A Wandering Galilean: Essays in Honour of Sean Freyne (Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism)

A Wandering Galilean: Essays in Honour of Seán Freyne

Supplements to the

Journal for the Study of Judaism Editor

Hindy Najman Department and Centre for Study of Religion at the University of Toronto Associate Editors

Florentino García Martínez Qumran Institute, University of Groningen

Benjamin G. Wright, III Department of Religion Studies, Lehigh University Advisory Board

j.j. collins – j. duhaime p.w. van der horst – a. klostergaard petersen j.t.a.g.m. van ruiten – j. sievers g. stemberger – e.j.c. tigchelaar – j. tromp VOLUME 132

A Wandering Galilean: Essays in Honour of Seán Freyne Edited by

Zuleika Rodgers with Margaret Daly-Denton and Anne Fitzpatrick McKinley

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2009

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A wandering Galilean : essays in honour of Sean Freyne / edited by Zuleika Rodgers with Margaret Daly-Denton and Anne Fitzpatrick McKinley. p. cm. — (Supplements to the Journal for the study of Judaism, ISSN 1384-2161 ; v. 132) Includes index. ISBN 978-90-04-17355-2 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Bible. N.T.—Criticism, interpretation, etc. 2. Church history—Primitive and early church, ca. 30–600. 3. Judaism—History—Post-exilic period, 586 B.C.–210 A.D. 4. Galilee (Israel)—History. I. Freyne, Seán. II. Rodgers, Zuleika. III. Daly-Denton, Margaret. IV. Fitzpatrick-McKinley, Anne. BS2393.W36 2009 225.9’5—dc22

2008055472

ISSN 1384-2161 ISBN 978 90 04 17355 2 Copyright 2009 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

Seán Freyne, September 2005

CONTENTS Illustrations and Maps ................................................................ Abbreviations .............................................................................. Contributors ................................................................................ Preface .........................................................................................

xi xiii xv xvii

Introduction ................................................................................

1

PART ONE

THE JEWISH WORLD What happened to the Jewish Priesthood after 70? .................. Philip S. Alexander Some “Mass Produced” Scorpion-Amulets from the Cairo Genizah ................................................................................... Gideon Bohak

5

35

Josephus on the Essenes. The Sources of his Information ....... John J. Collins

51

Judean Ethnic Identity in Josephus’ Against Apion ...................... Philip F. Esler

73

What did Nehemiah do for Judaism? ........................................ Anne Fitzpatrick-McKinley

93

Ben-Hur and Ancient Jewish Slavery ........................................ Catherine Hezser

121

Corruption Among the High Priesthood: A Matter of Perspective ............................................................................... James S. McLaren

141

The Integrity of the Rabbinic Law of Purity (Mishnah Teharot) ..................................................................... Jacob Neusner

159

viii

contents

Monarchy vs. Priesthood: Josephus, Justus of Tiberias, and Agrippa II ............................................................................... Zuleika Rodgers

173

PART TWO

THE WORLD OF GALILEE Early Printed Maps of Galilee ................................................... John R. Bartlett

187

Archaeology, Ethnicity, and First-Century c.e. Galilee: The Limits of Evidence ......................................................... Mark A. Chancey

205

Walking the Roman Landscape in Lower Galilee: Sepphoris, Jotapata, and Khirbet Qana .................................................. Douglas R. Edwards

219

George Adam Smith and the Moral Geography of Galilee ..... Halvor Moxnes

237

Early and Late Synagogues at Nabratein in Upper Galilee: Regional and Other Considerations ...................................... Eric M. Meyers

257

Between Rome and Parthia: Galilee and the Implications of Empire ..................................................................................... J. Andrew Overman

279

Who Wouldn’t Marry Jesus? ...................................................... Marianne Sawicki Stratum II Synagogue at Hammath Tiberias: Reconsidering Its Access, Internal Space, and Architecture ......................... Zeev Weiss

301

321

contents

ix

PART THREE

THE NEW TESTAMENT AND EARLY CHRISTIAN WORLD Drinking the Water that Jesus Gives: A Feature of the Johannine Eucharist? .............................................................. Margaret Daly-Denton

345

Imitatio Christi: Copying the Death of the Founder and Gaining Paradise ..................................................................... Majella Franzmann

367

Tertullianus & Son? .................................................................... Jill Harries The Language(s) of the Kingdom: From Aramaic to Greek, Galilee to Syria, Oral to Oral-Written .................................. Richard A. Horsley

385

401

The Women, the Tomb, and the Climax of Mark ................... Larry W. Hurtado

427

Unsocial Bandits ......................................................................... John S. Kloppenborg

451

Another Post-Resurrection Meal and its Implications for the Early Understanding of the Eucharist ................................... Thomas O’Loughlin

485

Reading Jesus’ Parables in Light of His Crucifixion ................. V. George Shillington

505

Bread that is Broken—and Unbroken ....................................... Justin Taylor

525

Composition and Performance in Mark 13 ............................... Adela Yarbro Collins

539

A Conflict Between Brothers: Observations on the ὑποκριταί in Matthew .............................................................................. Jürgen Zangenberg

561

Index of Authors ........................................................................ Index of Ancient Sources ...........................................................

589 599

ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS Gideon Bohak 1. Cambridge University Library, Genizah Fragment, Taylor-Schechter AS 143.26. ................................................ 2. Jewish Theological Seminary Library, Elkan Nathan Adler Genizah Collection, NS 73.12. .............................................

46 47

John R. Bartlett 1. Galilee, in Abraham Ortelius’ map “Palestinae sive Totius Terrae Promissionis Nova Descriptio Auctore Tilemanno Stella Sigenens,” from Theatrum Orbis Terrarum, Antwerp, 1579, p. 87 [TCD PP.a.34]. .................................................. 2. Galilee, in Abraham Ortelius’s map “Typus Chorographicus, celebrium locorum in Regno Iudae et Israhel, arte factus a Tilemanno Stella Sigenensi,” map iii in Theatrum Orbis Terrarum Parergon, 1624 [TCD M.aa.15]. ... 3. Galilee, from Sebastian Munster’s woodcut map “Terr[a]e Sanct[a]e XIII. Nova Tabula,” in Geographia Ptolemaei, 1552 [TCD DD.ee.53]. .................................................................. 4. Galilee, “secunda tabula” in J. Ziegler, Terrae Sanctae, quam Palaestinam nominant . . . descriptio, 1536 [TCD.DD.b.33]. .........

199

200 201 202

Eric M. Meyers 1. Pediment or upper portion of the Torah Shrine from Nabratein Synagogue 2a (ca. 250–306 c.e.). ........................ 2. Block plan of Nabratein Synagogue 1 Broadhouse (ca. 135–250 c.e.). ................................................................. 3. Block plan of Nabratein Synagogue 2a and 2b (ca. 250–363 c.e.). ................................................................. 4. Block plan of Nabratein Synagogue 3 (ca. 564–700 c.e.). ... 5. Drawing of restored synagogue as it exists at the Nabratein today, reflecting Synagogue 3 ground plan. ........ 6. View of Synagogue 3, 8-column basilica looking south-west (564–700 c.e). ........................................................................

273 274 275 276 276 277

xii

illustrations and maps J. Andrew Overman

1. Reconstruction of east façade of the Herodian period Augusten temple at Omrit .................................................... 2. Reconstruction of east façade of the Flavian period second phase temple ..........................................................................

294 295

Zeev Weiss 1. Hammath Tiberias: Plans of the Stratum IIb and Stratum IIa synagogues according to M. Dothan ................ 2. Two inscriptions, one in Aramaic and the other in Greek, located in the mosaic floor in the eastern aisle bordering with the main hall ................................................................. 3. Mosaic floor in the easternmost aisle of the synagogue, which includes the Greek dedicatory inscription referring to Profoturos the elder who “made this aisle” ...................... 4. Synagogue at Ein Gedi. The architectural plan resembles the suggested reconstruction of the synagogue at Hammath Tiberias ................................................................ 5. Author’s proposed reconstructions of Hammath Tiberias, Stratum IIb and Stratum IIa ................................................ 6. Three-dimensional proposed reconstruction of the Stratum IIa synagogue (the “Severos Synagogue”) ..............

324 332 333 335 337 339

ABBREVIATIONS We have generally adopted the abbreviations of the SBL Handbook of Style: For Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical, and Early Christian Studies, ed. Patrick H. Alexander et al. Peabody. 1999. Additional abbreviations are as follows: DHGE FJTC GCW JRA PIR PLRE SCI TCD War Ant. Apion Hrm. Perp. Ps B

Dictionnaire d’histoire et de géographie ecclésiastiques Flavius Josephus Translation and Commentary Brill Series, Edited by Steve Mason Galilean Coarse Ware Journal of Roman Archaeology Prosopographia Imperii Romani Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire Scripta Classica Israelica Trinity College Dublin Jewish/Judean War Jewish/Judean Antiquities Against Apion Manichaean Homilies Martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicitas Manichaean Psalms

CONTRIBUTORS Philip S. Alexander, University of Manchester, England John R. Bartlett, Dublin, Ireland Gideon Bohak, Tel Aviv University, Israel Mark A. Chancey, Southern Methodist University, USA John J. Collins, Yale Divinity School, USA Margaret Daly-Denton, Dublin, Ireland Douglas R. Edwards, University of Puget Sound, USA Philip F. Esler, University of St Andrews, Scotland Anne Fitzpatrick-McKinley, Trinity College Dublin, Ireland Majella Franzmann, University of Otago, New Zealand Jill Harries, University of St. Andrews, Scotland Catherine Hezser, School of Oriental and African Studies, England Richard A. Horsley, University of Massachusetts, Boston, USA Larry W. Hurtado, University of Edinburgh, Scotland John S. Kloppenborg, University of Toronto, Canada James McLaren, Australian Catholic University, Australia Eric M. Meyers, Duke University, USA Halvor Moxnes, University of Oslo, Norway Jacob Neusner, Bard College, USA Thomas O’Loughlin, University of Wales, Lampeter, Wales J. Andrew Overman, Macalester College, USA Zuleika Rodgers, Trinity College Dublin, Ireland Marianne Sawicki, Penn State Altoona, USA V. George Shillington, Winnipeg, Canada

xvi

contributors

Justin Taylor, Ecole Biblique et Archéologique Française de Jérusalem, Israel Zeev Weiss, Hebrew University Jerusalem, Israel Adela Yarbro Collins, Yale Divinity School, USA Jürgen Zangenberg, University of Leiden, The Netherlands

PREFACE Contributing to this volume are former students and present colleagues and we very much hope that with it we can honour Sean’s wide-ranging academic interests. Many thanks to the team at Brill for their assistance and patience. We are also grateful to Ruth Lee and Murray Watson, who prepared the indices.

INTRODUCTION As the list of scholars grew longer so too did the disciplines they represent and the reality of putting together a volume of essays in honour of Seán began to emerge. This was to be a second volume; the first edited by his colleagues Werner Jeanrond and Andrew Mayes, was entitled “Crossing Boundaries,” which indicated the breadth of Seán’s interests and intellectual influence. That another volume was planned signified just how many of us wanted to celebrate Seán as an esteemed academic, supportive colleague, and loyal friend. The range of papers in this volume are evidence of Seán’s interest in, and openness to, perspectives from varying disciplines, as well as the friendship and collegiality experienced by so many of us. While Galilee has been at the heart of Seán’s research interest, he has wandered in many different directions in search of a deeper and more nuanced understanding of early Judaism in the Greek and Roman periods and the development of the early Christian movement. His encounters with scholarship in the areas of Archaeology, Ancient History, Classics, Hebrew Bible, Early Judaism, Rabbinic Judaism, Early Christianity, New Testament, and Theology has enriched his own work, his teaching, and has fostered among his students an openness to search for ideas beyond the strict confines of one’s research topic. My own experience of Seán was at Trinity College Dublin where he held the Chair of Theology for twenty-one years. Here his energy, enthusiasm, and charisma attracted many undergraduate and graduate students to the newly formed School of Hebrew, Biblical and Theological Studies (now the Department of Religions and Theology). He was the first to hold the Chair in this exciting new Department—the only place in Ireland—where the Bible and Theology could be studied in a non-denominational humanities context. In a rapidly changing yet still religiously conservative Ireland, being part of this was central to the academic formation of many of us who passed through the Department. The extraordinary loyalty and support of its graduates, aware that they were part of something very different, is a direct result of Seán’s inclusive and egalitarian approach. The familial atmosphere he created allowed everyone, whether an undergraduate, doctoral student or a young colleague, to feel that they had their part to play in the Department. Besides inspiring us in the classroom to question and search,

2

introduction

Seán as Head of Department also listened to us as individuals with our issues and problems, and was also willing to share his latest views on his other passion, Gaelic football, over a small glass of something in a local hostelry. His optimism was infectious, and we all believed that our discipline had an important place within in the University and within Irish society. This optimism has also allowed him to be a fervent Mayo supporter for almost seventy years. Seán’s career as Professor of Theology at Trinity College Dublin, was neither the start nor the end of his professional life. Before this he taught New Testament at the Columban Missionary Seminary and the Pontifical University of Maynooth here in Ireland, and later at Loyola University, New Orleans and the University of Queensland in Brisbane, Australia. Over the years through his academic work he has made many friends in various parts of the world as a member of SNTS, ASOR and the editorial board of Concilium, many of whom have come to Dublin to lecture at various conferences and lecture series that he has organized. Having “retired” from the Chair, Seán took up the Directorship of the Programme for Mediterranean and Near Eastern Studies. This collaborative programme between the Department of Classics and the Department of Religions and Theology at Trinity College was conceived out of the realisation that many of us working in the ancient world were concerned with interrelated contexts and cultures. This interdisciplinary programme has been highly successful in developing discourse about cultural interaction in antiquity through the hosting of international conferences, workshops, and weekly research seminars. Not satisfied with his enormous contribution to date, Seán has spent the past year at Harvard Divinity School, teaching and researching. While we miss his presence here in Dublin, we know that his intellectual curiosity, which has grown even stronger post-70 (years of age!) requires pastures new. Zuleika Rodgers

PART ONE

THE JEWISH WORLD

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE JEWISH PRIESTHOOD AFTER 70? Philip S. Alexander There are three crowns: the crown of Torah, the crown of priesthood, and the crown of kingship; but the crown of a good name excels them all. (m.{Avot 4:13)

The Question The Jewish temple was the most notable institution within Judaism before 70, assiduously promoted by both the Hasmoneans and Herod as the focal point of religious life for all Jews, whether in Palestine or abroad. It provided a prestigious power base for a priesthood that had played a central role in the political and religious life of the Jewish people ever since their return from Babylon in 538 b.c.e. The little province of Yahud within the Persian empire had been effectively ruled by its high priest, and the Hasmoneans were a priestly clan, whose claim to rule in Israel was based in part on their priestly lineage. But what happened to this priestly class after 70?1 It is tempting to assume that the destruction of the temple would at a stroke have destroyed the power of the priests as well. According to one view their political influence had been waning in late Second Temple times, ever since the demise of the Hasmonean state in 63 b.c.e., and even their religious authority had diminished pre-70 as they found themselves forced to defer more and more to the Pharisaic torah sages, who claimed the right to tell them from torah how to run their affairs, and who were the real religious rulers of the Jews.2 Whether the influence of the torah scholars, and in particular the Pharisees, was so strong in the run up to the First Jewish War is a moot point, but few till

Schürer 1973–87, 2:237–308 offers a useful introduction to the priesthood before 70. Further Stern 1976 and Rooke 2000. 2 See Josephus, Ant. 18.17. Further Schürer 1973–87, 2:402. On the basis of the Rabbinic evidence Neusner (1971) casts doubt on this assertion. 1

6

philip s. alexander

recently would have dissented from the view that the destruction of the temple in 70 dealt a mortal blow to the power of the priests. Thereafter, though they were accorded residual social honours, they can effectively be dismissed as a class from the history of Judaism. They exercised no hereditary authority worth speaking of, and as a group contributed little or nothing to the on-going development of Judaism. I shall argue that, if we look for it, we can find evidence that suggests the priests did not disappear as a religious and social force but continued to exercise leadership within the Jewish community after 70, and that it is possible to detect a number of distinctively priestly strands of thought and practice in late antique Judaism. My argument chimes in with a trend in scholarship to see the triumph of Rabbinism as happening later than has usually been supposed (certainly not before the third century, and even then only in Palestine), and when it did occur, as never having been complete. Judaism after 70 may have been as diverse as Judaism before 70, and Rabbinic Judaism may in the end have achieved dominance by making compromises, broadening its appeal, and becoming, if the term can be excused, “a broad Church.”3 The Recovery of the Priesthood after 70 The priesthood seems to have recovered surprisingly well from the economic disruption caused by the First Revolt. Torah stipulated that the priests should be supported by a range of taxes paid by lay Israelites.4 Though they would have lost their portion of the temple offerings, payment of the other priestly dues may have continued in some shape or form in the post-70 period.5 The question of the rendering of the

3 Though he is himself sceptical, Fine (2005) offers a good overview of recent attempts to argue for the continued influence of the priesthood after 70. See further Kimelman 1983; Trifon 1984; Cohen 1990; Swartz 1999; Levine 2000, 491–500; Magness 2003; Irshai 2003 and 2004; Swartz and Yahalom 2005; Reif 2005; Millar 2006. 4 For a summary see Schürer 1973–87, 2:257–74. 5 Oppenheimer 1977, 42–49. y. Sheqalim 8, 51b states that although the priestly dues should still be separated they cannot actually be given to the priests but must be destroyed. There is no evidence to indicate that this hugely wasteful ruling was ever widely observed, and Oppenheimer suggests that it was put forward in the period immediately following the destruction of the temple when the religious authorities were still at a loss what to do. If an attempt was ever made to enforce it, it cannot have been for long. The evidence overwhelmingly shows that the tithes were actually handed over to the priests.

what happened to the jewish priesthood after 70?

7

priestly gifts after 70 is complex. The rabbinic party, at least in the second century, maintained that, as torah law, they were still binding, and chided the “peoples of the land” ({ammei ha-{aretz) for being slack in the matter.6 In rabbinic communities priests probably fared particularly well, which may have been a factor in attracting them into the rabbinic movement. Saul Lieberman noted that all the Tannaxim whose wealth is commented upon in the rabbinic sources seem to have been of priestly descent.7 But we should not assume from the rabbinic criticism that only rabbinical Jews paid tithes. The issue between the rabbis and the {ammei ha-{aretz was not about whether or not to pay tithes, but how to interpret the laws of tithing. The rabbis took a stringent view, which would have imposed a heavy burden on ordinary Jews. This was, apparently, resisted, but that does not mean that ordinary Jews did not give the priestly gifts, according to their lights and ability. Even in the economic crisis of the mid-third century, tithes continued to be paid.8 Ordinary priests might actually have been better off after 70, since pre-70 most priestly gifts were channeled through the Jerusalem temple and so controlled by the Jerusalem hierarchy, whereas after 70 payment would have become more diffused and localized.9 Since it is hard to see how the priestly taxes could have been enforced, their continued payment suggests that an aura of sanctity still surrounded the priesthood, and that priests were still held in high esteem. There is also evidence that priests diversified economically, some of them acquiring land, others finding employment as school-masters, synagogue officials, scribes, and even as tax-farmers. There is no reason, then, to think that the priesthood was impoverished after 70. Quite the reverse. There are also grounds for thinking that the priesthood may have maintained a degree of social cohesion after 70. After the destruction the priestly “courses,” the Mishmarot, apparently decamped from Judea to central and eastern Galilee. Just when this emigration occurred is

Oppenheimer 1977. Quoted in Cohen 1990, 159. Further Levine 2000, 493. 8 As Cohen (1990, 159) correctly notes. 9 Oppenheimer 1977, 30–38. It may have been the Hasmoneans who were the first to demand the payment of the priestly dues direct to Jerusalem, from where they were then distributed to the individual priests. This would have given them considerable wealth and power, and be an interesting example of how they used their priestly status for political ends. The insistence of the Pharisees that tithes could be passed on locally to the priest or Levite of the donor’s choice could be seen as an anti-Hasmonean move. 6 7

8

philip s. alexander

disputed: some put it immediately after the destruction, others after the Bar Kokhba revolt, still others in the third century.10 When it happened is not really significant for our present purposes. That it happened is, since it suggests that the priestly class successfully preserved its basic organisational structure and social networks despite the catastrophe. This must surely be reflected in the fact that six inscriptions from synagogues, from both Palestine and the Diaspora, list the priestly courses.11 The number is rather high, and suggests that such plaques may have been a standard feature of the post-70 synagogue. There are other links between the priesthood and the synagogue. We find priests as donors to synagogues: in Judaea at Eshtemoa, Susiya, and Naxaran; in the Galilee at Sepphoris; and in the Diaspora at Berenice in Cyrene.12 Priests are also mentioned in inscriptions as synagogue officials and communal leaders both in Israel and the Diaspora. Dura Europos offers a good Diaspora example. There three Aramaic inscriptions and one in Greek (from the later synagogue) name the governing presbyter and archon as Samuel the priest. At Sardis an inscription commemorates the priest and sophodidaskalos Samoe. In an inscription from Aphrodisias we find a presbeutes who was a priest. At Rome there is evidence of a number of priests serving as archons, and one as an archisynagogue.13 The most emphatic evidence from Palestine is found in the famous Theodotus inscription from Jerusalem, which records how: “Theodotus, son of Vettenos, priest and archisynagogue, son of an archisynagogue, grandson of an archisynagogue” built a synagogue “. . . for the reading of the Law and the study of the commandments, and a guesthouse and rooms and water installations for hosting those from abroad.”14 Though this dates from before the destruction of the temple, it shows clearly how, even at this early date, priests were closely involved with synagogues. Priestly motifs figure prominently in the iconography of the synagogue in late antiquity, and indeed in early Jewish art in general. A striking case is the important mosaic floor discovered at Sepphoris in 1993 by Ehud Netzer and Zeev Weiss.15 This is full of priestly elements,

10 11 12 13 14 15

Urbach 1973; Kahane 1979; Trifon 1989–90; Safrai 1993. Levine 2000, 496. Levine 2000, 493–34. For all these see Levine 2000, 495–96. Levine 2000, 54–56. Weiss and Netzer 1996; Weiss 2005.

what happened to the jewish priesthood after 70?

9

including a depiction of the consecration of Aaron, various temple furnishings and sacrifices, as well as the binding of Isaac, which in this context surely has a priestly reference, since the site of the {Aqedah had long been identified in Jewish tradition with the temple mount, and the validity of the temple offerings seen as depending on their sacramental re-enactment of Isaac’s self-offering. At Susiya a priest paid for a mosaic, which unfortunately does not survive, but it is surely not too bold to conjecture that it would have contained priestly images, as do the frescoes at Dura Europos in a synagogue built by a priest.16 Interpreting iconography is notoriously difficult. Erwin Goodenough in his magisterial Jewish Symbols tried to unravel the symbolism of Jewish art in late antiquity and came to the conclusion that it testified to a form of Judaism significantly at variance with rabbinic “orthodoxy.”17 He speculated freely, and did not have the mastery of the Hebrew and Aramaic sources needed to back up his intuitions, but now that we can put his work in a broader context it is possible to see that he may basically have been correct. This link between the priesthood and the synagogue may shed some light on the vexed question of the Jewish “priests” in the edict of Constantine of the year 330 preserved in the Theodosian Code: “The same Augustus to the priests, the archisynagogues, fathers of synagogues, and the others who serve in the same place. We order that the priests, archisynagogues, fathers of synagogues, and the others who serve in synagogues shall be free of all corporal liturgy.”18 Levine argues that: . . . the meaning of the term ‘priest’ here is not as clear as it may seem at first; indeed, the title may well refer to any type of Jewish official whose role is analogous to that of an official in a pagan or Christian context; it may not necessarily refer to a person from the seed of Aaron. Thus, there is little to derive from this last source as regards the role of priests in the synagogue in late antiquity.19

Linder takes a similar view.20 A lack of precision in the language of legislation, when it deals with the affairs of an ethnic minority, should cause no surprise, though in this case it would have engendered massive confusion and created a loop-hole which could have allowed a whole 16 17 18 19 20

Levine 2000, Goodenough Linder 1987, Levine 2000, Linder 1987,

494–95. 1953–68. 132–38. 495f. 137.

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range of people to claim exemption. Levine’s and Linder’s argument has some force, but in the light of the evidence which we have collected in this essay, it is surely unnecessary. Why cannot the edict have been meant precisely to remove corporal liturgies from the kohanim in recognition of the esteem in which they were held in the Jewish community, and the peculiar problems they might have encountered in fulfilling such duties, because of the demands of ritual purity? If this is the correct interpretation, it does not automatically imply that kohen was the title of some sort of synagogue official, or that kohanim necessarily served in some capacity in the synagogue, though, as we have seen, they may frequently have had a synagogue role. Levine glosses his comment with an interesting footnote: The situation among the Samaritans appears to have been quite different. Among the reforms of Baba Rabba (himself identified in Chronicle II as a priest) was the appointment of a governing council of seven, of whom three were priests (Abu ’l-fath [p. 43]; Chronicle II, 5 [pp. 66–67]). Moreover priests were assigned to various regions in Samaritan territory (ibid., 9 [pp. 72–74]).21

The analogy of the Samaritans is pertinent. Here was a community which had also lost its central shrine (on Mount Gerizim), long before the destruction of the Jerusalem temple, but whose priesthood had retained a high level of social cohesion, and which continued to exercise considerable authority. Why cannot something similar have happened in the Jewish community, and the imperial authorities have recognized that this was the case? There are other, more general historical arguments for seeing a close alliance between the priesthood and the synagogue. The synagogue was clearly one of the most important institutions within early Judaism, both before and after the destruction of the temple. Its origins are clouded in obscurity. One thing, however, that can be said with some confidence is that it was not fundamentally rabbinic. As Jacob Neusner noted, the rabbis in the Mishnah and Talmud show little interest in the synagogue, apart from legislating about the sale of synagogue property, about how the torah should be publicly read, and about the precise form of the major communal prayer, the {Amidah, in which they attempted to insert a benediction cursing the Minim.22 The institutional powerbase

21 22

Levine 2000, 496. Neusner 2001.

what happened to the jewish priesthood after 70?

11

of the rabbis was the rabbinic seminary, the Beit Midrash. Now I do not claim that the synagogue was actually priestly in origin. There is no solid evidence for that, and indeed I doubt if we should see a single point of origin for the institution, or a single entity from which all later synagogues were derived. It is probable that at an early period different forms of religious assembly sprang up in different places, to meet different social and religious needs, and these evolved and coalesced into the “standard” synagogue of late antiquity. It is worth noting, however, that one of these early forms of association which, it has been argued, fed into the later synagogue was the ma{amad.23 The ma{amadot were orders of lay Jews who served to represent their communities at the temple service during the late Second Temple period. The Land of Israel was in theory divided up into twenty four districts, known as Ma{amadot, on the analogy of the twenty four priestly Mishmarot, each of which provided a delegation (also known as a Ma{amad) which represented in rotation its region when the great communal offering was offered in the Jerusalem temple. Since it was impractical for the whole of the Ma{amad to go up to the temple, it sent only a small number of representatives. The remainder gathered locally, studied Scripture and said prayers (m.Ta{anit 4:2–3). That this form of assembly anticipated the later synagogues, at least in Palestine, is entirely plausible. Much later in Jewish history, among the Karaites and the Sephardis we find the Ma{amad as a powerful institution within the synagogue. The possibility that this is not a late revival, but indicates a continuity with the Second Temple period Ma{amadot should not be ruled out. We should also recall that what is traditionally seen as the earliest allusion to a synagogue-like institution calls it in priestly language “a little sanctuary” (miqdash me{at: Ezek 11:16; see Targum Jonathan ad loc., and further b. Megillah 29a). So although it would be simplistic to suggest a priestly origin for the synagogue, it was an institution which from an early period had a priestly orientation (it was, after all, literally, as a building, orientated on the Jerusalem temple!), and if the priesthood had a natural powerbase outside the temple, and after its destruction, then this surely was it. This is further confirmed by the service of the synagogue itself, which to the present day accords special privileges to priests, and which continues strikingly to reflect priestly concerns. Priests, if they are present, are

23

Urbach 1973.

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called first to the public reading of the torah, and space is given in the service to allow them, when appropriate, to recite the Priestly Blessing. The major prayer of the synagogue, the {Amidah, is full of distinctively priestly concerns, and may be priestly in origin: no less than six of its nineteen benedictions directly or indirectly pray for the restoration of the temple service. As I have argued elsewhere,24 the strong messianism of this prayer jars with mainline rabbinic thinking in the Tannaitic and early Amoraic periods, which was profoundly anti-messianic (though the rabbis were later to find a place for messianism within the rabbinic theological system). The rabbis cannot have been too happy about the daily, public recitation of a prayer with some of whose sentiments they had little sympathy. The priestly class may have been a factor in the survival of Jewish messianism after 70. David Goodblatt has argued that a significant element in the support for Bar Kokhba came from the priests.25 The rabbis were notoriously ambivalent about Bar Kokhba, and the debacle of his revolt may well have strengthened their antimessianism. The silence of later rabbinic sources on Julian’s proposal to rebuild the Jerusalem temple may also speak eloquently of rabbinic unease over priestly messianism. Remnants of Priestly Tradition and Piety after 70? If the priesthood remained a force to be reckoned with in Jewish religious life after 70, can we identify any surviving remnants of this post-70 priestly tradition, apart from the temple lore in the Mishnah, which we will discuss presently? I would suggest that we can. 1. Piyyut One of the most remarkable innovations in the synagogue liturgy in late antiquity was the emergence of a new, highly wrought type of synagogue poetry known as piyyut.26 The priestly orientation of this poetry is suggested by the fact that a number of the early paytanim were of priestly descent, and it shows a marked interest in priestly matters (e.g., the mishmarot and the rituals for Yom Kippur), and generally glori-

24 25 26

Alexander 2007. Goodblatt 1984. Weinberger 1998.

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fies the priesthood. The {Avodot for Yom Kippur illustrate this point.27 The basic pattern of these was established as early as the anonymous {Az be-xein kol, which probably belongs to the pre-classical era (4th–6th centuries c.e.). The poem opens with a description of the pre-existent torah and its role in the creation of the world, moves on to recount the history of the Patriarchs, culminating in the choice of Levi and the emergence of the priesthood to perform a special service towards God, and ends with a blow-by-blow description of the ancient temple Yom Kippur ritual in which the high priest is portrayed as the hero of the Heilsgeschichte.28 We can only speculate on what this description is meant to achieve, but the most obvious explanation is that, in the absence of the temple, it compensates for the actual doing of the deed. Through the power of the words, and the congregation’s imaginative appropriation of them, they were transported back to the temple, and this somehow validated the ritual. The relationship of piyyut to classic rabbinic literature is problematic. There are numerous and very precise overlaps. Most researchers simply assume that when these occur the paytan has borrowed from the rabbinic text. The possibility that the relationship may be the other way around, or, more likely, that both piyyut and rabbinic Midrash are drawing on a common third source, e.g., folklore, is not adequately considered. As evidence for his assertion that: “. . . the extant piyyutim are deeply embedded in rabbinic culture and reflect nothing of an alternative religious tradition,” Fine claims that “. . . a quick perusal of the footnotes of scholarly editions of piyyut collections makes this point adequately.”29 It does nothing of the sort, because the precise question of literary dependence in the vast majority of these parallels has never been properly investigated, nor the possibility considered that an anachronistic and inappropriate model of text-use and textconsumption is being applied to late antique Palestine. Each parallel needs to be looked at on a case-by-case basis. A culturally conditioned assumption that the rabbinic text must have priority has been adopted without question. A similar problem affects the parallels between Targum and rabbinic Midrash, but the easy assumption of many earlier scholars (e.g., Pinchas Churgin) that Midrash has priority over Targum

27 28 29

Swartz and Yahalom 2005. Yahalom 1996; Swartz and Yahalom 2005, 95–220. Fine 2005, 3; see also Rabinowitz 1965 and Weinberger 1998 passim.

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is no longer acceptable: the relationship on close analysis often proves to be much more complex.30 A couple of examples will illustrate this point. The detailed descriptions of the Yom Kippur ritual in the {Avodot are clearly closely parallel to Mishnah Yoma. But why should we assume that the paytanim had a text of Mishnah Yoma in front of them and adapted it for their purposes? Is it not, in principle, equally possible that Mishnah Yoma is based on an old priestly tradition, or even an old priestly document, known also to the priestly paytanim, which the rabbis have embellished for their own purposes? The stylistic and narrative distinctiveness of Mishnah Yoma within the Mishnah has long been noticed.31 Swartz and Yahalom, in an attempt to reach a more nuanced view of this matter, argue that there is a significant difference between the two parallel accounts. The Mishnah in many subtle ways denigrates the high priest, whereas the piyyut glorifies him.32 The second case is the appearance in both piyyut and rabbinic midrash (e.g., Genesis Rabba 1:1, in an exposition attributed to Rabbi Hosha{yah) of the motif of the pre-existent torah. The parallelism is often cited in a way that seems to suggest the paytanim had a copy of Genesis Rabba in front of them. But the idea of the torah as the blue-print of creation was not exclusive to Rabbi Hosha{yah. It goes back at least to Philo of Alexandria (De Opificio Mundi), and it was probably known to Hosha{yah’s contemporary in Caesarea Maritima, the Christian scholar Origen. Moreover, Hosha{yah presents his exposition as a Petihah, a literary form that originated in synagogue preaching, and which suggests a locus for this motif in the synagogue. His exposition is very brief, and contains a tantalizing series of suggestions as to the meaning of the crucial term {amon in Proverbs 8:30, which he never exploits. The tradition of the pre-existent torah is much fuller in piyyut, and one of Hosha{yah’s unexploited etymologies, namely the torah as a “nursling” (an xomen), plays an important part: the pre-existent torah is pictured as a child playing on God’s lap.33 In other words, at least as good a case can be

Alexander 1994. The same is also true of Massekhet Tamid and Massekhet Middot. 32 Swartz and Yahalom 2005, 24–25. I find it strange, however, that Swartz and Yahalom continue to assume that the Mishnah is the source of the piyyut. This does not seem to me at all obvious. 33 Weinberger 1998, 69. 30 31

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made out for the piyyut and the midrash drawing on a common source as for the piyyut directly quoting the midrash. There are many traditions in piyyut, some powerfully mythological in tone, which are not found in rabbinic midrash. Weinberger highlights the motifs of the bodily assumption of Moses to heaven after death, God as the matchmaker for the torah, and the fight between Leviathan and Behemoth which will be staged, like a circus show, for the entertainment of the righteous in the Garden of Eden.34 He also notes cases where the halakhah in piyyut contradicts the consensus view of the Sages,35 a phenomenon also attested in Targum. It is not surprising that the rabbis are suspicious of piyyut. Some authorities tried to ban any additions to the statutory prayers, and specifically to suppress the {Avodah on Yom Kippur, but with little success. Piyyut proved too popular.36 That the paytanim had sources at their disposal other than rabbinic literature is suggested by the correlations between piyyut and Second Temple period Jewish literature. One of the great puzzles of Jewish literary history is the apparent disappearance within mainstream Judaism of the rich literature (apocalyptic and other) produced in the Second Temple period. Was it preserved only by the Church? Or did some of it survive within Judaism as well? There are grounds for thinking that the latter was the case. The rabbis are aware of “outside books” which they do not want people to waste their time reading (m. Sanhedrin 10:1). From the sixth century onwards there was an apocalyptic revival within Judaism which produced a considerable body of Hebrew literature (e.g., the Book of Elijah, the Book of Zerubbabel, the Secrets of Rabbi Shimxon Bar Yohai) known collectively as the Midrashim of Redemption.37 These works contain numerous motifs which are paralleled in Second Temple sources, but which are totally absent from the rabbinic tradition. Was there a rediscovery of Second Temple apocalyptic in the sixth century, perhaps a borrowing back from Christians of old Jewish literature, or were some of the texts or traditions preserved in the intervening centuries outside rabbinic circles, for example, among priests? The latter is not unlikely. There is a case to be made for the late apocalypses having a priestly orientation, and, indeed, Jewish messianism in late antiquity may have

34 35 36 37

Weinberger 1998, 67–72. Weinberger 1998, 29–30, 33–34. Weinberger 1998, 67–68. Reeves 2005; Alexander 2007.

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been predominantly a priestly concern.38 Significant correlations exist between piyyut and the late Hebrew apocalypses (e.g., the motif of the fight between Leviathan and Behemoth). Yahalom has noted significant parallels between piyyut and one of the major texts of the apocalyptic revival—a text full of Second Temple period motifs—the Pirqei deRabbi Elixezer.39 One deeply priestly composition from Second Temple times, known also to the rabbis, certainly had a profound influence on the paytanim—the Book of Ben Sira,40 the Hebrew original of which turned up in the Cairo Genizah. One wonders about other Second Temple compositions found in the Genizah, such as the fragments of Aramaic Levi, and even the Damascus Document. Some have thought that the latter, and perhaps even the former, may have become known in the early middle ages because of an earlier discovery of the Qumran caves, but the possibility that they were handed down in priestly circles cannot be ruled out.41 2. Targum Paul Flesher has advanced the interesting hypothesis that we should see the Pentateuchal Targums as fundamentally priestly documents.42 He argues that, like piyyut, they show a particular interest in priestly matters, and regularly add glosses in order to clarify the priestly lore (see Palestinian Targums to Exod 12:1–18; 13:1–16; 25–31; 34:10–40; Lev 1–16; Num 5–6; 8:1–9:14; 15; 18–19; 28–30; 35). He also points out that: . . . the Palestinian Targum subtly but clearly emphasizes that the priests are responsible for teaching Torah . . . In both Deut 17:9–11 and 33:10, the extant Palestinian Targums add material to endorse Scripture’s assignment of priests as teachers. Deuteronomy 33:10 says, for instance, that “[the priests] shall be fit to teach the judicial ordinances in the midst of those of the house of Jacob, and the decrees of your law [=Torah] to the assembly of the tribes of the children of Israel” [Neofiti]. Furthermore, the Palestinian Targums depict both Isaac and Rebecca studying with or visiting Shem in his legendary school, and then identify Shem as

38 39 40 41 42

Alexander 2007. Swartz and Yahalom 2005, 30. Swartz and Yahalom 2005, 17. Schiffman 1997–2001. Flesher 2003.

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Melchizedek, God’s high priest in Jerusalem [N and FT to Gen. 14:18, 24:62 and 25:22].43

Flesher’s student, Beverly Mortensen, finds this priestly interest particularly strong in Pseudo-Jonathan. A large proportion of the unique expansions in this late Pentateuchal Targum occur in the priestly sections, and she discovers a systematic attempt to expound the temple as a system of symbols which puts it and its priests at the centre of the world.44 The argument is suggestive, but on its own it falls some way short of proof. However, it is supported by circumstantial evidence. The Targum is not in origin a rabbinic institution (though some late Targums, such as Song of Songs, did emerge in a rabbinic milieu). Rabbinic tradition itself sees it as priestly, tracing it back to the Aramaic translation offered by the Levites when the “priest and scribe” Ezra read out the torah in Hebrew to the people assembled in the square before the Water Gate (Neh 8:8) ( y. Megillah 4, 74d). The rabbis tried to control its content and delivery (m. Megillah 4:9–10; t. Megillah 4(3):31; b. Magillah 25a–b), as they tried to control the service of the synagogue in general, but they remained suspicious of it. One authority regarded Greek as the only language into which it was permissible to translate torah (m. Megillah 1:8; y. Megillah 1, 71c). In Babylonia Targum Onqelos was believed to have emerged from the School of {Aqiva, and this tradition may have contributed to the authority of that Targum there, but it is based on a textual corruption: ‘Onqelos’ is a deformation of the name ‘Akylas,’ and the reference, as the Palestian parallel and, indeed, the wording of the pericope itself show,45 is to the Greek version of Aquila ( y. Magillah 1, 71c; b. Megillah 3a). The meaning of the famous rabbinic dictum, “He who translates a verse literally is a liar, and he who translates it freely is a blasphemer and reviler” (t. Moxed 3:41; b. Qiddushin 49b) may not be clear, but one way of taking it is: “Translation of torah is impossible, so don’t do it!”46 There are well-known cases where the halakhah of the Targum disagrees with rabbinic opinion. These drew a lot of attention when Codex Neofiti 1 first came to light. The formula which was bandied about then—“what is anti-mishnaic is pre-mishnaic”—was totally

Flesher 2003, 494–95. Mortensen 2002. 45 Yofyafita mibbenei {adam = You have used the language of Japhet, i.e., Greek, better than anyone else. 46 Or, as Judah Goldin put it: “Any way you translate, you’re sunk!” Goldin 1975, 95. See further Golomb 1992. 43 44

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misconceived, but the debate was useful in highlighting the number of cases where the Targums of the Pentateuch do not align themselves with mainstream rabbinic halakhic sources.47 The Sitz im Leben of the Targum, as we have already noted, was not the Beit Midrash but the synagogue, which was also not a rabbinic institution, and in which, as we have noted, the priestly class may, even before 70, have wielded considerable influence. I have argued that Targum played an important role also in the Beit Sefer.48 This educational role does not contradict its synagogue function, but rather complements it. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that schoolmasters may have been drawn in significant numbers from the priestly class. There is a long-standing tradition that persists right down to the present day that study of the torah for children begins with Leviticus. This custom may go all the way back to the curriculum of the temple schools in which young priests were naturally taught first and foremost the Law of the Priests. Its survival in the post-70 period could owe something to the continuing influence of priests in primary education. Be this as it may, there are also obvious links between Targum and piyyut. These include numerous aggadic overlaps. We also find embedded within the Targums a number of Aramaic piyyutim, such as the famous xEzel Mosheh. These begin to make sense if we take seriously the tradition in y. Megillah 4, 74d, that the hazzan who performed the piyyut was also the translator who delivered the Targum.49 3. Heikhalot Mysticism A further area worth exploring for priestly tradition and spirituality is Heikhalot mysticism. The basic priestly orientation of the Heikhalot texts is initially suggested by the fact that they are concerned with ascents to the celestial temple, and with the angelic liturgies. This form of mysticism can now be traced back to Second Temple times (see especially the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice from Qumran), and I have argued at length elsewhere that it originated in priestly circles in the Jerusalem temple, from where it was taken by the priestly leadership of the community to Qumran. It was also apparently preserved by priests in the post-70 period, and emerged as full-blown Heikhalot mysticism possibly in the

47 48 49

Alexander 1988, 245–46. Alexander 1996. Weinberger 1998, 29.

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late second century c.e.50 At both Qumran and in the post-70-period it served to compensate for the absence of the temple. For the Qumran sect the Jerusalem temple was out of bounds because it was run by an illegitimate high priesthood, and did not follow correct cultic practice. For post-70 priests it compensated for the destruction of the temple. In both cases, denied access to an earthly shrine, they still had the possibility of exercising their sacerdotium by joining in the liturgy of the celestial temple, after which the earthly sanctuary had been modeled. The thesis that the Heikhalot traditions are essentially priestly in origin may explain, at least in part, why the rabbis show deep uneasiness about them.51 They tried to suppress or hedge the study of them about with all kinds of safeguards (m. Hagigah 2:1; t. Hagigah 2:1–7; y. Hagigah 2, 77a–c; b. Hagigah 11b–15a). The Heikhalot literature as we have it is puzzling, since two of its main protagonists, Rabbi Ishmaxel and Rabbi {Aqiva, are heroes of the early second century c.e. rabbinic movement. There are two ways of explaining this. Either the Heikhalot mystics were trying to assert their rabbinic orthodoxy, by claiming two unimpeachable rabbinic masters as their teachers. Or the Heikhalot texts as we now have them have undergone a rabbinizing redaction. On balance I think the latter is more probable. It fits in well with the “big-tent” strategy which the rabbis regularly adopted to cope with problematic manifestations of Judaism in their milieu.52 There is an enigma at the heart of the Heikhalot texts as they have come down to us. As they stand, they seem to envisage in principle any male, adult member of the House of Israel making the ascent to the celestial temple, contemplating the Merkavah and joining with the angelic choirs. As one text puts it, knowing the secret of how to make the ascent is like having a ladder in one’s house; one can go up and down at will (Heikhalot Rabbati 15.2, ed. Schäfer, Synopse §199). But the analogy of the Jerusalem temple shows that the Merkavah is the equivalent of the Ark of the Covenant in the earthly Holy of Holies. The idea that any

Alexander 2006. Rabbinic uneasiness about Heikhalot mysticism is usually related to the fact that it can be seen as contradicting the fundamental premise of rabbinic authority that prophecy has ceased and torah is no longer in heaven (b. Bava Metziax 59a–b), as well as to the very high angelology of the texts, which imperils strict monotheism (e.g., Metatron as “the Lesser YHWH”). But the priestly origins of the doctrine, coupled with the fact that in its original form, the ascent to the celestial temple may have been confined to priests, would also surely have been grounds for rabbinic concern. 52 See further below. 50 51

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Jew can enter the celestial Heikhal, go through the Curtain and view the Merkavah, a sight reserved on earth only for the high priest, and then only on one day in the year (Yom Kippur), is deeply problematic. It is interesting that Rabbi Ishmael, one of the adepts who makes the ascent, is designated in the Heikhalot texts as a high priest.53 He certainly was not, but the need to give him this status may indicate an underlying uneasiness about having just anyone trespassing in heaven on space reserved on earth exclusively for the high priest. This democratisation of the heavenly temple, or the opening up of it at least to great rabbinic scholars, may be part of a rabbinic redaction of the texts. The implication could be that leading rabbis can also ascend; this was not a privilege confined to priests, as it may have been in the purely priestly form of the doctrine. It is possible that the Sar Torah material, which envisages the conjuring of an angel down to earth to help the adept learn his torah, is also part of the rabbinic redaction.54 There are significant links between the Heikhalot texts and the synagogue, which reinforce the basically non-rabbinic nature of Heikhalot mysticism. The texts contain liturgical elements, such as hymns which had to be chanted in order to make the ascent. It is generally acknowledged that aspects of Heikhalot teaching have influenced the liturgy of the synagogue, such as the various Qedushot. Philipp Bloch, one of the first to posit this influence, supposed that it occurred in the Gaonic period.55 He dated it to then because he accepted Heinrich Graetz’s view that Heikhalot mysticism emerged only in the early middle ages, a view rendered untenable by the Qumran evidence.56 It is more likely that it came in much earlier through the participation of priests in the synagogue, and their influence on the shape of its liturgy. It is also interesting to note that some of the paytanim introduced Heikhalot material into their compositions and were criticized for doing so by rabbinic authorities.57

53 54 55 56 57

Note the title of 3 Enoch, and Alexander 1983, 1:255 note b. Alexander 2006, 132–36. Bloch 1883. Graetz 1859; further Alexander 2006. Weinberger 1998, 30.

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4. Mourning for Zion Finally it is possible that priestly piety and tradition were preserved by the shadowy group known as “the Mourners for Zion” ({Avelei Tziyyon). One of the key texts for the study of this movement is t. Sotah 15:9–15, which discusses how the loss of the temple should be mourned. This reports that after the destruction of the second temple “. . . ascetics became numerous in Israel, who would not eat meat nor drink wine.” Rabbi Joshua chided them for their excessive abstinence and argued that lesser forms of commemoration are sufficient: My children, to mourn too much is impossible. But thus have the Sages decreed: A man plasters his house, but leaves open a small area, as a memorial to Jerusalem. A man prepares a meal but leaves out some small item, as a memorial to Jerusalem. A woman makes ready her ornaments, but leaves out one small item, as a memorial to Jerusalem.

A little earlier in the same section, Rabbi Ishmael had acknowledged that “. . . from the day the Temple was destroyed, it would have been reasonable not to eat meat nor drink wine,” but he rejects imposing such a harsh measure because it could simply not be enforced: “A court does not make a decree for the community which the community simply cannot bear.” Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah belonged to the second generation of Tannaim (c. 90–130 c.e.), and Rabbi Ishmael was his younger contemporary. They were thus close in time to the destruction of the temple, but the fact that the tradition was preserved in the Tosefta (and not in the Mishnah) suggests that it was still deemed relevant in the fourth century. It is repeated with some modifications in b. Bava Batra 60b, in Midrash Psalms 137.6, and in Yalqut Shimxoni, Psalms 885.58 The “ascetics ( perushim)” are not called directly “Mourners for Zion,” but Rabbi Joshua uses the verb “mourn” (le-hitxabbel) to describe their activities, and a gloss on the tradition in the Bavli actually quotes Isa 60:3 from which the term “Mourners for Zion” ({Avelei Tziyyon) was derived. It is important to note that these ascetic mourners are distinct from, and opposed to, the rabbinic establishment, as represented by Joshua and Ishmael. They are a non-rabbinic group.

58

See Lieberman 1973, 772–74 for a discussion of the textual variants.

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2 Baruch, composed originally in Palestine in Hebrew, and dating from the early second century c.e., may shed further light on these Mourners for Zion. The text contains very diverse material, but it circles around two main themes: the destruction of the temple, and the end of history. It is the former, found mainly in chapters 1–12, which is of particular interest to us here. Embedded in these chapters are a series of laments which may have originated among “the ascetics” whom, as we noted, 2 Baruch’s contemporary Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah is reported in the Tosefta as rebuking for their excessive mourning for Zion. The long and impressive dirge in 2 Baruch 10:6–19 is particularly interesting. Its call on farmers not to sow, the earth and the vine not to yield their fruits, because the first-fruits and the wine-offerings can no longer be offered on the altar, recalls the Tosefta’s ascetics who refused to eat meat and drink wine for the same reason (t. Sotah 15:10). 2 Baruch’s call on the sun and the moon not to shine, and women not to give birth finds an echo in Rabbi Ishmael’s sarcastic comment, “Since they [the ascetics] are uprooting the Torah from our midst, let us make a decree against the world, that it be left desolate—that no one should marry a wife and produce children, or have a week of celebration for a son, till the seed of Abraham die out of its own accord!” And 2 Baruch’s demand that virgins burn their finery is paralleled in the rabbinic text in the ban against the wedding canopy, the bridal palanquin, and the use of foliatum (t. Sotah 15:9), and in the rabbis’ suggestion that a woman should leave off one of her ornaments, rather than them all (t. Sotah 15:10). Some of 2 Baruch’s traditions about the fall of the temple, e.g., the story of the priests taking the keys of the sanctuary and throwing them heavenwards towards God with the words: “Guard your house yourself, for, behold, we have been found to be false stewards!” are attested also in rabbinic aggadah, most notably in Pesiqta Rabbati 26, a midrash which, as we shall see, unquestionably drew on the traditions of the Mourners of Zion.59 It is hard to identify a unified perspective in 2 Baruch. The suggestion that it was composed in rabbinic circles, and even at Yavneh, has little to commend it, and is based on a gross oversimplification of the complexities of post-70 Judaism.60 Its overlaps with rabbinic tradition simply highlight its Palestinian milieu, but once again we must insist

59 60

Bogaert 1969, 1:222–24. Bogaert 1969, 1:331–32.

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that we cannot assume that everything we find in rabbinic literature was rabbinic in origin or in essence. The suggestion that 2 Baruch was read in synagogue has also little to support it, though a reading on the Ninth of Av of parts of it would not be inappropriate.61 However, that some of its material originated in post-70 priestly theological reflection on the fall of the temple, and in the circles of the ascetics who mourned for Zion is eminently plausible. The Mourners for Zion come up again in pisqa 34 of Pesiqta Rabbati. We should probably link this pisqa with pisqas 36–37, though the term Mourners for Zion does not appear there. It is probable that these chapters, with their highly distinctive doctrine of a suffering Messiah who goes by the name of Ephraim, emanated from the circles of the Mourners for Zion, though they have been preserved in a predominantly, if somewhat unusual, rabbinic midrash. Pisqa 34 is particularly pertinent to our present inquiry. There the Mourners for Zion emerge as a socially well-defined group who “rise up every morning to beseech mercy,” and who “yearn for deliverance morning, evening and noon,” but who are mocked and scorned for their pains by their fellow Jews. They will, however, be vindicated by God, when the Messiah comes, and all Israel will admit that they were wrong to make fun of them.62 God declares: O righteous men of the world, even though your obedience to the words of my Torah is pleasing to me, yet you wait only on my Torah—you do not wait for my kingship. Hence I have stated on oath that for him who waits for my kingship I myself will bear witness on his behalf, as it is written, Therefore wait for me, says the Lord, until the day when I rise up to witness (Zeph 3:8). Those who have waited for me are the Mourners for Zion who grieved with me because of my House which is destroyed and because of my Temple which is desolate. Now I bear witness for them, each of whom Scripture describes in the verse: With him who is of a contrite and humble spirit (Isa 57:15). Do not read with him who is of a contrite . . . spirit, but he who is of a contrite . . . spirit grieves with me. These are the Mourners for Zion who humbled their spirits, listened meekly to abuse and kept silent, but did not regard themselves as virtuous for doing so.

Bogaert 1969, 1:157–62. The pisqa only mentions directly the constant prayers of the Mourners for Zion, but the references to mockery and fun suggests that they also indulged in extravagant penitential behaviour, and perhaps wore distinctive penitential dress which drew the derision and parody of ordinary Jews. 61 62

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It is surely not difficult to see in the “the righteous men of the world” who are obsessed with torah to the point of forgetting Zion, a sharp criticism of the rabbinic establishment. The Mourners, then, are not a rabbinic group. They see their self-imposed suffering, and their rejection by Israel as atoning for Israel’s sins, and as hastening the coming of the Messiah, who is also suffering and rejected. Still more startling is their claim that they are not only engaged in an imitation of the Messiah, but in an imitation of God himself. God himself mourns for the destruction of his House. These ideas, adumbrated in pisqa 34 are elaborated in pisqas 36–37. These pisqas have engendered much debate.63 Their date is uncertain, but Bamberger’s suggestion that they come from the time of the Roman-Persian wars in the early seventh century makes good sense.64 There has also been much disagreement as to whether their doctrine of a suffering, rejected Messiah betrays Christian influence. Many have suggested that it does, but Fishbane argues persuasively for it as an “. . . inner Jewish development of messianic interpretations based on Isaiah 53, the antiquity of which need not be doubted,” citing as evidence the fact that “. . . already in the second century (c.e.) Justin Martyr has Trypho repeatedly say that the Jews expected a suffering Messiah, though he denied that it was Jesus.”65 And he argues that the approach which reaches too readily for Christian influence in such cases “. . . impoverishes the Jewish theological tradition.”66 The traditions of these earlier Mourners for Zion were probably taken up and developed by the Qaraite Mourners for Zion who from the mid-ninth century onwards turned Jerusalem into a major centre of Qaraite settlement and learning. That there was a measure of continuity between the two traditions, suggested by Goitein, Mann and others, has received little attention in recent scholarship, but it makes eminently good sense.67 If there was a link, then it would seem to be in order See Goldberg 1978 for discussion and further bibliography. Bamberger 1940. 65 Fishbane 1998, 83–84. 66 Fishbane 1998, 208, n. 48. I am not happy, however, with his own rather easy assumption (e.g., p. 85) that the doctrine expounded in Pesiqta Rabbati 34, 36–37 is rabbinic doctrine. It is in the very loose sense that it has been transmitted in a rabbinic text. But we must not assume that everything found in a rabbinic text, and especially not in Pesiqta Rabbati, is normative Rabbinism. 67 Goitein 1954, 119; Mann 1970, 1:47–50 (“. . . the Karaite sect seems to have sprung in part from the ancient ‘mouners for Zion,’ of whom unfortunately we still know very little.”) Zucker 1963 rejects its outright, but for no compelling reason. For 63 64

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cautiously to use the better documented Qaraite Mourners to throw some light on the pre-Qaraite movement. These Qaraites indulged in ascetic practices, recited penitential liturgies for the destruction of the temple, and lived in hope of the imminent messianic redemption. They were deeply anti-rabbinic and chided the rabbis for living too comfortable lives, and accepting too easily, and encouraging others to accept, the oppression of the Gentiles. They were profoundly priestly in their orientation and accused the rabbinate of usurping the one divinely sanctioned religious authority in Israel, that of the priests. This priestly orientation is significant for our present purposes, and may well have been a feature of the pre-Qaraite Mourners as well. It stands to reason that those whose religious life was consumed by mourning for the destruction of the temple, and longing for its restoration, would have regarded the priesthood as absolutely central to the polity of Israel. Again, it is not hard to envisage links between the Mourners and the synagogue. They may have influenced the rituals for the Ninth of Av, and some of their traditions may be embodied in the numerous early Qinot composed by the paytanim for this particular fast. Priestly Judaism v. Rabbinic Judaism So far I have tried to make a case for the view that the priests survived the destruction of the temple with their economic base and social networks sufficiently intact for them to continue to transmit and develop their distinctive traditions, and, in competition with the rabbis, to exercise religious authority in Israel. It must be conceded, however, that it is not easy to identify a distinctively priestly strand in late antique Judaism—a point well illustrated by the fact that it is only in very recent scholarship that attempts have been made to do so. I would like to conclude this essay by considering some of the reasons why this problem arises, and at the same time, hopefully, clarify the subtle nature of the relationship between priestly and rabbinic forms of Judaism in late antiquity. Identifying a distinctively priestly Judaism is difficult for several reasons. First, it can be hard to tell priests and rabbis apart, because the priests were as much concerned as the rabbis with the study of torah. It is not recent work on the Qaraite Mourners for Zion see Polliack 1997; Erder 2003 and 2004; Frank 2004, 165–203.

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only rabbis who use the language of fidelity to the torah of Moses, but priests as well. Teaching torah and adjudicating cases according to torah law had been a central role of the priests since Bible times. Josephus states that God had committed to the charge of the priests “. . . the strict superintendence of the Law and of the pursuits of everyday life; for the appointed duties of the priests included general supervision, the trial of cases of litigation, and the punishment of condemned persons (Apion 2.185–187).” Philo in his Hypothetica 7.12–13 describes priests in Egyptian synagogues instructing congregations in the torah on the Sabbath day. There is no reason to suppose that priests abnegated these duties after 70 and simply handed them over to the rabbis. This means that the priests were in direct competition with the rabbis, whose authority rested solely on their expertise in the law. It also means that the language of torah-observance is not distinctive to the rabbinic party, though for propaganda purposes they doubtless tried to imply that it was. The Theodotus inscription, mentioned earlier, records the founding of a synagogue “. . . for the reading of the law and the study of the commandments.” The language sounds so rabbinic, but the founders were priests. And the title “Rabbi,” though the rabbinic party after 70 may have tried to claim it exclusively for themselves, could have continued to be applied more widely, as it had been before 70 (note its use of Jesus!), for any respected teacher. It would be wrong to jump to the conclusion that “Rabbi Asi the priest biribbi” and “Rabbi Yohanan the priest and scribe biribbi,” mentioned in a synagogue inscription from Susiya, were members of the rabbinic party, any more than was “Rav Tanhum the Levite,” one of the benefactors of the synagogue at Hammat Gader.68 The priest Samoe at Sardis is called a sophodidaskalos, a curious hybrid of two well known titles for a Jewish scholar, sophos = hakham and didaskalos = rab. As Levine notes: “The inscription is prominently displayed in the middle of the synagogue’s main hall, perhaps in the very place where Samoe sat and instructed the community.”69 Again, there is no reason to assume that Samoe belonged to the rabbinic party. The key difference between the rabbis and the priests, then, was not about the centrality of torah, but about who had the authority to interpret it. The priests were on very strong ground, because the torah clearly assigned the task to them, not to the scribes. It may have been to try

68 69

Levine 2000, 494; Millar 2006, 155. Further Cohen 1981. Levine 2000, 495.

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and counter this that the rabbinate developed the fiction of the Oral Torah, which tried to trace rabbinic tradition back to Sinai, and give it the same status as the Written Torah.70 Second, separating out distinctively priestly tradition from rabbinic tradition is made difficult also by the fact that priestly and rabbinic circles overlapped, and their relationship and their interaction must have varied from period to period and from place to place. There was probably an asymmetry between the two parties. We have no reason to suppose that the high priesthood survived 70 as an institution, though, in principle, it could have. Its disappearance meant the priestly class lacked central leadership and must have been weakened thereby. The Rabbinate, on the other hand, through its alliance with the Patriarchate, seems to have been more strongly led. Here the patriarchate of Judah ha-Nasi’ probably marked a turning-point in the fortunes of the rabbinic movement in Palestine. Judah was a man of means and influence, who had the confidence of the Roman authorities, and he and the House of the Nasi’ formed the effective internal government of the Jewish community in Palestine. He was also a supporter of the rabbinic party, and tradition has it that the Mishnah, the manifesto of Rabbinism, was published under his auspices. He took the appointment of dayyanim into his own hands, which may have given the rabbinical courts a distinct advantage. The priestly class lacked a corresponding Beit ha-Kohen ha-Gadol. Priests in considerable numbers seem to have joined the rabbinic party after 70. As I have already noted, the rabbis’ scrupulous observance of tithing might well have drawn them in. Rabbinic literature expounds at length priestly matters. A whole order of the Mishnah, Qodashim, is devoted to the temple and its services. This has always been something of a puzzle to modern readers. Why should the rabbis have spent so much time studying lore which could not be put into practice either in their own time or in any foreseeable future? Some have suggested that the answer is simply that temple and sacrifice are prominent elements of the torah, and so could not be ignored. Others have proposed that the rabbis wanted to keep alive the knowledge of how the temple worked, pending its restoration. Neither explanation is wholly convincing. The rabbinic interest in the temple service dissipates

70 The polemical context for this is usually seen as being the Jewish-Christian debate, but an intra-communal reference should not be ruled out.

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in the Amoraic period: neither Talmuds has a Gemara for Qodashim. The rabbis were ambivalent about the restoration of the temple, so it is unlikely that their studies had an eschatological orientation. Alternative factors may offer a better explanation. In the first place, all this priestly doctrine may have been part of the heritage of the priests who joined the rabbinic movement: Mishnah Qodashim represents the deposit of the priestly lore which these priests brought with them into the rabbinic Batei Midrash. But that was probably not the whole story. In view of the religious authority which the priestly class still exercised, and the esteem in which it continued to be held, the rabbis may have deemed it prudent to reaffirm their expertise in interpreting this torah of the priests. It is a fallacy, as we have already noted, simply to assume that any tradition found in classic rabbinic literature is rabbinic in origin. The rabbis also borrowed, particularly, it would seem, from the priests. Recognition of this simple fact should make us cautious about concluding that the similarities between the long inscription about tithing, the Sabbatical year and the borders of the Land of Israel incorporated into the floor-mosaic in the narthex of the Rehov synagogue and certain passages in rabbinic literature,71 are evidence that the rabbis influenced the synagogue or that the Judaism of the Beit ha-Keneset and the Beit ha-Midrash were one and the same. What we have here, probably, is a priestly document which the rabbis took over, just as they took over priestly traditions about how the high priest performed the Yom Kippur rituals, and other teachings about the temple service. What is important is what they made of these borrowings. Indeed their very appropriation is surely an act of unmitigated chutzpa, since it already suggests that they have a right to tell priests what their own traditions mean.72 Viewed from one angle, rabbinic attitudes towards the priesthood can appear positive, but viewed from another they become much more ambivalent. Even the advocacy of tithing may not be all it seems. Rabbinic insistence on tithing fades away in the fourth century, and there was a move in some quarters to extend the payment of tithes to the scholars as well as the priests, or even to commute the tithes into

71

987.

E.g., Tosefta Shevixit 4:11; y. Shevixit 6, 36c; Sifrei Deut 51. Further, Alexander 1992,

72 Scribes had, of course, being trying to do this from Second Temple times, so this particular hermeneutical conflict had deep roots.

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general, communal charity (tzedaqah).73 The rabbis can be savagely critical of the priests. They regularly claim they are ignorant, as in the provocative saying that a mamzer, socially the lowest of the low in Jewish society, who is a sage ranks higher than a high priest who is an ignoramus (m. Horayot 3:8). They criticize the Sadducees. These references are commonly thought to refer to the period before 70, but there is scant evidence for this. It is just as reasonable to suppose that the term Sadducee continued in use in rabbinic circles after 70 to denote the priestly party opposed to the rabbis. Significantly from the late second century onwards it came to be synonymous in rabbinic Hebrew with “heretic.” While we should obviously avoid reifying every doctrinal disagreement between rabbis and priests into a party-political dispute (the same party can accommodate very contrary points of view), we should equally recognize that there were very profound differences between the rabbinate and the priesthood. Rabbi and priest constitute two fundamentally different types of religious authority, the one based on expertise in torah, and so, in principle, open to anyone, the other based on descent. The rabbis and the priests tried to occupy the same ground: both claimed to be the true interpreters of the torah. Priests, as I have already stressed, were not just concerned with sacrifice, but also exercised teaching and judicial functions. The law courts, the Batei Din, within the Jewish communities, which arbitrated civil disputes with the approval of the Romans, must have been a battleground. M. Ketubbot 1:5 refers to a ruling of a “court of priests” (beit din shel kohanim) which the sages did not oppose. This is sometimes taken to refer to the situation before 70, but it could just as easily apply after. That Jews would have taken cases for arbitration to local priests after 70 is more than likely. Reuven Kimelman has tried to make out a case that priests played a significant role in the municipal politics and leadership of Sepphoris and opposed rabbinic activity there.74 Dalia Trifon brings

73 See Oppenheimer 1977, 45–46 on giving tithes to support the scholars. Particularly interesting in this context is Targum Song of Songs (unquestionably a rabbinic composition). There the sacralisation of the Beit Midrash is deemed to carry the consequence that tithes should be paid to support the scholars: see especially the Targum to 7:3, and Alexander 2003, 22–23. The beginnings of the movement to commute the tithe into a donation to the community for general charitable purposes (a practice that became common in the middle ages) is found in the Buber Tanhuma, Rexeh 4 (to Deut 14:22, {Asser texasser); cf. Pesiqta deRav Kahana 10. 74 Kimelman 1983.

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evidence for involvement of priests in politics in the Galilee and especially Tiberias in the Byzantine era.75 Priests may also have dominated communal politics in certain Diaspora communities. Here Egypt offers an instructive case. The priestly family of the Oniads, who originated in Jerusalem, played a leading role in Jewish communal politics in Egypt in the Hellenistic period. Indeed they were prominent in the political affairs of the country as a whole, and staunch supporters of the Ptolemaic dynasty. There was no love lost between them and the Hasmoneans, whom they felt had usurped the high priesthood. The Oniads built their own Jewish Temple at Leontopolis in Egypt. Their power declined under Rome, but the respect given to those of priestly descent in Egypt, of whom there were probably many, may well have continued, long after 70. Indeed, the apparent slowness of the rabbinic movement to make headway in Egypt, in contrast to its rapid expansion in Babylonia, may, in part, have been due to the long-entrenched power in Egypt of the priesthood. Finally, separating priestly and rabbinic Judaism is still further complicated by the fact that increasingly in the Amoraic period the rabbinic movement seemed to have adopted a strategy of inclusion, whereby it attempted, if it could, to draw non-rabbinic Jewish practices and ideas into it own “big tent,” though it rabbinized them in the process and admitted them only on its own terms. We saw a possible case of this in the Heikhalot literature as we now have it, in which rabbis (Ishmael, Akiva, Nehunyah ben Ha-Qanah) are made the heroes of the ascents to the celestial temple. The implication may be that, actually, it is the rabbis who know about this esoteric doctrine, and are best able to ascend. A similar strategy was used for dealing with dream interpretation and magic, which were popular in Jewish society, and whose practitioners posed a threat to rabbinic authority: rabbis were depicted as the best dream-interpreters and the most potent magicians.76 The rabbis finally made messianism central to their teaching, though in a rabbinized form, and they supported mourning for Zion, provided it was kept within bounds, and largely confined to the Ninth of Av.77 They accorded the highest respect to the torah of the priests, not in order to defer to them, but rather to assert that they alone had the right to interpret the

75 76 77

Trifon 1984. Alexander 1995 (on dreams), and Alexander 2005 (on magic). Alexander 2007.

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priests’ own laws. The fact that when we look back at Judaism in late antiquity Rabbinism seems to fill the horizon is a testimony to their success, but the evidence is compelling that the hegemony of the rabbinic movement did not go unchallenged. Judaism post-70 may have been as diverse as Judaism pre-70. Other significant forms of Judaism flourished. Recovering these and putting them in the picture is one of the historian’s major tasks. Bibliography Alexander, P. S. 1983. 3 Enoch. Pages 223–316 in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. Vol. 1 (2 vols.) Edited by J. H. Charlesworth. New York. ———. 1988. Jewish Aramaic Translations of Hebrew Scriptures. Pages 217–54 in Mikra: Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity. Edited by M. J. Mulde. Assen/Maastricht. ———. 1992. Early Jewish Geography. Pages 977–88 in The Anchor Bible Dictionary. Vol. 2 (6 vols.). Edited by D. M. Freedman. New York. ———. 1994. Tradition and Originality in the Targum of the Song of Songs. Pages 318–40 in The Aramaic Bible: Targums in their Historical Context. Edited by D. R. G. Beattie and M. J. McNamara. Sheffield. ———. 1995. Bavli Berakhot 55a–57b: The Talmudic Dreambook in Context. JJS 46:230–48. ———. 1996. How did the Rabbis learn Hebrew? Pages 71–89 in Hebrew Study from Ezra to Ben Yehuda. Edited by W. Horbury. Edinburgh. ———. 2003. The Targum of Canticles: Translated with a Critical Introduction, Apparatus and Notes. The Aramaic Bible 17A. Collegeville, Minnesota. ———. 2005. The Talmudic Concept of Conjuuring ({Ahizat {Einayim) and the Problem of the Definition of Magic (Kishuf ). Pages 7–26 in Creation and Re-Creation in Jewish Thought: Festschrift in Honor of Joseph Dan on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday. Edited by R. Elior and P. Schäfer. Tübingen. ———. 2006. The Mystical Texts. London. ———. 2007. The Rabbis and Messianism. Pages 227–244 in Redemption and Resistance: Festschrift for William Horbury. Edited by M. Bockmuehl and J. Carleton Paget. London. Bamberger, B. J. 1940. A Messianic Document of the Seventh Century. HUCA 15: 425–31. Bloch, Ph. 1883. Die Yoredei Merkavah, die Mystiker der Gaonenzeit und ihr Einfluss auf die Liturgie. Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 37:18–25, 67–74, 257–66, 305–11. Bogaert, P. 1969. Apocalypse de Baruch, introduction, traduction du syriaque et commentaire. 2 volumes. Paris. Cohen, S. A. 1990. The Three Crowns: Structures of Communal Politics in Early Rabbinic Jewry. Cambridge. Erder, Y. 2003. The Mourners of Zion: The Karaites in Jerusalem in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries. Pages 213–35 in Karaite Judaism: A Guide to its History and Literary Sources. Edited by M. Polliack. Leiden. ———. 2004. The Karaite Mourners of Zion and the Qumran Scrolls. Tel-Aviv [Hebrew]. Even Shemu’el, Y. 1954. Midreshei Gexullah (2nd ed.; Mosad Bialik). Jerusalem. Fine, Steven 2005. Between Liturgy and Social History: Priestly Power in Late Antique Palestinian Synagogues. JJS 56:1–9.

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Fishbane, M. 1998. The Exegetical Imagination: On Jewish Thought and Theology. Cambridge, Mass. Flesher, P. V. M. 2003. The Literary Legacy of the Priests? The Pentateuchal Targums of Israel in their Social and Linguistic Context. Pages 467–509 in The Ancient Synagogue from its Origins until 200 C.E. Edited by B. Olsson and M. Zetterholm Stockholm. Frank, D. 2004. Search the Scripture Well: Karaite Exegetes and the Origins of the Jewish Bible Commentary in the Islamic East. Leiden. Goitein, S. D. 1954. A Caliph’s Decree in Favour of the Rabbanite Jews of Palestine. JJS 5:118–25. Goldberg, A. 1978. Erlösung durch Leiden: Drei rabbinische Homilien über die Trauernden Zions und den leidenden Messias Efraim (PesR 34, 36, 37). Frankfurt am Main. Goldin, J. 1975. Reflections on Translation and Midrash. Proceedings of the American Academy of Jewish Research 41–42:87–104. Golomb, D. M. 1992. A Liar, a Blasphemer, a Reviler: The Role of Biblical Ambiguity in the Palestinian Pentateuchal Targumim. Pages 135–46 in Targum Studies, 1. Edited by Paul V. M. Flesher. Atlanta. Goodblatt, D. 1984. The Title Nasi and the Ideological Background of the Second Revolt. Pages 113–32 in The Bar-Kokhba Revolt: A New Approach. Edited by A. Oppenheimer and U. Rappaport. Jerusalem [Hebrew]. Goodenough, E. R. 1953–68 Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period. 13 vols. New York. Graetz, H. 1959. Die mystische Literatur der gaonäischen Epoche. Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 8:67–78, 103–18, 140–53. Irshai, O. 2003. The Role of the Priesthood in the Jewish Community in Late Antiquity: A Christian Model? Pages 75–83 in Jüdische Gemeinden und ihr christlicher Kontext in kulturräumlich vergeleichender Betrachtung von der Spätantike bis zum 18. Jahrhundert. Edited by C. Cluse, A. Haverkamp and I. J. Yuval. Hannover. ———. 2004. The Priesthood in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity. Pages 67–106 in Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine. Edited by L. I. Levine. Jerusalem [Hebrew]. Kahane, T. 1978–79 The Priestly Courses and their Geographical Distribution. Tarbiz 48: 9–29 [Hebrew]. Kimelman, R. 1983. Conflict between the Priestly Oligarchy and the Sages in the Talmudic Period (On Explication of PT Shabbat 12:3, 13C = Horayot 3:4, 48C’. Zion 48:136–47 [Hebrew]. Levine, L. I. 2000. The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years. New Haven and London. Lieberman, S. 1973. Tosefta Kifshutah: 8 Seder Nashim. New York. Linder, A. 1987. The Jews in Roman Imperial Legislation. Detroit. Magness, J. 2003. Helios and Zodiac Cycle in Ancient Palestinian Synagogues. Pages 363–92 in Symbiosis, Symbolism and the Power of the Past: Canaan, Ancient Israel and their Neighbours from the Late Bronze Age through Roman Palaestina. Edited by W. G. Dever and S. Gittin. Winona Lake. Mann, J. 1970. The Jews of Egypt and Palestine under the Fatimid Caliphs. 2 vols. New York. Millar, F. 2006. Transformations of Judaism under Graeco-Roman Rule: Responses to Seth Schwartz’s “Imperialism and Jewish Society.” JJS 57:139–58. Mortensen, B. P. 2001. Pseudo-Jonathan’s Temple, Symbol of Judaism Pages 129–40 in Targum and Scripture: Studies in Aramaic Translations and Interpretations in Memory of Ernest G. Clarke. Edited by P.V.M. Flesher. Leiden. Neusner, J. 1971. The Rabbinic Traditions about the Pharisees before 70. 3 vols. Leiden. ———. 2001. The Synagogue in Law: What the Texts Lead us to Expect to Find. Pages 151–74 in Religious Texts and Material Contexts. Edited by J. Neusner and J. F. Strange. Lanham.

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Oppenheimer, A. 1997. The {Am Ha-Aretz: A Study of the Social History of the Jewish People in the Hellenistic-Roman Period. Leiden. Polliack, M. 1997. The Karaite Tradition of Arabic Bible Translation. Leiden. Rabinowitz, Z. M. 1965. Halakha and Aggada in the Liturgical Poetry of Yannai: The Sources, Language and Period of the Payyetan. New York [Hebrew]. Reeves, J. C. 2005. Trajectories in Near Eastern Apocalyptic: A Postrabbinic Jewish Apocalyptic Reader. Atlanta. Reif, S. C. 2005. Approaches to Sacrifices in Early Jewish Prayer. Pages 135–50 in Studies in Jewish Prayer. Edited by R. T. Hayward and B. Embry. Oxford. Rooke, D. W. 2000. Zadok’s Heirs: The Role and Development of the High Priesthood in Ancient Israel. Oxford. Safrai, Z. 1992–93. Did the Priestly Courses Transfer from Judaea to Galilee after the Bar Kokhba Revolt? Tarbiz 62:297–92 [Hebrew]. Schäfer. P., 1981. Synopse zur Hekhalot Literatur. Tübingen. Schiffman, L. H. 1997–2001. Second Temple Literature in the Cairo Genizah. Proceedings of the American Academy of Jewish Research 63:137–61. Schürer, E. 1973–87. The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ. 3 vols. (rev. F. Millar, G. Vermes and M. Goodman). Edinburgh. Stern, M. 1976. Aspects of Jewish Society: The Priesthood and Other Classes. Pages 561–612 in The Jewish People in the First Century. Vol. 2. Edited by S. Safrai and M. Stern. Philadelphia. Swartz, M. D. and Yahalom, J. 2005. Avodah: Ancient Poems for Yom Kippur. University Park, PA. Swartz, M. D. 1998. Sage, Priest and Poet: Typologies of Religious Leadership in the Ancient Synagogue. Pages 101–17 in Jews, Christians and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue: Cultural Interaction During the Greco-Roman Period. Edited by S. Fine. London. Trifon, D. 1984. The Jewish Priests from the Destruction of the Second Temple to the Rise of Christianity, PhD, Hebrew University, Jerusalem. [Hebrew] ———. 1989–90. Did the Priestly Courses (Mishmarot) Transfer from Judaea to Galilee after the Bar Kokhba Revolt? Tarbiz 59:77–93. [Hebrew] Urbach, E. E. 1973. Mishmarot u-Ma{amadot. Tarbiz 42:302–27 [Hebrew]. Weinberger, L. J. 1999. Jewish Hymnography: A Literary History. London. Weiss, Z. and Netzer, E. 1996. Promise and Redemption: A Synagogue Mosaic of Sepphoris. Jerusalem. Weiss, Z. 2006. The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message through its Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts. Jerusalem. Yahalom, J. 1996. Priestly Palestinian Poetry: A Narrative Liturgy for the Day of Atonement. Jerusalem [Hebrew]. Zucker, M. 1963. Teguvot li-tenuxat {Avelei Tziyyon ha-Qaraxiyyim ba-Sifrut ha-Rabbanit. Pages 378–401 in Sefer ha-Yovel Hanokh. Jerusalem.

SOME “MASS PRODUCED” SCORPION-AMULETS FROM THE CAIRO GENIZAH Gideon Bohak Introduction: The “Mass Production” of Amulets One of the perennial problems facing anyone involved in the production of written magical texts for specific clients is the tension between the desire to produce as many such artifacts as possible and the need to tailor them to the customers’ individual needs.1 Unlike the manufacturers of un-inscribed magical objects, who can have a ready stock of the corals, shells, minerals, plants, oil-flasks, statuettes and any other materials which they hand over to their clients, the manufacturers of written magical texts must always make a choice: If they choose to produce the amulets only after the clients’ arrival, they can make very specific texts, suiting the clients’ exact needs, and mentioning their, or their victims’ names. This is desirable from the clients’ point of view, since it presumably enhances the chances that the magical procedures would achieve their desired goals, but often is quite cumbersome from the producers’ perspective, as they must put some effort into producing every single magical text. In some cases, they might even lose some potential clients, who may not be interested in waiting for their magical artifact to be produced, or may not be able to afford the price of a tailor-made object. It is for this reason that the temptation has always been great among the producers of magical texts—and especially of the commonest types of amulets—to find ways to increase their efficiency by producing some magical texts in advance, and in great quantities, so as to have them ready when the clients arrive.2 In some cases, this

1 This research was supported by the Israel Science Foundation (Grant No. 725/03). It is based in part on a preliminary list of Genizah magical fragments painstakingly compiled by Prof. Shaul Shaked, which he kindly placed at my disposal. I am also grateful to my research assistants—Irena Lerman, Shani Levy, Ortal Paz Saar and Karina Shalem—for their help throughout this project, and to Dr. Edna Engel for her paleographical analysis and dating of the Genizah fragments discussed below. 2 For some Greco-Roman examples, see Brashear 1995, 3418–419; more examples will be cited below.

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involved the manufacture of amulets, curses, or any other magical texts in advance, with blank spaces left wherever the client’s, or victim’s, name should be written; with a client’s arrival, the blank spaces were filled with the appropriate name(s), and the finished product handed over to the client, once the appropriate fee has been received.3 In other cases, amulets were prepared in advance, and instead of a specific client’s name the amulet-producer inserted general references to “the bearer of this amulet,” or some similar formula which would suit all clients.4 And in other cases, and especially in the production of amulets intended to preserve their users from the commonest of troubles, the amulets were prepared in advance, and in great quantities, and no place was left for the client’s name or even for some general reference to his or her identity.5 When a client expressed an interest in an amulet for the said purpose, he or she were given one of these “generic,” off the shelf amulets, which presumably had a double advantage—they were readily available at a moment’s notice, and they were very cheap.6 It thus 3 For a possible late-antique Jewish example, see Naveh and Shaked 1993, A25 (a bronze amulet in which the spaces after the client’s name might indicate that a long space was left blank when the amulet was prefabricated, and the client’s name proved to be much shorter). For a Genizah example, see, e.g., Mann 35, 94 and n. 139 (a curse, with the victim’s name to be inserted; for a parallel recipe, see Schäfer and Shaked 1994, No. 2 2a/6–15). For Greco-Roman examples, see, e.g., Jordan 1985, 251 and Faraone and Kotansky 1988, 257 and n. 3. For a modern Jewish example, see Shachar 1971, No. 779. The prefabrication of documents and legal formulae, with the specific names to be inserted when put to use, is very common in other contexts too—see, e.g., m Gittin 3:2. 4 For Genizah examples, see, e.g., Naveh and Shaked 1985, G8 = Schiffman and Swartz 1992, No. 11, a protective amulet with references in lines 3 and 12 to “the (male) bearer of this writing” and in line 18 to “the (male) bearer of this, my writing,” and Schäfer and Shaked 1997, no. 41, an amulet for charm and grace which refers, in lines 7–8, to “whoever bears this amulet upon himself.” Of the many Greco-Roman examples, see, e.g., Bonner 1954, for an amuletic gemstone to protect its (male) bearer from every reptile (including scorpions). Some Greek amulets refer both to male and female bearers—see, e.g., Daniel and Maltomini 1990, no. 30, with an appeal to Jesus Christ to heal the amulet’s male or female bearer, and Bonner 1950, 215, for a bronze pendant, found at Bet Shean, and designed for the protection of its male or female bearer. For modern Jewish examples, see Shachar 1971, nos. 817, 824, 826, and many others. 5 For a possible late-antique example, see the Sepphoris amulet published by McCollough, Glazier and McDonald 1996 and McCollough 1998, 270–73. In this case, it seems as if a long strip of bronze was inscribed in advance with identical, “generic” fever-amulets, and the practitioner mistakenly cut two amulets at once for a single client. For the manner by which metal amulets may have been cut from longer sheets, see also Naveh and Shaked 1993, 98. In the modern Jewish world, the availability of printing made the “mass production” of amulets an extremely common phenomenon. 6 One may also mention here Schäfer and Shaked 1997, no. 46, a reused piece of parchment on which is a spell to make “so and so (male)” love “so and so (female).”

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comes as no surprise that the Cairo Genizah, which has preserved so many Jewish and Muslim magical texts dating from the tenth to the nineteenth centuries, has also preserved an assortment of “mass produced” amulets. In a recent paper, Karl Schaefer has published four medieval block-print amulets from the Cairo Genizah, produced by Muslim manufacturers and written in Arabic.7 In the present study, I wish to publish three Genizah texts which attest to a different, and less sophisticated, mode of mass producing amulets, namely, the copying of numerous amulets, all at once, on a single page, and the subsequent cutting off of individual amulets upon demand. This practice seems to have been quite popular among the Jewish amulet producers of medieval Cairo, and is attested in at least one producer’s sheet of amulets and two amulets which seem to have been cut off such a sheet, though not the same one. It is perhaps not surprising that all the currently known examples are of amulets for one of the commonest troubles afflicting the residents of Egypt, that of poisonous scorpions; whether this manner of “mass producing” amulets was reserved solely for scorpion-amulets is a question to which only much further research could provide an answer. By publishing these Genizah amulets, I hope to contribute to the emerging discussion of the social world of magic in the Jewish communities of Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, and to the study of the longue durée aspect of some magical practices, and their constant movement from one community and one generation to the next. A Sheet of Prefabricated Scorpion Amulets In spite of growing scholarly attention over the last few decades, the magical texts from the Cairo Genizah have yet to receive the attention they deserve, and some types of texts have gone entirely unnoticed. Among them, we may note the scorpion-amulets, three of which we wish to publish here. The first and most interesting specimen currently known to me is found in the Taylor-Schechter collection of the Cambridge University Library, and its shelf-mark is AS 143.26. It is a single paper folio, ca. 8.7 cm in width and ca. 25.3 cm in height, of In this case, it is not clear whether this was an amulet for use by a client, or merely an individual recipe, from which the actual amulets were to be made, with the client’s and victim’s names inserted in the proper places, as was the standard practice. 7 See Schaefer 2001, 219–23, 235–39. For Arabic block-printing, see also Guo 2004, 87–89.

38

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which a section measuring ca. 4.4 cm by ca. 10.4 cm has been torn away at the bottom right corner. A closer look at the recto (see photograph) reveals twenty or twenty-one similar texts, each measuring ca. 2.5 cm by ca. 4 cm; the recto is blank. Each of the texts on the verso contains both a brief text and a crude design of a scorpion, and they are separated from each other by horizontal strokes at the bottom of each text. There are no vertical separators between the single texts. The handwriting is quite crude, but uniform throughout, and there is no doubt that a single hand wrote all the different texts. And as Edna Engel kindly informed me, the handwriting points to the twelfth century as the likely time of writing. Taking the second text from the left on the top row as our model, we may transcribe and translate it as follows: 1 ’PDYR”’ 2 PDYR”’ 3 DYR”’ 4 YR”’ 5 R”’ 6 ”’ 7 ’ 8 Excommunicated shall you 9 scorpion be, in the name of 10 Rabbi Judah son of 11 Ezekiel, you shall not harm 12 from this day and forever (A Scorpion)

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 (A scorpion)

‫אפדירטא‬ ‫פדירטא‬ ‫דירטא‬ ‫ירטא‬ ‫רטא‬ ‫טא‬ ‫א‬ ‫שמתא תהא‬ ‫עקרבא משמיה‬ ‫דר יהודה בר‬ ‫יחזקאל לא תנזק‬ ‫מיומא דנן ולעלם‬

With this scorpion amulet in mind, we may examine all the other amulets, and note only their differences from this basic model. It seems quite clear that the exact layout of the words in the different lines was not deemed important, as our scribe sometimes wrote his amulet in twelve lines of text (as in the one transcribed above), and sometimes in thirteen (e.g., in the text in the top right corner). Moreover, looking at the bottom left corner, we note that the scribe, cramped for space, wrote the ’PDYR”’-triangle and the adjuration side-by-side, rather than one below the other, and drew the scorpion in such a manner that it would stand vertically upon its amulet, rather than horizontally as with all the other amulets. Such variations clearly show that the amulets’ power was not considered to be diminished by a certain lack of uniformity, as long as their necessary components—the ’PDYR”’-triangle, the adjuration in the name of Rabbi Judah, and the image of the scorpion—were all there.

scorpion-amulets from the cairo genizah

39

In one case, however, the scribe clearly became quite confused—on the left row, in the fourth amulet from the top, he marked the end of the amulet with a horizontal separator, only to realize that he forgot the scorpion-design; he then added the scorpion image, and wrote the adjuration once again, followed by another separator and a new amulet.8 Eventually, after distributing all the other amulets—of which he apparently already distributed about five pieces from the bottom right corner—he would have had to decide whether to divide the left column so as to have one amulet contain two adjurations and a separator, or whether to take the separator seriously, and end up with two defective amulets. He could, of course, have crossed out the entire faulty section, but apparently saw no real need to do so—after all, a slightly garbled amulet is an amulet nonetheless. Before turning to the individual amulets, we may note one more feature of the entire folio. Looking at it closely, we see many fold-lines— both vertical and horizontal—running through it; the three vertical fold-lines run along the margins of the single amulets, and certainly helped the practitioner cut them out accurately. The horizontal fold lines, however, do not run along the bottom or top separators of most amulets, nor could they have done so, given the irregular manner in which the individual amulets have been copied, with no attention to the uniformity of their height. It is this discrepancy between the folio’s fold-lines and the horizontal separators at the bottom and top of the amulets, which resulted in the emergence of narrow horizontal holes in some of the amulets. Apparently, this too was not deemed a grave damage, and it is quite likely that the individual amulets, once torn away from the page, would have been folded once again by their users. We could, of course, imagine that the producer of this sheet of amulets distributed only five amulets and discarded the rest once he realized that they were becoming worn due in part to the careless manner by which they had been produced, but such an hypothesis would be based on expecting far too much of our humble practitioner. Why he never came around to distributing the rest of his amulets is unclear, but there is no reason to think that the remaining amulets were somehow thought to be beyond distribution. By referring to our scribe as “he,” I do not wish to exclude the possibility that the amulets in fact were produced by a female practitioner, but given the gendered aspects of medieval Jewish literacy, a male producer seems more likely. 8

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Returning to the individual amulets, we may note that they are made up of three different units—the ’PDYR”’-triangle, the adjuration in the name of Rabbi Judah son of Ezekiel, and the design of the scorpion against which the amulet is aimed. Beginning with the magical triangle, we may note that such triangles, based either on real words or on “magic words” which gradually diminish (forming either a rightangle triangle or an equilateral one) seem to have been invented by the Greco-Egyptian magicians of the early Roman empire, and seem to have been borrowed by their Jewish colleagues a few centuries later.9 In this specific case, however, we may be certain that not only the practice of turning words into a triangle form, but even the word itself, are of a Greco-Egyptian origin. To see this, we must look at PGM 2, a papyrus scorpion-amulet of the sixth century c.e., which is written in Greek and runs as follows: (Cross) The Door, Aphrodite phrodite rodite odite dite ite te e Hôr Hôr, Phôr Phôr Iaô Sabaôth, Adone, I bind you, Artemisian scorpion. Free this house of every evil reptile [and] deed, now, now. Saint Phôcas is here. 13 Phamenôth, 3rd Indiction.10

Our comparandum is, of course, quite a different amulet from the Genizah specimens we are discussing—first, because it is a Christian amulet, and thus invokes not only the old Egyptian God Hôr and the Jewish God Iaô Sabaôth Adonai, but also Saint Phocas and the Cross. Second, it is aimed not only against scorpions, but against other noxious reptiles as well. Third, it carries a date, if only a rough one, this being quite a rare phenomenon in the pagan, Jewish, or Christian amulets of Late Antiquity. But the presence of the Aphrodite-triangle in a scorpion amulet is highly interesting, as it provides us with a useful clue for the ’PDYR”’-triangle in our Genizah scorpion amulets. Moreover, while I am as yet unaware of any pagan scorpion amulets with this triangle, it For a fuller discussion of this and related issues, see Bohak 2008 esp. 266–70. PGM 2 = van Haelst 957 (tr. by Marvin Meyer in Meyer and Smith 1994, 48–49, with minor modifications). 9

10

scorpion-amulets from the cairo genizah

41

seems quite clear that it began its life in the Greco-Egyptian magical tradition, whence it was borrowed by Egyptian Christians and Jews alike. In passing, we may note that Aphrodite’s presence is felt in a few other Jewish magical texts as well, most notably in a recipe for charm and grace from Sefer ha-Razim.11 The next section of our amulet consists of an excommunication of the scorpion, in the name of Rabbi Judah son of Ezekiel, a famous Babylonian rabbi of the 3rd century c.e. who, among his many other deeds, effectively cursed those who offended him (b. Qiddushin 70a–b; MoK 17a). The excommunication in the name of Judah son of Ezekiel seems to have been very popular in post-Talmudic times, as may be judged from its appearance on numerous Jewish curse-, ban- and excommunication-formulae.12 And the third element of our amulet— the crude design of a scorpion—is amply paralleled in many scorpion amulets throughout the ages, including some from late-antique and medieval Egypt, and in other magical texts as well.13 To summarize what we now know about our Genizah fragment, what we have here is the work of an amulet-writer of the twelfth century, who decided that since many scorpion amulets were quite standard anyway, and did not necessitate the insertion of the name of the person who wore them, he might as well produce them in advance, and in large quantities. Whenever a new client came by, he would take out the folded sheet of paper, unfold it, and cut off one more amulet; he would then re-fold the paper and keep it ready for the next time it was in demand. Thus, he had a ready stock of scorpion amulets, to be distributed on demand and with very little effort. And looking at the amulets themselves, we note that they are made up of one element whose origins go back to Greco-Egyptian magic, another whose origins

11 See ShR I/117–131 (Margalioth 1966, 73–74). Of course, the rabbis of lateantique Palestine also were quite familiar with Aphrodite, as can be seen, for example, from m. Avodah Zarah 3:4 (Rabban Gamaliel in Aphrodite’s bathhouse) or b. Shabbat 156a (one born in the hour of the planet Venus will be a fornicator, etc.). 12 See, for example, Schäfer and Shaked 1997, no. 48 2b / 13 (“. . . and by the ban promulgated by Rabbi Judah son of Ezekiel . . .”); ibid., no. 50 1a / 20–21 (“. . . excommunication and ban from the mouth of Judah son of Ezekiel . . .”), and the parallels adduced by the editors ad loc. 13 See, for example, PGM CXIII (= Daniel and Maltomini 1990, no. 17), translated by Roy Kotansky in Betz 1986, 313, and Bilabel and Grohmann 1934, 443–47 (nos. 162–166), and Plate 15g–h. See also Schrire 1966, 88 and Plate 13. Scorpions occasionally appear on Babylonian incantation bowls as well, but their function there is less clear, see e.g., Segal 2000, Bowl 108M and Levene 2002, 23, Fig. 10.

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are rooted in rabbinic lore, and a crude design of a scorpion, common on the scorpion-amulets of many different peoples. As often is the case with Jewish magical texts (and non-Jewish ones as well), the religious and ethnic origins of the formulae on a single magical text turn out to be quite eclectic. But the twelfth-century practitioner probably would not have known of the pagan origins of the ’PDYR”’-triangle, even if he had heard of the Greek goddess Aphrodite from the Mishnah or from other sources. For him, ’PDYR”’ was yet another powerful name, and as long as the amulets were deemed to work, and the clients were buying more of them, there was nothing wrong with this meaningless magical name. Two “Mass Produced” Scorpion Amulets Given the advantages of this manner of prefabricating “generic” amulets, it would hardly be surprising to learn that it was quite common in medieval Cairo, and presumably elsewhere too, as can be seen from other Genizah fragments. To date, I am unaware of any other Genizah example of a folio with many amulets inscribed side by side, but am aware of at least two Genizah scorpion amulets which probably were cut off just such sheets of paper. Looking at one such amulet, found in the Elkan Nathan Adler collection of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York under the shelfmark NS 73.12 (see photograph), we see a small piece of paper, whose handwriting again points to the twelfth century. On the verso (not produced here) are scribbled some Coptic numerals, while the recto may be transcribed and translated as follows: 1 ’BLYGM’ ’PDYR”’ ’PYQRWS ‫אבליגמא אפדירטא אפיקרוס‬ 2 BLYGM’ PDYR”’ PYQRWS ‫פיקרוס‬ ‫בליגמא פדירטא‬ 3 LYGM’ DYR”’ YQRWS ‫יקרוס‬ ‫דירטא‬ ‫ליגמא‬ 4 YGM’ YR”’ QRWS ‫קרוס‬ ‫ירטא‬ ‫יגמא‬ 5 GM’ R”’ RWS ‫רוס‬ ‫רטא‬ ‫גמא‬ 6 M’ ”’ WS ‫וס‬ ‫טא‬ ‫מא‬ 7 ’ ’ S ‫ס‬ ‫א‬ ‫א‬ 8 Excommunicated shall you scorpion ‫בשמתא תהי עקרבא משמיה‬ be, in the name 9 of Rabbi Judah son of Ezekiel [ ]. [‫דר' יהודה בר יחזקאל ]ב הו‬ 10 You shall not be seen and we shall ‫לא תתחזי ולא נתזק בארעא‬ not be harmed in 11 this land from this day and forever. ‫דנא מיומא דנן ולעולם‬

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

scorpion-amulets from the cairo genizah

43

As even a cursory glance would reveal, this amulet differs in contents and handwriting from the ones with which we began, and clearly was not cut off from the same sheet of paper. And yet, its shape and size—as well as the vertical fold-line and several horizontal fold-lines, which clearly reflect the foldings of a larger sheet of paper—make it quite certain that it too was torn off just such a sheet of prefabricated, “generic,” amulets. In this case, however, the verbal formulae are a bit more complex, with three word-triangles instead of one, and with a slightly longer excommunication formula, but with no design of a scorpion. Moreover, unlike our earlier examples, and like the Christian scorpion-amulet in PGM 2, this amulet clearly was intended for the protection of a space, presumably the client’s own home. Looking at the three triangles inscribed upon this amulet, we note the ’PDYR”’-triangle once again, but this time it is flanked by two other triangles, one based on the magic word ’BLYGM’, whose origins still elude me, the other based on the word ’PYQRWS.14 This last vox magica seems suspiciously close to the name of the fourth/third-century b.c.e. Greek philosopher, Epicurus, but I am currently unaware of any examples of the use of his name by the pagan or Christian magicians of Late Antiquity or the Early Middle Ages. In rabbinic literature, the name “Epicurus” has become a byword for one who denies the existence of God, or at least His divine Providence, but this would hardly provide a clue for its use in scorpion-amulets.15 But regardless of the exact origins of these specific triangles, they seem to have enjoyed long and happy lives in the Jewish magical tradition, and are still attested, for example, on nineteenth-century Jewish scorpion-amulets from Morocco and (in a slightly garbled form), in a late-nineteenth-century Jewish magical recipe-book from Kurdistan.16 Further research will surely unearth them in many more Jewish magical texts.

14 And cf. Naveh-Shaked 1993, G16 5/12–17, “For the sting of a scorpion, write over the wound ’QRWS QRWS RWS WS S.” Is this an “abridged” version of the Epicurus-triangle? 15 For “Epicurus” in rabbinic literature, see, for example, m. Avot 2:14; m. Sanhedrin 10:1, etc.; see also Geiger 1973 and Becker 1998, with further bibliography. 16 For the scorpion-amulets, which are direct descendants of the ones studied here, see Leared 1876, 175–77 (this amulet was reprinted in Schlössinger 1905, 24. For the recipe (to make the king hate your enemy!), see Meiri 1998, 116 (the formula there reads ‫ איברי רטה אפיקורוס‬. . . ‫)אבגה גמה‬.

44

gideon bohak

Before leaving this example, we may note one more interesting feature of this amulet—when arranged side-by-side in this order, the bottom tips of the three triangles make up the letter-series aleph, aleph, samekh, which is frequently used in Jewish magical texts as an abbreviation for A(men) A(men) S(elah). While all three word-triangles may be of a pagan, Greco-Egyptian origins, their arrangement in this order probably was the invention of a Jewish practitioner, who thus added one more powerful element to magical words and formulae whose ultimate origins lay in the distant past and in non-Jewish contexts. As often is the case with Jewish magical texts (and non-Jewish ones as well), what is borrowed from strangers often is not merely adopted, but also adapted, to better suit its new cultural context. As noted above, amulets such as these must have been quite common in Genizah times. At present, I am aware of only one more “mass produced” scorpion-amulet from the Cairo Genizah, found in the Mosseri collection. As this collection is currently inaccessible to scholars, the following transcription is based neither on autopsy nor on a photograph, but on the microfilm copy in the Institute of Hebrew Microfilms at the National and University Library in Jerusalem.17 The text itself (Mosseri VI.30.2) probably dates from the thirteenth century, and presents yet another variation on what we have already seen, even though its layout is quite different. Here we find the ’BLYGM’-triangle and the ’PDYR”’-triangle side-by-side, with the ’PYQRWS-triangle inserted between them, upside-down, so as to fill the gap between these two triangles. Below this the producer drew a small scorpion, and on the left margin of the amulet he wrote the following adjuration, “In excommunication shall you scorpion be, in the name of Rabbi Judah son of Ezekiel, you shall not bite and not harm(?) in this town(?) from this day(?) and forever.” The reading of the adjuration is made more difficult by the fact that when the amulet was torn off the original sheet of paper parts of the letters on its outer margin were cut in two, but the damage itself makes it quite certain that this amulet too was part of a larger sheet of prefabricated amulets. Before leaving this last example, we may note that neither the JTS amulet nor the Mosseri one are likely to have been cut off from the Cambridge sheet of amulets, nor are these two—which differ so much between them—likely to have been cut off from a single sheet of “mass

17

Reel #26204. Cf. Mosseri 1990, 166.

scorpion-amulets from the cairo genizah

45

produced” amulets. Thus, we have here possible evidence of the existence of two more sheets of amulets of the type exemplified by our Cambridge fragment, and future research might lead to the identification of some of the “siblings,” as it were, of these two amulets, as well as many more amulets torn off other prefabricated sheets of amulets. In time, we might be able to say more about who exactly produced such amulets, and whether there are any historical relationships between these “mass produced” but handwritten amulets and the block-print amulets mentioned at the beginning of this paper. Summary We have now seen three different examples of the same magical procedure—the production of a large number of “generic” scorpion-amulets on a single sheet of paper, to be torn off and handed over to the client who might need them. All three come from the Cairo Genizah, and were probably produced in Cairo itself in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, by at least three different practitioners. In addition to these “mass produced” Genizah scorpion-amulets, there are many other “generic” scorpion-amulets in the different Genizah collections worldwide which apparently were not “mass produced” on a single page, but prepared on separate sheets of paper. A full corpus of all these amulets is out of the question here, but when it is produced it will bear witness to the pervasive fear of scorpions in all periods of Egyptian Jewish (and non-Jewish) history, and to the recurrent recourse of medieval and modern Jews to amulets to ward off these silent killers. It is, of course, not without a smile that I dedicate a paper on scorpion-amulets to a Festschrift honoring an Irishman. The Emerald Island had been reputed from earliest times to be snake- and scorpionfree, and St. Patrick’s visit was notoriously inauspicious for its venomous creatures.18 But the Irish are also famous for their sense of humor, and Sean Freyne, whom I have known for many years, is a particularly good representative of this well-founded ethnic stereotype. While he may not find the amulets published here very useful in his daily life—except, perhaps, during future visits to the Middle East—I have no doubt that their appearance in “his” book will be accepted in the same good spirit in which they are offered.

18

On all this, see e.g., Wildhaber 1976.

46

gideon bohak

Fig. 1. Cambridge University Library, Genizah Fragment, Taylor-Schechter AS 143.26, published with permission of the Syndics of Cambridge University Library.

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Fig. 2. Jewish Theological Seminary Library, Elkan Nathan Adler Genizah Collection, NS 73.12, published with permission of the Jewish Theological Seminary.

48

gideon bohak Bibliography

Becker, H.-J. 1998. “Epikureer” im Talmud Yerushalmi. Pages 397–421 in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture. Vol. 1. Edited by Peter Schäfer. Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 18. Tübingen. Betz, H. D. ed. 1986. The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, Including the Demotic Spells. Chicago. Bilabel, F. and Grohmann, A. 1934. Griechische, koptische und arabische Texte zur Religion und religiösen Literatur in Ägyptens Spätzeit. Veröffentlichungen aus den badischen Papyrus-Sammlungen, 5. 2 Vols. Heidelberg. Bohak, G. 2008. Ancient Jewish Magic: A History. Cambridge. Bonner, C. 1950. Studies in Magical Amulets, Chiefly Graeco-Egyptian. Ann Arbor. ———. 1954. A Note on Method in the Treatment of Magical Inscriptions. AJP 75: 303–5. Brashear, W. M. 1995. The Greek Magical Papyri: An Introduction and Survey; Annotated Bibliography (1928–1994). ANRW II.18.5:3380–684. Daniel, R. W. and Maltomini, F. (eds.) 1990–92. Supplementum Magicum. Vols 1 and 2. [Papyrologica Coloniensia 16], Opladen. Faraone, C. A. and Kotansky, R. 1988. An Inscribed Gold Phylactery in Stamford, Connecticut. ZPE 75:257–66. Geiger, J. 1973. On the History of the Term Apikoros. Tarbiz 42: 499–500 [Hebrew]. Guo, L. 2004. Commerce, Culture, and Community in a Red Sea Port in the Thirteenth Century: The Arabic Documents from Quseir. Leiden. Jordan, D. R. 1985. Defixiones from a Well Near the Southwest Corner of the Athenian Agora. Hesperia 54:205–55. Leared, A. 1876. Morocco and the Moors: Being an Account of Travels, With a General Description of the Country and Its People. Repr. 1985. London. Levene, D. 2002. Curse or Blessing, What’s in the Magical Bowl? The Ian Karten Lecture, 2002. Parkes Institute Pamphlet No. 2. Southampton. Online: http://www.parkes. soton.ac.uk/articles/levene.pdf) Mann, J. 1931. Texts and Studies in Jewish History and Literature. Vol. 1. Cincinnati. Reprint 1972, New York. ———. 1935. Texts and Studies in Jewish History and Literature. Vol. 2. Philadelphia. Margalioth, M. 1966. Sepher Ha-Razim: A Newly Recovered Book of Magic from the Talmudic Period. Tel Aviv. [Hebrew] McCollough, C. 1988. Social Magic and Social Realities in Late Roman and Early Byzantine Galilee. Pages 269–80 in Eric M. Meyers (ed.), Galilee Through the Centuries: Confluence of Cultures. Winona Lake, Ind. McCollough, C. T. and Glazier-McDonald, B. 1996. An Aramaic Amulet from Sepphoris. {Atiqot 28:161–65 Meiri, D. 1998. Kabbalah Maasit, Terufot ve-Segullot bi-Ktav Yado shel Khakham Meir ben Ezri (Ezra), ZATZAL, Asher Nikhtav be-Erekh bi-Shnat 1896. Rishon Le-Tziyon. [Hebrew] Meyer, M. and Smith, R. 1994. Ancient Christian Magic: Coptic Texts of Ritual Power. San Francisco. Mosseri, J. 1990. Catalogue of the Jack Mosseri Collection. Edited by the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Naveh, J. and Shaked, S. 1985. Amulets and Magic Bowls: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity. Jerusalem. ———. 1993. Magic Spells and Formulae: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity. Jerusalem. Schäfer, P. and Shaked, S. 1994. Magische Texte aus der Kairoer Geniza. Vol. 1. Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 42. Tübingen

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———. 1997. Magische Texte aus der Kairoer Geniza. Vol. 2. Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 64. Tübingen. ———. 1999. Magische Texte aus der Kairoer Geniza. Vol. 3. Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 72. Tübingen. Schaefer, K. R. 2001. Eleven Medieval Arabic Block Prints in the Cambridge University Library. Arabica: Revue d’études arabes et islamiques 48:210–39. Schiffman, L. H. and Swartz, M. D. 1992. Hebrew and Aramaic Incantation Texts from the Cairo Genizah: Selected Texts from Taylor-Schechter Box K1. Sheffield. Schlössinger, M. 1905. Morocco. Pages 18–28 in Isidore Singer (ed.), The Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. 9, New York and London. Schrire, T. 1966. Hebrew Amulets: Their Decipherment and Interpretation. London. Segal, J. B. 2000. Catalogue of the Aramaic and Mandaic Incantation Bowls in the British Museum. London. Wildhaber, R. 1976. Beda Venerabilis and the Snakes. Pages 497–506 in Folklore Today: A Festschrift for Richard M. Dorson. Edited by L. Dégh, H. Glassie and F. J. Oinas, Bloomington, Ind.

JOSEPHUS ON THE ESSENES. THE SOURCES OF HIS INFORMATION John J. Collins The accounts of the Essenes in Philo and more especially Josephus have received a good deal of scholarly attention in recent years. In the great majority of cases this attention has been focused on the parallels between these accounts and the Dead Sea Scrolls.1 In a paper delivered at the Josephus Colloquium at Trinity College, Dublin in September, 2004, Steve Mason objected strongly to this procedure on methodological grounds.2 He argued, quite correctly, that Josephus’ account must be understood in its own context before it can be mined for information about other matters. In this regard, his argument is in line with recent trends in the study of history-writing, which tend to emphasize the literary character of historiographical works.3 He also objected to the very widespread tendency to “correct” Josephus in light of the Scrolls, on the assumption that the latter are primary Essene documents.4 The thrust of Mason’s argument is that the account of the Essenes is thoroughly Josephan, part of the historian’s rhetorical and apologetic presentation of Judaism. He does not suggest that Josephus invented all of this material out of whole cloth (although he does suggest this in the case of the passage on “marrying Essenes” in War 2.160–161). Rather, he assumes that Josephus wrote on the basis of his personal knowledge of a contemporary group of Jews.5 In this he goes against a long tradition in Josephan scholarship, which holds that Josephus, and also Philo, depended on literary, ethnographic, accounts of the Essenes,

1 See e.g., Beall, 1988. This is also true of my own discussion, Collins 1992, 619–26. 2 Mason 2007. See also Mason, http://orion.mscc.huji.ac.il/orion/programs/ Mason00–1.shtml. Part of this essay (roughly, the latter half) appeared under the same title in Mason 2000, 434–67. Page references in this essay are to the printed version. See now also Mason 2008, 84–131, which appeared after this article had gone to press. 3 E.g., White 1973 and White 1978. 4 E.g., Sanders 1992, 341–79. Examples could be multiplied. Mason’s objection was anticipated by Ory 1975, 75. 5 In personal correspondence, Mason insists that he is not denying the possibility that Josephus used sources, to supplement his knowledge of the Essenes, but only the possibility of delineating them.

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written for a Gentile readership, possibly by Gentile authors.6 Mason is not alone in his dissent from this tradition,7 but he has given the strongest arguments against it to date. At stake is the degree to which Josephus can be assumed to know what he was talking about. Mason by no means suggests that everything Josephus has to say about the Essenes is reliable. The account dovetails too neatly with his Tendenz in the rest of his writings. But it will make a difference to our estimation of his reliability whether he wrote from his own observation or relied on second-hand accounts by others who may have had little if any first-hand knowledge of the sect. Pre-Josephan accounts of the Essenes Philo and Pliny Josephus was not the first writer in antiquity to formulate an account of the Essenes, nor even the first Jewish author to do so. Philo Judaeus, who flourished about half a century earlier, has left us two passages describing a group that he calls “Essaeans,” Quod omnis probus liber sit, 75–91, and Hypothetica 11.1–8 (Apologia pro Judaeis).8 Josephus also uses the name “Essaean” with reference to individuals (War 1.78; 2.113, cf. Ant. 13.311; 17.346 with reference to the Essene prophets, Judas and Simon; War 2.567; 3.11, John the Essene), and in Ant. 15.371–379, he begins by referring to “those we call Essaeans” but goes on to speak of “Essenes” in the passage about a seer named Menahem. There is no doubt that Philo uses the name “Essaean” to designate a sect or religious community, and Josephus appears to use the term in this way at least in Ant. 15. The two forms of the name, Essaioi and Essenoi, are simply variants, representing two common Greek adjectival endings, and no great significance can be attached to the variation.9 The two passages in Philo are the oldest extant accounts of the Essenes. It appears that Philo also wrote a longer account that has not survived. At the beginning of his treatise on the Therapeutae in De Vita

6 E.g., Hölscher 1916, 1949; Bauer 1967a, 386–430, reprinted in idem 1967b, 1–59. For the history of scholarship on this issue in the 19th century, see Wagner 1960, 202–9. 7 See also Rajak 1994, 141–60. 8 For the passages see Vermes and Goodman 1989, 19–31. 9 See Mason 2000, 426–27.

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Contemplativa he says that he has discussed the Essenes, who pursue the active life, and now turns to the life of contemplation. It is unlikely that either of the surviving passages on the Essaeans was the counterpart of the lengthy treatise on the Therapeutae. Unfortunately nothing can be said about the missing treatise. Philo’s interest in the Essaeans was primarily moral and philosophical.10 The extant passages contain nothing comparable to the description of procedures for admission and expulsion in Josephus’ longest account in War 2. The two surviving Philonic accounts cover most of the same themes. The Essaeans live in villages (but the passage in Hypothetica also allows that they live in many towns). They support themselves by agricultural work and crafts. They live a common life and have no private property. They put their salaries in a common fund and care for the sick and the aged. Each account supplies some details lacking in the other. We read in Hypothetica that no Essaean takes a woman, because marriage is detrimental to the common life. Consequently there are no young children among the Essaeans. They constitute a voluntary association of mature men. The account in Quod omnis probus liber sit specifies the number of Essaeans as over 4,000, and claims that they “. . . do not offer animal sacrifice, judging it more fitting to render their minds holy.”11 It also mentions their rejection of slavery and of oaths, and their strict observance of the sabbath. Despite these variations in emphasis, the two Philonic accounts seem quite compatible with one another. It is unlikely that Philo had any personal acquaintance with the Essenes in Palestine,12 although he, like Josephus, put his own stamp on the material he used. The identity and nature of his source is unknown.13

Petit 1992, 139. Quod omnis probus liber sit, 75. 12 Despite the very tentative suggestion of Petit 1992, 139–55. Petit devotes much of her article to the attempt to identify Jewish oral traditions that might have been known to Philo, with little result. 13 Goranson 1994, 295–98. suggests that Philo derived his account of the Essenes from Strabo, who in turn drew on Posidonius, and also used Agrippa’s work, and that Josephus derived some of his information from the same source. Strabo, who lived in the second half of the last century b.c.e. and the early decades of the first century c.e., wrote an account of the Jews and Judea in his Geography, of which fragments are cited by Josephus, but he does not seem to have visited the country. Goranson’s argument that Strabo was a source for Philo and Josephus on the Essenes is tenuous. It relies rather heavily on the assumption that the statements that the Essenes believed in fate (heimarmenē) were meant to characterize them as Stoics. The case for tracing the source back to Posidonius is weaker still: while Strabo sometimes used Posidonius, must he have done so in this specific case? But dependence on Strabo is certainly possible. 10 11

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Philo’s account shares some key points with the oldest extant account by a Gentile, the Roman polymath Pliny the Elder. Pliny famously wrote that the Essenes “. . . are a people (gens) unique of its kind and admirable beyond all others in the world, without women and renouncing love entirely, without money, and having for company only the palm trees.”14 He conspicuously fails to say that they were Jewish, and may not have recognized them as such.15 Philo says that “. . . almost alone among all mankind, they live without goods and without property; and this by preference, and not as a result of a reverse of fortune” (Quod omnis probus liber sit, 77). In the Hypothetica he tells us that “. . . shrewdly providing against the sole or principal obstacle threatening to dissolve the bonds of communal life, they banned marriage at the same time as they ordered the practice of perfect continence.” Although Pliny was probably in Palestine with Vespasian in 68 c.e., he relied on sources in compiling his Natural History.16 His account presupposes the destruction of the Jewish war, but his source may have been much older. His description of the Essenes comes in the context of a geographical description of Judea. Stephen Goranson has suggested that it was derived from the world map and commentary of Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, son-in-law of Augustus and friend of Herod the Great.17 Josephus reports that Agrippa visited Judea in 14 b.c.e., and that Herod showed him the fortresses Alexandreion, Herodion and Hyrcania, so he must have been close to the Dead Sea. Agrippa died in 12 b.c.e. Pliny cites Agrippa several times in Books 3–6 of his Natural History. It is quite plausible, then, even if not provable, that Agrippa was the source of Pliny’s geographical account of the Dead Sea region. It should be emphasized that Pliny was writing a geographical account. The fact that he only mentions Essenes in the vicinity of the Dead Sea is due to the fact that he was describing that region, and does not preclude the existence of other Essene communities.18

Pliny, Natural History 5.17.4 (73); Vermes and Goodman 1989, 32–33. Stern 1976, 1.480; Kraft 2001, 258. 16 König and Winkler 1979, 53: “Wir dürfen nicht vergessen, dass uns Plinius vorwiegend Buchwissen übermittelt, selbst da, wo er durch Augenschein leicht zu besserer Einsicht hätte gelangen können.” Cf. Bergmeier 1993, 21. 17 Goranson 1994, 297. On Agrippa’s map see Tierney 1963, 151–66. 18 Pace Boccaccini1998, 46–47. 14 15

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The passages in Josephus Josephus refers to Essenes in six passages in his account of the Jewish War, which is dated to 75–81 c.e., five times in his Jewish Antiquities, which was published some 15 years later (93 c.e.) and once in his Life, which was added to the Antiquities.19 These references are of different kinds. In the Life, 10–11, Josephus claims that he knew the Essenes from personal experience: “. . . at about the age of sixteen I wished to get experience of the schools of thought to be found among us. There are three of these—Pharisees, the first, Sadducees the second, Essenes the third—as we have often remarked. I thought that in this way, by learning about all of them, I would choose the best. I therefore made myself hardy and, with much trouble, went through the three courses.”

After this, we are told, he lived for three years with a hermit named Bannus in the wilderness, and then returned to the city in his 19th year and embraced the way of the Pharisees.20 If he really had tried out the lifestyle of each of the “schools” we might suppose that his account of the Essenes was informed by his own experience. But the passage in the Life is problematic. Many scholars have noted that this account is full of rhetorical commonplaces. ( Josephus presents himself as a Wunderkind, whom the chief priests consulted on matters of law).21 If he spent three years with Bannus, he cannot have spent much time getting acquainted with the three philosophies, and in any case he cannot have gone through the process of Essene initiation that he describes in War 2, which required a full three years, culminating with solemn oaths.22 Of course Josephus may have known Jews who were Essenes, just as he surely knew Pharisees and Sadducees, and he could, in principle, have had reliable informants (although he claims that members of the sect

The passages are conveniently collected by Vermes and Goodman 1989, 34–57, and also by Beall 1988, 12–33. See also the synopsis provided by Mason 2000, 424–25. 20 Mason (1989, 31–46) argues that Josephus merely followed the Pharisaic school as a function of his entry into public life. Nonetheless, this is the only time he affiliates himself in any way with one particular school. See also Mason 1991, 325–56; 2001, 21. 21 See e.g. Mason 2003, 39–41; idem 2001, 17–18; Smith 1958, 277–78. 22 Bergmeier 1993; Cohen 1979, 107. Rajak 1983, 34–39. Rajak (1994, 144) is exceptional in overruling this objection, on the grounds that he may have learned the rudiments of each philosophy in a few months. 19

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swore “to reveal nothing to outsiders”). He was not, however, writing from experience as an insider. Five of the passages in the War are brief, incidental references. Four of them relate incidents involving individual Essenes: Judas (War 1.78–80), Simon (War 2.113), both seers, and John the Essene, a general in the war against Rome, who is mentioned twice (War 2.567; 3.11). The fifth incidental reference is to the Essene gate in Jerusalem (5.145). While Josephus presumably drew on his own knowledge of the events of the Jewish war, the accounts of the three seers must of necessity have come from some source, whether written or oral.23 It has been argued that the revolutionary, John the Essaean, was not a member of the sect but rather a native of Essa or Gerasa in Transjordan. He is mentioned in association with other generals who are identified by their origin, Niger the Perean, Silas the Babylonian (War 3.11).24 The seers Judas and Simon are said to be “Essaean by race” (genos).25 Pliny refers to the Essenes as “genus,” but in his long account in War 2 Josephus is careful to state that “they are Jews by race” (2.119; he does, however, refer to them as “this genos” in Ant. 15.371). If we leave aside the references to John the Essene, and to the Essene gate (which do not say anything about the nature of the sect), the only references to Essenes in the War, outside of the long passage in Book 2, are the brief references to the seers Judas and Simon, who are “Essaeans by race.” If John was not a member of the sect, then there is no reference to the sect in the War after Book 2. The remaining passage in Josephus (War 2.119–161) is the fullest account of the Essenes in the work of Josephus. It covers their attitude to sex and marriage, common life, cultic observances, procedures for admission and expulsion, and beliefs about the afterlife. It begins with the statement: “Indeed, there exist among the Jews three schools of philosophy: the Pharisees belong to the first, the Sadducees to the sec23 They are often attributed to Nicolaus of Damascus, a major source for his account of Herod. See Bergmeier 1993, 18. On Nicolaus see Stern 1976, 1.227–60; Wacholder 1962. On Josephus’s use of Nicolaus see Schwartz 1983, 157–71. Stern, (1976, 1.229) claims that “. . . it is the consensus of scholars, e.g. Schürer, Hölscher and Thackeray, that Nicolaus’ writings constitute the main source of the Bellum Judaicum for the whole period between Antiochus Epiphanes and the accession of Archelaus.” Vermes and Goodman (1989, 37) doubt that Nicolaus’s Universal History extended to the downfall of Archelaus, which is the setting of the anecdote about Simon. 24 Schalit 1968, 46; Mason 2000, 428. 25 In contrast, Menahem, in Ant. 15.373–379, is clearly identified as “one of the Essenes,” and is responsible for the respect in which they were held by King Herod.

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ond, and to the third belong men who have a reputation for cultivating a particularly saintly life, called Essenes.” The immediate occasion for the discussion of the three “schools” is a reference to Judas of Galilee (2.117–118), who is described as “a sophist who founded a sect of his own, having nothing in common with the others.” The other schools, then, are introduced as a foil for the revolutionaries.26 But they are not treated in equal detail. The last one mentioned, the Essenes, is described first, and occupies more than 40 paragraphs (War 2.120–161), The account of the Pharisees and Sadducees together receives a mere 5 (162–166). The Essenes are said to be “Jews by race” (genos), which seems superfluous, since in the preceding sentence they were identified as one of the three schools of philosophy among the Jews.27 The account is given in the present tense, except for an aside by Josephus on their endurance during the war against Rome.28 The most striking thing about this passage, however, is its length, relative to the brief treatments of the Pharisees and Sadducees. When we turn to the Antiquities, we find that the passages about Judas and Simon are paralleled in Ant. 13.311 and 17.346. An incident involving another Essene seer, Menahem, is reported in Ant. 15.371–379. Menaham is said to have foretold that Herod would be king of the Jews. For this reason, Herod treated all Essenes with respect. As in the War, the individual Essenes singled out for mention are all seers. The remaining passages in Antiquities, Ant. 13.171–172 and Ant. 18.11, like the passage in War 2, speak of three “sects” (haireseis, Ant. 13) or “philosophies” (Ant. 18, which lists them in reverse order as the Essenes, the Sadducees and the Pharisees). In Ant. 13, each “sect” receives one sentence, regarding its views on fate and freewill. In Ant. 18 the Essenes get the longest account (5 paragraphs, 18–22), but not by much. The Pharisees receive 4 paragraphs, 12–15 and the Sadducees 2 (16–17). Each account highlights the beliefs of the group regarding fate/free will and life after death, although some other details are also included. These themes are also highlighted in the account of the Pharisees and Sadducees in War 2.

26 Compare Mason 1991, 122: “. . . he wants to dissociate mainstream Judaism from the rebel psychology.” 27 It may be that Josephus was correcting Pliny, who referred to the Essenes as a “genus,” but then it is surprising that he uses the word “genos” to refer to the individual Essaeans Judas and Simon, and also uses it with reference to the sect in Ant. 15.371. 28 Smith 1958, 279.

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The main description of the sect in Antiquities is found in Ant. 18.18–22, again in the context of a description of the three “philosophies.” This account is much shorter than the one in War 2, and does not address such matters as admission and expulsion. It has its closest parallels in the accounts given by Philo, especially the one in Quod omnis probus liber sit 75–91. It is not clear why Josephus substituted this account for the more detailed one in War. Morton Smith regarded the variation between the War and the Antiquities as significant: “. . . had Josephus himself written the account in the War he would probably not, when he came to write the Antiquities, have replaced his own work by a copy or condensation of somebody else’s.”29 It may be, however, that he saw no need to repeat the lengthy passage in the War, and simply wished to vary his account.30 Philo and Josephus More important for our immediate purpose is the relation between Philo’s account and that of Josephus in Antiquities 18. The correspondences are extensive: praise of their moral character, the estimate of membership at 4,000, distinctive doctrine (that God is the cause of all, or of all good things), distinctive sacrifices, agricultural practice, uniqueness, common fund and avoidance of money, celibacy, rejection of slavery, communal life, common meals, mutual service.31 Scholars have explained these correspondences in either of two ways: either Josephus used Philo directly (Walter Bauer, Tessa Rajak) or both drew on a common source (Morton Smith, Bergmeier, Argall). The difference in names (Essaioi, Essenoi) is not decisive, since Josephus could easily have switched to the preferred form of the name. Neither is the fact that the two authors do not maintain the same sequence.32 If one or both of them could change the sequence of topics in their source, Josephus could presumably change the order he found in Philo. Josephus, however, includes some details that are found neither in Philo nor in War 2. These include the rather bizarre notice that the Essenes

Smith 1958, 279. See the reflections on this issue by Rajak 1994, 148. 31 See Argall 2000, 22–23. Argall differs from Bergmeier in excluding the account in War 2 from consideration here, and also Philo’s account in Hypothetica, except for the topic of celibacy (Hypothetica 11.14). 32 Argall (2000, 22–23) maintains that the two accounts maintain the same approximate order, but the correspondence is certainly not complete. 29 30

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choose priests “to prepare the bread and food” and the comparison to the Dacians (Ant. 18.22). It is unlikely that Josephus would have cast priests in a culinary role if he were not following a source. He does not otherwise compare the Essenes to the Dacians; elsewhere he prefers the Pythagoreans. The one topic on which Philo and Josephus may be thought to disagree, the attitude to temple sacrifice, may also be explained by the hypothesis of different explanations of a common source. Philo says that “. . . they have shown themselves especially devout in the service of God, not by offering sacrifices of animals, but by resolving to sanctify their minds.”33 Josephus says that “. . . they send offerings to the temple, but perform their sacrifices using different customary purifications. For this reason, they are barred from entering into the common enclosure, but offer sacrifice among themselves.”34 (Note that Josephus uses the present tense here, twenty years after the destruction of the temple). Bergmeier has disputed whether there is really a parallel here, and the two passages can be read as contradictory.35 But neither passage is free of ambiguity. Philo’s statement can be read as a categorical rejection of animal sacrifice,36 but it has also been taken to mean only that sacrifice was not the focal point of their worship.37 The passage in Josephus is uncertain because of a textual problem. The Epitome (an abbreviation of the Antiquities thought to date from the tenth century) and the Latin translation of Josephus read “. . . they do not perform their sacrifices.”38 Even if we reject this variant, which may have been an attempt to harmonize Josephus with Philo, it is less than clear whether the Essenes offered animal sacrifices by themselves or rather made some other kind of offerings. The discrepancy between Philo and Josephus may be resolved if we suppose that their common source noted that the

33 Quod omnis probus liber sit, 75 (trans. F. H. Colson, in the Loeb edition). The translation of Vermes and Goodman (1989, 21) “they do not offer animal sacrifice” is a misleading rendering of the Greek participle. 34 Ant. 18.19. There is a textual problem here. The medieval Epitome of Josephus and the Latin translation reflect a negative: they do NOT offer sacrifices. 35 Bergmeier 2003, 446–47. 36 So Vermes and Goodman 1989, 21. 37 See Beall 1988, 118. Argall (2000, 20) argues that it is unlikely that Philo would have commended the sect for purely spiritual worship, given his well-known views on the need for literal observance (On the Migration of Abraham, 89–93). 38 Black 1961, 39–40.

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Essenes were barred from participation in the temple sacrifices, and our two authors each interpreted this in his own way.39 Whether Josephus depended directly on Philo in Antiquities 18, or, as I think more likely, both drew on a common source, there can be no doubt that Josephus used a source here. This does not, of course, require that he cited the source verbatim. Sources in dispute The main dispute about Josephus’ sources for the Essenes, however, has centered not on the Antiquities but on the War. The long account of the Essenes in War 2 has its closest parallel in Hippolytus, Refutation of all Heresies 9.18–28.40 Morton Smith41 and Matthew Black42 argued independently of each other that the two accounts drew on a common source. More recently, however, Christoph Burchard43 and Roland Bergmeier44 have argued strongly and persuasively that Hippolytus was dependent on Josephus. Moreover, Smith subsequently changed his mind and concluded that he was “. . . probably mistaken in supposing Hippolytus independent of Josephus.”45 It does not appear, then, that the parallels with Hippolytus throw any light on the source of Josephus’ information. The most extensive recent attempt to identify the sources of Josephus’ account is that of Roland Bergmeier.46 He posits four sources: – The anecdotes about Essene prophets, which he attributes to Nicolaus of Damascus. – The “Three School Source,” which gave brief accounts of the beliefs of Pharisees, Sadducees and Essenes. – A Hellenistic Jewish “Essaean” source used by Philo, and by Josephus in Ant. 18 and to a limited degree in War 2.

So Argall 2000, 20. Vermes and Goodman 1989, 62–73. 41 Smith 1958, 273–313. 42 Black 1956, 172–82; idem 1961, 187–91. 43 Burchard 1974, 77–96; idem 1977, 1–41. 44 Bergmeier 2003, 443–70. 45 Smith 1982, 199*–214* (the citation is from n. 24). Smith was persuaded by the account of Cohen 1979, 24–47 of the paraphrastic way Josephus used his sources that there would not be so much verbal agreement if Hippolytus were using a common source rather than drawing directly on Josephus. See further Collins 2006. 46 Bergmeier 1993. Cf. idem 2003, 11–22. Other scholars who have recently affirmed Josephus’s reliance on sources include Bilde 1998, 64–65 and Murphy 2002, 408–9. 39 40

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– A “Pythagoreanizing” source, from which Josephus drew most of his account in War 2 and which can also be detected in Philo’s account of the Therapeutae in On the Contemplative Life and in Pliny, Natural History 5.15.73.47 Bergmeier supports his source-critical analysis by listing some 51 hapax legomena in war 2.119–66.48 Bergmeier’s analysis has been criticized on several counts. Randal Argall focused on the Hellenistic Jewish “Essaean” source.49 He agreed with Bergmeier that specific pieces of information in Ant. 18.18–22 and in Philo’s Quod omnis liber probus sit 75–91 occur in similar clusters and in much the same relative order. “But some of the data Bergmeier derives from War 2 and, to a lesser extent, from Hypothetica 11.1–18 must be pulled out from their contexts and treated as though they were loose threads.”50 Argall offers a more modest reconstruction of the source, drawing only on Quod omnis liber probus sit 75–91 and Ant. 18.18–22. Jörg Frey acknowledges that Josephus used sources, but he objects to the confidence with which Bergmeier delineates them.51 Bergmeier admits that he cannot support his thesis with a full linguistic analysis of Josephus, and Frey questions whether one can delineate sources with confidence in light of this. He agrees that the attribution of the anecdotes about Judas and Simon can be plausibly (not certainly) attributed to Nicolaus of Damascus.52 He also grants that the “three-school source” is well founded, although it may not be possible to delineate it exactly. He questions, however, Bergmeier’s view that Philo and Josephus depended on a common source. Bergmeier argued this because of the difference in style between the two Jewish authors, but Josephus may have rewritten all his sources. In Frey’s view, Josephus’s preference for Essene as the form of the name, as against that of Philo for Essaean, argues against a common source.53 Most problematic of all, in Frey’s view, is Bergmeier’s “Pythagoreanizing” source. Bergmeier’s proposal requires that Philo have used this source in his account of the Therapeutae, but not in his description of the Essenes, while Josephus used it in War but not in Antiquities. Pliny

47 48 49 50 51 52 53

Bergmeier 1993, 114–15. Bergmeier 1993, 108–13. Argall 2000, 19. Argall 2000, 19. Frey 2003, 23–57, esp. 34–46. He is somewhat more hesitant about the Menahem anecdote in Antiquities. Frey 2003, 43.

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would also have drawn on this source for his account of the settlement by the Dead Sea. Frey concludes that “. . . sind hier die Grenzen der Möglichkeit quellenkritischer Rekonstruktion überschritten.”54 Nonetheless, Frey grants that it is plausible that the disproportionately long account of the Essenes in War 2 drew on a source. He denies that either the extent of the source or its provenance can be determined with confidence. Yet he grants that the Hellenizing and Pythagorizing features of the ancient accounts are literary embellishments, whether they are attributed to the authors or to their sources. They represent the perspective of an outsider, not an historically reliable account of the Essenes. Frey, like many scholars before him, argues that this “outsider perspective” can and should be corrected by comparison with the texts of the ya ad in the Dead Sea Scrolls, which he takes to be authentic Essene documents.55 The most far-reaching critique of Bergmeier, and of any attempt to identify sources in Josephus’s account of the Essenes, is that of Steve Mason.56 Despite conceding that “. . . no one doubts that Josephus used sources for most of his work,”57 Mason dismisses Bergmeier’s approach as a relic of 19th century German historiography, which routinely looked for underlying sources. Contemporary Josephan scholarship, in contrast, views Josephus as an author, and asks first for the meaning of a passage in context. Mason complains at length of the detrimental influence of the Dead Sea Scrolls on Josephan scholarship in this respect, as it has encouraged scholars to disregard the context in Josephus and mine the passage for parallels to the Qumran rule books. The main focus of his critique, however, concerns the criteria used by Bergmeier and others for identifying sources. The different forms of the name, Essaios and Essenos, are simply variants. Both forms are used in the passage in Ant. 15, in such a way as to suggest that the current Judean usage was Essaios. (It begins by referring to hoi par hēmin Essaioi).58 Josephus prefers Essēnos when refer-

Frey 2003, 44. Frey 2003, 46–55. 56 Above, n. 1. 57 Mason “What Josephus Says About the Essenes,” (internet version) 7. 58 Since Essaioi is also the form of the name used by Philo, it is most probably the original Greek form of the name. In light of this, it is unlikely that the name was derived from the term essēnas used for functionaries in the cult of Artemis at Ephesus (see Kampen 1986, 61–81. The most likely etymology remains Aramaic assya, pious, the Aramaic equivalent of Hasidim. 54 55

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ring to the group, because this form was more familiar to his Roman readers. Pliny uses the Latin equivalent, Esseni. The variant forms of the names cannot be correlated with sources. Philo uses Essaios for the group; Josephus uses it primarily for individuals (except in Ant. 15). The virtues highlighted in the first two Essene oaths, piety towards the Deity and justice towards humanity, are Hellenistic commonplaces. The fact that they are also commonplace in Philo is of no significance for identifying a Jewish-Hellenistic source.59 The list of 51 hapax legomena in the account in War 2 has no probative value, since the subject matter of this passage is exceptional in Josephus. A stylometric analysis of this passage by David S. Williams (focusing on the frequency of particles, conjunctions, and the like) finds it “demonstrably Josephan.”60 It should be noted, however, that Williams still regarded it likely that Josephus used source-material in this passage, although he did not simply copy it but rewrote it significantly.61 All that is excluded by the stylometric analysis is a position such as that of H. E. Del Medico, who held that the passage was interpolated after Josephus’s death.62 The heart of Mason’s argument, however, is an extended attempt to show that the account of the Essenes in War 2 is thoroughly Josephan in character.63 Josephus wrote with apologetic intent in the wake of the war against Rome, with a view to showing that Judeans at their best were exemplary world citizens. Mason considers twelve issues: 1. The Essenes behave with semnotēs, which is one of his favorite terms for appealing to his Roman audience. 2. They show self-control (egkrateia, among other terms) in their attitudes toward the passions, sex, and women. 3. The Essene community of goods illustrates the Jewish pursuit of koinōnia (Apion 2.246, 151, 208), which is the opposite of misanthrōpia, the vice with which Jews were often charged.

Pace Bergmeier 1993, 36–37. Williams 1994, 207–21 (221). See also idem 1992. 61 Williams 1994, 221: “Two possibilities remain: (a) Josephus wrote War 2.119–161 as a free composition; or (b) Josephus used source material to write War 2.119–161. The latter possibility seems more likely.” 62 Williams 1994, 221. For Del Medico’s idiosyncratic thesis see Del Medico 1952–53 1–45; 189–226; idem 1957. 63 Mason 2000, 433–48. See also Paul 1992, 126–38. 59 60

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4. The Essenes had settlements in every city. Mason takes this to imply that “Josephus claims to know the Essenes very well.” 5. The statement that the Essenes reverence the sun as deity is in accordance with Josephus’ tendency elsewhere to personify the sun and treat it as a representation of God. 6. The Essenes bathe in frigid water, as Josephus did when he was with Bannus in the wilderness. 7. The sobriety and restraint of the common meals is in accordance with Josephus’ general emphasis on the restraint of Jewish sacrificial meals. The prominence of priests accords with his own claim of priesthood. 8. The description of the Essenes as “fair administrators of anger, able to restrain temper, masters of fidelity, servants of peace” (War 1.135) serves Josephus’s narrative aims perfectly. 9. The statement that the Essenes must swear 12 oaths on fully joining the order does not contradict their general avoidance of oaths (War 2.135). The emphasis on piety and justice is typical of Josephus’ presentation of Judaism after the war against Rome. Other oaths, e.g. “to refrain from banditry,” also fit his purpose of showing that Jewish ideals were antithetical to those of the revolutionaries. 10. Also typical of Josephus is the emphasis on precision (akribeia) in the interpretation of the Law. Compare the veneration of Moses elsewhere in his writings. 11. The language used for the Essenes’ belief in the afterlife accords with Josephus’ own views in War 3.372–74, where he says that “. . . all of us have mortal bodies composed of perishable matter,” “. . . a soul is a portion of God housed in a body,” and that “. . . those who die naturally are allotted the holiest heavenly place.”64 It should be noted, however, that Josephus affirms resurrection of the body, a belief that he attributes to the Pharisees but not to the Essenes.65 12. The statement about the Essenes’ ability to predict the future fits with his reports of individual Essene prophets. He himself also claimed to be able to predict the future, like the Essenes, on the basis of the prophetic statements in the Scriptures. The discussion of the occult powers of the Essenes with respect to roots is paralleled in the account of Solomon in Ant. 8.44–49.

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See Sievers 1998, 20–34. See Nickelsburg 1972, 168 and Collins 2006.

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These twelve points do not exhaust the Josephan character of the account of the Essenes. Mason addresses some other points elsewhere.66 For example, the avoidance of oil is also a feature of eulogistic accounts of the Spartans. One can imagine how some other details might be explained. The statement that the Essenes carry weapons to protect themselves against brigands might be taken to show their antipathy to brigands/revolutionaries. Even the multi-year process of admission might be attributed to a desire to show the care taken by the sect in matters of continence and purity. Mason concludes his discussion of the passage in War 2 by suggesting that the report on “the marrying Essenes” was invented by Josephus out of whole cloth, since the celibate ideal would have been impractical, and Josephus obviously did not adhere to it himself.67 Mason has shown conclusively that Josephus put his own stamp on this material, and that it serves a clear purpose in the argument of the War as a whole. He has effectively refuted some criteria for distinguishing sources—the varying usage of Essaioi and Essenoi, the occurrence of hapax legomena. Mason is also right on the methodological issue: the passage must be understood in its Josephan context before it can be used as historical evidence or compared with the Dead Sea Scrolls. Questions remain, however, about the source of Josephus’ detailed information, and the disproportionate length of the account of the Essenes relative to those of the Sadducees and Pharisees. Josephus’ Knowledge of the Essenes We have seen above that Josephus’ claim, in his Life, to have gained personal experience of all three sects, is problematic. “But,” writes Mason, “we do not need Life 10–12 to see that Josephus claims to know the Essenes very well. This Jerusalemite aristocrat, who claims to be a leader of his people, says that many Essenes settle in each city.”68 But the fact that there were Essenes in Jerusalem and other towns does not mean that their beliefs or communal practices were well known to all. According to the account in War 2, members of the sect swore to reveal nothing to outsiders. Some aspects of their lifestyle could be observed easily enough, such as whether they married, or participated

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Mason 2007. Mason 2000, 447–48. Mason 2000, 436.

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in the temple cult. But outsiders could not normally be expected to know the details of their communal organization or beliefs. Presumably some Essene must have divulged something to outsiders, unless the accounts that we have are pure fiction. But Josephus would at least have needed an oral informant, if not a written source, to produce the detailed account that we find in War 2. The Disproportionate Length of the Account The most obvious reason for suspecting that Josephus was following a source on the Essenes is the disproportionate length of the account. The disproportion is striking, because of the juxtaposition with the much shorter accounts of the other two sects, and is therefore not analogous to other cases where the historian describes some events in more detail than others. Mason does not directly address the disproportionate length of the account of the Essenes in his later articles, but he does comment on it briefly in his earlier book on Josephus and the Pharisees: “. . . by proportioning his narrative as he does, Josephus makes it plain that he is much more interested in describing the Essenes than the other two groups.”69 The life of holiness (semnotēs) which they exhibit may be said to provide the most striking contrast to the revolutionary philosophy of Judas. But while the emphasis on the Essenes fits Josephus’ purpose here, and is not mere filler, it is doubtful whether this adequately explains the detail of the account. Apart from this passage, the Essenes play a minimal role in the Jewish War. If John the Essene was not a member of the sect, the only subsequent reference is a passing mention of the Essene gate. If Josephus’ goal in introducing the three schools was “. . . to dissociate mainstream Judaism from the rebel psychology,”70 his purpose would have been better served by a balanced exposition of the virtues of all three. It is true that he is never critical of the Essenes, but this may be explained by the fact that their role in Judean politics seems to be restricted to an occasional prediction. The length of the description in War 2 is not only disproportionate relative to that of the other sects, but also relative to the role the Essenes play in the history as a whole. One obvious way of explaining this discrepancy is to suppose that he had at his disposal a longer account of the Essenes than of the Pharisees or Sadducees. This explanation does not require 69 70

Mason 1991, 123. Mason 1991, 122.

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that we accuse Josephus of incoherence, or of including material just because it was available. He clearly shaped it for his purposes and integrated it into his history. But it is difficult to see why he should have included such disproportionate detail if he were composing the passage entirely de novo. The impression that Josephus was following a source here is strengthened by the extraneous character of the passage about marrying Essenes. As Mason recognizes, nothing in the preceding account even hints at the existence of such people. Surely if Josephus wanted to introduce them, he could have mentioned them in the context of the first discussion of the Essene attitude to women. Rather, this passage gives the impression that it is tacked on as an epilogue to a prefabricated account. The body of Josephus’s account agrees with Philo and Pliny in declaring that the Essenes were celibate. This is also the case in his later account in Antiquities 18. The description, or descriptions, of the Essenes that circulated in the Hellenistic Roman world, evidently did not mention marrying Essenes. It seems to me, then, that the paragraph in War 1.160 is most easily explained as a correction of the received account. If Essenes had lived in every Judean city before the war, most Judeans must have known whether they married or not. (This would not be true of Pliny or Philo, who had much less opportunity to observe). It is easier to suppose that Josephus supplied such a correction than to accept Mason’s rather desperate argument that he invented marrying Essenes out of whole cloth. Not much can be said about the nature or provenance of Josephus’ source. He could conceivably have gotten his hands on an Essene rule book, and supplied the Hellenizing presentation himself. Or he may have known a Greek account that already developed analogies with Pythagoreans and Greek ideals. Many of the ideals identified as Josephan by Mason were in fact more widely shared in the HellenisticRoman world, as he readily notes.71 For example, many features of the account are paralleled in passages about the Spartans in Xenophon and Plutarch.72 These ideals could have shaped a description of the Essenes

71 See Hengel 1974, 1.247. Mendels 1979, 207–22 documents several parallels between the Essenes and the utopia of Iambulus, but argues that that the similarity is due to the utopian ideals of the historical Essenes, whom he identifies with the sect known from the Dead Sea Scrolls. 72 Xenophon, Respublica Lacedaemoniorum, passim; Plutarch, Instituta Laconica (Moralia, 236–40). The parallels are documented by Mason 2007.

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by some Greek ethnographer, or they could have been introduced into the account by Josephus himself.73 We do not know just what he had before him. What we can say with some confidence is that he did not write this detailed account on the basis of his personal observation of the Essenes. A “Three School” Source? In this conclusion, I am in general agreement with Jörg Frey, that Josephus relied on sources, but that we cannot now delineate them as specifically as Roland Bergmeier has tried to do. He evidently drew on different sources for the accounts in War 2 and Ant. 18. Bergmeier also posits a source that consists of brief descriptions of the three Jewish philosophies.74 The topos of three schools is only known to us from Josephus, and it could have originated with him. Bergmeier’s argument rests on the relationship between the accounts in the War and Antiquities. This putative source focused on the philosophical positions of the three schools with regard to fate and the soul. In War 2, Josephus informs us that the Pharisees affirm both Fate and human responsibility, while the Sadducees dispense with Fate. There is no corresponding statement about the position of the Essenes. In Antiquities 18, however, the account of the Essenes begins with the statement that “. . . the doctrine of the Essenes is wont to leave everything in the hands of God.” A similar brief statement, contrasting the positions of the three schools on the question of Fate, can be found in Antiquities 13.171–172. Each of these passages in Antiquities is introduced by a statement about the three schools. It seems likely, then, that already when he wrote the War Josephus had an account that contrasted the views of the three schools on the question of Fate, but omitted the summary of Essene views in favor of the longer account of their way of life. It is possible that Josephus himself had authored this account, but he cannot have done so specifically for the War, and we do not know of an earlier occasion on which he might have composed it. Neither Josephus nor Philo, nor Pliny, had much if any first-hand acquaintance with the Essenes. This conclusion is not negated by Mason’s quite convincing demonstration that Josephus integrated his

73 On Greek ethnography, see Sterling 1992, 20–54 and the literature there cited; idem 1994, 688. 74 Bergmeier 1993, 60–64.

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material on the Essenes into his own work, so that it contributed to his apologetic agenda. It does not require that we accept every detail of Bergmeier’s analysis, or that we share his confidence in delineating the sources. It does seem likely, however, that for his descriptions of the Essenes, Josephus drew on at least two distinct sources, one in War 2 and one in Antiquities 18, and probably also on a third, a brief characterization the philosophical tenets of the “three schools.” Conclusion In this discussion I have deliberately refrained from consideration of the parallels between the accounts of the Essenes and the Dead Sea Scrolls, although I believe that these parallels are highly significant.75 Mason is clearly right on the methodological point that the Greek and Latin accounts must first be understood in their own right. Our analysis suggests that none of these accounts is based on first-hand experience. Moreover, they are all stylized in the tradition of Greek ethnography, whether that stylization was the work of these authors or of their lost sources. They may still preserve accurate information, but they are not necessarily reliable. Mason argues that “when we proceed to the historical question ‘Who were the Essenes?’ we must first deal with the fact that they commended themselves to Josephus as the most obvious group (more than, say, Pharisees or Sadducees) for him to offer to the Romans as a shining example of his culture, and indeed of his own world view.”76 I am not persuaded, however, that Josephus had significant personal knowledge of, or interest in, the actual Essenes. Rather, as also in Philo’s case, what he extolled was the literary portrayal of the Essenes, which was not necessarily an accurate representation of a group as it actually existed. It is certainly true that Josephus was very far from sharing the apocalyptic mindset of the ya ad described in the Dead Sea Scrolls, but I see little reason to think that he understood the actual mindset of the people he described as Essenes, or that he would have made much effort to find out. As Arnaldo Momigliano observed, there were things that

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See Collins 1992, 619–26. Mason 2000, 450.

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Josephus did not see, or chose not to see, about Judean society. One of those was apocalypticism, not only in the case of the Essenes.77 I do not think, then, that the scholarly identification of the ya ad with the Essenes is disproven by the fact that Josephus would not have approved of an apocalyptic group. But this conclusion has a corollary. The accounts of the Essenes have little value as independent witnesses to a movement that existed in Judea around the turn of the era. We cannot, for example, use these accounts to argue for a distinction between those who lived by the Dead Sea (Pliny) and the “urban Essenes” who lived in many towns and villages (Philo and Josephus).78 They have some value as supporting witnesses, when we have independent confirmation of some of their details. But in themselves they are first of all, as Mason correctly argues, witnesses to the rhetoric of Philo and Josephus, and to the Greek tradition of ethnography of which they are part. Bibliography Argall, R. A. 2000. A Hellenistic Jewish Source on the Essenes. Pages 13–21 in For a Later Generation. The Transformation of Tradition in Israel, Early Judaism and Early Christianity. Edited by R. A. Argall, B. A. Bow and R. A. Werline. Harrisburg, PA. Bauer, W. 1967 Essener. PWRE Sup 4. 386–430, reprinted in Pages 1–59 Aufsätze und kleine Schriften. Edited by G. Strecker. Tübingen. Beall, Todd. S. 1988. Josephus’ Description of the Essenes Illustrated by the Dead Sea Scrolls. Cambridge. Bergmeier, R. 1993. Die Essener-Berichte des Flavius Josephus. Kampen. ———. 2003a. Die drei jüdischen Schulrichtungen nach Josephus und Hippolyt von Rom. JSJ 34: 446–47. ———. 2003b. Zum historischen Wert der Essenerberichte von Philo und Josephus. Pages 11–22 in Qumran Kontrovers. Beiträge zu den Textfunden vom Toten Meer. Edited by J. Frey and H. Stegemann. Paderborn: Bonifatius. Bilde, P. 1998. The Essenes in Philo and Josephus. Pages 32–68 in Qumran Between the Old and New Testaments. Edited by F. Cryer and T. L. Thompson. Sheffield. Black, M. 1956. The Account of the Essenes in Hippolytus and Josephus. Pages 172–82 in The Background of the New Testament and its Eschatology. Edited by W. D. Davies and D. Daube. Cambridge. ———. 1961 The Scrolls and Christian Origins. New York. Burchard, C. 1974. Zur Nebenüberlieferung von Josephus’ Bericht über die Essener Bell 2,119–61 bei Hippolyt, Porphyrius, Josippus, Niketas Choniates und anderen. Pages 77–96 in Josephus-Studien. Untersuchungen zu Josephus, dem antiken Judentum und dem Neuen Testament. Edited by Otto Betz et al. Göttingen.

77 Momigliano 1987, 108–19, esp. 113–15. On Josephus’s non-apocalyptic reading of Daniel, see Mason 1994, 160–91. 78 Pace Boccaccini 1998, 21–49.

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———. 1977. Die Essener bei Hippolyt: Hippolyt, Ref. IX 18, 2–28, 2 und Josephus, Bell. 2,119–61. JSJ 8: 1–41. Boccaccini, G. 1998. Beyond the Essene Hypothesis. Grand Rapids. Collins, J. J. 1992. Essenes. Pages 619–26 in The Anchor Bible Dictionary. Volume 2 (6 1992 volumes). Edited by D. N. Freeman. New York. ———. 2006. The Essenes and the Afterlife. Pages 35–53 in From 4QMMT to Resurrection. Mélanges qumraniens en hommage á Émile Puech. Edited by F. García Martínez. Leiden. Cohen, S. 1979. Josephus in Galilee and Rome. His Vita and Development as a Historian Leiden. Del Medico, H. E. 1952–1953. Les Esséniens dans l’oeuvre de Flavius Josèphe. Byzantinoslavica 13: 1–45; 189–226. ——. 1957. L’Énigme des manuscrits de la Mer Morte. Paris. Frey, J. 2003. Zur historischen Auswertung der antiken Essenerberichte. Ein Beitrag zum Gespräch mit Roland Bergmeier. Pages 23–57 in Qumran Kontrovers. Beiträge zu den Textfunden vom Toten Meer. Edited by G. Frey and H. Stegemann, Goranson, G. 1994 Posidonius, Strabo and Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa as Sources on Essenes. JJS 45: 295–98. Hengel, M. 1974. Judaism and Hellenism. Studies in their Encounter in Palestine during the early Hellenistic Period. (2 Volumes) Philadelphia. Hölscher, G. 1916. Josephus. PWRE 9 1939–2000. Kampen, J. 1986. A Reconsideration of the Name ‘Essene.’ HUCA 57: 61–81. Kraft, R. A. 2001. Pliny on Essenes, Pliny on Jews. DSD 8, no. 3: 255–61. König, R. and Winkler, G. 1979. Plinius der Ältere. Leben und Werk eines antiken Naturforschers. Munich. Mason, S. 1989. Was Josephus a Pharisee? A Reexamination of Life 10–12. JJS 40: 31–46. ———. 1991. Flavius Josephus on the Pharisees. Leiden. ———. 1994. Josephus, Daniel and the Flavian House. Pages 160–91 in Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period. Essays in Memory of Morton Smith. Edited by F. Parente and J. Sievers. Leiden. ———. 2000. What Josephus Says about the Essenes in his Judean War. Pages 434–67 in Text and Artifact in the Religions of Mediterranean Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Peter Richardson. Edited by S. G. Wilson and M. Desjardins. Waterloo: Ontario. ———. 2001. Flavius Josephus: Life of Josephus. Vol. 9 of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Series edited by S. Mason. Leiden. ———. 2003. Josephus and the New Testament (2nd ed.). Peabody, MA. ———. 2007. Essenes and Lurking Spartans in Josephus’ Judean War: From Story to History. Pages 219–61 in Making History. Joseph and Historical Method. Edited by Z. Rodgers. Leiden. ——. What Josephus Says about the Essenes in his Judean War. http://orion.mscc.huji.ac.il/ orion/programs/Mason00–1.shtml Mason, S. with Honora Chapman. 2008 Flavius Josephus: Judean War 2. Vol. 1B of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Series edited by S. Mason. Leiden. Mendels, D. 1979. Hellenistic Utopia and the Essenes. HTR 72: 207–22. Momigliano, A. 1987. What Flavius Josephus Did Not See. Pages 109–19 in On Pagans, Jews, and Christians. Edited by A. Momigliano. Middletown, Conn. Murphy, C. M. 2002 Wealth in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the Qumran Community. Leiden. Nickelsburg, G. W. E. 1972. Resurrection, Immortality, and Eternal Life in Intertestamental Judaism. Cambridge, MA. Ory, G. 1975. A la recherche des Esséniens. Essai critique. Paris. Paul, A. 1992. Flavius Josèphe et les Esséniens. Pages 126–38 in The Dead Sea Scrolls. Forty Years of Research. Edited by D. Dimant and U. Rappaport. Leiden. Petit, M. 1992. Les Esséens de Philon d’Alexandrie. Pages 139–55 in The Dead Sea Scrolls. Forty Years of Research. Edited by D. Dimant and U. Rappaport. Leiden. Rajak, T. 1983. Josephus the Historian and His Society. London.

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———. 1994. Ciò che Flavio Giuseppe vide: Josephus and the Essenes. Pages 141–60 in Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period. Essays in Memory of Morton Smith. Edited by F. Parente and J. Sievers. Leiden. Sanders, E. P. 1992. Judaism. Practice and Belief 63 B.C.E.–66 C.E. Philadelphia. Schalit, A. 1968. Namenwörterbuch zu Flavius Josephus. Leiden. Schwartz, D. R. 1983. Josephus and Nicolaus on the Pharisees. JSJ 13: 157–71. Sievers, J. 1998. Josephus and the Afterlife. Pages 20–34 in Understanding Josephus. Seven Perspectives. Edited by S. Mason. Sheffield. Smith, M. 1958. The Description of the Essenes in Josephus and the Philosophoumena. HUCA 29: 273–93. ———. 1982. Helios in Palestine. Eretz Israel 16: 199–214. Sterling, G. E. 1992. Historiography and Self-definition: Josephos, Luke-Acts and Apologetic Historiography. Leiden. White, H. 1973. Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth Century Europe. Baltimore and London. ———. 1978. Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism. Baltimore and London. Williams, D. S. 1994. Josephus and the authorship of War 2.119–61 (on the Essenes). JSJ 25: 207–21.

JUDEAN ETHNIC IDENTITY IN JOSEPHUS’ AGAINST APION Philip F. Esler Among the many significant contributions Sean Freyne has made to understanding the early Christ movement in its context, especially the Galilean setting of Jesus, has been an incisive analysis of what lies behind the names “Galileans,” “Samaritans” and “Ioudaioi.”1 In this essay in Professor Freyne’s honour, my aim is to consider how best to understand what Josephus means by Ioudaioi in Against Apion. In doing so, I will revisit the broad approach to Judean ethnicity, and certain specific remarks on Against Apion that I set out in 2003 in a monograph on Romans,2 in the interests of offering a more detailed consideration of Judean ethnicity in this Josephan text than I was able to in 2003. While I cannot say that Professor Freyne will necessarily agree with my argument, I am happy to be able to present this essay to him as a small token of thanks for the warm friendship he has shown me for some twenty years. The word Ioudaios appears in the extant Greek section of Against Apion seventy-two times.3 I argued in 2003 that in the first century c.e. this word carried an ethnic, not a religious meaning, that the sense of its connection to the land Judea was very strong and that it should be translated “Judean” and not “Jew.” Part of my argument in 2003 was the observation that in Against Apion the name for virtually every one of the forty or so groups mentioned (except anomalies like the Hycsos) was based on the territory they occupied. Translating Ioudaios as “Jew,” and hence without reference to the geographic dimension, rather than

Freyne 2000, 114–31. Esler 2003, 40–76. 3 See the data in Rengstorf et alii, (eds) 1968, 63. There are three other instances where the text is disputed. These statistics include the occasions on which the word Iudaeus appears in the Latin translation of the section for which the Greek is not extant (2.51–113). This Latin passage is taken from Cassiodorus’ Latin translation of the work. For a Greek retroversion of Cassidorus’ Latin, see Shutt 1987, 79–93. See the concordance to the Latin section in Feldman and Levison 1996, 453–517. 1 2

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“Judean,” would represent an indefensibly exceptionalist translation.4 In the present essay, I seek to corroborate my claim that the Ioudaioi of whom Josephus writes are best regarded as an ethnic group, just like the other groups whom he mentions. In this text, in fact, Josephus expressly relates the name of his people to the name of their land by citing, with evident approval, a saying attributed to Aristotle that the Ioudaioi take their name from the place which they inhabit, Ioudaia (1.179). The Ioudaioi, therefore, are “Judeans,” the ethnic group from “Judea,” not “Jews,” meaning the members of a religion “Judaism.” Here “ethnic” is an etic (that is, an outsider, social-scientific) expression and while it should not be regarded as a perfect mode of designation (no system is), nevertheless in my view it remains the best presently available. Since Against Apion is the richest source for Judean ethnicity we have from the first century c.e., it constitutes a strong reason for translating Ioudaios as “Judean” in other texts of this period. I should note at this point that, in addition to regarding “Jew” or “Jewish” as inappropriate for anyone in the first century, I also consider the word “Christian” as inappropriate for anyone at that time (I prefer “Christ-follower” or “Christ-believer”) because of the blatant anachronism of the expression. One aspect of this anachronism is that there are three instances of Christianos in the New Testament (Acts 11.26 and 26.28; 1 Pet 4.16), but they are not used as self-designations. On the other hand, I certainly consider that modern-day Jews and Christians look back upon ancient Judeans and Christ-followers respectively as their biological (in some cases) or spiritual ancestors and feel strongly attached to them as the progenitors of their current identities.5 But that is no reason for denying these ancient people the right to be referred to by a name that reflects the nature of their identity in the first century rather than being saddled with a modern designation anachronistically dropped on them.6 As Fredrik Barth, to whom I will now turn, has 4 Esler 2003, 59. I am gratified that Professor John Barclay, of the University of Durham, in an unpublished lecture delivered in that university on 11th May 2005 (“Jewish Ethnicity as Collage: The Construction of Ethnicity in Josephus’ Contra Apionem.”) a copy of which he has kindly provided to me and which he is working up for publication, has also expressed the view that “Judean” is the preferable translation for Ioudaios because of the territorial nature of the other names for ethnic groups in the text (p. 20). Since this paper was written, Barclay’s commentary on Against Apion has been published (2006) and in it he continues using the translation “Judean.” 5 As far as Christians are concerned, see Esler 2005. 6 My approach also provides a defence against the “eternal Jew” idea that features in anti-semitism, a vicious evil now occasionally surfacing in parts of Europe and elsewhere.

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pointed out, a group can have a sense of itself persisting through time even though the cultural indicia (including group designations) by which it expresses its distinctiveness change. The preferable approach, in my view, is to refer to the representatives of such a group when they are being considered at a particular point in their history with reference to the cultural indicia (including their name) they were then employing to differentiate themselves from other groups. It seems to me contrary to the spirit of historical enquiry and inimical to the demands of historical truth to refer to them in any other way. In 2003 I employed a famous 1969 essay by Fredrik Barth to set out my broad approach to ethnicity. Broadly speaking, Barth favoured an interactive, processual and self-ascriptive approach to ethnicity. Barth argued that ethnic groups did not depend on the possession of a set of cultural features (= “primordialism”) but that their sense of themselves as a group interacting with other groups came first and that cultural features (changing over time) were deployed to express that sense of boundary. Ethnicity was an arena of ascription and identification used by certain groups to organise interactions with others.7 Yet all this left hanging the fact that this description could be applied to most groups; the problem remained as to what made a group “ethnic.” Here Barth, in spite of his refusal to tie ethnicity to cultural features, had acknowledged that an ascription of a person to a social category was ethnic in character “. . . when it classifies a person in terms of his basic, most general identity, presumptively determined by his origin and background.”8 In fact, since an ethnic group must be distinctive from other groups, such as a family, or a football team or a military unit, for the term “ethnic” to be meaningful, I suggested in 2003 that there needed to be some limited repertoire of features that captured this distinctiveness, even though (to keep true to Barth’s approach) they had to be diagnostic of, and not constitutive for, the identity and boundary in view. At this point I reached for the 1996 work of John Hutchinson and Anthony Smith who had usefully listed six features that indicated ethnicity, although these too needed to be employed in a diagnostic and not determinative manner, especially since some of them were to be found in other sorts of groups:

7 Barth 1969, 9–38; discussed in Esler 2003, 41–43. I note that John Barclay, in his essay mentioned above, has also employed Fredrik Barth’s approach; Barclay 2005, 3, and now also in his commentary (2006, LV). 8 Barth 1969, 13 (emphasis added).

