Bible Project

Major Quake, Tsunami Likely in Middle East, Study Finds

2007-07-27T17:22:00.000-07:00

The Middle East region—especially coastal cities such as Beirut, above—faces an impending earthquake from an underwater fault that rumbles every 1,500 years, scientists say. A Beirut research team recently identified the fault as the likely cause of a devastating quake in A.D. 551, which struck the coast of Phoenicia, now Lebanon. Photograph by Barry Iverson/Time & Life Pictures/Getty

Major Quake, Tsunami Likely in Middle East, Study Finds
Kate Ravilious
for National Geographic News
July 26, 2007

In A.D. 551, a massive earthquake spawned huge tsunamis that devastated the coast of Phoenicia, now Lebanon.
Now a new underwater survey has finally uncovered the fault likely responsible for the catastrophe and shown that it rumbles approximately every 1,500 years—which means a disaster is due any day now.
"It is just a matter of time before a destructive tsunami hits this region again," said Iain Stewart, an earthquake expert at the University of Plymouth in the United Kingdom not involved in the underwater survey.
The ample archaeological and historical evidence from the A.D. 551 earthquake indicate that it was truly a catastrophic event. The resulting tsunami damaged all major coastal cities between Tripoli and Tyr, and Tripoli was reported to have "drowned." (See a Lebanon map.)
Hitting the Jackpot
Earthquakes are common in Lebanon, but many of the faults remain hidden beneath the deep waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
Surveying the region is difficult because some of the continental shelf drops off very quickly in places, reaching water depths of around 4,921 feet (1,500 meters) only five miles (eight kilometers) from the shore.
Ata Elias of the National Center for Geophysical Research in Beirut, Lebanon, and his colleagues had a hunch that the fault responsible for the A.D. 551 earthquake would lie in this offshore region. So they did an underwater geophysical survey—and "hit the jackpot," Elias said.
By bouncing radio waves off the sea floor and studying the reflection patterns, Elias and his team were able to build a three-dimensional map showing all the lumps and bumps on the ocean bottom.
Running parallel to the Middle Eastern coast, they discovered a distinctive stepped ridge—the shape made by a "thrust" fault when one of Earth's tectonic plates shoves its way beneath another.
"We inferred that this thrust fault is the source of major earthquakes," Elias said.
The team was able to trace this fault along the coast for more than 62 miles (100 kilometers).
The findings are published in the August issue of the journal Geology.
Shell Secrets
Back on land the team found additional evidence to link this fault to the A.D. 551 earthquake. A "staircase" of platforms rising from present-day sea level shows how the land had moved upward each time the thrust fault moved.
Each time the thrust fault ruptured it lifted the coastline by around three feet (a meter), Elias said.
When the platforms were at sea level they were colonized by mollusks. But as soon as they were thrust out of the water by an earthquake the mollusks died.
By dating the mollusk shells on the raised platforms, Elias' team could determine when the thrust fault moved.
At least four earthquakes similar to the A.D. 551 quake have occurred over the past 6,000 to 7,000 years, the team found—suggesting a 1,500- to 1,750-year recurrence time for destructive quakes.
From the length of the thrust fault and the amount of uplift of the platforms on land, Elias and his colleagues estimate that the A.D. 551 earthquake must have had a magnitude of about 7.5 on the Moment magnitude scale, a more modern form of measurement than the Richter scale.
When the fault ruptured in A.D. 551, part of the the seafloor collapsed by around 5 to 10 feet (1.5 to 3 meters). This drop triggered a surging tsunami, which gained height rapidly as it pushed toward land.
Stewart of the University of Plymouth said the study is interesting, but remains cautious about blaming the newfound thrust fault for the A.D. 551 event.
"The Mediterranean has a lot of big earthquakes and there are lots of benches [platforms] everywhere. It is hard to link those benches to a particular fault," he said. (Related: "Ancient Tsunami Smashed Europe, Middle East, Study Says" [December 4, 2006].)
Nonetheless, he believes that the risk of another big earthquake occurring is very high, and should be taken seriously.
"In the past this area has had a lot of big earthquakes and tsunamis, but in modern history it has been quite quiet," Stewart said.
"We have been lulled into a false sense of security, just like we were in the [2004 Indian Ocean earthquake]."
Drowned Cities
Some of the many historical records from the time of the A.D. 551 earthquake describe the complete ruin of Berytus (Beirut), Jewel of Phoenicia, and the sea retreating one to two Roman miles, or 4,921 to 9,842 feet (1,500 to 3,000 meters) from shore, enough to ground mooring ships and uncover sunken ones.
More than 30,000 people died in Beirut alone. (Who were the Phoenicians?)
"If this earthquake and tsunami were repeated today, it would be a disaster of enormous proportions," said Sanford Holst, an author and expert on ancient Phoenicia.
More than 70 percent of Lebanon's roughly 4 million people live along the coast. The seaport of Beirut has a population of 1.5 million.
What's more, much of the country's infrastructure is also located along the coast. Major highways, electrical power stations, airports, and economic centers are all next to the sea, Elias said.
To prepare for the next big quake, many of the tall buildings that line the coast need to be reinforced to withstand earthquakes. New buildings need to be built with large earthquakes in mind. And people need to be informed.
"We need an earthquake and tsunami alert system and proper emergency plans," Elias said.

A cinder cone rises from the flank of Mount Etna in Italy. A new study says that an ancient landslide on Mount Etna triggered a series of killer waves along the Mediterranean coast from Italy to Egypt, wiping out Stone Age settlements. Photograph by J. Lowenstern/USGS

Ancient Tsunami Smashed Europe, Middle East, Study Says
James Owen
for National Geographic News
December 4, 2006

A massive tsunami smashed Mediterranean shores some 8,000 years ago when a giant chunk of volcano fell into the sea, researchers say.
Waves up to 165 feet (50 meters) high swept the eastern Mediterranean, triggered by a landslide on Mount Etna on the island of Sicily, according to the new study.
The research team says the natural disaster likely destroyed ancient communities, with a series of killer waves hitting the eastern Mediterranean coastline from Italy to Egypt.
Italian researchers based their findings on geological clues and evidence of a hastily abandoned Stone Age fishing settlement in Israel.
Maria Teresa Pareschi and colleagues at the National Institute of Geophysics and Volcanology in Pisa estimated the tsunami's strength by modeling the impact of the landslide from Etna, the tallest active volcano in Europe.
The team's calculation, published in the journal Geophysical Research Letters, shows that 6 cubic miles (25 cubic kilometers) of mountainside collapsed into the sea, generating giant waves that reached coasts as far away as the Middle East and North Africa.
The waves would have reached heights of about 165 feet (50 meters) off southern Italy, the team says, with a sea surge reaching 43 feet (13 meters) swamping parts of Greece and Libya.
Smaller waves hitting coasts farther away would also have had devastating power, according to Pareschi, who led the study.
"A tsunami wave height of a few meters can penetrate deeply inland," she said.
Long Waves
The team estimates the tsunami would have hit a maximum speed of around 450 miles an hour (725 kilometers an hour), taking a little over three and a half hours to reach what are now Israel and Egypt.
Evidence for the natural disaster comes mainly from disturbed sediments along the bottom of the Ionian Sea to the east of Sicily.
Tsunamis are known to destabilize soft marine sediments, the team notes, leaving telltale coverings of clay deposits after they reach land.
These deposits identify Mount Etna as the source of the tsunami and discount other possible causes, such as an asteroid strike or an undersea earthquake, the team says.
The researchers also speculate that a Neolithic village just off the coast of present-day Israel was hit by the tsunami.
The well-preserved Atlit-Yam settlement, which due to altered sea levels today lies submerged, "shows evidence of a sudden abandonment" 7,000 to 8,000 years ago, the researchers write.
These signs include a pile of gutted fish that had been processed and then "stored for future consumption," which was discovered buried under a layer of clay.
Secondary Tsunamis?
Further research by the Pisa-based team will investigate whether secondary tsunamis were set off by the sediment flows triggered by the initial tsunami from the Mount Etna collapse.
Pareschi said the probability of a new big collapse on Etna is low, but she added, "the eastern sector of the volcano is sliding toward the sea, and we have to understand very well the triggering mechanisms."
If the Etna tsunami had happened today, she said, the impact would be catastrophic, because the eastern Mediterranean coast is so densely populated.
Some ten percent of tsunamis worldwide occur in the Mediterranean.
The most recent volcano-triggered tsunami was caused by a landslide on the Italian island of Stromboli in the Tyrrhenian Sea in 2002.
The volume of the landslide "was however a thousand times smaller than the Mount Etna one," Pareschi said.
A tsunami early warning system is currently being developed for the Mediterranean and the northeastern Atlantic. Due to become operational in December 2007, it will form part of a global tsunami warning system coordinated by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO).
The measure follows in the wake of the devastating Indian Ocean tsunami, caused by an earthquake in December 2004, which struck coastlines with little or no warning.
Pareschi says the ancient Etna tsunami would have been comparable with the 2004 event, which claimed around 275,000 lives.

Who were the Phoenicians?
By Rick Gore

We know they dominated sea trade in the Mediterranean for 3,000 years. Now DNA testing and recent archaeological finds are revealing just what the Phoenician legacy meant to the ancient world—and to our own.

"I am a Phoenician," says the young man, giving the name of a people who vanished from history 2,000 years ago. "At least I feel like I'm one of them. My relatives have been fishermen and sailors here for centuries."
"Good, we can use some real Phoenicians," says Spencer Wells, an American geneticist, who wraps the young man's arm in a tourniquet as they sit on the veranda of a restaurant in Byblos, Lebanon, an ancient city of stone on the Mediterranean. The young man, Pierre Abi Saad, has arrived late, eager to participate in an experiment to shed new light on the mysterious Phoenicians. He joins a group of volunteers—fishermen, shopkeepers, and taxi drivers—gathered around tables under the restaurant awning. Wells, a lanky, 34-year-old extrovert, has convinced Saad and the others to give him a sample of their blood.
"What will it tell you?" Saad asks.
"Your blood contains DNA, which is like a history book," Wells replies. "Many different people have come to Byblos over the centuries, and your blood carries traces of their DNA. It's going to tell us something about your relationships going back thousands of years."
Wells has no doubts about the power of the new genetic techniques he is bringing to our understanding of ancient peoples. Nor does his bespectacled colleague standing beside him on the veranda, Pierre Zalloua, a 37-year-old scientist with a dark goatee and an intense passion for his Lebanese heritage. The two men hope to find new clues to an age-old riddle: Who were the Phoenicians?
Although they're mentioned frequently in ancient texts as vigorous traders and sailors, we know relatively little about these puzzling people. Historians refer to them as Canaanites when talking about the culture before 1200 B.C. The Greeks called them the phoinikes, which means the "red people"—a name that became Phoenicians—after their word for a prized reddish purple cloth the Phoenicians exported. But they would never have called themselves Phoenicians. Rather, they were citizens of the ports from which they set sail, walled cities such as Byblos, Sidon, and Tyre.
The culture later known as Phoenician was flourishing as early as the third millennium B.C. in the Levant, a coastal region now divided primarily between Lebanon, Syria, and Israel. But it wasn't until around 1100 B.C., after a period of general disorder and social collapse throughout the region, that they emerged as a significant cultural and political force.
From the ninth to sixth centuries B.C. they dominated the Mediterranean Sea, establishing emporiums and colonies from Cyprus in the east to the Aegean Sea, Italy, North Africa, and Spain in the west. They grew rich trading precious metals from abroad and products such as wine, olive oil, and most notably the timber from the famous cedars of Lebanon, which forested the mountains that rise steeply from the coast of their homeland.
The armies and peoples that eventually conquered the Phoenicians either destroyed or built over their cities. Their writings, mostly on fragile papyrus, disintegrated—so that we now know the Phoenicians mainly by the biased reports of their enemies. Although the Phoenicians themselves reportedly had a rich literature, it was totally lost in antiquity. That's ironic, because the Phoenicians actually developed the modern alphabet and spread it through trade to their ports of call.
Acting as cultural middlemen, the Phoenicians disseminated ideas, myths, and knowledge from the powerful Assyrian and Babylonian worlds in what is now Syria and Iraq to their contacts in the Aegean. Those ideas helped spark a cultural revival in Greece, one which led to the Greeks' Golden Age and hence the birth of Western civilization. The Phoenicians imported so much papyrus from Egypt that the Greeks used their name for the first great Phoenician port, Byblos, to refer to the ancient paper. The name Bible, or "the book," also derives from Byblos.
Today, Spencer Wells says, "Phoenicians have become ghosts, a vanished civilization." Now he and Zalloua hope to use a different alphabet, the molecular letters of DNA, to exhume these ghosts.

Healing stories and medical anthropology: a reading of Mark 10:46-52

2007-07-06T21:24:00.000-07:00

Healing stories and medical anthropology: a reading of Mark 10:46-52

Santiago Guijarro
Abstract

The healing stories of the Gospels have been studied by exegetes from a literary and a theological point of view. Both approaches have contributed greatly to a better understanding of them. Nevertheless none of these methodologies has been able to interpret those stories from their native point of view. The purpose of this article is to contribute to this native understanding of the healing stories. This aim is pursued by using some cross-cultural models taken from medical anthropology. These models can help us to imagine how Jesus and his contemporaries experienced and understood illness and healing. The first step is to elaborate a reading scenario combining these models and some literary and archaeological evidence. Then this model is applied to the story of the blind man of Jericho (Mark 10:46-52). This example shows how medical anthropology can be a tool for a more fruitful reading of the healing stories.

**********

Exegetes have frequently resorted to Western medicine to explain the meaning of the healings reported in the Gospels. This approach, however, has not proved to be very insightful for understanding the significance that illness and healing had for Jesus and his contemporaries. The attitude of these exegetes towards the gospel narratives is quite similar to that of Western doctors when they encounter patients from other cultures. Very often these doctors use the biomedical model to understand the symptoms communicated to them by these patients, instead of trying to interpret the symptoms using the cultural patterns of their patients' native culture (Good & Delvecchio Good: 165-66).

As a result of the inadequacy of the biomedical model to explain the original meaning of these accounts and of the social contexts in which they originated, exegetes have devoted themselves to the study of the literary and theological features of the passages (Theissen; Leon-Dufour; Latourelle). Such studies have contributed greatly to our understanding of the healing narratives, for it is true that they were cast in rather precise literary forms. It is also true that over time they came to embody ever more precise theological concepts, as is apparent in the passage we are going to consider in this article (Kertelge: 179-84; Robbins; Johnson). It must be recognized, however, that the main purpose of these narratives was that of reporting the healings performed by Jesus.

To understand the original meaning of these narratives we can turn to medical anthropology, a sub-discipline of cultural anthropology, whose object is the study of non-Western medical systems from a cross-cultural perspective (Worsley; Young). Scholars in this branch of learning have elaborated some conceptual models that are especially appropriate for a better understanding of illness and healing in Jesus' time.

This kind of approach was proposed twenty years ago in a very insightful study by P. Borgen, but his suggestion was not followed by mainstream scholarship. Almost at the same time J. Pilch began to publish in this journal a series of articles in which he applied different models taken from medical anthropological studies to New Testament texts (BTB 1981:142-50; 1985:142-50; 1986:102-06; 1988: 60-66; 1992:26-33). This and other studies have been collected and published recently in one volume (Pilch 2000). More recently H. Avalos has produced two interesting studies on the role of the temple in the health care system of the Ancient Near East (1995), and on the import of the health care strategies for the rise of Christianity (1999). Following the steps these studies have already taken, the purpose of this essay is to propose some anthropological models in order to understand in its own terms the healing of the blind man from Jericho as it is reported in Mark 10:46-52.

Reading Scenario: Different Forms of Understanding Illness and Healing

Medical anthropologists have discovered that there are many ways of understanding and experiencing health and illness. They have also shown that the ways in which an individual or a group perceives, symbolizes and reacts to illness and health are determined by their own culture. A. Kleinman, one of the most widely recognized authors in the field, has attempted to understand medicine as a cultural system that includes all elements related to health in a given society. These elements include the perception of illness and its etiology, the individual and collective ways of reacting to it, the values that determine both, and the therapeutic strategies available or the social institutions dedicated to health care. These elements are mutually connected and form an integrated cultural system (Kleinman: 24-25; Worsley: 327-30). This means that illness and healing can be adequately understood only within the framework of a specific culture.

The ways of understanding and experiencing health and illness in the world of Jesus and of the first Christians show noteworthy similarities with the "non-Western" medicines predominant in pre-industrial societies. The medical systems of these societies have in common a series of traits such as the following: (1) the symptoms of illness are explained on the basis of the belief that there exists an interdependence between the natural, the supernatural, the society, and the person; (2) the "healer" has a precise knowledge of the patient's social roles within the community and shares the values and social norms of the patient; and (3) participation in the healing process by other significant persons, mainly members of the extended family, relatives and neighbors, is decisive in the overall process. In contrast, Western bio-medicine, which is the prevailing model in industrialized societies, is rooted in an empirical conception of diseases, and its goal is the treatment of pathologies. As a result of those presuppositions, it does not pay much attention to the personal, social, and supernatural factors which determine the perception and interpretation of illness in most cultures (Worsley: 316-17; Good & Delvecchio Good: 167-74).

It is possible to be more precise on how illness and healing were perceived in the world of Jesus, and to identify the most relevant differences existing between that health care system and ours. To this end I will develop three conceptual models that allow a systematic comparison between various ways of understanding and experiencing health and illness. Using these models I will try to clarify (a) in which sector of the health care system the healing reported by Mark should be located, (b) which understanding of the illness is transparent in this episode and how it affected the status of the sick person; and (c) which was the therapeutic strategy followed by Jesus.

The Health Care System

The health care system is not a real entity but rather a conceptual model elaborated on the basis of what the persons involved think and do vis-a-vis health and illness in a given social context. This model includes, therefore, perceptions, expectations and value judgments that are not always conscious. But it also takes into account the reactions and patterns of behavior of those involved in the illness and in the healing process. Both the perception of illness and the reactions to it are governed by cultural values, and are subject to the influence of different social factors such as institutions, roles, and relations in which the evaluation and treatment of the illness take place. The cross-cultural nature of this model makes it especially appropriate to establish comparisons among different health systems (Kleinman: 25-27).

In its overall structure a health care system consists of three sectors which intersect in various ways: the popular sector, the professional sector, and the folk sector. In the popular sector, the most important one, the treatment of the illness is carried out by those belonging to the social networks of the sick person, notably family and relatives. It is in this non-specialized sector, deeply rooted in popular culture, where the treatment of illness is defined and initiated in most cases. The professional sector is governed by formal institutions and persons trained for this task through a socially sanctioned process. Because of their specialization, personnel in this sector usually propose their version of clinical reality as the only acceptable one. Finally, the folk sector comprises another series of different medical approaches. Some of them are close to the professional sector, but most are related to the popular one. It is in this last sector that we find the traditional healers (Kleinman: 49-60).

These three sectors are defined differently within each culture, and even within various social groups in the same culture. Furthermore, each culture establishes an implicit hierarchy which determines the way a sick person will pass from one sector to another in search of health. To correctly understand the story of Bar Timaeus' healing we must have a basic knowledge of these three sectors in the world of Jesus. This is not the place to make a complete description of the health care system of first-century Palestine. For our purposes it will be enough to locate some literary and archaeological data within the framework provided by the model, so as to identify and describe the health sector in which that healing must be placed.

In most cultures, the popular sector provides the first explanations and remedies to treat sickness. Considering the centrality of the family in the world of Jesus, we may assume that the participants in this first sector were above all those related to the sick person by kinship or fictive kinship ties. Thus, the popular sector's network included family relations, neighbors, clients and the patron. Usually the sick person and the social networks to which he belonged made use of the values and beliefs of the popular culture regarding specific illnesses in order to interpret them and react to them in a culturally meaningful way. The Gospel narratives provide us with some sporadic evidence about this sector. In them we find relatives that look after the sick (Mark 1:30) or ask for healing on their behalf (Mark 7:25; 9:17-18), we find also neighbors or clients that help the sick (Mark 2:3-4), and even patrons that intercede for their servants (Luke 7:74).

Given the prevalence of this sector in non-Western health care systems, we ought to suppose that this was also the most important sector in the health care system of first-century Palestine. This presupposition is confirmed when we consider the health care functions performed by the family vis-a-vis its members, although not every family was able to perform those functions in the same way (Guijarro 1998: 5941).

The practice of professional medicine in ancient Palestine is documented, at least within those social groups under Greek influence, from the Hellenistic period on. Ben Sim (Sir 38:1-15) praised physicians and their profession, but at the same time he reminded his readers that healing was always in God's hands (Noorda: 215-24). In the same vein, the Jewish historian Josephus mentions several times the activity of physicians in first-century Palestine (VITA 404; ANT 19.157; 7.343), pointing out their failures (BJ 1.598) and their inability to heal, as in the case of Herod the Great (ANT 15.245-246). Even Jesus referred to himself in a figurative way as a physician (Mark 2:17; Gos Thom 31). In spite of these positive references, the traditional attitude towards physicians in Israelite society was one of distrust. Israelite monotheism could think of God alone as the source of health, and consequently healing could be acquired only through his mediators, especially through the prophets, who were the authorized consultants in the traditional health care system of the Israelite society (Avalos 1995: 260-77).

As in the rest of the Hellenistic-Roman world, professional physicians, following the teachings of Hippocrates, sought to find out the causes of illnesses and their remedies. These professionals had a global, philosophical perspective on the cosmos and an integrated idea of the human person (Scarborough; Kee: 49-101; Seybold & Mueller: 98-100). The Gospels mention only one case of recourse to this professional sector, the one of the hemorrhaging woman, and they do not fail to mention the fact that she had spent a great fortune on physicians (Mark 5:25-26).

To this same sector of professional medicine can be ascribed most of the activities carried out in the sanctuaries of Aesculapius and in the therapeutic baths. In them, besides the therapies of the Hippocratic medicine, we find the practice of other therapeutic treatments, such as the incubatio (Seybold & Mueller: 101-02). We do not know for sure whether there existed in first-century Palestine sanctuaries devoted to Aesculapius or to Serapis, the healing gods more popular at the time, but excavations at the pool of Bethesda have shown that this place could have been one of them. Since the well-known study of A. Duprez on Jesus and the healing gods, this site has been identified as the scenario where the healing of the paralytic narrated in John 5:2-9 took place, but this identification has been challenged by recent research (Devilliers; Boismard). In any case it seems that the site was a healing center at least from the Hellenistic period on (Pierre & Rousse: 26-27). We can be more sure about the existence of therapeutic baths. Josephus mentions the fountains of Callirhoe, to which Herod was sent by his physicians (ANT 17.171), and the archaeologists have uncovered other similar facilities on both sides of the Jordan in the Hellenistic and Roman period (Dvorjetski; Weber).

Finally, folk medicine, the third sector, which reached beyond the circle of family, relatives and neighbors, depended on different specialists who did not practice professional medicine. An outstanding feature of this sector is its proximity to the popular sector, with which it shares a common understanding of sickness and its etiology. Folk medicine is the realm of magic and exorcism, and the arena of popular healers who constitute its most representative figures. Popular healers share a set of traits in different cultures: they share their patients' worldview and understand health and illness very much like them; they accept the symptoms presented to them as coincident elements of a syndrome; they treat their patients outdoors, and they usually live in close proximity to the social situation of the sick person (Pilch 1991: 198-200).

In the Hellenistic-Roman world this type of popular healer was quite common. In most cases, their healings were a means to confirm the authority of their doctrine and the basis of the claims they made about their person (Graham: 103-05). In the Israelite tradition, as we have seen, the most representative figure of this kind of popular healer was the healing prophet. This type of healer was not uncommon in the time of Jesus, although he himself was the most outstanding instance in first-century Palestine. Other contemporary healers, like Honni and Hannina ben Dosa, share with him, among other traits, a close resemblance to the prophet Elijah (Green; Vermes: 6446; Meier: 581-88).

Access to these three sectors of the health care system was determined by different factors. We can suppose that popular medicine was always the first recourse. When healing could not be achieved through it, resourceful families would have recourse to professional medicine, but this was a luxury reserved to very few. Moreover, it is very probable that among the most traditional strata of Palestinian society (those on the lowest rung), recourse to this kind of medicine would stir up considerable distrust, since in some way it could be an affront against the sovereignty of God over health and illness. For the majority there remained recourse to the popular healers of folk medicine. This would avoid conflict with traditional allegiance to Israel's God, because in the end it was a type of religious healing. It is in this sector of folk medicine that the healings of Jesus must be located.

The Explanatory Model

There is always an explanatory model, explicit or implicit, behind the various ways of understanding illness and of behaving when confronted with it. An explanatory model is a simplified, abstract representation of some complex real-world interaction, consisting of a set of directives followed by those participating in a healing episode in order to understand and treat the illness. The purpose of such models is to offer an explanation of the illness, to help one choose among the various available therapies, and to provide meaning to the illness from the personal and social point of view. The explanatory model in vogue is the one that determines which symptoms are relevant and which are not, and how they are to be interpreted and treated (Kleinman: 104-10).

Underlying explanatory models surface in various ways in the semantic fields of the illness, that is in the terms and expressions spontaneously used to refer to the illness in question (Young: 266-68). This means that to understand the explanatory model of a given illness, we have to pay close attention to the semantic field used by whoever describes it. The data that are not "familiar" to us in the story of the healing of the blind man of Jericho and in other New Testament healing stories are, in fact, the entrance door to the explanatory model of illness and health shared by Jesus and his contemporaries.

The explanatory models employed in the various sectors of the health care system, especially in the popular and in the folk sectors, depend in large measure on the cultural interpretation of sickness. The difference between sickness and its cultural interpretation is reflected in the terminology used by medical anthropologists. They usually distinguish between disease and illness. Disease refers to abnormalities in the structure or functioning of a bodily organ or system of organs, whereas illness refers to the perceptions and experiences that a person has of his/her condition (Young: 264-46).

Understanding sickness as illness is, then, a cultural process. All cultures have patterns of perceiving, comprehending, explaining, assessing, and treating the symptoms of sickness. These patterns are influenced by personal and family perceptions, and through them by the cultural values of each society. The assessment of sickness takes place by a process of labeling symptoms and the sickness itself, as well as by expressing its significance for the individual and the group to which he or she belongs. In this way, the sickness itself takes on a precise meaning and is shaped according to certain patterns of behavior, being thereby transformed into a specific cultural form. That cultural form is what we call an illness (Kleinman: 72-80).

As a result of this process, the cultural construction of a sickness establishes (a) the way it is understood and explained; (b) the way it affects the status of the sick person; and (c) how to treat it, depending on the therapeutic strategies available (Avalos 1999: 23-27). This last aspect will be considered later. Now I turn to the first and second, which are more closely related to the explanatory model.

Two relatively recent studies can introduce us into the cultural understanding of sickness and its etiology in the ancient world: the study of L. Wells concerning the vocabulary of healing in the Greek world, and that of L. P. Hogan on illness and health in the Second Temple Israel. Both of them review a large amount of literary and epigraphic evidence that reveals how people understood sickness at that time, especially in the popular and folk sectors.

Wells has studied the language of healing employed in the dedications and inscriptions of the major Aesculapius shrines of the Hellenistic world and in the New Testament. After a detailed consideration of both sets of documents, she concludes that the terminology used in these two contexts is the same and has almost identical meaning. Her conclusion reveals that the explanatory models of illness were broadly shared in the Hellenistic-Roman world (Wells: 100-431; 219-29).

The focus of Hogan study is the understanding of healing in Second Temple Israel. He scrutinizes the literary documents of that period and concludes that Judeans of the period believed God was ultimately behind all illnesses, even though a given illness could be brought about concretely by various agents or causes: God Himself for some concrete reason; God's agents (angels, demons etc.); evil spirits; stars; and, above all, sin. God was also the ultimate source of healing and health, but there were various means for restoring health. The principal ones were faith and prayer, repentance, exorcisms, physicians, folk medicine, and magic. Not all these means had the same value, but all of them share the same religious explanatory model, which did not separate the natural from the supernatural, the social from the personal (Hogan: 306-10). In any case, these features provide us with a very general framework which has to be filled out in each case, taking into consideration the terminology used.

All these issues on the nature of sickness, its etiology and therapeutic strategies are a wide framework in which we must place the "regional" differences that shape many aspects of the cultural understanding of sickness and healing. Thus, for example, the Israelite explanatory model was configured by the Levitical system of purity, something which was not so prominent in other healing traditions of the Hellenistic world (Avalos 1999:34-58). In every instance it is necessary to find out how the general framework and the local tradition interact to configure the explanatory model.

A crucial aspect of every explanatory model is the way in which it determines the status of the sick person. In most cultures sickness is interpreted in terms of social deviance, and consequently it attaches an stigma to the sick person. The degree of stigmatization and its precise meaning depend on how a particular sickness is perceived. In the Levitical health care system, for example, some chronic diseases, such as leprosy, attached to the sick person a stigma that required his or her exclusion from the community (Lev 13-15). This exclusion was not for sanitary purposes, but was the consequence of a purity system. This same understanding of purity determined that those who were affected by some physical blemishes such as lameness, deafness or blindness were not allowed to enter the Temple. To rightly understand the meaning of those stigmas we need to bear in mind that in the Mediterranean society of the first century the status of a person was perceived then in terms of honor and shame, which were the core values of that culture.

The Therapeutic Strategy

An important aspect of every health care system is its therapeutic strategy. A therapeutic strategy is basically the procedure followed to treat an illness in order to obtain healing. The first step in this process is to establish a hierarchy among the therapeutic options available, that is among the different sectors of the health care system. Once this hierarchy has been established, each sector initiates its own therapeutic strategy.

The therapeutic strategy is the most noticeable feature in the healing stories of the Gospels. But it is also the most difficult aspect to understand for the Western reader. The reason is that the therapeutic strategies that appear in the gospel narratives presuppose an understanding of sickness and healing which is foreign to us. This understanding is derived from the explanatory model of popular and folk medicine of the first-century Mediterranean world, whereas the therapeutic strategies known to us derive from the biomedical model of Western professional medicine. To understand those stories in their own terms, then, we need a tool that may enable us to draw comparisons between the process of curing disease as professional Western medicine understands it, and the process of healing illness as it was understood in first-century popular and folk medicine.

Good and Delvechio Good have developed such a tool. They consider different steps in the interpretation and treatment of symptoms, and make a parallel description of the therapeutic strategy followed by the biomedical model and that of the cultural model (Good St Delvecchio Good: 167-81). Both processes are determined by various cultural assumptions and consequently employ different explanatory models. The biomedical model is rooted in an empiricist conception of sickness based on organ malfunction; this is the model prevalent in Western medicine that determines its interpretation and treatment of the symptoms. In contrast, the cultural model understands sickness not simply as a pathology, but as a significant human reality. Consequently it considers healing as a hermeneutic process whose goal is to interpret that reality. The following chart summarizes the different steps and the strategies followed by both models (Good & Delvecchio Good: 179)

BIOMEDICAL MODEL
(Empiricist)

Pathological Entity Somatic of
psychophysiological
lesion or dysfunction
Structure of Relevance Relevant data are
those that reveal so-
matic disorder
Elicitation Procedures Review of systems
laborotory tests
Interpretive Goal Diagnosis and expla-
nation (Erklaren)
Interpretive Strategy Dialectically explore
relationship between
symptoms and
somatic disorder
Therapeutic Goal Intervene in somatic
disease process

CULTURAL MODEL
(Hermeneutic)

Pathological Entity Meaningful construct,
illness reality of the
sufferer
Structure of Relevance Relevant data are
those that reveal
meaning of illness
Elicitation Procedures Evaluate explanatory
models, decode
semantic network
Interpretive Goal Understanding
(Verstehen)
Interpretive Strategy Dialectically explore
relationship between
symptoms(text) and
semantic network
(context)
Therapeutic Goal To treat patient's expe-
rience: to bring to
understanding hid-
den aspects of illness
reality and to trans-
form that reality
The biomedical model is suitable for understanding disease and cure in the professional sector of contemporary Western medicine, but it is of little relevance when applied to other sectors of Western medicine. It is also inadequate when sickness is perceived and experienced according to patterns of other, non-Western cultures such as those in the gospel stories. In these cases, the cultural model is much more useful. As we shall see further on, many of the "strange" traits that appear in the gospel accounts of healing can be explained much better with the help of this second model.

The Healing of the Blind Man of Jericho (Mark 10:46-52)

The healing of the blind man of Jericho is one of the most elaborate miracle stories in the whole New Testament. The presence of some theological accents characteristic of Mark's Gospel, and its place at the end of a section centered on teaching about discipleship (Mark 8:31-10:52), reveal its catechetical character. This feature is equally apparent in the story of the healing of the possessed boy (Mark 9:14-29). Both of these healings, the last "miracles" related by Mark, are presented to the reader/hearer as "didactic examples" (Kertelge: 182-84). Such theological adaptation may have removed from the story some characteristic traits of the healing process which are more evident in other healing stories (touching, laying on of hands, use of saliva). But it is still possible to discover signs that reveal how Jesus and his contemporaries understood this episode.

The Health Care System

The first step to an adequate understanding of the story reported by Mark is to locate it in the framework of the health care system of that time, and to find out in which sector of that system it should be placed.

The reference to the family can be indicative of the treatment of illness in the popular sector. This reference is implicit in the man's name, and perhaps was explained later to those who did not understand the meaning of the name, ("son of Timaeus"). Since the family was the most important social institution in the ancient world, it was the first place where healing was looked for. It is evident that Bar Timaeus' family was unsuccessful in providing a remedy for his blindness. The mention of his father shows that the family was affected by his situation. As in the case of the beggar asking alms at the Temple gate (Acts 3:2), it is probable that his family had not detached itself from him.

