Unfinished Christians: Ritual Objects and Silent Subjects in Late Antiquity 9781512823967

Table of contents :
Contents
List of Abbreviations
Chapter 1. “A Commencement of Reality”: Lived Religion and Ordinary Christians
Chapter 2. Crafting the Unfinished Christian: Baptisteries as Workshops
Chapter 3. Processions and Portabilia
Chapter 4. Liturgical Emotions and Layered Temporalities
Chapter 5. Singing and Sensing the Night
Conclusion. Silent Subjects, Ritual Objects
Notes
Bibliography
Index
Acknowledgments

Citation preview

Unfinished Christians

Unfinished Christians Ritual Objects and Silent Subjects in Late Antiquity

Georgia Frank

University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia

Copyright © 2023 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-­4112 www​.upenn​.edu​/pennpress Printed in the United States of America on acid-­free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Hardcover ISBN: 978-­1-­5128-­2395-­0 eBook ISBN: 978-­1-­5128-­2396-­7 A Cataloging-in-Publication record is available from the Library of Congress

For Jeffrey, Maddy, Halley, and Theo

Contents

List of Abbreviations Chapter 1. “A Commencement of Reality”: Lived Religion and Ordinary Christians

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1

Chapter 2. Crafting the Unfinished Christian: Baptisteries as Workshops

18

Chapter 3. Processions and Portabilia

40

Chapter 4. Liturgical Emotions and Layered Temporalities

57

Chapter 5. Singing and Sensing the Night

77

Conclusion. Silent Subjects, Ritual Objects

91

Notes

99

Bibliography

147

Index

183

Acknowledgments

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Abbreviations

ACW BHG Cat. CPG FOTC GNO Hom. LCL LSJ MECL NPNF Or. PG PGL Ps.

Ancient Christian Writers Bibliotheca hagiographica graeca, 3rd ed., ed. F. Halkin, Subsidia Hagiographica 47 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1957; repr. 1969). Catechesis / prebaptismal instruction Clavis patrum graecorum, ed. M. Geerard and F. Glorie (Turnhout, 1974–87). Fathers of the Church Gregorii Nysseni Opera, 10 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1952– ) Homily Loeb Classical Library H. G. Liddell, R. Scott, H. S. Jones et al., A Greek-­ English Lexicon (Oxford: Clarendon, 1968). James McKinnon, ed. Music in Early Christian ­Literature (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1987). P. Schaff and H. Wace, eds., Nicene and Post-­Nicene Fathers, 1. = first series, 14 vols. (1886–89); 2. = second series, 14 vols. (1890–1900). Oration Patrologiae cursus completus, Series graeca, ed. ­J.-­P. Migne (Paris, 1857–66). G. W. H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford: Clarendon, 1961). Psalm, Septuagint numbering, followed by Masoretic numbering in parentheses.

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Abbreviations

Romanos, Hymnes Romanos le Mélode: Hymnes, ed. José Grosdidier de Matons, SC 99, 110, 114, 128, 283 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1964–81) SC Sources chrétiennes (Paris: Éditions du Cerf ) TLG Thesaurus Linguae Graecae

Chapter 1

“A Commencement of Reality” Lived Religion and Ordinary Christians

One Sunday in the 380s, John Chrysostom opened his homily with a pop quiz: “Do you know,” he asked the congregation, “at what point our last homily began, or where it stopped?” Perhaps an awkward silence ensued. So he continued, “Or . . . [how] the previous homily began or ended?”1 He had scanned the blank stares long enough to admit, “I think you have forgotten where our speech stopped.” Did he shake his head in disbelief? Raise his voice? Whether he was annoyed, disappointed, or frustrated, we will never know. Still, he was in the presence of many people from many walks of life. He addressed fathers, merchants, soldiers, artisans, and tradesmen: “Each of you has a wife and supports children and takes care of all matters around the house. Some of you are also busy on military campaigns (strateiais) and others are craftsmen; and each of you is busy with different jobs.” Whatever their memory lapses (or prior truancy), they did, after all, show up. “You cannot be blamed in this matter, but rather be praised,” Chrysostom reassured them, “because you have not abandoned us on Sunday. No matter what, you come to church.” Who is this “you” who showed up, whose forgetting would be forgiven, if only because they showed up? That church attendees led busy and complex lives was a fact preachers only rarely conceded. When Basil of Caesarea preached a series of nine sermons about the six days of the Creation, he understood that attending five consecutive days of homilies was taxing for many. “It has not escaped my notice,” Basil remarked early on the second day, “that many workers of handicrafts, who with difficulty provide a livelihood for themselves from their daily toil, are gathered around us.”2 For their sakes, he tried to keep his homily

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brief. In addition to craftspeople, mothers and fathers, enslaved household workers, tradespeople, and merchants all had multiple demands on their time. As his brother Gregory of Nyssa would later recall, “He spoke to such a large number of people together in a crowded assembly . . . [including] uncultivated men, artisans engaged in menial occupations, womenfolk untrained in such learning, a group of children, older people past their prime.”3 Homiletic “group portraits” such as these provide some glimpses into the types of people who attended church, who burst into applause or shouted acclamations, who sat in the gallery or dozed off during the sermon. What can we know about their lives? The lives of ordinary Christians—nonordained, nonmonastic, and nonaristocratic men and women—have been the focus of many studies in recent years.4 Textiles, inscriptions, amulets, household objects, letters, and saints’ lives provide fleeting glimpses of these often nameless lives.5 The size and layout of churches, their acoustic properties, the distance between the pulpit and the people, even the climate and weather shaped the experiences of audiences.6 Still, many records from Christian antiquity often overlook ordinary people. It is rare that a preacher describes the audience—the mothers and fathers, slave owners, artisans, foreigners, enslaved persons, freed persons, free persons, and non-­Greek-­speakers.7 And sermons have often been interpreted as reducing lay­ people to a wayward bunch, a bloc of “simplified foils” preachers used to advance their pastoral agenda. The chasm is so obvious that one historian calls this a “rhetoric of dichotomy and denigration.”8 Yet, as the historians of Christianity Virginia Burrus and Rebecca Lyman remind other scholars, it is important to “develop an eye and ear for differences that are not always oppositions.”9 What can we know about ordinary Christians’ experiences when they gathered in ritual settings? By “ordinary,” I mean men and women, and enslaved, freed, and free persons who did not renounce sex or choose voluntary poverty. They neither led a religious community nor did they live in entirely Christian settings. In an age marked by extraordinary Christians— wonderworking saints, household ascetics, hermits, monks, nuns, pious aristocrats, pilgrims, and bishops—ordinary Christians went about their daily lives, in various occupations, raising children, and sharing households, kitchens, and baths in religiously diverse cities. If they experienced hunger, homelessness, or sleepless nights, such circumstances were by necessity, not by choice.10 Occasionally, they attended church liturgies, sought out local healers, and visited martyrs’ shrines. Barely and rarely mentioned in ancient texts, most ordinary Christians remain nameless and undifferentiated. We catch a

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glimpse of them from homilies delivered in urban churches. Not completely erased from the literary and material record, they often fell “under the radar” of elites who had more resources, influence, and education. Accessing ordinary people’s lives and experiences may feel like a quest for impossible stories. Their interior experiences are all but lost or distorted by the records of the powerful. As Black feminist writers such as Marisa Fuentes and Saidiya Hartman point out in a different but still relevant context, modern historical records were created by and for elites engaged in slave-­trading and slave-­owning systems. Yet some historians have devised valuable correctives for capturing fragments of those who were dispossessed, dehumanized, or ignored in the eyes of white recordkeepers.11 Inspired by these innovative, empathetic, and rehumanizing methods, this book investigates the habits, behaviors, and movements of ordinary Christians. It rereads literary records that originated in spaces where ordinary Christians gathered—such as baptisteries, streets, shrines, and churches—to understand their lived religious experience. Although these ordinary voices and lives have been all but lost, distorted, or ignored in many homilies or sermons, some parts of their shared presence may still be accessed by paying careful attention to instances when these physical, imaginative, sensory, and ritual bodies gather. Studying the lives of ordinary people—that is to say, non-­elites and sub-­ elites—begins with the body.12 The particularity of bodies, and the knowledges such bodies produce, is at the heart of this book. The senses of smell, taste, touch, sight, and hearing; the sensations of movement and being in a crowd; and the moods and feelings of such assemblies—all embody these gatherings. As the American religious historian Robert Orsi has put it, lived religion explores “the corporeality of the people who participate in religious practices, what their tongues, skin, and ears ‘know.’”13 These bodies may even have to stand in for the names of ordinary people. In addition to their bodies, the traces of ordinary people’s material existence need careful attention. Archaeological, visual, and other material things may reveal dimensions of ordinary lives, including religion. Like ordinary people, ordinary objects are “simultaneously overlooked and indispensable” for understanding daily life.14 In slave economies, in which some people are treated as objects to be sold, bartered, separated, loaned out, borrowed, abused, or discarded, the need for later generations of historians to restore their humanity is even more urgent. How might historians of religion rehumanize marginalized people? Exploring the lived religion of ordinary Christians presumes the humanity of all children, women, men, enslaved people,

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freed persons, and foreigners, even as some in their society sought to dehumanize them. That is to say, it presupposes their awareness, agency, emotions, senses, labor, and interiority and mines surviving sources for traces of that presence. The study of ordinary Christians’ lived religion also considers how nonhuman objects bear witness to that humanity: a slave collar, an amulet, a handprint on a healing token, a skeleton, or a household lamp. These items all serve as reminders of the human being who never appeared in a text, yet wore, crafted, created, or clutched a given object.15 It calls attention to embodied existence by asking how sensations shaped their experiences and how feelings circulated in different settings and on different occasions.16

Lived Religion Closely related to the study of ordinary religion is the work of scholars who study lived religion. Lived religion, in the words of the historian Robert Orsi, is “how particular people, in particular places and times, live in, with, through, and against the religious idioms available to them in culture.”17 Lived religion concerns itself less with moral norms and beliefs promoted by religious institutions, so as to focus more on creative, embodied, material, affective, and interpersonal dynamics of people who engage in these religious practices. Rather than focus on affiliation, belief, and formal membership, scholars of lived religion consider how clothing, objects, images, food, home shrines, storytelling, and music may enact one’s religious activity, or praxis. In lived religion, practitioners’ embodied experience is relational, as its practitioners sustain relationships with unseen beings, such as ancestors, spirits, and gods as well as with one another. Some of the methods used by contemporary sociologists of religion may seem anachronistic for studying ancient lived religion. Without first-­person testimonies or the ability to interview, some classicists and Mediterranean archaeologists have devised alternative methods to access ancient religion. A team of European scholars created the Lived Ancient Religion project to hold conferences and publish a journal, monographs, and essay collections devoted to studying the ways individual religious actors’ practices and beliefs diverged from official and traditional “polis religion” and cults.18 The project tends to focus on instances of religious change and “religion in the making,” with attention to sources that capture how individuals appropriate, change, and innovate existing religious habits and customs. Of course, the subjects of lived

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religion here are no longer living, hence the somewhat oxymoronic notion of “lived ancient religion.” As one of its lead investigators has put it, “Rather than analyzing expert theologies, dogma, or the institutional setting and history of organized religion, the focus of lived religion is on what people actually do: the everyday experience, practices, expressions, and interactions that are related to and constitute religion.”19 They look less to “associations, public sanctuaries and literary communication” in order to pay closer attention to objects and rituals in domestic settings. Seeking to understand religion “from the ground up,” the Lived Ancient Religion project highlights the diversity of ancient religious practice, a valuable context for early Christianity. In one important regard, however, the Lived Ancient Religion project is less well suited to studying late antique Christian practices. The focus on individual agents who innovate, appropriate, and transform existing rites makes it a poor fit for the study of groups.20 While acknowledging “group-­styles” of family, neighborhoods, and associations, the preference is squarely on the individual’s capacity to create religion. Conversely, collectives merely repeat and reify religion, yet never transform or create it. In other words, “ceaseless construction through individual action” does not leave room for considering how groups are also makers.21 The emphasis on “individual appropriation and modification of (mainly public) norms” presumes only individuals have the agency necessary to appropriate and alter religious acts.22 This “valuation of and starting from the individual” guides the work of the Lived Ancient Religion project.23 Even as individual communication is intersubjective, the individual is clearly the maker: “Where are the religious agents in a framework fixated upon ‘festival’ and ‘collective practice’?” one researcher asks rhetorically.24 By contrast, this book presumes that groups exercise agency. Ordinary Christians shared practices that created belonging in antiquity. From the house-­church, to cohorts preparing for baptism, to chosen families, and even the immersive experiences of performing and reenacting sacred stories, early Christians found a sense of belonging together in rituals such as baptism and Eucharistic meals. As part of their new legal status, Christians explored new ways of feeling at home in the material world. Egyptian hermits and pillar saints remade the world in deserted spaces. Hospitals and philanthropy reknit civic culture. Liturgical choirs, new hymns, processions between churches, relic veneration, pilgrimage to holy places, and sacred biography are but a few examples of newly fashioned devotions in the fourth and fifth centuries. But individual elites often left a more durable mark on such innovation.25 Even so, the greater presence of pilgrims’ hostels, the

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burgeoning trade in souvenirs, and the expansion of baptistery spaces all point to growing numbers of ordinary Christians participating in these devotions. More Christian spaces also led to new relationships to sacred time during the fourth and fifth centuries. The evolution of various festal and liturgical calendars in diverse regions allowed groups to anticipate, repeat, revisit, reenter, and remember sacred stories in new ways. When the homilist Leontios delivered a Palm Sunday sermon in Constantinople near the turn of the sixth century, he addressed the congregation as “you friends of Lazarus,” a reference to the previous day’s feast day. As his phrase suggests, the bonds of friendship reached from the audience’s present back into Jesus’s days. “You friends of Lazarus” also presumes that the mood of the previous day’s feast carried forward the next feast day as Jesus’s friends accompanied him to Jerusalem.26 Sacred stories about groups—whether disciples, soldiers, martyrs, or even the damned—generated group protagonists by which audiences might also become “the protagonist of an event that has an impact on feelings and existence.”27 Doing and feeling were not strictly individual experiences. Collective religious agency and creativity are central to recent scholarship on current lived religion in America. As the sociologist of American religion Nancy Tatom Ammerman observes, there has been a tendency to “assume that religion is best measured in terms of the power of the official religious organizations and their leaders over the population in which they are located.”28 Religion, she contends, is not just about beliefs, membership (identity), institutional structures, and leadership. Rather than exclude these familiar elements, Ammerman advises simply decentering them.29 She proposes a more capacious understanding of lived religion. It is material and corporeal, insofar as bodies and minds adopt and adapt religious idioms in the course of their lives, through birth, death, sexuality, relationships, and nature. As a site of multiple belongings, lived religion happens within and beyond religious structures. It extends to spaces people inhabit, economic activities, and other social configurations to encompass physical and creative activities people do together. Significantly, stories and rituals figure prominently in the study of lived religion. Unlike Ammerman’s subjects, ordinary Christians in antiquity left almost no autobiographical stories. Yet the performance of sacred stories—to which they sang along and gestured, and repeated during rituals like night vigils—suggests public ways they engaged in the personal stories of others. Perhaps most valuable in Ammerman’s research method is her careful attention to historically conditioned “blinders” that narrow or distort our

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understandings of lived religion. One is the tendency to reduce religion to belief systems and institutions, a holdover from Protestant academic frameworks in the history of religion. Instead, closer attention to material facets of lived religion may correct for that bias. Behaviors, clothing, stories, and many other human activities may intersect with belief systems, but they need not be expressions of interior states. Ammerman also warns against the assumption that the more insular a group is—avoiding other religious or nonreligious groups or even coreligionists with different norms—the more pure or authentic their religious identity.30 As the historian of ancient religion Nicola Denzey Lewis points out, classifications like “public” and “private” or “religious” and “secular” overlook the religious creativity of ordinary people who do not fit tidily into these boxes. When a couple affixes an object with a biblical name or part of a biblical verse onto their bedpost, do the words, names, practice, or setting make this habit “popular,” “pagan,” “magic,” “Jewish,” “Christian,” or “superstition”?31 Although some literate elites coined and even weaponized such terms, these notions rarely map tidily onto the realities of ordinary ­people’s daily lives. Lived religion, then, gives voice to nonleaders who may draw sustenance from a religious community or a tradition, while engaging with other communities with ease. It is less concerned with conversion or competition, asking instead how ordinary Christians crafted their own rites, relationships, and bonds. Whether they participated in church festivals, observed the sabbath, attended theaters and games, or used amulets to ward off evil powers, their religious lives were embodied, material, affective, and collective. Lived religion overlaps with lived theology, particularly in late antiquity. As the historian of late antiquity Averil Cameron warns, when cultural history separates lived religion from theology, it misses crucial dimensions of late antique Christianity.32 Like lived religion, lived theology does not limit itself to official scriptures, leadership, institutions, hierarchies, and doctrines. Instead, it attends to the particularities of human life. As the theologian Charles Marsh explains, “Lived religion examines practices, beliefs, and objects, to understand more clearly the human phenomenon of religion, while lived theology examines practices, objects, and beliefs in order to understand God’s presence in human experience.”33 In premodern times, lived religion and lived theology may have been even closer, insofar as lived ancient religion encompasses not just humans but relationships with divine beings, such as gods, demons, or ancestors.34 In lived theology, as in lived religion, sensual, sensory, affective, and physical experiences intersect, whether in a highly patterned Orthodox liturgy or a Black Pentecostal gathering.35 Attentive to the

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“particularities of experience,” lived theology highlights how relationships and entanglements between God (or gods), spirit(s), and humans render ordinary people the crafters of stories through their bodies, voices, artifacts, and sensations.36 They are makers whose actions and words make God real and “kindle” a feeling of absorption into the story.37

Laity and Agency It is important to consider whether the concept of “laity” is useful in studying ordinary Christians.38 The word laity derives from the Greek word laos ­(people) and its cognate is laikos/Latin laicus (of the people).39 In Greek mythology, laos was associated with the stones (laas) that the postdiluvial survivors Deucalion and Pyrrha threw behind them as a way to repopulate the earth.40 As inert matter, the “thingness” of the laity was not confined to myth. In archaic Greek poetry, laos stood for a crowd or population undifferentiated by ethnicity, language, religion, custom, or culture.41 In the Septuagint, laos denotes a particular society or union as a way to differentiate people from their rulers or the upper classes.42 Its use in the phrase laos theou, God’s ­people, signifies Israel’s special relation to God. In the New Testament ­gospels, the term connotes crowd, population, or people, whether as an unthinking mob (Matt. 27:25; Mark 11:32) or as a new Israel.43 Early Christians soon expanded the term to denote the congregation assembled for worship.44 Yet “laity” still denoted passive recipients of clerical ministrations. For Christians in the Byzantine East, church interiors and liturgical implements reflected and deepened the growing chasm between active clergy and passive laity. In early Byzantine churches, a low (roughly waist-­high) partition separated laity from the chancel, where clergy consecrated bread and wine as part of the Eucharist. When the chancel barrier, or templon, was low, the laity could still observe the consecration of the communion bread and wine. In subsequent centuries, that partition became taller and opaque, typically covered with images and pierced by doors, behind which the priest prepared communion.45 Eventually, priests further avoided contact with the laity by administering the Eucharist not directly in the hand but with long-­ handled communion spoons.46 Similarly in the West, the laity remained in the shadow of the clergy, as canon law and liturgical practices divided them along vocational, linguistic,

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class, gender, and educational lines. Despite flourishing lay spiritual movements during the Latin Middle Ages and the Protestant Reformation’s expansion of the laity’s ministries, negative stereotypes depicted the laity as passive, disengaged, illiterate, and vulgar.47 The Second Vatican Council in the 1960s sought to reverse the infantilization of the laity by assigning a more active role and opening more—but certainly not all—ministries to baptized Christians.48 Yet, over a generation after these papal efforts, one overview of the laity opens with this grim admission: “A theology of the laity is a well-­intentioned mistake,” adding that “laicism in all its forms is always a response to clericalism, one mistake spawning another.”49 Moreover, the prospects of an “extraordinary ordinary” modern Christian being canonized remains an open question among historians of Catholicism.50 As one commentator put it, a “paradigmatic clericalism” has for too long shaped a negative definition of the lay state.51 Beyond Christian studies, the term laity has been similarly shackled to binaries.52 According to both editions of the Encyclopedia of Religion (1986, 2004), the term laity illuminates the internal diversity for some religious traditions, particularly those with “two modes of pursuing spiritual fulfillment.”53 Thus, laity is apt for Christian traditions such as Roman Catholicism, Eastern Orthodoxy, and some forms of Protestantism, as well as Theravada Buddhism and Jainism, which define a symbiotic relation between the higher path of religious virtuosi and the laity that supports and seeks out these renunciants.54 It is less illuminating for religious traditions without ordained clergy. Ritual studies and gender studies have illumined lay agency in a variety of activities. In many traditions, women and other laypeople practice a prominent role as agents through singing, dancing, sacred storytelling, receiving religious instruction, writing/copying/translating sacred writings, food preparation, divination, life-­c ycle ceremonies, fasts, listening and responding in the liturgy, funerary rites, or joining in pilgrimage and festivals.55 For instance, images and continuous inscriptions carved on the exterior of a cathedral or an Indian temple can provide important evidence of how laypeople move around and experience religious buildings and their environs.56 Even marking or setting apart special objects suggests lay agency.57 Despite the greater attention given to lay religious practices, is the term laity still doomed to remain a parasite or a by-­product of clericalism? Is laity locked into a dyad, there simply for the sake of “creating and setting apart an elite,” in the words of one historian?58 Some proposed alternatives have included new or revived vocabularies. “Popular” has been, well, popular.

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In a lucid and systematic genealogy of the term popular culture from the eighteenth through the twentieth century, as one historian has noted, the concept “popular” has had pejorative overtones of unruly mobs or a counterculture, resulting in hierarchies such as religio vs. superstitio or other top-­down, two-­tiered models that pit so-­called high versus low culture, or elite versus folk, thus reinscribing false or misleading dichotomies within a shared culture.59 Even so, there are promising efforts to redescribe and resuscitate the category of “laity.”60 According to the People’s History of Christianity, an ambitious multivolume collection, the “church” must be redefined to include the “laity, the ordinary faithful, the people,” a deliberate move away from church as a “hierarchical-­institutional-­bureaucratic corporation.”61 In fact, space is an important element in any redescription of the Christian laity. The two volumes in the series with essays on ancient Christianity consider a host of spaces, including baptistery, basilica, catacomb, house, chapel, shrine, synagogue, temple, cemetery, grave, and martyrium. Such spaces also prompt reflection on how objects mediate those experiences of the laity. For instance, how do curse-­tablets, amulets, votives, and oracle tickets illuminate lay practices?62 When Christian leaders denounced Christians who engaged in these practices, they cast the objects as naive superstition and bad pagan habits. The reality of these objects in daily life clashed with a “rhetoric of dichotomy and denigration.”63 Can hagiography provide a more nuanced picture of the laity? After all, crowded religious festivals and shrines were settings for telling tales of the saints. Are realia that reliable?64 In many saints’ lives—patterned on narratives of ascetic progress in perfection—the laity often appears as a nuisance or foil to the ascetic hero’s quest. Cast as hauntings, laypeople constitute a “before” image to the ascetic’s “after.” In some tales, laypeople destabilize ascetic progress or are passive recipients of ascetic wonderworking. Kosmikoi, or literally, “worldly ones,” as the laypeople are sometimes called, appear in these saints’ lives as ascetic “wannabes,” demonic temptations, or shaming devices whenever ascetics miss the mark.65 In ascetic literature, at least, the notion of a two-­path Christianity persists, with the monks in the spotlight and the laity consigned to the wings among the other failed and forgettable.66 Yet, as Claudia Rapp has recently demonstrated, groups of pious laypeople— referred to in some saints’ lives and monastic writings as spoudaioi (“those who are zealous”) and philoponoi (“those who trouble themselves”)—nuance our understanding of lay piety in urban areas.67

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Ethnography also provides new frameworks for understanding lay agency and technology in self-­formation. Recent ethnographies about lay Islamic piety movements in 1990s Cairo signal promising models for reimagining the laity in late antique Christian cities. Saba Mahmood’s Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject (2005) examines women’s grassroots piety movements in Cairo in the 1990s.68 She describes religious agency in sensorial, embodied, and proactive terms. According to Mahmood, agency may be achieved apart from Western enlightenment ideals of autonomy or independence from external norms.69 Rather than assert freedom, the body may also serve as the “scaffolding . . . through which the self is realized.”70 Rather than “express” some static interior state, Mahmood argues, the body serves as a “‘developable means’ through which certain kinds of ethical and moral capacities are attained.”71 She outlines a mode of agency that trains the body to enact particular virtues. Even if late antique Christians do not share the same technological, historical, and epistemic conditions as postcolonial Egyptian Muslims, Mahmood’s work recasts ritual not as the expression of interior beliefs but as a technology of self-­crafting. Agency emerges from the performative, sensory, affective, and collective dimensions of religious subjects.72 Lay agency is not strictly modern. It also appears in efforts to redescribe ancient Mediterranean religion. The historian of religion Jonathan Z. Smith proposed categorizing religious activity not by religion (pagan, Christian, Jewish) but rather by its topography.73 The religion of “here,” as he called it, concerns itself mainly with the domestic realm. The religion of “there,” by contrast, focuses on civic and imperial religion, with its intertwined political and sacrificial power dynamics. A third mode, the religion of “anywhere,” is less concerned with space and more focused on associations, itinerant religious practitioners, and so on. Similarly, the historian of early Christianity Stanley Stowers has redrawn religious modalities. His version, “religion of everyday social exchange,”74 resembles Smith’s religion of “here.” This mode of religious activity focuses on household and quotidian practices intent on ensuring protection from harmful forces, or securing health, fertility, and well-­being. Religious identities, such as “Jewish,” “Christian,” or “pagan,” mean little for differentiating these practices, which tend toward supplication, gratitude, protection, and reciprocity. If scholars focus less on the names and numbers of the deities, ancestors, spirits, and demons invoked, these rites share a functional concern for the efficacy of a rite or an object and the practitioner’s relationship to the suprahuman power.75 One’s communication and

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ongoing relationship with the world of ancestors, spirits, and other unseen beings is at the heart of quotidian rites and dispositions. Stowers also has a religion of “there,” but he describes it as the religion of “literate experts,” educated elites who classify and differentiate religious identities (such as Jewish, Christian, or pagan). Bishops and preachers, for instance, enacted this mode whenever they policed religious boundaries and condemned those who fell outside the leaders’ norms of “Christian” ideas, behaviors, and beliefs. Elite leaders often misrepresented religious behaviors of women, enslaved people, and the poor as part of their efforts to “pastoralize” the home or undermine religious competition.76 Stowers’s version of “here” and “there” religion amplifies the people who engage in these modes and how they derive some sense of agency. It also reminds us how preachers’ words about home life might better reflect elite ­ideals than provide any reliable information on actual domestic rites. It also makes us consider whether ordinary Christians who participated in the rites outside the home necessarily embraced the norms pastors prescribed. Although lay agency is most prevalent in domestic settings, it is not limited to them. While acknowledging a debt to ongoing studies of domestic religious activities, the emphasis here is on sacred experiences of ordinary Christians who gathered with other Christians beyond the home.77 Crafting has many meanings. It connotes the creativity and agency of ordinary Christians who engaged in making religious experiences. Craft is about the maker, who learns by doing, to work with material and bring something into being. Craft also recalls the presence of artisans and tradespeople in the preachers’ congregations. Often overlooked in writings by elites, they were the bearers of embodied knowing: imitating the actions of teachers’ bodies in the process of learning the techniques and materials necessary for any given craft. Craft is also about the object made. In baptismal instructions and processions, made objects constituted and guided experience, as catechumens—the name for those preparing for initiation—learned to think of themselves as objects to be made, damaged, remade, repaired, and refined. As the historical theologian Morwenna Ludlow has demonstrated, late antique Christian preachers “crafted” stories about martyrs and spoke of God as a “craftsman and artisan” of the material and spiritual worlds.78 Craft also involves imagination, both in terms of bringing forth things figured in the imagination but also in differentiating the thing in process from the imagined ideal, and all the revision, correction, and adjustment required to bring the two closer together. I have not exhausted all the notions of craft, including

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its own capacity to marginalize and dehumanize, as in “witchcraft” and “racecraft.”79 Finally, I have preferred the participle “crafting,” to the noun “craft.” The participle’s adjectival and verbal connotations reflect the dynamic processes within rituals. As an adjective, the word crafting signals the agency of ordinary Christians. It conveys the unfinished process of forming Christian subjectivities in antiquity. The materiality of craft and objects suggests another important theme of this book: the notion of lived time. Unlike “clock time,” the quantification of time into equal segments, lived time assumes new meanings in ­ritu­als and other entanglements with objects. Ordinary Christians experienced time differently in the course of their daily lives and devotions. Lectionaries and liturgical calendars provide one framework for understanding periodic transformations of the sacred past into a ritual now. Preaching, like hymns, suggests the narrative acrobatics by which a fourth-­century audience might reenter the world of the protagonists or at least join the bystanders observing the sacred story unfold. Such immersive and absorptive listening and singing, the carrying of objects in processions or vigils, all engaged the body as it moved through ritual temporalities. Inspired by recent work on temporalities in premodern religious traditions, this book suggests some ways that ordinary Christians together deployed materialities and mechanisms by which to enter temporalities beyond the “clock time” of quotidian habit. How will a modern interpreter derive the experiences of ordinary Christians from the remarks of clerics? We know the gaps, the silences, and the erasures. But how well do we know the settings and what they contained? The art historian Ann Marie Yasin ponders these questions for the material culture of pilgrimage. She recontextualizes ancient objects in the pathways, the workshops, the buildings, fences, commemorative plaques, signage, hydration systems, and kiosks selling souvenirs, reproductions, votives, refreshments, and clothing. The goal of such deep engagement with materiality, she insists, “is to continuously bear in mind the figures—whether anonymous or identifiable, flesh-­and-­blood or intangible beings—behind the valuation, activation, and reception of ancient material culture.”80 In contexts, she recognizes bodies entangled with these objects. Can clerics’ remarks be resituated in their textured urban settings, in the streets, porticoes, porches, skylines, and rooms through which ordinary Christians moved and by which they immersed themselves in the sacred past? Materiality of things brings us closer to the bodily experiences of historical people who used, carried, and encountered these objects. Only by rematerializing the past can scholars

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come closer to accessing these experiences and crafting a plausible picture of these sensing subjects.

An Overview of This Book Unfinished Christians explores the sensory and affective dimensions of material spaces and objects relating to Christians who assembled for rituals. With precious few first-­person accounts by ordinary Christians, it relies on written sources not typically identified with lived religion: sermons, liturgical instruction books, and festal hymns. All three genres of writing are composed by clergy for use in ritual settings. Their subsequent adaptation for new settings cannot be overlooked: sermons were transcribed, collected, and redacted; liturgical books were revised to reflect later rites; and festal hymns fell out of use in lay settings only to reappear in later liturgical books for monks.81 Not included are scriptural commentaries, “desk sermons,” and other homilies composed to be read or shared in nonritual settings. Although some laypeople were familiar with saints’ lives, moral treatises, monastic writings, pilgrimage accounts, and miracle collections, these writings are not the focus of this study. Instead, the focus is on sermons delivered in the presence of lay audiences and what historians may glean from their experiences on these occasions. Unfinished Christians attends to a variety of ritual occasions during which ordinary Christians gathered. Baptismal lessons to adults and the very recently baptized in the Greek-­speaking East during the fourth and fifth centuries launch the investigation. Notably, preachers called on candidates for baptism to imagine themselves as paintings, statues, and buildings. In sermons to the nearly and newly initiated, fourth-­century preachers such as Cyril of Jerusalem and John Chrysostom likened candidates for baptism to crafted objects, raw material requiring skilled labor and multiple stages of making. Their metaphors suggest the ways becoming Christian was unfinished work, as baptismal candidates learned to see themselves as artisans of an object, the crafted objected itself, and even as its protector and repairer. As archaeological evidence from ancient workshops suggests, the metaphor highlights the structured cooperation involved in craft and the vocabulary for an emerging religious identity involving mistakes, damage, repair, and conservation. The next chapter considers objects carried in outdoor urban processions. Steeped in a wider culture of parades enacting Roman religious, military, and civic ideals, ordinary Christians developed their own processions.82 They

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welcomed bishops in a riff on the adventus typically held for visiting emperors. They walked from church to church on certain feast days in Rome, Constantinople, Antioch, and Jerusalem. Rather than focus on who led processions or determined their itineraries, this chapter attends to objects laypeople carried in procession. Portabilia, as I call objects carried or transported in procession, provide important clues to the sensations and movements that bodies experienced. From the making and carrying of objects, the next two chapters focus on immersive storytelling as a guide to feelings, emotions, and sensations. Festal sermons delivered on Christmas, Lazarus Saturday, Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and the Feast of the Ascension all illustrate the ways preachers led audiences through vivid engagement with biblical stories. I put these sermons in their liturgical setting, as complemented by liturgical instruction books. Other biblical readings, responsive psalm-­singing, and adjacent feasts suggest lingering echoes, even a haunting intrusion of another feast’s mood. Such liturgical books provide valuable insights into the stories and responses that point to a lingering mood from an earlier feast day or anticipate a feeling characteristic of a later feast.83 Terror might intrude on an occasion for joy. Gregory of Nyssa’s interwoven descriptions of the nativity of Jesus with gory scenes from Herod’s massacre of the infants are perhaps the most extreme example. So too might psalm verses interspersed in the joy experienced at Jesus’s restoring life to Lazarus anticipate his arrest, the event that sets in motion his eventual death. Such “rhetorical rollercoasters” provide clues to the deep and complex sentiments that propelled ancient audiences through the sacred past as it unfolded in a single week.84 Sermons drew audiences into what the medievalist Carolyn Dinshaw calls a “very capacious now,” as when the past, present, and future simultaneously merge.85 As eyewitnesses to past stories and future revelations, audiences became absorbed into sacred dramas and found a sense of belonging among biblical figures and with one another. When Christians gathered to commemorate events from the life of Christ or mark anniversaries of a martyr’s death, they entered a layered temporality, in which past and present merged and future events in the festal calendar might be previewed (or preheard, in some instances). When preachers retold a biblical story in a vivid present tense,86 or addressed a disciple in the second person (the literary device known as “apostrophe”), they simultaneously remembered, reenacted, and anticipated sacred events. Lectionaries also remind us that sermons alone do not generate temporalities. Liturgy, movement, silence, song, and psalmody all connect present and past.

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From spoken sermons delivered on feast days, the following chapter explores the experiences of ordinary Christians who sang along with stanzaic hymns performed in night vigils on the eve of feast days during the sixth century. In many parts of the Roman Empire, ordinary Christians joined in the singing of songs as part of a ritual. Ambrose, bishop of Milan, composed songs for daybreak and vigil services. The Syriac writers Ephrem of Edessa and Jacob of Sarug taught and preached through metrical verse. Jewish services included the performance of liturgical poems know as piyyutim. And in Constantinople of the sixth century, a poet known as Romanos the Melodist set his retellings of biblical stories to stanzaic hymns. Although the original melodies of these songs are all but lost to us, the lyrics preserve the words heard—and refrains sung—by lay congregations. Sensations and feelings experienced during nocturnal vigils shaped the experience of various protagonists in these biblical stories. Romanos’s use of invented speech and interior monologues to fabricate emotions transformed the night into a cineplex of imaginative spaces through which audiences’ bodies gestured, sang, and sensed along with the nocturnal and penumbral experiences of biblical characters. The conclusion returns to the question of how we may know the embodied experiences of ordinary Christians in ritual settings. What can be known of how they moved, sensed, felt, and belonged in their bodies? Robert Orsi’s concept of the “the abundant event” maps well onto these ancient experiences.87 An abundant event arises when worshippers feel the presence of a supernatural figure in their midst. In these encounters, imaginations “become larger and more efficacious,” unlocked through new relationships to supernatural beings and to objects, which “come alive.” The abundant event is not reserved for mystics. It is also available to ordinary Christians whose bodies, senses, feelings, objects, and movements draw them into the company of supernatural figures like Jesus or the martyr, but also into the presence of the ordinary people who surrounded them. There are inevitable risks and trade-­offs in imagining experiences that are not one’s own. It is worth recalling the psychologist of religion William James’s concluding Gifford Lecture, published in The Varieties of Religious Experience (1902). As he reminded his audience, “Knowledge about a thing is not the thing itself.”88 He explained, “A bill of fare with one real raisin on it instead of the word ‘raisin,’ with one real egg instead of the word ‘egg,’ might be an inadequate meal, but it would at least be a commencement of reality.”89 Unfinished Christians considers what lingering traces, verbal or material, may reveal. Separated in time from its subjects, this research walks through

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empty homes and streets, records fragments rather than voices and rituals, and pores over sermons and excavators’ field notes. No amount of historical reconstruction will provide what James considers a “solid meal” by which to understand the religiosity of ancient others. Like the raisin itself, the meal may seem desiccated in comparison to the study of living subjects. Yet, with some imagination, the historical record, however small its portions, provides an unexpected meal. The goal is to find ordinary people whose lives intersected with Christian communities. More vignettes than census, this book is inspired by historians who conjure, fabricate, restore, and imagine the lives of all those absent from the historical record. The traces are faint, but Unfinished Christians offers a modest “bill of fare,” yet also “a commencement of reality” for considering ordinary Christians in late antiquity.

Chapter 2

Crafting the Unfinished Christian Baptisteries as Workshops

In the fourth century unprecedented numbers of adults converted to Christianity through baptism. Central to the initiation rite was the pouring of water over the convert’s body or full immersion in a pool.1 An imaginary Christian traveler journeying across the Roman Empire during the late fourth century would likely have been able to spot a local baptistery, whether inside or annexed to a church building.2 Although the unbaptized Christians would not have seen the interiors of these spaces until their own initiation rite, many visitors to a church or pilgrimage complex with a baptistery would have been aware of the structure or room from the outside or from corridors or passageways to this annex.3 They would have known from the enrollment sessions and Lenten classes for adults that baptism was the culmination of weeks— and for some, years—of instruction in sacred history, scripture, and doctrines and of preparation for the initiatory rituals.4 Candidates learned to fast, confess, and pray, and to undergo exorcisms by clergy who commanded the devil to depart from them. Following this preparation, the initiates underwent final rites in the predawn hours of a major feast day, such as Epiphany or Easter, fitting occasions to commemorate Jesus’s baptism and resurrection, respectively. They undressed and entered the baptistery, typically an area in or near the church containing a pool or basin. Once initiated, the neophytes processed into the church to partake of communion, a rite they had not been allowed even to witness prior to baptism. By the late fourth century, baptisms in the East had become multisensory indoor events.5 Specially built baptismal rooms often included a vestibule for undressing and an adjoining room where baptisms were performed.

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Following a final exorcism, in which they typically turned to the West to renounce Satan, then turned to the East to vow their commitment to Christ, initiates were then anointed with fragrant oils, stripped naked, and guided into a knee-­or waist-­high pool to be immersed or to have water poured over them. During these rites, the pool’s fragrant waters shimmered as candles and lamps dappled surfaces depicting scenes from the Garden of Eden, flowers, fruits, and birds.6 New initiates might behold scenes from Jesus’s own water miracles, including his baptism, turning water into wine, the miraculous catch of fish, the stilling of the storm, and his walking on water. They might also behold scenes of the women and the angel at Jesus’s empty tomb, a memorial to his resurrection, as reenacted in the rites of baptism. Emerging from the waters, they might be anointed again on various parts of the head or body and then rerobed in a white or radiant garment before joining a candlelit procession to partake of the Eucharist for the first time.7 Although as catechumens they had been forbidden from observing, much less tasting, the consecrated bread and wine, once baptized the neophytes received further instruction in how to perform this solemn rite with appropriate reverence for its deep symbolism.8 Baptism comprised many activities, beginning with requesting to enroll for baptism early in Lent with the endorsement of family and friends. The traveler Egeria recounts how Jerusalem’s bishop and clergy would interview character witnesses who accompanied each applicant: “One by one, the bishop asks their neighbors questions about them: ‘Is this person leading a good life? Does he respect his parents? Is he a drunkard or a boaster?’”9 Or applicants might carry a letter of introduction, as in a letter from Sotas, the bishop in Oxyrhynchus, recommending one Leon, a “catechumen in the beginning of the gospel.” In another, the bishop commended a group simply as “catechumens of the congregation.” Sotas also received letters of reference, as when presbyters in another town recommended an Anos, for being a “catechumen in Genesis.”10 Once admitted, one became known as a catechumen, literally a “listener,” for the weeks of attending Lenten lessons on sacred history and beliefs, along with fasting and Bible study at home. Preachers such as Cyril of Jerusalem and Ambrose of Milan elaborated on the symbolism of these ultimate stages of baptism in homilies they delivered to the newly baptized. The mystagogical catecheses, as they are called, rehearsed the stages of initiation and what each revealed. The long process of preparing for and undergoing baptism attuned the senses. Candidates for baptism were called “catechumens,” from the Greek

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verb katēcheō, for sounding (ēchō) “over” or “through” (kata).11 This was not hearing for rote memorization but listening to absorb. Gestures, stances, and postures mutually engaged the catechumens more in bodily reenactment than strictly cognitive remembering.12 Initiates breathed in the perfumed oils being rubbed onto various parts of the head and torso. They felt the chill of disrobing, the pangs of hunger from fasting, the forceful breath upon them during exorcism, and the lights they passed until they reached scenes of boats, stars, rivers, deer, doves, and fruit-­bearing trees adorning the floors, fonts, and walls of baptisteries.13 These images recalled stories they had learned about in prior lessons: Jesus’s death and rebirth, flora and fauna of paradise, divine rescue from treacherous waters, and God’s creation cleansed.14 The imagery continued in sermons delivered after baptism, as the newly initiated were guided at the Eucharist to reimagine their cupped hands as a royal throne receiving the royal body (bread); to behold the rites as if mourners at Jesus’s funeral; and to observe other spectacles for their newly activated “eyes of faith.”15 Once just “hearers” (katēchoumenoi), the newly baptized now partook of the mysterious rites and joined the ranks of the “enlightened” (phōtizomenoi).16 Baptismal spaces tend to suggest the sequence of the many rites. Baptisteries came in many shapes and sizes. Purpose-­built baptisteries might be rectangular, round, square, or six-­, eight-­, or even twelve-­sided, with baptismal pools three or four stone steps deep for full immersion, or ankle-­deep with water poured over the head (affusion). A shallow pool might be encircled by a curtain, a setup suggested by holes in the ceiling, sufficiently spaced to hold hooks for drapery.17 Dividers within baptismal chambers and side rooms beyond them added to the heightened anticipation.18 Expanded after a devastating earthquake in 334/5, the fifth-­century church complex at Kourion had two sizable annexes where the unbaptized gathered following the liturgy of the word. A catechumenon, as archaeologists identified each space flanking the length of the basilica on both sides, was where the unbaptized reassembled, while baptized Christians remained in the nave to participate in the Eucharistic rites. Candidates for baptism at the time of initiation would have been led through a series of rooms adjacent to the baptistery. Archaeologists have identified one adjacent room as the apodyterion, the undressing area, with masonry benches built along its walls. From this room, candidates would have entered the baptistery’s main chamber, where the stone font lined with ­marble was located within an apsidal recess. Initiates reached the font via a ramp and steps, then they descended two steps to stand within the font. From the main hall, they would have been led back to another adjoining room called

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the chrismarion, for the postbaptismal anointing or chrismation. Shallow recesses in the wall could have been cupboards for the new garments neophytes received. And two marble slabs set on the floor of an apse have been identified as marking the spot where the bishop stood as he anointed the newly baptized.19 Passageways and doorways heightened the anticipation and mystery in initiation rites.20 Inscriptions also guided initiates through these spaces. In the narthex of Kourion’s baptistery, as one faced east, one might look down to the words of Psalm 33:6 in a black-­bordered mosaic floor (“Approach Him and be filled with light and your faces shall not be ashamed.”21 Inscriptions also appeared over doorways, as at the Church of St. Babylas, as the catechumens crossed the threshold into the baptismal chamber.22 Water was the most potent and multivalent symbol in the baptismal process. As Tertullian proclaimed, “We, being little fishes (pisciculi), as Jesus Christ is our fish (ichthus), begin our life in the water, and only while we abide in the water are we safe and sound.”23 Water flowed through the sacred past, present, and future. Baptismal waters elicited comparisons to the rivers of paradise, the flood that carried Noah’s ark, the Red Sea that drowned Pharaoh’s army and parted for God’s people, or the Jordan River where Jesus himself was baptized.24 From the Greek verb baptō (“to dip,” “to plunge”), baptism has the same root as words for drowning, a ship taking on water, a burying, a penetration, or a deep sleep.25 Shapeless and cleansing, water often achieves total and instant transformation. It dissolves, purifies, and absorbs the old; and from waters new life emerges. Water suits a rite that evokes forces of creation, destruction, and re-­creation. Yet water was perhaps less well suited to the prolonged, sequenced, and iterative processes that catechumens experienced. Initiates learned to embody and imagine initiation as a workshop process. Following a brief overview of actual workshops in antiquity provides a backdrop for ways preachers deployed metaphors of making—crafts­people, materials, techniques, tools, and even errors—to describe the feeling and effects of initiation. Although many examples are drawn from baptismal instructions and sermons delivered by John Chrysostom, baptismal candidates in Jerusalem and Constantinople also encountered similar fabrication imagery. As this chapter suggests, closer attention to how workshops and craft training operated in Mediterranean antiquity deepens our understanding of how embodied agency, materiality, and subjectivities emerged through preparatory and actual rites of initiation. These workshop metaphors figured baptismal rites as collaborative, measured, and lurching processes of making, fixing, and

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remaking. When addressing the nearly and newly baptized, teachers called on initiates to think of themselves as works in progress as well as apprentices learning to make things. The specific craft itself varied: an initiate might be compared to a sketch, a sculpture, a pot, or some metal object. By these crafting metaphors, baptismal teachers rhetorically remade the baptistery into a workshop, or ergastērion, a place where craftspeople learned a skill through apprenticeship, cooperation, and long periods of training.

The Workspace in Antiquity “No space is without some handicraft,” the pagan orator Libanius once observed for his native Antioch.26 Although he had in mind tailors who set up shop in even the most cramped spaces, his remarks suggest the proliferation of workshops in urban centers. The workshop in antiquity signified a space as well as a group of persons engaged in making things. Workshops were often in close proximity to living quarters and shops in urban areas and along major roads.27 Crafts requiring larger and hotter furnaces, as well as smelting, tended to take place on the outskirts of a town. Yet raw materials could also be converted to small metal objects in relatively small workshops in the city. Thus, in the course of their daily life, pedestrians would have passed by workshops in a building, a side-­room, or a less permanent structure, such as a tent. The ergastērion also signified the people who gathered for a particular project or activity.28 In addition to workshops attached to homes, many were temporary spaces in which itinerant craftspeople used their own tools and left few traces when they departed for the next job.29 Any building construction would also have included various workshops. Some workshops were assembled for a particular large-­scale project, then abandoned upon its completion. Others were more permanent, with larger kilns, furnaces, walls, storage areas, and locking doors. The word ergastērion (or tabernae in the West) also extended to spaces where professionals provided services rather than manufactured objects. Inscriptions and papyri identify a physician’s office or even a brothel as a workshop.30 Craftspeople came from many social backgrounds.31 A workshop might include free laborers, enslaved workers, freed persons, and relatives. Apprenticeship contracts from Roman Egypt suggest that men and women, free, freed, and unfree, learned a variety of crafts both in the home workshop and beyond it.32 In one contract from Karanis, a father engaged a weaver called

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Aurelia Libouke to train his daughter for a year.33 For larger-­scale production, archaeologists at Ephesus have detected traces of furnaces, kilns, and forges along with radiocarbon traces in the soil.34 Some workshops were attached to homes and shops, as at Sardis in modern-­day Turkey, where an anvil and smith’s set, smelting equipment, and a copperworkers’ quarter were among the shops in late antique Sardis.35 Debris might suggest the longevity of a workshop and the ways materials were used and reused. A Tuscan villa, after being abandoned in the fifth century, was converted by a group of artisans into a variety of workshops for pottery, blacksmithing, copperwork, and glass manufacturing. Indeed, raw and precious materials from the house supplied the workshops.36 Objects found in workshop spaces tell us a great deal about the activities and human experiences of workshops. Large objects such as hearths, kilns, and vats have left a durable trace for archaeologists to analyze and altered the geophysical profile of the earth on which they stood.37 Fixtures, fittings, shelves, and porticoes also reveal the presence of workshops since even one-­ room operations could also include a display area. Since many tools and materials were portable, workshops may appear bare in many ancient cities. Yet seismic catastrophes such as earthquakes and volcanoes have preserved more fully stocked workshops. Broken tools, waste products, and botched or abandoned objects also reveal much about workshops. At sculpting workshops in Athens and Aphrodisias, archaeologists have found unfinished and/or reworked pieces, suggesting apprentices learned the affordances of raw materials and the handling of various tools. A pair of unfinished left feet, carved from the same block of stone, are likely to have been the practice piece for apprentices, including children in some family operations.38 Practice pieces reveal various levels of specialization, the division of labor, the number of hands involved in sculpture-­making, the variety of tools and materials used, and the processes by which apprentices learned their craft. In addition to working with tools and raw materials, specialized artisans learned collaboration and multiple related skills. As Augustine observed of silversmiths, “One vessel passes through the hands of many artisans in order to come out perfect.”39 So, too, a single craftsperson might need to be adept at more than one skill. Stone carvers might have sufficient knowledge of metalworking to make or repair their tools.40 And the “lost-­wax” method of bronze statue-­making required the ability to work with clay, wood, and molten bronze to achieve the final product. In short, workshops were spaces where sequenced tasks were performed by those with different experience and expertise. Craft,

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or technē, required practical knowledge of raw material—whether metal, stone, fiber, leather, or clay—as well as knowledge acquired through observation, imitation, repetition, iteration, collaboration, coordination, and correction. As such, then, craft typically engaged the artisan in a “community of practice.”41 The structured cooperation that defined many workshops was a fact of life in urban areas. At Aphrodisias, Ephesos, and Sardis in Turkey, near Alexandria at Kom el-­Dikka, tools and debris suggest many hands worked in the fabrication of a single object. To a carefully trained eye, a single statue may reveal how various artisans, tools, stages, and skill levels cooperated in its creation.

