JJMJS 7 (2020)

Issue 7 2020

J M JJ S Journal of

the Jesus Movement in its Jewish Setting From the First to the Seventh Century

Table of contents A Few Good (Adopted) Men: A Renewed Assessment of the Influences for Paul’s Adoption Metaphor through an Analysis of Women’s Marginal Place in Jewish, Greek, and Roman Adoption Traditions CARMEN PALMER The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles in the Context of Romans 11:25–27 FRANTIŠEK ÁBEL Reading Texts and Reading Practice: Luke 4 in the Context of First-Century Synagogue Reading Practices ANDREW R. KRAUSE The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” in the Gospel of John ROGER DAVID AUS The Costobar Affair: Comparing Idumaism and Early Judaism COLLIN CORNELL The Early Church Fathers on Sacrifices and Temple: Rejection, Substitution, or Metaphor?

EYAL REGEV Reading John with Reinhartz: Reception of and Reflections on Cast Out of the Covenant ANTHONY LE DONNE

JOURNAL OF THE JESUS MOVEMENT IN ITS JEWISH SETTING: FROM THE FIRST TO THE SEVENTH CENTURY Editor-in-Chief Anders Runesson (University of Oslo, Norway) Editorial Committee Genevive Dibley (Rockford University, USA) Torleif Elgvin (NLA University College, Norway) Oded Irshai (The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Israel) Alexei Sivertsev (DePaul University, USA) Managing Editor: Knut H. Høyland (managingeditor@jjmjs.org) Assistant Managing Editor: Wally V. Cirafesi (Moody Bible Institute, USA; assistantmanagingeditor@jjmjs.org) Editorial Secretary: Jens Lægreid (edsecr@jjmjs.org) Forum Director: Ralph J. Korner (Taylor Seminary, Canada) Linguistic editing and layout: E. Cole (steteditorial@gmail.com) Cover design: Mathias Eidberg (University of Oslo, Norway) The Journal of the Jesus Movement in Its Jewish Setting (JJMJS) is an independent open-access peer-reviewed journal. It is published online in co-operation with the Faculty of Theology, University of Oslo; The Centre for the Study of Christianity, Hebrew University; and the Department of Religious Studies, DePaul University.

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JOURNAL OF THE JESUS MOVEMENT IN ITS JEWISH SETTING: FROM THE FIRST TO THE SEVENTH CENTURY Issue 7 (2020)

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A Few Good (Adopted) Men: A Renewed Assessment of the Influences for Paul’s Adoption Metaphor through an Analysis of Women’s Marginal Place in Jewish, Greek, and Roman Adoption Traditions Carmen Palmer Martin Luther University College | carmen.palmer@mail.utoronto.ca JJMJS No. 7 (2020): 1–25 As with the writings of other notable Jewish authors in the first century CE such as Philo and Josephus, Paul’s letters to early Christ communities highlight a Jewish identity shaped also by Hellenistic and Roman influences. For example, while Philo is argued to show influence from Plato’s Laws, 1 and Josephus describes the Essenes from the perspective of Roman values, 2 for his part, Paul draws on the Hellenistic rhetoric of boasting within his hardship lists. 3 Yet debated is the major influence or influences involved in Paul’s usage of an adoption metaphor. When Paul uses this language (drawing on the term υἱοθεσἱα, huiothesia), 4 intended to describe a transformative process of becoming offspring of God (Rom 8:15, 23;

1

Julia Annas, Virtue and Law in Plato and Beyond (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 188–213.

2 See Steve Mason, “What Josephus Says about the Essenes in His Judean War,” in Text and Artifact in the Religions of Mediterranean Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Peter Richardson, ed. Stephen G. Wilson and Michel Desjardins (Studies in Christianity and Judaism 9; Waterloo: Wilfred Laurier University Press, 2000), 423–455 (449).

3 See, for example, Christopher Forbes, “Comparison, Self-Praise and Irony: Paul’s Boasting and the Conventions of Hellenistic Rhetoric,” NTS 32 (1986): 1–30 (8).

4 Huiothesia as a verb is attested from the second century BCE and onward, with a meaning “adoption as a child” or even more literally, “adoption as a son.” Older verbal equivalents with a meaning of “to adopt” include υἱὸν τίθεμαι and υἱὸν ποιέομαι. W. von Martitz, “υἱοθεσία.

In the Greek World,” in TDNT, vol. 8, ed. Gerhard Friedrich (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1972), 397–398 (397).

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9:4; and Gal 4:5), 5 is he relying on Jewish scriptural, Greek, or Roman adoption traditions? Each among these three traditions holds both merit and criticism as Paul’s dominant source of influence in his adoption metaphor. For example, with regard to a Jewish scriptural background serving as Paul’s inspiration for adoption, James Scott argues that the Hebrew Bible contains an adoption formula seen in narratives such as Moses’s relationship to Pharaoh’s daughter as described in Exod 2:10, evident in the formula “to be to x as a son.” This phrase, argues Scott, is analogous to a marriage formula evident in 1 Sam 25:42; 2 Sam 11:27; and Ruth 4:13, “to be to x as a wife.” 6 Other early Jewish commentators such as Philo and Josephus also refer to the relationship in Exod 2:10 as one of adoption. 7 Paul could well have had such a scriptural tradition in mind as a practicing Jew. On the other hand, Bradley Trick argues that to draw on Jewish scripture would not make sense when attempting to appeal to gentile audiences, for whom this scripture would be unfamiliar. 8 Trick instead suggests that Paul references a tradition of Greek adoption, and proposes that Gal 3:15–4:11 interprets God’s covenant with Abraham as a testamentary adoption. Trick argues that Roman testament could not really effect adoption and is thus an unlikely choice, whereas Athens practiced testamentary adoption and is subsequently a more likely choice to have been used by Paul. 9 Trick concludes that Paul’s focus on Hellenistic law may stem from an intended audience in “Hellenistic southern Galatia.” 10 This argument falls short when considering Paul’s other references to adoption combined, as it seems less likely that Paul would continue to draw on Hellenistic law, when it is Roman law that prevailed in the first century CE throughout Paul’s environs.

5

Excluded is Eph 1:1–6, considered not to be included among the authentic Pauline corpus.

James M. Scott, Adoption as Sons of God: An Exegetical Investigation into the Background of ΥΙΟΘΕΣΙΑ in the Pauline Corpus (WUNT 2; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), 74–75. For an additional argument concerning the view favoring the idea that Paul draws from Jewish adoption tradition, see William H. Rossell, “New Testament Adoption—Graeco-Roman or Semitic?” JBL 71 (1952): 233–234.

7 See Scott, Adoption as Sons of God, 75–76. It should be noted that Philo and Josephus use different terminology than Paul; for example, Philo uses υἱὸν ποιεῖται (Moses 1.9), and Josephus refers to παῖδα ποιεῖται (Ant. 2.232).

8 Bradley R. Trick, Abrahamic Descent, Testamentary Adoption, and the Law in Galatians: Differentiating Abraham’s Sons, Seed, and Children of Promise (NovTSup 169; Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2016), 22.

9 Trick, Abrahamic Descent, Ch. 4, esp. 141–143 for an overview.

10 Trick, Abrahamic Descent, 338.

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Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 3

To that end, Erin Heim analyzes metaphors “at the level of a complete utterance,” thus arguing that each occasion of the huiothesia metaphor must be analyzed case by case. 11 Heim concludes that the primary model for Paul’s usage of adoption in both Galatians 4 and Romans 8 is, in fact, Roman adoption. 12 With Paul travelling and reaching out to audiences throughout the Roman Empire, such an influence as a common denominator across all audience contexts makes the most sense.

Indeed, textual similarities lend confirmation to Heim’s conclusions.

Consider the following excerpt from Rom 8:15–17: For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption as sons/children (υἱοθεσίας). 13 When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children (τέκνα) of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ—if, in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him. and also Gal 4:5–7: . . . so that we might receive adoption as sons. And because you are sons (υἱοί), God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts,

Erin M. Heim, Adoption in Galatians and Romans: Contemporary Metaphor Theories and the Pauline Huiothesia Metaphors (BibInt 153; Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2017), 322.

12 Heim, Adoption in Galatians and Romans, 324. She makes the caveat, though, that Galatians relates more to the vertical elements of the metaphor, meaning how believers relate to God, while Romans 8 relies more on the horizontal dimension of community membership. For other examples of views favoring the idea that Paul draws from Roman adoption tradition, see Francis Lyall, “Roman Law in the Writings of Paul — Adoption,” JBL 87 (1969): 456–468; Trevor J. Burke, Adopted into God’s Family: Exploring a Pauline Metaphor (New Studies in Biblical Theology 22; Downers Grove, IL: Inter-Varsity Press, 2006), 47–61; Kyu Seop Kim, “Another Look at Adoption in Romans 8:15 in Light of Roman Social Practices and Legal Rules,” BTB 44 (2014): 133–143.

13 Translations used are according to NRSV, except for two items: first, the translation of the verb υἱοθεσἱα, where the NRSV is not consistent, sometimes translating the term as “adoption,” and sometimes as “adoption as children.” A literal translation would read “adoption as sons,” which is the translation this study will use for consistency. Second, in the case of Rom 8:15–17 where Paul combines υἱοθεσἱα with the more gender-inclusive term τέκνα (“children”), the essay will follow the terminology developed by Heim for these specific verses, namely “sonship/childship” (or, sons/children). See Heim, Adoption in Galatians and Romans, 21 n. 109.

11

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crying, “Abba! Father!” So you are no longer a slave but a son (υἱός), and if a son (υἱός), then also an heir, through God. In these two excerpts, both draw on three notions within the tradition of adoption in Roman law: that adoption leads to kinship, as an adopted son is in the same position as a natural born son, according to Gaius, Inst. 2.136; 14 that adoption of a slave leads to manumission, evidenced in Gaius, Inst. 1.97–99 and Justinian, Inst. 1.11.12; 15 and that adoption (of either a free man or a slave) is for the sake of continuity of heirship, according to Gaius, Inst. 2.185–86. These parallels lean heavily toward the conclusion that it is the Roman legal tradition of adoption that Paul has in view, as opposed to Jewish or Greek traditions of adoption. Nevertheless, the ongoing high level of disagreement regarding the tradition used in Paul’s own adoption metaphor suggests we must find new questions to ask of the text before such a solution may be confirmed.

Instead of looking solely at parallels and similarities that are present among Paul’s usage of adoption compared to adoption from Jewish, Greek, and Roman tradition, examining differences may prove helpful as well. Returning to the passages concerning adoption in Rom 8:15–17 and Gal 4:5–7 once more, something that remains unclear between these two passages is the reason for which Paul chooses different terminologies for those who will become heirs through “adoption as sons” by God: “if a son, then also an heir (εἰ δὲ υἱός, καὶ κληρονόμος)” in Gal 4:7 versus “and if children, then heirs (εἰ δὲ τέκνα, καὶ κληρονόμοι)” in Rom 8:17. Scholars of ancient Judaism and especially the Dead Sea Scrolls often seek historical relevance in texts by analyzing “rewritten scripture,” the scriptural technique in which a recognizable base text is rewritten or reworked in some way. 16 While Paul’s letters were not initially deemed scripture at the time Gaius, Inst. 2.136. “Adoptive sons are in the same position as natural so long as they remain in adoption.” English translations are according to Francis de Zulueta, The Institutes of Gaius: Part I: Text with Critical Notes and Translation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985).

15 See Gaius, Inst. 1.97–99; Justinian Inst. 1.11.12 for adoption of slaves.

16 Sidnie White Crawford writes that “Rewritten Scripture” constitutes “a category or group of texts which are characterized by a close adherence to a recognizable and already authoritative base text (narrative or legal) and a recognizable degree of scribal intervention into that base text for the purpose of exegesis. Further, the rewritten scriptural text will often (although not always) make a claim to the authority of revealed Scripture, the same authority as its base text.” Sidnie White Crawford, Rewriting Scripture in Second Temple Times (SDSS; Grand Rapids; Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2008), 12–13. The present study refers to rewritten scripture as a “textual strategy” and not a “genre” or group of texts, following the description of Anders Klostergaard Petersen. See Anders Klostergaard Petersen, “The 14

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 5

of their composition (where scripture is “any text or group of texts considered sacred and authoritative by a particular religious tradition”), 17 we can draw on the same strategy for comparison between these two epistles: Anders Klostergaard Petersen argues that scriptural rewriting is merely one “sub-category of the wider class of intertextuality.” 18 Consequently, we can see that Paul applies a similar technique of rewriting between his letters to the Galatians and to the Romans.

Following the general scholarly consensus that Paul composed the letter to the Galatians earlier than the letter to the Romans, 19 the order in the change in terms would have been from “sons” to “children,” between two otherwise very similar phrases, “if x, then heirs.”

What underlying factors may have influenced Paul’s choice in substituting a “son” in Galatians with “children” in Romans? At first glance, a key difference between these terms is that the first is male gender specific, while the second is gender neutral, and by extension, theoretically inclusive of both men and women. This observation prompts two related areas for exploration. The first area is to examine whether there is something particular regarding the inclusion or exclusion of women in the possible adoption traditions used by Paul in his own Riverrun of Rewriting Scripture: From Textual Cannibalism to Scriptural Completion,” JSJ 43 (2012): 475–496 (484). For example, Cecilia Wassen has compared writings concerning women in the Damascus Document against their biblical antecedents to see how the sectarian movement affiliated with the Dead Sea Scrolls may have viewed and interacted with women. Cecilia Wassen, Women in the Damascus Document (SBLAB 21; Leiden: Brill, 2005). Or, in another study, Carmen Palmer compares the gēr of the Dead Sea Scrolls against scriptural antecedents in the Hebrew Bible to see in what way the gēr may represent a later meaning of “convert,” instead of a “resident alien” as in books of the Masoretic Text such as Deuteronomy. Carmen Palmer, Converts in the Dead Sea Scrolls: The Gēr and Mutable Ethnicity (STDJ 126; Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2018).

17 Molly M. Zahn, “Talking About Rewritten Texts: Some Reflections on Terminology,” in Changes in Scripture: Rewriting and Interpreting Authoritative Traditions in the Second Temple Period, ed. Hanne von Weissenberg, Juha Pakkala, and Marko Marttila (BZAW 419; Berlin; New York: De Gruyter, 2011), 93–119 (97).

18 Petersen, “Riverrun of Rewriting,” esp. 485–486 (citation 485).

19 Regardless of the actual dates of composition, scholarship acknowledges that Paul’s reference to a collection, mentioned in 1 Cor 16:1–4, 2 Cor 8–9, and Rom 15:25–28, but not in Galatians, suggests that Romans was written subsequently to Galatians. See Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Romans: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33; Garden City, NY; New York: Doubleday, 1993), 85–86; and J. Louis Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33A; Garden City, NY; New York: Doubleday, 1997), 19–20.

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adoption metaphor. And second, is there anything observably different concerning the genders between Paul’s letters to the Romans and the Galatians that would provoke Paul to choose a term inclusive of both men and women in his adoption metaphor, to counter-balance an innately male-exclusive nature in the adoption tradition borrowed?

Following in this vein, the present study entertains a renewed analysis of Jewish, Greek, and Roman adoption traditions vis-à-vis the question of women and their role in adoptions. This study will pursue the role that women play, or more accurately do not play, in adoptions within all three traditions: in each tradition, women are generally found to be either absent from or at least diminished in any role pertaining to adoption. Furthermore, the study will argue that the exclusion of women from Roman adoptions, specifically, offers the best match for the adoption tradition that Paul held in view while forging his own teachings on spiritual adoption. Finally, the study will find that in light of the intratextual contexts of Galatians and Romans, the presence of female leadership identified in Romans 16 requires a corresponding purposeful choice in terms that transforms God’s adoptions into something inclusive of women as heirs of God, as well, if they are to be leaders within Pauline communities. Meanwhile, the absence of women leaders identified in Galatians requires no such shift. The study will argue that the change in terminology between two otherwise similar concepts of adoption by God for the sake of heirship, as connected to the adoption metaphors of Rom 8:15–17 and Gal 4:5–7, makes the most sense if Paul is drawing on concepts of Roman adoption where these two texts are concerned. In this manner, we can see how Paul both fully relies on Jewish scriptural concepts of rewriting, while veering in a different direction than Jewish scriptural adoption accounts.

In terms of procedure, the study will pursue this argument in three steps.

First, the study begins with a comparison between legal stances toward women and adoption within Jewish, Greek, and Roman traditions. Of course, that which is written may not always be that which is practiced. Scholarship recognizes the possibility that biblical law codes may have served a descriptive purpose, instead of a prescriptive one. 20 A possible nonprescriptive purpose may also hold true for For example, Michael LeFebvre argues that it is only in light of Hellenistic influence that laws from within the Torah became prescriptive. Michael LeFebvre, Collections, Codes and Torah: The Re-Characterization of Israel’s Written Law (LHBOTS 451; New York; London: T&T Clark, 2006). Even law codes composed among Jewish circles after this era may not function prescriptively. For example, Sarianna Metso has argued that the law codes in the Rule of the Community from among the Dead Sea Scrolls are meant to serve in an educational role that is not prescriptive: Sarianna Metso, “Problems in Reconstructing the

20

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 7

Roman law. 21 Thus, the second step will highlight case studies from within the three traditions (whether scriptural or inscriptional), in which women are brought into a family by a process that may appear to be “adoption.” As with the legal comparison, the case studies draw on examples available from within Jewish, Greek, and Roman traditions, also recognizing that often these categories are blended. The analysis of the second step will serve to confirm the presence or absence of women from adoptions in the three primary traditions listed in the first step. Finally, in the third step, the study relates back to the intratextual contexts of Galatians and Romans to confirm whether women may be present or absent in the texts, and in what capacity. The analysis of the third step will be assessed visà-vis the outcomes from the first two steps: namely, that first-century female leadership in Pauline Christ communities, referenced in Paul’s letter to the Romans, forced an intratextual edit in terminology to fit within Paul’s metaphor of adoption into God’s “family.” Even though women are found to be on the margins of adoption in all three traditions, adoption within Jewish and Greek traditions will prove to be poor matches for the manner in which women’s exclusion from adoption appears to be what Paul is amending.

Before proceeding, one final clarification remains: while this study distinguishes between Jewish scriptural, Greek, and Roman traditions as influences on Paul’s notion of adoption, at the same time it also acknowledges that finding decisive lines of division among the traditions is not always possible. By way of example, Greco-Roman inscriptions in Rome, to be discussed below, pertain to Jewish families. Furthermore, scholarship has rightly argued that “Paul was … fully Jewish … and fully a person of Hellenistic culture inhabiting the life of the early Roman empire.” 22 Nevertheless, the present study is arguing that when comparing among Jewish, Greek, and Roman examples of both legal (or legal/scriptural) writings and scriptural or inscriptional case studies, certain Organizational Chart of the Essenes,” DSD 16 (2009): 388–415. See also the work by Jonathan Vroom, who uses legal theory to assess at what point law codes were interpreted as binding by ancient interpreters: Jonathan Vroom, The Authority of Law in the Hebrew Bible and Early Judaism: Tracing the Origins of Legal Obligation from Ezra to Qumran (JSJSup 187; Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2018).

21 For example, Peter Birks and Grant McLeod are quick to point out that Justinian’s Institutes are not a law code, but rather a “compacted law library.” See Justinian’s Institutes; with the Latin text of Paul Krueger, trans. Peter Birks and Grant McLeod (London: Duckworth, 1987), 11 (in the “Introduction”).

22 Stanley K. Stowers, A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles (New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 1994), 328.

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themes and trends regarding the adoption of women may find a closer rapport to one tradition over the others, assisting readers to follow Paul’s gaze in the formation of his adoption metaphor. 23 In other words, the more dominant use of a Roman tradition of adoption does not indicate the absolute exclusion of Greek and Jewish adoption influences. The essay acknowledges these blurred lines at various points throughout.

Step I: Legal Stance toward Women and Adoption in Jewish, Greek, and Roman Traditions Jewish Tradition On the whole there are no laws pertaining to adoption within biblical legal materials. 24 Nevertheless, father–son imagery expressed between God and the king becomes woven into an adoption formula between God and David, seen in 2 Sam 7:14 (and similarly in 1 Chr 17:13; 22:10): “I will be his father and he shall be my son (lit. he shall be to me as a son, ‫ה־לּי ְל ֵבן‬ ִ ֶ‫)וְ הוּא יִ ְהי‬.” 25 This formula is similar to that identified by Scott, observed above with regard to the adoption of Moses by Pharaoh’s daughter in Exod 2:10. 26 Other adoption formulas argued to exist within biblical literature include the expression “to give birth on one’s knees,” such as what is found in Gen 30:3 between Rachel and Bilhah, and also the related expression to “lay someone in one’s lap,” such as what Naomi does with Ruth’s son Obed in Ruth 4:16. 27 Finally, a passage from among the Dead Sea Scrolls has been argued to describe adoption, in a metaphorical fashion of God as adoptive parent: “Truly, my father did not acknowledge me, and my mother abandoned me to you, but you are a father to all the children of your truth, and you rejoice over them as a 24F

25F

26F

23

Even Trevor Burke, who writes that Greco-Roman and Jewish “cultural influences” impacting Paul cannot be separated, also argues that “Paul has probably got in view the Roman legal practice of adoption.” For the first reference, see Burke, Adopted into God’s Family, 194; for the second reference, see Trevor J. Burke, “Adopted as Sons (ΥΙΟΘΕΣΙΑ): The Missing Piece in Pauline Soteriology,” in Paul: Jew, Greek, and Roman, ed. Stanley E. Porter (Pauline Studies 5; Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2008), 259–287 (273).

24 Shalom M. Paul, “Adoption Formulae: A Study of Cuneiform and Biblical Legal Clauses,” Maarav 2.2 (1980): 173–185 (173).

25 Paul, “Adoption Formulae,” 177–178.

26 See above in this study’s opening section, and also Scott, Adoption as Sons of God, 74–75.

27 Andries van Aarde, “Side-Notes from Graeco-Roman and Hellenistic-Semitic Literature to the Notion ‘Adopted as God’s Child’ (ΥΙΟΘΕΣΙΑ),” Acta Patristica et Byzantina 8 (1997): 150–172 (158–159).

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 9

woman who loves her nursing child, and like a foster-father (‫ )אומן‬you sustain all your creatures in (your) bosom (‫( ”)חיק‬1QHa XVII, 34–36). 28 Overall, from these examples, we find examples of cases in Jewish scripture and sectarian writings, noted through possible adoption formulas, in which women or men raise (or at least claim) the children born to another. In none of these cases is a female adopted.

27F

Greek Tradition It is difficult to write of one, uniform tradition regarding adoption generally and adoption vis-à-vis women specifically within Greek tradition, both Hellenic and Hellenistic. In Classical Greece, each city-state had its own rulings. 29 Consequently, certain findings have wider implications than others. Hugh Lindsay describes the three methods of adoptions within the Greek world, which included lifetime adoptions (inter vivos), adoption by will (testamentary), and posthumous adoptions. 30 Adoptions were for the purpose of transferring heirship and inheritance within an oikos. 31 Women could not write wills, and thus could not adopt. 32 As they could not participate in the deme, women were also rarely adopted. Kin were preferred for adoptions, and thus if there was a shortage of

See Scott, Adoption as Sons of God, 84–85. Translation is that from Eileen M. Schuller and Carol A. Newsom, The Hodayot (Thanksgiving Psalms): A Study Edition of 1QHa (EJL 36; Atlanta: SBL, 2012), 56–57.

29 Eva Cantarella explains this phenomenon regarding the Greek family. In particular, see the following: Eva Cantarella, “Greek Law and the Family,” in A Companion to Families in the Greek and Roman Worlds, ed. Beryl Rawson (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), 333–345 (333).

30 Hugh Lindsay, “Adoption and Heirship in Greece and Rome,” in Rawson, ed., A Companion to Families, 346–369 (352–354).

31 Lindsay, “Adoption and Heirship,” esp. 346–354; E.E. Rice, “Adoption in Rhodian Society,” in Archaeology in the Dodecanese, ed. Søren Dietz and Ioannis Papachristodoulou (Copenhagen: The National Museum of Denmark, Department of Near Eastern and Classical Antiquities, 1988), 138–143 (139).

32 Sabine R. Huebner, “Adoption and Fosterage in the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean,” in The Oxford Handbook of Childhood and Education in the Classical World, ed. Judith Evans Grubbs and Tim Parkin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 510–531 (513). See also A.R.W. Harrison, The Law of Athens: The Family and Property (Oxford: Clarendon, 1968), 151. Isaeus 10.10 specifically writes regarding the topic of women’s prohibition from writing a will; 11.18 writes about the “law” that prefers males to have the preference of inheritance.

28

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males, a niece could be adopted, but only as an heiress (epiklēros). 33 Lindsay describes that this act is a temporary insertion into the inheritance line, and that the woman would be married to a male relative to have male children to whom the agnatic succession could be transferred once again. 34 Conversely, A.R.W. Harrison identifies the situation described by the Attic orator Isaeus in which a man with only daughters and no sons could choose a husband for her to marry, whom the father would then adopt. 35 Adoptions carried through into the Hellenistic era, as well: E.E. Rice writes of a total of nineteen cases of female adoption at Rhodes, where adoptions are attested from the mid-third century BCE. 36 In sum, within the Greek tradition of adoption, women could not adopt, and women were infrequently adopted. On the occasions when women were adopted for the sake of inheritance, it was a usually a “temporary” measure only, to be resolved by birthing a son, to whom succession would be transferred.

Roman Tradition Within the legal tradition of Roman adoption, adoption was performed by men, and it was primarily adult men or sometimes male slaves who were adopted.

Adoption was undertaken primarily as a means to establish continuity of one’s inheritance and family sacra (cults). Adoption was performed by means of adoptio (by magistrate), if the adoptee was still in potestas (meaning a dependent) of the parents, and by adrogatio (by the authority of the people) if the adoptee was already sui iuris (meaning independent). 37 Women did not adopt, since adoption Lindsay, “Adoption and Heirship,” 353.

Lindsay, “Adoption and Heirship,” 353; Cantarella, “Greek Law and the Family,” 338. It should be noted that the situation of Spartan woman may have differed. Sarah Pomeroy hypothesizes that the heiress at Sparta (there identified as a patrouchos), was likely “never subject to an inflexible rule that she marry her father’s closest male next of kin.”

Nevertheless, she may have been under “some moral and religious obligation” with regard to the continuance of her father’s lineage. See Sarah B. Pomeroy, Spartan Women (Oxford; London; New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 85 (both citations).

35 The case is found in Isaeus 3.6, and such a situation is described by Harrison, Law of Athens, on 82, 85, and 151.

36 Rice, “Adoption in Rhodian Society,” 139. Rice suspects these adoptions were also a “family concern,” and not for the sake of easy access to office, which was a secondary use of adoptions.

37 For general background on the purpose and manner of Roman adoptions, see also Hugh Lindsay, Adoption in the Roman World (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009); Lindsay, “Adoption and Heirship”; Christiane Kunst, Römische Adoption: Zur 33 34

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 11

involved the transfer of patria potestas, which women did not have. 38 Furthermore, while women could inherit, bias toward patrilineality and a woman’s lack of patria potestas led to infrequent adoption of women. 39 Women’s inheritance rights increased at a later time within the Roman Empire, but beyond the scope of the first century CE when the apostle Paul was writing. 40 In sum, in Roman law women do not adopt and are rarely adopted. There is no rule that the procedure would be temporary if a woman was adopted.

Step II: Cases of Female Adoptions Considered This section assesses cases of what have been considered by some to be possible female adoptions within Jewish, Greek, and Roman traditions. This step takes a look at available texts dealing with female adoptions, since not everything written in law is necessary what is practiced in tradition. Furthermore, some of the cases that have been interpreted by scholars as adoptions may, in fact, be something else.

Strategie einer Familienorganisation (Frankfurter althistorische Beiträge 10; Hennef: Marthe Clauss, 2005); and James C. Walters, “Paul, Adoption, and Inheritance,” in Paul in the Greco-Roman World: A Handbook, ed. J. Paul Sampley (Harrisburg; London; New York: Trinity Press International, 2003), 42–76 (esp. 51–55).

38 Gaius, Inst. 1.104. See Jane F. Gardner, Women in Roman Law and Society (London; Sydney: Croom Helm, 1986), 137.

39 Gaius’s Institutes describe regulations involving adopted women, such as in 1.61 (to do with prohibited marriages) and 1.137a (to do with women in manus). Women were not adopted by adrogatio, see Gaius, Inst. 1.101. On women and male succession, see Gardner, Women, 190 and 260 (on the latter page reference, Gardner describes the “primary unit for preservation and transmission of property” to be the familia with “descent through the pater”). On limited ability to contribute to the continuance of succession, see Lindsay, “Adoption and Heirship,” 354.

40 On women’s inheritance rights increasing at a later time within Roman tradition, see Lindsay, “Adoption and Heirship,” 356.

12 JJMJS No. 7 (2020)

Female Adoptions in Jewish Tradition The first example to explore is that of the scriptural narrative of Esther, 41 where we find an action described by some as “adopting”: 42 Esth 2:7: Mordecai had brought up (‫ )א ֵֹמן‬Hadassah, that is Esther, his cousin, for she had neither father nor mother; . . .

Mordecai adopted her (lit. “took her” ‫ )לְ ָק ָחהּ‬as his own daughter (‫)לו̇ לְ ַבת‬.

Esth 2:15: When the turn came for Esther daughter of Abihail the uncle of Mordecai, who had adopted her as his own daughter (lit. “took for himself as a daughter” ‫ ) ָל ַקח־לוֹ ְל ַבת‬. . .

Step 1 established above that there is no tradition pertaining to adoptions within biblical legal material. Nevertheless, this narrative passage contains similarities with what has been regarded as an adoption formula within the Hebrew Bible, especially concerning Pharaoh’s daughter and Moses in Exod 2:10.

There, the adoption formula is reliant upon the expression “to be to x as a son,” using the verb “to be” (‫ )היה‬and the lamed of specification (“When the child grew up, she brought him to Pharaoh’s daughter, and [lit.] he came to be to her as a 41

To assess the book of Esther as a case study while exploring the topic of female adoptions does not mean to suggest that the narrative should be viewed historically, but rather that it draws on customs and motifs from within circles as described by Adele Berlin in the following manner: “Esther typifies storytelling about Persia from the Persian period. It takes some of its motifs from biblical literature, and it partakes of many others from the broader literary world of its time, preserved for us most abundantly in the Greek writings.”

Adele Berlin, “The Book of Esther and Ancient Storytelling,” JBL 120 (2001): 3–14 (14).

This comment also calls to mind yet again the often potentially blended influences concerning adoption traditions, although the essay frames this narrative more closely within the perspective of Jewish scriptural tradition, and not Greek.

42 E.g. NRSV, as used in this text. The JPS Tanakh describes Mordecai as Esther’s foster father in Esth 2:7, and as having adopted Esther in Esth 2:15. The LXX as well as some rabbinic sources have interpreted the passage to mean that Mordecai took Esther to be his wife. Indeed, the verb “to take” is often used in that sense within the Hebrew Bible (e.g. Gen 4:19; 25:20; 26:34; 28:1; 34:21; Exod 2:1; 6:20; 6:23; etc.). Furthermore, according to b. Meg. 13a, per the translation of Jacob Neusner, Tractate Ta‘anit, Tractate Megillah, Tractate Mo‘ed Qatan, Tractate Hagigah, in The Babylonian Talmud: A Translation and Commentary (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2005), 63–64: “One taught in the name of R. Meir: Do not read [it] ‘as a daughter’ (le-vat), but rather as a wife (le-vayit).” This reasoning is because a “house” was representative of a “wife” within rabbinic literature. See JeanDaniel Macchi, Le livre d’Esther (Commentaire de l’Ancien Testament; Genève: Labor et Fides, 2016), 200 textual note 7d, 217.

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 13

son” ‫)וַ יְ ִהי־לָ הּ לְ ֵבן‬. 43 One may wonder whether such a formal adoption formula, if it existed, is what is observed in Esther, in variant form. 44 Indeed, a case of manumission and adoption of a slave exists in an Aramaic papyrus from Jews living at Elephantine in the fifth century BCE. 45 The manumission of a young boy named Yedoniah takes on the form of an adoption by his liberator, using a similar formula, repeated on multiple occasions in the document, “my son he shall be” (‫)ברי יהוה‬. 46 Certainly this formula contains similarities with the phrase identified above “to be to x as a son.” 47 Nevertheless, the use of the verb “to take” (‫ )לקח‬in Esth 2:7, 15 instead of “to be” (‫ )היה‬in Exod 2:10 suggests something different. 48 More likely it is a matter of adapting the phrase used for the taking of a wife to describe a situation that has no other comparanda because it does not typically happen, namely legally adopting a daughter. In other words, as suggested by David 47 F

Scott, Adoption as Sons of God, 74–75 (e.g. Exod 2:10; Gen 48:5–6). For other biblical texts that allude to adoptive-like practices, see Frederick W. Knobloch, “Adoption,” in ABD 76–79.

44 Harald Wahl has commented that the phrase in Esth 2:7, 15 announcing Mordecai’s action in taking Esther as a daughter “resembles” an adoption formula (English translation that of the present author). See Harald M. Wahl, “Ester, das adoptierte Weisenkind: Zur Adoption im Alten Testament,” Bib 80 (1999): 78–99 (89).

45 This example does not need to imply that Esther is written in the era of Persian dominance. The Book of Esther may be written under Greek influence and be simply set within a Persian context. See n. 41 above and n. 47 below.

46 Emil G. Kraeling, The Brooklyn Museum Aramaic Papyri: New Documents of the Fifth Century B.C. from the Jewish Colony at Elephantine, reprinted ed. (New York: Arno Press, 1969), 224–231 (Papyrus no. 8).

47 It is unsure whether this passage is reliant upon a specific formula pertaining to Jewish or Persian law. Knobloch observes that “it is not certain that a Jewish practice is reflected” since the individuals within the Elephantine text are living under Persian rule. (Knobloch articulates the same for Esther and Mordecai, although see the work of Jean-Daniel Macchi who argues for a Greek period for the authorship of Esther). Knobloch, “Adoption,” 78; Macchi, Le livre d’Esther.

48 Although Scott argues in favor of a “verbal” comparison between these texts, it is precisely the verb that differs. See Scott, Adoption as Sons of God, 74. Wahl notes this difference in verb between Esth 2:7 and Exod 2:10. Wahl, “Ester,” 82. However, where Wahl concludes that in the case of Esther, an adoption is nevertheless “implied” (Wahl, “Ester,” 97), the present essay argues that formulaic differences suggest a different activity than adoption, such as foster care (see below).

43

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Bartlett, Mordecai’s actions may indicate a “kind of foster care” in his role as a relative of Esther. 49 All in all, the example highlights two points. First, where the historical Elephantine document is concerned, there is no mention of any right of inheritance and heirship of the manumitted and adopted boy. 50 And second, even if the expression “to be to x as a son” or “my son he shall be” does indicate a known understanding of formal adoption within circles of ancient Judaism, with known accompanying prescriptive practices such as inheritance, the alteration of the formula from “to be” to “to take” suggests a desire to indicate that “adoption” or even “fostering” is not normal protocol for a female.

As for the other proposed adoption formulas evident in the biblical text, namely the act of “bearing on someone’s knees” as in Gen 30:3, and “laying a child in one’s lap (lit. bosom ‫)חיק‬,” such as what is evidenced in Ruth 4:16, both cases seem to suggest traditions in which someone other than the birth parent takes responsibility for a child, but not as adoptions, per se. Regarding the former expression and the case of Rachel and Bilhah, the situation seems one of surrogacy and taking a child as one’s own. In the latter case of Naomi becoming the “nurse” for Obed, Ruth’s child, the case appears more of that of a foster parent. The same root (‫ )אמן‬for supporting and nourishing is used of Mordecai in Esth 2:7. 51 In all cases of formulaic language, the children in question are boys (Dan, Naphtali, and Obed), and never girls.

Finally, the example from the Hodayot seems to describe a metaphorical situation of God becoming the caregiver for the psalmist. Such an idea is not dissimilar from that of God becoming a parent as evidenced in the writings of Paul. However, the language used in the Hodayot is more reminiscent of the scriptural examples of Esther and Ruth listed above, whereby God is described as the foster parent (‫ )אומן‬as with Mordecai and Esther in Esth 2:7 and Naomi in Ruth 4:16, and the child resting on the lap (‫ )חיק‬of the caregiver as in Ruth 4:16.

50F

David L. Bartlett, “Adoption in the Bible,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Marcia J. Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 375– 398 (381–382).

50 Kraeling writes that if there were any right of inheritance, “one would expect it to be specified, as in the Babylonian adoption texts.” Kraeling, Aramaic Papyri, 225.

51 The root ‫ אמן‬calls forth a general meaning of “to confirm,” “to support,” or “to nourish.”

See Francis Brown, S. R. Driver, and Charles A. Briggs, “‫ ָא ַמן‬,” in A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003), 52–53. Examples highlight use as foster mother or nurse (e.g. Naomi in Ruth 4:16) and foster father (e.g.

Num 11:12; Isa 49:23).

49

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 15

If anything, these scriptural similarities between childcaring allusions in the Hodayot and other examples from the Hebrew Bible highlight the absence of such metaphors in Paul’s description of adoption, and should assist in excluding a scriptural tradition within ancient Judaism as the leading template for Paul’s own adoption metaphor.

Female Adoptions in Greek Tradition The speeches of the Attic orator Isaeus offer a record of various inheritance disputes in roughly the fourth and fifth centuries BCE, in which evidence exists of a few cases where women are included. Harrison refers to instances in Isaeus in which women are adopted as daughters to become heiresses (epiklēroi), but notes the rarity of such occurrences. 52 Furthermore, recall from above in the first part of this study that the role of heiress is customarily temporary. Isaeus 11.8 describes the adoption of a niece by Hagnias: When Hagnias was preparing to set out as ambassador on that mission which had such favourable results for the city, he did not leave his possessions, in case anything happened to him, to us, his nearest relatives, but adopted a niece; and if anything happened to her, he devised property to Glaucon, his halfbrother on his mother’s side. These dispositions he embodied in a will. 53 The oration continues with the contestation of the will when the adopted daughter subsequently dies. Had the adopted niece become heiress and lived, presumably she would have been married to a male relative and upon birthing a male son, the estate would have been transferred to him.

A second case occurs later in the same inheritance dispute, Isaeus 11.41: Stratocles, however, happened to receive an addition of more than two and a half talents to his fortune; for Theophon, his wife’s brother, at his death adopted one of his daughters and left her his property, consisting of land at Eleusis worth two talents, 60 sheep, 100 goats, furniture, a fine horse which he rode when he was a cavalry commander, and all the rest of his goods and chattels. Having had complete control of this property for nine

Harrison, Law of Athens, 88.

All English translations from Isaeus are according to Isaeus, trans. E.S. Forster (LCL 202; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1927).

52 53

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whole years, he left a fortune of 5 talents 3000 drachmae, including his patrimony but excluding the fortune left to his daughter by Theophon.

This example describes the adoption of a daughter upon the death of the adopter (Theophon); the property of Theophon goes to the adopted daughter. That she functions as heiress to hold the estate temporarily until it could be transferred to a son is evident in the fact that she is not in control of the property; rather, her own father is, presumably until such time as she would have been married.

In both of these examples, a woman is adopted, but the cases highlight that the adopted daughter would only have filled the role of heiress on a temporary basis.

Female Adoptions in Roman Tradition The following two examples both segue between Jewish and Roman tradition. As the inscriptions in question exist within areas under Roman rule, we will categorize them within this section pertaining to Roman law.

The first example of possible female adoption under consideration is that of a text regarding “Irene” from an inscription discovered in the Jewish catacombs of ancient Rome, CIJ 21. 54 The passage is complicated because the manner in which to put the phrase together is not clear. One cautious translation is that of David Noy: “Irene, foster-child (? ), proselyte, of father and mother, Jewess, Israelite (?). She lived 3 years 7 months 1 day.” 55 However, the term used to describe her status of foster child, θρεπτή (threptē), 56 can represent a number of meanings, listed by Ross Kraemer as including the following: “a slave raised in the owner’s household,” or “a child given by its parents to be raised by others,” or “a

For this inscription, David Noy suggests a date between the third and fourth centuries, CE. David Noy, The City of Rome, vol. 2 of Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 390.

55 Noy, City of Rome, 390 (inscription is renumbered 489). The fact is that it is difficult to establish the exact identity of the proselyte in the inscription: as a young child Irene would not have made the decision to convert on her own. For additional discussion on this question, see Pieter W. van der Horst, Ancient Jewish Epitaphs: An Introductory Survey of a Millennium of Jewish Funerary Epigraphy (300 BCE – 700 CE) (CBET; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1991), 110–111; and Ross S. Kraemer, “On the Meaning of the Term ‘Jew’ in GrecoRoman Inscriptions,” HTR 82 (1989): 35–53 (38–41).

56 Appearing in the inscription as the term τρεζπτὴ, which is “generally accepted” as a form of threptē. Noy, City of Rome, 391.

54

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 17

child abandoned and raised by parents who discovered the foundling.” 57 Indeed, Jane Gardner writes of evidence from Roman Egypt of foundling children being taken in to be reared as a slave. 58 Furthermore, Constantine ruled in 331 that any individual who rescues and looks after an abandoned child may “retain the child in the position for which he intended it when he took it in—that is, as child or slave, as he prefers.” 59 While Irene is not specifically identified as a slave child, we do not know the exact relationship she held with her foster parents.

This case calls attention to the difference between Roman adoption and fostering, with the former guaranteeing freedom from slavery, and the latter leaving the matter open. We also know that this fostering was never equated with Roman adoption, evidenced in a Roman inscription dedicated to an individual by his foster mother: “Alexandria for Severanus her own foster-child (θρεπτῷ).” 60 We recall that women could not adopt within Roman law, and so the example of a woman caring for a child described by the term threptē would not refer to adoption. Passages that are sometimes described as situations of ancient “adoption” must be differentiated from that legal practice when they describe the practice of “threptē,” or “fostering,” instead.

A second example of possible female adoption relating to Roman law is that of the proselyte Sarah, from a grave inscription from the Jewish community of Cyrenaica. The inscription in question falls within a Roman period of provincial rule within Cyrenaica, belonging to present-day Libya. 61 The Kraemer, “Meaning,” 39. See also John Boswell, who describes that the alumnus (the Latin equivalent to threptos) could be treated as a slave, or adopted as heir, or treated as “somewhere between an heir and a slave.” John Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers: The Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance (New York: Pantheon, 1988), 116–121, citation 118.

58 Gardner, Women, 155–158.

59 See Boswell, Kindness of Strangers, 71, who discusses the matter, quoting Theodosian Code 5.9.1 (Theodosiani libri xvi cum constitutionibus Sirmondianis, ed. Th. Mommsen [Berlin: Weidmann, 1905]).

60 Noy, City of Rome, 216 (CIJ 144; inscription is renumbered 246). Cf. Harry J. Leon, The Jews of Ancient Rome (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1960), 286.

61 Cyrenaica, belonging to present-day Libya, had roughly two waves of Jewish immigrants; the first connected to emigrants from the Jewish community in Egypt in the period of the Ptolemaic Empire, and the second more substantial period starting in the second century BCE. During this second wave, rulership transitioned from Ptolemaic to Roman provincial rule between 96 and 74 BCE. Shim’on Applebaum, Jews and Greeks in Ancient Cyrene (SJLA; Leiden: Brill, 1979), 131, 139, 176. William Horbury and David Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt: With an Index of the Jewish Inscriptions of Egypt and 57

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inscription is on a marble grave, in the northern necropolis of Cyrene. In the inscription, among other names listed, one finds a reference to “Sarah, the proselyte (προσήλυτος).” 62 The tradition of taking on a Jewish name, such as Sarah, was common for gentile converts in this period. 63 What concerns us is the manner in which she became a proselyte. Two options for proselytes of Cyrenaica, as identified by Shimon Applebaum, would be “proselytes won over to Judaism by individual influence or by ownership of slaves.” 64 According to Gert Lüderitz, this “Sarah” might have been “a slave (or adopted foundling [adoptiertes Findelkind]) of a Jewish family and proselytized therein.” 65 In other words, Lüderitz hypothesizes that Applebaum’s second option of being converted as a slave is a possibility. Sarah may have been a “threptē,” with the meaning of a foster child functioning as a slave. As in the case of Irene, we cannot know for certain whether Sarah was raised as a slave or as a free child, even though it does seem likely that she was fostered in one of these two ways. On the one hand, Sarah is not identified as being “of” anyone in particular, which is the case in two other inscriptions from Cyrenaica of other “Sarahs.” The genitive usage in those cases, as with other individuals identified with the genitive also appearing in the present inscription, suggests that the women may have been slaves to the individuals named. 66 On the other hand, it has been argued by Catherine Hezser that rearing such a foster child as a son or a daughter (instead of as a slave) in both Jewish and Greco-Roman society would

Cyrenaica (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 318; also Gert Lüderitz, Corpus jüdischer Zeugnisse aus der Cyrenaika; mit einem Anhang von Joyce M. Reynolds (BzTAVO; Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1983), 26–27.

62 Lüderitz, Corpus, 26 no. 12 (English translation is that of the present author); Applebaum, Jews and Greeks, 154.

63 In particular, Jean Juster calls attention to a sarcophagus inscription dedicated to “Veturia Paula, placed in her eternal home, who lived 86 years 6 months, a proselyte for 16 years under the name of Sara.” The inscription lays out the woman’s birth name, followed by the Jewish nomenclature that she took upon her conversion, namely “Sarah.” Jean Juster, Les Juifs dans l’Empire romain: leur condition juridique, économique et sociale, vol. 2 (Paris: Librairie Paul Geuthner, 1914), 234a. Translation from Noy, City of Rome, 457 (CIL VI, 29756; CIJ 523; inscription renumbered 577).

64 Applebaum, Jews and Greeks, 159.

65 Translation from the German is that of the present author. Lüderitz, Corpus, 27.

66 See Lüderitz, Corpus, no. 31d, 48–50, “Sarah of Cartilius, 10 Years,” and no. 43c, 70–72, “Sarah of Scaeva, 17 years.” Referring again to no. 12 (the inscription under present study), there is also a “Joses/Joseph (Ίωσης) of Crispus, 4 years,” a “Quintus of Quintus, 15 years,” and a “Lyka of Gaius, 58 years.”

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 19

be “exceptional.” 67 To reiterate, while Lüderitz uses the verb “adoption,” it is important to remember that in fact, Roman “adoption” is not the practice under consideration, but once again that of “fostering.”

Prominent findings from these two passages from within Roman tradition that have been questioned as possible cases of “female adoptions” are that first, neither of them is an actual adoption, but is rather representative of fostering. 68 In cases of fostering, ambiguity remains as to whether the children are reared as slave or free. Second, these examples highlight that when contrasted against fostering, Roman male adoption and/or heirship guarantees that adoption does not entail slavery. Adopted sons were in the same position as natural born sons so long as they remained in adoption. 69 Sons were not adopted for the sake of becoming slaves. The adoption of a male slave led to his manumission, and would presumably be for the sake of inheritance. 70 Summary of Findings Thus Far Overall, this essay attempts to find the best possible adoption practice that would fit not only with Paul’s metaphor of adoption, but that would also explain Paul’s need to choose the specific language of adoption of “children” of God, evidenced in Rom 8:17 as opposed to simply a “son” of God, evidenced in Gal 4:7. If Paul is purposefully trying to alter a metaphor to include women in a vision of adoption as heirs of Christ, then one would anticipate the tradition of adoption practices from which Paul is drawing for his own metaphor would exclude women in some way. The issue is complicated, as looking back at the combined observations from all three traditions of adoptions (or fosterings) vis-à-vis their stance toward women, both in law and in practice or literature, all three traditions of adoption exclude or diminish the place and role of women for the most part, and preference a default position of adoption of men. Nevertheless, based on the cases assessed above, the likelihood becomes evident that Paul draws on notions of Roman adoption over and above Jewish or Greek adoption traditions.

