of his son, but this is denied him and he is left only with the bitter memories of guilt and shame. In the second round of dialogue in Lk. 16.27-31, the condemned implicitly admits his guilt before the court; there is no rebuttal – he remembers.208 His heart longs for his ‘father’s house’, a trait he shares with the repentant warrior. ‘I beg you to send [πέμψῃς] him to my father’s house [τὸν οἶκον τοῦ πατρός μου] – for I have five brothers [πέντε ἀδελφούς] – that he may warn [διαμαρτύρηται] them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment [τόπον τοῦτον τῆς βασάνου]’ (vv. 27-28).209 207 The pride and presumption of the king brings ruin upon him. Upon his arrival, Clytemnestra lays a purple carpet at his feet, praises her long-awaited husband, and bids him to cross the embroidered path. Agamemnon responds cautiously, warning his wife of the jealousy of the gods. ‘It is gods, you know, who should be honoured with such objects; to my mind, for a mortal to tread on beautiful embroideries cannot be anything but perilous’ (Aeschylus, Ag. 922– 24 [Sommerstein, LCL]). He concludes with this wise assessment of the life of a mortal, ‘A man should be called fortunate only when he has finished his life in prosperity that all desire’ (928–29 [Sommerstein, LCL]). She persists in her request, wishing to bring the wrath of the gods upon her husband. She appeals to his pride and finally to his goodwill, asking that he grant this whimsical request of hers. He acquiesces, but removes his shoes to walk on the ‘purple-dyed [robes]’, hoping that ‘no jealous [φθόνος] eye strike [him] from afar!’ (946 and 948 [Sommerstein, LCL]). As he treads upon this royal carpet, the poet implies that his fate is sealed. Upon entering the palace, the gods allow Clytemnestra to strike him down. According to Svend Ranulf, the gods could easily be roused to φθόνος (‘jealousy’), particularly if they felt their mortal counterparts enjoyed life too much, or even worse, if they boasted of their prosperity. This motif is found most prominently in the Athenian tragedians and Herodotus, but it is already present in the Homeric age, ‘For on this wise have the gods spun the thread for wretched mortals, that they should live in pain; and themselves are sorrowless. For two urns are set upon the floor of Zeus of gifts that he giveth, the one of ills, the other of blessings’ (Il. 24.526–28 [Murray, LCL]). Achilles laments, for the gods give to some mixed good and evil and others unmixed evil, but none enjoy unmixed good except the immortals. Although the punishment of the gods appears random at times, it is those who enjoy great wealth and prosperity that are the chosen recipients of the wrath of the gods. For an extensive treatment of the jealousy of the gods in antiquity, see Svend Ranulf, The Jealousy of the Gods and Criminal Law at Athens: A Contribution to the Sociology of Moral Indignation (2 vols; London: Williams & Norgate, 1933, 1934). 208 Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 165. 209 The passivity of Lazarus throughout the narrative is a notable feature of his characterization. The only time he is described as actively engaged in anything is when he ‘longed to satisfy his hunger [ἐπιθυμῶν χορτασθῆναι]’ (16.21; cf. 15.16). Despite his inactivity, the tormented man asks twice that he be sent (πέμπω; 16.24, 27). The testimony of the dead was one of the pre-rhetorical exercises in the προγυμνάσματα (e.g. Aphthonius, Progymn. 11 [p. 34 Rabe]) and is common in ancient literature (e.g. Herodotus, Hist. 5.92; Plato, Resp. 10.614d; Lucian, Demon. 43; Philops. 27; Apuleius, Metam. 8.4; Cicero, Resp. 6.9–26; Philostratus, Vit.

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The humiliated rich man realizes the time for repentance has passed, but his ‘father’s house’ can still choose. However, he has received his τὰ ἀγαθά and Abraham responds accordingly, ‘They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen [ἀκουσάτωσαν] to them’ (v. 29).210 ‘Moses and the prophets’ should be enough, but they cannot be properly understood without eschatological revelation (cf. 9.35).211 This is true of the Homeric epics as well; the postmortem Achilles, for example, reframes the characterization of this noble hero and his fateful choice in the Iliad. Achilles the glorious warrior is reinterpreted in the light of the repentant shade; without the latter, the true nature of things cannot be brought to light. This is the dilemma that prompts his only rebuttal, ‘No, father Abraham; but if someone [τις] goes to them from the dead [ἀπὸ νεκρῶν], they will repent [μετανοήσουσιν]’ (v. 30).212 In the Gospel of Luke, as in Homer, ‘the truth [ἀσφάλειαν] concerning the things [λόγων] about which you have been instructed’ (1.4) can only be discovered from the perspective of life after death (cf. 18.34; 19.42). As such, the condemned man pleads with Abraham to send Lazarus as a witness (διαμαρτύρηται) so that his house might repent (μετανοήσουσιν).213 A witness from the dead is sent, but it is another man who suffered τὰ κακά beyond measure (cf. 9.22; 18.33).214 Apoll. 8.31; 1 Sam. 28.7-20). For general surveys, see Bernstein, 93–106; esp. the unburied dead, Garland, Greek Way, 101–103; and Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 186–96. 210 ‘Hearing’ the prophet is a fundamental theme in both volumes (Lk. 5.1, 15; 6.7, 27, 47-49; 7.29; 8.8-15, 18, 21; 9.35; 10.16; 11.28; 14.35; 19.48; 21.38; Acts 2.22, 37; 3.22-23; 4.4; 7.2; 15.7; 18.8). 211 On the topic of poverty and wealth, traditions within ‘Moses and the prophets’ are in tension with one another. On prosperity as a sign of obedience to God and poverty as a sign of disobedience, see Deut. 28.1-68. At the same time, there are numerous passages commanding the people of God to care for the poor in the land (e.g. Gen. 24.35; Exod. 22.21-22; 23.9; Lev. 19.9-10; 19.33; 23.22; Deut. 10.17-19; 14.28-29; 15.1-11; 16.9-15; 24.17-18; 26.12-15; Amos 2.6-8; 8.4-6; Hos. 12.7-9; Mic. 3.1-3; Zeph. 3.1-3; Mal. 3.5; Isa. 5.7-10; 30.12; 58.3; Jer. 5.25-29; 9.4-6). In the earlier textual traditions, such as Deuteronomy, poverty is depicted pejoratively as the sign of a divine curse or laziness. If you are wealthy, you have been blessed by God because of your obedience. During the monarchy, the existence of poverty was scandalous, since it was the divinely ordained duty of the king to provide for the needy. The king rarely fulfilled this role, however, and it was the prophet who was the chosen instrument to remind the king of his obligation. In the exilic and post-exilic period, the conception of poverty underwent a radical shift. Poverty was no longer a sign of disobedience, laziness, or God’s curse. On the contrary, the poor are uniquely pious and special in God’s sight; this is particularly evident in the Psalms (e.g. 86.1-5; 109.31). See further, Bernstein, Formation of Hell, 240–42; and Riley, River, 167–69. 212 Repentance is often associated with ‘hearing’ the prophetic voice (Lk. 10.13; 11.32; 13.3-5; 15.7-10). See further, Guy D. Nave, Jr, The Role and Function of Repentence in Luke-Acts (SBLABib 4; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2002), 185–87. 213 According to Fitzmyer, the rich man requests that Lazarus be sent as an eyewitness bearing testimony under oath (Luke, 1134). The Greek διαμαρτύρομαι occurs only once in the Gospel of Luke, but it is frequently used in Acts (2.40; 8.25; 10.42; 18.5; 20.21, 23-24; 23.11; 28.23). 214 In Lk. 2.28, Simeon held the child Jesus ‘in his arms [εἰς τὰς ἀγκάλας]’. The Greek ἀγκάλη occurs only once in the New Testament, which O’Kane noted is used as a synonym for