Baptism as Craft Because craft assumed so many forms and was pervasive in urban areas, it provided a versatile set of metaphors for describing the processes of becoming Christian. Both craft and baptism involved sequenced activities, person-­to-­ person instruction, and proper timing. As in English, the ancient Greek word for workshop (ergastērion) connotes both the group of makers as well as the space that contains the activity. As such, the metaphor is apt for a time period when baptism was an activity undertaken by groups of adults. Both craft and baptism required skill, or technē, achieved through observation, apprenticeship, and hands-­on learning, To be sure, baptismal preparations also involved considerable “book learning,” such as Bible study and lessons in doctrines. Yet baptismal teachers also called on catechumens to learn by doing and to regard themselves as apprentices in some exhortations, material in others, and even product. If we examine baptismal preparation as a type of craft learning, we may find overlooked aspects of the training—notably, the physical, sensory, and material processes of the rite—that shaped the emotions. Like craft materials, the baptismal subject was malleable, plastic, and mutable.42 And just as an object has its own affordances (what it helps us to do) and materials have resistances (such as a knot in the pine), catechumens also learned how their own affordances and resistances rendered them both botched and beautiful things. Craft appeared in tales of God’s creation of the world. Following Jews in antiquity, early Christians commented extensively on God’s artisanry in creating the cosmos and its inhabitants in six days, or Hexaemeron (“six days,” referring to Genesis 1:1–2:3).43 As the fifth-­century Bishop Theodoret of Cyrrhus added, whenever humans build “houses, walls, cities, harbors, ships, dockyards,

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chariots, and countless other things,” they imitate the Creator. Yet what differentiates humans from the Divine Creator is that they need both time and tools to achieve their purposes (cf. Gen. 2:4–22; Isa. 44:2, 9–20). To make an object, Theodoret observed, requires a variety of materials and the assistance of a team of workers. “For the builder requires a bronze smith, and the bronze smith a metallurgist and a charcoal maker, and all of these require woodcutters, while woodcutters require planters and farmers; every trade borrows what it needs from the others.”44 Theodoret captures the interdependence of human craftspeople in a sequence of processes that transform raw material into cultural product, or chaîne opératoire as some archaeologists call it.45 According to at least one gospel, Jesus was a carpenter (Mark 6:3). Yet his connection to craft was more closely tied to his miraculous birth. The mother of Jesus was likened to a textile factory producing God enfleshed. One fifth-­ century preacher, Proclus of Constantinople, described Mary as the Theotokos (literally God-­bearer). She is a “workshop (ἐργαστήριον) in which the unity of divine and human nature was fashioned. . . . Within her is the awesome loom of the divine economy. . . . The loom worker was the Holy Spirit. . . . The wool was the ancient fleece of Adam. The interlocking warp thread was the pure flesh of the virgin. The weaver’s shuttle was moved by the limitless grace of the divine artisan who entered through her sense of hearing.”46 Although the image is of one maker, the act of making is presented as a multitooled, multiartisan workshop, suggesting structured cooperation.47 The image of childbirth as craft extends to the eleventh century when an ivory box—now on display in the Cleveland Museum of Art—depicted Eve as handling large bellows. The image not only represents the first humans inventing metallurgy but, as the art historian Justin Willson notes, the image also marks an existential shift, “the moment at which divine creativity ends and human ingenuity begins.”48 One is tempted to take Willson’s insight one step further by noting that the bellows recall Eve’s first words spoken outside of Eden: “I have got me a man with the Lord,” she proclaims upon the birth of her son, Cain. As one translator points out, the Hebrew verb for “got” (qanah) may perhaps be translated as “make” and is a pun on the name Cain (qayin), literally “smith.”49 Thus, procreation itself had the markings of craft. Centuries earlier, the connection between the creation of the first humans and metalwork appeared on a late third-­or early fourth-­century sarcophagus, now in the Capitoline Museum in Rome.50 Named for the god Prometheus, the sarcophagus shows the god not stealing fire but working an object that is either destined for or emerging from fire. With his left hand he tilts a small

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anthropomorphic statue on his lap as he engraves it with a stylus or some other tool he holds in his right hand. Elsewhere on the sarcophagus base, the god Hephaestus appears next to Adam and Eve. As the god swings back his long-­handled hammer, the tool nearly touches Adam’s thigh. Yet, facing the forge, the god’s gaze remains intent on the fire. As these examples suggest, in the mythological imagination, womb and workshop were closely associated as sites of fabrication. Craft also sustained many monastic communities. In western Thebes, an abandoned pharaonic tomb was retrofitted by a small monastic community in the sixth and seventh centuries to include work spaces, including three loom pits.51 Larger monasteries engaged in a wide range of crafts. The rules for the monastic federation led by Shenoute of Atripe (ca. 347–465) in upper Egypt mention goldsmiths, bronzesmiths, carpenters, leatherworkers, tanners, and makers of baskets, sacks, cloth, shoes, rope, and books. One rule suggests this variety: “As for all things of every craft that are for sale, whether linen, hair, cloth, rope, basket, book, or any other thing that they are learning how to make, they shall keep them for their own use. . . . And they shall not sell any of them until they are of good quality. . . . And if we happen to sell some things that have only partially been finished, we shall sell them for what they are worth, and shall inform the buyers that they come from the siblings who are learning.”52 The variety of wares also suggests a diversity of apprenticeships and the need to keep their products off store shelves. This rule addresses quality control, discounting the price of inferior products (the “factory seconds”) or keeping them back in the storeroom. The rules stipulated appropriate dress for workshops.53 They also set out guidelines for terms of sale, bartering, condition of goods, and pricing.54 Although craft was regulated, there was no effort to prohibit monastic workshops. As later monastery archives reveal, it was not unusual for a monastery to own a forge (ergastērion kōmodromikon) and its implements (akolouthia), such as the anvil, saw, adze, chisel, hammer, or auger.55 Ascetics not only made things; some became things.56 The Syrian hagiographer Theodoret of Cyrrhus likened his collection of short ascetic biographies to “living images and statues” of holy men and women.57 The fourth-­century bishop Basil of Caesarea exhorted one student to be like painters (zōgraphoi) who “constantly gaze at their exemplar and thus strive to transfer the expression of the original to their own work of art (philotechnēma), so too he who is anxious to make himself perfect in all the kinds of virtue must gaze upon the lives of the saints as upon statues (agalmata).”58 In sermons, John

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Chrysostom described the Apostle Paul as “this very portrait statue of virtue (houtos autos andrias tēs aretēs).”59 And Gregory of Nazianzus eulogized his father by recalling how he had led his flock by example, “like a spiritual statue (andrianta pneumatikon) exhibiting the polished beauty of all excellent conduct.”60 Like statue making, ascetic formation involved constant reworking. As Gregory of Nazianzus advised, “Look at ourselves and . . . smooth the theologian in us, like a statue (hōsper andrianta), into beauty,”61 echoing Plotinus’s advice to philosophers: “Go back into yourself and look; and if you do not yet see yourself beautiful, then, just as someone making a statue which has to be beautiful cuts away here and polishes there and makes one part smooth and clears another till he has given his statue a beautiful face, so you too must cut away excess and straighten the crooked and clear the dark and make it bright, and never stop ‘working on your statue.’”62 Plotinus here highlights the variety of techniques—cutting, polishing, smoothing, clearing, fixing, straightening—and the iterative and experimental actions involved in crafting. Likewise, striving for spiritual progress required constant scrutiny and continuous correction. The vigilant craftsperson fixes, refines, cleans, adjusts, repairs, and reworks fundamentally unstable materials. Like apprenticeship, discipleship entailed experiential learning and constant vigilance over something in the process of becoming. Just as monastic centers in Egypt became producers of ascetic handiwork, ascetic hagiography showcased the wonderworker as immobile display, the product and artisan of various technologies of the self.

Baptism as Lay Craft Baptism was a process involving many steps: exorcism, prayer, renouncing Satan, undressing, anointing, immersion, bearing fire in torchlit processions, and taking the Eucharist for the first time. Craft (technē), too, involved multiple steps and materials, a learning process, and a new product, typically something good for society.63 Although Basil mentions craftspeople in his audience, even elites with no formal craft training would have been familiar with workshops. Artisans’ work spaces were attached to homes and shops and would have been a familiar space to urban dwellers. Even students with advanced education in rhetoric would have encountered depictions of manual labor in the myths and speeches they studied, from Ariadne’s weaving to the god Hephaestus’s metalsmithing.64 Well into the high Byzantine ages,

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elites portrayed various crafts on luxury items.65 Thus, craft training analogies would have made sense to a wider audience than strictly artisans. In many ways baptismal preparations resembled craft training. Both processes involved beginners, who were tasked with learning from teachers how “to perform the proper action in the proper sequence at the proper time.”66 Through this slow, iterative, and collective process apprentices learned to become artisans and catechumens learned to become Christians. Timing mattered in craft and baptism. Misjudging the heating or cooling of materials could ruin an object. Analogously, as Christian teachers saw it, waiting too long to seek baptism had risks. While commending catechumens for deciding to seek baptism, Gregory of Nazianzus also chided their friends and relatives present who were putting off initiation.67 Because baptism demanded a radical change of habits and a vow to avoid sin, many Christian adults avoided baptism until their final days. To convey the importance of timing, Gregory drew on the iron forge: “While your desire is still vehement, seize upon that which you desire. While the iron is hot, let it be tempered by the cold water, lest anything should happen in the interval, and put an end to your desire.”68 Likewise, a concern for proper timing shaped some prebaptismal instructions. Cyril of Jerusalem advised initiates on how to comport themselves while awaiting rites to begin in church, how to incorporate more Bible reading and prayer into home routines, and knowing when it was appropriate to segregate men from women.69 Like an apprentice, the initiand learned new rhythms and routines. No less, catechumens could imagine themselves as matter transformed. And while initiands were encouraged to think of themselves as makers-­in-­the-­ making, so to speak, the ritual acts reminded them of their own materiality. During exorcism and then baptism, the candidates were handled by a variety of baptismal staff, who blew upon them, touched them with scented oils, dunked or doused them, and wrapped them in new coverings. When Libanius said that “no space is without some handicraft” (Or. 9.254), he had in mind tailors who set up shop in even the most cramped spaces. Yet his student, John Chrysostom, would certainly have added baptisteries to his teacher’s list. Some of the most vivid craft metaphors in Christian homilies occur in John Chrysostom’s sermons. When preaching on the Apostle Paul, Chrysostom described his efforts as a series of portraits, with John’s tongue serving as stylus and the Holy Spirit as painter, using the­ varied sense of the Greek verb graphein, signifying writing, drawing, and painting.70 Chrysostom also evoked many other crafts when fashioning himself as a maker and his congregation as his materials. Church, he reminded

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them, was a “dyer’s vat” (bapheion) in which habits, like colors, set permanently.71 He also likened his sermons to stamping. The soul is a “sort of wax,” he warned. Whereas “cold discourses” left no imprint, only the heat of “fiery” sermons left a lasting impression.72 On other occasions Chrysostom imagined the congregation as visitors on an “open studio tour.” “Go into a painter’s study (zōgrapheion),” he advised, “and you will observe how silent all is there. Then so ought it to be here [in church]: for here too we are employed in painting portraits, royal portraits . . . by means of the colors of virtue.” Chrysostom insists that what he calls for is “not easy, but [learned by] long habit (synētheia).”73 He reminds his listeners of the stillness (hēsuchia) and silence (sigē) that accompany the Eucharist or baptism, or any other rite that requires intentional habit-­making. In another sermon, Chrysostom invites his congregation into yet another workshop to behold a woodworker’s craft. For “only when he puts on the colors, then the beauty of the art will become conspicuous.”74 In these examples, Chrysostom appeals to the steady grind of “long habit” and the extended periods of training. As he exhorted his congregation, “Go to the carpenter’s” and observe carefully his craft “when he hollows the wood, when he alters its outward shape.” Craft, he observed, also extends to the animal world, as the bee “frame[s] her comb” and the spider and ant have their own handiwork.”75 All craft requires patience through all the trial and error. When a novice painter mixes colors indiscriminately, Chrysostom notes, the result is “greatest loathsomeness.” Yet a mature Christian is like an “excellent painter,” knowing precisely how to mix “the different colors of virtue.”76 Nor did craft end in baptism. Chrysostom advised parents to raise children as “wondrous statues” and sculpt and tend to them like a fastidious painter who applies small amounts of paint daily until the masterpiece is complete.77 Thus, the workshop serves as a useful model for the careful observation, perseverance, pacing, and patience required to become Christian. Crafting metaphors conveyed the slow and multistaged work of preparing for baptism: “Let the same thing happen now which occurs in the case of painters. They set forth their wooden tablets, draw white lines around them, and trace in outline the royal images before they daub on the true colors. They are perfectly free to erase and to substitute another instead, correcting mistakes and changing what turned out badly.”78 The preliminary sketch (skiagraphia) captures both intent and product, including the catechumen’s initial efforts, the experimentation, even the undoing of prior sketches. With each stroke made (and sometimes erased), fabrication proceeds incrementally

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and painstakingly. Yet, even if the sketch never seems complete, the time comes when the craftsperson paints. And once pigments are applied, the next steps are irreversible. As Chrysostom continues, “But after they go ahead and daub on the pigments, they can no longer erase again and substitute, since they injure the beauty of the image by doing so, and it becomes a matter for reproach. You do the same thing. Consider that your soul is an image. Before daubing on the true color of the Spirit, erase the bad habits. . . . The bath takes away the sins, but you must correct the habit, so that after the pigments have been daubed on and the royal image shines forth, you may never thereafter blot it out or cause wounds or scars on the beauty which God has given you.”79 Chrysostom’s extended painterly metaphor highlights the multiple steps involved in making images. For him, baptism was not a matter of “dunk and done.” To convey the protracted process involved in becoming Christian, he employed metaphors from the processes of drawing, tinting, mixing, painting, and touch-­ups. As the Apostle Paul offered the body and its parts as a metaphor of communal interdependence (1 Cor. 12:12–27), Chrysostom looked to the painter’s workshop as a collaborative space: some draw, others paint; some clean while others protect. Such metaphors also ensure that God (as sketch) and the Holy Spirit (as color) remain active forces in the baptismal craft. Processes borrowed from the workshop, then, underscored the collective labor necessary to make a new self, including the scrutiny, redrawing, protection, and restoration of images. Colors, in particular, conveyed both the permanence and fragility of baptism. On the one hand, colors marked the final and indelible step. Like a dyer’s vat, the font set the neophyte’s colors permanently. Yet Chrysostom also noted that materials sometimes failed the maker. Poor preparation can cause colors to fade. Or sloppy blending might result in a horrid mess. As he warned, when “a painter confound[s] his colors together, the greatest loathsomeness ensues.”80 But when mixed properly and applied in a reverently silent setting, baptism could bring forth the “colors of virtue.”81 In addition to coloring its object, baptism was also likened to preservation and conservation. The fifth-­century Syrian teacher Narsai saw baptism as an occasion to retouch and reapply color: “The filth of the passions had effaced the beauty of our discernment, so [the Lord] retouched us with the incorruptible pigment (Syr. sama) of the Spirit. Like an artisan, he mixed the pigment for our race’s restoration.”82 Yet some grime required more than cleaning. As John Chrysostom described it, baptism was like melting down a statue to make a new one: “When a man takes and melts down a gold statue which has become filthy with the filth of years and

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smoke and dirt and rust, he returns it to us all-­clean and shining. So, too, God takes this nature of ours when it is rusted with the rust of sin, when our faults have covered it with abundant soot . . . and he smelts it anew. He plunges it into the waters as into a smelting furnace and lets the grace of the Spirit fall on it instead of the flames. Then He brings us forth from the furnace, renewed like newly-­molded vessels, to rival the rays of the sun with our brightness.”83 Melting precious metals is an appealing metaphor for Chrysostom: it preserves the continuity of the underlying material while it extracts impurities and accretions by the purgative effects of fire. It encompasses making and mending. He sees the newly baptized as needing care and even conservation.84 In time, the baptized will need restoration, as the conservator Cesare Brandi put it, an “intervention aimed at restoring to efficiency a product of human activity [and] . . . re-­establishing . . . the product’s functionality.”85 Like Brandi, Chrysostom seeks to restore functionality without “deleting all trace of the work of art’s passage through time.”86 For Chrysostom, both baptism and life itself are workshops. As he explained, “The present life is a smelting furnace and a dyer’s workshop in all of which the soul is prepared for virtue. Leather dressers take skins, shrink, stretch, and beat them against walls and stones, thus making them ready by all kinds of treatments to receive the dye before they put on the expensive coloring. The goldsmith gives over to the test of the furnace the gold which he casts into the fire to make it very pure.”87 Combining metalworking and leatherworking, Chrysostom highlights how intense physical exertion is necessary to prepare recalcitrant and resistant matter. Chrysostom would return to the forge in sermons preached outside of baptismal settings. In a sermon on the Acts of the Apostles, he likened prayer at night to a “spiritual forge, to fashion there not pots or cauldrons, but your own soul, which is far better than either coppersmith or goldsmith can fashion.” Yet he could not leave the forge at that. He expanded the metaphor to call on his congregation to cast your soul, aged by sin, yourself willingly into that smelting-­ furnace of confession: let fall the hammer from on high: that is, the condemnation of your words: light up the fire of the Spirit. You have a mightier craft (than theirs). You are beating into shape, not vessels of gold, but the soul, which is more precious than all gold, even as the smith hammers out his vessel. For it is no material vessel that you are working at, but you are freeing your soul

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from all imaginations belonging to this life. Let a lamp be by your side, not that one which we burn, but that which the prophet had, when he said, “Your law is a lamp unto my feet” [Ps. 119 (118):105]. Bring your soul to a red heat, by prayer: when you see it hot enough, draw it out, and mold it into what shape you will. Believe me, no fire is so effectual to burn off rust as night prayer to remove the rust of our sins.88 This extended and detailed metaphor captures not just materiality but the many stages of its production, its tools, the demanding physicality and repetitive actions of the artisan, even the illumination of the workspace, and the specifications of temperature required to eliminate damage. Chrysostom’s description highlights the vulnerability and instability of even the most beautiful object and the many hands that grasp a single object from start to finish, and then again for its repair. Baptismal teachers also drew attention to the artful blending of unlike parts or substances. “Lead is less of value than gold,” Chrysostom notes, “and yet gold needs lead to solder it.”89 Carpentry, too, assembles different pieces, much as candidates for baptism become an assemblage. Cyril of Jerusalem suggested to a new class of catechumens, “Imagine with me that the catechesis is a house. . . . Unless we dig deep and lay a foundation, unless we set the structure into the concrete in the right order—so that no hole is discovered, thereby making the house unsound—no good will come from the earlier effort.”90 Only when the stones are set in the proper and corresponding order and smoothed out can the “finished house go up.” The teacher’s “stones of knowledge” required the initiates to be like a stonemason, receiving the words of God, judgment, Christ, and the resurrection “sequentially” and “connect them into a single entity.” If assembled improperly, an “unsound house” will result. So, too, should the quality of materials be taken into consideration. As Cyril warns, “Do not make our house with grass, straw, or chaff lest we suffer a loss if the work has burned down, but rather use gold, silver, and precious stones for the task.”91 The quality of materials required quality workmanship. Although fire destroys craft, it can also refine some materials. Cyril likened the ritual acts of blowing away the devil (“exsufflation”) and breathing in the Holy Spirit (“insufflation”) as the bellows that stoke the metalworker’s fires.92 “Consider it to be unwrought gold that has been adulterated and alloyed with various materials—bronze, tin, iron, and lead.”93 Like a goldworker addressing

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his fellow artisans, Cyril advised, “we want to have the gold by itself. Without fire gold cannot be purified of foreign elements. Likewise, without exorcisms, a soul cannot be purified. . . . In the way that those experienced in the work of gold-­smelting find what they’re seeing by puffing air onto the fire through certain narrow pipes, blowing upon the gold hidden in the kettle, and stoking the flame underneath, so, too, do exorcists kindle the soul by puffing fear into the body, as though it were a kettle.”94 By turning breath into bellows, Cyril transforms the baptismal candidate into a goldsmith’s vessel. The refiner’s fire was a common biblical metaphor and put to effective use in a gruesome description of one martyr’s death.95 In a homily John Chrysostom delivered at a commemoration of Drosis,96 he likens her pyre to a baptistery. As flames engulf the martyr, the pyre becomes “an extremely pure spring of water, and an astonishing dye bath, and a smelting-­furnace. . . . Like gold in a smelting furnace, so too did that blessed woman’s soul become purer because of that pyre.” Sparing no gore, Chrysostom describes how the fire melted her flesh and charred her bones, such that all that remained was her body’s “lymphatic fluid . . . flow[ing] out in every direction, [as] her soul’s faith became firmer and more dazzling.” He adds that, to an untrained eye, the sight of gold may seem to disappear into ash as it heats up, liquefies, and flows out. Yet the “craftsman who truly has a precise knowledge of these matters knows that through this technique it becomes purer” and can be collected to “extract the gleaming [metal].”97 The pyre also signifies the martyr’s battle with demonic forces and her victory over them. As he explains, “The image of a spring would suit that pyre. For as if she had taken off her clothing in the spring and washed her body, so that in that flame she shed her flesh more easily than any piece of clothing and shined her soul, while angels wielding torches escorted her to her bridegroom.”98 In the process of her death, Drosis puts Satan to flight, disrobes, steps into moving water, and joins a torchlit procession. Put simply, her actions recapitulate the stages of adult baptismal rites. Yet it was Christ himself who “baptized her in the fire as if in water.”99 By presenting the martyr’s pyre and initiate’s baptistery as forges, Chrysostom found the common vocabulary and technical steps by which Christians would be crafted, remade, and purified. Craft metaphors also appear in postbaptismal sermons delivered to the newly baptized. Here, however, the craftsperson is, of all figures, the devil. In a homily to a group of new converts, Proclus of Constantinople (ca. 434–46) repeated the words of renunciation (apotaxis) as “I renounce you Satan, and

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your pomp and your cult and your angels and all your works.” “Works,” however, is understood as Satan’s own craft skills. As the preacher recalls the devil’s workmanship: “You fashioned (anaplassein) for me pleasures to seduce my mind” (6); “You painted (zōgraphein) for me forms of [the] idols” (7). “I renounce you! Remove your vessels as from one who is alien to you. I am not a cave (spēlaion) of wickedness to you.” By citing Satan’s craftwork and demanding that he remove his “vessels,” the neophyte delivers an eviction order to Satan, who may no longer store his wares in this workshop, cave, or warehouse. In its place, faith shall be the new craftsperson: “Faith (pistis) portrays (charaktērizein) for me the Invisible One; Faith pictures (zōgraphein) for me the Ineffable One; Faith visualizes (hypographein) for me the One not containable.”100 “Under new management,” this workshop has removed all traces of its previous tenant and installed a new artisan. What was the appeal of so much craft language? In sensory terms, craft metaphors drew attention to handiwork and the power of touch in baptism, the “haptic quality of the [baptismal] space,” in the art historian Annabel Wharton’s words.101 Craft metaphors also reframed the baptistery as a space where candidates learned to see themselves as both material and maker, as a product that passed through several hands, and to contemplate as well the hands that worked it. As a fabricated being, the Christian initiate might bear some resemblance to a golem, depicted in Jewish legend as “clay flesh . . . a porous, malleable creature . . . changing shape under successive guiding hands.”102 Craft also provided the language of becoming. As Aristotle put it, “Every craft (technē) is concerned with coming-­to-­be.” Yet the producer is never fully in control. For as Aristotle points out, “Craft loves luck and luck craft.”103 Like the processes of metamorphosis narrated in Greek myth, craft presupposes some transformation of matter and crossover of category.104 The maker transforms wood into a statue, clay into a pot, and iron into tools. Yet, as the prophet Isaiah said, only God fashions and builds the human person.105 Craft is also learned by one’s mistakes. Always contending with imperfections and damage, a maker confronts unstable creations, suspended in an unfinished state. The potter’s frustration with a defective pot is best captured in the prophet Jeremiah’s comparison of God to a potter at the wheel: “So I went down to the house of a potter, and found him working at the wheel. And if the vessel he was making was spoiled, as happens to clay in the potter’s hands, he would make it into another vessel, such as the potter saw fit to make” (Jer. 18:3–4; NJPS). John Chrysostom drew on this imagery in his baptismal instructions:

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[God] bade Jeremias to take a terra-­cotta jar, to break it to pieces before all the people, and to say: Even so will the city be destroyed and broken to pieces. But when God wished to extend hope to them, he led his prophet into a potter’s workshop and showed him not a vessel of baked clay but one of muddy clay which had fallen from the potter’s hands, saying: If this potter took up the vessel which had fallen and brought it back into proportion again, will I not be all the more able to set you up aright again after you have fallen? It is possible for God not only to correct us through the bath of regeneration, since we are clay, but also after we have received the working of the Spirit and then have slipped, He can lead us back through sincere repentance to our former state.106 This passage about the fragility of a crafted object is worth bearing in mind, even as Chrysostom also praised newly initiated Christians in their “radiant garments” when he addressed them at a martyr shrine near Antioch probably on the Friday after Easter.107 Martyrdom might help explain this paradox of the unfinished Christian donning radiant garments. The Christian remains unfinished in life, susceptible to the ravages of time. So, too, in life, her virtues are the techniques by which she may repair, restore, polish, and correct her new identity. At a martyr’s shrine, however, her robes elicit comparisons to the martyrs who achieved perfection through their sacrificial death, and whose example the new Christian may strive to imitate.

Conclusion Unlike water, which tended to produce more dramatic changes—whether purification, cleansing, or drowning—the workshop elicited metaphors by which to track gradual changes. Its iterative processes carried the expectation of the ongoing need to remake—that is, to rework, reuse, remelt, retouch, refine, and, when necessary, repair. What effect could craft metaphors have had on new Christians? Oddly, both Jesus’s training as a carpenter (tektōn; Mark 6:3) and the Apostle Paul’s trade as a leatherworker went unmentioned in surviving baptismal instructions. Rather than appeal to a venerable craftsperson, preachers invoked craft processes as a way to highlight the challenges of structured cooperation, beginners’ learning, and the unfinished object. For John Chrysostom, a portrait required not just a subject and painter. Before

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applying paint, the portrait maker prepared an underlying monochrome sketch (skiagraphia) and tweaked, erased, and remade it until it was ready for the application of colors. The unpredictability or recalcitrance of some materials required considerable labor and “bodily struggle with and against matter itself,” as one art historian observes.108 Like the object created by a sequence of craftspeople, the initiate would encounter male or female deacons, clergy who performed exorcisms, and sometimes the local bishop. The baptismal process, then, was a technological process involving mental schemas, tools, and gestures.109 In baptism, the ­single object often passed through many hands before it was complete. And if workshops were also familial spaces, in which apprentices learned by working alongside a relative or parent, baptism as a workshop further solidified the sense of chosen kin among the early Christians.110 In craft training, the apprentice contended with unfinished, imperfect, or defective products. Pliny called them inperfectae tabulae (unfinished paintings).111 Never completely discarded, they often lingered in workshops, repurposed as a practice piece for apprentices to hone their carving skills, yet not worth the effort to transport to the next workshop.112 Thus, like the newly baptized, the unfinished object remained vulnerable and unstable even after its completion. The astonishing range of materials and processes—all the smelting, carving, chiseling, firing, dyeing, and weaving—conveyed the laborious and incremental process of Christian becoming. Craft highlighted the erratic, frustrating, and rewarding quest for integrity and beauty. Above all, catechumens learned to see themselves as crafted from mixed media. They were gold and lead, stone and wood, alloyed metals and mixed colors, unfinished stone carving pocked with chisel marks. Like an unfinished object, initiates passed through several hands in the course of their progress from rough material to finished product. In the process, they carried the traces of multiple apprentices’ and teachers’ hands. Through close examination of an apprentice’s pieces, archaeologists have uncovered traces of multiple tools and multiple makers. Such physical reminders suggest that craft had a messiness and unpredictability that required patience and steadfast vigilance. Thus, when imagining the baptistery as a maker space, as teachers like Cyril of Jerusalem and John Chrysostom did, they set in motion the making of new identities as malleable, mixed, and unfinished. Such traits did not displace the abundant water symbolism of Christian baptism. On the contrary, it protracted the process of transformation and set the stage for the making and mixing

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that shaped new converts’ emotions. Learning to think of the baptistery as a workshop equipped new Christians with a vocabulary for inevitable frustrations and disappointments. Even a finished product is never truly finished, as it eventually chips, fades, or breaks. If baptism made Christians, their teachers also understood the ravages of time on any creation. This meshing between humans and materiality comes across in the prologue to Jacob of Sarug’s Life of Saint Ephrem: “The colors of my discourse are too common for your narrative. . . . My paints are dirty because of foulness. . . . The colors of my discourse are (like) spattered mud. . . . If I approach the canvas of your virtues, it would be ruined. These paints of mine are mixed with polluted water. . . . My colors are dirty and resemble a dark cloud.” Without these materials, however defective, the storyteller and the saint would lose their connection to one another. As Jacob continues, “If I, a weak man, come forward to sketch your portrait, the one who depicted you would be reproached by his paints.”113 That paint can reproach and rebel against the maker implies that agency extends beyond the human.114 Some reproach and rebellion could result in a skirmish. In a school exercise, the pagan orator Libanius imagines an agōn (struggle) between material and the maker. The invented speech is titled “What words would a painter say when, as he is trying to paint a picture of Apollo on laurel wood, the wood will not absorb the paint?”115 “My hand sketches the god,” the painter laments, “but the paint is dissolved as it makes war against the wood.” Not for lack of skill, the painter must simply contend with the resistance of the surface. “The wood battles continuously against what my right hand wishes,” the painter complains. Yet this particular laurel tree is the problem. As the painter recounts, the tree bears the name of the actual girl Daphne, who fled the clutches of Apollo and became that tree. “Daphne the girl, Daphne the tree, hatred in both.” Recasting the painter as the divine rapist, Libanius expresses the material’s agency as it rebuffs the paint. The angry laurel resists the painter’s hand and remains a defiant, intact agent. The aggression between the maker and the material recalls what one historian of craft has described as an artisan’s “bodily struggle with and against matter itself ” as craft learning meant contending with matter’s vitality and idiosyncrasy.116 Through somatic learning the artisan came to know “the nature of matter through bodily experience.”117 When artisans used their own earwax and urine to treat and bind materials, body and matter became even more intermingled.118 Like the artisan, the baptismal teacher and candidate could also regard themselves as “both a knower and redeemer of matter.”119 Libanius’s

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drama recalls the coercion in craft, something not lost on populations who underwent forced conversion.120 When understood as a workshop, the baptistery equipped neophytes to remake themselves long after their baptism. They learned to craft themselves amid the cautionary rubble of defective creations. “Teach your soul,” John Chrysostom advised in another context, “to mold (diaplattein) for yourself a mouth like Christ’s mouth. For it can create such things, if it will; it knows the art (dēmiourgein), if it wills. It knows the craft (technēn), if it is not remiss. And how is such a mouth made (plattetai), one may ask? By what kind of colors (chrōmatōn)? By what kind of material (hulēs)? By no colorings, indeed, or material; but by virtue only, and meekness and humility.”121 However much Chrysostom insists on the immateriality of this making (“no colorings or material”), his choice of words reveals a subject who emerges from materials, molding, and craft. The traces of plasticity, making, and malleability are never fully erased, as in clay objects that still show a maker’s fingerprints. Even the faintest palm print, as one art historian observes, “brings invisible, long-­dead craftsmen into startling proximity.”122 If, as Eusebius once put it, the church is a “living temple” with God’s people as “living and moving stones,”123 the stones themselves were not just washed in baptism. They learned to shape, carve, burnish, and paint themselves to become Christians. The iterative nature of this process was especially apparent in sixth-­century Antioch, when its patriarch Severus led hymn-­ singing processions of laypeople to the baptistery on Sunday evenings. At these weekly gatherings Christians celebrated, praised, prayed, supplicated heavenly beings and thereby remembered their baptismal covenant.124 During Lent, however, the baptistery doors remained closed, in preparation for Easter (and the actual baptisms). Although baptism was a one-­time occurrence in the life of an ordinary Christian, Severus’s nearly year-­round use of the baptistery suggests that it was a memory site and a maker space. And like a fix-­it shop, it invited the unfinished Christian back for a spiritual “tune-­up” and restoration. The new Christian subject was as much maker as conservator. Through metaphors of paint, dye, ink, clay, wood, and wax, the initiate learned to use the tools and materials required to experience the baptistery as a space where long, exacting, and collective labor took place. The workshop sealed the relationship between artisan and apprentice, at the same time as it made mastery an ongoing task, to repair, upkeep, and remake this crafted subjectivity. The unfinished object, commonly found in many workshops, was a particularly fitting image for the initiate, as it suggested a second self, a

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newer self. That older, prebaptismal self was never completely discarded, as he lived on in the presence and memory of the postbaptismal Satan. Catechumens learned to imagine themselves as makers and objects, the latter resulting from “contact between material, tool, hands, and eyes,” as the art historian Brigitte Miriam Bedos-­Rezak observes.125 Imagined as craftspeople, catechumens worked not so much on the world as within it. The materiality of these metaphors suggests that becoming a Christian was about, in Bedos-­Rezak’s words, “knitting things together rather than acting upon a world from outside.”126 Baptism smelted, melted, kiln-­fired, scraped, sculpted, sketched, painted, dyed, and even repaired subjectivities. Neophytes also saw themselves as apprentices or trainees who learned through failure and frustrated designs, do-­overs, and damage. Unlike water metaphors, craft metaphors invited initiands to regard self-­making as a messy process, involving rough material with vibrant plasticity. Once craft blurred the lines between maker, being, and thing, it also might redraw the line between free and enslaved persons, who were regarded in jurisprudence as both a thing and a being, alienable and inalienable.127 Craft also prepared new Christians to engage the material world in new ways. Time never dissolves in craft. It is a constant framework, as objects break, fade, crack, or rust in the course of time. Just as workshops consisted of assemblages, so, too, did new Christians learn to consider themselves as a group at once subject to temporal sequences and susceptible to the effects of time. Craft’s ubiquity, processes, collaboration, and sequences together captured the raw material of one’s past, the transformation of that material into an evolving present, and the imagined result in an eternal object that would resist the ravages of time. When perceived through craft’s sequenced processes and impermanent results the baptistery welcomed the new Christian as both creator and created.

Chapter 3

Processions and Portabilia

The legalization of Christianity in the early fourth century altered Christians’ relationship to their material environment. Theologians pondered more intently God’s creating the world and entering it through the person of Christ. Pilgrims sought out holy places, looking for relics and carrying home a small object or some substance that had been sanctified at the site itself. Imperial and aristocratic patrons erected churches, baptisteries, martyria, and monasteries, thereby transforming the appearance of cities.1 Yet how did ordinary Christians experience that built environment? This chapter considers what participation in processions—groups of people moving in formal arrangements through the streets—reveal about non-­elite Christians’ religious experiences. Processions may be studied from a “bird’s eye view,” mapping the route and locating the stops along the way. Hagiographers adopted this view when they likened large processions to “rivers” or described mass mobilizations so great that the desert became a “city.”2 A topographical approach, however, tends to limit one’s understanding to an aerial vantage point, distant from the walkers themselves. By contrast, a “walker’s view” considers processions closer to ground level—how it feels to walk on uneven stone, sense the perfumes, sounds, and movement of processants.3 A walker senses through touch, smell, and movement.4 Rather than assume the perspective of the “eye-­in-­the-­sky,” this chapter considers what may be learned about the sensory, kinaesthetic, and material experiences of those who walked in processions, and those who watched, accompanied, and/or engaged with the procession. I call these nonprocessants “spectators,” with the caveat that they were not passive viewers cordoned off from parades.5 They placed offerings on the cortège and exchanged gifts. In addition to underestimating the participatory nature of

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processions, topographic tallies invite reckoning wins and losses. What places did Christians claim? What did pagans lose? As the archaeologist Luke Lavan observes, “There has been too much emphasis on the ability of Christian processions to dominate urban landscapes or create new mental topography within cities, without taking into consideration the wider processional culture of the time.”6 Attending to the walker’s view offers one way to reknit this wider culture as well as to unfreeze or breathe life back into processions.7 The things people carried in processions offer a way into the micropractices that reveal specifics of personhood, relationality, sensation, and embodiment.8 When preachers scolded ordinary Christians who carried masks in Ravenna’s Kalends procession, what do the masks reveal about the bearers’ self-­understanding?9 When non-­elites carried torches to Christian shrines, how did they experience the night? Objects are reminders to pay closer attention to the movements and sensations of their bearers. If contestation, critique, and competition were the clergy’s concern, then how should the agency of the laity in processions be understood? Assemblages of humans moved various objects through urban streets in late antiquity. What was the role of ancient portabilia in urban settings, and what can be learned from Christian accounts of portabilia? The aim throughout is to better understand ordinary Christians’ movements in their embodied and performative context.

Moving Babylas Although processions tended to be commemorative and repeated events, a good place to begin is a one-­time procession held in late fourth-­century Antioch. A century after his decapitation, the martyred Saint Babylas was still making trouble. Christians transported his remains from Antioch to a shrine near the Temple of Apollo in a nearby suburb. When the anti-­Christian emperor Julian (361–63) accused the martyr’s bones of silencing the god’s oracle, Christians moved the bones across the Orontes River and into Antioch, this time to a church purpose-­built for his relics. The joyous hymns that propelled his retinue drew crowds of women, married and single, “every age group of each sex,” who deserted homes and marketplaces to line the route of the procession.10 Among the spectators was the teenage John (later nicknamed Chrysostom), who, decades later, described how Christians carried candles and “bounded out of the city as if about to receive a father who was returning after a long

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time from a lengthy journey.”11 In addition to joy at his “arrival,” the coffin unleashed terror, as lightning struck the cult statue of Apollo, “incinerated the lot,” and left a deep gash in the earth. Whether in joy or fear, carrying the saints’ bones made the martyr “gregariously present” both at his “last known address” and all the way to his new home.12 As Chrysostom warned, “While it’s possible to move a martyr’s bones around, it’s impossible to escape a martyr’s hand.”13 This spontaneous yet formal procession transformed an eviction into a triumph, as it redefined exile into homecoming.14 Chrysostom immerses his audience in a walker’s view, with its closely packed bodies, fragrant offerings, and the clamor and clutches of crowds. Processions animated urban life in late antiquity, as they had in earlier periods.15 Groups moved through public spaces to mark a military victory, a wedding, a funeral, or games. Each gathering had its own vestments, participants, topography, and ceremonies performed at various stops.16 From a distance, ancients recognized these events by their sounds, smells, attire, and animals and objects pulled or carried.17 Soon after the legalization of Christianity, church leaders and local populations created new reasons to process. Bishops led processions of Christians to consecrate new churches, commemorate earthquakes, and seek relief from disasters such as pandemics or crop failures. And, as the story of Babylas shows, they publicly paraded their illustrious dead with elaborate funeral corteges.18 Ordinary Christians witnessed all modes of processions in antiquity. Yet, only after the legalization of this once outlawed religion, did they organize their own parades. They had no need for musical instruments or sacrificial animals. But they kept one feature of ancient processions: carrying things. This chapter considers how objects held by those in a procession shaped the embodied experiences of ordinary Christians. They held, toted, carried, wore, and pulled a variety of things. These portabilia have been interpreted as symbols, signifying the type of procession: spoils of war for triumph, animals for sacrifice, and so on. The thinking has been that when Christians introduced new portabilia—crosses, relics—they resymbolized and thereby Christianized the procession. Beyond advertising Christianity, however, what else might portabilia teach us about the experiences of those who grasped, balanced, pushed, and pulled these objects? The variety of portabilia mobilized in ancient processions offers a way to consider how ordinary Christians experienced objects in their own outdoor rituals. Rather than focus on their symbolic or discursive message, the emphasis is on their material, embodied, and sensory affordances.

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Objects in Motion Streets in late antique cities bustled.19 Paved and colonnaded roads with porticoes extended roughly two miles in cities like Antioch.20 Wagons and carts left deep ruts in thoroughfares wide enough to accommodate traffic in both directions. Foot traffic was both human and hoofed, as pigs and pack animals heading to market clogged thruways. Elevated sidewalks protected pedestrians from the food waste and animal droppings that filled the streets, but the cascade of chamber pot contents discarded from upper stories was always a risk. Stepping stones in Pompeii allowed pedestrians to cross the sidewalk to safety. To follow these streets, one passed porches and forecourts, imposing staircases as well as refreshing fountains, and larger water structures called nymphaea. Statues of mythological figures and statesmen watched over the passersby. Goods and people coursed through urban streets. Food and drink stands provided benches for lingering and conversing. Some popular spots are still visible today by the inscriptions and graffiti frequenters left there. Street-­ side altars appealed to a family’s or neighborhood’s deities for protection and prosperity with food, drink, and flowers offered in gratitude. Some cities also celebrated the deities who protected various crossroads with flute-­players and flower garlands. As the classicist Jeremy Hartnett describes it, streets in antiquity served inhabitants as “corridor and stage.”21 Processions also packed the streets in antiquity. Groups moved in formation, halting at designated spots and filling the city with music, bellowing animals, colorful fabrics, flower garlands, and incense boxes, as shouts and acclamations resounded. Roman ritual activities depended on the movement of people, animals, and objects. Any festival that culminated in a sacrifice typically required the mobilization of humans ferrying things through cities: incense (and its container), wine vessels, ladles, towels, sacrificial knives, and vessels for collecting blood and entrails. Bare hands alone did not make sacrifice happen.22 It required objects. For at least one historian of Greek religion, a procession was not just about people and places. In its fullest sense, it was also about things: “a perambulatory activity which could take several different names (πομπή, πρόσοδος, ἀγωγή, εἰσαγωγή, ἐκφορά, ἔκδοσις) which involved a collectivity of people, distinctively dressed and carrying symbols and ritual objects, moving along a defined route.”23 Portabilia were objects in motion. The physicality of this movement is important to consider. Breathing in the fragrant blossoms, the perfumes, and incense, processants carried objects

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in their hands, on their shoulders or heads, or on wheels. In addition to touching or clasping an object, the processant might feel their own balance and gait affected by the weight and bulk of the object, sense its heat in the Mediterranean sun, or catch a streetlamp’s reflection after dark.24 In Greek and Roman religions, portabilia might be the honoree, whether a bride, a corpse, an athlete, a victorious general, an emperor, or a deity.25 Divine images accompanied funeral processions, circus games, religious festivals, and gladiatorial contests. Some objects were small enough to be handheld. Others required litters ( fercula) or carts.26 Anthropomorphic statues of the gods (called xoana, simulacra, or agalmata) as well as attributes of the gods (exuviae) moved through physical space.27 In a procession, the carrier’s identity was subsumed by the thing carried. The kanephoroi carried wicker baskets (often containing the sacrificial knife); the hydriaphoroi steadied water vessels, the pyrophoroi held torches, and skaphēphoroi balanced trays of offerings.28 A pre-­Christian painted jug, or oinochoe—now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York (accession no. 25.190)—depicts Pompē personified as a graceful female standing between Eros fastening a sandal and an enthroned god, Dionysos. On the ground between Eros and Pompē rests an enigmatic object. Processants would have recognized it as an open giltwork basket that rested on a female walker’s head and held sacrificial tools for Greek processions. Even as procession was personified in the figure of Pompē, the resting basket reveals its mobile use. The importance of portabilia persisted in the imperial age. Apuleius’s protagonist Lucius, in the Golden Ass (Metamorphoses), marveled at the intense fragrances, silks, costumes, radiant clothes, and objects that passed by him in a procession for the goddess Isis.29 He noted the wigs and vamping gait that made men into women; the gladiator’s leg armor, shield, helmet, and sword; the magistrates wearing purple and holding torches; and the philosopher with the characteristic cloak, staff, and woven sandals. Fowlers clutched the adhesives by which they trapped birds. Fishermen clasped their hooks. During the final moments, the protagonist Lucius while still under a spell that made him an ass, noticed animals costumed as humans and gods: a she-­bear dressed as a matron rode in a sedan chair, while a monkey dressed in “Phrygian saffron” posed as cup-­bearing Ganymede. Women in radiant white garments carried “reversed shining mirrors behind their backs to show respect to the goddess as she moved after them.”30 Some women clutched combs as they mimed adorning and grooming the goddess’s hair, while others sprinkled perfumes and balms along the route. Pipes and flutes were among the “many instruments” that filled the air with melody and set the pace of the procession. And

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“lanterns, torches, wax tapers, and other kinds of artificial light” shone forth as people shouted, “Keep the way clear for the holy procession!” Although a fictional scene, Apuleius suggested that vital to a sumptuous outdoor procession was sensing how objects moved, danced, and shimmered through perfumed, bustling, and noisy streets. Nor was he unique among the ancient novelists. Xenophon of Ephesus sets the meet-­cute of his love story of Anthia and Habrocomes at a parade for a local goddess. Preceding the heroine Anthia are the objects carried in procession: “first the sacred objects (ta hiera), torches, baskets, and incense, followed by horses, dogs, and hunting equipment, some of it martial, most of it peaceful.”31 As in an enchanted tale, objects come alive and connect the humans who hold, behold, and move them. These portabilia were not crests signaling the clan of their bearer. They were the mobile stuff of processions. Portabilia are at the center of one early second-­century bce inscription from Asia Minor: “Let the [official] leading the procession carry (pheretō) the xoana (archaic wooden statues) of all the twelve gods in garments as beautiful as possible.”32 A more detailed description of statues carried in procession appears in an inscription spanning six columns found at the theater at Ephesos (dated to 103/4 ce). The endowment of Gaius Vibius Salutaris, as it is known, comprises a 568-­line inscription describing 31 statues the donor commissioned for a procession held several times a year in Ephesos.33 Specifically, the inscription inventories 9 statues, 20 silver images—including some of the emperor, his wife, and members of the Senate—as well as some 15 statues depicting the city of the Ephesians. The precise weight and material for each object underscore the portabilia’s materiality. Such movement of Ephesos’s heroes, patron deities, and dignitaries melded into a mobile spectacle of civic, sacred, and imperial history. Nor was Ephesos unique. Elsewhere in Asia Minor, a Gaius Ilius Demosthenes endowed a procession in which ten processants “will ­handle (bastasousi) and bring forward (proaxousi) and escort (propompeusousi) the images of the emperors and the image of our central god Apollo.”34 As processions moved objects through civic spaces, they animated urban identities.35

Christian Portabilia Christian writers often lambasted mobile sacra of pagan spectacle, decrying the crass materiality of processions. The third-­century North African writer Tertullian inventoried the disgraceful sight: “The pompa (procession)

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comes first and shows in itself to whom it belongs: with the long line of images, the succession of statues, the cars, chariots, carriages, the thrones, garlands, robes.” Smaller processions were no better: “Even if the images are but few in its procession,” he warns, “one image is idolatry.”36 “The path to the theater,” Tertullian warned, is “from the temples and the altars, from that miserable mess of incense and blood, to the tune of flutes and trumpets.”37 Here, the North African bishop is not just mapping the route of a procession and decrying its functionaries (“undertaker and soothsayer”); he conveys his disgust at the mess and noise of portabilia assaulting his senses.38 In many parts of the empire, Christian initiation rites included a verbal rejection of Satan’s pompa as part of the exorcisms prior to entering the baptismal pool. To renounce pompa, then, meant avoiding spectacles, illusions, and theater but also processions. Yet, like the dancing combs or the fowler’s adhesive in the Isis procession, the objects lay Christians carried were difficult to put down. Human interaction with objects and the continued coexistence of pagan and Christian processions suggest a happy “stickiness” between processants and portabilia. If affect circulates through “sticky objects,” then processions held together people, values, and objects.39 Yet Christian bodies also took to the streets. Christian emperors headed lavish imperial parades in Rome and Constantinople.40 Bishops promoted processions of Christians to various urban and suburban churches on key liturgical feast days.41 Through mobile worship, Christians commemorated events from Jesus’s life and martyrs’ final days on earth.42 Relics figured prominently among the portabilia of Christian processions.43 Over the course of the fourth through the sixth century, Antioch’s stational calendar expanded as new relics or new churches generated more processions.44 Liturgical processions to and from a city’s churches or shrines framed the city’s many feasts, fasts, and commemorations.45 When John Chrysostom welcomed a cortege at the shrine of the martyr Drosis, he noted how the saint herself “led this holy crowd and Christ’s spiritual flock off to these spiritual pastures of the saints.”46 Portabilia also changed over the course of a procession through the streets of Antioch and its suburbs. According to Bishop Severos (d. 538), the cart that conveyed St. Leontios’s relics became increasingly loaded with spectators’ clothing, bread, rings, and necklaces.47 These offerings grew in volume and moved along with the saint’s relics in the course of their journey.48 As such offerings began to move with the relics, they joined a saint’s portabilia. The growing presence of martyrs’ tombs extended Christians’ processions to suburbs and back into the city. Although few martyria survive from

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late antiquity, sermons provide a vivid picture of processions to cemeteries, shrines, and churches beyond Antioch’s gates.49 Some processions followed one of the main colonnaded streets, exited the city gate to the southwest, and proceeded to a cemetery, or koimēterion, to a common martyrium. John Chrysostom preached there for the annual commemoration of St. Julian.50 When preaching at various martyria, he would marvel at the visual impression of the lamps carried by those who processed together. “Lamps packed tightly together” resembled to the distant onlooker “a fiery river.”51 Nor was the presence of processions only visual. Chrysostom called on those who gathered at the shrine of Pelagia to “fill the highway with incense. For the road wouldn’t seem as venerable, if someone waved a censer along its entire length and perfumed the air with the sweet smell, as it would now, if everyone passing along it today were to relate to themselves the martyr’s struggles and so walk home, each making their tongue a censer.”52 In this invocation he renders the chatter of a homebound procession into the wafting fragrance of street processions. These examples suggest that his audience would have consisted of many who had arrived together in procession, whether at the martyria of the Maccabees, at a group cemetery found by the Romanesian Gate, or other saints’ shrines.53 Homilies by Severos of Antioch in the early sixth century point to new martyria, such as one dedicated to St. Romanus. In addition to preaching on the saint’s feast day, Severos returned there to celebrate his own consecration as patriarch, such was the appeal of martyria outside of saints’ feast days. According to monastic biographers, processions greeted and honored ascetic saints at their new martyria, as in the installation of relics of the pillar saint, Symeon the Elder, in a martyrium outside Antioch, and the burial at Daphne of the visiting Syrian monk, Thomas.54 Processions were multisensory and their portabilia were often memorable. Although Antioch had far more martyr burials than the newer city of Constantinople, sermons preached in the capital provide detailed descriptions of processions and their portabilia. John Chrysostom recounted the journey of Saint Phokas’s relics from Pontos along the coast of the Black Sea to Constantinople. In a sermon delivered the day after the saint’s arrival, the preacher recalled, “Yesterday our city was magnificent, magnificent and renowned not because it has columns, but because a martyr was in our midst, ceremoniously conveyed to us from Pontos.” As if describing an imperial dignitary’s arrival (adventus),55 Chrysostom recapitulates the saint’s movements: Phokas “observed your hospitality. . . . He blessed those who gathered and shared his sweet smell.” And he reminded audiences that there were additional

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processions. “Did you keep away yesterday? At least come today,” he exhorted, “so that you might see him escorted off to his own location. Did you see him as he was escorted through the market place? See him sailing across the sea as well.”56 The procession at sea would involve numerous lamps: “Let’s again make of the sea a church by going out there with torches, both getting the fire wet and setting the water on fire,” he urged. In recalling the torches illuminating the shoreline, John compared the procession to high tide: “For a sea billowing with waves is a pleasure to a helmsman, and to a preacher, a church flooding its banks.”57 As the water metaphors suggest, Phokas’s procession not only filled the streets; its fiery portabilia showcased a marvelous paradox, getting “fire wet” while “setting water on fire.” The highlight of the multiday festival in Constantinople, the portabilia of lamps refashioned the urban skyline. Another nocturnal procession, which the Empress Eudoxia attended, resulted in a line of torches and candles lighting up the night sky from Constantinople to Drypia, a suburb about nine miles along the Egnatian Way.58 Emotions ran high during the nocturnal procession and also upon arrival at the shrine, where John greeted the crowd early the next morning. He could not contain himself as he welcomed the faithful, saying “What can I say? What shall I speak? I’m jumping with excitement and aflame with frenzy. . . . I’m flying and dancing and floating on air, and, for the rest, drunk under the influence of this spiritual pleasure.” The source of his excitement is not just the empress but also the sight of torches and lamps “packed tightly together in a continuous line stretching as far as this martyrium supplied a vision of a fiery river to those watching.”59 Not exactly a “walker’s view,” Chrysostom marveled at what the French thinker Michel de Certeau described as the “voluptuous pleasure . . . of ‘seeing the whole,’”60 giddily recalling the spectacle. As he explained his intense feelings, “That’s why I’m jumping with excitement and flying under the influence of pleasure—because by emptying the city you’ve made the wilderness [the suburb] a city.”61 John’s joy springs from his excitement and pleasure of beholding the portabilia. He cannot hide his giddiness when he announces to the assembled crowd that he feels like jumping, flying, dancing, and floating. As this homily suggests, the portabilia of nocturnal procession produced a euphoria that lasted until morning. In addition to the delight in the glow of torches and candles, the bright lights also terrified demons. Chrysostom noted, “While the remains were being conveyed, demons were bursting into flame. Cries of grief and shrieks went

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up everywhere, as the ray of light leapt forth from the bones [of the martyr] and proceeded to burn to a crisp the opposing powers in their phalanx.”62 Such gruesome combustion and cacophony belies the calm composure of the martyr engulfed in flames with the demons’ cries arising from their loss of emotional control. The portabilia held together opposing sets of emotions: on the one hand the leaping exultation of the preacher and his community, and on the other the conflagration that tormented the demons. Another fiery procession appears in the Life of St. Porphyrios of Gaza. After the baptism of the infant emperor, Theodosios, a crowd led him back from the church to the palace in procession. Emperor Arkadios, together with ranked dignitaries and soldiers, “all [held] candles, so that it seemed as though stars were shining on earth.”63 The gleam of the baptismal procession prefigured the flames that years later would engulf the Temple of Zeus Marnas, at the instigation of a child-­prophet with a precocious expertise in fire accelerants. Christians heeded the prophecy and burned the Marneion to the ground. Bishop Porphyrios then instructed the congregation to fast; following morning prayers, they processed to the former temple with “hoes and shovels and other such implements . . . chanting psalms together,” as the bishop followed “carrying the holy Gospel,” and clergy held a processional cross, chanting psalms. Once at the former temple site, the bishop prayed, and then “he ordered all the congregation to dig” up the temple’s foundation.64 After they had removed the charred debris from the empty foundation site, the bishop led the congregation in more prayers, chanting psalms “on the location.” Then he led the group in lugging heavy stones and tossing them into the foundation.65 Portabilia here take many forms: from more typical liturgical objects, such as crosses and gospels, to liturgized objects, such as demolition tools (hoes and shovels) and building materials (foundation stones). Psalmody accompanies them all. As these episodes illustrate, portabilia solidified and situated the Christian community of Gaza through flame, tool, and building material. Funeral processions for prominent Christians were also remembered as emotionally intense events. Gregory of Nazianzos’s funeral oration for his friend Basil of Caesarea recounts the funeral procession. “Borne aloft by the hands of holy men,” Basil’s body and bier floated above the crowd.66 “Squares, porticoes, houses of two and three stories were filled with people escorting him, preceding, following, accompanying and treading upon one another, many thousands of every race and age.” The carrying of the body

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and decorum of the funeral procession soon unraveled, as the processional crowd erupted into violence. As Gregory recalled, “A contest arose between our own people and outsiders, pagans, Jews, strangers, as to who should lament the more and thereby gain the greater benefit.” The unrest proved fatal, as “many souls departed along with him as a result of the violent pushing and tumult.”67 Rather than describe these fatalities as casualties of ensuing chaos, Gregory cast the victims’ end as a “happy” one, “in that they were companions of [Basil’s] departure.”68 Basil and those who perished at his funeral were now all portabilia. Basil’s funeral procession is the second procession described in ­Gregory’s oration. While recalling their student days in Athens, Gregory recounted mock processions that were part of the initiation of new students. It was customary to abduct a new student and carry him in procession through the marketplace to the baths. Whether the rite was meant to ridicule the rookie or parody a wealthy patron’s retinue is uncertain.69 Although he managed to convince the students to spare Basil from this ordeal, Gregory’s lengthy descriptions of the two rites of passage—the college prank procession and the funeral—combine raucousness with bodies borne aloft as they threaded their way through dense urban space. Much as the youthful procession carried a body to initiate it into a new community, in death the body of the bishop found a community of the victims of a riot, forging a new community of blessed dead. In both procession stories, the portabilia (the initiate and the corpse) unleashed intense emotions and courted violence.