Catherine Hezser, Jewish Slavery in Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 139.

68 In the case of Esther, the text may relate to a practice of fostering that is not clearly defined. In the cases of Irene and Sarah, it appears a tradition of fostering for the purpose of slavery or raising a child as one’s own had a long existence throughout Roman tradition.

69 Gaius, Inst. 2.136.

70 Justinian, Inst. 1.11.12. On the possibility of the adoption of a slave by his master, see also Jane F. Gardner, “The Adoption of Roman Freedmen,” Phoenix 43 (1989): 236–257 (241); Lindsay, Adoption, 135–136.

67

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Where women are concerned in the Jewish tradition of adoption, all examples of the use of an adoption formula were used with regard to male adoptees. In the only possible female example of Esther, a variant from a marriage formula was used instead, along with a root (‫ )אמן‬used typically for fostering. In Jewish scriptural tradition, there were no passages in biblical law with regard to adoptions. Nevertheless, a tradition of adoption formulas became evident, such as “to be to x as a son,” “to give birth on one’s knees,” and “lay someone in one’s lap.”

However, none of these adoption formulas are evident in Paul’s adoption metaphors in Romans 8 and Galatians 4. Furthermore, the component of continuance of inheritance was not evidenced in the Elephantine papyrus adoption, while gaining inheritance in Christ is a component of Paul’s adoption metaphor, as evident in Rom 8:15–17 and Gal 4:5–7. Certainly, the Elephantine papyrus indicated that adoption of a slave could lead to manumission, suggestive of Paul’s indication that adoption leads to manumission and no longer slavery.

Again, though, the instance described in the papyrus was for a male and not a female individual. For these reasons Paul’s substitution of language between a “son” and “children” does not appear to be due to restrictions from a Jewish and scriptural sonship adoption tradition.

In the tradition of Greek adoption, women could not adopt, having no will. On occasion women could be adopted, although there was an understanding that this adoption to “hold” the inheritance of an oikos was only temporary, until another suitable male heir became available. It would not make sense for Paul to carefully select gender neutral language for the sake of altering a tradition of Greek adoptions, because the permanence of a woman’s inheritance from adoption would nevertheless remain ambiguous. The Greek rulings concerning adoption furthermore did not substantiate a tradition of adoption of a slave for the sake of manumission, which is a proponent of Paul’s metaphor. Overall, the theory that Paul draws on the tradition of Greek testamentary adoptions is also unlikely.

Finally, within Roman legal tradition, women could not adopt, as they did not have patria potestas, and women were rarely adopted. A few cases were seen of women being taken in, although these cases were most likely cases of fostering, rather than adoption. It is furthermore possible that the women “adoptees” (fostered individuals) were taken in and became slaves, which runs counter to the tradition of male Roman adoption. There, adoption was undertaken for the sake of continuance of inheritance, and the adoption of a slave assuredly led to his manumission. As Paul is concerned with forging a narrative of adoption to achieve freedom from slavery, to gain heirship in Christ, then the ideal of Roman male adoption is an appropriate fit. Here, the general exclusion of women from Roman adoptions would provide a sound backdrop from which Paul

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 21

would need to make alterations to remove any contradictions between acceptance to heirship in Christ for both men and women, if there was evidence of the express inclusion of women in Paul’s letter to the Romans.

Step III: Women Leadership in Paul’s Letter to the Romans Having discounted the likelihood that a Jewish scriptural notion of “sonship” or that women’s exclusion from Greek testamentary adoption are the reasons for Paul’s substitution of vocabulary, we are left to verify the final hypothetical reason, namely that Paul seeks to include women alongside men in an adoption metaphor drawing on Roman concepts of adoption. To do this, we must consider whether there is evidence of such a necessity in the context of Paul’s letter to the Romans, or general lack thereof in his letter to the Galatians. Indeed, when looking intratextually at Romans 16, we see that Paul gives accolades to multiple women in leadership roles. In particular, Paul introduces and provides a reference for Phoebe, a deacon, in Romans 16:1. 71 Paul also speaks highly of Prisca, who, along with her spouse Aquila, are described as individuals who “work with me [Paul] in Christ Jesus,” and who “risked their necks for my life” in Rom 16:3–4. 72 Third, in Rom 16:7 is the case of Junia, who, along with Andronicus, are Paul’s “relatives” and imprisoned with him, and are “prominent among the apostles.” While some scholarship contests first, whether the name should be translated to reflect a woman (“Junia”) or a man (“Junias”), and second, whether this individual is “wellknown to” or “prominent among” the apostles, Linda Belleville’s reappraisal of the Julia Clancy-Smith, Exemplary Women and Sacred Journeys: Women and Gender in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam from Late Antiquity to the Eve of Modernity (Washington, DC: American Historical Association, 2006), 12; Joanna Dewey, “1 Timothy,” in Women’s Bible Commentary, ed. Carol A. Newsom, Sharon H. Ringe, and Jacqueline E. Lapsley, revised and updated (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2012), 444–449 (446–447); Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins (New York: Crossroad, 1983), 181–182; Karen Jo Torjesen, When Women Were Priests: Women’s Leadership in the Early Church and the Scandal of Their Subordination in the Rise of Christianity (San Francisco: HarperOne, 1993), 128.

72 Dominika A. Kurek-Chomycz observes that all manuscript evidence lists Prisca’s name first, and that the nondiminutive form of her name (“Prisca” as opposed to “Priscilla,” the latter of which was inserted consistently by witnesses in 1 Cor 16:19) is most likely the original reading in Rom 16:3, since the passage extols the couple to such an extent that a likely derogatory use of the diminutive form could not be inserted here by copyists. See Dominika A. Kurek-Chomycz, “Is There an ‘Anti-Priscan’ Tendency in the Manuscripts?

Some Textual Problems with Prisca and Aquila,” JBL 125 (2006): 107–128 (113–17).

71

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arguments seems cogent, namely that “the masculine Junias and the attribution ‘well-known to the apostles’ are without linguistic or grammatical foundation.” 73 Thus we find a tradition of women leaders within early Christ communities, the presence of whom would provide ample necessity for Paul to ensure no confusion in their leadership status and inclusion in his metaphorical use of Roman adoption and heirship tradition.

Meanwhile, the letter to the Galatians makes no reference to specific female leaders. The letter addresses an issue pertaining to men, namely physical circumcision, 74 and both sender and addressees are male. Even in the letter’s absence of female leadership or addressees, certain scholarship has proposed that Gal 3:28 (“There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus”) may represent a “radical egalitarianism” on the part of Paul. 75 In this instance, to account for Paul’s seeming about-face in 1 Cor 11:7–8, it has been suggested that Paul’s “egalitarian” view taken in Gal 3:28 is simply too radical to achieve in the long

73

Linda Belleville, “Ἰουνιαν . . . ἐπίσημοι ἐν τοῖς ἀποστόλοις: A Re-examination of Romans 16.7 in Light of Primary Source Materials,” NTS 51 (2005): 231–249 (232). Belleville argues that when analyzing Ἰουνιαν as a Greek transliteration of a Latin name, there are “hundreds of instances” of the name in Latin anthologies, countering the argument that Junia was “not a common woman’s name in the Greek-speaking world” (234). Furthermore, Belleville finds that all patristic commentators attest to an inclusive reading (“prominent among the disciples,” per Belleville, 248) for the phrase ἐν τοῖς ἀποστόλοις as opposed to the exclusive rendering “well-known to the apostles” (248), as argued by Michael H. Burer and Daniel B. Wallace. See also Michael H. Burer and Daniel B. Wallace, “Was Junia Really an Apostle?

A Re-examination of Romans 16.7,” NTS 47 (2001): 76–91.

74 The emphasis is on male physical circumcision, as opposed to, for example, the spiritual circumcision of the heart referenced in Rom 2:28–29.

75 The term is borrowed from Dennis MacDonald’s description of the scholarly view supporting an egalitarian perspective toward men and women when reading Gal 3:28.

Dennis Ronald MacDonald, There Is No Male and Female (HDR 20; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987), 1. The only manner in which one could interpret the passage to be “egalitarian” would be to apply the concept to Jennifer Glancy’s argument that “the tropes of slavery and freedom that pervade Galatians 4” are gendered, including male and female, and both negatively so. Glancy argues the male slave is excluded from “systems of paternity or filiation” and that female slaves are sexually vulnerable. In other words, in this construct, male and female slaves are “equal” in terms of their subjugation. The present essay argues differently from Glancy regarding the male slave, as male slaves can become heirs through adoption in Roman law. Jennifer A. Glancy, Slavery in Early Christianity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 34 and 35, respectively.

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 23

term. 76 If such an egalitarian interpretation were to be the case, then the absence of gender neutrality as exhibited in Gal 4:7 when contrasted against Rom 8:17 would seem a puzzling contradiction. However, looking to Paul’s use of the practice of rewriting, it becomes apparent that in Gal 3:27–28 Paul is likely reworking a pre-Pauline baptismal formula, that includes the three pairs of contrasting components (Jew/Greek; slave/free; male/female). 77 Dennis MacDonald suggests that the shortened reference to the formula in its subsequent reuse in 1 Cor 12:13, leaving out the reference to male and female, indicates “this pair was the least important for Paul.” 78 Viewing the passage in Galatians through the perspective that Paul was simply drawing on a baptismal formula to “appeal for the unity of Jews and Greeks in Christ,” and not to express a “feminist” perspective, makes more sense in light of an absence of any identified women in leadership in Galatians. 79 Consequently, even though the formula’s seeming effacement of gender differentiation is still extant as a vestige in the letter to the Galatians, its presence is not evidence that contemporary women are in view within the content of the letter and the intended audience. 80 Paul’s allusions to male-centric Roman adoption in the letter to the Galatians would thus require no modification.

A second and related issue requiring confirmation concerns whether Paul’s use of υἱός (“son”) to represent Christ-followers in Gal 4:7, altered to τέκνα (“children”) in Rom 8:17, is truly instigated by a necessity to transform a Roman adoption metaphor to include women alongside men, and not by other reasons.

A comparison between these two passages and environs confirms an otherwise parallel structure and similar use of “son” and “child” language: the term “children” (τέκνα) is used when followers are likened to members of the Abrahamic lineage who receive a promise (Gal 4:28; Rom 9:7, 8), and the term “son” or plural “sons” (υἱός, υἱοί) is used when drawing an analogy between Jesus as God’s son with Christ followers as God’s adopted sons made possible through the Spirit (Gal 4:4–6; Rom 8:3, 14–15). Following these parallels, one would 76

See MacDonald, There Is No Male and Female, 1–2, for a comprehensive overview of scholarship that takes this view.

77 A summary of the proposed distilled components of the baptismal formula used and reworked by Paul can be found in MacDonald, There Is No Male and Female, 5–9.

78 MacDonald, There Is No Male and Female, 130.

79 MacDonald, There Is No Male and Female, 130.

80

Furthermore, the fact that Paul does not seem to be actively taking up an egalitarian cause does not contradict his later, practical recognition that women are able leaders in early Pauline Christ communities.

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anticipate that both passages would use the same language of sonship in the subsequent line of argumentation, namely that of linking adoptive sonship with heirship, as in Roman adoptions. While Gal 4:7 uses this language of a “son” as heir, it is only here that Rom 8:16–17 deviates from the pattern with the use of the language of “children” as heirs, instead. Other than the need to recast the Roman adoption metaphor in the context of the letter to the Romans to accommodate adoption and heirship extending beyond solely men, there is no other obvious reason for this change in terminology. 81 This intratextual comparison lends confirmation to the present study’s finding that the change in content and audience described above prescribes Paul’s change in terminology from “son” to “children” in what are otherwise very similar phrases concerning adoption into heirship with Christ.

Summary and Conclusions This study analyzed Paul’s metaphor of adoption in Galatians and Romans through the lens of the scribal manipulation present in Paul’s own rewriting, altering “if a son, then an heir” to “if children, then heirs” between Gal 4:7 and Rom 8:17. The study questioned for what reason Paul would make a change from a masculine reference to a more gender-inclusive reference. Consequently, the study reassessed the tradition of adoption within the three traditions debated among scholarship as the base for Paul’s adoption metaphor, namely Jewish, Greek, and Roman, with a view toward the place of women within these traditions.

Would any of them include or exclude women in a way that would necessitate such a change in terminology? Overall, it was discerned that the tradition of Roman adoption was the best fit. There was no legal tradition of adoption in Jewish tradition, and that scriptural tradition utilized an adoption formula nowhere present in Paul’s writings. Meanwhile, a few scant examples within Greek adoptions did include women for the sake of becoming heirs. Nevertheless, when 81

Michael Peppard calls attention to the fact that the parallel passage, as it is rewritten in Romans, emphasizes the “adult-age” or “eschatological-age” time frame of “adoption into God’s family,” over and above the parallel passage in Galatians. Ernst Käsemann, however, suggests that Paul’s use of the term “heirship” in Rom 8:17 indicates an eschatological time frame is already in view, even though Paul fills out this vision in more detail in Rom 8:18– 25. In that Gal 4:7 also refers to heirship, the likelihood diminishes of any sort of implied future era to be the cause for the change in terms from “son” to “children.” See Michael Peppard, “Adopted and Begotten Sons of God: Paul and John on Divine Sonship,” CBQ 73 (2011): 93–110 (95–97, citation 96); Ernst Käsemann, Commentary on Romans, trans. and ed. Geoffrey W. Bromiley (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980), 229.

Palmer, A Few Good (Adopted) Men 25

they did, holding the heirship was not permanent. Borrowing from such a tradition would be ambiguous for Paul’s writings, as such a metaphor might suggest women could become heirs, but whether they could remain so would be questioned. Finally, Roman adoptions suggested that women were rarely adopted, although sometimes fostered. Even then, however, the fosterage may have been to serve as slaves and not as heirs. However, the adoption of male slaves led to their manumission and inclusion as heirs. To invert his notion of adoption for all children to become heirs of Christ based on a Roman notion of adoption would include women as free and manumitted individuals, as men were. And finally, female leadership described in the letter to the Romans would necessitate such a rearticulation of Roman adoption: Paul’s leaders, male and female, would need to be clearly included in Paul’s vision of heirship in Christ.

Tracing the roots of Paul’s adoption metaphor in the manner pursued above highlights an important additional observation: on the one hand, Paul veers from Jewish scriptural formulas and constructs of adoption in pursuit of a Roman model instead. Nevertheless, on the other, he uses a method deeply engrained within Jewish scriptural tradition — rewriting for the sake of adapting to new contexts, in this case entailing the leadership of women in the Roman community.

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The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles in the Context of Romans 11:25–27 1 František Ábel Evangelical Lutheran Theological Faculty of Comenius University, Bratislava, Slovakia | abel@fevth.uniba.sk JJMJS No. 7 (2020): 26–53

In Romans 11—or, in its broader context, chs. 9–11—Paul engages in a specific theological concept: that of the eschatological redemption of Israel with participation by the non-Jewish nations. It is a concept that has the coming of the Messiah as its focal point. 2 This matter largely concerns the religious status and

1

This work was supported by the Scientific Grant Agency of the Ministry of Education, Science, Research and Sport of the Slovak Republic and the Slovak Academy of Sciences (VEGA), as part of the research project entitled “Paul within Judaism—New Perspectives” (VEGA 1/0103/18), with its home base at Comenius University in Bratislava, at the Evangelical Lutheran Theological Faculty. It is a revised and supplemented version of my paper presented during the SNTS general meeting at Marburg in 2019, in the Short Papers section. Some parts of Sections 1 and 2 are based on previous studies; however, these sections have been rewritten and supplemented, and updated based on more recent literature.

2 On Jewish messianic ideas and notions, see: Marion Wyse, Variations on the Messianic Theme: A Case Study of Interfaith Dialogue (Judaism and Jewish Life; Brighton: Academic Studies Press, 2009), 185–195; William Horbury, Jewish Messianism and the Cult of Christ (London: SCM, 1998); idem, “Messianism in the Old Testament Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha,” in idem, Messianism among Jews and Christians: Twelve Biblical and Historical Studies (London/New York: T&T Clark—Continuum, 2003), 35–64; John J. Collins, The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1995), 11–12; idem, “Messianism and Exegetical Tradition: The Evidence of the LXX Pentateuch,” in Jewish Cult and Hellenistic Culture: Essays on the Jewish Encounter with Hellenism and Roman Culture, ed. J. J. Collins (JSJSup 100; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 58–81; James H. Charlesworth, ed., The Messiah: Developments in Earliest Judaism and Christianity (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1992); Jacob Neusner,

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 27

identity of the Gentiles — non-Jewish nations (ἔθνη) 3 — in Jewish restoration theology, an eschatological scenario that Paul describes as a “mystery.” The aim of this article is to examine the core of this “mystery” by reading Paul within his Jewish context. My intention is to evaluate this notion as found in a key passage of Paul’s message, namely Romans 11, taking into consideration its broader context in chapters 9–11. I will first present a brief outline of Second Temple Jewish eschatological notions, especially the notion of an end-time redemption of Israel that was to include the participation of the Gentiles. Then, owing to space limitations, I will concern myself only with Romans 11, a text which is very characteristic of and offers an instructive example of Jewish eschatological notions of the Second Temple period, but which is nevertheless unique in its content, since it offers us Paul’s own notion of the eschatological participation of the Gentiles in the end-time redemption of Israel.

Jewish Eschatological Notions: Some General Remarks Jewish eschatological notions developed rapidly after the destruction of the kingdom of Judah in the sixth century BCE, and this development culminated in the Second Temple period. The tragedy of the loss of national kingship helped to transform the notion of the ruling Davidic king (Ps 2:7; 2 Sam 7:12–16; cf. 1 Chr 17:11) into one of an eschatological period of awaiting him, while still maintaining Davidic royal ideology. In the subsequent period, Davidic eschatological messianism increasingly comes to the fore, ultimately representing the primary Jewish messianic expressions, with the previous messianic notions becoming a core part of Jewish eschatology. 4 Of course, since the Jewish messianism of the Second Temple period is a highly pluriform phenomenon, and given that the very Davidic version of eschatological messianism was widespread (besides other messianic images and notions of the period, which should be taken into account), William S. Green and Ernest S. Frerichs, eds., Judaisms and Their Messiahs (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987).

3 The term “Gentiles” is derived from the Latin gens, nation. Its meaning “non-Jew” is derived from the biblical tradition, where the word “nations” (‫גּוֹיִ ֛ם‬, ἔθνη) was commonly used to refer to non-Jews. See: Terence Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles: Jewish Patterns of Universalism (To 135 CE) (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2007), 5; BAGD 218; LSJ 480.

4 In a general sense, when using the term “messianism,” we mean primarily the expectation of God’s designated messianic figure appearing in the eschatological age. For more detail, see František Ábel, The Psalms of Solomon and the Messianic Ethics of Paul (WUNT 2.416; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 46–47, including notes.

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it remains a matter of debate when precisely and to what extent the idea of a messianic king from the line of David entered Jewish thought. Yet regardless of that question and its possible answers, it is clear that such a notion is already present in various passages of the Jewish scriptures, including the Hebrew Bible. 5 In this context, it must be added that not all eschatological notions during this period were centered on the Messiah (e.g. Isa 43:16–21), but rather were undeveloped and did not achieve any level of prominence. 6 However, Jewish messianism played a significant role in the self-understanding of Jewish Christfollowers missionizing among non-Jews. 7 In any case, all these concepts reflect the experiences of the Jewish population living in Judea and Galilee, as well as those in the Diaspora living among a non-Jewish population. Importantly, these reflections also had to relate to the long-anticipated fulfillment of God’s promises of final redemption and salvation of Israel. In places where Jews lived in proximity to non-Jewish nations 5

On this question, see Joseph L. Trafton, “What Would David Do? Messianic Expectation and Surprise in Ps. Sol. 17” in The Psalms of Solomon: Language, History, Theology, ed.

Eberhard Bons and Patrick Pouchelle (EJL 40; Atlanta, GA: SBL Press, 2015), 159–161. On the approach to messianism in a broader sense, see Joseph Klausner, The Messianic Idea in Israel, from Its Beginning to the Completion of the Mishnah, trans. William F. Stinespring (New York: Macmillan, 1955); James H. Charlesworth, “From Messianology to Christology: Problems and Prospects,” in The Messiah: Developments in Earliest Judaism and Christianity, ed. James H. Charlesworth (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1992), 3– 35.

6 See e.g. Georg Fohrer, Messiasfrage und Bibelverständnis (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1957), 356.

7 See Matthew V. Novenson, “Jewish Messiahs, the Pauline Christ, and the Gentile Question,” JBL 128.2 (2009): 373 (357–373), who convincingly argues for a significant role for Jewish messianism in the self-understanding of the mission of Jewish Christ-followers among non-Jews, especially Paul’s mission. A very interesting view of this topic is offered

by Joshua W. Jipp in his book Christ Is King: Paul’s Royal Ideology (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2015), one which considers Paul’s depiction and understanding of Christ in relation to the ancient institution of kingship. This is a highly significant approach, especially in terms of Paul’s understanding of God’s righteousness in the Christ-event (the doctrine of justification) as set out in Romans. As Jipp remarks in this regard, “I suggest a reading of Paul’s righteousness-language in Romans that takes seriously his initial claim that God’s gospel is revealed in the events of the resurrected and enthroned son (1:1–4).

This provides the initial justification for my claim that ancient kingship discourse, particularly the association between kings and justice, may facilitate a more coherent interpretation of Paul’s righteousness language.” Jipp, Christ Is King, 212. Emphasis original.

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 29

(Gentiles), they were obliged to consider, among other aspects, the status of these nations before the God of Israel — the one, universal deity, the only God. 8 Jews living in the first-century Greco-Roman world interacted daily with non-Jewish people. Of course, the modus vivendi varied depending on the local geopolitical situation that was bearing upon the relationships between Jewish and non-Jewish people in an area. As is well known, the Jewish communities in the Diaspora had in many cases achieved a comfortable coexistence with the local non-Jewish majority in Gentile cities. 9 However, the situation in the territories with a majority Jewish population, primarily in Judea (particularly at the turn of the era but also during the first century CE), was more complicated, often resulting in tensions and conflicts, and ultimately even in open revolt. 10 The End-Time Redemption of Israel with Eschatological Participation of the Gentiles All these situations and experiences also had to be reflected upon theologically in order to answer questions about the relationship between the Gentiles—nonJewish nations—and the only God. At a minimum, as Terence Donaldson remarks, “Jews believed that this God had chosen them out of all the nations of 8

Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 1–2.

On the interaction between Jews and non-Jews in the Hellenistic world, see: Erich S. Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 1998); John J. Collins, Between Athens and Jerusalem: Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora, 2nd ed. (BRS; Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2000); Paula Fredriksen, “The Question of Worship: Gods, Pagans, and the Redemption of Israel,” in Paul within Judaism: Restoring the First-Century Context to the Apostle, ed. Mark D. Nanos and Magnus Zetterholm (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2015), 175–201; Neil Elliot, “The Question of Politics: Paul as a Diaspora Jew under Roman Rule,” in Nanos and Zetterholm, eds., Paul within Judaism, 203–243.

10 The worsening situation in Galilee and Judea was increasingly reflected in the Diaspora, which resulted in the violent hostility of local populations toward Jews. Regarding these tensions, Josephus and Philo mention several instances of anti-Jewish riots and violence perpetrated on Jewish urban populations at the outbreak of the first revolt: in Alexandria (Philo, In Flaccum and Legatio ad Gaium, Josephus, Ant. 18.8.1), in Caesarea (J.W. 2.18.1; 7.8.7), in Ptolemais (J.W. 2.18.5), in Damascus, (J.W. 2.20.2; cf. 7.8.7), in Gaza and Anthedon (J.W. 2.18.1), in Ascalon (J.W. 2.18.5), in Hippus and Gadara (J.W. 2.18.1, 5), and in Scythopolis (J.W. 2.18.3–4; 7.8.7; Life 6). For more detail, see Paula Fredriksen, “Judaism, the Circumcision of Gentiles and Apocalyptic Hope: Another Look at Galatians 1 and 2,” in The Galatians Debate: Contemporary Issues in Rhetorical and Historical Interpretation, ed. Mark D. Nanos (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2002), 254, including notes.

9

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the world to be a special people, that the will and the ways of this God had been revealed uniquely in Israel’s scripture, that the God who had created the cosmos was nevertheless uniquely present in the Jerusalem temple, and that despite the Jews’ temporal misfortunes, eventually Israel would be vindicated and exalted to a position of preeminence over all other nations.” 11 This reflection drives us to form a specific theological conception of the eschatological redemption of Israel, one involving the participation of the non-Jewish nations. 12 However, in this context it must be emphasized that the non-Jewish nations are not always treated positively in Jewish eschatological traditions and notions. In the Jewish scriptures, there are texts describing the fate of Gentiles negatively and depicting them as Israel’s enemies or idolaters who must be punished and defeated together with idolatry itself (e.g. Isa 29:8; 49:22–23; 54:3; Jer 30:11, 16; Ezek 17:11–21; Mic 5:6–14; 7:16–17; Joel 4:9–21; Zeph 2:1–3, 9–15; 1 En. 91.9; Sir 36:1–10; Bar 4:25, 31–35; Sib. Or. 3.415–440, 669, 761; Pss. Sol. 17:24.30; 1QM 12.10–13). Gentiles are sometimes described as those who will be subservient to Israel or as submissive witnesses to Israel’s vindication (Isa 18:7; 60:1–22; 66:18–21; Hag 2:21–22). Other notions present the eschatological inclusion of Gentiles in Israel as a consequence of the restoration and redemption 11

Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 2. In this book, Terence Donaldson focuses on Jewish writings of the Second Temple period and synthesizes them by identifying four distinct patterns of universalism that arose out of the four broad textual categories of sympathizing, conversion, ethical monotheism, and eschatological participation. For further explanation of the term “universalism” as used by the author with regard to the world of late antiquity, especially in connection to Jewish “universalism,” see Donaldson, in the introduction to Judaism and the Gentiles, 1–13.

12 A different approach to Jewish Second Temple universalism, as well as the patterns of the eschatological relationship between Israel and the non-Jewish nations, is offered by Malka Z. Simkovitch in his book The Making of Jewish Universalism: From Exile to Alexandria (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books/Fortress Academic, 2017). From an examination of available Jewish Second Temple literature, Simkovitch discerns two kinds of universalism.

One originated in biblical prophetic literature, where four models of relationship between Israel and non-Jews are to be differentiated: the Subjugation model, the Standard-Bearing model, the Naturalized Nations model, and the Universalized Worship model. The lastmentioned universalism stresses the feasibility of non-Jewish nations acknowledging and worshiping the only God. Of these models, only the fourth—developed in the post-exilic period—offers a truly eschatological vision characterized by religious freedom and the universal acknowledgment of the only God. The second kind of universalism is one that arose in the late Second Temple period and that emphasizes the ethical principles of conduct that are common to all peoples, and thus presumes the universal accessibility of a relationship with the God of Israel, without any demand to form part of Israel as a Jew.

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of Israel (e.g. Isa 2:2–4/Mic 4:1–3; Isa 19:18–25; 25:6–8; 45:18–25; 56:7; 60:5–6; 66:19; Zech 8:21–23; Tob 13:11; 14:5–7; Pss. Sol. 17:31–41; Sir 36:11–17; 1 En. 90.30–38; 91.14; Sib. Or. 3.616, 702–723), resulting in the observance of the Torah

by Gentiles as well (Isa 2:2–4; Philo, Mos. 2.43–44; T.Levi 18.9; T.Naph. 3.2; Sib. Or. 3.791, 757–758; 5.264). Yet there also are occurrences where the inclusion of Gentiles with Israel does not assume their observance of the Torah (Isa 25:6–10; Zech 8:20–23; Pss. Sol. 17:28, 34; Sib. Or. 5.493; Tob 14:5–7; 1 En. 90.30–38; 2 Bar. 72). Instead, Gentiles will renounce their idols and sinful ways, turn to the God of Israel, and worship God as people sharing in the blessing of the coming age (Isa 2:20–21; Jer 16:19–20). 13 Given this ambiguity of the biblical and non-biblical material, an important question arises about the precise status of these non-Jewish participants in the eschatological redemption of Israel. This question also has bearing on Paul’s message in Romans 11, of course, in connection with all the preceding as well as the subsequent sections of the epistle. 14 Paul’s message as a whole makes clear that the incorporation of non-Jewish Jesus-followers into Israel does not mean that they will become end-time proselytes, but rather that they will continue to exist as non-Jews following Jesus as the Christ, alongside Israel. 15 The question, then, is what this situation is supposed to entail for both sides: the non-Jewish Christfollowers and Israel as a whole. It seems clear from Paul’s message in Romans that 13 14

See Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 501–505.

The consideration that chapters 9–11 must not be taken out of context of the whole epistle is of great importance for a proper understanding of Paul’s message in this letter, as Christoph Stenschke also stresses: “Rom 9–11 cannot and must not be taken out of the overall context of the letter. The letter can neither be understood without these chapters, as they prove to be an essential component of Paul’s gospel (only on the surface can one move directly from Rom 8:39 to 12:1), nor can these chapters be taken out of the overall argument and be understood in isolation, although this has been done frequently.” Christoph Stenschke, “Jewish Believers in Paul’s Letter to the Romans,” Neotestamentica 52.1 (2018): 3 (1–40).

15 In regard to the question about the precise status of the non-Jewish participants in the eschatological redemption of Israel, Terence Donaldson asks, “[A]re these basic identities somehow to be transformed in a more fundamental way, along with other categories of the created order?” See in Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 503. On this question, see also: T.L. Donaldson, “Proselytes or ‘Righteous Gentiles’? The Status of Gentiles in Eschatological Pilgrimage Patterns of Thought,” JSP 7 (1990): 3–27; Fredriksen, “Judaism, the Circumcision of Gentiles and Apocalyptic Hope,” 235–260; Wolfgang Kraus, Das Volk Gottes: Zur Grundlegung der Ekklesiologie bei Paulus (WUNT 85; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996).

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the gospel — God’s work and sacrifice in Jesus Christ, interpreted by Paul himself as the beginning of the universal reconciliation — works and takes effect to the benefit of both groups. But how are we to understand it, and how can we account for Paul’s describing this eschatological scenario as a “mystery”? In the following, I will try to examine and evaluate this question in more detail.

Conceptualizing Romans 11 in the Context of End-Time Redemption of Israel As stated above, Romans 11 — in its broader context, chapters 9–11 — makes a specific example of Jewish eschatological notions in the later Second Temple period. 16 The text expresses the beneficiary status and inheritance of the Gentiles in the story of Israel’s restoration and redemption, although Paul considers this issue in an unique way which differs markedly from the majority of such conceptions. Despite this uniqueness, it is evident that Paul’s notion falls into the category of the eschatological participation of the Gentile nations in the end-time redemption of Israel, 17 i.e. that they are to abandon idolatry and turn to worship Israel’s God and thus will have a share in the blessing of the age to come. 18 Moreover, this chapter is a passage of particular relevance for understanding Paul’s message as a whole. 19 Chapters 9–11 have been addressed in 16

Donaldson remarks that there is no reason to believe, contrary to the opinion that was common in an earlier generation of scholarship, that “by the later Second Temple period traditional expectations of an eschatological pilgrimage of the nations to Zion had attenuated and Jewish attitudes concerning the place of Gentiles in Israel’s end-time restoration had become much more negative [. . .] there is considerable evidence, both from Judea and from the Diaspora, for the Jewish belief that, when God should act in a final way to vindicate Israel and to establish the anticipated era of righteousness and peace, Gentiles would abandon their own sinful ways, turn to the God of Israel, and thus be granted a share in the blessing of the end time.” Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 501, including notes.

17 Donaldson calls this broad textual category “Participants in Eschatological Redemption.”

See Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 1–13, 499–505.

18 Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 11.

19 For a thorough exegetical analysis of this passage of Romans (9:1–11:36), including a review of other relevant literature, see: James D.G. Dunn, Romans 9–16 (WBC 38B; Dallas, TX: Word, 1991 [1988]), 517–704; Robert Jewett, Romans: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2006), 555–723; Douglas J. Moo, The Epistle to the Romans (NICNT; Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1996), 547–744; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Romans: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB33; New York: Doubleday, 1992), 539–636. On the exegetical analysis of Rom 11:25–29, see also Mark D. Nanos, The Mystery of Romans: The Jewish Context of Paul’s Letter (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1996), 239–288.

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 33

countless articles and books that have taken into consideration and made a thorough semantic analysis of each word, phrase, and textual nuance. Similarly, the aforementioned chapters have been weighed up with regard to various aspects of Paul’s eschatological scenario, all in order to solve the conundrum of God’s dealing with Israel, as well as the Gentile nations through the Christ event. Despite the widely accepted opinion that Romans is addressed to the communities of Jesus-followers in Rome, Jewish as well as Gentile believers (cf. 1:7), 20 I side with the opinion of those scholars who argue for the addressees of the epistle being exclusively Gentile. 21 Paul’s formal address, including the contents of the epistle encompassing both Jews and Gentiles, form part of Paul’s rhetorical purposes related to the rounding-off of his ministry in the east, delivering the Jerusalem offering, and organizing the Spanish mission with the involvement of the Roman congregations (15:14–33). 22 The prospective success of Paul’s intents, especially to gain support for his Spanish mission — perhaps the ultimate purpose of the epistle and Paul’s plan to visit Rome 23 — but also for the Jerusalem offering, 24 turned on 20

See Stenschke, “Jewish Believers in Paul’s Letter to the Romans,” 7; Jewett, Romans, 113; Michael Wolter, Der Brief an die Römer: Teilband 1 Römer 1–8 (EKKNT VI/1; Ostfildern: Patmos; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Theologie, 2014), 28–56, 96–97; Michael Theobald, Der Römerbrief (EdF 294; Darmstadt: WBG, 2000), 29–35.

21 See, among others, William S. Campbell, The Nations in the Divine Economy: Paul’s Covenantal Hermeneutics and Participation in Christ (Lanham/Boulder/New York/London: Lexington Books/Fortress Academic, 2018), or Andrew A. Das, Solving the Romans Debate (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2007), 53–68, 261–264.

22 From the point of view of these purposes, it is understandable that Paul asks his nonJewish addressees to pass his greetings also to the Jewish members of the Roman congregations (16:3–16). See Moo, The Epistle to the Romans, 9–13.

23 Most scholars acknowledge the importance of Paul’s missionary plans in the West to the purpose of his epistle. See: Werner G. Kümmel, Introduction to the New Testament, 17th ed.

(Nashville, TN: Abingdon, 1975), 305–307; Philipp Vielhauer, Geschichte der urchristlichen Literatur (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1975), 181–184; Peter Stuhlmacher, “The Theme of Romans,” in The Romans Debate, ed. Karl P. Donfried, rev. ed. (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 333–345; Markku Kettunen, Der Abfassungszweck des Römerbriefes (AASF; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatameia, 1979), 138–141, 168; Jewett, Romans, 87–89.

24 Several scholars, such as Jakob Jervell and Ulrich Wilckens, emphasize the role of the Jerusalem offering as the most important factor in the writing of Romans. For more detail, see Jakob Jervell, “The Letter to Jerusalem,” in Donfried, ed., The Roman Debate, 53–64; Ulrich Wilckens, Der Brief an die Römer, 3 vols. (EKKNT 6; Zürich: Benziger, 1978–1982), 1:44–46; 3:129–130. See also Ernst Fuchs, Hermeneutik, 4th ed. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1970), 191; Nils Dahl, “The Missionary Theology in the Epistle to the Romans,” in idem,

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the reconciliation of the situation in the congregations, particularly on resolving the conflicts or discrepancies between Jewish and Gentile believers in Jesus as the Christ. 25 All of this helps to conceptualize the rhetorical situation of the epistle.

Romans 11 can be considered an eschatological declaration of God’s righteousness and its triumph concerning the gospel mission to both Israel and the Gentiles. 26 Paul begins with a depiction of the situation of Israel (11:1–10), split into two parts — the minority consisting of Christ-believers, “the current remnant” of Israel, and the hardened majority which has rejected the gospel. Here, Paul anticipates that God himself will take away the hardening of this nonbelieving majority of Israel; this being so, the “the current remnant” of Israel, and the present situation of the hardening of most of Israel, represent an intermediate stage in God’s final purpose to redeem the whole of Israel, the hope which Paul argues for in the next stage of the passage (11:11–24) and which Paul describes as a “mystery.” He there rehearses the end-time salvific scenario in relation to its last act, which is what he describes as the mystery: the restoration of Israel that serves to show the irrevocability of God’s gifts and calling (11:25–36).

Beyond reasonable doubt, Paul, the Apostle to the Gentiles (cf. Gal 1:15– 16), regarded the addressees of his message—the Gentile believers in Christ—as the vessels of the fulfillment of the Jewish eschatological expectations, namely the long-awaited time when evil powers and their destructive nature will be eliminated and God’s righteousness established, when God’s promises to Israel will be fully realized, and when the non-Jewish nations, or at least some portion

Studies in Paul: Theology for the Early Christian Mission (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg, 1977), 77 (70–87).

25 Since the Jewish and Gentile believers in Jesus as the Christ met together as subgroups of the larger Jewish communities in Rome, Paul had to resort to conventional wording, using the determiner “all” in connection with God’s call to Israel and the nations to be his beloved, in the formal address at the opening of the epistle (1:1–7; cf. 1:13; 11:13–14; 15:15– 16 with the explicit references to Paul’s Gentile addressees in the context of his authority as the Apostle to the Gentiles). See Nanos, Mystery of Romans, 76–84; idem, Reading Romans within Judaism. Collected Essays of Mark D. Nanos, Vol. 2 (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2018), 5–6.

26 Robert Jewett calls this section “the triumph of divine righteousness in the Gospel’s mission to Israel and the Gentiles,” and counts it as the third of four proofs of the thesis made in the epistle about the Gospel — it being the powerful embodiment of the righteousness of God — as well as having implications for the Roman congregations. See Jewett, Romans, 555–723. Dunn, Romans 9–16, 518, aptly characterizes this section as “a carefully composed and rounded unit with a clear beginning (9:1–5) and end (11:33–36), and with 9:6a giving the text or thesis to be expounded.”

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 35

of them, will abandon their gods (idols) and will worship the God of Israel. They will then also share in the promised blessings of the age to come (Isa 2:2–4 [Mic 4:1–3]; 56:7; see also 18:7; 25:6; 60:5–6; 66:19; Hag 2:21–22; Zech 8:22). 27 Regardless of the diversity of Jewish notions and traditions regarding Israel’s eschatological restoration and the status of Gentiles in this process, 28 Paul clearly holds the most positive version of the scenario, “one in which Gentiles are included in the redemption and participate in the blessings.” 29 In view of limitations of space, as well as of the focus of this article, my main concern here is Rom 11:25–32, which deals with the mystery of salvation of both Israel and the Gentiles, and which serves “to explain the allusion in 11:23–24 about the future engrafting of Israel alongside Gentile converts into the holy olive tree.” 30 Paul’s concern is not only with Israel’s salvation but rather the entire world “with respect to the power of the gospel to overcome otherwise irresolvable barriers.” 31 The pericope is made up of two halves. The first (11:25–27) is a disclosure of the mystery, with Paul’s declaration supported by a four-line prophecy concatenated from Isa 59:20–21 and Isa 27:9 (v. 26–27). The second is a theological explanation of the significance of this insight for salvation history (11:28–32). In this regard, it must be emphasized that the 11:25–32 represents the climax not only of 11:11–32 but of the entirety of Rom 9–11. Paul’s non-Jewish addressees are intended to learn from this unfolding mystery that they are merely part of God’s salvation-historical purpose, which will have its end in the salvation of Israel. By the same token, Paul’s declaration serves to the Gentile believers in

27

See the contributors to Nanos and Zetterholm, eds., Paul within Judaism: Mark D. Nanos, “The Question of Conceptualization: Qualifying Paul’s Position on Circumcision in Dialogue with Josephus’s Advisors to King Izates,” 105–152; Caroline J. Hodge, “The Question of Identity: Gentiles as Gentiles—but also Not—in Pauline Communities,” 153– 173; “The Question of Worship: Gods, Pagans, and the Redemption of Israel,” 175–201; Neil Elliot, “The Question of Politics: Paul as a Diaspora Jew under Roman Rule,” 203–243; Kathy Ehrensperger, “The Question(s) of Gender: Relocating Paul in relation to Judaism,” 245–276; Terence L. Donaldson, “Paul within Judaism: A critical Evaluation from a ‘New Perspective’ Perspective,” 284–298.

28 For more detail, see Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 499–505.

29

Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 500.

Jewett, Romans, 695. In the analysis in this section, I follow mostly Jewett’s commentary (694–712).

31 Jewett, Romans, 695.

30

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Christ as a kind-hearted warning to stop deluding themselves, thinking that they are superior to Jews or that they can replace Israel. 32 Paul’s focus on a universalistic view of salvation is here called a “mystery” (τὸ μυστήριον τοῦτο) that calls for a divine disclosure (cf. 1 Cor 2:6, 10, 14; 4:1; 7:7; 15:51; 2 Cor 12:1–4; 1 Thess 2:6–7). 33 Despite its mysteriousness, it does correspond directly with that Jewish eschatological notion that focuses on the restoration of Israel as the path to the restoring and saving of all nations. 34 Even given his Christocentric revision of the events (Rom 9–11; especially 11:25–26), Paul is aware that this process began with Israel, and in particular with a group of Jewish believers in Christ who in Paul’s view constitute “the current remnant of Israel.” 35 However, what is novel, and to a considerable extent even contradictory to all known Jewish notions about the eschatological restoration of Israel, is Paul’s assertion that the salvation of Gentiles is not a side effect or consequence of Israel’s redemption — which was to happen first — but quite the opposite. As he words it, first the full number of the Gentiles will come in, and only then, and in such a manner, will all Israel be saved. It is for this reason that the two parallel statements 32 33

See Moo, The Epistle to the Romans, 713.

For the semantics, meaning and usage of the word μυστήριον in Greco-Roman religion and apocalyptic Judaism and various branches of early Christianity, see: Bornkamm, “μυστήριον, μυέω,” TDNT 4:803–27; H. Krämer, “μυστήριον,” EDNT 2:446–49; Michael Wolter, “Verborgene Weisheit und Heil für die Heiden. Zur Traditionsgeschichte und Intention des ‘Revelationsschemas,’” ZThK 84 (1987): 300–303; Markus N.A. Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery in Ancient Judaism and Pauline Christianity (WUNT 36; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1990), 24–126; E. Elizabeth Johnson, The Function of Apocalyptic and Wisdom Traditions in Romans 9–11 (SBLDS 109; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1989), 163; Dieter Sänger, “Rettung der Heiden und Erwählung Israels. Einige vorläufige Erwägungen zu Römer 11,25–27,” KD 32 (1986): 112–115.

34 Philo, Mos. 2.43–44; Sib. Or. 3.702–723. See Donaldson, Paul and the Gentiles: Remapping the Apostle’s Convictional World (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1997), 219; idem, “Jewish Christianity, Israel’s Stumbling and the Sonderweg Reading of Paul,” in Journal for the Study of the New Testament 29 (2006): 27–54.

35 As remarked by John Barclay concerning “the gift-language” in Rom 9–11. See John M. G. Barclay, Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015), 450. Anders Runesson and Mark Nanos suggest the term “Apostolic Judaism” as applicable to the early Jesus movement, along with other known terms such as “Pharisaic Judaism,” “Essene Judaism,” and “Sadducean Judaism.” See Anders Runesson, “The Question of Terminology: The Architecture of Contemporary Discussions on Paul,” in Nanos and Zetterholm, eds., Paul within Judaism, 67–68; idem, “Inventing Christian Identity: Paul, Ignatius, and Theodosius I,” in Exploring Early Christian Identity, ed. Bengt Holmberg (WUNT 226; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 72–74.

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 37

about Israel’s “hardening” (πώρωσις — obtuseness) 36 in v. 25 are followed by a mysterious declaration of the future salvation of all Israel (v. 26), confirmed by scriptural proofs from Isa 59:20–21 and Isa 27:9 (vv. 26–27). 37 The rest of the pericope (11:28–32) contains a theological argument explaining “the relevance of this mystery in terms of the gospel’s global mission.” 38 The Mystery of Romans 11:25–26 The primary focus of the mystery rests in vv. 25–26, which are the culmination of Paul’s understanding of God’s purpose with the eschatological restoration of Israel: that a hardening of Israel is part of God’s purpose, and nevertheless that once the full number of the Gentiles has come in, all Israel will be saved. 39 Οὐ γὰρ θέλω ὑµᾶς ἀγνοεῖν, ἀδελφοί, τὸ µυστήριον τοῦτο, ἵνα µὴ ἦτε [παρ᾽] ἑαυτοῖς φρόνιµοι, ὅτι πώρωσις ἀπὸ µέρους τῷ Ἰσραὴλ γέγονεν ἄχρι οὗ τὸ πλήρωµα τῶν ἐθνῶν εἰσέλθῃ καὶ οὕτως πᾶς Ἰσραὴλ σωθήσεται, καθὼς γέγραπται· ἥξει ἐκ Σιὼν ὁ ῥυόµενος, ἀποστρέψει ἀσεβείας ἀπὸ Ἰακώβ.

So that you may not claim to be wiser than you are, brothers and sisters, I want you to understand this mystery: a hardening has come upon part of Israel, until the full number of the Gentiles has come in. And so all Israel will be saved; as it is written, “Out of Zion will come the Deliverer; he will banish ungodliness from Jacob.” (NRSV) We have seen that Paul describes this eschatological scenario as a mystery. It could equally be said that it is a “new doctrine” 40 expressed in the form of an oracle by Paul, deriving his authority from God. Paul defends his viewpoint by reference to Isa 59 and 27 (vv. 26–27; cf. Jer 31:33–34 [38:33–34 LXX]). However, the source 36

Mark D. Nanos understands the meaning of the term πώρωσις as “callousness.” For discussion of the meaning of the term, see Mark D. Nanos, “‘Callused’ Not ‘Hardened’: Paul’s Revelation of Temporary Protection Until All Israel Can Be Healed,” in Reading Romans within Judaism. Collected Essays of Mark D. Nanos, Vol. 2 (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2018), 153–178. Published originally in Reading Paul in Context: Exploration in Identity Formation: Essays in Honour of William S. Campbell, ed. J. Brian Tucker and Kathy Ehrensperger (London: T&T Clark, 2010), 52–73.

37 Jewett, Romans, 695. See also Dunn, Romans 9–16, 677.

38 39 40

Jewett, Romans, 695–696. Quotation taken from 695.

See Dunn, Romans 9–16, 519.

Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 170–175.

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and interpretation of this oracle are a persistent conundrum, with a wide range of hypotheses offered to resolve them. While the description of this mystery is evident in three distinct clauses (vv. 25b–26a), what is not clear is the real “core” of the mystery. In other words, we are faced with a question as to why Paul describes it as the mystery at all. There is a wealth of scholarly opinions on this matter.

For example, the identity of the mystery has been argued to be the fact of Israel’s hardening itself (Ferdinand Hahn); its partialness and temporariness (Otto Kuss, John Murray, Heinrich Schlier); the prospect that all Israel will be saved (Otto Michel, Charles E.B. Cranfield); that Israel will be saved in the same way that Gentiles are (Craig Cooper); or alternatively, the three clauses all constitute parts of the mystery (“a hardening has come upon part of Israel, until the full number of the Gentiles has come in, and so all Israel will be saved”) without further distinction among them (Frederic L. Godet, Joseph Fitzmyer, Otfried Hofius). 41 Michael Wolter supposes that Paul’s reason for presenting his viewpoint as the revelation of a “mystery” is the discrepancy between Paul’s confidence in God’s final intervention for the hardened majority of Israel on the one hand and his bafflement on the other as to how this might happen. 42 For Christoph Stenschke, it is the salvation of all Israel which is here revealed as a mystery, and it will even include the restoration of creation as a whole. 43 Kathy Ehrensperger, in her excellent paper “The ‘Mysterion’ in Romans 11:25–36: No Mystery But a Space for Reconciliation,” taking into consideration the contextuality and particularity of each of Paul’s epistles, analyzes the function of this “mystery” “in relation to the drawing of group boundaries between Jewish and non-Jewish traditions.” 44 Ehrensperger dwells on the fact that although Paul 41

For more detail, see Moo, The Epistle to the Romans, 716.