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philip f. esler (a) a common proper name to identify the group; (b) a myth of common ancestry; (c) a shared history or shared memories of a common past, including heroes, events and their commemoration; (d) a common culture, embracing such things as customs, language and religion; (e) a link with a homeland, either through actual occupation or by symbolic attachment to the ancestral land, as with diaspora peoples; and (f ) a sense of communal solidarity.9

Perhaps the most widespread of these features is the myth of common ancestry.10 As just noted, Barth himself, favoured origin and background as presumptive indicators of ethnic identity. Before him, Max Weber had suggested that ethnic groups were characterized by their belief that that they shared common descent, whether or not an objective blood relationship actually existed.11 The second most common feature is probably the connection with a homeland, either presently occupied by some or all of the group, or the subject of memories of when they once dwelt there. The latter option represents the experience of diaspora peoples.12 My aim in this essay is to discuss the manner in which Josephus defends the Ioudaioi against various attacks by the writer Apion by comparing and contrasting them with other peoples in the environment. This will involve both demonstrating that “ethnicity” is a suitable etic framework for analysing the data in the text and also that the key to Josephus’ rhetorical strategy is his assumption that the Ioudaioi share broad categories of identity (comparable with those from Hutchinson and Smith listed above) with other peoples in his world, but that the particular form these take among Ioudaioi results in their having a superior identity to that of other groups. This feature of Josephus’ approach—his acknowledgment that Ioudaioi fall into the same broad

9 Hutchinson and Smith 1996, 3–14, at 6–7. Barclay (2006, LV) disagrees with my explicit use of The Hutchinson and Smith indicia, since he considers this represents making prior assumptions about “what must, or must not, be embraced” by the term “Judean.” Here, however, Barclay misunderstands the use of a social-scientific perspective in biblical interpretation. The Hutchinson and Smith criteria merely raise questions to put to the text, to which it must supply responsive data; they do not prescribe any particular conclusion. Using the Hutchinson and Smith criteria (diagnostically) also allows the interpreter to avoid exceptionalism in considering Judean ethnic identity. 10 See Williams 1989, 401–44. 11 Weber 1978 (1922), 385–98. (Partially reproduced in Hutchinson and Smith 1996, 35–40), 389; Esler 2003, 41. 12 Esler 2003, 44.

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class of identity (for which I will argue “ethnicity” is a useful framework) but that they are the most impressive instance of the class—probably constitutes the most noteworthy feature of his argument.13 While it is clear that Josephus is mounting a rhetorical case, we must be careful about what this means for his treatment of Judean identity. At the time I completed this essay I had available a lecture John Barclay delivered in 2005, but not his 2006 commentary (which I have now consulted in finalising the proofs for this essay). Although in his 2005 lecture Professor Barclay suggested that Josephus was “composing” Judean identity, rather than working with any notion of that identity that existed in an objective sense, in his 2006 commentary he has retreated from that position (for good reason, in my view). He now proposes that in the Josephus presentation significant aspects of Judean ethnic identity are not “invented out of nothing: they are not made, but they are made salient,” or “constructed.” This comes closer to my view, but still risks over-stating (in an exceptionalist direction) the freedom with which Josephus treats Judean ethnicity.14 While it is part of a Barthian approach to fix upon the “constructed” dimension of ethnic identity, we must be careful not to over-emphasise this aspect. Since not even Apion appears to have claimed the Ioudaioi were not a group like other groups (let us call them “ethnic”) in the environment, such as Romans, Greeks, Egyptians and so on, merely that they were a poor example of the class, Josephus is simply putting the best slant on Judean ethnicity, not “composing” or constructing it in any radical sense. Judean “ethnicity” (and that of other peoples) existed; that is to say, there was actually present in the ancient Mediterranean region a set of social relations, roles and group-and individual self-understandings and so on which can be helpfully analysed using the analytical framework of ethnicity. Josephus’ job was to say how distinctive and splendid Judean identity was among a group of other peoples bearing a similar form of identity. That is the burden of his rhetoric in this text.

13 This approach seems to me preferable to that taken by John Barclay (2006, LVI–LIX), who has analysed Against Apion in terms of six prominent features of Ioudaios-identity which are rather different from those of Smith and Hutchinson: 1. Descent and shared history; 2. territory; 3. language; 4. sacred texts; 5. temple; and 6. constitution (laws and customs). I will stick closer to the indicia outlined by Hutchinson and Smith, especially as Barclay’s list tends to highlight unique aspects of Judean identity, whereas following Hutchinson and Smith to ask questions of the text brings out the extent to which Josephus clearly saw the Judeans as sharing the same kind of identity as the other (ethnic) groups in their environment, even if they were superior to them. 14 See Barclay 2005, 4 and 2006, LV.

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The Judeans as One of Many Ethnic Groups: GENOS and ETHNOS Our first task is to substantiate the claim made above that Josephus understands the Judeans to fall within the same broad category of people as the other groups mentioned in this text. It is of critical importance that this is not something that Josephus feels he needs to prove, like so many other aspects of his argument; rather, it emerges as an assumption at various places in the text. He is clearly of the view that his audience requires no persuasion on this point. Let us consider the evidence. The first area of data comes from the language for group-belonging used to describe the Judeans and other groups, in particular the words genos and ethnos, which are the focus of this section. But we will find further evidence for Josephus holding this view when assessing the data in the text bearing upon the indicia of ethnicity highlighted by Hutchinson and Smith. The most common word that Josephus uses in Against Apion to describe what I am referring to as an ethnic group is genos, which appears forty four times, often of the Ioudaioi. The word appears in this connection as early as the first sentence of the work, in the phrase “concerning the genos of us Judeans” (1.1). Other instances of the word in relation to Judeans occur at 1.2, 1.32, 1.59, 1.71, 1.106, 1.130, 1.160, 1.278, and so on. It is a fundamental error to translate genos here as “race,” as the Loeb edition translator does at 1.1 and frequently elsewhere.15 As I have argued elsewhere,16 the whole notion of “race” stems from the proponents of nineteenth century pseudo-science who believed that genotypic differences between peoples could be the basis of group classification and, inevitably, that some “races” (“white” ones, typically) were superior to others. The denial of “race” as a category does not mean that some genotypic features are not more common in some human populations than others (brown eyes, for example), but that such features cannot be the basis of any sensible system of classification. The word genos cannot, moreover, have a meaning for Josephus that was only invented in the nineteenth century. Its meaning for him is reasonably clear: it generally means “birth” or “descent,” or it refers to a group of people who are related to one another by the fact of physical descent. It is closely related to the verb gennaô, “to beget,” in that somewhat antique but still useful translation, a word that appears three times in this text, once in the active sense just given (2.241), and twice in passive forms (2.29

15 16

Thackeray 1926, 163. Esler 2003, 51–53.

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and 41). By way of helpful comparison, John Elliott, when speaking of the usage of the word at 1 Pet 2.9, well captures its meaning in his comment that: “The term genos denotes a collectivity of persons, a stock or “line” of persons descended from a common ancestor—in the case of Israel, the stock of Jacob.”17 A reasonable translation for genos as a group designation in the Contra Apionem is simply “people,” as long as we remember that we are dealing with something like a “descent-group,” to use anthropological parlance. Central to our argument is that in Against Apion Josephus also uses genos as a word meaning “people” in relation to other ethnic groups in his environment: for example, the Greeks (1.69) and, possibly, the Egyptians (2.29, unless there the word means “birth”). Just as he can speak of someone who is Judean by birth ( genos as an accusative of respect, as at 1.179, for example), he refers to the members of other ethnic groups who are Chaldean (1.129), Egyptian (1.73, 1.252, 1.275 etc.) or Heliopolitan (1.250, 1.265) “by birth” (genos). It is beyond doubt that Josephus regards Judeans, Greeks, Egyptians and so on as each being representatives of a class or group that can be described as a genos. Furthermore, Josephus uses the word ethnos both of the Judeans (at 1.5, 1.68, 1.161, 1.166, 1.168, 1.172, 1.185, 1.194, 1.213, 2.43, 2.220) and also of other ethnic groups: the Hycsos (1.82, 1.91), and as a suitable word to embrace Judeans, Phoenicians, Syrians and Egyptians (1.137). Similar to this last instance but even more revealing is a passage in which Josephus notes that Choerilos, an ancient poet, had mentioned “our ethnos” as having taken part in Xerxes’ expedition against Greece after having enumerated “all the other ethnê” who took part (1.172). Josephus’ assumption that the Judeans form one people (ethnic group) among others in his setting could not be plainer. To similar effect is his usage of ethnos as a generic word for “people” (1.220, 2.40, 2.125, 2.282). Another word Josephus uses to describe a people is laos. At one point Josephus applies this expression to non-Judean peoples (2.159). He also uses it with respect to the Shepherds (1.94). Elsewhere, however, it refers to the Judeans (1.132, 1.253, 1.305, 1.313). Since Josephus’ understanding of the Judeans as a genos and an ethnos and a laos just like other genê and ethnê and laoi in his setting becomes clear from his broad approach to his subject and not from any specific argument on his part, it is beyond doubt that he does not envisage anyone disputing the point. In other words, the status of the Judeans as 17

Elliott 2000, 435.

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a people, as an ethnic group, was something he could assume. Josephus did not need to re-invent Judean ethnicity de novo or construct it; his job was to put the very best interpretation on it. As we now proceed to consider the text in the light of the six indicia proposed by Hutchinson and Smith, this finding will be abundantly confirmed. Josephus’ AGAINST APION in the light of Six Indicia of Ethnicity A Common Proper Name to Identify the Group As I have mentioned elsewhere, there are some forty names of ethnic groups mentioned in Josephus’ Against Apion. With only one or two exceptions (such as the Hycsos, whose origins were a mystery to everyone), these groups were named after the territory from which they came.18 I have noted above that Josephus explicitly makes this point in relation to the Ioudaioi and Ioudaia by citing a saying attributed to Aristotle to this effect (1.179). In this respect also, therefore, the territorial manner by which each of the groups was designated constituted another dimension of the same general class of group which embraced the Judean people along with all the rest. Naming a people in relation to their territory was virtually a universal feature of ethnic understanding in this setting. It is true, however, that the Ioudaioi also referred to themselves in relation to their illustrious ancestor Israel, as Israelitai. But this was insider language, and additional to the territorial name of Ioudaioi which was necessary whenever the relevant arena was one (as in Against Apion), where inter-ethnic relationships were in the frame. This is no doubt the reason for the striking fact that the word Israelitês does not appear even once in Against Apion. A Myth of Common Ancestry The notion of denoting an ethnic group in relation to birth, to shared descent, has already been noted above with respect to the Josephan use of genos as a way of denoting an ethnic group, including his own. This phenomenon is closely related to the significant data in the Against Apion relating to the possession of a myth of common ancestry that is a feature both of the Judeans and of other ethnic groups whom Josephus

18

Esler 2003, 59.

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mentions. Here I am employing the word “myth” since the genealogical accuracy of the claimed descent is irrelevant: it was enough that a group believed it sprang from a common ancestor or ancestors, not that such a claim was historically correct. This is an area where collective memory, rather than fact, was the ground of the asserted ancestry. A belief in common ancestry is often linked, naturally enough, to a claim by members of a group to be related to one another. It is worth reiterating that the claim to have common blood, to enjoy consanguinity, with some distinguished ancestor, has nothing to do with the modern notion of “race.” Rather, it is a means of expressing kinship; indeed, the fact that members of an ethnic group claim consanguinity with one another shows how often shared descent figures in assertions of ethnic identity.19 Apart from Josephus’ noting at one point that Noah was the founder (archêgos) of the Judean genos (1.130), the most notable aspect of the text in this regard comes in the following passage, when Josephus, having mentioned various groups who were enemies of his people, goes on to say: “I would not, however, be able to say the same thing about the Chaldeans, since they are the founders (archêgoi) of our people (genos) and on account of this shared descent (syngeneia) make mention of Judeans in their writings (1.171).” The etymological connection between genos and syngeneia is worth noting. Josephus omits to mention that the particular Chaldean “founders” he has in mind are Abraham and his family, who left Ur in the land of Chaldeans (Gen 11.31–32 and 12), eventually to settle in the land that God had promised. Presumably Abraham is omitted here (and everywhere else in this text!) because a Judean audience would not need to be told this detail, while for non-Judeans it might prove an irrelevant distraction. But clearly we have here, in nuce admittedly, a myth of common ancestry and a consequent assertion of shared descent (syngeneia). One aspect of this myth is the strenuous denial of the counter-claim that, in fact, the ancestry of the Judeans lay in Egypt (1.252, 1.278, 2.8, 2.29, 2.289). The true position, which he asserts was admitted by the Egyptian author Manetho, was that his people was not of Egyptian origin, but came into Egypt from elsewhere, conquered it and afterwards left it (1.252).

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Esler 2003, 56 and Hall 1997, 7.

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philip f. esler A Shared History or Shared Memories of a Common Past

The primary aim of Josephus in Against Apion is to demonstrate that, in spite of allegations to the contrary, the Judean people is one of great antiquity. This was a culture in which to be old and ancestral was good and to be novel was bad; hence the Roman expression for a revolution was res novae.20 He makes this claim to the antiquity of the Judeans as early as the first page of the text, mentions it later (for example, at 1.160), summarises it (1.215–216) and returns to it emphatically in his conclusion: “For I have proved that our people ( genos) goes back to ancient times, whereas our accusers assert that it is very new.” (2.288) It is not surprising, therefore, that the work is replete with arguments asserting that the Judeans have a long and illustrious history, featuring events and heroes from the past. In other words, there is abundant data in the text corresponding to the third indicium of ethnicity proposed by Hutchinson and Smith. We must note, however, that Josephus’ strategy is not to suggest that Judeans are unique in this respect. Rather, he argues that although, like other peoples in their world, they have a history, theirs is particularly distinctive and illustrious. That is to say, Josephus does not seek to “construct” Judean ethnic identity, which (as far as he and his audience are concerned) is a given, but rather, on the assumption that the Judeans are an ethnic group like the others, to maintain a strong case for the superiority of the Judeans in this area. Thus, he readily concedes that the Egyptians, the Chaldeans and the Phoenicians have a history (1.8). The Greeks were active writers of history (1.6–14), although poor ones (1.15–27). The Judeans, on the other hand, are very accurate historians (1.28–38). One aspect of his argument that his people have an illustrious history is to proffer evidence that they have been noticed by non-Judeans. In ancient times various peoples knew of his ethnos (1.166). Non-Judean writers also noticed them; in this latter regard he notes that his people appear in the Phoenician chronicles (1.106–111), he claims that Herodotus did not ignore his people (1.168–171) and observes that Choerilos mentions his ethnos (1.172). Yet Josephus also provides specific details of that history, especially by asserting that Moses was the leader of his people (laos; 1.253), that Moses took them into the land that they

20

Esler 1987, 215–17.

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inhabited (1.281) and that Moses was the greatest of all legislators (2.157–163). Moses was so great, in fact, that he was imitated by others, such as Plato (2.257). In all, Moses appears twenty one times in the text.21 For Josephus he served the purpose of providing a figure from the Judean past who fulfilled the same role as the great law-givers of other peoples, such as Lycurgus and Solon (among the Athenians) and Zaleucus among the Locrians (2.154). To conclude on this point, Josephus concedes that peoples have histories but makes the positive case that the history of the Judeans is particularly illustrious, having been noticed by non-Judeans in the past, and that the events associated with Moses, especially his promulgation of a law code that has been imitated by people as eminent as Plato, mean that the Judeans have a history that makes them the most outstanding people of all. Yet Josephus also argues that Judeans have a set of cultural and religious practices superior to other peoples and that brings us to the fourth indicium of ethnicity set out by Hutchinson and Smith. A Common Culture “Common culture” is a concept reasonably equivalent to the meaning expressed by the word ethê some eighteen times in this text.22 We should begin by noting the width of “common culture” as an area of ethnic differentiation, since it embraces customs, language and religion. This means that what we, in the modern period, call “religion” forms only one part of it.23 This brings out very sharply how different a picture of first century Ioudaioi we gain if (following Josephus!) we approach them as an ethnic group like other such groups around the Mediterranean, investigating their boundaries in relation to the six indicia upon which we are focusing, only one of which includes “religion” (and then as merely part, though a very important part, of the story), rather than following the route which is still commonplace of viewing these people as “Jews,” meaning adherents of a “religion” called “Judaism.” Josephus adopts a strategy in this area which is essentially the same as in the others we have canvassed. He acknowledges that other peoples

See the data in Rengstorf 1968, 88. See the data in Rengstorf 1979, 19. 23 For my argument that “religion” is an inappropriate and anachronistic category to use in relation to the first century Mediterranean world, see Esler 2003, 7–8. 21 22

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have cultural and ritual practices, at one point noting that there is an endless variety of customs and laws among human populations (2.164). There are, for example, many types of political constitutions and the Judeans have one too, yet it is very distinctive: theokratia (2.165). A large part of his task is to defend the distinctiveness, superiority and above all, the antiquity of Judean institutions. For Josephus, not surprisingly, the source of Judean culture is the Mosaic tradition: of their twenty-two books, Moses was responsible for the five that contain their laws (nomoi ) and history from the beginning of humanity (anthrôpogonia) until the time of his death (1.38–39). Josephus stresses that Judeans have been geographically isolated from the outside world and pride themselves on the education of their children and on the observance of their laws (nomoi ) and their worship (eusebeia) (1.60). This mention of nomoi and eusebeia illustrates how Josephus regards worship of God as part of the tradition the Judeans received from Moses, while treating it as distinguishable from other areas of observance since it focuses directly upon their relationship with God. This means he is proceeding in a way closely analogous to the indicium of culture as explained by Hutchinson and Smith: the Judeans have a “culture,” as it were, the Mosaic heritage, which he can refer to in general terms as their “constitution” (katastasis, 1.58; politeuma, 2.145) or “institutions” (epitêdeumata; 2.123), but it comprises nomoi (especially appropriate to inter-personal relations and also eusebeia, the proper worship of God. In other words, for Josephus the strictly “religious” aspect of Judean culture forms only one part of the whole. Yet this is not to deny that for the Judeans divine worship did have an unusually prominent role. This can be seen clearly in the celebrated statement in 2.170: “He (Moses) did not make worship (eusebeia) a part of virtue (aretê), but the virtues part of it.” He continues by noting that for the Judeans worship governs all their actions and occupations and speech. This seems to reflect the reality of a people for whom devotion to God and cultic practice impacted on their morality in a manner that was highly distinctive in the Greco-Roman world. An exhaustive survey of all the evidence in Against Apion is not possible here, so I will provide a few examples that illustrate the point. On a number of occasions Josephus attempts to show how there are similarities and affinities between Judeans and Greeks (and Macedonians), while at the same time seeking to differentiate Judeans from Egyptians and other ethnic groups for whom he has very negative views. Part of his anti-Egyptian animus is no doubt explicable on the basis that Apion himself was “Egyptian by birth” (2.138), but here we should also

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recognise a reaction on Josephus’ part to the sufferings experienced by the Judeans in Alexandria in 38 c.e., to his mind at the hands of the Egyptians (2.69–70). At one point he is responding to Apion’s denunciation of the Judeans for their sacrificing domestic animals, for not eating pork and for practising circumcision (2.137). His reply is very instructive. The practice of killing animals, he insists, is common to all human beings. Apion here displays his Egyptian birth, since no Greek or Macedonian would have found the practice offensive (elsewhere he claims that the Greeks and the Macedonians were favourably disposed towards the Judeans, even if the Egyptians were not; 2.69). His suggestion that the Greeks are more dissimilar to the Judeans in where they live than in their institutions (epitêdeumata; 2.123) is of a piece with this view. The Egyptians are distinctive in refusing to kill some (but not all) animals in the belief that they are gods (2.137–139). This passage reveals Josephus’ belief or assumption that the human beings are divided into broad groups (“ethnic” for our purposes), including his own people as one of them, that they share certain customs (for example, the sacrifice of animals), but that the customs of some groups are superior to those of others. Whereas other peoples have myriads of books, inconsistent with one another, the Judeans have only twenty two (1.38). Whereas a Greek would rather see the entire collection of his people’s writings be destroyed than endure the smallest injury, Judeans suffer death rather than utter a single word against their writings (1.43, 1.44). Hecataeus had mentioned their regard for their laws and how they did not transgress them (1.190). Josephus’ argument for the superiority of his people’s laws and of Moses, their law-giver, occupies a sizeable passage in Against Apion (2.151–189). A highpoint of this case is the claim that Plato followed the example of Moses (2.257). In relation to the question of worship, Josephus acknowledges that the Egyptians have religious observances in some way parallel to the eusebeia of the Judeans, while still insisting upon the distance between them, in as much as the Judeans worship God but the Egyptians animals (1.224–225; also 2.66). Here again his standard tactics in this text appear: Judeans are like other peoples in possessing a mode of divine worship, but theirs is superior to that of other peoples (such as the Egyptians especially). They have a discourse concerning God (theologia) marked by solemnity (1.225). One final aspect of culture worth mentioning is that of language. Although Against Apion is written in Greek, on a number of occasions,

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as John Barclay has well pointed out, there are several indications in the text that Josephus regards language as a sign of ethnic distinctiveness, starting with his parading the fact that he wrote this text in Greek, which suggests that it was “a notable feature, a matter of choice rather than necessity.”24 We know from his Judean Antiquities 20.263–264 that Greek was not Josephus’ first language. A Link with a Homeland The fifth diagnostic indicator of ethnicity in view here is a link with a homeland, which can subsist either through actual occupation of the ancestral land or by symbolic attachment to it, as with diaspora peoples. On many occasions in the text Josephus reveals his understanding that the peoples he has in mind are characterised by such a territorial link. This is not simply by reason of their nearly all being named after the land from which they sprang (as noted above), but also depends upon the power of place to have a powerful effect on group identity. Josephus, along with other writers in the ancient Greco-Roman world, most notably Hippocrates in Airs, Waters, Places,25 considered that the land in which people were born and raised affected their character and identity. We see this view outcrop in a negative way when he belittles Apion for having his origin (genos) in an oasis in Egypt, not Alexandria as he claimed, and Josephus further maligns such an origin as ignominious (2.30). Josephus emphasises his belief that a person’s homeland affects his or her character and identity a little later when he notes that Apion was born “in the deepest part of Egypt” (2.41). This stereotyping of a disliked ethnic outgroup by reference to its place of origin must be read with the avowals Josephus proffers elsewhere that the origin (genos) of the Judeans was not Egyptian (1.252, 1.278, 2.8 and 2.29). This attitude reveals the extent to which ethnic honour was connected with possession of a particular territory. As Josephus notes at one point: “Men of great heart (hoi megalophronountes) are proud of their homelands” (Apion 2.30). The importance of the land Judea for the Judeans emerges in the first sentence of Against Apion, when Josephus rehearses the three big themes of his earlier work, the Antiquities: the antiquity of the Judean people, the distinctive character of their foundation and how they 24 25

Barclay 2006, LV. See my discussion of this text in Esler 2003, 59–60.

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came to possess the land (chôra) that they now inhabit (1.1). As noted above, there is explicit recognition in the text that the Judeans took their name from the place (1.179). As usual, however, Josephus makes clear that there is nothing unusual about them in this respect. The other peoples about whom he is speaking also “inhabit places” (topous oikousin; 1.9). As noted already, possession of a territory is part of being a people and particular territories affect the peoples who inhabit them in different ways. In Against Apion we observe a particular application of this view directly relevant to this overarching theme of defending the antiquity of the Judeans in his comments that those least exposed to poor weather, such as the Egyptians, the Chaldeans and the Phoenicians, and the Judeans themselves, possess a very old and stable record of the past (1.8). The land (topos) of Greece, however, has experienced many catastrophes that have erased the memory of the past (1.10). The word topos (in singular or plural form) appears some thirty times in the text.26 It is a word of general meaning that can refer to inhabited or uninhabited places (see 1.306–309). For language to express the precise connection between a people and its land we must go to a word like patris, used nine times in the text with the meaning of “homeland.” The word has a general application, that is, one extending to all ethnic groups at 1.212, 2.30 and 2.284. But Josephus can also apply it to specific peoples or individuals, such as the Judeans (2.210 and 2.277), the Egyptians (2.29 and 2.34), the Hycsos (1.242) and Homer (2.140). Here again we see Josephus establishing a general frame of reference that applies to all the nations he mentions, including his own. “Let each man reflect on his own homeland (patris) and household (oikos),” he observes at one point, “and he will not disagree with what I have said” (2.284). Plainly Josephus holds the belief that everyone has an identity that derives, at least in part, from their homeland and their family. He expresses this belief in an incidental way in the course of proving a particular proposition, which is likely to be disputed, that the law of Moses has permeated throughout all humanity. This process entails that the belief itself is not contested; everyone has a homeland and a household, and the Judeans are no exception. Once again we observe that Josephus is not constructing Judean ethnicity ab initio; he does not need to, since apparently no one doubts it. His task is to set

26

See the details in Rengstorf 1983, 203–4.

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that identity in the best possible light to refute the case being made by those who disliked and denigrated the Judean people. Josephus provides some detailed information about the land (chôra) of Judea in 1.60–68. He focuses principally upon its being remote from the sea. The Judeans are not traders but a people who cultivate the land and educate their children in their laws. For this reason, unlike the Egyptians and the Phoenicians, they did not have early contact with the Greeks. He is keen to claim that generally people who have a coastline are better known than those who do not (1.65–66), since this helps him to disarm Apion’s attacks on his people for not having been prominent in the writings of historians. Later he cites descriptions of their land (chôra) in the writings of non-Judean authors (1.174 and 1.195). In addition, Josephus mentions their city ( Jerusalem) in which they have a temple famous among all (1.315). The prominence Josephus attaches to the centrality of eusebeia to Judean identity is matched by the interest he displays in the temple where much of the eusebeia is practised. Thus he cites a description of the temple by Hecataeus (1.197–199) and later provides a more detailed one of his own (2.102–109).27 The temple is mentioned in Tyrian records (1.109) and was erected by his ancestors after they had conquered the land (1.127). Apart from Judean ethnicity being attached to the land Judea by actual occupation, Josephus acknowledges the diaspora existence of many (indeed, we know, millions) of Judeans contemporary with him. Thus, after describing how Judean priests only marry Judean women of pure lineage as recorded in the archives, he notes that: “This practice is not confined to Judea itself, but wherever there is a community (sustêma) of our people (genos), there also the priests record an accurate record of their marriages” (1.32). More poignantly, and with the calamitous consequences of the Judean revolt against Roman rule during 66–70 c.e. stirring bitter memories, he writes: But even though we are deprived of wealth, of cities and of the other good things, our Law at any rate remains immortal, and there is no Judean (Ioudaios)—however far he might be from his homeland ( patris) and however much he fears a cruel despot—who does not fear the Law more than him (2.277).

27

For an important essay, see Bauckham 1996, 327–47.

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A Sense of Communal Solidarity While there is considerable material in relation to this last issue in the Against Apion, most of it relates to the Judeans, principally because here Josephus claims his people are notably distinctive. He argues that his people possess laws that result in worship (toward God), community (koinônia) among one another and humanity toward all (2.146). Soon after this he makes a remarkable amendment to the four Platonic virtues—justice, measured restraint, fortitude and wisdom—by replacing the last mentioned with “harmony (symphônia) of all members among one another in all things” (2.170). The highlight of this theme in the text comes with what is virtually a paean to Judean harmony (homonoia) and concord (symphônia) in 2.179–183. Josephus attributes these characteristics to the unity of their religious beliefs and their customs (2.179). The notion of Judean “harmony” (symphônia and symphônein) also occurs elsewhere (2.283 and 294). Later (at 2.196) he utters the memorable statement: “For we have been born for community (koinônia).” One driver for these manifestations of communal solidarity is Judean devotion and adherence to the law of Moses. Thus, they gather each week to hear it read (2.175), they teach it to their children (1.60) and they would rather endure death with terrible tortures than deny a word of it (1.190–191). Yet even here Josephus does not argue that the Judeans are utterly distinctive, since he mentions at one point that the Greek philosophers, although apparently observing their own ancestral traditions, were actually disciples of Moses, since they held similar views about God and advocated a simple life and “community” (koinônia) among one another (2.281). Other peoples also attempt to imitate Judean harmony (2.283). Josephus, while giving pride of place to communal solidarity within Judean ethnic identity, thus acknowledges that it is known elsewhere, among the Greeks for example. Conclusion Josephus takes up the cudgels to defend his people against many allegations that have been made against them. He denies the charges that they lack antiquity and are not mentioned in the works of the Greek historians. He also refutes a litany of absurd claims made about their origins and mode of life by people like Manetho, Chaeremon, Lysimachus and Apion himself. But nowhere does he feel called upon

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to defend their status as a people like the other peoples of that time and place, such as the Greeks, Egyptians, Romans, Scythians and so on. This can only be because no-one, or at least no-one whom he considered needed a response, was denying the Judeans such a status. No-one was suggesting that they were not a people (a genos, ethnos or laos), an ethnic group in our parlance, within the framework of the six diagnostic criteria we have been exploring: a common proper name, a myth of common ancestry, a shared history, a common culture, a link with a homeland and a sense of communal solidarity. For this reason it is not surprising that Josephus adopts a strategy that consists of situating the Judeans within an ethnic framework shared by the other peoples who lived around the Mediterranean at this period, while arguing that within this broad category the Judeans are distinctive and, in many respects, superior. He is at pains to represent the unique nature of Judean ethnic identity and the special character of the boundaries that separate it from the other ethnic groups with which it interacted, in the centrality of divine worship, for example, but not at the cost of portraying his people as fundamentally different in character from them. All this confirms the need of translating Ioudaioi as “Judeans” and not “Jews,” since the latter designation has lost the territorial connection to the land Judea that was essential to it. No doubt had Josephus been writing several centuries later, he might have focused on somewhat different criteria, with the temple, for example, perhaps being less prominent than it is here. But this illustrates the processual and interactive nature of ethnicity within the approach enunciated by Fredrik Barth in 1969. A people’s sense of identity can persist over time even though the cultural indicia by which it expresses that identity change. This investigation of the Against Apion illustrates the usefulness of exploring the nature of Judean group identity within the perspective on ethnicity espoused by Barth and with a view to the particular diagnostic indicia of ethnicity proposed by Hutchinson and Smith. The abundance of data in the text relevant to these features provides ample justification for examining it within an ethnic framework. This process allows us to place the Judeans and their identity firmly in a realistic social context and to avoid the anachronistic imposition on them of an identity that subsists in their being “Jews,” the members of a “religion” called “Judaism.” It is submitted that this is a significant historical advance. This still leaves open many other interesting and related questions, especially the analysis of the attitudes Josephus displays to other groups within a framework of inter-ethnic tension and conflict, but it is a start.

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Bibliography Barclay, J. 2005. Jewish Ethnicity as Collage: The Construction of Ethnicity in Josephus’ Contra Apionem (an unpublished lecture delivered in the University of Reading on May 11th). ———. 2006. Flavius Josephus: Against Apion. Volume 3 of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Edited by S. Mason. Leiden. Barth, F. 1969. “Introduction.” Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference. Edited by F. Barth. London. Bauckham, R. 1996. Josephus’ Account of the Temple in the Contra Apionem 2.102–109. Pages 327–47 in Josephus’ Contra Apionem, Studies in its Character and Context with a Latin Concordance to the Portion Missing in Greek. Edited by L. H. Feldman and J. R. Levison. Leiden. Elliott, J. H. 2000. I Peter: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. New York. Esler, P. F. 1987. Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts: The Social and Political Motivations of Lucan Theology. Cambridge. ———. 2003. Conflict and Identity in Romans: The Social Context of Paul’s Letter. Minneapolis. ———. 2005. New Testament Theology: Communion and Community. Minneapolis. Hall, J. M. 1997. Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity. Berkeley. Feldman, L. H. and Levison, J. R. (eds), 1996. Josephus’ Contra Apionem: Studies in its Character and Context with a Latin Concordance to the Portion Missing in Greek. Leiden. Freyne, S. 2000. Behind the Names: Galileans, Samaritans and Ioudaioi. Pages 114–31 in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays. WUNT 125. Tübingen. Hutchinson, J. and Smith, A. D. (eds.) 1996. Ethnicity. Oxford. Rengstorf K. H. et alii, ed., 1968. A Complete Concordance to Flavius Josephus. Supplement 1. Namenwörter zu Flavius Josephus von Abraham Schalit. Leiden. ———. 1983. A Complete Concordance to Flavius Josephus. Volume 4. Leiden. Shutt, R. J. H. 1989. Josephus in Latin: A Retroversion into Greek and an English Translation. JSP 1:79–93. Thackeray, H. St. John 1926. Josephus, The Life of Apion with an English Translation Cambridge, Mass. and London. Weber, M. 1978. Ethnic Groups. Pages 385–389 in Economy and Society. Volume 1. Edited by (1922) G. Roth and C. Wittich. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London. Williams, B. F. 1989. A Class Act: Anthropology and the Race to Nation Across Ethnic Terrain. Annual Review of Anthropology 18, 401–44.

WHAT DID NEHEMIAH DO FOR JUDAISM?1 Anne Fitzpatrick-McKinley From as early as C. C. Torrey the account of Nehemiah in the so called Nehemiah Memoir has been judged by many scholars to be historically reliable.2 The account of Ezra (Ezra 7–10, Neh 8) on the other hand, has been regarded as far less reliable and some have gone so far as to suggest that Ezra is a literary creation.3 If Nehemiah is to be considered an historical figure, then we should ask what Nehemiah did for Judaism? Grabbe has described Nehemiah as “. . . egotistical, bigoted, narrow-minded and vindictive,”4 a figure whose concerns were political rather than religious. Ezra, on the other hand, displays a piety which scholarship has come to associate with Judaism of a later period.5 While later writers ascribe an extremely important role to Ezra,6 earlier interpreters of traditions about the Persian period would appear to have placed more emphasis on Nehemiah. The authors/compilers of Ecclesiasticus and 2 Maccabees chose Nehemiah as the hero of the Persian period who best embodied their ideals, whereas Ezra is not even mentioned. The significance of this choice and what it might tell

It is a great pleasure to be associated with this volume in honour of Sean Freyne. My first encounters with him were as an undergraduate in Trinity College and since then he has shown me endless support and generosity. Though retired some years now, Sean still has that contagious energy with which I have always associated him. “Gone but not forgotten”? “Forgotten but not gone?”—neither actually, rather always a source of inspiration. 2 Torrey 1896; 1910, 238–40. 3 Grabbe 1998a and for a discussion of this position first found in the nineteenth century (in the work of Renan 1893 and Torrey 1896) see Garbini 1988, 154. Nonetheless, while Nehemiah has been judged to be an historical figure he is also often presented as having contributed far less to Judaism than the figure of Ezra. A number of scholars who have regarded Ezra as a literary creation have suggested that he was created to place torah at the centre of Nehemiah’s mission. For discussion see Fitzpatrick-McKinley 2003, 44–48. 4 Grabbe 1998a, 180. 5 Grabbe 1998a, 180. 6 Ezra is referred to in a number of places including in the Mishnah at Parah 3, 5 and in the Babylonian Talmud, Baba Qamma 82 where he is compared to Moses’ many modern commentators think that Judaism began with Ezra. See for example, Sanders 1972, 50–51. For discussion see Stone 1982. 1

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us about attitudes of the period, religious and otherwise, has not been thoroughly investigated. In the view of the authors of 2 Maccabees (2 Macc 1:18–36, 2:13–15) and Ecclesiasticus (Sir 49:13), Nehemiah did a great deal for Judaism and there is no sign of the disappointment which modern commentators have felt in relation to the achievements of Nehemiah in these early accounts of the Persian period.7 Rather than being regarded as lacking in piety, for these authors Nehemiah did something profoundly “Jewish” when he built the walls, the gate and the houses of the city of Jerusalem.8 For both authors Nehemiah contributed to the foundation of the temple state and it is this notion of a temple state which lies at the centre of the views of the authors of 2 Maccabees and Ben Sira. If these authors can be said to be concerned with “Judaism,” then it is the temple state which is essential to their view of “Judaism.”9 The Earliest Account of Nehemiah: The Nehemiah Memoir Torrey argued that in Nehemiah 1:1–11:1–13:31, we encounter a text which was probably written by Nehemiah himself as he reported to

7 For example, Grabbe’s assessment of Nehemiah, Grabbe 1998a, 180. Noth noted that the Chronicler also regarded Nehemiah’s achievements as somewhat lacking and placed Ezra before Nehemiah because for the Chronicler, Ezra had “a special task” which was “more urgent and important.” Noth 1960, 320. 8 I use the term “Jewish” with some caution. Many are of the view that we cannot use the the terms “Jews” or “Judaism” until relatively late and certainly not in the Persian period. Esler for example sees the term ioudaios as indicating an origin in the land of Judah. Esler 2003, 59. Mason regards the use of the terms “Jew” or “Judaism” as inappropriate until the third century C.E. and prefers to use “Judean” and “Judean customs” etc. until then. In addition, he points out that “Religion” was not a category for the ancient as it is for moderns (Mason 2007, 458–60, 479–88). Schwartz (2007, 3–27) believes that the transition in the understanding of the term ioudaios from Judean to Jew is not evident until the time of Josephus and thinks that in Josephus’ War the term carries an ethnic or national connotation, whereas in Antiquities it carries a religious, cultic meaning. In my view however, even if Judean was primarily understood to denote people from the land of Judah or people whose origins lay there, although they no longer lived there, it must also have had certain cultural traits which people associated with it, some religious some not. As I use the term “Judaism” in this essay, I am primarily referring to what later interpreters of the stories about Nehemiah believed Nehemiah had achieved for Judaism as they understood Judaism. I agree that the term needs to be used carefully and certainly should not be used to describe religion in the Persian period. 9 I use “Judaism” here as primarily referring to people who had an association with the land of Judah but in the view of these writers the Jerusalem cult was a primary symbol for these “Jews.”

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the Persian officials his activities in Jerusalem.10 Many have followed Torrey but have disagreed over what precisely constitutes the original memoir. It is identified by some as most of Nehemiah 1:1–7:5, 11:1–2, 12:31–43,11 while others identify Nehemiah 1:1–7:5, parts of 12:27–43 and 13:4–31.12 Whatever verses scholars include, in general the memoir is regarded as the record of the achievements of Nehemiah in the middle of the fifth century b.c.e. Most regard the material here as historical and some have assumed that the NM is the only really historically reliable account of the Persian period.13 While most scholars have added to the verses originally identified by Torrey,14 recently a number of scholars have revived Torrey’s idea of a shorter account. Hurowitz for example, regards the original memoir as a building report analogous to other ancient Near Eastern building reports. He thinks that originally this report comprised only Nehemiah 1–6 and Nehemiah 12. While the NM shares most features of ancient Near Eastern building reports, additional features in the NM include the economic reforms and the account of opposition. Stripped of these additions, the core of the memoir is a building report.15 Furthermore, while the building report makes sense in its own right, it is clear that the account of Nehemiah’s opponents requires the building report if it is to make sense, a fact which according to Hurowitz, demonstrates the secondary nature of the stories of opposition.16 Following Hurowitz, Wright identifies the basic form of the NM as a building narrative but the original report is identified by Wright as including fewer verses (Neh 1:1a,11b, 2:1–6,11,15–18, 3:28 and 6:15).17 Wright arrives at this conclusion on the basis of literary and source critical methods and then continues to outline the process through which the entire NM found its present shape. For Wright the entire Torrey 1910, 238ff. For example Blenkinsopp 1988, 46–48. 12 These include Grabbe 1998a, 154–55. Ackroyd, on the other hand does not include Neh 13:4–31 as part of the original memoir, Ackroyd 1970, 28. I will hereafter refer to the Nehemiah Memoir as NM. 13 Such scholars include Torrey 1910; Grabbe 1998a; Hurowitz 1992. A number of scholars, including Kellermann and Wright, have assumed that for the most part, Nehemiah 9–13 represents additional material added later to the Memoir, Kellermann 1967, 32; Wright 2004, 323. On the other hand, Blenkinsopp and Williamson believe that there are parts of Neh 11:1–13:31 which contain material original to the NM. Blenkinsopp 1987, 351–64 and Williamson 1987. 14 Torrey, 1910, 238ff. 15 Hurowitz 1992, 121–24, 226–40. 16 Hurowitz 1992, 121–22. 17 Wright 2004, 340. 10 11

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NM achieved its present form not as the result of “dispassionate editing” but as the end result of a long process which witnessed generations of “active readers” engage with the original building report.18 This process began in the Persian period and extended into the Hellenistic period. Wright identifies seven strata or layers within the material relating to Nehemiah but even within these seven strata can be found the work of additional hands. The additions of these writers reflect the concerns of a developing Judaism with the eventual effect of rendering a simple building report into a narrative about the restoration of Judah. The seven major identified by Wright are: 1. A short building report (Neh 1:1a, 11b; 2:1–6, 11, 15, 16a, 17, 18b; 3:38; 6:15).19 2. The building report next resulted in the creation of the narrative in Ezra 1–6 which was intended to offer a more positive view of the priesthood than was present in the original building report. In this account attention shifts from the walls to the temple. 3. Then Ezra 7–8 is composed to connect “the temple focused account” in Ezra 1–6 with the “wall focused account” in the original building report. 4. Ezra 9–10 and Nehemiah 9–10 are then composed in order to present Nehemiah as a more pious figure. In addition, this version shifts focus from the temple cult to the importance of torah, thereby limiting the power of priests. Wright agrees with Hurowitz who argued that the accounts of opposition to the wall building are additions which reflect later political relations between Judah and its neighbours.20 Wright’s analysis of the relevant passages is more detailed than that offered by Hurowitz and after a careful examination of the layers within the narrative, Wright concludes that since the authors of these accounts reflect the sentiments of their times, in the accounts of opposition, we witness growing tensions between Judah and its neighbours visible in the increasing polemical nature of the texts. This increasingly polemical tone of the accounts can be seen in the change of tone between Nehemiah 3:33f¤4:1ff, 6:2–9,

Wright 2004, 330. Wright 2004, 340. Wright omits some phrases and words from the verses I have listed. 20 Hurowitz 1992, 121–24, 226, 240. Wright 2004, 156–57. 18 19

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6:1¤2:19f¤2:10. Samaria features centrally in the accounts and we see in these layers of the narrative the widening gap between Judah and Samaria. The projection of the dispute with the Samaritans back into the Persian period satisfies the interests of these later authors because it demonstrates that right from the beginning, from the initial attempt to restore Jerusalem, the Samaritans had stood in the way.21 The accounts of opposition from the three major protagonists (Sanballat, Tobiah and Geshem) probably developed fairly independently so that for example, Tobiah’s co-operation with Sanballat is a “. . . product of an extended compositional process and has less—if anything—to do with the historical situation.”22 While Wright does not think that the accounts of opposition to wall building come from the earliest layers of the NM, he thinks that the figure of Eliashib was present in the original building report. In this early version Eliashib was simply censured and he then cut off ties with Tobiah the Ammonite: The first formulation of the account does not emphasize the antagonism between Nehemiah and an Ammonite nor his deeds for the temple . . . Rather it censures Eliashib who had entered into alliances with Tobiah. Both here (Neh 5:4ff.) and in 6:17–19 the Judeans of the upper class are the antagonists not Tobiah (who appears without Sanballat only in these two passages.23

Thus, even the accounts of opposition represent later and once unrelated layers so that Wright can conclude that Tobiah’s “. . . co-operation with Sanballat is a product of an extended compositional process and has less—if anything—to do with the historical situation.”24 However, while I agree with Wright’s view that we ought to think in more detail about the processes through which the Nehemiah Memoir reached its present form, I do not agree with his basic thesis that the material which is not usually found in ancient Near Eastern building reports can be as readily stripped away and identified as the work of later authors as Wright suggests. More importantly the account of opposition to wall building from the governor of Samaria should not be so

21 Wright 2004, 156. Davies also suggests that the dispute with the Samaritans reflects later tensions and not conditions in the fifth century, Davies 1998, 100–101. 22 Wright 2004, 137. 23 Wright 2004, 211. 24 Wright 2004, 157.

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easily dismissed as the contribution of later editors because Samaria was indeed an administrative centre in the Persian period and it seems likely that officials there would have had an interest in this wall building project in Jerusalem. Expression of opposition towards ambitious neighbours (particularly when they threatened to upset the status quo) was a normal aspect of relations between local rulers under imperial rule and in the Persian period such opposition often took the form of petitionary letters.25 Furthermore, the account of a dispute between the pehah of Samaria and Nehemiah does not indicate that the author is thinking in terms of a religious schism. As I have shown elsewhere, at the heart of the account of opposition to wall building is a dispute which was typical of those which occurred between local nobility in the Persian period.26 It is true that the family of the Tobiads featured strongly in later Jerusalem politics and that there was undoubtedly a good reason for projecting a dispute between the Tobiads and Nehemiah back into the Persian period which came to be understood as the period of Jerusalem’s restoration. Can we be certain however, that the account in the NM does not reflect historical conditions of the Persian period? There is evidence that in the Persian period Ammon was occupied and probably operated by a local elite family and Ammonite relations and influence in Judah can be identified in the neo-Babylonian period in Jeremiah 40:11–15.27 Overall, the idea that Nehemiah might have rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem without any comment from local ruling elites seems unlikely. The land was not after all “an empty land” as Lamentations would have us believe28 but was a region which had seen the growth of a local elite of various ethnic backgrounds, a process which had begun in the neo-Babylonian period (and earlier in Israel after its destruction by the neo-Assyrians). There is indeed much evidence that the narrative of the book of Nehemiah has undergone extensive development over what was probably a lengthy period of time and the argument that the original text is to be found in a building report is persuasive (though unlike Wright, I

25 The best examples of such coming from Elephantine. For discussion of local rivalries under imperial rule see Fitzpatrick-McKinley forthcoming. 26 See Fitzpatrick-McKinley, forthcoming. 27 For a fuller discussion of the evidence for Judean-Ammonite relations in the neoBabylonian and Persian periods see Fitzpatrick-McKinley forthcoming. 28 For a discussion of this biblical idea see the essays in Grabbe 1998b.

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include the accounts of opposition to Nehemiah). Moreover, it is as a builder of the city and as a political leader that Nehemiah is remembered by perhaps one of the earliest interpreters of the NM, viz. Ben Sira, whose work is widely acknowledged to be a work of the second century b.c.e. According to the Nehemiah Memoir, Nehemiah came to Yehud as a Persian appointee around the middle of the fifth century b.c.e. His imperial commission appears to have been to repair the walls and gates of the city of Jerusalem. He is opposed by a number of local rulers (including Judean rulers) and by the Persian appointed Sanballat of Samaria. He completes his task with much opposition and then, if Wright is correct, this short narrative was recorded by him, or for him, to record the success of his imperial commission to the Persians. If the accounts of opposition to him are a part of the early narrative about Nehemiah as I think they are, then Nehemiah is not opposed only by “foreigners” but by Judeans including a Judean priest of the temple, Eliashib and by many other Judean nobles who felt more loyalty to Tobiah the Ammonite (Neh 6:17–19). If Nehemiah’s Judean contemporaries were asked the question—“what did Nehemiah do for Judaism”—I have no doubt that a range of answers would be offered including one which claimed that he destroyed good relations which the Judeans of Jerusalem had enjoyed for many years with their neighbours, and in particular with Tobiah the Ammonite with whom they seemed to have had a type of patron-client relationship (Neh 6:17–19). What Nehemiah did not do according to this original account is striking: he did not directly concern himself with the cult, he did not lead a group of exiles back to Judah and hence the idea of a great return from exile is not a central theme of the NM, he did not concern himself with teaching torah to the people. He built the city walls, curbed the power of local elites, including Eliashib the priest of Jerusalem, he presupposed the cult but at the same time showed little interest in cultic affairs. When compared to Ezra, Nehemiah is rather lacking in terms of the attention which he pays to the people and to the cult, so why is he chosen as the hero of the restoration by Ben Sira and 2 Maccabees? There were other heroes of the Persian period, who at least from a perspective of Judaism as a cult centred religion would have made more satisfactory heroes.29 Jeshua and Zerubbabel had built the

29

This point is also made by Bergren 1997, 257.

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altar and sacrificed upon it, thus demonstrating their recognition of the centrality of the cult as an essential feature of the “return” (Ezra 3:2–6). They then set to work on the temple (Ezra 3:7–11). Both of these figures are included in Ben Sira (Sir 49:11–12) but are not mentioned in 2 Maccabees. Ezra of course was not mentioned in any biblical tradition as builder of the walls or temple, but he is intimately associated with the city when he reads the torah to the people, so why does he play no role in the account of Ben Sira whose admiration for torah is profound (e.g., Sir 24) and in 2 Maccabees where emphasis is placed upon Judas as standing in the line of those who preserved and guarded Judah’s literary traditions (2 Macc 2:15–18). In fact, while Ezra 1–6, Haggai, Zechariah 1–6 and 1 Esdras all refer to Zerubbabel, Jeshua, Sheshbazzar and Ezra as “restorers” in one sense or another, none of these sources refer to Nehemiah. Why then is Nehemiah so important to the authors of Ben Sira and 2 Maccabees? What in their view did he do for Judaism? Nehemiah in Ecclesiasticus Ecclesiasticus is generally regarded as having been written in Jerusalem in the early part of the second century b.c.e. by a member of the Jerusalem elite (Sir Prologue).30 While it is indeed possible that the work represents the setting together of once separate sayings, hymns and didactic material by a number of authors, most scholars appear to accept the claim of the prologue that the work is that of a member of the Jerusalem elite who wrote in Hebrew in the second century b.c.e. The prologue claims that Ben Sira’s grandson translated the work into Greek some time after 132 b.c.e., the year his grandson claims to have arrived in Egypt. Much debate has taken place over the matter of Ben Sira’s profession and a number of commentators have emphasized his scribal role.31 Others have observed that compared to his interest in ethics, his interest in the cult was rather superficial.32 While there is a lack of definitive evidence that he was a priest, with no indication of his

30 For a discussion of the precise dating of Ecclesiasticus see Williams 1994, 563–64. 31 Stone 1987, 260, 265. 32 Olyan (1987, 262) cites Snaith (1975) as an example here.

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being involved in priestly activities,33 in the views of Stadelmann and Olyan, Ben Sira was indeed a priest and according to Olyan it is this fact more than anything which shaped his work.34 Even if we cannot be certain about the question of Ben Sira’s profession, there is no doubt that Ben Sira takes a serious interest in the priesthood, the praise of which is a central feature of his work (Sir 45:6–26, 50:1–21). For the purposes of this discussion the relevant part of the work is the “Praise of the Fathers” (Sir 44–50). In these verses the achievements of Israel’s past heroes are presented. In Sirach 49:10 the twelve prophets are mentioned and overall one gets the impression that Ben Sira knew most of the books of the canon following the tradition of Patriarchs, Prophets, Kings, although there is no reason to suppose that Ben Sira had texts before him when he composed his work. While in chapter 49:11–12 Ben Sira presents Zerubbabel and Jeshua as the builders of the temple (and thus, we can assume Ben Sira knows some form of the traditions of Ezra 1–6 and Haggai and Zechariah),35 he also attributes important deeds to Nehemiah whom he says rebuilt the walls, the houses and the gates of Jerusalem (Sir 49:13). There is no reference however, to Nehemiah’s work as a religious reformer which included the dissolution of marriages with non-Jews (Neh 13:10–22, 23–30). Nor is there any reference to his economic reforms in Nehemiah 5 and the role which Nehemiah assigned to the Levites (Neh 12:1–47; 13:10–15). Thus, we can assume that it is likely that Ben Sira got his information about Nehemiah from something like the short building report which we have taken to form the main part of the original Nehemiah Memoir.36

Skehan and Di Lella 1987. Stadelmann 1980, 38–50; Olyan 1987, 261–63. See also Mack 1985, 1. 35 We should not assume that Ben Sira has depended on the accounts of these two figures in Ezra 1–6 for his brief description of their deeds. There is nothing to indicate that he did and there may have been other accounts circulating in Ben Sira’s time. Grabbe has suggested that of number of independent traditions about the restoration of Jerusalem existed, Grabbe 1998a, 183–97. 36 This of course does not enable us to say with certainty that the more embellished traditions about Nehemiah which we have before us must post-date Ben Sira, although they might do. There could have been various memoirs of Nehemiah which were preserved and developed in different ways by the various groups who preserved them. This is made all the more likely by the fact that what is claimed about Nehemiah in 2 Macc 1:18–36 and 2 Macc 2:13–15 is not known from any other source about Nehemiah. 33 34

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Even if the reference to Nehemiah is rather brief, he is clearly an important builder of the city but Ezra is completely absent in Ben Sira. A number of explanations for the absence of Ezra have been offered. Grabbe thinks that it is likely that Ezra is absent because he is the literary creation of a period after Ben Sira.37 I am not convinced however, that the silence of Ben Sira and 2 Maccabees on Ezra presents us with sufficient evidence to allow us to say that the traditions about Ezra must post-date these two books. Moreover, there is considerable likelihood that the traditions about Ezra have developed around the memory of the tradition about a scribal or/and priestly figure who was associated with an account of the Persian period. This has been argued recently by Pakkala who regards the original Ezra as a scribe who came to Jerusalem simply to teach the torah but whose significance gradually increased as the Ezra story was placed within a complex of traditions about the restoration of Jerusalem in the Persian period.38 Schams has suggested that Ben Sira omitted Ezra because Ben Sira did not have as keen an interest in the role of the scribe as is usually assumed by scholars who, in her view, have shown a tendency to overemphasise the significance of Ben Sira’s references to scribes (Sir 38:24, 39:11). Schams argues that Ben Sira focused on the wise and educated in general.39 In her view, the omission of Ezra is then relatively insignificant. Begg argues that Ben Sira did not include Ezra because including him would have shifted the focus of the hymn which is on building achievements in Jerusalem and the reconstruction of the city.40 Thus for Begg, as for Schams, the omission has little ideological significance and no relevance for the dating of the traditions about Ezra. Lebram on the other hand sees the omission as highly significant in what it reveals about an ideological dispute among religious parties in Jerusalem in Ben Sira’s day. For Lebram the material about Ezra, both in Ezra 7–10 and in Nehemiah 8, is a product of the period after 180 b.c.e. and it represents the views of a radical group who were faithful to the torah and who protested against the temple theocracy of the Hasmoneans.41 The groups behind the Ezra material and the radical reform which it proposes are identified by Lebram as the Pharisees.

37 38 39 40 41

Grabbe 1998a, 154 and see Davies 1998, 100; Garbini 1988, 154–55. Pakkala 2004, 292–99. Schams 1998, 105. Begg 1988, 14–18. Lebram 1987, 131.

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Garbini similarly views ideological divisions as responsible for the deliberate omission of Ezra in Ben Sira. Garbini argues that Ezra was deliberately left out of this account because the Judaism which Ezra represented was part of a radical attempt to reform aspects of the Jerusalem temple and its priesthood and it was for this purpose that the figure of Ezra was invented. This reform cannot have been earlier than the second century b.c.e. It is reflected in 1 Esdras 9 (for Garbini, 1 Esdras is the earliest account of Ezra) and it involved an elevated role for the Levites, the participation of the people (as opposed to only the priests), and the radical step of including women actively in worship.42 This radical reform amounted not to a laicisation of the cult but to “the sacralisation of the people.”43 According to Garbini this reform was led by the Levites and is reflected in 1 Maccabees 9:54–56 which records how the high priest Alcimus ordered that the wall between male Israelites and the priests be pulled down. 1 Esdras, the earliest account of Ezra, is therefore the ideological projection of what Alcimus began to do in 159 b.c.e.44 If Garbini is right then such a reform would have been entirely opposed to the position of Ben Sira who regards the Aaronites alone as having the right to the high priesthood and the right to teach torah (Sir 45:6–7, 15). Garbini has made some interesting suggestions here; in particular his suggestion that different priestly houses held different opinions in relation to the running of the cult and that these are reflected in texts which they produced.45 His suggestions however, are rather speculative particularly in his assumption of a connection between 1 Maccabees 9:54, where Alcimus orders the wall of the inner court of the sanctuary to be torn down, with a supposed reform behind 1 Esdras 9. Nonetheless, his recognition of priestly ideologies in some of these texts may point us in the right direction. At the centre of Ben Sira’s Praise of the Fathers lies a long section praising the Aaronite priesthood (Sir 45:6–26). Indeed, many more verses are devoted to Aaron than to Moses. In chapter 45:6–17, Ben Sira outlines Aaron’s exceptional position and continues to describe

Garbini 1988, 155–69. Garbini 1988, 162. 44 Garbini 1988, 164. 45 An example of this has been recognised by a number of scholars in Ezekiel 40–48, which is viewed as claiming superiority for Zadokites over against Levites (cf. Cody 1969; Levenson 1976). 42 43

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how the rebellions against Aaron were brought to nothing by Yhwh (Sir 45:18–22, cf. Nums 16). Ben Sira favoured the priests of Aaron but it seems likely that he did so within a climate where challenges to that order had arisen and where potential challenges lurked close by. Kaiser notes that: “Out of genuine admiration for the priesthood but also from concern of the signs of its impending destabilisation, in the middle of the Praise of the Fathers he places the Covenant made with Aaron and Phinehas and the exemplary deeds of the late high priest Simon II.”46 Mack also notes the importance of the ideological agenda of Ben Sira and argues that in Sirach 44–50, emphasis is placed not on the particular achievements of Israel’s heroes but rather on their right to the offices which they held. The Praise understands history in a very particular way in order to “. . . erect a mythic foundation for a social construction.”47 This society is centred around specific offices: those of teacher (Moses), father (Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob) and priest (Aaron, Phinehas, Simon) but crucially the office of priest was established by Moses (Sir 45:6–7, 15). It is the Aaronite priesthood which takes over the only continuing function of Moses, viz. the teaching of the commandments (Sir 45:5, 17). How can the centrality of Aaron and his descendants in Ecclesiasticus be understood over against a body of traditions about the priesthood which make hardly any reference to them? According to Blenkinsopp the silence in our pre-exilic sources about the Aaronite priesthood is not to be explained by assuming that Zadokites and Aaronites are one and the same priestly house, as many have assumed.48 The identification of Aaronites as Zadokites occurs late when various, once independent priestly houses of Zadokites, Aaronites and Levites gradually came to some kind of accommodation which is reflected in the construction of genealogical lists which traced all of them back to Aaron.49 Evidence that the accommodation of the Aaronites into the priesthood of Jerusalem took place at a late date (probably the Hellenistic period) can be seen in the work of the deuteronomistic writers who adopt a “pan-Levitical” view; never referring to the Aaronites or to the Zadokites.50 In Deuteronomy the usual Kaiser 2003, 238. Mack 1985, 31. 48 Kaiser 2003, 246. Haran views the Zadokites as the most central family of the Aaronites. Haran 1978. 49 Blenkinsopp 1988, 42–43. 50 Olyan 1987, 273. The single reference to Aaron is at 1 Sam. 12:6, 8 and is nonpriestly. Blenkinsopp 1988, 36 n. 31. 46 47

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way of referring to the priests is as “the priests, the Levites” (Deut 17:9, 18; 18:1; 24:8; 27:9) and Malachi refers to the priests as Levites (Mal 2:4–9, 3:3).51 The additions to Nehemiah’s basic building report do not refer to the priesthood of Aaron.52 In the list in Nehemiah 7:7 (= Ezra 2:2) no Aaronites are included53 and the two references to the Aaronite priesthood in Nehemiah 10:39–40 and Nehemiah 12:47 come from traditions which are much later than the basic building report on which the authors of Ben Sira appear to have depended.54 Ezra 8:2 claims that two priests who returned with Ezra, Gershom and Daniel, were descended from Phinehas and Ithamar. Together these passages interspersed in the developed traditions about Ezra and Nehemiah have been taken by Blenkinsopp as the first stage of a process which saw the Aaronite priesthood fully incorporated into Zadokite and Levitical traditions. Ezra 7:15 records that Ezra was a high priest but he never actually functions in this capacity and a number of scholars have regarded the verse as secondary. The Aaronite-Zadokite descent given to him here has been regarded by Blenkinsopp as a late addition by the Chronicler whose ideas are based on his work in 1 Chronicles 5:27–41. In 1 Chronicles 5:27–41 a genealogy of all of the high priests from Levi to the exile is listed but the name of Ezra is not included. Instead we find Seraiah (purportedly the name of Ezra’s father and Jozedek, the father of Joshua whose story is told in Ezra). This genealogy reflects the Chronicler’s time (the third century b.c.e.) when certain disputes within the priesthood were being resolved, a resolution reflected in the construction of genealogies.55 Blenkinsopp has put forward an interesting hypothesis in relation to what happened to the various priestly houses after the exile. In Blenkinsopp’s view the Aaronite priesthood had originally been associated Blenkinsopp 1988, 38. It is noteworthy that the priest who was present in Jerusalem in Nehemiah’s time is simply presented as the high priest with no reference to the priestly house from which he came (Neh 3:1). In my view this might well reflect a period before serious disputes between the priestly factions occurred and the priestly family to which Eliashib belonged could simply take their status for granted. 53 Blenkinsopp 1988, 38. 54 It is widely agreed that these passages do not belong to the original NM. Most recently Wright 2004. 55 Blenkinsopp 1988, 38. Blenkinsopp describes 1 Chr 5:27–41 as “the master genealogy” which traces the high priesthood in such as way as to link all branches through common descent to Aaron. By this time the Zadokites have reasserted themselves. It is a genealogy which is of course “schematic” and “largely fictional.” Blenkinsopp 1988, 40. 51 52

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with Bethel, a shrine in the northern kingdom ( Jer 41:5; Hag 2:14), a fact which accounts for the silence of pre-exilic Judean sources on the priesthood of the Aaronites, except for a couple of disparaging remarks about a priesthood which was understood to be associated with the idolatrous shrine established by Jeroboam.56 In the time of Josiah Bethel had been incorporated into Judah and when the elites, including the Zadokite priests of Jerusalem were exiled by the neo-Babylonians, Mizpah became an important administrative town.57 Blenkinsopp suggests that in this period Bethel became further integrated into Judean territory (Zech 7:1–3) and began to function as a shrine for the town of Mizpah which lay close by. The association of the Aaronite priesthood with the imperially appointed administrative centre significantly elevated the status of the Aaronites in the Judean region, an elevation which was helped of course by the absence of the members of the Zadokite-Jerusalem family who were in exile. If Blenkinsopp is right, we might well ask what happened when streams of Zadokites began to return from exile? Clearly this would create a problem and in my view, it is precisely this problem which Ben Sira may be addressing when he exalts the Aaronite priests to a tremendous status but remains silent on the Zadokites, their most serious rivals.58 The call for the protection of the priesthood of the Zadokites in the last chapter of Sirach is widely recognised as a later addition,59 an addition which clearly indicates that the debate about the legitimacy of certain priestly factions was ongoing in debates about cultic authority. Olyan describes Ben Sira’s views as pan-Aaronide and his views are compelling until he points out that Simon’, about whom over 20 verses

56 Blenkinsopp 1988, 38. The priesthood of Bethel is provided with a geneology by Judges 20:27b–28 which refers to Phinehas, son of Eleazar, grandson of Aaron officiating at Bethel in the presence of the Ark ( Judg 20:34–35). There are clear parallels between the episode of the Golden Calf in Exodus 32 in which Aaron “played a dominant and dubious role” and the establishment of the state sanctuary by Jeroboam I in 1 Kings 12. Indeed, Blenkinsopp notes that Exodus 32 is regarded as a polemical writing of the cultic aetiology of the sanctuary of Bethel by some. Blenkinsopp 1988, 36. I find Blenkinsopp’s arguments rather compelling even though I take note too (as he does) of the difficulties which surround any attempt to construct a history of the priesthood and its various factions. I note too VanderKam’s comment that the origins of the Aaronite priesthood is a “thorny issue.” VanderKam 2004, xi. 57 For the importance of Mizpah and its virtual replacement of Jerusalem see Blenkinsopp 2003, 93–108. 58 Olyan notes that in Ben Sira’s treatment of priesthood, the Zadokites are nowhere mentioned. Olyan 1987, 275. 59 Olyan 1987, 275–76; Stadelmann 1980. Gilbert 1984, 298–300.

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are dedicated (Sir 50:1–24), was also a Zadokite. How does Ben Sira get around this problem? According to Olyan, Ben Sira simply leaves out the fact of Simon’s Zadokite lineage in the verses in chapter 50 where he deals with him. Here it should be pointed out however, that there really is no reliable evidence that the Oniads were Zadokites60 and at this point, before the geneaological lists have been constructed which will accommodate the various factions of the priestly families, (Levites, Zadokites and Aaronites) Ben Sira may not have regarded the Oniads as Zadokites. If Ben Sira praised the Aaronites in order to assert their legitimacy over against the Jerusalem Zadokites, most of whom had returned from exile, how is his lack of interest in the Levites and their role to be explained? This question should be answered in the context of Ben Sira’s general lack of interest in the theme of return from exile. This theme so central to the Ezra story in Ezra 7–10, is downplayed if not entirely absent in Ben Sira; Joshua, Zerubbabel and Nehemiah are praised as builders of the temple and the city but there is no reference to their having “returned.” Like the Zadokites it would appear that many of the Levites had been exiled. Ezra mentions how Ezra turned back on his journey to gather together some Levites because there were none officiating in Jerusalem (Ezra 8:15–20). If they formed another section of the priesthood which would have to deal with the challenge of the elevated status of the Aaronites in Judah, it is not surprising that Ben Sira makes no reference to their role.61 Moreover, Garbini may be right in his view that some of the views which they held were regarded by other priestly houses as radical.62 In what other ways might Ben Sira have disapproved of Ezra’s actions? For Ben Sira the perfect fulfilment of the covenant is the temple state. Mack has described the temple state as being for Ben Sira “an appropriate climax to Israel’s covenantal history.”63 According to Mack the Praise of the fathers is a charter of the Judean temple state which Ben Sira served in the early second century b.c.e.64 As Ben Sira knew, the Aaronites who officiated there had not returned from Babylon but Hunt 2006, 4. Höffken (1975) thinks that Ezra does not appear because Ben Sira is so antiLevitical. 62 Garbini 1988, 166–69. Morton Smith (1971, 131) suggested that Nehemiah 5 reflects the Levites organising the people to resist the dominant powers of Jerusalem priests. 63 Mack 1985, 56. 64 Mack 1985, 84. 60

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had originated in the northern kingdom. They thus could have no role to play in a story which was as centred on the return as Ezra 7–10. In Ezra 7–10 everything (the vessels and the silver and gold which will purchase the offerings, Ezra 7:15–20) and everyone (Ezra, the people who will form “the congregation of the exiles,” the priests and the Levites, Ezra 7:13) who is needed for restoration has come back from exile cleansed, purified and knowing the law (hence the Levites who returned with Ezra are able to teach it to the people). Religious authority came back with the returnees. Such an ideological presentation did not allow space for branches of the priesthood which had not been exiled to play a role in the operations of the temple state so the ideology is omitted along with its protagonist, Ezra. Nehemiah on the other hand is included because Ben Sira knows of Nehemiah from an account which may have been rather like the original building report which represents the earliest account of Nehemiah (viz. NM). The earliest account of Nehemiah presented him as an imperial official of Judean origins who came to Jerusalem to contribute something to the city but who appears to have expected to return to his position in Susa (Neh 2:6). Most importantly Nehemiah was not accompanied by crowds of fervent returnees or by teachers of the torah such as the Levites. Moreover, inherent in Ezra 7–10 is a critique of the priesthood which is sometimes explicit sometimes not.65 If Ben Sira did indeed live in a time where branches of the priesthood sought to assert their authority over other branches, then Ben Sira could admit to no dissent. Hence, he portrays the right of the Aaronites to office as absolute, pointing out how rebellions against them had failed in the past (Sir 45:18–19). Ezra read to the people the torah of Moses with the assistance of the Levites (Neh 8:1–8)66 and we should note here the claim made by Ben Sira that the right to teach torah belongs exclusively to the Aaronites (Sir 45:17). Cohen claims that by reading torah to the people and instructing the Levites to help them to understand, Ezra makes torah, traditionally understood as priestly instruction (cf. Jer 18:18) accessible 65 For example the account of Ezra teaching torah to the people outside of the temple could be taken as an implicit critique as could the fact that Ezra came to a city where priests are already present and where the cult is operating, but the people do not understand and therefore cannot have been observing torah. 66 The position of this story about Ezra in the middle of the account about Nehemiah is widely regarded as secondary and probably originally belonged with traditions about Ezra. For discussion see Pakkala 2004, 292–99. In the view of most however, it is regarded as rather late, often Hellenistic or even later.

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to the people. In Cohen’s view the story in Ezra (and Neh 8) shows Ezra attempting to remove the figure of the priest as intermediary between the people and the traditions by teaching and explaining the torah to them in a public place.67 Cohen points out that the publication of the Twelve Tables by the Romans in 451 b.c.e. contributed to the eventual dissolution of the power of the Patricians because where the law is known to more than those who apply it, the opportunities for magistrates to distort and manipulate it are reduced.68 It is also significant that Ezra chose to read the torah at the water gate and not inside the temple. We may note too, as Bergren has, that while the cult and its operations are presupposed in Ezra 7:15–24 and 8:24–35, 9 see also 9:4–5), throughout the Ezra story, aspects of the Mosaic law other than those which concern the cult are emphasised.69 No view of Judaism which was as obsessively focused on the perfection of the temple state and the legitimacy of the Aaronite priests who ran it could have tolerated Ezra’s criticism of the priesthood where he accuses the priests of intermarriages which result in the mixing and corrupting of the Holy Seed (Ezra 9:1–3). In Ezra 10:7–8 the “congregation of the exiles” was summoned to the square so that Ezra could ensure that intermarriage no longer occurred. The additions to the original building report of Nehemiah also shared this ideology and refer to “all who have separated themselves” (Neh 10:29, 13:9). Had Ben Sira known these additions he may not have chosen Nehemiah as the hero of the restored Jerusalem because Ben Sira needed heroes who shared in his notion of the temple state and its Aaronite priesthood as the fulfilment of the covenant. Ben Sira presented a unified Israel and not an Israel which disagreed over questions of torah and the status of the returnees over against other Judeans who formed a part of the socio-political system of the temple state. Although it is not a major concern of his work, Mack notes that the harsh judgment on the sins of the people and the call to repentance and to torah piety which pervades the story of Ezra in Ezra 7–10 run counter to Ben Sira’s view of Israel’s triumphant history.70 Ben Sira did not share in the exclusivist notion of Jewish identity and ethic reflected

67 Cohen 1989, 133. A similar view of Ezra’s role is held by Garbini 1988, 166–69. 68 Cohen 1989, 133. 69 Bergren 1997, 257. 70 Mack 1985, 119.

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in Ezra 7–10 and in the later traditions about Nehemiah which have been attached to the early building report. Nehemiah was included because Ben Sira knew of him from an account which included little more than his building successes. The later traditions which have been grafted onto the original report now before us in the book of Nehemiah were not known to Ben Sira either because they were composed after his time, or because they were the work of scribes who developed the original Nehemiah Memoir in a context different to that which was Ben Sira’s. The clearest association of Ezra in all traditions which have come down to us is with the torah. So why does Ben Sira who throughout the book refers to the importance of torah (Sir 24, 39:1–3) not mention Ezra? First it is important to say that for Ben Sira torah is the manifestation of Yhwh’s wisdom, so for example in encouraging his students to respect their parents, Ben Sira does not appeal to the commandment in Exodus (Sir 3:1–16). On the other hand in relation to more general duties he does refer to the torah: in 35:6–7 he appeals to torah when he tells people that they must not come before Yhwh empty handed. There are four passages on tithes and offerings in Ben Sira and in Sir 35:1–12, 45:20–22, it is clear that Ben Sira understands the payment of these dues (which ultimately sustained the priestly aristocracy with the high priest at its head) as part of “keeping the law/commandments.” To pay temple tithes is to “give to the Most High as he has given to you.” In Sirach 7:29–31 and 45:20–21 the offerings of First Fruits, guilt offerings and the choice shoulder cuts from animal sacrifices were to honour the priests with what had been allocated to them in the eternal covenant with Aaron.71 Within this system the high priest is the mediator between Yhwh and the people. Although Ben Sira indicates that the torah is now in the form of a book, (Sir 24:23) he rarely appeals to any of its regulations instead praising torah as Yhwh’s wisdom. Ezra’s presentation of torah is much more rigid and demanding and would not have served Ben Sira’s purpose even if he had known it. Ben Sira’s Decision to Translate His Grandfather’s Work In my view, the precise way in which the sayings, hymns and didactic sections of Ben Sira came into being cannot be determined and it is 71

Gilbert 1984, 282–320.

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quite possible that rather than treating the work as a unit, we should think in terms of various pieces by different and probably authors unknown to the compiler put together over an extended period of time. Nonetheless, the translator of the work claims to be Ben Sira’s grandson who in translating the work into Greek claims to have a didactic purpose which he says is to convey learning about the torah to those living abroad: When I came to Egypt and settled there in the thirty eighth year of the reign of King Euergetes, I found great scope for education; and I thought it very necessary to spend some energy and labour on the translation of this book. Ever since then I have been applying my skill night and day to complete it, and to publish it for the use of those who have made their home in a foreign land, and wish to become scholars by training themselves according to the law. (Sir Prologue)

Whether or not the translator really was the grandson of Ben Sira is not known; if he was then his choice of this particular book for conveying the law to Judeans living in Egypt might well have been determined by that relationship. If he was not, then he could have chosen any book to convey the law to those living abroad. He could indeed even have chosen Ezra but choosing Ezra would have given the torah an entirely different meaning. Judeans abroad would then be bound to consider a number of things: first they would have been required to consider whether or not Ezra was right that the solution to exile was in fact “return” which indicated the restoration of the covenant relationship in the newly formed “congregation of the exiles.” Given that the translator had presumably voluntarily emigrated from the land, that story would not have tied in with his notions of what was required of a Judean. There are no clear examples of Judeans in the Diaspora awaiting or planning return. Instead, we encounter Philo for example who proclaims his love of the homeland but also proclaims his allegiance and his comfort in his new home.72 In addition, Ezra 7–10 speaks of “the congregation of the exiles” as the leaders of the new restored community. Being a part of that community requires one to adopt an exclusivist stance, to set oneself apart from non-Jews and to dissolve foreign marriages. Clearly this did not reflect the aspirations of Judeans living in Ptolemaic Egypt and certainly not those of most Jews living in the land.73 The account of the temple state given in Ben Sira made Pearce 1998, 79–105. Hayes (1999, 6–9) has argued that the ban on intermarriage did not become an aspect of Jewish practice until centuries after the time of Ezra. 72 73

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far better reading/listening for Judeans living in Egypt who from the distance of what were often very comfortable lives in Ptolemaic Egypt could imagine the temple state as a perfect state, the fulfilment of the covenant; its cult operated by a branch of the priesthood which Yhwh himself had chosen, and operating therefore without dissent, without rival claims from Levites, Zadokites and other branches of the priesthood. Nehemiah as remembered in the original NM as the builder of the city of Jerusalem was an important contributor to the restoration of the temple state according to one of the earliest interpreters of that tradition, Ben Sira. For Ben Sira Nehemiah’s achievements for Judaism lay in the memory of him as a builder of the city. Nehemiah in 2 Maccabees 2 Maccabees includes an account of Nehemiah but makes no reference whatsoever to Ezra (2 Macc 1:20–36, 2:13–15). 2 Maccabees is a complex work which is introduced by a preface which claims it is an epitome of a work by Jason of Cyrene which originally comprised five volumes (2 Macc 2:19–24) and it is difficult to be precise about its dating. Most of the work deals with the history of the Maccabean rebellion up as far as the defeat of Nicanor by Judas Maccabaeus. 2 Maccabees 15:37 would seem to indicate that the work was completed before 63 b.c.e., for it claims that since the defeat of Nicanor, Jerusalem had been under Jewish rule. Attridge favours a dating for the epitome of between 125–63 b.c.e.74 To what extent the epitomator has reliably represented the original work is impossible to say; in chapter 2:24–26 he claims that his purpose is to shorten the work, but if he did so he most likely added to the work and much of the didactic material may belong to the hand of the epitomator.75 In any case, the work has clear theological aims which are woven into the presentation of the history, the more important of these aims being the presentation of divine retribution and the punishment of various historical figures, both Seleucid and Jewish, who are understood to have offended Yhwh in their Hellenisation of Jerusalem; the justness of the martyrs and in

74 Attridge 1984, 177 and for discussion of date see also Collins 1981, 261–62; Doran 1981, 110–13. 75 Attridge 1984, 178.

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particular for our concerns, the temple state and the role which Judas Maccabaeus played in liberating it.76 The work contains two letters both of which play a central part in the overall narrative. It is in the second letter in chapter 1:10–36 that Nehemiah first appears. The letter is presented as having being written by Judas and others in Judea to Aristobulus, the teacher of King Ptolemy (2 Macc 1:10). While some have viewed the letter to be the work of the author of the epitome, others have argued that the letter was secondarily inserted.77 Bergren argues that the letter and the epitome share so many significant concerns and ideological themes that their association is anything but accidental.78 Of course, whether or not the letter is a literary fiction or a genuine letter is debated but the outcome of that debate does not effect the present discussion.79 After reporting the death of Antiochus IV Epiphanes, the letter calls for the celebration of the Feast of Booths and “. . . the Feast of Fire given when Nehemiah, who built the temple and the altar, offered sacrifices” (2 Macc 1:18). According to the story in 2 Maccabees 1:18–36, having completed his construction work, Nehemiah dedicated the newly restored temple with a fire which had been taken from the first temple and had been hidden underground since the exile. It was thanks to the prophet Jeremiah that the fire had been saved and the implication is that this fire taken by Jeremiah had burnt since the days of Solomon and even before him, Moses (2 Macc 2:1, 10). The Feast of Booths and the Feast of Fire (mentioned nowhere else in the Hebrew Bible) are to be celebrated while Judas and his followers celebrate the purification of the temple. The letter continues to recount the legend behind the feast in 2 Macc 1:19–36 where Nehemiah plays a primary role. 2 Maccabees 2:13–15 refers to the books which had originally contained these stories. The choice of Nehemiah as the one who carried on the fire of the altar of the first temple is significant for the question raised here—what did Nehemiah do for Judaism—because it is clear that the main purpose of this story is to establish continuity between the first and second temples; a purpose which overlaps with one of the important themes 76 Collins (1981, 264) notes the centrality of the theme of the legitimacy of the Jerusalem temple in 2 Maccabees and suggests that it may even have been aimed at establishing its superiority and legitimacy over against the temple in Leontopolis. 77 For example, Wacholder 1978, 132. For a general discussion see Collins 1981. 78 Bergren 1997, 252. 79 For a discussion of the question of the authenticity of the letter see Bickermann 1933; Wacholder 1978.

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of 2 Maccabees viz. the justification of the second temple through the account of the miracles of Yhwh on its behalf. Thus, even if viewed from the perspective of later Judaism, the Nehemiah of the NM can be said to have played a relatively political role, paying little attention to matters of cult and torah, that is not how the figure of Nehemiah was perceived by the authors of 2 Maccabees where he is associated with the miraculous preservation of the sacrificial fire. In addition, 2 Maccabees associates Nehemiah with learning and with safeguarding Judah’s traditions by establishing a library which the text claims contained the memoirs of Nehemiah (2 Macc 2:13–15). Judas Maccabaeus is said to have renewed and restored Nehemiah’s library (2 Macc 2:14). Thus, if it is Ezra who in the combined EzraNehemiah narrative is associated with reading torah to the people, in 2 Maccabees it is Nehemiah who is the preserver of traditions. These traditions are described not as the torah but as “. . . the books about the kings and prophets and the writings of David, and letters of kings about votive offerings” (2 Macc 2:13). The latter is perhaps most interesting because it presupposes that the information about festivals has come down from the kings of Judah and makes no reference to torah or to Levites and priests as the bearers of this information. This claim may be intended to support the opinion that Judas (who it is claimed stood in the line of Nehemiah, Jeremiah, Solomon and Moses) had the knowledge about festivals necessary for the effective functioning of the Jerusalem cult. The role which Nehemiah plays in the account of the restored cult is substantial and he is seen to lie in the line of those who protected the temples and its treasures viz. Moses, Solomon and Jeremiah, and the great hero who follows him, Judas Maccabaeus (2 Macc 2:1–12). There is no sense in this account that Nehemiah was a disappointment in terms of the expectations of this Jewish author who after all represented a Judaism which was devoted to the temple cult and to the torah. Bergren claims that for the author of 2 Maccabees Nehemiah was known as “. . . an extremely pious individual, with an almost obsessive zeal for the law.”80 Nehemiah clearly measures up according to the expectations of the authors of these texts who may well be writing as early as 132 b.c.e. or at the latest just before 63 b.c.e.

80

Bergren 1997, 259.

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Can we conclude from this that in their assessment of Nehemiah’s achievements for Judaism as they understood Judaism, his achievements were profound, to be compared even to those of Solomon and Moses, even if for later rabbinic writers, the authors of 1 Esdras and 4 Ezra, Ezra held more significance? I think that we can. Moreover, neither the author of Ecclesiasticus nor the epitomator of the work of Jason of Cyrene make reference to Ezra about whom some traditions must have existed by this time. He is not introduced to the story to supplement a Nehemiah who is perceived to be lacking in terms of piety81 and Nehemiah is regarded as worthy of comparison with Judas because for the author, Nehemiah bears all the traits of the kind of Jewish hero needed in Maccabean times. According to Bergren, Nehemiah is emphasised so that the reader can draw a parallel between him and Judas: Judas was compared to him because he too was a builder, a military hero and a political leader.82 We could conclude from this that the figure of Nehemiah was well known in this period; otherwise any attempt to legitimate Judas Maccabaeus’ rule on the basis of this comparison with Nehemiah would have been pointless. In 2 Maccabees Nehemiah’s contribution to Judaism is understood in the terms in which Judaism was defined in the period; he was the restorer of Judah’s great city, Jerusalem which housed the cult. Conclusion The answer to the question raised at the outset—what did Nehemiah do for Judaism—will depend on which reader of the original NM one consults. For Ben Sira, who most likely depended upon the short report of Nehemiah’s building activities now preserved in the book of Nehemiah, Nehemiah was a political figure who constructed the walls, the gate and some houses in Jerusalem. For Ben Sira that was a significant achievement even if Nehemiah did nothing specifically for torah or cult, because for Ben Sira the temple state was the fulfilment of the covenant.

81 It has been argued that this concern prompted an editor to insert Nehemiah 8 and 9 into the NM e.g., Grabbe 1998a, Garbini 1988. 82 Bergren 1997, 261.

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For the author of the sections about Nehemiah in 2 Maccabees, however, Nehemiah’s contribution to Judaism is significantly different. Like Ben Sira, 2 Maccabees preserves the memory of Nehemiah as builder but it is of the temple and the altar, achievements not attributed to Nehemiah elsewhere. In addition, Nehemiah is associated with the miraculous preservation of the fire of the first temple and with the preservation of traditions in a library. These claims depart significantly from the NM but are in keeping with the needs of the compiler of 2 Maccabees to establish continuity between the first and the second temple. That he chose Nehemiah as a hero worthy of comparison with Judas probably indicates that Nehemiah was a well-known figure in this period, but where did these ideas about him as a preserver of the fire of the first temple and as guardian of written traditions come from? Were there other traditions about Nehemiah in circulation which made greater claims about Nehemiah than the NM? It is clear from the secondary additions to the book of Nehemiah which recount his economic reforms and his ban on intermarriage that there were, but it is also clear that these were not the traditions upon which the compiler of 2 Maccabees 1:20–36; 2:13–15 depended; after all they contain entirely different information. If this compiler who claims to be writing to Jews in Ptolemaic Egypt knew these traditions, he chose to ignore them perhaps because they turned Nehemiah, the restorer of the city, into an overzealous observer of torah whose ban on intermarriage would not have suited the conditions of those living in Ptolemaic Egypt. On the other hand, the author of these accounts about Nehemiah in 2 Maccabees, may have known nothing of these traditions, either because they had not been invented yet, or because they circulated in other contexts. 2 Maccabees refers to the memoirs of Nehemiah and it could be in these that the compiler found his information on the library and the sacred fire. In my view however, the silence of other traditions about Nehemiah on these matters would seem to suggest that the compiler simply invented them, embellishing an account of a well-known figure in order to justify the activities of Judas Maccabaeus. Nonetheless, the compiler of 2 Maccabees if asked the question—what did Nehemiah do for Judaism—would surely answer—at least as much as Solomon and Jeremiah. It is worth noting, however, that it is Ezra and not Nehemiah around whom a large body of traditions grow in later apocalyptic and rabbinic texts. Moreover, in his treatment of the Persian period, Josephus

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condenses the account of Nehemiah on which he depended (probably 2 Esdras 11–23 = Nehemiah 1–13). He portrays Nehemiah as an effective political leader emphasizing his co-operation with the Persian imperial powers. In addition in Ant. 11.170 Josephus omits the account of the charge made by Sanballat in Nehemiah 2:19–20 that the Jews planned rebellion against the king. Josephus also omits reference to the tradition of Nehemiah 13 that Nehemiah banned marriages between Jews and non-Jews. Noting this, Feldman points out that Josephus left it out because he did not want to add impetus to a view with which Josephus was familiar, viz. that the Jews were misanthropists.83 For Josephus Ezra is also a relatively minor figure treated rather briefly but with great care in terms of what Josephus chooses to include and what he chooses to omit. He omits the ban on intermarriage for the same reasons as he omitted it in his account of Nehemiah but he plays up Ezra’s role as a teacher of the law, thus emphasising the lawfulness of the Jews. In addition, Josephus stresses Ezra’s role as organiser of a return from exile which had as one of its important goals, the securing of Persian frontiers. Thus, in conclusion, the answer to the question raised at the outset viz.—what did Nehemiah do for Judaism—will depend on what interpretation of the original memoir one consults. Bibliography Ackroyd, P. 1970. The Age of the Chronicler. Auckland. Attridge, H. W. 1984. Historiography. Pages 157–84 in Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period. Apocrypha, Pseudipigrapha, Qumran Sectarian Writing, Philo, Josephus. Edited by M. Stone. Philadelphia. Begg, C. 1988. Ben Sira’s non-mention of Ezra. Biblische Notizen, 42:14–18. Bergren, T. 1997. Nehemiah in 2 Maccabees 1:10–2:18. JSJ 28; 3, 249–70. Bickermann, E. 1933. Ein jüdischer Festbrief vom Jahre 124 v. Chr. ZNW 32, 233–54. Blenkinsopp, J. 1987. Ezra-Nehemiah: A Commentary. London. ———. 1988. The Judean Priesthood during the neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid Periods. A Hypothetical Reconstruction. CBQ 60:1, 25–43. ———. 2003. Bethel in the neo-Babylonian Period. Pages 93–108 in Judah and the Judeans in the neo-Babylonian Period. Edited by O. Lipschits and J. Blenkinsopp. Winona Lake. Cody, A. 1969. A History of Old Testament Priesthood. Rome. Cohen, S. 1989. From the Maccabees to the Mishnah. Philadelphia. Collins, J. J. 1981. Daniel, First Maccabees, Second Maccabees. Wilmington. Davies, P. R. 1998. Scribes and Schools. The Canonization of the Hebrew Scriptures. London.

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Doran, R. 1981. Temple Propaganda: The Purpose and Character of 2 Maccabees. Washington. Esler, P. 2003. Conflict and Identity in Romans: The Social Context of Paul’s Letters. Minneapolis. Feldman, L. 1998. Studies in Josephus’ Rewritten Bible. Atlanta. Fitzpatrick-McKinley, A. 2003. Ezra, Nehemiah and some early Greek Lawgivers. Pages 17–48 in Rabbinic Law in its Roman and Near Eastern Context. Edited by C. Hezser. Tübingen. ———. Forthcoming. Imperial Power and Local Elites: Contextualising the Nehemiah Memoire. Garbini, G. 1988. History and Ideology in Ancient Israel. London. Gilbert, M. 1984. Wisdom Literature. Pages 282–320 in Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period. Apocrypha, Pseudipigrapha, Qumran Sectarian Writing, Philo, Josephus. Edited by M. Stone. Philadelphia. Grabbe, L. 1998a. Ezra Nehemiah. London. ———. 1998b. Leading Captivity Captivity: The Exile as History and Ideology. Sheffield. Haran, M. 1978. Temples and Temple Service in Ancient Israel: An Inquiry into the character of Cult Phenomena and the Historical Setting of the Priestly School. Oxford. Hayes, C. 1999. Intermarriage and Impurity in ancient Jewish Sources. HTR 92:1, 3–36. Höffken, P. 1975. Warum schwieg Jesus Sirach über Ezra. ZAW 87:184–201. Hunt, A. 2006. Missing Priests: The Zadokites in Tradition and History. New York. Hurowitz, V. 1992. I Shall Build you an Exalted House. Temple Building in the Bible in Light of Mesopotamia and Northwestern Semitic Writing. Sheffield. Kaiser, O. 2003. Covenant and Law in Ben Sira. Pages 235–60 in Covenant as Context: Essays in Honour of E. W. Nicholson. Edited by A. D. H. Mayes and R. B. Salters. Oxford. Kellermann, U. 1967. Nehemia Quellen: Überlieferung und Geschichte. Berlin. Lebram, J. 1987. Die Traditionsgeschichte des Esragestalt und die Frage nach dem historischen Esra. Pages 103–38 in Achaemenid History I. Sources, Structures and Synthesis. Edited by H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg. Leiden. Levenson, J. D. 1976. Theology of the Program of restoration in Ezekiel 40–48. Missoula, Mont. Mack, B. L. 1985. Wisdom and the Hebrew Epic. Ben Sira’s Hymn in Praise of the Fathers. Chicago. Mason, S. 2007. Jews, Judeans, Judaizing, Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History. JSJ 38:457–512. Noth, M. 1960. The History of Israel. London. Olyan, S. 1987. Ben Sira’s Relationship to the Priesthood. HTR 80:3, 261–86. Pakkala, J. 2004. Ezra the Scribe: the Development of Ezra 7–10 and Nehemia 8. Berlin and New York. Pearce, S. 1998. Belonging and not Belonging: Local Perspectives in Philo of Alexandria. Pages 79–105 in Jewish Local Patriotism and Self-Identification in the Graeco-Roman Period. Edited by S. Jones and S. Pearce. Sheffield. Renan, E. 1893. Histoire du Peuple D’Israél IV. Paris. Sanders, J. S. 1972. Torah and Canon. Philadelphia. Schams, C. 1998. Jewish Scribes in the Second Temple Period. Sheffield. Schwartz, D. 2007. “Judean” or “Jew”? How should we translate Ioudaios in Josephus? Pages 3–27 in Jewish Identity in the Graeco-Roman World. Edited by J. Frey, D. Schwartz and S. Gripentrog. Leiden. Skehan, P. W. and A. A. Di Lella 1987. Wisdom of Ben Sira. New York. Smith, M. 1971. Palestinian Parties and Politics that Shaped the Old Testament. New York. Snaith, J. G. 1975. Ben Sira’s Supposed Love of Liturgy. VT 25:167–74. Stadelmann, H. 1980. Sira als Schriftgelehrter. Tubingen. Stone, M. E. 1982. Metamorphosis of Ezra: Jewish Apocalypse and Medieval Vision. JTS 33:1–18. ——— 1987. Ideal Figures and Social Context: Priest and Sage in the Early SecondTemple Age. Pages 575–86 in Selected Studies in the Pseudipigrapha and Apocrypha.

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Festschrift for F. M. Cross. Edited by M. E. Stone, P. D. Hanson and S. D. Mc Bride. Leiden. Torrey, C. C. 1896. The Compositional and Historical Value of Ezra-Nehemiah. BZAW 2. Giessen. ———. 1910. Ezra Studies. Rev. ed, 1970. N.Y. VanderKam, J. 2004. From Joshua to Caiphas: High Priests after the Exile. Minneapolis. Wacholder, B. Z. 1978. The Letter from Judah Maccabee to Aristobulus: Is 2 Maccabees 1:10b–2:19 Authentic? HUCA 49, 89–133. Williams, D. S. 1994. The Date of Ecclesiasticus. VT 563–66. Williamson, H. 1987. Ezra and Nehemiah. Sheffield. Wright, J. 2004. Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and its Earliest Readers. Berlin.

BEN-HUR AND ANCIENT JEWISH SLAVERY Catherine Hezser The story of Ben-Hur is probably one of the most known fictional accounts of first-century Judaism and early Christianity worldwide. The story of Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ was originally written by Lew Wallace, an American army officer and governor of New Mexico, and published in 1880.1 Since then, it has experienced numerous stage adaptations2 and four film versions, two of them produced by the Hollywood company Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.3 Both the 1926 silent black and white version directed by Fred Niblo and the 1959 sound and colour version by William Wyler were hugely successful in America and abroad. The 1959 film won seven Academy Awards and is probably the version people are most familiar with today.4 The tale is set in the first half of the first century c.e., when Palestine had been under Roman rulership for almost half a century. Judah Ben-Hur, the main protagonist, is a young Jewish aristocrat whose Jerusalem-based family had always been friendly with the Romans. When Massala, his Roman childhood friend, returns to Jerusalem after five years, at a time of political upheaval, the two young men clash over their contrary political views and decide to end their friendship. By accident, the new governor is hit by a loose stone from the balcony of Judah’s family residence. As a punishment, his mother and sister are incarcerated and Judah is enslaved. This downward development from aristocrat to slave is followed by an upward movement from slave to Roman citizen and richest man in Judea in the second part of the story. As a galley slave, Judah saves the Roman tribune Quintius Arrius’ life. He is subsequently adopted by him and becomes a prominent Roman charioteer, but he cannot forget the fate of his mother and

1 See Wallace 1998. On Lew Wallace’s life see Morsberger and Morsberger 1980, 42–44, 291–300. 2 See Morsberger and Morsberger 1974, 489–502; Young 1994, 189–200. 3 On the earlier film versions see Young 1994, 298–99; Morsberger and Morsberger 1980, 467–71. 4 On this film version see Freiman 1959; Babington and Evans 1993, esp. 177–84, 194–97, 201–2; Tatum 2004, 61–75.

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sister and returns to Palestine to take revenge on Massala. He eventually wins a chariot race against his enemy. The story of Jesus provides a background to Judah’s story. At the end, Judah, his girlfriend, and his recovered mother and sister become adherents of Jesus, and Judah realizes that revenge and violence against the Romans are not the right way to proceed. Slavery features prominently in the story of Ben-Hur, not only as far as Judah himself is concerned. Slavery is also present in the form of Simonides and his daughter, domestics of the House of Hur, who administer—and also appropriate—the family’s property after their disappearance. Judah falls in love with Esther, Simonides’ daughter, who is legally his slave. The reversal of fortunes, already mentioned with regard to Judah, is prominent in the Simonides/Esther story as well. In the following, we shall focus on the representation of slavery in the different versions of the Ben-Hur tale and examine how this representation relates to what we know about ancient Jewish slavery from historical sources. Obviously, the purpose of this comparison is not to determine to what extent Lew Wallace’s fiction and its visual representations in film reflect historical truth. As Robert A. Rosenstone has pointed out “. . . the historical film must be seen not in terms of how it compares to written history, but as a way of recounting the past with its own rules of representation.”5 Literary works and films are able to make the past alive and to evoke the reader’s and viewer’s compassion and understanding in ways scholarly accounts never can.6 In addition, “. . . written history is not a solid and unproblematic object but a mode of thought, [and] so is the historical film.”7 Therefore fictional and historical sources shall be juxtaposed here to see how the literary and visual media reconstruct the ancient world.8 The Enslavement of a Jewish Aristocrat Lew Wallace draws a grim picture of Judea under Roman rule at the time of Judah and Massala’s reunion. It is a time of “political agitaRosenstone 1995, 3. See also Aichele and Walsh 2002, IX: “. . . the movies transform the biblical materials in question, rewriting and recontextualising them.” They “. . . produce commentaries on the biblical stories and on the culture that produces and consumes both the Scripture and the movies.” 7 Rosenstone 1995, 4. 8 For a similar analysis of the film “Spartacus” see Hoffmann 2000, 63–70. 5 6

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tion” 9 and messianic ferment, everyone allegedly awaiting “the son of Judah, who was to rule Israel.”10 Unlike the populace, the nobles had traditionally been more open towards the Romans and even “. . . suggested the conversion of Judea into a province.”11 In his discussion with Massala Judah presents himself as a populist, however, and fiercely argues for national independence. He rejects Massala’s offers to make him high priest or Roman soldier, should he become prefect, and detests the latter’s patronizing behaviour which stands for the patron-client relationship between Rome and Palestine as a whole. When Massala is gone, Judah asks his mother: “In what am I his inferior? Is ours a lower order of people? Why should I, even in Caesar’s presence, feel the shrinking of a slave”?12 The silent film version of 1926 emphasizes the distance and alienation between the two former friends. When Judah first recognizes Massala on the street after his long absence, the latter is cold and formal and wears a Roman uniform. Judah soon notices that Massala has become “alien” to him in spirit and feels hierarchically superior to him. Friendship is possible amongst equals only, and this equality seems to have vanished between them. The issue of subordination and domination, of Judea’s enslavement to Rome is more prominent here.13 In the film version of 1959 on the other hand, the initial friendship between the Jew and the Roman, and their happiness about meeting each other again after so many years, is highlighted. Massala realizes that “ . . . this was his [ Judah’s] country before it was ours;” he had once saved Judah’s life, “. . . the best thing I ever did”; he and Judah’s sister are romantically attracted to each other. Their political differences do not immediately destroy their friendship, each of them hoping that the other can be convinced of his own views. When Judah hears that Massala has become tribune and is second in command to the governor, Gratus, he drinks a toast to him. He is even willing to try to convince his fellow-Jews not to rebel against the Romans. Judah’s allegiance to Massala breaks, however, when Massala wants him to inform on his compatriots who are resentful of the Romans. He tells Massala that he would do anything for him except betray his own people. When a

Wallace 1998, 76. Wallace 1998, 77. 11 Wallace 1998, 78. 12 Wallace 1998, 95. 13 See also the film’s preface in which Jerusalem is described as “subjected and enslaved” and the Roman army as cruel. 9

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brick from the Ben-Hur residence’s balcony accidentally hits Gratus, Massala shows no mercy to his former friends: Judah is enslaved and his mother and sister arrested. Close friendship relations between Jewish aristocrats and Romans, to the mutual benefit of both, are also reported by Josephus. The later Hasmoneans and Herodians as well as the priestly families associated with them were always open for Greek and Roman influences. Levine speaks of a “Jewish and Hellenistic symbiosis” during the Hasmonean period.14 In Herodian times the contact between Jews and Romans became even more intense: “Not only were Herod and his court attracted to the social ambience and material culture offered by Roman society; so too, were the wealthy priestly and non-priestly classes of Herod’s Jerusalem.”15 Their villas, excavated in the neighbourhoods of Jerusalem’s Upper City, testify to the Jewish aristocrats’ Roman tastes.16 At the same time we have to assume that tens of thousands of Jews were enslaved by the Romans in the first two hundred years after Pompey’s conquest of Palestine.17 The main source of slaves in antiquity was the mass enslavement of war captives. The enslavement of the enemy was an expression of “one’s perpetual triumph over him.”18 Subjection under a foreign political power and enslavement were closely associated in ancient thought. Such associations are repeatedly expressed in Jewish writings of Hellenistic and Roman times. In fact, the idea that political subjugation and bondage are linked and that only God can bring about liberation already appears in connection with the biblical Exodus story (Exod 13:3–4, Deut 5:15). As an outcome of Rome’s rise to power the Sibylline Oracles predict the imposition of slavery on many nations (e.g., Sib Or 4:87, 102–104). In Josephus’ account of the Jewish revolt against Rome, the “heroic” stance is to prefer death in battle over slavery and subjugation,19 whereas the “popular” view was to choose life over death.20 That someone who was suspected of killing a Roman provincial governor would have been enslaved rather than killed would probably have been due to mitigating circumstances, as Levine 1998, 45. Levine 1998, 48. 16 Levine 1998, 51. 17 See Volkmann 1961, 65–69, 103–4. See also Hezser 2003, 93–99 and Hezser 2005, 227–31, 253–55. 18 Barrow 1968, 2. 19 See for example, Josephus War 5.321, 5.458. 20 See for example, Judith 7:26–27. 14 15

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in the case of Ben-Hur, where the intentional nature of the act could not be ascertained.21 Judah’s question—“In what am I his [i.e., Massala’s] inferior? Is ours a lower order of people? Why should I, even in Caesar’s presence, feel the shrinking of a slave”?22—needs to be seen against the background of Josephus’ argumentation against Apion. It seems that in antiquity Jews were seen by Greeks and Romans as a nation of slaves. The lack of national independence was used as an argument against Jewish culture and religion: “A clear proof, according to him [i.e., Apion], that our laws are unjust and our religious ceremonies erroneous is that we are not masters of an empire, but rather the slaves, first of one nation, then of another, and that calamity has more than once befallen our city” ( Josephus Apion, 125). Josephus answers that not only the Jews but also many other nations have suffered the bad fate of being dominated by Romans and that those who are rulers now can easily be subjected to servitude tomorrow: “It has been the lot of fortune, been reduced once more to servitude beneath a foreign yoke; most races have frequently had to submit to others” (Apion 127). A reversal of fortune from aristocrat to slave was probably not so unusual in the ancient world. Wealthy aristocrats would have been more likely to side with the Romans than to oppose them. But if they did, or if they were only suspected of offending them, their fate would not have been different from, and perhaps even worse than, the fate of rebellious members of the lower strata of society. At the time of Cumanus, for example, Stephen, a slave of the Roman emperor, was robbed while traveling on the road leading up to Bet Horon. Josephus reports that: “. . . when Cumanus heard of this, he at once dispatched soldiers with orders to plunder the neighbouring villages and to bring before him their most eminent men in chains so that he might exact vengeance for their effrontery” (Ant. 29.113). This is a good example of Roman

21 In the literary version and the silent film, it is Judah who touches the loose tile and causes it to fall down; in the film version of 1959, Tirzah, Judah’s sister, causes the accident to happen. In none of the versions is a trial mentioned before their condemnation. In Wallace’s account Massala identifies Judah and his family to the soldiers and does not listen to Judah’s explanations and pleas; in the silent film version, Massala accuses Judah of having thrown the tile deliberately; in the 1959 film version Massala says nothing and looks on when Judah and his family are led away. Afterwards, he goes to the roof himself and notices that the tiles are loose. Nevertheless, he does nothing to defend and free his former friend. 22 Wallace 1998, 95.

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provincial governors’ reaction to affronts: if they did not know their perpetrators, the local Jewish leaders would be taken to task and be punished, even if they had nothing to do with it and were the most Roman-friendly members of the population. Galley Slave and Adopted Son After his enslavement Judah Ben-Hur is brought to the Harbour to work as a galley slave on a Roman ship. According to Lew Wallace’s literary version, he was sentenced to “the galleys for life.”23 The ship he is forced to work on is commanded by Quintus Arrius, a Roman tribune, who plans to subdue the pirates who disrupt the trade between Greece and Alexandria in the Aegean. The harsh working conditions and cruel treatment of the rowers at the windowless bottom of the ship is particularly evident in the film versions of the story. Wallace emphasizes the dehumanizing effects of the monotonous work: after a while the slaves had become “. . . patient, spiritless, obedient creatures of vast muscle and exhausted intellects.”24 Judah is able to attract Arrius’ attention (“The fellow hath a spirit. A Jew is not a barbarian. I will know more of him”),25 and the latter opens his chains when the ship is set on fire by the pirates and about to sink. Judah knows that even if he escaped, he would still remain a slave. He would have to be liberated legally in order to become a free man. His hopes come true when he saves Arrius from drowning and is subsequently honoured by being adopted as his son and becoming a Roman citizen: “Speedily as opportunity permitted, the adoption was formally perfected.”26 In the film version of 1959 we see Judah in Roman garb on a gilded chariot next to Quintus Arrius, when the latter is honoured by the emperor for his success in the sea battle. The emperor gives Judah to Arrius as his reward: “. . . as your slave to do with him what you like.” At a banquet in honour of the victory Arrius publicly declares Judah his son, bearer of his name, and legal heir after his death. He gives him a ring as a sign of the bond between them. Judah muses about his “new life, new home, new father,” and promises to always wear the ring with honour even if he should leave Rome one day. None of the

23 24 25 26

Wallace Wallace Wallace Wallace

1998, 1998, 1998, 1998,

120. 132. 134. 159.

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versions tells us much about Judah’s career as a charioteer in Rome, which later allows him to compete with and be victorious over Massala in a chariot race in his home country. The focus soon shifts to Antioch where Judah begins his homeward journey. The dehumanizing treatment of slaves is well known from many Graeco-Roman and Jewish literary sources. Slaves were often seen as and treated like animals. According to Aristotle, both slaves and animals were created for their master’s service only.27 In Apuleius’ Golden Ass (Metamorphoses), the transformation from human being (free person) to animal (slave) is described in all of its ramifications. By being treated as animals, slaves would eventually “. . . tolerate the physical hardships and degradations of slavery in a way that human beings normally could not.”28 Galley slaves like Judah Ben-Hur were at the lowest levels of the servile hierarchy. They did not need any special education or abilities besides physical strength to perform their monotonous tasks. If one of them became incapacitated, he could easily be replaced by a substitute, as is made evident in the film versions of the story. Such slaves would not receive any preferential treatment by their masters, they were treated like numbers without a human face. That Judah is singled out by Arrius can be considered exceptional. In Lew Wallace’s version Arrius is said to have been “a connoisseur of men physically,”29 who was stirred by the grace of Judah’s rowing. Perhaps a homosexual attraction is hinted at here. Later it becomes clear that Arrius is thinking of using Judah as a gladiator or charioteer,30 that is, business interests may have been the motivating force behind Arrius’ behaviour. Arrius’ opening of Judah’s chains at the time when the battle with the pirates is at its peak and the ship is sinking is seen as an act of inexplicable charity by Judah. It eventually allows him to save Arrius from drowning, albeit against the latter’s initial will. The motif of slaves saving their masters’ lives is a common topos of Graeco-Roman literature. The ideal slave is willing to endanger his own life to protect and save his master. Valerius Maximus’ De fide servorum (6.8) is a collection of stories which exemplify slaves’ loyalty to their masters even at the risk of losing their own lives.31 Similarly, Seneca presents examples of

27 28 29 30 31

See Aristotle, Politics, 1254b. Bradley 2000, 119. Wallace 1998, 133. Wallace 1998, 136. On this collection see Vogt 1975, 129–34.

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slaves who showed bravery and virtue by protecting and saving their masters in dangerous situations.32 Such stories seem to have functioned as palliatives against masters’ anxieties and also provided models of proper behaviour for slaves: “Since exempla are repositories for normative cultural values, they tend to be deployed in times of crisis when the fundamental values are most in danger.”33 Similar stories appear in rabbinic stories as well. Judah Ben-Hur is duly rewarded for his life-saving intervention. That slaves were adopted as children was probably not so unusual in Roman society. The so-called threptoi were foundlings who could be raised as slaves and/or children by those who were willing to integrate them into their households. 34 The roles of slaves and adopted children could also overlap. That a childless couple would adopt a particularly handsome and educated young slave to whom a special emotional relationship had been established and that adoption and/or manumission would be the reward for a slave’s life-saving sacrifice lies entirely within the realms of historical probability. A papyrus contract from Elephantine, dated to 416 b.c.e., already provides testimony of this phenomenon: a certain Uriah states that Jedaniah, whom he received as a gift from someone (in the film version of 1959 Arrius receives Judah Ben-Hur as a gift from the emperor) shall be his son rather than be treated as a slave.35 As a son the former slave would also be an heir, a change of status which made formal manumission necessary, since slaves were not allowed to own property.36 In all of the versions Judah Ben-Hur is said to have become a prominent charioteer in Rome and this career allows him to later compete with and defeat Massala. We have to assume that he received training as a charioteer after the adoption, that is, as a freedman. That a high Roman provincial administrator like Massala would participate in horse races himself is rather unlikely. In the Republic, the local magistrates were responsible for supplying the horses, chariots and drivers, but it seems that wealthy and prominent citizens sometimes provided their own horses as well.37 In the early Empire, a number of horse racing

32 33 34 35 36 37

See for example Seneca, De Beneficiis 3:18–27. Parker 1998, 153. On the threptoi see especially Boswell 1988, 118. See Porten and Yardeni 1989, 84–85. On manumission procedures see Watson 1987, 23–26. See Balsdon 2004, 314.

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organizations ( factiones) emerged which “. . . embraced all aspects of racing—owner, stable, trainer and driver.”38 The drivers were highly specialized athletes who were “. . . either brought to Rome from the provinces or else were slaves or freedmen.”39 If they were well-trained, they had a high market value and were sometimes bought from rival factions. The local magistrates made contacts with the factions who would supply horses, chariots and drivers for the races.40 In the Ben-Hur story it is Sheik Ilderim in Syria who owns beautiful Arabian horses and hires drivers for his chariots to compete in races. This situation would conform to practices in the Roman Republic where wealthy grandees would supply their horses. In the provinces such practices may have continued amongst the local upper class in imperial times as well. In the second half of the story Judah Ben Hur’s degradation from Jewish aristocrat to Roman galley slave is juxtaposed by his promotion from galley slave to prominent charioteer and wealthy Roman freedman. Since there was a large internal hierarchy among slaves, social advancement was possible and probably quite common.41 Those who were well-educated and/or had special physical and/or intellectual abilities were especially sought after and could not easily be replaced.42 Since the status of slaves also depended on the status of their masters, freedman of high Roman officials would occupy a relatively high rank within society, especially if they were prominent athletes and wealthy, although their former slave status would leave a mark which could not easily be forgotten or erased.43 Inscriptions indicate that some Jewish freedmen enslaved by the Romans returned to Palestine after their release.44 Many more inscriptions may have been set up for former slaves but do not reveal the fact that the individuals mentioned on them were freedmen.45 As a rich freedman, Judah Ben-Hur would occupy a prominent status in Palestinian Jewish society. His background as a slave and Roman charioteer might have estranged him from some pious Balsdon 2004, 314–15. Balsdon 2004, 315. 40 Balsdon 2004, 316. 41 See Brockmeyer 1994, 67–70. 42 On slave prices see Jones 1960, 9–10. 43 See Brockmeyer 1994, 178: “Zumindest in wirtschaftlicher Hinsicht zählten die reichen liberti zu den Oberschichten der römischen Gesellschaft.” Nevertheless, a stigma remained, see ibid., 179. 44 For example, one of the Goliath family ossuaries has the Greek inscription, “. . . the ossuary of Theodotus, freedman of Queen Agrippina.” See Hachlili 1979, 33, no. 3. 45 See Fuks 1985, 25–32. 38 39

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Pharisees, but it would at the same time enable him to gain access to the higher levels of the Roman administrative hierarchy.46 Love between Master and Slave Judah Ben-Hur’s relationship with his former steward Simonides and his daughter Esther is a prominent feature of all three versions of the Ben Hur story. Lew Wallace provides a detailed account of their first meeting in Antioch, after Judah’s return from Rome. Before he actually meets Simonides, Judah hears rumours about his family’s former slave who allegedly engaged in business with his former master’s property and became very wealthy after the Ben-Hur family had been taken captive: “In imitation of his master, he sent caravans to India; and on the sea at present he has galleys enough to make a royal fleet.”47 The reversal of fortune theme is continued here: whereas his former master became a galley slave, the slave became the owner of galleys in which slaves were probably employed as well.48 When the procurator suspected Simonides of theft and tortured him, the latter refused to admit any unlawful behaviour.49 He eventually received a trading license for which he probably had to pay dearly. Although Judah knows that Simonides is still his slave and that his property belongs to him and his family, he plans to manumit him and to let him keep the profits of his business dealings.50 When Judah and Simonides meet, Simonides refrains from identifying himself as his slave and rather tells him that he was his father’s business partner. To his daughter Esther he admits, however, that his parents were “Hebrew bond-servants,” “bound to serve forever.”51 Although the house of Hur wanted to see him set free after six years, he decided to continue his service and eventually fell in love with a

There is a scene in the 1959 film version in which Judah introduces himself at Massala’s house in Jerusalem after his return. Before the two meet face to face, Massala receives the gift of a precious sword sent to him by the “son of Arrius,” whom he does not know. When Judah appears, Massala is astonished and says to him: “By what magic do you bear the name of a consul of Rome”? 47 Wallace 1998, 162. 48 In the silent film version the galley motif is emphasized: when Judah meets Simonides, the latter pretends not to recognize him and says that Ben-Hur died as a slave on the galleys. 49 Wallace 1998, 163. 50 Wallace 1998, 168. 51 Wallace 1998, 178. 46

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slave woman who was a bond servant herself and refused her master’s offer of manumission: “She would be my wife, she all the time said, if I became her fellow in servitude.”52 In this way Simonides became an eternal slave himself, a status which he willingly obtained out of love for Esther’s mother. The complicated and rather unlikely background of Simonides’ enslavement serves to suggest that Simonides had the moral right to be considered a free man. Nevertheless, his daughter Esther maintains that the property should be returned to its lawful owner, Judah Ben-Hur, whose bond servant she is.53 Eventually Simonides acknowledges his slave status before Judah54 and refuses to be set free, insisting on his permanent slavery of which the awl-mark in his ear is a testimony (would the Roman authorities not have noticed this)? Judah reappoints him as his steward and lets him keep the income of his business ventures. Assumingly, Esther would remain Judah’s slave as well.55 Wallace’s presentation of Simonides as a Hebrew bond servant is obviously based on biblical slave law. According to the slave law of Exodus and Deuteronomy, Hebrew slaves shall be released in the seventh year of their service. If they want to stay with their masters, they become permanent slaves and have their ears pierced (Exod 21:2–6, Deut 15:12–13). Already in the Bible, these legal rulings seem to stand in contradiction with the slave law of Leviticus, according to which slaves shall be released in the Jubilee year (Lev 25:39–31). Later commentators usually harmonized between the different rulings, a method which critical scholarship has dismissed. It rather seems that biblical law was not unanimous on the issue and that the biblical regulations concerning slaves were a utopian ideal rather than an experienced reality. This is also suggested by prophetic admonitions against slave masters who obviously refrained from manumitting their slaves (e.g., Jer 34:8–11, 14–16).56 At least in the Roman period such biblical regulations do not seem to have been observed anymore. It seems that in Roman Palestine distinctions between Jewish and non-Jewish slaves were much less important Wallace 1998, 179. Wallace 1998, 181. 54 Wallace 1998, 300–302. 55 In the 1959 film version of the novel (but not in the silent film), Simonides recognizes Judah immediately and his loyalty to his master is stressed. The property issue is de-emphasized here. 56 See especially Lemche 1976, 38–59. 52 53

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than distinctions between slaves and freemen.57 Accordingly, formerly Jewish slaves would not have been granted preferential treatment with regard to manumission. In Philo, Josephus, and rabbinic documents the biblical laws are mentioned in exegetical contexts only.58 We have to assume that those who were born into the slave status, as we are told about Simonides and Esther, were automatically considered permanent slaves. Wallace seems to have concocted the complex release-reenslavement-release motif to emphasize the House of Hur’s generosity towards their slaves and the slaves’ loyalty toward their masters. The film versions do not mention an earlier seventh year manumission, though. Their focus is on Judah’s and Simonides’/Esther’s relationship itself. That some slaves would administer their master’s property and function as their stewards and businessmen was quite common in antiquity. Slaves’ position as intermediaries was fraught with ambiguity, since they were both extensions of their masters and independent agents. They could not own property themselves but had to be granted free access to and rights over their master’s property in order to conduct business for him. In many ways the employment of slaves as business agents was advantageous for masters. In Roman as in rabbinic law, the master could not be sued for his slaves’ actions. On the other hand, slaves “. . . being in power of the head of the family, could enter contracts that gave the paterfamilias the right of action.”59 In Roman society a slave who did business for his master was given the so-called peculium, “a working capital borrowed from his master.”60 The income gained by using the peculium would automatically belong to the master, but certain incentives were sometimes given.61 Rabbinic sources never mention a peculium, but the concept seems to have existed in Jewish society as well. Tosefta Baba Qamma 11.2 rules that: “. . . the slave who does business with what belongs to the master, . . . behold, that [the proceeds] belong to the master.” Therefore, it is clear that the income which Simonides made with the Hur family’s property would legally belong to Judah and that the latter would be exceedingly gracious by granting Simonides ownership over the proceeds, as the literary version

57 58 59 60 61

With regard to the Mishnah see Flesher 1988. See Hezser 2005, 27–54 on the denationalization of slaves. See Watson 1987, 90. Hopkins 1978, 125. See Watson 1987, 95.

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suggests.62 Since Simonides decides to remain Judah’s slave, however, it is doubtful whether he would actually be regarded as the owner of the property. The relationship between Judah and Simonides’ daughter Esther remains similarly ambiguous. Manumission and marriage are never mentioned explicitly. In both Roman and Jewish society of the first centuries marriage with a slave seems to have been regarded as legally impossible. Only marriages between free Israelites and free Roman citizens were considered legally valid.63 The children of an illegitimate union would automatically assume the status of their mother, that is, the children of unions between slave women and free men were slaves. This is indicated in m. Qiddushin 3.12: “And everyone [i.e., every woman] who may not enter into betrothal with this or any other man, the offspring is in her status. And which [case is referred]? It is the offspring of a slave woman or a gentile woman.” Masters could, of course, decide to liberate their female slaves and to marry them then. Marriages with freed slave women were permitted but regarded with disdain: “On what account does everyone exert himself to marry a female proselyte, but no one exerts himself to marry a freed slave woman? Because the female proselyte is assumed to have guarded herself [sexually], but the freed slave woman is [assumed to be in the status of] one who has been freely available.” (t. Horayot 2:11) Judaism and Christianity In the literary and cinematic versions of the Ben-Hur story more or less emphasis is given to the family’s attraction to Jesus’ teachings and their conversion to Christianity. The subtitle of Lew Wallace’s book is “A Tale of the Christ,” and the first part deals with the birth of Jesus in the context of Herodian Palestine exclusively.64 An anti-Jewish undertone is already evident here: Wallace describes a Pharisee as “. . . one of an organization (in religion a sect, in politics, a party) whose bigotry and power will shortly bring the world to grief.”65 With the Ben-Hur story Wallace obviously tried to show that Christianity was superior to Judaism and that prominent Jews such as the Ben-Hur family would

62 63 64 65

See Wallace 1998, 174. See Rawson 1966, 71–83. Wallace 1998, 9–75. Wallace 1998, 38.

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eventually realize the Christian “truth.” For the author this “truth” consists of the belief in Jesus as the Messiah and his message of peace over against revenge. Judah is presented as the representative of the allegedly Jewish notion of “an eye for an eye,” and the violent fight for independence from the Romans.66 That is, although a Jew is the main character of the story, he is merely used as a witness and example of the power of Jesus and Christianity. Jesus himself remains in the background and few meetings between Judah and Jesus take place. The Christian message is conveyed by the testimonies of Sheik Ilderim and especially Balthazar, one of those who attended Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem.67 Judah initially assumes that Jesus would be a new political king of the Jews who would crash Roman power and restore Jewish independence. He plans to organize an army for him.68 Only at the very end does he realize that Jesus preaches the messianic kingdom which does not need soldiers and refrains from fighting. This moment of revelation is not made explicit in the book. Up to the last moment, when Jesus is put on trial and condemned, Judah is convinced that a violent attack against the Romans could help.69 The experience of the crucifixion, Jesus’ face “lighted . . . with a sudden glow,” and the following earthquake,70 i.e., miraculous events, seem to have caused the change in Judah’s attitude. At the end of the novel, Judah and Esther live as Christians in Italy. Judah has donated huge amounts of money to the church in Antioch, and builds the catacombs in Rome.71 When Ben-Hur was published in 1880, it soon became the most popular biblical novel of the time. Lew Wallace may not have been a committed Christian when he started writing the novel, but he seems to have shared certain Christian prejudices against Judaism and notions of Christian superiority which were commonly held at his time.72 This ideological background probably contributed to the popular success 66 See also Ben-Ari 2002, 277: “. . . part of Wallace’s ideology rests on his conception of Judaism as a religion of vengeance and hatred, as opposed to Christianity, the religion of Love and Peace. . . .” 67 Wallace 1998, esp. 245–46. 68 Wallace 1998, 262. 69 Wallace 1998, 494, 496. 70 Wallace 1998, 513, 515. 71 Wallace 1998, 520–21. 72 On Lew Wallace’s religious attitude see Morsberger and Morsberger 1980, 297–300. See also Kreitzer 1993, 52: Wallace “. . . found himself drawn into a deeper and deeper personal faith and religious commitment in the process of his writing.”

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of the novel.73 Louise Abbie Mayo writes: “This most successful of all religious novels was typically ambivalent in its attitude towards the Jews. The Jewish characters, as a whole, are presented as fine, intelligent and noble people, the best the world had to offer up to that time. Despite this, there is the clear implication that Judaism was merely designed to prepare the way for the universal acceptance of Christianity.”74 In the novel Judah wants to defend Jesus against his fellow-Jews’ alleged accusations: “. . . in the opinion of the rabbis and teachers, He is guilty of a great crime.”75 The crucifixion is presented in the traditional way of blaming Jews for Jesus’ death by stating: “His blood was upon them.” In contrast to the allegedly narrow-minded and malevolent Pharisees and rabbis, the Hur family is presented as representative of the Sadducees, “the Liberals of their time,” who were more philosophically minded, open towards gentiles, and opposed to the Pharisees both religiously and politically.76 It is obvious that Wallace distinguishes between good Jews and bad Jews, and that the good Jews are those who are open toward the Christian message and potential converts to Christianity.77 Like the novel, the silent film version of 1926 starts with the birth of Jesus and the situation in Jerusalem at that time. Already at this point the newborn child as “the king and redeemer” is contrasted with the Roman legions’ violence and brutality. Since the presentation of Jesus in film was considered blasphemous,78 Jesus never appears in full person here but is represented by symbolic replacements. Judah meets Jesus twice: when he is led to the galleys by the Romans and almost dying from thirst, Jesus offers him water; he subsequently promises to fight for the future king. When he spots Jesus on his way to crucifixion and tries to tell him that his legions are approaching to take revenge, he hears Jesus say: “My kingdom is not of this world. Put your sword away, for the son of man did not come to destroy people but to redeem them.” Again, only Jesus’ hand is shown and Judah’s enlightened face. But in

73 See Morsberger and Morsberger 1980, 312: “Ben-Hur had become the book of the hour, the decade, the age, the one novel that everyone must read.” 74 Mayo 1977, 42. 75 Mayo 1977, 472. 76 Mayo 1977, 250. 77 See also Harap 1974, 10. 78 See Walsh 2003, 4: De Mille’s presentation of Jesus in the King of Kings (1927) was “. . . the only popular direct portrayal of Jesus in American film until 1961.” In Ben-Hur “Jesus appeared indirectly as the ‘structuring absence’ in the stories of his believers.” See also Tatum 2004, 61–62.

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addition to these meetings, Jesus (represented by his hands) is repeatedly presented as preaching and doing miracles. Here it is Jesus himself who conveys the message of love and peace, rather than those who witnessed him. Jesus’ teaching of forgiveness (“The one who is without sin should throw the first stone”) is contrasted with Judah’s eagerness to take revenge against Massala. As in the novel, Judaism is represented as a religion of retributive justice here. This image conforms to the theological notions of the time.79 At the same time, the film gives the impression that the Jesus movement was very popular, that almost all Jews, except for the most hard-hearted, sympathized with Jesus: when Jesus arrives in Jerusalem, the Jewish masses welcome him with palm branches; only a few protesters stand at the side. After the crucifixion Judah is convinced that Jesus is not dead, that he will live forever in people’s hearts. It seems that William Wyler’s film version of 1959 puts less emphasis on Jesus and Christianity and focuses more on Judah as a Jewish freedom fighter. Jesus himself makes only a few subtle appearances at the beginning, middle and end. Besides Balthazar, it is the women associated with Judah, especially Esther, who are the first to be attracted to Christianity and to transmitting the Christian message. This film is more concerned about the political problems facing first-century Jews than with Christianity’s allegedly superior theological teaching. It does not start with Jesus’ birth but with the Roman army marching through the village of Nazareth towards Jerusalem, and an adult Jesus walking in the hills, shown from behind. It seems that even Jesus is more Jewish here and Jews are less stereotyped as eternal revengers.80 When Balthazar tells Judah about Jesus and Judah says that he does not believe in miracles, Balthazar says: “There are many paths to God . . . I hope yours will not be too difficult,” obviously reflecting the multicultural context of 1950s’ American cinema. This new attitude of inter-religious harmony is also evident at the chariot race when Sheik Ilderim says: “The Star of David will shine for your and my people together and blind the eyes of Rome.” Obviously Rome (representing Communist Russia or McCarthy America) is presented as the enemy of Jews, Christians and Muslims here.

See Hezser 1990. William Wyler himself was born to Jewish parents in Germany in 1902. He later emigrated to America. 79 80

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Bruce Babington and Peter William Evans have stressed “. . . all the Hollywood Biblical epics were produced for a predominantly Christian society, but one containing an influential Jewish minority audience.”81 Obviously Jews played an important role in the Hollywood film industry, but the Hollywood executives were always “. . . enormously committed to an assimilationist message.”82 The films were supposed to convey a universal message, a message which was nevertheless quintessentially American.83 Israel was customarily linked with American democracy in films such as Cecil B. De Mille’s Ten Commandments (1956) and King Vidor’s Solomon and Sheba (1959), which appeared at approximately the same time as Ben-Hur. “The motif of slavery reappears obsessively through the 1950s . . .,” “. . . a phenomenon which seems to be linked to the Cold War.84 Slavery stood “. . . for the whole nexus of autocracy, atheism, state control and social programming seen as the communist alternative to American democracy.”85 Egypt and Rome symbolized that enslavement of human beings (which could also happen in America itself ), whereas Israel and Judaism stood for freedom, independence and democracy.86 The Wyler film also has to be understood against the background of the Holocaust and the creation of the state of Israel.87 It represents a more positive attitude towards Judaism than the Pharisee-bashing Wallace novel. An active fight for national independence was considered legitimate, since it had already reached its goals. Therefore Judah’s notion of active resistance against the Romans is not presented as merely the negative foil of Jesus’ peace teachings here but as one way of responding to the situation first-century Jews found themselves in.

Babington and Evans 1993, 33. Babington and Evans 1993, 34. 83 According to Deleuze (1986, 148) American cinema provides evidence of a “. . . deeply analogical or parallelist character of the conception of history, . . . the American cinema constantly shoots and reshoots a single fundamental film, which is the birth of the nation-civilization. . . .” 84 Babington and Evans 1993, 55. 85 Babington and Evans 1993, 55–56. 86 See also Otto Preminger’s film Exodus (1960) based on Leon Uris’ novel, which was also produced in the context of the Cold War. Here the British stand in for evil Egypt and Rome: “Progressive moviemakers seized on Israel’s battles as extensions of their own liberal creed. For them, Zionism was a ‘popular revolution’, a progressive cause that was also a safe one in a time of fear in Hollywood.” Hoberman and Shandler 2003, 209. 87 See Babington and Evans 1993, 201. The role of Esther was played by the Israeli actress Haya Harareet. 81 82

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The novel’s conversion plot is maintained, and like its literary prototype the film presents “. . . the evolutionary superiority of Christianity, but in ways avoiding overt conflict, and honouring Judaism as much as possible within those terms.”88 Altogether then, a development from a rather triumphalist Christian approach (Wallace) to a more pluralistic acknowledgement of religious differences (Wyler) can be observed. Bibliography Aichele, G. and R. Walsh R. 2002. Introduction: Scripture as Precursor. Pages VII–XVI in Screening Scripture. Intertextual Connections Between Scripture and Film. Harrisburg. Babington, B. and P. W. Evans 1993. Biblical Epics: Sacred Narrative in the Hollywood Cinema. Manchester and New York. Balsdon, J. P. V. D. 2004. Life and Leisure in Ancient Rome. (3rd ed.) London. Barrow, R. H. 1968. Slavery in the Roman Empire. New York and London. Ben-Ari, N. 2002. The Double-Conversion of Ben-Hur. A Case of Manipulative Translation. Target 14: 263–301. Boswell, J. 1988. The Kindness of Strangers. The Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance. London. Bradley, K. 1994. Slavery and Society at Rome. Cambridge. ———. 2000. Animalizing the Slave: The Truth of Fiction. JRS 90: 110–25. Brockmeyer, N. 1994. Antike Sklaverei. Erträge der Forschung 116. Darmstadt. Deleuze, G. 1986. Cinema 1: The Movement-Image. London. Flesher, P. V. McCracken 1988. Oxen, Women or Citizens? Slaves in the System of the Mishnah. BJS 143. Atlanta. Freiman, R. 1959. The Story of the Making of Ben-Hur. A Tale of the Christ. New York. Fuks, G. 1985. Where have all the Freedmen Gone? On an Anomaly in the Jewish Grave-Inscriptions from Rome. JJS 36: 25–32. Hachlili, R. 1979. The Goliath Family in Jericho: Funerary Inscriptions from a First Century A.D. Jewish Monumental Tomb. Basor 235: 31–65. Harap, L. 1974. The Image of the Jew in American Literature. From Early Republic to Mass Immigration. Philadelphia. Hezser, C. 1990. Lohnmetaphorik und Arbeitswelt. Das Gleichnis von den Arbeitern im Weinberg (Mt. 20:1–16) im Rahmen rabbinischer Lohngleichnisse. Freiburg und Göttingen. ———. 2002. The Social Status of Slaves in the Talmud Yerushalmi and in GraecoRoman Society. Pages 91–137 in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture. Vol. 3. Edited by P. Schafer. TSAJ 93. Tübingen. ———. 2005. Jewish Slavery in Antiquity. Oxford. Hoberman J. and J. Shandler 2003. Entertaining America. Jews, Movies, and Broadcasting. Princeton and Oxford. Hoffman C. 2000. Evolution of a Gladiator: History, Representation and Revision in Spartacus. Journal of American and Comparative Cultures 23: 63–70. Hopkins, K. 1978. Conquerors and Slaves. Sociological Studies in Roman History. Cambridge. Jones, A. H. M. 1960. Slavery in the Ancient World. Pages 1–15 in Slavery in Classical Antiquity. Views and Controversies. Edited by M. I. Finley. Cambridge.

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Babington and Evans 1993, 202.

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Kreitzer L. J. 1993. The New Testament in Fiction and Film. On Reversing the Hermeneutical Flow. Sheffield. Lemche, N. P. 1976. The Manumission of Slaves—The Fallow Year—The Sabbatical Year—The Jobel Year. VT 26: 38–59. Levine, L. I. 1998. Judaism and Hellenism in Antiquity. Conflict or Confluence? Seattle. Mc Cracken, P. V. 1988. Oxen, Women, or Citizens? Slaves in the System of the Mishnah. BJS 143. Atlanta. Mayo, L. A. 1977. The Ambivalent Image: The Perception of the Jew in Nineteenth Century America. Unpublished Ph.D. Thesis, CUNY, available as a University Microfilm version. Ann Arbor. Morsberger, R. E. and K. M. Morsberger 1974. Christ and a Horse-Race: Ben-Hur on Stage. Journal of Popular Culture 8: 489–502. ———. 1980. Lew Wallace: Militant Romantic. New York. Parker, H. 1998. Loyal Slaves and Loyal Wives. The Crisis of the Outside-Within and Roman Exemplum Literature. Pages 152–73 in Women and Slaves in Graeco-Roman Culture. Differential Equations. Edited by S. R. Joshel and S. Murnaghan. London and New York. Porten, B. and A. Yardeni 1989. Textbook of Aramaic Documents form Ancient Egypt. Vol. 2: Contracts. Jerusalem. Rawson, B. 1966. Family Life Among the Lower Classes at Rome in the First Two Centuries of the Empire. CP 61: 71–83. Rosenstone, R. A. 1995. Introduction. Pages 3–13 in Revisioning History. Film and the Construction of a New Past. Edited by R. A. Rosenstone. Princeton. Tatum, W. B. 2004. Jesus at the Movies. A Guide to the First Hundred Years. (2nd ed.) Santa Rosa. Vogt, J. 1975. Ancient Slavery and the Ideal of Man. Cambridge. Volkmann, H. 1961. Die Massenversklavungen der Einwohner eroberter Städte in der hellenistischrömischen Zeit. Wiesbaden. Wallace, L. 1998. Ben-Hur. Edited with an introduction and notes by David Mayer. Oxford’s World’s Classics. Oxford and New York. Walsh, R. 2003. Reading the Gospels in the Dark. Portrayals of Jesus in Film. Harrisburg, London and New York. Watson, A. 1987. Roman Slave Law. Baltimore and London. Young, W. 1994. Ben-Hur as Adapted for the Stage. Pages 189–200 in Playing Out the Empire. Ben-Hur and other Toga Plays and Films, 1883–1908. A Critical Anthology. Oxford.

CORRUPTION AMONG THE HIGH PRIESTHOOD: A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE James S. McLaren In the retrospect to his seminal study of Galilee Seán Freyne stated that “. . . the Jerusalem temple continued to exercise a powerful attraction” for the people of Galilee.1 In subsequent studies this line of argument has been reaffirmed and even used to help explain the nature of Josephus’ interaction with people in the region during the war.2 Yet, the general caricature of the temple in scholarship is that it became a source of Angst for the Jewish people during the late Second Temple period. In particular, the high priests responsible for overseeing the temple in the Herodian period were corrupt and did not have the support of the community as a whole.3 My purpose here is to review the case for depicting the high priests as corrupt officials who lacked support in order to consider what implications, if any, it has for Freyne’s broad line of argument regarding the Galilee-temple connection.4 A recent, prominent advocate of the view that the high priesthood was corrupt is Craig A. Evans.5 He provides a comprehensive discussion of the diverse evidence deemed to depict the high priests as corrupt and unpopular. Given his underlying interest with placing Jesus in an historical context, Evans groups the various types of source material chronologically: “Post-70 c.e. Reflection” and “Traditions Specifically Reflecting the Time of Jesus.”6 He concludes that the evidence for Freyne 1980, 393, 273–94 esp. 275–76, 292–93. See Freyne 1987, 600–609 (reprinted in Freyne 2000, 73–85). 3 For example, public dissatisfaction with the high priests is fundamental to the thesis of Goodman (1987) regarding the causes of the war and to Horsley (2003) regarding the political situation in which Jesus’ ministry took place. The Qumran community remains the one clear example of Jews who were radically opposed to what was happening in the existing temple. In this paper the phrase “high priests” includes both people who served in the office and their family members. 4 For a comprehensive critique of the idea that the people of Galilee viewed the ancient northern kingdom of Israel as their cultural heritage see Freyne, 2000, 114–31. 5 See, in particular Evans 1997, 395–439; Evans 1995, 319–44, 367–80. Bauckham (1988, 72–89 esp. 78–81) provides a similar line of argument. See also Jeremias (1969, 181–98) who places particular emphasis on the supposed illegitimacy of the high priests. 6 Evans 1995, 321–37, 337–41. Responding to claims made by Sanders (1985, 65–66, 270, 401–2) regarding the status of the priesthood in public opinion is cited as a major factor for the study by Evans. 1 2

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corruption is “. . . substantial. This evidence antedates the time of Jesus, is subsequent to the time of Jesus, and can even be traced to the very time of Jesus.”7 While much of the argument is expressed through a process of accumulating as many citations of corruption as possible, it stands or falls on information contained in three key sources: Testament of Moses; Josephus; and early rabbinic traditions.8 The first is deemed to date to the time of Jesus and the other two, although post 70 c.e., provide corroborating testimony of actual corruption in the middle part of the first century c.e. The task at hand, therefore, is to discuss in detail the relevant passages from these three sources in order to determine their value as evidence of a general public perception of corruption among high priests. In particular, our interest will focus on whether or not sufficient attention has been given to placing the cited passages in their respective literary and historical contexts. TESTAMENT OF MOSES 7 This text is a particularly significant testimony of the corruption of the high priests because it is deemed to date from the early part of the first century c.e.9 Interest centres on T. Mos. 6–7. In T. Mos. 6 events are mentioned that clearly allude to King Herod and the time immediately after his death: Herod is the “wanton king, who will not be of a priestly family” (6.2) and the “powerful kings” (6.1) he replaces were the Hasmoneans. After providing rather bleak commentary on the nature of Herod’s reign (6.2–5) that will last for thirty four years (6.6), the author moves forward to outline events that follow Herod’s death. The “powerful king of the West” (6.8) takes captives and assaults the temple.10 The claim that Herod’s heirs will not reign for as long as their father (6.7) appears to indicate that this section of the text was written early in the first century c.e., certainly before 30 c.e. as both Herod Antipas and Herod Phillip retained control of their respective tetrarchies beyond the span of Herod’s reign. What follows in T. Mos. 7 is the crucial passage. The author of the text refers to “destructive and godless men, who represent themselves Evans 1995, 342. See also Evans 1997, 427–28. Evans also draws upon material from Qumran and the Targums. See Evans 1995, 327–31, 337–38. 9 Evans 1995, 341–42. 10 This is probably a reference to the campaign by Varus in 4 B.C.E. (War 2.39–79; Ant. 17.250–299). 7 8

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as being righteous” (7.3) who will rule over the Jews. The gluttony, greed, festive and deceitful behaviour of these people is described in some detail (7.4–10). It is claimed that the people criticized here are the high priests who rose to power as the leaders of the Jewish community in the years that followed Herod. Fundamental to this line of argument is that T. Mos. 7 was penned at the same time as the previous chapter about Herod. Furthermore, the author was continuing the historical sequence of commenting on the faults of the Jewish rulers. There are, however, four major reasons to reject this line of argument. The first point is the fragmentary nature of the text. The seven line lacuna between T. Mos. 7.4–6 complicates interpretation of the chapter. Before and after the lacuna the author is describing characteristics of the behaviour exhibited by the rulers that are being attacked. To speculate about the exact nature of what is missing would be of little merit in itself. Instead, the importance of the lacuna lies in the need to qualify any interpretation regarding the meaning of the chapter with a note of caution, especially in terms of the identity of the people being criticized.11 The second major problem with asserting that T. Mos. 7 refers to high priests of the early first century c.e. relates to the presumed connection between chapters 6 and 7. There are important differences regarding the style and type of content of the two chapters. The author uses a chronicle like approach in T. Mos. 6, with the emphasis placed on briefly describing a number of events in chronological sequence. The Hasmoneans are the starting point and a brief comment is made about their crimes in relation to the temple (6.2). Herod is then introduced and the author explains how the new king brings a harsh end to the Hasmoneans (6.3–4). Attention turns to the evil actions of Herod in regard to the community at large (6.5–6), mention of his heirs (6.7), his death (6.8) and the coming of a foreign ruler who will bring further misery for the people (6.9–10). Although the suffering inflicted upon the Hasmoneans and upon the community is noted, the author does not seek to reflect in detail upon any of the events cited. The approach used in T. Mos. 6 stands in marked contrast to the way the subject matter is presented in the surrounding chapters, where the emphasis is on providing commentary regarding the implications of individual situations. The focus of T. Mos. 5 is the nature of the

Evans (1995, 341) concludes that it is “clearly directed against a wealthy, powerful priestly aristocracy” while Bauckham (1988, 80) claims “it is clear that the sinners described in this chapter were priests (7:9–10).” 11

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Hasmonean period of rule. No attempt is made to provide detail about the span of reign, for the family as a whole, or for individual rulers. Rather, the emphasis is placed on conveying the iniquitous nature of their rule: pollution of the temple, acting unjustly and adopting foreign customs. The tone of the extant portions of T. Mos. 7 is very similar: specific rulers, references to timeframes and events are absent. Instead, attention is given to portraying the inappropriateness of their way of life. In T. Mos. 8 attention centres on a time of persecution that is brought about by a foreign ruler (8.1). The author speaks of how Jews will be forced to relinquish their customs (8.3) and worship foreign deities (8.4–5). All of this is set out in order to describe the mood of the time of persecution rather than sequentially to chronicle specific historical events.12 Therefore, it is not simply a case of viewing T. Mos. 6–7 as a sequential block of material. In terms of style and content T. Mos. 6 is distinctive from the remainder of the text. The third major point of debate regarding the text is the question of its dating. A case has been made for dating the entire text to the early Roman period and, one has also been made for dating the text to the Maccabean period. Neither case is straightforward because of the nature of the content in T. Mos. 5–9: the early Roman period dating requires that the author was not concerned to retain a strict chronological sequencing of the material; while the Maccabean period dating normally proposes that T. Mos. 6–7 is an interpolation added during the Herodian period.13 In other words, any attempt to use this text as evidence of views espoused at a particular time in Jewish history warrants some explanation of the sequence of the content. What makes this particularly important is that the claim that T. Mos. 7 refers to the Herodian period high priests is dependent on the concept that the author has used chronological sequencing: the Hasmoneans (5), then Herod (6) and then the high priests (7). If that is the case, some comment as to why T. Mos. 8–10 describes circumstances best connected with the persecution by Antiochus IV Epiphanes is required. The final major point to note relates to the identity of the people mentioned in T. Mos. 7. Even if we were to accept that the text is historically sequential and written in the first century c.e., the case for It also sets the scene for the climatic story of Taxo regarding his choice of martyrdom rather than apostasy (T. Mos. 9). 13 For a first century c.e. dating see Charles 1897, lv–lviii and Priest 1983, 1:920–21. For a Maccabean dating see Nickelsburg 1973, 33–37; Collins 1973, 38–43. 12

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identifying “the rulers” as the high priests is flawed. The author readily identifies the people being criticized according to characteristics of their behaviour—greed, luxurious living, deceitfulness and injustice (7.5–10). They are, however, never explicitly labelled as priests. It is possible that a connection with the temple is intended from the reference to “impure things” (7.9) and their concern about avoiding pollution (7.10).14 Yet, in comparison with the way the author describes those being reproached in T. Mos. 5.3–5, the “destructive and godless men” of T. Mos. 7 are not necessarily priests. Rather than high priests, a case can be made for the “destructive and godless men” being members of the Herodian family. Lavish lifestyle, notions of grandeur and behaviour as “princes” (7.9) resonate well with what is known elsewhere regarding Herod’s descendants. In this context, it is important to note that the reference to the descendants of Herod in T. Mos. 6.7 was not a description of their activities. The author’s attention remains fixed on Herod: in T. Mos. 6.9 the account of the reign is concluded by noting what happens immediately after the death of the king. Life under Herod’s descendants, therefore, had not yet been described and, presuming there was a chronological sequence in the content, T. Mos. 7 would be the logical place for such a description to occur.15 A careful reading of the various details of the passage within the context of the whole work indicates that the interpretation of T. Mos. 7 is not a straight forward matter. As has often been noted, Herod is the main target for comment in T. Mos. 6 and this part of the text was probably written soon after his reign. What we are to make of the rest of the text, especially T. Mos. 7, is hard to determine with any sense of certainty. The following points should be noted: there is no particular reason to link T. Mos. 7 with T. Mos. 6. If anything, the latter is a stand alone interpolation and T. Mos. 7 should be read in relation to T. Mos. 5 and/or 8.16 There is, therefore, also no reason to view high priests as the target of the attack in T. Mos. 7. The insertion of the brief but detailed comments about Herod’s reign should not be 14 The false claim of being “righteous” might also imply a connection with the temple (T. Mos. 7.3). See Bauckham 1988, 80. 15 A further complication for T. Mos. 7 being a description of life after Herod is the absence of the Romans from the account. Priest 1983, 930 n.7e expresses caution about trying to identify the people being attacked. 16 T. Mos. 6.1 makes little sense unless it is meant as an editorial addition to connect the content of chapters 5 and 6.

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allowed to dominate the interpretation of the entire text. The case for a Maccabean period dating for the vast majority of the text remains a viable option. What is put forward as a simple, clear example of criticism of first century c.e. high priests is much more complex and certainly open to more than one line of interpretation. Josephus At first glance a prominent role for Josephus in the case for corruption among high priests appears to be unexpected. As noted by Evans, it is generally agreed that Josephus was biased toward the Jewish aristocracy. In fact, the bias of Josephus is taken to imply that any comments he makes indicating possible criticism of the high priests has added significance.17 As an advocate of the aristocracy it is assumed Josephus downplayed any faults and he covered up rather than overstated the situation. Working from such a premise there are two key aspects of Josephus’ account deemed to show that the high priests were corrupt. One is the description of conflict among priests in the years leading up to the war. This testimony is given particular prominence because it is used to corroborate information preserved in later rabbinic traditions. The other key aspect is the evidence Josephus supposedly provides for how the general public took revenge on certain high priests at the outbreak of the war against Rome. Detailed comment regarding the two aspects of Josephus’ account is warranted. It will show that insufficient attention has been paid to the broader narrative and thematic context in which the cited material is situated. We commence with the three passages that relate to the situation in Judea in the late ’50s and early ’60s c.e. (Ant. 20.179–181; 206–207; 213–214). They are cited as direct evidence of greed and corruption within the high priesthood. In Ant. 20.179–181, Josephus outlines a dispute after Agrippa II appointed Ishmael b. Phiabi high priest. Unnamed high priests and leaders of the people of Jerusalem formed factions and clashed with one another (20.180). As a result, the city was left leaderless. Associated with this fighting, Josephus describes how the high priests forcibly stole tithes from other priests, leaving the poorer priests to die.

17

See Evans 1997, 427 esp. n. 103.

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The second passage relates to the activities of the high priest Ananias (Ant. 20.206–207). Apparently he sent his servants to the threshing floor in order to steal the tithes from other priests. Physical force was used to coerce unwilling priests to hand over their allotment (20.206). As with the previous example, poorer priests were left to starve. Josephus also claims there was no way of stopping Ananias and his servants (20.207). The third passage is connected with the appointment of Jesus b. Gamaliel to the office of high priest by Agrippa II (20.213–214). Josephus describes a dispute between Jesus and his immediate predecessor, Jesus b. Damnaeus. They both acquired a gang of followers and fought against one another (20.213). It is likely that Josephus saw this example of infighting as a continuation of what he had previously outlined: Ananias is named as the dominant figure in the fighting because of his wealth and use of bribes (20.213). The scale of the conflict, however, would appear to have increased: two Herodians, Saul and Costabar, are identified as leaders of a gang also forcibly obtaining wealth from other Jews (20.214). Josephus then concludes this brief episode with a summary comment about how the level of unrest and trouble in Jerusalem had now reached a new level of intensity (20.214). These three passages would appear to provide important evidence of corruption and greed among some of the high priests in the years immediately before the Jewish-Roman war. Acquisition of wealth without regard for the well-being of others or for what was just and legal is a common theme to each incident. The absence of these passages from the overtly distorted account of who was responsible for the war in Jewish War appears to further enhance their status as references to what actually happened. The meaning, and, in turn, the historical significance of the passages, however, is much more complex. The issue of Josephus’ authorial interests has an important bearing on the relevance of these passages. In Jewish War the description of events prior to the outbreak of war in 66 c.e. was dominated by Josephus’ concern to provide what he deemed to be a suitable backdrop to explaining how and why the war commenced. Such a concern governed the choice of subject matter and the way that subject matter was narrated. There Josephus’ major strategies were to describe life in Judea as torn apart by an increasing level of conflict until the point of final explosion and, to blame the war on people bent on bringing about conflict—incompetent Roman officials, Syrians resident in Judea and, most important of all, rogue Jews opposed to negotiating with Rome.

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Within such a strategic framework it is not surprising that Josephus does not mention members of the Jewish aristocracy as contributing to the outbreak of the war. There was no scope for the three incidents as described in Jewish Antiquities. Their inclusion in the later work, however, was not necessarily because explaining the conflict had become any less important for Josephus or because he became careless. Quite the contrary, justifying what happened in the war remained a major concern for Josephus in Jewish Antiquities when he turned his attention to events in the first century c.e. This concern is readily apparent in the description of the first incident associated with direct Roman rule in 6 c.e., the census undertaken by Quirinius. Josephus expanded upon and extensively revised the Jewish War account of the census in Jewish Antiquities. In particular, he provided a thorough and extensive commentary on how the fourth philosophy was responsible for the war (Ant. 18:4–10).18 The three passages from Jewish Antiquities 20 should also be understood as part of this continued concern to provide a revised explanation of the war. In his earlier account Josephus tried to exonerate the aristocracy from any blame for the war. They continually worked to maintain peace with Rome and when the war commenced they became involved only as a last resort.19 Josephus’ account, however, was not the only version to appear. Others wrote of the war, requiring Josephus to revise his original interpretation. Part of that revision included the role of the aristocracy prior to the war.20 These three passages are attempts by Josephus to address criticisms of, and/or questions about, his earlier account. The three incidents are cited as examples of how the aristocracy supposedly contributed to the break down of law and order: hence the summary comments (Ant. 20.180, 214). The details associated with each incident also indicate that caution is warranted regarding the exact significance of what they reveal about the historical situation in Judea before the war. Josephus is particularly careful to limit the amount of damage caused by the rivalry he describes. Hence, he portrays the trouble in the three incidents in very 18 See McLaren (2004, 90–108) regarding the way Josephus revises his portrayal of Judas. 19 The two classic features of this version of events is the manner in which Josephus places the appointment of generals for the war after the defeat of Cestius (War 2.562–568) and the eulogy regarding Ananus (War 4.318–325). 20 Note also the manner in which Josephus concludes his account in Ant. 20.252–258, focusing on the responsibility of Florus for the war.

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similar terms. In Ant. 20.180 and 20.213–214 the various groups with their followers are fighting against one another and in Ant. 20.181 and 20.206–207 certain high priests are busy forcibly taking tithes from other priests. While it is possible that Josephus repeats this information because it reflects an ongoing historical situation, it is equally possible that Josephus has provided a stereotypical crime representative of inappropriate behaviour among leaders—fighting amongst one another and stealing from one another. A number of details associated with the three passages also place a substantial question mark over the impact on the community at large of what Josephus describes. For example, the fighting is between rivals for prominence in the community and the high priests are stealing from other priests. Josephus never depicts the high priests as stealing from the populace. The impact on the community at large is presented in terms of a dereliction of duty by the aristocracy: those people who should have been devoting their energies to providing leadership were busy fighting one another. A further reason to question the impact on the community is the counter comment Josephus makes regarding the public standing of Ananias (Ant. 20.205). He increased his level of popularity within the community because of his wealth.21 Furthermore, the depiction of named high priests from this period elsewhere in the narrative gives no hint of corruption or popular hatred. For example, Ishmael is identified as one of the key representatives of the Jews sent to Rome to plead the case against Agrippa II regarding the height of a new wall enclosing the temple (Ant. 20.194).22 The three incidents form part of Josephus’ revised version of how the situation in Judea grew worse until it reached an inevitable climax in 66 c.e. What he has done in Jewish Antiquities is allocate a limited role to the high priests and lay aristocracy in the whole process and care has been taken to ensure that what they did only directly targeted their immediate circle of associates.23 We are not able to determine with any certainty whether the rivalry among high priests did occur, and surfaced in the late 50s c.e., or whether it was an ongoing issue 21 Apparently Ananias also used this wealth to gain favour with the serving high priest and the new governor, Albinus (Ant. 20.205). 22 Note that Ishmael was executed by the Romans and that three of his sons apparently escaped from Jerusalem during the siege (War 6.114). Evans (1997, 426) refers to the actions of Ananus in 62 c.e. (Ant. 20.197–203) as an example of “ruthlessness” but it does not amount to corruption. 23 See Sanders 1992, 324–25, 331–32.

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throughout the first century c.e. for which Josephus has only given partial disclosure, or whether it is simply a topos used by Josephus to share out a proportion of the blame for what happened in Judea. The other aspect of Josephus’ account deemed particularly valuable is his supposed direct testimony of the general public opposing high priests. The crucial passage is the story of the murder of Ananias and his brother at the start of the war against Rome (War 2.422–448). Josephus describes the fighting that took place in Jerusalem between those Jews who opposed and those Jews who supported the revolt. Eleazar b. Ananias is identified as the main leader of the pro-war group while those opposing the war are the “powerful” and the “high priests” (War 2.422). The “insurgents” succeed in capturing much of the upper city, burn the house of Ananias, the palaces of Agrippa II and Berenice and then the public records building (War 2.426–427). The latter action is explained with commentary: it was undertaken in order to win over the “poor” (War 2.427). It is what Josephus goes on to narrate next that is given the most prominence. Ananias and his brother are captured and killed by Jews (War 2.441). In the context of starting a war against Rome, therefore, one of the first targets of the conflict was a prominent member of the Jewish priesthood. A careful reading of the account, however, indicates there is much more to the situation. Josephus is not describing popular hatred toward high priests. Rather, the murder of Ananias, in his capacity as leader of those Jews opposing the war, was used by Josephus to attack radical Jews. Due attention needs to be given to the detail of the whole account. The “insurgents” attack Antonia and Herod’s palace (War 2.430–432). Then Josephus introduces Menahem b. Judas, whom he claims takes over control of the pro-war cause (War 2.434).24 Menahem’s significance in the narrative quickly becomes apparent in the next two actions described by Josephus. Despite agreeing to terms for the evacuation of the palace, Menahem’s followers attack and kill stragglers and loot the abandoned camp of the pro-peace forces (War 2.438, 440). The next action is even more despicable. Ananias and his brother Ezechias are captured and murdered by the “brigands” (War 2.441). Although

24 Exactly who was in control of the rebels is unclear as Josephus goes on to mention “Menahem and the leaders of the insurrection” (War 2.437) in relation to the request sent by those besieged in the palace.

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Josephus does not name these “brigands” it is clear they were connected with Menahem. The “insurgents,” Eleazar’s associates, were patrolling the towers at the time the murder took place (War 2.441). In the narrative it is Menahem who orchestrates the murder of Ananais, not the people. The way people respond to the murder of the high priest and his brother is also very important. Menahem starts acting like a “tyrant” (War 2.442). In stark contrast, Eleazar and his supporters decide to rid themselves of Menahem (War 2.443). They attack and kill Menahem and many of his supporters (War 2.445–448). Josephus explicitly refers to the “people” joining in the attack on Menahem (War 2.445). The murder of Ananias, therefore, is not depicted by Josephus as the expression of public outrage and opposition to a high priest. Menahem is blamed for undertaking gross injustices, representing a line of action that was rejected by the majority of Jews, even among those who were actively pursuing the cause of war against Rome. In the narrative, therefore, the murder of the high priest is performed by a radical group of Jews that did not have the support of the community and the explanation for Ananias being targeted lies in his role as a leader of those who opposed the war.25 Rabbinic Traditions The third key source of evidence for the high priests being corrupt is a saying attributed to Abba Saul b. Bitnit and Abba Yosé b. Yohanan (t. Menahot 13:21; b. Pesahim 57a). The saying contains various woes experienced because of the oppressive actions of four high priestly families: Boethus, Elhanan, Phiabi and Qadros.26 Comparison with information provided by Josephus makes it possible to readily identify three of the families mentioned in the saying. From the reign of Herod onwards there were at least three high priests from the house of Boethus. The

25 Evans (1997, 426) claims the action of Menaham shows that the high priest “was hated” but does not then acknowledge that Menahem was killed. It is also important to note the actions attributed to various high priests during the war: several act as commanders and a number are present in the city during the siege. 26 Jeremias (1969, 196) asserts that the “. . . lament reveals the characteristic complaint of the people and the clerus minor against the illegitimate new hierarchy, and also contains excellent historical material.” The Talmud version renders Elhanan as Hanin, Qadros as Kathros and Yosé b. Yohanan as the son of Hanin (b. Pesahim 58a).

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house of Elhanan is probably the family of Ananus, from whom there were no less than seven high priests and three people from the house of Phiabi appear to have served as high priest. The identity of the other family, Qadros, is not clear: it is possibly a reference to Simon Cantheras and his son, Elionaeus.27 As well as being able to link the families mentioned in this saying with actual high priests from the first century c.e., what appears to make this compelling evidence for corruption among that group of people is the connection between the detail of the woes and the fighting and forced acquisition of tithes described by Josephus in Jewish Antiquities 20. Prominent at the time of these incidents were Ishmael and then Ananias, members of two of the families cited in the saying. Even with a late dating of the text it is argued that the passage corroborates what Josephus describes.28 It is appropriate to view the saying as a critical reference to members of several prominent high priestly families. It is also understandable that a connection between the saying and Josephus’ account of events in Judea is noted.29 However, exactly what credence is to be attached to the saying as an independent testimony of the situation in Judea is another matter. At the very least, there are a number of points of detail that require explanation and clarification in order to properly understand the relevance of the saying to what was happening in the first century c.e. Three of the more obvious issues will be outlined here. One is the origin of the saying. As with all rabbinic material, precision about the source of any particular saying is a complex issue. Attribution of a saying to a specific figure and being able to link the subject matter with situations and/or people known from other sources are prominent among the steps used to help identify the chronological setting.30 However, this process can only help establish what a saying may refer to and to when it has been attributed, it does not necessarily follow that the saying dates back to the particular time described.31 27 Bauckham (1988, 80) suggests that the order of names may indicate the date of the lament: viz. during Ishmael’s tenure as high priest. See VanderKam 2004, 443–48 and 463–75 regarding issues of chronology and the family identity pertaining to Simon and Ishmael respectively. 28 The claimed connection is highlighted by Evans 1995, 337; Jeremias 1969, 195–96; and Bauckham 1988, 79. 29 See VanderKam 2004, 422 and Sanders 1992, 331. 30 See the comments of Neusner (1994, 653–55 and 668–79) regarding the dating of material and the attribution of sayings respectively. 31 Jeremias (1969,195) citing b. Betzah 29a bar., dates Saul to the first century c.e. Evans (1995, 334) also links the two figures with the first century c.e. This association

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What makes establishing the history of this particular saying especially important is its appearance first in the Tosefta and the function it plays within the tractate. Using Neusner’s threefold labelling of material, the saying is part of a “freestanding, autonomous” addition to the topic of meal offerings originally addressed in the Mishnah.32 T. Menahot 13:14 parallels m. Menahot 13:10 but 13:11 is absent in the Tosefta version, it is replaced by the autonomous material in 13:15–23. The saying is not simply part of an expansion or elaboration of the Mishnah. The second issue that requires clarification is the detail included in the saying. Attention centres on the plight of victims, people suffering at the hands of certain high-priestly families. For the saying, attributed to two specific figures, to have value as evidence of corruption on a large scale it must be assumed that the “woes” echoed the thoughts and experiences of other people. In the so-called parallel account of Josephus, the victims are priests. There is not sufficient information about the two rabbinic figures to know if they were connected with the priesthood or whether an anonymous saying has subsequently being attributed to Saul and Yosé. At the very least, we are left with a question mark over the history of the transmission of the saying, let alone the identity of the actual victims. The other aspect of the detail that requires clarification is the mechanisms of abuse: “staves,” “pens” and “whispers.” Much emphasis has been placed on associating the “staves” with the trouble described by Josephus. However, it is not clear what abuses are meant by the use of “pens” and “whispers.”33 The third issue is the broader context of the saying in both the Tosefta and the Talmud. Such a process indicates that it is not appropriate to simply cite the saying as though it represents the total line of thought regarding how to remember the situation in Jerusalem before 70 c.e. There is a general sequential connection in the material preserved in t. Menahot 13:17–23 that indicates it is a collection of sayings relating to the temple. The discussion regarding what was done with the hides that had been offered in varying circumstances (13:17) is then followed is, however, not certain. Danby (1933, 799) links Yosé with the “pre-tannaitic’ teachers and Saul with the “first generation (A.D. c.10–80)” teachers. There is nothing in the few occasions either figure is mentioned in the Mishnah to confirm, let alone require, a first century c.e. date (m. Shabbat 24:5; m. Betzah 3:8; m. Hagigah 2:2; m. Sotah 9:9; m. Avot 1:4, 5). 32 See Neusner 1994, 130. 33 Evans (1995, 335) cites the notes of Freedman (1938, 285 n.2, 4) to explain the pens as “evil decrees” and the whispers as “oppressive measures.”

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by comments about “the powerful men of the priesthood” taking the hides by force and how they continued to do so after steps had been put in place to avoid such abuses taking place (13:18–19A). There then follows a description of how priests displayed their wealth, covering the porch of the temple with golden trays, apparently repositioning them in a more prominent location during “the festival” (13:19B–D). Following the woe saying is preserved a saying attributed to Yohanan b. Torta that explains the destruction of Shiloh and the first and second temple. Shiloh and the first temple were destroyed because of various sacrilegious offences (13:22A–C). The second temple, however, was destroyed because “. . . they love money and hate one another” (13:22D). This greed is deemed to be as bad an offence as idolatry (13:22E). The tractate concludes looking forward to the building of a new temple and the gathering together of the people to worship God (13:23). The cumulative effect of this material is that various abuses by priests have been placed together.34 Most of the explicit criticism of the “powerful priests” relates to how they forcibly took tithes from other priests. Yet, in explaining the destruction of the second temple it is claimed that “. . . they devoted themselves to Torah and were meticulous about tithes” (13:22C). The very people who were greedy were also observant of the torah and the various requirements regarding tithing. It would appear, therefore, that two contradictory views are expressed regarding what was happening in connection with tithing. It is certainly not a simple case of the comments in 13:22 following on directly from those made in 13:18–19A and 13:20. A number of separate sayings have been brought together to form an autonomous unit in the tractate: the broad point of connection in the current setting is tithing and the temple. The version of the saying preserved in b. Pesahim 57a is preceded by the same basic material as in the Tosefta version. “Men of violence” forcibly took tithes and, despite efforts to prevent such abuse, “high priests” continued to take them. This wealth was then used to cover the temple with gold plaques. What does alter is the material that follows the saying. Four “cries” originate from the “Temple Court”: three are critical of priests. The “children of Eli” defile the temple, Issachar of Kefar Barkai desecrates the sacrifices and Yohanan b. Narbai gorges on offerings for the temple. The other cry, however, provides an alternative perspective: Ishmael b. Phiabi is described as Phineas’ disciple: it

34

Evans 1995, 336.