Living People as Portabilia Although the college initiation was a ludic spectacle, it was not uncommon to see people carried through the streets. Brides were carried in wedding processions, and conquered warriors were marched through urban centers.70 On solemn occasions, portabilia (in the form of statues) and persons (standing like a statue) blurred the line between person and thing.71 Sacred biographers marveled at immobile ascetics who were statue-­like and carried in processions. One saint, Theodore of Sykeon (d. 613), ordered a local ironsmith to make him a “narrow iron cage” (κλωβόν) in which to conduct his fasting and prayer.72 When Theodore was ready to return to his monastery—with the cage—the inhabitants of the village urged him to have a duplicate wooden cage made,

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so that during his long absence from the village they could at least have his empty cage. So he spent the winter in the village in his iron cage, awaiting the completion of the wooden one. When the second cage was ready, the people promised they would assemble and accompany him with a religious procession and “reestablish” him in his sanctified place during Holy Week. Thus, villagers processed to the monastery to fetch Theodore, then processed back to the village transporting him in the iron cage, where he spent Lent, then returned the cage back to his cave and suspended it there. Both the containment—the two cages—as well as the back-­and-­forth of processions suggest that this talismanic holy man and his empty cage protected those in his proximity. Carrying his cages in processions ensured that in his absence the villagers would benefit from his continued protection of the monastery as well as the neighboring villages. Another example of a holy man being carried in procession appears in the Life of Daniel, a fifth-­century stylite who lived outside Constantinople (409–93). His biographer makes much of the fact that once the ascetic was settled on his pillar, his feet would never again touch the ground.73 While Daniel spent nine years in Constantinople, he floated about the city in a litter, carried in a procession of many faithful with “cross-­bearers” to protest the anti-­ Chalcedonian encyclical of Basiliscus. “Lifted up [bastazomenos] by the crowd of the Christ-­loving people,” Daniel ordered his procession to halt when a leper rushed alongside him asking to be healed. The holy man enlisted the crowd to face the East and “stretch forth their hands to heaven and with tears cry aloud the ‘Kyrie eleeson.’”74 With the healing successful, the procession continued toward the imperial palace at Hebdomon, in the suburbs of Constantinople. Nearby, a Goth fell to his death when he jeered at the procession’s resemblance to the adventus of an imperial official.75 The saint’s circuit continued to the shrine of St. John the Baptist at the Stoudios Monastery, where his carriers rested briefly, before being carried into the home of a patrician when it seemed the holy man might be “crushed by the thronging crowd.”76 One host provided Daniel with a litter (lektikion) and a retinue of guards to protect him from being “troubled [parenochlein] by the crowd.”77 Why Daniel was carried everywhere is unclear from these stories. Some earlier episodes suggest he was unable to walk, after years spent in harsh austerities atop his pillar. In a scene recalling the gospel stories of the sinful woman who intrudes into a party to anoint Jesus, an infertile woman barged into a home where Daniel was visiting. She did not recoil when she saw that

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the holy man’s sole was dislocated from the ankle bone, leaving his shin bone exposed. The maimed foot still had healing powers. Rather than wash it, she instead offered the holy man a cord, which he wrapped around the diseased foot. She brought the cord home, where it worked wonders: soon afterward, she conceived and bore a son.78 Yet even if the holy man’s lame foot explains his need to be carried, the hagiographer took many opportunities to recast his conveyance as a procession. The new litter, the stops along the way for ritualized healing, the growing crowds, his being mistaken for an imperial procession, and the ritual actions (psalmody, prayer, etc.) suggest that Daniel himself served as the holy portabilia. As these tales of portable holy men suggest, processions highlighted their complex identities: ascetic, wonderworker, mediator, advisor, and so on. Female ascetics were also carried in procession. In the Life of Pelagia, the actress-­dancer first appears in the streets of Antioch in a parade heading to the theater. She is such a distraction to the clerics gathered at a church synod that her passing by renders them immobile and unwilling spectators, averting their eyes from the nearly unclad and bejeweled Pelagia and her glittering retinue of young men and women. The Life closes with another procession, now for the monk “Pelagios,” mourned by male and female monastics from Jericho and beyond the Jordan River, all holding “candles and lamps [while] singing hymns.”79 The gleaming gold of the theatrical parade returned now in the glow of the mourners’ tapers accompanying the holy person’s body to its final rest. Holy women were also depicted as portabilia. When Melania the Elder returned from the Holy Land to Rome, she was welcomed in Naples by her children and grandchildren. As they journeyed to Nola, she rode on a scrawny horse “worth less than an ass.”80 Reminiscent of Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, Melania’s animals contrasted with “those silk-­clad children of hers, [who] took joy in touching that thick tunic of hers, with its hard threads like broom, and her cheap cloak.”81 Like Odysseus who first returned to Ithaca disguised as a beggar in rags, Melania’s appearance reflected her voluntary transformation from an aristocratic lady to a poor ascetic. The “manly” holy woman, whom Paulinus liked to call “Melanius,”82 processed on a horse with a retinue outfitted in finery in keeping with her noble origins, as she wore an ascetic’s humble garb. As an immobile thing carried in a procession, the humble holy woman set both her noble origins and her ascetic poverty in motion. When portrayed as portabilia in processions, Pelagia/us and Melania/ us paraded class and gender paradoxes.

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Processional Polemics, Petrified Punishment, and Mockery on the Move Processions proclaimed and mediated identities. We have seen how the objects that accompanied his relics remade Babylas’s expulsion into a homecoming or adventus procession. Processions were also a form of protest, as when the stylite Daniel’s procession led to the retraction of a controversial encyclical. The destination involved the contested space, but the portabilia weaponized the instruments of change. Porphyrios’s congregation carried hoes and shovels, implements presaging the destruction of the Marneion and its erasure from the sacred landscape. By those agricultural tools, a new church would sprout in its place. Likewise, in Sozomen’s account of the Christian takeover of the Mithreum at Alexandria, Christians arrived to reclaim the temple and “clean it up” (anakathairontos). Once inside, however, they found a hidden chamber with cult statues. They brought the images into broad daylight and “in order to insult the pagan mysteries . . . made a procession for the display of these objects,”83 as Sozomen described the scene. The mocking procession provoked pagans to attack and kill many Christians. In their migrations from darkness to light, from concealed chambers to public spaces, and from safekeeping to ridicule, the idols were now parodied in the processions of their foes. Mocking processions were not just part of urban life; they also occurred in the countryside. The History of the Monks in Egypt includes the story of a temple with a famous statue in a village near Abba Apollo’s monastery: “The priests together with the people, working themselves up into a bacchic frenzy, the statue became portabilia as they carried it in procession through the villages, no doubt performing the ceremony to ensure the flooding of the Nile.” Once, when the crowd passed by “in a frenzy,” the monk dropped to his knees and prayed to Christ. Immediately, the entire procession was frozen in place. Even the statue, which had been in motion, was now at rest. As the paralyzed people baked in the hot sun, their priests supplicated Apollo to lift the spell. He consented after the villagers renounced their “error” (and some even joined the monastery!).84 Once immobilized, the procession’s impotence revealed the emptiness of these pagan rites, and the baking sun put a spotlight on the folly and error of these processions. The ability to petrify a procession also appears in the tale of the translation of the head of John the Baptist as it made its way to the palace of the Emperor Valens in Constantinople. Once the cart entered Panteichion, at the outskirts of Chalcedon, the mules refused to proceed, despite repeated whippings. Thus, the head remained at Kosilaoukōmē.85

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Although processional portabilia were objects in motion, their power and movement could be frozen in place by a wonderworking ascetic. Processions also heightened competition between Christian groups. When rival Arians gathered weekly in the streets of Constantinople to sing odes, John Chrysostom sent out his own congregation to counter-­process with candles and silver crosses in hand and to outsing the Arians’ choirs.86 Even emperors intervened, as when Anastasios appointed an urban prefect to head ecclesiastical processions, amid further efforts to legislate rival Christian processions and prevent further street clashes.87 As Luke Lavan suggests, “In a hierarchical society, integrated through experience of monumental public space, the street and the details of processions were perhaps as significant in disseminating facts and opinions as print and television media are today.”88 Portabilia not only convey “facts and opinions” but they also impart moods and feelings. These parodies and immobilizations reveal how Christians staged processions to celebrate and galvanize their heroes as well as to mock their enemies, to announce their presence and experience joy in public.89 Thus, portabilia were a powerful tool for disabling the processions of others and expanding networks of holy places in the Christian landscape, particularly between urban centers and suburban martyria, and between monasteries and villages. Despite their criticisms of pagans’ portabilia, Christians did not process empty-­handed: they toted crosses, holy books, candles, relic containers, among other ritual objects. They also took up some quotidian objects, like hoes and shovels, and even living ascetics, making them into mobile sacra. To hold portabilia was to feel the weight of the object, how it became a bodily appendage. Over time, the body may become habituated to an object carried long distances. As anyone who knows the relief of liberating one’s aching shoulders from a backpack, unclenching clawed fingers from bagged groceries, or hauling a half-­bushel of apples, the longer one carries weight, the more it disciplines the body. So, too, in a procession, objects revealed bodies in the world and to the world. As architectural historians point out, Christian imperial patrons, clerics, and aristocrats sponsored churches, monasteries, shrines, porches, and palaces to announce to the world “We’re here!” For ordinary Christians, the torches, candles, books, bodies, and bones they carried along in a procession showed their bodies in the world. With its objects both proximate and intimate, sensible to the touch and with noticeable heft, the procession entangled ordinary Christians with the world in which they now belonged.

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Like votives carried to a shrine, portabilia affected the gait, posture, pace, and movement of the bodies holding them. The archaeologist Emma-­Jayne Graham describes life-­size clay infant-­shaped votives in Italy that required both of her hands to move them from shelving to the study table. Even in that short move, she noticed herself cradling the head, resting the swaddled infant across her flexed hands, and she felt the impressions they left on the inside of her forearms. Looking back on the experience, she realizes she began to carry them as she would a living infant.90 She describes the votive objects as “cold to the touch,” “unyielding,” “smell[ing] like clay,” and “silent.” As Graham claims, these ritual objects are far more than “the material expression of pre-­existing ideas.” They afford a “felt-­knowledge” for the bearer and involve sensory and presumably kinaesthetic and affective modes of embodied knowing.91 Like votives, portabilia were objects that became proximate and drew participants’ attention.92

Conclusion As part of baptism, Christian initiates were made to renounce Satan and his “pompē.”93 The word stood for a variety of banned foods and objects associated with demonic beings. Yet, the same word described processions, a Mediterranean practice that Christians embraced. In this shared cultural activity, portabilia announced and affirmed Christian presence in the polis. For the bearer, portabilia did even more. Their weight shaped the body that carried them. Recalling John Chrysostom’s excitement over how a nocturnal procession’s torches could remake an urban night into day, portabilia served as more than placards or messages. They materialized the rhythms of sacred time, showing the world a sacred past. The Christian calendar lit up the night sky. As instruments of kinaesthetic and affective knowing, portabilia both moved in space and moved their (be)holders. Because media combine “immediacy and amplification,”94 portabilia in processions animated religious competition, as they had with Babylas’s relocation. They countered the shame of expulsion with an outpouring of filial affection and homecoming. And the shameless sex worker Pelagios was introduced to the audience as part of a procession, only to be carried out in death tenderly, “as if it had been gold and silver.”95 The precious jewelry worn by the theatrical performer reappeared in the form of the ascetic’s corpse, another gold and silver. Asceticism’s alchemy unites this story of two processions. The

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portabilia of processions channeled religious competition and redrew sacred landscapes.96 By paying closer attention to portabilia carried in procession—rather than solely the landmarks passed in urban topographies—we may appreciate the materiality of everyday objects. Bones, candles, crosses, books, and censers were among the tangible objects Christians carried as they walked together and found their place in the world.97 Whereas ascetics wore actual iron chains to ground themselves in this world, ordinary Christians relied on portabilia they could pick up, transport, and put back down.98 Like travelers or pilgrims who carried fruit, clay tokens, flasks, or oracle tickets, local communities had their own portabilia.99 In antiquity, processional portabilia were the media by which urban Christian communities moved through the streets, whether in protest, mockery, or reverence. Paying little attention to clerical admonitions, everyday Christians adopted the muscle memory that comes with carrying objects. Their processions choreographed bodily events: with sore muscles, a halting gait, and cramped hands.100 In all these instances, the movable objects of processions— whether hoes and shovels, or crosses and Bibles—were both held and beheld, as processants embedded ordinary Christians into the urban landscape.

Chapter 4

Liturgical Emotions and Layered Temporalities

Christian feast days were occasions for intense emotions. Outside the church, feast-­goers celebrated abundantly, despite church leaders’ pleas for propriety.1 Christian mobile worship (stational liturgy) and processions also brought emotions outdoors. Within the church, commemoration was interactive and deeply affecting, as ordinary Christians relived and remembered events from Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection. Each feast might have a dominant “feel”—joy at Jesus’s birth, grief at his death, and astonishment at his resurrection. Yet, as relived, these events surfaced a far wider range of affects. As the Greek Orthodox priest and scholar Ephrem Lash once observed of early Byzantine Holy Week liturgies, some of the most agonizing episodes from the Passion are sung in festive tones. “They are so terrible,” Lash explains, “that to set them to the sadder tones would make them unbearable.”2 The effect is one of mixed emotions, as an unexpected emotion troubles the central mood of a festal celebration. How might it feel to participate as an ordinary Christian in these mixed and complex affects over the course of the liturgical year? This thought experiment presupposes an ordinary Christian sufficiently familiar with the cycle of the liturgical year, even if their attendance was not guaranteed at every feast. As previous examples have suggested, preachers in lay settings did not take attendance for granted. Yet, in urban centers, even the most generous estimates surmise that church attendance was unpredictable.3 Even if it may not be certain whether any individual layperson could attend all festal sermons, it is fair to assume that enough members in the audience were familiar enough with the rites to model the appropriate affects.

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Particular feasts that focused on events of the life of Jesus engendered mixed emotions. Consider these feasts as they occurred in the liturgical calendars of late antiquity: Jesus’s birth (late December in some areas, early January in others); his raising of Lazarus the day prior to the start of Holy Week; Jesus’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem (also known as Palm Sunday); the night of his arrest; and the three days commemorating his trial, death, and burial (Good Friday), through the Sunday of his resurrection (Easter), concluding with the feast of Jesus’s postresurrection Ascension. Although these feasts are but a fraction of the events commemorating Jesus’s life and teachings, they provide a sufficient picture of the liturgical year to consider how complex affects marked these feast days. Two sources for reconstructing the feelings of ordinary Christians are most helpful: sermons and liturgical handbooks from the fourth and fifth centuries. Steeped in a robust rhetorical culture, Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa, Gregory Nazianzus, and John Chrysostom were well-­trained in making past events feel intensely present. As students, they would have learned oratorical techniques for making up dialogue, inventing internal monologues, and creating vivid descriptions, all for the purpose of eliciting particular feelings in their audiences.4 Yet sermons alone did not produce and guide affect. A fuller understanding of these homilies requires paying close attention to their ritual setting. The “liturgy of the word,” as the non-­Eucharistic and more inclusive part of Christian worship, or synaxis, was known to include readings from the Old Testament and the New Testament as well as a variety of psalm verses sung by the congregation in response and acclamation (antiphon or alleluia). The fourth century pilgrim Egeria described this practice in Jerusalem in the late fourth century. Yet, beyond a reading about the sacred story, she does not specify the biblical passages or particular psalms with any precision. A clearer picture of particular verses is provided by the ritual instructions prescribing specific biblical verses to be recited and/or sung. One ritual handbook, which survives in a later Armenian translation, fills out Egeria’s description of these rites.

Horror and Elation for the Nativity Gregory of Nyssa (331/40–ca. 395) delivered a homily on the nativity in December 386.5 Running long at about five thousand words, the sermon recounts Christ’s miraculous birth from a virgin, his infancy, and the witness

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of the magi and shepherds. The sermon departed from New Testament gospel accounts to incorporate legends about the mother of Jesus.6 Gregory admitted he was prone to digression: he veered from the nativity for a strident anti-­ Jewish rant, a theological excursus on the relation between the infant and the deity, and, most extensively, repeated digressions on Herod’s massacre of the infants in Bethlehem.7 Whenever he veered, Gregory calmly steered the audience back to the nativity story, much like a navigation app patiently recalculates its route: “But the angel’s good proclamation calls us to return in our speech to Bethlehem.”8 Remaining joyful in Bethlehem for the duration of this sermon proved impossible for Gregory. Tethered to a day and place for rejoicing, he was incapable of dwelling there. Glad tidings from Bethlehem suddenly gave way to the horrors of genocide in the Great Deluge, mass destruction at Sodom, and entire armies drowned in the Red Sea.9 It was fitting, Gregory observed, that Jesus’s nativity occurred close to the time of the winter solstice, when darkness appeared to overtake the daylight, as the longest shadows ushered in the shortest hours. It was a time when opposites mixed and melded before they could be separated. Gregory likened this lingering evil to a serpent’s coil that squirms after the reptilian head has been severed. Like the dying serpent, the nativity is a time when “humanity remains in vicious movements . . . with the scaly skin of sin.”10 As he took “joy in killing joy,” Gregory blended horror and exultation.11 Complex and conflicting affects opened the sermon: no sooner had Gregory called out to “blow the trumpet at the new moon,”12 than he plunged the congregation into tales of massacre and abomination. “But let’s return to today’s joy,”13 Gregory pleaded, as he attempted to chart a new emotional course away from bloodcurdling terror back to festal glee. He called on his congregation to sense the newness of the feast day, and to watch and listen for glad tidings: “Do you hear Balaam the augur prophesying to foreigners with a greater inspiration? . . . Do you see the magi . . . watching . . . for the rising of the new star? . . . Do you hear Isaiah crying out, ‘A child has been born to us?’”14 Nevertheless, ugly feelings soon overtook him. He was helpless, unable to resist “the risk,” as he said, “of drifting far off topic.”15 Nonetheless, he recounted the hope and joy in the prophecy that the barren Elizabeth was finally pregnant with the child who would grow up to become John the Baptist. Even so, Gregory snuffed out the joy with the story of the brutal murder of Zechariah, the infant’s father.16 John the Baptist is indeed the forerunner for the rest of Gregory’s sermon, as joy and birth quickly succumb to brutality and death.

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Gregory once again summoned the congregation back to the nativity: “But we’ve wandered far off topic and must return in our speech to Bethlehem in the Gospel.”17 He turned the congregation’s attention away from the bloodshed and urged them to remember that, as “shepherds,” all must heed the “angels’ voice [that] declares the good news of this great joy.”18 All must look heavenward and “see the angels’ choral dance [and] hear their divine hymnody.”19 Like the angels, the audience should also “cry out [boōsi],” “give glory [doxazei],” and become “overjoyed [perichareis].”20 Such sudden bursts of joy on the heels of monstrous bloodshed celebrated a mixture on the occasion when “God mixes with human nature.”21 Gregory closed the scene by exhorting his audience once again: “Let us make our journey to Bethlehem. Let us see the new marvel.”22 One imagines a collective sigh of relief for this restoration of joy. Although Gregory elevated the audience as singers with the heavenly chorus, he soon plunged them into another violent detour. Yet again, he summoned his audience—and himself!—to “return” to Bethlehem and the day’s joy.23 Although the magi “delighted with an overwhelming great joy,”24 their rejoicing was no match for Herod’s outrage. Gregory unleashed his horror and indignation at Herod’s savagery: “After all, what do they wish to accomplish by the murder of children? And for what purpose do they risk incurring this kind of pollution that is for murderers? Is it because some new sign of heavenly marvels has revealed the proclamation of the king to the magi?”25 Gregory interrogated Herod with a barrage of rapid-­fire questions: So what? Do you believe the revealed sign to be true or do you regard it as empty gossip? . . . For what reason is he plotted against? Why is that dreadful decree handed down, the wicked judgment against the infants, that the wretched little ones be killed? Why harm them? What grounds for death and punishment have they provided against themselves whose only fault is that one charge: being born and coming forth into the light? Was it really necessary for the sake of these executioners that the city be emptied and that the tribe of mothers and the clan of infants be ­assembled, since the parents were with them and presumably all the members of the family were brought to the suffering together?26 The audience, stunned into silence, felt the prosecutorial heat of Gregory’s interrogation.27 Gregory questioned his own ability to bear witness to the tragedy:

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Could anyone put the miseries into words? Could anyone descriptively bring before our eyes the sufferings—that comingled lament, the mournful song collectively of children, mothers, fathers, kinsfolk crying out in pity at the executioners’ threat? How could anyone sketch a picture of the unsheathed sword as the executioner stands before the youth gazing sharply and murderously uttering such things, with one hand pulling the little one to himself and with the other extending the sword, while the mother from the other side pulls the child to herself and held her own throat up to the tip of the sword, lest she see with her eyes the wretched child killed at the executioner’s hands?28 This breathless and bewildered interrogation became imagistic in the absence of words to describe such horrors. Gregory marshaled his rhetorical training in ekphrasis (description) and enargeia (vividness) to evoke, “sketch,” and “bring before [the] eyes” unimaginable suffering, infanticide, and maternal grief.29 The preacher set up a relay race of emotions, in which he slapped a bloodied baton of emotions in the congregation’s outstretched hands as they ran the next lap in their imaginations. The immersive effect of Gregory’s vivid descriptions set “before the eyes” unseen realities. His words were both emotional and sensory, as he commandeered the congregation’s attention toward both joy and grief.30 In addition to highlighting the evil Herod’s silence and calling into question the limits of language, Gregory’s questions also tethered the congregation to one mother’s suffering as she must make an unthinkable choice between two of her children: Does she run for the newborn who lets out a wail that is still without meaning and inarticulate? But she hears the other one, who has already made a sound and tearfully called out for the mother in a faltering voice. What does she suffer? Who should it be? Whose voice would she answer? To whose cry would she reply with tears of her own? Which death would she mourn, when she is tortured equally for both in the core of her nature?31 With the distraught mother, the audience also felt helpless as it heard the infant’s haunting appeal. And like her, the hearers were similarly overwhelmed. Thus, Gregory of Nyssa lowered the curtain on this tragic spectacle. Can

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one return to Bethlehem’s joy after such atrocity? In an effort to right the capsizing emotional ship, Gregory exhorted his audience: “But let’s bring our attention from dirges over the children and turn our minds to gladder things that are more appropriate to the feast.”32 However much the grieving mother Rachel’s lament “drowns us out,” Solomon’s words must prevail: “On the feast day . . . there should be no evils.”33 Even on the happiest occasions, grief intruded. Why does Gregory set up this emotional collision? As he explained to his congregation, both events are part of a single story, as the nativity sets in motion the Easter mystery. “How could the end-­point (peras) have happened unless the beginning led the way?” he asked. Mixed emotions suited the Christian temporality he had set up. Key to understanding his oscillation between joy and grief is his simple question: “Which of the two [events] is prior?” Gregory asked. “Obviously,” he responded, “the birth is prior to the economy of the passion.”34 He epitomized this economy with a montage of Jesus’s healings and parables, explaining that “all these [events] are boons of the present day.” And because the day of Jesus’s nativity “began the sequence of good things . . . [it] is cause for gladness and rejoicing.”35 Yet Easter also subverts the nativity feast’s “feeling rules” and disrupts this joy.36 Yoked in liturgical time, the joy at Jesus’s birth unleashes the anticipation of his Passion. Precisely because Christian liturgical feasts are part of a cyclical calendar,37 the grief at Jesus’s death is remembered in the joy of his birth.38 Both festivals entangled affects. Grief poured into the feast of the nativity just as joy interrupted the lamentations inaugurating Easter. In the wider divine scheme or oikonomia, it makes sense that the highs and lows of the liturgical cycle will bleed into one another.39 Such a “wide-­angle” view, however, does not lessen the affective whiplash. Unlike the gradual change of seasons, the emotions swerve rapidly from joy to grief and fear. No sooner has Gregory called his congregation to “blow the trumpet at the new moon” (Ps. 80:4 [81:3]) than he plunges them into grief and fear, only to demand joy once again. His barrage of questions to Herod leaves his audience bewildered, angry, and fearful. Gregory feigned accidental digression (“But let us return . . .”) as a way to deepen the emotional confusion. On other feast days, he attuned his emotions to the feast day at hand. In an Easter sermon, for instance, he asked, “What speaker is so stupid and supremely ridiculous, that when invited to a wedding party he would avoid agreeable words which sensitively catch the mood of the happiness of the gathering, and would recite sad dirges and lament unhappy weddings from

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tragedy?”40 Gregory clearly knew how to stay in his emotional “lane.” But on the nativity, he deliberately swerved his way through dense traffic. Gregory’s nativity sermon, then, evoked mixed emotions as a way to call attention to the temporalities of Christian liturgy. By mixing joy and grief, love and loss, Gregory immersed his audience in vivid feeling.41 He shunned the pastoral of the shepherds to show the dreadscapes lurking in Herod’s Bethlehem.42 Gregory of Nyssa’s rhetoric of mixed emotions bears some resemblance to the dynamics of group emotions in modern political settings. He became an “emotional entrepreneur,” as he summoned emotions from the past and “reinject[ed] them into the present.”43 Seen within the context of the liturgical oikonomia, Gregory conjoined the nativity to several feasts as a way to achieve a “temporal layering of emotional experience.”44 No emotion, however robust or intense, was immune to the intrusion of affects from another feast.

Lingering and Mixed Emotions on Palm Sunday As Egeria recalled, at the conclusion of her visit to Bethany and Lazarus’s tomb, the presbyter dismissed the crowd after reading from the Gospel of John, “When Jesus came to Bethany six days before Passover.” Egeria added, “and it is six days from this Saturday to the Thursday night on which the Lord was arrested after the Supper.”45 The following day, not then known as Palm Sunday, set in motion a grief that encompassed Jesus’s arrest later that week. Egeria’s linking Lazarus’s days in the tomb with Jesus’s arrest accords with a fifth-­century set of liturgical instructions found in a Jerusalem lectionary preserved in Armenian. The list opens with January 5, the eve of the Theophany, and concludes with commemorations of the apostles John and James, sons of Zebedee, on December 29.46 The canon, or ensemble of biblical passages for a given feast day, consists of at least four readings: (1) a psalm with antiphon, typically a verse the congregation will sing as a refrain; (2) a biblical passage, not from the gospels; (3) an alleluia followed by another psalm number; and (4) a gospel reading. For several feasts, it also specifies the location (station) in or near Jerusalem where these rites were performed.47 The canon for Lazarus Saturday indicates it is the “sixth day before the Pasch of the Old Law”; it marks Palm Sunday as the beginning of Great Week.48 Such temporal markers prompt scholars to revisit what made hymns and antiphons “suitable to the day and place (apti ipsi diei et loco),”49 as Egeria

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marveled. The Armenian Lectionary provides helpful clues. Its selections of Bible stories includes appropriate psalm verses—antiphons and alleluias— affective resonances, or even countermelodies suitable to those occasions. For instance, selections for Lazarus Saturday call for the antiphon: “Lord you have brought up my soul from Hades; you saved me from those that go down into a pit,” from Psalm 29(30):4. And it designates Psalm 39:2 (40:1) as its alleluia: “Waiting, I waited for the Lord, and he paid attention to me and listened to my petition.” The mood in both verses is one of anxious petition and relief. The following day, Palm Sunday, introduces a more buoyant mood in the choice of psalm verses: the prescribed antiphon “the mountains will rejoice,” followed by a jubilant alleluia, “The Lord became king! Let the earth rejoice.”50 These choices not only harmonized with the mood of the biblical story but they also interjected new and strange moods. Just as the chromatic shift of one half note can render a major chord into a minor one, the psalms and antiphons shaped the mood. Even before the “Day of Palms” was a term in the liturgical calendar, Egeria’s ritual description and the Armenian Lectionary agree that Saturday’s affects felt quite different from Sunday’s.51 Although Palm Sunday was free of worry, despair, or fear, it followed on the heels of painful emotions and sudden reversals that could not be erased from memory. In this liturgical movement from Lent to Holy Week, feelings from Bethany followed the processions back to Jerusalem. As Egeria noticed, Lazarus Saturday anticipated Jesus’s arrest. The Georgian Lectionary (reflecting Jerusalem rites from the fifth to the eighth century) and the Anastasis Typikon (tenth century) instructed Palm Sunday worshippers to process to Gethsemane, the site of Jesus’s arrest. On the site where Jesus is believed to have spent his final night alone and in anguish, congregations assembled to hear a reading of Luke’s account of Jesus’s triumphal entry (Luke 19:29–38).52 The affective dissonance would have been jarring, as one listened to a story about exultation (entry into Jerusalem) while standing on the site of suffering (arrest at Gethsemane), in fulfillment of a betrayal announced six days prior at Bethany, the place associated with fear, grief, and, belatedly, relief. A similar affective dissonance also occurred far from the holy places of Palestine. In Constantinople, the sixth-­century liturgical poet Romanos would introduce his kontakion for Palm Sunday by invoking the agony of the infernal powers while also calling for pity for Lazarus’s grieving sisters, Martha and Mary, whose silent fears and doubts were conveyed through gestures “with hand and head.”53 And on Palm Sunday, Romanos opened that hymn

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with a recap of the events of Lazarus Saturday: “Since you have bound up Hades and killed Death and resurrected the world, the children with palm branches shout to you, Christ, as to a conqueror / calling out to you today, ‘Hosannah to the Son of David.’”54 In a similar manner, Leontios, presbyter of Constantinople (d. ca. 543), opened a homily about Lazarus with the proleptic scene from the entry into Jerusalem: “The song of the crowd was a triumphal ode, for they had already caught the scent of the life-­giving perfume of Christ, which clearly shows the defeat of death,” the perfume being an olfactory counterpoint to the stench emanating from Lazarus’s tomb.55 Mixed emotions also characterize the refrains that closed the sermon: “Let us rejoice, there and be glad (Ps 117 [118]:24), since six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany (Jn 12:1).”56 Indeed, for some three dozen lines, the temporal phrase invites a series of answers: “Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany [John 12:1]. Why? [Dia ti?]. So that [hina].” Leontios repeats the question and each time provides some horrid event: Jesus’s scourging, the lance that pierced his side, his betrayal by Judas, his crown of thorns. Yet each horror in this sequence of suffering comes with a benefit to humankind: scourged to free humankind from the whip; pierced in the side to heal the side of Adam, and so on. Palm Sunday was a joyous oasis on a journey in liturgical time from lament to agony. Betrayal loomed large on both sides of it. At Bethany, Lazarus’s sister Martha chides Jesus for tarrying (“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” [John 11:21, RSV]); and in Jerusalem, Jesus is betrayed by one his own disciples. As Leontios framed Palm Sunday, it was not a respite from divergent emotions but a festal space in which to combine them. As these sermons suggest, the grief felt on Lazarus Saturday was not replaced by the joy of Palm Sunday. Rather, it remained an open wound, which the homilist poked and reawakened on Palm Sunday. Hatred fuels that balancing act. Both Lazarus Saturday and Palm Sunday sermons were occasions for virulent anti-­Jewish rhetoric. As Basil of Seleucia (d. ca. 468) described Christ standing before Lazarus’s tomb, “He wept, not pitying the dead man, but feeling mercy for the dead soul of the Jews. He was lamenting not Lazarus, but their views.”57 Or, as Leontios put it, “Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany. Why?” He responded: “So that he might exasperate the Jews.”58 The emotions surrounding anti-­Jewish rhetoric were varied, yet consistently negative. John Chrysostom’s sermons against Judaizers in his congregation often appealed to negative feelings of jealousy (zēlos), anger (orgē), and hatred (misos).59 Such repeated exposure to hate

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speech makes a community more disposed to feelings of hatred, fear, separation, and isolation.60 Although anti-­Jewish invective is not isolated to Lazarus Saturday or Palm Sunday sermons, its capacity to linger—much like grief—is noteworthy. Anti-­Judaism’s negative emotions interacted with intense grief, fear, and even joy. A Syriac liturgical poet such as Jacob of Sarug might consolidate negative emotions for Palm Sunday into a personification, such as the “scornful bride” who ignored the prophet’s command to “Rejoice!” and whose fervent devotions to various false gods betrayed her emotional disarray. “Anxious to serve her small idols . . . she was addicted to the Egyptian idols; and she was not able to sing praise together with the disciples.”61 Her anger, scorn, annoyance, hatred, and jealousy prevented her from participating in the triumphant entry.

From Holy Thursday to Easter Sunday In fourth-­and fifth-­century Jerusalem, the final days of Holy Week and Easter Sunday morning marked an arduous physical and emotional experience for the faithful. Here, the Armenian Lectionary provides a valuable guide to the ritual feelings associated with these holy days. We know from both the travel diary of the pilgrim Egeria and the Armenian Lectionary that, in Jerusalem, the faithful stayed up late into Thursday night, in a vigil singing fifteen psalms, with kneeling prayer. Their processions would have taken them up the Mount of Olives to a grotto marking the spot of Christ’s agony at Gethsemane, the Eleona basilica, and Caiaphas’s house, where they listened to the story of Peter’s betrayal. No sooner had they completed one lection with “Peter wept bitterly” (Matt. 27:75), than they joined in a psalm of praise to God for his goodness and mercy (117:1). This swerve from sorrow to praise intimates the mixed emotions of the days to follow. Thursday night’s vigil ended at Golgotha, the site of Jesus’s Crucifixion. The entire way to Golgotha, the faithful would have sung Psalm 78 [79], with its gruesome catena of feelings: “They poured out their blood like water all around Jerusalem and there was no one to bury” (v. 3); “mockery and derision” (v. 4); divine wrath (“How long, O Lord, will you be utterly angry, will your jealousy burn like fire?”) (v. 5); a plea for compassion (v. 8) ending in praise (v. 13).62 Oddly, only after they arrived at Golgotha, did audiences hear the story of Jesus’s betrayal and arrest (John 18:2–27). Although the reading might have been

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more fitting for Gethsemane—the words, beginning with “Now Judas, who betrayed him, also knew the place” (John 18:2) and ending with the story of the third cock crow—it would have suited the experience of arriving at the final destination (knowing “the place”). That these stories were misplaced would have mattered less if the predawn rooster crows of Jerusalem had occurred during or close to the time they were read. The surround sound and nocturnal the timing would have enhanced the experience, even if the location of the narrative was not precisely matched to the place of its performance. “Knowing the places” meant knowing not just the stories narrated there but also the feeling associated with each place. According to the Armenian Lectionary, Good Friday commemorations began at dawn, with a service adoring the wood of the cross, as worshippers sang eight series of psalms-­prophet-­Paul. Only during the fifth series is Matthew’s account heard, of Jesus’s trial before Pilate, the death of Judas, Pilate delivering the death sentence, the mocking by the soldiers, and the Crucifixion and death of Jesus. Yet the psalms had already anticipated these moods: “unjust witness stood asking things I do not know” (Ps. 34 [35]:11); “I am ready for my torments” (Ps. 37:18 [38:17]). These psalms also anticipated details in the story of Jesus’s anguish: “They divided my clothes among themselves, and for my clothing they cast lots” (Ps. 21:19–21 [22:18-20]); “And they gave gall as my food, and for my thirst they gave me vinegar to drink” (Ps. 68:22 [69:21]); and his final words, “Into your hands I will entrust my spirit” (Ps. 30:6 [31:5]; cf. Luke 23:46). Just as the gospels wove verses from the psalms into accounts of Jesus’s Passion, the lectionary’s antiphons interjected the first-­person voice to express this agony.63 At about noon, listeners heard Psalm 21:19 again (“They divided my clothes . . .”), before descending into the martyrium to hear the story of Joseph of Arimathea and before returning to the Anastasis Saturday morning to continue the story of Matthew, with the guard sealing the tomb (Matt. 27:62–66), and then another psalm: “They put me in a very deep pit, in dark places and in death’s shadow” (Ps. 87:7 [88:6]). Once sealed into the tomb, they finally emerge from the “pit.” They would return to the Anastasis that evening and wait on bended knee, as they participated in twelve readings. The readings were taken from the creation account in Genesis, the sacrifice of Isaac, the first Passover, the story of Jonah, and the flight from Egypt as well as reading from Isaiah, Job, the story of the prophet Elijah riding up to heaven in a fiery chariot, Jeremiah, Joshua, Ezekiel, Daniel, and the song of the three youths.64 At midnight the newly baptized entered the church to psalms of jubilation and praise.

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What do these interspersed psalms reveal about these liturgical events? Some provide prophetic fulfillment to specific details in the gospel story, as in Psalm 21 (divided clothes), 30 (commit spirit), and 68 (gall, vinegar). Interpolated as they are in the ritual sequence of readings, these and other psalm verses also chart an emotional arc from Holy Thursday (the betrayal at Gethsemane) to the despair of Good Friday, followed by the terror of Saturday morning, and the exultation as Saturday night approaches. This emotional narrative moves from sorrow to joy, even as an unexpected emotion bursts in, when praise follows despair. As the Armenian Lectionary prescribes a series of commemorations at specific places, the psalms furnish the affective cues. They interject a first-­person voice in a third-­person biblical storytelling. They also create moments of emotional “whiplash,” when feelings of abandonment and shame give way to bursts of praise. The psalms sung while processing to the next destination infuse a wild array of intense emotions of Psalm 78 along the road between stations. With dozens of psalms sung in the course of the three-­day rites, there is no shortage of verses. All the more reason repetitions (or doublets) deserve attention. For instance, dividing the clothes (Ps. 21) is sung on Friday morning and again upon entering the martyrion later that same day. Psalm 87 (“I  became like a man without help, and free among the corpses”) is one of the concluding psalms of the Friday morning service. It is sung again the next morning at the Anastasis, in connection now with the story of the guards sealing the tomb. And Psalm 64 (65:1) (“To You, God, belongs the praise in Sion, and to You is presented prayer in Jerusalem”) is chanted to the newly baptized in the wee hours of Saturday night and again on Easter morning. What to make of these repetitions? Repetition binds together different stations and carries a mood from one place and time to another. Friday night revisits Friday morning, Saturday morning echoes something heard late Friday morning. Repetition produces an enjambement as the same verse straddles two ritual events. What sounds familiar knits together memory and mood in these intense rites.

The Ascension’s Affects Although homilies engaged a range of feelings, preaching was but one element of a festal liturgy.65 The depth of emotion might circulate through postures, gestures, prayers, hymns, and biblical readings. Cyril of Jerusalem’s

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preaching at the Feast of the Ascension in the fourth century offers useful examples of how one preacher was attentive to liturgical emotions. On many occasions, he celebrated his audience’s proximity to the holy places, calling attention to how physical features in the landscape still bore traces of biblical events.66 He listed the “true testimonies,” including holy places (the manger, Egypt, Gethsemane, Golgotha, the Holy Sepulcher, and the Mount of Olives), bodies of water (the Jordan and the Sea of Tiberias), and objects (the holy wood of the cross, and “the handkerchiefs and aprons, which of old worked cures through Paul by the power of Christ”).67 Even the weather bore witness, as the “rain-­bearing clouds which received their Lord” testified to the Ascension.68 When preaching on the Feast of the Ascension, Cyril’s attention shifted from the testimony of the holy places to the psalms and words of the prophets recited or sung as part of the worship service. This liturgical web interwove several emotions. The story of Jesus’s Ascension is emotionally complex. After his Crucifixion, Jesus appeared as a stranger to his disciples as they were walking along the road “sad-­faced [skuthrōpoi],” according to the Gospel of Luke. They told him how Jesus’s death had dashed their hopes [hēmeis de ēlpizomen]” and reported how earlier that day some women dis­ ciples had “amazed” (exēstēsan) them with news that Jesus’s body was missing from his tomb. Only after he famously broke bread, and they recognized him, did they ask themselves, “Did not our hearts burn [kaiomenē] within us while he talked to us on the road?” (Luke 24:32, RSV). Seeing how the disciples were “startled and frightened” (ptoēthentes de kai emphoboi) as if seeing a ghost, Jesus reassured them and displayed the wounds on his resurrected body. The gospel then concludes on a joyous note, as Jesus “withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven. And they worshiped him and returned to Jerusalem with great joy [meta charas megalēs]” (Luke 24:51–52, RSV). In these few verses, Jesus’s disciples experienced sadness, despair, fear, fright, amazement, and joy.69 The Ascension episode also reappears in Acts of the Apostles (1:6–11). Jesus bids farewell and promises the coming of the Holy Spirit. He then departs heavenward, as a “cloud took him out of their sight.” As the distraught disciples look on from below, two men in white robes appear and ask the disciples, “Why do you stand looking into heaven?” and assure them of Jesus’s eventual return. In the Acts’ version of the Ascension, grief, wonder, and confusion collide. Although both New Testament stories of the Ascension furnished Cyril with a swirl of mixed emotions to navigate, he relied on the psalm verses sung

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during the liturgical service for emotional cues. His sermon’s affective ballast rested in the psalms that accompany the liturgical celebration. As Cyril put it, I suspect [nomizō] that you remember [mnēmoneuein] our exposition [exēgēseōs]; still I shall remind [hupomimnēskō] you, in passing, of what was then said. Remember [mnēmoneue] what is clearly written in the Psalms: “God mounts his throne amid shouts of joy” [Ps. 46:6(47:5)]; remember [mnēmoneue] that the divine Powers also said to one another “Lift up your gates, you princes” [Ps. 23(24):7]; remember [mnēmoneue] too the Psalm which says: “He has ascended on high, he has led captivity captive” [Ps. 67(68):19]; remember [mnēmoneue] the prophet who said: “He that builds his ascension in heaven.”70 For each imperative (“remember!”), Cyril provides a verse (from Psalms 46, 23, and 67) and a prophet. Why so many psalm verses? The same psalms are also found in a set of liturgical instructions for the Feast of the Ascension found in the Armenian Lectionary, which not only prescribes both Luke’s and Acts’ versions of the story but also the antiphon Psalm 46:6 (47:5): “God went up with shouting, the Lord with a sound of trumpet.” Those familiar with the psalm would have recalled its exuberant opening, “All you nations, clap your hands; shout to God with a voice of rejoicing” (Ps. 46:2 [47:1]). The canon or selections for this feast also prescribe Psalm 23 [24] as the alleluia. The choice is fitting for a commemoration of Jesus’s ascent, as the psalm includes the verse “Who shall ascend onto the mountain of the Lord?” It also repeats a triumphant refrain: “Raise the gates, O rulers of yours / And be raised up, O perpetual gates” (Ps. 23 [24]:7, 9). In addition to the lectionary’s prescribed two psalms for the Feast of the Ascension, Cyril adds a third psalm in his “remember” list. “Remember, too, (mnēmoneue kai) you ascended on high,” a quotation from Psalm 67:19 [68:18].71 He also cites one of the prophets, Amos: “[Lord God the Almighty] who builds his ascent to heaven” (Amos 9:6).72 Both verses from Psalm 67 and Amos include a cognate of the verb to ascend (anabainō), an evocative mnemonic link to Jesus’s Ascension.73 All these calls to “remember” are also directives to feel, whether the joy of clapping or the glee of singing praises. As the Armenian Lectionary directs, the congregation would have heard both accounts of the Ascension, including the Acts of the Apostles’ tale of lingering distress and the sorrow

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of separation, rupture, and even grief. The singing of Psalm 23 [24] (“Who shall ascend onto the mountain of the Lord? . . . Raise the gates!”) following the recitation of the Acts account, and before Luke’s version, provided an emotional bridge between the conflicting emotions. By singing these mixed emotions, the congregation entered the affective drama of the Ascension. By relying on psalmody to cue the moods of the ritual occasion, Cyril deployed the psalter as a transhistorical web in which worshippers experienced gospel events through a more complex set of memories, emotions, and perceptions. Psalmody guided the affective responses to these events. Not only did place and story converge within liturgical time but psalmody also recast a story about absence into a celebration, by calling congregations to “sing and clap” (Ps. 46[47]) and to lift up their souls in the ascent up the hill (Ps. 23[24]). Psalm verses calling for joy and exultation were the glue that repaired the rupture of this gospel narrative. The “never more” the disciples below experienced became filled with the sounds of heavenly celebration that rang in worshippers’ ears. Psalmody at, near, and in procession toward the holy places repaired the breach and redirected feeling.74 Yet, Cyril’s call to remember is not limited to a single feast day or the psalms that resonated with imagery and themes of the focal biblical narrative. The resonances also traverse the liturgical year. For instance, Psalm 46 (47), with the incipit, “All you nations, clap your hands and shout to God with a voice of rejoicing,” was sung as the antiphon for the Ascension, but it also reappeared some six months later as the alleluia for the Feast of the Apostle Philip on November 15 and again on December 28 for the Feast of the Apostles Peter and Paul. In other words, the psalms sung to mark the Ascension and those it left bereft (including Philip and Peter) would be sung again on the occasions when the liturgical focus turned to the bereaved apostles. And the echo went both ways. As part of a cycle of feasts, the Ascension both anticipated and recalled the apostles’ feasts, just as the fall and winter feasts anticipated and recalled the sounds of the Ascension in Jerusalem. Such echoes and anticipations are part of a liturgical repertoire of emotions elicited, remembered, and foreshadowed in the course of an ever-­developing festal cycle. The Armenian Lectionary shows how one season’s feast day might be revisited on another. The liturgical texts read and sung during the Ascension illustrate the range of emotions that infused a single feast day and how the sequence of readings might generate mixed feelings. The Armenian Lectionary also reveals emotional resonances and counterpoints across the liturgical year. Just as

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Gregory closed his sermon on the nativity with a reminder/anticipation of the grief felt at Easter, so too do the biblical selections listed in this Lectionary reveal the ways one psalm or hymn “echoed” on more than one feast day. The cycle of readings for Epiphany (January 6) concluded with the Song of the Three Youths in the Furnace from the Book of Daniel. It was recited in three installments (3:1–12a, 12b–28, and 29–68), with a three-­line hymn between the parts and a sung refrain after each line. The Song of Three Youths sequence (now in stanzas separated by interstitial hymns) also closes the Saturday night Easter vigil.75 Thus, the Old Testament biblical readings for the Epiphany and Easter vigil echo one another in the Jerusalem rite. In addition to echoes and cues, the Armenian Lectionary also plots unusual emotional itineraries. An octave is a series of feasts that occur over eight consecutive days. Two octaves occur in the Armenian Lectionary: one for Epiphany (January 6–13) and one for Pascha (i.e., the eight days leading up to Easter Sunday).76 Over the week of an octave, the congregation processed to and gathered in different churches daily as part of what is called the stational liturgy. The octave of the Epiphany, for instance, commemorates Jesus’s nativity and infancy (first day) with gospel lessons from Matthew and Luke. On the second day (lection 3), the martyrdom of St. Stephen is commemorated at his martyrium, such that grief may seem to overshadow the joy of Jesus’s birth. Yet even as the story of Stephen disrupts the sequence of feasts focused on the nativity and infancy of Jesus, it repeats parts of a Pauline letter read earlier during the same octave (Titus 2:11–15: “For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all, training us to renounce impiety and worldly passions and in the present age to live lives that are self-­controlled, upright, and godly”).77 When the congregation returns to the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem the following day (the third day), they hear again the same alleluia (Ps. 109 [110]) from two days earlier (also at the Holy Sepulcher). In other words, despite the interruption of the narration of the nativity by the feast of the martyr Stephen, the nonnarrative scriptural readings and songs project one feast’s words (and affect) into the next feast’s liturgy and evoke a psalm when they return to the holy place where they previously heard it.78 Thus, in addition to providing mnemonics (the alleluia for Stephen’s martyrdom is taken from Psalm 20 [21]), it contains a pun on the martyr’s name, crown (stephanon). In addition to echoes within an octave, the Lectionary also suggests echoes across liturgical seasons. On the sixth day of the Epiphany cycle, worshippers gathered at the site of Lazarus’s tomb, where Jesus raised him from the dead,

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and sang as antiphon Psalm 29:4 (30:3) (“O Lord, you brought up my soul from Hades / you saved me from those that go down into a pit”), an apt choice. By the spring, when worshippers gathered at the Lazarium to remember Lazarus on the day before Palm Sunday, they sang the same haunting antiphon again, as Lent drew to a close and Holy Week began. Thus, singing this antiphon at Epiphany would elicit the memory of the days leading up to Holy Week, a time marked by grief, jubilation, wonder, and betrayal. Celebrating the feast of Stephen and the resurrection of Lazarus as part of commemorations surrounding Jesus’s birth and infancy was not as erratic as it might seem. The careful choice of psalms for the antiphons and alleluias sustained the emotional arcs and echoes within an octave and across liturgical seasons. This interweaving of sanctoral and christological calendars in a single octave introduced mixed emotions, as Christians sang about those prepared to die for Jesus the same week they celebrated the infant Savior’s advent. In sum, the Armenian Lectionary offers clues to the affective resonances experienced over the course of the liturgical cycle and serves as a wider context for homiletic appeals to remember and feel with human, celestial, and even some infernal characters in the sacred stories retold. The antiphons and alleluias set the appropriate emotional register for events in the life of Jesus, his postresurrection appearances, and the birth of the Church. Later liturgical calendars would mark the angel Gabriel’s annunciation of the virgin birth and various feasts for saints, apostles, martyrs, and bishops, several specific to Jerusalem.79 Biblical narratives shaped emotion, and preachers amplified and complicated those emotions. Moreover, the canons listed in the Armenian Lectionary signal how the selection of antiphons, alleluias, and hymns further mixed feelings. These nonnarrative biblical songs and prayers provide a counterpoint of emotions, sometimes a descant, and, from time to time, a necessary dissonance. A wintertime feast might echo and/or anticipate a refrain sung in the spring. The resonances were not just verbal (in the words of the psalms) or acoustic (as performed) but also affective, as the feelings of one feast day seeped into another by these memory cues. The web of psalms, hymns, antiphons, and alleluias found in the Armenian Lectionary suggests that worship provided a haven for mixed emotions in different places and times over the course of the liturgical year in Jerusalem. It also points to some dynamics of transmission and circulation across settings.80 Just as ancient novels provided many instances of individuals confronting mixed or conflicting emotions,81 the liturgical cycle preserved instances in which groups contended with complex affects. Psalm verses, particularly

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when sung as antiphons and alleluias, revealed emotional tensions experienced on a single day, within the same week (octave), or several months later at what seemed a completely different celebration (but which sounded at times eerily familiar).

