JOURNAL FOR THE STUDY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT
SUPPLEMENT SERIES

241

Executive Editor
Stanley E. Porter

Editorial Board
Craig Blomberg, Elizabeth A. Castelli, David Catchpole,
Kathleen E. Corley, R. Alan Culpepper, James D.G. Dunn,
Craig A. Evans, Stephen Fowl, Robert Fowler,
George H. Guthrie, Robert Jewett, Robert W. Wall

Sheffield Academic Press
A Continuum imprint

Christian Origins
Worship, Belief and Society
The Milltown Institute
and the Irish Biblical Association
Millennium Conference

edited by
Kieran J. O'Mahony

Journal for the Study of the New Testament
Supplement Series 241

Copyright © 2003 Sheffield Academic Press
A Continuum imprint
Published by Sheffield Academic Press Ltd
The Tower Building, 11 York Road, London SE1 7NX
370 Lexington Avenue, New York NY 10017-6550
www.continuumbooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Typeset by Sheffield Academic Press

EISBN 9780826462640

CONTENTS

Preface
Abbreviations
List of Contributors

vii
viii
xi

MICHAEL MAHER

Knowing the Tree by its Roots:
Jewish Context of the Early Christian Movement

1

MARGARET BARKER

The Temple Roots of the Christian Liturgy

29

LARRY W. HURTADO

The Origin and Development of
Christ-Devotion: Forces and Factors

52

THOMAS O'LOUGHLIN

The Didache as a Source for Picturing the Earliest Christian
Communities: The Case of the Practice of Fasting

83

JEROME MURPHY-O'CONNOR, OP

The Origins of Paul's Christology:
From Thessalonians to Galatians

113

SEAN FREYNE

The Jesus-Paul Debate Revisited and
Re-Imaging Christian Origins

143

CHRISTOPHER TUCKETT

The Son of Man and Daniel 7:
Inclusive Aspects of Early Christologies

164

vi

Christian Origins

KlERAN J. O'MAHONY, OSA

Imagining a Roman Audience

191

JUSTIN TAYLOR, SM

The Original Environment of Christianity

214

ELISABETH SCHUSSLER FIORENZA

Re-Visioning Christian Origins: In Memory of Her Revisited

225

Index of References
Index of Authors

251
261

PREFACE

It is a considerable pleasure to be able to offer these studies to a wider
audience. They are the fruit of a scholarly colloquium hosted in Dublin by
the Milltown Institute and the Irish Biblical Association, 5-8 November
2000. We felt that the turning of the millennium was an appropriate time
to look back at the origins of the Christian movement and see something
of where it had all come from. The scholars were invited to speak about
their current research interest in the general area of early Christianity. As it
turned out, a certain sequence is discernable. After an introductory paper
laying out the Jewish background, the papers fall broadly into the categories of worship, belief and social analysis.
The idea of a conference first suggested itself some years before and
a joint organizing committee was established: Sean Goan and Thomas
O'Loughlin (the Irish Biblical Association) with Anthony O'Leary and
Kieran J. O'Mahony (the Milltown Institute of Theology and Philosophy).
The committee wishes to record the financial support received from the
Pontifical Biblical Commission and hospitality of the Milltown Park Conference Centre.
The conference itself was a resounding success not least because of the
lively participation of the 250 people who attended. It is to them that this
volume is dedicated and we hope thereby that the conversation may go on.
On behalf of the Committee
Kieran J. O'Mahony
May 2003

ABBREVIATIONS

AB
ABD
ABRL
AGJU
AmAnth
AnBib
ATR
BAGD

BBR
BDF

BETL
Bib
Bij
BJS
BNTC
BZNW
CBQ
CNT
CrCu
Cone
DJD
EBib
EKKNT
GKC
HdO
HNT
HR
HTR

Anchor Bible
David Noel Freedman (ed.), The Anchor Bible Dictionary
(New York: Doubleday, 1992)
Anchor Bible Reference Library
Arbeiten zur Geschichte des antiken Judentums und des
Urchristentums
American Anthropologist
Analecta biblica
Anglican Theological Review
Walter Bauer, William F. Arndt, F. William Gingrich and
Frederick W. Danker, A Greek-English Lexicon of the New
Testament and Other Early Christian Literature (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2nd edn, 1958)
Bulletin of Biblical Research
Friedrich Blass, A. Debrunner and Robert W. Funk, A Greek
Grammar of the New Testament and Other Early Christian
Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1961)
Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium
Biblica
Bijdragen
Brown Judaic Studies
Black's New Testament Commentaries
BeiheftezurZAW
Catholic Biblical Quarterly
Commentaire du Nouveau Testament
Cross Currents
Concilium
Discoveries in the Judean Desert
Etudes bibliques
Evangelisch-Katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament
Gesenius' Hebrew Grammar (ed. E. Kautzsch, revised and
trans. A.E. Cowley; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1910)
Handbuch der Orientalistik
Handbuch zum Neuen Testament
History of Religions
Harvard Theological Review

Abbreviations
HUCA
ICC
IDBSup
IR
ITQ
JAAR
JB
JBL
JECS
JHC
JJS
JR
JSJ
JSJSup
JSNT
JSNTSup
JSSR
JTS
LCL
LD
LSJ
MeyerK
NAB
NB
NIBC
NICNT
NIGTC
NJBC
NovTSup
NRSV
NTS
OTG
OTP
PEQ
RB
RSV
SA N T
SBLASP
SBLMS
SBLSCS
SBLSP

IX

Hebrew Union College Annual
International Critical Commentary
IDB, Supplementary Volume
Innes Review
Irish Theological
Quarterly
Journal of the American Academy of Religion
Jerusalem Bible
Journal of Biblical
Literature
Journal of Early Christian Studies
Journal of Higher Criticism
Journal of Jewish Studies
Journal of Religion
Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian,
Hellenistic
and Roman Period
Journal for the Study of Judaism, Supplement Series
Journal for the Study of the New Testament
Journal for the Study of the New Testament, Supplement
Series
Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion
Journal of Theological
Studies
Loeb Classical Library
Lectio divina
H.G. Liddell, Robert Scott and H. Stuart Jones,
Greek-English
Lexicon (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 9th edn, 1968)
H.A.W. Meyer (ed.), Kritisch-exegetischer Kommentar iiber
das Neue Testament [sometimes referred to as K E K ]
New American Bible
N e w Blackfriars
N e w International Bible Commentary
N e w International Commentary on the N e w Testament
The N e w International Greek Testament Commentary
N e w Jerome Biblical Commentary
Novum Testamentum, Supplements
N e w Revised Standard Version
New Testament Studies
Old Testament Guides
James Charlesworth (ed.), Old Testament
Pseudepigrapha
Palestine Exploration
Quarterly
Revue biblique
Revised Standard Version
Studien zum Alten und Neuen Testament
SBL Abstracts and Seminar Papers
SBL Monograph Series
SBL Septuagint and Cognate Studies
SBL Seminar Papers

x
SBT
SD
SFSHJ
SE
Sem
SJT
SL
SNTSMS
SUNT
TQ
VT
WBC
WMANT
WUNT
ZNW
ZPE
ZTK

Christian Origins
Studies in Biblical Theology
Studies and Documents
South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism
Studia Evangelica I, II, III (= TU 73 [1959], 87 [1964], 88
[1964], etc.)
Semitica
Scottish Journal of Theology
Studia Liturgica
Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series
Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments
Theologische Quartalschrift
Vetus Testamentum
Word Biblical Commentary
Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen
Testament
Wissenschaflliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament
Zeitschrift fur die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft
Zeitschrift fur Papyrologie und Epigraphik
Zeitschrift fur Theologie undKirche

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Margaret Barker is a well-known biblical scholar and author of several
books, including recently The Revelation of Jesus Christ: Which God Gave
to Him to Show to His Servants What Must Soon Take Place (Revelation
1:1) (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 2000).
Sean Freyne is currently Director of the Centre for Mediterranean and Near
Eastern Studies at Trinity College, Dublin. His most recent book is Texts,
Contexts and Cultures (Dublin: Veritas, 2002).
Larry W. Hurtado is Professor of New Testament Language, Literature &
Theology and Director of the Centre for the Study of Christian Origins in
the University of Edinburgh. He is the author of several books, the most
recent being Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity
(Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003).
Michael Maher, MSC, is Lecturer in Biblical Studies at the Mater Dei Institute of Education, Dublin. He is the author of Targum Pseudo-Jonathan:
Genesis (The Aramaic Bible, lb; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1992).
Jerome Murphy-O'Connor, OP, is Professor of New Testament at the Ecole
Biblique et Archeologique Fran^aise, Jerusalem, and author of many studies
including the much acclaimed Paul: A Critical Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996).
Thomas O'Loughlin is Reader in Historical Theology, Head of School of
Humanities, University of Wales, Lampeter, and is author inter alia of
Teachers and Code-Breakers: The Latin Genesis Tradition (Turnhout:
Brepols, 1999).
Kieran J. O'Mahony, OSA, is Associate Professor and Head of the Department of Scripture at the Milltown Institute of Theology and Philosophy,

xii

Christian Origins

Dublin. He is the author of Pauline Persuasion: A Sounding in 2 Corinthians 8-9 (JSNTSup, 199; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000).
Elisabeth Schussler Fiorenza is Krister Stendahl Professor at Harvard University Divinity School. She is the author of numerous works, including
recently Jesus and the Politics of Interpretation (New York: Continuum,
2000) and Wisdom Ways: Introducing Feminist Biblical Interpretation
(Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2001).
Justin Taylor, SM, is Professor of New Testament and Christian Origins at
the Ecole Biblique et Archeologique Franfaise, Jerusalem, and is author,
with Etienne Nodet, of The Origins of Christianity: An Exploration (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1998).
Christopher Tuckett is Professor of New Testament Studies at the University of Oxford, with research interests in traditions about Jesus (both inside
and outside the canon) and in Paul. Among other books, he is the author of
Q and the History of Early Christianity (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1996).

KNOWING THE TREE BY ITS ROOTS:
JEWISH CONTEXT OF THE EARLY CHRISTIAN MOVEMENT

Michael Maher

A search for the 'roots' of Christianity, or for the 'Jewish context of the
early Christian movement' obviously brings us back to thefirstcentury CE.
Unfortunately, the map of first-century Judaism is far from easy to read.
On the contrary, it is confusing, ambiguous and difficult to decipher. Stefan
Reif, a Cambridge scholar who is a specialist in Jewish liturgy, referring to
earlier liturgists who wished to reconstruct the Jewish liturgy of the period
before the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, said that those earlier scholars 'transplanted some or all of the rabbinic rites and customs of
tenth-century Babylon or early medieval Europe to first-century Judaea
and the surrounding Jewish Diaspora' (Reif 1999:326). These earlier scholars took it for granted that what is to be found in late liturgical documents
corresponds to what actually happened in worshipping communities several centuries earlier. Reif continues with the comment that although their
'methodology' may have been untenable 'the picture painted of protorabbinism and its liturgical practice was a clear one, unobfuscated by
doubts and complications' (1999: 326). In other words, a false method of
research produced a result that satisfied the researchers. Whether that result
conformed to truth or not is another question. Reif goes on to say that
Recent, more reliable research in the field tends, on the other hand, to stress
the lack of concrete evidence, the questionable admissibility of sources even
one or two centuries after the destruction of the Temple, and the complex
nature of Judaism in the time of Jesus and Hillel, thus shying away from a
commitment to simple description and taking refuge in a welter of doubt
and hesitancy. In consequence, the less specialized scholar is left unenlightened about the general situation that obtained with regard to Jewish liturgy
in the first century, and with many unanswered questions about its particular aspects (1999: 326-27).

With the necessary adaptations Reif s comments can be transferred to
several other fields of Jewish studies, and one can make the following

2

Christian Origins

general statement: while earlier scholars used Jewish sources naively, while
they took statements in the rabbinic literature and in other ancient texts at
face value, and while they used their sources selectively, they were able to
give a fairly clear picture of what Jews at the time of Jesus believed and
how they lived out their faith in daily life. Thefindingsof more recent critical scholarship, however, have raised questions about the reliability of the
picture drawn by scholars who have worked in this simplistic fashion, and
have rendered necessary a re-examination of the ancient sources.
Until the 1950s there was a scholarly consensus that in first-century
Palestine the Pharisaic expression of the Jewish religion was accepted as
the 'normative'1 or 'orthodox' Judaism. The Pharisees, it was believed,
were the leaders who formed opinion, who were able to influence the political leaders, and who had won the allegiance of the masses. This view was
based mainly on Josephus who wrote towards the end of the first century
CE, and on rabbinic literature which took shape about the year 200 CE and
in the following few centuries. Josephus had asserted that the support of
the masses had given the Pharisees religious authority and political influence, and rabbinic literature portrayed the sages of the two centuries before
the fall of Jerusalem as directing the cult and legislating for all areas of life.2
However, this consensus was called into question when the Dead Sea
Scrolls cast a new and revealing ray of light on the Palestinian Judaism of
the first centuries BCE and CE. Here were Jewish documents that predated
Christianity, some of which are explicitly, even virulently, sectarian. So
here at least we have a brand of Judaism that flourished in Palestine until
the Qumran community was destroyed by the Romans in 68 CE, a Judaism
that is very different from the religion that finds its formulation and codification in the classical rabbinic texts, the religion that had long been regarded by scholars as 'normative'.
Just when the discoveries of the Qumran manuscripts were coming to an
end, in 1956 to be precise, the American scholar Morton Smith raised questions that further unsettled those who were happy with the old consensus
about the uniformity of first-century Judaism. He rejected the assumption
that Pharisaic/rabbinic Judaism was authoritative in Palestine in the first
century. On the contrary, he argued, in the first century the Pharisees were
only a small group, one of several sects that competed for members and
for power. Smith could accept that the Pharisees were 'the largest and
1. The term 'normative Judaism' is most often associated with the name of George
Foot Moore whose work I shall later discuss.
2. Cf. Goodblatt (1989: 12 n. 1), with relevant bibliography.

MAHER Knowing the Tree by its Roots

3

ultimately the most influential' of the groups that sought the attention of
the people, but 'they had no real hold either on the government or on the
masses of the people' (Smith 1956: 81).
It is interesting to note that the two documents, the Ascension of Isaiah
and the Assumption of Moses (or the Testament of Moses), which Smith
invokes by name in support of his general thesis, both have obvious similarities with the Qumran literature. Smith does not refer to precise passages within the documents he mentions, but it is not difficult to find the
texts that support his point of view. Since he says that the passage in the
Ascension of Isaiah 'shows us a group of prophets living in the wilderness
beyond Bethlehem, going naked, eating herbs only, and denouncing Jerusalem as Sodom' (Smith 1956: 69) he clearly has ch. 2, w . 7-11 of that
document in mind. This passage, which was written in Palestine 'not later
than the first century CE' (Knibb 1985: 149) tells how Isaiah and several
other prophets abandoned Jerusalem because of the great iniquity that was
being committed there, and went to live on a mountain in a desert. Their
way of life is described as follows:
All of them were clothed in sackcloth, and all of them were prophets; they
had nothing with them, but were destitute, and they all lamented bitterly
over the going astray of Israel. And they had nothing to eat except wild
herbs (which) they gathered from the mountains, and when they had cooked
(them), they ate (them) with Isaiah the prophet (Knibb 1985: 158).

Smith does not mention the Qumran group who also went into the desert
and criticized the Jerusalem of their day, nor does he refer to John the
Baptist who would come to the mind of a Christian who might read the
text just quoted.3 He simply expresses the point he wants to make in one
short sentence : 'Such asceticism is certainly not in the Israelite tradition'
(1956: 69).
The other work, the Assumption of Moses, also has many parallels with
the Qumran materials and may also be dated to the first century CE.4 Smith
says that this work contains a 'denunciation of the priesthood of the Second Temple and calls its sacrifices vain, but has great reverence for the
Temple itself (1956:69). Such a denunciation is to be found in Ass. Mos.
5-7 where the Hasmonaeans are condemned because they 'pollute the
house of their worship' (5.3) and 'the altar by.. .the offerings which they
3. Smith mentions the Baptist in the course of his article, referring to him as one
who 'also started a sect: some of his followers did not transfer their loyalty to Jesus,
but maintained that John had been the true prophet, Jesus the false' (1956: 71).
4. Cf. Priest (1983: 920-21).

4

Christian Origins

place before the Lord' (5.4), and they 'consume the goods of the [poor],
saying their acts are according to justice [while in fact they are simply]
exterminators' (7.6-7).5
The similarities that exist between the Ascension of Isaiah and the
Assumption of Moses and the Qumran texts do not prove that these bodies
of literature emanated from the same sect. What these similarities seem to
show is that different groups of Jews reacted in similar ways to the abuses
that were obvious in the Temple and to the unworthy conduct of the
Temple personnel. It follows that they provide solid support for Smith's
general thesis that in the first century CE Judaism was not monolithic,
everywhere uniform in faith and practice. On the contrary, 'the country
swarmed with special sects, each devoted to its own tradition' (Smith
1956: 81).
Smith's reference to the Ascension of Isaiah and to the Assumption of
Moses prompts me to turn for a moment to the Pseudepigrapha, the literary
collection to which these two works belong.6 The Pseudepigrapha are the
fruit of the literary activity of the Jews during the period between 200 BCE
and 200 CE.7 Or more correctly, they are what remains of the Jewish literature that was produced during that period, for we know that many writings
from that age have been lost. But what remains gives us an insight into the
literary creativity of the Jews in the centuries just mentioned, and into the
pluriformity of Jewish religious thought during that time. The pluriformity
of thought represents a plurality of divisions and sects in the Jewish community, each giving expression to its own theological convictions and to
its own understanding of human history and of God's guidance of that history. The Pseudepigrapha bear witness to the variety of theological expression that existed within Judaism, and because of this they have, especially
since the 1950s, attracted the attention of scholars who recognize them as
invaluable sources for the study of Judaism in the centuries before and
after the birth of Christianity.8
5. Cf. Priest (1983: 929-30).
6. Over 50 pseudepigraphical works are published in the two volumes edited by
Charlesworth.
7. At different times scholars have designated Judaism of this period as 'late
Judaism', 'intertestamental Judaism', 'early Judaism' and 'formative Judaism'; see,
e.g., the discussion in Kraft and Nickelsburg (1986: 1-2); Dunn (1995: 231). More
recently G. Boccaccini has introduced the term 'middle Judaism'; see Boccaccini
(1991, 1995).
8. The launching of the Journalfor the Study of the Pseudepigrapha in 1987 is a
sign of the interest being shown in this literature in recent times.

MAHER Knowing the Tree by its Roots

5

Richness and Diversity
Since Smith wrote, many scholars have espoused his idea that Judaism in
the first century CE was composed of many sects, so that it is now commonplace to say that 'Judaism' at that time was a very complex reality,
consisting of a great variety of parties and groupings, not to mention the
numerous people who may not have belonged to any party or sect. In fact
there are those who say that one cannot speak of 'Judaism' in that period,
for in the first century of our era there was a great richness and diversity of
traditions in Jewish life, and there were many expressions of Jewish faith
and commitment. The most forceful exponent of this view is Jacob Neusner, the most prolific and the most influential living exponent of Judaica.
In 1994 Neusner formulated his view of the variety that existed within
ancient Judaism as follows:
The issue, how do we define Judaism, is now settled: we do not. We define
Judaisms, and the first step in the work of definition requires identifying the
particular Judaic community that stands behind a given set of writings or
that values and lives by those writings.. .a striking characteristic of the Judaic
writings that survive from ancient times is their profound sectarianism.
Each system carefully differentiates itself from everybody else, either the
rest of 'Israel', or the rest of humanity, treating even other Jews as no longer
'Israel'... 'our sages of blessed memory' leave us no doubt that within Israel
were many who did not share their views... There never was, in real, social
terms, that single Judaism, there were only the infinite and diverse Judaic
systems, as various social entities gave expression to their way of life,
worldview, and theory of the social entity they formed (1994: 12, 14, 18).

Now, one might question the advisability of speaking of'Judaisms', since
that word never occurs in the plural in ancient Jewish texts, and non-Jews
in the ancient world evidently viewed Judaism as a single reality, not as
a combination of different expressions of religion (Dunn 1995: 251).9
9. Hengel and Deines say that instead of speaking of an ideal and harmonious
'common Judaism', as Sanders does, 'it would be much more appropriate to proceed
from the idea, not of diverse "Judaisms", as is currently fashionable, but of a "complex
Judaism" which formed a stable community only over against the outside.. .but which
on the inside constantly had to seek workable compromises in order to face foreign rule
as a nation. The credit for having sought and maintained this compromise again and
again should be given to two groups, the moderate wing of the Pharisees and the
leading families of the priestly aristocracy... The gradual breakdown of this capacity
for compromise and an increasing radicalization on both sides, as well as among the
people, from about the end of the fifties AD led eventually to the catastrophe of the
Jewish War' (Hengel and Deines 1995: 53).

6

Christian Origins

Furthermore, most first-century Jews, for all their differences and arguments, agreed on certain key elements of the Jewish faith, such as the
covenant that God had made with his people, the Torah, circumcision,
the Sabbath and the laws of ritual purity. One can therefore speak of
'common Judaism' which included those central truths on which all Jews
agreed,10 although they might disagree on the interpretation of many of
these truths.
While all of this may be true it does not invalidate Neusner's image of
'infinite and diverse systems' of Judaism, an image that was intended as a
deliberate contrast to the picture of Judaism that had been drawn by earlier
writers. Christian writers in particular had tended to ignore the variety of
Jewish communities that existed in thefirstcenturies BCE and CE, and were
inclined to gloss over the differences in these communities' ways of life
and in their literary creations, in order to construct a single uniform Judaism
with which aspects of the Christian message could be compared. Jewish
tradition was also happy to accept the idea of a single Judaism, as we gather
from the opening lines of a well-known Mishnah tractate, Pirke Aboth,
which teaches that the twofold Torah, the Written and the Oral, that constitute the Judaism of the classical rabbinic texts, had been handed on in an
unbroken line of tradition from the time of Moses to the rabbinic teachers.
So, our present-day awareness of the pluralism of ancient Judaism is
really something new in the world of Judaic scholarship. We may quote
Neusner again:
In 1950 everybody assumed that, in the first six centuries A.D., there was a
single Judaism, corresponding to a single Christianity. That Judaism was
normative, a linear continuation of the Hebrew Scriptures (Old Testament),
everywhere authoritative and accepted; its canon was so uniform that any
book, whenever edited, testified equally as any other book to the theological
or normative position of Judaism...
Not only so, but everybody assumed that all Jews, except a few cranks or
heretics, believed and practised this single, unitary Judaism, which therefore was not only normal but normative. The Judaism of Jesus, in A.D. 30,
was pretty much the same as the Judaism of Ezra, 450 B.C., and of Aqiba,
in A.D. 130, and the Judaism of the Land of Israel.. .of the first century was
the same as the Judaism of the Greek-speaking Jews of Alexandria at that
same time, or of the Aramaic-speaking Jews of Babylonia five hundred
years later (1990: 181-82).

10. Dunn (1995: esp. 251-57) writes of'the four pillars of Second Temple Judaism',
namely, Belief in God, Election, Torah, and Temple; see also Dunn (1991: 18-36).

MAHER Knowing the Tree by its Roots

1

Neusner's statement is surely exaggerated. Long before 1950 people were
aware that in the first century CE different exponents of the Jewish faith
could give different expression to particular facets of Judaism. So, for
example, G.F. Moore could write in 1930:
Until the supremacy of the type of Judaism represented by the Tannaim was
achieved—before the fall of Jerusalem and the reorganization at Jamnia,
Lydda, and in Galilee—.. Judaism was much less homogeneous than it
appears in the Tannaite sources; parties, sects, schools, or looser groups
differed and contended over points of major and minor importance (1927—
30: III, vi).

Scholars have known the Pseudepigrapha for a long time and they have
been aware that they bear witness to many beliefs that have left no traces
in the rabbinic literature. The works of Philo also reflect a world of Jewish
thought which is not that of the rabbis. These works were enough to show
that there was variety within Judaism, and that Jewish belief and practice
took on different colourings at different times and in different places.
But that there was more than a grain of truth in what Neusner said about
belief in one Judaism that spanned the centuries and that was known
everywhere may be seen from a quick glance at a few important books of
the early twentieth century which presented reconstructions of Judaism at
the time of Jesus. One such book was published in 1903 by Wilhelm
Bousset under the title Die Religion des Judentums im neutestamentlichen
Zeitalter. Bousset's main sources for his portrayal of Judaism were the
Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha, and especially the Apocalypses. His use
of rabbinic literature was very limited, and what knowledge he had of this
literature was gleaned from secondary sources. Hugo Gressmann, who is
well known for his contribution to the study of the Hebrew Scriptures,
reworked Bousset's book, incorporating much material from rabbinic literature. The Bousset-Gressmann edition appeared in 1925 under a modified title, and it was destined to become a basic textbook on 'the religion
of Judaism', one that influenced innumerable New Testament scholars,
including, for example, Rudolf Bultmann. A fourth edition appeared in
1966, a fact that proves its enduring success among students of Judaism of
the New Testament times.
Bousset saw Jewish morality as legalistic, casuistic, and without any system. Ritual, cultic, legal and moral prescriptions are, according to Bousset,
thrown together in a chaotic fashion. Important and unimportant are placed
side by side. Judaism does have many fine ethical principles, but they are
lost in so much that is trivial. However, one must not judge the ethical

8

Christian Origins

standards of the Pharisees from the criticism of Jesus alone. We know of
many rabbis who were very virtuous men. Their personalities were not
suffocated by the terrible burden of the Law which they had to bear; they
did not get lost in the subtlety of their learning. But such people were
exceptions, and Jesus' condemnation of the morality of the ordinary Pharisees was justified. The Jewish moral code has a negative character: the
Jew is continually told what one must not do. The Jewish religion therefore lacks the power to inspire or to arouse enthusiasm. Since the ethic of
the Pharisees was one of correct behaviour and promotion of the good of
the community it easily became a matter of external observance and
hypocrisy. It was against this externalism that Jesus directed his sharpest
criticism. That his condemnation was not unjust is proved by the fact that
free spirits within the Pharisaic movement also condemned the hypocrisy
of some of the members of their own party.11
Another Christian writer, one who took a very different view of Judaism, was the Harvard Professor George Foot Moore whose three-volume
work, Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era, was destined
to become the authoritative exposition of Judaism for Christian scholars.
It was reprinted many times, the ninth impression appearing in 1962.
Moore's sources include classical rabbinic texts (Mishnah, Tosefta,
Midrashim) and what Moore calls 'Extraneous Sources', such as Sirach,
the Psalms of Solomon, Jubilees, the Testamental literature, Gospels and
Acts and so on.12 A little reflection shows that sources from such a wide
span of time, from the second century BCE to the sixth century CE, cannot
be used to reconstruct 'Judaism in the First Christian Centuries'. Rather
this amalgam of texts represents many varieties of Jewish belief and practice, many movements and trends within Judaism. Moore's work is really
a conflation of many Judaisms into a Judaism.
Moore was very impressed by what he called the 'unity of belief and
observance among Jews in all their wide dispersion' (1927-30:1,110). He
believed that
The ground of this remarkable unity is to be found not so much in a general
agreement in fundamental ideas as in community of observance throughout
the whole Jewish world. Wherever a Jew went he found the same system of
domestic observance in effect... If he entered the synagogue he found everywhere substantially the same form of service with minor variations (192730:1,110-11).
11. See Bousset (1926: 137-41, 409-410).
12. Moore lists his sources in 1927-30:1, 123.

MAHER Knowing the Tree by its Roots

9

So Moore could refer to 'catholic (universal) Judaism' (1927-30:1,111)
and 'normative Judaism' (1927-30:1, vii; III, vi), and this latter term was
to become common coinage among many later scholars of Judaism.
The great merit of Moore's work was that he attempted to present
Judaism on its own terms and not merely as a background to the New Testament. He approached his subject with sympathy and presented it in a favourable light, and he forceMly contradicted the idea that Judaism was simply a
legalistic religion, a religion that teaches that works bring righteousness.
But even after Moore's contribution Christian authors continued to
present Judaism as a legalistic religion that centred on the task of securing
righteousness before a stern, book-keeping God. So in 1977 E.P. Sanders
of McMaster University, Ontario, published Paul and Palestinian Judaism,
a volume of over 600 dense pages which has been much debated ever since.
One of Sanders' aims, as he said in his Preface, was 'to destroy the view
of Rabbinic Judaism which is still prevalent in much, perhaps most, New
Testament scholarship; to establish a different view of Judaism' (1977: xii).
Sanders begins with what one writer has called 'a withering critique of a
Who's Who of Protestant scholarship' (Roetzel 1995:259).13 He then sets
out to show that Judaism was not a religion where righteousness is earned
through the merit of good works, but a religion that is a response to grace.
Sanders sums up his understanding of the nature of Palestinian Judaism
at the time of Paul in the phrase 'covenantal nomism'. Sanders explains
'covenant nomism' as follows:
There does appear to be in Rabbinic Judaism a coherent and all-pervasive
view of what constitutes the essence of Jewish religion and of how that
religion 'works'... The all-pervasive view can be summarized in the phrase
' covenantal nomism'. Briefly put, covenantal nomism is the view that one's
place in God's plan is established on the basis of the covenant, and that the
covenant requires as the proper response of man his obedience to its commandments, while providing means of atonement for transgression (1977:
75).

Elsewhere Sanders says 'I continue to regard "covenantal nomism" as the
common denominator which underlay all sorts and varieties of Judaism'
(1985: 336). He believes that 'Jesus accepted covenantal nomism' (1985:
336), as did the Pharisees (1992:416-17) and other religious groups among
the Jewish people (1992: 452-57).
13. Among those who were the subjects of Sanders' sharp criticism were such
influential scholars as Bousset, Schurer, Billerbeck and Bultmann.

10

Christian Origins

It is true, of course, that Judaism has its roots in the covenant, and that
every observant Jew's obedience to the Torah is a response to covenantal
grace. But in saying this we say nothing about the varieties of Judaism that
are known to have existed among the Jews of ancient Palestine. We do not
know how different groups or parties of Jews interpreted the Torah, or
how they formulated the rules, the halakah in rabbinic terminology, that
regulated their way of living out their Judaism. Sanders admits that the
term 'covenant' is not frequently used in rabbinic literature, but he maintains that this is so because of the fundamental nature of the covenant
concept which was presupposed in rabbinic discussions (1977: 420-21).
However, if the term 'covenant' does not have an important place in rabbinic literature, and if, as seems to be the case, it does not appear to have
been a motivating force in the lives of ordinary Jews, the formula 'covenantal nomism' can hardly serve as an adequate description of Judaism at
the time of Paul. That term may describe many forms of Judaism, but in so
doing it serves to hide their differences. 'Covenantal nomism' sounds rather
like 'common denominator Judaism', the minimum that is to be found in
all versions of Judaism and everywhere in Judaism.
It has been noted too that Sanders does not do justice to the chronological development of Jewish thought, which means, for example, that he can
take material from the fourth or fifth centuries and use it as if it were
directly applicable to the first century. Neusner in particular severely
criticizes Sanders for his handling of his sources. He calls his approach
'Billerbeck scholarship', that is, the collection of rabbinic passages around
New Testament themes without establishing the meaning of a given Jewish passage in the context in which it occurs in the rabbinic literature.
'Sanders', says Neusner, quotes 'all [rabbinic] documents equally with no
effort at differentiation among them' (1995: 223).
I have delayed somewhat over Sanders' book, because I think it brings
up the problem facing someone who is not a specialist in Jewish studies,
but who wishes to use Jewish sources in order to get a better understanding of the Judaism that was known to Jesus and to the New Testament
writers, and who wishes to apply that knowledge to the interpretation of
the New Testament. Such a non-specialist takes up a book with a title like
'Paul and Palestinian Judaism' and says 'this is just what I wanted, a book
that will give me some insights into the Judaism that Paul knew and
challenged'. And then the same inquiring non-specialist hears the master
in Jewish studies pass the verdict: 'This is Billerbeck scholarship'. The
result is rather frustrating. But the frustration need not lead the inquiring
non-specialist to total despair or into academic agnosticism. Books like

MAHER Knowing the Tree by its Roots

11

that of Sanders—who is a sympathetic and well-informed interpreter of
Judaism—books like his which may offend the well-informed teacher of
Judaica still have a lot to offer to those who want to learn from Jewish
literature, and who want to get a deeper appreciation of the rabbinic mind.
Such books may not establish the authentic meaning of every text in its
original context, but if we know that a passage is from Jubilees, for example, or from Qumran or from the Mishnah, we may be able to form some
judgment about how relevant or otherwise it may be to the picture of Judaism in the first century. On the other hand Neusner's critical approach to
rabbinic literature is indispensable, and he has initiated a programme of
analytic study of the classical Jewish texts that must be continued, developed and refined by himself and other scholars.
The Pharisees
Having considered some approaches of the past to Judaism and Jewish
literature I will pass on to reflect on some of those 'Judaisms' to which
Neusner refers. Every discussion of the different groupings or sects that
were to be found infirst-centuryJudaism must take into account the information that is to be gleaned from Josephus, from the Gospels and from
rabbinic literature. Now, Josephus places the Pharisees at the head of his
lists of the 'Four Philosophies' of the Jews, the Gospels portray them as
the main opponents of Jesus and as a very powerful group, and the Pharisees have been regarded by scholars as the principal forerunners of the
rabbinic Judaism that developed after the fall of Jerusalem.14 So the Pharisees have always had, and still have, pride of place among the sects of
Judaism.
What I want to do here is to refer briefly to a few important books on
the Pharisees that have appeared since about 1970, books that have greatly
modified the traditional understanding of the Pharisees, of their history and
of their religion. Until the 1970s it was believed that the Pharisees constituted the leading group in Palestine and that they developed a system of
laws that governed every aspect of Jewish life. Not everyone obeyed their
laws on food and purity, but those who did observe them identified themselves as Pharisees and set themselves apart from other Jews.15

14. On the question of the relationship between the Pharisees and rabbinic Judaism
see, e.g., Stemberger (1999); Neusner and Thoma (1995).
15. Cf. Sanders (1990: 152), where bibliographical references can also be found.

12

Christian Origins

One of the first scholars to bring a radically new approach to the study
of the Pharisees was Ellis Rivkin, a professor at the Hebrew College, Cincinnati. His great contribution was that he brought critical standards to bear
on his choice of texts on which to base his reconstruction of this important
movement.16 Rivkin claimed that the term 'Pharisees' can have different
meanings in different contexts in the rabbinic literature, and that the only
rabbinic texts which give reliable accounts of the first-century Pharisees
are those that contrast this group with the Sadducees (1978: 131). His examination of the rabbinic texts that juxtapose these two parties, of the New
Testament witness, and of Josephus—who is in fact his primary source—
led him to the conclusion that the Pharisees were
a scholar class dedicated to the supremacy of the twofold Law, the Written
and the Unwritten... Their unwritten laws, the halakah, were operative in
all realms: cultus, property, judicial procedures, festivals, etc. The Pharisees
were active leaders who carried out their laws with vigour and determination... Josephus, Paul, the Gospels, and the Tannaitic Literature are in
accord that the Pharisees were the scholar class of the twofold Law—
nothing more, nothing less (1978: 176-79).17

It is clear from this statement that Rivkin did not regard the Pharisees as a
sect that was turned in on itself and on its own interests.18 They were a
'school of thought' which expounded its teachings. But they went beyond
mere philosophizing and formed a group 'which led and directed the people, and which stood on militant guard to protect the authority of the
Unwritten Law' (1978:70). They did not regard mere external observance
of the Law as sufficient, but taught the people to internalize the Law,
which, when internalized and faithfully observed would ensure the individual of eternal life for one's soul and resurrection for one's body (1978:
302). The 'revolution' which the Pharisees spearheaded was to bring about
this internalization of the Law, and to inscribe the Law in each individual's conscience. Rivkin has recently stated that he sees no reason to
change the understanding of the Pharisees which he formulated more than
20 years ago. He still sees the Pharisees as
a revolutionary scholar class who originated and championed the concept of
the two-fold law.. .who resorted to whatever means were necessary to affirm
their authority, and who stirred the overwhelming majority of the Jews to
16. See Rivkin (1969-70: 205-249; 1976: cols. 657-63).
17. See also Rivkin (1976: col. 657).
18. Rivkin states, e.g., that'The Perushim are not characterized by their adherence
to the laws of ritual purity...' (1978: 135).

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lay down their lives, if necessary, for the preservation of the two-fold Law
and its promise of eternal individuation (1999: 29).

Rivkin's critical approach to the selection of texts that may be regarded
as reliable sources of information about the Pharisees has won the approval
of later scholars. But in his examination of these 'reliable' texts he fails to
take into account that they come from different stages in the development
of rabbinic literature and from different categories of that literature. He
has also been criticized for taking a fundamentalist approach to texts in
Josephus and in the New Testament and for treating these texts as reliable
sources of history. The net result is that although Rivkin did advance the
study of the Pharisees his overall reconstruction of that movement has not
been regarded as convincing.
Jacob Neusner is the scholar who has really revolutionized the study of
the Pharisees. In a three-volume work (1971) he isolated passages in rabbinic literature that have been attributed to pre-70 CE sages or to the schools
of Hillel and Shammai,19 who were more or less contemporaries of Jesus.
He subjects all these passages to a critical analysis in much the same way
as the form critics approached the New Testament. From the rabbinic traditions that Neusner considers reliable sources of information he concludes that the rabbis' Pharisees are mainly figures of the late Herodian
and Roman periods. They were a non-political group, and their main religious concern was the observance of the dietary laws and the proper
growing and harvesting of agricultural crops that were destined for table
use. By contrast the Pharisees as portrayed by Josephus belonged to an
earlier period, and were a politically motivated association who tried to
gain control and influence in Jewish society. The change in the character
of Pharisaism—from a political party to a fellowship whose primary concern was religious observance—took place at the time of Hillel (c. 50 BCE
—10 CE) when the Pharisees saw that acceptance of Roman rule was the
price that had to be paid for official toleration and ultimate survival. If, as
we have just seen, Josephus's portrayal of the Pharisees differs from that
of the Rabbis, the rabbinic traditions about the Pharisees are strikingly
similar to what the Gospel accounts tell us about this group. Both in the
19. 'The rabbinic traditions about the Pharisees before 70 are those pericopae in the
Mishnah (c. AD 200) and Tosefta (c. AD 300).. .in which we find names of either pre-70
masters or the Houses of Shammai and Hillel. Pre-70 masters are the men named in the
chains of authorities down to and including Simeon b. Gamaliel and masters referred to
in pericopae of those same authorities' (Neusner 1992: 149; see also 1979: 81-82;
1982: 71-83).

14

Christian Origins

rabbinic texts and in the Gospel traditions the observance of purity laws
outside the Temple have a prominent place.20
According to Neusner, the Pharisees formed a kind of table-fellowship,21
a group who were meticulously careful about the laws of ritual purity. They
showed little interest in civil law, and Temple regulations were decidedly
absent from their legislation. Like all Jews, they reverenced the Torah, and
they had some additional laws or traditions. But, Neusner maintains, there
is no proof in the rabbinic texts relative to the Pharisees that they had a
developed theory of the dual Torah,22 the written and the oral.23 This theory
finds its full expression only in the Babylonian Talmud.24
Neusner says that we have only a sketchy account of Pharisaism in the
century before 70 CE. The rabbinic sources tell us only about the inner life
of the party and the laws that governed its life. These laws were mainly
concerned with food laws, that is, with the proper growing, tithing and
preparation of agricultural produce for table-use, with the ritual cleanness
of people involved in the preparation of food, and with the immediate
preparation of meals according to purity laws. Pharisees observed these
laws at all times, while other Jews—apart from the priests—obeyed them
only when they visited the Temple in Jerusalem. The rabbinic sources
about the Pharisees never mention the Essenes or the Christians and the
Romans are never referred to (Neusner 1992: 153). Neusner notes that
There is a striking discontinuity among the three principal sources which
speak of the Pharisees before 70, the Gospels, and the rabbinic writings of a
later period, on the one side, and Josephus, on the other. What Josephus
thinks characteristic of the Pharisees are matters which play little or no role
in what Mark and Matthew regard as significant, and what the later rabbis
think the Pharisees said scarcely intersects with the topics and themes
important to Josephus. In this regard, the picture drawn by Matthew and
Mark and that drawn by the later rabbis are essentially congruent, and
together differ from the portrait left to us by Josephus. The traits of Phari-

20. Cf. Neusner (1971: III, 239-48, 301-306; 1979: 64-66, 82-84; 1992: 149-57).
21. Cf. Neusner (1971: III, 318): In the 70 or 80 years before the destruction of the
Temple 'the Pharisees were (whatever else they were) primarily a society for tablefellowship, the high point of their life as a group'; cf. Neusner (1992: 152); see also
Neusner (1960).
22. But see Sanders' remarks on Neusner's inconsistency on this point (1990:
110-12).
23. Sanders is in agreement with this position (1990: 108-130).
24. See Neusner (1992: 158; 1991).

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15

saism emphasized by Josephus, their principal beliefs and practices,25
nowhere occur in the rabbinic traditions of the Pharisees (Neusner 1992:
154).26

Many scholars accept Neusner's theory regarding the Pharisees' interest in
the laws of purity, although Sanders takes issue with him and denies that
the Pharisaism was essentially a purity movement or that the Pharisees
were merely a table fellowship. Both the Mishnah and Josephus indicate
that we should define the Pharisees as lay experts in the Law, not just a
purity sect.27
Josephus describes the Pharisees as a group that rose to power during
the years from the rise of the Hasmonaeans to their fall. During this time
they were a political party striving to gain power and control in the Jewish
state.
Saldarini
Anthony Saldarini, an American scholar, remarks that although recent studies have clarified aspects of Judaism in the Second Temple period the
Pharisees remain obscure because of the paucity of evidence and the biases
of the sources (1988: 7). He accepts Neusner's general approach to the
study of the sources of information about the Pharisees, but he considers
that reconstruction of this group from the limited body of literature used
by Neusner is hazardous. So he himself uses sociological categories and
the findings of sociologists to assess what the available sources tell us
about the Pharisees (1988:214; cf. also 10). His purpose is, he says, to situate the Pharisees within the whole of society, to show their roles and contributions to it, and to examine the 'political, economic and social factors
and interests with which their religious beliefs were inextricably joined'
(1988: 4). He believes that 'The Pharisees as portrayed by Josephus fit
most readily into what sociologists call "the retainer class"', which class
he describes as 'mostly townspeople who served the needs of the governing class as soldiers, educators, religious functionaries, entertainers and
skilled artists' (1988: 37-38,48).
25. Neusner lists three issues which Josephus regarded as of great importance to
the Pharisees: 'The Pharisees believe in fate, have traditions from the fathers, and exercise significant influence in public affairs' (1992: 154).
26. See also Neusner (1971: III, 239-48).
27. See the summary statement in Sanders (1985: 188, 388 n. 59); see further,
Sanders (1990: 131-254).

16

Christian Origins

Against Neusner's characterization of thefirst-centuryPharisees as a nonpolitical sect, he argued that a distinction between the Pharisees as a political group and as a religious table-fellowship is inappropriate, since religion
and politics were integrally connected in ancient Palestine. He prefers to see
the Pharisees as a politically and religiously based group who were always
interested in political power, even after the reign of Herod, and always a
factor in society at large. But they were a minor factor, or better, one of a
large number offerees which made up Jewish society. The stress on strict
tithing, on observance of ritual purity by non-priests, and on certain observances of Sabbath and other festivals—matters that have been highlighted
by Neusner—probably reflects the Pharisees' internal rules, but does not
indicate separation from the larger society. In Josephus, in the New Testament and in rabbinic literature they are seen as an established and influential
grouping in Jewish society, and as people who were respected by at least
some of the population.28 The evidence does not allow us to conclude with
confidence that they were present in Galilee. If they were there, they were a
minor and probably relatively new social force, struggling to influence people toward their way of life (Saldarini 1988:295). In Saldarini's view 'The
Pharisees were not a simple group with a limited, concrete goal but a long
lasting, well connected, voluntary, corporate organisation which sought to
influence Jewish society' (1988: 283-84). Their laws set out an agenda of
holiness for the land and the people, and this was a fitting response for a
powerless people dominated by the Romans (1988:213). The opposition of
the Pharisees to Jesus that comes across in the Gospel of Matthew is understandable since both the Pharisees and the Jesus movement were trying to
shape Jewish life and piety (1988: 173).
Saldarini has subjected the three main sources of information on the
Pharisees—Josephus, the New Testament and rabbinic literature—to careful examination, and has drawn many valid conclusions from them. He
has, however, been criticized for the importance that he gives to sociological analysis. In a critique of Saldarini's book S. Mason remarked that
'sociological analysis requires usable data, and we do not have data on the
Pharisees but only literary accounts in the context of certain authors' agendas' (1999: 34). The sociological classifications of modern sociologists are
not readily applicable to ancient writers, or even to ancient sociological
situations.
28. Saldarini 1988:132,171-73,214,283-84. See also Saldarini (1988:211) where
it is said that rabbinic sources and Josephus 'agree that the Pharisees were a political,
religious group which sought power and influence in Palestinian Judaism'.

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Knowing the Tree by its Roots

17

Deines
In 1997 Roland Deines, a disciple of Martin Hengel in Tubingen, published the first volume of a survey of research on the Pharisees from the
nineteenth century down to the present time. My interest in this volume is
that it concludes with an outline of the author's own view of who the Pharisees were and where theyfitinto the Judaism of thefirstcentury. The heading he gives to this section of the book gives a very clear indication of the
position he takes. In English translation the heading reads 'The Pharisees
as inclusive Judaism—A New Formulation of the Thesis that Pharisaic
Judaism is "normative" Judaism'. Deines rejects Neusner's claim that the
foundation texts of the classical Judaism (Mishnah, Tosefta, Midrashim,
and both Talmuds) only express the views of those who formulated them,
and that they cannot therefore, in Neusner's view, be used to reconstruct
Judaism of the first century. Deines does not agree that rabbinic documents cannot be used as sources of information about Pharisaism of the
pre-70 period. Critical examination of rabbinic texts, he claims, can detect
authentic traditions about the Pharisees in these documents.
Deines maintains that the Pharisees must be characterized by their attitude to the law, in its written and traditional forms. Even in the period
before 70 they saw the law as they understood it not as 'Pharisaic' law, but
as Mosaic and Jewish. That law was given to all Jews, not to a particular
section of the people.29 Thus the Pharisees were not an exclusive sect, but
an open group, able to incorporate different interpretations of the law into
their traditions. Unlike the Qumran group who retired to the wilderness the
Pharisees remained among the people and sought to foster a life of ritual
purity among them. The only groups they firmly rejected were those like
the Christians whose attitude to the Torah was totally different from their
own. They developed a national religious community which had the
Temple as its focal point and circumcision and the Sabbath as its external
signs. At the same time they fostered an intensive personal piety in the
more devout people.
Being a Pharisee did not take one out of the community but enabled one
to be truly Jewish. The Pharisees' allegiance to the Temple motivated their
29. This contradicts the position of E.P. Sanders who maintains that the pre-70
Pharisees did not equate their own rules with the Law which had been decreed by God.
They did not think their own customs, though hallowed by usage, as law, but rather kept
them separate. While they tried to enforce their interpretations of the Law in society as a
whole their traditions were their own: they made them Pharisees (1990: 128).

18

Christian Origins

detailed attention to tithing, to offerings to the priests, and, perhaps at a
later time, to lay people's observance of the purity laws with regard to
ordinary food. Those who were negligent about the observance of the law
became known as the am ha-aretz, while those who were punctilious
in their observance constituted the haberim. Between these extremes we
find the Pharisees. They were faithful to the Torah and to tradition in their
daily lives, and as exemplary pious people they had a great influence on
the ordinary Jews in the towns and villages.30 They were the most influential religious group in Palestine between 150 BCE and 70 CE. Pharisaism
can be called normative Judaism, because the teachings of its leaders were
gradually accepted by the majority of the people, although the 'pharisaic
ideal' remained for most Jews difficult to achieve.
Such is Deines' vision of the Pharisees. But this is only an outline of a
promised full exposition. One must wait and see how he the author will
develop his thesis. It is doubtful, however, if at the present stage of research
we can sketch a portrait of the Pharisees from rabbinic texts. Much more
critical analysis of these texts, in the manner of Neusner, is still needed.
A Blurred Picture
So when Rivkin, Neusner, Saldarini, Deines, and others31 whose views we
cannot discuss here, have had their say what do we know about the Pharisees? Were they a learned group seeking power? Or a table-fellowship
with no interest in politics? Or religious leaders who got involved in
politics? Or a pious group who sought to influence the lives of the people
and to inspire ordinary lay Jews to observe the laws of ritual purity as
interpreted by the Pharisees? Recent scholarship has led to the abandonment of the older view that the Pharisees controlled society through the
Sanhedrin and the school. But it has not succeeded in forming a new consensus about the role of the Pharisees and their identity within the Jewish
community. One must agree with Saldarini who wrote that 'Data on the
30. In an earlier work Deines had argued that the many stone vessels discovered in
archaeological excavations in Palestine indicate that many people took the Pharisaic
purity laws seriously. Deines (1993) sees this concern for the purity laws as a proof of
the influence of the Pharisees in the late Second Temple period. Sanders makes the
point (e.g. 1992: 401, 448-51) that the Pharisees did not have much influence on the
populace in the first century CE as some scholars in the past maintained.
31. For references to some other examples of the vast literature on the Pharisees
see, e.g., Meier (1999: 467 n. 22).

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Knowing the Tree by its Roots

19

Pharisees is so sparse and difficult to evaluate that any historical reconstruction must remain incomplete and uncomfortably hypothetical' (1988:
277). The testimony of Josephus, who has been relied on so much by those
in the past who attempted to reconstruct the Pharisees, has not been made
any easier to interpret by modern scholarship. Indeed, it has been said that
'No one in this post-Neusner era has yet crafted, from the ground up, a
historical picture of the Pharisees that explains Josephus in a plausible
way' (Mason 1999: 55). The Synoptic Gospels' portrait of the Pharisees is
similar to that of Josephus. But the primary purpose of the evangelists was
not to fit people and events into their historical setting but to compile a
theological message. Consequently, the Gospels can only be used with
great discretion by one who is in search of the Pharisees of the pre-70 era.
The original insights of Rivkin and Neusner have given new hope of discovering reliable information about the Pharisees in the rabbinic literature.
But the findings of these scholars are as yet somewhat tentative, and much
work has to be done in the area of sifting out genuine historical traditions
about the Pharisees in the rabbinic corpus. Since our three main sources
for a history of the Pharisees—Josephus, the Gospels and rabbinic literature
—offer only limited data that can be considered historically reliable we
can at the present construct only a fragmentary picture of the Pharisaism
of the period before 70 CE.
The Temple
Anyone who wishes to describe Judaism in the first century CE must of
necessity give pride of place to the Temple in Jerusalem and to the worship that was celebrated there.32 Here, however, the constrictions of space
allow me to give only a few references that may help us to appreciate the
prominent place which the Temple, its priesthood and its sacrificial system
had in the theological vision of Jews in general. Until the Temple was
destroyed in 70 CE it was without doubt the most important institution of
Jewish life. A passage in Sir. 50.5-21 in praise of the High Priest Simon II
(c. 200 BCE) shows that the Temple and its sacred rituals were the pride
and joy of the author. His words express the people's deep emotional
attachment to the person of this High Priest and to the worship over which
he presided. The majesty, the solemnity and the pageantry of the liturgical
ceremony come across in the following lines:
32. Sanders, e.g., dedicates chs. 5 to 10 (pp. 47-189) of Judaism: Practice and
Belief 63 BCE-66 CE to the Temple.

20

Christian Origins
Wearing his splendid robes, and vested in sublime magnificence, as he [the
High Priest] ascended the glorious altar... The sons of Aaron would sound
a blast.. .then all the people with one accord would quickly fall prostrate on
the ground, in adoration before the most high... Then hymns would re-echo
and over the throng sweet strains of praise resound (Sir. 50.11, 16-18).

We find similar sentiments expressed in the Letter ofAristeasP According
to the writer the sacrificial rites were 'carried out with reverence and in a
manner befitting supreme divinity' {Ep. Arist. 96).34 To see the High Priest
engaged in his ministry 'was an occasion of great amazement', and the
sight of his 'glorious vestments.. .makes one awe-struck and dumbfounded'
{Ep. Arist. 96, 99). 35
A few passages in the Psalms of Solomon explain that Pompey's capture
of Jerusalem in 63 BCE was a punishment for the defilement of the Temple
which was brought about by the sins of the priests and of the people of the
city. Full of indignation the poet declares:
Gentile foreigners went up to your place of sacrifice;
they arrogantly trampled [it] with their sandals.
Because the sons of Jerusalem defiled the sanctuary of the Lord,
they were profaning the offerings of God with lawless acts...
And the daughters of Jerusalem were available to all...
because they defiled themselves with improper intercourse.
[The priests] walked on the place of sacrifice of the Lord,
[coming] from all kinds of uncleanness (2.2-3.13; 8.12).36
The Qumran group had boycotted the Temple; but this was because they
believed that the Temple was defiled.37 It was forbidden to the members of
the community to enter the Temple because its offerings were vain,38 but
they looked forward to a future purified Temple where right order will
prevail.39 A proof of the Qumran group's esteem for the Temple worship
in itself is that one of the community's Apocryphal psalms declares that

33. This work is difficult to date; conjectures fluctuate between 250 BCE and the
first century CE; cf. Shutt (1985: 8-9).
34. Shutt 1985: 19.
35. Shutt 1985: 19.
36. The Psalms of Solomon have been dated to 'the last century before the turn of
the era'; cf. Wright (1985: 641).
37. Cf., e.g., CD 4.18; 5.6; 20.23; lQpHab 12.8-9; see Garcia Martinez (1996: 35,
36, 47, 202).
38. Cf. CD 6.11-12; Garcia Martinez (1996: 37).
39. Cf., e.g., 4QMMT a ; 4QTohB a 1; Garcia Martinez (1996: 79-80, 89).

MAHER

Knowing the Tree by its Roots

21

David son of Jesse.. .wrote psalms: three thousand six hundred; and songs
to be sung before the altar over the perpetual offering every day, for all the
days of the year: and for the Sabbath offerings:fifty-twosongs; and for the
offering for the beginning of the month, and for all the days of the festivals,
and for the day of atonement: thirty songs... (1 lQPsa 27.2-10)40

In a comment on the strategic importance of fortified places in Jerusalem
Josephus expresses the commonly accepted view that the Temple sacrifices were regarded by the people as necessary for the well-being of the
people. Josephus wrote:
Whoever was master of these [fortified places] had the whole nation in his
power, for sacrifices could not be made without [controlling] these places,
and it was impossible for any of the Jews to forgo offering these, for they
would rather give up their lives than the worship which they are accustomed to offer God {Ant 15.7 §248).

The Gospels portray Jesus as one who showed great respect for the Temple
and its worship. He regarded it as the house of God and as a house of prayer
(cf. Mk 11.17), the place where ordinary Jews went to offer their personal
prayers (cf. Lk. 1.10; 2.36-38; 18.10). He took it for granted that people
would bring their gifts to the altar (cf. Mt. 5.23-24), and he respected the
regulations that were binding on the Temple personnel (12.3-7). The story
of the cleansing of the Temple (Mk 1 LI 5-19), however this difficult passage may be explained in detail,41 must be seen as a protest against the
externalism of the Jewish worship and a symbolic gesture that symbolized
itsfinalcessation. To the amazement of his followers Jesus did in fact predict the destruction of the sacred shrine that was so loved by all the people
(cf. Mk 13.1 -2). Like their Master, the disciples of Jesus held the Temple in
great reverence and joined the crowds who went to worship in that sacred
place (cf. Lk. 24.53; Acts 2.46; 3,1; 21.26).
Jewish apocalyptic writers also lamented the destruction of the Temple
and the cessation of its cult. Writing about 100 CE the author of 4 Ezra
laments that 'our sanctuary has been laid waste, our altar thrown down,
our temple destroyed,.. .our holy things have been polluted, and the name
by which we are called has been profaned' (10.21 -22).42 But the apocalyptists could look beyond the present tragedy to the time when God would
renew all things. In 2 (Syriac) Baruch, which was also written around 100
CE, we read as follows:
40. Garcia Martinez 1996: 309.
41. Sanders 1985: 61-76; Dunn 1991: 47-49.
42. OTP: I, 546. See also 2 Bar. 10.5-19; OTP: 1,624.

22

Christian Origins
We should not, therefore, be so sad regarding the evil which has come now
[the destruction of the Temple in 587 BCE], but much more (distressed)
regarding that which is in the future [the destruction in 70 CE]. For greater
than the two evils will be the trial when the Mighty One will renew his
creation (32.5-6).43

Cult and Personal Piety
If the Temple was at the centre of the daily religious experience of the
people of Jerusalem and of the surrounding areas, its impact on the daily
lives of people who lived at greater distances from the Holy City was not
so tangible. They paid their Temple taxes44 if they did, and made their
occasional pilgrimage to Jerusalem in order to fulfil the stipulation of
Deut. 16.16. Even those who lived in Jerusalem and its immediate environs
could not participate directly in the Temple services. Immediate involvement in the sacrificial system was reserved to the priests, and the lay Israelites remained at a certain distance from the actual Temple worship.
It seems, however, that during the two centuries preceding the fall of
Jerusalem prayer became an everyday practice, not something reserved for
special occasions and festivals. The many Jewish prayers and hymns that
survive from this period justify this statement. As examples we may take
the prayers in Tob. 3.2-6 and 3.11-15 which probably date from around
200 BCE; the Psalm of Azariah and the Canticle of the Three Youths which
were composed some 40 years later; the communal confession in the book
of Bar. 1.11-3.8 from about the middle of the first century BCE; the Prayer
of Manasses45 which predates the fall of Jerusalem.
The Qumran group saw themselves as a substitute for the Temple, and
they regarded their system of daily prayers as a substitute for the Temple
sacrifices.46 Daniel prayed to God three times a day directing his prayers
through an open window (Dan. 6.11). From Sir. 50.16-21 we learn that at
the libation of wine after the sacrifice the priests blew on their trumpets
and this was a sign for the people to fall on their faces to the ground and
pray. Judith prayed 'at the very time when the evening sacrifice was being
43. OTP: I, 631. See also 2 Bar. 39.3-7; OTP: I, 633.
44. Regarding the Temple tax cf. Exod. 30.11-16; Neh. 10.33-34; m. Seq. 1.3.
45. Cf. OTP: II, 625-37.
46. Cf. Schiffman (199$: esp. 272-74; 1987). Eshel (1999) claims that the Sages,
after 70 CE, borrowed ideas and formulae from the Qumran sectarians, as well as from
other groups who were alienated from the Temple.

MAHER

Knowing the Tree by its Roots

23

offered in the house of God in Jerusalem' (Jdt. 9.1). Luke 1.10 also witnesses to the people's practice of synchronizing their prayer with the offering of sacrifices in the Temple. According to Acts 3.1 Peter and John went
up to the temple at the hour of prayer. Even when on a journey Peter took
time to go aside and pray at noon (Acts 10.9), and Cornelius prayed at three
o'clock (10.30).
The book of Jubilees, which was written about the year 150 BCE, testifies to the custom of pronouncing a blessing over food. The appropriate
text reads:
And Isaac sent...an offering to Abraham so that he might eat and drink.
And he ate and drank and blessed God Most High who created heaven and
earth and who made all the fat of the earth and gave it to the children of
men so that they might eat and drink and bless their creator (Jub. 22.6). 47

Josephus informs us that the Jews recite the Shema twice daily 'in order to
thank God for his bounteous gifts' (Ant. 4.8 §212).
Study of the Scriptures
By this time too the study of the Scriptures had become a sacred duty for
all Israelites. Indeed there are many biblical texts which show that the
Torah had a central place in Israelite life; cf. Deut. 6.6; Pss. 1; 119; Neh.
8.1-8. The fact that the Jews had their sacred books translated into Greek
and Aramaic shows that they wanted them to be available to all the people,
not just to an educated elite. The pesher method of interpretation which we
know from Qumran shows that the community thought it important to
provide a scriptural basis for their teaching and their way of life. Josephus
informs us that his contemporary co-religionists regularly studied the Law
on the Sabbath:
[God] appointed the Law to be the most excellent and necessary form of
instruction, ordaining, not that it should be heard once for all or twice or on
several occasions, but that every week men should desert their other occupations and assemble to listen to the Law and to obtain a thorough and
accurate knowledge of it... (Apion 2.17 §175).

The Alexandrian Jew Philo, who was a contemporary of Jesus, also bears
witness to the fact that Jews observed the seventh day as a day of rest on
which, to use Philo's own words, 'they dedicated themselves to the study
of their own national philosophy, so that their houses of prayer in the
47. See further, Reif (1993: 60, 346 n. 18).

24

Christian Origins

different cities are schools of wisdom, and courage, and temperance and
justice, and piety, and holiness and every virtue' (Vit. Mos. 2.39 §211-12,
216).48
The Gospel informs us that Jesus went into the synagogue on a Sabbath
day, read from the prophet Isaiah and explained the text (cf. Lk. 4.16-20).
Similarly, Paul entered the synagogue of Antioch in Pisidia on a Sabbath,
and 'after the reading of the Law and the prophets', he was invited to
speak a 'word of exhortation' to the people (cf. Acts 13.13-16). When the
Gospels say that Jesus taught in the synagogue on the Sabbath (cf., e.g.,
Mk 1.21; 6.1-2; Jn 6.59) it must be taken for granted that he read the
Scriptures and explained them.
From this evidence it is clear that the reading of Torah formed the main
element of synagogue service in thefirstcentury CE. The place of prayer in
the synagogue is less obvious. Since those who wished to pray in Jerusalem tended to converge on the Temple it is likely that prayer may not have
been part of the Jerusalem synagogues. Elsewhere the authorities in Jewish
communities may have introduced organized prayer into the synagogue,
without denying that Scripture reading held pride of place in the assembly
(Levine 1987: esp. 14-23), What we are sure of is that both prayer and
Scripture reading were features of the religious lives of pious Jews in the
pre-70 period. However, we can say nothing about regulations that might
have determined the times or the places where prayer and reading might
have taken place (Reif 1993: 66).
Conclusion
It is impossible to give a simple description of Judaism as it was practised
in thefirstcentury CE because of the complex nature of the religious experience of the Jews at that time, and because of the scarcity of reliable unbiased
sources. But what we can say with certainty is that first-century Judaism
was a remarkably complex phenomenon, which could embrace a great
variety of groups and sects, all claiming to be the authentic heirs to the
religion of Israel The literature that survives gives clear evidence of 'the
immense dynamism and vitality of the spiritual life of the Second Temple
period, of die tension in the relations between the parties and sects' (Urbach
1975:10) that composed the pluralistic Judaism of that age. This evidence
of dynamism, vitality and pluralism has led to the abandonment of some of
48. See also Leg. Gal 23A56\ Somn. 2.18 §127.

MAHER Knowing the Tree by its Roots

25

the certainties of the past without as yet enabling scholars to produce a
new consensus.
Specialists in different branches of knowledge are indeed providing us
with more precise knowledge of the historical, social and religious context
of first-century Palestine. However, the evidence they produce is often
ambivalent and capable of different interpretations, so that the best one
can do at times is to opt for the solution that seems most probable at the
moment and to wait for new scholarly evidence that may justify a more
firm commitment to the choice one has made or tip the balance in favour
of another point of view. Thus, for example, in spite of great progress in
recent years it must be said that the precise nature of Pharisaism in Palestine in the first century CE remains a subject of lively debate and our
portrait of that very significant group is blurred and unclear. Again, some
are so impressed by the divisions that existed among Jews of that time that
they prefer to speak of 'Judaisms' rather than of 'Judaism', while others
like to focus on those elements that were shared by all Jews no matter to
what sect or faction they might claim to pay allegiance.
The considerable body of literature that has come down from the two
centuries before and after the birth of Christianity, together with findings
of archaeologists, historians and sociologists, show that Judaism at the
turn of the eras was much more complex than was imagined some 50 years
ago, We now know that a simple definition of 'first-century Judaism'
remains elusive, because that Judaism was able to accommodate sectarians
and groupings of different hues, and because different schools of thought
could disagree in their interpretations of particular points of the Law or in
their devotional practices. It is therefore not surprising that in recent decades scholars have tended to emphasize the variety and diversity that
characterized the Judaism that Jesus would have known. Indeed, that Judaism was elastic enough to find a place for Jesus and his followers in spite
of the radical novelty of their movement, and Christianity and Judaism did
not part company until well after the fall of Jerusalem.49

49. See Alexander (1992).

26

Christian Origins
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Alexander, P.S.
1992
' "The Parting of the Ways" from the Perspective of Rabbinic Judaism', in
J.G.D.Dunn(ed.), Jews andChristians. The Parting ofthe WaysA.D. 70-135
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historischer Beitrag zum Verstdndnis von Joh 2, 6 und der jiidischen
ReinheitshalachazurZeitJesu (WUNT, 52; Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr [Paul
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Forschung seit Wellhausen und Graetz (WUNT, 101; Tubingen: J.C.B.
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Dunn, J.D.G.
The Partings of the Ways: Between Christianity and Judaism and their
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Significance for the Character of Christianity (London: SCM Press; Philadelphia: Trinity Press International).
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1995
Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part II. Historical Synthesis (HdO, 17; Leiden:
E.J. Brill): 229-61.
Eshel, E.
1999
'Prayer in Qumran and the Synagogue', in B. Ego, A. Lange and P. Pilhofer
(eds.), Gemeinde Ohne Tempel (Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck]):
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Garcia, Martinez, F.
The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated: The Qumran Texts in English (Leiden:
1996
E.J. Brill; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2nd edn).
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1989
'The Place of the Pharisees in First Century Judaism: The State of the
Debate', JSJ 20: 12-30.
Hengel, M., and R. Deines
1995
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27

Horbury, W., W.D. Davies and J. Sturdy (eds.)
1999
The Cambridge History of Judaism. III. The Roman Period (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press).
Knibb, M.A.
1985
'Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah', in OTP, II: 143-76.
Kraft, R.A., and G.W.E. Nickelsburg (eds.)
Early Judaism and its Modern Interpreters (Philadelphia: Fortress Press;
1986
Atlanta: Scholars Press).
Levine, L.I.
1987
'The Second Temple Synagogue: The Formative Years', in idem (ed.), The
Synagogue in Late Antiquity (Cambridge, MA: American Schools of Oriental Research): 7-29.
Mason, S.
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1999
(eds.), Judaism in Late Antiquity. III/2. Where We Stand: Issues and Debates
in Ancient Judaism (HdO, 41; Leiden: E.J. Brill): 23-56.
Meier, J.P.
'The Present State of the "Third Quest" for the Historical Jesus', Bib 80:
1999
459-87.
Moore, G.F.
1927-30 Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era (3 vols.; Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press).
Neusner, J.
1960
'The Fellowship (Haburah) in the Second Jewish Commonwealth', HTR 53:
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1971
The Rabbinic Traditions about the Pharisees (3 vols.; Leiden: E.J. Brill).
From Politics to Piety: The Emergence of Pharisaic Judaism (New York:
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'From Judaism to Judaisms: My Approach to the History of Judaism', in
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The Oral Torah: The Sacred Books of Judaism. An Introduction (SFSHJ, 31;
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'Mr. Sanders' Pharisees and Mine', BBR 2: 143-69.
The Judaism the Rabbis Take for Granted (SFSHJ, 102; Atlanta: Scholars
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'Rabbinic Judaism: History and Hermeneutics', in idem (ed.), Judaism in
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Neusner, J., and C. Thoma
'Die Pharisaer vor und nach der Tempelzerstorung des Jahres 70 n. Chr', in
1995
S. Lauer and H. Ernst (eds.), Tempelkult und Tempelzerstorung (70 n. Chr.)
(Bern: Peter Lang): 189-230.
Priest, J.
'Testament of Moses', in OTP, I: 919-34.
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Reif, S.C.
1993
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Rivkin, E.
1969-70
1976
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1995
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1988
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1977
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Judaism and Hebrew Prayer: New Perspectives on Jewish Liturgical History
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).
'The Early Liturgy of the Synagogue', in Horbury, Davies and Sturdy 1999:
326-57.
'Defining the Pharisees: The Tannaitic Sources', HUCA 40-41: 205-249.
'Pharisees', in IDBSup: cols. 657-63.
A Hidden Revolution (Nashville: Abingdon Press).
'Who Were the Pharisees?', in AJ. Avery-Peck and J. Neusner (eds.),
Judaism in Late Antiquity. III/3. Where We Stand: Issues and Debates in
Ancient Judaism (Leiden: E.J. Brill): 1-33.
'Paul and the Law: Whence and Whither?', Currents in Research: Biblical
Studies 3:249-75.
Pharisees, Scribes andSadducees in Palestinian Society (Wilmington, DE:
Michael Glazier; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark).
Paul and Palestinian Judaism (London: SCM Press).
Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM Press).
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Schiffman, L.H.
'The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Early History of Jewish Liturgy', in LJ.
1987
Levine (ed.), The Synagogue in Late Antiquity (Cambridge, MA: American
Schools of Oriental Research): 33-48.
'Community without Temple: The Qumran Community's Withdrawal from
1999
the Jerusalem Temple', in B. Ego, A. Lange and P. Pilhofer (eds.), Gemeinde
Ohne Tempel (Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck]): 267-84.
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'Letter of Aristeas', in OTP, II: 7-34.
1985
Smith, M.
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Stemberger, G.
'Qumran, die Pharisaer und das Rabbinat', in B. Kollman, W. Reinbold and
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A. Studel (eds.), Antikes Judentum und Friihes Christentum (BZNW, 73;
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The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, I (ET; 2 vols.; Jerusalem: Magnes
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Wright, R.B.
1985
'Psalms of Solomon', in OTP, II: 639-70.