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carries the connotation of displaying zeal for the torah. This positive comment stands in stark contrast to the depiction of his family in the woe and leaves open the question as to what was the actual historical situation in the first century c.e. 35 Conclusion A careful reading of the three central sources proposed as evidence of corruption among the high priests of the first century c.e. shows that the case for such a line of argument is fraught with complications. There is no particular reason to date Testament of Moses 7, let alone link its content, with the historical situation in the early part of the first century c.e. In Jewish Antiquities Josephus has provided a revised explanation of who was responsible for the war by allocating some blame on elements of the aristocracy, citing infighting that meant they no longer undertook their main task—to provide leadership for the community. The rabbinic saying bemoaning suffering caused by the activities of several high priest families is complex. It is not an exact parallel of what Josephus describes and its transmission is shrouded in uncertainty. It is a late, post 70 c.e. reflection preserved in a body of literature generally unsympathetic to any potential alternative source of authority. Those arguing for corruption within the high priesthood, especially corruption that was noted and/or experienced by the community at large, are dogged by the problem of silence. Absence of explicit evidence does not automatically mean a total absence of corruption. However, two factors point toward the view that such silence is a major problem for the idea that there was corruption on a substantial level. One is the richness of the evidence for criticism of a previous regime: the Hasmoneans. From several independent sources it is clear that the Hasmonean rulers were the subject of opposition at the time of their rule.36 The other problem relates to the relative silence of criticism in texts where it would be appropriate. In particular, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch 35 Note also the positive reference to Ishmael b. Phiabi in m. Sotah 9:15, where his death is lamented by the comment that the “splendour of the priesthood ceased.” There, he is named alongside a number of prominent figures from rabbinic tradition. 36 Prominent examples include 1QpHab, T. Mos. 5 and Ps. Sol. 17. The reason for this opposition, however, was multifaceted and it is not clear as to how widespread the opposition became.

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directly address the question of responsibility for the destruction of the temple in 70 c.e. Apart from a brief comment in 2 Baruch 10:18 about how the priests gave back the keys to the sanctuary, these two texts are striking in their absence of complaints about the priesthood in general, let alone the high priests.37 Discussion of Jewish attitudes toward the temple during the years leading up to the war of 66–70 c.e. is anything but a neutral subject. The priests are often considered to have failed to live up to the task of running the temple and so they became the cause of frustration, disappointment and open criticism.38 A search for actual evidence of this situation, however, is not fruitful. In principle, it is plausible to claim that the running of any system is likely to involve some forms of abuse.39 Yet, as much as Evans and others have tried to line up examples of Jews claiming that high priests of the first century c.e. were corrupt, the case falters on a close examination of the main witnesses put forward. In contrast, the notion of a positive link between the people of Galilee and the temple, therefore, remains a viable framework within which to work. It may also provide food for thought about how Jews of Judea interacted with the temple. Rather than search for possible signs of criticism and opposition, attention should be placed on signs of an interaction of a generally positive nature. After all, in 66 c.e. it was the existing temple that acted as the rallying point for those who decided to oppose the most powerful empire of the time.40 Bibliography Bauckham, R. 1988. Jesus’ Demonstration in the Temple. Pages 72–89 in Law and Religion: Essays on the Place of the Law in Israel and Early Christianity. Edited by B. Lindars. Cambridge. Charles, R. H. 1897. The Assumption of Moses. London. Cohen, X. 1999. The Temple and the Synagogue. Pages 298–325 in The Cambridge History of Judaism Vol. 3. The Early Roman Period. Edited by W. Horbury, W. D. Davies, J. Sturdy. Cambridge.

Evans (1995, 325–26) acknowledges the paucity of evidence from this quarter. For example, see Horsley 2003, 38. 39 The most significant action in relation to possible abuse concerning the temple is the incident regarding the golden eagle near the end of Herod’s reign (War 1:648–655; Ant. 17:149–167). The one other notable “abuse” is the decision of Agrippa II to extend his palace so that he could view the activities inside the temple (Ant. 20.189–196). 40 See Cohen 1999, 311. 37 38

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Collins, J. J. 1973. The Date and Provenance of the Testament of Moses. Pages 38–43 in Studies in the Testament of Moses (SCS 4). Edited by G. W. E. Nickelsburg. Cambridge, Mass. Danby, M. 1933. The Mishnah. Oxford. Evans, C. A. 1997. Jesus’ Action in the Temple. Cleansing or Portent of Destruction? Pages 395–439 in Jesus in Context. Temple, Purity, and Restoration. Edited by B. Chilton and C. A. Evans. Leiden. ———. 1995. Jesus and His Contemporaries: Comparative Studies. Leiden. Freedman, H. 1978. The Babylonian Talmud. Pesahim (17 vols.) 3 Edited by I. Epstein. London. Freyne, S. 1980. Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian. A Study of Second Temple Judaism. Wilmington. ———. 1987. Galilee-Jerusalem Relations According to Josephus’ Life. NTS 33: 600–609 (reprinted in S. Freyne, Galilee and Gospel. Collected Essays. Tübingen. 2000, 73–85). Goodman, M. 1987. The Ruling Class of Judea. The Origins of the Jewish Revolt Against Rome, A.D. 66–70. Cambridge. Horsley, R. A. 2003. Jesus and Empire. The Kingdom of God and New World Disorder. Minneapolis. Jeremias, J. 1969. Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus. London. McLaren, J. S. 2004. Constructing Judaean History in the Diaspora: Josephus’s Accounts of Judas. Pages 90–108 in Negotiating Diaspora. Jewish Strategies in the Roman Empire. Edited by J. M. G. Barclay. London. Neusner, J. 1994. Introduction to Rabbinic Literature. New York. Nickelsburg, G. W. E. 1974. An Antiochan Date for the Testament of Moses. Pages 33–37 in Studies in the Testament of Moses. SCS 4; Edited by G. W. E. Nickelsburg. Cambridge, Mass. Priest, J. 1983. Testament of Moses. Pages 919–43 in The Old Testament Pseudipigrapha. Edited by J. H. Charlesworth. New York. Sanders, E. P. 1985. Jesus and Judaism. Philadelphia. ———. 1992. Judaism. Practice and Belief 63 B.C.E.–66 C.E. London. VanderKam, J. C. 2004. From Joshua to Caiaphas: High Priests after the Exile. Minneapolis.

THE INTEGRITY OF THE RABBINIC LAW OF PURITY (MISHNAH TEHAROT ) Jacob Neusner The diverse law codes, from Scripture through the Mishnah, produced by various communities of Judaism in ancient times share facts in common but use them, each in its own system and setting. Hence, while the Mishnah reached closure only at 200 c.e., it makes use of facts that circulated and are attested in other Judaic law codes in much earlier times. The context in which ancient facts are utilized in a later document permits us to see how enduring data serve successive Judaic systems and affords perspective on the entire cultural and religious composite comprised by those Judaisms. In his studies on ancient Judaisms, Sean Freyne has distinguished himself in recognizing the diversity of those religious systems, and it is appropriate to dedicate in his honor these remarks of description, analysis, and interpretation of matters of purity in the Mishnah’s tractate on that subject.1 When the rabbinic sages wished in m. Teharot to organize a basic category (retrospectively) called “purities”—Teharot in Hebrew—as was their way, they identified data that, for reasons they discerned, cohered. These data were turned from rules into exemplifications of encompassing and systemic principles, with the result that through a repertoire of concrete laws, the sages produced a remarkably abstract statement of natural philosophy, a work of coherence and integrity. In tractate Teharot they treat four problems. The connections that they draw between these four distinct categories of Halakhah having to do with purities then expose the rationality that animates their thinking throughout. That fact becomes clear when we examine the outline of the tractate: i. Principles of Uncleanness of Food: Meat. Fathers and Offspring of Uncleanness. The Matter of Removes;

1 For a systematic account of the law of Rabbinic Judaism, see Neusner 1999a, 1999b, 1999c, 1999d, 1999e, 2001.

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ii. Susceptibility to Uncleanness of Holy Things, Heave-Offering, and Unconsecrated Food; iii. Doubt in Matters of Uncleanness; iv. The Haber and the {Am Haxares; v. Concluding Miscellanies and Reprise. Uncleanness of Foods, Liquids, Connection. The important items are these: 1. the relationship between sources of uncleanness and removes or successive levels of sanctification; 2. the relationship between Fathers and Offspring of uncleanness; 3. sorting out matters of doubt and determining probabilities; 4. the relationship of the haber and the {am haxares. These four categories derive from the systematic presentation of the Halakhah by the Mishnah and the Tosefta of Teharot, the only sustained statements on the matter that we have from rabbinic antiquity, the Talmuds falling silent here.2 Stated in the indicated sequence, then, the four main foci of Teharot hold together because to the sages they make a single continuous statement, from logical beginning to inexorable end, and the fixed order of the topics is essential and is critical to the message that is set forth. The rabbinic sages contemplate an intangible world of confusion between classes of things and persons that are both alike and not alike: things that may contract uncleanness but also attain sanctification; sources of uncleanness; things that may be unclean or clean; persons who are Israelites all together, but who may or may not keep certain laws of the torah. What the Halakhah accomplishes in each case is to identify things that are to begin with alike—that stand along a single continuum, that bear traits in common—but that also exhibit differentiating qualities. Extrapolating from cases, the Halakhah then offers the governing rules that sort out these mixtures of things that are both alike and unlike. The Halakhah tells us how to differentiate the unlike among the like, so to sort out confusion and clarify the categories that pertain.

While law codes of other communities of Judaism refer to matters of cleanness and uncleanness, no other code compares in depth and density to the Mishnah’s treatment of these topics (among all topics that are touched upon by Judaic systems of antiquity). 2

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Take the categories one by one. Sources of uncleanness form a single classification; but we differentiate between the primary source and removes therefrom, that is, successive contacts: the source, what has touched the source, what has touched what has touched the source, and so on into the outer reaches of imagination. Thus, in philosophical terms, we distinguish what is primary from what is secondary and derivative, that is, between efficient and proximate causes. And again, sources of uncleanness form one category, but some sources are more virulent than others, that is to say, some sources of uncleanness produce powerful and long-lasting effects, others limited and transient ones; some affect many things, others only a few; some transmit uncleanness only if touched, others when overshadowed, or when carried even though not touched, and so on. The two points of engagement—removes, fathers/offspring—clearly correspond, as we move from the source of uncleanness through the successive removes, and from the father of uncleanness through the diminishing effects of the offspring thereof. So much for differentiating between sources of uncleanness and among their effects: a labor of identifying the lines of order and structure that separate uncleanness from uncleanness and differentiate their effects upon food and drink and clothing at various levels of sanctification: this affects that, but not the other thing; this is affected by that, but not the other thing. What about what is affected by sources of uncleanness? That question carries us from corpses, spit, and blood of certain origin, to food, drink, and human beings. The third subdivision of the Halakhah as set forth by the Mishnah and the Tosefta involves food and drink, the fourth, persons. In both cases we confront the same problem: how to deal with doubt as to the status, in respect to uncleanness, of food and drink, on the one side, and persons, on the other. What persons, food, and utensils have in common is that all may be made unclean, but, from the perspective of the Halakhah, they also may attain cultic cleanness, and, in the setting of the household as much as the temple, ought to. That with which we have to reckon, then, is whether in an unguarded moment they have contracted uncleanness. We resolve doubt as to the classification of food and drink by appeal to a variety of probabilities. It is more probable that the status quo has prevailed than that it has not; it is more probable that what is dragged, and so can touch something, has touched the thing than that what is tossed, and so cannot touch, has made contact. Common sense about the more or the less probable, however, is joined to certain principles

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that appear to be arbitrary. Because we want the householder to maintain a high state of alertness concerning sources of uncleanness, we declare that cases of doubt in private property are treated as unclean. Because the public domain contains many imponderables and cannot be closed off to the faithful, we declare cases of doubt in public property to be treated as clean. Now that position is counter-intuitive, since in the public domain circulate gentiles, whose persons and secretions are by definition unclean, as well as Israelites who do not keep this aspect of the Halakhah. And given the distractions of crowds, one is more likely there than in private domain to step on unclean spit or urine deriving from gentiles. And who is to know the “history” of an object—what the one who touched it has touched, and what that has touched, backward for however many removes from the initial source of uncleanness? Reason therefore suggests that a case of doubt in public domain should be resolved in favor of uncleanness, and in private, cleanness. So here the system concerns itself with its larger goal—sanctifying the household and its table—and mitigates its more extreme possibilities. Where people can and should take care, they are held to a high standard. Where circumstances make difficult a constant state of alertness amid a barrage of occasions for contamination, they are not. So much for food, drink, and utensils, what about persons? Here we classify the category of Israelites, differentiating the haber from the {am haxares, that is, those who prepare their ordinary food as though it were heave-offering or holy things from those who do not. The former take care not to contract uncleanness and are careful to remove its effects through immersion. The latter do not. Then how do the two classes of Israelites interact, and, more to the point, how do the ones who keep the purity-laws determine the status of their persons and property that has been subject to the disposition of those who do not keep those laws? Here again, as we have seen, a few comprehensive principles accommodate the cases and problems at hand; these have already been specified. So we see four large composites, each laying out its own principles, all concerned with the same basic issue. What is that issue? Viewed from one perspective, it is how to differentiate the species of a given genus: on the side of contamination, source of uncleanness from removes, father from offspring; on the side of sanctification, what is subject to uncleanness of one virulence, what to another; what food or drink may or may not have contracted uncleanness; what Israelites may or may not have imparted uncleanness under specified circumstances of

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indeterminacy. Viewed from another perspective, we deal with a variety of persons and objects that have had each its own “history.” Each must tell its own story, but the chapters are the same: is the person or object, food or drink, to be classified as unclean or clean? To answer that question, I need to know the following: 1. the level of sanctification for which the status of cleanness is required (how the person, object, food or drink has been subject to surveillance over time); 2. the character of the uncleanness to which the person or food may or may not have been exposed, primary or secondary, and the number of removes from exposure to that source at which the person or food stands: immediate contact, once-removed, and so on outward; 3. in what location (public, private domain), in what season (dry or rainy), and within what sort of transaction, the exposure is supposed to have taken place or not taken place; 4. what sort of instructions, conditions, and rules were articulated to the parties who may or may not have imparted uncleanness by touching the food or drink or utensils that are subject to doubt In reaching a decision on how to classify a person, object, food or drink, each of these questions requires an answer, and at every stage in the process of interrogation, we have to reconstruct the story of what has happened to this person, object, food or drink in the context established by the inquiry into the status that pertains. And having come this far, we realize what holds the whole together: the four principal parts of the Halakhah before us contribute to the single, sustained narrative that encompasses the person or object, the food or drink, and that determines the taxonomic outcome of the process. The narrative tells us what things the person or object has touched, what things those things have touched, and so on through a sequence of removes; and it further tells us the status imputed to the food or drink (or, in line with m. Hagigah, the person) by the attitude and intentionality of the principal player in the drama, the person affected by the considerations at hand: uncleanness at the one side, sanctification at the other. All of this, amplified by the consideration of removes, forms a small narrative of a cosmic transaction. So much for the unfolding of a single coherent account, a sequence of facts concerning intangibles to make sense of which we have invoked the metaphor of history: the tale of sequential and coherent events, each of which causes the next in the chain of happenings that leads to

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the end decision. But the components of the Halakhah hold together in a more intimate connection as well. Each component turns out to appeal, in the end, to a consideration that operates for them all, and, by this point in the exposition it is scarcely necessary to say, that is intentionality. In this unseen world the impalpable force of the attitude of responsible actors makes its impact everywhere. Uncleanness is relative to that which it affects, and the sensitivity to uncleanness of that which is affected by uncleanness depends upon the status imputed by man’s will. Stated simply: if man assigns food or drink to the status of holy things and so acts as to preserve the cleanness of what is sanctified in that status, then the sources of uncleanness affect the food or drink through successive removes, as many as three (and m. Parah adds a fourth). If man’s intentionality does not impart to the food or drink the standing of holy things but of ordinary, secular food or drink, then fewer removes from the source of uncleanness produce effects. It is the initial decision and attitude of man that makes the difference. If man is alert and capable of forming intentionality, if man can be interrogated in the assumption that he cares about contamination, then the rules of contamination are strictly enforced; if not, then they are null. A child cannot form an intention to preserve cleanness and, therefore, in a case of doubt, he also cannot be assumed to have imparted uncleanness. The {am haxares is assumed to touch whatever he can reach—unless he is instructed not to. Then his intentionality, to respect the wishes of the householder, is assumed to pertain and therefore to protect from uncleanness what the {am haxares can have touched but probably did not contaminate at all. At the critical turnings in the decision-making process, the taxonomic question finds its answer in the relativities of attitude and intention. But one matter is not subject to the decision-making process of man, and one component of the system, one chapter of the narrative, does not find its dynamics in human will. That is the sources of uncleanness. These do function ex opere operato and do not depend upon man’s will for them to bring about contamination. On the contrary, the corpse contaminates whatever is in the tent that overshadows it, and the contaminating power of flux (zob) depends upon its emerging naturally and not by artificial stimulus. That same insistence on the inexorability of the workings of sources of contamination emerges in the consideration of the distinction between fathers and offspring of uncleanness; at no point in that corpus of Halakhah do considerations of attitude intervene.

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So when we contemplate the Israelite household as the Halakhah portrays it, we see a space marked off in three ways: by [1] the family sanctified by reason of its descent from the holy seed of the patriarchs and by its avoidance of the marital relationships spelled out in the Written Torah, which acts [2] on specified occasions of sacred time to sanctify the household by words and deeds and acts of restraint from deeds, and which further acts [3] to preserve the cultic cleanness, therefore the potential sanctification, of the food and drink consumed in the household, and, consequently, to avoid cultic contamination of the clothing and utensils of those that live there. Then what is the given and what marks change? The Halakhah rests on the foundations of a single condition: Israel is holy, wherever located; that is its natural condition. What removes Israel from its status as sanctified is unnatural to Israel, but a given of the world. Sanctification is the established condition for family and property (food, drink, clothing, utensils). What removes the family, its food, drink, clothing and utensils, from the status of sanctification interferes with what ought to be natural. Sources of uncleanness also come about by nature; sages adhere rigidly to the definition of those sources that Scripture establishes and do not add a single new source or extend an existing source in any consequential way. Holy Israel, then, confronts round about the sources of contamination; its task is constantly to remain alert and watchful, lest those contaminated affect Israel. And, we now see, that means, Israel must watch not only what it eats and drinks and wears and where it stands and sits and lies. Israel also must pay attention to what the food it eats may have touched, who may have stood or sat upon the clothing that it wears and the beds on which it takes a rest. To preserve the condition it ought always to enjoy, which is, the state of sanctification, Israel has then to maintain a constant surveillance of the present and past of the world in which it lives and the people among whom it makes its life. Marrying without carefully investigating the genealogy of the Israelite family into which one marries can produce mamzerim (ineligible for licit marriage), and sitting on a bench without finding out who has sat there before can produce uncleanness that can contaminate much else, and eating a piece of bread without knowing where it has been and who has touched it can diminish one’s standing in the hierarchy of sanctification.

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All this why? The family, the space it occupies and its property are treated as analogous for the sacred occasions (each man in “his place”), and the property in the full sense of the word—real estate, personality, and movables—furthermore are treated as analogous to the sacred space, the temple, occupied by the consecrated caste, the priesthood and their staff, and what is kept therein. What establishes the analogy? The sources of change and disruption that threaten the cleanness, hence the sanctification of the temple are the same sources that threaten the norm of cleanness of the household. If the same uncleanness affects the temple and the table, then the only difference is one of degree, not of kind, as the Halakhah states explicitly. And the rest follows. Now we see the context in which the texts that invoke intentionality find their place, the reason that the entire system treats cleanness and sanctification, or uncleanness and desacralization, as relative to the Israelite’s attitude and will. What the Israelite values as food receives or conveys uncleanness as food. What he does not value does not contract or transmit uncleanness; only that to which an Israelite to begin with pays attention counts for anything in the system of watchfulness with which we deal. What the Israelite values as a useful utensil may contract uncleanness. What the Israelite deems an essential part of a piece of fruit or vegetable is integral to the fruit or vegetable, adds to its volume, contracts from, or transmits to, the fruit or vegetable such uncleanness as takes effect. What the Israelite holds inedible or disgusting even for dog-food does not contract uncleanness as food. When the Israelite subjects to the cleanness-regulations of consecrated food what is merely everyday edibles, the rules of consecrated food pertain—even though the substance of the food is unchanged. In these and numerous other details the relativity of all things to intentionality comes to full and rich instantiation. So the Halakhah manages to say the same thing about many things. But we must ask ourselves, do they believe in the actuality of what they are saying, given the relativity of palpable and tangible things—liquids, bits of food, pieces of cloth (as Kelim shows) to matters that are intangible, such as how someone feels that minute, or where someone is located, or what someone intends for the liquids, food, and cloth? Is that to say sages do not believe in the material-reality of the system of uncleanness and sanctification of the household? Certainly sages deem palpable results to emerge from violation of the rules that protect Israel’s status of sanctification. Violating the sanctity of the marriage bed produces mamzerim, and for generations to come the offspring of

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the union of two persons who are legally forbidden to wed suffer the result. That is hardly a matter relative to anyone’s intentionality, even though the offspring come about by reason of an act of will. Meat destined for the Lord’s altar that contracts uncleanness is burned, not eaten. That is not subject to negotiation or compromise, even though a principal source of disqualification of the meat of offerings is the improper intentionality formed and expressed by the officiating priest for the disposition of that meat. So we may say, when it comes to certain matters of sanctification and contamination, genealogy on the one side, the temple and its offerings, on the other, intentionality plays a role, but nothing that matters in issues of genealogy and cult is treated as relative. Absolutes govern: one may not marry his mother, one may not offer carrion upon the altar, and nothing complicates those simple rules. But when we deal with the household and its table, the Halakhah certainly does set aside considerations of intrinsic uncleanness and treats matters of status and taxonomy as relative to the intangibilities of attitude, plan, intentionality, and will. Everything now is made to depend upon the watchfulness, the alertness, of the householder and his ménage, their (likely) capacity to take note of what is taking place round about: a dead frog here, a menstruating woman there, a corpse in the neighbor’s attached dwelling, under the same roof—the list is formidable. But are these not practical matters, immune to considerations of relationship and circumstance (household vs. marketplace, for instance)? The law contains within itself its own judgment: the household is not the temple, the table is not the altar. Something resembles, as treated as like, something else; the something is not the same thing as that something else. The household may be compared to the temple, the table may be treated as analogous, in the ways amply spelled out here, to the altar, upon the same continuum, to revert to the language I have used. But that is not the same thing as saying the table here is the altar there. Sages think about the power of similitudes when they consider humanity: man is like God, so Scripture announces—but to be like God is not to be God! What differentiates that which is compared to the thing upon which the comparison is based is what separates the imitation from the real thing. And sages knew and valued that difference, and that is why the Halakhah in every line realizes that difference. And that makes all the more remarkable sages’ extensive legislation to embody the imitation and realize it. If the table is like the altar in the way in which man is like God, then let us elaborate the meaning of the similitude, the uses

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of the analogy, the moral authority of the metaphor by reason of what generates the metaphor: the altar, God, respectively. In the context at hand, with the temple a vivid presence in the religious world-view of the framers of the Halakhah, the elaborate system carried its own messages, and to those within the system, these messages enjoyed the standing of self-evidence. No one formed an apologia for what to us are obsessional laws about dead creeping things falling into dough and the like. In medieval times other views, a different rationality, would take over, and the entire system of cultic cleanness and uncleanness in the household would lose all purchase on rationality.3 That is hardly surprising, given the fragility of the act of imagination that, for the brief period represented by the Halakhah of the Mishnah and the Tosefta, rendered a state of perpetual consciousness into the inner testimony of enduring sanctification. The message of the Halakhah—so long as Israel pays attention to its condition in regard to cleanness, it may aspire to the status of sanctification as well—could scarcely find a hearing where Israelites by definition lived in the condition of uncleanness, that is, on foreign soil. And even in the Holy Land itself, how many generations would have to pass before the temple and the rules for entering it would lose all purchase and persist only as a sign for some future restoration. Then the analogy—marry with genealogical considerations in mind, like priests; eat food with cultic contamination in mind, like priests; in holy time form of the household a miniature temple courtyard, like priests—would lose the power to animate and explain a pretend-reality. To see what happens then, as rationalities shift, so what is obvious at one stage becomes implausible at another, we conclude with a story in a medieval compilation of Midrash-exegeses about a first-century authority, a story that adheres to the convictions of medieval philosophical rationalism, not late antique Halakhah and its powerful mode of analogical-contrastive thinking. In this story, a pagan confronts a sage, Yohanan ben Zakkai, on the hocus-pocus of the purity laws:

3 With the important qualification that sexual purity and impurity remained a vital consideration throughout the history of rabbinic Judaism to the present day! But the cleanness of the bed was not taken to pertain to preparation for participation in the cult, rather to the procreation of offspring in a state of purity. Exactly when that shift in the hermeneutics of the matter took place is not indicated in the sources I have studied.

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A. “These deeds that you do appear to me like hocus pocus. You bring a heifer and burn it, crush it, take the ashes, and if one of you is defiled by a corpse, you sprinkle him on the third and seventh days after he has contracted uncleanness and say to him, ‘You are purified.’ ” B. He answered, “Has a wandering spirit every entered into you.” C. “No.” D. “But have you ever seen a man into whom a wandering spirit ever entered?” E. “Yes.” F. “And what did you do for him?” G. “You put smoking roots under him and threw water over him and the spirit flees.” H. He said, “Listen then with your ears to what your mouth speaks. This is the spirit of uncleanness, such as Zechariah speaks of (Zech 13:2): ‘And also I shall cause the spirit of uncleanness to pass away from the earth.’ You sprinkle on him waters of purification and it flees.” I. After the man left, the disciples said to Yohanan, “Master, this man you have driven off with a broken reed. But what are you going to reply to us?” J. He answered, “By your lives! It is not the corpse that imparts uncleanness nor the waters that purify, but the Holy One said, ‘A statute have I enacted . . . an ordinance have I ordained, and you are not permitted to transgress my commandment, as it is said, ‘This is the ordinance of the Torah’ (Num 19:1).” Numbers Rabbah 19:4; Tanhuma, ed. Buber, Hukat 26

Now the story shows how the cleanness-laws have lost all purchase on rationality and are represented as a mere spiritual exercise. In the documents of the Oral Torah that reached closure in ancient times, the same view—certain religious duties cannot be accounted for within any accessible rationality, but represent a discipline to be accepted anyhow—did come to expression. But among those duties that transcend the limits of reason, the system of cultic purity and contamination does not find a place. The contrast between the story about Yohanan in a medieval document and statements about the same problem in late antique compilations of the third and seventh centuries, respectively, which make the same point, is not to be missed: A. R. Eleazar b. Azariah says, “How do we know that someone should not say, ‘I do not want to wear mixed fibers, I don’t want to eat pork, I don’t want to have incestuous sexual relations.’ B. “Rather: ‘I do want [to wear mixed fibers, I do want to eat pork, I do want to have incestuous sexual relations.] But what can I do? For my father in heaven has made a decree for me!’

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Sifra’s view, representing third century c.e. opinion, concerns obeying the morally-neutral commandments as an act of obedience, of subordinating one’s own will to God’s. In the Bavli’s statement on the same matter, representing a sixth century document, Satan makes people wonder about certain other matters, including those having to do with cultic purification. But no one asks why the corpse contaminates: 3. A. Our rabbis have taught on Tannaite authority: B. “My ordinances you shall perform” (Lev 18:4)—this refers to such matters that, were they not written in the Torah, it would be a matter of compelling logic that they be written, and these are they: the prohibitions against idolatry, fornication, bloodshed, robbery, and blasphemy. C. “. . . and my statutes you shall keep” (Lev 18:4)—this refers to such matters against which Satan brings objections, and these are they: the prohibition against eating pork, the prohibition against wearing mixed fabrics [linen and wool], the rite of removing the shoe to sever the relationship of a deceased childless brother’s wife to a surviving brother, the purification of the person afflicted with the skin-ailment, and the rite of sending away the he-goat. D. Might you imagine that these rites are empty rituals? E. Scripture states, “I am the Lord”—[thus God speaks:] “I have made the decree, and you have no right to meditate too deeply about it.” b. Yoma 6:6 IV.3/67b

The contrast between the late antique and the medieval formulation of matters tells us what demanded explanation, because none presented itself by the governing criteria at hand, and what did not. That is why we ought not ignore the character of the items on the list of what lies beyond worldly rationality in the mind of the earlier documents. The Halakhah turns out to form the medium by which Israel’s imagination of itself would be embodied in concrete, consequential forms: actions and relationships bearing consequence. The Halakhah, law, exposes the interiorities of the Oral Torah, the Aggadah, lore, the exteriorities. By encouraging faithful Israelites to cultivate an inner attitude of watchfulness, by making small things matter much, sages underscored in humble ways and in quotidian terms the reality of Israel’s interior existence: holy people, holy land, holy temple, all now reduced in worldly dimensions to the space of the humble household, but not

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by the transcendent standard that aspiration and hope measure. The Halakhah found plausibility by reason of its realization of the analogy of the household to the temple and lost its footing when the temple as a palpable place faded. Then the fragile construction built upon the comparison of household to temple and sustained by the act of supererogatory will of those that adopted the analogy and realized it in deed simply faded. The rules remained. Some would conduct profound and sophisticated analyses of their logic and governing rationality. But no one could penetrate the realm of sentiment and feeling, the extravagance of emotion and attitude, that imparted to the rules the urgency that, for a brief moment, made them systemically critical. The Halakhah of Teharot would become a matter of theory—perhaps what its own relativization of matters dictated as its inevitable outcome. The web of relationships between sanctification and uncleanness spins itself out into every corner of the Israelite household, where the system makes a difference. And it is the will of the householder that determines the difference that the distinction between clean and unclean is going to make. Everything is relative to the householder’s will; he has it in his power to draw the household table into alignment with the altar in the temple, that is to say, to place the table and the food set thereon into relationship, onto a continuum, with the altar and the holy things of the cult. This he can accomplish through an act of will that motivates an attitude of constant watchfulness for those very sources of contamination that Scripture identifies as danger to the Lord’s altar in the Jerusalem temple. Such an attitude of watchfulness then comes to realization in actions that confirm the attitude and embody the intentionality: take note, avoid, watch out for this, that, and the other thing. That is because the faithful of the Halakhah think of themselves as temple priests but situate themselves in the ordinary world. In the actual temple avoiding sources of uncleanness, e.g., corpses, menstruating women, people suffering a flux, posed no enormous problems; most of the virulent sources of uncleanness were walled out to begin with. But in the village, the household and the marketplace who knows what can happen—and commonly does? And bumping into someone quite inadvertently forms a primary event, and yet who can trace the history of each person, his or her encounter with a corpse, her period, for instance, or with someone who has had such an encounter or sat on a chair on whom a menstruating woman or a man with flux has sat? The possibilities for cultic contamination, controlled in the cult,

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prove limitless outside. But then, the Halakhah aims at imposing order and a certain rationality, a well-construed assessment of probabilities, upon that chaos of the unclean and the profane. Bibliography Neusner J. 1999a. The Halakhah: An Encyclopaedia of the Law of Judaism. Volume I. Part A. Between Israel and God. Faith, Thanksgiving, Enlandisement: Possession and Partnership. Leiden. ———. 1999b. The Halakah: An Encyclopaedia of the Law of Judaism. Volume II. Part B. Between Israel and God. Transcendent Transactions: Where Heaven and Earth Intersect. Leiden. ———. 1999c. The Halakah: An Encyclopaedia of the Law of Judaism. Volume III. Within Israel’s Social Order. Leiden. ———. 1999d. Inside the Walls of the Israelite Household. Part A. At the Meeting of Time and Space. Sanctification in The Here and Now: The Table and The Bed. Sanctification and The Marital Bond. The Desacralization of The Household: The Bed. Leiden. ———. 1999e. Inside the Walls of the Israelite Household. Part B. The Desacralization of The Household: The Table, Foci, Sources, and Dissemination of Uncleanness. Purification from the Pollution of Death. Leiden. ———. 2001. The Theology of the Halakhah. Leiden.

MONARCHY VS. PRIESTHOOD: JOSEPHUS, JUSTUS OF TIBERIAS, AND AGRIPPA II1 Zuleika Rodgers In the fictional world of the first century c.e. created by Lion Feuchtwanger in his Josephus Trilogy, it is Justus of Tiberias who plays the role of the foremost Judean historian of the day, while Josephus seethes with resentment at his fellow historian’s critical acclaim.2 The creative genre permits such suppositions, but for contemporary historians working with limited sources about Justus, the recognition Justus received in his own day as well as relations with Josephus (and Agrippa) remain elusive.3 Although Justus’ work has not survived, we do know that he acted as secretary to Agrippa II, wrote on the Judean Kings, and his presence seems to impinge on the relationship between Josephus and Agrippa II. But for Justus’ actions during and after the First Revolt, as for most of the events of Judean history in the fist century c.e., we must rely on the works of Josephus, and so we could be justifiably tempted to speculate on how different our view of Judean history and culture in the first century might be if Justus’ work had survived. Of interest to me in this paper is the possibility of competing models of Judean authority proposed by these first century historians and how this is played out in the relations between Justus, Josephus and Agrippa II. Justus in Josephus’ LIFE Justus’ literary output has not survived, and the evidence we do have cannot allow us any degree of certainty as to the nature and number 1 The ideas in this paper were intially proposed in the Seminar for Ancient Judaisms and Christianities organised by Prof. John Kloppenborg and Prof. Hindy Najman at the University of Toronto. I would like to thank the organisers and participants in the Seminar for their thoughtful feedback. The paper in its present form was delivered at the Josephus Seminar session on “Josephus and the Herodians” at SBL’s annual meeting in 2006. I am grateful to Honora Howell Chapman and James McLaren for including me in that session. 2 Feuchtwanger 1932. 3 For a recent survey of scholarship, see Mason 2001, xvii–xxxiv.

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of his writings. More recently, his much discussed role in Josephus’ Life has come under further critical scrutiny, reducing Justus’ part in occasioning and influencing the content of Life, relegating his importance to that of a narrative functionary.4 Scholarship on Justus has varied widely in designating him a role, both during the revolt and with regard to Josephus’ narrative, partly because he appears only in the Life—a work that itself has seen much debate—, and is not included in the corresponding sections of War, while the polemical nature of Josephus’ treatment of Justus obscures a clear picture of his career, political and literary. The main issue for scholars of Josephus is whether and how far Justus motivated him to write Life, and what could have been the nature of their dispute.5 Influential in scholarship are a number of theories with diverse conclusions, focusing on issues relating to historiography,6 politics,7 and character.8 Life’s attention to Josephus’ clementia, moral probity, and fear of stasis are considered as revealing its predominately defensive and apologetical character occasioned by either one ( Justus) or more critics.9 In particular, the passage in Life 80–84 is seen as articulating many of those apologetic themes. Yet Josephus does not try to defend War and in some cases Life contradicts the earlier version. Inconsistencies, distortions, and outlandish claims characterize Life and it would not satisfy an audience critical of

Mason 2001, xlix–l. Ibid., xvii–xxxiv. 6 For example, Richard Laqueur (1920) proposed that Justus attacked Josephus’ style to which Josephus, the less talented writer of Greek, had to respond. Since Josephus needed to protect his livelihood in Rome, Life functioned as a polemic against Justus, the historian, as well as Justus the man. 7 Rajak (1983, 1987) completely revised her initial interpretation (1973) suggesting that since a revolutionary reputation would not have been desirable in the 90s, the issue between Justus and Josephus was “warmongering” (specifically in Tiberias). Schalit (1933) viewed Justus’ accusations as two-fold: the cruel treatment of Tiberias and responsibility for the death of his relatives in Gamala. 8 Cohen (1979) primarily located the motivation for Justus’ condemnation of Josephus with a concern for his city, Tiberias, but Josephus’ character also drew criticism. Tiberias was not granted municipal status, and after Agrippa’s death the Romans still regarded it suspiciously. Justus took up his city’s cause, producing a history that placed the blame for the uprising on Josephus. Josephus responded to defend his pride, and perhaps also to seek favor with the Yavnean scholars because Life (and Antiquities) presents him as law observant and pro-Pharisaic. 9 Early Mason (1991, 322–24) viewed Justus as Josephus’ main critic, while Rajak (1983, 152–53 and 1987, 85–87) and Bilde (1998, 107–13) surmised that there existed other critics to whom Josephus is responding. 4 5

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War, while charges of tyranny dating back almost 30 years could not have been a primary concern to an audience who patiently worked their way through the twenty-volume Antiquities. Concealing or explaining away a revolutionary past would have been a futile exercise in light of the seven-volume account of the war whose author’s fame was based on his status as a captured general and his literary credentials depended on his eye-witness account. In his commentary on Life (2001), Steve Mason highlights the literary character of this work whose author crafts his material in a way that reflects the social and literary culture in which he lived and wrote. Challenging the general trend in scholarship which has focused on comparing Josephus’ treatment of the parallel episodes in War and Life, written twenty years apart and set within very different narratives (one the larger narrative of the rebellion, the other an autobiographical sketch closing his Antiquities), Mason notes how scholarship has failed to read Life on its own terms and consider the inextricable link with Antiquities.10 Since there is little concern for accuracy and consistency in Life, Mason has proposed that Josephus’ interests lie in presenting his ancestry and career in public life (i.e., the Galilean period) as a testament to the excellence of his character, the virtues of which were not only familiar to his Roman audience but were those expected of a member of the aristocratic elite.11 In contrast his adversaries are caricatured as avaricious and power-hungry, dangerous demagogues, and promoters of stasis.12 Consequently Life is understood as a confident celebration of the character of the priestly aristocrat who had powerful friends and a

10 Mason 2001, xiii–l. For example, Mason reveals the structural and thematic parallels between Life and Antiquities: both are structured concentrically and Josephus’ focus on the ideal of the Judean priestly constitution in Antiquites is mirrored in the credentials and behavior of the priestly aristocrat, Josephus, in Life. Previously Bilde (1988) recommended that Life’s literary character and its relationship to Antiquities be recognised; it is an autobiography in which Josephus seeks to establish his credentials as the author of Antiquities. In Ant. 20.262–265 he emphasises his learning and the skills for interpreting scripture, which he links to the subject of his lineage then recounted in Life (Ant. 20.266). 11 Mason 2001, xlvii–l. 12 Mason (2001, xli–xlvii) identifies a number of contemporary influences, and in particular draws parallels with the advice for public figures in Plutarch’s Precepts of Statecraft.

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sympathetic audience.13 While Antiquities provides a survey of the Judean constitution based on the perfection of the characters of its heroes, Josephus is portrayed as exemplifying those very qualities. Justus, on the other hand, is a self-serving rabble-rouser among a motley band of antagonists; his narrative function is rhetorical and he did not pose a threat nor occasion the writing of Life although he may have provided Josephus with a useful source. Is Josephus so secure among his Roman sympathizers that he could include charges leveled by Justus as literary artifice? While the Justus episodes in Life’s narrative plot make little or no difference, and the matter of a rebellious past can have been of little consequence to either men, perhaps the attention given to the matter of Agrippa II’s favor reveals something of a dispute that might have consequences for Josephus. In Life 336–367—an excursus or digression addressed to Justus—it seems that both authors are claiming that they received the King’s support for their literary projects.14 Josephus’ attempts at undermining any competing claims for the King’s favor are framed within an attack on Justus the author. He charges him with mendacity since he wrote from hearsay not as an eye-witness, and accuses Justus of delaying publication until those involved no longer could pass comment, i.e., Vespasian, Titus and Agrippa.15 In contrast, Josephus claims he received approval from the emperors and the King, who sent him 62 letters concerning his work, two of which he quotes from (Life 365). Josephus then makes further references to Justus’ chequered relationship with Agrippa II (Life 359–67).16

Mason 2001, xlvii–l. Mason (2001, 137 n. 1371) suggests that Justus’ authority for writing must have been based on his close ties with the Herodian house, and Josephus tries to weaken this in his confrontation with Justus. 15 There has been much discussion about the dating of Agrippa II’s death (and so the publication date of Antiquities) mainly based on a notice in Photius and the eras of the King’s coinage, but it is not a crucial issue for our purpose. Mason (2001, xv–xix) surveys the debate while Kushnir-Stein (2002) and Kokkinos (2003) revisit the question of Agrippa’s coinage. 16 Justus cannot claim that he was either pro-Agrippa or pro-Rome since he was sentenced to death by Vespasian on the request of his victims in the villages of the Decapolis. Saved from this fate by the intercession of Agrippa, he would have been further punished by the King himself but Berenice intervened. When Justus did escape to Agrippa, it was not a demonstration of his ardent support for the King but because he feared Josephus. Although elevated to the position of secretary of correspondence by Agrippa, he was subsequently dismissed (Life 355–356). 13 14

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The matter of Agrippa II’s approval is pursued vigorously. As Agrippa’s secretary, Justus surely could claim to have had access to the King’s views and would be able expose Agrippa’s true feelings towards Josephus, and his views on his war narrative. But in what context could such revelations appear, and why would they matter to Josephus? Justus of Tiberias and Judean History One obstacle to addressing these questions is our lack of knowledge about Justus’ work. From Josephus, we know that he wrote about the war and included the subjects of Tiberias, Jotapata, the siege of Jerusalem, and Josephus. A war narrative is also mentioned by Eusebius, Jerome, the Suda, and Stephanus of Byzantium, but these seem to depend on Life, although Jerome adds that Justus wrote “commentarioli de scripturis” and the Suda likewise make mention of commentaries or hypomnemata alongside the war.17 Photius, the 9th century patriarch of Constantinople, offers independent information: “The Chronicle of Justus of Tiberias, on which is the superscription: Of the Jewish Kings Who are in the Pedigrees (or Wreaths), by Justus of Tiberias (ἐν τοῖς στέμμασιν). He begins his history with Moses and ends with the death of Agrippa the seventh of the house of Herod and the last of the Kings of the Jews.”18 Diogenes Laertius cites an anecdote from Justus’ “Stemma” regarding Plato at the trial of Socrates, and two other fragments that originate with Iulius Africanus are concerned with the chronology of Moses and the exodus.19 The question for scholars has been whether or not the “Chronicle” mentioned by Photius is a distinct work from the war account. He mentions its concise style but for the patriarch its brevity may have been due to the fact that it did not mention Jesus. Photius elsewhere claims that Josephus was likewise guilty, but perhaps he was able to overlook this since Josephus provided him with proof texts regarding the

17 Eusebius, Hist. eccl. III. 10.8, Jerome, De Vir. Illus. 14, Stephanus of Byzantium, FGH 734 T4, 696, Suda 40, 336. 18 Photius, Bibl. 33. 19 Diogenes Laertius 2.41. It has also been suggested (Rajak 1973, 365–369; 1987, 84) that Justus might have been Syncellus’ source for material on the Maccabees and Antipater. For a discussion of the nature of the anecdote about Plato, see Riginos 1976, 56–58.

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evils of interference in the high priesthood.20 It has been suggested that perhaps Justus’ “Chronicle” resembled the chronologies of Eupolemus and Demetrius, cast as a genealogy or stemma of the Jewish kings.21 Perhaps this war narrative and the chronicle might have belonged in the same work: if so, the genealogy may have been included in the war narrative—not unlike Josephus’ list of high priests in Ant. 20.224–251—and this may then have been removed and gained an independent existence. On the other hand, if the work took the form of a chronology it may have included an excursus on Justus’ patron Agrippa II in which he commented upon the war against Rome. From the excursus in Life it seems that for Justus, his connections with Agrippa II provided him with the credentials and authority for writing history. Justus was Agrippa’s secretary and owed him his life. He had taken refuge with the King and since the war was the most significant feature of Agrippa’s career, any account of it surely glorified his late benefactor’s role; certainly it would not have been incongruous for him to include a list of kings in a pro-monarchical work, just as Josephus traced back the ancient lineage of his priestly ancestors. His experience of public life depended upon his relationship with the Herodian family and he may have viewed monarchy as the ideal of Judean governance. A narrative constructed around Judean kings, with Moses as the first and Agrippa II as the last, using biblical texts, and perhaps both Judean and non-Judean sources in support of particular kings or monarchic rule, would provide a divergent view from Josephus’ vision of Judean history.22 In such a work, there might even have been room for a critique of the Judean priesthood, and their negative

20 Maas (1990) 183–94. Mendels (1998, 208–210) notes that Photius chose his Greek and Roman sources based on his interest in the succession of empires in the East. 21 Based on Diogenes’ citation Schürer (1979–87: I.37) proposed that the “Chronicle” was a much broader work going well beyond the confines of Judean history. 22 Justus had rich scriptural traditions, particularly the Davidic tradition, to drawn upon regarding Israelite kingship as well as their later embellishments, like those found in Eupolemus or the messianic reflections of the Psalms of Solomon, and in the recasting of such traditions for Hasmonean propaganda (Collins, 1983 and Gruen, 1998 are among significant studies of later Judean rewriting of biblical narratives). The Letter of Aristeas provides a Judean context for the reflection on monarchy (“περι βασιλείαν”) while philosophical discourse on kingship is attested to in a number of Greco-Roman sources. A particularly useful review of these can be found in the classic article of Goodenough (1928), while other influential studies include Delatte (1942) on the neo-Pythagorean fragments preserved by Stobaeus, and Dvornik (1966) on early Christian and Byzantine philosophy of rulership.

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role in Judean history, and maybe in particular their relationship with Agrippa II and Rome. While the matter of Agrippa II’s favor can provide a plausible context for a dispute between Justus and Josephus, is it possible that Justus’ work, focusing on the kings of Judea, offered a competing and alternative version of Judean culture and history? Josephus and Monarchy Louis Feldman notes that in Life Josephus reveals his close relationship with Agrippa II, and so he cannot be anti-monarchic.23 Yet the narrative of Antiquities suggests that Josephus deemed monarchy an inadequate and inferior institution. Scholars have recognized Antiquities’ place within a long tradition of philosophical discourse regarding the constitution and laws of states, and here we find an intense disapproval of monarchy. Moses, the hero of Josephus’ political history, while possessing the virtues of a Hellenistic king (and his enemies even accuse him of tyranny, the counterpart of monarchy, Ant. 4.3–4, 4.16) is never called “βασιλεύς.”24 Feldman suggests some possible explanations for the omission: having proposed theocracy/aristocracy as the ideal form of governance, it might have seemed incongruous to label Moses a king, and furthermore as a priest, Josephus could have been unwilling to assign primacy to a competing institution. Yet an anti-monarchic sentiment pervades the narrative of Antiquities. In the opening section on Mosaic legislation regarding kings (Ant. 4.223–224), Josephus reaffirms aristocracy as the ideal constitution, stressing that there is no need for other forms of government since God alone is the ruler.25 Furthermore, in the reworking of Deut. 17.14–15, Josephus does not include the conjecture that a king will be chosen when the Hebrews enter the land, or even that God will choose the king. It seems to be a matter of compromise rather than ideal realization. In Ant. 4.224, the king is compelled to confer with the high priest and the gerousia, while the corresponding passage in Deut. 17.18–20 only legislates that the king will make a copy of the law to consult. The claim of Feldman (1993, 301–30). There is a biblical precedent for doing so, Deut. 33.5. 25 For Josephus on aristocracy as the ideal constitution, see Feldman 1998, 145; 2000, 414, n. 696; Mason 2000, xxvi–xxvii. 23 24

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Deuteronomy that if the king follows the law, he and his descendents will reign a long time in Israel, is further ignored by Josephus. Prior to the very inception of Israelite monarchy, the reader is alerted to the problems that succession and absolute power—the two distinguishing features of monarchy—pose to good governance.26 Commenting on Samuel’s sons as unsuitable successors to their father, Josephus reflects on how good parents may engender evil children (Ant. 6.33).27 Justice and monarchy are polar opposites as Samuel’s reluctance to acquiesce to the demands of the Hebrews that he appoint a king is based on “his innate justice and hatred of kings,” while he reaffirms aristocracy as divine (Ant. 6.36). Josephus’ reworking of 1 Sam. 8:7–9 on the consequences of monarchic rule opens with an extra-biblical warning (Ant. 6.39), and Ant. 6.60–61 reflects on the corrupting nature of absolute power, contrasting the rule of a human king with the sovereignty of God. The Hebrews are reminded that in their past they overcame their trials through God’s care and not by means of a king (Ant. 6.89). The biblical narrative of 1 Samuel itself encompasses a critique of monarchic rule, but Josephus manipulates it to convey further his own particular political philosophy that deprecates monarchic rule, and while Josephus strives to show that the great Israelite kings—Saul, David, and Solomon—exhibit the virtues required of the hero in Hellenistic and Roman culture,28 the underlying suspicion of rule by king remains central theme. Saul’s reign is framed within explicit reflections on regal power (Ant. 6.39–40, 60, 88–91, 262–268), and in spite of David’s many virtues, Josephus’ handling of the Davidic narrative weakens the position of the king and his dynasty within Judean history. Whereas in the biblical text it seems that God communicates directly with David, Josephus inserts a mediating prophet into the narrative,29 and the biblical promise of an everlasting Davidic dynasty is generally excluded.30 The Mason 2007. Begg (2005) compares this with Josephus’ comments already in Ant. 5.239 on Gideon and Abimelech. 28 On Josephus’ rewriting of the biblical text, Feldman and Begg have been at the forefront of scholarship. E.g., Feldman 1998, 1988a, and 2000; Begg 1993, 2000, 2005a; Begg and Spilsbury 2005. 29 For the prophetic mediator see, Ant. 6.271, 7.7, 294, 371. This is also the case with regard to Solomon in Ant. 8.197. 30 There are no equivalents to the eternal nature of the promise to David of 2 Sam 7:12, 13, 16, 1 Chr 17:11, 12, 14 or the unconditionality of 2 Sam 7:15. Begg (2005, Ant. 6 n. 369 and n. 379) on Josephus’ shortening of David’s prayer in 2 Sam 7:25–29/1 Chr 17:23–27. 26

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enduring character of that promise is further downplayed in Josephus’ reworking of Solomon’s reign (Ant. 7.337, 8.113), and while the hope that the well-being (εὐδαιμονία) brought about during Solomon’s reign will remain forever, the Davidic house is not included (Ant. 7.373).31 For Josephus, Moses and his aristocratic constitution comprise the ultimate authority in Judean culture, and in the Davidic narrative, this is implicitly conveyed by the regular insertion of references to Mosaic ordinances (Ant. 7. 367, 384–385, 8.90, 120). It has been suggested that Josephus’ weakening of the Davidic promise may be due to a desire to avoid messianic claims in the post-war period, but it seems that the general deprecatory attitude towards monarchy reflects a deep suspicion of this particular institution.32 These anti-monarchic views found throughout Antiquities are not limited to the bible-based narrative. At the same time as Josephus proudly claims Hasmonean heritage (Life 2), he also includes a critique of this dynasty, especially with regard to the combination of monarchy and priesthood, which brings about a decline in Judean fortunes, for the change from priestly government only leads to enslavement (Ant. 13.300–301, 14.41–42).33 Military prowess was one of the strategies used by the Hasmoneans in their retrieval and reinterpretation of biblical precedents for the divine sanctioning of Judean monarchy.34 Perhaps Josephus presentation of Moses as strategos not only met antiJewish charges, but also provided a non-monarchic model of Judean military capability.35 Josephus’ extensive coverage of Herod the Great in Ant. 14–17 considers at length the corrupt nature of this form of governance. This narrative, according to Mason, is carefully constructed to parallel Judean and Roman constitutional problems and to condemn autocratic

Feldman (2000, 6 n. 15) on eudaimonia as a key term in Antiquities. Begg (2005) suspects that Josephus replaces the “anointing” of the king with “appointing” so as to avoid any messianic connotations. It is possible that the since anointing symbolized the adoption of the king by God, and so rendered kingship sacral (Rooke 1988, 193), Josephus removes such images. The precepts for ideal kingly rule articulated in the Letter of Aristeas are not included in Josephus’ Antiquities. 33 Note also how Josephus omits Aaron’s marriage to Elisheba, the sister of Nahshon David’s ancestor (Ant. 2.292). Feldman (2000, 216 n. 766) proposes that Josephus wishes to avoid elevating Aaron’s status, but perhaps he was concerned about keeping these institutions of priesthood and kingship separate. 34 Rajak 1996, 99–114. 35 Feldman (2000, 202–3 n. 668) on Moses as στρατηγός and ἥγεμών. 31

32

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monarchical style rule (Ant. 19.222–223).36 He has also observed that this indictment of autocratic rule would have resonated with an aristocratic Roman audience, especially during the reign of Domitian. While we have seen that Agrippa II is praised for his Greek education—and so his appreciation of Josephus’ war narrative—he does not receive an uncritical portrait in Antiquities (Ant. 20.189–191, 145–146, 211–212, 214, 216–218).37 It seems that Josephus has adopted this antimonarchic position in both his retelling of the biblical narrative as well as in his construction of Judean and Roman history, but his interest in constitutional issues is not simply negative. He formulates the constitution as priestly-aristocratic wherein the laws were passed from Moses to Aaron so that they could be administered and preserved by the priests (Ant 3.188; 4.304 Apion 1.29–37). In the Apion, Josephus formally sets out the Jewish constitution: Supreme power lies with God and their constitution is best described as a “theocracy” whose law is incomparable, placing God as the leader of all things and the priests, who are under the charge of the high-priest, minister the important affairs (Apion 2.184–186). Josephus’ account of the priesthood praises the character of the individuals and the stringency of their tasks that included matters juridical and punitive as well as responsibility for the education of the people (Apion 2.186–189). There seems to have been similar Judean reflections on the inadequacy of kingship and the idealization of priestly rule. While Philo articulates an innovation with regard to Moses referring numerous times to him as “king,”38 the Davidic line and the Judean kings are of no great interest to him. Philo’s Agrippa I is even portrayed as proposing the superiority of priesthood over kingship (Embassy 278), and he

36 Mason (2007) draws our attention to how the matter of succession and dynastic power, Judean and Roman, is an informing theme in the work of Josephus. 37 Schwartz (1982) suggests that for the anti-Agrippa passages in Antiquties, Josephus utilizes a source that is interested in simultaneously denigrating Agripaa II and the High Priesthood, while there is no equivalent view found in War 2. It is significant that Josephus might have chosen such a source to reflect his current interest in showing how monarchy, and the Herodian house, do not fit into the ideal vision of the Judean constitution. 38 On Moses as king, see Philo, Moses 1.148–149, 1.158, 1.334; 2.2–3, 2.42.2–71, 2.292, and as νόμος ἔμψυχος, Moses 1.162, 2.4. Similarly Brooke (1988, 435–442) notes the lack of enthusiasm for monarchy in the DSS corpus, and even positive attitudes towards David are not based on his kingship, for the focus is on divine sovereignty.

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also expresses reservations about combining priestly power with the monarchy (Virtues 9.53).39 Josephus renounced autocratic forms of government, and in particular, monarchy, drawing on a biblical tradition of resistance to monarchy and perhaps also influenced by the ideals of an aristocratic Roman audience. In the Antiquities, he submitted an interpretation of history that demonstrated the superiority of the priestly aristocratic Judean constitution while demonstrating that monarchy led to the disintegration of society. Josephus may be reaching out to his Roman elite audience with his condemnation of monarchic style rule, but his pro-priestly bias must also reflect his own personal understanding of his role as a priest and also perhaps his hope for the way in which the Judeans will be governed in the future. It is here that we might speculate Josephus and Justus parted ways, each proposing their own particular vision of Judean culture. Furthermore, perhaps Justus could expose Josephus’ ambiguous position with regard to the Herodian house, claiming Agrippa II’s favor as well as exposing his shortcomings, while also revealing the King’s true feelings about Josephus. This would certainly challenge Josephus’ priestly oriented view of the Judean constitution and as a consequence perhaps he deemed it necessary to malign the author of such an alternative understanding of Judean culture. Bibliography Begg, C. T. 2005a. Flavius Josephus: Judean Antiquities 5–7. Vol. 4 of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Edited by S. Mason. Leiden. ———. 2000. Josephus’ Story of the Later Monarchy (AJ 9,1–10,185) Leuven. ———. 1993. Josephus’ Account of the Early Divided Monarchy (AJ 8,212–420): Rewriting the Bible. Leuven. Begg, C. T. and P. Spilsbury 2005. Flavius Josephus: Judean Antiquities 8–10. Vol. 5 of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Edited by S. Mason. Leiden. Bilde, P. 1998. Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome. His Life, his Works, and their Importance. Sheffield. Brooke, G. 1998. Kingship and Messianism in the Dead Sea Scrolls. Pages 434–56 in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East. Edited by J. Day. Sheffield. Cohen, S. J. D. 1979. Josephus in Galilee and Rome: His Vita and Development as a Historian. Leiden. Collins, J. J. 1983. Between Athens and Jerusalem. Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora. New York.

39 Goodenough 1967, 86–100; Goodblatt 1994, 50–51. On this passage on Agrippa I, see Schwartz 1990, 212–14.

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Delatte, L. 1942. Les Traites de la royaute d’Ecphante, Diotogene et Sthenidas. Liège. Dvornik, F. 1966. Early Christian and Byzantine Political Philosophy: Origins and Background. 2 vols. Washington DC. Feldman, L. H. 1992a. Josephus’ Portrait of Moses. Part One. JQR 82:285–328. ———. 1992b. Josephus’ Portrait of Moses. Part Two. JQR 83:7–50. ———. 1993. Josephus’ Portrait of Moses. Part Three. JQR 83:301–330. ———. 1998a. Josephus’ Interpretation of the Bible. Berkeley. ———. 1998b. Studies in Josephus’ Rewritten Bible. Leiden.. ———. 2003. Flavius Josephus: Judean Antiquities 1–4. Vol. 3 of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Edited by S. Mason. Leiden. Feuchtwanger, L. 1932. Josephus: A Historical Romance. Translated by W and E Muir. London Goodblatt, D. 1994. The Monarchic Principle: Studies in Jewish Self-government in Antiquity. Tübingen. Goodenough, E. R. 1929. The Political Philosophy of Hellenistic Kingship. Yale Classical Studies I:55–102. ———. 1967. The Politics of Philo Judaeus. Practice and Theory. Hildesheim. Kokkinos, N. 2003. Justus, Josephus, Agrippa II and his Coins. SCI 22:163–80. Kushnir-Stein, A. 2002. The Coinage of Agrippa II. SCI 21:12–31. Laqueur, R. 1920. Der jüdische Historiker Flavius Josephus. Giessen. Maas, M. 1990. Photius’ Treatment of Josephus and the High Priesthood. Byzantion 60:183–94. Mason, S. 1991. Flavius Josephus on the Pharisees: A Composition—Critical Study. Leiden. ———. 2001. Flavius Josephus: Life of Josephus. Vol. 9 of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Edited by S. Mason. Leiden. ———. 2007. Of Despots, Diadems, and Diadochoi: Josephus and Flavian Politics in Judean War 2.1–118. In Writing Politics in Imperial Rome. Edited by W. J. Dominik and J. Garthwaite. Leiden. Mendels, D. 1998. Identity, Religion and Historiography: Studies in Hellenistic History. Sheffield. Rajak, T. 1973. Justus of Tiberias. CQ 23:345–68. ———. 1983. Josephus. The Historian and his Society. London. ———. 1987. Josephus and Justus of Tiberias. Pages 81–94 in Josephus, Judaism and Christianity. Edited by L. H. Feldman and G. Hata. Leiden. ———. 1996. Hasmonean Kingship and the Invention of Tradition. Pages 99–115 in Aspects of Hellenistic Kingship. Edited by P. Bilde et al. Aarhus. Riginos, A. S. 1976. Platonica. The Anecdotes concerning the Life and Writings of Plato. Leiden. Rooke, D. W. 1998. Kingship as Priesthood: The Relationship between the High Priesthood and the Monarchy. Pages 187–208 in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East. Edited by J. Day. Sheffield. Schalit, A. 1933. Josephus und Justus. Studien zur Vita des Josephus. Klio 26:67–95. Schürer, E. 1979–87. The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 B.C.–A.D. 135). Revised and edited by G. Vermes, F. Millar, and M. Goodman. Edinburgh. Schwartz, D. R. 1982. KATA TOUTON TON KAIRON: Josephus’ Source on Agrippa II. JQR 72:241–68. ———. 1990. Agrippa I: The Last King of Judaea. Tübingen.

PART TWO

THE WORLD OF GALILEE

EARLY PRINTED MAPS OF GALILEE John R. Bartlett As a boy, I used to enjoy copying and tracing maps from my school atlas, and I remember asking my mother how the mapmakers knew where to put the little circles that located the named places. I suppose that I was about eight years old at the time, and I was as yet unschooled in the mysteries of latitude and longitude. Cartographers of today have highly sophisticated means of locating places with precision on a map, but cartographers of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries had fewer resources. They could plot latitude with reasonable accuracy, but accuracy of longitude eluded them until the eighteenth century. In the case of the Holy Land, pilgrims and other travellers knew the general whereabouts of many of the famous sites like Jerusalem, Bethlehem, or Nazareth, but the identification and precise location of many sites known only from the biblical narratives remained uncertain at best until the work of scholars like Edward Robinson in the nineteenth century. How, then, did those who drew and printed the maps of the Holy Land in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries plot the biblical sites on their maps? What resources did the great cartographers of the sixteenth century have? Where did they find the information from which to draw their maps? This essay is an attempt to answer those questions with reference to the biblical land of Galilee, and is offered in tribute to Sean Freyne, Professor of Theology in Trinity College, Dublin, from 1981–2003, who has made Galilee his special field of research throughout his scholarly career. In 1572, twenty years before the foundation of Trinity College, Dublin, the London publisher Richard Jugge brought out the second folio edition of the “Bishops’ Bible.” The first edition had appeared in 1568; its chief begetter was Archbishop Matthew Parker, who aimed to provide an English bible to replace both the “Great Bible” authorised by Henry VIII (1539) and the increasingly popular Calvinist Geneva Bible (1560). Jugge’s second edition was notable in that it included four woodcut maps (the maps of Eden, the Exodus, and the Holy Land following the maps used in the Geneva Bible, and the map of the Eastern Mediterranean taken from Wolfe’s New Testament of 1549). Some

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copies of the 1572 edition (including Trinity’s copy) also contained a map of the Holy Land; a panel in the lower right corner, left of the arms of Elizabeth I’s Treasurer Lord Burghley, states that this map was “graven by Humfray Cole goldsmith a English man born in ye north and pertayning to ye mint in the Tower 1572.” The engraver perhaps deliberately emphasises his English provenance; his map is designed for a new English Bible, its contents are described at length in English in a large cartouche in the top left corner, a note above the scalebar in the lower right corner states that “the Italian and English miles are egall viz. a thousand paces,” and on the map itself a number of place names and details of biblical episodes are given in English (though many names remain in Latin). This map is the first detailed engraved map of the Holy Land printed specifically for English readers. In the northern part of the land it shows the territories of the four tribes Aser, Naptalim, Zebulon, and Isaschar (these names shown in upper case), and the regions of Galilea Superior sive Gentium and Galilea Inferior (these names in lower case). Here for the first time readers of an English bible could discover in some detail the geography and topography of biblical Galilee; hitherto such knowledge had been confined to those with access to the continental publications of Ortelius, Tilemann Stella, Mercator and others. Humfray Cole, however, was a skilled engraver, not a biblical scholar, and it is obvious that he took the contents of his map directly from the map published in 1570 by Abraham Ortelius in his Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. (TCD’s library has only the 1579 edition of this map.) Cole has translated the Latin text of the descriptive cartouche, the names of the several seas (though not completely; thus for example “Mare Syrium et Phoenicium” appears as “The Syrian Sea et Phoenicium”), and the names of some of the larger regions (e.g., Syriae Pars) into English, and has added brief descriptive texts and illustrations relating to some events in the wilderness wanderings (e.g., “Exo. 17: Battel against Amalek”; “Water oute of the rock”; “Waters of strife”; and illustrations of the camp in the wilderness, the worship of the golden calf, the serpent lifted up in the wilderness). The location of places, however, follows exactly the map published by Ortelius, and Galilee appears to be identical in both maps, with no additions or subtractions by Cole, and no references to or illustrations of Gospel events. It is worth noting that the map presents a view of the Holy Land looking rather like a modern satellite picture taken from high above the Red Sea to the south; the focus is thus on the wilderness of Sinai and the

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wilderness wanderings, which are mapped in detail, rather than on the more northerly areas. Galilee seems very distant to the eye, and there is no space available for illustration or descriptive text. Cole used Ortelius’ map, but Ortelius had used an earlier map published by the German geographer and mathematician Tilemann Stella (or Stolz) from Siegen between Köln and Frankfort. Stella had published two maps; the first, in 1552, was entitled Typus chorographicus, celebrium locorum in regno Iudae et Israhel, and showed in some detail the regions of Judah, Samaria, and lower and upper Galilee. We know this map from the versions presented in Daniel Cellarius Ferimontanus’ Speculum Orbis Terrarum, published by Gerard de Iode in 1578 (Tab. XII) and in Ortelius’ Theatrum Orbis Terrarum Parergon, 1586 (map iii in the 1624 edition). Stella’s second map appeared in 1557, and it was this map that was copied by Ortelius in 1570, from whom Cole copied in 1572. Ortelius published it in 1570 under the title Palaestinae sive totius terrae Promissionis Nova Descriptio auctore Tilemanno Stella Sigenensi. In 1559 Stella reissued his 1557 map in a version of nine engraved sheets, each 22.5 × 25 cms, under the title Itinera Israelitarum ex Aegypto loca et insignia miracula diversorum locorum et patefactionum divinarum descripta a Tilemanno Stella Sigenensi ut lectio librorum propheticorum sit illustrior. This title makes it clear that the focus was on the exodus and the wilderness travels of the Israelites, and this emphasis is visible in the map as reproduced by Ortelius and Cole. It is Stella’s earlier map (1552) which shows more interest in Galilee, and which locates more of Galilee’s place-names. Stella’s earlier map consistently locates more places for each of the Galilean tribes, thus (using for the 1552 map Ortelius’ 1586 version and for the 1557 map Ortelius’ 1570 version) we find as follows:

Stella 1552 Stella 1557/1559

Asher

Naphtali

Zebulun

Issachar

35 17

44 13

23 17

30 13

A comparison of the lists of names from the two maps suggests that from the later map, probably for reasons of space, Stella cut many of the less well-known places, especially names from the tribal lists in Joshua otherwise unattested in the Old Testament. It may be noted, however, confusing matters considerably, that in the 1552 version of

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Stella’s map (Ortelius, Parergon, 1586), the towns of Betsemes, Betsaida and Capernaum are located in Issachar, and Marala, Sycaminum, Epha, Sarid and Carmelum Promontorium belong to Zebulon; in the later, 1557, version of Stella’s map (Ortelius, Theatrum, 1570), Ortelius set Bethsaida, Bethsemes and Capernaum within the tribal territory of Zebulon, and Marala, Sycaminum, Epha, Sarid and Carmelum Promontorium (to judge by the dotted boundary line) in Issachar (though the nearby presence of the letters ZE creates doubt). Certainly the tribal list of Josh 19.10–16 locates Sarid and Mareal in Zebulon. Bethshemesh belonged to Naphthali ( Josh 19.38) (though on the border of Issachar, Josh 19.22); Bethsaida and Capernaum do not appear in the tribal lists. Why Stella (or was it Ortelius?) changed his mind between the 1552 and 1557 maps is not clear. The question now becomes, whence did Stella derive the names for his 1552 map? Certainly not from the maps of Sebastian Munster, who in 1550 (or 1559?) published in Basle Cosmographiae universalis libri VI, which included a woodcut map of the near east (p. 1001) and a map of the Levant (p. 1002) in which Nazaret appears alone in Galilee, and who in 1552 published his Geographia Ptolemaei, which included a striking woodcut entitled “Terr[a]e Sanct[a]e XIII. Nova Tabula,” oriented with east at the bottom. The tribes of Aser, Neptali, Zabulon and Isachar are clearly delineated, with a few important places located. Galilea (in upper case) and Galilea Gentium (in lower case) are indicated; Cana and Nazareth appear in Zabulon, and Capernaum and Beth Saida in Isachar, but otherwise relatively few places are named. The “little hill” (Ps 42.8 [Coverdale]) of Hermon appears in Issachar well south of Mt Thabor; Carmeli Promontorium and Carmelus (Mt Carmel) appear in Zabulon, and the border between Isachar and Zabulon runs from south of the promontory of Carmel to the north end of the Sea of Galilee, as in Stella’s earlier map. But this map is not the chief source of Stella’s maps. An earlier map was the Descriptio Palaestinae Nova by Wolfgang Wissenburg, published in Basel in 1538 and dedicated to Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. This, like Stella’s 1559 map, was a wallmap mounted in sections; the only known surviving copy is preserved in Paris. Wissenburg was an important scholar, who had prepared an index of biblical place-names for the 1536 edition of Jacob Ziegler’s Terrae Sanctae . . . Descriptio (Argentorati 1536). In spite of this, however, Wissenburg shows very little of Galilee on his map, naming only Tyrus, Ptolemais, Dor, Nazareth, Sephoris, Capernaum, Naim, Tiberias and

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Genezar Lacus. Wissenburg’s map, like Stella’s second map, is focused on the exodus and wilderness wanderings of the Israelites, and would have given little help to Stella in the composition of his 1552 map. In the previous year, 1537, Gerardus Mercator published in Louvain his first map, a wall map of six sheets with the title Amplissima Terrae Sanctae Scriptio ad Utriusque Testamenti Intelligentiam. On this map, the author views Egypt, the wilderness region, and Palestine from a considerable height and from the east, with the coastline from the Nile Delta to Phoenicia running from left to right in a great arc across the top of the map. If Gerard de Iode’s 1578 version of Stella’s first map is any guide to the orientation and format of Stella’s original, then Stella appears to have been following the lead given by Mercator in 1537. De Iode’s map limits itself to the Holy Land, and its coastline follows closely the actual shape of the Palestine sector of the coast on Mercator’s map. (It has to be noted, however, that Ortelius’ later Parergon version of Stella’s first map is not oriented as de Iode’s version, and that it may possibly be de Iode rather than Stella who followed Mercator’s 1537 orientation.) However that may be, the influence of Mercator’s orientation and Palestinian coastline is clearly seen in Stella’s 1559 wall-map, and there can be little doubt that Stella knew Mercator’s work and was influenced by it. A comparison of the places named on Stella’s 1552 map and Mercator’s 1537 map also suggests that Stella’s immediate source was almost certainly Mercator’s 1537 map. Mercator’s source is not in doubt. Mercator incorporates a panel in the lower right-hand corner of his map in which he addresses the reader: “Candido lectori S[alutem]. Palestinam hanc, & in eam per Arabicas petras ex Aegypto Hebreorum iter ex Zieglero fidissimo horum chorographo deprompsimus, nominibus illius ad veterem Bibliorum translationem, quantum potuim, variatis, quando huic ut usitatissime potius inserviendum videretur.” Mercator has drawn his picture of Palestine, and the route of the Hebrews into it through the Arabian desert from Egypt, from Ziegler, “the most faithful cartographer of these things.” Jacob Ziegler was born in Landau about 1470, and died in Passau in August 1549. In his somewhat restless life he lived in Moravia, Hungary, and Italy as well as Vienna, where he taught theology. According to the Allgemeine deutsche Biographie (Leipzig, 1875–1912), “Er war eine Kampfnatur; litterarische, politische und religiose Streitigkeiten hatte er immer auszusechten,” and he published five books against the Waldensians in 1512, and a “Libellus adversus Jacobi Stunicae maledicentiam, pro Germania” in 1522. In the 1520s

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he appears to have allied himself to Erasmus of Rotterdam, and published anti-papal pamphlets. In 1531 Ziegler settled in Strassburg, apparently espousing the Protestant cause, but in 1533 left Strassburg and returned to the Roman fold, in which he remained until his death. In 1536 he published a work De solidae sphaerae constructione, and shortly before his death he published In C. Plinii de naturali historia lib. secundum commenta[ria]. Quibus difficultates omnes Plinianae astronomicae praesertim explicantur (Coloniae Agrippinae [ Köln], 1550). However, for subsequent cartographers of the Holy Land, Ziegler’s most important publication was his work Quae intus continentur: Syria ad Ptolomaici operis rationem . . . Palestina . . . Arabia Petraea . . . Aegyptus . . . Schondia . . . Holmiae . . .; Regionum superiorum singulae tabulae geographicae (Argentatori [Strassburg], 1532), republished in Strassburg in September 1536 under the title Terrae Sanctae quam Palestinam nominant, Syriae, Arabiae, Aegypti & Schondiae doctissima descriptio, una cum singulis tabulis earundem regionum topographicis, authore Iacobo Zieglero Landauo Bavaro, together with Terrae Sanctae altera descriptio, authore Vuolffgango Vueissenburgio pridem Academiae Basiliensis Mathematico. This volume also contains an Index, totius operis locupletissimus, qui in priori editione desiderabatur, and an Elenchus, quo libro et capita Bibliorum et quoties singuli Palestinae loci continentur, which gives biblical references to Ziegler’s place-names. This book is important for the history of the early mapping of Scandinavia (Schondia), but it is also extremely important for the development of Holy Land cartography. Ziegler was an industrious scholar who combined the information he could glean from the classical writers and Christian pilgrims with information from the Geography of Ptolemy and the map of Cyprus, Palestine, Syria, Jordan and Iraq, published in various editions of Ptolemy in the later decades of the fifteenth century—Bologna (1477) (Tabula 18 ), Rome (1478 and 1490) (Quarta Asiae Tabula), Ulm (1482 and 1486) (Quarta Asie Tabula), Florence (Berlinghieri’s Geographia, 1482) (Tabula Quarta de Asia). The 1482 Berlinghieri Geographia contains also a Palestina Moderna et Terra Sancta; the Ulm editions of 1482 and 1486, and the Rome edition of 1490 similarly contain a Tabula Moderna Terre Sancte. These latter maps are oriented with east at the top, the western coast of Palestine at the bottom, and derive ultimately from the manuscript map of Palestine by Marino Sanuto and Petrus Vesconte in the Liber secretorum fidelibus crucis super Terrae Sanctae recuperatione et conservatione (Venice, c. 1320). Ziegler’s maps, however, take their form and orientation from the Quarta Asiae Tabula of the printed editions of Ptolemy. Ziegler follows the Quarta Asiae Tabula in setting Galilee, or at least Lower Galilee, with

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the Tiberiadis Lacus, southeast of the Carmel promontory and the town of Dora. The Quarta Asiae Tabula, however, offers only four placenames—Sepphoris, Tiberias, Iulias, Caparcotni and their variants—for Galilee. The “Tabula Moderna” found in the Berlinghieri Geographia (1482), the Ulm editions (1482, 1486) and the Rome (1490) edition add a number of well-known names (e.g., Cades neptalim, Safer [Safed], Ior and Dan, Cesare Philip [ Neptalim], Sidon, Tyre, Scandolum, Mons fortis, Iudun, Caysale [Lamperti], Cana [Asher], Magdala, Tiberias, Mons Tabor, Castra Peregrinorum, Caifas [Zebulun], Endor, Iesrahel, Naim, Belvoir [Isachar], together with references to some biblical events, e.g., “hic occidit elias p. baal”; “hic sepultus Ione propheta,” “hic pugnavit Achab contra asyrios”), and to complete his map Ziegler had to draw on other sources. Ziegler tells us in his Terrae Sanctae . . . Descriptio that he drew on the sacred history from Moses to the Maccabees, from Divus Hieronymus, Strabo, Josephus, Pliny, Ptolomaeus and Antoninus.1 He also used the accounts of Burchard of Mt Sion, and Bernard von Breydenbach. It is instructive to take Ziegler’s topographical lists for the four Galilean tribes (Asher, Naphtali, Zebulon and Issachar) and compare them with the lists of place-names found in his sources. Ziegler used as his primary source the tribal lists of Josh 19, in the Latin translation of his contemporary, the Hebrew scholar Santes Pagninus (c. 1470–1541).2 These lists provided the majority of the place-names for Ziegler’s lists and maps. To them Ziegler added Galilean place-names taken from other biblical sources. Several names were added from the list of Levitical cities in Josh 21 (thus Cartah and Dimnah [ Josh 21.34–35] for Zebulun, Pahrath and Iarmuth [ Josh 21.28–29] for Isaschar). A handful of names came from Numbers and Deuteronomy: Sedad, Siphron, Lebo Chammath, Sephama, Riblatha from Num 34.8–11, and Chermon from Deut 3.8. The book of Judges provided Tahanach ( Judg 5.19), Hacho ( Judg 1.31), and Lais/Dan ( Judg 18.7) for Aser; Elon in Sahanannim ( Judg 4.11), Tabor Mons ( Judg 4.6) for Naptali; Ghitron and Nahalal ( Judg 1.30) for Zebulon; Bethsean ( Judg 1.27) and Chision torrens ( Judg 5.20) for Isaschar. The books of Samuel and Kings added Sarepta (1 Kgs 17.9) for Aser, Bethhamacha (2 Sam 20.14), Abelah mahacha (1 Kgs 15.20), and Berothi

1536, f. xv [verso]. Cf. Ziegler 1536, xv [verso]: “lectione autem hebraicorum nominum usi fuimus ex traductione Sanctis Pagnini Lucensis.” 1 2

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vicus (2 Sam 8.8) for Naptali, and Chinereth regio (1 Kgs 15.21) for Isaschar. Saron regio appeared from Isaiah 33.9. Tobit 1.1–2 provided Naphthalis and Nachshon for Naptali. 1 Macc 11.62 gave Aser vallis for Aser, and 1 Macc 9.2 Masaloth for Naptali. The New Testament provided a few obvious names—Capernaum and Nasareth for Zebulon, Naim, Dalmanutha, Gennesar, Chorazin and Tyberias for Isaschar, and Ptolemais (Acts 21.7) for Aser. The historian and geographer Strabo (64/3 b.c.e.–21 c.e.) in his Geography (16.2.21), and the scholarly Pliny the Elder (23/4–79 c.e.) in his Natural History (Nat. 5.70, 74–76) added a number of important, mainly non-biblical names, especially for the coastal region. Thus apart from Sarepta, Tyre, Sidon, and Ptolemais, already well known to him from the Bible, Ziegler could have added from their writings Tyrus antiqua, Avium, Ecdippa, Album Promontorium, Cendeuia, the river Pagida or Belus, Crocodilum oppidum (Crocodilopolis), Bubulcorum oppidum (Bucolopolis), Geba Hippeon, Sycaminum (Sycaminopolis), Bethsaida (Iulias) and Tarichaeae. Ziegler draws few extra place-names from Josephus—notably Scala Tyri Mons (the Ladder of Tyre, War 2.188), Giscala (War 2.575), Gabara (War. 2.629), Asamon Mons (War 2.511), Sepphoris (War 1.170), Genebris vicus (War 3.447), Scythopolis (War 1.65–66), and Iotapata (War 2.573). Ziegler indicates that he used Antoninus, by which he presumably refers to the Antonine Itinerary, a second or third century description of land routes (Itinerarium provinciarum Antonini Augusti ) and sea routes (Imperatoris Antonini Augusti itinerarium maritimum) of the Roman Empire.3 Ziegler could have had access to Stephanus’ edition of the Itinerarium, published in Paris in 1512. For Galilee and its environs, this would have given him the names Sidon, Tyre, Ptolemais, Sycaminum, and Scythopolis,4 though these names were already known to him from earlier sources. Ziegler claims to have used Jerome’s translation of Eusebius’ Onomasticon. This work contains many Galilean place-names, but most of its information naturally derived from sources already available to Ziegler. The Onomasticon appears to be Ziegler’s source for Ianua villa (Ianoua, Naptali), Ubama (= Oullama), Dan and Iar (the two supposed sources of the river Jordan), and Caiaphas civitas (= Hepha, modern Haifa).

3 4

Cf. Dilke 1985, 125–28. Cf. the edition by A. Schottus 1600, Coloniae Agrippinae 32–33.

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More importantly, where Eusebius and Jerome locate a Galilean place by reference to its distance from a more important place, Ziegler usually follows, sometimes with minor changes or further definition: thus, for example: Acsaf

( J ) in octavo lapide Diocaesareae, ad radicem montis Thabor, in campestribus Achsaph (Z) in x milliario Ptolemaidis pergentibus Tyrum Bethbeten ( J ) in octavo milliario Ptolomaidis contra orientem Bethen (Z) in viii miliario Ptolemaidis contra orientalem plagam Bethana ( J ) in quintodecimo a Caesarea lapide Bethhanath (Z) in xv lapide Diocaesareae sita in monte Gelgel, Galgulis ( J ) ab Antipatride in sexto miliario contra septentrionem Galgulis (Z) in viii milliario Antipatridis contra septentrionalem plagam Gabe ( J ) Gabe . . . in sextodecimo miliario Caesareae [Philippi] Gabe Hippeon (Z) coniuncta est Carmelo Tyriorum procul a Caesarea Paneadis m.passuum xvi Dan ( J ) viculus in quarto a Paneade milliario euntibus Tyrum Lais/Dan (Z) sita in valle Bethrechob procul a Ptolemaide m.p. xiiii contra borealas partes non procul ab urbibus Galgalis & Masaloth Villa Ianua ( J ) in tribu Iudae, in tertio miliario Legionis contra meridiem Ianua villa (Z) in tertio milliario Legionis contra meridiem Cedes, Cydissus ( J ) super montem Neftalim . . . in vicesimo Tyri miliario iuxta Paneadem Chedes, Cidissus (Z) super montem Naphtali in xx milliario Tyri Cammon ( J) in campo latissimo sex milibus a Legione ad septentionalem plagam pergentibus Ptolomaidem Chammon (Z) procul vi m. pass. a Legione oppido viae ad Ptolemaidem Magdiel ( J ) in quinto miliario Dorae pergentibus Ptolemaidem Magdiel (Z) in v milliario Dorae pergentibus Ptolemaidem Naim ( J ) in secondo miliario Thabor montis . . . contra meridiem iuxta Aendor Naim (Z) in secundo milliario Tabor montis contra austrum ad pedem Chermon minoris montis iuxta Hendor villam Ullama ( J ) in duodecimo Diocaesareae lapide . . . contra solis ortum Ubama (Z) in xii milliario Diocaesareae contra ortum Sunem ( J ) [Sulem] in quinto miliario montis Thabor contra australem plagam Sunem (Z) sita ad orientales partes Carmeli montis non procul a Ghilboah montis post Chesuloth directa ad Capharaim in v. milliario Tabor montis Saron ( J ) regio inter montem Thabor et stagnum Tiberiadis

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Saron

(Z) Saron regio inter Caesaream Palestinae & Tabor montem lacumque Genesar. Chorazin ( J ) in secundo lapide a Cafarnaum Chorazim (Z) super conjunctione Iordanis cum lacu Genesar super orientali parte quatuor millibus procul a Capernaum

There can be no doubt that when Jerome offers precise indication of the location of a place, Ziegler usually follows him. In the cases of Achsaph and Dan, however, Ziegler chooses to take his starting point from Ptolemais, not from Diocaesarea or Paneas (Caesarea Philippi). Particularly important to Ziegler was the thirteenth-century itinerary of Burchard of Mount Sion. 5 Burchard was a Dominican from Strasburg or Magdeburg who seems to have travelled in the Holy Land c. 1275–1285, and spent the next decade there; his account is dated 1283. He was mentioned by Felix Fabri, and his work was used by Sanuto (1321) and later by Breydenbach (1486). His work existed in many fifteenth century manuscripts, and was printed at Lubeck in 1475, at Basel in 1494, at Venice in 1519, at Paris in 1532, and at Antwerp in 1536,6 so it was comparatively easily accessible to Ziegler. Again, most of the place names mentioned by Burchard would have been familiar to Ziegler from other sources, but it may be to Burchard that Ziegler owes his Velenae for Baneas (p. xxix; Burchard Valania, Belinas); Burchard also appears to be the first to identify Tobit’s home (Tob 1.2 Vulg.) as Naason (Ziegler, Nachson). It was almost certainly from Burchard that Ziegler drew his references to a number of crusader castles (castella) in Galilee and elsewhere. Thus Ziegler’s Sandalium (Scandalium), Lamperti castellum (casale Lamberti) (p. xx), Thoron castellum (Tibrin), Fortis mons castellum (Montfort; Qalxat al-Qurain), Judin castellum (Qalxat Jiddin), Regium castellum (Mixiliya), Sepheth castellum (Safed) (p. xxvii), Georgia castellum (alBaxina; in fact, not a castle but St George’s abbey) (p. xxx), and Faba castellum (el-Fula) (p. xxxvi) all appear in Burchard, together with a number of other castles; they also appear in the later and derivative account of Bernhard von Breydenbach (Sanctarum pregrinationum in montem Syon ad venerandum Christi sepulchrum in Jerusalem atque in montem Synai ad divam virginem et matirem [sic] Katherinam opusculum), which appeared at Moguntiacum (Mainz) in 1486. Some of these castles appear also on

5 6

Translated by Stewart 1897. For bibliographical details, see Röhricht 1890.

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the Ptolemaic “Tabula Moderna” (Rome, 1490); thus Sapher (Safed), Mons Fortis, Iudun, together with Castra Peregrinorum and Belvoir.7 Ziegler also mentions, in his list of names for the tribe Zebulun, a “Ruina castellum” (p. xxx; to judge from Ziegler’s coordinates, southwest of Nazareth), which I cannot further identify. Ziegler’s “ruina castellum” is taken up by Mercator and Tilemann Stella, but the origin of this ruina is uncertain. However, Ziegler lists this place between Cana minor and Chaymoth ( Jokneam), and it may be the same place as Marino Sanuto’s (1321) Ruma vel sepulchrum One [ Jonah] (space 19, square 21) and Burchard’s Villa Rama, 2 leagues south of Cana,8 though Sanuto places Ruma apparently SE of Cana and ENE of Nazareth, while Ziegler sets his Ruina SW of Nazareth and directly S of Cana, following Burchard more closely. Breydenbach’s map follows Sanuto in giving a “sepulchrum Ione prophetae,” without identifying it as Ruma, but setting it roughly where Ziegler sets his Ruina. Breydenbach’s text, however, makes the identification: “est villa quaedam Rama nominee in qua Jonas propheta dicitur sepultus fuisse.” Ziegler’s “ruina” is thus probably a misreading of Sanuto’s “Ruma” or Burchard’s “Rama.” In the mediaeval pilgrim accounts and maps, only Sanuto and Burchard give this place, and Ziegler must have taken the name from one or both of them, perhaps accepting Burchard’s location and Sanuto’s version of the name. This short study has shown us how mapmakers from the sixteenth century, from the decades immediately prior to the foundation of Trinity College, prepared their maps of the Galilee they knew from their bibles. They drew their maps largely for the benefit of men and women who could now read the Bible in their own languages, especially English, German, Dutch, and French, and who needed commentaries and maps to assist their understanding. The great sixteenth-century cartographers clearly borrowed from each other: Humfray Cole was an engraver who simply reproduced Ortelius’ work (without acknowledgement); Ortelius used Tileman Stella’s work (with due acknowledgement); Stella used Mercator’s work; and Mercator drew heavily on Ziegler. Ziegler provided the scholarship which formed the base of all cartography of the Holy Land until the inquisitive travellers of the eighteenth century and the

For these castles and churches, see Lawrence 1936; Pringle 1993 and 1998. Circa 1283, in Simon Grynaeus, Novus orbis regionum ac insularum veteribus incognitarum, Basileae 1537 (a Neudruck of a 1532 edition). See Röhricht 1890, no. 1283, 306) 7 8

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professional surveyors of the nineteenth century brought entirely new interests and objectives to the mapping of the near east. Ziegler, however, drew in a learned way on the previous work of Ptolemy (whose maps appeared in a number of editions of the late fifteenth century) and the earlier Christian and classical scholars, as well as on the biblical texts. Importantly, he drew also on the work of the thirteenth-century Dominican, Burchard of Mt Sion, who knew the Holy Land at first hand. From Burchard, six centuries were to pass before Robinson and Smith made their own serious attempt to identify with the help of the Arabic place-names cities, towns and villages named in the biblical writings. From the printed maps of Ptolemy in the late fifteenth century four centuries were to pass before the first fully surveyed maps of Palestine were published. Until then, the work of Burchard, Ziegler, Mercator and their followers controlled the field.

Fig. 1. Galilee, in Abraham Ortelius’ map “Palestinae sive Totius Terrae Promissionis Nova Descriptio Auctore Tilemanno Stella Sigenens,” from Theatrum Orbis Terrarum, Antwerp, 1579, p. 87 [TCD PP.a.34]. This was based on Stella’s 1557 map. By courtesy of the Board of Trinity College, Dublin.

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Fig. 2. Galilee, in Abraham Ortelius’s map “Typus Chorographicus, celebrium locorum in Regno Iudae et Israhel, arte factus a Tilemanno Stella Sigenensi,” map iii in Theatrum Orbis Terrarum Parergon, 1624 [ TCD M.aa.15]. This was based on Stella’s map of 1552, and was used by Ortelius in the 1586 edition of the Parergon. By courtesy of the Board of Trinity College, Dublin.

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Fig. 3. Galilee, from Sebastian Munster’s woodcut map “Terr[a]e Sanct[a]e XIII. Nova Tabula,” in Geographia Ptolemaei, 1552 [ TCD DD.ee.53]. By courtesy of the Board of Trinity College, Dublin.

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Fig. 4. Galilee, “secunda tabula” in J. Ziegler, Terrae Sanctae, quam Palaestinam nominant . . . descriptio, 1536 [TCD.DD.b.33] By courtesy of the Board of Trinity College, Dublin.

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Bibliography Dilke, O. A. W. 1985. Greek and Roman Maps. London. Freeman-Grenville, G. S. P., R. L. Chapman III, and J. E. Taylor. 2003. Palestine in the Fourth Century A.D.: The Onomasticon by Eusebius of Caesarea. Jerusalem. Klostermann, E. 1904. Eusebius: Das Onomastikon der biblischen Ortsnamen (Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei Jahrhunderte: Eusebius III.1). Leipzig. Lawrence, T. E. 1937. Crusader Castles. London. Reprint edited by M. Haag. London, 1986. Pliny. 1969. Naturalis Historia, Volume 2. Translated by H. Rackham. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge MA and London. Pringle, D. 1993. The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus. Volume 1 of The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus. Cambridge. ———. 1998. The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus. Volume 2 of The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus. Cambridge. Röhricht, R. 1890. Bibliotheca Geographica Palestinae. Berlin. Reprint London, 1963 and 1989. Strabo. 1917–32. Geographia. Translated by H. L. Jones. 8 vols. Loeb Classical Library, trans. H. L. Jones. Cambridge MA and London. ‘Ziegler, Jakob’, in Allgemeine deutsche Biographie, vol. xlv, 175–77. Leipzig: Dunker und Humblot, 1875–1912. Early Printed Maps of Galilee Note: the early printed books and maps noted in this study have been those available in the Early Printed Books department of the Library of Trinity College, Dublin (TCD). These are not always the earliest editions published. TCD accession numbers are given in square brackets. Bernhard von Breydenbach. 1486. Sanctarum peregrinationum in montem Syon ad venerandum Christi sepulchrum in Jerusalem atque in montem Synai ad divam virginem et matirem [sic] Katherinam opusculum. Moguntiacum: E. Reuwich [DD.b.32]. Daniel Cellarius Ferrimontanus. 1578. Speculum orbis terrarum. Antwerp: G. de Iode. [M.aa.9] Simon Grynaeus. 1537. Novus orbis regionum ac insularum veteribus incognitarum. Basileae: apud I. Hervagium. [O. bb.19] ———. 1572. The holie Bible (Bishops’ Bible), 2nd ed. London: R. Jugge. [KK.c.15] Stewart, A. 1897. Itinerary of Burchard (Brocardus) of Mt Zion c. 1220. Traslated by A. Stewart. Palestine Pilgrims Text Society. London. [35.n.17] Sebastian Munster. 1550. Cosmographiae universalis libri VI. Basileae: H. Petri, 1550 [M.b.25] ———. 1552. Geographia Claudii Ptolemaei Alexandrini, libri VIII. Basileae: H. Petri. [DD. ee.53] Abraham Ortelius. 1597. Theatrum orbis terrarum, Antwerp: Plantin. [PP.a.34] ———. 1624. Theatrum orbis terrarum parergon. Antwerp: Plantin. [M.aa.15] Marino Sanuto. 1611. Liber secretorum fidelium crucis super Terrae Sanctae recuperatione et conservatione (in Tom. II, Orientalis historiae per Jac. Bongarsium), Hanoviae apud heredes Ioannis Aubrii. [QQ.dd.7] A. Schottus. 1600. Itinerarium Antonini Augusti et Burdigalense. Coloniae Agrippinae: Birckmann. [M.n.2] Jacobus Ziegler. 1532. Quae intus continentur: Syria ad Ptolemaici operas rationem . . . Palestina . . . Arabia Petraea . . . Aegyptus . . . Schondia . . . Holmiae . . .; regionum superiorum singulae tabulae geographicae. Argentatori [Strassburg]: apud P. Opilionem.

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———. 1536. Terrae Sanctae, quam Palaestinam nominant, Syriae, Arabiae, Aegypti & Schonidae doctissima descriptio; una cum singulis tabulis earundem regionum topographicis, authore Iacobo Zieglero Landauo Bavaro, & Terrae Sanctae altera descriptio, authore Vuolffangio Vueissenburgio. Argentatori: apud Vu. Rihelium. [DD.b.33]

ARCHAEOLOGY, ETHNICITY, AND FIRST-CENTURY C.E. GALILEE: THE LIMITS OF EVIDENCE Mark A. Chancey The ethnic identity of first-century c.e. Galileans has long been a matter of scholarly dispute. Some scholars have seen the region as predominantly Jewish, with Gentiles as a small minority. Others have reversed these proportions, arguing that Galilee’s population consisted mostly of gentiles of various ethnicities. Still others have suggested that Galileans were the descendents of the northern tribes of Israel who remained there after the Assyrian conquest; in this view, though Galileans shared their Israelite heritage with their neighbors to the south in Judea, they were not, properly speaking, Jews. The variety of these views is partly due to a lack of epigraphic evidence—most Galilean inscriptions are late second century c.e. or later—and to our present inability to identify first-century c.e. synagogues as such (Galilean synagogues become archaeologically distinct only in later centuries).1 Sean Freyne, throughout his distinguished career, has been one of the most influential advocates of the first position, which sees ancient Galilee as a mostly Jewish region. In his early work, he argued that firstcentury c.e. Galileans were largely descendents of ancient Israelites.2 As our archaeological data increased, Freyne modified his view accordingly to take into account the lack of evidence for dense habitation in the wake of the Assyrian conquest as well as the proliferation of new sites in the wake of the Hasmonean conquest. Freyne’s more recent works trace the ancestry of most first-century c.e. Galilean Jews to settlers who arrived in the Hasmonean period.3 Two recent developments in scholarship clearly support Freyne’s position that Galilee was predominantly Jewish: first, the publication of archaeological survey data that shed considerable light on Galilee’s historical development and, second, the corroborating findings of three different systematic reviews of the region’s first-century material

1 2 3

For an overview of the various scholarly positions, see Chancey 2002, 1–27. Freyne 1980. For example, Freyne 1997, 2001, and 2002.

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culture. In this article, I will summarize the findings of these studies, noting also the questions they leave unanswered and the new questions they pose. Surveys demonstrate that there was little continuity in Galilee between the pre-Assyrian conquest population and that of the post-conquest period. The shift in Freyne’s own view was prompted by Zvi Gal’s 1992 overview, which revealed that numerous sites in Lower Galilee were abandoned in the wake of the Assyrian invasion and that the region’s small population began to grow only in the Persian and following periods.4 A more recent survey, published in 2001 by Rafael Frankel, Mordechai Aviam, Nimrod Getzov, and Avi Degani, sheds additional light on the development of Galilee’s population. It suggests that the situation in Upper Galilee was similar to that in Lower Galilee: the number of occupied sites, particularly in the center of the region, dropped in the Iron Age, a change that seems to correspond to the effects of the Assyrian conquest.5 While these finds do not rule out the possibility that a few first-century c.e. Galileans were descendents of the ancient northern tribes, they do fatally wound the thesis that most were. In addition, the survey of Upper Galilee by Frankel et al. shows that the area’s pottery profile in the Hellenistic period reflected the presence of two distinct pagan groups. In the Late Hellenistic period, a wave of site abandonments demonstrates that both groups withdrew, while the emergence of new sites seems to correspond to the influx of Jewish inhabitants in the wake of the Hasmonean conquest.6 The survey seemingly confirms the importance of the Hasmonean conquest for understanding the population of Roman Galilee. One of the pottery types the surveyors associate with a gentile group began appearing in the Persian period in eastern Upper Galilee in the region around Mt. Meiron. Dubbed Galilean Coarse Ware, it occurs in

Gal 1992. Frankel, Getzov, Aviam, and Degani 2001, 106–7. 6 Most scholars follow Emil Schürer in reading Josephus’s description (Ant. 13.318– 319) of Aristobulus’s conquest of northern territory c. 104–103 b.c.e. as a reference to Galilee (Schürer 1973, vol. 1, 216–18). Aristobulus presumably would have had to go through Galilee to reach Iturean territory. Josephus does not specifically mention the conquest of Galilee in this passage, however, and it is possible that the region was not fully annexed by the Hasmoneans until the reign of Alexander Jannaeus (103–76 b.c.e.). On the Hasmonean conquest of Galilee, see Freyne 2001; Aviam 2004; Chancey 2002, 41–47; and Reed 2000, 34–43. 4 5

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“shades of grey and pink with large white grits,” is usually handmade (rather than wheel-spun), and is sometimes decorated with circles and triangles.7 Most pieces are large vessels—bowls, kraters, storage jars, and pithoi. Galilean Coarse Ware began to go out of use in the Late Hellenistic period, when many of the sites where it is found ceased to be occupied.8 By the Early Roman period, production of this pottery had ceased entirely. Who were the producers and users of Galilean Coarse Ware? Itureans, members of an Arab tribe found in the area around Mt. Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon, might at first seem to be a natural suspect, but Galilean Coarse Ware is quite different from the pottery typically associated with them. In fact, despite the widely-held belief that Itureans dwelt in Galilee prior to the Hasmonean conquest, Iturean wares are rarely found there.9 Nor apparently, were they Phoenicians, because Galilean Coarse Ware is quite different from Phoenician ware and none has been found in the coastal area where Phoenicians were known to live. The surveyors argue that they were pagans of an undeterminable ethnicity. The other pagan group found in Upper Galilee was comprised of Phoenicians, as demonstrated by their usage of Phoenician jars. Such jars had been used in the eastern mountains in the Persian period until they were supplanted in the Hellenistic period by Galilean Coarse Ware. As users of the latter pottery arrived, the Phoenicians apparently withdrew westwards. The continuing manufacture of Phoenician wares shows that Phoenicians continued to dwell in western Upper Galilee throughout the Roman period, though the extent of their settlement continued to recede towards the coast.10 The survey of Upper Galilee sheds new light on the significance of Kefar Hananyah ware, as well. As is now well-known, the village of Kefar Hananyah produced most of the cookware for Galilee for half a millennium, from the mid-first century b.c.e. to the fifth century c.e. Both rabbinic citations and archaeological evidence make this 7 Frankel, Getzov, Aviam, and Degani 2001, 61–62, 106–10; quotation and description from 61. 8 Perhaps the best known example of an abandoned site is Mizpeh Yamim, a pagan cultic site that was destroyed, apparently by the Hasmoneans (Frankel and Ventura 1998). 9 On Iturean pottery, see Hartal 1987; Hartal 2002; Dar 1993. 10 Frankel, Getzov, Aviam, and Degani 2001, 78–89, Tables 3.4 and 3.5; 107–14; 131–32. See also Berlin 1997 and Avshalom-Gorni and Getzov 2002.

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clear.11 The patterns of its usage in Upper Galilee suggest that Kefar Hananyah ware can be an indicator of Jewish inhabitants.12 Beginning in the Early Roman period, Kefar Hananyah wares began to appear in the area (roughly) where Galilean Coarse Ware had previously been used. Their appearance is thus probably related to the influx of Jews as well as to the development of trade networks.13 Any of the previous inhabitants who remained in the area apparently also began using Kefar Hananyah ware. Here we see the limits of what we can deduce from pottery; it is very useful on a macro-level, in this case for identifying the geographical extent of Jewish settlement, but it is thus far less useful on the micro-level, for differentiating between Jews and gentiles at specific Galilean sites. David Adan-Bayewitz, whose studies first drew attention to Kefar Hananyah ware, argued that it was exported to the areas surrounding Galilee, Samaria excepted. This trade has been seen as an example of the type of economic contacts Galileans had with pagans from the neighboring areas. If Kefar Hananyah ware is sometimes an indicator of Jewish inhabitants, should we interpret its presence at sites outside of Galilee not merely as evidence of Galilean association with nearby pagans, but of contacts with Jews living in those predominantly gentile areas? To complicate matters even further, recent tests indicate that some of the pottery from the Golan previously identified as Kefar Hananyah ware was, in fact, a locally made imitation and not an import from Kefar Hananyah itself.14 Where was the Golan version made, and by whom? Should we associate imitation Kefar Hananyah ware with Jews in the same way that we do with the Galilean-produced wares? How does the manufacture of this style of pottery outside of Galilee affect scholarly assertions of strong connections between Galilee and the adjacent territories?

11 Adan-Bayewitz 1993; Adan-Bayewitz and Perlman 1985; and Adan-Bayewitz and Perlman 1990. 12 A recent study by Andrea M. Berlin provides an additional example of how ceramic evidence might be used in discussions of ethnicity and Galilee. She notes that imported round, molded lamps and red-slipped Eastern Sigillata A pottery disappeared from Jewish sites in Galilee in the first century c.e., though they had been used there in earlier years. These items might also prove to be trade-related ethnic marker: their absence at a given Galilean site could be evidence of its Jewish nature (Berlin 2002). 13 Frankel, Getzov, Aviam, and Degani 2001, 110–14, 132. 14 Frankel, Getzov, Aviam, and Degani 2001, 65.

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The findings of these surveys are complemented by three recent investigations of the archaeological evidence from first-century Galilee, one undertaken by Jonathan L. Reed, one by Mordechai Aviam and Peter Richardson, and one by myself.15 All three studies employ a similar methodology that regards limestone vessels, ritual baths (mikvot), and ossuaries as indicators of Jewish inhabitants,16 and all find a plentitude of evidence that the region’s population was mostly Jewish. A variety of types of limestone (or “chalk”) vessels were made in the late Second Temple period, from mugs (often called “measuring cups”) to large storage jars, with numerous forms in between. All were designed to hold liquids. They are usually regarded as indicators of Jewish inhabitants because rabbinic sources indicate that some Jews regarded them as unsusceptible to ritual impurity, as does the Gospel of John (2:6).17 Stone vessels have been found throughout Palestine in a wide range of contexts—urban and rural, in homes large and small. Their usage thus seems to have cut across class lines, except for more expensive larger storage jars, which appear to have been used primarily in urban sites by the relatively wealthy.18 In and near Galilee, they have been discovered in at least twenty-three sites,19 some with substantial first-century remains, some with thin first-century strata, and some that have only been surveyed. Workshops at the Galilean villages of Reina and Bethlehem produced many of the region’s vessels, though smaller pieces were sometimes made elsewhere, as shown by stone cores removed during the production process that have been found at Nabratein, Capernaum, and Sepphoris.20 In addition, stone vessels were probably imported from Judea, where several workshops have

Reed 2000, 23–61; Aviam and Richardson 2001; Chancey 2002. See also Meyers forthcoming; Meyers 1993; and Zangenberg 2008. 17 On limestone vessels in general, see Cahill 1992; Magen 1994; Deines 1993; Magen 2002; Gibson 2003; Reed 2003, 381–401; Reed 2000, 43–45; and Meyers 2008. 18 Gibson 2003, 300–301; on the class dimension of the usage of large storage jars, see Reed 2003, 390–96. 19 Sepphoris, Nazareth, Asochis, Jotapata, Tiberias, Capernaum, Kefar Hananyah, Nabratein, Migdal ha-Emeq, Ibelin, Bethlehem of Galilee, Hammath Tiberias, Kefar Kana, Gush Halav, Khirbet Shema, Meiron, Beth Maxon, Khirbet Cana, Reina, Thella, Meroth, Khirbet Bine West, and Jalame. See Magen 1994, 24–25; Magen 2002, 161; Chancey 2002, 118; Reed 2000, 50–51; Aviam and Richardson 2001; Aviam and Syon 2002, 157 (for Meroth); Aviam, 2004d, 129 (for Khirbet Bine West); and Berry 1988. 20 Reed 2003, 391. 15 16

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been discovered, particularly in the vicinity of Jerusalem.21 Archaeologists are still trying to establish the chronological parameters of their usage. Shimon Gibson argues that they are most common in mid-first century c.e. strata, especially in destruction layers from the Great Revolt.22 It is still unclear how widespread their use was earlier in the century or exactly when it ceased (late first century? over time in the second century?).23 Stone vessels not only tell us that Jews lived at a site, they also tell us that those Jews were concerned with ritual purity and had an understanding of the purity system that included a role for such vessels. While this point might seem obvious, it is important to emphasize that we do not know exactly which Jews employed these vessels. Theoretically, their users could have been Pharisees, Essenes, members of other parties or sects, priests, priestly supporters, Jews with few or no sectarian leanings, or all of the above.24 It is also possible that some Jews were greatly concerned with ritual purity but rejected the innovation of stone vessels. The lack of stone vessels at a site is definitely not evidence that Jews were absent. Shimon Gibson and Stuart S. Miller have suggested that stone vessels could have had a utilitarian function. In this view, their popularity may have been due to their sturdiness or to stylistic trends, rather than solely to conceptions of ritual purity.25 If stone vessels had a primarily utilitarian purpose, however, we would expect to find an even greater geographical distribution, with more vessels appearing in known gentile areas. Mikvot—stepped, plastered pools cut into bedrock and used for ritual baths—have been found throughout the Jewish parts of Palestine, including Galilee. They vary in size and location; some are small and are located in private residences, while other larger ones appear to have been designed for public use. In Galilee, they have been found in first-century domestic contexts at Sepphoris and at Yodefat; in addition, two have been found at Gamla, just east of Galilee. Aviam argues that a pool at Qeren Naftali that was used from the late second century to the late first century b.c.e. should be identified as a mikveh, and he also

21 22 23 24 25

Gal 1991; Oshri 1998. Gibson 2003, 302. On possible reasons why stone vessels went out of use, see Miller 2003. Regev 2000, 181–83; and Miller 2003. Gibson 2003, 304 and Miller 2003.

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notes the presence of a mikveh in an Early Roman context at Meroth.26 Lists of Galilean mikvot sometimes include examples at additional sites, but these are typically from after the first century, when mikvot grew more common.27 Though most scholars agree that these pools are indeed mikvot, some have questioned this interpretation, suggesting that they could have been used for hygienic bathing or other purposes. Hanan Eshel, for example, objects to the identification of pools at Sepphoris as mikvot because they differ from the descriptions found in later rabbinic texts, particularly in their small size, lack of an adjacent storage tank (otzer), and absence of a partition in the stairs. 28 Social realities in ancient Jewish Palestine did not always match rabbinic descriptions, however, and there is little reason to assume that rabbinic guidelines were regarded as authoritative in the early centuries c.e. Furthermore, cutting into bedrock was probably too labor intensive a project for the creation of a mere bath tub. If the pools were intended for regular bathing, we would expect them to be widespread in pagan areas, but they are not. John Kloppenborg has associated the mikvot at Sepphoris with the possible presence of a small number of priests there.29 Utilizing Ronnie Reich’s dissertation, he also notes that ritual baths are often discovered near oil presses and agricultural institutions. This latter observation holds true at Gamla, where one mikveh is near olive presses, and at Yodefat, where mikvot were found in two houses that were near a cave with an oil press. Kloppenborg suggests that ritual baths have to do with “priestly practices and the production of olive oil intended for Jewish markets (and perhaps for the temple itself ).” He interprets the contrast between the small number of first-century ritual baths in Galilee and the larger number in Judea as an indication of differing halakhic practices between the regions.30 Kloppenborg rightly draws attention to an important issue: why have so few mikvot been discovered in first-century contexts in Galilee? And how can we explain the discrepancy between

Aviam 2004b, 70–71 and Aviam 2004d, 126. Reed 2000, 49–51, following Ronny Reich’s dissertation (Reich 1990) notes probable post-first-century mikvot at Chorazin, Beit Yinam, Beth Shexarim, Har Arbel, Khirbet Shema, and Sasa. Aviam and Richardson (2001, 184) note a mikveh of uncertain date at Khirbet Cana. 28 Eshel 1997; Eshel 2000; and Wright III 1997. See the counter-arguments in Meyers 2002 and Reich 2002. 29 Kloppenborg Verbin 2000, 231–33, 244–45, 257; cf. Miller 1984, 63–102. 30 Kloppenborg Verbin 2000, 233. 26

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the small number of sites with early mikvot and the much larger number with stone vessels? Thus, like stone vessels, mikvot leave us with unanswered questions about their users. We know from evidence in Jerusalem that priests used them. If the settlement at Qumran was a sectarian site—a contested issue—then we have evidence of another group that used them.31 But how did sectarian usages vary, and to what extent did different interpretations of Torah lead to different mikveh practices? The fact that mikvot appear in such a wide variety of contexts strongly suggests that their usage was not limited to sects but was more widespread.32 Not all sites have yielded them, however, and so it seems clear that not all Jews regarded easy access to mikvot as a priority. The reasons for the increase in the number of ritual baths in Galilee after the first century are also not yet clear. To what extent does it reflect the influence of the refugees from war-torn Judea? Does it correspond in any way to growing rabbinic influence? Burial practices can also indicate a Jewish presence, though the type of grave itself does not necessarily tell us about ethnicity. For example, tombs with a kokh (that is, a burial niche cut in such a way that the body is perpendicular to the wall) are sometimes described as Jewish solely on the basis of those kokhim. It is important to recognize, however, that pagans in Palestine also used kokhim, as seen in the tombs around Apollonia.33 Furthermore, both the kokh and the other type of grave shelf often found in Roman-period contexts, the arcosolium (cut length-wise so that the body lay parallel to the wall), were imported from elsewhere in the Hellenistic world; they were not local Jewish innovations.34 In contrast, evidence of secondary burial is more useful for our purposes.35 Secondary burial was carried out approximately a year after death, when the deceased’s bones were gathered together and placed in an ossuary, a small sarcophagus of limestone or clay. In the Levant, the custom appears to have been distinctly Jewish.36 Unfortunately,

For two opposing views on the subject, see Hirschfeld 2004 and Magness 2002. Regev 2000, 184–86; cf. Sanders 1990, 31. 33 Tal 1995. 34 McCane 2003, 10–11; cf. Hachlili 2005, 66–72. 35 Chancey 2002, 118; Reed 2000, 49; Aviam and Richardson 2001. See now the much fuller study, Aviam and Syon 2002. 36 Hachlili 2005, 94–115, 520–28; McCane 2003, 39–43. Aviam and Syon (2002) note two clay ossuaries near the coast at Nahariya and Qastra, sites that appear to have been predominantly pagan. In personal communication, however, Aviam notes that 31 32

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our understanding of the practice’s geographical spread is somewhat muddled. Ossuaries first appeared in Jerusalem c. 20–15 b.c.e. and were used there and at other sites in Judea until the Bar Kochba war, albeit with a noticeable decline in usage after the first revolt. In contrast, usage in Galilee increased in the wake of the two revolts, as Judean Jews migrating northwards brought the custom with them. Less clear, is precisely when Galileans adopted the practice—after 135 c.e.? After 70 c.e.? Even before 70 c.e.? L. Y. Rahmani suggested that secondary burial did not reach Galilee at all until the second century.37 A more recent study by Aviam and Danny Syon argues that the custom arrived in Galilee after 70 c.e.38 They demonstrate that the practice continued in Galilee until the second or third century, 39 noting approximately 70 stone and clay ossuaries at 29 sites in northern Palestine.40 Earlier examples—from the first or early second century—appear at Kefar Kana, Tiberias, Tiv{on, Nazareth, Huqoq, Xaloth, Gush Halav, Horvat {Uza, Ibellin, Dabburiyya, Kefar Hittin, and possibly Migdal HaxEmeq and Sajur.41 It thus seems indisputable that ossuary usage grew dramatically in Galilee after 70 c.e., and the attribution of that increase to the influence of Judean refugees appears to be the most reasonable explanation. It is less certain, however, that the practice had not reached Galilee at all until then, at least in my opinion. As Aviam and Syon make clear, many ossuaries are found in tombs disturbed by looters or modern construction activity, which makes precise dating difficult, and the original archaeological contexts of others are unknown. Perhaps future discoveries will help clarify this matter.

these containers are actually more like small coffins than ossuaries and were probably used for primary burial of children. 37 Rahmani 1994, 21–23; cf. McCane 2003, 39. 38 Aviam and Syon 2002, 151. 39 Aviam and Syon 2002; cf. Rahmani 1994, 24; Aviam 2002a; Aviam 2002b; Aviam, 2004c; Gal, Hana and Aviam 2002; Abu-Uqsa 2002, 183. 40 Aviam and Syon 2002. Three of these sites were outside of first-century Galilee, Beth Shean and, near the coast, Nahariya and Qastra (on these two sites, see comments above). 41 This list synthesizes data from the sources previously mentioned. Reed (2000, 49) reports the evidence of secondary burial at Reina, though the publication he cites (Najjar 1998) does not mention ossuaries. Note also the discovery of an ossuary and ossuary fragments (date not specified) at Jalame, southwest of Beth She{arim (Weinberg 1988, 22).

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What theological beliefs, if any, lay behind ossuary usage remains a matter of debate.42 One suggestion connects the practice with the belief that the decay of flesh contributes to the expiation of sins.43 Another associates it with belief in physical resurrection, arguing that the collection of bones was meant to prepare the interred for being raised. On this basis, Rahmani, the leading authority on ossuaries, has argued that ossuaries reflect Pharisaic influence.44 The evidence for the connection of secondary burial with the belief in afterlife is slender, however. Ossuary inscriptions, which are usually quite brief, often consisting only of a name, do not make this connection, and neither do rabbinic or other Jewish texts.45 Furthermore, as Hachlili has recently pointed out, the possibility that remains might be lost during the transfer from primary to secondary burial further counts against this explanation: if the point was to prepare the body for reconstitution, then one would not have wanted to do anything that might separate or lose any of the parts!46 Even if, despite the lack of evidence, we were to grant some linkage between the practice of secondary burial and the belief in resurrection, that would still not demonstrate Pharisaic influence, in my opinion. Other Jews besides Pharisees believed in resurrection,47 and nothing in the physical evidence associates the practice with Pharisees. Other explanations for the phenomenon include the proposal that the custom originated as an economic measure to get maximum use out of graves, particularly as the population of Jerusalem grew.48 Such a theory does not explain the practice of secondary burial in less densely populated areas like Galilee, however. Steven Fine and Byron R. McCane have argued that the use of ossuaries should be understood within the context of the shift from group burials to individual burials, a shift that itself reflects the influence of the Hellenistic emphasis on individual identity.49 The problem for this suggestion posed by the pres-

Hachlili provides a helpful overview of scholarly positions on the matter (2005, 527–28). 43 B. Sabb. 13b, b. Qidd. 31b, b. Sanh. 47b, b. Ber. 18b (references taken from McCane 2003, 43). 44 Rahmani 1994, 53–55. 45 Magen discusses the rabbinic evidence in 2002, 136–37. See also McCane 2003, 43; Fine 2000; and Levine 2002, 264. 46 Hachlili 2005, 527–28. 47 On the possibility that 4Q521 refers to belief in resurrection, see Vanderkam 1994, 78–81. 48 For example, Magen 2002, 136. 49 Fine 2000; McCane 2003, 44–47. 42

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ence of multiple skeletons in many ossuaries is not insurmountable;50 as Fine notes, the secondary burial of family members in one ossuary still reflects a greater sensitivity to individual identities than does the mixing of numerous sets of bones in charnel pits.51 Lee Levine suggests that Jews adapted the use of ossuaries from the Romans, who sometimes placed the ashes of their cremated dead into small decorated boxes.52 Fine rightly notes that the place and timing of the phenomenon’s appearance—Jerusalem c. 20–15 b.c.e.—suggest that it is associated with the growth of the stone masonry industry that accompanied the beginning of Herod’s renovation of the temple.53 The class dimension of secondary burial is likewise unclear. Do variations in the styles and fabrics of ossuaries—finely crafted and decorated stone ossuaries versus simpler, undecorated, or crudely inscribed ossuaries versus the presumably less expensive clay ossuaries—reflect variations in the wealth and status among the interred or the families of the interred?54 Or do they merely reflect market conditions, the availability of materials, and different levels of craftsmanship? Ossuaries seem to have been typically placed in rock-cut tombs, yet it is likely that many, perhaps most, Jews would not have been able to afford burial in such tombs. Did only the elites gather the bones of their deceased loved ones into ossuaries, or was secondary burial practiced across class lines?55 All three of these types of finds—stone vessels, mikvot, and ossuaries—tell us that Jews lived at a given settlement, but, unless they are distributed widely throughout the site, we cannot be confident that everyone at that site was Jewish. Furthermore, their absence at a site does not indicate that Jews were not present. The absence of ritual baths and stone vessels, for example, might be due to a lack of interest in ritual purity or, alternatively, to an understanding of purity that did not incorporate those artifacts into its system. The fact that the evidence poses a number of unanswered questions should not prevent us from recognizing the significance of another fact—that these recent studies mutually corroborate and strengthen each other. One can now speak of a new consensus that has emerged among

50 51 52 53 54 55

Crossan and Reed 2001, 239–40. Fine 2000, 75–76. Levine 2002, 264–65. Fine 2000. Cf. Aviam and Syon 2002, 184. Cf. Crossan and Reed 2001, 240.

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scholars specializing in Galilee, one that affirms Freyne’s long-standing contention that the first-century region was mostly Jewish. The amount of evidence for Jews contrasts sharply with the general lack of evidence for pagans (figurines, statues, altars, temples, or other items reflecting cultic practices). On the other hand, it corresponds quite well with the image of a Jewish Galilee we find in the pages of Josephus, the Gospels, and rabbinic writings.56 Thus, some of our old questions about Galilee appear closer to being settled. Given the ambiguity of our evidence, however, there is no shortage of new questions to investigate. Bibliography Abu-Uqsa, H. 2002. Three Burial Caves at Kafr Kanna. Page 183 (English section) in Eretz Zafon: Studies in Galilean Archaeology. Edited by Z. Gal. Jerusalem. Adan-Bayewitz, D. 1993. Common Pottery in Roman Galilee: A Study of Local Trade. Ramat-Gan. Adan-Bayewitz, D. and I. Perlman. 1985. Local Pottery Provenience Studies: A Role for Clay Analysis. Archaeometry 27:203–17. ———. 1990. The Local Trade of Sepphoris in the Roman Period. IEJ 40:153–72. Aviam, M. 2002a. A Burial Cave at Kabul. Page 182 (English section) in Eretz Zafon: Studies in Galilean Archaeology. Edited by Z. Gal. Jerusalem. ———. 2002b. Finds from a Burial Cave at Daburriya. Page 181 (English section) in Eretz Zafon: Studies in Galilean Archaeology. Edited by Z. Gal. Jerusalem. ———. 2004a. The Hasmonaean Dynasty’s Activities in the Galilee. Pages 41–50 in Jews, Pagans, and Christians in the Galilee. Land of Galilee 1. Rochester, N.Y. ———. 2004b. The Hellenistic and Hasmonaean Fortress and the Herodian Siege Complex at Qeren Naftali. Pages 59–88 in Jews, Pagans, and Christians in the Galilee. Land of Galilee 1. Rochester, N.Y. ———. 2004c. Regionalism of Tombs and Burial Customs in the Galilee during the Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Periods. Pages 257–313 in Jews, Pagans, and Christians in the Galilee. Land of Galilee 1. Rochester, N.Y. ———. 2004d. Secret Hideaway Complexes in the Galilee. Pages 123–32 in Jews, Pagans, and Christians in the Galilee. Land of Galilee 1. Rochester, N.Y. Aviam, M. and P. Richardson. 2001. Josephus’ Galilee in Archaeological Perspective. Pages 177–209 in Flavius Josephus: Life of Josephus. Vol. 9 of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Edited by S. Mason. Leiden. Aviam, M. and D. Syon. 2002. Jewish Ossilegium in Galilee. Pages 151–85 in What Athens has to do with Jerusalem? Edited by L. R. Rutgers. Leuven. Avshalom-Gorni, D. and N. Getzov. 2002. Phoenicians and Jews: A Ceramic CaseStudy. Pages 74–83 in The First Jewish Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology. Edited by A. M. Berlin and J. A. Overman. London and New York. Berlin, A. M. 1997. From Monarchy to Markets: The Phoenicians in Hellenistic Palestine. BASOR 306:75–88. ———. 2002. Romanization and anti-Romanization in pre-Revolt Galilee. Pages 57–73 in The First Jewish Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology. Edited by A. M. Berlin and J. A. Overman. London and New York.

56

On this point, see especially Chancey 2002.

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Berry, W. 1988. The Minor Objects. Pages 227–56 in Excavations at Jalame: Site of a Glass Factory in Late Roman Palestine. Edited by G. Davidson Weinberg. Columbia. Cahill, J. M. 1992. Chalk Vessel Assemblages of the Persian/Hellenistic and Early Roman Periods. Pages 190–274 in Excavations at the City of David 1978–1985, vol. 3, Stratigraphical, Environmental and Other Reports. Edited by A. de Groot and D. T. Ariel. Jerusalem. Chancey, M. A. 2002. The Myth of a Gentile Galilee. Cambridge. Crossan, J. D. and J. L. Reed. 2001. Excavating Jesus: Beneath the Stones, Behind the Texts. San Francisco. Dar, S. 1993. Settlements and Cult Sites on Mount Hermon, Israel: Ituraean Culture in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods. Oxford. Deines, R. 1993. Jüdische Steingefäße und pharisäische Frömmigkeit. Tübingen. Eshel, H. 1997. A Note on “Miqvaxot” at Sepphoris. Pages 131–134 in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Greco-Roman and Byzantine Periods. Edited by D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCollough. Atlanta. ———. 2000. They’re Not Ritual Baths. BAR 26:4:42–45. Fine, S. 2000. A Note on Ossuary Burial and Resurrection of the Dead in First Century Jerusalem. JJS 51:69–76. Frankel, R. and R. Ventura. 1998. The Mispe Yamim Bronzes. BASOR 311:39–55. Frankel, R., N. Getzov, M. Aviam, and A. Degani. 2001. Settlement Dynamics and Regional Diversity in Ancient Upper Galilee: Archaeological Survey of Upper Galilee. IAA Reports, no. 14. Jerusalem. Freyne, S. 1980. Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian: 323 B.C.E. to 135 C.E. Wilmington, Del. and Notre Dame. ———. 1988. Galilee, Jesus and the Gospels. Philadelphia. ———. 1997. Galilee: Galilee in the Hellenistic through Byzantine Periods. Pages 370–76 in OEANE, vol. 2. Edited by E. M. Meyers. New York and Oxford. ———. 2001. Galileans, Phoenicians, and Itureans: A Study of Regional Contrasts in the Hellenistic Age. Pages 182–215 in Hellenism in the Land of Israel. Edited by J. J. Collins and G. E. Sterling. Notre Dame. ———. 2002. Archaeology and the Historical Jesus. Pages 160–82 in Galilee and Gospel. Tübingen. Gal, Z. 1991. A Stone-Vessel Manufacturing Site in the Lower Galilee. Atiqot 20:179–80. ———. 1992. Lower Galilee during the Iron Age. Translated by M. R. Josephy. Winona Lake, Ind. Gal, Z., B. Hana and M. Aviam. 2002. A Burial Cave at Zippori. Page 182 (English section) in Eretz Zafon: Studies in Galilean Archaeology. Edited by Z. Gal. Jerusalem. Gibson, S. 2003. Stone Vessels of the Early Roman Period from Jerusalem and Palestine: A Reassessment. Pages 287–308 in One Land—Many Cultures: Archaeological Studies in Honour of Stanislao Loffreda OFM. Edited by G. C. Bottini, L. Di Segni and L. D. Chrupcala. Jerusalem. Hachlili, R. 2005. Jewish Funerary Customs, Practices and Rites in the Second Temple Period. Leiden and Boston. Hartal, M. 1987. Khirbet Zemel 1985/1986. IEJ 37:270–72. ———. 2002. Excavations at Khirbet Zemel, Northern Golan. Pages 75–117 (English section) in Eretz Zafon: Studies in Galilean Archaeology. Edited by Z. Gal. Jerusalem. Hirschfeld, Y. 2004. Qumran in Context: Reassessing the Archaeological Evidence. Peabody, Mass. Kloppenborg Verbin, J. S. 2000. Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel. Minneapolis. Levine, L. I. 2002. Jerusalem: Portrait of the City in the Second Temple Period. Philadelphia. Magen, Y. 1994. Purity Broke Out in Israel. Catalogue no. 9. The Reuben and Edith Hecht Museum, University of Haifa. Haifa.

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———. 2002. The Stone Vessel Industry in the Second Temple Period: Excavations at Hizma and the Jerusalem Temple Mount. Jerusalem. Magness, J. 2002. The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls. Grand Rapids. McCane, B. R. 2003. Roll Back the Stone: Death and Burial in the World of Jesus. Harrisburg, Pa. Meyers, E. M. 1993. Identifying Religious and Ethnic Groups through Archaeology. Pages 738–45 in Biblical Archaeology Today, 1990: Proceedings of the Second International Congress in Biblical Archaeology. Edited by A. Biran and J. Aviram. Jerusalem. ———. 2002. Aspects of Everyday Life in Roman Palestine with Special Reference to Private Domiciles and Ritual Baths. Pages 193–210 in Jews in the Hellenistic and Roman Cities. Edited by J. R. Bartlett. London and New York. Meyers, E. M. 2008. Sanders’s ‘Common Judaism’ and the ‘Common Judaism’ of Material Culture. Pages 153–74 in Redefining First-Century Jewish and Christian Identities: Essays in Honor of Ed Parish Sanders. Edited by F. Udoh, S. Heschel, M. A. Chancey, and G. Tatum. Notre Dame. Miller, S. S. 1984. Studies in the History and Traditions of Sepphoris. Leiden. ———. 2003. Some Observations on Stone Vessel Finds and Ritual Purity in Light of Talmudic Sources. Pages 402–20 in Zeichen aus Text und Stein: Studien auf den Weg zu einer Archäologie des Neuen Testaments. Edited by S. Alkier and J. Zangenberg. Tübingen and Basel. Najjar, N. 1998. Kafr Reina. ESI 18:28. Oshri, A. 1998. Bet Lehem of Galilee. ESI 18:29–30. Rahmani, L. Y. 1994. A Catalogue of Jewish Ossuaries in the Collection of the State of Israel. Jerusalem. Reed, J. L. 2000. Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of the Evidence. Harrisburg, Pa. ——— . 2003. Stone Vessels and Gospel Texts: Purity and Socio-Economics in John 2. Pages 381–401 in Zeichen aus Text und Stein: Studien auf den Weg zu einer Archäologie des Neuen Testaments. Edited by S. Alkier and J. Zangenberg. Tübingen and Basel. Regev, E. 2000. Pure Individualism: The Idea of Non-Priestly Purity in Ancient Judaism. JSJ 31:176–202. Reich, R. 1990. Miqwa’ot [ Jewish Ritual Immersion Baths] in Eretz-Israel in the Second Temple Period and the Mishna and Talmud Periods. Ph. D. dissertation, Hebrew University Jerusalem [Hebrew]. ———. 2002 They are Ritual Baths. BAR 28:2:50–55. Sanders, E. P. 1990. Jewish Law from Jesus to the Mishnah. London and Philadelphia. Schürer, E. 1973. The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ. Revised and edited by G. Vermes, F. Millar and M. Black. 3 vols. Edinburgh. Tal, O. 1995. Roman-Byzantine Cemeteries and Tombs around Apollonia. TA 22: 107–20. Vanderkam, J. C. 1994. The Dead Sea Scrolls Today. Grand Rapids. Weinberg, S. S. 1988. The Buildings and Installations. Pages 5–23 in Excavations at Jalame: Site of a Glass Factory in Late Roman Palestine. Edited by G. Davidson Weinberg. Columbia, Mon. Wright III, B. G. 1997. Jewish Ritual Baths—Interpreting the Digs and the Texts: Some Issues in the Social History of Second Temple Judaism. Pages 190–214 in The Archaeology of Israel: Constructing the Past, Interpreting the Present. Edited by N. A. Silberman and D. B. Small. Sheffield. Zangenberg, J. 2008. Common Judaism and the Multidimensional Character of Material Culture. Pages 175–93 in Redefining First-Century Jewish and Christian Identities: Essays in Honor of Ed Parish Sanders. Edited by F. Udoh, S. Heschel, M. A. Chancey, and G. Tatum. Notre Dame.

WALKING THE ROMAN LANDSCAPE IN LOWER GALILEE: SEPPHORIS, JOTAPATA, AND KHIRBET QANA Douglas R. Edwards† For over thirty years Sean Freyne has offered new and creative approaches for looking at Galilee, especially in the Roman period. No other commentator has done more to integrate textual traditions with the often obscure archaeological data that comes from the Galilean region and its environs. This small contribution seeks to honor the work of someone who has had and continues to have a substantive impact on Galilean studies in particular and Roman studies in general. Lower Galilee during the Roman period underwent significant political, cultural, social, and economic changes. The region offered relative ease of travel through its east-west valleys and had a significant number of villages amidst the only two cities in Galilee. This paper examines archaeological data associated with two of those villages, Jotapata (or Yodefat) and Khirbet Qana, and the city of Sepphoris to highlight several issues that have long concerned interpreters, notably the impact of Roman rule on lower Galilean society, the nature of the relationship between city and village, and the cultural and socioeconomic character of lower Galilee prior to and following the Jewish revolt of 66–70 c.e.1 Interpreters tend to fall into two camps when discussing these issues: those who draw on particular sociological models that stress conflict as the primary agent of change and engagement and those who argue for greater integration and cooperation between various groups.2 Often using the same data, these approaches arrive at diametrically opposed explanations of causality. Proponents of a conflict model often posit that urban centers were largely parasitic, that power was centered in the urban areas, and that a mutually antagonistic relation existed between city and village. The Jewish war reflects the apex of this antagonism, especially since one of the principal urban centers in Galilee, Sepphoris, Doug Edwards sadly passed away in 2008. We are very grateful to have his contribution. He did not have the opportunity to proofread this paper. 1 I should note at the outset that only modest reports have been written for all three sites so that conclusions reached in this paper are necessarily provisional. 2 For a discussion of the two approaches see Jensen 2006 and Moxnes 2001. †

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sided with the Romans in the war. Power in this model is understood as the ability of individuals or groups to coerce other persons or groups, “to get what they want.”3 Roman power dominates peasant society through oppressive taxation and land grabbing by affiliated elites. The cities serve as instruments of that oppression offering villages little in return. This, it is argued, is the nature of an imperialistic system. The Herodians from this perspective act as agents of the Roman order and along with the Jerusalem cult, represent excessive taxation and oppression. The historical Jesus movement reflects a peasant reaction against that oppression; admonitions against the rich and support for the poor reflect a hostile reaction to the changing power structure.4 The other approach emphasizes cooperation and integration in both cultural and economic interactions of the period. Here trade patterns and cultural commonalities demonstrate mutually beneficial relations between city and village that transcended differences. As the city grew, it provided jobs, extra sources of income, and opportunities that village life could not provide. Conflict was due to political disagreements and historical dynamics rather than embedded in the structure of society. Here power is understood more along the lines of Michel Foucault who asserts that power generally operates with a tacit assent of ruler and ruled. What makes power hold good, what makes it accepted, is simply the fact that it doesn’t only weigh on us as a force that says no, but that it traverses and produces things, it induces pleasure, forms knowledge, produces discourse. It needs to be considered as a productive network which runs through the whole social body, much more than as a negative instance whose function is repression.5

This position argues against an emphasis on overt and inherent hostility and conflict between city and village.6 In the first century, Roman presence and power is mediated through certain members of the Herodian line who were sensitive to Jewish concerns and not overtly Roman in practice (notably Herod Antipas and Herod Agrippa II). Moreover, temple functionaries were not particularly active in the affairs of Galilee.7 Reciprocal economic relations and common cultural 3 4 5 6 7

Boulding 1990, 9–10. Crossan 1993 and Horsley 1996. Foucault 1980, 118. Meyers 1997. Sanders 1993.

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perspectives by this account govern the interchange between city and village, not parasitic machinations on the part of controlling elites in the urban centers. This paper suggests that elements of both positions have merit. Conflict in Galilean society did occur and some of it appears to be due to the character of the structure of society. On the other hand, archaeological evidence suggests that both city and village participated in common socio-economic and cultural behavior that was beneficial to both. Increasingly archaeology illustrates distinctive patterns in Galilean society in the pre- and post-70 c.e. revolt eras. In lower Galilee for the pre-revolt period Jotapata (or Yodefat) is the most important site in providing archaeological data that help make such distinctions. Destroyed in 67 c.e. during the Jewish war, it was never re-built. In turn, Khirbet Qana, which had continuous occupation at least into the 8th century c.e., provides important evidence for how villages changed in the post-70 period. Its close proximity to Sepphoris, also occupied for centuries, makes it an attractive site for comparison for the entirety of the Roman period. Walking the Urban and Rural Landscape People structure their environment to address their needs. In the Roman period, that often included the conscious effort to build cities, creating an urban landscape within which city and village operated. Taking a page from the work of Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, the relation between city and village was driven in part by three imperatives for surviving an uncertain Mediterranean world: diversification, storage, and redistribution.8 In that sense, one might consider a city a larger conglomeration of people whose need to diversify, store, and redistribute is magnified by the size of the population. In turn, a village might be seen as a smaller number of persons who had the same needs for survival. Some argue that villages are not at all like cities in that they are the retainers of “little traditions,” which in the case of Galilee lead back to Israelite traditions that preceded the Assyrian conquest. But

8

Hordon and Purcell 2000.

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archaeological evidence indicates that villages did not exist unchanged or even survive long enough for such traditions to develop.9 Villages and cities, I suggest, adapted and responded to their ecological circumstances influenced by their perception of the past, their current political, cultural, and socioeconomic situation, and their view of the future. Embedded in their respective concern for survival (both now and in the future), village and city alike pursued sometimes integrative, sometimes opposing, courses. To discern how city and village did this in Lower Galilee, I first examine the role of three rather mundane features: water, roof tiles, and stone. Water Perhaps no arena is more important for the survival of a group in a Mediterranean climate than obtaining and retaining reliable sources of water. In Lower Galilee, villages largely relied on cisterns to capture rain water during the fall, winter, and spring in order to offset the dry periods during the summer and the periodic droughts that beset this area. Yodefat has numerous cisterns, many bell-shaped and others with steps leading to the collection area.10 Plaster technology in the period was quite good so cisterns were able to retain and distribute a reliable supply for some time. Khirbet Qana also has numerous cisterns on its upper slope and acropolis, many continuing in use through the Byzantine period. One finds plastered cisterns at virtually all village sites in Palestine and this is clearly a major way that water was collected, stored, and subsequently distributed. Some cisterns are also found in fields, suggesting that modest irrigation of crops occurred. Sepphoris also had numerous cisterns, especially on its acropolis.11 Many of the cisterns are associated with individual houses (as is also the case with Jotapata and Khirbet Qana) and some are extremely large. At Khirbet Qana three very large public cisterns were found directly north of the site.12 In both village and city, cisterns represent a common technological way to store a fundamental resource. Developing greater storage capacity keenly interested both village and city. Jotapata has large public pools13 and Khirbet Qana a large 9 10 11 12 13

Edwards 2007. Adan-Bayewitz and Aviam 1997, 131. Meyers 1996; Galor 2007. Edwards 2002, 109. Adan-Bayewitz and Aviam 1997, 163; cf. Richardson 2004, 61–62.

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public reservoir.14 The reservoir at Khirbet Qana lies on the north edge of the site, near where I believe one would enter the village and also near the three large cisterns mentioned above. Carbon 14 dating of the plaster suggests that the complex was definitely operating in the second century c.e. (the date appears to fall somewhere between 130–210 c.e.), a time of expansion and renovation in the village. The date of its foundation is unknown at present. No channels have been found extending from the reservoir so the water may have been used as a back-up supply for the village. Sepphoris also developed larger storage and distribution capacity as evidenced in the building of an aqueduct system. A modest aqueduct was founded in the first century that was expanded substantially in the second century. The expansion included a large reservoir. The additional water was apparently due to an expanding population and the increased need for water to supply baths and other complexes.15 The water from the aqueduct reached the lower city but was not able to accommodate the acropolis where most of the cisterns were found. The system siphoned off water from springs almost 7 km away. Whether this caused a disruption in farming patterns or rural habits is not known. It does, however, indicate that the establishment of the city transformed the surrounding countryside in ways that the villages of Khirbet Qana and Jotapata did not. Water was now directed from springs to the city. Influenced by the Romans who made the building of aqueducts a central element in the creation of urban landscapes; the city as opposed to local villages, shepherds, or agriculturalists now controlled the water.16 There is also evidence of irrigation in the Sepphoris area, again with the control probably going to government or city affiliated officials.17 The implications of this type of central control of water are evident in an inscription found near Bethlehem (albeit from the period of Constantine) regarding an aqueduct that led to Jerusalem. “Flavius Eneas Silentiarius to the proprietors, renters, and farmers. Know you that the most divine and most pious Lord of all the inhabited earth has decreed

Edwards 2002, 108–9. Tsuk 1999, 165, 168, 174–75; Tsuk 2002. 16 Cf. Sawicki 1997. 17 Part of the irrigation system was found near Givxat Rabbi, which included capping stones with black sealing substance (tar?) on them and about 2 cm of hydraulic plaster. Another similar complex was found near Nahal Zippori; see Ben-Nahum 1994. 14 15

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that it is not permitted according to the decrees to sow or plant anything in the space that lies between 15 feet on either side of the aqueduct. If anyone shall attempt to act so, he shall incur capital punishment and his property shall be absorbed into the local treasury.”18 Under the inscription was the scale of a foot (=30.8 cm) indicating that the area was not to be cultivated 4.53 meters on either side of the aqueduct. Here we have a form of ancient right-of-way regulations. Water had political overtones as the body politic acquired water and redistributed it according to the needs of the leadership. It seems likely that acquisition and distribution of public water occurred at the village level as well with village leaders taking the lead. One should note that no archaeological evidence exists for leaders in Roman Sepphoris assuming that power, although that seems a logical explanation at least in regards to the villages whose springs provided the water for Sepphoris. Even in this instance, however, the output of water from the springs is uncertain and it is possible that enough water existed for both city and village. The impact, therefore, may have been marginal. Only archaeological excavation and survey at the village sites might help to determine how Sepphoris impacted the size of villages, their quality of life, or the amount of acreage worked. Water played another role in both village and city. Inhabitants apparently viewed it as a vehicle for identifying themselves with a Judaism that saw water as a source of purity when used in a pre-defined way, what Berlin has termed household Judaism.19 One way was the use of stepped pools,20 some of which were ritual pools or miqvaoth. Both Jotapata and Khirbet Qana have such pools dating to the first century. At Jotapata, one of the stepped pools was found near an olive press, a feature also found in a first century context at Gamla, which some suggest reflects a concern for making the olive oil religiously pure.21 A stepped pool or miqveh found at Khirbet Qana also dates to the first

Bagatti 1971, 350–51. Berlin 2005, 466. For a discussion of the variety of ways that this could occur see Miller 2007 and Galor 2007. 20 A term preferred by Katharina Galor (2007) since it does not automatically presume a ritual function. For a discussion of the debate between maximalists (who view such as pools as miqveh or ritual pools) and minimalists (who argue for a variety of functions for such pools) see Miller 2007, Galor 2007, and Berlin 2005, 451–53. 21 Adan-Bayewitz and Aviam 1997, 149–51; Gutmann and Wagner 1986, 38–41; Syon and Nemlich 2001, 19. 18 19

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century c.e.22 It is not clear if it was associated with a residence or was for the public. One of the largest concentration of stepped pools yet discovered in Palestine occupies the western slope of the acropolis at Sepphoris.23 The pools were found in both modest and wealthy complexes indicating that socioeconomic factors did not influence whether one had such a complex in one’s home.24 They became, rather, a vehicle to express identity, a pattern that apparently lasted at least into the Byzantine period. Stepped pools or miqvaot, therefore, are found in city and village alike and express Jewish identity and for some a particular concern for purity. These uses of water respresent ways that persons interacted with their environment (through the acquisition, storage, and distribution of a valuable resource) and their society (through the identification with distinctive rituals). Roof Tiles Roof tiles may seem an odd addition to our look at the interaction between village and city. But they carry overtones of larger patterns in which both village and city factored and are often ignored in analyses of ancient texts and societies. Roof tiles appear in the telling of an encounter of Jesus that reveal a good deal about the writer’s world, if not the historical Jesus. The Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Luke each present a story of four friends who bring their crippled friend to the village of Capernaum in order to have Jesus heal him (Mark 2:1–12; Luke 5:17–26). Notably, in Mark the friends make a hole in the roof of the house where Jesus was staying whereas Luke has them take roof tiles off in order to lower him to Jesus. The Markan account reflects the type of roof found in village and city contexts throughout the Roman period. Such roofs are found on structures at Sepphoris and at the villages of Jotapata and Khirbet Qana.25 The roof tiles of the Lukan account, however, are a different story. In Galilee the evidence for roof tiles in the Roman period, especially in village contexts, is virtually non-existent until the second century c.e.

22 A detailed analysis of this complex along with other areas also dated by carbon 14 can be found in Rech, Fischer, Edwards, and Jull 2003. 23 Galor 2007. 24 Galor 2007. 25 Hoglund and Meyers 1996, 39–43.

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The villages of Capernaum,26 Gamla, and Jotapata (Yodefat) have no roof tiles.27 Roof tiles found at Khirbet Qana date at least to the second or third century c.e. The evidence for Sepphoris has not been published although the USF Excavations at Sepphoris found no first century evidence for roof tiles, even associated with the large basilica on the east slope dated to the first century by the excavators.28 This bolsters the unsurprising conclusion that the Markan narrative, which presents a typical Galilean village style house is more likely to reflect an authentic first century Galilean village context. It also suggests that the Lukan writer is writing in an area or during a period where roof tiles are more common. Roof tiles are found throughout much of the Roman world, especially in Asia Minor and Greece,29 and it is probable that it is from that post-revolt world or with such an environment in mind that he told his account.30 Roof tiles, quite apart from the gospel accounts, convey information about status and trade networks. In the Roman period, roof tiles appear in Galilee in the post-revolt period. Evidence comes from imported roof tiles with stamps identifying them with the sixth Roman legion, the Legio VI Ferrata, which came to Palestine around 120 c.e. These roof tiles are in second century contexts at Kefar Hananya and Horbat Hazon.31 The tenth legion apparently manufactured its own roof tiles in Jerusalem, bringing with it its own architectural and structural traditions.32 The Roman army may have influenced a similar change in the Galilee.

Reed 2000, 157; Richardson 2004, 75–81. My thanks to Mordechai Aviam, excavator of Jotapata, and Danny Syon, excavator of Gamla, for this information. 28 My thanks to James F. Strange, the director of the USF Excavations at Sepphoris, for this information. For the first century dating of the building see Strange 1996, 117. Jonathan Reed states that both Tiberias and Sepphoris had red roof tiles but does not say from where this information comes nor the date or context of the tiles in Crossan and Reed 2001, 66. 29 Bodribb 1989. 30 There may be first century use of roof tiles in areas near Galilee. Hirschfeld argues that roof tiles were found at an early Roman Jewish farmstead at Horvat {Aqav on the coastal plain. The tiles, however, appear to be in fill above early Roman structures so it is not immediately clear why they could not date to a later period. Hirchsfeld posits that the complex was part of a wealthy families living quarters in part because of the presence of the tiles in Hirschfeld 2000, 28. 31 Bahat 1974; Adan-Bayewitz 1993, 55. 32 Barag 1967; Magness 2002, 204, fn.7. 26 27

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Roof tiles appear in the village of Khirbet Qana associated with a large colonnaded building, which was founded in the Early Roman period.33 At least three different types of roof tiles have been found. Petrographic analysis indicates that one of the roof tiles was imported, possibly from Cyprus or Cilicia in Turkey.34 This parallels importation of clay lids for sarcophagi in the second and subsequent centuries into Galilee, possibly coming from the same location as the Khirbet Qana roof tiles.35 The roof tiles, which date to the second or even third century c.e., reflect a significant change in the village of Khirbet Qana in the post revolt period. It participated in trans-regional trade, importing what appears to be a prestige item, well-made roof tiles. Certainly, local clay sources were available and indeed other types of roof tiles have been found at Khirbet Qana that appear to have been locally made. But the village or local leaders elected to use imported roof tiles for the large colonnaded building, possibly a synagogue, which demonstrates that Khirbet Qana, like nearby Sepphoris, participated in significant building and renovation programs during the latter part of the Early Roman period. Significant Roman presence in the form of the Roman army, the disastrous loss of the war, and increased control over the region by those who accommodated to Roman rule influenced both city and village to display their local power through public architectural displays, which ranged from imported roof tiles on a public structure at Khirbet Qana to monumental paved roads at Sepphoris. From the second century on, there appears a general trend toward urbanization and monumentalization.36 Roof tiles are simply one manifestation of that tendency. Working Stones Nothing is more ubiquitous in the Mediterranean world than rocks. They were manipulated to build, grind, store, and create shelter in numerous and often creative ways. They help us to understand how persons organized their lives for survival and meaning. One example occurs in the gospels in which Jesus states that one who causes “one of these little ones” to sin would be better off having a great millstone Edwards 2002, 111–14. Anastasia Shapiro, “Ceramic Roof tiles from Khirbet Qana, 1998–2001 seasons,” a preliminary report provided to D. Edwards. 35 Parks and Neff 2002, 205–14; Aviam and Stern 1997, 19; Shapiro 1997, 1–5. 36 Garnsey and Saller 1987, 26–40; Millar 1983. 33 34

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put around his neck and thrown into the sea (Mark 9:42). Likely, the millstone Jesus’ audience would imagine was a “donkey mill” or Pompeian-style mill made of basalt, examples of which litter the modern museum landscape at Capernaum. Basalt millstones of various shapes and sizes are ubiquitous at village and urban sites throughout Galilee, although donkey mills are not often found in village contexts. Either the implements or the raw basalt were acquired from elsewhere since basalt is not native to most Galilean sites.37 Around the Golan and notably around Capernaum itself, one finds basalt flows as well as basalt boulders, the probable raw material for many of these implements. The relative abundance of such mills at Capernaum suggests that the village either was a center for milling grain or participated in the intra regional trade or both. Donkey mills were important items of trade across the Roman Empire, some being traded from their site of origin as far as 1300 km.38 Evidence exists that large mills such as those found at Capernaum made their way overseas to Cyprus.39 Indeed, Capernaum appears to have been a significant participant in the millstone trade: an unfinished rotary millstone (or quern) was found with its handle and central holes still uncut, which strongly points to the village as a manufacturing center.40 According to current studies, Galilee (and the entire Levant) did not import millstones from the west during the Roman period. Quarries also developed specialties. One quarry around Tiberias produced the bulk of donkey mills that were Levantine in origin whereas another basalt lava flow east of the Sea of Galilee produced only rotary querns.41 Millstones in southern Israel were imported from the area around Tiberias more frequently than from basalts in the closer Dead Sea region. In one case, this included an unfinished millstone found in Jerusalem suggesting that “blanks” as well as finished products were exported.42 Galilee, and more particularly the village of Capernaum,

37 The Olynthus mill or hopper rubber mill is found, for example, throughout the Galilee (and the entire Mediterranean basin for that matter) in village and city alike. Frankel 2003. 38 Williams-Thorpe and Thorpe 1993, 263. Roman Britain imported such mills from quarries in central France, see Williams-Thorpe and Thorpe 1988. 39 Xenophontos, Elliott, and Malpas 1988, 182. 40 Williams-Thorpe and Thorpe 1993, 271. 41 Williams-Thorpe and Thorpe 1993, 294. 42 Williams-Thorpe and Thorpe 1993, 300–301.

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appears to have participated in a vibrant intra regional (and one way) trade that included areas as far west as Cyprus and as far south as the Jerusalem. The image of the millstone upon which Jesus draws mirrors a much bigger regional network than at first glance. Stone comes wrapped with other meanings as well. Interpreters have viewed stone vessels in Roman Palestine as reflecting Jewish concerns for purity.43 The classic account of stone vessels having purity overtones comes from the Gospel of John in its first miracle story placing Jesus at a marriage feast ( John 2:1–11). Called to remedy the wine-less party by his mother, Jesus is taken to six stone vessels filled to the brim with water. The vessels, the gospel writer states, are for the “Jewish rites of purification” making Jesus’ subsequent transformation of the water to wine resonate with theological implications that are imbued with ritual implications and purity overtones. Khirbet Qana, Jotapata,44 and Sepphoris all have such vessels, some are hand carved while others are turned on a lathe. Indeed, such vessels are found at many village sites in Galilee and even help to demarcate Jewish presence and territory.45 Over 16 sites that manufactured stone vessels in the early part of the first century have been found, including in Galilee a large operation near the village of Reine; regional distribution occurred almost entirely in or near Jewish territory.46 The stone vessels like the stepped pools appear in both urban and rural settings within a defined geographic region. Both serve as “cultural markers” that staked out one’s identity within a world of competing claims on one’s allegiance. Native groups in other parts of the empire responded to Roman power by emphasizing the continuation of traditions or the creation of new ones. Cultural resistance was much more persistent than outright rebellion.47 Herod Antipas recognized this implicit “resistance” by not placing figural images on his coins; his brother Herod Philip operating under a different set of cultural “rules” felt no such inhibitions. Dialogue among many “power” brokers was delicate business. Miqveh and stoneware suggest that in their personal practices at least,

43 44 45 46 47

E.g., Magen 2002; Berlin 2005, 429–34. Adan Bayewitz and Aviam 1997, 164. E.g., Shaked and Avshalom-Gorni 2004; Berlin 2005. Gal 1991; Aviam 2004, 25, fn. 8; Berlin 2005, 430. Wells, 1999.

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persons in the city and village alike drew on common “markers” to stress where they stood in a world of competing powers.48 Lower Galilee in a Broader Context Villages like Khirbet Qana and Jotapata as we have seen operated within larger trade and cultural networks. An important factor in their response to their environment was their relation to the imposition of imperial rule and in particular its support of the development of urban areas. One result of this emphasis in other regions of the empire was the movement of persons from small farms in the Late Hellenistic period (second century b.c.e.) to increasingly nucleated settlements.49 These nucleated settlements allowed persons to live in closer proximity to other nucleated settlements and to larger settlements. Persons went to fields in the region as opposed to living on isolated farmsteads and established closer ties to urban centers and their patronage networks. Imperial influence in the form of increased taxation and urban development caused, according to Alcock, “a more pronounced economic imbalance, greater polarities in the quality of life, more emphatic social stratification.”50 Josephus’ account of the foundation of Tiberias and suggestive remains at Sepphoris highlight the lengths one dynast, Herod Antipas, went to create such an urban environment (Ant. 18.36–38). Alcock argues that nucleation generated the need for (and production of ) more goods and services, creating a greater division and diversity of labor. Larger settlements could benefit by increased taxation, which stimulated increased trade and production. But, she argues, this caused certain “surplus” populations to “disappear” presumably taking up such things as banditry, begging and other “parasitic” activities.51 Thus, Herod Agrippa’s admonition for persons to return to the land supports a similar scenario in Galilee as does a possible increase in banditry.52

48 Andrea Berlin discusses the variety of additional ways (e.g., in the form of local ceramic ware, lamps, and burials) in which Jews in the pre-revolt period stressed their own identity, Berlin 2005. 49 Alcock 1993, 60–62; 105–12; cf. Cosmopoulos 2001, 78–79. 50 Alcock 1993, 113–17. 51 Alcock 1993, 116–17. 52 Horsley and Hanson 1985. But see the qualifications by Richardson and Edwards 2002.

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Surveys of Galilee indicate a dramatic increase of the numbers of settlements during the Hellenistic and into the early Roman period.53 There seems to be a pattern of small and medium-sized villages and towns increasing in size (as well as some new establishments) evolving around or in close proximity to the two major urban areas Tiberias and Sepphoris. Jotapata, for example, encloses a large area on its south by a wall, initially following a wall built in the Seleucid period. This occurs in the late Hellenistic and first half of the first century.54 Khirbet Qana also indicates a similar expansion although the bulk of the evidence comes from the post-revolt period.55 At least thirty settlements dating from the early Roman period lie within a ten-kilometer radius of Sepphoris.56 These increases in size and numbers of villages did not necessarily lead to an increase of hostilities between rural and urban centers. Indeed, as Alcock suggests, such expansion as well as the building activities at Sepphoris and Tiberias would have stimulated the economy in village and city alike as Freyne has cogently argued.57 But such growth may well have had its consequences, most notably in increasing economic disparities and greater movement toward specializations. Thus even in villages such as Jotapata, Gamla, and possibly Khirbet Qana we see evidence of members of the community who have a more elaborate housing and lifestyle. The fact that certain members of the Jesus movement settle in one of these expanding or nucleated settlements, Capernaum, was probably not accidental. Nearby Tiberias at the time of the movement was the capital city and administrative center of the Galilee. More people and greater social, economic and cultural connections are available. Instead of the movement avoiding urban areas, it took full advantage of the social and cultural networks it provided.

For a discussion of the evidence see Edwards 2007; see also the surveys of upper Galilee in Frankel, Getzov, Aviam, and Degani 2001 and of eastern Galilee in Leibner 2004. 54 Adan-Bayewitz and Aviam 1997, 161–62. 55 Edwards 2002. 56 Based on surveys conducted in 2005 and 2006 and through private communication from James Strange on the result of surveys he has conducted in the area. Studies on the impact of imperial Rome on rural societies in Dalmatia indicate increasing numbers of people following pre-existing settlements without great change. Discontinuity with previous patterns seemed to occur in the towns and not the countryside. See Chapman and Shiel 1991. 57 Freyne 2000, 102–3. 53

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Survival occupied the minds of those in village and city alike. Survival, however, has several faces. The Mediterranean imperative to diversify, store, and redistribute influenced people no matter their location. In conjunction with agricultural activities, villages such as Capernaum sought such diversification through their fishing industry and the acquisition of raw basalt to manufacture millstones for export, taking advantage of longer range trade now more easily available in the Roman period. Jotapata apparently had a small weaving industry,58 and the Galilean villages of Shikhin and Kefar Hananya produced ceramic ware that had a regional clientele.59 Control over water in both village and city depict the mechanisms developed for survival and comfort and illustrate the ways that both redistributed that valuable commodity, sometimes, as in the case of the city of Sepphoris, at the possible expense of others. The post revolt period in Galilee brought a surge of building activity and even greater participation in the economic and social elements brought on by greater Roman presence. This is most evident in the building of a monumental road at Sepphoris, now called Diocaesarea as well as substantive renovation of many buildings. The import of roof tiles for a monumental building at Khirbet Qana illustrates the tendency as well. Survival also includes the perception of one’s group. As an effort to maintain a sense of identity, cultural cues (miqveh, stone vessels) in city and village alike stressed one’s connectedness to Jewish history and tradition. At the least, this served to provide a framework of meaning for individuals and groups. It might also serve for some as a form of cultural resistance to other cultural cues (aqueducts, theaters, gridded streets, public buildings) thus making tension possible with aspects of the urban landscape in urban and rural areas alike. In some instances, the perception of one’s group challenges the Mediterranean imperative. This is starkly apparent in the gospel account of the rich man who planned to build bigger complexes to store his grain (Luke 12:16–21). Indeed, the new kin of God are those who redefine the Mediterranean mentality to diversify, store and redistribute. “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you shall

58 59

Aviam 2004, 17. Adan-Bayewitz 1993; Strange, Groh, and Longstaff 2004, 2005.

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eat, nor about your body, what you shall put on. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing . . . Instead seek his kingdom, and these things shall be yours as well” (Luke 12:22–23, 31). The Jesus movement emphasizes amidst the plethora of power networks operative, the Jewish God, Jewish tradition, and revised formulations about the relation between rich and poor. For the movement the true arbiter of power was obvious, the God of Israel. Dwellers from both urban and rural settings came to agree and to disagree.60 The revolt against the Romans as depicted by Josephus demonstrates how complex were the factors that led to the revolt. Others in the Roman Empire faced similar economic realities but did not revolt. Nor does Josephus use economic factors to describe the events leading to the revolt. One can argue that he was part of the elites who caused the economic difficulties in the first place. And indeed economic concerns may have led some to rebel, another form of diversification, storage, and redistribution. But the destruction of the building complex that held debts mentioned by Josephus need not provide evidence that ruling elites were taking control of land from independent farmers now ready to take up the sword against them. That is not to say that such things were not happening; indeed, acquisition of land by ruling elites was probably part of Judean life (less so in Galilee it appears). But such disparities must fit more complex sets of conditions; the precipitating factor for persons to give up one way of dealing with the verities of Mediterranean life for another also rested on such slights as a Roman soldier showing his posterior and farting at the wrong moment to the wrong crowd (War 2.224) or corrupt Roman officials and ineffectual local elites who comes to power at a vulnerable moment.61 The cascade of escalating conflict proved disastrous for many Jews in Palestine and a boon for the Flavians. Economy and culture in Lower Galilee, however, rolled on and indeed expanded although in ways that reflected a changed world in city and village alike.

Milton Moreland argues that those in the villages and cities in Galilee rejected that approach because it demanded a move away from what we have termed the Mediterranean imperative, Moreland 2004. 61 Goodman 1987. 60

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Adan-Bayewitz, D. 1993. Common Pottery in Roman Galilee: A Study of Local Trade. Ramat Gan. Adan-Bayewitz, D. and M. Aviam. 1997. Iotapata, Josephus, and the siege of 67: Preliminary report on the 1992–1994 seasons. JRA 10:131–65. Alcock, S. 1993. Graecia Capta: The Landscapes of Roman Greece. Cambridge. Aviam, M. 2004. First Century Jewish Galilee: An Archaeological Perspective. Pages 7–27 in Religion and Society in Roman Palestine: Old Questions, New Approaches. Edited by D. R. Edwards. London and New York. Aviam, M. and E. Stern. 1997. Burial in Clay Sarcophagi in Galilee During the Roman Period. {Atiqot 33:19 (summary of the Hebrew section). Bagatti, B. 1971. The Church from the Gentiles in Palestine: History and Archaeology. Jerusalem. Bahat, D. 1974. A Roof Tile of the Legio VI Ferrata from Horbat Hazon. IEJ 24: 160–69. Barag, D. 1967. Brick Stamp-Impression of the Legio X Fretensis. BJ 167: 244–67. Ben-Nahum, H. 1994. ESI 14:20, 20–21*; 28–29. Berlin, A. 2005. Jewish Life Before the Revolt: The Archaeological Evidence. JSJ 36.4: 417–70. Bodribb, G. 1989. Roman Brick and Tile. Wolfeboro. Boulding, K. E. 1990. Three Faces of Power. Newbury Park, Calif. Chapman, J. and R. Shiel. 1991. Settlement, Soils and Society in Dalmatia. Pages 62–75 in Roman Landscapes: Archaeological Survey in the Mediterranean Region. Edited by in G. W. Barker and J. A. Lloyd. Archaeological Monographs of the British School at Rome 2. London. Cosmopoulos, M. 2001. The Rural History of Ancient Greek City-States: The Oropos Survey Project Oxford. Crossan, J. D. 1993. The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Peasant. San Francisco. Crossan, J. D. and J. Reed. 2001. Excavating Jesus. San Francisco. Edwards, D. R. 1992. The Socio-Economic and Cultural Ethos of the Lower Galilee in the First Century: Implications for the Nascent Jesus Movement. Pages 53–73 in The Galilee in Late Antiquity. Edited by L. Levine. Cambridge, Mass. ———. 2002. Khirbet Qana: From Jewish Village to Christian Pilgrim site. Pages 101–132 in The Roman and Byzantine East. Edited by J. H. Humphrey. Volume 3, Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 49. Portsmouth, R.I. ———. 2007. Identity and Social Location in Roman Galilean villages. Pages 28–36 in Religion, Ethnicity and Identity in Ancient Galilee: A Region in Transition. Edited by J. Zangenberg, H. W. Attridge and D. B. Martin. Tübingen. Frankel, R. 2003. The Olynthus Mill, Its Origin, and Diffusion: Typology and Distribution. AJA 107:1–21. Frankel, R., N. Getzov, M. Aviam, and A. Degani. 2001. Settlement Dynamics and Regional Diversity in Ancient Upper Galilee: Archaeological Survey of Upper Galilee IAA Reports 14. Jerusalem. Freyne, S. 2000. Herodian Economics in Galilee. Searching for a Suitable Model. Pages 86–113 in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays Tubingen. Foucault, M. 1980. Power and Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 1972–1977. New York. Gal, Z. 1991. A Stone Vessel Manufacturing Site in the Lower Galilee. {Atiqot 20: 25*–26* (Hebrew), 179–80 (English summary). Galor, K. 2007. The Stepped Water Installations of the Sepphoris Acropolis. Pages xx–xx in The Archaeology of Difference: Gender, Ethnicity, Class and the “Other” in Antiquity. Studies in honor of Eric M. Meyers. Edited by D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCollough. Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research 60–61. Boston, MA.

