Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 123, No. 1 (Spring 2004)

Journal of Biblical Literature VOLUME 123, No. 1

Spring 2004

The Oxyrhynchus New Testament Papyri: “Not Without Honor Except in Their Hometown”? ELDON JAY EPP

5–55

Pilgrimage Imagery in the Returns in Ezra MELODY D. KNOWLES

57–74

Paul’s Argument from Nature for the Veil in 1 Corinthians 11:13–15: A Testicle Instead of a Head Covering TROY W. MARTIN

75–84

Paul’s Masculinity JENNIFER LARSON

85–97

Boasting of Beatings (2 Corinthians 11:23–25) JENNIFER A. GLANCY

A Pre-Deuteronomistic Bicolon in 1 Samuel 12:21? BILL T. ARNOLD

99–135

137–142

Book Reviews 143 — Index 200

US ISSN 0021–9231

JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE

SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies) EDITORS OF THE JOURNAL General Editor: GAIL R. O’DAY, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 Book Review Editor: CHRISTINE ROY YODER, Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031 Associate Book Review Editor: TODD C. PENNER, Austin College, Sherman, TX 75090

EDITORIAL BOARD

Term Expiring 2004: JANICE CAPEL ANDERSON, University of Idaho, Moscow, ID 83844 MOSHE BERNSTEIN, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201 ROBERT KUGLER, Lewis & Clark College, Portland, OR 97219 BERNARD M. LEVINSON, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN 55455-0125 THEODORE J. LEWIS, The Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, MD 21218 TIMOTHY LIM, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh EH1 2LX Scotland STEPHEN PATTERSON, Eden Theological Seminary, St. Louis, MO 63119 ADELE REINHARTZ, Wilfrid Laurier University, Waterloo, OH N2L 3C5 Canada NAOMI A. STEINBERG, DePaul University, Chicago, IL 60614 SZE-KAR WAN, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 02459 2005: BRIAN K. BLOUNT, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 TERENCE L. DONALDSON, Wycliffe College, Toronto, ON M5S 1H7 Canada PAMELA EISENBAUM, Iliff School of Theology, Denver, CO 80210 STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Missouri, Columbia, MO 65211 A. KATHERINE GRIEB, Virginia Theological Seminary, Alexandria, VA 22304 JEFFREY KAH-JIN KUAN, Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley, CA 94709 RICHARD D. NELSON, Perkins School of Theology, Southern Methodist University, Dallas, TX 75275 DAVID L. PETERSEN, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 ALAN F. SEGAL, Barnard College, Columbia University, New York, NY 10027 GREGORY E. STERLING, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2006: F. W. DOBBS-ALLSOPP, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 PAUL B. DUFF, George Washington University, Washington, DC 20052 CAROLE R. FONTAINE, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 02459 JUDITH LIEU, King’s College London, London WC2R 2LS United Kingdom MARTTI NISSINEN, University of Helsinki, FIN-00014 Finland KATHLEEN M. O’CONNOR, Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031 EUNG CHUN PARK, San Francisco Theological Seminary, San Anselmo, CA 94960 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL 60645 VINCENT L. WIMBUSH, Claremont Graduate University, Claremont, CA 91711 Editorial Assistant: Susan E. Haddox, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 President of the Society: David L. Petersen, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322; Vice President: Carolyn Osiek, Brite Divinity School, Texas Christian University, Fort Worth, TX 76129; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: James C. VanderKam, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556; Executive Director: Kent H. Richards, Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. The Journal of Biblical Literature (ISSN 0021– 9231) is published quarterly. The annual subscription price is US$35.00 for members and US$75.00 for nonmembers. Institutional rates are also available. For information regarding subscriptions and membership, contact: Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 2243, Williston, VT 05495-2243. Phone: 877-725-3334 (toll free) or 802-864-6185. FAX: 802-864-7626. E-mail: [email protected]. For information concerning permission to quote, editorial and business matters, please see the Spring issue, p. 2. The JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (ISSN 0021– 9231) is published quarterly by the Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. Periodical postage paid at Atlanta, Georgia, and at additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 2243, Williston, VT 05495-2243. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Journal of Biblical Literature Volume 123 2004

GENERAL EDITOR

GAIL R. O’DAY Candler School of Theology Emory University Atlanta, GA 30322 BOOK REVIEW EDITOR

CHRISTINE ROY YODER Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031 ASSOCIATE BOOK REVIEW EDITOR

TODD C. PENNER Austin College, Sherman, TX 75090

A Quarterly Published by THE SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE

EDITORIAL BOARD Term Expiring 2004: JANICE CAPEL ANDERSON, University of Idaho, Moscow, ID 83844 MOSHE BERNSTEIN, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201 ROBERT KUGLER, Lewis & Clark College, Portland, OR 97219 BERNARD M. LEVINSON, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN 55455-0125 THEODORE J. LEWIS, The Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, MD 21218 TIMOTHY LIM, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh EH1 2LX Scotland STEPHEN PATTERSON, Eden Theological Seminary, St. Louis, MO 63119 ADELE REINHARTZ, Wilfrid Laurier University, Waterloo, ON N2L 3C5 Canada NAOMI A. STEINBERG, DePaul University, Chicago, IL 60614 SZE-KAR WAN, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 92459 2005: BRIAN K. BLOUNT, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 TERENCE L. DONALDSON, Wycliffe College, Toronto, ON M5S 1H7 Canada PAMELA EISENBAUM, Iliff School of Theology, Denver, CO 80210 STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Missouri, Columbia, MO 65211 A. KATHERINE GRIEB, Virginia Theological Seminary, Alexandria, VA 22304 JEFFREY KAH-JIN KUAN, Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley, CA 94709 RICHARD D. NELSON, Perkins School of Theology, Southern Methodist University, Dallas, TX 75275 DAVID L. PETERSEN, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 ALAN F. SEGAL, Barnard College, Columbia University, New York, NY 10027 GREGORY E. STERLING, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2006: F. W. DOBBS-ALLSOPP, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 PAUL B. DUFF, George Washington University, Washington, DC 20052 CAROLE R. FONTAINE, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 02459 JUDITH LIEU, King’s College London, London WC2R 2LS United Kingdom MARTTI NISSINEN, University of Helsinki, FIN-00014 Finland KATHLEEN M. O’CONNOR, Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031 EUNG CHUN PARK, San Francisco Theological Seminary, San Anselmo, CA 94960 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL 60645 VINCENT L. WIMBUSH, Claremont Graduate University, Claremont, CA 91711 Editorial Assistant: Susan E. Haddox, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 Articles are indexed in Religion Index One: Periodicals; book reviews in Index to Book Reviews in Religion, American Theological Library Association, Evanston, Illinois. Both indexes are also found in the ATLA Religion Database on CD-ROM.

EDITORIAL MATTERS OF THE JBL 1. Contributors should consult the Journal’s Instructions for Contributors (http://www.sbl-site.org/Publications/PublishingWithSBL/JBL_Instructions.pdf). 2. If a MS of an article, critical note, or book review is submitted in a form that departs in major ways from these instructions, it may be returned to the author for retyping, even before it is considered for publication. 3. Submit two hard copies of the MS of an article or critical note and, if their return is desired, include a stamped, self-addressed envelope. 4. Manuscripts and communications regarding the content of the Journal should be addressed to Gail R. O’Day at the address given on the preceding page (or correspondence only at the following e-mail address: [email protected]). 5. Communications concerning book reviews should be addressed to Christine Roy Yoder at the address given on the preceding page. The editors do not guarantee to review or to return unsolicited books. 6. Permission to quote more than 500 words may be requested from the Rights and Permissions Department, Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329, USA (E-mail: [email protected]). Please specify volume, year, and inclusive page numbers.

BUSINESS MATTERS OF THE SBL (not handled by the editors of the Journal)

1. All correspondence regarding membership in the Society, subscriptions to the Journal, change of address, renewals, missing or defective issues of the Journal, and inquiries about other publications of the Society should be addressed to Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 2243, Williston, VT 05495-2243. E-mail: [email protected]. Toll-free U.S. Domestic phone: 877-725-3334. FAX: 802-864-7626. 2. All correspondence concerning the research and publications programs, the annual meeting of the Society, and other business should be addressed to the Executive Director, Society of Biblical Literature, The Luce Center, 825 Houston Mill Road, Atlanta, GA 30329. (E-mail: [email protected]). 3. Second Class postage paid at Atlanta, Georgia, and at additional mailing offices. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Presidential Address by ELDON JAY EPP President of the Society of Biblical Literature 2003 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature November 22, 2003 Atlanta, Georgia Introduction given by David L. Petersen, Vice President, Society of Biblical Literature

Eldon Jay Epp received his Ph.D. degree from Harvard University and held faculty appointments at the University of Southern California and at Case Western Reserve University. In 1998, Epp retired from Case Western Reserve, where he is Harkness Professor of Biblical Literature emeritus and Dean of Humanities and Social Sciences emeritus. Most recently he was a visiting professor of New Testament at Harvard Divinity School. Epp has authored or edited four books and over forty articles. A volume of his collected essays is forthcoming. He currently sits on a number of editorial boards, including Hermeneia, the North American executive committee of the International Greek NT Project, the NT Language Project, and the Electronic NT Manuscript Project. In this and related ways, Epp has distinguished himself as a textual critic. His books and articles have done much to summarize and synthesize an enormous body of scholarship in a clear and cogent way. Moreover, he has recently, particularly in an article published in 1999, identified and described a subtle shift in recent textual studies. He has offered a proposal for a more honest and more self-conscious use of the term “original text,” one that opens up the field of NT text-critical studies in new ways. As one scholar recently put it, Eldon has the ability not only to contribute to the field; he is in the process of helping redefine and reinvent the field of NT text critical studies. Beyond his roles as teacher, author, editor, and administrator, Epp has contributed in vital ways to the life of this Society. For twenty years, he was NT book review editor of JBL and for four years he served as editor of the Critical Review of Books in Religion. He chaired the textual criticism section of the annual meeting for fourteen years and served for twelve years as a member of the editorial board for the SBL Centennial Publications Series. And he is not yet finished with us, since he currently serves as chair of Council’s Programs and Initiatives Committee. Here, as in so many other ways, Eldon has been the consummate colleague and scholar. Last, I cannot resist one brief biographic note. Early in his career, Eldon Epp was involved in consequential ways with the beginnings of the AAR. John

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Journal of Biblical Literature Priest and Eldon had been nominated to serve as president and vice-president of the AAR in 1966. There were, at that time, a number of complicated dynamics within the leadership of that young society. Recognizing the precarious state of that new organization, both Eldon and John withdrew their nominations, attempting to do their share to permit the AAR to develop. So, Eldon, we look back at your work over the past decades and thank you not only for what you did for SBL, but also for your contributions to the AAR.

JBL 123/1 (2004) 5–55

THE OXYRHYNCHUS NEW TESTAMENT PAPYRI: “NOT WITHOUT HONOR EXCEPT IN THEIR HOMETOWN”?

ELDON JAY EPP [email protected] 10 Litchfield Road, Lexington, MA 02420

The papyri offer us the most direct access we have to the experience of ordinary people in antiquity. —E. A. Judge1

A year and a half ago I presented to a distinguished NT scholar an offprint of an article I had just published on the Junia/Junias variation in Rom 16:7.2 A few weeks later, in his presence, I handed a copy also to another NT scholar. At that point, the first colleague said to the second, “You must read this article. Can you imagine—something interesting written by a textual critic!” This was Presidential Address delivered on November 22, 2003, at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Atlanta, Georgia. This is an expanded version of the oral presentation. The text in the title is Mark 6:4 NRSV. Note: References to Oxyrhynchus papyri will be given as P.Oxy. + papyrus no.; discussions of a papyrus will be indicated by P.Oxy. + vol. no. + pp. All such references relate to The Oxyrhynchus Papyri (Greco-Roman Memoirs; London: British Academy for the Egypt Exploration Society) 1898– [67 vols. to date]. Oxyrhynchus papyri published elsewhere use the appropriate abbreviations, e.g., PSI + vol. + papyrus no. Basic data on papyri (contents, names, date, etc.) are taken from these sources without further acknowledgment. References to the papyri in Joseph van Haelst, Catalogue des papyrus littéraires juifs et chrétiens (Université de Paris IV, Papyrologie 1; Paris: Sorbonne, 1976), will be reported as van Haelst + no. 1 E. A. Judge, Rank and Status in the World of the Caesars and St Paul (Broadhead Memorial Lecture 1981; University of Canterbury Publications 29; Christchurch, NZ: University of Canterbury, 1982), 7. 2 Eldon Jay Epp, “Text-Critical, Exegetical, and Socio-Cultural Factors Affecting the Junia/Junias Variation in Romans 16,7,” in New Testament Textual Criticism and Exegesis: Festschrift J. Delobel (ed. A. Denaux; BETL 161; Leuven: Leuven University Press/Peeters, 2002), 227–91.

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meant to be a genuine compliment, yet it echoed a common and almost unconscious impression that biblical textual critics are dull creatures who spend their careers tediously adjudicating textual minutiae that only impede the exegete’s work. Of course, critical editions are considered essential and therefore welcome, but must we really be bothered by that complex apparatus at the foot of the page?

I. Introduction: Traditional and New Goals of Textual Criticism Naturally, textual critics will continue their tradition of establishing the earliest or most likely “original” text, though now we use such a term, if we use it at all, with caution and even with reluctance, recognizing that “original text” carries several dimensions of meaning.3 Indeed, ever since Westcott-Hort entitled their famous edition The New Testament in the Original Greek,4 we have learned that many a pitfall awaits those who, whether arrogantly or naively, rush headlong into that search for the Holy Grail. Yet the aim to produce better critical editions by refining the criteria for the priority of readings and by elucidating the history of the text will remain; at the same time, however, textual criticism’s other goals will be pursued in accord with significant changes that recent decades have brought to the discipline. For example, emphasis has fallen on scribal activity, especially the purposeful alteration of texts that reflect the theology and culture of their times. One dramatic presentation was Bart Ehrman’s Orthodox Corruption of Scripture, a work so well known that I need only summarize his main point: During the christological controversies of the first three centuries, “proto-orthodox scribes,” as he calls them, “sometimes changed their scriptural texts to make them say what they were already known to mean.”5 Hence, they “corrupted” their texts to maintain “correct” doctrine. Much earlier, textual critics had been willing to attribute such arrogance only to heretics, but Ehrman boldly and correctly turned this on its head. Though startling and unexpected, his thesis, as he recognized, issued quite naturally from text-critical developments of the preceding four decades.6 3 See Eldon Jay Epp, “The Multivalence of the Term ‘Original Text’ in New Testament Textual Criticism,” HTR 92 (1999): 245–81. 4 Brooke Foss Westcott and Fenton John Anthony Hort, The New Testament in the Original Greek (2 vols.; Cambridge/London: Macmillan, 1881–82; 2nd ed., 1896). 5 Bart D. Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture: The Effect of Early Christological Controversies on the Text of the New Testament (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), xii (his italics); see also 24–31. 6 Ibid., 42 n. 94, but esp. his “The Text as Window: New Testament Manuscripts and the

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A second phenomenon, long troubling to textual critics, concerns multiple readings in one variation-unit that defy resolution, and attention has turned to what these multiple—often competing—variants might tell us about crucial issues faced by the churches and how they dealt with them. David Parker, whose small volume is at risk of being overlooked owing to its simple yet significant title, The Living Text of the Gospels,7 confronted the problem head-on, with fascinating results. For instance, the six main variant forms of the so-called Lord’s Prayer in Matthew and Luke show the evolution of this pericope under liturgical influence. This is well known, but my description of it is much too detached. What obviously happened, of course, was that the fervent, dynamic worship environment in early churches at various times and places evoked appropriate expansions of the shorter and certainly earlier forms that we print in our Greek texts of Matthew and Luke, including additional clauses such as “Your Holy Spirit come upon us and cleanse us,” but especially the lofty praise of the Almighty and Eternal God offered with grandeur and dignity and beauty in the famous doxology, “For the kingdom and the power and the glory are yours forever and ever. Amen” [additions to Matt 6:13]. Once hearing the variants of these six forms and reciting them again and again, “. . . they will be a part of the way in which we read and interpret the Lord’s Prayer,” says Parker, and “we shall not be able to erase them from our minds, and to read a single original text as though the others had never existed.”8 A second, more poignant example in its relevance to anguishing life situations concerns the twenty-some variants in the four passages on divorce/remarriage in the Synoptic Gospels. Parker’s analysis of this complex array shows that some variants concern Jewish, others Roman provisions for divorce; some condemn divorce but not remarriage, while others prohibit remarriage but not divorce; some variants describe adultery as remarriage, others as divorce and remarriage, and others as marrying a divorced man; and some variants portray Jesus as pointing to the cruelty of divorcing one’s wife—thereby treating her as if she were an adulteress, though she was not—perhaps with the outcome of establishing her right to remain single, yet without affirming that the divorcing man commits adultery. Some variants, therefore, are concerned with the man, others with the woman, and still others with both. Sometimes the divorcing man commits adultery, sometimes not; sometimes the divorced or divorcing Social History of Early Christianity,” in The Text of the New Testament in Contemporary Research: Essays on the Status Quaestionis (ed. Bart D. Ehrman and Michael W. Holmes; SD 46; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 363–65. 7 David C. Parker, The Living Text of the Gospels (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 8 Ibid., 102.

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woman commits adultery, sometimes she is made an adulteress, sometimes she commits adultery if she remarries, and, finally, sometimes a man marrying a divorced woman commits adultery.9 “The main result of this survey,” says Parker, “is to show that the recovery of a single original saying of Jesus is impossible.” Nor can we say that one variant is more original than the others, he adds, for “what we have is a collection of interpretative rewritings of a tradition.”10 Indeed, in the early centuries of Christianity, the collection of writings that was to become or had become the NT was not a closed book, but—through textual variation—to quote Parker again, “it is open, and successive generations write on its pages.”11 What do multiple variants without resolution about originality mean for textual criticism and for us today? On the one hand, we are permitted to glimpse something of the creative dynamism and eloquent expansiveness of early Christian liturgy as new expressions evolved within the Lord’s Prayer, and, in the divorce/remarriage morass, a window is opened for us to observe and to experience with early Christians over wide areas and lengthy periods the pathos and the agonizing, intractable ethical dilemmas that they faced. On the other hand, multiple variants, with no single original or simple resolution within grasp, can show us the way for our own times: there is no one right path or answer, no single directive, but the multiple variants reveal an array of differing situations, leaving open multiple options for us as well. In such cases, to quote Parker a final time, “the People of God have to make up their own minds. There is no authoritative text to provide a short-cut.”12 Suddenly textual criticism comes alive and becomes relevant in ways that no one might have imagined. Why didn’t we see this sooner and how could we have missed it? One of the earliest reviews of my 1966 book on theological tendency in the so-called Western text of Acts13 contained this line: “. . . if the 9 Ibid., 77–89. For a graphic display of Parker’s analysis of these variants, see S. R. Pickering, “A Classified Survey of Some Recent Researches Relevant for New Testament Textual Studies,” New Testament Textual Research Update 8 (2000): 66–69. 10 Parker, Living Text of the Gospels, 92–93. 11 Ibid., 174. He was speaking of Luke, but it is clear from the larger context that he views the Gospels and, by extension, the entire NT in this fashion. Cf. the recent statement of Traianos Gagos, “The University of Michigan Papyrus Collection: Current Trends and Future Perspectives,” in Atti del XXII Congresso Internazionale di Papirologia, Firenze, 23–29 agosto 1998 (ed. Isabella Andorlini et al.; 2 vols. + 1 vol. of plates; Florence: Istituto Papirologico “G. Vitelli,” 2001), 1:515: “An edited text is no more a static, isolated object, but a growing and changeable amalgam: the image [a reference to electronic images of papyri] allows the user to look critically at the ‘established’ text and to challenge continuously the authoritative readings and interpretations of its first or subsequent editors.” 12 Parker, Living Text of the Gospels, 212. 13 E. J. Epp, The Theological Tendency of Codex Bezae Cantabrigiensis in Acts (SNTSMS 3; Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 1966; unchanged repr. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2001). By request, I presented an update of the issues in “Anti-Judaic Tendencies in the D-

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tendency were as clear as Epp suggests one wonders why generations of highly competent textual critics have missed it.”14 Well, the time was right forty years ago—though not a hundred years ago15—to observe that the NT text suffered alteration for ideological and theological purposes. And the time was right during the past decade to see the positive aspects of multiple variants. At last NT textual criticism has lost its innocence and has learned to tolerate ambiguity— one of the sure signs of maturity. And why was an earlier time not propitious? Perhaps because textual critics, often working in isolation, focusing resolutely on their traditional tasks and employing overly mechanical methods, could not see through to real-life situations. Recently David Parker, again, has called some of the newer approaches “narrative textual criticism,”16 which I understand to mean, simply and at a minimum, that textual variants have a story to tell—and that they allow new voices to be heard beyond the traditional call for “the original” text. This, for me, has energized textual criticism. Establishing the earliest text-forms provides one dimension; grasping the real-life contexts of variant readings adds richness by showing how Christians made meaning out of the living text as they nurtured and shaped it in worship and in life. Our discipline, to be sure, has its technical aspects, but it remains primarily an art, and therefore it is for neither the perfunctory, nor the inflexible, nor the unimaginative, nor the tender-minded; and above all it is not the safe harbor that for so long and by so many it has been perceived to be. And “this”—as the saying goes—“is not your father’s” textual criticism, but an entrance into a brave new world, with provocative challenges and captivating promises! Text of Acts: Forty Years of Conversation,” in The Book of Acts as Church History: Text, Textual Traditions and Ancient Interpretations/Apostelgeschichte als Kirchengeschichte: Text, Texttraditionen und antike Auslegungen (ed. Tobias Nicklas and Michael Tilly; BZNW 120; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2003), 111–46. 14 Leon Morris, ABR 15 (1967) 48. He introduces this comment by saying, “It is a learned and valuable study, and I think it could scarcely be denied that Professor Epp has demonstrated that the tendency of which he speaks exists.” 15 Except with respect to “heretics”: see, e.g., the often quoted statement of Hort (1882) in Westcott and Hort, New Testament in the Original Greek, 2:282–83: “Even among the numerous unquestionably spurious readings of the New Testament there are no signs of deliberate falsification of the text for dogmatic purposes. . . . It is true that dogmatic preferences to a great extent determined theologians, and probably scribes, in their choice between rival readings already in existence: . . . the temptation was strong to believe and assert that a reading used by theological opponents had also been invented by them. Accusations of wilful tampering with the text are accordingly not unfrequent in Christian antiquity: but, with a single exception [Marcion], wherever they can be verified they prove to be groundless, being in fact hasty and unjust inferences from mere diversities of inherited text.” 16 D. C. Parker, review of Bart Ehrman, Orthodox Corruption of Scripture, JTS 45 (1994): 704. He was referring to my Theological Tendency and to Ehrman’s book; I would include Parker’s Living Text in this category as well.

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Journal of Biblical Literature II. New Testament Papyri in Their Cultural and Intellectual Context

During the past half-dozen years my research has emphasized the provenance of manuscripts, a factor much neglected in discussing fragmentary papyri. Provenance translates into context—the sociocultural and intellectual character of the communities where manuscripts resided and which left its mark on those manuscripts. But the manuscripts, as shaped by that context, in turn illuminate their own community contexts—not unlike the hermeneutical circle. Previously, manuscripts—when viewed as impersonal and perfunctory sources of data—were not seen as living and dynamic, with individual “personalities” that emerged out of the everyday life and exigencies of the churches, reflecting their faith and practice and the controversies of the time. Today, by placing NT manuscripts in their immediate contexts, we can more clearly understand their role as witnesses to the NT text. It is these issues, confined to the environment of the NT papyri at Oxyrhynchus and to the first three and a half centuries of Christianity in that locality, that I wish to explore on this occasion. After all, it is well known that the NT papyri found at Oxyrhynchus constitute the most numerous, the most geographically concentrated, and as a whole the oldest at any single location. It is natural then to ask, first, about the Christian environment of the city with this remarkable corpus of manuscripts and, second, whether their reception, use, and influence in their own time and place were proportionate to these superlatives—and whether they enjoyed a special place of honor there. At Oxyrhynchus, the context of its NT papyri must be recovered almost entirely from other papyri, and we face two frustrating barriers: the fragmentary nature of most evidence and the randomness of its survival, for at Oxyrhynchus the vast majority of papyri were recovered from rubbish heaps. Yet there is no scarcity of data, for the literary and documentary remains to date exceed five thousand published manuscripts—enormous riches compared to other sites. And there are more to come.17 The Provenance of New Testament Manuscripts The relevance of provenance. Those who consult the editio princeps of a manuscript inevitably will find a statement of its ascertained date and provenance (or often the confession that these are uncertain or unknown). Hence, 17 I recall the 1998 Oxford University centenary of the publication of Oxyrhynchus papyri, when the research team publicly thanked the British Academy for one hundred years of support— and promptly requested funding for the next hundred years!

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lengthy discussions of a manuscript’s place of origin and/or discovery and its travels and utilization as it made its way to its present location will be found for such grand codices as Sinaiticus (a), Vaticanus (B), and Bezae (D), though their places of origin—discussed for centuries—may have reached resolution just in the last several years.18 Only occasionally, however, is more than a minimal treatment offered for lesser manuscripts, particularly the fragmentary papyri. This was understandable over the long history of textual criticism, when manuscripts were viewed largely in isolation—as objective, detached repositories of readings useful in establishing the text, but all the while remaining impersonal and lifeless. To be sure, their dates and sometimes their geographical diversity were factors in assessing their value for establishing the text, but manuscripts and the texts they carried were not often seen as influences upon the liturgy, thought, and ethics of early Christian congregations, nor as reliquaries for past theological expressions or controversies—preserving for us the artifacts of both discarded and prevailing Christian faith and practice. Beyond Oxyrhynchus, a number of papyri of known provenance might be investigated in this fashion. For example, P4, consisting of six fragments of a double-column codex containing Luke and dated in the late second century, was actually found in situ at Coptos (just north of Thebes) in a jar walled up in a house. More precisely, it was used in the binding of a (presumably Christian) codex of Philo, but the house showed no evident connection to a church.19 Yet there is likely more to this story, for books are known to have been hidden in private homes during periods of persecution, and Diocletion sacked Coptos in 292. Hence, it might be surmised that the owner of this codex concealed it then or perhaps later during a further severe persecution, with the intention of retrieving it after the danger was past.20 Beyond this, though, we would move only deeper into speculation. One might also consider P92, found in 1969 at Medînet Mâdi in the Fayum in a rubble-filled structure near a racing course.21 Surely there is more to this story also, but no one knows what it might be.

18 On Sinaiticus and Vaticanus and their origin in Caesarea, see T. C. Skeat, “The Codex Sinaiticus, the Codex Vaticanus and Constantine,” JTS 50 (1999): 583–625, esp. 603– 4; on Bezae’s origin in Berytus (Beirut), see David C. Parker, Codex Bezae: An Early Christian Manuscript and Its Text (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 261–78, esp. 266–78. 19 Colin H. Roberts, Manuscript, Society, and Belief in Early Christian Egypt (Schweich Lectures 1977; London: British Academy by Oxford University Press, 1979), 8, 13. Roberts dates P4 in the later second century, as does T. C. Skeat in an extensive discussion: “The Oldest Manuscript of the Four Gospels?” NTS 43 (1997): 26–31. There is debate as to whether P4 was part of the same codex as P64 + P67; see Skeat, above. The definitive edition of P4 was by Jean Merell, “Nouveaux fragments du papyrus 4,” RB 47 (1938): 5–22 + 7 pls. 20 Roberts, Manuscript, Society, and Belief, 8. 21 Claudio Gallazzi, “Frammenti di un codice con le Epistole di Paoli,” ZPE 46 (1982): 117.

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The New Testament papyri at Oxyrhynchus. The most obvious candidates for study, however, are the NT papyri from Oxyrhynchus, for they number an astounding forty-seven, or 42 percent of the currently known 116 (but perhaps 112 different) papyri. More striking is their proportion among all early NT manuscripts (including four majuscules, one from Oxyrhynchus), for out of the sixty-one that date up to or around the turn of the third/fourth centuries,22 thirty-five or 57 percent were found at Oxyrhynchus.23 As a whole, NT papyri date from the second century to ca. 600, but we should include also eleven additional majuscules found at Oxyrhynchus, for they all date within the same range—from the third/fourth through the fifth/sixth centuries.24 All together, these papyri and majuscules, though mostly highly fragmentary, preserve portions of seventeen of the twenty-seven books that eventually formed the NT canon,25 and, as I have argued elsewhere, they may be viewed as a microcosm of the various textual clusters (text-types) that present themselves across the entire NT manuscript tradition.26 22 Or sixty-two if P4 is treated as a separate manuscript rather than part of P64 + 67 (see n. 19 above). K. Aland and B. Aland (The Text of the New Testament: An Introduction to the Critical Editions and to the Theory and Practice of Modern Textual Criticism [rev. ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans; Leiden: Brill, 1989], 96, 159) treat it separately, though others speak of P64 + 67 + 4: T. C. Skeat, “The Oldest Manuscript of the Four Gospels?” NTS 43 (1997): 1–34, esp. 1–9; Graham N. Stanton, “The Fourfold Gospel,” NTS 43 (1997): 327–28. The figure sixty-one (or sixty-two) includes majuscules 0162 (P.Oxy. 847, 3rd/4th c.), as well as 0189 (2nd/3rd c.), 0220 (3rd c.), 0171 (3rd/4th c.) from other locations; 0212 (3rd c.) is usually omitted because it is a Diatessaron manuscript, and not strictly of the NT: see Aland and Aland, Text of the New Testament, 56, 95, 125. 23 This includes majuscule 0162 (see preceding note). 24 The twelve Oxyrhynchus majuscules, by century, are third/fourth: 0162 (P.Oxy. 847); fourth: 0169 (P.Oxy. 1080), 0206 (P.Oxy. 1353), 0308 (P.Oxy. 4500); fifth: 069 (P.Oxy. 3), 0163 (P.Oxy. 848), 0172 (PSI 1.4), 0173 (PSI 1.5), 0174 (PSI II.118), 0176 (PSI 3.251); fifth/sixth: 071 (P.Oxy. 401), 0170 (P.Oxy. 1169). On the possibility that P52 (P.Ryl. 457, 2nd c.) came from Oxyrhynchus, see C. H. Roberts, ed., Catalogue of the Greek and Latin Papyri in the John Rylands Library, Manchester, III: Theological and Literary Texts (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1938), 2. Roberts is more cautious in An Unpublished Fragment of the Fourth Gospel in the John Rylands Library (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1935), 24–25. According to its editor, Oxyrhynchus is the likely provenance of the highly important fifthcentury Coptic manuscript G67, containing Acts 1:1–15:3 in the Middle Egyptian (or Oxyrhynchite) dialect: Hans-Martin Schenke, ed., Apostelgeschichte 1,1–15,3 im mittelägyptischen Dialekt des Koptischen (Codex Glazier) (TU 137; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1991), 88, 249. 25 Oxyrhynchus papyri contain portions of fifteen books of the NT: Matthew, Luke, John, Acts, Romans, 1 Corinthians, Galatians, Philippians, 1–2 Thessalonians, Hebrews, James, 1 John, Jude, Apocalypse of John. Hence, those missing are Mark, 2 Corinthians, Ephesians, Colossians, Pastoral Epistles, Philemon, 1–2 Peter, 2–3 John. However, Mark (069 = P.Oxy. 847, 5th c.) and 1 Peter (0206 = P.Oxy.1353, 4th c.) are represented among the Oxyrhynchus majuscules, for a total of seventeen. 26 See E. J. Epp, “The New Testament Papyri at Oxyrhynchus: Their Significance for Understanding the Transmission of the Early New Testament Text,” in Oxyrhynchus: A City and Its Texts

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So, if provenance is central, no other group of papyri begins to match Oxyrhynchus, for no more than three or four NT papyri are known with certainty to have been found at any other single location, and even if one considers a region, such as all the cities of the Fayum (the Arsinoite nome), where thousands of papyri were recovered, only a dozen of the NT survived there.27 Noting that about thirty-eight NT papyri stem from unknown localities means that Oxyrhynchus has furnished 64 percent of all NT papyri of known provenance. Naturally, because of their early dating and extensive coverage of the text, the prominent Chester Beatty and Bodmer papyri are of greater importance for the various tasks of textual criticism than those of Oxyrhynchus, but the Egyptian provenance of the Beatty group (P45, P46, P47) cannot be more narrowly identified than the supposition that they came from the Fayum. As for the Bodmer papyri (P66, P72, P75), James M. Robinson has clearly located their place of discovery among the Dishna Papers (at Dishnaµ, some 220 miles upstream from Oxyrhynchus), which were part of the nearby Pachomian monastic library until they were buried in a large earthen jar in (probably) the seventh century. Yet the Bodmer New Testament papyri clearly originated at another uncertain place or places, for they all antedate the founding of the monastic order.28 Thus, we do not know their earlier or original provenance.

(ed. Peter Parsons et al.; London: Egypt Exploration Society, [forthcoming]); see section on “Oxyrhynchus as a microcosm for New Testament text-types”; see also idem, “The Significance of the Papyri for Determining the Nature of the New Testament Text in the Second Century: A Dynamic View of Textual Transmission,” in Gospel Traditions in the Second Century: Origins, Recensions, Text, and Transmission (ed. William L. Petersen; Christianity and Judaism in Antiquity 3; Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1989), 89–90 [reprinted in E. J. Epp and Gordon D. Fee, Studies in the Theory and Method of New Testament Textual Criticism (SD 45; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993), 286–87]; idem, “Textual Criticism in the Exegesis of the New Testament, with an Excursus on Canon,” in Handbook to Exegesis of the New Testament (ed. Stanley E. Porter; NTTS 25; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 58. 27 Papyri known or thought to come from the Fayum (ca. forty miles east to west and ca. thirty miles north to south in area) are P3, P12, P33 + 58, P34, P45 (?), P46 (?), P53, P55, P56, P57, P79, and P92 (Medînet Mâdi). Sinai provided three: P11, P14, P68, as did Auja el-Hafir (Nessana): P59, P60, P61; the Dishna Papers, found near Dishnaµ, include P66, P72, P75, and P92 (see next note). 28 James M. Robinson, The Pacomian Monastic Library at the Chester Beatty Library and the Bibliothèque Bodmer (Occasional Papers 19; Claremont, CA: Institute for Antiquity and Christianity, 1990), esp. 4–6, 22–27. A shorter version: “The First Christian Monastic Library,” in Coptic Studies: Acts of the Third International Congress of Coptic Studies, Warsaw, 20-25 August, 1984 (ed. W. Godlewski; Centre d’archéologie méditerranéenne de l’Académie Polonaise des Sciences; Warsaw: Éditions scientifiques de Pologne, 1990), 371–78. See also idem, “Introduction,” in The Chester Beatty Codex AC. 1390: Mathematical School Exercises in Greek and John 10:7–13:38 in Subachmimic (ed. W. Brashear, W.-P. Funk, J. M. Robinson, and R. Smith; CBM 13; Leuven: Peeters, 1990), 3–29, esp. 3–7, 15–23. P99 is included in the Dishna Papers: see Alfons Wouters, The Chester Beatty Codex AC

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By way of contrast, the forty-seven papyri and twelve majuscules discovered and presumably utilized at Oxyrhynchus—with many of them, though not necessarily all, likely to have originated there29—provide a statistically significant sample for examining their specific local Christian context.30 “Canonical” and “Extracanonical” New Testament Manuscripts at Oxyrhynchus: An Environmental Scan Our first step is to provide an environmental scan of Christian literature in Oxyrhynchus to discover the extent to which the NT manuscripts there shared space with additional Christian writings, keeping the issue of canon formation in mind. Of course, any notion of “New Testament papyri” as a formed and isolated body of literature is anachronistic: I know of nothing at Oxyrhynchus informing us of the canonical process there during the first three centuries or so of Christianity, except the very telling presence of numerous and often early manuscripts of what we—again often anachronistically—call the “apocryphal New Testament.” Hence, for a clearer picture of “New Testament papyri” at Oxyrhynchus into the late fourth century, the following writings discovered there—or at least most of them—should be included. Many are fragmentary, yet each is a remnant of a more extensive copy that was present in the ancient city. Naturally, one copy is significant, though two or more copies of a writing portray a more expansive and richer context. There are: • Seven copies of the Shepherd of Hermas (P.Oxy. 404 [late 3rd/early 4th c.], 1172+3526 [Greek and Coptic, 4th c.], 1599 [4th c.], 1783 [vellum 1499: A Graeco-Latin Lexicon on the Pauline Epistles and a Greek Grammar (CBM 12; Leuven: Peeters, 1988), esp. xi–xii. In the editio princeps of P72, Michel Testuz argued that P72 was copied in Thebes by a Coptic scribe (Papyrus Bodmer VII–IX: VII: L’Epître de Jude, VIII: Les deux Epîtres de Pierre, IX: Les Psaumes 33 et 34 [Cologny-Geneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1959], 10, 32–33); this is based on “the presence of a Coptic word in the margin of 2 Peter 2:22 . . . and the frequent confusion of its K and G, characteristic of Copts of Thebes” (p. 10). Cf. Kurt Aland, ed., Repertorium der griechischen christlichen Papyri, I: Biblische Papyri (PTS 18; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1975), 303. 29 See E. J. Epp, “New Testament Papyrus Manuscripts and Letter Carrying in GrecoRoman Times,” in The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester (ed. B. A. Pearson; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 35–56, esp. 52–56. 30 In earlier studies, I treated the NT papyri in their literary/intellectual context in Oxyrhynchus: “The New Testament Papyri at Oxyrhynchus in Their Social and Intellectual Context,” in Sayings of Jesus: Canonical and Non-Canonical: Essays in Honour of Tjitze Baarda (ed. W. L. Petersen et al.; NovTSup 89; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 47–68; “The Codex and Literacy in Early Christianity and at Oxyrhynchus: Issues Raised by Harry Y. Gamble’s Books and Readers in the Early Church,” CRBR 10 (1997): 15–37; and “New Testament Papyri at Oxyrhynchus: Their Significance for Understanding the Transmission of the Early New Testament Text.”

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palimpsest, early 4th c.], 1828 [vellum codex, 3rd c.],31 3527 [early 3rd c.], and 3528 [late 2nd/early 3rd c.]—note the exceptionally early date of the last one) • Three copies of the Gospel of Thomas (P.Oxy. 1; 654; and 655, all 3rd c.)—the only ones extant in Greek32 • Two copies of the Gospel of Mary (P.Oxy. 3525, 3rd c.; P.Ryl. III.463, early 3rd c.)33 • One copy of the Acts of Peter (P.Oxy. 849, parchment, early 4th c.) • One copy of the Acts of John (P.Oxy. 850, 4th c.) • One copy of the Acts of Paul (P.Oxy. 1602, parchment, 4th/5th c.)34 • One copy of the Didache (P.Oxy. 1782, late 4th c.)35 • One copy of the Sophia Jesu Christi (P.Oxy. 1081, 3rd/4th c.)36 • Two copies doubtless of the Gospel of Peter (P.Oxy. 2949 [not a codex], late 2nd/early 3rd c.; P.Oxy. 4009, 2nd c.)—again, extraordinarily early37 31 See van Haelst, no. 665, who noted that Silvio Giuseppe Mercati (“Passo del Pastore di Erma riconosciuto nel pap. Oxy. 1828,” Bib 6 [1925]: 336-38) identified the fragment as Hermas (Sim. 6.5.3 and 6.5.5); cf. Ulrich H. J. Körtner and Martin Leutzsch, Papiasfragmente, Hirt des Hermas (Schriften des Urchristentums 3; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1998) 117 and 360 n. 9. 32 For the latest critical edition, see Harold W. Attridge, “The Greek Fragments,” in Nag Hammadi Codex II.2-7, together with XIII.2*, Brit. Lib. Or.4926, and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655: Volume One (Coptic Gnostic Library; NHS 20; ed. Bentley Layton; Leiden: Brill, 1989), 95–128. 33 These two fragments are not from the same manuscript: P.Oxy. L, p. 12. 34 A portion of “From Corinth to Italy”: see Wilhelm Schneemelcher, ed., New Testament Apocrypha (rev. ed.; Eng. trans. ed. by R. McL. Wilson; Cambridge: James Clarke; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1991–92), 2:259. In P.Oxy. XIII, pp. 23-25, 1602 was unidentified, but see van Haelst, no. 606, and, for a revised text, Henry A. Sanders, “A Fragment of the Acta Pauli in the Michigan Collection,” HTR 31 (1938): 79 n. 2. 35 For the importance of P.Oxy. 1782 for the Didache text, see Kurt Niederwimmer, The Didache (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), 21–23. 36 For a restoration of the Greek text of P.Oxy. 1081, see Harold W. Attridge, “P. Oxy. 1081 and the Sophia Jesu Christi,” Enchoria 5 (1975): 1–8. Aland (Repertorium, 1:373) dates it 3rd/4th c.; P.Oxy. VIII, p. 16, early 4th c. 37 See P.Oxy. 2949 and pl. II; P.Oxy. 4009 (by D. Lührmann and P. Parsons) and plates I–II. They report that 2949 and 4009 are not from the same manuscript; for the view that both are likely copies of the Gospel of Peter, see D. Lührmann, “POx 2949: EvPt 3–5 in einer Handschrift des 2./3. Jahrhunderts,” ZNW 72 (1981): 216–26; “POx 4009: Ein neues Fragment des Petrusevangeliums?” NovT 35 (1993): 390–410. Lührmann’s identification of P.Oxy. 2949 is accepted, e.g., by Schneemelcher (New Testament Apocrypha, 1:217–18 [though, curiously, the identification is dismissed on p. 93]); and by Helmut Koester (Introduction to the New Testament [2 vols.; 2nd ed.; New York/Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995, 2000], 1:167).

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Journal of Biblical Literature • Possibly a copy of the Apocalypse of Peter (P.Vind. G, 3rd/4th c.)38 • Single copies of three unknown Gospels/sayings of Jesus:39 – A narrative in which Jesus discusses the “good,” including the parable of the good and bad fruit, and makes direct claims to be in the image/form of God (P.Oxy. 210, 3rd c.)40 – A “Dispute between the Savior and a Priest in Jerusalem”41 (P.Oxy. 840, parchment, 4th c.) – Some sayings of Jesus (P.Oxy. 1224, 3rd/4th c.)42

Three more copies of well-known “apocryphal” writings were found, though in manuscripts later than our period: the Acts of Paul and Thecla (P.Oxy. 6, 5th c.), the Protevangelium of James (P.Oxy. 3524, 6th c.), and the Letter of Abgar to Jesus (P.Oxy. 4469, 5th c., amulet), as well as a tiny, unidentified fragment of “the Acts of some apostle or saint” (P.Oxy. 851, 5th/6th c.). What is not known is whether these were late imports or copies of earlier exemplars that were used in the city during the period of our concern. Some of these well-known writings were contenders for canonicity at various Christian localities—indeed, possibly most of them, since all except the Letter of Abgar certainly or plausibly stem from the second century.43 Or, if we 38 P.Vindob. G.[no number], from the Rainer collection, Vienna [no further identification appears to be available], a vellum leaf, 3rd/4th c. Provenance is described by van Haelst, no. 619, as “Oxyrhynchos (?).” Provenance is not discussed by any of the authors referred to by van Haelst, nor by Schneemelcher (New Testament Apocrypha, 2:620–21). 39 See also P.Oxy. 1384 (but 5th c.). Perhaps P.Egerton 2 (P.Lond. Christ. 1), with four gospel-like pericopes, is from Oxyrhynchus (van Haelst, no. 586). 40 I adopt the case for an apocryphal Gospel made by Stanley E. Porter, “P.Oxy. II 210 as an Apocryphal Gospel and the Development of Egyptian Christianity,” in Atti del XXII Congresso internazionale di papirologia, Firenze, 23-29 agosto 1998, ed. Andorlini et al., 2:1095–1108, esp. 1101–8. Cf. P.Oxy. II, pp. 9–10. 41 I use François Bovon’s description: see “Fragment Oxyrhynchus 840, Fragment of a Lost Gospel, Witness of an Early Christian Controversy over Purity,” JBL 119 (2000): 705–28. Bovon marshals voluminous evidence to show that it reflects an intra-Christian dispute: cf. 728. Although this writing is sometimes thought to be an amulet, Michael J. Kruger opted for a miniature codex: “P. Oxy. 840: Amulet or Miniature Codex?” JTS 53 (2002): 81–94. 42 Aland, Repertorium, 1:374. 43 Dates generally accepted: end of first or first half of second century: Shepherd of Hermas; early to mid-second century: Gospel of Thomas, Didache, Gospel of Peter, Sophia Jesu Christi; second century: Gospel of Mary, Acts of Paul (and Thecla); second half of second century: Acts of Peter, Protevangelium of James, Acts of John [or first half of third century]. For most, see Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, ad loc.; Bruce M. Metzger, The Canon of the New Testament: Its Origin, Development, and Significance [Oxford: Clarendon, 1987], ad loc. (see index); Helmut Koester, Introduction to the New Testament, vol. 1, ad loc. (see index). On the date of the Shepherd, see esp. Carolyn Osiek, Shepherd of Hermas: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis:

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adopt the principle that canon contenders can be identified by their inclusion in a canon list or by discussion in a canon context—even if only as rejected books—or by being cited as authoritative by early Christian writers, nearly all would qualify under these criteria as potentially canonical.44 The collocation with our so-called “New Testament” papyri of such recognized or possible candidates for canonicity raises serious issues, such as the propriety of designating two categories of writings in this early period: “New Testament” and “apocryphal,” and whether we have given sufficient weight to the provenance of these “extracanonical” books and to their juxtaposition and utilization alongside our “New Testament” manuscripts. And where better might these canonical issues be investigated than at Oxyrhynchus—in a local, real-life context? For example, the seven surviving copies of the Shepherd of Hermas are spread evenly from the late second through the fourth centuries, which is striking evidence of an early and continuous textual tradition of a single writing in one locality—especially in a situation of random preservation. The extended rivalry, well documented elsewhere, among the Apocalypse of John, the Apocalypse of Peter, and the Shepherd of Hermas, for a place in the canon draws our attention also to the substantial textual tradition of the Apocalypse of John at Oxyrhynchus: six manuscripts from the turn of the third/fourth century (P18, P115) to the fourth (P24, 0308), then to the fifth century (0163), and to ca. 600 C.E. (P26). Too much must not be drawn from such comparative data, but it is clear by any measure available to us that the Shepherd of Hermas was very much a part of Christian literature in Oxyrhynchus at an early period.45 Furthermore, if—as is likely—the Gospel of Peter is represented in two Fortress, 1999), 19–20. The Letter of Abgar stems from the end of the third century (Schneemelcher, 1:496). 44 The exceptions appear to be the Gospel of Mary, Sophia Jesu Christi, and the Letter of Abgar. On Sophia, see “Eugnostos the Blessed and the Sophia of Jesus Christ,” in Coptic Encyclopedia (New York: Macmillan, 1991), 4:1069. For notice of the others in canon lists or discussions, see Metzger, Canon, esp. Appendix IV, 305–11, and ad loc.; Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, ad loc. For example, Hermas was included in Codex Sinaiticus (a, mid-4th c.) following the twenty-seven NT books; in the Muratorian Canon, though only to be read but not “publicly to the people in church”; and in the Latin canon inserted in Codex Claromontanus (Dp) of the sixth century, though the list is older. In the latter, Hermas, Barnabas, the Acts of Paul, and the Apocalypse of Peter are marked with a horizontal line in the left margin, doubtless to indicate less authority or the like (see Metzger, Canon, 230; for the Dp text and that of the Muratorian Canon, 310–11, 305–7). For patristic references to the Gospel of Thomas, see Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, 1:110–11; Marvin Meyer, The Gospel of Thomas: The Hidden Sayings of Jesus (San Francisco: HarperSan Francisco, 1992), 6–7. 45 G. H. R. Horsley, NewDocs 2 (1977): 159–61, lists seventeen manuscripts of the Shepherd to that date, though this includes P.Oxy. 5—a citation not a text—but not P.Oxy. 3526 (same codex as 1172), 3527, or 3528.

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fragments that date from the second or early third centuries (P.Oxy. 2949 and 4009), and if the Apocalypse of Peter is extant from Oxyrhynchus (see above), we would have manuscripts of three unsuccessful canon contenders—the Shepherd of Hermas, and both the Gospel and the Apocalypse of Peter, with the first two dating in the range of our earliest ten NT papyri.46 If one were to play comparative statistical games—not well advised in this situation—it could be said that up to around 200 C.E. Oxyrhynchus yielded seven copies of the Shepherd and two of the Gospel of Peter alongside four of Matthew, three of John, two of Paul, and one each of Luke and Revelation.47 If we were to extend this playful approach to around 400 C.E., it could be claimed that, while Oxyrhynchus had forty “New Testament” papyri (plus four parchments) containing portions of sixteen48 of our NT books, there were present also twenty copies of nine known “apocrypha,” plus three unidentified Gospel-like writings, in the city. Moreover, the presumption—though not provable—would be that at least some of these writings that had originated in the second century, but are now preserved only in third- and fourth-century manuscripts, had earlier exemplars in Oxyrhynchus. When this broader definition of “New Testament papyri” is applied— bringing early so-called “apocrypha” under the same umbrella—it will be clear that any position of exclusive honor in ancient Oxyrhynchus that we might have assumed for the forty-seven papyri of our NT has been compromised, for that honor had to be shared with numerous other early Christian writings, of which some twenty-three manuscripts have survived, and there is no basis, therefore, to claim that the “New Testament” manuscripts stand out as a separate or separable group. The Jewish Bible in Oxyrhynchus A fragment of a third-century roll (P.Oxy. 1075) holds the final thirteen verses of Exodus, and later in the third or early in the fourth century someone else copied on the verso the Apocalypse of John (P18 = P.Oxy. 1079), though only 1:1–7 survive. Naturally, there is no context for a NT papyrus more intimate than having been written on the back of another document. This 46 Dates are from Aland and Aland, Text of the New Testament, 96–102, supplemented by Nestle-Aland, Novum Testamentum Graece (27th rev. ed, 8th cor. and exp. printing [with Papyri 99–116]; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2001) [card insert]. New Testament papyri dated to the second century are P52 (ca. 125), P90 (P.Oxy. 3523), P98, P104 (P.Oxy. 4404; ca. 200), P32, P46, P64 + 67 + 4[?], P66; second/third c.: P77 (P.Oxy. 2683), P103 (P.Oxy. 4403). 47 Matthew: P64 + 67, P77, P103, P104; John: P52, P66, P90; Paul: P32 (Titus), P46; Luke: P4 [part of P64 + 67?]; Revelation: P98. 48 Seventeen if majuscule 0206 (P.Oxy. 1353, 4th c.) of 1 Peter is added.

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manuscript, then, is an opisthograph, but with the writing of the Apocalypse (on the verso) running in the opposite direction of Exodus (on the recto), so that—when the end of the roll was reached and the roll was turned over—the conclusion of Exodus led directly to the beginning of the Apocalypse. Whether this was deliberate and, if so, what the motivation might have been are not obvious, though there are ready parallels between the end of Exodus and the opening of Revelation. Exodus, for example, concludes with the anointing and consecration of the tabernacle and of Aaron and his sons as priests (esp. Exod 39:32–40:33), followed by: . . . the cloud of the Lord was on the tabernacle by day, and fire was in the cloud by night, before the eyes of all the house of Israel at each stage of their journey. (Exod 40:38)

And the opening doxology of the Apocalypse of John (1:6) refers to Christ who “made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father,” and then, reminiscent of Dan 7:13, it says, “Look! He is coming with the clouds. . . .” Whether this or another form of intertextuality was operative is a matter of speculation, but not without interest, for the collocation—on a single papyrus roll—of Jewish Scripture and an authoritative Christian writing49 opens an inquiry about the use of Jewish writings by Christians at Oxyrhynchus, and of the relation between Jews and Christians there. The discovery at Oxyrhynchus of some twenty-three Greek manuscripts of the Septuagint and one in the Old Latin dating up to the end of the fourth century further enlarge the body of “biblical” material with which our NT papyri had to share their space. The following copies, largely fragmentary, survive: Genesis (P.Oxy. 656, papyrus codex, early 3rd c.; 1007, vellum leaf, late 3rd c.; 1166, papyrus roll, 3rd c.; 1167, papyrus codex, 4th c.; 1073, Old Latin, vellum codex, 4th c.); Exodus (P.Oxy. 1074, papyrus codex, 3rd c.; 1075, papyrus roll, 3rd c.; 4442, papyrus codex, early 3rd c.;50 P.Mil.R.Univ. I.22 [van Haelst, no. 39], vellum codex, 4th c.); Leviticus (P.Oxy. 1225, papyrus roll, 1st half of 4th c.; 1351, vellum codex, 4th c.); Joshua (P.Oxy. 1168, vellum codex, 4th c.); Esther (P.Oxy. 4443, papyrus roll, late 1st/early 2nd c.); Job (P.Oxy. 3522, papyrus roll, 49 Another papyrus with Jewish Scripture/NT contents is P.Amh. 1.3b, with Gen 1:1–5 on the verso, and Heb 1:1 on the recto (= P12), suggesting that Hebrews was copied earlier! However, only Heb 1:1 is present, though the recto also contains a Christian letter written from Rome by someone important in the church, dating between 250 and 285: B. P. Grenfell and A. S. Hunt, The Amherst Papyri (2 vols.; London: H. Frowde, Oxford University Press, 1900–1901), 1:28–31. See Tobias Nicklas, “Zur historischen und theologischen Bedeutung der Erforschung neutestamentlicher Textgeschichte,” NTS 48 (2002): 154–55. Aland and Aland view the Heb 1:1 text as “occasional notes,” and not as a proper NT papyrus (Text of the New Testament, 85). 50 See Daniela Colomo, “Osservazioni intorno ad un nuovo papiro dell’Esodo (P.Oxy. 4442),” in Atti del XXII Congresso internazionale di papirologia, Firenze, 23-29 agosto 1998, ed. Andorlini et al., 1:269–77.

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1st c.; PSI X.1163, papyrus codex, 3rd/4th c.); Psalms (P.Oxy. 845, papyrus codex, late 4th/5th c.; 1226, papyrus codex, late 3rd/early 4th c.; 1352, vellum codex, early 4th c.; 1779, papyrus codex, 4th c.[van Haelst, no. 90 = 3rd c.]; P.Harr. 31, papyrus roll, 4th [Haelst no. 148, Oxyrhynchus?]; 2386, papyrus roll, 4th/5th c.); Wisdom of Solomon (P.Oxy. 4444, vellum codex, 4th c.); Tobit (P.Oxy. 1594, vellum codex, late 3rd c.); and Apocalypse of Baruch (P.Oxy. 403, papyrus codex, 4th/5th c.). There are in addition fragments of a papyrus codex of 1 Enoch (P.Oxy. 2069, late 4th c.).51 Five other LXX manuscripts and one Old Latin date in the fifth and sixth centuries.52 Incidentally, criteria for determining whether these texts were copied for Jewish or for Christian use have not been clearly defined, and certainly not agreed upon by all. Commonly, however, two principles are employed: (1) writings on rolls, especially if from the first or early second centuries, presumably are Jewish, with the likelihood that codices from the third century and later are Christian, though each case must be decided on its own merits; and (2) the employment of nomina sacra (contracted divine names and terms, but in this context “Lord” [kuvrio", k—w—] and “God” [qeov", q—w—, ]) has been taken as a sign of Christian origin and use53 (see further below). Though this is not the occasion to explore these issues, sorting out LXX manuscripts of Jewish origin from those copied by Christians would provide useful information both about the Jewish community at Oxyrhynchus and the Christian community there. Without belaboring the point, did our “New Testament” papyri hold a special, separable place of honor among all the related Christian and Jewish literature at Oxyrhynchus? Criteria for establishing such a position are not apparent. The second step in assessing our NT papyri in their local context is to take several “core samples” of the sociocultural soil of Oxyrhynchus, probing Christian letters, hymns, prayers, treatises, and petitions, and our first probe reveals a private letter already famous though published only in 1996.

51 See van Haelst, nos. 576 and 577: it was identified as 1 Enoch and republished by J. T. Milik, “Fragments grecs du livre d’Hénoch (P. Oxy. XVII 2069),” ChrEg 46 (1971): 321–43. 52 Genesis (in Old Latin): P.Oxy. 1007 (vellum leaf, 6th c.); Judges: PSI 2.127 (papyrus codex, early 3rd c.); Ecclesiastes: 2066 (papyrus codex, 5th or 6th c.); Amos: P.Oxy. 846 (papyrus codex, 6th c.); Ecclesiasticus: P.Oxy. 1595 (papyrus codex, 6th c.); Tobit: P.Oxy. 1076 (vellum codex, 6th c.). There are also two amulets with LXX Ps 90 (P.Oxy. 1928, roll, Christian, with 1–16; and P.Ryl. 3, with 5–16, both 5th/6th c.). On P.Oxy. 846, see Robert A. Kraft, “P.Oxy. VI 846 (Amos 2, Old Greek) Reconsidered,” BASP 16 (1979): 201– 4. 53 See, e.g., Roberts, Manuscript, Society, and Belief, 28–34, 74–78; E. A. Judge and S. R. Pickering, “Biblical Papyri prior to Constantine: Some Cultural Implications of Their Physical Form,” Prudentia 10 (1978): 2–3. See also n. 58 below.

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A Letter about Lending Books: Jewish-Christian Issues and Women’s Literacy and Leadership in Christianity at Oxyrhynchus An early-fourth-century private letter at Oxyrhynchus (P.Oxy. 4365) reads simply: To my dearest lady sister, greetings in the Lord. Lend the Ezra, since I lent you the little Genesis. Farewell in God from us.

This is the complete letter, twenty-one words written in six short lines on the back of a piece of papyrus cut from a roll that contained a petition written in the late third century—hence, the presumed early-fourth-century date for the letter. Its six lines elicit at least six significant questions: 1. Are the writer and recipient Jews or Christians, and how can we tell? 2. Why aren’t they named? 3. Is the writer a man or, like the recipient, a woman? 4. What books are being loaned? 5. Why would they be read? And 6. What might a woman’s voice tell us about female literacy, and does her interest in these books inform us about women’s leadership in the implied community? 1. Are the writer and recipient Christians? On the face of it, everything in our tiny letter could be Jewish, and the terms “Ezra” and “Genesis” confirm a biblical context. “Lord” and “God,” by themselves as singular terms, do not aid the decision between Jewish and Christian. It is of methodological interest, moreover, that, if “Ezra” and “Genesis” were not present, a context in GrecoRoman religions would be possible, for “god” in the singular occurs often in phrases such as “I pray to god” or “to the lord god” or “before the lord god”; “I thank god”; “god willing”; “god knows”; or “until god takes pity”;54 and nomina 54 Oxyrhynchus occurrences through the fourth century: “I pray to the god”: P.Oxy. 1680, line 3 (3rd/4th c.); 1773, line 4 (3rd c.); 3065, line 3 (3rd c.); 3816, line 3 (3rd/4th c.); “to the lord god”: P.Oxy. 1298, line 4 (4th c.); 1299, lines 3– 4 (4th c.); 1677, line 3 (3rd c.); 1678, line 3 (3rd c.); 1683, line 5 (late 4th c.); 2728, line 5 (3rd/4th c.); 3860, line 3 (later 4th c.); “ before the lord god”: P.Oxy. 3999, line 3 (4th c.); “in god”: P.Vindob.Sijp. XI.26, line 23 (3rd c.); “in the lord god”: P.Oxy. 2276, lines 29–30 (end 3rd c.); “I/we thank the god”: P.Oxy. 1299, lines 5–6 (4th c.); 3816, line 11 (3rd/4th c.); “god willing/with god’s help/by god’s grace”: su;n qew'/ as in P.Oxy. 1220, line 24 (3rd c.); 1763, line 11 (3rd c.); 3814, line 25 (3rd/4th c.), or tavca su;n qew'/ in P.Oxy. 4624, lines 3–4 (1st c.); “god knows”: P.Oxy. 3997, lines 8–9 (3rd/4th c.); 4628, line 3 (4th c.); “until the god takes pity”: P.Oxy. 120, line 16 (4th c.); “barring an act of god”: P.Oxy. 2721, line 24 (234 C.E.) [cf. 411, line 11].

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sacra55—contracted divine names, to which we turn in a moment—do not occur in several dozen examples from Oxyrhynchus. The singular is common also in the frequent formula, “I make obeisance every day before god,” or “the lord god,” often specifically “before god, the . . . lord Sarapis.”56 Nomina sacra do not occur in these cases either. Nomina sacra, however, do occur with virtual consistency through the fourth century in letters otherwise clearly Christian, and the instances are numerous.57 As is well known, this is a complex matter, though a criterion comOther occurrences of “god”or “lord” in singular: “(the) god”: P.Oxy. 112, line 4 (3rd/4th c.); cf. 2474, line 6 (3rd c.) [lacuna preceding]; 1680, line 3 (3rd/4th c.); 1682, line 6 (4th c.); 3356, lines 16–17 (76 C.E.); 3859, line 10 (4th c.); 3997, lines 4, 12; “the lord god”: P.Oxy. 3819, line 10 (early 4th c.); 3998, line 2 (4th c.); 4493, lines 3–5 (1st half of 4th c.); oJ despovth" qeov": 939, line 4 (4th c.) [cf. Christian use with nomen sacrum in P. Oxy. 2729, line 3]; “the great/est god, Sarapis”: P.Oxy. 1070, line 8 (3rd c.); 1453, line 5 (30–29 B.C.); “the great/est god, Apollo”: P.Oxy. 1449, line 4 (213–217 C.E.); 1435, lines 2–3 (147 C.E.); “Sarapis, the great god”: 2837, line 12 (50 C.E.); “the lord Sarapis”: P.Oxy. 110, lines 2–3 (2nd c.); 523, lines 2–3 (2nd c.); 1484, lines 3–4 (2nd/3rd c.); 1755, line 4 (2nd/3rd c.); 3693, lines 3– 4 (2nd c.); 4339, lines 2–3 (2nd/3rd c.); “O lord Sarapis Helios”: P.Oxy. 1148, line 1 (1st c.); “the greatest god, Ammon”: P.Oxy. 3275, lines 5–6 (early 1st c). “Goddess,” as in P.Oxy. 254, lines 2–3 (20 C.E.); 2722, lines 2, 6 (154 C.E.); 1449, line 11 (213–217 C.E.), is not relevant. Nomina sacra do not occur in the cases above. On “God knows,” see A. M. Nobbs, “Formulas of Belief in Greek Papyrus Letters of the Third and Fourth Centuries,” in Ancient History in a Modern University, volume 2, Early Christianity, Late Antiquity, and Beyond (ed. T. W. Hillard et al.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 235–36; on “I pray to god” as both Christian and nonChristian, 237. On “god willing,” etc., see B. R. Rees, “Popular Religion in Graeco-Roman Egypt, II: The Transition to Christianity,” JEA 36 (1950): 94–95; he provides fifty fifth- to seventh-century Oxyrhynchus examples (Christian and non-Christian) of su;n qew'/ on 94 nn. 14–16; 95 nn. 1–6 (though, curiously, only P.Oxy. vols. through XVI [1924] are used). Though disputed and often doubtful, a number of the expressions above have been taken as Christian (of course, not those with Sarapis), including P.Oxy. 120; 939; 1298; 1299; 1678; 1680; 1682; 1683; 1773; 2276; 2474; 3816; 3819; 3997; 3998; 3999. See Horsley, NewDocs 4 (1979): 57–63; cf. P.Oxy. XIV, p. 138. 55 See Aland, Repertorium, 1:420–28, for an index of nomina sacra in biblical and apocryphal manuscripts, showing their numerous formations. 56 Obeisance before “the god”: P.Oxy. 2682, lines 3–5 (3rd/4th c.); 3997, lines 9–11 (3rd/4th c.); “the lord god”: P.Oxy. 3998, lines 4–5 (4th c.); 4493, lines 3–5 (1st half of 4th c.); P.Alex. 30 (4th c.) from Oxyrhynchus; “the master god”: 1775, line 4 (4th c.); specifically “before the god, the . . . lord Sarapis”: P.Oxy. 3992, lines 13–16 (2nd c.); cf. 1670, lines 3–6 (3rd c.); 1769, lines 4–5 (3rd c.); 1677, line 3 (3rd c.); 2984, lines 4–7 (2nd/3rd c.). For an obeisance passage (nonChristian) without mention of a deity, see P.Oxy. 1482, lines 22–23 (2nd c.). “The obeisance formula is typically pagan” (P.Oxy. LIX, p. 148); cf. Horsley, NewDocs 4 (1987): 61–62. Some instances have been taken as Christian, e.g., P.Oxy. 1775; 3997; 3998. Nomina sacra do not occur in the preceding instances. See n. 59 below. 57 Oxyrhynchus evidence through the fourth century: letters clearly, likely, possibly, or alleged to be Christian; those clearly Christian are marked with an asterisk (*); those possibly Christian have a question mark (?): (1) Nomina sacra in clearly or likely Christian letters: 1161, line 7 (4th c.)*; 1162, lines 4, 12,

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monly taken as virtually decisive is that “god” and “lord” in the singular (when the latter refers to deity) are non-Christian when nomina sacra are absent and Christian when present.58 However, there are a fair number of ambiguous 14, and f—q— in 15 (4th c.)*; 2601, line 5 (early 4th c.) [complex case, see P.Oxy. XXXI, pp.167–71; it contains a bungled nomen sacrum and f—q— (line 34)]; 2729, line 3 (4th c.) [nomen sacrum: one of two]; 2785, lines. 1, 13 (4th c.)*; 3857, line 15, plus f—q— (4th c.)*; 3858, lines 3, 25 (4th c.)*; 3862, lines 4, 39, plus cmg bis, fq (4th/5th c.)*; PSI 3.208, lines 1, 12 (vellum, 4th c.); PSI 9.1041, lines 1, 16 (vellum, 3rd/4th c.)*. P.Oxy. 1592, lines 3, 5 (3rd/4th c.) is a special case, with nomina sacra, k—e— mou p—r— and p—h—r—, though all refer, not to deity, but to a high church official, and the nomina sacra obviously were used to show the greatest possible respect, further enhanced by the use of “exalted “ and “rejoiced” from the Magnificat (Luke 1:46–47): “. . . greetings. I received your letter, my lord father, and I was very much exalted and I rejoiced, that such a father of mine remembers me. For when I received it, I [worshiped?] your holy [face?]”—trans. and interpretation by AnneMarie Luijendijk, Harvard doctoral student, in a paper “What’s in a nomen?” at the SBL annual meeting, Atlanta, 2003 [italics added]. The Magnificat verbs are without context and doubtless came from liturgy. On the allusions, see B. F. Harris, “Biblical Echoes and Reminiscences in Christian Papyri,” in Proceedings of the XIV International Congress of Papyrologists, Oxford, 24–31 July 1974 (Graeco-Roman Memoirs, 61; London: British Academy, 1975), 156. On f—q— = 99, isopsephism of ajmhvn, see P.Oxy LVI, pp. 116 n. 13; 135–36 n. 1; P.Oxy. XXXI, p. 171; as “exclusive to Christians,” see E. A. Judge and S. R. Pickering, “Papyrus Documentation of Church and Community in Egypt to the Mid-Fourth Century,” JAC 20 (1977): 69; cf. 54: “the cryptogram for Amen . . . was coming into fashion at the beginning of the fourth century”; cf. S. R. Llewelyn, NewDocs 8 (1984–85): 171–72. On the enigmatic cmg, see Horsley, NewDocs 2 (1977): 177–80; esp. Llewelyn, NewDocs 8 (1984–85): 156–68; P.Oxy. LVI, pp. 135–36. It occurs also in a prayer: P.Oxy. 1058 (4th or 5th c.). (2) Nomina sacra in letters with virtually no other Christian identifiers: P.Oxy. 1493, lines 4–5 (3rd/4th c.): mixed: k—w— qew'/; 1495, lines 4–5 (4th c.); 1774, line 3 (early 4th c.); 2156, (4th/5th c.): mixed: line 6, “divine providence of God (no nomen sacrum), line 25, ejn kuriv[w/] q—w—; 2609, line 2 (4th c.) [may also contain a chi-rho monogram]; 2731, line 2 (4th/5th c.); 3858, lines 3, 25 (4th c.); 4127, line 4 (1st half 4th c.). PSI 8.972, line 3, probably from Oxyrhynchus (4th c.): line 4 refers to “the evil eye”; on the evidence that the letter is Christian, see Horsley, NewDocs 1 (1976): 134–36. (3) Nomina sacra lacking in letters clearly, likely, or alleged to be Christian: P.Oxy. 939, line 4 (4th c.)?: P.Oxy. VI, p. 307 assumes it is Christian due to its phraseology and sentiments in lines 3–10, 28–30; 1492, line 19 (3rd/4th c.)*; 1494, line 3 (early 4th c.); 1593, line 12[?] (4th c.)?; 3421, line 4 (4th c.): “I pray to the all-merciful god”; 3819, line 10 (early 4th c.): “the lord god”—basis for Christian origin is a rare word (dunatevw) found only in Philodemus, Epicurean philosopher of the first century B.C.E., and in the Pauline epistles; 4003, line 4 (4th/5th c.)*: Christian letter, but shaky grammar and vulgar spelling could account for lack of nomen sacrum. 58 On the basis of the discussion and evidence in Roberts (Manuscript, Society, and Belief, 26–34, 74–78), nomina sacra do not occur in clearly Jewish manuscripts; his one exception (van Haelst, no. 74, fragments of 1–2 Kings, 5th/6th c.) has four instances (k—u— once and i—s—l— [!Israhvl] three times), but all at the ends of lines, perhaps to save space, because no other divine terms are contracted (pp. 32–33). More recently Robert A. Kraft has noted two instances where k—u— has been inserted in an apparently blank space (by a later hand in P.Oxy. 656 of Genesis, ca. 200 C.E.; likely by a later hand in P.Oxy. 1075 of Exodus 40, 3rd c.): http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/lxxjewpap/ kyrios.jpg; see his cautions on the identification of Christian manuscripts: http://ccat.sas .upenn.edu/rs/rak/jewishpap.htlm, “The Debated Features,” §4.