Conclusion There are many examples of the rhetorical and emotional rollercoaster ordinary Christians experienced at various points in the liturgical year. Gregory of Nyssa interrupted his retelling of the joyous nativity of Jesus with gruesome digressions about Herod’s massacre of the infants. Unlike homilists who devoted discrete sermons to each feast day, Gregory interwove the birth of Jesus with the deaths of thousands of male children. So, too, on Palm Sunday, congregations emulated the crowds welcoming Jesus to Jerusalem with cries of Hosanna! and singing psalms of joy. The prior day’s commemoration, Lazarus Saturday, however, moved from a story of profound sorrow and despair into the joy of his resurrection. The three days between Good Friday and Easter also generated palimpsests of affect—anxiety and grief, anxious waiting and astonishment. These happy endings never fully erased the ugly and hard feelings. The joy of the nativity was tempered by the anticipation of the Crucifixion. The grief of Good Friday resurfaced anew with the separation at Jesus’s Ascension, as audiences empathized with the disciples’ fear, hopes, confusion, and loss. Individual feasts never completely shed the affects of other liturgical events. Such unexpected juxtapositions or mood swings are not confined to antiquity, as Byzantinists have observed in religious art, oratory, and spirituality. The monk John Klimakos coined the term charmolupē or “bitter joy” or “joy in sorrow.”82 Odd pairings were among the skills taught in ancient rhetorical training, as budding orators learned to make a comparison (synkrisis) or a contrast (antithesis).83 The juxtapositions created layered temporalities: the eighth-­century hymnographer Andrew of Crete noted that when Moses and Elijah appeared with Jesus during his transfiguration, they foretold to him his own death on the cross.84 In another sermon, Andrew juxtaposed places, Bethlehem and Bethany, as emblematic of the contrasts between the birth of Jesus and his resurrection of the dead Lazarus, respectively.85 In the Nea Moni monastery church on the island of Chios, scenes of Jesus’s resplendent transfiguration appeared next to images of his Crucifixion. The fulcrum of

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such contrasts appears in the identical gestures of onlookers in each scene.86 And by the twelfth century, two-­sided icons became part of processions. These bilateral images showed the Virgin and Christ child on one side, with Christ as the Man of Sorrows on its opposite.87 These contrasting affects were already part of ordinary Christians’ experience of the liturgical feasts in the fourth and fifth centuries. Drawing ­ex­amples from preaching and from lectionary readings and responses, it is clear that no feast elicited only one emotion, just as no feast was independent of the annual liturgical cycle. Series of commemorative feasts might have an arc of emotions and recollect or anticipate emotions from other feasts. The variety of emotions might be interpreted as the affective equivalent of the late antique aesthetic of variation (poikilia), which energized mosaics and poetry with vibrant tensions.88 Complex affect was the by-­product of a layered temporality effected through ritual. Fourth-­ and fifth-­century audiences reenacted the feelings surrounding sacred events by hearing the stories narrated, while interpolating those stories with responsory psalm verses. Whereas the narration tended to be in the grammatical third person, the interjected antiphons and alleluias were often taken from psalms spoken in the more intimate first and second person. The memory of the sacred story came alive with the fresh feelings of the psalm. The Armenian Lectionary, in particular, shows exactly how feelings collide. A biblical narrative, such as Jesus’s Crucifixion, might be interpolated with psalms resonating with the Passion account, harmonizing and aligning Israel’s past and Christ’s ordeal. Yet some stories were peppered with another order of psalms, those interjecting countertones, taking a major chord to a minor one, or bringing back a motif associated with an earlier (or in a cyclical system later) biblical feast. Just as domed structures might create a layered sonority, the syncopated echoes of biblical stories also resulted in layered temporality, as the present entered the past. Through sermon and psalmody, congregations animated characters and crowds from the biblical past. And this “theater” invited congregations to join in the complex emotional dramas before them. They experienced the joy of Jesus’s birth amid the terror of Herod’s massacre of infants, the horror and grief of Lazarus’s death amid the joy of his resurrection, and the schadenfreude of personified Death bewailing his own demise. They shared in the exuberance of the crowds on Palm Sunday, recalling the pain and its reversal at Lazarus’s resurrection, as they anticipated Gethsemane and the tumultuous events of Jesus’s arrest, death, and resurrection. The intense clash of emotions returned to haunt the celebration of the resurrected Christ’s glorious ascent

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and the joy-­grief left in its wake. As these examples suggest, mixed emotions were difficult to untwist. As cyclical and serial events, the liturgical calendar scaffolded time for Christians. Its repeated words, melodies, and resonances created the framework for recognizing earlier festal emotions and getting a foretaste of later ones. Nor were these dynamics limited to preaching and biblical readings. As the next chapter shows, from the depths of the “today” that animates liturgical feasts emerges the “tonight” of interactive songs performed as part of the night vigil.89

Chapter 5

Singing and Sensing the Night

When the Apostle Paul declared, “We are not of the night or of darkness,”1 he could not have anticipated the burgeoning of Christian nighttime rituals three hundred years later. By the fourth century, initiations occurred increasingly at night; torches illumined nighttime processions out to martyrs’ shrines, and for Holy Week vigils the laity packed into dark churches to hear the story of Jesus’s final hours. As one eyewitness, the pilgrim Egeria, described Good Friday rites at night, the faithful poured out their “groans and laments (rugitus et mugitus) at all the Lord underwent for us, and the way they weep would move even the hardest heart to tears.”2 Just as the church at night provided a point of entry into sacred stories of the past, the home at night served as a portal into the future. John Chrysostom advised householders to arise from their beds in the middle of the night and look up at the starry sky. Their gaze, he promised, would be returned by the stars themselves, as if there were “ten thousand eyes” looking down on the slumbering home. Only after contemplating the night sky should they turn their attention to the tenebrous bodies fast asleep. In the dark, those asleep might appear as if dead in their tombs awaiting the final judgment. In addition to the contemplation of last things, night was also an important time for prayer. As Chrysostom claimed, God is “more moved by prayers in the night.” For nocturnal prayer is like a spiritual “forge,” and confession is a “smelting furnace [that] bring[s] the soul to a red heat” and burns off the rust of one’s sins. And one’s tears during nocturnal prayers are the dew that douses the day’s “fires.”3 Thus, night was a time for beholding the intersection of deep past, recent past, and cosmic future. God created the night, as John Chrysostom once claimed, so that its splendor would not be wasted on those who slumber. When God’s people awoke in the middle of the night, they

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should look up at the night sky and marvel at its wondrous stars. In such reverence and “deep silence . . . your soul is purer: it is lighter, and subtler, and soaring disengaged: the darkness itself, the profound silence, are sufficient to lead you to compunction.”4 By the fourth century, ordinary Christians had less cause to fear the night. Many followed the custom of singing hymns at sundown, watching as “burning waxen candles weep themselves away,” as the poet Prudentius described day’s end. Or they greeted the new day as “conquered night withdraws in flight, rending her dark cloak as she goes.”5 Street illumination expanded in some urban centers in late antiquity, making nocturnal gatherings and later meals more practical.6 As artificial illumination seemed to shorten the night, some legends seemed to lengthen it. There was the story of seven young men in Ephesus, who fled to a cave to avoid persecution and fell into a deep sleep that lasted some two hundred years. They awoke to a fully Christianized empire. Longsleepers, as the heroes of these legends are sometimes called, never fear the night.7 By the sixth century, night worship became more widespread among ordinary Christians. How did audiences experience night vigils in sixth-­century Constantinople, particularly those held on the eve of specific feast days? One of the most valuable sources are the words to the songs composed for specific feasts by a hymnographer called Romanos the Melodist. Night provided a special time for immersing oneself in the sacred past. Although almost all of Romanos’s retellings offered opportunities for immersive engagement in sacred stories, his songs about characters at night were especially evocative of the intense sensations and affects that ordinary Christians experienced. Although the churches in which they were performed no longer survive, the materiality of the event is elicited by Romanos’s mention of nocturnal sensations and dimly lit objects. His interactive songs provide a trove of information on the performative, sensory, and material context of late antique ritual. In Romanos’s songs, biblical characters peered into the dark, grappled with murky impressions, and overheard underworld characters trapped in eternal darkness. The soloist guided the congregation not just through the characters’ emotions but also through various gestures and postures they modeled to heighten an audience’s immersion and participation in the story. Before turning to Romanos, however, having some background on the practice of night vigils among ordinary Christians would be worthwhile. Laity attended night vigils already in the fourth century in urban centers such as Antioch, Alexandria, Cappadocia, Rome, Milan, and Hippo. The practice was

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growing, but not without controversy. To appreciate some Christians’ apprehension about nocturnal gatherings, it is helpful to look at works by Nicetas of Remesiana (ca. 335–414), a bishop in Dacia (in what is Serbia today), at the crossroads of the eastern and western Roman Empire. His orations praise night as a time for worship and outline the benefits of nocturnal rituals for ordinary Christians. By the sixth century, lay nocturnal gatherings were so widespread that, in 528, the emperor Justinian legislated that all clergy in every church chant daily nocturns (nykterina), as well as matins and vespers.8 Not long after, Romanos (fl. ca. 555) apparently saw no need to defend night rituals. His songs—or kontakia, as they are called today—are a key source for understanding why.

Defending the Night Vigil: Nicetas of Remesiana According to the National Sleep Foundation, a healthy sleep pattern for adults typically involves seven to nine hours of uninterrupted sleep, depending on a person’s age.9 But in premodern times, nocturnal sleep occurred in two sleep periods separated by a wakeful interlude. Before electric light, coffee, or factory schedules altered human sleep patterns, the body’s circadian rhythm was attuned to biphasic sleep.10 The waking hours in the middle of the night—called dorveille, literally “sleep + wake,” in medieval French—a time for meditation, prayer, sex, study, stargazing, or conversation. Poetry, story, and prayer filled these nocturnal hours with dread, pleas for divine protection, and also a sense of wonder.11 In some communities, the stillness of the night might elicit dread before a mute cosmos while, for others, it provided an occasion to marvel at cosmic order and peace. That wakeful interlude enabled many Christians to adopt individual and group rituals both in the home and beyond it. Vigils were gatherings held after dark at a church or a saint’s shrine. Some lasted many hours or all night. If the sixth-­century preacher Leontios of Constantinople is to be trusted, “the female sex is fond of vigils.”12 Nicetas composed two orations on the beauty and benefits of night vigils. In a sermon known as On Liturgical Singing, he offered practical reminders on how to sing sacred songs and practical tips for choirs to avoid unbalanced, out-­of-­tune, or rote singing. The sermon closed with the words of the psalmist, “in sua domo eos efficit habitare,” (in his house [God] makes them dwell), associating the night with a space of divine dwelling.13 In another work, On Vigils, Nicetas focused less on the singing

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and more on the night. Against critics who disparaged nocturnal worship as “superfluous, otiose, or . . . unbecoming,” Nicetas countered that nighttime is the ideal time to encounter God. At night one puts aside day-­to-­day worries about basic needs such as food and clothing in order to focus on divine matters. Yet such pursuits are more efficacious when undertaken at church. Nocturnal prayer at home is for the lazy, sleepy, and elderly, he scoffs. No one should feel satisfied by a few snippets of truncated psalm verses muttered in bed while dozing off.14 He added that attending night vigils is worth the effort, without placing any undue burden on Christians’ busy lives. If one sets aside Saturdays and Sundays for vigils,15 many benefits will ensue. Nicetas amassed examples of biblical heroes who spent the night in prayer: David’s nocturnal prayers in Psalm 118 (119), “I remembered your name at night, O Lord. . . . At midnight I would rise to acknowledge you”;16 so, too, Jesus, his grandmother Anna, and the Apostle Peter kept vigils.17 When one honors the “dignity and antiquity” of vigils, Nicetas claims, one discovers night’s uniqueness. As the psalmist sang: “Mercy [comes] in the morning, and [God’s] truth in the night.”18 Nicetas described vigils as a mode of space-­making. Like kings and prophets before them, vigil-­keepers “long to be a dwelling place of the Lord and be considered his tabernacle and temple.”19 At night, the vigil-­keeper turns into a welcoming, affective space in which God may dwell. As space, the God-­loving soul of the vigil-­keeper (in Dei amore animi deuotionem) finds its usefulness (utilitate).20 Like David, one combats slumber “until I find out a place for the Lord, a tabernacle for the God of Jacob.” By depriving oneself of sleep, the prophet and king “find a place to build a temple to the Lord.”21 As Nicetas sees it, wakefulness during the night is a loving shelter for God. Vigils also produce a sensory space in which diminished visibility increased reliance on other senses. Celebrating at night intensifies the senses of taste and hearing: “Taste how sweet the Lord is,” Nicetas enjoined: “Only one who has tasted understands and feels how great a weight is taken from our heart, what sloth is shaken from our minds when we hold vigils, what floods the soul of the one who watches and prays, what a grace and presence fills every member with joy (quae gratia quae uisitatio membra uniuersa laetificat). By watching (uigilando), all fear (timor) is cast out. . . . [Is there] anything sweeter than this joy or more blessed than this happiness? (quid hac delectatione suauius? quid ista felicitate beatius).”22 Such sensory alertness is even more intense if one avoids a heavy meal beforehand; one may prevent the belching, hiccupping, or postprandial snoring that might interrupt peaceful vigils.23

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Nicetas often described the time of night in spatial metaphors. The vigil-­keepers gathered in church, where the vigil became a space in which God dwells. Such spaces not only allowed communion with God but they also produced deep emotions. As the heart felt its burden lift, light poured into the vigil-­keeper’s soul. As Nicetas described the emotional ebb and flow, “What a grace and presence fills every member with joy. By [keeping vigils] all fear is cast out.”24 As a container for the emotions, the night vigil generates imagined spaces. “Meditation during the days [is] of course, good,” Nicetas assured the congregation, “but that at night [is] better.”25 With God dwelling within, nocturnal feelings of vulnerability, fear, and anxiety were displaced by joy in the individual and the congregation. Thus, Nicetas’s orations on vigils and psalm-­singing point to a growing legitimization of the lay night vigil.26 He defended the night as a space for divine encounter and for emotional transformation. Whereas Evagrios advised monks to keep vigils as a way to “focus the wandering mind,”27 Nicetas urged laypeople to observe night vigils as a way to generate a joyful space in which a wandering God may roam.

Night’s Cues in Romanos’s Kontakia By the mid-­sixth century, night vigils were more widespread.28 They became a ritual often practiced at martyrs’ shrines, healing centers, and churches. The hymnographer Romanos the Melodist composed kontakia for night vigils held on the eve of specific feast days in Constantinople. Some sixty survive today (although many more songs have been attributed to him).29 Romanos often retold biblical stories from the perspectives of various characters: unnamed women, apostles, the healed, and characters from parables Jesus told, as well as Mary, Adam, Eve, Satan, and Death. Putting their innermost thoughts into words and their deepest reactions into verbal outbursts, Romanos brought biblical characters within earshot of the congregation. In these hymns, each stanza ended with a refrain, a phrase that dovetailed seamlessly with the cadence of the storytelling. When congregations sang the refrain, they finished a character’s sentences or spoke in unison as groups within or beyond the story’s world.30 By participating in Romanos’s songs, audiences heard the motivations, backstories, doubts, fears, and hopes of characters from biblical stories.31 Gestures were also part of the performance. Just as the deacon directed a congregation in “praying or bowing the knees, singing hymns or listening to

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the lessons,” as Nicetas put it,32 so, too, did Romanos insert similar cues into the stanzas of the hymns. Hearing led to gestures and other bodily reactions. When she heard the greetings of the magi, Mary “bowed low and worshipped the offspring of her womb and with tears.”33 After the traitor Judas dared to say, “Lord, Lord, you shall never wash my feet,” angels on high “stopped in fear and the invisible choirs were stunned,”34 as they watched Jesus “voluntarily bending down and serving clay.”35 Crouched over the basin to wash the disciples’ feet at the Last Supper, Jesus signaled to the congregation to bow and bend their heads.36 One prologue to the “Prodigal Son” opens with a sympathetic pose: “Like him, I fall down before you and I seek forgiveness, Lord. Therefore do not despise me.”37 Thus, kontakia suggest bodily or gestural mimicry of characters in these stories. The refrain was especially important in promoting congregational participation in the story.38 Together with the narrator or a biblical character, the congregation cried in solidarity or protest, acclamation or condemnation. The phrase varied by kontakion: “the unapproachable light” for Epiphany, “the heavenly bread of incorruption” for the feeding miracle of the multiplication of the loaves, and “again to Paradise” as Death/Hades and Satan bickered over their imminent demise. Whatever preceded the refrain might make it jubilant for one stanza, or negated in another, and then ironic or absurd later in the same kontakion. When the congregation joined in the refrain—cued by words like “crying out” (boaō) or “shouting” (krazō)—they either joined in with the speaking character or, on some occasions, shouted down a villain. The congregation might stand in for the angelic chorus or some other group within the story. Whether conveying anger, fear, joy, or pity, the refrain reassured hearers with a sense of divine order as much as it amplified paradox. A congregation’s refrain interjected a counterreality. For instance, the cry “Again to Paradise!” as Death (Hades) and Satan lost their grip on humanity was an assertion of hope in divine restoration. Armed with a refrain, the congregation entered the biblical drama in media res. In “On the Newly Baptized,” Satan’s extended monologue is punctuated by the refrain, “doxa soi [glory to you],” thereby positioning the congregation—here, as the newly baptized—in vehement rebuttal.39 Echoing words in the liturgy, the congregation overpowered Satan’s own fear and despair with acclamations injecting exultation, praise, and joy, effectively shouting down Satan. Thus, the refrain could reinforce an existing emotion as well as rebuff it. Just as affect can “disrupt, interrupt, reinsert, demand, provoke, insist on, remind of, agitate for” a situation, as one theorist put it,40 the refrain unleashed a similar potency.

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Poised to close each stanza, congregations affirmed a sacred truth, exposed a lie, or added a fresh emotional layer.41 At night, rituals have a special intensity because they elicit many emotions. As one hymn by Romanos describes the scene, The people of Christ, loyal in their love, have gathered to keep a night-­long vigil with psalms and songs. The congregation can never sing too many hymns to God. So now that the Psalms of David have been sung and we are blessed by the clear reading of Scripture, let us raise an anthem to Christ and an anathema to Satan. . . . he is the Master of the Universe.42 This opening stanza suggests the content of vigils (singing psalms and hymns, reading scripture). It also points to the emotional drama involved: love and joy for Christ and imprecations for Satan. As the kontakion explains this mixed affect: “It is wonderful to sing psalms and hymns to God, / and to scourge the demons with reproaches.”43 In ascetic spirituality, demons often appeared in monks’ dreams to torment and tempt them. They populated nightscapes and dark spaces. Whereas demons assaulted desert ascetics at night with terrifying sounds and haunted the suburbs, urban Christians weaponized songs to mock and defeat these unseen foes.44 As the soloist might perform the speech of various characters, the congregation interjected a range of feelings. In kontakia, monologue as well as dialogue exposed inner questions, memories, wonder, and confusion. Characters pondered what had been and what might be said.45 Such polyvocality extended to the far reaches of the cosmos. Humans spoke, but so too could angels, Satan, and God. Within an enclosed space, the vigil guided lay audiences through emotional pauses, refrains, dialogue, and even silence to fill the space with an ever-­ present past. Voicing lone protagonists and also groups, the preacher/soloist ventriloquized proxies and proximate others to join forces with the congregation.46 Like the preacher on a feast day, the hymnographer also invited Christians to open their senses to the biblical “now.” The emotions further situated them in such moments and in the thick of mixed and messy feelings. Whereas nature, nonhuman animals, angels, and divine beings spoke in a single affective register, humans and subterranean beings contended with complex affects. Lamps played an important part in vigils and any nighttime gathering, for that matter. If the church had mosaic decoration on its floors or walls,

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flickering candles and lamps would alter its appearance.47 As church descriptions (ekphrases) and inventories remind us, the polykandela, crown candelabra, lampstands, and hand-­lamps, as well as reflective surfaces on walls, and floors, such as metallic votives or golden thread in liturgical textiles, caught the dim light and enveloped the night vigil in a shimmering glow.48 Although Hagia Sophia was exceptional for its time in the opulence of its interior décor, Paul the Silentiary’s description of its nocturnal illumination suggests the various technologies and materials used in late antiquity: “No words are sufficient to describe the illumination in the evening: you might say some nocturnal sun filled the majestic temple with light,” he proclaimed. He went on to list a variety of reflective surfaces: beaten brass chains with silver discs attached held small glass beaker-­lamps and a cross-­shaped polykandela. The evening’s light “revolves” around the church space, as crown candelabra illumine specific areas. Single lamps brightened aisles, and silver pans held cups of burning lamp oil. Lamps came in many shapes, suggesting ships floating into the ascending darkness and projecting “elegant beams” on the floor in their wake. Romanos’s church did not resemble Hagia Sophia, yet Paul’s ekphrasis is a reminder that audiences at nocturnal worship noticed the play of shimmering reflections, beams, and glows that created patterned light and darkness. They tracked the light’s path as “bright night smiles” on the altar; in the nave, galleries, and chancel; and atop columns.49 Although the luxury of Hagia Sophia’s lighting and decoration were exceptional for the time, Paul’s description also reveals how even more modest materials (glass, brass, and chains, etc.) were assembled, positioned, and placed to distribute, concentrate, and pattern light and darkness in any church. In his own way, Romanos introduced various lamps in his storytelling. The magi were called “lamps of the East” and sought out the “lamp of the star.” “The lamp” accompanied them through Jerusalem, and “with the lamp [they] wandered.”50 Like candelabra, Romanos loaded three stanzas with “lamps.” Similarly, another cluster of “lamp” words appears in a post-­Easter kontakion. The first stanza introduces the woman, from Jesus’s parable, who lights a lamp to sweep the floor until she finds a lost coin.51 The stanza soon ignites other lamp-­words: Christ carries his flesh as “a burning lamp” (hōsper luchnon photos propherei tēn sarka) and is addressed as “light of the lamp” (to tou luchnou phōs).52 Romanos continued the lamp metaphor in the next stanza when he reinterpreted Jesus on the cross as “like a lamp on a lampstand.”53 From that height Christ saw Adam “seated in the dark night” (hōs en luchnia ho luchnos, kai etheōrei ekeithen en skotei kathezomenon).54 Following

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the Crucifixion, Christ descends to the underworld, where he casts light in the darkness, with Hades startled by the sudden illumination. In these few stanzas, Romanos told the story of Christ’s Passion in terms familiar to vigil-­ goers. As they gathered in the night in a space their singing and candles created, they peered into the shadows, beheld lampstands, grasped candles, and followed the light’s journey to save Adam.55 The audience’s experience of the darkness was also evoked in the kontakion about Jesus’s presentation in the Temple. The prologue invited the congregation (“we”) to shout their hymn of praise “for our aged hands now cradle the One before whom the powers of heaven tremble,” as the aged Symeon cradled the infant Jesus in the story from the Gospel of Luke (2:22– 35). As Symeon proclaimed, “I grow bold and hold you like a lamp (luchnos), for everyone who carries a lamp (luchnos) among men is lighted, not consumed.” The rapid succession of lamps—three in as many verses—evokes the lamps and candles held by vigil attendees during the rites. Lamp metaphors also signaled shifts in emotions. In the post-­Easter kontakion, the Apostle Thomas recalled how his own silence and jealousy were out of step with other disciples’ joy: “The words of my fellow servants have become for me night and deep darkness, for they did not enlighten me, did not light for my soul the lamp of the wonder which now I see beyond hope.”56 As characters described the darkness they felt, the congregation was invited to enter the night. Guided by lamps, they discovered a space for imagination, reflection, and even confusion.57 Night is more than a span of time. It provides a space in which darkness, imagination, ignorance, and a host of emotions commingle. It is also a time of bewilderment. Mary the mother of Jesus resisted the angel Gabriel’s tidings with the words, “My nature is a gloomy night” (nux ameidēs hē phusis hē emē).58 Bewilderment also results from sleepiness. “Adam,” Eve cried, “leave your deathlike slumber and arise!”59 Adam was wary of Eve, who urged him to listen to Mary’s lullabies to Jesus. His sleepiness only added to his suspicion and confusion. Yet Eve remained the ideal vigil keeper, listening, alert, and comforted.60 The ten virgins also “awake from sleep as if from a bridal chamber” (ex hupnou anastasas kathaper ek pastados).61 Some wake-­up calls were less gentle. “Come, idiot, wake up!” the soloist cried to Judas.62 Yet, for anyone in the audience who had dozed through a vigil or missed a refrain, such commands had the force of an elbow jab. When one recalls that Judas was sung in the middle of Holy Week—a time of the liturgical year when vigils were more frequent and intense—commanding him to stay alert would have

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been appreciated by congregants struggling to do the same. Sung at night, kontakia often mention the experiences of night—the feelings, perceptions, and enveloping darkness that transformed the physical settings in which they were experienced. At night, darkness, shadows, and dim illumination alter the appearance of interior spaces. Candles and lamps reflect particular mosaic colors and shimmer differently than by daylight. Such flickering light might also stir the imagination. Sympathetic gestures and emotions allowed the bodies gathered at night to enter the space of the characters in the hymns. At night, shadows, gestures, and feelings pulled imagined spaces together, such that characters from different eras of biblical time drew closer together in this space. That Eve could hear Mary or that Adam awoke from slumber at the Jordan River on Epiphany suggests that in Romanos’s songs worlds converge: Eden abuts Bethlehem and is close to the Jordan River.63 Night also drew cosmic places closer. Angels above and satanic forces below directly witnessed earthly events. As a performative setting, night contracted cosmic boundaries such that, for Romanos, primordial figures hopscotched across generations. If Eve could overhear Mary, then the congregation could enter this sacred conversation by feeling their way through the night and eavesdropping on voices in the dark.

Women of the Night Biblical women figure prominently in Romanos’s night songs. In the dwindling hours of the night, Eve listens, Mary sings lullabies to Jesus while she also anticipates his death, and the women at the empty tomb each puzzle over their experiences. A nameless prostitute embodies the virtues of attending vigils: “I weep and I groan. . . . I grieve and bow myself down. . . . I keep silent and withdraw.”64 The interior monologues and thought processes of women intrigued the narrator/preacher of some kontakia: “I would like to search the mind (phrena) of the wise woman,” the narrator ponders, “and know how the Lord shone (elampsen) in her.”65 Her “fervor and zeal” are not slowed by the night’s darkness. “I grasp him,” she announces, “I have not seen him, but I heard and was wounded.”66 Her words cease at the threshold of Simon the Pharisee’s house. Once inside, she is silent again. Her actions take over, as the congregation heard the dialogue between the outraged host and Jesus for the rest of the kontakion.

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Romanos often portrays the unfolding perceptions and thought processes of women. At Easter, Jesus’s female followers (mathētai) contemplated the meaning of the empty tomb, and Mary Magdalen gradually recognized the stranger she met was the resurrected Christ.67 Romanos also tracked female characters’ inner thought processes. For instance, the Virgin Mary’s mental and physical reactions to the angel’s announcement that she would bear a child followed her bewilderment and interior thoughts: “And [Gabriel] addressed the unmarried one saying, ‘Hail, the Lord is with you!’ / The girl was not completely bold in the face of his shining figure, / but she immediately bowed her head to the ground and was quiet; / idea she joined with idea (noun de sunēpsen eis nous), put thought together with thought (phrena eis phrena) and exclaimed (ekboōsa): / ‘What am I seeing (blepō)? What shall I think (skepsomai)?’”68 In these few verses, Romanos tracks the Virgin Mary’s deliberations as she crafts and assembles (“joins”) her thoughts before she speaks a word. Such mental movement, silences, and cries not only highlight a rather quiet character’s inner life but also suggest performative cues for the congregation to follow. Likewise, when Jesus implores the Samaritan woman to “incline your ear and open your phrenes (“thoughts”) to me, that I may enter and dwell in them,” his words summon the audience’s attention and even guide their posture.69 Romanos tended to use the word phrēn (pl. phrenes) when describing interior thoughts and confusions, not just of female characters but also of villainous, weak, or passive male characters. A victim of demonic possession was left “stripped of his phrenes” (tōn phrenōn egumnouto).70 Jesus’s distressed disciples listened to his parting advice not to trouble their “heart” (kardia), lest the Devil roil their phrenes (tholōsē tas phrenas).71 A rattled Satan turned to his friends, who warned him, “Do not be afraid, strengthen (krataiōson) your phrenes.”72 Used with villains and venal types, the phrenes belong to vulnerable male characters. Romanos cast Pilate as an instrument of Satan and gave him an order: “Wash your phrenes now.”73 So, too, Satan dulled (ēmblune) Solomon’s phrenes.74 Thus, males were weakened when their phrenes diminished or disappeared. Disorientation, indecision, and remorse fill another kontakion set at night: the story of the beheading of John the Baptist,75 who, eerily, does not speak a word in the entire hymn. Instead, Romanos spotlighted the machinations, deal-­making, revenge, and plots of Herod’s wife and her unnamed daughter.76 Romanos set the story at night. As in the Bible, Herodias’s daughter danced at his birthday celebration; and as a reward, he granted her one wish. She obeyed

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her mother, who had insisted the girl demand the head of John the Baptist. As Romanos tells the story, the daughter was torn by mixed emotions: “Sorrow combined with joy, and bitter mourning mixed with laughter,” until gladness devolved into grief.77 Romanos pitted filial obedience against the immoral demands of the mother. The obedient daughter pleaded not to carry out the murder. In response, Herodias accused her daughter of disloyalty.78 Night contains betrayal and indecision. “O, mother,” the daughter pleaded, “I ask you this: when do plan to execute this? In the light of day or in the dark of night? For your ungodly cunning is worthy of the night.”79 Although the mother hatched her plot aloud, the daughter escaped to her own inner thoughts. Romanos set the murder at night, just as John’s father Zacharias had predicted before his own murder: “That day will be darkness and not light.”80 As this kontakion shows, night is central to the plottings and counterplottings of the women responsible for John the Baptist’s death. Much like female characters aboveground, who experience confusion and misperceptions at night, subterranean villains, who dwell in an eternal night, are also disoriented and frightened. In a kontakion known as the “Victory of the Cross,” Hell (now personified) observed Jesus’s Crucifixion from belowground and found his own belly impaled by the cross of Christ.81 The darkness was so deep, his agony remained unseen by Satan or, more accurately, “Beliar,” Romanos’s name for the evil serpent from the Garden of Eden. “Run, open your eyes, and see,” Hell commanded his disbelieving conspirator. “Lift up your eyes and see.”82 Hell reprimands the serpent, “the eyeless to the sightless, the blind—‘Look, you are walking in darkness, feel around, lest you fall.’”83 All this sightless fumbling highlights the darkness of the underworld and the need to listen for the power of the cross: “Now is the moment for you to open your ears, Beliar,” just as “Jesus is nailed and hears the thief crying to him.”84 Having overheard Jesus’s assurances to the thief, the serpent “began to wilt, and what he heard he saw,”85 evoking a space where hearing guided dim vision. Such awareness launched the two villains’ lamentation of their imminent defeat, until the demon interrupted Hell midstory: “‘Wait, wretched Hell,’ said the demon with a groan, / ‘Quiet, be patient, lay hand on mouth, / For I hear a voice revealing joy. / A sound has reached me bringing good tidings.’”86 Satan’s interruption, his command to keep silent, and his call to listen recalled the deacons during the liturgy, who instructed the congregation when to speak, when to listen, and when to join in song. As the kontakion came to an end, the faithful aboveground sang a joyful descant to the underworld duo’s lament, while the serpent groaned so as to “harmonize

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with [Hell’s] wails.”87 Like women at the tomb or Mary in the garden, Hades and Satan question their perceptions, confront their blinding fears, and eventually come to realize terrifying truths. As such, night—whether dispelled at dawn or eternal, as in the underworld—created a space in which to confront confusion and the strong emotions it engendered.

Conclusion In Byzantine liturgy, “today” invited congregations to experience the presence of the past. Anamnesis, “making present,” was not just a Eucharistic experience. It was also made possible by feast days. The effects of the sacred past would be localized on the eve of the feast day, in the night vigils. Just as “today” joined heaven and earth, so, too, did it include “tonight.”88 At vigils, oil lamps and candles pierced the darkness of the church. Voices wafted through the shadows and guided a groggy congregation through the biblical drama. The performative and the poetic intertwined, as audiences learned to share in characters’ perceptions and misperceptions. As such, the darkness of the nocturnal church interior became a threshold to a host of imagined moments set in the Garden of Eden before sunrise, the interior of Noah’s ark, the evening meal at the home of a Pharisee, the nocturnal fires by which Peter denied knowing Jesus, and the empty tomb. Romanos populated his dark dramas with effeminate underworld villains and a host of female characters who elicited and experienced disgust, fear, and anxiety. Often nocturnal protagonists tend to be female or feminized. Characters at night reveal dark emotions: Thomas admits his envy; Judas and the sinful woman express their shame; Hades displays paranoia; Adam cannot hide his irritation; Mary displays confusion; Satan trembles with fear. Such affects are raw and rather “ugly,” according to the affect theorist Sianne Ngai. These nocturnal voices speak their dysphoric feelings as they find themselves caught in a “suspended agency,”89 unable to act and trapped by worries. It is not just agency that is “suspended.” So is time. In the shadows of night, congregations shared in these ugly feelings. In dimly lit spaces, night itself became a space for feeling less noble emotions. Noble emotions—such as joy, anger, and grief—are not necessarily pleasant but they can at least be cathartic. Romanos’s characters, however, step into messy, unsettling, and unclassic emotions. During the night, envy gnawed, irritation haunted without anger, and no one truly knew what they were truly

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feeling.90 In this unsettling, wakeful night, as Romanos well understood, some hope might appear in a candle’s flame or in the refrain of a song. His storytelling and participatory songs transformed the night into a time for exploring unsettled feelings in the company of those most haunted and damaged by the sacred past. According to Chrysostom, “Those who observe night-­long vigils render the night day.” Night becomes a refuge, he explains, that vigil-­keepers chant from the psalm (138 [139]:11–12): “Darkness won’t be made dark by you and night will become as bright as day. Its darkness will be like its light.”91 As both Chrysostom and later Romanos well knew, singing in the dark made ugly and mixed emotions if not clearer, then at least livable, as ordinary Christians gathered during the long night. By experiencing unsettling or even “ugly” emotions, congregations might enter the sacred past and sing in unison with its sinners and seekers as well as its doubters and dumbstruck. Guided by the candles’ glow, they found their way into the biblical world.

Conclusion

Silent Subjects, Ritual Objects

How might we study the experiences of ordinary Christians in late antique cities? This is the question that has guided this book. Writings by lay Christians are rare. Letters, poems, and inscriptions by non-­elite Christians that have survived reveal little about ritual experiences. Some pilgrims’ accounts recount rituals at holy places in and around late antique Jerusalem.1 Donor inscriptions on church buildings or on liturgical objects also suggest further lay involvement. Papyri preserve glimpses of communications between ordinary Christians, catechumens and local leaders, whether requesting prayers, hospitality, healing, protection, or other needs.2 All told, however, the non-­ monastic laity remains a nearly silent majority when compared to the volumes of writings by ascetics, clergy, biblical exegetes, and theologians of their day. Unfinished Christians suggests some ways to recover the experiences of ordinary Christians. Even if words written by ordinary Christians remain rare, we may reexamine words they heard and consider how they engaged them. Sermons provide valuable windows on ancient Christian audiences and preachers’ relations with them. Despite church leaders who spoke disparagingly about ordinary Christians and their shortcomings, many sermons engage the laypeople present in imaginative and generative ways.3 The previous chapters drew heavily on instructions delivered during Lent to those preparing for baptism as well as sermons and songs composed for specific festivals. Sermons projected mental images, metaphors, and ritual instructions that engaged the sensations, feelings, and time frames ordinary Christians experienced outside the home. Preachers shared their excitement, apprehension, and astonishment for a given feast. For sung homilies like Romanos’s kontakia, the refrain at the end of each stanza invited audiences to witness the story unfolding.

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Beyond sermons, sounds of the liturgy appear both inside and beyond churches. Some sounds remain inscribed on small portable objects as well as above doorways, brief phrases from psalms and acclamations spoken in church services appeared in the home.4 They echo specific psalm verses uttered during particular services and appear on lamps, jewelry, clothing, and amulets.These snippets of psalm verses also repeat what congregations sang between biblical lections. Some psalm verses matched the salient emotion of the biblical event commemorated. There was joy at the Savior’s birth and grief upon his death. Some antiphons, however, inserted an unsettling counter-­tone into particular feast days. The Feast of the Ascension had that mixed tone, or the transition from Lazarus Saturday to Palm Sunday. As Egeria recalled and the Armenian Lectionary corroborates, some moods were misplaced. Just as a musical half tone can render a major key a minor one, a word or two from a psalm of lament or distress could dampen a joyous mood. Likewise, a recurring melody (hirmos) or rhythm might reveal deeper connections between various feast days. A melody sung on the Feast of the Holy Innocents massacred by Herod in late December and then again in early March for the feast commemorating the forty martyrs of Sebaste forges a sonic connection between feasts. Over the cycle of the liturgical year, transfestal echoes had a Doppler effect on the feelings experienced during a liturgical commemoration. In addition to echoes, there were also mixed emotions within a particular feast, a “roller-­coaster” rhetoric in some festal preaching. A celebration might be interrupted by a horrific loss. A hopeful refrain might rise up from the depths of a lament. Mixed, colliding, and overlapping emotions, then, carried over from or anticipated other feasts of the liturgical cycle. When groups experienced mixed emotions together, long-­simmering feelings from a deep past resurfaced in the present to heighten feelings. These resonances, counter-­tones, and echoes across the cycle of the liturgy took different forms in later Byzantine worship. Like the rippled sounds produced by marble domes in later churches,5 feelings overlapped across the liturgical year. The affective dissonance late antique Christians experienced predate by centuries late Byzantine two-­sided icons, in which one side depicts a tender Mother Mary holding the infant Christ, while the other side shows his crucified corpse.6 Similarly, Romanos showed Mary reveling in the birth of Jesus and the joy of new motherhood while also voicing eerie intimations of her son’s eventual Crucifixion. Sound traversed deep expanses of time, preserving even the slightest dissonance.

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Material objects are also instructive when seeking to understand the experiences of ordinary Christians. Things carried in processions and vigils highlight this ritual materiality.7 Ordinary lamps and tools sacralized a procession or vigil, just as torches illuminated a skyline. Catechumens learned to think of themselves as both makers of objects and the crafted product itself. The materiality of these mental images, habituated through frequent exposure to craft settings in urban centers, prepared new Christians both to become and to hold objects with new awareness. Objects carried in processions materialized new identities, not merely as symbols but also for the weight, bulk, texture, and movement the carrying subject felt. As the historian of Christianity Rebecca Stephens Falcasantos has pointed out for Constantinople’s late antique processions, “The body participated with its environment in a process of mutual formation: the social environment shaped and was shaped by the bodies within it.”8 Objects were not the ornaments of ritual life; they were its pulse. Rituals and objects also formed ancient Christians’ experiences of memory, space, and time. Processions not only filled space, they created it. More than asserting presence or marking ownership, processions also generated a space for belonging. The objects carried in processions set the cadence of the gait and the tempo of the festal occasion while acclamations propelled the group through and beyond cities. Within churches, under the cover of night, bodies gathered for each occasion to feel along with the characters in the biblical stories. During night vigils, within dark shadows, congregations enacted the gestures and reactions of the characters surrounding the protagonists of the biblical stories commemorated. They heard songs of lamps as they held and beheld lamps. They immersed themselves in their stories through gesture, posture, and even silent witness. Liturgy was not a spectator sport. Members of the audience used their bodies to become performers in these sacred dramas.9 A gesture, antiphon, or refrain elided remembering and witnessing. A crowd singing along with the story of a crowd became that crowd through refrain. An interior monologue by one biblical character made the audience a confidant to deepened doubts. Audiences physically embodied a fleeting presence, a distant story, now made present again through ritual objects, both real and imagined. Although my focus has been on human-­made objects, human bones may also provide another important reminder of the material existence of ordinary Christians. During a time when the bodily remains of extraordinary Christians were revered, in some Christian settings the bones of ordinary, nameless

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people tell another story. The monastery of St. Stephen in Jerusalem contains burials of monks as well as visitors from the fifth through the seventh century. Bioarchaeologists have analyzed these bones to reconstruct the bodily practices and diets of individuals buried there. They record what bones reveal about the so-­called “Six Ds” of bioarchaeology : demography (age, sex), diet, disease, daily life (activity patterns), death (how the dead are treated and relationships between the dead and the living), and (bio-­)distance (genetic relatedness, migration).10 As the bones of monks reveal, an above-­average diet rich in meat for that time period did not protect them from damage to their knees due to sustained prostrations and genuflections in worship.11 Bones revealing poorer diets suggest the burial of lay visitors. At the other end of the empire, in early medieval Britain, the historian Robin Fleming has reconstructed a fascinating biography of an anonymous female skeleton, known simply as “Eighteen.”12 In medieval Cyprus, bioarchaeology provides important details for creating an “osteobiography” of a Byzantine seamstress. Some grave goods—a needle and a ground stone—complement patterns of grooves in her incisors, which suggest repeated drawing of thread or fiber. The more developed metacarpals in her right hand might have resulted from occupational stresses attributed to tailors, just as her hips and legs show the effects of long-­term squatting, a position assumed in many crafts.13 These bodies bear the traces of ordinary people’s daily activities, their technē. Unlike saints’ relics, these bones mark time rather than transcend it. Unfinished Christians suggests ways ephemera and lacunae may generate impossible stories. As the American cultural theorist Sarah Haley has claimed, the lacuna speaks a truth all its own, defiantly pronouncing that “there is more,” whether we call it “life, interiority, vision, imagination, desire that exceeds archival documentation.”14 Found beyond frameworks set up by preachers, stenographers, and scribes, this “more” is not completely lost to those who train a peripheral perception. It appears in the voice that sings the nocturnal song, that joins in an anaphora, or the hands that hold the candle during the liturgy. It may seem threadbare or in need of patching. Like an art conservator who reassembles a broken ceramic object by crafting a missing piece to stabilize and restore the vessel, Unfinished Christians begins at the jagged edges of the break to generate a plausible fill.15 Into the aporia of a biblical character’s silence, confusion, or interruption (by a refrain), bystanders may enter. When they gathered for rituals, ordinary Christians learned to craft an emerging self, to move with objects, and to sing their way into the corners of

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familiar stories. Unfinished highlights both the transformation and agency of ordinary Christians and the ways they navigated worlds through fabricated objects. If “we are made by what we make,” in the words of the medievalist Carolyn Twomey, that becoming remains unfinished.16 The Christian subject in late antiquity fashioned themselves anew while carrying the counter-­ knowledge that they remain in need of repair, a touch-­up, or reworking. Walking, washing, disrobing, holding lamps, books, and torches; these are all ways that groups of ordinary Christians engaged in techniques which habitualized how bodies moved along urban streets, in church buildings, and out to suburban cemeteries. To call these creations unfinished draws attention to the role of objects, processes, ritual operations, and practices that made and remade Christian subjects. Rather than signal a defect or lack, unfinished calls attention to the generative power of ritual to fashion and refashion realities. Baptism, processions, listening to sermons, and singing at vigils may be understood as a variety of collective “cultural techniques” that shaped non-­ elite Christian lives. Cultural techniques are practices and actions through which humans create cultural orders. Thus, intertwined humans and objects make one another. Or, as theorists have put it, “There is no human being independent of cultural techniques for becoming human; there is no time independent of cultural techniques for measuring time; and above all, there is no space independent of cultural techniques of spatialization.”17 When confronted with seemingly silent subjects, such as ordinary Christians, we look to what they intoned, touched, tooled, and toted in the course of their ritual activities. To approach baptism as craft techniques rather than strictly as symbols to be decoded reveals the interplay of actors (human and non-­human), objects in process, and the fluidity of identities.18 When converts pictured themselves in the acts of carving, molding, painting, and erasing themselves, they discovered that they became both actor and object. Likened to apprentices, the new Christians came to comprehend this identity as emerging from objects and practices that entangled the body, material objects, and the imagination. The technē of becoming Christian resonated with a culture of workshops, the assemblages and cooperative processes that produced gradual transformation. Like homes attached to workshops, living and making were intertwined activities for ordinary Christians. Through rituals, experiences of time shifted. Ordinary Christians entered the rhythms of Holy Week, weaving in and out of the hours of Jesus’s final days. Through the cycles of the liturgical year, they moved between the

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rhythms of everyday life and the numbering of days, as much as they also periodically became absorbed into an “everlasting now,” a phrase the medievalist Carolyn Dinshaw uses to describe a vivid experience of the sacred past.19 There are moments when, as Dinshaw has put it, “time itself is wondrous, marvelous, full of queer potential,” as the now becomes deeper, even viscous, reaching into a past.20 Experiencing how temporalities overlap is part of liturgy, as worshippers joined figures from the biblical past. As they participated in songs in which Eve overhears the Virgin Mary singing lullabies to the infant Jesus, they found in these moments an invitation to eavesdrop or chime in on other conversations from the sacred past. Audiences experienced liturgy not just as a remembrance, then, but as an immersive, multisensory, and stylized event. Feasts had distinctive smells, tastes, sounds, textures, and sights. They were what the historian of American lived religion Robert Orsi might call an “abundant event.” As past and present emotions intersect, sensations become amplified and the imagination is “unlocked.” An abundant event, according to Orsi, means temporal and spatial barriers dissolve: “Time may become fluid. Past / present / future, as they are, as they are hoped for, and as they are dreaded, may converge. Spatial boundaries, between here and there, oneself and another, may give way. Objects come alive.”21 In late antique festal rituals, past events felt vividly present. Through a gesture, a wince, a groan, speaking in “todays” and “nows,” and addressing biblical figures as “you,” congregations experienced festal rituals as immersive and copious events.22 Their stylized repetitions became a mode of what anthropologists call “absorption,” the ritual habits that render a biblical figure—whether suprahuman or just human—more vividly real in repeated ritual, song, and storytelling. Audiences entered a character’s backstory, interrogated desires, and shared in confusion or dread.23 Through habit and repetition, lay audiences acquired not just agency (the ability to effect something) but also a subjectivity (consciousness) from those moments when they encountered sacred protagonists in their midst.24 Ordinary Christians lived fuller and more complex lives than some of their leaders could imagine. They kept company in joy and sorrow, in fear and jubilation, and in horror and compassion. They conjured and joined the people they knew from Bible stories in an eternal now, as they shuddered and gasped along with these vividly imagined biblical characters. When an affect became overpowering, snippets of psalms recalibrated or remixed the emotions. Early Christians spoke, imagined, and used things to think, feel, move, and draw closer to realized biblical events. Thus, rituals and objects can

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remind us of the ways ordinary Christians amounted to more than ascetic “wannabes” or thin imitations of the “extraordinary” ones. Many rituals we associate with monasteries may have their beginnings in lay rites.25 When ordinary Christians gathered and moved through cities, they created their sense of belonging in urban centers: in churches, along roads, and at cemeteries. In their festal rituals, non-­elite Christians kept company with ordinary people from the sacred past. They kept company with the crowds of biblical bodies that ate, bled, fed, birthed, worked, loved, and died. Few laypeople had the resources to flee this world and seek instruction from monastics. Instead, some urban Christians crafted an embodied ritual life deep in the recesses of their unlocked imaginations. Paying closer attention to the ways bodies, objects, and rituals interacted invites us to consider the people who stood in the back of the church, in the middle of the procession, and shivered in the dimly lit threshold of the baptistery. Sometimes they showed up, other times not. Yet these bodies filled the streets, packed martyr shrines, processed into churches, and visited cemeteries near urban centers in the eastern empire. Lamps and lintels remind us of the bodies that moved through these spaces and gathered during rituals. Torches had a weight, smell, and texture for their bearers. In the aggregate, candles made a deep and distant impression on those who beheld their illuminating of the nocturnal urban skyline.26 So, too, written texts such as sermons acknowledge presence of these bodies, even as some preachers may eclipse or distort their lives. Unfinished Christians is admittedly an imperfect attempt at what has been called “critical fabulation,” bringing to visibility people whose actual lives and desires were beyond the ken of those who addressed or described them in antiquity.27 Thin traces of those lives inhere in objects, sermons, songs, and streetscapes. Historians may caution how very little of the actual names, deeds, and thoughts survive in written or material records. Yet, we may still conjure their memory from these traces. Vivid storytelling, whether in sermon or song, guides us to these bodies. The silent subject is always with us. In one of his final poems, Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney retells the story of Jesus healing a paralytic. The poet focuses on those who lugged the man on a pallet and lowered him through a roof, since crowds blocked the entrance of the house Jesus was visiting.28 In twelve brief lines, “Miracle” puts aside the healing, the healer, his disciples, or even the paralytic’s view. Rather, Heaney directs attention to those who carried the paralytic and lowered him through a roof: “Be mindful of them as they stand and wait.” The poet describes their

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stiff shoulders, hands raw from rope burns, aching muscles, and stooped backs. These bodies are “those who had known him all along.” They are the silent subjects of this poem. And even when freed of their cargo, their bodies bear the traces of the one they carried. It is a moving poem, not least in bearing witness to silent subjects of this ancient story. Likewise, this book calls attention to the objects ordinary Christians imagined, made, cradled, and carried and to stories they heard and the songs they sang. These ritual objects all retain a slight trace—material or imagined—of someone’s shared reality.