THE TEMPLE ROOTS OF THE CHRISTIAN LITURGY

Margaret Barker

The Eucharist is the central act of Christian worship, and yet its origins are
still a matter for speculation. Since the New Testament interprets the death
of Jesus as atonement (e.g. 1 Cor. 15.3) and links the Eucharist to his death,
there must have been from the start some link between Eucharist and
atonement, and since the imagery of the Eucharist is sacrificial, this must
have been an atonement sacrifice in the temple, rather than just the time of
fasting observed by the people.
It is true that very little is known about temple practices, but certain
areas do invitefixrtherexamination. In the Letter to the Hebrews, for example, Christ is presented as the high priest offering the atonement sacrifice,1
and this suggests a starting point for any investigation into roots of the
Christian liturgy. But what was this atonement sacrifice? William Robertson Smith, in his Lectures on the Religion of the Semites (delivered in
1888—89 and first published in 1894) was certainly correct when he concluded: The worship of the second temple was an antiquarian resuscitation
of forms which had lost their intimate connection with the national life and
therefore had lost the greater part of their original significance' (Smith
1927: 216). According to the Jewish Encyclopaedia atonement was 'the
keystone of the sacrificial system of post-exilic Israel'. In other words, the
extent of our ignorance about the Day of Atonement, the central rite of
atonement, is the extent of our ignorance about Israel's religion, and
furthermore, what we read of it in the postexilic texts may not be the best
source of information about its original significance, nor about this root of
the Eucharist. This has to be reconstructed from a variety of sources.
This problem is well illustrated by Dillistone's observation in his book
The Christian Understanding of Atonement: 'From the New Testament
there come hints, suggestions, even daring affirmations of a comprehen1. The canonical Gospels also present Jesus as the high priest, although not by
name.

30

Christian Origins

sive cosmic reconciliation'. He doubted that this came from Hebrew
thought and so suggested: 'It was not until early Christian witnesses found
themselves confronted by pagan systems in which a full theory of cosmic
redemption played a prominent part that the effect of the work of Christ
upon the cosmos at large began to receive serious consideration' (Dillistone
1968: 47). This is not the case; the original significance of the Day of
Atonement was precisely this restoration of the creation, the renewal of
the eternal covenant, and this is where one of the roots of the Eucharist is
to be found.
There were two rituals exclusive to the ancient high priests: entering the
Holy of Holies on the Day of Atonement; and consuming the shewbread.2
There are, however, problems in reconstructing the history of the high
priesthood, not least that there is no certain reference to Aaron or his
priests in any pre-exilic text. Even Ezekiel, who was a priest in the first
temple, does not mention him. The Elephantine texts, which give a glimpse
of Jewish life in Egypt in the sixth andfifthcenturies, often mention priests
but never Aaron, nor Levi nor the Levites (Cowley 1923: xxii). Any rites
and duties associated with Aaron probably camefromthe older royal priesthood of Melchizedek.
The Eucharist has frequently been linked to the Passover, because the
Last Supper is linked to that festival,3 John set the crucifixion at the time
of the Passover sacrifices, and Paul wrote to the Corinthian church that
'Christ our Passover has been sacrificed' (1 Cor. 5.7). But there are immediate and obvious problems trying to link the Eucharist with Passover as
we recognize it: the Passover was the only sacrifice not offered by a priest
(m. Pes. 5.5-6 on Exod. 12.6), and the essential element was that the offering was whole (Exod. 12.46), whereas the descriptions of the Last Supper
in their various forms emphasize that the bread was broken.4 Further, the
cup at the Last Supper is linked to the covenant (except the Western text

2. The shewbread was for Aaron and his sons (Lev. 24.9) but later tradition said it
was eaten by all the priests (m. Men. 11.7).
3. Although 'Palm Sunday' is clearly a Tabernacles procession, as described in
m. Suk. 4.5. R.D. Richardson in his supplement to Lietzmann (1979) argued that the
Eucharist was not rooted in Passover, contra, e.g., Jeremias (1966). The theory that
the Eucharist was a meal liturgy (e.g. Dix 1945) is also criticized (Lietzmann 1979:
656-58).
4. Longenecker (1995) suggests why the unbroken Passover might have been
significant for John.

BARKER

The Temple Roots of the Christian Liturgy

31

of Luke5), and the Letter to the Hebrews links the death of Jesus to the
covenant renewed on the Day of Atonement (Heb. 9.11-15). Matthew's
form of the words 'My blood of the covenant poured out for many for the
aphesis of sins' (Mt. 26.28) suggests the same context, since aphesis was
the translation for deror, liberty, the characteristic of the Jubilee which
was inaugurated on the Day of Atonement (LXX Lev. 25.10; Isa. 61.1;
also Lk. 4.18). Since the great Jubilee at the end of the Second Temple
period was associated with the appearance of Melchizedek and his atonement sacrifice (11 QMelch), we have here a possible contemporary context
for the words of institution. The one appearance Melchizedek himself
makes in the Old Testament is to bring out bread and wine (Gen. 14.18),
and Philo, when discussing the hospitality gifts of bread and water, said of
him: 'Let Melchizedek offer wine instead of water' (Leg. All 3.82). The
early liturgies do not use the Passover/Exodus imagery of being the chosen
people and being liberated from slavery. In the Didache there is thanksgiving for the gifts of knowledge and eternal life, and for the Sacred Name
dwelling in the hearts of those who have received the spiritual food (Did.
9-10). This is priestly Wisdom imagery. The hope for the ingathering of
the scattered Church into the Kingdom is an image derived ultimately
from the covenant restoration on the Day of Atonement. Bishop Sarapion
(mid fourth-century Egypt) prayed that his people would become 'living',
that is, resurrected, and able to speak of the mysteries, that the spiritual
food would be the medicine of life to heal every sickness. 'Make us wise
by the participation of the body and the blood'.
Let us now consider the words of Bishop Sarapion's contemporary, St
Basil of Caesarea, who died 379 CE. In his treatise On the Holy Spirit, he
emphasized the unwritten traditions of the Church. Where, he asked, do we
find in writing anything about signing with the cross (at baptism), or about
turning to the east to pray?
Which of the saints has left us in writing the words of invocation (epiklesis)
at the offering of the bread of the Eucharist and the cup of blessing? For, as
it is well known, we are not satisfied with saying the words which the
Apostle and the Gospel have recorded, but, before and after these words we
add other words, on the grounds that they have great strength for the
mystery. And these words we have received from the unwritten teaching
(On the Holy Spirit 66).

5. The covenant element does not appear in many early liturgies: see Richardson
in Lietzmann (1979: 480).

32

Christian Origins

Origen had written something similar a century or so earlier, in his
Homily 5 on Numbers. He compared these same Christian practices—
praying towards the East, the rites of baptism and the Eucharist—to the
secrets of the temple which were guarded by the priests. Commenting on
Num. 4, the instructions for transporting the tabernacle through the desert,
he emphasized that the family of Kohath were only permitted to carry the
sacred objects but not to see them. Only Aaron the high priest and his sons
were permitted to see what was in the holy place; then they had to cover
the sacred objects with veils before handing them to others, who were only
permitted to carry them. The mysteries of the Church were similar, 'handed
down and entrusted to us by the high priest and his sons' {Homily 5.1 on
Numbers). Origen does not say who this high priest was; we assume it was
Jesus and his disciples, but Origen could have known a continuity between
the Christian mysteries and those of the Temple priesthood. Origen had
close contact with the Jewish scholars in Caesarea and he knew at least
one of what we nowadays call the Dead Sea Scrolls.6
The duties of the priests were defined as 'guarding all matters concerning
the altar and what was within the veil' (Num. 3.10; 18.7 LXX; phuaxein,
diaterein respectively), and as early as Ignatius' s Letter to the Philadelphians, we read: 'Our own high priest is greater (than the priests of old) for he
has been entrusted with the Holy of Holies and to him alone are the secret
things of God committed' (Phld. 9). Clement of Alexandria used similar
imagery: those who have the truth enter by drawing aside the curtain (Misc.
7.17). He knew that there were 'among the Hebrews some things delivered
unwritten' (Misc. 5.10). Origen too spoke often of the unwritten or secret
tradition (e.g. C. Celsum. 3.37; 6.6; De Principiis, praef.), the mystery
'established before the ages' (Comment in Matth. 7.2).7
Of the examples given by Basil, facing the east to pray and signing with
a cross at baptism can be identified as customs dating back to the first
temple. During Tabernacles in the Second Temple, a procession would
turn back at the eastern gate and face towards the temple saying: 'Our
fathers when they were in this place turned with their backs towards the
temple of the Lord and their faces towards the east and they worshipped
the sun towards the east; but as for us, our eyes are turned toward the
Lord' (m. Suk. 5.4). This refers to Ezekiel's account of men in the temple
facing east, holding branches before their faces and worshipping the sun
(Ezek. 8.16-18), presumably in a celebration akin to Tabernacles. The
6. Eusebius, Hist. 6.16, 'a scroll in ajar near Jericho'.
7. See Barker (1995).

BARKER The Temple Roots of the Christian Liturgy

33

Therapeuts (Philo, Vit. Cont. 27) and the Essenes (Josephus, War 2.128)
also worshipped towards the rising sun, and the vision in Rev. 7 describes
a great multitude holding palm branches, standing before the angel who
came from the sunrise with the seal of the living God. Worshipping
towards the east must have been a practice which distinguished the
adherents of First Temple customs from those favoured by the compilers
oftheMishnah. 8
Signing with a cross was also a custom from the First Temple. When
Ezekiel received his vision of the destruction of Jerusalem, he saw the six
angels of destruction and a seventh, who was instructed to pass through
the city and mark a letter tau on the foreheads of those who were faithful
to the Lord (Ezek. 9.4). In the old Hebrew alphabet, the tau is a diagonal
cross, the sign which was also used when the high priest was anointed on
his forehead (b. Hor. 12a). The anointed high priest was distinguished
from the one who only wore the garments of high priesthood (m. Hor.
3.4), and, since the true anointing oil had been hidden away in the time of
Josiah (b. Hor. 12a; b. Ker. 5b), the tradition of anointing the high priest
in this way must have been another First Temple custom which was not
observed during the Second Temple. Anointing was another of the 'unwritten' Christian customs mentioned by Basil.
Christian customs, then, perpetuated practices which had very ancient
roots but had not been current in the Second Temple. Presumably the
Christians also perpetuated the beliefs that accompanied those practices:
the belief that Wisdom had been banished from Jerusalem when Josiah
changed the temple cult; that the gift of Wisdom was good and made
humans like gods (i.e. gave them eternal life), just as the serpent in Eden
had said. We are not looking for continuity with the actual temple practices of the first century CE, but with a remembered, perhaps idealized,
system that was much older. We are looking for the temple destroyed in
the time of Josiah, rather than the Second Temple which was condemned
in the Enoch tradition as impure and polluted (7 En. 89.73). One of the
themes of the book of Revelation is that the banished Wisdom returns to
her city.9
Where had this system, known to John and Jesus, been preserved? The
Qumran Melchizedek text has a possible reading about people in the last
8. The orientation of early church and synagogue buildings did not necessarily
correspond with their declared directions for prayer (Wilkinson 1984).
9. See Barker (2000).

34

Christian Origins

days whose teachers have been kept hidden and secret.10 The Damascus
Document is quite clear: a remnant knew the 'hidden things in which all
Israel has gone astray' and the examples given are 'his holy Sabbaths and
his glorious feasts' (CD 3).11 These are usually interpreted as a dispute
about the calendar, and this was certainly a part of the problem. But only a
part! There could well have been disputes over the significance and manner of observing those Sabbaths and feasts: 'They shall keep the Sabbath
Day according to its exact interpretation and the feasts and the Day of
Fasting according to the finding of the members of the New Covenant in
the land of Damascus' (CD 6). The problem concerned the Sabbath and
especially the Day of Fasting, that is, the Day of Atonement. This group
held a 'pure meal' of bread and wine, which had to be blessed by the priest
before anyone took the first piece.12
This remnant is very similar to the group depicted in the book of Revelation; the Damascus remnant are 'called by Name and stand at the end of
days', that is, they are the resurrected to wear the sacred Name, just like
the redeemed in the holy of holies at the end of the book of Revelation
(Rev. 22.4),13 and also like those who participate in the Eucharist of the
Didache or Sarapion. The group depicted in the Damascus Document and
the Christians were guardians of the true teaching 'they keep the commandments of God and have the visions of Jesus' (Rev. 12.17). The
community of CD had similar concerns to those of the early Christians,
although, as is well known, there were also important differences. What
we seem to have here is a continuity; an awareness of what is behind the
Hebrew Scriptures (what I called 'The Older Testament'14) that passed
into the New Testament and then into the Liturgies.
Basil's third example of unwritten tradition is the epiklesis at the Eucharist. The later forms of this prayer, known from the time of Cyril of Jerusalem (Catecheses 23.7; d. 387 CE), call on God the Father to send the Holy
Spirit onto the bread and wine, but the earlier forms seem to have been
different, calling for the Second Person,15 the Logos, to change the bread

10. Martinez (1998) 1 lQMelch 2.4-5.
11. LXX Amos 3.12 refers to 'those priests in Damascus' as a remnant, along with
Samaria, of something destroyed. See Sawyer (1970).
12. Perhaps 'firstfruits' thus Vermes, but 'la premiere bouchee' (Barthelemy and
Milik 1955: 17).
13. CD Ms B also mentions the saving power of the mark described by Ezekiel.
14. See Barker (1987).
15. An anachronism here, but it makes for clarity.

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35

and wine. In Egypt in the middle of the fourth century, Bishop Sarapion
prayed: 'O God of truth, let thy holy Word come upon this bread' (epidemesato, literally 'dwell').16 The Liturgy of Addai and Mari is a problem;
although acknowledged as important evidence for early practice, there is
no agreement on the original form of the prayers.17 Dix's reconstruction
offers a prayer addressed to the Second Person, the Lord who 'put on our
manhood': 'May there come O my Lord, thy Holy Spirit and rest upon this
oblation of thy Servants'. Later prayers speak of the Spirit being 'sent' but
these examples of early practice imply that the divinity addressed 'came'
to the bread and wine. There is some confusion in the earliest texts
because they can call the Second Person either Word or Spirit, as did Philo
for whom the Word and Wisdom were equivalents.18 Possibly the earliest
evidence of all, apart from the New Testament, is the Didache, which
concludes with the Maranatha, praying for the Lord to come.
Given the temple and priestly context of Basil's other 'unwritten' traditions, it is likely that the epiklesis also originated there, in the prayers for
the Lord to 'come' to the temple. The tabernacle had been built so that the
Lord could 'dwell' there (Exod. 25.8 LXX, 'appear') and could speak to
Moses from between the cherubim on the ark (Exod. 25.22). When the
tabernacle was completed, the Glory of the Lord came tofillthe tabernacle
(Exod. 40.34), as it also came to fill the newly built temple (1 Kgs 8.11).
Ezekiel later saw the Glory leaving the polluted temple (Ezek. 11.23).
Isaiah had seen the Lord enthroned in the temple (Isa. 6); and the Third
Isaiah prayed that the Lord would rend the heavens and come down (Isa.
64.1).19 When David brought the ark to Jerusalem, he appointed certain
Levites to praise, thank and invoke, fhazkiyr, the Lord (1 Chron. 16.4).
Several passages in the later Merkavah texts have suggested to scholars
that drawing the Lord or the Shekinah down into the temple was a major
element of the temple service. Moshe Idel concluded: 'We can seriously

16. Cf. Acts of Thomas 27, an epiklesis over the anointing oil, 'Come Thou Holy
Name of the Christ', with 'come' repeated eight times, after which the anointed see a
human form and then at dawn share the bread of the Eucharist.
17. Compare the reconstructions in Dix (1945:178-79) and Gelston (1992:49-50).
18. E.g. Justin on Lk. 1.31, the Spirit and the Power of God are the Word (Apol.
1.33); also Barker (1992: 130).
19. Solomon prayed for Wisdom to come to him. The later text probably preserves
the original significance of this (Wis. 8.13). She gave immortality. The older text is
sanitized; Solomon went to the great high place at Gibeon and there asked for Wisdom
(1 Kgs 3.6-9).

36

Christian Origins

consider the possibility that temple service was conceived as inducing the
presence of the Shekinah in the Holy of Holies' (1988: 168). So where
might the Maranatha prayer have originated?
The rituals performed in the Holy of Holies are still as veiled as they
ever were, but we can glimpse their original setting. The tabernacle/temple
replicated the days of the creation.20 Moses began to erect it on the first
day of the year, and each stage corresponded to one of the days ofcreation
(Exod. 40.16-33). The veil corresponded to the fiimament set in place on
the second day, to separate what was above from what was below.
Everything beyond the veil corresponded to Day One, beyond the visible
world and beyond time.21 The creation of the angels on Day One was a
sensitive issue, as were their names, and the prohibition in the Mishnah
concerned the secrets of the Holy of Holies which the priests had to guard:
the story of the creation, the chapter of the chariot, what is above, beneath,
before and hereafter (m. Hag. 2.1). The rituals of the Holy of Holies were
thus taking place outside time and matter, in the realm of the angels and
the heavenly throne, and those who functioned in the Holy of Holies were
more than human* being and seeing beyond time.
The royal rituals in the Holy of Holies, beyond time, appear in Eucharistic imagery. Psalm 110 (109) is obscure (perhaps obscured) in the Hebrew,
but the Greek describes how the king is born as the divine son in the glory
of the holy ones, that is, in the Holy of Holies, and declared to be the Melchizedek priest.22 The last words of David describe him as one through
whom the Spirit of the Lord has spoken, a man who was anointed and raised
up (qwm, anestesan kurios), a word that could also be translated 'resurrected' (2 Sam. 23.1). This is how it must have been understood at the end
of the Second Temple period, because the Letter to the Hebrews contrasts
the Levitical priests and Melchizedek; the former have their position due
to descent from Levi, but Melchizedek has been raised up (anistatai) with
the power of indestructible life (Heb. 7.15-16). The Chronicler's account
of Solomon's enthronement says that he sat on the throne of the Lord as
king, and the people worshipped the Lord and the king (1 Chron. 29.2023). That the Davidic monarchs had indeed become 'God and King' in the
Holy of Holies, and that this had not been forgotten, is confirmed by Philo's
20. See Ginzberg (1909: 50-51).
21. This seems to have been an ancient pattern, but the Hebrew and Greek texts of
Exodus are notoriously divergent, and any discussion of the affairs of the Holy of
Holies was forbidden.
22. Presumably this was the original context of Isa. 9.6-7.

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37

extraordinary statement about Moses: he became god and king when he
entered the darkness where God was (Vit. Mos. 1.158). In his vision, Ezekiel saw this divine and human figure enthroned, the glory of the Lord in
human form wreathed in a rainbow (Ezek. 1.26-28), and the later account
of the tabernacle in Exod. 25 remembered the king on his cherub throne as
the voice of the Lord above the kapporet, between the cherubim (Exod.
25.22).
The Holy of Holies was the place of the pre-created light of Day One,
but in the temple this was in fact the darkness of the divine presence in the
Holy of Holies. Texts which describe what happened before the world was
created, or what happened in eternity, are describing rituals in the Holy of
Holies, presumably the secretsfrombeyond the curtain which Jesus is said
to have taught (e.g. Clement, Misc. 6.7; 7.17; Origen, C. Celsum, 3.37:
'Jesus beheld these weighty secrets and made them known to a few';
Origen, Commemt in Matth. 7.2: '...the mystery established before the
ages'). Thus Ps. 110 is telling us that the divine son was 'born' and
enthroned in eternity. When Enoch's second parable says that the Son of
Man was named before the Lord of Spirits, before the sun and signs were
created, it indicates a naming ritual in the Holy of Holies, most likely when
the human figure was given the Sacred Name (7 En. 48.2-3).23 After this
he was enthroned and for his people he was Immanuel, God With Us. The
reference iii Phil. 2 shows that the sequence of this ritual was known at the
end of the Second Temple period, and used to set the death of Jesus in one
particular context. The Servant is exalted and given the Name because
he has died. He nevertheless reigns in heaven and receives homage while
enthroned. In other words, the one who bears the Name is resurrected,
just as David had claimed in his 'last words', and just as the writer to
the Hebrews claimed for Melchizedek. There is a similar pattern in
Dan. 7, where the human figure goes with clouds—the clouds of incense
with which the human figure entered the Holy of Holies—and is offered
(haq/buMy) before the Ancient of Days (Dan. 7.13).24 He is then enthroned
and given the kingdom of eternity. A similar sequence appears in the
second parable of Enoch, where the Man figure goes to the Head of Days
and the blood of the Righteous One is offered {1 En. 47.1).25
23. A similar sequence appears in 3 En. 13-15.
24. This is a possible reading of hqbrwhy; cf. Ezra 6.10, 17 and B130 of
Theodotion where prosechthe or pros enechthe has a sacrificial sense.
25. The whole sequence is that of Dan. 7; there is even the textual confusion in
47.4, where one text tradition has qareba = offered, and the other has baseha = come.
See Charles (1912: 92).

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Christian Origins

The Lord was enthroned on the kapporet over the ark, the place of atonement. The ascent of the human figure in Enoch's parable was associated
with the offering of blood before the throne, which must have been the
offering on the Day of Atonement. What, then, happened on the Day of
Atonement? This was one of the issues on which Israel had gone astray,
according to the Damascus Document. It used to be said that the ritual
prescribed in Lev. 16 was a relatively late addition to the lore of the temple, but scholars are now moving towards the view that this was one of the
most ancient practices,26 and so, if Robertson Smith was correct, likely to
have lost its original significance in the Second Temple. Few details are
given in Leviticus, although the shape of the ritual is clear enough; it was
outwards from the Holy of Holies. The high priest took blood into the
Holy of Holies and as he emerged, he sprinkled certain parts of the temple
'to cleanse it and hallow it from all the uncleannesses [turn foi] of the
people of Israel' (Lev. 16.19). He entered the holy place in great fear,
because the Lord would appear to him over the kapporet (Lev. 16.2).
Since the temple was a microcosm of the whole creation, atonement was a
ritual to cleanse and renew the creation at the beginning of the year. The
Mishnah gives more detail of where the blood was sprinkled, and adds that
what was left was poured out at the base of the altar (m. Yom. 5.4-6, hence
the souls of the martyrs under the altar, part of the great atonement in Rev.
6.9). The high priest also prayed when he was in the temple, but what he
said is not recorded. Only the words used outside the temple appear in the
Mishnah.
What was the high priest doing when he made atonement? According to
Num. 25.6-13, the family of Aaron was given the 'covenant of eternal
priesthood' because Phineas had been zealous to preserve the covenant.
Atonement was acting to protect the covenant of peace, elsewhere described
as 'the eternal covenant' or 'the everlasting covenant between God and
every living creature' (Gen. 9.16). Isaiah described how the pollution of
human sin caused the covenant to collapse (Isa. 24.4-6) with heaven and
earth withering away. Atonement renewed it. Aaron protected the people
from the consequences of breaking the covenant by burning incense: 'Take
your censer...and make atonement for them...for wrath has gone forth
from the Lord (Num. 17.46 English numbering27). More commonly, as on
the Day of Atonement, atonement was effected by blood: 'I have given
26. E.g. Milgrom 1991.
27. The high priest's duties are listed in Sir. 45.16: to offer sacrifice, to offer
incense as the 'azkarah and make atonement.

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The Temple Roots of the Christian Liturgy

39

blood for you upon the altar to make atonement for your souls...' (Lev.
17.11). Blood renewed the eternal covenant which had been destroyed by
human sin. Since the temple was the microcosm of the creation, the temple
ritual to renew the covenant also renewed the creation. Hence the famous
words attributed to the high priest Simeon the Just: 'By three things is the
world sustained: by the Law, by the temple service and by deeds of loving
kindness' (m. Ab. 1.2). On the Day of Atonement the eternal covenant was
renewed, and blood was sprinkled and smeared to remove the effects of
sin and to heal.28 The blood was brought out from the Holy of Holies; in
temple symbolism, this was new life brought from heaven to renew the
earth.
But whose life effected this renewal? Two goats were necessary for the
Day of Atonement, and the customary rendering of Lev. 16.8 is that one
goat was 'for the Lord' and the other goat 'for Azazel'. This way of reading the text has caused many problems, not least why an offering was
being sent to Azazel. One line in Origen's Against Celsus may provide
vital evidence here. He says that the goat sent into the desert was Azazel,29
meaning, presumably represented Azazel. If this was correct, then the
sacrificed goat must have represented the Lord. The f meant 'as the Lord'
not 'for the Lord', and Israel did not, after all, make an offering to Azazel.
The blood which renewed the creation was new life from the Lord. Since
the high priest himself represented the Lord, wearing the Sacred Name on
his forehead, we have here a ritual in which the Lord was both the high
priest and the victim in the act of atonement, another Eucharistic image.
The argument in the Letter to the Hebrews implies that the older practice
of substitution had been superseded, and that the annual rite was no longer
necessary: 'When Christ appeared as a high priest.. .he entered once for all
in to the holy place, taking not the blood of goats and calves, but his own
blood thus securing an eternal redemption...' (Heb. 9.11-12). The high
priest had entered heaven with the blood of the great atonement, and the
origin of the Parousia expectation was that the high priest would return to
complete the atonement and renewal of the creation. Hence Peter's speech
in Solomon's portico: 'Repent, therefore, and turn again, that your sins may
be blotted out, that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the
Lord, and that he may send the Christ appointed for you, whom heaven
28. This is seen clearly in the myth of atonement, when the four archangels bind
Azazel and then cleanse and heal the earth, to renew its fertility (1 En. 10).
29. Against Celsus 6 A3 in both Greek and Latin texts.

40

Christian Origins

must receive until the time for establishing all that God spoke through the
mouth of his holy prophets...' (Acts 3.12-23).
The story of the Last Supper depicts Jesus renewing the Eternal Covenant. As the great high priest it was his own blood which would renew the
covenant and put away sins. None of the other covenants described in the
Hebrew Scriptures concerns putting away sin.30 Hence when the 'Last
Supper' was repeated in early worship, they prayed for the return of the
high priest to complete the great atonement: 'Maranatha'. As time passed
and the Parousia hope faded, the significance of the original epiklesis
changed, and what had begun as a temple ritual fulfilled in history returned
to being a ritual. One of the roots of the Eucharist lies in the Day of
Atonement, understood as the renewal of the creation, and this, as we shall
see, passed into the words of the Liturgies. This was the 'comprehensive
cosmic reconciliation' which Dillistone could not find in Hebrew thought.
The Eucharist was not an annual celebration, and so another root lies in
the weekly temple ritual for the Sabbath, the' Shewbread' ?r Twelve loaves
made from fine flour were set out in the temple every Sabbath on a table of
gold, and incense was set with them.32 It was described as a most holy
portion for the high priests (Aaron and his sons; Lev. 24.9), to be eaten in
a holy place on the Sabbath. As with the other temple furnishings and
rituals, nothing is said about meaning; we have to guess. Even the manner
of preparing the shewbread was never revealed: it was the hereditary duty
of the house of Garmu and they kept their secret (m. Yom. 3.11). The huge
amount of detail in the Mishnah and the Talmud concerns how the bread
was placed in the temple, what shape it was, and how it was balanced on
the table. It is clear that the shape and the meaning of the bread were not
known, or could not be disclosed.
First, the bread was spread on a table in the temple, the only cereal offering to be taken inside. The Mishnah records that there were two tables in
the porch outside the temple: 'On the table of marble they laid the Shewbread when it was brought in, and on the table of gold they laid it when it
30. Tar gum Ps. -J. on Exod. 24.8 was perhaps aware of this and made the blood of
the Sinai covenant an expiation.
31. Little has been published on this subject, but see Gane (1992). It may be significant that Jesus's first Sabbath controversy mentioned the eating of the shewbread and
who was permitted to do this (Mk 2.23-28).
32. The bread was lehem panim, literally bread of presence or faces, and was
ma 'areket spread out, tamiyd, perpetually, with pure incense before the face/presence
of the Lord, LXX says salt was set with it (Lev. 24.7-9). Similar language occurs in Ps.
23.5: You spread out a table before me/my face.

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The Temple Roots of the Christian Liturgy

41

was brought out, since what is holy must be raised and not brought down'
(m. Men. 11.7).33 In other words, the bread acquired holiness while it was
in the temple, and, since it was classed as 'most holy' (Lev. 24.9), it would
have imparted holiness to the men who consumed it.34 Others who even
came near the holiest things were in danger of death (Num. 4.19). The
priests who ate the goat of the sin offering, most holy food, were thereby
enabled to bear the iniquity of the congregation and thus make atonement
for them (Lev. 10.17). When Aaron wore the Name of the Lord on his forehead, he was empowered to bear the 'guilt' of the offerings35 (Exod. 28.38).
Those who ate the shewbread must have acquired some power.
All the cereal offerings had a special significance, although the details are
now lost. In a recent study, Alfred Marx has suggested that the cereal offerings and the blood offerings were two parallel systems of sacrifice, combined in the Priestly writings. The cereal offerings took precedence and
were mentionedfirst.They are ranked with the sin offering hatta 'th and the
guilt offering 'asam, and appear at the head of the list (Num. 18.9; Ezek.
44.29). They had to be stored and eaten in the holy chambers within the
temple court (Ezek. 42.13). The shewbread, like the other cereal offerings,
was described as an 'azkarah, although how exactly this was understood is
not clear. It is usually translated 'memorial offering', but 'invocation offering' would be another possibility.36 The text of Lev. 24.7 implies that the
incense on the table was the 'azkarah, but the Targums37 here imply that the
bread itself was 'the 'adkarah before the Lord'. If the Name had been
invoked over the bread,38 this would explain the extreme holiness of the
33. Or, the table was silver (b. Men. 99a), but this does not affect the argument.
34. The most holy items were deemed to impart holiness, e.g. the altar (Exod.
29.37); its vessels (Exod. 30.29); the cereal offering eaten in the holy place (Lev. 6.1718 English numbering).
35. Hence the original significance of the commandment not to bear the Name of
the Lord lightly, 'for the Lord will not hold him guiltless...' (Exod. 20.7).
36. The titles of Pss. 38 and 70 are both Thazkiyr, translated 'for the memorial
offering' (RSV), or 'bring to remembrance' (AV). 'Make haste to help me' (Ps. 38.22),
and 'Hasten to me, O God' (Ps. 70.5) both suggest 'invocation' as the meaning, LXX
Ps. 38 renders the title eis anamnesinperi sabbatou, so perhaps the shewbread was the
context for this psalm. 'Azkarah is a noun formed from the hiphil form of the verb zkr
(see GKC 85b), and so is equivalent to hazkiyr.
37. Targ. Onq. and Targ. Neof. (I'dkrh).
38. Cf. possible translations of Exod. 3.15: 'This is my Name and thus I am to be
invoked/remembered', zikri; Ps. 6.5: 'In death there is no invoking thee [zikreka] and
in Sheol who can praise you?'; and Isa. 26.13:'Other gods besides you have ruled over
us, but you alone we have invoked by name', nazkiyr.

42

Christian Origins

shewbread, confirmed by the fact that the desert tabernacle was moved, the
ark and the table of shewbread were the only items to have three covers
(Num. 4.5-8). The lamp, the incense altar and the other sanctuary vessels
were wrapped in a blue cloth and a leather cover, but in addition to these,
the ark was first covered by the veil, and the table by a scarlet covering.
The bread in the temple was an eternal covenant, bryt lm (Lev. 24.8)
and that Aaron and his sons had to eat it, an eternal statute, hoq lm (Lev.
24.9). The regulations in Leviticus are brief and enigmatic. The Sabbath
itself was described as an eternal covenant, marking the completion of the
creation (Exod. 31.16), and another sign of the eternal covenant was the
rainbow: 'and when the bow is in the clouds, I will look upon it and
remember the eternal covenant between God and every living creature'
(Gen. 9.16). One possibility is that the bread set before the Lord each
Sabbath, the day when the creation was completed, was a memorial of
the eternal covenant. The cult of the Second Temple was described as
placing impure bread on the table before the Holy of Holies ('the tower',
1 En. 89.73). Malachi warned the priests that they had despised the
Name of the Lord, because by offering polluted bread they had polluted
him. 'Seek the presence/face of God and he will be gracious to us. With
such a gift he will not lift up his face upon you' (Mai. 1.7-9 translating
literally). The shewbread had become polluted at the beginning of the
Second Temple period and could no longer function, an interesting context for the next oracle which is the prophecy used by the Church to
describe the Eucharist: 'From the rising of the sun to its setting, my name
is great among the nations and in every place incense is offered to my
name and a pure offering' (Mai. 1.11).
The rainbow of the eternal covenant came to be seen as a sign of the
divine presence; Ezekiel had described the Glory of the Lord as a rainbow
(Ezek. 1.28) and stories were later told of a rainbow appearing as the great
rabbis were teaching (e.g. b. Hag. 14b). In the later Merkavah texts, the
Servant who bore the Sacred Name was wrapped in a rainbow,39 as had
been the high priest Simeon when he emerged from the sanctuary on the
Day of Atonement (Sir. 50.7). The heavenly throne in Revelation was
wreathed in a rainbow (Rev. 4.3) and the Great Angel in John's vision of
the Parousia returned from heaven wrapped in a cloud and a rainbow, with
his face shining like the sun (Rev. 10.1).40
If the shewbread had similarly been a sign of the eternal covenant, the
39. Schaefer(1981: §§ 396, 398).
40. See Barker (2000: 180-82,264).

BARKER The Temple Roots of the Christian Liturgy

43

term lehem panim, bread of face/presence, could mean rather more than
just 'bread put out before the Lord'. There are several places in the Hebrew
Scriptures where panim was used as a circumlocution for the Lord himself, as can be seen from the LXX. Thus 'My presence will go with you'
(Exod. 33.14) was translated 'I myself will go.. .autos" and Moses' response
'If your presence will not go with me...' became 'If you yourself, autos,
do not go with me...' 'He brought you out of Egypt with his own presence' (Deut. 4.37) became 'He himself, autos, led you out'. 'The Angel of
his Presence saved them' (Isa. 63.9) became 'Not an ambassador nor an
angel, but he himself saved them'.41 This latter is emphatic; the Angel of
the Presence was the Lord himself. Perhaps this is how 'Bread of Presence' should be understood; it would certainly account for the lines in
Malachi, that the Lord could not be present with polluted bread. It would
explain the great holiness of the shewbread and the special status of the
table on which it rested,42 and would add weight to the suggestion that
'azkarah was an invocation rather than a memorial.43
So much information about the temple has disappeared and has to be
reconstructed from allusions elsewhere. There were, for example, libation
vessels kept on the shewbread table (Exod. 25.29; cf. 1 Kgs 7.50), but
there is no record of how these were used in the temple.44 There had at one
time been meals in the temple; the elders who saw the God of Israel on
Sinai and ate and drank in safety before him is an encoded reference to this
(Exod. 24.11). So too, perhaps, Ps. 23: the table set before the anointed one,
who would dwell in the house of the Lord forever, and the belief that the
ruler in Israel would come forth from the House of bread, beth lehem
(Mic. 5.2). For the rest, we look in the shadows and listen for echoes. In
41. A similar emphasis is found in later Jewish texts. See Goldin (1970).
42. Targ. Onq. on Lev. 24 describes the shewbread as the most sacred of the
oblations.
43. It is interesting that the 1971 ARCIC (Anglican-Roman Catholic International
Commission) statement on the Eucharist, §5, says that the anamnesis makes Christ
present, i.e. it is in effect an invocation: 'The elements are not mere signs. Christ's
body and blood become really present.' It is important to distinguish between memorial 'We are there' and invocation 'He is here'. Although reasoning from the Passover
memorial, 'making effective in the present an event in the past', it was not the original
Passover sacrifice that was made present in the Passover memorial, as another animal
was offered each year.
44. Hurowitz (1995) suggests that the P source shows the reformed cult, and that
the incorporated older lists of vessels are signs that the original cult was more
anthropomorphic.

44

Christian Origins

the Midrash Kabbah on Genesis wefind:*Melehizedek instructed Abraham
in the laws of the priesthood, the bread alluding to the Shewbread and the
wine to libations' {Gen. R. 43.6). 'The House of Wisdom is the tabernacle,
and Wisdom's table is shewbread and wine' {Lev. RAX .9). 'In this world
you offer before me Shewbread and sacrifices, but in the world to come I
shall prepare for you a great table' (followed by a reference to Ps. 23,
Num. R. 21.21).45 Another mystery is the investiture described in the
Testament ofLevi. Levi saw seven angels giving him the insignia of high
priesthood and he described the ritual: he was anointed, washed with water
and then fed bread and wine, 'the most holy things',46 before eventually
receiving the incense (T. Levi 8,1-10). These rituals bear some resemblance to those in Lev. 8: washing, vesting, crowning and anointing, but
there is nothing in the Testament ofLevi about smearing blood and eating
the boiled flesh of the offerings. Instead there is bread and wine. Did the
Testament ofLevi recall the older ritual, the Melchizedek ritual which
involved the bread and wine? And if so, who had preserved this knowledge since the destruction of the first temple?47
Wisdom and her house is another recurring theme with the shewbread.
This suggests it was an element in the cult of the First Temple, where
Melchizedek had been high priest, and Wisdom the Queen of Heaven, the
patroness of the city.48 The importance of the shewbread in that cult may
account for the later silence in 'official texts' and the consistent echoes
elsewhere. The offerings to the Queen had been 'cakes', libations and
incense (Jer. 44.18-19; cf. 7.18), and the refugees in Egypt, after 586 BCE,
reminded Jeremiah that this cult had been abandoned with disastrous
consequences for Jerusalem. These offerings are described as cakes to portray or depict her, f ha tasibah (whence the word for an idol, (eseb). Moulds
have been found elsewhere which are thought to be the pans for baking
such shaped bread,49 and, irrespective of what image was imprinted on
them, the cakes offered in Judah and Jerusalem were intended to depict
the Queen. The shewbread was also baked in a special mould, although
nobody seemed to remember what this mould was (b. Men. 94ab), one of
the meanings suggested for the term lehempanim, literally bread of faces,
45. 'I shall not drink of thefruitof the vine until the Kingdom of God comes' (Lk.
22.18).
46. Reading with R.H. Charles (1912).
47. See also Jansen (1959).
48. Cf. Jer. 44.18, the cult of the Queen abandoned (in the time of Josiah) and 1 En.
93.8, Wisdom abandoned just before the First Temple was destroyed.
49. See Rast (1977).

BARKER

The Temple Roots of the Christian Liturgy

45

was that it had faces (b. Men. 96a). Shaped loaves were offered to female
divinities elsewhere;50 but it would be wrong to assume that this was an
unfortunate import into the religion of Judah and Jerusalem, and that the
goddess must have been known by a foreign name such as Ishtar.
Wisdom, the Queen of Heaven, invited devotees to her table (Prov. 9.5);
the poem in Prov. 9 is much interpolated, but it is still clear that Wisdom
offers the bread and wine of her table to those who seek the way of insight
(Prov. 9.5-6).51 This is one of the themes in the Orthodox service for
Maundy Thursday. Ben Sira promised the man who had Wisdom that she
would meet him like a mother and welcome him like a wife, feeding him
with the bread of understanding and the water of wisdom (Sir. 15.2-3).
Wisdom herself promised: 'Those who eat me will hunger for more' (Sir.
24.21), and we know from elsewhere that the gift of Wisdom brought
eternal life (e.g. Wis. 8.13). What might have been said to those who consumed the bread made in the image of the Queen? Take, eat, I am giving
myself to you', perhaps?52 And what was said to those priests who consumed the Bread of Presence and acquired power and holiness as a result?
A recent writer on liturgy suggested something remarkably similar. 'In the
short text of Luke's Last Supper, the Eucharistic word of Jesus is given
only to the bread, "This is my body". What Jesus is saying in this logion
is, "This is myself which I am giving to you". The bread becomes the
vehicle of Jesus's presence' (Senn 1997: 60).
Recall for a moment the Damascus Document, that a remnant had kept
the true ways when Israel had gone astray over the Sabbath and the Day of
Atonement. The temple ritual for the Sabbath was the renewal of the
shewbread, a high priestly ritual, and the Day of Atonement was the major
high priestly ritual. There is a conspicuous silence about both of these, but
such fragments as can be recovered correspond to elements in Christian
ritual, to liturgies and related writings, and even, at a later period, to church
architecture and to the way of preparing the bread. By the eighth century,
Germanus of Constantinople in his On the Divine Liturgy was able to show
exact correspondences between church and temple practice. This may
have been a conscious imitation of the temple at a later stage,53 rather than
50. See Delcor (1982).
51. This is one of the themes in the Maundy Thursday service in the Orthodox
Church, linking the Last Supper to Wisdom's table.
52. Moses was identified as the manna, the breadfromheaven; see Vermes (1975).
53. Eusebius's oration to the Bishop of Tyre (Hist. 10.4) shows that the new
churches were built in conscious imitation of the temple and its priesthood, but this
does not mean it was an innovation.

46

Christian Origins

an unbroken tradition from earliest times. Such a sceptical position, however, has to explain away the earlier references to temple tradition and
symbolism, and to account for the expert knowledge not only of the
temple, but also of the First Temple traditions which had been the cause of
controversy at the end of the Second Temple period. It is more likely that
the temple tradition in Christian liturgy came through from the time when
these were still living issues,54 and gave rise to the original claim that
Jesus was the Melchizedek high priest. The high priest was the twofold
incarnation of the Lord. The God of Israel took two forms—male and
female—and the high priest was the human manifestation of both. Hence
Jesus was described as Christ, the Power of God and the Wisdom of God
(1 Cor. 1.24). Jesus is depicted as taking the great rituals of each: the atonement blood of the Lord and the Bread of the Presence of Wisdom, and
combining them into his own ritual.55 It is more likely that this inspiration
was from Jesus himself rather than from the liturgy makers of the early
Church.
Now for a few comparisons. First, with the shewbread, associated with
Wisdom and her invitation: 'Those who eat me will hunger for more' (Sir.
24.21), and with Melchizedek the resurrected high priest. It was originally
eaten every Sabbath by the high priests who wore the Sacred Name,56 and
was their most holy food. Cyril of Jerusalem wrote that the Bread of Heaven
had replaced the shewbread {Catecheses 22.5). One ofthe traditional ikons
of the Holy Wisdom depicts her enthroned over the apostles celebrating
the Eucharist, whilst Jesus and Mary stand beneath her.57 Eusebius wrote:
'Our Saviour Jesus, the Christ of God, even now today performs through
his ministers sacrifices after the manner of Melchizedek {Proof of the
Gospel 5.3). In the Didache they gave thanks over the bread for 'life and
knowledge', and after partaking, gave thanks for the Sacred Name dwelling in their hearts, knowledge, faith and immortality {Did. 9-10).58 These
could well have been the thanks of the high priests when they had eaten
54. Many priests in Jerusalem joined the church (Acts 6.7).
55. Bread, lehem, is very similar to the rare word fhwm, which LXX Zeph. 1.17
renders sarx, flesh. For Jesus as the female Wisdom figure, see Barker (2000: 109113).
56. At the end of the Second Temple period it was eaten by the priests on duty
{m.Men. 11.7).
57. Illustration of sixteenth-century example now in the Moscow Kremlin Museum
(Royal Academy of Arts 1998: 187 [item 35]).
58. Didache 14 describes the Sunday Eucharist and quotes Mai. 1.11, the oracle of
the pure offering.

BARKER The Temple Roots of the Christian Liturgy

47

the shewbread. Bishop Sarapion prayed: 'Make us wise by the participation of the body and the blood'. The prothesis prayer of the Coptic
Jacobites preserves the shewbread tradition: 'Lord Jesus Christ.. .the living
bread which came down from heaven...make thy face shine upon this
bread and upon this cup which we have set upon thy priestly table'. Perhaps the words which Luke and Paul (Lk. 22.19; 1 Cor. 11.24) attributed
to Jesus: 'Do this in remembrance of me' were originally 'Do this as my
'azkarah\ my invocation, and the bread was the new shewbread, the sign
of his presence 'Maranatha'.59 Leviticus 24.7, f'azkarah, became in the
LXX eis anamnesin, the words used by Luke and Paul (Lk. 22.19; 1 Cor.
11.24).
Second, the Day of Atonement, when the high priest, who was the Lord,
entered 'heaven' carrying blood which represented the life of the Lord. It
was sprinkled on the 'throne', and then brought out into the visible world
to renew the eternal covenant and restore the creation. The ritual represented and anticipated the Day of the Lord, when he would judge those on
earth, banish evil and establish his kingdom. A key text was Deut. 32.43:
the Lord emerging from heaven to judge his enemies and atone the land.60
The Day of Atonement is the only possible source of the 'both high priest
and victim' belief associated with the Eucharist. Thus Narsai (Homily
17A, late fifth century): 'The priest...celebrating this sacrifice, bears in
himself the image of our Lord in that hour...' Origen interpreted the
Eucharist as the Day of Atonement offering: 'Christ the true high priest
who made atonement for you.. .hear him saying to you: "This is my blood
which is poured out for you for the forgiveness of sins"' (On Leviticus 9).
As early as the Letter of Barnabas, the Day of the Lord was linked to the
goat offered on the Day of Atonement (Barn. 7), and Justin knew that the
sacrificed goat prefigured the Second Coming (Dialogue with Trypho 40).
Cyril of Alexandria wrote: 'We must perceive the Immanuel in the slaughtered goat.. .the two goats illustrate the mystery' (Letter 41). Bishop Sarapion's Eucharist was the Day of Atonement; he prayed for 'the medicine
of life.. .and not condemnation'. He prayed for angels to come and destroy
59. Mary Douglas (1999) draws similar conclusions, using the methods of an
anthropologist and on the basis of a different set of materials. Building on Marx (1994:
223) that the cereal and animal sacrifices are parallel systems, she demonstrates first
why the inner parts of the animal that were offered as the holiest portion, and 'what
goes for the animal, goes for the loaf of bread'.
60. The verse has a significantly shorter form in the MT than in 4QDeutq or the LXX,
perhaps because it was a key proof text in Heb. 1.6 and was altered in the post-Christian era.

48

Christian Origins

the evil one and establish the Church, in other words, for the banishing of
Azazel and the establishing of the Kingdom. The Liturgies of Addai and
Mari, of John Chrysostom and of James all have similar themes: remission
of sins, enlightenment, access to the Lord, and life in the Kingdom.
A recurring theme is fear and awe, the fear that the high priest felt as he
entered the Holy of Holies on the Day of Atonement. Thus Narsai (Homily
17 A): 'The dread mysteries... let everyone be in fear and dread as they are
performed., the hour of trembling and great fear'. Cyril of Jerusalem speaks
of 'the most awful hour' and 'the most awful sacrifice' (Mystagogical
Lectures 5.4,9). The Nestorian Liturgy speaks of 'the great fear&l holy
life giving divine mystery', and the priest prays in the words of Isaiah in
the temple: 'Woe is me... for mine eyes have seen the Lord of Hosts', and
like Moses before the ark he says 'I have seen the Lord face to face'.
Throughout the liturgies, the imagery is of the Holy of Holies and the angel
hosts. Just as the ancient kings had been 'born' in the glory of the holy ones,
and were thus 'raised up', that is, resurrected, so too the bread and wine
were raised up/resurrected at the moment of consecration. Thus Narsai,
having described the awe and stillness in the sanctuary at the moment of
consecration, continued: 'The Spirit which raised himfromthe dead comes
down now and celebrates the mysteries of the resurrection of his body'.
The consecration was the resurrection: the power of the Godhead comes
upon the oblation, 'and completes the mystery of our Lord's resurrection
from the dead'. Thus the Lord emerging from the Holy of Holies on the
Day of Atonement, accompanied by the angel hosts, became the procession when the bread and wine were brought from the sanctuary. Narsai
again: "Thousands of Watchers and ministers of fire and spirit go forth'
with the resurrected Lord, and the people rejoice 'when they see the Body
setting forth from the midst of the altar' (Homily 17A).
Finally, the setting of the liturgy. The altar in an Orthodox church is set
apart, literally beyond the veil It must have derivedfromthe kapporet, the
place of atonement in the temple, where the Lord was enthroned. In the
Eastern churches, the altar is known as the throne, and in some of their
traditions,61 drawing a curtain across the holy place is still part of the
liturgy. Early sources speak of the cherubim of the altar62 and in Ethiopian churches, there is an ark in the sanctuary. Finally, there is the preparation of the bread of the Eucharist in the Orthodox tradition. The bread is
61. E.g. Coptic and Armenian.
62. See MeVey (1983).

BARKER

The Temple Roots of the Christian Liturgy

49

stamped with an image before it is baked.63 The priest 'sacrifices' the loaf
and then removes the central portion to mix with the wine in the chalice.
An exactly similar procedure was used for the Day of Atonement sin offering according to Barn. 7. Quoting from an otherwise unknown prophet, he
wrote: 'Let them eat of the goat offered for their sins at the fast, and let all
the priests but nobody else, eat of its inwards parts, unwashed and with
vinegar'. He linked this to Jesus drinking the vinegar just before he died.
In other words, there is a direct link between the sacrificial portion of the
sin offering and the central part of the loaf, and a claim that the sacrifice
was consumed unwashed, that is, with its blood.64
This has been an all-too-rapid sketch, and there is much more material,
but I hope it has been sufficient to indicate one or two areas in which roots
of the Eucharistic Liturgy might be found, and to emphasize the importance of establishing a continuity between the Old Testament as the first
Christians knew it, the New Testament, and the way the early Christians
expressed their beliefs in the liturgies.
Bibliography
Barker, M.
1987
The Older Testament (London: SPCK).
1992
The Great Angel (London: SPCK).
1995
"The Secret Tradition', Journal of Higher Criticism 2.1: 31-67.
2000
The Revelation of Jesus Christ (Edinburgh: T, & T. Clark).
Barthelemy, D., and J.T. Milik (eds.)
Qumran Cave I (DID, 1; Oxford: Clarendon Press).
1955
Charles, R.H.
1912
The Book of Enoch (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
Cowley, A.
1923
Aramaic Papyri of the Fifth Century BC (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
Delcor, M.
1982
'Le culte de la reine du del selon Jer 7.18,44.17-19,25 et ses survivances',
in W.C. Delsman et al (eds.), Von Kanaan bis Kerala (Festschrift J.P.M.
van der Pioeg; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag): 101-121.
Dillistone, F.W.
The Christian Understanding of Atonement (Welwyn: James Nisbet & Co.).
1968

63. There is a picture of the old stamps of the Virgin and St Catherine used in St
Catherine's Monastery, Sinai, in National Geographic Magazine 125.1 (1964:89). See
also Galavaris (1970).
64. Something similar is said of the 'Babylonians' who ate the goat of the sin offering raw if the Day of Atonement fell on a Sabbath and they could not cook it (m. Men.
11.7).

50

Christian Origins

Dix, G.
1945
The Shape of the Liturgy (London: A. & C. Black).
Douglas, Mary
1999
' The Eucharist: Its Continuity with the Bread Sacrifice of Leviticus', Modern
Theology 15.2: 209-224.
Galavaris, G.
1970
Bread and the Liturgy: The Symbolism of Early Christian and Byzantine
Bread Stamps (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press).
Gane, R.
1992
'Bread of the Presence and Creator in Residence', FT 42.2: 179-203.
Gelston, A.
1992
The Eucharistic Prayer ofAddai and Mori (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
Ginzberg, L.
The Legends of the Jews, I (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of
1909
America).
Goldin, J.
1970
'Not by Means of an Angel and Not by Means of a Messenger', in J. Neusner
(ed.), Religions in Antiquity: Essays in Memory ofE.R. Goodenough (Supplements to Numen, 14; Leiden: EJ. Brill): 412-24.
Hurowitz, V.A.
1995
'Solomon's Golden Vessels (I Kings 7.48-50) and the Cult of the First Temple', in D.P. Wright, D.N. Freedman and A. Hurvitz (eds.), Pomegranates
and Golden Bells (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns): 151-64.
Idel, M.
Kabbalah: New Perspectives (New Haven: Yale University Press).
1988
Jansen, H.L.
'The Consecration in the Eighth Chapter of the T Levi', in The Sacral King1959
ship: Proceedings of the Eighth International Conference for the History of
Religions (Leiden: EJ. Brill): 356-65.
Jeremias, J.
The Eucharistic Words ofJesus (London: SCM Press).
1966
Lietzmann, H.
1979
Mass and the Lord's Supper (Leiden: EJ. Brill).
Longenecker, B.
1995
'The Unbroken Messiah', NTS 41: 428-41.
Martinez, F.G. et al (eds.)
1998
Qumran Cave II (DJD, 23; Oxford: Clarendon Press).
Marx, A.
1994
Les ojfrandes vegetales dans I'Ancien Testament (Leiden: EJ. Brill).
McVey, K.E.
1983
'The Domed Church as Microcosm: The Literary Roots of an Architectural
Symbol', Dumbarton Oaks Papers 37.
Milgrom, J.
Leviticus 1-16 (AB; New York: Doubleday).
1991
Rast, W.E.
1977
'Cakes for the Queen of Heaven', in A.L. Merrill and T.W. Overholt (eds.),
Scripture in History and Theology: Essays in Honour ofJ. Coert Rylaarsdam (Pittsburgh: Pickwick Press): 167-80.

BARKER The Temple Roots of the Christian Liturgy

51

Royal Academy of Arts
The Art of Holy Russia: Icons from Moscow 1400-1660 (London: Royal
1998
Academy of Arts).
Sawyer, J.
'Those Priests in Damascus', Annual ofthe Swedish Theological Institute 8:
1970
123-30.
Schaefer, P.
1981
Synopse zur Hekhalot-Literatur (Tubingen: Mohr).
Senn, F.C.
Christian Liturgy: Catholic and Evangelical (Minneapolis: Augsburg1997
Fortress).
Smith, W.R.
1927
Lectures on the Religion of the Semites (London: A. & C. Black, 3rd edn
[1894]).
Vermes, G.
1975
'He is the Bread: Targum Neoflti on Exodus 16.15', in Post BiblicalJewish
Studies (Leiden: EJ. Brill): 139-46.
Wilkinson, J.
1984
'Orientation Jewish and Christian', PEQ (Jan.-June): 16-30.

THE ORIGIN AND DEVELOPMENT OF
CHRIST-DEVOTION: FORCES AND FACTORS

Larry W. Hurtado
The real challenge in historical understanding is to figure out not only
what happened, but also how it happened and why. The accurate logging
and description of the sources and all relevant data is crucial, of course,
and is itself a fully worthy and demanding historical task. But the difficult
intellectual tasks are to identify the forces and factors that prompted and
shaped people and events, and to understand how these forces and factors
operated. Probably every scholar who has examined any aspect of early
Christ-devotion has had some notion of these things, but, to judge by their
publications, few seem to have made these 'how* and ^why' questions
much of a conscious or explicit focus. A good many scholars have simply
subscribed to the syncretism theory of the retigiamgesckictttliche Schule
and havefittedtheir readings of the historical sources into this scheme. Of
those who have explicitly attempted to offer a theory of their own (eg,
Casey discussed below), none seems to me to have done adequate justice
to the range of relevant data and the particularities of early Christ-devotion, and none seems to have drawn adequately upon what we can learn
from other relevant disciplines about the rise and development of new
religious movements.
When we are dealing with something as remarkable and historically
significant as early Christ-devotion, it is all the more crucial to try to grasp
the factors involved.1 The more unusual something is, however, the more
difficult it is to explain, especially because modern historical understanding is so unavoidably dependent upon analogy. But, unlike those who
conduct research in the experimental sciences, in doing historical research
1. There is no denying the historical significance of the emergence of Christdevotion, as it led to Jesus becoming perhaps the best knownfigurein human history.
In Hurtado (1998b) I demonstrated that it was unusual and cannot be fitted easily
within a pattern of analogous developments of the time.

HURTADO

Christ-Devotion: Forces and Factors

53

we cannot repeat historical events in laboratories under controlled conditions to observe recurring features that permit us to formulate theories.
Instead, we have to look for other historical (and contemporary) phenomena that might be fully or even partially analogous, and then see if we can
identify common factors that might also have been efficacious in the particular historical people and events that we are trying to understand.
In this process, accurate observation and comparison are crucial, lest we
pose as analogies phenomena that are not, or that are analogous only at
such a high level of generalization that they do not actually provide us with
the explanatory factors that we seek. Less-than-accurate observation and
misguided comparison produce theories that attribute too much significance
to this or that and overlook other vital factors, or that allege things as efficacious that are not directly relevant. Although historical theories cannot
be as easily verified or falsified as theories in experimental science, some
historical theories can be shown to be better than others. Any theory that
can be shown to rest upon an over-simplified or distorted view of what is
being explained, or overlooks an important factor, or simply gets wrong
the interaction of relevant historical factors is justifiably to be rejected or
seriously modified.
In this discussion, I present a theory of the historical factors and forces
that * drove' and shaped Christ-devotion in thefirsttwo centuries. Over the
past decade or more, in several previous publications I have sketched ideas
that are discussed here more fully and, I hope, developed more adequately.2
I think that developing a theory adequate to the subject of inquiry is
important, and I am a bit puzzled that so few scholars have seriously pursued the matter.3 Historical theories not only offer explanations of why
and how things happened, they also contribute to our perception of what
2. This presentation draws heavily upon a still longer discussion comprising a
chapter in Hurtado (2003).
3. In their jointly authored book, Trajectories through Early Christianity (Robinson and Koester 1971), James M. Robinson and Helmut Koester offered several studies
that basically urge the view that early Christianity developed along several different
paths, and they rightly proposed mat Christian sources of thefirsttwo centuries or so,
whether canonical or non-canonical, should all be taken account of in developing a picture of historical developments. With these basic points I agree. They do not, however,
develop a general model or theory of how and why the developments happened as they
did. Horbury (1998) proposes that honorifics of Jewish messianism accounts for
Christ-devotion, but, rather surprisingly for someone as knowledgeable as he is about
ancient Jewish religion, does not seem to recognize the significance of the phenomena
involved in Christ-devotion and the inadequacy of his explanation.

54

Christian Origins

happened and the significance of the event(s) in question. That is another
reason why it is good to strive for adequacy and accuracy in building our
theories. I offer the following theory to help us to understand better how
and why Christ-devotion emerged and developed in the particular ways it
did, to grasp more fully what Christ-devotion was, and, thereby, to see more
profoundly how remarkable it was.
Two brief points before I proceed with a discussion of specifics. First,
this theory involves several factors. Whatever the adequacy of the set of
factors I will discuss, the basic thrust of the theory is that we have to think
in terms of multiple factors and not a simple explanation such as the syncretistic model of the religionsgeschichtliche Schule. Maybe further factors in addition to those I propose here should be considered, but certainly
not fewer factors! Second, I want to emphasize the interaction of these
factors. Each factor had its own contribution, as I hope to show; but I
contend that the particulars of early Christ-devotion are best accounted for
by positing a dynamic (and varying) combination of the forces and factors
I shall now attempt to specify.
Jewish Monotheism
What became 'Christianity' began as a movement within the Jewish religious tradition of the Roman period, and the chief characteristic of Jewish
religion in this period was its defiantly monotheistic stance.41 contend that
any consideration of early Christ-devotion must set it in the context of this
central feature of the religious matrix out of which the Christian movement
sprang. I also contend that Jewish monotheism had a powerful role in shaping Christ-devotion, particularly in the Christian groups that we know about
in the New Testament and the later groups that were formative of what
became familiar, 'great church' or 'orthodox' Christianity.
As has become more clear in recent decades of scholarly study, the religion of ancient Israel had not always manifested the monotheistic emphasis
that was so familiar a feature of Jewish religious teaching and practice by
the Roman era.5 Although the Hebrew scriptures present Israel as summoned from the first to an exclusive worship of Yahweh, and as condemned for worshipping other deities, the earliest and clearest expressions
of a genuinely monotheistic belief (i.e. a denial of the efficacy or reality of
4. I draw here upon Hurtado (1998a) and the scholarly literature cited there, and
Hurtado (1998b: esp. 17-39).
5. See, e.g., Lang (1981, 1983); Olyan (1988); Smith (1990).

HURTADO Christ-Devotion: Forces and Factors

55

any other deity) are found in Isa. 43-48, in a section of the book that is
widely seen among scholars as coming from the period of the Babylonian
Exile (sixth century BCE).6 This suggests that it may have been precisely in
the forcible encounter with the many gods of other nations and peoples,
indeed, an encounter on the 'home turf of these gods in lands of Israelite/
Judean exile, that the rather pugnaciously monotheistic claims that came to
characterize religious Jews thereafter were so explicitly formulated.
In the continuing experience of Jews in the religious environment of the
ancient Near East in the Persian period and thereafter, an exclusivist monotheism became so fully identified with Jewish piety that by the Roman
period failure to maintain such a stance was perhaps the greatest sin possible for a Jew. It is likely that the religious crisis generated in the second
century BCE by the attempt of Antiochus IV to impose a programmatic
religious and cultural assimilation of the Jews made devoutly traditionalist
Jews thereafter even more sensitive to any challenge to the exclusivity of
the God of Israel.7 The more flexible readiness of non-Jewish religion to
accommodate many deities (and also human objects of cultic devotion such
as rulers) was portrayed by devout Jews as utter stupidity and the worst of
many corrupt features of Gentiles.8
This exclusivist religious posture is all the more striking when we consider how in a good many other matters many (perhaps most) Jews
showed a readiness to accommodate themselves (though in varying ways
and degrees) to other features of Hellenistic culture. Language, dress, dining practices, intellectual categories and themes, sports, and many other
things were widely adopted; but there could be no negotiating away the
monotheistic posture of Jewish religion. As Lester Grabbe put it, 'For the
vast majority, this was thefinalbarrier that could not be crossed; we know
from antiquity of only a handful of examples of Jews who abandoned their
Judaism' (Grabbe 1992:170). Grabbe's wording nicely conveys my point:
To engage in the worship of other deities was to abandon Judaism. For
devout Jews, the core requirement of Judaism was the exclusive worship
of Israel's God.9
6. E.g. Clifford (1992); Whybray (1983).
7. See the detailed and sensitively nuanced discussion in Hengel (1974:255-309).
8. Note this emphasis even in the urbane and sophisticated Diaspora Jew, Philo of
Alexandria (e.g. Dec. 52-81). The same stance is expressed also in other Jewish texts
of the Hellenistic and Roman period, e.g., Wis. 13-16.
9. Because the word 'worship' and its Greek and Hebrew equivalents can connote
a variety of degrees and forms of reverence, I wish to make it clear that by 'worship'
here I mean the sort of reverence that was reserved by ancient devout Jews for God

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For assessing the historical significance of the devotion given to Jesus in
early Christian circles, with Jesus represented variously as unique agent of
God 'the Father', it is still more important to note that the Jewish resistance to worshipping any figure but the one God of Israel was manifested
not only against the deities of other peoples and traditions but also with
reference tofiguresthat we might term 'divine agents' of the God of Israel
Even the angelicfiguresthat formed part of God's vast heavenly entourage
and that feature so prominently in some Jewish writings of the Greek and
Roman periods, and also the great human heroes in the Bible (e.g. Moses)
or of post-biblical history (e.g. the Maccabaean heroes) were not treated as
rightful recipients of cultic worship in any known Jewish circles of the
time.
This withholding of cultic worshipfromthese highly revered 'agents' of
God (whether angelic or human) is important for two reasons. First, it
shows that the ancient Jewish concern about the uniqueness of God was
a genuinely exclusivist 'monotheism' and not simply a negative attitude
towards the deities of foreigners. The refusal to give worship to any figure
other than the God of Israel extended to members of the 'home team' too.
Secondly, it means that the accommodation of Christ as a recipient of cultic devotion in the devotional practice of early Christian groups was a
most unusual and significant step that cannot be accounted for easily on
the basis of any tendencies in Roman-era Jewish religion. In short, the
incorporation of Christ into the devotional pattern of early Christian groups
has no real analogy in the Jewish tradition of the period. Thefirmlymonotheistic commitment of the religious matrix of earliest Christianity makes
Christ-devotion an intriguing phenomenon and, as we shall see, was an
important factor in shaping its development.
To underscore two important points: (1) Jewish monotheism of the
Roman period accommodated beliefs and very honorific rhetoric about
various principal-agent figures such as high angels and exalted humans
like Moses; and (2) drew a sharp line between any such figure and the one
God in the area of cultic practice, reserving cultie worship for the one God.
Both of these features of Jewish monotheism are significant in appreciating the Christ-devotion we see in early Christianity.
alone and that was intended by them to indicate God's uniqueness. I use the term to
designate 'cultic' worship, especially devotion offered in a specifically worship (liturgical) setting and expressive of the thanksgiving, praise, communion and petition that
directly represent, manifest and reinforce the relationship of the worshippers with the
deity.

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57

Monotheism in the New Testament
I contend that the exclusivist monotheism of ancient Judaism is the crucial
religious context in which to view early Christ-devotion, and that this
monotheistic concern powerfully helped to shape that Christ-devotion,
especially in those Christian circles concerned to maintain afidelityto the
tradition of the one God. We do not have to assume that this monotheistic
stance was taken over into early Christian circles, for the sources show
conclusively that it was a characteristic and powerful factor in the religious devotion of Christians from the earliest years onward, among Gentile as well as Jewish adherents. Indeed, this hardly requires substantiation
for anyone acquainted with the New Testament and the great majority of
extant early Christian writings. A couple of well-known illustrations will
suffice.
In 1 Cor. 8 and 10 Paul engages at some length unavoidable questions
for Christians living in Roman cities about their participation in pagan
religious activities; and his directions are to shun these activities entirely.
He refers to the pagan religious ceremonies as eidolothyton (8.1,4), 'offerings to idols', reflecting the scornful attitude towards the pagan deities
characteristic of his Jewish background. Over against what Paul calls
derisively the many 'so-called gods in heaven or on earth' of the religious
environment he poses the 'one God, the Father, from whom are all things
and for whom we exist, and the one Lord, Jesus Christ' (8.5-6). In 10.1422, Paul again demands that his converts completely avoid participation in
the 'worship of idols' (eidololatria), insisting that participation in the
Christian sacred meal ('the cup of the Lord...the table of the Lord') is
incompatible with joining in the religious festivities devoted to these other
deities, whom he here calls 'demons' (10.20-21). Though Paulfreelystates
a willingness to adapt himself on a number of matters 'to those [Gentiles]
outside the law' (9.21), he maintains a totally negative stance towards
worship of anything or anyone other than the one God of Israel and the
one Kyrios Jesus Christ.10
Paul's easy inclusion of devotion to Christ within his emphatically monotheistic posture here nicely illustrates the intriguing nature of early Christdevotion. For Paul, and for many other Jewish and Gentile Christians of
10. Similarly, note how in 1 Thess. 1.9-10 Paul contrasts the pre-conversion
religious life of his converts with their Christian orientation: 'you turned to God from
the idols to serve the true and living God, and to await his Son from heaven'.

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the time it appears, devotion to Christ was compatible with a vigorously
monotheistic faith and practice. Here and elsewhere (e.g. Rom. 1.18-25),
Paul has only contempt for the other recipients of cultic reverence in the
Roman religious environment. There is no denying the exclusivist monotheism attested in Paul and characteristic also of many other early Christian writings, whether from Jewish or Gentile Christian hands.
For another illustration of this exclusivist monotheistic stance in early
Christian writings, I point to the New Testament book of Revelation. In
Paul we have a Christian Jew writing in the first few decades of the Christian movement. In Revelation we have another Christian Jew commonly
thought today to have written towards the end of thefirstcentury, and both
of these things are important.11 Revelation shows both the continuing
influence of Christian Jews outside of Palestine late in the first century,
and also shows how among such Christians monotheism continued to be
the emphatic context within which they offered devotion to Christ.
The author accuses the churches of Pergamum and Thyatira of accommodating some who encourage others to 'eat food sacrificed to idols'
(2.14-15,20). It is difficult to be sure of what precise behaviour is in view
here, but this pejorative wording indicates clearly that the author regards
it as compromising in some way the monotheistic exclusiveness that he
regards as obligatory for Christians. Running throughout the book is a
contrast between the worship of God (e.g. 4-5; 7.9-12; 11.15-19; 14.6-7)
and the improper worship of idols (e.g. 9.20-21) and of the Beast (e.g.
13.5-8,11-12; 14.9-11). Moreover, as Bauckham noted, there are two passages where John is forbidden to worship even the glorious angel who as
divine emissary brings the revelations of the book (19.10; 22.8-9).12 These
things all indicate a complete contempt for the larger religious life of the
Roman world and a strong (indeed, one could say a fierce) fidelity to the
tradition of exclusivist monotheism that extends to a prohibition against
the worship of heavenly representatives of God.
11. Most scholars date Revelation towards the end of the reign of Domitian (c. 95
CE), though some scholars in the past and today have proposed a date in the time of
Nero. Although the early church tradition of the author as John Zebedee is today
widely rejected, the otherwise unknown John of Revelation is commonly taken to have
been a Christian Jew, and a rather conservative one at that. See standard introductions
such as Kummel (1975: 466-72) and Koester (1982: II, 248-57).
12. Bauckham (1981) expanded as 'The Worship of Jesus', Bauckham (1993:
118-49). On this theme of angelic refusal of worship see also Stuckenbruck (1995:
esp. 75-102).