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cases,59 and the principle, I think, has been applied too loosely. But we can be more precise because our letter on exchanging books has more specific and evidentiary phrases, namely, “Greetings in the Lord” and “Farewell in God,” where both “Lord” (kurivw/) and “God” (qew'/) are in contracted forms (k—w— and q—w—). Moreover, these two phrases, when written as nomina sacra, appear to be virtually exclusive to Christian letters,60 although—as in the present instance—there is an occasional ambiguous case.61 To be sure, at least one clearly Christian letter, probably from Oxyrhynchus,62 employs “in

59 Ambiguous cases would include those listed in (2) and (3) in n. 57 above. Another criterion would be that the “obeisance” formula indicates a Greco-Roman religions context and not a Christian one. There is, however, an occurrence of this formula in a certainly Christian letter, though from Arsinoë (P.Mich.Inv. 346, 4th c.). Its identity as Christian is based on “characteristically Christian titles,” and the formula reads, “I make obeisance for you daily”; here, though, there is no deity specified, so we cannot test the nomen sacrum criterion: see Herbert C. Youtie, “P.Mich.Inv. 346: A Christian PROSKUNHMA,” ZPE 28 (1978): 265–68. Youtie dismisses other alleged Christian examples—where “god” in the singular occurs—as “inference which cannot be proved” (p. 265). See the earlier discussion in G. Geraci, “Ricerche sul Proskynema,” Aeg 51 (1971): 197–200, 207, which includes P.Oxy. 1775 (4th c.); 2682 (3rd/4th c.); and P.Alex. 30 (4th c.), found at Oxyrhynchus; and Horsley, NewDocs 4 (1979): 62, who accepts Youtie’s view. 60 For instances without nomina sacra and with no evidence of Christian or non-Christian religion, see (4) in the next note. 61 Ambiguous cases would be (2) and (4) below. Oxyrhynchus evidence through the fourth century for greetings/rejoice, etc. “in the Lord/God/Lord God”: (1) With nomina sacra and other Christian evidence: (a) “in the Lord”: P.Oxy. 1162, ter lines 4, 12, 14 (4th c.); 1774, line 3 (early 4th c.); 2609, line 2 (4th c.) + a defaced Christian monogram; 2785, bis lines 1, 13 (4th c.); 3857, line 15 (4th c.); 3858, bis lines 3, 25 (4th c.); PSI 3.208, bis lines 1, 12 (4th c.); 9.1041, bis lines 1, 16 (3rd/4th c.). (b) “in the Lord God”: P.Oxy. 1162, bis lines 4, 14 (4th c.); 3862, bis lines 4, 39, but not ejn Cristw'/ in line 7 (4th/5th c.). P.Oxy. 2156 (4th/5th c.) is mixed: line 6, qeov" (no nomen sacrum); line 25, ejn kuriv[w/] q—w—. P.Oxy. 2729 (4th c.) is complex: ejn kurivw/ in line 2 is not contracted (though the first two and last letters are obscure) but in the next line q—w— is. (2) With nomina sacra but no (or virtually no) other Christian evidence: “in the Lord”: P.Oxy. 4127, line 4 (1st half 4th c.); “in the Lord God”: 2731, line 2 (4th/5th c.). (3) Without nomina sacra but with evidence of non-Christian religion: (a) “in the lord god”: P.Oxy. 2276, lines 29–30 (late 3rd/4th c.); cf. lines 28–29: “I greet your children, those secure from enchantment (ta; ajbavskanta),” trans. “whom the evil eye shall not harm.” (4) Without nomina sacra and with no evidence of non-Christian religion: P.Vind.Sijp. 26, line 23 (3rd c.): “I pray for your good health . . . in god”; P.Oxy. 3998, lines 2–3 (4th c.): “very many greetings in the lord god,” followed (lines 4–5) by a statement of obeisance “before the lord god,” again without nomina sacra. Nothing else in these letters suggests they are Christian, and I would not view them as such; cf. P.Oxy. LIX, p. 148. Similar is P.Oxy. 182 (mid 4th c.), published by Dominic Montserrat, Georgina Fantoni, and Patrick Robinson, “Varia Descripta Oxyrhynchita,” BASP 31 (1994): 48–50: greetings “in the lord god” (lines 2–3), with reference in line 5 to “divine providence”; possibly connected with the archive of Papnuthis and Dorotheus (P.Oxy. 3384–3429). 62 Van Haelst, no. 1194.

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God” without the contracted nomen sacrum: the letter, from a young man to his mother (P.Harr. 107, beginning of 3rd c.), opens as follows: To my most precious mother Mary, from Besas, many greetings in God. Before all things I pray to the Father, the God of truth, and to the Spirit, the Comforter, that they may preserve you in both soul and body and spirit, and [give] to your body health, and to your spirit gladness, and to your soul eternal life.63

Nomina sacra do not appear in this clearly Christian letter, but the letter itself undoubtedly contains the explanation: in spite of a smooth translation into English (and the lofty sentiments expressed), the editor describes it as “an illiterate letter written . . . in a boyish hand.”64—which may explain the failure to execute the nomina sacra. Hence, the preceding evidence, here almost entirely from Oxyrhynchus— though similar throughout the papyri—permits us to claim with great assurance that a letter, dating through the fourth century, may be deemed Christian if it employs the phrase “in the Lord” or “in God” with nomina sacra present.65 Moreover, these two particular nomina sacra are frequent in Christian letters, while other forms are rare.66 Exceptions would be nomina sacra due not to the “writer” but to a scribe who had picked up the practice.67 In our letter about books, however, a scribe is unlikely to have been engaged for so brief a note— 63 Trans. slightly modified from J. Enoch Powell, ed., The Rendel Harris Papyri [I] (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1936), 89–90. Later the letter refers to Easter (lines 20–21). Powell (p. 90, followed by Stanley K. Stowers, Letter Writing in Greco-Roman Antiquity [LEC; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1986], 74) asserted that the trichotomy (soul, body, spirit) was “based on” 1 Thess 5:23, but then added that this order is “characteristic of Egyptian liturgies” rather than in the body, soul, spirit order in 1 Thessalonians. Hence, the boy’s phraseology undoubtedly stems from liturgy rather than directly from a text of 1 Thess 5:23, especially since the verbs are different: diafulavxwsin . . . sev in the letter and oJlovklhron . . . thrhqeivh in 1 Thessalonians. Stowers allows for this: “Besas has either studied the letters of Paul or picked up a local Christian tradition” (p. 74). On the theological orientation of the letter, see B. F. Harris, “Biblical Echoes and Reminiscences in Christian Papyri,” in Proceedings of the XIV International Congress of Papyrologists, 157. P.Oxy. 1161 (4th c.), a fragment of a clearly Christian letter, refers to “body, soul, and spirit” (lines 6–7). 64 Powell, Rendel Harris Papyri [I], 89. 65 This argument may border on being circular, for letters otherwise clearly Christian that contain one of these phrases are used, at times, as a basis for calling “Christian” letters that contain no other Christian evidence, whereas, if letters with one or both phrases, but without other Christian evidence, were designated “non-Christian,” then the phrases would have to be said to occur in both Christian and non-Christian letters. Hence, each case must be considered on its own merits. For an expanded list of criteria, see Nobbs, “Formulas of Belief,” 235. 66 J. R. Rea in P.Oxy LXIII, p. 45; cf. Judge and Pickering, “Papyrus Documentation of Church and Community in Egypt,” 69. 67 See Horsley, NewDocs 3 (1978): 143; idem, NewDocs 2 (1977): 70, though I find no relevant examples in his discussion.

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six very short lines—or to have omitted the writer’s and recipient’s names (see below). So our letter about exchanging books, which might at first blush seem Jewish, must be taken as Christian because the expressions “in the Lord,” and “in God” exhibit nomina sacra (kurivw/ > k—w— and qew'/ > q—w—), thus conforming to a pattern established elsewhere. We should pause here for a further methodological moment. Beginning about thirty years ago, identifying papyrus letters as Christian, unless unambiguous Christian references occurred, has been made with much more caution than earlier had been the practice.68 Yet two tendencies of the past have clouded our picture of early Christian documents, especially letters. First, too many have been called Christian that in reality reflect a context of GrecoRoman religions or may be of Jewish or even secular origin. Second, and more specifically, editors—at the mere sight of a word, phrase, or idea reminiscent of our NT—too often have exclaimed “citation” or “source,” seizing myopically on the “New Testament” as the virtually exclusive resource for tenuously related expressions. Such hyper-parallelism—such a rush to judgment—about the source for a document’s vocabulary, phraseology, or stream of consciousness, however, runs counter to our current views of intertextuality, for it ignores the wider range of available Christian literature or tradition—as well as Jewish and secular material. What we need is a microscope with less power of magnification so that our field of vision is broader. Hence, one or several similar words or partial parallelism in thought do not a citation make. Various editors’ notes in The Oxyrhynchus Papyri and elsewhere illustrate such faults, as do occasional recent articles.69 This is not to say that pointing out similarities to the NT is 68 Criteria for identifying Christian letters have been much discussed over time and especially recently; see Horsley, NewDocs 4 (1979): 58–63, for a critical assessment and comparison of significant earlier works by G. Ghedini (1923) and Mario Naldini (1968), and the more recent critiques by G. Tibiletti (1979), and by Ewa Wipszycka, “Remarques sur les lettres privées chrétiennes des siècles (a propos d’un livre de M. Naldini),” JJP 18 (1974): 203–21; cf. Naldini’s response, containing additional Christian letters, “In margine alle ‘lettere cristiane’ nei papiri,” CClCr 2 (1981): 167–76; “Nuove testimonianze cristiane nelle lettere dei papiri greco-egizi (sec. II–IV),” Aug 35 (1995): 831–46. See also NewDocs 2 (1977): 156–58; Nobbs, “Formulas of Belief,” 233–37. Commendable caution is displayed by Judge, Rank and Status, 20–31, where, correctly in my judgment, he declines to identify as Christian P.Oxy. 3057 (thought by some to be the earliest Christian letter extant), or P.Oxy. 3313, or 3069, or even 3314 (the letter of Judas, who, he says, “may be safely left a Jew” [p. 31]—a view with which I concur; cf. G. H. R. Horsley, “Name Change as an Indication of Religious Conversion in Antiquity,” Numen 34 [1987]: 8–12: “our Judas could perhaps be . . . a Jewish convert to Christianity” [p. 12]). 69 E.g., the very helpful article of B. F. Harris (“The Use of Scripture in Some Unidentified Theological Papyri,” in Ancient History in a Modern University, volume 2, Early Christianity, Late Antiquity, and Beyond, ed. Hillard et al., 228-32) refers, I think incautiously at times, to NT “citations,” “expressions,” “echoes,” “reflections,” etc., and states, in summary, that the OT and NT writ-

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inappropriate or unhelpful, but only to plead for caution in identifying material as Christian and for a more enlightened view of intertextuality. 2. Why do the writer and recipient lack names? Even in brief letters lack of names is uncommon. Our letter’s editor, John Rea, noting the possibility of an early-fourth-century date (that is, prior to 325, “when Constantine’s acquisition of Egypt finally made it safe to profess Christianity there”) speculated that this lack of names “denotes a degree of discretion” on the part of its author.70 I think it is easier, however, to account for the absence of names by reference to a well-known and partially parallel phenomenon: papyrus invitations, for example, to a wedding or dinner, which were very brief, small in size, and written in short lines. The following example from Oxyrhynchus (where two-thirds of all extant invitations have been found71) is typical:

ings “were employed, often with some liberty of citation and adaptation, in a great variety of contexts” (p. 232). Actually, options abound for “sources”: other Christian writings (including “apocryphal” and patristic), liturgy, oral tradition, etc.; cf. his discussion of P.Oxy. 2072, “echoing Acts 2 and 4” (p. 231), and our discussion below, questioning the connection with Acts; a connection with Heb 10:34 (ibid.) seems tenuous indeed. I would grant, however, that two verbs in P.Oxy. 1592, lines 3, 5 (3rd/4th c.) may well be an “echo” of Luke 1:46–47, even though there is no further context, because (a) their collocation in the Magnificat and (b) the context of the papyrus letter makes an allusion likely (see n. 57 above). Harris, in an earlier article (“Biblical Echoes and Reminiscences in Christian Papyri”), uses the classifications “citations, verbal echoes, and lesser verbal reminiscences” (p. 156). For him, e.g., in P.Oxy. 1161, lines 3–4 (4th c.) there is an “echo” of Mark 1:11 in “beloved son,” but so common a Christian expression cannot easily be linked to a specific text without fuller parallel contexts. Similarly tenuous is his link (p. 157) of “body, soul, and spirit” in lines 6–7 with 1 Thess 5:23—where the order is spirit, soul, and body (see n. 63 above). His possible “reminiscence” of Titus 2:11 and/or Titus 3:4 in lines 3–4 of P.Oxy. 939 (4th c.) points to one option (pp. 157–58), though I am not entirely convinced that this is a Christian letter (no nomen sacrum, though several Christiansounding phrases). P.Oxy. 1494 (early 4th c.) is similar: no nomina sacra (lines 3, 7), some common expressions, e.g., “god willing” (line 3), some less common, e.g., “sweetest brothers” (but this occurs also, in singular, e.g., in P.Oxy. 935, lines 22–23 [3rd c.], a non-Christian letter [note “ancestral gods,” line 10]); hence Harris’s “reminiscence” of Matt 3:3 or Acts 13:10 in “straight path” (oJdo;" eujqei'a, lines 8–9) is unlikely: it is a biblical phrase to be sure (e.g., LXX Hos 14:10), but found elsewhere, as in Diod. S. 14.116.9; 2 Clem. 7.3. A. L. Connolly agrees, though he provides further evidence for his claim that “the letter is almost certainly Christian” (“Miscellaneous NT Quotations,” NewDocs 4 [1979]: 193). Finally, Harris mentions a “general similarity” of the mirror passage that introduces P.Oxy. 2603, lines 3–19 (4th c.) to Jas 1:23, but mirror has the opposite effect in each passage: in the papyrus, it fully displays a person who can then “speak about his own likeness” (lines 8–9), while in James a person “observes himself and goes away and at once forgets what he was like” (pp. 158–59). 70 J. R. Rea in P.Oxy LXIII, p. 44; cf. 43. 71 P.Oxy. 110–112, 181, 523, 524, 747, 926, 927, 1214, 1484–1487, 1579, 1580, 1755, 2147, 2592, 2678, 2791, 2792, 3202, 3501, 3693, 3694, 4339, 4539–4543; SB X.10496; P.Lond.Inv. 3078;

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The inviter was always mentioned, though almost never were the invited guests named, presumably because weddings, birthdays, and dinners were largely local events and the invitations were from known friends, delivered by the host’s servant or slave, who in turn would report back whether the invitation had been accepted or not.72 Similarly, the letter about lending “the Ezra” and “the little Genesis,” though not an invitation, was obviously a quick communication between close acquaintances, doubtless delivered locally by a personally connected messenger, rendering names superfluous. 3. The recipient of the letter was a woman, but was the writer male or female? Normally the reused side of a piece of papyrus would not be closely related in content to the side first written upon, but here again the most immediate context of the letter should not be ignored. The petition on the recto survives in only nine lines, which disclose little of its nature, but two subscriptions remain, the first in the petitioner’s own hand, stating her name, Aurelia Soteira, and certifying her submission of the request. The second, written now by the third hand, was the response to the petition—“the reply of a high Roman offiP. Köln VI.280 [probably Oxyrhynchus]; no. 7 in O. Giannini, Annali della Scuolo Normale di Pisa ser. 2, 35 (1966): 18–19. Most of these consist of four or five short lines. Other invitations found to date include BGU I.333, II.596; P.Apoll. 72; P.Fay. 132; P. Fouad III.76, VIII.7; P.Oslo III.157; P. Yale 85; P.Coll.Youtie I.51, 52; SB V. 7745, VIII. 11652, 12511, 12596, 13875. On the thirty invitations known in the mid-1970s, see Chan-Hie Kim, “The Papyrus Invitation,” JBL 94 (1975): 391–402; on Sarapis banquets, see Yale Papyri in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, I (ed. J. F. Oates, A. E. Samuel, and C. B. Welles; ASP 2; New Haven/Toronto: American Society of Papyrologists, 1967), 260–64; Horsley in NewDocs 1 (1976): 5–9; on wedding invitations, see Llewelyn and Hobbs, NewDocs 9 (1986–87): 62–65. 72 Of thirty-six Oxyrhynchus invitations to date (out of a total of about fifty-two), four have “today” with the date (P.Oxy. 1485, 1486, 4542, 4543); four say “tomorrow” (P.Oxy. 111, 1580, SB X.10496; Köln VI.280—probably Oxyrhynchus); ten have “tomorrow” plus the date (P.Oxy. 110, 524, 926, 927, 1487, 1597, 2791, 3202, 3693, 4540; thirteen give the date only (P.Oxy. 112, 523, 747, 1214, 1755, 2147, 2592, 2678, 2792, 3501, 3694, 4339, 4539); one provides no day or date (P.Oxy. 4541); and three have lacunae (P.Oxy. 181, 1484, P.Lond.Inv. 3078). The vast majority are from the second and third centuries, with a few earlier or later. The latest, 1214 (dated 5th c.), provides the name of the invited guest, as does 112 (late 3rd or early 4th c.), but the latter invitation went to someone who must travel, either by donkey or boat, and the invitation would have gone in the usual mail fashion rather than by local messenger. T. C. Skeat speculated that the very small size of invitations “might have formed a kind of ‘status symbol’ in the upper classes at Oxyrhynchus” and conjectured that “some means were found for displaying them to visitors in the house of the recipient, in much the same way as the bowl of visiting-cards in the hall of a Victorian residence” (“Another Dinner-Invitation from Oxyrhynchus [P.Lond.Inv. 3078],” JEA 61 [1975]: 251–54, here 254).

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cial.”73 John Rea concluded that, although different in size and using different pens, the writing of the petitioner’s own hand and that of the Christian letter on its reverse are “rather similar” in the formation of letters and “it is quite possible that the same person wrote both.”74 In view of Rea’s earlier explanation for the lack of names, this conclusion caused him to wonder why, if this were a preConstantinian environment, she would not make sure “that there was nothing on the sheet to identify her as the writer of the letter.”75 However, rather than invoking a persecution context, for which there is no other evidence in the letter, it is easier to say that the woman named Aurelia also wrote the letter about books and to explain, then, the absence of names by its nature as a very personal, local correspondence. So writer and recipient doubtless were both women.76 4. What books were these Christians exchanging? At first glance, both books might be taken not only as Jewish but as Jewish canonical writings. “Ezra” (#Esra") doubtless referred, however, not to the book of Ezra of the Jewish Bible but to one of several other works written under that name, most likely 4 Ezra (2 Esdras of the English Apocrypha).77 It so happens that a fourthcentury miniature codex of 6 Ezra78—an early Christian apocalypse added to and now constituting chs. 15–16 of 4 Ezra—was found at Oxyrhynchus (P.Oxy. 1010), though only the wildest speculation would identify that with the “Ezra” of our letter. As for “the little Genesis,” this, again, was not the Genesis of the Jewish Bible but the book of Jubilees,79 designated “the little Genesis,” e.g., by

73 P.Oxy

LXIII, pp. 42–43. 44; cf. 43. Cf. Rosa Otranto, Antiche liste di libri su papiro (Sussidi eruditi 49; Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2000), 128. 75 P.Oxy LXIII, p. 44. 76 Simon Franklin takes the same position (“A Note on a Pseudepigraphical Allusion in Oxyrhynchus Papyrus No. 4365,” VT 48 [1998]: 95). 77 On the identification with 4 Ezra, see the reference in P.Oxy. LXIII, p. 44, to a seventh/eighth century papyrus “Inventory of Church Property” that refers to Ezra: P.Leid.Inst. 13, line 36 = F. A. J. Hoogendijk and P. van Minnen, eds., Papyri, Ostraca, Parchments and Waxed Tablets in the Leiden Papyrological Institute (Pap.Lugd.Bat. XXV; Leiden: Brill, 1991), 51, 54, 70. See also Dieter Hagedorn, “Die ‘Kleine Genesis’ in P.Oxy. LXIII 4365,” ZPE 116 (1997): 147–48; Thomas J. Kraus, “Bücherleihe im 4. Jh. N. Chr.: P.Oxy. LXIII 4365—ein Brief auf Papyrus und die gegenseitige Leihe von apokryph gewordener Literatur,” Biblos 50 (2001): 287 and n. 14. 78 6 Ezra was written in the third century, probably by a Christian. The small Oxyrhynchus fragment “suggests that the sixth book of Ezra was originally current independently of the fourth” (P.Oxy. VII, p. 13); that 6 Ezra was not an integral part of 4 Ezra and is Christian is affirmed by Michael Stone, ABD 2:612. 79 Hagedorn, “Die ‘Kleine Genesis,’” 148; supported by Franklin in 1998 (“Note on a Pseudepigraphical Allusion,” 95–96), who states that lepthv here means not “little” but “detailed,” and there is no reference to the canonical Genesis. Then A. Hilhorst (“Erwähnt P.Oxy. LXIII 4365 74 Ibid.,

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Epiphanius80 (ca. 315–403) in the very time frame of our letter (and, by the way, of the 6 Ezra codex). Incidentally, P.Oxy. 4365 provides the oldest witness for the existence of the Greek version of Jubilees.81 5. Why these two Jewish deuterocanonical books? Certainly the two Christians were exchanging books to read them, and not merely for leisure but for knowledge through study. Why, then, in the early fourth century, were they engaging a second-century B.C.E. Jewish account of revelations to Moses on Mt. Sinai and a late-first-century C.E. Jewish apocalypse, especially when two or three prominent Christian apocalypses—in multiple copies—presumably were available in Oxyrhynchus at this time? And why were these Christians not reading one of the fourteen writings from what we call the “New Testament” that are extant from the period preceding the date of their letter? These papyri survive in thirty-four copies (plus one majuscule) from that period and include, for example, nine of the popular Gospel of John and seven of Matthew. Were our “New Testament” papyri without relevance, or, to offer an opposite—and more likely—spin on the situation, had the study of the “New Testament” and related Christian books advanced so far in the Oxyrhynchus churches of the third and fourth centuries that some of their inquisitive members had moved beyond—or behind—them to related interests in the Jewish Scriptures? For example, is a special interest in apocalyptic signaled by the dozen or more copies of the Revelation of John and the Shepherd of Hermas82 found there, along with an otherwise unknown Christian prophetic work that quotes the Shepherd (P.Oxy. 5),83 as well as copies of 6 Ezra and the Apocalypse das Jubiläenbuch?” ZPE 130 [2000]: 192) argued convincingly against the view of Rosa Otranto (Aeg 77 [1997]: 107–8; reprinted in her Antiche liste di libri su papiro, 128–29) that “little Genesis” referred to a miniature codex; cf. Kraus, “Bücherleihe,” 288 and n. 22. 80 Panarion 39.6.1 (GCS 31, p. 76, 16–17); Hagedorn refers to additional uses of “the little Genesis” (lepth; Gevnesi") for Jubilees (“Die ‘Kleine Genesis,’” 148); see also O. S. Wintermute, “Jubilees,” OTP 2:41. On “little books” in Coptic lists, see Otranto, Antiche liste di libri su papiro, 129; cf. 141. 81 Hagedorn, “Die ‘Kleine Genesis,’” 148; Franklin, “Note on a Pseudepigraphical Allusion,” 96; Kraus, “Bücherleihe,” 289. 82 On the Shepherd as an apocalypse, see Osiek, Shepherd of Hermas, 10–12; Helmut Koester, Introduction, 1:262–66. On its popularity, see Osiek: “No other noncanonical writing was as popular before the fourth century as the Shepherd of Hermas. It is the most frequently attested postcanonical text in the surviving Christian manuscripts of Egypt well into the fifth century” (p. 1). On its reception and canonicity, see pp. 5–8. Her list of manuscripts includes those with extensive text but also a fragment possibly of the early second century (P.Iand. 1.4), though not any Oxyrhynchus papyri (pp. 1–2). 83 The quotation is Mandate 11.9–10. The fragment dates in the third/fourth century (P.Oxy. I, p. 8) or fourth/fifth; see Körtner and Leutzsch, Papiasfragmente, Hirt des Hermas, 118 and 361 n. 15, which refers to E. G. Turner, The Typology of the Early Codex (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1977), 131, no. 528.

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of Peter?84 And were they drawn also to Jewish apocalypses, not only 4 Ezra, but also the Apocalypse of Baruch (P.Oxy. 403), and 1 Enoch (P.Oxy. 2069)— copies of which were discovered at Oxyrhynchus?85 To be sure, statistics of surviving papyri may prove little, yet the abundance of apocalyptic material at this site, Jewish and Christian, is striking and may well suggest that this early Christian community ascribed canonical authority to these Jewish apocalyptic writings. Again, though, nothing at Oxyrhynchus provides any confirmation except the very presence of these many books and the stated or implied use of them—apparently an extensive use. 6. What might a woman’s voice—or better, two women’s voices—tell us about female literacy and about women’s likely leadership in Oxyrhynchus churches? Literacy is a vast topic that cannot be explored here, and discerning the existence and nature of leadership not only would be speculative but also is hampered by the scarcity of relevant material. It is worth noting, however, that while papyri in Roman Egypt reveal that families with literate men commonly had illiterate women, an Oxyrhynchus papyrus of the year 215 provides a striking exception: a literate Oxyrhynchite woman whose Alexandrian (!) husband and his brother were illiterate (P.Oxy. 1463).86 In addition, in 263 a woman petitions a prefect of Egypt for the right to carry out business transactions without a guardian, and she supports her argument by her ability to write (P.Oxy. 1467, see below). A further example is an application dated 201 for remarriage to her former husband by a woman who states, “I know how to write” (P.Oxy. 1473). Such pride in writing, however, ran counter to another source of pride: upperclass women—whether literate or not—may have felt it below their dignity to write when they had slaves or secretaries to do it for them.87 84

See n. 38 above. This supposition, however, would require that earlier copies of the Apocalypse of Baruch (P.Oxy. 403, 4th/5th c.) and 1 Enoch (P.Oxy. 2069, late 4th c.) had been present in Oxyrhynchus, for the surviving copies are later than the letter about lending books. 86 See William V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), 279–80. On cautions in generalizing from papyri data, see T. J. Kraus, “(Il)literacy in NonLiterary Papyri from Graeco-Roman Egypt: Further Aspects of the Educational Ideal in Ancient Literary Sources and Modern Times,” Mnemosyne 53 (2000): 333, 338–41. 87 On the larger subject, see Catherine Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (TSAJ 81; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2001), 474–75, 484–85; E. Randolph Richards, The Secretary in the Letters of Paul (WUNT 42; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1991), 18–23, esp. 22; Roger S. Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 230–60, esp. 246–47, 255–56, 258–59; idem, Reading Papyri, Writing Ancient History (Approaching the Ancient World; London/New York: Routledge, 1995), 24–25; Kim Haines-Eitzen, Guardians of Letters: Literacy, Power, and the Transmission of Early Christian Literature (Oxford/New York: Oxford University 85

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Further insight may be gained from a copy of a lease for property (P.Oxy. 1690, dated about 287) owned by a literate woman, Aurelia Ptolemais, that was found with fragments of two papyri containing the Iliad (P.Oxy. 1386, 1392) and portions of a much rarer History of Sikyon (P.Oxy. 1365), literary works that she owned and presumably read.88 Roger Bagnall argued that her father was Aurelius Hermogenes, a councillor at Oxyrhynchus, whose will named as heirs a daughter, Aurelia Ptolemais, along with another daughter, three sons, and his wife, Isidora (P.Oxy. 907, dated 276). Curiously the will was written on the verso of a papyrus that contained the Kestoi of the Christian writer Sextus Julius Africanus (P.Oxy. 412, mid-3rd c.), though this particular work is not specifically Christian in nature.89 E. A. Judge and S. R. Pickering, appealing to Julius Africanus’s Christian identity and to a phrase in Hermogenes’ will that conveys “an idea familiar to [NT] readers,” suggested that Hermogenes—and therefore perhaps his family, including Aurelia—were also Christians.90 If this plausible though tenuous thread of evidence is accepted, another literate woman of a prominent Oxyrhynchus family will have been identified as Christian. It remains unclear, however, whether these papyri are evidence that literate women in Oxyrhynchus were more numerous than elsewhere, or that literate women, like those in our short letter, were the exception, as has been the common view.91

Press, 2000), 7, 21. For speakers and writers in Egyptian, “illiteracy in Greek, the language of the alien and worldly bureaucracy, may have become a point of pride” (Herbert C. Youtie, “‘Because they do not know letters,’” ZPE 19 [1975]: 108). 88 Roger Bagnall, “An Owner of Literary Papyri,” CP 87 (1992): 137–40; reprinted in his Later Roman Egypt: Society, Religion, Economy, and Administration (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate; Burlington, VT: Variorum, 2003), no. VII. Her literacy is confirmed by her “fairly rapid cursive” signature, “Not the hand of someone who could barely sign, certainly” (p. 140 and n. 18), and by her presumed ownership of the literary papyri found with the lease. 89 Ibid., 138–39 and n. 16. 90 Judge and Pickering, “Papyrus Documentation,” 65; cf. Bagnall, “Owner of Literary Papyri,” 139 n. 16. The phrase in question (line 17) is prepov n tw" peri; th; n sumbiv w sin aj n astrafeivsh/ (“who has conducted herself becomingly in our married life”), which Judge and Pickering correctly characterize as “not a direct New Testament echo,” but nonetheless refer to it as “an idea familiar to its readers” (p. 65); Bagnall appropriately labels this argument for designating Hermogenes as Christian “less compelling” (p. 139 n. 16). Hermogenes’ wife, Isidora, was also called Prisca (lines 16, 21), though Judge and Pickering’s comment, “the name of a prominent collaborator of St Paul” (p. 65) is doubtless gratuitous. Current intertextuality views would broaden the search for “sources.” 91 Harris adopts the latter view—evidence that literacy was the exception even among affluent women (Ancient Literacy, 280). On literacy of women in Roman Egypt, see Susan G. Cole, “Could Greek Women Read and Write?” in Reflections of Women in Antiquity (ed. H. P. Foley; New York: Gordon & Breach, 1981), 233–38 and notes. Bagnall notes that “men of the bouleutic class were expected to be able to read and write,” as an edict seems to suggest (PSI 6.716, from Oxyrhynchus, ca. 306), and that most women of this class “could do little but sign their names”

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Equally difficult to determine is whether the letter about lending books implies that women held positions of leadership in the early churches at Oxyrhynchus, and if so, exactly what they might have been. One approach— though it might not apply directly or necessarily to churches—would be to assess the extent to which women in Oxyrhynchus acted without guardians, that is, were entitled to act independently of a male, for whom the standard term was kuvrio", or to ask what proportion of women (especially around the midthird century and later) claimed the ius liberorum, that is, an exemption from guardianship “by the right of children.”92 An instructive instance is P.Oxy. 1467, dated 263, in which Aurelia Thaïsous petitions for this status by appealing to laws: . . . which enable women who are honoured with the right of three children to be independent and act without a guardian in all business which they transact, especially those women who know how to write. Accordingly I too, fortunately possessing the honour of being blessed with children, and a writer who am able to write with the greatest ease, in the fulness of my security appeal to your highness by this my application with the object of being enabled to carry out without hindrance all business which I henceforth transact. . . .

Indeed, one of her subsequent, independent transactions survives, a sale of land (P.Oxy. 1475, dated 267). As Sarah Pomeroy points out, however, “illiteracy was not burdensome, since unless a woman enjoyed the ius iii liberorum . . . she was always accompanied by a kyrios,”93 so that “literacy had no effect upon legal capacity.”94 Yet, for those granted the ius liberorum, “only literacy enables women to make legally

(Egypt in Late Antiquity, 246–47; see also 230–60 on literacy in urban and rural areas, and in the church, esp. from the fourth century on). 92 See Antti Arjava, “The Guardianship of Women in Roman Egypt,” in Akten des 21. internationalen Papyrologenkongresses, Berlin, 13.–19.8.1995 (ed. B. Kramer et al.; 2 vols.; APF Beiheft 3; Stuttgart/Leipzig: Teubner, 1997), 1:25–30, esp. 25–27. Under the ius liberorum, decreed by Augustus, “all freeborn women who had borne three living children should be free from guardianship (freed-women needed four births after their manumission)” (p. 27). Many helpful details of Arjava’s discussion cannot be treated here. For a detailed treatment in the papyri, see Joëlle Beaucamp, Le statut de la femme à Byzance (4e–7e siècle) (2 vols.; Travaux et mémoires 5–6; Paris: de Boccard, 1990, 1992), 193–267; on the formula, 198–202 [though P.Oxy. 1467 is not mentioned]; see also R. S. Bagnall’s affirmative review: “Women, Law, and Social Realities in Late Antiquity: A Review Article,” BASP 32 (1995): 75–77; reprinted in his Later Roman Egypt, no. II; also Herbert C. Youtie, “AGRAMMATOS: An Aspect of Greek Society in Egypt,” HSCP 75 (1971): 166–68. See also Sarah B. Pomeroy, “Women in Roman Egypt: A Preliminary Study Based on Papyri,” in Reflections of Women in Antiquity, ed. Foley, 308–9, 313, 315–17. See P.Oxy. 2777, lines 10–11 (A.D. 212). 93 Pomeroy, “Women in Roman Egypt,” 313. 94 Ibid., 315.

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binding commitments without the assistance of men.”95 Hence, independence empowered women in Roman Egypt, and the more so for literate independent women. Jennifer Sheridan has brought up to date previous compilations of women functioning independently, showing that during the first six centuries (in data on papyri from at least fifteen cities) 123 women acted without guardians, and thirty-six of these (or 29 percent) were in Oxyrhynchus.96 If one restricts the data to our period of interest—through the fourth century—thirty-five out of 110 (or 32 percent) were in Oxyrhynchus. Sheridan’s main point, however, was that one-third of the third- and fourth-century women in the list (wherever status can be determined) were of the bouleutic class or otherwise wealthy and therefore more likely to act without a guardian.97 Using her data, out of twentytwo Oxyrhynchite women whose socioeconomic status can be determined, ten (or 46 percent) were of the wealthy class. Naturally, such statistics can be only suggestive at best owing to randomness in the survival of papyri; and of course the numbers are extremely small, yet the resultant broad strokes are of interest, pointing, for example, to the plausibility that Oxyrhynchus contained a fair number of literate women and women who could act independently, thereby raising the possibility that Christian women in these classes might have assumed leadership positions in the churches. To spin a slightly larger web of speculation, perhaps the literate Christian women identified earlier, whether with guardians or without, might have become leaders in their churches—but most likely the two who exchanged “biblical” books—though there is no direct evidence.98 95 Ibid., 316; see Herbert C. Youtie, “UPOGRAFEUS: The Social Impact of Illiteracy in Graeco-Roman Egypt,” ZPE 17 (1975): 221 n. 62. 96 Jennifer A. Sheridan, “Women without Guardians: An Updated List,” BASP 33 (1996): 117–25. She noted (p. 118 n. 4) that only seven women listed are definitely literate, and—perhaps surprisingly—only one was from Oxyrhynchus, Aurelia Thaïsous, mentioned above. Extensive lists of women with or without guardians are provided by Edgar Kutzner, Untersuchungen zur Stellung der Frau im römischen Oxyrhynchos (Europäische Hochschulschriften III/392; Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1989), 79–99; for women without guardians, see 90–97. See further Tina Saavedra, “Women as Property-Owners in Roman Spain and Roman Egypt: Some Points of Comparison,” in Le rôle et le statut de la femme en Égypte hellénistique, romaine et byzantine: Acts de colloque international, Bruxelles-Leuven 27–29 novembre 1997 (ed. H. Melaerts and L. Mooren; Leuven: Peeters, 2002), 302–3, 310–11. In the first to third centuries in papyri from Socnopaiou Nesos, women were “principals in about half of the 32 documents recording house ownership”; owners of about one-third of the village real estate attested, almost two-thirds of the slaves, and one-fifth of the camels (pp. 309–10). 97 Sheridan, “Women without Guardians,” 126–31. The percentages are based on her data. 98 The evidence for women in leadership positions who were not literate must also be recognized: e.g., even in 600, Maura, the (presumably Christian) female steward of an Oxyrhynchus hospital, was illiterate (P.Oxy. 4131).

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We have elicited from our six-line letter much information about identifying Christian letters, the use of Jewish writings, the issue of canon, and women’s literacy and leadership—all significant facets of the Oxyrhynchus environment for our NT papyri there. The likely identity of authorship between this Christian letter and the secular petition on the other side begs for discussion of how Christians interacted with their economic and political context of Roman Egypt, but this would carry us beyond the scope of the present paper. When we pause again to ask what position our group of “New Testament” papyri held in the situations described, silence reigns. We have no information about any role they might have played or any honor they enjoyed, but their impact is likely to be more evident in documents relevant to church and piety, and perhaps also in personal letters. The Role of “New Testament” Papyri in Christian Worship in Oxyrhynchus The extent to which our NT (and other Christian) texts were utilized by or had direct influence on worship and theology might best be discerned, at least to our way of thinking, by examining the remnants of hymns, prayers, sermons, and theological treatises in Oxyrhynchus into the late fourth century. Our core sample turns up no early examples—which appear not to exist—but several items stem from the third and fourth centuries, and naturally they increase as one moves beyond our period into the fifth and sixth centuries. That progression of church-related materials parallels the increase in known churches from two sometime after the year 295 (P.Oxy. 43),99 to fifteen in the fifth century (P.Oxy. 4617, 5th c.),100 to forty or more by 535,101 in a city that by Roman times had perhaps 20,000 residents, more or less.102

99 P.Oxy. 43 is a list of Oxyrhynchite watchmen on the verso of an account dated 295 C.E., recording streets and public buildings, including a north church (col. 1, line 10) and a south church (col. 3, line 19), with streets named after each ejkklhsiva. Bagnall reminds us that the date of the watchmen’s list could be closely after 295 or much later (Egypt in Late Antiquity, 53, 280 n. 118). 100 See G. Schmelz, P.Oxy. LXVII, pp. 241–45; P.Oxy. 4618 (6th c.) lists fifteen also, but not all are the same as in 4617; 4619 (early 6th c.), a fragment, names six: see N. Gonis, P.Oxy. LXVII, pp. 245–50. Rufinus reported twelve early in the fifth century: see P.Oxy. XI, p. 26. 101 P.Oxy. XI, p. 26. 102 Estimates are difficult; Itzhak F. Fichman [elsewhere Fikhman] suggests, on extensive relevant evidence, 15,000 to 25,000 (“Die Bevölkerungszahl von Oxyrhynchos in byzantinischer Zeit,” APF 21 [1971]: 111–20, esp. 120); cf. Julian Krüger, Oxyrhynchos in der Kaiserzeit: Studien zur Topographie und Literaturrezeption (Europäische Hochschulschriften III/441; Frankfurt am Main/New York: Peter Lang, 1990), 8 (about 30,000). Very recently Dirk Obbink speaks of “perhaps 20,000 inhabitants of the Greek-speaking settler class, Egyptian Greeks, and their later Roman counterparts” (“Imaging Oxyrhynchus,” Egyptian Archaeology 22 [Spring 2003]: 3).

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A Hymn to the Trinity. A hymn with musical notation (P.Oxy. 1786) was found on the verso of a corn account dated in the first half of the third century, placing the hymn later in that century. Undoubtedly it remains “the most ancient piece of Church music extant.”103 Portions of the last five lines survive, written on a narrow strip of papyrus about two by twelve inches, with corresponding vocal notes above each line.104 What remains of the text calls upon the light-giving stars to be silent and the rushing rivers to sing praises with all power to Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen, Amen, and for dominion and praise to the giver of all good things, Amen, Amen.105 To be sure, the whole hymn is not extant, though nothing here could come from our NT papyri, except the reference to the Trinity. This, however, is not likely to be a direct citation of Matt 28:19, for there is no similarity of context in the two passages. Rather, the hymn’s Trinity undoubtedly was drawn from church liturgy. Prayers. Our core sample next contains P.Oxy. 4010, a single sheet from the fourth century containing the Pater Noster with a preliminary prayer. The ends of all lines are missing, but a few readable phrases remain from the prefatory prayer: “Have mercy . . . Master of all [something] . . . and God of all consolation, . . . and have mercy and lead . . . . Make us worthy [of something]. . . .”106 “Consolation” and “to console” occur a remarkable ten times in 2 Cor 1:3–7, including the uncommon phrase, “God of all consolation,” so—with all our caveats in mind—perhaps we have our first match with the NT,107 especially in view of God’s “mercy” in both immediate contexts and the fact that, as

103

P.Oxy. XV, p. 21. P.Oxy. XV, pp. 21–25 + pl. I; see Charles Wessely, ed., Les plus anciens monuments du Christianisme écrits sur papyrus (PO IV.2; Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1907), 506–7. For a critique of earlier reconstructions of the musical structure and other technical issues, see E. J. Wellesz, “The Earliest Example of Christian Hymnody,” CQ 39 (1945): 34–45, esp. 41–43; and A. W. J. Holleman, “The Oxyrhynchus Papyrus 1786 and the Relationship between Ancient Greek and Early Christian Music,” VC 26 (1972): 1–17. The music, with choral rendition, is available on a CD: Musique de la grèce antique (Atrium musicae de Madrid, Gregorio Paniaqua; Germany: Harmonia mundi [HMA 1951015, HM 31], 1979, 2000); it contains also P.Oxy 2436 (1st/2nd c.) and other music from papyri. 105 Cf. P.Oxy. XV, p. 22. Apparently the only other hymn from Oxyrhynchus is 4011 (6th c.), mostly derived from Ps 75; see pl. IV in P.Oxy. LX. On other papyri with musical notation, see William A. Johnson, “Musical Evenings in the Early Empire: New Evidence from a Greek Papyrus with Musical Notation,” JHS 120 (2000): 57–85, esp. 57–59. 106 Alan H. Cadwallader restores line 11, just before the Lord’s Prayer, to read: kataxivwson hv/ma'" e[u[cesqai], “Make us worthy to pray” (“An Embolism in the Lord’s Prayer?” New Testament Textual Research Update 4 [1996]: 86). 107 P.Oxy. LX, p. 6; so also Stuart R. Pickering, “A New Papyrus Text of the Lord’s Prayer,” New Testament Textual Research Update 2 (1994): 111. 104

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the editors of the papyrus propose, “father of mercies” would fit in the lacuna before “and God of all consolation”—as in 2 Cor 1:3, though our prayer has no further citation of that passage. The Lord’s Prayer follows immediately in the Matthean form (6:9–13) rather than the Lucan (11:2–4), and there is no added doxology present.108 However, after “. . . but rescue us from the evil one,” a second “rescue us” occurs just as the text breaks off. K. Treu, the editor, attributed this to the carelessness of the scribe, but Alan H. Cadwallader proposed that the repetition was deliberate—in the pattern of “numerous liturgies” that follow “rescue us” with various expansions or embolisms, such as that in St. Mark’s Liturgy: “Rescue us from all his works.”109 Embolism is most frequently used for such additional requests for deliverance, and they are inserted just at this point—before the doxology. The further implications for Cadwallader, therefore, are, first, that a doxology followed on a next page of P.Oxy. 4010, which for him is a roll rather than a single sheet—though this cannot be demonstrated from the surviving portion—and, second, that 4010 is a liturgical text, for which he makes a substantial case.110 Whether or not we concede that a doxology was present in 4010, it is well known that the doxology is a later accretion in the text of Matt 6:13, owing to liturgical influence.111 Oxyrhynchus has yielded fifteen manuscripts containing Matthew, but only one has the Lord’s Prayer, and it stems from around 500 C.E. (P.Oxy. 1169, 5th/6th c.),112 yet, even at that late date, no doxology is present. Initially this might favor a claim that our independent Pater Noster (4010)— which shows little if any direct evidence of a doxology—was derived from a Matthean manuscript, but the availability of the passage in only one out of fifteen manuscripts is insufficient evidence that the doxology was absent generally from Matthean manuscripts at Oxyrhynchus. More instructive, our text is one of some thirteen instances of the Lord’s Prayer circulating independent of any Matthean or Lucan context, either as an 108 Unless its text carried over into another column, something not ruled out by the editor, K. Treu (see P.Oxy. LX, pp. 5, 7, and pl. III). Hence, Cadwallader proposed that this papyrus was part of a roll, noting the possibility that remains of a letter of a prior column are visible, and also that extant Christian liturgical texts were often on rolls (“An Embolism in the Lord’s Prayer?” 83–84). 109 Ibid., 85. 110 See his further evidence, ibid., 83–86. “Designed for public recitation” (Pickering, “New Papyrus Text of the Lord’s Prayer,” 112). 111 On the text and liturgical influence, see Bruce M. Metzger [for the Editorial Committee], A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament (2nd ed.; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft/United Bible Societies, 1994), 13–14; Hans Dieter Betz, The Sermon on the Mount (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 414–15. 112 New Testament majuscule 0170; the others are P1, P19, P21, P35, P70, P71, P77, P101, P102, P103, P104, P105, P110 + 24, 071. Papyri of Luke from Oxyrhynchus (P69, P111) do not have 11:2–4.

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independent unit or as one member of a compilation of separate biblical citations, using, for example, the first verse of one or more Gospels, or a verse or more of a Psalm, and so on. Of the five earliest survivors of these out-of-context Lord’s Prayers (up to around 400),113 only the three from Oxyrhynchus have sufficient text to decide whether or not they contained doxologies. Two of them do, while our subject, 4010, appears not to have contained one, though four of the seven later examples have the doxology.114 Normally, the presence of doxologies would indicate, I think, that these Lord’s Prayers were drawn from church liturgy rather than from Gospel texts, and more so in view of their independent circulation. In addition, virtually all of the manuscripts of this type were written on one side only and were either amulets or were used for magical purposes, indicating that these independent Lord’s Prayers had developed into a separate tradition of their own as charms or for magical use. This is confirmed by the repeated use of several accompanying texts, especially Matt 1:1; Mark 1:1; Luke 1:1; John 1:1 (along with Ps 91:1 [LXX Ps. 90:1]). Of course, these NT texts ultimately derive from NT manuscripts, but soon they, like the Lord’s Prayer, became standard elements in a fixed genre.115 Yet P.Oxy. 4010 is likely too large to have been an amulet and evidences no folding; nonetheless, the verso is blank, and the double prayer appears either to have occupied all of a single sheet with wide margins116 or possibly to have been part of a scroll. In either event, it most likely is a liturgical text, and, especially in view of its fourth-century date, was likely drawn from liturgical tradition, with the numerous papyri of Matthew at Oxyrhynchus playing no direct role. Incidentally, Christian amulets and other manuscripts that contain short passages of our NT present a peculiar problem: those, for example, that quote 113 They are P.Ant. II.54 (miniature codex, 3rd c.); P.Princ. 2.107 (4th/5th c.); P.Oslo inv. 1644 (late 4th c., Oxyrhynchus); PSI 6.719 (4th/5th c., probably Oxyrhynchus); and P.Oxy. 4010. A clay tablet, inscribed with the Lord’s Prayer and then fired (O.Athens inv. 12227 = van Haelst 348, 4th c.), has no doxology, nor is it a true ostracon: see A. Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East: The New Testament Illustrated by Recently Discovered Texts of the Graeco-Roman World (New York: Harper, 1927), 56 n. 3. See the helpful survey of these texts by G. H. R. Horsley, NewDocs 3 (1978): 103–5 (where he also discusses an inscription containing a line from the Prayer). His inclusion of P.Oxy. 407, which has only a doxology and no (other) remnant of the Lord’s Prayer, is probably unwarranted. 114 See G. H. R. Horsley, NewDocs 3 (1978): 104–5. 115 On the use of the Lord’s Prayer in magic, with additional examples, see Leiv Amundsen, “Christian Papyri from the Oslo Collection,” SO 24 (1945): 143–44. I was pleased to discover that he had already espoused the view I formulated on the use of the Prayer “for magical purposes, alone or with other texts” (p. 142), followed by a reference to “a strong tradition that manifests itself also in the fixed group of texts with which the Lord’s Prayer is coupled” (p. 143). Cf. his comments on the similar but even more popular use of Ps 91 (90 LXX), with thirty examples (pp. 144–47). 116 P.Oxy. LX, p. 5 and pl. III.

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the first verse of each Gospel, such as PSI 6.719 (4th/5th c.), or the many that circulated the Lord’s Prayer separately are said to pick up their citations from church liturgy (and rightly so), although P.Oxy. 209 (early 4th c.), with Rom 1:1–7 in a similar continuous text form, is placed among the NT papyri as P10.117 This papyrus was at first taken to be a school exercise, though Adolf Deissmann later argued that it was an amulet, because of its obvious folds.118 Placing it among the official NT papyri seemed justified, of course, for, as a school exercise it undoubtedly would have been copied from a manuscript containing Romans. Yet, if it had not been placed among our forty-seven Oxyrhynchus NT papyri, it would have been treated as an amulet made for religious or magical purposes or as a product of education at Oxyrhynchus that—in either case—showed the utilization of our [other] NT texts present in the city. So, we get caught in a circular argument when attempting to find cases where our NT text was employed in Christian practice. Other prayers within our period are not common. A short, intriguing one reads simply, “O God (q—"—) of the crosses that are laid upon us, help your servant Apphouas. Amen” (P.Oxy. 1058, 4th or 5th c.): God, who is responsible for the burdens, is asked to relieve them. Another, an amulet (P.Oxy. 407, 3rd/4th c.), quotes a phrase from LXX Ps 145:6, followed by a prayer for mercy and salvation “through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,” with a concluding doxology,119 and one of the few pre–fifth-century Christian charms that survive (P.Oxy. 924, 4th c.) aims to ward off fever for a woman named Apia. There is no close reflection of NT texts in these or in later extant Oxyrhynchus prayers.120 117 See P.Oxy. II, p. 8 and pl. II. Aland and Aland doubt the validity of placing these among the NT papyri (Text of the New Testament, 85). 118 Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East, 239–40 and n. 1+ fig. 46. The folds are more visible here than in P.Oxy. II, pl. II. 119 There are no nomina sacra. The doxology contains only “the glory and the power,” a form appropriate to Egypt (Giuseppe Ghedini, “Frammenti liturgici in un papiro milanese,” Aeg 13 [1933]: 672–73). 120 Later prayers, oracular prayers, charms, often amulets, from Oxyrhynchus, with no citations of NT texts, but with nomina sacra include P.Oxy. 1059 (5th c.); 925 (5th or 6th c.); or without nomina sacra, 1060 (6th c.); 1150 (6th c.; van Haelst, no. 957, says 4th c.) to ward off reptiles; 1152 (5th or 6th c.); 1926 (6th c.); P.Amst. Inv. 173 (probably Oxyrhynchus, 4th/5th c.) (see P. J. Sijpesteijn, “Ein christliches Amulett aus der Amsterdamer Papyrussammlung,” ZPE 5 [1970]: 57–59 + pl.); with mixed nomina sacra, P.Harr. I.54 (Oxyrhynchus, 6th c.); or without divine names, P.Oxy. 2063 (6th c., van Haelst, no. 965). Amulets or charms that contain a freestanding, continuous-text, out-of-context portion of the NT are a separate issue: some are treated as NT papyri: P.Oxy. 209 (early 4th c.) = P10, with Rom 1:1–7; 2684 (3rd/4th c.) = P78, preserving portions of Jude; and P50 (3rd, 4th, 5th c., provenance unknown) containing portions of Acts 8–10. Others with portions of NT text are P.Oxy. 1151 (5th c.), with John 1:1–3 (nomina sacra); P.Osl. Inv. 1644 (perhaps Oxyrhynchus, end 4th c.) (van Haelst, no. 345), with the Lord’s Prayer (nomina sacra) (edition by Amundsen, “Christian Papyri from the Oslo Collection, 141–47); PSI

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Local homilies and theological treatises. Oxyrhynchus has yielded copies of well-known theological writings made in the second, third, and fourth centuries, including the Apology of Aristides (P.Oxy. 1778, 4th c.), the Didache (P.Oxy. 1782, late 4th c.), Against Heresies, by Irenaeus (P.Oxy. 405, 2nd/3rd c.),121 the Passion of Dioscurus (P.Oxy. 3529, 4th c.), a homily perhaps by Origen (P.Oxy. 1601, late 4th or 5th c.),122 and possibly On Prophecy by Melito of Sardis (P.Oxy. 5, 3rd/4th c.).123 These, however, are not relevant, for we wish to assess local treatises that might inform us of the use of our NT texts or their influence on worship and faith in Oxyrhynchus. Relevant materials are scarce indeed, though our probe brings forth one highly certain candidate, and possibly two others through the fourth century.124 First, P.Oxy 2070 from the late third century meets and exceeds our primary criterion—it is virtually without doubt a local document, and, in addition, is the autograph itself: This is suggested by the frequent alterations which have been made in the text, apparently by the original hand, and are difficult to explain except on the hypothesis that we here have a fragment of the author’s own manuscript.125

6.719 (perhaps Oxyrhynchus, 4th/5th c.) [van Haelst, no. 423], with the first verse of John, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and LXX Ps 90, plus John 1:23 and Matt 6:9 with doxology. P.Oxy. 1928 (5th/6th c.), a Christian amulet, contains LXX Ps 90 replete with nomina sacra and concluding with mention of John, Luke, Mark, and Matthew. 121 Initially unidentified in P.Oxy. III, p. 10, but soon shown to be from Irenaeus by J. Armitage Robinson (see P.Oxy. IV, pp. 264–65, with revised text). See Andreas Schmidt, “Der mögliche Text von P. Oxy. III 405, Z. 39-45,” NTS 37 (1991): 160. 122 Unidentified in P.Oxy. XIII, pp. 21–23; see van Haelst, no. 692, p. 249, who stated that R. Reitzenstein attributed it to Origen. P.Oxy. 406 has also been attributed to Origen according to Roberts (Manuscript, Society, and Belief, 24 and n. 8), crediting Giovanni Ausenda, “Contributo allo studio dell’omiletica cristiana nei papiri greci dell’Egitto,” Aeg 20 (1940): 46, for the identification, though Ausenda’s evidence is not apparent to me. 123 Unidentified in P.Oxy. I, pp. 8–9; see van Haelst, no. 682, who reported that A. Harnack suggested that the fragment was from Melito. Two later fragments are possibly from works by Melito: P.Oxy. 1600 (end of 4th or 5th c.), unidentified there, but see van Haelst, no. 679, who reports that C. Bonner identified it as Homily on the Passion; and P.Oxy. 2074 (5th c.), again unidentified; see van Haelst, no. 680: possibly Melito’s On Truth. 124 As to other possible “local” treatises, P.Oxy. 4 (early 4th c., nomen sacrum) may be “from the school of Valentinus” (van Haelst, no. 1070, pp. 332–33); P.Oxy. 406 (3rd c.) is a Christian text (as indicated by nomina sacra, including C—"— and a contraction for the preceding “crucified”) that quotes LXX Isa 6:10, though in a form found in Matt 13:15 and Acts 28:27 that differs from the LXX. Beyond this, there is insufficient text to speculate on its nature. P.Oxy. 210 is a narrative and very likely from an apocryphal Gospel: see n. 40 above. 125 P.Oxy. XVII, p. 9. Roberts ventures that the presence of this dialogue in autograph form suggests that “Oxyrhynchus in the third century may have been something of a Christian intellectual centre” (Manuscript, Society, and Belief, 24 n. 5).

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That it is a Christian document is clear from the name “Jesus” (line 10), written in the usual abbreviated fashion (I—h—). Portions of eighty-eight lines survive of this seriously deteriorated papyrus roll, though only some fifty lines contain one or more complete words, permitting almost nothing beyond its general character to be discerned. Even that is possible only because citations from two Psalms and Isaiah can be restored.126 Their identification, in turn, clinches the nature of this treatise, for these very passages from the Jewish Scripture occur, for instance, in Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho the Jew, in either anti-Jewish contexts or as proof-texts for the messiahship of Jesus.127 In col. 1 of our document, for example, Ps 18:43–44 (LXX Ps 17:44–45) is cited: “People whom I had not known served me; as soon as they heard of me they obeyed me” (lines 5–7). We may reasonably surmise that this is used somewhat as it was in Justin, Dial. 28, where explicitly Gentiles were shown to be receptive to Christ when (in Justin’s view) Israel should have been. Following this citation, our document speaks “concerning Jesus” and that “many more . . . believed his word” (lines 10–12). Shortly thereafter—continuing the argument—Isa 29:13 is cited, stating that the people of Israel “honor me with their lips, while their hearts are far from me” (lines 24–27), again undoubtedly utilized as it was in Dial. 27 and 78, that is, specifically to stress that Gentiles are the recipients of God’s grace instead of a hardhearted Israel. Later, col. 2 of our document quotes Ps 22:15–22 (LXX Ps 21:16–23), though no context has been preserved, but once again we may presume that it was employed as in Dial. 98, in which Justin quoted the entire Psalm not only as predictive of Jesus’ sufferings but (as Justin explicitly affirmed) as a disclosure of “who they are that rise up against him.” This makes for some nasty assertions when we get to the Psalm portion that survived in the Oxyrhynchus fragment: “You lay me in the dust of death. For dogs are all around me: a company of evildoers encircles me. . . . They divide my clothes among themselves. . . . Deliver my soul from the sword, my life from the power of the dog!” (lines 46–59). Minor details in our document confirm that it is both a dialogue and antiJewish: twice it reports, “then he said” (line 4) and “he said to him” (line 18), undoubtedly the Christian interlocutor, and once, using an abbreviation for a 126 Lines 5–7, 19–22 = Ps 18:43–45 (LXX Ps 17:44–46) = 2 Sam 22:44–46; lines 46–59 = Ps 22:15–22 (LXX Ps 21:16–23); lines 24–27 = Isa 29:13. 127 P.Oxy. XVII, p. 9: the Oxyrhynchus treatise is not from Justin, since it does not match and is an autograph. Isaiah 29:13–14 occurs in Justin, Dial. 27 and 78, in the context of prophecies being fulfilled in Christ and of the unfaithfulness of Israel; Ps 18:43–44 (LXX Ps 17:44–45) = 2 Sam 22:44–45 occurs in Dial. 28 in contexts of the rejection of Israel and their replacement by Gentiles; and Ps 22:15–22 (LXX Ps 21:16–23) is found in Dial. 98 not only as a prophecy of Christ’s suffering, but showing his opponents.

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personal name or descriptive term, kai; oJ f— ei\pe occurs, with a horizontal superscript line over f (line 30), plausibly standing for “and the Pharisee said,” an interpretation the more likely because this character speaks just after the antiJewish use of Isa 29:13,128 though we cannot tell what he said. So, we have the unpleasant presence in Oxyrhynchus of an anti-Jewish dialogue, clearly in the polemical tradition of Justin.129 On the basis of this papyrus, it would be rash, of course, to assert that Christian polemic in Oxyrhynchus relied only on Jewish Scripture and not on NT texts, for only a small portion of the dialogue has survived. Yet, as we shall see, Jewish Scripture (i.e., the LXX) appears to take the lead time and again. Two other possibly local treatises are still less forthcoming about their exact nature. The first, P.Oxy. 2073 (late fourth century), however, may yield its secret in the same manner as P.Oxy. 2070 above, that is, by the reconstruction of two clear citations from the Wisdom of Solomon and the Wisdom of Jesus Son of Sirach.130 Though only a sentence of each was taken over, Wis 11:19, whose immediate context spoke of wild beasts, including specifically “bold lions,” is quoted: “Not only could the harm they did destroy people, but the mere sight of them could kill by fright” (lines 11–12). Then our document immediately cites Sir 25:16, “I would rather live with a lion and a dragon than live with an evil woman” (lines 14–15). This contextual sequence, the first citation introducing the second, is strong confirmation that our papyrus—surely in part and perhaps in whole—was a diatribe or homily against women. Little else left can be pieced together meaningfully, though the sentence following the two citations includes “. . . the righteous and mighty God. . .”— with qeov" written as q—"—, the usual nomen sacrum and a strong signal for a Christian document. Is it more than coincidence that this “evil woman” quotation (Sir 25:16) occurs also at the outset of a brief Ps.-Chrysostom treatise (PG 59:486–87)131 and that a portion of it—beginning just two dozen lines farther down—turned up at Oxyrhynchus (P.Oxy. 1603, roll, 5th or 6th c.), namely, a twenty-one line catalogue of evil deeds by women in Hebrew Scripture and in the John the Baptist episode, concluding with “A wicked woman is the worst of all [ills] . . . and if she also has wealth as her ally in wickedness, the evil is double” (lines 17–20)?132 128

P.Oxy, XVII, p. 9. Ibid. 130 P.Oxy. XVII, pp. 16-17. 131 In decollationem præcursoris et Baptistæ Joannis. In PG 59:487, Sir 25:16 is quoted in lines 38–40; the P.Oxy. 1603 portion on p. 487, lines 56–70. P.Oxy. 1603 was unidentified by the editors, but soon was shown to be from Ps.-Chrysostom (cf. van Haelst, no. 634). It is reminiscent in form of the litany of faith heroes in Heb 11, though the papyrus refers to evil women. 132 P.Oxy. XIII, pp. 25–26. 129

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Once again, our fourth-century diatribe (P.Oxy. 2073) made its case on the basis of Septuagint writings and not using the NT—although, of course, this must remain partly (and perhaps largely) an argument from silence, since the entire document has not survived. Though beyond our period, it is striking that four other theological treatises or homilies from Oxyrhynchus employ, in their fairly extensive surviving portions, themes from the Jewish Bible and—even in the fifth and sixth centuries—with only an occasional reminiscence of NT events or language.133 So, our early local treatises have revealed an anti-Jewish dialogue and a diatribe against women. Was there anything positive in Christian exhortation at Oxyrhynchus? P.Oxy. 2072 (late third century) in its sparse remains (thirty-two lines, all broken off on both sides, with indeterminate line lengths) appears to have dealt with two issues, a community matter and one more theological, though what the preceding fifty or more pages held is unknown.134 The recto uses words such as “opinion,” “truth,” and “brother,” but no reconstruction seems possible; then follows a statement about having “both good things and bad things in common” (lines 11–13). The editor’s notes refer to Acts 2:44 and 4:32, and he avers that “the recto apparently commends the communistic society of [Christ’s] followers,”135 but the only significant word the papyrus shares with the Acts passages is koinav (line 13), precluding, I think, any clear decision about a communal life, and perhaps speaking only of “sharing both the good and bad,” in some fashion. The verso in lines 21–26 refers to something that happened “absolutely,” though it was “not he himself but . . . Jesus Christ, who was appointed” to do something “to/for Israel and to/for all . . . those who believe,” accomplishing something through/of “him to/with God.” This was reconstructed by the editor, accommodating the likely length of lines, as “[God saved us] absolutely . . . not he himself, but [his son] Jesus Christ, who was set apart [in glory and who became a savior] to Israel and to all [the Gentiles] who believe [and who have been reconciled] through? him to God,”136 though the reconstructed portion exceeds the surviving text and the result must be considered tentative, since there is no obvious intertext. Finally, 133 P.Oxy. 1600 (5th c., 58 lines) refers to Abel, Joseph, Moses, and cites Ps 2:1, etc. 1601 (late 4th/5th c., 34 lines) cites and interprets Joel 1:6, speaks of “our battle/wrestling is spiritual” (a possible but not necessary allusion to Eph 6:12), and quite clearly alludes to 1 Pet 5:8: the devil as a lion seeking to devour. In 1602 (late 4th/5th c., 40 lines) events of Israelite history lead to Christ Jesus; 1603 (5th or 6th c., 21 lines), as noted above, lists evil deeds by women in the Bible, including the beheading of John the Baptist. 134 P.Oxy. XVII, p. 15. Pagination indicates the presence of lost preceding pages. Van Haelst’s characterization of P.Oxy. 2072 (no. 1156, p. 351) as “a question of the parousia” is puzzling. 135 Ibid. 136 P.Oxy. XVII, p. 16, where the proposed Greek text is provided.