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On the road to Emmaeus, two men are walking together discussing the recent tragic events concerning their dead master when a third man joins them. They lament of their dashed hopes for the salvation of Israel, but the stranger rebukes them, ‘Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?’ Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures’ (24.25-27).215 After unveiling the ἀσφάλεια of ‘Moses and the prophets’ to them, the two men beg him to stay and eat with them. When he was at the table eating with them, ‘their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’ (24.31-32). After vanishing from their sight, the one who rose from the dead appears to his disciples, but he frightens them because they assume he is a ghost (πνεῦμα). Their fears are justified; even the man of many devices was seized with pale fear in the presence of the dead (cf. Homer Od. 11.632–33). Despite his fear, Odysseus attempts to embrace his dead mother, but he discovers she is only a phantom (εἴδωλον). Anticleia explains that that ‘the sinews no longer hold the flesh [σάρκας] and the bones [ὀστέα] together, but the strong force of blazing fire [πυρός] destroys them, as soon as the spirit [θυμός] leaves the white bones [ὀστέα], and the ghost [ψυχή], like a dream, flutters and is gone’ (219–22 [Murray, LCL]).216 The disciples imagine Jesus to be a phantom as well, but Jesus immediately overturns their expectations, inviting them to embrace him, ‘Touch me and see; for a ghost [πνεῦμα] does not have flesh [σάρκα] and bones [ὀστέα] as you see that I have’ (Lk. 24.39). ‘Sad words’ and ‘big tears’ have been replaced with joy (χαρᾶς; v. 41). After demonstrating this joyful ἀσφάλεια by eating in their presence, he said to them: ‘These are my words [λόγοι] that I spoke to you while I was still with you – that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.’ Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, ‘Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise [ἀναστῆναι] from κόλπος in the Septuagint (e.g. 1 Kgs 3.20). Thus, the distinctively Lukan phrases, ‘εἰς τὸν κόλπον’ in 16.22 and ‘εἰς τὰς ἀγκάλας’ in 2.28 are intended to parallel Abraham and Simeon as compassionate paternal figures in the Gospel. Additionally, Abraham and Simeon are often identically depicted holding Lazarus and Jesus respectively in their bosoms in Christian iconography. For his insightful argument, see ‘The Bosom of Abraham’, 491–93; 507–14. On a roof painting in a thirteenth-century church at Dädesjö, Sweden, for example, Abraham is depicted rocking a child amidst depictions of the Lukan infancy narrative; see further, E. W. Tristram, ‘The Roof Paintings at Dadesjo, Sweden: A Note’, Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs 31 (1917): 111–16. 215 Crossan noted four links between Lk. 16.27-31, the postmortem appearances of Jesus in Luke 24, and the Book of Acts: disbelief, the double mention of Moses and the prophets, a resurrected person, and ‘they will repent’ (In Parables, 66–67; cf. Scott, Hear Then, 142–45). 216 Cf. Virgil, Aen. 6.700–702; Lucian, Ver. hist. 2.12.

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the dead [νεκρῶν] on the third day, and that repentance [μετάνοιαν] and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses [μάρτυρες] of these things. And see, I am sending upon you what my Father [πατρός] promised; so stay here in the city until you have been clothed [ἐνδύσησθε] with power [δύναμις] from on high [ὕψους].’ (Lk. 24.44-49)

In both resurrection appearances, the evangelist emphasizes ‘Moses and the prophets’ can only be properly interpreted through the postmortem lens of the risen Christ.217 In the final verse of the story of two divided lives, the narrative arrives at the purpose of this μυθικὸν διήγημα – the γνώμη – the concluding commentary that foreshadows and informs subsequent events. Despite his certainty (ἀσφάλεια), the tormented man is mistaken, ‘If they do not listen [ἀκούουσιν] to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced [πεισθήσονται] even if someone rises from the dead [τις ἐκ νεκρῶν ἀναστῇ]’ (16.31).218 At the end of the Gospel of Luke, someone does rise from the dead and they are convinced, but the ἀσφάλεια of the Abrahamic oracle will come to light in the sequel. As the διήγησις concludes, the risen Jesus is carried up into heaven, leaving behind his disciples as ‘witnesses [μάρτυς] of these things’ (24.48). The apotheosized one will appear again in a vision for the first time immediately before the κατάβασις of the ‘crowned one’, Στέφανος. In Acts 6.8-15, filled with grace (χάριτος) and power (δυνάμεως), Stephen bore witness to ‘these things’, but he is confronted by members of five synagogues (i.e. Freedmen, Cyrenians, Alexandrians, Cilicia, and Asia) because they could not understand his wisdom (σοφίᾳ).219 They accused him of teaching that Jesus would ‘change the customs that Moses handed on to us’ (v. 14). In response, Stephen recounts the history of these customs, describing the faithfulness of the patriarchs, but he focuses the bulk of his testimony upon Moses, who said, ‘God will raise up [ἀναστήσει] a prophet [Προφήτην] from your own people [ἀδελφῶν] as he raised me up’ (7.37).220 This is the same 217 See further, Richard B. Hays, ‘Reading Scripture in Light of the Resurrection’, in The Art of Reading Scripture (ed. Ellen F. Davis and Richard B. Hays; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 216–38. 218 Bultmann argued the original ending narrated a return, but was lost because of a polemical alteration (Synoptic Tradition, 197). 219 On the Lukan presentation of Stephen and the philosophical ideal, see Abraham Smith, ‘“Full of Spirit and Wisdom”: Luke’s Portrait of Stephen (Acts 6.1–8.1a) as a Man of SelfMastery’, in Asceticism and the New Testament (ed. Lief E. Vaage and Vincent L. Wimbush; New York: Routledge, 1999), 97–114. 220 In Deut. 18.15-22, Moses issues this remarkable prediction, ‘The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among your own people; you shall heed such a prophet. This is what you requested of the Lord your God at Horeb on the day of the assembly when you said: “If I hear the voice of the Lord my God any more, or ever again see this great fire, I will die.” Then the Lord replied to me: “They are right in what they have said. I will raise up for them a prophet like you from among their own people; I will put my words in the mouth of the prophet, who shall speak to them everything that I command. Anyone who does not heed the words that the prophet shall speak in my name, I myself will hold accountable. But any prophet who speaks in