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59

The scene in Rev. 5 where the Lamb is pictured receiving with God the
idealized worship of heaven is all the more remarkable in the light of this,
and surely indicates an amazingly exalted status of Christ in the religious
belief and practice advocated by the author. In fact, as I have demonstrated
in One God, One Lord, we have no analogous accommodation of a second
figure along with God as recipient of such devotion in the Jewish religious
practice of the time, making it very difficult to fit this inclusion of Christ
as recipient of devotion into any known devotional pattern attested among
Jewish groups of the Roman period. It is important to note the specific
nature of the devotional pattern reflected in these Christian texts. There are
two key components: (1) a strong affirmation of exclusivist monotheism in
belief and practice; along with (2) an inclusion of Christ along with God as
rightful recipient of cultic devotion.
The Effects of Monotheism on Christ-Devotion
This unusual 'binitarian' devotional pattern certainly requires some further
analysis and some adequate explanation, and this presentation is intended
to offer the main lines of the explanation that Ifindmost adequate. Essential to any such explanation and analysis is the recognition that the devotional commitment and pattern illustrated in Paul and Revelation (and
found also in many other Christian writingsfromthe period) are shaped by
the exclusivist monotheism inherited from the Jewish tradition. The Christdevotion we see in these Christian writings is certainly a novel development. It is equally clearly presented as a religious stance that seeks to be
faithful to the concern for the one God; and therefore it must be seen in
historical terms as a distinctive variant form of monotheism.13
Thus, for the purpose of developing an adequate theory of the formation
and development of Christ-devotion, we have to make Jewish monotheism
a central factor. It was certainly central in the Jewish religious matrix of
13. In previous publications I have referred to a Christian 'mutation' in Jewish
monotheism, without in any way intending the term pejoratively. Nevertheless, some
have objected to the term 'mutation', contending that it is unavoidably pejorative in
connotation, at least in popular usage. So, I have also used the term 'variant' in this
presentation, adapting it from the field of textual criticism where it refers to variant
readings that appear in the transmission of a text. All readings (other than nonsense
readings, demonstrable scribal errors, and minor orthographic differences), including
what one might judge to be the original reading, are variant readings, each of which tells
us something important about how the text was transmitted and, in most cases, how it
was read and used meaningfully by various groups. See, e.g., Epp (1993: 60).

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earliest Christianity, and it was clearly affirmed with equal force in the sort
of early Christian sources I have sampled here. But it is necessary here to
consider further how exclusivist monotheism might have shaped Christdevotion. Given that we have no other example of the sort of binitarian
form of exclusivist monotheism that we see reflected in these Christian
sources, Jewish monotheism by itself is not an adequate explanation for
Christ-devotion, and other factors will have to be explored as well. But we
must also take seriously the likely force of the exclusivist monotheism
affirmed in the Christian sources.
Inasmuch as exclusivist monotheism is manifested essentially as a sharp
discrimination between legitimate and illegitimate recipients of worship,
and more specifically in a refusal to offer worship to any figure other than
the one God, it is appropriate for scholars to refer to the constraining effect
of monotheism. It is certainly correct to say that Jewish monotheism would
have worked against the deification of Jesus along the lines of the apotheosis of figures that we know of elsewhere in the religious environment of
the Roman period.14 In light of the constraining effect of exclusivist monotheism it is in fact initially difficult to imagine how the sort of Christdevotion that we see reflected in the early Christian sources could have
emerged and flourished so early and so fully among people who professed
a fidelity to the monotheistic tradition. But, however it emerged and however it is to be understood, the monotheistic commitment of the early
Christians indicates that their Christ-devotion is not an example of simple
apotheosis. Christ does not become for them an additional god. It is thus
very productive heuristically to take seriously their monotheistic stance,
helping us to avoid simplistic characterizations of Christ-devotion and
alerting us to the need to develop a theory adequate to account for this
remarkable phenomenon.
Granted, the exclusivist monotheism of Roman-era Judaism characteristically operated as a constraint against anything fully comparable to the
Christ-devotion that characterized early Christianity. So are we to think of
this constraint only as either maintaining the characteristic form of Jewish
monotheism or being 'broken' in early Christian circles, as some scholars
have formulated the question (e.g. Harvey, Dunn, Casey)? In light of the
continuing monotheistic professions and evident scruples in these Christian circles, I propose that we should also consider as a third possibility
whether their Christ-devotion constitutes an apparently distinctive and
14. See, e.g., Ziegler (1979:458-59); Losch (1933); Kreitzer (1996:69-98). For an
illustration of Jewish attitudes about apotheosis, see Philo, Leg. Gal 118.

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61

variant-form of exclusivist monotheism, and that we should inquire then
how monotheism helped to shape this Christ-devotion. Later, I will have
more to say about how such a variant form of a tradition can arise, and I
will defend further the view that the Christ-devotion evident in the New
Testament constitutes such a development. If I may be permitted here to
anticipate that discussion, my point is that the constraining effect of monotheism may not have prevented this variant form from emerging but may
have contributed significantly to the particular contours that it took.
In this light monotheism would have to be reckoned as one of the
important forces or factors that, together with other factors to be sure,
helps to account for the 'why' and 'how' of Christ-devotion, particularly
in the formative period and among those Christian circles that sought to
maintain an authentic relation with the tradition of biblical monotheism.
The Christ-devotion attested, for example, in the New Testament writings
operates in the context of a commitment to monotheism. That is, Jesus is
not reverenced as another deity of independent origin or significance;
instead, his divine significance is characteristically expressed in terms of
his relationship to the one God. The cultic reverence given to him is
likewise characteristically offered and justified with reference to the
actions of the one God. The New Testament claim is that it is the one God
who has exalted Christ to an exceptional position of reverence and given
him a 'name' of divine significance (Kyrios, e.g. Phil. 2.9-11). It is God
who now requires that Jesus be reverenced as the divine Kyrios; and one
reverences Jesus 'to the glory of God the Father' (Phil. 2.11). Indeed, in
the polemical rhetoric of the Johannine writings, to fail to give such reverence to Jesus ('the Son') is to fail to give proper reverence to God ('the
Father', e.g. Jn 5.23; 1 Jn 2.22-23; 5.9-12).
In other words, the vigorous Christ-devotion promoted in New Testament
writings and, as we shall see, perpetuated and developed also in Christian
circles of the second century as well does not amount to a separate cultus
offered to Christ as a new second god. Instead, there is a fairly consistent
linkage and subordination of Christ to God 'the Father' in these circles,
evident even in the Christian texts from the later decades of the first century and that are commonly regarded as reflecting a very 'high' Christology, such as the Gospel of John and Revelation.15 This is why I have
referred to this Christ-devotion as a 'binitarian' form of monotheism:
15. As is well known, the Gospel of John combines both an exalted view of Christ
with a clear subordinationist emphasis. See, e.g., Anderson (1996: appendices, 26667); Barrett (1982); Loader (1992).

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There are two distinguishable figures (God and Christ), but they are posited in a relation to each other that seems intended to avoid a di-theism of
two gods, and the devotional practice shows a similar concern (e.g. prayer
characteristically offered to God through or in the name of Jesus). In my
judgment this Christ-devotion amounts to a treatment of Christ as recipient
of worship at a surprisingly early point in the first century, and is certainly
a programmatic inclusion of a second figure unparalleled in the monotheistic tradition of the time.16 But the worship of Christ clearly shows a
recognizably monotheistic concern shaping it. This Christ-devotion (indeed,
the christological rhetoric of the New Testament generally) involves an
adaptation of the principal-agent traditions that I have shown to be a feature of ancient Jewish monotheism.17 Christ functions as God's principal
agent, Christ's revelatory and redemptive actions consistently portrayed as
done on God's authority, as expressions of God's will, and as serving God's
purposes and glory. The accommodation of Christ as recipient of cultic
worship with God is unparalleled and signals a major development in
monotheistic cultic practice and belief. But it is that: a variant form of
monotheism that appeared among circles who insisted that they maintained faithfulness to the monotheistic stance of the Jewish tradition. Any
theory of the origins and development of Christ-devotion must, therefore,
grant a significant role to this monotheistic concern.
Jesus
Exclusivist monotheism is the crucial religious context in which to view
Christ-devotion in early Christianity, and was a major force shaping what
Christ-devotion looked like; but monotheism hardly explains why devotion
to Jesus Christ emerged. What was the impetus? There are really two questions involved: (1) Why was there such a focus on, andthematizing of, this
particular figure, Jesus? And (2) Why did Christ-devotion assume the proportions it did in early Christianity, that is, amounting to a new, binitarian
devotional pattern unprecedented in Jewish monotheism? I address the
second of these questions in the next two sections of this presentation. It is
the first of these questions that occupies us now, and this involves invoking another force/factor in my theory. I propose that the only reasonable
16. For discussion of the indications that Christ-devotion: (a) appeared and generated sharp opposition very early; and (b) amounts to a genuinely binitarian devotional
pattern, see Hurtado (1999a; 1999b).
17. Hurtado 1998b: esp. 17-39.

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63

factor that accounts for the central place of the figure of Jesus in early
Christianity is the impact of Jesus' ministry and its consequences, especially for his followers.
As is well known to any specialist in the origins of Christianity (and,
indeed, in light of the impressive recent promotional efforts of some
authors and publishers, as is known to many general readers as well), the
last couple of decades have witnessed a veritablefloodof scholarly studies
of Jesus as a historical figure.18 In 1994 I wrote a survey of 'historical
Jesus' studies that had appeared in the preceding decade, and by the time it
was published in 1997 it was already out of date on account of further
significant books that appeared in the interval!19 There is now a genre of
books that simply chart and discuss books on Jesus! Moreover, predictably, the differences among some scholars writing on the historical Jesus
are such as to tempt one towards some discouragement as to what specific
conclusions one can entertain with any confidence about his message and
purposes. But my aim here is considerably more modest, and more
feasible, than a detailed portrait of Jesus, and all that is essential to claim
will, I believe, command fairly wide assent.
The current scholarly studies of the historical Jesus tend to focus on
presenting a view of Jesus' own aims, intentions, concerns, emphases and
characteristic actions. If the scholarly objective is to understand Jesus in
historical terms, this is all very appropriate in principle (however difficult
it has proven in practice to secure wide agreement for any particular scholarly proposal). But for a theory of the origin and development of Christdevotion in Christian circles of thefirsttwo centuries, it is not necessary to
make a specific case about what might have been Jesus' own aims or purposes. Neither is it necessary here to defend a specific proposal as to the
contents of Jesus' own message, in particular what specific claims he may
have made for himself. It is quite sufficient to take adequate account of the
18. I ignore here the books advocating views without any scholarly basis, though
they more often appear on the shelves of the bookstore chains (!), in which, for example, Jesus is portrayed as having learned mystical teachings from Druids at Glastonbury
or from extra-terrestrial aliens.
19. Hurtado 1997. In n. 1 of that essay I cite a number of previous surveys of
scholarship, some of them also recent, I discuss Sanders (1985), the three Jesus books
by Vermes (1973,1983,1993); Witherington (1990); the first of a multi-volume set by
Meier (1991); Borg (1987); Horsley (1987); Freyne (1988) and Crossan (1991). Serious studies particularly worth noting among the studies that appeared after my essay
are the subsequent volumes from Meier (1994, 2001); Evans (1995); Wright (1996);
Reiser (1997) and Allison (1998).

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results, the effects of his career, as a contributing factor in the place he
occupied in early Christian religious belief and practice. This is the focus
here.
However one prefers to characterize Jesus' public persona and how he
was perceived by contemporaries (e.g. prophet, messianic claimant, exorcist/healer, holy msin/hasid, shaman, magician, teacher/rabbi, sage, peasant
spinner of tales, clever wordsmith, revolutionary, establishment critic,
friend of social outcasts, a liberal Jew ahead of his time), and whatever
one posits as Jesus' message and intention (e.g. to found a new religion/
religious movement, to reform Judaism, to call for national repentance of
Israel, to announce God's eschatological kingdom, to promote the overthrow of Roman colonialism in Jewish Palestine, to encourage new
patterns of social interaction, to articulate a more carefree lifestyle), it is
clear that he quickly became a figure of some notoriety and controversy.20
He had followers, including some who seem to have been quite closely
attached and keenly devoted to him and closely involved in his activities;
he also had his critics, and, at some point, generated deadly serious opposition from some powerful people. That is, whatever may have been Jesus'
intentions (often difficult to establish with certainty for historical figures,
even when we have their own statements on the subject!), the effect of his
public activity was very much to polarize a good many of his contemporaries over the question of how to regard him, whether to take a negative
or positive stance about him.
There may have been a range or diversity of positive and negative stances
among Jesus' contemporaries, and there were certainly rather strongly
positive and negative views positioned towards either end of a possible
spectrum. It appears that some followers left their normal occupations, and
their familial ties too, and formed a small band inspired by and drawn to
him. These followers were committed to his teachings and what they understood to be his aims. This means, unavoidably, that they were also committed to his own personal validity. It was Jesus' message to which they
responded and he was thus the impetus and basis for their commitment. By
far, most scholars who have given attention to the subject have concluded
that his followers likely saw Jesus in one or another way in terms and
categories prominent in their Jewish Palestinian setting, a setting heavily
20. Those acquainted with historical Jesus literature will recognize both that the
options I list here allude to various scholarly characterizations of Jesus in recent
scholarship, and also that I have given only an illustrative sampling of the varying
characterizations available!

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characterized by religious issues and concerns, though for a few scholars
the putative influence of Hellenistic philosophical traditions figure importantly.21 The varying estimates of Jesus given in some Gospel passages
(e.g. Mk 6.14-16) are widely thought to be a generally authentic, though
perhaps also only a selected, set of opinions held about him: a prophet,
perhaps even a herald of eschatological events (Elijah), someone to be
likened (as a trouble maker?) to John the Baptizer. A plausible case has
been made that there was an even wider variety of views that included at
one end a hope that Jesus was a messianic figure, and at the other end the
conviction that he was a bad example and perhaps even a false teacher,
magician, and arrogantly dangerous agitator.
So, I reiterate my point stated earlier. If we wish to account for why
there is such a focus on the specific figure of Jesus in the early Christian
sources, the best way forward is to note that the immediate and dominant
outcome of Jesus' career was a sharply divided set of views about him,
with some so negative as to justify his crucifixion and some so positive as
to form the basis of one or more new religious movements of dedicated
followers. From the earliest stages to which we have any access, and onwards, the devotional life of the followers of Jesus about whom we have
direct evidence was marked by a high importance given to him. The specific nature of that importance, the claims that they made about him, arose
from several factors, and in my view cannot be attributed solely to Jesus'
teaching and activities. But the most likely explanation of why the
question of Jesus' legitimacy and authority featured so prominently in
early Christian circles is this polarization of views about Jesus that we
have looked at here, a polarization over Jesus that is evident already during
his own ministry and that remained (and probably escalated) as a result of
his execution. This polarizing effect or outcome of Jesus' ministry is thus
a second force/factor to include in an adequate theory of the origin and
formation of Christ-devotion. I proceed now to the second question mentioned at the beginning of this section: Why did Christ-devotion assume
the proportions it did in early Christianity, that is, amounting to a new
binitarian devotional pattern unprecedented in Jewish monotheism?
Religious Experience
Earlier, I proposed that Christ-devotion quickly amounted to what may be
regarded as an unparalleled innovation, a 'mutation' or new variant form
21. I allude here to proposals about possible similarities of Jesus to Cynics, on
which see, e.g., Betz (1994).

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of exclusivist monotheism in which a second figure (Jesus) is programmatically included with God in the devotional pattern of Christian groups.
Outside of the Jewish-Christian circles in which this binitarian pattern
arose, the characteristic force of exclusivist monotheism seems to have
prevented any otherfigurefrombeing treated as a secondrightfulrecipient
of cultic devotion, just as this monotheistic constraint served in early
Christian circles to work against any additionalfiguresother than God and
Jesus being accorded such reverence. So, how should we account for such
a novel development? The outcome of Jesus' career was a deeply polarizing
force that accounts for the thematizing of him and his general prominence
among his followers, but this particularizing focus on Jesus would hardly
be expected to amount to the binitarian devotional pattern we see so
quickly in evidence.22 Something more is required, something sufficient to
have generated such a significant and apparently novel development, especially given the concerns about God's uniqueness and the apparent lack of
precedent for this development in Roman-era Jewish tradition.
For this, I propose that the most plausible factor is the effect of powerful religious experiences in early Christian circles, experiences that
struck the recipients (and other participants in these circles as well) as
having revelatory validity and force, sufficient to demand such a significant re-configuring of monotheistic practice. It is not necessary for
my theory that we, however, grant the religious validity of these (or any
other) experiences. All that is necessary is for us to recognize: (1) the
demonstrable efficacy of such experiences in generating significant
innovations in various religious traditions; and (2) the likelihood that this
efficacy is to be granted in the case of early Christianity as well. As I
have sought to provide a persuasive case for these matters elsewhere, I
shall restrict myself here to a summary presentation (Hurtado 2000).
For various reasons, the religious experiences described in the sources
for early Christianity have not always been done justice in scholarly studies. From its inception, scholarly study of the New Testament has mainly
had theological concerns, mining the New Testament for what it has to say
that would inform, support or challenge Christian beliefs. This is the case,
whether the scholars in question were sympathetic or antithetic to conventional Christian beliefs. Naturally, therefore, the scholarly traditions, the
issues, the apparatus of scholarship, the questions and approaches, were all
focused heavily on the religious thought of the New Testament and other
22. I must, thus, dissent from those who have tried to make Jesus' own teaching the
basis of him being made a recipient of cultus. Cf., e.g., France (1982); Losch (1933).

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early Christian sources, and comparatively less/little attention was given to
the nature and importance of the religious experiences attested. Those
scholars more positively disposed to Christian faith were also disposed to
focus on doctrines; those more negatively/critically disposed scholars were
usually uncomfortable with the whole idea of religious experience.
Gunkel's classic work on the Spirit in Paul is commonly regarded
today as a watershed publication, and in the decades after its appearance
there was a number of other studies focusing on early Christian religious
experience.23 In more recent years a few other scholars have made useful
contributions, among which, Dunn's study, Jesus and the Spirit (1975),
is particularly worth noting.24 Nevertheless, scholars still tend to ignore
or give little importance to religious experiences in describing and understanding early Christianity. The more conventional historical investigations have tended to focus on questions about the origins of the written
sources, the beliefs and events reflected in them, and the circumstances
that evoked the writings. Even in more recent studies of the social and
cultural characteristics of early churches, there is a tendency to focus on
other aspects and questions, such as the economic levels of early Christians, the roles exercised by women, or the organizational structures, or
rituals.25 Luke Johnson has complained about this neglect of early Christian religious experiences in a very recent book (1998), in which he
advocates a phenomenological approach involving comparisons with
religious experiences of other times and places to develop a sense of how
religious experiences likely functioned.
Beyond an adequate appreciation of the general importance of religious
experiences in early Christian circles, however, I contend that we need to
allow for the causative significance of revelatory experiences in the religious innovations that took place in these circles. That is, I hold that an
adequate historical understanding of early Christianity requires us to grant
significant attention to the religious experiences that obviously formed
such a major part of the early Christian ethos. Having made this point in
23. Gunkel 1888. The continuing significance of this study is reflected in its translation into English (Harrisville and Quanbeck 1979). Subsequent scholars who have contributed to the topic include Adolf Deissmann, P. Gardner, H.B. Swete and H.W.
Robinson from the early part of this century (publications cited in Hurtado 2000).
24. Note also Fee (1994).
25. For example, the justly praised study by Meeks (1983) has no significant
treatment of the religious experiences that characterized early Christian groups. See
also the survey of scholarship by Holmberg (1990).

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Christian Origins

previous publications, I know also that some scholars are reluctant to grant
it.26 It is worth noting, therefore, that I am not alone in my view.
Dunn, for example, has warned about 'discounting the creativeforce of
religious experience* (emphasis his), citing Paul as an important case study.
Granting that Paul drew upon his Jewish and Greek backgrounds for much
of his language and concepts, Dunn insisted that we also have to grant 'the
creative power of his own religious experience—a furnace which melted
many concepts in its fires and poured them forth into new moulds... Nothing should be allowed to obscure that fact' (1975: 3-4 [4]).27 Philip
Almond acknowledged the connection between the nature of one's religious experience and 'the context that informs it', but he also emphasized
that in our analysis of religious developments we must allow for 'those
experiences which go beyond or are at odds with the received context'
(Almond 1982: 166-67). He pointed specifically to powerful religious
experiences that 'may lead too to the creative transformation of a religious
tradition' and that are 'capable of generating new interpretations of the
tradition...' (Almond 1982: 168). Similar points have been made by Carl
Rashke, who described revelation experiences as involving 'the transposition of certain meaning systems', that is, the reformulation or reconfiguring of religious convictions (Raschke 1978: 424).
Among social scientists, though the tendency has been to regard religious
experiences as derivative phenomena, the (dysfunctional) outcomes of
stressful social circumstances and the manifestation of psychopathology,
there are scholars in these disciplines who question this approach.28 Characteristically, social-science approaches assume one or another form of
'deprivation theory', whether the deprivation be regarded as social and
cultural conditions or individual (psychological) conditions of stress,
sexual frustration, and soon. Thus, religious experiences are taken as 'false
consciousness', and dysfunctional responses to life. Powerful, 'revelatory'
26. Hurtado 1998b: esp. 117-22, and my interaction with critics of this view in
Hurtado (1996: 25-26). See also Hurtado (2000).
27. We might also note Hermann GunkePs comments against attempts of his day to
make Paul's religious thought simply a borrowing from other sources: 'The theology
of the great apostle is the expression of his experience, not of his reading' (Gunkel
1979: 100).
28. The social-science literature on religious experience is too vast to attempt more
here than a citation of a few illustrative and heuristically useful studies. The pioneering
classic was, of course, James (1902). Among more recent work, see, e.g., Clark et al.
(1973); Stark (1965). For a critique of the negative view, see esp. Stark (1991).

HURTADO Christ-Devotion: Forces and Factors

69

experiences are taken quite often as 'hallucinatory' and delusional, and
therefore of not much significance in themselves.29 But some scholars
have questioned this rather negative view of religious experiences and
have offered resources for understanding that some such experiences seem
to serve as the occasion for the emergence of sometimes significant innovations in religious traditions. That is, such powerful religious experiences
can themselves contribute significantly, sometimes crucially, to religious
innovations, and are not limited to serving merely as 'legitimizing devices*
for previously formed beliefs and practices.
In a now classic essay, in which he offered a model of the processes
involved in the emergence of major religious innovations such as new
sects, Anthony Wallace referred to 'mazeway reformulation', involving
the restructuring of elements such as religious beliefs, which in the history
of religions often happens in the mind of a prophet-figure abruptly and
dramatically as 'a moment of insight'. He also noted that 'the religious
vision experience per se is not psychopathological but rather the reverse,
being a synthesising and often therapeutic process...' (Wallace 1956:
270).
More recently, Rodney Stark also has recognized the capacity of
'revelational' religious experiences to 'contradict and challenge prevailing
theological "truths"' (Stark 1965:108). He also noted the efficacy of such
experiences to produce in the recipient a sense of personal divine commission, and to generate messages taken as directed to a wide public, 'such
as in the case of new theologies, eschatological prophecies, or commissions
to launch social reforms' (Stark 1965: 110-11). In another study Stark
focused specifically on religious experiences of 'revelation', positing as
'the most fundamental question confronting the social scientific study of
religion: How does new religious culture arise?' (Stark 1991: 239). Stark
expressed dissatisfaction with his own earlier attempts to account for the
emergence of new religious movements because he had not allowed for
'normal people' (by which Stark meant mentally healthy people) to have
'revelations sufficiently profound to serve as the basis of new religions'
(Stark 1991:240-41). Noting that reports of this kind of revelatory experience are infrequent in comparison to lower-intensity religious experiences,
Stark proposed that 'unusually creative individuals' might have such
'profound revelations' and attribute them to divine action, though he also
granted the possibility that revelations actually occur and that there is 'an
active supernatural realm closed to scientific exploration' (Stark 1991:
29. The classic statement of 'relative deprivation theory' is by Aberle (1972).

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Christian Origins

243-44, 241). Stark was obviously trying to develop a theoretical model
that allowed for the efficacy of such experiences and did not require a
prior acceptance of a divine agency behind them.
The important points for my purposes are: (1) that Stark defends the
idea that certain powerful religious experiences themselves can produce
significant innovations in religious traditions; and (2) that such experiences,
though shaped by social and cultural contexts, are not merely confirmations of religious ideas otherwise generated and are also not necessarily
merely manifestations of psychopathology. Moreover, I agree with Stark
that revelatory experiences are more likely to happen to 'persons of deep
religious concerns who perceive shortcomings in the conventional faith(s)',
that persons are more likely to perceive shortcomings in conventional
faith(s) during times of increased social crisis, that during such periods
there is a greater likelihood of people being willing to accept claims of
revelations, and that it is crucial to the success of the revelation that some
others accept it as such (Stark 1991: 244-46).
So, just as it is a mistake to dismiss all claims of revelatory experiences
as psychopathology, so it is a mistake to ignore such experiences in accounting for religious innovations. This is recognized by scholars working
on religious innovations in other cultures as well, such as Mark Mullins,
Byron Earhart, and others (Mullins 1993; Earhart 1980-81, 1989; and
Waldman and Baum 1992). As Earhart noted, 'The innovative decision of
the founder cannot be completely subsumed by either social factors or the
influence of prior religious factors' (Earhart 1989: 236) and in a good
many cases the 'innovative decision' of founder and reformer figures are
attributed by them to experiences of revelation.
In most cases, we are dealing with innovations within a religious tradition. Werner Stark referred to the 'minor founder' figure as 'a charismatic
individual who gives birth to a new religious movement' in an attempt to
address religious needs felt by members of an established tradition, 'while
at the same time conceptualising the movement as an extension, elaboration, or fulfilment of an existing religious tradition' (1970: 265).30 Of
course, characteristically those who have sought reformations or innovations within their own religious traditions, and could thus be thought of as
'minor founder' figures, can be rejected by the parent tradition, which can
result in new religious traditions forming out of efforts at reformation or
30. Anthony Blasi has used this 'minor founder' category to describe the Apostle
Paul (1991: esp. 14-15).

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71

innovation. This is likely the best way to understand what happened in the
case of early Christianity.
To summarize matters to this point, I contend that it is either ideological
bias or insufficiently examined assumptions that prevents some scholars
from taking seriously the view that revelatory religious experiences can
directly contribute to religious innovations. I have pointed here both to
religions scholars and to social scientists who support my contention,
based on their study of historical examples and more recent and contemporary religious developments. In light of this, I submit that in developing a
theory to account for the religious innovation constituted by early Christdevotion it is thoroughly reasonable in principle to posit a significant
causative role to revelatory religious experiences. Moreover, in the case of
early Christianity, such a view is supported by the evidence.
Revelatory Experiences in the New Testament
In this presentation, I hope it will be sufficient to give initial indication that
we have a basis in the relevant sources for making revelatory experiences
of early Christians one important factor in my theory of the forces that
drove and shaped the innovation constituted in Christ-devotion.31
In 1 Cor. 15.1-11, in a letter written scarcely 20 years into the Christian
movement, the Apostle Paul recites as a sacred tradition the claims that
Jesus died redemptively for sins and that he was 'raised on the third day
according to the scriptures' (v. 4). There follows a series of resurrection
appearances to various figures, and it is commonly recognized that these
experiences are listed here as the basis for the traditional conviction that
Jesus was resurrected. There is no reference to an empty tomb, but it would
be exceeding the warrants of the passage to say that Paul knew of no
tradition about the tomb. Whether he did or did not know of such reports,
however, it is clear that in the tradition that he learned and circulated among
his churches the resurrection appearances were the crucial bases for the
faith that God had raised Jesus from death. Moreover, the reports of such
experiences are attributed tofigureswho take us back to the earliest known
circles of the Christian movement (e.g. Cephas, James, the Twelve, all of
whom are well-known figures connected with the Jerusalem church).
These appearances must have been such as to contribute significantly to
31. Also in the essay referred to earlier (Hurtado 2000) I have given fuller discussion of evidence indicating a significant role of revelatory religious experience in the
New Testament.

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the specific convictions drawn from them.32 The earliest indications are
that these convictions were: (1) that God had released Jesusfromdeath, so
that it really is Jesus, not merely his memory or influence, who lives again;
(2) that God has bestowed on Jesus uniquely a glorious new form of existence, immortal and eschatological bodily life; (3) that Jesus has also been
exalted to a unique heavenly status, thus presiding by God's appointment
over the redemptive programme; and (4) that those who were given these
special encounters with the risen Jesus were divinely commissioned to
proclaim Jesus' exalted status and summon people to recognize in his
resurrection/exaltation the signal that an eschatological moment of redemption has arrived. The experiences, therefore, likely involved an 'encounter'
with a figure recognized as Jesus by the recipients of the experiences but
also exhibiting features that convinced them that he had been clothed with
divine-like glory and given a unique heavenly status.
These convictions constituted an innovation in religious belief in the
historical setting in which theyfirstwere expressed. The earliest traditions
attribute the innovation to powerful experiences taken by the recipients as
appearances of the risen Christ. We have no historical basis for attributing
the innovative convictions to some other source, and we have surveyed
scholarly bases for accepting that such experiences can generate novel
religious convictions. Whether one chooses to consider these particular
experiences as hallucinatory, projections of mental processes of the recipients, or the acts of God, there is every reason to see them as the ignition
points for the christological convictions linked to them.
In terms of the religious scruples of the ancient Jewish tradition, the
most striking innovation in earliest Christian circles was to include Christ
with God as recipient of cultic devotion.33 What could have prompted such
32. The term 'appearances' here and the term 'visions' which I use later in this discussion refer to visual experiences which the recipients described as specially given to
them by God and, as such, distinguishable from more everyday and public visual experiences understood as resulting from encounter with objects and events freely visible to
anyone with sight on site at the time. To refer to these experiences as 'hallucinations'
would indicate a negative philosophical/theological judgment about them, for which a
specific defence of this judgment would be required just as much as would be expected
of an acceptance of their claim to have been special acts of God. As indicated already,
my focus here is on the historical effects/efficacy of such experiences in earliest Christianity, leaving the philosophical/theological question for another occasion.
33. This was the major conclusion presented in Hurtado (1998b) where I showed
that no other 'principal agent' figure in ancient Jewish traditions was incorporated in
any similar way into the devotional life of any Jewish group of the time.

HURTADO Christ-Devotion: Forces and Factors

73

a major innovation in the devotional scruples and practices that were
inherited from the Jewish tradition? What might have moved Christian
Jews to feel free to offer to Christ this unparalleled cultic devotion? In
light of the characteristic reluctance of devout Jews to accord cultic reverence to any figure other than God, it seems likely that those very early
circles who took the step of according Christ such reverence would have
done so only if they felt compelled by God. That is, in these groups people
must have experienced what they took to be revelations sent by God that
convinced them that a right response and obedience to God demanded of
them this cultic reverence of Christ. The experiential forms that such 'revelations' may have taken were likely several, based on references in early
Christian sources.
1.1 have already given an important reference to visions, especially
visions of the resurrected/exalted Christ. Based on other traditions about
such experiences (e.g. 2 Cor. 12.1-4; Acts 7.54-56; Rev. 5.1-14), they
seem to have included visions of (and/or ascents to) God's heaven, in
which the glorified Christ was seen in an exalted position and perhaps
receiving heavenly cultus with God. It would appear that corporate worship was a frequent setting for such visions and 'revelations' and other
experiences understood as prompted by the Holy Spirit (e.g. 1 Cor. 14.26).
2. It is highly likely that inspired/spontaneous utterances in the form of
prophetic oracles and also inspired songs were another important medium
for religious innovation. Inspired songs were perhaps particularly important
for the emergence of christological insights and claims, as Martin Hengel
has argued (1995: 227-91). Based on what appear to most scholars to be
remnants of earliest Christian hymns in the New Testament (e.g. Phil. 2.611), these were heavily concerned with celebrating and lauding Christ
(Deichgraber 1967). These were not the products of trained poets but arose
out of the religious exaltation of Christians, were likely taken as having
the force of prophetic oracles, and again seem to have been particularly
associated with the worship setting (1 Cor. 14.26; Col. 3.16).
3. What might be termed 'charismatic exegesis' of biblical (Old Testament) texts was still another important medium for new insights. The New
Testament preserves the results of these experiences in the sometimes
astonishing appropriation of biblical passages to express Christ-devotion.
For example, the utterly remarkable allusion to Isa. 45.23 in Phil. 2.10-11
involves finding a reference to Christ as Kyrios as well as God in what is
perhaps the most stridently monotheistic passage in the Old Testament!34
34. On the allusion to/use of Isa. 45.23 here, see esp. Nagata (1981: 279-337).

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The christological interpretation of Isa. 6.1 in Jn 12.41 is another striking
case. Based on references in the New Testament to experiences of inspired
insights into biblical texts (e.g. 2 Cor. 3.12-16; Lk. 24.27, 31-32,44-47),
and based on comparative phenomena in the history of religions as well,
we should take seriously experiences of inspired interpretations of biblical
texts as key occasions for christological developments. Of course, these
experiences were likely in the context of group worship, prayer for and
expectations of divine revelations of this kind, and other phenomena that
raised questions that drove devout believers to their scriptures searching
for new insights and answers.
So, if we seek a factor to account for the striking innovation constituted
by the incorporation of Christ into a binitarian devotional pattern, that is, if
we seek an answer to the question of why Christ-devotion assumed the
proportions it did and so quickly, I propose that we have to allow for the
generative role of revelatory religious experiences. This is the third factor
in the theory I offer. I turn now to the final factor.
The Religious Environment
The fourth force or factor in my theory is the effects upon early Christdevotion of encounters with the Roman-era religious environment. This
includes, of course, both Jewish and pagan components, and in part I have
already addressed this in the discussion above about monotheism. SecondTemple Judaism was certainly the central component in the religious environment of the earliest Christian circles, and the monotheistic concern was
a central feature of Judaism. If we accord Jewish monotheism a major role
in shaping Christ-devotion in early Christian circles, this surely demonstrates the influence of the religious environment.
To mention the influence of the religious environment of earliest Christianity will seem so obvious to most scholars as to be a rather banal matter.
At least since the classic study by Edwin Hatch, scholars have taken
seriously various influences of the Greek background and Roman religious
setting of early Christianity (Hatch 1907). How could there be any group
or individuals not shaped in various ways by the cultural setting in which
they live? How could any group such as the early Christian circles concerned to communicate with and recruit from their contemporaries not
deliberately seek to make their efforts meaningful in terms appropriate to
the setting? So, of course, in these senses at least, early Christians were
shaped, and shaped themselves, by influences of their environment. To
refer to Jesus as Christos (Messiah) reflects a claim directed to Jewish

HURTADO Christ-Devotion: Forces and Factors

75

hopes of the time for God's messianic mercy. Virtually all the christological rhetoric of early Christians was appropriated from their environment,
although in a great many cases the meanings were significantly altered.35
Likewise, although attempts to make early Christian rituals entirely
derivative from pagan practices have been shown to be simplistic, there
are undeniable historical connections. For example, early Christian baptism
was adapted from Jewish practice such as the repentance rite advocated by
John the Baptizer; and in a religious environment where sacred meals were
a common feature it is not surprising that early Christians too made a sacred
common meal a central feature of their practice.
I have in mind something more specific, however, in mentioning here
the early Christian encounter with and existence in the Roman-era religious environment. This involves two things in particular. First, it is clear
that in their efforts to commend their religious views and practices, the
early Christians sought to differentiate their message and claims from
others of the time. That is, they took account of their religious environment
much more consciously and critically than would have been the case had
they seen their message and devotional pattern as simply one of many
acceptable versions of religiosity of the time (as seems to have been the
attitude characteristic of most religious people other than devout Jews and
Christians). This means that the Roman-era religious environment was
influential, but not only, perhaps not primarily, in terms of the simple or
direct appropriation of ideas and practices. In their efforts to articulate and
justify their distinctives in message and practice, and in their reactions
against features of the religious environment, their religious rhetoric and
practices were also shaped. For example, I contend that the rising frequency in the christological use of divine sonship language that we see in
the Christian writings of the late first century and thereafter may very well
reflect a reaction against the contemporaneous increase in the use of the
same rhetoric in the emperor cult under the Flavians and thereafter.36
Second, it is also clear that the early Christian movement suffered opposition and criticism, initially from other sectors of the Jewish matrix, and
then in the pagan religious and political arenas as well. The Jewish opposition and critique came immediately, at leastfromthe Jerusalem authorities
involved with Pilate in bringing Jesus up on the charges that led to his
3 5. See the programmatic essay by Dahl (1991).
36. I have proposed this in an earlier publication: Hurtado (1996: 24-25), with
citations of other relevant literature in nn. 34-35 on pp. 31-32. See also Hurtado
(1993).

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execution. In fact, of course, the execution of Jesus itself meant that opposition to any positive thematizing of him was there even before what is usually regarded as the birth of the Christian movement! As already argued
earlier in the section on 'Jesus', this condemnation of Jesus would have
put tremendous pressure on his followers either to capitulate or to reinforce and defend any positive claims about him.37
In an earlier publication (Hurtado 1999a) I gathered evidence of
continuing Jewish opposition to Christ-devotion particularly in the first
century, supplementing the study by Claudia Setzer (1994), which surveys more broadly the period down to c. 150 CE.38 Paul's pre-conversion
opposition to Jewish Christians was, of course, a very early and, by his
own testimony, very vigorous example (e.g. Gal. 1.13).39 This Jewish
opposition obviously involved polemics against Jesus and any attempt to
make him religiously significant by his followers. It is likely that at least
some Jews regarded Jesus as deserving, or under, a divine curse for his
false teaching.40 That is, the opposition to the early Jesus movement was
heavily concerned with denial and refutation of its message, practices
and claims for Jesus.
This being so, such Jewish opposition and critique must be seen, along
with the early Christian interaction with the pagan religious scene, as
together constituting another major force driving and shaping early Christdevotion. The dynamics involved in such polemical encounters have been
characterized classically by Berger and Luckmann as the maintenance of a
'symbolic universe' by a group over against challenges from other groups
or from dissidents ('heretics') within the group. They note that the need to
defend a religious or political view against opposition can in fact contribute
significantly to the further conceptualization of the view by its defenders/
advocates (Berger and Luckmann 1966: esp. 99). Here again, my proposal
about a significant force/factor in the origin and development of Christdevotion has support in social scientific studies.
I cite an example of these dynamics from the New Testament. It is
widely accepted that Paul's assertions of Christ's superiority over Torah
37. This is one of several reasons why recent claims that there were very early
circles of Jesus' followers who took no interest in thematising him or his execution are
implausible and require considerably more supporting evidence that has thus far been
furnished.
38. See also Stanton (1985).
39. Hurtado (1999a: 50-54), and literature cited there.
40. E.g. Hurtado (1999a: 56-57), and literature cited there.

HURTADO Christ-Devotion: Forces and Factors

11

were, in a significant measure, prompted in opposition to those Christian
Jews who either demanded circumcision and Torah-observance of Gentile
converts (e.g. the 'false brethren' of Gal. 2.4-5) or who in Paul's eyes
behaved in such a way as to give implicit support for such demands (e.g.
the behaviour of Cephas and Barnabas as described in Gal. 2.11-14). That
is, Paul's conceptualizing and verbal expressions of Christ's significance
were in this case shaped in a polemical encounter with his religious environment, though in this example it was the immediate Jewish-Christian
sector of that environment. To cite another instance, it is also likely that
Paul's treatment of Christ as 'becoming a curse for us' in Gal. 3.10-14 was
shaped in reaction to Jewish charges that Jesus was accursed (charges
which Paul himself had likely pressed upon Christian Jews in his own preconversion days of opposition to them).41 Here again, Paul's conceptualization of Christ's significance probably reflects the effects of opposition
from the religious environment of the earliest Christian circles.
Still other examples can be given, but I trust that these will suffice for
the present purpose, which is to contend that the (often adversarial) encounter with their religious environment was a major factor driving and
shaping the Christ-devotion of early Christian circles. As such, this factor
must be included in an adequate theory.
Summary
In answer to the demand that a fully adequate historical analysis of early
Christ-devotion should include a clearly formulated and explicitly stated
theory of the forces/factors that drove and shaped it, I have laid out such a
theory at some length. Having discussed them individually, I simply re-state
here the four major forces/factors that comprise this theory: (1) Jewish
exclusivist monotheism, as the most important context and a powerful
shaping force that accounts particularly for the characteristically 'binitarian'
nature of Christ-devotion; (2) the impact of Jesus, particularly the polarizing
effects of his career, which at one extreme involved outright condemnation
of him, this in turn contributing heavily to the very positive thematizing of
him from the earliest known circles of the Jesus movement onward;
(3) revelatory religious experiences, which communicated to circles of the
Jesus movement the conviction that Jesus had been given heavenly glory
and that it was God's will for him to be given extraordinary reverence in
41. E.g. Sanger( 1994).

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Christian Origins

their devotional life; and (4) the encounter with the larger religious environment, particularly the dynamics of countering Jewish polemics and of differentiating and justifying Christian devotion over against the dominant
pagan practice.
Although I have proposed something of the individual effects of these
forces, I emphasize again that they are to be seen as having operated in a
dynamic interaction in early Christian circles. Thus, for example, although
the revelatory experiences appear to have prompted an extraordinarily
exalted place for Jesus in the devotional life of very early Christians, the
inherited commitment to monotheism obvious in what became the characteristic forms of early Christianity helped to shape this devotion in what I
have termed a 'binitarian' direction, rather than in the direction of an apotheosis of Jesus as a new deity in his own right after the pagan pattern. The
resulting devotional pattern was, nevertheless, an unparalleled innovation,
and, in view of the clearly expressed monotheistic self-understanding of
these early Christians, their inclusion of Christ as recipient of cultic
devotion can be taken as constituting a new variant form of exclusivist
monotheism.
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Die Wirkungen des heligen Geistes nach der populdren Anschauung der
apostolischen Zeit und der Lehre des Apostels Paulus (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht).
The Influence of the Holy Spirit: The Popular View of the Apostolic Age
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Hengel, Martin
1974
Judaism and Hellenism (2 vols.; London: SCM Press).
1995
Studies in Early Christology (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark).
Holmberg, B.
1990
Sociology and the New Testament: An Appraisal (Philadelphia: Fortress
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Horbury, W.
1998
Jewish Messianism and the Cult of Christ (London: SCM Press).
Horsley, R.
1987
Jesus and the Spiral of Violence (San Francisco: Harper & Row).
Hurtado, L.W.
1993
'Son of God', in G.F. Hawthorne and R.P. Martin (eds.), Dictionary of Paul
and his Letters (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press): 900-906.
1996
'Christ-Devotion in the First Two Centuries: Reflections and a Proposal',
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'A Taxonomy of Recent Historical-Jesus Work', in W.E. Arnal and Michel
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'First-Century Jewish Monotheism', JSNT 71: 3-26.
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One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion andAncient Jewish Monothe1998b
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'The Binitarian Shape of Early Christian Worship', in Carey C. Newman,
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'Religious Experience and Religious Innovation in the New Testament', JR
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Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids:
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Johnson, L.T.
Religious Experience in Earliest Christianity: A Missing Dimension in New
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Testament Studies (Philadelphia: Fortress Press).
Koester, H.
1982
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Kreitzer, J.
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Striking New Images: Roman Imperial Coinage and the New Testament
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Kitmmel, W.G.
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Jewish Responses to Early Christians: History and Polemics, 30-150 C.E.
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THE DIDACHE AS A SOURCE FOR PICTURING THE EARLIEST
CHRISTIAN COMMUNITIES: THE CASE OF THE PRACTICE OF FASTING

Thomas O'Loughlin

Taking Note of the Didache
The year 2000 was the one hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary of the
announcement of the discovery in Constantinople of the Didache1 by
Philotheos Bryennios2 in a manuscript now housed in the Greek patriarchate of Jerusalem.3 During that time we have become used to the idea of
spectacular discoveries that can change our perceptions of the early church
and radically alter how we read the traditionally available material such as
the fourth-century collection of early texts commonly known as 'the New
Testament'. However, while the Didache lacks the exciting allure of the
Qumran and Nag Hammadi documents, it probably has provided as much
information on the earliest decades of Christianity as these larger and more
famous discoveries. It is a text, now in 16 chapters (really little more than
paragraphs), which can be read in less than an hour.4 In terms of theology
and Christian practice it contains almost nothing that would much surprise
the average Christian today—though it would annoy many of them, and
has done so since its publication in 1883.5
1. The edition used in preparing this article is that found in Holmes (1992: 24669); this edition has been compared in the case of each citation with that in
K. Niederwimmer's text (1998). The latter book is currently the most comprehensive
introduction to the Didache and scholarship devoted to it.
2. The discovery was made in 1873 and announced in 1875, with the editio
princeps appearing in 1883. For an account of the discovery the key work is Schaff
(1886: 1-10); there is summary in Niederwimmer (1998: 19).
3. Codex 54; there is a facsimile of folios 76-80 (which contain the Didache) in
Harris (1887); and a summary of its contents in Niederwimmer (1998:19); and cf. also
Audet(1950).
4. Schaff (1886:23) pointed out that it is about the same length as Paul's letter to
the Galatians.
5. The more irrational late datings (fourth and fifth centuries) suggested by some

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Since its publication it has not been without scholarly attention.6 Within
a few years of its appearance there were major studies in German by Adolf
von Harnach (1884), in French by Paul Sabatier (1885), and in English by
F.W. Farrar (1884) in Britain and Philip Schaff (1885) in America.7 By the
1930s there had been so many studies of this little text that one commentator, F.E. Vokes—in a very strange book, for he thoroughly disliked the
text to which he devoted many years of study—described it as 'the "spoilt
child" of criticism' (Vokes 1938: 6-1)}
Two major schools of interpretation soon took shape.9 The first was in
France where the text was held to be first century and from the general
area of Syria; the second was in German lands10 where it was dated to
some time in the second century and from Egypt Anglophone scholarship
took a variety of positions but on the whole tended towards the German
school, although it produced a series of eccentric studies beginning with
Charles Bigg who in 1898 described it as 'a romance of the fourth century'
and had its fullest exposition in Vokes who believed that it was the work
of a 'very mild Montanist' at 'the end of the second century or at the
beginning of the third' (Vokes 1938:208-220).11 It is important to note the
writers are evidence of this annoyance. Their dismissal of the Didachefromdiscussions of Christian origins—for it is so dismissed if it is a 'post-apostolic' document—
are usually justified by the fact that only with a long passage of time (and so, they argue,
inevitable ecclesiastical corruption) could 'un-evangelical' features such asfixedrules
regarding prayer have arisen among the Christians; cf. Ehrhard (1900:1,62).
6. While Niederwimmer (1998) provides a thorough account ofthe scholarship on
virtually every matter of significance, the best historiographical review is Jefford
(1989:3-17).
7. For the details of these works, see Jefford (1989: 3-13).
8. Yokes (1938:6-7) (when he quoted Bigg 1898 who has been seen as thefirstof
the British school who have argued that the Didache is an elaborate literaryfiction,cf.
Niederwimmer [1998:43-44 n. 16] where he is particularly critical of Vokes). Vokes
returned to the topic many years later (1964) without any evidence of any alteration of
his views. Vokes, like Bigg, dismissed the earlier datings on the basis that the Didache4's
praxis too resembled the later * corrupted' church that was often labelled 'early Catholicism' (Friihkatholizismus).
9. This division into schools is based on Jefford (1989: 3-17).
10. This school embraced Polish scholars who lived in regions which were then
part of Germany, e.g. Krawutzcky (1884).
11. For an account of these writers, see Jefford (1989:15); but see Niederwimmer
(1998: 43-44 and also 52 n. 16, 68) for a more critical assessment. This approach
culminated in Middleton (1935) who saw 'the Didachist' asfroma 'Jewish community
and on his conversion composed his curious little work' which has not made 'any

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85

existence of these schools of thought as it has caused many Englishspeaking scholars who use the Didache for parallels to their main concerns
to use fudges such as 'pre-third century, perhaps mid-second century or
earlier, from either Egypt or Syria', which really say nothing and only
serve to distract students from giving the document the care it merits.12
Essentially the difference between the dates (mid to late first century versus
early to mid second century) depended on whether one approached the text
from the appearance of the church it described (the French approach) or as
a witness providing evidence to the formation of the Gospels. Using the
German approach, since the Didache seemed to use Matthew (and others
found Luke, Acts, Paul, Ignatius of Antioch and even Justin)13 it must be
later than those documents. Equally, the text as we have it shows signs of
redaction,14 a process which takes time, and argues for a later date. But
equally it has practices such as the cup before the loaf at the Eucharist, a
ritual that had already changed by the time Matthew was written, and which
argue for an earlier date.15 However, as our understanding of Gospel foruseful contribution to our knowledge of the Early Church' and not 'worthy of anything
like the serious attention that was at one time given to it' (1935: 267). Happily this
eclipse of the Didache in English-speaking scholarship seems to be coming to an end,
but even today it receives more attention from German and French scholars.
12. A good example of this is to be found in Jasper and Cuming (1980: 14) who
introduced the text thus: 'It has been allotted dates varying from AD 60 to the third
century' without further comment. This statement then informs writings by other
liturgists who often conclude that mere is little agreement about the Didache—even
fewer recognize that the late datings are eccentric—and opt for the latest date as 'the
safe option'.
13. The central thrust of scholarship on the Didache has been to establish its
literary relations with other texts, either with the New Testament texts for those who
argue for an early date (cf. Jefford 1989passim; and Niederwimmer 1998:46-52) or to
the 'apostolic fathers' for those who have argued for a later date.
14. This is agreed by all, but the significance attached to the activity (i.e. redaction
of components into a single manual or simply the binding together of materials for
convenience—if these activities can be distinguished), especially in so far as redaction
reflects use of other texts (see the preceding note), has a bearing on the whole study:
see Niederwimmer (1998: 1-2).
15. Cf. Did. 9.2-3 with Mt. 26.26-28; in support of the Didache order cf. 1 Cor.
10.16 and Lk. 22.17-19; in support of what established itself as the liturgically standard
order, cf. 1 Cor. 11.23-26 and Lk. 22.19-20. This question has attracted much attention
during the last century, and for an approach that fully embraces these different
traditions of practice—in contrast to earlier approaches which saw them as textual
contradictions—see Nodet and Taylor (1998: 88-123). For a study of the various texts,
see Vodbus (1968).

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mation has changed, so too has the way that we look at this text, and today
there is a broad consensus that the original form of this document goes back
to the middle of the first century, and that it draws on the same strands of
tradition—written or oral—that both Matthew and Luke drew upon,16 and
that it received the form in which we have it by the end of the first century
(if not earlier) as a manual17 forpresbuteroi.1* This position—essentially
that of all recent editors of the text: J.P. Audet, Stanilaus Giet, Willy
Rordorf and Andre Tuilier and Kurt Niederwimmer19—has major implications for how the text is used in studies of early Christian communities
and must alter the way that it is used by students of the canonical collection of documents in particular. It means in many cases that texts—although
hallowed by centuries of familiarity and doctrinal commitment—must be
seen as secondary to the Didache as witnesses to the earliest communities
(the study of Acts is the example sans pareit), while the Didache must
move from being a peripheral, subsequent text to being centre-stage in our
study of many of the basic activities of the church such as regular gatherings for the Eucharist. This is, of course, already happening in studies
where it is the actual community and its beliefs—which we know through
its literary products such as the Gospels—that are the focus of attention,
but there are still many studies that focus on the canonical text as the source
or vehicle of religious information, and in which the Didache is viewed as
but a useful, if complicated, source of parallels and 'background'. This
article is an attempt to demonstrate how one can glimpse an aspect of the
life of an early community through the Didache with our other sources
16. In many places the Didache seems verbally closer to Matthew, in other places it
seems verbally closer to Luke; and there have been many studies that sought to show
that it is linked either with Matthew or Luke. However, that such studies are inconclusive is what we should expect: all three documents represent the common church tradition which is fixed texrually in slightly different ways by each text. The crucial point is
that all three reflect the tradition prior to the time when it was part of the tradition to
assert the tradition's content by reference to a fixed, written text. This question is
addressed in every study of the Didache, the most extensive recent study being by
Jefford (1989); however, for an elegant presentation of the evidence, noting that the
Didache is independent of any of our existing Gospels, see Glover (1958-59).
17. The designation 'manual' was first given to the Didache by Philip Schaff
(1886: 16). Schaff thought of a manual in a quasi-official sense: a 'brief Directory of
Apostolic teaching, worship and discipline'; while I also use the word manual I do not
wish to imply some semi-official status; rather, that some materials came together
because it was most convenient to have them in one place in a single small codex.
18. See Milavec (1994).
19. See Niederwimmer (1998: 233-34) for the details of these editions.

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87

being used as supporting witnesses.20 However, it is necessary at the outset
to declare my hand and acknowledge some of my basic assumptions. First,
my object is an understanding of an aspect of the life of a community
through looking at one of its literary products. Second, an understanding
of thetextper se is not my objective, but merely a preliminary requisite so
that the text can yield the maximum amount of information about a church.
Third, the pursuit of this objective presupposes that texts, especially texts
giving directions for group activities, exist within communities, and that
the community has both a prior and more fundamental existence than its
literary products.21 In short, the reality of Christianity in thefirstcentury is
to be located in a community defined by its religious identity, not in texts.22
Low-Level Documents
However, using the Didache as a source for observing a first-century community begs a question. If that document is valuable for understanding
their lives, why did it not continue in use within the church, since we know
that it was translated in Coptic and Georgian and a work like it—if not the
actual text—was still remembered in the late fourth century and mentioned
by Jerome?23 A simple answer would be to point out that what has survived has been very much a matter of chance and that there is much that
we know existed which did not make it through the sieve of time. From
the first two centuries we have, in fact, only a fraction of what was produced and the real question is whether there are any special features of the
texts that did survive that made them popular, and, consequently, with a
higher chance of survival through much copying and wide diffusion. But
while such considerations are relevant to a work—the Gospel of Thomas is
a case in point—deliberately produced with the demands of the kerygma
20. I am concentrating on early Christian sources at the expense of inter-testamentary Jewish sources and Greek sources from the wider first-century society: an
article has little canvas!
21. This raises questions of both epistemology and literary theory; in the context of
the Didache my approach is that since it relates to the common activities of the group
(broadly defined as its 'rituals'—and not just its 'rituals' in the narrow sense of religious ceremonies), then the ritual-as-communication school's approach is the most
appropriate, cf. Rothenbuhler (1998).
22. This has, obviously, important implications for anyone who looks to either the
early days of Christianity or to canonical texts as part of a theological quest, but these
implications are not my concern here; cf. O'Loughlin (2001).
23. Cf. Niederwimmer (1998: 4-13).

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in view,24 there is a simpler reason for the disappearance of the Didache
and texts like it.
I begin with an analogy. I reach to a shelf in my study and pull out three
books at random. I have picked up F.J. Matera, What Are They Saying
about Mark? (1987), Sean Kealy's Mark's Gospel: A History of its Interpretation (1982) and Wilfrid Harrington's Mark (1984). For me there is
some ongoing relevance to these books—if nothing else, I know two of the
authors—and so they stand there safely on my shelf ready to be used
again, and if anyone interested in early Christianity saw them thrown on a
skip they might rescue them and declare that they were' still worth holding
on to'. Yet in the same period in which I bought those books, I also got
umpteen practical guides to this, pastoral guides to that, 'regulations
concerning...' and bundles of magazines containing information which I
then considered important for I remember copying items at the time for
others. I look around my study and I cannot find a single such item. And
even if I were a magpie and kept everything, at some stage that material
would have to be skipped, and if at that point you came across it you
would probably leave it there as 'it's too dated to be of use'. My point is
this: manuals, catechisms, guidelines, homily notes, and other pastoral
ephemera are vital at the time but have a short shelf-life, after which they
disappear through obsolescence. Indeed, it is their very relevance to a particular moment and situation that makes them ephemeral. When we move
from our world to that of manuscripts where every copy is a result of a
distinct decision that someone wants a new copy foxfuture reference,25 the
chances that an earlier manual will continue to be copied decline to almost
zero. If, indeed, many of the literary works from antiquity have been lost
(e.g. the Hortensius by Cicero which was still available in the fourth century), the survival of a practice-related work is simply a happy accident.
Manuals, of their nature, are updated continuously leaving their earlier
forms to disappear, usually, without trace. This is what I contend happened with the Didache'?6 and the fact that any copy survived must be
seen as a stroke of luck. Moreover, in fact, the text we have is one of the
24. See the context suggested for the Gospel of Thomas by Valantasis (1997).
25. Just as today the publisher produces copies in anticipation of demand, the decision to make a new copy is based on the judgment that someone else needs the work
for their use and for whom the existing copy is no longer sufficient.
26. Schaff (1886: 16) recognized this as the mechanism that eventually led to the
eclipse of the Didache: 'It was afterwards expanded in various modifications, and
ultimately displaced by fuller manuals...'

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89

'updates' of the basic text: someone, probably in the early second century,
had the manual and decided that he would add at its end—perhaps where
there was a blank page in his copy27—a useful homily (Did. 16), and that
update stands behind our surviving manuscript.28
However, we now encounter the paradox of manuals. If, perchance, they
do survive, then there comes a time when the very fact that they are so
primitive, and linked to people now seen as the progenitors of a tradition,
means that they attain the status of monuments. Then they become worthy
of being reproduced and studied as relics. Here, perhaps, lies the reason
why someone in 1056 CE coming across an obvious antiquity entitled 'the
teaching of the twelve apostles' deemed it worthy to be copied once more.
But if the Didache is a monument for those seeking apostolic relics
because of its title's claim to have links with the apostles and the earliest
times, then it has another claim on our attention as historians as a piece of
pastoral ephemera. This value to investigators of the earliest Christian
communities lies in the fact that iow-level' documents with their stress on
what should be done in concrete situations, and their interest in day-to-day
problems, allow us to see how individuals believed and behaved. While all
documents reveal a community in some way, such ephemera reveal their
home far more directly. To return to my analogy: if one wanted to understand the concerns that animated the Christian communities in Ireland in
the 1980s, to what sources should one turn? One would certainly find
much of value in books and formal statements written at the time, but one
would have a much fuller picture of how the Christians viewed the situation by looking at newspapers (even at the adverts in them), looking at
regulations that were issued, and at lists of meetings that took place in
parish halls. The value of the Didache to historians is that it belongs to this
second category of document. It is a witness to a living community and
its cares which were changing from day to day.29 As Niederwimmer has
remarked: 'The whole composition is unpretentious as literature, nourished by praxis and intended for immediate application' (1998: 3). Unlike
Acts, which has a theological vision of what the Church should be in con27. The possibility of such a page is based on its transmission in a codex made up
in quires, and I take the use of a codex for granted; cf. Roberts (1979); Roberts and
Skeat (1983); Skeat (1994; 1997).
28. This proposal would accord with Niederwimmer's dating of the Didache (1998:
52-53), but also shows my sympathy (against Niederwimmer 1998:42-43) with those
(Audet, Giet, Rordorf and Tuilier) who hold that the text as we have it is the result of
several redactions.
29. See Kraft (1965: 64-65).

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trast to its actual defects, the Didache is not a theological work; but in so
far as it proposes rules to a community to be followed, it can reveal to us
the operative theology of its compilers and the communities which used it.
A Manual
Most attention to the Didache during the twentieth century focused on
what it could tell us about other things—especially the Gospels as texts.
Today, its value is increasingly seen to lie in what it tells us of the concerns and everyday priorities of an early community. Therefore, the picture of the early Church we discern in the Didache is at the opposite end of
the spectrum to that given in Acts with its imaginary 'golden age'. Thus
far I have referred to the Didache as a 'manual' (Schaff s term) and as a
piece of ephemera (my term), but, as Aaron Milavec has pointed out, we
must use such terms with caution lest by them we imply that the Didache
was an 'off the cuff document or the casual product of some presbuteros
(1994: 118). Milavec has shown there is a careful rhetorical structure in
parts of the text which was probably given to it in order that its guidance
could be memorized. The obvious implication of his research is that what
we have is not an individual's notes, but the record of a community's
decisions on matters of discipline and organization. The term 'manual'
was used disparagingly by Schaff. In the Didache''s regulations on various
matters he found something out of accord with his notion of primitive
'evangelical liberty'—a state which he imagined had to precede any more
formal organization within Christianity. As such, a 'manual' was an indicator that Christianity was already in downward spiral from the Lukan
'golden age' as read through the eyes of late nineteenth-century rationalist
Protestantism.30 I use the word 'manual' in the wholly positive sense of
manuale or enchiridion: a distillation designed to be user-friendly in that it
allows key,frequentlyaccessed information to be conveniently retained by
its users. As such, the Didache is one of the first of many similar works
which we know existed, but which have in most cases vanished with only
accidental traces. Moreover, we know from later examples that such short
collections of diverse pastoral materials often contained items known as
memoriae technicae, exactly as Milavec has argued that the Didache
contains. By calling it a piece of ephemera I mean that it was assembled
30. See Schaff (1886: 29) where he sees 'the beginning of liturgical bondage' and
of practices which 'interfere with evangelical freedom' in the Didache. For an analysis
of how that agenda informed many studies of early Christianity, see Smith (1990).

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91

with a specific situation in mind rather than planned as some ideal guide to
Christian praxis. Thus we have moral instruction, combined with ritual
regulations, some rules dealing with problems facing that community, and
lastly (what is usually referred to as the eschatological section) what is
probably the earliest surviving sermon notes.
The Didache is a pastoral manual produced in the first century in a place
where there was not yet any of our canonical texts; and consequently should
be used by us an independent witness to Christian praxis in that community.31 We should compare alongside it other contemporary texts such as
the genuine Pauline letters; and we should use it as a backdrop when
reading later Christian documents from the first and second centuries, be
they canonical or not, when we attempt to imagine the Christian community in which those writings were valued. What follows is a sketch of one
aspect of early Christian living which we glimpse through it.
Fasting: A Regular Custom
The Didache assumes, as was the case within contemporary Jewish practice,32 that there was regular weekly fasting by the community:
Do not let your33 fasts [take place] with [i.e. at the same time as] those of
the hypocrites. They fast on the second [Monday] and fifth days [Thursday]
of the Sabbath; you, 34 though, are to fast on the fourth [Wednesday] and on
the day of preparation [for the Sabbath: i.e. Friday] (Did. 8.1).

This matter-of-fact presentation of regulations is all that the text says
about this regular weekly fast. Now let us see what is implied in it. First,
it is clear that this is already a well-established practice—it is something
that the community takes for granted, and it is a custom which they
31. See Milavec (1994:118), who argues that this approach is a necessary assumption for a fruitful study of the Didache.
32. The practice is widely attested, and it was given a range of interpretations. How
it was perceived in the Judaism in which Jesus lived can be seen from the way it is
imagined in the book of Judith: at a time of great crisis, its author imagines that 'all the
people fasted' to implore divine assistance (4.9 and 13); while the heroine, Judith, as part
of being the perfect Jewish woman fasts every day except 'the day before the Sabbath'
(Friday) and 'the Sabbath' (Saturday), the day of the new moon and its eve, and the great
feasts of the Lord (8.6). For the notion of regular liturgical fasting, see Zech. 8.19 (and
for the impact of that verse of Christian tradition, cf. Talley [1980-82:43-45]). For an
excursus on the practice in Judaism, see Niederwimmer (1998: 132-33).
33. Note this is the plural: UMCOV.
34. Note this is the plural: VT]GT£UGCCTS.

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value.35 This is not a preacher introducing something new, and there is
no sense that they need encouragement to continue the practice nor persuasion as to its credentials within the churches. Second, as with practical
books in general, the concern is with 'doing the right thing' rather than
with a justification of why one must fast or with some symbolic explanation. That fasting is something that is worth doing and an intrinsic part of
religious discipline is assumed. The Didache follows this instruction with
directions on prayer, and so the community clearly held the notion that
fasting adds earnestness to prayer, and we know that this was a widespread notion in Jewish thinking on prayer at the time.36 Thirdly, their
particular discipline regarding when they fasted was a feature that contributed to giving the group a distinctive identity. The regulation's stress
is not that they should fast, but that they fast on particular days so that
their group is distinctive through behaving differently from the others
('the hypocrites'). Moreover, this is not just some invisible difference—a
different intention, or a distinct attitude of mind and heart—but a concrete
separation in the way they collectively organize their week. They are
visibly bound together in being, as a group, out of phase with the others.
As a group regulation, framed in the imperative, this verse would seem
to be unproblematic and, indeed, to be simply the earliest attestation of
something—namely a twice-weekly fast by Christians on Wednesdays and
Fridays—that would become standard for centuries. Indeed, as a scholar
born in Ireland whenever I read this verse I recall that this practice has
generated the names for three weekdays in the Irish language.37 However,
this verse of the Didache has been a source of debate for much of its
history. Starting with the assumption that the Gospels show Jesus as casual
about fasting (Mt. 9.15) and Paul's rejection of ritual food regulations
(Rom. 14.1-22; 1 Cor. 10.23-31),38 coupled with 'let no one pass judgment
on you in questions of food and drink or with regard to a festival or a new
35. This aspect of the text is central to Niederwimmer's exegesis (1998: 131).
36. See Jdt. 4.9, 13; 9.1 (to which further reference will be made below); and cf.
Horbury (1998: 306).
37. In modern Irish the name for Wednesday is De Ceadaoin, which comes from Old
Irish Cetain, which means 'first fast [of the week]'; the word for Friday is De hAoine
from the Old Irish ain, which means 'fast' and is a borrowing from the Latin ieiunium;
while the word for Thursday, Deardaoin, is derived from the Old Irish TardainlDardain
coming from etar diain, which means '[the day] between the two fasts' (Quin 1983).
38. There is an additional problem regarding food which has been used in Gentile
cults. Paul (1 Cor. 8) takes a pragmatic view that the only harm in eating such food is the
danger of scandal to those with weak consciences, for the Christian knows those 'gods'

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moon or a Sabbath' (Col. 2.16), then, many have argued, the Didache
must be a later document when the ritualization—it has been a widespread
assumption in nineteenth- and twentieth-century scholarship that the
original Christianity was not only free of ritual but against the very notion
—of Christianity was well under way. The theme was well stated at the
very beginning of the study of the Didache by Schaff:
The prescription to fast before Baptism (in Ch. VII. 4) and on Wednesday
and Fridays (Ch. VIII) goes beyond the New Testament, and interfered with
evangelicalfreedom.The Lord condemns the hypocritical fasting of the
Pharisees, but left no command as to stated days of fasting (1886: 29).
The general assumption that rituals equal some sort of corruption—indeed
a betrayal of Christianity through the admixture of superstitions derived
from paganism—of a primitive simplicity focused on the written word39
was part of the agenda of those who went back to the 'primitive church' to
find there the 'warrant' for their own view of Christian worship.40 We see
this exemplified in this statement: 'Fasting before the act [of baptism]
was required, but no oil, salt, or exorcism, or any other material or ceremony is mentioned' (Schaff 1886: 139).
This suspicion of rituals, with the consequence that there are 'right'
ways for the community to perform them, has often blurred our vision so
that we fail to note that one of the binding factors that formed the Christian community was its rites. However, behind the later Lukan phrase
'they devoted themselves to the teaching of the apostles and the community, to the breaking of the loaf and to the prayers' (Acts 2.42) lies a rich
pattern of community ritual activity, such as the regular 'celebration of the
Eucharist' {Did. 9-10; 14); rites of passage, such as baptism {Did. 7);
ways of viewing time such as the Lord's Day {Did. 14); regular prayers
{Did. 8.2-3); and regular practices, such as fasting. While the explanation
of these practices changed—hence in the canonical collection there is not
one, but many explanations of the significance (theologies) of baptism and
the Eucharist—the practices themselves formed a continuity over time and
a bond between groups.41 So, taking a set of rituals that includes fasting as
have no reality; the Didache, by contrast, offers a simple, non-nuanced regulation: 'keep
well clear of food offered to idols because that is the worship of dead-gods' (6.3).
39. The canonical texts, as writings, were seen not only to be ritual free but also to
be such that they allowed their readers to live lives free of religious ritual. Ritual, as
such, they held was part of the world of paganism, and the antithesis of 'word'.
40. See Smith (1990: esp. 54-84).
41. It is this hypothesis that underlies the approach of Nodet and Taylor (1998).