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Garnsey, P. and R. Saller. 1987. The Roman Empire: Economy, Society and Culture. Berkeley and Los Angeles. Goodman, M. 1987. The Ruling Class of Judaea. The Origins of the Jewish Revolt Against Rome A.D. 66–70. Cambridge. Gutmann, S. and D. Wagner. 1986. Gamla—1984/1985/1986. ESI 5:38–41. Hirschfeld, Y. 2000. Ramat Hanadiv Excavations Jerusalem. Hoglund, K. G. and E. M. Meyers. 1996. The Residential Quarter on the Western Summit. Pages 39–43 in Sepphoris in Galilee: Crosscurrents of Culture. Edited by R. Nagy, C. Meyers, E. Meyers, and Z. Weiss. Winona Lake, Ind. Hordon, P. and N. Purcell. 2000. The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford. Horsley, R. 1996. Archaeology, History and Society in Galilee: the Social Context of Jesus and the Rabbis. Valley Forge, Pa. Horsley, R. and J. Hanson. 1985. Bandits, Prophets, and Messiahs: Popular Movements at the Time of Jesus. Minneapolis. Jensen, M. H. 2006. Herod Antipas in Galilee: The Literary and Archaeological Sources on the Reign of Herod Antipas and Its Socio-economic Impact on Galilee Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 2/215 Tübingen. Leibner, U. 2004. History of Settlement in Eastern Galilee during the Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Periods in Light of an Archaeological Survey PhD thesis, Bar-Ilan University. Magen, Y. 2002. The Stone Vessel Industry During the Second Temple Period: Excavations at Himza and the Jerusalem Temple Mount. Jerusalem. Magness, J. 2002. In the footsteps of the Tenth Roman Legion in Judea. Pages 189–212 in The First Jewish Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology. Edited by A. Berlin and J. A. Overman. London and New York. Meyers, E. M. 1997. Jesus and His Galilean Context. Pages 57–66 in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods. Edited by D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCollough. USF Studies in the History of Judaism. Atlanta. Millar, F. 1983. Empire and City, Augustus to Julian: Obligations, Excuses and Status. JRS 73:76–96. Miller, S. 2007. Stepped Pools and the Non-Existent Monolithic “Miqveh.” Pages 215–34 in The Archaeology of Difference: Gender, Ethnicity, Class and the “Other” in Antiquity. Studies in honor of Eric M. Meyers. Edited by D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCollough. Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research 60–61. Boston, Mass. Moreland, M. 2004. The Galilean Response to Earliest Christianity: A Cross-cultural Study of the subsistence ethic. Pages 37–48 in Religion and Society in Roman Palestine: Old Questions, New Approaches. Edited by D. R. Edwards. London and New York. Moxnes, H. 2001. The construction of Galilee as a place for the historical Jesus—Part II. BTB 31:64–77. Parks, D. and H. Neff. 2002. A Geochemical Vector for Trade: Cyprus, Asia Minor, and the Roman East. Pages 205–14 in Geochemical Evidence for Long Distance Exchange. Edited by M. D. Glasscock. Westport, Conn. Rech, J., A. Fischer, D. R. Edwards, and A. J. Jull. 2003. Direct dating of plaster and mortar using AMS radiocarbon: a pilot project from Khirbet Qana, Israel. Antiquity 77 (295):155–64. ———. 2000. Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of the Evidence. Harrisburg, Pa. Richardson, P. 2004. Building Jewish in the Roman East. Waco, Tex. Richardson, P. and D. Edwards. 2002. Jesus and Palestinian Social Protest in Archaeological and Literary Perspective. Pages 247–66 in Handbook of Early Christianity: Social Science Approaches. Edited by in A Blasi, J. Duhaime, P.-A. Turcotte. Walnut Creek, Calif. Sanders, E. P. 1993 . Jesus in Historical Context. ThTo 50:429–48.

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Sawicki, M. 1997. Spatial Management of Gender and Labor in Greco-Roman Galilee. Pages 7–28 in Archaeology and the Galilee:Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods. Edited by D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCollough. USF Studies in the History of Judaism. Atlanta. Shaked, I. and D. Avshalom-Gorni. 2004. Jewish Settlement in the Southeastern Hula Valley in the First Century C.E. Pages 28–36 in Religion and Society in Roman Palestine: Old Questions, New Approaches. Edited by D. R. Edwards. London and New York. Shapiro, A. 1997. Petrographic Analysis of Roman Clay Sarcophagi from Northwestern Israel and Cyprus. {Atiqot 33:1–5. Strange, J. F. 1996. The Eastern Basilical Building. Pages 116–21 in Sepphoris in Galilee: Crosscurrents of Culture. Edited by R. Nagy, C. Meyers, E. Meyers, and Z. Weiss. Winona Lake, Ind. Strange, J., D. Groh, and T. Longstaff. 1995. Excavations at Sepphoris: The Location and Identification of Shikhin. IEJ 45:171–87. ———. 1994. Excavations at Sepphoris: the Location and Identification of Shikhin. IEJ 44:216–27. Syon, D. and S. Nemlich. 2001. Gamla. Qazrin. Tsuk, T. 2002. The Aqueducts to Sepphoris. Pages 278–94 in The Aqueducts of Israel. Edited by David Amit, Joseph Patrich, and Yizhar Hirschfeld. JRA Supplementary Series 46. Portsmouth, R.I. ———. 1999. The Aqueducts to Sepphoris. Pages 161–75 in Galilee Through the Centuries: Confluence of Cultures. Edited by E. M. Meyers. Winona Lake, Ind. Wells, P. 1999. The Barbarians Speak: How the Conquered Peoples Shaped the Roman Europe. Princeton, N.J. Williams-Thorpe, O. and R. S. Thorpe. 1993. Geochemistry and Trade of Eastern Mediterranean Millstones from the Neolithic to Roman Periods. Journal of Archaeological Science 20:263–320. ———. 1988. The Provenance of Donkey Mills from Roman Britain. Archaeometry 30.2:275–89. Xenophontos, C., C. Elliott, and J. G. Malpas. 1988. Major and Trace-Element Geochemistry used in tracing the Provenance of Late Bronze Age and Roman Basalt Artefacts from Cyprus. Levant 20:169–83.

GEORGE ADAM SMITH AND THE MORAL GEOGRAPHY OF GALILEE Halvor Moxnes Although I had read what Sean Freyne has published on Galilee over 25 years, I was still unprepared for his last book, Jesus: A Jewish Galilean. It surprises by being a new and fresh approach to the much discussed question of the relationship between Jesus and Galilee. One of the remarkable qualities of Sean as a scholar is his willingness to learn from colleagues, and to put their criticisms and insights to use in ways that are totally his own. In Jesus: A Jewish Galilean he raises the old question of the relationship between Jesus and Galilee, and looks at Galilee as a contested space, where Jesus enters into the contestation.1 The truly original perspective is the way in which Freyne constructs Galilee, combining archaeology and economy with the history and myths of the region. In this way he weaves a fascinating picture of Galilee as Landscape and Memory.2 The question of the influence of Galilee upon Jesus is raised in a new and sophisticated way. Especially fascinating is a chapter on Jesus and the ecology of Galilee. Freyne’s focus here “is on the two-way interaction between the natural environment and human cultivation in first-century Galilee, and the impact which this might have had on Jesus’ own reactions to what he experienced in that environment and his consequent understanding of God’s call to him.”3 With his interest in the “two-way interaction between the natural environment and human cultivation,” Freyne takes up a question that was a characteristic aspect of scholarship on Galilee and the historical Jesus in the 19th century. The question of the relation between Galilee and Jesus was raised in terms of the impact of nature. The differences in religion and culture between Galilee and Judea were likewise ascribed to natural causes. Both the unique relationship between Galilee and Jesus and the contrast between Galilee and Judea became important

Freyne (2004, 7–8) acknowledges his indebtedness to my study, Putting Jesus in His Place (2003a) for the spatial perspective, but proceeds to use it in an original way. 2 Cf. Schama 1995. 3 Freyne 2004, 27. 1

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themes in later scholarship.4 In these areas, the 19th century beginnings of historical Jesus studies provided a paradigm of interpretation for much of New Testament studies in the 20th century. But there was a significant difference. Apart from more popular writings and travel narratives, the interest in nature and geography was not followed up. Focus was on religious issues, especially Jesus’ interpretation of the Torah in contrast to that of Pharisees and Scribes. It was not until the Third Quest of Jesus studies interacted with a new interest in Galilee, spurred by excavations and new, broader perspectives in archaeology, that questions of place and space, landscape and nature were again seriously discussed. Thus in some ways the present stage of the quest for Jesus has more in common with 19th century studies than with the more dogmatically oriented Second Quest. Freyne is critical of 19th century authors, finding that they had a “romantic understanding of nature and its influence” that could result in “determinist views of human nature.” He singles out for special criticism Ernest Renan who “equated landscape and human characteristics in an alarming manner.”5 One example is Renan’s description of how the landscape of Lower Galilee influenced Jesus’ views. Likewise, Freyne criticizes the way George Adam Smith draws inferences from the differences in nature between Galilee and Judea with regard to the human characteristics of the inhabitants in the region.6 But because of similar interests in the relations between natural environments and human characteristics in the First and the Third Quest, 19th century writers deserve a broader treatment than the brief comments from Freyne can give. Above all, we should attempt to see them within their larger cultural, social and religious contexts.7 This might also raise awareness of how our own studies are influenced by the present contexts within which they are undertaken. Here I will focus on The Historical Geography of the Holy Land by George Adam Smith, first published in 1894. This book is not as simple in its discussion of the relations between nature and human characteristics as Freyne’s brief

See Moxnes 2001. Freyne 2004, 26. 6 Freyne 2004, 26–27. 7 See Moxnes 2001, 2003b, 2003c. See also Long 2003 for a fascinating picture of the Holy Land as imagined in popular culture, especially in the US, in the 19th and early 20th centuries. 4 5

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reference suggests. Smith introduces as one of his goals of the book “to discern between what physical nature contributed to the religious development of Israel, and what was the product of purely moral and spiritual forces.”8 Expressed in 19th century terminology Smith’s goal seems not unlike what Freyne sets up as his focus: “two-way interaction between the natural environment and human cultivation.” Smith pursues his quest by studying Jesus’ interaction with the landscape of Galilee. The goal of the present study is therefore to investigate the ways in which Smith describes this interaction, and how this picture is part of a larger cultural and religious context in Great Britain of the late Victorian period. G. A. Smith and the Rise of Historical Geography George Adam Smith was a central figure in church and academic life in the late 19th and early 20th centuries in Scotland.9 His main scholarly contributions in Biblical studies were in the Prophets and above all in the geography and history of Palestine.10 His The Historical Geography of the Holy Land went through 25 editions in his lifetime, from its first publication in 1894 until 1931, and for half a century it was the most important introduction to the history and geography of Palestine in English.11 Smith’s study was positively received as an example of a modern scholarly approach, combining historical information and geography. Rather unusually in Britain at the time, Smith employed modern, critical studies of the Old Testament as they were being developed in Germany from the middle of the 19th century. This exposed Smith to criticism from conservative circles,12 but put him definitely in the forefront of studies of the Holy Land. At the same time, his much admired style of writing was that of a preacher, and his historical presentation had an “essentially evangelical purpose.”13 A brief note on the outline of The Historical Geography of the Holy Land is in order. Part One, pp. 1–124, deals with “The Land as a whole,” that is Syria, which is the larger geographical area defined by the 8 9 10 11 12 13

Smith 1896, ix. Butlin 1988, 381–84; L. A. Smith 1943; Cook 1942. In addition to Smith 1896, see Smith 1907–8 and 1915. Butlin 1988. Riesen 1985, 38–46. Butlin 1988, 387–89.

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natural boundaries of Mount Taurus in the North, the Mediterranean to the West, and the Arabian desert to the East and South. Part Two, pp. 125–516, by far the largest, covers Western Palestine (largely present day Israel and the Palestinian territories), while Part Three, pp. 517–650, covers Eastern Palestine (i.e., the area East of Jordan with the Decapolis). Smith was no historical Jesus scholar in a technical sense, but the picture of Jesus was obviously of great importance for The Historical Geography of the Holy Land. For our faith in the Incarnation, therefore, a study of the historical geography of Palestine is a necessary discipline. Besides helping us to realise the long preparation of history, Jewish and Gentile, for the coming of the Son of God, a vision of the soil and climate in which He grew and laboured is the only means of enforcing the reality of His Manhood.14

That “historical geography of Palestine is a necessary discipline” “for our faith in the Incarnation” is a key statement for an understanding of Smith’s purpose in his Historical Geography of the Holy Land. Smith speaks of “a vision of the soil and climate in which He grew and laboured” as “the only means for enforcing the reality of his Manhood.” That is, “the real” human being Jesus could only be understood on the basis of knowing the land in which he lived.15 Forerunners of Smith’s book were, among others, A. P. Stanley’s Sinai and Palestine (1856) and publications by the Palestine Exploration Fund from 1865 onwards.16 Stanley travelled widely in Palestine, and he was credited with taking a novel approach to his subject. “He shows the general history of the Chosen People to be a reflection of the land in which they lived, or traces the special course of particular events to the geographical features of the spots where they occurred.”17 It was a commonplace among authors in the nineteenth century that there was a close relationship between geography, as nature and landscape, and the human situation, especially character and mind. Historical geography combined many elements that played a part in the cultural climate in the middle and later parts of the nineteenth century. Social

Smith 1896, 114. The term “manhood” as used in the 19th century could be gender inclusive, but it was also frequently used to express specific male characteristics, together with terms as “manliness” and “manly,” see Winter 2002, 1–15. 16 Ben-Arieh 1989. 17 R. E. Prothero in Baker 1963, 37. 14 15

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biology, philology and ethnography shared a set of presuppositions about the interdependence of nature, race and character. Although this was a generally shared view, there were differences in the actual interpretation and use of these presuppositions. In his introduction to The Historical Geography of the Holy Land, G. A. Smith discusses these presuppositions and raises explicitly the question of how far nature can explain historical developments and religious attitudes. Here he outlines the purpose of a geography of Palestine:18 1. To give an outline of the geography of Palestine, i.e., “its plains, passes and mountains; its rains winds and temperatures” 2. To discover from “the lie of the land” why history took certain lines and prophecy and gospel were expressed in certain styles 3. To discern between what physical nature contributed to the religious development of Israel, and what was the product of moral and spiritual forces. Point one corresponds to the importance of “soil and climate” for an understanding of Jesus’ humanity and it represents the contribution of physical geography to historical geography. The following points introduce a discussion of the role of physical geography. First, Smith presupposes that it may be used to find explanations to historical developments as well as to the rhetorical and narrative forms of biblical scriptures. But then he introduces a reservation: on some issues physical nature can only give a partial explanation; the rest must be explained through “moral and spiritual forces.” In the preface Smith does not discuss which issues he has in mind, but he comes back to this discussion in the following chapters. When we read Smith’s statement of his purpose for his book, we can see how he situates himself in the nineteenth century discussion of the relations between physical geography and history.19 A writer who had great influence on this discussion was the historian H. T. Buckle, who was inspired by the biology of Charles Darwin. He proposed that human events were fixed, similar to natural law, and he found an explanation in physical agents like climate, food, soil and what he called “general aspects of Nature.” This view with its Darwinian associations was strongly criticized by professors of history in Cambridge, for instance

18 19

Smith 1896, ix. For the following see Baker 1963, with quotations from pp. 39, 41, 46–47.

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Charles Kingsley and John Seely. Seely emphasized the importance of politics in the development of history. The Oxford Regius Professor A. J. Froude criticised Buckle’s use of the relation between cause and effect upon human beings, and argued that this represented a “scientific history.” In criticism of Buckle’s views, other scholars emphasised that there was an interaction between history and geography, or, as it was phrased by James Bryce in 1901, “the relation of Man to his physical environment.” Geography was necessary to understand history, but at the same time there was an interaction between human beings and their environment. Thus, together with a recognition of the interaction between geography and history, these scholars emphasized that “man” influenced nature and had some freedom to shape “his” life and history. When we look at Smith’s discussions, he places himself within a tradition that recognizes and works with physical geography, but that also emphasizes the human element. This seems to represent a criticism of the determinism of Darwin’s theories. On the other hand, Smith’s understanding of “moral and spiritual forces,” associated with ideas of struggle and development, may reflect an influence of Darwin’s ideas of evolution.20 With his combination of physical geography, history, new Biblical criticism and extensive journeys in the region, there is no doubt that Smith represented the most modern approaches in historical geography of his time.21 Monotheism and Geography The problem of how to draw the line between the influence of nature and of “moral and spiritual forces” is best illustrated by Smith’s discussion of the rise of monotheism in Part One of his Historical Geography.22 This was a central question in the discussion of Israel’s religion: could monotheism be explained as a result of the geographical position of Israel? That was the thesis of the French expert on Oriental languages and religion and author of the famous Vie de Jesus, Ernest Renan. He argued that monotheism arose in Syria (the larger area of which Pales-

20 21 22

Butlin 1988, 399–400, Riesen 1985, 42–43. Butlin 1988, 392–96; Baker 1963, 76–81. Smith 1896, 29–34, 113–14.

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tine was a part) because of the nature of its terrain. Monotheism was a result of the landscape and climate of the desert. Smith does not see such a connection. He agrees that the three monotheistic religions of the world had arisen in Syria, and that monotheism had a great opportunity in Syria. It appears that Smith has sympathy for Renan’s argument: the desert is a monotonous place, and the tribal system with one tribal god was favourable to monotheism. But these elements cannot explain how only one tribe, Israel, took advantage of this opportunity. And therein lies the limitation of explanations from nature and geography. Israel’s monotheism can only be explained as a result of revelation. And what was revealed to the prophets was the character of Yahweh “exalted in righteousness.” From this flows the ethical character of Israel’s religion, but also the insight into God’s character, that “His grace had been mightier than his Law.” This evangelical character of God, “grace” rather than “law,” and the ethical character of the prophets’ message are of central importance to Smith, and he holds that they cannot be ascribed to the influence of landscape and nature. Thus, the uniqueness of Israel was a result of revelation, but the way it was played out, the course that history took and the forms of prophecy and preaching, all of that was shaped and influenced by geography, “the lie of the land.” In a much later essay, Smith returns to the question of the relationship between the influence of physical nature and moral and spiritual forces in the formation of Israel.23 Different aspects of the geography of Palestine serve as illustrations. Starting from the desert, Smith finds that it created certain qualities, especially “a mental alertness and practical curiosity.” And he sees in Amos, the earliest of the great prophets and “the nearest to the desert,” an example of how prophecy transferred these qualities to the spiritual sphere and to religion. Here there is an analogy between nature and spiritual forces, the characters shaped by nature are transferred into the spiritual sphere. In other instances Smith finds a contrast, for example, when he looks at the geography of Palestine itself and the unity of the Jewish people. The diverse nature of the land, with different soils, levels and temperatures, allowed for the development of many different forms of life, different cultures, and a loose tribal organisation. These influences represented a threat and a danger to national and spiritual unity. That the Israelites were able

23

Smith 1953.

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to preserve their identity and unity was proof of “the unifying power of their faith” and of “their racial vigour and tenacity.” In this case, the physical nature of the country and the social organisation that it supported, presented a danger that was overcome by moral and spiritual forces. This is a pattern that we shall find also in Smith’s discussion of Jesus and his relation to the physical and social forces of nature. The Geography of Galilee and the Character of its People Jesus is presented primarily in the two chapters on Galilee.24 The first gives an overview of all of Galilee. The second chapter takes a closer look at the area around the Lake of Galilee as the central part of the region. In his description of Galilee, Smith starts with the physical features, followed by political geography. That he starts with physical geography is, of course, a result of the widespread notion, mentioned above, of a correspondence between nature and the character of people. In the first chapter on Galilee, Smith describes a direct correspondence between physical geography and the character of the people, apparently without seeing any complications in this picture. It is here that Freyne’s criticism is most justified.25 In terms of physical geography, Galilee, with its rich sources of water and resulting fertility of the land, is set apart from Judea. Smith sees parallels between the landscape of Galilee and its inhabitants and he finds a relationship of cause and effect. “To so generous a land the inhabitants, during that part of her history which concerns us, responded with energy.”26 In other instances, he sees parallels, as when he describes “another national feature of Galilee,” its volcanic extrusions into the limestone massif of the mountains, its sulphur springs and a history of earthquakes. Smith proceeds: “The nature of the people was also volcanic. Josephus describes them as ‘ever fond of innovations, and by nature disposed to changes, and delighting in seditions.’ They had an ill name for quarrelling.”27 Smith adds a whole range of examples from the Gospels, the Old Testament and the Talmud to bring home his point that human nature corresponds to geographical nature. The Galileans showed real “manhood”; they were “a chivalrous and gallant

24 25 26 27

Smith 1896, 411–35 and 439–63. Freyne 2004, 26–27, on Smith 1896, 418. Quotations from Smith 1896, 420. 422, 423, 424. Smith 1896, 421; quotation from Josephus, Life, 17.

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race”; they were sincere, anxious for honour more than for money etc. We may find in this list more a reflection of Victorian masculine ideals than of Galilean nature, but Smith confidently draws the conclusion: “For this cause also our Lord chose His friends from the people, and it was not a Galilean who betrayed him.” This emphatic “not a Galilean” refers, of course, to the contrast between Galileans and Judeans. Smith outlines the contrast between Galilee and Judea throughout history (for instance the contempt of Galilee by Judeans), and finds in Galilee positive historical traditions that prepared the way for Jesus’ message. These include “the Messianic tempers” that were stronger than in Judea. Smith finds a contrast in religion between Judea’s “zeal for the law” and Galilee’s “nobler, more potential passion of hope.”28 And Smith sees a link between the “patriotism” of Galilee, and Jesus’ preaching of the kingdom; it represented a refinement of this patriotism. Here we see two characteristics that are common in presentations of Galilee from the nineteenth century: the contrast between Judea/ Jerusalem and Galilee, and the idea of a special religious identity of Galilee. The contrast between Judea and Galilee was not just a question of a historical conflict; in much biblical scholarship in the nineteenth century it became a paradigm for interpretation of other conflicts and contrasts, for instance, those between Catholics and Protestants (of course, from a Protestant point of view). There is in Smith a tendency towards this tradition of interpretation, but it is tempered by a more positive picture of Judea, probably because Smith was an Old Testament scholar.29 The question of a particular religious identity of Galilee, however, must be dealt with in greater detail. Galilee within the Greco-Roman World It has long been an accepted view that the religious and cultural character of Galilee was strongly influenced by its vicinity to and contacts with its Hellenistic environment, especially Tyre and Sidon to the North and the Decapolis to the East.

Smith 1886, 426. It may be because Smith does not focus so one-sidedly on the Jewish leaders, scribes and priests, but includes also “common people” in his description of Judea. Cf. the picture of the Judean shepherd, as an ideal figure for Jesus, Smith 1896, 301–2. 28

29

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How does Smith deal with the question of the impact on Galilee of the spread of Greek culture? Smith does not spend much time on the political rule in Palestine at the time of Jesus that predominated in German scholars’ presentations.30 Instead he focuses on the system of roads as communication networks and their socio-economic and cultural effect. It is above all Smith’s description of the road system of Galilee that sets this chapter on Galilee apart.31 He outlines the three main road systems that crossed Galilee: from Damascus to the coast (the Great West Road); from Damascus via Gaza to Egypt (the Great South Road); and finally the Great East Road from Acca via Betshan to Arabia. The main function of these roads was to facilitate trade and the peaceful movement of people, but Smith also shows an interest in their use for warfare.32 So, when reading his text we find that roads have an ambiguous function.33 Roads led not only to far off countries, but also to the territories surrounding Galilee. In contrast to Judea, which had the desert as its neighbour, Galilee had fertile and cultivated areas: Phoenicia, Hauran and Decapolis. In a chapter on Decapolis, Smith outlines the influence of the Greek world on Galilee, and thereby on Jesus and his disciples. This is a section where Smith’s explorations of Eastern Palestine with visits to Gerasa (today Jerash) and Gadara pay off splendidly. Their magnificent ruins showed the splendour of Greek civilization. Smith found inscriptions describing political culture and large aqueducts indicating wealth and economic activity. And his conclusion was unambiguous: “The many roads which crossed Galilee from the Decapolis to the coast, the many inscriptions upon them, the constant trade between the fishermen and the Greek exporters of the fish, the very coins—everywhere thrust Greek upon the Jews of Galilee.”34 Smith’s primary proof was Gadara, a Decapolis city known for its philosophical school, but little noticed in historical Jesus studies, despite the fact that it was so close to Galilee. It was situated on the high plain

See e.g., Schleiermacher and Strauss, Moxnes 2003b. Smith 1896, 427–32. 32 Notice how Smith made use of the hitherto unused records of Napoleon’s invasion in Syria in 1799 and how he used ancient routes, Smith 1896, xiii. 33 Notice the double relationship between Smith’s Historical Geography and general Allenby’s warfare and occupation of Palestine in the War 1914–18. Allenby used the Historical Geography to plan his campaign, and in the 25th revised edition of 1931, Smith’s adds longs descriptions of Allenby’s warfare, see 285–86, 408–11. 34 For this and the following quotation see Smith 1896, 608. 30 31

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to the South-East of Galilee and it is with this city that Smith ends his chapter on the Decapolis: “in that characteristic Greek city overhanging the Lake of Galilee, in the scholars it sent to Greece and Rome, we have proof that the Kingdom of God came forth in no obscure corner, but in the face of the kingdoms of this world ” (my italics).35 Smith thus described a very strong Greek influence on Galilee, but how did he evaluate this influence and how did he portray the reaction from Galileans? His position on these issues becomes clearer when we look at his discussion of Nazareth and Jesus’ childhood there. In line with his descriptions of Galilee, Smith sets out to disprove the common picture of Nazareth as a secluded and obscure village.36 Smith portrays the Nazareth of Jesus’ childhood and youth, using observations from historical geography to fill out the “silence of the Gospels.” First, there is the view from the hills above Nazareth, overlooking The Great Plane (Esdraelon), the valley of Jordan, the mountains, all with their stories, so that Smith concludes, “It is a map of Old Testament history.” But then there was “present life,” drawn from the activities on the major roads that were easily visible from Nazareth. And with the travellers on the roads came news, stories and gossip from Rome and other parts of the empire. Smith finds that Jesus could see “all the kingdoms of the world” from Galilee! But what did he see, and what was the effect on Jesus from these contacts with all parts of the civilised world? We may come closer to Smith’s views on this point when we read how he develops the picture of ancient roads into an example of his effective preaching style: Of all the things in Galilee it was the sight of these immemorial roads which taught me and moved me most—not because they were trodden by the patriarchs, and some of them must shake to the railway train, not because of the chariots of Assyria and Rome have both rolled along them, but because it was up and down these roads that the immortal

35 A footnote is in order here. I think that Smith’s observations on Gadara show the importance of personal observations and knowledge of the region. Many Jesus scholars seem to have only a theoretical knowledge of the region, with Gadara only as a place on a map. It is only when one visits the place and can observe the breathtaking view of Galilee from the city that literarily is “overhanging the lake of Galilee,” that the question of Greek influence in Galilee takes on an urgent meaning. Since Cynic philosophers came from the school in Gadara the possibility that Cynic wisdom was known among Jews in Galilee (as suggested especially by Leif E. Vaage and B. Mack) is not so unlikely as many New Testament scholars seem to think; see Kloppenborg 2000, 420–44. 36 Smith 1896, 432–33.

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halvor moxnes figures of the Parables passed. By them came the merchantman seeking goodly pearls, the king departing to receive his kingdom, the friend on a journey, the householder arriving suddenly upon his servants, the prodigal son coming back from the far-off country. The far off country! What a meaning has this frequent phrase of Christ’s when you stand in Galilee by one of her great roads—roads which so easily carried willing feet from the pious homes of Asher and Naphtali to the harlot cities of Phoenicia—roads which were in touch with Rome and with Babylon.37

In this vivid imagery we notice also the preacher’s views on the roads and the contacts that they made possible: communication was dangerous and a temptation, the roads lured people away from “pious homes” to “harlot cities.” Smith’s juxtaposition of Rome and Babylon has some of the same connotation. The Greek World as Temptation Smith made a strong case for the Greek influence in the immediate surroundings of Jesus, concluding that it “everywhere thrust Greek upon the Jews of Galilee,” and that “the Hellenic spirit breathed across the land.”38 Reading with the hindsight of recent discussions of the religious character of Galilee, we might think that Smith held that this Greek presence was a positive influence upon Galilean religious life, which also shaped Jesus’ language and ideas. But this was not Smith’s position. His first suggestion after the description of Jesus’ contact with the wider world was not that Greek culture had influenced Jesus, but that it represented a temptation. Here He grew up and suffered temptation, Who was tempted in all points like as we are, yet without sin. The Perfection of His purity and patience was achieved not easily as behind a wide fence which shut the world out, but amid rumour and scandal with every provocation to unlawful curiosity and premature ambition. The pressure and problems of the world outside must have been felt by the youth of Nazareth as by few others; yet the scenes of prophetic missions to it, Elijah’s and Elisha’s, were also within sight. A vision of the kingdoms of this world was as possible from this village as from the mount of temptation. But the chief lesson which Nazareth teaches is the possibility of a pure home and a spotless youth in the very face of the evil world.39 37 38 39

Smith 1896, 430–31. Smith 1896, 608. Smith 1896, 434–35.

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To Smith the geography of Galilee with its system of roads and its communications with “all the world” presented a danger, understood as temptation. The element of temptation in Jesus’ life as a youth was heightened by the fact that Nazareth was not an obscure and isolated place. To preserve purity and patience would have been easy “behind a wide fence which shut the world out,” but Jesus was surrounded by the dangers of the world. Raising the stakes, Smith holds that the temptations of “the kingdoms of this world” were as present and pressing in Nazareth as at the mount of temptation (cf. Matt 4:8–10). Thus, from this perspective, the physical and political geography was a negative contribution. It represented “rumour and scandal with every provocation to unlawful curiosity and premature ambition,” “pressure and problems of the world outside,” “the kingdoms of this world,” and even “the evil world.” But Jesus did not give in to the temptations, he showed the superior qualities of “moral and spiritual forces,” since he reached the goal: “the perfection of His purity and patience.” The underlying presupposition was that Jesus struggled against the temptation and was victorious.40 “Struggle” was an important part of Smith’s ethical Christianity, and his conclusion to this section encourages his readers to enter into the same struggle against temptations. “The chief lesson which Nazareth teaches is the possibility (my italics) of a pure home and a spotless youth in face of the evil world.” In terms of the relationship between the geography of Galilee and Nazareth and the character of Jesus, we must say that the road system, which Smith presents as the most important aspect, makes this geography ambiguous. On the one hand, it places Galilee and Nazareth in a central position; they are parts of the world and the opportunities that it offers. On the other hand, this world represents dangers and temptations to the human character. That Jesus was a “spotless youth” who preserved a perfect purity could not be ascribed to physical nature. On the contrary, it was a result only of his moral and spiritual strengths. This parallels Smith’s description of how Israel preserved her national unity. In the face of geography and corresponding social structures that produced divisions and disunity, unity was a result only of moral and spiritual strengths.41 “Temptation” is an important term in Smith’s writings (see his sermon on “Temptation” in Smith 1904, 51–68) and associated with “struggle” that was an important part of Smith’s ethical Christianity, Riesen 1985, 43. 41 Smith 1953, 3–4, 9. 40

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Smith makes his reflections about Jesus’ resistance to temptations explicitly relevant for his own age, when he says of Nazareth, “Here He grew up and suffered temptation, Who was tempted in all points like as we are.” This illustrates Smith’s conviction that historical geography supports Christian faith in the incarnation. The point he makes about Galilee being in communication with the entire world brings home “the reality of His Manhood.” Thus, I think that in Smith’s description of the temptations of Jesus, we encounter an Evangelical perception of the modern world and its dangers, a world also characterised by “rumour and scandal with every provocation to unlawful curiosity and premature ambition,” a society similarly subjected to “pressure and problems of the world outside.” Here we see central aspects of perceived dangers in a modern society such as Scotland in the end of the nineteenth century: sexual and other temptations (e.g., ambition), economic realities forcing many young men to leave home at an early age. The idea of “home” was also changing and coming under pressure. In the rising middle classes, “home” represented a haven away from work; for the working classes, industrialization and deplorable living conditions threatened the social stability of the home.42 The phrase “a pure home and a spotless youth in face of the evil world,” thus summed up the desires and hopes of many in the late 19th century, across religious and class boundaries. Caesarea Philippi and the Temptation of Power In his chapter on “Jesus and the Ecology of Galilee” Sean Freyne describes how Jesus visited the lush natural regions of the North of Galilee, at Mount Hermon, and possibly encountered there influences from “natural religion” and the Greek deities Pan (Paneas) and Dionysos.43 Smith describes Jesus’ visit to the same region, but focuses on the temple of Augustus, built by Herod the Great. This temple, and the temptation that it represented, is reflected in the gospel temptation narratives. Smith interprets the kingdoms that the devil shows Jesus as follows: “He was tempted, we are told, to employ the marvellous resources of Greece and Rome.”44 Smith brings up this temptation to

42 43 44

Tosh 1999 and Kirk 1998, 117–20; 254–61. Freyne 2004, 53–59. Smith 1896, 35.

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become ruler of the world when he describes Paneas in the Jordan valley north of the Lake of Gennesaret.45 This was the ancient Caesarea Phillipi, and ancient coins showed the temple of Caesar. Smith uses this archaeological evidence to construe a context for the Caesarea Philippi episode (Mark 8:27–30), and finds it striking “that the first clear confession of Christ’s Divine Sonship was made near the shrine in which men already worshipped a fellow-man as God.” Smith proposes similarities between the two religions, again couched in terms that reflect the religious sentiment of his contemporary world. “They appeared to have this in common, that they were centred in individuals, that they both responded to the longing of the age for some embodiment of authority, that each paid divine homage to a man” (my italics). But the contrast was more significant, between the emperor with “his rank, his splendour, his power,” and Christ, who “turned that day from the symbol of all this to seek His kingdom by way of sacrifice and death.” This interpretation illustrates Smith’s point that the study of historical geography is necessary for faith in the incarnation. He concludes by saying that it is precisely at Caesarea, by the sources of Jordan that we see the contrast between Caesar and Christ. As a traveller to Paneas, Smith combines his visual observations at the location with an “inner sight,” and by means of the metaphor, “we see,” he suggests that armchair travellers too can share in this sight and insight. And for believers, the image of Jesus, seeking his kingdom “by way of sacrifice and death,” was more than just an historical picture. Historical geography could deepen modern readers’ conviction of the “reality of His manhood” in incarnation. The growing groups of “self-made men” in the late Victorian period faced strong temptations of power and ambition. Therefore, self-denial and sacrifice were promoted as ideals for males, as an alternative to aggressive self-advancement.46 This was an ideal for an elite tempted by power and ambition. But Smith was also concerned with the situation of the working classes and how they could improve their own situation. I suggest that it is this concern that is reflected in the description of Jesus and his disciples in the following chapter.

Smith 1896, 473–79; the following quotations from pp. 478, 479. G. A. Smith was presented as an ideal in these categories. Lady Smith speaks of how he became a champion of women workers, and explains that this “demanded sacrifice, and he gave it ungrudgingly,” L. A. Smith 1943, 68. 45 46

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halvor moxnes The Moral Geography of the Lake Area: Luxury versus Simple Life

The area around the Lake of Galilee is described in terms of a contrast between the Greek influence and the local population. The lake area was the most Hellenized in all of Galilee, Smith says that “In the time of our Lord she must have mirrored within the outline of her guardian hills little else than city walls, houses, synagogues, wharves and factories. Greek architecture hung its magnificence over her simple life.”47 Smith does not discuss Galilee with regard to questions of the race, ethnicity or nationality of the population, questions that were of vital interest to biblical scholars on the continent.48 These might have been issues that were not so vital within a British context. The Galilee that he describes is one in which the “whole world” enters through its roads. It was partly a military presence, partly in the form of philosophy and Greek language, but, especially in the lake area, the Greek world is presented first and foremost in terms of large buildings, commerce and wealth. The contrast that Smith found in Galilee was not primarily between Greek religion and Jewish faith, but between opulence and a “simple life.” The important expression to watch here is “simple life.” Smith uses it to characterize the Galilean lifestyle, in contrast to the Greek, as pursued in the Lake area. The term recurs several times in the same section. For instance, the Greek architecture imposed itself upon “that simple life on fields and roads and boats.” In contrast to “the simple habits of the native life,” Smith portrays, using the Gospels as his source, “some shadows of that other world,” the world of the centurion and the publican, of pulling down barns and building greater, of opulent householders, . . . of great cities, and of their sinfulness, of Mammon and of “all the things after which the Gentiles seek.” For Smith, Galilee was “a place where a man might gain the whole world ” (Smith’s italics).49 Smith’s overall goal seems to be to promote the living of a simple life in the midst of the great challenges of a modern society, beset with temptations to “gain the whole world.” It is obvious that to Smith the world is not to be regarded as an opportunity for gain and luxury.

47 48 49

Smith 1896, 459–60. See Moxnes 2001, 2003b, 2003c. Smith 1896, 460–61.

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These are viewed negatively, as threats to a simple life. The contrast is one between “luxury” and “simple life.” Smith seems to prefer this terminology to a contrast between “rich” and “poor.” Is there a significance in this? We may find an answer to that if we investigate Smith’s portrayal of the “simple life” and those who exemplify it. Smith uses the fishermen of the Lake of Galilee to illustrate his ideal of a “simple life.”50 He describes fishing as the main industry at the Lake, and makes the observation that the best fishing grounds were at the north end of the Lake, where the streams entered. And since there was no fishing monopoly, the fishermen pursued a “free and hardy industry.” It was among these free, hardworking and independent fishermen that Jesus called his disciples. But these characteristics were not merely a result of nature. The comparison with the poor, those who were not called by Jesus, shows that it was a matter of moral character. Smith contrasts the hardworking fishermen with those that David chose: men in debt, in distress or discontent, or who had ran away from their masters. The problem with this latter group was not primarily their poverty, but how they had reacted to it, what type of character they had developed: “Men brought up, however justly, to feel the wrongs of their class, or of their trade before anything else, would have been of no use to Christ.” They were not the men to preach a “spiritual gospel, the coming, not of a national, but of a universal, kingdom.” Thus, disciples had a responsibility to form their character so that it should fit the tasks that might await them.51 Smith included in physical geography what we would speak of as “economic geography,” for instance the contrast between cities and “the simple open-air life on fields and roads and boats.” But this “simple life” was not something that was automatically given. That fishermen were free, independent and not discontented was not merely a reflection of nature, it was also a result of moral response. With the contrast between city life and village life on the land and on the lake, Smith prefigures some of the present interest in the economic structures of Galilee, so well discussed by Freyne. But Smith does not discuss the contrasts between city and villages in terms of dominance and exploitation; rather, the contrast between wealth and simple life is presented in terms of temptation or as a source of discontent. Economic structures

50 51

Smith 1896, 462–63. See a similar description of Judeans, Smith 1896, 301–2.

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are viewed in terms of their moral implications and potential for the development of character. Smith’s description of the two types reflects conflicts in Britain in the nineteenth century between “respectable workers” and the “rough” labourers lower down on the social ladder.52 In the view of both the middle classes and the elite workers, this contrast was a moral issue, a question of character. Conclusion In his description of the geography of Galilee, Smith discussed Jesus and his disciples in three different locations: Nazareth, Caesarea Philippi (Paneas), and the Lake. Each of these areas had characteristic natural landscapes: mountainous hills, forests and springs, and a lake. But these were not the only forces that influenced the character of Jesus and his disciples; landscape alone did not determine human nature. In these different locations political and economic geography introduced tensions and conflicts. Smith used the term, “the world” for the primary sources of conflicts: Greek and Roman influence in the form of wealth, city life, and political power. Compared to village life centred on “homes” in Nazareth, or to “the simple life” of fishermen at the Lake . . . the influences from Greek and Roman societies were “temptations.” They were the temptations of desire, ambition, luxury, and power. Therefore it was a question of how Jesus or other inhabitants in the area responded to them. Smith presents this as a struggle: Jesus withstood the temptations and achieved “purity and patience,” whereas the poor of the Lake area succumbed to discontent. This picture complicates the impression that Smith is showing a direct correlation between landscape and human nature. His first description of the physical landscape of Galilee and the characteristics of the Galileans appear to introduce such a direct link. However, other examples seem to correspond more to Smith’s view as set out in his discussion of the geography of Syria and the rise of monotheism. Smith argues that the nature of the terrain in Syria, a monotonous desert, provided an opportunity for monotheism, but not a sufficient explanation, since only one people accepted monotheism. In his view, therefore, monotheism was a result of revelation. In terms of Smith’s

52

Kirk 1998, 111–43.

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purpose, to discern between the contribution of physical nature and that of moral and spiritual forces, revelation clearly represents a spiritual force. In the examples from Nazareth, and the Lake, the physical nature may have provided an opportunity for a pure life in the home, and for a simple life at the Lake, but in order to make that opportunity a reality, as “perfection of purity” and contentment with the simple life, moral forces were required. The episode at Caesarea Philippi belongs more to political geography, to what Freyne speaks of as “Confronting the Challenges of Empire.”53 Smith used this episode as an example of the resources available to Jesus presenting himself as the Son of Man, come to serve, in contrast to the power of the emperor represented by the temple to Augustus. In The Historical Geography of the Holy Land Smith starts his description with physical geography before continuing with the political geography of the land. As the term “historical” suggests, Smith employs the history of Israel, narrations from biblical scriptures and episodes from the life of Jesus. The introduction of this historical element contributes towards shaping a moral geography of how life in the land should be lived. Jesus and his disciples provided a moral example, not only for people living in Galilee, but also for the readers of Smith’s book. Smith is more “up front” than modern authors tend to be about the relevance of Jesus as a moral example, especially when he describes him as “tempted in all points like as we are.” Nevertheless, I guess that for many modern authors and readers, the question of how Jesus shaped a moral and spiritual geography of Galilee is similarly of more than historical interest. Bibliography Baker, J. N. L. 1963. The History of Geography. Oxford. Ben-Arieh, Y. 1989. Nineteenth-century Historical Geographies of the Holy Land. Journal of Historical Geography 15: 76–77. Butlin, R. 1988. George Adam Smith and the Historical Geography of the Holy Land: Contents, Contexts and Connections. Journal of Historical Geography 14: 381–404. Cook, S. A. 1942. George Adam Smith: 1856–1942. Pages 325–46 in Proceedings of the British Academy v. 28. London. Freyne, S. 2004. Jesus, A Jewish Galilean: A New Reading of the Jesus-Story. London. Kirk, N. 1998. Change, Continuity and Class: Labour in British Society, 1850–1920. Manchester. Kloppenborg, J. V. 2000. Excavating Q. Minneapolis.

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Freyne 2004, 122–49.

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Long, B. O. 2003. Imagining the Holy Land. Bloomington, Ind. Moxnes, H. 2001. The Construction of Galilee as Place for the Historical Jesus. BTB 31: 26–37; 64–77. ———. 2003a. Putting Jesus in His Place: A Radical Vision of Household and Kingdom. Louisville. ———. 2003b. Jesus from Galilee in an Age of Nationalism. Pages 100–120 in Discovering Jesus in Our Place. Edited by S. Stålsett. Dehli. ———. 2003c. Renan’s Vie de Jésus as Representation of the Orient. Pages. 85–108 in Jews, Antiquity, and the Nineteenth-century Imagination. Edited by H. Lapin and D. B. Martin. Bethesda, Md. Riesen, R. A. 1985. Criticism and Faith in Late Victorian Scotland: A. B. Davidson, William Robertson Smith and George Adam Smith. New York. Schama, S. 1995. Landscape and Memory. London. Smith, D. C. 1987. Passive Obedience and Prophetic Protest: Social Criticism in the Scottish Church 1830–1945. American University Studies IX, vol. 15. New York. Smith, G. A. 1896. The Historical Geography of the Holy Land. 4th ed. London. ———. 1904. The Forgiveness of Sins and other Sermons. London. ———. 1907. Jerusalem: The Topography, Economics and History from the Earliest Times to A.D. 70. 2 vols. London. ———. 1915. Atlas of the Historical Geography of the Holy Land. London. ———. 1927. The Hebrew Genius as Exhibited in the Old Testament. Pages 3–9 in The Legacy of Israel. Reprinted 1953. Edited by E. R. Bevan and C. Singer. Oxford. Smith, L. A. 1943. George Adam Smith: A Personal Memoir and Family Chronicle. London. Stanley, A. P. 1856. Sinai and Palestine. London. Tosh, J. 1999. A Man’s Place: Masculinities and the Middle-Class Home in Victorian England. New Haven. Winter, T. 2002. Making Men, Making Class: The YMCA and Workingmen, 1877–1920. Chicago.

EARLY AND LATE SYNAGOGUES AT NABRATEIN IN UPPER GALILEE: REGIONAL AND OTHER CONSIDERATIONS Eric M. Meyers The completion of the final report on the excavations at Nabratein in Upper Galilee conducted in 1980 and 19811 is the right occasion to reflect on the state of ancient synagogue studies as they relate to the history of the land of Israel in the Roman and Byzantine eras and on the region of Galilee in particular to which Sean Freyne has devoted so much of his scholarly attention during his productive career.2 Nabratein was the fourth village or town site excavated by the Meiron Excavation team, whose research plan had focused on recovering the realia of everyday life from each of those places in hopes of gaining a better sense of what the Upper Galilee was like at the end of the Second Temple period and after 70 c.e. In each of those sites, Khirbet Shema, Meiron, Gush Halav, and Nabratein the synagogues that stood at the center of each of them proved to be the most significant element within their limits. Even though each of these sites was located relatively close to one another each revealed its own unique history and chronology, and every one of the synagogues proved to be quite different from one another in every period. Despite enormous similarities among them the differences in plan and decoration have shed light on the creativity and individuality of not only each of the synagogues but on the character of each place. Nabratein in particular has demonstrated through its material culture its special resilience and durability over a very long span of time, and it is to those unique aspects we now turn in the hopes that they will shed light on recent discussions on the history of Forthcoming at Eisenbrauns as vol. 6 of the Meiron Excavation Series. I have had the distinct privilege of knowing Sean for more than thirty years now. Our first association arose as a result of the publication of his first book on Galilee and my review of it. At the time I suggested to him that he would learn a great deal more about this region if he would only take the time to explore it and work in it. I offered to take him around and guide him and invited him to visit our Duke excavations, which he did many times. His visits and lectures to students there and at other venues have proved to be enlightening and at times exhilarating and to him I offer this brief essay in great respect and homage. We have learned a great deal from one another. 1 2

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the ancient synagogue and the towns and villages in which they were discovered. Nabratein is situated north of modern Safed or Tzefat along the high ridge overlooking the Wadi Ammuka, opposite the site of Alma. Situated in a beautiful pine forest established by the Jewish National Fund ( JNF), the site only recently has been restored and made into an attractive tourist site by the Israel Antiquities Authority with assistance from the JNF. Its present configuration, however, reflects the latest stage of the history of the synagogue building complex, namely the late Byzantine period from ca. 564 c.e. to ca. 700 c.e. The earlier stages are noted only in the signage at the site. While this is understandable given the way the final synagogue had been preserved, it contributes to the impression that the final stage was the most important and impressive, which was surely not the case given the fact that there were three distinct stages in the history of the development of the synagogue structures there beginning with the second century. Part of the purpose of the present essay is to rectify this erroneous impression, which also contributes to the current “popular” belief that synagogues were quite rare in the Roman period and enjoyed an unprecedented building spurt, if not rationale for building in the face of an expanding imperial Christianity3 in the Byzantine period. At each of the sites that I have mentioned above Roman-period synagogues are attested, the earliest being the second century one at Nabratein. Except for Meiron, whose enormously long basilica is unique in the Galilee, each of the other sites had an existence in some part of the Byzantine period, while Meiron appears to have been abandoned around 363 c.e., which from the point of view of material culture effectively ends the Roman period in Palestine. From the perspective of political or religious history, the end of the Roman period is usually associated with the personality of Constantine the Great who converted to Christianity in the first third of the fourth century and sought to bring the Empire and its diverse peoples into the Christian tradition.

3 My colleague from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Jodi Magness, has contributed to this ongoing debate about the late origin of the Galilean synagogues most notably in an exchange with me and James Strange. See, Avery Peck and Neusner 2001. In some ways she has been overly influenced in my opinion by the redating to the Byzantine period of the Baram synagogue by M. Aviam in that volume (AveryPeck and Neusner 2001, 155–78) and the dating of the Capernaum synagogue by the Franciscans. Seth Schwartz has also contributed to this impression (2001, 215–39).

early and late synagogues at nabratein in upper galilee 259 One of the revisionist views being put forward today regarding the period immediately following the two revolts with Rome in 70 and 135 c.e. understands the impact of the failure of the revolts to be so great that the core ideology of Judaism disappeared and the power of the Torah, once so influential in the Second Temple period, ceased to have its power after 70 c.e. and those who interpreted it not only lost their legal authority but their standing and legal authority in society as well. Seth Schwartz puts it this way: The intermediaries of the Torah lost not only their legal authority but also their status as cultural ideals. Indeed, if there were anything at all holding Palestinian Jewish society together, it may have been no more than an attenuated sense of a common past, a mild feeling of separation from their neighbors that the latter, who have shared memories of their own may have conspired to maintain. Finally, some Jews, probably a very small number (among them were the rabbis) still insisted on the importance of the Torah, of Judaism, in their symbolic world, and these Jews, convinced of their elite status, tried to insinuate their way into general Palestinian society. Although marginal and to some extent turned in on themselves, the rabbis and their congeners nevertheless played a role, peripheral and weak though it was, in sustaining among some Jews some sense of separation.4

A major point that we may infer from the existence of many Romanperiod synagogues, including the attestation of the four excavated by the author and mentioned above, is that the synagogue as an architectural reality and hence social institution as well did in fact exist in the Roman period in significant numbers despite arguments to the contrary over early and late dating.5 The existence of synagogues in the period of the Mishnah’s formulation does not necessarily imply that there were rabbis in charge of them, and the diversity in plan and layout certainly suggests that there were local traditions at work in their design and building execution. But as we will see later, the centrality of the Torah in the life and liturgy of the synagogue may be inferred from the dominance of the principle of sacred direction and the apparent centrality of Torah in worship judging from the Torah Shrines and bemas in evidence today. To be sure, there is an imbalance in the rabbinic materials with respect to descriptive materials that would provide “any overall picture of the synagogue as an institution. Instead, these

4 5

Schwartz 2001, 103. See the map of excavated synagogues in Levine 2000, 164.

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sources focus on certain liturgical components of synagogue (and private) worship, i.e., key prayers and the torah-reading, as well as the use of the synagogue as a place of study.”6 But the rabbinic literature was never designed to be an architectural or descriptive digest to inform readers how synagogues were to be built and used. Rather, the editors were focused on reporting on the important activities that were carried out in them, namely worship and Torah-reading.7 The fact that there are more sources having to do with the synagogue in the amoraic strata of the rabbinic literature than in the tannaitic strata may simply be the result of the more limited scope of the Mishhah and the agenda of Rabbi Judah the Patriarch when he set out to organize and refine the corpus of Jewish traditions at the end of the second century c.e. But this is no reason to doubt the importance of the synagogue in the period before the talmudim and the later midrashim were composed. The problem is compounded by the very existence of so many Byzantine-period synagogues, many of which used spolia in the rebuilding process and renovated their premises after repeated damage by earthquake, fire and other natural causes. When building renovation would have occurred those involved in the rebuilding process were not necessarily concerned with preserving evidence from the earlier periods. In a recent visit to Charleston, South Carolina, one of the best-preserved colonial cites in America, I was impressed with the practice of the local historical society to post bronze panels on historic buildings noting when earlier forms of the building had been partially or wholly destroyed and explaining how the existing, current structure compared with the original building. To date an ancient synagogue to the Byzantine period does not necessarily mean that it did not exist in the Roman period, and only the most careful archaeological work can assure the historian that such was not the case. When a part of a building was repaired in antiquity, a floor or a wall for example, the localized dating of that particular smaller unit does not necessarily mean that the whole building was constructed at that time. At present there are too few of the more than one hundred or so synagogues attested in the Galilee and Golan that have been excavated in a controlled manner that allow for a refined and detailed chronological history. Levine 2000, 165. This is not to gainsay at all the communal function that synagogues had as well, a central postulate of Levine’s programmatic study noted above (Levine 2000, esp. 128–34). 6 7

early and late synagogues at nabratein in upper galilee 261 Lee Levine’s comments pertaining to the absence of synagogue remains before 250 c.e.8 thus should keep such factors in mind, especially the difficulty of isolating the earliest strata of an ancient synagogue when the foundations would be used over and over in any repair and rebuilding efforts. The main example of a second century synagogue in Galilee is the oldest synagogue at Nabratein, what the excavators call Synagogue 1. Now that the final publication has been sent to press I can say with even greater surety that the identity and dating of this oddly-shaped broadhouse structure is not in doubt. That is not to suggest that we might expect to find others like it or others from the same period in the near future but the fact that it does exist in a cluster of Jewish villages in the heart of Upper Galilee would seem to indicate that its situation is not unique. Now let us turn to briefly describe Synagogue 1. The Second Century Synagogue Synagogue 1 is a small structure 11.2 by 9.35 m., some 104 m. square. The most interesting aspect of it is that the long walls run east-west and the short walls north-south. This means that the main entrance and wall of orientation is the long, south wall, with its entrance in the middle. Another entrance is located in the northeast of the northern wall. Two rows of pre-existing walls deeply founded on bedrock that served to carry columns in the subsequent stages of the building’s history might well have served as stylobates in this first stage as well, though the evidence for internal columniation in Synagogue 1 is not entirely definitive. Strong evidence that the long southern wall was the focal point of attention is the presence of two stone platforms or bemas on either side of the main entrance in the southern wall. Each is built on bedrock and has three courses of foundation stones on top of which are placed two additional courses of stone leaving a height of 92 cm. The latest material associated with the founding of the walls of the building and the so-called styolobate wall has been dated to the Middle Roman period (ca. 135–250 c.e.) including pottery and coins. A wellplastered surface made up the floor of the interior of the building and fragmentary benching was revealed along the interior of the western

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Levine 2000, 168–69.

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and northern walls but preserved mainly at its founding level. This does not necessarily mean that there was no other benching in this phase, but these are the only remains that came to light. Of cardinal significance in terms of the interior of the building was the discovery of a square impression in the exact center of the plaster floor that measured 70 by 80 cm. Because of its location the excavators and architects conjectured it must have been the place of a small table or lectern. Standing opposite the southern wall and between the two bemas though a short distance back, it anticipates the plan of medieval synagogues where the place where the Torah was read was in the middle of the building, though in such synagogues the reader’s table was elevated. While there is no definitive proof that this impression represents a place where Torah was read its presence is most suggestive. Of great importance too is the way the later synagogues developed over time, namely, by adding length to the eastern and western walls, changing the broadhouse arrangement to a basilical plan in both the Late Roman and Byzantine periods. In all of those subsequent stages the wall of orientation remained the southern wall and in the next period Synagogue 2a, the second half of the third century c.e. to the beginning of the fourth century c.e., there was an elaborate Torah Shrine or Niche attached to the southwestern wall and placed on the bema there, and in Synagogue 3, there was apparently a wooden Torah Shrine placed against the interior of the southern wall. So while there is no definitive proof that the spatial configuration indicates that the Torah-reading was the centerpiece of this small Middle Roman broadhouse synagogue, which dates to ca. 135 to 250 c.e., presumably with the same southern wall as was used in all subsequent stages of the later synagogues, it seems reasonable to conclude that some sort of worship and public reading presumably associated with Scripture was conducted here at this early time. At least from my perspective, this places reasonable doubt on the statement of Schwartz quoted above, namely that the way of Torah and the centrality of Torah in everyday life had been lost after the destruction of the Temple and the Second Revolt. The Third-Fourth Century Synagogue The next phase of synagogue renovation occurred around the middle of the third century c.e. when the small broadhouse structure was expanded and transformed into a six-column basilica. Such expansion

early and late synagogues at nabratein in upper galilee 263 is a reflexion on the growth of the Jewish communities in the general area including the three others excavated by the Meiron Excavation team as well as Alma and Dalton that are even closer to Nabratein. The decision to expand and renovate the existing facility rather than building something entirely new was no doubt influenced by the favorable topographical features at the site: an ample supply of good limestone for building, and the existence of bedrock at a fairly high elevation to the north, which meant less excavation for strong foundations, and hence a simple conversion to a small basilica. Also, the two bemas could easily be reused at a slightly higher elevation in the new structure, which was not only to be larger but also more elaborate on the interior. So the point to emphasize here is that the construction of Synagogue 2a was the result of the growth and expansion of the local community, a reality reflected in other areas of the site as well and thus demonstrates a sense of continuity with the community already in place. The resulting new structure thus reused the southern facade wall and entrance, possibly adding the beautiful lintel stone that adorned the main entryway, added a portico in front of the south wall, extended the length of the east and west walls, and constructed a new north closing wall. The new dimensions of the building were 11.2 m. by 13.85 m., or 155.1 m. square for an enlargement of forty-eight percent. No doubt some of the older walls and foundations were strengthened and repaired at this time as well. With the new building a new floor had to be laid, which was done in plaster once again, taking into account the rising and dipping of bedrock, especially in the northern sector of the building. The elevation of the new floor was about a half meter higher than before. A second entrance in the eastern wall was suggested by a break in the wall. The benching on the eastern and western walls was also continued and extended northwards. The date of all the pottery on and below floor level was Middle-Late Roman in date (ca. 250–306 c.e.) with many coins to support our chronology in the various critical loci. The main and most dramatic change in internal furnishing as best we can tell came in the form of the Torah Shrine constructed on the bema in the southwestern corner.9 We may only conjecture what went There is some question whether the structure with the lion pediment might have adorned a Torah Niche given the diameter of some of the architectural fragments including the ark pediment. In the final publication the authors opt for a Torah Shrine, which is what I have said in my previous publications on this question. If it were a 9

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on top of the one in the southeastern corner, which could well have been a reader’s table, as there is no longer any trace of any structure or table in the middle of the building. In any event the entire interior of Synagogue 2a but especially the placement of the lion pediment on top of the Torah Shrine illustrate the importance of the liturgical life of prayer and the centrality of the Torah reading in the second half of the third century. Most of the building and all of the Torah Shrine were probably destroyed in the 306 c.e. earthquake after which time the remains of the fallen Torah Shrine including its roof tiles and a few other items were buried in a plastered pit alongside the bema and the lion pediment itself buried upside down in the very bema on which it had stood before. The ceramic evidence for dating in this debris was uniformly Late Roman, third-fourth century c.e. Coin evidence has allowed us to refine the chronology even more to approach the year 306 c.e. At Khirbet Shema we found shattered remains of a Torah Shrine or aedicula buried into the later bema and stylobate wall of subsequent phases but at the time we did not think it had special significance, and there, it may not have.10 However, after the earthquake struck at Nabratein there seems to have been an immediate decision to rebuild and those involved with the rebuilding and repair project took great care to dig a pit and line it with plaster and fill it with roof tiles and then seal it, and to carefully place the lion pediment with its flat back side on top of the bema in the southwest corner just a short distance away. These activities are quite unusual and suggest a kind of warm regard for the broken objects. Rather than further break them up and use them for fill and foundation stone, they were placed once again alongside the bema and on top of it where worship had been focused before and the biblical scrolls stored. I do not want to imply at all that any of these artifacts were worshipped; rather, that they were respectfully disposed of, akin perhaps to the practice of burying old prayerbooks or Hebrew scrolls in a genizah. We do not believe that the rebuilt fourth century building had the same sort of elaborate internal furnishings and sculpture that we believe niche then it could have housed only the scroll in use or possibly several, one from the Torah and a prophetic scroll. 10 The fact that pieces of a small aedicula were found in patches of the stylobate wall and in fills in the underground declivities in a fourth century structure that was damaged and repaired in the fourth century, proves conclusively in my opinion that there was a Torah Shrine in the third century structure. This is the force of my remarks in response to Magness in Avery Peck and Neusner 2001, 60–61.

early and late synagogues at nabratein in upper galilee 265 decorated various places within Synagogue 2a. Synagogue 2b, which lasted till perhaps 363 c.e. when another and even greater earthquake struck the region, while identical in plan did not leave behind the kinds of architectural fragments that we may associate with its predecessor, though when it fell its columns and large architectural pieces were reused by the Byzantine-period rebuilders in the sixth century. If there were another Torah Shrine in Synagogue 2b it would have been of wood since there is no trace of one in stone. The two bemas remained but we do not know how they were adorned or even if they were. In regard to the reading of Scripture in Synagogue 2b we may conjecture that it was read from one of the raised platforms and perhaps the other platform was used to simply store the scrolls in some way when not in use but in a way that we cannot visually recreate. We are simply not in a position to say how the interior looked on the inside of the southern wall at the beginning of the fourth century. Perhaps the most curious aspect of the history of Nabratein is its apparent abandonment around 363 c.e. and its resettlement in the mid-sixth century, with the rededication of the last synagogue at the site, Synagogue 3, taking place in 564 c.e. We know this because of the inscription that was added to the lintel of the southern entryway, which reads: “(According) to the number four hundred and ninety-four years after the destruction (of the Temple), the house was built during the office of Hanina son of Lezer and Luliana son of Yudan.”11 The abandonment of ancient Meiron is the closest parallel; it too was left unoccupied around 363 c.e. with definitive evidence coming from five years of excavation at the site.12 The earthquake of 363 left its mark all over ancient Palestine but it clearly had a disproportionate influence on this earthquake-prone region in the Upper Galilee that included both sites. It is possible that the great drought of 362/3 c.e. that occurred in the time of Valens also contributed to the reasons for abandonment as well excessive taxation. At Nabratein, the latest coin from Synagogue 2b is a coin of Jovian, minted in 363/364, and hence leaves us with no other conclusion about the date of the abandonment. Also, there is no evidence of any occupation elsewhere on the site for approximately two hundred years when the decision is somehow made to rebuild the ruins of the Roman-period building. Who made the decision, how it

11 12

The translation was published by Avigad 1960, 49–56. Meyers, Strange, and Meyers 1981, 160–61.

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was made, or if descendents of people who once lived there decided to come back or whether it was simply the decision of residents from nearby Gush Halav whose synagogue was destroyed at this very time we shall never know for sure. But it is most unusual to reclaim a site after so many years and we simply note this in the hope that someone will one day better understand the reasons for such a reclamation of a once known Jewish town. With the demise of Gush Halav at this time the rebuilding and resettling of the site certainly represented a kind of consolidation of sorts in the local or regional Jewish community. It is possible that the ban on building new synagogues was taken seriously in some quarters despite views to the contrary that have suggested that the law was ignored altogether since the real boom in synagogue building was the Byzantine period and not the Roman period.13 In such a scenario the rebuilding of the Nabratein synagogue would have been a way around the law. The argument over how seriously the Theodosian and Justinian laws were taken by the Jewish community in the light of what I regard as the faulty late dating of many synagogues is one that will doubtless continue for some time, at least until further synagogue excavation will occur. The Sixth-Seventh Century Synagogue Whatever caused the rebuilding effort to commence there are traces in coin and pottery at the site of renewed activity before the actual rededication in 564 c.e. in the time of Justinian. Once again after the decision to rebuild was made, the designers looked at the ruined building and opted to extend the north end of the structure, leaving the southern wall intact except for adding the rededication inscription on the lintel, which at the time of the Roman-period synagogues was decorated only with a menorah in a wreath. The southern facade wall was possibly left standing after the 363 earthquake. The two sylobates were extended a bit more than two meters as well to accommodate two new columns, which brought the total number up to eight in the new basilica. The enlarged building was 11.2 m. by 16.8 m., some 13 So Schwartz 2001, 208–12. In this he is followed by Magness (2001) and Netzer (1996: 450–54) who argues on the basis of architecture that some of the Galilean synagogues are really later than the Roman period, Schwartz (2001, 209–10 n. 31). The ban on building new synagogues took effect in the first half of the fifth century, so Linder 1987, 287–89 and 398–402.

early and late synagogues at nabratein in upper galilee 267 188.3 m. square, an increase in space of twenty-one percent over Synagogues 2a and 2b. There is no hint of an entrance on the east in this phase and we can only conjecture as to where an additional entrance was due to the height of bedrock in the north, which appears to be the most likely spot. The portico in the south was apparently no longer used. The date for the final use of the building comes from thirty-two Arab-Byzantine coins discovered within the makeup of the floor for Synagogue 3, which extended to 700 c.e. The flooring that covered the plastered substratum probably was of stone; there was no trace of any mosaic whatever. The vast majority of these coins were minted in Damascus, suggesting a slight shift in the commercial focus of the site away from Tyre. Gaby Bijovsky, author of the final numismatic report, says that the latest date for any of these coins is 693–4 c.e. and that they could not have stayed in circulation much beyond the monetary reform of Abdel Malik in 697 c.e. Hence we have arrived at what we believe to be a secure date for the end of Synagogues 3 and also of the entire settlement. The circumstances of its end, however, are not at all clear. The benching in Synagogue 3 continued on the eastern and western walls in this phase of the building history and the bemas were no longer used. The discovery of a small cache of unique and incised black-ware sherds just outside the southern wall in a small room to the southwest, has allowed the excavators to posit what was no doubt the focus of worship on the interior of the southern wall, namely a large, probably wooden, Torah Shrine. These pieces may be dated to this last stage of occupation and the restored Torah Shrine resembles closely the one depicted in mosaic at Beth Alpha and Beth Shean.14 The fact that the ark is depicted on a flat-bottom basin in a room adjacent to the synagogue has raised the possibility that the vessels were used for ritual washing in association with worship. Whatever purpose the vessels might have served they are unique in Jewish art and provide an extraordinary glimpse into the liturgical life of the synagogue on the eve of the medieval period. The depiction of hanging lamps on the vessels, so typical of late antiquity and so necessary for illuminating the internal space of the building, gives us a sense of the impressive interior of this the final synagogue building at Nabratein. Unfortunately

14

Meyers and Meyers 1982, 182.

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aside from the benching and the depiction of the Torah Shrine, little else is known about the building. Some General Conclusions What is striking about the history of each of the synagogue structures at Nabratein is that in each stage of their development there is striking evidence for either the principle of sacred orientation toward Jerusalem, in Galilee south, or direct attestation of the focal point of worship at the southern end of the building, the Torah Shrine. The existence of a Torah Shrine in the third and early fourth century six-column basilica attests the centrality of Scripture not just in the liturgical life of the synagogue but in the life of the community as well. Clearly great effort was expended on the design and execution of the Ark, and with the two rampant lions atop its roof, it gave off an image of power and strength, which is what we might assume from the place those sacred books assumed in the tradition about this time when the canon came to completion. Moreover, there was no problem at all with the figural art associated with this structure and more figural art was found to be associated with the furnishing of the building. On the contrary, the selection of two lions to adorn the ark seems hardly accidental as they give off an aura of strength and power and also an association with the tribe of Judah in a time of increasing multiculturalism in the Levant and even in this remote little part of the mountains of Upper Galilee. The motif of rampant lions on top of the Ark of Law continues until today in many synagogues and was extremely popular in Europe in the Middle Ages and early modern period. The issue of multiculturalism comes to mind because of the association of the site with Jacob of Nevoraia of rabbinic literature, an association that drew medieval Jewish pilgrims to the site by the thirteenth century.15 Jacob is the only known inhabitant of Kefar Nevoraia that has been identified with Nabratein; he taught and functioned in Tyre between 280–340 c.e., the time when Synagogues 2a and 2b would have stood. He is associated with a liberal teaching relating to intermarriage and circumcision and a more conservative ruling on the slaughtering of fish. Because Jacob left the small town of Nabratein 15 My comments on this subject are indebted to Steven Fine who wrote the chapter on literary sources for the Nabratein volume.

early and late synagogues at nabratein in upper galilee 269 to go to the great urban city of nearby Tyre, the Hellenized character of that city and its Jewish community becomes relevant. For one, the Jews of Tyre unlike their Upper Galilean compatriots used Greek extensively including Greek names. Roman-period Syria was the closest Diaspora and its cosmopolitan atmosphere was clearly different from most of the towns and villages in northern Galilee, though Nabratein was clearly pointing in that direction with its more developed figural art and involvement in regional trade systems involving Tyre and later Damascus. Jacob’s ruling in Genesis Rabbah relating to Genesis 1:20 that fish should be ritually slaughtered reveals a mindset that is deeply steeped in rabbinic argumentation and suggests a conservative aspect to his thinking as well. Just as birds should be ritually slaughtered so too must fish, he reasoned. Though the rabbis rejected his interpretation, later Karaites and even the Samaritans practiced special procedures for the killing of fish. However, as “conservative” as Jacob was in regard to the slaughter of fish his ruling that the son of a Jewish man and non-Jewish woman may be circumcised on the Sabbath foreshadows the modern practice of Reform Judaism to accept patrilineality.16 Jacob’s willingness to accept the Jewishness of a mixed marriage is even more significant in view of the fact that intermarriage was forbidden in imperial law from 388 c.e. on.17 Both of these rulings, the liberal and conservative one, Jacob justified according to his own biblical interpretation of particular verses of Scripture. But later rabbinic tradition understood Jacob to be a heretic or min. However in the light of recent scholarly discussion of minut Jacob’s identification as a heretic, once thought to be only JudaeoChristian, is highly suspect. Rather, as Steve Fine has suggested, we may understand Jacob as a true product of his time and setting, close to the rabbis in the way he used rabbinic exegesis of the Bible, and more removed from them in that he adopted positions that became highly questionable if not strongly condemned in the tradition. In the anomaly of his life and teaching, then, we may observe the unusual place that Nabratein came to occupy in the life of Tetracomia or the heart of Upper Galilee in Late Antiquity.

Y. Shabbat 19, 17b as cited by Fine. Linder 1987, 178–79, in a law passed by Theodosius and called “Interdiction on Marriage between Christians and Jews”, no. 18 in Linder. 16 17

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We may even use the ambiguity of Jacob’s rulings as a kind of metaphor for understanding the kind of cultural interchange that was occurring in the north in the Late Roman-Byzantine period. Whereas after the two wars with Rome it may be reasonably argued that Jews left Judea for the Upper Galilee and the Golan to escape the direct control of the Romans, in time, despite the fact that the Romans did not build cities in those regions as they did elsewhere, those regions could not avoid the indirect influence of the more urbanized places around them. The influence of Tyre on the economy of Upper Galilee cannot be exaggerated and it dates back to Second Temple times. But the lure of the more cosmopolitan cities such as Tyre and regions was pretty much confined to wares acquired by trade: pottery, metal and glass objects, and other luxury items. Artisans no doubt moved back and forth freely between regions and at Nabratein could well have been helpful in executing some of the beautifully crafted sculptures found there in the Roman period including the lion pediment and other finely crafted architectural fragments. These exchanges of people and goods no doubt opened many of the eyes of locals, so to speak, but it was only the Jews of Tyre who adopted Greek names and Greek language in their everyday life. There is still hardly a trace of Greek epigraphy in the Jewish region of Upper Galilee, which remained largely Jewish till the Islamic period. Nonetheless, what we can say about Nabratein, its material culture and synagogues, is that it was clearly at home in the larger cultural world that was Greco-Roman Late Antiquity in the Levant. The increasing use of imported fine wares and glass was just one indication of that. However, to our surprise, the number of imported fine ware pieces cannot compare at all with Meiron, which had them in far greater abundance. Imported lamps, however, are quite common at Nabratein, especially the Roman-period discus lamp, which apparently came from Beth Shean or the cities of the Decapolis. Even the broadhouse synagogue building of the second century utilized classical measurement standards that were imported from Greece.18 And the appearance of each phase of the synagogues at the site revealed an aesthetic that was at home in the classical world. All of this went comfortably with the Torah Shrine that was built in the style of a Roman aedicula to emphasize the preeminent place of Torah in the everyday life of the community. The construc-

18

Chen 1987, 44–49.

early and late synagogues at nabratein in upper galilee 271 tion of the Torah Shrine in Synagogue 2a since it predates the rise of imperial and official Christianity by more than a half-century can hardly be said to have been built in response to it. Rather, like the bema and Torah Shrine at Khirbet Shema and the poorly preserved one at Gush Halav from the Roman period, it became an integral part of the synagogue at a very early stage in its development. It is possible that the dominance of the codex in early Christian worship and study meant that the rolled scroll, or megillah, became the firmly established means of writing and preserving Scripture in Jewish life. The Torah Shrine is not particularly well suited to storing or displaying codices but works well when thinking of using rolled scrolls in Jewish liturgy.19 All of these observations and data suggest that the picture of Jewish life in the small village of Nabratein in not atypical but rather reflective of trends in the larger Jewish community if not ancient Palestine itself. We should not be surprised to find another early synagogue in Palestine that dates to the second century, but the unusual topography of Nabratein and the manner in which the other synagogues were built on top of one another and enlarged only in the northern sector, made it possible for the remains there to survive in a way for our archaeological team to recover their history in detail. The evidence for a major demographic shift of the Jewish population after 70/135 c.e. from the south to the north is overwhelming in both material and literary sources. Despite hypotheses that would suggest that after the two revolts the Jewish community moved away from its earlier Torah-centeredness that was reflected in the Second Temple itself and its liturgy, in the parties known to have existed at the time, and most importantly in the 900 or so Dead Sea Scrolls that have now been put into the public domain, the early synagogue at Nabratein points to a community that knew its way and that followed directly in line from its earlier Second Temple base. Its expansion in the third and fourth centuries c.e. also reiterates its place within the mainstream of Jewish life in Eretz Israel when Jacob of Nevoraia would have grown up there before he left for Tyre and the more Hellenized Jewish world of the city. Though the village of Nevoraia like so many in the region left no named rabbis besides Jacob in the literary record, the village thrived until the great earthquake of 363 c.e. and other factors brought a temporary end to the synagogue and village. Where the survivors went

19

My views on this subject may be found in Meyers 1997, 303–38.

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is any one’s guess but some must have gone to Gush Halav, which survived this trauma for another two centuries, as did Khirbet Shema, which did not survive so long. When Gush Halav was abandoned and its synagogue destroyed in 551 c.e., which we can now date more precisely from a redating of the hoard found in the western corridor of the Byzantine-period synagogue,20 it is very possible that some of its residents went over to Nabratein to resettle and rebuild the synagogue there. In any case, in 564 c.e. Synagogue 3 was rebuilt and rededicated and it apparently thrived until around 700 c.e. Though we do not know a great deal about life in this area at this late date the synagogue itself is a fitting testimony to the resilience and robustness of the Jewish community in the area on the eve of the medieval period and well after the Islamic Conquest. It is inconceivable to me to think of this last phase of life at Nabratein as the main stage or even beginning stage of Jewish life in the region let alone one that is part of a new wave of synagogue building. Rather, the rebuilding of Synagogue 3 would seem to reflect the determination of locals to reuse and rebuild old materials for reasons that we cannot truly understand. Whether the community was respecting imperial law not to build new synagogues or merely being resourceful we cannot say for sure. However, we can admire their craftsmanship, their industry, and their resourcefulness, and maybe this is sufficient.

20

So Bijovsky 1998, 77–106.

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Fig. 1. Pediment or upper portion of the Torah Shrine from Nabratein Synagogue 2a (ca. 250–306 c.e.).

Fig 2. Block plan of Nabratein Synagogue 1 Broadhouse (ca. 135–250 c.e.).

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Fig. 3. Block plan of Nabratein Synagogue 2a and 2b (ca. 250–363 c.e.).

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Fig. 4. Block plan of Nabratein Synagogue 3 (ca. 564–700 c.e.).

Fig. 5. Drawing of restored synagogue as it exists at the Nabratein today, reflecting Synagogue 3 ground plan.

Fig. 6. View of Synagogue 3, 8-column basilica looking south-west (564–700 c.e.) (All drawings courtesy of the Meiron Excavation Project, Eric M. and Carol L. Meyers).

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Avery-Peck, A. J., and J. Neusner, eds. 2001. Judaism in Late Antiquity, Part Three, Where We Stand: Issues and Debates in Ancient Judaism. Volume Four: The Special Problem of the Synagogue. Leiden. Aviam, M. 2001. Ancient Synagogue at Barxam. Pagew 155–71 in Judaism in Late Antiquity, Part Three, Where We Stand: Issues and Debates in Ancient Judaism. Volume Four: The Special Problem of the Synagogue. Edited by Avery-Peck, A. J., and J. Neusner. Leiden. Avigad, N. 1960. A Dated Lintel-Inscription from the Ancient Synagogue of Nabratein. Louis M. Rabinowitz Fund for the Exploration of Ancient Synagogues: Bulletin III: 1960: 49–56. Bijovsky, G. 1998. The Gush Halav Hoard Reconsidered. {Atiqot 35:77–106. Chen, D. 1987. The Ancient Synagogue at Nabratein: Design and Chronology. PEQ 119:44–49. Levine, L. I. 2000. The Ancient Synagogue. The First Thousand Years. New Haven, Conn. Magness, J. 2001. Response to Eric M. Meyers and James F. Strange. Pages 72–79 in Judaism in Late Antiquity, Part Three, Where We Stand: Issues and Debates in Ancient Judaism. Volume Four: The Special Problem of the Synagogue Edited by A. J. Avery-Peck and J. Neusner. Leiden. Meyers, E. M. and C. L. Meyers. 2009. Ancient Synagogue Excavations at Nabratein. Meiron Excavation Series Volume 6. Winona Lake, Ind. ——— 1997. The Torah Shrine in the Ancient Synagogue: Another Look at the Evidence. JSQ 4:303–38. Meyers, E. M. and C. Meyers. 1982. The Ark in Art: A Ceramic Rendering of the Torah Shrine from Nabratein. Eretz Israel 16:176–85. Meyers, E., J. Strange and C. Meyers. 1981. Excavations at Ancient Meiron, Upper Galilee, Israel 1971–72, 1974–75; 1977. Cambridge, Mass. Netzer, E. 1996. The Synagogue in Gischala and Khirbet Shema: A New Look. Eretz Israel 25:450–54. Schwartz, S. 2001. Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 B.C.E. to 640 C.E. Princeton.

BETWEEN ROME AND PARTHIA: GALILEE AND THE IMPLICATIONS OF EMPIRE J. Andrew Overman To enjoy any kind of substantial run historically Empire must effectively combine brute force and military might with a rhetorical and philosophical structure that explains and extols expansion and rule. Speaking of the Principate, Gibbon said, “when the world fell into the hands of a single person, it became a safe but dreary prison.”1 But there is more to the success of empire than martial effectiveness and brutality. A world is built around the economic exploitation that characterizes imperial realities. That world is a language, an educational structure, and a system of rewards and punishments. It is a world with images and monuments that surround the conquered or absorbed. A world replete of reminders and justifications surround both the occupied and the occupiers with a potent impact on both.2 In the transition from Republic to Principate the necessary trappings of empire appear with force and frequency. Archaeologically a structural and monumental transition is easily observable across a very wide geographical range; in Spain, in Narrona, in Croatia at Pula, in Gaul at Nîmes, Athens and Asia Minor, Syria and the Hauran, as well as Judea and Galilee.3 Augustus was clearly aware of the power such structural innovations would hold for his reign, for the nascent empire, and for the development and legitimation of imperium. It is no wonder that subsequent so-called good emperors consciously mimicked so much of the Augustan imagery, architecture and ideology.4

Quoted in Padget 2001, 22. A process discussed in an expansive fashion with respect to British imperialism by Niall Ferguson 2002. 3 Trillmich and Zanker 1990; Huff and Rotroff 1997; Marin 2001; Fischer 1996; Amy and Gros 1979. For Asia Minor, see also the still useful MacMullen 1959; Mitchell 1993; for a review of Augustan architectural developments in Judea and Galilee see Overman et al. 2003, 40–49 and 67–68. And for a thorough overview of these broad architectural developments, see Macready and Thompson 1987. 4 Zanker 1988. And for a work that details much of the same program for the Flavian period imitating many of the Augustan innovations see Darwall-Smith 1996. 1 2

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The ways in which empire made itself known were varied but substantial. Land was redistributed through new settlements, cadasters, veterans coloniae, and an intensified economic program to feed the needs of an expanding empire, were each consistent features of romanization. Centuratio was an intentional program of redistribution that impacted traditional landowning in rural areas. After Actium this practice multiplied and was easily recognized as a sign of the effect of conquest on traditional life. The traditional and historical relationship between city and country was changed for good.5 It was during the early and middle Roman periods in particular that, in the words of Marshall Hodgson, the Levant, and for him the entire region from the Nile to the Oxus, became “an agrarianate citied society.”6 The city was an intentional part of Roman imperial policy and ideology. Rome knew well how the city transformed provincial elite as well as the hinterlands or chora. Roman imperialism affected more than simply the Greek landscape. Most of the empire and virtually the entire Greek east were caught up in these changes.7 Urbanization as an imperial strategy and force had far reaching ramifications on long-standing traditional structures. Few places were left untouched by this development. Cities acquired and finally required specialists. The necessary compliment of local elites and families were drawn into imperial service as clientele. The so-called “Caesarean structure,” the rectangular Roman style began to characterize urban space. The raised podium platform gained prominence in the public square and was obviously associated with imperial presence and culture. This was a Roman architectural pronouncement. Augustus himself seems to have been in the forefront of an architectural design that swiftly became associated with imperial honors and devotion. A very high, rectangular temple on a raised podium, prostyle and either tetra or hexastyle, usually of Corinthian order, prominently placed in a city or region became the virtually unmistakable form of the Augusteum. This form and these distinctive buildings found their way to urban centers across the empire with alacrity. So-called Augusteums are today Alcock 1989, 31. Hodgson 1974, 107. 7 MacMullen 2000, 17–18. Judea too is subject to the same changes in the post 70 period. See Isaac 1984, 44–50 and Bowersock 1973, 133–41. 5 6

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beautifully preserved at Pula, Nîmes, Norona, and in Israel at Omrit, Samaria-Sebaste, and we suppose Caesarea-Maritima, though later Byzantine builders stripped the earlier Roman temple to the foundation trench. Many have observed that Herod himself helped pioneered some of these very innovations like the podium, the colonnaded way, and modifications on capitals in Judea.8 The innovations associated with Herod and his family, including of course the largesse Herod demonstrated outside of Israel, placed Galilee and Judea at the center of profound Roman imperial developments in the provinces (Ant. 16.142–149). It is fair to suggest that Herod’s activities as a builder and provincial power serves as an apt summary or short course on precisely how development, regional power, and romanization occurred in the east. Josephus tells us Herod left no room for doubt as to why and for whom he pursued his euergetism. The theater Herod constructed in Jerusalem, according to Josephus, was “lined with inscriptions honoring Caesar and trophies of the nations which he had won in a war” (Ant. 15.272). This was Herod’s own version of a Sebasteion.9 These images were cause for some disturbance among the crowd in Jerusalem during the time of the games which Herod funded. Early Roman urban centers, like those built by Herod, often produced coin types celebrating the buildings, the imperial victories, and the changes brought by a global empire. New centers acquired a new look associated with imperial Rome. Such changes were prominent and enduring reminders of imperium as well as pedagogical structures that helped form local knowledge and assumptions about Rome and provincial’s place within the realm. These changes were more than ornamental. The physical changes associated with the early empire carried undeniable messages about power and the locals’ place within the Roman imperial order. These messages signaled a change in the life of provincials that had an enduring and transforming impact. The prominence and obdurance of changes in land division, urbanization, and of the very buildings Rome and her clients erected, had an impact on most people trying to live their lives in the midst of Roman imperial expressions. One can argue about the extent and nature of romanization in particular

8 MacMullen 1999; Fischer 1990. And the expansive and thorough survey by Gros 1996 (chapter 4 on temples). 9 Smith 1987, 88–138.

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locales. Reactions to Rome of course were not uniform across the empire. There are regional reactions and adjustments to the reality of Roman presence. The case of Turditania is illustrative. Strabo overstates the case when he records; “Here is the happy lot of their country. The qualities of gentleness and civility have come to the Turditanians and to all Celtic peoples. The Turditanians have completely changed over to the Roman mode of life, not even remembering their own language any more. Most of them have become Latins and they have received Romans as colonists, so that they are not far from being all Romans (3.2.15). Field reports denote a more nuanced change that makes Strabo’s account of the Turditanians going imperial whole-hog dubious. Settlement patterns did change. Elite influence “filtered down” but slowly and more selectively than Strabo might suggest. A new urban network with roads, large public construction, and the disappearance of local coinage did occur here. The Roman grid and monumental institutions did become ensconced in the city. Elites of local origin were put in place as Rome’s clients, as we would expect. And the countryside we could say was romanized in the sense that they were a regular part of the city’s economy and control. But, these changes were quite gradual. Their appearance in the archaeological record suggests well over a century for these changes to take root. Romanization was an uneven process and archaeologically speaking proceeded at a deliberate pace throughout the provinces, especially in the East and Levant. Archaeologically speaking Galilee reflects a similar more protracted process of Romanization. In the case of northern Galilee and the Hermon region for example, Banias experiences its greatest growth and “burst of energy” in the Roman period at the very end of the second century continuing through most of the next century reaching up to Diocletian.10

10 See Keay 1992, 275–316. A complete discussion of many Galilean sites which have been or are being excavated now cannot be engaged in here. If one takes only the celebrated instance of Sepphoris one can see, as Eric Meyers has stressed for sometime, that Roman development at Sepphoris occurred over a protracted period and not only in the early Roman period. The Late Roman and early Byzantine periods, for example, were periods of considerable growth at many Galilean sites. Meyers 1992, 321–38. Also the review of excavations in Overman 1993, 49–51. This more protracted romanization evidenced in the material culture of Galilee reflects the gradual but persistent easternization of Roman concerns and investments. Concerning the period of greatest growth in the Roman period at Banias, see Wilson 2004, 43–47.

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Tacitus is a bit more straightforward in outlining Agricola’s actions, his building projects, and introducing Britons to “civilization and the life of peace.” Here we see a bald expression of the ideology associated with romanization. Speaking of Agricola Tacitus says he educated the sons of chiefs in the liberal arts which in fact only became a feature of their enslavement (Agric. 21). Tacitus may be advocating Flavian propaganda but he is at the same time fully aware of the impact of Roman urbanization on the provincial regions Rome exploits. Here Tacitus indicates romanization is a generational and gradual process. There are immediate effects of Roman imperialism. Taxes, for example, can be applied or repealed by decree. Buildings can spring up with relative speed. Procurators come and go. But the change in local culture, the language of empire, and the development of local leaders who in fact form a defense and apology for Rome all takes time, even generations. Overtime is there a way to live within the limits of Rome and not be romanized? This seems doubtful.11 By the turn of the eras at least in Roman imperial literature “empire” and “world” become co-terminus in meaning as well as expanse. Where classical and colonizing Athens developed a language linking the very name Athens with the notion of democratia and all that attended that term, so Roman writers and thinkers linked Rome with the expansive and fluid notion of imperium, and that without bounds.12 These romanizing forces, changes and ideas, surrounded provincials, and most particularly local and regional elites who so often played a crucial role in Rome’s imperial control. For people like Josephus, and I think it is fair to conjecture the writers of the Gospels, the cultural and monumental force of Rome was a presence and pressure felt daily. The romanization of Josephus is a process and act indicative of what transpired among other notable optimates around the early empire. The comment by Aelius Aristides could serve as an appropriate anachronism for first century Palestinian and eastern literati; “In many Greek cities Rome had no need for garrisions. They were held for her by the best people who had become Romans.” As Brunt pointed out, it was precisely in these cities that the empire indeed lasted longest.13

Woolf 1992, 349–52 and 1997, 438–45. Imperium orbis terrae becomes a common and loaded phrase that carried the freight of a divinely driven imperial mission; See Richardson 1991, 1–9; Syme 1978; Ober 1996. 13 Brunt 1990, 118. 11 12

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In light of recent research how do we assess Galilee in terms of the larger romanizing project articulated above? Sean Freyne drew our attention to this region a quarter of a century ago in a manner that has not been surpassed to this day. The comprehensive nature of Freyne’s initial 1980 work, and followed by his numerous detailed analyses of the social and economic currents of the Galilee remain unsurpassed.14 More recently Freyne has reminded us of the importance of the land and material world of Galilee. As we pay attention to the terrain, topography and archaeology we have access to a “fifth Gospel” which constitutes a resource that should not be neglected. The Loss of the Roman Standards to Parthia With respect to the larger issue of the romanization of the Galilean region I wish to draw attention to an event that loomed large among Roman leaders in the middle part of the first century b.c.e. This is an event that I think has not received sufficient attention among scholars looking at Galilee in the early Roman period. I am referring here to the loss of the Roman standards by Crassus in 53 b.c.e. This was an event in Roman history that loomed very large and shaped a substantial part of the Augustan eastern program, including, if not especially, Galilee and the Hermon region. This momentous Roman episode has a necessary background. Rome fixed her eyes on Parthia about forty years earlier, in 92 b.c.e., when Sulla reached the Euphrates (Plutarch, Sulla 5). Mithridates II, called “King of Kings,” sent embassies to Sulla hoping to sue for peace, but to no avail. Sulla would not recognize the land between the Tigris and Euphrates as the natural western border of Parthia. It was during this time and under this threat that Mithridates pursued relations with China given their shared commerce and intercourse in Bactria.15 The Roman theological notion that they were called to imperium orbis terrarae was already well formed. Sulla’s arrogance in this matter drew Parthian rivals and smaller regional fifedoms both east and west of the Euphrates closer together, as the so-called Avroman Parchments and other sources indicate.16 The actions of Sulla helped cultivate the

14 15 16

Freyne 1980, 2001, and 2002. On Parthian-Chinese relations, see Hirsh 1917. Also Stavisky 1986. Minns 1915; Debevoise 1970, 29.

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conviction among the Parthians, admitted by Plutarch, “that Rome had a difficult time recalling the terms of treaties with Parthia,” (Life of Crassus 16). This Parthian sense would be further confirmed in short order. It is the case that Pompey’s General Gabinius also rejected the Euphrates as a Parthian western frontier.17 As Proconsul of Syria in 54 b.c.e. Crassus undertook his ill-advised Parthian campaign. Dio Cassius and Plutarch concur that Crassus was not just arrogant, but driven by megalomania and his desire to be dictator of Rome. His goal was not merely Seleucia-on-the-Euphrates but beyond to Bactria and India.18 In this important respect Lebanon, the Hermon region, Syria and western Parthia were drawn into the Roman civil war. The unprovoked Roman assault on Parthia ended in disaster for Rome. Crassus crossed the Euphrates at Zeugma and Roman and Parthian forces met in 53 b.c.e. near Carrhae. The Romans were routed. Crassus was killed and his head was paraded around in front of the Parthian troops. Most significantly the Roman standards carried into battle by all Roman troops were captured. It is hard to overestimate the significance of this event from the Roman point of view (Dio Cassius 49.20–25). Crassus’ Parthian campaign, which was paid for with funds he stole from the Temple in Jerusalem (Ant. 14.105), was very brief. The bibliography of ancient writers discussing this event is extensive.19 According to Josephus ten years earlier Pompey had been careful not to desecrate the temple in Jerusalem when he made his eastern swing garnering resources and renown for his own grab at dictatorial powers (Ant. 14.72). In contrast to Pompey Crassus entered the temple and stole the booty in order to finance the Parthian war. On this subject virtually all writers concur Crassus’ impiety was a cause for the Roman humiliation near Carrhae in 53 b.c.e. Crassus’ General Cassius, who had strongly advised against the attack, survived and found refuge behind the city walls of Carrhae. The city was a Roman stronghold and remained staunchly Roman and polytheistic long after most of the region, including neighboring Edessa, had turned to Christianity.20 Cassius ultimately withdrew, significantly enough, to Tarichaeae on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee, where he enslaved some of the inhabitants but also found support among the 17 18 19 20

Colledge 1967, 34. Dio Cassius 40.12–13; Plutarch, Life of Crassus 16. A bibliography is provided in Debevoise 1970, 78. Also known as Harran. See Fowden 1993, 62.

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followers of Aristobulus (War 1.180; Ant. 14.120). At Tarichaeae Cassius would have felt more at home being nearly adjacent to the decapolis city of Hippos/Sussita which overlooks the Sea of Galilee also from the northern end just like Tarichaeae. Recent excavations have shown how significantly romanized this decapolis city on the NE shore of the Sea was from the late Hellenistic period forward.21 Josephus mentions that Cassius did eventually return to the Euphrates to continue the Parthian conflict and seek the return of the Roman standards. During this time, as Horace wrote, Roman eagles adorned Parthian temples, to the great disgrace of Rome (Epis. 1.18.56–57; Odes 4.15.6–8). Roman concern over this event was widespread and is well-recorded. This was both a theological problem for Rome as well as a virtually unparalleled humiliation for the Republic already in crisis and civil war. Following the battle of Pharsalus where Pompey died in 49 b.c.e. and the death of Caesar in 44 b.c.e. only Mark Anthony and Caesar’s adopted son Octavius remained as serious candidates to consolidate power in a single set of hands. While both men had considerable influence and experience in the east, Anthony more so. Like all Roman notables Anthony was well aware of the crisis of the standards and what it augured for Rome. The return of the standards would bode well both for Rome and for the leader who returned them. Anthony attempted to retrieve the standards. His attempt was disastrous. He actually lost his own standards only to regain possession through some serious détente with the Parthians.22 Parthia loomed large in the Roman consciousness after 53 and Carrhae. We know this from the number of writers who engage the subject. We also know this to be the case because of heightened Roman concern about Parthian strength and encroachment. And we know that several important leaders, indeed the most important leaders of the period, viewed the Parthian frontier as worthy of engagement. And, after 53 b.c.e., the most prominent Romans endeavored to return those standards for the good of Rome as well as the enhancement of their own political fortunes. How did all this affect Galilee and her environs? The short answer to this question is enormously. First, the Roman defeat placed Parthia on an equal or superior footing with Rome in the minds of many from

21 The excavations of this recently excavated site, one that is crucial for the study of the Galilee in the Roman period, are reported in Segal et al. 2004, 9–31. 22 Dio 49.22–23; Plutarch, Life of Anthony 37; 41.

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the Mediterranean Sea to the Euphrates.23 Dio reported that certain Parthian leaders were very popular with the average person in the region. This was apparently particularly true of the Parthian General Pacorus who was recognized by local people in the Levant and Syria as being “just and mild.” The people did not feel this way about most Roman leaders or clients who had come to the region to advance their careers and obtain a tribute from the land and its people. Other Roman writers echo Dio’s characterization of the Parthian leader Pacorus, in part to ameliorate the sting of the Roman humiliation, but also because Parthia was becoming increasingly and oddly both revered and feared in Rome.24 As a result of the defeat and loss of the standards a crucial region between Lebanon and the Euphrates was at risk of being lost to Roman influence and control. Such apprehension on the part of Rome was in fact well founded. Jewish ties with Parthia were strengthened.25 Significantly from Rome’s point of view the problematic and fluid Iturean region which bordered and often conflated with northern Galilee showed clear Parthian leanings. The history of the Iturean principality from Sulla through Herod is largely defined by Roman leaders’ attempts to control and suppress the crucial yet mostly anti-Roman region. Iturea and parts of northern Galilee had sided with Parthia for a time in the middle of the first century b.c.e. The Damascus/Hermon region had sided with Parthia earlier during the later years of the Hasmonean dynasty (69 b.c.e.) while Ptolemy ruled Iturea.26 Iturea, like portions of Galilee, had a decidedly and persistently anti-Roman inclination. This disposition was often demonstrated in social banditry, resistance to the urbanization program, and what in the case of the Itureans can only be characterized as a fierce independence and resistance to colonization. Here there are some striking parallels with parts of neighboring Galilee. Anthony took considerable interest in Iturea and the Ante-Lebanon range. He had the Iturean ruler Lysanius killed because of his support of the Parthians. He then gave the region to Cleopatra who leased it Strabo, 11.9.2; Dio 40.14; Pliny NH 5.88; Debevoise 1970, 93. Dio 49.119; Tacitus, Ger. 37; Horace, Odes 3.6.9. 25 Debevoise (1970, 94–95) cites Jossipon 28 and earlier Jewish factions associated with Parthia from the Hasmonean period. Also, one should recall the conversion of some Itureans to Judaism during Hasmonean expansionism and the ties this would have facilitated between Jews and Parthians leading up to the Augustan period. 26 For a history of the principality, see Jones 1931; Overman 2004. 23 24

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to Zenodorus, with whom the region is most often identified. Cleopatra used the revenue to help finance her and Anthony’s civil war with Octavius. Zenodorus’ rule was not a great improvement from the Roman perspective. According to Josephus he encouraged brigandage and showed no great affection for Rome. Both Josephus and Strabo describe the region as unruly and unsettled. Anthony’s client Herod had on-going trouble but therefore considerable familiarity with Parthian sympathizers in the Levant between 40–37 b.c.e. Indeed, it ultimately fell to Herod through Augustus to pacify the region after Actium. Yet the region remained a trouble spot for sometime. Rome eventually gathered together as many Iturean rebels as they could and shipped them off to Germany to serve as special imperial body guards and archers. It appears to have become a military amenity to claim Iturean heritage even long after Itureans had disappeared.27 During the second half of the first century b.c.e. the borders of Iturea were notoriously fluid. There were times when Iturea extended as far Damascus to the east and Berytus to the west. The southern border is of particular interest to us and here there is great difficulty determining where Iturea stopped and Galilee began. In general the border between Iturea and Galilee ran along the W-E line from Tyre to Damascus. This more or less straight line allowed travelers to skirt the foothills of the Hermon range to the north and the then impassable Hulah swamp to the immediate south when heading from the Mediterranean to Damascus and beyond. The Hermon range, the Bekah Valley and north was Iturea, while the Hulah Valley served as the northern extent of Galilee.28 Yet it was hardly that clear a boundary most of the time. The Itureans had been converted to Judaism and circumcised by force during the period of Hasmonean expansionism to the north. Here the Maccabean historians could claim that the region had been saved for Judaism. By the first century b.c.e. the Itureans also had expanded. They had centers in Chalcis, Panaeas/Banias, Baalbek, Ulatha (though unfound is thought to be toward the northern end of the Hulah in Galilee) and even Damascus. At one point during this period Damascans were so concerned about an Iturean threat that they sought the protection of Schottroff 1982, 125–52; see also Bowersock (1983, 50–58) for a discussion of the region. 28 An archaeological survey of the northern Hulah has been conducted recently and is briefly reported in Shaked and Avshalom-Gorni 2004, 28–36. 27

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the Nabateans to the south for Damascus. And the Itureans spread south well into the Hulah perhaps, for a time, reaching as far as the Sea of Galilee. There is no mistaking their center, however, around the Hermon and along the Tyre-Damascus road. But Iturean expansion south well into the Hulah and northern Galilee during the middle of the first century b.c.e. offers a possible explanation why the Roman general Cassius made the curious retreat to Tarichaeae on the Sea of Galilee of all places following the disaster at Carrhae in 53. The southern Hulah and the beginning of lower Galilee was the first place Cassius could expect a reasonable degree of support and refuge. The Iturean region was sufficiently well-known for its anti-Roman sentiment and was no place for a Roman general to seek aid or respite.29 Galilee between Rome and Parthia The growing concern and deepening Roman focus on Parthia and the Euphrates frontier cast the Iturean and northern Galilean regions into a much greater light. It was now a crucial arena within the Roman eastern imperial network. Sadly perhaps for most late first century b.c.e. Galileans and people of the Hermon region, they found themselves living in an important, even crucial region from the Roman perspective.30 The Tyre to Damascus to the Euphrates route had to stay open, be developed, and remain stable. Too much was now at risk for that not to take place. The Parthian arena was emerging as the focal point of Roman foreign policy. It is precisely in this way that Iturea and northern Galilee became, as F. Millar has pointed out, an inner frontier as crucial as any limes in the empire. This inner frontier developed from the Bekah Valley to Damascus and reached south from the headwaters of the Jordan to the Golan Heights and the hills of Galilee.31 This did not end with the advent of the Empire and the ascension of Augustus. On the contrary, this reality intensified for Galilee.

29 Jones 1931, Overman 2004, and Schottroff 1982, all discuss the territorial limits and expanding boundaries of Iturea in this period. 30 Captured even with respect to the Bedouin lands of the Hermon and Gaulanitis in Peters 1978, 315–26. 31 Millar 1993, 17–18. The pivotal nature of the region has also been recently developed in Wilson 2004, 8.

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After Actium and his defeat of Anthony and Cleopatra, Augustus lost little time in confronting the persistent Parthian legacy and threat. Victory in the East was clearly a priority for Augustus.32 This prominent piece of his foreign agenda was in reality a fundamental part of his grand program which B. Severy has recently referred to as “the politics of restoration.” Augustus sought to reconstitute the Res Publica, those public things that engendered order and confidence in his rule and in the broader global Roman imperium.33 Augustus had a serious concern on his eastern frontier, to be sure, but his audience concerning Parthia was mostly in Rome. Achieving Roman PAX in the east was a clear priority if not necessity for Augustus. Stability and order had to be achieved and maintained along the inner frontier of Iturea, Galilee and the Hermon. From Tyre to the Euphrates should be Roman and at peace. It was probably this political and theological necessity for the new empire that saved Herod’s life more than anything else. Making embassy to Augustus on the Island of Rhodes following his victory at Actium Herod asked to be spared and retained as Augustus’ client in Judea despite his support for Augustus’ rival Anthony during the civil war. Augustus needed the right man for a troubled and an increasingly crucial arena. Beyond his well-known effectiveness at wielding authority and rule, it was his contacts and familiarity with any Parthian threat and sympathizers in the area that made Herod the right man at the right time in the right place (War I.388ff.). Augustus shows every indication that the Parthian problem was perhaps his highest priority. Around the year 23 b.c.e. Augustus came to the region of Damascus with the intention of retrieving the by then infamous Roman standards lost to Parthia twenty-five years earlier. Augustus was met in the region of Tyre by Herod and introduced to Parthian envoys. Through intermediaries Augustus prevailed upon Phraates the Parthian leader to return the standards. Without any battle or struggle the standards were returned, along with many of the Roman prisoners. Dio suggests Phraates feared another Roman expedition across the Euphrates (54.8). While it is obvious that the standards were of monumental import to Rome there is no indication that Parthians

32 33

Propertius 3.1.16; 4.1–19; Elmore 1931; Debevoise 1970, 139. Severy 2003, 33.

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coveted the signs at all.34 In return Augustus gave Phraates an Italian slave named Musa. By her Phraates had a son, Phraates V, called Phraataces. Musa became Queen and in 10 b.c.e. persuaded Phraates IV to send her children to Rome. While they were in Rome enjoying the protection and patronage of Augustus Phraates IV was poisoned and Musa’s son Phraataces assumed the Parthian throne.35 Augustus came out of Syria with the standards and was escorted by Herod to Caesarea Maritima; the jewel on the Sea Herod had built to honor the new emperor. Augustus set sail for Rome and Herod returned to the region where the signs had been recovered. There, in the region of the Hermon, Bekah and northern Hulah, Herod erected a temple to Augustus celebrating all that occurred in the region as a result of the visit of Augustus and the facility of Herod. The temple discussed in two places by Josephus becomes associated during the reign of Herod’s son Phillip with the name Caesarea Phillipi, celebrating Phillip’s elevation of the region to the status of a polis. The Gospel writers know the area or μέρη as Caesarea Phillipi (Ant. 15.363; War 1.404; Mark 8:27–30; Matt.16:16–20) and of course do not hint at any familiarity with the larger and crucial regional context and conflict discussed here. It is back in Rome that we are really able to see the importance of the return of the standards for Augustus’ eastern policy and for his own promotion in Rome. The most significant expression of this is the restructuring of the forum in Rome focusing on the Parthian “victory,” as C. B. Rose has recently shown in great detail. This meets perhaps its greatest expression in the construction of the temple to Mars Ultor.36 In addition to this Augustus was careful and certain to claim the title Imperator for securing the standards, his ninth such title, even though there were other conflicts afoot around the empire at the time. Barnes maintains this is the only occasion when the title and a victory were granted without an actual battle during the reign of the first Emperor. Further, Augustus minted coins throughout the empire celebrating Signis Receptis promoting the essential fact that he had succeeded where others had failed and returned the standards to their true

Barnes 1974, 21. The episode is discussed in Colledge 1967, 46. 36 The architectural and monumental restructuring of the forum is fully outlined in Rose 2005; Also Severy 2003, 107–8. 34 35

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home.37 And a triumphal arch was constructed in Rome, according to Dio, precisely to honor the great achievement of Augustus in returning the standards (54.8). Augustus, Dio says, took great pride in the return of the standards. That this was done without a struggle even enhanced the authority of Augustus and punctuated the Augustan theme of peace that informs so much of the Augustan restoration program.38 The complex of actions taken by Augustus and the Senate associated with the Parthian episode highlight the centrality of this event for the Augustan period. The standards had been returned without further Parthian provocation, the ninth Imperator title had been assumed by Augustus precisely for this accomplishment in the east as great as any military victory. A triumphal arch was constructed to memorialize this pivotal event and the central architectural space of the capital city, the forum, was restructured to celebrate the PAX between Rome and Parthia. This was a concern for many Romans, not just the Augustan house. The incident of the standards and with it concern about both Roman honor and the security of her eastern border had garnered popular attention for some time. It was for this reason that several of Rome’s most prominent late Republican leaders tried to return the standards. And here only Augustus, with the help of Herod and other eastern clientele, succeeded. Horace captured the popular sentiment of the day concerning Augustus’ accomplishment when he wrote, “who fears the Parthians while Augustus lives!”39 The impact of these events in the region of Galilee was substantial. Herod had certainly cemented his and the Herodian house’s relationship with Augustus. Herod was able to survive an embassy of Gadarene leaders who pleaded with Augustus to release them from Herod’s rule during the time of his Syrian swing to return the standards. Augustus stood by his man and these local leaders committed suicide rather than return to the rule of Herod (Ant. 15.350). By this time, as Josephus famously stated, “Herod was second only to Agrippa in Augustus’ affections”; a magnificent claim (Ant. 15.361). The Iturean-Galilean region was more secure now than it had been since the time of Sulla. This was Augustus’ doing. He correctly understood the absolutely Barnes 1974, 22; Signis Receptis and IMP IX coins, see BMC, R. Emp. i, 108–10 nos. 671–82, 114 no. 703. 38 Developed by Severy 2003. 39 Odes IV.5.25; also Car.Sec. 53–60. 37

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vital nature of this region. The Parthian aims could not be achieved without the establishing of peace and order in the Hermon area. The Tyre-Damascus-Euphrates route had to be open and the surrounding region had to be stable. Augustus recognized this and he accurately identified the person who could help him achieve this goal. It is true, “Augustus realized that greater glory accrued from diplomatic success on the eastern frontier.”40 Beyond that, he also recognized the necessity of successfully romanizing the inner frontier of the larger Hermon region. This meant urbanizing, adorning the region with the monumental trappings of Augustan and therefore Roman iconography and architecture, ridding the region of the on-going problems with banditry, and of course, making sure pro-Parthian sentiment was done away with. Selection of the appropriate regional clients would be key in developing and achieving these ends. The first imperial temple-complex devoted to Augustus in the Hermon region was built by Herod following the episode of the return of the standards by Augustus in c.22 b.c.e. That temple has recently been identified and is currently being excavated at Omrit. Omrit lies along the Tyre-Damascus road, rests on the Iturean-Galilean border, and is situated at the northern end of the Hulah Valley and the southern foothills of the Hermon. This temple is a typical Augusteum, following and advancing the prostyle-tetrastyle form on a raised podium (Fig. 1).41 The imposition and establishment of some form of the imperial cult in the Galilee-Hermon area is an unavoidable expression of the enactment of the Augustan plan for the region. Herod’s architectural and engineering genius was a valuable attribute with respect to Augustus’ eastern program in which Galilee and environs were now clearly well ensconced. The Augusteum form quickly became an unmistakable material expression of Roman presence and control in the many regions where these temples were erected. The Galilee/Hermon region was one of the earliest and most crucial addresses for this clear Augustan architectural development and expression.

Barnes 1974, 21. The development of this architectural form, clearly championed by Herod, is discussed extensively in the important work of Hänlein-Schäfer 1985. The excavations at Omrit are sponsored by Macalester College under the direction of the author. See Overman et al. 2003, 40–44. 40

41

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Fig. 1. Reconstruction of east façade of the Herodian period Augusten temple at Omrit (by Michael C. Nelson).

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Fig. 2. Reconstruction of east façade of the Flavian period second phase temple (by Michael C. Nelson).

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Sean Freyne and Richard Horsley both have amply demonstrated the Roman and Herodian program for the suppression of banditry in Galilee and its surroundings. This action followed closely on the heels of the establishment of imperial honors in Galilee.42 Augustus’ sense about Herod’s ability to rule the region and establish the necessary expressions of Roman control can be confirmed in the sense that Iturea and Galilee did not erupt with the kind of instability Augustus was concerned about until Herod’s death. The region did finally boil over into outright revolt but that was long after Herod was gone. Josephus, writing as a Flavian mouthpiece, begins his work on the Jewish War by giving voice to a concern which was well articulated earlier during the Augustan period and program. Josephus expresses concern that Parthian Jews may join in the anti-Roman activity in neighboring Galilee. This, he pleads, would be disastrous. For this reason he has penned his account of the ill-fated and irreverent revolt. A century after Augustus’ eastern swing and the establishment of the imperial cult near the Hermon, Jewish anti-Roman and Parthian based activity remained a regional concern (War 1.4ff.). Of course, Flavian rulers sought to imitate Augustus’ use of imagery, iconography and architecture when dealing with the Jewish revolt.43 A page was lifted from Augustus’ Parthian victory. Coins, arches, literary efforts and architecture formed pieces of the Flavian campaign to convince the Roman people that peace and stability had arrived in the hands of the Flavian gens.44 Roman policy under Augustus drew Galilee, Iturea and the region quickly and deeply into the Roman orbit and appetite. While the east had been of considerable concern to Rome for sometime, it was the Parthian threat and the incident of the loss of the Roman standards in particular that brought this about. From 53 b.c.e. forward life changed for Galileans and Itureans. The region was rather suddenly too important to leave alone. Stability, production, and allegiance were attributes that Rome required from the Hermon area and the TyreEuphrates corridor. Galilee and Iturea were in the way and would have to be brought into the stable of Roman regional control and culture. Pro-Parthian sentiment had to be eradicated. Monumental expressions of Roman imperium should begin to shape the formerly quite barren Horsley 1987 and 1995, inspired largely by Hobsbawm 1959 and 1981; Freyne 1988. 43 See Darwall-Smit 1996; Cooly 2003. 44 Overman 2002. 42

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landscape. And Augustus had to find local clients who could lead the implementation of this eastern plan. In short, Iturea and Galilee were suddenly too important not to be romanized. And so they were. Yes there was some resistance to this. Augustus found some of the same in Tyre and Sidon, according to Dio, but he simply enslaved both cities. Other cities or regions that could not get with the program experienced a similar fate (54.7–8). The persistent Parthian threat made the northern Galilean region non negotiable from Rome’s vantage point. Augustus and others had to succeed there. The risk that Roman influence and control might not prevail in this region so close to and often allied with Parthia was too great. The Roman art and brute force of empire was necessarily insinuated into the northern Galilean region with haste by Augustus. Romanization picked up its pace in Galilee as witnessed by the selection of Herod as Augustus’ client, the pacification and anti-Parthian program in the north, and the imposition of the imperial cult and an Augusteum in the north. The incident of the loss of the standards put the Parthian problem in bold relief during the second half of the first century b.c.e. As this global Roman concern garnered more attention the “inner frontier” of Galilee, the Bekah, and the Hermon came into sharper focus. A small region with seemingly little to offer the larger empire in rather short order became a vital arena in Rome’s imperial strategy. As a result the region and its people were permanently impacted and transformed as the history of the next century demonstrates. Bibliography Alcock, S. 1989. Roman Imperialism and the Greek Landscape. JRA 2:5–34. Amy R. and P. Gros 1979. La Maison Carée de Nîmes. Paris. Barnes, T. D. 1974. The Victories of Augustus. JRS 64:21–26. Bejun, G. 1999. Vie Colonnate: Paesaggi urbani del Mondo Antico. Rome. Bowersock, G. 1973. Syria under Vespasian. JRS 63:133–41. ———. 1983. Roman Arabia. Cambridge. Brunt, P. A. 1990. Roman Imperial Themes. Oxford. Colledge, M. 1967. The Parthians. New York and London. Cooly, J. 2003. Conquers and Conquered in Flavian Coins. Pages 103–23 in Flavian Rome: Culture, Image, Text. Edited by A. S. Boyle and W. J. Dominik. Leiden. Darwall-Smith, R. H. 1996. Emperors and Architecture: A Study of Flavian Rome. Brussels. Debevoise, N. C. 1970. A Political History of Parthia. Chicago. Elmore, J. 1931. Horace and Octavian. CP 26:258–63. Ferguson, N. 2002. Empire: The Rise and Demise of the British World Order and the Lessons for Global Power. New York. Fischer, G. 1996. Das römische Pula: Eine archäologische Stadtgeschichte. München.

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Fischer, M. 1990. Das korinthische Kapitell im Alten Israel in der hellenistischen und römischen Periode. Mainz. Freyne, S. 1980. Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian. Wilmington. ———. 1988. Bandits in Galilee: A Contribution to the Study of Social Conditions in First-Century Palestine. Pages 50–68 in The Social World of Formative Christianity and Judaism. Edited by J. Neusner et al. Philadelphia. ———. 2001. The Geography of Restoration. Galilee-Jerusalem Relations in Early Jewish and Christian Experience. NTS 47:289–311. ———. 2002. The Revolt from a Regional Perspective. Pages 43–56 in The First Jewish Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology. Edited by A. Berlin and J. A. Overman. New York and London. Fowden, G. 1993. From Empire to Commonwealth: Consequences of Monotheism in Late Antiquity. Princeton. Gros, P. 1996. L’Architecture Romaine du début du III siècle av. J.-C. à la fin du Haut-Empire, Vol I: Les Monuments Public. Paris. Hänlein-Schäfer, H. 1985. Veneratio Augusti: Eine Studie zu den Tempeln des ersten römischen Kaisers. Rome. Hirth, F. 1917. The Story of Chang K’ién. JAOS 37:89–152. Hobsbawm, E. 1959. Primitive Rebels. New York. ———. 1981. Bandits. rev. ed. New York. Hodgson, M. 1974. Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization: Vol. I, The Classical Age of Islam. Chicago. Horsley, R. 1987. Bandits, Prophets and Messiahs: Popular Movements in the Time of Jesus. San Francisco. ———. 1995. Galilee: History, Politics, and People. Valley Forge. Huff, M. C. and Rotroff, S. eds. 1997. The Romanization of Athens. Oxford. Isaac, B. 1984. Judea after A.D. 70. JJS 35:44–50. Jones, A. H. M. 1931. The Urbanization of the Iturean Principality. JRS 21:78–85. Keay, S. 1992. The Romanization of Turdetania. OJA 11:275–316. MacMullen, R. 1959. Roman Imperial Buildings in the Provinces. HSCP 64: 207–35. ———. 2000. Romanization in the Time of Augustus. New Haven. Macready, S. and F. H. Thompson eds. 1987. Roman Architecture in the Greek World. London. Marin, E. 2001. The Temple of the Imperial Cult (Augusteum) at Narona and its Statues. JRA 14:80–112. Meyers, E. M. 1992. Roman Sepphoris in Light of New Archaeological Evidence and Recent Research. Pages 321–38 in The Galilee in Late Antiquity. Edited by L. Levine. New York. Millar, F. 1993. The Roman Near East 31 B.C.–A.D. 337. Cambridge. Minns, E. H. 1915. Parchments of the Parthian Period from Avroman in Kurdistan. JHS 35:22–65. Mitchell, S. 1993. Anatolia. Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor, I: The Celts in Anatolia and the Impact on Roman Rule. Oxford. Ober, J. 1996. The Athenian Revolution: Essays on Ancient Greek Democracy and Political Theory. Princeton. Overman, J. A. 1993. Recent Advances in the Archaeology of the Galilee in the Roman Period. CRBS 1:35–57. ———. 2002. “The First Revolt and Flavian Politics,” Pages 213–20 in The First Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology. Edited by A. M. Berlin and J. Overman. London. ———. 2004. The Importance of the Iturean Principality According to Josephus and His Contemporaries. Pages 287–98 in When Judaism and Christianity Began: Essays in Memory of Anthony J. Saldarini. Edited by A. Avery-Peck et al. Leiden.

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Overman J. A., J. Olive and M. Nelson, 2003. Discovering Herod’s Shrine to Augustus: Mystery Temple Found at Omrit. BAR 29:40–49; 67–68. Padget, A. 2001. Peoples and Empire. New York. Peters, F. E. 1978. Romans and Bedouin in Southern Syria. JNES 37:315–26. Richardson, J. S. 1991. Imperium Romanum: Empire and the Language of Power. JRS 81:1–9. Rose, C. R. 2005. The Parthians in Augustan Rome, AJA 109:21–75. Schottroff, W. 1982. Die Ituräer. ZDPV 98:125–52. Segal, A., J. Mlynarczyk, M. Burdajewicz, M. Schuler, and M. Eisenberg. ——. 2004. Hippos-Sussita: Fifth Season of Excavations and Summary of All Five Seasons. Haifa. Severy, B. 2003. Augustus and the Family at the Birth of the Roman Empire. New York. Shaked, I. and D. Avshalom-Gorni, 2004. Jewish settlement in the southeastern Hulah Valley in the First Century C.E. Pages 28–36 in Religion and Society in Roman Palestine. Edited by D. Edwards. New York. Smith, R. 1987. The Imperial Reliefs from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias. JRS 78:88– 138. CurBS 1:49–51. Stavisky, B. 1986. La Bactriane sous les Kushans: Problèmes d’histoire et de culture. Paris. Syme, R. 1978. History in Ovid. Oxford. Trillmich W. P. and Zanker P. eds. 1990. Stadtbild und Ideologie: Monumentalisierung hispanische Städte zwischen Republic und Kaiserzeit. München. Woolf, G. 1992. Unity and Diversity of Romanization. JRS 5:349–52. ———. 1997. Romanization and Roman Material Culture. JRA 6:438–45. Wilson, J. 2004. Caesarea Philippi: Banias, The Lost City of Pan. London. Zanker, P. 1988. The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus. Ann Arbor.

WHO WOULDN’T MARRY JESUS? Marianne Sawicki They had him by the feet: Matthew’s resurrection witnesses, the two scared Marys, one clutching the right ankle of Jesus, the other his left. They immobilized him for worship. But Jesus sent the ladies back to the brothers with a promise: “Go to Galilee. There they will see me” (Matt 28:9–10). The promise that is “Galilee” is the prospect of figuring it all out at last. If the brothers and sisters could just get back to Galilee, they could see Jesus. They could finally understand who he was, what he said, what happened to him, and what it all meant. A religiously motivated quest anticipates the scholarly quest for the historical Jesus and accompanies it throughout all its waves and phases. Yet the Matthean promise entails a turn from cherished beliefs and assumptions to investigation. The moment of inquiry must have it own integrity. This is as close as we get, in the gospel tradition, to an endorsement of the scientific method. Investigation is scientific when it gathers all available relevant data, formulates and tests hypotheses, and reaches conclusions through valid logical inferences. These are not separate steps in a linear progression. At the outset one is already using logical inference to stipulate what sort of phenomena will count as “data” during observation. “Going to the Galilee” of the late Hellenistic and early Roman period (about 198 b.c.e. to 135 c.e.) is by no means a simple or straightforward task. To investigate with integrity, in a rigorous and honest manner, means keeping an eye on the assumptions, hopes, and extraneous experiences that enter into the construction of the “data.” Such factors are sometimes criticized as bias, but it is naive to suppose that they could ever be banished altogether. Just such naiveté was characteristic of archaeology in the mid-twentieth century, when the discipline aspired to emulate the methods and the rhetoric of the physical sciences, hoping to achieve the sort of inexorable objective certitude that they claimed. This naive ambition has infected some historical projects that draw upon the findings reported by archaeologists of the Land of Israel. The emulation or simulation of scientific

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method can introduce bias of its own, if one neglects to think critically through certain issues. It’s time to take stock of the status of the data that enter into recent appraisals of Greco-Roman Galilee. This essay begins by establishing a critical framework for assessment of archaeological reports. On that basis, we will go on to address several issues that have troubled recent historical studies of Galilee and its most famous son, Jesus of Nazareth. 1. How Are Data Produced The little four-letter word “data” already confronts us with sobering philological and cultural complications. Data is Latin for “the givens.” German “es gibt” is equivalent to English “there is.” Both are singular statements. But “givens” are plural, discrete, distinguishable, countable. To be observed, this one and that one must first be recognized and set apart from the background unity of all that is; only then can we register their plurality and variety. The act of discerning “one of ” something is an interpretive act. It requires comparison of an actual datum, here and now, with some ideal standard criterion for whatever kind this one is one of. The ideal kinds can be rather simple or quite complicated. On the simple end of the spectrum, suppose that you are looking for water. You correctly observe that water is present when you feel dampness, or when you use a scientific instrument capable of registering H2O. In the latter case, you would be required to trust the instrument. Scientists do not personally calibrate and vouch for every piece of instrumentation. This phenomenon of conventional trust is called the “black box” phenomenon. Anonymous specialists, working somewhere else, are presumed to be vouching for the reliability of the output of the black box, whenever raw material is properly input to it. Routinely, investigators rely on black-box analyses and on absent experts.1 With our hypothetical water-detecting black box, the internal mechanism could be quite straightforward. Perhaps there is some chemical compound that changes only and always in the presence of water. Perhaps it swells or heats up. Suppose this change is known to be caused by

1

Latour and Woolgar 1986, 242–43, 259–60; Woolgar 1988, 30–51.

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interaction with water and by nothing else. This immediate causality is such that it cannot be interfered with by wishing, or believing, or arguing; it is known to be unaffected by the time of day, the geographical location, or the gender or ethnicity of the technician conducting the test. Suppose our hydro-sensor black box includes a simple mechanical device that causes a pen to move across a band of graph paper whenever the indicator compound undergoes the telltale change. For those who use such an instrument every day, the characteristic graph lines would stand in for water. They affirm that there is water here. They do so on the strength of a chain of physical reactions that is purely causal. So the presence of water counts as a fact, not a mere opinion. Rocks on the surface of Mars recently have been found to display certain features that indicate water once was present there. Confidence is high that this is a fact, since the chemical and mechanical processes that shape rocks are well understood. Wishful thinking by NASA scientists cannot have produced the electronic images of those rocks, much less the contours and mineral inclusions of the rocks themselves. As on Mars, there are features of Earth that can be as they are only as the result of certain physical processes. The upper Jordan River deposits silt at the northern edge of the Sea of Galilee, so the lakeshore slowly advances southward. Clay that is made into ceramic vessels retains the chemical composition of the patch of ground where it was dug. Given a pottery sherd and the right black box, you can tell where the pot was crafted. Given the present topology of the Kinneret lakeshore, the probable rate of silting, and the number of centuries since the founding of Bethsaida-Julias by the shore, you can confirm the location of the ancient town. It is in this sense that one speaks of “the archaeological record.” But the term “record” is a metaphor, and as Linda Patrik has astutely remarked, there are two different ways in which to construe the process through which past events were recorded in the earth. One way is the causal process just described, where the configuration of the earth is an effect of that which it is taken to record. In this case, the archaeological record indicates past events in much the same way that a black box detects the phenomena that it is designed to find. No human motivations enter into the configuration of such a “record.” By contrast, the other recording process is a deliberate initiative by someone to communicate something, so that the configuration observed in the earth is a symbol of something else. This symbolic record is an artifact: human motivation entered into the causal processes to fashion their configuration.

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The difference between the two recording processes is the difference between the accidental and the deliberate.2 In practice, any human habitation site exhibits both kinds of information, often in the same piece of material. The crucial distinction to make, while constituting excavated material as “data,” is to sort out those aspects that were caused by unchosen physical processes, from those that were chosen among alternative possibilities. Ceramic sherds illustrate this. Given a piece of an ancient pot, the unchosen or so-called natural components of its condition include the chemical composition of the clay (indicating its source nearby or far away), the degree of calcification along the broken edges (indicating whether the break occurred centuries ago or during excavation), its placement in the earth above older material and beneath more recent material (provided that it was not found in a disturbed area such as a trash pit or a plowed field), and its proximity to other materials (such as an oven with remains of burned fuel, in a layer sealed by the collapse of a roof ). The accidental, inadvertent character of the association of potsherds with other items within a sealed locus is one of the most important principles of scientific inference in archaeology. Everything in such a sealed locus must have gone out of use at the same moment. In some cases, that moment can be identified by references in ancient texts, such as the destruction of the towns of Gamla and Yodefat during the Jewish war described by the historian Josephus in his books. Or perhaps a coin is found with the sherd, inscribed with a name or date. The coin’s design obviously offers information that was laid down deliberately. Although the dropping of the coin was probably inadvertent, the minting of the coin was deliberate and was meant to communicate just those political assertions that can still be read off of it today. The principle of dating through association is supported by the physical recording connection, in Patrik’s terminology. Physical laws insure that coins and potsherds stay put in the earth where they are dropped, unless and until they are disturbed by physical processes like erosion or earthquakes, or until someone digs them up. But this principle is used in tandem with several other principles that, as it happens, are not so securely founded in brute inexorable forces like gravity. For example, archaeologists take it to be axiomatic that pottery styles are distinctive to the cultural group that manufactures them, and that the styles gradually change over time. But for these two axioms, there is no physical

2

Patrick 1985; discussed in Sawicki 1994, 333–38.

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necessity. To be sure, potters are constrained by their materials and the function that the pot is to accomplish. They use local clay, they form it to be concave enough to retain fluid, and they fire it to render the surface impenetrable. But optional decisions enter into the creation of pots at two levels. First, there is the decision to make a pot at all, and then to do so with a specific purpose in mind. Pots do not cause themselves automatically. Second, there is the decision how much effort to expend on inessential features like decoration or the curve of the lip or handle of the vessel, and how exactly to render those features most pleasing and attractive. Tastes and skills tend to remain constant within cultural groups, changing very slowly over generations. This yields a principle of cultural conservatism in pot design, from which arises a black-box phenomenon in the construction of archaeological data. Accordingly, sherds that exhibit a certain material composition and aesthetic design may come to be associated with a distinct cultural group. Conversely, the existence of a group may be inferred from a cluster of distinctive potsherds. Or, the existence of two different cultural groups may be inferred from the fact that two different kinds of potsherds have been found. Or, venturing further out along the limb of inference, perhaps it is denied that there could have been any cultural (religious) differences among the inhabitants of a place since no variations in their potsherds have been found. Or, perhaps it is denied that habitation continued at a site where the sherds do not exhibit the expected stylistic changes. This result is reached through an invalid inference: styles must always evolve because they can evolve and have evolved. How strong is the principle of cultural conservatism? At best, it is a rule of thumb: differences in pot design suggest differences of culture and/or of time. Ceramic forms somewhat resemble languages, gradually evolving. But in practice, this axiom functions rhetorically to expand the range of features that are attributed to the material recording function. In a kind of creeping physicalism, this principle assigns to aesthetic choices about pot design the kind of certainty that rightly attaches only to physical laws of gravity, erosion, or genetic mutation. Taken to its absurd extreme, it yields a dictum that a potter cannot possibly make a pot in a style identical to that of his ancestors two centuries earlier, or in the style of his neighbor of different cultural background. The unlikely turns into the impossible. It is crucial to keep in mind that archaeological findings are produced as inferences based on ambiguous and fragmentary physical finds. The direction of the inference matters, as when the existence (or, the absence)

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of a population is inferred from the features of potsherds and where they lay. The chains of inference that yield archaeological data, though long and complex, tend to contract in final reports, where they are presented in abbreviated form. For example, “black-box” phenomena are downplayed or excised so that “indicator sherds” simply stand for populations. In the background is the role of the expert examiners who classified the newly unearthed sherds as identical in style with other sherds of known date and culture. Classification of aesthetic forms involves nuanced discernment and interpretation, quite unlike the automatic registration of water or its lack by our hypothetical water detector or the confident reading of a watery past for Mars from photos of its sedimentary rock. Axiomatic principles, black-box instrumentalities of detection, and reliance on authoritative experts all are factors that contribute to scientific investigations in many disciplines. They are called middle-range theories, because they mediate observation by standing between and connecting the physical materials and the articulated hypotheses in which historical knowledge of facts and forces is expressed. Science as we know it cannot do without them. The practice of objectivity merely requires that we keep in mind the formative function of the middle range theories in the production of data. By the same token, objectivity requires that we consider whether there may be other, unrecognized and unacknowledged middle-range theories at work in the construction of a particular data set. One glaring example is the cluster of assumptions related to gender and family. Western archaeologists are prone to project a nuclear patrilocal family structure onto the interpretation of housing designs excavated in Galilee. This assumption wrongly rules out, in advance, the possibility of finding evidence of the sort of cultural contact routinely expected and found by archaeologists working in other situations of conquest and cultural imperialism. For example, those who cook meals with indigenous foods might be local women, working for wages in a house where those who consume the meals are male conquerors newly arrived from elsewhere. In such a situation—which is not only theoretically possible but, based on textual evidence, rather likely for Galilee in the first centuries b.c.e. and c.e.—the potsherds obviously cease to be infallible indicators of “the” cultural identity of such a household. It would be a mixed household with an internal gendered cultural frontier.3 3

Jodi Magness (2002) argues to the contrary, that the occupying Roman forces of the

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2. Whom Did the Hasmoneans Conquer? The Judean Temple state, under Hasmonean administration, launched a military campaign to annex Samaria and Galilee. This conquest took place during the late second through the early first centuries b.c.e. The justification for it is found in 1 Maccabees 5:14–23: some Judeans who were resident in Galilee appealed to Jerusalem for help. Galilee is portrayed in the text as a kind of irredenta, that is, a region with a minority ethnic population that is oppressed by the majority population and therefore stands in need of rescue. From the perspective of the Judeans, the war of conquest is a restoration of the Land of Israel to dimensions resembling those of the Davidic empire before the secession of the Northern Kingdom about 922 b.c.e. Mordechai Aviam cites this passage in his discussion of the archaeological evidence of the Hasmonean conquest. If Galilee of the late second century b.c.e. had a minority population who claimed ethnic affinity with the Judeans, where did they come from? The Israelite population of the Galilee had been deported in the eighth century by the Assyrians, “almost completely” as Aviam says.4 He surmises that a very few escaped deportation, and that those survivors “gradually concentrated in the western part of Lower Galilee.”5 By the fifth and fourth centuries b.c.e., people of non-Israelite culture had gradually moved from the coastal region eastward and southward into mostly abandoned areas of Galilee and slowly repopulated them. Another possibility, not explicitly mentioned by Aviam, is that some Judeans might have moved north into Galilee before Hasmonean times. Aviam cites additional biblical texts that presume continuity of a “Jewish” presence in a few towns in western lower Galilee after the eighth-century deportation. Yet he cautions that there are no Galilean sites for which Tenth Legion in the first three centuries c.e. in Judea used kitchen implements entirely different from those found in indigenous Judean households of the same era. But the ceramic evidence that Magness presents cannot support this claim. Magness’s sample is not representative, since she does not report an entire assemblage of potsherds from any kitchen associated with the Roman occupation camps at Jerusalem. She examined only the sherds of a nearby Roman kiln works—which quite plausibly manufactured only those pans and utensils that legion chefs could not obtain from local indigenous potters. Magness’s evidence is entirely consistent with the scenario that she claims to rule out: that local people worked for the Romans in camp kitchens furnished both with pots of traditional indigenous design and with pots made specially at the new Roman kiln works for exotic Italian recipes. 4 Aviam 2004, 41. 5 Ibid., 42, 49.

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excavators can securely establish habitation in the post-deportation era, that is, the seventh-sixth centuries b.c.e. Aviam thus offers a very carefully nuanced presentation of the divergence of the archaeological record from the textual record. The biblical texts affirm that non-Judean Israelite people continued to inhabit a few villages in western lower Galilee after the Assyrian deportation of the eighth century. These were survivors of the ten northern tribes, the Kingdom of Israel, which had seceded from the Davidic empire after the death of Solomon. On the other hand, “no solid evidence” of them has been reported by archaeologists. What would count as “solid evidence” of that non-Judean Israelite habitation in Galilee after the deportation, which the biblical texts presume ( Judith 1:8, 2 Kings 21:19 and 2 Kings 23:36).6 The answer is: distinctive potsherds. In other words, ceramics of similar material composition and evolving styles would be found in habitation layers both above and below a layer of burning and destruction from the Assyrian conquest, indicating continuity of habitation by people of Israelite culture. No such continuity of sherds before and after the deportation has yet been reported by archaeologists. This lack of continuity pertains to larger towns, which tend to attract archaeological attention. The Galilean sites important enough to have been excavated stratigraphically separate rather neatly into two groups: those with sherds datable before the Assyrian deportation, and those with strata datable to the era of Hasmonean expansion.7 Strata datable as “Iron III” and “Persian” periods (733–586 and 586–322 b.c.e., respectively) are quite rare. For the larger towns, at least, it appears that pre-deportation sites were uninhabited afterwards, while post-deportation sites were founded in previously unoccupied locations. This still does not prove that Galilee was empty of people, Israelite or otherwise, in the seventh and sixth centuries b.c.e. It merely suggests that the larger towns either were abandoned, or were inhabited in a manner that did not add any novel layers or artifacts to be excavated by us. A few people could have lived in or near the ruins, in the seventh century, making pots that still looked like pre-deportation pots. The material remains of those people would be indistinguishable from those of the century before. 6 7

Cited by Aviam 2004, 24, with reference to Gal 1992, 106. Cf. 2 Kings 17:24–28. Reed 2003, 33, illustrates this in a chart.

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But not everyone lived in a town of notable size. For tiny hamlets and farmsteads, there has been no stratigraphic excavation. The locations of many small localities mentioned in ancient texts are not even known today. There is another archaeological technique, besides stratigraphic excavation, for gathering data about habitation in areas of low population density. It is the surface survey, a systematic collection of all potsherds and other artifacts that turn up on the surface of the ground across a wide area. By definition, the sherds collected are not associated with any stratum or datable level of habitation. They are associated only with a place (specifiable by latitude and longitude). Presumably they arrive at the surface of the ground by having been dropped there or by being exposed through erosion, or turned up through plowing or burrowing animals. The presence of a sherd or other artifact indicates only that human beings were once here, not when or why they were here, much less who they were. But in combination with prior stratigraphic findings, the data of a surface survey can yield additional information. The principle of analogy functions as a middle range theory to permit this extrapolation. This principle states that two sherds of similar composition and design must be of similar age and origin. Thus, a ceramic sherd that turns up in a surface survey is compared to a reference collection of sherds whose ages and origins are already known through prior stratigraphic excavation and the principle of association. In other words, if a similar sherd was found elsewhere in a sealed locus together with a datable coin, then the new sherd acquires the date and origin of the reference sherd. Identification of sherds through comparison with reference sets is a skill practiced by experts with many years of field experience, and their prestige helps to secure the evidence of the new sherd. Relying on the principle of analogy and his own expertise in making comparisons to reference sets, Zvi Gal conducted a surface survey of Lower Galilee and published his findings in a dissertation in 1992. Gal covered more than 80 sites whose names are known, and his is the most comprehensive data set available for Galilee. He classified the sherds he found by comparing them with sherds whose origin and date already were established. Let us assume that Gal collected carefully, and that a representative sample of all extant potsherds happened to rise to the surface of the ground where he could pick them up; this is the methodological premise of the surface survey, and it can be granted for the sake of the argument. Gal reported that he could date almost

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none of the sherds he found to the seventh or sixth century b.c.e. That literally means: no one in Galilee made pots that resembled pots made outside Galilee in the seventh and sixth century b.c.e. Gal’s evidence is perfectly consistent with a scenario where people in Galilee, though reduced in number, still continued to make pots in the seventh and sixth centuries that resembled pots made in Galilee before the eighthcentury deportation of their ancestors’ neighbors. Since, by conventional wisdom, there “is no” Israelite habitation in Galilee after the Assyrian conquest, there is no reference set of sherds identifying Israelite populations in seventh- and sixth-century Galilee. Therefore, no matter what Gal found, he could not have dated it to the seventh or sixth century, since there was no criterion for comparison. The argument is absolutely circular. It is built to conceal the perfectly plausible case in which the pottery signature for post-deportation Israelite Galileans was identical with that for pre-deportation Israelite Galileans. Thus, if Galilean Israelites made any pots in the seventh or sixth century, the sherds will be (mis)classified as eighth-century sherds, on the basis of the available reference set, which was assembled from pre-deportation sites. Gal’s findings are widely interpreted as evidence that Galilee was empty of population after the Assyrian deportation and remained so during the seventh and sixth centuries b.c.e. On this view, non-Israelite populations began to drift back in to the unoccupied land in the fifth and fourth centuries, so that by the time of the Hasmonean invasion in the late second century, the indigenous population of Galilee was gentile, with the exception of those few Judeans who might be found in isolated pockets in western lower Galilee. But that view cannot be supported. The evidence of Gal’s surface survey is insufficient to rule out continuity of kinship and culture between the Israelite non-Judean population of Galilee before Assyrian deportation, and people in the third and second century b.c.e. who could claim to be their descendants. Granted, the Hasmoneans encountered plenty of non-Israelite people and places when they invaded Galilee. Whether these “gentiles” were absolutely avoided by the indigenous non-Judean Israelite Galileans, whether they had some trade contacts among their respective villages, whether they occasionally intermarried and, if so, what the effects were for their experiences of ethnic and religious identity are issues that cannot be addressed on the basis of presently available archaeological evidence. Aviam found that some

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of the people whom the Hasmoneans conquered were using a plain utilitarian kind of storage jar, made of what Aviam called Galilean Coarse Ware or GCW. At a few sites, sherds of GCW were found near figurines, suggesting that such jars and their contents were acquired by households that sheltered individuals of non-Israelite or laxly Israelite religious sensibilities. GCW in itself is not “pagan.”8 In the absence of decisive evidence, what can account for the tenacity of the thesis that Galilee remained unpopulated in the seventh and sixth centuries b.c.e.? This thesis is ideological and serves—today as it did 22 centuries ago—to justify the Hasmonean imperial program of restoration of ancestral territories, with Judeans standing in for the supposedly long-vanished Galilean Israelites. It projects a neat binary opposition—Gentiles versus Jews ( Judeans)—by erasing any inconvenient indigenous people who were non-Judean, non-gentile, and too poor to care much about rituals, tithes, baths, betrothals, or cooking kosher with their GCW. One can then imagine that the Hasmoneans either slew all the gentile pagans, forcibly converted them, or drove them out of Galilee, clearing the way for the flourishing of a “pure Jewish” population in the first centuries b.c.e. and c.e.9 The thesis of a “pure Jewish/Judean” Galilee by the time of Jesus and Hillel is so tempting to Christian and Jewish scholars alike, that Zvi Gal’s dissertation is cited widely and uncritically as expert testimony confirming its main premise, the vanishing of Galilee’s indigenous Israelite population. For example, Jonathan L. Reed extrapolates well beyond Gal’s evidence, “essentially ruling out any direct continuity between the Northern Israelites and the first-century Galileans.”10 Reed’s overstatements go undetected, and he in turn is widely cited as the expert witness whose word guarantees the historicity of the claim that the only Israelite people in the Galilee of Jesus were the Judean versions recently imported by the Hasmoneans.11

8 Galilean Coarse Ware (GCW) is associated with the people whom the Hasmoneans conquered; see Aviam 2004, 46–49. In several places in upper Galilee and Yodfat, GCW was found near ceramics or stone or metal items decorated with human figures, although apparently not in the same locus with them. 9 The thesis of pure Judaism in Galilee by the first century c.e., especially in the city of Sepphoris, is advanced by Eric Meyers and his students. See Meyers 1992; Reed 2000; Chancey 2002. 10 Reed 2007, 27; see also 23–24. 11 John Dominic Crossan has endorsed Reed’s view. See Crossan and Reed 2001.

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Not evidence but ideology has foreclosed scholarly discussion of possible variant indigenous Israelite sentiments and practices in the Galilee of Jesus. The issues are important ones: how welcome were the Hasmonean administrators and landlords; how widespread was allegiance to the Jerusalem Temple; how important were the observances of caste, tithing, and purity regulations? Exactly whom did the Hasmoneans conquer, displace, employ, and tax? Did the in-migrating Judeans execute and banish the previous occupants of Galilee, or did they indenture and employ them, or could they intermarry with them? These issues would play out inter-generationally for over a century, with each successive generation encountering slightly altered terms of contact. In the wake of the conquering forces, the Hasmoneans established administrative outposts at strategic locations in the Galilee and the Golan. Judeans moved north to staff those outposts. Southern families settled in Galilee and the Golan to develop farms, olive orchards, wineries, and other industries such as weaving and fish-packing. The benevolence of this takeover must not be assumed. 3. What Does Jewish Look Like? Jewish ethnicity and religious sensibility are difficult to define, even today among living people. Jewishness in the past is identified through judgments based on criteria, and those criteria are open to question. When archaeologists assert that an artifact, a building, or a city is “Jewish,” they mean that recognized indicators of Jewishness have been identified. Early reports from one of the excavators of Sepphoris, a Greco-Roman city in Galilee, insisted that this was “a Jewish city” in the first century c.e. and specified two indicators as criteria of Jewishness: the presence of stepped pools in domestic contexts, and the placement of tombs outside the city walls.12 In a 1994 article, I pointed to the rhetorical character of miqvaxot. These stepped pools do not simply indicate Jewishness as if they were caused effects of it. Rather, they assert a degree of concern about a particular version of Judaism and they enter into the contested construction of it.13 The implication is that “Jewishness” itself is not an inert fact but a cultural achievement that must constantly be renewed. 12 13

Meyers 1992, 87–88. Sawicki 1994, 341–43.

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Students of Meyers responded to this challenge. One branded my critique anti-Semitic.14 Reed carefully expanded the list of archaeological indicators of “Jewishness” to four, yet confined himself to things without addressing the manner in which the things accomplish the indicating. His list of Jewish indicators includes: cups or jars carved from stone; stepped pools (miqvaxot); implements for secondary burial, such as ossuaries or loculi tombs; and bone profiles that lack pork.15 Implicitly there is sometimes a fifth indicator: decoration when present is aniconic, without human and animal figures. An indicator, strictly speaking, must be present whenever what it indicates is present, and only then. Furthermore, the indicator must be causally produced; and the arrow of causality must go from the indicated entity to the indicator, not the other way around. In this case, “Jewishness” would have to be causing the production of stone vessels, miqvaxot, distinctive burial architecture, and pig-less bone assemblages; and this must invariably happen whenever “Jewishness” is present. Reed tries hard to make his data meet this standard, often by over-generalizing or extrapolating beyond the data. Two examples must suffice. Reed asserts that Nazareth exhibits “the same pattern in religious indicators,” presumably including bone profiles that lack pork, although he earlier noted that no bone profile had been reported for Nazareth.16 In another example, Reed states that the supposedly “Jewish” town of Capernaum lacks the indicator of a miqveh, but he attributes this lack to the relative poverty of the town and the nearness of the Sea of Galilee to accommodate ritual bathing.17 Thus it appears that miqvaxot are at best an indicator of wealthy urban landlocked Herodian-era Jewishness, not of Jewishness as such. Two of the Meyers-Reed indicators, miqvaxot and the architecture for secondary burial, when found in Galilee are best interpreted as cultural markers of expatriate Judeans. These forms originated in Judea, where they are well represented, and they first appear in Galilee with the coming of the Hasmonean administration. In addition, they require the expenditure of considerable wealth. Nor do these forms persist in the archeological record much after the first century c.e.; even the miqvaxot are soon filled or converted to other uses. This architecture, 14 15 16 17

Peskowitz 1997; Sawicki 1997b. Reed 2000, 44, 28. Ibid., 56; cf. 50 n. 68. Ibid., 157–58.

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together with the innovation of the synagogue building itself, serves to assert Judean cultural identity in a context where it is contested. The two other indicators, stone cups and pig-free bone assemblages, are suggestive but ultimately admit of alternative interpretations. Aversion to pork is attested in ancient Egypt and may be a cultural preference of West Asian peoples, in contrast to those of Mediterranean ancestral stock. Small stone cups should be distinguished from large stone storage jars. The latter are quite expensive to make: a heavy block is quarried, transported to a shop, and turned on a lathe. The interior of the jar must be laboriously hollowed out. Stone jars indicate wealth, as do the domestic miqvaxot and the secondary burial implements, including ossuaries carved from stone. But a small stone cup with a handle can be carved without a lathe. More research is needed into the possible motivation for this design. Aviam, who also accepts “stone vessels” as indicators of a Jewish population, found that only a handful of sites yielded both stone vessels and ossuaries.18 4. Where and When Are the Edges of Judaism? We come now to a question exhaustively discussed by Shaye Cohen in relation to the textual record, though not the archaeological one.19 Today’s English word “Jewish” connotes both a religious and an ethnic identity. Both are shaped by many factors, including the early experiences and texts of the people of Israel as well as historical experiences in medieval and modern Europe. The word “Jewish” inexactly translates Ioudaios, following linguistic usage in Hellenistic literature that in turn reflects the Judean hegemony achieved by the Hasmonean conquest of all Israel. Strictly speaking, the term “Jewish” is anacronistic when applied to the first centuries b.c.e. and c.e. In that era there are Judeans, some of whom live in Galilee. Quite likely, there are also Galileans of Israelite heritage and practice who do not identify as Judeans. Outside of the Land of Israel, “Judean” can signify anyone who honors the religious heritage of Israel or observes some of its practices, such as taking the weekend off. “Being Jewish” is not a physical fact in the first centuries. It is a project, a rhetorical achievement that must be constantly negotiated. This

Aviam 2004, 19. Cohen 1999. I am indebted to Cohen’s research, arguments, and opinions in what follows, but my application to Galilee and Judea of the first centuries b.c.e. and c.e. make extrapolations that he might not endorse. 18

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is owing in part to the kinship- and caste-based character of Israelite identity. Maintenance of a lineage requires marriage to brides of similar lineage for the sons in each generation. Lineage, in turn, is not a readily observable quality. It too must be rhetorically constructed, even when times are good. In times of adversity, violence, economic hardship, war, political unrest—or, after an irredenta is forcibly annexed—auxiliary instrumentalities are called upon to strengthen kinship claims. Identity is secured into the past through visible elaborate practices of entombment. Identity is secured into the future through visible architectures of separation and definition: the synagogues, the miqvaxot, and the young people who are trained up in their proper use.20 I have argued that several important features of Judaism, as we know it, arise as resistive cultural responses to the material culture imposed on the Land of Israel by the Roman occupation.21 For example, the separate water systems of miqveh architecture respond symbolically to the secularization of urban water in Jerusalem by Roman-style aqueduct design. Reed and J. D. Crossan have picked up on this idea, and they discuss ritual aspects of Judaism as modes of resistance to the “twin imperialisms” of Hellenistic culture and Roman military domination.22 Here the Meyers-Reed indicators of Judaism, especially stone cups and miqvaxot, are recast, correctly in my view, as modalities of resistance. But this was not resistance to Greek culture. It must be remembered that Hellenism came to Galilee with the Hasmoneans. Their “Judaism” was already Hellenistic, notwithstanding the original anti-Hellenism of the first-generation Maccabees. A military expedition to conquer neighboring territory and to restore its cultural integrity (as seen from the conquerors’ perspective) is a rather “Greek” thing to do. John Hyrcanus named a son after Alexander. Grown to manhood, Alexander Janneus emulated his namesake. The impulse to draw and defend sharp distinctions between “Jewish” and everything else—Greek, Roman, pagan, gentile, Galilean, unobservant, illegitimate, indigenous, peasant—was vigorously operative in Galilee during the first centuries b.c.e. and c.e. Let us distinguish four

Sawicki 2000, 124–25. Sawicki 2000, 116–25; 1997a. Andrea M. Berlin concurs with their view, asserting that “the archaeological evidence demonstrates that for over two generations [before the first revolt], Galilean Jews resisted Rome—individually, collectively, consistently, and actively.” See Berlin 2002, 70. 22 Resistance expressed through material culture is argued throughout Crossan and Reed 2001. E.g., 137ff., 161ff. 20 21

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different situations in which Judaism would need to undergo construction, definition, and reinforcement at its edges. The first situation is cities outside the historic land of Israel. Jews lived in Alexandria in Egypt, for example, as an expatriate minority population, that is, a diaspora. The second situation is Judea under Roman administration. Jews lived in Jerusalem, for example, as an indigenous people occupied, oppressed, collaborating, and to various degrees culturally subverted by Romans. The third situation is Galilee at the time of Judas Maccabaeus. Jews (i.e., Judeans) lived in a few small towns in western Galilee as an expatriate minority; this was the irredenta whose beleaguered minority population wrote home to Jerusalem to appeal for assistance in their conflicts with neighbors who were non-Judean, by definition, but maybe not all non-Israelite. The fourth situation is Galilee some 100 years later, on the eve of Herod’s conquest. Jews ( Judeans) now lived in Zippori, for example, as settlers and administrators of the recently annexed territory undergoing economic development. The last is the situation at issue here. Its Judaism has fragile edges indeed. Jerusalem’s economic and cultural hegemony is projected northward through a class of trusted administrators and managers in Galilee. They identify with the south through business and family ties. They become “even more” Jewish than their Judean cousins, in part through the costly architectural rhetoric of their domestic miqvaxot, synagogues, stone jars, and ossilegium burial. With sufficient disposable income, they are able to emulate the lifestyle of Jerusalem’s leading families in comfortable villas with triklinai (Greek-style dining rooms) and they presumably employ appropriate domestic staff. These expatriate Judeans maintain caste status through careful betrothal strategies. The most fragile and vulnerable edge of their Judaism is the intergenerational one. By definition, an Israelite family remains such only if it can marry its sons to daughters of other Israelite families. Failure, for whatever reason, results in out-caste offspring, whose descendants forever remain non-Israelite. This is what “Israelite” meant in theory, as opposed to everyday practices. Poverty, displacement, and takeover of one’s land by expatriates are all reasons why families might fail to arrange caste-preserving marriages for their children. But children continued to be born anyway. One effect of the heightened attention to sharp edges for Judaism, in Hasmonean-occupied Galilee, is the growth of a shadow population who are placed outside of that Judaism by those who claim to be inside. That population, am ha-{aretz, becomes the “non-Jews.” In Hasmonean and Herodian Galilee, they stand in for the gentiles or Philistines of bygone days.

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The paragraphs just above do not report “facts” as such, much less scientifically established conclusions. At the outset, this essay asserted that the promise of Galilee beckons toward careful critical scientific investigation of data, including where data come from. There are no infallible black-box indicators to unambiguously identify “Jewish” artifacts, architectures, buildings, cities, or towns in the archaeological record. At best, the material remains may be consistent with someone’s strategy for securing the edges of Judaism against countervailing factors such as time, military conquest, economic pressure, cultural variance, or human biology. Conversely, no conclusion is established as long as alternative hypotheses can be entertained that fit the data just as well or better. The “fourth situation” suggested above—Herod enters a Galilee already occupied by expatriate Judean settlers holding themselves apart from indigenous peasants—is a hypothesis that fits present data and provides an orientation for future investigation.23 5. Who Wouldn’t Marry Jesus of Nazareth? Enter Herod the Great in the middle of the first century b.c.e. Supposedly he is “Jewish” in the Jerusalem style and is even betrothed to a bride of impeccable priestly caste, the princess Mariammē of the Hasmonean line. Herodian manipulations of the Israelite caste system are astounding in their subtlety and their boldness. Herod does Jewish in a pragmatically Roman way. An era of cultural and economic pressure now overtakes occupied Galilee along with the rest of the Land of Israel. Where does Jesus of Nazareth map onto this complex landscape of caste, political loyalty, economic interest, cultural taste, and religious observance?24 The strongest hypothesis places Jesus in a kin group originating in Judea, with forebears who emigrated to Galilee in the wake of the Hasmonean takeover. But a defect of caste has been incurred in the generation of Jesus. This might be merely a technical defect owing to his mother’s presence in Sepphoris on the day it fell to Varus after siege in 4 b.c.e. (suggested by m. Ketubbot 2:9), or it might have been something more troubling. The legal effect was the same. Mary The edges of the three demographic groups are to be sought. For their expected archaeological signatures, see Sawicki 2000, 138–41. 24 The answer must meet the criterion of contextual plausibility, and should also permit an alignment of Jesus with the tradition of Jewish non-violent resistance, as convincingly argued by Freyne 2004, 22, 169 and passim. 23

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subsequently could not marry a high-caste boy, so she was married off to a peasant. Some fifteen years later, Jesus is observant enough of the caste practices of his maternal grandfather’s home that he declines to marry, since his offspring would inherit his defective caste. They could not be pure Israelites.25 Recently, Halvor Moxnes has offered a brilliant and provocative alternative hypothesis to explain the anomalous status of Jesus as an unmarried man. Moxnes invokes Queer Theory in a powerful re-examination of Jesus’ uses of place and places, especially houses. Or rather, Moxnes focuses his investigation entirely upon ancient texts about space and spaces. The raw data under investigation are texts, not concrete places. These texts are presumed to give access to Jesus’s behaviors and intentions with regard to concrete places.26 I heartily recommend and look forward to applications of Moxnes’s analysis beyond texts, that is, to real physical places, spaces, architectures, routes, cityscapes, and Galilean material culture in general. To the extent that traces of these still exist in the earth and invite observation, archaeological investigations must be undertaken to substantiate or disconfirm his thesis. One cannot extrapolate concrete anthropological and sociological data about households in first-century Galilee out of twentieth-century generalized theories, as “social science theories” of biblical interpretation are wont to do. Meanwhile, the more plausible account of Jesus’s decision not to marry (if indeed he was unmarried, which cannot be known with certainty) is that he accepted the caste system as recognized in the home of an expatriate Judean maternal grandfather. No Jewish/Judean betrothal was possible for him, nor did he turn to a local girl of the am ha{aretz. On my view, no pure-caste Israelite girl would have him, and for his part did he want to start a family with an out-caste peasant as his mother had to do. Such a course of action is entirely conventional, even socially conservative, and it would have been chosen at a rather young age.27

25 That is, no legal marriage is arranged for him and he declines opportunities for a less formal liaison. See Sawicki 2000, 184–98 and passim. 26 Moxnes 2003. On the deviance of the maleness of Jesus, see Sawicki 2000, 186–87. 27 That is, no pure-caste girl’s father would have him for a son-in-law. It was not up to the girl.

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But this account does not rule out the possibility that Jesus grew queerer, in Moxnes’s sense of the term, as he matured and reflected on his situation, which was hardly unique in his generation. It was queer indeed of Jesus to call God “Father,” making the whole earth into one patrilineal household and all human beings into brothers and sisters. No bastards for this Father. Here would be the ultimate repudiation of caste, whose reality the younger Jesus had accepted. The sense of this emerges on the painful edge between Judean and indigenous Galilean sensibilities. Bibliography Aviam, M. 2004. Jews, Pagans and Christians in the Galilee: 25 Years of Archaeological Excavations and Surveys, Hellenistic to Byzantine Periods. Rochester, N.Y. Berlin, A. M., and J. A. Overman, eds. 2002. The First Jewish Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology. London and New York. Berlin, A. M. 2002. Romanization and anti-Romanization in pre-Revolt Galilee. Pages 57–73 in The First Jewish Revolt. Edited by A. M. Berlin and J. A. Overman. London and New York. Chancey, M. A. 2002. The Myth of a Gentile Galilee. SNTS Monograph Series 118. Cambridge. Cohen, S. J. D. 1999. The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties. Berkeley. Crossan, J. D. and J. L. Reed. 2001. Excavating Jesus: Beneath the Stones, Behind the Texts. San Francisco. Freyne, S. 2004. Jesus, a Jewish Galilean: A New Reading of the Jesus-Story. London and New York. Gal, Z. 1992. Lower Galilee During the Iron Age. ASOR Dissertation Series 9. Translated by M. R. Josephy. Winona Lake, Ind. Latour, B. and S. Woolgar. 1986. Laboratory Life: The Construction of Scientific Facts. Princeton. Magnes, J. 2002. In the Footsteps of the Tenth Roman Legion in Judea. Pages 189–212 in The First Jewish Revolt. Edited by A. M. Berlin and J. A. Overman. London and New York. Meyers, E. M. 1992. The Challenge of Hellenism for Early Judaism and Christianity. BA 55:84–91. Moxnes, H. 2003. Putting Jesus in His Place: A Radical Vision of Household and Kingdom. Louisville and London. Overman, J. A. 2002. The First Revolt and Flavian Politics. Pages 213–220 in The First Jewish Revolt. London and New York. Patrik, L. E. 1985. Is There An Archaeological Record? Advances in Archaeological Method and Theory 8:27–62. Peskowitz, M. 1997. Empty Fields and the Romance of the Holy Land: A Response to Marianne Sawicki’s “Archaeology” of Judaism, Gender, and Class. Method & Theory in the Study of Religion 9:259–82. Reed, J. L. 2000. Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of the Evidence. Harrisburg, Pa. Rousseau, J. J. and R. Arav. 1995. Jesus and His World: An Archaeological and Cultural Dictionary. Minneapolis, Mon.

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Sawicki, M. 1994. Archaeology as Space Technology: Digging for Gender and Class in Holy Land. Method & Theory in the Study of Religion 6:319–48. ———. 1997a. Spatial Management of Gender and Labor in Greco-Roman Galilee. Pages 7–28 in Archaeology and the World of Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Roman and Byzantine Periods, 727. University of South Florida Studies in Judaica. Edited by D. R. Edwards and T. McCollough. Atlanta. ———. 1997b. Having Been Outed as a Crypto-Christian Anti-Semite, Can One Say “Shalom”? Method & Theory in the Study of Religion 9:283–93. ———. 2000. Galilee: Architectures of Contact in the Occupied Land of Jesus. Harrisburg, Pa. Woolgar, S. 1988. Science: The Very Idea. London.

STRATUM II SYNAGOGUE AT HAMMATH TIBERIAS: RECONSIDERING ITS ACCESS, INTERNAL SPACE, AND ARCHITECTURE1 Zeev Weiss Throughout the Roman and Early Byzantine periods, Tiberias played a significant role in the Jewish settlement of the Galilee as well as a center of learning and leadership for the Jews of ancient Palestine and the Diaspora. Synagogues have been an integral part of life in this Jewish city since the Great Revolt against Rome, the Yavnean period, and after the Bar-Kokhba revolt, however the bulk of information about synagogues comes from the third and fourth centuries c.e. Rav Ami and Rav Asi tell us that in their lifetime, the early fourth century c.e., the city of Tiberias boasted thirteen synagogues; nevertheless, “they would not pray anywhere but between the pillars where they studied” (b. Ber. 8a).2 Several of the synagogues in Tiberias are mentioned in rabbinic literature, and some are known by name—of people, a nearby building, the origin of the congregation, or a profession.3 Based on the Tosefta that views Tiberias and Hammath as one city at this time, it may be assumed that the list of synagogues in Tiberias included those in nearby Hammath (t. {Erub. 5, 2). One should add to the list of synagogues in Tiberias known to us from talmudic literature three structures that have been exposed at the site to date. The remains of one synagogue in use from the fifth to seventh centuries c.e. were partially excavated within the city limits,4 and two more structures were discovered in the vicinity of Hammath Tiberias—one in 1920/21 by Nahum Slouschz south of

This is a revised and updated version of Weiss 1992, 320–26. For the use of the number thirteen and the existence of thirteen synagogues in Tiberias, see Miller 1998, 55–58. 3 Synagogue of Bar {Ulla: j. Šabb. 4 2, 7a; synagogue of Tarsians: Šeqal. 2, 7, 47a; synagogue of the boule: j. Ta{an. 1, 1, 64a; synagogue of the Babylonians: j. Yoma 7, 1, 44b. One of the inscriptions found in Tiberias refers to a synagogue of the Antiochans that most probably existed in the city; see Di Segni 1988, 83–84. 4 Berman 1988, 49–52. 1 2

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Tiberias’s city wall, and the other between 1961 and 1965 by the late Moshe Dothan just south of it, near its hot springs.5 In fact, two stages of the synagogue—one on top of the other—were uncovered by Dothan at the latter site, each exhibiting a different plan and a number of internal changes. The earlier synagogue (Stratum II) is a broadhouse structure, and the later one (Stratum I), built on top of the former, is an elongated basilica with a southern external apse facing Jerusalem, the direction of prayer. These synagogues served the Jewish community of Hammath from the third to mid eighth centuries c.e.6 During this long period of close to five hundred years, the country witnessed veritable upheavals; the transition from pagan Roman rule to Byzantine-Christian hegemony, and ultimately to Umayyad Muslim authority, influenced and also left its mark on the inhabitants of Hammath Tiberias. The members of the local community, from both the third–fourth centuries c.e. and the fifth or seventh century c.e., built their synagogues with the contributions from private benefactors and planned these edifices so that they would meet their religious needs. Doing this, however, they were greatly influenced by the architecture and art that surrounded them. The excavation finds from Hammath Tiberias enhance our knowledge of matters beyond architecture, art, and Jewish epigraphy, also apprising us of the donors and their contributions, their language, cultural influences, and even of the Patriarchal court in Tiberias in the fourth century c.e.7 This article will discuss the earlier synagogue, Stratum II according to Dothan’s terminology, and raise a number of questions regarding his

5 Slouschz 1921, 5–27. This synagogue was re-excavated in the early 1970s; see Oren 1971, 277. 6 Dothan 1983; Dothan and Johnson 2000. According to D. Milson (2004, 45–56), the latest synagogue at Hammath Tiberias was modified into a church at some point, although he cannot point the precise date of this change. Milson’s evidence is not at all convincing. The fact that the apse met the southern wall of the building is not sufficient for proving that this was a late addition. The existence of a small apse in the western courtyard, as well as a water channel adjacent to it, is unique to this building, despite the fact that water installations were common in other synagogues. Therefore, it is difficult to conclude that this was a church baptistery. Milson does not at all relate to the fact that the apse faces south, toward Jerusalem, nor does it explain how it harmonizes with church liturgy. Above all, Milson, for some reason, ignores the fact that in the mosaic pavement in the late building, that which he wishes to identify as a church, we find a seven-branched menorah. This detail essentially dismisses Milson’s entire theory; see Dothan and Johnson 2000, 45–52. 7 Levine 2003, 97–115.