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Moses who received the ‘living oracles [λόγια ζῶντα]’ that have been handed to down to us (v. 38; cf. Lk. 1.1-4). This Moses built the ‘tent of testimony [σκηνὴ τοῦ μαρτυρίου]’ in the wilderness, but it was Solomon who ‘built a house [οἰκοδόμησεν αὐτῷ οἶκον]’ for God (vv. 44, 47; cf. Lk. 16.9). The ‘living oracles’ have become stagnant in this house of God and the certainty (ἀσφάλεια) of the brothers misplaced. ‘Yet the Most High [ὕψιστος] does not dwell [κατοικεῖ] in houses made with human hands; as the prophet [προφήτης] says, “Heaven [οὐρανός] is my throne, and the earth is my footstool. What kind of house [οἶκον] will you build [οἰκοδομήσετέ] for me, says the Lord, or what is the place of my rest [τίς τόπος τῆς καταπαύσεώς μου]?”’ (vv. 48-49).221 God dwells in heaven and he has sent his prophets to proclaim the ‘living oracles’, but they do not listen. ‘Which of the prophets [προφητῶν] did your ancestors [πατέρες] not persecute? They killed those who foretold the coming of the Righteous One [δικαίου], and now you have become his betrayers and murderers’ (v. 52). The brothers of the five synagogues were enraged and they ‘ground their teeth [ἔβρυχον τοὺς ὀδόντας]’ (v. 54; cf. Lk. 13.28). Stephen gazes into heaven and bears witness to the resurrected Jesus, but they covered their ears so they could not hear and rushed at him (vv. 55-57; cf. Lk. 16.31).222 The brothers stoned the ‘crowned one’ who testified of the one who rose from the dead and they laid their garments as witnesses (μάρτυρες) at the feet of a young man named Saul (v. 58).223 The risen Jesus will appear only once more in the the name of other gods, or who presumes to speak in my name a word that I have not commanded the prophet to speak – that prophet shall die.” You may say to yourself, “How can we recognize a word that the Lord has not spoken?” If a prophet speaks in the name of the Lord but the thing does not take place or prove true, it is a word that the Lord has not spoken. The prophet has spoken it presumptuously; do not be frightened by it.’ On the law of the prophets, see further, Riley, River, 208. 221 Cf. Lk. 16.27-28 with the confrontation between Stephen and the brothers of the five synagogues, ‘He said, “Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house [τὸν οἶκον τοῦ πατρός μου] – for I have five brothers [πέντε ἀδελφούς] – that he may warn [διαμαρτύρηται] them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment [τὸν τόπον τοῦτον τῆς βασάνου].”’ 222 Cf. the brothers of the five synagogues who cover their ears with the five unrepentant cities in Lk. 10.13-16 (cf. Wis. 10.6), ‘Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the deeds of power [δυνάμεις] done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented [μετενόησαν] long ago, sitting in sackcloth and ashes. But at the judgment it will be more tolerable for Tyre and Sidon than for you. And you, Capernaum, will you be exalted to heaven? No, you will be brought down to Hades. Whoever listens to you listens to me, and whoever rejects you rejects me, and whoever rejects me rejects the one who sent me.’ In the Odyssey, Odysseus narrates his descent into hades to Alcinous, who has five sons (6.62), but a sixth brother is necessary as a literary parallel to Lk. 16.28. 223 Cf. the fate of the one ‘God helped’ and the ‘crowned one’ with the postmortem μισθός of the ὅσιος in Plato. ‘And Musaeus and his son have a more excellent song than these of the blessings that the gods bestow on the righteous. For they conduct them to the house of Hades in their tale and arrange a symposium of the saints [συμπόσιον τῶν ὁσίων], where, reclined on couches crowned [ἐστεφανωμένους] with wreaths, they entertain the time henceforth with wine, as if the fairest meed of virtue were an everlasting drunk. And others extend still further the rewards of virtue [ἀρετῆς μισθόν] from the gods. For they say that the children’s children of the pious and

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Lukan corpus – on the road to Damascus – and the one who has the vision will take a journey into darkness, neither eating or drinking, and be violently transformed into Paulos (9.1-9).224 In the final scene of the book, Paulos meets with the Jewish brothers in Rome from morning until evening, ‘testifying [διαμαρτυρόμενος] to the kingdom of God and trying to convince them about Jesus both from the law of Moses and from the prophets’ (28.23).225 The brothers disagreed concerning ‘these things’, and Paulos issues this final proclamation, ‘Let it be known to you then that this salvation of God has been sent to the Gentiles; they will listen [ἀκούσονται]’ (28.28). The ἀσφάλεια of the postmortem oracle is at last brought to light; the ‘lovers of money’ will not listen, even if someone rises from the dead.

Conclusion The seemingly noble figure of a man clothed (ἐνεδιδύσκετο) in purple (πορφύραν) who lived an opulent lifestyle (λαμπρῶς) recalls a much younger Odysseus, who set our for Troy with untested nobility: A fleecy cloak of purple [πορφυρέην] did noble [δῖος] Odysseus wear, a cloak of double fold, but the brooch upon it was fastened of gold with double clasps, and on the front it was curiously wrought: a hound [κύων] held in his forepaws a dappled fawn, and gazed at it as it writhed. And at this all men marveled, how, though they were of gold, the hound was gazing at the fawn and strangling it, and the fawn was writhing with its feet and striving to flee. And I noted the tunic about his body, all shining as is the sheen upon the skin of a dried onion, so sheer it was and soft; and it glistened [λαμπρός] like the sun. Many indeed were the women who admired it. (Homer, Od. 19.225–35 [Murray, LCL])