Michael Wolter, “Ein exegetischer und theologischer Blick auf Röm 11.25–32,” NTS 64 (2018): 123–142.

43 Stenschke argues: “The salvation of all Israel, revealed as a mystery, will also affect nonhuman creation. God’s faithfulness to Israel (‘the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable’; 11:29) will apply to all of his creation, which, together with Israel, is in view throughout the OT and early Judaism in blessing and in judgment.” See Christoph Stenschke, “Human and Non-Human Creation and Its Redemption in Paul’s Letter to the Romans,” Neotestamentica 51.2 (2017): 261–289 (quotation taken from 286).

44 Kathy Ehrensperger, “The ‘Mysterion’ in Romans 11:25–36: No Mystery But a Space for Reconciliation,” in idem, Searching Paul: Conversations with the Jewish Apostle to the Nations. Collected Essays (WUNT 429; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019), 319–337. An earlier version was presented as part of the discussions of the “Focus Group ‘Secret’ of the Käthe Hamburger Kolleg ‘Dynamics in the History of Religions,’” University of Bochum, in 2013.

42

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 39

declares openly the content of this “mystery,” he does not explain why he calls it a “mystery.” It follows that this device has a strategic function in Paul’s rhetoric: particularly, to create some “blank space” of “mystery” so as to prevent the nonJewish Christ-followers in Rome from boasting and developing a superior attitude to Jews and Christ-followers, as well as those outside the Christ-movement. This is a major requisite for bonding the diverse traditions. Although Paul explains why “all Israel will be saved,” and although by using the passage’s scriptural references he indicates something about this divine activity, “he does not present a scenario for ‘how’ this is supposed to happen, nor does he consider it necessary to define the identity of ‘all Israel.’” 45 Regardless of the reason Paul does this, and whether he does it unconsciously or intentionally, the significant factor is, as Ehrensperger states, that “exactly this apparent non-definition of ‘all Israel’ (which indicates clarity on Paul’s side) and the non-description of any scenario of the salvation of Israel has created a vacancy which took on the function of the blank space of a secret in the contact zone of diverse traditions.” 46 After all, Ehrensperger concludes, “[t]he blank space left vacant by Paul in Rom 11:25–36 is directed at the recognition of God’s sovereignty and wisdom and the limitations of human comprehension. The vacant space is God’s. Human recognition and respect for this may open ways to reconciliation in the trajectory of Pauline hopes and visions.” 47 Remarkable in regard to the scriptural references given in the pericope is the observation that this “mystery” is not entirely dependent on scriptural exegesis, since the reversed sequence of the eschatological scenario (first the Gentiles, then all Israel) that Paul develops in vv. 25–26 seems to be contrary to the LXX citations. 48 In view of this, some scholars argue that this oracle is derived from Paul’s spiritual interpretation of Scripture, 49 others that it is an answer to 45 46 47

Ehrensperger, “The ‘Mysterion’ in Romans 11:25–36,” 334.

Ehrensperger, “The ‘Mysterion’ in Romans 11:25–36,” 334.

Ehrensperger, “The ‘Mysterion’ in Romans 11:25–36,” 337.

Hans Hübner, Gottes Ich und Israel. Zum Schriftgebrauch des Paulus in Römer 9–11 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), 113–115, Seyoon Kim, “The ‘Mystery’ of Rom 11:25–26 Once More,” NTS 43 (1997): 412–415 (412–429); Jewett, Romans, 698.

Ulrich B. Müller, Prophetie und Predigt im Neuen Testament (SNT 10; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1975), 230, suggests that the mystery may have originated in connection with 1 Thess 2:14–16. Stated by Jewett, Romans, 698, including notes.

49 Otto Betz, “Die heilgeschichtliche Rolle Israels bei Paulus,” ThBei 9 (1978): 20 (1–21); Hans Hübner, Gottes Ich und Israel. Zum Schriftgebrauch des Paulus in Römer 9–11 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), 113, 121; Otfried Hofius, “‘All Israel Will be 48

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Paul’s prayer for Israel’s redemption in Rom 10:1, 50 and still others that the mystery is Paul’s experience of the revelation of Christ at the time of his calling to apostolic mission among the Gentiles. 51 All of these options raise serious questions; therefore, as Jewett remarks in this connection, “[e]fforts to specify the precise source of this oracle have not been successful.” 52 Jewett observes that if we also reckon the texts from Isa 6 and 49 as being among the sources reflected in Paul’s references to his calling to be the apostle to the Gentiles, and if we bear in mind that there is material in those chapters concerning the hardening of Israel, 53 we should suppose that for Paul himself, this would be the foundation of his understanding of the Isaianic vision, to be fulfilled in reverse order. 54 However, this option too is very hypothetical and unconvincing. 55 For Jewett: Saved’: Divine Salvation and Israel’s Deliverance in Romans 9–11,” in The Church and Israel: Romans 9–11: The 1989 Frederick Neumann Symposium on the Theological Interpretation of Scripture, ed. Daniel Migliore (PSBSup 1; Princeton, NJ: Princeton Theological Seminary, 1990), 33–38 (19–39); Franz Mussner, “‘Ganz Israel wird gerettet werden’ (Röm 11,26). Versuch einer Auslegung,” Kairos 18 (1976): 249–251 (241–55); Karl Olav Sandnes, Paul—One of the Prophets? A Contribution to the Apostle’s SelfUnderstanding (WUNT 2.43; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 180–181; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 174–175; Winfrid Keller, Gottes Treue—Israels Heil. Röm 11,25– 27. Die These vom “Sonderweg” in der Diskussion (SBB 40; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1998), 124. Stated by Jewett, Romans, 698, including the notes.

50 Müller, Prophetie, 225–232; Dieter Zeller, Der Brief an die Römer. Übersetz und erklärt (RNT; Regensburg: Pustet, 1985), 198; Sandnes, Paul, 178; Ulrich Wilckens, Der Brief an die Römer, 2:254.

51 Seyoon Kim, The Origin of Paul’s Gospel (WUNT 2.4; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1981), 74–99; idem, “The ‘Mystery’ of Rom 11:25–26 Once More,” NTS 43 (1997): 412–415, 420– 429 (412–429).

52 Jewett, Romans, 698. For more detail, see 698–699, including the notes.

53 Here, Jewett is referring to Kim’s theory (“Mystery,” 412–415) that “is based on his interpretation of 1 Cor 1:6–10 concerning the divine plan of salvation, which was a development of the theophanic call patterned after Isaiah 6 and 49.” Stated by Jewett, Romans, 698.

54 Jewett, Romans, 698–699, remarks: “Could Paul have not identified himself along with those zealous Jews, rendered obtuse so as to oppose the Christ? When one takes Rom 10:4 into account, describing the dilemma of zealous Jews who reject Christ, an insight available to Paul at the moment of his conversion could well have been in view.” See also Kim, “Mystery,” 421–422.

55 In this regard, Kim, “Mystery,” 421, states that Paul does not explicitly refer to these texts while describing his vocation to the apostolic ministry “because they were not the primary sources of the ‘mystery,’ but only confirmation of it.” Stated by Jewett, Romans, 698.

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 41

it is best to acknowledge that Paul’s use of the word “mystery” in this context reflects the perspective of a mystic whose “revelation experiences” remain partially beyond analysis.” 56 In this regard, James D.G. Dunn explains that “Paul intended the word “mystery” in a more specialized sense — not just a religious secret (far less a secret rite), but mystery as eschatological mystery, mystery as insight into the events of the end time, into how salvation-history is going to reach its destined climax, into how God is soon to fulfill his final purpose for his people. [. . .] God had revealed the solution to him, perhaps through the scripture he is about to cite, though it is equally possible that the verses were seen to have such a full eschatological significance only in the light of this revelation received independent of them. 57 Also coming into focus in this context are the texts dealing with the eschatological pilgrimage of the Gentiles. 58 Although Rom 11:11–26 seems to anticipate a future day of salvation for all Israel, there is but little indication, whether in Romans or elsewhere, that Paul expects any grand pilgrimage of the nations on the other side of the parousia. 59 Although there is some degree of probability that Paul is also working with this notion (Isa 60–61; also 2:2–4; Mic 4:1–5; Amos 9:11–12; Zeph 3:8–10; Zech 2:11 [LXX 2:15]; Tob 14:4–7), since it is clear that Rom 15:16–19 exhibits numerous parallels with that concept, the 56

Jewett, Romans, 699, including note 44. For a detailed exegesis of this section, see ibid., 698–702.

57 Dunn, Romans 9–16, 690. Emphasis original.

58 This view is still widespread in recent discussion. To give one notable example, Ed Parish Sanders in his book Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1983), 171, claims that “Paul’s entire work, both evangelizing and collecting money, had its setting in the expected pilgrimage of the Gentiles to Mount Zion in the last days.” See also Markus Barth, The People of God (JSNTSup 5; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1983); Paula Fredriksen, Paul: The Pagans’ Apostle (New Haven, CT, and London: Yale University Press, 2017), Karl-Wilhelm Niebuhr, Heidenapostel aus Israel (WUNT 62; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992); Peter Stuhlmacher, Paul’s Letter to the Romans, trans. Scott J. Hafemann (Louisville, KY: WJK, 1994).

59 The exception would be Paul’s financial collection project (Rom 15:25–27). “This material gift to the saints in Jerusalem [. . .] is an appropriate way for non-Jewish Christbelievers to acknowledge their indebtedness, since they, as ethnē, ‘have come to share in their spiritual blessings.’” Donaldson, “Paul within Judaism”, 292.

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majority of scholars reject this view. 60 For example, Matthew V. Novenson argues convincingly against appealing to that motif in the interpretation of Paul’s mission among the Gentiles, emphasizing that “[t]here is nothing here about the gentiles making pilgrimage to Zion, but everything about their being subjected to the messiah.” 61 This point explains the significance and the key role of the messianic concept within Paul’s Gentile mission, as well as the sense of phrases such as ὑπακοή ἐθνῶν (Rom 15:18) and ὑπακοή πίστεως (Rom 1:5; 16:26). All of this helps us better to understand this topic in the context of Paul’s Gentile mission.

Reversal of the Eschatological Scenario — A Possible Solution Taking into consideration the vast range of opinions and the puzzling complexity of the solutions proposed, there is little chance of bringing something substantially new to the discussion here. Moreover, my opinion that the primary meaning of this mystery is the reversal of the sequence of salvation of Israel and the Gentiles is not an entirely new one. It was argued for by Reidar Hvalvik in 1990, 62 who in this regard emphasized the significance and function of Paul’s combined quotation from Isa 59:20f and 27:9. His position, however, that “the salvation of 60

For argumentation in favor of this suggestion, see Lionel J. Windsor, Paul and the Vocation of Israel: How Paul’s Jewish Identity Informs His Apostolic Ministry, With Special Reference to Romans (BZNW 205; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014), 114–15 and others of the mentioned authors. For a skeptical view in this regard, see Donaldson, “Paul within Judaism”, 284–93.

61 See Matthew V. Novenson, “What Eschatological Pilgrimage of the Gentiles?” (forthcoming publication). I follow and quote from the draft version of Novenson’s paper presented during the second Bratislava conference which took place in September 2019 as a part of the research project entitled “Paul within Judaism — New Perspectives” (see note 1).

62 Reidar Hvalvik, “A ‘Sonderweg’ for Israel: A Critical Examination of a Current Interpretation of Romans 11.25–27,” JSNT 38 (1990): 87–107. In his article, Hvalvik states a comprehensive critique of the theological option that Jewish conversion constitutes a Sonderweg for Israel. Other critical views are presented by W.D. Davies, “Paul and the People of Israel,” NTS 24 (1977): 28–29 (4–39); Dieter Sänger, “Rettung der Heiden und Erwählung Israels. Einige vorläufige Erwägungen zu Römer 11,25–27,” KD 32 (1986): 117– 119 (99–119). For various aspects of this issue in more detail, see Moo, The Epistle to the Romans, 725–726. In this regard, Jewett notes that although Paul’s formulation lacks any indication that Jewish conversion constitutes a Sonderweg for Israel, “this remains a legitimate theological option that takes account of post-Pauline developments.” Jewett also emphasizes that “[i]t is, in any event, clear that in Paul’s mind the identity of Israel would not be erased by accepting Christ as the Messiah.” For more detail, see Jewett, Romans, 702, including the notes.

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 43

the Gentiles will take place prior to and will be a condition of ‘all’ Israel” 63 has been criticized by other scholars precisely for that reversal of the eschatological order. 64 Yet, this is the very reason for my arguing in favor of this conundrum as being simply Paul’s description of the paradoxical reversal of the eschatological scenario: as the Gentiles attaining salvation first, and only then all Israel. Indeed, it is a mystery, since it opposes the customary and majority understanding of the eschatological redemption of Israel. Although Paul, in arguing for this reversal of sequence, does not quote exactly any of the aforementioned end-time redemption texts, it is clear that his scenario falls into this category of Jewish eschatological notions.

Therefore, I would argue that this reversal itself does appear to be a theologically acceptable solution. Furthermore, its relevance is endorsed by other scholars. For example, William S. Campbell emphasizes: “What had to be changed was not the certainty of eschatological blessing, but only the sequence of events. It was this perception, however it came to Paul — as a mystery revealed or otherwise — that affirmed his mission to the nations, giving it a specific function in relation to the salvation of Israel.” 65 Douglas Moo remarks that some Jewish scriptures predict the eschatological time when the Gentiles will join in the worship of the only God, and others suggest that the glory of the Lord revealed in Israel will stimulate the Gentiles’ interest, but “wholly novel was the idea that the inauguration of the eschatological age would involve setting aside the majority of Jews while Gentiles streamed in to enjoy the blessings of salvation and that only when that stream had been exhausted would Israel as a whole experience these blessings.” 66 63

Hvalvik, “A ‘Sonderweg’ for Israel,” 99. Emphasis original.

See e.g. Albert L.A. Hogeterp, “The Mystery of Israel’s Salvation: A Re-reading of Romans 11:25–32 in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Flores Florentino: Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish Studies in Honour of Florentino García Martínes, ed. Anthony Hilhorst, Émile Puech and Eibert Tigchelaar (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2007), 654 (653–666). Hogeterp states: “It is the thesis of this article, that, while a ‘Sonderweg for Israel’ stands rightly criticized [a reference to Hvalvik’s article], a close reading of Paul’s theological thought and a re-reading of this passage in light of the Scrolls may fine-tune our understanding of Paul’s salvific message for both Jewish and Gentile believers, rather than one taking precedence over the other [here, Hogeterp is arguing contra Hvalvik’s position]. Since the focus of Rom 11:25– 32 is on all Israel’s salvation, a re-reading in comparison with Qumran texts could add new and relevant angles of thought about mystery and revelation, salvation and the final age.”

65 Campbell, The Nations in the Divine Economy, 232.

64

66

Moo, The Epistle to the Romans, 716–717.

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Since an expectation that all Israel will be saved was widely held among Second Temple Jews, Paul is certain that her hardening is only temporary and will ultimately be overcome when the full number of the Gentiles has come to divine grace through God’s work and the sacrifice of the Messiah Jesus. This reading brings out the sense of the phrase ἄχρι οὗ τὸ πλήρωμα τῶν ἐθνῶν εἰσέλθῃ (v. 25b), especially since the verb εἰσέρχομαι (“come in”) is without an object. Taking into consideration Paul’s missionary intent toward Spain as set out in the epistle, the “full number of the Gentiles” is likely to be taken as including Paul’s prospective Hispanic converts. 67 If so, then the role of the Jerusalem offering also comes into view as a significant factor behind the writing of the epistle. Quite apart from its being a social gesture, the collection is primarily of theological significance. 68 It expresses, and moreover proves, the real character of the community (κοινωνία) between the Gentile nations in Christ (ἔθνη) and Israel, in the context of Paul’s depiction of the “pure saints” in Jerusalem who still lived in poverty and who continued to worship the God of Israel in the temple: the eschatological remnant of Israel. By giving this monetary gift for the “pure saints” in Jerusalem, the Gentile believers participate in the worship (λειτουργεῖν) of the God of Israel, the only God. 69 67

For more detail on the interpretation of the meaning of the phrase “until the full number of the Gentiles has come in,” see Jewett, Romans, 700, including the notes.

68 See Johannes Munck, Paul and the Salvation of Mankind, trans. Frank Clarke (Atlanta, GA: John Knox, 1959 [German original 1954]); Keith F. Nickle, The Collection: A Study in Paul’s Strategy (SBT 48; Naperville, IL: Allenson, 1966); Dieter Georgi, Remembering the Poor: The History of Paul’s Collection for Jerusalem (Nashville, TN: Abingdon, 1992 [German original 1965]); Burkhard Beckheuer, Paulus und Jerusalem (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1997); Richard N. Longenecker, Remember the Poor: Paul, Poverty, and the GrecoRoman World (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010), 310–16; Brian J. Tucker, “The Jerusalem Collection, Economic Inequality and Human Flourishing: Is Paul’s Concern the Redistribution of Wealth, or a Relationship of Mutuality Wealth (or Both)?,” in Canadian Theological Review 3/2 (2014): 61 (52–70).

69 For example, David J. Downs, The Offering of the Gentiles. Paul’s Collection for Jerusalem in Its Chronological, Cultural, and Cultic Contexts (WUNT 2.248; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 9, proposed five different views of the collection’s significance: “(a) an eschatological event, (b) an obligation imposed by the Jerusalem leaders, (c) an ecumenical offering, (d) material relief, and (e) worship, the collection representing a non-Jewish offering to God.” The last of these is Downs’s preferred view. Stated by Campbell, The Nations in the Divine Economy, 165–166. The emphasis on the collection and Paul’s use of varied cultic terminology has led Kathy Ehrensperger to consider the collection as being designed to meet a cultic deficiency experienced by non-Jewish Christ-followers after they had abandoned cultic practices associated with idolatry. See Kathy Ehrensperger, “The Ministry

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 45

Regarding the salvation of Israel (πᾶς Ἰσραὴλ σωθήσεται), the sum of Paul’s earlier references in Romans suggests that he understands Israel ethnically. Since the word πᾶς means “all,” “any and every entity out of a totality,” and because v.

27 goes on to argue that the sins of “all” of Israel will be taken away, and since moreover v. 32 concludes that God will show mercy “to all,” it seems most likely, as Jewett has suggested, “that Paul’s ‘mystery’ was believed to include all members of the house of Israel, who, without exception, would be saved.” 70 Mark Nanos remarks in this regard: “Indeed, with the initiation of the gentile mission the ‘fulness of the Gentiles begins,’ step two, ‘and thus, in this way, all Israel will be saved,’ even as the prophets foretold: The Deliverer will come from Zion to regather the dispersed children of Israel, Jacob will be restored, and the gentiles will be drawn to the light and worship the One God of Israel as their own, as the One God of all the nations.” 71 Another element which becomes prominent in this reading is the final scriptural citation in the pericope, drawn from Isa 59 and 27, which furnishes scriptural proof of Paul’s disclosure of the mystery of Israel’s future salvation (11:26b–27). This especially sheds light on Paul’s arrangement and intentional adjustment of the Isaianic prophecy in order to conform to his theologizing in this new context. 72 I will not deal with this issue in detail; in view of the intent and purpose of this article, it suffices to emphasize that the changes Paul makes to this citation, particularly his deletion of the connective καί (“and”) and his exchange of ἕνεκεν Σιων (“for the sake of Zion”) for ἐκ Σιών (“from Zion”), are elucidated when we take into consideration the historical setting and rhetorical character of this Pauline epistle. 73 The more significant of these emendations is the change from ἕνεκεν to ἐκ, an issue which several important articles have engaged with; their

to Jerusalem (Rom 15.31): Paul’s Hopes and Fears,” in Erlesenes Jerusalem: Festschrift für Ekkehard W. Stegemann, ed. Lukas Kundert and Christina Tuor-Kurth (Basel: Friedrich Reinhard Verlag, 2013), 338–352. Stated by Campbell, The Nations in the Divine Economy, 166–167, including note 79 (186).

70 For more detail on the interpretation of this question, see Jewett, Romans, 701–702, including the notes. (Quotation taken from 702.) See also Nanos, The Mystery of Romans, 239–288.

71 Nanos, The Mystery of Romans, 287. Emphasis original.

72

For thorough analysis of this issue, including the discussions ongoing in this regard, see Jewett, Romans, 702–706; Moo, The Epistle to the Romans, 727–729; Dunn, Romans 9–16, 682–684.

73 See Jewett, Romans, 703 including notes.

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authors have argued for a discrepant pre-Pauline reading of the Isaianic oracle. 74 Regardless of the actual reason for this change — whether Paul is citing a hitherto undiscovered form of this Isaianic text or whether it is an intentional change occasioned by the rhetorical purposes of the epistle as a whole — the citation in this part of the epistle serves Paul to emphasize and prove the eschatological salvation of all Israel.

Paul here expresses very clearly the core of his theologizing. The Gentile believers in Christ are justified by God’s sacrifice in Christ Jesus, an event that Paul places directly in relation to the Temple cult offerings as a way of explaining his theology (Rom 3:21–31; cf. Gal 3:13–14). In Christ, these Gentile believers are free from bondage to idolatry (cf. Gal 2:15; 5:19–21), as well as being free to disregard the criteria of distinction and discrimination established under the constraints of the dominant cultural systems, and through love are free to serve one another (Gal 5:1,13). 75 The Christ-gift must be expressed in practice and conduct. Now, they enjoy the freedom to follow a different system of values informed by the quality of social commitment, which is love (Rom 12:9–21; 13:8– 10; cf. Gal 5:13–6:10). 76 They now become a part of God’s people, along with Israel: 74

See especially Berndt Schaller, “ΠΕΡΙ ΕΚ ΣΙΩΝ Ο ΡΥΟΜΕΝΟΣ: Zur Textgestalt von Jes 59:20f. in Röm 11:26f.,” in De Septuaginta. Studies in honour of John William Weavers on his sixty-fifth birthday, ed. A. Pietersma and Claude Cox (Mississauga, ON: Benben Publications, 1984), 201–206. Schaller argues (203) that the LXX wording of Isa 59:20–21 with ἕνεκεν would have served Paul’s theologizing more adequately, since his purpose was to prove that Israel would not be excluded, and the Christological issue of coming “from Zion” he considers to be irrelevant. Schaller is thus explaining this change by the hypothesis of textual corruption of εἰς Σιών (“to Zion”) to ἐκ Σιών, arguing that when the two uncials IC are read as a K, εἰς becomes ἐκ, which would mean that it is probably a pre-Pauline reading.

Similarly arguing for a pre-Pauline reading of ἐκ Σιών is Dietrich-Alex Koch, “Beobachtungen zum christologischen Schriftgebrauch in den vorpaulinischen Gemeinden,” ZNW 71 (1980): 176 (174–191).

75 Nils Dahl notes: “But they should serve one another in love and thus keep the commandment in which the whole law is fulfilled (5:13–14),” in Nils A. Dahl, “Paul’s Letter to the Galatians: Epistolary Genre, Content, and Structure,” in Nanos, ed., The Galatians Debate, 137. The “new,” or rather special, identity reveals the true nature of Paul’s own vision of communal life in the Galatian churches (Gal 5:13–6:10) and explains what Paul really means by his paradoxical interpretation of freedom as slavery (5:13). See Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 423–446. See also idem, Obeying the Truth: A Study of Paul’s Ethics in Galatians (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1988), 152–154, 156, 166–169. See also Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 428–430.

76 See Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 423–442. Mark Nanos remarks in this context that they are now “already members in full standing apart from becoming proselytes, that is,

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 47

not proselytes, nor God-fearers, but a “new creation” (2 Cor 5:17; Gal 6:15), part of the eschatological community of Israel and the Gentile (non-Jewish) nations.

Paul’s rhetoric implies that the Gentiles in Christ have adopted Jewish attributes but remained Gentiles of a special sort. 77 Their special identity has been gained not by ethnic transformation but instead through an entirely new way of life. 78 Their faithfulness and trust (πίστις) in the gospel has become a foundation for their new conduct (δικαιοσύνη). As Paula Fredriksen interprets it: “Their pistis in Christ (steadfast confidence that he had died, been raised, and was about to return) righteoused them (through the conferring of pneuma, ‘spirit’) so that they could ‘fulfil the Law,’ meaning, quite specifically, the Law’s Second Table, dikaiosynē.” 79 Gentiles now have a share in God’s blessing given to Abraham and his descendants (Gen 22:16–18) and can expect the ultimate restoration and redemption of Israel. Their separateness is a deliberate part of God’s eschatological plan for the redemption of Israel and, through Israel, also for the redemption of other nations. 80 members of Israel, for the ‘new creation’ community of God is the community of Israel and the nations: in Christ the awaited age has dawned.” Mark D. Nanos, The Irony of Galatians: Paul’s Letter in First-Century Context (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2002), 155.

77 See Hodge, “The Question of Identity,” 172.

78 This means voluntary affiliation with the Jewish politeia (way of life), as Josephus describes: ὅσοι µὲν γὰρ θέλουσιν ὑπὸ τοὺς αὐτοὺς ἡµῖν νόµους ζῆν ὑπελθόντες δέχεται φιλοφρόνως οὐ τῷ γένει µόνον ἀλλὰ καὶ τῇ προαιρέσει τοῦ βίου νοµίζων εἶναι τὴν οἰκειότητα τοὺς δ᾽ ἐκ παρέργου προσιόντας ἀναµίγνυσθαι τῇ συνηθείᾳ οὐκ ἠθέλησεν (Ag. Ap. 2.210).

79 See Fredriksen, “The Question of Worship,” 190–194 (175–201; quotation from 194; emphasis original). From this, it can be deduced that Paul’s notion of justification concerns the objective reality of qualitative righteousness (cf. Rom 12:1–2, 9–21; 13:8–14; cf. Gal 5:13–14, 22–25; 6:1–10). Chris VanLandingham argues for this interpretation in Judgment and Justification in Early Judaism and the Apostle Paul (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006), 272–332. See also Ábel, The Psalms of Solomon and the Messianic Ethics of Paul, 199–210, 265–284.

80 Hodge, “The Question of Identity,” 172–173. However, it must at the same time be emphasized that this special identity of Paul’s non-Jewish converts as proclaimed by Paul was, from the perspective of indigenous cultures and most probably also that of Jewish communities, generally unknown, and therefore it remained very suspicious, especially because Paul’s non-Jewish communities of Christ-followers were prohibited from such idolatry, in contrast to the God-fearers (sebomenoi or phoboūmenoi), who were attached to synagogues and permitted to continue their cultic practices. On the other hand, proselytism was a known, legal, and generally an accepted form of changing one’s identity. In this

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It follows that for Paul, it is messianic ethics that play the crucial role as regards his non-Jewish converts. This being so, we should also take into consideration here other significant Second Temple Jewish eschatological texts, especially the Psalms of Solomon 17 and 18. 81 These chapters pertain to the Second Temple end-time redemption writings that anticipate the hope and blessing of the end of this age, not only for the pious Jews but also — at least partially — for Gentiles. 82 This significant aspect might also be instrumental in Paul’s eschatological scenario, in which the incorporation of Gentiles into Israel is one of the key aspects (Rom 11:13–24). Notwithstanding the hypothetical nature of this supposition, I have reached the view that Paul is essentially following the same emphases in this pericope as are found in Psalms of Solomon, and in particular God’s righteousness and mercy in the context of the end-time redemption of Israel with participation by Gentile nations, centered on the concept of the coming Messiah. Moreover, the Psalms of Solomon contain a messianic notion related to the Davidic Messiah (Pss. Sol. 17) that constitutes the climax of the whole hymnbook. Therefore, just as in the Psalms of Solomon, so also in Paul’s message the emphasis is on the quality of everyday life and its holiness, understood to mean the right behavior which allows believers to regard, William Campbell remarks very aptly that the prohibition of idolatry results in them “experiencing an identity deficiency.” Campbell, The Nations in the Divine Economy, 8.

81 In particular, Pss. Sol. 17 draws on a number of Jewish scriptural expectations concerning the future Davidic ruler (2 Sam 7:12–14; Ps 2:2, 7; Isa 9:4–7 [LXX 9:3–6], 11:1–7, 11–14; 4Q252 [4QCommGen A] 6 V 1–5; 4Q285 [4QSM] 7 1–5; 4Q174 [4QFlor] 1–2 I 11).

Relevant Qumran texts are given in The Dead Sea Scrolls Reader, 6 vols., ed. Donald W. Parry and Emmanuel Tov (Leiden: Brill, 2004–2005), 1.244–45, 2.2–3, 110–111. As Lionel Windsor remarks in this connection, much of the key vocabulary of Pss. Sol. 17 also occurs, in similar formulations, in Paul’s description of the gospel of Christ (Rom 1:2–7). See Windsor, Paul and the Vocation of Israel, 132–33; John J. Collins, “Jesus, Messianism and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Qumran-Messianism, ed. James H. Charlesworth, Herman Lichtenberger, and Gerbern S. Oegama (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 104–105; Sigmund Mowinckel, He That Cometh, trans. G. W. Anderson (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1959), 308–311.

82 See Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 140–141. In the authentic Pauline epistles, we find direct analogies to this hymnbook only in Romans (the Pss. Sol. 4:25 in Rom 8:28; Pss. Sol. 8:28 in Rom 3:3; Pss. Sol. 9:5 in Rom 2:5; Pss. Sol. 14:2 in Rom 7:10; Pss. Sol. 15:8 in Rom 2:3; Pss. Sol. 17:1 in Rom 2:17). In my opinion, this consideration is especially significant when considering the wording of Paul’s key theological thoughts. For more detail, see my book The Psalms of Solomon and the Messianic Ethics of Paul, especially 256– 284, where I engage this topic in depth.

Ábel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 49

maintain the status of being righteous before God. 83 This attitude was common to most of the Jews of Paul’s day, especially being cherished by the Pharisees, and it is also visible in the Psalms of Solomon. 84 Therefore, it is not surprising that Paul also demanded this pattern of conduct of his Gentile converts. The importance of this emphasis of Paul’s is also attested to by the Psalms of Solomon, with their climactic final two chapters (Pss. Sol. 17–18), which taken as a whole confirm the psalmist’s emphasis on messianic ethics. Now, one substantial aspect of Paul’s emphasis on messianic ethics now comes to the fore: the preparation of the righteous believers for Christ’s parousia and the last judgement. Within this notion — particularly in Pss. Sol. 18:5, where Israel’s state of holiness and righteousness results from the last judgement — we can also find an interpretative basis for Paul’s messianic ethics. 85 God’s justice and righteousness in correlation must be transferred, by placing faith in the value and significance of Christ’s sacrifice, to the level of a reciprocal relationship (see Rom 12:1). This has to be visible in the manifestation of love, which is for Paul the expression of the fullness of the law (Rom 13:8–10).

I thus suggest that it is legitimate to ask also about the influence of the Psalms of Solomon, especially chapters 17–18, on Paul’s line of reasoning in Romans, above all in chapters 9–11. In any event, the very existence and popularity of Jewish eschatological notions concerning the coming of “the day of Messiah” and the Last Judgment, including those that are found in Pss. Sol. 17– 18, but also in other Second Temple writings, allow for the possibility that Paul was familiar with these notions.

The Paradox of Divine Activity in Fulfillment of Israel’s Divine Vocation Regardless of what particular interpretation we accept, it is beyond doubt that Paul considers his mission among the Gentiles to be part and parcel of Israel’s divine vocation. 86 Despite the diversity of Second Temple Jewish notions and traditions regarding Israel’s eschatological restoration, 87 Paul holds to the most positive 83

See Mikael Winninge, Sinners and the Righteous: A Comparative Study of the Psalms of Solomon and Paul’s Letters (CBNTS 26; Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell, 1995), 200.

84 See Winninge, Sinners and the Righteous, 158–170.

85 See VanLandingham, Judgment and Justification, 139, including n. 249.

86

For this issue in connection with Rom 9–11, see especially Lionel J. Windsor, Paul and the Vocation of Israel: How Paul’s Jewish Identity Informs His Apostolic Ministry, With Special Reference to Romans (BZNW 205; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014), 195–254.

87 For more detail, see Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 499–505.

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version of the scenario, “one in which Gentiles are included in the redemption and participate in the blessings.” 88 Typically, as mentioned above, this notion presumed that the restoration of Israel would precede, and at the same time would enable, the deliverance of the Gentiles. 89 For Paul, Israel’s hardening becomes a means for Gentile salvation; it is a “part of her role in God’s worldwide purposes through Christ.” 90 Paul is aware of the potential for misunderstandings of this revision, as well as of the significance of his own Jewish divine vocation. Nevertheless, Paul’s notion still accords with the notion of the eschatological restoration of Israel being the path to the restoration and salvation of all nations, since, for Paul, this process has now commenced with Israel, and in particular with a group of Jewish Christbelievers, the eschatological Jewish remnant. 91 Most probably, the reason for and the very basis of this Pauline revision is the interim between Christ’s resurrection and the parousia, as well as his value-redirected ζῆλος as one “according to knowledge” (ἐπίγνωσις; 10:2). The Gentiles (non-Jews) in this scheme receive their particular identity as those who in Christ are justified by God, and whose separateness is part of God’s eschatological purposes for the redemption of Israel, and through her also of other nations: the worldwide “reconciliation.” 92 For Paul, this is a key objective, and at the same time serves as confirmation that “the end of the ages has dawned with the resurrection of Christ (though within the midst of the present age, and thus awaiting additional elements to arrive in full).” 93 All of this means the fulfillment of Paul’s divine vocation, which by the same token means fulfilling Israel’s role in God’s universal purposes. As Lionel Windsor aptly remarks in this context, Paul considers his apostolic mission to be “his way of being Jewish.” 94 Or, as William S. Campbell remarks in this regard, “the intertwined destiny of Israel and the nations in Christ became a foundational pillar in Paul’s

88

Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 500.

Philo, Mos. 2.43–44; Sib. Or. 3.702–723. See Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 219; idem, “Jewish Christianity, Israel’s Stumbling and the Sonderweg Reading of Paul,” JSNT 29 (2006): 27–54.

90 Windsor, Paul and the Vocation of Israel, 247.

91 See Campbell, The Nations in the Divine Economy, 231–233. See also Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 450.

92 See Hodge, “The Question of Identity,” 172–173.

93 Nanos, “The Question of Conceptualization,” 142–143.

89

94

Windsor, Paul and the Vocation of Israel, 248. Emphasis original.

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eschatology that would render his authenticated self-understanding best described as ‘a Jewish apostle to the nations for the sake of the glory of God.’” 95 Most of Paul’s Jewish contemporaries understood Israel’s divine role primarily as being to keep and teach the precepts of the Law of Moses — the “light” given to Israel — and thus to serve as an exemplary witness to God’s power and wisdom revealed to the whole world (Ps 119:105; Isa 2:2–5; 51:4–5; cf. Sir 24:23– 24; Wis 18:4; see also Philo, Somn. 1.175–178; Spec. 1.320–323). 96 While Paul does not deny the central idea of this notion — the Torah as a light for the nations — he does understand and interpret it differently. Paul is aware of the universal human subjection to sin, and thus of the universal human inability and failure to keep all the precepts of the Torah. Even Jews, who have the Torah and thus enjoy substantial epistemological privilege, do not always and everywhere respond rightly to the Torah’s requirements (cf. Rom 2:9–13, 17–24; 3:3–8, 9–20; 9:4–5, 11:11–31). 97 Therefore, Paul is convinced that the purpose of the Torah was to testify to the gospel of Christ, since Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection is considered to be the objective, and thus also the fulfillment, of the Torah (Rom 10:4). Paul interprets the notion of a “light to the nations” in accordance with the closest parallels to this expression that occur in Isaiah, where “the Servant of the Lord” himself is said to be a “light to the nations” (Isa 42:6–7; 49:6). 98 Paul identifies himself as the “servant of the Lord” (Isa 40–55; especially 49:1–7), and the “light to the nations” (Isa 42:6–7; 49:6). 99 He has a “zeal” for God’s gospel, preaching to and calling upon the addressees of his message to do likewise, to

95 96 97 98 99

Campbell, The Nations in the Divine Economy, 232–233.

Windsor, Paul and the Vocation of Israel, 158–159.

For more detail, see Windsor, Paul and the Vocation of Israel, 140–194.

Windsor, Paul and the Vocation of Israel, 159.

In this regard, another important question comes to the fore: does Paul regard the Messiah Jesus to be the primary fulfillment of the Servant of the Lord prophecies and does he himself reflects this in his ministry among the Gentile nations? This possibility cannot be ruled out, especially given the fact that the figure of the “Servant of the Lord” described in Isa 40–55 represents Israel too and her divine vocation with respect to the Gentile nations, including a decisive eschatological role for that divine vocation toward the nonJewish nations. Since Paul considers Jesus’ss death a sacrifice by God, an event that Paul places directly in relation to the Temple cult offerings, and since the Christ-event therefore must have a substantial and decisive role not only for Israel but also — and indeed especially — for the non-Jewish nations, then it seems that Paul considers Jesus, the Jewish Messiah, as the primary Servant of the Lord, active in a ministry in which Paul himself is participating, particularly among the Gentile nations.

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emulate his “good zeal.” For Paul, then, Jewish identity and vocation was expressed primarily in preaching the gospel of Christ to the Gentiles. 100 By this means, Israel’s divine vocation is being fulfilled.

Conclusion The above analysis of Rom 11, centering on vv. 25–26, shows that Paul’s thoughts pertain to specific Second Temple Jewish eschatological notions, particularly to the category of the eschatological participation of the Gentiles in the end-time redemption and salvation of Israel, with one of the key factors — and indeed the primary factor — being the question of identity, Jewish as well as non-Jewish.

Moreover, be it only implicitly and without exact scriptural citations, Paul’s message as a whole belongs to a group of only a few texts of the Second Temple period that seem explicitly to envisage the continued existence of the identity of Gentiles as Gentiles. Paul’s rhetoric implies that the Gentiles in Christ remain Gentiles of a special sort, since they have adopted Jewish attributes, meaning that they have acquired a new identity by a new manner of life.

Whereas in most Jewish eschatological texts the redemption of the ethnē follows the restoration of Israel (cf. Tob 14:6; 1 En. 90.30–38; Zech 8:20–23), in Paul’s scenario the inclusion of the ethnē is made possible by the failure—or, to be more precise, the hardening—of Israel (Rom 11:25–26). Nevertheless, Paul’s vision is fully eschatological and still falls within the bounds of Jewish eschatological expectations concerning Israel’s role toward the Gentiles. Paul’s gospel claims that the end of the ages has dawned with the resurrection of Christ, even though that event still falls within the midst of the present age, and thus holds that additional elements are yet to arrive in full: in the parousia. In Paul’s scenario, Gentiles have a share in God’s blessing imparted to Abraham and his descendants (Gen 22:16–18), and thus they can expect an ultimate restoration and redemption of Israel. Despite this, scholars are right to suggest that Paul “sees himself in the tradition of the prophets who call gentiles to Jerusalem on the Day of the Lord, when ‘all the nations shall stream to [the Lord’s house]’ (Isa. 2:2).” 101 Paul’s unique messianic notion resulted in a special status for the Gentile believers in Christ. They are a part of the eschatological community of Israel and the nations (Gentiles). All these aspects of Paul’s message in Rom 11 confirm the variedness of Jewish eschatological notions in the period, including the diversity of Jewish messianic conceptions. As such, they reflect the experiences that the 100 101

Windsor, Paul and the Vocation of Israel, 248.

Hodge, “The Question of Identity,” 168. See also Windsor, Paul and the Vocation of Israel, 136.

Ă bel, The Role of Israel Concerning the Gentiles 53

Jewish people had gained from daily encounters with non-Jewish nations, and express Jewish hopes and expectations in relation to God’s promises given to Israel. Each of these notions is distinct and expresses the background of a particular author or a school of thought, including the theological perception of the events, happenings, and experiences in question. All of these considerations help us not only to understand better the variedness and complexities of Second Temple Judaism but also to avoid stereotypes by offering us a more nuanced perspective on the Jewish aspects of any New Testament text.

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Reading Texts and Reading Practice: Luke 4 in the Context of First-Century Synagogue Reading Practices Andrew R. Krause ACTS Seminaries of Trinity Western University | andrew.krause@twu.ca JJMJS No. 7 (2020): 54–73

Assumptions and inferences play a key role in the cross-cultural and historical study of all human endeavor. They allow us to fill holes in knowledge through either unconscious expectations or comparative and analogical judgements that lack direct proof, in order that we might compare and better understand times about which the historical record may not provide full witness. However, when the historical record includes contrary evidence or when analogical and comparative judgments cannot logically hold the weight of these assumptions, they must be questioned and ultimately rejected. A prime example of this need to reject past assumptions may be found in the study of Jesus’s synagogue reading at Nazareth in Luke 4:16–22. While scholars have previously used later Rabbinic and even modern synagogue practices and socioeconomic realities in order to explain this pericope’s historical context, better interpretation of contemporary literature and the profusion of relevant material evidence should force us to question many of these previous understandings of this text. However, when common activities such as reading are involved, it is often difficult to move beyond our own realities and to accept the different circumstances of readers in culturally and historically remote contexts.

In this study, I will seek to problematize many of the historical and sociocultural assumptions that have commonly been applied to the reading of this text, and to its witness regarding Jesus’s reading of Isaiah in his hometown synagogue. Combining insights from recent studies on the institution of the synagogue, ancient reading practices and communities, and contemporary Jewish hermeneutical methods, I will argue that Jesus’s actions fit with ancient synagogue expectations to a degree, though that some of Jesus’s activity should be treated as an innovative use of these traditions. I will thus caution against generalizing all these actions as normative synagogue activity even within the narrower Second Temple Period in Galilee.

Krause, Reading Texts and Reading Practice 55

Jesus, Son of Joseph, and the Synagogue in Luke 4:16–22 After a brief summarizing preface that narrates Jesus’s itinerant movement through the Galilee and teaching in the synagogues to much praise, the basic scene of the passage is set as Jesus returns to his hometown of Nazareth, where he is immediately said to go to the synagogue, “as was his custom” (κατὰ τὸ εἰωθὸς αὐτῷ), and he is promptly described as standing to read. He is handed the scroll of the prophet Isaiah, which he unrolls and finds his place (ἀναπτύξας τὸ βιβλίον εὗρεν τὸν τόπον). Jesus reads a composite text that includes primarily Isa 61:1–2, though with an insertion from Isa 58:6 and multiple omissions. Jesus then returns the scroll and sits down. He then states to the gathering that the text is fulfilled in their hearing. The crowd is said to be astonished and impressed with his delivery of the exposition (καὶ πάντες ἐμαρτύρουν αὐτῷ καὶ ἐθαύμαζον ἐπὶ τοῖς λόγοις τῆς χάριτος τοῖς ἐκπορευομένοις ἐκ τοῦ στόματος αὐτοῦ). Following this, however, we find much of the same negative reaction from the shorter versions of this tradition in Mark 6:2–6 and Matt 13:54–58. Scholars have rightly noted that the positioning of this passage is likely meant to summarize Jesus’s teachings and their delivery during his Galilean period of ministry. 1 Thus, we should follow Jordan Ryan in affirming that this passage is a patently Lukan pericope that is nonetheless constrained by Luke’s understanding of actual synagogue practice. 2 Many scholars have, with little proof, argued that this reading would have been a component part—that of the reading of the haftarah—of a larger liturgy which likely matched that of the Rabbis in the Mishnah (e.g., m. Meg. 4:2; m. Sot. 7:7–8; m. Yoma. 7:1). 3 This is nowhere better exemplified than in Shmuel Safrai’s assertion that Jesus’s standing up proves that he delivered the Torah reading as well, though it has been left out due to its lack of relevance for the

1

François Bovon, Luke 1, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002), 152; Joel B. Green, The Gospel of Luke, NICNT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 203–204; John Nolland, Luke 1–9:20 (WBC 35A; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1989), 191.

2 Jordan J. Ryan, The Role of the Synagogue in the Aims of Jesus (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2017), 37–78.

3 Bovon, Luke, 153; Nolland, Luke, 195–196; Asher Finkel, “Jesus’s Preaching in the Synagogue on the Sabbath,” in The Gospels and the Scriptures of Israel, ed. Craig A. Evans and W. Richard Stegner (JSNTSup. 104; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), 325–341 (here, 328); R. Steven Notley, “Jesus’s Jewish Hermeneutical Method in the Nazareth Synagogue,” in Early Christian Literature and Intertextuality, Volume 2: Exegetical Studies, ed. Craig A. Evans and H. Daniel Zacharias (LNTS 392; London: T&T Clark International, 2009), 46– 59 (here 47).

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teaching narrated. 4 Jesus’s standing is also commonly generalized as the normative posture in the reading of Scriptures in Second Temple Period synagogues. However, as John Nolland has shown, the standing/sitting, being handed/handing, and unrolling/rolling the scroll in this passage form a verbal inclusio around the reading, which would likely have been more of a literary indication of completion. 5 Furthermore, despite the fact that all of the elements of a Rabbinic liturgy (including blessings, the Shema, comparable readings, etc.) have been found at Qumran and most haftarah texts may be found in the works of Philo of Alexandria, 6 we have no proof that these elements of liturgy had widespread institutional usage at this time. Indeed, as scholars have generally accepted, the Rabbis would not have any substantive authority in synagogues until the third or fourth centuries CE, which is evident in their distaste for the institution in their earliest mentions of it. 7 As both Anders Runesson and Stefan 4

Shmuel Safrai, “Synagogue and Sabbath,” Jerusalem Perspective 23 (1989): 8–10. Likewise, Carl Mosser unconvincingly claims that the use of “he began to say” (ἤρξατο δὲ λέγειν) in 4:21 proves that other texts were read as well; see Carl Mosser, “Torah Instruction, Discussion, and Prophecy in First-Century Synagogues,” in Christian Origins and Hellenistic Judaism: Social and Literary Contexts for the New Testament, ed. Stanley E. Porter and Andrew W. Pitts (TENTS 10; Leiden: Brill, 2013), 523–551 (here 540).

5 Nolland, Luke, 191.

6 Regarding Qumran, see Daniel K. Falk, “Qumran and the Synagogue Liturgy,” in Ancient Synagogues: From Its Origins until 200 CE, ed. Birger Olssen and Magnus Zetterholm (CBNTS 39; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell International, 2003), 404–434. Subsequently, Jeremy Penner has shown quite convincingly, in my opinion, that the Shema (Deut 6:5–7) had not yet gained wide acceptance as a prayer to be recited, despite some instances of its copying on scrolls and tefillin; Jeremy Penner, Patterns of Daily Prayer in Second Temple Period Judaism (STDJ 104; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 54–67, 98–99. Regarding Philo’s use of the Haftarah, see Naomi G. Cohen, Philo’s Scriptures: Citations from the Prophets and Writings: Evidence for a Haftarah Cycle in Second Temple Judaism (JSJSup 123; Leiden: Brill, 2007).

However, Jutta Leonhardt-Balzer has correctly challenged Cohen and others who see common use of texts that would later be included in the Haftarah as reflecting institutional traditions at this time, see Jutta Leonhardt, Jewish Worship in Philo of Alexandria (TSAJ 84; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 90.