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proposed reconstruction. A suggestion will be made for an alternative reconstruction of this synagogue’s plan. Stratum II: The Finds According to Dothan, the Stratum II synagogue comprises two stages (fig. 1). The earlier one (Stratum IIb) was built in the first half of the third century c.e. The building is an imperfect square measuring 14 × 11.5 m., whose interior was divided into four spaces by three rows of columns. One aisle lies west of the nave, and two aisles east of it. A rectangular hallway (Locus 34) on the southern side of the building was accessed through an opening on its eastern side. An additional room north of the building was reached through the prayer hall (Locus 89). The building was constructed of limestone and basalt covered with white plaster on both sides. Painted plaster fragments found in the debris indicate that the walls of the building’s interior were adorned with colorful decorations as well as inscriptions. Both the building and the southern room had mosaic floors.8 According to Dothan, the synagogue was partially destroyed in the earthquake that hit ancient Palestine in 306 c.e. In its wake, the local residents renovated the synagogue, creating Stratum IIa, which retained the original plan but underwent a number of internal changes: An additional room was built east of the hallway at the southern end of the building (Locus 36), thus blocking access to the building from that side; the hallway, now divided into a number of rooms and a bema (Locus 35), was built in the space opposite the nave. Ascent to the bema was via stairs from the nave, and access to the adjacent rooms was from the bema. In addition, the entire synagogue was laid with a new mosaic floor. It seems that attention was paid to the layout of the mosaic carpet in the nave, which was divided into three panels. The zodiac was placed in the floor’s focal point, to which two other, smaller, panels were added above and below, and along the building’s axis. The northern panel below the zodiac contains a Greek inscription flanked by two lions, while the southern panel above it and in conjunction with the bema included an architectural façade flanked on both sides by two menorot and other Jewish symbols. Geometric mosaics were placed in the aisles

8

Dothan 1983, 20–24.

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A

B Figs. 1A and 1B. Hammath Tiberias. Plans of the Stratum IIb (top) and Stratum IIa synagogues according to M. Dothan (1983, plan C and D, 22, 28).

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together with dedicatory inscriptions in Greek and Aramaic, each set in its own frame. Among the names of the donors is Severos, “disciple of the most illustrious Patriarchs.” Severos, whose name appears twice in the mosaic, was probably one of the main benefactors involved in beautifying this synagogue.9 The remaining walls of the building show no evidence of entrances to the synagogue at either stage of its existence. To overcome this obstacle, the excavator compared the synagogue at Hammath Tiberias to contemporary synagogues and suggested the following reconstruction of the entrances. Despite the unique nature of the Stratum IIb synagogue, Dothan reconstructed an entrance in the building’s southern wall, as was typical in the “Galilean” synagogues.10 Accordingly, the entrance to the synagogue was from the east through the hallway located in the south. From this hallway, one turned north and passed through an opening in Wall 119, which separated this room from the prayer hall. Since this wall is preserved to an average height of 50 cm. above the floor of the hallway and synagogue hall, it was necessary to climb stairs on one side of the wall and go down stairs on the other. The excavator assumed that the stairs were constructed of wood, as no evidence or indication of stone stairs had been found.11 After the destruction of the building and its reconstruction in the early fourth century c.e., the doorway was moved to the northern wall (Wall 122) of the synagogue.12 Doubts and Reservations Dothan’s interpretation of the finds and reconstruction of the synagogue in both stages raise a number of problems with regard to the location of the synagogue’s doorways in each stage.

9 Ibid., 27–70. Levine (2003, 97–103) maintains that the Greek and Latin names of the patrons, the dominant role of Greek language in the synagogue floor, and the high quality of the mosaic demonstrate the degree of acculturation among the wealthy benefactors of this building. 10 The use of terminology that labels synagogues of monumental character as “Galilean” and “Early” does not indicate this author’s opinion concerning the absolute date of these synagogues. This terminology is used only to simplify any comparisons with the terminology used in Dothan’s final report (1983). 11 Ibid., 21. 12 Ibid., 28–32.

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The suggested reconstruction of the Stratum IIb synagogue is based on its similarity to the building plans of “Galilean” synagogues having a southern entrance. Although the Hammath Tiberias synagogue does not boast the monumental profile typifying the “Galilean” synagogues,13 one may ask whether its architectural remains are typologically close enough to those of the “Galilean” synagogues to support the reconstruction of a southern entrance in this synagogue as well? The Hammath Tiberias synagogue bears no similarities to the “Galilean” synagogue. Not only is it not a monumental building, but it is built asymmetrically;14 our building is a broadhouse structure with four aisles whereas the other synagogues have only three;15 furthermore, it does not have the stone benches that characterize the “Galilean” synagogues. The plan of the “Galilean” synagogues did not necessarily influence the construction of other synagogues in the region, not even those nearby. The Meiron synagogue and the prayer hall in nearby Khirbet Shema‘ are a case in point. According to the excavators, both synagogues were built in the second half of the third century c.e.16 The Meiron synagogue has three entrances in its southern wall, whereas the broadhouse structure at Khirbet Shema{ has two, one in the north and the other in the east. The early fifth-century c.e. synagogue at Sepphoris, whose architectural plan stands in complete contrast to other “Galilean” synagogues found in nearby villages, like Yafia or Horvat {Ammudim, further supports our assumption.17 The Sepphoris synagogue is an elongated building (about 7.7 × 20.8 m.) facing away

Ibid., 24–26. The interior measurements of the building are not uniform; its width ranges from 12.55 m. in the north to 13.10 m. in the south. The length of the building in the west is 9.00 m. and in the east 10.20 m., including the niche in the northeastern corner. 15 Levine 1984, 287. For the current state of research regarding the date of the Galilean synagogues, see, e.g., Ma{oz 1996, 416–26; Magness 2001, 1–38; 2004, 507–25; Aviam 2001, 155–71; Foerster 2004, 526–29. 16 Meiron: Meyers, Strange, and Meyers 1981, 9–17; Khirbet Shema{: Meyers, Kraabel, and Strange 1976, 47–49, 73–76. Netzer (1996, 453–55) maintains that the synagogue at Khirbet Shema{ had only one stage into which minor changes were introduced in the course of its use. Magness, too (1997, 211–20), agrees that the synagogue had only one stage and, furthermore, was constructed only in the late fourth or early fifth century c.e. Strange, who excavated the synagogue together with E. M. Meyers, respond to Magness’s objection while maintaining earlier assumptions; see Strange 2004, 530–43. 17 Weiss 2005, 7–53. On Yafia and Horvat {Ammudim, see Sukenik 1951, 6–24; Levine 1982, 1–12. 13 14

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from Jerusalem, having only a single aisle at the northern end of its main hall and no benches. Even if the choice regarding the location of the entrance at Hammath Tiberias were influenced by “Galilean” synagogues, why was it necessary to add the southern hallway, which blocks the monumental entrance(s) that usually characterize(s) this type of synagogue? Additional rooms were annexed in several “Galilean” synagogues, but they were never built south of the entrance(s), which would block the monumental façade.18 Furthermore, even were we to assume that other synagogues were influenced by “Galilean” synagogues, it is difficult to reconstruct a similar entrance in the southern wall of the Hammath Tiberias synagogue. First of all, the southern wall of the prayer hall, which serves as a partition between the main hall and the southern hallway, stands an average of 45–50 cm. above the floor in both places; as the excavator has already stated, a wooden staircase on both sides of the wall enabled passage from one side to the other.19 The stairs in the hallway would block passageway to its western side, and in the prayer hall they would cover the mosaic close to the wall. What prevented the building planners from creating a doorway in this wall, which would have facilitated passage, especially if this was the central or only entrance to the Stratum IIb synagogue? Just as the eastern entrance to the hallway is on the same level as the floor of the hallway,20 it was certainly possible, from the outset, to have created a similar entrance in the wall separating the main hall and the hallway, since the floors of both areas rest on the same level.21 The reconstruction of an entrance in the southern wall of the Stratum IIb synagogue is not the only problematic issue. The assumption that the southern doorway was blocked and another was opened in its place in the northern wall of the Stratum IIa synagogue is also problematic. Dothan maintains that the addition of a room on the eastern side of the Stratum IIb hallway that blocked its eastern entrance, and the addition of pilasters to the building’s northern wall, are proof that the synagogue entrance was moved to the building’s northern wall, where

18 19 20 21

Meyers, Strange and Meyers 1979, 35–40. Dothan 1983, 21. Ibid., Pl. 6:1. Ibid., 20.

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three openings must be reconstructed.22 The fact that the entrance to the hallway was blocked at this stage does not necessarily prove that it was moved to the northern wall. The new entrance could have been relocated to one of the other walls in the building. It is probable that the northern wall had pilasters at some stage, however their unclear stratigraphical relationship with Room 89 at the northern end of the building is very interesting. According to Dothan, the addition of the pilasters in Stratum IIa caused the destruction of the room, but he does not provide any positive evidence to indicate that the room was no longer in use. Regarding the pilasters themselves, it is not clear what made him date them so clearly to Stratum IIa when he himself sensed the uniform character of the synagogue walls in each stage, emphasizing that it is impossible to distinguish between the walls in both stages.23 If we assume that the pilasters existed in the building’s first stage, then it would be difficult to ascertain what their function was together with the room—unless we agree with the excavator that the room was no longer in use in Stratum IIa. On the other hand, the lack of any real evidence of the room’s destruction makes it difficult to accept the excavator’s theory regarding the function of the pilasters. Even if we are to accept Dothan’s stratigraphical analysis regarding the addition of pilasters in Stratum IIa, it is doubtful that these architectural elements indicate doorways in the northern wall. Since this wall borders with a courtyard or a street located north of the synagogue, the pilasters here were merely decorative, similar to those adorning the exterior walls of the Capernaum synagogue.24 Furthermore, the remains of the northern wall (Wall 122) stand an average of 25–30 cm. above the mosaic floor. No thresholds were found here in situ, however their existence is crucial if one wishes to reconstruct three entrances in this wall. The addition of such thresholds would add at least another 20 cm. to the level of the doorway, requirIbid., 28–30. Ibid., 21–22, 27. Although Dothan writes that the pilasters placed on the foundation of Wall 122 jut out from the wall and are located at the edge of Pit 87, is this sufficient proof ? The fact that the pilasters jut out from the foundation wall does not prove that they belong to either Stratum IIb or Stratum IIa, for one can assume that the upper courses were originally the same width as the foundation wall and that the pilasters, some of which remain, jutted out from this wall and the foundation. 24 Kohl and Watzinger 1916, 6–8, Taf. II–VI. The decoration of the exterior walls of a building is known in Roman architecture, as, for instance, in the temples in Lebanon, Syria, and the Hauran; see Butler 1903, 66–69, 76–77, 354; 1907, 356–59; Taylor 1967, 118. 22 23

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ing one to walk down two or three stairs, which, according to Dothan, existed here in the past but did not leave any traces.25 Why was it necessary for the synagogue architects of Stratum IIa to reach a solution of this sort? In a synagogue where much effort was invested in beauty and aesthetics, it would have been possible to overcome the height differences by raising the synagogue floor or by lowering the courtyard north of the building, thereby avoiding the introduction of stairs along the interior of the entrances to the synagogue. In addition, these stairs would have been laid on top of the mosaic floor and would possibly have covered part of the important inscription listing the names of major donors that faced the conjectured entrance. Thus, just as we must reject the possibility that there was an entrance in the southern wall of the Stratum IIb synagogue, we must also be suspect of reconstructing three openings in the northern wall of the Stratum IIa synagogue. An Alternative Reconstruction Clarifying the location of the entrances in the Hammath Tiberias synagogue must include a renewed analysis of the building’s components. The solution to the problem involves defining the function of the additional eastern aisle. Prayer halls are usually divided symmetrically by two rows of columns into a main hall and two side aisles. The symmetry of the building’s internal space exists in many ancient synagogues throughout the Galilee, Golan, Jordan Valley, and Judaea, although the Sepphoris synagogue mentioned earlier sharply contrasts this concept.26 Generally speaking, when a synagogue’s internal space had to be enlarged, two symmetrical aisles were added on either side, as in the synagogue in Gaza.27 When comparing the plan of the early Hammath Tiberias synagogue (both strata) to other synagogues, the building appears to be a broad structure whose width is greater than its length. This was achieved by

25 Dothan 1983, 30. Does the excavator reconstruct wooden stairs here, too, as in the first stage? Note that Dothan’s proposed reconstruction of the Stratum IIa synagogue (ibid., 69) makes no mention that stairs were used to enter the synagogue. 26 On the different synagogues, see Foerster 1983, 231–56; Hachlili 1988, 141–60. For details about the Sepphoris synagogue and theories regarding its unique plan, see Weiss 2005, 49–50. 27 Ovadiah 1981, 129–32.

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adding another eastern aisle over and beyond the two existing ones— unlike other synagogues that had only two aisles. It has been suggested that the additional aisle served as a women’s section, replacing the gallery that some scholars believe existed in “Galilean” synagogues.28 However, three factors bear out that the opposite was the case: Talmudic sources show no indication that there was a separation of men and women in the synagogue;29 many synagogues in ancient Palestine and the Diaspora have no physical evidence of a gallery (in certain cases it is even clear that there could be no gallery); and there is no evidence of any kind to substantiate a separation in the prayer hall.30 Thus, the eastern aisle in the Hammath Tiberias synagogue should not be considered the women’s section of the synagogue. What was the function of this additional aisle, which is unique to the Hammath Tiberias synagogue? T. Meg. 3, 22 prescribes: “Synagogue entrances should be placed only in the east, for thus we found in the Tabernacle, that [its entrances] were oriented to the east.” Although very few of the synagogues in the Galilee meet this requirement, such a stipulation should not be considered a tradition reflecting only a Judaean context.31 Many of the synagogues in the Galilee were built with entrances on the southern or northern side of the building32—unlike the synagogues at Horvat Sumaqa, Arbel, Hammath Gader, and Ma{oz Hayyim, which were built with entrances on the eastern side of the building.33 It seems that the synagogue at Hammath Tiberias can be added to this last group. The entrance in the Hammath Tiberias synagogue was located in the eastern wall of the building, near the additional eastern aisle. This aisle appears to have functioned as a narthex, or vestibule, through which one entered the prayer hall; the prayer hall itself comprised a central

Sukenik 1934, 48; Avi-Yonah 1961, 163; Hachlili 1988, 194–96. Safrai 1963, 329–38; Levine 2005, 502–5. 30 The separation of men and women and the construction of women’s galleries began only at the end of the Byzantine or early Arab period; see Safrai 1989, 78–79. 31 The entrances in the Judaean synagogues of Eshtemoa, Susiya, Horvat Ma{on, and Horvat {Anim are in the east. For an analysis of the finds in light of the literary sources, see Safrai 1973/74, 44–50; Amit 1995, 129–56; 2003, 166–80, with references to earlier studies. 32 Foerster 1983, 231–56. 33 Sumaqa: Dar 1999, 17–33; Arbel: Kohl and Watzinger 1916, 59–70; Ilan and Izdarechet 1989, 111–17; Hammat-Gader: Sukenik 1935, 78–80; Ma{oz Hayyim: Tzaferis 1982, 215–27. 28 29

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area flanked by two aisles. The narthex plays an important role in the synagogue, functioning as a transition space to alert those entering the synagogue that they are passing from the secular into the holy and that they must conduct themselves accordingly. The existence of several openings to the prayer hall is also reflected in the words of a midrash: “The Holy One Blessed Be He said: If you go to pray in a synagogue, do not stand in the outer entranceway to pray there, but intend to enter the door inside the door” (Deut. Rab. 7, 1. See also y. Ber. 5, 1, 9a; b. Ber. 8a). This anonymous sermon was cited most probably in light of the existing reality in synagogues, such as the one in Hammath Tiberias requesting the congregant to enter the synagogue in time of prayer instead of lingering in the courtyard or vestibule. Proof of the fact that the entrance was located in the eastern wall (Wall 127), although only partially excavated, is evident in the placement and direction of the three dedicatory inscriptions installed on the eastern side of the synagogue. Two inscriptions, one in Aramaic and the other in Greek, were placed in the mosaic floor of the eastern aisle bordering with the main hall (fig. 2); an additional Greek inscription was placed in the easternmost aisle of the synagogue (fig. 3).34 All three inscriptions were placed facing those entering the hall from the proposed eastern entrance. These inscriptions mention the names of the synagogue’s main donors and bless other members of the community “who have given charity” to the synagogue or would do so in the future. The blessing in the Greek inscription located in the easternmost aisle is especially important; placed in the center of the mosaic carpet, it mentions Profotouros the elder who “made this aisle of the holy place” (ἐποίησεν τὴν στοὰν ταύτην τοῦ ἁγίου τόποὑ). The mention of the aisle (τὴν στοὰν ταύτην) as a separate unit may be an indirect indication that it had another function in the synagogue.35 A set of Greek inscriptions appearing between two lions is located in the northern panel of the mosaic in the main hall.36 It is surrounded by a square frame divided into nine squares, each of which contains the names of the donors. Five of them are written so that the reader

Dothan 1983, 53–54, 60–62. Roth-Gerson 1987, 69–71. Regarding an aisle that was donated as a separate unit in Korazim, see Sukenik 1929, 148–61; Naveh 1978, 36–38. The aisle (‫ )סטיו‬in talmudic literature is considered an independent unit; see Jastrow 1950, 972, s.v. ‫;סטיו‬ Sokoloff 1990, 51, s.v. ‫איסטיב‬. 36 Dothan 1983, 54–60. 34

35

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B Figs. 2A and 2B. Two inscriptions, one in Aramaic and the other in Greek, located in the mosaic floor in the eastern aisle bordering with the main hall (Dothan 1983, pl. 21, 1–2).

Fig. 3. Mosaic floor in the easternmost aisle of the synagogue, which includes the Greek dedicatory inscription referring to Profotouros the elder who “made this aisle” (after: Dothan 1983, pl. 18:1).

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stands facing south, and the other four were placed upside down so that the reader stands facing north. The location of the inscriptions on the axis of the mosaic floor and the building at first seems to strengthen the excavator’s theory that the entrance to the synagogue was in the northern wall of the Stratum IIa building.37 Although there is a consensus regarding the architectural concept that places the entrance on the building’s axis, there are exceptions. In the northern part of the mosaic floor of the Hammath Gader synagogue, not far from Hammath Tiberias, are four Aramaic inscriptions facing south, aligned with the axis of the building and the mosaic. It would thus follow that the entrance would have to be located in the northern wall, facing the inscriptions on the floor when, in fact, the entrance to that building is in the eastern wall.38 In addition, if the entrance in Hammath Tiberias was in the northern wall, as suggested by the excavator, why were half the inscriptions placed in the opposite direction of those entering the building from the north? Besides the Greek inscription in “The House of Leontis,” no inscription or fragment of an inscription was ever deliberately placed upside down near the entrance to the synagogue.39 Dedicatory inscriptions, which were intended to praise the donors of a synagogue, were placed in a prominent position facing the entrance so that they would receive their due recognition from those entering the building.40 The three inscriptions in the eastern aisle of the Hammath Tiberias synagogue were so positioned, indicating that the entrance was indeed in the eastern wall. The area east of the synagogue was found to be an empty space with no buildings.41 This fact strengthens the suggestion that the entrance was on this side while fronted by a public square—an arrangement known to us from talmudic literature. The ark containing the Torah scrolls was taken out to the square on fast days, and members of the

Ibid., 68. Sukenik 1935, 35–57. Sukenik (ibid., 80–81) dates this synagogue to the fifth century, whereas Avi-Yonah (1993, 568) gives it a sixth-century date. From additional excavations conducted at the site, it is clear that the building has two earlier stages; see Foerster 1995, 90–91. The building in Stage 2 had a similar plan as Stage 3, with the entrance in the east. Stage 2 is dated to the mid fourth century c.e., thus paralleling the Hammath Tiberias synagogue. 39 Bahat 1981, 82–85. This inscription did not exist in the original floor, but was added at a later date. 40 Beth Alpha: Sukenik 1932, 43–47; Huseifa: Makhouly and Avi-Yonah 1933, 128–30; Jericho: Baramki 1938, 73–76. 41 Dothan 1983, 32. 37

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Fig. 4. Synagogue at Ein Gedi. The architectural plan resembles the suggested reconstruction of the synagogue at Hammath Tiberias (after: Barag, Porat, and Netzer 1981, 117).

community would gather there to pray and hear sermons (m. Ta{an. 2:1–2).42 A comparison of the Hammath Tiberias and Ein Gedi synagogues strengthens the proposed reconstruction of the former (fig. 4).43 In both, the narthex, bordering with the building, was aligned with the long axis of the building, while the entrance from the narthex to the prayer hall itself was perpendicular to this axis. In Ein Gedi, there is a wall with three entrances between the narthex and the prayer hall; in Hammath Tiberias, the two areas are divided by a row of columns. At Sepphoris, too, the entrance room was located at a right angle with

42 43

Safrai 1987, 47. Barag, Porat, and Netzer 1981, 116–19; Barag 2006, 17–20.

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the prayer hall, though the proportions between the two architectural spaces and their orientation are slightly different from the buildings at Hammath Tiberias and Ein Gedi.44 The placement of the entrance perpendicular to the axis of the prayer hall and its mosaic floor is known in other synagogues as well45 and should not be considered unique to the Hammath Tiberias synagogue. The above seems to provide sufficient proof that the entrance in the Stratum IIa synagogue was in the eastern wall. Since there were essentially no substantial changes in the building plan between the two stages (Stratum IIb–IIa), as the excavator indicated, it is plausible that the entrance in Stratum IIb was located in the same place. Following the above discussion, it is thus possible to reconstruct both stages of the synagogue at Hammath Tiberias as follows (fig. 5): The eastern aisle functioned as the entrance room of the synagogue already in the early stage (Stratum IIb) and was paved with stone slabs that were lower than the mosaic floor.46 Proceeding from the narthex into the prayer hall would have required ascending one or two stairs located in front of the columns separating the two architectural spaces. The hallway south of the synagogue served as an independent unit having no connection with the entrance to the synagogue. The Stratum IIa synagogue, which was renovated in the fourth century c.e., was faithful to the plan of the earlier, Stratum IIb, synagogue. The southern hallway (Locus 34), which was originally a separate unit in Stratum IIb, was later incorporated into the Stratum IIa synagogue, and the bema was built in its center to which other rooms were added on either side. The original entrance was not moved, yet certain changes were made in the easternmost aisle: The stairs at the edge of the aisle were canceled; the stone floor was replaced with a colorful mosaic carpet

Weiss 2005, 40–41. Sukenik 1935, 32–34; Tzaferis 1982, 217–21. 46 Several stone slabs drawn in the easternmost aisle are noticeable in the plans of the Stratum IIb synagogue (Dothan 1983, 22–23), although the excavator does not refer to them in his discussion. From a study of the plans, it seems that there was a slightly sloped stone pavement inclining from north to south, at an average of 20 cm. lower than the level of the mosaic floor at the southern end of the central hall. Although it is customary for an entire building unit to be paved with the same material, it must be remembered that this area functioned independently from the rest of the building. In any case, the placement of a mosaic in the central hall and a stone pavement in the other, less important, areas, like adjunct rooms, entrance rooms, and other architectural spaces in synagogues, is known in the region. For examples, see Dothan and Johnson 2000, 12–24; Zori 1967, 151–53; Dunayevsky 1960, 22–24; Tzaferis 1982, 218–23. 44 45

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Fig. 5. Author’s proposed reconstructions of Hammath Tiberias, Stratum IIb and Stratum IIa.

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decorated with geometric designs, and was integrated and leveled with the main floor of the renovated synagogue; and a Greek inscription mentioning Profotouros the elder, the donor who enabled the renovation of the eastern aisle, was placed in the center of the new mosaic in the aisle (fig. 6). Despite these modifications, this area continued to function, as in Stratum IIb, as an entrance room as well as a passageway into the prayer hall. The easternmost aisle of the synagogue may have served as a room in which objects not belonging in the prayer hall were placed, such as a water basin for ritual handwashing, similar to the one in the narthex of the Ein Gedi synagogue.47 To conclude, there is no reason to assume that the Hammath Tiberias synagogue had two distinctly different stages. In reality, this is one synagogue that underwent several internal changes during its years of existence.48 The entrance to the synagogue was always in its eastern wall, and the eastern aisle served as an entrance room leading into the prayer hall. After much deliberation, the excavator dates the remodeling of the synagogue to the aftermath of the 306 c.e. earthquake.49 A stylistic analysis of the mosaic floor indicates that the renovation may have been made some time after the earthquake, most probably in the second half of the fourth century c.e.50

47 Barag, Porat, and Netzer 1981, 117. For material regarding ritual handwashing in synagogues, see y. Meg. 3, 4, 74a (end). A basin is also mentioned in a Genizah fragment from Late Antiquity: “Therefore, the Rishonim stipulated: ‘In all synagogue courtyards [there will be] basins of fresh water for sanctifying the hands and feet . . .’ ” (Margoliot 1973, 132). Although no other examples of washbasins have been found in situ, excepting Ein Gedi, their existence is known from dedicatory inscriptions found on fragments of vessels, specifying that the basin was donated for handwashing; see Ben-Dov 1981, 158; Roth-Gerson 1977, 79. On the location of water basins and water installations in the synagogues of Palestine and the Diaspora, see Levine 2005, 330–34. 48 A similar approach was applied by Netzer in his analysis of the Khirbet Shema{ synagogue remains; see Netzer 1996, 453–55. 49 Dothan 1983, 66–67. 50 Talgam 2000, 100–101. Magness pushes the construction date of the Stratum IIa synagogue toward the end of the fourth century, based on the ceramic and numismatic evidence; see Magness 2003, 363–69.

Fig. 6. Three-dimensional proposed reconstruction of the Stratum IIa synagogue (the “Severos Synagogue”).

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Amit, D. 1995. Architectural Plans of Synagogues in the Southern Judean Hills and the “Halakah.” Pages 129–56 in Vol. 1 of Ancient Synagogues: Historical Analysis and Archaeological Discovery. Edited by D. Urman and P. V. M. Flesher. Leiden. ———. 2003. The Synagogues of Hurbat Ma{on and Hurbat {Anim and the Jewish Settlement in Southern Hebron Hills. Ph.D. diss. Hebrew University of Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Aviam, M. 2001. The Ancient Synagogue at Bar{am. Pages 155–71 in The Problem of Typology. Where We Stand: Issues & Debates in Ancient Judaism, The Special Problem of the Synagogue. Edited by A. J. Avery-Peck and J. Neusner. Leiden. Avi-Yonah, M. 1961. Synagogue Architecture in the Classical Period. Pages 157–90 in Jewish Art. Edited by C. Roth. New York. ———. 1993. Hammat Gader. Pages 565–69 in Vol. 2 of The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land. Edited by E. Stern. Jerusalem. Bahat, D. 1981. The Synagogue at Beth-Shean. Pages 82–85 in Ancient Synagogues Revealed. Edited by L. I. Levine. Jerusalem. Barag, D. 2006. The Synagogue at Ein Gedi. Pages 17–20 in Ein Gedi: “A Very Large Village of Jews.” Edited by Y. Hirschfeld. Haifa. Barag, D., Y. Porat, and E. Netzer. 1981. The Synagogue at {En-Gedi. Pages 116–19 in Ancient Synagogues Revealed. Edited by L. I. Levine. Jerusalem. Baramki, D. C. 1938. An Early Byzantine Synagogue Near Tell es-Sultan, Jericho. QDAP 6:73–77. Ben-Dov, M. 1981. Fragmentary Inscriptions from an Ancient Synagogue at Tiberias. Pages 157–59 in Ancient Synagogues Revealed. Edited by L. I. Levine. Jerusalem. Berman, A. 1988. Preliminary Discovery of a Synagogue in Tiberias. Pages 49–52 in Tiberias: From Its Foundation until the Muslim Conquest. Edited by Y. Hirschfeld. Idan 11. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Butler, H. C. 1903. Architecture and Other Arts. New York. ———. 1907. Division IIA (Southern Syria) of Ancient Architecture in Syria. Leiden. Dar, S. 1999. Sumaqa: A Roman and Byzantine Jewish Village on Mount Carmel, Israel. B.A.R. International Series 815. Oxford. Di Segni, L. 1988. Inscriptions from Tiberias. Pages 70–95 in Tiberias: From Its Foundation until the Muslim Conquest. Edited by Y. Hirschfeld. Idan 11. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Dothan, M. 1983. Hammath Tiberias: Early Synagogues and the Hellenistic and Roman Remains. Jerusalem. Dothan, M., and B. L. Johnson. 2000. Vol. 2 (Late Synagogues) of Hammath Tiberias. Jerusalem. Dunayevsky, I. 1960. The Ancient Synagogue of Ma{on (Nirim), Reconstruction (II). Louis M. Rabinowitz Fund Bulletin 3:22–24. Foerster, G. 1983. Galilean Synagogues. Pages 231–56 in The Lands of Galilee. Edited by A. Shemueli et al. Haifa. [Hebrew] ———. 1995. Dating Synagogues with a “Basilical” Plan and an Apse. Pages 87–94 in Vol. 1 of Ancient Synagogues: Historical Analysis and Archaeological Discovery. Edited by D. Urman and P. V. M. Flesher Leiden. ———. 2004. Has There Indeed Been a Revolution in the Dating of Galilean Synagogues? Pages 526–29 in Continuity and Change: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine. Edited by L. I. Levine. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Hachlili, R. 1988. Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Land of Israel. Leiden. Ilan, Z. and A. Izdarechet. 1989. Arbel—an Ancient Town in the Eastern Lower Galilee. Qadmoniot 22/3–4:111–17. [Hebrew] Jastrow, M. 1950. A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi and the Midrashic Literature. New York.

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Kohl, H. and C. Watzinger. 1916. Antike Synagogen in Galilaea. Leipzig. Levine, L. I. 1982. Excavations at the Synagogue of Horvat Ammudim. IEJ 32:1–12. ———. 1984. Review of M. Dothan, Hammat Tiberias: Early Synagogues and the Hellenistic and Roman Remains. IEJ 34:284–88. ———. 2003. Contextualizing Jewish Art: The Synagogues at Hammat Tiberias and Sepphoris. Pages 91–131 in Jewish Culture and Society under the Christian Roman Empire. Edited by R. Kalmin and S. Schwartz. Leuven. ———. 2005. The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years. Revised edition. New Haven. Ma{oz, Z. U. 1996. When Were the Galilean Synagogues First Constructed? ErIsr 25:416–26. [Hebrew] Magness, J. 1997. Synagogue Typology and Earthquake Chronology at Khirbet Shema{, Israel. Journal of Field Archaeology 24/2:211–20. ———. 2001. The Question of the Synagogue. Pages 1–38 in The Problem of Typology. Where We Stand: Issues & Debates in Ancient Judaism, The Special Problem of the Synagogue. Edited by A. J. Avery-Peck and J. Neusner. Leiden. ———. 2003. Helios and the Zodiac Cycle in Ancient Palestinian Synagogues. Pages 363–89 in Symbiosis, Symbolism, and the Power of the Past: Canaan, Ancient Israel, and Their Neighbors from the Late Bronze Age through Roman Palaestina. Edited by W. G. Dever and S. Gitin. Winona Lake, Ind. ———. 2004. Synagogues in Ancient Palestine: Problems of Typology and Chronology. Pages 507–25 in Continuity and Change: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine. Edited by L. I. Levine. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Makhouly, N. and M. Avi-Yonah. 1933. A Sixth-Century Synagogue at {Isfiyâ. QDAP 3:118–31. Margoliot, M. 1973. Palestinian Halakhah from the Genizah. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Meyers, E. M., A. T. Kraabel, and J. F. Strange. 1976. Ancient Synagogue Excavations at Khirbet Shema{, Upper Galilee, Israel 1970–1972. Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research 42. Durham, NC. Meyers, E. M., J. F. Strange, and C. L. Meyers. 1979. Preliminary Report on the 1977 and 1978 Seasons at Gush Halav (el-Jish). BASOR 233:33–58. ———. 1981. Excavations at Ancient Meiron Upper Galilee, Israel 1971–72, 1974–75, 1977. Meiron Excavation Project 3. Cambridge, Mass. Miller, S. S. 1998. On The Number of Synagogues in the Cities of xEreØ Israel. JJS 49:51–66. Milson, D. 2004. The Stratum IB Building at Hammat Tiberias: Synagogue or Church? PEQ 136/1:45–56. Naveh, J. 1978. On Stone and Mosaic: The Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Ancient Synagogues. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Netzer, E. 1996. Review of the Synagogues at Gush Halav and Khirbet Shema{: A New Look. ErIsr 25:450–55. [Hebrew] Oren, E. 1971. Early Islamic Material from Gannei Hammat. Archaeology 24:274–77. Ovadiah, A. 1981. The Synagogue at Gaza. Pages 129–32 in Ancient Synagogues Revealed. Edited by L. I. Levine. Jerusalem. Roth-Gerson, L. 1977. On the Donation of a Laver-Basin to a Synagogue. Qadmoniot 10:79. [Hebrew] ———. 1987. The Greek Inscriptions from the Synagogues in Eretz-Israel. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Safrai, S. 1963. Was There a Women’s Gallery in the Synagogue of Antiquity? Tarbiz 32:329–38. [Hebrew] ———. 1973/74. The Synagogues South of Mt. Judah. Immanuel 3:44–50. ———. 1987. The Temple and the Synagogue. Pages 31–51 in Synagogues in Antiquity. Edited by A. Oppenheimer, A. Kasher, and U. Rappaport. Jerusalem. [Hebrew]

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Safrai, Z. 1989. “Dukhan,” “Aron,” and “Teva”: How Was the Ancient Synagogue Furnished? Pages 69–84 in Ancient Synagogues in Israel. Edited by R. Hachlili. B.A.R. International Series 499. Oxford. Slouschz, N. 1921. The Excavations of the Society at Hammath in Tiberias. Compilation of the Israel Exploration Society 1/1:5–27. Sokoloff, M. 1990. A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period. Ramat Gan. Strange, J. F. 2004. Some Remarks of the Synagogues of Capernaum and Khirbet Shema{: A Response to Jodi Magness. Pages 530–43 in Continuity and Change: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine. Edited by L. I. Levine. Jerusalem. Sukenik, E. L. 1929. The Chair of Moses in the Synagogues of Late Antiquity. Tarbiz 1:148–61. [Hebrew] ———. 1932. The Ancient Synagogue of Beth Alpha. Jerusalem. ———. 1934. Ancient Synagogues in Palestine and Greece. London. ———. 1935. The Ancient Synagogue of El-Hammeh. Jerusalem. ———. 1951. The Ancient Synagogue at Yafa near Nazareth—Preliminary Report. Louis M. Rabinowitz Fund Bulletin 2:6–24. Talgam, R. 2000. Similarities and Differences between Synagogue and Church Mosaics in Palestine during the Byzantine and Umayyad Periods. Pages 93–110 in From Dura to Sepphoris: Studies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity. Edited by L. Levine and Z. Weiss, JRA Suppl. Series 40. Portsmouth, R.I. Taylor, G. 1967. The Roman Temples of Lebanon: A Pictorial Guide. Beirut. Tzaferis, V. 1982. The Ancient Synagogue at Ma{oz Hayim. IEJ 32:215–44. Weiss, Z. 1992. The Synagogue at Hammat Tiberias (Stratum II): A Suggestion for Reconstruction. ErIsr 23:320–26. [Hebrew] ———. 2005. The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message in Its Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts. Jerusalem. Zori, N. 1967. The Ancient Synagogue at Beth Shean. ErIsr 8:149–67. [Hebrew]

PART THREE

THE NEW TESTAMENT AND EARLY CHRISTIAN WORLD

DRINKING THE WATER THAT JESUS GIVES: A FEATURE OF THE JOHANNINE EUCHARIST? Margaret Daly-Denton Interdisciplinary Conversations In recent years, students of Christian liturgical origins have benefited greatly from conversations with their counterparts in the field of New Testament studies. To this dialogue, New Testament scholars have brought the richness of their engagement with the social context of early Christianity within the ancient Mediterranean world and formative Judaism. The results have, to some extent, shaken the foundations on which an earlier generation of liturgists had built up some of their theories of the origins of Christian worship. Among the weaker features of the construction was the notion of a dominically instituted archetypal rite of the Eucharist.1 Its collapse has cleared the ground for an approach to the early Eucharist that takes far greater account of cultural history and of the literary genres of ancient writings. This has also encouraged liturgists to allow a pluralism in early eucharistic understanding and practice that mirrors the diversity of early Christianity itself. This essay suggests some ways in which the benefit may now be flowing back in the other direction. The insights of liturgists may well now shed new light on the New Testament text. It is my pleasure and privilege to offer this essay to Professor Sean Freyne. He may recognize in it the map of a learning journey on which he has been an inspiring guide and a delightful companion. The “Institution Narrative” Until this interdisciplinary conversation happened, we tended to regard as pertinent to eucharistic origins only those New Testament passages Even though, strictly speaking the term “eucharist” is anachronistic for the NT period, it is used here, for the sake of brevity, to refer to the distinctive community meal of the early Christians, i.e., “the Lord’s Supper” (1 Cor 11:20), “the table of the Lord” (1 Cor 10:21), “the breaking of bread” (Acts 2:42). 1

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which refer, either directly or obliquely, to what we had come to call “the institution narrative,” and, in particular, the interpretive or explanatory words of Jesus over the bread and cup. We focused on the synoptic and Pauline “institution” accounts, the miraculous feedings (with their “eucharistic” verbs: took, blessed/gave thanks, broke and gave), the manifestations of the risen Lord to the disciples gathered on the first day of the week and the references to “the breaking of the bread” in Luke/Acts. Because the interpretive words of Jesus over bread and cup (and in that order) were regarded as a kind of eucharistic sine qua non, New Testament scholars struggled to explain satisfactorily the “lack” of an institution narrative in the Fourth Gospel account of “the Last Supper.” It was, no doubt, for similar reasons that the short version of Luke’s “Last Supper” (Luke 22:15–19a), attested in the Western tradition of manuscripts, languished in the critical apparatus and footnotes, even though its authenticity is strongly indicated by its coherence with the portrayal of the meals of Jesus and the early Christians in Luke/Acts.2 Similarly the eschatological saying over the cup in the synoptics was consigned to the category of residue from Jewish ritual meals rather than being taken seriously as indicating the diversity of early eucharistic understanding. Meanwhile, the biblical scholars’ colleagues in liturgical studies, noting the absence of an “institution narrative” in the table prayer and the “wrong” order (i.e., cup first, as in the aforesaid Western text of Luke) in the Didache, were busy explaining that this text belonged to a non-eucharistic fellowship meal which they called the ἀγάπη.3 Lurking behind all of this was a tendency to dichotomize between sacral meals and “ordinary” meals, thereby introducing a distinction that we now recognize would not have been clear cut for either Jews or Gentiles living in the Greco-Roman world. There was also insufficient recognition of the fact that meals were the principal form of association practiced by common interest groups in the societies where Christianity developed. The formative impact of the Greco-Roman banquet, both as a social reality and as a literary genre, on early Christian table fellowship was also under estimated. Thus, for example, Paul’s disagreeJust 1993, 233–34. Smith 1987, 628. The scholarly construct of the agape became “a convenient dumping ground for the unwanted meal evidence of the first few centuries.” McGowan 1999, 22. 2 3

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ment with Peter and the “men from James” over table fellowship with gentiles (Gal 2:11–13) did not figure in the liturgists’ presentations of eucharistic origins, because it was assumed that Paul was talking about “ordinary meals.” Neither did the carousers at the community meal (ἀγάπη) of Jude’s audience ( Jude 12) or the socially stratified diners upbraided in James 2:2–7.4 Similarly, until quite recently, students of the early eucharist as mirrored in 1 Corinthians tended not to look beyond chapters 10 and 11, where Paul refers specifically to the Lord’s table and the Lord’s supper. Meanwhile, awkward evidence was being swept under the mat, such as the equivalence in Paul’s terminology of coming together as a church, coming together to eat, and partaking of the table of the Lord,5 or the use of the words εὐχαριστία and ἀγάπη in apposition in the correspondence of Ignatius of Antioch.6 The thinking of Christian scholars about eucharistic origins was, of course, profoundly influenced and formed by their own liturgical experience. The Western Catholic tradition was particularly preoccupied with the institution narrative, eventually pinpointing its verbal and ritual repetition as the “moment” of consecration of the eucharistic elements and, at least in popular perception, identifying the repetition of Jesus’ interpretive words over the bread and cup as precisely what he had commanded to be done in his memory.7 Many liturgists would tell us today, however, that the “institution narrative” did not become part of the Eucharistic Prayer (anaphora) before the fourth century, and that even then it was an interpolation for catechetical purposes, deemed necessary in the wake of mass conversions during the Constantinian

4 That James’ addressees are indeed diners follows from the nature of the meal as the primary form of association for religious groups. It may also be confirmed by the reference to a footstool in 2;3, an element of triclinium furniture. See depictions of banquets on the Corinthian wine bowls, Louvre E623, E629 and E634, as reproduced in Murray 1990, Plates 1 and 2. See also Boardman 1990. 5 1 Cor 11:17, 14:23 (συνέρχεσθαι); 11:18 (συνέρχεσθαι ἐν ἐκκλησία); 20–21 (συνέρχεσθαι ἐπι τὸ αὐτὸ); 33 (συνέρχεσθαι εἰς τὸ φαγεῖν); 10:21 (τραπέζης κυρίου μετέχειν). See Meeks 1983, 142–43. 6 “Let that be considered a proper Eucharist (βεβαία εὐχαριστία) which is [administered] either by the bishop or one to whom he has entrusted [it]. It is not permitted either to baptize or to hold an agape (ἀγάπην ποιεῖν) without the bishop.” Smyrn 8, trans. Bradshaw 2004, 30. 7 The earliest clear articulation of the belief that the words of Christ “accomplish” the sacrament is found in Ambrose, De Sacramentis 4.14. In an earlier eucharistic understanding, the entire core of the anaphora was seen as consecratory. See Justin, 1 Apol. 66 (ca. 150); Irenaeus, Haer. IV, 18.5 (ca. 185).

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era.8 The 3rd century Syrian Anaphora of Addai and Mari is the most well known example of a Eucharistic Prayer without an institution narrative. This is the earliest actual anaphora extant, and is almost certainly the earliest still in regular use.”9 It is fascinating to see how scholars have tended to assume that its “close relative,” the “Third Anaphora of Saint Peter” (Sharar), must have preserved Addai and Mari’s “lost” institution narrative.10 The manuscript transmission of Addai and Mari testifies to the unease with which the “absence” of the institution narrative was received, as different scribes interpolated it at four different points in the prayer.11 It is now recognized that ten or more other early Eucharistic Prayers lack the institution narrative, including the paleo-anaphoral form of the Roman Canon and the older version of the Apostolic Tradition, both pre-dating the insertion of an institution narrative in, probably, the fourth century.12 Moreover, in New Testament scholarship, it has long been recognized that to regard the synoptic and Pauline accounts as narratives of eucharistic institution in a literal sense raises not only serious historical issues but also profound Christological problems. It is now accepted that eucharistic practice “grew out of faith in the risen Christ more than out of obedience to his specific dictates.”13 We now recognize that the accounts of the “last supper” are aetiological narratives telling us, not what Jesus actually did and commanded to be done by his followers after his death, but what the early Christians—or more precisely, some early Christians—thought they were doing when they partook of food together “with glad and generous hearts” (cf. Acts 2:46–47). The Diversity of Early Eucharistic Understanding and Practice The research of New Testament scholars has also been immensely valuable in helping liturgists find the roots of the diversity in understanding

8 9 10 11 12 13

Bradshaw 2004, 155. Gelston 1992, 76. Jasper and Cuming 1990, 39–44. Wilson 1997, 32. Gelston 1992, 72. Mazza 1999, 65–66. Bradshaw et al., eds. 2002, 46. Power 1992, 23.

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and practice that the later history of the eucharist displays.14 We now see that, just as the New Testament gives us glimpses of diverse understandings of Jesus—informed by Davidic messianism, the expectation of a Prophet-like-Moses, concepts of Jewish High Priesthood, or the personified figure of Divine Wisdom, for example—so it allows us to glimpse a far more colourful spectrum of eucharistic understanding and practice than we may have thought possible. It follows from this that there are New Testament sources for information about early eucharistic practice and understanding other than passages referring, either directly or obliquely, to “the institution narrative.” The Fourth Gospel is one of them. A more extensive study than this short essay could explore the numerous “banquet” indicators in John—the reclining motif (1:18; 13:23.25), the prevalence of ingesting metaphors throughout the Gospel, the δεῖπνον/συμπόσιον structure of the last supper, the foot-washing, the mention of a regular feature of dining clubs, “the common purse” (13:28–30), Jesus giving the ψωμίον to Judas, the verbal form of the quotation from Psalm 41 (13:18)—each of which adds another brush stroke to our picture of an early Christian group at table, apparently not looking to an “institution narrative” as an articulation of its eucharistic understanding and practice. This essay will be confined to suggesting that the Fourth Gospel symbol, “drinking the water that Jesus gives” (cf. John 4:14) may have something to tell us about the early Eucharist in the Johannine strand of New Testament Christianity. Approaching the Fourth Gospel from this liturgical angle may well yield some exegetical fruit. Having, to use the expression of John Reumann, “loosened our hold on the Upper Room as the origin for the Lord’s Supper in Christianity, at least as a single direct-line cause,” we are less preoccupied with the actual elements of food and drink over which the synoptics and Paul tell us Jesus pronounced a blessing and interpretive words.15 It is important to keep this in mind, as we begin to look for indications of eucharistic understanding and practice in a Gospel where the account of Jesus’ “Last Supper” has nothing to say about such words.

14 Chilton, 1994, has presented the community meal of the earliest Christians as having as many nuances of meaning as there were streams of tradition. See also the six stages of “liturgical creativity” in New Testament Christianity posited in Crossan 1991, 360–67. For the “Banquet of Wisdom” as informing early eucharistic understanding, see Schüssler Fiorenza, 1994, 17–18. 15 Reumann 1985, 49.

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An earlier generation of Johannine scholars saw “the Bread of Life Discourse” as compensating for this perceived “lack.” However, the matter is not quite so straightforward. Since Bultmann, most scholars have seen John 6:51c–58 as a redactional eucharistic interpretation of a sapiential presentation of Jesus as the “Bread of Life,”16 This solves several problems, in particular, the inconsistency of the final eschatology in verse 54 with the realized eschatology that pervades the rest of the Gospel.17 For our purposes, however, it deals with the introduction of new, apparently eucharistic, terminology—“flesh”—and the reference to drinking Jesus’ blood which is quite unprepared for by anything in the preceding discourse. This problem disappears if one regards John 6:35–51b as the original version. The earlier form of the discourse would then refer only to bread and its one reference to drink would point back to the “living water” of Chapter 4.18 Could it be that this reflects an early Johannine ritual meal where water and bread were shared? Before exploring this possibility, we need to look more closely at John 6. Identifying two redactional layers in the “Bread of Life” discourse raises the question of the “hard saying” (6:60). Precisely which saying is it? And what exactly is the difficulty for Jesus’ hearers? Those commentators who assume that the whole discourse is a literary unit answer that the idea of eating Jesus’ flesh and, particularly for Jews, of drinking his blood would have been offensive.19 Some even comment on the failure of the narrative to solve this problem.20 However, if, taking a text-critical approach, one were to “bracket” verses 51c to 58a as a

16 Bultmann 1971, 218–19, 234. The idea was initially proposed in 1956 by Gunther Bornkamm. 17 In fact, Bultmann 1971, 219, regarded the refrain to verses 39, 40 and 44, “and I will raise him up on the last day,” as the work of the same redactor. For Koester 1990, 247–48, this is “the most convincing argument” for the secondary nature of verses 51c to 58. 18 Bultmann argued that Chapter 4 would originally have immediately preceded Chapter 6. 19 For the classic formulation of this prohibition, see Lev 17:10–11; Gen 9:4. That adherence to this precept was expected of gentile converts to “The Way” is clear from Acts 15:29. 20 Cahill 2002, 159–60. Similarly, Witherington 1995, 159, is not surprised “in light of the extreme aversion Jews had to drinking blood and to cannibalism, that the Jews are portrayed as completely offended by Jesus’ increasingly graphic remarks.”

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later addition, following Bultmann, there would not only be a different “hard saying,” but Jesus’ riposte to the murmuring—“Then what if you were to see the Son of Man ascending where he was before?”—would be so much more logical. With the secondary addition excised, what is “hard” for Jesus’ hearers to take emerges clearly as his claim that he is “the bread which came down from heaven.”21 The problem for Jesus’ hearers, in a pre-redactional version of John 6 is Christological, therefore, not eucharistic. The redactional interpolation of John 6:51c–58, however, has the effect of locating the “hardness” of the saying in Jesus’ claim that his flesh and blood are real food and drink. For the later redactor, apparently, the problem is no longer Jesus’ divine status, but the revulsion, especially on the part of some members of the community, at a new dimension of eucharistic understanding that has developed in Johannine circles as the synoptic/Pauline “institution narrative” gradually becomes the dominant interpretation of Christian table fellowship. The Johannines do appear to appropriate this interpretation in their own distinctive way. In other strands of early Christianity the “body and blood” language expresses a view of Jesus’ death and vindication shaped by Jewish concepts of martyrdom.22 In the Fourth Gospel the stress is on intimate union—abiding in Jesus and drawing life from him, as several contacts in terms of language and theme between 6:51c–58 and the vine allegory of chapter 15, suggest.23 With their sapiential view of Jesus, Johannine believers would readily have seen themselves as responding to the invitation to share in Wisdom’s banquet when they assembled for their community meals (Prov 9:5; Sir 15:3). To participate in the meal—both δεῖπνον and συμπόσιον—was to express solidarity in faith with the community of Jesus “own” ( John 13:1). But perhaps to share their bread and cup in the belief that they were thereby eating the flesh and drinking the blood of Jesus—a development possible, as been suggested, “only in a Hellenistic Christian community that took the eucharistic rite a step further under the influence of the surrounding religious customs”24—was a step too far for some of them. The difficulty would only have been compounded for those, perhaps former

21 “The scandal goes back to 6:41–42.” Schnackenburg 1980b, 57. Koester also endorses this reading, 1990, 248. 22 Mack 1988, 118. 23 These verses are also redactionally secondary, as 14:31 indicates. 24 Cahill 2002, 160. See also Chilton 1994, 141.

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disciples of John the Baptist ( John 1:35), whose religious ethos disposed them not only to horror at the idea of drinking blood, but even to an avoidance of wine. There is further indicator that in John 6:51c–58 we have a modification of an earlier Johannine understanding of the Eucharist. While Jesus speaks three times of being the bread in the original discourse ( John 6:35.48.51a), in the redactional addition he speaks of giving the bread (6:51c. cf. 6:11). The impression of a different eucharistic understanding at work is further reinforced by Jesus’ statement that the giving is “for the life of the world” (6:51b). This nuance links the eucharist with an understanding of Jesus’ death quite different to the more usual Johannine view of it as revelatory exaltation and suggests a rapprochement with that expressed in the expressions, “for you” in 1 Cor 11:24 and “given for you” in Luke 22:19. Finally, and most pertinently for our purposes here, the original discourse refers only to food: the bread. Drink has been dealt with in what was originally the immediately preceding chapter: the living water that Jesus offers to the Samaritan woman. As we have seen, Jesus’ words, “He who believes in me shall never thirst” (6:35) point back to that. There is mention of eucharistic food and drink (“flesh” and “blood”) only in the redactional addition. We see, therefore, in verses 51c to 58, the impact of the “institution narrative,” that is, the interpretation of Christian ritual meals that would eventually triumph. Might we go one step further and ask if it is possible that before their distinctive interpretation was “sidelined,” Johannine Christians were satisfied to share bread and water at their Eucharist? The Bread-and-Water Eucharist It is generally assumed, even by the biblically and theologically literate, that the New Testament states that Jesus used wine in the cup at the Last Supper. This is, of course, what their ritual experience has told them. A closer look at the synoptic and Pauline “Institution Narratives” reveals that the contents of the cup are not actually specified. Wine is thought to be implied by the synoptic eschatological saying (although it could as easily imply avoidance of wine), by the biblical and cultural association of red wine with blood, and by the paschal meal setting of the synoptic Last Supper. In reality, a cup of wine usually contained far more water than wine. At a Greco-Roman banquet there were protocols

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for the mixing of the wine. Even in privileged situations, it was carefully measured out—sometimes in three sizes of wine glasses: for the patron’s friends, lesser friends and freed slaves, or in various “strengths” to distinguish in honour among friends and clients, as decided upon by the symposiarch: three, four or five parts water to one part wine.25 Generally speaking, the produce of ancient “wineries” was rough, by our standards, normally requiring dilution by at least half to be potable. For the Greeks, to drink neat wine was regarded as barbaric because it infringed the prerogative of the gods.26 The Jewish author of 2 Maccabees is a little more prosaic, simply noting that “it is harmful to drink wine alone, or, again, to drink water alone, while wine mixed with water is sweet and delicious and enhances one’s enjoyment (2 Macc 15:39). A eucharistic cup of wine would always, therefore, have been a “mixed cup” of wine and water. And it could often have been more accurately described as a cup of water sweetened with a little wine. Liturgists have long known about early “bread and water eucharists.” An older generation of scholars, perhaps best represented by Gregory Dix would have assumed that the practice of using only water in the eucharistic cup was confined to peripheral ascetic sects.27 It was assumed that mainstream Christians would always have used wine. After all, wasn’t that what Jesus told them to do in the Upper Room? Recent research, in particular Andrew McGowan’s major study of the breadand-water eucharist in early Christianity, has unmasked our inherited assumption—that bread and wine were “the typical, central or only food” at the earliest eucharists—as “a reading back of later patterns function(ing) as an ideology of legitimation for ecclesial order and practice.”28 It would be beyond the scope of this essay to rehearse all the biblical and patristic evidence for bread-and-water eucharists that McGowan has uncovered. To give a “flavour” of his research, however, we will look briefly at two of the New Testament passages that he suggests may indicate eucharistic water-drinking. When Paul states that it is right to refrain not only from eating meat (1 Cor 8:13) but also from drinking wine (Rom 14:21), if that would scandalize a fellow believer, he must obviously envisage a community meal setting where the fellow believer would be able to see what he is 25 26 27 28

Pliny the Younger, Ep. 2.6. Murray 1990, 6. Dix 1945, 61. McGowan 1999, 11, 15.

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eating and drinking. At such a meal, Paul’s food and drink would most probably be bread and water—the non idolatrous alternative to meat and wine.29 In Hellenistic banquet ideology, there was a connection between the drinking of wine and the eating of meat. Both were seen as religious acts. Meat eating was inextricably linked with the sacrificial cult, to the point that meat could be designated simply as “that which is holy.”30 Of course, because of the tendency to dichotomize between the Eucharist and “ordinary meals,” commentators do not readily see eucharistic implications in Rom 14:21.31 If, however, the meal that Paul is talking about is, as we have suggested above, the primary and perhaps only form of association for a group such as the Christian “association” (ἕταιρία) at Rome, we may have here an indication of eucharistic water-drinking. The Deutero-Pauline church leader’s advice to Timothy, “No longer drink only water, but use a little wine . . . ” (1 Tim 5:23) may also, as McGowan suggests, add to our picture of eucharistic water drinking. The drinking of wine, as a major indicator of the religious dimension of the Greco-Roman banquet, was enjoyed only after a libation had been poured out in honour of a deity.32 Jewish Christians had their own inherited customs surrounding wine drinking, the pronouncement of blessings in praise of God, creator of the vine. Some though, seem to have felt a need to distance themselves from what they saw as the irredeemably idolatrous connotations of wine drinking.33 As 1 Tim 5:23 suggests, there were Jewish Christians (See 2 Tim 1:5) who refrained from wine drinking altogether. In light of McGowan’s work, it is possible that the deutero-Pauline exhortation not to get drunk with wine, but to be filled with the Spirit (Eph 5:18) may recommend the drinking of water at the community

29 This can be presumed on the basis of similar avoidance of ritually contaminated meat and wine from a gentile table, as a means of Jewish self-definition and resistance to pagan mores, e.g., in Dan 1:8–16; Esth 14:17; 4 Esd 9:24. 30 For that which is sacrificed, and consequently designated as τὸ ἱερεῖον, see Xenophon, Cyr. 1. 4. 17; Oribasius 2. 68. 6. 31 E.g., Fitzmyer 1992, 698, who sees this verse purely in terms of preserving unity. 32 Epistulae 19.96 of Pliny the Younger refers to a libation test of Christians by a magistrate. 33 For a fascinating suggestion that the connection between wine drinking and the Dionysus cult, shown by mosaic finds to have flourished in first century Galilee, may underlie the disparagement of Jesus as wine drinker and friend of women, and that John 2:1–11 may be an attempt to counteract such perceptions, see Freyne 2000, 271–98.

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symposium, rather than simply inculcating moderation, as has been conventionally assumed. This passage seems to contrast the sober, Spiritinspired hymnody at the Christian banquet with the drunkenness and debauchery of the pagan symposium. The numerous biblical precedents for seeing the drinking of water as a symbol of the reception of divine Spirit may also lend weight to this proposal.34 The Normality of a Meal of Bread and Water Perhaps the strongest argument for the bread and water eucharist is the normality of such a meal in the ancient world. We 21st century Europeans are culturally conditioned to think of a meal of bread and water as penitential, and thus as something undertaken for a limited and exceptional period. The current issue of The Tablet, at the time of writing, contains a reminder of the privileged location from which we make such an assumption. An appeal from “Caritas Jerusalem” on behalf of the people of the Gaza Strip states simply, “We need bread and water.”35 In the ancient world, such a meal was normal and acceptable, unless chosen by someone wealthy enough to eat more sumptuously.36 Water was one of the blessings of the good land God had given Israel, a land flowing with “brooks of water, fountains and springs” (Deut 8:7). Josephus sang the praises of the “sweet and fruitful” water in the Lake of Tiberias and the “wholesome” waters of a fountain at Jericho, made sweet by Elisha, noting that if the water were drawn up before sunrise it would be refreshingly cold.37 In his retelling of the story of the rock in the desert that Moses struck to provide water for the people of Israel, “They were astonished at this wonderful effect, and, as it were, quenched their thirst by the very sight of it. So they drank this pleasant, this sweet water and such it seemed to be, as might well be expected where God was the donor” (Ant. 3.38).

34 E.g., Isa 44:3 and the use of the metaphor of “pouring out” for the giving of the divine spirit in, e.g., Joel 2:28–29; Ezek 39:29. 35 “Where Death Stalks the Starving,” in The Tablet, 15 July 2006, 11. 36 E.g., the addressees of Barn. 11. “In the day on which you fast you will taste nothing but bread and water; and having reckoned up the price of the dishes of that day which you intended to have eaten, you will give it to a widow, or an orphan, or to some person in want.” 37 War 4.456, 472.

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The author of the First Letter of Clement also writes of water as one of the greatest of the Creator’s gifts. “The ever-flowing fountains, formed both for enjoyment and health, furnish without fail their breasts for the life of humankind” (1 Clem. 20). Going by Justin, it seems that hot water was a popular drink with second century Christians (even on the Sabbath, to Trypho’s dismay).38 There is, of course, a long biblical tradition where bread and water are “stay and staff ” (Isa 3:1), supplying a basic and satisfying staple diet (Deut 23:4; 1 Sam 30:11; Prov 25:21). To fast is to eat neither bread nor water (Exod 34:28; Ezra 10:11); to be safe is to be assured of bread and water (Isa 33:16); to experience a time of crisis is to receive “the bread of adversity and the water of affliction” (Isa 30:20). In particular, “bread from heaven” and “water from the rock” are the food and drink that God gave Israel during the desert journey (Nehemiah 9:15). Deut 8:3 represents the development of this tradition in a metaphorical direction, the manna showing that human beings do not live by bread alone, but by the word of God. As this tradition undergoes progressive sapientialization, the wise eat “the bread of understanding” and drink “the water of wisdom” (Sir 15:3). The “wells” from which the Fourth Evangelist would draw not only his rich symbolic understanding of water, but also his wisdom Christology, are apparent here.39 There is evidence in Greek sources for an asceticism which involved eating only bread and water, the alternatives, as it were, to meat and wine. In certain schools of philosophical thought, a diet without meat and wine was seen as a return to a golden age.40 In other philosophies, particularly Cynicism, limiting oneself to plain food and to water. “the pure and natural drink,” demonstrated one’s self control and superiority to the decadent who indulged in luxury.41 Avoiding meat and wine seems to have been the mark of some ascetic sects in late Second Temple Judaism as well. The Nazirite tradition reflects an idea that refraining from wine expressed dedication to God ( Judg 13:4), and the New Testament presents John the Baptist, and presumably the more

Justin, Dial. 29. The term “sapientialization” is used here in the sense developed in Sheppard 1980. 40 Pythagoras (6th cent. b.c.e.); Empedocles (5th cent. b.c.e.); the Peripatetic Theophrastes (4th cent.); Plotinus and Porphyry (3rd cent. c.e.), as discussed in McGowan 1999, 70–71. 41 Artimedorus, Onir. I, 66; Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Great Philosophers, 6, 9, 104. 38

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serious among his disciples, in these terms.42 Philo, in his description of the community meal of the Therapeutae, what Andrew McGowan has called “a very conscious reworking of the ideal symposium,” insists on its ascetic restraint and therefore its superiority to the Greek philosophical banquet. Even if an idealized presentation, this must surely reflect something of Jewish sectarian lifestyles. According to Philo’s account, water is served, the only wine the Therapeutae drink being “the strong wine of God’s love.”43 The meatless diet of the Therapeutae consists of bread, hyssop and salt.44 After 70 c.e., there also appear to have been some who avoided eating meat and drinking wine in mourning, in order not to forget Jerusalem.45 The New Testament hints of water-drinking Christians are confirmed by some indications from the early centuries of the Common Era. An epitome of Plato’s Republic by the second century physician, Galen of Pergamum, extant only in Arabic, mentions that the Christians (men and women) include in their number “individuals who, in self discipline and self-control in matters of food and drink, and in their keen pursuit of justice, have attained a pitch not inferior to that of genuine philosophers.”46 Presumably this asceticism included avoidance of wine. Tertullian certainly presents, as a model to his Christian readers, Daniel who became more handsome as a result of “preferring a diet of vegetables and the beverage of water to the royal dishes and decanters.”47 All of these are examples of water drinking as an ascetic choice. However, given what we have learned from Professor Sean Freyne of the socio-economic profile of early Christianity, there would have been many situations and occasions where water was drunk at community meals for economic reasons.48 For the poor, occasional access to the

42 Luke 1.15. For disciples of John the Baptist as members of the early Christian movement, see John 1:35 and Acts 19:3. 43 Contempl. Life 37; 64–89. McGowan 1999, 57. 44 Josephus’ account of the Essenes (War 2.131) also emphasises the simplicity of their food. However, they do seem to have eaten meat and drunk wine. For Philo on the Essenes, see Prob. 75–87 and Hypoth. 11. 11. 45 Midr. Tehillim on Ps 137:6. McGowan 1999, 84, suggests that this group may have been Ebionites: meat and wine avoiding Christians. In light of Philip Alexander’s contribution to this Festschrift, the possibility that there were Jewish members of priestly families who avoided wine might also be explored. See John 18:15. 46 Walzer 1949, 15. 47 Tertullian, Jejun. 9. 48 Freyne 2000, 86–113; 2002, 131–43; 2004, 141–42.

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meal of a religious association would have been the only time when they would have drunk proper wine (and eaten meat). About one part of rough wine to five parts of water was widely drunk in cities, but the poor had to make do with lora (water in which the pulp from the first pressing of the grapes had been soaked) for the short period when it was fresh, and then afterwards drink it diluted with vinegar and sea water, added to preserve it.49 Otherwise they drank water. No wonder that the intended audience for the Fourth Gospel found it plausible that the wine could run out at a Galilean wedding! “The Water that I Shall Give” ( John 4:14) All of this raises fascinating questions with regard to the Fourth Gospel. The motif of water runs like what R. H. Lightfoot has called “a silver thread” through it.50 Moreover, the significance of water “expands as the narrative unfolds.”51 It does appear that several Johannine scenes are designed to draw parallels between the liturgical encounter with Jesus of those “who have not seen and yet believe” ( John 20:29) and the experience of those who saw, touched and heard him during his ministry. This is evident, for example, with regard to the blind man’s “baptismal” washing in the pool of Siloam (9:7) and Jesus’ reference to the waters of rebirth (3:6). There are, however, two passages where water occurs, not as an element in which one is submerged (bathing or birth water), but as a drink. In John 4, Jesus speaks to the Samaritan woman of the water that he will give: “living water,” such that whoever drinks it will never thirst, and that will become a spring “welling up to eternal life” (4:11. 13–14). This theme is taken up again in the enigmatic scripture quotation in John 7:38, “From within him shall flow rivers of living water.” Alluding to a rich scriptural typology (Isa 44:3), the Fourth Evangelist explains that this water symbolizes the gift of the Spirit.

Cato, Agr. 25; 104; Plutarch, Quaest. Conviv. 692B–693E. See McGowan 1999, 51. Lightfoot 1956, 121. Water is found in jars at Cana, as a symbol of rebirth in the Nicodemus scene, for baptism by Jesus and his disciples, in a well in Samaria, in the Pool of Bethesda, for walking on by Jesus, for washing the man born blind, for washing disciples’ feet, and flowing mixed with blood from Jesus’ side. 51 Culpepper 1983, 192–95. 49 50

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While there is probably no commentator who does not regard Jesus’ provision of the miraculous bread ( John 6:1–15) and the subsequent discourse as in some way connected with the eucharist—even if most conveniently forget about the fish (6:9), in spite of John 21:9—one is hard pressed to find anyone willing to make a similar linkage of Jesus’ gift of water with the eucharist. Even an entire monograph devoted to the Johannine handling of “The Symbol of Water,” when it addresses the topic of “sacramentalism,” touches only on baptism.52 Still, the question of whether some kind of ritual water drinking might lie behind the Johannine interest in ‘living water” deserves attention. Supposing that the drinking of water was part of the regular experience of Johannine Christians at eucharist, how then might the offer of “a spring of water welling up to eternal life” (4:14) and of “rivers of living water” (7:38) have sounded to such an audience? Before attempting an answer, there are a couple of textual issues in John 7:38 that we must deal with. In spite of the Evangelist’s formula of quotation, “as the Scripture has said,” the words, “From within him shall flow rivers of living water,” do not cite accurately any single biblical passage. There is also an ambiguity in the text, compounded by the absence of punctuation marks in ancient manuscripts, which makes it difficult to know whether the “him” (from whom the waters flow) refers to Jesus or to the believer. Although John 7:38 cites no precise passage, it clearly refers to the water-flowing rock of Exodus 17:1–7 and Numbers 20:2–13.53 The Fourth Evangelist even seems to tap into a midrashic development of this story according to which the water-flowing rock traveled with the people throughout the forty year desert journey, eventually becoming the foundation of the temple from which the living waters would flow out. Paul shows his familiarity with this in 1 Corinthians 10:1–4, a passage, incidentally where “spiritual food and spiritual drink” are bread and water. I want you to know, brethren, that our fathers were all under the cloud, and all passed through the sea, and all were baptized into Moses in the cloud and in the sea, and all ate the same supernatural food and all drank the same supernatural drink. For they drank from the supernatural Rock which followed them, and the Rock was Christ.

Jones 1997, 231–32. For a detailed discussion of this quotation, see Daly-Denton 2000, 144–61. Briefly, it seems to cite Ps 77:16.20 on the basis of the parallel between “rock” and “spring” in Ps 113:8, and with resonances of, Ezek 47 and Zech 14:8. 52 53

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So for John, as for Paul, the Rock is Christ.54 For the purposes of this study, we follow Schnackenburg and most modern scholars since, in applying the image of the inner spring to Jesus.55 This reading has strong patristic support.56 We return now to our question. How might Jesus’ offer of “a spring of water welling up to eternal life” ( John 4:14) and of “rivers of living water” ( John 7:38) have sounded to a audience that used water in the eucharistic cup? It is important to listen for the scriptural resonances with which all of this material about the gift of water would have resounded for them. In the Fourth Gospel, Jesus is the new Moses, renewing the prodigies of the Exodus by providing the “real” bread to eat and the “real” water to drink, of which the manna and the water flowing from the desert rock were a mere foreshadowing. The Fourth Evangelist presents this pronouncement of Jesus against the background of the Feast of Tabernacles ( John 7:2. 37). The rites for this feast included libations in the temple of water from the pool of Siloam which, since it was fed by the Gihon Spring, was regarded as “living water.”57 This pouring out of living water in the temple was understood in the light of two prophecies: Zechariah 14:8—“On that day living waters shall flow out from Jerusalem . . .” and the description in Ezekiel 47 of the river of water issuing from the sanctuary of the temple and bringing life wherever it flowed. All of this was connected with the water-flowing rock because of the belief that when this rock completed its journey with the people at the time of the exodus, it came to the Temple site in Jerusalem. As the Fourth Gospel unfolds, it will be from the temple of Jesus’ body, cleaved open by a Roman soldier, that the waters will flow (19:34). So to answer our question, if Johannine believers engaged in a ritual drinking of water, they would have seen themselves as receiving “eternal life” through drinking those

Haenchen 1984, 17. Schnackenburg 1980b, 153–54, follows this course on the following grounds: (1) The parallels in 4:10, 14a and 6:35; (2) The Old Testament themes of water flowing from the rock, or from the temple in the eschatological Jerusalem; (3) The probable connection between this scene and 19:34; (4) Jesus’ giving of the Spirit (20:22). For a convenient history of the interpretation of John 7:38–39, see Bienaimé 1990. For the “punctuation” issue and the patristic reception, see Bernard 1928, Vol. 1, 281–2. 56 It is part of the history of the reception of this passage, however, that some Fathers understood the “rivers of living water” to flow from within the believer: These included Origen, Cyril of Jerusalem, and Ignatius of Antioch. 57 Grigsby 1985, 228–29. 54 55

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“living waters” flowing from within Jesus that symbolize the gift of the holy spirit. Bultmann’s conviction that the text of the Fourth Gospel has come down to us in something of a disordered state is relevant here. He proposed that problematic geographical references would be solved if Chapter 4 was followed immediately by Chapter 6.58 If he and the many who have agreed with him are right, we have in John’s Gospel a highly intentional presentation of Jesus as the giver of water and the giver of bread. Indeed, there must surely be an intended link between “living water” in 4:10 and “living bread” in 6:51.59 As we have seen, there is no other referent for Jesus’ promise of the satisfaction of thirst in John 6:35 except the water he has just offered to the Samaritan woman. In Bultmann’s rearrangement of the chapters, this would be in the immediately preceding verses.60 There are also two requests made to Jesus in the Fourth Gospel which, going by the paradigmatic nature of Johannine characters, and by the address, κύριε, may even be intended as “model” prayers of a Johannine Christian: “Lord, give us this bread always” ( John 6:34) and “Lord, give me that water . . .” ( John 4:15). John presents both requests with his characteristic dramatic irony. The Samaritan woman, in particular, manifests all the limitations of her “earthly” understanding, speaking at the material level about not having to come to the well any more. The knowledgeable Johannine reader would, of course, be able to make that request a prayer, being able to see beyond the earthly to “heavenly things” ( John 3:12). It is also striking that when the Johannine Jesus contrasts what is perishable, exhaustible and earthly with what is abundant, inexhaustible and heavenly, he speaks of water and bread: water such that anyone who drinks it will never thirst again (4:13–14; cf. 6:35), and “the bread of life,” such that whoever eats it will never hunger (6:35; cf. 6:27). Finally, an interesting suggestion of Bultmann, that verses 26–27 of John 6 were originally followed by verse 34, would, if he was right, 58 E.g., in 6:1 Jesus goes to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, but he is actually in Jerusalem at the time (5:1). Bultmann 1971, 209, believed that the original chapter order was 4, 6, 5, 7. Schnackenburg 1980b, 5–7, agreed, noting that 6:1 “follows badly from Chapter 5, but easily from 4:54” and that Chapter 7 “makes better sense after Chapter 5.” 59 John 6:51, ὁ ἄρτος ὁ ζῶν; John 4:10, ὕδωρ ζῶν. See Bultmann 1971, 219. 60 Schnackenburg 1980b, 44. See also, in connection with water in John 4, 1980a, 427–28.

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serve to bring out the correspondence between the requests for water and bread even more clearly. Jesus said to her, “Every one who drinks of this water will thirst again, but whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst; the water that I shall give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, that I may not thirst, nor come here to draw” ( John 4:13–15). Jesus answered them, “. . . Do not labour for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to eternal life, which the Son of man will give to you; for on him has God the Father set his seal.” . . . They said to him, “Lord, give us this bread always” ( John 6:26–27. 34).61

The Water Flowing from Jesus’ Side As Culpepper notes, the significance of water in the Fourth Gospel seems to expand as the narrative unfolds.62 It reaches a climax when the soldier pierces the dead Jesus’ side. Going by both the narrative “build-up” towards this moment and the depiction of Jesus’ death as a handing over of “the spirit,” one would expect the Evangelist to have said that water flowed from Jesus’ side. As the text has come down to us, “blood and water” is the preferred reading. The word order, “water and blood,” found in several patristic readings as well as in one Greek manuscript, P66 (ca 200 c.e.), is not cited in the critical apparatus of the Nestle-Aland 27th Edition.63 There is, however, one other consideration: the third person singular verb, ἐξῆλθεν. This is grammatically correct with “blood and water” as the subject.64 However, one wonders if it might be the vestige of an earlier form of the text that stated that water came out, for which the singular verb would be equally correct.65 The case for this may be strengthened by the early textual witnesses Bultmann 1971, 220. Culpepper 1983, 192–95. 63 See Boismard 1953, 348–53. The patristic readings, “water and blood” (Appolinaris, Origen, Tertullian), are also discussed in Westcott 1908, 284. 64 The rules as to singular and plural verbs when several coordinated words form the subject were as lax in classical Greek as they are in the NT. (1) The verb, if it stands first, usually agrees with the first subject (cf. John 2.2; 18.15; 20.3). The exception is when the group which forms the subject has already been conceived as a whole (Mark 10.35; Luke 23.12; Acts 5.24). See Moulton (N. Turner) 1963, 313. 65 Massingberd Ford 1968–69, thinks in terms of a single subject for ἐξῆλθεν, suggesting that καὶ might be epexegetical or ascensive, conveying that what came out immediately was “blood, even fluid (water).” 61 62

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to the reading “water and blood” and the ancient addition to Matt 27:49, “And another took a spear and pierced his side, and out came water and blood.” There is also the “water and blood” of 1 John 5:6, and, of course, John 19:35 which shows that the author regarded what happened as extraordinary. On the basis of all we have seen, it would seem more likely—and, of course the scribes’ liturgical experience would have ensured that it was the lectio difficilior—that an earlier version of John 19:34, read, “And there came out water.” In fact, the intensive nature of the verb ἐξέρχομαι lends itself well to a translation such as the NAB “flowed out,” or the NIV account of the lance thrust “bringing a sudden flow . . .” A New Testament scholar would immediately point to the paucity of textual evidence for this suggestion. A liturgist, however, might ask whether “and blood” might have been added to “water” under a similar ritual impulse to that which occasioned the redactional addition to John 6, at a time when eucharistic water-drinking was being supplemented—or even supplanted—by eucharistic wine drinking, which, of course, would have involved “the mixed cup” of wine and water. For Further Exploration This preliminary exploration of some possibilities raises many questions. Does the Fourth Evangelist’s inclusion of former disciples of John the Baptist ( John 1:35) in the circle of Jesus’ disciples point to the precise identity of the Johannine water-drinkers? Did the Cana story provide Jewish Christians of such an ascetic bent with an alternative “eschatological wedding feast” interpretation of wine drinking at the Christian ritual meal, less culturally alien than the drinking of wine as Jesus’ blood? Might debates within Johannine Christianity about “water only” in the eucharistic cup or “the mixed cup” perhaps throw some light on the enigma of “not with the water only, but with the water and the blood” in 1 John 5:6? What are we to make of the fact that in another work of the Johannine corpus, Revelation, wine is presented in thoroughly negative tones, the celebratory drink in the new Jerusalem being “the water of life, bright as crystal” (Rev 22:1) that all who thirst are invited to drink? Moving beyond the New Testament, what of our earliest account of the eucharist, the witness of Justin Martyr, which was evidently modified at an early date to “correct” a description of the eucharistic presider

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taking “bread and a cup of water,” when a later copyist added “and water-mixed-with-wine” (κρᾶμα)?66 And is it not striking that when Cyprian wrote his Epistula LXIII in the mid third century, condemning the use of water only in the eucharistic cup, he was addressing not a “fringe element,” but his mainstream episcopal colleagues? Is it not significant that the scriptural “proofs” cited by the proponents of water in the eucharistic cup, as reported in Cyprian’s letter, are none other than the water-flowing rock, the flow of water (sic) from Jesus’ side, and Jesus’ gift of “rivers of living water”? And finally, it is not strange that Cyprian did not invoke John 19:34, an obvious “proof ” for arguing in favour of the mixed cup, unless, as his citation of this verse actually indicates, his Latin version of the gospel told only of water flowing from Jesus’ side.67 I look forward to enjoying Professor Sean Freyne’s companionship and conversation on the continuing learning journey. Bibliography Bernard, J. H. 1928. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint John. Edinburgh. Bienaimé, G. 1990. L’annonce des fleuves d’eau vive en Jean 7, 37–39. RTL 21 (1990): 281–310. Boardman, J. 1990. “Symposion Furniture.” Pages 122–31 in Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposion. Edited by O. Murray. Oxford. Boismard, M.-E. 1953. Problèmes de critique textuelle concernant le Quatrième Évangile. RB. 60 (1953): 347–71. Bradshaw, P. F. 2004. Eucharistic Origins. London Bradshaw, P. F., M. E. Johnson and L. E. Phillips, eds. 2002. The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary. Hermeneia. Minneapolis. Bultmann, R. 1971. The Gospel of John: A Commentary. Translated by G. R. BeasleyMurray. Oxford. Cahill, M. 2002. Drinking Blood at a Kosher Eucharist? The Sound of Scholarly. Silence. BTB 32:168–81. Chilton, B. 1994. A Feast of Meanings: Eucharistic Theologies from Jesus through. Johannine Circles. Leiden. Crossan, J. D. 1991. The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Peasant. San Francisco. Culpepper, R. A. 1983. The Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design. Philadelphia. Daly-Denton, M. M. 2000. David in the Fourth Gospel: The Johannine Reception of the Psalms. Leiden.

66 1 Apol. 65, 3. As noted in McGowan 1999, 152, the text of Justin’s First Apology in Codex Ottobianus lacks καὶ κράματος. 67 Epistula. LXIII, 8.

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Diercks, G. F., ed. 1996. Sancti Cypriani Episcopi Epistularium. Corpus Christianorum. Series Latina III c. Turnhout. Fitzmyer, J. 1992. Romans. Anchor Bible 33. New York. Freyne, S. 2000. Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays. Tübingen. ———. 2001. Texts, Contexts and Cultures: Essays on Biblical Topics. Dublin. ———. 2004. Jesus, a Jewish Galilean: A New Reading of the Jesus Story. London. Gelston, A. 1992. The Eucharistic Prayer of Addai and Mari. Oxford. Grigsby, B. H. 1985. Washing in the Pool of Siloam—A Thematic Anticipation of the Johannine Cross. NovT 28 (1985): 227–35. Haenchen, E. 1984. A Commentary on the Gospel of John. Two Volumes. Hermeneia. Translated by R. Funk. Philadelphia. Jasper R. C. D. and G. J. Cuming. 1990. Prayers of the Eucharist: Early and Reformed. 3rd Edition. Collegeville. Jones, L. P. 1997. The Symbol of Water in the Gospel of John. Sheffield. Just, A. A. Jr. 1993. The Ongoing Feast: Table Fellowship and Eschatology at Emmaus. Collegeville. Koester, H. 1990. Ancient Christian Gospels: Their History and Development. London and Philadelphia. Lightfoot, R. H. 1956. Saint John’s Gospel. Oxford. McGowan, A. 1999. Ascetic Eucharists: Food and Drink in Early Christian Meals. Oxford. Mack, B. 1988. A Myth of Innocence: Mark and Christian Origins. Philadelphia. Massingberd Ford, J. 1968. ‘Mingled Blood’ from the Side of Christ ( John xix.34). NTS 15:337–38. Mazza, E. 1999. The Celebration of the Eucharist: The Origin of the Rite and the Development of its Interpretation. Translated by M. J. O’Connell. Collegeville. Meeks, W. 1983. The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul. New Haven & London. Moulton, J. H. 1963. Grammar of New Testament Greek: Volume 3, Syntax, by N. Turner. Edinburgh. Murray, O., ed. 1990. Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposion. Oxford. Power, D. N. 1992. The Eucharistic Mystery: Revitalizing the Tradition. Dublin. Reumann, J. 1985. The Supper of the Lord: The New Testament, Ecumenical Dialogue, and Faith and Order on Eucharist. Philadelphia. Schnackenburg, R. 1980a. The Gospel According to John. Vol. I. Translated by K. Smyth. London. ———. 1980b. The Gospel According to John. Vol. II. Translated by D. Smith and G. A. Kon. London. Schüssler Fiorenza, E. 1994. Jesus Miriam’s Child, Sophia’s Prophet: Critical Issues in Feminist Christology. London. Sheppard, G. T. 1980. Wisdom as a Hermeneutical Construct: A Study of the Sapientialization of the Old Testament. Berlin. Smith, Dennis E. 1987. Table Fellowship as a Literary Motif in the Gospel of Luke. JBL 106:613–38. Walzer, R. 1949. Galen on Jews and Christians. London. Westcott, B. F. 1908. The Gospel According to St John. London. Wilson, S. B. 1997. “The Anaphora of the Apostles Addai and Mari.” Pages 19–37 in Essays on Early Eucharistic Prayers. Edited by P. F. Bradshaw. Collegeville. Witherington, B. III. 1995. John’s Wisdom: A Commentary on the Fourth Gospel. Cambridge.

IMITATIO CHRISTI: COPYING THE DEATH OF THE FOUNDER AND GAINING PARADISE1 Majella Franzmann Imitating the founder of a religion or spiritual movement is an almost certain guarantee for followers that they are on the right path to the same kind of spiritual reward enjoyed by the founder. Thus within the major world religions, followers of the Buddha might expect that by imitating his practice of meditation and following his teachings they will attain the ultimate reward of nirvana; followers of Jesus may hope to gain eternal life by imitating his death and rising, in the experience of Christian baptism, and living a moral life based on his teachings; and followers of Muhammad may earn paradise by imitating his wholehearted submission to Allah. While such spiritual reward is open to all followers, each of these traditions knows of certain followers who attain a greater spiritual status through a reputation for special holiness or spiritual giftedness, and for whom the ultimate reward can be in no doubt. Within the Christian tradition, the special holiness or saintliness of certain followers may be identified in activity which imitates a key attribute or spiritual gift that can be detected in the founder’s life, for example, miracle-working, or special insight into the hearts of men and women, or the ability to speak words of great authority and wisdom. However, for many groups for whom Jesus is the central figure, whether mainstream or heterodox groups, the death (and rising) of Jesus is the most significant event of the founder’s life, however that is interpreted and explained, and it is in the imitation of that death that the highest spiritual status is achieved: “For a person to sacrifice his or her life for the faith is to practise the imitatio Christi in a very special sense.”2 Even for those who preach the imitation of the death and rising of Jesus in one’s baptism (Rom 6:3–11), such may not be enough, as can be 1 With thanks to Sean Freyne for his infectious enthusiasm in early undergraduate classes at the University of Queensland, and his continued interest in my research over so many years since then. 2 Loades 1993, xv. For an overview of studies on early Christian martyrdom as imitation, see Buschmann 1994, 62.

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seen in the life of Ignatius of Antioch who wished for martyrdom as validation of his discipleship: “Suffer me to be an imitator (μιμητής) of the passion of my God’ (Rom 6.3), to be “truly a disciple of Jesus Christ” (Rom. 4.2). This study focuses on key figures who, although they might also imitate the founder in miracle-working or wisdom, gain their highest status as martyrs in imitating the passion and death of Jesus. Five stories of martyrdom—of Stephen, James the Just, Polycarp, Perpetua, and Mani—have been chosen from traditions in which Jesus is a central figure, including Gnostic Christian groups and Manichaeism.3 In each story there is a deliberate and explicit intention to stress those features that imitate the story of Jesus. The five stories are divided into two groups that approach the idea of imitation in two different ways. The first grouping comprises stories that exhibit imitation of the spirit and context of the death of the founder rather than of the physical detail of that death; the second grouping demonstrates imitation of the death of the founder by mirror imaging. It should be noted however that imitation of death alone is not enough without first imitating the life of the founder. While this study focuses on death, the context of a disciple’s life up to the point of death, lived in imitation of the founder, should be taken as read, as much for the canonical as non-canonical traditions. Gardner suggests, for example, that Mani’s conscious imitation of Jesus and his personal use of the title, Apostle of Jesus Christ, should be linked with the structure of his teaching in the Kephalaia (which recalls the Gospels) and with his own and his followers’ use of parables, either biblical or similar to them.4 Given this context, it is not surprising that Mani’s death is described as a conscious imitation of Jesus’ death. Group 1: Stephen, Polycarp and Perpetua Imitation in Context and Spirit Stephen Stephen is the first recorded martyr of the Jesus sect. He meets his death by stoning, not by crucifixion, so imitates the founder more by

3 4

For Jesus as a central figure for Manichaeism, see Franzmann 2003, 15–26. Gardner 1983, 229.

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the manner and spirit in which he undergoes death, rather than in the precise physical detail of his death. However, the narrative context of Stephen’s death is similar to the founder’s death, and there is no doubt that the author of Luke-Acts intends that Stephen’s death should be understood as imitating aspects of Jesus’ death. The author of Acts presents Stephen’s likeness to Jesus in the scene leading up to Stephen’s death. He is firstly like Jesus in his life and ministry: he is a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit (Acts 6:5; Luke 4:14); he is full of grace and power, performing great wonders and signs among the people; he speaks with wisdom and the spirit so his enemies cannot best him in debate (Acts 6:8, 10; Luke 2:40, 52, and passim for miracles and authoritative words of Jesus). The events immediately preceding Stephen’s death are also connected to the events preceding Jesus’ death. A charge of blasphemy and false witnesses is brought against him (Acts 6:11; Luke 22:66–71), and he is seized and brought before the council (Acts 6:12; Luke 22:54). A lesser connection between Stephen and Jesus can be made with two other aspects of the scene prior to death, although not directly related to Jesus’ passion. Stephen’s face is like the face of an angel (Acts 6:15) and later he is filled with the Holy Spirit, gazes into heaven, sees the heavens opened and the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God (Acts 7:55–56). A number of commentaries find a connection here between the description of the transfiguration of Stephen’s face and the inspired speech that follows.5 Barrett finds a further connection between the transfigured face and the later vision of glory that communicates glory to Stephen.6 Both the change in face and the vision recall experiences of Jesus, at his baptism but more particularly at his transfiguration (Luke 9:28–35).7 Both of these events are far removed in time from Jesus’ death but it may be noted that there is an indirect link with that death where Jesus speaks with Moses and Elijah about his death or “departure” in Luke 9:31. Talbert finds a further parallel with the Son of Man saying that occurs in Luke-Acts at the deaths of Jesus and of Stephen (Luke 22:69; Acts 7:56), noting that “Acts 7:56 is the only occurrence of the title “Son

See, e.g., Barrett 1994, 329–30, and Haenchen 1971, 272. Barrett 1994, 329–30. See also Conzelman 1972, 51. 7 Buschmann (1994, 241), Barrett (1994, 381), and Tannehill (1990, 99) give Luke 22:69 as the parallel for Acts 7:56. 5 6

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of Man” outside the Gospels and on any lips except those of Jesus.”8 However Talbert’s subsequent point concerning the parallelism of the evangelical effect of the two deaths—the conversion of the thief (Luke 23:39–43) and the spread of the gospel (Acts 11:19–26)—stretches the search for parallels too far. The moment of death for Stephen is described in Acts 7:59–60. While the account is brief, there are very close parallels in the use of voice with the death of Jesus in the Gospel of Luke.9 Both commend their spirit to a higher being, Stephen to Jesus (Acts 7:59) and Jesus to the Father (Luke 23:46); both cry out in a loud voice (Acts 7:60; Luke 23:46); both ask the higher being to forgive their murderers (Acts 7:60; Luke 23:34); and speaking/crying out is the final act of both before dying (Acts 7:60; Luke 23:46). While these details do not follow in the same order in both accounts, nevertheless a strong connection is clearly intended. From a study of the reference to the loud cry, as well as to staring (or gazing intently), Strelan suggests that this scene indicates paranormal vision or the experience of another reality. Stephen’s use of the loud voice links him directly, as one possessed of a divine aspect, with Jesus’ crying out with a loud voice at the moment of death.10 Such an idea would move the story well beyond mere imitation to a shared reality with the founder. The idea is also taken up to a certain extent in Williams’ proposal that Stephen’s death is intended “to show how Christ continued to suffer in his body, the church . . . Stephen’s real significance for Luke is not so much in his likeness to Jesus as in what he exemplified of the church’s history at this point.”11 Polycarp In the narrative leading up to Polycarp’s martyrdom, there is explicit reference to his imitation of Jesus.12 Polycarp does not give himself up voluntarily to death, but rather waits to be arrested “just as the Lord did”

Talbert 1974, 97. Buschmann (1994, 240–42) gives an overview of studies and commentaries that also provide the parallels. 10 Strelan 2000, 492, 500. 11 Williams 1990, 145. 12 The text cited is Mursurillo 1972a, 2–21. 8 9

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(Mart. Pol. 1).13 The police chief is called Herod, and the narrator remarks, “Destiny had given him the same name, that Polycarp might fulfill the lot that was appointed to him, becoming a sharer with Christ, and those who betrayed him might receive the punishment of Judas” (Mart. Pol. 6). The police set out against him on Friday at the dinner hour “as though against a brigand,” quoting Matt 26:55 (Mart. Pol. 7). Other elements are also reminiscent of the prelude to Jesus’ death. First, a slave of the household betrays Polycarp, as Jesus was betrayed by one of his own (Mart. Pol. 6). Second, on hearing that the police have come, he goes to meet them and they are surprised at his composure, in a scene very reminiscent of the arrest of Jesus in the garden in John 18:3–8. His further request to pray for an hour only serves to strengthen the link, but more so to the garden scene in the Synoptic accounts. After this, Polycarp is put on a donkey and conducted into the city, perhaps an allusion to the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem before his death (Mart. Pol. 8). Polycarp is taken to the amphitheatre for trial and judgment before the governor, and on entering the amphitheatre, a voice from heaven is heard by him and by those present, saying “Be strong, Polycarp, and have courage.”14 Mursurillo references the audition to Joshua 1:6 and Deuteronomy, as if Polycarp could be considered as a kind of warrior figure like Joshua.15 Whilst the audition cannot be compared in any detail to the vision of Stephen, both the audition and the vision include heavenly revelation and both have the effect either of giving comfort or of validating the experience of those about to die. However, it should be noted that the audition that Polycarp experiences comes at his trial rather than in the event of his death. Like Stephen at his trial, Polycarp’s face is filled with grace as he answers the charges brought before him and refuses the governor’s advice to recant (Mart. Pol. 12).16 Here at least, Polycarp appears to imitate Stephen rather than Jesus.

Schoedel (1967, 59) finds the imitation theme emerging in 6,1–7,2 in “a crass form.” 14 Schoedel (1967, 64) gives the parallel as John 12:28. 15 Mursurillo 1972, 9. 16 Buschmann (1994, 237–39), also compares Stephen’s martyrdom with Polycarp’s, noting the aspect of their faces (Acts 6:15; Mart. Pol. 12; see also Conzelman 1972, 51); the reaction and anger of those against Stephen and Polycarp (Acts 7:54; Mart. Pol. 12); and the strengthening experienced by them by a vision or audition (Acts 7:55ff.; Mart. Pol. 9). 13

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Polycarp is sentenced to be burned at the stake, just as he had foretold from an earlier vision of his pillow burning (Mart. Pol. 5 and 12). He is bound to the stake to be burned, the Jews zealously helping those collecting logs and brushwood for the fire (Mart. Pol. 13). He is described as bound “like a noble ram chosen for an oblation from a great flock, a holocaust prepared and made acceptable to God” (Mart. Pol. 14). Then he prays, giving thanks that he has been found worthy by God “to have a share among the number of the martyrs in the cup of your Christ, for the resurrection unto eternal life of both the soul and the body in the immortality of the Holy Spirit.” He concludes his prayer with praise offered to God “through that eternal and celestial high priest, Jesus Christ.” Thus is the nature of his death clear—Polycarp is the perfect sacrifice and Christ is the High Priest (Mart. Pol. 14). The flames form a vault around him so he is not burned (he is likened to bread being baked or gold and silver being purified), and finally a dagger is plunged into his body and his blood puts out the fire (Mart. Pol. 15). There is little about the death scene that can be compared to the death of Jesus, but the author certainly intends that Polycarp be considered an imitator of Christ in his death, although this is to be found more strongly represented in the events prior and subsequent to his death, and in the explanation of his death as sharing in the cup of Christ for resurrection. In the aftermath of Polycarp’s death, the Christians are not permitted to take his body in case they substitute worship of Polycarp for worship of “the Crucified.” Is there some underlying concept here, similar to that noted of Stephen, that perhaps in the manner of his death Polycarp receives some divine aspect? The narrator, however, argues strongly against such an idea, stating that Christians could not thus abandon the Christ: “For him we reverence as the Son of God, whereas we love the martyrs as the disciples and imitators (μιμητής) of the Lord” (Mart. Pol. 17).17

17 This argues against Boudewijn Dehandschutter’s (1982, 663) view that the martyrdom of Polycarp is not meant to be viewed as an imitation of Jesus’ passion but rather to demonstrate that Polycarp’s attitude is at one with the will of God and in conformity with the Gospel (“M. Pol. ne veut pas imiter la passion, mais démontrer que l’attitude de Polycarpe est en harmonie avec la volonté de Dieu et conforme à l’évangile”).

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Perpetua The story of Perpetua’s martyrdom is told in the first part by Perpetua herself, detailing the procedure of arrest, baptism (she is a catechumen when arrested.), attempts by her father to dissuade her from her course of action, and so on.18 Significant features include the visions which she has of her own fate, the fate of her younger brother, Dinocrates, who had died young of cancer, and of the fate of others with her in prison. Perpetua’s part of the story ends with her description of the vision she has the day before she is due to face the beasts in the arena (Perp. 10). In the vision she enters the amphitheatre only to find she is to fight a vicious Egyptian, who later represents the Devil. As she is stripped for fighting, she finds she is a man.19 The one who moderates the contest is wondrously dressed and appears to be an athletic trainer; it is clearly Jesus. She wins the contest (by miraculous means), receives the green branch of victory from the trainer, and walks in triumph to the Gate of Life (by which victorious gladiators left the amphitheatre). Her account ends here. Her martyrdom account follows, completed by another writer (Perp. 18). Perpetua walks to the amphitheatre with a shining countenance and calm step, as if going to heaven, as the beloved of God, as the wife of Christ (her husband’s name is never revealed). She is attacked by a wild heifer, but is in such ecstasy that when she regains consciousness, she asks when she is to be given to the heifer (Perp. 20). Oddly enough, although in ecstasy, she has had the presence of mind to pull down her tunic for the sake of modesty and put a pin in her hair so that she would not die a martyr with her hair in disorder. Finally she is thrown with all the others to have her throat cut, but has to guide the hand of the young gladiator charged with doing it.20 The physical aspects of martyrdom seem somewhat overshadowed by the analogy of the gladiator contest or athletic contest. Her vision of the struggle with the Egyptian/the Devil in the arena and the story

The text cited is Mursurillo 1972b, 106–31. The point of Perpetua’s view of herself as male in the dream and its relation to ideas about males and spirituality will not be considered here. See, e.g., Jantzen 1995, 49–51. 20 Frend 1993, 48. 18 19

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of her actual death in the arena are very closely connected. Her death is another glorious victory in the arena. Once again with this story there are elements that are reminiscent of the stories of Stephen and Polycarp. Buschmann outlines parallels between the stories of Polycarp and Perpetua, for example, in the vision of the throne and the strengthening vision of victory over the Egyptian, however he makes little attempt to investigate parallels in the actual death scenes apart from Perp. 19,3 and Mart. Pol. 15;16,1.21 There are a number of points that can be made between the three stories of Stephen, Polycarp and Perpetua. Each receives a heavenly revelation that strengthens them for the struggle of their martyrdom. The face of each is transfigured and shining as they go to their death, with the story implying or explicitly stating that each of them receives glory at this time. Stephen sees heaven thrown open and a heavenly figure awaiting him; and Perpetua sees herself in her vision led through the Gate of Life as the conquering gladiator. Some commentators, as mentioned above, have postulated an aspect of divinity for both Stephen and Polycarp. Buschmann’s description of the spiritual athletic contest of martyrdom rings true of Perpetua also. Buschmann proposes that in such a contest not only is suffering overcome, but through the struggle the athlete becomes divine.22 All three experience a death different to the death of the founder, yet the death of each of them takes that first death as their point of departure. While this is the case, each story appears to build upon the one before, so that the death of Polycarp imitates even more strongly the death of Stephen than the death of Jesus, and the death of Perpetua also imitates the deaths of Stephen and Polycarp. Group 2: James the Just and Mani Imitation by Mirror Imaging James the Just, Brother of the Lord In the First Apocalypse of James from the Nag Hammadi corpus, there is a quite explicit description of James’ death as a mirror image

Buschmann 1994, 300–305. Buschmann 1994, 304: “Das Leiden wird aber nicht nur überwunden, sondern das Durchkämpfen der Mühen führt zur ‘Vergottung’ des Athleten.” 21 22

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of Jesus’ death. The two are further closely linked by a relationship as brothers; Jesus calls James the Just “my brother,” although he is not his biological brother (24.13–16). Jesus’ death is not described in the same way as in the canonical accounts, as will be illustrated below.23 There is no narrative as such; the events of the passion and death of Jesus and James are not given in one direct passage but rather references are scattered through the revelatory discourse of Jesus to James. The only passage in this text to speak in really physical terms about James’ passion describes the speech of those who do not wish to be involved in seizing him: “We have no part in this blood, for a just man will perish through injustice” (1 Apoc. Jas. 43.16–21), a clear link to Matt 27:24.24 The introductory remarks by Jesus in this text outline that the purpose of the revelation is to show James the completion (ⲡϫⲱⲕ) of the Lord’s redemption (ⲡⲁⲥⲱⲧⲉ) (24.12), and later he reveals James’ own redemption (29.12–13; 32.28). The parallel details of redemption are as follows. Jesus foretells that he will be seized (25.7–10), and urges James not to fear although he too will be seized (25.13–14; also 32.29–33.3). Jesus is seized in Jerusalem (25.7–9; 29.16–19) by the powers that are armed against him in judgment (27.18–24) and he is fearful before their anger (28.3–4). While Jesus appears to have suffered at the hands of the people in Jerusalem, the city is the dwelling place of a great number of archons (25.15–19), and the people who appeared to do him harm exist as a type [ⲧⲩⲡⲟⲥ] of the archons (31.23–24). James is fearful too at the thought of undergoing suffering as Jesus predicts it will happen to him (32.13–16). Of those who arm themselves and seize James, three in particular are important—toll collectors who also steal souls (33.5–12)—in other words three archons, from whose power James must escape by answering their questions with revelatory material (33.12–34.20). Jesus is said to have come with insight/knowledge (ⲅⲛⲱⲥⲓⲥ) and recollection (ⲙⲛⲏⲙⲏ) that he might rebuke the forgetfulness and ignorance of the powers (28.7–10), and he appears as a reproof (ⲉⲩⲥⲟϩⲉ) to the archons (30.1–2).25 James goes to rebuke the twelve (archons) and upset their contentment concerning the way of knowledge (42.20–24), just

23 For the interpretation of the death of Jesus in Gnostic and Manichaean texts, see Franzmann 1996, 135–56; 2003, 67–81. 24 Text cited from Schoedel 1979. 25 In an earlier passage Jesus is said not to rebuke (ⲥⲟϩⲉ) the powers; rather there is within him a silence and a hidden mystery (28.1–3).

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as the Lord is said to have rebuked the archons. Struggle for Jesus and James in Jerusalem, and what appears to be their physical suffering, is really only the outer image of the real cosmological struggle against the powers. Mani In the time leading up to his imprisonment and death, Mani goes about seeing his people for the last time, speaking about his crucifixion (ⲥⲧⲁⲩⲣⲱⲥⲓⲥ), telling them to look and take their fill of seeing him because he is going to remove himself bodily from them (Hom. 44.17–20).26 The journey is reminiscent of the descriptions that are scattered in the Gospel of Luke from 9:51 onwards, as Jesus sets his face for Jerusalem and makes his way inevitably there prior to passion and death, always inferring that he is going to suffer. Mani comes finally to Belapat “the place of the crucifixion” (Hom. 45.9) where he is taken before the king and condemned. The Manichaean Psalm Book 15.9–12 relates that he is condemned by the Magi, priests of the fire, who are brothers of the Jews, the murderers of Christ, setting up the relationship between both sets of murderers of Jesus and Mani. The charge they bring is that he leads men astray (PsB 15.25–26).27 He is put into chains, on his feet, his throat and perhaps elsewhere. (Hom. 48.20–23. The text is corrupt). PsB 18.30–19.1,6 relates that he was loaded down with six neck chains. Mani weeps over his sufferings and prays (Hom. 93.13; 52.4; 54.29; 56.19), a description reminiscent of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane although this particular scene takes place after Mani’s arrest when he is already in prison. Mani is in prison for 26 days in chains before he dies there (Hom. 60.11–14). The day of his death is known as the day of his crucifixion (Hom. 60.2–3). The Psalms of the Bema repeat the same information as the Homilies—that it is twenty-six days from the day he is bound to the “day of the cross” (PsB 19.3–5). In their cruelty they crucify him (PsB 19.21). Finally the psalm reports that his body is brought out into the city, his head cut off, and his body hung up amid the crowd (PsB 19.29–31). The hanging of his body is, of course, his crucifixion.

26 27

Text cited from Polotsky 1934. Text cited from Allberry 1938.

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The moment of death for Mani provides parallels both to Jesus and to Stephen. He is like Stephen in Psalm of the Bema 226 as he gazes at his familiar (heavenly twin) with eyes of light, beholding his glorious father who is waiting for him, opening before him the gate unto the height (PsB 19).28 The likeness to Jesus is less obvious. As Mani dies he spreads out his hands to pray, bends his knees in worship that he might divest himself of the image of the flesh and put off the garment of his humanity (PsB 19.22–28; Hom. 54.16–26). The description of the opening of arms and bending of knees suggests a crucifixion. Peter Brown notes that the Christian martyr was often “shown in the pose of the Crucified. This identified him not only with the sufferings of Christ, but also with the unmoved constancy of his election and the certainty of his triumph.”29 There are, of course, other instances of more explicit imitation of the crucified one or of the cross by the stretching out of hands, for example, in Odes of Solomon 27.1–3 (“I extended my hands . . . the stretching out of my hands is his sign, and my extension [is] the upright wood.”) and 42.1–2,30 and the Untitled Text Chapter 2, 227, lines 14–15 (“And the stretching out of his hands is the manifestation of the cross.”)31 The deaths of James and Mani provide strong parallels to the death of Jesus, however that is understood within their various traditions. While James’ death occurs in a struggle with the archons in a city which is only a façade for the real place of struggle among the powers, it is an intentional mirror image of the struggle of Jesus within that same context. Mani experiences crucifixion just like his Saviour whose apostle he is. There are other similarities in these two deaths apart from the mirror imaging of Jesus’ death, and some of these features are found in the stories noted of the first group of martyrs above, such as the heavenly reassurance that both receive—Mani receives a strengthening vision and the entire text of the apocalypse is a reassuring revelation for James. The latter too is involved in death as a kind of combat or contest not dissimilar to the contest in which Polycarp and Perpetua engage.

28 Hom. 54 also hints at the moment of vision but the text is too corrupt to read exactly. 29 Brown 1981, 72. 30 See the study of the parallels between these two passages and 35.7 and 37.1 in Franzmann 1991, 204–6. 31 Text cited from Schmidt 1978.

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While there is clear and explicit imitation of the founder’s death found in the brief overview of the texts above, the life and death of the founder has its own cultural and religious setting in first century c.e. Palestinian Jewish tradition to which one would expect to find references in the narratives of his death. Seeley argues, for example, that Paul’s interpretation of Jesus’ death is indebted to Jewish martyrology and 2 Maccabees in particular, in the outline of the elements of “noble death”—vicariousness, obedience, a military context, and overcoming physical vulnerability.32 Some of the early martyrs are also thought to imitate earlier Jewish examples. The suggestion that Polycarp is like Joshua has already been noted. Barrett agrees with Le Déaut in linking the vision of Stephen in Acts 7:55–56 to the vision of Isaac at the time of the Aqedah,33 whereas Packer finds the parallel with Judg. 13:6 or Exod. 34:29 or Eccl 8:2.34 We have also noted briefly that the martyrs who imitate Jesus may themselves become figures for imitation. That Polycarp is intended as a model for imitation by others is clear from the description of him in Mart. Pol. 19, “He was not only a great teacher but also a conspicuous martyr, whose testimony, following the Gospel of Christ, everyone desires to imitate.” It is a common theme in the early Christian tradition. Thus Athansius in Vit. Ant. 89 writes of Anthony, “It is worthwhile that I should relate, and that you, as you wish it, should hear what his death was like. For this end of his is worthy of imitation.” There is a similar tradition within Manichaeism. In PsB 141–143 Mani’s suffering has a place in the line of those who have suffered, following on from the First Man: Jesus has suffered, as has Andrew, the sons of Zebedee, John the Virgin, James, Thomas, Paul, Thecla, Drusiane, Maximilla and Aristobula. Mani is said to have received “the likeness [ⲟⲩⲉⲓⲛⲉ] of them all, he fulfilled their signs [ⲟⲩⲙⲉⲓⲛⲉ]” (PsB 143.18), and many of his disciples too “received the likeness of their Fathers” (PsB 143.19). Jesus is not the only model for Mani, but Jesus is the one who has most influenced him who called himself the Apostle of Jesus Christ, and Mani in turn becomes an example for those who follow. The same Seeley 1990, 84–7, 91–110. Seeley uses Lohse 1955. Barrett 1994, 383. 34 Packer 1966, 51. See also Tannehill (1990, 83, 97–8) who finds further links with Abraham and Moses. 32 33

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idea is found more generally in the Letter to the Hebrews that exhorts, “Remember your leaders, those who spoke the word of God to you; consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith” (Heb 13:7), and then goes on to speak of Jesus as suffering like a sacrificial animal and as the ultimate example for imitation: “Therefore Jesus also suffered outside the city gate in order to sanctify the people by his own blood. Let us go to him outside the camp and bear the abuse he endured” (Heb 13: 12–13). Paul writes not only of the imitation of Jesus’ death but also of his resurrection and its power—the one who imitates Jesus in his death will also imitate him in his resurrection (Rom 6:3–4), or even more strongly in Phil 3:10–11, “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I may attain the resurrection from the dead.” This is the enabling power of the death and rising of Jesus on which the martyr can call, and which is summed up in the various auditions and visions that give comfort and reassurance to the martyrs as they move towards death. Such reassurance is an integral part to the imitative death, even where the setting and imitation may not be religious. Thus, as Seeley points out, Seneca writes of Cato who before committing suicide reads about the death of Socrates, as if Socrates’ death has acted as the example or inspiration for Cato’s own death (Ep. 24.6–7). Seeley comments, “In a sense which is meaningful though not mythic as in Paul (i.e., Rom 6:1–11), Cato dies along with Socrates, utilizing his example as an enabling, empowering pattern by which to gain freedom from Fortune.”35 In an even stronger example, Perpetua dies along with Jesus as his spouse, having been united with him already in her previous vision of the contest with the Egyptian. The martyrs themselves enable others to find the strength to follow their example. There are a number of points that can be taken from stories such as those above that might be considered to indicate the ways in which the deaths of these martyrs enable others who come after them in similar circumstances. The enabling aspects are not always consistent. On the one hand, the martyr may be so strong in faith that he or she is able to undergo suffering without complaint and without giving any sign of how terrible the tortures might be. On the other hand, some stories seem to imply that such a stoic attitude is not

35

Seeley 1990, 115.

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even called for, if victims are in such an ecstatic state that they seem completely unaware of what is happening to them. One notes a growing tradition of the quality of apatheia evident in the martyrs as over time the stories of the tortures inflicted on them grow increasingly more horrific. De Labriolle refers to the background of the concept in the Stoic tradition that a person should liberate her/himself from the effects of any emotion or suffering or change in life circumstances.36 Bardy traces the use of the term from Ign. Eph. 7,2 where it is used of the glorified Christ, through the description of the blessed after their judgment and resurrection in Justin’s Dial. 45,4, to the use of the term in Clement for the spiritual person in this life (Strom. 6,9,72), including saints and martyrs (Strom. 2,20,124; 3,5,41–43; 6,9).37 While it may be considered that the increasingly horrific stories necessitate an attitude of apatheia, there is also difficulty in taking them seriously. In fact there is almost an air of unreality about the descriptions rather than any overwhelming sense of suffering. The fact that the tortures hardly seem to make an impression on the martyrs (as Perpetua does not notice the attack of the heifer), or that they are saved from certain tortures (as Polycarp is not burned by the fire), simply reinforces the feeling of unreality.38 We have noted above the suggestion by commentators that many of the martyrs are under some kind of spiritual possession at the time of death. This brings a further dimension to the lack of reality in the death scenes. Peter Brown’s comments on martyrs in general ring true especially for those like Perpetua: “The heroism of the martyrs has always been treated as a form of possession, strictly dissociated from normal human courage.” For them, there is a kind of “miraculous suppression of suffering.”39 However, the stories treated above do not imply that the heroism of the martyr is the basis of the possession. The transfiguration of the faces of Stephen, Polycarp, Perpetua, and Mani suggests a vision of heaven that sustains them through the moment of death. They do not take on a divine aspect, as the writer of Mart. De Labriolle 1950, 484–85. Bardy 1937, 728–30. 38 Interestingly when Perpetua is the narrator, the story retains an air of reality. She is the mother of an infant son, who is not yet weaned. When her father forcibly removes her son from her in prison, her son is suddenly weaned. She relates that although she abruptly left off breastfeeding, she suffered no inflammation or any discomfort in her breasts. 39 Brown 1981, 79–80. 36 37

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Pol. makes clear, but a form of ecstatic possession.40 Their focus is not on death and the accompanying tortures from their oppressors but on their ultimate triumph and the Paradise that awaits them. There are a number of aspects therefore about the stories that appear to be at odds or contradictory. The stories show the triumph of the martyrs through terrible adversity, and thus they are hero figures to be emulated. Yet they are seemingly not really troubled by the horrific tortures visited upon them, either because they are capable of great forbearance or they are in such ecstasy that they barely notice what is happening to them. Was this an inducement to others to follow in their footsteps? Could each brave Christian martyr expect to be strengthened at the hour of death so as to undergo the torture without flinching or without feeling it? What remains then of the imitation of the founder, at least for martyrs like Perpetua, is the struggle rather than the suffering. Even in the struggle she never loses control, from managing her tunic and hairpins to control over the manner of her death as she guides the soldier’s hand to cut her throat. One should note however that where the real death of the founder may no longer be imitated in the martyrologies, a parallel tendency is already to hand that serves as a basis for such a development. The Gospel of John is symptomatic of a tradition that even within its canonical accounts of the founder is increasingly uncomfortable with a real death for Jesus, as John’s Jesus takes on the trappings of glory prior to death. What is surprising is that it is Mani’s death scene that most emphasises physical suffering and grief, even though it too contains a strengthening vision. Ironically, it is one of the greatest of all the Christian heresies that emphasises, by imitation, the reality of the death of Jesus. Those who imitate Jesus as closely as possible in their passion and death—not so much in the physical detail but in their suffering because of him—are those who can be absolutely sure of the ensuing resurrection, indeed know it beforehand or in the moment of death by vision or audition. By these visions or by the ecstasy experienced during their passion, paradise appears to slip back somehow into the earthly life of

40 Contra Frend’s comment (1993, 49), “The martyr thus becomes a supernatural being, endowed with invincible powers designed to protect individuals and communities against their enemies.” Buschmann (1994, 302) makes a similar argument that Perpetua is raised to the level of a goddess, based on the formulae her father uses in speaking with her which are more usual in prayer: “Perpetua als domina wird damit quasi zur Göttin erhoben.”

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these martyrs so that death and its accompanying tortures and suffering are of little moment. The more this happens, the more a basic theology of a real death for the founder is corrupted. Real imitation of the founder’s death is virtually lost, or becomes of secondary importance to the delights of paradise. Bibliography Allberry, C. R. C., ed. 1938. Manichaean Psalm Book: Part II. Manichaean Manuscripts in the Chester Beatty Collection Vol. 2. Stuttgart. Bardy, G. 1937. Apatheia. Pages 727–46 in vol. 1 of Dictionnaire de Spiritualité. Paris. Barrett, C. K. 1994. A Critical Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles. Vol. 1. Preliminary Introduction and Commentary on Acts I–XIV. ICC. Edinburgh. Brown, P. 1981. The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity. The Haskell Lectures on History of Religions. New Series 2. Chicago. Bruce, F. F. 1988. The Book of the Acts. Revised Edition. NICNT. Grand Rapids. Buschmann, G. 1994. Martyrium Polycarp —Eine formkritische Studie. Ein Beitrag nach der Entstehung der Gattung Märtyreakte. BZNW 70. Berlin. Conzelman, D. H. 1972. Die Apostelgeschichte. 2nd ed. HNT 7. Tübingen. De Labriolle, P. 1950. Apatheia. Pages 483–87 in vol. 1 of RAC. Stuttgart. Dehandschutter, B. 1982. Le Martyre de Polycarpe et le développement de la conception du martyre au deuxième siècle. StPatr 17: 659–68. Franzmann, M. 1991. The Odes of Solomon: An Analysis of the Poetical Structure and Form. NTOA 20. Freiburg. ———. 1996. Jesus in the Nag Hammadi Writings. Edinburgh. ———. 2003. Jesus in the Manichaean Writings. Edinburgh. Frend, W. 1993. Martyrdom in East and West: The Saga of St George of Nobatia and England. Pages 47–56 in Martyrs and Martyrologies. Edited by D. Wood. Oxford. Gardner, I. M. F. 1983. Manichaean Christology. The Historical Jesus and the Suffering Jesus with particular reference to western texts (i.e. texts from a Christian environment), and illustrated by comparison with Marcionism and other related movements. Ph.D. diss. Manchester University. Haenchen, E. 1971. The Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary. Oxford. Lake, K. ed. & trans. 1912. Ignatius of Antioch. Letter to the Romans. Pages 224–39 in vol. 1 of The Apostolic Fathers. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge. Jantzen, G. 1995. Power, Gender and Christian Mysticism. Cambridge. Loades, D. 1993. Introduction. Pages xv–xviii in Martyrs and Martyrologies. Edited by Diana Wood. Oxford. Lohse, E. 1955. Märtyrer und Gottesknecht. Göttingen. Mursurillo, H., ed. & trans. 1972a. The Martyrdom of St. Polycarp. Pages 2–21 in The Acts of the Christian Martyrs. Oxford. ———. ed. & trans. 1972b. The Martyrdom of Saints Perpetua and Felicitas. Pages 106–31. Packer, J. W. 1966. Acts of the Apostles. CBC. Cambridge. Polotsky, H. J., ed. 1934. Manichäische Homilien. Manichäische Handschriften der Sammlung A. Chester Beatty Bd. 1. Stuttgart. Schaff, P. and H. Wace., ed. & trans. 1999. Life of Antony. Pages 195–221 in Athanasius: Select Works and Letters. NPNF2. Vol. 4. Peabody, Mass. Schmidt, C., ed. 1978. The Books of Jeu and the Untitled Text in the Bruce Codex. Translated by V. Macdermot. NHS 9. Leiden.

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Schoedel, W. R. 1967. The Apostolic Fathers. A New Translation and Commentary. Vol. 5. Polycarp, Martyrdom of Polycarp, Fragments of Papias. London. ———. 1979. The (First) Apocalypse of James. V, 3:24,10–44,10. Pages 65–103 in Nag Hammadi Codices V, 2–5 and VI with Papyrus Berolinensis 8502, 1 and 4. Edited by D. M. Parrott. NHS 11. Leiden. Seeley, D. 1990. The Noble Death: Graeco-Roman Martyrology and Paul’s Concept of Salvation. JSNTSup 28. Sheffield. Strelan, R. 2000. Recognizing the Gods (Acts 14:8–10). NTS 46:488–503. Talbert, C. H. 1974. Literary Patterns, Theological Themes, and the Genre of Luke-Acts. SBLMS 20. Missoula, Mont. Tannehill, R. C. 1990. The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts. A Literary Interpretation. Vol. 2: The Acts of the Apostles. Minneapolis. Williams, D. J. 1990. Acts. NIBCNT. Peabody, Mass.

TERTULLIANUS & SON? Jill Harries Gift-exchange between host and guest expressed friendship and esteem in the classical world. In line with that tradition, this piece is offered to Sean Freyne as a little present in return for his academic and personal generosity on my visits to his conferences at TCD; and as a mark of appreciation of the contribution he has made in his own work to the breaking down of conventional “barriers” between the disciplines. The present, somewhat speculative paper offers a fiction with a serious purpose. It suggests that Tertullian of Carthage, the Christian polemicist, and Tertullianus the jurist, who will keep his Latin name and was probably based at Rome, were not the same person but that they could have been father and son. For purposes of the serious aspect of the argument, it does not really matter whether they were father and son, brothers, uncle and nephew—or indeed related at all, although it would be nice to endow Tertullian with a supportive family network similar to that enjoyed by the emperor Septimius Severus, whose early career was launched by two obliging uncles.1 Aside from the suggested relationship, the two Tertullians under discussion illustrate aspects of the legal culture of the later second, and early third, century c.e., as well as cultural and religious ties between Rome and Africa. The temporal and spatial coincidence of two Tertullians suggests that there was a family connection. Of the other Tertulliani who make it into the ancient record, some are African, but not all. The exceptions include a third-century M. Ulpius Tertullianus Aquila, vir consularis, who acted as a curator in Pisidia2 and who may be the same as a contemporary Tertullianus, who was praetorian legate in Moesia.3 The other “eastern” Tertullianus crops up in the early fourth century as count of the diocese of Asiana.4 But two locally prominent Tertulliani are recorded for Late Antique Africa: a flamen of Augustus at Zama

1 2 3 4

Birley 1988, 24 and 51. PIR III, 463. PIR III, 306. Cod. Theod. 2.26.1, of 330.

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Regia;5 and a late signatory to the Council of Carthage in 411.6 The name was therefore associated with Africa, but not exclusively so. Two separate questions may be asked. Was Tertullian the Christian a jurist? If so, were the two Tertullians in fact the same person? When Tertullian, the Christian sophist based at Carthage, converted to Christianity, probably in youth, as he and his wife were both Christian when they married (Ux. 1.1), he, as a convert, would have left behind him his previous life. The renunciation could, in theory, have entailed the complete obliteration of his past from all aspects of his life, not least his writing. As is generally, accepted, however, he did not renounce the techniques of persuasion, which were the result of his rhetorical education. In language and structure of argument, his writings conform to the rules laid down by the authors of rhetorical textbooks, most notably Cicero, and Quintilian, the teacher of both Pliny the Younger and scions of the imperial house.7 Although the language and specialised concepts employed by the jurists differed from those of the orator, it was possible for one person to be master of both. Cicero’s contemporary, Servius Sulpicius Rufus, had combined jurisprudence with mastery of language (Cicero, Brut. 150–156); his consolation to Cicero on the death of Tullia (Fam. 4.5) is a masterpiece of the genre. It is therefore theoretically possible for Tertullian the Christian to have written the two works of jurisprudence authored by Tertullianus in his (early) youth and then to have suppressed them and their style in his Christian writings. For these and other reasons, the question of identification is still regarded as “open.”8 Support for the identification of the Christian with the jurist was provided by Eusebius’ account of Tertullian’s early career; he had an “accurate” knowledge of Roman law and was most famous among those of greatest distinction at Rome (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 2.2.4). The reliability of Eusebius’ evidence on matters Roman in the second century was comprehensively demolished by Barnes.9 Lactantius, who, as an African, should have known the facts, is unaware of Tertullian’s alleged legal reputation. Despite this, we need not dismiss Eusebius entirely; a confusion with Tertullianus père is still a possibility.

5 6 7 8 9

PLRE I C, Iulius Servatus Tertullianus 2, 882. Gest. Conc. Carth. I. 215 = SC 195, 902. See Sider 1971 for analysis of Tertullian’s rhetorical techniques. OCD 3rd edition, see under “Tertullian,” 1488. Barnes 1985, 22–29.

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Tertullianus the Jurist So what are the dates of Tertullianus the jurist? All that is known is that he wrote between Pomponius (fl. 130–165 c.e.) and the Severan jurist Ulpian who cites Tertullianus’ citation of Pomponius (On Sabinus 8, at D. 29.2.30.6) in the fourth book of his Quaestiones (Legal Questions). The matter under discussion was the rights as heir (heres) of a child in the womb born after the death of the father, assuming either that the postumus was instituted as heir, or the father died intestate, thus triggering the rules of intestate succession, which gave priority to those in the potestas of the father at the time of death. On the further assumption that there was one child already living, Tertullianus and Pomponius thought that the postumus should receive half the estate and not, as Salvius Julianus thought, a quarter (this being the legal minimum stipulated by the Lex Falcidia). This is of limited assistance in fixing Tertullianus’ date. Both the major disputants, Pomponius and Salvius Julianus, probably consul in 148, belong in the first part of the second century; Julianus had edited the Praetorian Edict under Hadrian10 in the late 120s or early 130s, and followed up his achievement with a 90-book commentary, the Digest, probably completed in the reign of Antoninus Pius (D. 4.2.18, from Julianus, Digest 64). Tertullianus’ citation of Pomponius does not prove that he was a pupil of the Roman jurist; jurists were in the habit of citing each other to reinforce their own authority and the continuity of the legal tradition. However, the fact that Ulpian resorted to citation of Pomponius via Tertullianus is unusual. Pomponius’ handbook (Enchiridion) of legal history and his commentary on the Republican jurist, Q. Mucius (Scaevola Pontifex) survived intact till the sixth century, along with other works. Ulpian had plenty of Pomponius’ text to cite directly. It is therefore a possibility, to put it no more strongly, that Tertullianus received Pomponius’ opinion orally, as part of the informal instruction meted out by prominent legal experts to younger aspirants. If that was so, Tertullianus could have been born as early as c. 110, making him about twenty years old in 130 and fifty at the time of the death of Antoninus Pius in 161. Alternatively, he could have heard Pomponius at any time between 130 and 160. If born, say, in 140, he

10 Eutropius 8.17, Aurelius Victor, De Caesaribus 19; Jerome, Chron. s.a. Abr. 2147 (= 130); Cod. Justin. 4.5.10.1; Constitutio Tanta 18).

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would have been between 20 and 30 between 160 and 170, old (and young) enough to father Tertullian the Christian. The tradition on Tertullian made his father a soldier; he was not.11 But Tertullianus did have a connection with soldiering; he wrote a short treatise on castrense peculium, a soldier’s personal property, as well as eight books on legal questions (quaestiones). Both survived because they were cited in Justinian’s Digest and Codex (of imperial law) five times directly, and three times indirectly in Ulpian’s Ad Sabinum. The survival to the 530s of the monograph on a soldier’s personal property ( peculium) may have been due to its specialist nature. However, it reflects a wider interest in wills and the law of succession, already evidenced in the Ulpian/Pomponius citation. In the context of a discussion of the standing of wills made by sons with fathers (or male ascendants) living, Justinian cites Tertullianus on a soldier who is already a head of household ( paterfamilias) and has made a will in respect only of his property acquired on military service. He then gives himself in adrogatio, that is he volunteers to be adopted by someone else, thus losing his legal independence (as this entailed the “end of a family,” under the Republic formal public consent and a pontifical investigation had been required). Tertullianus’ opinion was that the will would stand, because made by a soldier, but would not, if he had made the will subsequent to his discharge (D. 29.1.23). Elsewhere (D. 49.17.4.2), he returned to adrogatio and its implications for the soldier’s administration of peculium acquired before his change of legal status. Arguing by analogy (or similarity) from imperial constitutions allowing a filiusfamilias complete control of his peculium from the beginning of his service, Tertullianus maintained that the same applied to the paterfamilias who forfeited his legal independence through adrogatio. In general, he was clear that a soldier had exclusive rights to those things which he took into the army with his father’s permission and that he could initiate legal proceedings concerning his peculium without his father’s prior consent (D. 49.17.4 pr. and 1). But the soldier could not be entirely insulated from his family or their succession rights. In a comparatively long extract, Tertullianus explores the ramifications of the birth of posthumous children to sons-in-power, who were also soldiers for part of their careers. The problem for soldiers who still had fathers living was that their (legitimate) children, fathered

11

Barnes 1985, 13–21, 323–25.

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when not in service, would be subject to the potestas of the grandfather, not the father—yet their peculium could be disposed of as they wished. While soldiers’ wills made in service were protected, once discharged, the filius familias resumed his dependent legal status. In a series of complex examples, Tertullianus explores the application of various principles resulting from the operation of patria potestas, the inviolability of the soldier’s will, and the inability of the arrival of the, possibly unexpected, posthumous child (who may be an automatic heir, suus heres) to “break the wills” of both father and grandfather (D. 29.1.33). Tertullianus’ exploration of peculium may have survived because of the detail of his exposition, and also because of its wider implications for the law of succession. Justinian’s legal adviser (and main power behind the law-codes), Tribonian, held a copy in his extensive law library and cited it also in the text of a law of Justinian himself, not about peculium but the proper care of the goods of a man declared permanently insane ( perpetuus furiosus, Cod. Justin. 5.70.7, of 530 c.e.). The law makes the initial point that no curator (agent) is required to administer the property of an insane person who was still “established in the sacra of his parent.” Although, wrote “Justinian,” Tertullianus, “the interpreter of ancient law,” had set this out in his monograph on peculium castrense, he had done so in rather obscure language, therefore the emperor would now clarify matters. Obscure or not, Tertullianus the jurist was prepared to confront difficult legal issues. He is cited by Ulpian for his view, shared with Salvius Julianus, on a tricky question of wording in a will (Ad Sabinum 3, at D. 28.5.3.2) and for his opinion on what should happen when a tutor was not appointed for a ward, because there was a condition in a will that a legacy should be forfeit if there were (Ad Sabinum 13, at D. 38.17.2.44). In the Quaestiones, of which only the first book is quoted directly by the Digest, he even examines the theoretical, but unlikely, eventuality that someone might hire something that he already owned. Responding to the question of whether the hire was legal or not, he had to answer that it was, if the intention was to do so (D. 41.2.28). He could also operate on the broader front of legal philosophy; arguing, again, from analogy, about the reading of earlier laws in line with later ones, he proposed that principles inherent in those laws should apply to persons and things, which might be similar, at any time (D. 1.3.27). What are we to make of all this? First, Tertullianus was primarily interested, not in military law, but in the law of succession, including its application to soldiers. This hugely complex area of family law was of

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abiding interest to jurists, and clearly would form a large part of their business as legal consultants. Because it was complex, and the literature on it extensive, expertise in it could surely have been acquired only slowly. If that were the case, it is unlikely that Tertullian the Christian could have crammed the acquisition of such knowledge into his first two (or even three) decades of life (especially as he was learning rhetoric in depth as well). Secondly, the eight books of Quaestiones may well have derived from cases, real or hypothetical, presented to Tertullianus in the course of his daily practice as a legal consultant. Jurists, it must be remembered, were, in their own time, not primarily writers of academic treatises but purveyors of expert advice to clients, including emperors, by whom they could expect to be appropriately rewarded. The accumulation of eight books of interesting cases suggests that Tertullianus’ working life was of some considerable duration. Finally, can anything be inferred as to Tertullianus’ date from the texts? Lenel12 and others believed that Tertullianus’ interest in the legal position of soldiers harmonized with the concern of Septimius Severus and his successors for the welfare of soldiers, which included permission for them to marry. If this were so, the two Tertullians would be contemporary and the case for their identification as one person would be strengthened (and that for Tertullianus as the father would fall). But an alternative (and in the present writer’s view more plausible) hypothesis is available. Tertullianus is not interested in the consequences of soldiers being married, but in soldiers’ wills and what happens as a result of changes of legal status or discharge. Soldiers’ wills had received special protection under several emperors, notably Trajan, who as a military man himself was naturally concerned with military matters.13 Because they could not be legally married, their unofficial wives and children had no protection, unless a will was made, which guaranteed their rights. The working out of the implications for soldiers would be an appropriate occupation for a Roman jurist under Trajan’s successors, working at Rome with the juristic circle of Pomponius, our “Gaius”, author of the Institutes and other works, and of his fellow-Africans, Salvius Julianus and, we should add, Sextus Caecilius “Africanus”14 the associate of the legal amateur Aulus Gellius (Noctes Atticae 20.1).

12 13 14

Lenel 1887, II, 341. Campbell 1984, 210–29 (wills), 229–36 (property). Lenel 1887, I, 1–37.

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Such, hypothetically, was the father (or uncle or cousin) of Tertullian the Christian, an Antonine jurist who played a small but significant role in the development of jurisprudence at Rome, alongside others from his native province. At some point, perhaps, he returned to Africa, to contribute to the thriving legal culture of Carthage and other cities. Culturally, Rome was not far distant. In Africa at his show-trial in the late 150s, the sophist Apuleius flaunted his knowledge of Roman statutes (e.g., Apol. 47.4 for the Twelve Tables) and recollected, to discredit his contumacious opponent, a hearing, which had taken place before the Prefect of Rome, at which a will had been unsuccessfully challenged and the judge himself subjected to verbal abuse (Apol. 2). In his teens, perhaps while at Rome, Tertullian may have seen the courts of the Prefect of the City at work and would remember them in his writings. Tertullian the Christian Manuals of rhetoric advised advocates to deploy arguments from every possible standpoint. We may be sceptical about Tertullian the Christian’s relationship with Tertullianus the jurist; we may also reject the identification of the Christian with the jurist; but we may still believe that Tertullian was a jurist. However, the theory that the Christian writer was a jurist requires positive proof. It is not sufficient to establish from his writings that Tertullian understood Roman law exceptionally well, as Eusebius (and others) have claimed; legal culture was widespread in Roman Africa. It would also have to be shown that he practised as a legal adviser, either at Rome or in his province as assessor to the provincial governor or as a consultant in the disputes of private citizens. Jurists were defined what they did, as can be demonstrated by Cicero, who clearly knew a lot about law, but never saw himself as a jurist—a significant reservation on the part of one who had no scruple about claiming to be an orator, statesman or (in a restricted sense) a philosopher. Yet there is no evidence that Tertullian provided legal advice to anyone. Before going further, we may note one point of contact between Tertullian and Roman jurisprudence not, apparently, present in the thinking of his “father.” Very little of Tertullianus the jurist survives and arguments from silence are therefore risky. But he seems in one respect to have diverged from the interests of Pomponius, Gaius and, we may add, Aulus Gellius. All the latter took an interest in Roman

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antiquities. Pomponius’ Enchiridion was a history of Roman law and jurisprudence, taking the story back to the foundation of Rome. He also commentated on the Republican jurist, Q. Mucius Scaevola (died 82 b.c.e.). Gaius for his part wrote a commentary on the Twelve Tables, the framework for Mucian jurisprudence, and his Institutes, which survive virtually intact, also contain antiquarian material, while the Gellian anthology is crammed with antiquarian and legal matter. Tertullianus appears not to have looked backwards in the same way. In this respect, his son(?) the Christian had more in common with the Roman jurists, although he was more concerned with the religious, than the strictly legal past (the Romans’ respect for ancient religious law would have obscured this distinction). One of Tertullian’s earliest works, the Ad Nationes, made extensive reference to Varro’s work on religion.15 Claiming that pagans were more interested in literature than facts (Nat. 2.1.8), he adopted Varro’s three modes of discourse on the gods, the natural, the mythical and the general or popular (id. 9–10); Varro’s recording of the banning of Egyptian gods from the Capitol is recalled (Nat. 1.10.17; Apol. 6.8); and the list of silly little local gods compiled by Varro is reproduced and mocked (Nat. 2.8.6; Apol. 24.8). Later he returns to Varro’s suggested three categories of gods, only to reject them (Nat. 2.9.3); it was also inconsistent for Varro to claim that Jupiter, Juno and Minerva were the oldest of the gods when fathers (i.e., Saturn, a popular god in Roman Africa) were older than their children (Nat. 2.11.5). Yet, despite this interest in antiquity, (even if adopted for polemical purposes), Tertullian avoids engagement with the controversies of ancient law. For him, Roman law had been supplanted by that of the Bible. The Ten Commandments were the Law to which Christians were subject; the Twelve Tables were not. We would expect Tertullian, if formerly a jurist, to sound like one, at least on occasion. Juristic discourse was distinctive; Quintilian (Inst. 11.2.41) wrote that passages to be learned by heart to assist the development of memory were, in ascending order of difficulty, poetry, oratory and passages without rhythmical structure, such as the writings of the jurists. But Tertullian, though often harsher and less ornate than his compatriot Apuleius, has little in common with the dispassionate and austere productions of jurisprudence. Although jurists often disagreed with each other, the tone of their disagreements was remarkably

15

Barnes 1976.

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unpolemical; the difference of view and its grounds (and the views of previous authorities on both sides) were stated, and the jurist moved serenely on. Nor does a study of Tertullian’s vocabulary help the case for his background as a jurist. As Rankin (1997) argued, such legal terms as potestas, delictum, ratio and restitutio/restituere are found in both legal and rhetorical texts carrying similar meanings. Cicero and Quintilian both argued that the orator required some knowledge of law. While conceding that he would consult a specialist on some matters, Cicero’s own writings show more than a casual acquaintance with not only legal principles but also the finer points, as demonstrated in the Topica, dedicated to a jurist, Trebatius, in the summer of 44 b.c.e.16 and much of the first book De oratore (55 b.c.e.) is devoted to a discussion of the place of legal knowledge in the equipment of the perfect orator. Quintilian’s extended account of the education of the good orator (who was also required to be a good man) included knowledge of law among the qualifications of the orator (Inst. 12.3). Conversely, the jurist had shared the common educational experience of rhetoric; Tertullianus’ use of analogy, for example, is compatible with the rhetorical devices inculcated by the schools (cf. Cicero, Top. 15:41–45). Pushing the argument further, if Tertullian were a jurist, or had been one at some point in his career, we would expect him to use certain terms in the specialised legal sense employed by the jurists. In fact, not only does he avoid specialised usages, he diverges still further from juristic practice, and employs legal terms both in general popular senses17 and in different, Christian contexts. This is not to deny that he knew what he needed to know about Roman law, as many African non-specialists did; his casual reference “to a certain Greek woman” (actually from Alexandria) who was the mother of quintuplets and won inclusion in accounts of the ius civile (An. 6.8, cf. D. 34.5.7.pr. and 46.3.36), probably reflects that general knowledge. His reference to a family scandal brought before the Prefect of Rome, Seius Fuscianus, in the late 180s (Nat. 1.16.13; also Dio 74.4) has one possibly significant cross-bearing with ecclesiastical disputes at Rome. Seius Fuscianus was also the Prefect who heard a case of financial malpractice brought against the future liberal reformist pope, Callistus (Hippolytus, Haer.

16 17

See Reinhardt 2003. Cf. Martini 1975.

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9.12). As we shall see, Tertullian sympathised, and perhaps had personal contacts, with Callistus’ opponents, the conservative ecclesiastical faction at Rome. So far from being a jurist, Tertullian the Christian deliberately distanced himself from juristic discourse. Delictum is a case in point. Delictum in the jurists has a specific frame of reference. The offences covered, which broadly included unlawful damages, injuries or outrage (iniuria) and theft, could be remedied by the bringing of private suits requiring both restitution and a further penal award; first-century jurisprudence connected them to (breaches of ) the law of obligations.18 In this regard, they differed from a group of “public” offences, such as homicide, adultery, forgery and various types of official malpractice, which were treated as offences against the community as a whole and could, in theory, be pursued by anyone who chose (although there were limitations imposed in practice on both adultery and suits for restitution or repetundae). For Tertullian, however, delictum means, fault or, in Christian terms, sin. The argument of Tertullian’s De pudicitia may be used to illustrate his use of legal vocabulary and his attitude to the church at Rome, presided over by the controversial Zephyrinus and his strong-minded deacon and future bishop of Rome, Callistus. This treatise, which probably dates to c. 210 c.e., refers directly to offences covered by the Roman publica iudicia, namely those of adultery (adulterium) and fornication (stuprum), which were to be tried by a standing court at Rome established by Augustus’ Lex Julia on Adulteries of 18 b.c.e. It is possible that this court, unlike its peers, survived at Rome until the Severan period, and that its final abolition and replacement by hearings before the Prefect was what generated a bundle of monographs by the Severan jurists on Adulteries and Adulterers, to mark its passing and establish a body of authoritative interpretation for the benefit of future emperors and prefects.19 That of Papinian, at least, must predate 212, when he was killed. While the event prompting Tertullian’s outburst was a religious enactment, the Lex Julia, as we shall see, is a silent presence behind the text.

18 19

Zimmermann 1996, 914–1062. Bauman 1968.

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In his treatment of the delictum of unlawful sex, Tertullian deploys a deliberately non-legal vocabulary and value-system. The treatise revolves round the question of whether the sins of adultery (moechia, the Greek word, not adulterium) and fornication ( fornicatio, not stuprum) can be atoned for and granted forgiveness by the Church or any other terrestrial authorities. The first part, or exordium, of the treatise opens with an invocation of Pudicitia, chastity. Virtue will endure in the secular world if it is supported by nature, from birth, education and the compulsion of law (Pud. 1.1). But, as the Last Days loom, the seed is corrupted, education abandoned and the laws are ineffectual (Pud. 1.2). The Christian has another option; while secular goodness is rooted in secular values, the moral code of Christians depends on the Bible (Pud. 1.5). The insistence on the separation of the Church from the world is crucial for what follows, which is an attack on an edict, which, he hears, had been passed and which offered absolution for the delicta of the penitent adulterer and fornicator (Pud. 1.6). It was to close the matter ( peremptorium). In Roman law, edicts were binding enactments issued by magistrates (including the emperor). The edictum peremptorium was issued by a magistrate presiding at a trial; it obliged the defendant to attend court and warned him of the consequences if he did not (D. 5.1.70; 42.1.53.1; 49.1.23.3). However, Tertullian, although evoking the specialist sense, has the common usage more in mind; the adjective signals the conclusion of the matter, in this case, an edict so dogmatic that it forbids further discussion—not that this will deter Tertullian. And there is a further resonance: peremptorium also meant, in common parlance, “deadly” or “lethal.” But whose was the edict, and where was it issued? While there is some disagreement as to authorship, the “edict” was clearly not the work of a magistrate; Tertullian’s use of the word indicated his view that the author had exceeded his powers. One leading authority on Tertullian has argued that the edict was a pronouncement by a bishop of Carthage.20 Older accounts,21 however, identify the author as the then bishop of Rome, the generally shadowy Zephyrinus, who, apparently, was under the domination of his deacon, the future pope, Callistus (the main 20 21

Barnes 1985, 247, cf. Pud. 21.10, the meaning of which is unclear. E.g., DCB 1218; DHGE 421–424.

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source for both is Hippolytus, who was hostile). This raises important questions for Tertullian’s cultural perceptions of Rome and its Church and a number of indicators suggest that the De pudicitia is related to Roman developments. In his attack on Praxeas, he had already crossed swords with the liberal wing of the Roman church, as represented by Zephyrinus and Callistus, over its rejection of Montanism. Secondly, the announcement of forgiveness for the penitent adulterer was in line with the liberal reforms to be introduced by Callistus as bishop after 218, when he was to relax the rules for readmission to the church, for marriage in general and for married clergy in particular (including those married more than once), while also allowing second baptism. Finally, the language, while not Rome-centred, is heavily targeted on the persona of the quasi-imperial legislator; the bishop who issued the edict is labelled Pontifex Maximus, still an imperial title, and much is made of the issuing and posting of the decree, the latter not in haunts of vice, as would be appropriate, but in the virgin church (Pud. 1. 7). Just as imperial and magisterial decrees were read out in the market-place, so this was read out and proclaimed in the church (Pud. 8). Christians, insisted the writer, should have nothing to do with such an “official proclamation” ( praeconium). All these considerations suggest that the De pudicitia is a renewal of Tertullian’s feud with those elements at Rome, of which he disapproved (and who would find themselves challenged from within by the schismatic Hippolytus). This brief narratio element intrudes into Tertullian’s introduction (exordium), which resumes with a denunciation of the immorality of the Church, once the bride of Christ and now a whore. There were two kinds of delicta, Tertullian argued: those, which could be remitted on grounds of repentance and those, which could not (Pud. 2.12–16). Into which category should adultery and fornication fall? While they were clearly morally wrong, what was the position in law? That question could be answered by the Christian only with reference to the divine law, not to that of the emperors. When the place of adultery in the Ten Commandments was considered, the answer was clear: adultery was so serious that it rated only just below idolatry and above homicide (Pud. 5.1–15), therefore it was not an offence to which the Church could grant absolution on its own authority (Pud. 21.17). But Tertullian also knew that he had to engage with the textual arguments of his opponents, who advocated leniency. Two passages of Paul, from two separate letters to the Corinthians appeared to offer help—to both sides (Pud. 13–14). In the first (1 Cor 5.5), Paul delivers a fornicator to Satan,

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but in the second (2 Cor 2.7) he orders the Corinithians to forgive an offender, urging them to show dilectio, love. For Tertullian, these were two separate individuals, a point he argues as any advocate (or jurist) might from definitions of words and appeals to the more honourable of alternative readings.22 Tertullian’s use of delictum is thus far removed from that of the jurists. It refers to sin not to a clearly defined category of private offence, and the sin referred to falls under the Roman public laws against adultery—or it would if the Lex Julia de Adulteriis were relevant to his framework of reference. In fact, Tertullian is concerned with the Augustan legislation but only in a restricted negative sense, and by implication (Pud. 4.2–4). Augustus’ law, which received subsequent modifications and reinterpretations (cf. Digest 48.5), defined adultery as sex between a married woman and a lover and penalised a husband who failed to prosecute (having first divorced the alleged offender); a married man could be unfaithful with impunity, provided he chose his partner carefully to avoid charges of adultery or stuprum (unlawful sex with an unmarried woman of status). Summary killing of an offending couple by the father or husband was possible but only in certain places (such as the wife’s father’s house), and under strictly defined circumstances (D. 48.5.21 (20) pr., and 2; id. 24(23) pr. and 4; id. 33(32)). Tertullian, however, rejects all this by implication, substituting what he claims is general usage. For him, any violation of the married state was wrong, regardless of whether the woman seduced was married or not. Nor was the place important: whether in the privacy of the bedchamber or the openness of the public road, pudicitia was butchered. The immorality of the act was what mattered, not the circumstances of its commission. Tertullian, therefore, attempts a covert substitution of the lex Christiana for that of Augustus. In Roman legal parlance, the word delictum could not be applied to adultery, a public-law offence. By substituting the Greek moechia for the Latin adulterium, and fornicatio for stuprum, he creates the required distance from the terminology of the Augustan legislation on adulteria. Into the space created he introduces the concept of delictum as sin and the “generally accepted” morality of marriage, that both parties should be faithful, a view also taken by his contemporary, Domitius Ulpianus, the legal adviser and master of petitions to Septimius Severus and minister to some of his successors (D. 48.5.14

22

Sider 1971, 91–95.

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(13).5). Going further, he substitutes for Roman law the law-code of Moses, which identified adultery as one of the most serious of crimes, and one for which mere repentance might not be enough. Conclusion This paper presented itself at the outset as speculative fiction, the story of a hypothetical father and son who may in fact have had no relationship to each other (or may have been the same person). But it also has a serious purpose. One, it is argued that Tertullianus cannot be identified with Tertullian and that there are numerous reasons why this is so. Second, by analysing what can be retrieved of the writings of Tertullianus the jurist in his Roman context, we see something of the lesser provincial jurist at work in the imperial capital, reacting with distinguished contemporaries, and, perhaps, returning home to spread more widely the legal culture of empire. Moreover, if Tertullianus was indeed the father—and paterfamilias—of the Christian writer, then we see the future convert reared in a provincial household with strong connections to Italy and Rome, imbued with the most Roman of cultures, those of rhetoric and law. Tertullian the Christian would react to his rearing in Africa by continuing to look, as his father had done, to Rome, reacting to unwelcome ecclesiastical developments there and reworking the Roman vocabulary of law and power, but as a Christian, not as a jurist. Bibliography Barnes, T. D. 1976. Tertullian the Antiquarian. Studia Patristica 14/3:3–20. ———. 1985. Tertullian: A Historical and Literary Study. rev. ed. Oxford. Bauman, R. A. 1968. Some remarks on the Structure and Survival of the Quaestio de Adulteriis. Antichthon 2:68–93. Birley, A. 1988. Septimius Severus: The African Emperor. rev. ed. London. Campbell, J. B. 1984. The Emperor and the Roman Army 31 B.C.–A.D. 235. Oxford. Lenel, O. 1887. Palingenesia Iuris Civilis. Leipzig. Martini, R. 1975. Tertulliano giurista e Tertulliano padre della Chiesa. Studia et Documenta Historiae et Iuris 41:79–124. Rankin, D. I. 1997. Was Tertullian a Jurist? Studia Patristica 31:335–42. Rheinhardt. T. ed. 2003. Cicero’s Topica. Oxford. Sider, R. D. 1971. Ancient Rhetoric and the Art of Tertullian. Oxford. Zimmermann, R. 1996. The Law of Obligations. Roman Foundations of the Civilian Tradition. Oxford.

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Tertullian’s works are published in the original Latin by Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina vols 1 and 2, edited by Dekkers, E. and others: Vol. 1, Opera Catholica; Vol. 2, Opera Montanistica, Turnout, 1954. For a newer text and translation of De Pudicitia, see: Tertullien, Le Pudicité (De Pudicitia), ed. and trans. C. Munier, introd. and commentary C. Micaelli SC 394–95. 1993. Paris.

THE LANGUAGE(S) OF THE KINGDOM: FROM ARAMAIC TO GREEK, GALILEE TO SYRIA, ORAL TO ORAL-WRITTEN Richard A. Horsley Introduction Sean Freyne pioneered the scholarly focus specifically on Galilee and in many ways was the founder of the informal professional club of (self-designated) Γαλιλαῖοι who have been stimulated by his initiatives. One of the most important areas of the impact of the investigations that Freyne inaugurated has been our understanding of the context of the mission of Jesus and the emergence of Jesus movements. In the midst of the burgeoning research on Galilee, however, scholars have remained uncertain about the all-important matter of what language(s) Jesus spoke. Attempting, in honoring Freyne, to follow his example in continually asking new questions about Galilee and the movements that responded to Jesus, I would like to make an experimental probe into the relation between the languages spoken in Galilee and the neighboring areas of Syria. Only in very recent years is it becoming clearer that Jesus and his followers in Galilee almost certainly spoke Aramaic. Yet the principal texts of the Gospel tradition are in Greek, and were evidently composedand-performed in Greek. So how can the Jesus movements that cultivated those Gospel materials so quickly have begun communicating in Greek? And how can Jesus scholars be so confident in focusing on his sayings, which were in Aramaic, when the only sources we have are in Greek? Gospel scholars have avoided asking such questions, probably because we did not have even minimal clues about how we might go about answering them. Recent developments in research, however, may well have prepared the way for us to ask these and related questions. More ancient texts in Aramaic have become available, greatly expanding our knowledge of Aramaic. Socio-linguists have called attention to social-political influences on languages and their usage. The language situations in Syria and Galilee are becoming a bit clearer as a result of recent research.

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And specialists have become more sophisticated in linguistic analysis. There is also an increasing recognition that the principal division in society was not between “Jews” and “Gentiles,” but between rulers and ruled. That division included diversity of cultural levels compounded by regional diversity, which can be partially comprehended with the distinction commonly made among anthropologists between the “great tradition” cultivated by ruling and scribal circles and the “popular tradition” cultivated in village communities in Judea, Samaria, and Galilee. This means, among other things, that Galilean peasants almost certainly did not share the priestly and Pharisaic concerns about “Jewish” purity codes and separation from “Gentiles.” More recently it has been “discovered” that communication, certainly among ordinary people, was oral; and it has been recognized that even when existing in written form, “texts” were generally recited orally before groups of people. In this paper, I want to make some initial forays into the first move that Jesus movements made, from Galilee into Syrian areas, from Aramaic into Greek, and from the early stages of oral communication in Galilean Aramaic to oral-written composition-and-performance in Koine Greek. Given that the earliest Gospel texts are in Greek and not the language Jesus spoke, can we learn anything from investigations into a possible but ill-defined Aramaic linguistic and cultural substratum and from comparisons of that substratum with our Greek texts that might shed further light on the development of Gospel traditions into what we now have as written Gospels? The investigation will proceed in four steps: the historical political power-relations that determined the general language situation; the use of languages in Syria and Galilee; the largely oral communication environment, including the limited use of written texts; and finally an exploratory probe for Aramaic influence in one of the speeches in Q (7:18–28). Politics The fundamental divide in late second-temple Palestine was between the wealthy and powerful Herodian and priestly aristocracies, on the one hand, and the vast majority of people living in hundreds of villages around the country, on the other. As in any traditional agrarian society, the ruling elite maintained their power and privilege by expropriating resources from the peasantry in the form of taxes, tithes, and offerings. The Pharisees and other scribal groups, including the predecessors of

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the Qumranites before they withdrew to the wilderness, belonged on the elite side of this divide.1 One need only read Ben Sira’s comments about various roles in society (Sirach 38:24–39:11) to understand which side the scribal circles’ bread was buttered on. They may well have attempted to mitigate some of the worst exploitation of the peasants by their aristocratic patrons, but they were apparently economically dependent especially on the priestly aristocracy. Gospel materials, like Josephus’ accounts give much evidence of scribal collaboration with the ruling elite and popular resentment of scribal functions. The Judean and Galilean peasants and even the ordinary people in Jerusalem mounted repeated protests, movements of resistance, and even periodic widespread revolts against their rulers in early Roman times. According to the accounts in Josephus, most of those protests and movements and revolts were informed by and patterned after Israelite traditions and prophecies, such as stories of Moses and Joshua leading the exodus/ entry into the land. Compounding the differences between rulers and ruled, scribal circles and peasants, were the differences in historical experience between Galilee and Judea and the built-in structural historical conflict between the people of Galilee and the Jerusalem rulers and their representatives.2 After having been independent of Jerusalem rule for eight centuries after Solomon, Galilee was taken over by the Hasmonean high priesthood a hundred years before Jesus was born. Galileans were then subjected to “the laws of the Judeans” and ruled for a hundred years before being placed under the separate jurisdiction of Herod Antipas during the lifetime of Jesus and thereafter remaining independent of Jerusalem jurisdiction except for the brief reign of Agrippa I (41–44). Since these regional differences have not often been recognized, the implications have not been much explored.3 A similar division between rulers and ruled also dominated the various areas of Syria to the north. Phrases in the Gospel of Mark are indicative of this fundamental political-economic structure: “the region of (ruled by) Tyre/the Decapolis,” or “the villages of (subject to) Caesarea Philippi” (Mark 7:31; 8:27). As in Galilee, there had been periodic historical changes at the top, one set of rulers replacing another

1 2 3

Horsley 1995, 149–52; 2001, 151–56. See further Horsley 1995, chapters 1–3, 6. See, e.g., Freyne 1999; Horsley 1995.

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(e.g., Seleucids by Romans), while the basic structure remained the same (imperial and client rulers extracting revenues from peasantry). What had the greatest impact on the languages used in all areas was the succession of imperial rulers. The Persians had used Aramaic as the administrative language and lingua franca of the western areas of their empire. Alexander and his Ptolemaic and Seleucid successors imposed Greek as the language of administration in the cities that controlled the various districts of their empires. When the Romans conquered the eastern Mediterranean they retained Greek as the official administrative language. The Roman imposition of client rulers such as the Herodians in Palestine, besides adding additional layers of economic demands on the peasant producers (tribute and/or taxes on top of tithes and offerings), had obvious implications for intensifying the use and influence of Greek among subject peoples. Languages Expanding the Approach to Languages in New Testament Studies Biblical scholars focused on second-temple Judean languages and literatures and on Gospel literature have previously proceeded on a rather flat plane of language represented in writing, such as scrolls and inscriptions, as if that gave us the whole picture. It is difficult enough simply to learn these languages and to figure out the probable meaning of words. They have also been working on rather simple and general assumptions that all key issues can be reduced to a conflict between an essentialist “Judaism” articulated in Biblical Hebrew and an essentialist “Hellenism” carried in Greek This is complicated only by the half-hearted recognition that “the Jews” in Palestine probably spoke Aramaic. Biblical scholars have also tended to assume that any extant example of writing provides evidence for the common usage of a language. Burial inscriptions or graffiti, for example, were taken as evidence of what language was used not only in the site where they were found (e.g., Beth Shearim in late antiquity) but in the whole area and over an extended period of time. Archaeologists who unearthed inscriptions in Galilee suggested that, simply on the surface of things, they indicated the language spoken by the people.4 That is, if the 4 See the critical survey of studies on language in Judea and Galilee in Horsley 1996, chapter 7, disagreeing with assumptions, procedures, and conclusions, e.g., in Meyers and Strange 1981, 62–91.

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majority of inscriptions found along the shore of the Sea of Galilee were in Greek, therefore the language spoken in lower Galilee was predominantly Greek. The relationship between evidence such as inscriptions, language usage, and society is far more complex, however, than much previous scholarship has discerned. Inscriptions are not reliable indicators of general language usage. Far more importantly, language usage is closely linked with culture and cultural tradition. And language and cultural differences often correspond to the political-economic divisions. Just because Greek may have been used by the literate elite in Herodian administrations in Jerusalem or Sepphoris and Tiberias does not mean that it was spoken in the hundreds of village communities of Judea and Galilee. Furthermore, in an imperial situation in which the conquerors’ language has encroached on and become prominent among subject peoples, the latter can sometimes use “the master’s tools” in opposition to the dominant culture and politics. No doubt some accommodation to the dominant culture was entailed when villagers began speaking Greek (in addition to Aramaic), but they could now articulate their interests and discontents in the same language spoken by those who dominated them. Languages in Syria Linguists and classical historians who have learned from social and historical linguistics are far ahead of us biblical scholars in dealing with such issues of language, culture, and power-relations. So it makes sense to start with recent studies of bi-(or multi)lingualism and diglossia in the broader area of Syria, of which Galilee and Judea were the southwestern-most corner, and then come back to Galilee with a more complicated set of interrelated factors in mind.5 When we find linguistic diversity (e.g., a mixed-language text) we are likely to find ethnic and class diversity. Thus the languages and their relationship cannot be assessed purely in linguistic terms. “Non-linguistic issues, such as political, social, cultural, and religious factors, must not be forgotten.”6 To take political and social differences into account, linguists now distinguish between the H(igh) and L(ow) codes coexisting in various societies, where H is supposedly used for formal functions and the L for informal. But in some areas of antiquity, such as East Syria 5 6

The following depends heavily on Adams and Swain 2002; Taylor 2002. Adams and Swain 2002, 3; Taylor 2002, 299–300.

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(Edessa, Palmyra) that dichotomy is too simple; both Greek and Aramaic function as High, and Aramaic and other languages as Low.7 In north Syria generally, judging mainly from inscriptional evidence, Greek was the High language and Aramaic the Low. Greek in the Near East was to a large extent the language of the conquests by Alexander the Great. Economic, military, and political power was in the hands of Greek speakers settled in cities founded to control the conquered territories.8 Greek replaced Aramaic in the political sphere. Josephus was well aware of the Greeks’ reliance on “gunboat linguistics” to shore up their belief in the imaginary racial unity of their new territories: “They appropriated even the glories of the past, and prettified the nations with names they [i.e., the Greeks] could understand and imposed on them forms of government as though they were their own descendants” (Ant. 1.121). Quite apart from soldiers, veterans, and government officials, it seems clear that significant numbers of people in northern Syria, even outside the cities, had productive control of Greek, although their accent and standards of literacy may have appalled scholars of the Athenian academics (as it has more recent scholars).9 The ubiquity of Greek inscriptions in North Syria, however, is mainly a consequence of local diglossia that accorded Greek the status of an H variety and should not be interpreted as a reflection of the totality of the regional language system. The dominant use of Greek in inscriptions is not proof that this was widely understood. The suspicion that it was not is encouraged by an analysis of the inscriptional materials further south in the Hauran. There also all the inscriptions from this period are preserved in Greek and Latin and on surface the region seems thoroughly Hellenized. Yet as one inscription (IGR iii, 1191) indicates, it was necessary for a translator to travel with the procurators so that he could communicate with the people.10 Also, as we are becoming more aware from critical analysis of the function of official inscribed monuments and statues, which ordinary people would themselves have understood as instruments of domination (regardless of whether the inscriptions were understood cognitively!), such propaganda devices may have had an effect that was as alienating to the rulers’ language as it was intimidating to the indigenous people. 7 8 9 10

Taylor 2002. Adams and Swain 2002, 12; Taylor 2002, 201. Taylor 2002, 314. Alexander 2002, 307; Jones 1940, 290.

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With their political and cultural dominance the Greeks suppressed indigenous cultural memory—and identity—and substituted their own culture in their own language, although in degrees that surely varied by location. The dominance of Greek over the local Aramaics of northwest Syria and the Lebanon makes it reasonable to assume a sort of cultural amnesia in these zones.11 The cultural power of Greek and its public-political guarantee by Rome made it the sole high language in use. But many elite users of Greek apparently continued to speak and to produce literature in a local language, particularly in Palestine and Egypt.12 And in Syria in general, various dialects of Aramaic were spoken, including somewhat different dialects in Galilee, Samaria, and Judea. A well known Talmud passage (b {Erub. 53b) indicates the rivalry of dialects and potential for confusion: mocking the Galilean pronunciation of guttural and vowel sounds: “Now, as for that Galilean who said: ‘Who has {amar? Who has {amar?’ They said to him: “You stupid Galilean! (do you mean) an ass [hamar] to ride on? Or wine [hamar] to drink? Wool [{amar] for clothing? Or a sheepskin [{imar] for a covering?”13 The general language situation among villages and towns in Syria thus appears to have been mixed, with Greek having been spoken in many villages, various dialects of Aramaic (or Syriac) in others, and both (versions of Koine) Greek and Aramaic (dialects) in others, with some of the people being effectively bilingual. For our purposes here, however, a significant variation on the general pattern is that by Late Antiquity Greek seems to have been particularly associated with Christianity and Aramaic with pagan religious practices.14 The Christian movement “spread through northern Syria at rates that differed from massif to massif and from village to village,”15 and prima facie it does not seem unreasonable to suppose that language skills and usage will have similarly varied from one small community to the next.16 Greek is clearly the language of the earliest Christian liturgies in the region, for there are numerous inscriptions above the doorways of private houses as well as churches, which contain citations from these liturgies. Greek inscriptions were often placed above doorways

11 12 13 14 15 16

Millar 1993. Adams and Swain 2002, 13. Taylor 2002, 303. Adams and Swain 2002, 9. Trombley 1994, 247–315, esp. 311. Taylor 2002, 306.