Notes

Chapter 1 1. John Chrysostom, Hom. on Repentance 3.1–2 (CPG 4333; PG 49.291–99, esp. 291), trans. Gus George Christo (FOTC 96), 28 (modified, with thanks to Dr. Geoffrey Benson and Derek Krueger for their valuable suggestions). See Wendy Mayer’s caveats in her review in Journal of Early Christian Studies 7 (1999): 322–23, esp. 323. 2. Basil of Caesarea, Hom. in hexaemeron 3.1 (CPG 2835; PG 29.4–208); ed. S. Giet, SC 26, p. 190, trans. Way, 37. Basil’s acknowledgment of diverse time constraints among members of his audience suggests an awareness of what social scientists today call “time poverty,” defined as “working long hours and having no choice to do otherwise.” Elena Bardasi and Quentin Wodon, “Working Long Hours and Having No Choice: Time Poverty in Guinea,” World Bank Policy Paper Research Working Paper No. 4961 (2009), SSRN, accessed January 13, 2022, https://​ papers​.ssrn​.com​/sol3​/papers​.cfm​?abstract​_id​=1​ 421702. Additional bibliography at Levy Economics Institute, accessed January 13, 2022, https://​w ww​.levyinstitute​.org​/topics​/time​-­­poverty. I use the terms homily and sermon interchangeably when referring to preachers’ orations delivered to audiences during Lent, liturgical occasions (e.g., synaxes) or on martyrs’ feast days. 3.  Gregory of Nyssa, Apologia in hexaemeron 4 (CPG 3153; PG 44.61–124, esp. 65), ed. Drobner, 9–10; trans. Orton, 45. I thank Susan Ashbrook Harvey for bringing this passage and relevant bibliography to my attention. 4.  On noncreedal approaches to religious identity, see Éric Rebillard, Christians and Their Many Identities in Late Antiquity, North Africa, 200–450 ce (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2012); David Frankfurter, Christianizing Egypt: Syncretism and Local Worlds in Late Antiquity (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2018), 24–31; Derek Krueger, ed., A ­People’s History of Christianity, vol. 3: Byzantine Christianity (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2006). 5.  Wendy Mayer, “Female Participation and the Late Fourth-­Century Preacher’s Audience,” Augustinianum 39 (1999): 139–47; Bernadette Brooten, “Early Christian Enslaved Families (1st–4th C.),” in Children and Family in Late Antiquity: Life, Death and Interaction, ed. Christian Laes, Katariina Mustakallio, and Ville Vuolanto (Leuven: Peeters, 2015), 111–34; Brooten, “Enslaved Women in Basil of Caesarea’s Canonical Letters: An Intersectional Analysis,” in Doing Gender, Doing Religion, ed. Ute Eisen, Christine Gerber, and Angela Standhartinger (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 325–55; Sabine R. Huebner and Geoffrey Nathan, eds., Mediterranean Families in Antiquity: Households, Extended Families, and Domestic Space (Oxford: Wiley-­Blackwell 2016); Sarah E. Bond, Trade and Taboo: Disreputable Professions in the Roman Mediterranean (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2016); and Christine M. Thomas,

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“Invisible ‘Christians’ in the Ephesian Landscape: Using Geophysical Surveys to De-­Center Paul,” in Religion in Ephesos Reconsidered: Archaeology of Spaces, Structures, and Objects, ed. Daniel N. Schowalter, Steven J. Friesen, Sabine Ladstätter, and Christine M. Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 171–91. 6. On the materiality of ancient ritual, see Rubina Raja and Jörg Rüpke, eds., A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World (Chichester: Wiley-­Blackwell, 2015); Emilie van Opstall, ed., Sacred Thresholds: The Door to the Sanctuary in Late Antiquity (Leiden: Brill, 2018);  Bissera V. Pentcheva, Hagia Sophia: Sound, Space, and Spirit in Byzantium (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2017); Thelma Thomas, ed., Designing Identity: The Power of Textiles in Late Antiquity (New York: Institute for the Study of the Ancient World, 2016); and David Frankfurter, ed., Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic (Leiden: Brill, 2019). 7.  Useful studies include Wendy Mayer, “John Chrysostom: Extraordinary Preacher, Ordinary Audience,” in Preacher and Audience: Studies in Early Christian and Byzantine Homiletics, ed. Mary Cunningham and Pauline Allen (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 105–37; Wendy Mayer, “The Dynamics of Liturgical Space: Aspects of the Interaction Between John Chrysostom and His Audiences,” Ephemerides Liturgicae 111 (1997): 104–15; Pauline Allen, “The Homilist and the Congregation: A Case-­Study of Chrysostom’s Homilies on Hebrews,” Augustinianum 36 (1996): 397–421; Wendy Mayer, “The Audience(s) for Patristic Social Teaching: A Case Study,” in Reading Patristic Texts on Social Ethics: Issues and Challenges for Twenty-­First Century Christian Social Thought, ed. Johan Leemans, Brian Matz, and Johan Verstraeten (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2011), 85–99; Carol Harrison, The Art of Listening in the Early Church (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 133–68; Aideen M. Hartney, John Chrysostom and the Transformation of the City (London: Duckworth, 2004); and James Daniel Cook, Preaching and Popular Christianity: Reading the Sermons of John Chrysostom (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019). Recent efforts to interpret homilies as interactive and oral performances include Raymond Van Dam, Becoming Christian: The Conversion of Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003), 105–56; Nikolai Lipatov-­Chicherin, “Preaching as the Audience Heard It: Unedited Transcripts of Patristic Homilies,” Studia Patristica 64 (2013): 277–97; Jaclyn Maxwell, “Popular Theology in Late Antiquity,” in Popular Culture in the Ancient World, ed. Lucy Grig (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 277–95; and Derek Krueger, “The Ninth-­Century Kontakarion as Evidence for Festive Practice and the Liturgical Calendar in Sixth-­ and Seventh-­Century Constantinople,” in Towards the Prehistory of the Byzantine Liturgical Year: Festal Homilies and Festal Liturgies in Late Antique Constantinople, ed. Harald Buchinger and Stephanos Alexopoulos (Leuven: Peeters, forthcoming). For Western medieval ritual settings, see Carol Symes, “Liturgical Texts and Performative Practices,” in Understanding Medieval Liturgy, ed. Helen Gittos and Sarah Hamilton (Farnham: Routledge, 2016), 239–67. 8. David Frankfurter, “Beyond Magic and Superstition,” in Late Ancient Christianity, ed. Virginia Burrus, People’s History of Christianity 2 (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2005), 255–84, esp. 257. “Simplified foils” are the words of João Biehl and Peter Locke, “The Anthropology of Becoming,” in Unfinished: The Anthropology of Becoming, ed. João Biehl and Peter Locke (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017), 41–89, esp. 51. 9. Virginia Burrus and Rebecca Lyman, “Shifting the Focus of History,” in Late Ancient Christianity, ed. Virginia Burrus, People’s History of Christianity 2 (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2005), 1–23, esp. 5.

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10. This was in contrast to elites like Basil of Caesarea or his sister Macrina, who experimented with “complete poverty” (teleias aktēmosunēs) and performed labor “by one’s own hand” (autocheira), discussed in Andrew Dinan, “Manual Labor in the Life and Thought of St. Basil the Great,” Logos 12 (2009): 133–57, esp. 138. On Christian leaders’ complex attitudes toward non-­elites, see Jaclyn Maxwell, Simplicity and Humility in Late Antique Christian Thought: Elites and the Challenges of Apostolic Life (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021), 56–84; and Jack Tannous on “real simple believers” in The Making of the Medieval Middle East: Religion, Society, and Simple Believers (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2018), 46–81. 11. Saidiya V. Hartman, “Intimate History, Radical Narrative,” Journal of African American History 106 (2021): 127–35; Hartman, Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments: Intimate Histories of Social Upheaval (New York: W. W. Norton, 2019). For Greek and Roman antiquity, Marguerite Johnson reconstructs the life of a child prostitute from a trial speech delivered by the prosecutor Apollodorus in Marguerite Johnson, “Hidden Women of History: Neaera, the Athenian Child Slave Raised to Be a Courtesan,” accessed January 3, 2021, https://​theconversation​.com​ /hidden​-­­women​-­­of​-­­history​-­­neaera​-­­the​-­­athenian​-­­child​-­­slave​-­­raised​-­­to​-be​ ­­ -a​ ­­ -courtesan​ ­­ -­­126840. 12. Nicola Denzey Lewis, “Ordinary Religion in the Late Roman Empire,” Studies in Late Antiquity 5 (2021): 104–18. 13. Robert A. Orsi, “Everyday Miracles: The Study of Lived Religion,” in Lived Religion in America: Toward a History of Practice, ed. David D. Hall (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997), 3–21, esp. 7. 14. Lin Foxhall, “Everyday Objects,” in A Cultural History of Objects in Antiquity, ed. Robin Osborne, vol. 1 of A Cultural History of Objects, ed. Dan Hicks and William Whyte (London: Bloomsbury, 2021), 85–114, esp. 85. 15. Noteworthy examples include Robin Fleming, “Writing Biography at the Edge of History,” American Historical Review 114 (2009): 606–14; Jennifer Trimble, “The Zoninus Collar and the Archaeology of Roman Slavery,” American Journal of Archaeology 120 (2016): 447–72; and Lynn Meskell and Rosemary A. Joyce, Embodied Lives: Figuring Ancient Maya and Egyptian Experience (London: Routledge, 2003). On the value of taking the agency of objects seriously, see Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010); Alfred Gell, Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998); and Glenn Peers, Animism, Materiality, and Museums: How Do Byzantine Things Feel? (Leeds: Arc Humanities Press, 2021). Although my methodology does not ascribe agency to nonhuman objects, these materialist approaches highlight human entanglements with objects. Patricia Cox Miller considers the thingness of ascetic bodies in The Corporeal Imagination: Signifying the Holy in Late Ancient Christianity, Divinations (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). Also noteworthy is Melissa Mueller, Objects as Actors: Props and the Poetics of Performance in Greek Tragedy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016). On the entanglements of humans and things, see Robin Osborne, introduction to A Cultural History of Objects in Antiquity, ed. Robin Osborne, vol. 1 of A Cultural History of Objects, ed. Dan Hicks and William Whyte (London: Bloomsbury, 2021), 1–19; and Brigitte Miriam Bedos-­Rezak, “Mutually Contextual: Materials, Bodies, and Objects,” in Cultural Histories of the Material World, ed. Peter N. Miller (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2013), 47–58. 16.  Helpful multisensory approaches include The Senses in Antiquity series, edited by Shane Butler and Mark Bradley (Durham, UK: Acumen; Abingdon: Routledge, 2013–19); Eleanor Betts, ed., Senses of the Empire: Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture (Abingdon: Routledge, 2017); Jaime Alvar Ezquerra, Antón Alvar Nuño, and Greg Woolf, eds., SENSORIVM:

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The Senses in Roman Polytheism (Leiden: Brill, 2021); and Susan Ashbrook Harvey and Margaret Mullett, eds., Knowing Bodies, Passionate Souls: Sense Perceptions in Byzantium (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2017). 17. Orsi, “Everyday Miracles,” 7 (emphasis mine). 18. Janico Albrecht et al., “Religion in the Making: The Lived Ancient Religion Approach,” Religion (2018): 1–26, https​/​/doi​.org​/10​.1080​/0048721X​.2018​.1450305. See also Valentino Gasparini et al., “Pursuing Lived Ancient Religion,” in Lived Religion in the Ancient Mediterranean World: Approaching Religious Transformations from Archaeology, History and Classics, ed. Valentino Gasparini et al. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020): 1–8. See also the journal Religion in the Roman Empire (2015–present). 19.  Jörg Rüpke, “Lived Ancient Religions,” in Oxford Research Encyclopedias: Religion, accessed January 5, 2022, https://​doi​.org​/10​.1093​/acrefore​/9780199340378​.013​.633. 20. Jörg Rüpke, On Roman Religion: Lived Religion and the Individual in Ancient Rome (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2016). 21. Gasparini et al., “Pursuing Lived Ancient Religion,” 3. 22. Gasparini et al., “Pursuing Lived Ancient Religion,” 5. 23. Rüpke, “Lived Ancient Religions,” at note reference 7. 24.  Despite emphasis on the individual, some collectives emerge in analysis of ancient hymns, e.g., Richard L. Gordon, “(Re-­)modelling Religious Experience: Some Experiments with Hymnic Form in the Imperial Period,” in Lived Religion in the Ancient Mediterranean World: Approaching Religious Transformations from Archaeology, History and Classics, ed. Valentino Gasparini et al. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020), 23–48, esp. 26. 25.  Some Christian authorities couched their innovations in claims of antiquity or attributed written works to long-­gone patriarchs and apostles. See Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 26. Leontios of Constantinople, Hom. 2.21, trans. Allen and Datema, 48; cf. 4. 27. Irene Salvo, “Experiencing Curses: Neurobehavioral Traits of Ritual and Spatiality in the Roman Empire,” in Lived Religion in the Ancient Mediterranean World: Approaching Religious Transformations from Archaeology, History and Classics, ed. Valentino Gasparini et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 157–80, esp. 158. 28. Nancy Tatom Ammerman, Sacred Stories, Spiritual Tribes: Finding Religion in Everyday Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 4. 29. Nancy Tatom Ammerman, “Finding Religion in Everyday Life,” Sociology of Religion 75 (2014): 189–207, further developed in Ammerman, Studying Lived Religion: Contexts and Practices (New York: New York University Press, 2021). 30. New typologies of religion in America track this salience of religion. See Pew Research Center, “The Religious Typology: A New Way to Categorize Americans by Religion,” https://​ www​.pewforum​.org​/2018​/08​/29​/the​-­­religious​-­­typology/, accessed February 16, 2022. 31.  John Chrysostom, Hom. on 1 Corinthians 43.4; trans. NPNF 1.12.262, discussed in Joseph E. Sanzo, “Early Christianity,” in Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic, ed. David Frankfurter (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 198–239, esp. 234–36. 32. Averil Cameron, “Patristics and Late Antiquity: Partners or Rivals?,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 28 (2020): 283–302, esp. 293. 33.  Charles Marsh, “Introduction: Lived Theology: Method, Style, and Pedagogy,” in Lived Theology: New Perspectives on Method, Style, and Pedagogy, ed. Charles Marsh, Peter Slade, and Sarah Azaransky (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 1–20. 34. Rüpke, “Lived Ancient Religions,” following note reference 12.

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35. Ashon T. Crawley, Blackpentecostal Breath: The Aesthetics of Possibility (New York: Fordham University Press, 2017), 2–8. 36. Marsh, “Introduction,” 10, 16. 37.  T. M. Luhrmann, How God Becomes Real: Kindling the Presence of Invisible Others (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2020), 58–77, 112–21, 170–75. 38.  Many of the ideas in this section were developed in Georgia Frank, “Laity Lives: Reclaiming a ‘Non-­’ Category,” Studies in Late Antiquity 5 (2021): 119–27. 39.  “λαϊκός,” “λαός,” in A Greek-­English Lexicon, ed. Henry George Liddell, Robert Scott, Henry Stuart Jones, and Roderick McKenzie, 9th ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), 1024, 1029–30; “laicalis,” “laicatus,” “laicus” in Mediae Latinatis Lexicon Minus, ed. J. F. Niermeyer (Leiden: Brill, 1993), 579; Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources, s.v. “laicus,” accessed March 19, 2020, https://​logeion​.uchicago​.edu​/laicus. 40. Pindar, Olymp. 9.42–46, discussed in Timothy Gantz, Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources, 2 vols. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 1:165. 41. H. Strathmann and R. Meyer, “λαός,” in Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, ed. Gerhard Kittel, trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley, 10 vols. (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1964–76), 4:29–57, esp. 30. On “thingness” as a relational term, see Bill Brown, “Thing Theory,” Critical Inquiry 28 (2001): 1–22, esp. 4. 42. Strathmann and Meyer, Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, s.v. “λαός,” 4:29–39, esp. 32–33. Often a translation for ‫עם‬, λαός, is also used for terms normally translated as ἔθνος, usually when referring to the people of Israel, although there are instances when non-­Israelites, such as Egyptians, Philistines, Moabites, Sodomites, Hittites, Ethiopians, and Scythians, are referred to as λαός. 43.  Strathmann and Meyer, Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, s.v. “λαὀς,” 4:50–55. 44. “λαϊκός,” “λαός,” in A Patristic Greek Lexicon, ed. G. W. H. Lampe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1961), 790, 792–93, esp. 792–93. 45.  On the evolution of the chancel barrier from low templon to icon screen, see Sharon E. J. Gerstel, Beholding the Sacred Mysteries: Programs of the Byzantine Sanctuary (Seattle: College Art Association in association with University of Washington Press, 1999), 6–10. 46. Thomas F. Mathews, The Early Churches of Constantinople: Architecture and Liturgy (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1971), 127; Robert F. Taft, “Byzantine Communion Spoons: A Review of the Evidence,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 50 (1996): 209–38, esp. 213–19, 238; Béatrice Caseau, “L’abandon de la communion dans la main (IVe–XIIe s.),” in Mélanges Gilbert Dagron, Travaux et Mémoires 14 (Paris: Association des Amis du Centre d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, 2002), 79–94. On shifting meanings of the laity in Byzantine Christianity, see Mary B. Cunningham, “Clergy, Monks, and Laity,” in The Oxford Handbook of Byzantine Studies, ed. Robin Cormack, John F. Haldon, and Elizabeth Jeffreys (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 527–38, esp. 534–35. 47. André Vauchez, The Laity in the Middle Ages: Religious Beliefs and Devotional Practices, ed. Daniel E. Bornstein, trans. Margery J. Schneider (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1993); Yves Congar, “Laïc et laïcat,” in Dictionnaire de spiritualité ascétique et mystique, doctrine et histoire, 17 vols. (Paris: Beauchesne, 1932–95), 9:79–108. 48. Vatican dogmatic constitutions such as Lumen Gentium (1964) followed by the Vatican decree Apostolicam Actuositatem (1965) turned renewed attention to new opportunities for lay ministries that provided deeper engagement with the church. See the Holy See website, accessed March 23, 2020, https://​www​.vatican​.va​/archive​/hist​_councils​/ii​_vatican​_council​/documents​/vat​

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-­­ii​_const​_19641121​_lumen​-­­gentium​_en​.html and http://​www​.vatican​.va​/archive​/hist​_councils​/ii​ _vatican​_council​/documents​/vat​-­­ii​_decree​_19651118​_apostolicam​-­­actuositatem​_en​.html. 49.  Adrian Hastings, “Laity,” in Oxford Companion to Christian Thought, ed. Adrian Hastings, Alistair Mason, and Hugh S. Pyper (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 374– 75, esp. 374. On late antique theologies of the laity, see Ottorino Pasquato, I laici in Giovanni Cristosomo: Tra Chiesa, famiglia e città, 2nd ed. (Rome: LAS, 2001); Laurence Brottier, L’appel des “demi-­chrétiens” à la “vie angélique”: Jean Chrysostome prédicateur entre idéal monastique et réalité mondaine (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2005); and Cook, Preaching and Popular Christianity, 178–96. 50. Ann W. Astell, introduction to Lay Sanctity, Medieval and Modern: A Search for ­Models, ed. Ann W. Astell (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2000), 1–26, esp. 22. 51. Michael Sweeney, “Beyond Personal Piety: The Laity’s Role in the Church’s Mission,” Commonweal, March 8, 2019, accessed March 23, 2020, https://​w ww​.commonwealmagazine​ .org​/beyond​-­­personal​-­­piety. 52.  On the slippage between so-­called “emic” and “crypto-­etic” categories, see David Frankfurter, “Ancient Magic in a New Key: Refining an Exotic Discipline in the History of Religions,” in Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic, ed. David Frankfurter (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 3–20, esp. 6. See also Talal Asad, “Toward a Genealogy of the Concept of Ritual,” in Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 55–82, esp. 57–58; and Michael L. Satlow, “Disappearing Categories: Using Categories in the Study of Religion,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 17 (2005): 287–98. 53. F. Stanley Lusby, “Laity,” in Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Mircea Eliade and Lindsay Jones, 2nd ed., 15 vols. (New York: Macmillan Reference USA, 2005), 8:5286–91. 54. Lusby (“Laity,” 5286–91) highlights the term’s usefulness for Christianity, Theravada Buddhism, and Jainism while noting its limited usefulness for Hinduism, the religions of Japan, and Islam, and its anachronism for post-­temple Judaism. See also Helen Hardacre, “Laity,” in Encyclopedia of Buddhism, ed. Robert E. Buswell Jr., 2 vols. (New York: Macmillan Reference USA, 2004), 1:445–49; and Dale C. Allison Jr. et al., “Laity,” in Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception, vol. 15: Kalam-­Lectio Divina, ed. Christine Helmer et al. (Boston: De Gruyter, 2017), 616–24, esp. 620–21. 55.  Leslie C. Orr, “Laity,” in Encyclopedia of Women and World Religions, ed. Serinity Young, 2 vols. (New York: Macmillan, 1999), 2:567–69. 56.  Amy Papalexandrou, “Text in Context: Eloquent Monuments and the Byzantine Beholder,” Word and Image 17 (2001): 259–83. 57. Ann Taves, “Special Things as Building Blocks of Religion,” in The Cambridge Companion to Religious Studies, ed. Robert A. Orsi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 58–83, esp. 66–67. I thank Derek Krueger for suggesting the relevance of Taves’s work to theorizing the laity. 58. Karen Jo Torjesen, “Clergy and Laity,” in Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies, ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David G. Hunter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 389–405, esp. 389. 59. Lucy Grig, “Introduction: Approaching Popular Culture in the Ancient World,” in Popular Culture in the Ancient World, ed. Lucy Grig (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 1–36. See also Lewis, “Ordinary Religion,” 104–18. Scholars of popular Chinese religion who see popular religion in a positive light do not necessarily agree on what it is. It may reveal (1) stratified tiers, as in the religion of nobility versus that of lower classes, (2) a shared religious

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activity that cuts across all social boundaries, or (3) less a defined body of practices or beliefs than a process of contestation and dispute among various groups (Stephen F. Teiser, “Popular Religion,” Journal of Asian Studies 54 [1995]: 378–95). 60. Jonathan Z. Smith, “The ‘End’ of Comparison: Redescription and Rectification,” in A Magic Still Dwells: Comparative Religion in the Postmodern Age, ed. Kimberley C. Patton and Benjamin C. Ray (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 237–41. 61. The seven-­volume People’s History of Christianity series seeks to redefine “church” as the “laity, the ordinary faithful, the people,” in an effort to move away from notions of church as a “hierarchical-­institutional-­bureaucratic corporation,” according to the series editor. Denis R. Janz, “General Editor’s Foreword,” in Byzantine Christianity, ed. Derek Krueger, ­People’s History of Christianity 3 (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2006), xiii–xv, esp. xiii. On attempts to focus more on audiences of sermons, see Jaclyn L. Maxwell, Christianization and Communication in Late Antiquity: John Chrysostom and His Congregation in Antioch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006); and some caveats to this approach, Cook, Preaching and Popular Christianity, 181–83. 62.  Some instructive efforts include Luke Lavan, Ellen Swift, and Toon Putzeys, eds., Objects in Context, Objects in Use: Material Spatiality in Late Antiquity (Leiden: Brill, 2007); Frankfurter, Christianizing Egypt; and Theodore De Bruyn, Making Amulets Christian: Artefacts, Scribes, and Contexts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). 63. Frankfurter, “Beyond Magic and Superstition,” 255–84, esp. 257. 64. Evelyne Patlagean famously deemed social historians’ positivist approaches to hagiographies as “insufficient and wasteful” in “Ancient Byzantine Hagiography and Social History,” in Saints and Their Cults: Studies in Religious Sociology, Folklore and History, ed. Stephen Wilson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 101–21, esp. 101. On the relation of sacred biography to wider audiences, see Averil Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 146–52. 65. E.g., The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection, ed. Benedicta Ward, rev. ed., Cistercian Studies Series 59 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1984), Sisoes, 18, 21 (Ward, 216–17); Felix 1 (Ward, 242). Besa, V. Shenoute 91–92, in The Life of Shenoute by Besa, trans. David N. Bell (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1983), 69. 66. The terms are borrowed from Ramsay MacMullen, The Second Church: Popular Christianity a.d. 200–400 (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009), 101. On the “two Christianities,” see 108–11. 67.  Claudia Rapp, “Christian Piety in Late Antiquity: Contexts and Contestations, in Empire and Religion in the Roman World, ed. Harriet I. Flower (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021), 161–86, esp. 173–79. 68. Saba Mahmood, Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject, 2nd ed. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2012). Also important, Charles Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape: Cassette Sermons and Islamic Counterpublics (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), esp. 23, 39, 70, 73, 79, 83, highlights ways “agentive listening” engages sensory and affective dispositions and bypasses the types of “information delivery” associated with cognition. 69. Mahmood, Politics of Piety, 167. 70. Mahmood, Politics of Piety, 148. 71.  Mahmood, Politics of Piety, 148, quoting from Asad, Genealogies of Religion, 76 (on Marcel Mauss, “Body Techniques,” in Sociology and Psychology: Essays, ed. and trans. Ben Brewster [London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1979], 70–88).

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72. On the relation between materiality and mediality in premodern eras, see Ann Marie Rasmussen and Markus Stock, “Introduction: Medieval Media,” seminar 52 (2016): 97–106. I thank Dr. Anne Lester for recommending this essay to me. 73. Jonathan Z. Smith, “Here, There, and Anywhere,” in Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 323–39, esp. 325–30. 74.  Stanley Stowers, “Theorizing Religion of the Ancient Household and Family,” in Household and Family Religion in Antiquity, ed. John Bodel and Saul M. Olyan (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 5–19. 75. Denzey Lewis, “Ordinary Religion,” 108. On efficacy, “the power of an object to transform spaces and create ‘presence,’” see Frankfurter, Christianizing Egypt, 167. 76. Stanley Stowers, “The Religion of Plant and Animal Offerings versus the Religion of Meanings, Essences and Textual Mysteries.” In Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice: Images, Acts, Meanings, ed. Jennifer Wright Knust and Zsuszanna Varelyi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 35–56. Isabella Sandwell, Religious Identity in Late Antiquity: Greeks, Jews and Christians in Antioch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); “pastoralization” is from Chris L. de Wet, Preaching Bondage: John Chrysostom and the Discourse of Slavery in Early Christianity (Oakland: University of California Press, 2015), 82–126. 77.  On domestic religion as it pertains to Christians in late antiquity, see Frankfurter, Christianizing Egypt, 34–68; and forthcoming monographs by Nicola Denzey Lewis and Caroline Johnson Hodge. 78.  Morwenna Ludlow, Art, Craft, and Theology in Fourth-­Century Christian Authors (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020), 1–5, 22–27; over the course of his sermon series on creation (Hexaemeron), Basil likens God to a carpenter, metalworker, weaver, vine-­dresser, and potter, and creation as a workshop, discussed in Dinan, “Manual Labor,” 143. 79. Karen E. Fields and Barbara Jeanne Fields, Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life (London: Verso, 2012), 18–21, 202–3. 80. Ann Marie Yasin, “Response: Materializing the Study of Late Antique Pilgrimage,” HEROM 1 (2012): 261–75, esp. 274. 81. On the “afterlives” of sermons, see Pauline Allen, Bronwen Neil, and Wendy Mayer, “Reading the Texts: A Methodology of Approach to Genre,” in Preaching Poverty in Late Antiquity: Perceptions and Realities, ed. Pauline Allen, Bronwen Neil, and Wendy Mayer (Leipzig: Evagnelish Verlagsanstalt, 2009), 35–68, esp. 35–40; on the Armenian Lectionary, see Daniel Galadza, Liturgy and Byzantinization in Jerusalem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 30–50; and Hugo Méndez, “Revising the Date of the Armenian Lectionary of Jerusalem,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 29 (2021): 61–92; and on Byzantine hymnography, see Derek Krueger and Thomas Arentzen, “Romanos in Manuscript: Some Observations on the Patmos Kontakarion,” in Proceedings of the 23rd International Congress of Byzantine Studies, Belgrade, 22–27 August 2016: Round Tables, ed. Bojana Krsmanović, Ljubomir Milanović, and Bojana Pavlović (Belgrade: Serbian National Committee of the AIEB, 2016), 648–54. 82. Magisterially synthesized in Luke Lavan, Public Space in the Late Antique City, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 2021), 1:150–234. 83. The fourth-­century Egeria’s invaluable description of Jerusalem rites in the week preceding Easter are a rare and important exception. See Egeria, Travels: Égérie, Journal de Voyage, ed. Pierre Maraval, SC 296 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1982).Valuable studies of the lived experience of liturgy appear in Robert F. Taft, Through Their Own Eyes: Liturgy as the Byzantines Saw It (Berkeley: InterOrthodox Press, 2006); Derek Krueger, Liturgical Subjects: Christian

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Ritual, Biblical Narrative, and the Formation of the Self in Byzantium, Divinations (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014); and Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Song and Memory: Biblical Women in Syriac Tradition, Père Marquette Lecture in Theology 2010 (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2010). 84. I thank Byron MacDougall for suggesting this phrase. 85. Carolyn Dinshaw, “Temporalities,” in Oxford Twenty-­First Century Approaches: Middle English, ed. Paul Strohm (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 107–23, esp. 109. 86.  On the significance of “today (sēmeron)” in preaching, see Krueger, Liturgical Subjects, 75–76; on the repetition of the word in Easter preaching, see Marguerite Harl, “L’éloge de la fête de Pâques dans le Prologue du Sermon in Sanctum Pascha de Grégoire de Nysse (In Sanctum Pascha, 245, 4–253, 18),” in The Easter Sermons of Gregory of Nyssa: Translation and Commentary, ed. Andreas Spira and Christoph Klock (Philadelphia: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation, 1981), 81–100, esp. 88–89. 87.  Robert A. Orsi, History and Presence (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016), 66–67. 88. William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study in Human Nature, ed. Martin E. Marty (1902; New York: Penguin Books, 1982), 488. 89. James, Varieties of Religious Experience, 500.

Chapter 2 1.  I am indebted to the “Fabrication” fellows at the Cornell University Society for the Humanities (2020–21) for a year of stimulating seminars and conversations. And my debts to Morwenna Ludlow’s Art, Craft, and Theology in Fourth-­Century Christian Authors (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020) are evident throughout. I also thank Lauren Kerby for research assistance. For helpful overviews of the baptismal process and regional variations, see Maxwell Johnson, “Christian Initiation,” in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies, ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David G. Hunter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 693–710; John F. Baldovin, “The Empire Baptized,” in The Oxford History of Christian Worship, ed. Geoffrey Wainwright and Karen B. Westerfield Tucker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 77–130; and more in-­depth, Everett Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church: History, Theology, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009). For textual sources and commentary, see Maxwell E. Johnson, The Rites of Christian Initiation: Their Evolution and Interpretation (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999); Thomas M. Finn, Early Christian Baptism and the Catechumenate: West and East Syria (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992); Finn, Early Christian Baptism and the Catechumenate: Italy, North Africa, and Egypt (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992); Edward Yarnold, The Awe-­Inspiring Rites of Initiation: The Origins of the R.C.I.A. (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1993); E. C. Whitaker and Maxwell E. Johnson, Documents of the Baptismal Liturgy, 3rd. ed., revised and expanded (London: SPCK, 2003); Lawrence J. Johnson, Worship in the Early Church: An Anthology of Historical Sources, 4 vols. (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2009); and Robin M. Jensen, “Material and Documentary Evidence for the Practice of Early Christian Baptism,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 20 (2012): 371–405. On making Christians, see Andrew Louth, “Fiunt, non nascuntur Christiani: Conversion, Community, and Christian Identity in Late Antiquity,” in Being Christian in Late Antiquity: A Festschrift for Gillian Clark, ed. Carol Harrison, Caroline Humfress, and Isabella Sandwell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 109–19; and John

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David Penniman, Raised on Christian Milk: Food and the Formation of the Soul in Early Christianity (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2017). 2. For instance, the Bordeaux pilgrim in 333 spotted cisterns and a “bath where children are baptized (lit. washed)” (unde aqua leuatur, et balneum a tergo, ubi infantes lauantur) near the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem (Itinerarium Burdigalense, 594.4; CCSL 175, p. 17; trans. Wilkinson, 158). Since infant baptism began later in the eastern empire, “infantes” in this context may be figurative for adult (“newborn”) Christian converts. On infant baptism, see Ferguson, Baptism, 362–79; on Byzantine Christian practices, see Lucia Orlandi, “Il battesimo degli infanti: Aspetti culturali e sociali del pedobattesimo a Bisanzio fra IV e VII secolo,” in Dialoghi con Bisanzio: Spazi di discussione, percorsi di ricerca; Atti dell’VIII Congresso dell’Associazione Italiana di Studi Bizantini (Ravenna, 22–25 settembre 2015), ed. Salvatore Cosentino, Margherita Elena Pomero, and Giorgio Vespignani, 2 vols. (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 2019), 2:739–60. 3. In her travelog, Egeria describes for her “sisters” in the West how baptism is done in Jerusalem, Travels, 45–47, ed. Maraval (SC 296), 304–17; trans. Wilkinson, 143–46. 4. The duration of baptismal preparation varied in antiquity; see Maxwell Johnson, “From Three Weeks to Forty Days: Baptismal Preparation and the Origins of Lent,” in Living Water, Sealing Spirit: Readings on Christian Initiation, ed. Paul F. Bradshaw and Maxwell E. Johnson (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1995), 118–36. On the evidence for baptism outside of Easter celebrations, see Paul F. Bradshaw, “‘Diem baptism sollemniorem’: Initiation and Easter in Christian Antiquity,” in Living Water, Sealing Spirit: Readings on Christian Initiation, ed. Paul  F. Bradshaw and Maxwell E. Johnson (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1995), 137–47. 5. Outdoor baptisms near sources of flowing waters—such as at a sea, fountain, or river— were still practiced in some parts of the Roman Empire. For instance, Egeria, Travels, 15.1–5, ed. Maraval, 188–90, trans. Wilkinson, 110–11; Bertrand Riba, “La place et le rôle de l’eau vive dans les baptistères paléochrétiens au miroir de l’archéologie: Quelques éléments de réflexions entre Orient et Occident”; and Carolyn Twomey, “Baptisms and Baptisteries of the Insular World,” forthcoming in Baptême et baptistères: regards croisés sur l’initiation chrétienne entre Antiquité Tardive et Moyen Age, ed. Lucia Orlandi et al. On clerical condemnation of waterless baptisms, see Tertullian’s vitriol in On Baptism, 1, ed. and trans. Evans, 4; and Robin M. Jensen, Living Water: Images, Symbols, and Settings of Early Christian Baptism (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 131. 6. Lin Foxhall, “Everyday Objects,” in A Cultural History of Objects, vol. 1: In Antiquity, ed. Robin Osborne (London: Bloomsbury, 2021), 85–114, esp. 99–100. 7. On the role of light in shaping baptismal experiences, see Vladimir Ivanovici, Manipulating Theophany: Light and Ritual in North Adriatic Architecture (ca. 400–ca. 800) (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016), 19–123. 8. On Eucharistic metaphors in sermons to new converts, see Georgia Frank, “‘Taste and See’: The Eucharist and the Eyes of Faith in the Fourth Century,” Church History 70 (2001): 619–43. For archaeological surveys of ancient baptisteries, see Sebastian Ristow et al. (2017), Christian Baptisteries: Interactive Map (Version 1.0.2), available online at http://​hde​.geogr​.muni​ .cz​/baptisteries; H. Richard Rutherford, “Baptisteries in Ancient Sites and Rites,” in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Archaeology, ed. David K. Pettegrew, William R. Caraher, and Thomas W. Davis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 167–88; and H. Richard Rutherford, “The Baptisteries of Late Antique Asia Minor (Western Turkey): What Do They Tell Us About Christian Initiation?,” in Liturgies in East and West: Ecumenical Relevance of Early Liturgical Development; Acts of the International Symposium Vindobonense I, Vienna, November 17–20, 2007, ed. Hans-­Jürgen Feulner (Berlin: Lit, 2013), 307–17. On repurposed urban baths as baptisteries,

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see Jesper Blid Kullberg, “When Bath Became Church: Spatial Fusion in Late Antique Constantinople and Beyond,” in Fountains and Water Culture in Byzantium, ed. Brooke Shilling and Paul Stephenson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 145–62. 9. Egeria, Travels, 45.1–4, ed. Maraval, 304–6; trans. Wilkinson, 143–44 (modified). 10.  AnneMarie Luijendijk, Greetings in the Lord: Early Christians and the Oxyrhynchus Papyri (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), 115–18. 11. LSJ, s.v. “κατηχ-­έω,” 927b. 12. On corporeal aspects of this aural experience, see Carol Harrison, The Art of Listening in the Early Church (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 105–16. 13.  Jensen, Living Water, 109, 112, 179–232, 252–54; Nathan S. Dennis, “Welcome to Paradise: Threshold Mosaics and the Spiritual Geography of Eden in Early Christian Baptism,” in Proceedings of the 14th Conference of the Association Internationale pour l’Étude de la Mosaïque Antique, Nicosia, 15–19 October 2018, ed. Demetrios Michaelides (Athens: ΣΗΜΑ Εκδοτική, forthcoming). 14. For a helpful comparison of baptism to other forms of ritual ablutions in antiquity, see David Hellholm, Tor Vegge, Øyvind Norderval, and Christer Hellholm, eds., Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), including a valuable glossary, pp. 1889–91. On paradisiac motifs in baptisteries, see Nathan S. Dennis, “Living Water, Living Presence: Animating Sacred Space in the Early Christian Baptistery,” Svȋataȋa Voda v Ierotopii I Ikonografii Khristianskogo Mira = Holy Water in the Hierotopy and Iconography of the Christian World, ed., Alexander Lidov (Moscow: Feorii︠a︡, 2017), 89–117, esp. 94–101. On the architecture and decoration of baptisteries in Italy and North Africa, see Jensen, Living Water, 179–232. 15. Frank, “‘Taste and See,’” 619–43. 16. On terms for candidates, see Ferguson, Baptism, 536n5; and Philippe de Roten, Baptême et mystagogie: Enquête sur l’initiation chrétienne selon s. Jean Chrysostome (Münster: Aschendorff, 2005), 137, 150. 17. Sebastian Ristow, “A Special Group of Baptisteries with Centrally Shaped Piscinas and Foundation Protrusions for a Ciborium,” in Baptême et baptistères: regards croisés sur l’initiation chrétienne entre Antiquité Tardive et Moyen Age, ed. Lucia Orlandi et al. (forthcoming). 18.  This summary is based on A. H. S. Megaw, “Baptistery,” in Kourion: Excavations in the Episcopal Precinct, ed. A. H. S. Megaw (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2007), 107–18. On waiting areas and antechambers at pilgrimage centers, see Bruno Dufaÿ, “Immersion: Lieux et pratiques de l’initiation chrétienne dans le patriarcat d’Antioche” (Ph.D. diss., Université de Paris I, 1984), 109, cited in Ayse Belgin Henry, “The Pilgrimage Center of St. Symeon the Younger: Designed by Angels, Supervised by a Saint, Constructed by Pilgrims” (Ph.D. diss., University of Illinois Urbana-­Champaign, 2015), 126n388. I am indebted to Dr. A. Belgin Henry for providing me with this most helpful suggestion. I am also indebted to Dr. Lucia Orlandi for sharing valuable details about baptisteries and adjacent rooms, from a forthcoming edited volume on Baptism and Baptisteries: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Christian Initiation from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages; Peter Grossmann, Abū Mīnā II: Das Baptisterium (Mainz am Rhein: Verlag Philipp von Zabern, 2004), 74–84; and Grossmann, Christliche Architektur in Ägypten (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 140. On the preachers’ descriptions of baptismal rites at thresholds, see Juliette Day, “Entering the Baptistery: Spatial, Identity and Salvific Transitions in Fourth-­ and Fifth-­Century Baptismal Liturgies,” in Sacred Thresholds: The Door to the Sanctuary in Late Antiquity, ed. Emilie van Opstall (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 66–90, esp. 83, for the ritual “opening of the senses” performed at thresholds.

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19. Megaw, “Baptistery,” 109. 20. For mainland Greece, see Athanassios Mailis, The Annexes at the Early Christian Basilicas of Greece (4th–6th C.): Architecture and Function (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2011). For Shivta, see A. Khatchatrian, Origine et typologie des baptistères paléochrétiens (Mulhouse: Centre de culture chrétienne, 1982), 38–39; for apodyteria, see Jensen, Living Water, 237. On Lechaion’s trefoil arrangement of baptismal spaces, see William Caraher, “The Ambivalent Landscape of Christian Corinth: The Archeology of Place, Theology, and Politics in a Late Antique City,” in Corinth in Contrast: Studies in Inequality, ed. Sarah James, Steven J. Friesen, and Daniel Schowalter (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 143–65, esp. 148–49. At Dor, near Caesarea in Israel, the rectangular rooms were arranged in a line in a “railroad” style: Claudine Dauphin, “Dora-­Dor: A Station for Pilgrims in the Byzantine Period on Their Way to Jerusalem,” in Ancient Churches Revealed, ed. Yoram Tsafrir (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society; Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1993), 90–97. For Jordan, at St. Theodore at Gerasa’s baptistery and adjacent rooms, see Anne Michel, Les églises d’époque byzantine et Umayyade de Jordanie (provinces d’Arabie et de Palestine), Ve-­VIIe siècle (Turnhout: Brepols, 2001), 235–37. 21. Ino Michaelidou-­Nicolaou, “Inscriptions,” in Kourion: Excavations in the Episcopal Precinct, ed. A. H. S. Megaw (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2007), 386. 22. For the pistikon-­baptistery suite of rooms, their inscriptions, and the system of water pipes at the Church of St. Babylas in Antioch, see Wendy Mayer and Pauline Allen, The Churches of Syrian Antioch: Antioch (300–638 ce) (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 32–33, 35, esp. 40–43. 23. Tertullian, On Baptism 1.3, ed. and trans. Evans, 4–5. 24. On primordial waters, see Jean Daniélou, The Bible and the Liturgy (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1956), 70–113; and Martine Dulaey, “Des forêts de symboles”: L’initiation chrétienne et la Bible, Ier–Vie siècle (Paris: Livre de Poche, 2001), 191–212. On the Red Sea, see Chrysostom, Baptismal Instructions, 3.24 (= Montfaucon 2 = PG 49.235.1–7); trans. Harkins (ACW 31), 179–80; and Amphilochius of Iconium, Hom. 7.3, ed. Bonnet and Voicu, Amphiloque (SC 553), 102, cf. 84. 25. Ferguson, Baptism, 25–59, 534–35. 26. Libanius, Or. 9.254, quoted and translated in Toon Putzeys and Luke Lavan, “Commercial Space in Late Antiquity,” in Objects in Context, Objects in Use: Material Spatiality in Late Antiquity, ed. Luke Lavan, Ellen Swift, and Toon Putzeys (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 81–109, esp. 82. 27.  Toon Putzeys, “Productive Space in Late Antiquity,” in Objects in Context, Objects in Use: Material Spatiality in Late Antiquity, ed. Luke Lavan, Ellen Swift, and Toon Putzeys (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 63–80, esp. 63–67, 72–73. 28. LSJ, s.v. ἐργασείω, 681b–682a; PGL, s.v. ἐργαστήριον, 545b–546a. Cf. Aeschines, Against Timarchus, 123–24; trans. Adams (LCL), 100. On ancient literary depictions of craft, see Andrew N. Sherwood, Milorad Nikolic, John W. Humphrey, and John P. Oleson, eds., Greek and Roman Technology: A Sourcebook of Translated Greek and Latin Texts, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2019), esp. 388–440. 29. On the organization of workshops, see Roger Ling, “Working Practices,” in Making Classical Art: Process and Practice, ed. Roger Ling (Stroud, Gloucestershire: Tempus, 2000), 91–107. 30. Cécile Nissen, “Ἰατρεῖον et ἐργαστήριον, les noms des lieux d’exercice des médecins privés dans le monde grec,” L’Antiquité Classique 79 (2010): 117–35.

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31. I use the term apprentice to signify a beginner learning a manual craft in the presence of a more skilled craftsperson. With growing evidence of enslaved craft training and female craftspersons within and beyond domestic spaces, terms such as craftsman or master are misleading for late antiquity. See discussion and bibliography in Peter Van Minnen, “Did Ancient Women Learn a Trade Outside the Home? A Note on SB XVIII 13305,” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 123 (1998): 201–3. On an Armenian woman contracted to produce glass, see E. Marianne Stern, “Glass Producers in Late Antique and Byzantine Texts and Papyri,” in New Light on Old Glass: Recent Research on Byzantine Mosaics and Glass, ed. Christopher Entwistle and Liz James (London: British Museum, 2013), 82–88, esp. 84–85. 32. On regional variation in the use of free and non-­free labor, see Koenraad Verboven and Christian Laes, “Work, Labour, Professions: What’s in a Name,” in Work, Labour, and Professions in the Roman World, ed. Koenraad Verboven and Christian Laes (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 1–19, esp. 6–13. 33. January 20, 271 ce (Karanis, Egypt) p. Mich. inv. 5171 recto (SB 18.13305), discussed in Van Minnen, “Did Ancient Women Learn a Trade Outside the Home?” 34. Recent reference handbooks provide useful guides to various craft processes, including John Peter Oleson, ed., The Oxford Handbook of Engineering and Technology in the Classical World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008); and Elizabeth Jeffreys, John Haldon, and Robin Cormack, eds., The Oxford Handbook of Byzantine Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 407–502. 35. Valuable bibliography: Toon Putzeys and Luke Lavan, “Commercial Space in Late Antiquity,” 83–85; J. Stephens Crawford, The Byzantine Shops at Sardis (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), 77; and Jane C. Waldbaum, Metalwork from Sardis: The Finds Through 1974 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 6–9, 44–61, 88, 144 (crucible #958). On workshops tended by enslaved people, see J. Molina Vidal, I. Grau Mira, and F. Llidó López, “Housing Slaves on Estates: A Proposed Ergastulum at the Villa of Rufio (Giano dell’Umbria),” Journal of Roman Archaeology 30 (2017): 387–406. In late antique Alexandria, workshops intertwined with dwellings in Houses G and H, excavated at Kom el-­Dikka. See G. Majcherek, “Notes on Alexandrian Habitat: Roman and Byzantine Houses from Kom el-­Dikka,” Topoi 5 (1995): 133–50, esp. 141–43; Zsolt Kiss, Les ampoules de saint Menas découvertes à Kôm el-­Dikka (1961–1981) (Warsaw: PWN Editions scientifiques de Pologne, 1989); Anastassios Antonaras, Arts, Crafts and Trades in Ancient and Byzantine Thessaloniki: Archaeological, Literary and Epigraphic Evidence (Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-­Germanischen Zentralmuseums, 2016), 15–39, 93; Jean-­Paul Rey-­Coquais, “Noms de métiers dans les inscriptions de la Syrie antique,” Cahiers Glotz 13 (2002): 247–64; and Jean-­Pierre Sodini, “L’artisanat urbain dans l’époque paléochrétienne (4e–7e siècles),” Ktèma 4 (1979): 71–119. For glass workshops at Scythopolis (Beth She’an), see Yoram Tsafrir, “Trade Workshops and Shops in Bet Shean/ Scythopolis, 4th–8th Centuries,” in Byzantine Trade, 4th–12th Centuries: The Archaeology of Local, Regional, and International Exchange, ed. Marlia Mundell Mango (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), 61–82, esp. 73; Elias Khamis, “The Shops of Scythopolis in Context,” in Objects in Context, Objects in Use: Material Spatiality in Late Antiquity, ed. Luke Lavan, Ellen Swift, and Toon Putzeys (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 439–72; and Marlia Mundell Mango, “The Commercial Map of Constantinople,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 54 (2000): 187–207, esp. 190–96. On the location of workshops within marketplaces, see Luke Lavan, Public Space in the Late Antique City, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill 2021), 1:386, 394–95, 405–6, 410–12. On workshops associated with pilgrimage centers, see Dina Boero, “The Cultural Biography of a Pilgrimage Token: From

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Hagiographical to Archaeological Evidence,” Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 21 (2020): 155–74, esp. 159–61. 36. François-­Dominique Deltenre and Lucia Orlandi, “‘Rien ne se perd, rien ne se crée, tout se transforme’: Transformation and Manufacturing in the Late Roman Villa of Aiano-­ Torraccia di Chiusi (5th–7th Cent. ad)” PCA (European Journal of Postclassical Archaeologies) 6 (2016): 71–90. 37. On ancient objects in urban contexts (or “object spatiality”), see Luke Lavan, Ellen Swift, and Toon Putzeys, eds., Objects in Context, Objects in Use: Material Spatiality in Late Antiquity (Leiden: Brill, 2007). On recent advances in imaging technologies, see Christine M. Thomas, “Invisible ‘Christians’ in the Ephesian Landscape: Using Geophysical Surveys to De-­ Center Paul,” in Religion in Ephesos Reconsidered: Archaeology of Spaces, Structures, and Objects, ed. Daniel N. Schowalter, Steven J. Friesen, Sabine Ladstätter, and Christine M. Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 171–91. 38.  Art of Making in Antiquity, accessed January 12, 2022, https://​artofmaking​.ac​.uk​ /explore​/sources​/1377​/PR308​_06​_05; for scraper and chisel marks on the same object, see https://​artofmaking​.ac​.uk​/search​/basic​/PR911​_01​_01. Julie A. Van Voorhis, Aphrodisias X: The Sculptor’s Workshop (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2018), 39–45. On the archaeology of apprenticeship, see Eleni Hasaki, “Workshops and Technology,” in A Companion to Greek Art, ed. Tyler Jo Smith and Dimitris Plantzos (Chichester: Wiley-­Blackwell, 2012), 255–72, esp. 268. For a useful catalog of ancient apprentices’ pieces and tools, see Art of Making in Antiquity, accessed November 20, 2020, http://​w ww​.artofmaking​.ac​.uk​/explore​/monuments​/409/. Eleni Hasaki, “Craft Apprenticeship in Ancient Greece: Reaching Beyond the Masters,” in Archaeology and Apprenticeship: Body Knowledge, Identity, and Communities of Practice, ed. Willeke Wendrich (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2012), 171–202. Julie A. Van Voorhis’s investigations have been invaluable: “Apprentices’ Pieces and the Training of Sculptors at Aphrodisias,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 11 (1998): 175–92; “The Training of Marble Sculptors at Aphrodisias,” in Aphrodisias’tan Roma Portreleri = Roman Portraits from Aphrodisias, ed. R. R. R. Smith and J. L. Lenaghan (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 2008), 120–35; and “Working and Re-­Working at the Sculptor’s Workshop in Aphrodisias,” in Ateliers and Artisans in Roman Art and Archaeology, ed. Troels Myrup Kristensen and Birte Poulsen (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2012), 39–54. 39.  Augustine, City of God, 7.4; quoted in Cameron Hawkins, Roman Artisans and the Urban Economy (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 66. 40. Hasaki, “Workshops and Technology,” 269. 41. A term borrowed from Etienne Wenger, Communities of Practice: Learning, Meaning, and Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), esp. 86–89 (“shared histories of learning”). The body itself provided many raw materials necessary for craft; an artisan’s own earwax, spittle, or urine might be the secret ingredient for some tricks of the trade (Pamela H. Smith, The Body of the Artisan: Art and Experience in the Scientific Revolution [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004], 106–12). I thank Anthony Lovenheim Irwin for suggesting this work. 42. Niki Kasumi Clements, Sites of the Ascetic Self: John Cassian and Christian Ethical Formation (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2020), 113–36. 43. E.g., Andrew Dinan, “Manual Labor in the Life and Thought of St. Basil the Great,” Logos 12 (2009): 133–57, esp. 143. On craftspeople who were also clergy, see Sabine Huebner, Papyri and the Social World of the New Testament (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 65–86, esp. 82–83.