We can presuppose, therefore, that Bar Timaeus approached Jesus after having sought healing in the popular medicine sector without success. There is no indication that he had resorted to the professional medicine of his time. No doubt, there would be physicians in Jericho as well as in Jerusalem, but only the members of elite families had access to them, The only recourse available to Bar Timaeus, as to so many other sick persons of his time, was a folk healer.

Most of the traits that characterize folk healers appear, in fact, in the encounter of Jesus with Bar Timaeus: Jesus accepts the description the sick man gives of his illness and shares his understanding of it, because he asks no questions about its nature or etiology; the encounter takes place out. doors; the vocabulary used by both reflects a system of shared beliefs, and the therapy occurs through a dialogue. Both Jesus and Bar Timaeus interpret the illness and its healing in religious terms. The compassion Bar Timaeus asks for is an attribute of God, and his request presupposes that only God can bestow healing. Jesus responds to him by attributing the healing to his attitude of faith.

These traits of the folk healer, many of which are common to folk healers of other cultures, were patterned in the Israelite society by the tradition of the prophet healer connected precisely to the town of Jericho and its surroundings. The ideal type of the Israelite heater who acted as mediator between God and the sick person was the prophet Elijah (I Kgs 17:17-24) and his disciple Elisha (2 Kgs 4:8-37; 5:1-19). Jesus was not the only folk healer in first-century Palestine. We know of at least two other figures: Honi and Hannina ben Dosa, whose activity as folk healers and popular miracle workers can be still discerned in the rabbinic traditions (Green: 646-47). Like John the Baptist and Jesus himself (Mark 6:15 par.; 8:28 par.; Luke 4:26; John 1:21), Honi and Hannina were associated by their contemporaries with Elijah. The setting of the story in Jericho could be a way of relating Jesus to him.

This initial consideration of the story from the perspective of the health care system of the time reveals a perception of illness and healing which cannot be reduced to its biological aspects. The societal and religious implications of the story are equally evident. We might also observe that the sick person's trip in search of healing had probably begun before Bar Timaeus met Jesus, as in the case of the hemorrhaging woman (Mark 5:25-27), or the paralytic of Bethesda (John 5:57). The fact that his father is mentioned points to the popular sector of medicine as the first step in this search. In any case, the context in which this healing episode must be understood is that of Israelite folk medicine, whose most prominent figure was the prophet who heals in God's name. Jesus acts as a folk healer following the steps of Elijah, and in so doing he claims to be the legitimate intermediary through which God grants healing to the sick. This explains the centrality of faith in this and in other healing stories.

The Explanatory Model

To grasp the way Jesus and his contemporaries understood and experienced illness and healing, we need to identify the explanatory model they used to interpret these experiences. To this end, we must explore the semantic field of the sickness--that is, the words used to name and describe it and everything around it. This especially includes all those traits that we find rather strange, such as Bar Timaeus' request for compassion, the titles with which he addresses Jesus and the response of Jesus ascribing the healing to his faith.

These traits reveal that Jesus and the first Christians shared with their contemporaries the belief that God was the source of illness and healing (Exod 15:26). Although the causes of the blindness are not mentioned in the story, we can presuppose that first-century Israelites ascribed it to the influence of a demon (Matt 12:22), or perhaps to some personal or inherited sin (John 9:2). These beliefs constituted the common framework, but to grasp the full significance of the story we must be more specific about the meaning of blindness and the implications of this condition in first-century Mediterranean societies.

A brief consideration of the use of terms related to vision (blind, eye, to see) in the New Testament reveals a complex reality that goes beyond the physical ability (Michaelis: 340-46). "The blind" was a symbolic representation of those that could not guide others (Matt 15:15; 23:16-24; Luke 6:39; Rom 2:19). "The eye" could be a source of scandal (Matt 5:29; Mark 9:47), of desire (Matt 5:27-28; 1 John 2:16), and even an instrument to harm others (Matt 6:22-23; 20:5). Closed eyes expressed the inability to understand (Matt 13:15; Luke 24:16), while raised eyes were a means to communicate with God through prayer (Luke 16:23; 18:15; John 6:5; 17:1). In the ancient world there was a very close relationship between the eyes and the heart (Eph 1:18), so that when the eyes were shut the heart was unable to understand (John 12:40; Matt 13:15; Acts 28:27; 1 Cor 2:9). In Cicero we read that the eyes were the way to the heart (Cicero, DE LEGIBUS 1.26-27; ORATIONES 3.221), a belief that can also be found in the Old Testament (Jenni & Vetter: 336-46).

This relationship between the eyes and the heart derives from an understanding of the human person in terms of three symbolic zones: one of emotion-fused thought, which functions through the eyes and the heart; one of self-revelation through speech, which operates through the mouth and the ears; and one of deliberate action, which finds expression through the hands and feet (Malina: 73-77). This perception of the individual is one of the taxonomies that can help us understand sickness and healing in the ancient Mediterranean world (Pitch 1991:203-07). Of these three zones that constitute the human being, the first is crucial for knowledge of the individual. For this reason, the ancient physiognomists looked at the study of the eyes as a fundamental task to ascertain or describe a person's character (Malina & Neyrey: 26-27). The eyes were not only an instrument of vision but also a channel of communication between persons and a way of access to their innermost self. All such functions were closed off to a blind person.

Anthropological studies have emphasized that this insistence on the eyes and vision, as well as on the visual dimensions of things, is a common element in the Mediterranean societies, where the eye is "an instrument of knowledge, power, predation, dominance and sexuality" (Gilmore: 197). For this reason public exposure to the gaze of others implies a violation of the body, and the fear of such exposure is an important means of control (seclusion of women, veiling, interior courts, etc.). This preponderance of everything which is visual finds expression in the belief in the "evil eye," which is one of the most characteristic traits of Mediterranean societies (Elliott; Duncam & Derret). According to this belief, some persons have the power to injure other people through the eye and the sense of sight, generally as a consequence of envy or greed. For that reason the evil eye is sometimes synonymous with envy (Matt 20:5). This pervasive belief reveals the conviction that the eye and vision constitute an instrument of power over others.

This perception of the meaning and power of the eye and vision determines the understanding Jesus and his contemporaries had of blindness. The blind person was, in a certain way, someone whose access to the center of the emotions and thought (the heart) was barred, whether from inside to outside (desires, emotions), or from outside to inside (evil eye). The lack of vision would separate him to some extent from the social interactions which revolved around honor, because honor and shame were visual values. For that reason, perhaps the most noteworthy aspect of blindness was the lack of power that it implied: he who could not see could not control others nor influence their lives.

These cultural clues shape the social condition of the blind person. In most cultures, as we have seen, sickness assigns to the sick person a deviant status. In the Mediterranean culture this deviant status was understood and expressed in terms of its core values, that is in terms of honor and shame. When the ancient rhetoric treatises talk about the enkomion they consider good health as an attribute of the honorable person, but illness as something shameful (Malina & Neyrey: 140-41). The dishonorable condition of Bar Timaeus is pointed up in various details of the story: he is a beggar, he is outside the city, and he is not allowed to address Jesus. The name of the father (Timaios = honorable) and the son's condition may provide subtle allusions to the dishonor (atimos = dishonorable) affecting the entire family.

The social condition of Bar Timaeus is depicted in terms, not of physical deficiency but of social exclusion because blindness would render one incapable of actively taking part in major social interactions. This perception of blindness in terms of social exclusion appears in some passages of the Israelite literature that presuppose the Levitical health care system. In 2 Sam 5:6-8 the author quotes a popular saying: "The blind and the lame will not enter the house of the Lord." And, according to the Levitical prescriptions, among the descendants of Aaron that were not allowed to present the offering were "the blind and the lame" (Lev 21:18). In Jesus' time the exclusion of the blind was even more emphasized, at least in some religious groups in which purity was a central concern. In one of the halakhic documents found in the Qumran caves we read that the blind and the deaf are not pure "because those who cannot see or hear cannot observe [the Law]" (4QMMT 56-57), and in the Temple Scroll it is stated that the blind should be barred not only from the Temple, but also from the holy city: "No blind will enter it in all his life; he will not defile the holy city in whose center I dwell" (11QTemple 45:12-14).

As a result, healing was defined, not in physical but rather in social terms. For that reason the healing of the blind, the deaf, and the lame was a literary paradigm used in the prophetic writings to announce the restoration of the people of God (Clements). It is no accident that, in the story, the blind man's recovery of sight is followed by integration into the group of Jesus' disciples. This integration is in fact the last step in a process of social reintegration which runs through the entire story. The first step is to address Jesus without paying attention to those who command him to be silent. Then Bar Timaeus leaves behind the signs of his exclusion: his place beside the road and the beggar's mantle. And finally he talks to Jesus, asking him for healing. It is evident that, in Mark's view, this process describes the ideal itinerary of disciples. They must recover their sight to be able to follow Jesus on the way to the cross (Mark 10:51). But before this passage was placed in Mark's account, the story of the healing of the blind man may have been one more example of the social reintegration of outcasts through which Jesus expressed the coming of the kingdom of God (Guijarro 1999: 123-24).

The Therapeutic Strategy

The therapeutic strategy that surfaces in this story is better understood when we place it in the folk sector of the health care system of Jesus' time, and when we know the social connotations of blindness at that time. We explore this therapeutic strategy now, using the comparative model proposed by Good & Delveccio Good.

The first stage of the healing process is the appearance of the sickness. Cultural patterns would orient the sick person and those who were related to him/her (family, relatives, neighbors, etc.) to perceiving that condition in social rather than in biological terms. For them blindness was not (as we have already noted) primarily a physiological pathology but rather an illness with social implications.

The second stage is the search for relevant data about the sickness. This is the stage at which Western medicine looks for symptoms that reveal the existence of a known pathology. This interest is completely lacking in the story. Rather what we are told about are signs revealing the meaning of the illness. The place where Bar Timaeus is situated, his begging condition, the fact that he is not permitted to speak to Jesus ... all these features indicate which symptoms were relevant for them.

The third stage looks to the identification of the sickness. Here the explanatory model shared by Jesus and his contemporaries must be taken into consideration, and this can be achieved through the scrutiny of the semantic field employed. This semantic field includes references to the origin of the sickness (perhaps sin) and of the healing (God). This semantic field reveals an emic understanding of blindness, which involves the importance of everything visual in ancient Mediterranean culture. Unlike the biomedical model, which focuses principally on the physical examination of the patient, the cultural model takes various dimensions of human experience into account: the natural (physical blindness), the divine (only God and faith can heal), the personal (the inability to see), and the social (exclusion and dishonor). In the story all these dimensions are related, but the divine and social dimensions come to the fore and are thus the most important for identifying the significance of blindness.

The interpretive goal of this process is not, as in the biomedical model, diagnosing and explaining physical symptoms, but rather understanding the meaning that the illness has for the patient. Consequently the interpretive strategy does not rest on exploring the relation between the physical symptoms and dysfunctions but rather on exploring the relation between the symptoms and the semantic field of the illness. This is precisely what we find in the story, mainly in the brief dialogue between Jesus and Bar Timaeus. Twice Bar Timaeus begs Jesus to have compassion on him, but Jesus makes him articulate his request in a more specific way: "What do you want me to do for you?" The reader gets the impression that the blind man does not want to mention his blindness because of the social connotations it bears, but Jesus compels him to relate his situation (beggar, at the edge of the road, etc.) to its source, and he makes him ask openly to remedy the source of his social exclusion and his shame.

Finally, the healing process does not rest on intervening in the somatic process of the pathology but in treating the patient's experience by establishing a new frame of reference. This aspect is more evident in this story than in other healings of blind people. Jesus pays no attention to the physical dimensions of the sickness (he neither lays hands on him nor applies dust or saliva); rather, he concentrates on its meaning. The healing is interpreted in terms of salvation which occurs thanks to faith in God. The first consequence of the man's recovering his sight is his incorporation into Jesus' group of disciples. This creates a new significant social framework that erases all the signs of the social exclusion caused by the stigma attached to the sickness: he is not beside the road but on it, he has thrown away the beggar's mantle, and what is most important, he finds welcome in a new social group.

Conclusion

In this essay, I have tried to show the usefulness of medical anthropology for an adequate understanding of healing stories in the Gospels. I am aware that the model presented is somewhat incomplete, but thanks to that model we have been able to discover some features implicit in the story and to interpret other features that are better understood from this perspective.

The analysis of Mark 10:46-52 with the help of this reading scenario has shown, first of all, that the healing of Bar Timaeus is better understood when placed into the structure of the prevailing health care system of first-century Palestine. The story belongs in the folk sector of that system, but it is noteworthy that at first the case was dealt with in the popular sector, and that Timaeus' family had no access to the professional sector. As we have seen the folk sector of the Israelite health care system was closely related to the tradition of the prophet healer. This relationship points to the Israelite roots of Jesus' healing activity.

The study of the explanatory model that the story takes for granted helps to clarify how blindness was understood and experienced at the time of Jesus. For Jesus and his contemporaries it was not only a disease but an illness that had strong religious, social, and cultural implications. According to the Levitical purity system, blindness implied, first of all, an exclusion from the political religious system. This exclusion was symbolized in the prohibition to enter the Temple. Furthermore, in a society which had honor as its core value, blindness entailed also a social segregation, because those who could not see were unable to participate in the main social interactions.

On the other hand, understanding the story from the perspective of the cultural model of the healing process allows us to unveil the purpose of the healings performed by Jesus. In them the "miraculous" dimension, emphasized in traditional apologetics, was really of little importance. What was important was the social and political religious nature of the process. The healing of the blind man implies a healing of the roots of sin, which occurs through faith in the God of Israel (political religious dimension), and a social reintegration that entails the removal of all the signs of his exclusion (social dimension).

Finally, a better knowledge of how sickness and healing was perceived in the social context of Jesus can be of great help to elucidate the specific traits of his activity as a healer. Perhaps the most relevant one was his therapeutic strategy. His therapeutic strategy was completely different from the one promoted by the Levitical health care system. These two strategies rest on different understandings of purity. Whereas the Levitical system promoted the exclusion of the sick, the strategy followed by Jesus strove for his inclusion. Jesus' healings, like his exorcisms and his meals, expressed what the kingdom of God meant in a culturally relevant and eloquent manner. One of the most revealing signs of the coming of this kingdom was the social reintegration of outcasts. Eating with sinners, healing the lame and the blind, and exorcizing the possessed were various manifestations of one and the same project: to show how the kingdom of God was present in the activity of Jesus.

Works Cited

Avalos, H. 1999. HEALTH CARE AND THE RISE OF CHRISTIANITY. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson.

1995. ILLNESS AND HEALTH CARE IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST, THE ROLE OF TEMPLE IN GREECE, MESOPOTAMIA AND ISRAEL. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press.

Boismard, M.-E. 1999. Betzata ou Siloe? REVUE BIBLIQUE 106: 206-18.

Borgen, P. 1981. Miracles of Healing in the New Testament. Some Observations. STUDIA THEOLOGICA 35:91-106.

Clements, R. E. 1988. Patterns in the Prophetic Canon: Healing the Blind and the Lame. Pp. 189-200 in CANON, THEOLOGY AND OLD TESTAMENT INTERPRETATION. ESSAYS IN HONOR OF BREVARD S. CHILDS, edited by G. M. Tucker, D. L. Petersen, & R. R. Wilson. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press.

Devillers, L. 1999. Une Piscine peru en cachet une autre. A propos de Jean 5, 1-9a. REVUE BIBLIQUE 106:175-205.

Duncam M., & J. Derret. 1995. The Evil Eye in the New Testament. Pp. 65-72 in MODELLING EARLY CHRISTIANITY. SOCIAL-SCIENTIFIC STUDIES OF THE NEW TESTAMENT IN ITS CONTEXT, edited by P. F. Esler. London, UK/New York, NY: Routledge.

Duprez, A. 1970. JESUS ET LES DIEUX GUERISEURS. (Cahiers de la Revue Biblique, n. 12). Paris: Gabalda.

Dvorjetski, E. 1992. Medical Hot Springs in Eretz Israel and in the Decapolis during the Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Periods. ARAM 4:425-49.

Elliott, J. H. 1988. The Fear of the Leer: The Evil Eye from the Bible ot Li'l Abner. FORUM 4:442-71.

Gilmore, D. D. 1982. Anthropology of the Mediterranean Area. ANNUAL REVIEW OF ANTHROPOLOGY 11:175-205.

Good, B., & M.-J. Delvecchio Good. 1980. The Meaning of Symptoms. A Cultural Hermeneutic Model for Clinical Practice. Pp. 165-96 in THE RELEVANCE OF SOCIAL SCIENCE FOR MEDICINE, edited by L. Eisenberg & A. Kleinman. Drodrecht, Germany/Boston, MA/Lancaster, PA: A. Reidel Publishing Company.

Green, W. S. 1979. Pakstinian Holy Men: Charismatic Leadership and Rabbinic Tradition. Pp. 619-47 in AUFSTIEG LIND NIEDERGANG DER ROMISCHEN WELT Vol II, 19.2, edited by H. T. Haase. Berlin, Germany/New York, NY: Walter de Gruyter.

Guijarro, S. 1999, The Politics of Exorcism: Jesus' Reaction to Negative Labels in the Beelzebul Controversy. BIBLICAL THEOLOGY BULLETIN 29:118-29.

1988. FIDELIDADES EN CONFLICTO. LA RUPTURA CON LA FAMILIA POR CAUSA DEL DISCIPULADO Y DE LA MISION EN LA TRADICION SINOPTICA. Salamanca, Spain: Universidad Pontificia.

Hogan, L. P. 1992. HEALING IN THE SECOND TEMPLE PERIOD. (Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus, n. 21) Freiburg, Germany: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

Jenni, E, & Vetter, D., `ayn Ojo. Pp. 336-46 in DICCIONARIO TEOLOGICO MANUAL DEL ANTIGUO TESTAMENTO, edited by E. Jenni & C. Westermann. Madrid, Spain: Ed. Cristiandad.

Johnson, E. S. 1978. Mark 10:46-52. Blind Bartimaeus. CATHOLIC BIBLICAL QUARTERLY 40: 191-204.

Kertelge, K. 1970. DIE WUNDER JESU IM MARKUSEVANGELIUM. Munchen: Kosel Verlag.

Kleinman, A. 1980. PATIENTS AND HEALERS IN THE CONTEXT OF CULTURE. AN EXPLORATION OF THE BORDERLAND BETWEEN ANTHROPOLOGY, MEDICINE AND PSYCHIATRY. Berkeley & Los Angeles, CA/London, UK: University of California Press.

Latourelle, R. 1990. MILAGROS DE JESUS Y TEOLOGIA DEL MILAGRO. Salamanca, Spain: Ed. Sigueme.

Leon-Dufour, X. (ed.) 1979. LOS MILAGROS DE JESUS. Madrid, Spain: Ed. Cristiandad.

Malina, B. J. 1993. THE NEW TESTAMENT WORLD. INSIGHTS FROM CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY (Revised Edition). Lousville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press.

Malina, B. J., and J. J. Neyrey. 1996. PORTRAITS OF PAUL AN ARCHAEOLOGY OF ANCIENT PERSONALITY. Lousville, KY: Westmisnter John Knox Press.

Meier, J. P. 1994. A MARGINAL JEW. VOL. II: MENTOR, MESSAGE AND MIRACLES. New York, NY: Doubleday.

Michaelis, W. 1967. horao ktl. Pp. 315-82 in THEOLOGICAL DIC. TIONARY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT, edited by G. Kittel. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Noorda, S. 1979. Illness and Sin, Forgiving and Healing. The Connection of Medical Treatment and Religious Beliefs in Ben Sira 38, 1-15. Pp. 215-24 in STUDIES IN HELLENISTIC RELIGIONS, edited by M. J. Vermaseren. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill.

Pierre, M.-J. & Rousse, J.-M. 1981. Sainte Marie de la Probatique. PROCHE ORIENTE CHRETIENNE 31:23-42.

Pilch, J. J. 2000. HEALING IN THE NEW TESTAMENT. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press.

1991. Sickness and Healing in Luke-Acts. Pp. 181-209 in THE SOCIAL WORLD OF LUKE-ACTS. MODELS FOR INTERPRETATION, edited by J. Neyrey. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson.

Robbins, V. K. 1973 The Healing of Blind Bartimaeus (Mk 10:46-52) in the Marcan Theology. JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE 92:224-43.

Scarborough, J. 1988. Medicine. Pp. 1227-48 in CIVILIZATION OF THE ANCIENT MEDITERRANEAN, edited by M. Grant & R. Kitzinger. New York, NY: Charles Scribner's Sons.

Seybold, K. & Mueller, U. B. 1978. SICKNESS AND HEALING, Nashville, TN; Abingdon Press.

Theissen, G. 1974. URCHRISTLICHE WUNDERGESCHICHTEN. Gutersloh: Mohr.

Vermes, G. 1997. JESUS EL JUDIO. 4th ed. Barcelona, Spain: Ed. Mario Muchnick.

Weber, T. 1997. Thermal Springs, Medical Supply and Healing Cults in Roman-Byzantine Jordan. Pp. 331-38 in STUDIES IN THE HISTORY AND ARCHAEOLOGY OF JORDAN, Vol VI, edited by G. Bisheh. Amman, Jordan: Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan...

Wells, L. 1998. THE GREEEK LANGUAGE OF HEALING FROM HOMER TO THE NEW TESTAMENT TIMES. Berlin, Germany/ New York, NY: Walter de Gruyter.

Worsley, P. 1982. Non-Western Medical Systems. ANNUAL REVIEW OF ANTHROPOLOGY 11:315-48.

Young, A. 1982. The Anthropologies of Illness and Sickness. ANNUAL REVIEW OF ANTHROPOLOGY 11:257-83.

Santiago Guijarro, S.S.L. (Pontifical Biblical Institute, Rome), S.S.D. (Pontifical University of Salamanca, Spain), is a professor in the Faculty of Theology of the Pontifical University of Salamanca (e-mail: guijarro@upsa.es). He was the coordinator of one of the most recent translations of the Bible into Spanish: BIBLIA DE LA CASA DE LA BIBLIA (Madrid, 1992), and BIBLIA DE AMERICA (Madrid, 1994). He has published recently a monograph on the disruption of the family for the sake of discipleship (FIDELIDADES EN CONFLICTO. LA RUPTURA CON LA FAMILIA POR CAUSA DEL DISCIPULADO Y DE LA MISION EN LA TRADICION SINOPTICA (Salamanca, 1998). He has also recently contributed an article to BTB: The Politics of Exorcism: Jesus' Reaction to Negative Labels in the Beelzebul Controversy (29:118-29).

COPYRIGHT 2000 Biblical Theology Bulletin, Inc
COPYRIGHT 2003 Gale Group

Paul's contestation of Israel's memory of Abraham in Galatians 3

2007-07-06T20:37:00.000-07:00

Paul's contestation of Israel's memory of Abraham in Galatians 3

Philip F. Esler
This essay proposes an explanation for the prominent role of Abraham in Galatians 3. While the view of existing scholarship that Paul is responding to a case being made by his opponents is accepted, there are difficulties with the current proposals. Paul's opponents are not likely to have invoked Abraham as part of a theological case, or because of his connection with circumcision or with blessings. An explanation is needed which focuses on the question of Abrahamic descent in the totality of its dimensions. By adopting aspects of theories of ethnicity, social identity and, above all, collective memory, it is argued, first, that Abraham was central to the ethnic identity and collective memory of first century Judeans and that Paul's opponents were offering his converts the exalted status of Abrahamic descent as a reward for becoming Judeans through circumcision. Second, Paul's argument in Galatians 3 represents a fundamental contestation of this memory. He formulates a counter-memory for installation in the hearts and minds of his audience. He does this by arguing that the "seed" or descendants of Abraham to whom God had made promises were not Judeans but rather Christ and those who were one with him in baptism. Thus he wrenches the prize that was Abraham from the Judeans and lodges it among his mixed congregations of non-Judean and Judean Christ-followers. The audacity of Paul's enterprise is evident in his leaving no room for Judeans who had not found faith in Christ to be Abraham's descendants, a radical position from which he would later withdraw in Romans 4.

*********

The function of Abraham in Paul's letter to the Galatians has received considerable attention from scholars, not least in G. W. Hansen's 1989 monograph and Jeffrey Siker's shorter treatment of the subject in 1991. Such attention is more than justified. Paul mentions Abraham nineteen times, but these instances are concentrated in two of his letters, with nine in Galatians, mostly in Chapter 3 (3:6, 7, 8, 9, 14, 16, 18, and 29) and one later in the section on Sarah and Hagar (4:22), and nine more in Romans, mostly in Chapter 4 (4:1, 2, 3, 9, 12, 13, 16), with the two remaining examples coming later (9:7 and 11:1). The remaining instance occurs in 2 Corinthians 11:22. None of the deutero-Pauline letters mentions Abraham.

Prominent themes in the current discussion of Abraham in Galatians include the reason Paul introduces him (probably in response to the case being mounted by his opponents in Galatia), the character of, and rationale for, his picture of Abraham (especially the question over the identity of his true descendants), and differences between the presentation of the patriarch here and in Romans.

My aim in this article is to investigate the role of Abraham in Galatians 3 in relation to the emerging interest in collective memory, especially the extent to which such memory embraces great figures from the past and is contested between groups. The recent interest on the part of biblical scholars in the field of collective memory, an area now embracing sociology and anthropology that was pioneered by Maurice Halbwachs before the Second World War but has only in the last two decades come to the forefront of social-scientific reflection, reflects, as Andreas Huyssen has noted, the emergence of memory as a key concern of contemporary society. In addition to the two seminal works by Halbwachs (1980; 1992), in the last twenty years there have been a stream of significant texts, with notable contributions by Paul Connerton, James Fentress and Chris Wickham, Gary Fine, Jeffrey Olick, Nachmann Ben-Yehuda, Barry Schartz and Eviatar Zerubabel. Jeffrey Olick and Joyce Robbins usefully surveyed this field as it then stood in 1998. It is disappointing and surprising, therefore, to find historians writing about memory without reference to the vibrant sociological and anthropological literature--as a case in point, Halbwachs is not mentioned in the admittedly excellent 2003 collection of essays edited by Katharine Hodgkin and Susannah Radstone, Contested Pasts: The Politics of Memory. For reasons that will shortly become apparent, I find it essential to integrate notions of collective memory within a broader investigative framework that includes perspectives on group identity and ethnicity.

There are five major sections to this article. In the first I survey the relevant data in Galatians 3 and briefly consider some current scholarly approaches to it. In the second I consider how Abraham and Abrahamic descent were closely connected with the ethnic identity of first century Judeans, including those in Galatia putting pressure on Paul's converts. In the third section I explain how Abraham featured in the collective memory of first century Judeans. In the fourth section I offer an interpretation of Galatians 3:6-29, arguing that here Paul is concerned to contest the memory of Abraham and to attach his descent to the Christ-movement, detaching it from Israel in the process. I offer some concluding observations in the fifth and final section.

I have previously considered the role of Abraham in Galatians from a different aspect of social identity theory than that I will utilize here (1998: 173-74, 191-94), while I have recently examined the role of Abraham in Romans 4 from perspectives similar to those in this article (2003:171-94).

Abraham in Galatians 3 in Current Discussion

Abraham first appears in Galatians at 3:6. In the preceding verse Paul (rhetorically) asks whether the one who supplies the Spirit to them and works miracles among them does so by works of the law or heating with faith. Here, as Hansen has shown (110-13), the faith in question is that of the Christ-follower and certainly not the "faithfulness of Jesus"--as argued by Richard B. Hays (1983: 147) as part of his larger and unpersuasive project to cobble together a Pauline narrative concerning the faithfulness of Jesus, a narrative that Paul himself never happened to express. Then in 3:6 Paul states, quoting Genesis 15:6 in the Septuagint, "Thus Abraham put his faith in God and it was reckoned to him as righteousness." After this he continues, "For (ara) you know that it is those of faith--these are the sons of Abraham" (3:7). Here the particle ara marks an inference made on the basis of the preceding verse (Danker: 127). As Paul develops his argument, however, it becomes clear that this is also a thesis that he is seeking to prove.

He will conclude the argument at 3:29 with a statement very similar to that at 3:7. The entirety of the passage from 3:6 to 3:29 serves to demonstrate that those who have faith in Christ are really the sons or seed of Abraham. The act of Abraham in putting his faith in God is paralleled by the act of Paul's converts putting their faith "in Christ Jesus"--3:26). This illustrates how, as Richard Bauckham has pointed out in rightly arguing for an early high Christology in the Pauline corpus (1998; 2002), what was predicated of God in the Old Testament comes in Paul to be predicated of Christ.

Why does Paul spend 23 verses of this letter (out of 149, or some one seventh of the whole) on this topic? The obvious answer is that he is answering the case being made in relation to Abraham by those active in the congregations of the Christ-movement in Galatia who oppose his gospel. There is a long line of scholars who support this general view, with Hansen (262) mentioning Barrett, Betz, Bruce, Mussner, Brinsmead, Beker, Richard Longenecker, Daube, Bligh, Ridderbos, Guthrie, Burton, and Duncan, and even this list is hardly exhaustive. But what kind of case was it? Here I will merely sample a handful of the available views.

For C. K. Barrett it was a theological case. Speaking of the opponents, he says,

 At the heart of their theology was the concept of the people of God with its origin in Abraham, and the divine promise which constituted it. They probably took the view ... that the Abrahamic covenant had been re-defined by the Sinaitic. The

promise was made to Abraham and his seed; and the obligations of the seed were revealed in the law, fulfillment of which was made the necessary condition for receipt of the promised blessing

[15; emphasis added].

J. Christiaan Beker has proposed that the Judaizers were arguing that because both Abraham and Christ--as the heir to Abraham's blessing--were circumcised, "only sons of Abraham through circumcision belong to the domain of blessing. Gentiles cannot be full Christians without living within the domain of salvation, that is, without adopting circumcision and the Torah" (48).

In a detailed argument, Hansen suggests that the opponents of Paul's gospel were running a circumcision campaign. This is a reasonable start, for if we know anything about Paul's problem in Galatia it is that certain persons were seeking to persuade non-Judean members to be circumcised and, therefore, become Judeans themselves (Galatians 5:2; 5:12; 6:12). Yet Hansen then goes further and suggests that this circumcision campaign "was probably supported by a reference to God's original command to Abraham to receive circumcision with all his household as a sign of the covenant in the flesh (Gen. 17)" (113). He also urges that there is a strong connection drawn between circumcision and the Abrahamic covenant in Israelite literature (170-74; 175-99). Since circumcision was the means presented in such literature by which Abraham gained perfection, circumcision was the necessary means whereby one shared in the Abrahamic blessings of life and righteousness (172).

There is, however, a major problem with these first three explanations, namely, that they do not focus on the very issue at stake here--being a son or descendant of Abraham. Paul's argument is plainly predicated on the view that descent from Abraham is a very desirable thing. It is highly probable that this view was shared by his opponents in Galatia. To draw this conclusion is not to leap into what are sometimes presented as the dangerous quicksands of "mirror-reading" (Barclay), but merely to insist that, like anyone used to argument in a public forum in the ancient period or today, it was necessary for Paul to anticipate and meet the specific features of his opponents' case. On the basis of ancient rhetorical advice to anticipate an opponent's case, I have elsewhere (1998: 64-68) argued against George Lyons' attempt to deny to Paul this inevitable feature of effecfive argumentation.

Paul's aim is to redefine the character of Abrahamic descent and the means by which it is achieved--"You regard descent from Abraham as a desirable thing? ... Then let me tell you what it means and how to get it!"

None of these three scholars--Barrett, Beker or Hansen--sees anything valuable in descent from Abraham per se. Barrett sees such descent merely as one integer in a much larger theological case, one of a number of concepts, being advocated by the opposition. Beker considers that this was a means to obtain blessings. As for Hansen, thirdly, in a revealing section of his book entitled "The Opponents' Use of the Abraham Tradition," (167-74), he does not mention Abrahamic descent as a desirable good; indeed he never mentions it at all! He regards Abraham as entering the picture because of his established connection with circumcision in Genesis 17:110-1 4 and elsewhere. This is part of "Jewish" "literary tradition." His vision is of Paul's opponents relying on such literature to prove their point. Like Beker, he also sees circumcision (note, not Abrahamic descent) as a way to obtain blessings.

More recently J. Louis Martyn has provided a detailed account of the case that Paul's opponents were probably making in relation to Abraham (302-06). He refers to these opponents as the "Teachers," which is an unfortunate and unwarranted euphemism given the fierceness with which interpersonal competition was undertaken in ancient Judean and Greco-Roman colture (Esler 1998: 65-66). Based on an erudite understanding of the various facets of the Judean portrait of Abraham in the first century CE, Martyn focuses on the extent to which the "Teachers" were offering Paul's converts Abrahamic descent as a way to win divine blessings. To get these blessings one had to be incorporated into Israel through circumcision.

Bruce Longenecker, finally, has suggested that evidently "the promotion of circumcision and works of the law was being carried out in Galatia with reference to this notion of the identity of Abraham's descendants." He further adds that "Abrahamic descent was the issue that gave rise to the promotion of circumcision and other practices of the law." He explains this in terms of "the high regard in which Abraham was held in Early Judaism," especially because he turned from paganism to worship the one true God. The "agitators" (Paul's opponents) were establishing a connection with the "Galatians" (sc. Paul's non-Judean converts to Christ) through Abraham--by saying that both they (sc. the agitators) and the Galatian converts had turned away from idolatry to serve the true God (129). In addition, he suggests that Genesis 17 entails that offspring of Abraham had to be circumcised and that by that means they became entitled to share in the covenant blessings. Probably they also linked the Abrahamic covenant with the delivery of the Mosaic law on Sinai (130).