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there is a second reference to “Christ” (line 28).137 Two points stand out: the nature of this treatise is likely beyond reach, and nothing here reflects direct influence from NT texts.138 The Role of “New Testament” Papyri in Everyday Christian Life in Oxyrhynchus Our penultimate core sample runs through the rich stratum of private letters to explore everyday Christian life in Oxyrhynchus, yielding some two dozen clearly or likely Christian letters from the late third century and the fourth that are relevant to our assessment. First, a NT papyrus, P10 (P.Oxy. 209, mentioned above), containing Rom 1:1–7 and written in the early fourth century, was “found tied up with a contract dated 316 A.D. and other documents of the same period.”139 Written “in a large rude uncial,” the Romans papyrus was likely a school pupil’s exercise,140 or, recognizing its folds, an amulet.141 Either way, this manuscript’s juxtaposition with a business document and others of an ordinary nature opens the issue of how our “New Testament” papyri were related to the everyday life of Christians in Oxyrhynchus. The most obvious path of exploration is to examine private letters and official records. Private letters. Private letters are numerous from Oxyrhynchus, and those that may be Christian include family correspondence, business matters, letters of recommendation and condolence, and others, such as the one about lending books. Letters from the early third century are rare, so we must be content with those dating in the later third and in the fourth centuries. A number of Christian letters, such as P.Oxy. 4127 (1st half of 4th c.), after a quick Christian greeting and the customary wish for good health (though here “in soul and body”), move directly to business: “Ptolemaeus to Thonius, his beloved brother, greetings in the Lord (k—w/—). Before all things I pray that you be in good health in soul and body” (lines 1–10), but then speaks immediately of linen yarn, “a pair of girl’s full-sized shoes made of hair,” and (perhaps) a garment. That is the full burden of the letter.142

137

“Christ” (lines 23, 28), “God” (line 26), and “Israel” (line 24) occur as nomina sacra. Even less can be said about the nature of P.Oxy. 2068 (4th c.), which has common nomina sacra (lines 18, 33, 43), but also b—"— (lines 7, 14), possibly for basileuv". Whether a liturgical piece or homily, it has “several allusions to, or reminiscences of, the Greek of the Old Testament” (P.Oxy. XVII, pp. 5–6). 139 P.Oxy. II, p. 8. 140 Ibid. See pl. II. 141 See n. 118, above. 142 Similar, e.g., are P.Oxy. 1774 (early 4th c.); 2729 (4th c.); 2731 (4th/5th c.); cf. 2156 (late 4th/5th c.). 138

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Letters of introduction or recommendation might be expected to show more extensive use of our NT papyri, though quickly we discover that they follow regular patterns143 that largely exclude the use of alternate or creative phraseology. Among several surviving Christian examples, P.Oxy 3857 (4th c.) is typical: the opening, which is lacking, would have given the sender’s name and doubtless, “Greetings in the Lord,”144 as in the majority of such Christian letters: . . . to my beloved brothers and fellow ministers in every locality. Receive in peace our daughter Germania, who is coming to you, because she needs your help. Through her I and those with me greet you and those with you. Emmanuel. Amen. I pray for your health in the Lord, beloved brothers.145

Other Christian letters from Oxyrhynchus request that the one introduced be received “according to custom” (PSI 3.208, 4th c.), or “as is proper” (PSI 9.1041, 3rd/4th c.),146 and two refer to catechumens, one being instructed “in the beginning of the gospel” (PSI 9.1401, line 11) and another “in Genesis” (P.Oxy. 2785, line 8, 4th c.). New Testament language may be reflected in P.Oxy. 2603 (4th c.), where the writer, Paul, when referring to the “acquaintances” he introduces, says, “if you do anything for them, you have done it for me” (lines 28–29), reminiscent of Matt 25:40: “. . . just as you did it to one of the least of these. . . , you did it to me,” though the allusion, while possible, lies “more in the realms of conjecture,”147 because some earlier non-Christian 143 M. G. Sirivianou, P.Oxy. LVI, p.111; cf. Chan-Hie Kim, Form and Structure of the Familiar Greek Letter of Recommendation (SBLDS 4; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature, 1972), passim, though Kim argues that the Christian letters available to him followed the general pattern only in the opening and closing, and not in the body (p. 117). 144 It is said that caivrein is omitted in contrast to all other letters of recommendation (P.Oxy. LVI, p. 114; cf. 112–15; see S. R. Llewelyn, NewDocs 8 [1984–85]: 170–71), but the first line has only remote traces. 145 Nomina sacra in line 15: k—w—, and line 13: e—m—l— (!Emmanouhvl), followed by f—q— [see n. 57 above]. 146 “Receive in peace”: P.Oxy. 1162 (4th c.), 2785 (4th c.), P.Alex. 29 (3rd c.); P.Berol. 8508 (APF 28, p. 54; 3rd/4th c.); “Receive in accordance with custom”: SB III.7269 (4th/5th c.); SB X.10255 (3rd/4th c.), phrases, along with “Receive as is proper,” that are found only in Christian letters of recommendation (Kim, Form and Structure, 108–13). P.NagHamm. 78 (4th c.), a Christian letter, has “Receive our brother Herakleios . . . ,” but the text following cannot be reconstructed. For the distinction between letters of peace and of recommendation, see the enlightening discussion by Timothy M. Teeter, “Letters of Recommendation or Letters of Peace?” in Akten des 21. Internationale Papyrologenkongresses, Berlin, 13.–19. 8 1995, 2:954–60, esp. 956–58. Stowers calls them letters of mediation (Letter Writing in Greco-Roman Antiquity, 153–65). For general analysis, see Sirivianou, P.Oxy. LVI, pp. 111–16; cf. Llewelyn, NewDocs 8 (1984–85): 171–72, and the older study by Clinton W. Keyes, “The Greek Letter of Introduction,” AJP 56 (1935): 28–44. 147 Harris, “Biblical Echoes and Reminiscences in Christian Papyri,” 157; the link to Matt 25:40 is suggested, e.g., by J. H. Harrop (“A Christian Letter of Recommendation,” JEA 48 [1962]:

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Oxyrhynchus letters of commendation read, “Look upon him as if he were myself,” followed at the conclusion by “When you read this letter, imagine that I am speaking to you” (P.Oxy 32 [Latin], lines 6–9, 31–33, 2nd c.)148 and “. . . receive him as if he were I” (P.Osl. 55, lines 8–9, 2nd/3rd c.),149 but especially P.Oxy 3646 (3rd/4th c.), “And whatever you do for the propheµteµs, you do for me” (lines 21–22), where profhvth" refers to a priest at an Egyptian oracle or the like.150 A second sample turns up letters of condolence to the bereaved, which— we might suppose—would be an even more natural locale for NT quotations and allusions or at least for Christian sentiments, and the latter do occur in the sixth/seventh-century P.Oxy. 1874, though even then explicit NT passages are not evident (see below). Actually, among some two thousand private papyrus letters, only about a dozen qualify as letters of sympathy and comfort following a death.151 They range from the first/second to the sixth/seventh centuries, with ten written during the first four centuries. Five indicate no religious context; three give clear or implied reference to Roman religions; two are clearly Christian (P.Princ. II,102, 4th c.; P.Oxy. 1874, 6th/7th c.);152 two others are probably or possibly Christian (P.Oxy. 4004, 5th c., and 3819, early 4th c.)—and these four are the latest among the twelve. Altogether five are from Oxyrhynchus (those just noted plus P.Oxy. 115, 2nd c.; PSI 12.1248, ca. 235 C.E.). Finally, eight are complete, while four are lacunose at the beginning and/or the end.153

136), but then he proceeds to point out several examples of “a favour to the bearer is a favour to the sender.” 148 For lines 22–34, see P.Oxy. II, pp. 318–19; see also Stowers, Letter Writing in GrecoRoman Antiquity, 157. 149 From Oxyrhynchus: see S. Eitrem and Leiv Amundsen, Papyri Osloenses, Fasc. II (Oslo: Norske Videnskaps-Akademi I Oslo, 1931), xi, 132–35. 150 See John Rea, P.Oxy. LI, p. 129, who suggests further that there may be a “connection with the worship of Hermes Trismegistus.” 151 See the superb analysis by Juan Chapa, Letters of Condolence in Greek Papyri (Pap. Flor. 29; Florence: Gonnelli, 1998). He mentions four others, but excludes them because “condolence is included in the body of the letter, as one among other topics, treated with what seems to us heartless speed” (p. 16). 152 On P.Princ. II. 102, see n. 166 below. 153 Chapa, Letters of Condolence, 15–18, 23–24. No religious content: P.Oxy. I.115 (2nd c., complete); BGU III.801 (2nd c., complete); P.Wisc. II.84 (2nd/3rd c., complete); P.Rainer Cent. 70 (2nd/3rd c., incomplete); SB XVIII.13946 (3rd/4th c., complete); Roman religions: SB XIV.11646 (1st/2nd c., complete); PSI 12.1248 (from Oxyrhynchus; 235 or later; complete); P.Ross.Georg. III.2 (3rd c., complete); clearly Christian: P.Princ. II.102 (4th c., incomplete: lacking end); P.Oxy. XVI.1874 (6th/7th c., incomplete: lacking beginning and end); and probably/possibly Christian: P.Oxy. LV.3819 (1st half 4th c., incomplete: lacking end); P.Oxy. LIX.4004 (5th c., complete).

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In all these letters, Christian or not, condolence is expressed with close consistency through one or more common elements, including (1) nothing can be done about mortality, it is the human condition, (2) death is common to all, and (3) bear it bravely and/or comfort yourselves.154 The second-century example from Oxyrhynchus (P.Oxy. 115) is brusque: Eirene to Taonnophris and Philo, take heart. I grieved and wept over the departed as much as I wept over Didymas. I and all mine, Epaphroditus, Thermuthion, Philion, Apollonius and Plantas, did all that was due. However, one can do nothing against such things. So comfort yourselves. Farewell.155

Another Oxyrhynchus letter (P.Oxy. 3819, early 4th c.) has been thought by some to be Christian,156 based first of all on the following portion: For when I heard about my mother Sarapias, I was greatly grieved. Well, the lord god has the power for the future to give us good health. So do not be grieved. For these things are (part of being) human. Indeed, for all of us this is laid down.

The phrase, “lord god,” as noted earlier, is hardly a Christian indicator by itself (especially uncontracted, as here), and the Christian origin of this letter comes to rest, then, on the rare word, dunatevw, found only in the first-century B.C.E. Epicurean philosopher Philodemus and in Paul.157 The editor focuses on this “Pauline” word, indicating that “the reminiscence suggests that [the author of the letter] is Christian.”158 To be sure, Oxyrhynchus preserves five Pauline letters dating prior to the condolence letter, but Philodemus also had a presence in the city, for a first-century list of epigrams found there is totally dominated 154 SB XVIII. 13946 (3rd/4th c.) claims that those who die escape the sufferings of this life: see Chapa, Letters of Condolence, 115–18. 155 The same day, whether earlier or later, Eirene, a business woman of some kind, wrote a matter-of-fact business letter to the same addressees (P.Oxy. 116), with no mention of the bereavement: on the dates, see Chapa, Letters of Condolence, 64. On self-consolation, see ibid., 62, 64, 144; cf. Deissmann (Light from the Ancient East, 176–78) and John L. White (Light from Ancient Letters [FF; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986] 184–85), who translate “comfort one another”; Chapa (p. 64) to the contrary and against a Pauline parallel in 1 Thess 4:18. PSI 12.1248 (ca. 235), from Oxyrhynchus, says, in part, “But bear it bravely! For this is something which lies in store even for the gods.” See Chapa, Letters of Condolence, 96–97. 156 John Rea, its editor in P.Oxy. LV, pp. 219–20; cf. Chapa, Letters of Condolence, 128–29. 157 See the references in BDAG ad loc., and P.Oxy. LV, p. 220. See the latter for other speculative evidence of Christian origin; cf. Chapa, Letters of Condolence, 128–29. 158 See P.Oxy. LV, p. 219. The five Pauline papyri dating to the turn of the third/fourth centuries are P.Oxy. 1355 = P27 and 4497 = P113 of Romans; 1008 = P 15 of 1 Corinthians; 1009 = P16 of Philippians; and 1598 = P30 of 1–2 Thessalonians. dunatevw occurs in Rom 14:4; 2 Cor 13:3; 9:8, but none of these passages is preserved in the Oxyrhynchus papyri, nor in the later P.Oxy. 209 = P10 of Romans; or 2157 = P51 of Galatians.

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by those of Philodemus (Oxy. 3724),159 and there is no compelling reason to link the verb usage in our letter to Paul rather than Philodemus—or to either one for that matter. More probably Christian is a fifth-century Oxyrhynchus letter (P.Oxy. LIX. 4004), though the thoughts expressed reveal no such origin, for the customary pattern of condolence appears: We were very much grieved when we heard about your blessed wife [or about your wife, Macaria]. . . . But what can we do against mortality? So please console yourself and brave the journey and come to me. . . .160

Though this letter is beyond our period,161 it is instructive if it is Christian, for its identity is based on names later in the text, especially Neson, a location in the Heracleopolite nome, probably on the west bank of the Nile across from Oxyrhynchite territory, where an archive attests to a monastery, and two personal names: a biblical name, Nathanael (also a Coptic saint), and an unusual name, Syncletice, the name of an Egyptian nun who became a saint.162 Yet if this letter is Christian, there is nothing of Christian sentiment, let alone any reflection of NT texts; rather, traditional formulaic statements of condolence reign. An Oxyrhynchus letter from around 600 C.E (P.Oxy. 1874) shows us, however, language that we might have expected much earlier: But let us glorify God, because he gave and he took away; and pray that the Lord may give them rest and may He allow you to see them in paradise, when the souls of people are judged; for they have gone to the bosom of Abraham, and of Isaac and of Jacob,163

and . . . pray that the Lord may send upon you his blessing, for the Lord has many good things and gives courage to those in sorrow who seek a blessing from him, and we hope to God that through this sorrow the Lord sends you joy. . . .164 159

See P.Oxy. LIV, pp. 65–67. Letters of Condolence, 141, cf. 139–47. 161 Though its hand most resembles those of two papyri from about the first third of the fifth century (ibid., 140). 162 For details, see P.Oxy. LIX, pp. 171–75; Chapa, Letters of Condolence, 139–47, who remarks that Neson and these names, in relation to Theodorus, the writer, “might tempt one to identify them as monks or as otherwise connected with the monastery of Hathor . . , perhaps a Meletian monastery during the schism” (pp. 139–40, cf. 145). 163 See Horsley, “The Bosom of Abraham,” NewDocs 3 (1978): 106. 164 Chapa, Letters of Condolence, 152, cf. 149–59. P.Oxy 1874, like other fifth- to seventhcentury Christian letters, prayers, and other documents, has no nomina sacra (e.g., P.Oxy. 1830; 1832; 1926; 3864–3865; 3870; 3872–3873; 3932; 3936–3943; 3945; 3946–3959; 3961; 4535–4536; P.Wisc. I.11. To the contrary, e.g., P.Oxy. 1927–1928; 2067 [Nicene Creed]; 2071; 2074; 3863; 4394, line 11; 4397, lines 226, 239. 160 Chapa,

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But this is two centuries (!) beyond the period we are exploring, though even then nothing reminds us specifically of NT texts. 165 If we move beyond Oxyrhynchus, one fourth-century letter (P.Princ. II.102) reads “nobody among humans is immortal, but only God, and remember the promise of the blessed Paul, as . . . ,” where, regrettably, the text breaks off.166 Undoubtedly an appropriate Pauline text followed, though we cannot know what it was. But Oxyrhynchus, where the majority of condolence letters were found, has no such explicit reference to our NT, regardless of date. Although conclusions on the basis of a dozen or fewer letters are risky, within the first four centuries of Christianity there was very little difference between letters of condolence written by Christians and those written by nonChristians, for they all consist mainly in an array of the shared formulaic phrases, with the exception of the one non-Oxyrhynchus letter just noted. The surprises are not only that so few letters of condolence are extant, but that they are so terse and blunt, almost lacking in feeling (except for the latest Christian example, P.Oxy. 1874). Two, in fact, after a brief expression of grief, a statement that death is common to all, and advice to console oneself, proceed immediately to matter-of-fact discussions of business or other events. For example, P.Oxy 1248, partly quoted above, has seven lines of condolence and thirty-nine additional lines describing someone acting inhumanly and causing trouble, and so on.167 Official records. Our exploration necessarily encompasses but a small portion of what might be explored of the Christian environment at Oxyrhynchus through the fourth century, but we must be content with a final core sample from official documents relevant to the city’s Christian terrain. As we place the samples on our laboratory table, we find, first, an order from February 256 to arrest a certain “Petosorapis, son of Horus, Christian” (P.Oxy. 3035). Parentage is a common identifier in official records, as is a professional designation, such as “weavers” (P.Oxy. 2575) or “wine-merchant” (P.Oxy. 2576), but “Christian” is unusual, leading to the notion that religion was the critical factor in his summons, but this order was issued “more than a year before legal mea-

165 See Horsley, “Bosom of Abraham,” 106, for evidence that the formula “derives from liturgy rather than directly from the NT.” 166 The provenance of P.Princ. II.102 is unknown; I accept Chapa’s argument that, in line 17, “blessed Paul” is to be restored, assuring its Christian origin (Letters of Condolence, 136–37, cf. 132–33). 167 Ibid., 96–98. P.Oxy. 3819 has eighteen lines of consolation (quoted above), but then begins to discuss a dalmatic—a wide-sleeved overgarment, though the text breaks off at this point (ibid., 127, 130).

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sures were taken against the Christians” in the Valerian persecution.168 Hence, “Christian” is likely just an identifier,169 and we have no clue to the occasion for the summons. Further items, however, do take us into the context of persecution. P.Oxy. 3119 (259/260 in reign of Valerian170), in what can be deciphered, reads “concerning an investigation,” followed in the next line by Crhstianoiv (line 14), “Christians,” allowing for the possibility of an inquiry in time of persecution, though this cannot be confirmed. About forty years later, in February 303, an edict from Diocletian required all litigants to sacrifice,171 and Copres, a Christian,172 who was preparing a lawsuit in another town, confirms such a requirement when he writes back to Oxyrhynchus (P.Oxy. 2601, early 4th c.): “It became known to us that those who present themselves in court are being made to sacrifice.” And how does he handle this? “I made a power-of-attorney in favor of my brother” (lines 8–13). Such casual treatment may suggest either that this requirement was routinely circumvented by assigning it to someone else (perhaps—by Christians—to a nonChristian?) or that the procedure was new enough that Copres and others had not yet realized that “a serious crisis of conscience was posed.”173 Then in 304, Ammonius, an illiterate lector,174 declares to the authorities 168 P. J. Parsons in P.Oxy. XLII, p. 100: the text reads crhsianovn (see pl. X), but no alternative to “Christian” is apparent. A similar spelling occurs in PSI 14.1412, also from Oxyrhynchus (2nd/3rd c.): see P.Oxy. XXXVI, p. 84 n. 2; cf. Horsley, NewDocs 2 (1977): 173. “Arrest orders” are more properly summonses, though often a guard was involved: see Traianos Gagos in P.Oxy. LXI, pp. 90–91; T. Gagos and P. J. Sijpesteijn, “Towards an Explanation of the Typology of the So-Called ‘Orders to Arrest,’” BASP 33 (1996): 77–97, esp. 78–79. For a list up to 1986, including some twenty-seven involving Oxyrhynchus, see Adam Bülow-Jacobsen, “Orders to Arrest,” ZPE 66 (1986): 95–98. 169 Parsons in P.Oxy. XLII, p. 100. At the time (1974), Parsons considered this “by far the earliest use of the word ‘Christian’ in the papyrus documents.” 170 Dating is complex; the reference is to a “seventh year,” including (among seven possibilities in the third century) “7 Valerian and Gallienus,” i.e. 259/260, viewed by John Rae as a standout, but still doubtful (P.Oxy. XLIII, pp. 77–78 + pl. VI); J. E. G. Whitehorne confirms the 259/260 date by careful argumentation (“P.OXY. XLIII 3119: A Document of Valerian’s Persecution,” ZPE 24 [1977]: 187–96, esp. 196). 171 Judge and Pickering, “Papyrus Documentation,” 53. 172 This is clear enough from the attempted nomina sacra in line 5 and from f— q — , the isopsephism of ajmhvn in the address (line 34): see P.Oxy. XXXI, pp. 170–71; cf. n. 57 above. 173 Judge and Pickering, “Papyrus Documentation,” 53, based on P.Oxy. XXXI, pp. 167–68. The person given the power of attorney “was certainly pagan” (Ewa Wipszycka, “Un lecteur qui ne sait pas ecrire ou un chrétien qui ne veut pas se souiller? [P.Oxy.XXXIII 2673],” ZPE 50 [1983]: 121). 174 See P.Oxy. XXXIII, pp. 105, 108, where it is suggested that the lector read in Coptic services but was illiterate in Greek; Wipszycka (“Un lecteur,” esp. 121) sees his illiteracy as a “subterfuge”: reluctant to be a hero and defy the authorities, yet unwilling to sign a document handing

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“concerning the surrender of all the goods” in his “former church”—apparently in accord with Diocletian’s edict—that nothing remains except “the bronze objects”175 which had been handed over for shipment to Alexandria (P.Oxy. 2673, 5 February 304, lines 14–24). The very next year, 305, an official report affirms that a certain “Paul from the Oxyrhynchite nome” had been sentenced and that no property was currently registered in his name (P.Oxy. 2665, lines 16–20)—presumably because it was confiscated. Though there is no direct evidence, the presumption is that he was a Christian who suffered under persecution—the more likely because the document states that the sentencing agent (lines 14–15) was “Satrius Arrianus, the governor of the Thebaid, who appears so frequently in the martyrologies.”176 Though details are lacking, these papyri disclose Oxyrhynchus Christians who were objects of persecution under Valerian and Diocletian. A further probe reveals trouble in two Christian homes. In P.Oxy. 903 (4th c.), a woman files a thirty-seven line accusation, narrating the abusive behavior of her husband toward her, her foster daughters, and her slaves, as well as toward his foster son and his own slaves over an extended period. We know the couple were Christians because on one occasion he took an oath before the bishops, affirming, “I will stop and not insult her” (lines 15–17)— though he abused her again—and because of references to “the church” (lines

over the church’s goods to persecutors of the faithful, thereby defiling himself, he took an ambiguous action “consistent with declaring himself illiterate” and did not sign the declaration himself. In response, G. W. Clarke presents cases, including five-year-old (!) lectors and others who allegedly did not “know letters,” to suggest that the possibility of illiterate lectors “cannot be rejected outright” (“An Illiterate Lector?” ZPE 57 [1984]: 103–4, esp. 104). See also Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 256 n. 142; Kraus, “(Il)literacy in Non-Literary Papyri,” 330–31 and n. 27. HainesEitzen (Guardians of Letters, 27–29) and Kraus ([Il]literacy in Non-Literary Papyri,” 329, 334–38), at greater length, discuss the striking case of two village scribes in the Fayum near Karanis who could neither read nor write, except for writing their own signatures (P.Petaus, an archive of 127 items); see also Robert A. Kaster, Guardians of Language: The Grammarian and Society in Late Antiquity (Transformation of the Classical Heritage 11; Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1988; repr. 1997), 42–43, esp. nn. 41, 44; Harris, Ancient Literacy, 278–79; 320 and n. 169. 175 John Rea, the editor, corrected puvlh in line 22 to read u{lh; hence “bronze material” rather than “bronze gate” (“P.Oxy. XXXIII 2673: puvlhn to u{lhn!” ZPE 35 [1979]: 128); cf. P.Oxy. XLVIII, p. xvii; Horsley, NewDocs 2 (1977): 169; Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 289–90. 176 P.Oxy. XXXIII, p. 89; see E. A. Judge, “Fourth-Century Monasticism in the Papyri,” in Proceedings of the Sixteenth International Congress of Papyrology, New York, 24–31 July 1980 (ed. Roger S. Bagnall et al.; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981), 614–15; Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 280 n. 117. I see no reason to think, as some have, that P.Oxy. 1464 (250 C.E.), a libellus or certificate of sacrifice in the Decian persecution, is that of a Christian. On the subject, see P.Oxy. LVIII, p. 39. Other libelli at Oxyrhynchus are P.Oxy. 658, 2990, and 3929.

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19–21), including her statement, “I departed and went into the church on the Sabbath” [sic!] (line 19).177 In P.Oxy. 3581 (the dating is complex: late fourth or fifth century), another woman submits a detailed petition seeking charges against Paul, her husband, who left her and her infant daughter to live with another woman, but then, she says, “Again he beguiled [me] through presbyters” (line 8) to return, presumably ecclesiastical elders; this time she was wiser and secured an agreement for two ounces of gold, with written surety from his father, if he were to “indulge in the same vile behavior” (lines 10–11). Well, matters were worse than before and, she says, “I endured insults and punishments to within an inch of my life” (lines 14–15). So she asks the tribune to exact the gold and to punish Paul “for his outrages against me” (lines 21–23). The results, of course, are unknown. Two additional samples reveal troubling situations in the churches. In P.Oxy. 2344 (ca. 336) Dionysius, bishop of the [local] “catholic church” in Oxyrhynchus, petitions the strategus apparently to be relieved of the administration of an estate and the guardianship of some children, though the matter is not further clarified.178 In another (P.Wash.Univ. I.20, 4th c., found at Oxyrhynchus), two brothers, upon returning to Oxyrhynchus, file a complaint against “the presbyter of the catholic church” of a nearby village because he had taken possession of their houses and lands and refuses to turn them back. Again, we do not know the other sides of these stories or their outcomes.179 Finally, Christians were doing some good—or at least interesting—things in Oxyrhynchus. An athlete, presumably a professional, sent money to his 177 The editio princeps read Sambaqwv (as if a location), but was revised to sabbvavtw/: see M. David, B. A. Van Groningen, and E. Kiessling, Berichtigungsliste der Griechischen Papyrusurkunden aus Ägypten, vol. 3 (Leiden: Brill, 1958), 133. There is also an apparent attempt at a nomen sacrum at the very end (line 37): q(eov") in “God knows these things.” On both P.Oxy. 903 and 3581 (treated below), see Roger S. Bagnall, “Church, State, and Divorce in Late Roman Egypt,” in Florilegium Columbianum: Essays in Honor of Paul Oskar Kristeller (ed. Karl-Ludwig Selig; New York: Italica, 1987) 41–42, 58–59 [reprinted in Bagnall, Later Roman Egypt, no. IV]; and idem, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 194–95. 178 This may be in the context of seeking relief or exemption from a mandatory liturgical appointment—public service: see Royce L. B. Morris, “Reflections of Citizen Attitudes in Petitions from Late Roman and Byzantine Oxyrhynchus,” in Akten des 21. Internationale Papyrologenkongresses, Berlin, 13.–19. 8 1995, ed. Kramer et al., 2:746–47. 179 See also the reprimand of a Christian for some unknown action in P. Laur. 42 recto (4th/5th, Oxyrhynchite nome): “I was very pained and we are exceedingly pained that you dared to do such a thing to Atheas, since you are a Christian, because she also is a laywoman, and she has never been discovered (doing) worldly business” (text and tr. in Horsley, NewDocs 2 [1977]: 172– 73; cf. Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 282 and n. 126). P.Oxy. 3311 (373–374 C.E.) is a petition from two sisters to recover property that had been used/controlled (?) by a monk, Ammonius; upon his death, Ammon—perhaps a fellow monk—refuses to turn back the property (see Judge, “Fourth-Century Monasticism,” 618–19).

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mother “via Sotas the Christian” (PSI XIV.1412, line 10, 2nd/3rd c.).180 A certain Barus requests a fellow Christian, Diogenes, to grant Horus a four-month leave or an extension of time—it is hard to tell which—“because he is of moderate means” and will be obligated for public service (P.Oxy. 3858, 4th c.).181 We assume that he granted the favor. And two anchorite nuns agree to rent rooms to “Aurelius Jose son of Judas, Jew” (P.Oxy. 3203, 400 C.E., line 7).182 Besides these random acts of kindness, there is little else, and our NT texts— though perhaps not to be expected in these contexts—make no appearance.

III. Conclusion As we look back, much was happening in Christian circles in Oxyrhynchus, giving us a glimpse of the good, the bad, and even the ugly. Of course, these events did not take place in the course of a decade or even a lifetime, but over several lifetimes. Yet what we witness is instructive. First, • We find individual Christians, including women specifically, reading and studying biblical books and exploring Jewish and doubtless Christian apocalyptic, and likely teaching or exercising leadership in other ways. • We discover catechumens at various stages of instruction, and individuals who pray for help or carry amulets for protection. And • We hear of Christians writing letters of comfort—such as they are—in times of grief. Second, • We observe churches, with their majestic hymns, lofty prayers, and liturgical texts. • We witness ministers asking other Christians to help a woman in need, and bishops trying to assist a battered woman, who later sought refuge in the church. And • We hear of churches dismantled and of Christians whose property had been confiscated under persecution, though with no details, but also of 180 The text preserves only crhsia[. . . .] (line 10), restored to crhstianou' in P.Oxy. XXXVI, p. 84 n. 2, by analogy with the restoration in P.Oxy. 3035 (see n. 168 above). 181 See P.Oxy. LVI, pp. 117–20; nomina sacra occur in lines 3 and 25. 182 P.Oxy. XLIV, pp. 182–84; cf. Horsley, NewDocs 1 (1976): 126–30.

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Third, • At the same time, we uncover an anti-Jewish dialogue and a diatribe against women, both theologically motivated, indicating—to put them in the best possible light—that the churches were wrestling with ideas that we find uncongenial. And • We hear of a bishop recusing himself from a legal responsibility for children, and of church presbyters who, allegedly, convince a woman to take back her husband only to be further abused, and of another presbyter who, allegedly, took houses and land illicitly and declined to make amends. Our goal from the outset has been to disclose the local context of our fiftynine NT manuscripts from Oxyrhynchus, and, indeed, the Christian community there has come alive for us, if only in a partial and random fashion—but alive nonetheless. Yet the anomaly is that any overt influence from our NT texts remains largely undocumented.183 Would a different picture have emerged if Christian letters and documents from the second and early third centuries were as abundant as those from the late third and early fourth? Probably not, because forty-one of the fifty-nine Oxyrhynchus NT manuscripts issued from the third and fourth centuries, and apparently they were imported or copied and available184 in the very same time frame as most of our letters and documents, supporting the reliability of our findings. The churches at Oxyrhynchus by this later period, therefore, appear to have moved well beyond the direct use of NT texts to a reliance on the liturgical forms that had developed and on the abiding Septuagint texts for much of their worship and polemic. Liturgy, of course, was drawn mainly from Jewish Scripture and from texts that were becoming the New Testament, but by our period the liturgical formulations have overshadowed their Christian sources. Yet the Greek Jewish Bible—as understood and used by Christians—shows considerable direct influence on the Christian hymns, prayers, and theological treatises. All of this could be the uneven result of randomness in the survival of papyrus documents, yet sometimes silence is itself a loud voice that demands our attention. Moreover, as we assess this abundance of early Christian writings at 183 See Horsley, NewDocs 2 (1977): 157–58, who refers to “less than two dozen Biblical citations and verbal echoes” among some one hundred (alleged) Christian letters through the fourth century, though only half that many would remain if “reminiscences of Biblical wording which are less than certain” were excluded. 184 On speed of transfer of letters—and books—in the Mediterranean area, see Epp, “New Testament Papyrus Manuscripts and Letter Carrying,” 35–56, esp. 52–56.

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Oxyrhynchus through the fourth century, including those we call “New Testament” and those we designate “apocrypha,” there is no basis for assigning preference to one group over the other, or even for claiming that they were separable groups, nor—with available evidence—can we discern varying degrees of canonical authority among the writings. Because these books as a whole show precious little direct impact on worship or teaching in the Oxyrhynchus churches or on the daily lives of Christians in Oxyrhynchus, one is tempted to remark, “Why should the third and fourth centuries be any different from the twentieth and the twenty-first? After all, in any modern liturgical service, are not the hymnals and prayer books used more heavily than the Bibles in the pews?” Beyond the lessons latent in these remarks, however, what is significant for us is that we have been able to expose something of the sociocultural and intellectual context of one locality—one real-life situation in which more than 40 percent of our NT papyri lived and were shaped in the company of numerous other Jewish and early Christian writings. To disclose and to illuminate that context, after all, was the main point—though now it remains for textual critics and others to fill out the picture and to find ways to exploit the results.

JBL 123/1 (2004) 57–74

PILGRIMAGE IMAGERY IN THE RETURNS IN EZRA

MELODY D. KNOWLES [email protected] McCormick Theological Seminary, Chicago, IL 60615

There are two different returns from Babylon recorded in the book of Ezra, one led by Zerubbabel and Jeshua (Ezra 1–2) and the other led by Ezra (Ezra 7–8). Many scholars have argued that these returns (or Ezra 1 at least) are deliberately modeled on the exodus from Egypt. The stories all recount a journey out of a foreign land and employ some similar motifs in the recounting. Probably the most frequently adduced parallels are the plundered Egyptians in Ezra 1 and the dates of Ezra’s return in Ezra 7–8. But how strong are these parallels? Does the exodus motif fully realize the imagery of these journeys in Ezra? After examining some of the exodus parallels, I will argue that the accounts of the returns in Ezra also include the imagery of pilgrimage. Although the motif of the exodus is still present, the motif of pilgrimage may be a more comprehensive heuristic device by which to interpret the accounts. The returns in Ezra emphasize Jerusalem as the destination of the journey (and not the larger geographic region of the promised land); they are explicitly cultic (with priests, sacrifice, and cultic vessels specifically highlighted); and they involve several journeys of the nation (not one constitutive trip made by the people together). I. The Parallels to the Exodus Scholars often point out that the silver and gold mentioned in Ezra 1:4 and 6 are reminiscent of the silver and gold given to the Israelites by the Egyptians An earlier version of this paper was presented to the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah Section of the Society of Biblical Literature in November 2000, under the title “The Returns as Pilgrimage in Ezra.” In addition to the helpful comments of the members of this section, this paper was greatly enriched by the additional comments of Choon-Leong Seow (who read a version of the paper as part of my dissertation), Ralph W. Klein, Mark Throntveit, John Allan Knight, Jr., and the anonymous JBL reviewers.

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when they left Egypt (Exod 3:21–22; 11:2; 12:35–36).1 Nonetheless, while some scholars read Ezra 1:4 and 6 to indicate that all of the givers were Gentiles,2 it is more likely that Ezra 1:4 designates the givers as Jews.3 The verse specifies that ravnhAlk (“all the rest/those who remained”) are to “help” the returnees with silver and gold and goods and livestock and freewill offerings for the house of God in Jerusalem.4 These “remaining ones” are those of the Jewish community who would be left to stay in Babylon once those who were willing to go to Jerusalem had designated themselves as such (Ezra 1:3). A similar ethnic mix of gift-givers is found in the second return in Ezra 7:15–16, where gifts from the king and “the whole province of Babylonia” are brought along with those of “people and the priests . . . for the house of their God in Jerusalem.” The designation of Jews along with Gentiles as those who gave gifts to returnees contrasts with the exodus narratives, where only the Egyptians gave items of value.5 The accounts in Exodus and Ezra 1–2 differ not only in the ethnicity of the gift-givers but also in the rhetorical point of the accounts. While the original purpose of the account in Exodus might have been etiological, perhaps related to a seasonal children’s game or carnival holiday,6 its immediate purpose in the present narrative is indicated by the editor’s summarizing trope of the event: 1 The connection is made by, among others, Jacob M. Myers, Ezra, Nehemiah: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 14; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1965), 9; Johanna W. H. van WijkBos, Ezra, Nehemiah, and Esther (Westminster Bible Companion; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1998), 20–21; and Mark Throntveit, Ezra-Nehemiah (IBC; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 16. For an account of this motif in the exodus narratives themselves, see G. W. Coats, “Despoiling the Egyptians,” VT 18 (1968): 450–57; and Julian Morgenstern, “The Despoiling of the Egyptians,” JBL 68 (1949): 1–28. 2 D. J. A. Clines, Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther (NCBC; Grand Rapids; Eerdmans, 1984), 38–39; and Ralph W. Klein, “The Books of Ezra & Nehemiah,” NIB 3:661–851, esp. 678–79. 3 Scholars who maintain this reading (namely, that Ezra 1:4 designates the givers as Jews and 1:6 designates the givers as Gentiles) include Myers, Ezra, Nehemiah, 8–9; and H. G. M. Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah (WBC 16; Waco: Word, 1985), 5, 14–16. 4 Here I am reading “wmqm yvna” (“the men of his place”) in Ezra 1:4 not as the subject of the verb whwacny but rather as an explanatory gloss on the awkward and confusing preceding phrase (!vArg awh rva twmqmhAlkm ravnhAlk, “and all who remained, from all of the places where he sojourns”). This reading is supported by the smoother and shorter reading of 1 Esdr 2:6, which stipulates the givers simply as “oiJ perikuvklw/ aujtw'n.” This reading is also followed by H. G. M. Williamson, “The Composition of Ezra i–iv,” JTS n.s. 34 (1983): 1–30, esp. 9–11. 5 While C. F. Keil also includes Jews as part of those who gave gifts to the returnees, he does so by including Jews and Gentiles as part of the !hytbybs in Ezra 1:6 (The Books of Ezra, Nehemiah, and Esther [trans. Sophia Taylor; Biblical Commentary on the Old Testament 3; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1879; repr., Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1983], 25). 6 So J. B. Segal, The Hebrew Passover, from Earliest Times to A.D. 70 (London: Oxford University, 1963), 148–49, 260; and William H. C. Propp, Exodus 1–18: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 2; New York: Doubleday, 1998), 208, 412–13.

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“Thus [the Israelites] will plunder (D of lxn) the Egyptians.” As emphasis, the trope is said in prospect by God in Exod 3:22 (“will plunder”) and in retrospect by the narrator in Exod 12:36 (“plundered”). The D form of lxn points to some measure of ill treatment—in addition to the two uses in the Exodus accounts, it appears in 2 Chr 20:25 in the context of taking booty after a military victory. According to William H. C. Propp, “The author’s Schadenfreude at the exploitation of Israel’s imperialist neighbor is palpable.”7 This sense is absent from the Ezra narrative. While the gifts are given at the command of Cyrus (whose spirit has been “stirred” by God), there is no sense that the givers have been exploited. The explicit purpose of the gifts is “to assist” (D of acn; Ezra 1:4) and “to support” (literally “they strengthened their hands,” !hydyb wqzj [Ezra 1:6]), and the narrator does not betray any sense of mistreatment. The accounts of the exodus and the returns in Ezra differ in two other respects: the source of compunction for the gifts and the actual content of the gifts. In Exodus, the Egyptians give their goods as a result of the personal entreaties of the Israelites: “each woman shall ask (hlavw) her neighbor . . . for silver vessels” (Exod 3:22); “every man is to ask (wlavyw) his neighbor and every woman her neighbor for silver vessels” (Exod 11:2); “The Israelites . . . had asked (wlavyw) the Egyptians for silver vessels” (Exod 12:35). The texts give no notice that Pharaoh had any knowledge or involvement in the process. In marked contrast, the gift-giving in Ezra 1 is at the direct command of Cyrus: “Thus says King Cyrus of Persia . . . those who remain behind . . . shall assist him [i.e., the returnees; whwacny] . . . with silver” (Ezra 1:2, 4). When the command is fulfilled, Cyrus himself “brought out” (ayxwh) the cultic vessels and had them given to the returnees (Ezra 1:7–8). Thus, God’s command that the Israelites “ask” the Egyptians for precious objects and clothing is replaced by Cyrus’s command that those in Babylon “assist” the returnees. In place of the antagonism between Israel and Pharaoh, the Persian political power is obliging in the extreme. According to Klein, the whole of Ezra 1–6 expresses a “political stance of collaboration with the Persian Empire.”8 In Ezra 1–2, Cyrus is neither absent nor antagonistic—the giving of gifts occurs with the explicit direction and participation (under the guidance of God) of the political ruler. In addition, the Exodus accounts list the items as “vessels of silver, and vessels of gold, and clothing” (tlmcw bhz ylkw #sk ylk [Exod 3:22, 12:35], with the final item missing in the Leningrad Codex of Exod 11:2). Although “vessels of silver and gold” are likewise mentioned in the Ezra narrative, the list of gifts expands to include other goods and valuable gifts and beasts and freewill offerings for the Jerusalem temple: 7 8

Propp, Exodus 1–18, 208. Klein, “Ezra & Nehemiah,” 675.

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Journal of Biblical Literature “. . . silver and gold and goods and beasts . . . besides freewill offerings for the house of God . . .” (tybl hbdnhA![ hmhbbw vwkrbw bhzbw #skb !yhlah [Ezra 1:4]) “. . . with silver vessels, with gold, with goods, with beasts, and with valuable gifts, besides all that was freely offered” (bhzb #skAylkb bdnthAlkAl[ dbl twndgmbw hmhbbw vwkrb [Ezra 1:6])

There is an additional notice that King Cyrus sent the basins, bowls, and vessels taken from the Jerusalem temple by Nebuchadnezzar (Ezra 1:7–11). If a strict parallel between the Exodus account was intended by the author/redactor of Ezra 1, one wonders both why the “clothing” was left out and why beasts and goods and valuable gifts were included. In the second return recounted in the book of Ezra (chs. 7–8), the author specifies several dates for the journey. Ezra and his group departed from Babylon on the first day of the new year (“the first day of the first month” [Ezra 7:9], although Ezra 8:31 gives the day of departure as the twelfth day of the first month, a result of the search for Levites in 8:15–20). They arrived in the city on the first day of the fifth month (Ezra 7:9) and rested three days before they handed over the temple vessels (Ezra 8:32–33). While the text itself is silent about the explicit significance of the dates, scholars have proposed that these reflect the deliberate mirroring of the exodus and entry into the land. The exodus also took place in the first month of the year (Exod 12:2; Num 33:3),9 and Joshua and his followers rested three days after they had crossed the Jordan River (Josh 3:1–2).10 The exodus may not be the only active symbol to motivate these dates, however. It is possible that the dates also relate to pilgrimage festivals. Immediately prior to the notice of Ezra’s return is the account of the first celebration of Passover and Unleavened Bread in the new temple (Ezra 6:19–22). When the focus of the narrative returns again to Babylon in Ezra 7 (even years later), the reader knows that the pilgrimage feasts are again being celebrated in Jerusalem. When Ezra arranges to set out for Jerusalem in the first month, the immediate textual referent of the “first month” is not the exodus but rather the just-mentioned Passover celebration: “The exiles kept the Passover on the fourteenth day of the first month” (Ezra 6:19). Further, their arrival in the city in the fifth month corresponds to the month when the first temple had been burned (2 Kgs 25:8–9).11 Given that the text is not forthcoming with the significance of the dates, it is impossible to know the referent with certainty. 9 K. Koch, “Ezra and the Origins of Judaism,” JSS 19 (1974): 173–97, esp. 186; Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, 93. 10 Klein, “Ezra & Nehemiah,” 730. 11 Ibid.

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Nonetheless, it is possible that the author/editor of the account manipulates or emphasizes the dates of Ezra’s journey so that they relate to the restoration of the pilgrimage feasts in the temple. Once the first Passover feast has been celebrated in the new temple, Ezra brings another group of pilgrims from Babylon and arranges the timing of their entrance to coincide with the very month that worship in the first temple was destroyed by fire.12 The triumphal march is now not into the new land, but into the new temple, and the second group of returnees marks the new beginning of the pilgrimage cult. Additional parallels between the exodus and the returns in Ezra have been drawn, but scholars who themselves highlight exodus imagery in Ezra also make certain distinctions. In his commentary on Ezra and Nehemiah, for example, Mark Throntveit remarks that while the exodus describes the construction of a people, the book of Ezra recounts the reconstruction of the temple. In addition, he notes that the exodus account has to do with the deliverance of slaves from oppression, while Ezra includes the support of Persian kings, who had themselves conquered the nation’s enemy.13 Johanna W. H. van WijkBos, who likewise draws the parallels, eloquently encapsulates the distinctions: the exodus involves liberation from a “house of bondage” in Egypt (which Pharaoh tries to prevent) while Ezra details deliverance from Babylon “to rebuild a destroyed home” (which in Ezra 1 Cyrus encourages and makes possible).14

II. Distinguishing Different Types of Journeys The sometimes imperfect parallels and the need to articulate the differences between the accounts of the exodus and the returns call for distinguishing different types of journeys: What makes an exodus an exodus, and how is an exodus different from a pilgrimage? These distinctions are important precisely because the categories are so slippery.15 In his recent book The Pilgrimage Pattern in Exodus, Mark Smith argues that the redactor of Exodus shaped the story of the journey out of Egypt itself into a pilgrimage. According to Smith, 12 This proposed scenario still allows Koch’s syntatical explanation of the force of yk in Ezra 7:10 to stand (Koch, “Ezra and the Origins of Judaism,” 186). If Ezra calculated the date of the departure based on his study of the Torah (“For Ezra had set his heart to consult YHWH’s Torah [for the departure date] and to do so”), then he might have chosen the first month to relate to the Passover festival (though not the exodus, as Koch would have it). 13 Throntveit, Ezra-Nehemiah, 18. 14 Van Wijk-Bos, Ezra, Nehemiah, and Esther, 18–19. 15 In another study of pilgrimage as a literary motif in the Bible, William G. Johnsson highlights the critical need to distinguish between different types of journeys, namely, wanderings and pilgrimages (“The Pilgrimage Motif in the Book of Hebrews,” JBL 97 [1978]: 239–51).

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the story of Moses’ two journeys to Sinai (his solitary one first, and then the one that he took with the Israelites) draws on a “wider reservoir” of imagery than an exodus event. The religious content of the book is fuller than that of the exodus alone and includes an emphasis on the cultic experience, the destination of a cult center (specifically, the “land of the divine mountain”), and divine revelation (specifically, several theophanies).16 Smith’s book highlights the complexity of handling similar metaphors of travel, and this complexity is increased by the mixing of metaphors by the biblical authors themselves. For example, in Isa 51:9–11, the prophet first calls to mind YHWH’s great deeds in the exodus (“Was it not you . . . who made the depths of the sea a way for the redeemed to cross over?”), and then directly depicts the return as a pilgrimage (“So the ransomed of YHWH shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads . . .”).17 Eugene H. Merrill discusses this example and several others throughout the prophetic texts in the Hebrew Bible to show how the authors shaped the accounts of the restoration using both exodus and pilgrimage imagery.18 With the fluidity of metaphor, precise definitions are paramount. I use “exodus” to refer to an event in which an oppressed group leaves a place of bondage as a single group and enters into a land of freedom (a promised land). It is a political journey, sometimes with religious aspects, that emphasizes the leave taking of the journey. When the destination of the exodus group is named in the biblical accounts, it is not a specific cultic location but rather the larger land area in which they will dwell. YHWH informs Moses from the burning bush that the destination is “the place/land of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites” (Exod 3:8, 17);19 the destina16 Mark S. Smith, The Pilgrimage Pattern in Exodus (with contributions by Elizabeth M. Bloch-Smith; JSOTSup 239; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 128–29, 264. 17 See also Ezek 20:33–44, where YHWH speaks of the future restoration of Israel as a second exodus that culminates in a pilgrimage. YHWH promises to bring the nation “out from the peoples . . . with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm” and bring them into the wilderness for judgment: “As I entered into judgment with your ancestors in the wilderness of the land of Egypt, so I will enter into judgment with you” (Ezek 20:22–37). After YHWH has purged the nation, they will serve YHWH on YHWH’s “holy mountain,” and they are required to offer their contributions, the choicest of the gifts, and all their sacred things (Ezek 20:28–44). The examples of Isa 51:9–11 and Ezek 20:33–44 were helpfully suggested to me by Ralph Klein. 18 Eugene H. Merrill, “Pilgrimage and Procession: Motifs of Israel’s Return,” in Israel’s Apostasy and Restoration: Essays in Honor of Roland K. Harrison (ed. Avraham Gileadi; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1988), 261–72. According to Merrill, “The exodus as type cannot be denied [in the portrayal of the returns in the prophets], but by itself it is obviously inadequate to provide a satisfying hermeneutic by which to understand the full dimension of Israel’s return. . . . In short, my thesis is that pilgrimage and procession are as much typical antecedents to the historical and eschatological acts of YHWH in the restoration of his people as the exodus itself” (p. 262). 19 In Exod 3:7, the Samaritan and the LXX add “and the Girgashite” after “the Perizzite.” See

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tion is also given as the “land of the Canaanites” (so Exod 13:11; 34:11), or the land that YHWH “swore to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob” (Exod 33:1).20 This emphasis on leaving and the lack of a specific cult site as the goal distinguish an exodus from a “pilgrimage,” which, in my usage, emphasizes a specific sacred destination. In the ancient world, pilgrims are those who (1) leave their daily sphere of activity, (2) to go to a place that the community has designated to be holy, (3) in order to worship or communicate with the divine. Pilgrims usually also return to their home again, although this is not always emphasized in textual accounts, which tend to be more concerned with the cultic destination.21 Further, although sometimes the condition of “hardship” is included in definitions of pilgrimage, this is generated more by the later experience and penitential purposes of pilgrimage in the late antique period and the Middle Ages.22 In the context of ancient pilgrimage, when ritualized journeys to the shrine are prescribed once every four years, two years, or even three times a year,23 this condition of hardship is less emphasized.24 K. G. O’Connell, “The List of Seven Peoples in Canaan: A Fresh Analysis,” in The Answers Lie Below: Essays in Honor of Lawrence Edmond Toombs (ed. H. O. Thompson; Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1984), 221–41. 20 My interpretation of the destination in Exodus is different from that given by Mark Smith (Pilgrimage Pattern, 16), who claims that in the Priestly redaction of the text, the destination of the journey is “the mountain of God.” Smith states, “It may be suggested tentatively that the priestly redaction may have interpreted the Exodus passages as the people’s pilgrimage to the mountain,” in contrast to the book of Numbers, which “might be regarded as depicting a pilgrimage journey from the mountain to the sanctuary-land, but not in a manner precisely parallel to Exodus” (pp. 286–87). 21 There is no mention of the return trip in the pilgrimage legislation in Exod 23:17; 34:23; and Deut 16:16, only the instruction that all the males are to appear before YHWH three times a year. 22 For the inclusion of hardship in pilgrimage (based on its inclusion in Muslim pilgrimage), see Johnsson, “Pilgrimage Motif,” which borrows the definition from H. B. Partin’s dissertation, “The Muslim Pilgrimage: Journey to the Center” (Ph.D. diss., University of Chicago, 1967), 145–52. Partin recognizes four aspects of pilgrimage: separation from home and usual activity, a sacred place as a destination, a fixed purpose (purification or forgiveness of sins, of which attainment is associated with arrival at the destination), and hardship (so that failure is a possibility). In the Christian tradition, more common before the Reformation perhaps, hardship in pilgrimage is part of the penitential process that can allow a purging of sin. In a description and analysis of St. Patrick’s Purgatory (a pilgrimage site in Ireland), Victor Turner and Edith Turner write, “[i]n the ‘economy of salvation’ in pre-Reformation theology, living souls require penitence as the dead require purgatory.” See their classic work, Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 1978), 113. 23 In ancient Greece, the festivals at Olympia and Pythia were celebrated once every four years, whereas the festivals at Nemea and Isthmia were celebrated every two years. See Matthew Dillon, Pilgrims and Pilgrimage in Ancient Greece (London/New York: Routledge, 1997), 99. In Israel and Judah, all males were to appear before YHWH three times a year (Exod 23:17; 34:23; and Deut 16:16). 24 The condition of hardship is not included in the definitions of pilgrimage given by

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In addition to the distinctions between geography and purpose (leaving oppression vs. going to worship), the different journeys also have different sociological consequences.25 The exodus was a one-time event involving the entire community. Indeed, participation in the exodus is the defining moment in the constitutive life of the community and their God (“I am YHWH your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt” [Deut 5:6; cf. Neh 9:9–11]). In contrast, the journey out of Babylon was never viewed as a single event. Several journeys from Babylon are mentioned in the Ezra-Nehemiah material. In addition, there is no sense that those who participated in the first return, recorded in Ezra 1, were granted a higher status in the community. Indeed, the account of the return emphasizes several times that this journey was voluntary, with no aspersions cast on those who did not come along. After listing those who arose to go on the journey as the heads of the families of Judah and Benjamin and the priests and the Levites, a significant aside specifies the travelers more closely as “all the people whose spirit was stirred by God” (wjwrAta !yhlah ry[h lkl [Ezra 1:5]). Here I would question C. F. Keil’s assertion that only the returnees were obedient to God.26 It seems that this interpretation is based less on Ezra 1 than on Josephus’s Antiquities 11.1, where Josephus specifies that those who stayed behind in Babylon were “not willing to leave their possessions.”27 But the biblical text provides no psychological or spiritual portrait of those who remained behind; it reveals only that the spirits of those who went were stirred by God. Obedience to God in Ezra 1 has to do with a correct response to this divine stirring in the individual rather than a return en masse. The lack of a list naming the returnees over against those who continued to reside in Babylon also suggests the nonconstitutive nature of this first journey out of Babylon. Ezra 1–2 does not distinguish the returnees from those who remained or those who came later. The compendium of names in Ezra 2 may seem to function as such a list: “Now these were the people of the province who came from the captive exiles . . . they went (wbwvy) to Jerusalem and Judah, Matthew Dillon and Mark Smith. In his work on ancient Greece, Dillon defines pilgrimage as “paying a visit to a sacred site outside the boundaries of one’s own physical environment” (Pilgrims and Pilgrimage, xviii). In his work with ancient Israel, Smith describes the “major features of pilgrimage” as including the “sacred journey and arrival to the temple, with the prayers and sacrifices which ensue” (Smith, Pilgrimage Pattern, 16). 25 The distinctions that I draw between the two journeys differ somewhat from Eugene H. Merrill’s analysis of the motifs of exodus and pilgrimage in the prophetic literature. He identifies the two elements of pilgrimage as a “gathering from throughout the earth (not merely from a single place of bondage) and the emphasis on Zion and the temple” (Merrill, “Pilgrimage and Procession,” 262). 26 Keil, Ezra, Nehemiah, and Esther, 25. 27 Josephus, Ant 11.1.3: polloi; ga;r katevmeinan ejn th'/ Babulw'ni, ta; kthvmata katalipei'n ouj qevlonte".

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all to their own towns. They came (wab) with Zerubbabel, Jeshua, Nehemiah” (Ezra 2:1–2).28 But this compendium is actually a list of those who settled in Judah rather than those who returned in this one trip.29 This would explain the surprising absence of Sheshbazzar from the list. Moreover, the number of people included, much larger than the totals of the original deportees (10,000 in 2 Kgs 24:14; 8,000 in 2 Kgs 24:16; and 4,600 in Jer 52:28–30), weighs against seeing it as a list of the first return. Further, the inconsistencies in the list suggest several different sources. The names are first listed by family names (Ezra 2:3–18), then by place-names (Ezra 2:19–28), then by family names again (Ezra 2:29–32), then by place-names again (Ezra 2:33–34), and finally by the family of Senaah (Ezra 2:35). This is the ordering of Kurt Galling;30 other scholars divide the list differently, but the extant and visible seams show that the list is certainly not smooth. This list may have been cobbled together from different registers during 539–538 to 515 (so Wilhelm Rudolph), or from a collection of general names for this period, or a combination of the two (as Lester Grabbe suggests).31 It may also have been originally generated (in any of its forms) for the purpose of taxation or as a list of the “fathers’ houses” (twba tyb) of the civic temple community.32 Regardless of the exact details of any of these scenarios, the list clearly does not catalogue only those who went on the first trek from Babylon to Jerusalem. Heinrich Schneider’s distinction between those who are in the act of returning to Judah and those who have already returned should be maintained.33 I also agree with his claim that the list in Ezra 2 names those who

28 The more original reading of the list in Ezra 2:1–67 is better preserved in the two witnesses of Neh 7:6–69 and 1 Esdras. See Ralph W. Klein, “Old Readings in I Esdras: The List of Returnees from Babylon (Ezra 2 // Nehemiah 7),” HTR 62 (1969): 99–107. 29 This is in distinction to the list of returnees in Ezra 8, entitled “these are the heads of the fathers’ houses, and this is the genealogy of them that went up with me from Babylon.” This is indeed a list of those who made the journey with Ezra. Yet there is not the same potential ideological weight as the list in Ezra 2, because these returnees are not part of the premier group. This list in context is now just that—a list of returnees. It is not a list of the returnees—those who came out of Babylon and constitute the new Israel. In its narrative context, it designates only those who returned with Ezra. 30 Kurt Galling, “The Goµlaµ-List According to Ezra 2//Nehemiah 7,” JBL 70 (1951): 149–58, esp. 152. A revision of the article is found in “Die Liste der aus dem Exil Heimgekehrten,” in Studien zur Geschichte Israels im persischen Zeitalter (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1964), 89–108. 31 Wilhelm Rudolph, Esra und Nehemia (HAT 20; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1949), 7–28. Rudolph considers it a list of returnees, “Die Heimkehrerliste.” Lester L. Grabbe, Ezra-Nehemiah (Old Testament Readings; London/New York: Routledge, 1998), 14. 32 So Joel Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community (trans. Daniel L. Smith-Christopher; JSOTSup 151; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 49–61. 33 As Heinrich Schneider points out, the Heimkehrenden (“those who are coming home”) and the Heimgekehrten (“those who have returned”) must be distinguished—and Ezra 2 is a list of

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eventually returned. It is not a list of those who traveled with the first group to Jerusalem. Since it is from the group that stayed behind in Babylon that subsequent heroes such as Ezra and Nehemiah arose, it is plausible that the author needed to be delicate with regard to this list.34 A list to glorify the first returnees would reflect poorly on those who stayed in Babylon. Yet the leadership of men such as Ezra and Nehemiah in the community of the returnees was not tainted by staying in Babylon after Zerubabbel’s expedition set out for Jerusalem. Those who stayed behind are portrayed sympathetically—they even give gifts to the returnees. This first trek was voluntary, and those who went were not honored above those who stayed behind. Unlike the exodus, this was not a journey that marked the self-identification of a group. In addition, drawing the parallel between entering into a new land, the promised land, and the returns in Ezra is difficult because the land is no longer new and unexplored territory. They return to a land in which they have already settled; they come to Yehud as returnees instead of strangers. Peter R. Ackroyd’s claim that the land is indeed new for the returnees, at least in a spiritual sense, somewhat overstates the point of the text.35 In sum, while both a pilgrimage and an exodus involve a journey of the community, the separate journeys have different emphases and sociological functions. That the return from Babylon was accomplished in a series of journeys rather than a single constitutive one distinguishes it from an exodus. The serial nature of the returns recorded in Ezra, the emphasis on the destination as Jerusalem, and a thick cultic component in the narratives—seen in the stress on worship, cultic personnel, and pilgrimage vocabulary—combine to underscore their identity as pilgrimage.

III. Ezra 1–2 As befits a pilgrimage, Ezra 1–2 emphasizes the destination as a holy place. Unlike in the exodus, where the travelers went to “the land,” Ezra 1–2 specifies the destination as Jerusalem three times (“Whosoever of YHWH’s people . . . let him go up to Jerusalem” [1:3–4]; “All these Sheshbazzar brought up . . . to Jerusalem” [1:11]; “As soon as they came to the house of Y HWH in the latter. Specifically, it is a list of the “‘Einwohner der Provinz’ Juda” (Die Bücher Esra und Nehemia [HAT 4.2; Bonn: Peter Hanstein, 1959], 92). 34 This point is also made by Throntveit, Ezra-Nehemiah, 16. 35 Ackroyd suggests that the author links the two groups as people “at the beginning of a new and this time a spiritual entry into the land” (“The Chronicler as Exegete,” JSOT 2 [1977]: 2–32, esp. 17).

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Jerusalem” [2:68]). In a related way, the chapters emphasize the presence of YHWH in Jerusalem, referring both to YHWH’s location (“he is the God who is in Jerusalem” [1:3]) and to the building of God’s “house” (Ezra 1:2, 3, 4, 5; 2:68 [2x]). Although the text emphasizes that YHWH has the geographical flexibility to influence the decisions of Cyrus in Persia (Ezra 1:1) and that he is “the God of heaven” (1:2), it concomitantly emphasizes YHWH’s unique presence in Jerusalem. The purpose of the journey to Jerusalem in Ezra 1–2 is specifically religious, namely, to worship, which, at this point in the narrative, had to be preceded by rebuilding the temple. According to Cyrus’s edict, YHWH charged the emperor “to build (twnbl) him a house at Jerusalem” (1:2). Accordingly, Cyrus permitted YHWH’s people to go up to the city “and rebuild (@byw) the house of YHWH” (1:3).36 When YHWH stirred up the spirits of the people, it was so that they would “go up to build (twnbl) the house of YHWH in Jerusalem” (1:5). The items that the travelers carry with them also attest to this goal of worship. Not only do they travel with silver, gold, goods, and animals; they also have “freewill offerings” that have been designated specifically “for the house of God in Jerusalem” (1:4, 6). To these offerings, which the returnees take as if by proxy, Cyrus adds the gold and silver temple vessels that Nebuchadnezzer had seized (1:7–11).37 Carrying such items, the travelers are to restore the cult of YHWH in its physical form so that YHWH could again be worshiped in Jerusalem. The account also employs the vocabulary of pilgrimage.38 The predominant verb used to describe the return is hl[.39 The term appears in 1:3 in 36 Here I disagree with Kurt Galling (“Von Naboned zu Darius,” ZDPV 70 [1954]: 4–32, esp. 11–13), who reconstructs two original edicts (one for rebuilding, one for return) which are here consolidated. J. Liver maintains that Cyrus’s decree is primarily related to the building of the temple, with the permission for return only incidental (“The Return from Babylon, Its Time and Scope,” [in Hebrew] EI 5 [1958]: 114–19). In contrast to the memorandum in Ezra 6:3–5, however, the edict in Ezra 1 holds both activities (to go up and to build) as inseparable. 37 The list of vessels is difficult, in terms of both vocabulary and arithmetic. Some of the terms appear nowhere else in the MT, including lfrga and !ypljm. Besides the difficult vocabulary, the number of the vessels is difficult to calculate. The total number of vessels is given in Ezra 1:11 as 5,400, a number that conflicts with the inventory in Ezra 1:9–11. 38 Although ggj/gj is often used in the Hebrew Bible to designate a pilgrimage feast, other terms used to describe journeys to a sacred place are those of travel. There is nothing specifically cultic or ritualistic about these terms, since most appear frequently in the Hebrew Bible and can encompass secular meanings. Nevertheless, some travel terms have a particular use as designators of special journeys to holy sites. This linguistic situation is similar to that of ancient Greek, which had no specific term for pilgrimage. Pilgrims in Greek texts are designated simply as “those going,” “those coming,” the ones who wish “to go, to sacrifice, to seek an oracle and to watch,” “those attending a panegyris,” and “the watchers” (see Dillon, Pilgrims and Pilgrimage, xv–xvi). 39 The term used for the settlement of the people in the land in Ezra 2:1 is bwv.