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44. Theodoret of Cyrrus, The Questions on the Octateuch 20.2, ed. and trans. John Petruccione and Robert C. Hill, 2 vols. (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2007), 1:52–53, discussed in Justin Willson, “The Origin of the Crafts According to the Byzantine Rosette Caskets,” West 86th 27 (2020): 197–215, at 206. 45.  Nathan Schlanger, “Chaîne opératoire,” in Archaeology: The Key Concepts, ed. Colin Renfrew and Paul G. Bahn (London: Routledge, 2005), 25–31. 46. Proclus ACO I, 1, 1, 103.18–21 and 106.23–24, translated in Nicholas P. Constas, “Weaving the Body of God: Proclus of Constantinople, the Theotokos, and the Loom of the Flesh,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 3 (1995): 169–94, esp. 182. On the Virgin Mary as workshop of the incarnation, see Basil of Caesarea, Theophany (PG 31.1464.7), quoted in Ludlow, Art, Craft, and Theology, 227n113. The gestating womb as workshop also appears in Methodius of Olympus’s Symposium 2.4.38–40 and 2.5.41, as analyzed in Dawn LaValle Norman, “Becoming Female: Marrowy Semen and the Formative Mother in Methodius of Olympus’s Symposium,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 27 (2019): 185–209, esp. 197–99. I thank Dr. LaValle Norman for this reference. 47. Ludlow, Art, Craft, and Theology, 222–32, esp. 223–24. On work songs and women’s workshops, see Andromache Karanika, Voices at Work: Women, Performance, and Labor in Ancient Greece (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014), 21–51, 148–49. On magic workshops, see Andrew T. Wilburn, Materia Magica: The Archaeology of Magic in Roman Egypt, Cyprus, and Spain (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2013), 169–218. On the interconnection of various workshops, see Sarah Bond’s study of tanneries in relation to other water-­dependent workshops, such as potteries and brick factories (Trade and Taboo: Disrepu­ table Professions in the Roman Mediterranean [Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2016], 117); and Deltenre and Orlandi, “‘Rien ne se perd.’” 48. Willson, “Origin of the Crafts,” 197–215, esp. 210–11. 49. Genesis 4:1, trans. Robert Alter, Hebrew Bible, vol. 1: The Five Books of Moses, Torah, 3 vols. (New York: W. W. Norton, 2019), 1:19, see also note at 4:1. 50. Jaś Elsner, “The Embodied Object: Recensions of the Dead on Roman Sarcophagi,” Art History 41 (2018): 546–65, esp. 556–58. I thank Vladimir Ivanovici for calling my attention to this fascinating object and discussion. 51. Darlene L. Brooks Hedstrom, “Archaeology of Early Christianity in Egypt,” in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Archaeology, ed. David K. Pettegrew, William R. Caraher, and Thomas W. Davis (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), 665–84, esp. 677. On monastic workshops, see Philip Rousseau, Pachomius: The Making of Community in Fourth-­Century Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 81–84, further developed by Ewa Wipszycka, “L’organisation économique de la congrégation pachômienne: Critique du témoignage de Jérôme,” in Ägypten und Nubien in spätantiker und christlicher Zeit: Akten des 6. Internationalen Koptologenkongresses, Münster, 20–26. Juli 1996, ed. Stephen Emmel et al., 2 vols. (Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 1999), 1:411–22. On churches owning workshops, see Ewa Wipszycka, Les ressources et les activités économiques des églises en Égypte du IVe au VIIIe siècle (Brussels: Fondation égyptologique Reine Élisabeth, 1972), 58–62. 52.  Bentley Layton, The Canons of Our Fathers: Monastic Rules of Shenoute (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), #316. 53. Layton, Canons, #343. On prohibitions of “mak[ing] a product stealthily” and selling it, #14. On proper bartering, #267. 54. Layton, Canons, #316.

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55. For instance, twenty-­three tools or workshops appear in a search of Ludovic Bender et al., “Artefacts and Raw Materials in Byzantine Archival Documents / Objets et matériaux dans les documents d’archives byzantins,” accessed November 24, 2020, http://​t ypika​.cfeb​.org; under category “Implement/Artisanal.” See also http://​t ypika​.cfeb​.org​/index​/synthese​/209. 56. On the oscillation between animation and immobility, see Patricia Cox Miller, The Corporeal Imagination: Signifying the Holy in Late Ancient Christianity, Divinations (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), esp. 136–42, and her astute application of Bill Brown, “Thing Theory,” Critical Inquiry 28 (2001): 1–21. Helpful new perspectives on objects and materiality: Glenn Peers, Animism, Materiality, and Museums: How Do Byzantine Things Feel? (Leeds: Arc Humanities Press, 2021); Lynn Meskell, Object Worlds in Ancient Egypt: Material Biographies Past and Present (Oxford: Berg, 2004), 1–7; Liz James, “Things: Art and Experience in Byzantium,” in Experiencing Byzantium: Papers from the 44th Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Newcastle and Durham, April 2011, ed. Claire Nesbitt and Mark Jackson, 17–34 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), 17–34; and Margaret S. Graves, Arts of Allusion: Object, Ornament, and Architecture in Medieval Islam (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), 27–50. 57. Theodoret, History of the Monks of Syria, Prol. 2; trans. Price, 4. Valuable studies by James A. Francis, “Living Icons: Tracing a Motif in Verbal and Visual Representation from the Second to Fourth Centuries, c.e.,” American Journal of Philology 124 (2003): 575–600. On God crafting humans as statues, see Vladimir Ivanovici, Between Statues and Icons: Iconic Persons from Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages (forthcoming). I thank Dr. Ivanovici for sharing his book manuscript prepublication with me. 58. Basil, Ep. 2, ed. and trans. Deferrari (LCL), 1.17. Translating philotechnēma as “artistry” (LCL), “chef d’oeuvre” (LSJ), or “work of art” (PGL 1484). 59. Chrysostom, Panegyric on Saint Paul 6.7 (SC 300), ed. Piedagnel, 274; trans. in Margaret M. Mitchell, The Heavenly Trumpet: John Chrysostom and the Art of Pauline Interpretation (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), 170. I thank Wendy Mayer for this reference. 60. Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 18.16, discussed in Stratis Papaioannou, “Animate Statues: Aesthetics and Movement,” in Reading Michael Psellos, ed. Charles Barber and David Jenkins (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 95–116. 61. Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 27.7, ed. Gallay (SC 250), 86; trans. Norris, 221. Cf. Plato, Phaedrus 252d5–e1; Plotinus, Enneads 1.6.9.7–15; and discussion in Papaioannou, “Animate Statues,” 98–99. 62. Plotinus, Enneads 1.6.9.8–16, ed. and trans. Armstrong (LCL), 1.258–59. On Plotinus’s adaptation of Plato, Phaedrus 252d7, see A. H. Armstrong, “Platonic Eros and Christian Agape,” Downside Review 79 (1961): 105–21; on subsequent reworkings of this passage, see Paul Kalligas, The Enneads of Plotinus: A Commentary, vol. 1 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2014) 1:215. 63. I am indebted to Morwenna Ludlow’s “Making and Being Made: Some Preliminary Thoughts on Craft-­Education as a Model for Christian Formation,” Studies in Christian Ethics 33 (2020): 3–14; and Ludlow, Art, Craft, and Theology, 222–32. 64. Alison Burford, Craftsmen in Greek and Roman Society (London: Thames and Hudson, 1972). On the poetics of craftwork, see Amy Lather, “The Extended Mind of Hephaestus: Automata and Artificial Intelligence in Early Greek Hexameter,” in The Routledge Handbook of Classics and Cognitive Theory, ed. Peter Meineck, Jennifer Devereaux, and William Michael Short (Abingdon: Routledge, 2019), 331–44; and Emmanuela Bakola, “Space, Place and the

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Metallurgical Imagination of the Prometheus Trilogy,” in Ancient Theatre and Performance Culture Around the Black Sea, ed. David Braund, Edith Hall, and Rose Wyles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 225–51, esp. 226–27 on the acoustics of Hephaestus’s forge. 65. E.g., represented on ivory boxes for storing precious items, as discussed by Willson, “Origin of the Crafts.” 66.  Willeke Wendrich, “Archaeology and Apprenticeship: Body Knowledge, Identity, and Communities of Practice,” in Archaeology and Apprenticeship: Body Knowledge, Identity, and Communities of Practice, ed. Willeke Wendrich (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2012), 1–19, esp. 3. 67. Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 40.9, 11, 12, 14, 16, 17–20, 25–26, 29 (SC 358, 214–64), in which Gregory refutes several excuses for postponing baptism. See also Gregory of Nyssa, Hom. on Those Who Postpone Baptism (PG 46.416–32), ed. Polack (GNO 10.2), 357–70; reprinted in Maraval (SC 588), 114–45. 68. Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 40.26 (SC 358, 256). 69. Cyril of Jerusalem, Procatechesis 14, trans. Storin, 224. 70. Chrysostom, Hom. on Acts of the Apostles 30.4, quoted in Mitchell, Heavenly Trumpet, 40n30; Ivan Drpić, “Painter as Scribe: Artistic Identity and the Arts of Graphē in Late Byzantium,” Word and Image 29 (2013): 334–53, esp. 348. 71. On coloration as baptismal metaphor, see Peers, Animism, Materiality, 73–74. On the “dye (ṣibgha) of God” (Qur’an 2:138); further discussed in Sean W. Anthony, “Further Notes on the Word Ṣibgha in Qur’an 2:138,” Journal of Semitic Studies 59 (2014): 117–29. See now Hamza M. Zafer’s detailed exegesis of this verse in Ecumenical Community: Language and Politics of the Ummah in the Qur’an (Leiden: Brill, 2021), 154–67. I thank David Powers for this reference. 72. Chrysostom, Hom. on 2 Thessalonians 2 (PG 62.478; NPNF 1.13.383b); on anger as a pedagogical tool, see Cook, Preaching and Popular Christianity, 51–83. On the mediality of wax in antiquity, see Verity Platt, “The Seal of Polycrates: A Discourse on Discourse Channel Conditions,” in Classics and Media Theory, ed. Pantelis Michelakis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020), 53–76. 73. Chrysostom, Hom. on Acts of the Apostles 30 (PG 60.227; NPNF 1.11.194); on sunētheia, see PGL 1327a–b. Helpful for my thinking on premodern notions of habitus: Katharine Breen, Imagining an English Reading Public 1150–1400 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 43–79. 74. Chrysostom, Hom. on Ephesians 19 (PG 62.133; NPNF 1.13.141). 75. Chrysostom, Hom. on Ephesians 19 (PG 62.133; NPNF 1.13.141). Cf. Gregory Nazianzus, Or. 44.11; trans. Vinson (FOTC 107), 237–38. 76. Chrysostom, Hom. on Ephesians 5 (PG 62.41.35–37; NPNF 1.13.73). 77. Chrysostom, On Vainglory and the Right Way for Parents to Bring Up Their Children 22 (CPG 4455), ed. Malingrey (SC 188), 106–8; trans. Laistner, 96. Cf. Hom. on Ephesians 21 (PG 62.154; NPNF 1.13.156–57): parents deserve the same honor as royal sculptors and portraitists. Whereas the latter depict kings, the former strive to depict the “king of kings” in their offspring. 78. Chrysostom, Baptismal Instructions, 12.23 (trans. Paul Harkins, St. John Chrysostom: Baptismal Instructions, ACW 31 [New York: Paulist Press, 1963], 179–80). On Chrysostom’s catechumenate, see Benjamin Edsall, The Reception of Paul and Early Christian Initiation: History and Hermeneutics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 170–200. 79.  Chrysostom, Baptismal Instructions, 12.23–24 (= Montfaucon 2 = PG 49.235.7–22); trans. Harkins, 180). On inscribing the initiate’s body, see Susanna Elm, “Marking the Self in

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Late Antiquity: Inscriptions, Baptism and the Conversion of Mimes,” in Stigmata: Poetiken der Körperinschrift, ed. Bettine Menken and Barbara Vinken (Paderborn: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2004), 47–68. 80. Chrysostom, Hom. on Ephesians 5 (CPG 4431; PG 62.41.37–40; NPNF 1.13.73). 81. Chrysostom, Hom. on Acts of the Apostles 30 (CPG 4426; PG 60.13–384; NPNF 1.13.194). Cf. on artists’ use of color to render a portrait more flattering, Gregory of Nyssa, Letter 19.1, ed. Maraval (SC 363), 242; Basil, Letter 2 (LCL), 1.17. 82. Narsai, Hom. 21, ed. Mingana, 341–56; trans. Muehlberger, 307. 83. Chrysostom, Baptismal Instructions, 9.22 (PG 49.223–32); trans. Harkins, 138–39. On purifying fire in Christian polemic, see Cyril of Alexandria, Against Julian 7.43, 9.31, trans. Matthew Crawford and Aaron Johnson (forthcoming). I thank Matthew Crawford for sharing portions of their translation prepublication. 84. This iterative aspect of making and mending is central to conservator Cesari Brandi’s theory of art restoration and its long history among “artisans’ and artists’ techniques”; discussed in Brandi, Restoration Theory and Practice, ed. Giuseppe Basile, trans. Dara Jokilehto (Rome: Istituto Superiore per la Conservazione ed il Restauro [ISCR], 2013), 15; digital edition accessed April 28, 2021, http://​w ww​.aisarweb​.com​/images​/ebooks​/brandi​-restoration​ ­­ -­­theory​ -­­and​-­­practice​.pdf. For a fascinating engagement with Brandi’s theories of restoration, see Ivan Drpić, “Neourgia: The Restoration of Icons in the Premodern World,” in The Icon: A History, from Late Antiquity to the Present, ed. Charles Barber and Maria Vassilaki (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming). 85. Brandi, Restoration, 15. 86. Brandi, Restoration, 18. 87.  Chrysostom, On God’s Providence [Ad eos qui scandalizati sunt] (CPG 4401; PG 52.522D); trans. Harkins, 295n56. 88. Chrysostom, Hom. on Acts of the Apostles 26 (PG 60.202–4), ed. and trans. in Yannis Papadogiannakis, “Homiletics and the History of Emotions: The Case of John Chrysostom,” in Revisioning John Chrysostom: New Approaches, New Perspectives, ed. Chris L. de Wet and Wendy Mayer (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 300–333, esp. 319–20; cf. NPNF 1.11.173. 89. Chrysostom, Hom. on Ephesians 5 (PG 62.42.29; NPNF 1.13.74). 90. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 11, ed. Reischl and Rupp 1.14–16; trans. Storin, 223. 91.  Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 17, ed. Reischl and Rupp 1.24; trans. Storin, 225; cf. 1 Cor. 3:12–15. 92. Dayna S. Kalleres, City of Demons: Violence, Ritual, and Christian Power in Late Antiquity (Oakland: University of California Press, 2015), 82–83. 93. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 9, ed. Reischl and Rupp 1.12; trans. Storin, 221. 94. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 9, ed. Reischl and Rupp 1.12; trans. Storin, 221. 95. E.g., Job 23:10; Ps. 66:10, 12; Prov. 17:3; Isa. 48:10; Zech. 13:9; Mal. 3:2–3; 1 Pet. 1:7. 96. Chrysostom, On Saint Drosis (CPG 4362; PG 50.683–94), trans. Wendy Mayer and Bronwen Neil, The Cult of the Saints (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2006), 191–207, esp. 200–201. 97. Chrysostom, On Saint Drosis, 9; trans. Mayer and Neil, 200. 98. Chrysostom, On Saint Drosis, 10; trans. Mayer and Neil, 201. 99.  Chrysostom, On Saint Drosis, 10; trans. Mayer and Neil, 201. On martyrdom as baptism, see Acts of Paul (and Thecla) 34; trans. J. K. Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 370. And on baptism as martyrdom, see Gordon Jeanes, “Baptism Portrayed as Martyrdom in the Early Church,” Studia Liturgica 23 (1993): 158–76.

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100. Proclus, Hom. 27.16, in Jan Harm Barkhuizen, “Proclus of Constantinople, Homily 27: Μυσταγόγια εἰς τὸ βάπτισμα,” Acta Patristica et Byzantina 14 (2003): 1–20. 101. Annabel Jane Wharton, Refiguring the Post Classical City: Dura Europos, Jerash, Jerusalem, and Ravenna (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 84. 102. Elaine L. Graham, Representations of the Post/human: Monsters, Aliens and Others in Popular Culture (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002), 108; cf. Peter Schäfer, “The Magic of the Golem: The Early Development of the Golem Legend,” Journal of Jewish Studies 46 (1995): 249–61. 103. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 6.4 (1140a11–19); trans. Reeve, 54. 104. On metamorphoses as moments of “abnormal crossover,” see Richard Buxton, Forms of Astonishment: Greek Myths of Metamorphosis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 24. 105. Isa. 44:21; Gen. 2:22. 106.  John Chrysostom, Baptismal Instructions, 9.25–26, ed. Piédagnel (Hom. 1.15) (SC 366), 142; trans. Harkins (ACW 31), 139–40; cf. Jer. 19:11, 18:6. Cf. John Chrysostom, Homilies on the Gospel of John 11 (PG 59.75–76): “When the nature of fire unites with the earth of minerals, it straightway makes the earth into gold; much more so does baptism make into gold the clay of those who are washed when the Spirit falls like fire into our souls at that time. This fire of the Spirit consumes the images of clay and brings forth a new and shining image of a heavenly thing, just as the fire produces a gleaming image from the smelting furnace”; trans. Harkins (ACW), 295n48. I thank Janet Timbie for calling my attention to the reception of Jeremiah 18 in baptismal contexts. 107. Chrysostom, Cat. 7.24–25, ed. Wenger (SC 50), 241–42; trans. Harkins (ACW 31), 114. On the imagery of the baptismal robe, see Mark Roosien, “Putting on Christ: Metaphor and Martyrdom in John Chrysostom’s Baptismal Instructions,” Studia Liturgica 43 (2013): 54–67. Harkins, John Chrysostom: Baptismal Instructions, 268–69. 108. P. Smith, Body of the Artisan, 114. 109. Pierre Lemonnier, introduction to Technological Choices: Transformation in Material Cultures Since the Neolithic, ed. Pierre Lemonnier (London: Routledge, 1993), 1–35. 110. Giovanni Ruffini, Life in an Egyptian Village in Late Antiquity: Aphrodito Before and After the Islamic Conquest (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 103, highlights P.  Cair. Maspero 2.67158, the formal arrangements between a carpenter-­craftsman and his teacher and now father-­in-­law, a work contract in lieu of a dowry. 111.  Pliny, Natural History 35.145; discussed in Verity Platt, “Orphaned Objects: Pliny’s Natural History and the Phenomenology of the Incomplete,” Art History 41 (2018): 492–517. 112.  Andrew Stewart, “Sculptors’ Sketches, Trial Pieces, Figure Studies, and Models in Poros Limestone from the Athenian Agora,” Hesperia 82 (2013): 615–50. 113. Hom. on Ephrem, 11–17, in A Metrical Homily on Holy Mar Ephrem by Mar Jacob of Sarug, ed. and trans. Joseph P. Amar, Patrologia Orientalis (Turnhout: Brepols, 1995), 26–29; these catalogs of defects can also be understood in the wider context of hagiographers’ tropes of humility, as described by Derek Krueger in Writing and Holiness: The Practice of Authorship in the Early Christian East, Divinations (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 94–109. 114. The ethnographers João Biehl and Peter Locke consider the relation between “unfinishedness” and human plasticity in “Foreword: Unfinished,” in Unfinished: The Anthropology of Becoming, ed. João Biehl and Peter Locke (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017), ix–xiii, esp. x.

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115. Libanius, Speech in Character 11 (titled, “What words would a painter say when, as he is trying to paint a picture of Apollo on laurel wood, the wood will not absorb the paint?”), ed. and trans. Gibson, 386–89. 116. P. Smith, Body of the Artisan, 114. 117. P. Smith, Body of the Artisan, 108. 118. P. Smith, Body of the Artisan, 113, who notes, “The workshop [in the Middle Ages] was never far from the kitchen” or from the apothecary. 119. P. Smith, Body of the Artisan, 127; cf. Isa. 44:1–28. I thank Lauren Monroe for calling my attention to this rich passage. 120. Teaching of Jacob Newly Baptized, ed. Vincent Déroche, “Doctrina Jacobi,” Travaux et Mémoires 11 (1991): 71–219; online trans. Andrew S. Jacobs, accessed May 14, 2021, http://​ andrewjacobs​.org​/translations​/doctrina​.html. I thank Benjamin Anderson for calling my attention to the relevance of this work. Involuntary baptism goes back to the first century, whenever enslaved people were among whole-­household baptisms (e.g., Acts 16:15). I thank Bernadette J. Brooten for this important point. 121. Chrysostom, Hom. on the Gospel of Matthew 78 (PG 58.716.7 = TLG 2062.152; NPNF 1.10.473 [modified]). 122. Graves, Arts of Allusion, 48; for Byzantine finger and palm prints, Shannon Steiner, “Tokens Touched and Touching,” in Byzantine Things in the World, ed. Glenn Peers (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2013), 108–11. 123. Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 10.4.21 (LCL), 2.410–11. 124. Mayer and Allen, Churches of Syrian Antioch, 114–15. 125. Brigitte Miriam Bedos-­Rezak, “Mutually Contextual: Materials, Bodies, and Objects,” in Cultural Histories of the Material World, ed. Peter N. Miller (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2013), 47–58, esp. 49. 126. Bedos-­Rezak, “Mutually Contextual,” 48–49. 127. On the blurring between person and property in ancient discourses of slavery, see Laura Salah Nasrallah, Archaeology and the Letters of Paul (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 40; further explained in Kyle Harper, Slavery in the Late Roman World, ad 275–425 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 394–95.

Chapter 3 Portions of this chapter appear in Georgia Frank, “The Things They Carried: Religious Processions in Early Byzantium,” in Processions: Urban Ritual in Byzantium and Neighboring Lands, ed. Leslie Brubaker and Nancy Ševčenko (Dumbarton Oaks Publications, forthcoming). 1. The literature on the materiality of Christianization is vast, including David Frankfurter, Christianizing Egypt: Syncretism and Local Worlds in Late Antiquity (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2018); Pierre Maraval, Lieux saints et pèlerinages d’orient: Histoire et géographie des origines à la conquête arabe, 2nd ed. (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2004); Peter Brown, “Christianization and Religious Conflict,” in Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 13: The Late Empire, a.d. 337–425, ed. Averil Cameron and Peter Garnsey (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 632–64; and David K. Pettegrew, William R. Caraher, Thomas W. Davis, eds., The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Archaeology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019). On its implications for Christian ritual, see Andrew Walker White, Performing Orthodox Ritual in Byzantium (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 15–46.

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2. Athanasius, Life of Antony 14.7, ed. Bartelink (SC 400), 174; trans. Gregg, 43. ἡ ἔρημος ἐπολίσθη; cf. Theodoret of Cyrrhus, History of the Monks of Syria 26.11, ed. Canivet and LeRoy-­ Molinghen (SC 257), 182; trans. Price, 165. 3. De Certeau contrasts the “walker’s view” with the “panoramic” (or a god’s-­eye) view, perched high above the human fray, such that “it changes an enchanting world into a text” (Michel de Certeau, “Practices of Space,” in On Signs, ed. Marshall Blonsky [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985], 122–45, esp. 122–24). 4. De Certeau, “Practices of Space,” 129. 5. Luke Lavan, Public Space in the Late Antique City, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 2021), 1:213. 6. Lavan, Public Space, 1:214 (emphasis mine). 7. “Unfreeze” is taken from Claire Sponsler, “Circulation: A Peripatetic Theatre,” in A Cultural History of Theatre, ed. Christopher B. Balme and Tracy C. Davis, vol. 2: A Cultural History of Theatre in the Middle Ages, ed. Jody Enders (London: Bloomsbury, 2019), 105–21, esp. 108–9. “Breathe life” is taken from Joy B. Connelly, “Ritual Movement Through Greek Sacred Space: Towards an Archaeology of Performance,” in Ritual Dynamics in the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. Angelos Chaniotis (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 2011), 313–46, esp. 314. On the limits of “post-­event secondary depictions of ancient movement,” see Diane Favro, “Moving Events: Curating the Memory of the Roman Triumph,” in Memoria Romana: Memory in Rome and Rome in Memory, ed. Karl Galinsky (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2014), 85–101, esp. 85–86; on polychromy and processions, see Mark Bradley, Colour and Meaning in Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 215–20. On kinaesthetic experiences of ancient processions, for example, Ann Marie Yasin calls for “mov[ing] beyond architectural plans and typologies to understand . . . the experience of visitors moving through and gazing around” (“Sight Lines of Sanctity at Late Antique Martyria,” in Architecture of the Sacred: Space, Ritual, and Experience from Classical Greece to Byzantium, ed. Bonna D. Wescoat and Robert G. Ousterhout [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012], 248–80, esp. 250); cf. Vicky Manolopoulou, “Processing Time and Space in Byzantine Constantinople,” in Unlocking Sacred Landscapes: Spatial Analysis of Ritual and Cult in the Mediterranean, ed. Giorgos Papantoniou, Christine Morris, and Athanasios K. Vionis (Nicosia: Astrom Editions, 2019), 155–67. On spatio-­kinetic dimensions of ancient ritual, see David J. Newsome, “Introduction: Making Movement Meaningful,” in Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space, ed. Ray Laurence and David J. Newsome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 1–54; Ida Östenberg, Simon Malmberg, and Jonas Bjørnebye, eds., The Moving City: Processions, Passages and Promenades in Ancient Rome (London: Bloomsbury, 2015); Heather Hunter-­Crawley, “Movement as Sacred Mimesis at Abu Mena and Qal’at Sem’an,” in Excavating Pilgrimage: Archaeological Approaches to Sacred Travel and Movement in the Ancient World, ed. Troels Myrup Kristensen and Wiebke Friese (Abingdon: Routledge, 2017), 187–202; and Ann Marie Yasin, “The Pilgrim and the Arch: Paths and Passageways at Qal’at Sem’an, Sinai, Abu Mena, and Tebessa,” in Excavating Pilgrimage, 166–86. On the notion of “interanimation” between live humans and wall paintings of processions, see Yannis Hamilakis, Archaeology and the Senses: Human Experience, Memory, and Affect (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 187–88; Richard Brilliant, “‘Let the Trumpets Roar!’: The Roman Triumph,” in The Art of Ancient Spectacle, ed. Betina Bergmann and Christine Kondoleon (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1999), 221–29, esp. 221–22. On subject-­centered approaches to processions, see A. J. M. Irving, “The Easter Tuesday Procession in Early Medieval Montecassino: Path as Cultural Technique,” in From Words to Space: Textual Sources for Reconstructing and Understanding Medieval Sacred Spaces, ed. Elisabetta Scirocco and Sible de Blaauw (Rome: Bibliotheca Hertziana, forthcoming), and still

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helpful, Kathleen Ashley, “Introduction: The Moving Subjects of Processional Performance,” in Moving Subjects: Processional Performance in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ed. Kathleen Ashley and Wim N. M. Hüsken (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 1–16 (reprinted Leiden: Brill, 2001, 17–34. 8.  Lynn Meskell, Object Worlds in Ancient Egypt: Material Biographies Past and Present (Oxford: Berg, 2004), 9. 9. Lavan, Public Space, 1:213 and n. 332. 10. Wendy Mayer and Pauline Allen, The Churches of Syrian Antioch (300–638 ce) (Leuven: Peeters, 2012), 86–87, 96–97, 183–84; Christina Shepardson, Controlling Contested Places: Late Antique Antioch and the Spatial Politics of Religious Controversy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014), 58–91. 11. Chrysostom, On Saint Babylas 8 (BHGa 207; CPG 4347; PG 50.527–34), ed. Grillet and Guinot (SC 362), 294–312, esp. 308–12; trans. Mayer, 140–48, esp. 146–47. Cf. Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History 5.19, repr. ed. Guy Sabbah, André-­Jean Festugière, and Bernard Grillet (SC 495). 12. Chrysostom, On Saint Babylas 8 (SC 362), 308; trans. Mayer, 146. “Gregariously present” is taken from Joseph R. Roach’s analysis of New Orleans parades in Cities of the Dead: Circum-­Atlantic Performance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), xii. 13. Chrysostom, On Saint Babylas 8 (SC 362), 308; trans. Mayer, 146. 14. On a procession’s power to invert and contest meaning, see Jan R. Stenger, “Healing Place or Abode of the Demons? Libanius’s and Chrysostom’s Rewriting of the Apollo Sanctuary at Daphne,” in Antioch II: The Many Faces of Antioch; Intellectual Exchange and Religious Diversity, ce 350–450, ed. Silke-­Petra Bergjan and Susanna Elm (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018), 193–220, esp. 195; Shepardson, Controlling Contested Places, 58–91; Christina Shepardson, “Bodies on Display: Deploying the Saints in the Religious Competitions of Late Antique Antioch,” in Antioch II: The Many Faces of Antioch: Intellectual Exchange and Religious Diversity, 235–53, esp. 244–45; Rebecca Stephens Falcasantos, Constantinople: Ritual, Violence, and Memory in the Making of a Christian Imperial Capital (Oakland: University of California Press, 2020), 38–39, 43, 126–42. On Babylas’s translatio and techniques of forgetting, see Mary Carruthers, The Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 46–54. On the martyria of Babylas, see Emmanuel Soler, Le sacré et le salut à Antioche au IVe siècle apr. J.-­C.: Pratiques festives et comportements religieux dans le processus de christianisation de la cité (Beirut: Institut français du Proche-­Orient, 2006), 37–38, 58–62, 190–203. 15. Leslie Brubaker and Chris Wickham define processions as “groups of people moving publicly and formally in space” in “Processions, Power, and Community Identity, East and West,” in Empires and Communities in the Post-­Roman and Islamic World, c. 400–1000  ce, ed. Walter Pohl and Rutger Kramer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021), 121–87, esp. 122. The performance theorist Richard Schechner (Performance Theory, revised and expanded edition [London: Routledge, 2003], 176) adds stations to his definition: “Mov[ing] along a prescribed path, spectators gather along the route, and at appointed places the procession halts and performances are played. . . . Usually a procession moves to a goal.” See also Ronald Grimes, “Procession,” in Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Mircea Eliade and Lindsay Jones, 15 vols., 2nd ed. (Detroit, MI: Cengage Gale, 2005), 11:7416–18. Barbara Kirshenblatt-­Gimblett and Brooks McNamara (“Processional Performance: An Introduction,” Drama Review 29, no. 3 [1985]: 2–5) provide a more elaborate taxonomy: symbolism, ceremony, performers, spectators, movement, and stops (stations) are defining elements of performance and include pilgrimage as a variant of procession.

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16. Sible de Blaauw, “Contrasts in Processional Liturgy: A Typology of Outdoor Processions in Twelfth-­Century Rome,” in Art cérémonial et liturgie au Moyen Âge: Actes du colloque de 3e cycle romand de lettres, Lausanne-­Fribourg, 24–25 mars, 14–15 avril, 12–13 mai 2000, ed. Nicolas Bock et al. (Rome: Viella, 2002), 357–96, esp. 359. Cf. Thierry Luginbühl, “Ritual Activities, Processions, and Pilgrimages,” in A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World, ed. Rubina Raja and Jörg Rüpke (Chichester: Wiley-­Blackwell, 2015), 41–59. 17. Béatrice Caseau Chevallier, Elisabetta Neri, and Maréva U. “Les processions à Byzance: Une experience multisensorielle et performative,” in Rituels religieux et sensorialité: (Antiquité et Moyen Âge): Parcours de recherche, ed. Béatrice Caseau Chevallier and Elisabetta Neri (Milan: Silvana editoriale, 2021), 137–74. Soundscape: Jeffrey Veitch, “Soundscape of the Street: Architectural Acoustics in Ostia,” in Senses of the Empire: Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture, ed. Eleanor Betts (London: Routledge, 2017), 54–70; and Alexandre Vincent, “The Music of Power and the Power of Music: Studying Popular Auditory Culture in Ancient Rome,” in Popular Culture and the Ancient World, ed. Lucy Grig (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 149–64. Meditation: Knut A. Jacobsen, ed., South Asian Religions on Display: Religious Processions in South Asia and in the Diaspora (London: Routledge, 2008). Affect: Tulasi Srinivas, The Cow in the Elevator: An Anthropology of Wonder (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2018), 60–95. Images: Philippe-­Alexandre Broder, “La manipulation des images dans les processions en Grèce ancienne.” In Image et religion dans l’antiquité gréco-­romaine: Actes du colloque de Rome, 11–13 décembre 2003, ed. Sylvia Estienne, Dominique Jaillard, Natacha Lubtchansky, and Claude Pouzadoux (Naples: Publications du centre Jean Bérard, 2008), 121–34. 18. Lavan, Public Space, 1:150–234, esp. adventus for bishops (156, 163), supplication (217), and inauguration as adventus (226). 19. What follows draws from the detailed syntheses of Luke Lavan in Public Space, 1:12– 149, as well as evocative descriptions of ancient street life in Pompeii and Herculaneum by Mary Beard, The Fires of Vesuvius: Pompeii Lost and Found (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), 53–80; and Jeremy Hartnett, The Roman Street: Urban Life and Society in Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 36–75. I am also persuaded by Lavan’s inclination to trace the overall diachronic continuity between imperial and late antique street life, while remaining aware of regional variations. 20. Emmanuel Soler, “La rue à Antioche au IVe siècle après J.-­C.: Entre kômoi et pompai, les cortèges festifs comme reflet de la sociabilité,” in La rue, lieu de sociabilité? Rencontres de la rue: Actes du colloque de Rouen, 16–19 novembre 1994, ed. Alain Leménorel and Alain Corbin (Rouen: Université de Rouen, 1997), 325–30. 21. Hartnett, Roman Street, 67. 22. For a groundbreaking object-­oriented description of a Roman sacrificial procession, see Emma-­Jayne Graham, Reassembling Religion in Roman Italy (London: Routledge, 2021), 82–98. 23. Athena Kavoulaki, “Processional Performance and the Democratic Polis,” in Performance Culture and Athenian Democracy, ed. Simon Goldhill and Robin Osborne (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 293–320, esp. 295 (emphasis mine). I omit the final part of Kavoulaki’s definition (“for reasons of performing a significant act or of accomplishing a significant change at the end of the journey”) because the telos of processions is a more complicated matter in late antiquity. 24.  On expanding notions of touch, Emma-­Jayne Graham includes “kinaesthesia, proprioception, balance, temperature, pain and pleasure” as dimensions of the haptic experience (Reassembling Religion, 94, quoting the sculptor Rosalyn Driscoll, “Aesthetic Touch,” in Art and

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the Senses, ed. F. Bacci and D. Melcher [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011], 107–14, esp. 108). On artificial lighting and urban nocturnal rituals, see Lavan, Public Space, 1:120–22; Leslie Dossey, “Night in the Big City: Temporal Patterns in Antioch and Constantinople as Revealed by Chrysostom’s Sermons,” in Revisioning John Chrysostom: New Approaches, New Perspectives, ed. Chris L. de Wet and Wendy Mayer (Leiden: Brill 2019), 698–732; and Leslie Dossey, “Shedding Light on the Late Antique Night,” in La nuit: Imaginaire et réalités nocturnes dans le monde gréco-­romain, ed. Angelos Chaniotis with Pascale Derron (Geneva: Fondation Hardt, 2018), 293–322. 25. Valuable bibliography on streets and processions appears in Luke Lavan, “Social Space in Late Antiquity,” in Objects in Context, Objects in Use: Material Spatiality in Late Antiquity, ed. Luke Lavan, Ellen Swift, and Toon Putzeys (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 129–57, esp. 131–37. Lavan provides a more comprehensive study of processions in Public Space, 1:15–234. On processions as civic events replicating power structures, see Mary Beard, The Roman Triumph (Cambridge, MA.: Harvard University Press, 2007); Joannis Mylonopoulos, “Greek Sanctuaries as Places of Communication Through Rituals: An Archaeological Perspective,” in Ritual and Communication in the Graeco-­Roman World, ed. Eftychia Stavrianopoulou (Liège: Presses universitaires de Liège, 2006), 69–110, esp. §§ 58–64, accessed July 24, 2020, https://​books​.openedition​.org​ /pulg​/1135​#tocfrom1n4; Ida Östenberg, Staging the World: Spoils, Captives, and Representations in the Roman Triumphal Procession (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Anthony Spalinger and Jeremy Armstrong, eds., Rituals of Triumph in the Mediterranean World (Leiden: Brill, 2013); and Jacob A. Latham, Performance, Memory, and Processions in Ancient Rome: The Pompa Circensis from the Republic to Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). On the role of the crowd in the triumph, see Andrew Merrills, Roman Geographies of the Nile: From the Late Republic to the Early Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 87n73. On processions and the Christianization of topography, see Jacob A. Latham, “Ritual and the Christianization of Urban Space,” in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Ritual, ed. Risto Uro, Juliette Day, Richard E. Demaris, and Rikard Roitto (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 684–702, esp. 685, 688; Pierre Dufraigne, Adventus Augusti, Adventus Christi (Paris: Institut des études augustiniennes, 1994). Gitte Lønstrup Dal Santo, “Rite of Passage: On Ceremonial Movements and Vicarious Memories (Fourth Century ce),” in The Moving City: Processions, Passages and Promenades in Ancient Rome, ed. Ida Östenberg, Simon Malmberg, and Jonas Bjørnebye (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 145–54; Vladimir Ivanovici, “Building Prestige: Processions, Visual Codes, and Episcopal Power in Fifth-­Century Rome,” in Die Päpste un Rom zwischen Spätantike und Mittelalter: Formen päpstlicher Machtenfaltung, ed. Michael Matheus, Bernd Schneidmüller, Alfried Wieczorek, and Stefan Weinfurter (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner, 2017), 11–27. On the role of religious processions in urban integration, see Leslie Brubaker, “Topography and the Creation of Public Space in Early Medieval Constantinople,” in Topographies of Power in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Mayke de Jong and Frans Theuws (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 31–43, esp. 35–39; and Angelos Chaniotis, “Processions in Hellenistic Cities: Contemporary Discourses and Ritual Dynamics,” in Cults, Creeds and Identities in the Greek City After the Classical Age, ed. Richard Alston, Onno M. van Nijf, and Christina G. Williamson (Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 21–47, esp. 34. On types of “mobile sacra” as they transformed the Egyptian religious landscape, see Frankfurter, Christianizing Egypt, 233–56, esp. 238. On material dimensions, see Eftychia Stavrianopoulou, “The Archaeology of Processions,” in A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World, ed. Rubina Raja and Jörg Rüpke (Chichester: Wiley-­Blackwell, 2015), 349–61.

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26. Brian C. Madigan, The Ceremonial Sculptures of the Roman Gods (Leiden: Brill, 2013), xxvii–xxviii. 27. Madigan, Ceremonial Sculptures, 39–66, 83–102; Ellen E. Perry, “Human Interactions with Statues,” in The Oxford Handbook of Roman Sculpture, ed. Elise A. Friedland, Melanie Grunow Sobocinski, and Elaine K. Gazda (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 653–66, esp. 656–57. 28. Gisela M. A. Richter, “The Basket of the Kanephoroi,” American Journal of Archaeology 30 (1926): 422–26; Susan Guettel Cole, “Processions and Celebrations at the Dionysia,” in Theater and Society in the Classical World, ed. Ruth Scodel (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1993), 25–38, esp. 27–31. True et al., “Greek Processions,” 3; Stella Georgoudi, “La procession chantante des Molpes de Milet,” in Chanter les dieux: Musique et religion dans l’Antiquité grecque et romaine, ed. Pierre Brulé and Christophe Vendries (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2001), 153–70. On the expansion of processions in the Hellenistic period, see Chaniotis, “Processions in Hellenistic Cities.” 29. Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 11.8–14; ed. and trans. Griffiths, 78–87, plus commentary, 171–240. On sensory aspects of this rite, see Ludivine Beaurin, “La procession antique comme expérience sensorielle: L’exemple isiaque,” in Rituels religieux et sensorialité (Antiquité et Moyen Âge): Parcours de recherche, ed. Béatrice Caseau Chevallier and Elisabetta Neri (Milan: Silvana editoriale, 2021), 119–33. 30. Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 11.9; ed. and trans. Griffiths, 80–81. 31. Xenophon of Ephesos, Ephesian Tale 1.4 (LCL), 216–17. 32. B. Madigan, Ceremonial Sculptures, 107, quoting Magnesia-­on-­the-­Maiandros decree concerning the cult of Zeus Sosipolis (197–96 bce), in Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Maeander, ed. O. Kern (Berlin: W. Spemann, 1900), 82–83; trans. A. A. Donohue, Xoana and the Origins of Greek Sculpture (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1988), 470. 33. Fritz Graf, Roman Festivals in the Greek East: From the Early Empire to the Middle Byzantine Era (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 41–46. A transcription, translation, and analysis of this inscription appear in Guy MacLean Rogers, The Sacred Identity of Ephesos: Foundation Myths of a Roman City (London: Routledge, 1991), 80–188. On the statue’s enactment of ethnic and civic identities, see Christopher Stroup, Christians Who Became Jews: Acts of the Apostles and Ethnicity in the Roman City (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2020), 70–80. I thank Adger Williams for calling my attention to this book. On the catalogue genre as both materializing absent objects and “diachronic engagement,” see Athena Kirk, Ancient Greek Lists: Catalogue and Inventory Across Genres (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021), 215–22, esp. 222. 34. Oinoanda, endowment of Gaius Ilius Demosthenes (124 ce), text and translation in B. Madigan, Ceremonial Sculptures, 108–9 (slightly modified) and discussed in Rogers, Sacred Identity of Ephesos, 189–90. On the hapax agalma pompikon, see Philippe-­Alexandre Broder, “La manipulation des images dans les processions en Grèce ancienne,” in Image et religion dans l’antiquité gréco-­romaine: Actes du colloque de Rome, 11–13 décembre 2003, ed. Sylvia Estienne, Dominique Jaillard, Natacha Lubtchansky, and Claude Pouzadoux (Naples: Publications du centre Jean Bérard, 2008), 121–34, esp. 130. 35. Anne E. Lester, “Translation and Appropriation: Greek Relics in the Latin West in the Aftermath of the Fourth Crusade,” Studies in Church History 53 (2017): 88–117: portable objects “mediate and participate in the process of identity formation implicit in the creation of differences, boundaries, narratives, and meanings” (94). A helpful overview of premodern mediality

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appears in Ann Marie Rasmussen and Markus Stock, “Introduction: Medieval Media,” seminar 52 (2016): 97–106. 36. Tertullian, On Spectacles 7, ed. and trans. Glover (LCL), 250–51. 37. Tertullian, On Spectacles 10, ed. and trans. Glover (LCL), 256–57 (modified). 38.  On rabbis’ similar distaste for Roman cult processions in late antiquity, see Rachel Neis, The Sense of Sight in Rabbinic Culture: Jewish Ways of Seeing in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 98. I am grateful to R. R. Neis for discussion on this topic. For objects carried in Jewish liturgical processions, see Laura S. Lieber, “Scripture Personified: Torah as Character in the Hymns of Marqah,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 24 (2017): 195–217, esp. 203. On Christian stereotypes of Jewish public processions, see Michelle R. Salzman, “Leo’s Liturgical Topography: Contestations for Space in Fifth-­Century Rome,” Journal of Roman Studies 103 (2013): 208–32, esp. 217 and n. 52. Ra‘anan S. Boustan detects in third-­and fourth-­century rabbinic sources a fascination with sighting Temple vessels, suggesting that the sacred remained “an increasingly mobile phenomenon” (“The Dislocation of the Temple Vessels: Mobile Sanctity and Rabbinic Rhetorics of Space,” in Jewish Studies at the Crossroads of Anthropology and History: Authority, Diaspora, Tradition, ed. Ra‘anan S. Boustan, Oren Kosansky, and Marina Rustow (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 135–46; I thank Lauren Monroe for calling my attention to this valuable essay. 39. Sara Ahmed, “Happy Objects,” in The Affect Theory Reader, ed. Melissa Gregg and Gregory J. Seigworth (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), 29–51, esp. 29. 40. Jason Moralee, Rome’s Holy Mountain: The Capitoline Hill in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 29–56. On early Constantinople’s processions, see R. Janin, “Les processions religieuses à Byzance,” Revue des études byzantines 24 (1966): 69–88; Brian Croke, “Two Early Byzantine Earthquakes and Their Liturgical Commemoration,” Byzantion 51 (1981): 122–47; John F. Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship: The Origins, Development, and Meaning of Stational Liturgy, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 228 (Rome: Pont. Institutum Studiorum Orientalia, 1987), 205–28; Albrecht Berger, “Imperial and Ecclesiastical Processions in Constantinople,” in Byzantine Constantinople: Monuments, Topography and Everyday Life, ed. N. Necipoğlu (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 73–87; Peter Van Nuffelen, “Playing the Ritual Game in Constantinople (397–457),” in Two Romes: From Rome to Constantinople, ed. Lucy Grig and Gavin Kelly (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 183–200; Nathanael Andrade, “The Processions of John Chrysostom and the Contested Spaces of Constantinople,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 18 (2010): 161–89; Jonathan P. Stanfill, “The Body of Christ’s Barbarian Limb: John Chrysostom’s Processions and the Embodied Performance of Nicene Christianity,” in Revisioning John Chrysostom: New Approaches, New Perspectives, ed. Chris L. de Wet and Wendy Mayer (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 670–97; Franz Alto Bauer, “Urban Space and Ritual: Constantinople in Late Antiquity,” Acta ad archaeologiam et atrium historiam pertinentia 15 (2001), 26–61; and Cyril Mango, “The Triumphal Way of Constantinople and the Golden Gate,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 54 (2000): 173–88. 41.  As defined by Baldovin, a stational liturgy is “a service of worship at a designated church, shrine, or public place in or near a city of town, on a designated feast, fast, or commemoration, which is presided over by the bishop or his representative and intended as the local church’s main liturgical celebration of the day” (Urban Character, 37). On carrying special crosses in the celebration of the litē, a liturgical procession of clergy and laity to a specified church, see Baldovin, Urban Character, 199–204; and Graf, Roman Festivals, 226–38. On portable crosses in later centuries, see John A. Cotsonis, Byzantine Figural Processional Crosses (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1994), esp. 14–24.

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42. Jonathan Z. Smith, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 88–94. The pilgrim Egeria’s portabilia (or souvenirs) suggest interesting parallels to objects and people in motion, as interpreted by Heather Hunter-­Crawley, in “Divine Embodiment: Ritual, Art, and the Senses in Late-­Antique Christianity” (Ph.D. diss., University of Bristol, 2013), 150–72. 43. Anne Marie Yasin, “Sacred Installations: The Material Conditions of Relic Collections in Late Antique Churches,” in Saints and Sacred Matter: The Cult of Relics in Byzantium and Beyond, ed. Cynthia Hahn and Holger A. Klein (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2015), 133–51, esp. 137–39. 44. Mayer and Allen, Churches of Syrian Antioch, esp. 190–91. 45.  Mayer and Allen, Churches of Syrian Antioch, 187–90. If the saint’s relics were far outside Antioch, a small retinue, led by the city’s bishop, would gather for stational worship. Some churches became the site of the martyr’s commemoration, even if the relics remained in another church or shrine. And, in some cases, martyria on the outskirts of Antioch were on the itinerary of stational worship for feast days associated with Jesus’s Crucifixion on Good Friday and his post-­Easter Ascension. 46. Chrysostom, On Saint Drosis 1, 4 (CPG 4362; PG 50.683–94); trans. Mayer and Neil, 192, 195. 47. Mayer and Allen, Churches of Syrian Antioch, 89. 48. The portabilia themselves acquired sacred power in the course of the journey. To liken a crowd to a sea surrounding the holy body’s procession, to lift up children to touch the relics as they passed by, even to grasp for relics or press scraps of cloth to the passing reliquary, all suggest various ways that portabilia acquire sacred power from motion and mediate it as it moves. See Shepardson, Controlling Contested Places, 83. 49. David L. Eastman, “Martyria,” in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Archaeology, ed. David K. Pettegrew, William R. Caraher, and Thomas W. Davis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 89–104. For a valuable gazetteer for Antioch and environs, see Mayer and Allen, Churches of Syrian Antioch, 31–125. 50. Mayer and Allen, Churches of Syrian Antioch, 83–89. 51.  Chrysostom, Hom. Delivered After the Remains of the Martyrs (CPG 4441.1; PG 63.467–72); trans. Mayer and Allen, 88–89, quoted and discussed in Yannis Papadogiannakis, “Homiletics and the History of Emotions: The Case of John Chrysostom,” in Revisioning John Chrysostom: New Approaches, New Perspectives, ed. Chris de Wet and Wendy Mayer (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 300–333, esp. 321–22. 52. Chrysostom, Hom. on Pelagia, Virgin and Martyr (BHG 1477; PG 50.579–84); trans. Mayer, 156; PG 50.583.33–40, quoted in Papadogiannakis, “Homiletics and the History of Emotions,” 323. 53. Mayer and Allen, Churches of Syrian Antioch, 92–94. 54. Mayer and Allen, Churches of Syrian Antioch, 105, 109–10. 55. Pierre Dufraigne, Adventus Augusti, Adventus Christi (Paris: Institut des études augustiniennes, 1994), 284–317; Sabine MacCormack, Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 17–91. 56. Chrysostom, On Saint Phocas 1 (CPG 4364; PG 50.699–706, esp. 699); trans. Mayer and Neil, 77–78. 57. Chrysostom, On Saint Phocas 3 (PG 50.700); trans. Mayer and Neil, 79. 58. Chrysostom, Hom. Delivered After the Remains of the Martyrs (CPG 4441.1; PG 63.467– 72); trans. Wendy Mayer and Pauline Allen, John Chrysostom (London: Routledge, 1999), 85–92.