Both Martyn and Longenecker do at least see a role for Abrahamic descent itself. Yet they do not portray such descent as a valuable end in itself, but as a means whereby the agitators can relate themselves to Paul's converts via Abraham's eschewal of idolatry and, most critically, as the vehicle for transmission of the blessings that God promised to his descendants. While it is clear that the blessings that flow to the true descendants of Abraham are an important part of the picture, I submit that even Martyn and Longenecker have failed to access the full significance of Abrahamic descent.

In the balance of this article I will set out an alternative approach to the views of these five scholars in relation to Abraham in Galatians 3. But before doing so I must briefly note the theoretical resources I consider desirable for this exercise, which will enable me to interrogate the textual data in a new way. The core of my approach will be to interpret Abrahamic descent as central to the ethnic identity of Judeans--an identity they highly valued--with the figure of Abraham being central to this identity and, furthermore, accessed and maintained by Judeans through the processes of collective memory and contested by Paul in an effort to re-direct that collective memory to serve the needs of the congregations of Christ-followers in Galatia.

Abraham, Judean Ethnic Identity, and Galatians

I take it as highly probable that Paul's fundamental concern in Chapter 3 and the rest of Galatians is with preserving the unique identity of the various congregations of the Christ movement in Galatia as he had founded them. His problem is that his version of the movement, characterized by Judean and non-Judean Christ-followers who engaged in the intimate table-fellowship of the Lord's Supper with one another, is imperiled by pressures upon the non-Judeans to be circumcised and hence become Judeans. He is determined to maintain the boundaries that separate the Galatian groups of Christ-followers from Judeans--in other words, to preserve his version of the gospel against rival versions (Esler 1998).

How do we categorize Paul's opponents? Usually they are called "Judaizers" and regarded as "Jews" who are members of the congregations, possibly under pressure from other "Jews" to do something about these goyim with whom they are associated. It is easy to view this as a religious identity. But if we eschew the anachronism of translating Ioudaios as "Jew" and adopt "Judean" instead, for reasons I have set out at length elsewhere (2003: 40-76) , we are dealing with an identity best described as "ethnic." The Judeans then become one of a large number of ethnic groups in the first century Mediterranean world, like the Romans, the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Gauls and so on, all nominated in relation to the territory from which they were known to have come, even those of their number who lived a diaspora existence abroad. Many of these groups are mentioned in the Contra Apionem of Josephus, a text whose practice of treating the Ioudaioi as (superior) members of a class best described as "ethnic" that also includes Romans, Greeks and Egyptians and so on, represents a powerful argument against the exceptionalism (and, let us be blunt, intellectual inertia) involved in treating Ioudaioi as "Jews" belonging to a religion known as "Judaism."

Ethnicity has recently been the focus of lively discussion in the social sciences (Vermeulen & Govers; Banks; Jenkins; Baumann; Spickard & Burroughs). Fredrik Barth's construal of ethnicity as representing a sense of group identity that at various times selects different indicia as expressive of that identity (as opposed to ethnicity being determined by a set of primordial cultural features) has been widely influential. In Barth's perspective, the boundaries of ethnic groups operate as processes, permitting some interactions across them and prohibiting others. A number of recent works have demonstrated how comfortably this modern notion of ethnicity can be related to groups in the ancient Mediterranean world (Bilde et al.; Hall; Konstan; Malkin). There is also a burgeoning literature that applies the theory of ethnicity to biblical studies (Brett; Cohen; Duling 2003 and 2005/2006; Esler 2003).

Although Barth recognizes that the indicia which typify a particular ethnic group can change over time, certain features do commonly recur in groups we would wish to label as ethnic. John Hutchinson and Anthony Smith have helpfully listed a number of features that tend to be associated with ethnic groups (3-14). These are (a) a common proper name to identify the group; (b) a myth of common ancestry (note "myth," since the genealogical accuracy of the claimed descent is irrelevant); (c) a shared history or shared memories of a common past, including heroes, events and their commemoration; (d) a common culture, embracing such things as customs, language and religion; (e) a link with a homeland, either through actual occupation or by symbolic attachment to the ancestral land, as with diaspora peoples; and (f) a sense of communal solidarity. I stress that these features should be seen as operating in the processual and self-ascriptive approach favored by Fredrik Barth.

It is worth dwelling on the second of these features, a myth of common ancestry or descent. Max Weber, writing in 1922, proposed that ethnic groups were characterized by the belief that they shared common descent "because of similarities of physical type or of customs or both, or because of memories of colonization and migration." It did not matter whether an objective blood relationship existed or not. Ethnic membership differed from a kinship group precisely in that it was a presumed identity, rather than the concrete social action of the latter (389). Even Fredrik Barth, who opposed defining ethnicity in terms of cultural features, stated that an ascription of someone to a particular social category was an ethnic ascription "when it classities a person in terms of his basic, most general identity, presumptively determined by his origin and background" (13; emphasis added).

The Judeans of the first century CE, whether living in Palestine or in the diaspora, were an ethnic group like other peoples of their kind. In his Contra Apionem Josephus does present them as having distinctive and desirable features, but he clearly sees them as belonging to the same broad category of group-belonging as the Romans, Greeks, Egyptians and so on. When we run through the various features that Hutchinson and Smith have highlighted as typical indicia of ethnicity, it is notable that Abraham seems to bear on all of them.

First, they had a common proper name in relation to outsiders, Ioudaioi or Judaei. This name referred to their homeland, Ioudaia or Judaea, just as Romans were called after Rome, Greeks after Greece (Hellenes after Hellas) and Egyptians after Egypt. To translate Ioudaios as "Jew" deletes the territorial connection attached to ethnic names in the ancient Mediterranean. An essential feature of Judean tradition was that they had acquired the claim to their land through God's gift to Abraham. They also had an ingroup name for themselves, Israelitai or "sons of Israel," a name which also linked them to Abraham in as much as he was Israel's grandfather.

Secondly, they had a myth of common ancestry, which began with Abraham and continued on through his son Isaac through his wife Sarah, who inherited rather than Ishmael (Abraham's son through his servant Hagar), and thence to Isaac's son Jacob, subsequently named Israel (Gen 32:28).

They had a shared history, thirdly, that began with Abraham and moved onwards, through the period in Egypt, the Exodus and settlement of Canaan, the time of the judges, the monarch, exile and return, Seleucid and Roman occupation. Aspects of this history were regularly commemorated, as with the Feast of Passover, for example.

Fourthly, they had a common culture, including distinctive religious and ethical beliefs and practices, which included an aversion to idolatry originating with Abraham. The Greek word Ioudaismos (see Gal 1:14) refers to the ethical, legal, religious and cultural practices associated with being a Judean. It thus quite nicely designates this fourth indicator of ethnicity. For modern scholars to speak of a religion called "Judaism" as the decisive aspect of the identity of this people misses the fact that this cultural (including religious) dimension is only one of a larger number that together produce an identity best interpreted as ethnic. In the ancient world, moreover, "religion" was not separable from kinship and the economic and political realms. Thus, to focus on "Jews" as representative of a religion "Judaism" is both anachronistic and grossly reductionist and does little justice to the identity of first century Judeans.

Fifthly, they had their own land, which they believed God had given to them through Abraham. Even when they lived in the diaspora they were oriented to the land, as seen in their payment of the annual Temple tax and pilgrimages to Jerusalem for the great festivals (see Binder: 48-89; Esler 2003: 64-65).

Sixthly, they had a strong sense of communal solidarity, which rested ultimately on the belief in their descent from a common ancestor, Abraham.

It is evident from this just how prominent Abraham was in the ethnic identity of the Judeans, in telling themselves who they were as a people. For Judeans to say they were descendants of Abraham presumed or invoked all these various dimensions of their group identity. Yet there is more to be said than this. Henri Tajfel, the founder of social identity theory, rightly maintained that a sense of belonging to a group extended beyond the cognitive dimension--the understanding of the nature of the group to embrace emotional and evaluative dimensions--that is, how members felt about belonging to the group and how they rated themselves with respect to the members of other groups. It is quite clear that first-century Judeans were immensely proud of being the descendants of Abraham and regarded themselves as superior to other groups by virtue of this lineage.

There are many signs of this. Two will suffice. At one point in his preaching, John the Baptist said to those coming out to him, "Bear fruit that is worthy of repentance and do not presume to say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our father'; for I tell you God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham" (Matt 3:8-9; cf. Luke 3:8). Here John is presuming in his Judean audience an ethnic pride focused on Abraham that highlights the ethical superiority of Judeans over other peoples--a pride reflected in the view that they do not need to repent. At John 8:33, secondly, the Judeans who had believed Jesus respond to his suggestion that the truth will set them free by saying, "We are the seed of Abraham and we have never been in slavery to anyone." Thus they appeal to their descent from Abraham as connected with their freedom as a people. Although this is a somewhat exaggerated claim in view of their long history of domination by foreign powers, it certainly underlines the extent to which they associated their ancestor Abraham with their honorable status as a free people.

These examples reveal that appeal or reference to Abraham is made as a way of asserting their ethnic identity. To be of such stock both tells them who they are and makes them feel privileged and superior to the members of other groups. It has cognitive, emotional and evaluative connotations. Abrahamic descent is thus a way of describing the glorious status of being a Judean. It is a status acquired through circumcision, and here apparently the Judeans were prepared to overlook that proselytes could not actually be physically descended from Abraham even though they were actually circumcised. Perhaps they acknowledged that among the people initially circumcised by Abraham were purchased servants, people not physically his kin (Gen 18: 22-27). Such a status goes far beyond the notion of Abrahamic descent as being a mode of delivery of divine blessings.

This analysis allows us to sharpen our critique of the five scholars discussed above. In Galatia Paul was responding to the fact that his opponents were categorizing the appeal of becoming a Judean in terms of Abrahamic descent. To be of the seed of Abraham meant acquiring a distinctive and glorious identity. Barrett, Beker and Hansen, each in their separate ways, have missed this factor entirely. Martyn and Longenecker, while seeing the importance of Abrahamic descent, opt for reasons that are too narrow fully to explain it. Paul's opponents are proffering Abrahamic descent to Paul's converts not because Abraham's people were anti-idolatrous (although they were), nor because such people obtained covenant blessings (which they did), but because descent from Abraham summed up the totality of the ethnic identity and hence elevated status, in all their various manifestations, that came from being a Judean. This identity included the blessings and the monotheistic worship of the one, true God but went far beyond them, to embrace all the components of Judean ethnic identity just rehearsed.

Abraham and the Collective Memory of Israel

How did Abraham continue to have such an appeal to and impact upon Judeans? We must first shed the idea that it was based upon their personally reading scrolls or codices containing scripture or other Judean writings. As Werner Kelber, Paul Achtemeier, and others have been reminding us for a long time now, this was a largely illiterate (or "residually oral") society. That only a tiny percentage of people could read has been demonstrated in works by William Harris and Catherine Hezser. Judeans did have access to their traditions, but by listening to texts read in synagogues on the sabbath, as described by Philo in the fragment of a lost work (cited by Esler 2003: 91) and by remembering what they heard and by discussions at other times. Israel was a speaking and listening community, not a "reading community" as Richard Hays suggests, in a remarkable example of anachronism that undermines his "intertextuality" project (Hays 1989:20-21), now unwisely supported by Francis Watson (17-24). For Hays and Watson there is no essential difference between the way Paul accessed scripture and the way we do, post-Reformation and post-Gutenberg. In fact, Abraham lived in the memories of Israelites and it is to memory that we must turn in seeking to understand this phenomenon. Direct references to Judean scripture in Galatians (including by Paul in Galatians 3) and other references that can reasonably be implied are very significant but must be understood as appropriated in this way.

Unfortunately, as Werner Kelber points out in a long essay in a forthcoming Semeia volume on social memory, the principal representatives of the recent upsurge in orality/literacy studies (such as Albert Lord, Eric Havelock, Walter Ong, Jack Goody and John Foley) have not yet seriously connected with the massive recent work in memory studies. Much work remains to be done in this area, although I have recently attempted an integration of collective memory and orality in relation to Hebrews 11 in the same volume of Semeia.

Maurice Halbwachs (1877-1945), under the influence of his teacher in sociology, the great Emile Durkheim (1858-1917), regarded memory as the production of human beings living together in society. "It is in society," he wrote, "that people normally acquire their memories. It is also in society that they recall, recognize and localize their memories" (1992: 38). Although this is a strikingly Durkheimian formulation, Halbwachs had previously been influenced by Henri Bergson and so was able to resist the pull of extreme social determinism. Probably for this reason Halbwachs interested himself in groups within society, rather than just in the larger reality of society itself (Coser: 33). "Let us remark in passing," Lewis Coser observes, "that almost everywhere that Durkheim speaks of 'Society' with a capital S, Halbwachs speaks of 'groups'--a more cautious usage" (22). Collective memory as explained by Halbwachs relates to groups rather than to society at large.

Halbwachs was much preoccupied with the ways in which a group reconstructed its memories in the present. Some theorists, such as Barry Schwartz, have argued that he traveled too far along this road, thus imperiling the continuity within which a group stands in relation to its past (1982: 25-27). Nevertheless, he was correct in affirming the capacity of groups to reconstruct the past, typically by the invention of tradition or the capture of traditions generated by other groups. More problematic, as Paul Connerton has shown, was Halbwachs' neglect of the manner in which collective memories are passed on, communicated, from one generation to another. Connerton is right to insist that "to study the social formation of memory is to study those acts of transfer that make remembering in common possible" (39).

"When we remember," James Fentress and Chris Wickham persuasively affirm, "we represent ourselves to ourselves and to those around us. To the extent that our 'nature'--that which we truly are--can be revealed in articulation, we are what we remember." They deduce from this that "a study of the way we remember--the way we present ourselves in our memories, the way we define our personal and collective identifies through our memories, the way we order and structure our ideas in our memories, and the way we transmit these memories to others--is a study of the way we are" (7). E. Zerubavel expresses a similar view: "Being social presupposes the ability to experience things that happened to the groups to which we belong long before we even joined them as if they were part of our own personal past" (3). Zerubavel also correctly notes that much of what we "remember" did not happen to us personally. We only remember some things as members of what he usefully calls "mnemonic communities," such as particular families, organizations, ethnic groups and so on (90). It is clear that the Judeans of the first century were a mnemonic community in this sense, with an unusually large body of historical tradition, read out every sabbath in their synagogues, to sustain and enrich their communal memoria.

Jan Assmann has developed Halbwachs' theory in the direction of identity formation by writing of the way in which "cultural memory" is an active force that seizes upon figures and subjects from the past, modifying and contextualizing them, to feed the needs and aspirations of a group in the present. This is opposed to unconvincing static approaches to memory that see it merely as a receptacle that preserves the past unchanged in something akin to a form of "cold storage," a useful notion of Kelber's (2005).

When memory is our focus, we are less concerned with whether certain figures from the past actually existed or with what they did than with how they are remembered, with the extent to which they become what Jan Assmann has called "figures of memory" (11). Assmann points out that no one doubts that Ahenotaken lived; yet his attempt to introduce a monotheistic religion in Egypt was overturned after his death and the memory of his innovation extirpated. Whether Moses ever lived, on the other hand, is largely irrelevant, given the abiding role he has played in the memories of Israelites and other groups. The same can be said of Abraham, who was a most important figure in the collective memories of ancient Judeans, whether he ever existed or not.

This theory provides a good foundation for comprehending how Abraham featured in the collective memory of the Judeans. We should not, like most critics commenting on Abraham in Galatians, see the issue as a battle over how best to interpret Israelite scripture in which he happens to be mentioned in important passages. The real issue is the question of Abrahamic descent itself, and the elevated status and ethnic identity that such descent entails, with scripture (accessed in oral performance and retained anamnetically) forming part of the stock of data that supports the collective memory of Abraham. By remembering Abraham, the Judeans told themselves who they were. To obtain some notion of how this process operates we might consider the current function of the memory of Abraham Lincoln to citizens of the United States or the memory of William of Orange ('Good King Willie") to the Unionist community of Northern Ireland. Using data such as the number of statues erected in his honor per year, Barry Schwartz (2000) has usefully demonstrated how the memory of Abraham Lincoln in the USA changed (and in a positive direction) during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. But to that type of memory must be added the circumstance that Judeans believed they were physically descended from Abraham. Common descent from the same ancestor is one of the major sources of communality on which traditional forms of social solidarity rest. Normally it is seen in relation to kinship in families (Zerubavel: 63-64). But with the Judeans we have a whole ethnic group claiming such connectedness. We must now consider how all this bears on what had happened in Galatia.

Paul's Contestation of the Memory of Abraham in Galatians 3

When we enter any new group or social environment, we usually learn what we should remember and what we should forget. Zerubavel refers to this process as "mnemonic socialization" (87). Some at least of those who turned to Christ while Paul was present in Galatia came from a background of idolatry; as he says in Galatians 4:8, "But then not knowing God you were enslaved to beings that are by nature not gods." No doubt when these converts joined the movement, he would have begun this form of socialization, by downplaying their memories of idolatrous practice and pagan values and building new memories based on the Christ-event appropriate for those who now know God (Gal 4:9). His congregations formed a new and distinctive mnemonic community that offered a fresh understanding of the past as part of their social reality and identity that transcended the subjectivity of individual members and was shared by the whole group. After his departure, however-unfortunately for him and his gospel--other people sought to continue the mnemonic socialization of these ex-idolatrous converts, but in a new direction that perplexed him greatly. Paul's opponents had begun contextualizing and mobilizing the figure of Abraham through techniques of oral persuasion (see Gal 5:7-8) to convince his converts of the desirable identity that was theirs if they were circumcised and became Judeans. In short, his opponents were inviting the converts to join the mnemonic community that was Israel. They were appealing to what Zerubavel calls a "mnemonic tradition" (87), meaning a tradition that embraces not only what should be remembered (here Abraham) but also how we should remember it (here in the link between Abrahamic descent and Judean ethnicity). Not only is this a notable instance of the way in which, as Assmann claims, figures from the past can be actively seized and re-deployed to shape identity in the past, but it also reveals one means by which memories are passed on to others, an aspect of collective memory that Halbwachs himself neglected.

Faced with this threat, Paul had little choice but to contest the memory of Abraham. In the last few decades what it means to contest the past has become a question of great interest to some historians and social scientists. Katharine Hodgson and Susannah Radstone accurately summarize the thrust of much of this discussion as follows:

 But to contest the past is also ... to pose questions about the present, and what the past means in the present. Our understanding of the past has strategic, political, and ethical consequences. Contests over the meaning of the past are also contests over the meaning of the present and over ways of taking the past forward [2003b: 1].

In Galatians 3 Paul steps into such an arena--contesting the past as it is portrayed in Judean discourse in relation to Abraham so as to respond to the present threat (as he sees it) facing his converts. Given the dominance of the memory of Abraham among the millions of Judeans who lived around the Mediterranean in the first century CE and his centrality for their ethnic identity, this was an audacious enterprise. Yet this is not so unusual, for as Jeffrey Olick and Joyce Robbins note, "Memory contestation takes place from above and below, from both center and periphery" (21). Peripheral and minority groups, such as Paul's version of the Christ-movement, regularly confront the otherwise hegemonic memories of groups that are dominant.

The notion of "counter-memory" has been used by F. Bouchard in relation to a particular theory of Michel Foucault as to how written texts serve to challenge dominant discourses, including living memories. A form of counter-memory more relevant to residually orally cultures, however, is evident in Stephen Cornell's account of how members of an ethnic group that have experienced a rupture in the taken-for-granted reality of their identity develop new ways to construe their past and thus make sense of their present (45-46). Often they generate narratives that can be repeated (and revised) by word of mouth as well as in written form. Here we have a counter or contested memory of wider application than that which Bouchard has discerned in Foucault's writings.

Cornell's version of counter-memory is also applicable to Paul's reworking of the memory of Abraham for his congregations, even though, since they encompassed Judean and nonJudean members (the feature that was both characteristic of them and attracted Judean animosity), they were not ethnic but trans-ethnic (perhaps we should say "socio-religious") in character. Paul must have envisaged that once his (largely illiterate) addressees had heard his letter read to them they would remember its contents, discuss it among themselves and, above all, retain its re-presentation of Abrahamic descent in the collective memory of the movement.

In looking at how Paul struggles to prise the memory of Abraham and the meaning of Abrahamic descent from the Judeans and embed it instead in his groups of Christ-followers, it is worth noting with Hodgkin and Radstone that the focus of mnemonic contestation "is very often not conflicting accounts of what actually happened in the past so much as the question of who or what is entitled to speak for that past in the present." In other words, "the contest is often over how truth can best be conveyed, rather than what actually happened" (2003b: 1). There may be agreement as to the course of events, but not as to how the truth of those events should be most fully represented, or how best to explain and interpret a certain episode.

Basic information concerning Abraham was accessible to Paul and those in Galatia who opposed his version of the gospel from the Israelite scriptures, especially Genesis, which were read out aloud in Judean synagogues on the sabbath and possibly, at times, in meetings of the Christ-movement. Both sides no doubt accepted the important passages in what we call Genesis 15 and 17 as an account of what had actually happened to Abraham. They did not seek to dispute these facts. Their dispute lay in how best to interpret them. This meant not just appealing to different reaches of the memory of Abraham but also re-interpreting aspects that figured in the discourse of both Israel and the Christ-movement. Paul needed to create a new mnemonic tradition to defeat the claims of the one being advocated by his opponents. Yet we must always remember that we are not dealing with a theological argument, a battle of interpretative methods, but with the most persuasive way of interpreting scripture to serve the real end of group identity. Let us see how Paul proceeds.

Having cited Genesis 15:6, (Abraham "put his faith in God") and prior to any argument in support, he dares in Galatians 3:7 to assert that the "sons of Abraham" are "those of faith." To interpret: Christ-followers are the descendants of Abraham. He is establishing an ingroup identity that embraces Abraham and Christ-follower on the basis that they are both typified by faith. It is the extremely fortunate predication of faith to Abraham in Genesis 15:6 before he was circumcised that allowed Paul to wrest Abraham from the Judeans. Thus, at a stroke, he attaches Abrahamic descent and the high status identity that went with it, to Christ-followers. This categorical way of stating the position allows, quite remarkably, no room for anyone else to share such status and identity. Paul is not suggesting that there are various ways to manifest Abraham's lineage and that being a Christ-follower is one of them. No, faith in Christ is the only way he will allow. This sentiment, which is extraordinarily anti-Judean to the extent it denies them Abrahamic descent but nicely illustrates how far someone contesting a dominant memory may go, is confirmed in the way Paul proceeds to mount his defense of this proposition.

Paul continues by saying, "Scripture, foreseeing that God would justify the non-Judeans by faith, preached the gospel beforehand to Abraham, saying 'All the non-Judeans will be blessed in you'" (3:8; a quotation from Genesis 12:3 in the Septuagint). In v 8 scripture (here in the form of Genesis 12:3) is said to have foreseen that God would justify the non-Judeans through faith and to have announced in advance that in Abraham all the non-Judeans would be blessed. This means--he insists in v 9--that those of faith are blessed with the faithful Abraham. This reinforces his point in w 6-7 about the faith connection: namely, that faith designates a beneficial ("blessed") ingroup identity embracing Christ-followers and Abraham. But it also indicates that Paul shares with his opponents a belief in the relevance of Israelite written tradition as providing material on which the debate should conducted. This was a common resource feeding into the collective memories of Judean and Christ-follower. While it is quite possible that Paul rather than his opponents brought Genesis 12:3 into the discussion, the issue is still not the basic facts concerning Abraham, but the question of how the truth of those events should be best interpreted.

The section after this (3:10-14) initially moves off in a new direction, by asserting that those who rely on the works of the law are under a curse. It is evident that no one is justified before God by the law since scripture says, "The person who is righteous by faith will live" (from the Septuagint of Habbakuk 2:4). Paul then redirects the discussion back to Abraham by asserting that Christ has redeemed us from the curse of the law (3:13), "in order that the blessings of Abraham might come upon the non-Judeans in Christ Jesus, so that we might receive the promise of the Spirit through faith" (3:14).

Paul's attempt to win control of central Israelite memory continues with equal audacity in these verses. His abrupt charge (in v 10) that those who rely on works of the law are under a curse is made on the alleged basis of Deuteronomy 27:26. Hitherto, Israel had no doubt drawn the message from Deuteronomy (28:1-14 for example) that adherence to the law brought blessing and life and had installed that message in its collective memory. It was by not performing the requirements of the law that one attracted a curse (as, indeed, at Deuteronomy 27:26). Paul's argumentative gambit here is difficult to understand unless we assume that he is suggesting that no one actually did obey the law (Esler 1998: 187). He props up his case by interpreting Habbakuk 2:4 to mean that life comes from faith (and not, by necessary implication, from law). These arguments are predicated upon a strong form of ingroup/outgroup differentiation with the outgroup being stereotyped in an extreme way. His point in v 12 appears to be that law cannot be connected with faith, but those who adhere to the law will live by it, a position that seems to make sense only on the basis that Paul was of the view that no one would obey the law and hence obtain life. Only faith could bring life.

In Galatians 3:13 Paul asserts that Christ has solved the problem of the curse of the law by purchasing us from it, by coming under the curse in his crucifixion. The purpose and result of this (the "so that"--hina--of v 14 carries both meanings) was that the blessing of Abraham might occur in Christ Jesus, with the purpose and result ("so that" again) "we might take the promise of the Spirit through faith" (v 14b). However the Abrahamic blessing might have been interpreted in the interests of recommending Judean ethnicity, Paul now radically reworks this particular collective memory by interpreting it to refer to the wonderful gifts of the Spirit that he has mentioned just above in Galatians 3:2-4, where he presented the miracles (v 4)--prophecy, speaking in tongues etc.--as fundamental to the identity of his congregations of Christ-followers (Gal 3:1-6).

Once he has thus positively connected the Abrahamic promise to the Christ-movement, Paul then proceeds to disconnect it from the Judeans with a daring piece of exegesis. Thus in Galatians 3:15-16 we find him reinterpreting a section of Israelite tradition, the repeated promises God makes to Abraham in Genesis to give the land to him and his seed (Gen 12:7; 13:15; 17:7; 24:7). It is almost certain that Paul's opponents were pointing to this usage in connection with their overall depiction of Judean ethnic identity. They were most probably appealing to the straightforward and literal sense of this word, the peshat of later generations (Brewer 14), to interpret it as referring to the physical descendants of Abraham (including those who joined this lineage through circumcision). This must have formed an important component of the mnemonic tradition of Israel that they were propounding to Paul's converts in Galatia. Paul meets this claim by contesting how the truth from the remembered past can best be conveyed. Adopting a necessarily strained interpretation of "seed," he fixes upon its singular number to make a bold statement of identity: "The promises were spoken to Abraham and his seed. It does not say, 'And to your seeds,' referring to many, but to one, 'And to your seed,' which is Christ" (3:16). This, on its own, does not yield the conclusion that non-Judeans Christ-followers are Abraham's seed. He gets to that result only a little later--at 3:29, as we shall see below.

This prompts Paul to propose a very sharp antithesis, "For if the inheritance is by law, it is no longer by promise; but God gave it to Abraham through a promise" (3:19).

Following his novel interpretation of Abaham's "seed," in Galatians 3:17-20 Paul fends off Judean mnemonic socialization and reinforces the mnemonic tradition he is constructing by denying any continuing role for the Mosaic covenant. He begins by insisting that the law, which came 430 years after Abraham, cannot annul this covenant so as to make the promise void (3:17). In essence, the law given on Sinai was intended for the limited purpose of restraining transgressions. (I have elsewhere argued against the extraordinary proposition that God gave the law in order to provoke transgressions--1998: 195-97). The memory of Moses and the law he received on Sinai played a pivotal role in maintaining Judean identity, and for this reason Paul has been driven to contest its significance. But there are limits to which he will go, as is evident in Galatians 3:19-20. These are difficult verses, but in my view they are best interpreted along the lines that Paul is not saying anything particularly negative about the law. He cannot, after all, assert that it lacked all connection with the divine purpose. Rather, his point is that because there were angels involved in its delivery to Moses, it was not given to Israel in the direct way in which God made his promise to Abraham (Esler 1998: 198-200). The section comprising Galatians 3:21-25 further develops Paul's devaluation of the law of Moses, by showing its incapacity to bring righteousness and its limited role in the period up to the coming of Christ. The image of the paidagogos in vv 23-25 brings this out very dearly. The paidagogos was essentially a positive figure: he was meant to protect the boy in his charge and restrain him from inappropriate behavior (with harsh discipline if necessary), but only for a limited period, and then his powers ceased (Esler 1998:201-03).

This brings Paul to his magnificent conclusion to this section of the text dealing with Abraham (Galatians 3:26-29). Here he paints an exalted picture of identity-in-Christ. He begins with a statement of the current status and identity of his addressees: they are sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus (v 26). Then he moves to the mechanism and process by which they acquired this identity--by baptism: those who have been baptized into Christ have put on Christ (v 27). This leads, in turn, in v 28, to the great exultation of unity in Christ Jesus (a unity of Judean and Greek, slave and free, male and female), yet this is not some isolated statement, for all the while the argument is pushing on to its summative conclusion: "If you are of Christ, surely you are the seed of Abraham, heirs according to the promise" (3:29). This is the necessary conclusion to an argument that had earlier insisted that the seed to whom the promise referred was Christ. For Christ-followers to share in the promise, they must be one in and with that seed. With this statement in v 29, Paul announces the conclusion of an argument the thesis of which he set out at 3:7: it is those who have faith in Christ who are the sons or seed of Abraham. There is no suggestion here that Judeans outside the Christ-movement are also the sons of Abraham. This represents the fullest pitch of Paul's mnemonic socialization of his converts. He has contested the memory of Abraham to such a degree as to remove Abrahamic descent entirely as an element in Judean identity and lodge it firmly in among the ranks of the Christ-followers of Galatia.

It is worth noting that later, when he was composing Romans, he drew back from so extreme a position. There is no sign that there were people in Rome putting pressure on Greek Christ-followers to be circumcised and become Judeans, in which context Abraham and descent from him could have been held out as attractive features of Judean ethnic identity. This meant Paul could afford to be much more relaxed about Abraham. This is why we find him saying in Romans 4:1: "What, therefore, shall we say Abraham our forefather in the flesh to have found [sc. to be the case]?" Here "in the flesh" includes a Judean connected to Abraham both "by natural descent" and "through circumcision"--that is, a native-born Judean and a proselyte. Since Paul is addressing a mixed group of Judean and non-Judean Christ-followers in Rome, when he refers to Abraham as "our forefather in the flesh" he is invoking a physical connection, a kinship, with Abraham (either from birth or by proselyte circumcision) which embraces him and the Judean Christ-followers he is addressing, but also extends to Judeans outside the Christ-movement. There is no implication here, therefore, as there was in Galatians, that the postulation of Abrahamic descent for Christ-followers meant its loss for Judeans who were not followers of Christ. Paul will go on in Romans 4 to work Abraham into the collective memory of the Christ-followers, but without the sharp antithetical shape to his argument in Galatians.

Conclusions

Many explanations have been offered for the role of Abraham in the argument Paul mounts in Galatians 3. But all of them hitherto have missed the centrality of ethnicity and collective memory in understanding what Paul says and how he says it. Abraham was central to the ethnic identity of the Judeans of his time, as Paul was only too aware. He knew that in Galatia his opponents were using this glorious figure from the collective memory and mnemonic tradition of Israel in their attempt to persuade Paul's non-Judean converts to become Judeans through circumcision. To counter this threat he had to detach Abraham from Israel and its collective memory and attach it to the Christ-movement and its collective memory. Central to his argument is the claim that Christ is the seed referred to in the scriptural promises made "to Abraham and his seed" and that Christ-followers receive these promises because through baptism they are all one in Christ Jesus. In addition, Paul reinterprets these promises to connect them with the dramatic gifts of the Holy Spirit that were characteristic of his congregations. Paul's entire argument represents a daring essay in the contestation and re-application of the collective memory of Abraham, away from the ethnic group where it arose to his socio-religious Christ-movement groups in Galatia.

Works Cited

Achtemeier, Paul J. 1990. Omne Verbum Sonat: The New Testament and the Oral Environment of Late Western Antiquity. Journal of Biblical Literature 109:3-27.

Assmann, Jan. 1997. Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Bal, Mieke, Jonathan Crewe, & Leo Spitzer (eds.). 1999. Acts of Memory: Cultural Recall in the Present. Hanover, NH/London, UK: Dartmouth College.

Banks, Marcus. 1996. Ethnicity: Anthropological Constructions. London, UK: Routledge.

Barclay, J. M. G. 1987. Mirror-Reading a Polemical Letter: Galatians as a Test Case. Journal for the Study of the New Testament 31: 73-93.

Barrett, C. K. 1976. The Allegory of Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar in the Argument of Galatians, Pp. 1-16 in Rechtfertigung: Festschrift fur E. Kasemann zum 70. Geburtstag, edited by J. Friedrich, W. Pohlmann, & P. Stuhlmacher. Tubingen: Mohr.

Barth, Fredrik. 1969. Introduction. Pp. 9-38. in Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference, edited by Fredrik Barth. London, UK: George Allen and Unwin.

Bauckham, Richard. 2002. Paul's Christology of Divine Identity, a paper delivered to the Pauline Epistles Section of the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Toronto on November 25, 2002.

1998. God Crucified: Monotheism and Christology in the New Testament. The Didsbury Lectures for 1996. Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge, UK: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company.

Baumann, Gerd. 1999. The Multicultural Riddle: Rethinking National, Ethnic, and Religious Identities. London, UK/New York, NY: Routledge.

Beker, J. Christiaan. 1980. Paul the Apostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press.

Ben-Yehuda, Nachman. 1995. The Masada Myth: Collective Memory and Mythmaking in Israel. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press.