oath-keeping man and his race thereafter never fail. Such and such-like are their praises of justice. But the impious and the unjust they bury in mud in the house of Hades and compel them to fetch water in a sieve, and, while they still live, they bring them into evil repute, and all the sufferings that Glaucon enumerated as befalling just men who are thought to be unjust, these they recite about the unjust, but they have nothing else to say. Such is the praise and the censure of the just and of the unjust’ (Resp. 2.363c–e [Shorey, LCL]; cf. Pindar, Ol. 2). 224 Paul is commonly known by his Graeco-Roman cognomen Paulos; he himself never mentions his Jewish name in his letters, but always identifies himself as Paul (e.g. 1 Thess. 1.1; 2.18; Rom. 1.1; 1 Cor. 1.1, 12-13). He is only identified as Saul in the Book of Acts (7.58; 8.1, 3; 9.1, 4), a symbolic name given to him by the evangelist to embody the programmatic mission statement of the book. ‘Lazarus’ signalled the arrival of the divine age of the poor (Lk. 4.16-30) and ‘Saul/Paulos’ signalled the movement of the early church from Jew to Gentile (Acts 2.14-36). 225 Cf. Acts 26.21-23, ‘For this reason the Jews seized me in the temple and tried to kill me. To this day I have had help from God, and so I stand here, testifying [μαρτυρόμενος] to both small and great, saying nothing but what the prophets and Moses said would take place: that the Messiah must suffer, and that, by being the first to rise from the dead [ἐξ ἀναστάσεως νεκρῶν], he would proclaim light both to our people and to the Gentiles’ (cf. Lk. 16.30-31).

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In this tragic scene, twenty years later, a disguised Odysseus speaks longingly with Penelope, reminiscing of their final day together in the distant past. Odysseus abandoned everything he loved for Troy, and yet on his long journey home the sojourner gained an invaluable prize, not κλέος ἄφθιτον in glorious battle, but wisdom through suffering. As the chorus in Agamemnon would explain, this is the divinely ordained path of enlightenment: Zeus who sets mortals on the road to understanding, who made ‘learning by suffering’ [πάθει μάθος] into an effective law. There drips before the heart, instead of sleep, the misery of pain recalled: good sense come to men even against their will. This favour [χάρις] from the gods who sit on the august bench of command [σέλμα] comes, one must say, by force [βίαιος]. (176–83 [Sommerstein, LCL])226

Odysseus descended even to the realm of the dead, not knowing if he would return, setting sail in his black ship with tears and sorrow for a dreaded destination where ‘all the ways grow dark’ (Homer, Od. 11.12 [Murray, LCL]). This road, with the gods at the helm (σέλμα), led to an unexpected restorative transformation through violent grace (βίαιος χάρις; cf. Acts 9.1-9).227 Upon his departure, Odysseus was clothed in splendid, royal garbs depicting a scene of strength and weakness – the helpless prey hopelessly trying to escape the κύων as its life slowly fades away – his appearance the object of admiration. Upon his return, however, one of his former female admirers was 226 According to Sommerstein, ‘Zeus, in contrast with his predecessor Cronus (whose reign was traditionally a toil-free golden age; cf. Hesiod, Works and Days 109–19), first caused humans to suffer and thus made it possible for them to learn from (their own or others’) bitter experience’ (Aeschylus, Oresteia. Agamemnon. Libation-Bearers. Eumenides [trans. Alan H. Sommerstein; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009), 21 n. 37). Dodds noted the growing awareness of the helplessness of all mortals in the literature of the burgeoning Archaic age. This is one of the most notable literary differences between the Homeric and Archaic ages. Religiously, this insecurity led to a feeling of divine hostility, that the gods were actively suppressing humanity, keeping them from rising above their ordained status as mortals. It was believed that the gods resented the happiness of humans, in so far as their happiness shone more brightly than that of the gods. For the details of his argument, see Greeks, 28–63. It was the emotional reaction to this entrenched belief that was a unique characteristic of both the Archaic and Classical ages. The following excerpt from the poet Theognis (c. 540 bce) characterizes the deepening awareness of human helplessness in the light of the purpose of the gods, ‘No one, Cyrnus, is responsible on his own for ruin or profit, but it is the gods who give both. Nor does anyone know in his heart whether his toil will turn out well or badly in the end. For often a man who thought he would fail succeeds and a man who thought he would succeed fails. No one has at hand everything he wants, since the constraints of grievous helplessness hold him back. We mortals have vain thoughts, not knowledge; it is the gods who bring everything to pass according to their own intent’ (133–42 [Gerber, LCL]). 227 Cf. this description of the path of grace with Lk. 6.32-35a, ‘If you love those who love you, what credit [χάρις] is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. If you do good to those who do good to you, what credit [χάρις] is that to you? For even sinners do the same. If you lend to those from whom you hope to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, to receive as much again. But love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return.’ In both cases, divine χάρις comes to those who make great personal sacrifices.

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now repulsed by his unseemly appearance, commanding him to sleep outside like a beggar (19.65-69). Her inhospitable disposition compelled the poor vagabond to address her as one possessed: God-touched [δαιμονίη] woman, why do you assail me with angry heart? Is it because I am dirty and wear poor clothes upon my body, and beg [πτωχεύω] through the land? Yes, for necessity compels me. Of such sort are beggars [πτωχοί] and vagabond folk. For I too once dwelt in a house of my own among men, a rich man in a wealthy house, and often I gave gifts to a wanderer, whoever he was, and with whatever need he came. (19.72–77 [Murray, LCL])

Odysseus did not seek out suffering, but this suffering substantiated the true nobility of the dispossessed wanderer.228 In his classic treatment on the invaluable contribution of Greek literature for sowing the seeds of virtue, To Young Men, or How they Might Profit from Greek Literature, Basil of Caesarea wrote: And since it is through virtue [ἀρετῆς] that we must enter upon this life of ours, and since much has been uttered in praise of virtue by poets, much by historians, and much more still by philosophers, we ought especially to apply ourselves to such literature. For it is no small advantage that a certain intimacy and familiarity with virtue [ἀρετῆς] should be engendered in the souls [ψυχαῖς] of the young, seeing that the lessons learned by such are likely, in the nature of the case, to be indelible, having been deeply impressed in them by reason of the tenderness of their souls [ψυχῶν]. (5.1–2 [Deferrari, LCL])

The fourth-century bishop, though maintaining a religious commitment to Christianity, recognized and affirmed the impressionable ψυχή was nourished by ἀρετή through an intimate familiarity with the classical authors.229 As the model κατ’ ἐξοχήν, Basil naturally turns to Homer and the exceptional τιμή of the man who lost everything, including his clothes: Moreover, as I myself have heard a man say who is clever at understanding a poet’s mind, all Homer’s poetry is an encomium of virtue [ἀρετῆς], and all he wrote, save what is accessory, bears to this end, and not least in those verses in which he has portrayed the leader of the Cephallenians, after being saved from shipwreck, as naked, and the princess as having first shown him reverence at the mere sight of him (so far was he from incurring shame through merely being seen naked, since the poet has portrayed him as clothed with virtue [ἀρετῇ] in place of garments), and then, furthermore, Odysseus as having been considered worthy of such high honour by 228 According to Riley, some pass the heroic test of character (e.g. Odysseus and Heracles) and some do not (e.g. Agamemnon). See further, One Jesus, 51–52. Cf. the sufferings of Odysseus and his complete restoration with Job, who also passed the test of character (42.10-17) 229 For a thorough survey of Basil’s use of classical authors, see Roy J. Deferrari, ‘The Classics and the Greek Writers of the Early Church: St. Basil’, CJ 13 (1918): 579–91.