7 See Lee I. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), 135–173; Anders Runesson, The Origins of the Synagogue: A Socio-Historical Study (CBNTS 37; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 2001), 193–235; idem, “Synagogues without Rabbis or Christians? Ancient Institutions Beyond Normative Discourses,” Journal of Beliefs and Values 38.2 (2017): 159–172. While some parallels exist, the fact that this is the only unambiguous first-century instance of this practice is problematic for this assumption. As Seth Schwartz has illustrated well, the later

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Reif have convincingly argued, the reading of sacred texts is the primary liturgical element of the institution of the synagogue in the Second Temple Period. 8 It is the only performative element with any demonstrable supra-local diffusion in synagogues at this time.

The opening of this passage states that Jesus attended his hometown synagogue, as was his custom. Scholars have generally taken this statement to reflect Jesus’s religious devotion and to represent the pious upbringing he received in his hometown. 9 However, given the preceding summary, which stressed Jesus’s teaching programme, we should question whether Jesus’s regular synagogue attendance or his actions therein are being referred to as ‘his custom’. Contrary to its usual English translation, the synagogue participation and the reading are spoken of in the same sentence, likely in apposition, as relating to Jesus’s customary way of operating in the synagogue, and in a way that connects the language of this passage to Jesus’s commissioning in 3:21–4:13. 10 Thus, we are best served in seeing the content and delivery of Jesus’s teaching as that which was his custom.

Howard Clark Kee has argued that, among other things, an illiterate carpenter speaking in a sacred assembly simply does not make sense and should cause us to question how this could be a sacred institution in the first century CE. 11

Rabbinic synagogues not only had little continuity with the synagogues of the first century, they actively subverted the practices and understandings of the previous, independent institutions, which is enough to place any apparent parallels into question. See Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 BCE to 640 CE (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 215–239, 275–289. This lack of continuity led, for example, to Arnaldo Momigliano incorrectly arguing that Josephus knew nothing of the synagogue as an institution because the historian does not provide the expected normative description of a Rabbinic synagogue; see Arnaldo Momigliano, “What Flavius Josephus Did Not See,” in Essays on Ancient and Modern Judaism, ed. Silvia Berti, trans. Maura Masella-Gayley (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 67–78 (here 70–74).

8 Runesson, Origins, 193–196, 213–232; Stefan C. Reif, “Prayer in Early Judaism,” in Prayer from Tobit to Qumran, ed. Renate Egger-Wenzel and Jeremy Corley (DCL; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), 439–464 (here 442). For later synagogues, see also Zeev Weiss, “Actors and Theaters, Rabbis and Synagogues: The Role of Public Performances in Shaping Communal Behavior in Late Antique Palestine,” JAJ 8.2 (2017): 271–279.

9 E.g., Finkel, “Jesus’s Preaching,” 326; Luke Timothy Johnson, Gospel of Luke (Sacra Pagina 3. Collegeville: Liturgical, 1991), 78.

10 Green, Gospel of Luke, 203.

11 Howard Clark Kee, “The Transformation of the Synagogue after 70 CE: Its Import for Early Christianity,” NTS 36 (1990): 1–24.

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However, the assertions and conclusions of Kee’s study were systematically refuted in the following decade. 12 While the factuality of this critique has been questioned, the greater reason for rejecting this view of the synagogue “service” is because it anachronistically assumes the expectations of Rabbinic and modern synagogues on what was a fundamentally a civic institution in Galilee and Judea, which had just as much political importance as religious sanctity. These public synagogues were not controlled by priests or scribes, but rather were led by archisunagōgoi and the town boulē. In this context, public and political disputation were what we would expect, 13 and claims to messiahship were deeply political in the context of first century CE Palestine. These institutions were translocal, in that they were geographically diffuse with some shared traits, but in ways that fit their local purposes and traditions with no supralocal authority structures to regulate them. 14 This translocal, civic element also led to the population of the town forming their own reading and textual communities with limited inter-synagogal connections. 15 We must therefore take care not to expect too much homogeneity in synagogues at this time. Synagogues appear to have developed out of multiple assembly traditions, including Graeco-Roman associations, local temples, city-

12

See esp. Richard E. Oster, “Supposed Anachronisms in Luke’s Use of ΣΥΝΑΓΩΓΗ: A Rejoinder to H. C. Kee,” NTS 39 (1993): 178–208; John S. Kloppenborg, “Dating Theodotus,” JJS 51.2 (2000): 243–280. Kee made two attempts to counter Oster’s work, though the results have been viewed as generally unconvincing; see Howard Clark Kee, “The Changing Meaning of the Synagogue: A Response to Richard Oster,” NTS 40 (1994): 281–283; idem, “Defining the First Century CE Synagogue,” NTS 41 (1995): 481–500.

13 Jordan J. Ryan, “Jesus and Synagogue Disputes: Recovering the Institutional Context of Luke 13:10–17,” CBQ 79 (2017): 41–59.

14 See Clemens Greiner and Patrick Sakdapolrak, “Translocality: Concepts, Applications, and Emerging Research Perspectives,” Geography Compass 7.5 (2013): 373–384. Grenier and Sakdapolrak define translocality as a sociogeographic phenomenon that integrates “fluidity and discontinuity associated with mobilities, movements and flows on the one hand with notions of fixity, groundedness and situatedness in particular settings on the other” (376).

15 See Levine, Ancient Synagogue, 139–145; Runesson, Origins, 213–223; Ryan, Role of the Synagogue, 37–78; Samuel Rocca, “The Purposes and Functions of the Synagogue in Late Second Temple Judaea: Evidence from Josephus and Archeological Investigation,” in Flavius Josephus: Interpretations and History, ed. Jack Pastor, Pnina Stern, and Menahem Mor (JSJSup. 146; Leiden: Brill, 2011), 296–313.

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gate meetings, and ekklesiasteria. 16 By the first century, many of these traditions had begun to coalesce into sunagōgoi and proseuchai. It was only later, following the First Jewish Revolt, that authors such as Flavius Josephus and later the early Rabbis began to use this pre-existent institution as a singular rallying point for the now landless Jewish people. 17 As Tessa Rajak astutely argues, when we simply seek out that which looks like a modern synagogue, we will merely reconstruct a modern synagogue; we must eschew such “synagogue maximalism.” 18 We must instead reconstruct a descriptive, phenomenological picture of the various assembly traditions that might be categorized as official Jewish institutions.

In the discussion below, I will seek to address these issues in two distinct sections. First, I will address the realities and expectations of public reading in first century CE Galilee and the wider Roman East. I will pay special attention to the availability and status of texts, reading community formation, and ritual practice in reading. Second, I will address the exegetical and hermeneutical strategies of Jesus in their first-century context. Special focus will be placed on actualizing exegesis, 19 hybrid or harmonized texts, and the place of memory.

Reading Communities, Practices, and Competencies in the Galilean Synagogue As William A. Johnson has persuasively argued, reading is not merely a neurophysiological act of cognition in which we either participate (literate) or do not (illiterate). It is socially and culturally contextualized; it is a complex, social

16

See Runesson, Origins; Margaret H. Williams, “The Structure of Roman Jewry Reconsidered – Were the Synagogues of Ancient Rome Entirely Homogenous?” ZPE 104 (1994): 129–141; Andrew R. Krause, “Diaspora Synagogues, Leontopolis, and the Other Jewish Temples of Egypt in the Histories of Josephus,” Journal of Ancient History 4.1 (2016): 88–112.

17 Lester L. Grabbe, “Synagogues in Pre-70 Palestine: A Re-Assessment,” JTS 39.2 (1988): 401–410; Nadav Sharon, “Setting the Stage: The Effects of the Roman Conquest and the Loss of Sovereignty,” in Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History? On Jews and Judaism Before and After the Destruction of the Second Temple, ed. Daniel R. Schwartz and Zeev Weiss (AJEC 78; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 415–445; Andrew R. Krause, Synagogues in the Works of Flavius Josephus: Rhetoric, Spatiality, and First-Century Jewish Institutions (AJEC 97; Leiden: Brill, 2017).

18 Tessa Rajak, “The Ancient Synagogue,” SPhilA 15 (2003): 100–108.

19 “Actualizing exegesis” here refers to the application of scriptural prophecies to contemporary events with the expectation that the individual or group is illustrating their immediate fulfillment through their authoritative reading of the text.

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system. 20 According to Johnson, different “reading events” were occasioned when either a given group read a new text or when a common text was read in new contexts; thus, a “reading event” is contingent upon the interaction between the assembled “reading community” and the text that is read. 21 Cultural elements such as class, status, and region will affect reading events, and none of these cultural traits remain static, as …there are important differences that arise in communities as we move in time and place, even among communities in the same time and place. The ‘reading system,’ that is, turns out to be an ever-changing thing; like all social systems, the details and even the structure of interactions are subject to continual negotiation by the community. Despite a general sense of continuity, the ways that people interact with texts are no more stable than other social conventions. 22 Thus, generalizing meaning and practices in reading among even culturally proximate groups must be done carefully. Following Johnson, Joseph Howley has gone one step further in arguing that even within specific reading communities we find that different individuals will have vastly different textual encounters within these cultural constraints. According to Howley, the place of the individual as interpreting the text and undertaking specific reading practices must also be taken into account, especially as many of the changes over time in reading communities are the result of such innovative readings and the production of new knowledge. 23 In a recent article, Mladen Popović surveys the insights of William A. Johnson and other classicists who study ancient reading habits and communities, and he applies them to various Second Temple Period Jewish reading

20

William A. Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture in the High Roman Empire: A Study of Elite Communities (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 9–14; idem, “Toward a Sociology of Reading in Classical Antiquity,” AJP 121.4 (2000): 593–627.

21 Johnson, “Sociology,” 602.

22

William A. Johnson, “Constructing Elite Reading Communities in the High Empire,” in Ancient Literacies, ed. William A. Johnson and Holt N. Parker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 320–330 (here 321).

23 Joseph A. Howley, Aulus Gellius and Roman Reading Culture: Text, Presence, and Imperial Knowledge in the Noctes Atticae (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 66–111.

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communities, especially those represented at Qumran. 24 Following Brian Stock, Popović speaks of the Yahad movement as a “textual community,” which are “micro-societies organized around the common, shared understanding of texts.” 25 While the provenance of the documents at Qumran is often secondary, we are left with various texts either compiled, copied, or even written by members of this group which defined itself through continual study of their sacred texts (1QS VI 6–8).

But what has Qumran to do with Nazareth and its synagogue? Whether we think of the groups that collected, copied, and wrote the so-called Dead Sea Scrolls as a movement, a community, or even a synagogue themselves, their textual fervor and the place of the Jewish Scriptures are often matched by certain Jewish writers when speaking of synagogue meetings. For example, in Hyp 7.13 Philo of Alexandria speaks of a priest or elder reading and interpreting the holy Law, “point by point,” while the audience remains silent. Likewise, in V.Mos. 2.215, he refers to Sabbath meetings as places in which Torah is read and the “philosophy of the fathers” is expounded. In Philo’s Somn. 2.127, a non-Jewish official speaks of the synagogue participants reading their holy books and expounding the unclear points in order to learn their “ancient philosophy.”

Clothing these traditions in philosophical language was a natural part of Philo’s programme of cultural hybridity. 26 In perhaps his clearest presentation of scriptural reading events in the synagogue, Philo states, “they [i.e., the Jewish people] had prayer halls (προσευχὰς) and met in them, especially on the Sabbath, 24

Mladen Popović, “Reading, Writing, and Memorizing Together: Reading Culture in Ancient Judaism and the Dead Sea Scrolls in a Mediterranean Context,” DSD 24 (2017): 447–470.

25 Popović, “Reading,” 450; see Brian Stock, The Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh to Twelfth Centuries (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 522.

26 See Leonhardt, Jewish Worship, 90–97; eadem, “What Were They Doing in Second Temple Synagogues? Philo and the προσευχή,” in Synagogues in the Hellenistic-Roman Period: New Finds—New Theories—New Reconstructions, ed. Lutz Doering and Andrew R. Krause (SIJD; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Academic, forthcoming). On cultural hybridity, see Homi K. Bhaba, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 102– 122; James M. G. Barclay, “The Empire Writes Back: Josephan Rhetoric in Flavian Rome,” in Flavius Josephus and Flavian Rome, ed. Jonathan Edmondson, Steve Mason, and James Rives (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 315–332 (esp. 317–318). “Hybridity” allowed the conquered to conflate their culture with the dominant culture in a way that seeks to destabilize power imbalances through the use of the dominant culture’s sources and symbols of power against them.

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when they receive public instruction in their national philosophy” (Legat. 156). 27 In a very similar text, though not speaking of the synagogue or prayer hall specifically, Flavius Josephus claims that “every week men should desert their other occupations and assemble (συλλέγω) to listen to the Law and to obtain a thorough and accurate knowledge of it, a practice which all other legislators seem to have neglected” (C.Ap. 2.175). 28 As with the above-listed works of Philo, Josephus is here defending the Jewish people against what he views as slanderous lies about their status as a rebellious nation. Instead of being a lawless people, Josephus argues that the textual knowledge that results from this constant institutional reading of their laws means that the Jews are the most law-abiding of all peoples by Roman standards. In contrast to other ethnic groups who never know their law until they have broken it, Josephus goes so far as to claim that a common Jew is able to recite the entirety of the Law faster than they might recall their own names (C.Ap. 2.176–78; cf. AJ 16.43). 29 It is notable that Josephus here utilizes the same ideals, including those that speak of the Jewish reading community, as he does for the Essenes, his exemplary community of Jews in his earlier BJ 2.119–66. 30 It is also notable that, as in Luke 4 and Legat. 156, such reading is specifically understood as taking place on the Sabbath. 31 In the various Roman acta of AJ 13–16, Josephus quotes several decrees and letters that were purportedly written by local and imperial rulers and that report special allowances given to the Jewish people. In every letter or decree that speaks of synagogues and other assembly places being built for Jewish groups, these places are specifically spoken of in relation to the ancestral customs and laws of the Jewish people, which are to be taught there. 32 In all of these cases, if we are able to look past the considerable hyperbole, we find that many Jewish writers believed that their entire 27 28

Ramsey, LCL.

Translation from Thackeray, LCL; see also John M. G. Barclay, Against Apion (FJTC 10; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 101.

29 See John M. G. Barclay, “The Politics of Contempt: Judaeans and Egyptians in Josephus’ Against Apion,” in Negotiating Diaspora: Jewish Strategies in the Roman Empire, ed. John M. G. Barclay (LSTS 45; London: T&T Clark International, 2004), 109–127; idem, “Constructing Judean Identity after 70 CE: A Study of Josephus’ Against Apion,” in Identity and Interaction in the Ancient Mediterranean: Jews, Christians, and Others, ed. Zeba A. Crook and Philip A. Harland (New Testament Monographs 4; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2007), 99–112.

30 See Krause, Synagogues, 207–220.

31 Contra Heather A. McKay, Sabbath and Synagogue: The Question of Sabbath Worship in Ancient Judaism (RGRW 122; Leiden: Brill, 1994).

32 E.g. AJ 14.213–216; 235, 256–258, 259–261; 16.162–165; See Krause, Synagogues, 55–87.

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ethnic and national body was defined by a compunction to hear and to learn their national law, the Torah, and that places of assembly were needed for the study of these laws.

In terms of inscriptional evidence, we may turn to the Theodotus Inscription (CIJ 2.1404), a Greek inscription found on the southern slope of the Ophel during the City of David excavations in 1913–14. It can reliably be dated to the first century CE. 33 It states, Theodotos, son of Vettenus, priest and ruler of the synagogue, son of a ruler of the synagogue, grandson of a ruler of the synagogue, built the synagogue for the reading of the law and the teaching of the commandments, and also the guest chamber and the upper rooms and the ritual pools of water for accommodating those needing them from abroad, which his fathers, the elders, and Simonides founded.

It is notable here that the first mentioned activities for which the synagogue was built were the reading of the Law and teaching of the commandments. Despite being constructed in Palestine, this would not have been the seat of civic power and it is clearly a priestly, family-run establishment, so we should reject it as a potential public synagogue in favor of an association synagogue, following Kloppenborg, Runesson, and Ryan. 34 In all of the above mentioned texts, we find that the public reading of the Law was of prime importance in relation to the synagogue, even if none of them give any substantive detail about how these readings took place. 35 Even when we account for the apologetical aims of Josephus and Philo, the unifying theme of synagogues that we find in literature from this period is that of the reading and learning of the Jewish Law. While the terminology for both the law and the institution may vary widely, as indeed do the other activities discussed, this literature points to an institution dedicated to the Jewish sacred Scriptures and their instruction. It should not be surprising then, that this is precisely what we 33

See Kloppenborg, “Dating,” 243–280.

John S. Kloppenborg, “The Theodotus Synagogue Inscription and the Problem of the Synagogue Buildings,” in Jesus and Archaeology, ed. James H. Charlesworth (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 236–282; Runesson, Origins, 226–231; Ryan, Role of the Synagogue, 50.

35 For summary and more detailed connections, see Brian J. Wright, Communal Reading in the Time of Jesus: A Window into Early Christian Reading Practices (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2017), 102–103; Lawrence H. Schiffman, “The Early History of Public Reading of the Torah,” in Jews, Christians, and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue: Cultural Interaction during the Greco-Roman Period, ed. Steven Fine (London: Routledge, 1999), 44–56.

34

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find in the ever-growing material record: an institution that is literally built for discussion. As James Strange has illustrated well, the many variations on the theme of stepped benches on 2–4 walls and pillars in between these benches that we find in Gamla, Masada, Qiryat Sefer, Modi’in (Um el-Umdan), and Herodium seem to point to discussion and teaching as the primary purpose for these public buildings in the Land. 36 Even in more recently excavated synagogues such as Khirbet Majduliyya, Khirbet Qana, Magdala, and Tel Rekhesh, the outer benches with central pillars points to a premium on dialogical interaction and performance, even over visual performance, which would have been obscured by the pillars.

Another datum that leads in this direction is the recent discovery of one or two potential reading podiums at Magdala/Taricheae. Not long after the discovery of the so-called Magdala Stone in the Magdala Archaeological Project, Mordechai Aviam opined that the corners of top register of this ashlar stone may have held a wooden podium for the scrolls that were being read. 37 Aviam cites both Nehemiah 8 and Luke 4:17, both of which include the standing reading of sacred texts and the former speaking of a wooden podium, in order to support this claim. Subsequent scholars have questioned this purported usage, especially as it would obscure much of the imagery on the upper register, imagery which Aviam himself viewed as being the primary data of the find. 38 Unfortunately, the

36

James F. Strange, “Archaeology and Ancient Synagogues up to about 200 CE,” in Ancient Synagogues: From Its Origins until 200 CE, ed. Birger Olssen and Magnus Zetterholm (CBNTS 39; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell International, 2003), 37–62. This is acknowledged by Green (Green, Gospel of Luke, 209), which is somewhat unique amongst commentators. For a similar look at contemporary public institutions in the Greek world, see Barbara Burrell, “Reading, Hearing, and Looking at Ephesos,” in Ancient Literacies, ed.

William A. Johnson and Holt N. Parker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 69–95.

37 Mordecai Aviam, “The Decorated Stone from the Synagogue at Migdal: A Holistic Interpretation and a Glimpse into the Life of Galilean Jews at the Time of Jesus,” NovT 55.3 (2013): 205–220; idem, “The Book of Enoch and the Galilean Archaeology and Landscape,” in Parables of Enoch: A Paradigm Shift, ed. James H. Charlesworth and Darrell L. Bock (Jewish and Christian Texts in Contexts and Related studies Series 11; London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 159–169.

38 E.g., Steven Fine, “From Synagogue Furnishing to Media Event: The Magdala Ashlar,” Ars Judaica 13 (2017): 27–38 (esp. 31); Judith H. Newman, “Contextualizing the Magdala Synagogue Stone in Its Place: An Exercise in Liturgical Imagination,” in Synagogues in the Hellenistic-Roman Period: New Finds—New Theories—New Reconstructions, ed., Lutz Doering and Andrew R. Krause (SIJD; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Academic, forthcoming).

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slant on the top of the stone and the faintness of the proposed space also make this argument difficult to affirm. Alternatively, Anders Runesson has identified the raised ashlar stone in the centre of the so-called “study room” as a scroll podium, because of its deep grooves that would have facilitated the rolling and unrolling of a scroll, though for a kneeling reader. 39 Unlike Aviam, Runesson questions the normative nature of reading while standing that is found only in Luke 4:17 prior to the Rabbinic literature of the third century CE. Likewise, we find scant material evidence for scrolls in the synagogues.

While Torah shrines only became common in the third or fourth century CE, the extant synagogues of both Gamla (first century CE) and Nabratein (second century CE) contain potential arks. The former is ambiguous, while the latter had a decorative pediment placed above it in the early fourth century CE, which points to the likelihood that this structure was understood as a Torah shrine, though we cannot be sure when this understanding was established. 40 Unfortunately, neither of these possible Torah shrines was found to contain scrolls. We do, however, have one first-century CE synagogue that did contain scrolls: Masada. During the Masada excavations, portions of two scrolls, one of Deuteronomy and one of Ezekiel, were found buried in the floor of a room adjacent to the synagogue.

Levine opines that this room was likely used as a genizah by the fleeing rebels for their synagogue texts. 41 While some might add the Ein-Gedi Leviticus Scroll to this conversation, Ada Yardeni’s first–second centuries CE dating of this scroll has been vigorously and conclusively challenged by Drew Longacre, who dates it to the third–sixth centuries CE. 42 Thus, we find very little proof of scriptural libraries or arks in these public buildings.

The two texts found at Masada, however, raise another more important set of questions for our present purposes: how many scrolls do we expect to find 39

Anders Runesson, private conversation.

Eric M. Meyers, “The Torah Shrine in the Ancient Synagogue: Another Look at the Evidence,” in Jews, Christians, and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue: Cultural Interaction in the Greco-Roman Period, ed. Steven Fine (London: Routledge, 1999), 201– 223 (esp. 210–213).

41 Levine, Ancient Synagogue, 61–62; Shemaryahu Talmon and Yigael Yadin, ed., Masada IV: Hebrew Fragments from Masada (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1999), 17–19, 51–75.

42 Drew Longacre, “Reconsidering the Date of the En-Gedi Leviticus Scroll (EGLev): Exploring the Limitations of the Comparative-Typological Paleographic Method,” Textus 27.1 (2018): 44–84; cf. Michael Segal, Emanuel Tov, William Brent Seales, Clifford Seth Parker, Pnina Shor, and Yosef Porath, with an appendix by Ada Yardeni, “An Early Leviticus Scroll from En-Gedi: Preliminary Publication,” Textus 26 (2016): 1–30 (here, 20).

40

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in such synagogues and how extensive would they be? It is often implicitly assumed that synagogues at this time would contain a significant portion of the Jewish Scriptures, if not all of them. Even if we set aside the considerable issues of canon during this period, 43 the issue of archival holdings is significant for understanding the synagogue reading communities of the Galilee. Few texts give any notion of such collections. In Josephus’ Vita 134, Jesus, the ἄρχων of Tiberias, is spoken of as holding “a copy of the Laws of Moses” (χεῖρας τοὺς Μωυσέως νόμους)44 as he leads the assembly, with the clear implication that possession of this scroll buttresses his authority. BJ 2.228 speaks of the (singular) book (βιβλίον) of law being taken from an unnamed village in order to be burned as punishment after bandits attacked a slave of Caesar and took his belongings. Likewise, the scroll of “sacred Law(s)” from the synagogue in Caesarea Maritima was removed in BJ 2.292, which speaks of the Caesarean Jews fleeing violence in front of the synagogue. Intriguingly, this scroll is not only spoken of as the holy laws, but is also treated as a holy, cultic object by the Roman authorities, who arrested the 43

For more general treatments of this issue, see Steve Mason, “Josephus and his TwentyTwo Book Canon,” in The Canon Debate, ed. Lee M. MacDonald and J.A. Sanders (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2002), 110–127; William Schniedewind, How the Bible Became a Book (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Emanuel Tov, “Some Thoughts About the Diffusion of Biblical Manuscripts,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Transmission of Tradition and Production of Texts, ed. Sarianna Metso, Hindy Najman, and Eileen Schuller (STDJ 92; Leiden: Brill, 2010), 151–172; Eugene Ulrich, “The Evolutionary Production and Transmission of the Scriptural Books,” in Dead Sea Scrolls, 209–225; David M. Carr, The Formation of the Hebrew Bible (Oxford : Oxford University Press, 2011), 153–179; Timothy H. Lim, The Formation of the Jewish Canon (ABRL; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), 17–34. Lim notes the danger of reading too much into statements such as “Writings” and the “Prophets” in Second Temple literature. He also argues that we must rethink linear theories regarding the formation of a Jewish canon and the idea of a canonical library in the Temple. Carr notes the issue of power and subversion were at work in the area of delimiting authoritative literature during the Second Temple period, with many groups rejecting the centrality of Jerusalem through the production of rival texts and actualizing interpretations of the mutually agreed upon texts. For Carr, the Hasmonean monarchy was the watershed period for the canonization process among mainstream Jews. More recently, Michael Satlow has argued that the Judaeans and Alexandrian Jews progressed towards such clear demarcations of canon at different rates, with the translation of the LXX leading the Alexandrians to hold a firmer concept of “Scripture” as over against the ongoing Judaean primacy of the ancestral customs until the beginning of the first century CE. See Michael L. Satlow, How the Bible Became Holy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014), 136–170.

44 Thackeray, LCL.

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Jewish leaders for removing sacred implements from the city. 45 As inscribed objects, cultic books held high levels of iconic and ritual significance, which Martin Jaffee identifies as one of the reasons for their scarcity. 46 He argues that in the pre-Rabbinic period, we should only expect a small number of texts being taught to very few individuals, as the few scribal schools and centers would not have been able to produce sufficient texts for the entirety of Palestine. 47 Beyond these economic and labor considerations, one had to deal with the authority of the scribes, who were able to copy sacred texts, and this gave them power as the conduit through which the Scriptures were made accessible. 48 Scribes were one of the few groups who obtained some level of upward mobility, even though rote copying was considered laborious and unaristocratic. 49 We should also acknowledge that the possession of a singular Torah Scroll did not necessitate the entirety of the Torah as we know it being contained in that scroll. The longest “biblical” scroll we have from this period contained the entirety of Isaiah but would be entirely insufficient to contain the Torah as a whole. Such “deluxe scrolls,” as they are called by Emmanuel Tov, 50 would be extremely expensive, and we should thus question whether remote fishing towns

45

It should be noted, however, that this is still far from the Mishnaic teaching that the entire synagogue is holy based on proximity to the Torah scrolls (m. Meg. 3.1–3), as the synagogue itself is said to be defiled, and the Law only seems to be removed to save it from harm. See Krause, Synagogues, 185–187.

46 Martin S. Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism 200 BCE–400 CE (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 16.

47 Jaffee, Torah, 20–22. See also Pieter J. J. Botha, “New Testament Texts in the Context of Reading Practices of the Roman Period: The Role of Memory and Performance,” Scriptura 90 (2005): 621–640 (esp. 626).

48 Chris Keith, The Pericope Adulterae, the Gospel of John, and the Literacy of Jesus (NTT 38; Leiden: Brill 2009), 94, 117. The scribes became text-brokers, who mediated holy texts and therefore held authority through their control of the texts; this makes Jesus’s “outinterpreting” of the scribes and Pharisees even more noteworthy, as even Jesus is shown as grapho-literate in John 8:6, 8.

49 E.g. Quintilian, Inst. 1.1.28–29, “The art of writing well and quickly is not unimportant for our purpose, though it is generally disregarded by persons of quality. Writing is of the utmost importance in the study which we have under consideration and by its means alone can true and deeply rooted proficiency be obtained.” (Butler, LCL).

50 Emanuel Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert (STDJ 54; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 125–129.

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in the north would own one, let alone several. 51 We should expect instead excerpted texts (e.g., 4QTestimonia), harmonized Torah texts (e.g., 4QPentateucha–e), or a combination of the two forms (e.g., 4QDeutn) such as we find at Qumran. 52 Thus, we should not expect that the public synagogue at Nazareth had much more than the Isaiah Scroll, and we should not even assume that they had the entire book; it is noteworthy that the two primary texts that Jesus quoted were both from Trito-Isaiah. Even in larger cities, such resources would be scant; while Acts 13:13–15 speaks of reading from the law and prophets (a noted rarity in the Second Temple literary record), this would more likely have been a comment on the richness of the synagogue’s archival holdings rather than a statement of normative synagogue reading practices.

In sum, the idealized picture of the Jews as a nation of elite readers and students of law is problematized by the scarcity of resources, especially in Galilean fishing villages and towns. Synagogue structures were purpose-built for study and disputation, but few participants could have read from the limited texts available.

In this context, Jesus’s reading as it is presented in Luke 4:16–22 illustrates mastery over a small spectrum of texts in a context defined by reading and dialogical exposition, though with little indication of normative performative practice beyond the reading itself. The synagogue was a public, civic institution in which a so-called “craftsman” or “peasant” who had shown facility for such texts could 51

See Charlotte Hempel, “Reflections on Literacy, Textuality, and Community in the Qumran Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Is there a Text in this Cave? Studies in the Textuality of the Dead Sea Scrolls in Honour of George J. Brooke, ed. Ariel Feldman, Maria Cioată, and Charlotte Hempel (STDJ 119; Leiden: Brill, 2017), 69–82 (esp. 75–79).

52 Popović, “Reading,” 462. Regarding excerpted and harmonized texts, see Esther Eshel, “4QDeutn – A Text That Has Undergone Harmonistic Editing,” HUCA 62 (1991): 117– 154; Emmanuel Tov, “Excerpted and Abbreviated Biblical Texts from Qumran,” RevQ 16.4 (1995): 581–600; Brent A. Strawn, “Excerpted Manuscripts from Qumran: Their Significance for the Textual History of the Hebrew Bible and the Socio-Religious History of the Qumran Community and its Literature,” in The Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls, Vol. 2, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Qumran Community, ed. James H. Charlesworth (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2006), 107–167; Stephen Reed, “Physical Features of Excerpted Torah Texts,” in Jewish and Christian Scripture as Artifact and Canon, ed. Craig A. Evans and H. Daniel Zacharias (LSTS 70; London: T. & T. Clark International, 2009), 82–104. On the unique issues of 4QPentateuch (formerly 4QReworked Pentateuch), see Molly M. Zahn, “The Problem of Characterizing the 4QReworked Pentateuch Manuscripts: Bible, Rewritten Bible, or None of the Above? ” DSD 153 (2008): 315–339; Andrew B. Perrin, “Towards a New Edition of 4QReworked Pentateucha (4Q158): Text, Translation, Variants and Notes,” in Celebrating the Dead Sea Scrolls: A Canadian Collection, ed. Jean Duhaime, Peter Flint, and Kyung Baek (SBLEJL 30; Atlanta: SBL Press, 2011),” 59–76.

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conceivably be called upon to read. This translocal institution had little in the way of hierarchical or supralocal structure, though clear expectations of public readings. Jesus’s familiarity in town opens the door to the reading, though also occasions increased surprise at the claims of his actualizing exegesis.

Jesus’s Exegetical Practices in Second Temple Context As noted above, Jesus’s actualizing exegesis fits well with his previous messianic and prophetic presentation in the opening sections of this gospel. Luke 4:15 makes clear that Jesus was already beginning to travel amongst local synagogues in order to teach. Thus, while this was likely not Jesus’s first public reading and teaching event, it is presented at the outset of Luke’s presentation of Jesus’s ministry as a representative teaching with several correspondences to Jesus’s messianic and prophetic presentation in the introductory sections of the gospel. As written in Luke, Jesus reads, The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. (Luke 4:18–19, NRSV) In this section, I will contextualize the exegetical practices of Jesus as he makes these claims to exceptional status; in so doing, I will note that the hybrid text and expositional practices are not what occasion the crowd’s ire. Quite the contrary, the crowd is said to marvel at Jesus’s exegetical and performative virtuosity.

As we seek to explicate Jesus’s reading practices, we are met immediately with the issue of language. While we know that some Greek reading was common in Palestine, we would expect a synagogue in the Land to include readings from Hebrew or Aramaic texts. 53 This is complicated by Luke’s own “septuagintalizing” language, which ambiguates semiticisms in the gospel’s Koinē. 54 Thus the language being read has been one of the key discussions, with scholars such as J.A. Sanders claiming a LXX text, while others such as Steven Notley have claimed a 53

For focused, if somewhat dated, treatments of this issue, see Emmanuel Tov, “The Text of the Hebrew/Aramaic and Greek Bible Used in the Ancient Synagogues,” in Ancient Synagogues: From Its Origins until 200 CE, ed. Birger Olssen and Magnus Zetterholm (CBNTS 39; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell International, 2003), 237–259; Jonathan M. Watt, “Language Pragmatism in a Multilingual Religious Community,” in Ancient Synagogues, 277–297.

54 See Nolland, Luke, 192.

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Hebrew original. According to Sanders, Luke follows the LXX verbatim, with the exception of omitting the fourth of the six colons in 61:1 and reading κηρύξαι rather than καλεσαί at the beginning of 61:2. 55 Given the tendentiousness of these changes, Sanders claims that the base-text should be understood as the Greek Bible. Additionally, Darrell Bock notes that the Lukan text, like the LXX, twice leaves out renderings of the Tetragrammaton. 56 Conversely, Steven Notley has challenged this identification in a pair of recent studies. According to Notley, the text’s preservation of certain “nonSeptuagintal Hebraisms” confirms Hebrew sources not found in the other Synoptic Gospels. Two phrases which particularly confirm this for Notley are “the book of the prophet Isaiah” (βιβλίον τοῦ προφήτου Ἠσαΐου) in 4:17, which is a markedly Semitic way to reference a book, and the verbal link between the MT version of Isa 61:2 and 58:5–7 with “the Lord’s favor” (‫)רצון ליהוה‬, which is not comparable in the LXX. 57 Jesus’s alteration of his source text is threefold according to Notley. 58 He omits “to bind the broken-hearted” and “the day of vengeance of our God” from Isa 61:1–2. He also inserts “and let the oppressed go free” from 58:6. As Joseph Lear has recently illustrated, the syntactic and thematic parallels between the clause he adds from Isa 58:6 and the remainder of the reading show careful literary structuring. 59 Interestingly, the context of Isaiah 58:6 as a text speaking of social justice work as taking the place of fasts also emphasizes Jesus’s own movement away from traditional cultic practice and in the very institution in which Jesus would so often accomplish these aims. What we find is a purposeful, conceptual addition, as Jesus uses Isa 58:6 as a complementary text to emphasize his salvific work, while omitting the more exclusive elements of his base-text, 238F

239F

240F

55

James A. Sanders, “From Isaiah 61 to Luke 4,” in Christianity, Judaism, and Other GrecoRoman Cults, Part One: New Testament, ed. Jacob Neusner (SJLA 12.1; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 75–106.

56 Darrell L. Bock, Proclamation from Prophecy and Pattern: Lucan Old Testament Christology (JSNTSup. 12; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), 106.

57 Notley, “Jesus’s Jewish Hermeneutical Method,” 46–59; R. Steven Notley and Jeffrey P. Garcia, “The Hebrew Scriptures in the Third Gospel,” in Searching the Scriptures: Studies in Context and Intertextuality, ed. Craig A. Evans and Jeremiah J. Johnston (LNTS 543; London: T & T Clark International, 2015), 128–147 (here, 131–134).

58 See Notley and Garcia, “Hebrew Scriptures,” 133. Cf. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke I–IX, AB (New York: Doubleday, 1970), 531.

59 Joseph M. Lear, “The Hybrid Isaiah Quotation in Luke 4:18–19,” in Ancient Readers and their Scriptures: Engaging the Hebrew Bible in Early Judaism and Christianity, ed. John Anthony Dunne and Garrick V. Allen (JSJSup. 107; Leiden: Brill, 2018), 159–172.

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which is entirely consistent with Jesus’s political and prophetic purposes in the Gospel of Luke. 60 But how is this accomplished, exegetically speaking? Early commentators often noted the use of the resumption of ἄφεσις in the two texts as a midrashic element or a seemingly purposeful homoioteleuton using these two verses. However, it is only if we understand the reading coming directly from the LXX that we can assume that it was a direct use of either element at the verbal level. The combination of texts for clarification of a base-text was a common element of ancient Hebrew exegesis, especially among the exegetical texts from Qumran. Such exegesis did not have a single method, but could include both changes in the reporting of the base-text, or lemma, and extra-textual explanation, often using other biblical texts for the explanation. 61 Thus, Carl Mosser refers to Jesus’s exegetical method as analogous to the Qumran pesharim, due to the reading of a prophetic text followed by an explanation regarding how it is being fulfilled. 62 However, while Jesus does explain the fulfillment and uses a secondary text, the technical language of the pesharim is absent, as is the use of Torah texts in the explanation. Fortunately, two other non-pesher exegetical texts from Qumran contain similar uses of Isa 61:1–2 for comparison: 11QMelchizedek (11Q13) and 4QMessianic Apocalypse (4Q521). In the former, this text is tellingly combined with elements of Isa 58 in order to claim that an apocalyptic year of Jubilee is being enacted, here by Melchizedek as a priestly messiah. Unlike Luke 4:18–19, this text keeps the language of judgement for enemies and only applies the salvific language for a specific in-group. 63 In the latter text, Isa 61:1–2 also has several correspondences with Luke 4, especially in its addition of the dead being raised, which would have been tied most closely to Elijah (cf. Luke 4:25). 64 As in

60

John Howard Yoder, The Politics of Jesus (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1972), 34–37; Mosser, “Torah,” 540–541.

61 For a basic introduction to the wider set of exegetical phenomena, see Daniel A. Machiela, “Once More with Feeling: Rewritten Scripture in Ancient Judaism – A Review of Recent Developments,” JJS 61 (2010): 308–320.

62 Mosser, “Torah,” 541.

63 See Peter Mallen, The Reading and Transformation of Isaiah in Luke-Acts (LNTS 367; London: T&T Clark International, 2008), 74–77; Notley, “Jesus’s Jewish Hermeneutical Method,” 54–55; Sanders “From Isaiah 61,” 90–92.

64 Sean Freyne, Jesus, a Jewish Galilean: A New Reading of the Jesus-Story (London: T&T Clark International, 2004), 92–93; following John J. Collins, The Sceptre and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and other Ancient Literature (New York: Doubleday, 1995), 117–122.

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the Gospel of Luke, the Qumran Scrolls in general made heavy use of Isaiah for actualizing prophecies.

As noted above, Isaiah is the one text that is mentioned as being present in the public synagogue of Jesus’s hometown. In the Lukan portrayal of this tradition, this was a text that Jesus would have heard with some regularity, and thus we should not be surprised that he could combine two texts from Trito-Isaiah in his reading. That memory played a key role in ancient reading is beyond doubt.

According to Aulus Gellius’ Noctes Atticae 1.7, literate acquaintances were able to recall verbal constructions from various texts from pluriform genres in order to argue a point in their leisurely discussions; even correcting for the famous hubris of this text, we find that memory was an important part of argumentation at this time, especially given the scarcity of written texts. 65 In such a context, paideia throughout the ancient Mediterranean would have depended more on memory than writing and note-taking. 66 According to Pieter Botha, memory played a primary role in the learning and study of sacred texts in early Judaism and Christianity, as continual corporate reading would have developed and solidified such knowledge. 67 The use of excerpted and harmonized texts mentioned above would also have aided in the mnemonic acquisition of scriptural knowledge. This primacy of memory in ancient education and argumentation likely accounts for Jesus’s detailed knowledge of the Jewish Scriptures. Jesus’s travels and other travelling teachers in Nazareth help to explain Jesus’s detailed knowledge of these texts; even if we question the historical veracity of stories such as the Lukan narrative of Jesus’s legal disputations in Jerusalem as a child (Luke 2:41–52), such movement would have introduced Jesus to the key texts and debates by the time of his ministry. Such recall would have made complex harmonizing such as that of Jesus in Luke 4:18–19 possible, if still somewhat surprising. However, even with Jesus, we must resist modern notions of “comprehensive knowledge” of a stillnascent scriptural corpus.

Given these correspondences in terms of both method and text, we should not be surprised that the audience of Jesus were not angered by his use of such common methods and texts. As stated above, it was Jesus’s claims to fulfill these texts himself that incensed the crowd. Jesus was a member of their community and the son of a carpenter, who was seeking to claim exceptional prophetic and messianic roles, though using common exegetical techniques.

65 66 67

Johnson, “Constructing,” 320–321.

Popović, “Reading,” 456–461.

Botha, “New Testament,” 632–633.

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Conclusions and Implications Like our understanding of the synagogue itself, our notions of what Jesus accomplished through his synagogue reading have changed over time. My purpose in this paper has been admittedly modest: to problematize past understandings of Jesus’s reading that have relied on normative and anachronistic ideas of synagogue practice. The synagogue in this period was still very much a nascent institution with little supralocal consistency or organization. As a public institution and the seat of civic administration in the Land during the Second Temple Period, emphasis was placed on public debate and with none of the liturgical normativity that the later Rabbis would institute. Thus, as we address the public reading of Scripture, which we have good reason to treat as the primary liturgical element of synagogues in the Land during this period, we must take care not to retroject medieval or modern expectations.

In terms of the act of reading, I have argued that Jesus drew from memory, a surprisingly limited set of texts, and a pragmatic set of social cues in his reading. While this is the most detailed description of such a synagogue “service” from this period, I have contended that the liturgical choreography (i.e., sitting and standing) and the reading of prophets should not be treated as normative without further corroboration from pre-Rabbinic texts. Also, given the scarcity of texts, we cannot be certain which other scriptural texts, if any, were read in this Sabbath synagogue meeting. It is clear, however, that synagogue buildings were built in a way that facilitated reading and disputation as their primary uses. Jesus’s dual role of local artisan and travelling teacher also further ambiguate expectations and precisely what we may generalize from this text.

In terms of interpretive method, Jesus’s textual alterations and actualizing interpretation were representative of what we might expect from Hebrew exegetical texts in this period. The crowd’s negative reaction was to the content of this interpretation, not its methods. Jesus utilizes a common text for claiming messiahship, though in a way that fits the Lukan portrayal of Jesus.

www.jjmjs.org

The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” in the Gospel of John Roger David Aus roger.aus@googlemail.com JJMJS No. 7 (2020): 74–92 The identity of the “Beloved Disciple” is one of the most puzzling issues in the Gospel of John. At least twenty-two different suggestions have been made in this regard; none of them up to now having become the majority opinion. 1 The object of this essay is not to make a new suggestion, but to investigate the Judaic background of the expression. 2 However, this in turn can provide hints at least as to what kind of community the author of the “Beloved Disciple” may have come from, and indications of what kind of person he may have been. After a short review of the relevant passages in Section I, Section II deals with the Beloved Disciple’s role in the scene of Jesus’s final meal with the disciples (13:23–25), Judaic tradition on Deut 33:12, and the reunion meal of Joseph with his brothers.

Section III then deals with the “Other Disciple,” Section IV with the original language of the author behind the “Beloved Disciple,” and Section V with the 1

Cf. the extensive analysis of these in chapter three of James Charlesworth’s The Beloved Disciple: Whose Witness Validates the Gospel of John? (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1995), 127–224. Charlesworth himself favors Thomas (422–437). Already in 1959, Alv Kragerud wrote in Der Lieblingsjünger im Johannesevangelium (Oslo: Universitätsverlag, 1959), 10, that “among the New Testament problems which we are tempted to declare insolvable, L [the Beloved Disciple] would have to take one of the first places.”

2 I employ the term “Judaic” for “early Jewish” as it is used, e.g. by Jacob Neusner and his adherents, as well as by numerous New Testament scholars such as Bruce Chilton. Almost all my studies have been published in series edited by Neusner and follow this usage. This essay is a greatly expanded and modified version of the cursory remarks I previously made on this subject within the study “Jesus as a Nazirite in Mark 14:25 par., and Joseph’s Reunion Meal in Judaic Tradition,” in Searching the Scriptures: Studies in Context and Intertextuality, ed. Craig A. Evans and Jeremiah Johnston (London, etc.: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015), 104–107. In contrast, Joachim Kügler in Der Jünger, den Jesus liebte (SBB 16; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1988), 451, maintains that in the Beloved Disciple texts “traditionsgeschichtliche Vorstufen” cannot be ascertained.

Aus, The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” 75

question of what kind of person the Beloved Disciple could have been. The essay concludes with an Addendum concerning the role of the Beloved Disciple at the Cross in John 19:25-29.

I. The Relevant Passages 1. John 13:23 states: “One of his disciples — the one whom Jesus loved — was reclining at Jesus’s chest” (ἦν ἀνακείμενος εἷς ἐκ τῶν μαθητῶν αὐτοῦ ἐν τῷ κόλπῳ τοῦ Ἰησοῦ, ὃν ἠγάπα ὁ Ἰησοῦς). 3 2. Verse 25 reads: “Thus, that [disciple] having reclined/leaned in such a way on the chest of Jesus, says to him: ‘Lord, who is it?’” 4 3. John 21:20 refers back to 13:25 with the same terminology by relating: “Having turned, Peter sees the disciple whom Jesus loved following, the one who reclined/leaned on his chest at the meal, and said: ‘Lord, who is it who is betraying you?’”

4. John 19:26–27 relates a moving scene at the Crucifixion: “When Jesus saw his mother and ‘the disciple whom he loved’ [τὸν μαθητὴν...ὃν ἠγάπα] standing beside her, he says to his mother: ‘Woman, behold, [this is] your son.’ Then he says to the disciple: ‘Behold, [this is] your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.”

5. John 20:2 states that when Mary Magdalene came to Jesus’s tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from it, “she thus runs and comes

3

The term κόλπος literally means “bosom,” “breast,” “chest” (BAGD 442). LSJ 974 adds “lap.” Just as the Beloved Disciple reclines at Jesus’s “chest,” so the Son is “in the bosom/chest” of the Father (John 1:18). One of my Yale professors, Paul Minear, also pointed to this in his article “The Beloved Disciple in the Gospel of John: Some Clues and Conjectures,” in NovT 19 (1977): 105–123, esp. 117. Although he too considers Deut 33:12 important in regard to the Beloved Disciple (he is a “second Benjamin,” 116), Minear relies on secondary sources such as the Encyclopedia Judaica and Paul Billerbeck (Str-B) for Judaic traditions and nowhere deals with the many primary sources I cite below.

Interestingly, he considers the audience of the Fourth Gospel to mainly consist of three different kinds of Jews (106). The verb ἀνάκειμαι means “to lie, recline,” when always used of reclining at table, “to dine” (BAGD 55; LSJ 107 III. “lie at table, recline”). All biblical translations in this article are my own.

4 The two terms οὖν and οὕτως basically mean the same and are repetitive. Also typical of the author’s style, a different verb for “to recline” is employed here: ἀναπίπτω, literally to fall back (LSJ 116, but also 5. “recline at meals, like ἀνάκειμαι”); BAGD 59, 1. “lie down, recline esp. at a meal”; 2. “lean, lean back,” as here. A different term is also employed for “chest” here: στῆθος: “chest, breast” (BAGD 767; LSJ 1643).

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to Simon Peter and ‘the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved’ [τὸν ἄλλον μαθητὴν ὃν ἐφίλει ὁ Ἰησοῦς], and says to them....” 5

6.

7.

8.

John 21:7 relates that on the shore of the Sea of Galilee Jesus appeared to some of his disciples and instructed them to try their luck again after first catching nothing while fishing. When a miraculously large number of fish was then caught, “that disciple whom Jesus loved [ὁ μαθητὴς ἐκεῖνος ὃν ἠγάπα ὁ Ἰησοῦς] says to Peter: ‘It is the Lord!’”

John 21:24 states regarding “the disciple whom Jesus loved” (in v. 20): “This is the disciple who is testifying to these things and has written them, and we know that his testimony is true.” 6 This statement implies the Beloved Disciple is the author of (i.e., ultimately behind) the Gospel of John.