Bilde, Per, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Lise Hannestad, Lise, & Jan Zahle eds. 1992. Ethnicity in Hellenistic Egypt. Aarhus, Denmark: Aarhus University Press.

Bonchard, Donald F. 1977. Introduction, in Foucault: 15-28.

Brett, Mark G. ed. 1996. Ethnicity and the Bible . Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill.

Brewer, David Instone. 1992. Techniques and Assumptions in Jewish Exegesis before 70 ce. Tubingen, Germany: J. C. B. Mohr (Siebeck).

Buell, Denise Kimber. (2000) Ethnicity and Religion in Mediterranean Antiquity and Beyond. (Review of Baumann 1999, Cohen 1999 and Hall 1997). Religious Studies Review 3: 243-49.

Cohen, Shaye J. D. 1999. The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties. Berkeley & Los Angeles, CA/London, UK: University of California Press.

Connerton, Paul. 1989. How Societies Remember. Themes in the Social Sciences. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

Cornell, Stephen. 2000. That's the Story of Our Life. Pp. 41-53 in Spickard & Jeffrey.

Coser, Lewis A. 1980. Introduction, in Halbwachs: 1-34.

Danker, Frederick William, ed. 2000. A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature. Chicago, IL/London, UK: University of Chicago Press.

Duling, Dennis. 2006. 2 Corinthians 11:22: Historical Context, Rhetoric, and Ethnic Identity. Pp. _-_ in The New Testament and Early Christian Literature in Greco-Roman Context: Studies in Honor of David E. Aune, edited by John Fotopoulos. Supplements to Novum Testamentum. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill.

2003. "Whatever Gain I Had ...": Ethnicity and Paul's Self-Identification in Phil 3:5-6, in Fabrics of Discourse. Essays in Honor of Vernon K. Robbins, edited by David B. Gowler, L. Gregory Bloomquist, and Duane F. Watson. London, UK/New York, NY/Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International; Continuum.

Esler, Philip F. 2005. Collective Memory and Hebrews 11: Outlining a New Investigative Framework. Pp. 151-71 in Memory, Tradition, and Text: Uses of the Past in Early Christianity, edited by Alan Kirk & Tom Thatcher. Semeia Studies, 52. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature.

2003. Conflict and Identity in Romans: The Social Setting of Paul's Letter. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press.

1998. Galatians. London, UK/New York, NY: Routledge. Fentress, James, & Chris Wickham. 1992. Social Memory: New Perspectives on the Past. Oxford & Cambridge, UK: Blackwell.

Fine, Gary Alan. 2001. Difficult Reputations: Collective Memories of the Evil, the Inept, and Controversial. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.

Foucault, M. 1977. Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews. Edited by D. F. Bouchard & S. Simon. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

Halbwachs, Maurice. 1992. On Collective Memory: The Heritage of Sociology. Edited, translated with an introduction by Lewis A. Coser. Chicago, IL/London, UK: The University of Chicago

Press. English translation of large parts of Le Cadres sociaux de la memoire (1925) and the concluding chapter of La Topographie legendaire des evangiles en terre saint. Etude de memoire collective (1941).

1980. The Collective Memory. English translation of the 1950 French original La Memoire collective by Francis J. Ditter Jr. & Vida Yazdi Ditter, with an introduction by Mary Douglas. New York, NY: Harper Colophon Books.

Hall, Jonathan M. 1997. Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Hansen, G. W. 1989. Abraham in Galatians: Epistolary and Rhetorical Contexts. JSNT Supplement Series 29; Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press.

Harris, William V. 1989. Ancient Literacy. Cambridge, MA/London, UK: Harvard University Press.

Hays, Richard B. 1989. Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

1983. The Faith of Jesus Christ: An Investigation of the Narrative Substructure of Galatians 3. 1-4.11. Society of Biblical Literature, Dissertation Series, 56. Chico, CA: Scholars Press.

Hezser, Catherine. 2001. Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine. Tubingen, Germany: Mohr Siebeck.

Hodgkin, Katharine, & Susannah Radstone, eds. 2003a. Contested Pasts: The Politics of Memory. Routledge Studies in Memory and Narrative. London, UK/New York, NY: Routledge.

2003b. Introduction: Contested Pasts, Pp. 1-21 in Hodgkin & Radstone.

Hutchinson, John, & Anthony D. Smith. 1996. Introduction. Pp. 3-14 in their edited text, Ethnicity. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.

Huyssen, Andreas. 2000. Present Pasts: Media, Politics and Amnesia. Public Culture 12: 21-38.

Jenkins, Richard. 1997. Rethinking Ethnicity: Arguments and Explorations. London, UK: Sage.

Kelber, Werner H. 2005. The Works of Memory: Christian Origins as Mnemohistory. Pp. 221-48 in Memory, Tradition, and text: Uses of the Past in Early Christianity, edited by Alan Kirk & Tom Thatcher. Semeia Studies, 52. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature.

1985. The Oral and the Written Gospel: The Hermeneutics of Speaking and Writing in the Synoptic Tradition, Mark, Paul, and Q. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press.

Kirk, Alan, & Tom Thatcher, eds. 2005. Social Memory and Christian Origins, Semeia Studies, 52. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature.

Konstan, David. 1997. Redefining Ancient Greek Ethnicity. Diaspora 6:97-110.

Longenecker, Bruce W. 1998. The Triumph of Abraham's God: The Transformation of Identity in Galatians. Edinburgh, UK: T & T Clark.

Lyons, George. 1985. Pauline Autobiography: Toward a new Understanding. Society of Biblical Literature, Dissertation Series 73. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press.

Malkin, Irad, ed. 2001. Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies and Trustees for Harvard University.

Martyn, J. Louis. 1997. Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. The Anchor Bible, Volume 33A. New York: Doubleday.

Olick, Jeffrey K., ed. 2003. States of Memory: Continuities, Conflicts, and Transformations in National Retrospection. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Olick, Jeffrey K., & Joyce Robbins. 1998. Social Memory Studies: From "Collective Memory" to the Historical Sociology of Mnemonic Practices. Annula Reviw of Sociology 24:105-40 (cited here in the electronic version with different pagination).

Schwartz, Barry. 2000. Abraham Lincoln and the Forge of Memory. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.

1982. The Social Context of Commemoration: A Study in Collective Memory. Social Forces 61:374-402.

Siker, Jeffrey S. 1991. Disinheriting the Jews: Abraham in Early Christian Controversy. Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press.

Spickard, Paul, & W. Jeffrey Burroughs, eds. 2000. We Are a People: Narrative and Multiplicity in Contructing Ethnic Identity. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press.

Vermeulen, H., & C. Govers, eds. 1994. The Anthropology of Ethnicity: Beyond "Ethnic Groups and Boundaries." Amsterdam, The Netherlands: Het Spinhuis.

Watson, Francis. 2004. Paul and the Hermeneutics of Faith. Edinburgh, UK: T & T Clark.

Weber, Max. 1978 (1922). Ethnic Groups, in Economy and Society. Volume I. Edited by Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 385-98.

Zerubavel, Eviatar. 2003. Time Maps: Collective Memory and the Social Shape of the Past. Chicago, IL/London, UK: The University of Chicago Press.

Philip F. Esler (D. Phil., Oxford) is Chief Executive of the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council (a post he is holding while on extended leave from his position as Professor of Biblical Criticism in the University of St. Andrews, Scotland, UK). He joined the St. Andrews faculty in 1992, having previously been a barrister in Sydney, Australia. Professor Esler is the author of Galatians (London, UK/New York, NY: Routledge, 1998), Conflict and Identity in Romans (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2003), and New Testament Theology: Communion and Community (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2005), and the editor of Modelling Early Christianity (London, UK/New York, NY: Roudedge, 199.5) and The Early Christian World (two volumes, London, UK/New York, NY: Routledge, 2000). His e-mail address is p.esler@ahrc.ac.uk.

COPYRIGHT 2006 Biblical Theology Bulletin, Inc
COPYRIGHT 2006 Gale Group

Worship in the fourth gospel: a cultural interpretation of John 14-17—Part II

2007-07-06T20:11:00.000-07:00

Worship in the fourth gospel: a cultural interpretation of John 14-17—Part II

Jerome H. Neyrey
Abstract

Typical readers interpret John 14-17 as a Farewell Address, and for good reason. But that hardly exhausts its contents, for the form of a farewell address simply misses all that Jesus has to say about worship in the group. From the gospel's beginning we find a steady focus on temple, mountains for worship, feasts and their objects of prayer and celebration, and the like. But in John 14-17 we are told about prayer: Jesus' own prayer to God and his instructions to the disciples to petition "in my name." If prayer is communication to God, God also communicates to his devotees, primarily in words. Hence we find exhortations to remain and to love; oracles of many sorts, such as warning, judgment, assurance, salvation and the like. We find a particular focus on the words of Jesus, things he said but were not understood, special revelations to a special group, all of which is facilitated by the Advocate/Spirit. Most importantly, the personnel of worship are dearly defined: the Patron Father who bestows benefaction on his clients by means of Jesus, the Broker. Jesus, in turn, brokers the concerns to the clients to the Patron. Finally, the household with many rooms is not space out of the world, but relationships brokered by Jesus. These remain miscellaneous pieces until seen in the light of a cultural model of worship.

**********

Part Two: Place of Worship & Patron-Broker

In the first part of this article, emphasis was placed on communication "upwards," as it were: the disciples' learning to pray. In what follows, the emphasis is reversed, as we see Jesus teaching the disciples to listen.

Patron-Broker-Client Relations.

Patrons and Clients

Patron-client relations have long enjoyed the attention of classicists (Saller, Wallace-Hadrill). Frederick Danker's book BENEFACTOR brought to the attention of New Testament scholars the tradition of honoring benefactors, a form of patron-client relations characteristic of the eastern Mediterranean. And Bruce Malina pioneered the formal use of the anthropology of patron-client relations to interpret early Christian literature (Malina 1988). Malina's model of patron-client relations describes those that arise between peoples of unequal status and resources: landlord/vassal, aristocrat/peasant, king/subject, father/son, and God/Israel. Thus patron-client relationships describe the vertical dimension of exchange between higher-status and lower-status persons.

When John Elliott defines patron and client relations, he highlights the mutual exchange of goods and services: "A 'patron' (patronus, patrona) is one who uses his or her influence to protect and assist some other person who becomes the patron's 'client' (cliens). In return, this client provides the patron with certain valued services" (Elliott: 148-49). As noted above, the topic of patron-client relations is not new to the study of the New Testament and early Christianity Mott: 60-72), and so does not need to be rehearsed here. We should, however, widen the model to accommodate another person in the patron-client relationship, the broker (Malina & Rohrbaugh 1998:117-119). In social or commercial terms, a broker places people in touch with each other, such as a real estate broker, a stock broker, or a marriage broker (Malina 1988:11-18). A broker must be suitably placed to be accessible both to clients seeking aid and patrons who might provide assistance. Thus a broker is a bridge (i.e., pontifex) or link or mediator between patrons and clients.

Broker in Patron-Client Relations

Writing on "mediator" in 1967, Albert Oepke identified the following social roles in the ancient world that exemplify the role of broker or mediator. A mesites is a person who (I) is "neutral" to two parties and negotiates peace or guarantees agreements, (2) arranges business deals, (3) receives as king divine laws and offers sacrifice for the people, (4) offers as priest prayers and sacrifice to God on behalf of individuals and the people, (5) brings as prophet a teaching or mighty work from God, (6) founds a new cult or religion, and (7) delivers as angel communication from God.

As Oepke also notes, the New Testament calls Jesus a broker in many ways: he is the unique mediator between the one God and humankind (1 Tim 2:5), the mediator of the new covenant (Heb 8:6; 9:15; 12:24) and a "priest according to the order of Melchizedek" (Heb 5:6; 6:20; 7:17). In contrast to the Levitical priesthood, Jesus' priesthood/brokerage is vastly superior because Jesus "is able for all time to save those who draw near to God through him, since he always lives to make intercession for them" (Heb 7:25).

We are hardly the first to read John 17 in terms of mediation. Already back in patristic times, the prayer comprising John 17 was labeled "the high priestly" prayer, a tag still affixed to it. Our interpretation accepts the perception of Jesus' role as a mediator figure, not simply in chapter 17, but in the whole Farewell Address. Building on past studies of John 14-17, we wish to use the social science model of patron, broker, and client to interpret the role of Jesus as broker as an essential part of understanding worship in the Fourth Gospel (Borgen: 137-48).

What does the role of "broker" look like in a system of patron-client relations (Oepke: 615)? One anthropologist identifies four elements of a broker's functioning: (1) capital (channels of influence and communication), (2) tariff (what the broker receives for services), (3) debt (promises he makes), and (4) interest (his calculation of what and when his tariff will be paid) (Boissevain: 158-62). It helps, moreover, to distinguish what is exchanged in a patron-broker-client relationship. Clients typically seek protection and access to scarce resources, which are called first-order resources. A broker most frequently has second-order goods, namely, access to patrons and skill in connecting the right client with the right patron. In the rough and tumble of village or urban life in antiquity, there might be many clients working through many brokers to gain access to many patrons. But in the Fourth Gospel, there is only one patron (God) and one clientage (Israel, including the Johannine group), but competing brokers (Jesus vs. Moses, Abraham, Temple, synagogue) (Piper:. 295-97).

Jesus as Broker in John 14-17

Let us situate Jesus in relationship, first to the Patron-Father and then to the clients-disciples. It is generally agreed that a successful broker must be part of the two worlds that are joined. The author expresses Jesus' relation to the heavenly world in many ways. For example, Jesus was sent by God (17:3, 21), which social- science interpreters call his ascribed authority or honor. Moreover, in 17:5 and 24 Jesus speaks of glory that he had from his Patron before the world was made, which clearly describes Jesus as belonging to the heavenly world. Thus Jesus' relationship to the Patron is ancient, intimate, and enduring. In John 17, moreover, Jesus repeatedly tells us how loyally he has served the interests of his Patron:

17:4 I glorified you on earth, having accomplished what you gave me to do

17:6 I manifested your name to whom you gave me

17:8 I have given them the words that you gave me

17:12 while I was with them, I kept them in your name, which you gave me

17:14 I have given them Your word

He accomplished what God gave him to do, which specifically means manifesting the Patron's name (also in 17:11, 12) and delivering the Patron's words. In addition, Jesus brokered the following for his earthly clients: (I) power (17:2), (2) protection (17:12), and (3) glory (17:22). Thus Jesus belongs to the Patron's world, shares in the riches of that world, and loyally serves the interests of his Patron.

Jesus the broker also belongs to the clients' world and serves their interests as well. For example, Jesus confesses to the Patron the many ways in which he has brokered the safety of the clients:

17:12 I kept them in your name, none is lost but ...

17:13 These things I speak in the world, that they may have my joy fulfilled in them

17:15 I do not say take them out of the world, but keep them from the evil one

17:19 For their sake I consecrate myself, that they may be consecrated in truth

He not only protected them, but seeks their continued safety. Moreover, he envisions a future brokerage, which includes: (1) keeping them from the evil one (17:15), and (2) being with Jesus where he is in glory (17:24). In an expression of limitless brokering, Jesus repeatedly declares that his clients are assured of his brokerage when they "ask in my name":

14:13 Whatsoever you ask for in my name, I will do it

14:14 If you ask anything in my name, I will do it

15:16 so that whatever you ask the Father in my name, he will give it to you

16:24 Hitherto you have asked nothing in my name; ask, and you will receive 16:26 In that day you will ask in my name and I do not say to you that I shall pray the Father for you; for the Father himself loves you.

Jesus is the unique broker, for "no one comes to the Father, but by me" (14:6).

Another Broker or a Sub-Broker?

In the Farewell Address, Jesus announces that a "Paraclete" will come (14:16, 26; 15:26; 16:7), whose chief function seems to be brokering, brokering either the Patron's or Jesus' benefactions. Since most discussions of the Paraclete begin with a history of the term, we do so likewise, but with reliance on Grayston's article especially as revised by Tricia Brown (Grayston: 67-82; Brown: 170-82). The first half of Grayston's study of "paraclete" attacked the univocal meaning of this role defined in classical dictionaries as legal advisor or assistant; as he points out, there was no role in ancient law courts that corresponds to a defense attorney. Supporter, yes, but defense attorney, no. The rare use of the term from Demosthenes to Diogenes Laertius prompts this conclusion: "parakletos was a word of general meaning which could appear in legal contexts, and when it did the parakletos was a supporter or sponsor" (Grayston: 75). In his conclusion, Grayston generalized that the Paraclete is, as it were, "an eminent person through whom the petitioner gains favourable access to the Father" (Grayston: 80). Tricia Brown read Grayston's data, but through the social-science lens of patron-broker-client relations, and in nearly every case, the parakletos can be said to function as mediator between two estranged parties (Philo, Jos. 238-40), as mediator of access to God (Philo, Vita Moses 2.134), as mediator between God and Israel (Philo, On Rewards and Punishments, 166), and as an intercessor with the emperor (Philo, In Flaccum, 22-23). Thus she concludes: "We submit that in most of the texts we have studied the word 'parakletos" would best be translated 'mediator' or 'broker'" (Brown: 181).

Regarding the Paraclete in terms of the patron-broker-client model, the following chart should help us grasp the Paraclete's position and function.

The Paraclete's functions remarkably parallel those of Jesus, a point argued in contemporary Johannine scholarship (Martyn: 143-46; Burge: 137-41). He has, moreover, the same role as Jesus, inasmuch as he is called "another Paraclete," Jesus being the first. Thus he functions in the same role as Jesus; or he serves Jesus, inasmuch as in all three references cited above he (I) brings to mind what Jesus said, (2) bears witness to him, and (3) glorifies him. Thus the Paraclete/Spirit is not an independent player, so to speak. If Jesus' role is that of broker between God/Patron and the disciples/clients, the Paraclete is Jesus' sub-broker. Observations such as these are steadily making their way into Johannine scholarship (Franck: 42, 48, 67-68, 84, 138).

What significance, then, does learning that the Paraclete functions in the role of broker or mediator have for understanding worship in John 14-17? As conveyor both of God's words to the clients and the clients' prayers to God, Jesus-the-broker plays the essential role of mediator or broker in the worship of God. The Paraclete, however, seems to function as a sub- or co-broker to Jesus. He makes intelligible to the clients Jesus' teaching and person; he continues Jesus' forensic judgment of the world. But nothing is said about his being the broker of the group's prayers, which are all made "in my [Jesus'] name." Thus the Paraclete functions as the mediator of God's and Jesus' words/teachings, which might in a worship service be evident in prophecy, preaching and teaching the Jesus story, and even in understanding the Scriptures.

Not on This Mountain Nor in Jerusalem. But Where?

As noted earlier, Jesus' declaration that his body would be the new, true Temple (2:19-22) is followed by a dispute with a Samaritan woman about where to worship, Mt. Gerizim or Mt. Zion (4:20), which Jesus de-classifies as sacred places of worship (Swanson: 248-51). Thus, the Johannine disciples have no fixed sacred space in contrast with Samaritan and Israelite temples. Nor does the local synagogue serve as the site of its worship, for public confession of Jesus as the Christ means expulsion from that assembly (9:22, 12:42-43 and 16:l-2).But if_not Mt. Gerizlm, not Jerusalem, not the synagogue, then where? One of the dominant themes discussed in John 14-17 is where worship will take place. We argue that parts of the answer will come from a fresh consideration of (1) "many rooms" (14:2), (2) "being in" and "dwelling in," and (3) physical closeness to Jesus. But first let us employ an anthropological model of space to appreciate Jesus' de-classification of Mts. Gerizim and Zion.

Fixed vs Fluid Sacred Space (4:21-24)

"Not on this mountain, nor in Jerusalem" negates fixed sacred space, that is temples and the elaborate systems that surround them: priests, offerings, tithes, revenues, the cultic building, its adornment and maintenance, and hosts of diverse persons to staff it, perform in it, and guard it. Ethnic temples are clear examples of fixed sacred space, which is often expressed by claiming that the temple is the "navel" or "center" of the world. Since discussion of fixed or fluid space depends on some social theory of space, let us briefly examine a model commonly used in the anthropology of space, namely, "territoriality." Robert Sack, a representative of modern research, defines it as follows:

Territoriality will be defined as the attempt to affect,
influence, or control people, phenomena, and relationships,
by delimiting and asserting control over a geographic
area ....Territories require constant effort to establish
and maintain [Sack: 19].
This means that groups typically engage in a three-step process: (1) classification of the space (mine/yours, sacred/ profane, etc.), (2) communication of the classification (fences, gates, walls), and (3) control of the space. Within this overarching model, let us examine "fluid" vs "fixed" sacred space. On this point we turn to Mary Douglas and one of her best interpreters, Bruce J. Malina. Of fixed sacred space, Malina writes:

Just as persons have their statuses by ascription and
perdure in that status indefinitely, the same holds true
for places. The topography of the main places where people
in this script live out their lives is rather permanent.
A palace location, a temple location, and a homestead stay
in the same place and with the same lineage through
generations [Malina 1986:31].
Thus fixed sacred space correlates with fixed roles and statuses. All of this is characterized by redundant aspects of stability, permanence and continuity. The temple-city of Jerusalem exemplifies this well. Of fluid sacred space, Malina writes:

This situation of porous boundaries and competing groups
stands in great contrast to the solid, hierarchical, pyramidal
shape of strong group/high grid [fixed space] ... as groups
form and re-form anew, permanence is no longer to be found
outside the group; and where the group is, there is stability.
Sacred space is located in the group, not in some impersonal
space like a temple. The group is the central location of
importance, whether the Body of Christ, the church, for Christians,
or the synagogue gathering for Jews, or the philosophical
"schools." ... Discourse within these groups, whether the
words of a portable Torah, the story of Jesus, or the exhortations
of the philosopher-teacher, becomes the mobile, portable,
exportable focus of sacred place, in fact more important than
the fixed and eternal sacred places [Malina 1986: 38].
Malina's classification is based on considerations of space and time, at which we must look more closely. The following chart should make explicit the contrasts on every level between fixed and fluid sacred space.

This model of fluid vs. fixed sacred space alerts us to certain aspects of worship as they may appear in John 1417. First, significant attention must be given to group, not place; second, the channel of the communication which is worship will not be sacrifice, performed by a priest whose competency rests on birth into the appropriate clan or family, but verbal worship, which is both verbal prayer to God and verbal listening to God's word as this is articulated by competent figures in the group. In short, where the group is, there is the place of worship.

In My Father's House There Are Many Rooms (14:2)

Beginnings are generally significant rhetorical places to establish a topic, and we read John 14:2 in this manner. This verse contains two phrases: (I) "in my Father's house there are many rooms" and (2) "I am going to prepare a place for you." A recent dissertation on these verses offers critical, inventive interpretation of it. McCaffrey notes that "my Father's house" has been variously explained as heaven, the heavenly temple, the messianic kingdom, even the universe (McCaffrey: 29-35). Since there is no longer any fixed sacred space or earthly temple made sacred by God's dwelling, we look to God's "realm" as the place for worshiping God--wherever that may be. McCaffrey, moreover, adds to the discussion an important consideration, namely, that "house" suggests relationships, such as a Father-Son or intimate kinship relationship (McCaffery: 49-64). In this house/household, then, are many relations, Father and son, God and disciples, and perhaps other Christians yet to be brought in--"many rooms" (see John 17:20-22; Swanson: 244-45, 257-60). And when Jesus states that "I go to prepare a place for you," he goes not as an architect but as a broker of relationships which will secure access to God through himself. Thus we are inclined to read 14:2, in terms of personal relationships and not in terms of buildings or space.

Jesus next states that he "goes away and comes back"--he goes "to prepare a place for you" and then says "I will come back and will take you to myself." His purpose is that "where I am you also may be." Having brokered his relationship with the Father, he returns to solidify his relationship with God's clients. He does not say that he will take the disciples to the "Father's house," but rather facilitates his brokerage by maintaining a favored relationship with the disciples. Thus, I would extend the sense of "relationship" to the "place" which Jesus prepares: Jesus functions, as we will shortly argue, as broker in a patron-client relationship first linked with his Father-Patron and then with his disciples-clients. As tortured as it may sound, Jesus is in two "places" at once: in heaven (in relationship with God, wherever God is) and on earth (in relationship with disciples, wherever they gather). Balancing his remark that he has access to God's presence, he also "takes the disciples to myself." Thus they too have access to God's house, but only in relation to Jesus. Poor Thomas, who does not know the way to the Father's house! Jesus tells him, "I am the way ..." (14:6), that is, the exclusive relationship with God and the unique broker to God: "No one comes to the Father, but by me." Jesus, then, is both relationship and access, but he is not "place."

Later Jesus amplifies the meanings we argue for "Father's house" and "place": "If a man loves me, he will keep my word, and my father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him" (14:23). Once more, the key to this "geography" is relationship: (1) a disciple loving Jesus and keeping his word, (2) the Father loving this disciple, and (3)their coming to him and making a "home" ("room," as in 14:2) with him. Jesus again serves as the key link, the broker or mediator. The disciple-client, then, must maintain faithfulness with this mediator, which relationship will be honored by the Father-Patron. Thus a link between disciple and Father is forged in and through Jesus. The purpose or utility of this relationship comes from the benefaction the Patron then shows the client, namely, "we will make our home with him." Any disciple may fit this description, and any earthly place is suitable for this relationship to occur. The only exclusive thing that makes this place "sacred" is the fact that only a disciple in such a relationship with Jesus has a relationship with the Father.

Later Jesus petitions God for a benefaction related to the Johannine statement studied above, namely, that "place" = relationship: "Father, I desire that they also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to behold my glory that you have given me in your love for me before the foundation of the world" (17:24). The related figures include "Father, ....I," "they whom you gave me," that is, the same persons described in terms of patron-broker-clients above. The Patron has already established the broker with his clients, but he is now petitioned to bestow on them a unique blessing: "to behold my glory that you have given me in your love for me before the foundation of the world." What can "be with me where I am" mean? Several times in John 17 Jesus recognizes the non-relatedness of the disciples to "the world" While they are "in the world" (17:11), they are not "of the world" (17:14). Nevertheless, Jesus does not ask that they be removed from the world: "I do not pray that you should take them out of the world, but that you should keep them from the evil one" (17:15). Thus "that they be with me where I am" is no heavenly ascent nor a spatial relocation. Rather, the directional and spatial patterns we have been observing suggest that such language is best understood in terms of relationships. The relationship of Jesus with the Father contains elements of obedience, love, and generosity. In John 17, we are told thirteen times that the Father "gave" Jesus something, such as "power over all flesh" (17:2), "those you gave me" (17:6, 9, 24), "everything" (17:7), "the words you gave me" (17:8, 14), "the name" (17:11-12), and "glory" (17:22, 24). And Jesus' numerous petitions suggest that God will continue giving and giving in Jesus' name. Similarly, the Jesus-broker and disciples-clients relationship contains strains of loyalty, generosity and faithfulness. For example, Jesus, gifted with the "name" of God, reveals it to his disciples (17:6, 11, 12, 26); he has given them God's "word" (17:14, 17) and "glory" (17:22, 24). It is not enough that God play patron to his disciples via a broker; the fullest benefaction will occur when the broker "takes" the disciples close to God--a relationship, not a geographical or fixed sacred place.

Thus we return to the phrase "to behold my glory which you have given me in your love for me before the foundation of the world" The "place" of Jesus' pre-creation glory must be in the presence of God--in the bosom of God (i:18; 17:5). Jesus' petition in 17:24 does not require that the disciples be taken to a new place or be transported heavenward. His prayer may be accomplished by some sort of christophany in which the disciples "behold my glory." That is, they who are still in the world will see into heaven, just as Nathanael and others in 1:51 were promised a vision, if not of heaven itself then certainly of heavenly persons (see Acts 7:55-56). Thus Jesus' declaration in 14:2 that there are "many rooms" in the Father's house and its repetition in 14:23 are best understood as descriptions of relationships, not places such as were de-classified in 4:21. No specific earthly place in the world is envisioned, but rather a relationship between the Father, Jesus, and the disciples, which we describe as a Patron-Broker-client relationship.

"Being In" and "Dwelling In"

We find in John 14 and 15 a number of remarks by Jesus describing his relationship with both the Father and disciples, which are seemingly expressed in spatial terms. He expresses his relationship with the Father in two ways: (1) "I am in the Father and the Father is in me" (14:10, 11, 20), and "the Father dwells in me" (14:10b). Similarly, Jesus' relationship with the disciples parallels that between him and God: "I am in my Father and you in me and I in you" (14:20). Although one might think of "in" as a spatial term ("in my Father's house there are many rooms"), as we have noted, the disciples do not travel to another place nor does "being in" necessarily imply spatial location.

Likewise with "dwell in." In terms of Jesus' relationship with God, we are told that "the Father dwells in me" (14:10b). The same verb is used 10 times in 15:4-10 to express the relationship of Jesus with the disciples. On the one hand, the disciple must "dwell" in or remain in or sustain loyalty to Jesus: "the branch cannot bear fruit unless it 'dwells' in the vine" (15:4). Conversely, if a branch "dwells" in the vine, the vine curiously will "dwell" in the branch: "dwell in me and I in you" (15:4, 5b). An alternate way of expressing this in 15:7 indicates a basis for this type of dwelling: "If you 'dwell' in me and my words 'dwell' in you ...." Finally, the Spirit will "dwell" in you and 'be' in you (14:17).

Although the metaphors are those of space, we best understand them in terms of relationships. Paul urges the Philippians to have the "mind of Christ," that is, his thoughts, values, relationships, etc. Such a person would then resemble Jesus; one might even say that Jesus dwells in that disciple. A useful image of this might be a coin, with Jesus' image on one side and that of the disciple on the other, only it also resembles Jesus. Often Jesus declares that he has God's powers, words, commands; and so we have another coin, with God on one side and Jesus on the other. Now let us fuse the two coins, with the two Jesus sides face-to-face. Then God dwells in Jesus as do the disciples; and through Jesus, God dwells in the disciples and the disciples dwell in God. What type of relationships do we envision? At least two categories are suitable here: (1) kinship relationships (father, son, household), and (2) patron-broker-client--both the Father and Jesus and Jesus and the disciples.

C. H. Dodd saw the same phenomenon, although he did not interpret it as the foundation of worship in the Fourth Gospel. His observations are worth noting (Dodd: 187).

Consideration of relationships reminds us of the Greek virtue of righteousness in which duties to God, family and polls are articulated. All these relationships demand faithfulness and loyalty. Occasionally one finds "love" cited as a way in which duty is shown. These expressions of relationship have a bearing on how we read parts of the Farewell Address. Juxtaposed to the exhortation to "dwell" in Jesus and to "love," we find a paragraph about "hate." The world hates the disciples (15:18-25), a hatred which is expressed in 16:1-2 where they are told of expulsion from the synagogue and death. Jesus' explains why he tells them this prediction: "to keep you from falling away." Later he predicts that they will not "remain" but will "be scattered, every man to his home" (16:32). In the face of "hate," "scandal," and "scattering," the exhortation to "dwell" in Jesus takes on special significance. Nevertheless, the discourse, while on the level of physical separation and distancing, expresses close relationship of the highest sort. Thus "being in" and "dwelling in" correspond to "love," but "scandal" and "scattering" are the converse. Loyal and faithful relationships, we argue, best explain these erstwhile spatial terms.

Therefore, as regards the place of worship for the Johannine group, we draw the following conclusions. Although the group meets in a particular place, this is not fixed sacred space. When the group finishes its worship, the place becomes secular again. This sort of arrangement suggests that little by way of funding is needed, certainly not the system of sacrifices, dress and adornment of the Temple. Nor do we hear of or expect notice of a leader of worship; there certainly is no system of priestly ministers as found in the Temple. The focus of worship is "text," both the Scriptures but also the words of Jesus. His words are a portable shrine.

Summary, Conclusions, Further Questions

Summary

This study began by providing a current descriptive inventory of worship. In addition, we developed a social science model of worship based on communication theory which adequately explains how both prayer and other types of worship (prophecy, homily, etc.) all belong together as diverse aspects of worship. The communications model identifies and interprets the two directions of communication: (1) worshipers sending a message to the deity for a specific purpose and (2) the deity sending a message to the worshipers for various purposes. The model identifies both the medium of the communication and the channel along which it is sent, as well as a wide variety of purposes for the communication.

In regard to a full interpretation of prayer, the communication model, which led to the typology of prayer, advances our understanding by a detailed and nuanced articulation of various effects that prayer seeks to have on the deity. While we are all familiar with the purpose of petitionary prayer, we found the typology of prayer particularly helpful in identifying self-focused, heuristic and informational prayers.

Moreover, the model allowed for a nuanced reading and understanding of other forms of worship, which in the model describe the communication of the deity with worshipers. But the complete model of communication describes worship, not just that of mortals to God but also of God to mortals. Thus we were able both to surface data according to the forms of group-speech known from early Christianity and to appreciate how they link together as God's speech to the group. If the sub-forms were studied individually, we would not know their relationship to other parts of John 1417. The model gives insight into the parts and the whole.

In examining the issue of "where" the Johannine group worshiped, we were greatly aided by employing the model of fixed vs fluid sacred space. Fluid sacred space, unlike fixed space as found in temples, does not embody the system of temple personnel such as we find in Jerusalem's temple. Thus we can go further than the standard rejections of Mts. Gerizim and Zion and the traditional affirmations of "spirit and truth." The model of fluid sacred space urges us to examine how both the person of Jesus and the persons of the group become the sacred space. Jesus does not take his disciples out of the world, even though he has prepared a place for them. The key element in understanding the "where" of worship for the Johannine group is our appreciation of how Jesus as the ascended Lord continues to offer christophanies to the group, especially by revealing the sacred name "I AM" to them. In short, God draws near to the group through Jesus, especially through the shrine of the sacred name; and the disciples are drawn near through Jesus, especially as the heavenly figure who maintains his presence on earth. Thus we look to relationships as the "where" of worship.