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the rest of the Phaeacians likewise that, disregarding the luxury in which they lived, they one and all admired and envied [ζηλοῦν] the hero, and none of the Phaeacians at the moment would have desired anything else more than to become Odysseus, and that too just saved from a shipwreck. For in these passages, the interpreter of the poet’s mind was wont to declare that Homer says in a voice that all but shouts: ‘You must give heed to virtue [ἀρετῆς], O men, which swims forth even with a man who has suffered shipwreck, and, on his coming naked to land, will render him more honoured [τιμιώτερον] than the happy Phaeacians.’ And truly this is so. Other possessions, in fact, no more belong to their possessors than to any chance comer whatever, quickly shifting now here, now there, as in a game of dice; but virtue [ἀρετή] alone of possessions cannot be taken away, as it remains with a man whether he be living or dead. (5.6–9 [Deferrari, LCL])

True prosperity is measured by virtue (ἀρετῇ), the sole enduring possession in this life and the next, forged in misery, worthy of honour (τιμιώτερον) and emulation (ζηλοῦν).230 The seer Diotima instructed Socrates that the ‘love of honor’ will drive men to abandon everything for ‘fame immortal’: Be certain of it, Socrates; only glance at the ambition [φιλοτιμίαν] of the men around you, and you will have to wonder at the unreasonableness of what I have told you, unless you are careful to consider how singularly they are affected with the love of winning a name, and laying up fame [κλέος] immortal for all time to come. For this, even more than for their children, they are ready to run all risks, to expend money, perform any kind of task, and sacrifice their lives. (Plato, Sym. 208c–d [Lamb, LCL])

The Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles were not written for Philotimus; however, they are dedicated to the noble Θεόφιλος (Lk. 1.3; Acts 1.1). 231 230 After recommending the example of Odysseus for young Christian men to emulate, Basil praises Heracles for choosing the path of virtue, ‘When Heracles was quite a young man and was nearly of the age at which you yourselves are now, while he was deliberating which of the two roads he should take, the one leading through toils to virtue [ἀρετήν], or the easiest, two women approached him, and these were Virtue [Ἀρετήν] and Vice [Κακίαν]. Now at once, although they were silent, the difference between them was evident from their appearance. For the one had been decked out for beauty through the art of toiletry, and was overflowing with voluptuousness, and she was leading a whole swarm of pleasures in her train; now these things she displayed, and promising still more than these she tried to draw Heracles to her. But the other was withered and squalid, and spoke quite differently; for she promised nothing dissolute or pleasant, but countless sweating toils and labours and dangers through every land and sea. But the prize to be won by these was to become a god, as the narrative of Prodicus expressed it; and it was this second woman that Heracles in the end followed’ (To Young Men 5.12–14 [Deferrari, LCL]; cf. Xenophon, Mem. 2.1.21; Cicero, Off. 1.32). 231 According to Celsus, Philotimus (fourth/third century bce) was one of the most eminent physicians of antiquity (De medicina, 8.20); he is also quoted frequently by Galen (On the Natural Faculties, 1.11; 3.30–31). On Luke, the physician of the soul, see Susan R. Garrett, ‘Beloved Physician of the Soul? Luke as Advocate for Ascetic Practice’, in Asceticism and the New Testament (ed. Lief E. Vaage and Vincent L. Wimbush; New York: Routledge, 1999) 71–95.

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According to the seer, men will seek ‘winning a name’ above all else, but as Jesus would proclaim, ‘For those who want to save their life [ψυχήν] will lose it, and those who lose their life [ψυχήν] for my sake will save it’ (Lk. 9.24).232 Perhaps this is why the evangelist did not sign his name, a stroke of humility he shared with one of his models.233 As the curtain is drawn back upon the parable of Dives and Lazarus, the evangelist paints the portrait of two life paths – one who imagines himself to be blessed and the other cursed – summoning the ‘lover of God’ to descend with the noble Odysseus into hades to hear the ἀσφάλεια concerning ‘these things’ mimetically inscribed in a Lukan νέκυια: the κατάβασις of Nobody and Lazarus.234

232 Cf. Mk 8.35; Mt. 16.25. For an excellent discussion of this logion, see William Beardslee, ‘Saving One’s Life by Losing It’, JAAR 47 (1979): 57–72. 233 ‘Homer’s life deserves praise much more than his verse. For example, his having lived in poverty, a wanderer, and making from his poems only enough to sustain life is evidence of remarkable fortitude and nobility of soul; and besides, his never having written his name anywhere, yes, never having even referred to himself anywhere in his poetry, though all other writers with any reputation for skill in composing either verse or prose write their names both at the beginning and at the end, and many even in the body of their works, both prose and verse. Take, for example, Hecataeus and Herodotus and Thucydides, Thucydides, in fact, solemnly affirming, not merely once at the beginning of his history, but many times, in connexion with each winter and summer, “Thucydides composed this.” Homer, on the contrary, was so liberal and magnanimous that nowhere in his poetry will he be found to refer to himself, but in fact, like the prophets of the gods, he speaks, as it were, from the invisible, from somewhere in the inmost sanctuary. Again, since everything Homer wrote is both beneficial and practically serviceable, if one were to review all he has said on the subject of virtue and vice, it would be a vast undertaking’ (Dio Chrysostom, Orat. 53.9–11 [Crosby, LCL]). 234 The copyist of P75 names the rich man ‘Neues’, which can be rendered ‘Nobody’ (Groebel, ‘Whose Name’, 381). On the name of Lazarus in heaven (cf. Lk. 10.20), Augustine commented, ‘Jesus kept quiet about the rich man’s name and mentioned the name of the poor man. The rich man’s name was thrown around, but God kept quiet about it. The other’s name was lost in silence, and God spoke it. Please do not be surprised. God just read out what was written in his book … You see, God who lives in heaven kept quiet about the rich man’s name, because he did not find it written in heaven. He spoke the poor man’s name, because he found it written there, indeed he gave instructions for it to be written there’ (Serm. 33A.4 [Hill]).