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On the procession, see Kenneth Holum, Theodosian Empresses: Women and Imperial Dominion in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), 56–57. On this procession in the wider framework of relic translations, see Holger Klein, “Sacred Relics and Imperial Ceremonies at the Great Palace of Constantinople,” in Visualisierungen von Herrschaft: Frühmittelalterliche Residenzen Gestalt und Zeremoniell, ed. Frans Alto Bauer, Byzas 5 (Istanbul: Ege Yayınları, 2006), 79–99, esp. 83. 59.  Chrysostom, Hom. Delivered After the Remains of the Martyrs (PG 63.468); trans. Mayer and Allen, 86. 60. Michel de Certeau, Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 92. 61. Chrysostom, Hom. Delivered After the Remains of the Martyrs (PG 63.470); trans. Mayer and Allen, 88. This extended metaphor of a procession creating a sea is already familiar from the description of the procession to Phokas’s martyrium, as noted by Wendy Mayer, “The Sea Made Holy: The Liturgical Function of the Waters Surrounding Constantinople,” Ephemerides Liturgicae 112 (1998): 459–68, esp. 462–63. 62. Chrysostom, Hom. Delivered After the Remains of the Martyrs (PG 63.470.5–8); trans. Mayer and Allen, 88. 63. Mark the Deacon, Life of St. Porphyrios of Gaza, 47 (BHG 1570), in Marc le Diacre, Vie de Porphyre, évêque de Gaza, ed. Henri Grégoire and Marc-­Antoine Kugener (Paris: Les belles lettres, 1930), 39; trans. Claudia Rapp, “Mark the Deacon, Life of St. Porphyry of Gaza,” in Medieval Hagiography: An Anthology, ed. Thomas Head (London: Garland, 2001), 53–75, esp. 66 (emphasis mine). 64.  Mark the Deacon, Life of St. Porphyrios, 77–78 (ed. Grégoire and Kugener, 62–63; trans. Rapp, 71–72). 65.  Mark the Deacon, Life of St. Porphyrios, 79 (ed. Grégoire and Kugener, 63; trans. Rapp, 72). 66.  Gregory Nazianzos, Or. 43.80; ed. Bernardi (SC 384), 300–303; trans. McCauley (FOTC 22), 96. 67. Gregory Nazianzos, Or. 43.80; ed. Bernardi (SC 384), 300–303; trans. McCauley, 97, with helpful context provided by Lavan, Public Space, 1:196–97. 68. Gregory Nazianzos, Or. 43.80; ed. Bernardi (SC 384), 300–303; trans. McCauley, 97. 69. Lavan, Public Space, 1:191–92. On elite Romans riding in litters surrounded by a retinue of enslaved people, see Hartnett, Roman Street, 92–93. 70. On Roman elite funeral processions and triumphal processions setting the norm for quotidian processions, see Timothy M. O’Sullivan, Walking in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 51–54. On wedding processions in the streets, see Lavan, Public Space, 1:202–203. 71. On raiments of the gods worn in processions, see the Martyrdom of Dasius 1–3, in Acts of the Christian Martyrs, ed. Herbert Musurillo (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), 272–75 (Saturnalia); Apuleius, Metamorphoses 11.29, with helpful commentary in Griffiths, Isis-­Book, 339–40; and Angelos Chaniotis, “Staging and Feeling the Presence of God: Emotion and Theatricality in Religious Celebrations in the Roman East,” in Panthée: Religious Transformations in the Graeco-­ Roman Empire, ed. Laurent Bricault and Corinne Bonnet (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 169–89, esp. 185. As Brian Madigan (Ceremonial Sculptures, 61) notes, the combination of static and moving bodies created fleeting perceptions of enlivened matter: “Statues on fercula even if alone are viewed in the context of a procession busy in visual activity which competes with the statue,

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and where even with the ritual pauses the encounter is distinctly fleeting.” Vladimir Ivanovici, Between Statues and Icons: Iconic Persons from Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages, forthcoming. 72. Life of Theodore of Sykeon 115 (BHG 1748), ed. Festugière, 91–92; trans. Dawes and Baynes, 88–192, esp. 163–65; Michel Kaplan, “Les sanctuaires de Théodore de Sykéôn,” in Les saints et leur sanctuaire à Byzance: Textes, images et monuments, ed. Catherine Jolivet-­Lévy, Michel Kaplan, and Jean-­Pierre Sodini (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1993), 81–94, reprinted in Michel Kaplan, Pouvoirs, église, et sainteté: Essais sur la société byzantine (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2011), 253–72. 73. Life of Daniel the Stylite, 28, in Les saints stylites, ed. Hippolyte Delehaye (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1923), 28; trans. Dawes and Baynes, 23. The hagiographer is silent on whether the saint’s transfer from his original pillar to a grander one involved any contact with the earth (Life of Daniel, 33–34, ed. Delehaye, 31–33; trans. Dawes and Baynes, 26–27). 74. Life of Daniel, 74, ed. Delehaye, 72; trans. Dawes and Baynes, 53 (modified). 75. On the dangers of watching processions, see Lavan, Public Space, 1:164. 76. Life of Daniel, 74, ed. Delehaye 71–72; trans. Dawes and Baynes, 52–53. 77. Life of Daniel, 80, ed. Delehaye 76; trans. Dawes and Baynes, 56. 78. Life of Daniel, 82, ed. Delehaye 77; trans. Dawes and Baynes, 57. Earlier in the life (chap. 28, ed. Delehaye, 28), a distressed visitor noticed the holy man’s “swollen and wounded” (pacheous kai tetraumatismenous) feet. On the use of cords by which to measure and transfer sacred powers, see Gary Vikan, “Early Byzantine Pilgrimage Devotionalia as Evidence of the Appearance of Pilgrimage Shrines,” in Akten des XII. Internationalen Kongresses für Christliche Archaölogie: Bonn, 22.–28. September 1991, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, Ergänzungsband 20 (Münster: Aschendorffsche Verlagsbuchhandlung; Città del Vaticano: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiano, 1995), reprinted in Gary Vikan, Sacred Images and Sacred Power in Byzantium, Variorum Collected Studies Series (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003); and Valerie Allen, “To Measure Is to Feel: The Mathematics of Middle English Metric Relics,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 52 (2022): 219–51. 79. Life of Pelagia 2, 15; BHL 6605; PL 73.663–72, esp. 664B, 670D; trans. Ward, 67, 74–75. As Roland Betancourt points out, the procession showcases Pelagius passing as a cisgender woman (Byzantine Intersectionality: Sexuality, Gender and Race in the Middle Ages [Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2020], 101–6). I follow Betancourt’s analysis of the gender-­expression of this character. 80. Paulinus of Nola, Letter 29.12; PL 61.320A; trans. Walsh, Letters of St. Paulinus of Nola, (ACW 36), 114. An astute analysis of this episode appears in Christine Luckritz Marquis, “Namesake and Inheritance,” in Melania: Early Christianity Through the Life of One Family, ed. Catherine M. Chin and Caroline T. Schroeder, Christianity in Late Antiquity 2 (Oakland: University of California Press, 2018), 34–49, esp. 34, 46. On penitential processions in late antique Gaul, see Lisa Kaaren Bailey, The Religious Worlds of the Laity in Late Antique Gaul (London: Bloomsbury, 2016), 111–13. 81. Paulinus of Nola, Letter 29.12; PL 61.320B; trans. Walsh, Letters of St. Paulinus of Nola, 115. 82. Walsh, Letters of St. Paulinus of Nola, 323n22. 83. Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History 5.7.5 (SC 495); trans. NPNF 2 2.385 (modified). 84. History of the Monks in Egypt 8.25–29, ed. Festugière (SubHag 53), 56–58; trans. Russell, 73–74. On this festival in the context of Nile rites, see David Frankfurter, Religion in Roman Egypt: Assimilation and Resistance (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998), 44.

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85.  Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History 7.21.1–3, ed. Bidez and Hansen (GCS); reprinted in Guy Sabbah, Laurent Angliviel de La Beaumelle, André-­Jean Festugière, and Bernard Grillet, Sozomène, Histoire ecclésiastique, livres VII–IX (SC 516) (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2008), 178–80. 86. Socrates, Ecclesiastical History 6.8, discussed in Robert F. Taft, The Liturgy of the Hours in East and West: The Origins of the Divine Office and Its Meaning for Today (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1986), 172–74. On the power of processions to awaken the senses and “activate narratives” of civic and religious identity, see Andrade, “Processions of John Chrysostom,” 161–89. On processional standoffs, see Lavan, Public Space, 1:223. 87. Lavan, Public Space, 1:224. 88. Lavan, Public Space, 1:227. 89. Baldovin, Urban Character, 234–38. Lavan’s discussion of “punishment parades” (Public Space, 1:184–91, esp. 190) mentions processions in which statues were dragged through the streets. Such precedents suggest comparable affective dynamics for Christian processions of pagan statues. 90. Emma-­Jane Graham, “Babes in Arms? Sensory Dissonance and the Ambiguities of Votive Objects,” in Senses of the Empire: Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture, ed. Eleanor Betts (Abingdon: Routledge, 2017), 120–36. On comparable modern devotions, see Jennifer Scheper Hughes, “Cradling the Sacred: Image, Ritual, and Affect in Mexican and Mesoamerican Material Religion,” History of Religions 56 (2016): 55–107. 91. Emma-­Jayne Graham, “Babes in Arms?,” 128. 92. In this regard, portabilia, including votives, afford a sensuous proximity characteristic of what the theorist Sara Ahmed would call “happy objects,” things that point us toward happiness (The Promise of Happiness [Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010], 23–29). 93. s.v. “πομπή” PGL 1120; Everett Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church: History, Theology, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries (Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 2009), 539-­39, 748, 752–53, 772–73. 94. A paradox noted by Rasmussen and Stock, “Introduction,” 97–106, esp. 98–99. 95. Life of Pelagia 15; trans. Ward, 74. 96. Frankfurter, Christianizing Egypt, 144, 252. 97. On intangible portabilia, see Georgia Frank, “Picturing Psalms: Pilgrims’ Processions in Late Antique Jerusalem,” in Visibilité et présence de l’image dans l’espace ecclésial: Byzance et Moyen Âge occidental, ed. Sulamith Brodbeck and Anne-­Orange Poilpré, Byzantina Sorbonensia 30 (Paris: Éditions de la Sorbonne, 2019), 63–76. On lingering mental images from audition, cf. Chrysostom, Hom. on the Holy Martyrs 1 (PG 50.645). On acclamations in processions, see Angelos Chaniotis, “Acclamations as a Form of Religious Communication,” in Die Religion des Imperium Romanus: Koine und Konfrontationen, ed. Hubert Cancik and Jörg Rüpke (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 199–218, esp. 201: “short texts performed orally by a group (or an individual) in the presence of an audience, expecting and eliciting the audience’s verbal approval.” On “ritual chanting, singing, rhythmic shouting, metrical voices . . . clapping, dancing” among ancient North African Christians, see Brent Shaw, Sacred Violence: African Christians and Sectarian Hatred in the Age of Augustine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). On acclamations in non-­Christian settings, see Gregory S. Aldrete, Gestures and Acclamations in Ancient Rome (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999); Katharine M. D. Dunbabin, “Athletes, Acclamations, and Imagery from the End of Antiquity,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 30 (2017): 151–74; Laura S. Lieber, “With One Voice: Elements of Acclamation in Early Jewish Liturgical Poetry,” Harvard Theological Review 111 (2018): 401–24; and Soler, Le sacré et le salut, 24–25, 60 (quoting Rufinus of Aquileia, Ecclesiastical History 1.36), 172. On repetition as the

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“linguistic equivalent of a raised voice” and evocative of gesture, see Angelos Chaniotis, “Display, Arousal and Perception of Emotions,” in Unveiling Emotions, vol. 3: Arousal, Display, and Performance of Emotions in the Greek World, ed. Angelos Chaniotis (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2021), 9–20, esp. 15. 98. See my “Traveling Stylites? Rethinking the Pillar Saint’s Stasis in the Christian East,” in Les moines autour de la Méditerranée: Mobilités et contacts à l’échelle locale et régionale, ed. Olivier Delouis, Maria Mossakowska-­Gaubert, and Annick Peters-­Custot (Rome: École française de Rome, 2019), 261–73. 99.  On the role of objects in shaping Christian sensibilities, see Glenn Peers, “Object Relations: Theorizing the Late Antique Viewer,” in The Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity, ed. Scott F. Johnson (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 970–93. On “thingness” and vibrant materiality in Christian devotional sensibilities, see Patricia Cox Miller, The Corporeal Imagination: Signifying the Holy in Late Ancient Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), 1–2, 62–81. Cf. Brubaker, “Topography,” esp. 39 on Constantinople’s growing network of processional nodes in the fifth century, and Dal Santo, “Rite of Passage,” for Rome. 100.  Here, choreography goes beyond dance to consider how bodies and things move through space. See SanSan Kwan, Kinesthetic City: Dance and Movement in Chinese Urban Spaces (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 4.

Chapter 4 1. Peter Brown, “Enjoying the Saints in Late Antiquity,” Early Medieval Europe 9 (2000): 1–24, reprinted in Decorations for the Holy Dead: Visual Embellishments on Tombs and Shrines of Saints, ed. Stephen Lamia and Elizabeth Valdez del Alamo (Turnhout: Brepols, 2002), 3–17; Marguerite Harl, “La dénonciation des festivités profanes dans le discours épiscopal et monastique en Orient chrétien à la fin du IVe siècle,” in La fête, pratique et discours: D’Alexandrie Hellénistique à la Mission de Besançon, ed. Centre de recherche d’histoire ancienne de Besançon (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1981), 123–47. 2. Romanos, On the Life of Christ: Kontakia, trans. Ephrem Lash (San Francisco: Harper­ Collins, 1995), 114. 3. Pauline Allen, “The Homilist and the Congregation: A Case-­Study of Chrysostom’s Homilies on Hebrews,” Augustinianum 36 (1996): 397–421. 4. On specific techniques, see George A. Kennedy, ed. and trans., Progymnasmata: Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003); David Konstan, “Rhetoric and Emotion,” in A Companion to Greek Rhetoric, ed. Ian Worthington (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 412–25; and Morwenna Ludlow, Art, Craft, and Theology in Fourth-­Century Christian Authors (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020), 31–99. 5. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity” (CPG 3194; PG 46.1128–49); ed. Mann (GNO 10.2), 235–69. Citations follow the page and line numbers from this critical edition (as does the English translation by Andrew Radde-­Gallwitz, “Gregory of Nyssa, Oration on the Savior’s Nativity,” in The Cambridge Edition of Early Christian Writings, vol. 3: Christ: Through the Nestorian Controversy, ed. Mark DelCogliano (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2022), 403–19. On the shifting feast days for marking Jesus’s birth, see Thomas J. Talley, The Origins of the Liturgical Year (New York: Pueblo, 1986), 85–141, esp. 134–41; Paul F. Bradshaw and Maxwell E. Johnson, The Origins of Feasts, Fasts, and Seasons in Early Christianity (Collegeville, MN:

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Liturgical Press, 2011), 123–51; and Daniel Galadza, “Various Orthodoxies: Feasts of the Incarnation of Christ in Jerusalem During the First Christian Millennium,” in Prayer and Worship in Eastern Christianities, 5th to 11th Centuries, ed. Brouria Bitton-­Ashkelony and Derek Krueger (London: Routledge, 2017), 181–209. On early Greek homilies for the feast of the nativity, see Beth Dunlop, “Earliest Greek Patristic Orations on the Nativity: A Study Including Translations” (Ph.D. diss., Boston College, 2004), accessed February 1, 2021, http://​w ww​.dec25th​.info​ /pdf​%20books​/Dissertation​-­­​-­­3122121​.pdf. 6. Drawn from “a certain apocryphal history,” perhaps a reference to the Protogospel of James, later referred to as “the apocryphal book” (to kruphion); Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 255.2; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 413. 7.  Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 241.11–15; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 407. On the effect of repeated hate speech (both within this sermon and across patristic homiletic tradition), see Wendy Mayer, “Preaching Hatred? John Chrysostom, Neuroscience, and the Jews,” in Revisioning John Chrysostom: New Approaches, New Perspectives, ed. Chris L. de Wet and Wendy Mayer (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 58–136. On Byzantine anti-­Judaism, see Gilbert Dagron and Vincent Déroche, Juifs et Chrétiens en Orient Byzantin (Paris: Centre d’histoire et civilisation de Byzance, 2010). 8. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 256.11–12; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 413–14. 9.  Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 240.16–241.17; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 406–7. 10. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 244.7–8; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 408. 11. Sara Ahmed, The Promise of Happiness (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), 87. 12.  Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 235.3; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 404; cf. LXX Ps. 80:4 (81:3). 13. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 245.3; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 408. 14. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 245.12–246.7; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 408–9. 15. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 248.5; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 410. 16. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 248.5–250.13; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 410–11. 17. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 250.14–15; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 411. 18. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 250.15–18; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 411. 19. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 251.1–3; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 411. 20. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 251.4, 6; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 411. 21. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 251.13–14; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 411. 22. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 251.15–16; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 411. 23. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 256.12–13; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 413–14. 24. echarēsan charan megalēn; Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 259.14; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 415; cf. Matt. 2:9–10. 25. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 260.2–7; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 415. 26.  Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 260.7–261.5; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 415–16. 27. On “do-­you-­see?” questions in courtrooms, see Craig Cooper, “Forensic Oratory,” in A Companion to Greek Rhetoric, ed. Ian Worthington (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 203–19, esp. 209–10. 28.  Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 261.6–17; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 416 (emphasis mine). 29. On audience-­centered approaches to ancient rhetoric, see Elizabeth Potter, “Learning Emotion: The Progymnasmata and the Rhetorical Education of the Ancient Audience,” in

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Unveiling Emotions, vol. 3: Arousal, Display, and Performance of Emotions in the Greek World, ed. Angelos Chaniotis (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2020), 281–320; David Konstan, “Rhetoric and Emotion,” in A Companion to Greek Rhetoric, ed. Ian Worthington (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 412–25; Ruth Webb, Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice (London: Routledge, 2009), esp. 93–103; Webb, “Spatiality, Embodiment, and Agency in Ekphraseis of Church Buildings,” in Aural Architecture in Byzantium: Music, Acoustics, and Ritual, ed. Bissera V. Pentcheva (London: Routledge, 2017), 163–75; and Georgia Frank, “Managing Affect Through Rhetoric: The Case of Pity,” in Managing Emotion: Passions, Affects and Imaginings in Byzantium, ed. Margaret Mullett and Susan Ashbrook Harvey (London: Routledge, forthcoming). 30. The phrase is Simon Goldhill’s from his discussion of how vivid description hijacks and overpowers the audience’s emotions in “What Is Ekphrasis For?,” Classical Philology 102 (2007): 1–19. It also resonates with lay religious training in “real-­making,” as studied by the anthropologist Tanya Luhrmann in How God Becomes Real: Kindling the Presence of Invisible Others (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2020), esp. 27–32. On the technique in courtrooms, see Peter A. O’Connell, “Enargeia, Persuasion and the Vividness Effect in Athenian Forensic Oratory,” Advances in the History of Rhetoric 20 (2017): 225–51. 31. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 263.11–17; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 416–17. 32. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 264.1–3; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 417. 33. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 264.4–6; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 417; cf. Sir 11:25. 34. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 265.16–266.1; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 417. 35. Gregory of Nyssa, “On the Savior’s Nativity,” 266.12–14; trans. Radde-­Gallwitz, 418. 36. I borrow the term feeling rules from Arlie Russell Hochschild, The Managed Heart: Commercialization of Feeling (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983; rev. ed. 2003). 37.  For a helpful overview of Byzantine liturgical cycles, see Derek Krueger, Liturgical Subjects: Christian Ritual, Biblical Narrative, and the Formation of the Self in Byzantium, Divinations (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), 66–105. On how sacred texts command remembrance of events that are yet to happen, see Lesleigh Cushing Stahlberg, “Time, Memory, Ritual and Recital: Religion and Literature in Exodus 12,” Religion and Literature 46, nos. 2–3 (2014): 75–94. 38. On Christian temporality in ekphrastic description, see Simon Goldhill, Preposterous Poetics: The Politics and Aesthetics of Form in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), 7. As Andrew Radde-­Gallwitz suggests, “The joy of Christian feasts is never a simple and unbothered joy, but something more like redeemed sorrow” (“Gregory of Nyssa,” 404). 39. Lucidly analyzed in Margaret M. Mitchell, “‘A Duet of Two Trumpets’ in Gregory of Nyssa’s in diem natalem salvatoris” (forthcoming). I thank Margaret Mitchell for generously sharing a prepublication version of her paper. 40. Gregory of Nyssa, On the Holy Pascha, trans. Hall, 6. 41.  T. M. Luhrmann, “Absorption,” in The Bloomsbury Handbook of the Cultural and Cognitive Aesthetics of Religion, ed. Anne Koch and Katharina Wilkens (London: Bloomsbury, 2020), 85–96. 42. I borrow the term dreadscapes from modern table-­top role-­playing games, which outline techniques for imagining and engaging more intense negative emotions. E.g., Jason Buhlman, Pathfinder Roleplaying Game: Horror Adventures (Redmond, WA: Paizo, 2016). Unlike ancient notions of the locus terribilis and other sinister landscapes, the modern dreadscape

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involves the gamer not just entering the dark space, but also generating its horrors, a skill that requires training. On ancient literary representations of the locus terribilis, see Debbie Felton and Kate Gilhuly, “Introduction: Dread and the Landscape,” in Landscapes of Dread in Classical Antiquity: Negative Emotion in Natural and Constructed Space, ed. Debbie Felton and Kate Gilhuly (London: Routledge, 2018), 1–11; and Esther Eidinow, “‘The Horror of the Terrifying and the Hilarity of the Grotesque’: Daimonic Spaces—and Emotions—in Ancient Greek Literature,” Arethusa 51 (2018): 209–35. As Eidinow (and Jean-­Pierre Vernant before her) points out, the physical spaces and the terrifying beings that inhabit them provoke “oscillating” emotions, such as “horror and hilarity.” Cf. Jean-­Pierre Vernant, Mortals and Immortals: Collected Essays (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press 1991), 113. 43. Andrew A. G. Ross, Mixed Emotions: Beyond Fear and Hatred in International Conflict (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014), 62; cf. 56–57, 95 on the distinct agency of leaders and crowds. 44. Ross, Mixed Emotions, 71. 45. Egeria, Travels, 29.33–39, ed. Maraval, 270; trans. Wilkinson 29.6, p. 132; cf. John 12:1. Egeria mentions stopping at a church en route to the Lazarium on the site where Lazarus’s sister Mary intercepted Jesus (Travels, 29.4; cf. John 11:29). 46.  Athanase Renoux, Le Codex arménien, Jérusalem 121, Patrologia Orientalis 35–36 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1969–71), PO 36, fasc. 2, p. 163 [=25]–168 [=38], referring to volume and fascicle pagination. See also Daniel Galadza, Liturgy and Byzantinization in Jerusalem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 30–50; and Hugo Méndez, “Revising the Date of the Armenian Lectionary of Jerusalem,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 29 (2021): 61–92. In citing psalms, I follow the Greek Bible (Septuagint) numbering, with the corresponding Masoretic text numbers in parentheses. 47. John F. Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship: The Origins, Development and Meaning of Stational Liturgy, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 228 (Rome: Pont. Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1987), 64–72; Galadza, “Various Orthodoxies,” 181–209; Galadza, Liturgy and Byzantinization in Jerusalem, 48–49. 48. Armenian Lectionary (PO 36), §§ 33–34, pp. 255, 259, discussed in Baldovin, Urban Character, 67. 49. Egeria, Travels, 29–30, ed. Maraval, 270; trans. Wilkinson, 132. 50. Ps. 97 (98):8b and 96 (97):1, respectively, trans. Pietersma and Wright; cf. Armenian Lectionary 33–34, ed. and trans. Renoux, 254–57. 51.  The fasts also reflect this boundary between liturgical seasons; as the historian of liturgy John Baldovin observes, “The early fifth century Jerusalem church knew a distinction between Lenten and Pascal fasts” (Urban Character, 67). 52.  Michel Tarchnischvili, ed., Le grand lectionnaire de l’Église de Jérusalem V–VIII siècle (CSCO 188, 189, 204, 205) (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1959–60), 81–85, esp. §§ 579–80; A. Papadopoulos-­Kerameus, Ἀνάλεκτα Ἱεροσολυμιτικῆς σταχυολογίας, vol. 2 (St. Petersburg, 1894), 3–22; with helpful analysis and comparison in Mark M. Morozowich, “A Palm Sunday Procession in the Byzantine Tradition?” A Study of the Jerusalem and Constantinopolitan Evidence,” Orientalia Christiana Periodica 75 (2019): 359–83, esp. 365–70. 53. Romanos, Hymnes 26.7, trans. Barkhuizen, 75. 54.  Romanos, Hymnes 32.1.1–3, translated and analyzed in Krueger, Liturgical Subjects, 87–91, esp. 87. 55. Leontios, Hom. 2.2 (CPG 7893); ed. Datema and Allen (CCSG 17), 87; trans. Datema and Allen, 40.

Notes to Pages 65–67

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56. Leontios, Hom. 2.20; trans. Datema and Allen, 46. 57. Basil of Seleucia, Hom. on Lazarus 6, in Mary B. Cunningham, “Basil of Seleucia’s Homily on Lazarus: A New Edition, BHG 2225,” Analecta Bollandiana 104 (1986): 161–84, esp. 180. 58. Leontios, Hom. 2.20; trans. Datema and Allen, 46 (translators’ emphasis). On repetition as a device in anti-­Jewish preaching, see Judit Kecskeméti, Une rhétorique au service de l’antijudaisme: IVe siècle au VIIe siècle (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2005), 21–28. 59. Pierluigi Lanfranchi, “L’usage des émotions dans la polémique anti-­juive: L’exemple des discours contre les Juifs de Jean Chrysostome,” in Judaisme et Christianisme chez les Pères de l’Église, ed. Marie-­Anne Vannier (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), 237–52. Mary B. Cunningham detects a concentration of anti-­Jewish invective in Andrew of Crete’s (ca. 660–740) sermons for Lazarus Saturday and Palm Sunday (“Polemic and Exegesis: Anti-­Judaic Invective in Byzantine Homiletics,” Sobornost 21 [1999]: 46–68, esp. 58–60). 60. Mayer, “Preaching Hatred?, 58–136; Blake Leyerle, The Narrative Shape of Emotion in the Preaching of John Chrysostom (Oakland: University of California Press, 2020), 124–25. 61.  Jacob of Sarug, Homily 10.80–118, esp. scorn (l. 80), anxious (l. 87), unable to sing praise (l. 94), grieved (l. 102), jealousy (l. 105), anger (ll. 109, 118), annoyed (l. 118); trans. Thomas Kollamparampil, in Jacob of Serugh: Select Festal Homilies (Rome: Center for Indian and Inter-­Religious Studies; Bangalore: Dharmaram Publications, 1997), 246–60, esp. 251–53. 62. Psalm citations refer to LXX numbering, trans. Pietersma and Wright. 63. Harold W. Attridge, “Giving Voice to Jesus: Use of the Psalms in the New Testament,” in Psalms in Community: Jewish and Christian Textual, Liturgical, and Artistic Traditions, ed. Margot Fassler and Harold W. Attridge (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 101–12. For performative dimensions of these psalms, see Christopher Sweeney, “‘The Wailing of the People’: The Lay Invention of Passion Piety in Late Antique Jerusalem,” Journal of Orthodox Christian Studies 2 (2019): 129–48. 64. Armenian Lectionary § 44bis, ed. and trans. Renoux, 294–307. 65. This section revisits matters first explored in Georgia Frank, “Sensing Ascension in Early Byzantium,” in Experiencing Byzantium: Papers from the 44th Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, ed. Claire Nesbitt and Mark P. C. Jackson (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), 293–309, esp. 299–303. Since the appearance of that essay, I have benefited from the publication of Galadza’s Liturgy and Byzantinization in Jerusalem; Richard W. Bishop, Johan Leemans, and Hajnalka Tamas, eds., Preaching After Easter: Mid-­Pentecost, Ascension, and Pentecost in Late Antiquity (Leiden: Brill, 2016); and Richard W. Bishop and Johan Leemans, eds., “God Went Up Today: Preaching the Ascension in Late Antique Christianity,” special issue of Questions Liturgiques/ Studies in Liturgy 92, no. 4 (2011): 249–381. 66. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 14.22, ed. Reischl and Rupp, 2:136–38; trans. McCauley and Stephenson, 2:46-­47. On Cyril’s attitudes toward holy places, see Dayna S. Kalleres, “Cultivating True Sight at the Center of the World: Cyril of Jerusalem and the Lenten Catechumenate,” Church History 74 (2005): 431–59. 67. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 10.19, ed. Reischl and Rupp, 2:286; trans. McCauley and Stephenson, 1:209; cf. Acts 19:12. 68. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 10.19, ed. Reischl and Rupp, 2:286; trans. McCauley and Stephenson, 1:209. 69. S.v. ἐξίστημι, in Walter Bauer et al., A Greek-­English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature; A Translation and Adaptation of the Fourth Revised and Augmented Edition of Walter Bauer’s “Griechisch-­deutsches Wörterbuch zu den Schriften des Neuen Testaments und der übrigen urchristlichen Literatur,” 2nd ed., revised and augmented by F. Wilbur

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Gingrich and Frederick W. Danker from Walter Bauer’s 5th ed., 1958 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979), 276. 70. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 14.24; ed. Reischl and Rupp, 2:140, 142; trans. McCauley and Stephenson, 2:48 (modified); cf. Amos 9:6. 71. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 14.24; ed. Reischl and Rupp, 2:140; trans. McCauley and Stephenson, 2:48 (modified). Whether Cyril has added Psalm 67(68) (as the “too” suggests) or is adhering to an older local custom shall remain an open question for now. 72. A nearly direct quote of Amos 9:6 in Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 14.24; ed. Reischl and Rupp 2:142; trans. McCauley and Stephenson, 2:48 (modified). 73.  On mnemonic keywords in the choice of antiphons, see Renoux, Codex arménien, 176–77 [38–39] on “allusions purement verbales.” 74. On other uses of psalmody in Jerusalem processions, see Georgia Frank, “Picturing Psalms: Pilgrims’ Processions in Late Antique Jerusalem,” in Visibilité et présence de l’image dans l’espace ecclésial: Byzance et Moyen Âge occidental, ed. Sulamith Brodbeck and Anne-­Orange Poilpré, Byzantina Sorbonensia 30 (Paris: Éditions de la Sorbonne, 2019), 63–76. On the frequency of antiphons in the stational liturgy, see Egeria, Travels 31.2, cited in Renoux, Codex Arménien, 174, p. 36n15. On the varieties of responsorial psalmody and antiphons, see Juan Mateos, “La psalmodie dans le rite byzantin,” Proche-­Orient chrétien 15 (1965): 107–26; Edward Nowacki, “Antiphonal Psalmody in Christian Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages,” in Essays in Medieval Music in Honor of David G. Hughes, ed. Graeme M. Boone (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Department of Music, 1995), 287–315, esp. 294–301; and Robert F. Taft, “Christian Liturgical Psalmody: Origins, Development, Decomposition, Collapse,” in Psalms in Community: Jewish and Christian Textual, Liturgical, and Artistic Traditions, ed. Harold W. Attridge and Margot E. Fassler (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 7–32. 75. Armenian Lectionary § 1; cf. 44bis. 76. Some shorter sequences, such as the two-­day Encaenia (September 13 and 14), commemorating the dedication of the church complex at Golgotha, according to one witness, would eventually be expanded to span a full octave. Sozomen, HE 2.25 (PG 67.1008–9), cited in Baldovin, Urban Character, 71n134. 77. “For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all, training us to renounce impiety and worldly passions, and in the present age to live lives that are self-­controlled, upright, and godly, while we wait for the blessed hope and the manifestation of the glory of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ. He it is who gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity and purify for himself a people of his own who are zealous for good deeds” (Titus 2:11–15, NRSV). 78. Armenian Lectionary 1bis-­4 (ed. and trans. Renoux, 214–19), indicates Titus 2:11–15 for lections 1bis, 2, 3 [= Stephen]; Psalm 2 provides the antiphon for lections 1bis, 2; and Psalm 109 (110) is the alleluia for lections 1bis, 2, 4. 79. For a useful analysis of the intersecting dominical and sanctoral cycles in the evolution of the Jerusalem calendar, see Galadza, Liturgy and Byzantinization in Jerusalem, 220–99. 80.  I prefer the term circulation to contagion. As Sara Ahmed observes, “circulation” better conveys the contingency of affect. “To be affected by another does not mean that an affect simply passes or ‘leaps’ from one body to another. . . . We might be affected differently by what gets passed around” (Promise of Happiness, 39; cf. 40, 97–98, 240–41). I thank Jaimie Gunderson for helpful guidance on processes by which affect circulates. For a helpful distinction between “contagion” and rhetorical sympathy, see Byron MacDougall, “Lend a Sympathetic Ear: Rhetorical Theory and Emotion in Late Antique Byzantine Homiletic,” in Emotions

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135

through Time: From Antiquity to Byzantium, ed. Douglas Cairns, Martin Hinterberger, Aglae Pizzone, and Matteo Zaccarini (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2022), 121–39, esp. 122. I thank Byron MacDougall for sharing an advance copy of this article. 81.  Massimo Fusillo, “Les conflits des émotions: Un topos du roman grec érotique,” Museum Helveticum 47 (1990): 201–21, translated in “The Conflict of the Emotions: A Topos in the Greek Erotic Novel,” in Oxford Readings in the Greek Novels, ed. Simon Swain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 60–82. For closer attention to metaphors, see Michael Cummings, “The Interaction of Emotions in the Greek Novels,” in Cultural Crossroads in the Ancient Novel, ed. Marília P. Futre Pinheiro, David Konstan, and Bruce Duncan MacQueen (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 315–26; and Ian Redpath, “Emotional Conflict and Platonic Psychology in the Greek Novel,” in Philosophical Presences in the Ancient Novel, ed. J. R. Morgan and Meriel Jones (Groningen: Barkuis, 2007), 53–84. 82. John Klimakos, The Ladder of Divine Ascent 7 (PG 88.804b; cf. s.v. χαρμολύπη, PGL, 1519). I thank Kosta Simic for calling my attention to this and other examples of mixed emotions from liturgical books. 83.  Henry Maguire, “Byzantine Rhetoric, Latin Drama, and the Portrayal of the New Testament,” in Rhetoric in Byzantium, ed. Elizabeth Jeffreys (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), 215–33, esp. 220. I thank Andrew Mellas for bringing this essay to my attention. On this exercise in schoolbooks, see Aelius Theon, Progymnasmata, 10, translated in George Kennedy, Progymnasmata: Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 52–55. 84.  Transfiguration: Mark 9:2–8; Matthew 17:1–8; Luke 9:28–36; Andrew of Crete, In Domini nostri Transfigurationem (PG 97.953C), discussed in Maguire, “Byzantine Rhetoric, Latin Drama,” 221. 85. Andrew of Crete, In Ramos Palmarum (PG 97.989), translated in Maguire, “Byzantine Rhetoric, Latin Drama,” 224; cf. Gal 4:21–31. 86.  Nea Moni Church on Chios, discussed in Maguire, “Byzantine Rhetoric, Latin Drama,” 223. 87. Maria Vassilaki and Niki Tsironis, “Representations of the Virgin and Their Association with the Passion of Christ,” in Mother of God: Representations of the Virgin in Byzantine Art, ed. Maria Vassilaki (Milan: Skira, 2000), 453–63, esp. 461 and plates 93 and 94 (150–51) in the same volume. See now James Adam Rodriguez, “Images for Personal Devotion in an Age of Liturgical Synthesis: Bilateral Icons in Byzantium, ca. 1100–1453” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 2018). 88. Adeline Grand-­Clément, “Poikilia,” in A Companion to Ancient Aesthetics, ed. Pierre Destrée and Penelope Murray (Chicester: Wiley-­Blackwell, 2015), 406–21; Bissera V. Pentcheva, Hagia Sophia: Sound, Space and Spirit in Byzantium (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2017), 121–22, 138–41. 89. Stefanos Alexopoulos and Maxwell E. Johnson, Introduction to Eastern Christian Liturgies (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press Academic, 2022), 137–38.

Chapter 5 1.  1  Thess. 5:8. On fear of night as locus inamoenus in tragedy and poetry, see Debbie Felton and Kate Gilhuly, eds., Landscapes of Dread in Classical Antiquity: Negative Emotion in Natural and Constructed Space (London: Routledge, 2018). On changing technologies of

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Notes to Pages 77–79

artificial illumination in the eastern Mediterranean cities in late antiquity, see Leslie Dossey, “Shedding Light on the Late Antique Night,” in La nuit: Imaginaire et réalités nocturnes dans le monde gréco-­romain, ed. Angelos Chaniotis with Pascale Derron (Geneva: Fondation Hardt, 2018), 293–322. 2.  Egeria, Travels, 24.10; ed. Maraval (SC 296), 244; trans. Wilkinson, 125. See Juan Mateos, “La vigile cathédrale chez Égérie,” Orientalia christiana periodica 27 (1961): 291–312. On this service, see Robert F. Taft, The Liturgy of the Hours in East and West: The Origins of the Divine Office and Its Meaning for Today (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1986), 48–55. On the “emotion rules” by which to differentiate Saturday from Sunday in Christian worship, see Gilbert Dagron, “Jamais le Dimanche,” in ΕΥΨΥΧΙΑ: Mélanges offerts à Hélène Ahrweiler, Centre de recherches d’histoire et de civilisation byzantines (Paris: Éditions de la Sorbonne, 1998), 165–75. 3.  Chrysostom, Hom. on Acts of the Apostles 26 (NPNF 1.11.172); ed. and trans. Yannis Papadogiannakis, “Homiletics and the History of Emotions: The Case of John Chrysostom,” in Revisioning John Chrysostom: New Approaches, New Perspectives, ed. Chris de Wet and Wendy Mayer (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 300–333, esp. 318–20. 4. Chrysostom, Hom. on Acts of the Apostles (NPNF 1.11.172; modified and discussed by Pagadogiannakis, “Homiletics and the History of Emotions,” 318). 5. Prudentius, Cathemerinon 5, ed. and trans. John A. McGuckin, in At the Lighting of the Lamps: Hymns of the Ancient Church (Harrisburg, PA: Morehouse, 1995), 60–61. See also Robert F. Taft, “‘Thanksgiving for the Light’: Toward a Theology of Vespers,” in Taft, Beyond East and West: Problems in Liturgical Understanding, 2nd ed. (Rome: Pontifical Oriental Institute, 1997), 161–86. 6. Leslie Dossey, “Night in the Big City: Temporal Patterns in Antioch and Constantinople as Revealed by Chrysostom’s Sermons,” in Revisioning John Chrysostom: New Approaches, New Perspectives, ed. Chris L. de Wet and Wendy Mayer (Leiden: Brill 2019), 698–732. On the night as a time for communal activities, see Angelos Chaniotis, “‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’: Nocturnal Solitude in Greek Culture,” in  Being Alone in Antiquity: Greco-­Roman Ideas and Experiences of Misanthropy, Isolation and Solitude, ed. Rafał Matuszewski (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2021), 23-­40. On nocturnal gatherings in antiquity, see Benedetto Bravo and Françoise Frontisi-­ Ducroux, Pannychis e simposio: Feste private notturne di donne e uomini nei testi letterari e nel culto (Pisa: Istituti editoriali e poligrafici internazionali, 1997). 7. Pieter W. van der Horst, “Pious Long-­Sleepers in Greek, Jewish, and Christian Antiquity,” in  Tradition, Transmission, and Transformation from Second Temple Literature through Judaism and Christianity in Late Antiquity, ed. Menahem Kister, Hillel Newman, Michael Segal, and Ruth Clements (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 248–66. 8. Code I, iii, 42:24 (10), discussed in Taft, Liturgy of the Hours, 186, cf. 165–77. 9.  Sleep Foundation, accessed April 6, 2021, https://​w ww​.sleepfoundation​.org​ /sleep​-­­hygiene​/what​-­­is​-­­healthy​-­­sleep​#:​~:​text​=​Sleep​%20Duration​,between​%207​%20and​%208​ %20hours. The rise of remote work arrangements due to the global pandemic has brought a return to segmented sleep, as in Danielle Braff’s reporting in the New York Times: https://​w ww​ .nytimes​.com​/2022​/02​/12​/style​/segmented​-­­sleep​.html. 10.  A. Roger Ekirch, At Day’s Close: Night in Times Past (New York: W. W. Norton, 2005); Jeremy Penner, Patterns of Daily Prayer in Second Temple Period Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 174–75; James Ker and Antje Wessels, eds., The Values of Nighttime in Classical Antiquity: Between Dusk and Dawn (Leiden: Brill, 2020); Christina Maranci, “Sights and Sounds of the

Notes to Pages 79–81

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Armenian Night Office, as Performed at Ani: A Collation of the Archaeological, Historical, and Liturgical Evidence,” in Icons of Sound: Voice, Architecture, and Imagination in Medieval Art, ed. Bissera V. Pentcheva (Milton: Taylor and Francis, 2020), 36–51. 11. Penner, Patterns of Daily Prayer, 178, citing Pss. 5, 16, 17, 22 (LXX 21); 24, 27, 57, 59, 63, 77, 88, 119, 130, 143, 148; cf. 134. On how Antony learned to chant psalms during this interval, see Palladius, Lausiac History 22; ed. Butler 72–73; quoted in McKinnon, MECL, § 118, p. 60. 12. Leontius, Hom. 8.5, trans. Allen and Datema, 106. 13.  Cf. Ps. 67:7 (MT 68:6). Text: C. H. Turner, “Nicetas of Remesiana II,” Journal of Theological Studies 24 (1923): 225–52, esp. 241, line 14; cf. commentary at 232. Józef Łupiński, “Nicetas of Remesiana and His Time,” Studia Teologiczne Białystok Drohiczyn Łomża 33 (2015): 337–56. 14. Niceta, On Vigils 4; trans. Walsh, 58. 15. Niceta, On Vigils 3; trans. Walsh, 57. 16. Ps. 118 [119]: 55, 62, quoted in Niceta, On Vigils 4; trans. Walsh, 58. 17. Niceta, On Vigils 6–7; trans. Walsh, 60–61. 18. Cf. Ps. 91:2–3 (92:1–2). 19.  Such frankly spatial imagery was not uncommon in Christian spiritual advice. Cf. Gregory of Nyssa’s proposing an alternative to pilgrimage in which God indwells one’s soul and walks about (Letter 2.16; ed. Pierre Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse, Lettres, SC 363 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1990), 120: ἐάν γε τὸ τῆς ψυχῆς σου καταγώγιον τοιοῦτον εὑρεθῇ, ὥστε ἐνοικῆσαι τὸν κύριον ἐν σοὶ καὶ ἐμπεριπατῆσαι. 20. Niceta, On Vigils 5; trans. Walsh, 59. 21. Niceta, On Vigils 5; trans. Walsh, 59. 22. Niceta, On Vigils 8; trans. Walsh, 62 (slightly modified). 23. Niceta, On Vigils 9; trans. Walsh, 63–64. 24. Niceta, On Vigils 8; trans. Walsh, 62. 25. Niceta, On Vigils 8; trans. Walsh, 63. 26. Taft, Liturgy of the Hours, 168. 27. Evagrios, Praktikos 15; SC 171, 536–38; trans. in McKinnon, MECL, § 114, pp. 58–59. 28. Parts of this section also appear in my “Night Vision in the Kontakia of Romanos the Melodist,” in The Wakeful Night in the Late Ancient Mediterranean, ed. Kylie Crabbe, Sarah Gador-Whyte, Dawn Lavalle Norman (forthcoming). 29. Although composed for lay gatherings in the mid-­sixth century, they soon became adapted for monastic use and have been preserved in liturgical manuscripts. The Greek text of Romanos used here is Romanos le Mélode: Hymnes, ed. José Grosdidier de Matons, SC 99, 110, 114, 128, 283 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1964–81) (hereafter cited as Romanos, Hymnes). In the first citation of any given hymn, I also provide the numbering for Sancti Romani Melodi Cantica: Cantica Genuina, ed. Paul Maas and C. A. Trypanis (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963) (hereafter cited as Oxf.), which assigns different numbering to the hymns. My citations follow the SC edition hymn and strophe. I follow the fine translation by Ephrem Lash in St. Romanos the Melodist, On the Life of Christ: Kontakia (San Francisco, CA: HarperCollins, 1995), as well as translations by Robert J. Schork, in Sacred Song from the Byzantine Pulpit: Romanos the Melodist (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1995) and by J. H. Barkhuizen, in Romanos the Melodist: Poet and Preacher (Durbanville, South Africa: PostNet 2012). Useful introductions to Romanos include Miguel Arranz, “Romanos le Mélode,” in Dictionnaire de

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Notes to Pages 81–82

spiritualité ascétique et mystique (Paris: Beauchesne, 1988), vol. 13, cols. 898–908; and Gudrun Engberg and Alexander Lingas, “Romanos the Melodist,” Grove Music Online, 2001, accessed June  10, 2019, https://​doi​-­­org​.exlibris​.colgate​.edu​/10​.1093​/gmo​/9781561592630​.article​.23748. Recent approaches to Romanos highlight the performative, sensory, and affective dimensions of his festal hymns, notably, Alexander Lingas, “The Liturgical Use of the Kontakion in Constantinople,” in Liturgy, Architecture and Art of the Byzantine World: Papers of the XVIII International Byzantine Congress (Moscow, 8–15 August 1991) and Other Essays Dedicated to the Memory of Fr. John Meyendorff, ed. C. C. Akentiev, Byzantinorossica 1 (St. Petersburg: Byzantinorossica, 1995), 50–57; Georgia Frank, “Romanos and the Night Vigil in the Sixth Century,” in A People’s History of Christianity, vol. 3: Byzantine Christianity, ed. Derek Krueger (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2006), 59–78; Derek Krueger, Liturgical Subjects: Christian Ritual, Biblical Narrative, and the Formation of the Self in Byzantium, Divinations (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), 29–65; Thomas Arentzen, The Virgin in Song: Mary and the Poetry of Romanos the Melodist, Divinations (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017); Sarah Gador-­Whyte, Theology and Poetry in Early Byzantium: The Kontakia of Romanos the Melodist (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017); and Andrew Mellas, Liturgy and the Emotions in Byzantium: Compunction and Hymnody (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020). 30. On the chorality of group performances and their impact on audiences, see Georgia Frank, “Crowds and Collective Affect,” in The Garb of Being: Embodiment and the Pursuit of Holiness in Late Ancient Christianity, ed. Georgia Frank, Susan R. Holman, and Andrew Jacobs (New York: Fordham University Press, 2020), 169–90. On the bond between chorus and audience, see Deborah Tarn Steiner, Choral Constructions in Greek Culture: The Idea of the Chorus in the Poetry, Art and Social Practices of the Archaic and Early Classical Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021), 659-­69. 31. Gador-­Whyte, Theology and Poetry, 4, 32–33. Helpful for my thinking about absorption into storyworlds has been Sarah Iles Johnston, The Story of Myth (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2018); Maria Heim, The Forerunner of All Things: Buddhaghosa on Mind, Intention, and Agency (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 181–216; Leela Prasad’s Poetics of Conduct: Oral Narrative and Moral Being in a South Indian Town (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007); and Kirin Narayan, Everyday Creativity: Singing Goddesses in the Himalayan Foothills (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016). 32. Niceta, Liturgical Singing, 14; trans. Walsh, 76. 33. Romanos, Hymnes 10.6 (Oxf. 1); trans. Lash, 7. 34. Romanos, Hymnes 33.7 (Oxf. 17); trans. Lash, 117. 35. Romanos, Hymnes 33.6; trans. Lash, 117. 36.  See Frank, “Romanos and the Night Vigil,” 70. On gestural cues in catechetical instruction, see Georgia Frank, “‘Taste and See’: The Eucharist and the Eyes of Faith in the Fourth Century,” Church History 70 (2001): 619–43, esp. 640. 37. Romanos, Hymnes 28, prologue 1 (Oxf. 49); trans. Lash, 101. 38. On ritual repetition and the refrain, see Thomas Arentzen, “Voices Interwoven: Refrains and Vocal Participation in the Kontakia,” Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik 66 (2016): 1–10; Herbert Hunger, “Der Refrain in den Kontakia des Romanos Melodos: Vielfalt in der Einheit,” in Lesarten: Festschrift für Athanasios Kambylis zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Ioannis Vassis, Günther S. Henrich, and Diether R. Reinsch (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1998), 53–60; and Gador-­ Whyte, Theology and Poetry, 11, 25. On homiletic uses of the refrain, see Judit Kecskeméti,

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“Deux caractéristiques de la prédication chez les prédicateurs pseudo-­chrysostomiens: La répétition et le discours fictif,” Rhetorica 14 (1996): 15–36. 39.  A fuller analysis of this work appears in Georgia Frank, “Memory and Forgetting in Romanos the Melodist’s ‘On the Newly Baptized,’” in Between Personal and Institutional Religion: Self, Doctrine, and Practice in Late Antique Eastern Christianity, ed. Brouria Bitton-­ Ashkelony and Lorenzo Perrone (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 37–55. 40.  Eugenie Brinkema, The Forms of the Affects (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014), xii. 41. As Derek Krueger has noted for the resurrection kontakia, the refrain was instrumental in deepening the mixed emotions experienced at Easter. “Joy and Complexity in a Hymn of Romanos the Melodist for Easter,” in Managing Emotions: Passions, Affects and Imaginings in Byzantium, ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey and Margaret Mullett, forthcoming. Helpful for thinking about refrains as forms of acclamations are Gregory S. Aldrete, Gestures and Acclamations in Ancient Rome (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999); Angelos Chaniotis, “Acclamations as a Form of Religious Communication,” in Die Religion des Imperium Romanum: Koine und Konfrontationen, ed. Hubert Cancik and Jörg Rüpke (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 199–218; and Laura S. Lieber, “With One Voice: Elements of Acclamation in Early Jewish Liturgical Poetry,” Harvard Theological Review 111 (2018): 401–24; Lieber, “Theater of the Holy: Performative Elements of Late Ancient Hymnography,” Harvard Theological Review 108 (2015): 327–55. 42. Romanos, Hymnes 22.1–2 (Oxf. 11); trans. Schork, 87–88. All refrains appear in italics in quoted material. 43. Romanos, Hymnes 22.1–2; trans. Schork, 87–88. 44. David Brakke, Demons and the Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in Early Christianity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006); Sophie Sawicka-­Sykes, “Demonic Anti-­Music and Spiritual Disorder in the Life of Antony,” in Demons and Illness from Antiquity to the Early-­Modern Period, ed. Siam Bhayro and Catherine Rider (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 192–214; Julia Doroszewska, “The Liminal Space: Suburbs as a Demonic Domain in Classical Literature,” in Landscapes of Dread in Classical Antiquity: Negative Emotion in Natural and Constructed Space, ed. Debbie Felton and Kate Gilhuly (London: Routledge, 2018), 185–208; Dayna  S. Kalleres, City of Demons: Violence, Ritual, and Christian Power in Late Antiquity (Oakland: University of California Press, 2015); Sophie Lunn-­Rockliffe, “Chaotic Mob or Disciplined Army? Collective Bodies of Demons in Ascetic Literature,” Studia Patristica 82 (2017): 33–50. 45.  Derek Krueger (“The Transmission of Liturgical Joy in Byzantine Hymns for Easter,” in Prayer and Worship in Eastern Christianities, 5th to 11th Centuries, ed. Brouria Bitton-­ Ashkelony and Derek Krueger [London: Routledge, 2017], 132–50) and Thomas Arentzen (Virgin in Song, 56–63) have called attention to the cognitive processes of Romanos’s female characters’ experience. 46.  My thinking on liturgical time is shaped by Nonna Verna Harrison, “Gregory Nazianzen’s Festal Spirituality: Anamnesis and Mimesis,” Philosophy and Theology 18 (2006): 27–51, esp. 37–45; François Cassigena-­Trévedy, Les Pères de l’Église et la liturgie (Paris: Éditions Artège, 2009), 220–25; and Olivier Clément, Transfiguring Time: Understanding Time in the Light of the Orthodox Tradition, trans. Jeremy N. Ingpen (Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 2019). 47. Liz James, Mosaics in the Medieval World: From Late Antiquity to the Fifteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 48, 72, 93–94, observes how modern window

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frames, window glass, and lighting devices alter the appearance of mosaics from the shift in the color balance to the distribution of light. On acoustics in church, see Bissera V. Pentcheva, ed., Icons of Sound: Voice, Architecture, and Imagination in Medieval Art (London: Routledge, 2020); and Alexander Lingas, “From Earth to Heaven: The Changing Musical Soundscape of Byzantine Liturgy,” in Experiencing Byzantium: Papers from the 44th Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Newcastle and Durham, April 2011, ed. Claire Nesbitt and Mark P. C. Jackson (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), 311–58. 48.  Inventories provide a useful reminder of how church spaces were illuminated. See the helpful work of Béatrice Caseau, “Objects in Churches: The Testimony of Inventories,” in Objects in Context, Objects in Use: Material Spatiality in Late Antiquity, ed. Luke Lavan, Ellen Swift, and Toon Putzeys (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 551–79, esp. 555, 559–60; and Laskarina Bouras and Maria G. Parani, Lighting in Early Byzantium (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2008), esp. 5–14. On domestic lighting, see Simon Ellis, “Shedding Light on Late Roman Housing,” in Housing in Late Antiquity: From Palaces to Shops, ed. Luke Lavan, Lale Özgenel, and Alexander Sarantis (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 283–302. On artificial Byzantine lighting, see Nadine Schibille, Hagia Sophia and the Byzantine Aesthetic Experience (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), 70–75. 49. Paul the Silentiary, Description of Hagia Sophia, 806–84; ed. P. Friedländer, Johannes von Gaza, Paulus Silentiarius u. Prokopios von Gaza (Leipzig-­Berlin, 1912; repr. 1969); trans. Cyril Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire (312–1453) (1972; repr., Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1986), 80–91, esp. 89–91, lines 355–921. The rest of the encomium (without lines 355–921) is translated in Peter N. Bell, Three Political Voices from the Age of Justinian: Agapetus, Advice to the Emperor, Dialogue on Political Science, Paul the Silentiary, Description of Hagia Sophia, Translated Texts for Historians (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2009), 189–212; and Maria Luigia Fobelli, Un tempio per Giustiniano: Santa Sofia de Costatinopoli e la “Descrizione” die Paulo Silenziario (Rome: Viella, 2005), 34–117 (text and translation), 193–208 (on light and lighting). On lighting systems in Hagia Sophia, see Bouras and Parani, Lighting in Early Byzantium, 31–36. On St. Artemios’s miraculous healing of a girl on the point of death from the plague because she lit the lamp by the shrine’s icon of John the Baptist daily (Miracles of St. Artemios 34, ed. and trans. Crisafulli and Nesbitt, esp. 178–81). 50. Romanos, Hymnes 10.13–15; trans. Lash, 8–9. 51. Luke 15:8–9; Romanos, Hymnes 45.17 (Oxf. 27) (translations mine). 52. Romanos, Hymnes 45.3. 53. Romanos, Hymnes 45.4. On this passage, see Christelle Mulard, La pensée symbolique de Romanos le Mélode (Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), 406–7. 54. Romanos, Hymnes 45.4. 55.  Hand-­lamps also figure—not surprisingly—in the kontakion on the parable of the ten virgins who failed to prepare their lamps for the eschatological bridegroom’s arrival. Each of the six prologues for this kontakion anticipate and cue the congregation’s mood and role. Exhorting the congregation, “Let us prepare our lamps (lampadas)” (prol. 1, trans. Barkuizen, Poet and Preacher, 82), the preacher also calls for hope, celebratory song, crying aloud, fear, shame, repentance, and avoiding gloom. 56. Romanos, Hymnes 46.8–9; trans. Lash, 186–87. 57. And so, too, the man born blind, described as eskotismenos, literally en-­darkened (20.7; s.v. skotizō; PGL 1241b), mirrors the congregation’s experience of night’s darkness descending. On Adam’s blindness as he awakens outside the Garden of Eden at the Jordan River’s shore on Epiphany (Romanos, Hymnes 17.1).