We addressed the issue of the roles that constitute the relationship just described. The model of patron-broker-client, known from both ancient authors and modern anthropologists, seems particularly applicable to worship as we find it described in John 14-17. Broker is the preferred role in which the author of the Fourth Gospel as well as other New Testament authors understand how Jesus relates to God and to the disciples. In particular, it provides a full and apt interpretation of Jesus' communication in John 14-17: all of the client's petitions to the heavenly Patron are made "in my name," just as the Patron's "words" and "commands" all come through Jesus to the disciples. Whether "broker," "mediator," or "priest," we have both a social and functional understanding of Jesus' role in the verbal worship of the Johannine group.

Astute commentators tend to identify one or other of the topics listed above. But interpretation is painfully incomplete unless these data are properly classified as elements of worship. Unless one knows the whole, how can s/he properly recognize the parts? Knowledge of the model of worship surfaces data that are oftentimes overlooked, and then provides the appropriate scenario for understanding their relationship. A very useful tool, this model.

Finally, John 14-17 is normally labeled a "Farewell Address," and with good reason because it contains materials one easily identifies as elements of such an address. But these Johannine chapters are surprisingly found to contain materials obviously related to worship and prayer which do not comfortably fit the model of a farewell address. When one adds to discussions of worship both a communications model and the notion of fluid vs sacred space, then most of the material in John 14-17 can be seen to be part of a large discourse on worship in the Fourth Gospel. A familiar text is thus freshly interpreted precisely because new models of reading and interpretation suggest new data. Are the two models in opposition? No, each can explain data not covered by the other. Both seem to be productive ways of reading.

Further Questions

Because we have focused on John 14-17, our investigation of worship may suffer in two ways. First, how are we to interpret pilgrimage feasts to Jerusalem? How do we understand baptism (3:22-26) and eating the bread of life (6:32-56)? As Aune earlier stated (973), worship consists of "various types of rituals experiencing., a Christians gathered to eat together, to baptize new members, to experience healing." The very presence of the foot washing in 13:12-17 suggests a ceremonial welcome of group members by its officials. Is this part of group worship? The details of a purificatory ritual described in 20.'23 are absent, although Jesus authorizes those on whom he breathed to "forgive" and "retain" sins. What, then, still needs to identified and interpreted? Second, the more forms of worship that are identified, the more need we have of a consideration of roles and statuses within the group. How might the patron-broker-client model assist us in interpreting other rituals and other forms of worship? Third, if we have focused only on John 14-17, then are there other data in the Gospel about various forms worship and various aspects of it (time, place, ritual)? We claimed to find most of the elements of worship described by those who make surveys of what constitutes early Christian worship. What, however, have we not found in John 14-177 Finally, the worship models exposed here can only benefit from their application to other worship materials in the New Testament.

Works Cited

Aune, David E. 1992. Worship, Early Christian. Pp. 973-89 in ANCHOR BIBLE DICTIONARY, vol. 6.

Boissevain, Jeremy 1974. FRIENDS OF FRIENDS: NETWORKS, MANIPULATORS AND COALITIONS. Oxford, UK: Blackwell.

Borgen, Peder. 1986. God's Agent in the Fourth Gospel. Pp. 67-78 in THE INTERPRETATION OF JOHN (Issues in Religion and Theology, 9), edited by John Ashton, Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press/London: SPCK: 67-78.

Brown, Tricia Gates. 2003. SPIRIT IN THE JOHANNINE WRITINGS:: JOHANNINE PNEUMATOLOGY IN SOCIAL-SCIENCE PERSPECTIVE. London, UK: T & T Clark International.

Burge, Gary M. 1987. THE ANOINTED COMMUNITY. THE HOLY SPIRIT IN THE JOHANNINE TRADITON. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Danker, Frederick W. 1982. BENEFACTOR. EPIGRAPHICAL STUDY OF A GRAECO-ROMAN AND NEW TESTAMENT SEMANTIC FIELD. St. Louis MO: Clayton Publishing House.

Dodd, C. H. 1968. THE INTERPRETATION OF THE FOURTH GOSPEL. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Elliott, John H. 1996 Patronage and Clientage. Pp. 144-58 in THE SOCIAL SCIENCES AND NEW TESTAMENT INTERPRETATION. edited by Richard L. Rohrbaugh. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson.

Franck, Eskil. 1985. REVELATION TAUGHT. THE PARACLETE IN THE GOSPEL OF JOHN. Lund, Sweden: Wallin & Dahlohm.

Grayston, Kenneth 1981. The Meaning of PARAKLEITOS, JOURNAL FOR THE STUDY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT 13: 67-82.

Malina, Bruce J. 1988. Patron and Client: The Analogy Behind Synoptic Theology. Pp. 143-75 in his THE SOCIAL WORLD OF JESUS AND THE GOSPELS. London, UK: Routledge.

1986. CHRISTIAN ORIGINS AND CULTRAL ANTHROPOLOGY. PRCTICAL MODELS FOR BIBLICAL INTERPRETATION. Atlanta, GA: John Knox.

Malina Bruce J., & Richard L. Rohrbaugh. 1998. SOCIAL-SCIENTIFIC COMMENTARY ON THE GOSPEL OF JOHN. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress.

Martyn, J. Louis 1979. HISTORY AND THEOLOGY 1N THE FOURTH GOSPEL. Revised ed. Nashville, TN: Abingdon.

McCaffery, James 1988. THE HOUSE WITH MANY ROOMS. THE TEMPLE THEME OF JN. 14,2-3. Rome, Italy: Pontifical Biblical Institute.

Mott, Stephen Charles 1975. The Power of Giving and Receiving: Reciprocity in Hellenistic Benevolence. Pp. (30-72 in CURRENT ISSUES IN BIBLICAL AND PATRISTIC INTERPRETATION. edited by Gerald Hawthorne. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Oepke, A. 1967. Mesites. THEOLOGICAL DICTIONARY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT 4. 598-624.

Piper, Ronald A. 2001. Glory, Honor and Patronage in the Fourth Gospel: Understanding the Doxa Given to the Disciples in John 17. Pp. 281-309 in SOCIAL SCIENTIFIC MODELS FOR INTERPRETING THE BIBLE. ESSAYS BY THE CONTEXT GROUP IN HONOR OF BRUCE J. MALINA, edited by John J. Pilch. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill.

Sack, RoBert D. 1986. HUMAN TERRITORIALITY. ITS THEORY AND HISTORY. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

Saller, Richard P. 1982. PERSONAL PATRONAGE UNDER THE EARLY EMPIRE. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

Swanson, Tod D. 1994. To Prepare a Place. Johannine Christianity and the Collapse of Ethnic Territory. JOURNAL OF THE AMERICAN ACADEMY OF RELIGION 62:248--51.

Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew (ed.). 1989. PATRONAGE IN ANCIENT SOCIETY. London, UK: Routledge.

Jerome H. Neyrey, Ph.D. (Yale University) is professor of New Testament Studies at the University of Notre Dame (neyrey.1@nd.edu). His most recent book is a study on God: Render to God by Fortress. He is the author of sixteen articles on the Fourth Gospel and one book; and he has authored a socio-rhetorical commentary on John for the Cambridge University Press which will appear shortly. He is currently finishing a manuscript on prayer and worship for Eerdmans. He is also a member of The Context Group, which studies the Scripture in its social and cultural context.

Category 14:26 15:26

Title or Name 1. Paraclete 1. Paraclete

2. Holy Spirit 2. Spirit of Truth

Source & Relationship whom the Father will whom I shall send to
to Father and Jesus send in my name you from the Father
... who proceeds
from the Father

Functions 1. he will teach you 1. --
all things

2. bring to your 2. he will bear
remembrance all witness to me
that I have said
to you

Category 16:7-10, 12

Title or Name 1. 16:7 Paraclete

2. 16.12 Spirit of Truth

Source & Relationship 16:7 I will send him to you
to Father and Jesus

Functions 1. he will guide you into all
the truth ... he will declare
to you the things that are
to come.

2. he does not speak on
his own authority ... he will
glorify me, for he will take
what is mine and declare it
to you.

3. he will convince the world
of sin: righteousness, and
judgment

FIXED: Temple FLUID: Group

1. topological, actual space 1. place where the group meets

2. place perduring over time 2. space of opportunistic,
occasional group meetings

3. major mode of worship: 3. major mode of worship: verbal
sacrifice forms

4. focus on altar 4. focus on sacred writings

5. hierarchical arrangement of 5. significant individuals whose
persons by birth competency is based on spirit
giftedness or closeness to the
group's hero

The Father knows the Son The Son is in the Father
(x.15) (xiv.10-11I 29, xvii.21)

The Son knows the Father (x.15) The Father is in the Son
(xiv.10-11; xvii.21, 23)

The Son knows men (x.14) Men are in the Son (xiv.20;
xvii.21)

Men know the Son (x. 14) The Son is in the men (xiv.20;
xvii.23, 26)

Men know (see) Father and Son Men are in the Father and the
(xiv.7-8) Son (xvii.21)
COPYRIGHT 2006 Biblical Theology Bulletin, Inc
COPYRIGHT 2006 Gale Group

An overlooked message: the critique of kings and affirmation of equality in the primeval history

2007-07-06T20:04:00.000-07:00

An overlooked message: the critique of kings and affirmation of equality in the primeval history

Robert K. Gnuse
Abstract

The Primeval History in Genesis 2-11 contains symbolic polyvalent narratives with diverse levels of interpretive possibility. One meaningful level of interpretation is to see how the accounts contain a strident critique of kingship, especially the social economic abuses perpetrated by kings. Kings who receive the strident barbs of the author include not only Mesopotamian rulers, but also, by implication, the rulers of Israel and Judah, who likewise abused their powers. This exilic critique of kings is also, in turn, part of the great biblical message affirming human equality and dignity, and it speaks a powerful egalitarian word to any age.

**********

World history textbooks often allude to John Ball as one of the key leaders in the famous English Peasants' Revolt of 1381, but too often the rest of the rather dramatic story is not told. John Ball had been trained in Hebrew at Oxford University; so as he read the sacred text in the original tongue, he observed meanings and messages in the Bible that other preachers, theologians, and great leaders of the church did not see or ignored. In Genesis I he discerned that God had made "man" in his image, and then made "man" into male and female, which implied for him that men and women were equal, for both were made equally in the image of God. What further impressed him was that this "image of God" elsewhere was attributed to kings. If the man and the woman were portrayed as royal personages in this biblical text, and they were the ancestors of all humanity, perhaps that meant all people were equal and should have equal economic opportunity in a society in which there were no kings or nobility. For twenty years John Ball proclaimed his message in rural villages of northern England, and he eventually went to London to preach. A historian or chronicler of this age reported that he said the following:

My good friends, things cannot go well in England, nor ever
will until everything shall be in common; when there shall be
neither vassal nor Lord and all distinctions leveled, when the
lords shall be no more masters than ourselves. How ill have
they used us? And for what reason do they thus hold us in
bondage? Are we not all descended from the same parents,
Adam and Eve? And what can they show or what reasons
give, why they should be more masters than ourselves? ... But
it is from us and our labor that everything comes with which
they maintain their pomp [Bobrick: 60; N. Cohn: 199].
Eventually the country priest inspired the peasants to a revolution against his oppressive government. The peasants followed political leaders like Jack Straw and Wat Tyler, who forced king Richard II to negotiate with them. The king promised to end serfdom and the oppressive taxes which inspired many to revolt. But when the peasants, satisfied that their demands were met, dispersed to their homes, the king reneged on his promises and declared, "serfs you were, and serfs you will remain." The leaders of the uprising, including the young priest, were executed eventually, and the revolution failed (Bobrick: 59-62; Dunn: 59-62, 140). Had Ball lived four hundred years later and a continent away, he would be remembered as one of our great founding fathers, for his message was no different than that of the spokespersons for the American Revolution.

John Ball in 1381 read and perceived the implications of Genesis 1 concerning the man and the woman being made in the image of God. Why did not more clergy discover this message in the Bible, and why did it take almost two thousand years for democracy to emerge in a Christian culture that supposedly used the Bible as its primary source for theology, ethics, worship, and Christian faith? Why do not all Christians today see this message of universal human equality and the concomitant concept of the equality of men and women? Is it because we quote the Bible, but do not really read it? Though scholars comment upon it in learned commentaries and scholarly articles, this message has not yet infiltrated half of the churches in Christendom.

Throughout the Bible one can find an overall message of human dignity and equality before God. Though there be passages which admit the existence of the institutions of slavery and kingship, that acknowledge that in life there are distinctions between people on the basis of class, wealth, and sex, one senses that the texts speak of these matters in a mode of discourse which is concessive, that is, they are part of a world order that may someday be no more. For too long the institutional Church has allowed the concessive mode of discourse to become the normative mode of discourse for human society, and social realities which were to be changed by the people of God were ironically reinforced by the institutional churches.

We could review the entire biblical tradition to explicate those passages which speak of human dignity and equality or the imperative to move in such directions, but that would be an expansive work, hopefully to be undertaken by this author in the future. This brief essay seeks to focus upon the Primeval History in Genesis I-11, for seldom do biblical scholars and theologians turn to these texts for inspiration for social reform. These contain passages that too often have been used consciously and unconsciously over the years to legitimate oppression and subordination of certain people, especially women. I would maintain that within these passages there are clarion statements of human equality and that a subtle critique of the institution of kingship pervades many of the themes in these narrative accounts. Biblical scholars have focused upon these themes in scholarly discussion, though often in a tangential way, as they sought to elucidate other topics. Feminist scholars have been especially adroit at unveiling the egalitarian images as they pertain to women. But I believe there are more pervasive egalitarian themes, and anti-royal themes, which by implication are also egalitarian, to be found within these texts.

Kings and the Bible

In his rather thorough and recent analysis of the ideology and social world of kingship in Amorite Babylon, Homeric Greece (whenever that really existed), and ancient Israel, Dale Launderville demonstrates rather well that the institution of kingship was a cultural, social, economic, political, and religious symbol by which societies were unified. Kings held their world together, in part, because of the rhetoric they generated and the economic and political success they could accomplish. They portrayed their rule as sanctioned by the king of the gods, and they helped to mediate the will of the gods to their people, as well as direct the economy, administer the law, and defend the country or city from foreign enemies. Nonetheless, critique of kingship would occur when kings failed to bring order, basic justice, and prosperity to their society (Launderville). The critique of kings, especially by the prophets and the Deuteronomistic Historians in ancient Israel, was the most strident we can find in the ancient world, and modern biblical scholars and theologians would recognize that. What we might not sense is how pervasive that critique could be throughout the biblical text. Even the portrayal of the ideal king or messiah who would come someday is still a criticism of the existing institution of kingship in that age. For it bespeaks a king who will accomplish what living kings do not chose to achieve or simply cannot achieve. Ultimately, Christians connect the image of the messiah with Jesus, who clearly stands in opposition to the institutional kings of this world. The Bible as a whole contains much anti-kingship rhetoric and is concomitantly egalitarian in its overall message. It is from this biblical text, in part, that democratic ideals arose. And, it is no coincidence that when the English cut off the head of a ruling monarch in the 17th century, they did so while quoting biblical texts (Bobrick: 278-84).

In the Primeval History of Genesis 1-11 there are hints of anti-royal fervor and the radical equality of people. Biblical scholars have noted these passages, and theologians have observed some of these themes in theologies of liberation and related theologies, but I believe we have not given these themes the prominence they deserve, especially in light of how often these texts have been used in the history of Christendom to justify the oppression of people and to legitimate the structures of society.

The Yahwist and the Priestly Editors

Genesis 1-11 exemplifies dramatically the symbolic and theological mode by which the biblical authors express themselves. A majority of the narratives in Genesis 2-11 have been isolated and characterized as the "Primeval History" of the First Testament by biblical scholars, where they are perceived as a cycle of tales which arose in either oral or written form from an anonymous author called the Yahwist. However, some recent critical scholars prefer to limit the so-called "Primeval History" to Genesis 1-9, while maintaining that Genesis 10-11 more properly belongs to the Patriarchal Narratives as a pre-history (Batto: 69; Hiebert: 80-82; Loning & Zenger: 100). For the past two centuries these so-called Yahwistic accounts have been isolated from the larger narrative context in Genesis 1-11 by differences in vocabulary, narrative style, and theology. These Yahwistic narratives include the following accounts: the creation of the Adam (generic man), the man and the woman in the garden, Cain and Abel, the flood, Noah and his sons, and the tower of Babel. The non-Yahwistic traditions (usually ascribed to Priestly authors or editors) include accounts of the cosmic creation (Gen 1:1-2:4a), the genealogy of Seth (Gen 5:1-32), portions of the flood narrative that envision the flood as a cosmic event (parts of Gen 6-8), the covenant with Noah (Gen 9:1-15), and minor genealogical information.

The priority of the Yahwist tradition (or J) is generally assumed by critical scholars, who subsequently propose that the Priestly Tradition (or P) was either a supplemental addition to J by a post-exilic Priestly editor or perhaps a once separate oral or written tradition ("Die Priesterschrift") woven into J by an editor or author sometimes called R (the redactor or the "Rabbenu" "our master," as some Jewish scholars prefer it). R may be yet another priestly author or editor, and he has been identified on occasion with Ezra. However, in the past generation, some scholars have suggested the priority of P, and they seek to demonstrate how J material was woven into P (Blenkinsopp).

Other recent scholars have cast doubt upon the existence of the entire J tradition as a unified source that arose in the pre-exilic era (Van Seters 1975; Schmid; Rendtorff; Rose; Whybray: 43-131). They attribute it to an exilic historian whose efforts later became the prologue to the pre-existing Deuteronomistic History. John Van Seters and Martin Rose still suggest J arose prior to the work of P Editors (Van Seters 1983, 1992, 1994, 1998: 3-49; Rose), but Joseph Blenkinsopp locates this J history after the P redaction (Blenkinsopp), and Erhard Blum believes that J arose in a complex relationship with Deuteronomic material (1984, 1990). But when all is said and done, most contemporary authors and biblical theologians still tend to refer to these texts as J (Hiebert), or at least they call these texts "non-P." Thus, David Carr (1996) believes that the "non-P" author wove loose Yahwistic and Elohistic oral fragments together into a unified work, and no separate organized Yahwist or Elohist existed in a self-contained form.

Most biblical theologians distinguish the theology of these respective J and P texts, and they see value in comparing the two theological traditions. A few have argued, however, that the material eventually arose as a unity, even though the author might have used various pre-existing fragments. They say it is best for us to stress the unity of the final text before us when doing biblical theology, rather than the hypothetical sources reconstructed by scholars (Lira). Ultimately, no consensus has emerged about the division or the dating of the J and P materials. Commentators still treat the J texts as related texts which function as the core narrative, and P texts are viewed in a dialectical relationship. For an overall theological assessment, however, it may be best to consider Genesis 1-11 as a unity when possible in order to capture the message that the final redactor wished to communicate.

Patterns in the Primeval History

Once commentators move beyond the intense discussion of the source and tradition history of the texts, they often provide us with excellent theological interpretations. Commentators have observed the powerful interplay between human sin and divine forgiveness.

Two generations ago some scholars delineated a pattern of divine grace, human sin, punishment, intended or received, and divine forgiveness. The pattern would be: Grace--creation of the man and woman and their placement in the garden (Gen 2:4b-24), the birth of sons (Gen 4:1-2), increase of population prior to the flood (Gen 6:1), land fertility after the flood (Gen 9:20-21), and increase of population after the flood (Gen 11:1-2); Sin--rebellion and desire to be like God or the gods (Gen 3:1-19), envy and murder by Cain (Gen 4:3-8), intermarriage with gods and social violence on the earth (Gen 6:2-4), Ham "sees" his father (Gen 9:22), and rebellion and pride of the builders of the tower of Babel (Gen 11:3-4); Punishment--expulsion from the garden (Gen 3:22-24), exile from farmable land (Gen 4:9-14), flood (Gen 6:5-8:19), curse on Canaan (Gen 9:24-25), and dispersal over the earth (Gen 11:5-9); and Forgiveness--clothing, names, and children for the man and the woman (Gen 3:20-21, 4:1-2), mark of Cain (Gen 4:15-16), survival of one family during the flood (Gen 8:1-9:17), blessings for Shem and Japhet (Gen 9:26-27), and the call of Abram after the Babel incident (Gen 12:1-3) (von Rad: 1:!36-65; Fretheim; Gros Louis: 51). Though perhaps not all would agree with this breakdown of the text, most would recognize the dialectical relation of human sin and divine forgiveness in the narratives.

More recently in the past generation a number of authors have highlighted the literary and theological parallels between various stories within Genesis 2-11. Often such scholars see the numerous similarities between the narratives about Adam and his descendants over against Noah and his descendants. Some have seen three-way parallels between Adam, Cain, and Noah and their respective descendants. Such motifs include the following.

* Both Adam and Noah were primeval ancestors of humanity (Gen 2:7, 9:20).

* Adam was created from the ground (Gen 2:7-8), Cain worked the ground (Gen 4:2), and Noah brought relief from the curse on the ground (Gen 5:29) and was removed from the ground by flood.

* Animals were in Eden and in the ark "according to their kind."

* Animals and people were safe first in a garden and later in an ark.

* Adam lived with the animals, Noah was permitted to eat them (Gen 9:2).

* Adam ate fruit in the garden (Gen 2:17), Cain produced grain (Gen 4:2), and Noah drank wine from his vineyard (Gen 9:20-21).

* Consumption of fruit by Adam and wine by Noah led to trouble for both.

* "Eyes were opened" for both Adam and Noah (Gen 3:7, 9:22) and nakedness seen (Gen 3:7, 9:22).

* Adam and Eve gained knowledge (Gen 3:7), Cain denied knowledge of his brother (Gen 4:9), and Noah lost knowledge while drunk (Gen 9:21).

* After the human sin, God "came down" in Eden and at Babel (Gen 3:8, 11:5).

* In Eden (Gen 3:14-19), with the first brothers (Gen 4:11-12), and at Babel there came curses (Gen 9:25-27).

* Although Adam and Cain were cursed by God, Canaan was cursed by a human, Noah, which implies the rise of human autonomy and the withdrawal of God.

* Adam and Noah were told to increase in population as they respectively left the garden and the ark.

* Both ancestors had eponymous children (Gen 4:1-2, 9:18).

* Both ancestors had three children, one of whom was cursed.

* Their children farmed. (Gen 4:3, 9:20).

* Children were divided or fought each other (Gen 4:4-8, 9:21-23).

* A curse fell upon one child, a brother (Gen 4:11-12, 9:25-26).

* The one cursed was expelled (Gen 4:16, 9:27).

* Adam's family gave rise to city culture (through Cain) (Gen 4:17-24), and Noah's family gave rise to national groups (Gen 10).

* The first world was destroyed by a flood, the second world was permitted to exist after Babel's sin because God saw that people were naturally sinful (Gen 8:21-22). And finally,

* God feared the distinction between human and divine would be blurred (Gen 3:22-24, 11:6).

In fact, this divine concern arose three times: God feared "they will be like us" in knowledge and immortality (Gen 3:22), God feared the semi-divine beings (Gen 6:1-4), and God feared "nothing will be impossible for them" (Gen 11:6). So God exiled people from the garden (setting a boundary) (Gen 3:23-24), limited their age to 120 years (setting a temporal limit) (Gen 6:3), and confused their tongues (preventing a united uprising) (Gen 11:7-9). Whereas the second time God destroyed them all with a flood, the third time God tolerated them and allowed them to build separate civilizations. Throughout these accounts God appears to become more distant and people become morally autonomous. Adam and Eve denied their sin before God, Cain accepted that he sinned, and finally Noah took the place of God in the confrontation with Ham and Canaan and uttered the curse in God's place (Gros Louis: 37-52; Sasson: 211-19; R. Cohn: 4-6; Niditch: 11-69; Carr: 234-40). Devora Steinmetz sees a tri-partite division of Adam, Cain, and Noah (Steinmetz), while Richard Elliott Friedman sees the theme of the gradual disappearance of God from these narratives throughout the Pentateuch (7-140).

A third approach to understanding the progression of narrative in Genesis 2-11 has been to compare it with the narrative material in the Babylonian account, the Atrahasis Myth, for the plot sequence is quite similar and divergences appear to be an attempt on the part of the biblical author to critique Mesopotamian understandings from the perspective of the biblical worldview. In general, the Atrahasis Myth and Genesis 2-11 share a number of common features, including the following motifs.

* People are created from the ground (Gen 2:7).

* People are created to till the ground (Gen 2:7-8).

* A chance exists for human immortality (Gen 2:9, 3:22-24).

* Sexuality and marriage are created (Gen 2:24).

* A goddess for a woman is named "mother of life" (Gen 3:20).

* People reproduce rapidly.

* People rebel against the god(s).

* People are killed in Atrahasis or exiled eastward in the Bible (Gen 2:24, 4:10-16).

* A flood kills most of humanity.

* A hero and his family survives.

* Sacrifice pleases the god(s) (Gen 8:20-22). (12) The god(s) accepts the nature of humanity (Gen 8:21). And finally,

* People repopulate the world (Gen 9:18-27, 10:1-11:19) (Frymer-Kensky: 147-55, Oden: 210-15; Batto: 51-52).

All of these are fine ways to assess the Primeval History, but there are other modes of analysis which may interpret the text in an equally meaningful fashion, for these particular biblical texts are rich with meaning. I would propose that a theme that permeates the narratives is one which critiques the assumptions of kingship and affirms the basic equality of human beings before God and in society.

Genesis 1-2

The most significant text that speaks of human equality, especially in reaction to the so-called superior status of kings is found in Genesis 1:26-28. In this text God is said to have made both the man and the woman (not just the man, as some people seem to think) in the divine "image" and "likeness" and given them the power to "rule" and have "dominion" over the world.

26 Then God said, "Let us make humankind in our image,
according to our likeness; and let them have dominion over
the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the
cattle, and over all the wild animals of the earth, and over every
creeping thing that creeps upon the earth." 27 So God created
humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them;
male and female he created them. 28 God blessed them, and
God said to them, "Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth
and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea and
over the birds of the air and over every living thing that moves
upon the earth."
In the ancient Near East terminology such as the "image" of the god or the "likeness" of the god were metaphors used to characterize the king, especially in Mesopotamia, where the king was the representative of the gods upon the earth. Literally, the terms meant statues, and the implication was that the king was the visible "likeness" of the deity upon the earth. Likewise, the king was said to "rule" or have "dominion" over both the world and his people, as it was given to him by the gods or by the leader of the gods. The powerful implication of this biblical language is that now the man and the woman, who symbolize all of humanity, are said to be kings (and queens). The old concepts are radically democratized by the biblical text, for now all human beings are said to be in the image of God. This is a major shift in ideology, for it moves away from old traditional royal ideologies to a new egalitarian one in which the common people are elevated to the status of the king and given not only royal status but perhaps even the old mythic semi-divine status once accorded to kings. (Such appears to be the implication of Psalm 8, a text related to Genesis 1, which speaks of people being only a little less than God or the gods.) Perhaps such a new reconfiguration became possible in the exilic and post-exilic era for Jewish intellectuals, particularly the priests, once their own institution of kingship had disappeared (Smith 2001: 169-71). This gives tremendous dignity and responsibility to all human beings regardless of social distinction. Their responsibilities entail protection of the land. They are not to struggle with the created order, but they are to struggle to protect the created order. Previously, such was seen to be the task of kings. Now such dignity and responsibility are attributed to all human beings (Vawter: 55-60; Westermann: 151-61; Loning & Zenger: 108-11). Accordingly, the special position of power and privilege held by kings is undercut.

This theme is furthered in Genesis 2, where the man and the woman are placed into the garden. The creation of garden was another prerogative of Mesopotamian kings who brought plants and animals from all over their empires and placed them into special royal gardens. The metaphor of the king's garden is applied also to the king's rule over his empire, for the king turns the entire land into his garden by wise rule. In Genesis 2 Yahweh is clearly the king who creates such a garden for divine pleasure, but then Genesis 2 also attributes some ruling function to the man and the woman as representatives of all humanity (Brueggemann; Wyatt: 10-21).

The man names the animals and thus engages in an important creative function, even though scholars debate as to the degree to which this makes the man a co-creator with God (Vawter:. 74). His naming of the animals, however, at least signifies his importance in ordering the garden, which makes him appear to perform a function similar to the role of kings as gardeners for the gods. If we take the image from Mesopotamian political mythology, we may metaphor Yahweh as the king, or we may view Yahweh as the high god and the man (and woman) as representing the king on earth.

Critical scholarship assumes that the account in Genesis 2 is older than that of Genesis 1. In its original form Genesis 2 may have had the idea of portraying the man, not as a king, but rather as a being who lives in harmonious relationship to Yahweh and works with Yahweh. However, when the later text in Genesis 1 was added by Priestly writers in the Babylonian Exile or beyond, the democratizing of royal epithets in Genesis 1 makes the reader more likely to see the image of the garden in Genesis 2 as a royal park, Yahweh as the king who creates the garden, and the man (and woman) as sharing in those royal attributes of creation and rule, especially in the animal naming process. If the suggestion in the previous paragraph is correct, then Genesis I may lead the reader to view the Scene in Genesis 2 as follows: Eden is the royal garden or the world, Yahweh represents the pantheon of Mesopotamian gods, and the man and the women rule the garden on Yahweh's behalf, functioning like the Mesopotamian king.

These are all powerful statements to make in the ancient world where the assumption of the great cultures is that the king (or pharaoh) is either divine, as in Egypt where pharaoh was Horus and the son of Osiris, or a representative of the gods who could be adopted as divine, as in Mesopotamia. Now the biblical text declares that everyman and everywoman are equal to the king, and obviously equal to each other.

Genesis 4-11

In Genesis 4 Cain goes to the land of Nod, in the east, after killing his brother and receives the mark of protection from God. Often commentators assume that Cain went to the east, that is, the land of the Transjordan, which is east of Israel. But the biblical author may be pointing even further east, to the land of Mesopotamia, where the ancients lived (including those who built the tower of Babel). Mesopotamia would be a good candidate, because there were indeed cities there in the river valley, and the text later speaks of how Cain founded a city. Our biblical author elsewhere hints that the earliest cities were in Mesopotamia or Shinar.

If the reference to the east does hint at Mesopotamia and the land of cities, we may observe the sarcasm of the biblical author. The first murderer goes to Mesopotamia, the land that sent forth murderous armies from Assyria and Chaldean Babylon to destroy the people of Israel. Cain "invents" cities, cities which are the source of human pride, greed, and oppression. Perhaps we also sense the biblical author's antipathy toward cities, with their kings and their priests, who rule people in tyrannical fashion. The tyranny of the cities in Mesopotamia is a theme that will return in the story about the tower of Babel.

In the ancient Sumerian King List there are a number of heroes who lived before the flood, who lived for thousands of years, and who functioned as kings over the ante-diluvian peoples (Oppenheim: 265-66). The biblical text responds with its own list and ante-diluvian figures, the two lists of the descendents of Cain (Gen 4:17-25) and Seth (Gen 5:1-32). (Interestingly enough both lists contain the same names, perhaps implying that we are the descendents of both the bad Cainites and the good Sethites, which means we are a combination of good and evil.) But for our purposes it should be noted that none of the biblical personages lived more than a 1000 years; only Methuselah came close with 969 years. The point of the biblical author is that these personages died "young" because they were not divine or semi-divine kings, as the Mesopotamians claimed. The youngest of the Mesopotamian heroes died at 36,000 years. Mesopotamian heroes, who were kings, lived so long because they were semi-divine. The subtle undercurrent in the text is that later Mesopotamian kings shared at least in the semi-divine status, even if the longevity were lost. In response, the biblical text declares that the ante-diluvian personages were mortal and died "young." Furthermore, the biblical personages were not kings, but apparently pastoralists. From this perspective the biblical text is undermining the ideology of kingship by denying the royal and semi-divine status of the so-called earliest kings.

It appears that the biblical author is making a political and religious statement over against Mesopotamian traditions about the ante-diluvian kings. The Mesopotamians claim that these great personages were kings of semi-divine origin. The ancients often claimed their kings were semi-divine or sons of the high god. This, of course, gave added authority to the power of the king. The biblical author responds by calling this nonsense. Instead, the biblical author maintains that the pre-flood personages were not kings, but simple shepherds. Furthermore, the biblical author gives life spans to these people to show that they were not divine or semi-divine; they were simply humans who lived a long time. None of the biblical figures lived more than 1000 years; Methuselah tried his best, but even he fell short of the magic number. That means none of them were divine. So the biblical author gives the biblical personages "short" life spans to deny their divinity and thereby attacks the concept of divine or semi-divine kings. Hence, when modern readers of the Bible ask why did these people live so long, the answer is that they really lived "short" lives because they were simply mortal, not divine.

A person of interest in the list is Enoch, the seventh patriarchal figure, who was said to have walked with God and was taken by God, or translated to heaven. This reminds us of Elijah, who also was taken to heaven alive in a fiery chariot. The usual interpretation is that Enoch was taken alive into the heavenly realm without dying, though there are some references to his death. This assumption into heaven, of course, gave rise to great speculation in the later Jewish tradition, so that by the 2nd century BCE Enoch was envisioned as a great seer and wise sage who was drawn up into the heavenly realm and permitted to see the future. His visions of the future emerge in several writings most of which were drawn together in the book of Enoch (we call it 1 Enoch). Other literature that bears his name also has developed out of a complex set of traditions about this heavenly seer. Enoch is mentioned in documents from Qumran from the 2nd century BCE, including some fragments of 1 Enoch. In the Apocryphal or Deutero-canonical book of Sirach, Enoch's perfection is mentioned (Sir 44:16), and in the Apocryphal or Deutero-canonical Wisdom of Solomon, Enoch is the example of a righteous man in whom the wisdom of the age came to fruition during his youth (even though he died). In the Second Testament Enoch is seen as a man of faith who did not die (Heb 11:5-6).