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Conclusion In 2003, MacDonald published a comparative analysis of the Iliad and the Acts of the Apostles, exploring the possibility of Lukan imitation of four episodes from the epic. After his careful examination of these texts, MacDonald concluded: Like most of his literary cotemporaries, he [Luke] was in control of his own composition, including the creation of stories as alternatives to the dominant religious narratives of his culture. Ancient evangelism was, to a certain extent, a mythomachia, a battle between competing fictions. Luke was engaged in a literary battle on at least two fronts: Jewish scriptures in the rear, and Greek poetry up ahead. The principal virtues of his composition reside not in his linear continuity with historical events or traditions but in his strategic transformation of ancient narratives.1

With his final words, MacDonald issued this formidable challenge, ‘How much of the New Testament imitates Homer?’2 The uniqueness of the Acts of the Apostles – a sequel – permitted a degree of authorial freedom that is more restricted in the Gospel. In Lk. 1.1-4, the author locates himself in relationship to that which came before him: the historical events themselves, eyewitnesses of these events and the ensuing oral tradition, and lastly, known written records. In the creation of another διήγησις, ‘Luke’ carefully navigated the past, but was intent on the future, crafting a vision of the Christ-event for a new era in the life of the church. The evangelist was undoubtedly shaped by the mimetic ethos of GraecoRoman education and ancient literary composition; like his contemporaries, he was hermeneutically invested in classical literature. Mimesis criticism is a complex poetic enterprise, but the criteria championed by MacDonald bound the comparative task and project a plausible horizon of interpretability shaped by five questions. (1) Was the model widely available? (2) Did other writers imitate the model? (3) How similar are the texts? (4) Are there any mimetic flags? And (5) Does the model make sense of the imitation? The first two questions establish the literary environment of the potential imitation. Chapter 2 demonstrated that the Homeric νέκυια was clearly accessible to the evangelist and Chapter 3 positioned the κατάβασις of Odysseus as the definitive descent, a constant target of imitation and emulation in antiquity. The final three questions test the possibility of literary 1 MacDonald, Does the New Testament, 151. 2 MacDonald, Does the New Testament, 151.

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μίμησις, identifying points of contact, mimetic flags, and strategic differences. As illustrated in Chapter 4, the distinctive features of Lk. 16.19-31 that have plagued interpreters throughout the history of scholarship described in Chapter 1 can best be explained in the light of the author’s mimetic relationship to the Homeric model. The remarkable variety of mimetic practices in antiquity requires a certain degree of methodological flexibility, but when the model and the imitation are brought together, the sparks begin to fly in remarkable and unpredictable trajectories and the interpreter is rewarded with a richer, more dialogical reading of a given text. In the parable of Dives and Lazarus, the evangelist embarked upon a mysterious journey where ‘all the ways grow dark’. The author revived the past, simultaneously demonstrating the maturation of Christian literary culture and unveiling a unique perspective for the rhetoric of reversal that permeates the Third Gospel.

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Index of Biblical and Other Ancient Sources Old Testament and Apocrypha

Habakkuk 2.6 19

Genesis 18.1-15 141

Tobit 54

Exodus 28 3.2b 140 33.11 132

New Testament

Deuteronomy 30.11-14 11 1 Kings 22.38-39 125 2 Chronicles 20.7 132 Psalms 16.8-11 133 31.5 133 Isaiah 14.3-4a 109 14.9 109 14.14-15 109 14.18-20 110 41.8 132 Jeremiah 23.28 19 Ezekiel 17.2-10 19 19.1-9 19 19.10-14 19 24.3-5 19

Matthew 4.18-22 105 4.24 130 4.25 130 5.3 106 5.6 106 5.12 107 5.21-30 140 5.29-39 146 6.24 106 7.22-23 110 7.36-50 146 8.5-13 109 8.11-12 109 9.9 105 9.16-17 4 10.15 108 11.21-24 108 11.37-5 146 12.25-32 4 13.3 4 13.10 4 13.18 4 13.24 146 13.31 4 13.33 4 13.54-58 104 14.1-24 146 14.11 146 14.12-14 146 14.15 147

14.21 146 15.10-20 4 16.18 145 18.6-9 118, 140 18.8-9 118 18.15-18 118 21.33 4 21.45 4 22.1 4 23.1-36 110 23.25-26 110 24.32 4 24.43 4 25.31-46 1, 141 Mark 1.16-20 105 1.21-29 109 1.21-34 104 2.13-14 105 2.21-22 4 3.23-29 4 4.2 4 4.10 4 4.13 4 4.30-32 4 4.33-34 4 6.1-6a 104 7.15-17 4 9.42-48 118, 140 9.43-48 1 9.44 118 9.47-48 118 12.1 4 12.12 4 13.28 4 Luke 101 1.1 36

196

Index of Biblical and Other Ancient Sources

1.1-4 40, 153, 159 1.2 38 1.3 36, 157 1.4 150 1.5–2.52 103 1.46b-55 103 1.52 106 1.53 107 2.48 136 3.7-9 139 4.18-19 104, 119 4.23b 104 4.24 104 4.31-38a 109 4.31-41 104 5.1-11 105 5.27-28 105 5.36-38 4 6.20-26 8, 106 6.23 107 6.24-26 107, 108 6.39 4 7.1-10 109 7.3-5 109 7.40 12 8.4 4 8.9-10 4 8.49 12 9.1-9 153 9.24 158 9.35 150 9.51 111 9.51–19.27 32, 111 9.54 139 10.1-12 108 10.12 108 10.13-15 108 10.13-16 139 10.15 109 10.16 108 10.17-20 108 10.20 110 11.17-23 4 11.37-41 138 11.39-41 111 12.1 119 12.4-6 113, 134 12.5 140 12.13-15 113

12.13-21 6, 32 12.15 114 12.15-21 111, 112 12.15b 113 12.16 4, 111 12.19 113 12.21 114 12.22-23 114 12.33a 111 12.41 4 12.42-46 32 13.6 4 13.6-9 32 13.8 12 13.22-29 109, 144 13.24 4 13.28 153 13.28-29 109 13.44 4 13.45 4 13.47-48 4 13.53 4 15.3 4 16.1 117 16.1-2 118 16.3-7 118 16.7 12 16.8-10 118 16.9 153 16.11-32 118 16.13 106, 118 16.14 3, 13, 29, 118, 119 16.15 117, 119 16.15-31 118 16.16 25 16.18 119 16.19 6, 23, 33, 102, 111 16.19-21 26, 141 16.19-22 120 16.19-23 20 16.19-26 8, 9, 10, 16, 18, 23, 33, 139 16.19-31 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 11, 14, 19, 29, 31, 35, 59, 98,