The Beloved Disciple is also designated “the other disciple” (ὁ ἄλλος μαθητής) in John 20:2, 3, 4 and 8. 7 Especially for someone reading the Gospel for the first time, this instance of referring to another important person as “other” without specifically naming him appears at least somewhat strange. 8

5

Here the verb φιλέω is employed: “love, have affection for, like” (BAGD 859). In all other occurrences of Jesus’s “loving” the Beloved Disciple the term ἀγαπάω is used: “love, cherish” (BAGD 4). This is another instance of the author’s artistic ability shown in varying terms for the same thing (cf. “thus,” “recline/lean on”, and “chest” above). An example of such usage in the LXX is Prov 8:17, “I love [ἀγαπάω] those who love [φιλέω] me,” both translating the ‫ אהב‬of the MT. 6

Cf. 19:35, implying he was at the Crucifixion as an eyewitness.

While I consider it improbable, he could also be meant in 18:15–16, where he is described as “known to the high priest.” R. Alan Culpepper in John, the Son of Zebedee: The Life of a Legend (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1994), 58, for example, treats these verses as involving the Beloved Disciple.

8 Richard Bauckham in Jesus the Eyewitness: The Gospel as Eyewitness Testimony (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006), 384–411 regards “the beloved disciple” (including for him “the other disciple”) as a self-designation of the author of the entire Gospel, an eyewitness, yet not one of the Twelve, not well known, a “mysterious person” whose anonymity is a “paradoxical combination of modesty and temerity” (402–403, 407–408). He also very improbably finds him in 1:35–40 (393). Culpepper in John, the Son of Zebedee, 84, also believes the Beloved Disciple was an eyewitness. Urban von Walde in The Gospel and Letters of John: Volume 2, Commentary on the Gospel of John (Eerdmans Critical Commentary; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010), 607, believes all the Beloved Disciple passages were not part of the original Gospel, but were first added in the third edition. I consider this very improbable. Johannes Beutler in Das Johannesevangelium: Kommentar 7

Aus, The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” 77

II. The Beloved Disciple’s Reclining/Leaning on Jesus at a Meal with his Disciples, Deut 33:12 in Judaic tradition, and Benjamin’s Reclining/Leaning on Joseph at a Meal with his Brothers in Judaic Tradition II. 1. Jesus’s “Last Meal” In the Synoptics, Jesus’s “Last Supper” with his twelve disciples is a Passover meal (Mark 14:12–26, par.). 9 They “reclined” while eating it (ἀνάκειμαι in v. 18), 10 required at the celebration of the Passover. M. Pesaḥ. 10:1 states that on this occasion “even the poorest Israelite should not eat until he ‘reclines’ at his table.” 11 The Gospel of John, in contrast, has Jesus’s last meal take place one day earlier (13:1; 18:28; 19:14). This was to present Jesus as the Passover “Lamb of God” (1:29), none of whose bones were allowed to be broken, as at the Crucifixion (19:36; Exod 12:46). 12 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2013), 386, also remarks on 13:23 that the Beloved Disciple was probably inserted into the Gospel only in the Passion Narrative.

9 This is convincingly argued by Joachim Jeremias in The Eucharistic Words of Jesus (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1966).

10 The NRSV conceals this verb by rendering: “And when they had taken their places and were eating....”

11 Cf. Albeck, 2.176, with the verb ‫( סבב‬Jastrow, 948, piel: “Esp. reclining on the dining couch around the tables”); Eng. Neusner, 249. Paul Billerbeck in Str-B 4:56–57 elucidates this passage, also by referring to John 13:23 and 21:20. In 4:618 he describes the reclining at a non-religious banquet, also treated in 2:257,2 on Luke 22:27. While Billerbeck’s theological stance is often questionable (including supersessionism), his collection of sources can still be valuable today if carefully used. I am well aware of the problematical use of later rabbinic sources in regard to the New Testament, as I have indicated numerous times elsewhere, also in regard to the Fourth Gospel. See the volumes cited in n. 75 below.

Here I also attempt wherever possible to cite analogous material from Jubilees, Philo, Josephus, and other earlier sources. When this is not possible, specific motif and expression analysis is done, showing the continuous development of a particular motif or expression such as “leaning on the breast” of Joseph. North American New Testament scholars are particularly skeptical of employing rabbinic sources. Yet someone like Philip Alexander can state that while there are numerous caveats in this regard, “only good can come from New Testament students studying Rabbinic literature….” See his “Rabbinic Judaism and the New Testament,” in ZNW 74 (1983): 237–246, here 238. Geza Vermes follows him in maintaining that “rabbinic literature, judiciously and sensitively handled, can throw valuable and sometimes unique light on the study of the Gospels.” See his The Religion of Jesus the Jew (London: SCM Press, 1993), 7. In this essay I attempt to “judiciously and sensitively” point also to the relevance of rabbinic sources to the Judaic background of the Beloved Disciple in the Fourth Gospel.

12 Cf. m. Pesaḥ. 7:11 (Albeck, 2.167; Neusner, 243; Danby, 146 with n. 6).

78 JJMJS No. 7 (2020)

Jesus’s disciples are present at the final meal in John (13:5, 22–23, 35; 15:8; 16:17, 29; 18:1). Since the author mentions the Twelve specifically in 6:67, 70–71, and 20:24, the hearer/reader of the Gospel could assume he also means only them in 13:22, yet this must not necessarily be so. He may have simply added the Beloved Disciple as a “disciple” to them. For example, the latter is labeled “the other disciple” in 20:2–4, 8 (see Section III below). After Jesus announces that one of them would betray him, 13:22–25 reads: The disciples looked at one another, uncertain of whom he was speaking. One of his disciples — the one whom Jesus loved — was reclining/leaning at Jesus’s chest. Simon Peter therefore motioned to him to ask Jesus of whom he was speaking. Thus, that [disciple], having reclined/leaned in such a way on the chest of Jesus, says to him: “Lord, who is it?’’

Although it cannot be excluded, the Beloved Disciple does not appear to be one of the original Twelve here, but a separate figure like Nathanael (1:45–49; 21:2).

He is characterized by the Fourth Evangelist as being so “loved” by Jesus that he had him, and him alone, “recline/lean on his chest” at the final meal with his disciples. I propose that the author primarily borrowed this imagery from Judaic comment on Benjamin’s “reclining/leaning” on Joseph at the reunion meal related in Gen 43:16–34. Before analyzing this, however, it is necessary to examine the key passage, Deut 33:12, upon which it is based.

II. 2. Deut 33:12 Shortly before Moses’ death, related in chapter 34, Deuteronomy 33 describes how he blesses each of the tribes. Verse 12 reads: a) Of Benjamin he said: b) The Beloved of the LORD shall rest securely upon Him, c) surrounding Him all the days. d) And between his shoulders He rests.

MT: ‫ לְ בִ נְ י ִָמן ָא ַמר‬a) ‫ יְ ִדיד יהוה יִ ְשׁכֹּן ָל ֶב ַטח ָﬠלָ יו‬b) ‫ל־היּוֺם‬ ַ ‫ ח ֵֺפף ָﬠ ָליו ָכּ‬c) ‫יפיו ָשׁ ֵכן‬ ָ ‫וּבין ְכּ ֵת‬ ֵ d)

Aus, The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” 79

II. 2.1. The Beloved of the LORD / Lord The term “Beloved of the LORD” here is ‫יְ ִדיד יהוה‬. 13 The adjective ‫ יְ ִדיד‬means “beloved.” 14 It is translated in the LXX five times by the adjective ἀγαπητός, “beloved,” 15 and four times by the perfect passive participle ἠγαπημένος, 16 both forms of the verb ἀγαπάω, “to love.” 17 LXX Deut 33:12 employs the perfect passive participle in the phrase ἠγαπημένος ὑπὸ κυρίου. “The Lord” here is κύριος, meant as the LORD (God). Yet the Messiah at times could also bear this divine title. For example, the LORD promises to raise up for David a righteous Branch (Jer 23:5).

The name by which he is to be called is “The LORD Is Our Righteousness” (‫ יהוה ִצ ְד ֵקנוּ‬- v. 6), the latter expression attested as messianic in rabbinic sources. 18 Since the Johannine community considered Jesus to be their Lord (cf. for example 13:25 // 21:20), and even God (1:1, 18; 5:18; 8:24; 10:30, 33; 20:28), it was not difficult for one of its members, the author of the Fourth Gospel, to borrow the image of “the beloved of the LORD” in Deut 33:12 and to create from it “the disciple whom [the Lord] Jesus loved.”

26 F

13

Targum Onqelos has ‫( רחמא דיוי‬Sperber, 1.350; Eng. Grossfeld, 106–107), as does Fragment Targum “V” (Klein, 1.232; Eng., 2.189), with Targum Neofiti 1 having the similar ‫( רחמה דייי‬Díez Macho, 5.287; Eng. McNamara, 167). For ‫ רחמא‬as “love,” cf. Jastrow, 1467.

Targum Pseudo-Jonathan renders the term instead with ‫( חביביה דייי‬Clarke, 252; Eng. Clarke, 100). See ‫ חביב‬as “beloved, dear, precious,” in Jastrow, 418.

14

Cf. BDB 391. It occurs only nine times in the MT. See also Jastrow, 564, on the noun ‫ִיָדיד‬ as the “chosen, beloved.”

15 Cf. Ps 44(45): superscription; 59(60):7(5); 83(84):2(1); 107(108):7(6); and 126(127):2.

16 Cf. here; Isa 5:1 (twice); and Jer 11:15.

17

Cf. BAGD 4–5, and the GELS 3.

Tg. Jer 23:5 has “a Messiah/Anointed One of righteousness” (Sperber, 3.188; Eng. Hayward, 111); cf. Num. Rab. Korah 18/21 on the same verse (Mirkin, 10.209; Soncino, 6.734); b. B. Bat. 75b says the Messiah in 23:6 is one of three called by the name of the Holy One (Soncino, 303); Lam. Rab. 1:16 § 51 has the term as the name of the King Messiah (Vilna, 36; Soncino, 7.136); Pesiq. Rab Kah. 22/5a (Mandelbaum, 331; Eng. Braude and Kapstein, 349); and Midr. Pss. 21/2 (Buber, 178; Eng. Braude, 1.294). See also Pss. Sol. 17:32 (“their king shall be the Lord Messiah”) and 18:7 (“the Lord Messiah”) in OTP 2.667 and 669. R. B. Wright notes that they were originally composed in Jerusalem in Hebrew sometime after Pompey conquered the city in 63 BCE (OTP 2.640–641). See also George Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature between the Bible and the Mishnah (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2005), 247 (“between at least 63 B.C.E. and 30 B.C.E.”).

18

80 JJMJS No. 7 (2020)

II. 2.2. Benjamin as Beloved Benjamin was considered “beloved” because he was the twelfth and last son of his father Jacob, who wanted to protect him (Gen 42:4) from the same fate his only full brother Joseph 19 had endured—presumably death. 20 Because of his young age, he had not been involved in the other brothers’ selling Joseph. The Tannaitic midrash Sipre Vezot ha-Berakhah 352 on Deut 33:12 states: “Beloved [‫ ]חביב‬is Benjamin, for he is called ‘the beloved of the LORD’ [‫]ידיד למקום‬.” 21 He is one of the six called “beloved” with this term. 22 Elsewhere, Judaic tradition lauds him as “Benjamin the Righteous.” 23 He is “a man, the beloved [‫ ]חיבה‬of the eyes.” 24 He is also one of the four who died not because of his own sins, but because of the serpent’s machinations (with Adam and Eve). 25 Finally, because of the expression “securely” in Deut 33:12, “Our Rabbis taught” that Benjamin was one of the seven “over whom the worms had no dominion.” 26 27F

273F

274F

19

Their common mother was Rachel, who later died giving birth to Benjamin (Gen 35:18).

The other brothers were from Jacob’s three other wives. Tanḥ. B Miqqeṣ 13 (Buber, 1.197; Eng. Townsend, 263) on Gen 43:29 says that when Joseph saw his brother Benjamin, the son of his own mother, “he rejoiced because he resembled his mother.” The late midrash Bereshit Rabbati (Albeck, 205) repeats this and adds a different interpretation: “Therefore he was more beloved [‫ ]חביב‬to him than all of them, for he was his brother, the son of his mother.”

20 Cf. on this Jub. 42:11, “If perhaps [Benjamin] became feverish on the way, then you would send down my old age to death in grief” (OTP 2.132). See also Gen 44:20, “his [Jacob’s] life is bound up in the boy’s life.”

21 The noun ‫ ָמקוֹם‬, literally “place,” is a reverential circumlocution for “the LORD” (Jastrow, 830). Samuel R. Driver aptly remarks: “The tribe [of Benjamin] is characterized (so to say) as Jehovah’s darling, enjoying in a special sense His protection and regard.” He notes that “‫ ידיד‬is a poetical word, choicer than ‫אהוּב‬....” See his Deuteronomy (ICC 5; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1960), 403.

22 Cf. Finkelstein, 409; Eng. Hammer, 364. See also b. Menaḥ. 53a-b (Soncino, 320); ͗Avot R. Nat. B 43,39 (Schechter, 121; Becker, 391; Eng. Saldarini, 265); and Midr. Pss. 84/1 on Ps 84:2 (Buber, 370; Eng. Braude, 2.64).

23 Cf. b. Yoma 12a (Soncino, 53); b. Meg. 26a (Soncino, 157); and b. Soṭah 37a (Soncino, 182).

24 Cf. Gen. Rab. Vayyiggash 93/6 on Gen 44:18 (Theodor and Albeck, 1156; Soncino, 2.860).

See Jastrow, 416, on ‫ ִח ָיבּה‬as love, esteem, honor.

25

Cf. b. Šabb. 55b (Soncino, 256 with n. 3).

Cf. b. B. Bat. 17a (Soncino, 86). Several of these passages are also noted by Haïm Hirschberg, art. “Benjamin,” “In the Aggadah,” in EncJud 3.354–356.

26

Aus, The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” 81

II. 2.3. Resting “Securely” Upon the Lord Deut 33:12 states: “The Beloved of the LORD shall rest securely upon Him.” 27 The expression “shall rest securely” is ‫יִ ְשׁכֺּן ָל ֶב ַטח‬. The noun ‫ ֶבּ ַטח‬means “security.” 28 Precisely this expression in its exact form also occurs in Jer 23:6, the messianic passage noted above in II. 2.1. 29 Jer 33:16 repeats 23:6 with only slight variations.

It too receives messianic interpretation in the Targum. 30 Many learned Palestinian Jews of the first century CE appear to have known the Hebrew Scriptures almost by heart. 31 I suggest that the occurrence of “shall rest securely” in the messianic passage Jer 23:6 (and 33:16 in almost the same form) probably aided the author of the “Beloved Disciple” motif in borrowing other relevant imagery from Judaic interpretation of Deut 33:12.

276F

27F

278F

279F

II. 2.4. Resting Between His Shoulders, and Leaning On Deut 33:12b states that the Beloved of the LORD “shall rest” securely upon Him. The verb “to rest” here is ‫ ָשׁ ֵכן‬. 32 The same verb is employed in 12d, “And between 280F

27

Some modern commentators wish to interpret the final word, ‫עליו‬, to derive from ‫עלי‬, “Exalted One,” an epithet for God. Cf. for example those cited in Jack Lundbom, Deuteronomy: A Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013), 929. Yet he prefers the meaning “upon him, by him, beside him” (ibid.). Others agree, considering the term to be the lectio difficilior, and as such original. See Eckart Otto, Deuteronomium 23,16–34,12 (HThKAT; Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2017), 2217, as well as Duane Christensen, Deuteronomy 21:10–34:12 (WBC 6B; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2002), 850.

28 Cf. BDB 105, where three other occurrences of the phrase are given. It is not found with this meaning in post-biblical Hebrew (Jastrow, 156). The NRSV has the similar “in safety” for the expression.

29 Cf. also Ps 16:9.

30 Cf. Sperber, 3.215, Eng. Hayward, 141, on the preceding v. 15, as at 23:5. It should be recalled that at this time there was no exact verse numbering, only “sections” (see e.g. Mark 12:26). The two verses would have been considered together.

31 The many priests who according to Acts had “become obedient to the faith” in Jerusalem (6:7) had excellent knowledge of the Scriptures, and it should not be overlooked that Josephus was of priestly lineage. The members of the Qumran community at the Dead Sea, who opposed the priestly hierarchy in Jerusalem, employed the Scriptures in a masterful, learned way. The latter is also true of the earliest rabbis, the Tannaim. The Hellenistic Jew Saul/Paul also knew the Septuagint almost by heart, as demonstrated in his letters. The extent of literacy on the part of the common people in Palestine in the first century CE is another, often debated question, not applicable here.

32 Cf. BDB 1014–1015, which at 1. “settle down to abide” notes: “esp. at rest, peace, in security,” as in Jer 23:6; 33:16; and Deut 33:12. See also Jastrow, 1575: to dwell, rest.

82 JJMJS No. 7 (2020)

his [Benjamin’s] shoulders ‘He rests’ (‫) ָשׁ ֵכן‬.” 33 Judaic interpretation of the latter is unanimous in asserting that it means the Shekhinah or Presence of God dwelt in the Jerusalem Temple. Its main buildings such as the Sanctuary, the Entrance, and the Chamber of the Holy of Holies, did not belong to the tribe of Judah, but were located in territory belonging to the tribe of Benjamin. Indeed, he was found worthy of becoming “the host/landlord of the Divine Majesty” in the latter. 34 The term “shoulders” here thus emphasizes that the LORD rested in the sections not of Judah, as might be assumed, but in those of Benjamin. 35 It is important to note here that “Benjamin is pictured as a reclining man.” 36 The LORD in His Temple “rests between his shoulders.” The Tannaitic commentary on Deuteronomy, Sipre, has a parable at this point which illustrates why Benjamin was considered worthy of having the Shekhinah dwell in his tribal section of land. It says a king’s youngest son, his favorite (‫)אוהבו‬, in contrast to the others, would stay and eat and drink with him, and the king would “lean on him” (‫)נשׁען עליו‬, a phrase repeated four times for emphasis. This is meant to represent the relationship between the father Jacob and his youngest, favorite son Benjamin, as well as the verse part “And between his shoulders He rests” (Deut 33:12d). 37 Here the niphal of the verb ‫ שׁען‬is employed to mean “to lean” on someone. 38 I propose that such comment on Deut 33:12 was a major factor in the Palestinian Jewish Christian’s description of the Beloved Disciple’s “reclining/leaning on the chest” of Jesus in the Gospel of John.

Yet the Hebrew of Deut 33:12d can just as well be read in the following, reverse way: “And between His [the LORD’s] shoulders he [Benjamin] rests.” I 281F

28F

283F

286F

33

Here the LXX has καταπαύω in the sense of “rest, repose” (GELS 322).

34

Cf. Targum Onqelos (Sperber, 1.350; Eng. Grossfeld, 106–107); Targum PseudoJonathan (Clarke, 252; Eng. Clarke, 100); Targum Neofiti 1 (Díez Macho, 5.287; Eng. McNamara, 167); Fragment Targum “V” (Klein, 1.232; Eng. Klein, 2.189); Sipre Vezot haBerakhah 352 on Deut 33:12 (Finkelstein, 410–411; Eng. Hammer, 365–366); b. Yoma 12a (Soncino, 53); b. Meg. 26a (Soncino, 157); b. Zebaḥ. 54b (Soncino, 273) and 118b (Soncino, 584); and ͗Avot R. Nat. A 35,11 (Schechter, 104–105; Becker, 250; Eng. Goldin, 144–145).

35 Cf. the sources cited in the previous note after the targumic references. See also Driver, Deuteronomy, 404.

36 Cf. again Driver, ibid.

37 Cf. Vezot ha-Berakhah 352 (Finkelstein, 413; Eng. Hammer, 368, who unfortunately omits several cases of “lean on him”). See also Midrash Tannaim on Deut 33:12 (Hoffmann, 217). It employs here the nithpael of ‫סמך‬: to lean oneself (Jastrow, 1001).

38

Cf. Jastrow, 1611; BDB 1043: lean (upon, ‫) ַﬠל‬. The Modern Hebrew New Testament (Jerusalem: United Bible Societies), 278, employs ‫ נִ ְשׁ ַﬠן‬for ἀναπεσών in John 13:25.

Aus, The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” 83

suggest that this is the way the Palestinian Jewish Christian author of the Beloved Disciple passages in the Gospel of John interpreted v. 12d. For him, it is the Beloved (‫ )ידיד‬Disciple who rests/leans/reclines on the shoulders of the Lord (Jesus) at the final common meal. 39 I propose that this motif of “resting/leaning” was transferred from Deut 33:12 to Judaic interpretation of Joseph’s reunion meal with his eleven brothers in Egypt, 40 and that this biblical scene in Judaic tradition in turn also influenced the author of the Beloved Disciple passages in a major way. 41 287F

28 F

289F

II. 2.5. The Reunion Meal of Joseph with His Brothers The Joseph narrative in Genesis 37 and 39–50, one of the longest in the Bible, is also one of the most fascinating. It has inspired artists and musicians throughout the centuries. 42 It is no wonder that it was commented on in Judaic sources from an early time onward. Of particular relevance in regard to the motif of the Beloved

39

Such a reversal is called an “inverted text” (‫) ִמ ְק ָרא ְמס ָֹרס‬. A good example is found in Num. Rab. Naso 11/4 on Num 6:23 (Mirkin, 9.294; Eng. Soncino, 5.427–428) by R. Jonathan, a third-generation Tanna (see Hermann Strack and Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992], 83). On this phenomenon, see also number thirty-one of the “Thirty-two Middot” in ibid., 33–34. Cf. Jastrow, 1028, on ‫ סרס‬as “to transpose,” with the example of b. B. Bat. 119b on Num 27:2 (Soncino, 489) and elsewhere. He notes that the usage is frequent. When I speak here and elsewhere of “the Palestinian Jewish Christian author of the Beloved Disciple passages,” I do not exclude the motif as possibly originally deriving from the Johannine community. See Section V. 40 Christensen in Deuteronomy 21:10–34:12, 850, also calls attention to Benjamin’s role in the meal. Cf. also references to the Joseph story in Genesis 43–44 in Driver, Deuteronomy, 403, and Lundbom, Deuteronomy, 929.

41 Against Craig Keener, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003), 2.916: “John’s language might allude to Deut 33:12, though without the use of κόλπος [there] the comparison seems tenuous; probably both texts simply reflect an ancient portrait of special intimacy.” See also Culpepper, John, the Son of Zebedee, 82, who states that while reference to Benjamin may be “one piece to the puzzle,” it is doubtful “Whether the links between the figure of the Beloved Disciple and the promise to Benjamin are strong enough to bear the weight of the role of the Beloved Disciple in the Gospel....”

42 Cf., e.g. most recently Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s musical “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” of 1974. Interestingly, the Koran even devoted an entire surah (12) to it.

84 JJMJS No. 7 (2020)

Disciple is Gen 43:16–34, which deals with the meal Joseph had prepared in Egypt for his eleven brothers, including now Benjamin. 43 Philo of Alexandria, roughly a contemporary of Jesus, 44 describes this meal as “sumptuous” (Ios. 196), a “feast” (201). Since Gen 43:34 says Joseph’s brothers “drank and were merry with him,” Philo assumes there were “toasts and good wishes and invitations to take refreshment” (206; cf. 213). 45 Judah the Prince, a fourth-generation Tanna and the editor of the Mishnah, 46 maintained: “From the day that Joseph departed from his brethren, they drank no wine until that day, for they all abstained from wine. Joseph too drank no wine until that day,” as Gen 49:26 is interpreted of him as a nazirite. 47 This had been twenty-two years. 48 Joseph then interviewed his only full brother, Benjamin, who tells him he is married and has ten sons, all named in regard to Joseph. 49 He also tells Joseph (not knowing his identity): “Since the day [Joseph] was exiled, I have not bathed nor combed my hair, but have been like a mourner.” 50 This banquet, according to Tannaitic tradition, was a Sabbath meal. 51 When portions were taken to the ten brothers from Joseph’s table, “Benjamin’s portion was five times as much as any of theirs” (Gen 43:34), showing Joseph’s

43

On Joseph in general “In the Aggadah,” cf. also Moses Aberbach in EncJud 11.410–411, and on the meal scene the specific sources Louis Ginzberg cites in The Legends of the Jews (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1920/1977), 2.94–99 and the notes in 5.350–352.

44 Cf. Maren R. Niehoff, Philo of Alexandria: An Intellectual Biography (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2018), 245–246: ca. 20 BCE to ca. 49 CE. 45 Josephus in Ant. 2.128 also notes regarding Joseph: “the loving-cup in which he had pledged their healths.”

46 Cf. Strack and Stemberger, Introduction, 89.

47

Cf. Gen. Rab. Vayyiggash 93/7 on Gen 43:34 (Theodor and Albeck, 1166; Soncino, 2.866).

Mark 14:25 par. may be related to this motif.

48 Cf. Gen. Rab. Miqqeṣ 92/5, also on Gen 43:34 (Theodor and Albeck, 1143; Soncino, 2.852).

49 Cf. ibid., 93/7 on Gen 43:29 (Theodor and Albeck, 1164; Soncino, 2.864-865). Their names are listed in Gen 46:21.

50 Cf. Strack and Stemberger, Introduction, 97.

51

Cf. Mek. R. Ish. Beshallaḥ 1 on Exod 13:19 (Lauterbach, 1.179) regarding the “preparing” of Gen 43:16 and Exod 16:5. A parallel is found in Gen. Rab. Miqqeṣ 92/4 on Gen 43:16 (Theodor and Albeck, 1140; Soncino, 2.850), pointing out that “Joseph kept the Sabbath before it was ordained.” Slaughtering the meat for it was done in a kosher manner: b. Ḥul.

91a (Soncino, 511) and Tg. Ps.-J. Gen 43:16 (Clarke, 54; Eng. Maher, 142).

Aus, The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” 85

love for his only full brother, Benjamin. 52 The book of Jubilees was written by a Jew in Palestine in Hebrew sometime between 161–140 BCE. 53 It betrays very early haggadic treatment of the above by stating of Joseph in 42:23: “And he increased Benjamin’s portion seven times more than any of their portions.” 54 With regard to Gen 43:33, Joseph before this had seated his brothers according to their ages. 55 Josephus notes that this was “in the same order as at their father’s table.” 56 Rabbinic tradition relates that Joseph took his cup, struck it, and placed Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, and Zebulun together as the sons of one mother, then Dan and Naphtali likewise, and Gad and Asher likewise. Only Benjamin was left, so Joseph placed him next to himself. 57 At this point the closest affinity to the imagery describing the Beloved Disciple in the Gospel of John becomes apparent.

Gen 43:33 states literally: “And they [Joseph’s brothers] ‘sat’ before him, the firstborn according to his birthright, and the youngest according to his youth, and the men looked in astonishment at each other.” The verb “to sit” here is ‫יָ ַשׁב‬. 58 Yet because of the Hellenistic-Roman practice of “reclining” at banquets, even the usually reticent Targum Onqelos states here: “And they ‘reclined’ [‫ ]ואסחרו‬before him.” 59 Targum Neofiti 1 also reads: “And he made them lie down/recline before him.” 60 This haggadic tradition is already attested for the first century CE by Josephus, who in Ant. 2.123 literally wrote of this incident: “He invites them to the meal, and they ‘recline’ just as at their father[’s table].” The Greek verb 307F

308F

52

Gen. Rab. Miqqeṣ 92/5 on this verse notes that in addition to his own portion, Benjamin received one each from Joseph, Asenath, Manasseh, and Ephraim (their sons) (Theodor and Albeck, 1143; Soncino, 2.852).

53 Cf. Orval S. Wintermute in OTP 2.43-45, as well as Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature, 73 (“in the early 160s”).

54 Cf. OTP 2.133.

55 Cf. Philo, Ios. 203, on this.

56

Cf. Ant. 2.123.

Cf. the remarks of Samuel b. Naḥman, a third-generation Palestinian Amora (Cf. Strack and Stemberger, Introduction, 97), in Gen. Rab. Vayyiggash 93/7 on Gen 43:33 (Theodor and Albeck, 1165; Soncino, 2.865). The mothers were Leah, Bilhah, Zilpah, and Rachel, respectively.

58 Cf. BDB 442.

59 Cf. Sperber, 1.75 with the afel of ‫סחר‬: Jastrow, 971: 4) “to recline around the table.”

Although Grossfeld translates this verb as “reclining” in 27:19 and 37:25, he strangely has “And they were seated round about” here (144).

60 Cf. Díez Macho, 1.289; Eng. McNamara, 196.

57

86 JJMJS No. 7 (2020) κατακλίνω in the passive, as here, means “to lie at table.” 61 Philo in Ios. 203 also

shows his awareness of this usage when he relates: “When the guests were seated, arranged by his commands in order of age, as at that date it was not [yet] the custom to ‘recline’ at convivial gatherings....”

Gen. Rab. Vayyiggash 93/7 on Gen 43:33 says Joseph “prepared a great feast for them [the brothers], and when they came to ‘recline’ [at the meal], he took the cup, struck it,” etc. 62 This narrative continues by noting that when all the other brothers had already reclined, Joseph said, regarding Benjamin: “He is motherless, and I am motherless. Let us recline together.” 63 Tanḥ. Vayyiggash 4 on Gen 44:18 also states regarding 44:33 that Joseph “arranged a banquet for them at which he decided to have Benjamin ‘recline at his side.’” The latter is the Hebrew ֺ‫ ֶא ְצלו‬. 64 Finally, Gen. Rab. Miqqeṣ 92/5 on Gen 43:33 has Joseph state: “I have no mother, and this young man [Benjamin] has no mother, since when she [Rachel] bore him, she died. On that account ‘let him come and place his head on me.’” The latter is the Aramaic: ‫ייתי ויתן ראשׁיה גבי‬. 65 As shown in Josephus’s retelling the Joseph narrative, the haggadic motif of Joseph and his brothers’ “reclining” at their reunion meal is very old. While some of the rabbinic sources cited above are Amoraic, and the final form of the relevant targums is also from that time, these sources appear to also reflect earlier traditions. Many of them are related to Judaic interpretation of Moses’ blessing Benjamin in Deut 33:12, whereas the Beloved One, Benjamin could also be thought of as resting/reclining/leaning on the shoulders of the LORD (and not the reverse, the usual interpretation). The author of the Fourth Gospel then 31F

61 Cf. LSJ 894. See also BAGD 411: “recline at dinner.” Thackeray in the Loeb Classical Library paraphrases with “where couches were set for them,” yet he implies the brothers reclined on these.

62 Cf. Theodor and Albeck, 1165; Soncino, 2.865. This is related by R. Samuel b. Naḥman, a third-generation Palestinian Amora (see n. 57). The verb is ‫סבב‬, meaning in the piel and hiphil “reclining on the dining couch around the table” (Jastrow, 948–949). See also the noun ‫ ֶה ֵסּ ָבּה‬, “lying down for a meal in company” (Jastrow, 359; an example is given of lying on the right side at the Passover meal).

63 Cf. again Theodor and Albeck, 1165, where I prefer the reading ‫נסב‬, “let us recline together.” It is found in four MSS, in contrast to “let us sit together,” found only in one MS. 64 Cf. Eshkol, 174; Eng. Berman, 269, who wrongly has “sit.” This is the version of R. Naḥman bar Isaac, a fourth-generation Babylonian Amora (Strack and Stemberger, Introduction, 105). The term ‫ ֵא ֶצל‬means “by the side of, near, with” (Jastrow, 111).

65

Cf. Theodor and Albeck, 1143. Soncino, 2.852, only paraphrases this. On the preposition

‫גַּ ב‬, see Jastrow, 203.

Aus, The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” 87

appropriated such imagery from there and the related reunion meal of Joseph and his eleven brothers, with the emphasis on Benjamin, to create the figure of the Beloved Disciple. He described him as “reclining/leaning” on the chest of Jesus (John 13:23, 25; repeated by a later hand in 21:20) at Jesus’s last meal with his disciples.

III. The “Other” Disciple John designates the Beloved Disciple as “the other disciple” (ὁ ἄλλος μαθητής) in 20:2, 3, 4, and 8. This somewhat unconventional designation may also derive from a passage in Genesis 43, just before Joseph’s reunion meal with his eleven brothers in vv. 16–34. It also is closely associated with Benjamin.

Gen 43:14 has Jacob address his sons: “May God Almighty grant you mercy before the man [Joseph], so that he may release to you ‘your brother, the other, and Benjamin.’” By “the other” Simeon is meant, whom Joseph had taken as a hostage (42:24). Yet the Hebrew is unusual here, inviting interpretation of its meaning: ‫ת־בּנְ יָ ִמין‬ ִ ‫יכם ַא ֵחר וְ ֶא‬ ֶ ‫ת־א ִח‬ ֲ ‫ ֶא‬. 66 The adjective ‫ ַא ֵחר‬means “another, other.” 67 Targum Onqelos ad loc. has ‫אוחרנא‬, 68 and Targum Pseudo-Jonathan ‫חורנא‬. 69 These can mean not only “another,” but also an “additional” person. 70 Gen. Rab. Miqqeṣ 92/3 on this verse interprets “to you” (pl.) as the ten tribes, and “the other, and Benjamin” as the tribes of Judah and Benjamin. Another interpretation given here is: “‘your brother’—this is Joseph; ‘the other’—this is Simeon; ‘and Benjamin’ is to be taken literally.” 71 ͗Avot R. Nat. B 43,4 also relates that Jacob was the third of the ten persons who prophesied and did not know they were prophesying. When he uttered Gen 43:14, “‘your brother’ refers to Simeon; ‘other’ refers to Joseph; ‘and Benjamin’ refers literally to Benjamin.” 72 317F

318F

319F

320F

66

For this reason, the modern editors of Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensis5 suggest instead ‫ ָה ֶא ָחד‬as in the LXX (τὸν ἕνα) and 42:19.

67

Cf. BDB 29, which notes that it can also have the sense of “different.” The term could also be used to avoid naming Dan in 1 Chr 7:12 (BDB 31, II.). See also Jastrow, 41.

68 Cf. Sperber, 1.74.

69 Cf. Clarke, 54.

70 See Jastrow, 41, on ‫אוחרנא‬, and 440 on ‫חורנא‬.

71 72

Cf. Theodor and Albeck, 1140; Soncino, 2.850.

Cf. Schechter, 118; Becker, 388; Eng. Saldarini, 255. Saldarini in n. 4 remarks that “the superfluous word ‘other’ in his [Jacob’s] statement is a prophetic reference to Joseph, who is indeed alive.” Jacob’s being informed of this is “by the Holy Spirit” in Tg. Ps.-J. Gen 43:14 (Clarke, 54; Eng. Maher, 142). This is also hinted at in Fragment Targum “P” and “V” ad loc. (Klein, 1.63 and 154; Eng., 2.28 and 115).

88 JJMJS No. 7 (2020)

The above examples show that Palestinian Judaic comment on ‫ ַא ֵחר‬, “the other,” could be applied to different persons. Since it was directly adjacent to the name “Benjamin,” I propose that the Palestinian Jewish Christian who spoke of the Beloved Disciple also as “‘the other’ disciple” was inspired to do so because of its occurrence in Genesis 43, which chapter also influenced his imagery of “reclining/leaning” on the chest of the Lord (Jesus). 73 321F

IV. The Original Language of the Author Behind the Beloved Disciple Almost all the sources cited in this study are from Palestinian Judaism, most of them in Hebrew, with only a few in Aramaic. The author appears to be very well acquainted with the Hebrew Bible, especially the portions Deut 33:12 74 and Genesis 43, and with Judaic haggadic interpretation of these passages. This means that he knew Hebrew. He probably also had to know Aramaic in order to deal with everyday life. Elsewhere I have also argued extensively for the author of the Fourth Gospel as a Palestinian Jewish Christian who not only was bilingual, writing in Greek, but could also think in Hebrew and knew Aramaic. 75 I thus agree

73

A possible corroboration of this suggestion is found in Franz Delitzsch’s Hebrew New Testament, which always translates “the ‘other’ disciple” in John 20:2, 3, 4, 8 as ‫( ָה ַא ֵחר‬208).

That of the United Bible Societies (295) has instead ‫ ַה ֵשּׁנִ י‬.

74

In this respect cf. already the lengthy interpretations of Deuteronomy 33 in the section “Moses as Prophet and King in the Rabbinic Haggada” in Wayne Meeks, The Prophet-King: Moses Traditions and the Johannine Christology, reprinted from 1967 in the Johannine Monograph Series, edited by Paul N. Anderson and R. Alan Culpepper (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2017).

75 Cf. recently the section “A Semitic Background to John 19:28–30” in the essay “John 19:28–30 and the Significance of Hyssop,” in Essays in the Judaic Background of Mark 11:12–14, 20–21; 15:23; Luke 1:37; John 19:28–30; and Acts 11:28 (Studies in Judaism; Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2015), 152–156. There I point to other scholars who think that “John” was a Jewish Christian who knew Hebrew but wrote in Greek. See also Simon Peter’s Denial and Jesus’ Commissioning Him as His Successor in John 21:15–19: Studies in Their Judaic Background (Studies in Judaism; Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2013), 164–165, on the author of chapters 1–20, and 253–255 on the author of chapter 21. Other studies also propose an acquaintance with Hebrew and Aramaic on the part of the author of the Fourth Gospel. See “The Wedding Feast at Cana (John 2:1–11), and Ahasuerus’ Wedding Feast in Judaic Traditions on Esther 1,” in Water Into Wine and the Beheading of John the Baptist (BJS 150; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 1–37; “The Death of One for All in John 11:45–54 in Light of Judaic Traditions” in Barabbas and Esther and Other Studies in the Judaic Illumination of Earliest Christianity (SFSHJ 54; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992), 29–63; “‘Caught in the Act’ – With Whom, and By Whom? The Judaic

Aus, The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” 89

with Raymond Brown who with regard to “The History of the Johannine Community” believes that in its first phase, from the middle of the fifties to the eighties CE, the “originating group” was “in or near Palestine, Jews of relatively standard expectations....” 76 They then may have emigrated to Ephesus, as maintained in later church tradition.

This having been said, there is no reason to maintain that the author of the Fourth Gospel first wrote in Hebrew, which he or someone else then translated into Greek. As a bilingual Christian Jew, he appears to have written his Gospel originally in Greek. To this extent he was like the writer of the First Gospel, Matthew, who may even have been a converted Jewish scribe (13:52).

V. Who Was the Beloved Disciple?

Can the above study of the Judaic background of the Beloved Disciple offer any hints as to his identity? The author of the Fourth Gospel avoids giving his real name. This is similar to his not naming Mary as the mother of Jesus, although he certainly knew her name (2:4; 19:25–27). 77 As in the Synoptics, he knows of the “Twelve” disciples, shown in 6:67, 70–71, and 20:24. Yet he introduces two disciples unknown there: Nathanael (1:45–49; cf. 21:2), and Nicodemus (3:1, 4, 9; 7:50; 19:39), who is assumed to be a secret one like Joseph of Arimathea because Background of the Adulteress in John 7:53–8:11,” in “Caught in the Act,” Walking on the Sea, and the Release of Barabbas Revisited (SFSHJ 157; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 1–48; and “Abraham’s Prophetic Vision of the Messiah: The Judaic Background of John 8:56– 58,” in My Name Is “Legion”: Palestinian Judaic Traditions in Mark 5:1–20 and Other Gospel Texts (Studies in Judaism; Lanham, MD, etc.: University Press of America, 2003), 253–287.

76 Cf. Chart One in his The Community of the Beloved Disciple (New York: Paulist Press, 1979), 166–167. Antioch of Syria, with its very large bilingual Jewish population, was directly adjacent to Palestine and could also have been the first (or second) home of the Johannine community. Many scholars, for example, think the bilingual Jewish Christian Evangelist Matthew was at home there. J. Ramsey Michaels does not exclude Palestine, but favors Syria as “more likely” for the home of the Fourth Gospel, in part because of its “Jewishness.” See his The Gospel of John (NICCNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010), 37–38. Wolfgang Fenske in Der Lieblingsjünger. Das Geheimnis um Johannes (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2007), 49, thinks that the author, now in a congregation in Ephesus, may have been influenced by the traditions of Syrian congregations with which he became acquainted on the way there. He considers the Odes of Solomon, composed in Syriac, to be close in language.

77 Cf. the similar phenomenon of his also omitting the “words of institution” at Jesus’s last meal in chapters 13–17, certainly known to him from Christian tradition.

90 JJMJS No. 7 (2020)

he aids the latter in burying Jesus (19:38–42). 78 In the Synoptics, all the disciples (except the betrayer Judas) are pictured as abandoning Jesus at his arrest in Gethsemane. Out of fear of death they are not present at the Crucifixion. 79 Yet the Fourth Evangelist portrays the Beloved Disciple as the only male disciple present there (19:26–27).

Like Nathanael and Nicodemus, the Beloved Disciple thus does not appear to be one of the Twelve. 80 The Fourth Evangelist could have named him, as he did with Nathanael and Nicodemus. His not doing so probably points to the creation of this figure either by the Evangelist “John” or possibly already by the Palestinian Jewish Christian community from which the Gospel emanated. If the Fourth Evangelist or already the Johannine community had given him a specific name not already known to other Christian communities, these could have objected that they had no knowledge of such a disciple. To avoid such a possible reproach, the Evangelist or the Johannine community may have described him as anonymous, also by the designation “the other disciple.”

The creation of such a figure was typical of Jewish haggadic narratives, aptly called “imaginative dramatization” by Judah Goldin. 81 The Evangelist John, or already the early Johannine community, probably wanted to have a disciple represent them to show how close the members of the community felt to their Lord, Jesus. 82 To do so, he or they developed the figure of an unnamed disciple who even reclined/leaned on the chest of his Lord (more intimacy was not possible) and did not abandon him even at the Crucifixion, as other male disciples 78

“John” may also have considered Lazarus, also known to the Synoptics as such, to be a disciple (chapters 11–12).

79 Cf. 16:32, “The hour is coming, indeed it has come, when you [Jesus’s disciples—v. 29] will be scattered, each one to his home, and you will leave me alone.” The author was most probably aware of the tradition found in Mark 14:27–29 with “deserters.”

80 Against, for example, Minear, “The Beloved Disciple,” 110.

81

Cf. the treatment of “Haggadic Interpretation” by Goldin, also one of my Yale professors, in The Song at the Sea (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1971/1990), 27. See also Isaac Heinemann’s term “creative historiography” in this respect (Cf. Strack and Stemberger, Introduction, 260).

82 A much later analogy is the great veneration of the disciple Thomas by those Christians in Kerala, India, who believed he had emigrated there already in the first century CE. In a letter from 6/11/2019, Harold Attridge convincingly notes that the Beloved Disciple “stands in some way for all those who want to be ‘close’ to Jesus. Readers can in some fashion ‘identify’ with this character and participate with him in the final meal of Jesus and be there for the crucifixion. That dramatic ‘identification’ is surely one of the things that the evangelist wants to foster.”

Aus, The Judaic Background of the “Beloved Disciple” 91

did out of fear for their lives. This shows that for the Johannine community the Beloved Disciple was even more important to them than Simon Peter, who plays the role of Jesus’s main disciple in the Synoptics. 83 Finally, the above analysis of the background of the Beloved Disciple in Judaic haggadic traditions on Benjamin in Deut 33:12 and Genesis 43 strongly points to the development of the figure of the Beloved Disciple as most probably taking place in a Palestinian Jewish Christian context. There such traditions in Hebrew (and in part in Aramaic, as in the translations of the biblical text in the synagogue,) were well known and were constantly being further developed, as already shown in Jubilees and Josephus, and then in the rabbinic writings. More, unfortunately, cannot be said about this figure, who remains mysterious even today. *** Addendum: Jesus’s Concern for the Welfare of His Mother After His Death in John 19:25–27, and Moses’ Concern for the Welfare of His Mother After His Death In John 19:25–27, Jesus on the Cross commends “the disciple whom he loved” to his mother standing beside this figure, and his mother to the disciple, who then “took her into his own home.” This passage led to the later belief that the Beloved Disciple took Mary along with him to Ephesus, where her tomb is displayed and visited even today.

Elsewhere I have proposed that this incident, not found in the Synoptics, is based on Judaic tradition regarding Israel’s first redeemer, Moses, just before his own death in Deuteronomy 34. There he expresses his concern for the welfare of his still living 250-year-old mother Yochebed, whose other children Aaron and Miriam have already died, and he commends her to the care of his main disciple Joshua. It is assumed that he will take her into his own home, just as Moses requests him to do with his orphans. The first part of this Palestinian Jewish tradition is found in Tanḥ. B Va ͗etḥanan 6 on Deut 3:23 and Tanḥ. Va ͗etḥanan 6, and the second in the Parma MS of the midrash on Moses’ death, “Petirat 83

Rudolf Bultmann in Das Evangelium des Johannes (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1941/1964), 369–370, strangely considers the Beloved Disciple at the Cross as representing Gentile Christianity (and Jesus’ mother Jewish Christianity). Lutz Simon in Petrus und der Lieblingsjünger im Johannesevangelium: Amt und Autorität (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1994), 290, in contrast, views the portrayal of Peter and the Beloved Disciple in the Gospel of John as completing the integration of Johannine Christians into the community, tradition and theology of Peter.

92 JJMJS No. 7 (2020)

Mosheh.” In this scene Moses makes Joshua into Yochebed’s son, thus his own brother, just as Jesus makes the Beloved Disciple in John into his mother’s son, thus his own brother. This is another sign of how close the Beloved Disciple of the Johannine community was to Jesus, their Lord. 84 While the “Petirat Mosheh” is very late, the two Tanḥuma versions reveal that Moses’ concern for his mother at his death was part of rabbinic tradition. Thus John 19:25–27 may indeed be ultimately based on much earlier forms of this motif. 85

84

Harold Attridge notes that the chief function of the Beloved Disciple in the Gospel of John “is his role as an ideal disciple, close to Jesus in his sacred meal, keeping watch at the crucifixion, and coming to belief at the sight of the empty tomb. As the adopted brother of Jesus, he may also serve as an alternative to other ‘brothers’ of Jesus prominent in the early Christian movement.” Cf. his “Ambiguous Signs, an Anonymous Character, Unanswerable Riddles: The Role of the Unknown in Johannine Epistemology” in NTS 65 (2019), 267–288, here 270.

85 Cf. the full presentation, also in discussion with the relevant secondary literature, in The Death, Burial, and Resurrection of Jesus, and the Death, Burial, and Translation of Moses in Judaic Tradition (Studies in Judaism; Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2008), 125–132. It is very hard to believe that Jews would later borrow a motif from the Gospel of John’s Crucifixion scene of Jesus, whom they completely rejected as the Messiah, and would apply it to the esteemed major founder of their own faith, Moses. I thank Harold Attridge and Hans-Jürgen Becker, as well as the two reviewers from this journal, for reading and critically commenting on this study. I gained much from their remarks. www.jjmjs.org

The Costobar Affair: Comparing Idumaism and Early Judaism* Collin Cornell Sewanee – The University of the South | crcornel@sewanee.edu JJMJS No. 7 (2020): 93–115 Introduction In the first centuries of the Common Era, a variety of ancient communities understood themselves as heirs to Israelite traditions. Scholars have customarily labeled one subset within this mélange as “Jews” and another subset as “Christians.” An immense academic literature addresses the processes by which these two subsets came to identify themselves over against one another: the famous “parting” or “partings” (or lack of partings) of the ways. 1 An ongoing * This article is a revised version of the paper I presented in the Early Jewish-Christian Relations Section at the Society of Biblical Literature Annual Meeting in November 2018. I thank Shira Lander and Eric Smith for accepting the proposal, the scholars present on that occasion for their feedback, and others who volunteered their time and talents to reading and commenting on it in years since, especially Michael K.W. Suh, Brent A. Strawn, and the anonymous referees. I also have the now-former dean of Sewanee’s School of Theology, Neil Alexander, to thank for appointing me to a rotation of New Testament and Greek instruction, without which tasks I would not have encountered some of the bibliography for this project. The article is a (belated) companion piece to my “What happened to Kemosh?” ZAW 128 (2016): 284–299.