Enoch lived for 365 years before God took him according to Genesis 5:22-24, and that is the number of days in a year. This has prompted modern scholars to compare him to Enmeduranna or Enmeduranki who was listed above in the Sumerian King List. Both personages were seventh in their succession of ante-diluvian heroes. Enmeduranna, the Sumerian, taught divinatory rites by the sun god, and his adviser, Utuabzu (who was seventh on a list of antediluvian sages) was said to have ascended to heaven (Hess: 2:508). This is too much similarity to be a coincidence. Enoch seems to combine characteristics of both Mesopotamia figures.

The figure of Enoch spoofs the Mesopotamian king Enmeduranna somehow and for some specific reason. Enmeduranna was a sage king with great wisdom obtained from the sun God; Enoch was a wise sage (at least according to later Jewish literature), who had a prominent place in heaven (also according to later Jewish tradition), but he was not a king. Perhaps this is another critique of kingship. It is likely that there is more biblical critique of Mesopotamian belief involved here, but we have to guess at what it is. (Perhaps, because Israelites had been prone to worship the sun as a deity, and both Israelites and even later Judeans were tempted to equate Yahweh with the sun [Smith, 1990: 115-34; Taylor], this story is meant to criticize sun veneration in some way.)

The ending to the biblical account of the flood contains critiques of Mesopotamian kingship. This is true of both the Yahwist ending in Gen 8:21-22, which promises that Yahweh will never destroy the world again, and the Priestly conclusion to the expanded flood narrative in Gen 9:1-17, which reiterates intensely God's promise not to flood the world. The entire biblical account of the flood appears to be a parody on Mesopotamian beliefs in many ways, especially the narratives about Ziusudra, Atrahasis, and Utnapishtim--the various Babylonian Noahs. But these endings critique Mesopotamian kingship in particular ways.

First, Mesopotamians engaged in complex religious rites at the New Year Akiti or Akitu festival, led by their priests and the king, to avoid another flood. By these rituals they gave strength to Marduk, the god of Babylon, to defeat the power of chaos, the evil goddess of water, Tiamat, every year and thus avert the destruction of Babylon by floods. The possible re-enactment of this drama, which may have featured the king annually in the role of Marduk, gave tremendous psychological legitimation to the king as the representative of the divine realm. When the biblical narrative declares that a flood will never happen again, it makes the Babylonians and their king look foolish with this superfluous ritual.

In the second place, the hero of the flood in one account, Ziusudra, is a king. His reception of the gift of immortality for surviving the flood further adds credibility to the divine status of the king. (Atrahasis and Utnapishtim also receive immortality in their versions of the account.) In the biblical account, however, Noah is not a king, and he receives no immortality after the flood; rather, the blessing of God is for all people--the curse on the ground is removed (Gen 8:21) and people are enabled to eat meat (Gen 9:2-4), as well as promised no more flood. This further debunks the status of primordial heroes who could be seen as ancient kings.

The symbolic story of the building of the tower of Babel in Genesis 11 is another anti-royal account. The sin of the tower builders is their desire to storm the heavens and make a name for themselves, which symbolically means that they seek to invade the divine realm and become immortal like the gods. Thus, they would avert the destruction of another flood sent by the gods, or they can avoid being scattered by Yahweh, as the text declares in v 4. Put in other terms, the sin of the builders is tremendous pride, the desire to be like the gods, which in the opinion of biblical authors is the sin of the Mesopotamian kings.

Mesopotamian kings considered it one of their chief duties to build temple ziggurats in their cities. Especially great ziggurats were built by Ur-Nammu in Ur (2000 BCE), Hammurabi in Babylon (1750 BCE), and Nebuchadrezzar I in Babylon (1100 BCE). Nabonidns engaged in numerous temple and shrine rebuilding projects in Ur, Babylon, and Harran (550 BCE). Of special interest is the temple ziggurat, the Entemenanki, in Babylon, which was built by the Assyrian king Esarhaddon in the mid-7th century BCE, rebuilt by the Chaldean Babylonian king Nabopollasar in the late 7th century BCE, and refurbished by two Chaldean Babylonian kings, Nebuchadnezzar II and Nabonidus, in the early and mid-6th century BCE. Mesopotamian ziggurats were cosmic mountains that reached to the heavens, and the worshipping individuals--the king and priests--who could build and ascend such mountains--had their authority on this world legitimated by such activity. Of special interest is the activity of Nebuchadnezzar in building a great temple in Babylon, the Etemenanki, for in his royal inscriptions he bragged of how he brought people from all over his empire to work on that building construction (Van Seters 1994: 182-84; Smith-Christopher: 67). Those peoples obviously would have included Judeans exiled after the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 BCE.

In response to such Mesopotamian imagery and obvious architectural propaganda, the biblical author painted a story of human pride and divine punishment to ridicule such Babylonian pretensions to power and self-proclaimed divinity. Yahweh comes down to the tower, the ziggurat, the cosmic mountain, and scatters the builders by confusing their language. Yahweh comes down to view the tower, not because he lost his bifocals, but because the tower was too small to be seen from the heavens. This is humorous satire by the biblical author on how truly insignificant the so-called great works of the Babylonian kings really were. Nabonidus, in particular, may have been the target of criticism, because at the end of his reign Jews returned home. In later years Nabonidus would be the inspiration for the insane king (Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon) in Daniel 4. In Genesis 11 people scatter to the ends of the earth. In general, the Genesis 11 motif may symbolize the release of captive peoples after the collapse of empires and the end of forced labor at building projects.

Thus, the Primeval History contains powerful symbolic narratives that function with many levels of meaning. One of the several important motifs, which run through the narratives, is the critique of kings, and especially the arrogant claims of kings in Mesopotamia.

Conclusions

I do not seek to reject other interpretations and approaches to Genesis 1-11, but I do believe these texts are polyvalent; that is, they carry many levels of meaning and religious truth. We have plumbed the depths of these texts for years, and we still may find poignant meanings within them. I believe we have not focused sufficiently upon the egalitarian themes: the proclamation of human equality and the repudiation of kingship with all the ideational and social values connection to that institution in the ancient world.

The consistent critique of kings throughout these stories may have emerged from the hands of a Yahwist author and/ or Priestly Editor during the Babylonian Exile of the 6th century BCE, when Jews found themselves under the heel of imperial Babylonian rule. John Ball saw that message clearly over 600 years ago; may we see it so clearly today.

Works Cited

Bat-to, Bernard. 1992. SLAYING THE DRAGON. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox.

Blenkinsopp, Joseph. 1992. THE PENTATEUCH. New York, NY: Doubleday.

Blum, Erhard. 1984. DIE KOMPOSITION DER VATERGESCHICHTE. Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament 57. Neukirchen-Vluyn, Germany: Neuldrchener Verlag. 1990. STUDIEN ZUR KOMPOSITION DES PENTATEUCH. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift fur die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 189. Berlin, Germany: Walter de Gruyter.

Bobrick, Benson. 2001. WIDE AS THE WATERS: THE STORY OF THE ENGLISH BIBLE AND THE REVOLUTION IT INSPIRED. New York, NY: Simon and Schuster.

Brueggemann, Walter. 1981. From Dust to Kingship. ZEIT-SCHRIFT FUR DIE ALTTESTAMENTLICHE WISSENSCHAFT 84:1-18.

Carr, David. 1996. READING THE FRACTURES OF GENESIS. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox.

Cohn, Norman. 1961. THE PURSUIT OF THE MILLENNIUM. Rev. ed. New York, NY: Oxford University.

Cohn, Robert. 1983. Narrative Structure and Canonical Perspective in Genesis. JOURNAL FOR THE STUDY OF THE OLD TESTAMENT 25:3-16.

Dunn, Alastair. 2002. THE GREAT RISING OF 1381. Charleston, SC: Tempus.

Fretheim, Terence. 1969. CREATION, FALL, AND FLOOD. Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg.

Friedman, Richard Elliott. 1995. THE DISAPPEARANCE OF GOD. New York, NY: Little, Brown, and Co.

Frymer-Kensky, Tikva. 1977. The Atrahasis Epic and Its Significance For Our Understanding of Genesis 1-9. BIBLICAL ARCHAEOLOGIST 40:147-55.

Gros Louis, Kenneth. 1982. Genesis 3-11. Pp. 37-52 in LITERARY INTERPRETATIONS OF BIBLICAL NARRATIVES, vol. 2. Edited by Kenneth Gros Louis & James Ackerman. Nashville, TN: Abingdon.

Hess, Richard. 1992. Enoch. P. 508 in THE ANCHOR BIBLE DICTIONIARY, vol. 2. Edited by David Noel Freedman. New York, NY: Doubleday.

Hiebert, Theodore. 1996. THE YAHWIST'S LANDSCAPE: NATURE AND RELIGION IN EARLY ISRAEL. New York, NY: Oxford University.

Launderville, Dale. 2003. PIETY AND POLITICS: THE DYNAMICS OF ROYAL AUTHORITY IN HOMERIC GREECE, BIBLICAL ISRAEL, AND OLD BABYLONIAN MESOPOTAMIA. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Lim, Johnson. 2002. GRACE IN THE MIDST OF JUDGMENT: GRAPPLING WITH GENESIS 1-11. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift fur die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 314. New York, NY: Walter de Gruyter.

Loning, Karl, & Zenger, Erich. 2000. To BEGIN WITH, GOD CREATED ... BIBLICAL THEOLOGIES OF CREATION. Transated by Omar Kaste. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press/Glazier Press.

Niditch, Susan. 1985. CHAOS TO COSMOS. Chico, CA: Scholars Press.

Oden, Robert. 1981. Divine Aspirations in Atrahasis and in Genesis 1-11. ZEITSCHRIFT FOR DIE ALTTESTAMENTLICHE WISSENSCHAFT 93:210-15.

Oppenheim, A. Leo. 1970. Sumerian King List. Pp. 265-66 in ANCIENT NEAR EASTERN TEXTS RELATING TO THE OLD TESTAMENT. 3rd ed. Ed. James Pritchard. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University.

von Rad, Gerhard. 1962, 1965. OLD TESTAMENT THEOLOGY. 2 vols. Translated by D. M. G. Stalker. New York, NY: Harper and Row.

Rendtorff, Roll. 1977. DAS UBERLIEFERUNGSGESCHICHTLICHE PROBLEM DES PENTATEUCH. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift fur die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 147. Berlin, Germany: Walter de Gruyter.

Rose, Martin. 1981. DEUTERONOMIST AND JAHWIST. Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments 67. Zurich, Switzerland: Theologisches Verlag.

Sasson, Jack. 1980. The 'Tower of Babel' as a Clue to the Redactional Structuring of the Primeval History (Gen. 1-11). Pp. 211-19 in THE BIBLE WORLD. Edited by Gary Rendsburg. New York, NY: KTAV.

Schmid, Hans Heinrich. 1976. DER SOGENANNTE JAHWIST. Zurich, Switzerland: Theologische Verlag.

Smith, Mark. 2001. THE ORIGINS OF BIBLICAL MONOTHEISM: ISRAEL'S POLYTHEISTIC BACKGROUND AND THE UGARITIC TEXTS. Oxford, UK: Oxford University.

1990. THE EARLY HISTORY OF GOD: YAHWEH AND THE OTHER DEITIES IN ANCIENT ISRAEL. San Francisco: Harper & Row.

Smith-Christopher, Daniel. 2002. A BIBLICAL THEOLOGY OF EXILE. Overtures to Biblical Theology. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress.

Steinmetz, Devora. 1994. Vineyard, Farm and Garden. JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE 113:193-207.

Taylor, Glen. 1993. YAHWEH AND THE SUN. Journal for the Study Of the Old Testament Supplement Series 111. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield.

Van Seters, John. 1998. The Pentateuch. Pp. 3-49 in THE HEBREW BIBLE TODAY. Edited by Steven McKenzie and Patrick Graham. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox.

1994. THE LIVE OF MOSES. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox.

1992. PROLOGUE TO HISTORY. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox.

1983. ABRAHAM IN SEARCH OF HISTORY. New Haven, CT: Yale University.

1975. ABRAHAM IN HISTORY AND TRADITION. New Haven, CT: Yale University.

Vawter, Bruce. 1970. ON GENESIS. Garden City, NY: Doubleday.

Westermann, Claus. 1984. GENESIS 1-11. Translated by John Scullion. Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg.

Whybray, Norman. 1987. THE MAKING OF THE PENTATEUCH. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 53. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press.

Wyatt, Nicolas. 1981. Interpreting the Creation and Fall Story in Genesis 2-3. ZEITSCHRIFT FOR DIE ALTTESTAMENTLICHE WISSENSCHAFT 93:10-21.

Robert K. Gnuse, Ph.D. (Vanderbilt) is the Chase Bank/James C. Carter, S.J., Distinguished Professor of the Humanities at Loyola University in New Orleans, 6363 St. Charles Avenue, New Orleans, LA 70118 (rkgnuse@loyno.edu). He is the author of twelve books, the most recent of which is THE OLD TESTAMENT AND PROCESS THEOLOGY (St. Louis: Chalice Press, 2001). He has published several articles previously in BTB.

COPYRIGHT 2006 Biblical Theology Bulletin, Inc
COPYRIGHT 2006 Gale Group

Your, ours, and mine: Jesus' use of the prophetic possessive in the Gospel of Matthew

2007-07-06T19:58:00.000-07:00

Your, ours, and mine: Jesus' use of the prophetic possessive in the Gospel of Matthew

Robert L. Foster
Abstract

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus overwhelmingly prefers to use the term Father in addressing the disciples, which often appears to affirm the special relationship the disciples have with God. In several instances, however, Jesus uses the phrase "my Father," making a distinction between himself and the disciples. The use of this phrase extends over a significant portion of the gospel narrative and has the rhetorical force of pressing the disciples, and the implied readers who come to identify with the disciples, to adopt certain actions and avoid others, lest they lose their honored status in the Jesus-community.

**********

In 1988 Robert L. Mowery produced an important study of the various terminology used for God in the book of Matthew. Nearly a decade later Mowery followed his initial study with an article in Catholic Biblical Quarterly noting the transition of language in the early part of the Gospel from an emphasis on God as Lord (kyrios) to a vision of God as Father (pater), beginning in the Sermon on the Mount. Mowery makes several enlightening points on the use of the language of God in Matthew, several of which are foundational for this study. First, Jesus does not use the term Father in discussion with either the Pharisees or the devil, but only in discourse with the disciples or disciples/crowds. In fact, Jesus prefers the term Father in addressing the disciples overwhelmingly more so than Lord or God (Father 37x, God 8/9x, Lord 2x; Mowery 1988: 27-28). Second, Jesus is the only character in the Gospel of Matthew to use the term Father, with one exception in 21:9 (Mowery 1988: 33). Third, Jesus identifies God as his own Father through the use of the phrases my Father, my heavenly Father, or my Father in heaven on sixteen occasions (Mowery 1988: 28). Finally, the first occasion of Jesus' use of my Father occurs near the end of the Sermon on the Mount (7:21), though thereafter he usually identifies God as his father (Mowery 1997: 655).

Mowery correctly notes that "These references to the Father repeatedly remind the reader of the unique relationship between the Father and the Son" (1997: 655). Yet it is important to recognize nuances within Jesus' use of possessive paternal language in the Gospel after the Sermon on the Mount. For example, on two occasions Jesus uses possessive language in direct address to God, i.e., in prayer (26: 39, 42). That means the remaining fourteen instances occur in direct discourse with the disciples. Of significance for this study is the way that Jesus uses the possessive my Father in addressing the disciples on a number of occasions.

Several scholars of the First Testament note that the prophets occasionally use special phrasing to distinguish their relationship to YHWH from their perception of the people's relationship to YHWH. Consequently, on occasion, when a prophet says, "Thus says YHWH my God," the prophet intends to distinguish his relationship to YHWH from the people's relationship to YHWH. The subtle insult here is that the prophets claim a relationship with YHWH that they simultaneously deny to the people. Thus, when Isaiah confronts Ahaz when he refuses to ask for a sign, Isaiah says, "Hear then, O house of David. Is it too little for you to weary men, that you weary my God also" (Isa 7:13). Isaiah's use of my God makes the implication that Ahaz has proven that YHWH is not his god by his unwillingness to listen to the message of YHWH through Isaiah. In Zechariah 11:4, the prophet begins his message to the poor shepherds, "Thus said YHWH my God." The text following (Zech 11:5-17) makes clear that, in fact, YHWH does not want to assert any claim to the shepherds, but instead seeks their destruction. YHWH is not their god. I have chosen to use the phrase "the prophetic possessive" for such usage (I believe that I borrow this phrase from another scholar, but have not found it in the resources I drew upon in this particular study: e.g. Eissfeldt: 9-11; Mason: 139; Meier, Meyers/Meyers: 249).

In my analysis of the fourteen remaining instances of Jesus' use of the possessives my Father, my heavenly Father, or my Father in heaven, I believe that nine of these function as prophetic possessives. That is, though Jesus uses the Father-language in discourse with the disciples, this language is nuanced and in many cases Jesus particularly uses this prophetic possessive. Furthermore, the use of the prophetic possessive extends across a significant length of the narrative of the Gospel of Matthew so that it appears to achieve a rhetorical effect through repeated use. The fact that the parallel material in Mark and Luke lacks this possessive form lends some credence to the idea that this language produces a rhetorical effect in the Gospel of Matthew. In this article I aim to investigate the rhetorical effect of the prophetic possessive, how it is achieved, and how this affects our understanding of the Gospel of Matthew and its theology.

Challenge--Riposte and Rhetoric

David DeSilva observes that the study of honor discourse opens up avenues for understanding rhetoric and especially the rhetoric of the Gospels (34, 66). What we want to see in the use of the prophetic possessive in Matthew is that this reflects an honor/shame discourse that makes demands upon the (implied) reader who is intended to identify with the disciples in the story, so that the demands upon the disciples become demands upon the readers (here following the classical definition of rhetoric by Aristotle in terms of persuasion).

Challenge--riposte is a social-scientific description of what happens in a culture of honor because honor is, like any other good, a limited good that requires maintenance and can be lost (Malina: 36). The more familiar challenge--riposte mechanisms of the recent past include the judicial court and the duel (Pitt-Rivers: 27-31). In the Gospels we often see challenge-riposte in the challenges that the religious leaders place before Jesus concerning his interpretation and practice of Torah, as in the series of challenges presented to Jesus at the Temple in Jerusalem recorded in Mark 12. As we notice in Jesus' defense of his honor to the challenge of the religious leaders, honor is a public commodity, something one must defend in the eyes of the larger group (Malina: 33). Thus, Mark reports the crowd's favorable response to Jesus' replies to the religious leaders (12:12, 17, 37). In the Gospels this evaluation actually occurs at two levels, both at the story level in the response of the crowds, but also at the discourse level as the (implied) reader responds to the interaction of the characters within the story (borrowing the useful distinction between story and discourse first introduced by Chatman).

Bruce Malina proposes three levels of challenge that one may present to another in a culture that values honor. At the extreme is total dishonor of another that cannot be repaid in any way (murder, adultery, kidnapping). Only slightly less offensive are those extreme affronts to the honor of an individual or an individual's family that nevertheless allow for some form of repayment (e.g. theft, seduction of a virgin). Finally, there are the ordinary interactions that require regular social responses, which, if not met, will bring dishonor to the individual or family (e.g. repaying a gift, marriage between families; Malina: 44-45). The challenges the Pharisees present to Jesus through much of the Gospel of Matthew fall into this final category, though we see early on in Matthew that the Pharisees contemplate the most extreme form of dishonor (12:14, 21:45), which reaches fulfillment in the crucifixion of Jesus (27:32-50).

Jesus' challenges to his disciples also fall within the last category of those that require regular social response, though we will see that in Jesus' use of the prophetic possessive, not responding appropriately holds significant consequences. The uniqueness of Jesus' challenges to the disciples in the Gospel of Matthew is that he sets up the discourse in a way that makes the disciples his equals through his use of Father/ son language in the Sermon on the Mount (agreeing with Luz 1989:214 that the Sermon on the Mount serves as a programmatic statement for reading the rest of the Gospel). In normal social interaction in honor-shame cultures, the inferior is not considered to have sufficient honor to resent the affront of a superior (Pitt-Rivers: 31). Rather, the inferior is expected simply to submit to the various abuses of the superior. Only when persons recognize their relative shared status is one in a position either to challenge the honor of another or to be required to respond to a challenge (a superior can often ignore the affront of an inferior, though the superior may choose to punish impudence; Pitt-Rivers: 31). We notice that the Pharisees in the Gospel of Matthew consider Jesus their equal as they often address him simply as "teacher," one competing with them for honor in the perception of the crowds; only the disciples come to recognize Jesus as more than a teacher (for this contrast between the Pharisees' view of Jesus as teacher and the disciples/reader's view of Jesus as more than this see Johnson: 195).

Jesus presents the disciples with a challenge as those of equal honor especially through the first major discourse of the Sermon on the Mount. Of course, in the discourse of the Gospel, the implied author presents Jesus as honorable in a number of ways before the implied reader encounters the Sermon on the Mount. DeSilva enumerates the variety of ways that the first four chapters of the Gospel present Jesus as honorable: his birth in the line of Abraham and David, the formulaic citations of Scripture as prophecies of future greatness, Jesus' mediation of God's presence to the people, the new star signaling the birth of a noble ruler confirmed by the adoration of the magi, his deliverance from danger by angelic visions, and his victory in the challenge-ripostes with the devil (40-42). Perhaps most significant for our discussion is the declaration by God at Jesus' baptism of Jesus as his beloved Son (3:17). This acclamation of Jesus' Sonship marks the first of only two interventions of the voice of God in the Gospel, the second of which confirms the original acclamation (17:5).

One important thing Jesus does in the Sermon on the Mount, as the mediator of God's presence in the world (1:23), is transfer his honor as God's Son to the disciples. He offers a blessing to those who make peace by noting they will be called sons of God (5:9; I retain the masculine terminology here to emphasize the connection to the earlier acclamation of Jesus as God's "Son"). The good works of the disciples will bring glory to their Father in heaven (5:16). They are to be perfect as their heavenly Father is perfect (5:48). The disciples should perform their acts of righteousness in secret so as not to lose their reward from their Father in heaven (6:1, 4, 6, 18). The prayer Jesus teaches his disciples to pray opens with the address "Our Father" (6:9), though the disciples must recognize that their forgiveness from their Father depends on their forgiving others (6:14-15). They ought not worry about what to eat, drink, or wear, because their Father takes care of the sparrows (6:26) and knows all the disciples' needs (6:32). In fact, they must expect that their Father will give to them when they ask because he is so much greater than their earthly fathers who, despite being evil, know to give their children fish and bread (7:11).

It is at the end of this lengthy discourse in which Jesus frequently affirms to the disciples that God is your Father, where Jesus invites them to pray our Father, that Jesus presents his first challenge to the disciples through the use of the prophetic possessive, my Father. The sermon is full of challenge, to be sure. But these challenges assume that the disciples will live up to their calling based on their intimate relationship with God as their Father. In the use of my Father, Jesus challenges their honored position as something they could lose based upon their response to his challenges, a phenomenon which will carry on through much of the Gospel. Jesus' use of the prophetic possessive differs from the prophets' usage in that the prophets indicate no relationship to YHWH. Jesus' use of the prophetic possessive presumes a relationship between the disciples and God, but one that may be lost if the disciples do not respond appropriately to the challenges Jesus puts before them.

The Challenge of My Father to the Disciples

The first use of the prophetic possessive in Matthew at the end of the Sermon on the Mount apparently intensifies the sermon's demands upon the disciples, noting that to enter the kingdom of the heavens requires entering through the narrow gate that leads to life (7:13). The determination of who enters through this gate is imagined through the metaphor of fruit-bearing; only those who bear fruit will enter the kingdom of the heavens (7:18-20). What perhaps surprises the disciples in the text (though perhaps not the implied reader) is that not all who share the life of the Jesus-community will be friends of the community; instead false prophets will infiltrate the community, strikingly envisioned as devouring wolves (7:15). In this context Jesus utters the warning, "Not everyone who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' will enter the kingdom of the heavens, but only those who do the will of my Father who is in the heavens" (7:21). Some people who do wonders in the community, prophesying and casting out demons, will nevertheless not enter the kingdom of the heavens because they do not do the will of God as taught by the mediator of God's presence to the world--Jesus (7:22-23; see Aune: 222-24 for a discussion of these prophets as Christian).

Ulrich Luz is certainly correct to connect vv 21-23 with the preceding section of vv 15-20, especially with prophecy as one of the key activities of those condemned in both sections (vv 15, 22; 1989:439 notes the bracketing of poieo in vv 15-20 and 22; Davies & Allison 1988:693-94 list further connections; cf. Betz: 539). To regard vv 21-23 as an exhortation against self-delusion (Betz: 539) seems a bit off the mark. Rather, the disciples must protect themselves against being deluded by the charismatic, by those who prophesy and cast out demons. The disciples must not be led astray from obedience to the teachings of Jesus (7:24-27) by those with great charismatic gifts, gifts not unlike those of Jesus (e.g., chs. 8-9). Thus, it seems the warning here aligns with the similar warning that occurs later in the Gospel in the so-called apocalyptic discourse (24:11-12, 23-28) of the possibility of being deluded by false prophets at the end.

The use of the prophetic possessive here reinforces the possibility of charismatic leaders' infiltrating the Jesus-community and leading the disciples astray. These false prophets, rather than fulfilling the just demands of the Torah as taught by Jesus (5:17-20), instead work lawlessness and so must depart from the kingdom of the heavens (7:23). Logically, those who follow these workers of lawlessness will also engage in works of lawlessness and find themselves in danger of being on the outside looking in. Only those who side with Jesus and do the will of my Father in the heavens (build their house on a solid rock; 7:24-27), will enter the kingdom of the heavens. Betz (548) notes that the my Father separates Jesus sharply from, in Betz's discussion, "the Gentile Christians he rejects." I am simply adding that this also points to the danger such Christians (Gentile or not) present to the disciples and, inferentially, the implied reader. The use of my Father coincides with language that images God as a judge (Betz: 548), whose co-regent, Jesus, passes a condemning sentence that casts the false prophets (and their followers?) out of the kingdom for their rebellious disobedience (7:23; Schweizer: 188 writes that my Father appears in 7:21 "perhaps precisely because in the next verse Jesus appears as judge, as authorized representative of the Father). The challenge Jesus gives to the disciples is not to let themselves fall under the charismatic spell of the false prophets but to keep to the will of the Father as presented by Jesus.

We find the next use of the prophetic possessive in the Gospel of Matthew in the second major discourse, issuing a similarly stern warning. As the missionary discourse (chapter 10) heads toward its end, Jesus warns the disciples that, like Jesus, they will find themselves maligned even by members of their own families (10:24-25), shall we say persecuted on account of Jesus (5:11). The disciples must guard against letting the fear of persecution lead them to deny Jesus before their persecutors (10:26-33). Notice that Jesus affirms the disciples at one level by reminding them that even the sparrows cannot fall to the ground apart from your Father's knowledge (10:29). Jesus turns to the use of my Father to state, positively, that those who confess him before their persecutors Jesus will confess before my Father who is in the heavens (10:32). Stated negatively, Jesus warns that those who deny him before their persecutors he will deny before my Father who is in the heavens (10:33).

It is interesting, first of all, to note here that Jesus sets before the disciples the possibility that their witness will end in the most extreme form of shame--according to the scale set forth by Malina--death (10:28). Yet, Jesus states that an even greater shame may lie ahead of them if they deny Jesus before their persecutors--to have both body and soul destroyed in Gehenna (10:29). Here we find a figure of God as judge following quite closely upon an image of God as Father who cares even for the sparrows that fall to the ground (Weaver: 109). "Jesus asserts that the same God who is Judge over all humankind is in fact none other than Father to the disciples" (Weaver: 110).

Dorothy Jean Weaver points out that the main thrust of the argument in 10:26-33 is that Jesus plays a central role both in regard to the disciples' witness and the judgment of God (111). Jesus truly mediates the presence of God who is both judge and Father. But, in this instance, the use of the prophetic possessive my Father lays emphasis on God as potential judge of the disciples. The challenge that Jesus lays before the disciples involves their willingness to share with him in death in the face of persecution in order to receive the greatest honor: to have Jesus confess them before his Father in the heavens. But if they deny him, they will suffer the greatest shame of having Jesus deny them before his Father in the heavens. Jesus switches his language quickly from your Father to my Father to drive home the point that the disciples must choose right actions (confessing Jesus before their persecutors) in order to maintain their honored status in the Jesus-community.

Jesus' use of my Father occurs next in a situation that seems to reaffirm the status of the disciples rather than challenge it. In 11:27 Jesus notes that all those that he has, he received from his Father. This assertion that he receives all from his Father leads to an invitation for those tired from their labors and loaded down by burdens to come and receive his burden which is easy and light (11:28-30). In the next instance of my Father we find another use of the prophetic possessive, though with a slightly different direction. After a series of conflicts with the Pharisees (12:1-14; 22-45), interrupted by Jesus' withdrawal because of their potential threat to him (12:15-21), Jesus receives the report that his mother, brothers, and sisters wish to speak to him (12:46). Jesus stretches out his hand toward his disciples in front of the gathered crowds (12:46) and states boldly, "Behold my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of my Father who is in the heavens, this one is my brother and sister and mother" (12:49b-50).

Here the challenge to the disciples is indirect, but again we find an interesting mixture of honor and shame discourse. Jesus honors the disciples as those who are truly his brother, sister, and mother, in a culture that expected the greatest honor to obtain in the family (Malina: 29; Dupont: 108, writes that nobility in ancient Rome did not depend upon the clan or family name but was built up or torn down within the household or family setting). Yet, at the same time, we find a challenge similar to the first use of the prophetic possessive: only those who do the will of my Father maintain their honored status.

At the level of discourse it appears that the implied reader should notice the distinction made between the crowds and the basic expectation of disciples through the use of the prophetic possessive. Jack Dean Kinsbury's assessment of the crowds as generally favorably disposed to Jesus yet without faith, seems a bit innocuous (24-25). Rather, here we find, through an awareness of intertextuality, that one of the basic elements that determines future judgment, whether people do the will of my Father who is in the heavens (as mediated by Jesus; 7:21), separates the disciples from everyone else, both the crowds and, as implied by the text, Jesus' family. We may find further contextual support for this hard distinction between the disciples and crowds if we link this to the preceding story that warns of the demonic activity experienced by "this evil generation" (taking my cue from Harrington 1991: 191-92, who notes that this evil generation seems to include all those who do not do the will of the Father). This does not mean that the implied author views "the Jews" as completely outside election and salvation (Barnett). The main target of condemnation in the Gospel is the religious leaders (Foster), with the crowds as an ambiguous group, sometimes on the outside of the Jesus-community, as here, but at others entering the kingdom instead of the religious leaders as in 21:23 (notice these people include prostitutes and sinners). The implication for the implied reader in chapter 12 is that, to maintain their honored status, in contrast with others outside of the Jesus-community, they must continue to do the will of Jesus' Father. Thus, the challenge to the disciples in 7:21 receives affirmation here in 12:50 (for this link between 7:21 and 12:50 see, e.g., Nolland: 519).

Several chapters later Jesus presents a direct challenge to the disciples at the story level through the use of the prophetic possessive, though we again find the disciples contrasted with another group, in this case the Pharisees. In an exchange over whether eating with unwashed hands makes an individual unclean (15:1-11), Jesus challenges the Pharisees' use of tradition, calling them hypocrites for upholding their traditions while making void the word of God (15:6). The disciples express some concern over Jesus' exposing his interlocutors to public shame instead of trying to persuade them in what they would consider a more appropriate manner (15:12; Keener: 413). Jesus challenges the disciples to think differently about the Pharisees: they are not plants planted by my Father in heaven and will be uprooted (15:13). Perhaps the implied reader is intended to experience another moment of intertextuality in Jesus' use of the planting/uprooting imagery. Earlier in the Gospel, both John the Baptist and Jesus speak of trees in danger of being uprooted and cast into the fire (3:8-10; 7:15-20). Perhaps the implied reader is intended to fill in the blank here in chapter 15, concluding that those uprooted will be cast into fire, which would once again link the use of my Father to an image of God as judge.

The force of "leave them" in 15:14 seems quite strong considering that Jesus labels the Pharisees as blind guides who lead other blind people into a pit (cf. Harrington: 230, who writes that "let them be" asks for "patient tolerance"). Consequently, at the story level, though the statement explicitly condemns the Pharisees as honoring their traditions above God's word and as blind guides leading the blind into a pit, the challenge is aimed at the disciples not to turn to the Pharisees as guides in the interpretation of Torah, lest they show themselves to also be blind and follow the Pharisees into the same pit. The implied reader will note that the disciples find themselves in danger of being deluded not only by those inside the community (7:21) but also by those outside of the community, particularly the Pharisees of formative Judaism (15:14). To maintain their honored status in the Jesus-community requires that the disciples recognize that the key religious leaders of formative Judaism are not planted by my Father in heaven and so not reliable guides in the way of God.

Perhaps most interesting of the uses of the prophetic possessives I identify in the Gospel of Matthew occurs in the blessing to Peter in 16:17-19. As is well known, Peter offers the right answer concerning Jesus' identity by confessing Jesus as the Christ, the Son of the Living God (16:16). Jesus blesses him, stating that Peter did not receive this revelation from human beings but from my Father who is in the heavens, promising to build his church upon this petra (16:1718). It appears that this instance of the possessive language is similar to the use in 11:27, given that Jesus begins his address to Peter with "Blessed are you" (Nolland: 666, notes the link between 11:27 and 16:17 in the shared use of revelation and "flesh and blood" language). But, given that the language of my Father has proven negative in three of the four previous occurrences, perhaps this should give us pause to consider whether this is another instance of the use of the prophetic possessive.