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Cyrus’s edict (l[yw), in 1:5 in anticipation of the journey (twl[l), and twice in 1:11 in a summary of the event (once applied to the vessels [hl[h] and once to the people [twl[h]).40 This is the verb used to designate travel in the pilgrimage legislation of Exod 34:23–24, “no one shall covet your land when you go up (^tl[b) to appear before YHWH your God three times in the year,” and it describes the journey of Elkanah and his family to Shiloh (1 Sam 1:3, 7, 24). The prophets also use it in their visions of future worship in Jerusalem: in Mic 4:2//Isa 2:3, many nations will say, “Come, let us go up (hl[nw) to the mountain of YHWH.”41 Another verb that is used less frequently to describe the return is awb (wab in Ezra 2:2 and !awbb in 2:68). This term also can have connotations of pilgrimage: it is used in Hezekiah’s declaration that those from Beer-Sheba to Dan are to come (awbl) and keep Passover in Jerusalem (2 Chr 30:5); in Isa 27:13 the prophet envisions a future day when those who are in Assyria or Egypt will come (wab) and worship YHWH in Jerusalem; in 1 Kgs 8:41 = 2 Chr 6:32 it is used to describe a foreigner coming (abw) from a distant land to pray; and in 1 Kgs 14:3, 5 it describes how Jeroboam’s wife left the royal residence to come (tab/hab) to Ahijah of Shiloh.42 In addition to emphasizing the holy destination and purpose and using the 40

Williamson has drawn attention to the possible exodus parallels that Ezra 1:11 may indicate with the use of hl[h (“Composition of Ezra i–iv,” 14–15). See also the article by J. Wijngaards that Williamson cites: “ayxwh and hl[h: A Twofold Approach to the Exodus,” VT 15 (1965): 91–102. Wijngaards notes that the formula hl[h + object (Israel) + “from Egypt” is used forty-one times throughout the Hebrew Bible to refer to the exodus, and that there are several instances where the formula also includes the phrase “to the land” (either $rahAla or hbwf $raAla or similar variations [Gen 50:24; Exod 3:8, 17; cf. Exod 33:1; note also hzh [rh !wqmhAla in Num 20:5]) (pp. 98–99). Thus, the fuller formula, according to the verses that Wijngaards cites, is hl[h + object (Israel) + “from Egypt” (using the prefixed preposition A@m/m) + “to the [or this] land” (using the preposition Ala). Ezra 1:11b does indeed include the first three elements of the formula (with the replacement of “from Egypt” with lbbm), and thus the exodus imagery seems operational. However, there are two differences in the notice of the traveler’s destination: instead of being marked with Ala, it is marked with l; and instead of being designated “the land,” it is the specific site of Jerusalem (the verse reads !l`wryl lbbm hlwgh twl[h). These differences may be considered only minor variations on the exodus formula, but hl[h can also describe the presenting of gifts at the altar on the occasion of a pilgrimage feast (1 Kgs 12:32). 41 The prophecy in Isa 2:3//Mic 4 lacks any reference to the pilgrim’s return home, which may be explained by the passage’s emphasis on the cult site and the journey to it, as well as by the eschatological overtones. For other uses of hl[ in what I would consider to be pilgrimage contexts, see Jer 31:6 and the account of Moses and Joshua going “up (l[yw) into the mountain of God” (Exod 24:13, 15, 18). 42 The term is also used to describe the journey to the place where YHWH is (Deut 31:11; Isa 30:29), where other gods are (Judg 9:46; 1 Sam 5:5; 2 Kgs 10:21 [3x]; 2 Chr 23:17; Ezek 20:29; Hos 9:10), or where a prophet resides (2 Kgs 4:42; Ezek 20:1, 3; cf. Ezek 14:4, 7). In a related way, the H form of awb is used to designate the bringing of sacrifices and offerings to YHWH (Gen 4:3, 4; Num 15:25; Mal 1:13 [2x]), to the priests (Lev 2:2; 5:11, 12; 2 Kgs 12:5 [2x], 10 [2x], 14 [Eng. 12:4, 9, 13]) or into the temple (2 Chr 31:10; 34:9), or into YHWH’s storehouse (Mal 3:10).

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vocabulary of pilgrimage, Ezra 1 also contains a call to pilgrimage. Cyrus’s call to go up to Jerusalem, sent throughout the land via a herald (Ezra 1:1), has no parallel in the exodus material. It is more closely aligned with the calls to pilgrimage in texts such as 1 Sam 11:14, where Samuel entreats the people, “Come, let us go up (hklnw wkl) to Gilgal,” and Isa 2:3, where the people themselves say to one another, “Come, let us go up (hl[nw wkl) to the mountain of YHWH” (note the parallel use of the jussive in Ezra 1:3). In addition, there are several parallels between the call in Ezra 1 and 2 Chr 30, where Hezekiah’s call to the Passover festival in Jerusalem is recorded: “Children of Israel, turn back to YHWH . . . and enter into his sanctuary” (2 Chr 30:6–9). The two calls were issued in both an oral and a written form: “Hezekiah sent word (jlvyw) to all Israel and Judah, and wrote letters (btk twrga) also to Ephraim and Manasseh that they should come to the house of YHWH” (2 Chr 30:1); “Cyrus . . . sent a proclamation (literally, ‘he made a voice pass,’ lwqArb[y) throughout all his kingdom, and also in a written edict (btkmb)” (Ezra 1:1). In addition, like Cyrus’s edict, which was sent via a herald “throughout all his kingdom” (Ezra 1:1), Hezekiah’s call went throughout the land (“from Beer-Sheba to Dan”).43 Finally, like all pilgrims (and in contrast to those in the exodus who leave the place where they are currently living to dwell in another place), the travelers in Ezra 1–2 return home. Instead of returning to Babylon, however, the people return to what could be called their true home—namely, their ancestral towns in Yehud. The text uses the term “town” with a possessive three times to specify the ultimate destination of the travelers after their trip to Jerusalem (wry[l vya, Ezra 2:1; !hyr[b, Ezra 2:70 [2x]). The emphasis on the return home from Jerusalem is even clearer when the final verse of the account is compared to the parallel versions. In Neh 7:72 (Eng. 7:73) and 1 Esdr 5:45 (Eng. 5:46) the term “their towns” is used only once. The account in Ezra 1–2 may retain some exodus imagery. Nonetheless, with its focus on Jerusalem as the destination, its emphasis on worship, its use of pilgrimage vocabulary and expressions, as well as the return home from the worship site, the account pictures the return from Babylon as a pilgrimage as well. Similar aspects of pilgrimage are found in the journey of Ezra and his companions in Ezra 7–8.44 43

Even if the later author/editor of Ezra expanded the original audience intended by the proclamation from a more localized community, as Williamson argues (“Composition of Ezra i–iv,” 9), the parallel between other calls to pilgrimage in the Hebrew Bible remains. When Williamson excludes 2 Chr 30:5–9 as comparable to Cyrus’s edict, his objection is based on content and lack of imperatival form, and concludes that “the Chronicler has merely put a Levitical sermon into the mouths of the king’s messengers.” I would argue that, at least on the basis of their shared purpose (to call a pilgrimage) and in the account of how such an account would be published (in an oral and written form), 2 Chr 30:5–9 remains a valid parallel to Ezra 1:1. 44 The difficulties of dating Ezra’s return to Jerusalem and its relation to that of Nehemiah

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Journal of Biblical Literature IV. Ezra 7–8

Like Ezra 1–2, this account also emphasizes the sacred destination of the travelers. Jerusalem is named as the destination five times (Ezra 7:7, 8, 9, 13; 8:31, and cf. 8:32, where the entire party traveling with Ezra stayed in the city for three days). In addition, the designation of the temple as “the house” (tyb) of YHWH occurs twelve times (Ezra 7:16, 17, 19, 20, 23, 24, 27; 8:17, 25, 30, 33, 36), with the added distinction four times that this house is “in Jerusalem” (Ezra 7:16, 17, 27; 8:30; and cf. the expression in Ezra 7:15: “the God of Israel, whose dwelling [hnkvm] is in Jerusalem”). The group also takes along gifts from their community and the king to be used in the temple: “silver and gold” from the king and his counselors (Ezra 7:15), “silver and gold” from Babylonia, and “freewill offerings” from the people and the priests (Ezra 7:16), which are to be used to buy sacrificial animals and grain and drink offerings to be “offered on the altar” of YHWH in Jerusalem (Ezra 7:17). The group also brings along “vessels (aynam) . . . for the service of the house of your God” (Ezra 7:19). The king declares that additional funds for “whatever else is required for the house of your God” can be acquired from the royal treasury (Ezra 7:20) and instructs the treasurers in the province Beyond the River to give silver, wheat, wine, oil, and salt “for the house of the God of heaven” (Ezra 7:21–23). Similar to the accounting of vessels in Ezra 1, the record of Ezra’s journey also lists an inventory of gold and silver vessels given to them by the king, the political establishment, and the people of Israel (Ezra 8:26–27), which Ezra pronounces “holy” along with the priests who carried them (Ezra 8:28). Although the final verses of the edict command Ezra to appoint magistrates and judges to judge (Ezra 7:25–26), the cultic purpose of his journey is manifest.45 Along with the cultic vessels and emphasis on temple gifts, the presence of cultic personnel is frequently mentioned. The group originally set out with priests, Levites, temple singers, gatekeepers, and temple servants (!ynytnh) (Ezra 7:7). These religious functionaries apparently were not enough. When Ezra realized that there were no Levites among the people who were going up to Jerusalem with him, he sent a special delegation to Iddo at Casiphia, to ask are legendary. It is not clear if it is Artaxerxes I or II who is referred to in the phrase the “seventh year of King Artaxerxes” (7:7). For a survey of the research, see Ulrich Kellermann, “Erwägungen zum Problem der Esradatierung,” ZAW 80 (1968): 55–87; see also Othniel Margalith, “The Political Role of Ezra as Persian Governor,” ZAW 98 (1986): 110–12, for a reconstructed political situation that may have propelled Ezra’s return in 458 B.C.E. 45 So Koch, “Ezra and the Origins of Judaism,” 185: “The main part of the edict of ten verses concerns the house or dwelling of the God who is in Jerusalem, and the equipment for its worship. Therefore the purpose of the march is not the Law and its validity, but the establishment of a permanent and effective worship.”

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for “ministers (!ytrvm)” for the house of God (Ezra 8:17). The delegation was a success, and several families of Levites and 220 temple servants joined the group (Ezra 8:20). In addition, Ezra’s genealogy emphasizes his status as priest (Ezra 7:1–5), and he is specifically designated a priest three times in the account (Ezra 7:11, 12, 21).46 There is a similar use of pilgrimage vocabulary in this account, including the use of hl[ and awb. The author records that Ezra “went up (hl[) from Babylonia” (Ezra 7:6), and the other members of the group also “went up (wyl[)” to Jerusalem (7:7). Ezra “gathered leaders from Israel to go up (twl[l)” with him (7:28) and records, “These are the family heads and the genealogies of those who went up (!yl[h) with me from Babylonia” (8:1). Significantly, the text also refers to “the journey up from Babylon” (lbbm hl[mh, 7:9), using a rare term that in its plural form is found also in the superscription to the “songs of ascents” (twl[mh ryv, Pss 120–134). Less frequently, the term awb is used: “we came (awbnw) to Jerusalem” (Ezra 8:32); “those who had come (!yabh) from captivity” (8:35); the entire group “came (abyw) to Jerusalem” (7:8); and “he came (ab) to Jerusalem” (7:9).47 Finally, as befits a pilgrimage, Ezra’s journey ends with sacrifice. His coterie arrived in Jerusalem, remained for three days (Ezra 8:32), and on the fourth day handed over the gold, silver, and vessels (8:33). Then they sacrificed: “At that time those who returned from captivity, the returned exiles, offered burnt offerings to the God of Israel” (8:35).48 46 The designation of Ezra as priest is seen also in the Nehemiah material. Although the title of “priest [and] scribe” is used for Ezra in Neh 8:9 (rpsh @hkh arz[), there is a textual tradition that Neh 8:1 should read “Ezra the priest” (@hkh arz[) instead of “Ezra the scribe” (Leningrad Codex: rpsh arz[). In the Ezra material, Ezra is portrayed as a lawmaker (Ezra 7:6, 10, 11, 12, 21, 25, 26), yet this law pertains to the cultic sphere just as much as (if not more than) to the secular sphere. The previous references to the “law of Moses” in Ezra (Ezra 3:2 and 6:18) have to do with the cultic protocols regarding the altar, the keeping of the festivals, sacrifice, and priestly duties. 47 Note also the following vocabulary of journey in the account: the Letter of Artaxerxes provides that anyone who volunteers “to go (^hml) to Jerusalem with you may go (^hy)” (Ezra 7:13). ^lh is used to describe Jephthah’s daughter and her companions when they went and mourned on the mountains for two months (Judg 11:37), and when, subsequent to her death, the daughters of Israel would go out regularly to lament her (Judg 11:40). Other examples of the use of this term to describe a journey to a place of worship include Deut 14:25; 26:2; 1 Chr 21:30; 1 Kgs 3:4; Isa 30:29; and Jer 3:6. Examples from outside the Hebrew Bible include the letter from Mari in which Kiru, the daughter of Zimri-Lim, asked her father’s permission to leave her situation to “go” (lu-ul-li-kaam-ma) and sacrifice to the gods of her father (ARM X 113.20-22, quoted by Bernard Frank Batto in Studies on Women at Mari [JHNES; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974], 128). The Letter of Artaxerxes also proclaims to Ezra, “you are sent (jylv) by the king” (Ezra 7:14). 48 Another possible parallel to the exodus in Ezra 7–8 might be the motif of divine protection during the journeys. YHWH’s protection of the journey is a concern in Ezra’s return, and, after the group had fasted and prayed for a “straight way” (hrvy ^rd, Ezra 8:21–23), the narrator announces that “the hand of our God was upon us, and he delivered us from the hand of the enemy and from

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In contrast to these two pilgrimages in Ezra is Nehemiah’s more secular journey to Jerusalem. Although he traveled to a sacred place, the author downplays Jerusalem’s function as a cult center in the account and emphasizes Nehemiah’s extracultic work in the city. Nehemiah goes to Jerusalem not to worship but to rebuild the wall (Neh 1:3; cf. 2:5). In his discussion with the king, the name Jerusalem is never even mentioned; it is designated only as “the city, the place of my ancestors’ graves” (Neh 2:3), and Nehemiah asks to be sent “to Judah, to the city of my ancestors’ graves” (2:5). Further, unlike Ezra, Nehemiah is not designated as a priest. Neither is he accompanied by temple personnel, nor does he carry any cultic vessels or money designated for sacrifice given to him by the king. Instead of gifts to be put to religious uses, the king gives to Nehemiah a letter for Asaph so that Nehemiah can procure timber for gates and the wall (Neh 2:8). When Nehemiah reaches Jerusalem,49 he stays three days and then inspects the walls and gates (Neh 2:11–15), in contrast to the sacrificial acts of Ezra and his party (Ezra 8:32, 35). Throughout his time in Jerusalem, the text never mentions explicitly that Nehemiah went into the temple. The only time Nehemiah is explicitly related to the temple is when Shemaiah invites him to meet there because of threats against Nehemiah’s life. To this invitation Nehemiah responds, “Should a man like me run away? Would a man like me go into the temple to save his life? I will not go in!” (Neh 6:11). In contrast to this journey of Nehemiah, the returns in Ezra are heavily weighted with pilgrimage imagery. The people went up to Jerusalem to rebuild the temple and worship, with their cultic vessels and cultic personnel. In both instances, the journeys were voluntary and partial. Only some of the community went to Jerusalem, and no aspersions are cast on those who stayed behind. This explicit acknowledgment that the return was accomplished in a series of journeys (rather than in a single one participated in by the entire community) ambushes along the way” (8:31). This description may recall YHWH’s presence in the cloud “to lead [the people] along the way (^rdh !tjnl)” and fire for light (!hl ryahl) so that they might be guided out of Egypt during the day and during the night (Exod 13:21; cf. Exod 40:36–38; Num 9:17–23). See Thomas W. Mann, “The Pillar of Cloud in the Reed Sea Narrative,” JBL 90 (1971): 15–30; Mann shows that the pillar of fire and cloud serve as both war palladium and divine guide (note especially Exod 14:24, where YHWH looked down from the pillar of fire and cloud “and threw the Egyptian army into a panic”). See also Thomas W. Mann, Divine Presence and Guidance in Israelite Traditions (JHNES; Baltimore/London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977), 130–39. The motif may, however, simply refer to the divine protection prayed for by most travelers. In Ps 107:4–7, the hungry and thirsty, wandering in desert wastes, cry out to YHWH, who delivers them by leading them “in a straight way” (hrvy ^rdb) to an inhabited town. Pilgrims who are going to God’s dwelling ask that God send out his light and truth so that he might lead the wanderer to God’s holy hill (Ps 43:3). Since there are no explicit linguistic parallels between Ezra 8 and the exodus narratives regarding this motif and the desire for divine protection of travelers is not unusual, it is difficult to construe this as a convincing parallel. 49 The vocabulary of journey is awb (Neh 2:7, 9, 11).

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distinguishes it from the exodus. This aspect of the returns, along with the other points mentioned above, emphasizes the pilgrimage nature of the returns in Ezra.

V. Pilgrimage as a Motif of the Return Detecting a second exodus motif in the accounts of the return to Jerusalem makes a powerful statement about the rebirth of the postexilic community and the power and grace of God. According to Williamson, the motif encourages readers to see the return “as an act of God’s grace that can be compared in its significance with the very birth of the nation of Israel itself.”50 Yet do exodus-based interpretations fully account for the textual data? Given that the identity of the people is of tremendous concern in this period, perhaps the author/editor wanted to sketch more fully the character of this reborn community. If the community has been reborn, what has it become? The motif of pilgrimage may help to provide an answer. By using the motif of pilgrimage to describe the returns, the author can further define the identity of the community. The community has been reborn specifically as a worshiping community, a community that places Jerusalem and its temple at the center of its worship life. The author of Ezra suffuses the text not only with stories about the building of the temple but also with narratives about the keeping of pilgrimage feasts. Immediately after the conclusion of the first group’s return from Babylon and resettlement in their towns (Ezra 2:70), the narrative recounts the departure of the “sons of Israel” from these towns to go and celebrate the festival of Booths (twkshAgj) in Jerusalem (Ezra 3:1–4; cf. Neh 8:13– 18). The text then centers on the rebuilding of the temple and its dedication (Ezra 3–6). Significantly, directly following the ceremony of the dedication of the temple is the celebration of another pilgrimage feast: Passover and the feast of Unleavened Bread (Ezra 6:19–22). At this feast the community is expanded to include “all who had joined them and separated themselves from the pollutions of the nations of the land to worship YHWH, the God of Israel” (Ezra 6:21). Here the text gives a definition of the community that includes not only those who had been exiled to Babylon and had returned but also those who join with the returnees to worship. The act of worship is held up by the author as the true litmus test for inclusion in the community. Recognizing the motif of pilgrimage in the returns in Ezra also gives the text literary coherence and more fully comprehends the historical experience. As a book, Ezra would still fall into two major cycles (Ezra 1–6 and 7–10), but 50

Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, 20.

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instead of each cycle beginning with a “second exodus” (thus raising the problem of having Ezra’s return as a second “second exodus”), the cycles each begin with a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Seeing a series of returns instead of one major one also corresponds to a more accurate historical picture, in which the return occurred as a series of settlement waves back to Yehud. Finally, recognizing the motif of pilgrimage in the returns in Ezra may facilitate further specification of the fulfillment of “the word of YHWH by the mouth of Jeremiah” with which the book opens. Scholars such as Jacob Myers and Avigdor Orr point to this fulfillment, for which YHWH “stirred up” the spirit of Cyrus, in the fall of Babylon and the end of exile (citing Jer 25:11–12 and 29:10).51 Yet, as Williamson notes, such interpretations seem “too generalized.” Williamson himself argues that the fulfillment refers to the time when YHWH “would stir up the spirit of Cyrus . . . [so] that he would order the rebuilding of the temple and the return of the exiles” (and he notes that Jer 51 can be read in light of Isa 41, 44, and 45).52 Moreover, recognition of pilgrimage in Ezra allows an even more direct sense of Jeremiah’s prophecy. In his vision of the future restoration, after the people have been restored and brought back to the land by YHWH, Jeremiah proclaims that a call for pilgrimage will again go out in the land: “For there shall be a day when sentinels will call in the hill country of Ephraim: ‘Come, let us go up (hl[nw) to Zion, to YHWH our God’” (Jer 31:6). Perhaps the author of Ezra took this picture of a nation that makes pilgrimages to Jerusalem and employed it as a motif of going up (hl[n) that would usher in the new age. 51

Myers, Ezra, Nehemiah, 6; Avigdor Orr, “The Seventy Years of Babylon,” VT 6 (1956):

304–6. 52

Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, 9–10.

JBL 123/1 (2004) 75–84

PAUL’S ARGUMENT FROM NATURE FOR THE VEIL IN 1 CORINTHIANS 11:13–15: A TESTICLE INSTEAD OF A HEAD COVERING

TROY W. MARTIN [email protected] St. Xavier University, Chicago, IL 60655

Paul’s notorious argument in 1 Cor 11:2–16 for the veiling of women in public worship is frequently criticized for being logically convoluted and confused.1 Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza expresses the scholarly assessment of Paul’s argument: We are no longer able to decide with certainty which behavior Paul criticizes and which custom he means to introduce in 1 Cor 11:2–16. Traditionally, exegetes have conjectured that Paul was insisting that the pneumatic women leaders wear the veil according to Jewish custom. Yet, v. 15 maintains that women have their hair instead of a head-covering (peribolaivou), and thus militates against such an interpretation. In a very convoluted argument, which can no longer be unraveled completely, Paul adduces several points for “this custom” or hair fashion.2 1 This article interprets Paul’s argument from nature in 1 Cor 11:13–15 against the background of ancient physiology. The Greek and Roman medical texts provide useful information for interpreting not only Paul’s letters but also other NT texts. For other studies that utilize these sources for NT exegesis, see my article “Whose Flesh? What Temptation? (Gal 4.13–14),” JSNT 74 (1999): 65–91, and my forthcoming article “Paul’s Pneumatological Statements and Ancient Medical Texts.” See also Annette Weissenrieder, “The Plague of Uncleanness? The Ancient Illness Construct ‘Issue of Blood’ in Luke 8:43–48,” in The Social Setting of Jesus and the Gospels (ed. Wolfgang Stegemann, Bruce J. Malina, and Gerd Theissen; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 207–22, and her 2001 Heidelberg dissertation, “Krank in Gesellschaft: Krankheitskonstrukte im LukasEvangelium auf dem Hintergrund antiker medizinischer Texte,” which is forthcoming in English from Mohr-Siebeck. Dr. Weissenrieder and I are currently working on a multivolume work entitled Ancient Medical Texts and the New Testament, the purpose of which is to make these texts and their exegetical significance more widely known in the field of NT studies. 2 Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins (New York: Crossroad, 1983), 227–28.

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Similarly, Victor Paul Furnish comments: There is no doubt that Paul also means to provide a theological basis for his instructions about the hairstyle of women who pray or prophesy, but in this case his argument is obscure, at least to modern interpreters, and it may well have seemed unsatisfactory even to the apostle himself. At any rate, in the end he abandons argument altogether by suggesting that if his directives are not followed the Corinthians will be departing from the convention that obtains in other congregations (v. 16).3

Describing Paul’s argument as “bewilderingly difficult,” Marion L. Soards states, “One hopes that the Corinthians had an easier time following Paul’s logic than do modern readers.”4 One may hope, but the scholarly assessment is that neither the Corinthians nor possibly even Paul himself completely comprehended this argument for the veiling of women. While many features of this argument in 1 Cor 11:2–16 require explanation, the argument from nature in vv. 13–15 is particularly problematic.5 The rationale for the natural shame of a man with long hair is obscure (vv. 14–15a). Especially problematic is the statement that a woman’s long hair is given to her instead of a covering (ajnti; peribolaivou) in v. 15b. As traditionally understood, this statement nullifies the previous argument that a woman should wear a covering since her long hair apparently serves that purpose. A satisfactory explanation of this argument from nature should resolve the apparent contradiction and enable this argument to support Paul’s contention that women should wear the veil in public worship. The term peribovlaion in v. 15b provides the key for explaining this argument from nature. This portion of the verse is usually translated, “For her hair is given to her instead of a covering (peribolaivou).” In an influential article, Othoniel Motta argues that peribovlaion here means some type of head covering. Paul Ellingworth and Howard Hatton explain, “The word translated covering is a general word for a garment, possibly one used as an outer covering. Although it does not specify any particular piece of clothing, there seems to be an obvious relation between this verse and the discussion in verses 4 and 5 about a covering for the head.”6 Even though these scholars have identified the 3 Victor Paul Furnish, The Theology of the First Letter to the Corinthians (New Testament Theology; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 77. 4 Marion L. Soards, 1 Corinthians (NIBCNT; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1999), 221, 224. 5 For an analysis of the entire argument, see Troy W. Martin, “Veiled Exhortations Regarding the Veil: Ethos as the Controlling Factor in Moral Persuasion (1 Cor 11:2-16),” forthcoming in the collection of papers from the 2002 Heidelberg Rhetoric Conference. 6 Othoniel Motta, “The Question of the Unveiled Woman (1 Co. 11.2:16),” ExpTim 44 (1933): 139–41; Paul Ellingworth and Howard Hatton, A Translator’s Handbook on Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians (Helps for Translators; London: United Bible Societies, 1985), 221.

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dominant semantic domain of this word, the term peribovlaion has a much broader semantic range. Since peribovlaion is contrasted with hair, which is part of the body, the physiological semantic domain of peribovlaion in 1 Cor 11:15b becomes particularly relevant. Euripides (Herc. fur. 1269) uses peribovlaion in reference to a body part. He casts Hercules as complaining, “After I received [my] bags of flesh, which are the outward signs of puberty, [I received] labors about which I [shall] undertake to say what is necessary” (ejpei; de; sarko;" peribovlai! ejkthsavmhn hJbw'nta, movcqou" ou}" e[tlhn tiv dei' levgein). A dynamic translation of the first clause would be: “After I received my testicles (peribovlaia), which are the outward signs of puberty.” In this text from Euripides, the term peribovlaion refers to a testicle.7 Achilles Tatius (Leuc. Clit. 1.15.2) plays on this meaning of peribovlaion in his erotic description of a garden in which Clitophon seeks an amorous encounter with Leucippe. Achilles Tatius describes the entwinings of the flowers, embracings of the leaves, and intercourses of the fruits (aiJ tw'n petavlwn periplokaiv, tw'n fuvllwn peribolaiv, tw'n karpw'n sumplokaiv). He portrays this erotic garden by allusions to male and female sexual organs. The term periplokaiv alludes to the female hair, the term peribolaiv to the testicles in males, and the term sumplokaiv to the mixing of male and female reproductive fluid in the female. Achilles Tatius’s description of this garden associates female hair and the testicle in males.8 Ancient medical conceptions confirm this association. Hippocratic authors hold that hair is hollow and grows primarily from either male or female reproductive fluid or semen flowing into it and congealing (Hippocrates, Nat. puer. 20).9 Since hollow body parts create a vacuum and attract fluid, hair attracts semen. Appropriately, the term kovmh refers not only to hair but also to the arms or suckers of the cuttlefish (see Maximus of Tyre, Phil. 4.5). Hair grows most prolifically from the head because the brain is the place where the semen is

7 Words in the semantic domain of clothing also occur in the semantic domain of body parts. For example, the hippocratic author of Fleshes (Hippocrates, Carn. 3) likens membranes to tunics (citw'na"). Some may interpret Euripides’ statement as referring to the scrotum, but the plural peribovlaia more likely refers to the testicles rather than the scrotum (o[sch), which is singular. Furthermore, the scrotum is visible from birth, whereas the testicles enlarge and become pronounced at puberty. 8 For other texts that describe erotic gardens, see Erotica Antiqua: Acta of the International Conference on the Ancient Novel (ed. B. P. Reardon; Bangor: ICAN, 1977), 34–35. 9 Émile Littré, Oeuvres completes d’Hippocrate (10 vols.; Paris: J. B. Baillière, 1839–61; repr., Amsterdam, 1961–62), 7.506.23–7.510.17. For a summary of the Hippocratic and Aristotelian conceptions of hair, see Lesley Dean-Jones, Women’s Bodies in Classical Greek Science (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 83–85.

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produced or at least stored (Hippocrates, Genit. 1).10 Hair grows only on the head of prepubescent humans because semen is stored in the brain and the channels of the body have not yet become large enough for reproductive fluid to travel throughout the body (Hippocrates, Nat. puer. 20; Genit. 2).11 At puberty, secondary hair growth in the pubic area marks the movement of reproductive fluid from the brain to the rest of the body (Hippocrates, Nat. puer. 20; Genit. 1).12 Women have less body hair not only because they have less semen but also because their colder bodies do not froth the semen throughout their bodies but reduce semen evaporation at the ends of their hair (Hippocrates, Nat. puer. 20).13 According to these medical authors, men have more hair because they have more semen and their hotter bodies froth this semen more readily throughout their whole bodies (Hippocrates, Nat. puer. 20). The nature (fuvsi") of men is to release or eject the semen.14 During intercourse, semen has to fill all the hollow hairs on its way from the male brain to the genital area (Aristotle, Probl. 893b.10–17). Thus, men have hair growth on their face, chest, and stomach. A man with hair on his back reverses the usual position of intercourse. A man with long hair retains much or all of his semen, and his long hollow hair draws the semen toward his head area but away from his genital area, where it should be ejected. Therefore, 1 Cor 11:14 correctly states that it is a shame for a man to have long hair since the male nature (fuvsi") is to eject rather than retain semen. In contrast, the nature (fuvsi") of women is to draw up the semen and con10 Hippocrates himself may have held a different view, for Galen (Definitiones medicae 439) states, “The seed is secreted, as Plato and Diocles say, from the brain and the spinal marrow, but Praxagoras, Democritus, and Hippocrates too, [say that it is secreted] from the whole of the body” (translated by Philip J. van der Eijk, Diocles of Carystus: A Collection of the Fragments with Translation and Commentary, vol. 1, Text and Translation [Ancient Studies in Medicine 22; Leiden: Brill, 2000], 85). Aristotle (Gen. an. 783b.38–784a.4) affirms the brain as the origin of the reproductive fluid. 11 The author of Airs, Waters, Places (Hippocrates, Aer. 22) states that cutting the vein behind each ear renders a man impotent. This statement assumes that this cutting severs the connection between the brain and the genitals. See also Hippocrates, Genit. 2 and Loc. hom. 3. 12 J. Chadwick and W. N. Mann translate the latter, “This [reproductive] fluid is diffused from the brain into the loins and the whole body, but in particular into the spinal marrow: for passages extend into this from the whole body, which enable the fluid to pass to and from the spinal marrow. Once the sperm has entered the spinal marrow it passes in its course through the veins along the kidneys. . . . From the kidneys it passes via the testicles into the penis” (Hippocratic Writings [New York: Penguin Books, 1978], 317–18). See also Aristotle, Gen. an. 728b.27–29. 13 For texts illustrating the ancient debate of whether women’s bodies were colder or hotter than men’s, see Dale B. Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 230–31. 14 Aristotle, Gen. an. 730a.33–730b.2; 739a.37–739b.3; 765b.7–15; Soranus, Gyn. 1.8 (33).

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geal it into a fetus (Hippocrates, Genit. 5; Nat. puer. 12).15 A woman’s body is simply one huge gland, and the function of glands is to absorb (Hippocrates, Gland. 3).16 The author of Glands writes: In women the substance of the glands is very rarefied [ajraihv-loose textured], just like the rest of their bodies. . . . The male is close-pressed like a thick carpet both in appearance and to the touch. The female, on the other hand, is rarefied [ajraiovn-loose textured] and porous [cau'non] like a flock of wool in appearance and to the touch: it follows that this rarefied and soft tissue does not reject moisture. (Hippocrates, Gland. 16)17

Earlier, this author describes glands with these same descriptive adjectives and likens the glands to wool (Gland. 1). Just as loose-textured, porous glands absorb, so also the loose-textured, porous body of a woman absorbs. This author also writes that glands and hair fulfill similar bodily functions. Just as glands absorb the excess bodily fluid that flows to them, so also hair collects the excess, frothed fluid that rises to the surface (Hippocrates, Gland. 4). What glands do within the body, hair does on the surface of the body. As one large gland designed to absorb male reproductive fluid, a woman’s body is assisted by long hollow hair that increases the suction power of her hollow uterus (Aristotle, Gen an. 739a.37–739b.20). Consequently, another author, Pseudo-Phocylides, appropriately states, “Long hair is not fit for males, but for voluptuous women” (a[rsesin oujk ejpevoike koma'n, clidanai'" de; gunaixivn) (212).18 This conception of hair as part of the female genitalia explains the favorite Hippocratic test for sterility in women.19 A doctor places a scented suppository in a woman’s uterus and examines her mouth the next day to see if he can smell 15 See also Aristotle, Gen. an. 739b.1–20; 765b.15–16; and Soranus, Gyn. 1.8 (33); 1.14 (46); 1.10 (36); 1.12 (43); and 3.13 (47). 16 See also Dean-Jones, Women’s Bodies, 56. Soranus (Gyn, 1.9 [34–35]) states that a woman’s uterus is similar to her whole body. In selecting a female capable of conception, he recommends looking “for a woman whose whole body as well as her uterus is in a normal state. For just as no poor land brings seeds and plants to perfection, but through its own badness even destroys the virtues of the plants and seeds, so the female bodies which are in an abnormal state do not lay hold of the seed ejected into them, but by their own badness compel the latter also to sicken or even to perish” (trans. Owsei Temkin, Soranus’ Gynecology [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1956], 34). 17 Paul Potter, Hippocrates Volume VIII (LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 124–25. 18 P. W. van der Horst, “Pseudo-Phocylides: A New Translation and Introduction,” in OTP 2:581. 19 See Hippocrates, Aph. 5.59; Aristotle, Gen. an. 747a. Soranus (Gyn. 1.9 [35]) rejects the validity of this test not because he rejects the theory on which it is based but because he conceives of “certain invisible ducts” that can conduct the scent upward without being able to conduct the reproductive fluid, which has a greater viscosity.

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the scent of the suppository. If he smells the scent, he diagnoses her as fertile. If he does not smell the scent, he concludes she is sterile because the channels connecting her uterus to her head are blocked. The suction power of her hair cannot draw up the semen through the appropriate channels in her body. The male seed is therefore discharged rather than retained, and the woman cannot conceive. Aristophanes (Eccl. 523–24) plays on this Hippocratic test in the scene where Blepyrus accuses his wife Praxagora of sexual unfaithfulness during her clandestine early-morning excursion. She denies the accusation and invites Blepyrus to test her fidelity by smelling her head to see if she smells of the sweet odor of semen from her head (eij th'/ kefalh'/ o[zw muvrou).20 Blepyrus doubts the veracity of the test by inferring that a woman can engage in intercourse without scent. Praxagora’s response admits that some women can have intercourse without the scent of semen from the head but she cannot. Of course, an infertile woman could because the scent of semen would not be drawn to her head but a fertile woman could not. Fertile women who engage in illicit intercourse eat garlic to mask the scent (Aristophanes, Thesm. 492–94). Praxagora affirms both her fertility and her fidelity by inviting Blepyrus to smell her head.21 This conception of hair as part of the female genitalia also explains one of Soranus’s signs of conception. He uses the adjective frikwvdh" to describe the

20 Stephen Halliwell translates Praxagora’s test as “Why, smell my hair for trace of scent,” and Blepyrus’s response as “What? Can’t a woman be fucked without some scent?” (Aristophanes: Birds, Lysistrata, Assembly-Women, Wealth: A New Verse Translation with Introductions and Notes [Oxford: Clarendon, 1997], 173). Aristophanes (Lys. 937–47) plays on the double meaning of muvron as the scent of perfume and of semen in the exchange between Myrrhine and Kinesias, who is pressuring her to satisfy his erection. She stalls by claiming that they need perfume (muvron) and asks, “Do you wish that I should perfume (murivsw) you?” He protests with an oath since he should perfume her in the act of intercourse rather than the other way around. He then interjects, “O that the perfume (muvron), Master Zeus, might stream out!” Of course, Kinesias refers to his desired ejaculation. Finally, he curses the man who first refined (eJyhvsa") perfume (muvron). The verb e{yw means to boil and refers to the bodily function of frothing bodily fluids. Hence, it often means to nurse, for milk is frothed blood. Semen is also frothed blood, and this verb refers both to the refining of perfume with fire and to the frothing of semen in the male body. Throughout the exchange, therefore, Aristophanes plays on the double meaning of muvron as both perfume and semen. See also Plato (Resp. 398a), who stipulates that an effeminate bard (Resp. 395d) be sent away from the ideal city after having myrrh poured down his head and after being crowned with fillets of wool. Both of these actions symbolize the effeminateness of the bard. 21 R. G. Ussher explains this test from the common practice of a woman’s perfuming before intercourse (Aristophanes Ecclesiazusae: Edited with Introduction and Commentary [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973], 148). Perfuming, however, explains neither Praxagora’s confidence in the test nor her invitation to smell her head rather than other parts of her body that would have been perfumed. In contrast, the Hippocratic test explains both of these features of the scene.

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sensation a woman feels when she conceives after coitus (Gyn. 1.12).22 Owsei Temkin translates that she is conscious of “a shivering sensation,” while James Ricci explains that she “feels erection of the hair on the skin.”23 Soranus’s connection of conception with the physiological experience of a chill often accompanied by erection of hair on the skin relates the hair to a woman’s reproductive processes, and one Hippocratic author recommends that a woman neither bathe nor get her hair wet after coitus if she wants to retain the semen (Hippocrates, Mul. 1.11).24 This conception of hair probably explains the frequent depilation of women’s pubic hair.25 Although sometimes inflicted on male adulterers, depilation of the pubes is common among Greco-Roman women and enhances their attractiveness to males.26 Plucking, singeing, and applying caustic resins are the means of removing the hair, but singeing is the most effective in enhancing fertility.27 In Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae (13), Praxagora praises the lamp for singeing the flowering hair. Vase paintings depict women engaged in singeing the pubes, and to infiltrate secretly the Thesmophoria and appear as a woman, Mnesilochus submits to the depilation of his pubes by singeing.28 Bettina Eva Stumpp surmises that the practice originally served a hygienic and then an aesthetic purpose before becoming the dominant fashion.29 Depilation serves a 22

See also Hippocrates, Carn. 19. Temkin, Soranus’ Gynecology, 43; James V. Ricci, The Genealogy of Gynaecology: History of the Development of Gynaecology throughout the Ages 2000 B.C.–1800 A.D. (2nd ed.; Philadelphia: Blakiston Company, 1950), 118. The role of the woman is to cool the hot male semen and congeal it into a fetus. The sensation of a chill, therefore, indicates that conception has occurred. Since erection of body hair is a physiological response to a chill, Ricci appropriately identifies this response as one of Soranus’s signs of conception and appropriately indicates that hair plays an important role in the female reproductive system. 24 See Martin, Corinthian Body, 237–38. 25 See W. A. Krenkel, “Me tua forma capit,” WZ Rostock 33, no. 9 (1984): 72–75; K. J. Dover, Greek Homosexuality: Updated and with a New Postscript (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), 105–6, 117; Ussher, Aristophanes, 73; Bettina Eva Stumpp, Prostitution in der römischen Antike (Antike in der Moderne; 2nd ed.; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1998), 106–7; and Gerd Hagenow, “Kosmetische Extravaganzen (Martial Epigramm III. 74),” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie n.F. 115 (1972): 48–59. 26 For depilation as the punishment for adulterous males, see Aristophanes, Nub. 1083. N. M. Kay comments, “Depilation of the pubic area of males is not commonly attested” (Ausonius: Epigrams: Text with Introduction and Commentary [London: Duckworth, 2001], 261). He notes, however, that Ausonius “deals with the subject of male depilation being an indication of passive homosexuality” (p. 260). For male attraction to a depilated feminine pudendum, see Halliwell, who explains, “The practice was meant to please male preferences for visible, youthful pudenda” (Aristophanes, 268). See also Stumpp, Prostitution, 107. 27 Krenkel, “Me tua forma capit,” 74–75. 28 J. D. Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters (Oxford: Clarendon,1942), 218; Aristophanes, Thes. 216, 236–48. 29 Stumpp, Prostitution, 106. 23

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hygienic purpose by removing the pubic hair and destroying its power to draw reproductive fluid to the genital area. In contrast to plucking the hair, singeing seals the opening in the hair and more effectively removes the suction power of the pubes. Thus, depilation of the pubes and especially depilation by singeing enhances female fertility by removing the pubic counterforce to the upward draw of the hair on the head, and postmenopausal women cease or should cease depilating the pubes (Martial, Epigram 10.90). Finally, this conception of hair explains why prepubescent girls were not required to wear the veil whereas adult women were. Before puberty, a girl’s hair is not a functioning genital and does not differ from a boy’s hair. After puberty, however, this situation changes. Tertullian draws an analogy between prepubescent children and Adam and Eve, who were naked before they became aware of genital differentiation. Afterwards though, Tertullian notes, “They each marked the intelligence of their own sex by a covering” (Virg. 11 [ANF 4:34]). Noting the growth of the pubes to cover the female pudendum, Tertullian exhorts, “Let her whose lower parts are not bare have her upper likewise covered” (Virg. 12 [ANF 4:35]). Tertullian’s analogy and exhortation presume that hair becomes a functioning part of a young woman’s genitalia at puberty similar to the way testicles begin functioning at puberty as part of the male genitalia in facilitating the dissemination of semen.30 Prepubescent girls, therefore, need not cover their hair, but pubescent young women should, and Tertullian recommends that the extent of the veil be “co-extensive with the space covered by the hair when unbound” (Virg. 17 [ANF 4:37]). The masculine functional counterpart to long feminine hair, then, is the testicle.31 Aristotle calls the male testicles weights that keep the seminal chan30 In contrast to pubescent girls, who began to cover their hair, pubescent boys cut their hair as a rite of passage. In his life of Theseus, Plutarch describes a custom at Delphi of youths’ sacrificing their hair when they reach puberty (Thes. 5.1; Bernadotte Perrin, Plutarch’s Lives with an English Translation by Bernadotte Perrin [LCL; 11 vols.; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967], 1.11). He writes, “Since it was still a custom at that time for youth who were coming of age to go to Delphi and sacrifice some of their hair to the god, Theseus went to Delphi for this purpose.” The custom evidently involved the shaving of the head, because Theseus only shaved the front part of his head, and his action was considered so unusual that this hairstyle or tonsure became known as Theseis. The physiological reason Theseus shaved only the front part of his head is that the brain, which produces and stores the semen, is located there. See Aristotle, Gen. an. 783b.38–784a.4). This rite probably had several meanings. From a physiological perspective, however, the hair that had attracted the reproductive fluid upward before puberty is shaved as the testicles develop and begin to attract this fluid downward in pubescent boys. 31 The Greek term o[rci" refers both to male testicles and female ovaries. However, ancient medical science did not ascribe a corresponding reproductive function to testicles and ovaries. The testicles served as receptacles for reproductive fluid and performed the final frothing to transmit the heat that carried the form of the individual. The Hippocratics, however, do not ascribe such a function to ovaries. Their flat shape was not conducive to attracting reproductive fluid. Dean-Jones

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nels taut (Gen. an. 717a.30–717b.5). Their function is to facilitate the drawing of semen downward so it can be ejected. Without them, the seminal channels draw up inside the body, and the male becomes unable to dispense semen into the female. The female is not given such weights but instead develops a hollow uterus and appropriate vessels to draw the semen upward (Gen. an. 739a.37– 739b.20).32 Thus, testicles do not develop at puberty for females as they do for males. Long feminine hair assists the uterus in drawing semen upward and inward; masculine testicles, which are connected to the brain by two channels, facilitate the drawing of semen downward and outward (Hippocrates, Loc. hom. 3). Long hair is a glory for the female fuvsi" but a shame for the male fuvsi" as Paul correctly states in 1 Cor 11:14–15a. This ancient physiological conception of hair indicates that Paul’s argument from nature in 1 Cor 11:13–15 contrasts long hair in women with testicles in men. Paul states that appropriate to her nature, a woman is not given an external testicle (peribovlaion, 1 Cor 11:15b) but rather hair instead. Paul states that long hollow hair on a woman’s head is her glory (dovxa, 1 Cor 11:15) because it enhances her female fuvsi", which is to draw in and retain semen. Since female hair is part of the female genitalia, Paul asks the Corinthians to judge for themselves whether it is proper for a woman to display her genitalia when praying to God (1 Cor 11:13). Informed by the Jewish tradition, which strictly forbids display of genitalia when engaged in God’s service, Paul’s argument from nature cogently supports a woman’s covering her head when praying or prophesying. In Isa 6:2, the seraphim who participate in the divine liturgy have six wings. Two are for flying, two cover the face for reverence, and two cover the feet for modesty. The term feet euphemistically refers to the genitals of the seraphim.33 The priests in Yahweh’s service receive special instructions for approaching the altar so that their nakedness is not exposed (Exod 20:26). As a further precaution when entering comments, “Nor did they [the Hippocratics] feel it necessary to discover a female analogy to the testicles. In both sexes, they believed that the seed was drawn either from all over the body at the time of conception or from a reservoir in the head. Although both sexes supplied seed it was accepted without question that they differed in reproductive anatomy. Moreover, the Hippocratics were not compiling an anatomy for its own sake and their models of disease and procreation in women worked well for them without having to invoke two small organs which had only been seen in quadrupeds and whose function was not immediately apparent” (Women’s Bodies, 68). 32 The Hippocratic author of Ancient Medicine (Hippocrates, Vet. med. 22) describes the shape of the uterus as designed for the attraction of fluids. See Dean-Jones, Women’s Bodies, 65–67. Soranus lists one of the initial signs of conception as the lack of moisture in the vagina because “the whole of the moisture [reproductive fluid] its greater part having been directed upward” (see Temkin, Soranus’ Gynecology, 43–44). 33 Marvin H. Pope, “Bible, Euphemism and Dysphemism in the,” ABD 1:721. See Ronald A. Veenker, “Forbidden Fruit: Ancient Near Eastern Sexual Metaphors,” HUCA 70–71 (1999–2000): 57–73.

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the tent of meeting or approaching the altar, these priests wear “linen breeches from the loins to the thighs to cover their naked flesh” (Exod 28:42–43 RSV). Again, “flesh,” a euphemism, refers to the genitals (Lev 15:2, 19; Ezek 16:26; 23:20). These breeches are for the glory and beauty of the priest (Exod 28:40), while exposure of the genitals subjects the priest to guilt and death (Exod 28:43). Informed by this tradition, Paul appropriately instructs women in the service of God to cover their hair since it is part of the female genitalia. According to Paul’s argument, women may pray or prophesy in public worship along with men but only when both are decently attired.34 Even though no contemporary person would agree with the physiological conceptions informing Paul’s argument from nature for the veiling of women, everyone would agree with his conclusion prohibiting the display of genitalia in public worship. Since the physiological conceptions of the body have changed, however, no physiological reason remains for continuing the practice of covering women’s heads in public worship, and many Christian communities reasonably abandon this practice. Confusing a testicle with a head covering will render even the deftest of arguments “convoluted” and prevent anyone from being “able to decide with certainty which behavior” the argument reproaches or recommends. The problem with Paul’s argument from nature for the veiling of women in public worship arises not from Paul’s convoluted logic or flawed argumentation but from the philological confusion of modern interpreters who fail to understand the ancient physiological conception of hair (kovmh) and confuse a testicle (peribovlaion) with a head covering. Ancient philology and physiology demonstrate that both Paul and the Corinthians probably comprehended quite well this cogent argument from nature for the veiling of women. 34

Thus, Annie Jaubert, among others, argues that the covering signified decency and honor rather than subordination (“Le voile des femmes [I Cor. XI.2-16],” NTS 18 [1971–72]: 425–28), but see Troels Engberg-Pedersen, “1 Corinthians 11:16 and the Character of Pauline Exhortation,” JBL 110 (1991): 681–82 n. 9.

JBL 123/1 (2004) 85–97

PAUL’S MASCULINITY

JENNIFER LARSON [email protected] Kent State University, Kent, OH 44242

Paul’s letters to the Corinthians show that his opponents in Corinth made a number of specific criticisms of his physical appearance and character. Scholars have examined in detail the social context of these charges.1 When we view the criticisms against the background of Greco-Roman social conventions in the first century, we can see how Paul’s opponents were able to use the prejudices of the time against him: physical unattractiveness or disability detracted from one’s ability to lead and persuade others, as did indicators of low social status such as a lack of education or participation in manual labor. In their invective against Paul, the opponents conformed to widely recognized rhetorical strategies, tactics with which first-century Corinthian audiences must have been quite familiar.2 For all the attention to the historical setting of these charges, one aspect of 1 After this article was accepted, I became aware of J. Albert Harrill, “Invective against Paul (2 Cor 10.10), the Physiognomics of the Ancient Slave Body, and the Greco-Roman Rhetoric of Manhood,” in Antiquity and Humanity: Essays on Ancient Religion and Philosophy Presented to Hans Dieter Betz on His 70th Birthday (ed. Adela Yarbro Collins and Margaret M. Mitchell; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2001), 189–213, which draws some of the same conclusions. While Harrill, like Peter Marshall (n. 3 below), concludes that the Corinthian opponents use the rhetoric of physiognomy to portray Paul as servile, I make the complementary argument that cultural assumptions about gender were basic to their attack and to Paul’s response. I would like to thank Adam Porter of Illinois College and the anonymous referees of JBL for their comments and suggestions. 2 On the Corinthians as consumers of rhetorical performances, see Maud Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 8–20; Timothy B. Savage, Power through Weakness: Paul’s Understanding of the Christian Ministry in 2 Corinthians (Cambridge/New York/Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 71; Bruce Winter, Philo and Paul among the Sophists (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 116–49, 204. The rhetoric of accusation used by Paul’s opponents was first pointed out by Hans Dieter Betz, who locates the dispute in the context of contemporary debates between sophists and Socratic/Cynic philosophers (Der Apostel Paulus und die sokratische Tradition: Eine exegetische Untersuchung zu seiner “Apologie” 2 Korinther 10–13 [BHT 45; Tübingen: MohrSiebeck, 1972], 44–69).

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the opponents’ invective has been neglected: how the criticisms of Paul engaged cultural expectations about manliness and its relationship to authority. For this discussion, I will focus primarily on 2 Cor 10–13, where Paul most often seems to quote from or allude to his detractors’ criticisms. I take it as reasonably well established that the opponents he refers to in this section of 2 Corinthians were hellenized Jews who themselves possessed some rhetorical education. They and Paul were functioning within a context of Greco-Roman social values and expectations acknowledged by both sides.3 Recent investigations into perceptions of gender in the Greco-Roman world have shown that masculinity was viewed as an attribute only partially related to an individual’s anatomical sex. Whereas breasts and womb ensured that their possessor would be viewed as essentially feminine, the same was not true for anatomical males.4 Because masculinity was all but identified with social and political dominance, there was no assumption that all males must be masculine. The masculinity of slaves, for example, was by definition impaired.5 Personal dignity, bodily integrity, and specific details of one’s appearance were all factors in individual self-assessment and in men’s evaluation of one another’s masculinity. Elite men of the day were constantly concerned with the maintenance of their masculinity, because it both displayed and justified their positions of power. Unlike noble birth, which was immutable, masculinity was a matter of perception. While elites always represented their masculinity to out3 For the view that the opponents are hellenized and/or partake of Greco-Roman rhetorical standards, see Dieter Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 315–19; Peter Marshall, Enmity in Corinth: Social Conventions in Paul’s Relations with the Corinthians (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1987), 398–99; Dale B. Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1995), 53; Savage, Power through Weakness, 71; Winter, Philo and Paul, 235–36. For Paul’s education and rhetorical training, see Christopher Forbes, “Comparison, Self-Praise, and Irony: Paul’s Boasting and the Conventions of Hellenistic Rhetoric,” NTS 32 (1986): 22–24; Marshall, Enmity in Corinth, 181; Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 67–77; George A. Kennedy, A New History of Classical Rhetoric (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 258; Martin, Corinthian Body, 51–68; Stanley E. Porter, “Paul of Tarsus and His Letters,” in Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period 330 BC–AD 400 (ed. Stanley E. Porter; Leiden/New York: Brill, 1997), 533–38; Winter, Philo and Paul, 237–41. 4 Gleason, Making Men, 58–60. For detailed discussion of the premodern “one sex model” according to which women were viewed as underdeveloped males, see Thomas Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), 1–62; Martin Corinthian Body, 29–37, 198–249. 5 On the relations of gender and power in Rome, see Amy Richlin, The Garden of Priapus: Sexuality and Aggression in Roman Humor (rev. ed.; New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), xiii–xxxiii; Sandra Joshel, “The Body Female and the Body Politic: Livy’s Lucretia and Verginia,” in Pornography and Representation in Greece and Rome (ed. Amy Richlin; New York/ Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 120–26, 130 n. 8. On the incompatibility of slavery and traditionally constructed masculinity, see nn. 23, 28 below.

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siders as innate, among insiders it was implicitly recognized that masculinity was a performance requiring constant practice and vigilance.6

I. The Corinthians’ Criticisms The criticisms of Paul can be divided into two main categories. First, there are attacks on his physical appearance and skills as a speaker, both aspects of his rhetorical performance. Second, there are attacks on his personal character, as revealed in the charges of personal inconsistency or vacillation, accommodation or being overly eager to please, engaging in manual labor rather than accepting financial support, and so on. Paul as Public Speaker In 2 Cor 10:10, Paul directly quotes his detractor(s): o{ti aiJ ejpistolai; mevn, fhsivn, barei'ai kai; ijscuraiv, hJ de; parousiva tou' swvmato" ajsqenh;" kai; oJ lovgo" ejxouqenhmevno", “For his letters, they say, are weighty and strong, but his bodily presence is weak, and his speech is of no account.”7 Critical to understanding Paul’s relationship to the Corinthians is the crucial relationship of rhetorical performance to what we might call the performance of gender. Maud Gleason’s recent work has shown that rhetorical skills were inextricably tied to virility and manhood. Any man who aspired to a position of leadership in the first-century Roman world would have been subject to an almost continuous evaluation of his virility by his auditors and rivals. The sophists of Roman Corinth, in particular, were noted for their arrogance and intense rivalries.8 In 2 Cor 10:10, Paul’s opponents called into question his skills as a public speaker, which was a recognized gambit among oratorical adversaries. Today, when much less value is placed on public speaking skills than in the past, it is difficult to imagine how minutely speakers were scrutinized and their performances judged by both audience and rivals. Proper tone of voice, posture, gestures, dress, personal adornment, and other less concrete qualities were routinely cited by professionals as requirements for success. We have good reason to believe that Corinthians of the first century, even those with a lesser education, would have been experienced with regard to the evaluation of speakers. Whereas the finer points of stylistics might be lost on those with less education, 6 On the performance of masculinity in the early empire, see Gleason, Making Men, chs. 4–6; Erik Gunderson, Staging Masculinity: The Rhetoric of Performance in the Roman World (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000), 59–110. 7 Grammar also permits the alternative translation “he says” for fhsivn, which would imply a single critic. 8 See Dio Chrys. Or. 8.9, with discussion in Winter, Philo and Paul, 126–32.

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the personal bearing of a speaker, the strength and richness of his voice, and his gestures were open to judgment by all. Cicero’s description of “the perfect orator” (Or. Brut. 18.59) gives some idea of how public speaking skills were tied to masculinity: He will maintain an erect and lofty carriage, but with little pacing, and never for a long distance. As for darting forward, he will keep it under control and use it seldom. There should be no effeminate bending of the neck (mollitia cervicum), no waggling of the fingers, or marking of the rhythm. Rather, he will control himself (se ipse moderans) by the pose of his whole torso, and by the manly attitude of his body (virili laterum flexione) . . . .

Because performance as a speaker was also gender performance, deficiency in presentation created an opening for a speaker’s rivals to denounce him as “effeminate” (mollior)—even a man’s chosen word order could be so criticized.9 Cicero himself suffered this fate at the hands of his opponents. Calvus, one of the Atticists who prided themselves on their masculine severity and strength, described Cicero as “limp and enervated” (solutum et enervem) while Brutus derided him as “subdued and feeble in the loins” (fractum et elumbem).10 Here rhetorical performance is explicitly evaluated in terms of male sexual vigor. But virtually any criticism of a man’s mode of public speech could indirectly impugn his masculinity. In this case, Paul’s “bodily presence” is described as “weak” (ajsqenhv"). Exactly what was intended by this choice of words is unclear, since the expression parousiva tou' swvmato" (“bodily presence”) was not in regular use before Paul’s time.11 It could refer to the overall impression received by onlookers: Was this man forceful and authoritative? Did he command attention? Ancient orators were thought to dominate and 9 Sen. Controversiae 2, pref. 1; see also Sen. Ep.114, “On style as a mirror of character,” in which Seneca argues that physical appearance and speaking style were indexes of masculine (upright) or degenerate (feminine) character. 10 Tac. Dial. 18.5; cf. Plut. Cic. 18.1–4; Dio Cass. 46.18.4–6. 11 Winter argues that the closest equivalent in the technical rhetorical vocabulary was hypokrisis, “delivery,” which encompassed various aspects of ex tempore performance including personal appearance and voice (Philo and Paul, 208–11). The expression parousiva tou' swvmato" was later used by church fathers, e.g., Chrysostom (Anom. 48.802.18), who says that some people aid the church with money, but others through their bodily presence and zeal. Savage gives a list of scholarly interpretations of the “presence” criticism and concludes that “[Paul] is being faulted for his failure to impose himself violently upon the church, and specifically, to mete out punishment and discipline” (Power through Weakness, 64–69). On the importance of apostolic “presence” and the ways in which letters could substitute for physical presence, see Robert W. Funk, “The Apostolic parousia: Form and Significance,” in Christian History and Interpretation: Studies Presented to John Knox (ed. William R. Farmer, C. F. D. Moule, and Richard R. Niebuhr; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 249–68; Richard Ward, “Pauline Voice and Presence as Strategic Communication,” SBL Seminar Papers, 1990 (SBLSP 29; Atlanta: Scholars Press 1990), 283–92.

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master their audiences, so one who lacked a forceful self-representation could be described as “weak.” Another possibility, not mutually exclusive of the first, is that the reference is to actual physical disability, puniness, or weakness. According to Dale Martin, Paul’s opponents are criticizing him in 2 Cor 10:10 for “a lack of consistency in his self-presentation.” Paul is violating the standards of rhetoric because one’s letters are supposed to serve as a substitute for one’s physical presence. A well-written letter should accurately portray the sender, but Paul’s letters are weighty and strong, whereas in person he seems weak and unimpressive.12 Yet the mere observation that Paul’s demeanor in person and the tone of his letters do not match is a relatively tame criticism. Paul is being criticized as much for deficiencies in his personal appearance and speaking skills as for inconsistency. The opponents are not suggesting that Paul would do better to make his letters consistent with his personal presence or vice versa; they are insisting that Paul’s personal presence itself is ineffective, and that the contrast between his communications by letter and those in person magnifies the problem. Contrast the description of Paul’s performance as “weak” and “of no account” with Seneca’s description of an orator whom he greatly admired, Cassius Severus (Seneca Controversiae 3, pref. 2–3). His oratory was strong (valens), polished, full of vigorous ideas. No one was in more complete control of the emotions of his audience. His body was remarkably large; his voice extremely strong (valentissima), yet sweet. He possessed a style of delivery that would have made any actor’s reputation, without being at all reminiscent of an actor (i.e., effeminate). Seneca comments that Cassius Severus was far more impressive in person than when read, noting that this is true for most public speakers. In the cases of both Severus and Paul, there was a discrepancy between the effects of written and oral communication. In Paul’s case this was viewed as a problem, whereas in Severus’s case it was not. Paul’s opponents criticize his speech (lovgo") as contemptible or of no account (ejxouqenhmevno") (2 Cor 10:10).13 By “speech,” do they refer to style or to content? In view of the way in which the sources on rhetoric and physiognomy consistently view both physical appearance and the sound of the voice as dual requirements for success as a public speaker, it seems that the opponents are referring to a lack of properly impressive (i.e., masculine) deportment in the way Paul both looks (bodily presence) and sounds (speech). Speech played a crucial role in the performance of gender. Gleason cites an astonishing array 12 Martin (Corinthian Body, 53) cites Demetr. Eloc. 4.227, which says that a good letter provides “glimpses of character” (to; hjqikovn). 13 In 2 Cor 11:6 Paul allows that he may be an amateur (ijdiwvth") at public speaking, but defends his knowledge (gnw'si"). This passage too may reflect charges by the opponents that Paul lacked formal rhetorical training or was simply a poor speaker.

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of examples in which a man’s voice is thought to betray his deficiencies in masculinity. A soft (mollis) or high-pitched voice could seriously damage a speaker’s chances of success, and voice training was considered a necessary form of exercise not only for improvement and maintenance of one’s speech but for general health. Male health, closely linked with masculinity, depended on the circulation of pneuma, a vital substance taken in through breathing and through the pores of the body. Speaking in low tones aided in the distribution of pneuma, while using a high-pitched voice constricted the pneuma. For this reason, men were cautioned to limit vocal exercises in which the pitch was progressively changed (as in piano scales).14 Likewise, the “weaker” voices of children, women, and eunuchs, as well as ill persons, were attributed to a deficiency of pneuma. Aristotle, Cicero, and Plutarch bear witness to the fact that a low, deep voice was thought to reflect a man’s nobility or dignity.15 Simplistic, ad hominem attacks on an opponent seem shocking and unworthy to the modern reader. Our cultural standards of argumentation do not permit us to attack an opponent on the grounds that he stutters, or has a tic in his eye, or because he is a poor excuse for a man with a high girlish voice. Yet these kinds of arguments were not at all unusual in antiquity and judging by their popularity, they seem to have carried weight with audiences. A common forensic strategy was to attack the rival’s right to speak at all, rather than the content of his speech. In both Greek and Roman settings, the right to speak in public was dependent on one’s recognized masculine status. A man who renounced his masculinity by participating in passive sexual acts, dressing as a woman, or the like could lose his political rights, including the right of public speech. Therefore, an opponent might try to impugn his rival’s masculinity by accusing him of gender deviance.16 14 Gleason, Making Men, 82–102. See, e.g., Plut. Cic. 3.5, where Cicero’s friends are described as concerned for his health because his vehemence led him to speak in too high a voice. For voice quality, see also E. C. Evans, “Physiognomics in the Ancient World,” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 59, no. 5 (1969): 40–41. 15 For weak voices attributed to women, eunuchs, and the ill, see Quint. Inst. 11.3.19; Oribasius “On Healthy Declamation” 6.10.10 (text and French translation in vol. 1 of Charles Daremberg, ed., Oeuvres d’Oribase [6 vols; Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1851–76], 452–64). For deep voices, see Arist. Gen. an. 787A (a deep voice is a mark of a “nobler nature” and deepness is a form of superiority), Eth. nic. 1125a 34; Cic. Or. 17.56; Plut. Mor. 780a. On pneuma, see also Martin, Corinthian Body, 168–74. 16 See, e.g., Sen. Contr. 5.6, which quotes the law that “an unchaste (impudicus) man shall be barred from speaking in public.” The case cited concerns a youth who went out in public dressed as a woman, was raped, and was subsequently barred by a magistrate from speaking. See Stanley F. Bonner, Roman Declamation in the Late Republic and Early Empire (1949; repr., Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1967), 105. For other examples of attacks on masculinity in Roman rhetoric, see Richlin, Garden of Priapus, 81–104; Harrill, “Invective against Paul,” 201–9. The Greek orator Aeschines often accused his opponents and their associates of being kivnaidoi, or pathics, as a way

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I am not suggesting that Paul’s opponents explicitly accused him of sexual deviance or even effeminacy, but instead that their attacks must be understood in terms of a cultural context that held authority, rhetorical skill, and masculinity to be almost synonymous. To attack one was to attack the others. By questioning Paul’s rhetorical skills in terms of his lack of personal gravitas, opponents questioned his ability, and right, to lead. Paul’s Personal Character Several charges are subsumed under this heading, but all have in common the suspicion that Paul is deficient in the masculine virtues or has willingly allowed his masculine autonomy to be abrogated. The essence of the GrecoRoman concept of masculinity was that a “real” man does not cede power or control to another, as slaves and women do. As traditionally constructed, masculinity was closely tied to the concepts of personal freedom and power over others and was incompatible with Paul’s concept of “willing slavery” in Christ.17 A number of passages in Paul’s letters suggest that he was criticized for vacillation or inconsistent behavior. In 2 Cor 1:17–18, he discusses the charges that he is unreliable in his travel plans (th'/ ejlafriva/ ejcrhsavmhn) and denies that he “says both yes and no” (oJ lovgo" hjmw'n oJ pro;" uJma'" oujk e[sti nai; kai; ou[). The quality of “lightness” (ejlafriva, Lat. levitas) was the opposite of the masculine virtue of weightiness or dignity, gravitas. In terms of character, it described an individual who was fickle, unsteady, unreliable, or changeable.18 In traditional gender ideology, women’s fickle character justified male oversight and control. According to the second-century legal expert Gaius (Inst. 1.144), “the ancients desired women to be in tutelage because of their lightness of mind.” As I discussed above, the difference between Paul’s demeanor in his letters and in person drew negative attention from his critics. This is another form of inconsistency, but at the core of the rivals’ critique is not a strictly rhetorical of delegitimizing their right to bring suits and to speak in public (Aeschin. Fals. leg. 88.6; 99.5; 151.4; Tim. 131.4; 181.10). See also John Winkler, “Laying Down the Law: The Oversight of Men’s Sexual Behavior in Classical Athens,” in Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World (ed. D. Halperin, J. Winkler, and F. Zeitlin; Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990), 171–209. Cf. Plut. Mor. 88c, where kivnaido" and malakov" (effeminate) are mentioned as common terms of attack. 17 On the relations in antiquity between manliness, power, and freedom, see Michel Foucault, The Use of Pleasure, volume 2 of The History of Sexuality (trans. R. Hurley; New York: Pantheon Books, 1985), 78–86. 18 For the metaphorical meaning of ejlafrov", see LSJ, s.v. In his essay On Listening to Lectures (Mor. 44c), Plutarch describes the overeager audience member as “light minded (ejlafrov") and flighty (ojrnewvdh").” Other spectators may conclude that this individual is a flatterer. In Mor. 752e, ejlafrav is used approvingly to describe the desired quality of passivity in a wife, as opposed to a tendency to domineer.