1 One early and influential application of this phrase, “parting of the ways,” to Judaism and Christianity comes from the third chapter title of James W. Parkes’s The Conflict of the Church and the Synagogue: A Study in the Origins of Antisemitism (London: Soncino Press, 1934), 71. A notable work that draws on this framing is James D.G. Dunn, The Parting of the Ways: Between Christianity and Judaism and Their Significance for the Character of Christianity (London: SCM/Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1991). Significant critiques and counterproposals followed, including Judith Lieu, “The Parting of the Ways: Theological Construct or Historical Reality?” JSNT 17 (1995): 101– 119; Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999); and Adam H. Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed, eds., The Ways That Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (TSAJ 95; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003). Martin Goodman’s “Modeling the ‘Parting of the Ways,’” in ibid., 119–129, is still a useful roadmap.

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scholarly task is to test out new typologies or methods for envisioning these ancient post-Israelite communities in relation to one another. 2 The present article approaches this task rather obliquely: from the vantage point of a community that did not trace its lineage back to Israelite traditions, and which in fact, judging from one account, resented the imposition of practices drawn from the Israelite heritage. I speak of the Costobar Affair, a narrative aside in Josephus’s Jewish Antiquities and a moment in the history of Idumeans. 3 What light can this episode shed on the topic of early Jewish-Christian relations? This is the question the present article considers. But first it lays out the “facts of the case.” The section that follows overviews the Costobar story as Josephus tells it. The next section then situates this story within the wider contexts of Idumean history and the Idumean diaspora. The article doubles back in closing to early Jewish-Christian relations — and a fresh way of configuring them: as species of Hellenistic Levantine cult.

The Facts of the Case The Costobar Affair refers to events narrated in Book 15 of Jewish Antiquities. 4 Book 15 focuses on the reign of Herod the Great from his capture of Jerusalem in 2

This was the theme of the SBL session to which I presented the earlier form of this article: New Ways of Studying Jewish-Christian Relations. Some of the verbiage in this paragraph is taken from the call for papers: “Papers should propose new ways of talking about ‘Jews’ and ‘Christians’ in the context of early Jewish-Christian relations and the delayed partings of the ways…what new typologies and methodologies might be employed to better understand the matrix of groups who understand themselves as heirs to Israelite traditions?”

3 I find this title (“the Costobar Affair”) first in Israel Ronen, “Formation of Jewish Nationalism Among the Idumeans,” in Aryeh Kasher, Jews, Idumeans, and Ancient Arabs: Relations of the Jews in Eretz-Israel with the Nations of the Frontier and the Desert during the Hellenistic and Roman Era (332 BCE–70 CE) (TSAJ 18; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1988), 214–221, here 217, and more recently in Adam Kolman Marshak, “Rise of the Idumeans: Ethnicity and Politics in Herod’s Judea,” in Jewish Identity and Politics between the Maccabees and Bar Kokhba: Groups, Normativity, and Rules (JSJSup 155; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 117–130, here 125–128; also, in the same volume, Benedikt Eckhardt, “‘An Idumean, That Is, a Half-Jew’: Hasmoneans and Herodians between Ancestry and Merit,” 91–115, here 102 n. 32.

4 For a recent, annotated translation, see Jan Willem van Henten, translation and commentary, Judean Antiquities 15, vol 7b of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, ed. Steve Mason (Leiden: Brill, 2013). Quotations in the present article follow van Henten except where noted. For an overview of Idumeans in Antiquities, see Michał

Cornell, The Costobar Affair 95

37 BCE up until his renovation of the Jerusalem Temple in the year 20 or 19 BCE. Josephus relates a number of unsuccessful conspiracies against Herod that occurred within this time period. One such plot involves a man named Costobar.

Josephus introduces this figure as “Idumean by origin” (ἦν γένει…Ἰδουμαίος) and a member of the most elite class of Idumeans; his ancestors had been priests of Koze, or Qos (Ant 15.253). 5 Josephus provides a gloss for this deity name: “Idumeans think that this one is a god” (θεὸν δὲ τοῦτον Ἰδουμαῖοι νομίζουσιν). Jan Willem van Henten writes of Josephus’s construction here that it seeks to honor the first commandment of the Decalogue by locating Qos’s claim to divinity exclusively to the human intellect: “they think that this one is a god.” But the verb νομίζειν probably has less to do with intellect per se than with cult practice: “they honor this one (as) a god.” 6 The tense of the verb in question is present (νομίζουσιν). This conjugation could suggest either a customary or “gnomic” Idumean belief — that is to say, “Idumeans as such think of/honor Qos as a god” — or it could indicate an ongoing and then-current practice among Idumeans: “Idumeans still go on thinking of/honoring Qos as a god.” 7 Straightaway Josephus sets these two facts, of Costobar’s descent and the Idumean honoring of Qos, against the backdrop of Idumean history. “Hyrcanus,” he reminds, “had changed their way of life to the habits and customs [ἔθη καὶ νόμιμα] of the Jews” (Ant 15.254). Hyrcanus — also known as John Hyrcanus or Hyrcanus I — had annexed Idumea to Judea in 125 BCE. Josephus narrates this

Marciak, “Idumea and the Idumeans in Josephus’ Story of Hellenistic-Early Roman Palestine (Ant. XII–XX),” Aev 91 (2017): 171–194; cf. Alan Appelbaum, “‘The Idumaeans’ in Josephus’ The Jewish War,” JSJ 40 (2009): 1–22.

5 On the meaning of γένος, see Shaye J.D. Cohen, “Ioudaios to genos and Related Expressions in Josephus,” in Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period· Essays in Memory of Morton Smith, ed. Fausto Parente and Joseph Sievers (Studia post-Biblica 41; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 23–38; on Costobar, 32.

6 Judean Antiquities 15, 177 n. 1648; italics are mine. On the more holistic and ritual sense of νομίζειν, see Manuela Giordano-Zecharya, “As Socrates Shows, the Athenians Did Not Believe in Gods,” Numen 52 (2005): 325–355, here 330–333. I am grateful to an anonymous referee for directing me to this article.

7 Contrary to the translation by William Whiston, where the past perfect (“had esteemed”) suggests discontinuation: “Costobaros was an Idumean by birth, and one of principal dignity among them, and one whose ancestors had been priests of Koze, whom the Idumeans had [formerly] esteemed as a god” (Jewish Antiquities [Wordsworth Classics of World Literature; London: Bibliophile Books, 2006], 663).

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annexation in Book 13 of Antiquities (13.254–258). 8 There he tells that Hyrcanus captured two Idumean cities, Adora and Marisa, and subjugated “all Idumeans.”

On pain of expulsion from their land, Hyrcanus had, Josephus says, compelled the Idumeans to undergo circumcision and to observe the laws of the Judeans. For love of their land, the Idumeans accepted these terms. 9 So much for backdrop; Josephus’s account of Costobar continues. Herod appointed Costobar as governor of Idumea and Gaza and gave him his sister Salome in marriage. Costobar, however, responded to these favors with treachery: in about 34 BCE, he sent a message to Cleopatra, the Ptolemid ruler of Egypt, and signaled his willingness to shift allegiance from Herod to her. Josephus attributes this maneuvering to Costobar’s personal ambition to rule the Idumean people as well as to a “sordid love of profit” (αἰσχροκερδείας; 15.257). But Josephus also points to another factor: Costobar “did not think it right…for the Idumeans, who had adopted the customs of the [Judeans], to be subject to them” (15.255; van Henten).

Or, more literally: οὔθ ̓ αὑτῷ καλὸν ἡγούμενος ἄρχοντος Ἡρώδου τὸ προσταττόμενον ποιεῖν οὔτε τοῖς Ἰδουμαίοις τὰ Ἰουδαίων μεταλαβοῦσιν ὑπ ̓ ἐκείνοις εἶναι. 10

8

See also B.J. 1.63. On Josephus’s depiction of Hyrcanus, see Clemens Thoma, “John Hyrcanus I as Seen by Josephus and Other Early Jewish Sources,” in Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period, 127–140; on Ant 13.251–259, see 132–133.

9 The compulsoriness of the Idumeans’ assumption of Judean practices has come under scrutiny; see n. 31. The exact content of the Judean practices they adopted has also been variously developed. A lexicon dating perhaps to the second century CE and attributed to Ammonius, Ptolemy the Historian, or Hennius says that the Idumeans, who used to be Phoenicians and Syrians, “having been subjugated by the Judeans and having been forced to undergo circumcision, so as to be counted among the Judean nation [συντελεῖν εἰς τὸ ἔθνος] and keep the same customs [τὰ αὐτὰ νόμιμα ἡγεῖσθαι], they were called Judeans” (Greek is from Klaus Nickau, Ammonii, qui dicitur liber De adfinium vocabulorum differentia [Bibliotheca scriptorum Graecorum et Romanorum Teubneriana; Lipsiae: Teubner, 1966], 63–4; English translation is from Michał Marciak, “Hellenistic-Roman Idumea in the Light of Greek and Latin Non-Jewish Authors,” Klio 100 [2018]: 877–910, here 888). An earlier translation of this passage by Steve Mason gives these customs greater definition: “having been forced to undergo circumcision and to pay taxes into the ethnos, and to follow the same laws/customs, they were called Judeans” (A History of the Jewish War, A.D. 66–74 [New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016], 238). But Marciak rightly criticizes this rendering of συντελεῖν (“Hellenistic-Roman Idumea,” 888 n. 84).

10 Van Henten notes that this phrase, μεταλαμβάνω τὰ Ἰουδαίων ἔθη, “adopt the customs of the Jews,” occurs in Ant 20.139 (Judean Antiquities 15, 179 n. 1662).

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It did not seem proper to him (Costobar) to do what was commanded by ruler Herod, nor did it (seem proper to him), after the Idumeans had adopted the (customs) of the Judeans, to be under them. 11 This important claim can be read in two ways. First, since the Idumeans had already adopted Judean customs back in Hyrcanus’s day, they had more than fulfilled their obligations to Judeans, and Costobar therefore viewed it as unjust for Judeans to demand yet more subjection from their southern neighbors. 12 On this interpretation, Idumean compliance with Judean customs is a given, and Costobar’s concern is solely with the exercise of Idumean political sovereignty: the antecedent of “them” in the phrase “under them” (ὑπ ̓ ἐκείνοις) is Judeans. But it is also possible to read Josephus as claiming that Costobar objected not just to Judean political domination of Idumeans but also to the Idumeans’ prior assumption of Judean customs. On this second interpretation, Costobar wished to undo and even to reverse the encroachment of Judean practices: the antecedent of “them” in “under them” refers back, not to Judeans but to τὰ Ἰουδαίων, “those things of the Judeans,” a shorthand recalling the more fulsome τὰ Ἰουδαίων ἔθη καὶ νόμιμα from the preceding sentence — “the habits and customs of the Judeans” (15.254). This second option is the more common scholarly reading, because, in addition to the syntactic echoing, it seems to do more justice to Josephus’s introduction of Costobar in the context of his priestly family and of Idumean honoring of the god named Qos. 13 These are, for Josephus, relevant backstory to Costobar’s actions, as is the change to Judean observances that Hyrcanus 11

I thank one of the anonymous referees for their good suggestions about this translation, including to note that μεταλαβοῦσιν should be taken as a circumstantial participle indicating the timing of adopting the customs (either “when” or “after”); hence van Henten’s rendering with a subordinate clause: “Idumeans, who had adopted.” The nearest antecedent of ἐκείνοις is the Judeans, although the grammatical gender and number would also match τὰ, presumably short for τὰ Ἰουδαίων ἔθη καὶ νόμιμα from 15.254.

12 Judean Antiquities 15, 179 n. 1663.

13 Ven Henten enumerates both interpretive possibilities, though not so exactly as here, but in the end he, too, favors the second for contextual reasons (Judean Antiquities 15, 179 n.

1663). Other translations build this interpretation even more directly into their rendering of the line, e.g. Whiston: “did not think it fit…that Idumeans should make use of the Jewish customs, or be subject to them”; Patrick Rogers’s online translation, based on Thackeray’s Greek text: “[Costobar] refused to…have the Idumaeans subjected to Jewish ways” (www.biblical.ie/); so also, inter alia, Ronen, “Formation of Jewish Nationalism,” 214; Marshak, “Rise of the Idumeans,” 125; and Shaye J.D. Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 112.

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leveraged on Idumeans about 88 years beforehand. In the words of Shaye Cohen, “‘Idumaism’ was not yet dead…and Costobar was hoping that it would flourish yet again in Idumea.” 14 The Wider Contexts Thus the “facts of the case”: the Costobar Affair in Josephus’s telling. His story about Costobar goes on and eventually ends with Costobar’s execution on account of another conspiracy against Herod (Ant 15.266). But for the present article’s purpose, addressing the phenomenon of “Idumaism” to early Judaism and Christianity in their interrelationships, these data are already striking. Their importance can be seen when they are viewed within two wider contexts.

The first context is longitudinal: seen within the long arc of history, traditional Idumean cult practice shows remarkable durability. When Costobar moved to betray Herod in 34 BCE, an independent Idumean (or rather Edomite) kingdom had not existed for over half a millennium. 15 Nabonidus, the last king of the Neo-Babylonian Empire, destroyed the Edomite kingdom during his western campaign in the years 553 through 551 BCE. 16 Until that time, the god named Qos — the same about whom Josephus writes that “Idumeans think of/honor this one as a god” — had been the patron deity of Edom, or at least of its royal

14 15

Cohen, Beginnings of Jewishness, 112.

On the relationship between Edomites and Idumeans, see Yigal Levin, “The Formation of Idumean Identity,” Aram 27 (2015): 187–202; also André Lemaire, “D’Édom à l’Idumée et à Rome,” in Des Sumériens aux Romains d’Orient: La perception géographique du monde, espaces et territoires au Proche-Orient ancien, ed. Arnaud Sérandour (Antiquités sémitiques 2; Paris: Jean Maisonneuve, 1997), 83–109; cf. John R. Bartlett, “Edomites and Idumaeans,” PEQ 131 (1999): 102–114.

16 John Lindsay (“The Babylonian Kings and Edom, 605–550 B.C.,” PEQ 108 [1976]: 23– 29) and John R. Bartlett (“Edom and the Fall of Jerusalem, 587 B.C.,” PEQ 114 [1982]: 13– 24; idem, Edom and the Edomites [JSOTSup 77; Sheffield: JSOT, 1989], 147–161) first articulated this view in the 1970s and 80s. It is mainly based on fragmentary lines in the Nabonidus Chronicle as well as ex eventu biblical prophecies of Edom’s downfall (Isa 34; Jer 49; Lam 4:21–22; Joel 4:19; Ezek 25, 35; Obad; on the biblical data, see Bartlett, ibid., 145–157; Bert Dicou, Edom, Israel's Brother and Antagonist: The Role of Edom in Biblical Prophecy and Story [JSOTSup 169; Sheffield: JSOT, 1994]). Nabonidus’s responsibility for ending Edomite sovereignty has also received recent reinforcement from the discovery and publication of a rock relief discovered at as-Sila‘, on which, see Bradley L. Crowell, “Nabonidus, as-Silaʿ, and the Beginning of the End of Edom,” BASOR 348 (2007): 75–88.

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administration. 17 Theophoric names of Edomite kings invoke Qos for support: the Assyrian king Tiglath-Pileser III received tribute from an Edomite vassal king named Qaus-malaku, which translates to “Qos is king,” “Qos reigns,” or even “may Qos reign.” 18 The Assyrian kings Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal later exacted tribute from an Edomite king named Qaus-gabri, meaning “Qos is powerful,” or “may Qos act powerfully.” 19 Or again, an eighth-century ostracon recovered from Ḥorvat ‘Uzza preserves a letter from one Edomite official to another, blessing the recipient by the deity Qos. 20 In the minds of these persons connected with the Edomite royal administration, the god Qos was the powerful divine protector and benefactor of the kingship and the realm.

Theophoric names calling on Qos persist into the Persian Period after the Edomite kingdom was no more. 21 By the nature of the case, these names belong to non-royal individuals. But the continuance of Qos names into Edom’s post-state era is a theological achievement in its own right. 22 Devotion to Qos lasted. Perhaps the circles where this devotion endured had already viewed Qos without reference to the monarchy, such that its downfall was no great loss for them. On the other hand, some Edomites had to adjust their theology to detach Qos from his role of supporting the kingship. What the Costobar Affair brings back into focus is the tenacity of exactly this connection: of the god Qos with the reign of a native sovereign. Josephus provides a self-serving motive for Costobar’s intention to rule over Idumea (“sordid love of profit”). But it is also possible to read Costobar’s actions as religiously motivated. Out of devotion to his ancestral 17

On the religion of Edom, see Bartlett, Edom and the Edomites, 187–207; Andrew J. Dearman, “Edomite Religion: A Survey and an Examination of Some Recent Contributions,” in You Shall Not Abhor an Edomite for He Is Your Brother: Edom and Seir in History and Tradition (ABS 3; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995), 119–136. On the deity Qos, see Th. C. Vriezen, “The Edomite Deity Qaus,” OtSt 14 (1965): 330–353; Ernst Axel Knauf, “Qaus,” UF 16 (1984): 93–95; idem, “Qôs,” DDD2, 674–677.

18 Bartlett, Edom and the Edomites, 204–207. On Qaus-malaku, see Jaume Llop-Raduà’s entry in The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, ed. Simo Parpola, 3 vols. (Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2002), 3.1 (P – Ṣ), 1011.

19 Llop-Raduà, “Qauš-gabri” in ibid.

20 Itzhaq Beit-Arieh and Bruce Gesson, “An Edomite Ostracon from Horvat ‘Uza,” TA 12 (1985): 96–101.

21 Bartlett, Edom and the Edomites, 163–174; also 207; and André Lemaire, “Les religions du Sud de la Palestine au IVe s. av. J.-C. d’après les ostraca araméens d’Idumée,” CRAIBL 145 (2001): 1141–1158.

22 Compare the persistence of Chemosh-names after the downfall of Moab; see Cornell, “What happened to Kemosh?”

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cult, and out of belief that the worship of Qos ideally belongs together with Idumean oversight of their own country, Costobar sought to rule. 23 There is no evidence that Idumeans or their Edomite forebears anointed their royalty, and so the word messianic does not, strictly speaking, apply to the Costobar Affair. But the same theological reflexes known from Judean traditions — of divine detachability from human kingship and yet also the hoped-for restoration of a native ruler — could be recognizable here. 24 That is: for some, though certainly not all, Judean traditions, the suspension of David’s kingship provoked a theological crisis. Consider, for example, the rhetoric of Psalm 89. The first thirty-seven verses rehearse at length YHWH’s ḥasdê hāri’šōnîm, “solicitous deeds from of old” (v. 49[50]), which consist in establishing the cosmos and the Davidic dynasty at its heart. 25 But then the psalm turns and accuses the Judean god (vv. 38–39[39–40]): But you—you have cast off and rejected / you have grown furious with your anointed.

You have voided the covenant of your servant / you profaned his diadem to the ground.

The sense of shock and indignation are acute. No alternative, kingless future is imagined; the psalm asks only how long YHWH will permit this intolerable situation to persist (v. 46[47]). Even if the psalm represents a belated theological reflection and not, say, a prayer written rawly from the crisis, its placement at the perigee of the canonical Psalter gives it an outsize, even paradigmatic, 23

Kings and rulers honored and loved their individual patron gods, sometimes in ways that were politically inexpedient, e.g., Nabonidus’s devotion to the moon-god Sin. Cf. the kings Hazael and Zakkur (Collin Cornell, Divine Aggression in Psalms and Inscriptions: Vengeful Gods and Loyal Kings [SOTS; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020], 38–92, esp.

92). This is the sense of the descriptor “religiously motivated.”

24 Matthew V. Novenson has rightly emphasized messianism as a language game, for which lemmata communicating “anointing” supply a basic ingredient (The Grammar of Messianism: An Ancient Jewish Political Idiom and its Users [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017]). That said, the political dimension of a once-again native ruler — what Hugo Gressmann called “political messianism” — remains primordial, even in Novenson’s account. Compare Matthew Neujahr’s treatment in “Royal Ideology and Utopian Futures in the Akkadian ex eventu Prophecies,” in Utopia and Dystopia in Prophetic Literature, ed.

Ehud Ben Zvi (PFES 92; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society; University of Helsinki, 2006), 41–54, here 49–54.

25 Richard J. Clifford, “Psalm 89: A Lament Over the Davidic Ruler’s Continued Failure,” HTR 73 (1980): 35–47, here 36. The translations from Hebrew are mine.

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prominence. Psalm 89 articulates the challenge of a fallen kingship; the rest of the Psalter, in its received form, yields a sustained response. Its Books 4 and 5 celebrate the kingship of YHWH. They do not leave hope for a restored Davidic dynasty behind, but they re-center on the worship of the Judean god. They rescale and relativize — i.e., detach somewhat from — a human sovereign, even as they keep it in view (e.g., Pss 110, 132). 26 Other books within the Judean scriptures attest to a broadly similar perspective: YHWH is king, and his royal human deputy, though gone, is not forgotten. 27 The continued worship of the god Qos, shown in theophoric names, speaks to a parallel theological conviction and during a similarly postmonarchic era: even apart from a human king, Qos is worthy of celebration as divine king. At least seven Aramaic ostraca discovered in Idumea and dating to the fourth century BCE feature names that extol Qos for just this aspect: qwsmlk means “Qws is king.” 28 Greek transliterations of the same name (κοσμάλακος) appear in Memphis in the first century BCE. 29 At the same time, the Costobar Affair suggests that the worshippers of Qos did not lose sight of the rightful rule of a native dynast.

Costobar’s own name is probably a Greek misspelling of the very same name as

26

Gerald H. Wilson, “The Use of Royal Psalms at the ‘Seams’ of the Hebrew Psalter,” JSOT 35 (1986): 85–94; idem, “King, Messiah, and the Reign of God: Revisiting the Royal Psalms and the Shape of the Psalter,” in The Book of Psalms: Composition and Reception, ed. Peter W. Flint and Patrick D. Miller, Jr. (VTSup 99; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 391–406; also Robert E. Wallace, “Gerald Wilson and the Characterization of David in Book 5 of the Psalter,” in The Shape and Shaping of the Book of Psalms: The Current State of Scholarship, ed. Nancy L. deClaissé-Walford, (AIL 20; Atlanta: SBL, 2014), 193–207, here 204–205.

27 E.g., Isaiah; see Christopher R. Seitz, “Royal Promises in the Canonical Books of Isaiah and the Psalms,” in Word Without End: The Old Testament as Abiding Theological Witness (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 155–172; or Chronicles, on which, Matthew J. Lynch, “Differentiating Human and Divine Rule,” in Monotheism and Institutions in the Book of Chronicles: Temple, Priesthood, and Kingship in Post-Exilic Perspective (FAT 2.64; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 253–256.

28 Nos. 77, 89, 108, 153, 180, 197, 198 in Israel Ephʻal and Joseph Naveh, Aramaic Ostraca of the Fourth Century BC from Idumaea (Jerusalem: Magnes; Hebrew University: Israel Exploration Society, 1996).

29 J.G. Milne, Greek Inscriptions (Catalogue général des antiquités égyptiennes du Musée du Caire; Oxford: Hart, 1905), 35–47 (no. 9283); Bartlett, Edom and the Edomites, 207 (no.

55). See below for more on Idumeans in Memphis.

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the Edomite king from over five centuries before: Qos-tabar representing Qosgabar, “Qos is powerful,” or “may Qos exercise power.” 30 Another important moment for understanding the longitudinal context of the Costobar Affair occurred in 125 BCE. As Josephus describes, John Hyrcanus annexed Idumea in that year, and Idumeans adopted Judean customs.

Historians debate the accuracy of Josephus’s account. 31 What is interesting for the present article is the impact of Hyrcanus’s action on Judean self-definition.

Although the Hasmoneans resisted Hellenization in certain regards, Morton Smith and Shaye Cohen argue that the idea of integrating Idumeans into a Judean League depended on a Hellenistic concept of citizenship and way of life. 32 Cohen writes: “the Hasmonean period witnesses for the first time in the history of Judaism the establishment of processes by which outsiders become insiders, nonJudaeans can become Judaeans, and non-Jews can become Jews…the key to the

30

Lemaire, “D’Édom à l’Idumée,” 99 n. 136; David Flusser, “Paganism in Palestine,” in The Jewish People in the First Century, ed. Shemuel Safrai and M. Stern (CRINT 1.2 Assen: Van Gorcum, 1974), 1065–1100, here 1074–1075.

31 See especially the overview in Eckhardt, “‘An Idumean, That Is, a Half-Jew,’” 101–103 n.

32. Aryeh Kasher, among others, prefers Strabo’s (noncoercive) account of the Idumeans’ incorporation into the Judean state to Josephus’s (Jews, Idumeans, and Ancient Arabs, 44– 86). But cf. Shaye Cohen’s careful negotiation of the ancient sources in The Beginnings of Jewishness, 109–139; Steven Weitzman, “Forced Circumcision and the Shifting Role of Gentiles in Hasmonean Ideology,” HTR 92 (1999): 37–59; Honora Howell Chapman, “Paul, Josephus, and the Judean Nationalistic and Imperialistic Policy of Forced Circumcision,” Ilu 11 (2006): 131–155, here 134–143; also Uriel Rappaport, “The Conversion of the Idumaeans under John Hyrcanus,” in Israel’s Land: Papers Presented to Israel Shatzman on his Jubilee, ed. Joseph Geiger, Hannah M. Cotton, Guy D. Stiebel (Ra’anana: The Open University of Israel and the Israel Exploration Society, 2009), 59–74 [Hebrew with English abstract].

32 Cohen, Beginnings of Jewishness, 125–129, 135–139; Morton S. Smith, “The Gentiles in Judaism 125 BCE – AD 66,” in Studies in the Cult of Yahweh, Volume 1: Studies in Historical Method, Ancient Israel, Ancient Judaism, ed. Shaye J.D. Cohen (Religions in the GraecoRoman World 130.1; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 263–319, here 319; also idem, “Rome and Maccabean Conversions: Notes on 1 Maccabees 8,” in Donum Gentilicium: New Testament Studies in Honor of David Daube, ed. Ernst Bammel, C.Κ Barrett, and W.D. Davies (Oxford· Clarendon, 1978), 1–7. For a reading of Hyrcanus’s annexation in terms of compensating for ebbing human capital, see Weitzman, “Forced Circumcision,” 51–58, expanding on the earlier treatment by Bezalel Bar-Kochva, “Manpower, Economics and Internal Strife in the Hasmonean State,” in Armées et fiscalité dans le monde antique, ed. Henri van Effenterre (Paris: Editions du Centre Nationale de la Recherche Scientifique, 1977), 167–194.

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new idea of change of citizenship…is the Greek concept of politeia.” 33 In other words, to incorporate the Idumeans, Hyrcanus and his regime operated by a definition of peoplehood that they borrowed from Hellenistic statecraft: just as non-Greeks could adopt a Greek citizenship and “way of life,” so also could Idumeans and other peoples adopt a Judean citizenship and way of life. 34 In a real way, then, the annexation of Idumea moved Judean-ness from being an ethnos, a people plain and simple, defined primarily by shared descent, toward being what Cohen calls an “ethno-religion”: a matter of observance and not solely of birth and region. Smith writes that “Hyrcanus’s innovation…radically altered the make up [sic] of Jewry and the meaning of the word Ioudaios.” 35 This proposal by Smith and Cohen, that absorbing Idumeans into the Judean commonwealth occasioned a watershed moment in the self-concept of Judeans, has attracted criticism — especially insofar as it draws on the nomenclature of “religion.” Steve Mason specifically denies that any basic change or expansion of Judean-ness occurred in the Hasmonean period: “Ioudaioi were understood until late antiquity as an ethnic group comparable to other ethnic groups” 36 — as an ethnos plain and simple, that is: an extended family, anchored to a particular land, practicing the cult of their particular god. 37 Matthew Thiessen carries this thesis yet further by arguing that, for the book of Jubilees as for other roughly contemporary sources, including the apostle Paul, transferring from one

33

Cohen, Beginnings of Jewishness, 136.

Cohen, Beginnings of Jewishness, 136. Cohen glosses politeia: “[it] means, among other things, both ‘citizenship’ and ‘public way of life’” (ibid.).

35 Smith “Gentiles,” 319. It should not be thought that “ethnos plain and simple” implies that ancient peoples were simplemindedly nationalistic or devoid of love and affect for their gods (see Brent A. Strawn, “What Would (or Should) Old Testament Theology Look Like If Recent Reconstructions of Israelite Religion Were True?” in Between Israelite Religion and Old Testament Theology: Essays on Archaeology, History, and Hermeneutics, ed. Robert D. Miller II [CBET 80; Leuven: Peeters, 2016], 129–166), just that they defined their boundaries familially and territorially.

36 Steve Mason, “Jews, Judaeans, Judaizing, Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History, JSJ 38 (2007): 457–512, here 457. Brent Nongbri’s influential book lifts up the Maccabean revolt as one of four moments to which scholars mistakenly attribute the emergence of “religion” (Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept [New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013], 46–50).

37 For more on ancient conceptions of ethnos, see Paula Fredriksen, “How Jewish Is God? Divine Ethnicity in Paul's Theology,” JBL 137 (2018): 193–212.

34

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ethnos to another was an impossibility. 38 For them, the Judean “seed” (Ezra 9:2) was impermeable. 39 Taking up Judean customs such as circumcision no sooner made a gentile man Judean than wearing long hair made a man into a woman — though both practices were, and for parallel reasons, verboten by Paul (cf. 1 Cor 11:14).

But if this fixed and exclusionary outlook was maintained by some Judeans, it most certainly was not and could not be by Hyrcanus and his adjutants.

For them, Idumeans could, through circumcision, cult, and custom, become Judeans. No recourse to anachronistic notions of “religion” is necessary to accommodate this fact; in Daniel Schwartz’s rejoinder to Mason, for example, “religion” serves as shorthand for those activities — “circumcision, Sabbath observance, and kashrut” — which, unlike birth or place, can be altered and selfundertaken. 40 This distinction, or perhaps better, this parting of ways (!), between a received ethnic identity and an identity achieved through pursuit of specific activities, was an innovation. Thiessen, among others, upholds the novelty of the porous politeia-thinking about Judean identity that Smith and Cohen ascribe to Hyrcanus’s conquest. 41 How then did Hyrcanus’s annexation also impact the self-concept of Idumeans? Perhaps not much can be said on this point, given the limitations of the sources. But it is interesting — and telling — that Josephus describes 38

Matthew Thiessen, Contesting Conversion: Genealogy, Circumcision, and Identity in Ancient Judaism and Christianity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); idem, Paul and the Gentile Problem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016).

39 Thiessen, Contesting Conversion, 67–69; idem, Paul and the Gentile Problem, 23–24.

40 Daniel R. Schwartz, “Appendix: May We Speak of ‘Religion’ and ‘Judaism’ in the Second Temple Period?” in Judeans and Jews: Four Faces of Dichotomy in Ancient Jewish History, (The Kenneth Michael Tanenbaum Series in Jewish Studies; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2014), 91–112, here 112.

41 Thiessen, Contesting Conversion, 68–69; Thiessen also speculates that Hyrcanus might have had a biblical and a genealogical rationale for admitting Idumeans to the Judean nation (ibid., 88–89). See also Chapman, “Forced Circumcision,” 143, and John Collins, who writes that “Cohen is right that Judaism from the Maccabean [Hasmonean] period on was an ethno-religion,” though Collins argues that “it was possible to become ‘Jewish’ or ‘Judean’ in virtue of [law] observance, regardless of birth or genealogy” from the Persian period onward (The Invention of Judaism: Torah and Jewish Identity from Deuteronomy to Paul [Oakland: University of California Press, 2017], 18–19). Marciak also shows the impact of Cohen: “under the influence of the cultural phenomenon of Hellenism, Judaism became available as a religion to outsiders, regardless of their political or ethnic background” (“Idumea and the Idumeans,” 180).

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Costobar’s seditious intention with just this vocabulary: Hyrcanus “had changed their way of life” — their politeia — “to the habits and customs of the Jews” (τὴν πολιτείαν αὐτῶν εἰς τὰ Ἰουδαίων ἔθη καὶ νόμιμα). But Costobar did not think it right for the Idumeans to be “under them” — to abide by their Judean practices (Ant 15.255). By implication, and a relatively clear implication at that, Costobar did think it good and right for Idumeans to follow their own customs. As van Henten writes: “[Costobar] wanted to remain faithful to Idumean practices.” 42 It would seem, based on this narration, that Costobar’s vision of being Idumean mirrored that of post-Hyrcanian early Judaism. Theirs was an identity maintained, ideally anyway, through observance of Idumean cult and custom, and not given only through birth and place. Costobar had both of the latter, after all: he was “Idumean by origin” and governor over the traditional Idumean home territory (Ant 15.253). But these would not suffice. Just as belonging to the Judean people had since Hyrcanus taken on a voluntary and nonheritable dimension, so apparently, too, had belonging to the Idumean people: Idumeans who “acted Judeanly” in Hyrcanus’s day had thereby been made Judean. Conversely, in Costobar’s day and in his opinion, Idumean-descended Judeans needed to “act Idumeanly” to recover or reclaim their Idumean identity. Idumean-ness was no longer an ethnos plain and simple, but included a set of activities that one might willingly undertake (or not). It approximated an “ethno-religion.” In a word, Costobar imagined “Idumaism.” To be sure, this reasoning is inferential, reverse engineered from the discontent that Josephus attributes to Costobar over Idumean subjection to Judean customs. And it is possible, too, that this framing is entirely Josephus’s, and it is his conception of “ethno-religion” that intrudes, opposing one set of “habits and customs” (Judean ones) with, implicitly, another set (Idumean). But a second consideration makes that scenario less likely.

I move here from the longitudinal context of the Costobar Affair to the latitudinal: from the arc of Idumean history to the reality of Idumean diaspora at about the same time as Costobar. As with Judeans living in other lands after the downfall of their native kingship, Idumeans, too, made a long-term life outside of their homeland in the Levant. We know of Idumean settlements in Babylonia 43 and also in Egypt. 44 It is unknown for how long Idumeans resided in Egypt: some scholars suppose that Idumeans relocated to Egypt at the time of Hyrcanus’s 42 43

Van Henten, Judean Antiquities 15, 179 n. 1663. See n. 32.

Bartlett cites two names written on a cuneiform document from Nippur (Edom and the Edomites, 204).

44 Dorothy J. Thompson, Memphis Under the Ptolemies, 2nd ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012), 99–103.

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conquest. 45 Others note that Ptolemy Soter brought 100,000 prisoners of war from his conquests of the Levant, which may well have included Idumeans (Let. Aris., 12–13). 46 Regardless the time of their arrival, two inscriptions and several papyri attest the presence of an Idumean community living in Memphis, Egypt, during the second century BCE. These documents suggest several facts about Idumean cult practice. One papyrus (BGU 6.1216.10) from very late in the second century refers to a “temple of Qos” (ἱεροῦ Κώιος) within the city. 47 A limestone stele, probably from the early first century, records the dedication of a sanctuary and lists the names of its founders (SB 681). 48 Many of these founders bear theophoric names invoking the Idumean god named Qos; many others are Greek or Macedonian, with a special density of Apollo-names. But the inscription mentions only two god-names directly: Apollo and Zeus. These data make it probable that these expatriate Idumeans, resident in Hellenistic Egypt, were equating their native deity Qos with Greek Apollo. 49 For the purpose of the present article, the most relevant inscription is an honorific decree or psephisma dating to the year 112/111 BCE (OGIS 2.737). 50 This text enacts the will of an interesting group: a gathering — a synagogue — of Idumeans; more exactly, a gathering or synagogue of the corporate body — politeuma — of Idumeans in the upper temple of Apollo. Once more, the equation of the Idumean god Qos with Greek Apollo is apparent. The group refers to itself with two organizational concepts: synagogue and politeuma.

45

Uriel Rappaport, “Les Iduméens en Égypte,” RevPhil 43 (1969): 73–82, here 75–77.

Sylvie Honigman, “Politeumata and Ethnicity in Ptolemaic Egypt,” AncSoc 33 (2003): 61–102, here 66, also n. 22.

47 http://berlpap.smb.museum/record/?result=9&Publikation=%22BGU+VI+ %22&order=Nr_mit_Zusatz-ASC&columns=pubnr&lang=en 48 Milne, Greek Inscriptions, 35–47 (no. 9283); for further bibliography, Thompson, Memphis Under the Ptolemies, 100 n. 95.

49 See Océane Henri, “Un exemple de l’interpretatio graeca: l’evolution du culte d’Apollon en Egypte ptolemaique et romaine,” in Actes du 26e Congrès international de papyrologie (Genève, 16–21 août 2010), ed. Paul Schubert (Recherches et rencontres 30; Genève: Librairie Droz S.A., 2012), 339–347; note also the intriguing equation of Qos with Zeus according to A. Kohut, “Zeus in Mishnah, Talmud and Midrash,” JQR 3 (1891): 552–554, here 554; also Javier Teixidor, The Pagan God: Popular Religion in the Greco-Roman Near East (Princeton Legacy Library; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2016 [orig. 1977]), here 90–91.

50 See Gilles Gorre, Les relations du clerge egyptien et des Lagides d’apres les sources privees, (Studia Hellenistica 45; Leuven: Peeters, 2009), 263–269 (no. 54).

46

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Both terms describe Judean communities during the same time period.

Occurrences of the word synagogue are well-known and widely distributed. 51 Documents from Herakleopolis indicate that Jews participated there in a politeuma, and the Letter of Aristeas says that Jews in Alexandria did also. 52 Sylvie Honigman has argued that this concept is military in origin, and the example of the honorific decree reinforces that: the Idumean politeuma honors the man named Dorion, and two of Dorion’s titles are military. 53 He is a “commander” (στρατηγὸς) and a priest of the “saber-bearers” (ἱερεὺς τοῦ πλήθους τῶν μαχαιροφόρων), an elite infantry troop to which Idumeans evidently belonged. 54 It was in his capacities as commander and chaplain to this troop that Dorion paid for renovations to the Apollo temple, specifically its replastering and whitening. The Idumeans, both of the military unit as well as of the city more generally, call for Dorion’s name to be incorporated into their sacrificial ritual as well as their hymns.

Dorion himself is known from hieroglyphic blocks within the Memphite necropolis. 55 These funerary texts show that Dorion was a priest of the Egyptian 51

See Anders Runesson, Donald D. Binder, and Birgir Olsson, The Ancient Synagogue from its Origins to 200 C.E.: A Source Book (AJEC 72; Leiden: Brill, 2008).

52 On the Herakleopolis archive, see James M.S. Cowey and Klaus Maresch, Urkunden des Politeuma der Juden von Herakleopolis (144/3–133/2 v. Chr.) (P. Polit. Iud.): Papyri aus den Sammlungen von Heidelberg, Köln, München und Wien (Papyrologica Coloniensia 29; Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2001). Sylvie Honigman considers the latter data together with Letter of Aristeas 310 in “Politeumata and Ethnicity”; see also Thomas Kruse, “Das politeuma der Juden von Herakleopolis in Ägypten,” in Die Septuaginta: Texte, Kontexte, Lebenswelten, ed. Martin Karrer und Wolfgang Kraus (WUNT 219; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 166–175.

53 For an overview of Honigman’s hypothesis and Rob Kugler’s counterarguments, see Collins, Invention of Judaism, 134–158, here 144–158; also Stewart Moore, Jewish Ethnic Identity and Relations in Hellenistic Egypt (JSJSup 171; Leiden: Brill, 2015), 76–96.

54 Dorothy J. Thompson Crawford, “The Idumeans of Memphis and the Ptolemaic Politeumata,” in Atti del XVII Congresso internazionale di papirologia, 3 vols. (Naples: Centro Internazionale per lo Studio dei Papiri Ercolanesi, 1984), 3:1069–1075; on Dorion, see 1070–1071; also Gorre, Les relations du clerge egyptien, 264. On foreign mercenaries in Egypt, see Anne Fitzpatrick-McKinley, “Preserving the Cult of Yhwh in Judean Garrisons: Continuity from Pharaonic to Ptolemaic Times,” in Sibyls, Scriptures, and Scrolls: John Collins at Seventy, ed. Joel Baden, Hindy Najman and Eibert Tigchelaar, 2 vols. (JSJSup 175; Leiden: Brill, 2017), 1:375–408.

55 Cairo 22179 and 22137 = Vernus, Athribis (Cairo, 1978), 214–218, nos. 177–178; cited in Crawford, “Idumeans,” 1070 n. 7; also Thompson, Memphis Under the Ptolemies, 102 n.

109.

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god Horus. He was not, then, Idumean by descent. The honorific inscription cites Dorion’s being “piously disposed (εὐσεβῶς) towards the deity” — the deity Apollo, but who was also and at the same time the deity the Idumeans had brought with them from their home country: Qos. Dorion himself may have seen an overlap in his duties to the god Horus and his chaplaincy to the Apollo temple; Christelle Fischer-Bovet observes that the “Greek interpretation” of the Egyptian god Horus was Apollo. 56 But the point at issue is the Idumean perspective: how did they regard Dorion and his piety?

Perhaps they understood Dorion as a sympathetic outsider to their people and to their god: a “gentile” godfearer, so to speak. Other ancient inscriptions show that Judean synagogues sometimes honored gentile benefactors (e.g., Julia Severa in Phrygia; AGRW 145). 57 Such donors remained non-Judean, and they did not even become “honorary” or “affiliate” members of the Judean people (if this was even considered a possibility there; cf. Thiessen). But on the other hand, and especially in the wake of Hyrcanus’s annexation, sometimes help “from an outsider” did have implications for their ethnic or religious — or “ethnoreligious” — identity. Consider the centurion of Luke 7, who built a synagogue for the “Judeans” (Galileans) of Capernaum. He was not a Judean or a Jew, but by assisting in the observances proper to the Jewish deity, he came to deserve remembrance from that god: “He is worthy of having you do this for him, for he loves our people, and it is he who built our synagogue for us” (vv. 4b–5, NRSV).

Even as a member by birth of another people, his “acting Judeanly” counted for something, to the Judean god as well as to Judeans (or Jews). Matters of observance in some way came to take precedence over birth and ethnos, plain and simple.

Dorion’s work on behalf of the Idumean synagogue fits this same understanding. He, too, even as an outsider to the Idumean community, could, by 56

Christelle Fischer-Bovet, “Towards a Translocal Elite Culture in the Ptolemaic Empire,” in Cosmopolitanism and Empire: Universal Rulers, Local Elites, and Cultural Integration in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean, ed. Myles Lavan, Richard E. Payne, and John Weisweiler (Oxford Studies in Early Empires; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 103–128, here 126; Gorre, Les relations du clerge egyptien, 263–264.

57 For more information about this donor inscription, see http://philipharland.com/grecoroman-associations/145-honors-by-a-judean-synagogue-for-julia-severa-and-others/; also Cohen, Beginnings of Jewishness, 147 and n. 19. Compare Paula Fredriksen, “If It Looks Like a Duck, and It Quacks Like a Duck…: On Not Giving Up the Godfearers,” in A Most Reliable Witness: Essays in Honor of Ross Shepard Kramer, ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey et al. (BJS 358; Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2015), 25–34; idem, Paul: The Pagans’ Apostle (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2017), 32–60, esp. 54–58.

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assisting in the observances proper to the Idumean god, come to deserve remembrance from the Idumean god and the Idumean community; the sacrifices made to Apollo-Qos and the hymns sung in the temple would make mention of him for his whole life. Traditional Idumean ethnic practice had become more permeable to outsiders; indeed, the Memphite Idumeans call for the temple officials to “proclaim for [Dorion] a palm branch according to ancestral custom” (κατὰ τὸν πάτριον νόμον). 58 Even ancestral custom could be extended to this Egyptian commander and priest. This phenomenon suggests that Idumeans, too, had somewhat relativized the significance of birth and ethnos. Someone who by lineage and location had inherited a set of responsibilities to other god(s) could, through patronage of the Idumean god, by “acting Idumeanly” — even in Egypt — earn lifelong plaudits and prayers from the Idumean community and succor from their god. Cult and custom were already “denaturalized” for Idumeans themselves in an expatriate context: outside of their homeland, the only Idumean practices available to them were by definition those that were self-undertaken. 59 But by the same token and because of that voluntary quality, non-Idumeans like Dorion could also pursue them.

It is true, as Ross Kraemer has observed, that “participating in the cultic practices of other groups, while continuing to maintain associations and identifications with one’s own group, appears to have been widespread in the Greco-Roman Mediterranean.” 60 Many gods received worship from peoples who did not belong to the gods’ homelands: Bendis, Bacchus, Isis, Jupiter Dolichenus, Jupiter Heliopolitanus. At the same time, there were degrees of participation by persons from one ethnos in the cult and customs of another. Shaye Cohen outlines seven different “forms of behavior by which a gentile demonstrates respect or affection for Judaism.” 61 Although these behaviors are not gradient, one leading 58

This is Philip Harland’s translation; see previous note.

Compare Schwartz’s comments on “natural religion” versus “religion of choice,” corresponding to homeland versus diaspora (Judeans and Jews, 21–47), esp. 46: “[T]he natural default for a baby born in Judea was to be Judean…to raise a child as Judean in Judea required only noninterference with nature; to raise a child as a Jew in Egypt, Cyprus, or Rome, or anywhere else in the Hellenistic-Roman diaspora, entailed…the decision to do something that was not at all natural.”

60 Ross Kraemer, “Giving up the Godfearers,” JAJ 5 (2014): 61–87, here 62.

61 Cohen, Beginnings of Jewishness, 140; cf. Thiessen, Paul and the Gentile Problem, 20–26; also now Katell Berthelot, “To Convert or Not to Convert: The Appropriation of Jewish Rituals, Customs and Beliefs by Non-Jews,” in Lived Religion in the Ancient Mediterranean World: Approaching Religious Transformations from Archaeology, History and Classics, ed.

Valentino Gasparini et al. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2020), 493–516.

59

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successively to another, Cohen does begin with rather more superficial and sporadic activities and progress to more enduring and exclusive ones, noting that while the former “do not imply a gentile is ‘becoming a Jew,’” the latter do. 62 Serious, long-term, voluntary association with Judean people and their god had the power to affect one’s identity, at least as far as some ancient communities were concerned. The same would seem to hold true for Dorion, whose benefaction “in many matters, both publicly and individually” (καὶ κοινῆι καὶ κατ’ ἰδίαν ἕκαστον) indicates the duration and cost of his contributions. The category need not be overly fixed or reified, but if the centurion of Luke 7 looks like a godfearer and quacks like a godfearer relative to the Judean god and the Judean synagogue, so, too, would the “piously disposed” Dorion vis-à-vis the Idumean god and the Idumean synagogue. 63 The example of Dorion suggests that traditional Idumean observances mattered as such to Idumeans, and that voluntary and nonheritable dimensions of Idumean-ness lay open to participation by outsiders: in a diasporic context in Memphis, an ethnic outsider who showed significant devotion to the Idumean god merited approbation from Idumeans and favor from Qos. This episode adumbrates “ethno-religion.” And if this were the case in 112/111 BCE outside the Idumean homeland, it strengthens the supposition that observances might have mattered as such to Costobar some 77 years later back in Idumean home territory. Josephus need not then have been projecting his own understanding of Judaism onto Costobar’s objection to “being under” Judean law. Rather, Costobar might well have sought to reassert the worship of his ancestral god because he valued Idumean cult and customs in their own right, as a distinguishable set of activities additional and complementary to Idumean descent. Although the partition of Idumean genealogy from Idumean practice happened under different circumstances in these two texts and contexts — forced conversion versus expatriation — the resulting phenomena are convergent. They evidence Idumaism.