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that which marks out the community's group culture, do we get any hint as
to how they imagined its purpose to themselves?
Fasting as a Form of Love
The first mention of fasting in the Didache is at the very beginning of the
text where we have a saying forming part of a piece of teaching known as
the 'Two Ways'.42 The 'Way of Life' is iove of God who made you' first,
and then iove of neighbour as yourself'.43 Although generically claimed
by the title of the Didache as 'the Lord's teaching through the twelve apostles' this commandment is not explicitly claimed as a saying of Jesus, and
it is located within a catechetical framework rather than in some historical
situation. The love of neighbour is then explained using a troika of blessing,
praying and fasting:
Now the teaching of these words is this [that you] bless those who curse
you and prayer for your enemies and fast for those that persecute you [uTrep
TCOV SICOKOVTCOV UM<*S]. For what credit is it to you if you love those who

love you? Do not the nations do the very same! {Did. 1.3)

While this immediately rings many bells for us, it is worth noting how
different it is to those echoes it calls up for us.44 First, we are used to the
troika of alms, prayer and fasting (cf. Mt. 6.2, 5, 16), but here we have
blessing, praying and fasting. These are the three ritual actions with which
Christians respond to attacks with acts of love. Second, what is found here
as a single unit of teaching is found in a variety of places in the Synoptic
tradition. In Mt. 5.44 we have 'Love your enemies and pray for those
who persecute you' (UTTSP xcov SICOKOVTCOV UM&S), which is arguably
less demanding than fasting for them. In Lk. 6.28 we find 'bless those who
curse you, pray for those who abuse you' (irepi xcov eTrr)pea£6xcov UJJCXS),
while in Mt. 5.46-7 we have 'For if you love those who love you, what
reward have you? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you
salute only your brethren, what more are you doing than others? Do not
even the Gentiles do the same?' While the Didache gives this as a direct
instruction; in Matthew it is expanded with explanations such as: 'Love
42. This is the most studied part of the Didache because of parallels in Jewish and
other early Christian sources, cf. Niederwimmer (1998: 30-41); and to see some of the
complexities that surround this part of the Didache, see Goodspeed (1945).
43. Did 1.2;andcf.Lk. 10.27; M t 22.37-39; and Mk 12.30-31; for a discussion of
the textual relationships, see Jefford (1989: 29-37).
44. See Jefford (1989: 38-48) for the textual relationships.

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your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be
sons of your Father who is in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil
and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust' (5.44-45).
While in Luke it is supported with examples such as:
Bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. To him who
strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from him who takes away
your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to every one who begs from
you; and of him who takes away your goods do not ask them again. And as
you wish that men would do to you, do so to them (6.28-31).

Similarly, the troika of alms, prayer and fasting in Matthew is found in a
much more expanded form than here. Indeed, Mt. 6.5-16 can be seen as a
particular spiritualizing interpretation of the practice of fasting whose
physical structure is indicated in the Didache's regulation.45 Moreover,
while here it is inappropriate to open the question of the history of the
Synoptic tradition, when we examine texts with common elements and
include the Didache as a basic witness to tradition, it constantly challenges
neat textual explanations of the preaching of the Christian movement's
message in the early decades.46
Third, while it is clear that one can pray for someone, the Didache has
the notion that one can transfer the benefits of one person's fasting to
another.47 It seems that one's own acceptance of a penitential regime can
become an act of love replying to an injury. This supposes a spiritual
universe of human solidarity before God more akin to what later Latin
theology would refer to as the transference of merit within 'the treasury of
the church' {thesaurus ecclesiae), than to the rejection of violent responses
to attack supposed 'in turning the other cheek' (cf. Mt. 5.39; Lk. 6.29).
Fasting and (Rites of Passage '48
The third mention of fasting is at the end of the instructions on how to
baptize: 'And before the baptism there should be a fast by the one who
45. See Glover (1958-59) where this is examined in detail.
46. See Glover (1958-59) for the light the Didache can shed on the relationships
between the Gospels, and see Glover (1985) for a general discussion of the value of
non-Synoptic early sources for a discussion of Synoptic relationships.
47. For a context in which we might locate this notion, see Maher (1979).
48. I am using the term here not in its classical anthropological sense (A. van
Gannep) but in the sense of rites whereby the community makes sense of its activity to
itself, as explored by Turner (1969: 131-65).

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does the baptising and the one who is baptised, and any of the others who
can. Tell the one who is to be baptised to fast for one or two days before
hand' (Did. 7.4).49
The great difficulty about this text is that while it lays down a rule about
who is to fast and for how long, it gives no hint as to how they perceived
the purpose of this practice, nor does it offer any theory about the origin or
benefits of the practice. That a pre-baptismal fast was an early practice
within the church is not in doubt. Indeed, it is confirmed indirectly by
Luke in Acts 9 when he presents such a fast as taking place prior to Paul's
baptism. The presence of this element in his story shows that Luke assumes
that his readers will view it as a standard, well-established, custom. In 9.9
Luke states that from the moment of revelation on the Damascus road,
Saul 'neither ate nor drank for three days'. Then, having met Ananias, he
was baptized and took food again (9.19).50 Moreover, we know that the
practice continued in the church for we have many later references to it.51
But, given the fact of the practice, can we draw on other sources which
might throw light on how it was understood?
Some commentators have seen this fast as designed so as to dispose the
recipient to receive divine illumination;52 however, that would not explain
the need for the minister to fast, nor do we know whether or not they understood baptism in terms of illumination. Thefirstpoint to note is that the act
of baptizing a new member into the Church is imagined as a process that
personally involves not just the recipient of baptism, and the one who
baptizes (both baptizer and baptized seem to be equally involved),53 but
the whole community. This larger involvement is implied by the Didache's
desire that the community should fast in preparation for a new member's
baptism. A minimal explanation is that since they understood baptism to
be a decisive moment both for the individual and the community, then
49. The most extensive commentary on this text is in Voobus (1968: 20-21);
however, to see how this text is the first in a trajectory of texts from the early period
until the third century, see Niederwimmer (1998: 129-31).
50. I wish to thank Dr Brendan McConvery for reminding me of Paul's fast in Acts
9.
51. The earliest of these later references is in Justin Martyr, Apologia 1.61 -62.
52. See, e.g., Meloni and De Simone (1992).
53. That the baptizer has any individual personal involvement in the baptism is
something that would soon disappear in the church, such that the focus was on the
baptismal action (the pouring of the water with the correct verbal formula), with some
interest in the attitude of the one baptized, but with the assumption that the baptizer
merely was the agent for the pouring of the water and the expression of the formula.

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fasting was taken as a standard part of the preparation for a major religious
event, and that the moment was of such importance as a rite of passage
that everyone concerned had to be spiritually fully ready for it.54 This
could look back to Moses's fast of 40 days prior to receiving the Law
(Exod. 34.28) or Daniel awaiting a revelation (Dan. 10.3) as its model and
inspiration. And, it is very likely that it is against the backdrop of their
own pre-baptismal fasting that they would have understood traditions
about Jesus' fasting prior to his public ministry as witnessed, for us, in
Mk 1.13, Mt. 4.2 and Lk. 4.2. It is also possible that this pre-baptism fast
was penitential—for which there was the precedent in 1 Sam. 7.6—with
the fast being seen as a purification prior to entry into Christ. If one accepts
the notion, mentioned above, that they imagined a universe where spiritual
benefits could be transferred from one person to another, then it may be
that the fast of the various members of the church was to produce a benefit
that could be transferred from them to their new brother/sister to enable
the initiate to turn away from his or her sins and to enter Christ.
A more elaborate explanation, following from the scenario just proposed, would relate this fast to a connection being made by the community
between baptism and an exorcism—which would later become a standard
part of baptismal rites. Voobus addressed this possibility:
It was believed [he asserts on the basis of later evidence] that fasting had a
purifying effect and contained expiatory power. It was also held that fasting
could break the power of demons and that it strengthened the efficacy of the
prayer of the candidate. This is what was regarded adequate [sic], for the
preparation of the body for the reception of the Holy Spirit (Voobus 1968:
20).

If the fast were only that of the candidate, then fasting as a spiritual
preparation could provide an explanation of the matter, but the involvement
of the minister and preferably others in the community points to the fast
being a collective act of intercession for the candidate. If the demons are
to be confronted and ejected, then all involved must work together to bring
about their casting out from the individual. If this line of argument is followed, then here again we have the notion that the effect of fasting is to be
understood in terms of the spiritual solidarity of the whole community:
engaging in this act together, they work for the holiness of the church—
54. While the notion that the baptizer is entering the mystery as much as the one
baptized is foreign to later Christian theology, that an event of such spiritual magnitude
in the eyes of the participants would make severe demands on the minister is not
foreign to students of ritual, cf. e.g., Turner (1969: 20-33).

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and it is the church that is strengthened by the process. It is not the candidate alone who must confront the demon that is within them, but also the
minister who carries out the exorcism55 (and who consequently needs to be
fortified for the encounter), and those at the centre of the process are
buoyed up by everyone else in the community who have chosen to help
this new member by adding their fasts.
In support of the possibility that they understood the fast as part of a
ritual of exorcism we have only one tantalizing piece of evidence: the text
of Mk 9.29 that there are demons that 'can only be driven out by prayer
and fasting'.56 The words 'and fasting' disappeared long ago from critical
editions as they were held to be a later addition to the text, as has the
whole verse's other occurrence at Mt. 17.21. The reason for the exclusion
of 'and fasting' is based on the phrase being omitted in the major textual
families ('common omissions' logically point to something that was not
present in the common ancestor of those families), despite the counterindicative evidence of its being well attested in terms of numbers of manuscripts of every text family. Where, as here, the evidence of the manuscript
readings is contradictory, the formal deductive methods of textual criticism cannot alone produce a answer and the critic must fall back on
historical conjecture to indicate the more likely earliest reading. Bruce
Metzger approaches the matter thus:
In light of the increasing emphasis in the early church on the necessity of
fasting, it is understandable that Ken vnoTe'ia is a gloss which found its way
into most witnesses. Among the witnesses that resisted such an accretion
are important representatives of the Alexandrian, the Western, and the
Caesarean types of text (Metzger 1975: 101).

However, if fasting was not a practice upon which emphasis increased
in the early church but one upon which there was emphasis before there
were any of our Gospels, then we should reverse the judgment: instead of
following the common omission we should accept the diffusion of the
reading as pointing to the original.57 Moreover, while a fast for the one
55. That those who saw themselves involved in preaching the Gospel saw part of
their task as casting out demons is well attested from the time in which the Didache
was being used: see, e.g., Mk 3.14-15; 16.17; andcf. Mk6.13, 9.38.
56. The phrase is familiar as it is found in both the Vulgate (where it is not problematic as a reading) and the so-called 'textus receptus\ which together lie behind
many modern translations, so it is found in the RSV, but not in the JB or NRSV.
57. It should be noted that if one accepts any reading that is found in the different
textual families, yet also omitted in every family, as genuine; that reading should have
preference as the lectio difficilior.

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99

being baptized remained the practice of the church, references to a fast by
the minister and the community are not found in later texts—this argues
that the emphasis on fasting by those carrying out an exorcism (for in later
texts it is clear that this was an aspect of baptism) decreased, rather than
increased, with the passing of time. It may be simply that fasting and
exorcism were connected at an early stage—hence the widespread form of
the text—and this, in turn, is reflected as a regulation in the Didache. If,
then, one accepts, as I do, that the original Markan text read 'by prayer and
fasting', the consequence is that Mark reflects a belief within his community that there are many grades of demons afflicting those who come to
'the disciples' (i.e. the church) and the more powerful variety are those
where the community must both pray and fast if they are to be ejected.58
As in the Didache, there is the supposition that the individual's spiritual
health requires the generous, and physically demanding, action of the
whole church.
One other fragment of evidence must also be considered. In Luke's environment there was a fast preparatory to apostolic commissioning. When
Luke imagines the selection of Barnabas and Saul by the church at Antioch
(Acts 13.2-3) and Paul's appointment of presbuteroi in churches where
he had preached (Acts 14.23) he has the appointment take place after a
preparatory ritual of 'prayer and fasting'. This appears to be a solemn
community action which rendered all present capable of selecting and
appointing those who should have authority within the church. Luke
assumes that it is common practice within the churches that significant
moments in each community's life will be ushered in with a special period
of fasting and prayer, and that this practice was one that went back to the
earliest communities. We have already noted that Acts 9 points to prebaptismal fast by the one awaiting baptism, while Acts 13 and 14 assumes
a more general community fast to prepare for a central ecclesial event;
together they indicate that fasting was a significant practice in Luke's
time, even if some of the details of its regulation which he knew were different to those found in the community of the Didache. Moreover, since
the Didache is earlier it shows that Luke was correct in his assumption that
the practice was primitive. We might further speculate that fasting as part
of the ritual for these significant moments for individuals within the group
58. Glover (1958-59: 26) remarked that the Didache may at times preserve 'a text
of our Lord's teaching more primitive than the text of our Luke and Matthew'; here I
would alter his argument slightly to say that it may show us which is the primitive
reading of the earliest extant Gospel.

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(someone entering the group or being commissioned by the group) was a
widespread practice in Luke's time.59 In all three cases, the action of fasting is presented as an integral part of a complex liturgy. Acts 9 has abstinence from food initiated by a vision and terminated by a ritual. Acts 13
assumes that once the choice of who should be sent had been made under
the direct inspiration of the Holy Spirit, it was now a case of needing to proceed with the appropriate ritual which involved the sequence of: (1) prayer
and fasting; (2) laying on hands; and (3) sending off. In Acts 14 'prayer and
fasting' is a specific part of the ritual ofappointing presbuteroi—for it was,
for Luke, so done 'with prayer and fasting' in every church by Paul and
Barnabas—who are then 'committed to the Lord'. And, this last text's most
obvious meaning is that this period of prayer and fasting included not just
the presbuteroi-to-he along with Paul and Barnabas, but the whole of those
churches.60 In the Didache there is the period of prayer and fasting, followed by the event of baptism. However, neither document offers a rationale as to why fasting was part of these rites of passage.
Whatever meanings early communities gave to this baptismal fast remain
a matter of conjecture, and if one or more explanation did come down to
us it would still be simply a rationale postfactum rather than an explanation for that fact: it was their practice which survived in the communities.
Indeed, a pre-baptismal fast became afixedelement in thefinaldays of the
catechumenate.61 It is referred to by Justin {Apol 1.61); it is commented
upon by Tertullian (De bapt. 20) and Hippolytus (Trad apost. 20); and later
still Augustine on several occasions (e.g. Defide 6.8 andEpist 54.10) looks
at its significance.62
59. Such an assumption, involving the notion that the practice was a very early one
which diffused with the earliest Christian movement, would make the later ubiquity of
fasting at such times far easier to explain than an appeal to an explanation that fasting
was a later introduction somewhere which had then to be diffused and adopted widely
—a process of which we have no historical trace.
60. The impression in Acts 14 is that everyone in those churches fasted, while the
Didache assumes that the fast will be undertaken by only a part of the church ('those
who can')—here we may have another instance of Luke imagining a perfect church in
the first generation of Christians: in those golden days it was not just a proportion who
fasted, rather, everyone fasted as part of the community's preparation for these significant events. This fast by the whole community prior to the appointment of presbuteroi is thus set out as the ideal that should be imitated.
61. See Talley (1980-82: 43-45) for an account.
62. For a guide to later instances of pre-baptismal fasting, see Meloni and De
Simone(1992).

O'LOUGHLIN The Didache and Early Christian Communities 101
Fasting and Identity
Several elements have recurred in the above examination of the three
references to fasting in the Didache. First, it was a practice that was seen
primarily in terms of the community's action rather than in relation to an
individual's penitence or asceticism. Second, it had a public, organized
and regulated structure. And third, it was something that was recognized
as part of their distinct ritual activity as a community—and as such it was
part of their ritual exposition to themselves of their identity as a group.
From this perspective, regular fasting being a marker of identity, I now
want to return to Did. 8.1 to see if it can throw any further light on the
community which produced the regulation we find in the text.
From the perspective of a group wishing to make its own identity clear
the most striking feature of the text is that the regulation requires that their
fast be distinct from 'the hypocrites'. However, with that group they not
only share the practice of a twice-weekly fast, but also a basic structuring
of time: both identify the days of the week by counting the days after the
Sabbath. So it is no simple matter of marking identity that is involved here
(e.g. 'I am from Judaea' or 'I use the calendar of Alexandria' with the
implication that that designation marks someone off from people born
elsewhere or using any other calendar), but establishing an identity within
a group who are already distinct from the larger society by the fact that
they fast to preserve identity and already have their own special timestructure to set them apart. The community of the Didache have to forge
an identity in the midst of a larger group seeking to do the same thing
within the general society of the time.
That the reference to fasting is related to the fasting of 'the hypocrites',
first brings Matthew's teaching on fasting to mind:
And when you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces that their fasting may be seen by men. Truly, I say to you,
they have received their reward. But when you fast, anoint your head and
wash your face, that your fasting may not be seen by men but by your Father
who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you (6.1618).

But there are some significant differences. The text of the Didache prohibits 'fasting with the hypocrites', while Matthew is concerned about the
intention and purpose of fasting for Christian fasts must not 'be like the
hypocrites'. What 'fasting with' means has been the subject of debate, but
the simplest explanation from the context is that 'fasting with' relates to

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sharing the same fasts, that is, times of fasting. The position would appear
to be this: if our group's fasts coincide with that of another group, then we
are one with that other group.63 That a sense of sacred time, and particularities of calendar, can provide a very firm group definition64—such was
one of the distinguishing features of the sectaries at Qumran65—is not,
however, what is most significant about Did. 8.1. The Didache reveals a
community who believe that simultaneity in rite is a means through which
sacred union can be maintained within a larger, dispersed group of devotees
—one might almost say 'communion'. The essence of this belief is that if
two physically separate groups carry out the same religious activity at the
same time—which is marked off against an 'absolute' common to both
such as specific days—then we have a single action, taking place in two
locations, and so one actor and one objective for the action. 'The fast' is
not just a collective name for individuals' activities in common, but was
being reified as an event in which each person participated through his or
her avoidance of food.66 For a group who thought about ritual time and
action in this way, if one fasted on the same days as the others, then one
would be in union with them at a most profound level. The community of
the Didache does not want union with those Jews who are not Christians
and so stays clear of ritual union with them, and their appeals to God, by
fasting at different times; but equally, by demanding that the Christian communities fast at the same time, they see themselves establishing a union
whereby they petition God as a single body—though physically dispersed
—with their fasting.
This developed sense of ritual time should not surprise us. It was, in part,
the belief that the Jerusalem priesthood was using the 'wrong calendar'—
that is, ritual was not taking place at the correct moment in absolute time
63. This is well expressed in the translation by Cody (1995:9); and by Kraft (1965:
165) when he translates: 'But do not let your fasts fall on the same days...'
64. See Sproul (1987).
65. See Vermes (1975: 42-44).
66. This attitude to 'the fast' as an event distinct from the activity may appear logically flawed to many western Europeans today, but that approach neglects to recognize
how individuals within a religious group view their common rituals as independent of
them as actors—they view themselves as participating in a drama which has been
taking place before their entry and in which they are duty-bound to take part. This
perception is a common element of religious traditions, with regard to fasting one has
simply to recall how Roman Catholics prior to 1961 approached 'the fast' before 'going
to communion' or 'the black fast' in Lent, or how Muslims today refer to fasting during Ramadan; cf. Douglas (1973: 59-76).

O'LOUGHLIN The Didache and Early Christian Communities 103
—which caused those at Qumran, who had the 'true calendar', to set themselves apart. Another, intriguing, witness to this sense of time is the way
Judith—an ideal Jewish woman—is presented in Jdt. 9.1. Judith makes her
most intense prayer (9.2-14) deliberately 'at the very time when that evening's incense was being offered in the house of God in Jerusalem'. This
assumes a belief that one could link one's own prayer with the formal liturgy of the temple far away though using the same moment. This linking
in prayer meant that one was not praying alone, but as part of the whole of
Israel. Such combined prayer presumably added force to one's own ritual
of prayer (Judith put ashes on her head, dressed in sackcloth, and lay prone),
but also established a notion of spiritual identity: the temple may be far
away, but I too am involved in its liturgy; I am one with the whole people
and it is we who pray.67 This sense of sacred time joining people into
a communion which is implicit in Did. 8.1 means that we must see the
instructions on common fasting not simply as reflecting their external
church order, namely a group with a clear organizational identity. Rather,
it gives an insight into their ecclesiology: the Christians are bound together
for they participate in a single liturgy, not just as a community, but as a
body made up of geographically dispersed communities. Moreover, if
they had a sense of being unified by using the same time for their fasting,
then it has implications for how we read the Didache's instruction on
prayer, and, more importantly, the emphasis found in the Didache and
elsewhere on gathering for the weekly Eucharist on the first day of the
week. The Didache does not want Christians to pray at the same time as
'the hypocrites' (8.2), they are to pray using a special formula,68 and to do
so three times each day (8.3). This implies that they viewed this thrice
daily prayer as an act of collective worship, the prayer of the whole Christian community, rather than as instructions to Christian on how to organize
a personal prayer regime. Rather, three times a day, the whole church
assembled69 and made an act of prayer using a single formula and unified
through a common moment of time.70 If so, this throws a very precise
67. This sense of the 'we who pray' would have been heightened in the case of the
community of the Didache through their belief, seen in what the Didache says of the
Eucharist, that they were one with Jesus.
68. Did. 8.2 is our earliest witness to the text known variously as 'the Lord's Prayer'
or Pater noster; cf. Carter (1995).
69. Note there is no hint in the text that there was a physical gathering of the
Christian community in this or that village or town.
70. Such a use of time to create a 'virtual' gathering while not mentioned in most
studies of the early church should be seen as another common ritual element—such as

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Christian Origins

liturgical and ecclesiological slant on that prayer's use of the plural.71
Equally, the Didache expects Christians to come together on the Lord's
Day for the Eucharist (14.1), and this is a practice well attested elsewhere;72 and the implication is that if each community is holding its Eucharist simultaneous with every other community, then it is one meal they are
celebrating. This interpretation of the Eucharist—unity of time cancelling
out separation by place—may appear to take us more into the territory of
liturgical scholars such as Odo Casel73 than to reflect the traditional concerns of students of the early church, but it certainly helps our understanding of what the Didache says of the importance of the Eucharist (14.3):
For this [the Eucharist as their sacrifice74] is what the Lord spoke about when
he said: 'In every place and time offer me a pure sacrifice, for I am a great
king and my name is wonderful among the nations says the Lord' [Mai. 1.11].
If in fasting there are not several individual fasts, but one fast by the whole
church, so while there are many physical gatherings for the Eucharist on a
Sunday morning, there is just one sacrifice from the whole people.
However, while the community may have been concerned that they were
spiritually separate from 'the hypocrites', they also were concerned with
creating a practical social separation between two groups. The other group
is, in all likelihood, a group of Jews who considered themselves Pharisees,
for fasting on second and fifth days was a Pharisee practice.75 The designation of 'the hypocrites' is probably part of the mutual dislike of the two
groups, which we find also in Matthew's Gospel (6.2, 5, 15; 15.7; 22.18;
has been studied by Rothenbuhler in cases where a modern state uses as part of its
ritual 'a minute's silence' as a precise moment and the citizens are united through the
action—for which there is no basis for any assumption that the early Christians were
immune. Contrariwise, we can see this attitude to time in connection with fasting,
prayer, and other rituals as the link between those attitudes when found in late Secondtemple Judaism (e.g. Judith) and the sentiments later expressed by Christians about the
Liturgy of the Hours.
71. Our Father.. .give us.. .our.. .bread.. .forgive us our debts as we forgive our
debtors...lead us not...but deliver us...
72. See 1 Cor. 16.2 and Acts 20.7; and the expectation in Lk. 24.13 and Jn 20.1931 that regular meetings of the Christians occur on Sundays. On the importance of
Sunday in the early church, see Rordorf (1968: 238-73).
73. See Casel (1999) where he develops the patristic theme that the mystery of
Christ is available momentarily in the liturgy.
74. This link between the Sunday gathering and their sacrifice is explicitly made in
Did. 14.2.
75. See Schiirer (1979: II, 383-84).

O'LOUGHLIN The Didache and Early Christian Communities 105
23.13,15,23,25,27,29). The message here is simple: have nothing to do
with them and be obviously different. We know that the Didache was composed within a very Jewish-Christian community, and as this passage makes
clear the two groups are still cheek-by-jowl; hence the desire by Christians
to demarcate themselves ritually from many of the former co-religionists.
Didache 8.1 and the Gospels
The instruction in the Didache calls to mind two texts in the Synoptic
Gospels. The first is Mt. 6.16-18 where (by contrast to the Didache which
locates its teaching as community, apostolic, regulation) the teaching on
fasting is placed directly on the lips of Jesus. For Matthew the Jewish
context is far less immediate, and the issue of physically demarcating communities is absent. Rather than being concerned with two groups of people
—Pharisee-Jews and Christians—the Gospel is concerned with Christians;
and its aim is to inculcate the correct intention and attitude without which
fasting is useless: 'the hypocrites' are a notional other which illustrate an
attitude to be avoided. For the community of the Didache fasting is
something one does because one belongs to a particular community, and it
is a recognized bonding ritual; it is identification with real people rather
than with an attitude that is to be avoided. Matthew takes a practice with
which his community is obviously familiar and he wishes to interpret it
spiritually;76 he shows no interest in the benefits to the community's selfperception in having shared rituals, and apparently without reference to
any notion of sacred time.77 Matthew seems to take the practice of organized fasting—as also prayer and almsgiving—for granted, and to be concerned that no one should use his or her success in performing these group
activities as a means of demonstrating their religious prowess in the group.
Hence, one should hide one's success in fasting from others (see Mt. 6.18),
or else one's only reward is good repute within the community (see Mt.
6.16).
There is also a difference in their approaches to the common term 'the
hypocrites'. In Matthew, this term has become a class-designation for
76. As already noted, see Glover (1958-59: 18-19).
77. The silence of Matthew on these notions cannot be seen as criticism—presumably they were part of his community's experience and common understanding,
and if criticism of those ritual notions were intended he would have made that explicit.
Rather, his concern is with the approach to fasting as a practice within his conception
of the Christian.

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those who have the wrong motivation—into which anyone who fasts could
fall—rather than a specific, distinct religious group referred to by a derogatory label. If one accepts this point, then it has implications for how we
read many uses of the term in Matthew, especially the 'woes' in Mt. 23,
'Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites...' (23.13, 15, 23, 25, 27,
29). In this case he is employing a usage familiar within his community
where 'hypocrites' is a vulgar synonym for 'Pharisees' while removing its
sting: Pharisees who fall into the category of hypocrites are those to whom
a curse applies. This interpretation would fit with the opening of the discourse at 23.2-3.
The other echo of Did. 8.1 in the canonical collection is the parable of
the Pharisee and the tax collector in Lk. 18.9-13. If we assume that the
Didache witnesses to widespread practices in early Christianity, not just
the idiosyncrasies of particular communities, and that there is good reason
for this assumption with regard to fasting; then starting with the Didache
alters how we read this text. It could be common knowledge that Pharisees
fast twice weekly, they are at prayer, and they give tithes which can be
seen as the equivalent of alms. These are practices—including the twiceweekly fast—familiar within Christian communities, thus the warning about
performing these practices is not a criticism of the practices or their value,
but of performing them in a useless way like the Pharisees, and without
the more basic activity of humbly seeking pardon. Certainly, for the community of the Didache that the Pharisees did those things, but equally did
them fruitlessly as hypocrites, would have been taken as common knowledge. In short, the Didache lays down what is to happen, while the Gospel
writers act as preachers recalling their audiences to what each perceives
as the intention and purpose of their churches' practice. Having isolated
the praxis, through the Didache *s evidence, the distinct theologies being
preached in the early church by writers such as Matthew and Luke become
more clearly displayed.
Enlarging the Context
The cumulative information of ourfirst-and early second-century sources
shows that fasting was afixedelement of early Christian practice and ritual.
It was taken over from Judaism and associated, in particular, with the practice of the Pharisees and John the Baptist (Mk 2.18-22 and par.). Luke
imagines one of the earliest churches, Antioch, fasting (Acts 13.2), while
Matthew (4.2) and Luke (4.2) add the example of Jesus' own fasting during his time in the wilderness to the Markan account (1.13). However,

O'LOUGHLIN The Didache and Early Christian Communities 107
there also seems to have been hesitations about the practice or how some
gave it a rationale. Mark, followed by both Matthew and Luke, records a
tradition that Jesus and his followers, unlike the other groups, did not fast
(Mk2.18-22), while both Matthew (6.16-18) and Luke (18.9-13) are interested in the correct attitude to fasting so that it is not mere external display.
For the Didache there is neither hesitation about fasting, instruction
about intentions, nor information on its supposed benefits; its sole concern
is with fasting correctly. Such bluntness is exactly what one expects in a
guide to group behaviour and brings us right into the atmosphere of those
who used it pastorally: get the practice right, and then wonder about what
it means and about right intentions. But, acknowledging that the Didache
does not offer explanations, can we learn anything else about the community and how it understood its activity? In the Synoptics a link is made
between fasting and mourning that the Bridegroom is no longer with them
(Mk 2.19; Mt. 9.15; Lk. 5.35), and so fasting has a connection with longing for the eschaton: it belongs to the time before the final return of Christ.
In a slightly later work, The Pastor, we also find fasting as a standard
Christian practice, but its purpose and benefits are explained in detail. It
is undertaken as a sacrifice to the Lord, and brings practical benefits to the
community (the cost of the food not eaten must be calculated and that
amount given to the poor) and the household, for the practice is a family
affair and fasting together brings about family happiness.78 Moreover, in
The Pastor, as in Matthew's Gospel, there is a concern that Christians
should not simply fast, but should engage in fruitful fasting that is acceptable to God.79
We have already seen that the community of the Didache had a developed sense of sacred time. Moreover, their week had a religious structure
which reflected their Jewish past and Christian present. They celebrated
the 'Lord's Day' as the first day of the week, they still referred to the Sabbath as the seventh day for they referred to the sixth day (Friday) as 'the
Preparation Day' (Parasceve), and also following Jewish practice they referred to days by numbers rather than by names. Thus they knew that the

78. This second-century work, often linked with the name Hennas, preserves many
traditions from the first century that are related to a Jewish-Christian context. The
reference to fasting occurs in Parable (Similitudes) 5.3.56.5-9 (Holmes 1992:432-33);
for the background cf. Snyder (1992: 148); for a detailed commentary on the passage,
see Osiek (1999: 173-74).
79. Parable (Similitudes) 5.1.54 (Holmes 1992:426-29); cf. Osiek(1999:168-69).

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Christian Origins

Jews—perhaps the family next door—fasted on Mondays and Thursdays,
while they fasted on Wednesdays and Fridays. This practice spread—there
were fixed fast days in the church of The Pastor known as 'stational
days'80—and it was not long before there was a standard explanation of
the significance of the two days. Tertullian, followed by later writers, says
that Christians fast on Wednesday because it was on this day that Christ
was betrayed, and on Friday as the day of crucifixion81—the one day, the
Parasceve,82 on which, as later writers were keenly aware, all the Holy
Week chronologies come into alignment.83 Is there any basis for supposing
that such symbolism of days stands behind the practice in the Didache and
that Tertullian is recording an already old tradition? I believe such a retrojection is without foundation and that a simpler solution can be found.
Here was a community which before becoming Christians had fasted twice
weekly on Mondays and Thursdays; now they want to continue that practice as part of their devotional lives—for a pious life without such regular
practices would have been inconceivable. But if the Pharisees do this at
one time, they must be different and alter the times of their fasts. Since the
Sabbath and Sunday are not available, the greatest difference is to be had
by opting for Wednesday and Friday, and they needed no further justification for their choice.84 At a later time when the overlap with Jewish practice was long forgotten (for the process of separation was no longer
ongoing) but complete, and with that separation had disappeared any
memory of why those days were chosen, then a symbolic reason was
needed. Then, with the Jewish roots receding into the background, the link
with Holy Week provided a suitable rationale by allegorizing analogy.

80. Parable (Similitudes) 5.1.54.2 (Holmes 1992:426-27). These were frequently
seen as Wednesday and Friday and explained by reference to the Didache (see Meloni
and De Simone 1992: 319), but as Osiek (1999: 169) has pointed out, the term seems
to be as obscure in Hernias' church as it is for modern readers: it is our assumption that
these days were weekly and followed the Didache pattern on the basis that Tertullian
later refers to Wednesday and Friday as 'station days' (on the term's possible origins,
see Osiek [1999: 169 n. 6]).
81. De ieiunio 14; and see the ' classic' statement of this interpretation by Augustine,
Epist 36.16.30.
82. See Jn 19.31 and cf. Mt. 27.62, Mk 15.42 and Lk. 23.54.
83. For an account of this problem in pre-critical exegesis, see O'Loughlin
(1997).
84. For a list of the various attempts to explain the choice of days, see the notes to
Niederwimmer's excursus on Jewish fasting (1998: 132-33).

O'LOUGHLIN The Didache and Early Christian Communities 109
Practices and Rationales
This article has been driven by the historian's desire to understand how
people in the past understood themselves, their beliefs and their situation.
It has focused on one aspect of one, rather sparse, document to see what it
tells us about the practice of fasting in some early churches, and so in turn
about the attitudes and beliefs of those who fasted. What we have found is
a community with a keen desire for a sharp, demarcating identity which
expressed itself in a desire for a unity of discipline and action; a community which, through its Jewish inheritance, already had a rich ritual life,
with an interest not only in regular liturgical action but in a regular ascetical discipline. Their sense of community was not simply a negative desire
for segregation or group unity, but was already underpinned with an ecclesiology which saw the group capable of united action in the spiritual realm
which allowed them to share the benefits of their endeavour. However,
these insights into a group of Christians have been largely obtained by
inference from the rules for their practices rather than by an analysis of
their own reflections on their believing. This means that the Didache
stands in contrast to almost every other early Christian document: it is
without justifications, aetiologies or interpretations of the actions itfindsin
its church. So perhaps the most important lesson that the Didache teaches
us as historians is that what survives in religious communities are regular
practices; these give continuity within the group's memory and so give
them group identity.85 These practices perdure the various rationales that
are thrown up at various times in the tradition, whether it is Mark, or
Matthew, or Hennas or Tertullian, and become the real bonds within that
tradition.86 So this actual manual disappeared, but the practice of regular
fasting—to which the Didache is a witness like a still from a movie—
spread and continued. Old understandings were forgotten, others were
changed and developed, while new explanations were invented, but the
continuity lay in the people and their activities.87
85. See Douglas (1973: 59-76).
86. I make this statement in conscious debt to the work of Nodet and Taylor
(1998), who in the work on the Eucharist assume a continuity of practice which gave
rise a variety of theologies in the churches.
87. This has important implications for any Christian theology which appeals to the
origins of traditions as part of its theological argument, for it demands that the tradition
is really a tradition of people rather than of ideas. This is a distinction noted by J.H.
Newman (cf. Evans 1995), but more often than not ignored when early Christian
examples are cited by theologians.

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Christian Origins
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THE ORIGINS OF PAUL'S CHRISTOLOGY:
FROM THESSALONIANS TO GALATIANS

Jerome Murphy-O'Connor, OP
The Christology of Galatians contrasts vividly with that of the Thessalonian correspondence. The personal perspectives that dominate in Galatians, and which have become distinctive features of Pauline thought, are
entirely missing in Thessalonians. Yet there are only three years between
1-2 Thessalonians and Galatians,1 and in both cases the audience was
made up of converted pagans.2
My purpose in this essay has been admirably articulated, mutatis mutandis, by Lord Robert Skidelsky in writing about his life of John Maynard
Keynes: 'A biography of Keynes has to be able to explain the logic of his
thinking, but always keeping in mind the question of why Keynes thought
the way he did, and said what he did at any particular time' (2000: 109).
As a biographer of Paul, these are precisely my interests. Thus, the historical questions that must be answered are: (1) how and why did Paul
adopt the Christology that we find in Thessalonians; and (2) how and why
did he develop radical new insights in Galatians, when he had lived happily
with his old Christology for the best part of 20 years?
In attempting to respond to these questions I will begin with an outline
of the Christology of Thessalonians. This directs us backwards to Paul's
initial contacts with Christianity, both as a persecutor and as a believer.
Only then will we be in a position to confront Galatians, which directs us
forwards, in the sense that it contains the seeds, but only the seeds, of
important future developments.
I must emphasize that I am not concerned with the origins of Christol1. In my view 2 Thessalonians is authentic, and was written not long after 1 Thessalonians in 50 AD; see in particular Jewett (1986). The next letter written by Paul was
Galatians, probably in the spring of 53 AD; see Murphy-O'Connor (1996: 180-82).
2. As regards the Thessalonians, see most recently Ascough (2000: 311-13). The
Gentile character of the Galatians is clear from Gal. 4.8, on which see MurphyO'Connor (1996: 200 n. 62).

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ogy as such, but with the beginnings of Paul's personal Christology.3 Even
that is not strictly accurate because limitations of time and space restrict
me to certain aspects revealed in Paul's three earliest letters. He developed
new christological insights subsequently but these are not my concern here.
I hope to deal with them in a future publication.
The Thessalonian Correspondence
In 1 and 2 Thessalonians Jesus is named as 'lr|aoGs ('Jesus') (2x), XpiGTOs
('Christ') (4x), Xpioxos 'ITIOOUS ('Christ Jesus') (2x), Kupios ('Lord')
(22x), Kupios'lriaous ('Lord Jesus') (10*), Kupios 'lr)aous Xpioxos
('Lord Jesus Christ') (14x)5 uios (XUTOU ('his son') (1 x ). 4 Two designations
found in other letters are entirely absent in the Thessalonian correspondence, namely: (1) unqualified Kupios ITIGOGS, which appears for the first
time in Gal. 1.1; and (2) the association of Kupios, with XpiOTOs ITIGOGS
('Christ Jesus') which is invariably found in the form XpiGTos' lr|GoGs 6
Kupios MOV, f]|jcov ('Christ Jesus my/our Lord') whose earliest attestation
is Phil. 3.8 or Col. 2.6.
The most striking fact to emerge from these statistics is the preponderance of Kupios ('Lord'), which occurs in 46 out of 55 references to Jesus
in the Thessalonian correspondence. These two letters together contain 2304
words. Galatians contains a mere 74 words less (2230), yet Kupios appears
only 4 times! Nothing could illustrate more graphically the difference
between the Christologies of Thessalonians and Galatians.5 Galatians in
fact uses Kupios 4.8 times less than the average of the other non-Thessalonian letters.
It is widely agreed that 1 Thess. 1.9b-10 represents a fragment of the
kerygma of the early church.6
eTTEGTpe^cxTe irpos TOV 0E6V CXTTO TGOV EISCGACOV

SOUAEUEIV 0ecp £COVTI KCU aAr|9ivco
KCXI avanEVEiv TOV UIOV CXUTOU EK TCOV oupavcov,

ov rjysipEV EK [TCOV] vsKpcov,
'I

TOV (DUOMEVOV

EK 1 % opyfis TTJS
3. This distinction is not kept in mind consistently by Hengel (1972), nor by
Casey (1982).
4. See in particular Rigaux (1956:171 -76). In this listing I abstract from the use of
the possessive pronoun either singular or plural.
5. This important point completely escapes Marshall (1982: 176).
6. The arguments are cogently presented by Best (1979: 81-87).

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

115

You turned to God from idols
to serve the living and true God
and to wait for his Son from heaven
Whom he raised from the dead
Jesus who delivers us
from the approaching wrath

The great majority of the references to Jesus in 1 and 2 Thessalonians can
be classified according to the elements of this credal statement.
• 'to wait for his Son from heaven'.7
Here I group the 12 references to Jesus in an eschatological context, all
of which contain the word KUpios:
1 Thess. 2.19; 3.13; 4.6, 15-17; 5.2, 24.
2 Thess. 1.7, 9 (= Isa. 2.10, 19, 21); 2.1, 2, 8, 14.
• 'Whom he raised from the dead':
'We believe that Jesus died and rose again' (1 Thess. 4.14); 'our Lord Jesus
Christ who died for us' (1 Thess. 5.9). Both of these are primitive credal
elements; cf. 1 Cor. 15.3-5. Note the complete absence of any mention of
the modality of Christ's death, namely, crucifixion.
• 'Jesus who delivers us':
The context specifies the eschaton, but the present participle clearly implies
that deliverance is taking place here and now.8 This is why on the Last
Day purified believers will not be subject to the divine anger. Thus I group
here the 17 references to the grace-giving activity of Jesus in the church:
1 Thess. 1.1; 3.8,11,12; 5.9,18,28.
2 Thess. 1.1,2,12; 2.13 (= Deut. 33.12), 16; 3.3,4, 5, 16, 18.
The Thessalonian correspondence contains one certain, and one probable reference to the example of Jesus. 'You became imitators of us and
of the Lord' (1 Thess. 1.6). Jesus' acceptance of his messianic vocation
involved suffering, to the point where his whole existence became a 'dying'
(2 Cor. 4.10).9 'May the Lord direct your hearts to the love of God and the
steadfastness of Christ' (2 Thess. 3.5). Both genitives should be understood
subjectively.10 Christ is an example of perseverance. He never wavered in

7. On the messianic interpretation of 'Son of God' see Collins (1995: 163-69);
also Dunn (1980: 35).
8. So rightly Best (1979: 84).
9. Since it is question of a process, veKpcocns here should be translated by 'dying'
rather than as 'death', which is appropriate in Rom. 4.19.
10. So Rigaux (1956: 699-700); Best (1979: 329-30).

116

Christian Origins

his commitment. As an inspiration, he becomes source of this grace for
believers (cf. Polycarp, Phil. 8).
Next there are conventional references to the gospel and its ministers.
'The word of the Lord' (1 Thess. 1.8; 4.15; 2 Thess. 3.1) is of course 'the
gospel of Christ' (1 Thess. 3.2; 2 Thess. 1.8), which when proclaimed by
'apostles of Christ' (1 Thess. 2.6), brings into being 'the churches of God
in Christ Jesus' (1 Thess. 2.14). As emissaries of Christ, ministers are endowed with his power to exhort (1 Thess. 4.1-2) and command (2 Thess.
3.6, 12).
The remaining references are difficult to classify precisely, but in general
they are circumlocutions made necessary by the failure of the early church
to develop an adjective and an adverb based on 'Christ'.11 Thus 'the dead
in Christ' (1 Thess. 4.16) are simply 'deceased Christians'. 'Those caring
for you in the Lord' (1 Thess. 5.12) are 'those who care for you in a Christian way'.
This summary is sufficient to demonstrate that what Paul said about
Jesus (cf. 2 Cor. 11.4) during the first half of his missionary career could
have been said by Peter or anyone else familiar with the preaching of the
early church.12 There is no hint of personal reflection. This forces us to ask:
why did Paul find the traditional formulae so congenial?
Paul's Pre-Christian Knowledge of Jesus
When Paul came to Jerusalem, after finishing his education in Tarsus, he
joined the Pharisees (Phil. 3.5; cf. Gal. 1.14), whose messianic expectation
is considered to be reflected in Pss. 17 and 18 of the Psalms ofSolomonP
These look forward to the advent of a king, who will be the son of
David (17.21), and the 'Anointed Lord' (XpiOTOs KUpios 17.32; cf. Lam.
4.20; Lk. 2.11) or the 'Anointed of the Lord' (XPIOTOS Kupiou; 18.7 and
the psalm title; cf. 18.5).14 He will rid the nation of its enemies (17.22-25)
and restore Jerusalem 'making it holy as of old' (17.30). Despite a certain
militant dimension (17.24; 18.7), the Messiah is not altogether a military
figure. 'He shall not put his trust in horse and rider and bow, nor shall he
multiply for himself gold and silver for war' (17.33). His weapon is 'the
word of his mouth' (17.24, 35, 36). As a righteous king, 'taught by God'
11.
12.
13.
14.

See Bultmann (1965: 329).
For a complementary perspective, see Donfried (1990).
For a balanced status quaestionis see Trafton (1992).
On this problem see Hahn (1985).

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

117

(17.32) and 'pure from sin' (17.36), he is judge (17.26-29,43) and shepherd (17.40-41). By destroying sinners (17.23, 36) and driving out Gentiles (17.22,28), 'he will gather together a holy people.. .and he shall not
suffer unrighteousness to lodge any more in their midst.. .for all shall be
holy' (17.26-27, 32; cf. 18.8). The messianic community will be sinless.
It was against this template, or something very similar, that Paul the
Pharisee measured the messianic claim of the followers of Jesus and found
it wanting. Altogether apart from what he considered its erroneous character, he found the very fact of the claim to be deeply disturbing. Perhaps
more clearly than the vast majority of Jesus' disciples, he recognized the
implications of the Christian position.15
Paul lived in a spiritual world in which present and future were clearly
distinguished. The present was dominated by the Pharisaic version of
'covenant nomism'.16 In order to retain God's favour displayed in election
the Pharisees were committed to obedience to the terms of the covenant,
and in particular to the scrupulous observance of all the food purity prescriptions (Neusner 1971: 304, 318). The Messiah had no place in this
world characterized by meticulous concern for the Law. He was afigureof
the future. The sequential nature of the relationship meant that there was
no tension between Law and Messiah. One day he would simply arrive in
the community of salvation as defined and guaranteed by the Law.
By proclaming Jesus as the Messiah Christians redefined the community
of salvation in a way that Paul found completely unacceptable. By insisting on the necessity of belief in Jesus as Saviour, they were effectively
saying that the Law could not guarantee salvation. By accepting 'sinners'
whom the Law rejected, they were saying that the decisions of the Law
had been superseded (Donaldson 1989: 678-79).17 The coexistence of the
Messiah and the Law made them deadly rivals.
This should have made Paul and the followers of Jesus bitter enemies. If
one was right, the other was wrong. There could not be two Saviours. In
fact the hostility was entirely one-sided. The majority of Jewish Christians
were convinced that they could simply graft their belief in Jesus as the
Messiah onto their Law-controlled lifestyle (Acts 2.46). Paul was much
more perceptive. He recognized the intrinsic contradiction between his
15. The importance of Paul' s pre-conversion perception of the Christian message for
the development of his Christology has been convincingly demonstrated by Donaldson
(1989).
16. On 'covenant nomism' see Sanders (1977: 320).
17. See also Wilckens (1959).

118

Christian Origins

vision of Judaism and that of the Christians. The latter, of course, could
not be right in proclaiming Jesus as the Messiah. Thus they had to be corrected, a lesson that his victims, and Paul himself at a later stage (Gal.
1.14), understood as persecution.
Paul's persecution of the church is unintelligible unless he knew that
Jesus' followers believed him to be the Messiah. This was not all, however, because much later in his life Paul confessed that prior to his
conversion he had thought about Jesus in a way of which he was now
deeply ashamed (2 Cor. 5.16).18 What was he thinking of?
We may safely assume that Paul the Pharisee knew at least as much
about Jesus as his contemporary Josephus, who claimed to have joined the
Pharisees in 56 AD (Life 12), and who wrote a paragraph on Jesus in his
Antiquities of the Jews (18.63-64).19 This provides us with two pieces of
factual data about Jesus: (1) he had been crucified by Pontius Pilate as the
result of Jewish charges; and (2) his disciples thought of him as the Messiah. In addition there is a negative assessment of his ministry, namely that
those who listened to Jesus had an appetite for novelties, and ascribed works
to him that werefranklyunbelievable. In other words, Josephus hints, Jesus
was a charlatan who preyed on the credulous. Thus the action of the Jewish
authorities was entirely justified, and the claim of Jesus' Messianist followers preposterous.
Conversion
These, then, were the ideas about Jesus that were running through Paul's
mind when that extraordinary encounter with Jesus took place in the
vicinity of Damascus. In terms of the primacy given to Jesus as Kupios in
Thessalonians, which reflects almost 20 years of preaching, the most revelatory reference to the event is Phil. 3.12, KaxeATi|j(J)0riv UTTO XpioToG
'ITIGOU, 'I was apprehended by Christ Jesus'.
The use of the aorist founds the consensus that this is an allusion to
Paul's conversion (Vincent 1897:108; Fee 1995:346 n. 32). Given Paul's
attitude towards Jesus at the time, the connotation of KaTaAcx|j(3avco here
must be 'to seize with hostile intent' (BAGD, 413,1 .b). The idea of a sudden and ruthlessly effective action is well brought out by F.F. Bruce: 'Paul
recalls his conversion as the occasion on which a powerful hand was laid
18. Kara adpKcc is an adverb 'in a fleshy way', qualifying syvcoKansv, 'we knew'.
19. On this text see Murphy-O'Connor (1996: 73-75) and the references given
there.

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

119

on his shoulder, turning him right round in his tracks, and a voice that
brooked no refusal spoke in his ear: "You must come along with me'". 20
Jacques Dupont agrees, 'en se montrant a Paul le Christ s'est impose a lui
d'une maniere irresistible.. .il a Pimpression que le Christ s'est empare de
lui tout d'un coup, sans lui donner la possibility de se derober' ('In showing himself to Paul, Christ imposed himself on [the apostle] irresistibly...
[Paul] had the impression that Christ had taken him over, suddenly, without giving him the chance to escape') (Dupont 1970: 85). Similarly
Seyoon Kim, '[Jesus] arrested him with his overwhelming power (Phil.
3.12)'(Kim 1984: 108).
It would be difficult, if not impossible, tofinda more graphic illustration
of what an act of lordship means. Paul's first conviction regarding the true
identity of Jesus, therefore, must have been the acknowledgment that he
was KUpios.21 Subsequently Paul makes clear his feeling that he was 'compelled' to preach the gospel (1 Cor. 9.16). He also claimed to live under
pressure that confined and restricted (2 Cor. 5.14).
The experience of those who had known Jesus during his lifetime was
significantly different. They had already committed themselves to Jesus,
and they had to go through a reconversion process, but it was nothing like
as radical as Paul's encounter with the Risen Jesus. The earliest recognition
narrative records the way in which the Risen Jesus is acknowledged. Mary
Magdalen calls him 'Rabboni' (Jn 20.16). This, and similar titles that had
been accorded to Jesus in his lifetime, are more likely to reflect the actual
expressions of faith in the first days after the resurrection. Their inadequacy to express who Jesus now was, however, must have led to their being
abandoned rather quickly. This explains both the silence of other recognition narratives, and the intentional contrast in Jn 20.19-20 between 'Jesus'
who appears and 'the Lord' who is recognized. The confession of Thomas,
'My Lord and my God' (Jn 20.28), represents the final stage in this
development.
The experience of the change in their lives that Jesus was bringing
about, particularly when viewed in the context of the power displayed in
the conversion of those who had first heard of Jesus as a crucified criminal, must have brought 'Lord' automatically to the lips of the Jerusalem
community when they confessed Jesus. This certainly happened long
20. Similarly O'Brien (1991: 425).
21. According to Fitzmyer (1989: 53), 'Kyrios was originally applied to the
parousaic Christ and then gradually retrojected to other, earlier phases of Jesus' existence'. On the contrary, the usage grew out of concrete experience, not a future hope.

120

Christian Origins

before Paul made his first visit to the Holy City (Gal. 1.18), and had
probably spread abroad. The tribulations of the early years are reflected in
the longing of the Aramaic prayer for the return of Jesus, which Paul preserves in the form (japdva 0a, 'Our Lord, come!' (1 Cor. 16.22; cf. Rev.
22.20; Did. 10.6) (Fitzmyer 1981).
Once Paul had experienced Jesus as Kupios, he had to acknowledge him
as XpiGTos ('Christ'). Jesus was not just any 'Lord' but the Jewish Messiah for whom he hoped.22 Moreover, if Jesus was the Messiah, he was the
'Son of God'.23 Thus, right from the very beginning of his existence as a
Christian, 'Jesus', 'Christ', 'Lord' and 'Son' would have been intimately
associated in Paul's mind, because they were rooted in his experience as
interpreted in the light of his Pharisaic background. There was no need for
him to borrow them from the Christian communities he knew in Damascus
and Jerusalem.24 Rather he felt at home in such communities because they
also confessed the Lordship of Jesus Christ, precisely as he did. He would
have recognized the formula KUpios 'IT^OOGS ('Lord Jesus') (Rom. 10.9; 1
Cor. 12.3; Phil. 2.11) and known precisely what it meant; he would not
have had to learn it.
The Jesus Tradition
What Paul would have learnt (pace Gal. 1.11-12) in Damascus, and particularly from Peter in Jerusalem, were the traditions about Jesus. Apart
from references to the death and resurrection, the list of 'facts' about the
historical Jesus in the Pauline letters is short and well known. He was born
into a Jewish family (Gal. 4.4) of Davidic descent (Rom. 1.3). He had several brothers (1 Cor. 9.5), one of whom was called James (Gal. 1.19). He
was opposed to divorce (1 Cor. 7.10-11), and taught that the gospel should
provide a living for its ministers (1 Cor. 9.14). On the night he was betrayed
(1 Cor. 11.23) he celebrated a meal of bread and wine with his followers,
and directed that it become a commemorative ritual (1 Cor. 11.23-25).
22. Not surprisingly 'Christ' is never confessed as 'Lord' in the Pauline letters,
whereas 'Jesus is Lord' (1 Cor. 12.3) and 'Jesus Christ is Lord' (2 Cor. 4.5) do appear;
see Dahl (1991: 16).
23. 'The notion that the messiah was Son of God in a special sense was rooted in
Judaism' (Collins 1995: 169).
24. Those who insist that 'Paul derived the use of "Lord" for the risen Christ from
the early Jewish-Christian community of Jerusalem itself (Fitzmyer 1989: 53) forget
Paul's preconversion knowledge of Jesus, and that he had been a Christian for over
three years before he went to Jerusalem (Gal. 1.17-18).

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

121

Do such sparse gleanings mean that Paul was uninterested in anything
about Jesus except the passion and resurrection? A negative answer is
recommended both by general principles and specific evidence.25 Simple
statements of the basic faith of the community (e.g. 1 Cor. 15.3-5) are
likely to have whetted the natural curiosity of Christians for further knowledge of him who was their hero, a quest that eventually resulted in the
Synoptic Gospels, which are biographies in the way this (anachronistic)
term was understood in the first century.26
Moreover, the emerging Jesus movement needed a sacred tradition as
the basis of its ongoing self-definition. Those who were at the heart of that
process had lived with Jesus from the time of his baptism by John (Acts
1.22; cf. Jn 1.35-51). Their memories of what Jesus had said and done27
provided authoritative data for the resolution of theological and ethical
problems, and furnished reliable ammunition in apologetic or polemic exchanges with non-believers (Schumann 1962). As such stories became
disseminated within the Jesus movement, they constituted the shared
knowledge that was a prime bonding factor. They underlay a common language inaccessible to outsiders. A word evoked a whole saying of Jesus; a
phrase an entire event. Those who did not catch an allusion revealed that
they did not belong.
Thus we should not expect to find in Paul's letters explicit, and attributed, quotations of the words of Jesus. In fact, as Dunn with great insight
points out, 'had he [Paul] cited Jesus' authority every time he referred to
something Jesus said or did he would have weakened'the force of the allusion as allusion. The allusion that has to be explained has lost its bonding
effect' (1998: 652).28
The existence of an allusion cannot be demonstrated. Its creation is an
art, and its existence is 'sensed' or 'discerned'. The issue is so delicate that
it can only be approached intuitively. Nonetheless, lists of allusions to the
sayings of Jesus are debated with an inappropriate rigour that irrestistibly
evokes the dissection of a souffle by means of a spade.29 There is little
25. See most recently Dunn (1998: 185-95).
26. See in particular Aune (1987: 17-76); Burridge (1992).
27. See Eusebius, Eccl. Hist 3.39.15, and the excellent, albeit unintentional, commentary by Furnish (1993: 22-23).
28. Wedderburn turns the situation on its head in writing that 'the fact that they are
almost all allusions, not explicit quotations, remains a problem' (1985: 190).
29. A particularly good example of such heavy-handed treatment is to be found in
Neirynck (1986). For those who did not catch the allusion, the English periodical
Punch said that to criticize P.G. Wodehouse was 'like taking a spade to a souffle'.

122

Christian Origins

doubt, however, in the minds of the sensitive that 'the persistent conviction that Paul knew next to nothing of the teaching of Jesus must be
rejected. Jesus of Nazareth was not the faceless presupposition of Pauline
theology. On the contrary, the tradition stemming from Jesus well served
the apostle in his roles as pastor, theologian and missionary' (Allison 1982:
25).
The concentration on dominical sayings in the Jesus-Paul debate has led
to neglect of an important aspect of Paul's appropriation of the Jesus
tradition. This has been remedied by Dunn, who draws attention to a number of passages in Romans in which Paul appeals to the example of Jesus
(1989: 195-200). Turn* SiSaxns ('form of teaching') (Rom. 6.17),
Dunn argues, evokes Christ as the model of Christian conduct. The use of
'Abba, Father' in Rom. 8.15-16 is a conscious appropriation of the way
Jesus prayed. 'To put on Christ' (Rom. 13.14) is given its full intelligibility only when understood as theatrical language for the effort to think
oneself into another character, which here is Christ. 'Implicit is the
thought that the "role model" is more than simply the single act of obedience to the death of the cross, but must include sufficient knowledge of
how Jesus lived in relationships to serve as a model for living in Rome'
(Dunn 1989: 198).30 This conclusion is reinforced by the final example,
'let each of us please his neighbour... for Christ did not please himself
(Rom. 15.2-3), where Christ is the model of concern for the 'weak' (cf.
Rom. 5.6). 'Tenderness' or 'compassion' (oTrXayxva) are evoked as characteristic of the ministry of Jesus (Phil. 1.8),31 as are 'meekness'and 'gentleness' (Trpauxris KCU eTTieiKEia) (2 Cor. 10.1). Thus the references to the
example of Jesus in Thessalonians (see above) were part of the normal
pattern of Paul's thought.
If Paul's oldest and most insightful commentator is correct in recognizing
that for the Apostle 'Jesus' was the truth of'Christ' (Eph. 4.21),32 then his
Christology cannot be divorced from his knowledge of the historical Jesus.
The way Paul thought about Jesus as the Christ was profoundly influenced
by the words and deeds attributed to him. Paul identified so closely with
the historical Jesus (2 Cor. 4.10-11) that he could claim T\\L€\S Se voGv
XpiGToG E'XOMEV, 'we have the mind of Christ' (1 Cor. 2.16).
30. See also Thompson (1991).
31. Dunn(1998:193 n. 55) points out that the corresponding verb (0TrXayxvi^0|jai)
is used of Jesus' emotional response on several occasions during his ministry (Mk
1.41; 6.34; 8.2; 9.22; Mt. 9.36; 20.34; Lk. 7.13).
32. See in particular de la Potterie (1963).

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

123

The Beginnings of a Personal Christology
Paul wrote 1 Thessalonians in the late spring of 50 AD, and 2 Thessalonians
sometime during the summer of that year. He stayed on in Corinth for a
further year, and then went to Jerusalem for the dramatic meeting regarding the conditions under which Gentiles could be admitted as members of
the church (Gal. 2.1-10). The decision went in Paul's favour. Gentiles did
not have to be circumcised. He returned to Antioch, his home base (Acts
13.1-3; 15.40), where he spent the winter of 51-52 AD.
During that time the famous 'incident' involving Peter took place (Gal.
2.11-14). James sent a delegation to Antioch to exhort Jewish converts to
more stringent observance of the dietary laws. This effort to strengthen
their Jewish identity was the counterpart of James' refusal to circumcise
Gentile converts, which would have diluted and blurred Jewish identity.33
The consequences for the church at Antioch were severe. In order to maintain table-fellowship, which was the visible sign of unity, Gentile members
of the community had to live like Jews. Antioch effectively became a
Law-observant church, which Paul could no longer represent.
As soon as snow cleared in the passes of the Taurus range in the spring
of 52 AD, Paul left Antioch for ever. On his way to Ephesus he revisited
the Galatians. The following spring he received a tremendous shock: a
delegation from Antioch had arrived in Galatia and was endeavouring to
persuade the Galatians to adopt the new Law-observant ethos of Antioch,
its mother church. Paul, it will be remembered, had been acting as an agent
of Antioch when he founded the churches of Galatia. In response Paul
wrote the letter to the Galatians.
This letter written some three years after the Thessalonian correspondence exhibits a completely different Christology. The severe drop in the
frequency ofKUpios ('Lord') has already been noted. This, however, is
only a minor factor. Two other points are infinitely more significant.
Thefirstis the number of references to the crucifixion: crraupos, 'cross'
(5.11; 6.12, 14); arcxupoco, 'to crucify' (2.19; 3.1; 5.24; 6.14); Kpe|javvu|Ji km £uAou, 'to hang on a tree' (3.13). The closest any other epistle
comes to these eight allusions is 1 Corinthians with six. Cross or crucifixion was not mentioned even once in 1 and 2 Thessalonians.
The second is a series of statements which emphasize the union of the
believer with Christ, and the union of believers among themselves: Xpioxco
33. For the justification of this hypothesis, see Murphy-O'Connor (1995a).

124

Christian Origins

auvEoxaupco|jar £co 5E OUKSTI syco, £fj 5e EV SJJCM Xpiaxos, 'I have
been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ in me'
(2.19-20); OGOI yap EIS XpioTov E(3aTrna0TiTE, Xpioxov Eve5uaao0e...
TravTEs yap upsis E!S EOTE EV Xpiaxco 'lr]aou, 'as many of you as were
baptized into Christ have put on Christ...you are all one man in Christ
Jesus' (3.27-28); traXiv coSivco M^XP1^ °u pop(t>co0fj Xpiaxos ev\j|iiv, 'I
am again in travail until Christ is formed in you' (4.19); KaTT]pyTi0riTe
a n o XpiGToG, 'you were severed from Christ' (5.4).
These extraordinary developments demand an explanation. I shall look
first at crucifixion and then consider union with Christ.
A Crucified Messiah
Even though the first mention of the crucifixion of Jesus occurs in Galatians, Paul himself informs us that a crucified Messiah had been part of his
oral preaching for a considerable time before that. Ti CXVOTITOI TaXaTai,
...CMS KOT' 6(J)0aA|Jous Irjoous Xpicrros Trpoeypa<}>r| £GTaupco|JSVos,
'O foolish Galatians.. .before whose eyes Jesus Christ was publicly portrayed as crucified' (Gal. 3.1). The allusion is to his initial preaching in
Galatia, which brings us back to the beginning of Paul's first independent
missionary journey at the very least.34 The density of meaning packed into
these few words is incredible.
The verb here is TTpoypa<j)co, which is literally 'to write before'. But
'before' is ambiguous. It can be understood in both a temporal sense (e.g.
'whatever was previously written'; Rom. 15.4) and in a locative sense (e.g.
'to set forth as a public notice'; LSJ, 1473b). This meaning fits the context
because of the reference to 'eyes', and it is in fact adopted by some
commentaries (de Witt Burton 1921:144-45; Schlier 1962:119; Bonnard
1972: 60). Jesus, however, is not a document (despite Col. 2.14!). Paul is
evidently thinking in terms of a word-picture. Hence recent translations
and commentaries all rightly opt for the rendering 'to portray' (RSV)—or a
synonym, 'to exhibit' (NRSV), 'to display' (NAB)—even though this meaning for Trpoypa(()co is attested nowhere else.35 This unusual departure
from the only attested meaning is made all the more exceptional by the
fact that translations and commentaries feel constrained by the context to
34. On that same journey Paul evangelized Corinth where he also preached a crucified Christ (1 Cor. 2.1-12).
35. Graphs is used in the sense 'to paint' only in centuries remote from the beginnings of Christianity (de Witt Burton 1921: 144).

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

125

introduce a reinforcing adverb which has no correspondent in the Greek
text—'publicly' (RSV, NRSV), 'openly' (Dunn 1993:152), 'so vividly' (Betz
1979), 'clearly' (Longenecker 1990) The paraphrase of J.B. Philipps
perfectly articulates Paul's activity in terms of its impact on the Galatians,
'O you dear idiots of Galatia, who saw Jesus the crucified so plainly' (1955:
114).
In common with the best theory of oratory Paul was able to make his
audience believe that they were spectators.36 According to Quintilian, only
those who had the imagination to recreate the event for themselves to the
point where they experienced the appropriate emotions could achieve the
verbal vividness that Paul claims in Gal. 3.1.37 Paul, therefore, must have
felt very deeply about the crucifixion of Jesus. It had made such an impact
on him that he felt compelled to attempt to replicate it for others. Why?
One thing is certain. Paul did not inherit his stress on the crucifixion of
Jesus from his contemporaries in the early church. None of the fragments
ofthe primitive kerygma that Paul quotes (1 Thess. 1.9-10; 4.14; 5.9; Gal.
1.3-4; 1 Cor. 15.3-5; Rom. 1.3-4; 4.24-25; 10.9) mentions the crucifixion.38
The eucharistic words (1 Cor. 11.23-25), and two liturgical hymns (Phil.
2.6-11; Col. 1.15-20) are equally silent. Such reticence is entirely understandable. To preach a Messiah who had died without apparently achieving anything was difficult enough. To preach a crucified Messiah was
virtually impossible. For Paul to make the crucifixion, of which he had
been informed as a Pharisee (see above), the centrepiece of his ministry
certainly demands explanation.
The Sinless Messiah
The most appropriate place to begin is with Paul's Pharisaic background,
and in particular with the portrait ofthe Messiah drawn by Pss. Sol. 17 (see
above). A unique feature of this presentation is that the expected Messiah
will be Kcx0ap6s CXTTO apapxias, 'pure from sin' (17.36); or in other
36. 'From such impressions arises that enargeia which Cicero calls "illumination"
and "actuality", which makes us seem not so much to narrate as to exhibit the actual
scene' (Quintilian, Inst. Oral 6.2.32). Paul's disclaimer of any rhetorical ability in
2 Cor. 11.6 is a mere rhetorical convention. In fact, he was so well trained that his
skill had become instinctive.
37. ' We must identify ourselves with the persons of whom we complain that they
have suffered grievous, unmerited and bitter misfortune, and must plead their case,
and, for a brief space, feel their suffering as though it were our own' (Quintilian, Inst.
Orat. 6.2.34).
38. The standard list is given in Fitzmyer (1989: 32).

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Christian Origins

words, OUK ao0evTiOEi, 'he will not stumble' (17.38). Unusual as this may
be,39 in this psalm it harmonizes perfectly with the reiterated stress on the
holiness of the messianic people. The Messiah GUVCX^E I Aaov ay IOV. . .KOU
KpiveT <j>uAas AaoO, riyiaapEVou UTTO xupiou 0EOO auToG, 'shall gather
together a holy people.. .and he shall judge the tribes of the people made
holy by the Lord his God' (17.26). Kon OUK EOTIV aSiKia EV TCUS npepais
auxou EV MEOCO auTcov, OTI TTCXVTES ayIOI, 'and in his days there shall be
no wickedness in their midst, for all shall be holy' (17.32). oi Aoyoi auToG
cos Aoyoi ayicov EV MEGCO Aacov r|yiao|JEVcov, 'his words shall be as the
words of the holy ones in the midst of peoples made holy' (17.43).
In thus underlining the sanctity of the messianic people Pss. Sol. 17
reflects a mainstream Jewish vision of the eschaton. It is the teaching of
the great prophets: 6 Aaos aou u a s 5iKaios, 'all your people will be just'
(Isa. 60.21). Ka0apio0TioEO0E CXTTO Traacov TCOV aKaOapoicov upcov,
'you shall be clean from all your uncleannesses' (Ezek. 36.25). Equally, it
is found in wisdom texts: oi Epya^opEvoi EV E|joi OUX apapTTiaouoiv,
'those who work with me [wisdom] will not sin' (Sir. 24.22). And in the
intertestamental literature: 'There shall be bestowed on the elect wisdom,
and they shall all live and never again sin.. .and they shall not again transgress, nor shall they sin all the days of their life' (7 En. 5.8-9).
Common sense dictates that, as the leader of a holy people, the Messiah
cannot be a sinner.40 The silence of texts other than Pss. Sol. 17 must not
be interpreted as denial of his sinlessness. On the contrary, the absolute
righteousness of the Messiah is taken completely for granted.41
The Messiah Should Not Die
This has a consequence, whose importance has not been recognized. It was
widely believed that the Messiah would not die. The basis for this is complex. One element is a series of Jewish texts in which death is seen, not as
integral to the structure of the human being, but as a penalty imposed for
sin.
The oldest text is from Genesis: CXTTO 5E TOU £UAOU TOG yivcooKEiv
KaAov Kai TTOVTIPOV, ou (j>ayEa0E air' auxou f) £av rmspa <|>ayriTE CXTT
auxoG 0avaxco aTroOavElaOE, 'but of the tree of knowledge of good and
evil you are not to eat. On the day you eat of it, by death you shall die'
39. 'There is no indisputable Jewish parallel for such a statement about the
messiah' (Collins 1995: 55).
40. So rightly Davenport (1980: 80).
41. See Mowinckel (1959: 308-311).