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point. Instead, the implication is that Paul is too cowardly to exert discipline over his congregation. He does not back up his weighty words with deeds. Their criticism seems to be echoed indignantly by Paul in 2 Cor 10:1: “I who am submissive (tapeinov") when face to face with you, but bold toward you when I am away.” The word tapeinov" is a status term often used to describe the behavior of slaves, flatterers, and others who abase themselves.19 Vacillation and cowardice were character traits associated in antiquity with the stock figure of the flatterer. Peter Marshall has shown in detail how the charges against Paul can be understood as attempts to paint him as a flatterer.20 Two passages in particular illustrate how the debate was framed. One is 1 Cor 9:19–23, where Paul says, “I have made myself a slave to all” (pa'sin ejmauto;n ejdouvlwsa) and “I have become all things to all people” (toi'" pa'sin gevgona pavnta). While there is no consensus that Paul is quoting his adversaries here, the possibility is attractive. Such admissions, in the context of Greco-Roman culture, would have been shocking, for it was precisely the unsavory flatterer who acted in a servile fashion and accommodated himself to the whims of others. Given the negative impact of such statements, it makes sense to assume that Paul is quoting the calumnies of his enemies and ironically accepting them as a badge of honor (much as the Cynics accepted the derisive epithet “dogs” and made it their own). Similarly, in 1 Cor 10:33 Paul says plainly that he tries to please all men in every regard (pavnta pa'sin ajrevskw). Paul explains that he does not seek his own advantage by this behavior (as would be expected in the case of individuals behaving thus), but instead he seeks “the advantage of many, that they may be saved.”21 Implicit in but missing from Marshall’s analysis of the flatterer is the further observation that flattery was utterly inconsistent with the ideals of masculinity.22 By accommodating himself to the wishes of others rather than acting autonomously, the flatterer willingly surrendered his freedom of choice. In the 19 Marshall, Enmity in Corinth, 323–25. On positive connotations of the term tapeinov" in Socratic/Cynic philosophy, see Betz, Apostel Paulus, 45–57. 20 Marshall, Enmity in Corinth, 281–325. 21 Other passages bearing on the charge of flattery include Gal 1:10 and 1 Thess 2:4–5, where Paul similarly disavows the idea of “speaking to please mortals” and “words of flattery.” For the more positive connotations of “pleasing everyone,” see Margaret M. Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993), 147–49. 22 Several traits of the flatterer were also those traditionally applied to women: cowardice, deceptiveness, impulsivity. The second-century C.E. physiognomist and sophist Polemo discusses these “feminine” traits (1.192–94F). For text, see Richard Förster Scriptores physiognomonici graeci et latini, vol. 2 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1893). His views are closely related to those in Arist. [Physiogn.] 809b–810a. For the opponents’ charge that Paul was crafty and deceitful, see 2 Cor 12:16. For the characterization of females and “effeminates” in ancient physiognomical texts as weak, deceitful, and cowardly, see Evans, “Physiognomics in the Ancient World,” 9, 35.

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social system of the first century, autonomy was what separated “real men” from women, slaves, freedmen (who still owed obligations to their former masters), and pseudo-men or effeminates (who gratified other men sexually). Elite males were highly conscious of the fact that each of these groups was subject to their sexual demands; their right to sexually penetrate members of these groups was a reflection of their political and social dominance. According to a celebrated saying of the advocate Haterius, “Loss of sexual virtue (impudicitia) is a crime in a free man, a necessity for a slave, and a duty (officium) for a freedman.”23 What was most appalling about free, elite males who played a passive role in intercourse was that they willingly surrendered the masculine prerogative, thus allying themselves with lower-status groups who were expected to conciliate, flatter, and provide pleasure to their superiors. Contempt for the flatterer, on the one hand, and the cinaedus or pathic male, on the other, stemmed from the same source.24 A typical descriptive term for prostitutes was blandus, “fawning” or “wheedling”—also characteristic of the flatterer. Public speakers who tried to please the masses were not exempt from this charge: according to a pseudepigraphic letter of Diogenes, not philosophers but eunuchs try to “please many.”25 Many of the more elite among the Corinthians must have felt similarly aghast at Paul’s choice to earn his own keep rather than accept the apostle’s due of financial support. Because it limited a man’s autonomy and forced him to be at the beck and call of others, manual labor detracted from masculine dignity.26 According to Cicero (Off. 1.150), the occupations of all workmen who were paid for their labor were to be regarded as illiberales et sordidi, because the very fact of receiving a wage was a form of slavery. Most artisans’ workshops 23 Sen. Contr. 4 pref. 10. Likewise, in Petron. Sat. 75.11, the freedman Trimalchio explains that “nothing the master orders is immoral.” See also Moses I. Finley, Ancient Slavery and Modern Ideology (London: Chatto & Windus, 1980), 95–96. 24 Plut. Mor. 13b–c: flatterers are freeborn but choose to be slaves. On the flatterer’s willing loss of autonomy, see Marshall, Enmity in Corinth, 311. Eagerness to please causes suspicion of unmanliness (Gleason, Making Men, 65). 25 Blandus: e.g., Sen. Contr. 1.2.12: “if anyone doubted whether she was a whore, let him hear how blanda she is.” Cf. Contr. 1.2.2; 1.2.5; etc.; Diog. Ep. 11: eij s i dev oiJ toi' " pov l loi" ajrevskonte" gavlloi ma'llon h] filosovfoi. For the Cynic epistles, see Abraham J. Malherbe, The Cynic Epistles: A Study Edition (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1977). 26 For discussion of Paul’s refusal to accept support from the Corinthians, see Marshall, Enmity in Corinth, 218–58 with bibliography. It could be argued that Paul was appealing to the Socratic tradition that the philosopher must preserve his autonomy by refusing pay, yet Paul did accept support from the Philippians (Phil 4:15–17) and “other churches” (2 Cor 11:8). Another explanation is that Paul rejected the commercialism of the sophists (Winter, Philo and Paul, 165–66). In any case, Paul’s manual labor made him vulnerable to upper-class suspicions about his willing self-abasement.

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employed slaves, and the social status of free artisans was tainted by association.27 Finally, if we take Paul’s peristasis catalogue in 2 Cor 11 as reflecting at least in part some of the sneers of his opponents, certain entries are of particular interest. Paul’s open admission that he had been flogged by both Jewish and Roman authorities (2 Cor 11:23–25) was certainly the boasting of a “madman” because of the shame and humiliation incurred by the recipients of such punishments. The manner of one’s punishment proclaimed one’s social status. By Roman custom, flogging was reserved for noncitizens, except in the army, and was particularly associated with the chastisement of slaves.28 Though Acts says that Paul possessed Roman citizenship, this passage indicates either that he was not in fact a citizen or that he did not successfully appeal to citizenship status in order to avoid punishment. In any case, Paul proclaimed to the Corinthians that his bodily integrity, a prerequisite of masculine dignity as well as social and political status, had been violated on numerous occasions. The connection between gender and an individual’s lack of control over his or her person was summed up by Clement of Alexandria (Paed. 3.19.2): “to do (to; dra'n) is the mark of the man; to suffer (to; pavscein) is the mark of the woman.”

II. Paul’s Response A full analysis of Paul’s response is beyond the scope of this article, but if, as I have argued above, Paul’s opponents were appealing to the gender norms of the time in order to discredit him, Paul’s response constitutes a rejection of certain traditional standards of masculinity. This rejection is not complete and radical, for Paul himself appeals to gender assumptions to make some of his own arguments and is not completely consistent. Overall, however, he seems to 27 See Ronald Hock, The Social Context of Paul’s Ministry: Tentmaking and Apostleship (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1980), 33–34. Compare Plut. Per. 1.4–2.2: workmen are to be despised. 28 The lex Porcia of the second century B.C.E. granted Roman citizens the right of appeal against corporal punishment, and this rule continued to be cited through the early imperial period. The application of Roman law was never entirely consistent, however, and it is certain that there were occasional exceptions to the rule, especially in situations involving crowd control. See Peter Garnsey, Social Status and Legal Privilege in the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon, 1970), 139–40, 261–62. On flogging as a typically servile punishment, see K. R. Bradley, Slaves and Masters in the Roman Empire: A Study in Social Control (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 119. Discussions of how the condition of slavery dehumanized its victims are plentiful; see, e.g., Orlando Patterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 35–101; Finley, Ancient Slavery, 93–122. There has been less discussion of how slavery de-masculinized male slaves through castration, sexual abuse, and other means. Finley refers to the common ancient and modern practice of addressing adult male slaves as “boy” (Greek pai'"; Latin puer).

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be attacking the tendency to equate masculinity (and therefore leadership ability) with outward demonstrations of dominance and power. The fact that he addresses these issues provides additional evidence for the view presented above that cultural assumptions about gender are at the foundation of the Corinthian opponents’ attack. He signals the basis of his argument in the first verse of 2 Cor 10: “I myself, Paul, appeal to you by the meekness and gentleness of Christ.” Meekness (pra/ovth") and gentleness (ejpieivkeia) are not traits immediately associated with masculinity; they point to a different model of behavior based not on human standards (kata; savrka) but on divine ones.29 Taking Christ as his model, Paul argues that weakness, humility, and suffering in the cause are badges of honor in God’s eyes (the clearest statement of this position is found in 2 Cor 12:5–10). Paul makes his “weakness” a virtue by criticizing several contrasting behaviors of his opponents, behaviors that can be interpreted as hypermasculine. The opponents boast and indulge in self-praise; they constantly measure and compare themselves to each other (and presumably to Paul). They assume a dominant, arrogant attitude toward others whom they view as their inferiors: ajnevcesqe gavr ei[ ti" uJma'" katadouloi', ei[ ti" katesqivei, ei[ ti" lambavnei, ei[ ti" ejpaivretai, ei[ ti" eij" provswpon uJma'" devrei. kata; ajtimivan levgw, wJ" o{ti hJmei'" hjsqenhvkamen, “For you put up with it when someone enslaves you, or preys upon you, or takes advantage of you, or acts arrogantly, or gives you a slap in the face. To my shame, I must say, we were too “weak” for that!” (2 Cor 11:20–21 NRSV). In this passage Paul neatly casts the charge of compliant passivity back onto the Corinthians, who have surrendered their autonomy to Paul’s hybristic rivals. By contrast Paul’s alleged “weakness” is revealed as the restraint and selfcontrol expected from those entrusted with positions of power. In other passages, however, Paul openly embraces and acknowledges the characterization of himself as “weak,” but insists that his critics are judging by merely human standards (e.g., 2 Cor 11:21, 29–30; 12:5, 8–10). In spite of his rhetorical insistence on his own “weakness,” Paul recognizes that in order to win back the respect of the Corinthians, he must make a forceful demonstration of his personal authority. In 1 Cor 4:21, he had asked whether they wished him to come to them “with a stick” (ejn rJavbdw/), as a father might an errant child, or “with love in a spirit of gentleness” (ejn ajgavph/ pneuvma29 Gentleness in males was not a negative characteristic but could arouse suspicion. Seneca’s harsh evaluation of Maecenas’s character in Ep. 114–18 insists that while Maecenas appeared to be mild (mitis), he was in fact not mild but effeminate (mollis). Among philosophers there was debate over the relative value of gentle and harsh moral reproofs; see Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers, 42–45.

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tiv te pra/ovthto"). Toward the end of 2 Corinthians, it is clear that Paul feels he has received his answer. He must conform to the Corinthians’ expectations about the qualities of a leader. Therefore he issues warnings and insists that when he does come to Corinth, he will not be lenient (2 Cor 13:2: ouj feivsomai). The parent–child metaphor implicit in 1 Cor 4:21 is elsewhere made explicit (1 Cor 4:14–15; 2 Cor 11:2–3; 12:14; etc.). In view of the role of the Roman paterfamilias as an archetype of powerful masculinity, it is notable that Paul repeatedly describes himself as a father and his congregation as children. Furthermore, he strengthens the traditional (both Jewish and Greco-Roman) gender imagery in 2 Cor 11:2–3, where he places himself in the role of a father arranging his daughter’s marriage, while the congregation is characterized as a willful daughter who lacks the female virtue of submissiveness. Elsewhere Paul chooses metaphors that emphasize his masculinity: in 1 Cor 9:24–27 he is a victorious athlete, and in 2 Cor 10:3–5 a warrior.30 By strongly identifying with Christ in his weakness, however, Paul was using a dangerous strategy. For those who viewed things “in the flesh,” he was liable to the charge of being a “fool.” But he also may have found resistance from some male converts to the idea of “strength in weakness,” because weakness was so strongly associated with femininity. The opponents’ argument could have held implications beyond the simple accusation of unfitness that lies at the surface of 2 Cor 10–13. Perhaps it also pointed to a fundamental difference between the christology of Paul and that of his opponents. Did the opponents place in the foreground a conception of Jesus as a triumphant and powerful worker of wonders, glossing over the shameful, “weak” manner of his death? Whereas Paul boasted of his sufferings, the opponents were proud of their spiritual experiences and powerful deeds. In their opinion (but not Paul’s) these attested to the authenticity and vividness of their representation of Christ. While Paul claims that the power of the Christ comes to its completion in weakness (2 Cor 12.:), they must have believed that the power of the Christ was present in the mighty deeds of his messengers. Paul presents his fate not only as the fate of Christ but as a representation of the Christ; the opponents seem to have done the same.31 30 Malherbe argues that the warrior metaphor used by Paul draws upon a contemporary philosophical debate over the self-presentation of the philosopher (Paul and the Popular Philosophers, 91–119). The debate focused on whether Odysseus, who sometimes appeared weak, duplicitous, and even cowardly, was an appropriate role model. The same debate can also be viewed as a discussion about differing modes of masculinity: Odysseus’s flexibility and willingness to undergo humiliation in order to achieve his goals are contrasted to the unyielding bravery and masculine pride of his enemy, Ajax. On Malherbe’s arguments, see also Harrill, “Invective against Paul,” 211–12. 31 Georgi, Opponents of Paul, 280.

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Dieter Georgi’s seminal work in this area has led to much discussion but no consensus on the nature of the opponents’ teachings. Here I simply suggest that the gender expectations discussed in this article as they applied to Paul also may have affected the reception of the figure of Jesus in the minds of new converts. To some groups, particularly elite Roman males, a “muscular Jesus” would have appealed far more than a Jesus whose triumph was revealed in his weakness.32 32 These issues are pertinent to the nineteenth-century and contemporary debates over the masculinity of Jesus and the “effeminacy” of the iconography of Jesus. See David Morgan, Visual Piety: A History and Theory of Popular Religious Images (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 1998), 97–123; Muscular Christianity: Embodying the Victorian Age (ed. Donald E. Hall; Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press 1994).

JBL 123/1 (2004) 99–135

BOASTING OF BEATINGS (2 CORINTHIANS 11:23–25)

JENNIFER A. GLANCY [email protected] Le Moyne College, Syracuse, NY 13214-1399

Paul writes that he bears ta; stivgmata tou' !Ihsou' in his body (Gal 6:17). J. Louis Martyn comments, “Considering his physique to be a major form of communication, alongside the words of his letter, Paul points literally to his own body. He can do this because his body tells the story of the forward march of the gospel, just as do his words.”1 Martyn shares the widely held view that Paul’s stivgmata are literal scars “from Gentile stones and from Jewish whips” (2 Cor 11:24–25).2 These “Jesus scars,” Martyn continues, “reflect the wounds of a soldier sent into the front trenches of God’s redemptive and liberating war.”3 Tracings of whips and magistrates’ rods, however, are not prima facie the wounds of a soldier, cicatrices ennobling a warrior’s breast. They are, typically, markings of a servile body, insignia of humiliation and submission. Who, then, reads Paul’s somatic markings as badges of martial valor: the Christians of Galatia? the Christians of Corinth? scholars? Paul himself? In the introduction to his Anchor Bible commentary on Galatians, Martyn invites the reader “to take a seat in one of the Galatian congregations, in order—as far as possible—to listen to the letter with Galatian ears.”4 Following Martyn, I propose to read Paul’s storytelling body, as far as possible, with Galatian eyes, with Corinthian eyes A version of this paper was presented at the 2003 meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature to the Gender, Sexuality, and the Bible Group. I am grateful to David Andrews, Karmen MacKendrick, and Elizabeth Salzer for their comments on an earlier draft of this article. I am also grateful to Wayne Stevens for his efforts on behalf of my research. In my quotations from Greek and Latin sources I have, in many instances, adapted the translations cited in the notes. 1 J. Louis Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33A: Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1997), 568. 2 A view set forth as early as Jerome (Comm. Gal. 3.6.17). For modern studies, see n. 122. 3 Martyn, Galatians, 568. 4 Ibid., 42.

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(see Gal 6:17; 1 Cor 4:9–13; 2 Cor 6:4–5; 11:24–26). Because Paul’s rhetoric pivots, at times, on the posturing of his body, the project of interpreting Paul includes the task of interpreting his body language. In this article I read the body language of 2 Cor 11:23–25, where Paul, boasting, elaborates on the character of the beatings he has endured; more broadly, I ask how Paul’s boasting of beatings contributes to the complex argument of 2 Cor 10–13. Every body tells a story; every body tells stories. Each body has multiple stories to tell, and the markings of any body may be read in multiple ways. A ribbon of scar tissue across a woman’s abdomen tells the story of a cesarean delivery or of a hysterectomy. In a farming community, a severed limb is an icon of a farm machinery accident; in a land at war, a severed limb is an icon of a land mine exploding. The legibility of an individual body is contingent on social bodies, particularly on the socially inscribed body that is the object of the gaze and the socialized eyes of the one who gazes. Paul may understand his body to tell a story “of the forward march of the gospel,” as Martyn suggests, but those who catch a glimpse of what Stephen D. Moore calls “the map of his [Paul’s] missionary journeys that has been cut into his back” may well read other stories, some shameful, scored there.5 In his influential study of peristaseis catalogues in the Corinthian correspondence, John T. Fitzgerald argues that, in Greco-Roman literature, “[t]he scars that the good man sometimes bears on his body are visible tokens of his virtue, ‘so that not by hearsay but by evidence of their own eyes men can judge what manner of man he is’ [Xenophon Ages. 6.2]. The endurance of hardship is thus the proof of virtue, the seal of integrity.”6 Fitzgerald implies that in the corporal idiom of Mediterranean antiquity, a man’s scarred body tells a virtuous, virile story. By extension, Paul’s scars attest to a praiseworthy endurance of hardship. However, Fitzgerald’s quotation from Xenophon is selective. Xenophon addresses Agesilaus’s ajndreiva, his manly courage, established in battle.7 Xenophon writes that, as a consequence of valor in combat, Agesilaus bears “in his own body visible tokens [shmei' a ] of the fury of his fighting [emphasis added], so that not by hearsay but by the evidence of their own eyes

5

Stephen D. Moore, God’s Gym: Divine Male Bodies of the Bible (New York: Routledge, 1996), 28. 6 John T. Fitzgerald, Cracks in an Earthen Vessel: An Examination of the Catalogues of Hardships in the Corinthian Correspondence (SBLDS 99; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 43. Scott B. Andrews has rightly noted that Fitzgerald (among others) “does not describe how any particular type of hardship list differs . . . in function from another type” (“Too Weak Not to Lead: The Form and Function of 2 Cor 11.23b–33,” NTS 41 [1995]: 263–76, esp. 264). 7 On ajndreiva, see Stephen D. Moore and Janice Capel Anderson, “Taking It like a Man: Masculinity in 4 Maccabees,” JBL 117 (1998): 249–73, esp. 253.

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men could judge what manner of man he was.”8 By effacing the explicitly martial context in which scars are legible as signs of virtue, of ajndrei'a, Fitzgerald leaves the impression that the endurance of any hardship, any physical ordeal, is equally exemplary. On a first-century view, however, hardships might ennoble or degrade a man; scars might testify to heroism or contemptibility. The scars that some men bore in their bodies, impressed by lash and rod, testified not to virtue but to a lack of integrity. Recognition of the semiotic distinction between a breast pierced by a sword and a back welted by a whip is crucial to reading Paul’s body language in 2 Cor 11:23–25. In boasting of beatings, Paul boasts not of his ajndrei'a but of his humiliating corporal vulnerability. Pierre Bourdieu argues that we make sense of human bodies—and human bodies make sense—through a “system of structured, structuring dispositions, the habitus.”9 Habitus—“embodied history, internalized as a second nature and forgotten as history”—translates itself into knowledge borne in the body:10 Adapting a phrase of Proust’s, one might say that arms and legs are full of numb imperatives. One could endlessly enumerate the values given body, made body, by the hidden persuasion of an implicit pedagogy which can instil a whole cosmology, through injunctions as insignificant as “sit up straight” or “don’t hold your knife in your left hand”, and inscribe the most fundamental principles of the arbitrary content of a culture in seemingly innocuous details of bearing or physical and verbal manners, so putting them beyond the reach of consciousness and explicit statement.11

Reading Paul’s body language is difficult because, with the passage of time, the discourse of the familiar fades. Downcast eyes, a blush spreading across a face, the deliberate exposure of dermal markings—facial expression, demeanor, and posture cease to bear shared meanings.12 We do, however, have clues for reconstructing those meanings, for interpreting the “bodily hexis” that “is political mythology realized, em-bodied, turned into a permanent disposition, a durable way of standing, speaking, walking, and thereby of feeling and thinking.”13 The scars of a first-century body instantiate relationships of power, of legal status (freeborn, freed, or enslaved), of domination and submission, of honor and shame, and of gender. In drawing attention to his stivgmata and enumerating his beatings, Paul relies on a vocabulary of corporeality shared by his readers. 8 Xenophon, Scripta Minora (trans. E. C. Marchant; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925). 9 Pierre Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1980), 52. 10 Ibid., 56. 11 Ibid., 69. 12 Carlin A. Barton explores the meanings of the blush in Roman corporal vernacular (Roman Honor: The Fire in the Bones [Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001], 199–269). 13 Bourdieu, Logic of Practice, 69–70.

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The difficulty of interpreting a lost habitus is intensified by the complexity of the social location of 2 Cor 10–13, written to urban Christians shaped by intersecting Greek, Roman, and Jewish thought worlds. 14 These thought worlds were not mutually exclusive, nor were they isomorphic, nor were they stable. What it meant to be Greek, Roman, or Jewish was in flux in the first century. Of Greek literature composed in the Roman Empire, Tim Whitmarsh writes: Practically all the Greek texts that survive from this period were written by Roman citizens, men whose identity was (I argue) radically fissured. . . . it makes no sense to write of “Rome and the Romans as the Greeks saw them.” . . . not only was the relationship between “Greece” and “Rome” (these terms conceived of as “imaginary” rather than geopolitical entities) fluid and oscillatory, but also the very concepts of “Greek” and “Roman” were under constant definition, scrutiny, review and redefinition.15

Where, then, shall we look for clues on how the Corinthians might have responded to a glimpse of Paul’s back? In the Acts of the Apostles, Luke relates an incident that takes place in Philippi: magistrates, responding to public pressure, order the flogging of Paul and Silas. Luke emphasizes the Roman identity of the city, of the accusers, and of the beaten missionaries (Acts 16:19–39).16 That Paul and Silas are Jewish, Greek-speaking Roman citizens, strangers in a Macedonian city whose inhabitants appeal to Roman officials on the basis of shared political allegiance, illuminates the complexity of (self-)identity under the empire. Nonetheless, Luke’s recurring emphasis on explicitly Roman elements of the scene focuses the reader’s attention on the meaning of flogging and flogged bodies in a mien wherein signal aspects of Roman “political mythology” are embodied. In untangling strands of meaning woven into the fabric of Paul’s reference to his repeated beatings in 2 Cor 11:22–25, I follow Luke’s lead and emphasize, though not exclusively, dimensions of Roman hexis 14 While I assume that the Corinthians share—with one another, the superapostles, and Paul—similar dispositions in reading bodies, we must allow the possibility of misinterpretations not only between ancient communities and modern interpreters but also among Corinthians of varying backgrounds. Cf. Pierre Bourdieu, “The Sentiment of Honour in Kayble Society” (trans. Philip Sherrard), in Honour and Shame: The Values of Mediterranean Society (ed. Jean G. Péristiany; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), 191–241, esp. 193–97. 15 Tim Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 2. 16 I am concerned not with the historicity of the incident but with Luke’s location of the incident in an explicitly Roman context. Beverly Roberts Gaventa cautions against insisting that Paul refers in 1 Thess 2:2 to the incident familiar from Acts 16 (First and Second Thessalonians [IBC; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1998], 23). Earl J. Richard argues more absolutely, and less convincingly, against identifying 1 Thess 2:2 with the incident in Acts 16 (First and Second Thessalonians [SacPag 11; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1995], 78).

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which imbue with significance not only scars but also a man’s public exposure of his own wounds: like Philippi, Corinth is, of course, a Roman colony.17 I follow Luke in assuming that Roman bodily habitus would provide the inhabitants of such a city with most of their cues for responding to (the display of) a whipped body. As now the corpus of Paul’s writings conjures for us images of Paul’s physical corpus when still alive, so in his own day his words prompted those who knew him to recall his absent body. Paul bids the reader to remember his wounds. Did Paul, when present in a community, use his body to persuade, to exhort, or to inspire? If Paul expects the Galatians to understand his stivgmata to be marks on his back, they are likely to have seen those marks, and, with or without his guidance, to have read the story of his punishments inscribed there.18 Perhaps when Paul stood in the midst of a congregation, he bared his back and offered an interpretation of the history of its markings, reminding his dubious audience that whips had similarly lacerated Jesus’ flesh. Perhaps, shame-faced and tongue-tied, Paul explained his stripes during chance encounters in the baths.19 Every body has stories to tell. What story is told depends not only on the storytelling body but also on the audience that studies that signifying corpus.20

I. Battle Scars In his War against Jugurtha, Sallust supplies a speech for Gaius Marius as he garners support for war. He contrasts two kinds of self-boasting. His aristocratic rivals, he claims, boast of family and lineage. He, on the other hand, boasts of only what is his own: his accomplishments, his difficulties, and, ultimately, the marks on his own body.21 Consideration of his rhetorical strategy 17

On Roman and Greek influences in Corinth, see Donald W. Engels, Roman Corinth: An Alternative Model for the Classical City (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990). 18 Donald Guthrie suggests that “the marks of Jesus would be the scars of persecution. Some of the Galatians had seen those scars” (Galatians [NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1973], 152). 19 Garrett G. Fagan reviews evidence attesting to “the prevailing atmosphere of nakedness at the baths” (Bathing in Public in the Roman World [Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999], 24–29, esp. 26). 20 In my formulation of these questions, I am influenced by Maud Gleason’s exploration of Josephus’s treatment of the human body as signifier (“Mutilated Messengers: Body Language in Josephus,” in Being Greek under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic, and the Development of Empire [ed. Simon Goldhill; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001], 50–85). 21 Matthew Leigh argues that the display of wounds in Roman discourse encodes conflict between persons of higher and lower status (“Wounding and Popular Rhetoric at Rome,” Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 40 [1995]: 195–215).

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helps situate Paul’s self-boasting in 2 Cor 11:23b–33 and introduces the rhetorical functions of war wounds in Roman discourse. Marius mentions his triumphs in passing while emphasizing obstacles overcome and privations endured. He asserts, “From my childhood to my present time of life I have so lived that I am familiar with every kind of toil and danger” (85.7).22 His rivals, noble in heritage but not in manly valor, “begrudge me my office; then let them begrudge my toil, my honesty, even my dangers, since it was through those that I won the office” (85.17). Marius calls attention to his hardships for a variety of purposes, although not, as a Cynic or Stoic might, to highlight his serenity amidst turmoil. Through his struggles, Marius says, he has established himself as a man. In response to those who rest their claims to authority in ancestry, Marius replies that he is more like the valiant ancestors than the soft descendants. He insists that he has not lived through a lifetime of tribulations in order to glorify himself, but rather to promote the good of those before whom he now stands. “But I have learned by far the most important lesson for my country’s good . . . to strike down the foe, to keep watch and word, to fear nothing save ill repute, to endure heat and cold alike, to sleep on the ground, to bear privation and fatigue at the same time” (85.33). His opponents display portraits of their noble ancestors. Marius offers to set before them evidence of his own nobility: “I cannot, to justify your confidence, display family portraits or the triumphs and consulships of my forefather; but if occasion requires, I can show spears, a banner, trappings and other military prizes, as well as scars on my own breast. These are my portraits, these my patent of nobility, not left me by inheritance as theirs were, but won by my own innumerable toils and perils” (85.29–30). Some in Sallust’s audience would have been more impressed by the display of family portraits than of wounds. Many, however, would have fallen in formation behind the soldier who, though lacking a pedigree, referred proudly to the marks carved into his own chest. As ancestral portraits could be read as evidence of familial nobility, so Marius’s scars could be read as evidence of personal nobility. Marius makes his battle-scarred body a factor in competition over authority, even as he instructs his listeners how to read those scars. Paul, too, presents his scarred body in competition over authority. The act of exhibiting a wounded and scarred body was a standard move in Greco-Roman selfpresentation. I outline the rhetorical function of war wounds—and the display of such wounds—before turning specifically to the question of whether the recipients of 2 Cor 10–13 would have read the latticework of lacerations on Paul’s flesh as honorable manly emblems of a soldier’s courage.23 22

Sallust (trans. J. C. Rolfe; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921). In his discussion of “tribulation lists” in Paul, Robert Hodgson cites a number of examples of the display of wounds in Greek and Roman literature. He does not explore the place of wounds 23

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Throughout Greek and Roman literature, scars incurred in combat serve, in Plutarch’s words, as “inscribed images of excellence and manly virtue” (w{sper eijkovna" ejgkecaragmevna" ajreth'" kai; ajndragaqiva") (Mor. 331C).24 Matthew Leigh argues that the display of war wounds as the climax of argumentation is a distinctively, though not uniquely, Roman practice.25 Orators referred verbally to their battle scars. They opened their tunics in order to exhibit those scars. A Roman crowd milling about an orator required no instruction to decode his gesture when he bared his chest. Without speaking another word, his scar tissue testified to a brave confrontation with an adversary’s sword. Quintilian conceded that a person’s display of his or her body as a spectacle could be more credible than declamation. He offered an example familiar to his readers: “Thus when Antonius in the course of his defense of Manius Aquilius tore open his client’s robe and revealed the honorable scars which he had acquired while facing his country’s foes, he relied no longer on the power of his eloquence, but appealed directly to the eyes of the Roman people” (Inst. 2.15.7).26 Manius Aquilius could not be dishonorable, his honorable scars implied, a claim that, though silent, drowned out the roar of evidence presented by the prosecution. Before Roman eyes, a man’s cicatrized breast was the incarnation of a martial narrative. Quintilian, following Cicero, referred to the orator’s sermo corporis, his body language. Erik Gunderson writes that Quintilian’s ideal oratorical body was “made for reading”: “The shapes which have been discovered are arbitrary to the extent that other knowledges of the body could be imagined, but they are specific and specifically efficacious to the extent that these readings of the body have real and worldly effects in Roman society.”27 The orator’s sermo corporis exemplified a bodily hexis, an embodiment of political mythology and values. Specifically, the semiotic significance of invoking or displaying dermal insignia of valor was widely appreciated. Josephus supplied the example of Antipater the Elder, who appeared before Julius Caesar to defend himself against charges in Roman gestural rhetoric or ask whether the use of such battle-scarred imagery to describe Paul’s marking by whip and rod is apt (“Paul the Apostle and First Century Tribulation Lists,” ZNW 74 [1983]: 59–80). 24 For additional references to (display of) war wounds in Greek and Latin texts, see Leigh, “Wounding and Popular Rhetoric at Rome.” 25 Even more broadly, Leigh suggests that it is difficult to cast “anything as typically Greek, Spartan, Roman, or whatever in antiquity. Ancient Mediterranean literature reflects common values and expresses these values through anecdotes which are morphologically very similar” (“Wounding and Popular Rhetoric at Rome,” 198). 26 Quintilian (trans. H. E. Butler; 4 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1920). 27 Erik Gunderson, “Discovering the Body in Roman Oratory,” in Parchments of Gender: Deciphering the Bodies of Antiquity (ed. Maria Wyke; Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 169–89, esp. 183.

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of disloyalty. His defense relied not on spoken but on somatic language. He claimed to have no use for words: “his body, while he was silent, shouted it [his loyalty] aloud” (B.J. 1.197). Maud Gleason comments, “This shouting, silent body did indeed effect a successful cross-cultural communication, probably because the display of one’s scars as testimony in self-defense was a Roman gestural convention.”28 What a warrior’s scars shout is a tabloid of masculinity. Scars testify that a man, scorning both pain and death, has risked both. Noting the association between vir and virtue (ex viro virtus), Cicero argues that a “man’s peculiar virtue is fortitude, of which there are two main functions, namely scorn of death and scorn of pain. These then we must exercise if we wish to prove possessors of virtue, or rather, since the word for ‘virtue’ is borrowed from the word for ‘man,’ if we wish to be men” (Tusc. 2.18.43).29 (In Greek, ajndreiva captures a similar nexus of masculinity and courage.30) Within the Roman sermo corporis, the vocabulary of battle scars—and display of battle scars—was finely calibrated. An unfriendly audience, for example, could read a tale of cowardice in unbroken flesh on a man’s chest.31 The forensic gesture of a defendant baring his chest to expose in his flesh honorable signs of valor, earned in combat, was sufficiently familiar to be the subject of parody. Cicero, having informed his audience that Verres made a practice of satisfying his lust by forcibly bedding the wives and daughters of respectable households, demanded to know whether Verres’s defense would entail the customary display of wounds.32 Would Verres, Cicero asked, “bare his breast, show the people of Rome his scars—scars made by women’s teeth, the imprinted records of lechery and foulness?” (Verr. 2.5.33).33 Fluency in the somatic dialect thus enhances appreciation for the myriad uses of the trope of battle scar, as well as the actual exhibition of such scars, in ancient discourses. Not all battle wounds, for example, are honorable. Scar tissue marking chest, throat, or face tells a story of courage in combat. Scar tissue marking a man’s back tells a story of cowardice. Allusions to war wounds typically specify their location. So Livy’s Servilius proclaims, “I possess a body adorned with honourable scars, every one of them received in front” (45.39.16). 28

Gleason, “Mutilated Messengers,” 66. Cicero (trans. J. E. King; 28 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1927). 30 See Moore and Anderson, “Taking It like a Man,” 253. 31 E.g., Ovid Metam. 13.262–67; Diodorus 8.12.1–16. 32 Accusations of predatory libido were a standard element in Roman political invective. See J. Roger Dunkle, “The Greek Tyrant and Roman Political Invective of the Late Republic,” TAPA 98 (1967): 151–71. 33 Cicero, The Verrine Orations (trans. L. H. G. Greenwood; 2 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967). 29

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Leigh emphasizes “the pathetic significance of the pectus-tergum opposition,” the difference between physical injury incurred meeting a foe head-on or running away from him.34 Aelian preserves the tradition that, when a Spartan mother received word that her son had died in battle, she personally sought his body on the battlefield. If the wounds on her son’s corpse were in the front, she arranged for burial in the family plot. If the wounds were in the back, she slunk away; the corpse was left for anonymous burial (12.21). Like Spartan mothers, ancient audiences were critical readers of the stories told by corporal inscriptions. In a footnote to his observation that Paul’s stivgmata reflect his military role in advancing the gospel, Martyn alludes to the battle scars on Antipater’s body limning his loyalty to Caesar: “As Antipater was said to bear on almost every part of his person the marks of wounds showing his loyalty to Caesar . . . so Paul points to his body as it testifies to his belonging to the crucified Jesus.”35 How analogous, however, are Antipater’s cicatrices to Paul’s stivgmata? Who would designate Paul’s stiv g mata as “signs of excellence [ta; shmei' a th' " ajrethv"],” as Josephus refers to Antipater’s scars (B.J. 1.193)? Is Antipater’s exposure of his scars parallel to Paul’s insistence in various passages that the reader acknowledge his wounds and the incidents in which he was wounded? Ancient audiences distinguished between the mark of a sword slashing a courageous breast and the mark of a sword slashing a cowardly back. They distinguished even more sharply between the martial tracing left by a sword and the servile tracing left by a whip or a rod. The Corinthian Christians would have appreciated the nuances implicit in the markings of a man’s corpus: not every scarred body told an honorable story.

II. The Whippable Body36 In Roman habitus, whipping was the archetypal mark of dishonor. In his litany of hardships endured in the course of training and military campaigns, Sallust’s Marius includes some details that Paul also registers; he speaks of being hungry, cold, and forced to sleep in conditions that deprive him of slumber. Such conditions were at times associated with poverty and misfortune— 34

Matthew Leigh, Lucan: Spectacle and Engagement (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 214–15. Martyn, Galatians, 568 n. 73, following a suggestion by William Klassen, “Galatians 6:17,” ExpTim 81 (1970): 378. 36 I intend the term “whippable” to echo an adjective Plautus applied to a slave, uerberabilissime, “eminently beatable” (Plautus Aul. 633, quoted in Richard Saller, “Corporal Punishment, Authority, and Obedience in the Roman Household,” in Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome [ed. Beryl Rawson; Oxford: Clarendon, 1991], 144–65, esp. 154). 35

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thus the potential dishonor of poverty and misfortune—but they were at the same time the kinds of experiences that hardened a man, made him virile. Being subject to beating, being vulnerable to the power of another man (or woman) to order a whipping, was not a rite de passage associated with maturing to manhood but a state that diminished any claim to manliness. (I discuss later the exceptional case of the Spartan diamastivgwsi", the ritual flagellation of ephebes at the altar of Artemis Orthia.) Stoic and Cynic moralists regularly contended that beatings, however brutal, were not a source of veritable injury; Richard Saller notes that this philosophical contention had no impact on a conventional wisdom that persisted in seeing beating and other corporal punishment as inherently degrading.37 The scars of a man’s body tell a story, but not every man’s body tells a war story. We have considered the function of the display of war wounds in firstcentury somatic rhetoric. Josephus describes an incident that illustrates the function of the display of a different kind of wound. In Tarichaeae, Josephus claims, a crowd massed in opposition to him. Feigning capitulation, he agreed to meet with representatives of the crowd. Then he dragged the delegates into the building “and whipped them until their innards were laid bare” (B.J. 2.612). Throwing open the doors, he exhibited the delegates’ flesh, drenched in blood. Intimidated and terrified, the mob dispersed. Commenting on the incident, Maud Gleason writes, “This is the body language of dominance.”38 Josephus’s action endowed him, Gleason notes, “with an air of decisive manliness on the Roman aristocratic model.”39 Relationships of power, of domination and submission, and of honor and shame were enacted somatically. Not all instances of the exhibition or uncovering of marks inflicted by whips were so dramatic. Flogging was the most commonly practiced species of corporal punishment. The ability to order a whipping signaled a person’s dominance over another; the inability to resist a whipping, the dishonor of the person whipped. Within an idiom that was distinctively though not uniquely Roman, corporal punishment was routinely associated with slaves; vulnerability to corporal punishment signaled servility. Over the course of the history of the Roman Republic, the de jure right of all citizens to immunity from corporal punishment in the public sphere, notably from the lictors’ rods, was established; the citizen’s right and, still more, expectation of corporal inviolability extended into the empire.40 Richard Saller has argued that this privilege was translated into domestic bodily hexis, so that, although Roman fathers had the 37

Ibid., 152. Gleason, “Mutilated Messengers,” 59–60. 39 Ibid., 63. 40 Richard A. Bauman explores the complex terrain of criminal penalties, legal status, and social status (Crime and Punishment in Ancient Rome [London: Routledge, 1996], ch. 4). 38

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legal right to beat their sons, in large measure the association of being beaten with dishonor, servility, and submissiveness guaranteed that the backs of legitimate sons were free from the scars that characterized the backs of slaves.41 Dishonorable bodies were whippable; honorable bodies were not.42 Because vulnerability to beating was a servile liability, any free person who was whipped or struck suffered an injury to honor far in excess of whatever temporary pain or permanent mark was inflicted.43 Philo’s account of Flaccus’s campaign against the Jews of Alexandria relies on a corporal idiom associating honor and status with immunity from beating and gradations of dishonor and low status with various kinds of beatings. Writing for an audience unfamiliar with the somatic dialect of Alexandria, Philo spells out its peculiarities. Flaccus ordered the members of the Alexandrian gerousia to be rounded up and taken to a theater, where they became a spectacle. “Then as they stood with their enemies seated in front to signal their disgrace he ordered them all to be stripped and lacerated with scourges which are commonly used for the degradation of the violent malefactors” (10.75). While beating itself dishonored the victims, that dishonor was intensified by Flaccus’s choice of implements: “There are differences between the scourges used in the city, and these differences are regulated by the social standing of the persons to be beaten” (10.78). Members of the gerousia were whipped with the scourge used against the Egyptians, an implement that struck forcibly against the dignity of the Jewish leaders. Philo stresses that Flaccus exhibited his contempt through this choice: For it is surely possible when inflicting degradation on others to find some little thing to sustain their dignity. . . . Surely then it was the height of harshness that when commoners among the Alexandrian Jews, if they appeared to have done things worthy of stripes, were beaten with whips more suggestive of freemen and citizens, the magistrates, the gerousia, whose very name implies age and honour, in this respect fared worse than their inferiors and were treated like Egyptians of the meanest rank and guilty of the greatest inequities. (10.78, 80)

Philo plays on the reader’s comprehension of the semantics of corporal control, as enacted within the corporal vernacular of Alexandria. The outrage is the assimilation of honorable bodies to a degraded habitus. Roman history records a number of instances where honorable persons 41

Saller, “Corporal Punishment, Authority, and Obedience in the Roman Household,” 151. Peter Garnsey, Social Status and Legal Privilege in the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon, 1970), 141. 43 Virginia Hunter has argued that a similar equation prevailed in classical Athenian thought (Policing Athens: Social Control in the Attic Lawsuits, 420–320 B.C. [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994], 182). See also N. R. E. Fisher, “Hybris and Dishonour: I,” Greece and Rome 23 (1976): 177–93. 42

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whose bodies should have been inviolate were nonetheless subject to whippings by public authorities. Such treatment brought dishonor and ignominy to the one who endured it. Both Cicero and Philo, for example, sought to discredit the perpetrators of what they saw as illegitimate violence. They did not set out to intensify or reinforce the shame of the victims, but they could not erase it. As the climax of his charges against Verres, Cicero recounted the story of the flogging and crucifixion of a Roman citizen, Gavius of Consa. For an audience that would not balk at the sight of a slave being brutalized, Cicero detailed Verres’s treatment of Gavius. Verres ordered that Gavius should be “flung down, stripped naked and tied up in the open market-place” (Verr. 2.62.161). Gavius attempted to avert the beating by announcing his citizenship, but Verres ignored his plea: “He then ordered the man to be flogged severely all over his body. There in the open market-place of Messana a Roman citizen, gentlemen, was beaten with rods; and all the while, amid the crack of the falling blows, no groan was heard from the unhappy man, no words came from his lips in his agony except ‘I am a Roman citizen’” (Verr. 2.66.162). Cicero did not argue that Gavius was impervious to Verres’s insult. Verres was wicked, but he also effectively degraded Gavius, into whose skin an emblem of submissiveness was beaten. Whether Gavius, Paul, or any other victim of the magistrates’ rods was able to resist internalizing such stigmatization is another question, one to which we shall return. The Acts of the Apostles reports that after Peter and other apostles were beaten, they rejoiced that they had been deemed worthy to be dishonored [ajtimasqhvnai] for the sake of Jesus’ name (5:40–41), a formulation that encapsulates the nexus of flogging and dishonor while expressing the idiopathic Christian elevation of abasement. Kathleen McCarthy has argued that, in Plautus, the clever slave, the servus callidus, “may not relish the actual pain involved in whipping but refuses to see this physical act as depriving him of honor.”44 Nonetheless, in ordering a slave to be whipped, a slaveholder acted out a script through which he or she demonstrated mastery over a submissive body. Those witnessing the act appreciated these semiotics; those who later viewed the cutaneous evidence, raw or cicatrized, had no doubt about the story etched by strokes of the whip. This point is difficult for modern audiences to appreciate. For us, the slaveholder occupies a morally untenable position. The practice of corporal punishment is an onerous symbol of the immorality and 44 Kathleen McCarthy, Slaves, Masters, and the Art of Authority in Plautine Comedy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 26. See also Erich Segal, Roman Laughter: The Comedy of Plautus (2nd ed.; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987); Holt Parker, “Crucially Funny, or Tranio on the Couch: The Servus Callidus and Jokes about Torture,” TAPA 119 (1989): 233–46; William Fitzgerald, Slavery and the Roman Literary Imagination (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 32–47.

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dishonor of slaveholding. Quite the opposite was the case in antiquity. Matthew Roller argues, “Physical and legal degradation corresponded in Roman society to moral degradation.”45 That one’s body was whipped and therefore whippable constituted evidence of suspect character. 46 Paul’s whippability—for his announcement that he had been repeatedly lashed and beaten with rods defined him as eminently beatable—marked him as dishonorable, even contemptible. Jonathan Walters has argued that bodily inviolability was an essential component of Roman masculinity.47 To be penetrated, or even to be liable to corporal violation, was inconsistent with respectable masculinity; in order for a man to protect his reputation and his status, he had to (be able to) protect the boundaries of his body from breaches of any kind.48 Men of lower status—particularly, although not exclusively, slaves—were neither required nor able to guard their bodies against various incursions. Walters argues, “Sexual penetration and beating, those two forms of corporeal assault, are in Roman terms structurally equivalent.”49 The festival of the Lupercalia supplies a graphic illustration of the interchangeability of beating and sexual penetration in the Roman sermo corporis. According to Ovid, the Lupercalian practice of publicly whipping respectable matrons, their bodies at times partially or fully exposed, originated in a directive of Juno, who supposedly ordered: “the sacred he-goat must enter the women of Rome.”50 Permitting the Luperci, ministers of Pan Lykaios, to have sexual relations with the matrons would have satisfied Juno’s command. Instead, Juno’s mandate was taken to require that the hide of the 45 Matthew Roller, Constructing Autocracy: Aristocrats and Emperors in Julio-Claudian Rome (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 226. 46 See Maud Gleason’s discussion of the correspondence between social status and moral character (“Truth Contests and Talking Corpses,” in Constructions of the Classical Body [ed. James I. Porter; Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1999], 83–125). 47 Jonathan Walters, “Invading the Roman Body: Manliness and Impenetrability in Roman Thought,” in Roman Sexualities (ed. Judith P. Hallett and Marilyn B. Skinner; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 29–43. 48 See Robert A. Kaster on sexual penetration as a brute expression of social dominance (“The Taxonomy of Patience, or When Is Patientia Not a Virtue?” CP 97 [2002]: 133–44, esp. 141–42). 49 Walters, “Invading the Roman Body,” 39. 50 The vulnerability of respectable Roman matrons to public whippings during the Lupercalia does not nullify the association of whipping with dishonor and servility; rather, the whipping of matrons in a ritual context exemplifies suspension of quotidian rules in a well-defined festival context, the topsy-turvy world of the carnival, which ultimately never threatens mundane order. The Lupercalia was not the only ritual whipping of women in antiquity. Consider also Pausanius’s reference to a festival of Dionysus held at Alea, where, on the model of the Spartan whipping of ephebes at the altar of Artemis Orthia, women were whipped (8.23.1); the evocative but enigmatic frescoes of the Villa of the Mysteries in Pompeii; and the whipping of enslaved women by freeborn women at the Matralia (Plutarch Quaest. rom. 267D).

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goat ritually slaughtered for the Lupercalia should be cut into thongs, and those thongs used to beat the matrons (Ovid Fast. 2.425–52).51 The functional equivalence of sexual penetration and beating also plays out in Latin vocabulary. J. N. Adams observes, “One of the largest semantic fields from which metaphors for sexual acts were taken in Latin is that of striking, beating, and the like,” particularly in instances where sexual penetration is itself punitive.52 Percidis, for example, with a root meaning of “to hit hard,” serves as a euphemism for both anal penetration and forcible oral penetration by a penis, a usage that is perhaps more common in inscriptions than in literary sources.53 T. P. Wiseman concludes that, for the Romans, the purpose of rape or other coercive sexual activity “was humiliation, to express dominance and treat the victim like a slave (here too the parallel with corporal punishment is close).”54 In Roman political invective, the charge that an official had abused his power could be equally substantiated by the accusation that he had ordered the flogging of a Roman citizen or by the accusation that he had raped respectable wives, sons, and daughters, persons whose protected bodies were sexually forbidden to him.55 (Contemporary academic culture, at least as influenced by feminism, does not consider the victim of rape to be touched by dishonor. This, however, is a recent and by no means universally accepted perspective. In antiquity, although a perpetrator of outrage was responsible for wrongdoing, dishonor nonetheless infected the victim of a rape—or of a beating.56) Not every body that is beaten is sexually penetrated, and, of course, not every body that is sexually penetrated is beaten. Nonetheless, these two kinds of corporal vulnerability were symbolically and practically connected in the first century. Walters writes of the semiotics of power in Roman bodily habitus: “The contours of social status demarcated by the distinction between the sexually penetrable and the impenetrable are, broadly speaking, the same as those 51 At various times in Roman history, the beatings were more or less severe. By the second century, Juno’s mandate seems to have been satisfied by having matrons extend their hands for the Luperci to beat. By the third and fourth centuries, visual evidence (a North African mosaic floor, a Roman sarcophagus) suggests that matrons were stripped and subjected to brutal whippings. For discussion and visual evidence, see T. P. Wiseman, “The God of the Lupercal,” JRS 85 (1995): 1–22. 52 J. N. Adams, The Latin Sexual Vocabulary (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982), 145. 53 In literary sources, see, e.g., Martial 9.47 (where percidis refers to anal penetration) and 2.72 (where percidis seems to refer to forcible oral penetration). See Guillermo Galán G. Vioque, Martial, Book VII: A Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 361. 54 T. P. Wiseman, Catullus and His World: A Reappraisal (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 10–14, esp. 12. 55 Dunkle, “Greek Tyrant and Roman Political Invective of the Late Republic.” 56 The whip seems to have inflicted less dishonor than sexual penetration. See, e.g., Livy 8.27.7.

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we see when we examine the distinction between the beatable and the unbeatable.”57 The cluster of meanings associated with the most common forms of corporal vulnerability—vulnerability to sexual penetration and vulnerability to beatings—would color the reactions of first-century Corinthians to Paul’s whippable body. From a distance of two millennia, we may find it difficult to read Paul’s body: are those badges of valor or marks of dishonor? In the first century, however, scar tissue on a breast pierced in battle was readily distinguished from a crosshatching of weals on a back. One variety of anecdote found in Roman histories turns on the semiotics of this dermal distinction.58 During the Sabine wars, Livy tells us, in the days before Roman citizens were guaranteed the immunities later promised them by custom and law, men who should have been recognized as heroes were instead reduced to the indignities of debt bondage. Those whose military service had helped guarantee Roman liberty were virtually enslaved. One old man’s body vividly testified to this outrage. Making himself an example, the old man stood in the forum and “displayed the scars on his breast which bore testimony to his honourable service in battle” (2.23.4). He then told the story of what his life had been like since he had returned from duty. He arrived home to discover his property damaged by the enemy: crops stolen, house torched. Falling into the hands of usurers, his financial situation worsened, until finally his creditors carried him off, “to the chaingang and the torture-chamber. He then showed them his back, disfigured with the wales of recent whipping (2.23.6-7).59 The sight of the old man’s wounds, front and back, incited the crowd. To Roman eyes, a man whose breast was nobly cicatrized should not be subject to the ignominy of the lash. The point of the story is not that the veteran who demonstrated his manliness in battle continued to demonstrate his manliness in other harsh circumstances. Rather, the point is that the veteran whose semeiophoric breast verified his claim to honorable manhood should not be degraded by being treated as less than a man, that is, by treatment only appropriate for those whose contemptibly low status rendered them beatable. Livy does not confuse battle wounds and disciplinary stripes. His anecdote is predicated on the symbolic distinction between these two kinds of corporal markings. III. Earning his stripes Scored in the skin of Livy’s ill-used veteran, front and back, are stories of martial valor and of degradation. Livy is not alone in exploiting the simultane57

Walters, “Invading the Roman Body,” 41. For additional examples of such anecdotes, along with analysis of their function in Roman literature, see Leigh, “Wounding and Popular Rhetoric at Rome,” 210–11. 59 Livy (trans. B. O. Foster; 14 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1919). 58

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ous sameness and differences of scars. For example, the (mis)identification of humiliating insignia—stripes welted into a back by a whip—as martial crests is familiar from comedy. In a different vein, ancient writers marveled at the Spartan contest of the diamastivgwsi", in which the blood of flagellated ephebes soaked the altar of Artemis Orthia. The diamastivgwsi", generally touted as a ritual enactment of ajndreiva, nonetheless elicited scoffing from some who were unable or unwilling to perceive any instance of subjection to the whip as the mark of a man. A question in reading 2 Cor 10–13 is whether Paul’s contemporaries might, like some modern scholars, read his body as battle-scarred, a question that turns on whether Paul’s contemporaries would treat his endurance of repeated bouts of whipping as noble, admirable, or even respectable. Before we consider the place of 11:23–25 in the argument of chs. 10–13, we therefore consider texts where the marks of whipping or other (typically) humiliating physical assaults are (mis)taken for honorable signs of masculinity. The comedies of Plautus are prominent in discussions of the literary representation of slavery and physical abuse, because, as William Fitzgerald observes, Plautus “continually finds new ways of figuring the immutable fact that the slave is the being who is beaten.”60 Plautus’s slaves, preferring corporal pain to moral or emotional submission, laugh off the incessant stream of abuse directed at them. McCarthy argues that Roman audiences embraced Plautine comedy because each member of the audience “occupies a number of different (and shifting) positions in relation to domination in his or her daily life,” so that “slavery functions in Plautus as a medium for the fantasies and anxieties of the mostly citizen audience.”61 Because, in the complex hierarchy of Roman society, each audience member had to submit daily to the authority of some dominant figure, the intransigence of comic slaves evoked appreciative laughter: “[P]hysical pain is only part of the effect of whipping intended by the master; what whipping is supposed to accomplish is branding the slave with marks of shame and dishonor that go far deeper than the scars on the skin. . . . But when we think of the clever slave’s attitude towards whipping, it is exactly this degradation that is missing. . . . In fact, the most consistent attitude expressed by clever slaves is to talk about their scars as a mark of honor.”62 The Plautine slave’s identification of bruises and welts as marks of honor includes, in places, explicit reliance on martial imagery. In Asinaria, for exam60

W. Fitzgerald, Slavery and the Roman Literary Imagination, 38. McCarthy, Slaves, Masters, and the Art of Authority in Plautine Comedy, x. 62 Ibid., 27. For an alternate view, see Joseph J. Hughes, who defines the servus callidus as “a braggart who . . . gleefully usurp[s] the language of almost every profession and social standing to glorify his next move” (“Inter tribunal et scaenum: Comedy and Rhetoric at Rome,” in Roman Eloquence: Rhetoric in Society and Literature [ed. William J. Dominik; London: Routledge, 1997], 182–97, esp. 184). 61

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ple, the slaves Libanus and Leonida produce lists of each other’s acts of valor. Leonida notes that Libanus was repeatedly suspended and beaten by eight strong men. Libanus, in turn, notes that, by his indifference to beating, Leonida wore out eight lictors. Combat duty, Libanus suggests: “All these regiments, battalions, and armies of theirs have been put to flight, after fierce fighting. . . . Who’s a more valiant man than I am at absorbing blows?” (555–57).63 McCarthy argues that the audience derives pleasure from such verbal bandying because they identify—temporarily—with the slaves who resist customary submissiveness. Through this limited identification, the audience member imagines acting out of a subjectivity that is not inscribed by the dominating will of another. While McCarthy offers a compelling reading of the social function of humor in the comedies of Plautus, the success of individual jokes is nonetheless contingent on the audience’s instinctive acknowledgment of the difference between dishonorable and honorable corporal marks. A scene from Curculio offers an example of another servile character who, in jest, identifies his dishonorable markings as badges of valor. Curculio is not a slave but a parasite; according to literary stereotype, parasites, in service to their bellies, are willing to dishonor themselves by absorbing both verbal insults and the physical humiliations of vicious practical jokes.64 Lyco, a banker, encounters Curculio on the street and mocks him by calling attention to the fact that one of his eyes is bandaged. Curculio insists that he lost his eye to a catapult shot. Lyco replies, “Oh well, little I care whether it was shot out, or knocked out when a pot of cinders was cracked on your head” (396–97). In an aside, Curculio acknowledges Lyco’s prescience, but he still parries, “I won the honourable wound beneath this bandage in defense of my country and, I beg you, do not outrage me in public” (399–400). Curculio, Lyco, and the audience know that Curculio has not fought for anything other than the satiety of his guts; the humor derives from the incongruity of calling a brand of dishonor a badge of honor. Paul never labels his own marks battle scars, nor does he use the language of military engagement to describe his subjection to whip and rod. Perhaps one reason that he avoids such an explicit comparison is the realization that the analogy would open him to mockery, a mockery that, at least in Corinth under the influence of the superapostles, would further erode recognition of his authority as an apostle. At the same time, Paul’s habit of listing his beatings alongside—as no different in kind from—his other tribulations raises the possibility that, like a slave in a comedy, he refuses to be defined by the whip’s degrading inscription of his skin. I return to this question in my analysis of the place of Paul’s boasting of beatings (2 Cor 11:23–25) in the argument of chs. 63 Plautus (trans. Paul Nixon; 5 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1916). 64

Athenaeus Deipn. 6.239–40; 6.250a.

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10–13. First, however, I consider a ritual in which strokes of the whip spelled honor rather than dishonor, the marks of a whipping signs of manhood rather than imprints of servility. In the Spartan flagellation contest, the diamastivgwsi", elite young men vied at the altar of Artemis Orthia to determine who would be last to withdraw from the savage whipping: blood saturating the shredded flesh of his back, the winner’s indifference to pain proclaimed his virile courage and self-control.65 Tertullian cited the diamastivgwsi" as the pinnacle of pagan fortitude (Apol. 50.9; Mart. 4.8; Nat. 1.18). Inspired by Tertullian, we may wonder whether Paul’s endurance of repeated whippings qualified him as at least a rival of the contestants. The diamastivgwsi" was a popular spectacle in the Roman era. Some contestants apparently died as a result of the severe whipping; Plutarch, a spectator, claimed to have witnessed contestants at the point of death (Lyc. 18.1).66 Cicero, who also alluded to visiting Sparta for the ritual, typifies the assessment of most who refer to the ritual: the flagellation contest was exemplary training in masculinity (Tusc. 2.14.34; 2.18.43). After you have witnessed the fortitude of Spartan youths, Cicero demanded, would you, “if some pain happen to give you a twitch, cry out like a woman and not endure resolutely and calmly?” (2.19.46). The diamastivgwsi" thus represented one highly circumscribed instance in the script of ancient masculinity where the degrading connotations of being whipped were overwritten by the hegemonic masculine virtue of self-control.67 At the diamastivgwsi" the identification of stripes from a whip with insignia of valor was something other than a laughing matter. Still, some laughed. So strong was the association between flogging and dishonor that even the stylized whipping at the altar of Artemis Orthia elicited expressions of contempt. Both Lucian and Philostratus record such voices, although since those voices are heard in the context of dialogues, neither Lucian nor Philostratus explicitly espouses the position that participants in the ritual flogging are thereby degraded. At the same time, neither rejects that position. In Lucian’s dialogue Anacharsis, or Athletics, two legendary figures, the Athenian Solon and the Scythian Anacharsis, debate the merits of the quintessentially Greek practice of athletics. The dialogue culminates in a discussion of the diamastivgwsi". Anacharsis diagnoses the Greek belief that this 65 For a collection of testimonia to the diamastivgwsi", see Nigel M. Kennell, The Gymnasium of Virtue: Education and Culture in Ancient Sparta (Studies in the History of Greece and Rome; Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1995), 149–61. 66 Ibid., 74: “Although death was not common, its mere possibility added a tangible element of risk for the ephebes to confront.” 67 On self-control, particularly in excruciating circumstances, as the hegemonic masculine virtue, see Moore and Anderson, “Taking It like a Man.” See also Craig A. Williams, Roman Homosexuality: Ideologies of Masculinity in Classical Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 138–42.

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ritual whipping of young men inculcates manliness in them as a risible sign of madness. He asks Solon why, if the practice is so meritorious, the Athenians have not adopted it. When Solon responds that the Athenians are content with their own exercises, Anacharsis guffaws: “No: you understand, I think, what it is like to be flogged naked, holding up one’s arms. . . . Oh, if ever I am at Sparta at the time when they are doing this I expect I shall be very soon stoned to death by them publicly for laughing at them every time I see them getting beaten like robbers or sneak-thieves or similar malefactors” (39).68 So indelible is the imprint of humiliation on one who is whipped that Anacharsis insultingly refuses to allow the possibility that the whip might inscribe honor on a man’s body.69 In Philostratus’s Life of Apollonius of Tyana, the association of whipping with servility prevents the Egyptian sage Thespesion from perceiving any wisdom in the Spartan contest. Thespesion asks Apollonius to confirm what he has heard—that Spartans are beaten publicly—and Apollonius assures him that the most noble and distinguished are so beaten. “‘Then what do they do to household slaves,’” Thespesion asks, “‘when they do wrong?’” Learning that the Spartans employ the same whip [mavstix] both at the altar of Artemis Orthia and in the punishment of servile wrongdoers, Thespesion presses further: “‘Then these excellent Hellenes are not ashamed . . . to reflect that they are governed by men who are whipped before the eyes of all?’” Rebutting the argument that ritual submission to the whip teaches virile self-control and fortitude, Thespesion asks: Why teach a patient endurance suited only for a slave [ajndravpodon]? (6.20). 70 No matter the circumstances, Thespesion implies, a man who is whipped loses his claim to honor: so what kind of people would acknowledge the authority of leaders who had been publicly whipped? Neither dialogue (between Solon and Anacharsis, between Thespesion and Apollonius) has a victor; the genre of dialogue allows multiple voices to be heard and to remain in play. However, discussion of the flagellation contest effectively brings each dialogue to a close. Both Solon and Apollonius claim that there are further arguments to be made in defense of the ritual—but each demurs from making such arguments. Spectators gazing at the naked bodies of adolescents lashed until bloody assure us that they are witnessing a ritual of initiation into manhood; mocking laughter from Anacharsis and Thespesion challenges the contention that a back 68

Lucian (trans. A. M. Harmon; 8 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,

1921). 69 See discussions of Anacharsis, or Athletics in Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire, 123–25; R. Bracht Branham, Unruly Eloquence: Lucian and the Comedy of Traditions (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Pres, 1989), 83–102. 70 Philostratus, The Life of Apollonius of Tyana (trans. F. C. Conybeare; 2 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1917).

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may honorably earn its stripes. Although most writers who refer to the diamastivgwsi" emphasize the virile self-control of contestants, Thespesion’s question—Why teach a patient endurance suited only for a slave?—is predicated on the servile and degrading associations of any subjection to the whip. A male slave’s endurance of countless floggings was not validation of masculine fortitude but confirmation of his exclusion from a socially recognized manhood.71 Who might have interpreted the stripes on Paul’s back as honorable emblems of battles fought, contests won? In Corinth, a chance glimpse of Paul’s stivgmata—or a recital of his humiliations by whip and rod—would have been more likely to elicit contempt than admiration. In 2 Cor 10–13, Paul must reassert his apostolic authority while countering Corinthian reaction to his evident whippability.