Conclusions After reviewing the facts of the case, the present article situated the Costobar Affair in both its longitudinal and latitudinal contexts. Seen within Idumean history, Costobar’s ambition to rule over Idumea represents a return to an ancient Idumean sensibility, namely, the rightful coincidence of Qos-worship with the 62

Cohen, Beginnings of Jewishness, 140.

Cf. the title and content of Fredriksen, “If It Looks Like a Duck, and It Quacks Like a Duck.”

63

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native kingship that Qos had formerly supported. This section even raised the word messianic to evoke the possibly religious dimension of Costobar’s hoped-for ideal of restored native sovereignty. Seen within the reality of Idumean diaspora, Costobar’s high estimation of Idumean customs, as over against Judean customs, belongs to a changed definition of the Idumean heritage. No longer was Idumeanness neatly synonymous with Idumean birth and ethnos. Instead, “Idumaism” had moved towards being an ethno-religion: a belonging achievable by practice, and, as such, a belonging that might lie open, provisionally and partially at any rate, to non-Idumeans such as Dorion.

In all these regards, the Costobar Affair parallels early Judaism and early Christianity. Both these communities, in all their complex contrasts and commonalities, looked back on lost nations, the kingdoms of Israel and Judah as they had existed in the Iron Age over five hundred years before. They also saw their communal life without a native sovereign as sub-optimal: the worship of YHWH for them ideally coincided with the kingship of David. During the same era as Costobar, many initiatives among Jewish and Christian communities sought to restore native sovereignty, whether by violence or other means. In this sense a messianic vision characterized many if not all of the heirs to ancient Israelite traditions. So, too, as Smith and Cohen argue, the question of membership in these communities became much more complicated after Hyrcanus: birth and ethnos continued to play a dominant role in determining belonging within the post-Israelite commonwealth. But other factors arose, and specifically, factors of observance. Diasporic existence may have intensified the importance of such factors. It became thinkable that outsiders could, to varying degrees, participate in Judaism or Christianity by observing certain rites and practices. “Ethnoreligion” emerged.

These parallels provoke us to configure early Jewish and Christian relations in a fresh way. In much scholarly discussion, these two communities are positioned in relation to one another, whether in their parting or non-parting or ongoing interrelationship; or, alternately, they are situated together and in contradistinction to “the nations” — the communities that Paula Fredriksen calls “pagans,” whether in opposition to these latter or as a sort of anomalous successor to them (“ex-pagan pagans”). But if Idumaism really does resemble early Judaism and Christianity in the ways that this article identifies, it confounds these models.

Idumaism does not fit within the parting or non-parting of the ways between Judaism and Christianity, since its practitioners and inheritors did not trace their

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descent to Israel, and its god, Qos, is not the Judean god YHWH. 64 But its structural commonalities with these two also mean that Idumaism cannot be classified within an undifferentiated “paganism.” 65 It is too much alike, too “twin-like” with respect to early Judaism. 66 As the Judean scriptures themselves acknowledge, an Idumean is not the same thing at all relative to a Judean as, say, a Phrygian or a Spaniard. 67 These considerations, and in particular the features that Idumaism shares with post-Israelite communities, suggest that a sharper conceptual apparatus is necessary: a larger category is needed that can encompass all of these postmonarchic societies (Idumaism as well as early Judaism and early Christianity) while at the same time selecting for a subset smaller than the drippan of “ancient Mediterranean religion.” That category is: Hellenistic Levantine cult. Within this genus, Idumaism and the interpenetrating early Jewish-Christian ethno-religion(s) are all species of traditional Levantine practice, centered on a formerly national deity and oftentimes also on the ideal of a restored native kingship and adapting to foreign rule and to life in diaspora.

A few further thoughts will round out this exploratory reframing. First, although the concept of Hellenistic Levantine cult is not new, the kind of revisioning toward which the present article points — of early Judaism and early Christianity positioned alongside their religious next-of-kin in “Idumaism” and other Hellenistic Levantine traditions — has never yet been pursued in depth. 68 While the relationships of early Christianity to early Judaism have received 64

Although note the proposal of Martin Rose, “Yahweh in Israel – Qaus in Edom?” JSOT 4 (1977): 28–34, and the rejoinder by John R. Bartlett, “Yahweh and Qaus: A Response to Martin Rose (JSOT 4 [1977]: 28–34)” JSOT 5 (1978): 29–38.

65 So, e.g., Joan E. Taylor, writing about Sozomen's fifth-century C.E. account of the summer festival at Mamre, jointly celebrated by Jews, Christians, and pagans: "the pagans, who were most likely Idumaeans" (Christians and the Holy Places: The Myth of JewishChristian Origins [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993], 88).

66 Cornell, “What happened to Kemosh?”

67 E.g., Dicou, Edom, Israel's Brother and Antagonist. The kinship of Idumeans to Judeans is even more pronounced in Greek translations of the Judean scriptures, on which, see Michał Marciak, “From Edom to Idumea: Septuagint References to Edom and Idumea,” Palamades 12 (2017): 5–35.

68 Though see Yigal Levin, “Judea, Samaria and Idumea: Three Models of Ethnicity and Administration in the Persian Period,” in From Judah to Judaea: Socio-economic Structures and Processes in the Persian Period, ed. Johannes Unsok Ro (HBM 43; Sheffield, Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2012), 4–53; also Cornell, “What happened to Kemosh?”; and Teixidor, The Pagan God.

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intensive coverage, and their embeddedness within the Mediterranean world is of longstanding interest, standard accounts do not describe the problems that these traditions faced as shared problems. But kinglessness and dispersion were experiences common to a number of antique societies in the Levant (and elsewhere) and not only to the inheritors of “Israel.”

Neither do standard accounts develop the shared quality of the solutions that early Judaism and early Christianity proposed. Hope for a restored native ruler is, as noted, central to many strands of post-Israelite life and worship. But it is hardly unique to the early Jewish-Christian matrix. As the present article suggests, it is also a plausible reading of the Costobar Affair, and it appears outside the Levant in, for instance, literary predictive texts from Hellenistic Babylon. 69 Participation by “gentiles,” outsiders, in ancestral cult is a reality and a quandary about which many communities must have deliberated — and not just the Jerusalem council (Acts 15). In contexts of expatriate life, historic indices of membership and belonging like place and genealogy could do only so much work; traditional practices and especially veneration of the erstwhile national god take on a new significance in defining boundaries, as can be seen in Costobar’s probable advocacy for Idumean customs and in the case of Dorion’s honors from Idumeans in Egypt.

No doubt complex reasons of disciplinary history have contributed to the relative isolation of early Judaism and early Christianity from their Levantine congeners. But the primary culprit is the Judean scriptures themselves, and their influence even on the intellectual architecture of critical scholarship on the ancient world. 70 Scriptural templates govern the treatment — by historians — of these related Levantine peoples. On the one hand, the taxonomy of humankind that these scriptures presuppose, with Judeans on one side and all the rest, “pagans,” on the other, oftentimes shapes historians’ engagement with Hellenistic 69

See again Neujahr: “By viewing the Akkadian ex eventu texts as closely related functionally to early Judean messianism, the question of the Messiah (or, more properly, messiahs) can be seen in a religio-historical context far broader than the narrow band of eschatological literature to which it is usually relegated” (“Royal Ideology and Utopian Futures,” 54).

70 Cf. Gard Granerød on the “brainwashing” of “religiohistorical” scholarship by the Deuteronomists (Dimensions of Yahwism in the Persian Period: Studies in the Religion and Society of the Judaean Community at Elephantine [BZAW 488; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2016], 21). See also Konrad Schmid, “Overcoming the Sub-Deuteronomism and Sub-Chronicism of Historiography in Biblical Studies: The Case of the Samaritans,” in The Bible, Qumran, and the Samaritans, ed. Magnar Kartveit and Gary N. Knoppers (Studia Samaritana 10; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2019), 17–30.

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Levantine materials. This is true of a classic work like Javier Teixidor’s The Pagan God. It is also true of more recent research, and not only Paula Fredriksen’s. 71 But on the other hand, the scriptural imagination and portraiture of these Levantine peoples as ancient kindred to Israel also overcrowds their continued existence and integrity in the Hellenistic period and afterwards. It is perhaps to be expected that entries on Edom and Edomites center on their depictions within the Bible, and pay little if any attention to their “late” (relative to the Bible) Gestalt. 72 But if there has been a correction to the disinterest of earlier scholarly generations in early Judaism (the diminished, “Hellenized” aftercomer to biblically attested Israelite religion — so it was thought), no such reversal has been forthcoming in the case of Idumaism.

In addition to these ways that the Judean scriptures have set the terms for historical scholarship, and have thereby contributed to the separation of other Hellenistic Levantine cults from early Judaism and early Christianity, there is also the evidentiary challenge that these writings present in and of themselves. More decisive than the content of these scriptures, their ideological program(s), is their very profuse existence: they are, quite simply, overwhelmingly abundant in comparison with the written artifacts surviving from Idumeans or other Levantine peoples of the Hellenistic period. Judaism and, latterly, Christianity produced a vast amount of literature in the centuries after the cessation of the David monarchy. True, some forms of post-Israelite religion in these centuries were nonscriptural: the witness of the archives from Elephantine in Egypt is important in this regard. 73 But many, maybe most, of the communities that inherited the

71

See, for example, the title of Henoch 37 (2015): Pagani, giudei e cristiani in conflitto: Controversie e definizioni dell’identità. See also Collin Cornell, review of Expressions of Cult in the Southern Levant in the Greco-Roman Period: Manifestations in Text and Material Culture, Review of Biblical Literature by Oren Tal and Zeev Weiss, eds., www.bookreviews.org (2018).

72 This is true of most handbooks, whether on Edom/Edomites (e.g., Bartlett, Edom and the Edomites) or entries on the Transjordanian nations (e.g., Joel S. Burnett, “Transjordan: The Ammonites, Moabites, and Edomites,” in The World around the Old Testament: The People and Places of the Ancient Near East, ed. Bill T. Arnold and Brent A. Strawn [Grand Rapids: Baker, 2016], 309–352) or yet more broadly in Brian R. Doak, Ancient Israel’s Neighbors (Essentials of Biblical Studies; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020).

73 The Aramaic-speaking mercenaries or cleruchs who wrote these documents called themselves yehudayya, Judeans; they bear comparison with the Moabite and Idumean mercenaries further down the Nile. The Aramaic-speaking, Egypt-dwelling community responsible for Papyrus Amherst 63 also deserves mention here; survivors from a

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Israelite identity, whether Jewish and Christian, did preserve and transmit sacred writings, and for some, these writings took on a central importance. Reciting and memorizing and interpreting them — which is to say, treating them as Scripture — came to be practices that defined certain strands of post-Israelite identity. The same seems never to have occurred in the case of other Levantine traditions like Idumaism, with the result that they left far fewer data to posterity.

Here then is another and perhaps more definitive parting of ways that this article adds to the much-discussed relation of Judaism and Christianity — a parting which, instead of distinguishing these two from one another, actually unites them over against their counterparts in other Hellenistic Levantine traditions. Judeans both inside and outside of the Jesus movement shared many features in common with Idumeans, justifying their categorization together as species of Levantine cult. Indeed, they all and alike subsisted in the aftermath of Hyrcanus’s annexation, and hence, in some circles anyway, with a changed and voluntarized concept of belonging to the ancestral nation. They had jointly parted, it seems, from ethnos plain and simple. But they parted again and from one another with the ascendancy of Scripture: those who cherished the memory of “Israel” and worshipped Israel’s god did so by recourse to sacred writings, whereas those who remembered back to other Iron Age kingdoms such as Edom (or Moab) and continued to worship their gods did so without such aides-mémoire. Julius Wellhausen once waxed eloquent about this parting and its results: Israel and Moab [or: Edom!] had a common origin, and their early history was similar. The people of Jehovah on the one hand, and the people of Chemosh [or: Qos!] on the other, had the same idea of the Godhead as head of the nation, and a like patriotism derived from religious belief…But with all this similarity, how different were the ultimate fates of the two! The history of the one loses itself obscurely and fruitlessly in the sand; that of the other issues in eternity. 74

conquered place called Rash, they, too, present a postmonarchic form of Levantine cult, and they transmit royal traditions.

74 Julius Wellhausen, “Moab,” in Encyclopædia Britannica, 9th ed., 26 vols. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1883), 16:533–536, here 535. www.jjmjs.org

The Early Church Fathers on Sacrifices and Temple: Rejection, Substitution, or Metaphor?

Eyal Regev Bar-Ilan University | eyal.regev@biu.ac.il JJMJS No. 7 (2020): 116–140

Many New Testament writings, including Paul's cultic metaphors, Mark's description of the Last Supper, and the heavenly Temple in Hebrews and Revelation, relate to the Temple and sacrifices. The destruction of the Jerusalem Temple and the end of the Jewish sacrificial cult did not diminish the interest of early Christian writers in the cult. Several decades later, the Apostolic fathers and Church fathers continue to engage with the concept of sacrifice and related subjects.

In his study on spiritual sacrifices in early Christianity (second–fourth centuries), Everett Ferguson discusses the subject from a functional perspective.

He shows that sacrificial language is utilized for a wide range of applications: prayer, praise, the Eucharist, fasting, celibacy, martyrdom, etc. 1 It is customary to classify this sacrificial discourse into segments of Christian doctrine, following Paul, such as the sacrifice of Christ, the Church as the new Temple, and images of sacrificial activity. 2 Recently there has been renewed interest in the question of why and how second- and third-century Christians rejected animal sacrifices. Guy Stroumsa relates the cessation of sacrifices to a broader shift in the very concept of identity, from a more communal model of identity to a more individualistic model. 3 MariaZoe Petropoulou suggests that the Christian rejection resulted from a different 1

E. Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifice in Early Christianity and Its Environment,” ANRW 23.2 (1980): 1151–1189.

2 R. J. Daly, Sacrifice Unveiled. The True Meaning of Christian Sacrifice (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2009), 75–98.

3 G. G. Stroumsa, The End of Sacrifice: Religious Transformations in Late Antiquity (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2009). On the Church fathers, see ibid., 72–75, 78–83.

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understanding of God. 4 Daniel Ullucci concludes that there was no single pattern of opposition to animal sacrifices, but a variety of approaches, with no established position or logical chronological progression of stemma of arguments. He regards the debate over the proper religious practice of sacrifice as a vehicle of religious competition between different Christian circles, as well as with Judaism and Greco-Roman cults, in order to defend specific positions. 5 Yet, as we shall see below, the attitude of the Apostolic and Church fathers was much more complex than a simple rejection of the sacrificial cult. In fact, many of them regarded sacrifices as a concept that illuminates their nonsacrificial practices. In what follows I will point to certain traditional Jewish cultic ideas that remained appealing to the Church fathers, while the related practices and rites were totally rejected.

To date, there is no systematic discussion of the levels of interest and rejection of the Church Fathers in Jewish cultic tradition. Some scholars stressed specific approaches while neglecting others. We need a clearer general mapping of what the Church fathers thought about the meaning of the Temple cult and its relevance to their beliefs and practices: does the cult, which no longer exists after 70 CE, provide useful theological concepts? And how does the approach to Temple and sacrifice advance new Christian messages?

Whereas Ullucci concludes that “it is not possible to give a synthesis of Christian positions on sacrifice in the time period in question,” 6 this article attempts a typological synthesis of the second- and third-century evidence: A basic classification of types of approaches to cultic ideas, and suggestions what were the motivations behind these approaches.

Unlike Ferguson, I will not classify the sacrificial and cultic discourse according to the manner in which the cultic symbol was applied or used to fit the Christian theological concern (namely, why the Eucharist was regarded as a sacrifice). I will point to three different attitudes towards the very idea and value of the sacrificial cult, which show diversity and complexity in the Apostolic and Church fathers’ engagement with Jewish Temple themes: 1. Attacking the very 4

M.-Z. Petropoulou, Animal Sacrifice in Ancient Greek Religion, Judaism and Christianity, 100 BC–AD 200 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), esp. 285–295. For Heyman’s explanation of martyrdom as a challenge to animal sacrifice, see below. For later evidence, see, for example, E. Kovaltchuk, “The Encaenia of St. Sophia: Animal Sacrifice in Christian Context,” Scrinium 4 (2008): 161–203.

5 D. C. Ullucci, The Christian Rejection of Animal Sacrifice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), esp. 117, 125–126.

6 Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 126.

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legitimacy and necessity of Jewish sacrifice. 2. Replacing sacrifice with Christian rites and perceptions, thus admitting that the cultic idea or function is valuable, and that the vacuum left by the absence of the Jerusalem Temple should be filled with new Christian substitutes. 3. Using cultic associations and metaphors — without disqualifying the cultic practice — to make sense of Christian ideas, thus accepting cultic rites as constructive models that should be followed or developed.

In what follows I will observe which authors follow each of these three approaches. My aim is a typological classification, a general mapping of early Christian views. The scope of this article does not permit discussion of each of the specific passages, its context, and interpretation. Certainly, there are more nuanced variations in the meaning and aim of certain passages from the same type that deserve further elaboration.

The analysis of these three approaches will lead to the question of how they fit together. Why are different approaches to sacrifices sometimes used by the same author? The threefold classification will point to different aims or motivations of the Apostolic and early Church fathers in using cultic themes.

My perspective here is ideological-conceptual without attempting to reconstruct the historical process of these approaches. As Ullucci maintains, there is no straightforward linear development of early Christian thinking on sacrifices and the Temple cult. Each of the passages cited below may deserve deeper analysis and discussion in light of its place in early Christian history and theology. 7 My purpose here is restricted to exposing the variety and complexity of the approaches towards the Jewish Temple cult during the period from the end of the first century to the third century, showing how (mainly Jewish) sacrifices shaped the religious imagination of early Christian writers.

This article continues my research on NT approaches to the Temple and sacrifice. I have tried to show that NT authors did not reject the Temple cult as a core concept for relationship with God and expression of piety. Rather, they used Jewish traditional concepts to develop their own new ideas, building on and interacting with Jewish cultic traditions. In the NT texts, religious authority, authenticity, and identity were constructed through Temple themes such as relating Jesus or the apostles to the Temple as well as cultic symbolism and metaphors. Even when the practice of animal sacrifices and priestly service is boldly rejected as impractical or irrelevant (such as in Hebrews), its principles are

7

The functions and purposes of several passages in internal and external Christian debates is discussed by Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 125–126.

Regev, The Early Church Fathers on Sacrifices and Temple 119

sustained and revitalized through a new concept of heavenly cult. 8 Without necessarily building on these conclusions, here I intend to discuss the attitude of apostolic and Church fathers to the Temple cult in the following two centuries.

Against Sacrifices Many texts from the second to the fourth century reject or resist sacrifice, thus denying the validity of the Jewish sacrificial cult. The author of the Epistle of Barnabas (2.4–7) utterly rejects the practice of animal sacrifice, arguing that God “has made plain to us through all the prophets that he needs neither sacrifices nor burnt-offerings nor oblations.” 9 Barnabas argues that the relevant biblical commandments related to sacrifices should be read allegorically, since God annulled sacrifices in favor of the new law of Jesus Christ (2.6).

In chapter 16, Barnabas also introduces a harsh polemic against the Jerusalem Temple, calling the very notion that God would dwell in a building made by human hands absurd (“the wretched men erred by putting their hope on the building, and not on the God who made them, and is the true house of God,” 16.1). He even equates the Jewish Temple with pagan temples (16.2), and argues that the true Temple is not the building, which was rightly destroyed, but the body of the Christian believer. 10 Most interesting is Barnabas’s mockery (16.3–5) of the attempt to rebuild the Temple out of a mistaken belief that God seeks animal sacrifices: “That is happening now. For owing to the war it was destroyed by the enemy; at present even the servants of the enemy will build it up again” (16.4). The author's goal is to show that a transposition has taken place, from a literal Temple that was (in his opinion, rightfully) destroyed to a spiritual Temple that should be understood in Christian terms. The ideas of the remission of sin, of hope in the Name, and of the new creation in which God dwells (16.8–9) all demonstrate that Barnabas is in fact describing a Christian replacement for the destroyed Temple. 11 8

E. Regev, The Temple in Early Christianity: Experiencing the Sacred (Anchor Yale Bible Reference Library; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2019); idem., “Community as Temple: Revisiting Cultic Metaphors in Qumran and the New Testament,” Bulletin for Biblical Research 28.4 (2018): 604–631.

9 Barn. 2.4, later quoting Isa 1:11–13. See Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 97–98. Translations of the Epistle of Barnabas follow K. Lake in the LCL edition. Its date is discussed below.

10 Barn. 16.6–10. He also declares, “God dwells in us” (16.8–9), and “a spiritual temple being built for the Lord” (16.10).

11 P. Richardson and M. B. Shukster, “Barnabas, Nerva, and The Yavnean Rabbis,” JTS 34 (1983): 31–55, here 34.

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Barnabas is reacting to both Jewish and Roman plans to rebuild the Jerusalem Temple. His quotation of Isa 49:17 LXX (Barn. 16.5), for example, addresses the rebuilding of the Temple by those who demolished it, i.e., the Romans. Peter Richardson and Martin Shukster argue that it relates to the reign of the Roman emperor Nerva (96–98 CE), known for having made life easier for the Jews by modifying the fiscus Iudaicus, or Jewish tax. 12 Justin Martyr (mid-second century) refutes the Jewish Temple cult on several grounds. First, he declares that God neither needs nor wants sacrifices. 13 Curiously, he offers an explanation for why sacrifices are commanded in the Torah to begin with: God, he says, commanded them on account of the sins of the Israelites, particularly the sin of idolatry. Since they made for themselves a golden calf in the wilderness and worshiped other idols, God instructed them to offer sacrifices in His name, in order that they not serve idols. 14 This radical argument can also be found in later rabbinic sources, attributed to R. Ishmael (early second century) and R. Levi (early third century, cited by the fourth-century R. Pinhas).

Is it possible that this view was accepted among some of the rabbinic establishment as well, perhaps, as a response to the destruction of the Temple? 15 Second, Justin stresses that God did not need the Temple in Jerusalem as His house or court; on the contrary, the purpose of the Temple is to ensure that the Jews refrain from worshipping idols. Justin goes so far as to argue that the angels defied God when they taught the Israelites to offer sacrifices, incense, and 12

Richardson and Shukster, “Barnabas, Nerva, and The Yavnean Rabbis,” with a summary of previous dating of the Epistle. On dating it to Nerva's reign, see ibid., 41–44.

13 First Apology 10.1; 13.1; Dial. 10.3; 22. See also The Epistle to Diognetus 3.2.

14 Dial 19.6; 22.1, 11; Cf. also Dial. 43.1; 67.8; 92.4.

15 R. Levi: Leviticus Rabbah 22:8; R. Ishmael: Tanhuma, akhrei mot 17 (ed. Buber, 69–70).

See also R. Levi’s view that most sacrifices would be unnecessary in the future (Lev. Rabbah 9:7); A. J. Heshel, Theology of Ancient Judaism, Vol.1 (London: Soncino Press, 1962), 1.42– 43 [in Hebrew]. Note, however, that these rabbinic texts are much later than Justin. J. Klawans, Purity, Sacrifice and the Temple: Symbolism and Supersessionism in the Study of Ancient Judaism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 29–30, maintains that the scriptural context and the citation of Lev 17:7 in this passage in Leviticus Rabbah 22:8 proves that there is no critique of sacrifices but merely justification of limiting slaughter to the sanctuary. Only the abolition of slaughtering outside the sanctuary, and not the very concept of sacrifice, is meant to prevent idolatry. Klawans also stresses rabbinic hopes for restoration of sacrifice (ibid., 199–201). M. Balberg, “The Animalistic Gullet and the Godlike Soul: Reframing Sacrifice in Midrash Leviticus Rabbah,” AJS Review 38.2 (2014): 221–247, suggested that elsewhere in Leviticus Rabbah, the midrash positively constructs the act of sacrifice as diametrically opposed to the act of eating.

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libations. 16 Another reason for the rejection of sacrifices in the Temple is that the Jews desecrate God’s name. 17 For Justin, the destruction of the Temple is a divine punishment meted out to the Jews. 18 The rejection of the act of sacrifice and of the earthly Temple set the stage for Justin’s creed: With the birth of Christ, God nullified the commandments—including sacrifices (Dial. 43.1).

Other authors also claim that sacrifices were superfluous to begin with.

Irenaeus of Lyons (late second century) argues that God does not need the material offerings of men, but rather temperance, righteousness, and the love of man for his fellow human beings. 19 Clement of Alexandria (early third century) takes a similar approach, maintaining that animal sacrifices are merely meant to serve as an allegory, and that God never intended for them to be carried out.

Rather, it is Christian prayers that are the best “sacrifices” of all. 20 Clement also boasts that Christianity effectively put an end to animal sacrifice. 21 Tertullian (early third century) mentions that sacrifice has become obsolete now that prayer—the “true” sacrifice—has taken its place. Like Justin, he contends that God never wanted sacrifices in the first place; it was only when the Israelites were prone to idolatry and transgression that God used sacrifices as a ritual means of reestablishing their connection. 22 (Note that while Clement and Tertullian reject the very legitimacy of sacrifice, they nonetheless refer to prayer as sacrifice, implying that sacrifice should be replaced, and not totally abolished; see below.)

The Pseudo-Clementine collections of the Homilies and Recognitions (fourth century, based on earlier sources) adopt an extremely hostile approach to

16

Temple: Dial 22.11; Angels: Apol II 5.3–4. He also brings scriptural quotations against sacrifice in Dial. 22.3 (Amos 5:21–25); 28.5 (Mal 1:11–12).

17 Dial. 41.2; 117.2 (following Mal. 1:10–12).

18

Dial. 16.2; 40.2. Y. Z. Eliav, God's Mountain: The Temple Mount in Time, Place, and Memory (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2006), 158–160, concludes that Barnabas and Justin discuss the desolation of the Temple Mount and regard it as a punishment for the rejection of Christ. See Barn. 11; Justin, Dial. 25.1–26.1.

19 Irenaeus of Lyon, Haer. 4.18.1–2; Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifice,” 1177. Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 105, defines his approach as based on the logic of reciprocity, claiming a new form of sacrifice.

20 Stromateis 7.6; see also Stromateis 7.3; Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifice,” 1881–1882; Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 108–110.

21 Clement, Protrepticus (also known as Exhortation to the Greeks) 3.42.

22 On prayer instead of sacrifice: Tertullian De Oratione 28; Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifice,” 1184. On sacrifices as commanded only as a means to prevent idolatry: see Tertullian, Adversus Marcionem 2.18.

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the Temple cult, 23 declaring the end of the Temple and sacrifices, and insisting that God is not at all pleased by sacrifice. 24 The author/collector of Recognitions points to Moses’ prophecy in the wilderness to argue that sacrifices were necessary only in order to prevent the Israelites from worshipping idols; that is to say, there was no longer any need of sacrifices once the Law was given to Israel. 25 In fact, Moses told the Israelites that a prophet will arise who will notify them that God desires kindness, not sacrifices (Recog. 37.1). Moses explained that in the future, the Israelites will cease to sacrifice, and baptism will take its place as a means of securing atonement (1.39.1–2). Despite Moses’ warning, the author adds, the Israelite tyrants abolished the very place that had been predestined as a house of prayer in preference for a Temple (Recog. 1.38.5). The author also claims that the tearing of the Temple veil was a sign of the coming destruction (Recog. 1.41.3).

In Recognitions, the debate on the Temple and its cult is dramatized through a clash between Peter and James and the Temple’s Jewish high priests.

While the high priest praises sacrifices and objects to baptism (1.55), Peter argues that the time for sacrifices has already expired; since the Jews do not recognize this truth, the Temple will be destroyed (1.64.1–2; 1.65.1). There follows a public debate in the Temple, attended by James and others who have come to visit. 26 All this may owe its origins to a Jewish-Christian source from circa 200 CE. 27

23

On the Pseudo-Clementines and their place within so-called Jewish-Christianity, associating themselves with Peter and James (Recog. 1.43.2; 44.1), and against Paul, see A. Yoshiko Reed, “‘Jewish Christianity’ after the ‘Parting of the Ways’: Approaches to Historiography and Self-Definition in the Pseudo-Clementine Literature,” in The Ways that Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. A. H. Becker and A. Yoshiko Reed, (TSAJ 95; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 289–232.

24 Recog.1.27 and 1.64; Homilies 111.45, respectively. Citations of Recognitions follow the edition of F. S. Jones, An Ancient Jewish Christian Source, Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions 1.27–71 (Atlanta: SBL, 1995).

25 Recog. 1.35; 1.36.1; 37.4.

26 Recog. 1.66.2–4 ff. It is interesting that the author located James' teaching in the Temple in spite of the fact that the high priests and the lay priests had often beaten the Christians for teaching or learning about Jesus (Recog. 1.55.1–2). On the Temple as the background, and possibly the reason, for James’ execution, see E. Regev, “Temple Concerns and High Priestly Persecutions from Peter to James: Narrative and History,” NTS 56.1 (2010): 64–89.

27 Jones, Ancient Jewish Christian Source, 163. J. Bourgel, “Reconnaissances 1.27–71, ou la réponse d'un groupe judéo-chrétien de Judée au désastre du soulèvement de Bar-Kokhba,” NTS 61.1 (2015): 30–49, suggests that Recog. 1.27–71 was written as a response to the Jews' failure to rebuild the Temple during the Bar-Kokhba revolt (132–135 CE).

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Strikingly, despite his anti-Temple stance, the author is extremely familiar with priestly matters, including the laws of purity and anointing oil.

(Recog. 1.46–48; 1.51.1). In fact, the Pseudo-Clementines were probably lawabiding Jewish-Christians, whose polemic against sacrifices is pursued apart from any broader denigration of Jewish Torah observance. 28 Epiphanius mentions that in the Gospel of the Ebionites Christ said, “I came to do away with sacrifices, and if you cease not sacrificing, the wrath of God will not cease from you.” 29 Here too, the rejection of sacrifices does not stem from a rejection of the Law. 30 In addition, some so-called Gnostic texts from Nag Hammadi express a critical stance towards sacrifices and relate to Jesus’s death as a sacrifice as well. For example, in The Second Treatise of the Great Seth, Jesus is described as ripping the Temple veil with his own hands. 31

28

Yoshiko Reed, “‘Jewish Christianity,’” 197–198, 204–213, esp. 209.

Ephiphanius, Against Heresies (or the Panarion) 30.16.4–5. Translation follows E. Hennecke, New Testament Apocrypha, ed./trans. W. Schneemelcher, Volume 1: Gospels and Related Writings, trans. R. M. Wilson (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1991), 158.

Hennecke dates this gospel to the first half of the second century (ibid., 156). S. J. Joseph, “‘I Have Come to Abolish Sacrifices’ (Epiphanius, Pan. 30.16.5): Re-examining a Jewish Christian Text and Tradition,” NTS 63 (2017): 92–110, here 104, 108 suggests that the Ebionites represent a pre-synoptic tradition. He also notes that the Gospel of the Ebionites and the Pseudo-Clementines combine the rejection of animal sacrifice with the rejection of meat-eating. Pan. 30.16.7, also contains injunctions against the Temple and sacrifices, and the fire on the altar are attributed to the “Ascents of James.”

30 According to Ephipanius, Pan. 30.1–2, Ebion, the founder of the Ebionites, emerged from the Nazarenes and adhered to Judaism's Law of the Sabbath, circumcision, and all other Jewish observances. The Nazarenes also observe that Law (ibid., 5.4; 7.5; 8.1).

31 See the survey of the so-called Gnostic texts in R. Roukema, “Sacrifice in ‘Gnostic’ Testimonies of the Second and Third Centuries CE,” in The Actuality of Sacrifice: Past and Present, ed. A. Houtman et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 153–169. For The Second Treatise of the Great Seth, see Nag Hammadi Codex VII 2. 58.26–29, The Nag Hammadi Library in English, 4th revised edition, ed. J. M. Robinson (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 366; Roukema, “Sacrifice in ‘Gnostic’ Testimonies,” 159. See also the rejection of sacrifice as idolatrous in the Gospel of Judas, as well as the sacrificial understanding of the death of Jesus in K. L. King, “Christians Who Sacrifice and Those Who Do Not? Discursive Practices, Polemics, and Ritualizing,” in ‘The One Who Sows Bountifully’: Essays in Honor of Stanley K. Stowers, ed. C. E. Johnson Hodge, S. M. Olyan, D. Ullucci, and E. Wasserman (Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2013), 307–318, here 309–312.

29

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Replacing Sacrifice When something is introduced as a replacement of sacrifice it means that the positive values of sacrifices — such as giving God something precious or pleasing God — are achieved by new or alternative human measures. Replacing means that the original aim/end is still relevant, but other means can or should be taken to accomplish it. Already in Ps 69:30–31 it is stated: “I will praise the name of God with a song; I will magnify him with thanksgiving. This will please the Lord more than an ox or a bull with horns and hoofs.” While there is a preference for praise and thanksgiving over animal sacrifice, it also conceals a comparison in which prayer serves the same function of sacrifice, and in this respect prayer is modeled after sacrifice! Furthermore, the act of substitution implies that there is a need for a sacrifice, which is executed through praise and thanksgiving. If prayer would not be compared to sacrifice, its function and value would be less clear. Arguing that prayer is better than sacrifice marks its position in the eyes of God. Thus, sacrifice actually appropriates prayer before it is replaced.

An example for a conceptual replacement of sacrifice is put forward in the Community Rule of the Yah̟ad sect found in Qumran (ca. 100 BCE). The flesh of the burnt offering and the fats of the sacrifice are replaced with an “offering of the lips,” i.e. prayer. 32 In addition, the “freewill (cereal?) offering” is replaced by the law with the pleasant aroma of justice, or righteousness and perfect behavior (1QS 9:3–5). Prayer and righteous behavior are portrayed as sacrifice, acknowledging that the function of sacrifice (the passage refers to guilt, sin, pleasing and aroma) is accomplished by new practice or rite. 33 The point is that prayer and moral conduct, quite basic and mundane aspects of religious life, can or should fulfill the function of sacrifice which is usually the climax of religious ritual.

In a similar vein, although under different historical circumstances, after the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, the early rabbis declared that prayer and giving charity, which were always required, replace the sacrifices that are no

32

On prayer as an “offering of the lips,” see also 1QS 9:26; 10:6, 14. In CD 11:20–21, the sacrifice of the wicked is inferior to the prayer of the just, which is like an agreeable offering.

See Regev, “Community as Temple: Revisiting Cultic Metaphors,” Bulletin for Biblical Research (in press). On the institutionalization of prayer in Qumran and beyond, see J. Penner, Patterns of Daily Prayer in Second Temple Period Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2012).

33 Nonetheless, on the basis of other texts from Qumran, such as the return to the Temple and the restoration of the sacrificial cult in column 2 of the War Scroll (1QM), it is likely that the Yah̟ad regarded this replacement as temporary.

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longer offered due to the destruction of the Temple by the Romans. 34 This means that sentiments that were associated with offering animal sacrifices are now transferred to non-sacrificial activities, thus imparting a sense of ritual and enhancing their religious significance of approaching/pleasing God. 35 In introducing these practices as functioning like a sacrifice, both the Yah̟ad and the Rabbis sensed the absence of sacrifice as a medium of worship, actually acknowledging that sacrifices were, in principle, necessary. 36 I suggest that some early Christians felt the same way.

Several early-Christian authors present rites and doctrines as direct substitutions for the sacrificial cult. Barnabas stresses that Jesus offered himself as a sacrifice for our sins (7:3c), and implies that Jesus served as such a sacrifice when he referred to the sprinkling of his blood for purification (“The Lord endured to deliver up his flesh to corruption, that we should be sanctified by the remission of sin, that is, by his sprinkled blood” 5:1).

Barnabas 7 creates a link between Jesus’s death and the Day of Atonement. The priests’ eating of the flesh of the goat (Num 29:11) parallels the Eucharist, which itself equates Jesus’s death with a sin offering, like that made on the Day of Atonement. Eating the Eucharist also distinguishes Christians, who do not fast, from Jews. Later in the same chapter, the author identifies Jesus with the scapegoat and the goat of the sin offering. He contends that Jesus suffered like the

34

Prayer: Sifre ʿEkev 41 (ed. Finkelstein, 87–88); T. Berakhot 3:1. See also the manner in which the synagogue take the place of the Temple: S. Fine, This Holy Place: On the Sanctity of the Synagogue During the Greco-Roman Period (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997). Charity: Sifre Re'eh 143 (ed. Finkelstein, 196); charity atones for sins in b. Bava Batra 10b (cf. already Dan 4:24; Tobit 12:9). For general discussion, see Stroumsa, End of Sacrifice, 66–69. Nonetheless, most of rabbinic sacrificial discourse, which is admittedly vast, discusses sacrifices in a practical and realistic manner, and as a meaningful ritual. See Mira Balberg, Blood for Thought: The Reinvention of Sacrifice in Early Rabbinic Literature (Oakland: University of California Press, 2017).

35 Klawans, Purity, Sacrifice, and the Temple, 198, 201–209, calls this “templizing” or sacrificialization of rituals and prayers which do not reject the past but represent a certain nostalgia towards the Temple cult. That the rabbis did not seek to replace sacrifices with prayer is argued ibid., 208-209.

36 In other texts from Qumran and rabbinic literature (the Temple Scroll, tractates Zevahim and Menahot, etc.) there is of course an intense discussion of sacrificial laws and their significance. Unlike the Church Fathers, in the texts just cited, the replacement is conditional or temporary.

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scapegoat, and was similarly cursed (on the cross). 37 Jesus is identified not only with the scapegoat of the Day of Atonement, but also with the red heifer that purifies the people “from the sins” (8:1–5). 38 Undoubtedly, Barnabas is striving to show that everything in the Jewish Scriptures, if read properly, points to Jesus.

Justin Martyr introduces several replacements for the rite of sacrifice. He stresses that God does not seek blood and libations and incense; instead, prayer, thanksgiving, and hymns are more appropriate substitutions. 39 The biblical prophets speak of blood sacrifices or libations presented at the altar at the End of Days. For Justin Martyr, however, they are actually referring to authentic spiritual praise and the End of Days is to be fulfilled by Christ's Second Advent (Dial.

118.2).

Christ’s blood, Justin writes, replaces the purification previously achieved by sacrifices (either by the blood of goats and sheep, the ashes of the heifer, or the offerings of fine flour), 40 since Christ was the eternal priest. He adds that the twelve bells attached to the robe of the high priest symbolize the twelve apostles, who depend on the power of Christ, and that the Christians are the true high-priestly race of God. 41 This proves that Justin finds the Torah commands regarding the priestly service meaningful. Justin Martyr goes even further,

37

D. Stökl Ben Ezra, The Impact of Yom Kippur on Early Christianity (WUNT 163; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 152–154 on Barn. 7:1–5 and 7:6–11.

38 On Christ as the red heifer, see R. J. Daly, Christian Sacrifice: The Judaeo-Christian Background before Origen (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1978), 432 (note that the law of the rite of the red heifer in Num 19 does not mention sin, but merely ritual bodily purity). Despite the harsh polemic, the author is very much aware of Jewish and even rabbinic law, and appropriates the halakhic details for his Christological doctrine. G. Alon, “The Halakhah in the Epistle of Barnabas,” in Studies in Jewish History in the Times of the Second Temple, the Mishna, and the Talmud, vol. 1. (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1957), 295–312 [Hebrew], here 297, points to knowledge of rabbinic halakhah in the involvement of undefiled children in making the ashes (m. Parah 3:2–3). He also compares the ritual symbolism of the epistle with rabbinic halakhah, including the idea that the ashes enable atonement, and finds echoes of rabbinic tradition in people's treatment of the scapegoat (ibid., 299–305).

39 1 Apol 13; See also 1 Apol. 10; Dial. 117.2; Daly, Christian Sacrifice, 331–333; Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifice,” 1172–1173. In Dial 117.2, Justin maintains that prayers and thanksgiving (by the appropriate people) are the only perfect sacrifices.

40 Dial 13.1; Daly, Christian Sacrifice, 325, 328–330, concludes that Christ’s sacrifice fulfills the OT sacrificial rites.

41 Twelve bells: Dial. 42.1; 116.1; 118.2; Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifice,” 1173. True highpriestly race: Dial. 116.3, quoting Mal 1:11.

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suggesting that the Passover lamb symbolizes Christ, while the two he-goats of the Day of Atonement symbolize his two appearances, since Christ was the offering for all sinners willing to repent. 42 Irenaeus of Lyons argues that God does not want sacrifices, but rather faith, obedience, and righteousness. He insists that prayer is equivalent to the offering of incense, 43 and that the true sacrifice is observance of church ritual. 44 Irenaeus also declares that the Eucharist is acceptable to God as a pure sacrifice and fulfils God’s instructions on how to offer for him. 45 Clement of Alexandria similarly rejects sacrifice, arguing that true sacrifice is prayer, and that the practice of sacrifice should be “spiritualized” following Ps 51:19. According to Clement, just as Jesus sacrificed himself for his believers, the believers must also sacrifice themselves: “We glorify Him who gave Himself in sacrifice for us, we are also sacrificing ourselves.” 46 While the idea that Christ is a sacrifice offered each day anew prevails in later Christianity, 47 rarely do we find the notion that baptism may replace sacrifices, as in the Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions. 48 We have already seen that the post-70 rabbis developed temporary substitutes for the Temple cult as well. Yet, the Church fathers' substitutions have an additional role—they show that the sacrificial system is no longer necessary.

Nonetheless, they still need to stress that their own ways of worship correspond with the previous functions of sacrifice. They wish to find legitimization for prayer, the Eucharist, and Jesus in Scripture. And in doing so, they actually acknowledge the theoretical potential of the cult to begin with. Stroumsa concludes from this phenomenon that early Christianity is undeniably a sacrificecentered religion, even if the idea of sacrifice is being reinterpreted. The Christian Anamnesis, he argues, is the reactivation of the sacrifice of the Son of God, performed by the priests. The priests (and not the sages) lead the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Sacrifice is thus re-offered perpetually. 49 42

Dial. 40.1–4; Daly, Christian Sacrifice, 328–329.

43

Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.17.

Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.18.

45 Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.17.5; 4.18.1 (ANF 1:484).

44

46

Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 7.6–8; Paedagogus 3.12 (quoting Isa. 1:11–14); Strom. 7.3, respectively. For one's body and self as a living sacrifice, see Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifice,” 1179–1180.

47 E.g., John Chrysostom, Hom. Heb. 17.3 (on Heb 9:24–26).

48 Recog. 1.48.6; 1.54.1. On the Pseudo-Clementines, see below.

49 Stroumsa, End of Sacrifice, 72–73. The patristic liturgical language developed a sacrificial vocabulary that continues in the vein of the ancient tradition. See “Sacrifice,” in

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Cultic Associations and Metaphors In the Hebrew Bible, Second Temple period sources, and also in the NT, there are many allusions to sacrifices and related cultic issues, in which something outside the cult is imagined as or alluded to as if it was sacrificial. For example, prayer is associated with the offering of incense: “Let my prayer be counted as incense (ktoret) before you, and the lifting up of my hands as an evening sacrifice” (Ps 141:2). The Psalmist wishes his prayer to be accepted by God, and for this reason he uses the metaphors of incense and sacrifices. The intent of such a metaphor, or even more direct cultic analogies and associations, is to appropriate the “target domain” of the metaphor (prayer) and to make it more sensible and meaningful. 50 The metaphor aims to imbue prayer with a new symbolic meaning.

Similarly, when Paul wants to show appreciation for the Philippians and to enhance his authority he says: “But even if I am being poured out as a libation (spendomai) over the sacrifice and the offering (thusia kai leitourgia) of your faith, I am glad and rejoice with all of you” (Phil 2:17). The faith of the Philippians is described using the metaphor of sacrifice/offering, and Paul's gospel as a libation on the altar, presenting both as sacred and pleasing God. 51 This use of sacrificial symbolism reflects the idea that sacrifices have a substantial positive value that should also be transmitted to the Christian faith and gospel, but without arguing that the original meaning or practice of sacrifice is no longer relevant.

Despite the common claims that sacrifices were the result of the Israelites' sins, that they were unnecessary and should be replaced by prayer and other substitutes, there are many cases in which Christian authors show greater respect for the concept of sacrifice. Cultic metaphors and associations are prevalent throughout Christian writings of the late first century to the third century, and relate to various themes.

In the Didache, one of the earliest early Christian writings outside the New Testament, the Eucharist is associated with sacrifice: Encyclopedia of Early Christianity, ed. E. Ferguson et al. (New York: Garland, 1990), 816– 818.

50 On metaphor, target domain and source domain (here, incense), and the relationship between them, see G. Lakoff, and M. Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1980). On sacrifice as metaphor, see also D. Ullucci, “Sacrifice in the Ancient Mediterranean: Recent and Current Research,” Currents in Biblical Research 13.3 (2015): 412–414. For cultic metaphors in the Hebrew Bible, see L. G. Perdue, Wisdom and Cult (Atlanta: SBL Press, 1977).

51 Paul may be referring to his own suffering as well as that of the Philippians, in cultic terms. See N. K. Gupta, Worship that Makes Sense to Paul: A New Approach to the Theology and Ethics of Paul's Cultic Metaphors (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 138–139.

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On the Lord's Day come together, break bread and hold Eucharist, after confessing your transgressions that your offering may be pure; But let none who has a quarrel with his fellow join in your meeting until they be reconciled, that your sacrifice be not defiled; For this is that which was spoken by the Lord, “In every place and time offer me a pure sacrifice, for I am a great king,” saith the Lord, “and my name is wonderful among the heathen.” 52 Here the connection between the Eucharist and sacrifice is not entirely clear. 53 A ritual which is not related to Temple cult, the Eucharist—or certain components thereof—is nonetheless designated as a sacrifice. It also seems as though the preliminary confessional prayer is described metaphorically as a sacrifice. 54 This equation of the Eucharist, including the Eucharistic prayer, with sacrifice resembles the pattern of prayer as incense in Ps 141:2 mentioned above: Didache does not imply that prayer is better than sacrifice; rather, it simply uses sacrifice as a conceptual model for the Christian rite.

Assuming that the Didache was composed no earlier than the end of the first century or the beginning of the second, when the Temple cult no longer 52

Didache 14:1–3. Translations of the Didache follow K. Lake, The Apostolic Fathers, LCL edition.

53 Daly, Christian Sacrifice, 312–313. Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 96–97, simply states that the Lord’s Day is a sacrifice. He also notes the departure from other understandings of Christian sacrifice discussed above: First, there is no comparison of Jesus, and certainly not of his death, to a sacrifice, as the sacrifice is made by the community. Second, sins must be dealt with before the rite; hence, the sacrifice itself does not release one from sin. The practical restrictions regarding the Eucharist also imply its relation to sacrifice. See H. van de Sandt, “Do Not Give What Is Holy to the Dogs (Did 9:5D and Matt 7:6A): The Eucharistic Food of the Didache in Its Jewish Purity Setting,” VC 56.3 (2002): 223–246.

54 On prayer (praise and thanksgiving) as sacrifice here, see Daly, Christian Sacrifice, 503; K. Niederwimmer, The Didache (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), 196–197, with bibliographic survey. Niederwimmer prefers a very general definition of sacrifice, but also considers the possibilities of the Eucharist itself (as in later Christian sources) and Eucharistic prayers. See also C. Claussen, “The Eucharist in the Gospel of John and the Didache,” in Trajectories through the New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers, ed. A. Gregory and C. Tuckett (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 135–163, here 155–158.

On the Eucharistic prayer, see Did. 9:1–7; 10:5–6. Compare the attitude towards fixed prayer in rabbinic circles, e.g., E. Fleischer, “On the Beginnings of Obligatory Jewish Prayer” Tarbiz 59 (1990): 397–441 (Hebrew); E. Regev, “Prayer Within and Without the Temple from Ancient Judaism to Early Christianity,” Henoch: Historical and Textual Studies in Ancient and Medieval Judaism and Christianity 36 (2014): 118–138.