Jeannine Brown argues that it is common for scholars to view the confession of Peter as a sign that the disciples understood Jesus' identity as Messiah, but the following section (16:21-28) seems to contradict this, so that the disciples at the least do not understand what the Messiah is about (59-60). I argue that part of the problem of determining the tradition history of this text lies just in the seeming contradiction between Jesus' affirmation of Peter and then Peter's quick turn against Jesus' professed purpose, which leads to Jesus calling Peter "Satan" (see Davies & Allison 1991: 653-55 for a brief discussion of the place of vv 21-23 in the pericope). However, perhaps the implied author leaves the implied reader a clue in vv 13-20 that things are not as they seem by including the phrase "my Father." Thus, the statement in verse 17 would not simply represent the source of the revelation (not human but divine), but rather provide some distance between the revelation/revealer and Peter. If we follow the reading argued for by Chrys Caragounis, that the petra here refers to the confession and not Peter (88-113; cf. Davies & Allison 1991: 627), then we see that some distance exists between the content of the revelation/the one revealing the content and Peter. In essence, my Father reinforces this distance, so that the implied reader is not as surprised by the quick turn of events as she might be otherwise (perhaps further reinforced by Jesus' stating that he will build my ekklesia on this petra?).

As a result, the challenge here seems to lie at the discourse level. The implied author envisions Peter here as a new Abraham establishing a new people of God based on the revelation he receives (Davies & Allison 1991: 623-24). However, even Peter did not fully understand the destiny of this Messiah Jesus, much as Abraham did not seem to understand fully the blessing he received from God (note that immediately after the call and blessing of Abraham, he enters into Egypt where he promptly lies about Sarah and hands her over to Pharaoh out of fear for his own life; Gen 12:10-20!). The implied reader must not make the mistake of misunderstanding the Messianic mission of Jesus, which led to his death and not the restoration of Israel, lest she be shamed by taking the side of Satan instead of God.

A series of three instances of my Father occurs in the discourse of chapter 18, which has to do with life in the ekklesia, especially regarding sin and forgiveness. The first major section of the chapter involves a discussion of the "little ones" and the need to guard against causing them to stumble or be tempted to sin (18:5-14). The language of this chapter is thick with images of judgment: being drowned in the sea is better than causing a little one to stumble (18:6); one should cut off a hand or gouge out an eye rather than be thrown into the fires of Gehenna (18:8-9). I would agree with Luz that this latter statement is aimed at the little ones, warning them not to have contact with persons who would want to destroy their faith (Luz 2001: 435).

In this context of judgment Jesus offers the initial prophetic possessive in this chapter, "See that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you that their angels in the heavens always see the face of my Father who is in the heavens" (18:10). Again, within the Jesus-community reside those who, at least potentially, look down on others, whether for their inferior social status or their status in the church (Luz 2001: 440). Those who despise such little ones do not understand the honored status of these little ones: not only do their angels continually see the face of my Father, but the Father, like a shepherd, rejoices over the one found more than the ninety-nine who did not go astray (18:12-13). Thus, verse 10b stands both as a word of comfort to those who seem little, despised in the community, and a warning for those in the Jesus-community who despise such persons (Luz 2001: 441). The challenge that Jesus places before the disciples is not to despise the little ones and so lead them into temptation lest they find themselves opposed to the will of the Father (18:14; the textual variant is quite appealing here as it also reads my Father), in which case they might as well tie a millstone around their necks and drown themselves in the sea.

The next section in this discourse deals particularly with what to do when a member of the Jesus-community is caught in sin (18:15-20). Here the emphasis seems to be on making every effort to forgive that person and restore him/her to the community, especially given the following parable (18:21-35; we should, at the same time, note that the reference to the gathering of "two or three" in 18:20 resembles the law in the First Testament stating that a person may be put to death only on the word of "two or three witnesses" Deut 17:6). Yet, here we find a mix of both hope for restoration of the individual and potential judgment, so that the binding and loosing are both validated by my Father who is in the heavens (18:19). Given that previous instances of the use of my Father often occur in texts of judgment, perhaps the implied author uses this expression here because the double-edged nature of the comment includes potential judgment. Thus, at least for some members of the community, God will serve, not as their Father but their judge. As Brown notes (73), the thrust of the section 18:1-20 gives some indication of Jesus' concern that the disciples have not understood the nature of discipleship. I would add that, as a consequence, Jesus presents them a challenge to respond to by not despising others in the community, which could lead little ones to sin, and to exercise appropriate discipline in the community, which for some will entail judgment. In both cases there are some in the community who stand in danger of being shamed in the courtroom of God rather than continue to abide in their honored status as the children of God.

The final instance of the use of the prophetic possessive in the discourse of Matthew 18 occurs at the end of the parable of the unforgiving servant who inexplicably will not forgive a paltry sum to a fellow servant after being forgiven an unimaginable amount of debt by the king (18:23-34; Keener: 458-59 writes, "This fact starkly reveals the laughably hyperbolic character of the illustration: the poor man owes the king more money than existed in circulation in the whole country at the time!"). Not unexpectedly, the story ends with an image of judgment: the servant who at first received mind-blowing mercy must now go to jail until he can repay his unrepayable debt! To this Jesus adds the sobering comment, "So also will my Father in the heavens do to you unless you forgive, each one their brother or sister, from the heart" (18:35).

Interestingly, the parable does not focus on the king, but rather upon the servant and the servant's reaction to the experience of being forgiven so great a debt (Keesmaat: 268-69). But, the servant obviously did not learn the lesson that living in this kingdom, which offers release from exorbitant debt, requires the same in kind to others (Keesmaat: 269). So, too, the challenge presented by Jesus to Peter (and the rest of the disciples?) is to not fall into a place of dishonor by failing to live up to the standards set by the Father, who forgives extravagantly. The Jesus-community emphasizes forgiveness, not only of my sin, but especially of those who sin against me. Living an unforgiving life once again puts one in danger of losing one's honored status as a child of the Father and instead finding oneself under the judgment of God.

Matthew 20:20-28 contains the last instance of the use of the prophetic possessive in the Gospel. Here the mother of the sons of Zebedee approaches Jesus to ask for John and James to sit at Jesus' right and left in the kingdom (20:20-21). Jesus tells them that they do not understand the nature of their request. Not only do they not understand what it means to partake in the same cup as Jesus, they do not understand that only my Father determines who will hold what place in the kingdom (20:22-23). The other disciples become indignant upon hearing this request, which prompts Jesus to remind them of the proper order in this kingdom: the first in this kingdom are servants, just as the Son of man did not come to be served but to serve and give his life as a ransom for many (20:24-28).

Here we do not find explicit reference to the danger of judgment but, as in chapter 18, the problem Jesus addresses has to do with the misalignment between the disciples' understanding of the kingdom and that of Jesus (Carter: 171 writes, "... in the context of the mother's question in 20.20, such elevation to greatness and to being first will come only in the judgment for those who have been slaves and servants in the present." It is tempting to follow Carter's lead here, but I do not see any indication of a time of judgment in this text but only of an unspecified future). Jesus' kingdom is not like the kingdoms of this world ("the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over [their subjects]"--20:25). Rather, this kingdom reverses normal expectations. Jesus' challenge to the disciples again has to do with seeking proper honor and avoiding shame. Those who act as servants receive the greatest honor; those who seek the greatest honor experience the greatest shame.

Conclusions

Part of the rhetorical effect of the use of the phrase "my Father" in the Gospel of Matthew is that it reinforces the picture of the disciples as not fully understanding the nature of Jesus, the kingdom, or the Jesus-community. In other words, Brown's major thesis, in her The Disciples in Narrative Perspective, that the disciples are not so quick to understand as scholars often portray them because of comparisons with the characterization of the disciples in Mark, gains further support through careful investigation of the Father-language in Matthew (29-34). This proves of especial interest considering that Brown's work focuses on the narrative between 16:21 and 20:28, while six of the nine occurrences of the prophetic possessive discussed above fall within chapters 15 and 20, so that perhaps one of the main functions of chapters 15-20 is this exposition of the disciples' misunderstandings.

One thing I find significant is the fact that in several cases of the use of the prophetic possessive, the narrative does not show an immediate response by the disciples, especially at the end of the three major discourses in chapters 5-7, 10, and 18. Furthermore, Jesus' use of the prophetic possessive ends immediately before his entrance into Jerusalem in chapter 21, which is followed by the narrative of his demise. It is in the narrative of Jesus' passion that we find at the story level the response of the disciples to the challenge in chapter 10 not to deny Jesus in the face of persecution. In their first chance to respond to Jesus' challenge the disciples abandon, deny, and betray Jesus. The disciples' misunderstanding of, especially, the nature of Jesus as Messiah and the nature of the kingdom, leads to the disciples' shame in the eyes of the implied readers who see all the disciples denying Jesus in some way during Jesus' passion.

However, the Gospel does not end with the crucifixion or, like Mark, with an ambiguous resurrection story. Rather, Jesus tells the disciples to meet him in Galilee, perhaps giving those shamed a chance for redemption (28:10). Here it is important to highlight the fact that the narrator presents a mixed review of the remaining eleven disciples: "when they saw him they worshiped him, but some doubted" (28:17). Thus, whether the disciples live up to the challenges Jesus placed before them in the Gospel remains an open question for the narratee, though these same disciples may perhaps restore their honor in responding positively to Jesus' challenges, including the last one given in 28:18-20. Significantly, the commission Jesus gives the disciples includes the instruction: "teaching them to keep all of whatever I commanded you" (28:19). This presumably would include instructions for life in the Jesus-community, which previously the disciples misunderstood.

At the level of discourse, the use of the prophetic possessive gives us a fairly clear picture of at least some of the struggles the implied author believes confront the implied reader. The implied reader must guard against false prophets who lead people astray from obedience to Jesus' teaching (7:21 [12:50]). As with the disciples, the implied readers may also deny Jesus in the face of persecution rather than confess Jesus (10:32-33). The Pharisees pose their own threat to the implied reader, who may be tempted to (re-)turn to following the Pharisees' interpretation of Torah, a certain pitfall in the eyes of the implied author (15:13). Several potential misunderstandings threaten the implied readers of the Gospel including misunderstanding the nature of Jesus as Messiah (16:17), the life of the Jesus-community (ekklesia) with regard to sin and forgiveness (18:10, 19, 35), and thinking of life in the Jesus-community as the Gentiles do rather than shaped by the example of Jesus (20:23). Though we are careful not to draw a one-to-one correspondence between these dangers and the life of original real readers of the Gospel of Matthew, these indications of the implied author's concerns certainly give us a vision of what one real author in formative Christianity considered imminent threats to at least one Jesus-community (duly noting here the caution regarding the audience of the Gospels posed by Bauckham et al.).

Finally, I think it is right to conclude that the Father-language in the Gospels in a number of instances affirms the honored status of the disciples. Yet, a pregnant irony exists in the use of my Father on a number of occasions. That is, when Jesus uses my Father he often simultaneously infers that his Father will be "your Judge." This seems to me quite an artful maneuver by the implied author to invoke the image of judgment by means of Father-language. I am reminded of the fact that kings of the ancient world were often considered the highest court of appeal in the nation (thus, e.g., Paul's appeal to Caesar recorded in Acts 25:11). The familial language of Father denotes some form of intimacy, yet in the use of the prophetic possessive the implied author creates space that allows this same Father to act as judge in the kingdom of the heavens. Certainly, the kingdom of heaven is present at hand in the Gospel of Matthew (3:2; 4:17) but, to borrow George Eldon Ladd's felicitous terminology, it is "now and not yet" (24-51). In the kingdom being "not yet" the Gospel anticipates a time when it will come in its future and often this is imaged as a time of judgment (e.g. 13:47-50; 25:31-46). Jesus' use of the prophetic possessive in the Gospel of Matthew reinforces this theme of judgment and reminds the implied reader that the same one they pray to as "our Father" may still, in the end, serve as their Judge if they do not respond to the challenge offered by Jesus in the Gospel.

Works Cited

Aune, David E. 1983. Prophecy in Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean World. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans.

Barnett, Fred W. 1992. "Exposing the Anti-Jewish Ideology of Matthew's Implied Author: The Characterization of God as Father." Semeia 59: 155-90.

Bauckham, Richard. ed. 1998. The Gospels for All Christians: Rethinking the Gospel Audiences. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans.

Betz, Hans Dieter. 1995. The Sermon on the Mount, ed. A. Y. Collins. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress.

Brown, Jeanine K. 2002. The Disciples in Narrative Perspective. Academia Biblica. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature.

Carter, Warren. 1994. Households and Discipleship: A Study of Matthew 19-20. Journal for the Study of the New Testament, Supplement 103. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic.

Caragounis, Chrys C. 1990. Peter and the Rock. Beihefte zur Zeitsehrift fur die neutestamentliche Wissensehaft 58. Berlin, Germany: Walter de Gruyter.

Chatman, Seymour. 1978. Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University. Davies, W. D., & Dale C. Allison. 1991. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew. vol. 2. Edinburgh, UK: T&T Clark.

1988. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew. vol. 1. Edinburgh, UK: T&T Clark.

DeSilva, David A. 1999. Hope of Glory: Honor Discourse in New Testament Interpretation. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press.

DuPont, Florence. 1993. Daily Life in Rome. trans. C. Woodall. Oxford, UK: Blackwell.

Eissefeldt, Otto. 1947. "'My God' in the Old Testament." Evangelical Quarterly 19: 7-20.

Foster, Robert. 2002. "Why on Earth Use 'Kingdom of Heaven'? Matthew's Terminology Revisited." New Testament Studies 48: 487-99.

Harrington, Daniel J. 199 I. Gospel of Matthew. Sacra Pagina. Coilegeville, MN: Liturgical Press.

Johnson, Luke Timothy, with the assistance of T. C. Penner. 1999. The Writings of the New Testament. Minneapolis, MN: Fortness.

Keener, Craig S. 1999 Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans.

Keesmaat, Sylvia C. 2000. "Strange Neighbors and Risky Care. " Pp. 263-85 in The Challenge of Jesus' Parables, ed. R. N. Longenecker. McMaster New Testament Studies. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans.

Kingsbury, Jack Dean. 1988. Matthew as Story. 2nd revised & enlarged ed. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press.

Ladd, George Eldon. 1958/1995. The Gospel of the Kingdom. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Luz, Ulrich. 2001. Matthew 8-20, trans. J. E. Crouch, ed. H. Koester. Minneapolis: Fortress. 1989. Matthew 1-7, trans. W. C. Linss. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress.

Malina, Bruce J. 2001. The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology. 3rd ed., revised & expanded. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox.

Mason, Rex L. 1973. Use of Earlier Biblical Material in Zechariah IX-XIV. PhD Dissertation, University of London.

Meier, Samuel A. 1992. Speaking of Speaking: Marking Direct Discourse in the Hebrew Bible. Vetus Testamentum, Supplement 46. Leiden, The Netherlands: E.J. Brill.

Meyers, Carol L. & Eric M. Meyers. 1993. Zechariah 9-14. Anchor Bible, vol. 25C. New York, NY: Doubleday.

Mowery, Robert L. 1997. "From Lord to Father in Matthew 1-7." Catholic Biblical Quarterly 59: 642-56. 1988. "God, Lord and Father: The Theology of the Gospel of Matthew." Biblical Research 33: 24-36.

Nolland, John. 2005. The Gospel of Matthew: A Commentary on the Greek Text. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Pitt-Rivers, Julian. 1966. "Honor and Social Status." Pp. 19-77 in Honour and Shame: The Values of Mediterranean Society, ed. J. G. Peristiany. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago.

Schweizer, Eduard. 1975. Good News according to Matthew, trans. D. E. Green. Atlanta, GA: John Knox Press.

Weaver, Dorothy Jean. 1990. Matthew's Missionary Discourse: A Literary-Critical Analysis. Journal for the Study of the New Testament, Supplement 38. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic.

Robert L. Foster is a PhD candidate at Southern Methodist University. His previous publications include "Why on Earth Use 'Kingdom of Heaven'? Matthew's Terminology Revisited," New Testament Studies 48 (2002): 487-99. Currently he is engaged in writing his dissertation on a biblical theology of justice with particular emphasis on Jeremiah, Matthew, and Romans.

COPYRIGHT 2007 Biblical Theology Bulletin, Inc
COPYRIGHT 2007 Gale Group

The family in the Jesus movement

2007-07-06T19:36:00.000-07:00

The family in the Jesus movement

Santiago Guijarro
Abstract

The purpose of this study is to explore the possible continuity between the Jesus movement before Jesus' death and the movement of his disciples after his resurrection in their attitude towards the family. The "anti-familial" sayings of Jesus are studied, together with other gospel traditions which suggest a positive attitude towards family. By placing these sayings in the framework of the mass peasant movement launched by Jesus, we can be more precise about the goals of the disciples within that movement. This research reveals the importance of the Jesus group and of the households that their preaching reached, in explaining the continuity between the pre- and post-Easter periods of the Jesus movement in their attitude towards family.

**********

One of the most relevant aspects in the history of the beginnings of Christianity that has not yet been sufficiently explained is the evolution that can be observed regarding attitudes toward the family and the household. The documents produced during the first two Christian generations witness to a process that begins with Jesus' apparently anti-familial attitude, continues with the critical acceptance of the family in the first generation (Paul's letters and Mark) and concludes with an enthusiastic acceptance of the household structure in the second generation (Luke-Acts and especially 1 Timothy and Titus).

The most problematic aspect of this evolution is the discontinuity that appears to exist between the Jesus movement before his death and that of his disciples after his resurrection. B.J. Malina has explained this discontinuity in terms of a shift from the realm of political religion to that of domestic religion. His explanation is based on his characterization of first-century Mediterranean society according to which religion was not an independent system, as in post-industrial societies, but was embedded in the domestic and the politic domains. According to Malina, the transition of the Jesus movement from one environment to the other explains the different attitude regarding the family and the household in both phases of the movement (Malina 2001: 154-59). Other authors suggest that this change of attitude was due mainly to the necessity of the movement to exist in a society based on the family institution (Aguirre 1998:100-10). Some others, finally, minimize this discontinuity by underscoring the importance that the kinship metaphor had in the deeds and in the sayings of Jesus (Hellermann: 64-72).

In the pages to follow I will concentrate on a concrete aspect of this problem. I will try to find out what Jesus' attitude was toward the family and whether Jesus used the kinship metaphor to define the relationships among his disciples. The answer to these questions will be the point of departure to ascertain whether or not continuity exists in this concrete aspect of the Jesus movement.

Jesus' Attitude towards the Family

A large number of pre-Easter traditions contained in the Gospels suggest that Jesus had a non-familial or even an anti-familial attitude. This attitude is manifested above all in the frequently imposed demand that his closest disciples break ties with their own families (Mark 1:16-18; 19-20 and 10:28-30; Q 12:52.53; 14:26; Q 9:57-58. 59-60). This is an especially significant demand because it is coherent with his own lifestyle which was characterized among other things by the lack of a permanent residence (Q 9:58), by his itinerant existence (Mark 1:14-29), and by his renouncing of marriage (Matt 19:12). This lifestyle presupposes a break with his family, which appears explicitly in some gospel passages (Mark 3:20-21, 31-35; 6:1-6a). These passages about the breaking of family ties have a solid historical foundation and come most probably from the pre-Easter tradition (Guijarro 2001:211-22).

There are other traditions, however, in which there is a much more positive evaluation of the family institution. Jesus gives a positive assessment of the duties of sons and daughters toward their elderly parents (Mark 7:6-13) and of marriage (Mark 10:2-12), and he even proposes family relationships as a model that his disciples should follow (Mark 3:31-35; 10:28-30). The Gospels have also preserved the memory of disciples sent to announce the good news of the kingdom to households (Mark 6:10; 10:5-7), and the reports that he and his disciples were taken in by some families (Mark 11:11; 14:3; etc). This positive attitude towards family structures also appears indirectly in the fact that he celebrated Passover with his disciples (Lang: 281; Hellermann: 67). The Passover meal was basically a family celebration, and the fact that Jesus celebrated it with his disciples indicates that the group understood itself according to the model of family relationships.

The different approach that appears in these two groups of traditions has posed two questions that are still a topic of discussion among scholars. The first is: Did Jesus have an antifamily attitude or not? And the second: Did he use kinship metaphors when referring to his group of disciples or not? These two questions have to do with the continuity between the pre-Easter phase of the Jesus movement and the post-Easter one. If Jesus did not have an adverse attitude toward the family and if he used kinship metaphors to refer to the group of his disciples, then the continuity between the two phases would be greater than is commonly recognized.

The question of Jesus' attitude toward the family has been answered in basically two ways. Some authors think that Jesus did not have an anti-family attitude and explain the imposed demand of his closest disciples to break with their families as a strategy that did not affect the family institution as such. Others, however, think that Jesus directly attacked the family in order to undermine patriarchal ideology.

Among the first group is G. Theissen. According to him, in the early Jesus movement there were two types of disciples: the wandering charismatics, from whom Jesus demanded the renunciation of family ties, and the sedentary followers who remained at home and supported the itinerants. This implies that the sayings of Jesus that require his closest disciples to break ties with their own families, and the memory of his own lifestyle without home or family, do not necessarily imply an anti-family attitude, because only a small group of disciples would have been affected. According to Theissen, breaking with the family would be a way of "self-stigmatization" that aimed at the charismatization of Jesus and his closest disciples (Theissen & Merz: 186-90).

The second answer to this question can be found in E. Schussler Fiorenza and R. Horsley. Both of them agree that the demand to break with one's own family was addressed, not to a reduced group of disciples, but to all of them. This means that the sayings about breaking away from the family contain a criticism of the patriarchal family (Schussler Fiorenza: 151-54; Horsley: 231-45).

The second question that the aforementioned traditions raise has to do with the use of kinship metaphors when referring to the group of disciples, and could be formulated like this: Did Jesus conceive of this group as a surrogate family? A "surrogate family" is a group of people that, not having an actual kinship relation, relate to each other as if they did (Pitt-Rivers: 408-13). This type of fictive kinship was and is very common in traditional Mediterranean societies because of the centrality of the family in them. Because of this the majority of significant relationships follow the model of kinship relations.

B. J. Malina, building on the assumption that the preaching of Jesus should be placed in the context of political religion and not in that of domestic religion, believes that Jesus' statements concerning his group of disciples as a surrogate kin-group reflect a post-Easter situation, when the disciples began to adopt the model of the family institution (Malina 1999: 30-32). Other authors, however, maintain that Jesus applied that model to the group of his disciples, although with an important innovation: in the new family formed by them there would be no place for the father, the patriarchal symbol of authority (Mark 3:31-35; 10:28-30; Matt 23:9). The disciples were invited to join a new family of brothers that had God as their only father (Schussler Fiorenza: 151-54; Theissen & Merz: 188-90).

The diversity of the responses to the questions that the gospel traditions raise about Jesus' attitude toward the family indicates that a consensus on this topic has not yet been reached. And this is due, in part, to the fact that some of these responses are conditioned by the ideological presuppositions of industrialized Western culture. To advance toward a clarification of this fundamental problem of the beginnings of Christianity, it is necessary to place these traditions in the context of the movement initiated by Jesus, keeping in mind that it had its origins within the framework of First-century Mediterranean society (Malina 2001a; Hanson & Oakman). The lifestyle of Jesus and that of his closest disciples, as well as the relationship that they established with other disciples who remained in their own households, should be understood in this social context.

The Jesus Movement before his Death

I start with a characterization of the Jesus movement that in my opinion fulfills these characteristics. It has been proposed recently by D. Fiensy (1999). According to him, Jesus was the leader of a peasant mass movement, similar in many aspects to others that arose in the Roman Empire and in Palestine at that time (Fiensy 1999: 10-14).

From the viewpoint of the social sciences, a movement is something more lasting than a revolt or an occasional protest and less than an organized party. It is a mass movement when it surpasses the boundaries of the extended family or village. And it is a peasant movement when most of its members come from the peasantry, which in agrarian societies comprises the vast majority of the population (Lenski: 243-48). These movements may have different purposes, but in antiquity they always had a religious component that served to legitimate them (Fiensy 1999: 3-4).

One of the most characteristic traits of this type of movement is that its leaders come, not from the peasantry, but rather from a different social class. In general, peasants are reluctant to revolt. They realize that an unstable situation would endanger their existence. Besides, they do not perceive that the roots of their situation lie in the system. Only when their situation becomes unbearable do they join a movement, with the sole purpose of making their situation more tolerable. In those circumstances a leader that comes from the outside, generally from an upper class, provides them two services: he organizes for action and articulates the goals. Artisans, priests, and retainers usually are leaders of this type of movement because their place as intermediaries between the elite and the peasants permits them to be in contact with the great tradition (Fiensy 1999: 6-10).

The data that we have about the Jesus movement before his death fits very well with this description. On the one hand, Tacitus (ANN. 15:44), Flavius Josephus (ANT. 18:63) and the four canonical gospels agree that a large crowd from different places followed Jesus. On the other hand, we know that Jesus was not a peasant, but an artisan (Mark 6:3). Unlike peasants, who were closely bound to the earth, artisans had greater mobility, which allowed them to be in contact with elite families to whom they provided services (Fiensy 1997; 1999: 14-20). In fact, as G. Theissen has rightly observed, Jesus' teaching reflects and proposes a series of aristocratic values, most probably as a result of his contact with elite families (Theissen 1989).

The situation of Palestine at the time of Jesus was very favorable to the appearance of this type of movement because the urbanization process and the trade economy promoted by the Herodian rulers were having very negative consequences for the peasantry (Guijarro 1997: 43-46). In such a situation, a prophet announcing the imminent intervention of God could easily stir up a movement that would attract a good number of peasants. In fact, we know that the Jesus movement was not the only one that appeared at that time. The Pharisee Gamaliel cites two of them in his speech before the Sanhedrin (Acts 5:36-37), and Flavius Josephus mentions some others (Horsley-Hanson).

The success that Jesus' preaching had among the peasant masses that followed him would be very difficult to explain if he had a clearly anti-familial attitude. The family was not only the basis of Israelite society, but also the main source of identity among individuals, so that an attack on the family would be interpreted as an attack on traditional societal values and on the Israelite religion. On the other hand, the family was not the cause of the progressive social degradation under which Herodian Palestine was living, but rather its main victim, and it is very unlikely that Jesus would have intended to contribute even more to the destruction of the traditional family.

Jesus' preaching must be placed in a different context. His message clearly belongs to the political religion of Israel. He proclaims and enacts the decisive intervention of God as king and patron of his people. Jesus' preaching does not directly relate to the family, and it would be anachronistic to see in his sayings about the family rupture an explicit attack against it. These sayings and the demands that they imply may be better explained taking into account the type of movement initiated by Jesus, above all when we consider that they were always directed toward his nearest followers, to whom he entrusted a very specific task.

Leadership in the Jesus Movement

One of the most characteristic traits of the Jesus movement was the composition of the group of disciples that shared leadership functions with Jesus. Jesus called his closest followers for the express purpose of assisting him with the task of announcing the imminent coming of the kingdom of God. This group, symbolically made up of twelve disciples, must be distinguished from the multitudes that followed Jesus and from the individuals who approached him to ask for some blessing or favor. Frequently, the members of this smaller group of disciples functioned as intermediaries between Jesus and the people, and there is a very ancient tradition in which Jesus sends them to announce the same message that he announced.

The Gospels do not agree on who belonged to this group of disciples. The Synoptic Gospels assume that it was formed by the Twelve, but the Gospel of John mentions them only once, and grants a greater place to other disciples. On the other hand, among the four lists that name this group of disciples (Mark 3:16-19; Matt 10:2-4; Luke 6:13-16; Acts 1:13), there are remarkable differences. This means that Jesus' closest disciples could have been more than twelve, and it is even possible that the composition of the group varied over time. This, in fact, would have facilitated its reconstruction after Judas' death (Acts 1:15-26). In any case, the institution of the Twelve was well rooted in tradition. It seems evident that Jesus attached a symbolic value to this group relating to Israel.

As has been frequently observed, being a disciple of Jesus may be differentiated from other forms of discipleship known in Palestine at that time (Hengel: 16-37; Pesce). The main difference lies in the purpose for which Jesus called his disciples, because it was this purpose that determined the nature and demands of his call, as well as the way of life they assumed and the relationship that they established with him. The fact that Jesus called them to join a group with a concrete purpose is also relevant. Studies about group dynamics show that they may have an external or an internal purpose. Groups that have an external purpose give priority to the task for which they have been gathered, while those that have an internal purpose are more centered on satisfying the needs of members. As a matter of fact these two purposes usually exist simultaneously within all groups, but one of them always prevails over the other and defines the nature of the group.

Jesus' disciples were clearly a group with an external purpose oriented to a task (Malina 2001: 152-53). This type is usually an organization at the service of a social movement, and this is precisely what we observe in the group of disciples gathered around Jesus. They were called by him with the purpose of promoting, sustaining and driving the peasant mass movement that awaited the imminent intervention of God as king and patron of his people.

Jesus' lifestyle and the demands he imposed on his disciples are significant in this context because many of them came from families that could offer them security, support and identity. In first-century Galilee there were different types of families and not all could offer to their members the same level of support and identity. The five disciples about whom we have some information (Peter, Andrew, James, John, and Levi) did not belong to the lowest class represented by peasant families, but rather to a higher social level. This was surely the case with James and John, whose father owned a boat and hired day laborers, and with Levi, who had a position as a tax collector (Guijarro 1997: 57-61). Their social location was similar to that of Jesus, because their trade allowed them to be in contact with peasants and the upper classes at the same time, so that they met the basic requirements to become leaders of a peasant movement.

The renunciation of work was a concrete aspect of the act of breaking with the family, because the family was the primary unit of production. This is a relevant aspect, because before abandoning their work to follow Jesus, these disciples could have been involved in the trade process promoted by the Herodian rulers. A few years ago S. Freyne (110-12) raised some interesting questions about the coincidence of the ministry of Jesus and the emergence of Sephoris and Tiberias, and with them of a new economy. In my opinion, all these aspects are related and reveal the enormous symbolic meaning of the voluntary renunciation of the family.

This existential option of Jesus and his disciples is significant also in the context of the situation of the peasant masses that were suffering the consequences of the policies carried out by the Herodians rulers. These policies, supported by landowners, merchants, and retainers who benefited from them, had dramatic consequences for the peasant families. The most important one was the loss of land, which inexorably passed on to the hands of a few (Fiensy 1991: 75-132; Freyne 105-12). Now, land was the basic support of the traditional family, so that the loss of land had as a consequence the disintegration of peasant families. Without land and without family support, individuals had to work as slaves for the landowners, joined the growing ranks of resistance groups, or increased the numbers of city beggars.

For what purpose would Jesus have asked his disciples to break their family ties when many peasants were being forced to do this? Could it be a strategy of identification through which the leaders of the movement, including Jesus, took on themselves the vital situation of those they led? In peasant mass movements leaders gain credibility in the measure they assume the lifestyle conditions of the peasantry, and given the centrality of the family in that society, the disintegration of the family would be the trait that best defined the situation in which they were living.

The breaking of family ties, which seems to have characterized the lifestyle of Jesus and his closest disciples, acquires a very precise meaning in this context. Its purpose was not to criticize patriarchal structures, nor to propose an ascetic model; neither was it the result of well timed conflicts, nor a manner of self-stigmatization toward a later charismatization, but rather a prophetic action coherent with the image of a God who is beside the poor and needy and accompanies those who are victims of injustice.

Breaking with the family was, therefore, a condition that Jesus imposed on those he invited to share with him the leadership of the movement he was launching with his preaching and ministry. In Jesus' time that attitude had consequences which are difficult to imagine today, since the family played an important role in the life of individuals. In that society, for example, poverty meant the lack of family support, and not, as among us today, the lack of economic resources (Malina 1987). Detached from their families, the disciples became true beggars (ptochoi) and assumed an uprooted and wandering lifestyle that made them credible to peasants that lived in a similar situation. The Beatitudes and other teachings in which Jesus exhorts his disciples to put all their trust in God have a special meaning in this context (Neyrey).

It is interesting to observe that all these teachings refer to God as a father who looks after his children and gives them what they need. This familial metaphor is especially frequent in Jesus' instructions to the disciples, while the image of God as king is predominant in Jesus' teaching to the multitudes (Mark 1:15; 4:26-32). The imitatio patris (imitation of the father) is one of the main motivations of Jesus' behavior and inspires some of his teachings to his closest disciples. They are invited to behave as children of God: they should put all their confidence in him and expect everything from him (Guijarro 2000: 61-62). This means that the disciples could find in their relationship with God what they have given up by detaching themselves from their own families.

Together with these instructions referring to the disciples' relationship with God, we find others that refer to the relationships of the disciples among themselves. In them, Jesus rejects the attitudes that characterize interaction with outsiders (competitiveness, searching for honor and power, etc.) and proposes as a model reciprocal solidarity, which is the most characteristic trait of the relationships within the kin-group (service to others, plating oneself in the last place, etc.). The second and third Passion predictions contain this kind of teaching (Mark 9:35; 10: 43-45). In Mark these instructions are addressed to the community leaders, but the sayings of Jesus contained in them reflect an instruction centered on reciprocal solidarity, which is characteristic of kinship relationships.