IV. Boasting of Beatings Paul’s story, as known in the Corinthian churches, has somatic dimensions (see 2 Cor 10:1, 10). In 2 Cor 11:23–25, Paul provides greater detail about the blows to which he has alluded in several previous letters to the Corinthians (1 Cor 4:11; 2 Cor 6:5); we may easily imagine that Paul also spoke about those incidents when he was in Corinth, and even speculate that he had—intentionally or not—exposed fleshy souvenirs of those episodes.72 In 11:23–25, however, Paul not only specifies the frequency and type of floggings to which he has been subjected: he boasts about those beatings. An emerging consensus holds that Paul’s boasting in the fool’s speech (11:21b–12:10) exhibits familiarity with protocols of self-praise in rhetorical theory and practice.73 No such consensus holds regarding the content of Paul’s boasting. While some scholars treat Paul’s 71 In enduring beatings, a slave was perceived to embody patientia, but not patientia as a virtue allied to fortitude, rather, patientia as “the essence of slavery . . . not a testing and assertion of will . . . but a complete absence of will by someone at the rock bottom of the social hierarchy” (Kaster, “Taxonomy of Patience,” 138–39). On slavery and masculinity, see Jennifer A. Glancy, Slavery in Early Christianity (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 24–29, 34–38. 72 I regard 2 Cor 10–13 as a discrete letter, written later than 2 Cor 1–9 (constituting an earlier letter, or possibly letters). However, that position is irrelevant to my arguments regarding the function of Paul’s boasting of beatings in the context of the argument of these chapters; the same arguments hold if chs. 10–13 conclude a longer letter. 73 E. A. Judge, “The Conflict of Educational Aims in New Testament Thought,” Journal of Christian Education 9 (1966): 32–45; idem, “Paul’s Boasting in Relation to Contemporary Professional Practice,” ABR 16 (1968): 37–50; Hans Dieter Betz, “De Laude Ipsius (Moralia 539A– 547B),” in Plutarch’s Ethical Writings and Early Christian Literature (ed. Hans Dieter Betz; Leiden: Brill, 1978), 367–93; Christopher Forbes, “Comparison, Self-Praise, and Irony: Paul’s Boasting and the Conventions of Hellenistic Rhetoric,” NTS 32 (1986): 1–30; Scott Hafemann, “‘Self-Commendation’ and Apostolic Legitimacy in 2 Corinthians: A Pauline Dialectic?” NTS 36

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listing of hardships in 11:23b–33 as an ironic inversion of first-century values, others—seemingly a majority—argue that this same listing is consistent with the Greco-Roman rhetorical practice of acknowledging hardships, often as demonstrations of virile fortitude. Few scholars distinguish among the hardships listed in 11:23–33, so that survival of a shipwreck appears to be as dishonorable—or honorable—as endurance of lash and rod.74 Acknowledgment of the specific meanings of flogged bodies in a first-century habitus is essential for appreciation of Paul’s rhetorical strategy in the fool’s speech. Ancient Scars, Modern Eyes Writing of Paul’s tribulations, scholars sometimes imply that the very fact of adversity carried a social stigma in the first century. Timothy B. Savage writes, for example, that 2 Cor 11:23-29 is “a list of personal afflictions so horrific that it would have elicited feelings of extreme contempt among his readers. By boasting of such humiliations the apostle would seem to be reveling in his disgrace.”75 Such a broad assertion that the Corinthians would find the tribulations of 2 Cor 11:23–33 to be contemptible is untenable.76 We consid-

(1990): 66–88; Frederick W. Danker, “Paul’s Debt to the De Corona of Demosthenes: A Study of Rhetorical Techniques in 2 Corinthians,” in Persuasive Artistry: Studies in New Testament Rhetoric in Honor of George A. Kennedy (ed. Duane F. Watson; JSNTSup 50; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 262–80; Glenn S. Holland, “Speaking Like a Fool: Irony in 2 Corinthians 10–13,” in Rhetoric and the New Testament: Essays from the 1992 Heidelberg Conference (ed. Stanley E. Porter and Thomas H. Olbricht; JSNTSup 90; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993, repr., 2001), 250–64; Margaret M. Mitchell, “A Patristic Perspective on Pauline periautologiva,” NTS 47 (2001): 354–71; Duane F. Watson, “Paul’s Boasting in 2 Corinthians 10–13 as Defense of His Honor: A Socio-Rhetorical Analysis,” in Rhetorical Argumentation in Biblical Texts: Essays from the Lund 2000 Conference (ed. Anders Ericksson, Thomas H. Olbricht, and Walter Überlacker; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2002), 260–75. 74 Forbes is an exception: “‘Labours’ is of course an entirely respectable topic, but imprisonments and beatings by both the Jewish and Roman authorities, not to mention stonings, are hardly calculated to inspire confidence in the respectability of anyone’s position” (“Comparison, SelfPraise, and Irony,” 19). 75 Timothy B. Savage, Power through Weakness: Paul’s Understanding of the Christian Ministry in 2 Corinthians (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 63. See also Stanley B. Marrow, Paul: His Letters and His Theology (Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist, 1980), 183; David E. Garland, “Paul’s Apostolic Authority: The Power of Christ’s Sustaining Weakness (2 Corinthians 10–13),” RevExp 86 (1989): 371–89, esp. 375; Hafemann, “‘Self-Commendation’ and Apostolic Legitimacy in 2 Corinthians”; Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, The Theology of the Second Letter to the Corinthians (New Testament Theology; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 115. 76 Against the view that Paul’s clandestine getaway from Damascus (2 Cor 11:32–33) was intrinsically humiliating, L. L. Welborn has adduced convincing evidence that clever escapes could be seen not as weak maneuvers but as daring and expedient tactics (“The Runaway Paul,” HTR 92 [1999]: 115–63, esp. 117). Additionally, he has demonstrated that the mime forms part of the backdrop against which the Corinthians would respond to Paul’s “foolishness.” I am not, however, con-

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ered at length the speech Sallust composes for Marius. His iteration of hardships is, in a number of respects, parallel to Paul’s. Marius boasts repeatedly of toil and dangers, including exposure to the elements, rough sleeping conditions, fatigue, and privation of necessities, just as Paul’s speech itemizes his “toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, hungry and thirsty, often without food, cold and naked” (2 Cor 11:27).77 Both Marius and Paul follow standard canons of self-praise by including such elements. In his treatise on the acceptable parameters of self-praise, Plutarch outlines the reasons one might, in the context of self-praise, speak of what is not transparently praiseworthy. He writes, “when faults not altogether degrading [aijscrov"] or ignoble are set down beside the praise they do away with envy. Many blunt the edge of envy by occasionally inserting into their own praise a confession of poverty and indigence or actually of low birth” (Mor. 544B).78 Along with such extrinsic “antidotes [favrmaka] to self-boasting,” one may boast even more effectively of hardships and perils “inherent in the very content of the praise,” that is, challenges confronted for the sake of the audience one addresses. Plutarch supplies the example of Cato, who went without sleep for his country’s good (544D). To characterize the entirety of 11:23–33 as a catalogue of humiliations thus ignores the theory and practice of self-praise in antiquity.79 While even poverty and low birth could surface in boasting of oneself, Plutarch tells us that what is aijscrov"—degrading, dishonorable, disgraceful, infamous—plays no role in a litany of self-praise (Mor. 544B), a point overlooked by many scholars who argue that, in boasting of hardships, Paul adheres to first-century canons of self-praise. Hans Dieter Betz, for example, writes, “In Laud. ips. Plutarch argues that men fighting Tyche are admired for propping vinced by his overall thesis, that in the fool’s speech Paul enacts the role of a mime and that particular verses of the fool’s speech correspond to particular characters known from mime. For example, he claims that an audience would have recognized the stock character of the “leading slave” in 11:21b–23 because Paul there boasts of what he dares to do and of his office. Given both the brevity of the pericope and the looseness of the connections, I do not think the Corinthians would have inferred that Paul spoke in these verses as a “leading slave.” Nor does Welborn offer sufficient evidence to support his suggestion that within such a short performance a mime might enact a dizzying variety of roles. 77 I thus disagree with the scope of Watson’s contention that Paul “boasts of what is degrading and ignoble: his imprisonments, floggings, whippings, beatings with rods, and being hungry, cold, and naked. Brushes with the law and lack of necessities were not virtues in his culture” (“Paul’s Boasting in 2 Corinthians as Defense of His Honor,” 273). 78 Plutarch’s Moralia (trans. Phillip H. De Lacy and Benedict Einarson; 15 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1959). 79 Moreover, in order to espouse the position that, when Paul boasts of himself, he boasts exclusively of things that exhibit weakness (cf. 12:5), one would have to maintain that Paul represents himself as weak when he boasts that he is a Hebrew, an Israelite, a descendant of Abraham, and a minister of Christ.

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up courage and for overcoming self-pity, lamenting, and self-abasement”; thus, Paul’s boasting of weaknesses (2 Cor 11:30) was “by no means alien to the culture.”80 As he details his labors and hardships, Paul exhibits familiarity with conventions for self-praise. However, his enumeration of repeated instances in which he was publicly flogged violates expectations for such boasting: subjection to whip and rod was aijscrov". In their emphasis on the manliness of confronting manifold physical challenges, contemporary scholars assimilate the stripes scored in Paul’s flesh to cicatrized emblems of martial valor while ignoring the power relations—of legal status, domination and submission, honor and shame—incarnated in flogged bodies by Roman habitus.81 Several influential works on Paul’s use of peristaseis catalogues lay the groundwork for the position, by now widely held, that Paul’s endurance of tribulations testifies to his fortitude.82 John T. Fitzgerald argues that Paul’s opponents boasted “of their hardships as diakonoi of Christ and that their letters of recommendation contained peristaseis catalogs.”83 While Fitzgerald suggests that the content of Paul’s boasting would resemble that of the superapostles, he does not offer a systematic analysis of 2 Cor 11:23–33.84 In his 80

Betz, “De Laude Ipsius (Moralia 539A-547B),” 388. For a sampling of related positions, see Ralph P. Martin, who writes that Paul endured countless blows “as a sign of courage” (2 Corinthians [WBC 40; Waco: Word Books, 1986], 376); Ernest Best, who writes, “How many untold stories of courage, compassion, and endurance lie behind this list!” (Second Corinthians [IBC; Atlanta: John Knox, 1987], 114); Danker, who writes that Paul “displays courage” in 11:23–27, “a catalogue of perils . . . which have the net effect of establishing his own personal prestige” (“Paul’s Debt to the De Corona of Demosthenes,” 272, 277); Colin G. Kruse, who writes that “the trials list of vv. 23–29 . . . could be construed as triumphalist” (The Second Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians: An Introduction and Commentary [TynNTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991], 193); A. E. Harvey, who writes that “piling on case after case of apparently heroic endurance was a rhetorical device from which Paul may well have drawn perhaps unconscious inspiration” (Renewal through Suffering: A Study of 2 Corinthians [Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1996], 99); Bruce J. Malina and Jerome H. Neyrey, who write that Paul boasts of his “strength and might” in 2 Cor 11:23–33: “Paul claims superiority to them [his rivals] in terms of his deeds of the body. . . . He actually numbers his beatings . . . to emphasize strength and endurance” (Portraits of Paul: An Archaeology of Ancient Personality [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996], 58); Jan Lambrecht, who writes that, in 11:23–33 (and other passages), “Paul was admirably, heroically strong!” (“Dangerous Boasting: Paul’s Self-Commendation in 2 Cor 10–13,” in The Corinthian Correspondence [ed. R. Bieringer; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1996], 325– 46, esp. 338); Lambrecht also writes that in “vv 23b–28, Paul proves his own superiority by listing external hardships, adverse circumstances . . .” (idem, Second Corinthians [SacPag 8; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999], 198); Holland, “Speaking Like a Fool,” 259. 82 A martial context is also implicit, though unacknowledged, in Klassen’s argument that Antipater’s stripping to reveal his wounded (battle-scarred) body helps us better understand Paul’s stivgmata, which testify to his “loyalty to Jesus,” the result of “the service which he had rendered Jesus” (“Galatians 6:17”). 83 J. Fitzgerald, Cracks in an Earthen Vessel, 25. 84 Ibid., 26 n. 97. 81

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treatment of 6:3–10, he classifies Paul’s “blows, imprisonments, and riots” under the putative category of “catalog of punishments” (noting that riots, while not themselves a punishment, frequently provoke punishment). However, the examples that Fitzgerald cites in his treatment of “catalog of punishments” do not establish that boasting of corporal punishment was an established practice.85 Moreover, while he adumbrates examples from Greco-Roman literature in which heroic men boast of scars, he fails to note that these men are war heroes who earned their scars in combat, nor does he acknowledge that some scars spell out ignominious tales.86 Both Robert Hodgson and Martin Ebner cite traditions of Alexander and Heracles as a context for understanding Paul’s self-boasting in 11:23–29.87 They quote at length from passages in Plutarch and Arrian where Alexander itemizes dangers he has confronted; Hodgson comments that the Alexandrine tribulation lists are “reminiscent of the buffetings, famines, storms, rivers, and treachery of 2 Cor 11:23–29.”88 Alexander announces, “My body bears many a token [suvmbolon] of an opposing Fortune” (Plutarch Mor. 327A), and he continues to detail the dangers of a sustained military campaign, including not only famine but also “storms, droughts, deep rivers” (327C). Since Paul writes of shipwrecks, drifting at sea, and dangerous rivers, the parallelism is, to a certain extent, clear. Alexander’s “buffetings,” however, have nothing to do with subjection to whip and rod, but with combat injuries. According to Arrian, Alexander challenges his troops: “Let anyone who carries wounds strip himself and show them; I too will show mine. For I have no part of my body, in front at least, that is unwounded; there is no weapon, used at close quarters, or hurled from afar, of which I do not carry the trace” (Arrian Anab. 7.9.1–2).89 Without explicitly describing the markings of Paul’s body as battle scars, Hodgson reads Paul’s body as telling a soldierly tale: he mistakes the humiliating insignia carved on Paul’s flesh by whip and rod for virile emblems of martial valor.90 85

Ibid., 193, 48. Fitzgerald is hardly alone in this oversight. Danker, for example, refers readers to Aeschines’s Against Ctesiphon on “the receipt of honor for endurance of hardships.” The passage to which Danker refers involves public inscriptions celebrating soldiers who endured much toil and great dangers while on a successful military campaign (Aeschines Ctes. 183–85; Danker, “Paul’s Debt to the De Corona of Demosthenes,” 265 n. 2). 87 Hodgson, “Paul the Apostle and First Century Tribulation Lists,” 76–80; Martin Ebner, Leidenslisten und Apostelbrief: Untersuchungen zu Form, Motivik, und Funktion der Peristasenkataloge bei Paulus (FB 66; Würzburg: Echter, 1991), 118–22, 161–72. 88 Hodgson, “Paul the Apostle and First Century Tribulation Lists,” 76. 89 Arrian, History of Alexander and Indica (trans. E. Iliff Robson; LCL; 2 vols.; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1929). 90 Hodgson cites Ananus’s speech in Josephus’s Jewish War as “illuminating comparative material for Paul’s trial lists.” Ananus attacks the Jerusalem populace for their complacency, specifically mentioning that they did not protest even when flogged. Hodgson writes, “In passing, one 86

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While Hodgson seeks parallels for Paul’s tribulation lists outside Stoic literature, John Fitzgerald and Ebner draw extensively on Stoic and Cynic peristaseis catalogues, particularly those of Seneca and Epictetus.91 For Seneca and Epictetus, physical pain and public humiliation are matters of indifference; they argue that, while a man should not deliberately seek such experiences, endurance of wrongful corporal punishment is nonetheless virtuous. To advocate indifference to the pain and ignominy of being whipped, however, does not establish beatings as a legitimate subject for boasting. Moreover, as we think about Paul’s storytelling body in a Corinthian context, we should recall Richard Saller’s insistence that the philosophical contention that being whipped did not degrade a man had no impact on the perceptions of a public shaped by a habitus in which servility and dishonor were incarnated by whippability.92 This is due, in part, to the conservatism of habitus, which, Bourdieu argues, “tends to ensure its own constancy and its defense against change through the selection it makes within new information by rejecting information capable of calling into question its accumulated information.”93 An argument for the moral indifference of a whipped body would not expunge the ingrained habit of reacting to a whipped body with contempt. The question of attitudes toward endurance of pain and humiliation crystallizes a difficulty inherent in relying on Seneca and Epictetus to reconstruct an intellectual “background” for Paul. Seneca is a contemporary of Paul; Epictetus a generation younger. If Seneca and Epictetus transmit changeless Stoic doctrines, then we may be justified in relying on them as we flesh out an intellectual milieu that also shaped Paul. However, Seneca’s writing represents a break with earlier Stoic traditions on a number of counts, particularly with respect to the body in pain. Catharine Edwards notes a tension between Seneca’s concern with the body and older Stoic indifference to bodily status.94 Brent D. Shaw similarly notes that Seneca treats the “nexus of pain, torture and endurance/patience” with a novel intensity.95 Seneca plays a pivotal role in the story of Roman letters during the first century, a century in which—at least in will want to note the material agreement with 2 Cor . . . 11:23–29 in the matter of beating.” He does not acknowledge that the passage from Josephus stresses the humiliation of being flogged (“Paul the Apostle and First Century Tribulation Lists,” 69). 91 J. Fitzgerald, Cracks in an Earthen Vessel; Ebner, Leidenslisten und Apostelbrief, esp. 112–15. 92 Saller, “Corporal Punishment, Authority, and Obedience in the Roman Household,” 152. 93 Bourdieu, Logic of Practice, 60–61. 94 Catharine Edwards, “The Suffering Body: Philosophy and Pain,” in Constructions of the Classical Body (ed. James I. Porter; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999), 252–68, esp. 254. See also Roller, Constructing Autocracy, 103–6. 95 Brent D. Shaw, “Body/Power/Identity: Passions of the Martyrs,” JECS 4 (1996): 269–312, esp. 292.

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part because of a shifting political landscape—traditional values were being transformed.96 As a result, although the relationship between Senecan and Pauline attitudes toward corporal pain and public degradation merits consideration, we cannot rely on Seneca (or, later, Epictetus) to reconstruct the habitus that shaped Corinthian response to Paul’s whippable body. The paradoxical nature of Paul’s boasting of beating eludes many commentators. Regarding Paul’s declaration that on three occasions he had been beaten with rods, commentators are chiefly concerned to establish that, although Roman law prohibited magistrates from ordering the flogging of a citizen, social reality did not always conform to legal mandate.97 Citizens were occasionally beaten. By focusing on the juristic implications of the scene— whether Paul’s vulnerability to magistrates’ rod belies Luke’s ascription of citizenship to him—commentators overlook the meaning of such treatment for those shaped by Roman habitus. Citizen or not, free or slave, a beaten body was a dishonored body; any free person who was publicly stripped and battered with rods suffered an effective reduction in social status.98 Even a single occasion of flogging dishonored a man; multiple occasions of flogging would raise questions about the character of a man unable or unwilling to guard his body against violation, who might even be perceived to invite such treatment.99 On five occasions, Jewish leaders whipped Paul. According to Deuteronomy, official whippings were restricted to forty lashes because more stripes would degrade the recipient of the blows (25:3).100 Gentiles in the Corinthian churches were unlikely to be familiar with this scriptural scruple: thirty-nine 96 A story well told in Carlin A. Barton, “Savage Miracles: The Redemption of Lost Honor in Roman Society and the Sacrament of the Gladiator and the Martyr,” Representations 45 (1994): 41–71; idem, Roman Honor. 97 Philip Edgcumbe Hughes, Paul’s Second Epistle to the Corinthians (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1962), 410; C. K. Barrett, A Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians (BNTC; New York: Harper & Row, 1973), 297; R. Martin, 2 Corinthians, 377; Victor Paul Furnish, II Corinthians: Translated with Introduction, Notes, and Commentary (AB 32A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1984), 517; Frederick W. Danker, II Corinthians (ACNT; Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1989), 182; Kruse, Second Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians, 196; Paul Barnett, The Second Epistle to the Corinthians (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 543; Margaret E. Thrall, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians (2 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1994, 2000), 739–42. 98 “For a high-status person to be subjected to one of these typically ‘servile’ punishments was regarded as singularly damaging to his status” (Roller, Constructing Autocracy, 205). 99 Georges Bataille’s observation that “no greater drive exists than a wounded person’s need for another wound” raises another series of questions—outside the scope of this article—about Paul’s submission to repeated beatings (Guilty [trans. Bruce Boone; Venice, CA: Lapis Press, 1988], 31). F. Gerald Downing suggests that, after the manner of a Cynic, Paul incited violence against himself (Cynics, Paul, and the Pauline Churches [London: Routledge, 1998], 155–56). 100 In this context, Hans Windisch notes that Paul ultimately received 195 lashes (Der zweite Korintherbrief [KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1924], 355).

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lashes would constitute thirty-nine strikes against the recipient’s integrity.101 Perhaps more importantly, other references to the thirty-nine lashes dating from the Roman era exhibit no concern for the dignity of the one whipped; in fact, these texts insist on the degrading character of the punishment. Josephus represents the thirty-nine lashes as an explicitly disgraceful penalty, inflicted on free persons only because they first outrage their own honor through enslavement to wealth (Ant. 4.8.21). The story Josephus reads in the imposition of the thirty-nine lashes is informed by a Roman habitus: whipping, which brings dishonor to the one who is whipped, is suitable only for slaves, so one who is whipped, even if legally free, warrants description as servile. The mishnaic elaboration of administration of the thirty-nine lashes dwells on abasing dimensions of the practice, with no recognition of the scriptural hesitancy to avoid inscribing degradation along with the stripes (m. Mak. 3.12–14): The offender may not stand upright during the whipping, but must bend low. Synagogue officials bind the offender’s hands to pillars and grab the offender’s garments, ripping them so that the upper torso is naked. With all his strength, the synagogue leader wields the leather whip, delivering one-third of the strokes to the front of the torso and two-thirds to the back. (Marks of a whip slashing across a man’s chest would not, however, be mistaken for pectoral war wounds.) The rabbis consider possible denouements for the beating: it may be so severe, for example, that the one who is whipped dies. Or the humiliation of the beating may have a scatological outcome, in which case the punishment is halted, presumably because the end of abjection has been achieved: “If he [that was scourged] befouled himself whether with excrement or urine, he is exempt [from the rest of the stripes]. R. Judah says: A man [is exempt only if he befouled himself] with excrement, and a woman [if she befouled herself] with urine” (m. Mak. 3.14).102 Given the complex relationship of legal texts to lived reality, we should not take the mishnaic scene as an accurate description of the delivery of the thirtynine lashes in the first or even the second century. Moreover, few (if any) Corinthian Christians would have witnessed a synagogue whipping. They had, however, observed many other whippings, mostly of slaves, and they could envisage—more easily than we can—the public humiliation, the instantiation of relationships of dominance and subjection, honor and dishonor, carved into Paul’s lowered, stripped, flinching body. Paul says that, if he must boast, he will boast of things that exhibit his weakness (2 Cor 11:30). When he boasts of beatings, he boasts of what is 101 By the first century C.E., the forty lashes seem to have been customarily meted out stopping one stroke short of the fortieth snap of the whip. 102 The Mishnah (trans. Herbert Danby; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1933).

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aijscrov": dishonorable, degrading, and ultimately, morally suspect. To us, Paul’s endurance of brutal whippings may be more likely to betoken heroism than contemptible weakness and abasement. In our postures and demeanors, we embody a different sociopolitical mythology.103 Shaw argues that Paul’s writings played a key role in modification of the classical corporal hexis. He writes: The connection between bodily position and moral evaluation, and the revolution in values connected with valuing the inferior, the humble, the womanly, that which merely accepts and endures (from a prone position) is clearly indicated by the history of the words that were used to describe being low to the ground or prone—tapeinos and allied terms (meaning low, prone, close to the ground, and consistently associated with being poor, weak, insignificant, and womanly). . . . The almost palpable association of moral status and bodily position was so strong and so inalterable that the classical conceptions that pervaded the thought-world of the Greek polis and all its successor ideologies surrendered no ground on this matter. To be tapeinos . . . had an indelible connection with shame, humiliation, degradation and, inexorably, with that which was morally bad. . . . It is the Christian writings . . . that revolutionize these values wholly by their total inversion. Paul boasts of his selfabasement and humility. . . . Indeed, he actually creates a new virtue— tapeinosophrune (tapeinosofruvnh) [sic, for tapeinofrosuvnh]—the voluntary abasement of the self and one’s body.104

The Story of a Body As Paul confronts a challenge to his apostolic authority in Corinth, he commits what may seem like a tactical error: he boasts of his beatings. Why does he highlight his corporal abasement during a crisis of Corinthian confidence in his apostolic authority? On a strategic level, Paul’s whippability is already an issue in Corinth: he cannot avoid the topic. Paul has previously written—and likely spoken about—his beatings. The charges brought by the superapostles implicate his somatic vulnerability; one gambit for confronting such 103 John Chrysostom’s reading of Paul’s storytelling body points to the modification of classical bodily hexis in late antiquity. He says that, like a soldier emerging bloody from battle, Paul bears in his body evidence of manly virtue [ajndragaqiva], so that Paul’s exhibition of wounds in Gal 6:17 is more persuasive than any argument he might make in his own defense. Chrysostom, however, introduces this reading of Paul’s body by noting its peculiarity, since in Gal 6:17 Paul seems to vaunt what is disgraceful [o[neido"] (Hom. Gal. 6.4). Would the Corinthians likewise infer that Paul’s corporal markings spell out a martial story? Even after centuries of mounting Christian influence, Chrysostom—who, unlike the Corinthians, has no doubts about Paul’s authority—acknowledges the degradation of Paul’s bodily appearance. Chrysostom is informed by centuries of Christian tradition—along with his own close reading of Paul—in his positive valuation of Paul’s abased mien, although even he is unable to free himself entirely from the sense that Paul’s wounds are shameful. 104 Shaw, “Body/Power/Identity,” 303–4.

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charges is to disarm the opponent by admitting the accuracy of the charges.105 Beyond such practical considerations, Paul perceives that in his marked body the story of Jesus’ passion is legible.106 He thus has both tactical and theological reasons for boasting of his publicly humiliating beatings. We learn from 2 Cor 10:1–11 that the Corinthians have Paul’s body on their minds. 1 Corinthians 4:9–13 informs us of one way Paul presented his beaten body at a time when his authority was not under attack from the superapostles, a self-presentation relevant to later Corinthian reaction to Paul’s corpus. Describing himself as weak and dishonored (4:10), Paul writes, “To the present hour we are hungry and thirsty, we are poorly clothed and beaten [kolafizovmeqa] and homeless, and we grow weary from the work of our own hands” (1 Cor 4:11–12a). Two vivid images bracket this list of hardships. Introducing the list, Paul pictures himself as a prisoner condemned to death in an amphitheater, in a cosmic spectacle orchestrated by God (4:9). Concluding the list, Paul describes himself as filthy waste (4:13). The latter metaphor suggests that Paul perceives his travails as a missionary, including the public abuse of his body in beatings, to leave him in a state of abject contemptibility.107 How does the inaugural metaphor of spectacle inform a reading of Paul’s body, limp from beatings? Carlin A. Barton writes of the “extreme ambiguity” associated with gladiators and also with those, not themselves gladiators, condemned to die in the arena: “Gladiators were the defeated and humiliated outcasts from society and the most highly charged and sacred warriors within the community. They inspired both worship and disgust, emulation and loathing, sympathy and revulsion.” 108 Within the frame of the spectacle, one who 105 Barton discusses this as a strategy of Roman literature of the early Empire (Roman Honor,

183–95). 106 Paul’s imaginary body, as evoked by self-references in the epistolary corpus, is marked not only by whip and rod. The stretch marks date from his labor as an expectant mother (Gal 4:19) and his breasts still leak from nursing his congregations (1 Thess 2:7; 1 Cor 3:1–2). As Beverly Roberts Gaventa has argued, “By speaking in first person as a nursing mother, Paul compromises his own standing as a ‘real man’” (“Mother’s Milk and Ministry in 1 Corinthians 3,” in Theology and Ethics in Paul and His Interpreters: Essays in Honor of Victor Paul Furnish [ed. Eugene H. Lovering, Jr. and Jerry L. Sumney; Nashville: Abingdon: 1996], 101–13, esp. 112). Gaventa’s work on tropes of maternity and lactation in the epistles suggests that we might well speak of Paul’s crucified masculinity (cf. Gal 6:14). See also eadem, “The Maternity of Paul: An Exegetical Study of Galatians 4:19,” in The Conversation Continues: Studies in Paul and John in Honor of J. Louis Martyn (ed. Robert T. Fortna and Beverly R. Gaventa; Nashville: Abingdon, 1990), 189–201; eadem, “Apostles as Babes and Nurses in 1 Thessalonians 2:7,” in Faith and History: Essays in Honor of Paul W. Meyer (ed. John T. Carroll, Charles H. Cosgrove, and E. Elizabeth Johnson; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990), 193–207; eadem, “Our Mother St. Paul: Toward the Recovery of a Neglected Theme,” PSB 17 (1996): 29–44. 107 On Paul’s choice of and attitudes toward manual labor, see Ronald F. Hock, The Social Context of Paul’s Ministry (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1980). 108 Barton, “Savage Miracles,” 51–52.

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scorned pain and death might elicit admiration, but as the spectator stepped back from the frame, the courage of the gladiator—still less the condemned man—could not erase the degradation that forced him into the arena. A man whose life was so expendable that he could be killed to amuse others qualified as rubbish or dregs, terms Paul applies to himself (1 Cor 4:13). Of the various sufferings Paul lists in 1 Cor 4:11–12, battering is the only one in which he would be publicly exhibited, stripped of his clothes, physically vulnerable to those intent on subjecting him to violence—like a condemned man in an arena. Paul does not suggest that his endurance of beatings is virile or heroic. Rather, the vocabulary of 1 Cor 4:9–13 evokes the abject habitus of a beaten body. During Paul’s absence from Corinth, the superapostles have challenged his apostolic authority. They have maligned him on a number of counts, including, for example, his rejection of financial support from the Corinthian churches (2 Cor 11:7–11). They have also ridiculed Paul’s sermo corporis. Faceto-face, his appearance is base [tapeinov " ] (2 Cor 10:1), his speech contemptible, and “the presence of his body is weak [hJ de; parousiva tou' swvmato" ajsqenhv"]” (10:10). What do the superapostles mean by the accusation, “the presence of his body is weak”? Scholarly opinion varies, from the position that Paul is sickly to the contention that “it is unlikely that one who was so inured to incessant hardship and journeying could be described as a weakling.”109 In general, though, even scholars who acknowledge that the superapostles may allude to some physical weakness of Paul’s argue that the adjective ajsqenhv" refers ultimately to low social status, a lack of honor, or simply a weak claim to apostolic authority.110 Because NT scholars have not acknowledged that relationships of power were embodied, they have not appreciated the centrality of Paul’s body to the superapostles’ campaign against him.111 An important exception is J. Albert Harrill, who argues that Paul’s opponents targeted his body in their invective. Harrill contends that, through the superapostles’ allegation that Paul’s bodily 109 P. Hughes, Paul’s Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 362. Furnish suggests that the superapostles’ reference to the weakness of Paul’s body may imply sickliness, although he argues that the weakness “is inclusive of more than his state of health” (II Corinthians, 478–79); similarly, Robert G. Hamerton-Kelly, “A Girardian Interpretation of Paul: Rivalry, Mimesis, and Victimage in the Corinthian Correspondence,” Semeia 33 (1985): 65–81; R. Martin, 2 Corinthians, 312. 110 P. Hughes, Paul’s Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 362; David Alan Black, Paul, Apostle of Weakness: Astheneia and Its Cognates in the Pauline Literature (New York: Peter Lang, 1984), 136; Hamerton-Kelly, “Girardian Interpretation of Paul,” 74; Rudolf Bultmann, The Second Letter to the Corinthians (trans. Roy A. Harrisville; Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1985), 190; Arthur J. Dewey, “A Matter of Honor: A Social-Historical Analysis of 2 Corinthians 10,” HTR 78 (1985): 209–17, esp. 213; Thrall, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 631. 111 Danker argues that Paul “lacks personal presence”; he rightly emphasizes the importance of corporal self-presentation in the establishment of authority in ancient contexts (II Corinthians, 155).

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appearance was weak, they “tried to question Paul’s manhood and right to dominate others.”112 The superapostles’ jab at Paul’s physical fitness impugns him as servile. Harrill’s survey of ancient sources, especially his treatment of physiognomic handbooks, documents the widespread understanding that social status was somatically expressed.113 The allegations that Paul was base, weak, and contemptible were parallel (10:1, 10), calling into question both his social status and his apostolic authority; these allegations were also, not incidentally, somatic. As moral degradation was understood in the first century to be expressed in physical degradation, so corporal degradation was construed as a marker of a fundamental contemptibility.114 For the superapostles and some members of the Corinthian churches, the debility of Paul’s somatic presentation undermined his claim to authority in the community.115 Re-membering Paul’s storytelling body from clues in his epistolary corpus, we also know that he had been repeatedly flogged, and that, most likely, his body still bore souvenirs of those beatings. The weakness of Paul’s corporal self-presentation thus seems inseparable from his evident whippability. Like Thespesion mocking the Spartans for submitting to governance by men who have been publicly whipped, perhaps the superapostles asked: What is it like to follow an eminently beatable leader? The question of Paul’s authority to discipline the community underlies 10:1–11. Paul presents his 112 J. Albert Harrill, “Invective against Paul (2 Cor 10:10), the Physiognomics of the Ancient Slave Body, and the Greco-Roman Rhetoric of Manhood,” in Antiquity and Humanity: Essays on Ancient Religion and Philosophy Presented to Hans Dieter Betz on His 70th Birthday (ed. Adela Yarbro Collins and Margaret M. Mitchell; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2001), 189–213, esp. 211. 113 Harrill bases his argument on 2 Cor 10:10. He does not track other clues Paul supplies about his body, nor does he explore the credibility of the superapostles’ charge—that is, whether Paul’s body would have been legible as weak and servile. Following Saller, he notes, albeit briefly, that “the repeated physical abuse of the whip broke down and re-shaped the bodies of slaves, thereby creating in actuality the slave body that ideology required” (“Invective,” 194–95). He does not acknowledge the relevance of this insight for interpreting the allegation that Paul’s bodily appearance was weak. Although Harrill comments that Paul “even boasts of his bodily weakness in a catalogue of hardships (2 Cor 11:23–29),” he does not mention that Paul’s “bodily weakness” includes subjection to repeated floggings (ibid., 209). Harrill argues that, in describing his body as weak, “Paul defends himself by assuming the sch'ma of a slave in the fashion of Odysseus,” who disguised himself as a slave by whipping himself and dressing rags, thereby securing admission to Troy (ibid., 212; after Abraham J. Malherbe, “Antisthenes and Odysseus, and Paul at War,” HTR 76 [1983]: 143–73; cf. Homer Od. 4.244). Unlike Odysseus, however, Paul did not flagellate himself. Rather, he was repeatedly and publicly whipped and beaten with rods. He did not choose the sch'ma of a slave. Instead, to first-century eyes, a tale of abasement was legible in his scars, so the superapostles described his whippable body as weak in appearance. 114 Roller, Constructing Autocracy, 226. 115 My argument is independent of Hock’s argument that the hexis of manual labor shaped Paul’s somatic self-presentation, undermining his status and so his claim to authority in Corinth. Our approaches are, however, ultimately compatible (Hock, Social Context of Paul’s Ministry, 60).

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tapeivnwsi" as parallel to Jesus’ meekness (10:1), but discourages the Corinthians from interpreting this self-abnegation as an inability or unwillingness to exercise authority (10:1–2, 11). In this context Paul refers to the charge that the presence of his body is weak, and indeed context and charge may be linked: Paul was perceived as the sort who was subject to the rod, not the sort likely to wield a rod.116 The superapostles, on the other hand, seem ready to pick up the rod. Immediately before he commences his foolish boasting in 2 Cor 11:21b, Paul refers to the humiliation of the Corinthian churches by the superapostles: “For you put up with it when someone enslaves you, or preys upon you, or seizes you, or takes advantage of you, or slaps you in the face” (11:20).117 Paul’s association of the acceptance of physical and verbal blows with servility confirms his fluency in a first-century corporal vernacular.118 With the crack of an open palm across a cheek, the superapostles have asserted their dominance, and the Corinthians have submitted. For Paul, the problem is not that the Corinthians have humbly absorbed the stinging blows; the problem is that, in their submission to the authority of the superapostles, they have subjugated themselves and the gospel Paul preaches. To characterize the effect the superapostles have had on the Corinthians, Paul relies on the analogy of enslavement.119 116 Savage suggests that the charge of somatic weakness is linked to Paul’s failure to discipline the community (Power through Weakness, 66). 117 Cuthbert Lattey suggests that the translation of lambavnein (2 Cor 11:20) should convey the idea of physical force (“lambavnein in 2 Cor xi.20,” JTS 44 [1943]: 148). Scholarly opinion is divided on the question of whether the superapostles have physically expressed their mastery over the Corinthians, or whether their seizing and slaps are metaphorical. Given the ubiquity of corporal expressions of dominance around the ancient Mediterranean world, even in synagogues and churches, I am persuaded that Paul refers to physical aggression in this verse. My argument, however, requires only that Paul demonstrate—as he does in 11:20—his habituation to a corporal vocabulary associating submission to corporal punishment with enslavement. Against the view that Paul’s reference to a slap across the face refers to flesh-to-flesh contact, note that he refers to “your [pl.] face” rather than to “your faces.” Those who express ambivalence on the question of whether Paul refers metaphorically to violence include Barrett (Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 291), Bultmann (Second Letter to the Corinthians, 212), Barnett (Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 533), and Thrall (Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 717–18). For the view that the violence is metaphorical, see Windisch, Zweite Korintherbrief, 347; Furnish, II Corinthians, 497; Danker, II Corinthians, 177; Lambrecht, Second Corinthians, 190. For the view that Paul refers to physical violence—in particular, literal slaps on the face—see P. Hughes, Paul’s Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 400; R. Martin, 2 Corinthians, 364–65; Kruse, Second Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians, 193. 118 “When a power-holder’s relationship . . . is figured as that of a master in relation to slaves, he is most often said or implied to be imposing corporal punishments of various (typically slavish) sorts” (Roller, Constructing Autocracy, 262–63). 119 Although he is prepared to discipline the Corinthians when he returns (2 Cor 13:1–3, 10), he will not do so as a slaveholder. In chs. 10–13, Paul applies several metaphors to himself that could govern the disciplinary role he foresees for himself. He describes himself as a military com-

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If the superapostles have enslaved the Corinthians by disciplining them, have synagogue officials and magistrates enslaved Paul by flogging him? Paul moves from his mockery of the Corinthians for permitting the superapostles to abuse them to his foolish boasting, self-praise that prominently features a catalogue of tribulations, most of which do not qualify as ignominious (11:23–33).120 He lists his beatings near the outset of the catalogue (vv. 23b– 25a). He does not deny or minimize his somatic history, with which the Corinthians are already familiar, which has, moreover, already been targeted by the superapostles in their attack on his authority. As Martyn observes, “On the whole, Paul drew no distinction between malevolent persecution at the hands of various authorities and such disasters as shipwrecks and floods.”121 Indeed, in his lists of tribulations faced, Paul treats his subjection to floggings in the same fashion that he treats his travel escapades and privations of such necessities as food, drink, and shelter (1 Cor 4:9–13; 2 Cor 5:4–5; 11:23–27). Paul does not represent insignia of humiliation as emblems of valor, but neither does he acknowledge that those who have flogged him have mastered him. His resistance to definition by those who have whipped him is an implicit criticism of the Corinthians, who have, Paul alleges, been mastered by the superapostles. If Paul does not concede that the wales of his back tell a story of his enslavement by those who have lifted whip and rod against him, what story does his body tell? We return to Paul’s allusion to ta; stivgmata tou' !Ihsou', widely taken to be a reference to the scars he has acquired in the course of his missionary activity, particularly the tracings made by lashes, rods, and stones mander (10:3-6) and the father of the community (11:2; 12:14–15). John T. Fitzgerald notes the importance of Paul’s presentation of himself as father of the community for his disciplinary role in 2 Cor 10–13 (“Paul, the Ancient Epistolary Theorists, and 2 Corinthians 10–13,” in Greeks, Romans, and Christians: Essays in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe [ed. David L. Balch, Everett Ferguson, Wayne A. Meeks; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990], 190–200, esp. 196). Officers and fathers were understood to rely sparingly on corporal punishments; the whip symbolized the relationship between slaveholder and slave, not the relationship between officer and soldier and certainly not the relationship between father and child (Saller, “Corporal Punishment, Authority, and Obedience in the Roman Household”). A slaveholder subjugated a slave through physical assaults, keeping the slave in a permanent state of dishonor and humiliation; a father—at least in theory—sought the good of the one who was disciplined, and an officer sought the good of the company. (Excessive reliance of some officers on corporal punishment was nonetheless an issue at various points in Roman history. On discipline in the military, see J. S. Reid, “On Some Questions of Roman Public Law,” JRS 1 [1911]: 68-99, esp. 83–93.) Thus, although Paul represents the submission of the Corinthians to the discipline of the superapostles as servile, he evokes other possibilities—as father, as commanding officer—for interpreting his own role as disciplinarian. 120 While the superapostles are likely to have followed the standard practice of including labors and hardships in their own boasting, Paul boasts that he has endured “far greater labors, far more imprisonments” (v. 23b). Paul gives no hint that the superapostles have boasted of beatings. 121 Martyn, Galatians, 568 n. 72.

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(Gal 6:17; 2 Cor 11:24–25).122 Stivgma has servile connotations—delinquent slaves were often tattooed or branded.123 On one reading, through the stigmatic metaphor, Paul implies that the marks inscribed in his flesh by whips and rods brand him as Jesus’ slave. That reading, however, is vexed. A slaveholder brands a slave; Paul did not receive his scars at the hands or directive of Jesus, but at the hands of those who opposed the gospel. Moreover, Paul’s reference to stivgmata grounds his demand that those who have opposed him should cease to trouble him.124 Under Roman law, when a slaveholder tattooed a slave, he or she not only marked the slave as his or her property but also increased the slave’s vulnerability to physical or verbal assaults by others.125 If Paul’s stivgmata 122 While treatments of Gal 6:17 routinely identify Paul’s corporal markings as souvenirs of the hardships of Paul’s apostolate, typically with explicit reference to 2 Cor 11:23–25, Paul’s invocation of his talismanic stivgmata is less frequently adduced as relevant for understanding why Paul boasts of beatings. For the view that Paul’s stivgmata are literal scars from injuries incurred in the course of apostolic ministry, see James Hope Moulton, “The Marks of Jesus,” ExpTim 21 (1910): 283–84; Ernest De Witt Burton, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians (ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1921), 360–61; G. S. Duncan, The Epistle of Paul to the Galatians (MNTC; London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1948), 193; Klassen, “Galatians 6:17;” Guthrie, Galatians, 152; Hans Dieter Betz, “stivgma,” TDNT 7:657–64, esp. 663; idem, Galatians: A Commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Churches in Galatia (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), 324–25; Carolyn Osiek, Galatians (New Testament Message 12; Wilmington, Del.: Michael Glazier, 1980), 90; F. F. Bruce, The Epistle to the Galatians: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 276; Charles B. Cousar, Galatians (Interpretation; Atlanta: John Knox, 1982), 151; Hamerton-Kelly, “Girardian Interpretation of Paul,” 74; A. E. Harvey, “Forty Strokes Save One: Social Aspects of Judaizing and Apostasy,” in Alternative Approaches to New Testament Study (ed. A. E. Harvey; London: SPCK, 1985), 88; John S. Pobee, Persecution and Martyrdom in the Theology of Paul (JSNTSup 6; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985), 95; Ronald Y. K. Fung, The Epistle to the Galatians (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 313; R. A. Cole, The Letter of Paul to the Galatians: An Introduction and Commentary (TynNTC; rev. ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989), 239; Richard N. Longenecker, Galatians (WBC 41; Dallas: Word, 1990), 300; D. Lührmann, Galatians: A Continental Commentary (trans. O. C. Dean, Jr.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 122; Frank J. Matera, Galatians (SacPag 9; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992), 227; James D. G. Dunn, The Epistle to the Galatians (BNTC; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1993), 347; Leon Morris, Galatians: Paul’s Charter of Christian Freedom (Leicester: InterVarsity Press, 1996), 191; Moore, God’s Gym, 28. 123 C. P. Jones argues that slaves were generally marked by tattoos, not brands (“Tattooing and Branding in Greco-Roman Antiquity,” JRS 77 [1987]: 139–55). 124 Dale B. Martin comments that “the purpose for which Paul brings up the marks is to preclude judgments on his actions by outsiders. The only one who legitimately judges a slave is that slave’s master” (Slavery as Salvation: The Metaphor of Slavery in Pauline Christianity [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990], 59–60). Martin suggests that the stivgmata may have been actual tattoos. See also Bruce, Epistle to the Galatians, 275. 125 “Thus, the praetor does not promise an action for every affront in respect of a slave . . . for it is highly relevant what sort of slave he is, whether he be honest, regular and responsible, a steward or only a common slave, a drudge or whatever. And what if he be in fetters, branded, and of the deepest notoriety?” (Justinian Dig. 47.10.15.44). Roman law was not uniformly applied throughout the empire; we cannot infer that practices advocated in legal codes conform to social realities.

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identify him as a slave of Christ, his expectation that his stivgmata would protect him seems fundamentally misplaced. These inconsistencies prompt consideration of other readings of the metaphor. Erhardt Güttgemanns argues that “die leiden des Apostels nicht anderes als die Epiphanie der Kreuzigung des irdischen Jesus sind.”126 Following Güttgemanns, Martyn argues that Paul’s scars make manifest the tracings of Roman whips on Jesus’ own body, tracings that are, inherently, servile.127 Paul not only claims that he bears in his body ta; stivgmata tou' !Ihsou'; he also claims that in his body he always carries “the putting to death of Jesus [th;n nevkrwsin tou' !Ihsou']” (2 Cor 4:10).128 Paul’s storytelling body bears in ta; stivgmata tou' !Ihsou' the putting to death of Jesus, a tale inscribed in Paul’s flesh—as in Jesus’ flesh—by strokes of the whip.129 Paul’s welted skin is parchment on which is legible the agonizing story of Jesus’ humiliations preceding his life-giving death (cf. 2 Cor 4:11); the flagellation of Jesus figures prominently among those humiliations.130 Because Paul believed that in the stripes of his own flesh the story of Jesus’ passion could be read, he ascribed phylactic properties to his stivgmata. But to those informed by Roman habitus, his whipped body instead announced that he was whippable. Roman law is, however, a useful index of Roman ideology; what is relevant here is the belief that a branded/tattooed slave was infamous and therefore deserved even less respect of person than other slaves (The Digest of Justinian [ed. Theodor Mommsen, Paul Krueger, and Alan Watson; 4 vols.; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985]). 126 Erhardt Güttgemanns, Der leidende Apostel und sein Herr: Studien zu paulinischen Christologie (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966), 134. 127 So Martyn, Galatians, 568–69. 128 In deciphering Paul’s stivgmata (Gal 6:17), scholars frequently allude both to 2 Cor 11:23– 25 and to 2 Cor 4:10. Those interpreting Paul’s boasting of beatings (2 Cor 11:23–25) refer much less frequently to Gal 6:17 or 2 Cor 4:10. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, who writes that in 2 Cor 11:23–25 Paul “graphically illustrated . . . ‘bearing in the body the dying of Christ,’” is an exception (Theology of the Second Letter to the Corinthians, 115–16). See also Forbes, “Comparison, SelfPraise, and Irony,” 19. 129 Osiek writes that it is likely that Paul’s stivgmata memorialize “the physical effects of his labors and the suffering that he has had to endure in his missionary work . . . or even more specifically to the effects of several beatings (2 Cor 11:23–25). These are physical scars which manifest the dying of Jesus (2 Cor 4:10)” (Galatians, 90). On the parallelism of Gal 6:17 and 2 Cor 4:10, see also Herman N. Ridderbos, The Epistle of Paul to the Churches of Galatia (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1956), 228; Guthrie, Galatians, 152; Betz, Galatians, 324 n. 129, 325; Fung, Epistle to the Galatians, 314; Matera, Galatians, 232; Dunn, Epistle to the Galatians, 347. 130 In his references to the death of Jesus, Paul does not explicitly mention the ritualized abuse and humiliation Jesus endured as prelude to crucifixion, although he would have known that it occurred, if only because flogging regularly preceded execution (see Garnsey, Social Status and Legal Privilege in the Roman Empire, 138). Contrast Mark 10:33–34 and parallels, where Jesus anticipates that he will be mocked, spat upon, and whipped. Attention to the meaning of flogging and flogged bodies in a Roman habitus has implications for appreciating ancient reactions to the passion of Jesus; the scope of the present article precludes discussion of those implications.

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Paul writes to the Corinthians that he boasts of things that show his weakness (11:30; 12:9–10). In boasting of beatings, he has done precisely that. He has already mentioned the charge of the superapostles—a charge he does not deny—that the presence of his body is weak (10:10). To those habituated to a first-century somatic idiom, Paul’s physical weakness, which I have argued is expressed in his whippability, would raise suspicions about his claims to authority. He nonetheless boasts of his beatings, and not only because the Corinthians are already cognizant of his history of floggings. His debility unites him to Christ: “For he was crucified out of weakness [ejx ajsqeneiva"], but lives by the power of God. For we are weak in him [or: with him], but in dealing with you we will live with him by the power of God” (13:4). In writing that Jesus was crucified “out of weakness,” Paul acknowledges the socially conditioned meaning of a condemned, flagellated, and ultimately crucified body. Jesus’ vulnerability to corporal abuse and violation—being whipped, spat upon, and crucified— incarnates his degradation and dishonor. Paul is weak in—or, with—Jesus (13:4), bearing in his own body the marks of the events leading to Jesus’ death (4:10). The superapostles have convinced many Corinthian Christians, their perceptions shaped by Roman hexis, that Paul’s abused body testifies to the weakness of his claim to apostolic authority. Paul does not try to revamp the prevailing habitus; he does not call dishonor honor. Rather, he represents his abject mien as cruciform. In his somatic weakness, both consequence and condition of his beatings—for, on a first-century view, only a whippable body is whipped, and whipped repeatedly—the Corinthians should read the degrading and powerful story of the execution of Jesus.

V. Conclusion Martyn suggests that Paul treats his physique as a medium of communication. But what story does his body tell? Many scholars identify Paul’s scars as tokens of virtue. I have argued that, within a Roman habitus, scars that established a man’s virtue or virility were typically incurred in battle. Display of war wounds was a common feature of Roman somatic rhetoric. Those habituated to a first-century corporal idiom distinguished between a breast pierced in battle and a back welted by a whip: not every scarred body told a war story. Whippability was a token not of honor, excellence, or virility, but of dishonor, abasement, and servility. In analyzing Paul’s boasting of beatings, scholars often cite examples of heroism attested by wounded bodies, although they do not always acknowledge the martial context of those wounds. Scholars have, moreover, passed over the semiotic distinction between a battle-scarred body and a flogged body. In boasting of beatings, Paul does what he says he does: he boasts of things that show his weakness.

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I have argued that Paul boasts of beatings both for strategic reasons—his abused body is already the subject of discussion and even derision in Corinth— and for theological reasons—he believes that the story of Jesus’ death is legible in the scar tissue that has formed over welts and lacerations inflicted by rod and whip. Other readings are possible. For example, in 2 Cor 10:3–6, Paul relies on martial imagery to assert his authority, including his disciplinary authority.131 One could therefore argue that martial imagery remains implicit in Paul’s recitation of hardships in 11:23–33, so that the list functions as an overview of adversities Paul has confronted on military campaigns for Christ.132 On this view, in cataloging his hardships, Paul substitutes an enumeration of episodes in which he was subjected to lash and rod for standard references to hand-tohand combat. Such an interpretation still has to acknowledge and account for the varying connotations of battle scars and disciplinary stripes. What would it mean in first-century Corinth to identify dermal ridges from flogging as souvenirs of combat? Would it be self-mocking, ironic, defiant, or heroically brave? Insignia carved by whips were (mis)taken as emblems of valor by slaves in ancient comedies, and, in a different way, by witnesses to the Spartan diamastivgwsi". As we have seen, the association between whippability and dishonor was so strong that even ephebes flagellated at the altar of Artemis Orthia did not, ultimately, escape jeers. Whips and rods had inscribed Paul’s flesh. The Corinthians, habituated to a first-century corporal idiom, could not read a straightforward tale of manly valor in Paul’s storytelling body. 131 He announces that, once he has crushed the opposition, he will take as prisoners the thoughts of the Corinthians in order to assure their submission to Christ. His phrasing implies a military preparedness to punish (10:5–6) (Malherbe, “Antisthenes and Odysseus, and Paul at War,” 145). 132 Malherbe comments that the precise relationship of 10:1–6 “to the rest of chs. 10–13 is difficult to determine” (ibid., 166).

JBL 123/1 (2004) 137–142

CRITICAL NOTE A PRE-DEUTERONOMISTIC BICOLON IN 1 SAMUEL 12:21?

Near the conclusion of Samuel’s farewell address in 1 Sam 12, we encounter this charge to the people of Israel (v. 21):

.hM;hâ e WhtèoAyKi Wly£Xiy" aløèw“ Wly[üi/yAaløî rvá,a} WhTofih' yr¢Ej}a' | yK¢i WrWs–T; alçøw“ Do not turn away to follow worthless things, which can neither profit nor save but are worthless. (NJPS) The phraseology and style of v. 21 have none of the characteristically Deuteronomistic features of the surrounding speech of Samuel.1 In fact, it is entirely possible to discern two strata of speech in this pericope. The people ask the venerable prophet to intercede on their behalf because of the guilt they have incurred by requesting a king (v. 19). This is followed immediately by the first speech stratum, presumably a preDeuteronomistic account of Samuel’s initial response (v. 20a): “But Samuel said to the people, ‘Have no fear.’” The second stratum follows in an expansion of this initial answer

I am grateful to John H. Choi and Brent A. Strawn for their suggestions on an early version of this note. 1 On the distinctive style and phraseology of Deuteronomy as it influenced the Deuteronomistic History (DH), see Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972; repr., Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 320–65; Norbert Lohfink, Das Hauptgebot: Eine Untersuchung literarischer Einleitungsfragen zu Dtn 5–11 (AnBib 20; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1963), 295–312; and S. R. Driver, An Introduction to the Literature of the Old Testament (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1961), 98–103. Of course, 1 Sam 12 contains one of the several speeches offered by the main characters of the DH, which, according to Martin Noth, gave organizational framework to the whole, and reiterated the Deuteronomic parenesis of Moses placed at the head of the DH (Deut 1–4). See Martin Noth, The Deuteronomistic History (trans. D. J. A. Clines et al.; JSOTSup 15; Sheffield: University of Sheffield, 1981), 5, and 59–60; Steven L. McKenzie, “Deuteronomistic History,” ABD 2:160–68; Baruch Halpern, The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988), 144–240; Sandra Lynn Richter, “The Deuteronomistic History and the Place of the Name” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 2001), 2–9. The whole approach, of course, has come under recent criticism. See The Future of the Deuteronomistic History (ed. Thomas Römer; BETL 147; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2000), and Israel Constructs Its History: Deuteronomistic Historiography in Recent Research (ed. Albert de Pury, Thomas Römer, and Jean-Daniel Macchi; JSOTSup 306; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000).

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using characteristically Deuteronomistic language (vv. 20b–22).2 Paradoxically, v. 21 itself deviates from this stereotypical language. Combined with this change of phraseology, the verse’s description of idols as “worthless” or “nothingness” (WhTo, see below) is an explicit condemnation of idolatry, which moves us beyond the more general Deuteronomistic exhortations against “other gods.” These changes of theme and phraseology have led P. Kyle McCarter to suggest that we have in v. 21 a late, postDeuteronomistic addition to the text.3 This brief note will build on McCarter’s proposal by suggesting that the content of 1 Sam 12:21 itself is an excerpted bicolon, most likely from a stanza well known at the time of its inclusion in the text. Then I will explore the implications of this observation for the syntax of v. 21, and suggest a possible Sitz im Leben for the verse in relation to recent work on the history of Israelite religion. The excerpted poetry begins after the problematic occurrence of yKi4 near the beginning of v. 21.

Wly[üi/yAaløî rvá,a} WhTofih' yr¢Ej}a' . . . after the worthless, which do not profit

[5+5;12]

5

hM;hâ e WhtèoAyKi Wly££Xiy" aløèw“ and do not save for they are worthless!

[5+4;10]

It appears that a verb has been omitted at the beginning of this excerpt and replaced in

2 For this analysis, see P. Kyle McCarter, I Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 8; New York: Doubleday, 1980), 216. Likewise the second portion of Samuel’s answer (v. 23) was similarly expanded (vv. 24–25). On the basis of these characteristic formulae, McCarter takes vv. 6–15 as a self-contained and thoroughly Deuteronomistic composition, while vv. 1–5 and parts of vv. 16–25 were a pre-Deuteronomistic source, which was uniformly critical of the monarchy (pp. 213–21). McCarter thus takes the structure of vv. 20–25 as organized around the original sources’ replies, modified by stereotypical Deuteronomistic expansions (p. 216). 3 McCarter, I Samuel, 217; and see Ralph W. Klein, 1 Samuel (WBC 10; Waco: Word, 1983), 118. 4 All references to yKi in this note will refer to the first occurrence of the conjunction in v. 21, rather than the second, which is taken here as causal. 5 Following David Noel Freedman’s system of counting words, stresses, and syllables (see “Acrostics and Metrics in Hebrew Poetry,” HTR 65 [1972]: 367–92; repr. in Pottery, Poetry, and Prophecy: Studies in Early Hebrew Poetry [Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1980], 51–76, esp. 53). The numbers in brackets represent the number of words, plus the number of stresses followed by a syllable count after the semicolon. Freedman’s system is not universally accepted, however. Michael Patrick O’Connor, for example, has presented an alternative method of understanding Hebrew colometry, proposing syntactic patterns rather than ones that are metric or rhythmic. See his Hebrew Verse Structure (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1980); see also William L. Holladay, “Hebrew Verse Structure Revisited (I): Which Words ‘Count’?” JBL 118 (1999): 19–32; and idem, “Hebrew Verse Structure Revisited (II): Conjoint Cola, and Further Suggestions,” JBL 118 (1999): 401–16.

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v. 21 with WrWs–T; alçøw“, which picks up the theme of apostasy from v. 20.6 The most likely candidate is a form of ^lh, which is common in a collocation with yrEj}a' to connote commitment of life and purpose, and is sometimes used to designate idolatry (see, e.g., Deut 11:28; Judg 2:19; Ruth 3:10; 1 Kgs 11:10; 21:26; 2 Kgs 23:3; Jer 7:9).7 Particularly pertinent may be Elijah’s taunt, because of its clear polemic against idolatry: “if YHWH is God, follow him [wyr:j}a' Wkl]], but if Baal, then follow him [wyr:j}a' Wkl]]” (1 Kgs 18:21). In our verse, whatever verb originally opened the bicolon has been replaced with the concept of “turning,” probably repeated from v. 20. But the “turning” has been subtly changed for contrastive effect, from “turning from” YHWH (v. 20) to “turning unto” worthless idols (v. 21). The verse is a bicolon with chiastic structure, as follows. A WhTofih' yr¢Ej}a' (“after the worthless”) B Wly[üi/yAaløî rvá,a} (“which do not profit”) B' Wly£Xiy" aløèw“ (“and do not save”) A' .hM;hâ e WhtèoAyKi (“for they are worthless!”) The hiphil verbs at the core explain why the idols are worthless, since they have no salvific value, in contradistinction to YHWH. But what of the peculiar use of yKi near the beginning of v. 21? Nearly all interpreters have acknowledged that the standard connotations for the particle (i.e., causal, evidential, result, temporal, conditional, adversative, concessive, asseverative, etc.)8 are inadequate or out of place in this verse, and they conclude with the versions (LXX and Vulgate) that yKi is a secondary addition to the MT.9 However, its syntactical awkwardness makes the MT the lectio difficilior and perhaps, upon further reflection, preferable to the versions. Assuming that the words that follow yKi are an excerpted poetic fragment, it might be possible to take the conjunction as recitativum introducing direct speech.10 6 Note the
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When yKi occurs in this usage with verbs of elocution (verbum dicendi), it is best left untranslated.11 When used in naming formulae, the kî recitativum may be “saying,” or may simply be omitted in translation.12 Though we can hardly be certain about the syntactic function of yKi in this verse, it may serve to introduce the excerpted bicolon, assuming something like “namely,” or it may be left untranslated. Thus the two opening words marked with
4:386, ¶2c). On yKi introducing direct narration (analogous to the o{ti recitativum), see GKC ¶157, p. 491; HALOT 2:471. Some of Dahood’s examples of “emphatic kî introducing a whole sentence” seem to belong in this category (Mitchell Dahood, Psalms II, 101-150: Introduction, Translation, and Notes [AB 17A; New York: Doubleday, 1970], 405). See also W. T. Claassen, “SpeakerOriented Functions of kî in Biblical Hebrew,” JNSL 11 (1983): 29–46; James Muilenburg, “The Linguistic and Rhetorical Usages of the Particle yk in the Old Testament,” HUCA 32 (1961): 135–60; reprinted in Hearing and Speaking the Word: Selections from the Works of James Muilenburg (ed. T. F. Best; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984), 208–33; idem, “Form Criticism and Beyond,” JBL 88 (1969): 1–18; reprinted in Hearing and Speaking, 27– 44. 11 As in Exod 3:12 (= Judg 6:16); Gen 3:11; BDB 471–72, s.v. yk; and cf. the relative particle dî in the Aramaic of Dan 6:14 [Eng. 6:13]. 12 Gen 4:25; 32:31 [Eng. 32:30]; 41:51, 52; Exod 18:5. 13 HALOT 4:1689–90; BDB 1062. 14 McCarter, I Samuel, 217; cf. Klein, 1 Samuel, 118. 15 For more on what follows, see Jacob Milgrom, “The Nature and Extent of Idolatry in Eighth-Seventh Century Judah,” HUCA 69 (1998): 1–13; and idem, Leviticus 17–22: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 3A; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 1382–91; Rainer Albertz, A History of Israelite Religion in the Old Testament Period (OTL; 2 vols.; trans. J. Bowden;

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a sudden shift in the views of idolatry in Judah between the eighth and seventh centuries B.C.E. In fact, it may now be possible to reconstruct broadly the views of idolatry in Israel over the span of three centuries or more. In the second half of the ninth century B.C.E., the officially and royally sponsored Baal cult was excised from the Israelite cult.16 With other recent scholarship, we may reasonably conclude that this was the result of Jehu’s activity in the north as reflected in the biblical text (reported in 2 Kgs 10:1–28, a reflex of which may be contained in Hos 1–3).17 In the eighth century, the datable biblical references to idolatry are limited to only fifteen occurrences in all, implying that the officially sponsored idolatry of the northern kingdom had been almost completely eradicated.18 During the seventh century B.C.E., the number of datable biblical references rises to 166 specific accusations of idolatry,19 reflecting perhaps the influence of D, especially on Jeremiah and Ezekiel.20 If vv. 20–25 contain pre-Deuteronomistic elements (as McCarter and others assert, and with which I agree), it may in fact be possible that the bicolon contained in v. 21 was a familiar adage retained from the ninth-century struggle against idolatrous Baal worship in the north, which had become fixed in the national and prophetic psyche, and which found its way into colloquial parlance as a terse condemnation of idolatry in general. Near the beginning of Samuel’s farewell address in 1 Sam 12, Israel’s request for a king is compared to an earlier generation’s veneration of “the Baals and the Astartes” (v. 10). It may have been only natural that the pre-Deuteronomistic source incorporated this even older and familiar maxim condemning the old sin of idolatry, thereby linking it Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), 1:148–56; Patrick D. Miller, The Religion of Ancient Israel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000), 76–79; and Ziony Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches (London: Continuum, 2001), 648–58. 16 So “ditheism” (i.e., the diplomatic syncretism of YHWH and Baal in the northern kingdom under the Omrides) was uncontested until the ninth-century prophetic opposition groups. See Albertz, Israelite Religion, 1:150–56. 17 The worship of Baal in the northern kingdom appears to have been a limited phenomenon associated with those closely connected to the central administration, reflecting the influence of the Phoenician cultus on the Omrides rather than a widespread popular religious expression. See Stig Norin, “Onomastik zwischen Linguistik und Geschichte,” in Congress Volume, Oslo 1998 (ed. A. Lemaire and M Sæbø; VTSup 80; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 161–78. 18 The persistence of private idolatry was generally recognized in these references, but posed no threat to the worship of YHWH. See Milgrom, “Idolatry in Eighth-Seventh Century Judah,” 3. Specifically, the references Milgrom uses are as follows: Amos 5:26; Hos 5:3b–4; 6:10; Isa 2:8, 18, 20; 10:11; 17:8; 27:9; 30:22; 31:7, Mic 1:7; 5:12–13a. To this list is added H (Lev 19:4; 26:1), which assumes an eighth-century authorship of H, after Israel Knohl (The Sanctuary of Silence [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995], 200–220) and others. 19 Roughly, 36 references in Deuteronomy, 46 in Jeremiah, 82 in Ezekiel, one in Zephaniah, and one in Habakkuk (Milgrom, “Idolatry in Eighth-Seventh Century Judah,” 1). Frequently these references warn that idolatry pollutes (forms of amf) the temple, the land, and those who worship idols (ibid., 5). The archaeological evidence indicates that private and domestic idolatry among the masses was persistent from the eighth to sixth centuries B.C.E. and was unaffected by the Josianic and Hezekian reforms, which were occupied solely with the official cult of YHWH (ibid., 7–10). 20 This reflex may have been a reaction against Manasseh’s practices (Milgrom, “Idolatry in Eighth-Seventh Century Judah”).

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to a new form of idolatry—that of requesting a king. If so, this bicolon is, in a sense, prepre-Deuteronomistic; that is, it may originate from the ninth century’s struggle against the Baal cult in the north.21 Bill T. Arnold [email protected] Asbury Theological Seminary, Wilmore, KY 40390 21

The reflexes in Isaiah would then be interpreted as arising under the influence of this ancient depiction of idolatry as worthless and unable to deliver, rather than assuming that the influence was the other way around. Moreover, such an ancient fragment would not be surprising in the accounts of the early monarchy in 1–2 Samuel, which contain much traditional literary material, some with features of archaic language going back nearly to the time of the events they narrate (as observed recently by Carol Meyers, “Kinship and Kingship: The Early Monarchy,” in The Oxford History of the Biblical World [ed. Michael D. Coogan; New York: Oxford University Press, 1998], 172–73).