102, 111, 117, 160 16.20 25 16.20-21 6 16.21 25, 125 16.22 6, 25, 26, 31, 135 16.22-31 142 16.22-23 129 16.23 12, 25, 26, 133 16.23-31 136 16.24 132, 136, 138, 139, 147 16.24-26 20, 132 16.24-31 25, 26 16.24b 125 16.25 12, 13, 27, 108, 141, 144, 147, 148 16.26 29, 30, 144 16.27-28 28, 149 16.27-31 8, 9, 10, 17, 19, 27, 33, 132, 147, 149 16.29 12, 150 16.29-31 23 16.30 150, 152 16.31 153 17.1-3 118 17.29 139 18.1 4 18.9 4 18.9-14 32, 119 18.11 119 18.13 130 18.14 120, 130 18.22 131 18.23 131 18.23-31 131 18.24 131 18.33 150 18.34 150 19.11 4 19.22 12 19.28 129

Index of Biblical and Other Ancient Sources

197­

19.37 129 19.42 150 20.9 4 20.19 4 21.29 4 21.29-30 4 23.33 111 23.46 132 24.1-53 18 24.13-35 134 24.15b-16 134 24.3 135 24.5 135 24.23 135 24.25-27 151 24.30-31 134 24.31-32 151 24.36-43 134 24.36-49 134 24.39 151 24.41 151 24.44-49 152 24.48 152 24.51 135 28.23 154 28.28 154

7.54 153 7.55-57 153 7.58 153 9.1-9 155 16.10-17 37 17.28 55 20.5-15 37 20.38 136 21.8-18 37 21.39 55 26.14 55 27.1–28.16 37 28.5 139

y. Sanh. 23c 9

Philemon 24 37

Acts Thom. 98 55–57 97

James 2.23 132 3.6 140

Ambrose 5

John 11.1–12.11 5

2 Timothy 4.11 37

Acts 51, 101 1.1 157 1.1-5 40 2.14-36 133 2.17-21 133 2.19 139 2.24 133 2.25-32 133 2.31 133 2.32 135 6.8-15 152 6.14 152 7.37 152 7.38 153 7.44 153 7.47 153 7.48-49 153 7.52 153

2 Peter 2.4 138 Colossians 4.14 37

Other Jewish Texts Josephus 54 Ant. 1.256 142 Philo of Alexandria 57 Testament of Abraham 128–29 20.14-15 128 20.15 142 20.23-31 128 23.43 128 y. Hag. 77d 9

Yadayim 4.6 96 Other Christian Texts Acts. Andr.

97, 98

Acts. Andr. Mth. 31–32 97

Anth. pal. 7.387 28 Apoc. Elijah 96 Apoc. Peter E 3–6 E 7–13 E 14

95, 96, 98 94 94 94

Augustine 7 Basil of Caesarea 57 To Young Men 5.1–2 156 5.6–9 157 Book of Jannes and Jambres 28, 30 Clement of Alexandria

7

Gos. of Peter 60 36 Gos. Thomas 6, 36, 112– 13, 114 63 112

Index of Biblical and Other Ancient Sources

198

Gregory of Nazianzus 57 Inf. Gos. Thom. 1 36 Irenaeus 7 Haer. 3.1.1 37 Justin Martyr 1 Apol. 18.4 100 18.4–6 99 Origen

7, 57

Paris Graecus 1313 97 Prot. Jas 25.1 36 Tertullian 5, 7, 38 Marc. 4.2.2 38 Other Greek and Latin Texts Aeschylus Ag. 607 149 Aesop 116 Alexander Romance 2.39 90 2.39–40 90 2.40 90 Aphthonius of Antioch 101, 116 Apollodorus Epitome 2.1–3 137

Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 3.1207–11 86 3.1221–23 86

Hermippus Fragment 8.21 80 8.41 80

Aratus 55

Hermogenes of Tarsus 101–102

Aristotle Rhetoric 2.5.1 29 2.20.2 31

Herodotus Hist. 2.134 116

Arrian Diatr. 3.22.79–80 124

Homer

Demetrius Eloc. 3.157 116 Descent to Hades 94 Dio Chrysostom Orat. 11 142 Diogenes Laertius Lives of Eminent Philosophers 40 Dionysius of Halicarnassus De imit. 48 9.1.1–5.6 46 Dionysius Thrax

44–45

Doxapatres 115 Euripides

35, 44, 45

Heliodorus Aethiopica 41 Heraclitus All. 1.5–7 46–47

35, 36, 41, 43–46, 47, 54, 58, 97, 98, 99, 159

Iliad 44, 144 1.1–5 122 4.565 128 6.154 74 8.13–16 75, 138 9 148 9.410–16 70 11.811–18 122 16–24 122 16.856 81 17 122 17.127 123 17.557–58 123 18.117-18 131 20.64 81 22.66–76 125 20.232–34 76 22.339 123 22.348 123 22.358–59 123 22.361–63 123 23 65 23.72–74 123 23.99–107 68 23.100 81 23.103 81 23.104 68 24.18–21 123 Odyssey 41, 63 3.236–38 121 4.565 76

Index of Biblical and Other Ancient Sources 9.102 66 10 30 10.7 77 10.43–44 77 10.49 81 10.491 30 10.491–95 63, 66 10.501–502 64 10.504–40 64 10.513 140 10.516–34 65, 86 10.535–37 66 10.552–60 31 10.605–606 77 10.615–16 77 10.617 77 10.617–25 77 10.618 77 10.623 78 10.627 77 10.631 78 10.632–33 77 10.636–40 77 11 2, 61, 62, 84. 96, 101, 102, 123, 129 11.1–12 64 11.1–640 2, 29, 59, 63, 117 11.12 155 11.13–22 64 11.23–47 65, 86 11.38 65 11.41 65 11.49 65 11.51 68 11.51–80 31 11.51–83 65, 124 11.72–73 65, 123 11.72–74 65 11.83 68 11.84–89 65 11.90–94 66 11.90–150 31 11.91 66, 72 11.96 66 11.100–37 67 11.141–44 67 11.145–49 67

11.155–56 67 11.155–627 67 11.163–79 67 11.170–79 30 11.180–203 67 11.207–208 67 11.213–14 68 11.218–20 30 11.219–22 68, 151 11.225–34 68 11.235–60 68 11.260–65 68 11.266–70 68 11.271–80 68 11.281–97 68 11.298–304 68 11.305–20 69 11.321–28 69 11.328–84 69 11.370–76 30 11.385–89 69 11.388 69 11.390–94 69 11.393–94 149 11.395–403 69 11.404–23 69 11.423–26 69 11.424 149 11.433–34 69 11.450–51 70 11.456 70 11.457–61 30 11.461–64 70 11.465 70 11.466 70 11.475–76 70 11.481–83 148 11.482–86 70 11.485 144 11.488–91 30, 70, 94, 148 11.489–91 81 11.501 71, 148 11.504–37 71 11.539–40 71 11.541–42 30, 71 11.543–52 71 11.550–60 64 11.553–67 72