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in Syria to proclaim the conversion of the household to Christianity, and there are many more which seem to have an apotropaic function.17 This suggests that in the early period of Christian expansion Greek was explicitly identified as the language of Christian faith and worship.18 The continuing vitality of indigenous culture, in Aramaic and then in Greek, is behind its spectacular metamorphosis in the Christian period. One of the main impacts of Christianity was to weaken the link between Greek language and Greek culture. Many Christian authors writing in Greek trumpet their new-found freedom in this regard.19 We can think of a Matthew or a Paul as early examples. As recent research has indicated, Paul surely knew and practiced standard Greek rhetorical forms, although probably not from any formal schooling and in ways opposed to the dominant use of rhetoric.20 But Paul reveals precious little by way of Greek cultural content beyond his rhetorical modes and some of his discourse that can also be noted among some philosophers, but had apparently become commonplace by the first century c.e. It is difficult to find much Greek cultural content at all in Matthew’s Gospel. In Paul and especially in Matthew Judean/Israelite cultural memory and thought forms are dominant. Languages in Judea and Galilee Earlier attempts to construct an Aramaic stratum behind Gospel materials in Greek proved unconvincing for some obvious reasons. Knowledge of Aramaic was limited. Christian NT scholars were trained more fully in Greek than in Semitic languages and had a distinct cultural bias toward the supposed universalism of Hellenistic culture into which “early Christianity” moved from the supposedly more parochial and particularistic Palestinian “Jewish” culture from which it originated. Archaeologists, who tend to focus on urban areas in which they can find monumental structures that satisfy funding sources, along with liberal Jesus-scholars, went through a phase in the late twentieth century where they projected an almost cosmopolitan culture in Galilee.21 They simply assumed that the cities built by Herod Antipas meant Hellenistic Trombley 1994, ch 10. Taylor 2002, 315. 19 Adms & Swain 2002, 14. 20 See my attempt to place Paul’s use of rhetorical forms in the broader context of the Roman empire, in Horsley 2000, 72–102. 21 For example, Meyers 1979, 687–98; Crossan 1991, 18–19. 17 18

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culture, and they argued from the evidence for use of Greek throughout Palestine, including Greek inscriptions in Galilee, that Greek was widely spoken in Galilee, conceivably even by Jesus and his followers.22 The language situation in Galilee, as well as Judea, however, has been clarified by more critical assessment of available evidence.23 It is unwarranted, for example, to base conclusions about language in firstcentury Galilee in general on predominantly Greek burial inscriptions at Beth Shearim. These inscriptions are late and in a site with heavy Hellenistic cultural influence, beginning at least when it was an administrative town in the royal lands of the Great Plain (not in Galilee itself ). Nor can we generalize from the combination of Greek and Aramaic and Hebrew used in documents from Murabbaxat and Nahal Hever in the Judean wilderness or from the similar combination in the correspondence of Bar Kokhba in the revolt of 132–135. Both are socially more “upscale” than most Galilean villagers. It seems likely that some villagers in Lower Galilee around the cities, where the administrative language was Greek, knew a little pidgin Greek. But in Upper Galilee very few inscriptions were found in Greek, and in Lower Galilee Aramaic was most frequently represented in inscriptions. Surprising is the appearance of evidence for Hebrew, which apparently was never completely supplanted by Aramaic. But Aramaic appears to have been the dominant spoken language. That the rabbis found they had to allow “any language” in the recitation of common oaths, prayers, and benedictions suggests that Aramaic must have been the only language of many (m. Sota 7:1; cf. t. Git. 7(9).11). Embedded in rabbinic literature in Hebrew, moreover, are traditional Aramaic proverbs introduced by phrases such as “this is what the people used to say” (e.g., b. Taxan 23a; b. B. Qam. 92b; Gen. Rab. 86:7).24 Casey’s recent surveys of languages in Judea and Galilee confirm the picture critically constructed by Fitzmyer in 1970.25 Latin was the language of imperial power, used, for example, for formal inscriptions by the Roman governors such as Pontius Pilate in the Roman capital 22 For a recent argument for the Greek as more commonly used among the people, such that Jesus could converse in Greek, see Porter 1994. 23 The earlier survey by Fitzmyer (1970) was in many ways more critical than some subsequent treatments of evidence. And see the discussion of languages in Chancey 2002; 2005. The following paragraph draws on the critical analysis of studies of languages in Palestine in Horsley 1995, 247–50; see references there. 24 See further Horsley 1995, 249 n. 26, 344. 25 Casey 1998; 2002.

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of the province of Judea, Caesarea. Greek was still the language of the dominant imperial culture, a carry-over from Hellenistic imperial control of Palestine in the previous three centuries. This is evident from official inscriptions, inscriptions on jars of goods produced for Herod the Great, and its use in international trade, largely in luxury goods for the elite. The many tomb inscriptions must be critically assessed for their social (political-economic) location. That Josephus wrote his Jewish War originally in Aramaic and needed a good deal of help to put it into intelligible Greek is a good indication that even the political-economic and cultural elite of Jerusalem was by no means comfortable and fluent in Greek—although they surely could carry on adequate diplomatic negotiations in high places, such as the imperial court in Rome and the Roman governors’ audiences in Caesarea and Jerusalem. Hebrew continued as the language of the Israelite/Judean cultural heritage in the Temple and in scribal circles. Scrolls that might be called “scriptural” were written in Hebrew, and scribes could recite in Hebrew, even write archaizing Hebrew, as in the last chapters (8–12) of the book of Daniel and many of the Dead Sea Scrolls written by and for the Qumran community itself. Hebrew underwent a revival in proto-rabbinic circles. The Mishnah, an extensive compilation of learned rulings and teachings, is entirely in Hebrew, indicating that its cultivation in nascent rabbinic circles was also in Hebrew. Aramaic, however, was the spoken language at every level of Judean society and among the people of Galilee as well. Ordinary people apparently could not understand Hebrew, so as early as the time of Ezra, at formal recitations of Judean lawbooks, they were translated/ interpreted into Aramaic (Nehemiah 8). The DSS include some scrolls written in Aramaic, such as of Targums and instructions for observance of Yom Kippur. Casey also derives evidence from what is called “interference” by one language into the spoken and written use of another to argue that speakers of Aramaic at the time of Jesus were not bilingual in Greek. On the other hand, Greek was certainly in use in the Herodian administrations in Jerusalem, Sepphoris and Tiberius, in the Greek speaking cities such as Caesarea and Scythopolis/Beth Shean, and in inscriptions here and there. If we put credence in the legend that Joseph and Jesus were “builders” it seems likely that they would have used a sort of pidgin Greek for communication in Sepphoris, in the rebuilding of which they may have found work. Similarly, insofar as fishing was done by teams of four or five men operating boats leased by a fishing

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enterprise controlled by Herod Antipas, then Jesus’ followers such as Cephas, Andrew, Jacobus and John may also have known some simple Greek to communicate with the brokers and officers of Antipas regime. But it seems fairly certain now that a Galilean dialect of Aramaic, and not Greek, was the language of communication in Galilean and Judean village communities, the language spoken by Jesus and his first followers, hence the language in which Jesus’ teachings and Jesus stories were first formulated and remembered and resonated with communities of people. And, with the study of Aramaic documents among the Dead Sea Scrolls and other developments, there may now be a “critical mass” of knowledge of Aramaic to warrant careful probing of the Greek text of Gospel materials for evidence of an Aramaic substratum.26 Orality and Literacy As a product of the print culture of the modern western world, biblical studies has understandably projected the assumptions of print culture onto the ancient world in which the “Scriptures” it interprets originated. It has been assumed that the ancient “Jews,” as “the people of the book” were literate, regularly “read” the books of the Hebrew Bible that were supposedly readily available, and that the “writers/authors” of the “early Christian” communities also “wrote” books (composed them in writing). Recent research, however, has demonstrated that virtually none of the aspects of that standard picture are warranted.27 Oral Communication and the Limited Literacy Research in the last several decades is demonstrating again and again that literacy was very limited in the ancient Roman world, including in Judea and Galilee. Even in the cities of the Roman Empire only about 15% of the people were literate, mainly the elite and those who served them in various ways.28 In the face of the continuing presumption that somehow ancient Judeans were an exception to this picture, the extensive recent survey by Catherine Hezser documents beyond the

Fitzmyer; Casey 1998; 2002. The recognition of the oral communication environment in antiquity and of the complex relationship between orality and literacy with regard to ancient Jewish and Christian texts was effectively pioneered by Werner Kelber. See esp. Kelber 1983. 28 Harris 1987. 26 27

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possibility of continuing denial that in late second temple and rabbinic times literacy was limited mainly to scribal circles, and limited in use to documents used by the wealthy and powerful.29 The Babatha letters, for example, represent only a pretentious upper layer of society, and not typical practice for society in general. Writing material was as scarce as literacy. Scrolls such as those found at Qumran were not only expensive, but cumbersome, both to handle and to read. Consequently scrolls of texts would have been kept mainly in the Temple and perhaps among scribal circles such as the Qumran community. Given the limited literacy, it is clear that an oral communication environment prevailed in Judean and Galilean society. Furthermore, it is not clear that ancient “biblical” Hebrew, the language in which the books later included in the Hebrew Bible were written, was still spoken or understood by anyone outside of scribal circles. The problems this poses for our study of late second-temple Judean and Galilean society, diaspora Jewish communities, and the texts that they used and/or produced can be illustrated most dramatically by focusing on what we have assumed were its “scriptures.” How would scripture, that is, written scrolls of the principal versions of the books of Moses and the books of the Prophets such as Isaiah have functioned in a predominantly oral communications environment? We have hardly begun to explore this whole new reality that has been hiding from biblical scholarship working on the assumptions of print-culture. Close study of the scrolls of the pentateuchal and prophetic books found among the Dead Sea Scrolls and studies of the close relation of orality and literacy are beginning to clarify some key aspects of the situation. The Instability of Multiple Versions of the Nascent Hebrew Scriptures The discovery of scores of scrolls of the books of scripture among the DSS made possible a quantum leap in our knowledge of the history of the development of those books (including Isaiah, which is supposedly quoted in NT texts such as Q 7). Eugene Ulrich, who has spent a lifetime poring carefully over the manuscripts of “biblical” books from Qumran, draws two closely related conclusions. (1) “Evidence from Qumran demonstrates that there were multiple editions of the biblical books in antiquity—one form of which survives in each of the books

29

Hezser 2001.

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of the MT collection, while other forms may or may not have had the good fortune to survive in the SP, the LXX, at Qumran, or elsewhere.”30 (2) The different versions of books were unstable and still developing. “Sometimes the scribes intentionally inserted new material . . . they were actively handing on the tradition, but they were adding to it, enriching it, making it relevant. . . .”31 As for the text of the book of Isaiah, which is supposedly “quoted” in Q/Lk 7:18–23, Ulrich says that while there is no evidence of different versions of the book, its text was unstable, still undergoing development in late second temple times.32 This new evidence for the unstable state of the “scriptural” books has significant implications for how we understand the social and cultural context of Jesus, early Jesus movements, and their cultivation of both Israelite tradition and Jesus traditions. Not only was there no “normative Judaism,” there was also no acceptance of a single text of scripture as binding or authoritative in Judean tradition. Insofar as literacy was limited to scribes and scrolls were cumbersome and expensive, scriptural scrolls were basically confined to the Temple and scribal circles such as Qumran. Yet even in scribal circles, the scriptural texts were multiform and still developing. The Judean peasants would presumably have known of the existence of the books of Torah and Prophets, perhaps even revered them as numinous sacred writings laid up in the Temple. Insofar as they spoke Aramaic and could not read at all, much less read the archaic Hebrew in which the scriptural books were written, they would not have been well-acquainted with the text of the Torah and prophetic books (that is, as opposed to their own popular version of covenantal teaching and prophetic oracles). Even less would Galilean peasants have been acquainted with the text of nascent scriptural books that were written in Hebrew, given the historical regional differences between Galilee and Judea. We have virtually no evidence that any of the various versions of proto-scriptural books or other texts that were produced in Jerusalem would have been known in the villages of Galilee. Presumably some of the contents of these Jerusalemite traditions and books would have been among “the

Ulrich 1999, 11, 9–11, 14, 59. Ibid., 11–12, 23–24, 75, 77. 32 Ibid., 8:61–62. If Q-interpreters were to continue to imagine that of the several items listed in Q 7:22, two are quotes of Isa 61:1, for example, which version(s) of Isaiah was Q following: a version like the MT, or one like the LXX, or one like 1Q Isa a, or one like 1 Q Isa m, or one like 4Q Isa b? 30 31

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laws of the Judeans” that the conquering Hasmonean regime in 104 b.c.e. required the Galileans to observe if they wanted to remain on their lands ( Josephus, Ant. 13.318–319; cf. 13.257–258).33 But there is no unambiguous evidence of activity in Galilee by Pharisees or other scribal figures who would presumably have been the representatives of the Hasmonean high priestly regime who we might have expected to be involved “re-socializing” Galileans according to the “the laws of the Judeans.” The Gospels are the only sources for the Pharisees and scribes which place them in Galilee prior to the Pharisaic companions of Josephus in 66 c.e. There is also no good evidence of Judeans, other than Herodian officers and troops, moving north into Galilee. So we can only speculate about how Galileans such as Jesus and his followers who cultivated the Jesus traditions that developed into Q speeches might have become acquainted with Judean texts and traditions.34 Yet just because they had no direct contact with the scriptures in Hebrew and could not have read them if they had, does not mean that Judean peasants or Galileans such as Jesus and his followers did not know Israelite tradition, as we shall see below. Oral Performance of Texts and Cultivation of Tradition In the predominantly oral communication environment of antiquity, even when a text existed in written form, it was usually recited (“performed”) orally in a group context.35 This is easily understandable with regard to a village assembly (συναγωγή) or an assembly (ἐκκλησία) of a Jesus movement in which the people were largely non-literate. What may be surprising is that scribal groups such as rabbinic circles also apparently cultivated (learned and recited) their texts orally. Martin Jaffee has generalized from the oral recitation of Torah in rabbinic circles and synagogues to the relation of written texts and oral performance generally. Fully aware of how cumbersome and costly scrolls were in antiquity, as emphasized by studies of ancient literacy, he points out that “a scroll was virtually useless as a handy source of information.” But that was no obstacle since the text that was inscribed on the scroll “was as much a fact of their [a scribal group’s] memory as it

Horsley 1995, 39–52. Horsley 1995, 1996. 35 Understanding of “oral-derived texts” and of oral performance has been significantly advanced by the work of John Miles Foley. See esp. Foley 1995, 2002. 33 34

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was a physical object . . . ‘reading’ was the activity of declaiming a text before an audience in a social performance approaching the gravity of ceremonial ritual.”36 The text was accessed through memory, not by consulting a written copy.37 A telling illustration of his point is the procedure for a meeting of ten “recorded” in the Rule of the Community handbook from Qumran: And the Congregation shall watch in community for a third of every night of the year, to recite the book (sepher) and to search the ruling (mishpat) and to bless in common. (1QS 6:6–8, my own translation)38

Assuming that the sepher refers to the Torah or to the book of Deuteronomy and the mishpat to the community’s own ordinances, the Qumranites were regularly engaging in ritual oral recitation of both scripture and their own legal rulings that were also inscribed on scrolls possessed by the community (as in 1QS itself ). Thus it was standard practice even in literate scribal circles that possessed written scrolls for texts to be recited orally from memory. That even scribal groups knew and recited their texts orally from memory should make it all the more credible that the Judean and Galilean peasantry cultivated their versions of Israelite tradition orally, in the comings and goings, the households and the community assemblies (συναγωγαί) of village life. As in other agrarian societies studied by anthropologists and historians, Galilean and Judean villagers lived out of their own “little tradition” that was popular or distinctively relevant to their own life situation and political-economic-religious interests.39 Given the political-economic division in which the rulers expropriated the produce of the peasantry and drew them into hunger, debt, and denied their dignity, popular Israelite tradition was cultivated in opposition to the “great tradition” that legitimated Jerusalem rule (as well as in opposition to the dominant Hellenistic culture of Roman imperial rule). Galilean and Judean peasants thus cultivated their version of Israelite tradition in their village communities as a “hidden transcript,” beyond the surveillance of the rulers and their representatives, Jaffee 2001, 16. Jaffee 1994, 53. 38 The standard translations of “read the Book” and “study the Law” are potentially misleading, insofar as those terms have distinctive connotations in modern typographic culture, particularly in academic circles. 39 Scott, 1977; Horsley 1995, 148–56; 1996, 171–75; 2005, and esp. Horsley with Draper 1999, 95–204. 36 37

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in opposition to the “official transcript” of the Jerusalem Temple and scribal circles (or the Herodian court in Sepphoris or Tiberias).40 The Israelite popular tradition (or “hidden transcript”) in Galilee or Judea would have been cultivated orally in Aramaic. Even in the accounts of Josephus addressed to Hellenistic Greek readers it is clear that the popular movements led by prophets such as Theudas or by popularly acclaimed “kings” such as Judas son of Hezekiah or Simon bar Giora were informed by the memories of the deliverance led by Moses and Joshua and the resistance to the Philistines led by the young David, respectively.41 And it is the Galilean Israelite popular tradition that informs the earliest Jesus-movements as they represent Jesus as a prophet like Moses and/or Elijah.42 Discerning an Aramaic Substratum in Q 7:18–28 On the basis of the socio-linguistic situation and the indication of oral cultivation of Israelite popular tradition sketched above, I would like to probe a particular text in Greek, Q/Lk 7:18–28, for evidence of an Aramaic substratum. Casey has made a strong case for there now being a “critical mass” of evidence for Aramaic in first century c.e. Judea and Galilee that can provide a “backdrop” against which we can project hypothetical Aramaic terms and phrases that might lie behind passages in Mark and Q. His approach is basically what used to be called “literary critical,” working with a rich knowledge of words and phrases that were likely current in the first century c.e. in both Greek and Aramaic. I am suggesting that his approach can be undergirded and given a firmer social and cultural foundation from recent recognition of the socio-linguistic situation in Galilee and Syria, the lack of stability in texts of Israelite tradition, and the oral-literary forms in which developing Jesus materials, like Israelite cultural traditions, were regularly recited in popular communities.

40 41 42

Scott 1990; Horsley 1994. Horsley 1984; 1985. Horsley 1999; 2001.

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Q as an Oral-Written Text From the outset of its being identified as the speech material not in Mark but paralleled in Matthew and Luke, Q has been understood in New Testament studies as a written document—according to the assumptions of print culture standard in the field.43 And precisely those assumptions undergird the International Q Project reconstruction of the “original text” of the document, now published with elaborate justification in multivolume detail. Because Gospel scholarship tended to focus on individual sayings of Jesus, it was also assumed to be a collection of sayings (“The Sayings Source”). Only recently have American scholars in particular recognized that Q was/is a series of “clusters” or short discourses or speeches of Jesus.44 On the model of modern literature as written by authors that governs biblical studies, Q is still assumed to have been written by one or more writers. In fact Q , almost by definition in the field, is assumed to have been probably the earliest decisive step by which “sayings” that have previously been transmitted by oral tradition were decisively given written, hence stabilized, form in a writing that modern scholars can “control” in their analysis based on modern print culture. Recent analysis of the “social location” of Q , however, discerns material addressed to an agrarian and village situation in Galilee. That poses the question of how material that originated in Galilean villages and is addressed to agrarian circumstances came to be written when literacy was so utterly limited in such a context. Facing the interrelated issues of the predominance of oral communication and popular orientation squarely, John Kloppenborg hypothesized on the basis of the inscriptions in the Hauran that “lower level administrators” and “village scribes” existed in the towns of Galilee. He argued that such low-level scribes had sufficient education to make them capable of composition in writing in the genre of instruction, on which he sees Q having been modeled.45 The literary and inscriptional evidence adduced, however, does not support this hypothesis. The Greek terms used for village leaders in the Hauran inscriptions may parallel those of Greek city officials, but

See especially the critique of the print-cultural assumptions and procedures in study of Gospel materials in Kelber 1994. 44 Kloppenborg 1987; Robinson 2000; Horsley 1999. 45 Kloppenborg 1991, 85–86; similarly his student, Arnal 2001, 151–52. 43

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their duties parallel those of village assemblies in rabbinic and other Jewish literature.46 As noted above, that the imperial finance officer had to use an interpreter suggests that such village leaders were not scribes with a degree of education in Greek in a “sophisticated rural administrative system.”47 In her thorough search through the evidence, Hezser finds a general lack of scribes in towns and villages, and concludes that they were rare in rural areas until the third century.48 Evidence for κωμογραμματεῖς in Egyptian papyri, ironically, suggests that they were virtually illiterate, able to inscribe only their own name on record—by copying a model. These “village scribes” were local government appointees responsible for records of tax-collection, with little or no education that would have enabled them to compose more than a simple formulaic letter to a district superior.49 It is hardly by accident that the only occurrence of the term κωμογραμματεύς in Judean literature comes in a caustic threat by two of Herod’s younger sons that makes a sarcastic reference to the Hellenistic-Roman education (War 1.479; Ant. 16.203). The implication of the research summarized above, however, is that we can no longer think of Q in terms of authorial written composition in modern typographic culture. Whether or not texts such as the series of speeches in Q or Mark’s story of Jesus existed in writing, they were almost certainly performed orally from memory in communities of Jesus movements, just as “the book” and “the ruling” were recited from memory in the Qumran community. If we were to imagine Q’s speeches as “instructional,” as Kloppenborg suggests (albeit at a popular level, in contrast to all known instructional texts from the ancient Near East), then it is worth noting that in his own self-representation, Ben Sira’s instruction is all oral-aural, spoken and heard. If we compare the material in the book of Sirach with that in the book of Proverbs, it is evident that Ben Sira belongs in a long tradition of continuing development of instruction by repeated performance. If the concept of “composition” is apt, then it was composition in repeated performance. There is no reason other than the habits of modern biblical studies to imagine that “in the beginning were individual sayings” that later were combined (in writing) by the “author” of Q. Communication does 46 47 48 49

Horsley 1995, 227–33. Kloppenborg 1991, 85–86; MacAdam 1983, 106–8. Hezser 2001, 118–26; for the Roman empire generally, Woolf 2001, 877. Youtie 1971; Horsley with Draper 126 and other references there.

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not happen in isolated sayings, but in larger messages. Judging from the parallels to some of the Q speeches, such as the mission discourse and Beelzebub discourse, it is far more likely that such short speeches constituted such units of communication. And, as illustrated by the variant versions in Matthew and Luke, those speeches were continually adapted and developed in periodic performance. In the bilingual situation that apparently existed in many Syrian villages where a Jesus movement may have spread there is then no reason to imagine that “composition” happened for the first time in Greek. Rather, it seems appropriate to the situation sketched above to hypothesize/imagine that communication in speeches that were further developed in performance was happening in Aramaic in Galilee before continuing in Greek—and perhaps also in a Syrian dialect of Aramaic or Syriac—in Syrian villages. Aramaic Features Discernible in the Greek Text of Q 7:18–28 As an illustrative example, I focus attention on Q/Lk 7:18–28 because it not only references Israelite tradition but even appears to recite it. In fact, interpreters have usually assumed that at two points it actually quotes from the Hebrew Bible. This passage therefore, on the alternative reconstruction of the cultural situation above, not only offers a likely possibility of a recitation of Israelite tradition in Aramaic behind the Greek text as we have it, but also a potential illustration of how recitation in Aramaic from Israelite popular tradition is a better explanation than quotation of a written Hebrew text. To start with, the passage should be heard as if in oral performance in order to appreciate the repetition of sounds in the parallel lines of the poetic text. Q/Lk 7:18–28 in blocked verse illustrative of oral recitation: Ὁ Ἰωάννης . . . πέμψας διὰ τῶν μαθητῶν σὺ εἰ ὁ ἐρχόμενος καὶ ἀποκριθεὶς εἰπεν αὐτοῖς· πορευθέντες ἀπαγγείλατε Ἰωάννῃ τυφλοὶ ἀναβλέπουσιν λεπροὶ καθαρίζονται καὶ νεκροὶ ἐγείρονται καὶ μακάριός ἐστιν ὃς ἐάν ἤρξατο λέγειν τί ἐξήλθατε εἰς τὴν ἔρημον κάλαμον ὑπὸ ἀνέμου ἀλλὰ τί ἐξήλθατε ἄνθρωπον ἐν μαλακοῖς ἀλλὰ τί ἐξήλθατε

αὐτοῦ . . . ἢ ἕτερον ἃ ἀκούετε καὶ χωλοὶ καὶ κωφοὶ καὶ πτωχοὶ μὴ σκανδαλισθῇ τοῖς ὄχλοις θεάσασθαι; σαλευόμενον; ἰδειν; ἠμφιεσμένον; . . . ἰδειν;

προσδοκῶμεν; καὶ βλέπετε περιπατοῦσιν, ἀκούσιν, εὐαγγελίζονται ἐν ἐμοί . . . περὶ Ἰωάννου·

προφήτην;

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ναὶ λέγω οὑτός ἐστιν ἰδοὺ ἐγὼ ἀποστέλλω ὃς κατασκευάσει λέγω ὑμῖν, οὐκ ἐγήγερται ὁ δὲ μικρότερος

ὑμῖν, περὶ οὑ

καὶ περισσότερον γέγραπται·

τὸν ἄγγελόν τὴν ὁδόν σου

πρὸ προω/σπου σου, ἔμπροσθέν σου.

ἐν γεννητοῖς

γυναικῶν Ἰωαννου . . . τοῦ θεοῦ

ἐν τῇ βασιλείᾳ

προφήτου.

μείζων μείζων αὐτοῦ ἐστιν.

The pattern of parallel lines consisting of three or four principal terms strongly resembles those found in Hebrew and Aramaic poetry and prophetic oracles. Hebrew and Aramaic poetic lines are built up in parallel statements with much repetition of sounds and words.50 Needless to say, in the following lines, where presumably behind the repeated Greek words were repeated Aramaic words, we can hear the repetition of words and sounds in the sets of parallel lines (of course since Aramaic has no case endings the repetition of sounds would not necessarily have included the ending of words). Moreover, as often in the rhetoric of Hebrew and Aramaic poetry, the first lines set up the subsequent lines. Here two parallel questions in the first four lines set up the sharp contrast of the last two. In the latter, moreover, the last line escalates the thought over the penultimate line. τί ἐξήλθατε κάλαμον ἀλλὰ ἄνθρωπον ἀλλὰ ναὶ λέγω

εἰς τὴν ἔρημον ὑπὸ ἀνέμου τί ἐξήλθατε ἐν μαλακοῖς τί ἐξήλθατε ὑμῖν,

θεάσασθαι; σαλευόμενον; ἰδειν; ἠμφιεσμένον; ἰδειν; καὶ περισσότερον

προφήτην; προφήτου.

This is all the more striking when we consider some of the differences between Greek and Aramaic that could account for the Greek not conforming any more closely to an Aramaic or Hebrew poetic line. Aramaic does not have any definite article, few adjectives, and a different verbal system (for example, seldom using a verb “is/are”). As in Hebrew, possessives are indicated or attached in suffixes, so few personal pronouns appear. Performance or writing in idiomatic Greek would

50 I stay with the standard term “lines” that is presumably rooted in assumptions of typographic culture, but now as a metaphoric indicator for the parallel statements of oral performance.

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require using separate words for such elements, as the following lines illustrate. ἀποστέλλω ὃς κατασκευάσει Οὐκ ἐγήγερται ὁ δὲ μικρότερος

τὸν ἄγγελόν μου τὴν ὁδόν σου ἐν γεννηους ἐν τῇ βασιλείᾳ

πρὸ προσώπου ἔμπροσθέν σου. γυναικῶν μείζων Ἰωαννου τοῦ θεοῦ μείζων αὐτοῦ ἐστιν.

One reason that this passage provides a telling example of a likely Aramaic background is that two sets of lines make clear reference to Israelite cultural tradition, the one being ostensibly a quotation. Indeed, it is usually claimed that both pairs of lines are direct quotations of “Scripture” (the “Hebrew Bible,” “Old Testament”). Given recent research into the status of the Hebrew text—that is, multiform and still developing (see above)—it now seems out of the question to argue that they were quotations of written scrolls, either of a scroll in Hebrew or of a written copy of the Septuagint. The lines supposedly quoted (γέγραπται)— ἰδοὺ ἀποστέλλω ὃς κατασκευάσει

τὸν ἄγγελόν μου τὴν ὁδόν σου

πρὸ προω/σπου σου, ἔμπροσθέν σου.

—do not correspond closely with either the LXX or the MT of Malachi 3:1, nor do they correspond closely with either the LXX or the MT of Exodus 23:20. From what we are learning about literacy in Hebrew or Aramaic or Greek as being confined to the scribal elite and the rarity of scrolls (because expensive and cumbersome), it seems highly unlikely that either the composer(s)/performer(s) of this and other speeches in Q or those who may have cultivated such speeches behind the Greek version would have possessed written copies of Exodus or Malachi and have been reading them. Encouraged by the increasing evidence that literacy was extremely limited in popular circles, among which Q speeches seem to have been produced (and by Jaffee’s argument that texts of proto-scripture were performed from memory even in scribal circles), I am becoming bolder in pressing my hypothesis of popular Israelite tradition in Galilee as the source of this “quotation.” Popular circles knew of the existence of written versions of Exodus and the Prophets, and from interaction with representatives of the “great tradition” they knew the basic content, the gist, of stories, covenantal legal materials, and prophecies that were of significance to them. The contents of Exodus 23:20 were from the exodus narrative about Israel coming

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into its land. Malachi 3:1 was about the messenger of the covenant. Both would have had significance in the popular cultural memory, even though they would not have been identified “by chapter and verse,” as it were, or even by their source/book (Exodus or Malachi). And because they are about similar themes and/or figures, they would likely have been associated or confused with each other. It is well known from the scribal/rabbinic level that references to sacred tradition were often grouped by significant theme or motif. For example, Exodus Rabbah 33 (93d), which scholars have misleadingly abridged as a parallel to just this Q/Mt passage, has a whole collage of references, starting with Exodus 23:20 and ending with Malachi 3:1, but including Genesis 24:7, 48:16; Exodus 3:2, 4:9; and Judges 6:11–14. People who were actively cultivating the popular tradition, particularly to interpret the significance of John and Jesus, would have known that some such promise stood “written” in the written version of Israelite great tradition. It has been standard to claim that in reply to John’s disciples’ question, Q’s Jesus is quoting Isaiah. τυφλοὶ λεπροὶ καὶ νεκροὶ

ἀναβλέπουσιν καθαρίζονται ἐγείρονται

καὶ χωλοὶ καὶ κωφοὶ καὶ πτωχοὶ

περιπατοῦσιν, ἀκούσιν, εὐαγγελίζονται

The only trouble is that it is impossible to identify which “text” is “quoted”—whether Isa 61:1 or 35:5–6 or 42:6–7 or yet another. Each of these mentions one or more of the kinds of malaise that are healed, but none of them mentions more than two or three. Something is wrong with this picture. Again looking to the popular Israelite tradition gives us what is almost an obvious alternative to “quotation of scripture” in an oral communication environment (with no chirographs available in popular circles). The similarity of all those passages in Isaiah suggests that in earlier Israelite tradition there was a standard set of images used to express the longings of the people for deliverance, particularly of deliverance for the lowly who suffered such maladies as a result of their political-economic circumstances. This traditional set of images was a cultural source from which earlier “prophets” in the “Isaiah” succession drew in composing the lines in 35:5–6; 42:6–7; 61:1. That “Isaiah,” perhaps the best known prophet in late Second Temple times, and the one most alluded to, used these images made them all the more significant, particularly perhaps in popular circles. The composer of Q speeches, especially at the level of an earlier Aramaic version, was drawing on a common cultural repertoire of images, probably unaware

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of, or not needing to “quote,” Isaiah to establish “scriptural” authority for the standard and long-standing popular longings that had at long last been fulfilled by Jesus. We can also identify certain words and phrases that are not usual in Greek but that reflect an Aramaic background. One of these is ἐγήγερται, “has arisen,” which, even without the previous reference to John as a prophet, references a long Israelite tradition of prophets arising at a time of crisis to lead the people or to prophesy against oppressive rulers. Also the expression ἐν γεννητοῖς γυναικῶν (“among those born of women”) is not natural in Greek, but is found both in biblical Hebrew and in later Aramaic.51 There may also be touches of “local color” from Aramaic speaking Galilee in this speech. The “reed shaken by the wind,” while it would also fit wetlands elsewhere, would surely match the experience of anyone who had visited the banks of the Jordan river, either as it entered or exited the Sea of Galilee. “A man in soft raiment” and “royal palaces” also fits Galilee, where Herod Antipas (known as a “king” locally, even though technically he had the title of “Tetrarch”) had built a palace overlooking his second capital city in Tiberias, although there were other petty Roman client “kings” in Syria. There may also be cases of grammatical “interference” in this speech (which I do not have sufficient command of either language to investigate myself ). Since Aramaic is a Semitic language and Greek is Indo-European, there are many differences, such as that Aramaic has no case endings, no definite article, no comparative or superlative, few adjectives, and a radically different verbal system. Precisely at these points interference can be detected.52 To make this investigation more complete—for which there is no space here—we would have to come back around the other direction, asking how a speech such a Q 7:18–35 would resonate with non-Israelites in Syrian villages, whether they were mainly Greek-speaking or bi-lingual in Greek and Aramaic. And a key factor in this connection would be the imperial situation in which Greek had become the dominant language and indigenous cultures had been suppressed, compounding the usual economic exploitation of villagers. In such circumstances, so parallel

51 I would guess that it would be fruitful also to investigate “(not) eating and drinking” and “a drunkard and glutton” for their possible Aramaic origins. 52 For examples of “interference” see Casey 1998, 308.

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to those of peoples of Israelite heritage in Galilee where the speeches of Jesus included in Q had originated, Greek- or Aramaic-speaking Syrian villagers might readily have responded when they heard them performed. Bibliography Adams, J. N., M. Janse and S. Swain, eds. 2002. Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Word. Oxford. Adams, J. N., and S. Swain. 2002. “Introduction.” Pages 1–20 in Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Word. Edited by J. N. Adams, M. Janse, and S. Swain. Oxford. Alexander, P. S. 2002. “Bilingualism” Pages xx–xx in Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Word. Edited by J. N. Adams, M. Janse, and S. Swain. Oxford. Arnal, W. 2001. Jesus and the Village Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q. Minneapolis. Casey, M. 1998. The Aramaic Sources of Mark’s Gospel. Cambridge. ———. 2002. An Aramaic Approach to Q. Cambridge. Chancey, M. A. 2002. The Myth of a Gentile Galilee. Cambridge. ———. 2005. Greco-Roman Culture and the Galilee of Jesus. Cambridge. Crossan, John D. 1991. The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant. San Francisco. Fitzmyer, J. A. 1970. The Languages of Palestine in the First Century A.D. CBQ 32:501–31. Foley, J. M. 1995. Singer of Tales in Performance. Bloomington, Ind. ———. 2002. How to Read an Oral Poem. Urbana, Ill. Freyne, S. 1994. The Geography, Politics, and Economics of Galilee and the Quest of the Historical Jesus. Pages 75–121 in Studying the Historical Jesus: Evaluations of the State of Current Research. Edited by B. Chilton and C. Evans. NTTS 19. Leiden. ———. 1999. Behind the Names: Galileans, Samaritans, Ioudaioi. Pages 39–55 in Galilee through the Centuries: Confluence of Cultures. Edited by E. Meyers. Winona Lake, Ind. Harris, W. V. 1987. Ancient Literacy. Cambridge, Mass. Hezser, C. 2001. Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine. Tubingen. Horsley, R. A. 1984. Popular Messianic Movements around the Time of Jesus. CBQ 46:471–95. ———. 1985. “Like One of the Prophets of Old”: Two Types of Popular Prophets at the Time of Jesus. CBQ 47:435–63. ———. 1995. Galilee: History, Politics, People. Valley Forge, Pa. ———. 1996. Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee: The Social Context of Jesus and the Rabbis. Harrisburg, Pa. ———. 2000. Rhetoric and Empire—and 1 Corinthians. Pages 72–102 in Paul and Politics: Ekklesia, Israel, Imperium, Interpretation. Edited by R. A. Horsley. Harrisburg, Pa. ———. 2001. Hearing the Whole Story: The Politics of Plot in Mark’s Gospel. Louisville. ———. 2004. Introduction: Jesus, Paul and the “Arts of Resistance.” Pages 1–26 in Hidden Transcripts and the Arts of the Resistance. Semeia Studies 48. Atlanta. ———. 2005. Unearthing a People’s History. Pages 1–20 in A People’s History of Christianity Vol. 1: Christian Origins. Edited by R. A. Horsley. Minneapolis.

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Horsley, R. A., and J. A. Draper. 1999. Whoever Hears You Hears Me: Prophets, Performance, and Tradition in Q. Harrisburg, Pa. Jaffee, M. 1994. Figuring Early Rabbinic Literary Culture. Semeia 65:67–74. ———. 2001. Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism. Oxford. Jones, A. H. M. 1940. The Greek City from Alexander to Justinian. Oxford. Kelber, W. 1983. The Oral and Written Gospel. Philadelphia. ———. 1994. Jesus and Tradition: Words in Time, Words in Space. Semeia 65: 139–68. Kloppenborg, J. S. 1987. The Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections. Philadelphia. ———. 1991. Literary Convention, Self-Evidence, and the Social History of the Q People. Semeia 55:77–102. MacAdam, H. I. 1983. Epigraphy and Village Life in Southern Syria During the Roman and Early Byzantine Periods.” Ber 31:103–15. Meyers. E. M. 1979. The Cultural Setting of Galilee: The Case of Regionalism and Early Judaism. ANRW 2.19.1:687–98. Meyers, E. M., and J. F. Strange. 1981. Archaeology, the Rabbis, and Early Christianity. Nashville. Millar, F. G. B. 1993. The Roman Near East, 31 B.C.–A.D. 337. Cambridge, Mass. Porter, S. E. 1994. Jesus and the Use of Greek in Galilee. Pages 123–54 in Studying the Historical Jesus: Evaluations of the State of Current Research. Edited by B. Chilton and C. Evans. NTTS 19. Leiden. Robinson, J. M. 2000. Introduction. Pages xix–lxxi in The Critical Edition of Q. Edited by J. M. Robinson, P. Hoffmann, and J. S. Kloppenborg. Minneapolis. Scott, J. C. 1977. Protest and Profanation: Agrarian Revolt and the Little Tradition. Theory and Society 4:1–38, 211–46. ———. 1990. Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. New Haven. Taylor, D. G. K. 2002. Bilingualism and Diglossa in Late Antique Syria and Mesopotamia. Pages 298–331 in Bilingualism in Ancient Society. Edited by J. N. Adams, M. Janse, and S. Swain. Oxford. Trombley, F. R. 1994. Hellenic Religion and Christianisation, c. 370–529. 2 vols. Leiden. Ulrich, E. 1999. The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Origins of the Bible. Grand Rapids. Woolf, G. 2001. Literacy. Pages 875–97 in The Cambridge Ancient History. Vol 11. Cambridge: Mass. Youtie, H. C. 1971. “Agrammatos: An Aspect of Greek Society in Egypt.” HSCP 75: 161–76.

THE WOMEN, THE TOMB, AND THE CLIMAX OF MARK1 Larry W. Hurtado The “ending” of Mark is one of the most widely-known problems in New Testament studies, involving both text-critical and exegetical issues. It is almost unanimously agreed that none of the variant material after 16:8 forms an original part of Mark, and, although one still encounters the view that an original ending beyond 16:8 was lost, the more widely shared view today is that the author in fact chose to end his story of Jesus at this point.2 But, if on text-critical grounds 16:8 is widely accepted as the most likely original ending, this only highlights the difficult exegetical issue: How are we to understand the way the author of the Gospel of Mark chose to conclude this influential account? In this paper, I hope to deploy good reasons for holding that 16:1–8 was intended as an entirely meaningful, encouraging, and positive climax to this influential story of Jesus, and not the somewhat anti-climactic and ambiguous scene so often posited in scholarship today.3 This contention goes against what are now some widely-held views. To make my case, therefore, will require some sustained attention to a selection of important matters. One of the most crucial of these is how to understand the characterization and narrative function of the women disciples in the scene. Women are the sole human figures in Mark 16:1–8, and, as increasingly recognized today, they are also important in two key earlier scenes in the passion narrative (15:40–41, 47). But the question of what to make of these women awaits a widely-persuasive answer.4 So, en route

1 It is a great pleasure to offer this study to Sean Freyne (whatever he may think of the argument!), with whom I first became acquainted during his fine set of Gunning Lectures given at New College, Edinburgh in the Spring of 2000. 2 On the text-critical evidence, see, e.g., Aland 1969 and 1974. Cf. continued reluctance to accept 16:8 as the original ending by Gundry 1993, 1012–21; Evans 2001, 540–41; Wright 2003, 617–24; Farmer 1974; and several proposed endings found in variant manuscripts of Mark, or constructed from Matthew and Luke, as reviewed in Alsup 1975, 87–89, nn. 264–65. 3 In this essay, I revise markedly some of my own earlier judgements about the Markan conclusion. Cf. Hurtado 1989, esp. 279–86. 4 Cf., e.g., Danove 1996, but I take a very different view of matters.

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to an adequate analysis of Mark 16:1–8, we shall first consider Mark’s deployment of women followers of Jesus in the final two chapters of his pioneering book about Jesus. The Women Disciples in 15:40–16:8 There is now a considerable and still-growing body of scholarship on Mark’s treatment of women, especially women followers of Jesus.5 The women in Mark 16:1–8 have received by far the greatest attention, and this scene will also be crucial in my analysis as well. Although Dibelius referred to the women as “superfluous” in 16:1–8,6 in more recent study we have come to see that they are important in the author’s literary strategy. This particular group of identified women followers of Jesus appears in three crucial Markan scenes, and only these three times in Mark, in the passion and resurrection narratives (15:40, 47; 16:1). All three references to the women are significant for appreciating their prominence in the final scene. I want to underscore several observations about these women. I begin with their unexpected appearance in the Markan narrative. In the first of the references to them, 15:40–41, the author suddenly throws the spotlight on three particular women, and also tells us that a larger number of women had in fact been followers of Jesus in Galilee all along.7 Thereby, in these two short verses the author introduces an unnumbered body of women followers of Jesus, and in effect, retroactively inserts them into the whole preceding account of Jesus’ activities.8 Contra some interpreters, I contend that the previous absence of

5 On the textual/literary question of how the author of Mark deploys the women identified in the passion-resurrection narratives, see Malbon 1983 and 1986; Kinukawa 1994; Aquino and McLemore 1995; Fander 1992. The most recent book length study of women in Mark finds “conflicting interpretations of Mark’s attitude to women” (Miller 2004, 5). 6 Dibelius (1935, 190) referred to the women as mentioned “superfluously” after 15:47, and saw no important connection among the three named references in 15:40–16:8. 7 A variant reading supported by Vaticanus and a number of other manuscripts posits a fourth, unnamed woman, identified as “the mother of Joseph” (ἡ Ιωσῆτος μήτηρ), and Pesch (1977, 506–8) strongly preferred this reading as original. I support the judgement reflected in the Nestle-Aland 27th ed. text. 8 The imperfect verbs in 15:41 (ἠκολούθουν and διηκόνουν) portray the women’s discipleship in Galilee as repeated/extended activities. The omission of καὶ διηκόνουν αὐτῷ in C, D, ∆, 579, et al. is almost certainly the result of homoioteleuton. In 1924–28,

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women followers in the narrative is not a case of simple disregard for, or lack of interest in, them.9 For in 15:40–41 the author emphasizes that these three women had been “there” in the story all along and that there were many women who had accompanied Jesus to Jerusalem. The invisibility of women followers in the preceding narrative in Mark seems to have been deliberate, but not out of simple negativity toward them. Instead, the previous narrative silence about women disciples was probably intended to make their sudden appearance here all the more noticeable to readers.10 Named Women In addition to their sudden appearance here, there is a second striking feature about Mark’s treatment of these women. In the context of the preceding Markan narrative of Jesus’ ministry, the naming of women followers in 15:40–41 strongly further indicates their emergence at this point as characters with special significance.11 Although several women characters appear in earlier chapters of Mark, the only women named previously to 15:40–41 are Jesus’ mother, Mary (6:3), and the infamous Herodias (6:17–29).12 Moreover, the naming of the women disciples in 15:40–41 and in the other two crucial scenes in the Markan passion-resurrection narratives is especially interesting if we note how elsewhere the author leaves nameless even some female characters who are in other ways given memorable visibility: e.g., Peter’s mother-in-law (1:30–31), the haemorrhaging woman (5:25–34), Jairus’ daughter (5:21–24, 35–43),

Turner showed, in his article series on “Marcan Usage” in JTS 25–29, now reprinted in Elliott 1993 (82–89), that Mark’s term “disciples” sometimes refers to the Twelve, but in other cases takes in a larger and undefined group. 9 Cf., e.g., Kinukawa 1994, who believes Mark intentionally downplays the role of women in early Christianity. 10 So also Miller 2004, 169. Cf. the financially supportive women (including three named women) introduced much earlier in Luke’s story (8:1–3). 11 This has been noted, e.g., by Munro 1982, 225–26; D’Angelo 1999, 137–38. Cf. Horsley 2001, 205–8, 225–29, and 279 n. 3. 12 Contra Miller 2004, 75, Mark’s naming of Herodias does not reflect her “high social status” but identifies her as a notorious woman who left her husband Philip and then shamefully took up with his brother Antipas (5:17). Mark clearly approves the critique of her action by John the Baptist (5:18). On the other hand, the naming of Jesus’ mother (6:3) is put on the lips of a group who regard Jesus dubiously, and whose identification of Jesus with reference to her is probably an expression of their disdain for him.

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Jesus’ sisters (6:3; cf. his named brothers here), the bold Syrophoenician woman and her daughter (7:24–30), and most remarkably the woman of 14:3–9, whose act of devotion to Jesus is portrayed as destined to bring her world-wide remembrance!13 Once again, however, we should hesitate to judge this Markan pattern of female anonymity as simple misogyny. In the Roman-era setting of the first readers, there was a widespread view that the more respectful way to refer to women was to do so without mentioning their names, particularly in the public sphere. Instead, typically, one identified a woman respectfully by reference to her father, husband, or brother(s).14 So, the Markan general pattern of unnamed women characters would not have seemed strange or particularly misogynist to readers familiar with the dominant cultural mores of the time. But this also means that the unprecedented appearance of three named women in 15:40 would readily have” caught the attention of ancient readers, and would have suggested to them that these women were being brought into view for some special role.15 In short, we should take the naming of women disciples, beginning at 15:40, as another key literary device of the author, further signalling the sudden elevation of these figures to particular prominence at this point.16 Also, the repeated naming of the women in three consecutive Markan scenes in 15:40–16:8 likely functions to link more emphatically these particular scenes.17 So, we should take account of all three scenes in seeking to understand any of them.18 As Catchpole vividly expressed it, the women function as “the human thread binding the 13 There are, to be sure, also memorable but unnamed male characters in Mark: e.g., the demoniac in the synagogue (1:21–28), the blather-mouthed leper (1:40–45), the man with a withered hand (3:1–6), the demoniac of Gerasa (5:1–20), the deaf-mute of the Decapolis (7:31–37), and the father of the demonized boy (9:14–29). 14 Schaps 1977. 15 Miller (2004, 157) rightly describes the naming of these women as “striking.” Miller’s discussion, however, is confined to the naming of women in Jewish sources of Palestinian provenance (e.g., 17–19, 34, 75). Mark was clearly directed to readers familiar with wider cultural conventions in the Roman world and unfamiliar with Jewish religious customs See, e.g., the explanation in 7:1–4; the reflection of Roman law in 10:1–9, in contrast to that of Jewish legal practice in Matt 19:1–3–9. 16 Matthew follows Mark in naming the women in all three scenes: death (27:55–56), burial (27:61), and empty tomb (28:1). Luke, however, (who introduced women disciples in 8:1–3) withholds their names until the end of the final scene (24:10), where their report is met with disbelief (24:10–11). 17 The variation in the names is not crucial for my discussion. See, e.g., Bauckham 2002, 297–304; cf. Fander 1992, 136–39. 18 Brown 1994, 2:1276.

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‘crucified . . . buried . . . raised’ sequence into a three-in-one unity,” and he rightly noted “a special intensity of concentration” on the final scene at the empty tomb.19 The Women as Observers The third notable feature in Mark’s treatment of these women is his consistent portrayal of them as observers of the key events in these three scenes. In 15:40–41, three women observe Jesus’ crucifixion through the moment of his death.20 In 15:47 two of the same women observe where Jesus’ corpse was entombed.21 In 16:4–6 they note that the great stone has been removed from the tomb-opening.22 Then, upon entering the tomb they see the “young man” seated there, and they are invited to observe for themselves that Jesus is “not here” and to take note that “the place where they laid him” is now vacant. Mark’s consistency in repeatedly referring to the observations by these women surely indicates further his own strong emphasis on their role in these scenes, and we can confirm this by comparison with the other Synoptic accounts. Matthew mentions the women as observing Jesus’ death (Matt 27:55), but in the burial scene he merely indicates that they were seated near the tomb (27:61). In his account of the first Easter morning, however, Matthew tells us that the women had come to view the tomb (28:1), and he retains the angelic invitation to the women to behold the vacant place where Jesus’ body had lain (28:6). Luke places “all his acquaintances [πάντες οἱ γνωστοὶ αυτῷ], including some women” (23:48–49) at the crucifixion-scene, which has the effect of lessening the particular role of the women as observers here (and also lessens the distinction between the women and the other disciples). On the other hand, in his scene of Jesus’ burial, Luke specifies that the

Catchpole 2000, 3. The phrase “from afar” (ἀπὸ μακρόθεν, 15:40) may allude to Psa. 37:11 (LXX; 38:11 MT), where friends and relatives are pictured observing thus the sufferer’s afflictions. Its use elsewhere in Mark is varied (5:6; 8:3; 11:13; 14:54) and does not require taking it here as critical of the women. Brown’s suggestion of unfavourable comparison with the centurion at the Cross (1994, 2:1157–60) strikes me as strangely tendentious. See also Miller 2004, 160. 21 The imperfect indicatives in 15:40, 47 portray their observation as continuous, and thus as taking account of all the events in these scenes. So also, e.g., Brown 1994, 2:1251. 22 Setzer (1997) surveys the important role of women disciples in canonical gospels and makes interesting comparisons with their treatment in the Gospel of Peter. 19 20

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women saw the tomb and “how [ Jesus’] body was laid” in it (23:55). Then, he relates that when the women returned to the tomb on the Sunday morning they discovered the stone rolled away, but could not find Jesus’ body (23:1–3). The Reality of Jesus’ Death We now consider something that is often mentioned only in passing in studies of the women and the Markan ending: the curious and uniquelyMarkan emphasis on the dead Jesus. All four canonical Gospels have Joseph of Arimathea approach Pilate for permission to bury Jesus’ body, so it is all the more noteworthy that there are no equivalents to certain interesting details in Mark 15:44–45 in any of the other three accounts. When he is approached by Joseph, Pilate is surprised to hear that Jesus is already dead, and he summons the centurion who presided at the crucifixion (and whose ironic statement in 15:39 has received so much scholarly attention in modern scholarship),23 demanding confirmation. In fact, Pilate requires assurance that Jesus had been dead for some time (εἰ πάλαι ἀπέθανεν, 15:44). Only then, after satisfying himself by official confirmation from his own officer, does Pilate hand over Jesus’ remains (v. 45) for burial. This emphasis on Jesus’ death is reflected in another unique feature of this Markan scene. Mark alone says that Pilate gave Jesus’ “corpse” (τὸ πτῶμα, v. 45b) over for burial, all the other Evangelists preferring the word for “body” (τὸ σῶμα), probably because they saw it as less stark and harsh in connotation.24 I propose that the use of “corpse” here further indicates a Markan concern to stress the forensic (even brutal) reality of Jesus’ death. Moreover, the author used the same term in his reference to the burial of John the Baptist by John’s disciples after his execution by Antipas (6:29). So, the use of the word in 15:45 may also be intended to make direct comparison (and, of course, forthcoming contrast!) with the entombment of John.25 Jesus’ “corpse” was entombed E.g., Johnson 1987. The scribal preference for σῶμα in Mark 15:45 in A, C, W, Ψ, fam. 1, fam. 13, the bulk of Byzantine/Medieval manuscripts, and Old Latin, Coptic and Syriac Peshitta and Harklean versions as well, reflects either an aversion for the harsher term or a harmonization with the more familiar texts of the other Gospels. 25 The variant reading σῶμα in some witnesses to Matt. 14:12 likely reflects a scribal preference for the more gentle term. But both here and in Mark 15:45 πτῶμα, the more “difficult” reading, is to be preferred. 23 24

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just as truly as was John’s, which will make the events of 16:1–8 all the more striking. The Climax of Mark’s Gospel We have seen that the threefold references to the named women followers of Jesus in Mark 15:40–16:8, plus the fact that all three settings where the women are mentioned deal with Jesus’ death and entombment, combine to unify this larger body of material and to give it special relevance for understanding the conclusion to Mark.26 We are now ready to consider the final scene where the named women appear, in 16:1–8.27 The Empty Tomb First, let us note again that the author draws attention here to the vacant tomb. As they approach the tomb, the named women notice that the stone has been removed (16:4), after which they are invited to verify for themselves that Jesus’ body is no longer in the place where it had been laid (16:6). But, by itself, the empty tomb can only elicit bewilderment. The mysterious “youth” (commonly understood as angelic) whom the women encounter in the tomb declares, however, that the reason for the absence of Jesus’ body is that he has been resurrected (16:6).28 Lindemann is correct to note that the Markan word-order in this mysterious figure’s statement places emphasis on Jesus’ resurrection, with the reference to the empty tomb subordinated to it: “He is risen; he is not here. Behold the place where they put him.”29

Collins, arguing for a “pre-Markan” passion narrative ending with Jesus’ death, proposes (1992, 129) that Mark referred to the named women (15:40–41) and added the burial story (15:42–46) to prepare for the empty tomb episode in 16:1–8. Whatever the balance between “tradition” and “redaction,” Mark’s passion and resurrection material exhibits clear design and intentional structure. 27 Lindemann’s study of this episode (1979, 80) is particularly valuable. But, in my view, it fails to take adequate account of the material that I point to in this paper, and so reaches conclusions that seem to me inadequate. 28 I see no basis in the text for Phillips’ view (2001, 232, n. 30) of the young man as some otherwise unknown “interested [human] party” and her assertion that the women expected to meet the risen Jesus (231). 29 Lindemann 1979, 304–6. But he errs in seeing the women’s fright/astonishment as the first event in the scene. For their first action is to take note (ἀναβλέψασαι θεωροῦσιν) that the stone has been removed. Collins (1992, 135) correctly judges as “restrained” Mark’s description of the figure they encounter, and I take this restraint 26

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The statement of the youth at the tomb in 16:6–7 is certainly the apex of this scene, and is the key theological assertion here. Indeed, it may well be the climactic declaration of the entire Gospel of Mark.30 In any case, this declaration that Jesus has been raised by the power of God (the “divine passive,” ἠγέρθη) is intended to account for and interpret the empty tomb. It is important to note that the empty tomb by itself is not the basis for the kerygmatic claim that Jesus has been raised. Instead, the resurrection claim is announced authoritatively by the “youth,” and will be confirmed subsequently in the encounters of Jesus’ disciples with him in Galilee (16:7), Jesus leading them there (προάγει), just as he promised (14:28).31 Bultmann cannot be followed in his assertions that in Mark 16:1–8 “the empty tomb proves the Resurrection,” that the messenger-figure has comparatively little significance, and that the whole story is “an apologetic legend” developed (probably at some secondary stage of first-century Christianity) to combat sceptical responses to the kerygma.32 On the other hand, it should also be clear that the empty tomb, along with the preceding emphases on the reality of Jesus’ death and the named women having observed his death and the burial of his “corpse,” does function crucially in Mark to help interpret the resurrection

as intended to direct attention to the content of the figure’s annunciation. However, the many descriptors of the women’s agitated responses surely communicate an event of strongly numinous quality. On this, see Dwyer 1996, 185–93. 30 Many interpreters take the centurion’s statement (15:39) as the theological apex of the whole Gospel. Without denying its significance, I question making so much rest upon it. Actually, in view of the anarthrous form of the acclamation and the past tense of the verb in it, the statement is more ambiguous (perhaps deliberately so) than is sometimes recognized (See Pesch, 1977, 499–500). Even if we read “son of God” in relation to Mark’s christological affirmation (esp. 1:11; 9:7), the centurion’s statement is deeply ironic, with one sense for him ( Jesus’ death as heroic), but a further connotation for readers ( Johnson, 1987). But in 16:6 there is no ambiguity or irony, and a “reliable voice,” in literary terms, is speaking, much like the divine voice from heaven in 1:11 and 9:7. The news of Jesus’ risen status is the basis and impetus for the christological claims such as his divine sonship, which can now be circulated openly (9:9), and which, in light of Jesus’ redemptive death and triumphant resurrection, can now convey correct and full connotations. 31 Cf. Evans 1954, and Boobyer 1952–53, who play down the clear promise of visual encounter with the risen Jesus in 16:7, and reduce “Galilee” here and in 14:28 to a cipher for the Gentile mission. Granted, Jesus’ reunion with the disciples in Galilee may prefigure and presage the preaching to all nations (13:9–13). But this in no way justifies denying that 16:7 refers approvingly to the post-resurrection appearance of Jesus to the disciples. 32 Bultmann 1968, 290.

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claim.33 In the context of Mark 15:40–16:8, the explicit reference to the vacant tomb vividly underscores the point that this Jesus who is now resurrected had suffered a genuine death and was duly entombed as a “corpse.” This is reflected in the order of the phrasing in the Markan form of the young man’s declaration: “You seek Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has been raised (from death); he is not here. Behold the place where they laid him.”34 In this light, the particular contribution of the empty tomb is to signal a genuine and bodily continuity of the risen and the crucified/buried person, a real, bodily resurrection.35 This does not necessarily mean that the author of Mark was primarily concerned here to engage in a disputation about the nature of the resurrection body of Jesus (and, thus, of the elect).36 There is nothing in 15:40–16:8 to suggest any such dispute, or that the author is directly opposing some other view of how to imagine Jesus’ resurrection body. Were this the author’s aim here, we should expect him to have made it more obvious, as he shows himself fully ready to do elsewhere, particularly in the straightforward warnings about deceptive teachings, and false messiahs and prophets in Mark 13.37 Moreover, beyond emphasizing that the same Jesus who was put to death was 33 Consequently, Evans’ statement (1970, 78) that in Mark “the empty tomb interprets the resurrection, not vice versa,” and Wright’s directly opposing statement (2003, 628), “The resurrection interprets the empty tomb, not vice versa,” both seem to me over-simplifications of matters. Collins (1992, 136) rightly notes that the annunciation by the “young man” interprets the empty tomb, and that the narrative of the empty tomb also interprets the early Christian proclamation of Jesus’ resurrection, but I doubt that she is correct to see the report of the empty tomb as a creation of the author of Mark (145). Cf., e.g., Perkins 1984, 94; Bode 1970, 171. 34 While Matthew (28:5) echoes Mark, Luke (24:5–6) has very different phrasing and makes no reference to Jesus as the crucified one. 35 Contra Wilckens who insisted that the empty tomb functioned solely as “a trophy of the victory over those who set out to murder Jesus” and that the account is “silent about the bodily reality of the resurrection of Jesus” (1997, 33, 44). We may take the emphasis on the bodily reality of Jesus’ risen status in Matthew and Luke as perhaps prompted in part by Mark, although, of course, they chose to use resurrectionappearance narratives to make this point. 36 Contra Haenchen, who contends that Mark 16:1–8 represents the early stage of an advocacy of a more physical view of resurrection that is then developed further in Matthew and Luke (1966, 547–58). Collins (1992, 143–46) similarly alleges “two basic notions of resurrection” current at the time of Mark’s composition: an entirely heavenly/spiritual type (1 Cor 15), and “the bodily or physical type,” advocated in Mark 16:1–8. I find her reading of 1 Cor 15 unpersuasive, but cf., e.g., Fee 1987, 713–26, 775–86. 37 See, e.g., Hengel (1985, 14–28), who relates Mark 13 to known events and developments leading up to and during the Jewish revolt of 66–72 c.e. that generated misguided eschatological excitement.

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also raised bodily, the author offers no more precise analysis of Jesus’ resurrected state.38 Rhetoric and Pastoral Purpose We have seen that named women followers of Jesus are the Markan literary link and “signpost” that the material in 15:40–16:8, comprising the three scenes in which these women appear, is to be read as a cohesive narrative-complex. This comprises a set of scenes in which the body of Jesus is at the centre of attention: the crucified body, the entombed “corpse,” and the risen body that has vacated the place where it had been buried. So, why would Mark have made so much of these scenes which feature these women and focus on what happened to Jesus’ body? What intended audience could be expected to grant respect to these named women, and also find meaningful the Markan emphasis on the bodily reality of Jesus’ death and resurrection?39 More precisely, what specific religious/theological concern(s) and what intended readers might be reflected in the Markan author’s decision to refer approvingly to post-resurrection appearances of Jesus to his disciples, but to conclude his story without narrating any such incident? In addition to those already mentioned, I contend that several proposals either do not stand up to critical scrutiny or require some significant refinement.40 For instance, the suggestion that there were no developed narrative traditions of Jesus’ resurrection appearances

38 Mark emphasizes direct continuity of person, which is vividly indicated by the focus on Jesus’ body, in death, burial and resurrection. 12:24–27 and 9:2–10 (widely thought to draw upon reports of resurrection appearances and possibly to compensate proleptically for the absence of a post-resurrection appearance narrative) may provide further glimpses of the author’s view of the resurrected state. I suspect Mark would have been much more comfortable with 1 Cor 15 than Collins asserts, and I also dissent from her confident opinion that Paul would not have expected Jesus’ tomb to have been emptied (1992, 123–27). I grant that for Paul Jesus’ resurrection involved more than merely “the revival of his corpse” (124). Paul characterizes the resurrection body (1 Cor 15:42–46) as imperishable, glorious, powerful, and “Spiritual” (i.e., animated by the Holy Spirit). But Paul’s inclusion of both burial and resurrection in his summary of kerygmatic tradition (15:3–5) surely indicates a bodily death, and a bodily resurrection (and a vacant tomb). Moreover, 1 Cor 15:51–52 envisages that eschatological salvation will be enjoyed in a bodily mode/form, in some way wonderfully new but also involving continuity with mortal bodily existence, as Paul indicates elsewhere (e.g., Rom 8:23; Philip 3:20–21). 39 See Incigneri 2003 for a sustained (and largely persuasive) case that Mark addresses Christian circles in Rome. Cf., Marcus 2000, 25–39, defending a Syrian destination. 40 Cf. the critical review of proposals by Lindemann 1979–80, 300–302.

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available at the time of Mark’s composition, nearly forty years into the Christian movement, is both implausible and, in my view, refuted by 16:7, which seems an overt and approving allusion to such traditions.41 Likewise, Marxsen’s proposal that the author of Mark avoided appearance stories because he wanted to direct attention away from Jesus resurrection and, instead, toward Jesus’ imminent parousia requires us to disregard clear Markan evidence to the contrary.42 In particular, passages such as 9:9–10 make it clear that Mark vigorously affirms the importance of Jesus’ resurrection.43 Because yet another view of Mark 16:1–8 is so popular in some recent studies, I must offer more extensive statement of reasons for rejecting it. A number of scholars portray the ending of Mark as a rather sophisticated literary/rhetorical device intended to intrigue, disappoint, frustrate and “trap” the intended Christian readers, drawing them through a sophisticated process into some sort of existential completion of the story, thus compensating for the failures of the disciples in general, and the women of 16:1–8 in particular.44 Were this Mark’s intention here, however, this would be a curiously exceptional instance of such a rather modern-sounding literary device. To be sure, Magness has shown that ancient books could have “open” endings (Acts being another NT example). But all the ancient instances noted involve the rather simpler technique of omitting further events/developments

Contra, e.g., Aland 1974, 469; Fuller 1972, 66. Cf. Marxsen 1969, 85–86, 111–12, taking up Lohmeyer’s proposal (1936, 13–14). Similarly, Lightfoot 1938, 24–48, 73–77; Perrin 1977, 19–40. But the appearance promised in Mark 16:7 is manifestly not the Parousia, for no journey to Galilee is required to view it! Indeed, 13:21–22 explicitly warns that the Messiah is not to be found “here” or “there.” Moreover, 13:9–13 indicates an extended period of evangelism and persecution encompassing “all nations.” Mark overtly discourages undue excitement over misguided eschatological claims and forecasts of the end (13: 5–6, 8b, 21–23, 32). Furthermore, it is implausible that some forty years into proclamation of the kerygma and dissemination of resurrection-appearance traditions (1 Cor 15:3–7), the author of Mark steadfastly rejects all this and instead presents Jesus as immediately translated to heaven. It also seems implausible that Mark deliberately downplays Jesus’ resurrection and promotes an immediate Parousia. We should expect something more overt were the author, as suggested, e.g., by Bartsch (1971), so much concerned to re-orient his readers. For a view similar to mine on this, see Stemberger 1974, 425–29. 43 It should also be noted that the three “passion predictions” (8:31; 9:31; 10:32–34) all predict both Jesus’ suffering and his resurrection. 44 For various versions of this view, see Petersen 1980; Kermode 1979; Juel 1994, 115–21; Fowler 1991, 243–53; Hester 1995; Cotes 1992; Lincoln 1989; Danove 1996; Mitchell 2001. Boomershine & Bartholomew (1981) and Miller (2004, 174–92) try valiantly to salvage a positive view of the “disobedient” women. 41 42

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beyond those recounted, and which the author expected readers to know and be fully able to supply.45 To my knowledge, we have no other example of an ancient work with an “open” ending intended to communicate the deep ambiguity that is attributed to the author of Mark 16:1–8 by some modern scholars. Petersen offers a “softer” (but equally sophisticated and suspiciously modern-looking) version of this view, proposing that readers were expected to over-ride the ending of the “plotted story” on the basis of “unplotted times represented only predictively in Mark 13” (which is to be taken as the true closure of the Markan “narrative world”). In short, readers are to grasp that “our narrator does not mean what he says in Mark 16:8.”46 Essential to all such views, however, is the notion that this scene concludes with the women followers directly disobeying the command to convey their experiences at the tomb to the other disciples. This is a crucial issue, and requires some extended attention. In much current scholarship, Mark is read, not simply as ending without recounting the women’s fulfilment of the mandate to pass news of Jesus’ resurrection to the other disciples, but as denying that these women did so. Most scholars simply take this as the self-evident import of the concluding words of 16:8, καὶ οὐδενὶ οὐδὲν εἶπαν· ἐφοβοῦντο γάρ. Some allow, however, that readers could reasonably be expected to know that the women did in fact eventually communicate their experiences to fellow disciples. Otherwise, of course, readers would be hard pressed to imagine how the author could relate the incidents in question! Nevertheless, so far as it goes explicitly, Mark’s narrative is often taken as ending with an apparent note of failure and disobedience. This sort of view of 16:8 is, however, by no means held unanimously. In recent years, increasingly, another understanding of the final phrasing has won some favour, and it seems to me also considerably more plausible.47 I cite two main reasons. First, there is the syntactical argument, which has not received the attention that it deserves.48 In the context of Markan usage, the phrasMagness 1986. Petersen 1980, 162, 164, 166. 47 I did not consider this option when writing my commentary (Hurtado 1989, 283–85), as neither, apparently, did some more recent commentators, e.g., Hooker 1991, 387. 48 Credit usually goes to Catchpole for making this point, initially in an insufficiently noticed article (1977) and again more recently (2000, 20–28). Actually, the basic point had been put by Moule (1955–56, 58–59). Recent supporters of this view include 45 46

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ing καὶ οὐδενὶ οὐδὲν εἶπαν quite readily can be taken as indicating, not a complete failure to communicate, but that the women spoke to no one else beyond those to whom they were directed. That is, they did not communicate their experience beyond fellow disciples; they did not “go public.”49 As some previous studies have noted, it is significant that Mark uses very similar phrasing elsewhere. In 1:44, Jesus orders the cured leper not to speak to anyone (μηδενὶ μηδὲν ἔιτης), except the priest to whom Jesus orders the leper to show himself, “for a witness to them.” In 7:36, Jesus directs those who witnessed the healing of the deaf-mute not to speak about it to others ( ἵνα μηδενὶ λέγωσιν) beyond themselves. That is, in each case, the phrase represents a restriction on communication, not a total prohibition.50 These other Markan uses of parallel phrasing mean that it is not as obvious as many suppose that 16:8 portrays the women as totally silent and disobedient. Instead, I submit, the phrase indicates that they did not broadcast their experience beyond those to whom they were sent. In further support of this view of 16:8b, I point to the καὶ-consecutive which introduces this statement about the women’s silence. Had the author intended to depict their silence as disobedience to the direction to convey the news of Jesus’ resurrection to the other disciples, a conversive particle, δέ or even ἀλλά, would certainly have served better.51 As it is, the Greek syntax by no means requires us to take the women’s agitated departure and silence as in conflict with the mandate that they have been given. Instead, the basic thrust of 16:8 reinforces the numinous significance of the scene, by focusing readers’ attention on the powerful impact of the experiences of these women (as indicated by the several words to portray their emotional responses, τρόμος καὶ ἔκστασις, and ἐφοβοῦντο,

Fiorenza 1988, 321–23; Dwyer 1996, 189–92; Malbon 2000, 63–65; Bauckham 2002, 288–91. Miller dismisses it, understanding the women running away from the tomb as refusing the mandate to meet Jesus in Galilee, i.e., she assumes the very thing that is explicitly in question (2004, 180–81)! 49 As Phillips rightly observed (2001, 230, n. 26), the women are to carry their message to other disciples, to speak “in a domestic context.” 50 The difference in mood of the verb-forms in these two instances is not significant. 51 See, e.g., BDF §§442, 447–48. Cf. 1:45, where Mark represents the leper’s disregard for Jesus’ direction by using ὁ δὲ, and 7:36, where Mark indicates action contrary to Jesus’ instructions by ὅσον δὲ.

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in addition to the ἐξεθαμβήθησαν earlier in v. 5).52 The final words, ἐφοβοῦντο γάρ, are not the author’s parting shot at the women, but a concluding reference to their agitated state brought on by the numinous “youth” and the astounding news of Jesus’ resurrection. Still reeling from the revelatory encounter at the tomb, they very understandably did not broadcast the news of Jesus’ resurrection or gossip about their experience.53 I further propose that the verse also confirms that and explains how the women’s testimony was known within Christian circles as part of the tradition associated with the resurrection of Jesus, and yet did not feature in the public witness about Jesus’ resurrection to those outside the circle(s) of Christian disciples.54 In Mark 16:8, the women themselves set the precedent for this restricted role of their testimony in their discrete silence toward anyone other than those to whom they had been sent. Nevertheless, to invoke an observation made earlier, the narrative dynamics of 15:40–16:8 present the women as crucial to the story-line. I submit that this is another strong reason for rejecting the view that they fail in the end. They are the followers of Jesus who observe the three key phenomena of Jesus’ death, the place of his burial, and the vacant tomb, and these women are, thus, uniquely able to vouch for all these things. In particular, they are witnesses to a series of events in which Jesus’ body is central. In 16:1–8, moreover, they are the first ones to receive the startling notice of Jesus’ resurrection, and are specifically given the special role of conveying this news to the other disciples, along with the re-affirmation that Jesus’ resurrection brings with it their own restoration, just as Jesus had promised in 14:28. Although a good many scholars conclude that in 16:8 the author then deliberately torpedoed the very figures whom he had so obviously made crucial to the whole final section of this story of Jesus, this seems to me a completely unprecedented and curious move for Mark, to 52 Pesch (1977, 535) judged this as traditional language descriptive of human reactions to theophanic-type experiences. 53 Rather than (implausibly) fearing their fellow disciples, the women feared the consequences of speaking to outsiders. 54 Whether the women’s fear is in response to events at the tomb or out of concern about the consequences of speaking publicly, it does not signal a negative characterization of them. The implausible claim that 16:8 explains why the intended readers had never heard of these women and their experiences before (e.g., Hamilton 1965, 417) rests upon reading 16:8 as indicating that the women did not communicate with anyone at all. Cf. Osiek 1993, who argues that this tradition so old and widely-known that it could not be suppressed.

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say the least.55 Indeed, one might even say that it would have been a disastrous move!56 For, to discredit these women, the sole witnesses to the very events that are so obviously crucial in Mark, and to portray them as disobeying the directive to pass news of Jesus’ resurrection to Peter and the other disciples, would amount to the author discrediting himself as well. It would raise rather serious questions about the basis for his knowledge of incidents if he says they were never reported! Indeed, it would also clearly amount to the author discrediting Jesus, Jesus’ promise of a post-resurrection rendezvous with and renewal of his disciples vitiated in the end by a small clutch of disobedient women. The scholarly claim that readers were expected to over-ride the supposedly plain sense of 16:8, knowing that in fact the women did actually report the news of Jesus’ resurrection, represents an obvious effort to deal with these rather serious implications of what Mark is widely thought to have done.57 But I contend that we do not require such an intriguing but curious proposal, if 16:8 does not portray the women as disobedient/failing. It should also give us further pause that both of the earliest two key readings of Mark from the first century, represented in Matthew and Luke, reflect a very positive understanding of the ending of Mark. Each author independently represents the women as going immediately, and only, to the other disciples to deliver the news of their surprising and unsettling experiences (Matt. 28:7–8; Luke 24:9). What basis is there for us to take their accounts as rejections of Mark 16:8, rather than as independent testimony to how they understood the Markan scene?58 In sum, I propose that we have very good reasons for dissenting from the common assumption that 16:8 portrays the women as disobedient and failing. Readers do not have to imagine, against the supposed grain of this verse, that the women actually did do, perhaps eventually, what the verse supposedly says that they did not do. Likewise, we have reason 55 E.g., Miller (2004, 174) notes that their favorable treatment in the preceding scenes leads readers to expect “a positive conclusion to their visit to the tomb,” but she then follows majority opinion in portraying Mark as ending with their “terror and silence”. 56 So also O’Collins 1988, esp. 498. 57 E.g., Petersen 1980, 197–98. 58 In twentieth-century scholarship it became fashionable to portray the Synoptic writers as each pursuing his own radical and divergent theological path, and Matthew and Luke as hostile readers and revisers of Mark. This view must now be re-considered. See, e.g., Fowler 1991, 228–60, on Matthew as a reading of Mark. However, I do not find his particular judgements always persuasive.

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to dissent from seeing Mark’s ending as some sort of rhetorical/literary trick, a kind of story-line cul-de-sac in which frightened and silently disobedient women complete a supposed story of total failure that is intended to frustrate readers’ expectations and conflict with their traditions. Mark is not some kind of first-century film noir, presenting every follower of Jesus as failing, and with no restitution offered for any of them, his narrative a supposedly “grim picture” emphasising “the dark side of his particular vision.”59 I contend that this is anachronistic, and that we ought to realize more readily that it strains credibility to portray the Markan author as an early existentialist author. More importantly, I submit that we have reviewed here substantial reasons for taking another view of Mark’s ending. So, if the women are not in fact portrayed in 16:1–8 as dismal failures and disobedient followers of Jesus, and if the “open” ending at 16:8 is not one of the rather modern-sounding literary devices proposed variously by some scholars, how then are we to read this passage as a suitable and positive conclusion for the powerful story of Jesus that precedes it? In the final section of this paper, I propose answers for the several questions that we have considered. Towards and Appreciation of 16:1–8 I contend that Mark 16:1–8 is properly read as a powerfully triumphant scene, the highpoint of which is the annunciation that Jesus has been raised from death and that he now summons his disciples to a Galilean rendezvous, just as he had promised (14:28).60 This annunciation also confirms as fulfilled Jesus’ three-fold (for emphasis!) predictions of his suffering and resurrection that feature so prominently in Mark (8:31; 9:31; 10:33–34). Furthermore, it signals that the predicted time has now arrived for Jesus’ disciples to break the previously sustained secret of 59 Perrin 1997, 33. See also, e.g., Barton 1992, 63–64, who contrasts Mark’s “dark, strenuous spirituality” with Matthew and Luke, and portrays Mark as ending on a note of joyless “absence.” More recently still, Miller reflects the continuing popularity of this view that Mark ends with “terror and silence” (2004, 174), the women “aligned to the old age, unable to respond to the power of the new age” (175), disobedient to the youth’s directive (181), Mark’s “bleak” ending intended to express “the impassable gulf between God and human beings” (182). 60 The basically positive tone of the final Markan scene was caught by Lightfoot (1950, 80–97, esp. 95–96). Nevertheless, with many others, he read 16:8 as depicting a total (but, in his view, completely understandable) silence/failure of the women.

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his divine status (9:9–10), Jesus death and resurrection being the key developments that now authorize the proclamation and give it the crucial content. As well, of course, Jesus’ resurrection retroactively validates his entire ministry, his teachings, directives, and prophecies, among which Mark 13, with its focus on preaching the gospel to all nations, and its summons to faithfulness amidst persecutions and other troubles, will be particularly germane for the post-resurrection situation of the intended readers. Furthermore, if the argument that I have laid out in the preceding section is correct, the positive thrust of 16:1–8 is not diminished in the final verse. The women’s troubled and frightened departure after the epiphanic experience at the empty tomb, and their understandable and (for the intended readers) culturally recognizable reluctance to spread news of this experience publicly beyond those to whom they were directed, form a brief but effective dénouement to this climactic episode. The final verse is intended to allow these women to step back quickly out of the public limelight ( joining the other disciples, who have been on the sidelines all through the crucifixion-resurrection narratives), so that the news of Jesus’ resurrection in v. 6, and the promise in v. 7 of Jesus’ renewal of living fellowship with his followers (among whom these women are implicitly included) can remain for readers the dominant notes of the passage.61 The women’s sudden emergence at 15:40–41, and their key presence in the next two scenes as well, however, combine to indicate that they have an important role in this body of material. Probably reflective of what the intended readers knew already through Christian tradition, the women function here to emphasise that there are identifiable Christian witnesses to Jesus’ death, burial and empty tomb, their testimony known and respected within the Christian readership.62 Nevertheless, as true for all of Jesus’ followers in Mark, these named women are completely subservient to the main focus of the three scenes in which they appear, which is Jesus: his genuine death, his burial as a “corpse,” and his full, bodily resurrection and renewed status as authoritative leader of his followers.

61 As Luke appears to have done (24:6–8), I take the words καθὼς εἰπεν ὑμῖν in v. 7 as implicitly inclusive of those to whom they are spoken. 62 “The women, not the disciples, constitute in St. Mark’s gospel the connecting link in the witness of the threefold event of the death, burial and resurrection, which formed so important a feature of the church’s testimony” (Lightfoot 1938, 27).

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But these women are no more subservient to Mark’s emphases than the male disciples. Indeed, these women are portrayed in a somewhat less negative light than Peter and the rest of the Twelve, whose obtuseness, cowardice, and even outright apostasy (Peter’s three-fold denial in 14:66–72) are so well known to readers of Mark.63 Actually, the women’s quiet and unassuming presence in the three scenes in 15:40–16:8, in distinction from the cowardice of the male disciples, implies that the abandonment of Jesus by the other disciples is not to be excused as having been inevitable.64 Moreover, although 16:7 likely anticipates the important future role to be taken by Peter and the other disciples as public witnesses to the risen Jesus, Mark 16:1–8 also gives these women their own distinctive significance.65 Indeed, in Mark’s presentation, readers’ faith that Jesus has been raised does not depend totally on Peter and the others. These key women do not receive news of Jesus’ resurrection mediated through Peter and those who function as “official” witnesses, but instead directly from the numinous figure at the tomb. Thus, their distinctive testimony to Jesus’ burial and the empty tomb also plays a role in helping to guide Christian understanding of what speaking of Jesus as “risen” should be taken to mean.66 Additionally, as women characters they show that the divine plan to vindicate Jesus, restore the fallen apostles, and then through them to launch the proclamation of the gospel to all nations (as foretold and commanded in 13:10 and 14:9) was not finally derailed by the actions of the male figures who had been invested with so much significance (e.g., 3:13–19; 6:7–13), and whose failure in the passion narrative seemed there so fatal.67 For the author, Jesus is the key subject, and his story 63 Among the many studies of the Markan portrayal of the disciples, it is particularly appropriate here to mention Freyne 1982. 64 Miller astutely notes that the women observing Jesus’ crucifixion “from a distance” (ἀπὸ μακρόθεν, 15:40) are not noticed by Jesus. Thus they witness his death without obscuring Mark’s emphasis on his solitary suffering. 65 As Freyne noted (1988, 68), the women’s role is “to ensure that their fellowGalilean disciples will be restored with Jesus in Galilee.” His literary analysis of Markan geography is a model of sensitive reading. 66 Fuller (1972, 70) believed that the women did not communicate news of Jesus’ resurrection to the other disciples. These learned of the empty tomb only after the Galilean appearances, the “important consequence” (for ancient and modern readers, per Fuller) being that the Easter message does not rest upon the report of the empty tomb but upon the testimony of the (male) disciples who saw the risen Jesus in Galilee. 67 For a fine discussion of how the Gospel writers deploy the women in their resurrection stories, see esp. Bauckham 2002, 257–310, esp. 293–95 for a reading similar to what I propose here.

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(not that of any of his followers in Mark, male or female) is the basis and the pattern for Christian existence, and the content of Christian proclamation. But how was 16:1–8 judged by the Markan author as the appropriate and sufficient way to conclude? In particular, why is there no resurrection-appearance scene? We have noted that the author affirms post-resurrection appearances of Jesus to the disciples in Galilee in 16:7, alluding to them also earlier in 14:28. So, neither an ignorance of resurrection appearances nor a discomfort with them is a sustainable option for interpreters. This leaves us with the likelihood that the omission of a resurrection-appearance scene was deliberate, and yet did not reflect hostility or embarrassment about these appearances.68 As we have it, the final section of Mark’s story of Jesus culminates in the triumphant annunciation of Jesus’ divine vindication and his renewed status as leader of his followers. But more specifically, the distinctive Markan stress on the gruesome reality of Jesus’ death, the burial of his “corpse,” the empty tomb, and the ability of certain known women to vouch for all this, combine to underscore the real, bodily continuity of the risen Jesus with the crucified and buried Jesus. Through these narrative choices the author aimed to emphasize that the kerygma must include both Jesus’ cross and his resurrection. The Markan narrative stresses that the crucifixion of Jesus is not simply overcome in his resurrection, as an ordeal that could now be regarded as a temporary setback like the trials of a Greek hero.69 Instead, the point is that the risen Jesus remains the same Jesus who was crucified (16:6), and that the events of death, burial and resurrection are together essential in mutually interpreting one another. The stress on the burial of his corpse and the empty tomb combine to make Jesus’ resurrection a real, full, bodily victory over death. This emphasis was profoundly purposeful and that purpose deeply practical. Writing for Christians whom the author warns must prepare themselves to suffer arraignment, beatings, and even death for Jesus’ sake (most vividly in 8:34–38, but also 13:9–13), the author’s stress on the real, bodily suffering and resurrection of Jesus provided the vivid pattern

Cf. Stemberger 1974, 435–38. Bolt (1996) contends that the Markan empty tomb differs in important ways from pagan “empty” graves and/or heavenly translation of heroes, contra, e.g., Hamilton 1970 and Bickermann 1924, their views repeated by others subsequently, e.g., Collins 1992, 138–43, 147. 68 69

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and empowering encouragement to face their own sufferings.70 For this, the author deemed it fully appropriate, even preferable, to conclude his account of Jesus with 16:1–8, with its climactic proclamation of Jesus’ own bodily vindication. This passage is not an “end,” however, for the author presents his whole account of Jesus as actually “the beginning [ἀρχή] of the gospel” (1:1), which is to be continued in an all-nations proclamation by his followers (13:10). Mark 16:1–8 is a powerful “climax” of this “beginning,” a fulcrum-event for the subsequent proclamation.71 This final scene is an “open” ending, but it is by no means “dark” or ambiguous. In this crucial climax, the annunciation of Jesus’ resurrection is the keynote, and the vacant tomb signifies that his vindication was just as real, full and bodily as was his suffering. For the readers, an important part of the message in 16:1–8 was that their suffering for the sake of Jesus could be endured in the assurance of their ultimate vindication, just as Jesus also was vindicated through his resurrection. As Philip Davis cogently proposed, the Markan story of Jesus was probably shaped to present Jesus as the model and “blueprint” for the intended readers, and this purpose best explains the limits and contours of Mark. Jesus’ paradigmatic story commences with baptism and proceeds on in mission, opposition and suffering through to vindication by resurrection. These Markan narrative contours also reflect the shape of Christian existence, and this was not coincidence. The basic shape of the Markan story of Jesus was designed to make it more directly applicable to the lives of readers as those who follow Jesus as their sole reliable and authoritative model.72 For such narrative purposes, a resurrection-appearance is not so obviously necessary. As John Alsup showed, the earliest accounts of Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances mainly functioned for other purposes, such as authorizing figures for apostolic roles (e.g., 1 Cor 9:1), and as apologetic confirmation of the resurrection claim (e.g., Acts 1:3; 3:15; 10:39–42). I propose that it is most likely, therefore, that “Mark” declined to add any such appearance-narrative because he judged it unnecessary 70 Note, e.g., Incigneri’s discussion (2003, 208–52) of the situation of Roman Christians as “traumatised” through Neronian persecution and subsequent events. 71 I take Mark’s opening words as a title: the historic ministry of Jesus referred to as ἀρχὴ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου. See, e.g., Wikgren 1942. Cf. Guelich 1982. I also now consent to the argument that “Son of God” was more likely a scribal addition in 1:1. See Head 1991; Marcus 2000, 141. 72 Davis 1990; Hurtado 1996; Incigneri 2003, 262.

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for addressing his emphasis on Jesus’ life, death and resurrection as the model for believers. Indeed, the author may well have judged that an appearance-narrative would have detracted from the sharp focus that he intended to place on Jesus as the sole valid model, as well as the basis, for Christian existence. The restoration of the cowardly disciples is assured, having been promised by Jesus in 14:28, then reiterated in 16:1–8, and powerfully grounded in Jesus’ resurrection. But, for Mark, Jesus’ mission, suffering and vindication form the centre of attention. The other Evangelists clearly pursued distinguishable emphases in their own “Jesus books,” and obviously saw post-resurrection appearances as fully appropriate, indeed, as vital to their purposes.73 But, although some ancient and many subsequent readers have judged Mark 16:1–8 deficient, or darkly ambiguous, in comparison to the endings of the other Gospels, I hope to have shown that this is a wrong judgement. Mark does not really end on a note of failure and uncertainty. Instead, Mark 16:1–8 forms a fully satisfactory climactic episode that was designed to thrill and empower intended readers to follow Jesus in mission, through opposition and even their own potentially violent death, confident in an eschatological vindication by resurrection for which Jesus’ resurrection was the inspiring model. Bibliography Aland, K. 1969. Bemerkungen zum Schluss des Markusevangeliums. Pages 157–80 in Neotestamentica et Semitica: Studies in Honour of Matthew Black. Edited by E. Earle Ellis and M. Wilcox. Edinburgh. ———. 1974. Der Schluss des Markusevangeliums. Pages 435–70 in L’Évangile selon Marc: Tradition et rédaction. Edited by M. Sabbe. Leuven. Alsup, J. E. 1975. The Post-Resurrection Appearance Stories of the Gospel Tradition. London. Aquino, F. D. and A. B. McLemore. 1995. Markan Characterization of Women. Pages 393–444 in Essays on Women in Earliest Christianity, Volume 1. Edited by C. D. Osburn. Joplin, Mo. Barton, S. C. 1992. The Spirituality of the Gospels. London. Bartsch, H. W. 1971. Der Schluss des Markus-Evangeliums: Ein überlieferungsgeschichtliches Problem. Theologische Zeitschrift 27:241–54. Bauckham, R. 2002. Gospel Women. Grand Rapids. Bickermann, E. 1924. Das leere Grab. ZNW 23:281–91.

73 Alsup (1975, 214–65) surveyed the history-of-religions background, concluding (1) that the appearance narrative Gattung is distinguishable from supposed pagan counterparts, and reflects OT theophanic traditions, (2) that the Gattung did not arise incrementally and late, and (3) that the appearance traditions served a complex of theological intentions beyond simply asserting that the crucified Jesus was alive again.

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Bode, E. L. 1970. The First Easter Morning: The Gospel Accounts of the Women’s Visit to the Tomb of Jesus. Analecta Biblica 45. Rome. Bolt, P. G. 1996. Mark 16:1–8: The Empty Tomb of a Hero? TynBul 47:27–37. Boobyer, G. H. 1952–53. Galilee and Galileans in St. Mark’s Gospel. BJRL 35: 334–48. Boomershine, T. E., and G. L. Bartholomew. 1981a. The Narrative Technique of Mark 16:8. JBL 100:213–23. ———. 1981b. Mark 16:8 and the Apostolic Commission. JBL 100:25–39. Brown, R. E. 1994. The Death of the Messiah. 2 vols. New York. Bultmann, R. 1968. The History of the Synoptic Tradition. Translated by John Marsh. 2nd ed; Oxford. Catchpole, D. 2000. Resurrection People: Studies in the Resurrection Narratives of the Gospels. London. ———. 1977. The Fearful Silence of the Women at the Tomb: A Study in Markan Theology. Journal of Theology for Southern Africa 18:3–10. Chadwick, H. 1965. Origen: Contra Celsum. Cambridge. Conzelmann, H. 1975. 1 Corinthians. Hermeneia. Philadelphia. Corley, K. E. 1993. Private Women, Public Meals: Social Conflict in the Synoptic Tradition. Peabody, MA. Cotes, M. 1992. Women, Silence and Fear (Mark 16:8). Pages 150–66 in Women in the Biblical Tradition. Edited by G. J. Brooke. Lewiston/Queenston/Lampeter. D’Angelo, M. R. 1999. (Re)Presentations of Women in the Gospels: John and Mark. Pages 137–45 in Women and Christian Origins. Edited by R. S. Kraemer, M. R. D’Angelo. New York. Danove, P. 1996. The Characterization and Narrative Function of the Women at the Tomb (Mark 15,40–41.47; 16:1–8). Biblica 77:375–97. Davis, P. G. 1990. Christology, Discipleship, and Self-Understanding in the Gospel of Mark. Pages 101–19 in Self-Definition and Self-Discovery in Early Christianity: A Study in Shifting Horizons, Essays in Appreciation of Ben F. Meyer From His Former Students. Edited by D. J. Hawkin and T. Robinson. Studies in Bible and Early Christianity, 26. Lewiston. Dewey, J. 1997. Women in the Synoptic Gospels: Seen but not Heard? BTB 27: 53–60. Dibelius, M. 1935. From Tradition to Gospel. Translated by B. L. Woolf. New York. Downing, F. G. 1996. Word-Processing in the Ancient World: The Social Production and Performance of Q. JSNT 64:29–48. Dwyer, T. 1996. The Motif of Wonder in the Gospel of Mark. JSNTSup 128. Sheffield. Elliott, J. K. 1993. The Language and Style of the Gospel of Mark, An Edition of C. H. Turner’s ‘Notes on Marcan Usage’ Together with other Comparable Studies. NovTSup 71. Leiden. Evans, C. F. 1954. “I Will Go before You into Galilee.” JTS 5:3–18. ———. 1970. Resurrection and the New Testament. Studies in Biblical Theology, second series 12. London. Evans, C. A. 2001. Mark 8:27–16:20. WBC 34B. Nashville. Fander, M. 1992. Die Stellung der frau im Markusevangelium. 3rd ed. MThA 8. Altenberge. Farmer, W. R. 1974. The Last Twelve Verses of Mark. Cambridge. Fee, G. D. 1987. The First Epistle to the Corinthians. NICNT. Grand Rapids. Fiorenza, E. S. 1988. In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins New York. Freyne, S. 1982. The Disciples in Mark and the Maskilim in Daniel: A Comparison. JSNT 16: 7–23. ———. 1988. Galilee, Jesus and the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical Investigations. Philadelphia.

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Fowler, R. M. 1991. Let the Reader Understand: Reader-Response Criticism and the Gospel of Mark. Minneapolis. Fuller, R. H. 1972. The Formation of the Resurrection Narratives. London. Giblin, C. H. 1992. The Beginning of the Ongoing Gospel (Mk 1,2–16,8). Pages 975–85 in The Four Gospels 1992. Festschrift Frans Neirynck, Volume Four. Edited by F. Van Segbroeck et al. Leuven. Guelich, R. A. 1982. “The Begininng of the Gospel” Mark 1:1–15. BR 27:5–15. Gundry, R. H. 1993. Mark: A Commentary on His Apology for the Cross. Grand Rapids. Haenchen, E. 1966. Der Weg Jesu. Berlin. Hamilton, N. Q. 1965. Resurrection Tradition and the Composition of Mark. JBL 84:415–21. Head, P. 1991. A Text-Critical Study of Mark 1:1. NTS 37:621–29. Hengel, M. 1963. Maria Magdalena und die Frauen als Zeugen. Pages 243–56 in Abraham unser Vater: Festschrift für Otto Michel zum 60. Geburtstag. Edited by Otto Betz et al. Leiden. ———. 1985. Studies in the Gospel of Mark. London. Hester, J. D. 1995. Dramatic Inconclusion: Irony and the Narrative Rhetoric of the Ending of Mark. JSNT 57:61–86. Hooker, M. D. 1991. A Commentary on the Gospel according to St. Mark. London. Horsley, R. A. 2001. Hearing the Whole Story: The Politics of Plot in Mark’s Gospel. Louisville. Hurtado, L. W. 1989. Mark. NIBC. Peabody, Mass. ———. 1996. Following Jesus in the Gospel of Mark—and Beyond. Pages 9–29 in Patterns of Discipleship in the New Testament. Edited by R. N. Longenecker. Grand Rapids. Iersel, B. van. 1998. Mark: A Reader-Response Commentary. JSNTSup164. Sheffield. Incigneri, B. J. 2003. The Gospel to the Romans: The Setting and Rhetoric of Mark’s Gospel. Leiden. Juel, D. 1994. A Master of Surprise: Mark Interpreted. Minneapolis. Johnson, E. S. 1987. Is Mark 15:39 the Key to Mark’s Christology? JSNT 31:3–22. Kermode, F. 1979. The Genesis of Secrecy. Cambridge, Mass. Kinukawa, H. 1994. Women and Jesus in Mark: A Japanese Feminist Perspective. Maryknoll, N.Y. Lightfoot, R. H. 1938. Locality and Doctrine in the Gospels. London. ———. 1950. The Gospel Message of St. Mark. Oxford. Lincoln, A. T. 1989. The Promise and the Failure: Mark 16:7–8. JBL 108:282–300. Lindemann, A. 1979–80. Die Osterbotschaft des Markus: Zur theologischen Interpretation von Mark 16.1–8. NTS 26:298–317. Lohmeyer, E. 1936. Galiläa und Jerusalem. FRLANT, new series 34. Göttingen. MacDonald, M. Y. 1996. Early Christian Women and Pagan Opinion: The Power of Hysterical Women. Oxford. Magness, J. L. 1986. Sense and Absence: Structure and Suspension in the Ending of Mark’s Gospel. JBLSup. Atlanta. Malbon, E. S. 1983. Fallible Followers: Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark. Semeia 28:29–48. ———. 1986. Disciples/Crowds/Whoever: Markan Characters and Readers. NovT 28:104–30. ———. 2000. In the Company of Jesus. Louisville. Marcus, J. 2000. Mark 1–8. AB 27. New York. Marxsen, W. 1969. Mark the Evangelist. Nashville. Miller, S. 2004. Women in Mark’s Gospel. JSNTSup 259. London. Mitchell, J. L. 2001. Beyond Fear and Silence: A Feminist Literary Reading of Mark. London. Moule, C. F. D. 1955–56. St. Mark XVI.8 Once More. NTS 2:58–59.

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Munro, W. 1982. Women Disciples in Mark? CBQ 44:225–41. Neyrey, J. H. 1994. What’s Wrong with this Picture: John 4, Cultural Stereotypes of Women, and Public and Private Space. BTB 24:77–91. O’Collins, G. 1973. The Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Valley Forge, Pa. ———. 1988. The Fearful Silence of Three Women (Mark 16:8c). Greg 69:489–503. Osiek, C. 1993. The Women at the Tomb: What Are They Doing There? ExAud 9:93–107. Perkins, P. 1984. Resurrection: New Testament Witness and Contemporary Reflection. London. Perrin, N. 1977. The Resurrection Narratives. London. Pesch, R. 1977. Das Markusevangelium II. Teil. Freiburg. Petersen, N. R. 1980. When Is the End Not the End? Literary Reflections on the Ending of Mark’s Narrative. Int 34:151–66. Phillips, V. 2001. The Failure of the Women who Followed Jesus in the Gospel of Mark. Pages 222–34 in A Feminist Companion to Mark. Edited by Amy-Jill Levine. Sheffield. Schaps, D. 1977. The Woman Least Mentioned: Etiquette and Women’s Names. CQ 27:323–30. Schille, G. 1955. Das Leiden des Herrn: Die evangelische Passionstradition und ihr ‘Sitz im Leben.’ ZTK 52:161–205. Schottroff, L. 1982. Maria Magdalena und die Frauen am Grabe Jesu. EvT 42:3–25. Setzer, C. 1997. Excellent Women: Female Witness to the Resurrection. JBL 116: 259–72. Soards, M. 1994. Appendix IX: The Question of a Premarcan Passion Narrative. Pages 1492–1524 in R. E. Brown, The Death of the Messiah. 2 vols. New York. Stemberger, G. 1974. Galilee—Land of Salvation? Pages 425–29 in W. D. Davies, The Gospel and the Land. Berkeley, Calif. Swartley, W. M. 1997. The Role of Women in Mark’s Gospel: A Narrative Analysis. BTB 27:16–22. Taylor, V. 1966. The Gospel according to St. Mark. 2nd ed. London. Wikgren, A. 1942. Arche Tou Evangeliou. JBL 61:11–20. Wilckens, U. 1977. Resurrection: Biblical Testimony to the Resurrection. Edinburgh. Wright, N. T. 2003. The Resurrection of the Son of God. London. Yarbro Collins, A. 1992. The Beginning of the Gospel: Probings of Mark in Context. Minneapolis.

UNSOCIAL BANDITS John S. Kloppenborg Over the last few generations of scholarship on Christian origins, the notion of armed violence by organized bands of men has played an important role in defining the political topography of the Galilee and the complexion of the Jesus movement in Jewish Palestine. In the first half of the twentieth century scholars, conflating Josephus’s account of Judas the Galilean with the later account of the zealots during the First Revolt, routinely characterized the Galilee as a hotbed of zealotism.1 Such a reconstruction served two opposing interpretive conclusions. On the one hand, such scholars as Robert Eisler and S. G. F. Brandon, following the lead Herrmann Samuel Reimarus, argued that Jesus was comparable to the Zealots in his opposition to Roman occupation (Eisler) or to the Temple élite (Brandon). He was, after all, executed along with two lēstai and in place of another lēstēs, and according to Luke 22:35–38 one of his disciples traveled with a sword.2 On the other hand, the supposition that the Zealots were active in Jesus’ environment also provided a foil for Jesus’ supposed rejection of violence and advocacy of a different approach to human transformation. Oscar Cullmann, for example, conceded that Jesus was condemned as a political rebel; that some of his sayings placed him close to the Zealots; that he did not directly attack the Zealots or Sicarii; and that the action against the Temple and the entry into Jerusalem could have been interpreted politically, “if the special character of his Messianic proclamation was

E.g., Graetz 1891–1892, 2:274–293, esp. 276: “the greater part of the populace [of Tiberias] were Zealots”; Klausner 1925, 153, 162, 201–206; Dodd 1961, 97: “Palestine, and Galilee in particular, was a disaffected region. Since the revolt of Judas the Gaulonite in A.D. 6 the country had never been altogether pacified”; Jeremias 1972, 74: “the parable [Mark 12:1–12] is a realistic description of the revolutionary attitude which had been aroused by the Zealot movement which had its headquarters in Galilee”; Hengel 1961, ET 1989, 56–59, 74, 317; Smallwood 1976, 302: (describing Galilee at the time of the first revolt): “Feeling throughout much of Galilee, a hotbed of guerillas for over a century, was strongly anti-Roman.” 2 See Eisler 1931; Brandon 1967. Brandon concluded that Jesus was “very close to the Zealots” and even anticipated some of their actions by attacking the priestly authorities (338). For a survey of approaches from Reimarus to Brandon, see Bammel 1984. 1

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not understood.”3 Zealot-like action was a constant temptation for Jesus. But, Cullmann insisted, it was a temptation that Jesus rejected in favour of “eschatological radicalism.” Thus, while he was critical of the present order of things, he also rejected the resistance movements, “since these divert one’s attention from the kingdom of God . . . and violate by their use of violence the command to absolute justice and absolute love.”4 Martin Hengel also placed the Zealots within the horizon of Jesus’ activities, but distinguished him sharply from them: Only a transformed heart is capable of new human community, of doing good. Jesus’ message and conduct, both of which proclaimed the nearness of God’s love, possessed such transforming power. For this very reason, Jesus—unlike the Zealots—does not present any speculative socio-political program. The coming of God’s sovereignty cannot be enforced by revolutionary actions; it comes unexpectedly as God’s gift, as in the parable of the seed that grows by itself (Mark 4:28).5

The comparison of Jesus with the Zealots by Eisler and Brandon on the one hand, and by Cullmann and Hengel on the other, illustrates the historiographic role of comparison. As Jonathan Z. Smith puts it, comparison is a disciplined exaggeration in the service of knowledge. It lifts out and strongly marks certain features within difference as being of possible intellectual significance. . . . Comparison provides the means by which we “re-vision” phenomena as our data in order to solve our theoretical problems.”6

Whether the comparison of Jesus with the Zealots is a “disciplined exaggeration” that stresses similarity or difference, broader theoretical issues are clearly at stake. Hengel is forthright on the theoretical problem that informed his study. It was the issue of “political theology” and the cooptation of religious concepts by the State, the pernicious legacy of which could be seen in the emperor cult in antiquity and National Socialism in the more recent past. According to Hengel, the Jesus movement disrupted the “naïve unity of religion and politics” by

Cullmann 1970, 32. Cullmann 1970, 51–52. Similarly, Yoder 1972. 5 Hengel 1973, 48. This work presupposed his earlier comprehensive study (Hengel 1961; ET 1989). Even after Horsley and Hansen’s convincing challenge to the thesis that Zealots were contemporaries of Jesus, the Zealots continue to be used as foils for Jesus’ beliefs. 6 Smith 1990, 52 (emphasis original). 3 4

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its rejection of the “theology of revolution” that flowed from certain forms of apocalyptic eschatology.7 A comparison of the Jesus movement with the Zealots allowed this “disruption” to stand out with particular clarity. Although Brandon was not so forthcoming on the broader conceptual work accomplished by his comparison, it is obvious that it fits with the realization that was growing in the late 1960s and early 1970s that from a methodological point of view “religion” ought not be treated as a bounded and discrete cultural discourse, but should be considered in its potential relationships to politics and economics and as a vehicle of social conflict. The early Jesus movement was not merely a “religious” movement but had political dimensions. For both its advocates and detractors, the “Zealot hypothesis” depended on being able to place Jesus within a historical environment where the Zealots were active. But reexamination of Josephus’ writings—virtually the only source for this period of Galilean history— casts doubt on two basic ingredients of comparisons of Jesus with the Zealots. First, Richard Horsley and John Hansen’s 1985 study, Bandits, Prophets and Messiahs, demonstrated that the Zealots as a revolutionary movement did not come into existence until 67/68 c.e. and that there is no evidence of an organized or widespread violent resistance to Roman occupation prior to that time.8 This meant that while one might still argue that the Jesus movement at the time of the First Revolt distanced itself from the Zealots—as indeed Brandon argued a propos of Mark9—, the Zealots could no longer be used to define the political landscape of the 20s and 30s. Horsley, in fact, was particularly critical of the use of the Zealots as a foil to characterize Jesus as an apolitical pacifist, and suggested that such a construction functioned to permit “theologians and biblical scholars . . . [to] ward off any implication that Jesus had advocated any sort of active resistance to the established order.”10 Such a reluctance to recognize the activist dimension of the early Jesus movement reflected modern North Atlantic middle class ideological investments rather than those of the peasant culture of the first century Mediterranean.

Hengel 1973, 2. Horsley and Hansen 1985. See earlier, Smith 1971. 9 Brandon 1960. 10 Horsley 1987, x. Although Horsley does not do so, his comments point to the need for a thoroughgoing ideological critique of the history of Jesus scolarship. For the beginnings of such a critique, see Dawes 2001; Fiorenza 2000. 7 8

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The second development was a reassessment of the longstanding notion that the Galilee was a hotbed of radicalism. Seán Freyne’s Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian was instrumental in this reassessment, by arguing, for example, that opposition to the Herodian dynasty should be located among the upper classes of Galilean society rather than within the populace at large; that the sphere of the activities of the celebrated Judas the Galilean (Acts 5:37; Josephus, War 2.118; Ant. 18.23) was Judaea rather than the Galilee; that the early Jesus tradition seems remarkably indifferent to revolutionary issues; and that there is little to suggest that Antipas was anything more than passingly curious about Jesus, something that would hardly have been the case had the Galilee been a seething cauldron of revolt.11 Uriel Rappaport reached a similar conclusion. The Galilee was under nearly continuous Herodian rather than Roman control throughout the period leading to the First Revolt. The only possible incident of anti-Roman violence is the attack on Sepphoris by Judas son of the ἀρχιλῃστής Hezekiah following the death of Herod the Great in 4 b.c.e. (War 2.56; Ant. 17.271–272). Even though this attack provoked action by the Syrian legate Varus, who marched on Sepphoris, burned (?) the city, and reduced its inhabitants to slavery (War 2.26), it is far from clear that the attack was originally aimed at the Romans, who had never occupied Sepphoris. Rappaport also points out that the most vocal anti-Roman leader during the Revolt, Jesus ben Sapphias,12 was forced out of Tiberias; that Sepphoris, Tiberias and Gischala opened their gates to Vespasian and Titus; and that Josephus’ claim to have fortified Galilean towns against the Romans is almost certainly false. “The focus of Jewish anti-Roman activity,” Rappaport concludes, “was in Judea, around and in Jerusalem, in which the Temple, the most sensitive organ of the Jewish national body, was central.”13 To these observations we should draw attention to the fact that in the wake of the First Revolt, Vespasian permitted Agrippa II to retain control over the eastern Galilee when the Judaean aristocracy was not reinstated in the south. This suggests that Vespasian believed Agrippa to have exercised effective rule throughout the period of the Revolt and that

Freyne 1980b, 208–29. See also idem 1980a. Josephus, War 2.599; 3.450, 452, 457, 467, 498; Life 66–67, 134–140, 271, 278, 294–301. 13 Rappaport 1992, 95–102, here 101. 11 12

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his area was sufficiently peaceful to permit the continuation of a client kingship rather than the imposition of direct rule.14 With the mainstays of the Zealot hypothesis collapsing, how does one take the pulse of the Galilee at the time of Jesus? Horsley and others have employed the construct of “social banditry” as a key index to the disaffection of the Galilean population with the ruling élite, burdensome taxation, and the exploitive economic and social practices that left Galilean village culture at threat. It was to this disaffection that Jesus also responded, accordingly to Horsley, with a program of renewal of local village communities. Social Banditry in Jewish Palestine? The notion of “social banditry” is of course adapted from the work of Eric Hobsbawm. Social banditry, Hobsbawm argued, “is universally found wherever societies are based on agriculture (including pastoral economies), and consists largely of peasants and landless laborers ruled, oppressed and exploited by someone else—lords, towns, governments, or even banks.”15 Key to the definition of social banditry is the solidarity between bandit and peasant: [Social banditry] consists essentially of relatively small groups of men living on the margins of peasant society, and whose activities are considered criminal by the prevailing official power-structure and value-system, but not (or not without strong qualifications) by the peasantry. It is this special relation between peasant and bandit which makes banditry “social”: the social bandit is a hero, a champion, a man whose enemies are the same as the peasants’, whose activities correct injustice, control oppression and exploitation, and perhaps even maintain alive the ideal of emancipation and independence.16

According to Hobsbawm, because the social bandit does not transgress peasant views of morality, because he preys on those who exploit peasants, because he limits his use of violence and force, and because he “represents the ideal of justice against the reality of injustice,” the

14 Kloppenborg 2000, 254. Martin Goodman surmises that the reason that Vespasian did not reinstate the Judean leadership was that he realized that “the [ Judaean] ruling class had, after all, never been seen by the rest of the population as a natural elite” and was therefore incapable of effective rule (1987, 234). 15 Hobsbawm 1985, 19–20 (2000 ed., 22–23). 16 Hobsbawm 1974, 142–57, here 143 (emphasis added).

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social bandit enjoys the support of the peasantry. Such bandit activity is not politically self-conscious: the aim of the bandit is “not freedom (except for the outlaw himself ) but justice,”17 although under some circumstances bandits can merge with larger movements and form the core of a popular revolutionary movement. The key identifier in social banditry, and the reason that it serves as an index of rural discontent, is the degree of solidarity between the bandit and the peasantry, from whose numbers the bandits come.18 From Hobsbawm, Horsley draws out four essential characteristics of social banditry: 1. Social banditry occurs in areas where administrative control is weak (e.g., at frontiers) and especially in periods of economic crisis caused by increasing rents and taxes, famines, war, or the imposition of a new ruling class as the result of conquest. 2. Social bandits depend on the support of the peasantry, who typically shelter bandits and whose values and interests the bandits represent. 3. Social bandits right wrongs and at times share their spoils with the peasantry, whether out of a sense of altruism or social justice or as a function of the mechanisms of reciprocity. The victims of social bandits are not the peasantry, but the wealthy—those who exploit the peasantry. 4. Social bandits share the same basic values as the peasantry, since they normally come from the ranks of the peasantry, driven from the land by debt or famine. In fact, the social bandit epitomizes those values by attempting “to restore a disrupted state of affairs to a more just arrangement. . . . The social bandit is a good man, a hero of righteousness, a symbol of the people’s hope for restoration of a more just order.”19 Armed with these characteristics Horsley turns to three periods in the history of Jewish Palestine and detects social banditry in each. The period between Pompey’s conquest of the East and Herod’s con-

Hobsbawm 1974, 144–45. Hobsbawm 1971, 13–29; 1985, 18 (2000 ed., 20): “It would be unthinkable for a social bandit to snatch the peasants’ (though not the lord’s) harvest in his own territory, or perhaps even elsewhere.” 19 Horsley 1979, 43–47, here 46–47. For more developed descriptions of social banditry, see McGing 1998, 159–83, esp. 161–63; Hanson 2002, 283–300, esp. 291–93. 17 18

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solidation of power would have been, Horsley argues, a time of weak administrative control and probably dire economic circumstances for the peasantry. Rivalries among the Hasmonean aristocracy, coupled with the Roman civil war and high taxation imposed by Cassius after the murder of Caesar,20 would have produced conditions conducive to social banditry. An instance of this Horsley finds in Hezekiah the ἀρχιλῃστής, who had operated on the frontier with Syria and whom Herod captured and executed in 47 b.c.e. (War 1.204–211; Ant. 14.159–170). Hezekiah and his bandit gang were, in Horsley’s estimation, victims of the economic and social pressures created by shifting power arrangements after Pompey. Although there is no evidence of Hezekiah and his men robbing the rich and giving to the poor, Horsley concludes that they were nonetheless on “good terms” with the people of Galilee and that they plundered Syria, not the Galilee.21 Citing Josephus’ claim that “every day in the Temple the mothers of the men murdered by Herod kept begging the king [Hyrcanus] and the people to have Herod brought to judgment in the Sanhedrin from what he had done” (Ant. 14.168), Horsley infers that the people [of Galilee] regarded the brigands as honorable men, unjustly murdered. These are people who still looked to the central religiouspolitical institutions of Temple, King/High-Priest, and Sanhedrin as symbols and sources of justice, and were appealing for the restoration of justice in the disrupted state of affairs.22

The second instance of Galilean bandits from the same period comes from only a decade later (39–38 b.c.e.), when Herod destroyed brigands who had taken refuge in the caves of Arbela (War 1.304–305, 309–316; Ant. 14.415–417, 420–430). For Horsley these bandits represent “widespread popular opposition to Herod,” which he identifies with the “peasants [who] had previously rallied to the cause of Aristobolus against Hyrcanus and Antipater.”23 Likewise he concludes that the drowning in the Kinneret of the Galilean nobles loyal to Herod

20 Josephus, War 1.220–221; Ant. 14.274. Herod as the governor of the Galilee contributed 100 talents of the 700 imposed on the Jewish kingdom. See Freyne 1980b, 64–65. 21 Horsley 1979, 53. Josephus reports that Herod’s action was applauded by the Syrian villages who had been victimized by Hezekiah’s attacks, and also attracted favorable notice from the Syrian legate, Sextus Julius Caesar (War 1.205–206). 22 Horsley 1979, 55. 23 Horsley 1979, 55–56.

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following the death of Herod’s brother Joseph (War 1.326) was a matter of popular opposition to Herod.24 The second main period of bandit activity comes in the 40s and 50s of the first century c.e., not in the Galilee but in Judea. Josephus mentions in passing a Judean bandit named Tholomaeus, arrested by Fadus (44–45 c.e.) (Ant. 20.5), but devotes more attention to the exploits of another Judaean bandit, Eleazar, who had been active for twenty years before his capture by Felix in 54 c.e. (War 2.228–235, 253; Ant. 20.113–124, 161). Several details pertaining to Eleazar suggest to Horsley that he enjoyed popular support. When an imperial slave was ambushed by bandits near Beth Horon on the road from Jerusalem to Joppa, Cumanus (48–52 c.e.) expected the notables of the nearby villages to arrest the bandits and when they had failed to do so, he sent troops to bring them in chains and let his soldiers plunder the villages (War 2.228–229; Ant. 20.113–117).25 Then, following the murder of a Galilean pilgrim by some Samaritans and after appeals to Cumanus brought no remedy, Jews from Jerusalem sacked and burned some Samaritan villages with the help of Eleazar (War 2.232–235; Ant. 20.118–124). This provoked a punitive expedition by Cumanus and a massacre was averted only by the efforts of Jerusalem magistrates to persuade the mob to disperse.26 Finally, Josephus reports that when Felix sent Eleazar to Rome for trial he also crucified a large number of bandits and punished “an innumerable number” of commoners (δημόται) for complicity with the bandits (War 2.253; Ant. 20.161). Each episode not only suggests some degree of popular support and shelter for the bandits, but also that Eleazar participated in righting wrongs. During the third period just prior to the First Revolt, banditry increased steadily. Although it is likely that dire economic circumstances and procuratorial mismanagement fuelled banditry, there are no direct expressions of popular support for banditry. But Horsley cites the example of John of Gischala, whom he describes as a “local brigand,” and who eventually became one of the leaders in the war against Rome after he fled to Jerusalem.27 Hence, John allegedly supHorsley 1979, 56. In War 2.228–229 Josephus says that Cumanus ordered the inhabitants (τοὺς ἐκ τῶν πλησίον κωμῶν) brought in chains; in Ant. 20.114, more plausibly, he states that it was the notables (τοὺς δ΄ ἐπιφανεστάτους αὐτῶν) who were brought in chains. 26 The result, nonetheless, was that banditry broke out throughout the country (War 2.238; Ant. 20.124). 27 Horsley 1979, 59. 24 25

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plies the missing link between pre-political peasant-based social banditry and full-scale revolt. From these data Horsley assembles a synthetic picture of social banditry in Jewish Palestine: peasants oppressed by burdensome taxation and rents, corvée, and arbitrary arrest being forced off their land to join bandit gangs; since bandits were drawn from the ranks of the peasantry, a natural solidarity existed, with the peasantry sheltering bandits and bandits serving as “symbols of injustice which the people as a whole suffered at the hands of alien rulers”; even if these bandits did not act as Robin Hoods, giving to the poor, they aided the people in seeking justice; and these bandits, sharing the basic values and symbols of Jewish peasant society, were prepared to defend central Jewish institution against foreigners.28 As in the case of the Zealot hypothesis, social banditry accomplishes important conceptual work for the historiography of Jewish Palestine and the Jesus movement.29 There is no direct evidence of disaffection by the Galilean peasantry with the ruling class. We have no peasant sources. Instead we hear the aristocratic voice of Josephus and, much later, the scribal voices of Galilean sages in the Mishnah and Tosephta. We lack entirely a record, comparable to what is available in Egypt, of lease and loan agreements, requests for rent reductions, police reports, petitions to officials and similar documents that would allow us to assemble a picture of life in Galilean villages. In the absence of such direct evidence, the model of social banditry and the conclusion that banditry in the Galilee, or at least some of it, was social banditry, allow one to posit not only social and economic pressures on the peasantry but also the existence of a consciousness among the peasantry of exploitation— something approaching a class consciousness. For the model of social

Horsley 1979, 60. By “conceptual work” I mean the way in which a particular idea or intellectual construct is systematically related to, and therefore functions with respect to, other ideas or constructs in accomplishing broader intellectual or theoretical goals. The effort to identify the “conceptual work” done by a particular construct should be distinguished sharply from the question of psychological motivation. To argue ad hominem and to reduce the reasons for a scholar emphasizing a particular set of comparative data to a function of her or his individual psychology, as some recent contributors to the historical Jesus debate have done, is both fatuous—insofar as those engaging in such amateur psychologizing usually lack the data and competence to venture such judgments—and irrelevant, inasmuch as the heuristic value of a particular construct is independent of the details of its psychological or sociological genesis. For more on the notion of “conceptual work,” see Kloppenborg 2005, 1–23, esp. 6–9. 28 29

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banditry involves both bandits defending peasant values against those who exploit them, and peasants heroizing, supporting and protecting bandits against the landed and aristocratic sectors which exploit the peasantry. Grünewald concluded: Hobsbawm’s social bandit has become the favourite of those who would impute to the lower social classes—not only those of the time before the Enlightenment but even those of Antiquity—a hidden potential dynamism in the shape of some awareness of the way in which they were repressed and an active desire for violent and directed change in their personal fortunes and in the circumstances which determined the life of their class.30

For scholars of the early Jesus movement the model of social banditry accomplishes additional conceptual work: it helps to define a situation of social conflict, of endangered peasant values, and of the declining economic status of peasants, that the Jesus movement sought also to address, not through banditry, but by “renewal of village communities.”31 On this view, Galilean social banditry and the Galilean Jesus movements were differing responses to the same social situation of the decline of peasant life due to exploitation and foreign domination. Theoretical Problems with the Model Despite the seeming incorrigibility of this depiction, there are substantial difficulties, both with the theoretical model and with the interpretation of data. Soon after the publication of Hobsbawm’s book the model of “social banditry” came under serious attack. Based on his study of banditry in Italy, Mexico, and elsewhere, Anton Blok argued that bandits in fact demobilize the peasantry rather than championing its causes and values: Rather than actual champions of the poor and the weak, bandits quite often terrorized those from whose very ranks they managed to rise, and thus helped to suppress them. . . . Rather than promoting the articulation of peasant interests within a national context, bandits tend to obstruct or to deviate concerted peasant action. They may do so directly by means

30 31

Grünewald 1999a, 12. Horsley 1991; 1995b.

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of physical violence and intimidation. In fact, we know that bandits have fulfilled pivotal roles in the demobilization of peasants.32

The failure of bandits to mobilize the peasantry against their rulers is not in Blok’s view due to the modest (unpolitical) ambitions of bandits or to their lack of organization and ideology, as Hobsbawm supposed, “but rather because their first loyalty is not to the peasants.”33 Even more seriously, Blok points out that the “noble bandit” who acts in solidarity with the poor is indeed an expression of social protest, but it belongs not to actual brigandage, but rather to mythic, poetic and folkloristic representations of bandits.34 Many others echo this latter criticism. Henk Driessen’s examination of local records of Andalusia from the nineteenth century suggest that the image of the “noble bandit” belongs to French and English romanticists. Real banditry flourishes in remote areas where state control is weak and bandits. But far from representing peasant interests, bandits are often employed by rival élites in networks of patronage.35 Paul Sant Cassia, discussing banditry in nineteenth-century Cyprus, remarks that the figure of the bandit was routinely romanticized and politicized, turned into a fighter against foreigner domination, despite the facts that bandits mainly preyed on their own folk36 and that they were frequently used by local élites in their struggle with the State, or sometimes by the State itself.37 While it is true that bandits were sometimes shielded by the local gentry or by village officials, peasants might at times protect

Blok 1972, 494–503, here 496. Blok 1972, 499. Curiously, Horsley (1979, 42 n. 14) notes Blok’s critique of Hobsbawm but claims the Blok “basically confirm[ed] the data of social banditry.” 34 Blok 1972, 500–501. Hobsbawm (1972, 503–5, here 504) concedes the general point that Robin Hood figures are rare, “because to avoid or reject the temptation to wealth and power requires a degree of political consciousness which is rarely to be found among such men [bandits], and because to do so implies that rejection of most of that support and protection from the local power-structure, which is so helpful to the bandit who wishes to pursue a successful career.” He nevertheless concludes that some actual social bandits existed. 35 Driessen 1983. For examples of bandits in networks of rural patronage, see Hopwood 1989; 1998. 36 Sant Cassia 1993, 774: “Bandits are often romanticized afterwards through nationalist rhetoric and texts which circulate and have a life of their own, giving them a permanence and potency which transcends their localized domain and transitory nature. How bandits are portrayed in the modern nation-state and the way in which such symbols are utilized to legitimate contemporary struggles is as significant as what they actually did and represented.” 37 Sant Cassia 1993, 778. 32 33

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them and tolerated their activities. As Sant Cassia points out, however, the interpretation of peasant support for bandits or their resignation to the depredations of bandits is not as straightforward as Hobsbawm assumed: This apparent complicity is universal. . . . But in Sicily the appearance of compliance is meaningless. Who can find the means to distinguish the complicity imposed through terror from that which is spontaneous and lucrative?38

Richard Slatta’s study of Mexican banditry reached a similar conclusion. Peasants were the routine targets of the bandits. They become their protectors only in legend and myth. Most crucially, the alleged “special relationship” between the peasant and the bandit that is fundamental to Hobsbawm’s model is “largely absent or mythical.”39 Hence while “social banditry” indeed exists, it is more clearly a literary phenomenon than a social phenomenon. Moreover, the defining characteristic of social banditry—the alleged solidarity between peasants and bandits and the alleged alignment of bandits with peasant values—are so poorly attested as to raise doubts on the utility of the model as a whole.40 The Interpretation of Josephus Of course it is possible that even if Hobsbawm’s model does not fit other data, it might fit the Galilee. There are, however, substantial problems with Horsley’s interpretation of Josephus’ statements, as both Seán Freyne and Thomas Grünewald have pointed out.41 The interpretation of Hezekiah as a social bandit depends on inferring from Josephus’ statement in Antiquities 14.168 (that the mothers of Sant Cassia 1993, 784, citing Franchetti and Sonnino 1974, 31. Slatta 2004, 22–30, here 24; similarly, Slatta 1987, 3. Similar criticisms are made by Winkler 1980, 155–81, esp. 175; McGing 1998, 166. Hobsbawm (1985, chap. 10) also recognizes the function of the noble bandit as a symbol, but nonetheless insistence on strong ties between bandits and the peasantry. 40 Horsley (1987, 37), by contrast, assumes the validity of the model of social banditry and uses it to manufacture data not present in Josephus. Noting that Josephus makes no mention of bandits expressly claiming to be righting wrongs, he concludes nevertheless, “since social banditry is so consistent from society to society and from period to period in peasant societies, perhaps we should posit similar individual protests or righting of wrongs by Jewish brigands.” 41 Freyne 1988; Grünewald 1999b, ET 1999a, 91–109. 38 39

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the dead bandits protested their deaths) that these mothers came from the Galilee to Jerusalem and that this is an example of local (peasant) support for bandits. Second, it depends upon the fact that Hezekiah was preying on Syrian rather than Jewish villages in the border area (War 1.204–205; Ant. 14.159). Josephus’ theatrical story in Antiquities should be balanced against the account in War, which requires no doubtful pilgrimage of Galilean mothers to the Hasmonean court.42 Rather, the account in War (1.208–211) is framed by the demonstrations of personal power by the young Herod in the Galilee and his brother Phasael in Jerusalem (War 1.204–207). These demonstrations of power on the one hand impressed Sextus Caesar the governor of Syria and alarmed Hyrcanus’ retainers, who were concerned that Hyrcanus had effectively relinquished power to Antipater and his sons and that Herod was about to seize power. Herod’s Hasmonean opponents hit upon the killing of the bandits as a pretext to bring Herod to trial, an act that would demonstrate that he was not a king but a mere commoner (εἰ μὴ βασιλεύς ἐστιν, ἀλλ' ἔτι ἰδιώτης), subject to the king’s judgment and the nation’s laws. That is, the trial of Herod had nothing to do with Hyrcanus’ bending to the protests of Galilean peasantry, and everything to do with power struggles between the Antipater’s sons and the Hasmoneans. As Freyne rightly concludes, there is no support for Horsley’s contention that Hezekiah was on “good terms” with the people of the Galilee. Instead, Hezekiah, executed in 47 b.c.e., was likely one of the Galilean Hasmonean nobility whose lands should have been returned to Judean control after Caesar’s reorganization of the province of Syria after 48 b.c.e. (Ant. 14.205–210) but which were likely still under Syrian control a year later.43 Hengel observed if Hezekiah had been a mere bandit, his death would hardly have become a cause célèbre, championed by the Sanhedrin and Hyrcanus,44 and Grünewald adds it would not have attracted the attention of Sextus Caesar either. More likely Hezekiah was

42 Hengel (1989, 314 n. 8) comments: “[ W ]omen from outside the city and rebel’s widows would hardly have got through with their petition.” He concludes that some of executed bandits were “sons of respectable families from Jerusalem. If they had not been, their mothers’ accusations would hardly have reached Hyrcanus” (314). 43 Freyne 1988, 57: Hezekiah’s “acts of banditry were therefore not performed in favor of the Galilean peasantry but were reprisals for the loss of his own possessions and presumably those of other nobles too.” For a discussion of the shifting power at the Syrian frontier, see Freyne 1980b, 60–62. 44 Hengel 1989, 314–15.

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“a supporter of the Hasmonean dynasty which Herod has displaced.”45 To this Freyne adds that if Hezekiah were indeed a social bandit on Horsley’s model, one would have expected him to attack Hasmonean interests in the Galilee rather than Syrians.46 Horsley objects that retainers of Aristobolus—Horsley assumes that Freyne connects Hezekiah with Aristobolus47—would hardly have appealed to his opponent Hyrcanus for redress.48 But it is unnecessary to connect Hezekiah directly with Aristobolus. Hengel simply identifies him with the Hasmonean nobility settled in the Galilee by Alexander Jannaeus.49 In any case the alarm of Hasmoneans in Jerusalem at Herod’s display of personal power is perfectly comprehensible regardless of where Hezekiah fits in the old nobility.50 Horsley also objects to Freyne’s suggestion that Hezekiah’s bandits were Hasmonean partisans with the observation that “power struggles had been happening among rival Hasmonean factions for some time, prior to and utterly unrelated to Herod’s elimination of Hezekiah and his brigands in Galilee in 47 b.c.e.”51 This reply, however, misses the function of Herod’s actions. As Brent Shaw has shown, Herod’s elimination of the bandits—as also his actions a few years later at Arbela, and again twenty years later in Trachonitis—was calibrated quite precisely to demonstrate his personal power and thereby to assert his kingly qualifications.52 Each of his attacks on bandits occurred at a crucial juncture in his rise to power: at his initial appointment by Caesar as the governor of the Galilee in 47 b.c.e.; during his efforts to recoup his power after the assassination of Caesar and his confirGrünewald 1999a, 95. Freyne 1988, 56. 47 As far as I can tell, Freyne does not. Freyne (1980b, 63) only suggests that the death of Hezekiah induced the Hasmonean aristocracy to support Antigonus rather than Hyrcanus, whom they regarded as too dependent upon Rome. Later, Freyne (1988, 57) simply associates Hezekiah with Hasmonean nobility. 48 Horsley 1995a, 55, 260. 49 Hengel 1989, 315: “These λῃσταί, then, were presumably not real robbers. Nor were they the scattered followers of Aristobolus and his family, since, in the case, the anger of Hyrcanus II over the annihilation of his most dangerous enemies would be incomprehensible.” 50 Freyne 1988, 57: “[ I ]t was influential Jerusalem Jews who were the most vocal against Herod, no doubt because they saw in Hezekiah’s fate a threat to their own position, even as supporters of Hyrcanus. The purge off the Hasmonean nobles after he had established himself as king (Ant. 15.5–6) clearly demonstrates that they had every right to be fearful.” 51 Horsley 1995a, 260. 52 Shaw 1993b, 176–204, here 184–89. 45 46

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mation by the Roman Senate as King (40 b.c.e.); and in the wake of the debacle caused by Herod’s support of Anthony against Octavian and his desire to demonstrate his loyalty to Rome and Augustus after Anthony’s death. The “elimination” of bandits was an excellent way to demonstrate loyalty to Herod’s masters. The bandits at the Arbel caves fare no better as social bandits. The context of Josephus’ discussion suggests rather that they were partisans of Herod’s rival, Antigonus the high priest and king from 40 b.c.e. until his execution by the Romans in 37 b.c.e.53 Josephus’ characterization of these as “bandits” is quite in accord with the use of λῃστής as an expression of political invective, similar to Cicero’s characterization of Cataline as a latro.54 But it is not only Josephus’ connection of this incident with his treatment of the “garrisons of Antigonus” that suggests that these “bandits” included nobility; in the exchange between the old man in the caves and Herod, Herod is dismissed for his “low born” (ταπεινότατα) state, recalling the earlier confrontation between Herod and the Hasmonean court, which tried to use a trial to establish that Herod was a mere ἰδιώτης. Nothing indicates that these bandits were examples of ‘peasant’ opposition to Herodian rule, still less that they fit the model of social banditry; on the contrary, Josephus claims that they were “inflicting on the inhabitants evils no less than those of war.” Horsley concedes that not much is known about the Galilee during the period of Antipas’ reign or from the 40s and 50s,55 but infers from Josephus’ description of Judean banditry that banditry grew from “endemic to epidemic in Galilee as well,” surmising that the 53 Horsley (1979, 56 n. 56) tries to distinguish the “garrisons of Antigonus” (War 1.303, 314–346) from the account of the rebels at Arbela, which appears in the midst of this account (War 1.304–313), even though Josephus immediately connects Herod’s intent to reduce the “strongholds of Galilee” with an attack on Sepphoris which drove out Antigonus’s partisans (1.303) and the assault on Arbela (1.304). Despite Herod’s dramatic destruction of the bandits at Arbela, he was unable to reduce Antigonus’s forces, which counterattacked and killed Herod’s general Ptolemy (1.314–315) and, later in 38 b.c.e. following a victory of Antigonus, attacked Herod’s partisans and drowned them in the Kinneret (1.326). It seems likely that the stronghold at Arbela, only two kilometers from the Kinneret, was still in the hands of the forces of Antigonus. 54 See Habinek 1998, 69–87 and, more generally, MacMullen 1963a. 55 Freyne (1988, 59) suggests that Eleazar son of Deineus was operating on the border between Samaria and Galilee, on the edge of the Great Plain. Josephus, however, locates Eleazar’s activities in the toparchy of Achrabetene, south-east of Shechem (War 2.235), on the border between Judea and Samaria. Even if Freyne is correct, however, the Great Plain was economically quite separate from the region of the Galilee north of the Nazareth ridge, and hence it unlikely that Eleazar’s activities had any impact on the Lower Galilee.

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combination of pressures from agricultural failures and high taxation and political mis-administration that alternated between corruption and inattention would naturally have produced support for and complicity with bandits among the peasantry.56 But banditry on so large a scale, Horsley argues, was no longer social banditry, because by the 60s the Galilee had slipped into virtual anarchy and because bandits were now subject to manipulation by Josephus and other power interests.57 A case in point is the bandit gang at Gischala that Josephus claims, in the interest of securing peace in the Galilee, to have persuaded to accept payment from the people of Gischala and to refrain from attacking either them or the Romans (Life 77–79). Horsley thinks that it is credible that “the multitude of villagers and townspeople may well have been willing to be taxed to support mercenaries.”58 What Josephus relates, however, appears to be more the case of bandit gangs extorting protection money from local farmers, not one of peasants being willing to “support” bandits. Elsewhere Josephus indicates that the inhabitants of Gischala were little interested in revolt or supporting bandits: Only Gischala, a small town in Galilee, remained unsubdued [after the fall of Gamla]. The inhabitants were inclined to peace, being mainly agricultural labourers whose attention was devoted to the prospect of their crops; but they had been afflicted by the invasion of numerous gangs of bandits, whose numbers some of their citizens joined. (War 4.84)

Once John of Gischala and his gang had departed, the citizens of the town opened its gates to Titus (War 4.113) and rather than razing the city or enslaving its inhabitants, Titus pulled down a token portion of the wall and “proceeded to repress the disturbers of the city’s peace rather by threats than by punishment” (War 4.117). Clearly, Titus had not concluded that the peasants and townsfolk of Gischala had supported the bandits. None of this fits the picture of the social bandit. Nor does Josephus’ description of a bandit gang led by a certain Jesus, whom the Sepphorites paid to defend them against Josephus (Life 104–111). The staunchly pro-Roman stance of Sepphoris and its function as a control city, collecting taxes from the outlying region, scarcely permits us to

Horsley 1995a, 264. Horsley 1995a, 265. 58 Horsley 1995a, 267. Horsley rightly suspects that some of these bandits may well have been Josephus’ own mercenaries. 56 57

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understand Jesus as a bandit siding with the peasantry against the élite. If anything Josephus’ description indicates precisely the opposite: Jesus was a bandit-for-hire, used by the élite to protect their interests. Josephus refers to his rival, John of Gischala, as a “bandit” (War 2.585–594; contrast Life 71–76) who commanded 400 men and who “plundered the whole of the Galilee.” The allegation that John preyed on the Galileans—something that on Hobsbawm’s definition would disqualify him as a social bandit—must be seen in the context of Josephus’ attacks on his rival and the self-serving descriptions of his own practices. Nevertheless, nothing in Josephus’ account suggests that John was a Robin Hood figure for the peasantry. On the contrary, Josephus’ description of John in Life 43–45, 74–75 presupposes that John was an aristocrat59—hence a landowner—who controlled a significant portion of the agricultural output (especially the oil) of the area. He controlled a force of “bandits” active in the region between Gischala and Tyre, with whom Josephus also claims to have negotiated—probably a misrepresentation, since these bandits eventually followed John to Jerusalem. Despite Horsley’s efforts to use banditry as an index of general social disaffection among the peasantry and of its eventual “policitization,” there is little evidence of two key features of social banditry: that Galilean bandits enjoyed the support of the peasantry and that they refrained from preying on their own villagers. Shepherds, Veterans, and Tax Evasion Several structural features of ancient society made banditry a “normal” occurrence.60 In fact Aristotle considered banditry one of the five natural

59 Although Josephus in War calls John a “bandit” and claims that John rose from poverty (War 2.585), in his first appearance in Life (43–45) he is treated as an influential citizen of Gischala who initially opposed revolt against Rome. Goodman (1987, 201–2) observes that it is unlikely that a poverty-stricken bandit could have formed an association with Simon ben Gamaliel, a wealthy Pharisee before the war (Life 190–192), and points out that Titus’ treatment of John, imprisoning him rather than having him crucified (War 6.434) suggests that “the Romans treated him as a rebellious aristocrat rather than as a bandit.” See also Rappaport 1982, 479–93, esp. 479–80; 1981–1983. Baumbach (1965, 728–40, esp. 731) argues that John belonged to the old aristocracy that had suffered decline under Hellenistic reforms; similarly, Horsley 1981, 409–32, esp. 431: “he may have stemmed from a notable family now impoverished.” 60 On ancient banditry, see Humbert 1904; MacMullen 1963, 49–76; 1966, 255–68; Briant 1976; Burian 1984; Isaac 1984; Shaw 1984; 1990; 1993; Pekáry 1987; Hooff 1988; Drexhage 1988; McGing 1998; Smith 1999; Lewis 2000.

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“forms of livelihood” (βίοι), along with pastoral nomadism (which he brands as the laziest), fishing, hunting, and agriculture.61 The rugged terrain of area such as Rough Cilicia,62 Andalusia, parts of Italy and Greece, and of course parts of Judaea and Samaria afforded raiders and bandits easy protection and made pursuit and apprehension difficult. Moreover, the inadequacies of policing in general and the almost complete lack of a rural police force meant that banditry could flourish in rural areas, interrupted only by local vigilantes or the occasional foray of the army.63 Shaw notes the irony that the heavily armed imperial provinces of Syria and the two Germanies were better equipped to deal with banditry than the “peaceful” interior provinces, whose governors did not have legionary forces at their disposal.64 In this respect Judea in the period before the First Revolt was also under-equipped to control banditry short of an intervention by the Syrian legate. Certain ordinary occupations, moreover, represented major “suppliers” of bandit gangs. Shepherds (who were often slaves) were by the very nature of their occupation highly mobile, occupying marginal lands, and escaped the close supervision of their owners. It was relatively simple for shepherds to engage in rustling and forms of banditry, so much so that it was common in fact to equate shepherds with bandits.65 In addition to systemic factors that allowed for banditry, political factors and adverse economic circumstances undoubtedly encouraged banditry, although the relationship is more complex and varied than Horsley’s simple model assumes.

61 Pol. 1256a–b: “Such are the forms of livelihood, then, which those have whose work is natural and who do not acquire their food by means of exchange or trade: the nomad, the bandit (λῃστρικός), the fisherman, the hunter, and the farmer.” 62 Hopwood 1983; Shaw 1990. 63 On the structural problems of policing, see Hopwood 1989, 171–87, esp. 177–80; 1983. 64 Shaw 1993a, 318. 65 Shaw 1984, 5–52, esp. 31; Grünewald 1999a, 35–36. Viriatus, leader of a Celtiberian and Lusitanian revolt in the mid-second century b.c.e. began as a shepherd. Livy (Periocha 52) describes him thus: “In Spain, Viriatus, who first changed from a shepherd into a hunter, then from a hunter into a bandit, and soon into the leader of an army (primum ex pastore uenator, ex uenatore latro, mox iusti quoque exercitus dux factus), occupied all of Lusitania.” McGing (1998, 168–69) cites PLips 37 (389 c.e.), the denunciation of two shepherds, called “bandits and rustlers” (λῃστὰς ὁμολόγους καὶ ζῶα ἀπεληλακότας πολλάκις, ll. 29–30), for attacking the employees of the writer. It seems likely, however, that the accusation of “banditry” is rhetorical, since the writer knows the names and village of the offenders (ll. 7–8) and expects the authorities to intervene.

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Bandits and the Army A particularly important relationship existed between banditry and the army. As Shaw observes, “the professional soldier was always a potential bandit.”66 With military training, expertise in the use of violence, and access to weapons, what separated the soldier from the bandit was the veneer of legitimacy. This boundary was porous and easily crossed. Upon their decommissioning, veterans were expected to become farmers or to invest in some honourable enterprise. This assumed that a land grant was sufficient and of sufficiently good quality, and that the veteran had the skill to become a farmer or the inclination to invest their money in business. Good land was not always available to veterans, however, and there is no reason to believe that all would make a smooth transition from soldiering to farming. Shaw points out that while later law codes assumed that such veterans became bandits “out of sheer laziness” (neglegentia vitae),67 it may have been closer to the truth that “there was a strong temptation to practice their life-long skills, only now outside the aegis of state sanction.”68 Deserters found a natural home in bandit gangs. A few notorious deserters are known: Tacfarinas, mentioned throughout in Tacitus’ Annales 2–4, led a gang that attacked Roman interests in Africa Proconsularis in the early part of the first century c.e.;69 and later, during the principate of Commodus a deserter named Maternus attempted to overthrow Commodus—although the reliability of Herodian’s report is open to question—and assembled other deserters who preyed on the western provinces in what the Historia Augusta calls a bellum desertorum.70 It is likely that deserters (not peasants) formed the core of John of Gischala’s gang of “bandits.” According to Josephus, John chose his gang carefully, avoiding anyone who was easily bested—presumably those who lacked training and discipline—, and selected only “those who were vigorous in body and courageous, and who had military experience (τοὺς . . . πολέμων ἐμπειριᾳ διαφέροντας),” for the most part “fugitives” (φυγάδες) from the area of Tyre (War 2.588).

66 67 68 69 70

Shaw 1993a, 314 (emphasis original). Codex Iustiniana 12.46.3; Codex Theodosianus 7.20.7. Shaw 1984, 29. See Grünewald 1999a, 48–55. See Grünewald 1999a, 124–35.

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Shaw also points to “forced desertion” as a factor that swelled the numbers of bandit gangs. The victory of one grandee with his army meant that the armies of the vanquished were cut off from pay and provision. If they did not or could not return to civilian life, such soldiers quite naturally became bandits or hired themselves out as enforcers for local landowners. Thus bandits were “created” by “the shifting frontiers of the definition of authority within the state itself.”71 A dramatic instance of this occurred in the wake of Roman civil wars of the mid-first century b.c.e., when there was an outbreak of banditry, due in part to the forced desertion of troops who had been loyal to Sextus Pompey. After the defeat and execution of Pompey in 36 b.c.e., it appears that powerful landowners had employed armed men, some of them Pompey’s erstwhile troops, to protect their interests and to enslave free men.72 Octavian treated these solders as bandits and Arrian gives the impression that Octavian was able to eliminate them in a single year of concerted police action.73 This seems an optimistic assessment, especially if these “bandits” were now in the employ of influential landowners. A good illustration of the porous boundary between soldiering and banditry is presented by Josephus’ account is his reference to the “bandits” at the Arbel caves. Freyne is undoubtedly right to connect these with the “garrisons of Antigonus” who were driven out of Sepphoris.74 When they retreated to the Arbel caves they preyed on the inhabitants of the area (War 1.304), much as Sextus Pompey’s troops turned from battling Octavian to more local targets. Josephus suggests that Herod’s destruction of the bandits at Arbel finished the matter. But his account immediately mentions that Herod’s general Ptolemy was killed by the “those who used to disrupt the Galilee” (ις ἔθος ἦν θορυβεῖν τὴν Γαλιλαίαν), who then fled to the “marshes” (probably the Huleh valley).75 Even after further police action by Herod, who supposedly Shaw 1984, 30. Shaw 1993a, 315, citing Suetonius, Augustus 32. 73 Arrian, Bellum civile 5.132: “At this time Italy and Rome itself were openly infested with brigands whose actions were more like those of barefaced plunderers than those of common thieves. Sabinus was chosen by Octavian to bring the situation under control. He executed many of the bandits he captured and, within one year, established conditions of absolute law and order.” 74 Freyne 1988, 58. 75 Richardson (2004, 22) argues that these “bandits” likely occupied the fortress of Keren Naftali. He points out that while it was first occupied in the late Hellenistic period, there is no Herodian pottery and aerial photograhs show a circumvallation 71 72

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“destroyed their fortresses” (War 1.316), they were successful in drowning some of Herod’s retainers in the Kinneret (War 1.326). It required two of Anthony’s legions finally to dislodge Antigonus’ soldier-bandits from their strongholds (War 1.327, 330). Anachōrēsis Josephus assumes that economic—in particular fiscal—pressures are directly related to banditry. At the time of Caligula’s plan to erect a statue of himself in the temple, Josephus has Judean leaders warn Petronius that if a planned agricultural strike were to proceed and if, consequently, the demands of the tribute were not met, “there would be a harvest of banditry” (Ant. 18.274). The problem of banditry in Judea is a refrain in Josephus’ account after this point (Ant. 20.124, 160, 172, 186–188), culminating in his claims that Albinus allowed imprisoned malefactors to ransom themselves and to form bandit gangs (War 2.272–276) and that under Gessius Florus the majority of the Judean population practiced banditry and were allowed to do so provided that they shared the spoils with the praefect (Ant. 20.255–258). Even if we take into account Josephus’ penchant for overstatement, it should not be doubted that political unrest and economic pressures due to famine, plague, poor harvests, taxes and onerous liturgies might result in banditry. Yet the “banditry” that was produced by economic pressure is a complex phenomenon that does not admit of a simple description. Although Josephus does not provide a description of how the demand for the tribute might produce a harvest of banditry, or what “banditry” might mean in that context, we have ample evidence from early Hellenistic and Roman Egypt concerning anachōrēsis.76 Philo provides a dramatic description of the brutal treatment meted out by a tax collector on the family of someone who had decamped because he could not afford to pay the taxes owing (Spec. Leg. 3.159–60). This was not an isolated problem but, as Naphtali Lewis has shown, endemic in Egypt.77 Illegal absences from one’s village of registration were common, the

wall. “Only Herod the Great’s action against the ‘bandits’ (lēstai) would account for such siege works” (23). 76 Henne 1956. 77 Lewis 1993, 101–18, esp. 111–14; 1983, 163–84. See also Braunert 1955–1956.

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result of inability or unwillingness to pay taxes,78 or the consequence of social disturbances. Three papyri from the principate of Nero illustrate the gravity of the problem.79 PCorn 24 (56 c.e.), a document from a poll-tax collector from Philadelphia (whose name is missing), lists 45 men who are described as ἄποροι ἀνεύρετοι, “property-less absentees whose whereabouts are unknown.”80 In PRyl IV 595, written in year 4 of Nero’s principate (57 c.e.), the poll-tax collector of Philadelphia and probably the writer of PCorn 24, details the names and taxes owing from 43 men who decamped (ἀνακεχωρηκότες ἄποροι [l. 11]) during year 1 (34 of those named in PCorn 24), and a further 55 who fled in Pauni of year 1 “to parts unknown” (εἰς ἀγνοουμένους τόπους, l. 58). A further seven are named as “defaulters” (ἐστραγευμένοι [ l. 114]), bringing the total to 105 men, probably a significant proportion of the taxpaying population of Philadelphia.81 Towards the end of the document (ll. 133–185) the names of 47 men are given who returned from flight, paid the poll-tax and were forgiven the dike tax; but only one of those listed as absent in PCorn 24 appears in the list of returnees. A third document, PGraux 2 (55–59 c.e.), makes clear the point of these lists.82 It is the appeal of six πράκτορες λαογραφίας from six Arsinoite villages to the praefect not to press them for a delivery of the poll-tax, since, they report, “from the hitherto numerous inhabitants in the aforementioned villages, now they are reduced to a few, because some property-less absentees have decamped (διὰ τὸ τοὺς μὲν ἀνακεχωρηκέναι ἀπόρους), while others are deceased without leaving next-of-kin” (ll. 9–10). Since the liturgical system of Roman Egypt made the tax collectors responsible for the tax liabilities of their villages, they needed to forestall the possibility of being required to hand over revenues that they had not been able to collect from the defaulting villagers. The fact that PGraux 2 is from six praktores of the Arsinoite nome

78 Stefan Link (1993) has argued that anachōrēsis, usually treated as a response to poverty, was also “a favourite trick of those who did not want to pay taxes” (319, emphasis original). 79 It is debated whether the principate of Nero was a time of special economic crisis which produced anachōrēsis at a high level (thus Bell 1938) or whether PCorn 24, PGraux 2 and PRyl IV 595 reflect normal administrative problems (thus Oates 1966). 80 On the terms, see Oates 1966, 87–93, esp. 93. 81 There is also mention of 10 absentees from the 14th year of Claudius (i.e., 53/54 C.E.). 82 = SB IV 7462; SelPap II 281.

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suggests that the absentees had not simply moved to another village in their division, since in that case one of the other praktores would have reported their whereabouts.83 From the point of view of the local praktores absenteeism was a threat to their livelihood since the praktor was responsible for the full tax liability of the village unless the strategos agreed to reduce the sum. From the point of view of the strategos or praefect, absenteeism was a threat both to revenue and, potentially, to the peace and security of the nome, if the absentees engaged in banditry, petty theft, or provoked other disturbances. Several measures were available to deal with this problem, not all of them effective and, none of them, it would seem, able to solve the problem permanently. One method was an official edict.84 In 215 c.e. Caracalla issued an edict ordering the expulsion of “Egyptians” (i.e., persons not officially resident in the city) from Alexandria, claiming that these disturbed the city “by their very numbers and their uselessness” (τῷ πλήθε[ι] τῷ ἰδίῳ κα[ὶ οὐ]χὶ χρήσει, ll. 19–20).85 The edict seems to have had some effect,86 as did an earlier edict in 207 c.e.87 Such edicts to return to one’s idia were probably combined with threats of fines or other punishments (as

83 Oates (1966, 94–95) cites PCorn 22 (mid I c.e.), which lists 125 persons residing in Philadelphia whose idia and taxpaying liabilities were elsewhere, and PGraux 1 (SB 7416), a letter from Dionysodoros the strategos of the division of Herakleides (Arsinoite nome), to C. Julius Iollas, strategos of the Herkleopolite nome (adjacent the Arsinoite nome), asking that the tax collector of Philadelphia be allowed to collect the poll tax owed by residents of Philadelphia now living in villages of the Herakleopolite nome. 84 E.g., PLond III 904, 125–27 = WChr 202 = SelPap 220 (104 c.e.), an edict of Gaius Vibius Maximus, praefect of Egypt, ordering absentees to return to their villages, but allowing those residing in Alexandria for good reason to register themselves with the praefectus alae and remain in the city. See also POxy XLVII 3364 (209 c.e.) and PWestColl 3 (200–201 c.e.), referring to an edict of Caracalla in 199/200 c.e.; PGen 16 = WChr 354 = SelPap 289 (207 c.e.) (an edict of Subatianus Aquila). 85 PGiss 40 = SelPap II 215. The edict describes the “Egyptians” as those who “flee the countryside (and) homes in order to not to engage in agricultural work” (οἵτινες φεύγουσι τὰς χώρας τὰς ἰδίας ἵνα μὴ ἔργον ἄγροικον ποιῶσι), and states that fugitive linen-weavers, who might be dressed in a manner above their station, can nonetheless be recognized by their uncivilized manners and speech. 86 See BGU I 159.5–7 = WChr 408.5–7 (216 c.e.), which refers to an edict issued by Valerius Datus ordering non-residents to return to their villages, and reports that some obeyed: τοῦ οὖν λαμπροτάτου ἡγεμόνος Οὐαλερίου ∆άτου κελεύσ[αν]το[ς] ἅπαντας τοὺς ἐπὶ ξένης διατρίβοντας εἰς τὰς ἰδίας κατεισέρχεσθαι, κατεισῆλθον. 87 PCattoui 2 = SB I 4284 (207 c.e.) refers to another edict of (Septimus) Severus and (Marcus Aurelius) Antoninus (Caracalla)designed to “end violence and lawlessness” (ἐκκόψαντες τὰ βίαια [καὶ ἄν]ομα, l. 8) which had induced the letterwriters to return home.

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in POxy XLVII 3364), or inducements such as small tax abatements, as occurred in PRyl IV 595. An indirect disincentive to flight was the fact that the family of the fugitive could be held responsible for the missing tax payments. From the early first century c.e., a series of declarations are extant from the kin of fugitives, asking that the fugitives be registered as “decamped” (ἀναγράφεσθαι τοῦτον ἐν τοῖς ἀνακεχωρηκόσιν), and declaring that they owned no property that could be seized for the arrears.88 Such declarations, presumably, were designed to protect the family from tax collectors who might press the family for the absentee’s taxes.89 But as PRyl IV 595 indicates, the problem of tax fugitives was not a minor one and meant a substantial loss of revenue. By the time of Trajan— perhaps earlier—the problem was addressed in Roman fiscal policy by the μερισμὸς ἀνακεχωρηκότων (“share of those who have decamped”), according to which the fugitives’ share of taxes was simply redistributed to the remaining residents of the village.90 Even before the inauguration of this tax, a similar measure is attested in 73 c.e., which imposed a fugitive’s share of the trade tax on the remaining members of the guild.91 Such regressive measures, tolerable only as long as the number of fugitives remained small, were counterproductive when the numbers of fugitives rose, since the added impositions encouraged or even forced others to decamp. Eventually, praefects were themselves forced to declare amnesties in order to entice fugitives to return and re-enroll in their villages. The other leverage that was available to the prefect involved stigmatizing fugitives as “bandits.” An edict by the praefect M. Sempronius Liberalis in 154 c.e. (BGU II 372)92 acknowledged that some fled their homes “because of the trouble that has occurred” (διὰ τὴν γενομένην δυσχέρειαν [col. 1.3–4])—probably a reference to a rebellion in

E.g., POxy II 251 (44 c.e.); 252 (19–20 c.e.); 253 (19 c.e.). That this was a real danger is suggested by Philo’s comments (above, p. 32). 90 See Lewis 1937. The tax seems to have been eliminated in 163 c.e., partly the result of catastrophic depopulation of several villages. See Lewis 1993. 91 See Link 1993, 316–18, citing StudPal IV, pp. 70–71, ll. 378–432 (73 c.e.), a list of revenues and fines pertaining to a guild of potters. Ll. 422–24: καὶ πρὸς γνώμονα ἀνακεχωρ(ηκότων) γ (ἔτους) Ἀμμώνιος Σάμβαι το(ῦ) Ἀμμωνίου (γίνεται) α (γίνονται) γ ἀνὰ (δραχμὰς) ιζ (ἡμιωβέλιον) (χαλκοῦς β) (δραχμαὶ) να (ὀβολοὶ β) (χαλκοῖ β), “And in accordance with the gnomon concerning those who decamp, in year 3: Ammonios son of Sambas grandson of Ammonios, making 1 (person). Total 3 (persons), each assessed at 17 drachmae 1/2 obol, 2 chalkoi, (making) 51 drachmae 2 obols 2 chalkoi. 92 BGU II 372 = WChr 19 = SB XX 14662. 88

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153/4 c.e.9 3 —, and offered a three-month amnesty. Those who return would not be harassed, but anyone who failed to return and who was subsequently apprehended was to be treated “as an acknowledged malefactor” (ὡς ὁμόλογος κακοῦργος [col. 2.21–22]) and as pursuing an “evil and bandit-like livelihood” (πονηρ[ὸν κα]ὶ λῃστρικὸν βίον [col. 2.1–2]) and sent to the praefect. The same edict orders local officials to take preventative steps against bandits, to pursue bandit attacks when they occur, and to interrogate those who are apprehended.94 Remarkably, the edict advises that apprehended “bandits” are not to be interrogated “beyond the events of the banditry itself ” (μηδὲν περαιτέρω τῶν ἐν αὐτῇ τῇ λῃστείᾳ γενομένων [col. 2.12–13]). “Banditry,” however, was a slippery term, and could be applied to persons who were a far cry from armed gangs of marauders. As Sempronius’ edict implies, it could be applied to tax-fugitives who, for whatever reason, did not heed the praefect’s call to return to their idia. It could also apply to persons who lived villages not their own and who either engaged in theft or at least were suspected as thieves.95 The application of the term λῃστής to such persons is often rhetorical, functioning as a way of exaggerating their wrongdoing. Petitions to police routinely declare that thieves acted λῃστρικῷ τρότῳ or λῃστρικῶς, not because such malefactors belonged to bandit gangs but precisely because they were not bandits.96 McGing rightly observes that “ ‘in the manner of a bandit’ is not a technical description of a bandit raid, but merely a formulaic expression to communicate anger at what happened.”97

Mitteis and Wilcken 1912, 1/2:31. PFay 24 (158 c.e.) probably refers to a second letter of Liberalis directing nonresidents living in the hamlet of Dama (τῶν ἐπιξένων καταμενόντων ἐν τῷ ἐποικίῳ) to return home. The original editors thought that PFay 24 referred to the decree recorded in BGU II 372, but Naphtali Lewis (1968, 85–92, here 88) has persuasively argued it concerns a second letter of Sempronius four years later. Lewis (89) concludes that the ἐπίξενοι are neither bandits nor wanderers since they have settled in Dama and their whereabouts are known. 95 Braunert 1964, 21 cites PMich III 148.11–12 (I c.e.), an astrological treatise, which equates ἀλλόφυλοι with λῃσταί. 96 E.g., BGU IV 1061.14 (14 b.c.e.); VIII 1832.10 (52–50 b.c.e.); 1858.1–2 (I b.c.e.); XIII 2239.7 (17 c.e.); PAbinn 45.10 (343 c.e.); 47.5–6 (346 c.e.); 49.7 (346 c.e.); 51.6 (346 c.e.); 52.6 (346 c.e.); 55.9 (351 c.e.); PMich V 230.6 (48 c.e.); VI 421.5 (41–54 c.e.); IX 523.9 (66 c.e.); POxy XII 1465.2 (I b.c.e.); XLIII 3140.4–5 (III/IV c.e.); XLIX 3467.3 (98 c.e.); L 3561.8 (165 c.e.); PRyl II 127–148 (29–40 c.e.) passim; SB I 5235 (14 c.e.); 5238.9 (14 c.e.). 97 McGing 1998, 168. Similarly Lewis 2000, 95. 93 94

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The stigmatizing of persons as bandits also had a rhetorical function from the perspective of the praefect. As far as criminal procedure was concerned, bandits were set apart from other criminals: their trials were entirely at the discretion of the power (coertio) of the magistrate; they could be tortured before being sent to the magistrate;98 and the summa supplicia—condemnation to the beasts, burning alive, and crucifixion—were the customary penalties.99 Hence, to threaten persons with the charge of banditry was a threat to treat them not as ordinary malefactors, but to place them far outside the bounds of ordinary criminal procedures and penalties. It raised the stakes significantly when lesser threats and inducements had not worked. Conversely, an offer of amnesty could be presented as an act of largesse on the part of the praefect, who wished to “protect” tax-fugitives from such “dangers.”100 That some fugitives engaged in criminal activities is indeed likely. POxy XLVII 3364 (209 c.e.) is a petition of Herakleides of Oxyrhynchus to Subatianus Aquila101 for relief against a fugitive from the Small Oasis, directly to the west of Oxyrhynchus. The petition begins by citing two edicts of Severus and Caracalla ordering fugitives to return to their idia and threatening to fine those who protect (σκεπάζοντες) and shelter (οἱ ὑποδεχόμενοι) such fugitives.102 Herakleides then declares that he did not lead a bandit’s life,103 and accuses the fugitive Serenos of living an evil life (κακοῦ β[ί]ου τυγ[χ]άνων) and asks for action against Serenos and his protector (τὸν ὑποδεχόμενον αὐτόν).

See PAnt II 87 (late III c.e.), a fragmentary report of a trial in which the defendants appear to claim that they had admitted to complicity with bandits only because they had been tortured (διὰ τὰς βασάνους [τὰς] πολλὰς εἰρήκαμεν [l. 14]). 99 Digesta 48.19.16.10. See Shaw 1984, 20. 100 See also POxy XII 1408.12, 16, 19. (210–14 c.e.), which harps on the personal ‘danger’ (κίνδυνος) of banditry to the local official (who neglects his responsibilities), to the bandit, and to inhabitants who cooperate with bandits. 101 See also PGen 16 (above, n. 84). 102 Compare the Ptolemaic ordinance PHib II 198.85–100 (late III b.c.e.): “and if he does not convey [the bandit] (to the police) he shall be liable to the same fine as the bandit; similarly, with sailors who have been branded with the royal brand . . . the police shall convey to the commanders of the guard posts all who are caught in the act. If they do not convey them and have been convicted of this failure, they are themselves dispatched to the ships. Those who shelter (οἱ ὑποδεχόμενοι) sailors are equally liable to the penalties for theft from the crown. Bandits and other malefactors and royal sailors are subject to arrest, wherever they are, and no one is to free them. Whoever obstructs or . . . is liable to the same fines as the bandit or the deserter from this ship. Similarly, receivers of stolen property from bandits or any other malefactor or those who shelter (οἱ ὑποδεχόμενοι) them are liable to the same fines as set out in. . . .” 103 Restoring ll. 26–27 as λῃστρι]|κοῦ βίου, with Thomas 1975, 208. 98

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J. David Thomas who first edited the papyrus concluded that Serenos was the “member of a powerful gang who went around terrorizing the inhabitants of Oxyrhynchus” and points out that a non-resident such as Serenos “can only have attained influence through support from powerful backers, οἱ ὑποδεχόμενοι.”104 McGing is more doubtful, wondering how a non-resident could have become influential but allows that he might have been a bandit client of a powerful patron.105 In any case, there are no grounds for supposing that Serenos was a “social bandit” (and the term λῃστής is not used of Serenos): he had sufficiently powerful backing that he was able to speak at gatherings of citizens and to intimidate them (ll. 36–39), and did not need to make a secret that his idia was elsewhere. He may have been an enforcer or bully-boy whose services had been retained by one of the grandees of Oxyrhynchus, but there is no evidence of widespread “peasant support.” Naphtali Lewis in fact concludes that Serenos cannot have been a bandit,—that is, someone of no fixed abode roving the countryside—, since he was living openly in Oxyrhynchus. Moreover, the fact that Herakleides calls for fines rather than more severe penalties is a good indication that Serenos was not a bandit.106 There were of course “real” bandits operating on the margins of society, some of them wreaking havoc. Dio Cassius (71.4) gives an account of the Boukoloi, a gang of herdsmen-bandits operating in the Delta region, who successfully engaged the Roman army and very nearly captured Alexandria in the 170s.107 Whether or not the sensational tales of ingenious disguises and human sacrifice are true, a tax register from the Mendesian nome, PThmouis 1, indicates that two Delta villages were razed by the “impious Neikokeites” (= Boukoloi) in the late 160s and their inhabitants killed, and another village was attacked. The army attacked the village of Petetei, killing most of its inhabitants, on the belief that it had supported the Boukoloi.108 It is not a simple matter to disengage literary fantasy from fact when it comes to the Boukoloi. As McGing points out, however, it is difficult to see them conforming Thomas 1975, 221, 220. McGing 1998, 179. 106 Lewis 2000, 96. 107 See Grünewald 1999a, 120–23; McGing 1998, 181–82; Rathbone 1990, 114 –19. 108 Rathbone 1990, 116. Rathbone points out that the situation in Egypt was exacerbated by the introduction of plague in 166–67 by the army returning from Parthia, and by regressive taxation policies. 104 105

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to the pattern of social bandits.109 It is more than doubtful that they enjoyed widespread peasant support. A few years later (ca. 213 c.e.) the praefect of Egypt, Baebius Juncinus, wrote to the strategoi of the Heptanomia and Arsinoite nomes. His edict enjoined the strategoi to pursue bandits vigorously and warned them of personal risks should they neglect their duties. It also authorized the posting of a public warning: That it is impossible to exterminate bandits apart from those who support them (χωρὶς τῶν ὑποδεχομένων) is evident to all, but when they are deprived of their helpers (γυμνοὺς τῶν περικειμένων αὐτοῖς ὄντας) we shall quickly punish them. There are many methods of giving them shelter: some do so because they are partners in their misdeeds, others, without sharing in these yet . . . (POxy XII 1408.23–26).

It is indeed possible that some of these “supporters” were peasants; but that conclusion is neither inevitable nor obvious. There is ample evidence of wrongdoers being supported or protected by local officials. Perhaps they even profited from the arrangement. But it is also likely that the natural parochialism of villagers provided de facto protection for thieves, as may have been the case in PMich V 412 (41–54 c.e.): On the night of the . . . of Pharmouthi of the present [. . . year of . . .] Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus the Emperor, certain persons dug their way like bandits (λῃστρικῶι τρόπωι) into the courtyard where we stable our donkeys and having effected an entrance drove off two fullgrown white donkeys of mine valued at 290 drachmae; and concerning this matter I submitted a report to the archephodos of Karanis, Pankrates. With his help I loaded one donkey with water and another with food, and we set out, tracking the culprits from the place where we picked up their trail. We found that it led into the region of Bacchias and back into the desert (εἰς τὸ ὄρος), but just as we were on the point of taking the culprits in their own abode the archephodos of Bacchias, Pasion, and the (customs) guards stationed at the gate prevented us. They placed both me and the archephodos of Karanis under restraint, and after breaking the water jars and seizing our staves they kept us in confinement for three days, until we should be unable to lay hands on the culprits. Then having carried off our two packsaddles, the bread, a sheepskin, and two fodder bags(?), they also beat me. The village secretary and the elders spoke with them and compelled them to release us. I beg that you come to my assistance.110

109 110

McGing 1998, 182. Translation by Youtie and Pearl 1944, no. 421 (modified slightly).