JBL 123/1 (2004) 143–188

BOOK REVIEWS

Book reviews are also published online at the Society of Biblical Literature’s WWW site: http://www.bookreviews.org. For a list of books received by the Journal, see http://www.bookreviews.org/books-received.html

Hittite Prayers, by Itamar Singer. SBLWAW 11. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2002. Pp. xv + 141. $24.95 (paper). In keeping with the series mandate to provide up-to-date English translations of texts from the ancient Near East, Itamar Singer has prepared a volume on Hittite prayers for the Writings of the Ancient World series. The work contains some twentyfour prayers covering the history of the Late Bronze Age Anatolian kingdom (ca. 1500–1200 B.C.E.), and includes an introduction to the corpus as a whole as well as to each chapter and individual prayer. The introduction is useful to the specialist and nonspecialist alike. Singer begins by defining the corpus of texts to be covered in his survey. He takes pains to clarify his criteria for the distinctions between prayers, hymns, oracles, and rituals, explaining why the latter three have been excluded from this volume. While Singer admits that the distinction between hymns and prayers is ambiguous, he excludes hymns primarily because they served a pedagogical rather than cultic function. Oracles and rituals, while often stimulating and accompanying prayers respectively, are excluded because the genre needs a volume all to itself. Singer defines the Hittite terms used in prayers and notes that they represent specific formal elements in the compositions rather than independent prayer types. Hittite prayers may include an invocation, hymn of praise, confession, and petition, though few prayers contain all these elements. These prayers often take the form of a court case, with the author (or, more precisely, the patron) as the defendant, the offended god(s) as prosecutor, and various other gods as witnesses for the defense. Several strategies are used to entreat the offended god(s), including protestation of the accusation, minimization of the offense, pragmatics (i.e., Who will worship you if you kill all your people?), and even bribery. These matters are complicated for supplicants by the fact that they are often forced to deal not only with their own sins but also with those of their forebears as well. While comparisons could be made to similar traits found in biblical or Mesopotamian prayers, overall Singer refrains from comparative analysis. Rather, in the introduction and throughout the work Singer lets the Hittite prayers stand on their own. While some might consider this a defect in the work, I found it a benefit. By dealing only

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with the texts at hand and the interrelation of these texts, Singer allows readers to form their own opinions and corollaries with ancient Near Eastern literature. The prayers in the Hittite corpus are mostly of high-ranking bureaucrats and are full of references to the political reality of the supplicants. Singer has used these allusions to help divide the prayers into chapters along an essentially chronological axis: each chapter deals with a particular time period in some way. Prayers believed to be written before the fourteenth century are arranged in a chapter of “Early Invocations.” The criteria for this group are the presence of the rhetoric of kingship ideology as well as an absence of Mesopotamian or Hurrian influence. Singer follows this with a chapter entitled “Early Empire Prayers.” After the fourteenth century, as the Hittites expanded their political boundaries, they expanded their supplicational repertoire to include both Mesopotamian and Hurrian elements. An additional result of this expansion was increased conflict with the areas north and west of the Hittite homeland. Prayers in this chapter include those of Kantuzzili, Arnuwanda, and Asmunikal, a summary (though not translation) of a Hurrian prayer by Taduhepa, and translations of several prayers that appear to conform to the historical and political situation of this period. The prayers of Mursili II are treated in two chapters, and over ten of his prayers are translated in this volume, by far outnumbering any other individual. Singer expands the “plague prayers” of Mursili II and includes with them prayers concerning the king’s enemies. A second chapter deals specifically with prayers concerning his wife and stepmother, though Mursili himself might have included the latter among his enemies. Two prayers of Muwatalli II receive a chapter of their own. Singer holds that Muwatalli’s prayers, along with his action of moving the capital from Hattusa to the Anatolian lowlands, point to an attempted religious reform on the king’s part. The last chapter encompasses the prayers of Hattusili III, his wife Puduhepa, and their son Tudhaliya IV. While the chapters are ordered chronologically, the prayers in each chapter are not. Rather, Singer often attempts to organize the prayers synchronically to show the development of formal elements. Like the chapters, each prayer has a historical and cultural introduction. Throughout the volume Singer is concerned not only with what these prayers tell us of the religion of the Hittites but also what they convey concerning Hittite history and thought. Often a king’s confessions of his forefathers’ sins give us historical insights not found in the propagandistic royal annals. Further, it is in the corpus of prayers that one finds most of the Hittites’ contemplative thinking. Issues of morality and theodicy are largely worked out in supplications to the gods. Considering the lack of a significant body of Hittite wisdom literature, these prayers provide a valuable window into the intellectual thought world of the Hittites. As for the translations themselves, they are readable while remaining true to the original texts. Singer refrains from exceedingly speculative restorations, providing restorations only when they are supported by parallel passages or sound reasoning. The translations also benefit from numerous new joins that Singer has made to the texts in question. The notes are informative without being overly pedantic. The numerous references in both the prayers and the introductions to people and places could be bewildering to the nonspecialist, however. While Singer provides ample bibliography for further reading, the work (and its readers) would have benefited from a chart of the Hittite kings. A map of Anatolia noting the locations of cities and cult places

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would also have aided in the discussion of different regional deities. Further, a tentative chronology synchronized to other major historical events in the ancient world would have been helpful. The largest (and most pedantic) difficulty in this volume is the lack of transcriptions of the cuneiform texts. Since other volumes in the Writings of the Ancient World series, particularly those dealing with Mesopotamian materials, contain transcriptions, it does not seem out of the realm of possibility to have provided them for the Hittite texts as well. On the other hand, the omission is understandable. The last major work on Hittite prayers (and hymns) appeared over twenty years ago. Given the continuous excavation of Bog·azköy (the ancient capital of the Hittites), new transcriptions of the cuneiform would have been an undertaking far beyond the goals of the series. A new text edition of the corpus of Hittite prayers is obviously needed. While Hittite Prayers is designed as a nonspecialist work, its appearance will hopefully encourage interest in this important genre of ancient literature. James R. Getz Jr., Brandeis University, Grafton, MA 01519

The Spirit and the Word: Prophecy and Tradition in Ancient Israel, by Sigmund Mowinckel. Edited by K. C. Hanson. Fortress Classics in Biblical Studies. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2002. Pp. xiv + 174. $16.00. The work of Sigmund Mowinckel (1884–1965) has stimulated and enriched biblical scholarship since the 1930s, with his last publication (Religion and Cult) appearing in English translation in 1981. Now Fortress Press has republished Mowinckel’s difficultto-find Prophecy and Tradition: The Prophetic Books in Light of the Study of the Growth and History of Tradition (Oslo, 1946). This book, long out of print, plus two additional essays, “The ‘Spirit’ and the ‘Word’ in the Pre-exilic Reforming Prophets” (JBL 53 [1934]: 199–227) and ch. 11 from Mowinckel’s Psalmenstudien, vol. 3 (Oslo, 1922), have been combined by editor K. C. Hanson into a new volume entitled The Spirit and the Word: Prophecy and Tradition in Ancient Israel. Dr. Hanson provides a helpful editor’s foreword that situates Mowinckel in the currents of European biblical scholarship. He expands the author’s original notes with concise references to newer literature and also provides the book with bibliographies not only of Mowinckel’s publications in English but also of assessments of his work, including select bibliographies on tradition history and prophecy. The reader will greatly appreciate that Dr. Hanson has improved the difficult, at times turgid, prose of Mowinckel’s original English. This new publication contains three parts: (1) The Relationship of Methods (chs. 1–2); (2) Tradition History and the Study of the Prophets (chs. 3–9); (3) The Prophetic Experience (chs. 10–11). The discussion of methods in part 1 lays out in detail Mowinckel’s case for the importance of oral tradition and its relationship to written tradition in the OT. The author defines the method he liked to call the “traditio-historical approach” (for him this meant both form criticism and tradition history), demonstrates how “the traditio-historical approach to investigate the Old Testament has long been fruitful,” and presents what he thinks are its specific tasks. Following Gunkel and Gressmann, Mowinckel recognizes the limits of source crit-

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icism, with its focus on the OT as literature, and wants to “move beyond the schematization of literary [source] criticism to new problems and further results” (p. 6). Mowinckel also understands himself to build on the works of other Scandinavian scholars who argued for the importance of oral tradition (e.g., Nyberg and Birkeland), but he distances himself from Engnell’s view that literary criticism is bankrupt and inadequate. For Mowinckel, tradition criticism and literary criticism answered mostly different questions but can and must be used together. Biblical scholars are, of course, familiar enough with textbook descriptions of how interpretive methods developed in the twentieth century, but it is surely worth the effort, and stimulating as well, to revisit the way Mowinckel, very much in the “school” of Gunkel and Gressmann, presents the case for studying oral forms and traditions as a path to the dynamic meaning of Scripture. In part 2 Mowinckel demonstrates how the traditio-historical method applies to the prophetic material. Like Gunkel, he begins by identifying the individual units or sayings within complexes of traditions and then moves on to the question of how the units have been arranged in the tradition, defending Gunkel and Gressmann against the charge that their analyses never reach a synthesis of the whole. Mowinckel himself is greatly interested in the dynamic growth of the tradition and the meaning of patterns and arrangements that emerge. Far from imposing a preexisting scheme on the material, he claims that arrangements of prophetic sayings into meaningful patterns is easily recognizable. A key example is the well-known sequence of prophecies of disaster followed by promises of salvation. Since Mowinckel’s time, much has been written on the redactional arrangements of prophetic sayings, both confirming and extending his insights. Current interest in the final, written form of a prophetic book (for example, the work of the Society of Biblical Literature Seminar on the “Formation of the Book of Isaiah”) may be traced to some of the issues Mowinckel and others grappled with more than a halfcentury ago. But current readers will spot, here and there, elements in his method that no longer seem relevant or persuasive. For example, to use “human psychology” as a basis for recognizing a redactional scheme will likely persuade very few. He writes, “It is the principle inherent in the matter and in human psychology itself, namely, that the prophecies of disaster and the threats come first, followed by the promises” (p. 45; e.g., the tradition complexes in Isa 1:2–31; 6:1–9:6; Mic 1–5; 6–7). But Mowinckel clearly went beyond Gunkel and the early form critics when he claimed that the disaster–salvation pattern in prophetic complexes shaped by tradents was influenced by cultic-mythic views of reality, although he finally attributed more weight to the “actual history and spiritual situation” of the prophetic disciples than to any ritual pattern. Reading Mowinckel today, when the context and climate of studying the prophets has largely moved beyond the issues of traditio-historical analysis, one might be tempted to think that Mowinckel’s interests are now “old hat.” But in this reviewer’s judgment, such a view would be a mistake. Students of OT prophecy in the twenty-first century are greatly aided, even if their current preoccupation is with the final or canonical form of the text, in knowing the history of tradition and transmission of original prophetic sayings. Ignorance of the process of formation cannot really help us understand the written text before us. The two essays in part 3 take up matters that extend beyond the tradition-historical method. In the JBL essay (1934), Mowinckel concludes that the “reforming prophets”

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founded their legitimacy not upon a conception of Yahweh’s rûah\ but upon a rational, knowable, moral content of Yahweh’s will for justice. The book’s final chapter, drawn from the author’s Psalmenstudien, exhibits Mowinckel’s particular understanding of prophetic elements in the Psalter and such matters as the relationship between prophet and cult. The chapter is still thought-provoking, although in many instances dated, and still remains the starting point for students of cultic liturgies and prophetic oracles in the Psalms. This small volume takes its place in a fine new series, Fortress Press Classics in Biblical Studies. Like the others (Schweitzer, Gunkel, Jeremias, Perrin, Zimmerli [forthcoming]), this affordable and most useful volume is a must on the shelf of the seminarian, pastor, and biblical scholar. Gary Stansell, St. Olaf College, Northfield, MN 55057

Jerusalem—Nabel der Welt: Überlieferung und Funktionen von Heiligtumstraditionen im antiken Judentum, by Michael Tilly. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2002. Pp. 307. €35. The phrase “navel of the world,” the title of this work, occurs at times in today’s parlance too. This figure of speech derives from an important mythical idea from the viewpoint of the history of religion that one can regard rightly as a “universal” (“religionsgeschichtliches Universale,” p. 251). Michael Tilly’s study approaches this phenomenon from the perspective of ancient Judaism and the Jewish conceptions of a sanctuary. Tilly succeeds in presenting an impressive overview of a long-standing tradition that stretched from biblical times up to the era of the Amoraim in late antiquity. He presents a plausible history of development of the following religious-mythical ideas: Jerusalem as the “navel of the world,” as the “center of the world,” and as the “foundation stone” from which the world came into being. Tilly’s study presents an abundance of details as well as a comprehensive knowledge of early Jewish and rabbinic literature, both of which function to persuade thoroughly. Most of all, however, the meticulous hermeneutic basis of the methodological procedure should not go unmentioned. The analysis of the traditions, aided by the ancient versions and other witnesses from the literature of late antiquity, does not aim at discovering the intention of the original author of the biblical text. As Tilly rightly stresses repeatedly, one needs to focus on the individuality of every single biblical and postbiblical text. Every text has a right of its own and is a testament to a creative reading and rereading of the tradition that comes before. All texts are products of authors who first read many earlier texts; this process of “productive reading” is a creative achievement that readers today need to acknowledge. Moreover, these processes of productive reading and rewriting the tradition happen independently from the intention of the original author (see, e.g., pp. 9–13). Thus ancient versions like Septuagint and Peshitta are by no means only adequate reproductions of the Hebrew Vorlage, but rather are always the work of scribes very well acquainted with Scripture. Hence, translations are products of scribal efforts to open the text for a valid understanding in their time and to make the text accessible for a changing religious conscience. After the hermeneutic introduction, Tilly presents a helpful survey of the history of the city of Jerusalem, the Second Temple, and the Temple Mount from the Babylonian Conquest (586 B.C.E.) up to the rise of Islam. An overview over the status quaestio-

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nis and former scholarship shows that it is necessary to approach the sources anew. Tilly rightly opts against a tendency to harmonize the texts, motifs, and terms, because to speak of a single, coherent, and systematic worldview at the time of the “Old Testament” or “Ancient Judaism” is not a historical construction. The sources need to be read in their respective literary and historical contexts, acknowledging their religious and cultural plurality and diversity (p. 84). The bulk of the book stands under the heading “Text und Auslegung” (Text and Interpretation). Tilly at first presents the biblical texts containing the phrase “navel of the land” (or “of the world”; Heb. $rah rwbf: Judg 9:37 and Ezek 38:12). He sketches the development of the interpretation of these passages with the help of the ancient versions, the Targums, and the commentaries. In the context of Judg 9:37, Tilly also discusses the location of the $rah rwbf near Shechem, the possibility of an identification of the “navel” with Mount Gerizim, the issue of the Samaritan sanctuary on Mount Gerizim. The most important function of Ezek 38:12 is to comfort the postexilic temple community (as the rescued remnant of God’s people) and to encourage the self-confidence of the body responsible for the tradition and the cult of the Second Temple. The ancient versions of Ezek 38:12 confirm that its function is to provide identity. In the Targum, however, the idea is transferred to the future, and the “navel” is interpreted as the “strength” of the whole land as basis for the hope that God will protect the land (probably against the Roman occupation). It seems, then, that the Targum already reflects the destruction of the Second Temple. There are also several other occurrences in the Bible and in the extracanonical literature that stress the idea of Jerusalem and the temple as “center.” Tilly analyzes, among others, Ezek 48:8, 10, 21; Isa 2:2–3; 1 En. 26:1–2; Jub. 8:19; Aristob. 83–84; Josephus, J.W. 3.52; Song 7:3; and b. San. 37a and other rabbinic passages. Some of these passages acquired this meaning only during the process of their handing down which was always interlocked with a process of interpretation. The dominant method of interpretation was a typological reading (e.g., Song 7:3). The results of the analysis of the sources are displayed according to three historical phases: the time after the erection of the Second Temple, the Hellenistic period until the destruction of the Second Temple, and the event of 70 C.E. and the rabbinic age. In his summary, Tilly underscores the importance of regarding the individual sources as witnesses of their own right, as traces of a heterogeneous process of tradition. In the history of tradition and reception, one may not subordinate the “later” texts under a single ostensibly “original” meaning of the “early” (biblical) text (see pp. 249–50). While analysis of the testaments to the reception of a biblical text or motif is not a necessary step toward the understanding of the original text, those witnesses shed light on the continuous process of retrospective, current, and prospective interpretation of the biblical text. The retrospective interpretation structures experiences; the current construal forms identity; and the prospective view provides orientation for acting in the future. Appropriate and helpful summaries at important junctures of the study are a remarkable feature of the book. A comprehensive bibliography and two detailed indexes (biblical and extrabiblical texts; topics) make the book a helpful tool. Tilly’s book about the concept of Jerusalem as “navel of the world” presents substantial insights for several issues. On the one hand, the construction of history around a mythical central location

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creates and warrants religious and social identity, which is always necessary. On the other hand, the identity of the group gathering around this concrete or spiritual center needs to be protected by demarcation and exclusion or even expulsion—and this causes severe problems. These conflicts are relevant, important, and influential still today. The laying claim to the temple mountain in Jerusalem by Jews and Muslims, connected with the particular religious traditions, the respective topographical myths, and the territorial demands is probably an insurmountable potential of conflict and struggle. Thomas Hieke, Universität Regensburg, D-93053 Regensburg, Germany

Deutero-Isaiah: A Commentary on Isaiah 40–55, by Klaus Baltzer. Translated by Margaret Kohl. Edited by Peter Machinist. Hermeneia. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001. Pp. xxv + 597. $78 (cloth). More than a commentary in the typical sense, this work represents the most original contribution to the study of Isa 40–55 in the past half century. It moves decisively beyond the current scholarly consensus in three ways. First, Baltzer argues that Isa 40–55 is a liturgical drama, a text performed by actors with roles that can be reconstructed. Second, Baltzer maintains that these chapters were written in Jerusalem during the last half of the fifth century B.C.E. rather than in the Babylonian exile during the last part of the sixth. Finally, Baltzer suggests that the servant in Isa 42; 48; 50; and 53 (one of the main dramatis personae) is none other than Moses. These theses are exciting and creative. Unfortunately, none of them receives any serious support. Nevertheless, Baltzer’s focus on dramatic elements in these chapters highlights the vivid nature of Deutero-Isaiah’s rhetoric and the crucial role of dialogue in these speeches, and thus this commentary contributes to the literary analysis of these texts. At the same time, precisely because of the bold and speculative nature of Baltzer’s proposals, this book raises central questions regarding what should count as evidence in biblical studies, which will constitute my main focus in this review. Throughout the commentary, Baltzer assigns speeches to various actors and a chorus, and he finds hints regarding their movements on stage. The absence of any rubrics in our text identifying the speakers and these actions is not in itself surprising; after all, the oldest manuscripts of Greek drama do not specify which characters speak which lines. However, even though Baltzer devotes considerable energy to uncovering the identity of a given line’s speaker, he does not make fully clear why we should think it likely the line has a particular speaker at all. In other words, why is this a drama rather than a poem that occasionally represents more than one voice? Similarly, Baltzer divides the text into six acts, each of which has three scenes, but nowhere does Baltzer explain why the acts are important for the performance or interpretation of the play; the dramatic function of this literary subunit remains ill-defined. How would our understanding of Isa 40–55 differ if it consisted of an undifferentiated catena of scenes rather than six acts with three scenes each? Would the performance differ in any way? Baltzer does justify breaking the text into six major units by arguing that five of these six end with a hymn, by which he means a very brief text that contains a plural imperative such as “Sing!” or “Rejoice!” But why such a verb necessarily marks the end of a literary unit is

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never made clear. Further, one of these five (45:25) in fact lacks the plural imperative altogether, and Baltzer’s suggestion that this verse represents an “implicit” hymn rather than an “explicitly ‘performed’” one (p. 251) is hardly convincing. The nature of Baltzer’s reasoning in recovering a drama from these chapters may be clarified with an analogy. If one assumes that the main character of the book of Isaiah is Jesus of Nazareth and that the central point the book makes is to predict his arrival, then it is possible to find manifold christological references throughout the book. Indeed, for two millennia many scholars have done so in subtle, clever, learned, and often moving ways. The question, of course, is whether one wants to make that assumption to begin with. Similarly, once one reads the text as a drama it is not terribly difficult to assign lines to various speakers and to provide scenic directions, and the results in some ways are suggestive. But what would lead a reader to make that assumption in the first place? It is this central question that Baltzer does not answer. The closest Baltzer comes to buttressing his claim involves comparisons to other dramas in the ancient Near East and the Hellenistic world. The relevance of many of the comparisons he suggests is open to question. He points to the Babylonian Akitu festival as an example of a cultic drama in Mesopotamia (pp. 7–8). However, scholars have criticized the view that the Akitu involved a play anything like what Baltzer proposes for Isa 40–55, and in light of these criticisms Baltzer’s use of the Akitu as an analogy breaks down. Even though Babylonian priests read certain texts aloud during the festival, they generally did so in private chapels, not in the presence of the public. There is no evidence, for example, that any audience (other than Marduk) heard the high priest of Etuša recite Enuma Elish on the fourth day of Nisan. On the fifth day the high priest removed the king’s crown and scepter and slapped him on the cheek before the cult statue of Marduk, but again our Akkadian texts make no reference to the presence of any human audience for these surprising deeds. Thus the texts recited and the actions undertaken in the Akitu had ritual significance but were not a performance of the sort known from Attic drama or from Isa 40–55 as understood by Baltzer. Similarly, Baltzer refers to an Aramaic text in demotic characters from Persian-era Egypt as another ritual drama roughly contemporaneous with Deutero-Isaiah (p. 8). This text preserves the liturgy of a New Year’s festival, but there is not the slightest hint that it was a drama, if by drama we mean a composition in which actors depict some events before an audience. (To be sure, similarities exist between religious ceremonies and plays. Consequently one might want to maintain that the Catholic mass or the reading of the Torah in a synagogue or the recitation of the grace after meals by an individual is a drama, and in that case one could classify the Akitu as a drama as well. But doing so would reflect a desire to define drama broadly more than it would contribute to our understanding of the Mass, the Torah reading, or the grace after meals.) Neither the Akitu nor the Aramaic text belongs to a genre remotely similar to that of works written by Aeschylus, Aristophanes, or Arthur Miller. Even if Deutero-Isaiah’s work is somehow analogous to the Akitu program or the Aramaic text in question, we would have no reason to think that Deutero-Isaiah’s work is a drama or that comparisons with real dramas (such as Attic ones) would significantly illuminate Isa 40–55. In any event, having classified Isa 40–55 as a drama, Baltzer asks when the drama was performed. He surmises that the performance took place during a pilgrimage festi-

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val on the basis of texts such as 40:31; 49:7–9; and 55:1–5 (p. 22). At first glance, the reference to these verses in connection with a pilgrimage festival seems a non sequitur. At second glance, one can see how, for example, the motif of pilgrimage might have a link to some of the vocabulary in 40:31 (“But those who hope for Yahweh renew [their] strength: They let great wings grow [rba wl[y] like eagles, they run and do not grow faint, they walk and do not become weary” [Baltzer’s translation]). The verbs “go” and “run” in 40:31 might be related to the journey of pilgrims, and of course the verb hl[ (“rise, go up, grow”) often refers to the ascent to Jerusalem, though it is not used that way in this verse. But because the connection between these verses and pilgrimage festivals is at best tenuous, it can hardly be used as a foundation for an argument. Baltzer further asks which festival hosted the performance. He draws our attention to 40:6–8 (“All flesh is grass, and all its goodliness like the flower of the field. The grass is withered, the flower faded” [Baltzer’s translation]). According to Baltzer, this passage suggests that the festival took place in the spring, when vegetation begins to dry up in the Levant; hence, we must be speaking of the Mazzot festival. Now, there are many ways to understand the timeless metaphor in 40:6–8 (which draws on a widespread poetic motif also found in Pss 37:2; 90:5; 103:15). The suggestion that the metaphor reflects the month of the text’s recitation is not one of the more compelling ones. (These verses provide the words for second movement of Brahms’s Ein Deutsches Requiem. Does this mean that Brahms intended it to be performed at the beginning of Germany’s dry season?) We are told (pp. 22–23) that references to rain, snow, trees bursting into leaf, and abundant milk in 55:1–13 all point to the spring. In fact, none of these motifs relates to any particular season. The trees in 55:13, for example, are not bursting into leaf but springing up de novo to replace desert scrubs as the Judeans return through the desert to their homeland. (Further, the trees referred to—vwrb [cypress or, more likely, juniper] and sdh [myrtle]—are evergreens. They sprout new leaves throughout the year whenever necessary, not only or especially in the spring.) The rain in 55:10, Baltzer tells us, must be late rain that precedes Mazzot in the spring. But why could it not be the early rain that follows Sukkot in the fall? And why must these verses be understood as reflecting the timing of the text’s recitation at all? By building on one of the least persuasive understandings of these poetic passages, Baltzer simply produces an unpersuasive thesis. Similar problems undermine the attempt to identify Moses as the servant of YHWH. Baltzer argues that references to the Mosaic Torah in the Servant Songs point in this direction, but the Servant Songs are exceedingly rich in literary allusions, a circumstance that weakens the significance of the connection with Moses. For example, Isa 53 borrows from Jer 10 and 11; Isa 1, 6, and 11; and Ps 91. The servant in Isa 53 is typologically linked with the prophet Jeremiah (cf. 53:7–8 with Jer 11:19), the nation Israel (cf. 53:1–12 with Jer 10:19–25; and 52:13 with Isa 6:9), the prophet Isaiah (cf. 53:4–7 with Isa 6:5–10), the Davidic monarch (cf. 53:1–13 with Isa 11), and perhaps even YHWH (cf. 52:13 with Isa 6:1). In light of the extraordinary density of typological allusions in the Servant Songs, any connection between the songs and texts known from the Pentateuch—even if we assume that Deutero-Isaiah regarded the pentateuchal texts as Mosaic—does not mean the servant is Moses any more than other allusions mean the servant is Jeremiah or Isaiah or YHWH. Moreover, many of the connections between the Servant Songs and Moses turn out to be rather weak. According to Baltzer, the phrase,

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“The Lord YHWH has sent me” (ynjlv) in 48:16 “is a carefully crafted reflection of Exodus 3, especially 3:13–15,” where the phrase, “The God of your fathers has sent me” (ynjlv) occurs (p. 293). On the basis of the single shared vocabulary item, however, one could just as easily argue that Isa 48:16 alludes to Isa 6:8 or Ezek 2:2–3; indeed, the latter presents a stronger parallel, since it shares with Isa 48:16 an additional word (jwr) not found in Exod 3. Even more likely, all these texts utilize vocabulary associated with the call genre, in which case there is no special relationship between Exod 3 and Isa 48 at all. A parallel of one word does not a literary allusion make. (Given Baltzer’s frequent reference to the reworking of older texts in Isa 40–55, it is unfortunate that he does not attend to the methodological discussions of innerbiblical allusion and exegesis found in the work of scholars such as Michael Fishbane (Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985]), Richard Hays (Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989]), and Yair Zakovitch (An Introduction to Inner-Biblical Interpretation [Even-Yehuda: Reches, 1992]). Baltzer recognizes that a major impediment to the identification of Moses as servant is the absence of his name anywhere in Isa 40–55. He finds the solution to this crux in Isa 48:19, where God states that if the people had not sinned, “his name would not have been wiped out and not destroyed from before me” (Baltzer’s translation). Whose name? For Baltzer, it must be the surprisingly absent name of Moses: “If there is any name that is consistently blotted out in DtIsa it is the name of Moses” (p. 299). Of course, if one has not been convinced that a main character of these chapters is Moses, then one has no reason to think that Moses’ name is missing. In any event, Baltzer deduces that Moses’ name was blotted out on the basis of Exod 32:32, where Moses asks that his name be blotted out if God does not forgive Israel for fashioning the golden calf. In light of this verse, Baltzer writes, “The blotting out of Moses’ name in DtIsa would have to be understood as a sign that the people continued to sin” (p. 300). But this misrepresents Exod 32:32. In that verse Moses demands that his name be removed not if the Israelites continue to sin but if God decides not to forgive them, and few themes are clearer in Isa 40–55 than God’s decision to accept the nation’s suffering as more than enough payment for its sins (40:2). Alas, the arguments regarding the fifth-century dating fare no better. Baltzer notes several thematic parallels between Isa 40–55 and the book of Ezra-Nehemiah (pp. 30–31). The similarities are real, but they do not show that the two books must have been written at the same time. To comment on just two of Baltzer’s examples, both books emphasize the concept of human beings as God’s servants. So do Jeremiah (1:8; 25:9; 27:6; 30:10–11), Sumerian royal inscriptions, and the Atrahasis Epic, but this does not mean that they were all written in the fifth century. As Baltzer notes, both DeuteroIsaiah and Nehemiah emphasize building the walls of Jerusalem (Isa 49:16–19; 54:11–14; Neh 2:1–4:17; 6:15–16). As long as the walls were not in fact in good condition, those who love Jerusalem were likely to be concerned with this issue, whatever century they lived in. Thus this parallel shows that the two authors shared a concern, not that they lived at the same time. Moreover, Baltzer fails to address predictions that seem unlikely to have been written after the reign of Cyrus. If, as Baltzer (among others) argues, Isa 44:14 is addressed to the character Cyrus, then this verse (along with 43:3–4, in all likelihood) predicts that Cyrus will conquer Egypt. But Cyrus never conquered Egypt; his son and successor, Cambyses, did so. Coming from the pen of a writer in the

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530s, this erroneous prediction is understandable; coming from a writer after Cyrus’s death, it would be baffling. Similarly, passages in which the prophet urges the people to flee from Babylon (48:20) or assures the people that God has not in fact rejected the nation (41:8) are most naturally read in the exile, not after it. The evidence Baltzer adduces to support his bold theses does not support them. Yet his proposals remain intriguing, whether or not they reflect the intentions of the prophetic author or the way Isa 40–55 was actually read in antiquity. Even though we cannot characterize the genre of these chapters as a play, Baltzer’s proposal is nevertheless a genuine contribution because it draws our attention to a neglected attribute of their rhetoric. These chapters are full of sudden shifts of voice, references to movement, vivid questions, challenges, and responses. (Incidentally, this is true of most of 56–66 as well.) In short, they are dramatic, though not a drama. One might compare these chapters with Milton’s Paradise Lost. Milton’s epic poem is not a drama; that is, it was not written to be performed by a cast of actors, unlike, say, the same author’s Comus. But Paradise Lost is dramatic in quality, since so much of it consists of dialogue spoken by five or six characters. Consequently, one could easily adapt Paradise Lost to be a spoken drama or (better) an opera. While Baltzer did not convince me that Isa 40–55 was written as a drama, he does show that these chapters could be staged as one. The result would probably be quite exciting. One hopes Baltzer will attempt to produce the play he claims to have found in these chapters. Deutero-Isaiah would be surprised at the result, but he might also be pleased. Benjamin D. Sommer, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL 60208-4050

Qumran Cave 4, XXI: Parabiblical Texts, Part 4, Pseudo-Prophetic Texts, by Devorah Dimant. DJD 30. Oxford: Clarendon, 2001. Pp. 312. £70 (cloth). The fourth and final volume of parabiblical texts from Cave 4 is devoted to the fragments once grouped together under the sigla 4Q383 and 4Q385–390 and known as Pseudo-Ezekiel. In this principal edition, Devorah Dimant has separated these pieces into eleven copies of two different texts. 4QPseudo-Ezekiel is now represented by four or maybe five copies (4Q385, 4Q386, 4Q385b, 4Q388, and 4Q385c [unidentified]), while the remaining fragments have been reorganized into seven copies of another text named Apocryphon of Jeremiah (4Q383, 4Q385a, 4Q387, 4Q388a, 4Q389, 4Q390, and 4Q387a). Another copy of the former, 4Q391, was published earlier in DJD 19, and some fragments of the latter were once known as “Pseudo-Moses.” Much remains uncertain and conjectural about the presumed original text of 4QPseudo-Ezekiel, but Dimant has reconstructed six consecutive columns of the scroll based primarily upon the overlaps of 4Q385, 4Q386, and 4Q388. From this she discerns several motifs, including the resurrection of the righteous, the future of the land and people of Israel, the great war of nations, the curtailing of the end time, and the merkavah vision. Dimant believes that the themes and eschatological episodes found here interpret biblical prophecy, specifically Ezek 36–40, although not in MT order but possibly a variant sequence as reflected in the Old Greek Papyrus 967, and Codex Wirceburgensis of the Old Latin, namely, chs. 36, 38, 39, 37, and 40. The readings and commentary on the texts of 4QPseudo-Ezekiel in this editio

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princeps are much better than those found in the preliminary studies. Dimant interacts throughout with scholars who have suggested alternative readings and explanations in the wake of earlier studies that she published for the most part with John Strugnell. Only two brief comments are added here. First, it would have been very useful to have produced a composite text of 4QPseudo-Ezekiel in addition to the transcription of individual fragments and copies (this also applies to the following Apocryphon of Jeremiah). Such a critical text would give the reader a clearer sense of the thematic sweep that Dimant is particularly good at explaining and a simpler way of referencing citations from it. Second, the intriguing image of a tree bending and standing erect (4Q385 frg. 2, line 10), which M. Kister suggested was also attested in Barn. 12.1, does not seem to be related to the biblical references of Deut 20:19; Isa 65:22; or Ezek 17:24 that Dimant adduces. The source of this image remains obscure. She is correct to say, however, that it is unlikely to be the tree of life, as suggested by M. Philonenko and A. Jack (pp. 28–29), since if it were so one would expect a definite substantive, “the tree.” Moreover, “the tree of life” is the designation found in 4Q385a, frg. 17 a.e, col. ii, line 3. The text called Apocryphon of Jeremiah is, according to Dimant, a quasi-historical review of the fate of the Israelites and Jewish people from the Babylonian exile down to the second century B.C.E. and the eschatological future. What can be observed from the vestiges of this original composition is its dependence upon biblical sources, especially the prophecy of Jeremiah and the book of Deuteronomy. However, it did not simply adopt the biblical narrative wholesale but wove a new compositional garment from the diverse strands of scriptural sources. Distinct to this hitherto unknown literary work is what Dimant considers the prominence of Jeremiah. Jeremiah not only plays an important role for the exiles, as he does in the biblical account, but he also accompanies the deportees until “the river,” perhaps the river Euphrates. He exhorts them to keep the commandments and to avoid idolatry in exile, thus inducting a new era in which piety and Torah obedience substitutes for the temple cult. Dimant also helpfully sets the Apocryphon of Jeremiah in its literary context. She is certainly justified in calling it an apocalypse, and, not surprisingly, literary affinities can be found not only with the book of Baruch and the Epistle of Jeremiah but also 2 Maccabees. There are also some similarities to the Qumran pesharim, but she rightly eschews to identify the Apocryphon of Jeremiah as sectarian. If what has been put forward passes the test of time, then Dimant would have discovered a hitherto unknown text that, like many pseudepigraphical compositions, creates pious retellings and embellishments based on biblical characters. There is, however, a great deal that remains uncertain that further study may clarify. Two points particularly interested this reviewer. First, is it really the case that Baruch was passed over in this text in contradistinction to the central role that the scribe played in, say, 2 Baruch (pp. 106–7)? Dimant could have been cautious here as she laudably has been elsewhere in the volume. Apart from the obvious problem of the fragmentary nature of the Qumran scrolls, in 4Q383, frg. 4, line 2, there may well be a reference to Jeremiah’s faithful scribe. Dimant translates the line as “and he said, ‘Blessed [baµrûk] be the people,’” but it could, as she recognizes, equally be “and Baruch said: ‘people/with.’” Second, on pp. 186–88, 237–38, 242, and 245–46, Dimant argues that the phrase “the angels of mastemot” (4Q387 frg. 2.ii.4; 4Q390 frg. 1.11; 2.i.7) should be understood

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as those angels who belong to the demonic chief “Mastemah.” The plural variant of this proper name is unique and may also be reconstructed in the lacuna of 4Q225 2.ii.6. But surely if the feminine noun meaning “animosity” were now considered a proper noun, one would have expected the absolute Mastemot rather than the definite as in every case. The alleged parallel to be·lîya>al in 4Q390 frg. 2.i.4 is not decisive either, since the word can, as Dimant correctly points out, mean “wickedness” or “worthlessness” in the scrolls. The alternative is to understand the phrase to mean “the angels of animosity.” Devorah Dimant has labored conscientiously over two badly mutilated but nonetheless fascinating texts. She has brought to this edition of DJD careful editing and erudition that benefit us all. Timothy H. Lim, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, EH1 2LX U.K.

Do You Not Remember? Scripture, Story and Exegesis in the Rewritten Bible of PseudoPhilo, by Bruce Norman Fisk. JSPSup 37. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001. Pp. 375. $105 (cloth). Bruce Fisk claims that Pseudo-Philo’s “time has finally come” (p. 13); the ancient author has now begun to attract sustained attention from scholars. In this work, a revision of his dissertation completed under Richard Hays at Duke University in 1997, Fisk examines one aspect of Pseudo-Philo’s Liber antiquitatum biblicarum (L.A.B.): its use of biblical material to supplement and explicate seemingly unrelated biblical episodes. Fisk, with a clear and clever writing style, demonstrates Pseudo-Philo’s interpretive subtlety. Those interested in early Jewish biblical interpretation are sure to profit by careful examination of this book. Fisk’s central concern is what he calls “secondary Scripture.” These texts vary from the obvious (quotes delimited by citation formulas) to the subtle (barely discernible allusions); they may function as rhetorical window-dressing or as an essential part of Pseudo-Philo’s message. Fisk then demonstrates that the complexity of Pseudo-Philo’s work requires “an interpretive model” (p. 32) using both synchronic and diachronic approaches. After addressing dating and provenance issues (which are almost impossible to resolve), Fisk turns to three exemplary works for assistance in deriving his own model: Michael Fishbane’s Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel, Richard Hays’s Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul, and Daniel Boyarin’s Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash. In ch. 3, Fisk presents his model based on six guiding hypotheses drawn from his exemplars: (1) postbiblical Judaism’s hermeneutics is grounded in the intratextual hermeneutics of the Hebrew Bible; (2) exegesis responds to gaps or excesses in the text; (3) exegesis is marked by a combination of repetition and transformation; (4) exegetical appropriations vary from subtle to blatant; (5) the original context of a secondary citation may determine its use in the primary story; and (6) secondary citations may illuminate or transform the primary passage but may be transformed as well. These hypotheses reappear (both as citations and as subtle allusions) in the rest of the work. Next, in dialogue with Fishbane, Fisk pursues the relationship of traditio and traditum, developing a grid not unlike the Cartesian coordinate system from first-year algebra (p. 119) upon which to plot “static” to “dynamic” reuses (the y-axis) and the relative prominence of traditum

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or traditio (the x-axis). This grid enables Fisk to categorize various secondary citations, bringing some order to Pseudo-Philo’s varied hermeneutical palette. Fisk (again using Fishbane) then moves to anchor interpretation in early Judaism’s “mental matrix” (p. 126). For Fishbane and Fisk, interpretation is linked to social crises: moral lapses of the people, declining relevance of Scripture, and/or historical dislocation (e.g., the exile, post-70 events). Fisk structures his analysis of L.A.B. 12–24 on these three categories of social crises. As Fisk reads Pseudo-Philo reading, he focuses on compositional technique and hermeneutical strategy. “Compositional technique” refers to the identification and analyzing of secondary citations, while “hermeneutical strategy” points to the examination of the function of these citations in Pseudo-Philo’s “primary narrative” and “larger argument” (p. 321). In short, Fisk moves from locating the citational “animal” in the guidebook to understanding the way that “animal” functions ecologically. This may sound like a wooden procedure, but it is a tribute to Fisk’s writing ability and interpretive insight that his readings come across as anything but a preprogrammed exercise. Any condensation of Fisk’s readings will tend to diminish them. Nevertheless, the reader may find a summary of Fisk’s “results” helpful. Fisk sees secondary Scripture at work in Pseudo-Philo’s account of the golden calf, grounding a dramatic transformation of the story. God, it turns out, has anticipated Israel’s sin, which (in this telling) does not threaten Israel’s existence. Echoes of the tower of Babel and the covenant with Abraham are vital in this transformation. Pseudo-Philo’s retelling of the stories of the report of the spies and the threats from Balaam defends God’s faithfulness and Israel’s own status. This move may be most evident in God’s sudden citation (and exposition) of the Akedah in the context of a command to Balaam to refrain from cursing Israel. Finally, Fisk considers Pseudo-Philo’s characterizations of Moses and Joshua, especially the way Pseudo-Philo uses other biblical episodes and characters as building blocks of these characterizations: Noah informs that of Moses, while Joshua picks up elements from Solomon and Saul. In a brief and able conclusion, Fisk reminds the reader of the categories with which he began his reading, demonstrating how the echoes he has discussed interact with those categories. On this basis, Fisk claims that Pseudo-Philo was less “free” in his use of Scripture and more “constrained by intertextual links and traditional associations” (p. 325). And while his work cannot place Pseudo-Philo in a definite social setting, Fisk believes that Pseudo-Philo was motivated not so much by politics as by a love for the ancient text (p. 331). This book began its life as a dissertation, and in places the marks of its origin are still present. The chapter detailing the views of Fishbane, Hays, and Boyarin could easily have been condensed and Fisk’s own method brought to the fore sooner. Fisk’s evocative reading of the use of the Akedah throughout Liber antiquitatum biblicarum also seems unnecessary to demonstrate his point about its use in the story of Balaam. There is bound to be controversy in any work that discusses echoes and allusions. Different people hear the text differently. Fisk usually succeeds, using criteria largely drawn from Hays, in constructing a cogent argument for his reading. But questions still remain. For example, in L.A.B. 15.4 the people quote God as having said, “I will bring you into a land flowing with milk and honey.” Fisk isolates several possible source texts for this quotation (Exod 3:8; Num 14:8; 16:14), none of which is completely satisfactory

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(pp. 197–98). In this instance, the number of possible source texts may suggest that Pseudo-Philo was simply using conventional language to describe the land rather than citing a particular source. Such a claim would not apparently harm Fisk’s reading (p. 198), but Fisk does not consider Pseudo-Philo’s cultural context as itself intertextual, preferring to focus on Pseudo-Philo’s own use of definite source texts. This bias in favor of “influence”-based notions of intertextual relations is largely a reflection of Fisk’s sources. While Boyarin is alive to (and involved in) theoretical debates over intertextuality, Hays is less explicitly interested. Fishbane (who seems in many ways most vitally related to Fisk’s project) ignores literary theory. This is not necessarily negative; Fishbane and Fisk are persuasive readers given their assumptions about textuality. But the result tempers the portrait we gain of Pseudo-Philo. Fisk, following Fishbane, sets out to trace the dynamics of inner-biblical interpretation, believing that inner-biblical dynamics have a role to play in Pseudo-Philo’s own interpretive choices. Isolating particular instances of inner-biblical interpretation, however, may be speculative and arbitrary. For example, Fisk claims that Pseudo-Philo’s linkage of the Akedah with Balaam was not simply the result of the similarity between Gen 22:17 and Num 24:8, 17–19. Relying on the study of the Balaam cycle by Hedwige Rouillard, Fisk asserts that the final redactor of the Balaam materials had the Akedah in mind, thus providing “later tradents like Pseudo-Philo with reasons—inner-biblical reasons—to read Num 22–24 alongside Genesis 22” (p. 247). One wonders what precisely is gained by this speculation, since Pseudo-Philo may have “perceived Biblical links” (p. 247) without the redactor having put them there. It remains questionable how much Pseudo-Philo owed to inner-biblical dynamics rooted in the biblical texts. Fisk wishes Pseudo-Philo to stand in their debt; his arguments here (usually offered with caution) are not always secure (e.g., his treatment of supposed inner-biblical links between the Sotah ritual [Num 5] and the forced drinking of the remains of the golden calf [Exod 32]; pp. 176–87). Fisk, then, while open to Pseudo-Philo’s creativity, focuses more on the constraining effect of tradition (and interpretive elements in the text itself) on Pseudo-Philo’s biblical interpretation. This is seen most clearly in the choice of the term “secondary Scripture” (in ch. 5, Fisk tends to use the term “subsidiary Scripture”). Pseudo-Philo doubtless felt certain received texts to be authoritative, yet he also felt free to revise them and on select occasions to reverse them. To speak of Pseudo-Philo’s textual basis as “Scripture” is to elide the difficulty of determining what was Scripture for PseudoPhilo and may lead to the assumption that “Scripture” was authoritative for Pseudo-Philo in the same ways it is for present-day reading communities. Fisk’s occasional use of the term “Scripture” to refer to the present Hebrew Bible (e.g., p. 147) while also using it to refer to Pseudo-Philo’s textual basis blurs matters further. So what kind of reader was Pseudo-Philo? Fisk wishes him to be a faithful reader, a reader convinced that “the key for unlocking Scripture’s meaning is to be found in Scripture” (p. 327, italics original). In large part, I believe Fisk demonstrates this. But Fisk also understands Pseudo-Philo to be a narrative reader: “Clearly, Pseudo-Philo reads Scripture as a coherent and self-interpreting narrative rather than as a collection of discrete episodes” (p. 327). One can see the influence of Hays here, given his focus on the narrative structure of Paul’s theology. It is true that Pseudo-Philo is no mere prooftexter, dragging in bits of text willy-nilly, but rather seems to appreciate the hermeneuti-

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cal function of the narrative contexts of his “secondary” insertions. And Pseudo-Philo, like Paul, may have had a narrative theology—an overarching understanding of Israel’s story with God, including his present day (p. 327)—that informed his hermeneutics. But this does not necessarily mean Pseudo-Philo read a certain set of texts as a narrative or even in “canonical” fashion. For if the Hebrew Bible were “coherent” and “selfinterpreting,” why would Pseudo-Philo write a retelling of the story with so many radical divergences from the original? Fisk’s work raises serious questions about early Jewish hermeneutics. While I suspect Pseudo-Philo’s approach may have been more hermeneutically radical, I appreciate Fisk’s close attention to the texts in question and careful presentation of PseudoPhilo as theological interpreter. Future work on Pseudo-Philo and on early Jewish hermeneutics will have to grapple with Fisk’s traditum, whether the reuse be “static” or “dynamic” (p. 119). Donald C. Polaski, University of Virginia, Charlottesville, VA 22904

Jesus and the Ossuaries: What Jewish Burial Practices Reveal about the Beginning of Christianity, by Craig A. Evans. Waco: Baylor University Press, 2003. Pp. 168. $19.95. The discussion about the alleged James ossuary continues, even though the case against its authenticity seems to be quite clear. Nevertheless, the question about the relevance of early Jewish ossuaries and their inscriptions for our understanding of firstcentury Christianity and its writings is still open. In his new book, Craig A. Evans examines exactly this issue. After a survey of “scholarly sources” and some terminological clarifications Evans summarizes the importance of this enterprise for biblical exegesis. Several passages of the NT mention tombs, speak about burial practices, or presuppose that their readers are acquainted with them (see, e.g., Matt 23:27, 29; Matt 8:22 par Luke 9:60; Mark 6:29; John 11; Matt 27:51–53). Chapter 1 is entitled “Jewish Burial Practices in Late Antiquity.” Evans starts with Mark 5, the story about the man with an unclean spirit living “day and night among the tombs.” He asks what kind of “necropolis” ancient readers of this text would have imagined. In this context he discusses briefly several well-known tombs from Israel in late antiquity. He points to the fact that Jews, unlike their pagan neighbors, did not practice cremation. Moreover, they buried their dead, later gathering the bones and placing them in containers set aside for this purpose. This practice is called ossilegium, or “secondary burial.” Traces of it possibly go back to very early times, as evidence from the OT seems to reveal (e.g., 2 Sam 21:13–14; Gen 25:8, 17; 2 Kgs 22:20). Evans writes: One of the interesting features of ossilegium is that it likely reflects the belief that the dead are still with the living and, perhaps, still able to be of some influence. In other words, the dead are not completely dead, but are diminished and weakened. . . . They mutter as shades (Isa 8:19; 29:4) and feel worms gnawing at them (Job 14:22; Isa 66:24). . . . The idea that some life still lingers in the bones of the deceased may help us understand better Ezekiel’s vision of the dry bones (Ezek 37), bones that are still capable of returning to a full life. (p. 28)

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Quite surprisingly, ch. 2 turns to several inscriptions that do not have much to do with Jewish burial practices (e.g., the Jewish Temple Warning Inscription; Caesar’s Edict against Grave Robbery; the Theodotos Synagogue Inscription; the Seat of Moses Inscription, the Pilate Inscription). Of course, these examples are quite interesting for our understanding of first-century history in general, even though they do not really touch on the main question of the book. In chs. 3 and 4 Evans tries to illuminate several NT themes (e.g., titles and rank, professions and trades, philosophical and religious themes) and names with the help of burial inscriptions. Evans here mainly lists examples and points to the critical editions of the texts. When, for example, he discusses the word “scribe,” he writes: On Ossuaries we have ‘Yehuda the scribe’ (CIJ no. 1308) and, from Jerusalem, ‘Yehuda, son of Eleazar the scribe’ (Klein 1920, no. 19) and ‘Joseph, son of Hananya the scribe’ (Sussman 1994, 228; Rahmani 1994a, no 893). From Masada we have an ostracon that reads ‘Eleazar, son of the scribe’ (Mas. no. 667), but its authenticity is doubted. In the New Testament scribes are usually seen in conflict with Jesus. In one polemical context, Jesus’ denunciation sheds some light on scribal activities, or at least public perceptions of them . . . (Mark 12:38–40). Jesus sometimes encounters scribes in synagogue settings (e.g., Luke 6:6–11). (p. 56) The strength of this chapter therefore is mainly that it collects witnesses. In several cases, however, it is not entirely clear how these witnesses really help us to understand the NT and its world. Some of them just show us that names or titles from the NT can also be found on Jewish ossuaries. Much more interesting is Evans’s treatment of burial inscriptions reflecting philosophical and religious themes. A long list of pagan, early Christian, and Jewish inscriptions of this kind can be found in the book. Sometimes Evans gives them in their original language together with an English translation, but occasionally just an English translation is printed. In any case, these sources reveal the real ideas of real human beings about death, resurrection, or the sense of life. Sometimes one would wish that Evans would discuss at least some of them in more detail. Chapter 5, finally, deals with some “significant ossuaries for research in the historical Jesus.” If we take a somewhat closer look at them, however, they are not of uniform value. The so-called Nicanor Ossuary Inscription (discovered in 1902, Mount of Olives, Jerusalem) allows for speculation whether the person buried there is identical with the Nicanor who built the “Nicanor Gate” of rabbinic tradition. And this gate is possibly the same as the “Beautiful Gate” mentioned in Acts 3:2, 10. The “Jesus Son of Joseph Ossuary” (discovered in 1926 by E. L. Sukenik, dated to the first century C.E.) witnesses to the existence of a certain Yeshu or Yeshua who was the son of a certain Joseph. Of course, the value of such a witness for research in the historical Jesus is highly limited. The “Alexander Son of Simon Ossuary” (discovered in 1941 by E. L. Sukenik) is probably the burial place of an Alexander of Cyrene, son of Simon. But is the meaning of tynrq really “Cyrenean”? Is this Alexander really the son of the person who carried Jesus’ cross (cf. Mark 15:21 par.)? Perhaps he is, but is this really significant for our quest for the historical Jesus (and his time)? And—even more important—does this really help us achieve a better understanding of the Gospels?

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Several other inscriptions that illuminate the ancient Jewish practice of Qorban (cf. Mark 7:9–13) in Jesus’ lifetime, or the so-called Yehohanan Ossuary from Giv>at haMivtar (no. 4), which contains the bones of a person crucified under the reign of Pontius Pilate, are much more interesting. At least the second is one of the most important sources for our knowledge about crucifixion during Jesus’ time and really may help us to understand the “literary evidence” about this subject. In this chapter Evans also devotes some pages to the alleged James Ossuary, but he emphasizes: “[N]o position here is taken with respect to the antiquity or authenticity of the inscription that has generated so much controversy” (p. 112). After a short conclusion the volume ends with a list of abbreviations, a bibliography, and indexes of biblical literature and modern writers. Although the inscription of the James Ossuary, which forms the starting point of Evans’s book, is, I think, a fake, it would not be fair to judge this volume only from this perspective. Evans is absolutely right in pointing to a kind of material that plays only a very minor part in today’s NT studies. At least in these cases, where the inscriptions really help us to understand the thoughts of people living in ancient times, their relationship to death and the dead, they are of greatest interest. However, as I mentioned above, the value of the examples given is differing, and not each of them really allows us insight into the world of the NT or the historical Jesus. Indeed, the book is a valuable source for scholars who want to have an initial insight into Jewish burial practices or an overview of important ancient, mainly Jewish but also pagan and Christian, burial inscriptions. Tobias Nicklas, Universität Regensburg, D93040 Germany

Der Tod Johannes des Täufers: Eine exegetische und rezeptionsgeschichtliche Studie auf dem Hintergrund narrativer, intertextueller und kulturanthropologischer Zugänge, by Michael Hartmann. SBB 45. Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2001. Pp. 399. €45.90 (paper). As the subtitle indicates, Michael Hartmann sets out in this book to provide a study that is both exegetical and an examination of the reception history of the account of the death of John the Baptist in Mark’s Gospel and that is presented against the background of both literary and cultural anthropological approaches. He largely succeeds in fulfilling this ambitious program. Although it is not reflected in the title, Hartmann further enriches his study, written under the tutelage of Michael Theobald and accepted as a dissertation by the faculty of Catholic theology at the Universität Tübingen in 2000, through a comparison with Josephus’s account of the death of the Baptist in Antiquities. He concludes that Mark’s account is a masterpiece of storytelling that advances the overall aim of the Gospel in that it shows John both as an upholder of the tradition of Israel and as a forerunner of Jesus even to the extent of suffering and death. The book is divided into five sections of widely unequal length. A first section, consisting of two chapters, treats introductory matters. Chapter 1 covers the state of the question as well as the goal and disposition of the present study. Hartmann dispenses with a lengthy Forschungsgeschichte at this point. This is covered instead in the course

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of the main discussion, as, for example, when he offers an overview of six recent suggestions concerning the structure of the pericope as an appendix to his own structural analysis (pp. 119–38). In ch. 2 Hartmann discusses his methodology. Noteworthy in his presentation of the texts for analysis is his careful application of colometry. As an aside, he points out the arbitrariness of many systems of subdividing a text and identifies a carefully worked-out and theoretically reflected criteriology for colometry as a desideratum. In outlining his methodology, he concentrates on the newer tools of narrative analysis, cultural anthropology, and intertextuality. For the most part, the discussion is precise and helpful, but at times, particularly with regard to intertextuality, it bogs down, at least for this reader. Nevertheless, even this material is worthwhile, as the criteria for the fruitful use of intertextuality that will enable it to offer more than older source and tradition criticism without degenerating to subjective free association are still being established. Above all, Hartmann demonstrates that in supplementing the historical-critical method he is not simply running after fashion. In the brief hermeneutical remarks offered at the end of this chapter, he reflects on what each of these tools is meant to contribute to the overall task of understanding. Having established the framework, Hartmann turns in the second section, designated part 1, to a detailed investigation of the Markan account of the Baptist’s death (Mark 6:14–29). He divides the narrative into two parts, with 6:14–16 serving to lead to the main narrative, found in 6:17–29. There is a great degree of transparence throughout in the methodological steps Hartmann takes and what he hopes to achieve by each. Some readers may be a bit confused by his form-critical analysis, since he uses this term in a limited sense of formal analysis, that is, the examination of matters such as syntax, structure, and verbal tempora, with the question of genre treated separately. In considering the cultural anthropological aspects of Mark 6:14–16, Hartmann draws on the work of Bruce J. Malina to identify Jesus and John as dyadic personalities whose selfassessment in large measure is determined by the estimation of others, which is taken as unsurprising given the weight placed on honor in their society. John the Baptist is shown by the account to be one whom Herod had dishonored by beheading but whom God had honored (pp. 56–59). In his thorough discussion of the genre Hartmann adduces apt parallels from Iamblichus and Philostratus in which the question of the true identity of a philosopher is treated. These, too, have as their aim the lifting of a person to the divine realm. He concludes that vv. 14–16 are an apophthegm in the sense of the term used by Bultmann, Berger, and Dornmeyer. Hartmann then turns to his discussion of Mark 6:17–29, which he divides into three subunits. Section A, 6:17–20, characterized by the author as exposition, leads to the main body. It mentions the murderous intent of Herodias and its frustration through Herod, thus creating a tension that must be resolved. Section B, 6:21–26, is the main body, the tragic development, which comes to its deadly conclusion in section C, 6:27–29. I found the discussion of the traditional background of this section especially illuminating, insofar as Hartmann surveys the ancient genre of deipnon literature to contextualize many of the details of Mark’s account, such as the dance, the granting of a request, and the serving of John’s head on a platter. Particularly helpful is the discussion of the dance of the daughter of Herodias (pp. 162–68). Hartmann finds no indication in

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the text that the dance was erotically connoted, although this becomes an increasing trait in the reception. Nevertheless, it was unusual for the princess to provide entertainment, since normally dancers and other entertainers were socially inferior; the dance can thus be understood as a birthday gift that in this culture calls for a corresponding reaction. It was less clear to me, however, why this discussion was included in subpoints of the narrative analysis, since in a separate section of analysis Hartmann brings examples of motif criticism, called here geprägte Bedeutungssyndrome, in which he cites parallels drawn from both the Bible and other ancient literature: a prophet or philosopher appears before a king; the wife of a ruler who has been insulted; granting a wish (this is discussed extensively [pp. 177–86]); presentation of a severed head at a feast or banquet; the burial of a murdered man of God. In his discussion of intertextuality, which is combined with a reader-response or reception-oriented approach, Hartmann focuses on three areas: the reference to Elijah in 6:15; John’s opposition to the marriage of Herod and Herodias; and the dialogue between Herod and the daughter of Herodias. Interestingly, these three examples illustrate three different types of intertextuality, with the first being broad and imprecise because of the richness of the Elijah tradition and lack of textual similarity; the second, which recalls the Holiness Code, being unemphasized and unmarked; and the third, which recalls the book of Esther, being unmarked yet emphasized through the recollection of specific vocabulary and motifs. None of the three is a case of the clearest form of intertextuality, namely, the marked reference. In all cases, Hartmann asks in what way the meaning of Mark’s text is enriched through drawing on intertexts. By recalling the book of Esther, for instance, in which the identical offer to grant a wish “up to the half of my kingdom” is taken up in a way that rescues the people of God, the evangelist illustrates the ambivalent, even destructive, character of power compared to that exercised in the ministry of Jesus (pp. 220–21). Hartmann places the emphasis on a synchronic reading yet also offers a diachronic perspective. He accepts the conclusion of Dschulnigg that the specific linguistic formulation can be attributed to Mark and that there is therefore no clear division possible between tradition and redaction. Nevertheless, he notes the presence of a higher degree of Latinisms than in the rest of Mark, the lack of the otherwise typical historical present tense, and the introduction of a setting otherwise not used in the Gospel, that of Herod’s court. All of these point to the possibility that this unit, now a digression within Mark’s Gospel, was once an independent tale. The author proposes a three-stage development in which this material began as a brief, orally transmitted story about the execution of the Baptist that arose in the vicinity of his ministry and was told by his disciples. In a second stage, the story received a contrasting background, the court scene, in which the reason for his death was given. This stage draws on both OT and pagan conceptions. It is only at the third stage, the level of the Markan macro-text, that the theological level again comes into play through a combination with other texts. This hypothesized growth could offer an explanation for the difficulty of the determination of the genre of this account, which in its present form is a court tale, though it contains traits of a Jewish martyrdom report. After this thorough examination, Hartmann concludes part 2 by briefly treating the parallel accounts in Matthew and Luke. His treatment of these, based on the

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assumption of Markan priority, is a convincing description of them as examples of the reception of Mark’s account by these two Evangelists. Although this reader shares Hartmann’s acceptance of the modified two-document hypothesis, there is no discussion of the alternative possibility that the brevity of Matthew’s account of the banquet and the lack of it in Luke could also serve as arguments for other reconstructions of the history of the Synoptic use of the material. As mentioned above, the investigation of Antiquities 18.116–19, part 2, is a special feature of Hartmann’s study. This text has often been studied, he notes, but usually in a selective way and in view of what light it can cast on the NT texts. Hartmann applies the same steps that he used to analyze to the text of Mark. The goal is to isolate the picture of the Baptist that Josephus in this apologetic work draws for his readers (p. 255). This is also a contribution to the working out of the Wirkungsgeschichte of the figure. Josephus’s account is independent of that of the Gospels, based on traditions of the death of the Baptist. There is no mention of a banquet nor of the affront to the honor of Herodias; Herod alone is responsible for this execution. The reason is political instead: Herod fears a popular uprising among the followers of John. This coincides with Matthew’s interpretation of the events. The description of John places him in continuity with Moses so that he becomes the Sachverwalter of the purest traditions of Israel, an important role in view of the overall program of the Antiquities to present Judaism as a philosophy/religion profoundly based on virtue. The account is presented along with the opinion of “some of the Jews” that the subsequent defeat of Herod’s army was appropriate divine punishment for John’s execution. This skillful restraint allows room for the reader to decide whether he or she agrees. In the fourth section, part 3, Hartmann treats highlights of the reception history (pp. 356–64), culminating in the nineteenth-century paintings of Gustave Moreau. He points out that the development is away from the biblical portrayal and toward an increasing focus on the two women who serve as projections of male fear and desire. This material is interesting and valuable but seems loosely connected to the main body of the study. The fifth section, part 4, is a three-page conclusion. A comparison of Mark and Josephus allows some considerations regarding the historical core. It seems certain that John was executed by Herod and that this probably occurred at the Transjordanian fortress of Machaerus. The motive appears to have been fear of a popular uprising incited by the eschatological content of John’s preaching (an element suppressed by Josephus, though probably known to him). An involvement of Herodias is uncertain, and the element of the banquet is found to be a literary device. The author shows wide-ranging knowledge of the literature. Although most of the works cited are German or English, the author has also consulted books and articles in Dutch, French, Italian, Latin, and Spanish. The bibliography is usefully divided into three parts: texts and sources, reference works, and specialized literature. There are no indexes. There are a few formal peculiarities. In addition to those already mentioned, section 1.6.3 of part 1, labeled “Text und Extratext,” consists solely of a discussion of Carl Kraeling’s 1940 JBL essay that asked whether Jesus was being accused of necromancy. The author does not define what he means here by “extratext.” Moreover, it is unclear to

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this reader why part 3 is entitled Ausblick and then has only one numbered point, reception history. Finally, the use of letters A and B to describe the material in Mark 6:14–16 and 17–29 when discussing the use of this material in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke is needlessly confusing after having used the letters A, B, and C to denote the subunits within 6:17–29 in the main discussion. These are minor blemishes, however. All in all, this study represents a fruitful application of newer insights and tools used to supplement the historical-critical method and enriches our understanding of the presentation of John the Baptist in the Gospel tradition. Henry Sturcke, Universität Zürich, 8001 Zürich, Switzerland

A Feminist Companion to Mark, edited by Amy-Jill Levine and Marianne Blickenstaff. Feminist Companion to the New Testament and Early Christian Writings 2. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001. Pp. 261. $29.95. In my office I have divided my books into various categories. One of these categories is labeled “biblical studies” and includes commentaries, monographs, and journals related to that field. Another one of these categories is labeled “theory” and includes books on literary criticism, feminism, and postcolonial theory. This book will definitely find its place in the former category stacked alongside other commentaries and monographs on the Gospel of Mark. That a “feminist” title belongs more properly among my biblical studies monographs than among my theoretical texts is a testimony both to the centrality of the feminist perspective in current exegesis and to the nature of this collection of essays itself, which seeks to illumine the text just as much, if not more, than it seeks to address modern feminist concerns. Even though A Feminist Companion to Mark is modeled on Athalya Brenner’s Feminist Companion to the Bible, this collection should be essential reading for all serious students of Mark, including those few scholars who are still wont to dismiss feminist readings as “a fad” or “political.” In fact, what strikes me most about this collection is the willingness of the authors to move toward a less unified feminist reading of the text, developing instead a more nuanced, even ambiguous approach to a text that admittedly was formed in a patriarchal world. Joanna Dewey, who should be considered one of the pioneers in the feminist study of the Bible, takes on a text that is not normally associated with the feminist reading of Mark: the injunction “to deny oneself” (8:34). She notes that many traditional readings of this text seem to make suffering redemptive, a perspective that has tended to encourage Christian women to tolerate injustice as part of their “self-denial.” But Dewey reads this saying in an ancient context with a very different understanding of the “self.” In that context the self would be understood in terms of traditional ties within the kinship group so that “to deny self, then, is to deny one’s kin.” With this reading, denying oneself is not so much encouraging self-sacrifice as it is encouraging one to follow Jesus—a move that will invite persecution. Dewey argues that this reading better fits Mark’s overall message on suffering, namely, that suffering is evil and will be brought to an end by the coming of the new age. Deborah Krause offers a reading of the healing of Peter’s mother-in-law that goes against the grain of some earlier feminist readings of this text (e.g., Tolbert and

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Selvidge). These other readings note that “serving” in Mark’s Gospel is something the angels do for Jesus and something that Jesus encourages of his disciples—the very thing the mother-in-law does upon her healing. However, Krause argues that the woman’s life was not transformed by her encounter with Jesus (i.e., she was not liberated from her traditional position) but had to return to her culturally prescribed role. Still, Krause sees a “utopian” moment in the woman’s healing. Wendy Cotter considers the stories of the “Woman with the Hemorrhage” and the “Raising of Jairus’ Daughter.” She notes that these stories seem to have been linked in the pre-Markan tradition, and she asks what this might mean. She analyzes the hemorrhaging woman in terms of Mark’s apology for her behavior by comparing it to standards of female behavior found in Valerius Maximus, Pliny, and Tertullian. Seen in this light, Jesus’ response to the woman indicates that he is free from “the need for public honors, and also from the need to dominate women” (p. 60). Cotter analyzes the Jairus story by comparing it to other ancient resurrections performed by Asclepius, Hercules, Elijah, Elisha, Apollonius of Tyana, Empedocles, and Asclepiades. She concludes that Mark’s depiction of Jesus most closely resembles that of Asclepius: a god whose healing is characterized by compassion. These stories not only give credit to Jesus’ divine power but also illustrate that he is compassionate and “incapable of denying . . . salvific transformations” to those who ask (pp. 77–78). Another pioneer in feminist biblical studies, Sharon Ringe, rewrote an earlier article on the Gentile woman (in Letty M. Russell, ed., Feminist Interpretation of the Bible [Philadelphia: Westminster, 1985]). This new version is a significant revision of her earlier work utilizing the methodology she has advocated (along with Frederick C. Tiffany) in Biblical Interpretation: A Road Map (Nashville: Abingdon, 1996). In the earlier version Ringe argued that the Gentile woman was able to teach Jesus something about messiahship. In this version she has reconsidered the woman in the story taking into account her social class. Mark places her in the dominant ethnic and social group of her culture—that is, among the oppressors—something that makes Jesus’ rebuke more comprehensible. Ranjini Wickramaratne Rebera looks at the same story from the perspective of a South-Asian woman. Her reading is, in a way, a return to Ringe’s earlier perspective, focusing in a sympathetic way on the woman’s status as a female pleading for her “girlchild.” Rebera argues that South-Asian women would have a lot in common with this woman, who is a model of a mother who is persistent on behalf of her female child, refusing to be silenced by shame and willing to avoid conflict by permitting the man to win the argument. At the same time, the fact that she is not required to convert before receiving healing for her child suggests possibilities for the kind of interreligious dialogue that is so relevant for South Asia. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon makes a methodological contribution as she analyzes the story of the “Poor Widow.” She points out that every pericope can be read in several contexts, and she encourages readers to take several approaches into account. After a summary of four different contextual approaches: historical-critical (Swete), formcritical (Taylor), redaction-critical (Nineham), and “against the grain” (A. Wright), she offers her own multilayered reading of the text that goes beyond Wright’s reading. Wright argued that Jesus was not so much approving of the widow’s action as he was condemning the system that exploited her in this way. Malbon agrees but feels this read-