­199

11.561–68 76 11.566–68 76 11.568 72 11.569 72 11.571 72 11.572 72 11.576 72 11.576–81 73 11.576–600 136 11.580 73 11.582 72 11.582–92 73 11.583–87 30 11.583 137 11.584 137 11.585 137 11.586 137 11.593 72 11.593–600 73 11.601 72 11.601–603 75, 131, 134 11.605 134 11.618 131 11.620–21 76, 131 11.622 76 11.623–26 131 11.632–33 151 12.1–35 65 14.133–34 124 17.290–327 125 19.65-69 156 19.72–77 156 19.176–83 155 19.179 142 19.225–35 154 21.363–65 124 24.1–204 63 24.6–10 81 24.7 63 24.36 129 24.71 129 24.204 64 Horace Sat. 1.1.68–74 137 John Doxapatres Hom. In Aphthon. 3 5

200

Index of Biblical and Other Ancient Sources

Longinus De sublimitatae 13–14 49 14.1–2 49 33.4 86 Lucian 100–101 Cat. 29, 143 8 25 9 25 12 25 13 25 15 143 16 25 24 25, 26 25 26, 143 27 143 28 26 28–29 25, 143 Dial. mort 1 93 3 92 6–8 93 10 93 10–11 93 11 135 12 93 14 93 15 93 17 93 18 93 20 93 21 94 433 92 Gallus 14 25 Luct. 3 140 8 140 Men. 143 8 79 10 140 10–11 143 14 143 16 144

17 144 21 144 Philops. 91 22 92 24 92, 140 25 92, 147 Ver. hist. 91, 101 1.2 91 1.3 91 2.6–8 91 2.11 131 2.11–22 91 2.23 91 2.24 91 2.31 140 Macrobius Sat. 5.2.13 89 5.3.16 90 5.17.1 89 6.3.1 54 Menander 44 Ovid

48, 52

Pausanias Minyad 10.28.2 78 10.28.7 78 10.30.6 79 Pindar Ol. 1.23–53 75 1.60–64 74, 137 Plato 47, 97, 98 Phaedo 114d–15a 85 Republic 28 3.386a–c 80 3.387b 81 3.392d–94c 48 10 101

10.606e 46 10.607a 81 10.614b 82 10.614c 82 10.614c–d 82 10.614d–e 82 10.615a–c 82 10.615e 83 10.616b–17d 83 10.617d–18b 83 10.618d 83 10.619d 83 10.620c 83 10.620d–21b 83 10.621b 84 10.621c 84 Sym. 208c–d 157 pseudo-Hesiod Astronomy 4 73 Quintilian Insitutio oratoria 1.8.5 86 1.9.1 116 10.1.54 86 10.2.1 50 10.2.3 50 10.5.5 50 Seneca the Younger 51 Epistula 84 3–3 49 Seneca the Elder

48

Theodoret Hist. eccl. 3.8 47 Theon of Alexandria 102 Virgil 48, 54, 61 Aeneid 40, 41 6 86–87

Index of Biblical and Other Ancient Sources 6.1–123 87 6.127–29 87 6.133–211 87 6.212–35 87 6.236–63 87 6.282–94 87 6.295–330 87 6.403–10 87 6.411–25 87 6.426–534 87 6.433 87 6.450 88

6.535–43 88 6.544–58 88 6.560–61 88 6.562–65 88 6.566–74 88 6.574 88 6.578–79 88 6.580–94 88 6.603–605 88 6.610 88 6.623–34 88 6.620 88

6.637–65 89 6.638 88 6.666–78 89 6.701–702 89 6.703–12 89 6.713–51 89 6.752–892 89 6.889 89 Xenophon Cyropaedeia 41

201­

­

Index of Names Alighieri, Dante

61–62

Bauckham, Richard 26–29, 32, 121 Beavis, Mary Ann 116–17 Bernstein, Alan E. 62, 94 Bonz, Marianne Palmer 41, 56 Bovon, François 37–38 Brodie, Thomas L. 51, 53, 58 Bultmann, Rudolf 10, 12, 14, 19, 21, 32 Burkert, Walter 73, 131 Cadbury, Henry J. 39–40 Conte, Gian Biagio 52 Cribiore, Raffaella 42–43 Crossan, John Dominic 17–18, 20, 21 Debut, Janine 44 Dibelius, Martin 39–40 Dieterich, Albrecht 94–95 Dodd, C. H. 11, 12, 14, 15, 16 Fiske, George C. 45 Fitzmyer, Joseph 38 Funk, Robert W. 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 20 Gilmour, Michael 29–31 Glockmann, Günter 99–100 Gressman, Hugo 3, 8–10, 12, 13, 16, 18, 20, 21, 23, 24, 26, 31, 32, 33, 35, 95 Hägg, Thomas

89

Hedrick, Charles W. 115–16 Hengel, Martin 36 Himmelfarb, Martha 95–96 Hinds, Stephen 53 Hock, Ronald F. 22–25, 26, 27, 29, 32, 35, 36, 128 Jeremias, Joachim 12, 14, 16, 20 Jülicher, Adolf 7–8, 10, 11, 12, 13, 16, 17, 20, 23, 24, 26, 31, 33, 115 Knox, John 38 Kristeva, Julia 52 Lattimore, Richard 84, 131 Lieberman, Saul 31 MacDonald, Dennis R. 1, 2, 35, 36, 51, 53, 57, 59, 82, 97–98, 159 Milton, John 61 Mitchell, Margaret 56, 58, 100 Morgan, Kathleen 52 Morgan, Teresa 44, 46 Nasrallah, Laura

38–39, 100, 101

Parsons, Mikael C. 111 Perry, Ben Edward 116 Pervo, Richard I. 41, 100 Ratliff, George 60 Riley, Gregory J. 102 Sanders, E. P.

128

204 Sandnes, Karl 91 Scott, Bernard Brandon 20, 21, 22 Schnider, Franz 24 Segal, Charles 121 Stenger, Werner 24

Index of Names 18–19,

Talbert, C. H. 40, 41 Tannehill, Robert 41 Via, Dan O., Jr

14, 16, 17, 18, 20

Wilder, Amos

14–15, 16, 17, 18, 20