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The police of Bacchias may indeed have been in league with the thieves. But this might simply be a case of mutual hostilities and rivalries between villages (about 10 kilometers apart) that turned to the thieves’ advantage.111 In any event, this situation falls far short of the scenario of social banditry, of peasants in solidarity with bandits, united against landowners and the elite. Unsocial Bandits in the Galilee It might be objected that one cannot extrapolate from the conditions of Roman Egypt to Jewish Palestine. Our difficulty is that so little is known about the administrative structure of Judea under the praefects, or Galilee under Antipas and Agrippa I, during Roman control (44–54 c.e.), or during the limited control of Agrippa II, because no administrative documents have survived the climate. But even if the organization of Roman Judaea or Herodian Galilee did not precisely mirror the administrative structure of Roman Egypt, tax collection would have required some system comparable to that in place in Roman Egypt. Palestine had after all been under Ptolemaic control in the third century b.c.e. and it is unlikely that the Seleucids, the Hasmoneans, or the Romans substantially modified the administrative system established by the Ptolemies. This in turn implies that the pressures contributing to “banditry” in Egypt likely existed in Judaea and the Galilee. On the assumption that methods of registration, tax collection, and liturgies were generally comparable to those in place in Egypt,112 Josephus’ prediction that an agricultural strike would lead to a “harvest of banditry” is perfectly consistent with what is attested in Egypt. The regressive system of tax collection produced tax fugitives, either unable or unwilling to pay their allotment. It was particularly ill-structured to deal with crises and had the effect of compounding rather than alleviating anachōrēsis. Also realistic is Josephus’ implication that banditry flourished under maladminstration, since, as in Egypt, the control of

111 McGing 1998, 173–74 concludes from the fact that the trail led to the desert suggests that the thieves resided there, a situation “suggestive of social banditry—people living on the margins of Bacchias society, who, perhaps only on occasion, resort to banditry (outside their own community, over in Karanis).” The text in fact suggests that the thieves lived close to the gates of Bacchias (which borders the desert), since it was the gate guards (οἱ πρὸς τῇ πύληι) who interfered. 112 On liturgies, see Safrai 1994, 347.

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“banditry” was at least partly in the hands of praefects and strategoi, who might combine threats and inducements to encourage fugitives to return to their idia. Conversely, negligent, venal, or corrupt praefects could in fact foster “banditry,” since the use of compulsion in assigning liturgies, cancellation of immunities, and the seizure of lands or crops drove more from their homes.113 Λῃστής in the context of Jewish Palestine undoubtedly compassed as wide a range of persons as it did in Roman Egypt—shepherds; deserters; tax fugitives who for whatever reason did not return home; persons residing in a town that was not their own (whether or not they actually engaged in crime); enforcers employed by local grandees; and “real bandits” who preyed on travelers or who attacked towns and villages. Even “real bandits” might be employed from time to time by local power interests, as was the case with the bandit Jesus, whose protection services were retained by Sepphoris and whom Josephus claims to have shifted into his client network.114 Thus, the “real bandit” hovered between being an outlaw and having a degree of legitimacy. Hopwood summarizes this phenomenon: [P]rotection in rural society is competitive. A “protector” [which is the image Josephus promoted for himself vis à vis the Galilee] has to ensure that his protection is better than that of his rivals to obtain the greater following in the community, access to more resources and so increase his standing. Such a process turns protection into a protection racket.115

What is missing from accounts of banditry, both in Egypt and in Jewish Palestine, is strong evidence of “peasant solidarity” with the bandit gangs. The fact that officials from one village might protect the thieves

113 Whatever one makes of the principate of Nero (above, n. 79), the edict of Tiberius Julius Alexander, praefect under Galba in 68 c.e., attempted to correct a variety of abuses, including compulsion in assigning tax contracts, the cancellation of immunities and abatements, the extension of liturgies to Alexandrians residing in the χώρα, new taxes, and unfair methods of calculating taxes due (IGRR II 1263 = OGIS 669). Whether or not Nero’s principate distinguished itself for these abuses, PRyl IV 595 makes clear that anachōrēsis was a serious problem at the time. 114 Josephus claims to have outwitted Jesus and to have forced him to become his own client and signify allegiance to his new patron by a demonstration of loyalty (πιστός, Life 110). Only because Josephus treats the incident within the context of patron-client relationships can one make sense of Josephus’ otherwise odd admission that he permitted Jesus to reassemble his bandit gang (Life 111). Josephus had merely shifted Jesus and his gang into his own client network, either by outbidding Sepphoris or by threat of arms (or both). 115 Hopwood 1989, 181.

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of their village against others (PMich VI 421) does not amount to “peasant support” of bandits. The fact that the Roman army destroyed the inhabitants of Petetei on the suspicion that they had supported the Boukoloi is hardly good evidence of widespread peasant collaboration, both because it is difficult to judge whether cooperation—if there was cooperation—arose from sympathy or from intimidation,116 and because of the evidence that the Boukoloi had also destroyed nearby peasant villages.117 The fact that Cumanus threatened Judaean officials for not curbing banditry (compare the threats of POxy XII 1408) might be suggest complicity between bandits and local notables (compare POxy XLVII 3364) but not obviously with the peasantry. There is ample attestation of banditry in the Herodian and early Roman periods, particularly in Judea and to a lesser extent in the Galilee. It is a priori likely that an increase in banditry is symptomatic of worsening social and economic conditions.118 But the picture is far more complex than the advocates of “social banditry” imagine and indeed the synthetic construct of “social banditry” seems of dubious historiographic value, given what is known of banditry in Egypt and Palestine. Bibliography Bammel, E. 1984. The Revolutionary Theory from Reimarus to Brandon. Pages 11–68 in Jesus and the Politics of his Day. Edited by E. Bammel et al. Cambridge and New York. Baumbach, G. 1965. Zeloten und Sikarier. TLZ 90:728–40. Bell, H. I. 1938. The Economic Crisis in Egypt under Nero. JRS 28:1–8. Blok, A. 1972. The Peasant and the Brigand: Social Banditry Reconsidered. Comparative Studies in Society and History 14:494–503. Brandon, S. G. F. 1960. The Date of the Markan Gospel. NTS 7:126–41. ———. 1967. Jesus and the Zealots: A Study of the Political Factor in Primitive Christianity. Manchester and New York. Braunert, H. 1955–56. IDIA. Studien zur Bevölkerungsgeschichte des ptolemäischen und römischen Ägypten. JJP 9–10:211–328. ———. 1964. Die Binnenwanderung: Studien zur Sozialgeschichte Ägyptens in der Ptolemäer- und Kaiserzeit. Bonner historische Forschungen 26. Bonn. Briant, P. 1976. Brigandage, dissidence et conquêt en Asie achéménide et hellénistique. Dialogues d’histoire Ancienne. 2:163–258.

See the comments of Sant Cassia above (p. 17). According to Josephus (War 1.316), Herod fined the towns near the Arbel caves because he supposed that they had supported the “bandits” (supporters of Antigonus) and later took five towns and killed 2000 supporters of Antigonus (War 1.334). 118 See Goodman 1987, 60–66; Schwartz 1994, 297–300. 116 117

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Burian, J. 1984. Latrones. Ein Begriff in römischen literarischen and juristischen Quellen. Eirene 21:17–23. Cullmann, O. 1970. Jesus and the Revolutionaries. New York. Dawes, G. W. 2001. The Historical Jesus Question: The Challenge of History to Religious Authority. Louisville. Dodd, C. H. 1961. The Parables of the Kingdom. London. Revised edition. Drexhage, H.-J. 1988. Einbruch, Diebstahl und Straßenraub in römischen Ägypten unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Verhältnisse in den ersten beiden Jahrhunderten n. Chr. Pages 313–23 in Soziale Randgruppen und Außenseiter im Altertum. Edited by I. Weiler. Graz. Driessen, H. 1983. The “Noble Bandit” and the Bandits of the Nobles: Brigandage and Local Community in Nineteenth-Century Andalusia. Archives européennes de sociologie. 24:96–114. Eisler, R. 1931. The Messiah Jesus and John the Baptist. London. Fiorenza, E. S. 2000. Jesus and the Politics of Interpretation. New York. Franchetti, L. and S. Sonnino. 1974. Inchiesta in Sicilia. Saggi Vallecchi, 15. Firenze. 2nd edition. Freyne, S. 1980a. The Galileans in the Light of Josephus’ Vita. NTS 26:397–413. ———. 1980b. Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian, 323 B.C.E. to 135 C.E.: A Study of second Temple Judaism. Wilmington, Del. ———. 1988. Bandits in Galilee: A Contribution to the Study of Social Conditions in First Century Palestine. Pages 50–67 in The Social World of Formative Christianity and Judaism: Essays in Tribute of Howard Clark Kee. Edited by J. Neusner et al. Philadelphia. Goodman, M. 1987. The Ruling Class of Judaea: The Origins of the Jewish Revolt against Rome, A.D. 66–70. Cambridge and New York. Graetz, H. 1891–92. History of the Jews. London. Grünewald, T. 1999a. Bandits in the Roman Empire: Myth and Reality. London and New York. ———. 1999b. Räuber, Rebellen, Rivalen, Rücher: Studien zu Latrones im römischen Reich. Forschungen zur antiken Sklaverei 31. Stuttgart. Habinek, T. 1998. The Politics of Latin Literature: Writing, Identity, and Empire in Ancient Rome. Princeton, N.J. Hanson, K. C. 2002. Jesus and the Social Bandits. Pages 283–300 in The Social Setting of Jesus and the Gospels. Edited by W. Stegemann, et al. Minneapolis. Hengel, M. 1961. Die Zeloten: Untersuchungen zur judischen Freiheitsbewegung in der Zeit von Herodes I. bis 70 N. Chr. AGSU 1. Leiden. ———. 1973. Victory over Violence: Jesus and the Revolutionists. Translated by D. E. Green, with an introduction by R. Scroggs. Philadelphia. ———. 1989. The Zealots. Edinburgh. Henne, H. 1956. Documents et travaux sur l’anachoresis. Pages 59–66 in Akten des VIII internationalen Kongresses für Papyrologie. Mitteilungen aus der Papyrussammlung der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek [Papyrus Erzherzog Rainer] 5. Folge. Wein. Hobsbawm, E. J. 1971. Primitive Rebels: Studies in Archaic Forms of Social Movement in the 19th and 20th centuries. Manchester. 3rd edition. ———. 1972. Social Bandits: A Reply. Comparative Studies in Society and History. 14:503–05. ———. 1974. Social Banditry. Pages 142–57 in Rural Protest: Peasant Movements and Social Change. Edited by H. A. Landsberger. London. ———. 1985. Bandits. Harmondsworth, Middlesex. 2nd edition. Hooff, A. v. 1988. Ancient Robbers: Reflections behind the facts. Ancient Society. 19:105–24. Hopwood, K. 1983. Policing the Hinterland: Rough Cilicia and Isauria. Pages 173–87 in Armies and Frontiers in Roman and Byzantine Anatolia. Edited by S. Mitchell. Oxford.

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———. 1989. Bandits, Elites and Rural Order. Pages 171–87 in Patronage in Ancient Society. Edited by A. Wallace-Hadrill. London and New York. ———. 1998. Bandits between Grandees and the State: The Structure of order in Roman Rough Cilicia. Pages 177–206 in Organised Crime in Antiquity. Edited by K. Hopwood. London. Horsley, R. A. 1979. Josephus and the Bandits. JSJ 10:37–63. ———. 1981. Ancient Jewish Banditry and the Revolt against Rome. CBQ 43:409–32. ———. 1987. Jesus and the Spiral of Violence: Popular Jewish Resistance in Roman Palestine. San Francisco. ———. 1991. The Q People: Renovation, not Radicalism. Continuum 1:49–63. ———. 1995a. Galilee: History, Politics, People. Valley Forge, Penn. ———. 1995b. Social Conflict in the Synoptic Sayings Source Q. Pages 37–52 in Conflict and Invention: Literary, Rhetorical and Social Studies on the Sayings Gospel Q. Edited by J. S. Kloppenborg. Valley Forge, Penn. Horsley, R. A., and J. Hansen. 1985. Bandits, Prophets, and Messiahs: Popular Movements in the Time of Jesus. Minneapolis. Humbert, G. 1904. Latrocinium. Dictionnaire des antiquités grecques et romaines: III.2:991–92. Isaac, B. 1984. Bandits in Judaea and Arabia. HSCP 88:171–203. Jeremias, J. 1972. The Parables of Jesus. London and New York. Revised edition. Klausner, J. 1925. Jesus of Nazareth: His Life, Times, and Teaching. Translated (with preface) by H. Danby. New York. Kloppenborg, J. S. 2000. Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel. Minneapolis and Edinburgh. ———. 2005. As One Unknown, Without a Name: Co-opting the Apocalyptic Jesus. Pages 1–23 in Apocalypticism, Antisemitism, and the Historical Jesus: Subtexts in Criticism. Edited by J. S. Kloppenborg, with J. W. Marshall. Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus, Supplement Series = JSNTSup 275. London and New York. Lewis, N. 1937. ΜΕΡΙΣΜΟΣ ΑΝΑΚΕΧΩΡΗΚΟΤΩΝ: An Aspect of the Roman Oppression in Egypt. JEA 23:63–75. ———. 1968. ΝΟΗΜΑΤΑ ΛΕΓΟΝΤΕΣ. BASP 5(2–3):85–92. ———. 1983. Life in Egypt under Roman Rule. Oxford. ———. 1993. A Reversal of Tax Policy in Roman Egypt. GRBS 34:101–18. ———. 2000. Brief Footnotes on Banditry in the Papyri. BASP 37:95–96. Link, S. 1993. Anachoresis: Steuerflucht im Ägypten der frühen Kaiserzeit. Klio 75:306–20. MacMullen, R. 1963a. The Roman Concept of Robber-Pretender. RIDA 10 (3e série): 221–25. ———. 1963b. Soldier and Civilian in the Later Roman Empire. Cambridge, Mass. ———. 1966. Enemies of the Roman Order: Treason, Unrest, and Alienation in the Empire. Cambridge, Mass. McGing, B. C. 1998. Bandits, Real and Imagined, in Greco-Roman Egypt. BASP 35(3–4):159–83. Mitteis, L. and U. Wilcken. 1912. Grundzüge und Chrestomathie der Papyruskunde. 2 vols. Leipzig. Oates, J. F. 1966. Fugitives from Philadelphia. Pages 87–95 in Essays in Honor of C. Bradford Welles. American Studies in Papryology. New Haven, Conn. Pekáry, T. 1987. Seditio. Unruhen und Revolten im römischen Reich von Augustus bis Commodus. Ancient Society. 18:133–50. Rappaport, U. 1981–83. John of Gischala in Galilee. Pages 46–57 in The Jerusalem Cathedra: Studies in the History, Archaeology, Geography and Ethnography of the Land of Israel. Volume 3. Edited by L. I. Levine. Jerusalem and Detroit. ———. 1982. John of Gischala: From Galilee to Jerusalem. JJS 33:479–93.

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———. 1992. How Anti-Roman Was the Galilee? Pages 95–102 in Galilee in Late Antiquity. Edited by L. I. Levine. New York. Rathbone, D. 1990. Villages, Land, and Population in Graeco-Roman Egypt. Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society. 36:103–42. Richardson, P. 2004. Building Jewish in the Roman East. Waco, Tex. and Leiden. Safrai, Z. 1994. The Economy of Roman Palestine. London and New York. Sant Cassia, P. 1993. Banditry, Myth, and Terror in Cyprus and other Mediterranean Societies. Comparative Studies in Society and History. 35:773–95. Schwartz, S. 1994. Josephus in Galilee: Rural Patronage and Social Breakdown. Pages 390–96 in Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith. Edited by F. Parente and J. Sievers. SPB 41. Leiden. Shaw, B. D. 1984. Bandits in the Roman Empire. P&P 105:5–52. ———. 1990. Bandit Highlands and Lowland Peace: The Mountains of Isauria-Cilicia. JESHO 33:199–233, 237–70. ———. 1993a. The Bandit. Pages 300–41 in The Romans. Edited by A. Giardina. Chicago. ———. 1993b. Tyrants, Bandits and Kings: Personal Power in Josephus. JJS 44:176–204. Slatta, R. W. 1987. Bandidos: The Varieties of Latin American Banditry. Contributions in criminology and penology 14. New York. ———. 2004. Eric J. Hobsbawm’s Social Bandits: A Critique and Revision. A Contracorriente: A Journal on Social History and Literature in Latin America, Spring, 22–30. http:// www.ncsu.edu/project/acontracorriente/spring_04/slatta.pdf. Smallwood, E. M. 1976. The Jews under Roman Rule from Pompey to Diocletian: A study in political relations. SJLA. 20. Leiden. Smith, J. Z. 1990. Drudgery Divine: On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity. London and Chicago. Smith, M. 1971. Zealots and Sicarii: Their Origins and Relation. HTR 64:1–19. ———. 1999. The Troublemakers. Pages 501–68 in The Cambridge History of Judaism. Volume Three. The Early Roman Period. Edited by W. Horbury, et al. Cambridge and New York. Thomas, J. D. 1975. A Petition to the Prefect of Egypt and Related Imperial Edicts. JEA 61:201–21 + 1 plate. Winkler, J. J. 1980. Lollianos and the desperadoes. JHS 100:155–81. Yoder, J. H. 1972. The Politics of Jesus: Vicit Agnus noster. Grand Rapids, Mich. Youtie, H. C. and O. M. Pearl. 1944. Papyri and Ostraca from Karanis. Michigan Papyri. 6. Ann Arbor, Mich.

ANOTHER POST-RESURRECTION MEAL AND ITS IMPLICATIONS FOR THE EARLY UNDERSTANDING OF THE EUCHARIST Thomas O’Loughlin Introduction In the final years of the fourth century, Jerome wrote a short work in praise of the literary prowess of Christians to which he attached the title De viris illustribus.1 This work was a “best seller” from the beginning, and indeed gave birth to an entire literary genre to which contributions were being made until, at least, the seventeenth century.2 It is still widely used in patristic studies to supply details of otherwise obscure, or indeed unknown, writers from before the fifth century. What attracts less attention is the fact that this work is sometimes our oldest extant witness to traditions about Jesus that we tend to lump together under the pejorative label “apocrypha.”3 It is one such passage from the De uiris illustribus upon which this paper is focused. The Text4 Jerome offers a potted biography and account of the writings of 135 men from the earliest times until Jerome himself. The final chapter,

On the complex background to this genre, cf. O’Loughlin 1995, 1999. See Sharpe 2003, 117–26, 281–86. 3 There is often no evidence that a text was hidden or rejected or held to be suspect; often all we can say is that it did not survive the blind sieve of time. Earlier generations of scholars taking a providential view of those texts now in the Christian canon could assume that anything that should have survived would have survived, and hence that which did not survive was destined not to survive and merited the implicit opprobrium of “apocryphon.” However, even someone who still shares that view of providence should note that there is no hint of opprobrium in Jerome about this text or else he would not have translated it into both Greek and Latin. It is simply a lost text. 4 There are two modern editions of De viris illustribus: Richardson 1896, and CeresaGestaldo 1988. I have worked with the latter, and to its pagination I refer; however, one must still rely on the 1896 edition for codicological control of the text; cf. Dekkers 1995, 212, n. 616. 1 2

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one of the longest, is a list of the books he has already published, his translations, and his current interests and probably deserves to be read today as the earliest academic C.V.5 The first nine writers covered are all familiar names from the New Testament and they are arranged in hierarchical order rather than in terms of literary importance: Simon Peter; James the brother of the Lord; Matthew surnamed Levi; Jude (Iudas) the brother of James; Paul originally called Saul; Barnabas surnamed Joseph; Luke the Evangelist; Mark the Evangelist; and John the apostle and Evangelist. It is James, included because of the canonical epistle that bears his name, who is our concern. Jerome’s primary concern is to show that “the brother of the Lord” is only a stepbrother—Jerome has already finished several works on the perpetual virginity of Mary the mother of Jesus.6 Here he adopts yet another argument to square the circle. James was neither the son of Mary the mother of Jesus, nor of Joseph by an earlier marriage, but the son of another Mary—whom Jerome identifies as the wife of Clopas—who was the sister of Mary the mother of Jesus. Jerome makes reference to John 19:27,7 but does not point out the difficulty that any parents who gave two of their daughters the same name must have being lacking in imagination. The threat posed by the title “the brother of the Lord” disposed of, Jerome proceeds to point out that James was properly ordained as bishop of Jerusalem and hence deferred to by Paul; that he was a man of singular sanctity; that his letter is genuinely apostolic and not simply an early writing that had become attached to an illustrious name. He next gives legendary details of James’s death as a martyr.8 Jerome then inserts this distinct item of tradition about James:

Ch. 135, pages 230–32. He refers to these in his “C.V.” at the end of the work. For an appreciation of Jerome’s work on this topic, see McHugh 1975, 200–54 (and see also his “detached note” on “The Brothers of Jesus in Apocryphal Writings and the Influence of the Protoevangelium of James,” pages 451–52). On James, the brother of Jesus, in the early church, see Chilton and Neusner 2001. 7 On the various people named “James” in the New Testament, and on the possibility of linking one of them with the Mary of John 19:27, see Mayor 1899, 542. This older work is to be preferred because it explicitly discusses our passage and Jerome’s suggestion. 8 The word “legendary” is used here in its technical sense within hagiography (See Delehaye 1905). The basic details given by Jerome are derived from Josephus, but Jerome then elaborates upon them. 5 6

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Euangelium quoque quod appellatur secundum Hebraeos et a me nuper in Graecum sermonem Latinumque translatum est, quo et Origenes saepe utitur, post resurrectionem Saluatoris refert: Dominus autem cum dedisset sindonem seruo sacerdotis, iuit ad Iacobum et apparuit ei; iurauerat enim Iacobus se non comesurum panem ab illa hora qua biberat calicem Domini, donec uideret eum resurgentem a dormientibus; rursusque post paululum: Afferte, ait Dominus, mensam et panem, statimque additur: Tulit panem et benedixit et fregit et dedit Iacobo Iusto et dixit ei: Frater mi, comede panem tuum, quia resurrexit filius hominis a dormientibus. (2: 11–13).9

Jerome then concludes by stating that James ruled the church in Jerusalem for thirty years, that his tomb’s location was well known until the time of Hadrian (reign: 117–138), and that those who claim that it is to be found on the Mount of Olives are mistaken. It is worth translating this text afresh as in several collections of texts it is translated with sixteenth-century scholastic usages which obscure it part of its significance:10 Now in that gospel, that Origen often used, known as The Gospel according to the Hebrews (which I recently translated into both Greek and Latin) this is related [about James] after [the account] of the Saviour’s resurrection: When the Lord had given the shroud11 to the priest’s servant, he went to James and appeared to him. Now James had already made an oath that he would not eat bread from that hour when he drank from the Lord’s cup until he should see him risen from among those who sleep. Then further along in the text it says, The Lord said: Bring a table and a loaf. And then it adds without interruption: He took the loaf, and blessed [God],12 and broke [it] and gave [a portion] to James the Just, and said to him, “My brother, eat your bread, for the Son of Man is risen from among those who sleep.”

9 The 1988 edition, pages 76–78. Orthography apart, there are no significant variants in this passage in the manuscripts, nor is there any difference between this text and that of the 1896 edition. I have also consulted the much older edition found in Patrologia Latina 23, 601–720 but again it does not add, in the case of our passage, to what is found in the most recent edition. 10 The word panis is always and invariably translated inaccurately and misleadingly by “bread” (See O’Loughlin 2004), while benedixit is very often translated as if its grammatical object is the physical object in Jesus’s hands (“he blessed it”) which is inaccurate. 11 Sindon is the Synoptics’ word referring to the cloth in which the body was wrapped after the crucifixion; many translations use “linen cloth” at this point, but that would point to the usage in John (see below). 12 This word is inserted merely to correct the tendency to see Jesus as “blessing the bread.” “God” is used as it assumes less than “Father” or “Lord.”

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In short, Jerome has preserved for us a section of a lost text which preserves yet another story of a post-resurrection meal of Jesus. The Status Quaestionis Most interest in the passage has concentrated on what it, along with six other citations, might tell us of the content and character of the Gospel according to the Hebrews.13 Vielhauer argues that the incident is a conflation of two lost accounts but whose structure can still be traced. The first was “an account of the Last Supper according to which James the brother of the Lord had been present and had vowed to abstain from food” until he had seen the resurrection. From this Vielhauer speculates that this gospel had Jesus speak about the resurrection at the Last Supper. The other was “an account of the resurrection according to which it must have taken place in the sight of those who guarded the sepulchre,” hence Jesus giving away the cloth. So he concluded that this gospel contained an account of the burial. Thus “it is clear that the account of Easter given [here] departed considerably from the canonical Gospels.” Accordingly, the stories of this gospel—principally on the basis of our passage—cannot be “understood as developments of Synoptic or Johannine texts.”14 Vielhauer then deals with the passage in greater detail as an item wholly distinct from the gospels: The appearance of the risen Christ to James is an independent legend, which has formed round an historical kernel of which the oldest witness is I Cor 15:7. But that the first appearance of the risen Christ was to James, and that he was present at the Last Supper, contradicts the New Testament tradition; the target of the account is the setting free of the Lord’s brother from his promise to abstain from food; here a special interest in the person of James is evident. This interest gives the christophany of [this gospel] the character of a personal legend. The handing-over of the linen cloth to the priest’s servant points to a legendary working up of the resurrection story; if, as it is probable, the linen cloth was intended to be to the “priest” (the high priest) a proof of the reality of Jesus’ resurrection, then an apologetic motive here makes its appearance.15

13 14 15

See Vielhauer 1963. The fragments are given in translation on pages 163–65. Ibid., 159. Ibid., 159.

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We can see that there are four areas of concern: first, with the Gospel according to the Hebrews as a whole and whether its character can be seen in its fragments; second, with the link between our passage, and so possibly the whole of the Gospel, to the canonical texts; third, with a series of historical questions (such as, whether this accords with the “history” of the appearances found elsewhere, to whom Jesus first appeared, and whether James was at the Last Supper); and fourth, with whether one can break the story into smaller units which might indicate particular situations such as apologetics or hagiography. Taking a different position on the relationship of our passage to the appearance stories found in the canonical gospels is Albert Huck who printed our passage in full as a parallel—with the sole, and ambiguous, comment of “cf.”—to Lk 24:13–35 (“The Disciples at Emmaus”). Presumably the parallel lies in the fact that in both stories we have Jesus and a disciple at a table with a loaf upon it.16 This “parallel” was then carried over into the very popular vernacular synopsis of Throckmorton, who however, instead of relating it to Lk 24:13–35, linked it to the next item of text: Lk 24:36–49 (“The Appearance of the risen Christ in Jerusalem”). If this is not a simple error in editing (which is what I suspect), then presumably he thought of it with special reference to 36–43, the point of contact being the eating. In Luke’s story Jesus takes a piece of fish and eats it before them, whereas in our passage he gives back food to a disciple to eat.17 However, the presence of our passage in these synopses has not prompted attention to it, and many scholars would not take issue with the judgement of J. P. Meier in dismissing the Gospel of the Hebrews thus: Seven fragments are all we retain of [this] Greek gospel that highlights James, the brother of the Lord, to the point of contradicting what the NT has to say about him. Meant for Greek-speaking Jews, the gospel develops mythological motifs already present in the Synoptics and at times speaks with a Gnostic accent.18

Huch and Greeven 1981, 279. Throckmorton 1949, 190. 18 Meier 1991, 116, 121, 145, n. 19. Meier expresses the opinion that Jerome is not a very reliable witness to these documents and this further advances his case that none of these documents really help with our understanding of the historical Jesus. Whatever the value of these documents in the quest for the historical Jesus, the notion that Jerome is unreliable as a transmitter of texts is not one that finds much support in studies which focus on these aspects of Jerome’s work, e.g., Hayward 1995; O’Loughlin 1995b. 16 17

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While one cannot but envy Meier’s ability to deduce so much from so little, it must be pointed out that he has clearly forgotten one piece of Jerome’s evidence. Jerome, alone, states that he actually had a copy of this gospel; moreover, he states that he had to translate it into Greek. Meier’s statement would require for our longest single fragment at least two more hypothetical texts: a Greek original, a version in a Semitic language, and then our Latin version (with reference to a Greek version derived from the semitic version). Taking a more cautious approach as to the overall tenor of the Gospel is the recent work of Lapham.19 He also devotes special attention to our passage and his comment is worth quoting in full: The giving of ‘the linen cloth to the servant of the priest’ is redolent of the Resurrection itself; and it will be observed that this account of the events seems to imply that it was James, rather than Peter or Mary, who first witnessed the Lord’s risen form. This manifestly contradicts the New Testament evidence, though the story may be seen as an extension to the tradition recorded by Paul that Jesus appeared to James, and ‘then to all the apostles’ (1 Cor 15:7). While it is true that the linen cloth represents clear proof of the suffering and death of Jesus, and his physical presence in the grave, to suggest that this is a deliberately and polemically anti-Docetic is to overstate the case. We may say, however, that if this Gospel-like narrative does in fact originate from the Gospel to the Hebrews, despite the Gnostic overtones of other quotations from this Gospel, it serves to demonstrate the non-Docetic character of the work, as well as its Jewish-Christian orientation. The other interesting issue raised by this passage is its use of the Last Supper tradition. Again, it would be to go too far to suggest that the purpose of the account is to show James’s participation in that unique and sacred meal; but the account does emphasize the central position of James from the beginning within the Lord’s inner circle of disciples. The pretext for that claim is, of course, James’s vow of abstinence. The implication is that, at some point prior to the death of Jesus, James had shared, as others had done, in “the cup of the Lord.”20

The only other explicit comment on the passage, known to me, is by A. Meyer and W. Bauer in their discussion of the relatives of Jesus. They see it as relating primarily to enhancing a portrait of James by amplifying 1 Cor 15:7. It shows, for them, a portrayal of James as frugal and as especially devoted to Jesus. This closeness can then be

19 20

Lapham 2003, 159–63. Ibid. 162.

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seen to extend back to the Last Supper. The story’s purpose is to show James as the first believing witness of the resurrection, and they induce from this that James “would seem to have been for Jewish Christians a particularly important mediator of the truth.”21 My focus will be upon the passage as a product of the early church rather than as a fragment of a lost gospel; and, as a consequence of that approach, I will want to look at it as one of many other passages from early Christian literature, rather than view it as a development upon, or variation of, any particular piece of text, be it in Paul or Luke. However, there are a few other historical questions located in the commentators on the passage on which I would offer comment before moving on. The first is the issue of contradicting texts which assumes that any list of people who saw Jesus after the resurrection, found in one of the canonical books is a datum; and it then becomes an indication of the faulty nature of these other texts that they are not (at the very least) in agreement, or that they contradict it or elaborate it. There is no reason why the originator of this text should have known 1 Cor 15, and while we no longer chase contradictions within the canonical collection—as was done from the time of Porphyry until the nineteenth century—so we should not engage in that activity between canonical and non-canonical texts.22 Second, the notion that the details of who was present at “the Last Supper” with Jesus are adequately supplied in the canonical gospels is not an issue upon which I wish to dwell. Suffice to say that creating a conflict with our passage over whether or not James the brother of Jesus was there or not assumes that the memory of the early church about these matters was precisely and firmly fixed as a list of known facts. Third, when we read our passage we are struck 21 Meyer and Bauer 1963, 421. There is a general, if somewhat dated, introduction to Gos. Heb. in Dunkerley 1957, 102–11 (and see pages 18 and 23), but this does not add anything to the interpretation of the passage. The passage is also referred to without comment when it is partially quoted in Morrice 1997, 160. 22 Behind the activity was an elaborate hermeneutic which saw consistency as consonant with truth, in so far as that was the obverse of contradiction, which implied that one text was false and the other true. In the case of the canonical collection, however, no text could be false, thus every text must be true, and so error free. Hence, showing that the text was error-free by its being wholly consistent became a central exegetical endeavour; but in the case of the non-canonical writings there was no need to preserve their error-free status—and, indeed, many held that they were a priori false texts—and so many are still prepared to note discrepancies between those texts and the canonical as “contradictions,” unaware how such judgements are based upon older notions of inerrancy that they no longer invoke when writing of the texts in the canonical collection.

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by the difference in details—handing a cloth to the priest’s servant—to the canonical accounts. So it is worth reminding ourselves how varied they are. In Mark 16:1–8 we have a young man at the tomb, and no more. In Luke 24:1–11 we have two men in dazzling clothes. In Matt 27:62–28:7 we have guards, an earthquake, and an angel, while at 27:62 and 28:11–15 we have mention of priests and a definite apologetic agenda. In John 20:1–10 we have no one, but there is a mention of the grave cloths,23 and in 20:11–17 we have two angels and a first appearance to Mary Magdalen (Note that no modern commentator on John 20 is concerned about 1 Cor 15:7.). The Story’s Range within Memory We know that the story is at least as old as Origen (c. 185–c. 254), but there are several features that may indicate that it is an item of tradition that could go back to an earlier period. The passage assumes that we all know that James is a person of importance in the immediate circle of Jesus—a tradition that did not enjoy prominence in the canonical collection. In the final sentence Jesus refers to himself as “the Son of Man”—a title found very often in the canonical collection but which did not continue in use in the church—and as “risen from among those who sleep,” which calls to mind passages where the dead awaiting resurrection are referred to as sleeping (e.g., Eph 5:4; John 11:11). So if this story is part of the early tradition—older indeed than the gospel text in which Jerome found it—then we should immediately ask how it would have been heard by a group of Christians in the second century (when it definitely would have been heard) or even at some time in the later first century. Here my focus is not on the passage as a text but on the group hearing it and the possible nature of that audience as a group.24 Those elements of any story on to which we latch most securely are those which are reminiscent of our own experience and actions: a phenomenon of human memory which is as central to Aristotle’s writing on memory as it is to contemporary handbooks on marketing. On

Jerome in our passage uses sindon which is the word used in the burial scene in the Synoptics (Mark 14:52 and parallels), while John 20:6–7 which mentions two cloths after the resurrection uses othonia/linteamina and soudarion/sudarium. 24 Achtemeier 1990. 23

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this basis I would argue that what would be heard would not be details about the cloth or even the name of the man to whom Jesus appeared, but that, after rising from the dead, Jesus sat at table and celebrated the Eucharist with the similar sequence of actions to that which they had heard recounted at innumerable celebrations of the Eucharist in their own experience. This pattern of experience and memory producing the pattern within which is located new experience is something that is at the very heart of human ritual. Ritual expects repetition, it is the “twice-told tale,” and ritual’s role is to assimilate new tales within established ones.25 Given this aspect of our behaviour, and the importance of ritual in the assimilation of any particular story within a community (assuming the story is heard), then it is hard to imagine that our story could be heard without the experience of the Eucharist forming its immediate context.26 Moreover, when we study the early history of the Eucharist as a matter of a consistency of objects (table, loaf, a single cup)27 and of a continuity of the actions of taking, blessing, breaking (possibly in a particular way),28 and sharing which are more enduring than the various theologies which either justify of explain the event,29 then the whole scene is perceived as focused on the Eucharist with the details about James there simply as local colour. Indeed, if we accept that it would have been heard within a eucharistic framework of memory, then it is legitimate to read the passage as being one more piece of evidence for a study of the Eucharist as a central institution within the early church. Indeed, if we allow a eucharistic reading of the Emmaus story, then our passage is by far the most explicitly eucharistic in structure of any of the appearance stories that have come down to us.30 Yet strangely,

J. Z. Smith has written frequently on this aspect of ritual over the past two decades, but a convenient introduction to the topic can be found in Smith 2001. 26 Rothenbuhler (1998) has studied how particular rituals can be located within the patterns of expected behaviour in communities. 27 The focus in the first two centuries is upon the action of sharing a cup (See Meier 1995), rather than upon what is in the cup, be it wine or water (See McGowan 1995; 1999). 28 Cf. Nodet and Taylor 1998, 122. 29 This is the approach taken to the Eucharist in Nodet and Taylor (1998, 88–125). 30 It is possibly for this reason that Huch offered it as a “parallel” to the Emmaus story in his synopsis. 25

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it does not figure in any studies of the Eucharist either as liturgy31 or as an object of theological speculation.32 We might even go farther and suggest that this story would have been heard in a eucharistic context where there would be an intimate connection between the content of the story and the event for which the audience had gathered. When we put together the references to gathering for the Eucharist (e.g., 1 Cor 10–11; the Didache; Acts 20:7;33 1 Cor 16:2 and Acts 20:7 where the first day of the week is the day of gathering;34 the presentation of the appearances in John 20 as taking place on Sundays; Rev 1:10) we can come easily to the conclusion that the regular, weekly meetings of the followers of Jesus were both occasions for the Christian meal—which in some way continued the practice of Jesus and imagined a new ideal condition for the group— and for the hearing of the Christian stories. This would accord with the way most recent exegesis has approached both the Last Supper and the early eucharistic practice by seeing it as continuity between a pattern of meals with Jesus’ followers during his life35 that was then continued by them after his death, and given a prestigious moment of origin in the climactic meal in Jerusalem. At this regular gathering the community ate its meal—what would later attract the formal title, the

31 E.g., it is not mentioned in Bradshaw 2004, nor by McGowan, nor by Nodet and Taylor, who do draw attention to Jerome’s De uiris illustribus, ch. 5, and note that its information should not be dismissed lightly (1998, 300). 32 E.g., it is not mentioned by Chilton who shows particular interest in what he calls the “Jacobaean Cycle” (1994, 102–10, 111–15, 151–53). 33 See Nodet and Taylor for a complete set of references and possible references; there are, of course, many scholars for whom no reference to a meal or “the breaking of bread” (sic) is sufficient to show that there is evidence of a reference to the Eucharist (e.g., Robinson 1984) but their arguments usually turn on the dissimilarity between the possible situation in the period of the compositions of the documents now collected in the New Testament and an a priori notion of what would constitute a ritual situation (cf. Smith 1990, 36–53). However, even someone as hesitant to find celebrations of the Eucharist as Robinson (1984, 494) concludes, “The Emmaus story, therefore, speaks of how Christ is to be encountered and recognised not in any one special kind of Christian meal but wherever and whenever Christians break bread together.” This, in effect, makes my point, for if there was an expectation that one encountered the risen Christ in any meal, then on hearing our passage the audience would think of the story in terms of yet another meal at which they encountered Christ and this would be its primary frame of reference. 34 On the importance of Sunday in the early church, see Rordorf 1968, 238–73; 1980–82, 90–96. 35 Cf. Smith 1987; Smith and Taussig 1990.

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Eucharist36—and in that context remembered orally its stories. The historical conclusion of such a process would then be the gatherings mentioned by Pliny the Younger in the early years of the second century and the, already highly formalised, hieratic meal described by Justin in the mid-second century.37 But this brings us to a more fundamental question. Is there a basis within the story for the way our audience would have heard it within their frames of experience? A Eucharistic “Reading” of the Story We can approach our passage as part of the early church’s thinking about the Eucharist under four headings: (a) the explicit references to the meal on the evening before the crucifixion; (b) the ritual objects mentioned in the story; (c) its eucharistic language; and (d) the nature of the encounter between Jesus and James. (a) References to the Last Supper Event By the time that Mark produced his gospel, the Last Supper (Mark 14:17–25) had already emerged as the archetype and paradigm within which meals of the Christians where they remembered and encountered their Lord were being explained as to their origin.38 While we have preserved within the gospels the memory of many other meals of Jesus with this group—especially in Luke—that final meal with its formal command for repetition39 had a unique place in the community’s memory. We see this status reflected in our passage in that we are expected to understand “that hour” at which James drank from the Lord’s cup as the meal just before the death. It was so significant a meal that after it James made his oath. The Last Supper marks a transition point in history for James, for after it he will abstain from eating a particular food until he sees the final outcome of events after

36 The shift in language use among Christians from the verb (eucharisto) to noun (eucharistia) is an index of the formalisation of the ritual meal as distinct from an activity of Christians at their communal gatherings; on this shift, and the possibility of dating it, see Hort and Murray 1902. 37 See Bradshaw 2004, 61–77; Stanton 1997, 330; and Hengel 2000, 19–20. 38 Already the meal “on the night before he was betrayed” is seen as archetypal for the Corinthian church in 1 Cor 11:23–25. 39 Although the command is not found in Mark, it is found both before (1 Cor 11: 24–25) and after him (Luke 22:19).

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the death of the Lord. This could well be a variant on the tradition found in Mark 14:25 (par. Matt 26:29; Luke 22:18) where Jesus formally declares he will not taste wine again until he is in his Father’s kingdom, or, in its Matthaean variant, that Jesus would not taste it again with those who share his cup until the new post mortem life has come to pass. James does not say that he will fast after the Last Supper, but he would not eat any bread; or, to phrase it less elegantly but more accurately, he will not eat of the loaf again until Jesus’ post mortem reality comes to pass. So we have a neat parallelism: Tradition as found in Matthew

Tradition as found in Gospel according to the Hebrews

At Last Supper After the shared cup Jesus declares (lego de humin) He shall not drink wine until after his death’s outcome Then he will share it with those with him now at table

At Last Supper After the shared cup James swears (iurauerat) He will not eat any bread until after Jesus’s death’s outcome Then Jesus shared another loaf with him

By abstaining from any bread from after the time of the Last Supper, James is, in fact, stating that the next time he would share in the Christian loaf will be when Jesus has risen from among those who sleep. There is an implicit recognition here that the Last Supper meal is to be repeated (cf. 1 Cor 11:24) for James took his oath at one meal with Jesus, then there is no occasion on which he partakes of break, and then he is released from it at another meal with Jesus when that which he was awaiting had come to pass. The sharing in loaf and cup that is alluded to as taking place “at that hour” is being repeated again when the full impact of the death of Jesus has occurred. By his oath, James was declaring that the command to remember Jesus by doing as he did would only be carried out once he had seen Jesus risen. Moreover, for both Matthew and our passage there is a continuity of meals on either side of the chasm in history that is the death and resurrection of Jesus; at either edge of the chasm is a meal-encounter with Jesus. (b) Basic Ritual Objects Three ritual objects form the fundamental stratum of the Christian activity of “offering thanks”: a common table with Jesus, a single loaf of bread that is broken up so that each person at the table can have

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a piece, and a single cup of liquid that is passed from one person to another around the table. It is this set of actions-things that constitutes, within any meal of Christians, the distinctive act of the community: “offering thanks” and doing what was remembered as what the Lord did and commanded to be repeated. We can see these three objects in 1 Cor 10 and 11. The “table of the Lord” is contrasted with the “table of demons,” indicating that the table is the place where the communion of the group, for good or ill, is formed. It is then picked up in the Synoptic tradition in that all three not only mention the meal, but that they sat at table: Mark 14:18, Matt 26:20, and Luke 24:14, 30.40 It is this notion of a single common table that is then theologized as an “altar” (thusiastérion) by Ignatius, but in doing so in the context of an allusion to 1 Cor 10:16–17, he retains the important feature of their sharing at one table.41 The single loaf is perhaps the most important ritual object of the three in that it gave rise to the name “the breaking of the loaf.”42 In 1 Cor 10:17, the one loaf is one body and the possibility of having a share of it is the possibility of the many being one body. This is also found in the Didache 9:3 and is further expanded in its symbolic range by Ignatius.43 The single cup completes the set whereby instead of the common practice of sharing a liquid between several cups, one for each individual, the same cup is passed from one to the other. This ritual was, and is, deeply counter-cultural and is not encountered outside the Christian meal context.44 It was apparently this most unusual action that was characteristic of the ritual meal rather than its contents.45 We see it in 1 Cor 10:16–17 and 11:25–28; we see 40 In giving these references, I am aware that one could draw on the whole theme found throughout gospel tradition of the commensality that Jesus announced and practiced (See, e.g., Meier 1994, 1035–1037; 2001, 207 or 528.). However, I want only to draw on references that are directly related to the eucharistic meal of the church, or its archetype. 41 Ign. Phld. 4; and cf. Ign. Eph. 5:2. 42 The popular phrase “the breaking of bread” or “the bread” reflects the interest of the late Middle Ages in the material nature of the elements, the consecranda, rather than interest of the early church in the possibility that is opened by having a single loaf: it can be broken into many pieces before being eaten. On the pre-scholastic understanding of the loaf, see O’ Loughlin 2003; for the origins of “bread” as a translation of ho artos, see O’Loughlin 2004. 43 Ign. Eph. 20:2. 44 See Meier 1995. 45 We are so familiar with debates about the “matter” and the “elements” of the Eucharist that we forget that wine was not universally used at first (See McGowan 1999). The fact that all the references are to “the cup,” not its contents, points to the interest being in the action of drinking rather than what was drunk.

it Didache 9:2; and in the Synoptics it is made explicit that it is one cup that is to be used for all present.46 Sharing in the cup of Jesus, in turn, is a metaphor for the whole life of discipleship. Turning now to our story, we see an explicit reference to each of these objects. First, we are told that Jesus and James have drunk from the one cup. Second, James is told get a table as well as food (despite the fact that we are given the impression—at least in the fragments reported by Jerome we are not told that the appearance is now in some building—that the meeting takes place out of doors; this is not an al fresco picnic with some bread). It may be only one loaf of bread that is going to be placed on the table, but both are going to be at one table. Thirdly, there is but one loaf for it is when that is broken that some bread can be given to James for his food. (c) Eucharistic Language No topic regarding the early history of the Eucharist has received so much attention as eucharistic language, and, in particular, the words relating to the sequence of actions at the Eucharist: taking, blessing, breaking, giving.47 It is sufficient to note that this quartet of verbs is central to our story and, as in the gospels, is placed in the mouth of Jesus. No one who has heard the Last Supper stories, or indeed what rapidly became the liturgical formula—if it was not that already48— could have heard our story without recognising Jesus as engaged here in the same activity of thanksgiving as at the Last Supper. One other element of language should be noted. In 1 Cor 10:21 and 11:25 “the cup of the Lord” appears to be a stock Christian phrase—somewhat

46 Mark 14:23: “He gave it to them and they all drank of it.” Matt 26:27: “Drink of it, all of you.” Luke 22:17: “Take this and divide it among you.” Moreover, it is this common use of a single drinking vessel that gives rise to Mark 10:38–39 (and parallels), and which may, in turn, stand behind Mark 14:36 (and parallels) and John 18:11. 47 This quartet of verbs was seen as the most primitive structure of the eucharist by Dix (1945, 48–102) and even if liturgists today question this as a structure, it certainly reflects the basic set of verbs found in all early accounts (See the chart in Nodet and Taylor 1998, 110–111.). How exactly that formula relates to the later use of the formula in the liturgy has been the subject of contention (See McGowan 1999b), but what cannot be denied is that when the quartet is found together it is indicative of a eucharistic setting. There is also a considerable body of work on the same quartet of verbs by biblical scholars, e.g., Jeremias 1964, 106–37. 48 See McGowan 1999b—it would take me too far from my purpose here to take issue with this article.

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analogous to “the breaking of the loaf ”—and we have that same phrase in our story. (d) Post-Resurrection Meals Lastly, when we examine the resurrection appearances in Luke and John we can note that there are similarities between them and our story. In Luke 24:13–31 (with 35), we have the story of Emmaus with recognition in the “breaking of the loaf.” That is followed by the appearance in Jerusalem when Jesus eats some cooked fish in front of the gathering (24:36–49). In John 20, the first appearance is on “the first day of the week” (v. 20) and the next appearance is also on Sunday, one week later (v. 26), while in the other concluding chapter we have Jesus cook breakfast for five of The Twelve and give them bread and fish (21:13). These appearance stories show that the communities who heard them imagined the appearances within their own eucharistic patterns. Within such a pattern our story is in no way unusual: it takes place on the first day of the week, the day for the gathering for the Eucharist, there is a meal, and there is language reminiscent of the Last Supper account. Clearly, when the Christians gathered and ate together in the memory of Jesus, they saw this activity as being an encounter with the risen Lord. This repeated activity in the churches is the ritual transformation of their memory. That memory was constituted by the stories about the first appearances of the risen Jesus where there was a linking of meeting Jesus and then eating with him. In the ritualized memory the linkage was reversed. They were eating together in his memory, so they were now meeting with the risen Jesus. Memory, both as story and ritual, has the same elements, but those elements are in an inverse sequence to one another in story and ritual. In this final point about the eucharistic dimension of our story, my policy is to note the similarities and consistencies between it and those meals mentioned in the canonical sources, in the light of that approach we should revisit the question of 1 Cor 15:7. At a very early period in the memory of the church there was the belief that one of the specific appearances of the risen Lord was to his brother James. Our story may well be that tradition,49 which was handed on in the common form for such appearances: a narrative that is structurally eucharistic. 49 The classic argument against this is so deeply rooted in our assumptions that it is rarely stated: the opening premise is that texts in the “apocrypha” are later than

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The cumulative effect of these arguments points in a very definite direction in three ways. (1) Our story presents within an historical scene a paradigm for the eucharistic encounter with the risen Christ. (2) This story must have circulated as a distinct tradition, linked with James, at a time before the eucharistic dimension of the meals at the gatherings of Christians had become a distinct formalised ceremonial. (3) The story about James presupposes the Last Supper story with its quartet of verbs in the institution narrative as the accepted paradigm/ origin point for the Eucharist. Eric Rothenbuhler in his work on the role of ritual envisages all human rituals as being capable of being located on a continuum between the most everyday expectations in human exchange—or example, shaking hands—to the most elaborately choreographed military or ecclesiastical ceremonial.50 On such a continuum, our story presupposes an established eucharistic ritual, but the Eucharist does not seem to have yet become a distinct formalised piece of religious ceremonial such as it has by the time of Ignatius when the various ritual objects can be given symbolic readings, as in the case of his “reading” the table theologically as an “altar” (thusiastérion).51 As such, I suspect our story was in circulation among communities by the late first century, at the latest, roughly contemporary with the dissemination of the gospels of Luke and John. The Significance of our Story The earliest we can date this passage textually, that is, in the textual location in which it is reported to us, is the latter half of the second century when as part of the Gospel according to the Hebrews it came into the possession of Origen. However, if one accepts that the story is older than the late second century, that the story existed before it was used in the Gospel according to the Hebrews, even if one does not accept that it the canonicals; the subsequent premise is that anything mentioned in the “apocrypha” which is also mentioned in the canonicals must, ipso facto, be derivative from them and so be “an elaboration” of them. In this case, 1 Cor 15:7, therefore, is what provides the starting point for the elaboration that is our story. Apart from the problem that nothing can be concluded from the first premise, for it is but a rough “rule of thumb,” the argument is circular. As such, our story, or a variant of it, could as easily be the basis for Paul as vice versa. 50 Rothenbuhler 1998. 51 See the references cited at n. 41 above.

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is a piece of tradition from the late first century, then that acceptance has implications, not only for our views of other texts, but also for our views of early perceptions of the Eucharist. To these, by way of a conclusion, I now turn. The most significant implication relates to how we view Christian community meals. A great deal of attention has focused on the quest for the Eucharist within these meals either to find the eucharistic dimension or to deny it. Both quests start with a clear idea both of an “ordinary meal” and of either “a Eucharist” or “a ritual meal,” and then either affirm or deny their respective hypotheses. Studying our passage suggests that we need a more all embracing notion of the sacramentality of Christians eating at table than one where a sacramental dimension is linked to ritual, or even ceremonial, form. All the stories of the post-resurrection eatings (Luke, John, our passage) could be seen as eucharistic, not because we can identify in them aspects of what later is a well-defined ritual,52 but because every meal among Christians can be an encounter with the risen Jesus. Wherever two or three are gathered in Jesus’s name at table, they encounter him (cf. Matt 18:20). Then in these meals there is always the possibility of more formally remembering Jesus’ table practice in their group-specific acts of blessing God and sharing a loaf and a cup. All community meals are “eucharistic” as they establish communion with the memory of Jesus, encountered at the meal with his message, “My brother, eat your bread, for the Son of Man is risen from among those who sleep.” So all community meals can be a “Eucharist,” since they can deliberately repeat the table practices received from the Lord and handed on to his disciples (cf. 1 Cor 11:23). The various traditions about post-resurrection meals of Jesus with his followers, such as those found in Luke, John and our passage provided a narrative framework within which their audience could understand what they were doing when they met and ate, and which could “explain” the significance they were attaching to their practices. Lastly, this story about James the brother of Jesus has already an established place through the De uiris illustribus in the hagiographic

52 It is by having such a clear image of the later ritual that Robinson 1984, 494, is able to challenge the notion that there is a eucharistic dimension to the meals he examines, but he tacitly admits the wider sacramental dimension.

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tradition,53 even if that particular James does not figure prominently in that tradition.54 It is probably time that this story of another postresurrection meal began to figure in the study of the life and practices of the early church. Bibliography Achtemeier, P. J. 1990. “Omne verbum sonat”: The New Testament and the Oral Environment of Late Western Antiquity,’ JBL 109: 3–27. Bradshaw, P. F. 2004. Eucharistic Origins. London. Chilton, B. 1994. A Feast of Meanings: Eucharistic Theologies from Jesus through Johannine Circles. Leiden. Chilton, B., and J. Neusner, eds. 2001. The Brother of Jesus: James the Just and His Mission. Louisville. Dekkers, E., and A. Gaar, eds. 1995. Clauis Patrum Latinorum 3d ed., Steenbrugge. Delehaye, H. 1905. The Legends of the Saints. Brussels; repr. 1998. Dublin. Dix, G. 1945. The Shape of the Liturgy. London. Dunkerley, R. 1957. Beyond the Gospels. London. Hengel, M. 2000. The Four Gospels and the One Gospel of Jesus Christ. Harrisburg, Pa. Hort, F. J. A., and J. O. F. Murray. 1902. Eucharistia—Eucharistein. JTS 3: 594–98. Huch, A., and H. Greeven. 1981. Synopse der drei ersten Evangelien. 13th ed. Tübingen. Jeremias, J. 1964. The Eucharistic Words of Jesus. London. Jerome. 1896. De Viris Illustribus. Edited by E. H. Richardson. Leipzig. ———. 1988. De Viris Illustribus. Edited by A. Ceresa-Gestaldo. Florence. Lapham, F. 2003. An Introduction to the New Testament Apocrypha. London. McHugh, J. 1975. The Mother of Jesus in the New Testament. London. McGowan, A. B. 1995. “First concerning the cup . . . ”: Papias and the Diversity of Early Eucharistic Practice. JTS, new series, 46: 551–55. ———. 1999a. Ascetic Eucharists: Food and Drink in Early Christian Ritual Meals Oxford. ———. 1999b. “Is there a liturgical text in this gospel?”: The Institution Narratives and their Early Interpretive Communities. JBL 118: 73–87. Mayor, J. B. 1899. James. Pages 540–43 in Dictionary of the Bible, Vol 2. Edited by J. Hastings. Edinburgh. Meier, J. P. 1991. A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol. I: The Roots of the Problem and the Person. New York. ———. 1994. A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol. II: Mentor, Message and Miracle. New York. ———. 1995. The Eucharist at the Last Supper: Did it happen? TD 42: 335–51. ———. 2001. A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol. III: Companions and Competitors. New York.

53 While we no longer use the work as a tool of scholarship, De viris illustribus was the basic guide to the early Christian writers for more than a millennium; cf. Rouse and Rouse 1986, 133–53. 54 E.g., in the contemporary Catholic liturgical calendar (drawn up in 1969) there is a feast for the apostles James “the Greater” on 25 July, and James “the Lesser” on 3 May, but none for James the brother of Jesus which makes him the only putative author of a book in the New Testament without a feast!

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Meyer, A. and W. Bauer. 1963. The Relatives of Jesus. Pages 418–32 in New Testament Apocrypha: Gospels and Related Writings. Vol. 1. Edited by E. Hennecke and W. Schneemelcher. Translated by R. McL. Wilson. London. Morrice, W. 1997. Hidden Sayings of Jesus: Words attributed to Jesus outside the Four Gospels. London. Nodet, É. and J. Taylor. 1998. The Origins of Christianity: An Exploration. Collegeville. O’Loughlin, T. 1995. Adomnán the Illustrious. The Innes Review 46: 1–14. ———. 1999. List of Illustrious Writers in the Pseudo-Bedan Collectanea. Pages 34–38 in Text and Gloss: Studies in Insular Learning and Literature Presented to Joseph Donovan Pheiffer. Edited by H. Conrad O’Briain, A. M. D’Arcy, and J. Scattergood. Dublin. ———. 2003. The Praxis and Explanations of Eucharistic Fraction in the Ninth Century: the Insular Evidence. Archiv für Liturgiewissenschaft 45: 1–20. ———. 2004. Translating Panis in a Eucharistic Context: A Problem of Language and Theology. Worship 78: 226–35. Robinson, B. P. 1984. The Place of the Emmaus Story in Luke-Acts. NTS 30: 481–97. Rordorf, W. 1968. Sunday: The History of the Day of Rest and Worship in the Earliest Centuries of the Christian Church. London. ———. 1980. Sunday: the Fullness of Christian Liturgical Time. Studia Liturgica 14: 90–96. Rothenbuhler, E. W. 1998. Ritual Communication: From Everyday Conversation to Mediated Ceremony. Thousand Oaks, Calif. Rouse, R. H., and M. A. Rouse. 1986. Bibliography before Print: The Medieval De Viris Illustribus. Pages 133–53 in The Role of the Book in Medieval Culture. Edited by P. Ganz. Bibliologia 3. Elementa ad librorum studia pertinentia. Turnhout. Sharpe, R. 2003. Titulus: Identifying Medieval Latin Texts. Turnhout. Smith, D. E. 1987. Table Fellowship as a Literary Motif in the Gospel of Luke. JBL 106: 613–38. Smith, D. E., and H. E. Taussig. 1990. Many Tables: The Eucharist in the New Testament and Liturgy Today. Philadelphia. Smith, J. Z. 1990. Drudgery Divine: On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity. London. ———. 2001. A Twice-Told Tale: The History of the History of Religion’s History. Numen 48: 134–46. Stanton, G. N. 1997. The Fourfold Gospel. NTS 43: 317–46. Throckmorton, B. H. Jr. 1949. Gospel Parallels: A Synopsis of the First Three Gospels. 4th ed., Nashville. Vielhauer, P. 1963. The Gospel of the Hebrews. Pages 158–65 of New Testament Apocrypha, vol. 1. Edited by E. Hennecke and W. Schneemelcher. London.

READING JESUS’ PARABLES IN LIGHT OF HIS CRUCIFIXION V. George Shillington Recent interest in Galilee, especially as it relates to Jesus and Judaism, owes much to Sean Freyne’s seminal work, Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian: A Study of Second Temple Judaism.1 By his own confession, Professor Freyne’s “preoccupation with Galilee has become a way of life over the years.”2 Those seriously studying Jesus within Judaism have benefited enormously from the illuminating results of Freyne’s ongoing work. In 1997 I was honoured to have Sean Freyne write the Foreword to my (edited) book, Jesus and His Parables,3 and then in 2002 to welcome him as the J. J. Thiessen distinguished lecturer at Canadian Mennonite University in Winnipeg, Canada. Moreover, my happy acceptance of the invitation to write this chapter springs firstly from friendship, but largely also from recognizing the great benefit of his extensive research on Galilee, Jesus, Judaism, and the Gospels. Proposal My aim in this essay is to test a reading of the parables of Jesus in the context of his execution in Jerusalem. Scholars have, with a greater or lesser degree of success, brought together aspects of the Passion narratives in the Gospels with sayings material in an effort to understand the aims of Jesus in relation to the results of his earthly career.4 It appears to me, though, that the products of the “third wave” of Jesus studies have focused either on the parables with limited attention to the acts of Jesus, or on the acts with limited use of his parables, but always

1 Freyne 1980. Cited in this essay, is the T&T Clark 1998 re-issue, with a new preface by Freyne. 2 Freyne 2000, V. 3 Shillington 1997, xi–xiv. 4 See, e.g., Meyer 1979; Sanders 1985; Borg 1987; Freyne 1988; Crossan 1991; Wright 1996; Freyne 2004.

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having to answer the question in the end, as Jewish scholar Ellis Rivkin did admirably in his book, What Crucified Jesus? 5 Crucifixion was a form of execution “of the utmost cruelty,” representing “the supreme Roman penalty.”6 If, under Roman jurisprudence, the punishment was meant to fit the crime, then we are driven to ask, concerning the crime, what the authorities perceived in Jesus. Did it happen out of the blue in Jerusalem, without forewarning or foreshadowing? Or was there something in Jesus’ attitude, word and deed that came to a head in Jesus’ last week in Jerusalem? The evidence, as I see it, points in direction of the latter. Word-and-Deed I propose that the “secure . . . historical facts”7 relating to the trial and crucifixion of Jesus belong within the socio-rhetorical frame of the ministry of the Galilean Jesus, responsible for generating those facts. To focus prominently on the events of the last few days (not to mention Mel Gibson’s twelve hours!), making the sayings secondary to the inquiry,8 tends to truncate the historical stature of Jesus, whose memory spurred on the post-Easter community into Spirit-empowered action. The parables especially, probably because of their striking imagery, were remembered as belonging to Jesus’ vision of the kingdom of God, he himself being its agent. Jeremias’ judgment thus holds. “The student of the parables of Jesus, as they have been transmitted to us in the first three Gospels, may be confident that he stands upon a particularly firm historical foundation. The parables are a fragment of the original rock of tradition.”9 By way of analogy, what would the non-violent acts of Martin Luther King Jr. be without the powerful social rhetoric of his speeches? When we hear or use the simple phrase, “I have a dream,” we cannot help but imagine the figure of the non-violent African American activist. Similarly, what would the non-violent acts of Mahatma Ghandi be without his corresponding words to spur his people on to independence? So also with Jesus. In addition to his acts and sayings that may have led directly

5 6 7 8 9

Rivkin 1984, 72–79. Hengel 1977, 22, 33. Crossan 2001, 222. Sanders 1985, 5, 13. Jeremias 1972, 11.

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to his execution, we do well to exploit the texture of his parables, to contextualize more fully the critically reconstructed images of Jesus. Case in Point Of the many recent works on the historical Jesus, one will serve to advance my case: E. P. Sanders’ Jesus and Judaism.10 This work is a masterful product of in-depth research, which broke new ground for further research and discovery. Sanders’ handling of the relevant material is thorough and persuasive, and his historical construal of Jesus as an eschatological prophet of Israel who envisioned, enacted, and preached a restored Israel with a new temple and new community is cogently compelling. However, I believe any investigation of Jesus’ career, ending in execution, calls for a study of the parabolic sayings so characteristic of his ministry. The generative matrix they provide for the prophetic imagination of the Galilean Jesus, speaks tellingly to the question, “What crucified Jesus?” Of course, some studies of the historical Jesus do indeed take his parables into account in constructing their portrait. Notable among them is that of N. T. Wright.11 With remarkable linguistic dexterity, Wright reads the parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11–32) in keeping with his paradigm of Jesus as a prophet of Israel who subverted the status quo in Palestinian Jewish thinking, calling the people out of their exile into celebratory restoration/resurrection life. This parable is “the story of Israel, in particular of exile and restoration.”12 “Resurrection, the return from exile, is happening” already in Jesus, “and they cannot see it.” It is as though Jesus were replacing the temple with himself and his ministry. “Jesus is reconstituting Israel around himself. This is the return from exile; this in other words is the kingdom of Israel’s God.”13 The parable is “a highly subversive retelling” of Israel’s story of going into exile “because of her own folly and disobedience.”14 Jesus thereby is making a controversial claim to be the one to bring restoration out

10 11 12 13 14

Sanders 1985. Wright 1996, 125–44. Ibid., 126. Ibid., 130–31. Ibid., 127.

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of exile. All of this leads “to a final clash with the authorities, who will wish him dead15 and act on that wish.”16 This imaginative reading, however, may not have been so abundantly obvious to Jesus’ audience. Would they readily have found the terms of reference in the parable to be Wright’s “Israel,” “exile,” “slavery,” “restoration/resurrection,” or “wishing Jesus dead”? I don’t think so. With such a quasi-allegorical reading of the parable possible, one can understand why Sanders is inclined to shy away from using the parables in his critical construal of the career of the historical Jesus, which ended in execution. Furthermore, Wright’s use of one parable is scarcely enough to generate a paradigm within which to understand Jesus’ ministry and the reason for his death. Wright himself knows very well “one parable does not necessarily reveal a paradigm.”17 Yet this is precisely what one parable does for Wright. Parable and Practice I am suggesting a more integrative approach than Wright’s, and a less sceptical one than Sanders,’ which focuses “only secondarily on a study of some of the sayings material.”18 Parable-sayings are virtually non-existent in Sanders’ otherwise brilliant work. As Lamin Sanneh has observed, “Sanders courts criticism with his concentration on the acts of Jesus, particularly the temple incident with the money changers (Mark 11:15–18), to the neglect of Jesus’ words and teaching.”19 Nor is it sufficient to say merely that “in many of [the parables]” there is “a ‘reversal of values’.”20 Rather, Freyne has noted, “only detailed comparison of the ethos of [ Jesus’] sayings, critically examined, with both their Jewish and non-Jewish parallels, can decide how far his world-view was shaped by the Jewish religious experience.”21 I see two terms of reference emerging from the relevant texts with respect to the words-and-acts of Jesus in Galilee and Jerusalem: protest 15 A reference to the younger son’s request for his inheritance, as showing that he wished his father dead, according to Wright, relying on the work of Bailey 1983, 171– 73, and 1991, 42–53. 16 Wright 1996, 131. Cf. Marcus Borg’s working out of the same theme based on his description of Jesus as “teacher of alternative wisdom,” 1995, 68–118; 121–27. 17 Wright 1996, 131. 18 Sanders 1985, 5. 19 Sanneh 1989, 13. 20 Sanders 1985, 150; so also Crossan 1992, 112–17. 21 Freyne 2000, 182.

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and promise.22 The two are coordinates in the schema of Jesus’ aims, actions, sayings, and final outcome. Within Jesus’ protest (discussed below) against existing oppressive structures in Roman-occupied Judaism lies a promise of God’s rule of life, captured especially in his term, “kingdom of God” (ἡ Βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ). I will argue that protest and promise operate not only in the events most closely associated with Jesus’ last days in Jerusalem, but also in his parables spoken primarily in his Galilean Jewish context prior to the entry into Jerusalem. The ensuing discussion, accordingly, falls under two main headings: 1) the Galilean Jesus executed in Jerusalem, and 2) Parables codifying Jesus’ vision and action. The Galilean Jesus Executed in Jerusalem The line from cause to effect is difficult to draw at the best of times. How much more so when sifting through the variegated Passion narratives! Yet we engage in that enterprise inexorably, and remain restless till the line is drawn, however ambiguously. E. P. Sanders engages in that task as rigorously and as vigorously as any one. “The best that we can hope to achieve,” he says, “is a general view of cause and effect, based on incidents which surely preceded the execution (the action of the temple being the most important) and the outcome (the continuation of Jesus’ disciples as an identifiable group within Judaism).”23 New Temple Symbolized Was there sufficient precipitous offence in Jesus’ action in Jerusalem to have resulted in trial and sentence of death by crucifixion? I think the answer is affirmative. And Sanders is quite correct to focus on Jesus’ action in overturning the tables of the moneychangers as “the immediate cause of Jesus’ death (Mark 15:29; par Matt 27.40; cf. Acts 6:14).”24 Such action by this peasant Galilean constituted an attack against the temple system operated by the priests, chief of whom was Caiaphas

22 I had proposed these two words as title for my 1997 multi-authored book on the parables of Jesus (Protest and Promise in the Parables of Jesus), but the publisher opted for a more prosaic title, Jesus and his Parables: Interpreting the Parables of Jesus Today. I still prefer my title. 23 Sanders 1985, 301. 24 Sanders 1985, 301.

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(Matt. 26:3; cf. Luke 3:2). An overt action conducted within “the primary religious symbol of Judaism”25 by this non-priestly Galilean was an affront of major proportion. But what exactly was the offence? Did it merely create a disturbance in the sacred precincts? Did it simply interrupt the normal rituals that go along with making required Jewish sacrifice? Was it an act of purification in a religious service become corrupt? Was it an attempt to clear the area, possibly the court of the Gentiles, to allow true worship of Yahweh? It was probably not an act of ritual purification, as traditionally believed. Although the cleansing idea still carries some weight, as Crossan suggests: It was even possible, absolutely with Judaism, to withdraw in protest from any participation in its calendar or cult. If, for example, the Qumran Essenes had ever taken over control of Jerusalem and its Temple, they would probably have ‘cleansed’ it first from ritual impurity.26

Still, Jesus’ act of overturning the tables, not purification, is central. Sanders is doubtless correct in calling this a symbolic act of destruction on Jesus’ part.27 A new eschatological “temple not made with hands” (Mark 14:58; 15:29) will replace the existing temple service. Herein lie both protest and promise. On the one hand, a protest against the existing temple, and on the other, an implicit promise of a new temple commensurate with the kingdom of God, which is “not of this world” ( John 18:36). Protest and promise together constituted a threat to the priestly powers, tied as they were to the Roman power administered by Pilate. Protest was not uncommon in the first century. A protest movement, usually led by some charismatic figure, expressed itself non-violently against oppression of one kind or another. By contrast, violent action would constitute an armed uprising. According to Crossan, protestors are those who worked with non-violent resistance: not with violent resistance (like Judas the Galilean), and not simply non-violent non-resistance (like Josephus the historian), but, precisely and accurately, with non-violent resistance.28

Jesus’ action is an example of such protest. “It challenged imperial force to lay bare its own covert violence by the overt slaughter of unarmed 25 26 27 28

Freyne 1980, 260; 1988, 178. Crossan 2001, 220. Sanders 1985, 61–76. Crossan 2001, 143.

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and non-violent resisters.”29 Such a protest, interpreted as a threat to the collaborative power in Jerusalem, could hardly be tolerated in such a volatile situation. Furthermore, protest, with the promise of a new rule of God to replace the old, would draw crowds, and “crowds, as we know, were dangerous and could get out of hand.”30 As Sanders proposes, the symbolic act of destruction in the overturning of the tables in the temple came also with a threatening/predictive word of destruction, recorded in all four canonical Gospels (Matt. 24:2// Mark 13:2; Luke 21:6; John 2:19). “The best explanation” for both act and word “is to be found in [ Jesus’] eschatological expectation. The kingdom was at hand, and one of the things which that meant was that the old temple would be replaced by a new.”31 This eschatological protest and promise would constitute an offence, interpreted as insurrectionist and punishable by execution of the perpetrator. Sign of a King Another of the “solid facts” leading up to the crucifixion, probably about a week before, was Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem on a donkey, usually referred to as “the triumphal entry.” The mode of travel was hardly triumphal, but the response of the observers made it so. The branches and garments, which “the very large crowd”32 placed on the roadway for Jesus, was a sign of honour (Matt. 21:8; par Mark 11:8; Luke 19:36; John 12:13). They shouted words of praise and glory, variously transmitted. Their theme resonates throughout all four Gospel sources: Jesus’ ride into Jerusalem is that of a non-violent king. This king has neither army nor weapons. His steed a humble donkey, not even his own. What we have, apparently, in this ride into Jerusalem at Passover week is a symbolic triumph of the rule of God over competing powers in Jerusalem, of good over evil, of peace over violence. Pilate’s final response appears in his titular charge, “The King of the Jews” (ὁ βασιλεὑς τῶν Ἰουδαἰων) inscribed on a ridiculous plaque over the bloody, dying figure of Jesus on a cross (Mark 15:26; par Matt 27:37; Luke 23:38; John 19:19). This is what happens to anyone with kingly aspirations, the title implies.

29 30 31 32

Crossan 2001, 143. Rivkin 1984, 49. Sanders 1985, 77. NRSV rendering of ὁ δὲ πλεῖστος ὂχλος in Matthew 21:8.

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The character of Jesus’ kingly ride into Jerusalem carried with it an element of protest. Luke’s Pharisees heard it, and asked Jesus to silence his disciples (Luke 19:39). The disciples and the crowds saw this entry as different from that of other pilgrims from Galilee to the Holy City for Passover. This Galilean carried in his person the promise of a new rule of life for the people of God, called the “kingdom/rule of God.” Whether the Jewish or Roman leaders recognized the symbolic ride as subversive cannot be determined with certainty. Taken together with the overt act in overturning the tables in the temple, however, this entry had all the protest potential that could be interpreted as subversive. The sources do indicate that the ride captured the attention of the disciples and the crowds, while the overturning of the tables raised the ire of the chief priests and the scribes. This latter group, according to Mark 11:18 (cf. par Matt 21:14–16; Luke 19:47–48), “kept looking for a way to kill him . . . because the whole crowd was spellbound by his teaching.” If by riding thus into Jerusalem, Jesus “seemed to be a visionary and, like Isaiah, proclaimed that the kingdom of God was near at hand, his high hopes would have attracted crowds—and crowds, as we know, were dangerous and could get out of hand.”33 More than a Last Meal Before leaving the last week of Jesus’ life in Jerusalem, a word about the last meal (or meals) with his disciples is in order. There is no good reason to argue against the sources that put the last meals in the setting of Passover (Matt 26:19; par Mark 14:16; Luke 22:13–15; cf. John 13:1). Passover celebrated deliverance of God’s people from enslavement. The Roman occupation of Palestine could have been interpreted as enslavement. The setting of Passover gives poignancy to the act and word of Jesus during the meal, so much so that the post-Easter communities remembered it and reconstituted it in a new way to their own communal service.34 Crossan construes the meal as Jesus’ “open commensality” and “radical social egalitarianism practised by Jesus and expected of others.” The disciples, in retrospect, recognized the meal “as having been their last one together. That is all that happened before the death of Jesus.”35

33 34 35

Rivkin 1984, 49. Wright 1996, 555–59. Crossan 1991, 360–67.

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This is strange indeed. The memory of the meal took firm hold. Most likely something happened during the meal that prompted the post-Easter communities to make Jesus’ person central to the Eucharist (Matt 26:26–29, par. Mark 14:22–24; Luke 22:17–19; cf. 1 Cor. 11:24–25). But that “something” is debatable. Bruce Chilton’s proposal in dealing with this query has merit, insofar as it connects rather well with Jesus’ overturning the tables in the temple. The temple, among other things, was the place of “tithes, priesthood, sacrifices and pilgrimages,”36 especially sacrifices and pilgrimages from Galilee. If we are on track in seeing Jesus’ act in the temple as a protest against the current system of sacrifices, then Jesus’ word and act of declaring the bread his “body” and the wine his “blood” was another way of further protesting the sacrificial system, and promising a new way. Chilton’s words have merit: [ Jesus] cannot have meant ‘Here are my personal body and blood.’ . . . Jesus’ point was rather that, in the absence of the Temple that permitted his view of purity to be practised, wine was his blood of sacrifice and bread was his flesh of sacrifice. . . . Jesus claimed that wine and bread were a better sacrifice than what was offered in the Temple, a foretaste of the new wine in the kingdom of God. At least wine and bread were Israel’s own, not tokens of priestly dominance.37

Again, we find in the “last meal,” thus interpreted, a note of protest and promise. That does not mean, however, that Jesus was disloyal to his Jewish heritage. His presence at Passover in Jerusalem affirms his loyalty. In step with his Galilean Jewish counterparts, Jesus manifested a certain allegiance to the temple of Jerusalem, and to the long salvation-tradition represented therein. Galilean Jewish religionists, especially the peasant class, had not replaced the Jerusalem temple with a Galilean, Hellenistic alternative, as Sean Freyne has demonstrated.38 Yet that loyalty was not blind to the problems of power that can rob the symbol of its true efficacy. Jesus envisioned a new temple, not diametrically opposed to that of Jerusalem, but new as in the temple recreated. In action and word, Jesus presents himself as God’s agent of restoration—the figure

Freyne 1980, 260. Chilton 1996, 125. 38 Freyne 2001, 289–311; 1980, 259–279. Contra Horsley 1996, 19–42; Crossan 1995, 50–51. 36 37

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upon whom the promise of God’s deliverance rests, amid the current systems of hierarchical power, including that of the temple system.39 Other Signs of God’s Kingdom in the Land The acts and corresponding words of Jesus in Jerusalem, which seem to have precipitated his execution, were not the result of a sudden insight and impulse upon entering the city. Jesus doubtless knew very well the religious-political interplay between Galilee and Jerusalem, before the last week of his career. Galileans were, at heart, loyal to their central symbol system, despite its faulty powers over them. The Galilean Jesus, on the other hand, envisioned a higher, nobler rule of life that aimed at alleviating human suffering, poverty, alienation, and untimely death. And that new rule of life he called the kingdom of God, a kingdom to come, yet already near at hand. If “kingdom of God” captured the sense of Jesus’ preaching, as is generally agreed, then his parables evoked images of the new rule of life towards which his vision and person pointed. “He did not speak to them except in parables” (Mark 4:34). Dodd was not far off in calling them parables of the kingdom. One of the eight principal “facts” of Jesus ministry that E. P. Sanders affirms without equivocation is that “Jesus called disciples and spoke of their being twelve.”40 Jesus’ call to people to follow him was both inclusive and exclusive: inclusive in that it welcomed sinners along with “the righteous,” and exclusive in that he and his followers replaced any other competing community said to represent God to the people. The symbolic significance of “the twelve” is easily appreciated. With them a renewed Israel was emerging in the midst of the old, to replace the old ultimately. Those considered “the lost sheep of the house of Israel” were the primary target, according to Matthew 15:24 (cf. 10:6). The new covenant community around Jesus and “the twelve” could expect the benediction associated with being in the “house of Israel.” If this judgment about Jesus’ calling of disciples, with twelve at the centre, is correct—and there is no good reason to view it otherwise— then the implications are far-reaching. How will sins be forgiven in this Israel-being-restored? Will there be a renewed (or fulfilled) Torah? A

See the discussion of hierarchal power structure in agrarian societies in Lensky 1996, 284–88. For Galilee specifically, see Freyne 1980, 194–200; 2000, 45–85; 2004, 143–49, 152–63. Cf. Horsley 1996, 76–87; Shillington 2002, 246–52 and notes. 40 Sanders 1985, 11. 39

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new temple? Will the priesthood be replaced? Will restored Israel have its own true king (against the Hasmonean priest-king, or the half-Jewish Herod I and his dynasty, or the Roman Caesar)? Answers to these questions are beyond the scope of this chapter—as also full discussion of the healing miracles.41 Suffice to say, there are signs in the sources that Jesus, in calling people to follow him, implies no need to go elsewhere for forgiveness and healing. Followers will find the promise of wholeness within the circle of the twelve, with Jesus at the centre. He healed the sick and cast out demons, and considered them restored socially without any further priestly sanction (cf. Lev. 13). He forgave sins without calling for sacrifice at the temple. Such action was a sign of protest, and led invariably to opposition, as illustrated in the Beelzebul controversy (Mark 3:22–30; par Matt 12:24–32; Luke 11:15–23). Interestingly, to clinch his case—that his work was of God and not of Beelzebul—Jesus told the parable of the house divided against itself. Finally, and perhaps the most striking protest-promise of all, was Jesus’ acceptance of sinners without requiring repentance. Sanders argues this point cogently, so that I need not elaborate further, except to review the main points. Repentance was one of the hallmarks of Jewish religious life and thought. Sinners had recourse in renewing their relationship with God: repent of their sins, turn from them, and make restitution as necessary. Judaism was quite open to forgiving those who truly repented, which meant turning from their wicked way. According to Sanders, “no body of Jewish leaders would have taken offence at the proclamation of God’s willingness to forgive repentant sinners.”42 What could be offensive, however, would be Jesus’ action of accepting sinners unconditionally, eating and drinking with them, as with other disenfranchised persons in the land. Ben F. Meyer stated the situation succinctly, which will serve to close this section on the events leading up to Jesus’ execution in Jerusalem, and make transition to the next: [ Jesus’] career had a powerful symbolic dimension. The crippled, the lepers, the blind, the poor, the hungry, the mourners, the sinners, the ostracized, the unimportant, unpowerful, and unpromising, were all types imaging the real . . . situation of Israel vis-à-vis God. . . . The eschatological

41 42

On Jesus’ healing miracles, see Freyne 1988, 229–34; cf. Sanders 1985, 157–73. Sanders 1985, 18.

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The Parables Codifying Jesus’ Vision and Action In light of these factors that appear to have provoked the powers in Jerusalem to indict and crucify Jesus, how do his parables, each in its own way, echo the same vision and action? The question is not to suggest that Jesus was crucified merely for telling parables in Lower Galilee. As Sanders states, “if all we had were his parables and related sayings, we would not expect [execution] to have been the result of his career. Nothing about his teaching is adequate to account for his execution on the grounds of implied insurrection.”44 “Nothing” overstates the evidence, it seems to me. Something in the parables was “not of this world” ( John 18:36), yet integrally grounded in this world. Grounded thus, Jesus’ parables point a critical finger at the “kingdom of [this] world” (Rev. 11:15). Within the limited scope of this essay I can select only representative parables, some shorter metaphors and some narrative images, to illustrate the point: that the parables of Jesus fit integrally with any investigation of the aims and activities of his career that ended with Roman execution, supported as it was by the Jewish temple authorities in Jerusalem. My reading strategy will be negotiated45 by attending to the explicit form of the parable against the originating Galilee-Jerusalem Jewish context.46 Moreover, I take it that 1) a parable’s narrative features arose out of Jesus’ experience of living in Roman-occupied Jewish Galilee among the peasant population; 2) the narrative elements were recognizable within the social geography; 3) the audience would seize upon the recognizable elements, without creating allegorical or quasiallegorical extrapolations; 4) Jesus’ invested the texture of the parable with a promissory tease about an alternate rule of life for his Jewish audience.

Meyer 1979, 171. Sanders 1985, 223. 45 A “negotiated reading” refers to an interactive examination of the texture of the text to arrive at an appropriate approach to understanding its intended sense. See further in Shillington 2002, 276–91. 46 Cf. Scott 1989, 63–68. 43 44

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Rhetorical devices, for example, parables, are made up of social codes that represent the particular value-laden world of the rhetor and his/her audience.47 Jesus’ parabolic rhetoric does that, but also codifies a new order, inviting the hearer to break with oppressive constraints to become a free citizen of the kingdom of God. Herein lies both protest and promise in Jesus’ parables. They offer implicitly a critique of existing structures, while holding out an imaginatively new option for the taking. “Follow me,” Jesus calls, “into the new reign of God, whatever the cost in ordinary social life” (e.g., Matt. 8:22; 9:9; 10:38; 16:24; 19:21). The selected parables from the Synoptic Gospels have survived scholarly scrutiny regarding authenticity—that is, as originating with the Jesus tradition. Where parallels appear elsewhere they will be examined as appropriate. New in Place of Old I begin by citing the twin metaphors of patches-on-clothing and winein-wineskins (Mark 2:21–22; par Matt 9:16–17; Luke 5:36–37). No one sews a piece of unshrunk cloth on an old cloak; otherwise, the patch pulls away from it, the new from the old, and a worse tear is made. And no one puts new wine into old wineskins; otherwise, the wine will burst the skins, and the wine is lost, and so are the skins; but one puts new wine into fresh wineskins.

The common motive in both “is the folly of trying to accommodate the old and the new.”48 It is not stretching the metaphor too far to imagine Jesus’ call of the twelve as symbolically creating a new form of Israel to carry forward his new vision of the kingdom of God. The image points not to an accommodation of a new feature to the old order, but to the replacement of the old order with a new reality. The tear in the old garment cannot be repaired with the new cloth. Neither can the old wineskins contain the new wine. In other words, Jesus’ vision of Israel restored will not be a make-over of the existing system, but a new order that the old cannot accommodate. So the twin metaphors suggest in principle.49

47 48 49

Robbins 1994, 164–209; so also Herzog II 1994, 51–52. Dodd 1961, 90; cf. also Jeremias 1972, 90, 117. See further in Geddert 2001, 68–69.

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A similar pattern emerges in the parable of the great supper in Q (Luke 14:16–24; par Matt 22:1–10; Gos. Thom. 64). Invited guests, those eligible for a dinner by conventional wisdom, refuse the dinner and are thereby replaced by a group of unconventional people—anybody willing to fill the banquet room.50 The new banquet-pattern bursts the bounds of the old, as a new patch on an old garment and as new wine in old wineskins. The Land Resource Redistributed The Land was a persistent symbol in Judaism,51 and appears variously in some of Jesus’ parables. The brief Q parable (Matthew 5:13, par. Luke 14:34–35; cf. Mark 5:13a) about the disciples being “salt” (ἅλας) is not about salt for the table (sodium chloride = food flavour/preservative), but about salt for the land (ἅλας τῆς γῆς = potassium chloride, land fertilizer).52 The emphasis in Matthew falls on “you are” ( Ὑμεἱς ἐστε), presumably the disciples, that is, “you” as compared to some other group that might consider itself so endowed. Jesus’ disciples become the life resource within the symbolism of the land. In Q , however, the fertilizing ἅλας can lose its potency beyond restoration, and thus be cast out (Luke 14:34–35, par. Matt 5:13) and “trampled under foot” (Matt 5:13b).53 The “eschatological and/or apocalyptic Kingdom of God imagines not more and more land, but more and more fertility.”54 Neither is the produce of the land the privilege of the few. The parable of the “rich fool” (Luke 12:16–21) witnesses one man’s stockpiling of surplus from the land intended to provide for all its inhabitants.55 Such self-serving, elitist gratification vis-à-vis the land of promise courts disaster. God’s voice—read literally—is ominous: “This night they will

Freyne 2004, 112. Freyne 1988, 178–81. “Land of promise” as God’s gift to Israel appears repeatedly in the Hebrew Bible, as also the Apocrypha, e.g., Exod 3:8; Deut 3:18, 28; 6:18; Wis 12:7; Sir 46:8; Bar 1:20. 52 For fuller analysis see Shillington 2001, 120–21. Potash was plentiful around the Dead Sea, and available as fertilizer in Israel, as Luke attests (Luke 14:34–35) with reference to spreading it on a manure pile or on the land. Potash is still an important industry around the Dead Sea area. The Dead Sea Works Ltd. produces about 2.5 million tonnes of potash per year. 53 A possible echo of the trampling of Roman soldiers—an insight from conversation with Ben F. Meyer. 54 Crossan 2001, 134. 55 See Freyne 2001, 284 for discussion of the urban centres, Tiberias and Sepphoris, vis-à-vis land distribution in Lower Galilee. 50 51

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require your life (τὴν ψυχήν σου ἀπαιτοῦσιν ἀπὸ σοῦ). Then whose will these things be?”56 The active third plural in ἀπαιτοῦσιν could be landless poor whose lives depend on “these things” from Eretz Israel, which was traditionally Yahweh’s gift to the people.57 Furthermore, “the just distribution of land is about the just distribution of food.”58 The parable of the labourers in the vineyard (Matt. 20:1–15) also calls attention to the problem of inequity related to ownership and control of the resources in Eretz Israel.59 The householder (οἰκοδεσπότης) in the parable is well off: he owns a vineyard, used presumably for the export of wine.60 Meanwhile, landless day labourers wait in the marketplace for someone to hire them. And someone does: the householder. Normally the manager/retainer did the hiring. With each trip to the market the householder found workers without work for “daily bread” (Q: Matt 6:11; Luke 11:3). At the eleventh hour he empties the marketplace of all the unemployed, and pays them equally with a Roman δηνάριόν, said to be the usual daily wage for a day labourer—probably a subsistence wage. But the householder is still left holding the resource of the land. Perhaps the all-day worker is to be applauded for his courage in accusing the householder of injustice.61 Perhaps not. If rich householders happen to be in the audience, they would hardly find the story palatable: it calls on them to distribute the resources of the land, by providing everyone equally with “daily bread,” thus reducing their surplus profit. Granted, the parable is puzzling, as parables are. But its implication is evident: 1) a protest against elitist profit-making in the land of promise, while fellow Jewish inhabitants stand on the brink of destitution, and 2) a promise of food for the hungry (Luke 6:21). The parable of the landlord and rebel tenants (Matt. 21:33–41; Luke 20:9–16; Gos. Thom. 65) pictures another situation in the land. Some interpret the parable in a quasi-allegorical manner: the vineyard is Israel and the owner is Israel’s God. The tenants are the (priestly?) leaders in Judaism, and the servants the prophets. The owner’s son is then the

So Beavis 1997, 55–68. Freyne 2000, 164. 58 Crossan 2001, 134. 59 With respect to land resource and land distribution in Palestine, I draw attention to an insightful paper presented during the 2004 annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature: Dobrovolny 2004, 1–12. 60 Herzog II 1994, 85. 61 Herzog II 1994, 91–95. 56 57

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Messiah. Jesus, in this reading, saw himself as the son to be killed.62 “We too frequently read the parables (and the rest of Jesus teaching) from the perspective of the Church.”63 It is hard to imagine Jesus’ audience coming quickly to such an allegorical conclusion. The narrative elements and structure of the parable merely depict a contract/lease scenario, not uncommon at the time.64 The absentee vineyard owner tries to exact rent from tenant farmers, who choose violent means to lay claim to the land themselves.65 Again, landlord and tenant alike are caught in the web of the parable, each indicted by its provocative power: absentee landlords like this one can expect repercussions; violent tenants like these accomplish nothing but a “spiral of violence.”66 The implicit challenge of the parable for both groups is to find another way, which reflects the kingdom of God embodied in Jesus. The Temple Symbol Redefined We turn now to parables bespeaking Jesus’ attitude towards the temple of Jerusalem,67 beginning with the metaphor of light in Mathew 5:14: “You are the light of the world.” This short parabolic metaphor is conflated with two others, related variously to light as producing right conduct (par. Luke 14:34–35; 8:16; Gos. Thom. 32; cf. Isa 2:2–4). “The light of the world,” I submit, is an oblique reference to the temple. Rabbinic Midrash, reflecting on the symbolism of the temple, depicts the temple of Yahweh as the source of light for the world. For example, Genesis Rabbah 3:4 states that “The Holy One, blessed be he, wrapped himself [in light] as in a robe and irradiated with the lustre of his majesty the whole world from one end to the other. . . . The light was created from the place in the temple . . . and the earth did shine with [God’s] glory (Ex 43:2).” Similarly, Genesis Rabbah 55:7 confirms that

So O’Neill 1997, 173–76. Snodgrass 1983, 77. 64 Cf. P. Oxy. 1631; Exod R. 30.17; Lev R. 11.7. 65 For a detailed study of the parable along socio-rhetorical/historical lines, I recommend the treatment in Snodgrass 1983, 72–110. 66 An allusion to Richard A. Horsley’s telling study of popular Jewish resistance movements at the time of Jesus: Horsley 1992. 67 See Freyne’s assessment of Jesus’ attitude towards the temple in 1988, 224–39, and 2004, 152–63. 62 63

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the place of the altar in the temple is “the place whence light goes forth to the world.”68 Against this light symbolism associated with the temple of Jerusalem,69 Jesus utters his metaphor: “You are the light of the world.”70 As with the fertilizing agents (the disciples) of the land, so here, the “You are” (Ὑμεῖς ἐστε) is emphatic. You as a new community, in contrast to the temple, are the new light that shines in the world as the “symbol of life and health, of joy and success.”71 An even more striking protest against the current service in the Jerusalem temple comes from the Lukan parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:30–35).72 A pointed question the parable begs is this: Who cares about the victims in the land of Israel? The ones designated by Law to receive sacrifices and temple taxes, should surely be the ones. But the temple servants in the parable pass by the victim. Whatever their possible reasons for passing by,73 they are not justified in the context of the narrative.74 The values of the kingdom of God in the land of Israel must come through from another quarter, the parable implies. But not from a Pharisee, and not even from a Galilean Jewish peasant, but from a despised Samaritan. Shock! This victim in the land of Israel finds the rule of God reaching him from an alien source.75 The anti-temple protest here is unmistakable. Samaritans had become an offence to the Yahweh of the Judean clerics. Samaritans and Judeans had no dealings with each other ( John 4:9). Yet here comes the rule of God from this hated Samaritan source, from a nobody. Jesus and his “kingdom of nobodies”76 stand behind this despised Samaritan in the story, and hold out a paradoxical promise to victims everywhere, quite apart from the current temple at Jerusalem. The same anti-temple sentiment appears in the parable of the Pharisee and the Tax collector (Luke 18:10–14a). By all the rules of Jewish conventional wisdom, the Pharisee has easy access to God centred See further in Vermes 1973, 23–26. See background Scripture, e.g. Ex 25:37; 27:20; Lev 24:2; Ps 36:9. 70 Cf. John 8:12; 9:5. 71 Patai 1967, 84. 72 The question and answer in verse 36 are probably not part of the original parable. 73 E.g., Lev 21:11 prohibits touching a dead body. 74 For “justified response” implicit in this and other parables, see Funk 1982, 35–65. 75 McDonald 1997, 35–51. 76 Crossan 1991, 266–71. 68 69

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in the temple of Jerusalem. The tax collector, “standing far off,” is “the sinner” without access: he is a traitor to God and the temple by profiting from collecting taxes from his own people for Rome. Shockingly, “the sinner” (ὁ ἁμαρτωλός) goes to his home “justified,” not by the required acts of repentance, sacrifice, and restitution,77 but by the sheer mercy of God. To sinners anywhere in Judaism, this must have sounded like a promissory ode to joy; to temple officials, a word of offence. The parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11–32) encodes the same open attitude towards sinners. From a Jewish perspective, the prodigal had become a sinner. He had squandered his Jewish inheritance in alien territory, joined a Gentile householder, and supported himself by feeding pigs. His return to his Jewish village would have required rites of repentance, “demonstrated by sacrifice,”78 for reincorporation as stipulated by the Law, effected by the temple (Lev 6:1–7; Num 5:5–9; cf. b.Yoma 8.8; b. Shab. 153a). In the parable, by contrast, the prodigal “sinner” finds a father’s embrace and a celebrative party, without the young son’s penitent speech. The older son’s offence is justified by normal standards of Jewish life. He knows the rules for maintaining Jewish family life, and those for reincorporating recalcitrants back into that life. While this parable “exceeds the grasp of any interpretation,”79 its social rhetoric carries a note of protest against making the wayward Jewish “son” repent and pay the price for re-admittance to Jewish family life. Implicitly, the kingdom promise in the parable—and by extension in Jesus—guarantees the safe and unobtrusive return of the outsider, “the lost sheep of the house of Israel” (Matt 10:6). Conclusion To conclude, historical investigation of the figure of Jesus, and especially of factors that led to his crucifixion, merits a corresponding examination of the texture of his parable-sayings. What Jesus did precipitously in Jerusalem, he imaged provocatively already in his parables prior to his entry into Jerusalem. His parables were, without doubt, a major means of communicating his vision of the breakthrough of the kingdom

77 78 79

E.g., Lev 5:10–16. Sanders 1985, 206. Scott 1989, 108. Cf. Rohrbaugh 1997, 141–64.

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of God into the present life-situation of Palestinian Judaism, with a promise of more to come. His open, active expression of the kingdom of God became the crux of his trial and sentence of death in Pilate’s judgement hall. But Pilate did not act alone. Jewish leaders in Jerusalem had heard, seen and felt the threat of Jesus’ kingdom in his word and deed, especially in his symbolic act in the temple. His eschatological redefinition of the temple, and his prophetic call for redistribution of the land resource, together constituted a protest against oppressive power structures in Palestine, whether Jewish or Roman, and with protest also promise of divine blessing for the disenfranchised of Israel. Witness the paradoxical beatitudes in Q: Blessed are you poor, hungry, weeping, hated people, “for yours is the kingdom of God” (Luke 6:20–22). Jesus’ parables belong integrally within this provocative, generative matrix textured into the Greek literary forms of our available gospels. Reading Jesus’ parables in light of his crucifixion—and vice versa— achieves a cumulative and worthy result: Jesus of the late twenties rediscovered as one historic figure whose career in parabolic word and symbolic deed stretched from Galilee to Jerusalem. Historical Jesus studies bear the burden of taking into account all critically established facts, among them the indisputable fact of a preserved corpus of parables that he told.80 Bibliography Bailey, K. E. 1983. Poet and Peasant: Through Peasant Eyes. Repr. Grand Rapids. ———. 1991. Informal Controlled Oral Tradition and the Synoptic Gospels. AJT 5 (1): 34–35. Beavis, M. A. 1997. The Foolish Landowner (Luke 12:16b–20). Pages 55–68 in Jesus and His Parables: Interpreting the Parables of Jesus Today. Edited by V. G. Shillington. Edinburgh. Borg, M. J. 1987. Jesus, A New Vision: Spirit, Culture and the Life of Discipleship. San Francisco. ———. 1994. Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time: The Historical Jesus and the Heart of Contemporary Faith. San Francisco. Chilton, B. 1996. Pure Kingdom: Jesus’ Vision of God. Grand Rapids. Crossan, J. D. 1991. The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant. San Francisco. ———. 1992. In Parables: The Challenge of the Historical Jesus. Sonoma, Calif. ———. 1995. Who Killed Jesus? Exposing the Roots of Anti-Semitism in the Gospel Story of the Death of Jesus. San Francisco.

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———. 2001. Excavating Jesus: Beneath the Stones Behind the Texts. San Francisco. Dobrovolny, M. K. 2004. Who Controls the Resources? Economics and Justice in Matt 20:1–15. A paper presented at the Society of Biblical Literature 2004 Annual Meeting, San Antonio, Texas. 1–12. Freyne, S. 1980. Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian: A Study of Second Temple Judaism. 1998 Repr. Edinburgh. ———. 1988. Galilee, Jesus and the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical Investigations. Philadelphia. ———. 2000. Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays. Tübingen. ———. 2001. The Geography of Restoration: Galilee-Jerusalem Relations in Early Jewish and Christian Experience. NTS 47: 289–311. ———. 2004. Jesus, A Jewish Galilean: A New Reading of the Jesus Story. London. Funk, R. W. 1982. Parables and Presence: Form of the New Testament Tradition. Philadelphia. Geddert, T. J. 2001. Mark. Believers Church Bible Commentary. Edited by E. E. Martens and W. M. Swartley. Scottdale, Pa. Hengel, M. 1977. Crucifixion: In the Ancient World and the Folly of the Message of the Cross. Translated by John Bowden. Philadelphia. Herzog II, William R. 1994. Parables as Subversive Speech: Jesus as Pedagogue of the Oppressed. Louisville. Horsley, R. A. 1992. Jesus and the Spiral of Violence: Popular Jewish Resistance in Roman Palestine. Minneapolis. ———. 1996. Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee: The Social Context of Jesus and the Rabbis. Valley Forge. Jeremias, J. 1972. The Parables of Jesus. Translated by S. H. Hooke. New York. Lensky, G. 1966. Power and Privilege: A Theory of Social Stratification. New York. McDonald, J. I. H. 1997. Alien Grace. Pages 35–51 in Jesus and His Parables: Interpreting the Parables of Jesus Today. Edited by V. G. Shillington. Edinburgh. Meyer, B. F. 1979. The Aims of Jesus. London. O’Neill, J. C. 1997. The Shocking Prospect of Killing the Messiah. Pages 165–76 in Jesus and his Parables: Interpreting the Parables of Jesus Today. Edited by V. G. Shillington. Edinburgh. Patai, R. 1967. Man and Temple. New York. Rivkin, E. 1984. What Crucified Jesus? Nashville. Robbins, V. K. 1994. Socio-Rhetorical Criticism: Mary, Elizabeth and the Magnificat as a Test Case. Pages 164–209 in The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament. Edited by E. Struthers et al. JSNTSup109. Sheffield. Rohrbaugh, R. L. 1979. A Dysfunctional Family and its Neighbours. Pages 141–64 in Jesus and His Parables: Interpreting the Parables of Jesus Today. Edited by V. G. Shillington. Edinburgh. Sanders, E. P. 1985. Jesus and Judaism. Philadelphia. Sanneh, L. 1989. Translating the Message: The Missionary Impact on Culture. New York. Scott, B. B. 1989. Hear Then the Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus. Minneapolis. Shillington, V. G. 1997. Saving Life and Keeping Sabbath. Pages 87–101 in Jesus and His Parables: Interpreting the Parables of Jesus Today. Edited by V. G. Shillington. Edinburgh. ———. 2001. Salt of the Earth? (Matt 5:13/Luke 14:34f), ET 112.4:120–21. ———. 2002. Reading the Sacred Text: An Introduction to Biblical Studies. London. Snodgrass, K. 1983. The Parable of the Wicked Tenants: An Inquiry into Parable Interpretation. WUNT 27. Tübingen. Vermes, G. 1973. Scripture and Tradition in Judaism. Leiden. Wright, N. T. 1996. Jesus and the Victory of God. Minneapolis.

BREAD THAT IS BROKEN—AND UNBROKEN Justin Taylor In 1998, at the annual Biblical Conference at Leuven, in Belgium, I gave a paper on the breaking of bread in the New Testament and related texts, notably in the Didache.1 In this paper I propose first to present again more briefly what I said on that occasion, then to continue with some new material, especially on bread that is not broken. It is a great pleasure, as well as an honour, to dedicate these pages to Seán Freyne, whose own work has thrown so much light on the cultural and social background of the New Testament. Bread that is Broken in the New Testament The gesture of breaking bread is clearly attested in the New Testament: the multiplication(s) of the loaves and fishes (Matt 14:19; 15:36; Mark 6:41; 8:6,19; Luke 9:16);2 the Last Supper (Matt 26:26; Mark 14:22; Luke 22:19; 1 Cor 11:24); the supper at Emmaus (Luke 24:30,35); the practice of the Church (Acts 2:42,46; 1 Cor 10:16); Paul at Troas (Acts 20:7,11); Paul at sea (Acts 27:35). To these examples from the New Testament, we can add others from early Christian literature: Did. 9–10 and 14, to which we shall return; Ignatius, Eph. 20.2; the Apocryphal Acts of John 85–86 and 109–110; the Apocryphal Acts of Thomas 50, 133, 158; the Clementine Homilies 11.36 and 14.1. Finally, we need to mention the practice in Rabbinical Judaism of blessing the Creator at the beginning of the meal after the bread has been broken, to which we shall likewise return. There is a certain insistence in the New Testament on “the breaking of bread,” to the extent that this gesture gives a name for the entire procedure: Acts 2:42, and cf. 2:46; perhaps Luke 24:35. This phenomenon suggests that the reference is to more than the simple material act

Taylor 1999a and b. See also the occurrence of the word “fragments,” referring to broken bread: Matt 14:20; 15:37; Mark 6:43; 8:8; 8:19–20; Luke 9:17; John 6:12–13. 1 2

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necessary for distributing a loaf among several participants, and that a particular importance was attached to the gesture itself. The precise expression “the breaking of bread” is exclusively Lucan, but the related usage is spread fairly evenly through the New Testament: Synoptics, Acts, Paul. John is an exception, to which we must return. What is the common reference point of all the New Testament uses of breaking bread? The obvious answer seems, of course, to be the Last Supper, at which Jesus took bread and gave thanks and broke and distributed it and told his disciples to “do this in memory of me.” We might imagine that this highly significant gesture would naturally recur in other passages of the New Testament, anticipated in the multiplication narratives, and recalled in later instances, where, in any case, we can suppose that Jesus’ followers were carrying out his command. This explanation is not, however, very satisfactory. First, there is no command to repeat in the narratives of the Last Supper in Matt, Mark or in the short reading in Luke 22, which omits everything in v. 19 after “This is my body” and the whole of v. 20. Second, it is difficult to see how a rite that originated in a repetition of Jesus’ gestures and words at the Last Supper should become known as the “breaking of bread.” Why precisely “the breaking of bread,” which seems to give an unwarranted importance to one element, whereas the cup is equally important in the New Testament narratives (except, of course, in the short text of Luke, which does not mention the cup after the bread)?3 In fact, the other New Testament cases of “breaking bread” stand independently of any reference to the Last Supper. Thus, the narratives of the multiplication of loaves and fishes can be understood entirely in terms of Jesus who feeds his followers, both materially and spiritually. We take note here how certain of these narratives are linked with the theme of Jesus’ teaching: Mark 6:34; Luke 9:11 (the contexts of the others show Jesus rather as a healer). Even the passages posterior to the Last Supper do not require an implicit reference to the Supper itself in order to be understood. To take first the meal at Emmaus, it is a good question, why the disciples would recognise the risen Jesus “in the breaking of bread,” as we read in Luke 24:35. An especially instructive case, is that of the breaking of bread during the night at Troas, in Acts 20:7–12. First, let us note that the gesture

3 Barrett 1968, 269–70, points out that, in ordinary households, bread was always available, but wine was not.

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is intimately linked in the narrative with the “death” and “resurrection” of Eutychus (whether or not the young man died in reality). The narrative is structured by a negative moment, followed by a positive moment: these frame the action of breaking the bread. We notice too the imagery of night and dawn, connected respectively with the negative and with the positive moment. A further remark: it is apparent from v. 7 that these people are in the habit of assembling for the breaking of bread in the night of the first day of the week. We should not too readily assume that they have recently adopted this practice in reference to the Last Supper or to the resurrection of Jesus: neither is mentioned or alluded to in the narrative. Not only that, but the name of Jesus does not occur anywhere in it, and Eutychus is the one who dies and rises again. We should look carefully at the possibility that we are dealing with a rite that did not originate at the Last Supper. After all, in the words “Do this in memory of me,” which in any case do not occur in all accounts, the emphasis is not on “Do this,” but on “in memory of me.” The “this,” that they are to “do” from now on “in memory of ” Jesus, can very well be something they are already accustomed to doing. Therefore, I would argue that the breaking of bread was a rite practised by Jesus and his disciples and by groups of a similar type. By a rite, I mean a gesture that is habitual and recognised and capable of conveying meaning, and as such, an element constitutive of the community that practises it. I assume that rites tend to be stable, even when their significance changes. The rite in question lent itself to several somewhat different meanings. It structures a certain number of early Christian texts and is supposed by yet others. In the New Testament, “breaking bread” is not simply a figure of speech for having a meal or even sharing a meal. Broken Bread in the Didache At this point, let us begin a detailed study of the Eucharistic prayer in the Didache. It consists of several parts: 9.1–3 “thanksgiving” (eucharistia) over a cup of wine, then over a “fragment” (klasma) of bread; 9.4 prayer for the gathering of the church; 9.5 a rubric forbidding access to the non-baptized; 10.1–4 “thanksgivings” after having eaten one’s fill; 10.5 prayer for the gathering of the church similar to 9.4.

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We are especially interested in the first part of the prayer:4 1. And concerning the Eucharist (or “thanksgiving”: eucharistia), give thanks in this manner. 2. First concerning the cup. We thank thee, our Father, for the holy vine of David, thy son (or, servant: the Greek word is pais, which can mean either), which thou didst make known through Jesus, thy son (again, pais). Glory be to thee for ever. 3 And concerning the broken bread (the Greek word is klasma, literally “fragment”; variant texts have “bread”). We thank thee, our Father, for the life and knowledge which thou didst make known to us through Jesus, thy son ( pais). Glory be to thee for ever. 4 As this bread that is broken (again, klasma) was scattered upon the mountains, and gathered together, and became one, so let thy Church be gathered together from the ends of the earth into thy kingdom: for thine is the glory and the power through Jesus Christ for ever.

We can observe first a general similarity to certain rites and prayers in use today. Notably, the order of “thanksgivings” in Did. 9.1–3 is the same as that of the qiddush in use among Jews on the eve of Sabbath and festivals, which consists of a benediction over a cup of wine, then for the day about to begin, then the birkat ha-mo‘i (common to every meal with bread) over the broken bread. The words of the benedictions over the cup and the bread are as follows: Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who createst the fruit of the vine . . . Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who bringest forth bread from the earth.

The thanksgiving after having eaten in Did. 10.1–5 corresponds to the rabbinical birkat ha-mazon recited after the meal, which also includes a prayer for the people of Israel and for Jerusalem. Let us pause to note that the same order—first the cup, then the broken bread—occurs both in the rabbinical tradition and in the Didache, and also in 1 Cor 10:16, where Paul mentions “the cup that we bless” before “the bread that we break.” There are instructive variants in the New Testament narratives of Jesus’ Last Supper (where, of course, Jesus pronounces the blessing or thanksgiving over the bread before breaking it). According to Matt 26:26–29 and Mark 14:22–25, the thanksgiving over the cup follows immediately after the blessing over the bread, which takes place while the disciples are eating. In 1 Cor 11:23–26, Jesus gives thanks for the bread at the beginning of the meal and for the cup after they have eaten. In the short Western text of Luke 22:14–19a, there is

4

English translation from Stevenson 1963, 127–28.

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only one cup before the bread; but in the longer standard text, adding vv. 19b–20, there are two cups, each with a different signification, one before the bread and the other after the meal. In the Qumran documents 1 QS 6.4–6 and especially 1 QSa 2.17–22, the presiding priest makes the twofold benediction over the first-fruits of bread and of tirôsh (lightly fermented wine?) at the beginning of the meal. Instead of trying to harmonise these variants on the supposition of a single original substratum, it is perhaps preferable to recognise the traces of different narrative traditions and liturgical customs. That the cup should be mentioned, first before, then after the bread in 1 Cor within a page or two, strongly suggests that its place was not fixed, and so that the two did not necessarily or always go together. A further testimony to the lack of an invariable tradition is found in Mark 14:23, where we read: “And taking a cup he gave thanks and gave (it) to them, and they all drank from it.” It is only in the following verse—so after they have drunk—that Jesus pronounces the “words of institution”; this incoherence may suggest that the words over the cup were added to a narrative that originally did not contain them. The rabbinical rite itself appears to be composite, since it is only on the eve of Sabbaths and festivals that the benediction over the bread, with which every meal ordinarily begins, is preceded by the benediction over the cup. To return to the Didache; it is commonly said that Did. 9.1–3 is simply a spiritualisation or Christianisation of the Jewish table prayers already referred to and supposed to have been already in general use at the time. This explanation is not, however, very satisfactory. First, can we be sure that these prayers, attested in the Talmud, were in use in the 1st or 2nd century? Second, and more importantly, it does not address the problem of the origin of the qiddush and the birkat ha-mo‘i, which are not biblical (unlike the birkat ha-mazon, which corresponds to a biblical precept, cf. Deut 8:10). To reply that Jewish tradition prescribes a benediction before the enjoyment of any gift of creation does not explain the prominence thus given to wine and to bread. Both, in any case, are the result of human industry and not simply the fruit of the vine or of the earth. I would agree that Did. 9.1–3 has been Christianised—or at least “Jesuanised”—by the mention of the name of Jesus. But, even without it, the benediction over the cup still gives thanks for the “holy vine of David,” an expression that is already highly symbolic and spiritual, although not specifically Christian. In any case, it is not obviously derived from the formulation of the rabbinical blessing of God “who createst the fruit of the vine.” If we make a similar

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subtraction from the blessing over the “fragment,” we are left with a thanksgiving for “life” and “knowledge.” There is, once again, an element of “spiritualisation,” but it is not specifically Christian. Further, this “thanksgiving” is still far removed from the text of the rabbinical birkat ha-mo‘i over the broken bread, blessing God “who bringest forth bread from the earth.” So there are at least two Jewish prayers over the cup and the broken bread that of the Didache—minus the specifically Christian formulations—and that of the rabbinical tradition, and neither is reducible to the other. By way of a preliminary conclusion at this stage, we can state the following. All the texts that we have been studying appear to suppose a familiar rite of “the breaking of bread,” which is capable of more than one signification. What is the rite in question? We might imagine a simple breaking off of portions of the loaf, as in the rabbinical table rites and in the “Artoklasia” of the Greek church. On the other hand, there are indications that at least some of these texts suppose a more specific rite. Scattering and Gathering Let us look again at the Didache and in particular at the “gathering prayer” 9.4: “As this bread that is broken (literally fragment, klasma) was scattered upon the mountains, and gathered together, and became one, so let thy Church be gathered together from the ends of the earth into thy kingdom.” In its general intention and in some of its wording, this prayer, and the corresponding prayer in Did. 10.5, resemble that of the Amidah, a prayer recited by Jews every day:5 “Sound the great horn for our freedom; lift up the ensign to gather our exiles, and gather us from the four corners of the earth. Blessed art thou, O Lord, who gatherest the banished ones of thy people Israel.” The prayer in Did. 9.4 could easily be Jewish: even the reference to the “Church” (ekklesia) could stand, but might also of course be a substitution for “people.” The prayer in Did. 9.4, however, contains an important element, which has attracted much comment: “As this fragment was scattered upon the mountains and, gathered together, has became one.” The image conveyed here is usually interpreted as referring to corn that

5

English translation from the Authorized Daily Prayer Book.

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has been scattered while being sown, then gathered at the harvest to form the one bread. It is the image expressed clearly by Cyprian, Ep. 63.13: “. . . as many grains gathered into one and milled together and mixed together make one.” But the text of Didache has, not “grains,” but “fragment” (and parallel texts have “bread”). And why “upon the mountains”? This element has never been sufficiently explained, even though the inference has been drawn from it that Didache was composed in Syria-Palestine and not in Egypt. A quite different line of thought is, however, suggested by looking more closely at the images of “scattered upon the mountains,” followed by “gathered together from the ends of the earth into thy kingdom.” In fact, they rather clearly recall Ezek 34 LXX, especially the following verses: v. v. v. v.

5: 6: 12: 13:

“my sheep were scattered because there were no shepherds”;6 “my sheep were scattered on every mountain”; “so I will seek out my sheep”; “and I will lead them out from all nations and gather them from the lands, and I will lead them into their own land”; v. 14: “I will feed them in good pasture, and on the highest mountain of Israel”; v. 23: “and I will raise up for them one single shepherd, and he will shepherd them, my servant (doulos) David.”

We notice here the strong contacts of theme and language with Did.: in particular between vv. 6, 12, 13 and the “gathering prayer” of Did. 9.4, and between the reference to “my servant David” in v. 23 and to the similar reference in Did. 9.2—even though different Greek words are used. There are parallels to the text of Did. 9.4 elsewhere. That in the Constitutions of the Apostles 7.25.3 omits the element “upon the mountains”; and that in the treatise De Virginitate attributed to St Athanasius (13) has “upon this table.” This latter text7 bears a general resemblance, as to its contents, to Didache and other ancient canonico-liturgical documents—though adapted to form a rule of life for a virgin—but there is no literary dependence on Didache as there is in the case of Book 7 of the Constitutions of the Apostles. The prayer that concerns us reads:

6 We note that the Greek verb translated as “scatter” is here diaspeiro, rather than diaskorpizo as in Didache. 7 Edited by Goltz 1905.

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“And as this bread is scattered upon this table, and gathered together, and became one, etc.” This formulation clearly implies that the bread is first broken or cut and separated, and then the fragments are reassembled to re-form the original unity of the bread. Such a gesture is an effective symbol of the gathering of the Church from the four corners of the earth into God’s Kingdom. The variant in De Virginitate spells out the analogy implied in the first element of the “gathering prayer” in the Didache: “As this bread that was broken was scattered upon this table, so God’s people was scattered upon the mountains.” Occurring as it does in a late source, it must, of course, be used with prudence. It may, however, contain the solution to our problem. I suggest that the formulation of Did. 9.4 is elliptical. Written out in full, it would be: “As this bread that is broken was scattered upon this table, so thy people was scattered upon the mountains; and as this bread that is broken was gathered together, and became one, so let thy Church be gathered together from the ends of the earth into thy kingdom.” We recall Paul’s emphasis on unity: one bread, one body. If this interpretation of the Eucharistic prayer of the Didache is correct, it would suggest that there too the gesture of breaking the bread was followed by another, in which the broken fragments were re-assembled in order to form once more the one bread, thus symbolising the gathering of the Church. Some such gesture, of gathering the pieces of broken bread to re-form the one loaf, may be reflected in the insistence in the narratives of the multiplication on “taking up the fragments,” especially John 6:12–13, which uses the verb “gather.” Something more seems to be implied than a simple concern to tidy up the place where the multitude has just been fed, or even to demonstrate the miraculous abundance of the meal. It is true that this latter element is already contained in 2 Kgs 4:42–44, Elijah’s feeding of his followers, on which the New Testament narratives are modelled; but that of “taking up” or “gathering” the fragments is new to the New Testament and is especially emphasised. The text of Did. 9.4 and that of Ezek 34, which lies behind it, comprise a negative moment (scattering) followed by a positive moment (gathering). We have already noted this structure in the brief narrative of Paul’s night at Troas in Acts 20. A similar structure, and even vocabulary, is found in other significant passages that refer to scattering and eschatological re-gathering. First, Zech 13:7: “I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock will be scattered.” This text is

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quoted by Jesus before his passion in Matt 26:31 and Mark 14:27, and followed by his own words: “but after I have risen, I will go before you into Galilee.” The entire statement by Jesus involves a negative moment (the shepherd is struck, the sheep are scattered), followed by a positive moment ( Jesus’ resurrection, his promise to “go before” his disciples). His words are elucidated by Ezek 34:23: “and I will raise up for them one shepherd, and he will shepherd them, my servant David.” Here, the verb “I will raise up” lends itself, as elsewhere in the New Testament (e.g., Acts 3:22, quoting Deut 18:15–22 LXX), to being applied to the resurrection of Jesus. When we also recall that it was the custom for a shepherd to “go before” his flock, the allusion made by Jesus in Matt 26:32 and Mark 14:27 becomes clear. This quotation and promise are not in Luke, which is consistent with the absence of any allusion to Ezek 34 in his narrative of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes. It is in fact possible to explain very simply the variety of “Eucharistic” symbolism that we find in the New Testament and other early Christian (and rabbinical) literature. Let us suppose that Jesus and his disciples (and other groups of a similar type) practised a rite of breaking and sharing bread, and that it may have been the custom, at least with many, to reassemble the broken fragments before distributing them. The action was accompanied by a “benediction” or “thanksgiving” that expressed the symbolism of the gesture.8 This symbolism was generally articulated into a negative, then a positive moment. There is no need to think that all who used this familiar rite did so in order to express one and the same symbolic meaning. There is plenty of room, from one group to another, or even within the same group, for variation and transformation of meaning, as well as for variant forms of the rite itself. 8 There may be a continuation of this practice in the very ancient Anaphora of Addai and Mari, where, at least in rubrics currently in use in the Holy Apostolic Catholic Assyrian Church of the East, the celebrant is directed to break the “Bukhra” (consecrated Bread) into two halves, then to take both halves with both hands and hold them “with one another as though not broken,” finally to place both halves on the paten, “one upon the other, in the Sign of the Cross”; as he holds the two halves “as though not broken” he says: “These glorious, holy, life-giving and divine Mysteries are set apart, hallowed, perfected, fulfilled, united, commingled, joined and sealed, one with another, in the worshipful and glorious name of the glorious Trinity, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, that they may be to us, O my Lord, for the pardon of debts and the forgiveness of sins, for the great hope of the resurrection from the dead, and for new life in the kingdom of heaven, to us and to the holy church of Christ our Lord, here and everywhere, now, always, and for ever and ever” (translated from the Aramaic by M. J. Birnie and published by the Church’s Commission on Inter-Church Relations and Education Development).

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One theme thus symbolised was the scattering and eschatological gathering of God’s people, Israel, then the church: this is expressed in Did. 9.4 and John 11:52 and was retained in the Christian liturgical tradition. The one who feeds his people (also with eschatological overtones, in Matt and Mark, as well as of Wisdom, in Luke and John) is the theme alluded to in the multiplication narratives and also in those of the Last Supper. The rite can also symbolise the death of Jesus and the coming of the kingdom or Jesus’ return, as in the synoptic narratives of the Last Supper and in Paul; or alternatively Jesus’ death and risen presence, as at Emmaus, where the disciples recognise the familiar rite and at the same time the One who performs it. Paul, for his part, insists on the theme of unity: because there is one bread, there is one body. As a final detail, I want to mention this curious fact. There was a type of bread known in the ancient world—the Roman poet Horace alludes to it (Ep. 1.17.43–51)—known as the quadra. It was a loaf marked with a cross indicating how it might be divided into four portions: I suppose it would have looked rather like a “hot cross bun.” There was, of course, no reference to the cross of Christ, or indeed to the instrument of execution: the cross was simply a mark. Now, in the Apocryphal Acts of Thomas, 50, the bread is marked with a cross before it is broken and distributed. Here, perhaps, the simple utilitarian cross, which people may have been accustomed to make as a preliminary to breaking bread, has become a sign of Jesus’ death for those who break and eat. Bread that is Not Broken But the New Testament does not speak with a single voice on this matter. As we have already noticed, the breaking of bread is absent from the Fourth Gospel. It does not appear in John’s narrative of the Last Supper, which in any case lacks the account of the meal itself such as we find in the Synoptics and Paul. Even more significantly, in John’s account of the feeding in the wilderness, Jesus does not break the bread before distributing it, as he does in Matthew, Mark and Luke, even though afterwards fragments are “gathered together.” Furthermore, in Justin Martyr’s detailed descriptions of the Eucharist (1 Apol. 66–67) the bread does not appear to be ritually broken. I am not inclined to supply this element to the narratives of John or of Justin by assuming that it is supposed by the writer and was simply omitted for some accidental reason. It now becomes very interesting

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to recall that in his description of the daily meals of the Essenes (War 2:130), Josephus expressly tells us that each diner was served with his own loaf of bread. Philo seems to imply the same in his account of the celebrations of the Therapeutae and Therapeutrides (Contempl. 73). In the Qumran texts also there is no mention of breaking the bread, either before or after the priest’s blessing. Similarly, whereas we have seen the breaking of bread in the Acts of John and Thomas, by contrast, in the Apocryphal Acts of Peter 5, we read only that “Peter took bread and gave thanks to the Lord,” before eating “the Eucharist” with the newly baptised Theon. And so we find, both in the New Testament and in related Jewish and Christian texts, evidence of a twofold, and contradictory, practice, of breaking, and of not breaking, bread. The Significance of Breaking Bread We find in the Pythagorean tradition an analogous alternation between a command to break bread and a prohibition of doing so. As a preliminary remark to what follows, I wish to make it clear that my use here of the Pythagorean tradition does not presuppose any dependence on it of the Jewish or Christian practices that we have been studying. Rather, as will become clear, the Pythagorean sayings, and more particularly the reasons given in the tradition, illustrate more general practices and ideas. Of great interest is a Pythagorean akousma (traditional maxim) prohibiting the breaking of bread. This is reported and discussed by Iamblichus, De vita pythagorica, 86, and also by Diogenes Laertius, Vita Pythagorae, 35: the common source seems to be Aristotle’s lost work On the Pythagoreans.9 On the other hand there is also a less known Pythagorean akousma that forbids eating (or biting off ) from an entire loaf (Suidas, s.v. Anaximandros; cf. also Hippolytus, Haer. 6.27.5). It is tempting to combine these two and interpret them together as implicitly prescribing that bread is to be divided by cutting it with a knife, rather than breaking (or biting) it.10 F. Boehm explained that the use of the metal

9 Dillon and Hershbell 1991, 107, n. 3: the English translations of Iamblichus quoted here are taken from this work. 10 Thus Burkert 1972, 172, n. 51.

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knife exorcised evil spirits that might have been in the bread.11 But I am reluctant to fuse the two sayings in this way. Furthermore, it seems a strange proceeding to inculcate a positive precept by way of a double negative:12 all the more so as the two sayings are not found together in the sources. Instead, I would suggest that the Pythagorean tradition handed down alternative traditions. According to one, bread was not to be broken. What is forbidden is no doubt not the rendering of a loaf of bread into portions small enough to go into the eater’s mouth, but rather the ritual of breaking a single loaf at the beginning of the meal for several people to share. The other form of the tradition implicitly enjoins the practice of breaking (and sharing) the same loaf of bread. What may lie behind these different practices—or at least what they could be taken to mean—is illustrated by the reasons given in the Pythagorean tradition for not breaking bread. One cited by both Iamblichus and Diogenes is, “Because it is not advantageous for judgment in Hades”; others cited by Diogenes are: “Bread makes cowards in war” and “It is from [bread] that the whole world begins” (which may derive from an image comparing creation to the process of baking bread). In any case, Iamblichus is not sure whether such explanations were attached to the prohibition from the beginning or were rather added later, “devised by some outside the school trying to give a likely reason.” Indeed, he observes, “in the past, all who were friends came together in foreign fashion for one loaf of bread.” This remark is repeated in slightly different, and rather clearer, form by Diogenes Laertius: “Because once friends used to come together over one [ loaf ], as the barbarians do even to this day.” Here we are close to the thought of Paul in 1 Cor 10:17: “Because there is one bread, we who are many are one body, for we all share in the one bread.” But whereas with Paul it is expressly stated that the bread is broken, we are dealing here with attempts to explain why, in at least one stream of the Pythagorean tradition, the bread is not broken. Iamblichus, as he reports the ancient custom of friends gathering around a single loaf, tells us that “some say that one should not divide that which brings together”; and once again Diogenes Laertius has a similar comment.

11 12

Boehm 1905, 43. Thus also Delatte 1922, 238–39.

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Iamblichus adds: “But others say that such an omen ought not to be made at the beginning of a meal by breaking and crushing.” In other words, the prohibition would attest an ancient custom, still observed among non-Greeks: a company of friends gathered around one loaf of bread. According to one current of tradition, it would be an ill gesture to break this symbol of unity and friendship; alternatively, to break or crush bread—no doubt because it is the “staff of life”—at the beginning of the meal can be an (evil) omen portending death. Such ideas may well lie behind the non-breaking of bread in certain New Testament and related texts. At the same time, they would explain how in other texts the gesture of breaking bread so readily symbolizes the death of Jesus—and how the reuniting of the broken fragments would symbolize his resurrection. In that case we can see how Jesus’ disciples at Emmaus could “recognise him in the breaking of bread” (Luke 24:35). Bibliography Barrett, C. K. 1968. The First Epistle to the Corinthians. Harper’s New Testament Commentaries. New York, Hagerstown, San Francisco, London. Boehm, F. 1909. De Symbolis Pythagoreis. Berlin. Burkert, W. 1972. Lore and Science in Ancient Pythagoreanism. Translated by E. L. Minar, Jr. Cambridge, Mass. Delatte, A. 1992. La Vie de Pythagore de Diogène Laërce. Brussels. Dillon, J. and J. Hershbell. 1991. Iamblichus. On the Pythagorean Way of Life: Text, Translation and Notes. Atlanta, Ga. Goltz, E. von der. 1905. De Virginitate. Eine echte Schrift des Athanasius. Texte und Untersuchungen 29 (n.F. 14), 2. Leipzig. Stevenson, J. 1963. A New Eusebius. London. Taylor, J. 1991a. La fraction du pain en Luc-Actes. Pages 281–95 in The Unity of LukeActs (BETL 142). Edited by J. Verheyden, Leuven. ———. 1992b. The Breaking of the Bread. Ephemerides Liturgicae. 113:332–46.

COMPOSITION AND PERFORMANCE IN MARK 13 Adela Yarbro Collins Introduction The task of this paper is to discuss the production of Mark 13 and the manner in which it was conveyed to its audience, with attention to social context and questions of orality, literacy, and textualization. A brief discussion of the role of orality in New Testament scholarship is in order at the start. The pioneering form critics of the New Testament, Martin Dibelius, Karl Ludwig Schmidt and Rudolf Bultmann, presupposed the understanding of orality characteristic of the study of folklore in the nineteenth century. Bultmann especially articulated laws of transmission and made use of an evolutionary theoretical framework. These proposed laws and the evolutionary framework were criticized by E. P. Sanders, Werner Kelber, and others. Kelber, however, was overly influenced by the view of Albert Lord and Milman Parry that there is a clear-cut distinction between oral and written utterances.1 The work of Ruth Finnegan and Jan Vansina implies that a model of co-existence and interaction fits the Hellenistic and the early Roman imperial cultures better than the thesis that an oral phase was followed by a textual phase.2 Further, Vansina has shown that the only marked difference between oral and written compositions is that repetition is more common in oral texts.3 An enduring contribution of Parry and Lord, however, is the conclusion that it is impossible to establish an original text. As Henaut has argued, this insight, along with an appreciation for the changeability of oral communication and its close link to particular social contexts, means that it is impossible to trace the history of a particular tradition through the oral phase of its transmission.4 Furthermore, the similarlities between ancient oral and written utterances make it much more 1 Kelber 1983, 14–15, 32–34. See the critiques by Henaut 1993, 75–99; Achtemeier, 1990, esp. p. 27, n. 156. 2 Henaut 1993, 96, 117, 302. 3 Ibid., 75. 4 Ibid., 14–15.

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difficult than is usually acknowledged to prove that oral tradition lies behind any particular text.5 In his presidential address to the Society of Biblical Literature in 1989, Paul Achtemeier emphasized that ancient written texts had an oral character in several different ways. With regard to production, many ancient texts were dictated to a scribe; in the case of the wealthy, to a slave. Even authors who wrote in their own hands dictated aloud to themselves as they wrote.6 Similarly, reading was almost universally accomplished by reading aloud. Often, a work was read aloud to a group, but even a person reading alone would vocalize the text.7 Finally, ancient manuscripts had few visual indications of structure, such as the separation of words and paragraphs and marks of punctuation. Thus, to aid both the reader and the listener of a text, authors would use oral indications of structure in the written text, such as the repetition of individual points, sometimes in formal parallelism. Other such techniques included the introduction of a theme with subsequent development and inclusio or ring composition, accomplished by repeating a similar formula at the beginning and end of a unit. All such signals would be directed to the ear and not to the eye.8 Three further observations made by Achtemeier are relevant to the study of Mark 13: (1) oral signals of organization are even more necessary in written speeches than in written narratives; (2) discrepancies or inconsistencies may result from the need to give oral or aural clues to the listeners and thus not be indications of the use of sources; and (3) because of the physical character of ancient manuscripts, references to other works, for example, quotations and allusions, were much more likely to have been made from memory than copied from a source.9 The Author of Mark Although I cannot discuss these issues in detail in this context, it seems worthwhile to indicate next my working hypothesis concerning the author of the Gospel according to Mark. With regard to his specific identity, I agree with Martin Hengel that the widely accepted hypothesis 5 6 7 8 9

Ibid., 305. Achtemeier 1990, 12–13, 15. Ibid., 15–17. Ibid., 17–19; on the use of oral techniques in written works, see also Dewey 1989. Ibid., 21, 26–27.

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that the four eventually canonical Gospels circulated anonymously until some point in the second century is too problematic to be accepted. So the attribution to someone named “Mark” is likely to be reliable.10 If this historical person is not the same as the “John Mark” of Acts 12:12, the actual author was probably someone like him. His two names indicate his tri-cultural status. The name “John” is probably a Hellenized form of the Semitic personal name “Johanan.” “Mark” goes back to the Roman praenomen “Marcus,” which was in common use among Greek-speaking peoples from the Augustan age onward.11 The Semitic name suggests a Jewish cultural and religious origin. The name “Mark” indicates at least a minimal openness to Hellenistic culture. In light of the evidence discussed by Achtemeier, we may imagine Mark either dictating or writing his Gospel in his own hand. If he dictated it, he may have made preliminary notes or drafts of portions of the work in his own hand. He may have been wealthy enough to own a slave who could write or to hire a scribe. Another possibility is that a believer with scribal skills volunteered to write the manuscript by taking dictation. In any case, the author of such a work was likely to be literate. He may have learned his Greek at a gymnasium, at a synagogue school, or from a tutor employed by his parents. The Composition of Mark 13 After these preliminary remarks, we may turn now to the composition of Mark 13. With regard to the use of sources, there are three main options: (1) Mark used a substantial, coherent written source; (2) Mark joined together a variety of materials, in oral or written form; (3) Mark took a more active role in composing the discourse, making use of Scripture and other sources in written and oral form. An advocate of the first option is Rudolf Pesch, who argued that vv. 1–2 belonged to the pre-Markan passion narrative and most of vv. 3–31 represent a pre-Markan, Christian apocalypse written during the Jewish war. Mark added v. 6 to warn against Parousia-enthusiasts; v. 10 to indicate that the Gentile mission will take place before the end; vv. 23 and 32 to

10 11

Hengel 1984, 11–12 (ET 66–67); cf. Stanton 1997, esp. 332–34. Swete 1913, xiii.

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dampen imminent expectation; and vv. 33–37 to urge watchfulness in light of the parousia.12 Another advocate of the first option is Egon Brandenburger, according to whom the basis of Mark 13 is a Christian apocalyptic text written after the beginning of the Jewish war. He assigned less material to this source than Pesch, however, including mainly the narrative portions of the speech in the source: vv. 7–8, 14–20, and 24–27. He argued that vv. 1b–2, most of vv. 9–13, vv. 21–22, 30–32, and 34–36 come from oral tradition. The rest is Markan redaction, although some of the relevant verses may also be from oral tradition.13 Lars Hartman argued that “the nucleus of the eschatological discourse consisted of a ‘midrash’ on Dn (2,31–35), 7,7–27, 8,9–26, 9,24–27 and 11,21–12,4(13).”14 As far as I could tell, he does not argue that this “midrash” was written, but speaks about both its “solidity and plasticity.”15 This source is represented by Mark 13:5b–8, 12–16, 19–22, and 24–27; he expressed some doubt about vv. 8b and 15a. He concluded that “the original ‘midrash’ originated in the teaching of Jesus.”16 An article published by G. R. Beasley-Murray in 1983 is a good example of the second option.17 He argued that the discourse was composed by “welding” together four groups of sayings and individual logia into a whole as a response to Jewish war, either before or after 70 C.E. The social context in which the groups of sayings were formed, respectively, was early Christian catechesis, the instruction of new converts. One group of sayings concerned “the tribulation of Israel” and is now represented by Mark 13:14–20. Another related to “the tribulation of the disciples of Jesus,” now found in vv. 9–13. The core of this group are two sayings (vv. 9, 11) related to the Q-saying that appears in Luke 12:11–12. A third group treated the theme “false messiahs and the true Messiah” and constitutes vv. 21–27. The fourth expressed the theme “parousia and watchfulness” and consists of vv. 33–37.18 In his book, The Kingdom in Mark, Kelber followed earlier scholars in assuming that Mark used a source in composing chapter 13. His own approach to the passage, however, was the method of “composition 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Pesch 1977, 266–67. Brandenburger 1984, 41–42, 166–67. Hartman 1966, 235. Ibid., 251. Ibid., 247. Beasley-Murray 1983. Ibid., 416–17.

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criticism,” and his aim was to interpret the discourse in the context of Mark as a whole. Because of its methodological focus, this book may serve as an example of the third option.19 He argued that the introduction to the speech, 13:1–4, is “a redactional product throughout.”20 Following others, he interpreted vv. 5b–6 and 21–22 as doublets that deal with the issue of deception and together serve as a framing device. These framing units “exercise a controlling influence upon the material they embrace.” In other words, this large section of the speech must be interpreted in terms of false prophecy. He concluded further that this first main part of the speech was organized with the purpose of refuting a false viewpoint. In fact, the main purpose of the discourse as a whole, in his view, was to correct “an erroneously conceived realized eschatology.”21 He argued that “in Judea” in 13:14 is redactional; the phrase was added to signal, in symbolic fashion, that the audience should flee to Galilee: “The flight of the Judean Christians is an eschatological exodus out of the land of Satan into the promised land of the Kingdom.”22 In his analysis, the second and central part of the discourse consists of vv. 24–27. This section reaffirms the parousia as a future event. The third section, vv. 28–37, answers the question of the timing of the parousia and how it relates to the “experienced destruction of the temple.”23 Jan Lambrecht’s work on Mark 13 acknowledges the use of sources, but emphasizes the freedom with which “the final editor” shaped the material.24 The Little Apocalypse Theory Although it is likely that Mark used one or more written sources in composing this chapter, it is unlikely, in my view, that he used an extensive, coherent written source. One of the most influential arguments for the use of such a source is that the aside to the reader in v. 14 comes from the source and is not an aside directed by the Evangelist to his audience. This parenthetical remark, “Let the reader understand,” is open

19 20 21 22 23 24

Kelber 1974, 109–10. Ibid., 111. Ibid., 114–15. Ibid., 121. Ibid., 122, 124. Lambrecht 1966, 1967.

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to a variety of interpretations.25 One of the oldest of these argues that the object of understanding is the text of Daniel. As Morna Hooker has pointed out, this theory probably arose as an attempt to explain why Jesus, in speaking to the four disciples, would refer to a “reader.”26 From the point of view of this theory, the eschatological discourse is basically authentic. The authenticity of the discourse was challenged by Timothy Colani in 1864. He argued that the aside was part of the text of a JewishChristian apocalypse which was equivalent to the divine revelation instructing the members of the Christian community in Jerusalem to leave that city on account of persecutions and to flee to Pella before the Jewish war with Rome had begun.27 In 1933, G. Hölscher argued that “the little apocalypse” was a Jewish text written around 40 c.e. in the context of the crisis evoked by Caligula’s attempt to install his statue in the temple in Jerusalem.28 Some advocates of the “little apocalypse” theory suggested that this text circulated in Judea in the form of an apocalyptic flier.29 Gerd Theissen has recently argued in favor of an apocalyptic flier circulating around 40 c.e.30 Those who use the expression “Let the reader understand” as evidence for a written source must conclude that the Evangelist reproduced these words without realizing the absurdity of attributing this expression to Jesus in the context of a speech to four disciples.31 It is much more likely that the aside is a literary device to indicate that the preceding allusion to the “abomination of desolation” is a cryptic saying that requires interpretation. This literary device belongs to ancient practical apocalyptic hermeneutics. Compare the exhortation

25 The fullest list of possible interpretations of which I am aware is that of Fowler 1991, 83–87. 26 Hooker 1991, 314. Representatives of the position that the object of understanding is Daniel include Cranfield, 1959; Bultmann 1964 (with a question mark and in combination with the little apocalypse theory); Evans 2001, ad loc. Scholars who accept this argument, but only as a partial explanation or as one of two or more reasonable explanations, include Taylor 1966, 511–12; Gundry 1993, 742. 27 See the summary of Colani’s interpretation in Beasley-Murray 1993, 17; cf. Eusebius Hist. Eccl. 3.5. Pesch’s interpretation has been influenced, directly or indirectly, by Colani’s. See Pesch 1977, 2. 292. 28 See the summary in Beasley-Murray 1993, 72–73. 29 Taylor 1966, 498. 30 Theissen 1989, 145–76; 1991, 136–65. 31 Hooker 1991, 314.

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to one with understanding to calculate the number of the beast in Rev 13:18.32 An equally, if not more, interesting question for our purposes is who the “reader” is who is exhorted to understand. Most of the commentators who do not accept the “little apocalypse” theory argue or assume that the individual “reader” of Mark’s Gospel is meant.33 A problem for this interpretation is the likelihood that the Gospel was composed to be read aloud to an assembled audience.34 It would thus be odd for the Evangelist to address both an “individual” (note the use of the singular here) and a member of the audience as a “reader.” Ernest Best has argued that the phrase “let the reader understand” was a private note to the public reader, the person who read the Gospel aloud for an assembled group. It was not meant to be read aloud. It was intended to draw attention to the “grammatical solecism,” the fact that the neuter βδέλυγμα (“abomination” or “sacrilege”) is followed by a masculine participle ἑστηκώς (“standing”). This shift in grammatical gender is important for interpretation. The private reader would have time to note it and reflect upon it, but the public reader would not have that leisure and needed to be warned not to perceive the incongruity as a mistake and correct it orally. To clarify his point, Best puts the verse into a modern idiom as follows: “But when you see that thing, the abomination of desolation, standing where he [sic] should not, then let those who are in Judea flee to the mountains.”35 This theory is ingenious and attractive, but I see several problems with it. One is that public readers most likely did not read texts like Mark’s Gospel to an assembled audience “cold,” so to speak. Such readers had no doubt read the Gospel privately in advance, even studied it, and thus would not be taken by surprise by the shift in grammatical

32 Brandenburger 1984, 50; cf. also Rev 17:9. The juxtaposition of the statement that those who are wise will understand with the two calculations of the end in Dan 12:10– 12 is also analogous. Those who follow this line of interpretation include Hooker 1991, 315; Hurtado 1983, 220; Johnson 1960, 216; Lane 1974, 467; Taylor 1966, 511–12. 33 Cranfield 1959, 403; Donahue and Harrington 2002, 372, describe this as the most common view; they themselves allow that “the reader” could also be the one who read the Gospel to the assembly; Evans 2001, 320; Fowler 1991, 87 (He uses the term “narratee,” rather than “reader.”); Gould 1896, 246–47; Gundry 1993, 742 (He lists this as the first of two possibilities.); Hooker 1991, 314–15; Hurtado 1983, 220; Lane 1974, 467, n. 77. 34 So, among others, Fowler 1991, 84. 35 Best 1989, 128–30; my attention was brought to this article by Donahue and Harrington 2002, 372.

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gender. Best himself admits that the “gloss” was very early, since Matthew evidently read it in the text of Mark that he used. He also points out that “So long then as a living tradition of the way a text was read still existed, punctuation was unnecessary.”36 If no punctuation was necessary, then this alleged gloss would not have been necessary either. Another problem is that the gender shift is not strictly speaking a solecism, since constructio ad sensum was widespread in Greek from early times. Elsewhere in Mark a masculine participle is used with a neuter noun, when the noun represents a personal being.37 So, ingenious as this hypothesis is, it should not be adopted. Like Best, Julius Wellhausen, following Carl Weizsäcker, argued that the aside is addressed to the person entrusted with the reading of the Gospel to the community. He defined the purpose, however, as alerting the reader and the listening audience to the fact that this public reader would be able to explain the allusion to the “abomination of desolation.”38 It has been argued against this interpretation that “understand” does not mean “interpret.”39 In the literary and social context, however, the two are closely related. Literate members of the community were likely to be leaders and teachers as well.40 Wellhausen also pointed out that, in the prologue to Sirach, ὁ ἀναγινώσκων is one who is learned in the scriptures.41 The relevant part of the prologue reads, “Now those who read the scriptures must not only themselves understand them, but must also as lovers of learning be able through the spoken and written word to help the outsiders.”42 The outsiders (οἱ ἐκτός) are those outside the scribal or wisdom schools, who are unable to read the scriptures.43 The situation was analogous in the early church. Most of the members of the local communities were probably illiterate, and copies of the Gospels were

Best 1989, 130. Mark 9:20, 26; BDF §134 (3); §282 (4); §296. 38 Wellhausen, 1903, 103. 39 Theissen 1989, 137; ET 1991, 128–29. He contrasts the νοείτω (“understand”) of Mark 13:14 with the διερμηνευέτω (“interpret” or “translate”) in 1 Cor 14:27, but the latter passage comes from an entirely different context. 40 Gamble 1995, 5, 8–9. 41 Wellhausen 1903, 103. 42 Sir Prol. 4–6; trans. NRSV (Rahlfs’ numbering used here). 43 Cf. Ezra 7:11; Neh 8:1–4; cited in Skehan and Di Lella 1987, 133; see also Bultmann 1964, 344. The social setting of Jewish scribes seems more relevant than the role of the professional reader discussed in Fowler 1991, 84, who also acknowledges the relevance of the Jewish practice of the public reading of scripture. 36 37

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expensive and rare. So public reading by an individual before a local assembly was the rule.44 Although it was probably written considerably later than Mark, the first letter to Timothy provides a notable analogy to the probable social setting of the parenthetical comment in Mark. The alleged author of the letter, Paul, instructs his representative, Timothy, to devote himself to “public reading, exhortation, and teaching.”45 Here, as in Mark 13:14, it is implied that the ability to read a text aloud before an assembly of fellow believers is connected with the authority to exhort and to teach the members of such an assembly.46 The evidence supports the conclusion that it is more likely that the “reader” in the phrase “Let the reader understand” is the one who actually reads the text to the audience, rather than the individual member of the audience.47 If the author wished to address such individuals directly, he probably would have used a formula like “Let anyone who has ears to hear, hear!”48 In any case, the social setting of the expression “Let the reader understand” was both oral and scribal. It is oral in the sense that the Gospel was publicly read aloud and probably interpreted and applied as well. It is scribal in the sense that the Gospel was a written text which the public reader had probably read privately and studied. But the practices of private reading and study themselves were most likely rooted in oral contexts of teaching and handing on the tradition. As I have argued elsewhere, the other arguments for the use of an extensive written source are equally weak.49 While the use of such a source cannot be ruled out with certainty, the evidence is insufficient to demonstrate its use.

1 Thess 5:27; Col 4:16; Rev 1:3; Bultmann 1964, 343; Fowler 1991, 84. 1 Tim 4:13. 46 Fee 1984, 107–8, argues that the three activities are basically the same, “and as such are to be Timothy’s positive way of counteracting the erroneous teachings (cf. 2 Tim 3:14–17).” 47 Note that Josephus refers occasionally to his readers in the plural, but never in the singular; War 7.454; Ant. 1.18, 24; Ant. 11. 68; Ant. 14. 218; Ant. 14. 265; Life 27. 48 Mark 4:9; all translations of Mark are my own; cf. Rev 2:7, 11, 17; Theissen 1989, 137; ET 1991, 128–29. 49 Yarbro Collins 1992, 73–91. 44 45

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adela yarbro collins The Evangelist as Compiler of Traditions

It is clear that Mark 13 is composed of a variety of materials.50 Scholars differ, however, on whether the emphasis should be placed upon Mark as a compiler of traditions or upon Mark as an author who had mastery of his materials. An underlying issue is the degree to which any of the material can be said to originate with the historical Jesus. A further issue is the significance of the presence of typical traditional motifs and structures. Hartman studied “certain structures in Jewish apocalyptic texts whose contents resemble that of ” Mark 13 and the part that Scripture played “in the building of those structures.” He defined these structures as “patterns of thought or conceptual frameworks which seem to have played a part in the formation of individual portions of text.”51 Henaut cited David Stern to the effect that “the parablist was able to draw upon a kind of ideal thesaurus of stereotyped traditional elements in order to improvise a parable under spontaneous conditions.” But, as Henaut pointed out, “This thesaurus [of common-place plots and characterizations] would have been equally available to the Evangelists and the authors of any literary sources they inherited.”52 The same holds true for Hartman’s “structures.” The issue that I would like to focus on in this part of the paper is whether pre-Markan tradition can be discerned in the description of the coming of the Son of Man in 13:24–27. Alfred Resch argued that Paul’s description of the parousia in 1 Thess 4:13–18 is dependent on sayings of Jesus that are also found in the Synoptic Gospels. He interpreted the reference to a λόγος κυρίου in v. 15 to mean that Paul knew some sayings attributed to the historical Jesus. He proposed that ἁρπαγησόμεθα (“we will be taken up”) in v. 17 is related to ἐπισυνάξει τοὺς ἐκλεκτούς in Mark 13:27 and that ἐν νεφέλαις (“in clouds” or “on clouds”) in 1 Thess 4:17 is related to the same Greek phrase in Mark 13:26.53 Béda Rigaux concluded that the λόγος κυρίου in 1 Thess 4:15 refers to the same apocalyptic revelation attributed to Jesus that is

See, e.g., the list in Brandenburger 1984, 13. Hartman 1966, 13–14. 52 Henaut 1993, 78. 53 1 Thess 1:10 also refers to the parousia; Resch 1904, 38, 339. Holtz 1991, 385 also concluded that the λόγος κυρίου in 1 Thess 4:15 is “a designation of a received saying of Jesus.” 50 51

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recorded in Mark 13 and its parallels. In his view, there is a relationship between 1 Thess 4:16–17 and the synoptic eschatological discourse.54 David Wenham interpreted the λόγος κυρίου as signifying “the traditional description of the Parousia.”55 He argued further that Paul did not quote the tradition verbatim, but expounded it freely. If Paul’s treatment of the tradition is related to a Synoptic saying, then Mark 13:27 would be a good candidate, since ἄξει σὺν αὐτῷ in 1 Thess 4:14 is similar and perhaps related to ἐπισυνάξει τοὺς ἐκλεκτούς in that Markan verse.56 He concluded that the link is indirect through “the eschatological parenesis of the Greek-speaking church.”57 Hartman argued that the word λόγος in the phrase λόγος κυρίου in 1 Thess 4:15 does not necessarily mean an individual saying. It can also refer to a “discourse” or part of one. The phrase could thus be translated “a teaching of the Lord” or “an instruction of the Lord.”58 He argued further that, in this verse, Paul is not repeating a tradition the way he does in 1 Corinthians 11 and 15. Here Paul refers to a teaching of the Lord and “interprets and supplements [it] for his own purpose.”59 Hartman concluded that Paul knew the “midrash” on Daniel on which Mark 13 is based.60 Other scholars, however, have argued that the phrase λόγος κυρίου here refers to a saying of the risen Lord received by Paul as a prophet, which he then communicated to the Thessalonians.61 The similarities between 1 Thessalonians 4 and the eschatological discourse of the Synoptics make this hypothesis unnecessary.62 The connection between 1 Thessalonians 4 and Mark 13 has also been called into question by the argument that the so-called “rapture,” the idea that “we will be taken up” (ἁρπαγησόμεθα) in 1 Thess 4:17, is peculiar to Paul.63 I would

Rigaux 1956, 96–104, 539. Wenham 1981, 367, n. 17. Marshall (1983, 126) takes a similar position. 56 See Wenham 1981, 348 (g); 368, n. 17. He notes that the motifs of clouds and archangel/angels link the Pauline passage to Mark 13:26–27; 348 (c) and (d); 353. 57 Wenham 1981, 349, 353. 58 Hartman 1966, 182. 59 Ibid., 188. 60 Ibid., 188–90; he is followed by Wanamaker (1983, 171). 61 For example, Malherbe 2000, 268–69; he puts weight on the phrase λέγομεν ἐν λόγῳ κυρίου as a “prophetic claim.” See also Henneken 1969, 88–91. For other scholars who take this position, see Malherbe 2000, 268–69; Henneken 1969, 82, n. 28, and Wanamaker 1983, 170. 62 These similarities are recognized by Malherbe 2000, 274, 276–77. 63 Marshall 1983, 130. 54 55

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argue, on the contrary, that the description of the Son of Man sending out the angels to gather the elect from the four winds in Mark 13:27 presupposes an event similar to the one that Paul describes. Granted, the Markan passage does not specify where the elect will be taken once they are gathered, but the involvement of angels suggests that they are taken to heaven. In light of the variability of oral tradition and its constant adaptation to new situations, the connection between Mark 13:26–27 and 1 Thess 4:15–17 could be explained by positing that each text has resulted from the textualization of a different version of the oral tradition about the parousia. Such a conclusion, however, must remain tentative, since it is equally possible that each text results from its respective author’s adaptation and actualization of an earlier written text which involved rewriting the text in his own words.64 Mark describes the event primarily in visual terms, whereas Paul emphasizes what will be heard.65 As noted earlier, a primary concern of those who present Mark as a compiler of traditions is to show that at least some of those traditions go back to the historical Jesus. Now it may be that some of the traditions in Mark 13 do indeed go back to the historical Jesus. The description of the coming of the Son of Man on or in clouds in v. 27 may well go back to him. As I have argued elsewhere, the hypothesis that best explains the Synoptic evidence concerning the Son of Man sayings is that the historical Jesus, alluding to Daniel 7:13, spoke about a heavenly Son of Man figure to come in the future.66 But, for a variety of reasons, not least among them the use of oral techniques in the composition of Mark 13, it is not possible to reconstruct earlier oral or even written traditions used by the Evangelist in this chapter with a reasonable degree of certainty. The Evangelist as Composer of Mark 13 In terms of genre, Mark 13 consists of two scholastic dialogues. In the first, vv. 1–2, the dialogue provides a setting for a prophetic saying of 64 Robbins categorizes the latter procedure as “Recitation of a saying using words different from the authoritative source.” As an example, he mentions Paul’s version (in 1 Cor 9:14) of the Synoptic saying “for laborers deserve their food” (Matt 10:10//Luke 10:7). See Robbins 1996, 42. 65 Kelber 1983, 143–44. 66 Yarbro Collins 1987, 1990; 1991; 1993, 92–96.

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Jesus which may be traditional. In an analogous way, the second dialogue, vv. 3–37, provides a setting for an apocalyptic discourse attributed to Jesus. When the two are viewed together, it is clear that the whole reflects the typically Markan construction in which Jesus’ public teaching is followed by private explanation to a smaller group.67 As Hartman and others have pointed out, allusions to Daniel play a significant role in Mark 13. The question of the disciples in 13:4 alludes to, or at least echoes, Dan 12:7.68 It is generally recognized that Dan 7:13 plays a major role in the tradition concerning the parousia of Jesus. The rhetorical exigence that led the Evangelist to write chapter 13, and perhaps the Gospel as a whole, was the appearance of messianic pretenders during the first Jewish War with Rome.69 A passage in Daniel that may have inspired the attempt to correlate the prophecies of Daniel with the events of the Evangelist’s time is Dan 9:26–27: After the sixty-two weeks, an anointed one shall be cut off and shall have nothing, and the troops of the prince who is to come shall destroy the city and the sanctuary. Its end shall come with a flood, and to the end there shall be war. Desolations are decreed. He shall make a strong covenant with many for one week, and for half of the week he shall make sacrifice and offering cease; and in their place shall be an abomination that desolates, until the decreed end is poured out upon the desolator.70

Mark may have associated the “anointed one” with Jesus and the “prince who is to come” with the Roman emperor or his general who would destroy the city of Jerusalem and the temple. The expression “to the end there shall be war” evoked or reinforced the understanding that the events of the Jewish War with Rome constituted an immediate prelude to the End, and the context of this passage in Daniel associated that war with the “abomination that desolates.” As Hartman has shown, the discourse alludes to other texts alongside Daniel, some from the books of Moses and others from the prophets.71 Although Mark may have had predecessors with regard to his line of interpretation and technique, much of this work of using older texts

Yarbro Collins, 1996, esp. 8–10. The Old Greek version of Daniel, Theodotion, and Mark 13:4 share a form of συντελεῖσθαι and the words ταῦτα and πάντα; cf. Hartman 1966, 145. 69 Yarbro Collins 1996, 5–36. 70 Trans. NRSV. Cf. Beasley-Murray 1983, 416. 71 See, e.g., Hartman 1966, 147–48. One need not agree with every alleged allusion to accept the general point. 67 68

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to explain the contemporary situation may be his own contribution. It is likely that he used these older texts, consciously or unconsciously, from memory.72 Daniel, however, is clearly the main inspiration for the construction of the discourse.73 Vv. 5b–6 constitute the first statement of the discourse that replies to the question of the four disciples. The opening statement, by virtue of its position, is highly important for interpreting the discourse as a whole, but this remark is far from easy to interpret. Wilhelm Heitmüller, who did an extensive study on Greek expressions related to an activity “in the name of Jesus,” argued that the phrase ἐπὶ τῷ ὀνόματί μου here reflects an idiom that appears in ancient literary texts and that it means “under the name of ” a person or thing.74 The text that he took to be most similar to Mark 13:6 is a passage from Lucian’s work The Dead Come to Life or The Fisherman: Ὁρᾶτε μὴ οὐ Φιλοσοφίαν οὗτός γε ἀλλὰ γόητας ἄνδρας ἐπὶ τῷ ἡμετέρῳ ὀνόματι πολλὰ καὶ μιαρὰ πράττοντας ἠγόρευεν κακῶς (“Careful! Perhaps

his abuse was not directed against Philosophy, but against imposters who do much that is vile in our name”).75

Heitmüller cited a group of texts in which this idiom appears and argued that, in these texts, the formula “indicates the title, the category, the basis (or the pretext) under which or with reference to which this or that occurs.” He infers that this usage involves the idea that an activity takes place in connection with the name of this or that person, that is, it occurs under the actual naming of that person or with reference to the name of the person.76 He argues then that Mark 13:6 implies “the naming or the utilization” of “my name.”77 It is not entirely clear, however, that the “name” in question is “Jesus.” It could equally well be “Christ.” In the story in Mark 9 about the exorcist who was not following Jesus and his disciples, John says to Jesus, “‘Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name and we prohibited him (from doing so), because he was not following us.’ Jesus, however, said, ‘Do not prohibit him; for there is no one who will do a powerful work in my name and be able soon afterward to 72 73 74 75 76 77

Cf. ibid., 139. Ibid., 145. Heitmüller 1903, 50, 63. Lucian, Pisc. 15. Heitmüller 1903, 50. Ibid., 63.

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revile me.’”78 In the saying that is loosely attached to this story, Jesus says: “For whoever gives you a cup of water on the ground that you belong to Christ,79 truly I say to you, he will surely not lose his reward.”80 The phrase “on the ground that you belong to Christ” is an idiomatic translation of the Greek ἐν ὀνόματι ὅτι Χριστοῦ ἐστε, which is roughly parallel to ἐν τῷ ὀνόματί σου in v. 38 and to ἐπὶ τῷ ὀνόματί μου in v. 39. The fact that the Evangelist attached the saying of v. 41 to this story suggests that, when Jesus speaks, “in my name” could mean “in the name of Christ,” as well as “in the name of Jesus.” On the basis of this evidence, I would argue that “those who come in my name” in 13:6 refers to those who claimed to be the χριστός, the eschatological king of Israel. From Mark’s point of view, these men were claiming a “name,” “messiah,” that belonged to Jesus alone. Just as the speaker in Lucian’s text distinguished between those who were legitimately called “philosophers” and those who were philosophical imposters, so Mark distinguishes between Jesus as the genuine “Christ” or “Messiah” and those who falsely claimed the name. Josephus gives evidence for such pretenders, most importantly Menahem and Simon son of Gioras, who emerged as messianic leaders in the Jewish revolt.81 Vv. 7–8 consist of prophetic and apocalyptic commonplaces, whose function here is to place the appearance of the messianic deceivers in the context of the last days. Given the prominence of allusions to Daniel, it is noteworthy that the phrase δεῖ γενέσθαι in v. 7c alludes to Dan 2:28–29. Hartman argued that the admonition in 13:9a, “take heed to yourselves,” involves a change of perspective in the speech. The preceding verses deal with widespread disruptive events, whereas v. 9 turns to the personal situation of the addressees.82 It is true that the perspective shifts dramatically from v. 8 to v. 9, but such is not sufficient evidence that vv. 9–11 constitute an insertion. Just as the Markan Jesus admonished his audience in v. 5b, he turns again here to indicate what the Mark 9:38–39. The earliest recoverable reading is probably ἐν ὀνόματι ὅτι Χριστοῦ ἐστε (“on the ground that you belong to Christ”), attested by ‫א‬2 A B C* et al. In this context, ἐν ὀνόματι ὅτι (“on the ground that”) is a standard Greek idiom; see Moule 1960, 79; BDF, §397 (3); Taylor 1966, ad loc. 80 Mark 9:41. 81 Yarbro Collins 1996, 14–18. 82 Hartman 1966, 176. 78 79

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role of the addressees will be during the period of political, social and natural chaos. Hartman also pointed out that vv. 9–11 are not as closely associated with older Scripture as the surrounding verses.83 This variation, however, is explicable in terms of the Evangelist’s aims and techniques. Others have argued that the reference to the proclamation of the gospel to all nations in v. 10 is an insertion by the Evangelist into a pre-Markan context.84 But this verse is closely linked to its context. The temporal designation “first” in v. 10 is related to the statement in v. 7 that “the end is not yet.” The odd placement of v. 10 may be due to the style of the author and a rather successful attempt to create dramatic effect. The audience is told that deceivers and wars will come, but the end is not yet. Yet greater upheavals will occur, and even these are just the beginning of the birth pains. Their own pains are described in terms of being “handed over,” as Jesus was, to councils and others for his sake. These threatening events are interpreted as an occasion for “witness” or “testimony” to the interrogators.85 This positive perspective then leads into the generalizing statement about the gospel being proclaimed to all nations. It is backed up with the promise of support through the Holy Spirit. The divisive events of brother handing brother over to death and so forth are followed by the promise that all who endure to the end will be saved. Thus the “first” of v. 10 both looks back to the remark in v. 7 that “the end is not yet” and forward to the promise that those who endure “to the end” will be saved. In this passage, the author adopts Christian language86 in order to indicate that, during the period of upheaval, the task of the followers of Jesus will be the proclamation of the good news. Only after this task is accomplished will the divine intervention occur.87 As noted earlier, the allusion to the desolating sacrilege in v. 14 uses the masculine participle ἑστηκώς (“standing”) with the neuter noun

Ibid. Marcus 1992, esp. 447 and n. 31. Hartman 1966, 241, argued that v. 10 was interpolated into a pre-Markan collection of sayings by someone prior to the Evangelist. 85 Hartman is probably right that μαρτύριον in 13:9 has its usual objective sense of “testimony,” but nothing requires the further conclusion that this testimony is negative (“against them”) (1966, 217). On the contrary, if v. 10 is not a later insertion, it is evidence for the positive sense. 86 Compare Mark 13:9–12 with Luke 12:11–12, 53, a Q-passage; Lambrecht 1966, 358–59; Robinson et al., eds. 2000, 312–17, 384–87. 87 Yarbro Collins 1996, 20–21. 83 84

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βδέλυγμα (“sacrilege”). In the LXX, the term “sacrilege” or “abomination” is used occasionally to refer to the image of a foreign god. It is significant for the interpretation of Mark 13:14 that the term could designate either the image or the deity it represents. In addition, the Greek term for an image or statue used by Philo and Josephus in describing Caligula’s attempt to install his image in the temple in Jerusalem is the masculine noun ἀνδριάς.88 The masculine participle thus represents both the statue and the emperor of Mark’s time. It is likely that Caligula’s unsuccessful attempt was still a living memory at the time that Mark wrote. It provided a model for the veiled Markan prediction of what the Romans would do once they achieved control of the temple. This sacrilege would then initiate the final tribulation by provoking a divine intervention to destroy Jerusalem and the temple as Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed.89 As many have pointed out, vv. 21–22 are similar to vv. 5b–6. Kelber and Lambrecht have even referred to the two passages as doublets. The later passage may be taken as a reprise of the theme introduced by the earlier, namely, the contrast between the one true Messiah and the many false messiahs and their henchmen, false prophets.90 The emphatic warning and the statement “I have told you all things beforehand” in v. 23 do not imply that everything up to this point is prophecy ex eventu. The latter statement is a kind of consolation: nothing has happened or will happen that Jesus did not foresee and that is not part of the divine plan. The emphatic warning introducing this summary statement is related to the issue of messianic pretenders, the rhetorical exigence mentioned earlier. The audience should not be tempted to acknowledge Simon, son of Gioras, as the Messiah or any other claimant other than Jesus. They should also not be discouraged that so many others are accepting these other claims. Rather, they should endure and continue to proclaim the gospel. The parousia of Jesus as Son of Man, which has already been discussed, forms the dramatic climax to the speech. This narrative climax is followed by a parable concerning a fig tree. In this case, “parable” means an argumentative illustration or comparison.91 The argument is: just as you know that summer is near when you see the leaves appear 88 89 90 91

Ibid., 23 and n. 76. Ibid., 26–27. Ibid., 15–18, 27–28. Ibid., 30–31.