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58. Romanos, Hymnes 12.11 (Oxf. 37); my translation. 59. Romanos, Hymnes 11.4; ed. and trans. Margaret Alexiou, After Antiquity: Greek Language, Myth, and Metaphor (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002), 419. 60. The dreamlike proximity of Eve to Mary and the infant Jesus suggests the night as inviting overlapping temporalities. See Chapter 4. 61. Romanos, Hymnes 31.10 (Oxf. 47); trans. Barkhuizen, Poet and Preacher, 85. 62. Romanos, Hymnes 33.17; trans. Lash, 117. 63. On the blinded Adam regaining his sight from the waters of the Jordan as the sun rises from Bethlehem (Romanos, Hymnes 17.1); on Bethlehem reopening Eden (Romanos, Hymnes 10.1); and Adam and Eve overhear Mary sing to the infant Jesus (Romanos, Hymnes 11.3). Although Maria Doerfler places Adam and Eve slumbering in Hades (Jephthah’s Daughter, ­Sarah’s Son: The Death of Children in Late Antiquity [Oakland: University of California Press, 2019], 66), their location in relation to Bethlehem is ambiguous. On the association of Mary and the Garden of Eden and Warren T. Woodfin’s astute observation that Mary is “less a figure placed in paradise than she is an embodiment of paradise” (“The Mother of God in the Earthly Paradise,” in The Eloquence of Art, ed. Andrea Olsen Lam and Rossitza Schroeder [Milton: Taylor and Francis, 2020], 407–24, esp. 415). In addition to spatial fluidity, the reperformance of biblical time suggests new temporalities in play. Promising work on temporality in Jewish studies suggests possible avenues for further exploration for Christian liturgical settings. See Sarit Kattan Gribetz and Lynn Kaye, “The Temporal Turn in Ancient Judaism and Jewish Studies,” Currents in Biblical Research 17 (2019): 332–95. 64. Romanos, Hymnes 21.5 (Oxf. 10); trans. Lash, 79. 65. Romanos, Hymnes 21.4; trans. Lash, 78. 66. Romanos, Hymnes 21.7; trans. Lash, 80. 67. Derek Krueger (“Joy and Complexity”) tracks well the relation between cognition and emotion in Easter kontakia about women’s first encounter with the resurrected Christ. 68. Romanos, Hymnes 9.3 (Oxf. 36); trans. Thomas Arentzen, The Virgin in Song: Mary and the Poetry of Romanos the Melodist, Divinations (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017), 182 (emphasis mine). 69. Romanos, Hymnes 19.9 (Oxf. 9); trans. Lash, 67; cf. 19.17 (“enlighten my phrenes,” as she later supplicates Jesus). In Homer and Greek tragedy, the phrēn/phrenes is associated with the midriff, heart, or mind; phrenes are understood as passive since they “contain emotion, practical ideas, and knowledge,” as the classicist Ruth Padel observes. “You are struck, you know, understand, tremble, feel, or ponder in that responsive, compact, containing center” (In and Out of the Mind: Greek Images of the Tragic Self [Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992], 21). Grosdidier de Maton’s translation of phrenes into the French âme (“soul”) misses the various contents implied by the “container” sense of the ancient Greek. Romanos also appeals to the phrenes of the congregation (“Let us raise up [our] mind [noun], let us set on fire [huphapsōmen] the phrenes,” he beseeches in the first stanza of Peter’s Denial (Romanos, Hymnes 34.1 [Oxf. 18]; trans. Lash, 129, modified) or “to [the cross] we have nailed our phrenes” (38.18 [Oxf. 22]). Such language of impalement and immolation for the audience’s phrenes highlights the materiality of emotions, ideas, and knowledge that constitute phrenes. 70. Romanos, Hymnes 22.10 (Oxf. 11); trans. Schork, Songs, 90. 71. Romanos, Hymnes 47.15 (not in the Oxford edition). 72. Romanos, Hymnes 37.4 (Oxf. 21), translation by Andrew Mellas, “On the Infernal Powers,” in Saint Romanos the Melodist: Hymns of Repentance (Yonkers: Saint Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2020), 120–37, at 123.

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73.  Romanos, Hymnes 41.1 (Oxf. 24), translation by Mellas, “On the Infernal Powers,” 121.. Romanos allows his narrator rare access to direct address or apostrophe. On Romanos’s use of apostrophe, see Gador-­Whyte, Theology and Poetry, 22–27. 74. Romanos, Oxf. 57.8 (not in the SC edition), “The Forty Martyrs of Sebasteia, I”; trans. Schork, Song, 202. Romanos, Hymnes 41.10 (Oxf. 24); trans. Barkhuizen, 104. Cf. 41.5; trans. Barkhuizen, 103. 75. Romanos, (Oxf.) 38 (not in the SC edition); “On the Beheading of John the Baptist,” in Sancti Romani Melodi Cantica: Cantica Genuina, ed. P. Maas and C.A. Trypanis. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963), 294–302; trans. Andrew Mellas, “Kontakion on the Beheading of John the Baptist by Romanos the Melodist,” in Prayer in the Ancient Mediterranean World, ed. Daniel K. Falk and Rodney A. Werline (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). I thank Andrew Mellas for sharing with me his translation of this hymn prior to its publication. 76. Mark 6:14–29; Matt. 14:1–12; valuable textual and iconographic analyses in Barbara Baert and Sophia Rochmes, eds., Decapitation and Sacrifice: Saint John’s Head in Interdisciplinary Perspectives: Text, Object, Medium (Leuven: Peeters, 2017). On Herodias’s unnamed daughter, see Ross Shepard Kraemer, “Implicating Herodias and Her Daughter in the Death of John the Baptizer: A (Christian) Theological Strategy?,” Journal of Biblical Literature 125 (2006): 321–49; Danuta Shanzer, “Salome’s Dance: Heads and Bodies Between Narrative and Intertextuality,” in Choreonarratives: Dancing Stories in Greek and Roman Antiquity and Beyond, ed. Laura Gianvittorio-­Ungar and Karin Schlapbach (Leiden: Brill, 2021), 180–213. On later iconographic interpretations of the episode, see Barbara Baert, Interruptions and Transitions: Essays on the Senses in Medieval and Early Modern Visual Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 131–219. 77. Romanos (Oxf.) 38.1–2. 78. Romanos (Oxf.) 38.4. 79. Romanos (Oxf.) 38.7. On stereotypes of women conducting illicit rituals at night, see Filippo Carlà-­Uhink, “Nocturnal Religious Rites in the Roman Religion and in Early Christianity,” in La nuit: Imaginaire et réalités nocturnes dans le monde gréco-­romain, ed. Angelos Chaniotis with Pascale Derron (Geneva: Fondation Hardt, 2018), 331–60. 80. Romanos (Oxf.) 38.11. 81.  On the portrayal of underworld powers in Romanos’s kontakia, see Georgia Frank, “Death in the Flesh: Picturing Death’s Body and Abode in Late Antiquity,” in Looking Beyond: Visions, Dreams and Insights in Medieval Art and History, ed. Colum Hourihane (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2010), 58–74. 82. Romanos, Hymnes 38.3, 5; trans. Lash, 156–57. 83. Romanos, Hymnes 38.7; trans. Lash, 158. 84. Romanos, Hymnes 38.9; trans. Lash, 159. 85. Romanos, Hymnes 38.10; trans. Lash, 159. 86. Romanos, Hymnes 38.16; trans. Lash, 162. 87. Romanos, Hymnes 38.14; trans. Lash, 161. 88. A valuable analysis of festal affect and anamnesis appears in Richard W. Bishop, “The Authorship, Thematics, and Reception of an Ascension Sermon Attributed to Proclus of Constantinople (CPG 5820),” in Preaching After Easter: Mid-­Pentecost, Ascension, and Pentecost in Late Antiquity, ed. Richard W. Bishop, Johan Leemans, and Hajnalka Tamas (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 185–216, esp. 197–201. 89. Sianne Ngai, Ugly Feelings (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005), 1.

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90. Ngai, Ugly Feelings, 15–17. 91. Chrysostom, Hom. Delivered After the Remains of the Martyrs (CPG 4441.1; PG 63:467– 72); trans. Mayer and Allen, 89.

Conclusion 1.  Georgia Frank, “Pilgrimage,” Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies, ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David Hunter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 826–43. Whether Egeria, an eyewitness to fourth-­century Jerusalem rites, was a laywoman or a monastic remains debated. See Anne McGowan and Paul F. Bradshaw, The Pilgrimage of Egeria: A New Translation of the Itinerarium Egeriae with Introduction and Commentary (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press Academic, 2018), 3–15. 2.  AnneMarie Luijendijk, Greetings in the Lord: Early Christians and the Oxyrhynchus Papyri (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), 81–124. 3. Jaclyn Maxwell, Simplicity and Humility in Late Antique Christian Thought: Elites and the Challenges of Apostolic Life (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021), 56–84. My thinking about the generative and performative work of imagination is inspired by David Shulman’s analysis of bhãvanã, or, imagination, in More Than Real: A History of the Imagination in South India (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012), esp. 19–23, 107–8. 4.  Sarah F. Porter, “A Church and Its Charms: Space, Affect, and Affiliation in Late Fourth-­Century Antioch,” Studies in Late Antiquity 5 (2021): 639–77, esp. 649–50 and bibliography at n. 35; Denis Feissel, “The Bible in Greek Inscriptions,” in The Bible in Greek Christian Antiquity, ed. Paul M. Blowers (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 289–98, esp. 292. 5. The bibliography and collaborations relating to archaeoacoustics have grown. Bissera Pentcheva has partnered with acoustic engineers and musicologists to gather samples from Hagia Sophia; accessed online February 2, 2022, https://​hagiasophia​.stanford​.edu/. See also Amy Papalexandrou, “Perceptions of Sound and Sonic Environments Across the Byzantine Acoustic Horizon,” 67–86; and Spyridon Antonopoulos, “Kalophonia and the Phenomenon of Embellishment in Byzantine Psalmody,” 87–110; both in Knowing Bodies, Passionate Souls: Sense Perception in Byzantium, ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey and Margaret Mullett (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2017). 6. James Adam Rodriguez, “Images for Personal Devotion in an Age of Liturgical Synthesis: Bilateral Icons in Byzantium, ca. 1100–1453” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 2018). 7. Very helpful for understanding the “material” turn and varieties of materialism: Edith Hall’s “Materialisms Old and New,” in The Materialities of Greek Tragedy: Objects and Affect in Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, ed. Mario Telò and Melissa Mueller (London: Bloomsbury, 2018), 203–17, 265–67. 8. Rebecca Stephens Falcasantos, Constantinople: Ritual, Violence, and Memory in the Making of a Christian Imperial Capital (Oakland: University of California Press, 2020), 131. 9. On the dual presence of a performer’s “phenomenal [body] with its immediate presence” and the “semiotic body” (the character portrayed) and this two-­body possibility for the audience, see Ruth Webb, “Reperformance and Embodied Knowledge in Roman Pantomime,” in Imagining Reperformance in Ancient Culture: Studies in the Traditions of Drama and Lyric, ed. R. L. Hunter and Anna Uhlig (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 262–79. The

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relation between the audience’s and the characters’ bodies bears some resemblance to “organic” and “artificial” bodies, as discussed in Martin Devecka, “The Seer’s Two Bodies: Some Early Greek Histories of Technology,” in Classical Literature and Post-­Humanism, ed. Giulia Maria Chesi and Francesca Spiegel (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2019), 185–91, esp. 188. 10. Susan Guise Sheridan, “Coming of Age at St. Stephen’s: Bioarchaeology of Children at a Byzantine Jerusalem Monastery (5th−7th centuries ce),” in Children in the Bible and Ancient World: Comparative and Historical Methods in Reading Ancient Children, ed. Shawn W. Flynn (London: Routledge, 2019), 150–94, esp. 151. 11. Susan Guise Sheridan, “Pious Pain: Repetitive Motion Disorders from Excessive Genuflection at a Byzantine Jerusalem Monastery,” in Purposeful Pain: The Bioarchaeology of Intentional Suffering, ed. Susan G. Sheridan and Lesley A. Gregoricka (Cham, Switzerland: Springer, 2020), 81–117, with valuable current bibliography. For bioarchaeological perspectives on non-­monastic populations, such as pilgrims and children, see, e.g., Susan Guise Sheridan and Lesley A. Gregoricka, “Monks on the Move: Evaluating Pilgrimage to Byzantine St. Stephen’s Monastery Using Strontium Isotopes,” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 158 (2015): 581–91. 12.  Robin Fleming, “Bones for Historians: Putting the Body Back into Biography,” in Writing Medieval Biography 750–1250: Essays in Honour of Frank Barlow, ed. David Bates, Julia Crick, and Sarah Hamilton (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2006), 29–48. 13. Brenda J. Baker, Clare E. Terhune, and Amy Papalexandrou, “Sew Long? The Osteobiography of a Woman from Medieval Polis, Cyprus,” in The Bioarchaeology of Individuals, ed. Ann L. W. Stodder and Ann M. Palkovich (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2012), 151–61, esp. 154–57. 14. Quoted in Saidiya V. Hartman, “Intimate History, Radical Narrative,” Journal of African American History 106 (2021): 127–35, esp. 130–31; cf. Sarah Haley, “Intimate Historical Practice,” Journal of African American History 106 (2021): 104–8. 15. E.g., Bernadette Brooten, “Early Christian Enslaved Families (1st–4th C.),” in Children and Family in Late Antiquity: Life, Death and Interaction, ed. Christian Laes, Katariina Mustakallio, and Ville Vuolanto (Leuven: Peeters, 2015), 111–34; and Brooten, “Enslaved Women in Basil of Caesarea’s Canonical Letters: An Intersectional Analysis,” in Doing Gender, Doing Religion, ed. Ute Eisen, Christine Gerber, and Angela Standhartinger (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 325–55. 16. Carolyn Twomey, “The History and Material Culture of Baptism in Early Medieval England,” (Ph.D. diss., Boston College, 2017), 19. Helpful for considering the plasticity and agentive nature of making is the work of the anthropologists João Biehl and Peter Locke, “Introduction: Ethnographic Sensorium,” in Unfinished: The Anthropology of Becoming, ed. João Biehl and Peter Locke (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017), 1–40, esp. 5–6. 17.  On “cultural techniques,” see Jörg Dunne, Kathrin Fehringer, Kristina Kuhn, and Wolfgang Struck, introduction to Cultural Techniques: Assembling Spaces, Texts and Collectives, ed. Jörg Dunne, Kathrin Fehringer, Kristina Kuhn, and Wolfgang Struck (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020), 1–19, at 6. 18.  Cornelia Vismann, “Kulturtechniken und Souveränität,” Zeitschrift für Medien-­ und Kulturforschung 1 (2010): 171–81; “Cultural Techniques and Sovereignty,” trans. Ilinca Iurascu, Theory, Culture and Society 30 (2013): 83–93. 19. Carolyn Dinshaw, “Temporalities,” in Twenty-­First Century Approaches: Middle English, ed. Paul Strohm (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 107–23. 20. Carolyn Dinshaw, How Soon Is Now? Medieval Texts, Amateur Readers, and the Queerness of Time (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012), 4. Useful for my thinking is Nonna

Notes to Pages 96–97

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Verna Harrison, “Gregory Nazianzen’s Festal Spirituality: Anamnesis and Mimesis,” Philosophy and Theology 18 (2006): 27–51. 21.  Robert A. Orsi, History and Presence (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016), 66–68. 22. Feeling strong emotional reactions to fictional/superhuman characters can result in perceptions of vivid presence. Through storytelling, audiences may develop a habit of feeling an emotional and cognitive attachment to a fictional character. Sarah Iles Johnston calls these relationships “parasocial interaction” in The Story of Myth (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2018), 85–91. For contemporary analogues, the work of the anthropologist of religion T. M. Luhrmann highlights the ways ritual and habit create a feeling of “absorption” (How God Becomes Real: Kindling the Presence of Invisible Others [Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2020], 58–72). 23. Johnston notes how ancient audiences could enter a story in media res with full “chronological control” (Story of Myth, 93–95), enjoying suspense while knowing a story’s outcome. 24. Many religious practices involve various types of “imagination training,” as discussed in Lucia Traut and Anne Wahl, “Imagination,” in The Bloomsbury Handbook of the Cultural and Cognitive Aesthetics of Religion, ed. Anne Koch and Katharina Wilkens (London: Bloomsbury, 2020), 61–71. Helpful for rethinking agency and subjectivity: Talal Asad, Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 16; refined in Amy Hollywood, Acute Melancholia and Other Essays: Mysticism, History, and the Study of Religion (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), 124, 320n21. 25.  For instance, praying the monastic hours derived from the cathedral office, just as the monastic kontakarion comprised hymns first composed for lay night vigils. On lay origins of these rites, see Robert F. Taft, The Liturgy of the Hours in East and West: The Origins of the Divine Office and Its Meaning for Today (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1986), 31–56, 211–13. 26. How ritual actions produce religious knowledge—rather than strictly symbolizing or expressing it—is at the center of a fascinating monograph by Emma-­Jayne Graham, Reassembling Religion in Roman Italy (London: Routledge, 2021), which approaches “lived religion” in antiquity as a combination of shared behaviors and “proximal” embodied experience (18–40, esp. 29). Emphasis on proximal knowing complements recent work on the situatedness of emotions, as in Paul Griffiths and Andrea Scarantino, “Emotions in the Wild: The Situated Perspective on Emotion,” in The Cambridge Handbook of Situated Cognition, ed. Philip Robbins and Murat Aydede (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 437–53; and performance theories of Leslie Hill and Helen Paris, Performing Proximity: Curious Intimacies (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014). 27.  The medievalist Sarah McNamer defends this mode of speculation when studying premodern non-­elites: “There is a real risk of being wrong. But without engaging regularly in speculative acts, we are continuing to prop up the manifest fiction that what we cannot decisively document did not exist.” “Feeling,” in Oxford Twenty-­First Century Approaches to Literature: Middle English, ed. Paul Strohm (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 241–57, esp. 247. 28. Seamus Heaney, “Miracle,” in Human Chain: Poems (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2010), 16. Cf. Mark 2:1–12, Matt 9:1–8, Luke 5:17–26.

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Index

absorptive listening and singing, 13, 20 “abundant events,” 16, 96 Adam: craft metaphors and, 25, 36; in night vigils, 81, 84–85, 89, 140n57; Passion narrative and, 65, 84–85 agentive listening, 105n68 Ahmed, Sarah, 128n92, 134n80 Alexandria: Mithreum, Christian takeover of, 53; workshops in, 111n35 Ambrose of Milan: baptismal homilies, 19; songs for daybreak and vigil services, 16 Ammerman, Nancy Tatom, 6–7 Anastasios (emperor), 54 Anastasis, Jerusalem, 67, 68 Anastasis Typikon, 64 Andrade, Nathanael, 128n86 Andrew of Crete, 74, 133n59, 135nn84–85 Annunciation, 73, 87 Anos (catechumen), 19 Anthia and Habrocomes (Xenophon), 45, 123n31 Antioch: Saint Babylas, translation of body of, 41–43, 53; Church of St. Babylas, 21, 110n22; martyr burials and processions at, 47, 125n45; Temple of Apollo, 41–42 antiphons. See refrains and antiphons antithesis, 74 Aphrodisias, sculpting workshop in, 23 apodyterion, 20 Apollo, Temple of, Antioch, 41–42 Abba Apollo, 53 Apollodorus, 101n11 apostrophe (literary device), 15 apprentices and apprenticeships, 22–24, 26, 28, 36, 37, 38, 39, 95, 111n31, 112n38 Apuleius, 44–45, 123nn29–30, 126n71 archaeoacoustics, 92, 143n5 Arians, counter-processions against, 54 Aristotle, 34, 117n103

Arkadios (emperor), 49 Armenian Lectionary, 58, 63–64, 66–68, 70–75, 92, 133n64, 134n75, 134n78 St. Artemios, 140n49 Ascension of Jesus, 58, 68–71, 74, 75–76, 92 Athanasius, 119n2 Athens, sculpting workshop in, 23 Augustine of Hippo, 23, 112n39 Aurelia Libouke (weaver), 22–23 Saint Babylas of Antioch, translation of body of, 41–43, 53 Baldovin, John F., 124n41, 132n51 baptism/baptismal lessons, 14, 18–39; baptism ritual, 18–19; baptisteries and other baptismal spaces, 18–19, 20–21, 36–37, 108n5, 109n18, 110n20; as bodily experience, 20, 37–38; catechumenoi, 20; craft as metaphor in late antiquity and, 24–27; Eucharistic instruction, 19, 20; function of craft metaphor in, 35–39; homilies and sermons, baptismal, 19, 20, 28; infant/ child baptism, 108n2; involuntary/coerced conversion, 38, 118n120; lay craft, baptism as, 27–35; martyrdom as baptism/baptism as martyrdom, 116n99; pompa, rejection of, 46, 55; postponement of baptism, 28, 115n67; process of, 19–22; timing of, 28; water and water imagery, 21, 35, 39, 108n5; as workshop process, 21–22, 36–39, 95; workspaces in late antiquity, 22–24 Basil of Caesarea: ascetic poverty and labor of, 101n10; craft metaphors used by, 26, 114n58; craftspeople addressed by, 27; creation homilies, ordinary Christians addressed in, 1–2, 99n2, 106n78; funeral procession of, 49–50; as liturgical storyteller, 58

184 Basil of Seleucia, 65, 133n57 Bedos-Rezak, Brigitte, 39 Betancourt, Roland, 127n79 Bible: craft and crafting in, 25, 34, 35, 116n95; Gregory of Nyssa on, 59; Jesus as craftsman in, 25, 35; laos theos in, 8; night vigils in, 80; Paul and Pauline writings, 27, 28, 30, 35, 71, 77; Romanos’s night hymns, biblical women in, 86–89; Septuagint, 8. See also liturgical storytelling bioarchaeology, 93–94, 144n11 Black feminism, influence of, 3 the body: baptism/baptismal lessons, as bodily experience, 20, 37–38; as beginning of study of ordinary Christians, 3; bioarchaeology of, 93–94, 144n11; crafting and, 37–38, 112n41; lay agency and, 11; liturgical storytelling, bodily involvement of congregation in, 93; as metaphor for communal interdependence in Paul’s letters, 30; night vigils, as bodily experience, 16; in performances, 143–44n9; portabilia and, 54–55, 93 Bordeaux Pilgrim, 108n2 Boustan, Ra‘anan S., 124n38 Brandi, Cesare, 31m116n84 Brubaker, Leslie, 120n15 Cameron, Averil, 7 catechumenon, 20 catechumens, baptismal lessons for. See baptism/baptismal lessons Certeau, Michel de, 48, 119n3 chancel barrier (templon), evolution of, 8 Chaniotis, Angelos, 128–29n97 charmolupē, 74 child prostitute, reconstruction of life of, 101n11 childbirth and gestation, as craft, 25–26, 113n46 Chinese popular religion, 104–5n59 Chios, Nea Moni monastery church, 74 chrismarion, 21 Constantinople: Hagia Sophia, 84, 140n49, 143n5; Lazarus Saturday and Palm Sunday in, 64–65; Marneion, 49, 53; martyr burials and processions at, 47–49; Stoudios Monastery, shrine of St. John the Baptist at, 51 craft and crafting: apprentices and apprenticeships, 22–24, 26, 28, 36, 37, 38, 39, 95,

Index 111n31, 112n38; Aristotle on, 34, 117n103; biblical use of, 25, 34, 35, 116n95; the body and, 37–38, 112n41; as central metaphor in late antiquity, 24–27; concept of, 12–13; function of craft metaphor, in baptismal lessons, 35–39; lay craft, baptism as, 27–35; unfinished Christian, concept of, 35, 36, 38–39; workshop metaphor, in baptismal lessons, 21–22, 36–39, 95; workspaces in late antiquity, 22–24 creation: Basil of Caesarea’s homilies on, 1–2, 99n2, 106n78; as God’s craft, 24–25 critical fabulation, 97, 145n27 cultural techniques, 95 Cunningham, Mary B., 133n59 Cyril of Jerusalem: on Ascension of Jesus, 69–71, 133nn66–68, 134nn70–72; baptismal homilies of, 19, 28, 32–33, 36, 115n69, 116nn90–91, 116nn93–94 Daniel (stylite), 51–52, 53 Daphne, burial of the monk Thomas at, 47 Dasius, Martyrdom of, 126n71 Dinshaw, Carolyn, 15, 96 dreadscapes, 63, 131–32n42 Drosis (martyr), 33, 46, 116n99 Easter Sunday: baptisms on, 38; liturgical storytelling on, 58, 66, 68, 74; nativity story and, 62, 72; refrains for, 139n41 Egeria: on baptism/baptismal lessons, 19, 108n3, 109n9; on feasts and liturgical storytelling, 58, 63–64, 92, 106n83, 132n45; lay or monastic status of, 143n1; on night vigils, 77, 136n2; on processions and portabilia, 125n42 Eidinow, Esther, 132n42 “Eighteen” (skeleton), 94 ekphrasis, 61, 84, 131n30, 131n38 embodied experience. See body emotional resonance: disorientation, bewilderment, and fright in night vigils, 85, 87–89; liturgical storytelling, mixed emotions aroused by, 57–58, 62, 63, 68, 69, 73–76, 92; night vigils, heightening of emotions in, 82–83, 89–90; story characters, emotional attachment to, 145n22 enargeia, 61 Encaenia, 134n76 Encyclopedia of Religion, 9 enjambement, 68

Index Ephesos: Gaius Vibius Salutaris, endowment of, 45; seven sleepers of, 78; workshops at, 23, 24 Ephrem of Edessa, 16, 37, 117n113 Epiphany, 72–73, 82, 86 ergastērion, 22, 24 ethnography and lay agency, 11 Eucharistic instruction, after baptism, 19, 20 Eudoxia (empress), 48 Eusebius of Caesarea, 38, 118n123 Evagrios, 81, 137n27 Eve: as craftsperson, 25, 26; in night vigils, 81, 85, 86; overhearing Mary’s lullabies, 85, 86, 96 Falcasantos, Rebecca Stephens, 93 fasts and fasting, 9, 18, 19, 20, 46, 49, 50, 124n41, 132n51 feasts and festivals. See liturgical storytelling Fleming, Robin, 94 Fuentes, Marisa, 3 funeral processions, 49–50, 126n70 Gaius Ilius Demosthenes, endowment of, 45, 123n34 Gaius Vibius Salutaris, endowment of, 45 Gaza, processions and portabilia at, 49 gender. See women and gender Georgian Lectionary, 64 gesture in Romanos’s kontakia, 81–82 Golden Ass (Metamorphoses; Apuleius), 44–45, 123nn29–30, 126n71 golem legend, 34 Good Friday, 67, 68, 74, 77 Gospels. See Bible Graham, Emma-Jane, 55, 121n24, 145n26 Gregory Nazianzos: craft metaphors used by, 27, 114nn60–61, 115n67; on funeral procession of Basil of Caesarea, 49–50, 126nn67–68; as liturgical storyteller, 58; on postponement of baptism, 115n67 Gregory of Nyssa: baptismal sermons of, 28; on crowds addressed by Basil of Caesarea, 2, 99n3; as liturgical storyteller, 58; on nativity/massacre of the innocents, 15, 58–63, 72, 74, 129n5, 130n26, 130n28, 130nn7–10, 130nn12–26, 131nn31–35; on pilgrimage alternatives, 137n19; on postponement of baptism, 115n67 group versus individual agency, 5

185 Hagia Sophia, Constantinople, 84, 140n49, 143n5 hagiographies: bird’s-eye view of processions in, 40; craft metaphors in, 26–27; lay agency in, 10, 105n64; processions and portabilia in, 49, 51–52. See also specific entries at Life Haley, Sarah, 94 “happy objects,” portabilia as, 128n92 Hartman, Saidiya, 3 Hartnett, Jeremy, 43 Heaney, Seamus, 97–98, 145n28 Herod and massacre of the innocents, 15, 58–63, 74, 92 Hexaemeron, 24. See also creation The History of the Monks in Egypt, 53, 127n84 Holy Sepulcher, Jerusalem, 72 Holy Thursday, 66–67, 68 homilies and sermons: baptismal, 19, 20, 28; at feasts and festivals, 6, 15; night vigils, Nicetas of Remesiana on, 79–81; ordinary Christians addressed in, 1–2; present tense, use of, 15, 89, 107n86; processions/portabilia and, 41–42, 46–50, 54, 55; Romanos the Melodist, kontakia of, 78, 79, 81–90, 91, 137–38n29, 138n37, 138nn33–35, 139n43, 140–41nn56–66, 140nn50–54, 141–42nn68–75, 142nn77–87; as source material, 14, 91. See also liturgical storytelling icons, two-sided, 75, 92 illumination. See light/illumination infant/child baptism, 108n2 ivory box, Cleveland Museum of Art, 25 Jacob of Serug: craft metaphors used by, 37, 117n113; metrical verse works of, 16; on Palm Sunday, 66, 133n61 Jainism, laity in, 9, 104n54 James, Liz, 139–40n47 James, William, 16–17 Jerusalem: Anastasis, 67, 68; Egeria on ­Passion week rites in, 58, 63–64, 92, 106n83, 132n45; Feast of the Ascension in, 70–71; Holy Sepulcher, 72; Lazarus Saturday and Palm Sunday in, 64–65; octave of the Epiphany in, 72–73; Passion narrative (Holy Thursday through Easter Sunday) in, 66–67; St. Stephen, monastery of, 94

186 Jesus: as craftsman, 25, 35; lamp imagery for, 84–85; night vigils of, 80; in Romanos’s kontakia, 82. See also liturgical storytelling Jews and Judaism: anti-Jewish rhetoric in liturgical storytelling, 59, 65–66, 133n59; golem legend, 34; John Chrysostom’s sermons against Judaizers, 65(fn59); limited usefulness of concept of laity in, 104n54; piyyutim, 16; processions and portabilia, 124n38 St. John the Baptist: beheading of, in Romanos’s kontakia, 87–88; in Gregory of Nyssa’s nativity narrative, 59; Stoudios Monastery’s shrine of, 51; translation of head of, 53 John Chrysostom: baptismal instructions and sermons, 21, 28–36, 38, 115–16nn72–81, 115n70, 116n83, 116n87, 116n89, 116nn96–99, 117n106, 118n121; craft metaphors used by, 26–27, 28–36, 114n59, 115–16nn72–81, 115n70, 116n83, 116nn87–89, 116nn96–99, 117nn106–7, 118n121; homily addressing ordinary Christians, 1, 99n1; Judaizers, sermons against, 65(fn59); as liturgical storyteller, 58; martyrs, commemorations of, 33, 47, 116n99; newly initiated Christians, addressing, 35, 117n197; on night vigils, 77–78, 90, 136nn3–4, 143n91; processions/ portabilia and, 41–42, 46, 47–49, 54, 55, 120nn11–13, 125–26nn56–59, 125nn51–52, 126nn61–62, 128n97; terms weaponized by, 102n31 John Klimakos, 74, 135n82 Johnson, Marguerite, 101n11 Johnston, Sarah Iles, 145nn22–23 Judaism. See Jews and Judaism Judas, 65, 67, 82, 85, 89 Julian (emperor), 41 St. Julian, 47 Justinian (emperor), 79, 136n8 Karanis, weaving apprenticeship contract from, 22–23 Kavoulaki, Athena, 121n23 Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara, 120n15 Kom el-Dikka, workshops at, 24 kontakia. See Romanos the Melodist kosmikoi, 10 Kourion, baptismal spaces at, 20–21

Index laity and lay agency, 8–14; baptism as lay craft, 27–35; monastic rites, lay origins of, 97, 145n25; religious traditions and usefulness of lay concept, 9, 104n54; Second Vatican Council, on the laity, 9, 103–4n48 lamps. See light/illumination Lash, Ephrem, 57 Lavan, Luke, 41, 54, 121n19, 128n89 layered temporalities, 15, 74–76, 96 Lazarium, Bethany, 63–64, 73, 132n45 Lazarus, raising of: Lazarus Saturday and Palm Sunday, 6, 15, 58, 63–66, 74, 92, 133n59; nativity of Jesus and, 74; sixth of Epiphany octave, 72–73 legalization of Christianity, effects of, 5, 40, 42 Leon (catechumen), 19 St. Leontios, 46 Leontios of Constantinople, 6, 65, 79, 102n26, 132–33nn55–56, 133n58 Lester, Anne E., 123n35 Lewis, Nicola Denzey, 7 Libanius, 22, 28, 37, 110n26, 118n115 Life of Daniel the Stylite, 51–52, 127nn73–78 Life of Pelagia, 52, 127n79 Life of Saint Ephrem (Jacob of Serug), 37, 117n113 Life of St. Porphyrios of Gaza (Mark the Deacon), 49, 126nn63–65 light/illumination: at Hagia Sophia, Constantinople, 84; modern window frames, glass, and lighting, effects of, 139–40n47; at night vigils, 83–85, 86; processions and portabilia, 47, 48, 49, 52; street/artificial illumination, expansion of, 78; ten foolish virgins, parable of, 85, 140n55 litê, 124n41 liturgical storytelling, 15, 57–76; Annunciation, 73; anti-Jewish rhetoric in, 59, 65–66, 133n59; Ascension of Jesus, 58, 68–71, 74, 75–76, 92; bodily involvement of congregation in, 93; circulation of affect and, 73, 134–35n80; Epiphany, 72–73, 82; mixed emotions aroused by, 57–58, 62, 63, 68, 69, 73–76, 92; nativity of Jesus/ massacre of the innocents, 15, 58–63, 72, 74, 75, 92; Palm Sunday and Lazarus Saturday, 58, 63–66, 74, 75, 92, 133n59; Passion week, 58, 64, 66–68, 72, 74, 75; repetition and enjambement, 68; time in,

Index 15, 74–76, 95–96, 145n22; Transfiguration, 74, 135n84. See also Lazarus, raising of Lived Ancient Religion project, 4–5 lived religion, 4–8, 145n26 lived theology, 7–8 longsleepers, 78 Ludlow, Morwenna, 12 Lusby, F. Stanley, 104n54 Maccabees, martyria of, Antioch, 47 Macrina, 101n10 Madigan, Brian, 126–27n71 Magnesia-on-the-Malandros, decrees on cult of Zeus Sosipolis in, 123n32 Mahmood, Saba, 11 Mark the Deacon, 126nn63–65 Marneion, Constantinople, 49, 53 Marsh, Charles, 7 Martyrdom of Dasius, 126n71 martyrs and martyrdom: “abundant events” and, 16; baptism as martyrdom/martyrdom as baptism, 116n99; craft metaphors for, 12, 33, 35; in liturgical storytelling, 6, 12, 15; martyria, as part of late antique spatial world, 10; processions and portabilia associated with, 42, 46–48; in stational worship, 125n45; visiting martyrs’ shrines, 2. See also specific martyrs by name Mary: Annunciation, feast of, 73, 87; Eve overhearing lullabies of, 85, 86, 96; in night vigils and Romanos’s kontakia, 82, 85, 86, 87, 89, 92; as Theotokos, 25 Mary Magdalen, 87 massacre of the innocents, 15, 58–63, 74, 92 material culture, 3–4, 13–14, 93 McNamara, Brooks, 120n15 McNamer, Sarah, 145n27 Melania the Elder, 52 Metamorphoses (Golden Ass; Apuleius), 44–45, 123nn29–30, 126n71 Methodius of Olympus, 113n46 “Miracle” (Heaney), 97–98, 145n28 Mithreum, Alexandria, Christian takeover of, 53 monastic communities, crafting in, 26 mystagogical catecheses, 19 Narsai, 30, 116n82 nativity of Jesus, in liturgical storytelling, 15, 58–63, 72, 73, 75 Nea Moni monastery church, Chios, 74

187 New Testament. See Bible Nicetas of Remesiana, 79–81, 82, 137nn13–17, 137nn20–25, 138n32 night processions, 48–49, 55 night vigils, 16, 77–90; defined, 79; disorientation, bewilderment, and fright in, 85, 87–89; emotions, heightening of, 82–83, 89–90; Evagrios on, 81; female characters in, 86–89; gesture in Romanos’s kontakia, 81–82; at home versus at church, 79, 80; light/illumination at, 83–85, 86; Nicetas of Remesiana defending, 79–81, 82; in Passion week (Holy Thursday to Easter), 66, 67, 72, 87; premodern sleep patterns and, 79; Romanos’s kontakia for, 78, 79, 81–90; sleepiness, calls from, 85–86; space-making, as mode of, 16, 80–81, 83, 85–86, 89, 93; spread of night worship rituals in late antiquity, 77–79; street/artificial illumination, expansion of, 78; time in, 83, 89; underworld villains in, 88–89 octaves, 72, 134n76 oinochoe, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 44 On Liturgical Singing (Nicetas of Remesiana), 79 On Vigils (Nicetas of Remesiana), 79–80 ordinary Christians in late antiquity, 1–17, 91–98; attendance at church by, 57; as baptismal candidates, 14, 18–39 (See also baptism/baptismal lessons); bioarchaeology of, 93–94, 144n11; the body and, 3, 16 (See also body); craft and crafting, 12–13 (See also craft and crafting); critical fabulation, practice of, 97, 145n27; defined, 2; group versus individual agency, 5; laity and lay agency, 8–14; legalization of Christianity, effects of, 5, 40, 42; liturgical storytelling, 15, 57–76 (See also liturgical storytelling); lived religion of, 4–8, 145n26; lived theology of, 7–8; lived time and, 13; material culture, importance of, 3–4, 13–14, 93; night vigils, 16, 77–90 (See also night vigils); processions and portabilia, 14–15, 40–56 (See also processions and portabilia); sacred time, relationship to, 6; source materials for, 2–4, 14, 91; spatial world of, 5–6 (See also spatial world of ordinary Christians); unfinished Christian, concept of, 35, 36, 38–39, 95 Orsi, Robert, 3, 4, 16, 96

188 Palm Sunday, 58, 63–66, 74, 75, 92, 133n59 Passion narrative: in liturgical storytelling, 58, 64, 66–68, 72, 74, 75; in night vigils, 84–85, 87, 88. See also Easter Sunday; Good Friday; Holy Thursday; Saturday before Easter Patlagean, Evelyne, 105n64 Paul and Pauline writings, 27, 28, 30, 35, 71, 77 Paul the Silentiary, 84, 140n49 Paulinus of Nola, 62, 127nn80–82 Pelagia/Pelagios, 47, 52, 55, 127n79 Pentcheva, Bissera, 143n5 People’s History of Christianity, 10, 105n61 Peter (apostle), 71, 80, 89 Philip (apostle), feast of, 71 philoponoi, 10 St. Phokas, 47–48 phrenes, 87 pilgrims and pilgrimage, 5, 9, 13, 14, 18, 40, 56, 91, 109n18, 111–12n35, 120n15, 137n19, 144n11. See also Bordeaux Pilgrim; Egeria Pindar, 103n40 piyyutim, 16 Plato, 114nn61–62 Pliny, 36, 117n111 Plotinus, 27, 114nn61–62 poikilia, 75 Politics of Piety (Mahmood), 11 pompa, Christian rejection of, 46, 55 popular culture/religion, concept of, 9–10, 104–5n59 Porphyrios of Gaza, 49, 53 processions and portabilia, 14–15, 40–56; acclamations in processions, 128–29n97; Saint Babylas of Antioch, translation of body of, 41–43, 53; bird’s-eye versus walker’s view of, 40–41, 42, 119n3; the body and portabilia, 54–55, 93; carrier’s identity and thing carried, 44; centrality of portabilia to procession, 42, 43–44; Christian antipathy for pagan processions, 45–46, 53–54, 55; Christian portabilia, 42, 46–50, 54, 55–56, 93; defining portabilia, 121n23, 123–24n35120n11; defining processions, 120n11, 121n23; Egeria’s souvenirs, as portabilia, 125n42; funeral processions, 49–50, 126n70; “happy objects,” portabilia as, 128n92; immobilizations of, 53; incense, 47; lamps, torches, and candles, 47, 48, 49, 52; litê, 124n41; living

Index persons as portabilia, 43, 50–52; martyrs and martyrdom, 42, 46–48; mocking, protestative, and competitive processions, 50, 53–54, 128n89; nocturnal processions, 48–49, 55; relics, as portabilia, 46; sacred power derived by portabilia over course of procession, 125n48; significance of procession in late antique urban life, 42–44, 126–27nn69–71; space, filling and creating, 93; two-sided icons in, 75 Proclus of Constantinople, 25, 33–34, 113n46, 117n100, 142n88 Prometheus sarcophagus, Capitoline Museum, Rome, 25–26 Protogospel f Hames, 130n6 Prudentius, 78, 136n5 psalms, liturgical use of. See liturgical storytelling Radde-Gallwitz, Andrew, 131n38 Rapp, Claudia, 10 Ravenna, Kalends procession in, 41 refrains and antiphons: liturgical storytelling and, 58, 63–65, 67, 70–75, 134nn73–74; participation of ordinary Christians in liturgy through, 16, 91, 92, 93, 94; in Romanos’s kontakia for night vigils, 81–83, 85, 90, 138–39n38, 139n41 relics, as portabilia, 46, 125n48 Romanesian Gate, Antioch, group cemetery at, 47 Romanos the Melodist: kontakia of, 78, 79, 81–90, 91, 92, 137–38n29, 138n37, 138nn33–35, 139n43, 140–41nn56–66, 140nn50–54, 141–42nn68–75, 142nn77–87; on Palm Sunday and Lazarus Saturday, 64–65, 132nn53–54; stanzaic biblical hymns of, 16, 81 St. Romanus, 47 St. Babylas, Church of, Antioch, 21, 110n22 St. Stephen, monastery of, Jerusalem, 94 Sardis, workshops at, 23, 24 Saturday before Easter, 67, 68, 72 Schechner, Richard, 120n15 Second Vatican Council, on the laity, 9, 103–4n48 Septuagint, 8 sermons. See homilies and sermons Severos of Antioch, 38, 46, 47 Shenoute of Atripe, 26, 106n55, 113n52

Index singing at night vigils. See night vigils slaves and slave communities: as both person and property, 39; child prostitute, reconstruction of life of, 101n11; as craftspeople, 22–23; involuntary baptism of, 38, 118n120; rehumanizing, 3 sleep patterns, premodern/segmented, 79, 136n9 Smith, Jonathan Z., 11 Socrates (historian), 128n86 Sotas (bishop of Oxyrhynchus), 19 Sozomen, 53, 120n11, 127n83, 128n85, 134n76 spatial world of ordinary Christians, 5–6; in “abundant events,” 96; baptisteries and other baptismal spaces, 18–19, 20–21, 36–37, 108n5, 109n18, 110n20; chancel barrier (templon), evolution of, 8; in night vigils, 16, 80–81, 83, 85–86, 89, 93; processions filling and creating space, 93; workspaces in late antiquity, 22–24 spoudaioi, 10 St. See specific entries at Saint for structures, and specific names for persons stational liturgy, 46, 57, 72, 124n41, 125n45, 134n74 St. Stephen, martyrdom of, 72 Stoudios Monastery, shrine of St. John the Baptist at, 51 Stowers, Stanley, 11–12 St. Symeon the Elder, 47 synaxis, 58 synkresis, 74 tabernae, 22 technē, 24. See also craft and crafting templon (chancel barrier), evolution of, 8 ten foolish virgins, parable of, 85, 140n55 Tertullian, 21, 45–46, 108n5, 110n23, 124nn36–37 Theodore of Sykeon, 50–51, 127n72 Theodoret of Cyrrhus, 24–25, 26, 113n44, 114n57, 119n2 Theodosios (emperor), 49 Theravada Buddhism, laity in, 9, 104n54

189 Thomas (apostle), 85, 89 Thomas (monk), burial at Daphne, 47 time: in “abundant events,” 96; craft and baptism, importance of timing in, 28, 39; homilies and sermons, use of present tense in, 15, 89, 107n86; layered temporalities, 15, 74–76, 96; liturgical storytelling and, 15, 74–76, 95–96, 145n22; lived time, concept of, 13; in night vigils, 83, 89; sacred time, relationship of ordinary Christians to, 6; “time poverty,” concept of, 99n2 Transfiguration, 74, 135n84 Tuscany, villa converted to workshop in, 23 Twomey, Carolyn, 95 two-sided icons, 75, 92 unfinished Christian, concept of, 35, 36, 38–39, 95 Valens (emperor), 53 variation, late antique aesthetic of, 75 The Varieties of Religious Experience (James), 16–17 Vatican Council II, on the laity, 9, 103–4n48 Vernant, Jean-Pierre, 132n42 vigil services. See night vigils water and water imagery, in baptism/baptismal lessons, 21, 35, 39, 108n5 Wharton, Annabel, 34 Wickham, Chris, 120n15 Willson, Justin, 25 women and gender: Black feminism, influence of, 3; child prostitute, reconstruction of life of, 101n11; lay agency of women, 9; Melania, called Melanius by Paulinus, 52; night vigils, alleged female fondness for, 79; Pelagia/Pelagios, 47, 52, 55, 127n79; processions of female ascetics and holy women, 52; in Romanos’s night hymns, 86–89 Xenophon of Ephesus, 45, 123n31 Yasin, Ann Marie, 13, 119n7

Acknowledgments

It is a profound pleasure to thank the many people who supported me as this project evolved. My interests in embodiment, liturgy, and the senses have flourished in long conversations and email exchanges with two dear friends: Susan Ashbrook Harvey, mentor and muse, and Derek Krueger, who offered sage counsel on many occasions. I am especially indebted to Derek Krueger and Missy Daniel for painstakingly reading and commenting on the entire book manuscript. Many scholars have answered my queries or read individual chapter drafts. In particular, I thank Geoffrey Benson, Mary Cunningham, Christian DuComb, David Frankfurter, Kim Haines-­Eitzen, Ayse Belgin Henry, Laura Lieber, Wendy Mayer, J. Diane Mowrey, Michael Motia, R. R. Neis, Lucia-­Maria Orlandi, and Jonathan Zecher. I am also indebted to Erez de Golan, Jaimie Gunderson, Andrew Mellas, and Sarah Porter for sharing their unpublished work on affect in antiquity and for rich conversations about collective feeling. For over two decades a reading group known as “LARCeNY,” which stands for Late Antique Religion in Central New York, has been a source of joy, inspiration, and insight. I thank Suzanne Abrams Rebillard, Virginia Burrus, Patricia Cox Miller, Jennifer Glancy, Kim Haines-­Eitzen, Rebecca Krawiec, Karmen MacKendrick, and Glenn Peers for convivial and supportive conversations over the years. More recently, a writing group kept me focused on this project during the upheavals of the pandemic. In particular, I thank Marianne Janack, Hannah Lau, Ben Lennertz, and Carolyn Twomey for constant encouragement and presence, even if virtual. For invitations to share earlier versions of these chapters with new audiences, I thank my hosts: Catherine Gines Taylor (Brigham Young University); Béatrice Caseau and Sulamith Brodbeck (Sorbonne); Leslie Brubaker, Nancy Ševčenko, Margaret Mullett, and Susan Harvey (Dumbarton Oaks); and Harald Buchinger and Alexander Stephanopoulos (University of Regensburg). Virtual seminars and conferences in 2020 and 2021 provided a

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Acknowledgments

tonic in the final stages of this project. I thank Sarah Gador-­Whyte, Kylie Crabbe, Dawn LaValle Norman, and Jonathan Zecher (Australian Catholic University) for opportunities to share chapters. Susan Ashbrook Harvey and Andrew S. Jacobs graciously invited me to workshop a chapter with a joint meeting of the Providence Patristics Group and the Boston Area Patristics Group, two communities that still ground me. I wish to thank Colgate University’s Faculty Research Council and Dominika Koter for providing me with timely research support and talented research assistants, notably Stephanie Almozara, Kyle Dillon, Lauren Kerby, and Jay Yeo. A fellowship from the Cornell University Society of the Humanities in 2020–21, allowed me write this book in the company of a vibrant cohort of scholars and performing artists, I thank all the “Fabrication” fellows, led by Annette Richards and her can-­do staff, for generative conversations. I also thank Cornell’s Departments of Classics and of Near Eastern Studies for inviting me to present chapters of this book to their faculty and students. A graduate seminar I taught in Spring 2021 clarified my own thinking on the scope of this book. I thank Sarah Morgan Epplin, James Nagy, Georgia Pappano, Mary S. Porter, and Michael Stewart-­Bernard for their keen engagement. Finally, my contactless sojourns in Ithaca would have been unbearable without the warm welcome I received throughout the year at the Ithaca home of Mary and Jeremy Taylor. Many librarians deserve thanks for their tireless support and resourcefulness. Cornell’s librarians retrieved obscure works with precision and speed. I remain in awe of Colgate’s library professionals, who borrowed, ordered, rushed, flagged, renewed, and retrieved vast quantities of requests. Various lock-­downs only intensified their resolve to serve researchers’ needs. In particular, I extend heartfelt thanks to Ann Ackerson, Rob Capuano, Emily Hutton-­Hughes, Lisa King, Bonnie Kupris, Erika Mueller, Michael Poulin, Tami Watson, Rachel White, Adger Williams, and Courtney Young. I am grateful to the editors of the Divinations Series, Derek Krueger, Virginia Burrus, and Daniel Boyarin, for their patience as this project evolved. They enlisted two remarkably astute anonymous readers who suggested ways to make this a far better book. I also wish to thank Jerome Singerman and Walter Biggins, my editors at University of Pennsylvania Press, for their sage guidance. I was fortunate to have superb copyediting from Karen Carroll and an index prepared by Kate Mertes. However painstaking and precise all these labors, all shortcomings are entirely my own.

Acknowledgments

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Finally, my greatest thanks are to my family. My parents, Brigitte Paquet Frank and Joseph Allan Frank, relocated to our small college town in the early stages of preparing this book and have encouraged me every step along the way. I dedicate this book to my beloved Jeffrey and our children, Maddy, Halley, and Theo, each finding their own wondrous way in an everchanging world. Their abundant love, ingenuity, compassion, and creativity inspire me daily.