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

111

(Gen. 2.17). In order to harmonize this verse with Gen. 3.19, commentators
often understand it as alluding to 'spiritual' death, that is, separation from
God. It is much more likely, however, that Gen. 2.17 was intended, and
was so understood, as an explanation of the origin of death. The formula
used has afixedjuridical meaning, which implies that death is the consequence of a defined act. Physical death is held out as a threat to enforce
obedience to the commandment. It cannot, in consequence, be considered
integral to human existence. This relationship between sin and death is
reiterated by the woman in Gen. 3.23. Death is a punishment inflicted from
without.
This interpretation is confirmed by the Wisdom of Solomon: OTI 6 0E6S
EKTIOEV TOV av0pcoiTov ETT a<|)0apaig KOU e'lKova T % iSi
eTToirioev auTov <j)06vco 5e 5ia(3oAou 0avaxos e'iafiA0ev eis
TTEipa^ouaiv 5e auxov oi xf]s EKEIVOU MEpiSos OVTES, 'God created
humanity in a state of incorruptibility; in the image of his own eternity he
made him, but through the devil's envy death entered the world as those
who belong to him find to their cost' (Wis. 2.23-24).
The reference is certainly to physical death, because it is a death which
'entered the world'. This excludes an allusion to a second death that takes
place after physical death in another dimension of existence. Clearly the
fact of physical death has introduced a change into God's plan for humanity because God created humanity to live forever (cf. Wis. 1.12-14). ETT'
a<|)0cxpaio( means 'in' or 'with' incorruptibility, not 'for' incorruptibility.
Even though Wisdom uses ETTI with the dative 22 times, it never indicates
finality. A state is clearly envisaged in Wis. 1.13; 17.3, 7; 18.13.42 The
author of Wisdom knew that flesh of itself is <J>0apTOs, 'subject to corruption' (Wis. 9.15; cf. 19.21). That is why he chose the Epicurean term
ac()0apaia to describe the original condition of humanity. The Epicureans
believed that gods and humans were composed of atoms which tended to
fly apart. Nonetheless, unlike humans, the gods lived for ever. The reasons
is that they were endowed with a<j>0apaia (Reese 1970: 65-66). The use
of this term apropos of primitive humanity betrays the author's belief that
a0cxvaaia, 'immortality', was not a property of human nature. In opposition to Plato, the sage never predicates immortality of the human soul
(Reese 1970: 62). After humanity had sinned, the punishment that God
inflicted was the removal of the gift of ac()0apaia ('incorruptibility'). This
meant that human nature took its course. It was now 0vr|x6s, 'liable to
42. Note also that 'the invention of idols was the corruption of life' (Wis. 14.12).

128

Christian Origins

death, mortal' (Wis. 7.1; 9.14; 15.17). a<j)0ocpaia, however, could be recovered by the obedient possession of wisdom (Wis. 9.18-19).43
A similar, but less developed, understanding of human nature is found
in Ben Sira: CXTTO yuvaiKos apXH a|japTicxs KOU SI' auxr|V aTTO0VTiaKO|asv
TravTes, 'from a woman sin had its beginning, and because of her we all
die' (Sir. 25.24). This is not a spin-off from the profoundly misogynist
criticism of women in Sir. 25.13-26.44 It simply reflects the clear lesson of
Gen. 2-3. If Eve through her sin is the cause of mortality, then death is not
natural, but an externally inflicted punishment.
The intimate relationship between sinful humanity (not humanity as
such) and death is forcefully articulated in 1 Enoch: 'Human beings were
created to be like angels, permanently to maintain pure and righteous lives.
Death, which destroys everything, would have not touched them, had it
not been through through their knowledge by which they shall perish;
death is now eating us by means of this power' (69.11; cf. 98.4). The reference to 'knowledge' immediately points us, once again, towards Gen. 2 3. The original sin was eating the fruit of 'the tree of knowledge' (Gen.
2.17), and death is its consequence.45
In the case of the sinless Messiah, this right to live for ever was reinforced by other factors, which have been well brought out by Mowinckel:
It was only natural that in the specific, individual prediction or description
of the Messianic kingdom, the kingly rule of the Messiah came as a glorious climax, beyond which neither thought nor imagination sought to reach.46
.. .But, apart from the idea of an interim kingdom, the idea of the two aeons
helped to make the the Messiah not only a specific individual, but an eternal
being (1959: 324). 47

43. This, of course, introduces complications into the meaning of 'death' in the
Wisdom of Solomon but simplistic harmonization is to be avoided; see Kolarcik (1991).
44. SoBrandenberger(1962:53).
45. Many other texts could be cited to show the persistence of this belief in Judaism into the later rabbinic period, but my focus is on those that antedate Paul.
46. This is confirmed by Davenport for Ps. Sol. 17 (Davenport 1980: 79).
47. According to M. Hengel, to speak of the death of the Messiah was 'an unprecedented novelty' which flew in the face of all popular expectation (Hengel 1981: 40).
There is only one explicit reference to the death of the Messiah, 'My Servant the Messiah shall be revealed, together with those who are with him, and shall rejoice the survivors four hundred years. And it shall be, after these years, that my servant the Messiah
shall die, and all in whom there is human breath. Then shall the world be turned into the
primeval silence seven days, like as at the first beginnings' (4 Ezra 7.28-30). The
Hebrew original of this work must be dated in the early part of the second century AD;

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

129

The Gift of Self
Yet the Messiah whom Paul recognized in his encounter on the road to
Damascus had been put to death on the cross! Paul had to reconcile a
sinless Messiah who was also a dead Messiah. It did not prove very
difficult. If someone on whom death had no claim in fact died, only one
explanation is possible. He chose to die. Once Paul had accepted this
insight, the death of Jesus ceased to be a problem. Its modality then
became the central issue: why did Jesus choose this horrible form of
death? And Paul's answer is that Jesus willed it to demonstrate the extent
of his love for us.
In order to justify this hypothesis, let us return to Galatians. In the opening greeting Jesus is identified as xoG SOVTOS ECXUXOV urrsp xcov ajjapTIGOV rmoiv, 'the [one] having given himself for our sins' (Gal. 1.4). This
formula is regularly treated as representative of the primitive kerygma.48
This is highly improbable. While vnip xcov apapxiGov rmcov ('for our
sins') may reflect the influence of creeds such as 1 Cor. 15.3-5 (cf. Rom.
4.24), the same cannot be said of TOU 5OVTOS sauxov ('the [one] having
given himself) as the list of allusions to Christ's self-sacrifice reveals:
•

•
•
•

Ken yap 6 uios TOU av0pcoTrou OUK rjASsv 5iaKovTi0fiai aAAa
SiocKovfjaai KCXI SoGvcn xr|v V|AJXIIV auxoG Auxpov avxi
TTOAAGDV, 'The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve
and to give his life as a ransom for many' (Mk 10.45 = Mt.
20.28).
xoG 5ovxos iauxov UTrep xabv apapxicov r||jcov, 'The [one]
having given himself for our sins' (Gal. 1.4).
xoG cxyaiTTioavxos ME Ken rrapaSovxos sauxov uirsp spoG,
'The Son of God who loved me and gave himself for me' (Gal.
2.20).
ECXUXOV eKEVcooev, 'He emptied himself (Phil. 2.7).
ExaTTeivcoaev sauxov yev6|jevos UTTTIKOOS M^XP1 Qavdxou,
Savaxou 5e axaupoG, 'He humbled himself, becoming obedient
unto death, even death on a cross' (Phil. 2.8).
6 Xpioxos r|ycxTnr|GEV rmcxs KOU TTCCPE5COKEV EOCUXOV unip
T1IJC3V, 'Christ loved us and gave himself for us' (Eph. 5.2).

see Metzger (1985,1: 520). It is now clear that the Messiah in 4Q285 'is the subject of
the verb to kill, not its object' (Collins 1995: 58-59).
48. So most formally Martyn (1997: 88); but also Bruce (1982: 75); Dunn (1993:
35).

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Christian Origins
•

•

•
•

6 Xpioxos TiyaTTTioev TT|V EKKATIGICXV Kai eauxov TrapeScoKEV
UTTEp auTrjs, 'Christ loved the church and gave himself for her'
(Eph. 5.25).
avSpcoiTos Xpiaxos IriooGs, 6 Sous ECXUTOV avxiXuxpov utrep
TravTcov, 'The man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom
for all'(1 Tim. 2.5-6).
os E'5COKSV ECXUTOV UTTEp r||JGDV,'iva AuTpcoarixai rmas, 'He who
gave himself for us to redeem us' (Tit. 2.14).
os 5ia TTVEUMCXTOS aicoviou eauxov TTpoorivsyKEv apcoijov xcp
0£cp, 'He who through the eternal Spirit he offered himself
without blemish to God' (Heb. 9.14).

Chronologically the two earliest references to Christ's self-sacrifice are
to be found in Galatians, and there is no reason to think that Paul borrowed
from anyone.49 The next two allusions appear in a hymn (Phil. 2.6-11) that
is strongly influenced by Paul's preaching, and that he adapted by explicitating the modality of Christ's self-giving, namely, Savaxou 5e axaupoG,
'even death on a cross' (Phil. 2.8).50 An implicit evocation of self-giving
appears in a parallel addition to the Colossian hymn, EipTivoTTOirjaas 5ia
TOG a(|jaTOs xoG axaupoG auxoG, 'making peace by the blood of his
cross'.51 If the theme of Jesus' self-sacrifice is so firmly rooted in Paul's
preaching, it would be very surprising were it not found in letters attributed to the 'Pauline School'. In fact it surfaces in Ephesians, 1 Timothy,
Titus and Hebrews,52 and nowhere else, with the exception of the dominical logion in Mk 10.45. Given Paul's rather detailed knowledge of the
Jesus' tradition (see above), it is not at all impossible that he should have
49. So rightly Berenyi (1984).
50. One of the most formal references to Jesus Christ's choice of death is to be
found in the opening verse of this hymn: oux apTraypov riyTiaaTo TO elvai 'ioa 0£cp,
'he did not use to his own advantage his right to be treated as a god' (Phil. 2.6); see
Murphy-O'Connor (1976: 37-40) and the references there given.
51. See Murphy-O'Connor (1995b).
52. That Jesus chose death is perhaps also suggested by a<))opcovT6s eis TOV TT\S
TTIOTECOS apxriyov KCU xeAeicoxriv 'Irjaouv, os avri xfjs TTpoKei|j6VT]s auxcp x a P « S
uTTSMeivev axaupov aiaxuvris Kaxa^povrjaas, 'looking to Jesus the pioneer and
perfecter of our faith, who instead of the joy that was set before him endured the cross,
disregarding its shame' (Heb. 12.2). The first and best attested meaning of avxi,
'instead of, in place of (BAGD, p. 73), with its connotation of choice, is usually set
aside because exegetes are not aware of the relationship between sin and death outlined
above; cf. Spicq (1953: II, 387).

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

131

been influenced by this Gospel text,53 provided, of course, that it is authentic, but this hypothesis is not at all necessary.
The evidence points unambiguously to the conclusion that Paul was the
first to understand the death of Christ as a matter of choice. Jesus did not
merely accept death, as do all other humans who are sinners, he decided to
die. He opted for death. He made an decision that he did not have to make.
Only now does it become possible to understand the tremendous importance that Paul gave the death of Jesus. It was the result of a decision that
only he as the Sinless One (2 Cor. 5.21) could make.54 It became Paul's
key to understanding what made Jesus Christ unique as a human being.
It goes without saying, of course, that Paul is working backwards. Jesus
did not have to die. But if he did die, and in a particular way, then he must
have chosen that form of death. But what motive could justify the choice
of the atrocious suffering of crucifixion?
Paul was given a clue by the kerygma he had inherited. According to the
creed, 'Christ died for our sins' (1 Cor. 15.3). In 1 Thessalonians this
became 'our Lord Jesus Christ.. .died for us' (5.9). The implicit concern of
both these statements is with the benefits that resulted from the death of
Christ. Humanity benefited from Christ's decision.
His vision of Christ as sacrificing himself led Paul to see this relationship from a slightly different angle. He was searching for a motive for
Christ's choice. If, according to the traditional belief, the death of Christ
resulted in benefits for humanity, then the simplest answer to Paul's problem was that Christ intended those benefits. His motive, therefore, in
choosing to be crucified was to do good to others who were both unaware
and uninterested.
Some reasoning such as this must underlie Paul's interpretation of
Christ's decision as an act of love. In Galatians he speaks of the Son of
God TOU ayocTTTiaavTos ps KOU TrapaSovxos eauTov utrsp E|jou, 'who
loved me and gave himself for me' (2.20). The Kai here is explanatory
(BDF, §442.9) and the phrase should be translated 'who loved me, that is,
he gave himself for me'. Self-sacrifice is the expression of Christ's love.55
It is now possible to understand why Paul, in opposition to his contemporaries, was led to put such emphasis on the modality of Christ's
53. As Dunn has suggested rather tentatively (1993: 35).
54. Paul, of course, is not the only one to note the sinlessness of Christ; see Jn 8.46;
Heb. 4.15; 7.26; 9.14; 1 Pet. 1.19; 2.22.
55. So rightly Betz (1979: 125); Martyn (1997: 259).

132

Christian Origins

death. It was the supreme manifestation of total self-giving, and thereby
the model for Christian living.
In Union with a Faithful Christ
The second distinctive feature of the Christology of Galatians is a series of
texts expressing the union of believers with Christ and among themselves.
Nothing remotely similar is to be found in the kerygma that Paul inherited,
nor in the Thessalonian letters. Moreover, in contrast to the crucifixion of
Christ, there is no hint that Paul thought of Christ in this way prior to
writing Galatians. In consequence, the factors that forced Paul to develop
this insight are probably to be found in the situation that he had to confront
in Galatia.
The Fidelity of Christ
One of the features of the approach of the intruders in Galatia was the
importance they gave to thefigureof Abraham.56 They were law-observant
Christians from Antioch, whose theology was that of Jerusalem. Their view
of the relation between Jew and Gentile in terms of salvation was defined
by God's promise to Abraham: 'in you all the families of the earth shall be
blessed' (Gen. 12.3). To benefit by this blessing, however, the Gentiles had
to accept the terms of the covenant, one of which was circumcision (Gen.
17.12). Only in this way could they become 'descendants of Abraham'.57
In order to confront his opponents convincingly Paul had to tackle them
on their chosen ground. He had to find something in thefigureof Abraham
that would subvert the use that the intruders made of him. Paul's knowledge of the Scriptures enabled him to identify a crucial moment that occurred between the promise of God to Abraham (Gen. 12.3) and the
covenant that God made with Abraham (Gen. 17.1-22). 'The word of the
Lord came to Abram in a vision.. .and he believed the Lord, and the Lord
reckoned it to him as righteousness' (Gen. 15.1, 6 = Gal. 3.6). The righteousness of Abraham, therefore, antedated'the covenant of circumcision,
and it was rooted in faith.
In consequence, it was not really circumcision, but faith, that made
humans descendants of Abraham (Gal. 3.7). The precision of Paul's
56. So rightly Longenecker (1990: xcvii); Dunn (1993: 11); and above all Martyn
(1997: 125).
57. For a brilliant and convincing reconstruction of the speech of the intruders on
Abraham and his importance for Christians, see Martyn (1997: 302-306).

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

133

knowledge of Genesis further enabled him to discern a debating point that
would reduce his opponents to silence. The texts did not speak of many
'descendants' but of one 'offspring' (Gen. 13.15; 15.18; 17.18; 24.7).
Ignoring the collective sense of the singular, Paul identified this offspring
as Christ (Gal. 3.16).
If the needs of the debate in Galatia led Paul to think of Christ as the
offspring of Abraham, it would be extraordinary if the idea of 'the faith of
Christ' did not flit across his mind. If Abraham was made righteous by
faith, then the same must be true of his offspring, namely, Christ. Once
Paul thought of this, it must have seemed self-evident. Not only because
the portrait of the Messiah in Pss. Sol 17 strongly emphasizes his righteousness (w. 23, 26, 29, 37, 40), but also because of what Paul knew of
the ministry of the historical Jesus.
It is from this historical perspective that we must approach the muchdebated phrase TTIOTIS XpioxoO ('faith of Christ'), which is found in three
slightly different formulations in Galatians: 5ia TTIGTECGS ITIOOU Xpiaxou
('through [the] faith of Jesus Christ') (2.16); £K Triaxecos Xpioxou ('out
of [the] faith of Christ') (Gal. 2.16); k TTIOTECOS \T\OO\) Xpiaxou ('out of
[the] faith of Jesus Christ') (Gal. 3.22).58
Problems arise from two sources. First, TTIOXIS can be understood as
'faith', that is, the act of belief, or as 'fidelity'. Usage justifies this distinction (LSJ, col. 1408a), but it was irrelevant as far as Paul was concerned.
In his view there was no saving 'faith' without 'fidelity'. The initial act
accepting Jesus as the Risen Lord must be lived out in a highly specific
lifestyle or it was meaningless; note the warning in 1 Thess. 4.6. Hence it
is best to translate TTIGXIS by 'fidelity' on the understanding that it is the
externalization of a commitment that Paul normally expresses by the cognate verb TTioxeuco ('I believe') (Rom. 10.9).
Secondly, the genitive Xpiaxou can be interpreted subjectively ('the act
of faith made by Christ' or 'the fidelity shown by Christ') or objectively
(Christ as the object of the act of faith; hence, 'faith in Christ'). Two factors have bedevilled the choice between these theoretical possibilities:59
(a) the controversy regarding justification by faith, which prioritized the
act of believing, and read Galatians from the perspective of later letters;
and (b) the assumption that Paul believed in the divinity of Christ, which
58. Other instances are to be found in Rom. 3.22, 26 and Phil. 3.9.
59. For documentation of the debate; see the bibliographies in Longenecker (1990:
87), and in Matera (1992: 104).

134

Christian Origins

necessarily excluded the interpretation of the genitive as subjective, because God cannot believe in himself.
If we abstract from both of these extraneous and anachronistic considerations, the natural reading of TTIOTIS Xpiaxou is 'the fidelity shown by
Christ'. No one has ever dreamt of treating the genitives in TTIOTIS TOG
06oG ('fidelity of God') (Rom. 3.3)60 or TTIGTIS 'Appadcp ('fidelity of
Abraham') (Rom. 4.16)61 as objective genitives. And it should be the same
when it is a question of Christ, particularly since Paul has already spoken
of UTTO|JOVTI TOU XpiOToG, 'the steadfastness of Christ' (2 Thess. 3.5),
which is a synonym of TTIOTIS XpiOToG ('fidelity of Christ'). The example of Christ is ever before Paul's mind.
Confirmation of the subjective reading of XpiaxoG comes from a comparison of Gal. 2.16 and Gal. 2.21 (Martyn 1997: 271).
Gal. 2.16
ou SIKCUOGTCCI avOpcoTTOs
E£ epycov V6|JOU
eav jarj 6ia TTIOTECOS XpiaTou

Gal. 2.21
ei y a p 5ia vopou SiKaioauvri

man is not justified
by works of the law
but by the fidelity of Christ

if justification were
by the law
then Christ died uselessly

a p a Xpiaxos Scopeav cxTreBavev

The strict parallel between the negative first parts of these antinomies
entitles us to assume that the second positive parts are saying the same
thing in different ways. Thus, if Christ is the subject of the action ('dying')
in 2.21, he is also the subject of the action ('faith/fidelity') in 2.16.62
A comparison of Gal. 2.16 and Gal. 3.22 is also highly instructive.63

60. T h e faithfulness of God' (RSV, NRSV, Philipps 1955); 'God's faithfulness'
(NJB, NAB, Niv); 'la fidelite de Dieu' (Bible de Jerusalem).
61. T h e faith of Abraham' (RSV, NRSV, NJB); 'his faith' (NAB); 'a faith like that of
Abraham' (Philipps 1955).
62. A strictly grammatical point should also be kept in mind, 'the objective
genitive, strictly defined, demands not only a verbal ruling noun but also one whose
cognate verb is transitive. The verb pisteuo is itself transitive only with the meaning
"to entrust" followed by two accusatives. In the case of pistis Christou one may be
well advised, then, to speak of genitive of authorship or of origin' (Martyn 1997:270
n. 171).
63. This is developed most effectively by Williams (1987: esp. 443-44).

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

Gal. 2.16
ou StKaiouTcu avSpcoiTos
e£ epycov vopou
sav Mil 5ia TTIOTEGGS XpiaTou

The Origins of Paul's Christology

135

Gal 3.22-23

\va rj eTrayyAia EK rrioTecos'
Xpioxou

KCU rujsfs eis Xpiaxov 'Irjaouv ETTioTEuaapev 5o8fj xois Tnaxeuouai v...
MsXXouaav TTIOTIV aTTOKaAu<|>0fjvai
man is not justified
by works of the law
but by fidelity of Christ
even we have believed in Christ

that the promise of fidelity of Christ
might be given to believers.
(Now before faith came, we were
confined under the law...)
until faith should be revealed

In both cases TTIOTIS XpiOToO is associated with instrumental prepositions, Sia and ex ('through' and 'from'), which indicate that it is the means
whereby salvation is achieved. In both cases, in addition to the reference
to the 'faith of Christ', the subjective faith of believers is explicitly evoked
in the verbal form. When taken together these observations strongly suggest: (1) that Paul sees a distinction between 'the fidelity of Christ' and
'the faith of believers'; and (2) that the two are nonetheless intimately
related.
Before discussing how Paul envisaged this relationship, one further
observation is important. In Gal. 3.23 TTIOTIS ('faith') 'comes' and 'is
revealed'. How and when? The personalized language is a obvious clue,
which Paul proves to be correct in the very next verse. The control of the
law ended when Christ came (Gal. 3.24). It is Christ, therefore, who reveals
'fidelity' by exemplifying and actualizing it.64 The conclusionflowingfrom
the comparison of Gal. 2.16 and 2.21 is thereby confirmed.
The clear hint in Gal. 2.16 and 2.21 that the 'fidelity of Christ' and the
'faith' of believers were related as instrumental cause and effect respectively is developed in a surprising direction in Gal. 2.20 where Paul
exploits the polyvalence of TTIOTIS ('faith') in order to establish a much
closer link between Christ and believers than had hitherto been conceived.
A bond between believers and Christ could have been deduced from his
vision of Christ as Kupios ('Lord'). If he is their Lord (Gal. 1.3; 5.10;
64. So rightly Williams (1987: 437-38), who very appositely refers to Heb. 12.2,
where Jesus is the great exemplar of faith.

136

Christian Origins

6.12,18), then believers 'belong to Christ; u\\€\s Xpicrrou' (Gal. 3.29; cf.
5.24), a formula that appears for thefirsttime in Galatians.65 This belonging, however, is much more than mere possession, as we discover in Gal.
2.19-20. XpioTcp ouveaxaupco|jar £co 5e OUKETI eyco, £fj 5s ev i\xo\
XpiaTos* o 5e vuv ££> ev aapKt, ev TTIGTSI £GO xfj xou uioO xoG 0eou xou
cxyaTTTioavxos pe KCU 7Tapa86vxos eauxov unep epoC, 'I have been
crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.
The life I now live in the flesh I live infidelity,that of the Son of God who
loved me and gave himself for me.' The number of insights condensed in
this verse is extraordinary, and betrays the ferment of Paul's mind once he
began to think seriously about Christ.
We have already considered thefinalwords which highlight the fact that
the supreme self-sacrifice of Christ was an act of love. Here we see that
they are the most important part of an adjectival phrase introduced by the
definite article, which defines Paul's 'fidelity'.66 What does this tell us?
•

•

•

•

'Fidelity' is manifested as iove' and 'self-sacrifice'.
The standard against which Paul's 'fidelity' is measured is that
of Christ.
Since Christ's 'fidelity' went to the extreme limit of giving all
for others, Paul's must do likewise. It is in this sense that he has
been crucified with Christ. His 'fidelity' is an ongoing, painful
process.
Paul's 'fidelity', then, is nothing unless it imitates the 'fidelity' of
Christ so perfectly that the two can be identified. By the quality
of his commitment concretized in his dedication to others Paul in
effect becomes Christ. This is why he says 'It is no longer I who
live, but Christ who lives in me'. It is in and through Paul that the
Risen Christ continues to live 'in the flesh'. Through Paul Christ
continues to be present in the world.
Paul's 'fidelity' was both the original goal and the achieved result
of Christ's 'fidelity'. Paul's new T exists through grace, and as
another Christ he is the channel of that grace to others.

65. The other instances are 1 Cor. 3.23; 15.23; 2 Cor. 10.7; Rom. 8.9; 14.8.
66. Among the commentators this is formally recognized by Matera (1992:96) and
Martyn (1997: 259). Similarly Williams (1987:445). Those who insist that the genitive
is objective are forced to ignore the crucial article (albeit with a certain hesitation, e.g.
Dunn [1993: 146], and translate 'I live by faith in the Son of God').

MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

137

Union with Christ
If Paul could say 'Christ lives in me' (cf. Phil. 1.21) because of the conformity of his total dedication to that of Christ, then all committed believers
could say likewise. Speaking together in the liturgical assembly they
would have to say 'We are Christ'. Thus, it was practically inevitable that
Paul should write oooi y a p eis Xpiaxov e(3aTrna0r|Te, Xpiaxov
Eve5uaaG0E.. .TTCXVTES yap upeis &S ears ev Xpiaxcp 'IriaoO, 'as many of
you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ.. .you all are one man
in Christ Jesus' (Gal. 3.27-28). The grace of Christ given in baptism
initiates the transformation of believers into Christ. They do not play at
being Christ by adopting certain external characteristics. They become
Christ, just as a great actor becomes the character he is playing (de Witt
Burton 1921: 204; Dunn 1993: 204). Through an inspired effort of will
there is an actual transformation of the personality into a new entity from
which flow words and deeds worthy of Christ. In opposition to an actor,
however, who can shed his role, for the believer it must become a permanent way of being.
Paul's plaintive exclamation reveals another facet of this theme, TSKVCX
|jou, oils TTCXAIV eoSivco pexpis °U Mop<j>co8fi XpiaTos EV U|iiv, 'my
children with whom I am again in travail until Christ is formed in you'
(Gal. 4.19). The imagery here is extraordinarily complex.67 In essence,
Paul has to repeat the painfiil process of giving birth to the Galatians. The
new-born are to be collectively Christ; note the plural EV U|jiv ('in you') in
contrast to the singular EV EMO'I ('in me') of Gal. 2.20.68
As one with Christ, the believers are one with each other. 'You all are
one man in Christ' (Gal. 3.28). The way this insight is formulated is significant. The stress is on unity. It is expressed in the principal clause ('you
are one'), whereas the multiplicity ('all') is effectively a subordinate
clause with the sense of 'even though'.69 Paul will remain faithful to this
structure in all future statements about unity and diversity.70

67. See in particular Gaventa (1990).
68. To bring out this point Martyn translates 'in your congregations' (1997: 425).
69. See Robinson (1952: 60).
70. ev oco|ja oi TTOXXO! eapev, 'we, who are many, are one body' (1 Cor. 10.17);
travxa 5e xa \ii\r\ TOU OCOMOCTOS troXXa ovxa ev eaxiv acona, 'all the members of
the body, being many, are one body' (1 Cor. 12.12); oi TTOXXOI ev oco|ja eapev ev
XpiaTco, 'we, the many, are one body in Christ' (Rom. 12.5).

138

Christian Origins
Conclusion

It is time to conclude. We have seen how both internal and external factors
led Paul to develop his Christology in two directions unthought of by the
traditional kerygma which he inherited: first, his stress on the modality of
the death of Jesus; and second, his vision of a corporate Christ. In christological terms Galatians represents a quantum leap forward by comparison with 1 and 2 Thessalonians.
Nonetheless, Galatians is only a beginning. Ideas that will play a crucial
explicit role in later letters, especially 1 Corinthians, appear there only in
embryonic form, for example, the believer is another Christ; believers in
community are the Body of Christ. Other key aspects of Paul's distinctive
Christology have not yet swum into his consciousness, notably its Adamic
and Wisdom dimensions. These will appear for thefirsttime in Philippians
and 1 Corinthians respectively. Paul's Christology is a coherent whole,
which grew by incorporating radically different new ideas, whose unifying
potential Paul first exploited.
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MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

139

Bruce, F.F.
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Christian Origins

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MURPHY-O'CONNOR

The Origins of Paul's Christology

141

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Clothed with Christ: The Example and Teaching ofJesus in Romans 12.115.13 (JSNTSup, 59; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press).
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'Solomon, Psalms of, ABD, VI: 115-17.

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Vincent, Marvin R.
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'Paul and Jesus: The Problem of Continuity', SJT3S: 189-203.
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'Again Pistis Christou\ CBQ 49: 431-47.

THE JESUS-PAUL DEBATE REVISITED
AND RE-IMAGING CHRISTIAN ORIGINS

Sean Freyne
Thus, for researchers like Wilhelm Bousset and Wilhelm Heitmuller, it is
clear that the historical phenomenon that has hitherto been called 'Christianity' includes the Pauline doctrine of salvation.. .mediated by the person of
Christ. Therefore, they conclude, the religion of the historical Jesus was not
'Christianity'; Jesus was not 'the first Christian'... What is the implication
of this? Does it mean a return to Jesus and the abandonment of the Pauline
doctrine of salvation? If so we would clearly have to abandon what was
hitherto been called Christianity. However, one would hardly be permitted
to shrink back from such an implication if its presuppositions were correct... Moreover, one might perhaps be prepared to pay the price of
renouncing 'Christianity' if he could be sure that by so doing he would be
acting in accord with Jesus' real intention (Bultmann 1961: 219).

The choice between Jesus and Paul that Rudolph Bultmann felt confronted with in the 1930s is still very much at the heart of Christian soulsearching today. The extrordinary current interest in the so-called 'third
wave' of historical Jesus studies at both popular and academic levels is
symptomatic of the issue of Christian identity facing all the churches, since
it often reflects an increasing disenchantment with organized religion in
the Western world. One way of describing the current malaise is to speak
of loss of identity, that affects both the personal and collective aspects of
life. The so-called death of the subject in contemporary philosophy is
matched by a profound uncertainty about the future of many of the stable
institutions by which our communal lives have been sustained. The detraditioning of all cultures that is part of the global strategy of our modern
technological world tends to obliterate difference in the name of progress,
with the result that some have gone so far as to claim that the very notion
of Christian identity should now be abandoned as outmoded and unenlightened. Whatever one might think about such claims it cannot be denied that
identity crises need not sound the death-knell to all that we have taken as
sacrosanct. It is the manner in which we respond to those crises that is

144

Christian Origins

crucial. When viewed as potential growth points forcing us to a fundamental reappraisal of the direction and purpose of our lives the turmoil that
results from the insecurity of an identity crisis can be truly therapeutic.
The reflections of Paul Ricoeur can help in clarifying what is at stake in
such issues (1984: III, esp. 241-49). He points to the fragility of human
identity, torn between a desire for maintaining sameness through time (the
Idem), and the fear of being totally absorbed by the 'other' (the Alienum).
A viable identity that can take account of both time and memory, that is,
change and continuity, is achieved only through affirming continuity of
the self (the Ipse) in and through change. This is made possible through
remembering those aspects or moments that are essential for self-definition.
Ricoeur is anxious to affirm the ethical dimensions of such activity in that
our rememberings are conditioned by our Utopias and we can all suffer from
amnesia with regard to those aspects of the past that sit uncomfortably with
our present concerns. This model can apply to collective identities also,
including that of Christianity itself. Looking at the broad sweep of Christian history it becomes clear that a pattern of remembering origins has been
a constant hallmark at moments that can be described as identity crises for
the Christian church. All movements of reform and renewal—the mendicant orders, Luther, the radical reformation, Wesley, nineteenth-century
liberal Protestantism and Vatican II—different though each may be, can
all be characterized as a revisiting of origins in order to capture afresh
some aspects of the founding vision in the light of the perceived crisis of
the day. Thus the issue of Christian origins is a theological as well as a
historical question, the ethical dimensions of which should not be overlooked. The account of origins that we give determines what is considered
significant for the present and the future, and hence the responsibility is all
the more urgent to be both critical and self-critical in the ways in which
we reconstruct the past.
Some Proposals for Christian Origins: A Critical Assessment
Acts of the Apostles represents the earliest account of Christian origins
that we possess and its historical and theological intentions have been
widely discussed in contemporary scholarship, with many different and
conflicting opinions being expressed. A few general observations must
suffice in this context. Luke is concerned to establish continuity between
the church of his own day with the history of Jesus, and adopts a double
narrative genre of Life (Gospel) and Apologetic History (Acts), conjoined
by various literary devices such as prologues and parallel structures in

FREYNE

The Jesus-Paul Debate Revisited

145

order to achieve his purpose. That this activity was undertaken in the
context of various competing accounts becomes clear from the opening
address to Theophilus, whom Luke wants to be reassured about the 'safety'
of his catechesis or instruction in the faith. The flow of the narrative in
both works seems to have been determined more by theological than by
historical considerations. In particular, the role of the prophet servant of
Isaiah, gathering Israel so that it could become the light of the nations (Isa.
49.6), was highly influential in shaping his account, since clear echoes of
this prophecy of restoration occur at various key points in the narrative of
both works (Lk. 2.31-32; 13.27-30; 24.47; Acts 1.8; 13.47). Other prophecies of restoration from Isaiah have also been influential for Luke in his
presentation of Jerusalem as the city of salvation, now accomplished in the
career of Jesus and the spread of his movement. All this is presented as
being in accordance with the divine boule or plan for history, probably in
order to present a counter-history to that which Graeco-Roman historiographers from Polybius to Tacitus had claimed for the rise and rule of Rome
(Freyne 1968: 236-55; Maddox 1982: 66-90).
It is generally acknowledged that these theological interests overrode
any concerns Luke had with history 'as it really was'. In particular, the way
in which Paul is fitted into the picture and linked to Jesus through the
circle of the Twelve and the Hellenistai, in contrast to Paul's own account
in his letters, has given rise to what has been described as the Paulinism of
Acts. Before this account is dismissed as mere ideological bias, early
Catholicism, or distortion of history by our modern standards, its intention
should be considered in the light of Luke's theological agenda. He wants
to establish continuity in the new movement while acknowledging cultural
change and differing social location. Galilean villages were a far cry from
the Areopagus in Athens, and the Hebrews and Hellenists were rooted in
their common Jewish experience in very different ways. Yet Christian
identity was not a matter of choosing between Jesus and Paul, Galilee or
Athens, but of somehow including both within the same larger frame.
Turning to the nineteenth-century responses to the crisis of Christian
identity we find by contrast that there is a distinct preference for either
Jesus or Paul in the various approaches. A wedge was thereby driven
between the two in the name of a more objective account of history, that
nevertheless can now be seen to have been heavily influenced by trends of
thought that were inspired more by the Enlightenment than by first-century
concerns. Either Jesus was presented in universalist categories that separated him decisively from his Jewish particularism, or Paul was the one
who transformed the story of the Nazarene into a myth of universal salva-

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Christian Origins

tion, whereby the initiates were able to participate in the transformation of
Jesus through the rituals of baptism and sacred meal.1 The Liberal tradition represented by Baur, Holtzman, Welhausen and Harnack sought to
articulate Christian faith in accordance with idealist Hegelian categories,
thereby cloaking the differences between Jesus and Paul, whereas the
History of Religions approach, especially as espoused by Wrede, had no
such apologetic agenda. In an important lecture on the task and methods of
biblical theology delivered to German pastors in 1897, Wrede declared
that if the results of the History of Religions approach to the New Testament meant the demise of that discipline as practised by liberal theologians, then it was too bad for the Church.2 In other words the gulf between
faith and history was apparently unbridgeable.
In the present century both the Liberal and the History of Religions
approaches have been combined in the work of Rudolph Bultmann, in that
the Hellenistic redeemer-myth was now translated into the universal categories of existentialist philosophy in accordance with his demythologizing
programme. This approach very definitely favoured Paul (and John) over
Jesus, who in Bultmann's view was the presupposition for but not part of
the content of New Testament theology. Nevertheless, it has not gone
unnoticed that Bultmann wrote an important book about Jesus in 1926,
Jesus and the Word (according to its English, not its German, title). This
was not intended as a life of Jesus in the liberal sense, but as an apologetic
account of the message of Jesus that opened up possibilities for faith by
the one who announced the end of this world as imminent, thereby anticipating the message of the Christian kerygma in which he became the proclaimed one. Bultmann's Jesus thus anticipated his response to the dilemma
posed in the 1936 article on 'Jesus and Paul' cited at the outset. He concludes that article as follows:
One cannot, therefore, flee from Paul and return to Jesus. For what one
encounters in Jesus is the same God as one encounters in Paul... All one can
do is to go to Jesus through Paul: that is, one is asked by Paul whether he is
willing to understand God's act in Christ as the event that has decided and
now decides with respect to both the world and to us (Bultmann 1961: 239).

1. For a convenient and perceptive account cf. Riches (1993: 14-49); cf. also the
essays of Wilson (1984) and Rollmann (1984).
2. Wrede (1973: esp. 69-70,182), where the introduction to the original German
lecture is given indicating the tension between church dogmatics and historical study
of the New Testament. Cf. Boers (1979).

FREYNE The Jesus-Paul Debate Revisited

\A1

In other words, the radical differences between Jesus and Paul that Wrede
and others had postulated were now submerged beneath Bultmann's existentialist/Lutheran treatment of Christian faith as the unconditional response
to the proclaimed word rather than to historical events.
The mediating position of the post-Bultmannians with respect to the
significance of the historical Jesus for Christian faith as expressed by Kasemann, Bornkamm and others, has today given way to a so-called 'third
wave' of historical Jesus research that in many respects seems to mirror
the earlier debates of both the liberal lives of Jesus and the History of
Religions approach to Christian origins.3 The fact that the centre of gravity
of this latest development is no longer Europe but North America throws
an interesting light on some aspects of the current debates, however. In
these studies the quest for Jesus is being conducted in the context of a very
definite disenchantment with the Christian Church, its myths and rituals,
and the resultant picture of Jesus bears a striking resemblance to the
American dream and its ethical Utopia. By making some extravagant claims
to greater objectivity, John Dominic Crossan, author of the bestselling The
Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant, attempts to
preempt Schweitzer-style critiques, by claiming a methodological rigour
and objectivity not heretofore achieved, and he challenges others either to
accept or improve upon his method. Yet his discussion of the sources,
especially the Gospel narratives, is in my view unsatisfactory and does not
escape the positivist fallacy (Freyne 2000). Jesus is detached from the
milieu of Jewish faith and practice within which the Gospels locate him,
so that he can be relocated in a context that is congenial to Crossan,
namely, a non-apocalyptic, Cynic-style Mediterranean culture where a
wisdom-inspired ethical climate prevailed.
Nevertheless, Crossan is interested in exploring the christological implications of his Jesus. In his terms Jesus proclaimed a 'brokerless kingdom',
meaning 'the unmediated presence of God to each individual and each
individual's unmediated presence to each other', an understanding of the
kingdom that is symbolized through the exchanges of meals and magic
(Crossan 1991: 261-64). For Crossan, this formulation in no way contradicts the later, Chalcedonian formula for Jesus of being 'truly God' and
'truly man'. This seems to imply an implicit Christology, or Jesuology,
already in the lifetime of Jesus and could, therefore, have provided the
plank between Jesus and Paul, as more theologically conservative scholars
3. Cf. the programmatic if pessimistic essay of Kasemann (1973); Bornkamm
(1957); Robinson (1959).

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Christian Origins

have claimed (Kummel 1965: 439-56; Dunn 1977: 203-234; 1998: 183206; Dungan 1971). This is not, however, the route taken by Crossan. In
the epilogue to The HistoricalJesus he writes that as the new movement
took root in the urban centres it encountered a more open synthesis of
Jewish and Hellenistic elements characteristic of the Diaspora synagogues.
As a result an ongoing dialectic arose between 'an historically read Jesus
and a theologically read Christ', giving rise to a plurality of both Jesus and
Christ figures, as the New Testament itself attests (Crossan 1991:422-26).
In a more recent study he develops this claim further, so that it now
emerges that two different trajectories developed within early Christianity,
the 'life and death traditions', as he labels them. The former focuses on the
sayings tradition and adopts the myth of incarnate Wisdom as its underpinning and the latter concentrates on the death and resurrection kerygma
similar to the dying and rising saviour motif of Hellenistic religions that
was ritually celebrated. Both traditions had equal validity and were not
easily reconciled. Indeed they traveled by different routes before eventually being combined in the third generation—the sayings gospel emerging
in Galilee with the so-called Q community and traveling on to Syria,
via the Didache and Gospel of Thomas, whereas the death/resurrection
kerygma originated in Jerusalem and traveled very early via Damascus to
Antioch. Each tradition is kerygma and they are both equally valid, so that
one should not be prioritized over the other (Crossan 1998: 407-421).4
Crossan clearly prefers the life tradition, because it is in continuity with the
historical Jesus as he reconstructs that figure. The death tradition, by contrast, is poorly grounded in historical reality in his view, the product of
prophecy historicized rather than history interpreted. Since this tradition is
the centre of Paul's thought, then clearly Crossan's reconstruction cannot
allow for continuity between Jesus and Paul, and in this his views seem to
correspond to those of Burton Mack who believes that the Cynic Jesus of
Galilee became erased by the Christ-confessing congregations that grew
up on the fringes of Diaspora synagogues, examples of which are to be
seen in the Pauline communities. Their distance from Jerusalem made it
possible for these congregations to admit Gentiles also, and to include
elements of Hellenistic mythologies into their interpretation of Jesus'
death, notably the martyr's death, the hero's noble death and the dying and
rising saviour figure (Mack 1988: 98-123).
4. Incidentally, Crossan' s admission of a plurality of Jesuses in early Christianity
seems to sit oddly with his opening statement that the plurality of modern Jesuses is
'an academic embarrassment' (1991: xxviii).

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To be fair to current Jesus research, not all scholars paint such a radical
picture of the divide between Jesus and the early Christian movement.
Thus Marcus Borg's Jesus as a spirit-filled prophet who challenges the
narrow purity system of his Jewish co-religionists could be aligned with
certain construals of Paul's theology of Christ, the giver of the Spirit
through faith, not works of the law (Borg 1987). Elisabeth Schussler Fiorenza discusses how 'the discipleship of equals' of Jesus found expression
in the Pauline communities (Schussler Fiorenza 1983). Yet what is most
obvious about the current Jesus debates, unlike those of the post-Bultmannian new quest earlier in this century, is the lack of scholarly concern with
establishing a relationship of the various construals of his ministry with
Paul's account of what constituted Christian faith. Presumably this is
because, from the point of view of the practitioners of the new wave of
Jesus scholarship, Paul is already compromised in terms of credal affirmations about Jesus. Equally, it must be said that much recent scholarship
on Paul has no interest in re-opening the Jesus-Paul debate either.
E.P. Sanders is rightly regarded as having introduced a paradigm shift
with his two monographs on Paul's place in Palestinian Judaism (1977,
1983). Sanders has also contributed greatly to the study of Jesus within
the same setting. Yet curiously he nowhere attempts to bring the results
of his work on Jesus and Paul into dialogue. This may be due to the fact
that Sanders regards himself as a historian rather than a theologian. However, his suggestion that 'any account of Jesus which explains the emergence of a movement in his name after his death, is inherently more
plausible on historical grounds than one which does not', invites further
exploration in terms of 'the restoration eschatology' which he has identified as such an important aspect of Second Temple Judaism (Sanders
1985: 18-22).
Refocusing the Question of Jesus and Paul
There appear to be two recurring and complementary emphases in these
nineteenth- and twentieth-century reconstructions of Christian origins
which call for reassessment in the light of scholarly debates elsewhere. On
the one hand a highly monochromic and stereotyped picture of Jews and
Judaism is operating, which is then set over against a version of Hellenism
which makes both hermetically sealed systems of religion and culture,
implacably opposed to each other. One must choose for the enlightenment
of Athens or the obscurantism of Jerusalem. While these battlelines were
clearly drawn in the nineteenth century when anti-Judaism was rife in all

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branches of German scholarship, it is nevertheless surprising how persistent
they still remain today. Despite all the advances in our understanding of
Second Temple Judaism, scholars dealing with Jesus still have considerable
difficulty in articulating a version of his 'uniqueness' which Christian faith
has traditionally required, without presenting him as being over against his
own religious culture.
On the other hand, the prevalent account of Hellenism as a cultural force
still retains to a considerable degree nineteenth-century idealist overtones,
especially when the issue of early Christianity is being discussed in relation to Diaspora Judaism, as, for example, in the construals of Crossan and
Mack just discussed. Far from being two irreconcilable entities, all of Judaism (i.e. homeland as well as the Diaspora) had been thoroughly Hellenized from the middle of the second century BCE, at least according to
Martin Hengel (1973).5 Yet there is need to spell out the implications of
such a conclusion, well founded though it is in the light of Hengel's massive documentation. The danger is that such an encounter is judged solely
in terms of the Hellenistic reform of Antiochus Epiphanes, which was
certainly intent on obliterating any distinctive Jewish identity through the
identification of Yahweh with Zeus. Yet Hengel's account has shown that
such writers as Ben Sirach were thoroughly informed with regard to Greek
philosophical ideas about creation, education and ethical issues, and could
easily draw on such categories in articulating their own Jewish beliefs.
The Wisdom of Solomon and Philo of Alexandria are even more outstanding examples of this adaptation from later centuries. The Essenes,
living in seeming isolation in the Judaean desert, show themselves not to
be immune from Greek political and military ideas, not to speak of the
highly enlightened nature of rabbinic learning in terms of the great issues
of the day, despite the fact that its masters operated in a different language
and in a distinctive style (Hengel 1978). Acculturation is not the same as
assimilation with its thoroughly syncretistic tendencies of removing all
traces of difference. Indeed this has been one of the criticisms of Hengel's
pioneering study, namely, the fact that he has not sufficiently allowed for a
two-way process of mutual influence between the older Semitic cultures of
the West and the newer Greek presence in the East (Millar 1987a, 1987b).
In the light of such revisions of both Judaism and Hellenism in the period
prior to the emergence of Christianity it is easy to appreciate how forced
the Jesus/Paul opposition in fact was, at least as construed in nineteenth5. Cf. Hengel' s popular account dealing with thefirstcentury (1989); also Gruen
(1998).

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century terms. The encounter between the two cultures should rather be
understood in such a way that it was possible to affirm one's Jewish identity in distinctively Greek terms without thereby ceasing to be recognizably
Jewish. Yet this statement begs another question: when is a Jew a Jew? In
dealing with the issue of Jesus the Jew, some have gone to the extreme of
claiming that the term Ioudaios should be confined to the inhabitants of
Judaea in the narrow sense, that is, as a primarily geographic rather than as
an ethno-religious designation. My own position has been to argue on both
literary and archaeological grounds that the dominant strand of the Galilean population of thefirstcentury was Jewish in the ethno-religious sense
of a strong attachment to the way of life associated with the Jerusalem
temple as its symbolic centre.6 Jesus, I believe, shared in that attachment,
however critical he may have been of the existing situation with the Jerusalem priesthood, in terms of both its religious and social stances.
Being a 'Jew' was not, however, such a univocal designation that variations of a regional, social or cultural nature could not be tolerated, or that
changes of emphasis might not occur in the light of new situations. This
applies not just to the various sectarian groups, but also to those who shared
a 'common Judaism', to borrow Sanders's terminology. In fact, Paul,
described by Luke as a 'Jew from Tarsus in Cilicia' (Acts 22.3), is an excellent example of such fluidity in the designation 'Jew' when the matter
comes up for discussion in a personal rather than in a public forum as
is the case in Acts.7 Thus in Galatians he describes himself as having
advanced in Judaism (Ioudaismos) beyond any of his contemporaries (Gal.
1.14; cf. Phil. 3.4-7), meaning his zealous (Pharisaic) attitude to the law.
Yet in the same letter he can remind Peter that although both of them are
ethnically (ethnikos) Jews they do not live»as Jews, presumably referring
in the context to their non-observance of the dietary laws (Gal. 2.14).
While the conflictual nature of the epistle may explain the apparent contradiction between these two statements, it is nevertheless clear that Paul's
conversion had driven him towards a different understanding of his Jewishness. This emerges most clearly in Romans where on the one hand he
speaks glowingly of the privilege of being Jewish, yet on the other defines
that Jewishness less in terms of politico-ethnic markers and more in terms
of one's inner relationship with God (Rom. 2.28-3.2; 1 Cor. 9.19-20).
Thus, Paul, and presumably also Jesus, both regarded themselves as
6. Cf. my discussion in Freyne (1988: 114-31).
7. For an interesting discussion of Paul's sense of his Jewish identity and its changing character cf. Dunn (1999).

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Jews, yet neither would have seen that self-designation in anything other
thanflexibleterms that could tolerate diversity of outlook and practice. This
is abundantly clear in Paul's case. His 'conversion' meant a shift from a
Pharisaic-style rigorism to that of a Jew in search of a deeper and broader
understanding of what that really meant.8 In the end it seems that he was
happiest with the designation Israelite, which best corresponded to his newfound appreciation of the divine plan and its inclusive, universalist nature.9
Yet, this designation should not be construed (as Richard Horsley has
done), as that of someone adhering to the old Mosaic ordinances but
opposed to the Jerusalem cult-centre and its laws and customs (Horsley
1995: 39-45). Paul continued to see Jerusalem as the symbolic centre for
the new movement, just as he had done previously as Saul the pharisaic
student from Tarsus in Cilicia. In dealing with his Judaizing opponents in
Galatia he is not slow to condemn them under the rubric of 'the present
Jerusalem that is enslaved'. Yet sustaining the metaphor he goes on to
declare that 'the Jerusalem above is free, and she is our mother' (Gal.
4.25-26). It is for this reason that he continued to give practical expression
to that conviction through his ministry (diakonia) of supporting 'the poor
among the saints in the Jerusalem church' (Rom. 15.25-32; 1 Cor. 16.12).10 In the case of Jesus, the situation is complicated by the nature of our
sources, but at least we can say that 'the historical Jesus' in the sense of
the Jesus who stands behind the Gospel narratives (as distinct from the
actual Jesus) maintains an independent stance within Judaism from that
emanating from the Jerusalem centre, a stance that led ultimately to the
confrontation that brought about his violent death. His Galilean ministry
and experiences must be presumed to have shaped his particular understanding of the true meaning of Jewishness and his unfulfilled expectations
with regard to the Jerusalem ruling elite's spiritual role.11 Yet, like Paul
8. I have found B. Meyer's study of Paul (1986) a highly stimulating study of
Paul's developing sense of mission in the context of social change, using theoretical
categories from Bernard Lonergan's Insight.
9. Cf. Dunn (1999: 187-89); cf. also Tomsen (1986) who seeks to distinguish
between Jew as an external identity marker and Israel as a preferred inner-Jewish
designation.
10. Cf. Martyn (1997: 25-36), who interprets the Jerusalem 'below' as the Jerusalem church. The cultic nature of the language of Rom. 15 is quite remarkable and
shows that the temple imagery is strongly to the fore in Paul's mind as he prepares to
return to Jerusalem.
11. Cf. Freyne (1988). For the distinction between the historical and actual Jesus cf.
Schneiders (1991: 97-110).

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later, the tension between the Galilean experience of Jewishness and the
stance of the Jerusalem establishment as reflected in the narratives about
Jesus, ought not to be construed in such a way that one must opt for a
Galilean Jesus divorced from Jerusalem and its symbolic significance for
all Jews—Galileans, those from the larger Diaspora, Judaeans and Jerusalemites alike. What now remains to be explored in the final section of this
article is how precisely that symbolic significance of Jerusalem was related
to broader Jewish hopes of restoration and how in turn these can be shown
to have shaped the imagination and motivation of both Jesus and Paul.
Shared Ideas of Restoration: Jesus and Paul
In a recent paper I have sought to show the importance of ethnic identity
for all branches of Judaism in the Second Temple period (Freyne 2001:
293-97). This concern should be seen both against the background of a
threat to Jewish identity subject to the various imperial powers and because
of the greater interest in ethnography among all the peoples of the Mediterranean/Near East region in the wake of Alexander's one world philosophy. These two stimuli towards a greater awareness of ethnicity played
themselves out rather differently in the Jewish context, however. On the
one hand the threat to a total loss of identity led to hardening of the
boundaries and the desire to stress difference and a strong social bonding,
whereas on the other hand the larger horizons of the Hellenistic and Roman
worlds called for new appraisals of how the universalist dimensions of the
promise to Abraham might be realized. In trying to organize the variety of
sub-themes associated with these two different directions I drew on a model
that seemed useful, namely that which speaks of lateral and vertical ethnicity. The former stresses the extent of the national territory at the expense
of strong social bonding and the latter concentrates on difference by establishing in and out groups through a stress on purity, difference and separation. As ideal types one or other tendency will be uppermost in different
historical and social circumstances, sometimes supporting each other or
again impeding the impetus of the other. Both tendencies give rise to Utopian speculation as well as reflecting the actual situation. They can,
therefore, help in our understanding of Jewish restoration eschatology and
its various actual expressions in the Hellenistic and Roman periods.
One aspect of those restoration hopes that has not been sufficiently
explored is what I have described as the 'geography of restoration', an
aspect that pertains to the lateral rather than the vertical dimension of ethnicity as just outlined. Territoriality played a much greater part in devel-

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oping notions of Jewish ethnicity than is usually acknowledged, something
that is perfectly illustrated by the Hasmonean expansion in the second/first
centuries BCE. At the end of 1 Maccabees Simon, the last of the brothers,
is made to declare: 'We have taken neither foreign lands nor seized foreign property, but only the inheritance of our fathers, which at one time
had been taken unjustly by our enemies. Now that we have the opportunity, we are firmly holding the inheritance of our fathers' (1 Mace. 15.33;
Mendels 1987, 1992).
Central to all such conceptions of the ideal Israel, irrespective of the
lateral or vertical type, was the centrality of Jerusalem, frequently but not
always associated with the temple. Sometimes this was understood in
terms of a purification of the existing Jerusalem of all that was deemed to
pollute it (e.g. Tob. 13.9; 14.4-7; Sir. 36.18-19; 1 Enoch 14; Pss. Sol. 11
and 17) or as a new Jerusalem which would descend from above (Ezek.
47-48; 1 En. 25.4-6; 26.1-2; 89.50; 90.20-36; 4Q504 frag. 2, col. 4; Rev.
21.2,10) (Sollner 1998). Closely associated with this central role of Jerusalem are a number of themes relevant to the subject of this paper which
are already found in the classical prophets such as Isaiah and Jeremiah,
and which were later reworked in various combinations to address the
crises of the later period: (1) the restoration of the 12 tribes of Israel (e.g.
Ezekiel; Tobit; Sirach; Eupolemus; Psalms of Solomon; Revelation of
John); (2) the pilgrimage of the nations to Zion (Isa. 2.2-4; 60.2-3; Mic.
4.1 -4; Tob. 13.13); (3) the tables of the 70 nations of the world descended
from the sons of Noah (Gen. 10; 1 Chron. 1.1-2.2; Jub. 8-9; lQapGen
16-17; Josephus, Ant. 1.120-47; Sib. Or. 3.110-20); and (4) the notion of
a greater Israel whose boundaries stretched from the great sea (the Mediterranean) to the Euphrates and from the Taurus mountains to the Nile
(Ezek. 47.15-23; Num. 34.1-12; Eupolemus, frag. 2; lQapGen 21). All
these themes share a common eschatological horizon of Israel's and Jerusalem's centrality in the salvific plan of God. In Jubilees in particular the
'holy city' is identified closely with Eden and Sinai, the actual navel of the
universe {Jub. 8.19), located at a point close to where the territories of
Shem, Ham and Japheth meet (Alexander 1982; 1992: esp. 980-82; Scott
1995: 15-24). Inevitably, the treatment of these themes reflects the ideological perspective of the different authors and the circles they represent in
terms of the two contrasting views of ethnicity outlined. Thus, for example,
while Ezechiel, reflecting the situation in the Persian period, espouses the
view that the aliens living among the tribes are to be treated as though
they belonged to Israel (Ezek. 47.22-23), Jubilees, reflecting the situation
after the wars of conquest of the Hasmoneans, develops elaborate stories

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to explain why the Samaritans and the Philistines cannot be tolerated,
whereas various Arab tribes, descended from Abraham via Ishmael are to
be treated as close relatives. Even though Ishmael had abandoned his
Jewish heritage (Jub. 15.30-31) his descendants can live at peace in the
land as subjects of the Hasmoneans (Mendels 1987: 56-88).
How do Jesus and Paul fit into these scenarios? While eschatology has
been suggested as their sharedfieldof vision (Weltanschauung), this insight
has never been successfully developed in terms of first-century eschatological categories as these are expressed in the texts of the period.12 Yet, as
Martin Hengel has recently suggested early Christian missionary geography
is best understood in the context of eschatological-salvation historical considerations rather than in supposed oppositions between Judaism and Hellenism. This suggestion calls for further exploration.
In dealing with Jesus' views of his own mission one is again confronted
with the problem of the historical Jesus. Certainly, the four canonical gospels utilize various elements of the 'restoration geography' just outlined.
The issue concerns how far these portraits of Jesus' movements reflect the
early Christian mission in the post-Pauline era which have been retrojected
back to the historical Jesus, and whether, if that should be the case, they
still represent the intention of the historical Jesus himself. At the risk of
being accused of circular argumentation, I put forward the following propositions which, I believe, could be plausibly defended with regard to Jesus
and his movements.
•

As a disciple of John the Baptist, Jesus shared his teacher's apocalyptic sense of the imminent arrival of God's kingly rule about to
be established. After John's death Jesus returned to Galilee, and
there embarked on a mission of proclaiming that kingdom in the
villages and smaller towns of the region, a strategy and outlook
that differed from his previous ministry of baptism in the desert
with John. He avoided the main Herodian centres, aware that
his apocalytpic message was a direct threat to that rule and ideology of Rome on which it was based. His understanding of the
kingdom had changed from that ofjudgment on Israel to one of
God's care for all, especially the marginalized who suffered most
from the rapidly changing economic and social situation in the
homeland. This was his overriding concern and meant that he

12. Schweitzer 1911; for a discussion cf. Blank (1968: 66-73). Bultmann (1961)
also explores their shared eschatological perspective but in categories of existentialist
philosophy rather than those of the first century CE.

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•

•

espoused the lateral ethnicity model which did not exclude aliens
in the land or prohibit an openness to non-Jews in terms of
administering God's universal care. In that sense the Galilean
setting for his ministry may be said to have directly shaped his
attitudes and vision, but without in any way eroding his deeply
held convictions about the God of Israel and his own religious
inheritance as expressed in the Jewish writings and tradition.
In Galilee Jesus gave to the community of his permanent followers, that included both women and men, the symbolic structure
of the Twelve, thereby indicating that he was engaged in a programme of restoration of Israel, as this had found expression in
various strands of the literature of the period. His journeys to
places that lay outside the boundaries of political Galilee as we
know them from Josephus, may be seen under several aspects—
as part of the in-gathering of Israel, in that Jews were known to
live in all the surrounding regions also, or as a recognition of
the notion of a 'greater Israel' in territorial terms especially to
the west (Tyre and Sidon), to the north (Caesarea Philippi) or
to the east (Golan/Dekapolis), or finally, as an recognition that
Gentiles also were to share in the restoration that God would
accomplish. Any or all of these alternatives is possible for a
Galilean-based prophet, drawing on the repertoire of restoration
images in circulation and the sociopolitical conditions existing in
his homeland. Jesus' appropriation of these images took on a
significantly new dimension, however, in that the restoration he
envisaged was a peaceful one based on justice for all, and was
not to be accomplished by violence, banditry or conquest. These
were the competing strategies of other prophets, leaders and
messianic claimants who drew on the ideology of restoration to
achieve their ends within the Jewish ethos of the period.
As a Galilean Jew, but with possible family attachments to the
south, Jesus and his movement had to include Jerusalem within
their ambit of concern, since all the restoration scenarios envisaged
a renewed and restored Jerusalem as a beacon for the nations,
exemplifying the wisdom for all that was being proclaimed. This
brought him directly into confrontation with the Jewish religious
establishment, especially those with a vested interest in the existing status quo or those who believed that Jewish ethnicity was best
safeguarded by the separatism which was enjoined by the vertical
model of total separation from foreigners. His temple protest

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brought these oppositions to a head, since temple-religion was
controlled and to some extent exploited by the Jerusalem elites for
their own ends and luxurious lifestyles, while often masquerading
under the guise of Jewish separatism. This resulted in Jesus' eventual arrest and subsequent execution at the hands of Rome as
someone who was presented as a threat to their institutions and
their rule.
This outline does, I believe, take full account of recent critical study of
the Gospels and advances in our knowledge of the social situation of
Galilee and Jerusalem, arising from both archaeology and the use of the
social sciences. At the same time it seeks to situate Jesus and his movement within the ambience of Jewish religious beliefs and to understand
many facets of his activity and movement within the appropriate framework, avoiding unwarranted modernizations such as that of social reformer
or post-modern Cynic.13 Is it possible to understand Paul within a similar
horizon, while allowing also for his unique social background and personal
experiences? We have become so accustomed to identifying Luke's portrayal of 'the apostle of the gentiles' with the modern construct of Paul,
the convert from Judaism to Hellenism, that it proves difficult to see him
in a different light in which his Jewish map of the world might have played
an important role in the way in which he understood his tasks. In this
profile I will concentrate on those aspects of his activity which seem to
indicate that he too drew the inspiration for his workfromthe same cluster
of Jewish restoration models that we have postulated for Jesus.
•

Saul, the young Jew from Tarsus in Cilicia, came to Jerusalem as
the centre of his Jewish world, possibly, as Luke tells us, to study
with Gamaliel, but also, one suspects, like other Diaspora Jews,
because Jerusalem was the centre of their world. This conviction
about Jerusalem was so deep-seated for Paul that even when he
found himself being persecuted and vilified by members from or
sent by the Jerusalem Christian community, Paul still felt obliged
to extol the central symbolic role of Jerusalem as 'mother of us
all' (cf. Philo, Leg, Gai. 281). So whether as a Jew or as a Christian Jew, the centrality of Jerusalem never lost its importance for
Paul. Indeed one might say that for him, like for Jesus, the city

13. This profile is based on a number of essays in Freyne (1988) in which I engage
with contemporary discussions of the historical Jesus, especially in relation to the
Galilean social context of his ministry and its Jewish ethos.

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•

•

had a 'fatal attraction' as the centre of the Jewish world and the
restoration that would extend from that centre (cf. Rom. 15.19).
Given Paul's Jerusalem-centred thinking, it is remarkable how
little the 'restoration of Israel' seems to have concerned him until
quite late (Rom. 9-11). Paul is aware of his own links—'a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of
the Hebrews' (Phil. 3.3), but his ministry was never within the
traditional territory of the 12 tribes, and there is no trace of that
particular motif in his writings. This may have been due to the
agreement that Peter would go to the circumcised and he to the
uncircumcised (Gal. 2.9), as well as to his reluctance to operate
where others had operated previously (2 Cor. 10.13-16; Rom.
15.20-21). However, this does not mean that Paul was thereby
abandoning his Jewish sense of the world and of his people's
role in the divine plan as this was enunciated in the Scriptures
and developed in the subsequent tradition, as we have seen.
Paul's first activity after his conversion experience was to visit
Arabia and then visit Damascus again, a three-year period in all,
before returning to Jerusalem (Gal. 1.17). The visit to Arabia has
been variously explained on personal or political grounds, but
never properly integrated into the missionary ideas of Paul.14
Damascus and 'Arabia' however, fall within the territory of
'greater Israel' at least as defined in some texts. In particular
lQapGen 21 elaborating on Gen. 13.14 describes a journey of
Abraham to view the land of the promise that stretched from 'the
Mount of the Ox' to 'the Gihon [Nile] river', travelling by the
Euphrates, including 'the tongue of the Reed Sea' (the Arabian
Peninsula) (Fitzmyer 1966:130-39). This provides a perfect backdrop to a Pauline mission that covers the territory of Shem as this
had been described in the lists of nations. It stretched from the
Taurus mountains in the north to the Nile in Egypt, where the
territories of Japheth (Asia Minor/Europe) and Ham (Africa)
began, according to the various lists of nations. Such a horizon
would conform well with Paul's preference for Abraham over
Moses in his defence and exposition of his gospel in both Galatians and Romans. The promise to Abraham that in his offspring
'all the nations of hearth would bless themselves' is then the

14. Cf., e.g., Murphy-O'Connor (1993; 1996: 71-101).

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correct background for Paul's self-designation as 'apostle of the
nations'.15
Finally, Paul' s letter to the Romans, written at a reflective moment
in his life, gives us the best insight into his personal map of what
he had achieved so far and what he proposed in terms of his
ministry of gaining 'the obedience of the nations' (Rom. 15.1819). It comes shortly after his exposition of Israel's position in
the divine plan where he is clearly operating with the image of
the pilgrimage of the nations joining Israel in worship, even
though this does not correspond to the present situation in which
the nations have responded but Israel has remained hardened
(Rom. 9-11; cf. 15.9-12). Paul has completed his mission 'from
Jerusalem in a circle as far as Illyricum' and now proposes to use
Rome as a staging post for a mission to Spain (Rom. 15.19),
traditionally seen as the end of the territory of the Japhethites
{Ant 1.122). This description clearly suggests that he is operating
with a mental map akin to that of the list of nations in Jub. 8-9,
where Jerusalem is seen as the centre of the world with the
nations around in a circle (cf. Ezek. 5.5; 38.12). He has already
covered the territory of Shem and in going through the regions
of Syria and Cilicia (Gal. 1.21; cf. Acts 9.30; 15.23) eventually
reaching Tarsus, his native city, he had crossed from Shem to
Japheth, and is now proposing to complete that territory also by
going as far as Spain.
Concluding Reflections

These sketches of Jesus' and Paul's careers within a shared framework of
Jewish restoration eschatology in which geography rather than history is
seen to play a significant role, provide an interesting, and insofar as I am
aware, novel horizon for understanding both their careers, and how these
might share a common vision. Both share a lateral rather than a vertical
ethnicity approach to Israel's identity. It is no longer appropriate to speak
of either as a founder, but rather to see them as interpreters of a shared tradition about Israel's destiny and the nations' role within the divine plan for
history, as this was anticipated for the coming messianic age. My argument is not that Jesus and Paul had identical programmes, but rather that
15. For a discussion along these lines cf. Hengel and Schwemer (1997: 106-126).

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each saw themselves as having special roles to play in inaugurating and
bringing to completion the divine plan as this was to be found in the
Hebrew Scriptures and further developed in the Jewish writings of the
Persian to Roman periods. 'Plan' is perhaps too static a term for what
appears in that literature. Rather, there is a rich repertoire of themes and
images on which to draw, and the social circumstance of Galilean village
culture or Jerusalem as experienced by a pious Diaspora Jew, were the
catalysts for differing emphases, leaving plenty of opportunity for change,
development, adaptation and personal experience to play their part. Jesus
emerges as the restorer of Israel within a fractured politico-religious
context offirst-centuryPalestine, but in an inclusive rather than exclusive
way. Paul becomes the apostle of the Gentiles for whom the Abrahamic
promise of blessing for the nations can now be interpreted in terms of
God's universal care for humankind as manifested in Jesus' life, death and
resurrection. Yet this message has to be mediated through the complex
cultural worlds of the nations as these were represented in Jewish ethnographic maps which guided Paul in terms of how he was to fulfil the
tasks which he felt called on to accomplish as the apostle of Jesus Christ,
being Jew to the Jew and Greek to the Greeks.
The introduction of a recent collection of essays entitled Reimagining
Christian Origins has suggested the image of Picasso's cubist painting as a
suitable one for realizing an account of Christian origins which would be
multi-layered, perspectival and inter-disciplinary in its approach and execution. It also claims that, 'Christian faith and theology cannot function as
the central authority for the writing of the history of early Christianity.
Christian theologians can no longer possess the major prerogatives in the
study of Christian origins' (Castelli and Taussig 1996: 3-23, esp. 22). In
the light of the discussion of this article I would applaud the first suggestion, while wanting to modify, if not challenge the latter. The construction
of Christian origins is a historical, political and theological enterprise. In
the light of this article it has also an important geographical dimension. As
well as enquiring about the possible maps that Jesus and Paul may have
had in directing their labours, we are also entitled to ask what, if any, maps
are operative in the minds of those who have produced many of the recent
accounts of Christian origins also. If 'map is not territory', to borrow
Jonathan Z. Smith's title, at least it may help in plotting the way forward,
both the paths to be taken and the pitfalls to be avoided, as we search for
the true Ipse of Christianity by remembering both Jesus and Paul.

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161

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Blank, J.
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Bornkamm, G.
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'Jesus and Paul', in Existence and Faith: Shorter Writings of Rudolf Bultmann (ET; London: Hodder & Stoughton): 217-39.
Castelli, E.A., and H. Taussig (eds.)
1996
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(Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International).
Crossan, J.D.
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Dungan, D.
The Sayings of Jesus in the Churches ofPaul (Philadelphia: Fortress Press).
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Dunn, J.
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'Who Did Paul Think He Was? A Study of Jewish Christian Identity', NTS
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Fitzmyer, J.
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1973
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1965
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Mack, B.L.
1988
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Maddox, R.
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Meyer, B.
The First Christians: Their Mission and Self-Discovery (Collegeville, MN:
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1987a
'Empire, Community and Culture in the Roman Near East: Greeks, Syrians,
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'The Problem of Hellenistic Syria', in A. Kuhrt and S. Sherwin-White (eds.),
Hellenism in the East (London: Routledge): 110-33.
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1973
The Nature ofNew Testament Theology (London: SCM Press).
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'Paul in Arabia', CBQ 55: 732-37.
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Paul: A Critical Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
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Time and Narrative (ET; 3 vols.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press).
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A New Quest for the Historical Jesus (London: SCM Press).
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1984
'Paulus Alienus: William Wrede on Comparing Jesus and Paul', in
P. Richardson and J. Hurd (eds.), From Jesus to Paul: Studies in Honour of
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Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of Religion
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Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM Press).
1985
The Revelatory Text (San Francisco: HarperCollins).
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Schneiders, S.
1991
The Revelatory Text: Interpreting the New Testament as Sacred Scripture
(New York: HarperSanFrancisco).
Schtissler Fiorenza, E.
1983
In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian
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Paul and his Interpreters (ET; London: A. & C. Black).
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1995
Paul and the Nations (WUNT, 84; Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr).
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1998
Jerusalem, die hochgebaute Stadt (Tubingen: Franke Verlag).
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1986
'The Names Israel and Jew in Ancient Judaism and the New Testament',
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Wilson, S.
'From Jesus to Paul, the Contours and Consequences of a Debate', in
1984
P. Richardson and J. Hurd (eds.), From Jesus to Paul: Studies in Honour of
F. W. Beare (Waterloo, ON: Wilfred Laurier Press): 1-22.
Wrede, W.
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1973
The Nature ofNew Testament Theology (London: SCM Press): 68-116.