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on a fig tree, so will you know that the Son of Man is at the gates when you see these things happening. “These things” probably refers to the events narrated in vv. 5b–23, especially those in vv. 14–23.92 In the two sayings of vv. 30–31, the speech moves back from the argumentative mode to the mode of authoritative revelation employed in vv. 5b–27. The saying of v. 30 confirms imminent expectation of the return of the Son of Man in a way analogous to the statement in 9:1 that “some standing here will surely not taste death until they see that the kingdom of God has come with power.” In the saying of v. 31, the Markan Jesus legitimates his own words and affirms their eternal validity.93 There is no need to interpret these sayings as reactions to a perceived “delay of the parousia” or to the views of false teachers. They may be understood in keeping with the discourse as a whole as consolation to those who are experiencing the hardships described in vv. 9–13. The illustration of the fig tree and the sayings in vv. 30–31 have already addressed the question of when the Son of Man will come. The unit in vv. 32–36 takes up the further question of exactly when he will come. Some supporters of the theory that Mark used a written source in composing chapter 13 have argued that there is a contradiction between v. 30 and v. 32. In v. 30 Jesus claims to know that the end will come during the lives of the current generation. In v. 32, he professes ignorance about the time of the end. The tension between the two sayings is insufficient to warrant the conclusion that the Evangelist used a written source. In v. 32, Jesus does not profess an absolute ignorance about the timing of the end, but only a relative one.94 Others have argued that the saying of v. 32 is “anti-apocalyptic” or that its purpose is to dampen imminent expectation. It would be strange if the Evangelist wished to dampen imminent expectation, yet included the saying of v. 30. In any case, the purpose of v. 32 is to oppose the activity of calculating the exact date of the end, an activity visible in Dan 12:11–12. Such opposition is not “anti-apocalyptic” but is characteristic of some forms of apocalypticism. 4 Ezra expresses a similar attitude.95 Such an attitude expresses the view that there are limits to apocalyptic revelation. 92 93 94 95

Ibid., 31–32. Cf. Rev 21:5b; 22:6a; Yarbro Collins 1996, 32. Yarbro Collins 1992, 79–80. 4 Ezra 4:52; cf. 4:21; Yarbro Collins 1996, 33.

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V. 33 does two things. It recapitulates the warnings expressed earlier in the speech.96 It also serves to introduce the parable of vv. 34–36. This parable has affinities with other elements of the Synoptic tradition.97 These affinities, however, do not imply that it is a traditional parable. It is likely that Mark composed it to conclude the apocalyptic discourse, using the “thesaurus” of early Christian parabolic themes and characters.98 With this parable, Mark returns to the argumentative mode, making the point that it is necessary for the followers of Jesus to remain alert, just as the doorkeeper must stay awake in the absence of his master. The saying of v. 37, “Now what I say to you, I say to all: keep awake,” rounds off both the last section of the speech and the speech as a whole.99 Like v. 14, this saying breaks through the fictional setting in which Jesus is speaking to the four disciples on the Mount of Olives. Whereas v. 14 addressed the public reader of the text directly and the listening audience indirectly, this saying addresses the listening audience directly. Conclusion The author of the Gospel according to Mark was indeed someone named Mark, of Jewish origin, literate, and knowledgeable in the Jewish scriptures. He probably used both written and oral sources in composing chapter 13, but the evidence does not support the conclusion that he used an extensive “little apocalypse.” It is likely that he alluded to Scripture from memory. In his preliminary work of composition, he may have collected materials, made his own notes, and written drafts of portions of the Gospel. He may have dictated the final copy or written it with his own hand. In either case, the text was written for the ear and not for the eye. The exigence which evoked the utterance attributed to Jesus in Mark 13 was the appearance of popular prophets and claimants to

Mark 13:5b, 9a, 23a. 1 Thess 5:1–6; Luke 12:35–46 and 19:12–27; on the connection with 1 Thess 5, see Beasley-Murray 1983, 415; 419, n. 8; on the connection with Luke/Q , see Lambrecht 1966, 358–59. 98 Lambrecht argued that Mark created a new parable, the Doorkeeper, out of four traditional parables; 1996, 355. 99 Yarbro Collins 1996, 35. 96 97

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messianic status during the first Jewish War with Rome and the recognition granted them by a large portion of the Jewish population of Judea and Galilee. The “sign” about which the disciples ask is the “desolating sacrilege,” the statue of the divine emperor that Mark expected the Romans to set up once they had seized control of the temple. The eschatological scenario of the speech envisages two divine interventions, one to judge Jerusalem and the other to gather the elect. During the time of the “birth pains” and then the “tribulation,” the task of the audience is to continue to proclaim the good news that Jesus is the true Messiah (v. 10) and to continue in their assigned tasks (vv. 32–36). The image of the doorkeeper suggests that some followers of Jesus have the task of guarding the community against false pretentions to prophetic or messianic status by unmasking them, issuing the correct interpretation of eschatological tradition and events, and exhorting the community. The concluding saying advocates watchfulness among all the followers of Jesus.100 The parenthetical remark in v. 14, “Let the reader understand,” was directed to the public readers of the Gospel in assemblies of followers of Jesus. Since this aside was most likely read aloud, the audience would overhear it. It was a signal to the audience that the phrase βδέλυγμα τῆς ἐρημώσεως (“abomination of desolation” or “desolating sacrilege”) is a highly significant phrase, but one that needs interpretation. The reference to the “reader” also informed the audience that the literate public reader was sufficiently informed about this phrase to be able to explain it to them when the reading was completed. Since the manuscripts that these public readers were reading aloud most likely lacked divisions of words and paragraphs and had little, if any, punctuation, the manuscript may have served primarily to remind the public reader of the wording of the text. The public reading was thus at least partially from memory and thus relatively lively. There does not, however, seem to be evidence that such public readings were dramatic performances similar to the recitatio of the professional reader. It is more likely, at least in the first century or two, that the model for public reading among followers of Jesus was the reading of Scripture in the synagogues, rather than the public performances of professional readers and rhetors. The public readers of Christian texts were likely to be leaders of their communities, perhaps teachers, who transmitted

100

Yarbro Collins 1992, 86; eadem, 1996, 20, 34–36.

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early Christian proclamation and teaching, modeled early Christian hermeneutics, and preserved the living memory of the meaning of the text of Mark. Bibliography Achtemeier, P. J. 1990. Omne Verbum Sonat: The New Testament and the Oral Environment of Late Western Antiquity. JBL 109: 3–27. Beasley-Murray, G. R. 1983. Second Thoughts on the Composition of Mark 13. NTS 29: 414–20. ———. 1993. Jesus and the Last Days: The Interpretation of the Olivet Discourse. Peabody, MA. Best, E. 1989. The Gospel of Mark: Who was the Reader? Irish Biblical Studies 11: 124–32. Brandenburger, E. 1984. Markus 13 und die Apokalyptik. Göttingen. Bultmann, R. 1964. ἀναγινώσκω, ἀνάγνωσις. Pages 343–44 in TDNT 1. Cranfield, C. E. B. 1959. The Gospel according to Saint Mark (CGTC. rev. ed. 1977). Cambridge. Donahue, J. R. and D. J. Harrington. 2002. The Gospel of Mark (Sacra Pagina 2). Collegeville, MN. Dewey, J. 1989. Oral Methods of Structuring Narrative in Mark. Interpretation 43: 32–44. Evans, C. A. 2001. Mark 8:27–16:20 (WBC 34B). Nashville, TN. Fee, G. D. 1984. 1 and 2 Timothy, Titus (NIBCNT). Peabody, MA. Fowler, R. M. 1991. Let the Reader Understand: Reader-Response Criticism and the Gospel of Mark. Minneapolis. Gamble, H. Y. 1995. Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts. New Haven CT & London. Gould, E. P. 1896. Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to Mark (ICC). Edinburgh. Gundry, R. H. 1993. Mark: A Commentary on His Apology for the Cross. Grand Rapids, MI. Hartman, L. 1966. Prophecy Interpreted: The Formation of Some Jewish Apocalyptic Texts and of the Eschatological Discourse Mark 13 Par (Coniectanea Biblica, New Testament Series 1). Lund. Henaut, B. W. 1993. Oral Tradition and the Gospels: The Problem of Mark 4 ( JSNTSup 82) Sheffield. Heitmüller, W. 1903. “Im Namen Jesu”: Eine sprach- und religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum Neuen Testament, speziell zur altchristlichen Taufe (FRLANT 1.2). Göttingen. Hengel, M. 1984. Die Evangelienüberschriften. SHAW. PH 3; Heidelberg; ET: Studies in Mark. Henneken, B. 1969. Verkündigung und Prophetie im Ersten Thessalonicherbrief (Stuttgarter Bibelstudien 29). Stuttgart. Holtz, T. 1991. Paul and the Oral Gospel Tradition. Pages 380–93 in Jesus and the Oral Gospel Tradition ( JSNTSup 64). Edited by H. Wansbrough. Sheffield. Hooker, M. D. 1991. The Gospel according to St. Mark (BNTC 2). London & Peabody, MA: Hurtado, L. W. 1983. Mark (NIBCNT). Peabody, MA. Johnson, S. E. 1960. A Commentary on the Gospel according to St. Mark (HNTC). Peabody, MA. Kelber, W. H. 1974. The Kingdom in Mark. Philadelphia. ———. 1983. The Oral and Written Gospel. Philadelphia.

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Lambrecht, J. 1966. Die Logia-Quellen von Markus 13. Biblica 47: 321–60. ———. 1967. Die Redaktion der Markus-Apocalypse: Literarische Analyse und Strukturuntersuchung (AnBib 28). Rome. Lane, W. L. 1974. The Gospel according to Mark (NICNT). Grand Rapids, MI. Malherbe, A. J. 2000. The Letters to the Thessalonians (AB 32B). New York. Marcus, J. 1992. The Jewish War and the Sitz im Leben of Mark. JBL 111: 441–62. Marshall, I. H. 1983. 1 and 2 Thessalonians (NCBC). Grand Rapids, MI. Moule, C. F. D. 1960. An Idiom Book of New Testament Greek (2nd ed.). Cambridge. Pesch, R. 1977. Das Markusevangelium II. Teil: Kommentar zu Kap. 8,27–16,20 (HTK 2.2; 4th ed. 1991). Freiburg. Resch, A. 1904. Der Paulinismus und die Logia Jesu (TU n.f. 12). Leipzig. Rigaux, B. 1956. Saint Paul: Les Epitres aux Thessaloniciens. Paris. Robbins, V. K. 1996. Exploring the Texture of Texts: A Guide to Socio-Rhetorical Interpretation. Valley Forge, PA. Robinson, J. M. et al., eds. 2000. The Critical Edition of Q. Hermeneia. Minneapolis & Leuven. Skehan, P. W. and A. A. Di Lella. 1987. The Wisdom of Ben Sira (AB 39). New York. Stanton, G. 1997. The Fourfold Gospel. NTS 43: 317–46. Swete, H. B. 1913. The Gospel according to Mark. London; reprinted in 1977 as Commentary on Mark: The Greek Text with Introduction, Notes and Indexes. Grand Rapids, MI. Taylor, V. 1966. The Gospel according to St. Mark: The Greek Text with Introduction, Notes and Indexes (2d ed.). Grand Rapids MI. Theissen, G. 1989. Lokalkolorit und Zeitgeschichte in den Evangelien: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der synoptischen Tradition (NTOA 8), Freiburg & Göttingen. ET 1991. The Gospels in Context: Social and Political History in the Synoptic Tradition. Minneapolis. Wanamaker, C. A. 1983. 1 and 2 Thessalonians (NCBC). London and Grand Rapids, MI. Wellhausen, J. 1903. Das Evangelium Marci übersetzt und erklärt (2nd ed. 1909). Berlin. Wenham, D. 1981. Paul and the Synoptic Apocalypse. Pages 345–75 in Gospel Perspectives: Studies of History and Tradition in the Four Gospels (Gospel Perspectives 2). Edited by R. T. France and D. Wenham. Sheffield Yabro Collins, A. 1987. The Origin of the Designation of Jesus as Son of Man. HTR 80: 391–407. ———. 1990. Daniel 7 and the Historical Jesus. Pages 187–93 in Of Scribes and Scrolls: Studies on the Hebrew Bible, Intertestamental Judaism, and Christian Origins, presented to John Strugnell on the occasion of his sixtieth birthday (CTSRR 5). Edited by H. W. Attridge et al. Lanham, MD. ———. 1991. The Apocalyptic Son of Man Sayings. Pages 220–28 in The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester. Edited by B. A. Pearson et al. Minneapolis. ———. 1992. The Beginning of the Gospel: Probings of Mark in Context. Minneapolis. ———. 1993. The Influence of Daniel on the New Testament. Pages 92–96 in John J. Collins, Daniel (Hermeneia). Minneapolis. ———. 1996. The Apocalyptic Rhetoric of Mark 13 in Historical Context. Biblical Research 41: 5–36. ———. 2007. Mark. A Commentary. Hermeneia. Minneapolis.

A CONFLICT BETWEEN BROTHERS: OBSERVATIONS ON THE ΥΠΟΚΡΙΤΑΙ IN MATTHEW Jürgen Zangenberg Taking Up the Issue In 1985 Sean Freyne published an illuminating article about the correlation between “Vilifying the Other” and “Defining the Self ” in Matthew and John.1 In this article, Freyne aptly demonstrates how these two authors show their “strong community concerns and equally, their Jewish milieux” in very distinct ways. Freyne also emphasizes the hermeneutical relevance of that observation for “evaluating what we have called Matthew’s and John’s anti-Jewish rhetoric.”2 He noted that “Matthew’s most favoured strategy for denigrating his Jewish opponents is that of synkrisis, or unfavourable comparison,” distancing oneself from opponents by pointing out their failures and underlining the “necessity for moral performance” to the real audience, one’s own community. Freyne sees three charges put forth by Matthew against his opponents: “1) a failure to understand the Scriptures adequately, especially in the area of attitudes towards the law; 2) hypocrisy; 3) culpable blindness.”3 In this essay, I will focus on Matthew’s use of the term ὑποκριτής4 and take up a couple of issues that had already caught Freyne’s attention, but can now—after twenty years of detailed, but no less controversial

Freyne 1985. With this essay I wish to thank Sean Freyne for constant inspiration, not only in Galilean studies. I thank my colleagues Wim Weren and Huub van de Sandt at the Department of Religious Studies and Theology of Tilburg University (The Netherlands) for sharing their reflections on this paper with me. All shortcomings, of course, are mine. This article was completed in summer 2006. 2 Freyne 1985, 119. 3 Ibid., 132. 4 Apart from Mark 7:6 which is adopted in Matt 15:7, par. Luke 6:42, Matt has the term in 6:2, 5, 16; 7:5; 22:18; 23:13–29; 24:51 drawing from either Q or Sondergut. Besides 6:42, Luke has the term in the Sondergut passages 12:56; 13:15. It is also attested in Did. 4:12; 5:1; 8:1. On the latter issue see, e.g., Draper 1996a; Draper 2005; van de Sandt and Flusser 2002, esp. 291–96. 1

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research on the identity and context of Matthew’s communities5—be taken under renewed scrutiny. Much work has been done on the semantic side of the issue. Several studies have dealt with the meaning and background of ὑποκριτής and justly criticised its simplistic linking with “hypocrisy” in the sense of “pretending to be or representing oneself to be a better person than one really is . . ., feigning, dissembling, and deceiving.”6 Contrary to popular assumption that connects ὑποκριτής with the world of theatre, Matthew follows Greek Jewish literature that has a notably different semantic and social background. For Philo and Josephus, e.g., a ὑποκριτής is not a pretender or dissimulator, but evil as such.7 In a widely quoted article, Moshe Weinfeld explored the Hebrew background of Greek ὑποκριτής and convincingly showed that the term corresponds to ‫ חנף‬or related terms and is used against those people who teach well, but do not practice well, who ostentatiously abuse their power, who propose a deviant interpretation of Torah and are therefore labelled as not complying with God’s will. The social context of the term is hands-on competition and conflict among different Jewish groups about Torah interpretation.8 Following Jonathan Draper, one can conclude that ὑποκριτής always has a close and specific opponent in view, but is not directed against an unrelated or unspecific adversary.9 Thus, the term itself places the disputes in Matthew (and the closely related Didache) into the context of inner-Jewish “sectarian” controversies.

5 If I use the singular (“group,” “community”) to describe Matthean Christians, I do not exclude the possibility that these Christians were actually organized in several different social entities located at various places of a wider geographical region. In my definition of “group” I follow Weren 2005, 51. See also Ascough 2001, 102–3, n. 27. 6 Garland 1979, 96–98. 7 Wilckens 1969, see already Joüon 1930. Weinfeld’s analysis is broad enough to incorporate the moment of incongruence of words and deeds and specific enough to contextualize the term in inner-Jewish halakhic disputes. See also following note. 8 So Weinfeld 1990, 52; Davies and Allison 1991, 580–1; Draper 2005, 230–35. Garland 1979, 107–9. On the role of divergent Torah observation and interpretation for the forming of “sects” within Judaism see, e.g., Blenkinsopp 1981; Sanders 1992, 13–29. Richard Batey has suggested that Jesus learnt the word ὑποκριτής at the theatre in Sepphoris when frequently visiting from his home village Nazareth (Batey 1984, esp. 563–65), but it is more likely that this theatre was built after 70 (see Reed 2000, 119–21), and it remains unclear how Jesus, speaking Aramaic, came to adopt a Greek term. 9 Draper 2005, 230–31.

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Observations from Recent Work on the Sociology of the Matthean Community Freyne’s article fits well into a recent trend, especially in English language research on Matthew’s Sitz im Leben, partly making use of social-scientific models on identity formation processes in religious communities. Twenty years ago, Freyne saw Matthew’s strategy of synkrisis deeply embedded within a “salvation-history scheme of the replacement of Israel,”10 a notion that many commentators (and certainly Freyne also) would be hesitant to employ today. Thanks to new approaches we have gained a much clearer picture about the circumstances in which Matthew wrote his gospel and about the respective role of his theological “jargon.”11 One fundamental question, however, remains controversial: the degree and character of Matthew’s continuing connectedness (socially as well as theologically) with Palestinian Judaism. Four—by no means comprehensive—observations might illustrate that. Sociological Observations In his seminal book “A Gospel for a New People,” Graham Stanton drew upon observations on conflict and group formation brought forward by the sociologist Lewis Coser. Coser showed how much the intensity of the conflict between dissidents and parent-group owes to an original, but now lost “proximity.” Using the term “proximate other” which Jonathan Z. Smith once coined,12 Stanton is able to describe a complex relationship that oscillates between closeness and separation. In Stanton’s eyes, however, Matthew in the end has left Judaism and formed a new community.13 Social psychology further demonstrates how people react in such situations with grief, loss, aggression and a feeling of being betrayed. These emotions cause pain and express themselves in often violent and exaggerated language, an example of which is the Matthean use of ὑποκριτής. Usually feelings of lost closeness and acute separation tend to concentrate on certain issues that can quickly acquire a symbolic, almost fundamental meaning. Freyne rightly stressed that Matthew Freyne 1985, 130–31. See Overman 1990; Balch (ed.) 1991; Stanton 1992, esp. 1–49; Saldarini 1994; Overman 1996; Sim 1998; Carter 2000; Senior 2001; Foster 2004. 12 Smith 1985, 5. 13 See also Stanton’s clear statement 1992b, 99; Luz 2002, 94–99; Garland 1979. 10 11

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concentrated his attack just at those points where he intended to make exclusive claims for his recipients, to warn them and sharply define their tasks. Equally, solutions reached in the conflict, can easily develop a more momentous relevance and eventually serve as models for handling other issues as well. The term ὑποκριτής in its various contexts seems most relevant to understand important nuances in this process of Matthew’s self-definition over against Judaism.14 Although Stanton’s analysis demonstrated how painful and dangerous the process of separation was for the Matthean community, he might go one step too far when he implies that the obvious separation from and evident polemics against the former Jewish parent-group equals a split from Judaism in general. According to Andrew Overman,15 however, Matthew’s situation was not one of a minority separating from the majority, but rather one of a competition between “fraternal twins” who all seek “self-legitimation and self-definition” in the wake of the catastrophic events around 70 c.e. I find Overman’s analysis particularly convincing because it sees Matthew’s rhetoric as integral part of an interactive process that inevitably involves and affects both parties. Circumstances after 70 c.e. urged a profound reorientation and implied a complex mixture of centrifugal and centripetal forces. Neither Matthew’s position nor that of the opponents can be regarded as “finished.” Inconsistencies and distortions remain on both sides. As Anthony Saldarini has put it, we are traversing a fluid situation with “imprecise boundaries, ongoing conflict and unresolved tensions.”16 Since the law and its interpretation became the focus of the renewal process and subsequently dominated the controversy, reappropriation of tradition by both opponents necessarily entailed elements of realignment and reinterpretation. The intra muros versus extra muros dichotomy, therefore, is too schematic and inflexible to grasp Matthew’s situation properly. Matthew’s community may well have been extra muros with respect to its former socio-religious parent group, but this does not necessarily imply that his new religious identity was incompatible with other forms of Judaism.17 It is, in Alan Segal’s words, still a “family affair.”18 Freyne 1985, 137. Overman 1990 and 1996; shared, e.g., by Davies and Allison 1988, 1991, 1997; Saldarini 1994; Sim 1998 and Draper 2005. In Germany this position was especially promoted in the groundbreaking article by Bornkamm 1960. 16 Saldarini 1994, 9. 17 See e.g. Dunn 1992b, 209 with reference to Overman 1990, 141–61. 18 Segal 1986, 142. 14 15

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For Matthew, the prophetic figure of Jesus and his interpretation of the Torah was crucial to his claim that his community pursues the correct approach to the Torah. The fierceness of the dispute documents the fact that the controversy also raged over the legitimate use of the language to express it and the ways to live it concretely day by day. Matthew’s use of ὑποκριτής should take us right into the case. Continuity Another, more practical point needs attention: Warren Carter has emphasized that concentrating on the “sectarian” nature of the Matthean community is prone to delineate “discipleship primarily by relationship to the ‘parent body’ and does not pursue the question of the societal context for discipleship.” This is an important point. Defining Matthew’s community as a “sect” is in danger of presenting it “as more withdrawn from, than participative in, its society.”19 Matthew’s new identity certainly shows elements of being “marginal,” both sociologically due to its minority position and ideologically because of its eschatological outlook.20 But Carter rightly stresses the “interactive, dynamic reality” behind Matthew’s gospel. Matthew’s sometimes strong polemics against his adversaries should not detract us from the fact that the author and his communities did still participate in many segments of the intellectual world of their former parent group and shared mechanisms of interaction with the world that his group and his opponents would equally have considered “outsiders.” Thus, despite all binary polemics between “in group” (“we”) and “out group” (proximate other), there always was a complex world that both had to relate to. It is precisely the rhetorical character of labels and polemics connected to the “binary conflict” that obscures a lot of continuity that prevailed in the “common conflict” with the outside world. Competition raged not only about the claim to the common heritage, but also over the place each group was able to claim in the common social and spatial environment.

19 20

Carter 1994, 49. On the marginality of Matthew’s community see Duling 1993 and Carter 2000.

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jürgen zangenberg Liminality and Insecurity

“In every end there is a new beginning,” a saying goes. In this respect, Warren Carter has referred to Arnold van Gennep’s theory of liminality (as adapted by Victor Turner) to describe the situation of the Matthean community.21 Elements of liminality are indeed present on various levels of Matthew’s gospel. It is important to realize that each and every member of the parent group that followed the split and left the “old” community lived through his or her own individual story of separation and regrouping, as well as every “old” member that might have lost former fellows to the dissenters’ group. Stories of separation and reorganization have different characters on stage and offer multiple approaches. Therefore, it seems quite reductionistic to confine Matthew’s audience to one side of the story alone. Just as Matthew shows a strong intention to incorporate different traditions in an almost encyclopaedic manner, his narrative provides multiple points of contact. However, a main line of argument is discernible. Setting up red lines was not necessarily directed against opposing outsiders (because their position is clear anyway and the hope of winning them over is dim), but aimed at those “outsiders” who were undecided but sympathetic, and especially at those “insiders” who felt insecure and were prone to falter and potentially fall back. The reasons for their insecurity may be as numerous as the reasons for separation itself and can often not be clearly named nor addressed. Insecurity may be connected to a possible loss of status suffered through the separation that could not be regained, or to emotional stress caused by threatened loyalties towards members of the former parent group (e.g., family ties) or to other factors. So, for the sake of the success of the new group, it is essential to deal first and foremost with “insecure insiders,” because the new group cannot afford to keep internal conflicts going for very long if it wants to survive. Consequently, the pressure on these “insecure insiders” from peers within their new group is especially high, since if they hesitate too long, they might even be perceived as threat, as betrayers within the true flock, encapsulating the old in the context of the new. Transition is furthermore present in Matthew’s attempt to open the community up towards the pagan world which would cause

21

Carter 1994, 49–55.

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additional insecurity with respect to practical behaviour and aggravate the problems.22 Overcoming Liminality through Boundary-Marking A last point should interest us: motivation. Freyne showed that Matthew’s rhetoric of vilification and self-definition is tightly connected to Jesus’ central role as authoritative teacher of Scripture and opponent of competing Jewish teaching authorities. Matthew’s community seeks to “invest its own teaching with the special authority” under an eschatological perspective.23 Given the seriousness of the situation, the audacious claim about Jesus as main character of the plot had to be bolstered by “a rhetoric that is inspired by apocalyptic hatred,” and the intention of Matthew’s vituperation is not to discredit or to denigrate, but to destroy and annihilate the opponent. While Freyne is certainly right to stress the eschatological implications of Matthew’s ὑποκριτής charges, a closer look at the constructive function of the eschatological connotations seems appropriate. Here, an especially strong boundary marker serves the crucial purpose of overcoming the liminal state of a community that is in the process of losing its familiar social context and at the same time has not yet fully developed a new identity. To fully appreciate the character of a liminal process, it is not only important to answer the question of how the separation was managed, but also to see how the process of reconstruction and realignment set new agendas and formed a new identity. This is precisely why I doubt that Matthew’s community still persisted in a stage of liminality. Matthew has already developed a clearer understanding of the theological ramifications of the new identity: Christology. He now has to defend the new identity and—through dispute and distress—explore ways of putting it into practice. It is exactly the tension between the already accomplished areas of re-aggregation and the prevailing areas of transition that shape the situation of Matthew’s community, and this situation is matched by Matthew’s quest for terminological and practical clarity. In this process, the label ὑποκριτής plays an important role in dealing practically with separation and reconstruction and finding the language to express it.

22 23

Saldarini 1994, 68–83. Freyne 1985, 121–22.

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jürgen zangenberg ὑποκριταί in Matthew

Matthew offers the majority of NT attestations of the term ὑποκριτής (6:2, 5, 16; 7:5; 15:7; 22:18; 23:13, 15, 23, 25, 27, 29; 24:51). Although ὑποκριτής is rightly seen as part of Matthew’s favourite redactional vocabulary, the term is neither his invention nor exclusively limited to a single source-critical component of the gospel. Various passages attest that Matthew drew upon Mark, Q or Sondergut traditions in his usage of ὑποκριτής. To these we now turn. Mark’s ὑποκριταί as Inspiration for Matthew’s Usage On two occasions Matthew’s use of ὑποκριταί goes back to passages he has adapted from Mark. Matt 15:1–20 roughly follows Mark 7:1–23 including the taking over of ὑποκριτής in v. 7, and in 22:18 Matthew comments upon Mark 12:15 by directly addressing his Pharisaic and Herodian opponents as ὑποκριταί while the Markan Vorlage uses the closely related ὑπόκρισις to describe the opponents’ sinister plot to trap Jesus. Although this latter alteration hardly means anything more than a stylistic change, it demonstrates Matthew’s strong tendency towards personal invective and standardized terminology in order to create a connection between these passages and others also referring to ὑποκριταί. Obviously, Matthew sees the same front of opponents active in different contexts. Mark’s ὑποκριταί in Matthew 15:1–20 Mark’s terminology lays a twofold foundation for Matthew’s own use of ὑποκριτής. The first tendency, present in Matt 15:7 < Mark 7:5, centres around disputes over matters of halakhah and scriptural interpretation (purity laws, presented as contrast between human traditions versus scriptural commandments). Compared to the Markan Vorlage, Matthew has rearranged the sequence of the events, shortened the legal explanations and adjusted them to his own understanding of the law. Further, he has intensified the invective through the introduction of a word of judgment against Pharisees who are here called τύφλοι ὁδηγοί [τύφλων] (15:12–14, cf. 23:16, 24).24 Matthew alters the gentile-Christian opposition between God’s commandment and human invention into

24

Luz 1990, 416–17.

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a controversy about right or wrong practice that is more congruent with contemporary Jewish disputes about how to make scriptural commandments practicable by finding the right human interpretation to preserve them. Matthew sees the Pharisees and scribes violate God’s commandment with their specific halakhah (15:3, 6 ὑμῶν) that in Matthew’s eyes breaks God’s law (15:5–6). Because Pharisees and scribes transgress God’s commandment to honour one’s parents (Exod 20:12; 21:17; Lev 20:9; Deut 5:16) through the institution of the ‫קורבן‬, they prove themselves also unfit to decide if one has to wash hands before eating bread or not. Matthew’s Jesus rejects the notion espoused in Pharisaic circles of washing hands before eating in order to keep the priests’ food ritually pure,25 and on the basis of the fact that there is no scriptural commandment to wash hands before eating, he warns of the true sources of impurity. Freyne’s observation that ὑποκριτής does not primarily denote a “lack of correspondence between word and action on the part of Scribes and Pharisees” or simple dissimulation, but rather denounces “faulty conclusions drawn from wrong premises”26 is correct, because it also guides us away from mere rhetorical intergroup polemics right into the realm of legal dispute, its foundational criteria and practical consequences.27 In this way, Matthean semantics are intrinsically related to Matthean “group concerns.” By filling the “gap” left by Scripture through revising early Christian tradition adapted from Mark, Matthew takes side in a halakhic debate and promotes a distinctly anti-Pharisaic, but clearly not a non-Jewish position Matthew reconnects the purity dispute with its inner-Jewish context which Mark had already abandoned (Mk 7:19!).28 Although Matthew tailors the ὑποκριτής charge here more tightly than Mark to his negative description of “the Pharisees and scribes,” he retains Mark’s notion that being a ὑποκριτής is intricately connected to disputes over halakhah. But the overall stance towards halakhah is different in Matthew to that in

25 The most likely scenario for the background for Matt 15:1–10 is that there was no general obligation to wash hands before eating in the first century c.e. On washing of hands as an issue of dispute between various Jewish groups see Sanders 1990, 39–41 and 228–31; 1992, 437–38. 26 Freyne 1985, 133–34, see already Wilckens 1969, 565–67. 27 Freyne 1985, 134. 28 On the controversial question, how far Mark’s law-critical position is still compatible with Judaism see the recent discussion by Regev 2005 who—contrary to the majority of scholars—rejects the idea that moral purity which was clearly prioritized in early Christianity actually displaced ritual purity. See also Davies and Allison 1991, 517.

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Mark. There is no sign that Matthew wants to see the whole purity law abolished in his Christian communities (see 5:17–20). Intensifying the Markan criticism against the Pharisees not only is a sign of “a real and urgent Auseinandersetzung,”29 it creates room for Matthew to formulate positively a refined “Jewish” position that integrates Christian convictions. Mark’s ὑποκριταί in Matthew 22:18 The second passage we briefly examine has even stronger polemical connotations and implies deceit and dissimilation on the part of the opponents with the intention to discredit and destroy Jesus.30 After a long captatio benevolentiae which is clearly described as dishonest (22:16a), 22:18 openly reveals the evil machinations of the ὑποκριταί (< Mark 12:15). Jesus, however, the prophetic teacher, knows their destructive intentions (πονηρία, πειράζετε) and wards them off. Q’s ὑποκριταί in Matthew 7:3–5 Matt 7:3–5 is one of two passages where Q’s ὑποκριταί function as a second source inspiring Matthew’s usage. Here Matthew quotes a passage from Q that is almost identically preserved in Luke 6:41–2. In both the Matthew and Luke passages, the audience is addressed with the emphatic vocative ὑποκριτά and warned not to condemn the brother (ἀδελφόν σου) for his mistakes but rather be attentive to their own faults. It is therefore very likely that Q already contained the term. Here, ὑποκριτής is interpreted as a general type of a stubborn and self-righteous person who is certain that his piety is superior to that of the others and claims to be fit to judge them without being judged himself. It is doubtful if Q had a specific religious faction in mind; the sayings are much too general and unspecific.31 Matthew connects the Q metaphor with the generalizing sentence 7:1–2 and turns it into an example of what it means and why it is necessary not to judge at all. Many commentators see this passage as directed towards fellow Chris-

Davies and Allison 1991, 538. According to Davies and Allison 1997, 215, the term ὑποκριτής in this context “refers first to insincerity: kind words disguise ill intent.” 31 Davies and Allison 1991, 670–71, 673 (“commonplace”), provide ample parallels to demonstrate that (2 Sam 12:1–15; Rom 2:1; Luke 18:9–14, etc.). See also Garland 1979, 121. 29 30

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tians within the Matthean community as an appeal to strengthen the bonds among the dissidents (often with reference to Matt 18:15–20).32 This is certainly a reasonable option. But given the fact that the term ὑποκριτής is virtually always directed towards opponents competing with Matthew’s own position (also in Mark!), it is tempting to read 7:3–5 as targeting the same opponents that figure elsewhere as ὑποκριταί, namely Matthew’s “Pharisees and scribes.”33 They could well have been perceived as accusing members of the Matthean group of committing the faults that Matthew considers minor (κάρφος which is unfortunately not specified!) in comparison to those huge faults committed by them (δοκός which also remains unspecified). The term ἀδελφός in 7:3 does not necessarily contradict this assumption, because—although the meaning of “Christian brother” or “co-religionist” is certainly well attested—there are instances where it has a broader, more inclusive meaning ( Jer 22:18; Luke 6:41–42; Barn. 19:4; Matt 5:22–23; 18:35).34 Instead of refuting the accusations on the basis of their content, Matthew warns the ὑποκριταί not to judge at all, because they will soon be judged by God for faults that are much more serious than those of his own community. It is intriguing to see Matthew apply similar fundamental models of argumentation here that occur in other contexts, too: the reference to God’s eschatological judgement which will hit both the opponents and his community (although both will fare differently) and the invocation of the argumentative structure of “higher/more,” as in Matt 5:20 (although here negatively: Überbietung). For the addressees on the textual level, the disciples (5:1), the passage possesses a warm, supportive undertone, namely the assurance that, no matter how difficult the situation is for them, and no matter how prone they might be to commit mistakes, it is still better to be attacked by the opposing others, as long as one does not strike back, but leaves everything to God’s judgement. God in the end will vindicate the just. It is also significant that “Jesus”—present in the form of sayings adopted from tradition—is the authority to reveal the mysteries and criteria of God’s judgement (cf. also 17:35). This is entirely in line with Matthew’s general understanding of Jesus’ role in

E.g., Luz 2002, 493; Garland 1979, 121–22; Saldarini 1994, 92–93. Different Davies and Allison 1991, 673, “here applied to believers.” 34 See Davies and Allison 1991, 512–13 who in the end see this question unresolved. For a textsemantic study of ἀδελφός in Matthew, see Weren 1994; Saldarini 1994, 90– 100. 32 33

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that conflict. If my reading of ὑποκριταί in the sense of “opponents” is correct, a significant reinterpretation of relationships is under way in Matthew: by twice calling the Pharisees’ target ἀδελφός σου (with possessive pronoun!), Matthew stresses that the Pharisees sinfully distance themselves from people whom he still considers their “kin.” Then, the subtle use of ἀδελφός not only demonstrates the severity of the opponents’ sin, it also indicates, at least on Matthew’s part, that a feeling of community still exists between his own group,35 its direct opponents (the “Pharisees”), and his former parent group, all of whom Matthew reminds of common ties. Although it is difficult to prove, one should at least consider the possibility that ἀδελφός was already the self-designation among all group members before mutual alienation split Matthean dissenters and the remaining parent group apart, a self-designation that Matthew now continues to use in his own community, but is able to turn against his old peers any time he wants. Matthew’s argument would gain even more rhetorical strength and poignancy (5:22–23; 18:35; 23:8) if ἀδελφός is not exclusively confined to his “ingroup” and if his Sprachgebrauch is not entirely new or alien, but at least was rooted, to some extent, in a former common vocabulary. In any case, the separation between Matthew’s group and his former parent group is not sufficiently deep to expect a clear-cut terminology and to deny members of the parent group to be ἀδελφός and vice versa. In this respect, we are indeed dealing with a true “conflict between brothers.” Q’s ὑποκριταί in Matthew 24:51 The second relevant passage from Q is Matt 24:51. Matthew edits the Q-Vorlage by deliberately altering the original ἄπιστοι to ὑποκριταί (24:51b, cf. Luke 12:46) and by adding the reference to “howling and gnawing of teeth,” one of Matthew’s favourite phrases (24:51c from Luke 13:28Q ; cf. also Matt 8:12; 13:42, 50; 22:13; 25:30). The faithful servant who obeyed the commandment of his master during his absence will be rewarded, but the unfaithful servant who did not do as he was told will be thrown out. Matthew apparently changed the original Q wording to construe a deliberate reference to 23:3, where the ὑποκριταί are paradigmatically identified as those who talk, but do

35

Saldarini 1994, 93 may be too narrow.

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not act.36 But whom specifically does Matthew have in mind in 24:51? Terminology indeed suggests that Matthew warns Christians (leaders?) not to forget their duties to serve their community, and thereby to soften, illegitimately, the eschatological expectation.37 To see Christians addressed here does not contradict what I have said above about Matt 7:3–5, because the unfaithful servant is not directly called ὑποκριτής, but threatened with a fate that will match those who are already known to Matthew’s Christians as ὑποκριταί. Whoever is called by the Lord to serve his flock and does not obey (cf. 25:37!), but squanders his blessings, acts no differently from the ὑποκριταί and consequently will join them in their ultimate fate. Matthew warns the δοῦλοι within his group not to commit the same mistake, but to do as they were ordered. It is also significant that the κακὸς δοῦλος who will end up with the ὑποκριταί, is semantically contrasted with the πιστὸς δοῦλος καὶ φρόνιμος, implying that ὑπόκρισις equals ἀπιστία and foolishness. This echoes passages like 22:15 and 23:28 which identify ὑπόκρισις with ἀνομία and πονηρία. Matt 24:51 demonstrates very well that labelling others has a profound pedagogical implications for one’s own flock when boundaries are in need of strengthening. Sondergut Tradition preserved in Matt 6:2–6, 16–18 as a Source of Inspiration Apart from Mark and Q , Sondergut traditions have influenced Matthew’s use of ὑποκριτής.38 In 6:1–18 Matthew discusses the three traditional Jewish cardinal acts of piety:39 almsgiving (2–4), prayer (5–15 including the excursus on the Lord’s Prayer), and fasting (16–18). The unifying redactional perspective formulated in 6:1 warns not to display one’s justice (δικαιοσύνη, “piety”)—specified in the three following passages—before the public and for public applause, because this would forfeit divine reward (μισθός) which otherwise could be justly expected. Despite the negative tone of the warning, the passage has a positive background. Matthew undoubtedly shares the Jewish conviction, that honest and sincere practice of almsgiving, prayer and fasting Garland 1979, 122–23. See Davies and Allison 1997, 391; differently Luz 1997, 464–65. 38 On the source-critical questions, which do not concern us here, see, e.g., Davies and Allison 1988, 573–75 and Luz 52002: 416–59. 39 On δικαιοσύνη see Davies and Allison 1988, 499–500, 577. On 6:1 cf. now Deines 2004, 435–41. 36 37

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is not only legitimate, but—if performed properly as he understands it—will earn God’s favour. For Matthew, the sole “addressee” of these activities must be God the Father who sees into what is hidden (v. 4. 6. 18 twice), knows what people need before they even ask, and will reward those who act out their piety in secrecy (μισθός in 6:1, 2, 5, 16 and ἀποδώσει σοι in 6:4, 6, 15). Matthew’s aim is not to abolish these practices, but to teach the disciples—and in their presence also the crowds (5:1)—the correct way to fulfil these duties and thus perform true δικαιοσύνη that deserves its μισθός. In all three instances, Matthew contrasts those who properly pursue these duties with ὑποκριταί. What do we learn about them? First and foremost, there can be no doubt that they are Jews. They give alms and pray both in the (v. 2 and 5; note: not “their”, ὑμῶν, as, e.g., in 23:34, cf. 4:23; 9:35; 10:17; 12:9; 13:54!) synagogues,40 on public squares (ἐν ταῖς ῥύμαις, v. 2), and at street junctions in a village or town (ἐν ταῖς γονίαις τῶν πλατείων, v. 5). The parallelism between synagogues and public places and especially the contrast of these two locations versus religious activity “in secret” (ἐν τῷ κρύπτῳ, v. 3) or “inside our locked chambers” (εἰς τὸ ταμεῖόν σου καὶ κλείσας τὴν θύραν, v. 6) indicates that all these places are equally regarded as public spaces.41 A second observation is important. If one takes away all exaggerative caricature from Matthew’s criticism of his opponents,42 we discover acts of completely normal religious piety that were widely practiced and unquestionably accepted as legitimate expressions of religious identity. Almsgiving was of course regarded as a high value. Communal prayers could be performed in the synagogue, on piazzas and wherever people were able to meet; they could be long or short and much freedom seems to have been granted with respect to their wording. And fasting, as an act of grief and Verzicht, is very naturally embedded in appropriate “body language” (6:16 σκυθρωποί, ἀφανίζουσιν τὰ πρόσωπα). Nothing suggests that the opponents “overdo” or betray their religious duties

Dunn 1992b, 206–7; Saldarini 1994, 66–67. Davies and Allison correctly stress that synagogal prayer takes place indoors (1988, 585), but nevertheless it is still performed in a public environment. Recent excavations of synagogues in villages and small towns like Horvat {Etri or Qiryat Sefer show their prominent place within the spatial arrangement of a settlement. See Overman 1990, 56–62; Claussen 2003; Levine 2000, 128–34. 42 I also take the vitriolic denunciation of “their” prayers as βατταλογήσειν ὣσπερ οἱ ἐθνικοί as polemic. This charge does certainly not mean that the ὑποκριταί are in fact imitating pagans. 40 41

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by softening or even dissimulating them. They not only give alms, pray and fast according to the accepted rule, they are also entitled to practice accordingly in public. Therefore, Matthew’s charge that these acts are only performed as “show” is utterly unfair and would have aroused great anger and disbelief on the side of the opponents. On the contrary, fasting without proper “body language”—as advocated by Matthew—would very likely not be regarded as genuine and in turn be called “hypocritical” by many people, because intention (to fast) and appearance (washed hair and face) would be perceived as incongruent. Whoever expresses charges like Matthew in 6:1–18, skates on thin ice and steps out of commonly accepted customs and traditional rules of fulfilling one’s religious duties—or already stands outside this framework. Finally, I wish to add a third observation. Unlike Matt 15:7 (1–11: Φαρισαῖοι καί γραμματεῖς), 22:18 (15–22: Φαρισαῖοι sending out their disciples), and Chapter 23 (Φαρισαῖοι καί γραμματεῖς), Matt 6:1–18 does not connect the ὑποκριταί with any given group designation to differentiate them within wider Judaism. Here, Matthew identifies his opponents indiscriminately, simply on the basis of their way of fulfilling traditional religious duties and their (vain!) hope of thus achieving divine reward. This is significant. On the pre-Matthean level there is every reason to suppose that ὑποκριτής was not directed against any specific “sect,” but against elements of concrete Jewish groups that were experienced as socially and religiously dominant by the tradents of the sayings in Matt 6:1–18.43 However, on the Matthean redactional level, the key word δικαιοσύνη builds a bridge to the commandment in Matt 5:20 and ties both topics together: the quest for piety (6:1 δικαιοσύνη) that can prevail in the eyes of God the Father, versus the wrong interpretation of Scripture and the evil intentions of the Pharisees and scribes (cf. 15:7; 22:18 and ch. 23). Historically, the unified front of Pharisaic opponents probably reflects Matthew’s situation, rather than that of, for example, that of Jesus. Matthew and the ὑποκριταί on Piety and Reward Let us move one step further. I have already said that it is not the actions as such that arouse Matthew’s anger, but their alleged intention 43

I agree with Garland 1979, 121, but I do not think that his claim that the term

ὑποκριτής “has a purely pedagogical function” is adequate.

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and obvious effect. Matthew supposes that these acts are practiced in order to receive public reward and applause. In Matthew’s eyes, however, instant reward through public attention precludes eschatological reward. Matthew is not interested in the fact, that alms given under the public eye will in any case help the needy. Matthew’s primary concern is not moral.44 As shown above, criticism against people “showing-off ” their good deeds is not new, but a common topic of moral diatribe and exhortation. The rationale for Matthew’s argumentation is the expectation of reward—a very common and undisputed concept in antiquity: one who performs acts of piety can and should expect divine reward.45 In Matthew, however, these corresponding elements are put into opposition. Matthew limits rewards exclusively to God’s final judgement at the expense of all present recognition and reward. This is awkward and one can ask who, in light of the widely accepted practice of public attention towards public benefaction, philanthropy and prayer, would find this relegatio ad eschata compelling. The vast majority of Matthew’s contemporaries—be they Jews or non-Jews—would find Matthew’s warning highly unattractive. Almost everyone would agree that people who support the poor with alms should be respected and honoured by their fellow citizens as worth emulating, and that public space was an integral stage for expressing both piety and gratitude. There was nothing to be ashamed of and no need to hide good deeds, as long as they were performed with appropriate modesty,46 and there is nothing to suggest that the ὑποκριταί have in any way transgressed these boundaries of decency. Moreover, Matthew seems to revoke something that he himself has commanded only a few lines before. In 5:14–16 he urges the disciples

44 One needs to understand these issues from the perspective of ancient recipients and avoid approaching them with modern, western Gesinnungsethik and subjectivity. Even the ubiquitous call to modesty and criticism of pomp and self-indulgence in ancient literature does not contradict the main tenets of a culture based upon benefactions (Draper 2005, 233; Hanson and Oakman 1998, 63–97; Veyne 1992, esp. ch. 1/11 pp. 107–16 and ch. 2/6 pp. 279–311). A detailed study on social relations in Palestinian Jewish society still is a desideratum. 45 Heszer 1985. 46 Davies and Allison 1991, 576–77 and 579–80 correctly stress that Matthew does not bring anything particularly new and that the warning that “a man who makes his name great will lose it” (m. Avot 1:13) was widespread in Christianity and Judaism. However, the radicalization of this tradition gains additional relevance if put into the context of the social history of Matthew’s community.

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not to put their light under a μόδιος, but to let their light shine before the people (ἔμπροσθεν τῶν ἀνθρώπων) so that they can see their good deeds and praise the Father in Heaven. This is exactly how ancient benefactors would want to see their deeds interpreted. The greatness of good deeds reflects back to the one in whose honour they are performed. Only a few passages further down Matthew himself recommends that prophets should be judged according to their deeds (7:16–20). But how can they be judged if nobody sees them act properly? Granted that 5:14–16 nor 7:16–20 do directly refer to almsgiving, prayer and fasting, it is the obvious congruence of belief and actions and the necessity to let what is good be seen that both passages clearly recommend. In 6:1–18, however, acts of righteousness are strangely restricted to the most private rooms in the house. How can we explain such an apparent contradiction? In spite of the evident contradiction just outlined, the same group of disciples seems to be addressed in all these texts, although with a different perspective. Obviously, the addressees of 5:13–15 are pious and do perform good deeds, but they are afraid to let their light shine openly and their piety goes unnoticed. The basic assumption remains the same in Matt 6:1–17 (acts of piety are good and lead ad maiorem Dei gloriam), but the approach is different. Instead of exhorting his own group, Matthew reprimands the “majority others” who can perform their piety in public and denounces them as ὑποκριταί. Why, then, does he warn his own fold not to imitate the ὑποκριταί and stay away from public light? Did the majority deny the right to practice almsgiving, prayer and fasting in public to the Matthean community? Did they push the minority out of the synagogues and public places? Did they confront the minority and deny them the right to show their fasting openly through conspicuous body language, because the minority had put the relationship with the mother-group in danger? Matt 6:1–18 indeed seems to presuppose that this is the case. Secrecy is not a value in itself and certainly not the ideal context for worship, even for Matthew (see 5:14–16), but at present it is the only realistic option. Instead of calling for a direct confrontation, Matthew reminds the community that God sees what is hidden and will reward them accordingly, even if they give in to the pressure of the majority and withdraw into their private chambers. It is not that Matthew forbids his group to perform their religious justice in public, it is that he warns them not to despair because and even if they are already denied the familiar places they have always used and the rituals they have always performed. They are

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not to give up hope for divine compensation. The problem is not the public which any of the groups expects to win over, but the fact that the public is denied to them. Consequently, the group is afraid of also losing the opportunity to please God through good works of piety and corresponding public praise of God. Matthew reassures his group that the ultimate goal of good deeds, namely to encourage others praise God and in turn receive divine blessing, will not be lost even if they are denied the public stage. To convince them, Matthew employs motifs from wisdom and apocalyptic tradition,47 and directly threatens the majority with failing to receive the deserved reward in the future. By invoking apocalyptic language (future revelation and recompense) Matthew transforms the private place (ταμεῖον) into an area of religious activity and gives it a special dignity. By offering an alternative place and a new, subdued way of performing the traditional religious duties of almsgiving, praying and fasting, and by denying the opposing ὑποκριταί their religious aspirations of divine reward in the eschaton, Matthew helps overcome the pain of the loss of the former social context, and actively contributes to realignment and reconstruction. Matt 5:14–16 and 6:1–18 nicely complement each other. To denounce the opponents’ acts of δικαιοσύνη as ὑπόκρισις and to threaten them with God’s recompensing judgment is a powerful act of subversion and resistance by the powerless. Matt 23:1–39 and the ὑποκριταί In a way, Chapter 23 constitutes the climax of Matthew’s dealings with the ὑποκριταί. In this complex and comprehensive speech, he not only combines traditions from several sources into a concise redactional unit, but addresses a number of practical issues that help describe the religious tenets and character of the ὑποκριταί in more detail, and the topics that were disputed between him and them. This justifies treating the chapter under a separate heading. Although ὑποκριτής occurs in 23:13, 15, 23, 25, 27, 29 and seems to build a unified front, it is necessary to interpret these verses in their own context. By having Jesus direct his speech towards μαθηταί and ὄχλοι Matthew aims to influence members of the community as well as those who are still undecided (23:1). Matthew targets the Pharisees and scribes who 47 Luz 2002, 420–21. On the Early Jewish context of these instructions in a “Derech Eretz” milieu, see van de Sandt and Flusser 2002, 172–82 and 216–37.

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claim to teach in Moses’ name and with his authority (23:2).48 Notorious difficulty arises from the fact that Matthew explicitly orders his audience to do and keep (ποιήσατε καὶ τηρεῖτε) what the scribes and Pharisees teach with the authority of Moses, but not to follow their actions. Again, the centre of Matthew’s accusation is the alleged incongruence between ὅσα ἐὰν εἴπωσιν and ἔργα, their words and deeds (23:3): Although Pharisees and scribes do not practice what they tell others (λέγουσιν καὶ οὐ ποιοῦσιν, a conventional topos: Pss Sol. 4:1–12; As. Mos. 7:3–8; Rom 2:17–25), Matthew’s distinction does not serve to discredit them in general (e.g., by accusing them of dishonesty or dissimulation), but their actions that do not match their teaching. Their teaching itself, however, does not appear reprehendable, as long as they follow it. On the other hand, Matthew warns his audience in 16:12 to beware of the διδαχὴ τῶν Φαρισαίων καὶ Σαδδουκαίων. Does that mean that the alleged correctness of the teaching is only a theoretical concession?49 In 23:5–12 this charge is supplemented by the accusation that, if Pharisees and scribes do anything, they do it for public show. That charge is reminiscent of 6:1–18. ῾Υπόκρισις not only entails the incongruence between words and deeds, but also the contrast between self-centred motivation and pious practice (also a conventional topos: 1QpHab 10:11; John 5:44; Matt 5:46; James 2:14–26). Both 23:5 and 6:1–18 target real religious customs. Φυλακτήρια and κράσπεδα most likely refer to Pharisaic habits of wearing ‫ תפילין‬and ‫ ציציות‬as demonstrations of piety and also with apotropaic intent. Finds from Qumran and Murabbaxat, however, suggest that using ‫ תפילין‬and ‫ ציציות‬was not exclusively Pharisaic, although not all Jews appear to have practiced it (b. Ber. 64–65).50 Again Matthew specifically targets Pharisaic piety and takes a distinctly non-Pharisaic stance (‫הארץ‬-‫)עם‬.51 We therefore have to be careful not to take Matthew’s references to the Pharisees as references to all Israel. In any case, Matt 23:5–12 demonstrates detailed familiarity with the religious and social situation. As in 6:1–18 (cf. the συναγωγαί reminiscent of ῥύμαι and πλατεῖαι in 6:2, 5!), Matthew attacks attitudes and

48 On the “Seat of Moses” see Becker 1990, 17–51; Overman 1990, 144–45; Davies and Allison 1997, 267–69; Luz 1997, 299. 49 Thus Davies and Allison 1997, 270; Luz 1997, 299–302. 50 Becker 1990, 170–72; Luz 1997, 304–6 with references. 51 Cf. Tomson 2005, who stresses that Matthew and Did. share a common halakhic stance against the Pharisees which is nonetheless Jewish.

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practices that were regarded as unproblematic and normal by most people. Demands for privileged seating during private meals and public sessions in the synagogues were easily granted to religious honoraries in any village or town and unquestionably went hand in hand with the expectation to be respectfully addressed. Nobody would regard these demands as specifically preposterous or even impious, and as in 6:1–18, there is no sign that the opponents envisioned by Matthew overacted. On the contrary, it would arouse public uproar if local dignitaries were denied the privileges Matthew enumerates. Honour and respect towards age, status and reputation were never merely a matter of personal feelings, but were duties “performed” in all areas of public and private life. As an integral part of social life, they sustained the cohesion of a community. Honour that cannot be seen or shown, does not exist. Apart from having misgivings about a reading that suggests a caricature of Jewish dignitaries, one has to ask the same question as to 6:1–18. Who would agree with Matthew? Matthew’s demands that there should be no “master” but only brothers, no father but God and no teacher but Jesus (23:8–10) makes sense only on the basis of a totally different system of values. Matt 23:8–10 may at least betray a tendency in Matthew’s community to grant special status to specific members, just as outside of it some might have expected to be addressed as ῥαββί, some as πατέρες, and others as διδάσκαλοι (13:52; cf. 23:34!). One can certainly ask if this is a new development that simply imitates characteristics of “the others” or if this is rather an inheritance, fragmentary though it might be, from the past when the Matthean community was still part of Jewish synagogue communities that worked along these, now fiercely disputed lines.52 In delegitimizing the leaders of his opponents, Matthew builds criteria for developing his own community structure.53 As in 6:1–18 Matthew bases his critique on two grounds. The egalitarian nature of his “community of brothers and sisters” (ἀδελφοί in 23:8) is a direct outcome of the fact that there is only one Lord and teacher under one single Father, namely God (three times, ις!). Thus, all differences are levelled out under the christologically motivated model διακονία (20:26–28!). The second motivation is, as in 6:1–18, the reference to eschatological retribution, explicitly formulated here—as

52 On the social context of “father,” “rabbi,” “teacher” in the synagogue, see, e.g., Overman 1990, 120–22; Saldarini 1994, 90–100. 53 See, e.g., Saldarini 2001, 173–82.

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so often in early Christianity when questions of status and reputation are at stake—as announcement of total reversal (23:12, cf. Luke 1:52; 14:11; James 4:10; 1Pet 5:6). By using these two fundamental models for his argument, Matthew shows the strength of his interest in influencing his community. Only in the next passage 23:13–33 do we explicitly find Matthew denouncing his opponents as ὑποκριταί. What he means by this is declared in 23:3 and will be expounded in a series of seven οὐαί—passages that Matthew mostly adopted from Q and edited. The prehistory of these sayings is notoriously complicated and need not concern us here, apart from Luz’s observation that Matthew formulated the stereotypical address γραμματεῖς καὶ Φαρισαῖοι ὑποκριταί and rearranged the order of the sayings to create a deliberate climax.54 Obviously, Matthew does not expect the opponents to repent; he unmasks their actions as blasphemous and threatens them with God’s judgement. The first woe in 23:13 and the final curse in 23:32–3 constitute the overture and finale of a powerful and violent confrontation. Matt 23:16–22 displays the same structure, but denounces the opponents as ὁδηγοὶ τύφλοι. There can be no doubt, that this passage, at least in the Matthean context, is also directed against the same scribes and Pharisees as the other invectives (cf. 23:24, 26 and 7:3–5 playing with “eye” and “see”/”blind”). Although Matthew does not encourage swearing in general (5:33 is more parenetic than 23:16–22), and warns against getting lost in the details of tithing (23:23–24), he follows Q in his intention not to abolish ritual law as a whole (5:18–19). The charge he brings forward in 23:23–4 indeed reminds one of 7:3–5. Tithing was especially important for Pharisees, but more so for priests whose income to a large extent depended upon careful observance of tithing. It is typical for Matthew that he contrasts these commandments—a very sophisticated and complex system which has developed out of scant Biblical foundations (Lev 11:41)—with works of love and piety as emphasised by Jesus’ prophetic interpretation of God’s will (his “halakhah,” cf. 5:21–26, 43–48; 7:12; 22:34–40). Matthew does not say that κρίσις, ἔλεος and πίστις supersede or replace tithing or other similar commandments. He wants to reinstitute their original relationship, whereby one did the one without forgetting the other. So, even in Matthew’s mind, it is still possible to tithe, pay temple tax (17:24–27)

54

Luz 1997, 316–20.

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and fulfil other precepts of ritual law (including a prophetically renewed purity-halakhah as proposed in 15:1–20; 23:25–26), and still obey God’s commandment to practice κρίσις, ἔλεος and πίστις.55 With this position, Matthew might, in fact, not be far from his opponents, who also must have stressed that tithing is a sign of πίστις to God’s law, and who would have fiercely refuted any suggestion that they were fulfilling these commandments for personal gain. Why “personal gain”? Does Matthew denounce as “personal gain” what his opponents regard as a legitimate claim on tithes and offerings formerly devoted to the temple? It is conceivable that the newly emerging spiritual elites in Judaism saw themselves in continuity to the temple even with respect to material support. Does Matthew rather want to see his own community in this position? The demand for the continuation of traditional privileges at the cost of others (23:4, 6–7, 13), coupled with ἁρπαγή and ἀκρασία (23:25) and ἀνομία (23:28, opposing δικαιοσύνη in, for example, 7:23; 13:41!) tie religiously motivated self–understanding together with elements of social behaviour. If Matthew indeed wrote in a predominantly Jewish milieu after the destruction of the temple in 70 c.e. all halakhic issues discussed in chapter 23 have the potential to “gather the dispersed” (cf. 23:37) and create the boundaries of a new community that claims the past institutions and traditions for itself. The end of the temple and the cessation of regular sacrifices undermined the very foundations of a society whose leadership was based on traditional values. So, Matthew’s charge against the opponents’ version of how to fulfil halakhah does not merely conform to widespread polemic against those who emphasize ritual purity and neglect ethical sincerity (5:8!),56 but is directed against the social effects and theological motivations of an emerging “program” that competes with his own about the question of how to cope with the loss of the temple and how—if at all—to incorporate the role of Jesus in the drama. Matt 23:29–33 concludes with a bleak outlook. The Pharisees are murderers who will ultimately make the measure full by killing Jesus and falling under God’s judgement. They will not repent, but are a hoffnungsloser Fall, für den nur noch Gottes Gericht übrigbleibt.57 By

55 56 57

Ibid., 338. Ibid., 1997, 333–34. Ibid., 1997, 334 and 344–45.

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reinterpreting the history of the Holy City as a sequence of murders and crime against those who were sent from God to call for repentance, including Jesus himself as the climax, Matthew builds a new theological base for understanding the current situation of uncertainty and crisis, not only regarding his own group, but with respect to Israel in general (23:30–39). Matthew 23 has to be seen in the context of an ongoing conflict in which elements of continuity exist side by side with those of direct confrontation, active competition and fundamental conflict. Elements of continuity are, for example, the overall biblically-inspired mindset, the language, including the term ὑποκριτής, common religious concerns like purity, prayer, fasting or almsgiving. But the fundamental conflict over the foundations of the reorganized People of God after the collapse of the “old order” led to a situation where these issues were no longer discussed within one and the same group, but between two bodies which increasingly competed for influence in synagogues, houses and public places. Consequently, the picture Matthew’s community presents could not be very consistent either. There are institutions that simply continue inherited structures (23:34), other passages imply a radical change in internal organization and social attitude (6:5–6; 23:8–12). Because Matthew sees a continuation between the former leaders of Israel who have murdered God’s prophets and the current ones who do the same with Jesus’ messengers—truly the most severe charge one could launch against one’s opponent—he does not expect reconciliation between Matthew’s group and his opponents, but postpones it to the eschaton when Jesus will finally return to gather his flock (23:39). Just as in 7:3–5, it can only be God who will ultimately remedy the situation. Conclusions and Outlook Sean Freyne has already stressed the need to interpret the “anti-Jewish rhetoric of Matthew . . . in the light of (his) own community concerns, concerns for the authoritative definition of an independent and exclusive place within Judaism in line with the eschatological and messianic claims that early Christianity as a whole had sought to make for itself.”58 We

58

Freyne 1985, 140.

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jürgen zangenberg

have seen how the term ὑποκριτής, with its negative meaning and its flexibility to target different adversaries as proponents of fundamental misunderstanding of Torah, gives Matthew a welcome tool to cope with the complicated situation of a community caught between asserting a new identity and retaining elements of the old, in competition and conflict with the former parent group.59 He warns, invites, defends and pressures with this term alike. The phrase καὶ οὐκ ἠθελήσατε in 23:37 may very well reveal something about Matthew’s disappointment in the “Pharisees and scribes” for their opposition and lack of insight. In Matthew’s eyes, the situation is not so much one of misunderstanding and tragedy, but of unwillingness and guilt. Instead of continuing to translate ὑποκριτής with “hypocrites” (or “Heuchler” in German), one might keep Matthew’s particular situation in mind and render the term as “stubborn adversaries,” “false teachers” or the like. In any case, the often violent nature of the language with its shrill, polemical sentences, especially in ch. 23, demonstrates that we are dealing with a conflict among brothers who battle for control over their once common ground of Jewish-biblical traditions and lifestyle. Now, both groups are on the verge of losing not only their common ground, but also the last remains of mutual respect and contact. We all know how much the following centuries of Jewish-Christian history bear witness to the tremendous and often deadly effects these events had for the Jewish people, through the tragic fact that the former dissenters soon forgot who their brothers were and how deeply they were still connected with and indebted to them. Matthew’s language only makes sense if we recognize how deeply contextual it is. In Freyne’s words, “It is only if we take seriously both the radical ambiguity of our common human situation and the distortions it has given rise to, even in our so called ‘classic’ foundational documents, both Jewish and Christian, that we have any hope of moving beyond the past and making a better future together.”60

See, e.g., Draper 2005, 230–35. Freyne 1985, 141–42. On ways of coping with the Matthean-inspired heritage of anti-Judaism see, e.g., Saldarini 2001. 59 60

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Bibliography Akerboom, D., ed. 1994. Broeder Jehosjoea. Kampen. Alkier, S. and J. Zangenberg, eds. 2003. Zeichen aus Text und Stein. Studien auf dem Weg zu einer Archäologie des Neuen Testaments. TANZ 42. Tübingen. Ascough, R. S. 2001. Matthew and Community Formation. Pages 96–126 in The Gospel of Matthew in Current Study. Studies in Memory of William G. Thompson S.J. Edited by D. E. Aune. Grand Rapids. Aune, D. E. ed. 2001. The Gospel of Matthew in Current Study. Studies in Memory of William G. Thompson S.J. Grand Rapids. Bainbridge, W. S. 1997. The Sociology of Religious Movements. New York and London. Balch, D. L. ed. 1991. Social History of the Matthean Community: Cross-Disciplinary Approaches. Minneapolis. Barth, G. and H. J. Held. 1960. Überlieferung und Auslegung im Matthäusevangelium. WMANT 1. Neukirchen-Vluyn. Batey, R. A. 1984. Jesus and the Theatre. NTS 30: 563–74. Becker, H. J. 1990. Auf der Kathedra des Mose. Rabbinisch-theologisches Denken und antirabbinische Polemik in Matthäus 23,1–12. ANTZ 4. Berlin. Blenkinsopp, J. 1981. Interpretation and the Tendency to Sectarianism: An Aspect of Second Temple History. Pages 1–15 in Jewish and Christian Self–Definition, Vol. 2: Aspects of Judaism in the Greco-Roman World. Edited by E. P. Sanders. London and Philadelphia. Bornkamm, G. 1960. Enderwartung und Kirche im Matthäusevangelium. Pages 13–47 in Barth and Held 1960. Carter, W. 1994. Households and Discipleship. A Study of Matthew 19–20. JSNT.SS 103. Cambridge. ———. 2000. Matthew and the Margins. A Sociopolitical and Religious Reading. Maryknoll. Claussen, C. 2003. Synagogen Palästinas in neutestamentlicher Zeit. Pages 351–80 in Zeichen aus Text und Stein. Studien auf dem Weg zu einer Archäologie des Neuen Testaments. Edited by S. Alkier and J. Zangenberg. TANZ 42. Tübingen. Coser, L. 1964. The Functions of Social Conflict. New York. Davies, W. C. and D. C. Allison. 1988. The Gospel According to Matthew, Vol. 1: Introduction and Commentary on Matthew I–VII. Edinburgh. ———. 1991. The Gospel According to Matthew, Vol. 2: Commentary on Matthew VIII–XVIII. Edinburgh. ———. 1997. The Gospel According to Matthew, Vol. 3: Commentary on Matthew XIX–XXVIII. Edinburgh. Deines, R. 2004. Die Gerechtigkeit der Tora im Reich des Messias. Matt 5,13–20 als Schlüsseltext der matthäischen Theologie. WUNT 177. Tübingen. Draper, J. A. ed. 1996b. The Didache in Modern Research. AGAJU 37. Leiden. Duling, D. 1993. Matthew and Marginality. Pages 642–71 in Society of Biblical Literature 1993 Seminar Papers. Edited by E. H. Lovering. Atlanta. Dunn, J. D. G. 1992a. Jews and Christians. The Parting of the Ways A.D. 70 to 135: The Second Durham-Tübingen Research Symposium on Earliest Christianity and Judaism (Durham, September, 1989). Edited by J. D. G. Dunn. WUNT 66. Tübingen. ———. 1992b. The Question of Anti-Semitism in the New Testament Writings of the Period. Pages 177–211 in Jews and Christians. The Parting of the Ways A.D. 70 to 135: The Second Durham-Tübingen Research Symposium on Earliest Christianity and Judaism (Durham, September, 1989). Edited by J. D. G. Dunn. WUNT 66. Tübingen. ———. 1996a. “Christian Self-Definition Against the ‘Hypocrites’ in Didache VIII.” Pages 223–43 in The Didache in Modern Research. AGAJU 37. Edited by J. A. Draper. Leiden.

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———. 2005. Do the Didache and Matthew Reflect an “Irrevocable Parting of the Ways” with Judaism? In: Matthew and the Didache: Two Documents from the Same Jewish-Christian Milieu? Edited by H. Van de Sandt Assen and Minneapolis. Foster, P. 2004. Community, Law and Mission in Matthew’s Gospel. WUNT II/117. Tübingen. Freyne, S. 1985. “Vilifying the Other and Defining the Self ”: Matthew’s and John’s Anti-Jewish Polemic in Focus. Pages 117–44 in “To See Ourselves as Others See Us”: Christians, Jews and “Others” in Late Antiquity. Edited by J. Neusner and E. S. Frerichs. Chico. Garland, D. E. 1979. The Intention of Matthew 23. NovT.Sup 52. Leiden. Gnilka, J. 1989a. Das Evangelium nach Markus. Vol. 1: Mark 1,1–8,26. EKK II/1. Third Edition. Zürich. ———. 1989b. Das Evangelium nach Markus. Vol. 2: Mark 9,1–16,20. EKK II/2. Third Edition. Zürich. Hanson, K. C. and D. E. Oakman. 1998. Palestine in the Time of Jesus. Minneapolis. Heszer, C. 1990. Lohnmetaphorik und Arbeitswelt in Matt 20,1–16. Das Gleichnis von den Arbeitern im Weinberg im Rahmen rabbinischer Lohngleichnisse. NTOA 15. Fribourg and Göttingen. Levine, L. I. 2000. The Ancient Synagogue. The First Thousand Years. New Haven and London. Lovering, E. H. ed. 1993. Society of Biblical Literature 1993 Seminar Papers. Atlanta. Luz, U. 1985. Das Evangelium nach Matthäus. Vol. 1: Matt 1,1–7,29. EKK I/1. Fifth Edition 2002. Zürich. ———. 1990. Das Evangelium nach Matthäus. Vol. 2: Matt 8,1–17,27. EKK I/2. Zürich and Vluyn. ———. 1997. Das Evangelium nach Matthäus. Vol. 3: Matt 18,1–25,46. EKK I/3. Zürich and Vluyn. ———. 2002. Das Evangelium nach Matthäus. Vol. 4: Matt 26,1–28,20. EKK I/4. Zürich and Vluyn. Malina, B. J. and J. H. Neyrey. 1988. Calling Jesus Names: The Social Value of Labels in Matthew. Sonoma. Neusner, J. and E. S. Frerichs, eds. 1985. “To See Ourselves as Others See Us”: Christians, Jews and “Others” in Late Antiquity. Chico. Overman, J. A. 1990. Matthew’s Gospel and Formative Judaism: The Social World of the Matthean Community. Minneapolis. ———. 1996. Church and Community in Crisis. The Gospel According to Matthew. Valley Forge. Joüon, P. 1930. “YPOKRITES dans l’Evangile et Hebreux HANEF.” RSR 20: 312–16. Reed, J. L. 2000. Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-Examination of the Evidence. Harrisburg. Regev, E. 2005. Moral Impurity and the Temple in Early Christianity in Light of Ancient Greek Practice and Qumranic Ideology. HTR 97: 383–411. Saldarini, A. J. 1991. The Gospel of Matthew and Jewish-Christian Conflict. Pages 38–61 in Social History of the Matthean Communit: Cross-Disciplinary Approaches. Edited by D. L. Balch. Minneapolis. ———. 1994. Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community. Chicago and London. ———. 2001. Reading Matthew without Anti–Semitism. Pages 166–84 in The Gospel of Matthew in Current Study. Studies in Memory of William G. Thompson S.J. Edited by D. E. Aune. Grand Rapids. Sanders, E. P. ed. 1981. Jewish and Christian Self–Definition, Vol. 2: Aspects of Judaism in the Greco-Roman World. London and Philadelphia. ———. 1990. Jewish Law from Jesus to the Mishnah: Five Studies. London and Philadelphia. ———. 1992. Judaism: Practice and Belief 63 B.C.E.–66 C.E. London and Philadelphia. Segal, A. F. 1986. Rebecca’s Children: Judaism and Christianity in the Roman World. Cambridge and London.

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INDEX OF AUTHORS Abu-Uqsa, H. 213 n. 39 Achtemeier, P. J. 492 n. 24, 539 n. 1, 540, 540 n. 6, 541 Ackroyd, P. 95 n. 12 Adams, J. N. 405 n. 5, 405 n. 6, 406 n. 8, 407 n. 12, 407 n. 14, 408 n. 19 Adan-Bayewitz, D. 208, 208 n. 11, 222 n. 10, 222 n. 13, 224 n. 21, 226 n. 31, 231 n. 54, 232 n. 59 Aichele, G. 122 n. 6 Aland, K. 427 n. 2, 428 n. 7, 437 n. 41 Alcock, S. 230, 230 n. 49, 230 n. 50, 230 n. 51, 231, 280 n. 5 Alexander, P. S. 12 n. 24, 14 n. 30, 15 n. 37, 16 n. 38, 18 n. 47, 18 n. 48, 19 n. 50, 20 n. 53, 20 n. 54, 20 n. 56, 28 n. 71, 29 n. 73, 30 n. 76, 30 n. 77, 406 n. 10 Allberry, C. R. C. 376 n. 27 Allison, D. C. 562 n. 8, 564 n. 15, 569 n. 28, 570 n. 29, 570 n. 30, 570 n. 31, 571 n. 33, 573 n. 37, 573 n. 38, 573 n. 39, 574 n. 41, 576 n. 46, 579 n. 48, 579 n. 49 Alsup, J. E. 427 n. 2, 446 Amit, D. 330 n. 31 Amy R. 279 n. 3 Aquino, F. D. 428 n. 5 Argall, R. A. 58, 58 n. 31, 58 n. 32, 58 n. 37, 60 n. 39, 61, 61 n. 49, 61 n. 50 Attridge, H. W. 112, 112 n. 75, 112 n. 76 Avery-Peck, A. J. 258 n. 3, 264 n. 10 Aviam, M. 206, 206 n. 5, 206 n. 5, 207 n. 7, 207 n. 10, 208 n. 13, 208 n. 14, 209, 209 n. 15, 209 n. 19, 210, 211 n. 26, 211 n. 27, 212 n. 35, 212 n. 36, 213, 213 n. 38, 213 n. 39, 213 n. 40, 213 n. 54, 222 n. 10, 222 n. 13, 224 n. 21, 226 n. 27, 227 n. 35, 229 n. 44, 229 n. 46, 231 n. 53, 231 n. 54, 232 n. 58, 258 n. 3, 307, 307 n. 3, 308, 311, 311 n. 10, 314, 314 n. 17, 326 n. 15 Avigad, N. 265 n. 11 Avi-Yonah, M. 330 n. 28, 334 n. 38, 334 n. 40

Avshalom-Gorni, D. n. 45, 288 n. 28

207 n. 10, 229

Babington, B. 121 n. 4, 137, 137 n. 81, 137 n. 82, 137 n. 84, 137 n. 85, 137 n. 87 Bagatti, B. 224 n. 18 Bahat, D. 226 n. 31, 334 n. 39 Bailey, K. E. 508 n. 15 Baker, J. N. L. 240 n. 17, 241 n. 19, 242 n. 21 Balch, D. L. 563 n. 11 Balsdon, J. P. V. D. 128 n. 37, 129 n. 38, 129 n. 39, 139 n. 40 Bamberger, B. J. 24, 24 n. 64 Barag, D. 226 n. 32, 335 n. 43, 335, 338 n. 47 Barclay, J. 74 n. 4, 75 n. 7, 76 n. 9, 77, 77 n. 13, 77 n. 14, 85, 86 n. 25 Bardy, G. 380, 380 n. 37 Barnes, T. D. 291, 291 n. 34, 292 n. 37, 293 n. 40, 386, 386 n. 9, 388 n. 11, 392 n. 15, 395 n. 20 Barrett, C. K. 369, 369 n. 5, 369 n. 6, 378, 378 n. 33, 526 n. 3 Barrow, R. H. 125 n. 18 Barth, F. 74, 75, 75 n. 7, 75 n. 8, 76, 77, 90 Barton, S. C. 442 n. 59 Bartsch, H. W. 437 n. 42 Batey, R. A. 562 n. 8 Bauckham, R. 88 n. 28, 145 n. 13, 152 n. 26, 152 n. 27, 430 n. 17, 439 n. 48, 444 n. 67 Bauer, W. 52 n. 6, 58, 490, 491 n. 21 Bauman, R. A. 394 n. 19 Baumbach, G. 467 n. 59 Beall, Todd. S. 51 n. 1, 55 n. 19, 59 n. 37 Becker, H.-J. 43 n. 15, 579 n. 48, 579 n. 50 Begg, C. T. 102, 102 n. 40, 180 n. 27, 180 n. 28, 180 n. 30, 181 n. 32 Bell, H. I. 472 n. 79 Ben-Ari, N. 134 n. 66 Ben-Arieh, Y. 240 n. 16 Ben-Dov, M. 338 n. 47 Ben-Nahum, H. 223 n. 17

590

index of authors

Bergmeier, R. 54 n. 16, 55 n. 22, 56 n. 23, 58, 58 n. 31, 59, 59 n. 35, 60 Bergren, T. 99 n. 29, 109, 109 n. 69, 113, 113 n. 79, 114, 114 n. 81, 115, 115 n. 83 Berlin, A. M. 207 n. 10, 208 n. 12, 224, 224 n. 19, 224 n. 20, 229 n. 43, 229 n. 45, 229 n. 46, 230 n. 48 Berman, A. 321 n. 4 Bernard, J. H. 360 n. 56 Berry, W. 209 n. 19 Best, E. 545, 545 n. 35, 546, 546 n. 36 Betz , H. D. 41 n. 13 Bickermann, E. 113 n. 80, 445 n. 69 Bienaimé, G. 360 n. 55 Bijovsky, G. 267, 272 n. 20 Bilabel, F. 41 n. 13 Bilde, P. 60 n. 47, 174 n. 9, 175 n. 10 Birley, A. 385 n. 1 Bloch, P. H. 20, 20 n. 55 Blok, A. 460, 461, 461 n. 32, 461 n. 33, 461 n. 34 Boardman, J. 347 n. 4 Boccaccini, G. 54 n. 18 Bodribb, G. 226 n. 29 Boehm, F. 535, 536 n. 11 Bogaert, P. 22 n. 59. 22 n. 60, 23 n. 61 Bohak, G. 40 n. 9 Boismard, M.-E. 362 n. 63 Bolt, P. G. 445 n. 69 Bonner, C. 36 n. 4 Boobyer, G. H. 434 n. 31 Borg, M. J. 505 n. 4, 508 n. 16 Bornkamm, G. 564 n. 15 Boswell, J. 128 n. 34 Boulding, K. E. 220 n. 3 Bowersock, G. 280 n. 7, 288 n. 27 Bradley, K. 127 n. 28 Bradshaw, P. F. 347 n. 6, 348 n. 8, 348 n. 12, 494 n. 31, 495 n. 37 Brandenburger, E. 542, 542 n. 13, 545 n. 32, 548 n. 50 Brandon, S. G. F. 451, 451 n. 2, 452, 453, 453 n. 9 Brashear, W. M. 35 n. 2 Braunert, H. 471 n. 77, 475 n. 95 Briant, P. 467 n. 60 Brockmeyer, N. 129 n. 41, 129 n. 43 Brooke, G. 182 n. 38 Brown, P. 377, 377 n. 29, 380, 380 n. 39 Brown, R. E. 430 n. 18, 431 n. 20, 431 n. 21

Brunt, P. A. 283, 283 n. 13 Bultmann, R. 350, 350 n. 16, 350 n. 17, 350 n. 18, 351, 361, 361 n. 58, 361 n. 59, 362 n. 61, 434, 434 n. 32, 539, 544 n. 26, 547 n. 44 Burchard, C. 60, 60 n. 43 Burian, J. 467 n. 60 Burkert, W. 535 n. 10 Buschmann, G. 367 n. 2, 369 n. 7, 370 n. 9, 371 n. 16, 374, 374 n. 21 Butler, H. C. 328 n. 24 Butlin, R. 239 n. 9, 239 n. 11, 239 n. 13, 242 n. 20, 242 n. 21 Cahill, J. M. 209 n. 17, 350 n. 20, 351 n. 24 Campbell, J. B. 390 n. 13 Carter, W. 563 n. 11, 565, 565 n. 19, 566, 566 n. 21 Casey, M. 409, 409 n. 25, 410, 411 n. 26, 416, 423 n. 52 Catchpole, D. 430, 431 n. 19, 438 n. 48 Chancey, M. A. 205 n. 1, 206 n. 6, 209 n. 15, 209 n. 19, 212 n. 35, 216 n. 56, 409 n. 23 Chapman, J. 231 n. 56 Charles, R. H. 144 n. 12 Chilton, B. 349 n. 14, 351 n. 24, 486 n. 6, 494 n. 31, 513, 513 n. 37 Claussen, C. 574 n. 41 Cody, A. 103 n. 45 Cohen, S. A. 6 n. 3, 7 n. 7, 7 n. 8, 25 n. 68, 55 n. 22, 60 n. 45, 108, 109, 109 n. 67, 109 n. 68 Cohen, S. J. D. 174 n. 8, 314, 214 n. 18 Cohen, X. 156 n. 39 Colledge, M. 285 n. 17, 291 n. 35 Collins, J. J. 51 n. 1, 60 n. 43, 64 n. 65, 69 n. 75, 112 n. 75, 113 n. 77, 113 n. 78, 144 n. 12, 178 n. 22 Conzelman, D. H. 369 n. 6, 371 n. 16 Cook, S. A. 239 n. 9 Cooly, J. 296 n. 43 Coser, L. 563 Cosmopoulos, M. 230 n. 49 Cotes, M. 437 n. 44 Cranfield, C. E. B. 544 n. 26, 545 n. 33 Crossan, J. D. 215 n. 50, 215 n. 55, 220 n. 4, 226 n. 28, 315, 315 n. 19, 349 n. 14, 505 n. 4, 506 n. 7, 508 n. 20, 510, 510 n. 26, 510 n. 28, 511 n. 29, 512, 512 n. 35, 513 n. 38, 518 n. 54, 519 n. 58, 521 n. 76

index of authors

591

Cullmann, O. 451, 452, 452 n. 3, 452 n. 4 Culpepper, R. A. 358 n. 51, 362, 362 n. 62 Cuming, G. J. 348 n. 10

Dunayevsky, I. 336 n. 46 Dunkerley, R. 491 n. 21 Dunn, J. D. G. 564 n. 17, 574 n. 40 Dvornik, F. 178 n. 22 Dwyer, T. 434 n. 30, 439 n. 48

D’Angelo, M. R. 429 n. 11 Daly-Denton, M. M. 359 n. 53 Danby, M. 153 n. 29 Daniel, R. W. 36 n. 4, 41 n. 13 Danove, P. 427 n. 4, 437 n. 44 Dar, S. 207 n. 9, 330 n. 33 Darwall-Smith, R. H. 279 n. 4, 296 n. 43 Davies, P. R. 97 n. 21, 102 n. 37 Davies, W. C. 562 n. 8, 564 n. 15, 569 n. 28, 570 n. 29, 570 n. 30, 570 n. 31, 571 n. 33, 573 n. 37, 573 n. 38, 573 n. 39, 574 n. 41, 576 n. 46, 579 n. 48, 579 n. 49 Davis, P. G. 446, 446 n. 72 Dawes, G. W. 453 n. 10 De Labriolle, P. 380, 380 n. 36 Degani, A. 206, 206 n. 5, 207 n. 7, 207 n. 10, 208 n. 13, 208 n. 14, 231 n. 53 Dehandschutter, B. 372 n. 17 Deines, R. 209 n. 17, 573 n. 39 Dekkers, E. 485 n. 3 Del Medico, H. E. 63, 63 n. 62 Delatte, A. 536 n. 12 Delatte, L. 178 n. 22 Delehaye, H. 486 n. 8 Deleuze, G. 137 n. 83 Dewey, J. 540 n. 8 Di Lella, A. A. 101 n. 33, 546 n. 43 Dibelius, M. 428, 428 n. 6 Dilke, O. A. W. 194 n. 3 Dillon, J. 535 n. 9 Dix, G. 498 n. 47 Dobrovolny, M. K. 519 n. 59 Dodd, C. H. 451 n. 1 Donahue, J. R. 545 n. 33, 545 n. 35 Doran, R. 112 n. 75 Dothan, M. 332, 322 n. 6, 323, 323 n. 8, 324, 325, 325 n. 10, 327, 327 n. 19, 328, 328 n. 23, 329, 329 n. 25, 331 n. 34, 331 n. 36, 332, 334 n. 41, 336 n. 46, 338 n. 49 Draper, J. A. 415 n. 39, 418 n. 49, 561 n. 4, 562, 562 n. 8, 562 n. 9, 564 n. 15, 576 n. 44, 584 n. 59 Driessen, H. 461, 461 n. 35 Duling, D. 565 n. 20

Edwards, D. R. 222 n. 9, 222 n. 12, 223 n. 14, 225 n. 22, 227 n. 33, 227 n. 34, 230 n. 52, 231 n. 53, 231 n. 55 Eisler, R. 451, 451 n. 2, 452 Elliott, C. 228 n. 39 Elliott, J. H. 78, 77 n. 18 Elliott, J. K. 429 n. 8 Elmore, J. 290 n. 32 Erder, Y. 25 n. 67 Eshel, H. 211, 211 n. 28 Esler, P. F. 73 n. 2, 74 n. 4, 74 n. 5, 75 n. 7, 76 n. 11, 76 n. 12, 78 n. 16, 80 n. 19, 81 n. 20, 81 n. 21, 83 n. 24, 86 n. 26, 94 n. 8 Evans, C. A. 141, 141 n. 5, 142 n. 6, 142 n. 8, 142 n. 8, 142 n. 9, 146, 146 n. 16, 149 n. 21, 151 n. 24, 152 n. 27, 152 n. 30, 153 n. 32, 154 n. 33, 156, 156 n. 36, 427 n. 1, 544 n. 26, 545 n. 33 Evans, C. F. 434 n. 31, 435 n. 33 Evans, E. P. 121 n. 4, 137, 137 n. 81, 137 n. 82, 137 n. 84, 137 n. 85, 137 n. 87 Fander, M. 428 n. 5, 430 n. 17 Farmer, W. R. 427 n. 2 Fee, G. D. 435 n. 36, 547 n. 46 Feldman, L. H. 73 n. 3, 117, 117 n. 84, 179, 179 n. 23, 180 n. 28, 181 n. 31, 181 n. 33, 181 n. 35 Ferguson, N. 279 n. 2 Feuchtwanger, L. 173, 173 n. 2 Fine, S. 6 n. 3, 13, 13 n. 29, 214, 214 n. 45, 214 n. 49, 215, 215 n. 51, 215 n. 53 Fiorenza, E. S. 453 n. 10 Fischer, A. 225 n. 22 Fischer, G. 279 n. 3 Fischer, M. 281 n. 8 Fishbane, M. 24, 24 n. 65, 24 n. 66 Fitzmyer, J. 354 n. 31, 409, 409 n. 23, 411 n. 26 Fitzpatrick-McKinley, A. 98 n. 25, 98 n. 26, 98 n. 27 Flesher, P. V. M. 16, 16 n. 42, 17, 17 n. 43, 132 n. 57 Flusser, D. 561 n. 4, 578 n. 47

592

index of authors

Foerster, G. 326 n. 15, 320 n. 32, 329 n. 26, 334 n. 38 Foley, J. M. 414 n. 35 Foucault, M. 20, 220 n. 5 Fowden, G. 285 n. 20 Fowler, R. M. 437 n. 44, 441 n. 58, 544, 545 n. 33, 545 n. 34, 546 n. 43, 547 n. 44 Frank, D. 25 n. 67 Frankel, R. 206, 206 n. 5, 207 n. 7, 207 n. 8, 207 n. 10, 208 n. 13, 208 n. 14, 228 n. 37, 231 n. 53 Franzmann, M. 368 n. 3, 375 n. 23, 377 n. 30 Freedman, H. 153 n. 32 Freiman, R. 121 n. 4 Frend, W. 373 n. 20, 381 n. 40 Frey, J. 61, 61 n. 51, 61 n. 53, 62, 62 n. 54, 62 n. 55, 68 Freyne, S. 73, 73 n. 1, 141, 141 n. 1, 141 n. 2, 141 n. 4, 205, 205 n. 2, 205 n. 3, 206, 206 n. 6, 216, 219, 231 n. 57, 237, 237 n. 1, 237 n. 3, 238, 238 n. 5, 238 n. 6, 239, 244, 244 n. 25, 250, 250 n. 43, 253, 255, 255 n. 53, 284, 284 n. 14, 296, 296 n. 42, 345, 354 n. 33, 357, 357 n. 48, 364, 401, 401 n. 3, 427 n. 1, 444 n. 63, 444 n. 65, 454, 454 n. 11, 457 n. 20, 462, 462 n. 41, 463, 463 n. 43, 464, 464 n. 46, 464 n. 47, 464 n. 50, 465 n. 55, 470, 470 n. 74, 505, 505 n. 1, 505 n. 2, 505 n. 4, 508, 508 n. 21, 510 n. 25, 513, 513 n. 36, 513 n. 38, 514 n. 39, 515 n. 41, 518 n. 50, 518 n. 51, 519 n. 55, 519 n. 57, 520 n. 67, 561, 561 n. 1, 561 n. 2, 563, 563 n. 10, 564 n. 14, 567, 567 n. 23, 569, 569 n. 26, 569 n. 27, 583, 583 n. 58, 584, 584 n. 60 Fuks, G. 129 n. 45 Fuller, R. H. 437 n. 41, 444 n. 66 Funk, R. W. 521 n. 74 Gaar, A. 485 n. 3 Gal, Z. 206, 206 n. 4, 210 n. 21, 229 n. 46, 306 n. 6, 309, 310, 311 Galor, K. 222 n. 11, 224 n. 19, 224 n. 20, 225 n. 23, 225 n. 24 Gamble, H. Y. 546 n. 40 Garbini, G. 93 n. 3, 102 n. 37, 103, 103 n. 42, 103 n. 43, 103 n. 44, 107, 107 n. 62, 109 n. 67, 115 n. 82

Gardner, I. M. F. 368, 368 n. 4 Garland, D. E. 562 n. 6, 562 n. 8, 563 n. 13, 570 n. 31, 571 n. 32, 573 n. 36, 575 n. 43 Garnsey, P. 227 n. 36 Geddert, T. J. 517 n. 49 Geiger, J. 43 n. 15 Gelston, A. 348 n. 9, 348 n. 11 Getzov, N. 206, 206 n. 5, 207 n. 7, 207 n. 10, 208 n. 13, 208 n. 14, 206, 206 n. 5, 207 n. 7, 207 n. 10, 208 n. 13, 208 n. 14, 231 n. 53 Gibson, S. 209 n. 17, 209 n. 18, 210, 210 n. 22, 210 n. 25 Gilbert, M. 106 n. 59, 110 n. 71 Glazier-McDonald, B. 36 n. 5 Goitein, S. D. 24, 24 n. 67 Goldberg, A. 24 n. 63 Golomb, D. M. 17 n. 46 Goltz, E. von der. 531 n. 7 Goodblatt, D. 12, 12 n. 25, 183 n. 39 Goodenough, E. R. 9, 9 n. 17, 178 n. 22, 183 n. 39 Goodman, M. 141 n. 3, 233 n. 61, 455 n. 14, 467 n. 59, 481 n. 118 Goranson, G. 53 n. 13, 54, 54 n. 17 Gould, E. P. 545 n. 33 Grabbe, L. 93, 93 n. 3, 93 n. 4, 93 n. 5, 94 n. 7, 95 n. 12, 95 n. 13, 98 n. 28, 101 n. 35, 102, 102 n. 37, 115 n. 82 Graetz, H. 20, 20 n. 56, 451 n. 1 Greeven, H. 489 n. 16 Grigsby, B. H. 360 n. 57 Groh, D. 232 n. 59 Grohmann, A. 41 n. 13 Gros, P. 279 n. 3, 281 n. 8 Guelich, R. A. 446 n. 71 Gundry, R. H. 427 n. 2, 544 n. 26, 545 n. 33 Guo, L. 37 n. 7 Gutmann, S. 224 n. 21 Hachlili, R. 129 n. 44, 212 n. 34, 212 n. 36, 214, 214 n. 42, 214 n. 46, 329 n. 26, 330 n. 28 Haenchen, E. 360 n. 54, 369 n. 5, 435 n. 36 Hall, J. M. 81 n. 20 Hamilton, N. Q. 440 n. 54, 445 n. 69 Hana, B. 213 n. 39 Hansen, J. 452 n. 5, 453, 453 n. 8 Hanson, J. 230 n. 52

index of authors Hanson, K. C. 456 n. 19, 576 n. 44 Haran, M. 104 n. 48 Harap, L. 135 n. 77 Harrington, D. J. 545 n. 33 Harris, W. V. 411 n. 28 Hartal, M. 207 n. 9 Hartman, L. 542, 542 n. 14, 548, 548 n. 51, 549, 549 n. 58, 551, 551 n. 68, 551 n. 71, 553, 553 n. 82, 554, 554 n. 84, 554 n. 85 Hayes, C. 111 n. 73 Heitmüller, W. 552, 552 n. 74, 552 n. 76 Henaut, B. W. 539, 539 n. 1, 539 n. 2, 548, 548 n. 52 Hengel, M. 67 n. 71, 435 n. 37, 451 n. 1, 452, 452 n. 5, 453 n. 7, 463, 463 n. 42, 463 n. 44, 464, 464 n. 49, 495 n. 37, 506 n. 6, 540, 541 n. 10 Henne, H. 471 n. 76 Henneken, B. 549 n. 61 Hershbell, J. 535 n. 9 Herzog II, William R. 517 n. 47, 519 n. 60, 519 n. 61 Hester, J. D. 437 n. 44 Hezser, C. 124 n. 17, 132 n. 58, 136 n. 79, 411, 412 n. 29, 418, 418 n. 48, 576 n. 45 Hirschfeld, Y. 212 n. 31, 226 n. 30 Hoberman J. 137 n. 86 Hobsbawm, E. 296 n. 42, 455, 455 n. 15, 455 n. 16, 456, 456 n. 17, 456 n. 18, 460, 461 n. 34, 462, 462 n. 39, 469 Hodgson, M. 280, 280 n. 6 Höffken, P. 107 n. 61 Hoffman C. 122 n. 5 Hoglund, K. G. 225 n. 25 Hölscher, G. 52 n. 6, 56 n. 23 Holtz, T. 548 n. 53 Hooff, A. 467 n. 60 Hooker, M. D. 438 n. 47, 544, 544 n. 26, 544 n. 31, 545 n. 32, 545 n. 33 Hopkins, K. 132 n. 60 Hopwood, K. 461 n. 35, 468 n. 62, 468 n. 63, 480, 480 n. 115 Hordon, P. 221 n. 8 Horsley, R. A. 141 n. 3, 156 n. 38, 220 n. 4, 230 n. 52, 296, 296 n. 42, 403 n. 1, 403 n. 2, 403 n. 3, 404 n. 4, 408 n. 20, 409 n. 23, 409 n. 24, 414 n. 33, 414 n. 34, 415 n. 39, 416 n. 40, 416 n. 41, 416 n. 42, 417 n. 44,

593

418 n. 46, 418 n. 49, 429 n. 11, 457, 457 n. 21, 457 n. 22, 457 n. 23. 458, 458 n. 24, 458 n. 27, 459, 459 n. 28, 460 n. 31, 461 n. 33, 462, 462 n. 40, 463, 464, 464 n. 48, 464 n. 51, 465, 465 n. 53, 466, 466 n. 56, 466 n. 57, 466 n. 58, 467, 467 n. 59, 468, 513 n. 38, 514 n. 39, 520 n. 66 Hort, F. J. A. 495 n. 36 Huch, A. 489 n. 16, 493 n. 30 Huff, M. C. 279 n 3 Humbert, G. 467 n. 60 Hunt, A. 107 n. 60 Hurowitz, V. 95, 95 n. 13, 95 n. 15, 95 n. 16, 96, 96 n. 20 Hurtado, L. W. 427 n. 3, 438 n. 47, 446 n. 72, 545 n. 32, 545 n. 33 Hutchinson, J. 75, 76, 76 n. 9, 76 n. 11, 77 n. 13, 78, 79, 82, 83, 84, 90 Ilan, Z. 330 n. 33 Incigneri, B. J. 436 n. 39, 446 n. 70, 446 n. 72 Irshai, O. 6 n. 3 Isaac, B. 467 n. 60 Izdarechet, A. 330 n. 33 Jaffee, M. 415 n. 36, 415 n. 37, 421 Jantzen, G. 373 n. 19 Jasper R. C. D. 348 n. 10 Jastrow, M. 331 n. 35 Jensen, M. H. 219 n. 2 Jeremias, J. 141 n. 5, 151 n. 25, 152 n. 27, 152 n. 30, 451 n. 1, 506, 506 n. 9, 517 n. 48 Johnson, B. L. 322 n. 6, 336 n. 46 Johnson, E. S. 432 n. 23, 434 n. 30 Johnson, S. E. 545 n. 32 Jones, A. H. M. 129 n. 42, 287 n. 26, 289 n. 29, 406 n. 10 Jones, L. P. 359 n. 52 Joüon, P. 562 n. 7 Juel, D. 437 n. 44 Jull, A. J. 225 n. 22 Just, A. A. Jr. 346 n. 2, 356, 356 n. 38 Kahane, T. 8 n. 10 Kaiser, O. 104, 104 n. 46, 104 n. 48 Kampen, J. 62 n. 58 Keay, S. 282 n. 10 Kelber, W. 411 n. 27, 417 n. 43, 539, 539 n. 1, 542, 543 n. 19, 550 n. 65, 555

594

index of authors

Kellermann, U. 95 n. 13 Kermode, F. 437 n. 44 Kimelman, R. 6 n. 3, 29, 29 n. 74 Kinukawa, H. 428 n. 5, 429 n. 9 Kirk, N. 250 n. 42, 254 n. 52 Klausner, J. 451 n. 1 Kloppenborg, J. S. 211, 211 n. 29, 211 n. 30, 247 n. 35, 417, 417 n. 44, 417 n. 45, 418, 418 n. 47, 455 n. 14, 459 n. 29 Koester, H. 350 n. 17, 351 n. 21 Kohl, H. 328 n. 24, 330 n. 33 Kokkinos, N. 176 n. 15 König, R. 54 n. 16 Kraabel, A. T. 326 n. 16 Kraft, R. A. 54 n. 15 Kreitzer L. J. 134 n. 72 Kushnir-Stein, A. 176 n. 15 Lane, W. L. 545 n. 32, 545 n. 33 Lapham, F. 490, 490 n. 19 Laqueur, R. 174 n. 6 Lawrence, T. E. 197 n. 7 Leared, A. 43 n. 16 Lebram, J. 102, 102 n. 41 Leibner, U. 231 n. 53 Lemche, N. P. 131 n. 56 Lenel, O. 390, 390 n. 12, 390 n. 14 Lensky. G. 514 n. 39 Levenson, J. D. 103 n. 45 Levine, L. I. 6 n. 3, 7 n. 7, 8 n. 11, 8 n. 12, 8 n. 13, 8 n. 14, 9, 9 n. 16, 9 n. 19, 10, 10 n. 21, 26, 26 n. 68, 26 n. 69, 124, 124 n. 14, 124 n. 15, 124 n. 16, 214 n. 45, 215, 215 n. 52, 259 n. 4, 260 n. 6, 260 n. 7, 261, 261 n. 8, 322 n. 7, 325 n. 9, 326 n. 15, 326 n. 17, 330 n. 29, 338 n. 47, 574 n. 41 Levison, J. R. 73 n. 3 Lewis, N. 467 n. 60, 471, 471 n. 77, 474 n. 90, 475 n. 94, 475 n. 97, 477, 477 n. 106 Lieberman, S. 7, 21 n. 58 Lightfoot, R. H. 358, 358 n. 50, 437 n. 42, 442 n. 60, 443 n. 62 Lincoln, A. T. 437 n. 44 Lindemann, A. 433, 433 n. 27, 433 n. 29, 436 n. 40 Lindner, A. 9, 9 n. 18, 9 n. 20, 10 Link, S. 472 n. 78, 474 n. 91 Loades, D. 367 n. 2 Lohmeyer, E. 437 n. 42

Lohse, E. 378 n. 32 Long, B. O. 238 n. 7 Longstaff, T. 232 n. 59 Maas, M. 178 n. 20 MacAdam, H. I. 418 n. 47 Mack, B. L. 101 n. 34, 104, 104 n. 47, 107, 107 n. 63, 107 n. 64, 109, 351 n. 22 MacMullen, R. 279 n. 3, 280 n. 7, 281 n. 8, 464 n. 54, 467 n. 60 Macready, S. 279 n. 3 Magen, Y. 209 n. 16, 209 n. 17, 209 n. 19, 214 n. 45, 214 n. 48, 229 n. 43 Magness, J. 6 n. 3, 212 n. 31, 226 n. 32, 258 n. 3, 264 n. 10, 266 n. 13, 326 n. 15, 326 n. 16, 338 n. 50, 437, 438 n. 45 Makhouly, N. 334 n. 40 Malbon, E. S. 428 n. 5, 439 n. 48 Malherbe, A. J. 549 n. 61, 549 n. 62, 549 n. 63 Malpas, J. G. 228 n. 39 Maltomini, F. 36 n. 4, 41 n. 13 Mann, J. 24, 24 n. 67, 36 n. 3 Maoz, Z. U. 326 n. 15 Marcus, J. 436 n. 39, 446 n. 71, 554 n. 84 Margalioth, M. 41 n. 11, 338 n. 47 Marin, E. 279 n. 3 Marshall, H. 549 n. 55, 549 n. 63 Marxsen, W. 437, 437 n. 42 Mason, S. 51, 51 n. 2, 51 n. 4, 52, 52 n. 9, 55 n. 19, 55 n. 20, 55 n. 21, 56 n. 24, 57 n. 26, 62, 62 n. 57, 63, 63 n. 63, 64, 65, 65 n. 66, 65 n. 67, 65 n. 68, 66, 66 n. 69, 66 n. 70, 67, 67 n. 72, 68, 69, 69 n. 76, 70, 94 n. 8, 174 n. 4, 174 n. 5, 174 n. 9, 175, 175 n. 10, 175 n. 11, 175 n. 12, 176 n. 13, 176 n. 14, 176 n. 15, 179 n. 25, 180 n. 26, 181, 182 n. 36 Massingberd Ford, J. 362 n. 65 Mayo, L. A. 135, 135 n. 74, 135 n. 75, 135 n. 76 Mayor, J. B. 486 n. 7 Mazza, E. 348 n. 12 McCane, B. R. 212 n. 34, 212 n. 36, 213 n. 37, 214, 214 n. 43, 214 n. 45, 214 n. 49 McCollough, C. T. 36 n. 5 McDonald, J. I. H. 521 n. 75 McGing, B. C. 456 n. 19, 462 n. 39,

index of authors 467 n. 60, 468 n. 65, 475, 475 n. 97, 477, 477 n. 105, 477 n. 107, 478 n. 109, 479 n. 111 McGowan, A. 346 n. 3, 353, 353 n. 28, 354, 356 n. 40, 357, 493 n. 27, 494 n. 31, 497 n. 45, 498 n. 47, 498 n. 48 McHugh, J. 486 n. 6 McLaren, J. S. 148 n. 17 McLemore, A. B. 428 n. 5 Meeks, W. 347 n. 5 Meier, J. P. 489, 489 n. 18, 490, 493 n. 27, 497 n. 40, 497 n. 44 Meiri, D. 43 n. 16 Mendels, D. 178 n. 20 Meyer, A. 490, 491 n. 21 Meyer, B. F. 505 n. 4, 515, 516 n. 43, 518 n. 53 Meyer, M. 40 n. 10 Meyers, C. L. 267 n. 14, 326 n. 16, 326 n. 18 Meyers, E. M. 209 n. 16, 209 n. 17, 211 n. 28, 220 n. 6, 222 n. 11, 225 n. 25, 265 n. 12, 267 n. 14, 282 n. 10, 313, 315, 326 n. 16, 326 n. 18, 404 n. 4, 408 n. 21 Millar, F. G. B. 6 n. 3, 26 n. 68, 227 n. 36, 289, 289 n. 31, 407 n. 11 Miller, S. S. 210, 210 n. 23, 210 n. 24, 210 n. 25, 211 n. 29, 224 n. 19, 224 n. 20, 321 n. 2, 428 n. 5, 429 n. 10, 429 n. 12, 430 n. 15, 431 n. 20, 437 n. 44, 439 n. 48, 441 n. 55, 442 n. 59, 444 n. 64 Milson, D. 332 n. 6 Minns, E. H. 284 n. 16 Mitchell, J. L. 437 n. 44 Mitchell, S. 279 n. 3 Mitteis, L. 475 n. 93 Momigliano, A. 69, 69 n. 77 Moreland, M. 223 n. 60 Morrice, W. 491 n. 21 Morsberger, K. M. 121 n. 1, 121 n. 2, 121 n. 3, 134 n. 72, 135 n. 73 Morsberger, R. E. 121 n. 1, 121 n. 2, 121 n. 3, 134 n. 72, 135 n. 73 Mosseri, J. 44 Moule, C. F. D. 438 n. 48, 553 n. 79 Moulton, J. H. 362 n. 64 Moxnes, H. 219 n. 2, 238 n. 4, 238 n. 7, 246 n. 30, 252 n. 48, 318, 318 n. 20 Munro, W. 429 n. 11

595

Murray, J. O. F. 495 n. 36 Murray, O. 347 n. 4, 353 n. 26 Najjar, N. 213 n. 41 Naveh, J. 36 n. 3, 36 n. 4, 36 n. 5, 43 n. 14, 331 n. 35 Neff, H. 227 n. 35 Nemlich, S. 224 n. 21 Netzer, E. 8 n. 15, 326 n. 16, 335, 335 n. 43, 338 n. 47, 338 n. 48, 326 n. 16, 335, 335 n. 43, 338 n. 47, 338 n. 48 Neusner, J. 5 n. 2, 10 n. 22, 152 n. 29, 153, 153 n. 31, 159 n. 1, 258 n. 3, 258 n. 3, 264 n. 10, 486 n. 6 Nickelsburg, G. W. E. 64 n. 65 Nodet, É. 493 n. 28, 493 n. 29, 494 n. 31, 494 n. 33, 498 n. 47 O’Collins, G. 441 n. 56 O’Loughlin, T. 485 n. 1, 487 n. 10, 489 n. 18, 497 n. 42 Oakman, D. E. 576 n. 44 Oates, J. F. 472 n. 79, 472 n. 80, 473 n. 83 Ober, J. 283 n. 12 Olyan, S. 100 n. 32, 101, 101 n. 34, 104 n. 50, 106, 106 n. 58, 106 n. 59, 107 Oppenheimer, A. 6 n. 5, 7 n. 6, 7 n. 9, 29 n. 73 Oren, E. 322 n. 5 Ory, G. 51 n. 4 Oshri, A. 210 n. 21 Osiek, C. 440 n. 54 Ovadiah, A. 329 n. 27 Overman, J. A. 279 n. 3, 282 n. 10, 287 n. 26, 289 n. 29, 293 n. 41, 563 n. 11, 564, 564 n. 15, 564 n. 17, 574 n. 41, 579 n. 48, 580 n. 52 Packer, J. W. 378, 378 n. 34 Padget, A. 279 n. 1 Pakkala, J. 102, 102 n. 38, 108 n. 66 Parker, H. 128 n. 33 Parks, D. 227 n. 35 Patai, R. 521 n. 71 Patrik, L. E. 303, 303 n. 1, 304, 304 n. 2 Paul, A. 63 n. 63 Pearce, S. 111 n. 72 Pearl, O. M. 478 n. 110 Perkins, P. 435 n. 33

596

index of authors

Perlman, I. 208 n. 11 Perrin, N. 437 n. 42, 442 n. 59 Pesch, R. 428 n. 7, 434 n. 30, 440 n. 52 Peters, F. E. 289 n. 30 Petersen, N. R. 437 n 44, 438, 438 n. 46, 441 n. 57 Petit, M. 53 n. 10, 53 n. 12 Phillips, V. 433 n. 28, 439 n. 49 Polliack, M. 25 n. 67 Polotsky, H. J. 376 n. 26 Porat, Y. 335 n. 43, 335, 338 n. 47 Porten, B. 128 n. 35 Porter, S. E. 409 n. 22 Priest, J. 145 n. 14 Pringle, D. 197 n. 7 Purcell, N. 221 n. 8 Rabinowitz, Z. M. 13 n. 29 Rahmani, L. Y. 213, 213 n. 37, 213 n. 39, 214, 214 n. 44 Rajak, T. 52 n. 7, 55 n. 22, 58, 58 n. 30, 174 n. 7, 174 n. 9, 177 n. 19, 181 n. 34 Rankin, D. I. 393 Rappaport, U. 454, 454 n. 13, 467 n. 59 Rathbone, D. 477 n. 107, 477 n. 108 Rawson, B. 133 n. 63 Rech, J. 225 n. 22 Reed, J. L. 206 n. 6, 209, 209 n. 15, 209 n. 17, 209 n. 18, 209 n. 19, 209 n. 20, 211 n. 27, 212 n. 35, 213 n. 41, 215 n. 50, 215 n. 55, 206 n. 6, 209, 209 n. 15, 209 n. 17, 209 n. 18, 209 n. 19, 209 n. 20, 211 n. 27, 212 n. 35, 213 n. 41, 215 n. 50, 215 n. 55, 226 n. 26, 226 n. 28, 311, 311 n. 11, 313, 313 n. 13, 315, 315 n. 19, 562 n. 8 Reeves, J. C. 15 n. 37 Regev, E. 210 n. 24, 212 n. 32, 569 n. 28 Reich, R. 211, 211 n. 27, 211 n. 28 Reif, S. C. 6 n. 3 Renan, E. 93 n. 3, 242 Rengstorf K. H. 73 n. 3, 82 n. 22, 83 n. 23, 87 n. 27 Resch, A. 548, 548 n. 53 Reumann, J. 349, 349 n. 15 Richardson, J. S. 283 n. 12 Richardson, P. 209, 209 n. 15, 209 n. 19, 211 n. 27, 212 n. 35, 222 n. 13, 226 n. 26, 230 n. 52, 470 n. 75

Riesen, R. A. 239 n. 12, 242 n. 20, 249 n. 40 Rigaux, B. 548, 549 n. 54 Riginos, A. S. 177 n. 19 Rivkin, E. 506, 506 n. 5, 511 n. 30, 512 n. 33 Robbins, V. K. 517 n. 47, 550 n. 64 Robinson, B. P. 494 n. 33, 501 n. 52 Robinson, J. M. 417 n. 44 Rohrbaugh, R. L. 522 n. 79 Röhricht, R. 196 n. 6, 197 n. 8 Rooke, D. W. 5 n. 1, 181 n. 32, 182 n. 38 Rordorf, W. 494 n. 34 Rose, C. R. 291, 291 n. 36 Rosenstone, R. A. 122, 122 n. 5, 122 n. 7 Roth-Gerson, L. 331 n. 35, 338 n. 47 Rothenbuhler, E. W. 493 n. 26, 500, 500 n. 50 Rotroff, S. 279 n. 3 Rouse, M.A. 502 n. 53 Rouse, R. H. 502 n. 53 Safrai, S. 330 n. 29, 330 n. 31, 335 n. 42 Safrai, Z. 8 n. 10, 330 n. 30, 479 n. 112 Saller, R. 227 n. 36 Sanders, E. P. 51 n. 5, 212 n. 32, 220 n. 7, 505 n. 4, 506 n. 8, 507, 507 n. 10, 508, 508 n. 18, 508 n. 20, 509, 509 n. 23, 509 n. 24, 510, 510 n. 27, 511, 511 n. 31, 514, 514 n. 40, 515, 515 n. 41, 516, 516 n. 44, 522 n, 78, 562 n. 8, 569 n. 25 Sanders, J. S. 93 n. 6, 142 n. 6, 149 n. 22, 152 n. 28 Sandt, H. van de, 561 n. 4, 578 n. 47 Sanneh, L. 508, 508 n. 19 Sant Cassia, P. 461 n. 36, 461 n. 37, 462, 462 n. 38, 481 n. 116 Sawicki, M. 223 n. 16, 312 n. 12 Schaefer, K. R. 37, 37 n. 7 Schäfer, P. 19, 36 n. 3, 36 n. 4, 36 n. 6, 41 n. 12 Schalit, A. 56 n. 24, 174 n. 7 Schama, S. 237 n. 2 Schams, C. 102, 102 n. 39 Schaps, D. 430 n. 14 Schiffman, L. H. 16 n. 41, 36 n. 4 Schlössinger, M. 43 n. 16 Schnackenburg, R. 351 n. 21, 360, 360 n. 55, 361 n. 58, 361 n. 60

index of authors Schoedel, W. R. 371 n. 13, 371 n. 14, 375 n. 24 Schottroff, W. 288 n. 27, 289 n. 29 Schrire, T. 41 n. 13 Schürer, E. 5 n. 1, 5 n. 2, 6 n. 4, 178 n. 21, 206 n. 6 Schüssler Fiorenza, E. 349 n. 14 Schwartz, D. R. 56 n. 23, 94 n. 8, 182 n. 37, 183 n. 39 Schwartz, S. 250 n. 3, 259, 259 n. 4, 262, 266 n. 13, 481 n. 118 Scott, B. B. 516 n. 46, 522 n. 79, 523 n. 80 Seeley, D. 378, 378 n. 32, 379, 379 n. 35 Segal, A. J. 286 n. 21 Segal, J. B. 41 n. 13 Setzer, C. 431 n. 22 Severy, B. 290, 290 n. 33, 291 n. 36, 292 n. 38 Shaked, I. 229 n. 45, 288 n. 28 Shaked, S. 36 n. 3, 36 n. 4, 36 n. 5, 41 n. 12, 43 n. 14 Shandler J. 137 n. 86 Sharpe, R. 485 n. 2 Shaw, B. D. 464, 464 n. 52, 467 n. 60, 468, 468 n. 62, 469 n. 64, 468 n. 65, 469, 469 n. 66, 469 n. 68, 470, 470 n. 71, 470 n. 72, 476 n. 99 Sheppard, G. T. 356 n. 39 Shiel, R. 231 n. 56 Shillington, V. G. 505 n. 3, 514 n. 39, 516 n. 45, 518 n. 52 Shutt, R. J. H. 73 n. 3 Sider, R. D. 386 n. 7, 397 n. 22 Sievers, J. 64 n. 64 Sim, D. C. 563 n. 11, 564 n. 15 Skehan, P. W. 101 n. 33, 546 n. 43 Slatta, R. W. 463, 464 n. 39 Slouschz, N. 321, 322 n. 5 Smallwood, E. M. 451 n. 1 Smith, A. D. 75, 76, 76 n. 9, 76 n. 11, 77 n. 13, 78, 79, 82, 83, 84, 90 Smith, D. E. 346 n. 2, 494 n. 35 Smith, G. A. 238, 239, 239 n. 8, 239 n. 10, 240 n. 14, 241 n. 18, 242 n. 22, 243 n. 23 244 n. 24, 244 n. 25, 244 n. 26, 244 n. 27, 245, 245 n. 28, 245 n. 29, 246 n. 31, 246 n. 32, 246 n. 33, 246 n. 34, 247, 247 n. 35, 247 n. 36, 248, 248 n. 37, 248 n. 38, 248 n. 39, 249, 249 n. 40, 249 n. 41, 250, 250 n. 44, 251, 251 n. 45, 252, 252 n. 47, 252 n. 49, 253, 253 n. 50, 253 n. 51, 254, 255

597

Smith, J. Z. 452, 452 n. 6, 493 n. 25, 494 n. 33, 563, 563 n. 12 Smith, L. A. 239 n. 9, 251 n. 46 Smith, M. 55 n. 21, 57 n. 28, 58, 58 n. 29, 60, 60 n. 41, 60 n. 43, 60 n. 45, 453 n. 8, 467 n. 60 Smith, R. 40 n. 10, 281 n. 9 Snaith, J. G. 100 n. 32 Sokoloff, M. 331 n. 35 Spilsbury, P. 180 n. 28 Stadelmann, H. 101, 101 n. 34, 106 n. 59 Stanley, A. P. 240 Stanton, G. N. 495 n. 37, 563, 563 n. 11, 563 n. 13, 564 Stavisky, B. 284 n. 15 Stemberger, G. 47 n. 42, 445 n. 68 Sterling, G. E. 68 n. 73 Stern, E. 227 n. 35 Stern, M. 5 n. 1 Stevenson, J. 528 n. 4 Stone, M. E. 93 n. 6, 100 n. 31 Strange, J. F. 226 n. 28, 231 n. 56, 232 n. 59, 258 n. 3, 265 n. 12, 326 n. 16, 327 n. 18, 404 n. 4 Strelan, R. 370, 370 n. 10 Sukenik, E. L. 326 n. 17, 330 n. 28, 330 n. 33, 331 n. 35, 334 n. 38, 334 n. 40, 336 n. 45 Swain, S. 405 n. 5, 405 n. 6, 406 n. 8, 407 n. 12, 407 n. 14, 408 n. 19 Swartz, M. D. 6 n. 3, 13 n. 27, 14, 14 n. 32, 16 n. 39, 16 n. 40, 36 n. 4 Swete, H. B. 541 n. 11 Syme, R. 283 n. 12 Syon, D. 209 n. 19, 212 n. 35, 212 n. 36, 213, 213 n. 38, 213 n. 39, 213 n. 40, 215 n. 54, 224 n. 21 Tal, O. 212 n. 33 Talbert, C. H. 369, 370, 370 n. 8 Talgam, R. 338 n. 50 Tannehill, R. C. 369 n. 7, 378 n. 34 Taussig, H. E. 494 n. 35 Taylor, D. G. K. 405 n. 5, 405 n. 6, 406 n. 7, 406 n. 8, 406 n. 9, 407 n. 13, 407 n. 16, 408 n. 18 Taylor, G. 328 n. 24 Taylor, J. 493 n. 28, 493 n. 29, 494 n. 31, 494 n. 33, 498 n. 47, 525 n. 1 Taylor, V. 544 n. 26, 544 n. 29, 545 n. 32, 553 n. 79 Thackeray, H. 78 n. 15

598

index of authors

Theissen, G. 544, 544 n. 30, 546 n. 39, 547 n. 48 Thomas, J. D. 477m 477 n. 104 Thompson, F. H. 279 n. 3 Thorpe, R. S. 228 n. 38, 228 n. 40, 228 n. 41, 228 n. 42 Tomson, P. J. 579 n. 51 Torrey, C. C. 93, 93 n. 2, 93 n. 3, 94, 95, 95 n. 10, 95 n. 13, 95 n. 14 Tosh, J. 250 n. 42 Trifon, D. 6 n. 3, 8 n. 10, 29, 30 n. 75 Trillmich W. P. 279 n. 3 Trombley, F. R. 407 n. 15, 408 n. 17 Tsuk, T. 223 n. 15 Tzaferis, V. 330 n. 33, 336 n. 45 Ulrich, E. 412, 413, 413 n. 30 Urbach, E. E. 8 n. 10, 11 n. 23 VanderKam, J. 106 n. 56, 152 n. 26, 152 n. 28, 214 n. 47 Ventura, R. 207 n. 8 Vermes, G. 521 n. 68 Veyne, P. 576 n. 44 Vielhauer, P. 488, 488 n. 13 Vogt, J. 127 n. 31 Volkmann, H. 124 n. 17 Wacholder, B. Z. 113 n. 77, 113 n. 79 Wagner, D. 224 n. 21 Wallace, L. 121, 121 n. 1, 122, 123 n. 9, 123 n. 10, 123 n. 11, 123 n. 12, 125 n. 21, 125 n. 22, 126, 126 n. 23, 126 n. 24, 126 n. 25, 126 n. 26, 127, 127 n. 29, 127 n. 30, 130, 130 n. 47, 130 n. 49, 130 n. 50, 130 n. 51, 131, 131 n. 52, 131 n. 53, 131 n. 54, 132, 133, 133 n. 62, 133 n. 64, 133 n. 65, 134, 134 n. 66, 134 n. 67, 134 n. 68, 134 n. 69, 134 n. 70, 134 n. 71, 134 n. 72, 135, 138 Walsh, R. 122 n. 6 Walzer, R. 357 n. 46 Wanamaker, C. A. 549 n. 60, 549 n. 61 Watson, A. 128 n. 36, 132 n. 59, 132 n. 61 Watzinger, C. 328 n. 24, 330 n. 33 Weber, M. 76, 76 n. 11 Weinberg, S. S. 213 n. 41 Weinberger, L. J. 12 n. 26, 13 n. 29, 14 n. 53, 15, 15 n. 43, 15 n. 35, 15 n. 36, 18 n. 49, 20 n. 57 Weinfeld, M. 562, 562 n. 7, 562 n. 8

Weiss, Z. 8, 8 n. 15, 321 n. 1, 326 n. 17, 329 n. 26, 336 n. 44 Wellhausen, J. 546, 546 n. 38, 546 n. 41 Wells, P. 229 n. 47 Wenham, D. 549, 549 n. 55, 549 n. 56, 549 n. 57 Weren, W. 561 n. 1, 562 n. 5, 571 n. 34 Westcott, B. F. 362 n. 63 White, H. 51 n. 3 Wikgren, A. 446 n. 71 Wilckens, U. 435 n. 35, 475 n. 93, 562 n. 7, 569 n. 26 Wildhaber, R. 45 n. 18 Williams, B. F. 76 n. 10 Williams, D. J. 370 n. 11 Williams, D. S. 100 n. 30 Williamson, H. 95 n. 13 Williams-Thorpe, O. 228 n. 38, 228 n. 40, 228 n. 41, 228 n. 42 Wilson, J. 282 n. 10, 289 n. 31 Wilson, S. B. 348 n. 10 Winkler, G. 54 n. 16 Winkler, J. J. 462 n. 39 Winter, T. 240 n. 15 Woolf, G. 283 n. 11, 418 n. 48 Wright III, B. G. 211 n. 28 Wright, J. 95, 95 n. 13, 95 n. 17, 96, 96 n. 18, 96 n. 19, 96 n. 20, 97, 97 n. 21, 97 n. 22, 97 n. 23, 97 n. 24, 98, 105 n. 54 Wright, N. T. 427 n. 2, 435 n. 33, 505 n. 4, 507, 507 n. 11, 508, 508 n. 15, 508 n. 16, 508 n. 17, 512 n. 34 Xenophontos, C.

228 n. 39

Yahalom, J. 6 n. 3, 13 n. 27, 13 n. 28, 14, 14 n. 32, 16, 16 n. 39, 16 n. 40 Yarbro Collins, A. 433 n. 26, 433 n. 29, 435 n. 33, 435 n. 36, 436 n. 38, 445 n. 69, 547 n. 49. 550 n. 66, 551 n. 67, 551 n. 69, 553 n. 81, 554 n. 87, 556 n. 93, 556 n. 94, 556 n. 95, 557 n. 99, 558 n. 100 Yardeni A. 128 n. 35 Yoder, J. H. 452 n. 4 Young, W. 121 n. 2, 121 n. 3 Youtie, H. C. 418 n. 49, 478 n. 110 Zangenberg, J. 209 n. 16 Zanker P. 279 n. 3, 279 n. 4 Zimmermann, R. 394 n. 18 Zori, N. 336 n. 46 Zucker, M. 24 n. 62

INDEX OF ANCIENT SOURCES Hebrew Bible Genesis 9:4 11:31–32 11 24:7 48:16

350 n. 19 81 81 422 422

Exodus 3:2 3:8 20:12 21:2–6 21:17 23:20 25:37 27:20 32 34:28 34:29 43:2

422 518 n. 51 569 131 569 421, 422 521 n. 69 521 n. 69 106 n. 56 356 378 520

Leviticus 5:10–16 6:1–7 11:41 13 17:10–11 20:9 21:11 24:2 25:39–41

522 522 581 515 350 569 521 521 131

Numbers 5:5–9 16

522 104

Deuteronomy 3:18 3:28 5:15 5:16 6:18 8:3 8:7 8:10 15:12–13

518 n. 51 518 n. 51 124 569 518 n. 51 356 355 529 131

n. 77

n. 19 n. 73 n. 69

17:9 17:9–11 17:14–15 17:18–20 18 18:1 23:4 24:8 27:9 33:5 33:10

105 16 179 179 105 105 356 105 105 179 n. 24 16

Judges 6:11–14 13:4 13:6 20:34–35

422 356 378 106 n. 56

1 Samuel 8:7–9 30:11

180 356

2 Samuel 7:12 7:13 7:15 7:16 7:25–29

180 180 180 180 180

2 Kings 4:42–44 21:19 23:36

532 308 308

1 Chronicles 5:27–41 17:23–27

105, 105 n. 55 180 n. 30

Ezra 1–6 2:2 4 4:52 7:15 7–8

n. n. n. n. n.

30 30 30 30 30

96, 101 105 98 n. 25, 155, 556 556 n. 9 105 96

600 7–10 7:11 7:13 7:15–20 7:15–24 8:2 8:8 8:9 8:15–20 8:24–35 9–10 9:1–3 9:4–5 10:7–8 10:11 Nehemiah 1–6 1:1a 1:1–7:5 1:1–11 1–13:31 2:1–6 2:6 2:10 2:19 3:28 3:33 3:38 4:1 5 5:4 6:1 6:2–9 6:15 6:17–19 7:7 8 8:1–4 8:1–8 9–10 10:29 10:39–40 11 11b 11:1–2 11:1–13:31 12 12:1–47 12:27–43 12:31–43 12:47 13:4–31

index of ancient sources 93, 102, 107, 108, 109, 111 546 n. 43 108 108 109 105 17 109 107 109 96 109 109 109 356

13:9 13:10–15 13:10–22 15 15–18 16a 18b 23–30

109 101 101 96 95 96 96 101

Esther 14:17

354

Psalms 36:9 41 77:16–20 113:8

521 n. 69 349 359 n. 53 359 n. 53

95 95, 96 95 94 94 95, 96 108 97 97 95 96 96 96 101 97 97 96 95, 96 97, 99 105 93, 102, 109, 410 546 n. 43 108 96 109 105 96 95, 96 95 95 n. 13 95 101 95 95 105 95

Proverbs 8:30 9:5 25:21

14 351 356

Ecclesiastes 8.2

378

Isaiah 2:2–4 3:1 33:16 35:5–6 42:6–7 44:3 53 57:15 61:1

520 356 356 422 422 355 n. 34, 358 24 23 422

Jeremiah 18:18 22:18 34:8–11 34:14–16 40:11–15 41:5

108 571 131 131 98 106

Ezekiel 11:16 34:23 39:29 47

11 533 355 n. 34 359 n. 53, 360

Daniel 1:8–16 2:28–29 7:13

354 553 550

index of ancient sources 12–12 9:26–27 12:7 12:10–12 12:11–12

410 551 551 545 n. 32 556

Joel 2:28–29

355 n. 34

Zephaniah 3:8

23

601

Haggai 2:14

101 106

Zechariah 7:1–3 13:7 14:8

106 532 359 n. 53, 360

Gen

101

Malachi 3:1

421, 422

New Testament Matthew 4:8–10 4:23 5:1 5:8 5:13 5:13–15 5:13b 5:14 5:14–16 5:18–19 5:20 5:21–26 5:22–23 5:33 5:43–48 5:46 6:1 6:1–17 6:1–18 6:2 6:2–4 6:2–6 6:5 6:5–6 6:5–15 6:11 6:16 6:16–18 7:1–2 7:3–5 7:5 7:12 7:16–20 7:23

249 574 574 582 518 577 518 520 576, 577, 578 581 571, 575 581 571 581 581 579 573 n. 39, 574 577 575, 577, 578, 579, 580 561 n. 4, 568, 574, 579 573 573 561 n. 4, 568, 574, 579 583 573 519 561 n. 4, 574 573 574 570, 571, 573, 581, 583 561 n. 4, 568 581 577 582

8:12 8:22 9:9 9:16–17 9:35 10:6 10:10 10:17 10:38 12:9 12:24–32 13:41 13:42 13:50 13:52 13:54 14:12 14:19 14:20 15:1–20 15:3 15:5–6 15:6 15:7 15:12–14 15:24 15:36 16:12 16:24 16:16 17:24–27 17:35 18:15–20 18:20 18:35 19:1–3–9 19:21 20:1–15

572 517 517 517 574 514, 522 550 n. 64 574 517 574 515 582 572 572 580 574 432 n. 25 525 525 n. 2 568 569 569 569 561 n. 4, 568, 575 568 514 525 579 517 291 581 571 571 501 571 430 n. 15 517 519

602 20:26–28 21:8 21:14–16 21:33–41 22:1–10 22:15 22:16a 22:18 22:34–40 23 23:1 23:2 23:3 23:4 23:5 23:5–12 23:6–7 23:8 23:8–10 23:8–12 23:12 23:13 23:13–29 23:13–33 23:15 23:16 23:16–22 23:23 23:23–24 23:24 23:25 23:26 23:27 23:28 23:29 23:29–33 23:30–39 23:32–3 23:34 23:37 23:39 24:2 24:51 24:51c 25:30 25:37 26:3 26:19 26:20 26:26 26:26–29

index of ancient sources 580 511 512 519 518 573 570 561 n. 4, 568, 570, 575 581 575, 578, 583, 584 578 579 572, 581 582 579 579 582 580 580 583 581 568, 572, 578, 582 561 n. 4 581 568, 578 568 581 568, 578 581 568, 581 568, 578, 582 581 568, 578 573, 582 568, 578 582 583 581 574, 580, 583 582, 584 583 511 572 572 572 573 510 512 497 525 513, 528

26:27 26:29 26:31 26:32 26:55 27:24 27:37 27:40 27:49 27:55 27:55–56 27:61 27:62 27:62–28:7 28:1 28:5 28:6 28:7–8 28:9–10 28:11–15 Mark 1:1 1:11 1:21–28 1:30–31 1:45 2:1–12 2:21–22 3:1–6 3:13–19 3:22–30 4:9 4:28 4:34 5:1–20 5:17 5:18 5:21–24 5.25–34 5:35–43 5:6 6:3 6:7–13 6:29 6:34 6:41 6:43 7:1–4 7:1–23 7:5 7:6 7:17–29

498 496 533 533 371 375 511 509 363 431 430 430 492 492 430 435 431 441 301 492

n. 46

n. 16 n. 16, 431 n. 16, 431 n. 34

446 434 n. 30 430 n. 13 429 439 n. 51 225 517 430 n. 13 444 515 547 n. 48 452 514 430 n. 13 429 n. 12 429 n. 12 429 429 429 431 n. 20 429, 429 n. 12, 430 444 432 526 525 525 n. 2 430 n. 15 568 568 561 n. 4 429

index of ancient sources 7:19 7.24–30 7:31 7:31–37 7:36 8:3 8:6 8:8 8:19 8:27 8:27–30 8:31 8:34–38 9 9:2–10 9:7 9:9–10 9:14–29 9:31 9:38 9:38–39 9:39 9:41 9:42 10:32–34 10:33–35 10:35 10:38–39 11:8 11:13 11:15–18 11:18 12:15 12:24–27 13

13:1–2 13:1–4 13:1b–2 13:2 13:3–31 13:3–37 13:4 13:5b 13:5b–6 13:5b–23 13:5–6 13:6 13:7 13:7–8 13:7c

569 430 403 430 n. 13 439 n. 51 431 n. 20 525 525 n. 2 525, 525 n. 2 291, 403 251 437 n. 43, 442 445 552 436 n. 38 434 n. 30 437, 443 430 n. 13 437 n. 43, 442 553 533 n. 78 553 553 n. 80 228 437 n. 43 442 362 n. 64 498 n. 46 511 431 n. 20 508 512 568, 570 436 n. 38 435 n. 37, 443, 539, 540, 542, 543, 548, 549, 551, 556, 557 541, 550 543 542 511 541 551 551 n. 68 542, 553, 557 n. 96 543, 552, 555 556 437 n. 42 552, 553 554 542, 553 553

13:8 13:8b 13:9 13:9–11 13:9–12 13:9–13 13:9a 13:10 13:12–16 13:14 13:14–20 13:14–23 13:19–22 13:21–22 13:21–23 13:21–27 13:22 13:23 13:24–27 13:26 13:26–27 13:27 13:28–37 13:30 13:30–31 13:30–32 13:31 13:32 13:32–36 13:33 13:33–37 13:34–36 13:37 14:3–9 14:9 14:16 14:17–25 14:18 14:22 14:22–24 14:22–25 14:23 14:25 14:27 14:28 14:36 14:52 14:54 14:58

603 553 437 n. 42 553 554 554 n. 86 437 n. 42, 445, 542, 556 553 444, 446, 541, 554, 558 542 543, 547, 554, 555, 557, 558 542 556 542 437 n. 42, 542, 543, 555 437 n. 42 542 541 541, 555 542, 543, 548 548 550 549, 550 543 556 556 542 556 437 n. 42, 556 556, 558 557 542 542 557 430 444 512 495 497 525 513 528 498 n. 46, 529 496 533 434, 440, 442, 445 498 n. 46 492 n. 23 431 n. 20 510

604 14:66–72 15:26 15:29 15:39 15:40

index of ancient sources 8:16 9:11 9:16 9:17 9:28–35 9:31 9:51 10:7 10:30–35 11:3 11:15–23 12:11–12 12:16–21 12:22–23 12:31 12:35–46 12:46 12:53 12:56 13:15 14:11 14:16–24 14:34–35

16:8b 17–19 34 75

444 511 509, 510 434 n. 30 428, 430, 431 n. 21 428, 430, 433, 435, 440 427, 428, 429, 431, 433 n. 26, 443 428 n. 8 433 n. 26 432 432 432, 432 n. 24, 432 n. 25 427, 428 427, 428, 433, 433 n. 26, 434, 435 n. 36, 437, 440, 442, 443, 444, 445, 446, 447, 492 433 431 433, 434 n. 30, 445 434 434, 434 n. 31, 437, 437 n. 42, 444, 445 427, 438, 440, 440 n. 54, 441, 442, 442 n. 60 439 430 n. 15 430 n. 15 430 n. 15

Luke 1:15 1:52 2:40 2:52 3:2 4:14 5:17–26 5:36–37 6:20–22 6:21 6:41–42 6:42 8:1–3

357 581 369 369 510 369 225 517 523 519 570, 571 561 n. 4 429, 430 n. 16

22:19b–20 22:20 22:35–38 22:54 22:66–71 22:69 23:8–12 23:12 23:34 23:38 23:39–43 23:46 23:48–49

15:40–16:8 15:40–41 15:41 15:42–46 15:44 15:44–45 15:45 15:47 16:1–8

16:4 16:4–6 16:6 16:6–7 16:7 16:8

15:11–32 18:10–14a 19:12–17 19:36 19:39 19:47–48 20:9–16 21:6 22 22:13 22:14–19a 22:15–19a 22:17 22:17–19 22:18 22:19

520 526 525 525 n. 2 369 369 376 550 n. 64 521 519 515 542, 554 n. 86 232, 518 233 233 557 n. 97 572 554 n. 86 561 n. 4 561 n. 4 581 518 518, 518 n. 52, 520 507, 522 521 557 n. 97 511 512 512 519 511 526 512 528 346 498 n. 46 513 496 495 n. 39, 525, 526 529 526 451 369 369 369 583 362 n. 64 370 511 370 370 431

index of ancient sources 24:1–11 24:5–6 24:6–8 24:9 24:10 24:10–11 24:13–34 24:13–35 24:14 24:30 24:35 24:36–49 John 1:18 1:35 2:1–11 2:2 2:6 2:19 3:6 3:12 4 4:9 4:10 4:11 4:13–14 4:13–15 4:14 4:15 4:54 5 5:6 5:44 5–7 6 6:1 6:1–15 6:12–13 6:26–27 6:34 6:35 6:51 6:9 6:11 6:35 6:35–51b 6:48 6:51a 6:51c 6:51c–58

492 435 n. 34 443 n. 61 441 430 n. 16 430 n. 16 499 489 497 497, 525 499, 525, 537 489, 499 349 352, 357, 363 229, 354 n. 33 362 n. 64 209 511 358 361 350, 358, 361, 361 n. 60 521 361, 361 n. 59 358 358, 361 362 349, 358, 359, 360 361 361 n. 58 361 n. 58 363 579 361 n. 58 350, 351, 361, 363 361 n. 58 359 525 n. 2, 532 361, 362 361, 362 361 361, 361 n. 59 359 352 532 350 352 352 352 350, 351, 352

6:51c–58a 6:54 6:60 7 7:2 7:37 7:38 7:38–39 8:11 8:12 9:5 9:7 11:11 11:52 12:13 13:1 13:18 13:23 13:25 13:28–30 18:3–8 18:15

605

19:35 20 20:3 20:1–10 20:6–7 20:11–17 20:20 20:26 20:29 21:9 21:13

350 350 350 361 n. 58 360 360 358, 359, 360 360 n. 55 498 n. 46 521 n. 70 521 n. 70 358 492 534 511 351, 512 349 349 349 349 371 357 n. 45, 362 n. 64 516 511 486, 486 n. 7 360, 360 n. 55, 363 363 492, 494, 499 362 n. 64 492 492 n. 23 492 499 499 358 359 499

Acts 1:3 2:42 2:46 2:46–47 3:15 3:22 5:24 5:37 6:5 6:8 6:11 6:12 6:14

446 525 525 348 446 533 362 n. 64 454 369 369 369 369 509

18:36 19:19 19:27 19:34

606

index of ancient sources

6:15 7:54 7:55–56 7:56 7:59 7:59–60 7:60 10:39–42 11:19–26 11:26 12:12 15:29 19:3 20 20:7 20:7–12 20:11 26:28 27:35

369 371 n. 16 369, 378 369 370 370 370 446 370 74 541 350 n. 19 357 n. 42 532 494, 525 526 525 74 525

Romans 2:17–25 4.2 6.1–11 6.3 6.3–4 6:3–11 14:21

579 368 379 368 379 367 353, 354

1 Corinthians 5.5 8:13 9:1 9:14 10 10–11 10:1–4 10:16 10:16–17 10:17 10:21 11 11:17 11:18 11:23 11:23–25 11:23–26 11:24 11:24–25 11:25 11:25–28 14:23 15

396 353 446 550 n. 64 497 494 359 525 497 536 498 497, 549 347 n. 5 347 n. 5 501 495 n. 38 528 496, 525 495 n. 39, 513 498 497 347 n. 5 435 n. 36, 436 n. 38, 549

15:3–5 15:3–7 15:7 15:42–46 15:51–52 16:2 20–21 33

436 n. 38 437 n. 42 488, 490, 491, 492, 499, 500 n. 49 436 n. 38 436 n. 38 494 347 n. 5 347 n. 5

2 Corinthians 2.7

397

Galatians 2:11–13

347

Ephesians 5:4 24.6–7

354 379

Philippians 3:10–11

379

Colossians 4:16

547 n. 44

1 Thessalonians 1:10 4 4:13–18 4:14 4:15 4:15–17 4:16–17 4:17 5 5:1–6 5:15 5:27

548 n. 53 549 548 549 548, 548 n. 53 550 549 548, 549 557 n. 97 557 n. 97 549 547 n. 44

1 Timothy 5:23

354

2 Timothy 1:5

354

Hebrews 13:7 13:12–13

379 379

James 2:2–7 2:14–26 4:10

347 579 581

index of ancient sources 1 Peter 2:9 4:16 5:6

78 74 581

Jude 12

347

Revelation 1:3 1:10 2:7 11:15 17:9 22:1

607 547 n. 44 494 547 n. 48 516 545 n. 32 363

Apocrypha and Septuagint LXX Deuteronomy 18:15–22

533

LXX Ezekiel 34 34:5–23

531, 532 531

Baruch 1:20

518 n. 51

1 Esdras 9

103

4 Esdras 9:24

354 n. 29

Judith 1:8

308

1 Maccabees 9:54–56

103

2 Maccabees 1:10 1:10–36 1:18 1:18–36 1:19–36 1:20–36 2:1 2:1–12 2:10 2:13 2:13–15

113 113 113 94, 101 n. 36, 113 113 112, 116 113 114 113 114 94, 101 n. 36, 112, 113, 114, 116

2:14 2:19–24 2:24–26 15:37 15:39

114 112 112 112 353

Sirach 3:1–16 7:29–31 15:3 24 24:23 35:1–12 35:6–7 38:24 38::24–39:11 39:1–3 39:11 41:18–19 44–50 45:5 45:6–7 45:6–17 45:6–26 45:15 45:17 45:18–22 45:20–21 45:20–22 46:8 49:11–12 49:13 50:1–21 50:1–24

110 110 351, 356 110 110 110 110 102 403 110 102 108 101, 104 104 103, 104 103 101, 103 103, 104 104, 108 104 110 110 518 n. 51 101 94, 101 101 106

Wisdom of Solomon 12:7

518 n. 51

608

index of ancient sources Old Testament Pseudepigrapha

Assumption of Moses 7:3–8

579

2 Baruch 10:6–19

22

Odes of Solomon 27.1–3 42.1–2

377 377

Psalms of Solomon 15 4:1–12

55 n. 35 579

Testament of Moses 5 5.3–5 5–9 5.456 6

142 143, 145, 155 n. 35 145 144 142, 144 143, 144, 145, 155

6–7 6.1 6.2 6.2–5 6.3–4 6.6 6.7 6.8 6.9 6.9–10 7 7.3 7.4–6 7.4–10 7.5–10 7.9 7.10 8–10 8.1 8.3 8.4–5

144 142, 142, 142 143 142 142, 142, 145 143 144, 143, 143 143 145 145 145 144 144 144 144

145 n. 15 143

143, 145 143 145 145 n. 13

Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Texts 1 QS 6.4–6 6:6–8

529 414

1 QSa 2.17–22

529

1QpHab 10:11

579

Philo Contempl. 73

535

Embassy 278

182

Hypoth. 7.12–13 11.1–8 11.1–18 11.11 11.14

24 52 61 357 n. 44 58 n. 31

Migr. 89–93 Moses 1, 2 1.148–149 1.158 1.162 1.332

2.2–3 2.292 2.4 2.42.2–71

182 182 182 182

Opif.

14

Prob. 75

n. n. n. n.

38 38 38 38

75–91 75–87 77

53 n. 11, 58 n. 33 52, 58, 61 357 n. 44 54

59 n. 37

Spec. 3 3.159–60

471

182 182 182 182

Virt. 9.53 14

183 177 n. 17

n. n. n. n.

38 38 38 38

index of ancient sources

609

Josephus Ant. 1.4 1.18 1.24 1.121 2.292 3.188 3.38 4.3–4 4.16 4.223 4.223–224 4.304 5.239 6.262–268 6.271 6.33 6.36 6.39 6.39–40 6.60 6.60–61 6.88–91 6.89 7.294 7.337 7.367 7.371 7.384–385 7.7 8.113 8.120 8.197 8.44–49 8.90 11.3.10 11.3.68 13 13.12–15 13.16–17 13.18–22 13.171–172 13.257–258 13.300–301 13.311 13.318–319 14.218 14.265 14.17 14.41–42 14.72 14.105 14.120

547 n. 547 n. 547 n. 406 181 n. 182 355 179 179 179 179 182 180 n. 180 180 n. 180 180 180 180 180 180 180 180 180 n. 181 181 180 n. 181 180 n. 181 181 180 n. 64 181 547 n. 547 n. 57 57 57 57 57, 68 414 181 52, 57 206 n. 547 n. 547 n. 181 181 285 285 286

44 44 44 33

27 29

29 29 29 29 44 44

6, 414 44 44

14.159 14.161 14.168 14.205–210 14.274 14.415–417 14.420–430 15 15.5–6 15.272 15.350 15.361 15.363 15.371 15.371–79 16.142 16.203 17:149–167 17.250–299 17.271–272 17.346 18 18.4–10 18.11 18.17 18.18–22 18.19 18.22 18.23 18.36–38 18.274 19.222–223 20 20.5 20.113–117 20.113–124 20.114 20.118–124 20.124 20.145–146 20.160 20.161 20.172 20.179–181 20.179 20.186–188 20.189–191 20.189–196 20.149 20.197–203 20.205

463 462 457 463 457 n. 20 457 457 52, 62, 63 464 n. 50 281 292 292 291 56, 57 n. 27 52, 57 281 418 156 n. 38 142 454 52, 57 57, 60, 67, 68 148 57 5 n. 2 58, 61 59 n. 34 59 454 230 471 182 148, 152 458 458 458 458 n. 26 458 458 n. 26, 471 182 471 458 471 146 146, 148, 149 471 182 156 n. 38 149 149 n. 21 149, 149 n. 20

610

index of ancient sources

20.206–207 20.206 20.211–212 20.213 20.213–214 20.216–218 20.224–251 20.252–258 20.255–258 20.262–265 20.263–64

147, 146, 149 147 182 147, 148, 182 147, 146, 149 182 178 148 471 175 n. 10 86

Apion 1.1 1.2 1.29–37 1.5 1.6–14 1.8 1.9 1.10 1.15–27 1.28–38 1.32 1.38 1.38–39 1.43 1.44 1.58 1.59 1.60 1.60–68 1.65–66 1.68 1.69 1.71 1.73 1.82 1.91 1.94 1.106 1.106–11 1.109 1.127 1.129 1.130 1.132 1.137 1.160 1.161 1.166 1.168 1.168–71 1.171

86 78 182 79 82 82, 87 87 87 82 82 78, 88 85 84 85 85 84 78 84, 89 87 88 79 79 78 79 79 79 79 78 82 88 88 79 78, 81 79 79 78, 82 79 79, 82 79 82 81

1.172 1.174 1.179 1.185 1.190 1.190–91 1.194 1.195 1.197–99 1.212 1.213 1.215–16 1.220 1.224–25 1.225 1.242 1.250 1.252 1.253 1.265 1.275 1.278 1.281 1.305 1.306–09 1.313 1.315 2.184–186 2.186–189 2.8 2.29 2.30 2.34 2.40 2.41 2.43 2.51–113 2.66 2.69 2.69–70 2.102–09 2.123 2.125 2.137 2.137–39 2.138 2.140 2.145 2.146 2.151 2.151–89 2.154 2.157–63

79, 82 88 74, 79, 79 85 89 79 88 88 87 79 82 79 85 85 87 79 79, 81, 79, 82 79 79 78, 81, 82 79 87 79 88 182 182 81, 86 78, 79, 87 86, 87 87 79 78, 86 79 73 85 85 84 88 84, 85 79 84 85 84 87 84 89 63 85 82 82

80, 86

86

86

81, 86,

index of ancient sources 2.159 2.164 2.165 2.170 2.175 2.179 2.179–83 2.184–186 2.185–87 2.196 2.208 2.210 2.220 2.241 2.257 2.277 2.281 2.283 2.284 2.288 2.289 2.246 2.277 2.282 2.283 2.294 125 127 War 1.388 1.4 1.404 1.479 1:648–655 1.78 1.78–80 1.135 1.160 1.180 1.204–207 1.204–211 1.205–206 1.208–211 1.220–221 1.303 1.303 1.304–305 1.304–313 1.309–316 1.314–346 1.314–315 1.316

79 83 83 84, 89 89 89 89 182 24 89 63 87 79 78 82, 85 88 89 89 87 82 80 63 87 79 89 89 125 125 290 296 291 418 156 n. 38 52 56 64 67 286 463 457 457 n. 21 463 457 n. 20 465 n. 53 5 n. 53, 470 457 465 n. 53 457 465 n. 53 465 n. 53 471, 481 n. 117

1.326 1.327 1.330 1.334 2.26 2.39–79 2.56 2.113 2.117–18 2.118 2.119 2.119–61 2.119–66 2.120–61 2.130 2.131 2.135 2.160–61 2.162–166 2.225 2.228–229 2.228–235 2.238 2.232–235 2.235 2.253 2.272–276 2.422 2.422–488 2.427 2.430–432 2.434 2.437 2.438 2.441 2.442 2.443 2.445 2.445–448 2.562–568 2.567 2.585 2.585–594 2.599 3.11 3.372–74 3.450 3.452 3.457 3.467 3.498 4.84 4.113

611 458, 465 n. 53, 471 471 471 481 n. 117 454 142 n. 10 454 52, 56 57 454 56 56, 63 n. 61 61 57 535 357 n. 44 64 51 57 233 458, 458 n. 25 458 458 n. 26 458 465 n. 55 458 471 150 150 150 150 150 150 n. 23 150 150, 151 151 141 141 141 148 n. 18 52, 56 467 n. 59 467 454 n. 12 56 64 454 n. 12 454 n. 12 454 n. 12 454 n. 12 454 n. 12 466 466

612 4.117 4.318–325 4.456 4.472 5.145 5.321 5.458 6.434 7.11.5 7.11.455 Life 10–11 10–12 27 43–45

index of ancient sources 466 148 335 355 56 124 124 467 547 547

n. 18 n. 36 n. 37 n. n. n. n. n.

19 19 59 44 44

55 65 547 n. 47 467, 467 n. 59

66–67 71–76 74–75 77–79 80–84 104–111 110 111 134–140 190–192 271 278 294–301 336–367 355–356 359–67 365

454 467 467 466 174 466 480 480 454 467 454 454 454 176 176 176 176

n. 12

n. n. n. n. n. n. n.

114 114 12 59 12 12 12

n. 16

Mishah, Talmud and Related Literature Mishnah m. ‘Abod. Zar. 3.4

41 n. 11

m. ‘Avot 1.13 2.14 4.13

576 n. 46 43 n. 15 5

m. Besah. 3:8

153 n. 30

m. Git. 3.2

36 n. 3

m. Hag. 2.1 2.2

163 19 153 n. 30

m. Hor. 2.11 3.8

133 29

m. Kelim

166

m. Ketub. 1.5 2:9

29 317

m. Meg. 1.8 4.9–10

17 17

m. Menah. 13:10 13:11

153 153

m. Sanh. 10.1

15, 43

m. Sabb. 24:5

153 n. 30

m. Seb. 6.36c

28

m. Parah 3 5

93 93

m. Sotah 7:1 9:9

409 153 n. 30

m. Tehar.

159, 160, 171

m. Qidd 3.12

133

m. Ta’an. 2:1–2 4:2–3

335 11

Tosefta t. ‘erub 2 5

321 321

t. Git. 7(9).11

409

t. Hag. 2:1–7

19

index of ancient sources t. Meg. 3 22

330 330

t. Menah. 13:4 13:15–23 13:17 13:17–23 13:18–19A 13:19B–D 13:21 13:22 13:22A–C 13:22C 13:22D 13:22E 13:23

153 153 153 153 154 154 151 154 154 154 154 154 154

t. Mo’ed 3:41

613

y. Shevi’it 6 36c

28 n. 71 28 n. 71

Babylonian Talmud b. B. Mesi’a 59a–b

19 n. 51

b. B. Bat. 60b

21

b. B. Qam 11.2 82 92b

132 93 409

b. Ber. 8a 64–65

321, 331 579

17

t. Seb. 4:11

b. Besah 29a

152 n. 30

28 n. 70

t. Sotah 15:9 15:9–15 15:10

b. ‘Erub. 53b

407

22 21 22

b. Hag. 11b–15a

19

t. Shevi’it 4:11

28

Palestinian Talmud y. Ber. 5,1

331

b. Meg. 1 3a 25a–b 29a 71c

17 17 17 11 17

y. Hag. 2,77a–c

19

b. Pesah. 57a 58a

151, 154 151 n. 25

y. Meg. 1,71c 4,74d 3 4 74a

17 17,18 338 n. 47 338 n. 47 338 n. 47

b. Qidd. 49b 70a–b

17 41

y. Sabb. 19 17b

b. Sabb. 153a 156a

522 41 n. 11

269 n. 16 269 n. 16

b. Ta’an. 23a

409

y. Seqal. 8,51b

6 n. 5

b. Yoma 6:6 IV.3 67b 8.8

170 170 522

614

index of ancient sources Targumic Texts

Tg. Neof. Gen14:18 Gen 24:62 Gen 25:22

17 17 17

Frg. Tg. Gen 14:18 Gen 24:62 Gen 25:22

17 17 17

Tg. Ps.J Ezekiel 11:16 Targum Yerushalmi Exodus 12:1–18 13:1–16 13:3–4 17:1–7

(actually listed as Targum Jonathan in text?) 11

16 16 124 359

25–31 34:10–40

16 16

Leviticus 1–16

16

Numbers 5–6 8:1–9:14 15 18–19 28–30 35

16 16 16 16 16 16

Deuteronomy 17:9–11 33:10

16 16

Targum Song of Songs 7:3

29 n. 73

Other Rabbinic Works Gen. Rab. 1:1 3:4 55:7 86:7

14 520 520 409

Exod. Rab. 33

422

Num. Rab. 19:4

169

Deut. Rab 1 7

331 331

Midr. Psalms 137.6

21, 357 n. 45

Pesiq. Rab. 26 34 36–37

22 23, 24 23, 24

Pesiq. Rab. Kah. 10

29 n. 73

Tanh. Re’eh 4

29 n. 73

Hukat 26

169

Sipre Deut. 51

28 n. 71

Apostolic Fathers Barn. 19:4

571

1 Clem. 20

356

Did. 4:12 5:1 8:1

494, 530, 531, 562 561 n. 4 561 n. 4 561 n. 4

index of ancient sources 9–10 9.1–3 9:2 9.4 9.5 10.1–5 10.4 10.5 14 Ign. Eph. 5:2 7,2 20:2

25 527, 528, 529 498 527, 530, 531, 532, 534 527 528 527 530 525

Ign. Phld. 4

497 n. 41 380 497 n. 43, 525

13 14 15 16,1 17 19

Mart. Pol. 1 5 6 7 8 9 12

615 497 n. 41 371 372 371 371 371 371 n. 16 371, 371 n. 16, 372 372 372 372, 373 373 372 378

Nag Hammadi Codices Gos. Thom. 32 64 65

520 518 519

1. Apoc. Jas. 24:12 24.13–6 25.7–9 25.7–10 25.13–14 25.15–19 27.18–24 28.1–3

375 375 375 375 375 375 375 375 n. 25

28.3–4 28.7–10 29.12–13 29.16–19 30.1–2 31.23–24 32.13–16 32.28 32.29–33.3 33.5–12 33.12–34.20 42.20–24 43.16–21

375 375 375 375 375 375 375 375 375 375 375 375 375

New Testament Apocrypha and Pseudegrapha Acts. Thom. 50 133 158 Ap. Pet.

5

525, 534 525 525 (actual reference was to The Apocryphal Acts of Peter, which I assume is this text.) 535

Ap. John. 85–86 109–110

525 525

Apos. Con. 7 7.25.3

531 531

616

index of ancient sources Classical and Ancient Christian Writings

Aristotle Pol. 1254b 1256a–b

127 468 n. 61

On the Pythagoreans

535

Arrian Bellum Civile 5. 132

470 n. 73

Artemidorus Daldianus Onir. 66

356 n. 41

Athanasius Vit. Ant. 89

378

Aulus Gellius Noct. Att. 20.1

390

Aurelius Victor De Caesaribus 18 19

387 n. 10 387 n. 10

Cato Agr. 25 104

358 n. 49 358 n. 49

Cicero Brut. 150–156

386

De or.

393

Fam. 4.5

386

Top. 15:41–45

393

Clement of Alexandria Strom. 2,20 2,124 3,5 3,41–43 6,9 6,72

380 380 380 380 380 380

Cod. Just. 4.5.10.1 5.70.7 12.46.3 D.29.1.23 D.29.1.33 D.49.17.4.2 D.49.17.4 pr. And 1

387 n. 10 389 469 n. 67 388 389 388 388

Cod. Theod. 7.20.7

469 n. 67

Cyprian Demetr. LXIII, 8

364 n. 67

Ep. 63.13

531

Dig. 48.19.16.10

476 n. 99

Dio Cassius 40.14 49.20 23.22–23 54.7–8 54.8 54.8.1 71.4 74.4

287 n. 24 285 286 n. 22 297 292 290 477 393

Diogenes Laertius Lives of the Great Philosophers 6 9 104

356 n. 41 356 n. 41 356 n. 41

Vita Pythagorae 35

535

Eusebius Hist. Eccl. III 2.2.4 10.8

386 177 n. 17

Gaius Inst.

392

Hippolytus Haer. 6.27.5 9.12 9.18–28

535 394 60

index of ancient sources Horace Epis 1.17.43–51 1.18.56–57

534 286

Odes 4.15.6–8 IV.5.25

286 292 n. 39

Iamblichus De vita pythagorica 86

535

617

5.17.4 5.88

54 n. 14 287 n. 24

Pliny the Younger Ep. 2.6 19.96 3

353 n. 25 54 n. 32

Plutarch Crass. 14

285

Mor. 236–40

67

Irenaeus Haer. 18.5

347

Jerome Chron.

Sull. 5

284

387 n. 10

Quintilian Inst. 11.2.41 12.3

392 393

Seneca De Beneficiis 3:18–27

128

282 287 n. 24

Vir. Ill. 2:11–13

485, 485 n. 4, 494 n. 31, 501, 501 n. 53 487

Justin 1 Apol. 47.4 66 66–67 2 Apol.

391 347 534 391

Strabo Geogr. 3.2.15 11.9,2

Dial. 29 45,4 65,3

356 n. 38 380 364

Stephanus of Byzantium Suda 177 40 177 n. 17 366 177 n. 17

468 n. 65

Tacitus Agr. 21

283

Tertullian An. 6.8 46.3.36

393 393

Apol. 6.8 24.8

392 392

Jejun. 9

357 n. 47

Livy Periocha 52

Martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicitas 10 373 18 373 19, 3 373 20 373 Pomponius Enchiridion Pliny the Elder Nat. 3–6 5.15.73

387, 392

54 61

618

index of ancient sources

Nat. 1.10.17 1.16.13 2.1.8 2.8.6 3.3.3 2.11.5

392 393 392 392 392 392

Pud. 1.1 1.2 1.5 1.6 1.7 2.12–16 4.2–4 8

395 395 395 395 395 396 396 397

13–14 21.10 21.17 42.1.53.1 49.1.23.3

396 396 396 395 395

Ux. 1.1

386

Ulpian Quaestiones

390

Xenophon Cyr. 1 4 17

354 n. 30 354 n. 30 354 n. 30

Papyri, Ostraca, Epigraphical Citations BGU 1 159.5–7

473 n. 86

BGU II 372 Col. 1.3–4 Col. 2.1–2 Col. 2.12–13 Col. 2.21–22

474, 475 n. 94 474 475 475 475

BGU IV 1061.14

475 n. 96

BGU VIII 1832.10 1858.1–2

475 n. 96 475 n. 96

BGU XIII 2239.7

475 n. 96

IGRR II 1263

480 n. 113

OGIS 669

480 n. 113

PAbinn 45.10 47.5–6 49.7 51.6 52.6 55.9

475 475 475 475 475 475

PAnt II 87 1.14

476 n. 98 476 n. 98

n. n. n. n. n. n.

96 96 96 96 96 96

PCattoui 2

473 n. 86

PCorn 22

473 n. 83

PCorn 24

472, 472 n. 79

PFay 24

475 n. 94

PGraux 1 (SB 7416) SB I 4284

473 n. 83 473 n. 83 473 n. 86

PGraux 2 11.9–10

472, 472 n. 79 472

PGen 16

473 n. 84, 476 n. 101

PHib II 198.85–100

476 n. 102

PLond III 904 125–27

473 n. 84 473 n. 84

PMich V 230.6

475 n. 96

PMich VI 412 421 421.5

478 481 475 n. 96

index of ancient sources PMich IX 523.9

475 n. 96

POxy II 251 252 253

474 n. 88 474 n. 88 474 n. 88

POxy XII 1408 1408.12 1408.16 1408.19 1408.23–26 1465.2

481 476 476 476 478 475

POxy XLIII 3140.4–5

PRyl II 127–148

475 n. 96

1.11 1.114 11.133–185

472, 472 n. 79, 474, 480 n. 113 472 472 472

PThmouis 1

477

PWestColl 3

473 n. 84

SB I 5235 5238.9

475 n. 96 475 n. 96

475 n. 96

SB XX 14662

474 n. 92

11.36–39

473 n. 84, 475 n. 96, 481 477

SelPap 220 289

473 n. 84 473 n. 84

POxy XLVII 3363 3364

474 473 n. 84

SelPap II 215

473 n. 85

POxy XLIX 3467.3

StudPal IV

474 n. 91

475 n. 96

POxy L 3561.8

475 n. 96

Wchr 18 202 354 408.5–7

474 473 473 473

POxy XLVII 3364

n. 100 n. 100 n. 100 n. 96

PRyl IV 595

619

Other Misc. Texts Manichaean Homilies 44.17–20 45.9 48.20–23 52.4 54.16–26 54.29 56.19 60.2–3 60.11–14 93.13

376 376 376 376 377 376 376 376 376 376

Manichaean Psalm Book 15.9–12 15.25–26 18.30–19.1 19 19.3–5 19.6 19.21 19.22–28 19.29–31 141–143 143.18 143.19

376 376 376 377 376 376 376 377 376 378 378 378

n. n. n. n.

92 84 84 86