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existed, its equation of community rites with sacrifice should not necessarily be seen as “anti-sacrificial.” Indeed, it may be hardly different from the rabbinical substitution of prayer for sacrifice. 55 Didache 13:3 also alludes to the priestly system, instructing readers to give “the first fruit,” including the produce of the winepress, the floor, and the oxen and sheep, to “the prophets, for they are your high priests.” Here one finds an appropriation of the biblical priestly dues, and even an appropriation of the traditional Temple priesthood, in the service of establishing a new type of priesthood for the Christian community. A central component of Jewish traditional life is followed, but at the same time transformed: By receiving the first fruits, the community’s religious leaders are acknowledged, implicitly, as serving God like the Temple priests. 56 All this is said without any direct approach to the Temple cult in Jerusalem or a claim that sacrifices no longer prevail.

First Clement, the letter of Clement of Rome to Corinth (usually dated circa 100 CE), contains interesting allusions to the Temple cult. Clement declares that Jesus Christ is “the high priest of our offerings” (1 Clem 36.1, following Hebrews). Yet despite this high-priestly Christology, the author expresses deep respect and appreciation for the Temple cult. He says that the priests and the Levites, who serve at God’s altar, are the greatest gifts of God—along with Jesus and the kings of Judah. Clement acknowledges their roles and service, including that of the high priest (32; 40.5). He mentions the commandment to celebrate sacrifices at their fixed times and hours, lists the different types of sacrifices, and emphasizes that they may be offered only in Jerusalem and inspected only by the high priest and the ministers (40.1; 41.2). Significantly, all of this is stated in the present tense, as if Clement were writing in pre-70 Jerusalem. 57 Why are these details relevant to a Christian leader writing in Rome one generation after the destruction of the Temple, as if nothing had changed?

Clement draws an analogy from the priestly offerings and their rules to the church order in relation to offerings and ministrations (41.1). The cult serves him as an excellent ready-made model of rules and ordinances granted by God. First

55

On the problem of dating the Didache, see, e.g., J. Betz, “The Eucharist in the Didache,” in The Didache in Modern Research, ed. J. A. Draper (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 244–275, here 244–245. On rabbinic views of prayer as taking the place of sacrifice, see above.

56 Compare Paul's appropriation of the Jewish Law: B. S. Rosner, Paul and the Law: Keeping the Commandments (Downers Grove: Inter Varsity, 2013), 121–197, 204.

57 On the dependence of 1 Clement on Hebrews, as well as on Jewish traditions, see P. Lampe, Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries: From Paul to Valentinus (London: Continuum, 2003), 75–77 with bibliographic survey.

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Clement therefore offers an extremely important example for early-Christian legitimation of the sacrificial cult even after 70 CE. Significantly, for Clement, the belief that Christ is the high priest of the Christians' offerings need not contradict the traditional role of the sacrificial system. Clement manages to have it both ways.

Ignatius of Antioch (writing at the beginning of the second century), also uses sacrifice imagery when he refers to the Eucharist as an “altar.” 58 More straightforward identifications of the Eucharist with sacrifice are found in later sources. Justin Martyr designated the Eucharistic prayers and thanksgivings as sacrifices, 59 while Cyprian of Carthage (mid-second century) further develops the understanding of the Eucharist as a continuation of that concept. For Cyprian, the Eucharist is not the sacrifice of the priest or of the congregation, but rather “the sacrifice(s) of God.” He understands “sacrifice” as consecrated elements that are themselves bound to Jesus’s passion, as opposed to the action performed by a pastor in the rite. Hence, the sacrificed body and blood of Jesus are sacramentally united with the consecrated bread and wine. 60 Cyprian is usually considered to be the first to explicitly equate the Eucharist with animal sacrifice, 61 and the equation of the Eucharist rite with sacrifice is further developed in the fourth century. 62

58 59

Ignatius, To the Philadelphians 4; Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifice,”1169.

Justin, Dial. 43.3; 117.1. The cereal offering of the skin diseased person (Lev 14:10) is a symbol for the Eucharist bread in Dial. 41.1. See Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifice,” 1173–1174.

60 Cyprian, Epistles 62.1, 9, 12 (ANF 5:361); 63.2 (ANF 5:364); 75.6 (ANF 5:398); R. J. H. Mayes, “The Lord’s Supper in the Theology of Cyprian of Carthage,” Concordia Theological Quarterly 74 (2010): 307–324, here 313–315. Note also the altar and the sacrifices of the bishop in Epistles 15.1; 16.3. Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 114–117, comments that Cyprian uses this argument for the sake of taking a position in relation to the correct practice of the Eucharist, and not as a set doctrine of Christian sacrifice. For Cyprian’s further sacrificial imagery, drawing on concepts of Roman religion, see A.B. McGowan, “Rehashing the Leftovers of Idols: Cyprian and Early Christian Constructions of Sacrifice,” in Religious Competition in the Third Century CE: Jews, Christians, and the Greco-Roman World, ed. J. L. Rosenblum, L. C. Vuong, and N. DesRosiers (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), 69–77.

61 Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 114, also noting that “the eucharist is not equated with animal sacrifice directly; rather, it is Jesus’s death that is connected with animal sacrifice, and the eucharist is an animal sacrifice because it mimics this event” (ibid., 116).

62 E.g., Eusebius, Demonstratio evangelica 5.3. Cf. A. B. McGowan, “Eucharist and Sacrifice: Cultic Tradition and Transformation in Early Christian Ritual Meals” in Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum: Meals and Religious Identity in Early Christianity, ed. M. Klinghardt and H. Taussig (TANZ 56; Tübingen: Francke, 2012), 191–206.

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In the writings of Ignatius of Antioch, the entirety of Christian worship is designated as the Temple cult. The Christians, he declares, should come together “as to one temple of God, as to one altar, as to one Jesus Christ.” For Ignatius, the altar symbolizes unity in the service of God (compare 1 Cor 10:18).

Yet, it is not clear whether his Temple metaphors pertain to Christ himself, to the assembly, or to the activity of the assembly. 63 He also portrays the faith in Jesus as the building of a temple. 64 Irenaeus of Lyons states that the Christians offer a sacrifice of their own—the “real” one—without defining what exactly this sacrifice is. He also defines the Church order as a sacrifice. 65 For him, the body is the temple in which the spirit dwells. 66 Later on, for Origin, the Temple of Christ’s body (John 2:21) refers to the Church. 67 Indeed, sacrifice, altar, and Temple become the model of some early Christian authors’ conception of piety. Barnabas writes, “Let us be spiritual, let us be a temple consecrated to God,” while maintaining that “the habitation of our hearts is a shrine holy to the Lord.” 68 Such a “spiritualization” of sacrifice can also be found in later texts. Clement of Alexandria, for example, stresses that the righteous soul is the truly sacred altar, and the incense rising from it a holy prayer. 69 Clement even goes so far as to explain the meaning of sacrifice in a symbolic manner: “The sacrifice of the Law expressed figuratively the piety we practice, and the turtle-dove and the pigeon offered for sins point out that the cleansing of the irrational part of the soul is acceptable to God.” 70 Irenaeus of Lyons conceptualizes the oblations of the Church as pure sacrifices. 71 More specific allusions to Christian worship as sacrifice, such as prayer (following Hos

63

Ignatius, To the Magnesians 7.2. See Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifices,” 1168, who also notes that the emphasis here is on the meeting under the ministers’ leadership. On the use of Temple imagery in describing the communal order in the second century, see Eliav, God’s Mountain, 155.

64 Ignatius, To the Ephesians 9.

65 66

Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.17–18; Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 104–107.

Irenaeus, Against Heresies 5.6.2, following 1 Cor 3:16–17.

67

Origen, Commentary on John X, 20, 23.

Barnabas 4.11 and 6.15, respectively.

69 Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 7.6.

68

70

Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 7.6. See also Strom. 5.11 on the spiritual meaning of sacrifice. Translations of Clement of Alexandria follow Roberts and Donaldson, The AnteNicene Fathers, vol. 2.

71 Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.18.1.

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14:3 and Ps 69:30–21), appear in the early third century. For instance, according to Origen, one offers unbloody sacrifices by means of his prayers to God. 72 Interestingly, early-Christian writers consider martyrdom a sacrifice, most likely because Christ’s own death was understood as such. Ignatius of Antioch describes the martyr’s execution as a libation to God poured out on the altar. 73 Polycarp of Smyrna (mid-second century) also uses a sacrificial metaphor for describing his own wishful execution “like a noble ram out of a great flock for an offering, a burnt sacrifice made ready and acceptable to God.” 74 George Heyman suggests that the sacrificial imagery comes in opposition to the pagan animal sacrifice of the Imperial cult and the Roman religious and political hegemony which the Christians resisted. 75 Less bluntly, Origen in his Exhortations to Martyrdom 30 defines martyrdom as a means of achieving forgiveness. Notably, the idea of death — but not martyrdom, and at times only capital punishment — is found in rabbinic Judaism from the mid-second century. 76 Christian writers also use architectural Temple imagery as a means of creating a distinctive theology. The Gospel of Philip (third century), to give one outstanding example, provides a spiritual explanation of the Temple's chambers: The three buildings/chambers in the Jerusalem Temple stand for three concepts in Christianity: baptism, redemption, and the sacrament of the bridal chamber. 77

72

Origen, Contra Celsum 8.21. For similar arguments by Clement of Alexandria, see Ferguson, “Spiritual Sacrifice,” 1181–1182. See also above on prayer as a substitute for sacrifice.

73 Ignatius, To the Romans 2.2. On martyrdom as a sacrifice, see also ibid., 4.2. For the cosmic and powerful meaning of his use of sacrificial language, see E. Casteli, Martyrdom and Memory (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004), 84–86.

74 Martyrdom of Polycarp 14.1, trans. Lightfoot in the LCL edition. See Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 100–101.

75 G. Heyman, The Power of Sacrifice: Roman and Christian Discourses in Conflict (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2007).

76 Following capital punishment: m. Sanhedrin 6:2. General atonement without qualifications: T. Yom Kippurim 4:6–10 (ed. Lieberman, 251); Mekilta of Rabbi Ishmael, Bahodesh 6. On comparing Jewish and Christian martyrdom, see D. Boyarin, Dying for God. Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 93–126.

77 Gospel of Philip 69.14–26; Robinson, Nag Hammadi Library in English, 151. On the Gnostic concept of the bridal chamber as a conjugal union on high, see Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.21.3. Note that the next paragraph in the Gospel of Philip relates to the tearing of the veil of the most inner chamber (cf. Mark 15:37–38). On sacrificial and Temple

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Certain apocryphal legends about Jesus and his relatives also feature a Temple setting, like those of the Lucan Infancy Narrative. In the Acts of Thomas 79 (early third century), the child Jesus spends time at the Temple and even participates in the offering of sacrifices. In the Protoevangelium of James (late second or early third century), the author refers repeatedly to the Temple and to Jewish ritual practice (especially that of purity; hence, the special chamber that Anna prepares for her infant daughter to protect the young Mary from the taint of impurity). Here, Mary and her parents are undeniably observant Jews. 78 The book begins with Joachim, Mary’s father, offering sacrifices meant to atone for his own sins as well as for the sins of Israel (Prot. Jas. 1:1-3). Later, Mary is granted permission to live in the Temple and play at the altar (Prot. Jas. 7:9). Having conceived Jesus, she herself becomes a kind of Temple. She is, we might say, a symbolic sacrifice — not because she replaces the ritual, but on the contrary because the authors value the goal and function of the concept of sacrifice. 79 For our purposes, it is important to note that ritual purity and Temple piety are used to underscore Mary’s holiness and her worthiness as the mother of the Messiah. 80 In all these examples sacrificial or Temple imagery is reflected positively and linked to Christian ideas and practices. Although the general trend of Barnabas, Irenaeus, and others is critical of Jewish animal sacrifices, these particular passages do not argue for replacing the Jewish cult. They simply adopt its symbolism, making it their own. Such a move used to be termed “spiritualization.” 81 Yet, the term is problematic since it implies that the original

imagery in the Gospel of Philip, see King, “Christians Who Sacrifice and Those Who Do Not?,” 313–316.

78 L. Vuong, “The Temple Persists Collective Memories of the Jewish Temple in Christian Narrative Imagination,” in Religious Competition in the Third Century CE: Jews, Christians, and the Greco-Roman World, ed. J. D. Rosenblum, L. Vuong, and N. DesRosiers (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), 114–125. See also L. Vuong, “Purity, Piety, and the Purposes of the Protevangelium of James,” in Non-Canonical Religious Texts in Early Judaism and Early Christianity, ed. L. M. McDonald and J. H. Charlesworth (London: T&T Clark, 2012), 205–221.

79 Vuong, “Purity, Piety,” 121–122. Note, however, that while the text approves of the efficacy of the Temple, it also depicts conflicts with the Temple priests.

80 Vuong, “Purity, Piety,” 219–221.

81 H. Wenschkewitz, “Die Spiritualisierung der Kultusbegriffe: Tempel, Priester und Opfer im Neuen Testament,” Angelos 4 (1932): 116–132. S. Finlan, The Background and Content of Paul’s Cultic Atonement Metaphors (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2004), 47–60, develops the concept into four types of spiritualization — supportive, reforming,

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cultic ritual act or object itself (the “source domain” of the metaphor) has no spiritual value! As such, “spiritualization” masks evolutionary and supersessionist views of religion, especially as regards Christian views in relation to Jewish (or Greco-Roman) views. 82 Furthermore, the very structure of a metaphor (or more simple forms of analogy) builds on transference of meaning from the “source domain” to the “target domain.” Once a non-cultic idea or practice is conceptualized in such a sacrificial manner, the implication is that the cultic sphere is highly appreciated and certain aspects of its sense are adopted. 83 One may argue that the turn to cultic imagery does not necessarily relate to the Jewish sacrificial system, but to the Greco-Roman, which was still practiced in the social sphere of the early Christians and was familiar to new converts. While this may be the case in very specific texts (perhaps Polycarp), this reasoning runs against the Church fathers’ rejection of pagan cults. Christian writers opposed to idolatry (e.g., Tertullian’s De Idolatria), warn against eating food offered to idols, and some even observe certain biblical laws of purity. 84 The use of imagery related to idols would go against their core beliefs.

I have tried to show that these somewhat neutral or positive uses of sacrificial and Temple imagery, metaphors, and symbolism are different from the many statements about Christian substitutions for sacrifices and the overall rejection of the very legitimacy of the Jewish cult. The question remains: why do all these early Christian authors still allude to the cult without condemning it or stressing that it is irrelevant? What is the role of the sacrificial metaphors and allusions if the Christians have already developed entirely new modes of worship?

metaphoric, and rejection — which makes it much more useful and appropriate.

Distinguishing between these types, however, is not an easy task.

82 E. Schüssler Fiorenza, “Cultic Language in Qumran and in the NT,” CBQ 38 (1976): 159– 177; Klawans, Purity, Sacrifice and the Temple, 8–9, 33, 105–108, 250–251; Ullucci, “Sacrifice in the Ancient Mediterranean,” 410–412.

83 Compare J. Klawans, “Interpreting the Last Supper: Sacrifice, Anti-Spiritualization and Anti-Sacrifice,” NTS 48 (2002): 1–17.

84 On abstaining from eating food offered to idols, see e.g., Justin, Dial. 34.7; 35.5; M. Blidstein, Purity, Community and Ritual in Early Christian Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 72–77. See also Pseudo-Clementine observance of purity laws, ibid., 188–193.

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Jewish Heritage and Christian Identity Whether they reject it or apply its imagery to Christian ideas, the Church fathers contemplate the Temple cult, and do so extensively and in various ways. 85 Despite the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple and the polemic against idol worship, 86 sacrifice remains a very attractive model of devotion and closeness to God. It shapes their religious thinking, and as much as they stress that it is transformed, changed, or even abandoned, they still relate to the ritual of killing and offering animals on the altar, and the services of priests in the Temple. 87 While the above mapping is far from being a conclusive survey of the evidence, I have pointed to a substantial number of cultic metaphors, analogies, and associations, which did not receive sufficient attention in previous scholarship. Why do the Apostolic fathers and the other Church fathers use these fragments of imagery to portray their rituals and modes of worship? What do these expressions teach about their views concerning the Jewish Temple cult? 88 The power of sacrificial and other cultic metaphors and imagery is surprising, given that those who apply it also condemn or deny the validity and legitimacy of Jewish sacrifices. Barnabas, Justin, Irenaeus, and Clement of Alexandria all use various creative arguments to explain why God never really needed the Jews to sacrifice animals, and by that time the Jews could no longer continue the sacrificial cult anyway. But despite their negative approach, they turn 85

To demonstrate this variety, Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 99–100, points out that Ignatius’ idea of his own martyrdom as a sacrifice clashes with the doctrine of Jesus offering himself as a single sacrifice once for all in Hebrews 7:27–28; 9:12–14.

86 Petropoulou, Animal Sacrifice, 246–256, discusses the rejection of the sacrificial practice of pagan cults in second century sources.

87 Cf. Eliav, God’s Mountain, 153. Petropoulou, Animal Sacrifice, 272, is aware that “the image of the Temple service is vivid in the minds of Christians,” and sees “an inconsistency between the realization of the loss of the Temple and the strong feeling that it is still there.”

See her survey of metaphorical interpretations, ibid., 250–281.

88 Petropoulou, Animal Sacrifice, 277–278, 294–295, suggests that the sacrificial imagery resulted from surrender to the Greco-Roman and Jewish traditional norms: “the concept… was so strongly etched onto the collective unconscious that Christians did not dare to obliterate it.” Petropoulou attempts to devalue the debt of the early Church fathers to their Jewish cultic heritage when she claims that “by sacrificial metaphors, audiences were led to see a completely different sacrificial reality from the one they had known, and the new reality had nothing to do with animals” (Animal Sacrifice, 283, my italics). Metaphors are not about reality but a transformation of concepts from one reality to another. The intriguing fact is that early Church fathers still used sacrificial imagery despite the radical change in the cultic practice.

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to sacrificial imagery to explain the sacredness of Christian worship and practices.

As we have already seen, Barnabas calls for being spiritual like “a temple consecrated to God” and equates the heart to a shrine; Justin designates the Eucharistic prayers and thanksgiving as sacrifices; Irenaeus argues that the Christians offer real sacrifice of their own, and also refers to the Church order as a sacrifice and the body as a temple; for Irenaeus the oblations of the Church are sacrifices; and Clement of Alexandria equates the soul with a truly sacred altar, the incense with prayer, and he regards sacrifice as a symbol of piety toward God. They all acknowledge that sacrifice and temple rites (with certain specific allusions to Jewish practices) are symbols of piety and devotion, and associate these with their own ideas about Jesus and the Church. Their rejection of these practices notwithstanding, they do hold positive conceptual thoughts about such sacrifices.

The discourse of replacing the Temple cult also shows certain appreciation of the cult as a concept of worship. Sacrifice, the altar, and the Temple are presented as models of religious piety (as already attested to in Paul’s letters), in the writings of Barnabas, Clement of Alexandria, Irenaeus, and Origen. 89 Many of these writers also use sacrificial metaphors and imagery without relating to them as being replaced by the Eucharist, Church ordinances, etc.

Why do the Church fathers need to declare these substitutions to begin with? They seek to fill the void left by the absence of Temple cult, and need to argue that the Christians have their own equivalent concepts and rites. They still need the religious concept of sacrifice.

It should therefore be concluded that in the second and third centuries the Christians are still attracted to the idea of sacrifice and its ritual world. They continue to regard them as the ultimate expression of devotion to God. Christ, prayer, the Eucharist, and communal togetherness should, they insist, be modeled after sacrificial concepts and practices, even when the Christian rites replace animal sacrifices and make them unnecessary. Sacrifice remains a paradigm for attachment to the divine. Turning to the metaphor of sacrifice while rejecting the real practice, the early Church fathers find it hard to conceive of a better concept for serving God, one on which they can build their own ideas of devotion and sacredness.

89

On the symbol of the Temple as model for second century ecclesiology, see G. Fassbeck, Der Tempel der Christen: Traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur Aufnahme des Tempelkonzepts im frühen Christentum (Tübingen and Basel: Francke, 2001).

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One reason may simply be the centrality of sacrifice in the ancient world, in both Greco-Roman and Near Eastern (including Jewish) civilizations. 90 Yet, there are more concrete historical dynamics that fueled the centrality of sacrifice and the Temple cult in early Christian writings.

I suggest two explanations for the Church fathers’ attraction-rejection of the validity and necessity of sacrifices, namely, their rejection of Jewish sacrifices as legitimate while nonetheless using the concept as a key model for religiosity.

First, Gentile Christians who are writing for non-Jewish readers feel it necessary to address the general concept of sacrifice. They cannot neglect it because it is still “in the air.” And they need to deal with the Gentile converts’ inclination toward idolatrous cults. Gentile Christians, especially the newly baptized novices, are likely to miss the (pagan) sacrificial milieu. Their leaders, anxious to dispel the pagan ghosts, provide an alternative: concepts and rites (modeled following the Jewish cult) that would themselves be treated as sacrifices, in place of their progenitors. 91 Second, and probably more important factor, is that for those who write in a Jewish setting, such as Barnabas, Justin, and the Pseudo-Clementines, there is a very real sense of the Jewish idea of sacrifice — which Jews still regard as the ultimate conceptual means of serving God. The Jewish concepts of sacrifice and Temple occupy their mind because these Christian writers are still attached to their Jewish roots, whether or not they admit it. Jewish Scriptures, as well as certain practices and historical traditions, are part of their belief system, as they are also found in the NT writings. Christian authors need to deal with these cultic ideas, mainly through reinterpretation and appropriation, to adhere to the general concept while removing some Jewish practical aspects in order to develop Christian uniqueness. They are required to refer to sacrifice but not incorporate it, and thus make the (revised) original concept their own. 92

90

Ullucci, “Sacrifice in the Ancient Mediterranean,” 388–439, designates sacrifices as “ritualized reciprocity and communication.” Cf. the survey of various anthropological understandings of the social value of sacrifice in Klawans, Purity, Sacrifice and the Temple, 48–49.

91 On Christian refutation of pagan cults, see S. Binder, Tertullian, On Idolatry and Mishna Avodah Zara: Questioning the Parting of the Ways between Christian and Jews (Jewish and Christian Perspectives 22; Leiden: Brill, 2012).

92 A similar phenomenon can be found in the second and third centuries idea of purity and impurity. Christian authors construct a “true” purity practice (interior and intentional, involving the essence of the person) as opposed to a “false” Jewish one. Despite the continuity in relation to Jewish concepts of purity, they shape their purity conceptions

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The Apostolic and Church fathers needed to refute sacrifices in order to show that Christianity has indeed superseded Judaism. For this purpose, sacrifices have to be discredited and alternative rites preferred. In the theological struggle between Christianity and Judaism, sacrifices were a veritable battlefield, demonstrated by the fact that even Christian Jews who observed the Law (e.g., Ebionites and Pseudo-Clementines) felt it necessary to reject the Temple cult, and to insist that their own concept of sacrifice reigns supreme. The post-70 CE reality of Judaism-sans-Temple gave them an advantage; for them, a religion/cult that rejects animal sacrifices as a principle is not, as is the case for the Jews after 70 CE, the result of political restraints. 93 Rather, it is a matter of principle and of choice.

Nonetheless, it is doubtful whether a theology based on the rejection of sacrifice could truly have come into being had the Temple not been razed by Titus. 94 This leads to a crucial question: Was the rejection of the sacrificial cult not really the “natural” and inherent result of the belief in Christ's sacrifice on the cross? Two arguments lead me to answer this in the negative. First, two of the earliest non-canonical Christian writings, Didache and 1 Clement, do not reject the Temple and its sacrificial cult. Didache introduces sacrificial analogies as relating to the Eucharist prayer and the giving of the first fruits to the priest, while 1 Clement expresses admiration for the sacrificial system, albeit with Jesus in the role of high priest. Perhaps the reason for their lack of censure of the Temple cult lies in their not yet having adjusted to Judaism without a Temple.

Second, the multiple metaphors and analogies to sacrifices found in later sources demonstrate a rather positive view of sacrifices which still holds sway in Christians' minds during the second and third centuries. After all, if the Temple and the sacrificial cult are superfluous and inherently idolatrous, why use them as a foundation on which to build the doctrines of Christology, the Eucharist, and prayer? 95 along the polemic with Jews in order to differentiate themselves. See Blidstein, Purity, Community and Ritual, esp. 232, 235.

93 For other possible reasons for rabbinic refrainment from sacrificing after 70 CE, see A. Guttmann, “The End of the Jewish Sacrificial Cult,” Hebrew Union College Annual 38 (1967): 137–148.

94 According to Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 134–135, the rejection of sacrifice began due to the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple and the fact that it was impossible to continue sacrificing there.

95 Cf. Ullucci Christian Rejection, 135, “Christians did not create a rational rejection of sacrifice that they then lived out. Historical circumstances ended animal sacrifice for Christians first. It was left to later Christian cultural producers to make sense of this situation and rationalize and defend the fact that Christians did not sacrifice.”

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In rejecting the very validity and legitimacy of sacrifices Barnabas, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus of Lyons, Clement of Alexandria, Tertullian, and others use them as a kind of boundary that separates Christians from both pagans and Jews.

Their rejection of the Jewish sacrificial cult is primarily the result of (among other things) social and “political” factors. 96 As 1 Clement proves, it is not essential to set the belief in Christ in opposition to devotion to the Jerusalem Temple. Yet the Temple’s destruction provides second- and third-century Christians with an unprecedented opportunity: They can rid themselves of reliance on the Temple and the sacrificial cult in favor of advancing religious independence. In the same vein, recent studies by Judith Lieu and Daniel Boyarin conclude that secondcentury Christian texts portray “the Jews” as the Other, or the counter-image of the Christians, in order to affirm Christians’ own identity and to legitimize their separate existence. 97 Conclusion Despite their rejection of the Jewish sacrifices and the claim that sacrifice were unnecessary to begin with, Barnabas, Justin, Irenaeus, Clement of Alexandria, and many others were extremely concerned with the question of what aspects of the cult are relevant to the Christians’ life and for what purpose. They were trying to make the best of the concept of sacrifice without giving credibility to the Jerusalem Temple and the Jewish Law. In the second and third centuries, the Church fathers were still trying to figure out how their worship and beliefs replace the Temple sacrifices, a concept they continue to find appealing or at the very least inevitable.

96

To illustrate this boundary, suffice it to mention that Ignatius of Antioch urges his audience to abandon ancient customs and to celebrate the Lord’s Day rather than the Sabbath (Ign. Magn. 9.1). He also says that the disciples of Jesus should be called Christians (literally, those who live in accordance with Christianismos); whoever is called by another name is not “of God” (Ign. Magn. 10.1). Ignatius may be objecting to the fact that some disciples were claiming the name “Jew” for themselves.

97 J. M. Lieu. Image and Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996). D. Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of JudaeoChristianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 37–73, esp. 43–44, argues that Christian texts from the second and third centuries, such as Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho, are trying to differentiate between Christianity and Judaism. Rabbinic texts from the same period are engaged in a parallel endeavor. This quest for Christianity’s distinctiveness is probably a response to the existence of traits common to Christians and Jews, particularly Jewish rabbis, as well as the fact that the boundaries between Judaism and Christianity in the second and third centuries were blurred. See Boyarin, Dying for God. www.jjmjs.org

Reading John with Reinhartz: Reception of and Reflections on Cast Out of the Covenant Anthony Le Donne United Theological Seminary | ledonne@gmail.com JJMJS No. 7 (2020): 141–150 Adele Reinhartz’s Cast Out of the Covenant is multivalent in that it addresses a handful of Johannine puzzles, both ancient and modern. Reinhartz reconsiders the anti-Jewish rhetoric of the Fourth Gospel, the context of its composition, and impact of its translation and usage in the modern world. Because of this complexity, I will reflect on the book along three different tracks. I will give my general impressions of the book, assess a few key arguments, and reflect on how this book was received in my classroom.

General Impressions Cast Out of the Covenant is a devastatingly compelling book. 1 Although I broke up with John years ago (it wasn’t him, it was me), I took a certain comfort in thinking that Adele Reinhartz was reading the Fourth Gospel sympathetically, even if critically and with reservation. 2 Of course, anyone who has heard Reinhartz lecture in the last five years has been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Finally it has, and the verdict is in: the Fourth Gospel’s Jewishness is not an inoculation against its anti-Jewishness. In fact, the Gospel might not be Jewish at all.

It is this final point that has had the most impact on me. She argues that the Fourth Gospel is fundamentally anti-Jewish in rhetoric, programmatically supersessionist, and has caused considerable damage in the real world because of its evangelistic rhetoric. While these arguments aren’t especially novel, they have never been better framed than in this book. She convincingly pushes back against Steve Mason’s translation preferences and Louis Martyn’s popular theory of 1

Adele Reinhartz, Cast Out of the Covenant: Jews and Anti-Judaism in the Gospel of John (Louisville: Lexington Books/Fortress Press, 2018).

2 See also, Adele Reinhartz, “Reflections on My Journey with John: A Retrospective from Adele Reinhartz,” Ancient Jew Review, April 11, 2018; https://www.ancientjewreview.com/articles/2018/2/24/reflections-on-my-journey-withjohn-a-retrospective-from-adele-reinhartz

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synagogue expulsion. These arguments provide a powerful corrective. But the thing that sticks with me is her suggestion that the Fourth Gospel drives a compulsory wedge between Jews and Christ-confessors in a way that makes it impossible to be both a child of God and a Jew. As such, the Gospel’s anti-Jewish rhetoric actually negates its apparent (albeit misconstrued) Jewishness. I will address this further below.

Cast Out of the Covenant is meticulously argued, coherently structured, and written with clarity. Indeed, the overall presentation of this book is delightful.

Even my students who are not familiar with the style of academic monographs found the book engaging. This book serves as a useful introduction to anti-Jewish rhetoric, several important Johannine themes and passages, and the complexities of translating Ioudaioi. It is a superb introduction to Christian supersessionism and the so-called “parting of the ways.” Importantly, it meets readers in the present as it continues an important thread in Jewish-Christian dialogue.

Assessment of Key Arguments Although Cast Out of the Covenant is multivalent in argumentation, Reinhartz’s most prominent interlocutor is Louis Martyn, specifically his theory of the Johannine community’s expulsion. 3 Martyn—garnering scholarly consensus— argued that the Fourth Gospel was composed within and for a group that enjoyed synagogue affiliation while also holding to Jesus as messiah. Key to Martyn’s theory was the group’s ultimate expulsion, thus creating a traumatic parting between the synagogue and the Christ followers. Within this construct, the Fourth Gospel’s anti-Jewish rhetoric demonstrates a reaction to a traumatic break up. It also explains why the story contains so many Jewish elements. Finally, Martyn’s theory (whether intended or not) has motivated many interpreters to forgive the anti-Jewish rhetoric because (1) it represents in-group polemic and (2) it represents a reaction to trauma by a marginalized people.

Like so very many popular reconstructions in New Testament studies, Martyn’s expulsion theory is ripe for reconsideration. There are just far too many assumptions at work and Reinhartz is well-positioned to reevaluate the theory.

Indeed, one of the chief strengths of Cast Out of the Covenant is Reinhartz’s critical reassessment of a theory that has been taken for granted for far too long. Central to her critique is this puzzle: “One wonders, however, whether such a group, no matter how angry about their expulsion from the synagogue, would have resonated with the stark dissociation from the label Ioudaioi that is so central to 3

Louis J. Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel, 3rd ed. (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 2003).

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Johannine rhetoric.” 4 Martyn’s theory seemingly explains why the Fourth Gospel can be simultaneously Jewish and anti-Jewish, but it can’t explain the almost wholesale demonization of Jews.

Reinhartz offers an alternative theory. The Fourth Gospel is a tool to convince urbanite pagans (who may have been somewhat familiar with Jewish life) in Asia Minor to become children of God by supplanting “the Jews” as recipients of Israel’s covenantal relationship with God. Reinhartz’s theory is difficult to dispute. And while it leans at times on imaginative reconstruction, she is well aware of the limits of theoretical constructs and carefully offers the necessary caveats. In the end, her theory that John targeted Asia Minor urbanite pagans is just as plausible as Louis Martyn’s theoretical expulsion theory. My guess is that Johannine scholars of future generations will not be able to appeal to Martyn’s theory of provenance without balancing it with Reinhartz’s alternative.

I will offer two critical notes. First, Reinhartz plays with rhetorical analysis early and often. While I found her use of rhetorical theorists (both ancient and modern) helpful, I couldn’t help but remember an essay by Thomas Boomershine that deserved mention. 5 It’s an obscure essay and the only reason that I know it is because I served as one of the editors for the publication. Perhaps then it’s bad form to call out such an omission. Even so, Boomershine deals directly with interactive performance in the first century, with specific attention to John’s anti-Jewish rhetoric. Boomershine suggests that a better understanding of the dynamics between performer and audience might help us rethink the evangelistic encounter as mediated through the Fourth Gospel. Because Boomershine lands (contra Reinhartz) with evidence for a late first-century Jewish audience for the Fourth Gospel, it would have been interesting to see Reinhartz interact with that essay. Second, in my work on narrative representations of Jesus’s family, I have often wondered about the tendency in some new religious movements to shun biological family members to promote a new family of believers. Reinhartz hints in this direction when she describes the audience of the Fourth Gospel as “an exclusive family of choice. Joining this family requires separating from other powerful family or family-like affiliation.” 6 While Reinhartz appeals to several social psychologists (helpfully so!), I would have liked to see her 4

Reinhartz, Cast Out, 135.

Thomas E. Boomershine, “The Medium and Message of John: Audience Address and Audience Identity in the Fourth Gospel” in The Fourth Gospel in First-Century Media Culture, ed. Anthony Le Donne and Tom Thatcher (LNTS 426; London: T&T Clark, 2012), 92–120.

6 Reinhartz, Cast Out, 43; see also p. 23.

5

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interact with specialists of new religious movements on this point. 7 In truth, this lacuna can’t be called an omission. But future work on John’s audience might benefit from this line of research.

One final point of exegesis is warranted before moving on to matters of pedagogical reception. Reinhartz considers various theories about which Jews are targeted by the Fourth Gospel’s polemic and ends up supporting those who read hoi Ioudaioi as a designation of Jews as a whole. 8 In other words, the phrase does not refer to “these Jews,” inhabitants of Judea, or subsets of certain Jewish leaders.

In her view, the Fourth Evangelist means to condemn almost all Jews (save the few who have adopted Christocentric worship). Reinhartz goes further to suggest that the designation is ultimately only appropriate for Jewish outsiders of the community that John seeks to create. She writes that “the Gospel constructs a profound chasm—or high wall—between his compliant audience and those who reject his claims. No member of God’s family can be a Ioudaios; no Ioudaios can be a child of God.” 9 Thus her translation undermines well-intentioned translations (e.g. the New Living Translation) which translates hoi Ioudaioi as “the Jewish leaders.” Moreover, this reading undermines many progressive Christian preachers who attempt to incorporate John into modern, philo-Jewish theologies.

That said, as I have argued elsewhere, I prefer her translation. 10 Pedagogical Reception I recently assigned Cast Out of the Covenant to a class of seven students at United Theological Seminary in Dayton, Ohio. The class title was “Johannine Theology” and focused (albeit only in part) on the Fourth Gospel’s anti-Jewish rhetoric. Most of my students were Christians immersed in the African American Church experience. Some were rural, midwestern, white Americans connected to the “renewalist” (cf. charismatic) Christian experience. Very few in this class had been exposed to the conceptual problems associated with the rhetorical use of Jews and 7

E.g. Doni Whitsett and Stephen A. Kent, “Cults and Families,” Cultic Studies Review 3.2 (2004): 491–502.

8 Reinhartz, Cast Out, 97–98.

9

Reinhartz, Cast Out, 43. It is possible that Reinhartz considers Jesus in John 4 (who is both a Jew and the son of God) to be an exception to this rule (68–73, 148).

10 Anthony Le Donne, “Complicating the Category of Ethnos toward Poliscentrism: A Possible Way Forward within Second Temple Ethnography,” in The Urban World and the First Christians, ed. Steve Walton, Paul R. Trebilco, and David W.J. Gill (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2017), 3–19.

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Judaism in Christian writings. One of my students wrote, “Reading Dr. Reinhartz’s book was my first encounter with the anti-Jewish/anti-Semitic overtones of John.” Another student wrote (as if chiding the Fourth Evangelist) a reflection, saying, “Aren’t you called to love not only your neighbors but your enemies? . . . Do you truly see Jews as your enemy? Do they not deserve the same love and acceptance that you have received in your life?” My students are lovely people, capable of critical reflection and compassion.

I call out this reception context for three reasons. First, Reinhartz reveals something of herself in this book and so some degree of reciprocity is perhaps appropriate. Second, while my primary expertise is in New Testament, my more recent work relates to Jewish-Christian dialogue. As such, my reading of Cast Out of the Covenant is inevitably colored by my own interests. Third, while I am culturally and doctrinally entrenched within Christianity, I am not charismatic, nor am I Black, nor am I from the rural Midwest. My own social placement is only ever adjacent to the lived experience of my students. Conversely, while I lived in Canada for a few years and while I’m invested in Jewish well-being, I find myself opposite to Reinhartz along multiple borders. As an Italian male from the North Bay Area, my understanding of the lived experience of Adele Reinhartz—a Jewish, Torontonian, daughter of Holocaust survivors—is minimal. For these reasons, I read her book with a sense of otherness, including nationality, religion, race, gender, and the many and varied fault lines left by the Shoah. So I did not read Reinhartz’s book passively. Rather, I was an active (and, too often, inadequate) mediator between the author and my students.

As a Christian educator of seminarians, it is often my job to teach wouldbe preachers how to present the Bible as good news. When it comes to the Fourth Gospel, a large part of my job involves convincing Christians to avoid anti-Jewish theology. We can preach good news, I argue, without inventing a bad guy to overcome. With this in mind, I point out the programmatic vitriol of the Fourth Gospel that needs to be understood rather than echoed. The delicate part, of course, is that most of my Christian students simply cannot divorce themselves from their sacred, authoritative text. So even if they choose to read the Fourth Gospel critically, they will continue to read with the eyes of belief. Sad but true: if my students are forced to choose between the authority of the Fourth Gospel and philo-Judaism, many will likely choose the former. It is therefore beneficial to me to have a coherent theory of composition that accounts for the Fourth Gospel’s ultimate Jewishness. Remember, I repeat, Jesus, John, Peter, Mary, Mary, and Mary (and all of the other Marys) were Jews! Keep this in mind when the Gospel says nasty things about “the Jews.” While perhaps simplistic, this makes sense to my students

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and allows them space to wrestle with the tension between John’s Jewishness and anti-Jewishness.

In assigning Cast Out of the Covenant, I knew that I was taking a risk.

There is no doubt that Reinhartz provides a resonant and eloquent voice. And there is no doubt that the topics she treats are necessary discussion points. And there is no doubt that Reinhartz treats these topics with nuance. In all of these ways, her book is the perfect supplementary text for a class on Johannine Theology. All the same, this book has the potential to reveal John as something other than good news. It is difficult to walk away from Reinhartz’s beautifully written book and not view the Fourth Gospel as thoroughly anti-Jewish, supersessionist, and ultimately deceptive.

At the end of her book, Reinhartz asks, “Are there those for whom this Gospel is authoritative who would also feel bound to uphold its anti-Jewish stance?” 11 The answer, as she fears, is yes. The students in my classroom do not “see Jews as benighted Christ-killers” but they do lean toward supersessionism and will lean into it all the more if/when Reinhartz convinces them that the Fourth Gospel is fundamentally supersessionist.

I squirmed a bit while reading Cast Out of the Covenant. I am ready, willing, and able to call the Fourth Gospel anti-Jewish. Indeed, I’ve done so often in classrooms, Jewish-Christian dialogue, and professional publication. But I was not ready to call the Fourth Gospel un-Jewish. To be quite honest, I’m still not ready.

At this point, I’m speaking as an educator rather than a historian. So I am saying less about the merit of Reinhartz’s reconstruction and more about how I will use it in my classroom to generate discussion. Simply put, Reinhartz’s book is wonderfully useful as a way into a Johannine puzzle: Is John’s anti-Jewish rhetoric a feature of John’s Jewishness? Or is John’s anti-Jewish rhetoric a feature of John’s departure from Jewishness? I have always taken the first view, but I am reconsidering this view after reading Cast Out of the Covenant.

In my attempt to communicate these alternative frameworks for John’s rhetoric to my students, I offered two cinematic analogies. The first is The Godfather (1972); the second is Malcom X (1992). Both films are important to me, if for different reasons. Both I have loved for years. In addition, and importantly, my recent study of various hegemonic and subordinate masculinities has given me new eyes for both films. Although I cannot view these films as I once did, I continue to appreciate them with new eyes. While there isn’t space to address representations of gender here, both films deal with particular ethnic borders 11

Reinhartz, Cast Out, 164

Le Donne, Reading John with Reinhartz 147

familiar to American culture. While offering the necessary caveat that no analogy is perfect, I pointed to these two films as possible models for understanding border-transgressing polemics. Noteworthy here is the fact that The Godfather wasn’t aimed only at Italian Americans, nor was Malcolm X only intended for Black Muslims. Indeed, these supposed “in-groups” were only a small fraction of their wider audiences.

To say that The Godfather is revered is an understatement. Few films have enjoyed the popular and critical receptions that this film boasts. It may seem redundant therefore to point out that many Italian Americans have a special connection to this film. I risk this redundancy because I am an Italian American male in my mid-forties. Moreover, I am from California where my Italian roots were less important than my cultural assimilation. Connecting to this film as a young man gave me something that my dead grandparents couldn’t: a symbolic shorthand for an old-world collectivism (even if fictional). It may also be significant to note that when the film was first released in 1972, Italian Americans were on the cusp of “whiteness.” Although not fully realized, the privileges that come with whiteness were within reach. It would only take another generation (my generation) before cultural assimilation would change our fates. 12 My reception of the film, therefore, was what Reinhartz (citing Suzanne Keen) calls “bounded strategic empathy.” This is when a story informs an in-group, building from a sense of mutuality, and building to a sense of familiarity. 13 Even so, The Godfather portrays Italians as murderous, vengeful, conniving racists.

In an attempt to claim the Italian experience as the quintessential American experience, the story draws parallels between war for/within one’s country and war for/within one’s family. The viewer is left to consider violence in context: when is it heroic and when is it criminal? And how much should the defense of one’s in-group change from generation to generation? In this way and several other crucial ways, the story presented by Puzo and Coppola is both Italian and anti-Italian. Could it be, I suggested to my students, that the Fourth Gospel is a bit like this film? Is John’s anti-Jewish rhetoric a feature of John’s Jewishness?

As someone with my religious background, I know what I risk making this suggestion. In a world where the Shoah is recent history, we Christians must not eschew our responsibility for how we have used the Fourth Gospel’s rhetoric.

Jon Levenson might be right when he claims, “Nowhere does Christianity betray

12

Indeed, it only took three generations for my family to leave the coal mines and enter higher education.

13 Reinhartz, Cast Out, 33.

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its indebtedness to Judaism more than in its supersessionism.” 14 But Reinhartz is undoubtedly correct too: “The Jewishness of the [Fourth] Gospel is not an antidote to its anti-Jewishness, but part and parcel thereof.” 15 Of course, there are a few crucial differences between The Godfather’s portrait of Italian-American identity and the Fourth Gospel’s portrait of Jewish identity. Most notable, with The Godfather, we know who wrote the story, filmed the story, and how this story was generally received. We can’t say the same of the Fourth Gospel. It may well have been written by someone who considered himself from the Jews once, but no longer of the Jews. Moreover, as Reinhartz suggests, the Fourth Gospel may have been written for gentiles who would lay claim to Israel’s key symbols by expropriating tactics. If her suggestion is correct, the Fourth Gospel’s anti-Jewish rhetoric is a poor comparison to The Godfather.

With her thesis in mind, I wonder whether Spike Lee’s Malcolm X is the better analogy. The Autobiography of Malcolm X (the book upon which the film was based) was assigned to me in my first college classroom. 16 It had such a profound impact on me that I was forced to reconsider notions of whiteness, nationality, and the in-group narratives I’d grown to consider sacred. For me, this book had all of the features of what Reinhartz calls “evangelizing empathy.” 17 This 14

The context of this quotation is necessary to understand Levenson’s program: “Radically transformed but never uprooted, the sacrifice of the first-born son constitutes a strange and usually overlooked bond between Judaism and Christianity and thus a major but unexplored focus for Jewish-Christian dialogue. In the past this dialogue has too often centered on the Jewishness of Jesus and, in particular, his putative roles of prophet and sage. In point of fact, however, those roles, even if real, have historically been vastly less important in Christian tradition than Jesus’s identity as sacrificial victim, the son handed over to death by his loving father or the lamb who takes away the sins of the world. This identity, ostensibly so alien to Judaism, was itself constructed from Jewish reflection on the beloved sons of the Hebrew Bible, reflection that long survived the rise of Christianity and has persisted into the post-Holocaust era. The bond between Jewry and the Church that the beloved son constitutes is, however, enormously problematic. For the longstanding claim of the Church that it supersedes the Jews, in large measure continues the old narrative pattern in which a late-born son dislodges his first-born brothers, with varying degrees of success. Nowhere does Christianity betray its indebtedness to Judaism more than in its supersessionism” (Jon D. Levenson, The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993], x).

15 Reinhartz, Cast Out, xxxii.

16 Malcolm X, The Autobiography of Malcolm X (As told to Alex Haley) (New York: Grove Press, 1965).

17 Reinhartz, Cast Out, 33.

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sort of storied empathy aims to persuade the audience to join the disciples of the larger cause of Malcolm X. By the end of Autobiography, I desperately wanted to cast aside whatever cultural whiteness my family might have accumulated. (I was in my early twenties and had no clue what this meant.) After all, my new hero called white folks liars, oppressors, and devils. This book deconstructed me in ways that I still can’t quite explain. Finally, Alex Haley’s epilogue built me back up by suggesting that there might be room for someone like me as an ally. Spike Lee’s ending doubles down on the evangelizing character of the story as children from North America and Africa stand up to proclaim, “I am Malcolm X!” Clearly the audience is meant to identify with the hero and the cause of the hero.

Malcolm X is the story of a Baptist’s son who learns to cast off white culture and white religion in a journey to rediscover his true culture and religion.

Along his journey he reclaims Black culture by repudiating his former life. He must learn to reinterpret his life from the ground up by reconsidering his language foundations, his notions of a white god, and several American narratives/symbols.

Repudiation, in this story, is presented as justified, necessary, and heroic. And as painful as it is to name it, the hero repudiates Christianity in general, and the Black Christian experience in particular. This is something that my students and I can’t echo, but it’s something we can appreciate as allies.

Perhaps then, the Fourth Gospel is a bit like Malcolm X. The hero is from the group, but no longer of the group. It is a critique of a culture/religion that the author leaves behind, repudiates, and casts off. Moreover, the author means to persuade potential allies to do the same. If so, the Fourth Gospel’s anti-Jewish rhetoric is a feature of John’s departure from what the author considers to be “false” Jewishness. Of course, the analogy fails when we consider the differing legacy of these two stories. Christian use of the Fourth Gospel has caused incalculable harm.

Neither cinematic analogue is perfect. But these comparisons might be useful to illustrate the fundamental differences between Martyn’s theory and Reinhartz’s alternative.

Concluding Reflection Cast Out of the Covenant showcases a rare honesty in both voice and approach.

Reinhartz bridges (in a few crucial ways) the usual distance between scholar and scholarship. She invites the reader toward her research with determined vulnerability. She risks detailing her long investment in the material, her social placement, and her vantage point as a scholar of the Fourth Gospel. At least for me and my little focus group, her risk pays off. We weren’t just drawn by her argumentation, we were drawn by her voice, her experience with the text, and her

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careful self-awareness. At the end of the day, if I am going to have my theology eviscerated, I want the doctor to have a steady hand.

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