THE SON OF MAN AND DANIEL 7:
INCLUSIVE ASPECTS OF EARLY CHRISTOLOGIES*

Christopher Tuckett

As part of a volume devoted to considering the origins of Christianity, I
offer here some thoughts on the issue of Christology and try to address the
question of the origin(s) of Christology. Such a broad topic is of course far
too wide-ranging to be covered in a single essay and hence I propose here
to focus rather more narrowly. My intention here is therefore to consider
the term 'Son of Man' (henceforth SM), with particular reference to the
possible background in Dan. 7, and looking primarily at Q and Jesus, with
perhaps my primary goal as trying to say something about Jesus, that is,
Jesus' own ideas about his own role and perhaps his identity. But first I
offer some more general comments on some broader aspects and possible
implications of such an exercise.
To ask about Christology is to seek an answer to the question: who was/
is Jesus? That broad question is, of course, at least as old as our oldest Gospel, where Jesus is portrayed as asking his disciples successively, 'Who do
people say that I am?', and 'But who do you say that I am?' (Mk 8.27,29),
to which one might add a third question, 'Who do I say that I am?' How
any answers to these three questions might relate to each other is, of course,
an extremely complex issue and one that I am not competent to do more
than scratch the surface and see at least a few of the problems. What we
might wish to say in response to the question 'Who is Jesus?' might relate
positively to (some of) the answers that others have given in the past (but,
given the variety of answers which have been given down the ages, one
can scarcely agree with all of them!). In turn, how we—and others—might
*
An earlier version of this paper, with the same material in the central part of the
argument (though with slightly larger footnotes and set there in a slightly different
broader context), was read at the 2000 meeting of the Colloquium Biblicum Lovaniense,
and has been published in the conference volume: see Tuckett (2001a).

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wish to relate our answer to a possible response that we think Jesus himself
might have given to the question is also by no means straightforward.
Broadly speaking, I am shunning here the issue at the level of contemporary theology or Christology. What we today might wish to say about
the person of Jesus in relation to contemporary Christian theology is an
enormous issue which would have to take in a very large number of factors, including our own situation as people living with 2000 years of
Christian history—and 2000 years of discussions by Christians on this
issue—behind us. My attempt is in one way then considerably more
modest—to ask how others might have answered this question at the
very earliest period of Christian history.
Yet here too, as all will be well aware, there is also a fundamental problem. How 'early' is the 'earliest period in Christian history' which it is
appropriate to investigate? At one level the answer is (or could be) 'as
early as I choose to make it'. For example, if I wish to focus on the Christology of (the relatively early figure of) Ignatius of Antioch, I can presumably do so. Those who are interested will pay attention; those who are
not will not. In another way, the answer to the question is determined by
the nature of the evidence we have available. Hence we can only go back
as early as our sources allow. We can presumably try to say something
about the Christology of Paul, perhaps even of Peter; we can scarcely
begin to try to set out the Christology of Bartholomew, or of the other first
followers of Jesus of whom we know nothing more than their names (if
that).
Yet there is a further issue: can we or should we try to go back behind
the first followers of Jesus and ask the third question I raised above, 'Who
do I say that I am?' Do Jesus' own views about himself have any relevance in this question? There are, of course, all the well-known problems
of whether we can ever find out anything at all about Jesus' views, given
the nature of our sources. But still—//we could find out anything, would
such answers as we might deduce be of any more than a purely antiquarian
interest in relation to a broader study which aimed to focus on the origins
of Christology?
In one sense the answer can be—for some, should be—no. Such a view
is classically expressed in the first sentence of Rudolf Bultmann's The
Theology of the New Testament 'The message of Jesus is a presupposition
for the theology of the New Testament rather than a part of that theology
itself (Bultmann 1952: 1). If nothing else the Easter event (however we
try to define it more precisely) marks a watershed which cannot be crossed
in this context when 'the proclaimer became the proclaimed'. Christology

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then should be that response of Christians to the whole Christ event, which
must include Easter. Any response that fails to take that into account must
be judged premature, incomplete and inappropriate (in at least some
contexts).
From another angle too we might wish to say that Jesus' own views
about himself are, if not irrelevant, at best only part of any answer we
might wish to give to the question 'Who was/is Jesus?' For a person's
identity may—and usually will—go far beyond what they themselves may
have believed about themselves (Meeks 1993). Other people's assessments
of who someone is may be just as, if not more, important than the person's
own assessment in determining his or her identity. One individual's belief
that she or he is the ultimate saviour of the human race will probably be
judged as grotesque delusion if no one took it seriously at the time or
subsequently. And we can all no doubt think of people who have been
judged truly great, or geniuses, after their time and, as often as not, against
their own assessment of themselves. The really great perhaps only become
so because of the verdict of others, both at the time and subsequently, not
necessarily because they believe themselves to be great.
Nevertheless such cautions should not necessarily prevent us from at
least posing the question: what did Jesus think about himself? They should
alert us to the complexities involved in what we might do with any answers
we think we get. Certainly we cannot simply necessarily equate the answer
we might get to this question with the answer we feel we should give to
the question 'What do we think about Jesus?'; we cannot just transfer Jesus'
answer to be ours. Least of all can we simply transfer the words of a reply
by the Jesus of first-century Palestine and repeat them today as our own
when the same words might mean very different things in changed circumstances. This applies above all to a term or idea such as 'son of God': we
can ask if Jesus believed himself to be a/the 'son of God'; but whether that
relates in any way to what many today might mean by claiming that Jesus
was/is a/the 'Son of God' is quite another matter.
Yet despite all these negative considerations, I would argue that we
cannot and should not divorce Jesus completely from the later post-Easter
community. I have already referred in passing to the problems of finding
out information about the pre-Easter Jesus from our sources which are
(almost) all written by post-Easter Christians. The problems are hopefully
too well known to need repeating here. So too is the fact that various criteria have been proposed for distinguishing authentic material in our Gospels.
One of these is the famous/infamous criterion of dissimilarity, about which

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so much ink has been spilt.1 And in the many critiques of the criterion that
have appeared, it has often been noted that the criterion is in danger of
isolating Jesus too much from both his environment and from his later
followers (by insisting that he be 'dissimilar' to both 'Judaism' and 'the
early church' respectively). A Jesus who has nothing in common with the
whole group of people who come after him, those who claimed to be his
'followers' in some sense and who made him the prime focus of their
religious commitment, is scarcely very plausible as a historical reconstruction. No doubt there will be an element of discontinuity between Jesus and
his later followers; but equally we may expect to find some continuity as
well. Indeed if we did not, we would be justified in being rather surprised.
Further, it has been an inalienable part of any religious commitment that
claims to be 'Christian' in some sense or other to have the figure of Jesus
as its prime focus. A Christianity without Jesus is really a contradiction in
terms. Moreover, the Jesus who is the focus of the religion that claims the
name Christian must be the same as the Jesus of Nazareth who lived and
worked in Palestine in the 20s or 30s of the first century. (If not, the claim
to the name is meaningless.) Hence it is not unreasonable to look for, and
expect, some elements of continuity between the historical Jesus and the
Jesus who is the focus of later Christian belief and practice. This then in
brief is part of my reason for claiming that a valid starting point for this
discussion of' earliest' Christology is the question: what did Jesus think of
himself?
There are two broad reasons why such a question is not at all easy to
answer. The first has been alluded to already. It arises from the nature of
the sources we have available: for anything more than the very basic facts
that Jesus existed and was crucified, we have to rely on sources written by
Christians who may have been profoundly affected by their own Christian
beliefs.2 In particular, they may well have allowed their own beliefs about
the aliveness of Jesus to affect their records of things they asserted were
said and done by Jesus in the past. In such a process they adapted—and perhaps at times created—traditions about Jesus to address and reflect their
own situations. (In cases where the Gospels have parallel accounts we can
1. Among the many discussions of the criteria in general, and the criterion of
dissimilarity in particular, cf. Meier (1991: 167-95). For the dissimilarity criterion in
particular, see Theissen and Winter (1997).
2. The amount of evidence about Jesus from non-Christian sources (e.g. Josephus,
Tacitus, later rabbinic sources) is fairly meagre in extent. See the surveys by Evans in
Chilton and Evans (1998: 443-78); Theissen and Merz (1998: 63-89).

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see this happening very easily.) Hence we cannot simply read off all the
things said or done by Jesus in our Gospels as verbatim accounts of things
said or done by the historical Jesus prior to Easter.
In line with a broad stream of critical scholarship today, I would side
with the view that: (1) our primary evidence must be the Synoptic Gospels. John's Gospel probably represents a fairly radical rewriting of the
tradition by a later Christian author in the light of his or her particular circumstances in a Christian community in the latefirstcentury; and I remain
unpersuaded that any non-canonical evidence (e.g. the Gospel of Thomas)
provides much useful information in this context;3 and (2) I would also
hold the view that the Synoptic Gospels are not all independent: they stand
in a literary relationship with each other. Along with many, I assume here
some form of the 'two-source theory'. Mark's Gospel was writtenfirstand
was used by Matthew and Luke; and Matthew and Luke also had access to
another source (now lost) called * Q'. I am, however, unpersuaded by theories that argue for different stages in the history of the development of Q.
There can be little doubt that many of the individual units that go to make
up Q underwent a complex history in the development of the tradition
before reaching the form they have in Q. And in some cases we can make
more or less educated guesses about those histories. But it is quite another
matter to claim that all such histories happened together so that Q, as a
text, underwent a series of successive growths or development. Thus while
I am more than happy to espouse a theory that claims that Q existed, and
indeed that it had its own distinctive features, I am less happy about theories arguing for the existence of a Q1, Q2 and Q3, etc.4
In seeking to recover information about the historical Jesus, we have to
take full note of the implications of the Synoptic problem and its possible
solution. Thus we cannot accept three parallel versions in our Gospels as
three independent witnesses to a tradition. The witnesses are only independent if they occur in different strands of the tradition (Mark, Q,
3. I realize that both these claims are very sweeping and contestable but there is no
space to enter into detailed debate here. For a little more detail, see my essay (Tuckett
2001b).
4. Again there is no time or space to debate these claims in detail here, all of
which are contested by many. For a defence of the theory of Markan priority against
contemporary claims about the Griesbach hypothesis (the theory that Mark came last),
see Tuckett (1983). For a (by now almost classic) theory about stages in the development of Q, see Kloppenborg (1987); also his more recent book (2000). For some
defence of my slightly differing views on Q (e.g. on stratification theories), see Tuckett
(1996).

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possibly 'M7'L' material). So too we have to apply our standard criteria,
though with care and sensitivity. These include dissimilarity, coherence,
multiple attestation, as well as producing a Jesus who makes some kind of
sense within the social, religious and cultural context offirst-centuryPalestine, but who was also sufficiently 'out of synch' with at least some elements of that context that he was in the end crucified.5
There is, however, a second major reason why the question 'Who did
Jesus think he was?' is not at all easy to answer. This is simply because it
is basically our question. No one at the time asks it in quite that way. Hence
Jesus is never recorded as answering it explicitly. Thus in order to try to
find out what we think might have been Jesus' response, we have to see
what is implied by the evidence quite as much as by what may be said
explicitly.
Much has been written about the 'implicit Christology' inherent in the
Synoptic tradition. Inevitably, simply by virtue of the fact that it is implicit
and not explicit, the result is a little vague. Thus Jesus' actions or ways of
speaking (in speaking on his own authority, in his use of 'Amen', etc.)
imply an authoritative claim—which is of course a tautology until one tries
to be more explicit about the nature of the authority that is implicit here.
Yet while one is forced into some consideration of more indirect evidence, it is not the case that explicit evidence is lacking completely. Certainly at some points of the tradition Jesus is portrayed as either using
himself, or responding to questions about, key terms or categories ('titles')
relating to himself and his identity. How we should even describe these
terms is uncertain.6 So too it has been a matter of dispute as to how
important the use of such 'titles' should be in discussions about New Testament Christology. In the past, the focus of attention was very often on
these christological 'titles' alone,7 and it is now recognized that this may
give a somewhat unbalanced view of the evidence with important other
factors ignored (e.g. the more implicit elements such as the use of scripture, hymnic material, etc.). So too there was a danger of assuming too
readily that a particular key term/title had a well-defined univocal meaning
and the only question was whether/how Jesus fitted this (well-defined)

5. This paragraph represents a very brief summary of many complex issues to do
with methodology in studying the historical Jesus.
6. They are very often referred to as christological 'titles', though this may be
inappropriate and too precise. Perhaps 'categories' might be a better word to use.
7. Cf. older studies such as Cullmann (1959); Hahn (1969).

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'bill'. 8 Yet there may be a danger of allowing the pendulum to swing too
far the other way. It remains the case that 'titles', or key terms/categories,
are used at various points in the tradition and these do serve as important
indicators about who Jesus is. In what follows, then, I will focus on one of
these terms as potentially providing evidence—positive or negative—on
the question: who did Jesus think he was? That term is the phrase 'Son of
Man' (SM).
Son of Man (SM)
As is well known, the phrase SM occurs very frequently on the lips of
Jesus in all the Gospels. Further it is hardly ever used outside the Gospels
in the early Christian literature. By all the normal canons of historical
Jesus research, the use of the phrase does therefore seem to be characteristic of Jesus' own speech. I am therefore unpersuaded by theories that
argue that the use of the phrase in the Gospels is all due to post-Easter
creative activity.9 Such a theory cannot, I believe, explain very easily why
the term is used so widely across all the strands of the Gospel tradition but
has left virtually no mark in any other early Christian literature. Conversely, not all the SM sayings in all the Gospels are necessarily authentic;
clearly some are due to the redactional activity of the evangelists.10
It is also well known that the phrase is always used by Jesus in thirdperson linguistic and grammatical contexts. Jesus never says 'I am the
SM', or 'I, the SM, say/do this or that...' This phenomenon has given rise
to the well-known theory that Jesus was referring to a figure other than
himself as 'the SM', afigureof the end-time who would vindicate him and
his cause.11 This too seems implausible. It seems clear that none of the
Gospel writers was in any doubt that Jesus and the SM are to be identified
as one and the same person. Any alleged distinction between the two, possibly implied by Jesus always speaking of the SM in the third person,
apparently caused not the slightest embarrassment to Christian tradents of
the Gospel tradition who all appeared to have assumed that in such sayings
as Mk 8.38 or Lk. 12.8 Jesus was referring to himself. And if later Chris8. See the important essay by Keck (1986).
9. Cf. Perrin (1967); Vielhauer (1965).
10. E.g. the SM reference in Mt. 16.28 ('until they see the SM coming in his
kingdom') clearly represents Matthew's redactional change of Mk 9.1 ('until they see
the kingdom of God come with power') where there is no SM reference at all.
11. Cf. Bultmann (1952: 28-31); Todt (1965); Fuller (1965).

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tians had no difficulty in interpreting the tradition this way, there seems
little reason to interpret the tradition differently for Jesus himself.
Much ink has been spilt about 'the SM problem' (usually taken to mean
that the problem of what, if anything, Jesus meant by the term); and indeed
one recent writer has stated that the problem may be one that will never
finally be soluble (Burkett 1999:124). The difficulty of the problem is also
compounded by the fact that, if we want to try to discover what Jesus might
have meant by using the phrase, we have to cross a language barrier: our
sources are all Greek texts and Jesus (probably) spoke in Aramaic—and in
this case that barrier may have a very great significance. Perhaps, though,
we should not try to cross that barrier too early! For Jesus is accessible to
us primarily through those historical (Greek) sources. Hence we should
perhaps seek to go from these sources back to Jesus, rather than to start
with Jesus and move forward to our sources.
The background of the phrase is heavily disputed, and the issue is complicated by the language difference. In Greek the phrase ho huios tou
anthropou is highly unusual, whereas in Aramaic the equivalent phrase
bar (e)nash(a) is a fairly ordinary one, meaning (probably) 'man (in general)' (a generic term) or 'a man/someone' (an indefinite usage). The phrase
is also used in the famous vision of Dan. 7 where 'Daniel' sees a figure
who looks like a human being (in contrast to the beast-like figures who
have gone just before), the phrase in the original Aramaic of Dan. 7 used
to describe this figure being 'one like a son of man'. Whether this usage
is relevant to the occurrence of the phrase in the Gospels is, as many will
know, one of the most disputed questions in discussion of 'the SM
problem'.
Perhaps, though, we should start with our sources and seek then to work
back from there. I focus here on the two main sources of Mark and Q, with
most attention on Q. However, I consider first very briefly the evidence in
Mark.
In Mark, the SM sayings can relatively easily be divided into what have
become the three 'traditional' groups of SM sayings:12 (1) sayings that refer
to the present activity of the SM (as having authority to forgive sins [2.10],
and being Lord of the Sabbath [2.28]); (2) sayings where Jesus refers to
his coming suffering and death in relation to himself as SM (e.g. all the
three passion predictions in Mark are couched in terms of Jesus as SM; cf.
8.31; 9.31; 10.33; 10.45, etc.); finally (3) sayings that look forward to the
eschatological activity of (Jesus as) the SM in playing a role in the final
12. Cf. Bultmann (1952: 30).

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judgment (8.38; 13.26; 14.62). It is also undisputed that, in this last group
of sayings, the influence of Dan. 7 is clear and unambiguous: the language
of the SM 'coming on the clouds of heaven' clearly evokes the Danielic
scene.13 How far the influence of Dan. 7 can be seen in the other sayings is
much disputed.
The SM sayings in Q show some differences though, as I shall try to
argue, also some deep similarities with the Markan picture. At first sight,
the SM sayings in Q seem to show no influence from Dan. 7 at all—and
indeed many have argued that no such influence is to be seen in Q. 14 1
believe such a view can be challenged; however, one should also perhaps
bear in mind that the SM sayings should not be regarded in isolation, either
individually or as a group. We need to look at the whole tradition, including individual sayings which may contain similar ideas but not the phrase
'SM' itself in order to gain a broader picture.
Further, in terms of the 'traditional' threefold division of SM sayings
(present activity, suffering, and eschatological sayings) it is sometimes
said that Q lacks any sayings of the second group. Q has no 'suffering SM'
sayings, though there are several of the present activity sayings (Q 7.34;
9.58)15 and the eschatological sayings (Q 12.8; 12.40; 17.26). This may,
however, be not quite justified, and any rigid division of the SM sayings
into three mutually exclusive groupings may be misleading. However, in
order to see this we need to take a broader look at Q as a whole.
Studies of Q in the last 30 years have developed considerably and much
labour has been spent seeking to discover possible distinctive characteristics of the Q material. A widespread measure of agreement has been
reached that a dominant feature of Q is the polemic against 'this generation' and the threat of judgment, all set within a deuteronomistic view of
history.16 According to this view, God has continually sent prophets to
13. As we shall see, there is debate about whether some of the SM sayings allude to
Dan. 7, but most would agree that a reference to the SM 'coming', and/or with the
'clouds of heaven', is sufficient to indicate a clear allusion to the Danielic scene. Cf.
Vermes (1973: 178); Casey (1979: 189).
14. Cf. Casey (1979 [esp. e.g. 194]); Vaage (1991: 126); Jacobson (1992b: 416);
Robinson (1994); Kloppenborg (1996: 318); Schroter (1997: 454 n. 75).
15. I follow what has become the standard convention of referring to Q verses by
their Lukan chapter and verse numbers, prefaced by the letter Q, thus 'Q 7.34' means
the Q tradition preserved in Lk. 7.34 and its Matthean parallel (here Mt. 11.18).
16. Luhrmann 1969: esp. 24-48,93; Jacobson 1992a. Kloppenborg (1996:321 and
n. 66) lists a large number of scholars who have accepted Luhrmann's conclusions in

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Israel, but Israel has regularly rejected them and inflicted violence on
them, acts that God has punished and will continue to punish if the people
do not repent. The Q Christians seem to have regarded themselves as in a
line of continuity with Israel's prophetic messengers, all of whom suffered
rejection and violence (cf. the well-known Q texts in Q 6.23; 11.49-51;
13.34-35). The exact nature of the rejection, the hostility and the violence
encountered remain matters of dispute;17 nevertheless, the Q Christians
evidently thought of themselves and their situation as comparable with
that of the rejected prophets. This is clearest in the final beatitude in Q
6.23. Christian followers of Jesus will suffer various kinds of persecution,
abuse, hostility, and so on, and the final clause (v. 23c) states that this is
just what happened to the prophets in the past.
However, the theme of the rejected prophets is part of a broader complex of motifs in Q. The prophets who suffer violence are messengers of
Wisdom (cf. Q 11.49-51; also 7.31-35).18 Further, a number of passages
which allude to this complex of motifs, whether together or separately, refer
to Jesus as 'SM' (Q 6.22; 7.34; 9.58).19 In a number of these texts, the
experience of Jesus serves as a prototype for the suffering and hostility
experienced by his later followers. This is hinted at in the last beatitude of
Q 6.22-23: the suffering of Jesus' followers is 'for the sake of the SM'.20
In the interpretation of the parable of the playing children, Jesus as SM is
placed in parallel with John the Baptist: both are figures suffering hostility
and rejection. By implication, too, Jesus' followers (perhaps identified as
'Wisdom's children' of v. 35) experience the same fate.21 So too in the
broad terms (referring to Schonle, Zeller, Sellew, Uro, Sato, Kosch, Piper, Koester,
Robinson, Hoffmann and myself).
17. Cf.Tuckett(1996:ch.9).
18. Q 13.34-35 is also recognized as full of Wisdom motifs. It is not clear, however, whether this was presented in Q as a saying which came immediately after 11.4951 (as it does in Matthew's Gospel; cf. Mt. 23.34-36 followed immediately by w . 3739). If so, then Q 13.34-35 would also perhaps have been a saying of Wisdom referring
to the violence suffered by the prophets.
19. Q 6.22 is in the context of the reference to the prophets in 6.23; 7.34 immediately precedes the reference to Wisdom being justified by her works/children in 7.35;
9.58 is widely recognized as strongly influenced by language about Wisdom (cf. 1 En.
42 for the same idea of homelessness).
20. It is widely agreed that the Q wording of the beatitude here does refer to ' SM'
and that Matthew's first person ('for the sake of me') in Mt 5.11 is due to Matthew's
redaction. Cf. Catchpole (1993: 93), and many others.
21. Cf.Jarvinen (1999: esp. 201-202).

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'mission charge' of Q 10, the SM saying in Q 9.58 is probably deliberately
placed at the head of the literary unit to provide an important interpretative
key: the experience of the SM will be the lot of his followers as well.22
Other SM sayings in Q fit in well with this overall theme. For example,
in Q 12.10 it is said that 'speaking a word against' the SM is forgivable.
The least problematic interpretation is that this refers to opposition to Jesus
during his own lifetime (while the speaking against the Holy Spirit in the
rest of the saying, which is said to be not forgivable, refers to opposition to
the preaching of the post-Easter Q Christians).23 But this in turn shows that
' SM' is again being used in contexts that refer to the hostility and rejection
being experienced by Jesus.24
All this in one way simply restates what was said some years ago by
Gerd Theissen in his The First Followers of Jesus, arguing that the SM
sayings in the Gospels serve to provide a 'structural homologue' between
the situation of Jesus and that of his followers (1978: 24-29).25 Despite
some of the criticisms levelled against Theissen (e.g. for his use of all
strands of the Gospels rather indiscriminately) his thesis does seem to
apply well to the use of SM in Q: the SM is a paradigmatic figure in Q,
giving an example of what followers of Jesus may expect to experience.
And indeed this conformity between Jesus and his followers is indicated
elsewhere in Q, outside the SM sayings. The end of the mission charge in
Q 10.16 sets up almost an identity between Jesus and those sent out by
him; the temptation narrative in Q 4.1-13 probably portrays Jesus as a
paradigmatic figure to be imitated in relation to his obedience to Scripture;26 the fate of any would-be follower is put in terms of taking up a
'cross' (Q 14.27), clearly following in the steps of Jesus himself. The saying in Q 6.40 sums all this up explicitly if cryptically: the disciple should
be like his teacher.
However, there is more to Q than simply a statement that hostility and
suffering, whether for Jesus or for any would-be follower, is to be ex22. See Kloppenborg (1987:192); Tuckett (1996:183); Jarvinen (1999:202-206).
23. Cf. Todt (1965: 119); Kloppenborg (1987: 212-14); Tuckett (1996: 249).
24. A similar picture may emerge in relation to the SM saying in Q 11.30. The
situation here is complex and the precise interpretation of the 'sign of Jonah' is much
debated; however, a strong case can be made for arguing that the reference here is to
Jesus' present preaching; and the context makes it clear it is Jesus' preaching in a
situation of hostility and rejection where 'this generation' is seeking a sign from him,
that request being refused. On this, see Tuckett (1996: 256-66).
25. Also Jarvinen (1999).
26. For this interpretation, see Tuckett (1992).

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pected. Such predictions of rejection are balanced by sayings that look to
the future. Jesus, again as SM, is one who will play an active (if slightly
unclear) role in the final judgment (Q 12.8)27 when he comes suddenly and
unexpectedly (Q 12.40) on his 'day' (Q 17.23-37). Nor is such an idea necessarily confined in Q to references to Jesus as SM. Thus, as others have
shown, the references to Jesus as 'the coming one' function similarly.
Q takes up John the Baptist's prophecy of a future 'coming'figure(Q 3.8)
and then invests a lot of effort to show that Jesus himself is this 'coming
one' (7.18-23), who in one sense has already come (7.34) but whose final
coming is still future (13.35).28
Yet while this idea is applied to Jesus across a wide range of texts in Q,
it is not in fact confined to Jesus. Thus in what is probably the final saying
of Q, the same idea reappears but is now related to the followers of Jesus
who are all promised that they too 'will sit on thrones, judging the twelve
tribes of Israel' (Q 22.30). I have discussed elsewhere the issues of the
existence of this saying in Q, its probable position and its detailed wording
(Tuckett 2000b). Broadly speaking, I would be happy to accept the saying
as part of Q and to place it at the end of Q.29 Moreover I am convinced that
the reference here to 'judging' does refer, at least in Q, to an act of discriminating judgment and does not refer to a more general 'governing' or
'ruling'.30 Further, the very position of the saying as the 'last word' in Q
27. For a fresh defence of the (by now traditional) view that the Q version of this
saying does have 'SM' (as in Lk. 12.8) and not T (as in Mt. 10.32), see Tuckett
(2000a) (in debate with P. Hoffmann).
28. See Catchpole (1993: 60-78), and others. This must cast some doubts on the
argument of Hare (1990: 219-21) who claims that Q cannot have set any great store on
Jesus qua SM as an eschatological, coming figure, since the coming SM sayings all
occur late in the text of Q, and that the SM sayings in the earlier sections of Q relate
(only) to the present activity of Jesus (cf. Q 6.22; 7.34; 9.58; perhaps too 11.30). The
eschatological sayings occur in 12.8; 12.40 and 17.22-30. So too Kloppenborg (1996:
318-19). This ignores the fact that the earlier SM sayings are still SM sayings and hence
may still carry the implication that the one so described is precisely the one who is to
come later (on this see below). But also, the idea of Jesus as the one who is to 'come' is
highlighted right from the start with John's preaching in Q 3.8 and the further points
where this is taken up in Q, as noted above. The importance of the theme of Jesus as the
one who will 'come' is part of the SM complex of sayings in Q, but it is not necessarily
confined to that complex; and the broad spread of this larger theme within Q, referring to
Jesus in different ways, thus indicates its clear significance and importance for Q.
29. See also Heil et al (1998).
30. See Hoffmann (1998:263); Kloppenborg (1996: 328). More details in Tuckett
(2000b).

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suggests that this is intended not just as an afterthought but as a key item
in the arrangement of Q as a whole. Thus the 'structural homologue' which
unites Jesus qua SM with his followers in relation to their common experience of hostility and rejection applies equally to their being united in occupying a key role in the final judgment.31 We may therefore note that,
however justified it may be to talk about a 'SM Christology' in Q, such a
Christology is not one that serves to distinguish Jesus from all other human
beings. Both as 'earthly SM' and as 'eschatological/coming SM', Jesus
and his followers are seen to be united. What, though, is the background
against which such language should be understood?
The idea of some activities usually ascribed to God being 'delegated' to
another 'agent' figure is in general terms by no means unprecedented within
Judaism.32 So too, with particular reference to the judgment, the notion
that a particular famous individual might adopt this role is evidenced in
various Jewish texts. Hence, for example, Abel (T. Abr. 13), Melchizedek
(1 lQMelch), Elijah (Liv. Proph. 21.3) or Enoch (1 En. 71) are given this
role in different texts. In this respect, therefore, the role ascribed to Jesus
as eschatological SM in Q is in one way not unprecedented.33 What is
more unusual perhaps is the notion of a group of rather less obviously
famous people taking on this role.34
The closest parallel to such an idea remains, in my view, the complex of
texts seen in Dan. 7, / Enoch (especially ch. 62) and Wis. 2-5, 35 In his
important book entitled Resurrection, Immortality and Eternal Life in
IntertestamentalJudaism (1972), and also in his later article entitled 'Son
of Man' (1992), George Nickelsburg has persuasively argued for the existence of a developing exegetical tradition based in part on the 'suffering
servant' passage of Isa. 53 (as well as incorporating other traditional 'messianic' texts such as Isa. 11 and Ps. 2). In Isa. 53 a group of unspecified
31. Cf. too Kloppenborg (1990: esp. 79).
32. See, e.g., Hurtado (1988) on 'divine agency'; Casey (1991: ch. 6, 'Messianic
and Intermediary Figures in Second Temple Judaism').
33. Cf. also Zeller (1985).
34. Many have referred to texts in the later chapters of 1 Enoch as well as to some
passages in the Qumran scrolls as perhaps providing a parallel to what is said in Q
22.30; cf. Luz (1997:121); Hoffmann (1998:255), referring to, e.g., 1 En. 38.5; 91.12;
95.3; 1QS 8.6, 10; lQpHab 5.3-4. However, as Dupont has pointed out, these other
texts are more about others carrying out the punishment that has been decreed for the
wicked at the final judgment; they do not necessarily imply that others will act as the
judges themselves; see Dupont (1983: 723-28).
35. See Tuckett (1996: 266-76), though without reference there to Q 22.28-30.

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people are amazed at the new status of the once-despised servant figure
(Isa. 52.13). In the tradition as it seems to have developed in texts such as
1 En. 62 and Wis. 2-5, the individual figure of Isa. 53 is 'democratized'
either to become, or to be the representative of, a wider group of people
suffering persecution. Further, the recognition scene is now transferred to
a setting clearly situated after the death of those who have been suffering.
And in this post-mortem scene, that once-despised figure plays a role in
the judgment scene at which the one-time persecutors are condemned.
The details vary and it would almost certainly be wrong to think of any
direct literary dependence being involved. So too the way in which the
scene is 'democratized' varies in the different texts. In 1 En. 62, the SM
figure acts as the judge and seems to be the heavenly representative of the
righteous sufferers in a one-to-one correspondence typical of apocalyptic
texts: hence the SM figure can (perhaps) be recognized as in some way
identical with those persecuted.36 In Wis. 2-5, the individual man involved
appears to be a representative figure who has himself actually suffered.
Daniel 7 itself also shows conceptual (and other) links with this developing Isaianic tradition. The precise relationship between the 'one like a son
of man' of the vision of Dan. 7 and the suffering 'saints' is of course hotly
disputed. It may well be appropriate to see some difference between vision
itself (where the human-like figure may be an angelic/heavenly equivalent
to the saints in their glory37) and the interpretation of the vision which
follows in Dan. 7 (where it is clear that the' SM' figure is equated with the
'saints of the Most High', who are probably the suffering righteous Jews
themselves).
Whatever one makes of the interpretation of the passage in Dan. 7 itself,
whether of the vision alone or of the vision with its interpretation, it is now
widely agreed that, this chapter—and the human-like figure mentioned in
the vision—became the focus of some exegetical interest, both within and
outside Christian circles.38 Thus, within the Christian tradition, it is clear
that by the time SM sayings are applied to Jesus in Mark's Gospel, some
36. Cf. the exhortation in 62.1: 'Open your eyes and lift up your eyebrows—//
you are able to recognize the Elect One'; there is clearly some ambiguity about the
'identity' claimed between the Elect One seen and the persecuted ones whom those
addressed had previously seen.
37. Cf. Collins (1984: 304-310; 1998: 101-104).
38. See Collins (1992); also Burkett (1999: ch. 9). This is irrespective of whether
one judges the phrase 'SM' itself to have been some kind of 'title'. It is now widely
agreed that the phrase 'SM' itself is not a 'title'—though much depends on what one
means by such an assertion (or denial).

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of them are quite clearly formulated to reflect the language of Dan. 7 (Mk
13.26; 14.62). Outside Christian circles, the description of the Danielic
figure clearly influenced the description of the judge figure whom Enoch
sees in 1 En. 46, who is thereafter referred to as 'that SM', and whom
Enoch himself is (notoriously) apparently finally identified as in 1 En. 71.
So too the description of the 'man from the sea' in 4 Ezra 13 is widely
agreed to use elements of the description of the Danielic figure. In at least
some circles, then, the Danielic figure was being interpreted as an individual figure who would play a key role in thefinaljudgment and punishment
of the wicked as well as being involved in the rewards given to the
righteous.
In other circles, however, the corporate idea inherent in the Danielic
picture was clearly maintained. From a much later period, we know of
rabbinic discussions about the plural number of thrones mentioned in Dan.
7.9.39 However, the plurality of the thrones, and hence the corporate
implications of the vision, are exploited by the author of Revelation: in
Rev. 20.4 John says 'I saw thrones, and those seated on them were given
authority to judge. I also saw the souls of those who had been beheaded
for their testimony to Jesus, and for the word of God' (NRSV). The precise
exegesis of the text is uncertain (and the NRSV takes some liberties), but
commentators are agreed that: (1) those seated on the thrones are the same
as those beheaded; and (2) the allusion is clearly to the scene of Dan. 7.914.40 Those occupying the thrones, and now administering judgment/
justice41 are those who have suffered persecution and martyrdom for their
commitment. Thus once again we have a pattern of righteous suffering,
followed by involvement in the judgment on the part of those who have
suffered, and all this clearly placed within a verbal picture influenced by
the language of Dan. 7.42
It seems clear that in Q we are still within the same general network of
ideas, even if the details do not match precisely any of the other texts we
have considered. The role of Jesus as SM in Q is in some respects similar
to the role played by the SM figure in 1 Enoch. It is not absolutely clear
that the SM in Q will act as judge at thefinaljudgment—many have often
39. See b. Hag. 14a; b. Sank. 38b, interpreted according to R. Akiba as one for God
and one for David.
40. Cf., e.g., Caird (1966: 252); Sweet (1979: 288).
41. If this is what the somewhat elliptical Greek here implies. The NRSV takes it
this way.
42. Cf.Moule(1977:21). 1 Cor. 6.2 may also reflect the same idea, though the language there is not so clearly influenced by Daniel.

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argued that the role of the SM in Q 12.8 is that of a witness, rather than of
a judge. However, the two may be difficult to distinguish; and in any case
the parallel with Q 22.30 suggests that Jesus, like his followers, will act as
judge at the final judgment. Further, in Q, as in 1 Enoch, the SM figure
seems to be a single individual. Q gives no indication that the term 'SM'
itself refers to anyone other than to Jesus (e.g. to a corporate group of
Jesus and his followers). Indeed, a saying like Q 12.8 effectively demands
such an individual interpretation, since it is the follower of Jesus
('whoever confesses me') who is of the object of the activity of the 'SM'
('the SM will confess him/her'), and hence cannot be the subject as well.
So too in 6.22, a corporate interpretation seems equally unlikely. Jesus'
followers are persecuted for the sake of him as SM, not in any sense for
the sake of themselves!43
Nevertheless, Q no less than 1 Enoch and Wisdom is also clearly operating within the tradition which implies the 'democratization' of the scene
described in the Isaianic servant song, whereby the function of a wider
group of people participating, explicitly or implicitly, in the judgment is a
key element. The importance of this is shown above all by the presence of
Q 22.30 as the 'last word', and hence (in literary terms) probably the climax of Q.44 Thus not only Jesus as SM but also those who have followed
him will act as judges over Israel. But also the close link in the earlier
tradition between the SM figure and others suffering because of their
commitment correlates strikingly with the SM sayings in Q (and indeed in
Mark!). In Q (and Mark), Jesus as SM is one who experiences hostility
and rejection and (by implication) suffering (cf. above). In that there is a
direct equation made between the one(s) suffering and the one(s) who will
act as judge(s), Q is perhaps a little closer to the pattern set out in Wis. 2-5
than, say, to 1 Enoch.45 But it remains the case that the 'present SM'
sayings fit in just as well into the scheme proposed as the 'eschatological
SM' sayings.
43. Similarly, in 9.58 the reference is almost certainly to Jesus alone, however
much the saying may have implications for any would-be follower; and in 7.34 it is
Jesus alone who is in mind. See Schroter (1997: 455); Burkett (1999: 94-95).
44. In this it is perhaps striking that Q is closer to the pattern suggested than Mark:
in Mark there is no suggestion of a wider group of people being actively involved in
the judgment. In Mark, things have become more focused on the person of Jesus alone.
45. Whether this pattern matches exactly that of Dan. 7 is hotly disputed, but
perhaps the existence of the tradition, developing in different ways in different texts,
makes the issue not quite so important.

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All this suggests that the activities ascribed to Jesus as SM—both in his
present activity am/hisfixturerole—belong within the network of ideas,
the 'language game', to which Dan. 7 also belongs and to which it clearly
contributed in a significant way (in, e.g., 1 Enoch, in other Synoptic SM
sayings and in Rev. 20.4). In Q too we have the terminology 'SM' applied
to Jesus in precisely these contexts. Given then that the SM sayings in Q
seem to belong integrally to the network of ideas associated with, and in
part generated by, Dan. 7, and given too that the Q sayings use the unusual
Greek phrase ho huios tou anthropou, it seems to strain credulity to the
limit to suggest that these two facets are not related.46 Hence it seems
much more plausible to argue that the term 'SM' itself (at least in Greek)
is also intended to be part of the way in which the Danielic scene is being
alluded to in these sayings. Thus despite the lack of other clear linguistic
details in the SM sayings in Q themselves linking these to Dan. 7,47 the
conceptual links seem clear to establish the connection.48
If then we look at our earliest historical sources Mark and Q, wefindnot
only a measure of real disagreement, but also a measure of fundamental
similarity at a number of key points. With regard to disagreements one can
point to the fact that there is nothing in Q corresponding directly to the
explicit passion predictions that occur in Mark. In Mark all the passion
predictions are uniformly in relation to Jesus as SM (Mk 8.31; 9.31; 10.33,
46. I am assuming that Q was a 'text' in Greek. There is widespread agreement that
the Greek phrase at least is highly unusual, and hence the suggestion that the phrase
itself is distinctive enough to carry the allusion is quite plausible. Clearly there are
potentially more problems in relation to a possible Aramaic stratum of the tradition—
on this see below. I find this more persuasive than the suggestion (e.g. Robinson 1994:
esp. 326-27) that the Q 'apocalyptic' SM sayings are quite unrelated to Dan. 7 and the
reference to Dan. 7 only comes in with the evangelists. (By implication, also Schroter
[1997: 455]: Jesus used the term as a 'Selbstbezeichnung', Q shows no influence of
Dan. 7, and later Christians developed the Danielic allusions.) The traditio-historical
background of the precise 'apocalyptic role' (Robinson 1994:327) ascribed to Jesus in
Q then remains obscure and unexplained.
47. There is no reference in the Q sayings to the SM 'coming' 'on the clouds of
heaven', which for some are necessary elements which must be present before an
allusion to Dan. 7 can be posited (cf. above).
48. Much of the discussion in the past has perhaps been characterized by focusing
too narrowly on individual words or phrases in the sayings themselves, rather than on
the broader background of thought implied. Schroter (1997:455) criticizes (in my view
rightly) the somewhat atomistic approach of Casey, Vermes, Robinson and others
arguing for a 'generic' (or 'idiomatic') interpretation of the phrase by treating the individual sayings in isolation from their contexts within the Gospel tradition.

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etc.). Q, as is well known, has no passion narrative, and indeed seems to
'democratize' any references to suffering by referring to the experiences in
store (or already happened) of a wider group than just Jesus alone.49 Mark
does not contain anything comparable to Q 22.30, where the 'democratizing' process extends to the promise that those suffering will act as judges
at the final judgment. By contrast, unlike Mark, Q has no verbal or explicit
reference to Dan. 7 apart from the use of the phrase 'SM' itself.50 There is
no reference to the SM 'coming', or to any accompaniment of the 'clouds
of heaven', references which for some are essential if any reference to
Dan. 7 is to be seen.51
Yet despite these differences there are also some clear similarities at a
deeper level. In both Mark and Q, Jesus as SM is afigurewho experiences
hostility and rejection.52 Further, both Mark and Q indicate that any wouldbe follower of Jesus must share in the same suffering of Jesus SM. In Q
we have already seen this in texts such as Q 6.22; 7.34; 9.58. In Mark the
link is in one way slightly less direct but no less real. Thus in Mk 8, the
first passion prediction of Jesus' coming suffering as SM (v. 31) is immediately followed by Jesus' teaching about the necessity of any would-be
follower to take up their cross if they wish to follow Jesus (v. 34). The
language is quite clear in its implications: the fate of Jesus is the potential
fate of any disciple too. Similarly, after the third passion prediction in Mk
10.33-34 (again of Jesus' suffering as SM) there is the account of the
request of James and John for the chief seats in the kingdom. Jesus' reply
is by no means clear (and one suspects that there are seams in the tradition); however, the question about whether they can be baptized with the
baptism Jesus is baptized with, and drink the cup that Jesus drinks (v. 38),
receives an affirmative answer ('we can') which is then reaffirmed by
Jesus: they will indeed be baptized with the same baptism as his, and also
drink the same cup (v. 39). Both verbal pictures are almost certainly
metaphors for suffering and/or death. The implication is clear. The suffering of Jesus SM is one that those who follow him must also share.

49. Cf. Kloppenborg (1990), and see above.
50. But on this see above, also the discussion below.
51. Cf. n. 13 above, but see also the reservations noted in n. 48.
52. For Mark, cf. the well-known stress throughout the second half of the Gospel
on the fact that it is as SM that Jesus is to suffer. In Q, see above on the 'present SM'
sayings, which I have argued are all about the hostility and rejection experienced by
Jesus and/or his followers.

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In both Mark and Q, Jesus as SM is also a figure who will (by implication be vindicated and then) play an important role in the final judgment.
Further, in both Mark and Q, the influence of Dan. 7 may be seen, albeit in
different ways. In Mark the reference is quite clear in the sayings in Mk
13.26; 14.62, with the language of the SM 'coming' 'on the clouds of
heaven'. In Q any direct allusion in such extra phrases is lacking, as we
have seen. But, as we have also seen, if we consider not just Dan. 7 but the
exegetical tradition which Dan. 7 seems to have generated, then the SM
sayings in Q, taken together with other sayings in Q, notably Q 22.30,
show a close affinity with that tradition. Here the SM figure functions as
part of a 'democratizing' process whereby the problem of the suffering of
a wider group is addressed by looking forward to a future scene in which a
figure on their behalf would receive a vindication in the heavenly court.
Thus in both Mark and Q we see the text from Dan. 7, as interpreted in
the first century, underlying much of the SM tradition in both these strands
of early Gospel tradition. As far back then as we seem to be able to reach
with the historical evidence available to us, an idea of a Danielic SM seems
to be firmly embedded in the tradition and would therefore seem to be
something we can indeed ascribe to the historical Jesus.53
I consider briefly one final objection to such a theory. Does not the language barrier militate strongly against such a view? Is it not the case that
(assuming Jesus spoke in Aramaic) the Aramaic phrase bar nash(a) is such
an ordinary, commonplace phrase that it simply will not bear the weight that
the interpretation suggested above places on it? Are we entitled to try to
work backwards from the Greek forms of sayings to any 'historical Jesus'
withoutfirstre-translating such sayings back into Aramaic and asking what
such words would have meant to an Aramaic speaker or hearer?54
The argument has some force but, I believe, is not entirely persuasive. I
do not claim any expertise in Aramaic. I have to rely on the knowledge of
others, and as such I am happy to accept that the Aramaic phrase is primarily used in an indefinite or generic sense (cf. above).
53. I would not wish to argue the case for or against the authenticity of any particular
individual saying here. There is in any case no space here for that. However, perhaps one
can make more progress by asking about broader themes, rather than discussing the
minutiae of individual sayings. Hence I am in agreement, methodologically, with the
approach of, e.g., Crossan (1991) in wanting to focus on what he calls 'complexes' rather
than on individual sayings, even if I would disagree with him about some details in his
use of sources and in the overall interpretation of Jesus.
54. The point is made most forcefully in the modern debate by Maurice Casey; see
Casey (1998: e.g. 70-71; against Burkett).

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Nevertheless it is now widely agreed in studies of semantics that words,
or indeed phrases, do not derive their meanings exclusively from themselves: meaning is often derived as much from the context in which words
or phrases are used.55 But such a 'context' can apply at many different
levels. We can consider the literary context of a phrase or sentence in
which a word is used.56 But we can also consider a wider social or cultural
context. And it is surely a feature of all levels of human society that words
or phrases that are innocuous and vague in themselves can carry overtones
of meaning and significance for those in particular groups. The particular
groups concerned can be smaller or larger. At the smaller level, each of us
can probably produce examples of the 'family joke', of words that have
been used (or misused) in ways that those within the 'family' recognize
but which are totally opaque to those outside the family. At the larger level
one can think of many examples of relatively general words or phrases
being used in very specific ways within (relatively broad) social or national
groups. For many English (and I would guess European) people, a statement to the effect that someone 'was born after the war' would be taken as
quite unambiguously asserting that the person's date of birth was after
1945, despite the fact that the word 'war' itself is fairly general and that
there have been many wars since 1945 (in Korea, Vietnam, the Falklands,
Iraq, Kosovo, etc.). Similarly, within a context of living near the city of
Manchester in England, and being in Manchester Piccadilly railway station
on one particular Wednesday evening amid a sea of red and white scarves
and a huge police presence, a statement that one is not going to 'the
match' needs no more specification to be perfectly well understood. If (as I
suspect) one or two people do not pick up the reference immediately, this
perhaps illustrates my point well. One needs to know that the presence of
so many scarves of those colours at a Manchester station, and the massive
police presence, mean that there is an important football match involving
Manchester United taking place at Old Trafford football ground (c. four
km from Manchester Piccadilly station). In that social context, 'the match'
has a clear, unambiguous and quite specific reference, even though the
word 'match' itself is very general and could refer to all kinds of different
matches (football possibly even played by Manchester City, cricket, rugby,
a small piece of wood used to light a fire or a cigarette, etc.).
55. Cf. Lyons (1977); Cotterell and Turner (1989: esp. ch. 2, 'Semantics and
Hermeneutics').
56. This is effectively sometimes the only context Casey seems to allow.

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It seems to me quite possible that the phrase SM, even in the form of the
Aramaic phrase bar nash(a), could function in the same way. At one level
it is a very general, unspecific phrase if taken in isolation. But the study of
semantics has taught us that we should rarely take any words in complete
isolation. Perhaps, then, within the social context of Jesus' own teaching
as this was conducted among the group of his followers (and perhaps with
others as well), this phrase, innocuous in itself, could carry other overtones
of meaning in a way similar to the family joke or the shorthand jargon
which we all use in different social/cultural contexts (just as we do in our
own discipline of New Testament study and within a sub-discipline of interest in Q!). The possibility, then, that Jesus used the Aramaic phrase bar
nash, or bar nasha, to refer to himself and to evoke the context of the
Danielic scene is thus not impossible given the way that languages and
verbal shorthands function with all groups within human society. In doing
so he may then have been giving expression to his conviction that he, like
others before him, was destined to suffer rejection, hostility and violence
because of his commitment to God, but that he would be subsequently vindicated in the heavenly court. As SM too he invited others to share with
him in this route. Both Mark and Q pick up aspects of this complex of
ideas, some in common with each other though also with some differences.
Nevertheless the common features seem sufficient to be able to say with a
measure of plausibility that we can see here features of the historical Jesus.
In the SM sayings we thus see something of Jesus' views about himself.
We also seem something of the way in which Jesus invited others to share
with him in his role—his suffering, his commitment and perhaps even his
position of vindication after death.
As a small postscript, it may be worth noting that a very similar picture
emerges if we consider Jesus' language about divine sonship. Whether
Jesus thought of himself as a/the 'son/Son' of God has also been a matter
of debate for many years. An affirmative answer in some sense seems
undeniable. One can point to the use of the term 'Abba', 'Father', in the tradition as Jesus' address to God.57 And although one can legitimately question the historicity of some individual traditions that record Jesus as
addressing up God as Abba,58 nevertheless one could still argue that this
57. See Jeremias (1967); Dunn (1996: 22-33).
58. E.g. the Gethsemane story (with Jesus' address to God as Abba in Mk 14.36)
presents particular problems of historicity (if only because all the witnesses are said to
have been asleep at the time); also the saying in Q 10.21-22 (the so-called 'Johannine
thunderbolt') is so unlike the rest of the Synoptic tradition that its historicity becomes a
little suspect.

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185

distinctive feature may have been remembered by Christians and read
back into individual scenes of the Gospel stories to make the portrait of
Jesus square with this remembered feature.
Yet one must also take full note of the fact that, whatever idea was
implied, Jesus' divine sonship was apparently not regarded by him as
unique. Thus the disciples are also told that they can and should address
God as Father (Q 11.2—the earlier Q form probably has a simple 'Father',
reflecting an original Abba). So too the disciples are told to pray to God
who, as their Father, knows their needs and will respond to them (Q 11.913; 12.31). In the letters of Paul, we also have two occasions where Paul
claims that the right/privilege of addressing God as Abba is one that is common to all Christians, namely, all who have the Spirit of God (Rom. 8.15;
Gal. 4.6). The precise significance of the Aramaic word Abba is disputed
(Abba does not necessarily mean 'Daddy', as has sometimes been maintained [Ban* 1988]). It is, though, an unusual (though perhaps not unique)
form of address to God, expressing a close personal relationship; moreover, it is a means by which Jesus appears to want to unite himself with his
followers rather than any means by which to distinguish himself from
them. As with SM we seem to see a feature of the tradition by which Jesus
unites himself with others.
We may also note here (again very briefly and in passing) that the model
of Jesus as one with other human beings is by no means foreign to other
parts of the New Testament at least.
In Paul's Adam Christology, Jesus is in one way unique—other human
beings can scarcely be the source and locus of a new humanity (cf. 1 Cor.
15.22: 'as "in Adam" all die, so "in Christ" shall all be made alive'—one
could scarcely say 'so in Paul/Barnabas shall all be made alive'!). Yet
Jesus is in another way the archetypal human being—indeed it is vital for
Paul's argument that this be so. Jesus is faced with exactly the same set of
choices and options as face 'Adam' and any other human being. Yet where
Adam fails and is disobedient, Christ succeeds by being obedient, 'even
unto death' (cf. Rom. 5; Phil. 2).59 Paul's very closely related Son Christology functions similarly. As indeed we have already noted in passing,
Paul—like Jesus—claims that Christians have the privilege of addressing
God as Abba, Father (Rom. 8.15; Gal. 4.6). Hence as Paul does indeed
develop the idea of Jesus as the Son of God, he also couples this with a
59. In appealing to the Philippian hymn here I am aware that such an appeal in this
context is disputable. See, however, Dunn (1996: 114-21) for the view that what is in
mind here is the parallelism between Jesus and Adam.

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claim that, whatever such language implies, it is a role or status which other
Christians at least (if not necessarily all other human beings) can also
share.60

Similar ideas occur in the vast melting pot of different 'language games'
used by the author of the letter to the Hebrews. There is, it is true, very
exalted language used of Jesus, ranging from the well-known Wisdom
echoes in the opening verses (1.1 -4), through the apparent address of Jesus
as 'God' (1.8 citing Ps. 45.6), to the highly developed and sophisticated
language of Jesus as the high priest after the order of Melchizedek in chs.
7-10. Yet interspersed with this, one gets clear categorical statements that
Jesus is one with the rest of the human race. He is the fulfilment of the
statement in Ps. 2 about 'man' (Heb. 2), and 'became like his brothers and
sisters in every respect' to qualify as a high priest (2.17). He is the pioneer/forerunner (12.2) who has gone ahead to heaven to intercede for us
but who is basically one with other human beings.
The picture that emerges is in one way not one that fits quite so readily
with more 'classic' models of Christology. In more 'classic' Christology,
the question 'Who is Jesus?' is answered by means of categories or terms
that make Jesus unique and different from others. He is the Messiah (in a
sense whereby only he is the Messiah!); he is the Lord; he is the Son (capital S!) of God in the sense of a fully fledged member of a fully divine
Trinity.
I am fully aware that this is not the whole story. It has also been a major
plank of 'classic' Christology to insist that Jesus is fully human (as well as
fully divine, at least according to the Chalcedonian definition). Also, as I
said at the start, we cannot necessarily turn the clock back 2000 years and
simply ignore all history and discussion about Christology in relation to
the contemporary situation. I have tried here to consider some aspects of
'early' Christology, but in Christology/theology, as in so many other areas,
'early' is not necessarily best. Church practice in one of the 'earliest' Christian communities we know about—namely, the church at Corinth—is
rarely taken as the ideal blueprint for church practice today. The practice
of chimney-sweeps using child labour in appalling conditions in 'early'
Victorian times is now universally abhorred as primitive and barbaric,
almost precisely because it is 'early'. So too in relation to Christology, I
60. I am aware that this is not the whole story for Paul. Thus, however much
Christians share in the sonship of Jesus, there is also a sense in Paul by which Jesus
and Christians differ in their sonship. Jesus is Son absolutely; Christians are (only)
adopted as sons (Rom. 8.15; Gal. 4.5).

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187

have taken 'early' to include Jesus' own views about himself and his role.
Yet, as I tried to indicate at the start, Jesus' identity is not necessarily
determined exclusively by his own views, nor indeed necessarily by those
of his first followers.
Nevertheless, a look to the past and to the origins of Christianity can
sometimes serve as a check and a corrective to the tradition; further, the
nature of the Christian faith (as with all other faiths) means that, in order
to maintain its self-identity, it must continually engage in a dialogue with
its past: it cannot cut loose and plough its own furrow without any reference to its history—otherwise it will lose any claim to be identifiably
'Christian'. Hence all Christian 'theologizing' will by implication have to
involve a dialogue with the earliest tradition (since in any dialogue with
later tradition, the latter will also have had to engage in dialogue with
earlier tradition, etc.). A Jesus who sees his own role as one of total commitment to the cause of God, who is prepared to go through appalling
suffering as part of that commitment (and who may in the end have felt
that he was totally abandoned and isolated [cf. Gethsemane] and yet still
carried through with his role), and who also claims that those who follow
him and his cause must be prepared to follow in the same path, is perhaps
one who is just as meaningful and real in the twenty-first century as he was
in the first century.
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IMAGINING A ROMAN AUDIENCE

Kieran J. O'Mahony, OSA

Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion, and him the ears of profiting,
that what thou speakest may move, and what he hears may be believed...
Henry IVPart I, Act 1: Scene 2.

Introduction
In the canon of authentic letters of Paul, Romans is unique for several
reasons. In the other letters, Paul is writing to a community which he not
only knows personally, but which he himself has founded. He can and
frequently does lay claim to a special authority as the father of the community, building on foundations laid by himself. He can be very forthright in
asserting his authority—as with the Galatians—or he can be pressed to
argue extensively for his special position as in 2 Corinthians. Again, in
other letters, he is often responding to a specific situation or particular
issues which have arisen in his absence and which need to be attended to.
This is easily seen from 1 Thessalonians, 1 Corinthians and Galatians. In
these letters, the content is in part contingent on information received,
either by letter or by messenger. In other words, there is a relationship
and a history, however fond or fragile orfieryorfraught,to be maintained.
The letter to the Romans is significantly different. The absence of a
history of relationship might in some sense be a relief, given the unevenness of Paul's temperament. The disadvantage is that he seems to write
within a communications vacuum. The letter itself seems to support such a
view, because Romans, especially in the light of Galatians, gives the impression of emotion recollected in tranquillity, a calmer, more systematic
presentation of his teaching, somewhat in the style of a treatise. But that in
itself is problematic. If all he wants is to be received by them, to request
hospitality en route to Spain, why write such a long and complicated letter?
What right has he to write to them in this manner? Why should they listen?
What will their reaction be? How does he go about creating a community

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of discourse, and what does that tell us about his view of the Roman Christians and their view of him? Hence the title of this article, 'Imagining a
Roman Audience'. I am trying to imagine how Paul imagined the Roman
recipients of his letter.
It may be well to say what I don't mean first of all. It would be possible
to assist the modern reader in reconstructing the audience of Romans—
who they were, from what background, what kind of religious impulse
brought them together, who the Jews and Gentiles were—who were drawn
to this new religious movement. This article, however, is primarily not
about that. It is really about how the writer of the letter to the Romans took
account of the first readers and hearers of the letter. How aware is he of
how the Roman community will receive his message? In the course of the
discussion, we may be able to ask this question. How specific is Romans
to what is going on in the Roman Christian community? The writer seems
to face Hobson's choice here. If the letter is a general presentation, a kind
of summa, of Paul's religious reflections, why should they read it? And if
the letter is situation specific, why should this stranger to the community, a
begging guest, write to them in terms which he himself describes as 'rather
bold'(15.15)?
This last, somewhat apologetic, note suggests a certain anxiety about the
reception of his text. There might even be some prejudice against Paul, if
we may rely on the misunderstandings of his teachings which he takes the
trouble to scotch. He himself writes: 'And why not say (as some people
slander us by saying that we say), "Let us do evil so that good may come"?'
(Rom. 3.8).
Perhaps some of the many other rhetorical questions in Romans may
indicate other simplifications. Is there any point in being a Jew (3.1)? If
the Law is superseded, may we set aside the commandments (6.15)? If the
Law has been set aside, was it really something bad, even a sin (7.12)? Does
Paul so care for the Gentiles that he has no care for the Jews (9.1-5)? Is
Paul's God a contradiction, not so much inscrutable and unsearchable as
unstable and capricious, who elects and rejects (11.1)? Paul's nuanced
position on these matters is still difficult to delineate, and we can imagine
that simplified versions may well have made their way around the Christian communities of the Mediterranean.
Writing to the Romans presents Paul, therefore, with a quite special rhetorical task. How does Paul so persuade that they may profit? My claim
here is that Paul not only thinks he has put his finger on the issue of the
Roman community, but also goes to considerable lengths to communicate
well and clearly with his audience and this is what I want to look at. Part

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193

of that technique includes great care in creating a 'community of discourse' between himself and the Romans. This is especially obvious at the
beginning and end, but throughout Paul is careful not to lose the goodwill
of his hearers.
Let me unpack the techniques as follows. First, Romans is presented not
as a treatise, but arrives in a more or less conventional if extended letter
form. Secondly, it is a penetrating presentation of a single issue under several guises. In terms of the audience, this is 'to prepon\ that which is
appropriate. In terms of rhetorical preparation, it is inventio or discovery
of what needs to be said. Thirdly, the major arguments of the letter can be
shown to follow the rules of classical rhetoric, not only in the structure of
the text, but also in the wording and embellishment of the text, in rhetorical terms the dispositio and the elocutio. Fourthly, the text is well signposted
in terms of semantic fields and frames to mark the units of discourse.
There is more. At the end of each section, you find a careful anticipation
of the vocabulary and themes to come in the next. I want to use an image
from carpentry for these: rivets. These rivets help to keep the reader aware
of the stages of the discourse. I'm sure Paul was always riveting, but here I
mean a kind of overlap between the end of each argument and the beginning of the next. As well as that the writer makes special use of a narrow
band of rhetorical techniques. The most obvious of these are rhetorical
questions which abound. Sometimes he imagines an answerfromhis audience (sermocinatio). At other times he uses personification (prosopopeia).
Throughout, there is a special reliance on carefully chosen metaphors
(similitudo) and on arguments from scriptural authority (sententia).
In short, we are dealing here with a well signposted text, which can be
analysed rhetorically, which deals with a single issue under several guises
and which arrives in the form of a letter. Let me take these steps in order.
Sectioning the Text
My interest here is in showing how Paul makes it easy for the first readers
and hearers to find their way around the text. Bear in mind that you have
no punctuation and no paragraphs. There is no great novelty in reminding
you that the argument of the letter to the Romans may be broadly divided
into four blocks of approximately four chapters each: 1-4; 5-9; 9-11; and
12-15. The size of each block may even reflect how long a scribe could be
expected to write for. I think Paul makes it easy for the hearer of the text
to notice the units by careful use of frames or inclusio, by means of
semantic fields to characterize each unit of argument, and by the use of

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what I will call 'rivets' which take us from the end of one block of argument to the start of the next. Let me illustrate this briefly.
Romans 1.16-4.25
A combination of frames and semanticfieldscan be used to set this section
apart.
Frames
For I am not ashamed of the gospel; it is the power of God for salvation to
everyone who has faith, to the Jew first and also to the Greek. For in it the
righteousness of God is revealed through faith for faith', as it is written,
'The one who is righteous will live by faith' (Rom. 1.16-17).
Now the words, 'it was reckoned to him', were written not for his sake
alone, but for ours also. It will be reckoned to us who believe in him who
raised Jesus our Lord from the dead, who was handed over to death for our
trespasses and was raised for our justification (Rom. 4.23-25).

Semantic Field. The vocabulary ofjustification does not set apart chs. 1—4.
However, the vocabulary of faith (TTIOTOS, TTIOTEUCO, CXTTIOTECO, cxTTiOTia,
'I am faithful/I have faith/I lack faith, unfaith') and the vocabulary of
unrighteousness (aSiKia, CXSIKOS, aalpsia, 'unrighteousness,unrighteous,
impiety') can be used to set this section apart. Likewise, the vocabulary of
Gentiles is present throughout chs. 1-4 and absent from chs. 5-8 until we
come to ch. 9. A supporting semantic field of to write (ypa<|>co, 'I write')
helps us here as well. Argument from silence is tricky but there is also a
strong contrast between chs. 1-4 and 5-8 in the use of the names Jesus and
Christ.
Rivets. This section of argument closes with the words: 'Now the words,
"it was reckoned to him", were written not for his sake alone, but for ours
also. It will be reckoned to us who believe in him who raised Jesus our
Lord from the dead, who was handed over to death for our trespasses and
was raised for our justification' (Rom. 4.23-25).
And these words form a bridge with the next block: 'Therefore, since
we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord
Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in
which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God'
(Rom. 5.1-2).

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Romans 5-8
Frames. When we come to the second block of argument from chs. 5-8 the
frames are provided by the full expression our Lord Jesus Christ and God:
Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through
our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace
in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God
(Rom. 5.1-2).
For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor
things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor
anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of
God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Rom. 8.38-39).

In a broader way, the themes of hope and glory support this frame.
Semantic Field. Within chs. 5-8, the dominant semantic field is that of
sin and its synonyms (ayapTavco, apapTT]|ja, apapxia, apapTcoXos,
b(j>EiXeTr|s, 6(J>eiXiaria, o^siXco, 7TapaTTTco)ja, TTOVTIPOS, TrpoaKO|j|ja,
TTTaico, OKavSaXov, 'I sin, transgression, sin, sinner, debtor, debt, I am
indebted, offence, evil, stumbling, I stumble, trap') and that of Christ
(XpiGTOs). Supporting vocabulary, taken from the propositio, would be
that of life and living (£aeo, £GOTI, £COOTTOISGO, 'I live, life, I make alive')
and that of spirit (TTVEupa).
Rivets. The link between the end of ch. 8 and the start of ch. 9 is a stark contrast, using similar ideas, because Paul is now going to deal with a special
and painful topic in strong emotional contrast to the preceding optimism.
.. .nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to
separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Rom. 8.39).
I am speaking the truth in Christ—I am not lying; my conscience confirms
it by the Holy Spirit—I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my
heart. For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off&om Christ
for the sake of my own people, my kindred according to the flesh (Rom.
9.1-3).

Romans 9-11
As is commonly recognized, chs. 9-11 enjoy a quite special place in
Romans.
Frames. The section begins with a prayer and ends with a prayer, thereby
forming an inclusio, as follows.

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.. .to them belong the patriarchs, and from them, according to the flesh,
comes the Messiah, who is over all, God blessed forever. Amen (Rom. 9.5).
For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be the
glory forever. Amen (Rom. 11.36).

The only uses of the significant word 'covenant' in Romans makes a
somewhat more distance frame.
They are Israelites, and to them belong the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship, and the promises,.. (Rom. 9.4).
And this is my covenant with them, when I take away their sins (Rom.
11.27).
Semantic Field. On its own the vocabulary of significant persons from
Israel's past would sent the section apart: Abraham, Sarah, Jacob, Esau,
Benjamin, Moses, Elijah and Hosea. Even the words Israel and Israelite
occur only in this section.
Rivets. Paul begins to foreshadow the topics of chs. 12-15 in 11.25; 11.3031; and 12.1-3, as we read.
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 (Rom. 11.25).
Just as you were once disobedient to God but have now received mercy
because of their disobedience, so they have now been disobedient in order
that, by the mercy shown to you, they too may now receive mercy (Rom.
11.30-31).
These are echoed immediately in 12.1-3:
I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to
present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which
is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the
will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.
For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of
yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober
judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned.
Romans 12-15
Frame. The opening words of ch. 12 reveal the character of what follows
for the next four chapters: 'I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters'.

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This appeal is not matched by a verbal frame, but by a corresponding
prayer for the achievement of this appeal, thus:
I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to
present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which
is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be
transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is
the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect (Rom. 12.1-2).
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that
you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit (Rom. 15.13).

Semantic Field. This section enjoys both a distinctive style and a special
vocabulary. The style is that of imperatives, as we would expect—some 66
imperatives and a corresponding reduction of rhetorical questions to 2.
The imperatives stop at 5.13. The vocabulary is not so unified here, but
I would call the typical vocabulary that of mutuality: self, one another,
neighbour, and brother and sister. The metaphor of the body which opens
the discussion is consistent with the content of mutual belonging and
responsibility.
All these various considerations yield the following pattern across the
central argument of Romans.
Romans
Semantic Field
1.16-4.35 (un)faith, unrighteousness,
Gentile, to write

5-8

sin, Christ, life/live, Spirit

Frames
1.16-17 faith,
righteous, written

'Rivets'
4.23-25 believe, our
Lord Jesus, justification

4.23-25 written,
believe, justification

5.1-2 justified, faith,
our Lord Jesus Christ

5.1 God, our Lord
Jesus Christ
8.39 God, Christ
Jesus our Lord

8.39 separate, Christ
9.1-2 Christ, anathema

9-11

Sarah, Jacob, Esau, Moses,
Abraham* Hosea, Benjamin,
Elijah, Israelite

9.4-5 covenant,
forever and ever,
Amen
11.27, 36 covenant,
forever and ever,
Amen

11.25 not wiser,
11.30-31 mercy,
36 ages, God
12.1 mercies, 2 this age,
3 not more highly, God

12-15.13

Semantic field of appeal;
self, one another, neighbour,
and brother and sister

12.1 I appeal to you,
God
15.13 G od, fill,
abound

15.13 full, all, you
15.14 full, all, you

Such a quick review serves to remind us of the arguments of Romans.

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The Use of Rhetorical Techniques

Paul is well able to use techniques taken from classical rhetoric. I aim to
look at two techniques here: those of embellishment and structuring.
Embellishment Techniques (elocutio)
Figures of Thought. Paul makes use of many rhetorical figures to keep the
argument both lively and persuasive. The rhetorical handbooks categorize
some 34 figures of thought, that is, a variety of ways of putting forward
ideas to persuade. I single out five of these figures of thought, without
going into them in detail. Paul uses personification (sin and death)—
technically prosopopeia. Occasionally, he puts words into someone's
mouth—a technique of imaginary debate, technically sermocinatio. Occasionally, he addresses someone singled out—'o man, who ever you are',
'you a Jew' and sometimes in prayer, God. Technically this is apostrophe.
Many questions are asked in Romans. Not all of these are rhetorical
questions in the sense that the answer is presumed and not given, but
whether rhetorical or not, they keep the discussion very lively. Finally,
Paul sometimes puts his ideas in the form of an exclamation, exclamatio—
sometimes the very regular 'let it not be' and sometimes an ascription of
praise and thanksgiving to God. Gathered into a diagram, some of the
figures of thought—especially for the maintenance of contact with your
audience—are dispersed as follows.1
verse

25
prosopopeia

27
32
33
34
sermocinatio apostrophe
(rhet.) qs.
exclamatio
2.1,3,17
2.3,4,21,22,23;
1.25;
1.16-4.35
3.1,3,6,8,9,27,29,31; 3.4,6,31
4.1,9,10
5-8
5.12,25; 6.10,12;
6.1
6.1,2,15,16,21;
6.2,15,17;
7.8-10; 8.19
7.1,7.13,24; 8.24,31-35 7.7,13; 8.34
9-11
9.20
9.14,19,20-23,30,32; 9.5,14;
10.6.7,14-15,19;
11.1,11,3311.1-2,11,15,34-35.
36
12-15.13
15.5,13
14.4,10.
14.22
Rhet. qs. replaced by
imperatives

1. The numbering of the figures of speech and figures of thought used in this
paper are taken, for convenience, from Mortara Garvalli (1995: 186-271).