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ing can be complicated by considering other contexts (e.g., the woman gives her “whole life” just as Jesus will). Dennis R. MacDonald offers an innovative reading of the “anointing” story of Mark 14. He argues that the pericope is a literary creation that is based upon Odysseus’s Niptra (washing) by Eurycleia. He cites numerous parallels between the stories to indicate this relationship and to suggest that the anointing in Mark 14 is a kind of “recognition” scene. Marianne Sawicki offers a different explanation for the anointing story, one that attempts to articulate an important theological role for women in the early stages of the Christian community. She provides a very illuminating cultural study of the various uses of oil, anointing, and female groups in ancient Greek and Jewish culture. She then reconstructs a history of the pericope that begins when the “disaster of Calvary becomes known.” Hellenized women gathered to grieve Jesus’ death and in so doing came to the conclusion that his death must have been “meaningful and deliberate.” This women’s interpretation was then presented to a symposium (of men, the setting of the anointing story in Mark) and became the consensus. However, the women’s role in formulating this perspective was objectionable to some, and we see these objections in the pericope itself and in the Last Supper narratives. Hisako Kinukawa recognizes the discipleship role afforded to women in Mark’s Gospel, but she questions that it was a “discipleship of equals.” She notes that, apart from family gatherings, male and female disciples function in separate spheres in Mark. She concludes that the “women depicted by Mark [in 15:40] are true disciples of Jesus in the sense that they are ready for devoting themselves to ‘life-giving’ suffering.” Thus they represent a challenge to “those who avoid the struggles of the oppressed” (p. 190). This kind of discipleship has the power to “regenerate a true community of faith” because of the way it disturbs the hierarchical order of things (p. 190). Kathleen Corley tries to establish the social class of Jesus’ female disciples and concludes that “at least Mary Magdalene and Salome came from the lower classes and were either working women, hired servants, slaves or runaway slaves, not wealthier women as Luke 8.1–3 suggests” (p. 191). She also argues that the “Last Supper” narratives that depict an all-male group are “later literary creations” and that women were probably present at those meals. She doubts that the women around Jesus included actual prostitutes, and slanders to that effect were just that, reflecting the mixed social standings of the group. Victoria Phillips tries to explain the “failure” of the women in Mark 16:1–8. In her view it is their sudden realization that the Twelve knew to go to Galilee while the women did not have this information that caused the women so much fear. In this view it is the fact that the women realized that they had been marginalized by their community (and Jesus) that caused them so much distress. She connects Mark 14:28–31 with the special privileges (of information) given to the Twelve that were not given to the women. So, for Philips, the women are disciples, but they are not included within the Twelve. There is certainly room for disagreement with many of the claims in these essays, and, in fact, the authors often disagree with each other. That being said, every serious student of Mark should read them and carefully consider the arguments they make and the methodologies they employ. Stephen Felder, University of California, Irvine, Irvine, CA 92697

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Zwischen DOXA und STAUROS: Eine exegetische Untersuchung der Texte des sogenannten Reiseberichts im Lukasevangelium, by Reinhard von Bendemann. BZNW 101. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2001. Pp. xvi + 512. $142.25. I was working on the preparation for a lecture on the Lukan travel narrative when I was confronted with Bendemann’s monograph on this topic. First I was doubtful whether I had read correctly, for the subtitle reference to “the so-called travel narrative” was slightly irritating. As readers in the face of a flood of studies commonly do, I started with the summary (pp. 382–411): “Die vielumrätselte Hypothese eines mit Lk 9,51 initiierten und bis zum 18. oder 19. Kapitel zu verfolgenden ‘Reiseberichts’/einer ‘central section’ im Lukas-evangelium bildet ein Konstrukt der frühen überlieferungsgeschichtlichen und quellenkritischen Analytik der synoptischen Evangelien, das als unlukanisch erwiesen worden ist” (p. 382). This thesis is startling, especially if one is preparing a lecture on this part of the Gospel of Luke. Skeptically, I started to read this book and was finally convinced. Bendemann starts his book with an illuminating history of previous research (pp. 6–48). He distinguishes five major ways exegetes have tried to understand the “central section”: the interpretation of the travel narrative as a historical or biographical document (e.g., E. Lohse, W. H. Cadman), form- and redaction-critical studies (e.g., H. Conzelmann, B. Reicke, M. Korn, H. Schürmann), the interpretation in view of the problem of Israel’s future (e.g., A. Denaux, F. J. Matera), intertextual studies (C. F. Evans, D. P. Moessner), and attempts to find a chiastic structure in Luke 9–19 (e.g., C. H. Talbert, E. Mayer). This historical review is very instructive and highlights one point of Bendemann’s thesis: although all exegetes are convinced that there is, beginning in Luke 9:51, a travel narrative or central section in Luke, there is no consensus on the Lukan intent in constructing this part, on its role for the whole of Luke’s Gospel, or on the theological viewpoint the author had. Maybe, as Bendemann maintains several times, these problems all come from the thesis that there is a central section in Luke. In the development of his argumentation, Bendemann successfully proves that it does not exist. His first point against the common viewpoint is based on a thorough source-critical analysis of the material Luke used in this part of the Gospel (pp. 49–62). One point of the hypothesis of a travel narrative is that from 9:51 through 18:15 Luke incorporated only material from Q and the Sondergut. Bendemann tries to show that Luke in fact used in these chapters also Markan material, especially from Mark 6:45–8:26 (“große Auslassung”; pp. 52–55; see also pp. 415–39). I was not convinced in all instances, but Bendemann made some points to weaken the common position. In this part Bendemann also goes beyond the borders of Luke 9–19 and includes Luke 8 as well as Luke 20–21, which points to a new structure developed later in his book. The second and more convincing point is made in the discussion about the end of the travel narrative (pp. 65–70). Bendemann presents all proposals for an ending (e.g., 18:30, 34; 19:10, 27, 29, 40, 41, 44, 46, 48) and shows that none of these verses corresponds to the beginning in 9:51. If Luke had so much interest in presenting Jesus as a traveler to Jerusalem, why did he never note that Jesus reached the Holy City? If the journey was thus important, why did Luke not mention when it ended? Third (pp. 70–79), Bendemann deals with the description of Jesus as wandering (13:22; 17:11; 18:31; 19:11, 28) and shows that these verses neither provide data for a

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geographical location of Jesus in Samaria all through Luke 9–19 nor can be used as structural features. Fourth (pp. 80–90), Bendemann asks whether there is a better explanation for 9:51, 52–56 than as a starting point of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem. He especially tries to prove that the formulation “When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem” connects 9:51 with 9:31, where Jesus’ e[xodo" is announced. It cannot be understood as the beginning of a new journey (see also pp. 132–38). Bendemann rightly observes that Jesus is not presented as a pilgrim heading to Jerusalem in Luke 10–19 but as a preacher just wandering around somewhere in Galilee or Judea (see esp. 10:1). Bendemann’s fifth point is that there is no echo of a “travel narrative” in speeches of the apostles, where Peter or Paul retell the work of Jesus (pp. 90–95). In Acts 10:37 Peter says: “That message spread throughout Judea, beginning in Galilee after the baptism that John announced,” and there is no mention of Jesus in Samaria or of his journey to Jerusalem. The same can be said concerning Paul’s speech in Pisidian Antioch (Acts 13:16–41). Sixth and last (pp. 95–109), a comparison with ancient travel literature shows that Luke 9–19 cannot be included in this category because nothing other than the Markan notices presents Jesus as wandering around (6:56). In summary, it may be said that Bendemann successfully questions a hypothesis that for a long time has been the opinio communis in NT exegesis. This alone makes his book very important for future studies in the Gospel of Luke. However, Bendemann not only deconstructs but also presents a new structuring of Luke (pp. 113–353). This cannot be presented here in detail, but at least some of his main theses shall be brought to attention. For his analysis Bendemann employs a combination of redaction criticism, narratology, reader-response criticism, and Formgeschichte. Bendemann embeds Luke 9–19 in the broader context of chs. 8–21. He reconstructs four parts that in his view can be distinguished by the different audiences of Jesus: 8:1–10:42 and 18:31–21:38 can be understood as a “Spannungsbogen” that deals with the apostles. The story of Jesus and the story of his disciples are connected in a way to open the reader to possibilities for identification and better knowledge (esp. when the disciples misunderstand Jesus in 18:31–21:38). Luke 11:1–18:30 is divided into four perspectives: teaching of the disciples (11:1–13; 12:1–53; 16:1–13; 17:1–4; 17:20–18:30), instructions for leading figures in the community (12:42–48; 17:5–10), the call for repentance to the multitudes (11:14–36; 12:54–13:35; 14:25–35), and Jesus’ arguments with Pharisees and scribes (11:37–54; 14:1–24; 15:1–32; 16:14–31; 17:11–19). Every passage is analyzed in detail, and there are, of course, many disputable points. At some points the construction of these chapters of Luke along the guideline (which people Jesus is speaking to) is especially weak. For example, in 13:31–33 Jesus is explicitly speaking with Pharisees and scribes, but Bendemann includes that passage within Jesus’ speeches to the multitudes. Bendemann deems the passage a “crossover,” but this looks like an easy escape. What I found noteworthy, though, is Bendemann’s overall concern for the reader-oriented messages Luke had in mind. In the final chapter (pp. 353–81) Bendemann compares the Gospel as a whole with the Vita Aesopi and finds interesting structural parallels. Bendemann’s book will certainly have a major impact on future studies of the

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Gospel of Luke. In my opinion, he has succeeded with his main point, the destruction of the thesis of a travel narrative. His new structuring of the Gospel is methodologically interesting and, on the whole, disputable; nevertheless, it is an important starting point for future exegesis of the Gospel of Luke. Markus Oehler, University of Vienna, Vienna, Austria A-1090 Belly and Body in the Pauline Epistles, by Karl Olav Sandnes. SNTSMS 120. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Pp. xiv + 318. $60. In Belly and Body in the Pauline Epistles, Karl Olav Sandnes, professor in NT theology at the Norwegian Lutheran School of Theology, Oslo, contributes his third thought-provoking book to the discipline of NT studies. In this volume, Sandnes examines belly worship in two specific passages from Paul’s writing and then relates it to Pauline theology about the body. With this volume Sandnes fills a space within NT studies. Previously there has been a wide variety of opinions regarding the understanding of the belly in the two main Pauline texts where the belly is mentioned (Rom 16:18; Phil 3:19); this can be seen by the varied translations of these two Pauline texts. Some view belly worship as the observance of Jewish food laws, as identical with the flesh, as a euphemism for sex, as a metonym for unbridled sensuality, or as a metaphor for those who are avoiding death. These explanations, according to Sandnes, miss the aspects of contemporary culture that would not have been lost on the readers of Paul’s day. To examine the contemporary culture, Sandnes then constructs a Greco-Roman cultural backdrop of the belly. He does so by examining what he considers topoi of the belly throughout Greco-Roman literature. By examining a variety of topoi, the author examines more than a list of parallels to the belly. Instead, he constructs a contemporary Greco-Roman worldview for the belly from the many places where ancient writers comment upon the stomach. Particular attention in this construction is paid to places where “having the belly as god” or “being devoted to the stomach” can be found. Sandnes’s survey of contemporary Greco-Roman literature is extensive. He considers the place of the belly in ancient moral philosophy. In this section he consults key texts and draws conclusions from writers such as Euripides, Plato, Xenophon, Aristotle, Dio Chrysostom, Musonius Rufus, Epictetus, Plutarch, and Athenaeus. This provides substantial viewpoints from major Greek philosophers that span the dates of the fourth century B.C.E. into the third century C.E. and thus the time period in which Paul writes. Sandnes’s survey also draws attention to areas that have been less considered with regard to the belly in Paul’s writing. For example, his chapter on Epicureanism draws attention to this philosophy that promoted the seeking of pleasure and the avoidance of pain as keys to a happy life. The belly was an important part of this philosophy, as evidenced by citations such as “the beginning and the root of all good is the pleasure of the stomach; even wisdom and culture must be referred to this” (Fragm. 409). Since Epicureanism was a popular philosophy, as is evident from the writing of Cicero, Seneca, and Plutarch, Sandnes rightly concludes that the impact of this idea needs to be brought to bear on Paul’s mention of the belly. Sandnes provides two other important chapters for the Greco-Roman consideration of the body. He considers the belly in places such as ancient physiognomics, an

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ancient science devoted to working out methods between physique and character. He also surveys the role of banquets as opportunities for the belly. These chapters round out a survey of Greco-Roman topoi where philosophy not only shapes the first-century idea of the belly but also provides a scientific and popular view of the belly. From this survey, Sandnes draws six reasonable conclusions from the GrecoRoman context of the day: (1) belly devotion reveals the earthly nature of a person; (2) living for the belly was an animal-like way of living, seeking the satisfaction of one’s needs rather than greater horizons; (3) persons living for the belly became selfish and egoistic; (4) belly-devotees were likened to flatterers or parasites since they loved soft living; (5) belly devotion leads to neglect of one’s city; (6) belly-servants are contrasted with athletes who submit to hardships to achieve their goals. From this point Sandnes examines how topoi appearing most frequently in GrecoRoman sources are appropriated into biblical thought. He considers the use of the belly in Jewish-Hellenistic sources. There is a short chapter on some sources regarding the belly within the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha. He then adds a more developed chapter on the presence of the belly in Philo. From these chapters he notes that life dominated by the belly was a mark of paganism. How one ruled the stomach was a question of a true divine identity. In contrast to Sandnes’s consideration of Greco-Roman sources, his examination of Jewish sources is surprisingly and unfortunately brief. Apart from his consideration of Philo, he specifically comments on only seven examples within Jewish writing (Sir 23:6; T. Reu. 2:1–3:8; 3 Macc 7:10–11; 4 Maccabees; Aristeas to Philocrates 140–41; T. Mos. 7:2–4; Cairo Genizah Wisdom). There are likely many other places within Jewish literature that could have been consulted. Sandnes does mention a few passages from Scripture that could be of help (e.g., Job 20:12–15; 24:19; Pss 10:3–5; 22:14; 27:2; 53:5; Prov 1:12; 19:28; Isa 5:14; Jer 51:34; Lam 3:46; Dan 7:23; Jonah 2:3; Mic 3:2–3). These, however, are dealt with in the space of a page or two. Moreover, references to the belly where the belly is a sign of cursing are not considered (e.g., Gen 3:14; Lev 11:42; Num 5:21–22; Lam 2:20; Hos 9:16). Considering that Sandnes interacts with Scripture’s effects on Paul’s writing in his other work, it is surprising that he does not develop the role of Scripture more for Paul’s thinking regarding the belly. Sandnes moves to a consideration of the belly in the key Pauline texts. He first rightly surveys other Pauline texts where self-restraint is a Christian virtue and part of living a crucified lifestyle (1 Cor 16:13; Gal 5:16–17, 24; Phil 1:27; Col 3:1, 5; 1 Thess 4:5). This provides an important backdrop for his detailed explanation of Phil 3:17–21 and Rom 16:17–20. In his consideration of Phil 3:17–21, he argues against the prevailing views of NT scholarship that this passage is aimed at vilifying his opponents or as a polemic targeting Jewish Christians who are observing dietary restrictions. In his examination of Rom 16:17–20, he defines what “serving the belly” is from Rom 16:18. Once again he argues persuasively against a viewpoint that the observance of food laws is in view with serving the belly. Instead, he argues that belly worship is a pejorative term for an apostatized life of gluttony, drinking, and sexual orgies. The background that Sandnes has developed from Greco-Roman topoi and Philo’s writings in particular provides a convincing backdrop to these conclusions. The parallels between Phil 3 and Rom 16 lead Sandnes on to his examination of a

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number of texts within 1 Corinthians. He considers 1 Cor 15:32 in the light of Epicureanism. He considers the ethic of “stuffing oneself” versus restraint at the Lord’s Supper in 1 Cor 11:17–34. He examines the Christian faith and implications for sex and the stomach in 1 Cor 6:12–14. Finally, he considers the belly as a force of temptation in the wilderness in 1 Cor 10:7. In each case gluttony appears as the convincing opponent. Sandnes’s ideas are informative to understanding of these texts. It would be more helpful to his study, however, to introduce the background to these texts from Corinthians earlier. His study of the Corinthian passages appears more like an afterthought when it could be much more significant. The final part of Sandnes’s study is an examination of the patristic literature. This is necessary due to the conclusions drawn by Johannes Behm’s article regarding the stomach in Kittel’s Theological Dictionary. Behm’s article has been very influential for the viewpoint that Paul is countering Jewish dietary laws when he speaks of the belly in Phil 3 and Rom 16. Through a survey of nineteen patristic authors, Sandnes shows convincingly that patristic authors were not countering Jewish dietary laws. Instead, these texts addressing the belly refer to excessive eating and drinking as well as illicit sexual lust. When patristic authors address food and Judaism, they are considering the excesses of food rather than the dietary restrictions themselves. Belly service was predominantly gluttony. Serving the belly from the perspective of patristic authors was incompatible with believing in Christ. Belly and Body in the Pauline Epistles is a well-argued and informative volume on a neglected portion of Paul’s writing. Sandnes’s Greco-Roman contextual examination is extensive and thought-provoking. His study will be a help to others studying cultural backgrounds for methodology as well, though his attention to Paul’s Jewish mind-set is underdeveloped. This volume will be of interest to anyone considering Pauline ethics. H. H. Drake Williams III, Eastern Baptist Theological Seminary and Biblical Theological Seminary, Worcester, PA 19490

Derhetorizing Paul: A Dynamic Perspective on Pauline Theology and the Law, by Lauri Thurén. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2002. Pp. ix + 213. $20 (paper). Thurén’s contribution to the field of Pauline studies lies in his ability to demonstrate the ways in which modern rhetorical criticism, argumentation theory, and epistolography can combine to offer an effective analysis of the Pauline letters. While demonstrating a familiarity with classical rhetorical approaches (both ancient authors/ terms/texts and modern appropriations therefrom), he deftly brings together modern insights into communication and rhetorical theory and convincingly demonstrates the utility of rhetorical criticism to Pauline studies that seem doomed to produce Paul-like theologies on the one hand or historical reconstructions on the other. What neither of these approaches takes seriously—namely, the letters as a particular kind of communicative medium employing rhetorical strategies toward particular convincing and persuasive ends—rhetorical criticism does while simultaneously traversing and contributing to both theology and history. Thurén’s effort is an excellent example of the kind of future for Pauline studies that could be brought about when informed by modern rhetorical criticism.

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The book is divided into three sections. Part 1 provides the context within which current effort seeks to position itself by introducing the theoretical bases for the “derhetorizing” approach. As Thurén sees it, Pauline studies can be classified into two major movements. On the one hand, traditional Pauline studies approached Paul as the Christian theologian. Informed by a dogmatic approach to the letters, Paul’s work was mined in support of what was essentially contemporary theology with little connection to either the content of the letters themselves or to their historical dimension. On the other hand, recent historicist efforts have attempted to dethrone Paul as theologian, replacing him with a quasi-pragmatist with little or no theological agenda. “Contextualists” isolate Paul’s texts as individual efforts at persuasion, limited in purpose to addressing the immediate issues confronting the congregations. Whereas the traditionalists universalize and decontextualize Paul’s message in favor of a universal theology, the contextualists deny Pauline theology altogether. In this context, Thurén seeks to steer a course between these two extremes by turning to rhetoric to identify and “derhetorize” the letters in order to get to the ideological (theological) concepts that give shape to and inform the particular performances. As Thurén sees it, “the current difficulties in understanding Paul are due to an unrealistic, static view of the nature of the texts, which is common to both old and recent methodology” (pp. 21–22). This critique even extends to include new “postmodern theological approaches” such as those represented by Daniel Patte, J. Christiaan Beker, and Heikki Räisänen. What Thurén proposes, instead of viewing the biblical texts as “boxes full of theology” and being led astray when not viewing the text as a dynamic and persuasive product, is that sensitivity to the function of Paul’s rhetoric allows one to look beyond the immediate communicative effect in order to understand the deeper theology being shaped. “The consideration of the dynamic aspect when searching for the underlying system of thoughts . . . requires that the text be de-rhetorized. This means, in short, that we must identify the persuasive devices in the text and to filter out their effect on the ideas expressed” (p. 28). This is not to suggest that the rhetorical and persuasive dimension of the texts supports the thesis that Paul’s work is so contingent as to be devoid of a fundamental theology. Rather than viewing Paul’s letters as contextual to the point that he is insincere, the use of rhetorical devices, particularly “heavy” rhetorical devices, does not undermine Paul’s ethos but rather, as Thurén shows, suggests a deep commitment on the part of Paul to find ways to communicate effectively. “Derhetorizing” Paul takes seriously the contextuality of Paul’s rhetoric but seeks to neutralize it by providing a means whereby we develop “a better comprehension of his rhetorical techniques. . . . [I]n order to perceive the theology behind his rhetoric, a correct insight into the persuasive qualities of his texts is required” (pp. 49ff.). Part 2 comprises by far the vast bulk of Thurén’s effort. It takes on the rather large and complicated issue of the concept of the law in order to demonstrate the effectiveness of the “derhetorizing” program. If it can be shown that greater sensitivity to rhetorical strategies can help identify a core and fundamental theology of the law across multiple performances, then we not only demonstrate the value of rhetoric to theology but also may come to garner new insight into this complex issue. Thurén begins with a look at Galatians. Here he rejects the perspective that views the letter as unique or exceptional, somehow less measured and mature or more

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extreme and agitated than that of, for example, Romans or Philippians. Thurén insists that the letter neither arises out of a state of highly emotional agitation nor was composed as a hasty response to an acute situation. Instead, its emotional effect is “consciously produced by utilizing effective contemporary rhetorical means” (p. 63), and its vilifying and dramatic rhetoric is a calculated effort “to enable the addressees to perceive the imminent danger beneath a calm surface” (p. 72). Paul has a clear purpose in mind and carefully composes the letter to achieve that purpose: to dramatize what was perhaps originally seen as a minor, perhaps even complementary development among believers in the community, one whose theological consequences Paul felt were necessary to clarify in no uncertain terms. For Paul, the whole law (there is no division between moral and ritual codes), though holy and of divine origin, is no longer valid for the believer. While it had its proper place, its mission has since been accomplished with the appearance of Christ. It neither suffices for moral guidance nor delivers the eschatological new creation but in this sense is replaced by the Pauline paraenesis that calls the believer into the life of the Spirit. Through Paul’s polemical rhetoric we come to see clearly a fundamental antinomianism “in the etymological sense of the term. . . . Law and faith definitely exclude each other. Even the slightest demand for obedience to the law ruins the whole Christian system of salvation” (p. 93). The question is, How does this one-sided treatment of the law compare with other texts? Is this theology consistent throughout the corpus? While the theology in Galatians is simplistic and polarized due to the exigency of the letter that requires Paul to distinguish in no uncertain terms his gospel from those of other teachers, the exigency of Romans and 1 Corinthians requires another response. Thurén insists that these responses are in no way contradictory to that of Galatians but reflect the argumentative and persuasive ends that Paul is seeking to achieve given the exigencies of these letters. For Romans, Paul is confronting, among many possible rhetorical situations, at the very least the question of how to present his ideas to a mixed Jewish and Gentile Christian audience. “Paul cannot undertake a unilateral attack as in Galatians. Instead, when settling a dispute Paul needs to show compassion and understanding for both sides. He is not instilling a simple principle into the minds of a rather homogeneous group, but treats the question as delicate and complex” (p. 100). Under such circumstances, vilification becomes unfeasible. For 1 Corinthians, Paul is at the very least confronting a situation in which reception of his own teaching has led to misunderstanding in the community. Food to idols, spiritual gifts, even questions regarding the nature of the resurrection, while possibly located in instructions stemming from “outside” influences, certainly also can be attributed to Paul’s own proclamations. These and other factors would certainly force him to approach questions of morality differently than he does in Galatians. In both cases, after close semantic and rhetorical observations regarding the function of the law in these letters, Thurén concludes that Paul’s theology does not fundamentally differ from that presented in Galatians: “As participant in the death of Christ, the Christian is wholly exempt from obedience to the law and should not even try to comply with its ordinances” (p. 130). Throughout this section Thurén provides substantial treatment of a number of passages, including apparent discrepancies with this conclusion in 1 Cor 15:56, as well as Rom 5 and 7. Thurén’s careful analysis of these passages shows substantial alignment with Galatians: Paul does not deny the law’s holy

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origins, nor does he deny its existence and its continuing hold over the believer as long as “Christians are still flesh and blood” (p. 130). Indeed, the law can be a source of moral guidelines for the life of the believer in addition to the Pauline paraenesis (cf. 1 Cor 9:8–9; 14:34; Rom 13:9), without thereby necessarily legitimating its authority. Those differences in perspective on the law that can be found in Romans and Galatians vis-àvis Galatians are, according to Thurén, due to differing exigencies at the rhetorical level of performance but do not reflect a change in perspective on the ideological-theological level that outright rejects the law. The question then becomes, Why did Paul reject the law in the first place? Why was the law, given by God and fulfilling his purposes, rhetorically set against God’s grace “as mutually exclusive alternatives for salvation” (p. 138)? Thurén proposes that answers to this question must rise from Paul’s theology and from contemporary Pharisaic views of the law, must have a sociological dimension, and must view the roots of this rejection as exceeding specifically Jewish issues. From these theses he identifies two reasons. First, Paul identifies a tension in contemporary Jewish soteriology between grace and practice, a tension that leads him to ponder the charge of particularism embodied in the law and its potential to undermine the universalism of the Jewish commitment to monotheism. For Paul, the law creates a theological divide between Jews and Gentiles, creating “a boundary around Israel, thereby counteracting the universal monotheism” (p. 183). Additionally, the law becomes a source of boasting, “especially when it provoked positive pride and joy . . . [enabling] trust in something other than God alone” (p. 183). Paul’s rhetorical answer was to describe the situation in such a way as to favor his own gospel over those of Jewish or Judaizing opponents, creating an “either-or” alternative through hyperbolic rhetoric. Whether or not Paul’s description was fairly reflective of his contemporary Jews is a question worth pondering, but it is nevertheless clear that Paul’s rejection of the law was an extremist solution to what was a contemporary theological issue. In sum, and as his very short part 3 summarizes, Thurén’s derhetorizing approach seeks to explain apparent discrepancies within the Pauline corpus and to address faulty modern interpretations of these letters by sensitizing us to the rhetorical (i.e., persuasive) dimensions of these texts: their stylistics, their argumentative dynamics, their varying exigencies, their persuasive intentions. Paul’s letters are not systematic dogmatic doctrines and clearly show tensions and equivalences, sometimes displaying exaggerating rhetoric, sometimes choosing less inflammatory rhetoric, sometimes obscuring ideas, sometimes showing apparent contradictions. Not all of this is due to our modern insensitivity to the rhetorical dimensions of these texts: clearly Paul’s teaching may simply be too extreme for some. However, while much has been done to discredit harmonizing tendencies that temper Paul’s message, the opposite movement toward contextualization also misunderstands the text. If Thurén is correct, and if it can be shown that behind all these apparent rhetorical inconsistencies and alternatives one can nevertheless discern a theological core, it then becomes incumbent upon those who deny this core to explain how it in fact does not exist. To this end, Thurén’s derhetorizing approach offers a significant example of the future of rhetoric and its contribution to both exegesis and theology by providing a necessary corrective that understands and sensitizes us to the dynamic rhetorical nature of Paul’s letters.

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Several comments come to this reviewer’s mind. First, the decision to turn to rhetoric would be better served had Thurén spent a bit more time elaborating upon the communicative-theoretical shortcomings of Pauline studies as a whole. While he spends a great deal of time and energy successfully critiquing these approaches in individual matters of interpretation, the general theoretical critique could have been more sharply honed. The failure of both contextualists and theologians lies in the fact that both view the letters as means to their own disciplinary ends: if theologians can be charged with mirror reading, contextualists can be charged with viewing the text as a window into another world. While the traditional theological approach seems to be on the wane, current interest in contextualizing the letters goes to the opposite extreme. Additionally, sociohistorical approaches have not successfully developed the necessary communication-theoretical basis for their efforts, not sufficiently describing how historical, psychological, and/or sociological factors contribute to communication. The significance of rhetorical approaches to Paul is that they provide important theoretical bases and a wide variety of interpretive and critical models that not only supplement modern Pauline studies but offer significant correctives. Rhetorical criticism has what these others do not: an understanding of the ways communication is shaped by and gives shape to ideas, contexts, people, beliefs, commitments, and actions. To help further this end, Thurén’s work provides an exciting example of the potential contribution of rhetorical approaches to Paul and Pauline theology, while signaling some of the potential pitfalls this approach should avoid if it is to be successful. There are actually two issues that should be addressed here. The first is brought to the fore when setting Thurén’s work within broad historical movements of rhetorical theory. His description of “derhetorization” suggests a near Platonic view of rhetoric. This view, first proposed in the Phaedrus, adheres to the concept of “truth” as an ideal realm achieved through philosophical dialectic, with rhetoric to be used afterwards in order most effectively and persuasively to bring about adherence to this (re-)discovered truth in members of the audience. Thurén’s model continues in this tradition, embracing what Perelman/Olbrechts-Tyteca describe as the philosophical pair “appearance/reality,” where “rhetoric” is the “apparent” performance of a “real” truth. His description of “derhetorization” suggests that rhetoric is something that is tenuous, contextual, an afterthought that strategizes upon an already present theological truth. “Rhetoric” is contingent, theology fundamental. Setting aside a number of critiques regarding this perspective of rhetoric, the theoretical problem that confronts Thurén’s model is: How does one argue for communicative dynamism on the one hand, while searching for a core unity of a concept on the other, without falling into the hermeneutical-theological trap of the traditionalists in the first instance or lending even greater credence to the contextualists in the second? In practice, however, what becomes clear in Thurén’s work is how rhetoric can be used as a critical instrument to ascertain the values and presumptions that come into play in Paul’s own rhetoric. In this way, rhetorical criticism takes seriously the full range of argumentative strategies and persuasive effects of Paul’s letters: they are neither wholly theological treatises nor windows into historically located social worlds. They are shaped by both of these aspects (and others as well), but they are first and finally convincing and persuasive efforts. Given this, the second issue for this reviewer is the sense that more explicit use of

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specific, modern rhetorical models (modern argumentation theory, symbolic convergence theory, social movements rhetoric) would have served Thurén better to avoid what often looks to be a “close reading” of the text. Here is where the issue of audiences and exigencies can inform modern critical reception of Thurén’s own text. Among the intended addressees of his work are clearly theologians and scholars whose familiarity with rhetorical criticism may be only quite vague. To overwhelm such an audience with a methodologically arcane and complex analysis would prevent such an audience from engaging with Thurén’s effort. The result would be bad rhetoric: How could Thurén demonstrate the usefulness of rhetorical criticism to Pauline studies and theology if those particular members of his audience could not follow his argument? The difficulty is that the choice to avoid a more clearly defined approach may have prevented Thurén from providing with clarity the unique contributions and insights that rhetorical criticism can bring. For example, Thurén’s recourse to the rhetorical concept of differing exigencies, while thankfully not an appeal to a faulty historical-reconstructionist hermeneutics, may not sound pragmatically all that different from what contextualists have asserted through their historical and sociological readings. By embracing a limited but nevertheless more specifically delineated rhetorical approach, Thurén would have available to him a wide variety of theoretical models that could clearly distinguish his work from these others, providing answers that are only achievable through rhetoric. For example, from the perspective of symbolic convergence theory of Ernst Bormann, the argumentative performances of Galatians, Corinthians, and Romans can be seen as example of the combination of specific fantasy themes embraced in the new Christian paideia emerging from the missionary movements around Paul. What we witness in these letters is the chaining out of these themes as new and unforeseen circumstances or receptions confront the communities and Paul. “The law is no longer valid for the Christian believer” as a fundamental belief confronts real-life situations that require explanations and new rhetorical inventions in order keep this message pertinent, relevant, and valid. The rhetorical critique that can be brought is whether and to what extent these chainings-out support or fundamentally undermine the theology: Does Paul do a good job? If so, how? If not, why not? Here is a model of communication that can explain how exigencies change and how group identities meet the new challenges confronting a dynamic and growing movement. These criticisms are not meant to suggest that Thurén does not have answers to these questions. Indeed, he is one of the few but growing number of rhetorical critics who are actually interested in criticism and not analytics. One of the faults of what has passed for rhetorical criticism is that it has been constrained by disciplinary practices to provide analysis, more often than not leaving Paul as both theological “hero” and rhetorical “expert.” In contrast, what Thurén’s work signals is how a critical approach can succeed where others have not. But in order to do so, more work needs to be done to show how rhetorical approaches help us get at ideology and theology in ways that other approaches (literary, historical-reconstructive, linguistic, sociological) cannot. In order for rhetorical criticism to succeed at contributing beyond its disciplinary boundaries, it must, ironically, embrace its own disciplinarity. Thurén’s work signals a promising new direction in the future of rhetorical criticism and Pauline studies. At the dawn of its third decade since its return to biblical studies, rhetorical criticism is coming into its own. Thurén’s work suggests that rhetorical

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scholars, while continuing to work out the dimensions of their own disciplinary practices, are beginning to sense the importance of their field to other areas of biblical criticism and theology. This promise was sensed at the beginning but never quite came to fruition. With more maturity, greater clarity, and more future efforts such as Thurén’s, rhetorical criticism may finally fulfill its promise. J. David Hester, Eberhard-Karls-Universität, Tübingen, D-72074 Germany Der Brief des Jakobus, by Wiard Popkes. THKNT 14. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2001. Pp. xxxviii + 357. €34. Having written the monograph Adressaten, Situation und Form des Jakobusbriefes (SBS 125/126; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1986) and a series of articles on James, Wiard Popkes now presents a remarkable interpretation of the entire letter in his commentary. The bibliography (pp. xviii–xxxviii), which informs the reader reliably and solidly about essential literature on James up until the year 2000, is followed by a rather broad introduction in which Popkes outlines his reading of the Epistle in a nutshell. The focal point of Popkes’s earlier monograph unmistakably leaves its mark here, for his remarks on the situation of the addressees, the letter’s form, and the traditions it adapts take up substantial space. Great emphasis is laid especially upon the latter in the course of the entire commentary. One of the commentary’s propria within the series is that the exegetical interpretation of each respective section is preceded by a five-part introduction. In each case, Popkes (1) states his case for his division of the text, (2) comments subsequently under the heading “Textüberlieferung“ on textual variants, and (3) analyzes the textual and communicative structure, before (4) giving an overview of the elements adapted from tradition—the commentary’s focus is clearly reflected here—and finally (5) sketching the author’s redaction and intention on the basis of this (by 3:1–12 a sixth section, content and contextual function, is added, which is connected to Popkes’s hypothesis that 3:1–12 is “eine Art Übergangs-oder Einleitungsabschnitt” [p. 56]). This is all supplemented by numerous “preliminary remarks,” in which Popkes introduces his comments on the subsections into which the larger text elements have been divided. Occasionally other “supplementary notes“ are also added to accompany the exegesis. Popkes identifies the “communicative objective” of the Epistle of James as the “handlungsorientierte . . . Beeinflussung von Menschen, die man auf bestimmte Wertvorstellungen, Konsens-Grundlagen und Erfahrungen ansprechen kann” (p. 13). Together with the majority of critical exegetes, Popkes considers James to be a pseudepigraph (written approximately around the turn of the first to the second century C.E. [p. 69], location unknown). Its writer is primarily a theocentrically-thinking (pp. 22, 24: “auch die Soteriologie ist bei Jak Teil der Gotteslehre”) ethicist who advocates an “Ethik auf dem Weg” (p. 16) and is interested, above all, in sociological and anthropological implications (p. 17). For Popkes, humans are depicted in James as beings who endanger themselves (p. 26, cf. p. 13). The analysis of the addressees’ situation thereby serves as a directive for the entire commentary. Popkes finds that James takes up the approach to life of a socioeconomically striving middle class (p. 18). The epistle is a testimony of a development toward greater prosperity (at least by some), similar to Acts and the Pastoral Epistles (p. 18):

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“Typische Probleme der 2.-3. Generation werden sichtbar: Nachlassen der Spannkraft und der Tätigkeit des Glaubens, Welt-Zugewandtheit, Wohlstand und Prestigedenken, soziale Unterschiede, Gruppenegoismus” (p. 43). When taken for themselves, these findings are still hardly suitable for locating the epistle on the map of early Christianity, but they gain profile for Popkes by his discerning a connection between the deficits that James discusses and an abridged reception of specifically Pauline traditions and theologoumena. In Popkes’s opinion, the lack of socio-ethical involvement on the part of the addressees and their open-mindedness and liberality, which James reproaches as love of the world, have a pseudo-Pauline foundation. James objects to “eine Art Parolen-Paulinismus” (p. 59, cf. p. 214) in which concepts central to Paul’s theology have deteriorated to hollow phrases devoid of all meaning. This is primarily the case for justification by faith—the classical, but no longer undisputed hypothesis on the traditional-historical context of Jas 2:14–26 is of relevance here (for an opposite standpoint, cf. T. Penner, The Epistle of James and Eschatology: Re-reading an Ancient Christian Letter [JSNTSup 121; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1996], 47–74; M. Konradt, Christliche Existenz nach dem Jakobusbrief: Eine Studie zu seiner soteriologischen und ethischen Konzeption [SUNT 22; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998], 210–13, 241–46)—and for “love” (2:8), “liberty” (1:25; 2:12), and “wisdom” (3:15), as well. Popkes surmises that Jas 2:8–13 reflects the self-conception of the addressees, that they kept the entire law by keeping the love command, and they thereby would have referred to the Pauline position as it is expressed in Rom 13:8–10 (p. 177). One could read the entire passage 2:8ff. “als Auseinandersetzung mit einer sich paulinisch gebenden Position . . . , die das Liebesgebot ideologisch ausgehöhlt hat” (p. 38, cf. p. 172f.). Popkes also assumes an addressee position that is colored by Paul’s influence behind the Jacobean discussion of the “law of liberty,” since NT statements about liberty are strikingly concentrated in the Corpus Paulinum. Above and beyond this, Popkes points out that the concentration of the law in the love command is directly linked to the idea of liberty in the context of Gal 5:14, and he goes on to cite Rom 8:2. In speaking of the “law of liberty” (1:25; 2:12), James takes up terminology familiar to the addressees, which is supposed to have been brought into connection with the reduction of the Torah to love of one’s neighbor. For Popkes, therefore, the Epistle of James presents itself as a confrontation with Pauline Christianity, which has interpreted the master’s message for itself as a legitimation of a liberal, open-minded, and socio-ethically uninvolved lifestyle. If one turns from the addressees to the author, it must be noted that Popkes does not conceive of James as an independent, creative thinker, but rather shifts his dependence on tradition into the forefront: “Kaum eine Zeile ist bei Jak ohne irgendeinen Traditionsbezug” (p. 27). In the volume’s introduction, Popkes gives an overview of (1) the general OT Jewish tradition; (2) specific Wisdom tradition (Popkes sees a significant influence in this, but displays a critical viewpoint on more recent hypotheses that categorize James as wisdom literature [pp. 29–32]); (3) the Jesus tradition; (4) connections with Paul; (5) connections with 1 Peter; (6) other inner-testamental correlations; and finally (7) the remaining early Christian writings such as Hermas or 1 Clement (pp. 27–44). Popkes repeatedly attempts to illustrate the chain of reception of various traditions which he discovers in James by means of the notion that the author worked with a “card catalogue” of sorts:

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der bekannte stichworthaft und sprunghaft erscheinende Schreibstil des Jak erklärt sich zum nicht geringen Maß auch aus der Verarbeitung von Traditionssplittern, die er aus verschiedenen ‘Quellen’ (u.a. Florilegien, Sekundärübernahmen, Notizen) erhielt. Man gewinnt den Eindruck, Jak habe sich eine Art Zettelkasten angelegt, aus dem er sich dann bedient— zuweilen auch mit nicht gerade glücklicher Hand. (pp. 28f., cf. pp. 56, 58, 271) This assessment is linked to Popkes’s opposition to the hypothesis—now accepted in recent research as the majority opinion—that the letter is a well-planned composition in which a prologue with the function of a summarizing exposition (its delimitation is contested), a main section, and an epilogue (usually 5:7–20) can be distinguished from one another as the large-scale structure. With respect to such construction plans, Popkes criticizes the notion of a textual concept as being too static, on the one hand (pp. 51, 54, 56). On the other, “die Komposition des Jak sollte nicht nur synchronisch, sondern ebenfalls diachronisch, intertextuell untersucht werden” (p. 55). This assertion is founded on the hypothesis that James’s writing is essentially guided by tradition and that traditional elements are partially responsible for the textual order in James (p. 56, cf., e.g., p. 111). As a consequence, Popkes dispenses with intricate structure in his commentary (p. 57). This is accompanied by the fact that Popkes underlines the dynamic, flowing character of the text more strongly instead of making the usual attempts at setting caesurae. In comparison with other new volumes of the series, the commentary’s length, which is well above average, stands out immediately. The commentary justifies this in part through the abundance of material it offers, on the one hand, and with its dialogical disposition and intensive discourse with varying opinions, on the other. In this manner, the reader is drawn into the discussion regarding the exegetical possibilities of the text (p. v). Nevertheless, the impression remains that some parts could be shorter without losing substance. Redundacy partially occurs through the five-part preliminary introductions mentioned above. The remarks on how the text was handed down, which essentially serve to direct attention to the difficult text passages, could easily have been reduced, especially since a considerable amount is in essence a paraphrase of the apparatus of Nestle-Aland. The minimal material that is of textual-critical significance in James could have been integrated into the body of the commentary. Occasionally, the exegetical output is not always recognizable at first glance in the syntactic descriptions in the respective sections on “Textüberlieferung und Kommunikationsstruktur” (for example, see the note on 1:12: “V.12b bringt eine Begründung im Futur [wie V.10b.11], erläutert durch einen Relativsatz im Aorist (V.12c)” [p. 76]). And in the section on the elements of tradition, although the “parallels” are sorted according to text corpora and inventoried in detail, a closer analysis of the exact nature of the relationships does not always take place. What does Popkes mean, for example, when he makes this judgment about Jas 1:2ff.: “An erster Stelle rangieren die Beziehungen zu Sir 2” (p. 76)? What is, then, the exact meaning of the “deutliche Berührungen” (p. 77) with 1 Pet 1:6f. and Rom 5:3–5, which are also pointed to in this context? It might possibly have been more elegant to integrate the material into the exegesis. Thereby, the most significant texts which form the primary traditional-historical context and are thus capable of illuminating the passage in question could have been examined in greater detail, whereas what-

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ever belongs to the wider context could have been banished to the footnotes (which are numerous, at any rate). Certainly, the accentuation with regard to content which Popkes sets bears greater emphasis than questions of a primarily formal nature. Many of the hypotheses that Popkes poses will raise opposition among various newer exegetes on James (including the reviewer). This is not only true for the theory of an addressee milieu strongly colored by Pauline influence, which goes much further than the (no longer generally accepted) assumption that James takes issue in 2:14–26 with the (influence of the) Pauline position on justification. With respect to speech about the “law of liberty,” the positive connection between law and liberty, which was widespread in Hellenism and also adapted by Hellenistic Judaism, is merely noted in passing (p. 307). In comparison with the Pauline tradition, however, it is most likely of more significance here than Popkes is able to concede in the framework of his overall hypothesis. Furthermore, in view of other early Christian findings, the reference to the love command in 2:8 does not allow the direct conclusion that Pauline thought is the context by any means. Popkes’s position on the epistle’s subdivision probably might also give reason for controversy, since he consciously regresses to a point prior to the consensus on a well-planned structure, which is currently unfolding. The fact that the author of James is conscious of tradition certainly cannot be denied (numerous recourses to ideas which are generally known by the addressees is part of the argumentative strategy to recall the addressees to the path on which they originally set out). Nevertheless, the author’s creative hand ought to be estimated more highly than appears to be the case in Popkes’s model of working through a card catalogue. Aside from this, it goes without saying that one can beg to differ on further individual details of the exegesis. Nevertheless, this does not change the fact that Popkes has presented an important commentary deserving of intensive discussion. The discourse on James is currently open on many points. In his foreword, Popkes classifies himself as a discussion partner “an einem großen runden Tisch” (p. v). The contribution which he has submitted to the discussion is both substantial and challenging. Matthias Konradt, University of Berne, Länggassstrasse 51, CH-3000 Bern 9 Switzerland

Progymnasmata: Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric, translated and edited by George A. Kennedy. Writings from the Greco-Roman World 10. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003. Pp. xviii + 231. $29.95. George Kennedy, Paddison Professor of Classics Emeritus at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, is well known to biblical scholars for his pioneering work in rhetorical criticism. Many NT scholars “cut their rhetorical teeth” on Kennedy’s classic study, New Testament Interpretation through Rhetorical Criticism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1984). This most recent publication, a translation of the Greek progymnasmata, puts the biblical guild even further in his debt. Kennedy’s translation is the tenth volume in the SBL Writings from the GrecoRoman World (edited by John T. Fitzgerald) and represents a revised version of the edition published chez l’auteur in 1999, a fact that may escape some readers. Though

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Kennedy in the original edition anticipates publishing a “revised version” (see his open invitation for “corrections, suggestions and comments”), and though he describes “revising” that work on the acknowledgments page of the new edition, the work is not actually characterized by its publishers as a “revised edition” on the title page or back cover. The original self-published volume brought together for the first time in English translation all the extant progymnasmata into a single collection. The progymnasmata were rhetorical exercises for those elementary-age schoolchildren privileged to receive an education in the ancient world. The original edition also provided the first English translation of both Nicolaus’s progymnasmata and the commentary on Aphthonius attributed to John of Sardis. It also supplied the first English translation of Theon based on the critical text by Michel Patillon in the Budé series (though pride of place for the first English translation, albeit based on an older critical text, actually belongs to James Butts and his 1987 Claremont dissertation, on which Kennedy draws, especially for his reordering of the chapters in Theon). The chief service of the new edition is that with the support of a major publishing house it makes more widely available in revised form Kennedy’s original translations, which still cannot be found in most university libraries. The translations of the book under review are readable and faithful, and they appear to follow the original edition closely with only minor revisions. Many of these are attributed on the acknowledgments page to “suggestions and corrections” made by D. M. Schenkeveld, Malcolm Heath, Edwin Carawan, and especially D. A. Russell, the volume editor. Other notable changes to the first edition include the expansion of the “works cited” to a “bibliography,” though only six entries have been added. The index has also been reworked. The introductions to the collection as a whole and to each of the rhetorician’s exercises are also repeated largely verbatim from the original edition, again only with minor changes. One noteworthy revision appears in the introduction to the exercises attributed to Hermogenes. In the first volume, Kennedy argued that these exercises are pseudepigraphal but did not address the implications of this verdict for their date. In the present volume, he parts with the traditional dating of the exercises attributed to Hermogenes (second century; so R. F. Hock and E. N. O’Neil, The Progymnasmata [vol. 1 of The Chreia in Ancient Rhetoric; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986], 158–60, followed by V. K. Robbins, “Narrative in Ancient Rhetoric,” 1996 SBLSP [Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996], 368–84), arguing that the work, though it cannot be dated with any certainty in his view, probably derives from the third or fourth century. This conclusion obviously impacts NT studies, as the change leaves Theon’s Progymnasmata as the only curriculum that can be dated with any certainty to the Hellenistic period (though it should be remembered that all the rhetoricians preserve traditional curricula that originated in the early Hellenistic period). That an English collection and translation of the extant progymnasmata was not published until very recently is remarkable given their potential value for NT studies and a variety of other fields. Kennedy assesses the importance of the progymnasmata not only for the study of NT literature specifically but also for Western literature generally, likening the “progymnasmatic forms” (chreia, fable, narrative, etc.) to the “structural features of classical architecture that were artistically utilized in the great public buildings of the Greco-Roman period and were revived in the Renaissance in the West” (p. ix). Kennedy states: “Not only the secular literature of the Greeks and Romans, but

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the writings of early Christians beginning with the gospels and continuing through the patristic age, and of some Jewish writers as well, were molded by the habits of thinking and writing learned in the schools” (ibid.). Kennedy’s work is in part responsible for the emerging status of the progymnasmata in rhetorical criticism, a development evident even from the telling change made by Kennedy to the title. The original 1999 translation was subtitled Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition Introductory to the Study of Rhetoric. The revised translation is subtitled Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric, a change made in recognition of Theon’s assertion that “these exercises are very useful for those acquiring the faculty of rhetoric” (Theon, 60; Kennedy, 4). In some respects the progymnasmata are arguably more relevant to rhetorical analysis of NT literature—especially NT narratives—than the handbooks, which have been the primary resource for rhetorical criticism despite their exclusive concern for the practice of declamation. As Theon describes them, the preliminary exercises are “the foundation of every kind of discourse,” and so they are “useful not only to those who are going to practice rhetoric but also if one wishes to undertake the function of poets or historians or any other writers” (Theon, 60; Kennedy, 4). Though the value of the handbooks for the study of written forms of discourse such as narratives and letters has justifiably been questioned, the progymnasmata evade this critique. Practitioners of literary criticism and other methodologies interested in the composition of NT writings will certainly find the progymnasmata more relevant than the handbooks. Chreia research has shown that the Gospel writers not only were rhetorically trained but also employed forms described in the progymnasmata in the composition of the Gospels. Other progymnastic forms, however, have been largely ignored in Gospel research, perhaps because none of these happens to correspond as well to the categories of form criticism, from which chreia research initially arose. John A. Darr’s literary study of Luke (On Character Building: The Reader and the Rhetoric of Characterization in Luke-Acts [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992]), a notable exception to the rule, demonstrates the use of the progymnastic form of syncrisis in the opening chapters of the Third Gospel and describes the form’s contribution to characterization in the Third Gospel (cf. also Fearghus O.Fearghail, The Introduction to Luke-Acts: A Study of the Role of Luke 1,1–4,44 in the Composition of Luke’s Two-Volume Work [AnBib 126; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1991]). Darr’s study shows the need for further investigation of the various progymnastic forms and their literary function in NT writings. Moreover, literary studies that are interested in the ancient reception of these writings may also find the progymnastic training in reading and hearing a fruitful line of investigation, though for the chapter “Listening to What Is Read,” Kennedy is forced to give an English translation of Patillon’s French translation of the Armenian version of a lost Greek text and to acknowledge that these sections would be of limited value for detailed exegesis! Redaction criticism likewise stands to benefit from insights from the progymnasmata. The exercise of refutation and confirmation, used by Theon not as a separate exercise but in connection with many of the exercises, including chreia, fable, and narrative, describes a full range of editorial standards by which every form of discourse was ideally to be reviewed. These criteria include everything from concern for good syntax to con-

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cern for conformity to philosophical notions of ideal truth. They would undoubtedly have influenced the shape of early Gospel traditions as they moved into the Hellenistic world and underwent constant revision both as oral and written forms of discourse. Often these standards are at odds with the hypothetical canons proposed by historians interested in describing the evolution of traditions. The predilection, for example, for shorter versions of the various sayings and parables of Jesus as the real historical utterances is problematic given that students of the Theonic curriculum were taught to critique various kinds of discourse (including chreia, fable, and narrative) for being either deficient or pleonastic. Moreover, the same students practiced both expanding and compressing various forms of discourse (including chreia and fable). Since orators, writers, and editors alike were thus as likely to summarize as to expand traditional materials, access to historical sayings via the oft-cited criterion of brevity appears impossible. The progymnasmata have also remained an untapped resource for social criticism and anthropological analysis, as well as feminist criticism, Marxist criticism, sociorhetorical criticism, and other methodologies interested in various forms of advocacy. The progymnasmata taught young students how to write, speak, and reason as educated, wealthy, male citizens. More than mere training in compositional and rhetorical techniques, the preliminary exercises impressed traditional Hellenistic values upon the minds of young students, encouraging them to compose all forms of discourse in conformity to those values. The exercises are thus a useful lens for describing the social context of various NT writings and the rhetorical intent of their authors. The progymnasmata also reveal that even an apparently mundane exercise such as the inflection of a noun (called klisis by Theon) has a potential rhetorical impact. Theon suggests that the writer/storyteller of fables (and later also narratives) should inflect the subject of the fable in its various cases (nominative, genitive, dative, accusative) and that, in the case of fables, oblique cases were to be preferred (Theon, 74.75). This exercise has interesting implications for some NT passages, such as the so-called parable of the Prodigal Son, where it is the word “father,” not “son,” that is fully inflected. An early audience, familiar with the practice of klisis outlined in the progymnasmata (and mentioned also in the rhetorical handbooks; cf. inter alia, Quintilian, Inst. 9.1.34; Ad Herennium 4.22.30–31) would understand that the “father” and not the “son” (despite the subsequent history of interpretation) was the subject of the parable (on this example and others, see Mikeal C. Parsons, “Luke and the Progymnasmata: A Preliminary Investigation into the Preliminary Exercises,” in Contextualizing Acts: Lukan Narrative and Greco-Roman Discourse [ed. T. Penner and C. Vander Stichele; SBLSymS 20; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature; Leiden: Brill, 2003], 43–63). We predict that the publication of George Kennedy’s translation of the progymnasmata will mark the opening of a floodgate of studies that mine these resources to understand the ancient poetics of rhetorical composition that informed both pagan and Christian writers of late antiquity. Of course, the serious student will need to consult the critical editions of the various texts (conveniently listed by Kennedy in the introduction to each translation), but the translations serve as most useful guideposts to these very useful ancient writings. Thanks to both Professor Kennedy and to the Society of Biblical Literature for making these texts accessible to the general reader. Michael W. Martin and Mikeal C. Parsons, Baylor University, Waco, TX 76798

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Jewish Marriage in Antiquity, by Michael L. Satlow. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001. Pp. xxvi + 429. $65. With this book, the title of which is succinct and to the point, Michael Satlow offers a comprehensive study of Jewish marriage in antiquity, ranging from biblical texts to rabbinic texts and intermittently even post-talmudic texts. Rabbinic and especially talmudic texts are treated most thoroughly in this book, while Second Temple literature is mostly referred to rather than being discussed in its own right. As the author himself is quick to point out in his preface, the first two critical terms in the title—Jewish and marriage—are fluid and context-dependent, and this is exactly what Satlow sets out to explore. That is, one of the central questions of the book is the question how “Jewish” Jewish marriage really is. Hence, antiquity here is to be understood in the broadest cultural sense and not merely as a chronological term. Indeed, one of the great merits of the book is that in trying to answer this question Satlow not only analyzes texts and epigraphic material from what is generally recognized as Jewish material from the ancient world but also draws amply on Greek, Hellenistic, and Roman literature as well as occasionally on Zoroastrian material to provide a context for what Jewish authors thought and wrote. By doing so, Satlow demonstrates the two central arguments of his book: first, that there is nothing essentially Jewish about “Jewish” marriage in antiquity and that often enough Jewish authors merely “Judaize” (pp. 59, 66) prevalent notions or ideologies of marriage; second, that the various Jewish groups in antiquity had fundamentally different understandings of the goals and functions of marriage, depending on chronological and cultural context. This, according to Satlow, holds true not only for authors of differently located texts, whether Philo, Josephus, Paul, or the people at Qumran, but also and especially for accounts of inner-rabbinic differences, namely, between Palestinian and Babylonian rabbis. The latter point seems to be most important for Satlow, partially because of the dominant focus of the book on rabbinic texts. Further, the point is important, even though Satlow is not the first to make it, because often enough “rabbinic Judaism” is still represented as a homogeneous culture. Accordingly, Satlow emphasizes the differences between various Jewish subcultures much more than pointing out similarities and continuities. Indeed, he can at times go so far as to state that the respective Jewish subcultures were much more similar to their respective cultural environments than to their respective Jewish colleagues. To overstate the point, Palestinian rabbis appear to be Stoics and Babylonian rabbis Zoroastrians, respectively. Let me backtrack, however, and briefly provide a description of the book before I critically engage those points. In order to provide a comprehensive study of the particular topic of marriage, Satlow provides a clear structure by dividing the book into three parts, each of which throws light on different aspects of the institution. In the first part he analyzes the ideology of marriage, its underlying theology, and legal framework. In the second part he presents material about the actual process of marrying, beginning with marriage contracts from Egypt and the Judean desert (what he calls “sherds” of real marriage) and going through the various stages of “tying the knot” (including age at the time of marriage, issues of intermarriage, customs and rituals of marriage, and biblical/ rabbinic peculiarities such as levirate marriage and polygyny). The third part focuses on the nature of the relationship between the spouses, both in economic and qualitative terms. Each of the chapters walks the reader through a number of texts relevant to the argument presented with the goal of providing what Satlow calls a “thick” description of

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the contours of Jewish marriage in antiquity. He proves to be a careful and critical reader particularly of his rabbinic sources and does not merely read his texts as transparent toward the historical reality behind them, as social historians are often prone to do with rabbinic texts. Rather, he regards these texts as cultural artifacts in their own right. Rabbinic texts, for instance, can hardly ever be read as descriptive texts, not merely because they are often legal in nature and therefore prescriptive rather than descriptive, but also because they are hermeneutically oriented, fragmentary, and argumentative. Thus, Satlow constantly has to find a balance between his aspiration to make a scholarly contribution to the study of the social history of the Jews in antiquity, as he aims to do, and the difficulty that his sources present to him. The conclusions that Satlow draws are often intriguing and certainly deserve consideration, perhaps sometimes cautiously. For instance, he argues that Jewish (including rabbinic) society was fundamentally polygynous in nature, much more so than often assumed. In fact, common opinion holds that rabbinic society was mostly monogamous, since the narrative material rarely represents a particular sage as being married to more than one wife. It seems that part of Satlow’s goal here is to acknowledge the divide between rabbinic society and current sensibilities rather than to gloss over it. On the other hand, his suggestion that the rabbinic term qiddushin originates not from the biblical root q-d-š but as a foreign loanword derived from the Greek term for handing over the bride by her father to the husband (ekdosis), seems a bit farfetched. However, rather than rehearsing the individual conclusions of the chapters I will summarize the larger conclusion concerning his analysis of the difference between the Babylonian and the Palestinian rabbinic communities. The picture that Satlow draws is the following: Palestinian rabbis adopted a Stoic ideology in that they emphasized the larger social aspects of marriage, the formation of a household (oikos) as a unit of reproduction and production. Marriage was not a goal in itself but carried larger social weight, insofar as by establishing a household its male leaders gained identity, achieved social respectability, and produced offspring for the state. Just as the Stoics argued for marriage as a “natural” institution through which a man completes himself, the Palestinian rabbis did the same in their cultural language; that is, they argued for marriage as a divinely ordained institution. Palestinian rabbis, just like the Stoics, viewed procreation as the only goal of sex within marriage. Babylonian rabbis, on the other hand, did not understand marriage within the household framework. On the contrary, they thought and wrote within the framework of the rabbinic academy, and it is only the Babylonian Talmud that renders the conflict between studying and marriage problematic. Just like the Zoroastrian sources in their cultural context, the Babylonian rabbinic sources do not betray any interest in the social weight of marriage. Rather, the Babylonian rabbis saw the purpose of marriage as legitimately channeling male sexual desire for the purpose of procreation, which they, in accordance with the Zoroastrians, saw as an individual or salvific, rather than as a social, good. In terms of the social reality behind these differences, then, Satlow somewhat counterintuitively concludes that in the Palestinian (Greco-Roman and later Christian) context marriage was much more contested by the Jewish population. He attributes this to a process of urbanization in the third and fourth centuries that in turn progressively undermined the dominance of the oikos as a social institution. The later Palestinian rabbis then mounted a concerted effort in defense of marriage. In Sassanian Babylonia, on

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the other hand, where marriage was supposedly not contested at all by the Jewish population, the Babylonian rabbis felt free to play out their anxieties because the institution of marriage would not be damaged owing to its salvific importance. This is the picture that Satlow develops, and it is a bold one, since it develops a master narrative of ideological differences. While it does account for a number of notable discursive differences between Palestinian and Babylonian sources, it seems that all of the texts fit too neatly into this picture. Of course any historical “metanarrative” or neat picture arouses suspicion, especially when the sources are so fragmentary or sometimes simply silent. The sociohistorical conclusions thus sometimes strike this reader as being a bit too bold, especially when they are based on demographic speculation. It also seems, at times, that Satlow’s analysis of Palestinian sources within the Babylonian Talmud is overdetermined by the assumption of difference of cultural context, of which the redactors are all too conscious so that they are compelled to culturally censor and adjust their sources. That is, Satlow does not balance such an analytic procedure enough with concerns of biblical and mishnaic hermeneutics that may not always be driven by context-driven censorship, as Christine Hayes argues in her book Between the Palestinian and the Babylonian Talmud (Oxford University Press, 1997), a book that is surprisingly not considered at all here. As far as Satlow’s constructions of cultural context are concerned, it is confounding that the pressures of Christian polemics against and debates about marriage are downplayed to the point that it seems as if Christianity does not exist in the cultural environment of the later Palestinian rabbis, while earlier Stoic sources continued to be important. Nonetheless, Satlow makes an important contribution to understanding particularly the culture of rabbinic Judaism in that he drives home the importance of regarding it as a Roman or Sassanian culture, respectively, and not merely within the parameters of Jewish diachronic developments. The book presents a significant synopsis of material across cultural boundaries and provides further thought for such methodological work. Finally, it seems that the book does target a nonspecialist audience, especially since Satlow frames it—in his introduction and conclusion—with some allusions to contemporary discussions about marriage in the American context. Note, for example, the overly dramatic first sentence of the book: “marriage is crumbling.” However, I think that the book will require great devotion from such readers, since its diction and attention to historical and textual details will present a difficult read for people who have not been initiated into scholarly discussions and rabbinic sources. Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert, Stanford University, Stanford, CA 94305

The Muslim Jesus: Sayings and Stories in Islamic Literature. Translated and edited by Tarif Khalidi. Convergences: Inventories of the Present. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001. Pp. viii + 245. $22.95 (cloth). Tarif Khalidi, professor of Arabic at the University of Cambridge, has assembled a very valuable collection of sayings and stories—303 in number—of Jesus in Arabic Islamic literature. The sources scanned reach from the second to the twelfth Islamic centuries (eighth to eighteenth centuries C.E.). The book consists of a comprehensive and illuminating fifty-page introduction, the 303 items in chronological order of their

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sources, and brief helpful comments (on sources, parallels, and function in Islamic discourse) appended to each item. Notes, bibliography, and two indexes close the volume. The Qur
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Before Khalidi’s efforts, the basic corpus of the “Muslim gospel” used to be a collection of 225 sayings by the Spanish scholar Miguel Asín y Palacios who translated the sayings into Latin (!) and provided brief Latin commentaries on them (“Logia et agrapha domini Jesu apud moslemicos scriptores, asceticos praesertim, usitata,” Patrologia Orientalis 13 [1919]: 335–431; and 19 [1926]: 531–624). Khalidi’s collection will now replace that one for those of us whose needs are served by good translations. However, the claim made in the dust jacket, that this is “the largest collection ever assembled” of the Arabic Islamic Jesus material, is inaccurate: Jaakko Hämeen-Anttila, now professor of Arabic at the University of Helsinki, published in 1998 a “study on the formation of the Islamic image of Jesus” which includes Finnish (!) translations of more than four hundred sayings and stories (Jeesus, Allahin profeetta [Jesus, a Prophet of Allah], Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 70; Helsinki, 1998). Hämeen-Anttila casts his net considerably wider than Khalidi, for he includes comments on the pertinent passages of the Qur
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INDEX OF BOOK REVIEWS

Baltzer, Klaus, Deutero-Isaiah: A Commentary on Isaiah 40–55 (Benjamin D. Sommer) 149 Blickenstaff, Marianne, and Amy-Jill Levine, eds., A Feminist Companion to Mark (Stephen Felder) 164 Dimant, Devorah, Qumran Cave 4, XXI: Parabiblical Texts, Part 4, Pseudo-Prophetic Texts (Timothy H. Lim) 153 Evans, Craig A., Jesus and the Ossuaries: What Jewish Burial Practices Reveal about the Beginning of Christianity (Tobias Nicklas) 158 Fisk, Bruce Norman, Do You Not Remember? Scripture, Story and Exegesis in the Rewritten Bible of Pseudo-Philo (Donald C. Polaski) 155 Hanson, K. C., ed., Sigmund Mowinckel, The Spirit and the Word: Prophecy and Tradition in Ancient Israel (Gary Stansell) 145 Hartmann, Michael, Der Tod Johannes des Täufers: Eine exegetische und rezeptionsgeschichtliche Studie auf dem Hintergrund narrativer, intertextueller und kulturanthropologischer Zugänge (Henry Sturcke) 160 Kennedy, George A., ed. and trans., Progymnasmata: Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric (Michael W. Martin and Mikeal C. Parsons) 180 Khalidi, Tarif, ed. and trans., The Muslim Jesus: Sayings and Stories in Islamic Literature (Heikki Räisänen) 186 Levine, Amy-Jill, and Marianne Blickenstaff, eds., A Feminist Companion to Mark (Stephen Felder) 164 Machinist, Peter, ed., Klaus Baltzer, Deutero-Isaiah: A Commentary on Isaiah 40–55 (Benjamin D. Sommer) 149 Mowinckel, Sigmund, The Spirit and the Word: Prophecy and Tradition in Ancient Israel (Gary Stansell) 145 Popkes, Wiard, Der Brief des Jakobus (Matthias Konradt) 177 Sandnes, Karl Olav, Belly and Body in the Pauline Epistles (H. H. Drake Williams III) 169 Satlow, Michael L., Jewish Marriage in Antiquity (Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert) 184 Singer, Itamar, Hittite Prayers (James R. Getz Jr.) 143 Thurén, Lauri, Derhetorizing Paul: A Dynamic Perspective on Pauline Theology and the Law (J. David Hester) 171 Tilly, Michael, Jerusalem—Nabel der Welt: Überlieferung und Funktionen von Heiligtumstraditionen im antiken Judentum (Thomas Hieke) 147 von Bendemann, Reinhard, Zwischen DOXA und STAUROS: Eine exegetische Untersuchung der Texte des sogenannten Reiseberichts im Lukasevangelium (Markus Oehler) 167

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