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Figures of Speech. Not only does Paul use figures of thought, but figures
of speech also abound. There are even more elaborated figures such as
climax, reversio and conpar.
Verse

03
Climax

1.16-4.35
5-8
5.3-4; 8.30
9-11
10.14
12-15.13

JO
Reversio

9.31

28
Conpar
2.7-10; 3.30; 4.7,25
5.15-16,18-19; 6.16,19,23; 7.6; 8.5,6,10,30,34
9.13,15,25,29; 10.14; 11.7,16,28,30-31,33
12.7-8,10-11,21; 13.12; 14.2-3,7-8

Thefirsttwo of these I would call more 'flashy' figures and show a certain
skill in the deployment of rhetoric.
Climax
And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope... (Rom. 5.3-4).
And those whom he predestined he also called; and those whom he called
he also justified; and those whom he justified he also glorified (Rom. 8.30).
But how are they to call on one in whom they have not believed? And how
are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are
they to hear without someone to proclaim him? (Rom. 10.14).

Reversio
.. .but Israel, who did strive the law of righteousness in the law did not
succeed (Rom. 9.31).

Structuring Techniques
Not only does Paul use the figures of speech and thought to make the text
more appealing, he also uses Hellenistic conventions to structure the text.
Such a structure should in principle be simple. According to Aristotle, a
speech should have two parts: you should say what you are going to prove,
and then prove it. This simple structure of thesis and proof was elaborated
in the later rhetorical tradition and eventually, a deliberative speech looked
something like this:
Function
Introduction
Statement of Facts
Thesis
Proof(s)
Conclusion

Rhetorical term
Exordium
Narratio
Propositio
Probatio(nes)
Peroratio

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Does classical rhetoric shed any light on the structure of Romans? I would
propose the following outline for the letter.
Verse
1.8-15
1.16-17
1.18-^.35
5-8
9-11
12.1-15.13
15.14-33

Exordium
Propositio
Proof 1
Proof2
Proof3
Proof4
Peroratio

Topic
Reasons for coming to Rome
faith, justification, salvation, Jews and Gentiles
Faith, (root tTiat-), righteousness/Jews and Gentiles/faith and works
Salvation. Sin, life, living, making alive, Christ
God's election of Jews and Gentiles
Life together in the community
Reasons for coming Rome

There is no narratio here, in part because while essential in forensic rhetoric, the narratio was not necessary in epideictic rhetoric and was optional
in deliberative rhetoric.
A great deal depends on the thesis or propositio. Technically speaking
a propositio is meant to say what the following arguments are about. A
particular form of'thepropositio is thepartitio, when separate elements
which are going to be discussed and proved are simply listed. If 1.16-17
illuminate the rest of the argument of the letter, then in some sense all the
subsequent argument must be present in mice in the propositio. Is that the
case? We need to look at the propositio.
For I am not ashamed of the gospel; it is the power of God for salvation to
everyone who has faith, to the Jew first and also to the Greek For in it the
righteousness of God is revealed through faith for faith; as it is written,
'The one who is righteous will live by faith' (Rom. 1.16-17).

Each of these elements is taken up in the subsequent discussion. I think
from the vocabulary and argument it is relatively easy to see that chs. 1-4
deal with faith as the path to justification. Likewise, we can easily see that
chs. 5-8 treat justification through a reflection on salvation, as we shall see
very fully described in chronological order. Again, it is easy to see that
chs. 9-11 deal specifically with the relationship of Jews and Greeks in the
historical plan of God.
An apparent difficulty arises, however, with chs. 12-15. Apparently
here we have an ethical appendix to the foundational theological arguments. Apparently nothing in these chapters is anticipated by the propositio. I would offer the following hypothetically. A clue is given in the
citation 'the one who is righteous will live by faith', and true enough chs.
12-15 are about living the faith in practice, although the vocabulary link
is not solid. A closer look at chs. 12-15 reveals that faith begins the discussion and ends the discussion and lies at the centre of the ethical advice,
for we read:

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For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of
yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned (Rom.
12.3).
Welcome those who are weak infaith, but not for the purpose of quarrelling
over opinions. Some believe in eating anything, while the weak eat only
vegetables (Rom. 14.1-2).
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that
you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit (Rom. 15.13).

The vocabulary of 'living' is found importantly at the start and then at a
quite significant moment:
I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to
present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which
is your spiritual worship (Rom. 12.1).
We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. If we live, we
live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or
whether we die, we are the Lord's. For to this end Christ died and lived
again, so that he might be Lord of both the dead and the living (Rom. 14.7-9).

Verse 9 is interesting in the way it does not say Christ died and rose again,
but rather Christ died and lived again, which gives a prominence at this
point to the language of 'living'.
I conclude, therefore, that these closing chapters deal with how to live
out of faith for the sake of faith, and are in some sense foreshadowed by
the citation from Habbakuk in Rom. 1.16-17.
The seeds of the propositio are taken up in sequence as follows:
Propositio

Text and Language

Topic

Power of God for salvation 5-8 Justification, Salvation

Gift of justification in the
Christian community

Everyone who has faith

1—4 Justification, Faith

Powerlessness of both Jew
and Greek, hence faith

To the Jew first and the
Greek

9-11 Gentiles and Israelites

Priority of Judaism and the
new position of Gentiles

The one who is righteous
will live by faith

12-15 Living together in faith,
the gift of saving justification

Practical advice

The actual order is justification by faith revealed by the powerless of both
Jews and Gentiles to achieve it; the experience ofjustification as salvation
in the Christian tradition; the priority of the Jews and the new situation of

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the Gentiles; and finally, how to live that faith. The sequence matters. It
would have been possible to have begun with the practical, ethical advice,
but that would have been to have lost the audience early on. The sequence
matters. Proof 3 answers an accumulation of essential questions building
up in Proofs 1 and 2. Proof 2 deals with the gift of salvation and come logically after the expose of the need of salvation in Proof 1. Only when the
theology is clear can he teach the practice.
In the same way, all sections are important to the argument. The Reformation identification of late mediaeval Catholicism with rabbinic Judaism
is not only a distortion of Judaism, it probably also led, as a very particular
theological optic, to the relative neglect of chs. 9-11 and 12-15. These sections deal with the temporary exclusion of the majority of Jews from the
community of faith and offer advice on how the two factions in the Christian community might live together. Such themes were of no use to either
party at the Reformation. And if Christians had read chs. 9-11 more deeply,
some of the tragedy of Judaism in Christian history might not have been so
tragic.
The Proofs in Detail
At this point, I want to look at each stage of the argument in terms of its
sympathy for the factions in the audience.
Probatio 1: Romans 1.16-4.25
Paul begins by describing the moral catastrophe of paganism, in language
that reflects a conventional Jewish abhorrence. It is an interesting starting
point. To hear it as a Gentile must have led to an ambivalent reaction.
From all this you have been converted and yet it remains your past—this is
where you come from. To hear it as a Jew would be gratifying—at last,
someone to put the Gentiles in their place. Like all such moments of gratification in Paul, it doesn't last because shortly from 2.17 onwards Paul
praises the Jews:
But if you call yourself a Jew and rely on the law and boast of your
relation to God and know his will and determine what is best because you
are instructed in the law, and if you are sure that you are a guide to the
blind, a light to those who are in darkness, a corrector of the foolish, a
teacher of children, having in the law the embodiment of knowledge and
truth, you, then, that teach others, will you not teach yourself? While you
preach against stealing, do you steal? (Rom. 2.17-21).

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Having attacked one side, he now attacks the other. His question in 3.1-2
is given an apparently positive answer: 'Then what advantage has the Jew?
Or what is the value of circumcision? Much, in every way. For in the first
place the Jews were entrusted with the oracles of God.'
But this 'much in every way' is faint praise and a fuller reply is given in
3.9: 'What then? Are we any better off? No, not at all; for we have already
charged that all, both Jews and Greeks, are under the power of sin...'
He takes a great rhetorical risk here—the risk of insulting both your
audiences, reminding them of things they would much rather not recall.
The risk is compensated for in two ways. First of all, insult is a way of
holding people's attention, which is essential for communication. You
have to watch out for the law of diminishing returns. Secondly, he has
destabilized both groups equally. It may have the effect of uniting them
against him, but at least he shows no favoritism.
Having destabilized both groups, he presents the nodal point of his argument, 3.21-24, where all the language of the propositio is re-used. The
significance of this 'no distinction' is then defended by the well-known
argument from Abraham, an argument that is appealing to both groups in
the community.
But now, apart from law, the righteousness of God has been disclosed, and is
attested by the law and the prophets, the righteousness of God through faith
in Jesus Christ for all who believe. For there is no distinction, since all have
sinned and fall short of the glory of God; they are now justified by his grace
as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus (Rom. 3.21-24).

Probatio 2: Romans 5-8
The use of first-person plural verbs across the letter is revealing. The 84
uses are distributed as follows: 1.16-4.25 (13), 5-8 (48), 9-11 (5) and
12-15.13 (18). This statistic gives an idea of what is happening in chs.
5-8. Having undermined both sides of the community equally, Paul
draws their attention of what brings them together and what they have in
common. Hence the use of 'we'. What they have in common makes an
impressive list which respects the chronological sequence of their experience. First of all, salvation in Christ's death and resurrection, baptism and
its ethical consequences; secondly the present experience of Christian
prayer (Abba) and the gift of the Spirit helping us in our weakness; and
finally looking to the future, with unshakeable hope.
Apart from the very extensive use of figures of speech and thought in
chs. 5-8, the most interesting rhetorical moment must be ch. 7 and the use
of 'I' in this passage. At first blush, it seems autobiographical and the

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hearer's attention is immediately caught. However, it is soon clear that the
topic is human and Israelite history. But from 7.14 onwards the text seems
again to be highly existential, expressing the quandary of the human condition. The effects are as follows. First of all, in the middle of all the positive affirmations of chs. 5-8, it keeps before the hearer the experienced need
of salvation. Secondly, in spite of the predominance of'we' in chs. 5-8
the T of ch. 7 invites an individual identification with thefracturedhuman
condition of all, whether Jew or Greek. Thirdly, the passage promotes
captatio benevolentiae, because within it Paul seems to be inspired not
simply by abstract analysis but by his own difficult experience, which is
that of all of us, and so he promotes a community of discourse.
The emotional highpoint of this argument is 7.24—the I of Paul, the I
of each member of the community, the I of the human race: 'Wretched
man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?' 7.24 works
because it combines severalfigurestogether: rhetorical question, dubitatio
and exdamatio. Rhetorical question is a figure of engagement; dubitatio
is a figure of captatio benevolentiae and finally exdamatio is an emotional figure of identification. The nodal point of the argument seems to
be 8.28-30.
Probatio 3: Romans 9-11
In classical rhetoric, one of the recognized ways of persuading was by
the presentation of your good character categorized as ethos (which can
be confusing). Paul's use of ethos is very striking in chs. 9-11. At the very
start in an extremely persuasive introduction he presents himself:
I am speaking the truth in Christ—I am not lying; my conscience confirms
it by the Holy Spirit—I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my
heart. For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ
for the sake of my own people, my kindred according to the flesh (Rom/
9.1-3).

He begins with a twofold, if not a threefold oath, explicitly naming Christ
and the Holy Spirit as witnesses to the truth of what follows. As he further
describes his sorrow, he delays telling us what this is all about until he
comes to a curse drawn down on himself. This astonishing move is in
great contrast to the previous passage where he says nothing can separate
us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. This attachment is repeated in 10.1
where we hear: 'Brothers and sisters, my heart's desire and prayer to God
for them is that they may be saved'.

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A Gentile might feel uneasy at this highly emotional expression of
belonging. A regular reader of Paul would know from experience to fear
the praise of Paul. More often than not his praise is a way of gaining your
goodwill before a penetrating critique or analysis. At this moment, it is
important for him to name his continued commitment and attachment to
Jews because he is about to embark on an argument that is breathtaking in
its scope—suggesting that the rejection of Jesus by the majority of Jews of
the day was part of God's plan to extend salvation beyond ethnic boundaries. It is a theologically hard argument which begins with the apparently
familiar. He reminds his hearers that in the past God unaccountably elected
the younger Jacob over the older Esau. He then reminds them that in the
past God hardened Pharaoh's heart so that God's power would be all the
more apparent. Both these are scriptural arguments, not without their appeal
to the descendants of Jacob and Moses. Paul, however, uses the texts again
to destabilize theological certainties. God's inscrutable, unpredictable
choice once made the Israelites the elect and today makes the Gentiles the
elect. As the whole argument cannot be reviewed, I simply note that Paul's
anxiety about this Jewish audience at this point is very clear on account
of his enormous efforts to keep their goodwill, even at this most delicate
of moments, when he is able to say that their defeat and their stumbling
brought salvation to the Gentiles.
Until now, he has, I suppose, been speaking primarily to the Jews in his
audience, with the Gentiles as eavesdroppers. At this most delicate moment,
using apostrophe, he speaks to the Gentiles directly, relying on his full
authority as an apostle: 'Now I am speaking to you Gentiles. Inasmuch
then as I am an apostle to the Gentiles, I glorify my ministry...' (Rom.
11.13).
A beautiful and evocative metaphor is introduced, that of the olive tree:
it is a symbol of fertility (Ps. 128.3); beauty (Jer. 11.16; Hos. 14.6); divine
blessing (Deut. 7.13); and peace andbountifulness (Gen. 8.11). The image
is an appealing one to Jews in the audience—it draws on a biblical tradition and clearly expresses their priority as the natural in contrast to the wild
olive tree. Again, it puts the Gentiles in their place. But in another sense, it
is not totally gratifying, because just as the vine in the Old Testament has
both positive and negative associations, likewise the olive tree. Isaiah
(17.6; 24.3), Jeremiah (11.16) and Amos (4.9) use the olive as a means
to bringing to expression divine judgment. The strongest word is from
Jeremiah:

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The LORD once called you, 'A green olive tree, fair with goodly fruit'; but
with the roar of a great tempest he will set fire to it, and its branches will be
consumed. The LORD of hosts, who planted you, has pronounced evil
against you, because of the evil that the house of Israel and the house of
Judah have done, provoking me to anger by making offerings to Baal (Jer.
11.16-17).

Paul had already foreshadowed the allusion to Baal in Rom. 11.4. But what
is the divine reply to him? 'I have kept for myself seven thousand who
have not bowed the knee to Baal' (1 Kgs 19.18). The olive tree, apparently
gratifying, is at the same time a reminder of past sin and judgment, a
reminder that in Israel's past God himself brought about the destruction of
his own 'green olive tree, fair with goodly fruit'.
The main thrust, however, is a warning to the Gentiles not to be complacent because embedded in this image is the sharpest attack on the Gentiles
(to which I will return):
That is true. They were broken off because of their unbelief, but you stand
only through faith. So do not become proud, but stand in awe. For if God
did not spare the natural branches, perhaps he will not spare you. Note then
the kindness and the severity of God: severity toward those who have
fallen, but God's kindness toward you, provided you continue in his kindness; otherwise you also will be cut off (Rom. 11.20-22).

The nodal point here is:
Just as you were once disobedient to God but have now received mercy
because of their disobedience, so they have now been disobedient in order
that, by the mercy shown to you, they too may now receive mercy. For God
has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he may be merciful to all (Rom.
11.30-32).

Probatio 4: Romans 12-15.13
The argument in the letter so far is motored by questions and rhetorical
questions. In this fourth block of argument, giving concrete advice, naturally
we see more imperatives than questions. However, there are two rhetorical
questions which although few reveal the import of the whole passage:
Who are you to pass judgment on servants of another? It is before their own
lord that they stand or fall. And they will be upheld, for the Lord is able to
make them stand (Rom. 14.4).
Why do you pass judgment on your brother or sister? Or you, why do you
despise your brother or sister? For we will all stand before the judgment
seat of God (Rom. 14.10).

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207

Given that there is no need to forbid what is not being done, and no need
to encourage what is already being done, it is interesting to attempt to
build a mirror image of the community. From the image of the body at the
start of ch. 12 we conclude that there is a lack of appreciation of the way
the different gifts complement each other. From discussion of authorities,
some obviously hold that Christians should be free from civil obligations.
Chapter 14 indicates that some in the community were scrupulous about
meat, wine and the Sabbath, possibly Jewish Christians. Again the difficulty is that those who see the irrelevance of such regulations are still not
acting well, even if—theologically—they are right, because they seem to
themselves to be superior.
Finally, the nodal point where the issue of accepting each other joins the
topic of the entire letter is 15.7-9a:
Welcome one another, therefore, just as Christ has welcomed you, for the
glory of God. For I tell you that Christ has become a servant of the circumcised on behalf of the truth of God in order that he might confirm the promises given to the patriarchs, and in order that the Gentiles might glorify God
for his mercy.

The Exordium and the Peroratio
The Exordium
Two remaining parts of the rhetorical layout need to be commented on.
These are the Introduction and Conclusion, or the exordium and the peroratio. The exordium is the opening portion of the speech. As such, its goal
is to draw the attention of the hearer, or as the manuals put it to render the
hearer well disposed, attentive and docile. There are two kinds of exordium: principium and insinuatio, the former being usual, the latter to be
used when there was some obstacle to be surmounted. In Romans, after
the epistolary greeting, Paul introduces himself and explains the cause of
the letter. He uses the direct opening, portraying not only the good reputation of the Romans, but also his own good character because he always
thanks God for them and prays for them. It is worthwhile to look at the
text itself because it is very carefully worked out to appeal to the audience
and win their goodwill.
First, I thank my God through Jesus Christ for all of you, because your faith
is proclaimed throughout the world. For God, whom I serve with my spirit
by announcing the gospel of his Son, is my witness that without ceasing I
remember you always in my prayers, asking that by God's will I may somehow at last succeed in coming to you. For I am longing to see you so that I

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may share with you some spiritual gift to strengthen you—or rather so that
we may be mutually encouraged by each other's faith, both yours and mine. I
want you to know, brothers and sisters, that I have often intended to come to
you (but thus far have been prevented), in order that I may reap some harvest
among you as I have among the rest of the Gentiles. I am a debtor both to
Greeks and to barbarians, both to the wise and to the foolish—hence my
eagerness to proclaim the gospel to you also who are in Rome (Rom. 1.8-15).

By means of flattery in v. 8—that is, captatio benevolentiae—their faith
is proclaimed in all the world. In part, he is suggesting in v. 10 that their
good name itself has drawn him to them. He is also saying that his prayer
has been inspired by their renown, that is, already connected with them.
In v. 9 God is called upon to witness the truth of what Paul says. (An
oath is the highest asseveration in religious discourse.) God is likewise the
only one who is able to be such a witness, which is why he says he worships in his spirit. This is also part of his living the gospel. He claims
never to cease to pray for them. This is a way of 'connecting' with your
audience. He has never seen them, yet he prays for them. It is hard to be
against someone who is praying for you.
'Ceaselessly' and 'always' are the same idea in two words in v. 10. They
should already be sympathetically disposed towards his prayer and now he
introduces carefully a new idea, a petition of his that he might succeed in
God's will in coming to them. There is even a little suspense in delaying
the content of his prayer—his desire to come to them. The natural question
is why? Paul gives several reasons.
The first reason (w. 11-12) is to share some spiritual gift, to strengthen
them. Of course to be strengthened would be good, but it risks losing the
goodwill of the hearer—why does he think we need to be strengthened or
even who does he think he is to advise us? Hence the correctio in v. 12
which underlines the mutuality of the exchange, that is, he will receive
from them {captatio benevolentiae) and they will receive from him (his
original idea in v. 11). He picks up again at this delicate point the notion of
faith—that is, the faith of the Romans which is of such renown.
The second reason (v. 13) illustrates litotes, the common Pauline double
negative. The excuse is his desire to have some fruit among the Romans
as among all the Gentiles. This is a continuation of the mutuality theme
(which really is mutual), by which both he and they will receive. It is also
an example of ethos in that he tells us of his success among all the Gentiles. Narratively speaking there is an ellipsis, in that we are told that Paul
was prevented, though how and why are left unmentioned. It creates a
certain suspense.

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209

Finally, the third reason (v. 14) is Paul's own sense of being indebted to
or obligated to (which?) Greeks and Barbarians, wise and foolish. The
meaning is probably double—Paul presents himself as a debtor, that is, as
one who has received and as someone who is obliged, namely, with some
authority. The list that follows is hyperbole—Paul did not apparently go to
the Barbarians—but it captures something of the worldview he has. The
terms are not at all equivalent. Why the mention of the Barbarians? In the
second part he mentions the wise and foolish—terms which again do not
correspond to Greek and Barbarian. It presents again a wider, non-ethnically based categorization of hearers before whom Paul is not ashamed.
And because his desire is so wide (as wide as their fame?), he has the
desire to come also to Rome.
An exordium was also supposed to plant the seeds of the future proof
(semina probationum). The only seed mentioned here is the faith of the
Romans, which will be a core topic at each stage of the proofs, as we have
seen. We have to wait for the propositio to get a clearer idea of what is to
come.
Thus far, then, Paul has tried to create with the Romans a community of
discourse, which is otherwise not part of his history nor that of the
community.
The Peroratio
The peroratio is related to the exordium and shares some of its functions.
Psychologically, it is meant to trigger a recapitulation of the entire speech
by recalling the beginning. At the same time it is meant to touch the
feelings of the audience, to incline them to agreement. Her. 2.30.47 gives
the following functions to the peroratio: summing up (enumeratio); amplification; and appeal to pity (commiseratio).
Again, it may be well to look at the text itself: 'I myself feel confident
about you, my brothers and sisters, that you yourselves are full of goodness, filled with all knowledge, and able to instruct one another' (Rom.
15.14).
Verse 14 is flattery—he undoes something of the potential damage of
his powerful instruction by asserting they can instruct one another.
Nevertheless on some points I have written to you rather boldly by way of
reminder, because of the grace given me by God to be a minister of Christ
Jesus to the Gentiles in the priestly service of the gospel of God, so that the
offering of the Gentiles may be acceptable, sanctified by the Holy Spirit
(Rom. 15.15-16).

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Verses 15-16 show the common rhetorical technique of anticipating the
objections of your hearers and here he makes a very complete defence of
his role—look at all the theological terms brought to bear.
In Christ Jesus, then, I have reason to boast of my work for God. For I will
not venture to speak of anything except what Christ has accomplished
through me to win obedience from the Gentiles, by word and deed, by the
power of signs and wonders, by the power of the Spirit of God, so that from
Jerusalem and as far around as Illyrieum I have fully proclaimed the good
news of Christ. Thus I make it my ambition to proclaim the good news, not
where Christ has already been named, so that I do not build on someone
else's foundation, but as it is written, Those who have never been told of
him shall see, and those who have never heard of him shall understand'
(Rom. 15.17-21).

Verses 17-21: This is an example of praeteritio or 'needless to mention'. And just as today 'needless to mention' always precedes a very full
mention, likewise here. Here we finally discovered what prevented him—
his own ambition or his own special calling not to build on someone else's
foundation. He seems to have exhausted the Mediterranean.
This is the reason that I have so often been hindered from coming to you.
But now, with no further place for me in these regions, I desire, as I have
for many years, to come to you when I go to Spain. For I do hope to see you
on my journey and to be sent on by you, once I have enjoyed your company
for a little while. At present, however, I am going to Jerusalem in a ministry
to the saints; for Macedonia and Achaia have been pleased to share their
resources with the poor among the saints at Jerusalem. They were pleased
to do this, and indeed they owe it to them; for if the Gentiles have come to
share in their spiritual blessings, they ought also to be of service to them in
material things. So, when I have completed this, and have delivered to them
what has been collected, I will set out by way of you to Spain; and I know
that when I come to you, I will come in the fullness of the blessing of Christ
(Rom. 15.22-29).

Verses 22-29: At this stage Paul is still arguing, not just reporting. The
success of his appeal among the Gentiles, as an expression of indebtedness
and belonging, will not be lost on his Roman hearers.
I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by our Lord Jesus Christ and by the
love of the Spirit, to join me in earnest prayer to God on my behalf, that I
may be rescued from the unbelievers in Judaea, and that my ministry to
Jerusalem may be acceptable to the saints, so that by God's will I may
come to you with joy and be refreshed in your company. The God of peace
be with all of you. Amen (Rom. 15.30-33).

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Verses 30-33: Paul then asks for prayers.
There are three questions to be faced here. First of all, how are the
exordium and the peroratio related? And secondly, does theperoratio function as an emotional appeal and as a summing up? How are they related?
Exordium (Rom. 1.8-15—all w.)

Peroratio (Rom. 15.14-33—selected w.)

1.8 First, I thank my God through Jesus
Christ for all of you, because your faith is
proclaimed throughout the world.

15.14 I myself feel confident about you, my
brothers and sisters, that you yourselves are
full of goodness, filled with all knowledge,
and able to instruct one another.

1.9-10 For God, whom I serve with my
spirit by announcing the gospel of his Son,
is my witness that without ceasing I
remember you always in my prayers,
asking that by God's will I may somehow
at last succeed in coming to you.

15.301 appeal to you, brothers and sisters,
by our Lord Jesus Christ and by the love of
the Spirit, to join me in earnest prayer to
God on my behalf...

1.11-12 For I am longing to see you so that
I may share with you some spiritual gift to
strengthen you—or rather so that we may
be mutually encouraged by each other's
faith, both yours and mine.

15.32 so that by God's will I may come to
you with joy and be refreshed in your
company.

1.131 want you to know, brothers and
sisters, that I have often intended to come
to you (but thus far have been prevented),
in order that I may reap some harvest
among you as I have among the rest of the
Gentiles.

15.22 This is the reason that I have so often
been hindered from coming to you.

1.14-15 I am a debtor both to Greeks and to
barbarians, both to the wise and to the
foolish—hence my eagerness to proclaim
the gospel to you also who are in Rome.

15.18-19 For I will not venture to speak of
anything except what Christ has
accomplished through me to win obedience
from the Gentiles, by word and deed, by the
power of signs and wonders, by the power of
the Spirit of God, so that from Jerusalem and
as far around as Illyricum I have fully
proclaimed the good news of Christ.

In what sense can this section be said to be a summing up? He mentions
the argument—a kind of reminder. He then details his own apostolic authority, which is part of the justification for writing. And then, significantly,
he mentions the Jerusalem collection, argued for so forcefully in 2 Cor. 89. The mutual indebtedness of Jew and Gentile is the theme of his report,
at this point. Finally, his wish that the God of peace be with them is

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accurate—he could have said the God of all consolation or of salvation or
of our Lord Jesus Christ. Instead, he chooses peace.
It is a penetrating presentation of a single issue under several guises. In
terms of the audience this is 'toprepon\ that which is appropriate. In terms
of rhetorical preparation, it is inventio or discovery of what needs to be
said.
If you bear in mind the rhetoric, the nodal points and that all four sections of the letter are essential to the communication, it emerges that the
concern of Paul is not primarily with justification as such, but with the communion of the Gentiles and Jews in the Christian church. To ground that
communion, Paul has to treat some fundamental theological issues, such
as sin and salvation, faith and justification and even the mystery of God's
election, but always only at the service of resolving a difficulty in the
community as such. This much emerges, I think, especially in chs. 12-15,
which bring a practical focus to bear on the preceding theological arguments. This is 'toprepon\ the appropriate, the needful communication at
this point. Paul risks writing at such length to the Romans because he
believes himself to have put his finger exactly on what the community
needs to hear. And the cry 6no distinction' is found throughout, as we can
see:
Probatio 1
...the righteousness of God through faith in Jesus Christ for all who
believe. For there is no distinction... (Rom. 3.22).

Probatio 2
For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the
image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn within a large
family (Rom. 8.29).

Probatio 3
For there is no distinction between Jew and Greek; the same Lord is Lord of
all and is generous to all who call on him (Rom. 10.12).

Probatio 4
Welcome one another, therefore, just as Christ has welcomed you, for the
glory of God. For I tell you that Christ has become a servant of the circumcised on behalf of the truth of God in order that he might confirm the
promises given to the patriarchs, and in order that the Gentiles might glorify
God for his mercy (Rom. 15.7-9).

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213

Finally, Romans is presented not a treatise, but arrives in a more or less
conventional if extended letter form. All this is done then within the conventions of a recognizable letter, that is, a very proper superscript and
postscript. There is no need to dwell on these points beyond noting that
even these are not without their persuasion.
Conclusion
'I'm sorry to write such a long letter, I hadn't time to write a short one' is
often quoted. Paul wrote a long letter to the Romans and in that way does
them the honour of treating them with immense seriousness while at the
same time going to great lengths to make his letter readable, interesting
and relevant.
This he achieves by mapping the letter by frames and semantic fields
and by the use of Hellenistic rhetoric. How does it connect with the way
the Roman community has been reconstructed by social analysts? The
probability is that he is dealing with a situation in which the Jewish part of
the community is being devalued. This is why he starts with the Gentiles.
This is why he so movingly expresses his concern for those of his own
flesh. This is also why the sharpest threat in Romans is directed to the
Gentiles.
Bibliography
Mortara Garvalli, B.
1995
Manuale di Retorica (Milano: Bompiani).

THE ORIGINAL ENVIRONMENT OF CHRISTIANITY

Justin Taylor, SM

As we begin the third Christian millennium, an obvious question to ask is,
Where does Christianity come from? The traditional answer to this question is, of course, that Christianity comes from Jesus. That is true, but only
with some important qualifications. For if by Jesus we mean the Jesus who
taught and healed in Galilee, the Jesus of the ministry, the attempt to attrib*
ute to him all the essential features of Christianity soon runs into serious
difficulties.
First, there is a problem with our sources, specifically of knowing what
there is in the Gospels that can be traced back personally to the Jesus of
the ministry and not to a later community or redactor. The activities of the
'Jesus Seminar' have been attracting a good deal of notoriety, but that is
only one of the most recent phases of the so-called 'quest for the historical
Jesus' which has waxed and waned over the last 200 or so years. Many
New Testament experts, and consequently those who rely on their findings,
are reluctant to attribute very much at all to the Jesus of the ministry. Now,
if the underlying presupposition is that only what can be attributed to Jesus
himself during his lifetime should be regarded as authentic Christianity,
these results are dismaying. Among other consequences has been a widespread rejection of historical criticism of the Gospels by those who are
concerned to preserve the integrity of Christian faith.
It is, of course, possible to question the methods and in particular the
principles of the more radical critics. Many—including myself—think that
they often betray an unjustifiable degree of scepticism and mistrust of their
sources. But the problem lies much deeper. Even if we were sure of the
authenticity of every one of Jesus's words and deeds recorded in the Gospels, we could still not attribute to the Jesus of the ministry all the essential
features of Christianity. The most important element in Christianity that
distinguishes and indeed divides it from Judaism is the admission of the
Gentiles as Gentiles, and not as converts to Judaism, regarded as a fulfilment of the Scriptures. It could be argued that the opening to the Gentiles

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and even the establishment of communion between them and the original
Jewish disciples of Jesus, was the most momentous act ever undertaken in
the whole of Church history. Without it, Christianity—if indeed the term
could then be used at all—would have remained an obscure Jewish sect.
But that event was totally unexpected and unforeseen. Luke, in the book
of Acts, recounts it in the story of the Roman centurion Cornelius who
sends a message to Peter to come to Caesarea (Acts 10.1-11.18). Peter can
fall back on no word of Jesus to guide him at this point; not even, it seems,
those words and gestures of Jesus that were later seen to point in the
direction of the Gentiles. It is clear that the invitation and its implications,
to stay in a Gentile's house and eat his food, are repugnant to him. It takes
a vision twice repeated, with a heavenly word of interpretation, and the
express instruction of the Holy Spirit to encourage him to go with the
messengers. Worse still, at least according to Matthew's Gospel, Peter
was going against an express command of Jesus given to those, including
Peter, whom he was sending out on mission: 'Do not make your way to
Gentile territory, and do not enter any Samaritan town. Go rather to the
lost sheep of the house of Israel' (Mt. 10.5-6). Caesarea, it is true, was in
Judaea, so technically not in Gentile territory, although it was largely
Gentile in character and population; but there is no indication that Peter
resorted to any such subtlety in order to make up his mind to go to
Cornelius, who, in any case, was not one of the lost sheep of the house of
Israel. At the end of Matthew's Gospel, we know, the risen Jesus commands
his apostles to 'make disciples of all nations' (Mt. 28.19), thus implicitly
revoking the earlier command, or rather declaring that it held good only
for the time of the ministry. But that only makes the point clearer: it is the
risen Jesus who opens the way to the Gentiles, and there is an important
discontinuity with the Jesus of the ministry. Luke is implying the same
when he attributes the opening to the Gentiles to the Holy Spirit.
That leads us immediately to another serious deficiency in the attempt to
attribute Christianity simply to the Jesus of the ministry. It has the effect
of trivializing the resurrection of Christ and the coming of the Spirit,
reducing them to theological decor. That is why I am somewhat uneasy
with the frequently heard terms contrasting the Jesus of history and the
Christ of faith, as if the former were the real Jesus and the latter only what
the Church has made of him. But in fact, for us who believe, who are Christians, the real Jesus is the risen Jesus, living, present and active now in the
Spirit and in the Church. We are not simply the followers of a long-dead
Master, whose teachings we happen to find more true, or deep or inspiring than those of, say, the Buddah. Instead we are members of his Body,

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animated by his Spirit, united in him with his Father. So we should not be
scandalized, or even surprised to realize that something new happened with
Jesus' resurrection and as its consequence.
In fact the very existence of Christianity, that is, of something that survived the death of Jesus, cannot be taken for granted. When the Jewish
historian Josephus mentions Jesus towards the end of the first century, he
indicates some surprise that what he calls the 'tribe' or 'breed' of Christians has outlasted its founder (Ant. 18.64). The Pharisee Gamaliel, intervening in the trial of the apostles in Acts 5, compares the movement to
those raised by Theudas and Judas the Galilean and supposes that, like
them, this one too will fade away now that its initiator is dead. Such
remarks were not out of place. At the end of John's Gospel, the reaction of
Peter and his companions, despite the extraordinary events they have just
experienced, is to go back to their former occupation of fishing. The Jesus
of the ministry does not seem to have organized more than a circle of disciples, and the apostles fled at the time of his arrest. Something did, however, continue, under the sign of the Spirit; according to Acts, it was set in
motion at Pentecost, in a scene which gives concrete expression to the
mission confided to the disciples by Christ after his resurrection. What,
then, were the origins of Christianity?
A solution that is frequently put forward to these problems is to regard
Paul as the true founder of Christianity. This appears to go well with the
characterization of Jesus as a Jew, who had no intention or notion of starting a new religion. Paul, whether he be regarded as a religious genius or as
a traitor to Judaism, is therefore considered as the real innovator from
whom Christianity descends.
But the attempt to trace Christianity essentially to Paul also runs into
difficulties. For he does not seem to have regarded himself as an innovator,
any more than Jesus did. In at least two very important articles of Christian
belief and practice, namely the resurrection of Jesus and the Last Supper/
Eucharist, he expressly says that he is only handing on what he himself
has received and appears to quote traditional formulae (1 Cor. 15.3-7;
11.23-26). In dealing with questions of marriage and divorce, he carefully
distinguishes between what 'the Lord' has laid down and what he himself
is prescribing (1 Cor. 7.10-17).
Paul was 'the apostle of the Gentiles', a ministry which he believed he
had received directly from God (Gal. 1.15-16). He fought hard to maintain
the freedom that he regarded as necessary for the mission to the Gentiles.
On the other hand, he never claims to have originated that mission. Luke

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in Acts 10, as we have seen, depicts Peter as the first—reluctant—missionary to the Gentiles (whatever we may think of the historicity of this representation). Elsewhere in Acts, in a little throwaway line that is textually
problematic, he slips in the information that 'Cypriots and Cyreneans'
came to Antioch, where they 'spoke also to the Hellenes [thus the Western
Text; the Alexandrian Text has the ambiguous 'Hellenists'] preaching the
gospel of the Lord Jesus' (11.20). As I read this sentence, these were the
first anonymous apostles of the Gentiles.
In any case, if anyone at the time had called Paul the founder of Christianity, he would surely have replied. 'Was Paul crucified for you? Was it in
Paul's name that you were baptized?' (cf. 1 Cor. 1.13). Paul himself refers
the origins of Christianity to Jesus, precisely to the Jesus who died and
was raised up, and to baptism.
Over the last few years, Etienne Nodet and I, at the Ecole Biblique, have
been working out a new approach to the problem of Christian origins
(1998). We have not sought primarily to reconstruct events, nor to trace
the development of doctrines. Rather, the questions we have asked have
been such as these. What was the environment out of which the Christian
Church emerged? What are the elements of continuity with that environment, and where precisely should we locate the rupture and the novelty?
Our approach is based on what might be called an analysis of institutions,
which examines not so much what is said but the form in which it is said.
That form is determined by a culture, and in particular by habitual ways
of acting. Of especial importance are rites, which constitute structures of
meaning. These rites, we find, are the basic elements of continuity with the
original environment. Put another way, they are the mnemonics that assure
the function of memory. The novelty and rupture are expressed in the meanings which those rites now convey. What, more precisely, do we have in
mind?
Christianity has always possessed two basic rites that complement one
another, baptism and the eucharist, the one giving access to the other. Our
project has been to investigate the character of the early Christian community by looking into the origin of these two institutions. This, of course, has
been done before. The originality of our enquiry consists in regarding baptism and the eucharist as linked together. Put very simply, where do we find
a religious culture in which these two rites are linked and play a central role?
The result can be stated immediately. Christianity, we believe, emerged
from an environment whose religious culture was close to that of the
Essenes. That, by the way, is a very carefully worded statement, which tries
to avoid simply identifying the first disciples (or John the Baptist or Jesus

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himself) as Essenes or Qumranites, let alone saying that the true early
history of Christianity is to be found coded in the Dead Sea Scrolls. The
Essenes are, however, central to the story. As described by Josephus and
other ancient writers and revealed by the Qumran literature, they practised
frequent ablutions for purification, in accordance with biblical legislation as
well as their own customs. What gives them especial interest for our investigation is that in their system, certain significant ablutions ratified a process
of initiation. This initiation gave access to a meal, which was the central
action of the community. The meal consisted principally of bread and wine,
taken in symbolic portions, and had an eschatological signification.
Within this marginal culture, a profound transformation came about, the
decisive moment of which was contact with the Gentiles. The New Testament attributes that moment to the Spirit of the risen Jesus. It stands, in
fact, in the very logic of the resurrection itself. For, by rising from the
dead, Jesus had transgressed the boundary between death and life; with
that transgression, every other boundary fell that separated the impure
from the pure, in particular that between Gentile and Jew. Life, goodness
and purity were no longer fragile, threatened and in need of being protected by barriers against death, evil and impurity perceived as stronger
and ever menacing. Hostility could give way to hospitality, exclusion to
communion. The result was an explosion, a cataclysm, which did not,
however, destroy the group, but opened it up to those whom it had never
envisaged as members, and in so doing changed it—not quite beyond recognition. To be more precise, the institutional setting was preserved, as
early Christian literature, and even the modern liturgy, attest. For rites are
of their nature stable. At the same time, the meaning of those rites changed.
One consequence of that, it seems to me, is that students of the New
Testament should pay serious attention to liturgy. Far from being secondary elements derived from the texts, liturgical rites are often to be found,
in one way or another, at the origin of the texts.
So what was the original environment, which has just been described as
being close to the Essenes? And who were the Essenes? We have known
about the Essenes and similar groups from ancient times, principally from
the writings of two Jewish authors of the first century CE (the philosopher
Philo of Alexandria and the historian Flavius Josephus, already mentioned), and also from the Roman writer Pliny the Elder. Within the last 50
years, we have had access to a body of documents, known as the Dead Sea
Scrolls, which are generally regarded as the products of an Essene community living at or around the site of Qumran on the northwestern shore of
the Dead Sea. All this material needs, however, to be read with some

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caution, A quick reading of Philo and Josephus might give the impression
that the Essenes were a single homogeneous, even centrally organized,
body. But a closer reading of these authors reveals that the movement they
describe admitted of many variations on a common theme and probably
consisted of a number of autonomous communities. For its part, the Qumran literature, which in any case is not all of a piece, both does and does
not fit in with the literary data. Rather, 'Essene'—which seems to mean
'faithful'—was used as a sort of umbrella term which covered numerous
groups and sub-groups. Viewed from outside, these groups looked all much
the same. They, no doubt, were intensely conscious of the variants, often
minute, in customs and perhaps in doctrines, that differentiated each from
its rivals.
The religious culture of the Essenes was marginal and even sectarian.
They stood apart from the Jerusalem Temple and its worship, which was
the official centre of Jewish religious and national life, but which they
regarded as polluted. No doubt they looked forward to a restored and
purified Temple; in the meantime, however, their sacred meal was an act
of priestly worship and the room where it took place a sanctuary. Furthermore, each group regarded itself as the true Israel, charged exclusively
with restoring the Covenant, and abominated others, that is, other Jews, as
impure and wicked.
Josephus compares the Essenes to two other reform movements within
contemporary Judaism, the Pharisees and the Sadducees. By implication,
these had much in common with the Essenes, and yet were distinct enough
to be recognized as different even by outsiders. Josephus seeks to enlighten
a Greek or Roman reader by comparing all three to schools of philosophy,
with distinctive doctrines on points such as divine providence and human
free will and the reality and nature of life after death. Within Jewish culture, however, the similarities and the differences would have been appreciated in terms of practice rather than of theory. The Essenes seem to have
been distinguished principally by their way of life, which had a number of
characteristic features, even allowing for internal variants, notably the long
process of initiation into the community and the sacred meal reserved to
the members. As for the Pharisees, we are told by both the New Testament
and Josephus, that they followed 'the traditions of the fathers'; the Sadducees, by contrast, took as their principle the Bible alone. The Pharisees
seem to have been widely looked up to by other Jews, who did not necessarily follow all their rulings, and they became a point of reference in
the reconstitution of Judaism that followed the national disasters of 70 and
135 CE. The Sadducees, on the other hand, are described as exclusive and

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unpopular. These two sects, as we have just recalled, are mentioned in the
New Testament; it has always been a good question why the Essenes are
not. But, if the original environment of Christianity was close to the Essenes, then we can immediately see why they would not be mentioned by
name in the New Testament: the 'insiders' would not use the term used by
others to refer to them. Instead, the Gospels speak of 'disciples'; this is
close to the sense of Essenes as 'faithful', namely to a teacher ('rabbi'), in
this case John the Baptist or Jesus.
To return to our rites and institutions. It is not too difficult to establish
notable parallels between baptism and the eucharist, and the link between
them, in the New Testament and other early Christian texts on the one
hand, and the customs of the Essenes and similar groups on the other.
With these central rites go other practices, found both in the Acts of the
Apostles and among the Essenes, which make up a coherent way of life,
such as comparable procedures for accepting or excluding candidates for
membership, officers with similar titles and functions, and analogous ways
of practising community of life and goods. In both cases, we have a highly
structured community, sure of its own identity and well marked off from
others.
These similarities have often been noted. Such comparisons have multiplied since the discoveries at Qumran (although excessive attention has
perhaps been given to the community occupying that site, and in particular
to its apparently monastic features). Granted their reality and also their
significance—that we are not simply dealing with a few random, superficial
resemblances—only three explanations are possible. One is, that these were
general features of Second Temple Judaism. This explanation appears to
gain weight from the undoubted fact that some of the characteristic practices common to early Christianity and the Essenes, including the most
important, are to be found also in rabbinic Judaism, among them the baptism of converts ('proselytes') and the blessing of the cup and the bread in
the Sabbath Eve rite. Rabbinic Judaism claims to be the sole legitimate
heir of Second Temple Judaism, so that its characteristic features are then
assumed to be those generally found in Judaism 2000 years ago. But the
distinctive features shared by the Essenes, by the first followers of Jesus
and by the earliest transmitters of the oral teaching that is the basis of
rabbinic Judaism (the so-called 'Tannaites'), have surprisingly little in
common with the classic representations of first-century Judaism given
by Philo and Josephus. So the occurrence in rabbinic Judaism of features
shared with the Essenes and the followers of Jesus, points rather to the
emergence of the rabbinic tradition itself from an original environment

TAYLOR The Original Environment of Christianity

221

which was itself close to the Essenes, and therefore to Jesus' disciples, but
equally distant from official circles.
The second explanation of the resemblances between the Church of
Acts and the Essenes is that the first Christians borrowed their structures
from the Essenes; a variant form of this hypothesis is that converts from
Essenism, perhaps flooding into the nascent Church in large numbers,
brought these practices with them. This is, however highly unlikely, since
there is no trace of a conflict over these rites, as we might expect if they
were novel to the original group. Nor was there as yet any central authority in the young Church which might have approved and imposed the new
rites.
The true explanation is, therefore, that the disciples of Jesus were already
used to these rites and structures. That is to say, that the environment from
which Christianity emerged was of Essene type.
A little earlier, the rites and other institutions of Christianity were characterized as the mnemonics by which the Church remembers its origins. We
still do today what Jesus and his disciples did. What they did was not
invented by them but was part of the religious culture, marginal and sectarian in character, which they shared with other Essene-like groups. That
still leaves untouched, of course, the question of the ultimate origins of
these rites and institutions. They are not properly speaking biblical, even if
there are obvious points of contact with biblical uses, such as that of water
for purification. Instead there are analogies with the practices of Greek
fraternities of a 'Pythagorean' type and with the way of life prescribed by
Plato for the Guardians of the ideal city. Are these similarities purely
accidental, or is there some real contact? There is a fine subject for future
research.
In any case, if the rites show essential continuity of structure between
Christianity and marginal, sectarian Judaism of Essene type, the meanings
of those rites in Christianity express novelty and even rupture, as well as
continuity. Thus baptism still retains its function as a rite of initiation as
well as its natural symbolism of purification. But it is already conferred in
the nascent Church 'in the name of Jesus', that is invoking the presence
and power of the Risen One (Acts 2.38, etc.; cf. 3.15-16). The Apostle
Paul in his Epistle to the Romans teaches that in being baptized we enter
into the death and burial and into the resurrection and new life of Jesus
Christ (cf. Rom. 6.3-11). Similarly, the eucharist is still the community
meal of the Church, strictly reserved to the initiates (baptized). But the
bread is now broken and eaten and the wine drunk in memory of Jesus
dead and risen.

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Our account of the origins of Christianity is in many ways revisionist.
The whole tendency of our findings runs counter to a certain widespread
idea about the rise of Christianity and precisely the origins of the Church.
According to this, Christianity arose as an unstructured or only very loosely
structured movement of enthusiasts gathered around a charismatic figure.
After his disappearance, this enthusiasm was sustained by the conviction
of a number of leading members that he had risen from the dead and that
he would shortly return to usher in the last times. When he failed to do so
after a reasonable interval, this view continues, these same members began
to organize the movement into what would eventually become the Christian Church, with structures, sacraments and dogmas that were borrowed
from various external sources. On the contrary, we find that the structural
elements belong to the original environment itself. They did not have to be
invented or imported. Far from being the story of the 'routinization of
charism', to use Max Weber's famous expression, the emergence of Christianity could almost be described as the 'charismatization of routine', or,
to use a less barbarous language, as the endowment of traditional rites and
institutions with a new spiritual power.
No study of Christian origins could ignore Galilee. Here too we enter a
partially dissenting report. Some modern studies assume that the so-called
'Galilee of the Gentiles', where Jews were far from the Temple and priesthood and rubbed shoulders with Gentiles, was a likely setting for an opening to the non-Jewish world. On the contrary, we believe, rural Galilee
was settled by Jews of a highly traditional observance who looked towards
Babylonia as well as to Jerusalem. Some of these formed 'fraternities', or
communities of initiates, including the 'haverim' mentioned by the rabbinic sources, who in many ways resemble the Essenes. Others belonged
to militantly anti-Roman groups ('brigands', 'zealots'—the name 'Galileans' is loaded), whose motivation was primarily religious, even if social
and economic factors also played a part, especially in their popularity.
This was the environment from which Jesus and his first disciples came; it
was also the environment that was later to be home to important rabbinical
schools which produced the Mishnah. It hardly suggests an incipient religious syncretism or liberalism.
That, of course, poses even more acutely the problem of the Gentile
mission. How was a group coming from a conservative, sectarian environment able to accept Gentile recruits without first making them Jews by
circumcision? What made them turn to the Gentiles? First let us note that,
according to the New Testament itself, not all the earliest believers in Jesus
made these steps. But to answer the first question: paradoxically, it may

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The Original Environment of Christianity

223

not have been any liberalism, but precisely the peculiar conservatism of
the group that made it possible to accept new members without circumcision. For, if the comparison with the Essenes holds good, then we might
assume that, for the original group, as at Qumran, other Jews were as
imp>ure as Gentiles; indeed, does not Matthew's Gospel (18.17) contain a
rather embarrassing judgment that a stubborn sinner within the community
should be treated as 'a Gentile and a tax-collector' (i.e. impure Jew)? So in
a certain sense, circumcision already counted for nothing (cf. Gal. 6.15).
Consequently, if such people came to believe that God designated Gentiles
as members, then, in strict logic, all that was required of them was the
initiation process already open to Jews.
As for the opening to the Gentiles, the historian will want to find some
explanations besides that of the revelation of God's will. I take it as established that there was in early Judaism no mission to Gentiles, properly
speaking, as distinct from the acceptance in one way or another of Gentiles
who came spontaneously to Judaism. One explanation of the Christian
innovation is in fact conveyed by Acts. That is the reaction of at least some
followers of Jesus to the rejection of the gospel by Jews to whom it was
first preached. That reaction is depicted dramatically in the person of Paul
on three occasions in Acts (13.46; 18.6; 28.28). 'Since you Jews will not
listen, now we/I go to the Gentiles'. Such a declaration certainly does not
amount to a rejection of the Jews by the Christians, at least in the first two
instances in Acts, but it does announce and justify the Gentile mission.
Despite the enormous importance of the opening to the Gentiles, the
Christianity that emerges from our study is very Jewish in its institutions,
including its sacraments and dogmas. In recent times it has become usual
to say that Jesus was Jewish; which, of course, is quite true, even though
some misleading conclusions have been drawn about what that may have
meant in concrete reality. At the same time, it has also been usual to say that
Christianity is not Jewish, at best a hybrid with some 'Jewish roots', whose
divergence from rabbinic Judaism—tacitly supposed to be normative—is
all on the side of Christianity. Furthermore, what are then regarded as its
non-Jewish features, especially its sacraments and dogmas, are taken to
originate in the Hellenistic world, from mystery religions and the like. On
the contrary, we find, the most characteristic features of Christianity—
including the eucharist and the sign of the cross—are, as institutions, Jewish, even if their meaning has changed. If indeed it can be shown that this
element or that does have its origin in the Hellenistic world, it comes to
Christianity via Judaism, in which it has already been domesticated. The
novelty of Christianity consists in a single but all-important point: it is the

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proclamation that, through Jesus' death and resurrection, divine judgment
has already been passed on the world, and there is a new creation.
From the same or a similar sectarian Jewish environment in the first
century, there emerged what became two religions. Christianity, claiming
to be the universalist fulfilment of Judaism, and rabbinic Judaism, claiming to represent the nation. It follows that the historic quarrel between
Christianity and Judaism—let us be more precise, rabbinic Judaism—is a
family quarrel. But then such quarrels are always the most bitter: 'A
certain man had two sons...' 'Make my brother give me a share of our
inheritance...' The book of Genesis is written from the point of view of
Isaac and Jacob; we are given only occasional glimpses of how Ishmael
and Esau may have seen things. The New Testament claims an inheritance, which the Talmud implicitly denies.
Bibliography
Nodet, E., and J. Taylor
The Origins of Christianity: An Exploration (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical
1998
Press).

RE-VISIONING CHRISTIAN ORIGINS:
IN MEMORY OF HER REVISITED

Elisabeth Schiissler Fiorenza
This volume1 looks at and to Christian origins for answers to the question,
'Where have we come from?' By explicitly affirming this search its essays
openly engage discourses of identity and therefore must face the Foucaultian critique of origins. If the quest for origins is always also a search for
identity, then history/historiography, in contrast to the prevailing view, is
not simply an objective science but a critical social practice. This practice is
done in the interest of an identity formation embedded in power relations. It
can contribute either to maintain domination and subordination, or it can
function as a radical critique of domination.
Hence, the problematization of origins in contemporary scholarship is
simultaneously a challenge to the understanding of history writing in
general and to the conceptualization of early Christian history in particular. In the following I will address this problem by first sketching the
Foucaultian critique of origins and its reception in Christian Testament2
Studies. Next I will draw out the feminist theoretical contributions to this
debate. Then, I will point to the implications of this discussion for the
reconceptualization of Christian origins studies and finally, I will clarify
such a reconceptualization by elaborating the objections to my book
In Memory of Her, its underlying reconstructive model and critical
criterion.

1. I want to thank Kieran J. O 'Mahony, OSA, and the Irish Biblical Association for
inviting me to this important meeting and for giving me the opportunity to elaborate
once more my feminist historical approach.
2. Rather than speaking of the Old and the New Testaments, which continues the
language of Christian superiority, I speak of the Christian Testament and the Jewish
Bible or Tanakh.

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Christian Origins
The Problematization of Origins

The critique of the search for origins has gained considerable persuasive
power in feminist theory and early Christian scholarship.
First, Foucault and his students have raised serious objections to the
reconstruction of'origins', which cannot be taken lightly. Discursive formations such as historiography or biblical studies that determine the production of knowledge are intimately bound up with non-discursive factors
defined as the institutional field, set of events, practices, political decisions,
and economic processes. Hence discursive analysis seeks to examine the
ways power/knowledge complexes operate at a micro-social level in order
to produce regimes of truth.
In his essay 'Nietzsche, Genealogy, History' (1998), Foucault attacks
the traditional forms of history, which he sees as dominated by certain
metaphysical concepts and totalizing assumptions derived from a philosophy of the subject. He argues the following points.
1.

2.

3.

3.

In traditional history events are inserted in universal explanatory
schemas or models and linear structures and thereby given false
unity. The interpretation of events according to a unifying totality deprives them of their singular impact and pluriformity.
Traditional history celebrates great moments and privileges the
individual actor. Historical development is interpreted as the
unfolding and affirmation of essential human characteristics and
macro-consciousness. History operates around a logic of identity,
which is to say that the past is interpreted in a way that confirms
rather than disrupts the beliefs and convictions of the present.
Hence, traditional historiography seeks to document a point of
origins as the source of a specific historical process and development. The pursuit for origins is thus a problematic quest for ahistorical and a-social essences. 'The search for the origin of a
particular historical phenomenon implicitly posits some form of
original identity prior to the flux and movement of history. In
turn this original identity is interpreted as an indication of a primordial truth which precedes and remains unchanged by history
or "the external world of accident and succession"' (Foucault
1998: 379).3
See also McNay (1992: 14).

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227

Over and against the traditional understanding of history Foucault argues
that history is not a continuous development and working through of an
ideal schema but rather it is based on a constant struggle between different
power blocks, which attempt to impose their own systems of domination.
History is a series of discontinuous structures; it is progress from combat to
combat. Foucault notes, 'Humanity installs each of its violences in a system
of rules and thus proceeds from domination to domination' (1998:385). In
short, Foucault replaces a historiographical method based on the hermeneutic elucidation of contexts of meaning and a correlative anthropological
stress on the subject as the mainspring of history, with an examination of
the way in which history is often arbitrarily and violently constructed in
order to legitimize different regimes of domination (McNay 1992: 15).
Second, Foucault's critique of origins and stress on the power/knowledge connection raises important issues for Christian Testament studies
and the conceptualization of the discipline. Burton Mack and his students4
have taken up this task and forcefully questioned not only the myth of pristine Christian origins but also the search for Christian origins as such. The
'myth of Christian origins', as they rightly point out, is related to the
Protestant reconstructive historical model of decline and its attendant antiJudaism. Like its Catholic counterpart the developmental 'myth of seed
and growth', it functions to maintain cultural and ecclesiastical relation of
domination. Although the scientific investigation of Christian origins has
been carried on in terms of critical methods drawn from the humanistic
disciplines, the guiding vision of early Christian scholarship has been
some imagined event of transformation that might account for the spontaneous generation of the radically new perception, social formation, and
religion that Christianity is thought to have introduced into the world.
Because this notion of origins has been used as self-evident, its derivation
from Christian mythology has not been examined (Mack 1988: 368).

In light of Foucault's critique it is surprising that Mack does not go on
to analyze the powers at play in scholarship on early Christianity, a scholarship that has constructed this myth and continues to do so. Rather than
critically indicting the myth of'pristine origins' as a scientific construction
of scholarship on Early Christianity, he focuses on the 'myth of innocence'
articulated by the Gospel of Mark. Although Mack sometimes uses the
interpretive literary image of text/texture/tapestry, he nevertheless states

4.

See his Festschrift in Elizabeth Castelli and Hal Taussig (1996).

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Christian Origins

clearly in the preface to A Myth of Innocence that he, like others, utilizes
Foucault's notion of archaeology, and analogy of digging rather than weaving as his organizing metaphor.
Mack refers here especially to Foucault's book The Archaeology of
Knowledge when characterizing the work of early Christian scholars. Mack
claims that their work has been imagined as digging or sifting through the
layers of accumulated constructions upon a building site, as the laying of
the foundations, as hacking away at the wrong site, and as trying to clear
its layers of debris in their search for a foundational stone that Mack asserts
'was never there'. This 'rock of Truth' was thought to be the historical
Jesus.5
Something unique and powerful, it is assumed, must have taken place then,
in order to account for the novelty of Christianity. Even if that dramatic
moment cannot be located, described or comprehended, so the logic seems
to run, it must be posited in order to make sense of all the stories that came
to be told about divine events at the beginning (Mack 1988: xi-xii).

Hence, Mack seeks to shift the archaeological site of investigation. He
urges scholars not to dig for the stratum of the historical Jesus but to look
at the emergence of the Gospels as foundational stratum and originary
moment. If one understands the Gospels as 'myth of origin for social formations in need of a charter', then the scholarly site of investigation would
not be the historical Jesus but the moment when the Gospels were composed. Mack argues for this new archaeological site with reference to
Foucault's work and he does not understand the quest for orgins as 'a quest
for extraordinary events of generation prior to social formation, but to
critical moments of social interest within a given discourse' (Mack 1988:
xii).
However, Mack still remains within the orbit of the scholarly myth of
origins. Insofar as he begins with the originating point of the gospel he just
shifts the site of this myth. However, he does not focus on the contemporary scholarly and ecclesiastical construction site of the pristine myth of
origins. Rather than carefully exploring this scholarly construction site, he
relegates the discussion of trends in scholarship to the footnotes and overlooks scientific and theological mythmaking that is always already embedded in power relations. Mack still pursues a 'myth of origins', albeit one
that has as its beginnings not Jesus but Mark's Gospel and its traditions.
Moreover, Mack does not reject the quest for the historical Jesus tout court
5. See also Schussler Fiorenza (2000) for a critical discussion of Jesus research.

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229

but argues for a plausible reconstruction, a point that has been commonly
accepted by tradition- and redaction-critics:
[A] plausible reconstruction can help highlight the changes that occur in the
later portrayals. Neither is all innovation necessarily to be denied to the new
movements that claimed origination from him. The caution introduced by a
shift in emphasis is rather not to assume that every innovation attributed to
Jesus by his followers from later times describes the situation of Jesus
accurately (Mack 1988: 16-17).

It seems that the Foucaultian method of archaeology adopted by Mack
remains squarely situated within the parameters of the form-tradition, and
redaction-critical methodological paradigm that seeks to trace back the
transmission of the tradition to its origins. Rather than beginning with contemporary 'meaning making' and rhetorical interests to construct such a
'myth of origins', Mack points to the historical consequences of the 'myth
of innocence' articulated by the Gospel of Mark. However, I would suggest that in order to arrive at a different method of analysis and model of
reconstruction, one has to abandon 'archaeology' with its guiding images
of'digging', 'sifting', 'finding' and 'construction sites', and pay careful
attention to the rhetoric of both biblical scholars and ancient authors.6 At
the same time one has to recognize that the rhetoric of writing history is
always inspired by the quest for identity and enmeshed in power relations.
Third, feminist historians as well have hotly debated a myth of origins.
However, not the Christian myth of pristine origins but the feminist 'myth
of a golden matriarchal age' in which wo/men7 held and exercised power
stands in the center of feminist debate. Hence, they have argued that the
feminist myth of origins presents a fundamental challenge to malestream8
understandings of reality. This myth of a feminist 'golden age' proclaims
6. For this argument see Schussler Fiorenza (1999). For a more technical use of
ancient rhetoric in biblical analysis see O'Mahony (2000).
7. I have adopted this way of writing wo/men in order to stand andro-kyriocentric
language that claims to be generic language on its head. Hence, I use the term inclusively because in English the term wo/men includes men, she includes he, and female
includes male. I also want to indicate the feminists' debates around this term that have
shown that wo/man/wo/men is an mstable term since it hides the differences between
and within wo/men. Finally, I use this way of signification in order to include subordinated men among those wo/men struggling for liberation. For the problematic meaning
of the term woman/women see Riley (1988); Butler (1990).
8. I use the expression 'malestream', which to my knowledge was coined by the
feminist sociologist Dorothy Smith, not as a negative label but as a descriptive term,
since scholarship and Christian tradition have been articulated by elite educated men.

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Christian Origins

that there was a matriarchal, matricentric or matrilineal 'matriculture'
which had wo/man as its focus and in which goods and status passed
through the motherline. This earth-, nature-, and Goddess-centered culture
that existed in the Mediterranean, Europe and Africa prior to the imposition of patriarchy through warring Indo-European tribes from the North,
was woman-centered and woman-valuing. Women were the spiritual leaders and men were their companions and helpmeets. Some argue that these
matricultures were radical egalitarian, while others assume a certain spiritual and ethical superiority of women. Gloria Feman Orenstein sums up
the importance of this feminist myth of a matricultural golden age.
The rebirth of ecological and matristic values.. .has announced a paradigm
shift away from the cosmogony of the Father G*d to that of the Mother
Goddess as the symbol system of the sacred... Our contemporary feminist
matristic journeys and cycles.. .have reconnected us with our lost history,
with a female cosmogonic mythos, with nature, with the spirit world, with
oral tradition, and with the other worlds of dream, psyche and prehistory...
(1990: 187).9

Other feminist scholars in turn have pointed to the danger of such a myth
which has not only engendered anti-Judaism but in many instances also
naive romanticism and the idealization of the cultural feminine. They have
pointed out that dreaming of a peaceful golden past does not help wo/men
address the differences and conflicts within and among them today. The
Jewish feminist poet Adrienne Rich has succinctly reframed this feminist
debate on origins in 'Notes Toward a Politics of Location'.
I've been thinking a lot about the obsession with origins. It seems a way of
stopping time in its tracks. The sacred Neolithic triangles, the Minoan
vases.. .the female figurines of Anatolia—weren't they concrete evidence of
a kind, like Sappho's fragments, for earlier woman affirming cultures that
enjoyed centuries of peace? But haven't they also served as arresting images
which kept us attached and immobilized? Human activity didn't stop in
Crete or Catal Huyuk. We can't build a society free from domination by
fixing our eyes backward on some long-ago tribe or city... The continuing
spiritual power of an image lives in the interplay between what it reminds
us of and our own continuing actions in the present... The Jewish star on
my neck must serve me both, for reminder and as a goad to continuing and
changing responsibility (1986: 227).

9. See also Reed (1975); Stone (1976); Gimbutas (1982); Abendroth (1991); Sjoo
and Mor (1987).

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231

Rich does not deny the search for origins but she points out its dangers and
insists that our reconstructive imagination of origins always stands in dialectical interplay with our practices and goals today. Not the antiquarian
search for pure matricentric origins, but the Jewish star around her neck
signifying identity and identification, calls her to responsible action.
The search for historical origins must be acknowledged as a contemporary search for identity, memory and a guiding vision. Hence, feminist
historians have argued that history must be re-written not just as the story
of elite Western men but also as the story of wo/men from all walks of life
who have made history.10 In order to accomplish this project much of
feminist historical work has focused first on texts about wo/men and the
reconstruction of wo/men's history. In my own work I argued early on that
a feminist reconstruction of history must critically investigate the positivist
practices of biblical scholarship and its own models of reconstruction.
A critical feminist history does not simply focus on texts about wo/men
but places wo/men in the center of hermeneutical attention.11 It does not
engage in an 'add wo/men and stir' approach but seeks a radical re-vision of
all of history in the interest of liberation. It does not look to origins in order
to find the buried stone of truth but to identify the roots of the historical
struggles for emancipation. It challenges historical scholarship to recognize
that it is a reconstructive and not a positivist scientific practice which produces knowledges that sustain either domination12 or emancipation.
Moreover, feminist scholars have elaborated how the definition and
practice of history have been shaped by gender and the interest in nationalist domination. Malestream historical scholarship has prioritized men's
10. See, e.g., Pomeroy (1991).
11. See, e.g., Kraemer and D'Angelo (1999) for reworking a feminist approach into
a wo/men's studies approach.
12. See, e.g., Keller (1997: 440-41): 'Auch sonst nahm Jesus in seinen Reden die
patriarchale Gesellschaftsordnung als das Normale hin... Die traditionellen Verhaltensmuster und Schablonen wurden von ihm in keiner Weise hinterfragt oder gar
aufgesprengt. Fur wen Jesus sich vor allem einsetzte, waren die Notleidenden, die
religios Marginalisierten und die sozial Benachteiligten—auch wenn er kein Reformprogramm oder sozialrevolutionare Aktionen verfolgte... Wir mtissen vielmehr das
Fazit ziehen, dass er iiberhaupt kein Problembewusstsein hinsichtlich der in einem
patriarchalen Gesellschaftssystem ungleichen Verteilung von Rechten und Moglichkeiten zwischen den Geschlechtern hatte, kein Gespur fur eine sowohl rechtliche als
auch lebenspraktische Benachteiligung von Frauen, kein Interesse an einer disbeziiglichen Veranderung des Status quo.' The ideological interests of this text are
obvious.

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Christian Origins

history over wo/men's, white history over the history of people of color,
the political history of Western domination over the history of struggles
against it.13 Thus malestream historiography has produced scientific historical 'facts' in the interest of domination.
If emancipatory historical knowledge has the task of fostering the selfrecognition and self-determination of subaltern wo/men, then feminist
scholars should not just engage in the play of unending deconstruction but
must also participate in re-constructing and re-envisioning 'historical origins' as an alternative discourse to that of domination. They must remain
aware that they do so in a global context not only of colonialism,14 market
commodification and positivist science but also in one of variegated movements for emancipation. They do so not only within a religious fundamentalist institutional context of exclusion and marginalization but also within
that of emancipatory movements in religion that seek to change churches
and biblical religions.15 In order to bring about such change, scholars of
'Christian origins' must abandon the Protestant Reformation historiographic myth of origins which imagines an originary pristine moment
of Christianity that a priori was declared to be unique, sui generis, original and by definition incomparable, but which early on suffered fatal corruptions (Smith 1990: 143). This myth has plainly served to inculcate
Christian superiority.
'Christian origins' discourses that seek to position themselves not in the
spaces of domination but in the critical alternative spaces of emancipation,
I have argued, need to shift their theoretical focus and frame of reference
away from the historical Jesus, the exceptional man and charismatic hero.
On this point I agree with Burton Mack. However, they can avoid reproducing the myth of pristine origins only if they shift their research focus
first to the disciplinary practices of scholarship on early Christianity. Only
13. For a feminist account of the development of scientific history as a discipline
see Smith (1998); Schmidt (1994). For antiquity see the excellent collection by Rabinowitz and Richlin (1993).
14. SeePui-Lan(1998:76).
15. For an excellent critical analysis of the involvement of religion in these global
struggles see especially the work of the late Penny Lernoux (1982,1986); and her last
book before her untimely death (1989); Reich (1992); Smith (1994); see also Eck
(1993: 176) who writes: 'A new wave of exclusivism is cresting around the world
today. Expressed in social and political life, exclusivism becomes ethnic or religious
chauvinism, described in South Asia as communalism... As we have observed, identity-based politics is on the rise because it is found to be a successful way of arousing
political energy.'

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233

after a critical deconstruction of the positivist scientific practices of the
discipline are scholars able to engage in a critical analysis of the sites on
which the 'facts' of early Christian origins have been constructed. As the
historian Michel de Certau has pointed out, 'Every "historical fact" results
from praxis... It results from procedures which have allowed a mode of
comprehension to be articulated as a discourse of facts' (1988: 15).
To avoid reproducing the myth of Christian origins as a golden age it is
necessary to shift not only to an investigation of contemporary scholarly
reconstruction sites but also to an exploration of those of the emancipatory
social movements of which Jesus was a part and whose values and visions
shaped him as much as he shaped them. In other words, it does not suffice
to critically explore the kyriocentric rhetorical site of the gospel, as Mack
has suggested. Rather what is necessary is a shift to the practices of the
historical agents active at this site. The scholarly search for origins cannot
simply focus on texts but must pay attention to the people who have
produced these texts. Such a shift in research focus would require that
studies of'Christian beginnings' articulate an alternative scientific ethos of
biblical inquiry that can transform the scientistic discourses of domination,
rather than uncritically incorporating them. It calls for a redefinition of
historical science and research in the interest of emancipation.
Reconceptualizing Christian Origins Studies
Patricia Hill Collins has outlined three epistemological criteria for developing a critical self-reflexivity that could sustain emancipatory oppositional
scholarly practices (1998: 398-99). To adapt these criteria to Christian origins study one would need to ask the following:
1.

2.

3.

Does a particular reconstruction of origins 'speak truth to people
about the reality of their lives' and the lives of wo/men in the
first century? Who are the experts, what are the standards they
used and what counts as knowledge? Who decides and why do
we accept or reject what the experts say?
What is the 'stance toward freedom' and equality in a particular
source text as well as in a particular rendition of the historical
Jesus and Christian origins? What are its visions of emancipation
and the strategies of change suggested? Does it encourage people
to resist relations of domination and can it engender social and
religious change?
Does a particular origins reconstruction move people to struggle

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or does it advocate the status quo? Does it provide an ethical foundation andframeworkgrounded in notions ofjustice and authority
for struggle? How effectively does it provide moral authority to
the struggles for self-determination?

Such an understanding of the task of critical biblical studies has been
identified by feminist scholars of rhetoric as sophistic rhetoric. According
to Susan Jarratt, the overlap of rhetoric and history in the work of the first
Sophists is more conducive for the reconceptualization of a feminist history of rhetoric than the philosophical-historical understanding of Pythagoras, Plato or Aristotle, since the Sophists sought to affect social behavior
in the polis and to shape rhetoric as an instrument of social action. Whereas
philosophy asks the questions, 'What are the origins of life?', 'What is
reality?' or 'How is knowledge defined?', the Sophists ask an additional
question: 'How does language create different answers to those questions
at different moments in history?' (Jarratt 1998: xviii). They concentrated
on the power of language and the community-specific customs and laws
(nomoi) of the rhetorical situation for shaping discourse. According to
Jarratt (1998: 12) the practice of sophistic historiography consists of:
1.

2.

3.

A redefinition and consequent expansion of the materials and
subject matters of rhetorical history, resulting in what today
would be styled 'multi-disciplinarity'.
The denial of progressive continuity, that is, a conscious attempt
to disrupt the metaphor of a complete and full chain of events
with a telos.
The employment of two pre-logical language technai, antithesis
and parataxis, creating narratives distinguished by multiple or
open causality, the indeterminacies of which are then resolved
through the self-conscious use of probable arguments.

What is more important than establishing clear cut facts in sophistic historiography, Jarratt argues, is the choice of an incident 'in the reconstruction
and interpretation of culturally meaningful and instructive pasts'. She does
not suggest
that the historian fabricate a past that never existed but rather note[s] that a
view of history as merely uncovering 'facts' doesn't take fully into account
the inevitably literary or mythic quality of any historical reconstruction and
its relevance to the present.... [A]n increased self-consciousness about the
process of reconstruction.. .functions to open for investigation fruitful questions about belief, purpose and self-definition rather than answer questions
of fact (1998: 16).

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In short, whereas a Foucaultian approach to the quest for identity and the
search for origins is primarily deconstructive, a critical feminist approach
insists that historiography must also be constructive and create histories
aiming at a more just future. In 1971 Adrienne Rich was already reflecting
on the importance of the newly emerging wo/men's liberation movement
for historical consciousness in her article 'When the Dead Awaken. Writing as Re-Vision'. To quote her at length again,
The sleepwalkers are coming awake, and for the first time the awakening has
a collective reality; it is no longer such a lonely thing to open one's eyes.
Re-vision—the act of looking back, of seeing with fresh eyes, of entering
an old text from a new critical direction—is for wo/men more than a
chapter in cultural history: it is an act of survival. Until we can understand
the assumptions in which we are drenched we cannot know ourselves. And
this drive to self-knowledge, for wo/men, is more than a search for identity.
It is part of our refusal of the self-destructiveness of male-dominated
society. A radical critique of literature, feminist in its impulse, would take
the work first of all as a clue to how we live, how we have been living, how
we have been led to imagine ourselves, how our language has trapped as
well as liberated us, how the very act of naming has been until now a male
prerogative, and how we can begin to see and name—and therefore live—
afresh... We need to know the writing of the past, and know it differently
than we have ever known it; not to pass on a tradition but to break its hold
over us. 16

A Feminist Reconstructive Model and Criterion
When conceptualizing my book In Memory of Her, I attempted such a
feminist re-vision of Christian origins by approaching old textsfroma new
critical direction. This new approach is overlooked or not well understood
when critics indict the book for elaborating a myth of pristine origins.
Rather, it should be understood as an attempt to write Christian beginnings
with a difference and with a feminist liberationist perspective.
In Memory of Her appeared almost 20 years ago, has been translated
into 10 languages, and has found a worldwide readership.17 Yet I would
16. Repr. in Charlesworth Gelpi (1993: 167-68).
17. The articles in Women and Christian Origins edited by Ross Shepard Kraemer
and Mary Rose D'Angelo (1999) rework most of the materials in In Memory of Her in
terms of the study of women, gender, and religion. Since they know the broad influence of the book, it is baffling—to say the least—how the editors can go on to state:
'To date, no one has written a comprehensive treatment of wo/men and Christian

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contend that its pioneering work has not been sufficiently recognized in
the theoretical debates of the discipline.18 The book is often missing from
scholarly reviews of early Christian historiography and the study of the
social worlds of early Christianity. Hence, it is appropriate to revisit its
theoretical contributions to the epistemological-theoretical discussions on
the conceptualization of Christian Testament historiography. I thereby
hope to contribute to the critical debates on the legitimacy of historical
studies in general, as well as on the arguments against the reconstruction
of Christian origins in particular.
In Memory of Her begins with a critical hermeneutical, textual linguistic, and epistemological discussion of how a feminist re-telling of Christian origins can be accomplished. My favored metaphor for history writing
is not that of archaeology but that of quilt-making, a metaphor that
understands historiography as history making, as integrating the surviving
scraps of source-information like pieces of cloth into a new and different
design. A similar metaphor to that of the quilt is that of the mosaic. To
fashion such a mosaic artists gather all the little stones of information and
put them together into a different design in order to create a new picture.
First, when I set out to develop the reconstructive model shaping the
narrative of In Memory of Her, I did not start with the goal of producing
an objectivist empiricist description of what actually happened in early
Christian beginnings, nor did I want to prove that Jesus himself was
totally egalitarian and without bias. Rather, I wanted to show that the
historiography of early Christian beginnings participates in the theoreticalhistorical discourses of domination that have been produced by contemporary scholarship. Consequently, I did not set out to prove that malestream early Christian historiography was factually wrong, but rather
that it was wrong-headed and incomplete because of its kyriocentric
frameworks and positivist empiricist rhetoric.
Compelled by the feminist critique of androcentric language and historiography, I set out to show that the early Christian story could be told—and
must be told—otherwise. My question was not 'Did it actually happen?' or
'What do we know about wo/men in antiquity?', but 'Do we still have
sufficient information and source texts to tell the story of the movements
carrying Jesus' name otherwise?', envisioning it as that of a 'discipleship
of equals'. My search was not for unique and unblemished Christian
origins appropriate for a wide audience rangingfromundergraduate to general readers
to scholars previously unacquainted with this literature' (1999: 3).
18. For a similar but more violent experience see, eg., Schaberg (1997: 146).

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origins but for the possibility to tell the early Christian story from a new
perspective. The task, I argued, involves not so much discovering new
sources as rereading the available sources in a different key (1983: xx).
Not only was there plenty of material that could be read in an egalitarian
frame of interpretation, I maintained, but such an egalitarian reading also
could do more justice to our sources,19 which speak about wo/men's leadership in ways that traditional scholarship always felt compelled to explain
away, overlook, or interpret in terms of cultural femininity. The interpretation of Phoebe in Rom. 16, for instance, is notorious for depicting her as
a servant at Paul's meetings or for focusing on Mary of Magdala and the
other wo/men supporting Jesus and his itinerant male disciples as doing
the necessary 'housework' and helping the men out financially.
In Memory ofHer and its reconstruction of Christian beginnings is often
misread in terms of the liberal Protestant historiographical myth of 'pristine egalitarian origins and rapid decline into patriarchy'.20 Thus the books
underlying the feminist historical dialectical model of struggle21 between
egalitarian vision and its realizations, on the one hand, and kyriarchal22
19. I thereby anticipated in a somewhat different form the criterion for the
adjudication of historical Jesus research that Larry Hurtado has formulated in analogy
to that used in textual criticism, 'Where the aim in weighing "internal evidence" is to
reconstruct the reading that best explains all the variants' (Hurtado 1997: 294).
20. See SchusslerFiorenza (1983:92): 'The sociological-theological model for the
reconstruction of the early Christian movement suggested here should, therefore, not
be misread as that of a search for true, pristine, orthodox beginnings which have been
corrupted either by early Catholicism or by "heresy", nor should it be seen as an argument for an institutional patriarchalization absolutely necessary for the historical survival of Christianity. The model used here is that of social interaction and religious
transformation, of Christian "vision" and historical realization, of struggle for equality
and against patriarchal domination.'
21. See, e.g., Powell (1992: 2), who not only mistakes my hermeneutics of suspicion 'as reading between the lines' but also misapprehends my reconstructive model of
ongoing struggle. 'By the second century the Christian church had become an extremely patriarchal institution, dominated by an all-male clergy'. Although he perceives the paradigm shift which I advocate ('Nevertheless she has been extremely
successful in sensitizing modern scholars to an awareness of the social and political
contexts in which the Gospels were produced and to consideration of ways in which
this might have influenced the stories they relate'), he then does not explore this
paradigm shift further.
22. I have introduced in the early 1990s this neologism derived from the Greek terms
kyrios (Lord) and archein (to rule, to domnate) in order to replace the term patriarchy
which is generally used in feminist analysis in a dualistic sense. In my earlier work I

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reality and its dehumanizing effects, on the other hand, is not understood.
To read early Christian history in terms of the reconstructive model of rapid
decline from the heights of radical equality to the valleys of patriarchal
institution is to overlook the continuing struggles that have been ongoing
throughout Christian history between those who understand Christian identity as radically inclusive and egalitarian and those who advocate kyriarchal
domination and submission.
In short, when conceptualizing In Memory of Her I did not want to write
just another book about 'women and Jesus' or about wo/men in the early
Christian movement and because of this, I could not adopt the 'add wo/men
and stir' approach. Rather I wanted to see whether it was possible to write
not only a different but a feminist history of Christian beginnings in
Palestine and in the Greco-Roman cities by placing wo/men in the center
of attention.
Second, I am often asked whether it would matter to my reconstructive
paradigm if it could be shown that in fact wo/men did not participate in the
early Christian movements or that there was no impulse whatever in antiquity to radical equality. 'Does it matter', my interlocuters inquire, 'whether
or not history provides us with any examples of emancipation, equality
and justice?' In reply one could ask, 'Does it matter to feminists to have a
written history?' Since history shapes identity and our view of the world it
matters in my view whether wo/men and other subjugated peoples have a
history not just of violence and exploitation but also a history of liberation,
agency and equality that is not just Utopian but already has been partially
realized in history. As long as history is written by the winners, the marginalized and subjugated cannot afford not to have a written history.
To cease to write history in a different key would mean to concede the
power of interpretation to the historical winners. To give an example
from my own church context. Vatican pronouncements have insisted that
wo/men cannot be ordained. First, they did so by relying on the myth that
have, however, consistently understood patriarchy as a pyramidal system of gradated
dominations. Yet, this led to the misreading of my texts in terms of patriarchy as the
domination of all men over all wo/men. I introduced this neologism in order to underscore the intersection and multiplicative interstructuring of racism, patriarchy, classism
and imperialism in the pyramid of dominations. Thus my analytic differs from that of
Musa W. Dube whose dissertation adopts a dual system analysis (patriarchy and imperialism). Since she seems not to be aware of the problematization of dual-systems theory
and the development of intersectionality in feminist theory, she consistently misreads my
text as 'mystifying' imperialism. Hence, she accuses me of speaking about the GrecoRoman world but not about the Roman empire. See Dube (2000: 34-39).

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Jewish wo/men had the status of chattel.23 Now, because of the influence of
feminist scholarship, they argue that wo/men cannot be ordained because
Jesus and the apostles did not ordain them although they could have, since
wo/men belonged to and had leadership in the early Christian movements.
However, such an argument still neglects to mention the critical consensus
of historical scholarship that Jesus did not ordain anyone.
It is obvious that historical argument serves here to maintain the secondclass citizenship of wo/men. Moreover, it has been shown that those
churches that ordain wo/men have dropped their biblical-historical arguments against wo/men's ordination as soon as they admitted wo/men to
holy office. It is obvious that the Vatican's historical argument is shaped in
the context of a politics of non-ordination as a politics of power.24 Hence,
it is critically important for Catholic feminists to shape a historical counterargument that allows one to resist such discourses of domination. Rather
than abandoning historical reconstructive work, we have to tell the story of
Christian origins differently! In order to do so we must delegitimate the
kyriarchal 'myth of Christian origins'.
Third, since feminists are not concerned with conserving the world 'as it
is' but rather want to change it to fit their own experience of being as
wo/men in the world, I, as a feminist, was not so much interested in an
apologetic defense when writing In Memory of Her. Rather, I was interested in the historical people—Jewish wo/men and men—who have shaped
a socio-religious Jewish movement named after Jesus, which I have argued
is best understood as an emancipatory basileia-movement25 It is obvious
to me that I was able to imagine the beginnings of early Christianity differently because I was fortunate to belong to a social movement for change
today.
The story of the Jesus movement as emancipatory basileia of G*d26
movement is told in different ways in the canonical and extra-canonical
Gospel accounts. These accounts have undergone a lengthy process of
rhetorical transmission and theological edition. The Gospel writers were
not concerned with antiquarian historical transcription but with interpretive remembrance and rhetorical persuasion.
23. For an extensive discussion of anti-Judaism in feminist interpretation see
Schiissler Fiorenza (2000: 115-44).
24. See the Concilium issue edited by Schiissler Fiorenza and Haering (1999).
25. See Schussler Fiorenza (1994).
26. I write G*d in this way in order to indicate that we can only say who G*d is not
rather than who G*d is since our language is unable to comprehend and express the
Divine.

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Early Christians did not simply want to write down what Jesus said and
did. Rather, they utilized the Jesus traditions that were shaped by Jesus'
first followers, wo/men and men, for their own rhetorical interests, and
molded them in light of the political-theological debates of their own day.
As a result, what we can learn from the rhetorical process of gospel transmission and redaction is that Jesus as we still can know him must be remembered, contextualized, discussed, interpreted, questioned or rejected
not only within an inter-theological and inter-faith debate, but also within
a political-cultural one.
However, one must be careful not to construe the Jesus movement as
free from conflict and kyriarchal tendencies, lest in so doing one idealizes
it as the very 'other' and positive counterpart of Judaism which is understood negatively. From the very beginnings of the Jesus movement differences, divisions and conflicts existed, as the variegated if not contradictory
articulations of the extant Gospels indicate. For instance, the multifaceted
basileia sayings tradition that surfaces in Mk 10.42-45; 9.33-37 and par. is
an anti-kyriarchal rhetorical tradition that contrasts the political structures
of domination with those required among the disciples (Schussler Fiorenza
1983:148). It argues that structures of domination should not be tolerated
in the discipleship of equals. Those of the disciples who 'would-be-great'
and 'would-be-first' must become slaves and servants27 of all.
While this tradition advocates non-kyriarchal relationships in the discipleship of equals, its grammatical imperative simultaneously reveals that
such relationships were not lived by everyone. In particular, the would-be
'great' and 'first' seem to have been tempted to reassert kyriarchal social
and religious status positions. The argument of the Syrophoenician wo/man,
which has given But She Said (1992)28 its name, provides another example
for such debates, since this story criticizes the ethnic bias of Jesus himself.
One also must not overlook the fact that all four Gospel accounts reflect
the controversies with and the anxieties caused by the separation from
hegemonic forms of Judaism. Consequently, they all re-inscribe Christian
identity as standing in conflict with Judaism. A good example of this kyriocentric process of anti-Jewish and anti-wo/man inscription can be found
27. Grant (1993) problematized servanthood and emphasized discipleship in very
similar ways to me, although we come from quite different social and religious backgrounds. Since Grant does not refer to my theoretical analysis (cf. Schussler Fiorenza
[1998a; 1993: 290-306]), I feel justified to surmise that a comparable multiplicative
analysis of kyriarchy results in coinciding theoretical proposals.
28. See also Schussler Fiorenza (1998b).

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when one analyzes the rhetoric of the story about the wo/man who anointed
Jesus as the Christ. The Gospel of Mark places this story at the beginning
of the narrative about Jesus' execution and resurrection.29 Here, Mark
probably takes up a traditional story which knows of a wo/man anointing
Jesus' head, thereby naming him as the Christ, the Anointed One.30 A revelatory word of Jesus links her prophetic sign action with the proclamation
of the gospel in the whole world.31 The community that retells this story
after Jesus' execution knows that Jesus is no longer in their midst. They do
no longer 'have' Jesus with them.
Three kyriocentric interpretations of the wo/man's prophetic sign-action
reflect early Christian debates around this story. They are integrated by
Mark or one of his forerunners into one coherent story but still can be read
as different interpretive arguments.
In the first interpretation, the objection and debate with the male disciples introduces a kyriarchal understanding that no longer sees 'the poor' as
constitutive members of the community but as 'the others', as people who
deserve alms. The second interpretation construes the unnamed wo/man's
sign-action in culturally feminine kyriocentric terms. She does what wo/men
are supposed to do, which is to prepare the bodies of the dead for burial
(Robbins 1992:311). Finally, the third interpretation re-frames the story as
an ideo-story or example story that counterposes the action of the wo/man
to that of Judas, the betrayer of Jesus (Brownson 1992), and thereby
reinscribes the anti-Jewish binary.
Insofar as the wo/man disciple remains unnamed, as opposed to Judas,
the male disciple who betrays Jesus, the text evokes an androcentric response which, contrary to the word of Jesus, does not comprehend the significance of the wo/man's prophetic naming. By underscoring that the
name of the betrayer is Judas, a name that linguistically reminds one of
'Jew/Judaism', it also elicits an anti-Jewish response that is intensified in
the course of the passion narrative.
Thus, we can still trace the Gospels' anti-Jewish rhetorics in the reinterpretations of the anointing story, a story that was potentially a politically dangerous story. The de-politicizing rhetoric which comes here to the
29. Cf. Hoist (1976); Marz (1981-82); for a general bibliography on the Passion
narratives see Brown (1994: 94-106).
30. See, e.g., thefrescoat Dura Europos for the importance of prophetic anointing.
Cf. Moon (1992).
31. For a discussion of Mark's account see Sabin (1998); Fander (1989: 118-35);
for Matthew see the excellent analysis of Wainwright (1991: 252-83).

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fore has engendered not only anti- Jewish interpretations of Jesus' suffering and execution but has also forged Christian political adaptation to
Roman imperial structures that with its apologetic defense of the Roman
authorities has opened the door to the co-optation of the gospel in the
interest of domination.
Since the process of the story's re-interpretation in the Gospels has
produced the ^reconstructed', by now, common sense, kyriocentric frame
of meaning that marginalizes wo/men and vilifies Jews, it is necessary to
dislodge our readings from such a preconstructed frame of reference and
to reconfigure the Christian Testament discourses about Christian origins.
Imagining and constructing the Jesus movement as one among many emancipatory movements in the first century, I have argued elsewhere, provides
such a different historical frame of reference. It allows for a Christian selfunderstanding that is neither articulated over and against Judaism nor
remains intertwined with theological masculinism. Such a christological
re-reading does not need to relinquish the quest for its historical Jewish
roots nor end in Christian supremacy and exclusivism. It does not tie Christian self-identity to its previous stages of formation and their socio-cultural
contexts, but remains obligated to the messianic basileia—vision of G*d's
alternative world of justice and well-being.
By focusing not on the historical Jesus as the great (male) individual
and charismatic leader, but on the vision and praxis of the movement
gathered in his name, such a reconstructive model not only aims to make
anti-Judaism harder to import but also seeks to avoid the cultural romantic
trap of wo/men's often sado-masochistic attachment to the Man Jesus. Just
like all other Christian origins discourses, I have argued, feminist origins
discourses also must constantly be scrutinized for their possible functions
in strengthening or undermining relations of domination.
If one shifts from a kyriarchal frame of reference to that of the 'discipleship of equals', one can no longer argue that wo/men were not members of
the communities that produced the earliest Jesus traditions. If one cannot
prove that wo/men did not participate in shaping the earliest Jesus traditions, one needs to give the benefit of the doubt to the textual traces
suggesting that they did. Rather than taking the andro/kyriocentric text at
face value, one must unravel its politics of meaning.
The objection that this is a circular argument applies to all hermeneutical and historiographical practices.32 For instance, social scientific studies
32. See the forthcoming book of Fiorenza (2003) for a critique of the method of
correlation.

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that produce a dualistic frame of the opposition between 'honor and shame'
as a given 'fact' of Mediterranean cultures will read early Christian texts
'about women' within this theoretically 'constructed' kyriocentric frame
of reference and thereby reproduce the cultural 'common sense' that
wo/men are marginal people. So-called social scientific narratives appear
to be more 'realistic' and 'objective' than feminist ones because kyriocentric discourses function as ideologies that 'naturalize' the structures of
domination as 'what is'. That is, they mystify the 'constructedness' of their
account of historical reality in terms of their own understanding and
experience of reality. Therefore malestream narratives of 'how the world
of Jesus really was' are easily accepted as 'common sense', objective, scientific-historical accounts although they are as much a 'construction' as
feminist ones are.
Fourth, if one is bent on a misreading of In Memory of Her as a positivist factual historiography in terms of the Protestant model of 'decline'
from pristine egalitarian beginnings to kyriarchal institutionalization, one
does not grasp that the book needs to be read in terms of a feminist model
of ongoing struggles between an egalitarian and a kyriarchal ethos. However, these struggles can only be traced by acknowledging contemporary
struggles for radical equality and the rhetoric surrounding them. They can
only be traced by reading the early Christian sources as rhetorical texts
that advocate either the discourse of domination and submission, or a
democratic ethos of equal citizenship.
Egalitarian social movements striving to change unjust relations of
domination—this reconstructive model assumes—are not just a product
of modernity but are found throughout history. Ancient social movements
and emancipatory struggles against kyriarchal relations of exploitation do
not begin with the Jesus movements. Rather they have a long history in
Greek, Roman, Asian and Jewish cultures. The emancipatory struggles of
biblical wo/men must be seen within this wider context of cultural-politicalreligious struggles. Such a historical model of emancipatory struggles sees
the Jesus of history and the movement that has kept his memory alive not
over and against Judaism but over and against kyriarchal structures of
domination in antiquity and today. However, the history of these struggles
in antiquity and throughout Western history can only be written if and
when not only the facticity but also the plausibility criterion of malestream
scholarship is questioned.
To argue for their own preferred version of reconstruction scholars have
developed the criterion of plausibility, which judges source materials on
the grounds of whether their content can be made plausible historically

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and be understood as fitting into what we can know about the time and
culture of Jesus or the early Christian movements.33 However, this criterion of plausibility overlooks the fact that what is regarded as 'common
sense' or plausible in a culture depends on the hegemonic ideological
understandings of 'how the world is'. For instance, the assumption that
wo/men were marginal or second-class citizens in all forms of first-century
Judaism is steeped in present-day assumptions and perceptions of Jewish
culture and religion. Such presumptions often make it impossible to assert
plausibly that wo/men were equal members in the Jesus movement if one
understands it as a Jewish movement.
The inability even of feminist scholars to assume the possibility of understanding the ethos of the Jesus movement as an alternative Jewish movement that struggled against kyriarchal domination and believed in the
basic equality of all the children of G*d, not only bespeaks antifeminist
tendencies. It also bespeaks a lack of feminist self-affirmation on the part
of wo/men scholars who just as everyone else have internalized dominant
cultural prejudices, self-deprecation and misogynism. As Judith Plaskow
so forcefully has put it referring to In Memory of Her.
I read this book excited and resisting every word. I made furious notes in
the margins asking, 'How do you know women participated? Isn't it a large
assumption, indeed an a priori commitment?' Forced to sort out my feelings
for an American Academy of Religion symposium on In Memory of Her, I
realized that I found the book deeply disturbing because it thrusts women
into an unaccustomed position of power. To take seriously the notion that
religious history is the history of women and men imposes an enormous
responsibility on women. It forces us to take on the intellectual task of
rewriting all of history... It does these things, moreover, without allowing
us the luxury of nursing our anger and waiting for the patriarchs to create
change, for it reminds us that we are part of a long line of women who were
simultaneously victims of the tradition and historical agents struggling within
and against it (1997: 99).

If critical self-affirmation is the sine qua non of writing history otherwise
and in a feminist key, it is not surprising that biblical Women's Studies
have not always been able to resist the lure of malestream reconstructions
of early Christian origins in positivist terms. Hence, I suggest that the
33. This hermeneutical circle between a preconstructed image of Jesus and
evaluations of individual texts is recognized by Theissen and Winter (1997:206). 'Ein
zutreffendes historisches Gesamtbild ist eine Idealvorstellung, ein Grenzwert, dem wir
uns immer nur in Form von Plausibilitat annahern konnen'. However, they do not
critically question the plausibility criterion on the basis of this insight.

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'common sense' criterion o f plausibility' must be replaced with the criterion o f possibility'.
What is 'thinkable' or 'possible' and even probable historically must be
adjudicated in terms of an emancipatory reconstructive model of early
Christian beginnings as well as in terms of how it utilizes its sourceinformation and materials. Instead of asking, 'Is it likely or plausible that
wo/men shaped the Jesus-traditions?', one must ask, 'Is it historically possible and thinkable that they did so?' This shift requires scholars to prove
that such a possibility did not exist at the time. Such an argument would
presuppose that scholars have studied not only hegemonic historical formations but also the emancipatory elements in Greco-Roman and Jewish
societies. In using the criterion of possibility one must, however, be careful
not to turn around and answer it again with reference to what is deemed
'plausible' and 'common sense' truism.34
Such a change of theoretical framework from one that uncritically reinscribes 'what is' to one that imagines 'what is possible' makes it easier to
understand the Jesus traditions and early Christian beginnings as shaped
by the agency and leadership of Jewish, Greco-Roman, Asian, African,
free and enslaved, rich and poor, elite and marginal wo/men. Those who
hold the opposite view, for instance that slave wo/men or Jewish wo/men
were not active shapers of life in antiquity, would have to argue their point.
A feminist reconstructive historical model of egalitarian possibility is able
to place the beginnings of early Christian movements within a broader
cultural-religious historical frame of reference that allows one to trace the
tensions and struggles between emancipatory understandings and movements inspired by the radical democratic logic of equality on the one hand
and the dominant kyriarchal structures of society and religion in antiquity
on the other.
To argue for a possible and probable rhetorical reconstruction of early
Christian beginnings as egalitarian does not mean that the extant early
Christian sources would not also allow for a hegemonic kyriarchal reconstruction of the early Christian movements. The opposite is the case, since
our sources are all written in grammatically androcentric/kyriocentric language that fiinctions as generic language. It only means that one needs to
show that a feminist egalitarian reconstruction not only is 'possible', in
terms of a critical reading of the extant sources in terms of a hermeneutics
of suspicion, but also preferable in terms of the Christian identity con34. This is the primary mode of arguing in Stegemann and Stegemann (1999: 361409), when discussing wo/men's leadership in the Jesus movement.

246

Christian Origins

struction that the writing of history engenders. In other words, scholars no
longer can justify their reconstructive models in a positivist scientistic
fashion but need to stand accountable for them and their political functions
in light of the values and visions they promote for today.
Moreover, those who argue it is unlikely that Jesus advocated an egalitarian program directed toward women as women, although his message
addressed issues important to women (as to men), misread my text. At no
place did In Memory of Her suggest that Jesus directed a program to women
as women. Instead, I focused on the question of whether we still can detect
not only egalitarian elements in the earliest Jesus traditions that challenge
kyriarchal structures and mindsets but also use them to tell the history of
Christian origins differently.
Such attacks against an egalitarian feminist model of reconstruction
usually come from antifeminist scholars and churchmen who are concerned
with maintaining the status quo. They are bent on debunking the possibility of an egalitarian ethos in the first century because they cannot imagine
that early Judaism could have been egalitarian. Most importantly, they
cannot assert an equal standing or even decisive leadership either for
wo/men in antiquity or for contemporary feminist scholars who assert such
equality.
Finally, a reconstruction of the Jesus movement as egalitarian Sophiamovement does not mean to assert that this movement was new and incomparable or that it was the only movement at the time that was egalitarian,
as the * Jesus-the feminist' myth claims. Only if one asserts that this egalitarian movement was 'new' and that 'Jesus remains without peer in Palestine in his teaching of egalitarian reform' does one buy into the 'myths of
Jesus, the feminist', which is articulated over and against Judaism. A
feminist reconstruction of Christian origins that sees Jesus as primus inter
pares, as first among equals, among his Jewish compatriots does not do so.
One wonders what is so threatening in the idea of an egalitarian movement
at the root of Christianity (and in my view also of Judaism albeit in a
different socio-theological form) that provokes such misreadings.
In sum, I have sought to make the case here for feminist theoretical work
and critical historiography that takes emancipatory praxis as its touchstone
and ethical vision as its goal. Such work provides a theoretical framework
also for Christian origin studies. Critical historical origins scholarship
cannot but strive for the contemporary significance of its theoretical and
historical work. Such significance must not only be negotiated historically
but also theologically if it is to displace the hegemonic academic and
ecclesiastical myths of Christian origins.

SCHUSSLERFlORENZA Re-Visioning Christian Origins

247

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INDEX
INDEX OF REFERENCES

OLD TESTAMENT

Genesis
2-3

128

2.17
3.19
3.23
8.11
9.16

126-28

10

12.3
13.14
13.15
14.18
15.1
15.6
15.18
17.1-22
17.12
17.18
24.7
Exodus
3.15
12.6
12.46
20.7
24.8
24.11
25

25.8
25.22
25.29
28.38

127
127
205

38,42
154
132
158
133
31

132
132
133
132
132
133
133

41
30
30
41
40
43
36
35

35,37
43
41

29.37
30.11-16
30.29

41
22
41

25.6-13
34.1-12

31.16
33.14
34.28
40.16-33
40.34

42
43
97
36
35

Deuteronomy
4.37
43
6.6
23
7.13
205
16.16
22
47
32.43
115
33.12

41
41
38
38

7.6

97

2 Samuel
23.1

36

Leviticus
6.17-18
10.17
16

16.2
16.8
16.19
17.11
24
24.7-9
24.7
24.8
24.9
25.10
Numbers
3.10

39
38
39
43
40

41,47

42
30,41,42
31

4

32
32

4.5-8
4.19
17.46
18.7
18.9

42
41
38
32
41

38
154

1 Samuel

1 Kings
3.6-9
7.50
8.11
19.18

35
43

35
206

1 Chronicles
1.1-2.2
15.3-5
16.4
29.20-23

35
36

Ezra
6.10
6.17

37
37

154
116

252
Nehemiah
8.1-8
10.33-34
Psalms
1
2
6.5
23
38
38.22
45.6
70

70.5
109
110

119
128.3

Christian Origins
11.16-17
11.16
44.18-19
44.18

23

22

23
176

41
43,44
41
41

186
41
41

205

Proverbs
9

9.5-6
9.5
Isaiah
2.2-4
2.10
2.19
2.21
6
6.1

9.6-7
11
17.6
24.3
24.4-6
26.13
43^8
45.23
52.13
53

60.2-3
60.21
61.1
63.9
64.1
Jeremiah
7.18

Apocrypha

Ezekiel
1.26-28
1.28
5.5
8.16-18

3.11-15
13.9

11.23
36.25
38.12
42.13
44.29
47-48
47.15-23
47.22-23

36,37
23

45

45
45

Daniel
6.11

37
42
159
32
33
35
126

159
41
41
154
154
154

116

7.9-14

35
74
36
176
205
205
38
41
55
73
177
176, 177
154
126
31

7.9

22
37, 164,
171, 172,
176-82
178
178

7.13
10.3

37
97

Hosea
14.6

205

154
116
116

„

7

Amos
3.12

34

4.9

205

Micah
4.1-4

Tobit
3.2-6

13.13
14.4-7

154
43

35

Zephaniah
1.17

46

44

Zechariah
8.19

91

42
42,46,
104

22
22
154
154
154

Judith
4.9

4.13
8.6

91,92
91,92

9.1

91
23, 92,

9.2-14

103

Wisdom of Solomon
1.12-14
127
127
1.13
176, 177,
2-5
179
127
2.23-24
128
7.1
35,45
8.13
128
9.14
127
9.15
128
9.18-19

13-16

5.2

43

Malachi
1.7-9
1.11

Lamentations
116
4.20

9.4

36

206
205
44
44

14.12
15.17
17.3
17.7
18.13
19.21
Ecclesiasticwi
15.2-3
24.21
24.22
25.13-26
25.24
36.18-19
45.16

55
127

128
127
127
127

127

45

45,46
126

128
128
154
38

253

Index of References
50.5-21
50.7
50.11
50.16-21

19
42
20
22

50.16-18

20

Baruch
1.11-3.8

22

1 Maccabees
154
15.33

N E W TESTAMENT
Matthew
4.2
5.11
5.23-24
5.39
5.44-45
5.44
5.46-47
6.2
6.5-16
6.5
6.15
6.16-18
6.16
6.18
9.15
9.36
10.5-6
10.32
11.18
12.3-7
15.7
16.28
17.21
18.17
20.28
20.34
22.18
22.37-39
23
23.2-3
23.13
23.15
23.23
23.25
23.27
23.29
23.34-36
23.37-39
26.26-28

97, 106
173
21
95
95
94
94
94,104
95
94, 104
104
101, 105,
107
94, 105
105
92,107
122
215
175
172
21
104
170
98
223
129
122
104
94
106
106
105, 106
105,106
105,106
105, 106
105,106
105, 106
173
173
85

26.28
27.62
28.19
Mark
1.13
1.21
1.41
2.10
2.18-22
2.19
2.23-28
2.28
3.14-15
6.1-2
6.13
614-16
6.34
8
8.2
8.27
8.29
8.31
8.34
8.38
9.1
9.22
9.29
9.31
9.33-37
9.38
10.33-34
10.33
10.38
10.39
10.42-45
10.45
11.15-19
11.17

31
108
215

97, 106
24
122
171
106,107
107
40
171
98
24
98
65
122
181
122
164
164
171,180,
181
181
170, 172
170
122
98
171,180
240
98
181
171,180
181
181
240
129, 130,
171
21
21

15.42
16.17

94
21
172, 178,
182
184
172, 178,
182
108
98

Luke
1.10
1.31
2.11
2.31-32
2.36-38
4.2
4.16-20
4.18
5.35
6.28-31
6.28
6.29
7.13
7.34
10.27
12.8
13.27-30
18.9-13
18.10
22.17-19
22.18
22.19-20
22.19
23.54
24.13
24.27
24.31-32
24.44-47
24.47
24.53

21,23
35
116
145
21
97,106
24
31
107
95
94
95
122
172
94
170, 175
145
106, 107
21
85
44
85
47
108
104
74
74
74
145
21

12.30-31
13.1-2
13.26
14.36
14.62

Christian Origins

254
John
1.35-51
5.23
6.59
8.46
12.41
19.31
20.16
20.19-31
20.19-20
20.28
Acts
1.8
1.22
2.38
2.42
2.46
3.1
3.12-23
3.15-16
5
6.7
7.54-56
9
9.9
9.19
9.30
10
10.1-11.18
10.9
10.30
11.20
13
13.1-3
13.2-3
13.2
13.13-16
13.46
13.47
14
14.23
15.23
15.40
18.6
20.7
21.26

121
61
24
131
74
108
119
104
119
119

145
121
221
93
21,117
21,23
40
221
216
46
73
96, 99,
100
96
96
159
217
215
23
23
217
99, 100
123
99
106
24
223
145
99, 100
99
159
123
223
104
21

22.3
28.28
Romans
1-4
1.3-4
1.3
1.8-15
1.8
1.9-10
1.9
1.10
1.11-12
L.I 1
1.12
1.13
1.14-15
1.14
1.16-4.35
L.I 6-4.25
1.16-17
l.ia-4.35
1.18-25
1.25
2.1
2.3
2.4
2.7-10
2.17-21
2.17
2.21
2.22
2.23
2.28-3.2
3.1-2
3.1
3.3
3.4
3.6
3.8
3.9
3.21-24
3.22
3.26

151
223

193, 194,
201
125
120
200, 208,
211
208,211
211
208
208
208,211
208
208
208,211
211
209
197-99
194,202,
203
194, 197,
200, 201
200
58
198
198
198
198
199
202
198,202
198
198
198
151
203
192, 198
134, 198
198
198
192, 198
198,203
203
133,212
133

3.27
3.29
3.30
3.31
4.1
4.7
4.9
4.10
4.16
4.19
4.23-25
4.24-25
4.24
4.25
5-9
5-8

5
5.1-2
5.1
5.3-4
5.6
5.12
5.13
5.15-16
5.18-19
5.25
6.1
6.2
6.3-11
6.10
6.12
6.15
6.16
6.17
6.21
7
7.1
7.6
7.7
7.8-10
7.12
7.13
7.14
7.24
8

198
198
199
198
198
199
198
198
134
116
194, 197
125
129
199
193
194, 195,
197-201,
203, 204
185
194, 195,
197
197
199
122
198
197
199
199
198
198
198
221
198
198
192, 198
198, 199
122, 198
198
203, 204
198
199
198
198
192
198
204
198, 204
195

Index of References
8.5
8.6
8.9
8.10
8.15-16
8.15
8.19
8.24
8.28-30
8.29
8.30
8.31-35
8.34
8.38-39
8.39
9-11

9
9.1-5
9.1-3
9.1-2
9.4-5
9.4
9.5
9.13
9.14
9.15
9.19
9.20-23
9.20
9.25
9.29
9.30
9.31
9.32
10.1
10.6
10.7
10.9
10.12
10.14-15
10.14
10.19
11.1-2
11.1
11.4

199
199
136
199
122
185,186
198
198
204
212
199
198
198, 199
195
195, 197
158,159,
193, 195,
197-204
194, 195
192
195, 204
197
197
196
196, 198
199
198
199
198
198
198
199
199
198
199
198
204
198
198
120, 125,
133
212
198
199
198
198
192, 198
206

11.7
11.11
11.13
11.15
11.16
11.20-22
11.25
11.27-36
11.27
11.28
11.30-32
11.30-31
11.33-36
11.33
11.34-35
11.36
12-15

12
12.1-15.13
12.1-3
12.1-2
12.1
12.3
12.5
12.7-8
12.10-11
12.21
13.12
13.14
14
14.1-22
14.1-2
14.2-3
14.4
14.7-9
14.7-8
14.8
14.10
14.22
15
15.2-3
15.4
15.5
15.7-9

199
198
205
198
199
206
196, 197
197
196
199
206
196, 197,
199
198
199
198
196
193, 196,
200-202,
212
196, 207
197-200,
203, 206
196
197
197,201
201
137
199
199
199
199
122
207
92
201
199
198, 206
201
199
136
198, 206
198
152
122
124
198
207,212

255
15.9-12
15.13
15.14-33
15.14
15.15-16
15.15
15.17-21
15.18-19
15.19
15.20-21
15.22-29
15.22
15.25-32
15.30-33
15.30
15.32
16.19
16.23

159
197, 198,
201
200,211
197, 209,
211
209,210
192
210
159,211
158, 159
158
210
211
152
210,211
211
211
199
199

1 Corinthians
217
1.13
46
1.24
124
2.1-12
122
2.16
136
3.23
30
5.7
178
6.2
216
7.10-17
120
7.10-11
57,92
8
57
8.1
57
8.4
57
8.5-6
120
9.5
120
9.14
119
9.16
151
9.19-20
57
9.21
57
10
57
10.14-22
85
10.16
137
10.17
57
10.20-21
92
10.23-31
85,216
11.23-26
120, 125
11.23-25

Christian Origins

256
1 Corinthians
11.23
11.24
12.3
12.12
14.26
15.1-11
15.3-7
15.3-5

(cont.)

120
47
120
137
73
71
216
121, 125,

129
15.3
15.4
15.22
15.23
16.1-2
16.2
16.22

4.10-11
4.10
5.14
5.16
5.21

8-9
10.1
10.7
10.13-16
11.4
11.6
12.1-4

71
185
136
152
104
120

120
122
116
119
118
131
111
122
136
158
116
125
73

Galatians
i

i

i.i

1.3-4
i i

1.3
1.4
1.11-12
1.13
1.14
1.15-16
1.17-18
1.17
1.18
1.19

2.9
2.11-14
2.14
2.16
2.19-20
2.19
2.20

29, 131

2 Corinthians
74
3.12-16

4.5

1.21
2.1-10
2.4-5

114
125
135
129

120
76

116,118,

151
216
120
158
120
120

2.21

3,1
3.6
3.7
3.10-14
3.13
3.16
3.22-23
3.22
3.23
3.24
3.27-28
3.28
3.29

4.4
4.5
4.6
4.8
4.19
4.25-26
5.4
5.10
5.11
5.24
6.12
6.14
6.15
6.18
Ephesians
4.21

5.2
5.25

159
123
77
158
77, 123

151

2.6
2.7
2.8

73, 125,

130
130
129
129, 130

133-35
124, 136

2.9-11
2.10-11
2.11

61
73

123

3.3

129, 131,
135,137
134, 135
123-25

3.4-7

3.5
3.8
3.9

158
151
116
114
133

3.12

118,119

132
132
77
123
133
135
133,134

135
135

Colossians
1.15-20

2.6
2.14
2.16
3.16

61, 120

125
114
124
93
73

124, 137

1 Thessalonians

137
136
120
186
185
113

1.1
1.6
1.8

116
116
116

1.9-10

57,114,

124, 137

152
124
135
123
123,136
123, 136
123
223

136
122
129
130

Philippians

1.8

2.6-11

1.21

122
137

2

37, 185

2.6
2.14
2.19
3.2
3.8
3.11
3.12
3.13
4.1-2
4.6
4.14
4.15-17
4.15
4.16

5.2
5.9
5.12
5.18
5.24
5.28

125
116
116
116
116
116
116
116
116
116
116,133
116,125
116

116
116
116
116, 125,

131
116
116
116
116

257

Index of References
2 Thessalonians
116
1.1
1.2
116
1.7
116
116
1.8
1.9
116
1.12
116
116
2.1
116
2.2
116
2.8
116
2.13
116
2.14
116
2.16
116
3.1
116
3.3
116
3.4
116,134
3.5
116
3.6
116
3.12
116
3.16
116
3.18
1 Timothy
2.5-6

130

Titus
2.14

130

Hebrews
1.1-4
1.6
1.8
2
2.17
4.15
7-10
7.15-16
7.26
9.11-15
9.11-12
9.14
12.2

186
47
186
186
186
131
186
36
131
31
39
130, 131
130, 135,

1 Peter
1.19
2.22

131
131

1 John
2.22-23
5.9-12

61
61

186
I O\J

Revelation
2.14-15
2.20
4-5
4.3
5
5.1-14
6.9
7
7.9-12
9.20-21
10.1
11.15-19
12.17
13.5-8
13.11-12
14.6-7
14.9-11
19.10
20.4
21.2
21.10
22.4
22.8-9
22.20

58
58
58
42
59
73
38
33
58
58
42
58
34
58
58
58
58
58
178, 180
154
154
34
58
120

PSEUDEPIGRAPHA

1 Enoch
5.8-9
10
14
25.4-6
26.1-2
38.5
42
46
47.1
47.4
48.2-3
62
62.1
69.11
71
89.50
89.73
90.20-36
91.12

126
39
154
154
154
176
173
178
37
37
37
176, 177
177
128
176, 178
154
33,42
154
176

93.8
95.3
98.4

44
176
128

2 Baruch
10.5-19
32.5-6
39.3-7

21
22
22

3 Enoch
13-15

37

4 Ezra
7.28-30
10.21-22
13

128
21
178

Ascension of Isaiah
2.7-11
3

Assumption of Moses
5-7
3
5.3
3
4
5.4
4
Letter ofAristeas
20
96
20
99
Jubilees
8-9
8.19
15.30-31
23

154,159
154
155

Lives of the Prophets
176

Christian Origins

258
Psalms of Solomon
20
2.2-3.13
20
8.12
154
11
17
116,125,
126, 128,
133,154
116
17.21
116
17.22-25
17.22
117
117,133
17.23
17.24
116
117
17.26-29
17.26-27
117

17.26
17.28
17.29
17.30
17.32
17.33
17.35
17.36
17.37
17.38
17.40-41
17.40

126, 133
117
133
116
116,117,
126
116
116
116,117,
125
133
126
117
133

17.43
18
18.5
18.7
117

117,126
116
116
116

Sibylline Oracles
3.110-120
154
Testament ofAbraham
13
176
Testament ofLevi
8.1-10
44

OTHER ANCIENT REFERENCES

Qumran
HQMelch
2.4-5

33

HQPs"
27.2-10

21

IQS
8.6
8.10

176
176

lQapGen
16-17
21
lQpHab
5.3-4
12.8-9

154
154, 158

176
20

5.6
6
6.11-12
20.23
Mishnah
m. Abot
1.2
m. Hagigah
2.1
m. Horayot
3.4
m. Menahot
11.7

4Q504
frag. 2, col. 4 154

m. Pesahim
5.5-6

4QMMTa
20

m. Seqalim
1.3

4QTohBa
1

20

m. Sukkah
4.5
32

CD
3
4.18

34
20

m. Yoma
40

20
34
20
20

39

36

33

30,41,46,
49

5.4-6

38

Talmuds
b. Hagigah
14a
14b

178
42

b. Horayot
12a

33

b. Keritot
5b

33

b. Menahot
94ab
96a
99a

44
45
40

b. Sanhedrin
38b
178
30
22

Midrash
Genesis Rabbah
43.6
44

30

Leviticus Rabbah
11.9
44
Numbers Rabbah
21.21
44

Index of References
Philo
De decalogo

52-81

55

Legum allegoriae
3.82
31
Legatio ad Gaium
24
23.156
118
60
157
281
De somniis
2.18

24

De vita contemplativa
27
33
De vita Moses
1.158
37
24
2.39
Josephus
Antiquities
4.8
1.120-147
1.122
15.7
18.63-64
18.64

23
154
159
21
118
216

Apion
2.17

23

Life
12

118

War
2.128

33

Christian Writings
Acts ofThomai
35
27
Barnabas
7

47,49

Didache
1.2

94

1.3
6.3
7
7.4
8.1
8.2-3
8.2
8.3
9-10
9.2-3
10.6
14
14.1
14.2
14.3

94
93
93
96
91,101103, 105,
106
93
103
103
31,46,93
85
120
46,93
104
104
104

Classical Authors
Augustine
De Fide et Operibus
6.8
100
Epistola
36.16.30
54.10

108
100

Basil of Caesarea
On the Holy Spirit
66
31
Clement of Alexandria
Miscellanies
32
5.10
37
6.7
32,37
7.17
Cyril of Alexandria
Letter
47
41
Cyril of Jerusalem
Catecheses
22.5
46
23.7
34
Mystagogical Lectures
5.4
48
48
5.9

259
Eupolemus
frag. 2

154

Eusebius
Hist.
3.39.15
10.4

121
45

Proof of the Gospel
5.3
46
Hippolytus
Traditio apostolica
20
100
Ignatius
Letter to the
Philadelphians
9
32
Justin Martyr
Apologia
1.33
335
1.61-62
96
1.61
100
Dialogue with Trypho
40
41
Narsai
Homily
17A

48

Origen
Against Celsus
3.37
32,37
32
6.6
39
6.43
Homily on Numbers
32
5
32
5.1
Origen
On Leviticus
9
47
On Matthew
12
32,37

260

Christian Origins

The Pastor: Parable
5.1.54
107
5.1.54.2
108
5.3.56.5-9
107
Polycarp
Letter to the Philippians
8
116
Quintillian
Institutio Oratoria
6.2.32
125
6.2.34
125
Rhetorica ad Herennium
209
Tertullian
De baptismo
20

100

De ieiunio
14

108

Q
3.8
4.1-13
6.22-23
6.22
6.23
6.40
7.18-23
7.31-35
7.34

7.35
9.58
10
10.16
10.21-22
11.2
11.9-13
11.30
11.49-51

175
174
173
173, 175,
179, 181
173
174
175
173
172, 173,
175,179,
181
173
172-75,
179,181
174
174
184
185
185
174, 175
173

12.8
12.10
12.31
12.40
13.34-35
13.35
14.27
17.22-30
17.23-37
17.26
22.28-30
22.30

172,175,
179
174
185
172, 175
173
175
174
175
175
172
176
175, 176,
179, 181,
182

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Abendroth, H.G. 230
Aberle,D. 69
Alexander, P. 154
Allison, D.C. 63, 122
Almond, P.C. 68
Anderson, P.N. 61
Ascough,R.S. 113
Audet,J.P. 83,86
Aune,D.E. 121
Barker, M. 32-35,42,46
Barr,J. 185
Barrett, C.K. 61,185
Barthelemy, D. 34
Bauckham,R. 58
Baum,R.M. 70
Berenyi, G. 130
Berger,P.L. 76
Best,E. 114,115
Betz,H.D. 65,125,131
Bigg,C. 84
Blank, J. 155
Blasi,A. 70
Boccaccini, G. 4
Boers, H. 146
Bonnard,P. 124
Borg, M. 63, 149
Bornkamm, G. 147
Bousset,W. 7-9
Brandenburger, E. 128
Brown, R.E. 241
Brownson, J. 241
Bruce, F.F. 118,129
Bultmann, R. 7, 9, 116, 143, 146, 155,
165, 170, 171
Burkett,D. 171,177,179,182
Burridge,RA. 121
Burton, E. de Witt 124,137
Butler, J. 229

Caird,G.B. 178
Carter, W. 103
Casel,O. 104
Casey, M. 52, 114, 172, 176, 180, 182,
183
Castelli,EA. 160,227
Catchpole, D.R. 173, 175
Certau, M. de 233
Charles, R.H. 37,44
Chilton,B. 167
Clark, W.H. 68
Clifford, RJ. 55
Cody, A. 102
Collins, JJ. 115, 120, 126, 129, 177
Collins, P.H. 233
Cotterell,P. 183
Cowley, A. 30
Crossan, J.D. 63, 147,148,150,182
Cullmann,O. 169
Cuming, G.J. 85
D'Angelo, M.R. 231,235
Dahl,NA. 75,120
Davenport, G.L. 126, 128
De Simone, RJ. 96, 100, 108
Deichgraber, R. 73
Deines, R. 5,17, 18
Delcor,M. 45
Dillistone, F.W. 29, 30,40
Dix,G. 30,35
Donaldson, T.L. 117
Donfried, K.P. 116
Douglas, M. 47, 102, 109
Dube,M.W. 238
Dungan,D. 148
Dunn, J.D.G. 4-6, 21, 67, 68, 115, 121,
122,125, 129,131, 132,136, 137,
148, 151, 152, 184, 185
Dupont,J. 119,176

262

Christian Origins

Earhart,H.B. 70
Eck,D.L. 232
Ehrhard,A. 84
Epp,EJ. 59
Eshel,E. 22
Evans, C.A. 63, 167
Evans, G.R. 109

Horbury,W. 53,92
Horsley,R. 63,152
Hurowitz, V.A. 43
Hurtado, L.W. 53, 54, 62, 63, 66-68, 71,
72,75,76,176,237

Fander, M. 241
Fee,G.D. 67,118
Fitzmyer, J.A. 119, 120, 125,158
Foucault, M. 226-28
France, R.T. 66
Freyne, S. 63, 145, 147, 151-53, 157
Fuller, R.H. 170
Furnish, V.P. 121

Jacobson, A.D. 172
James, W. 68
Jansen, H.L. 44
Jarratt, S.C. 234
Jarvinen,A. 173, 174
Jasper, R.C.D. 85
Jefford,C.N. 84-86,94
Jeremias,J. 30, 184
Johnson, L.T. 67

Galavaris, G. 49
Gane, R. 40
Gaventa, B.R. 137
Gelpi,B.C. 235
Gelston, A. 35
Gimbutas, M. 230
Ginzberg, L. 36
Glover, R. 86,95,99,105
Goldin, J. 43
Goodblatt,D. 2
Goodspeed, EJ. 94
Grabbe,L.L. 55
Grant, J. 240
Gressmann, H. 7
Gruen,E. 150
Gunkel,H. 67,68
Haering,H. 239
Hahn,F. 169
Hahn,R.R. 116
Hare,D.R.A. 175
Harrington, W. 88
Harris, J.R. 83
Hatch, E. 74
Heil,C. 175
Hengel, M. 5, 17, 55, 73, 114, 128, 150,
155,159
Hoffmann, P. 175, 176
Holmberg, B. 67
Holmes, M.W. 83,107,108
Hoist, R. 241

Idel,M. 35

Kasemann, E. 147
Kealy, S. 88
Keck,L.E. 170
Keller, H.M. 231
Kim,S. 119
Kloppenborg, J.S. 168, 172, 174-76, 181
Knibb,M.A. 3
Koester,H. 53,58
Kolarcik, M. 128
Kraemer,R.S. 231,235
Kraft, R.A. 4,89,102
Krawutzcky, A. 84
Kreitzer, J. 60
Kummel, W.G. 58, 148
Lang, B. 54
Lernoux, P. 232
Levine, L.I. 24
Lietzmann, H. 30,31
Loader, W.G. 61
Longenecker, B. 30
Longenecker, R.N. 125,132,133
Losch, S. 60,66
Luckmann, T. 76
Luhrmann, D. 172
Luz,U. 176
Lyons, J. 183
Mack, B.L. 148, 150, 227-29, 232, 233
Maddox,R. 145

Index of Authors
Maher,M. 95
Malony,H.N. 68
Marshall, I.H. 114
Martinez, F.G. 20,21,34
Martyn, J.L. 129, 131, 132, 134, 136,
137,152
Marx, A. 41,47
Marz,C.-P. 241
Mason, S. 16,19
Matera,F.J. 88,133,136
McNay,L. 226,227
McVey,K.E. 48
Meeks,W.A. 67,166
Meier, J.P. 18,63,167
Meloni, P. 96, 100, 108
Mendels,D. 154,155
Merz,A. 167
Metzger, B.M. 98, 129
Meyer, B. 152
Middleton, R.D. 84
Milavec,A. 86,90,91
Milgrom,J. 38
Milik,J.T. 34
Millar, F. 150
Moon,W.G. 241
Moore, G.F. 2,7-9
Mor, B. 230
Mortara Garvalli, B. 198
Moule, C.F.D. 178
Mowinckel, S. 126,128
Mullins,M.R. 70
Murphy-O'Connor, J. 113, 118,123, 130,
158
Nagata,T. 73
Neirynck,F. 121
Neusner, J. 5-7, 10, 11, 13-19,117
Nickelsburg, G.W.E. 4, 176
Niederwimmer, K. 83-87,89,91-94,96,
108
Nodet, E. 85, 93, 109,217
O'Brien, P.T. 119
O'Loughlin, T. 87, 108
O'Mahony, KJ. 229
Olyan,S.M. 54
Orenstein, G.F. 230
Osiek,C. 107,108

263

Perrin,N. 170
Philipps, J.B. 125, 134
Plaskow,J. 244
Pomeroy, S.B. 231
Potterie, I. de la 122
Powell, M.A. 237
Priest, J. 3,4
Pui-Lan,K. 232
Quin, E.G. 92
Rabinowitz, N.S. 232
Raschke, C. 68
Rast,W.E. 44
Reed,E. 230
Reese, J. 127
Reich, R.B. 232
Reif, S.C. 1,23,24
Reiser, M. 63
Rich, A. 230,231,235
Richardson, R.D. 30,31
Riches, J. 146
Richlin,A. 232
Ricoeur, P. 144
Rigaux,B. 114,115
Riley,D. 229
Rivkin,E. 12,13,18,19
Robbins,V.K. 241
Roberts, C.H. 89
Robinson, J.A.T. 137
Robinson, J.M. 53,147, 172, 180
Roetzel, CJ. 9
Rollmann,H. 146
Rordorf, W. 86, 104
Rothenbuhler, E.W. 87,104
Sabin,M. 241
Saldarini,A. 15,16,18
Sanders, E.P. 9, 10, 11, 14, 15,17, 19
21,63,117,149
Sanger,D. 77
Sawyer, J. 34
Schaberg,J. 236
Schaefer,P. 42
Schaff, P. 83, 84, 86, 88, 90, 93
Schiffman, L.H. 22
Schlier,H. 124
Schmidt, U.C. 232

264

Christian Origins

Schneiders, S. 152
Schroter,J. 172,179,180
Schurer,E. 9,104
Schumann, H. 121
Schiissler Fiorenza, E. 149, 228, 229,
237, 239, 240, 242
Schweitzer, A. 155
Schwemer, A.M. 159
Scott, J.M. 154
Senn,F.C. 45
Setzer, C. 76
Shutt,RJ.H. 20
Sjoo,M. 230
Skeat,T.C. 89
Skidelsky,R. 113
Snyder,G.F. 107
Smith, J. 232
Smith, J.Z. 90,93,160,232
Smith, M. 2-5
Smith, M.S. 54
Smith, W.R. 29,38
S6llner,P. 154
Spicq, C. 130
Sproul,B.C. 102
Stanton, G.N. 76
Stark, R. 68-70
Stegemann, E. 245
Stegemann,W. 245
Stemberger, G. 11
Stone, M. 230
Stuckenbruck, L.T. 58
Sweet, J.P.M. 178
Talley,T. 91,100
Taussig,H. 160,227
Taylor, J. 85,93,109,217

Theissen,G. 167,174,244
Thoma, C. 11
Thompson, M. 122
T6dt,H.E. 170,174
Tomsen, P. 152
Trafton,J.L. 116
Tuckett, C. 164, 168, 173-76, 182
Turner, M. 183
Turner, V. 95,97
Urbach, E.E. 24
Vaage,L.E. 172
Valantasis, R. 88
Vermes, G. 45, 63, 102, 172, 180
Vielhauer,P. 170
Vincent, M.R. 118
Vokes,F.E. 84
V66bus,A. 85,96,97
Wainwright, E.M. 241
Waldman,M.R. 70
Wallace, A.F.C. 69
Wedderburn, A. J.M. 121
Wilckens,U. 117
Wilkinson, J. 33
Williams, S.K. 134-36
Wilson, S. 146
Winter, D. 167,244
Witherington, B. 63
Wrede,W. 146
Wright, N.T. 63
Zeller,D. 176
Ziegler,K. 60

JOURNAL FOR THE STUDY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT
SUPPLEMENT SERIES
130

Craig S. Wansink, Chained in Christ: The Experience and Rhetoric of Paul's
Imprisonments
131 Stanley E. Porter and Thomas H. Olbricht (eds.), Rhetoric, Scripture and
Theology: Essays from the 1994 Pretoria Conference
132 J. Nelson Kraybill, Imperial Cult and Commerce in John's Apocalypse
133 Mark S. Goodacre, Goulder and the Gospels: An Examination of a New
Paradigm
134 Larry J. Kreitzer, Striking New Images: Roman Imperial Coinage and the New
Testament World
135 Charles Landon, A Text-Critical Study of the Epistle ofJude
136 Jeffrey T. Reed, A Discourse Analysis ofPhilippians: Method and Rhetoric in
the Debate over Lierary Integrity
137 Roman Garrison, The Graeco-Roman Context of Early Christian Literature
138 Kent D. Clarke, Textual Optimism: A Critique of the United Bible Societies'
Greek New Testament
139 Yong-Eui Yang, Jesus and the Sabbath in Matthew's Gospel
140 Thomas R. Yoder Neufeld, Put on the Armour of God: The Divine Warrior from
Isaiah to Ephesians
141 Rebecca I. Denova, The Things Accomplished among Us: Prophetic Tradition
in the Structural Pattern of Luke-Acts
142 Scott Cunningham, 'Through Many Tribulations': The Theology of Persecution
in Luke—Acts
143 Raymond Pickett, The Cross in Corinth: The Social Significance of the Death of
Jesus
144 S. John Roth, The Blind, the Lame and the Poor: Character Types in Luke-A cts
145 Larry Paul Jones, The Symbol of Water in the Gospel of John
146 Stanley E. Porter and Thomas H. Olbricht (eds.), The Rhetorical Analysis of
Scripture: Essays from the 1995 London Conference
147 Kim Paffenroth, The Story of Jesus According to L
148 Craig A. Evans and James A. Sanders (eds.), Early Christian Interpretation of
the Scriptures of Israel: Investigations and Proposals
149 J. Dorcas Gordon, Sister or Wife?: 1 Corinthians 7 and Cultural Anthropology
150 J. Daryl Charles, Virtue amidst Vice: The Catalog of Virtues in 2 Peter 1.5-7
151 Derek Tovey, Narrative Art and Act in the Fourth Gospel
152 Evert-Jan Vledder, Conflict in the Miracle Stories: A Socio-Exegetical Study of
Matthew 8 and 9
153 Christopher Rowland and Crispin H.T. Fletcher-Louis (eds.), Understanding,
Studying and Reading: New Testament Essays in Honour of John Ashton
154 Craig A. Evans and James A. Sanders (eds.), The Function of Scripture in Early
Jewish and Christian Tradition
155 Kyoung-Jin Kim, Stewardship and Almsgiving in Luke's Theology

156

I.A.H. Combes, The Metaphor of Slavery in the Writings of the Early Church:
From the New Testament to the Begining of the Fifth Century
157 April D. DeConick, Voices of the Mystics: Early Christian Discourse in the
Gospels of John and Thomas and Other Ancient Christian Literature
158 Jey. J. Kanagaraj, 'Mysticism' in the Gospel of John: An Inquiry into its Background
159 Brenda Deen Schildgen, Crisis and Continuity: Time in the Gospel of Mark
160 Johan Ferreira, Johannine Ecclesiology
161 Helen C. Orchard, Courting Betrayal: Jesus as Victim in the Gospel of John
162 Jeffrey T. Tucker, Example Stories: Perspectives on Four Parables in the
Gospel of Luke
163 John A. Darr, Herod the Fox: Audience Criticism andLukan Characterization
164 Bas M.F. Van Iersel, Mark: A Reader-Response Commentary
165 Alison Jasper, The Shining Garment of the Text: Gendered Readings of John's
Prologue
166 G.K. Beale, John's Use of the Old Testament in Revelation
167 Gary Yamasaki, John the Baptist in Life and Death: Audience-Oriented
Criticism of Matthew's Narrative
168 Stanley E. Porter and D.A. Carson (eds.), Linguistics and the New Testament:
Critical Junctures
169 Derek Newton, Deity and Diet: The Dilemma of Sacrificial Food at Corinth
170 Stanley E. Porter and Jeffrey T. Reed (eds.), Discourse Analysis and the New
Testament: Approaches and Results
111 Stanley E. Porter and Anthony R. Cross (eds.), Baptism, the New Testament and
the Church: Historical and Contemporary Studies in Honour ofR.E. O. White
172 Casey Wayne Davis, Oral Biblical Criticism: The Influence of the Principles of
Orality on the Literary Structure of Paul's Epistle to the Philippians
173 Stanley E. Porter and Richard S. Hess (eds.), Translating the Bible: Problems
and Prospects
11A J.D.H. Amador, Academic Constraints in Rhetorical Criticism of the New
Testament: An Introduction to a Rhetoric of Power
175 Edwin K. Broadhead, Naming Jesus: Titular Christology in the Gospel of Mark
176 Alex T. Cheung, Idol Food in Corinth: Jewish Background and Pauline Legacy
111 Brian Dodd, Paul's Paradigmatic 7': Personal Examples as Literary Strategy
178 Thomas B. Slater, Christ and Community: A Socio-Historical Study of the
Christology of Revelation
179 Alison M. Jack, Texts Reading Texts, Sacred and Secular: Two Postmodern
Perspectives
180 Stanley E. Porter and Dennis L. Stamps (eds.), The Rhetorical Interpretation of
Scripture: Essays from the 1996 Malibu Conference
181 Sylvia C. Keesmaat, Paul and his Story: (Re)Interpreting the Exodus Tradition
182 Johannes Nissen and Sigfred Pedersen (eds.), New Readings in John: Literary
and Theological Perspectives. Essays from the Scandinavian Conference on
the Fourth Gospel in Arhus 1997
183 Todd D. Still, Conflict at Thessalonica: A Pauline Church and its Neighbours

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David Rhoads and Kari Syreeni (eds.), Characterization in the Gospels:
Reconceiving Narrative Criticism
David Lee, Luke's Stories of Jesus: Theological Reading of Gospel Narrative
and the Legacy of Hans Frei
Stanley E. Porter, Michael A. Hayes and David Tombs (eds.), Resurrection
David A. Holgate, A Prodigality, Liberality and Meanness: The Prodigal Son in
Graeco-Roman Perspective
Jerry L. Sumney, 'Servants of Satan', 'False Brothers' and Other Opponents of
Paul: A Study of those Opposed in the Letters of the Pauline Corpus
Steve Moyise (ed.), The Old Testament in the New Testament: Essays in Honour
ofJ.L. North
John M. Court, The Book of Revelation and the Johannine Apocalyptic
Tradition
Stanley E. Porter, The Criteria for Authenticity in Historical-Jesus Research.
Previous Discussion and New Proposals
Stanley E. Porter and Brook W.R. Pearson (eds.), Christian-Jewish Relations
through the Centuries
Stanley E. Porter (ed.), Diglossia and other Topics in New Testament
Linguistics
Stanley E. Porter and Dennis L. Stamps (eds.), Rhetorical Criticism and the
Bible: Essays from the 1998 Florence Conference
J.M. Holmes, Text in a Whirlwind: A Critique of Four Exegetical Devices at 1
Timothy 2.9-15
F. Gerald Downing, Making Sense in (and of) the First Christian Century
Greg W. Forbes, The God of Old: The Role of the Lukan Parables in the
Purpose of Luke's Gospel
Kieran O'Mahony, O.S.A., Pauline Persuasion: A Sounding in 2 Corinthians
8-9
F. Gerald Downing, Doing Things with Words in the First Christian Century
Gustavo Martin-Asensio, Transitivity-Based Foregrounding in the Acts of the
Apostles: A Functional-Grammatical Approach
H. Benedict Green, CR, Matthew, Poet of the Beatitudes
Warren Carter, Matthew and the Margins: A Socio-Political and Religious
Commentary
David Edgar, Has God Not Chosen the Poor? The Social Setting of the Epistle
of James
Kyu Sam Han, Jerusalem and the Early Jesus Movement: The Q Community's
Attitude toward the Temple
Mark D. Chapman, The Coming Crisis: The Impact ofEschatology on Theology
in Edwardian England
Richard W. Johnson, Going Outside the Camp: The Sociological Function of
the Levitical Critique in the Epistle to the Hebrews
Bruno Blumenfeld, The Political Paul: Democracy and Kingship in Paul's
Thought
Ju Hur, A Dynamic Reading of the Holy Spirit in Luke-Acts

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Wendy E. Sproston North, The Lazarus Story within the Johannine Tradition
William O. Walker Jr, Interpolations in the Pauline Letters
Michael Labahn and Andreas Schmidt (eds.), The Teaching of Jesus and its
Earliest Records
Barbara Shellard, New Light on Luke: Its Purpose, Sources and Literary
Context
Stephanie L. Black, Sentence Conjunctions in the Gospel of Matthew: KCU, 8E,
TOTE, yap, ouvand Asyndeton in Narrative Discourse
Alf Christophersen, Carsten Claussen and Jorg Frey (eds.), Paul, Luke and the
Graeco-Roman World
Paul L. Danove, Linguistics and Exegesis in the Gospel of Mark: Applications
of a Case Frame Analysis and Lexicon
Iutisone Salevao, Legitimation in the Letter to the Hebrews: The Construction
and Maintenance of a Symbolic Universe
Alan R. Kerr, The Temple of Jesus' Body: The Temple Theme in the Gospel of
John
Janice Capel Anderson, Philip Sellew and Claudia Setzer (eds.), Pauline
Conversations in Context: Essays in Honor of Calvin J. Roetzel
David Neville, Mark's Gospel—Prior or Posterior? A Reappraisal of the
Phenomenon of Order
Demetrius K. Williams, Enemies of the Cross of Christ: The Terminology of the
Cross of Christ and Conflict in Philippians
J. Arthur Baird, Holy Word: The Paradigm of New Testament Formation
William Sanday, Essays in Biblical Criticism and Exegesis
Marion C. Moeser, The Anecdote in Mark, the Classical World and the Rabbis
Glenna S. Jackson, 'Have Mercy on Me': The Story of the Canaanite Woman in
Matthew 15.21-28
Stan Harstine, Moses as a Character in the Fourth Gospel: A Study of Ancient
Reading Techniques
Mogens Miiller and Henrik Tronier (eds.), The New Testament as Reception
Eric Eve, The Jewish Context of Jesus' Miracles
Thomas R. Hatina, In Search of a Context: The Function of Scripture in Mark's
Narrative
Terry Griffith, Keep Yourselves from Idols: A New Look at 1 John
Stanley E. Porter and Anthony R. Cross (eds.), Dimensions of Baptism: Biblical
and Theological Studies
Andy M. Reimer, Miracle and Magic: A Study in the Acts of the Apostles and
the Life ofApollonius ofTyana
Kieran J. O'Mahony, Christian Origins: Worship, Belief and Society