These teachings about the relationship of the disciples among themselves and with God reveal that Jesus configured the group of his closest disciples according to the model of the family. He formed with them a surrogate family, in which they could find support, protection and identity. The gospel scene in which Jesus declares that his true family are his closest disciples, those that put into practice God's will (Mark 3:31-35), is therefore a faithful reflection of the kind of group formed by Jesus and his disciples.

These premises about leadership in the Jesus movement permit us to draw three conclusions. First of all, we can affirm that the disciples gathered around Jesus had an external purpose. They were oriented toward the concrete task of promoting and leading a peasant mass movement centered on the imminent coming of the reign of God. Second, it is very probable that, in order to carry out this task, those disciples closest to Jesus, who did not come from the peasantry but rather from higher social strata, had to assume a lifestyle that involved rupture with their own families. Finally, this group of disciples did not remain in a totally needy situation, because they formed, together with Jesus, a new family of brothers and sisters that had God as father.

Mission to Households

As we have observed, Jesus called a group of disciples to help him in the task of announcing by word and deeds the imminent arrival of God as king and patron of his people. This purpose appears in an explicit way in the traditions about the commissioning of the disciples. In them we find a series of recommendations concerning reception and rejection in households that can help clarify the attitude of Jesus toward the family. To achieve this clarification we must explain the role of the household in the mission entrusted to the disciples: Did Jesus actually send them to households in order to announce the coming of the kingdom of God; Did some of these households receive them and offer them effective support?

The tradition of the commissioning of the disciples has a solid historical basis. It has come down to us in three different versions (Q 10:1-12; Mark 6:7-13 and GThom. 14). The various coincidences between the first two are an indication that both come from an older tradition, while the relationship of both of them to the sayings of the Gospel of Thomas reveals that this instruction was composed with sayings that Jesus uttered in different circumstances. This cluster of sayings is, in the opinion of J. D. Crossan "the most important unit for understanding the historical Jesus, the Common Sayings Tradition, and the continuity from one to the other," and constitutes "the dearest evidence that Jesus and his earliest companions had not just a vision but a program" (Crossan: 325-26).

The following is a synopsis of the versions found in Mark and Q, according to the reconstruction of the Critical Edition of Q (Robinson-Hoffman-Kloppenborg):

Mark 6:10-12 Q 10:5-12

10 Whenever you enter a house 5 Into whatever house you enter,
first say, "Peace be to this house!"
6 And if a son of peace be there,
let your peace come upon him; but
if not, let your peace return upon
you.

stay there 7 And in that house remain, eating
and drinking what they provide,
for the worker is worthy of
one's reward. Do not move around

until you leave that place from house to house.
8 And whatever town you enter
and they take you in, eat what is
set before you;
9 and cure the sick there and say
to them, "The kingdom of God has
reached unto you."

11 And if any place will not 10 But into whatever town you
welcome you or listen to you, enter and they do not take you in,
on going out from that town

shake the dust off your feet when 11 shake off the dust from your
you leave, as a testimony against feet.
them

12 I tell you: For Sodom it shall
be more bearable on that day than
for that town.
In Mark's version the messengers are exhorted to remain in the households that take them in and to shake off the dust of the place that does not receive them (Mark 6:10-11). In the Q version, however, the instruction is much more detailed, and the mission to households (Q 10:5-7) is clearly distinguished from the mission to the city (Q 10:8-12). In the mission to households only the possibility of being taken in is considered, while in the city mission we also find instructions about how to behave in case of refusal. In Mark as well as in Q the instructions about the mission to households are found first, and their tone is clearly more positive than those related to the city.

The fact that these mission instructions have been transmitted independently by Mark and Q indicates that this is a very ancient tradition, but it also reveals that this tradition continued to be significant for the disciples of the first generation. To grasp their original tone, we must keep in mind that they were pronounced in the context of the Jesus movement before his death, that is to say in the context of the peasant mass movement led by Jesus and his closest disciples. When placed in this framework, the instructions about the mission to households pose three interesting questions for the topic of our research.

The first one, concerning their purpose, may be formulated like this: What was Jesus' objective in sending his closest disciples to households? In Mark's version there are two purposes: to cast out demons (Mark 6:7) and to preach conversion (Mark 6:12:), but the second is clearly redactional. That means that in the tradition before Mark there was only the purpose of casting out unclean spirits (Twelftree: 122-27). According to the Q version, however, Jesus sent his disciples to announce peace and to practice open table fellowship (Q 10:5-7).

These two actions, exorcism and open table-fellowship, that appear in Jesus' sayings as the purpose of the mission charge, reveal the situation of the peasant families to which the disciples were sent. These families were suffering the pressure caused by the marketization of the economy and the urbanization process. They were running the risk of forgetting the traditional values of hospitality and solidarity. In this situation, Jesus' messengers announced with their behavior that God was at the point of intervening as king and patron of his people. In this way, not only was disintegration avoided, but also small groups were created in which the reign of God was received and enacted (Horsley: 231-45).

The second question concerns the strategy. If Jesus' proclamation belongs to the realm of political religion, it might be asked why Jesus sent his disciples to households. But this contradiction that we perceive between the political horizon of Jesus' message and his domestic strategy is only apparent. In the Hellenistic-Roman world the house and the city were not two separable entities. Aristotle's thesis, according to which every city is made up of households and "every household is a part of the city" (POLITICS 1252a-1253b) was then an axiom (Cicero, DE OFFICIIS I, 17; Philo, DE IOSEPHO 38-39). It is therefore reasonable that Jesus' strategy combined activities in plazas or open areas with those in houses. If the household was the basic cell of society, Jesus could not omit it from his plan to make the good news reach everyone. Recreating the household was the best way to recreate society from its roots.

The last question concerns the results of this mission and can be formulated in this way: What were the effects of the disciples' mission to households. There are two facts that can help answer this question. The first one is the contrast between the hospitality in houses (Q 10:5-7; Mark 6:10) and the rejection in the cities (Q 10:8-12; Mark 6:11) that we perceive in the instructions mentioned above. It seems that they refer to two successive phases of the mission. In the first phase the message was addressed to households. This phase had a much more positive result than the second one, in which the message was addressed to cities. The second fact is that this mission to households most probably gained some families for the Jesus movement. They offered hospitality and support to Jesus and his closest disciples in Galilee (Mark 1:29-31; 2:15-17, etc.), as well as in Jerusalem and its surrounding areas (Mark 11 : 11 ; 14:3-9; 12-16; Luke 10:38-42).

We can conclude, therefore, that Jesus sent his disciples into households to announce the good news of the kingdom through healing and open table-fellowship. The purpose of this commissioning was to reconstruct society from its roots, recreating in its basic cells, the households, the traditional values of solidarity and hospitality and establishing in them new relationships of brotherhood and sisterhood. The result of this mission was that some of the households joined actively in the Jesus movement and offered shelter and support for the leaders of the group.

The Failure and Continuity of the Jesus Movement

The peasant mass movement initiated by Jesus ended in failure, as many other mass movements did. The opposition it endured in Galilee discouraged many of its followers (John 6:66-71 ; Mark 8:27-30), but it was above all the events of the last days in Jerusalem that caused the end of the movement. In the Passion narratives, composed with didactic intentions, Judas' betrayal, the abandonment of the Twelve and Peter's denial play an important role, but what is more surprising in them is the change in attitude among the multitudes that had followed Jesus.

We must keep in mind that the arrest and death of Jesus took place during the Passover festival, when many pious Jews made pilgrimage to Jerusalem. It is most likely that among those pilgrims there were some of Jesus' Galilean followers, who had accompanied him to the holy city (Mark 11:1-10). This fact makes more significant the contrast between the initial attitude of the multitudes that followed Jesus in Galilee and even cheered him upon entering Jerusalem, and their final reaction of rejection and condemnation.

In the Gospels we find some data that may help to explain this change. First, there is the influence of the priestly class, for which the movement initiated by Jesus surely constituted a threat. It is possible that they used the episode in the temple to turn the multitudes against Jesus, giving this symbolic action a meaning different from the one he intended (Sanders: 71-75). In agrarian societies the influence of the dominant classes over peasants is very great because peasants know that their subsistence depends on the elite. To this we may add that the pilgrims who accompanied Jesus could have perceived the action in the temple as an offense against the great symbol of Israelite tradition. All this would explain the change of attitude of the multitudes toward Jesus.

The Jesus movement was not different from other peasant mass movements in this regard. The majority of them failed because the peasants could not understand that the evils that plagued them had deep roots. Their main concern was short term subsistence, and when they saw it in danger, they abandoned the leader they had followed so enthusiastically. Palestinian history in the Roman period offers some examples of this phenomenon (Acts 5:36-37).

In contrast, however, to other contemporary popular movements, the Jesus movement continued after the death of its leader. It did not continue as a peasant mass movement, but rather as the movement of his disciples--the group that had followed Jesus as a surrogate family and then became the nucleus of the earliest Christian community (Acts 1: 12-14)--together with the households that received the disciples' preaching and offered them support and hospitality during the time of Jesus' activity. It was this group of disciples that continued Jesus' project after his death, encouraged by the experience of his resurrection.

This is a decisive observation to understand why the family had such an important role in the disciples' movement after Easter and also to explain the apparent discontinuity between the pre-Easter phrase of the movement and the post-Easter one in their attitude toward the family. Upon losing the support of the multitudes--the peasants to whom Jesus' preaching was originally addressed--the movement that was initiated by Jesus was reduced to the group of disciples that he had called to help him as leaders of the movement. To this group belonged also the families that had accepted the message announced by these disciples. The first group had lived close to Jesus as a family of brothers that had God as father. The second one had accepted living those same values in their families. These two groups of disciples gave continuity to the Jesus movement, and this explains why the family had such an important place in the Christian groups that were emerging after Easter.

Conclusion

It has been my objective in this study to find out whether the importance of the family in the configuration of the group of Jesus' disciples after Easter was only the result of a process of social adaptation, or whether, on the contrary, that group was shaped in the pre-Easter phase of the movement after the model of kinship relationships. To this end, I have asked what Jesus' attitude was toward the family: what role did the family play in the movement initiated by Jesus, and did Jesus use the kinship metaphor to define the relationships among his disciples?

To answer these questions I started with a characterization of the Jesus movement as a peasant mass movement, similar in some aspects to other movements that arose in Palestine during the Roman period. The Jesus movement was, however, a peculiar one, and among its peculiarities one was crucial for its continuity: discipleship. Jesus gathered around him a group of disciples and asked them to take on the lifestyle of uprooted peasants to whom they would announce the good news of the imminent coming of God as king and patron of his people. This new lifestyle included breaking away from their families. In exchange Jesus offered them a new family in which they could live as brothers and children of God. He sent these disciples to announce to households the good news of the kingdom, through healing and open table-fellowship, and the result of this was that some of these households joined the movement and became the basic social structure of the movement.

The rejection of Jesus in Jerusalem and his death caused the movement to lose its social basis and fail as a mass movement. Nevertheless, the group of his closest disciples and the households that accepted their message, prompted by the resurrection experience, continued what Jesus had begun. Both groups were configured as surrogate families whose only father was God. This fact explains the importance that the family had in the groups of Jesus' disciples in subsequent generations.

The most important conclusion of this study is, therefore, that there exists a fundamental continuity in this respect between the pre-Easter and the post-Easter periods of the early Christian movement. But the study of this process also sheds light on another aspect of great significance in understanding the continuity between Jesus and the Church. As traditional ecclesiology affirms, the Church had its origins in the group of Jesus' closest disciples, namely, the Twelve. The seed of the community that arose after the resurrection was not the multitudes that followed Jesus, but rather this closest group of disciples.

Works Cited

Crossan, J. D. 1998. THE BIRTH OF CHRISTIANITY. DISCOVERING WHAT HAPPENED IN THE YEARS IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE EXECUTION OF JESUS. San Francisco, CA: Harper.

Fiensy, D. 1999. Leaders of Mass Movements and the Leader of the Jesus Movement. JOURNAL FOR THE STUDY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT 74: 3-27.

1997. Jesus' Socio-Economic Background. Pp. 225-55 in HILLEL AND JESUS. COMPARATIVE STUDIES OF TWO MAJOR RELIGIOUS LEADERS, edited by J. H. Charlesworth & L. L. Johns. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press.

1991. THE SOCIAL HISTORY OF PALESTINE IN THE HERODIAN PERIOD. THE LAND IS MINE. Lewlston-Queenston-Lampeter: The Edwin Mellen Press.

Freyne, S. 1994. The Geography, Politics and Economics of Galilee and the Quest for the Historial Jesus. Pp. 75-121 in STUDYING THE HISTORICAL JESUS. EVALUATIONS OF THE STATE OF CURRENT RESEARCH, edited by B. Chilton & C. Evans. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill.

Guijarro, S. 2001. Kingdom and Family in Conflict. A Contribution to the Study of the Historical Jesus. Pp. 210-38 in SOCIAL SCIENTIFIC MODELS FOR INTERPRETING THE BIBLE. ESSAYS BY THE CONTEXT GROUP IN HONOR OF BRUCE J. MALINA, edited by J. J. Pilch. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill.

2000. Dips Padre en la aeluacion de Jesus. ESTUDIOS TRINITARIOS 34:33-69.

1997. The Family in First Century Galilee. Pp. 42-65 in CONSTRUCTING EARLY CHRISTIAN FAMILIES, edited by H. Moxnes. London, UK: Routledge.

Hanson, K. C., & Douglas E. Oakman. 1998. PALESTINE IN THE TIME OF JESUS: SOCIAL STRUCTURES AND SOCIAL CONFLICTS. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press.

Hellerman, H. 2001. THE ANCIENT CHURCH AS FAMILY. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press.

Hengel, M. 1981. CHARISMATIC LEADER AND HIS FOLLOWERS. Translated by James C. G. Grieg, edited by John Riches. Edinburgh, UK: T&T Clark.

Horsley, R. 1993. JESUS AND THE SPIRAL OF VIOLENCE. POPULAR JEWISH RESISTANCE IN ROMAN PALESTINE. 2nd ed. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press.

Horsley, R. A., & J. S. Hanson. 1985. BANDITS, PROPHETS AND MESSIAHS: POPULAR MOVEMENTS AT THE TIME OF JESUS. San Francisco, CA: Harper & Row.

Lang, B. 1990. Charisma and the Disruption of the Family in Early Christianity. Pp. 278-87 in DIE VIEFALT DER KULTUR. ETHNOLOGISCHE ASPEKTE VON VERWANDSCHAFT, KUNST UND WELTANFASSUNG. ERNST WILHELM MULLER ZUM 65 GEBURGSTAG, edited by K. H. Kohl, H. Muzinski, & I. Strecker. Berlin, Germany: Dieter Reimer Verlag.

Lenski, G. 1966. POWER AND PRIVILEGE: A THEORY OF SOCIAL STRATIFICATION. New York, NY: McGraw Hill.

Malina, B. J. 2001a. THE NEW TESTAMENT WORLD: INSIGHTS FROM CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY. 3d ed. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox.

2001b. THE SOCIAL GOSPEL OF JESUS: THE KINGDOM OF GOD IN MEDITERRANEAN PERSPECTIVE. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press.

1999. Criteria for Assessing the Authentic Words of Jesus: Some Specifications. Pp. 27-45 in AUTHENTICATING THE WORDS OF JESUS, edited by B.D. Chilton and C.A. Evans. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill.

1987. Wealth and Poverty en the New Testament and its World. INTERPRETATION 41: 354-67.

Neyrey, J. 1995. Loss of Wealth, Loss of Family and Loss of Honour. The Cultural Context of the Original Makarisms in Q. Pp. 139-58 in MODELLING EARLY CHRISTIANITY. SOCIAL-SCIENTIFIC STUDIES OF THE NEW TESTAMENT IN ITS CONTEXT, edited by P. F. Esler. London, UK/New York, NY: Routledge.

Pesce, M. 1984. Discepolato gesuano e discepolato rabbinico. Problemi e prospettive della comparazione. Pp. 351-89 in AUFSTIEG UND NIEDERGANG DER ROMISHEN WELT II, 25. 1, edited by H. Temporini & W. Haase. Berlin, Germany/New York, NY.

Pitt-Rivers, J. 1968. Kinship: III. Pseudo-Kinship. Pp. 408-13 in INTERNAFIONAL ENCYCLOPEDIA OF THE SOCIAL SCIENCES, edited by D. L. Sills. New York, NY: The Macmillan Company and the Free Press.

Robinson, J. M., P. Hoffmann, & J. S. Kloppenborg. 2000. THE CRITICAL EDITION OF Q. SYNOPSIS INCLUDING THE GOSPELS OF MATTHEW AND LUKE, MARK AND THOMAS WITH ENGLISH, GERMAN, AND FRENCH TRANSLATIONS OF Q AND THOMAS. Leuven, Belgium: Peeters.

Sanders, E. P. 1985. JESUS AND JUDAISM. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press.

Schussler Fiorenza, E. 1992 (c. 1983). IN MEMORY OF HER: A FEMINIST THEOLOGICAL RECONSTRUCTION OF CHRISTIAN ORIGINS. New York, NY: Crossroad Books.

Theissen, G. 1989. Jesusbewegung als charismatische Wertrevolution NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES 35: 343-60.

Theissen, G., & A. Merz. 1998. THE HISTORICAL JESUS: A COMPREHENSIVE GUIDE. Translated by John Bowden. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press.

Twelftree, G. H. 1993. JESUS, THE EXORCIST. A CONTRIBUTION TO THE STUDY OF THE HISTORICAL JESUS. Peabody, Ma.: Hendrickso

Santiago Guijarro, S.S.L. (Pontifical Biblical Institute, Rome), S.S.D. (Pontifical University of Salamanca, Spain), is a professor in the Faculty of Theology of the Pontifical University of Salamanca (e-mail: guijarro@upsa.es). He is the author of a monograph on the disruption of the family for the sake of discipleship (FIDELIDADES EN CONFLICTO. LA RUPTURA CON LA FAMILIA POR CAUSA DEE DISCIPULADO Y DE LA MISION EN LA TRADICION SINOPTICA (Salamanca, 1998). His most recent contribution to BTB is Why Does the Gospel of Mark Begin As It Does? BTB 33:1 (Spring 2003), 28-38.

COPYRIGHT 2004 Biblical Theology Bulletin, Inc
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group

Zechariah's unbelief and early Jewish-Christian relations: the form and structure of Luke 1:5-25 as a clue to the narrative agenda of Luke

2007-07-06T19:26:00.000-07:00

Zechariah's unbelief and early Jewish-Christian relations: the form and structure of Luke 1:5-25 as a clue to the narrative agenda of the Gospel of Luke

Steven R. Harmon
Abstract

The narrative agenda of the Gospel of Luke seeks to move the implied reader (who resembles the "Godfearer" of Acts) from an interest in Judaism to conversion to Christianity. Luke 1:5-25 introduces this agenda by highlighting both continuity and discontinuity between Judaism and Christianity. Use of the Hebrew Bible commissioning narrative form establishes a continuity between Judaism and Christianity, appealing to the implied reader's attraction to Judaism yet suggesting conversion to Christianity as a natural next step. A chiastic structure that focuses on Zechariah's unbelieving response to the announcement of John's birth introduces a discontinuity between Judaism and Christianity, suggesting to the implied reader that the time has come to go beyond Judaism and embrace Christianity.

**********

Post-Holocaust Second Testament scholarship has rightly made the question of anti-Semitism in the Second Testament documents a major topic for inquiry and debate (Dunn 1992, Klassen 1986, Sandmel 1978). An article by Joseph Tyson (1995) makes an important contribution to the burgeoning literature on the problems posed by Luke-Acts. Tyson identifies the opposing conclusions of Jacob Jervell (1972) and Jack Sanders (1987) about the portrayal of Jews and Judaism in Luke-Acts as the basic parameters for contemporary investigation. Jervell offers a positive reading of Luke's attitude toward the Jewish people. Sanders, on the other hand, argues that Luke-Acts is fundamentally an anti-Jewish writing. Both propose that Luke-Acts is in some way a response to controversy in the Lukan community over the relationship of the emerging Christian church to Judaism. The Achilles heel of the approaches of both Jervell and Sanders, according to Tyson, is their reliance on modern diachronic reconstructions of the readership of Luke-Acts (Tyson 1995: 19-23).

Tyson suggests that the impasse between Jervell and Sanders may be resolved by seeking clues to Luke's intentions not in the reconstructed first readers in the hypothetical world behind the text but rather in the reader implicit in the world of the text itself (p. 23). This implied reader, Tyson concludes, "is similar to those characters in Acts that are called `Godfearers,'" represented intratextually by Theophilus, the centurion at Capernaum in Luke 7, the Ethiopian eunuch, and Cornelius (pp. 25-26). The implied reader is "a pious Gentile who has deep affinities with Judaism but has not yet made a total commitment" (p. 26). Luke-Acts is therefore "an evangelistic text addressed to Godfearers" (p. 38). Tyson submits that such a reading of Luke-Acts supports and qualifies the otherwise opposed interpretations of Jervell and Sanders:

The treatment of Jewish religion and people forms part of the rhetorical
strategy used by the implied author in addressing the implied reader.
Positive images of Judaism are consistent with the assumed attitudes of a
Godfearer as he is first addressed. But negative images, which show the
inferiority of Judaism to Christianity and help to explain Jewish rejection
of the Christian message, urge the Godfearer to abandon the philo-Judaism
with which he began [p. 38].
Tyson selects five passages in Luke-Acts as-test cases for his thesis: Luke 1-2 and 9:28-36, and Acts 13:13-52, 15:1-29, and 28:17-28. In his reading of the infancy narratives in Luke 1-2, Tyson includes Zechariah among the positive representatives of Jewish piety in these narratives with whom the implied author hopes the Godfearer to identify (p. 27). Tyson also identifies the speech of Simeon in 2:29-35 as the key passage in the Lukan infancy narratives that anticipates the relation of Christianity to Judaism in the rest of the work (pp. 27-28). This article contends that Tyson's thesis is better supported by a differently nuanced reading of the role of Zechariah and a different identification of the key anticipatory passage in Luke 1-2 in light of a formal and structural analysis of the annunciation pericope in Luke 1:5-25. Interpreting 1:5-25 as a chiastically structured commissioning narrative, while qualifying Tyson's reading of the passage, provides additional exegetical support for Tyson's overall understanding of the narrative agenda of the Gospel of Luke.

The Significance of the Commissioning Narrative Form in Luke 1:5-25

Most studies of the Lukan infancy narratives have concluded that the annunciation story in 1:5-25 is patterned after annunciations or birth oracles in the Hebrew Bible (Loisy 1924: 77; Benoit 1957: 17640; Ruddick 1970: 343-48; Ellis 1974: 67-68; Schweizer 1984: 18-24; Nolland 1989: 18; Evans 1990: 144-45; Johnson 1991: 32, 34-35; Brown 1993: 268-69; Ernst 1993: 52). Formal allusions to Hebrew Bible birth oracles suggest parallels with Abraham and Sarah (Gen 18:1-15), Manoah and the mother of Samson (Judg 13:1-23), and Elkanah and Hannah (1 Sam 1:1-18), thus placing the birth of the messianic forerunner in continuity with the births of important figures in Hebrew salvation-history in the mind of the reader at the outset of the narrative (Brown 1993: 269). Such an identification and interpretation of the form of the pericope would be consistent with Tyson's observations about the role of the infancy narratives in eliciting the implied reader's sympathy for Jewish piety and its messianic expectations (Tyson 1995: 26-28).

Another proposal regarding the form of 1:5-25, however, establishes a more thoroughgoing continuity between Judaism and the nascent Christian movement (proleptically represented by John the Baptizer) than does the putative use of the birth oracle form. Benjamin Hubbard (1977:115) and Terence Mullins (1976: 605) identified 1:5-25 and the following pericope in 1:26-38 as Lukan uses of a Hebrew Bible "commissioning story" form. On the basis of previous studies of the commissioning form in the Hebrew Bible (Oppenheim 1956, Habel 1965, Kuntz 1967, Baltzer 1968, Richter 1970, Long 1972), Hubbard isolated seven formal components which serve as criteria for identifying occurrences of the form in the Second Testament: (1) an introduction, "a brief introductory remark providing circumstantial details"; (2) a confrontation in which "the deity/commissioner appears and confronts the individual to be commissioned"; (3) a reaction "by way of an action expressive of fear or unworthiness"; (4) a commission in which "the individual is told to undertake a specific task which often involves his assuming a new role in life"; (5) protest, a response to the commission with a claim of unworthiness or a questioning of the deity or commissioner; (6) a reassurance in which the deity or commissioner overrules the protest; and (7) a conclusion, often "a statement that the one commissioned starts to carry out his work" (pp. 104-05). Hubbard found twenty-seven commissioning stories in the Hebrew Bible (p. 107). According to Mullins (pp. 605-06), the Second Testament documents contain thirty-seven complete or partial instances of the commissioning narrative form, twenty-seven of which are in Luke-Acts: Luke 1:5-25; 1:26-38; 2:8-20; 5:1-11; 7:20-28; 10:1-17; 15:11-31; 22:7-13; 22:14-38; 24:36-53; Acts 1:1-12; 7:30-36; 9:1-9; 9:10-17; 10:1-8; 10:9-23; 10:30-33; 11:4-17; 12:6-10; 13:1-3; 16:9-10; 22:6-11; 22:12-16; 22:17-21; 23:11; 26:12-20; 27:21-26. Hubbard (p. 122) identified twenty-five occurrences of the form, sixteen of which are in Luke-Acts: 1:5-25; 1:26-38; 2:8-20; 24:36-53; Acts 5:17-21; 9:1-9; 9:10-17; 10:1-8; 10:9-23; 16:9-10; 18:9-11; 22:6-11; 22:17-21; 23:11; 26:12-20; 27:21-26.

The lists of Second Testament commissioning stories compiled by Hubbard and Mullins suggest that the use of this form is a Lukan literary characteristic. It is significant that of the five commissioning narratives in Luke-Acts which include all seven formal elements (Luke 1:5-25; 1:26-38; 5:1-11; Acts 1:1-12; 9:9-18), three appear at the beginning of the crucial narrative openings of Luke and Acts: Luke 1:5-25, Luke 1:26-38, and Acts 1:1-12. The function of a narrative opening, according to Meir Sternberg, is "the sequential manipulation of the reader's attitudes and sympathies, norms and hypotheses" (1978: 96). The use of the commissioning narrative form in the initial pericope of the narrative opening of the Gospel of Luke may therefore provide a clue to Luke's narrative agenda.

In Luke 1:5-25, Luke uses the seven elements of the commissioning narrative form to tell the story of the annunciation of the birth of John the Baptizer. Verses 5-10 serve as the introduction, supplying the reader with circumstantial details. These details seem intended to appeal to the reader's sympathy for Jewish piety. The opening phrase, "It came about in the days of Herod, King of Judea (egeneto en tais hemerais Herodou basileos Ioudaias)," echoes the language of formulae used to place events in the reign of a given king in the Septuagint. Luke thus places these events in the lives of Zechariah and Elizabeth in continuity with the saving acts of Yahweh in the time of the kings of Judah in the Hebrew Bible (Nolland 1989, p. 25). The identification of Zechariah as a priest and Elizabeth as belonging to a priestly family places them at the center of Jewish religious life and thus representative of it (Schmithals 1980, p. 23). They are "righteous (dikaioi)" and blameless keepers of the commandments (v. 6). Zechariah performs his priestly service at the geographical center of Jewish piety, the temple. Luke has Zechariah ministering not merely at the hieron, the temple complex, but in the naos, the inner sanctuary of the temple restricted to the priests (Marshall 1978, p. 54). Luke thereby locates the events that follow not only at the architectural symbol of God's presence with the people of Israel, but in the very place within that edifice in which Yahweh was believed to manifest his presence. Outside the temple the assembly of people praying represents the present hopes of the Jewish people (Coleridge 1993: 32). The introduction of the commissioning narrative appeals to the sympathy of the implied reader for Judaism and its institutions.

The appearance of the angel in v 11 provides the element of confrontation. Verse 12 reports Zechariah's reaction to the angelic confrontation: "he was terrified and fear fell upon him." The angel reassures Zechariah in v 13a: "Fear not, Zechariah." The commission proper follows in w 13b-17 as the grounds for the reassurance, introduced by a causal conjunction (dioti, "for"). Zechariah is to cease his fearful reaction to the angelic confrontation because of the angel's promise of a son to Zechariah and prophecies of John's impact (he will bring joy to Zechariah and many others), his character (he will he great in God's sight, live a life of special consecration to God, and be filled with the Holy Spirit), and his ministry (he will lead the people to repentance in a role like that of Elijah). Zechariah protests to the angelic commissioner in v 18 that he and Elizabeth are too old for this to be so. Again the angel offers reassurance to Zechariah in vv 19-20 by disclosing his identity as Gabriel, an instrument of eschatological revelation in Daniel 8-12 and later Jewish angelology (Nolland 1989: 32), and promising a sign. Zechariah's inability to speak functions not only as a punishment for his unbelieving protest but also as a reassuring sign that the promise of John's birth "will be fulfilled" (Hubbard 1977: 115). Verses 22-25 constitute the conclusion, which brings closure to the narrative by reporting the fulfillment of the angel's words: Zechariah leaves the temple unable to speak, returns home, and Elizabeth becomes pregnant.

Although the customary formal identification of 1:5-25 as a birth oracle would certainly establish a continuity with Judaism at the outset of Luke's narrative through an implicit allusion to birth oracles in the Hebrew Bible, the classification of the pericope as a commissioning narrative suggests a much more thoroughgoing continuity with the Hebrew salvation-history. There are relatively few birth oracles in the Hebrew Bible. Brown (1993: 269) lists six passages as possible formal referents of 1:5-25 but finds specific allusions only to the birth oracles addressed to Abraham/Sarah and Elkanah/Hannah. The commissioning narrative form, on the other hand, occurs twenty-seven times (Hubbard 1977: 107). By presenting the annunciation of the birth of John in the form of a commissioning narrative, Luke places the beginnings of the immediate antecedent of the Christian movement, viz., the movement of John the Baptizer and his followers, in continuity with and on a par with the divine commissionings of the patriarchs, judges, kings, and prophets of the Hebrew Bible. By doing so in the initial episode of the narrative opening of his Gospel, Luke begins with the religious pre-understanding of the implied reader. The introduction of the pericope explicitly portrays Zechariah and Elizabeth as representatives of the kind of piety to which the Godfearer is attracted. The commissioning narrative form implicitly suggests to the reader familiar with the Septuagint (part of the profile of the implied reader of Luke-Acts proposed by Tyson 1995: 25) an historical and even eschatological matrix for the beginnings of Christianity that stresses its continuity with Judaism.

The Significance of the Chiastic Structure of Luke 1:5-25

If the form of 1:5-25 highlights the continuity of Christianity with Judaism, the structure of the pericope hints proleptically at a discontinuity that will later characterize the relationship between Christianity and Judaism. A structural analysis of the pericope that begins with the main clauses in the Greek text and identifies the structural and conceptual relationships between them reveals that 1:5-25 is structured as a complete six-level chiasm:

A Conflict: Zechariah and Elizabeth are childless (vv 5-7)
B Zechariah serves at the temple (v 8)
C Zechariah enters the temple (v 9)
D The people are praying outside the temple (v 10)
E The angel addresses Zechariah (vv 11-17)
F Zechariah responds to the angel (v 18)
E' The angel answers Zechariah (vv 19-10)
D' The people are waiting outside the temple (v 21)
C' Zechariah exits the temple (v 22)
B' Zechariah completes his service at the temple (v 23)
A' Resolution: Elizabeth conceives (vv 24-25)
The narrative introduction begins with the conflict that serves as the narrative premise of the pericope, the childlessness of Zechariah and Elizabeth despite their righteousness (vv 5-7); the narrative conclusion ends with the miraculous resolution of that conflict, which removes Elizabeth's "reproach (oneidos)" (vv 24-25). The narrative introduction continues by setting the stage at the temple for the annunciation oracle (vv 8-10); the narrative conclusion begins with the aftermath of the annunciation oracle at the temple (vv 21-23). Within vv 8-10 and 21-23, the mention of Zechariah's service at the temple (v 8) is parallel to the completion of his service at the temple (v 23), Zechariah's entrance into the temple (v 9) parallels his exit from the temple (v 22), and the mention of the people praying outside the temple (v 10) is paralleled by the people waiting outside the temple (v 21). These elements of the narrative introduction and conclusion serve as inclusios bracketing the heart of the pericope, the annunciation oracle itself (vv 11-20). The two halves of the oracle (vv 11-17 and 19-20) in turn bracket the response of Zechariah to the oracle, placing Zechariah's response at the structural center of the passage. As the middle element of the inverted parallelism in a chiasm, Zechariah's unbelieving response rather than the narrative conclusion constitutes the conceptual climax of the pericope (Land 1942: 40).

Three other scholars, apparently independently of one another, have also found a chiastic structure in 1:5-25, but with different conclusions. Eduard Schweizer proposed a four-level chiasm with the initial angelic oracle in vv 13b-17 as the central element (1984: 18):

A General situation: Date, place, persons, need (vv 5-7)
B Specific situation: Date, place, persons, appearance of
the angel (vv 8-11)
C Reaction and reassurance (vv 12-13a)
D Promise of birth and its meaning for many (w 131-17)
C' Reaction and angelic sign (vv 18-20)
B' Silence (vv 21-22)
A' Fulfillment, resolution of need (vv 23-25)
Schweizer finds the same structure with identical thematic elements in the following pericope, 1:26-38. The effort to find parallel chiasms in the two pericopes may account for the forced parallel between the specific situation in vv 8-11 and the silence of Zechariah in vv 21-23 (B and B'). The compression of vv 8-11 and 21-23 into one level of the chiasm misses the chiastic parallels between Zechariah's service at the temple and the completion of that service (vv 8 and 23), Zechariah's entrance into the temple and his exit therefrom (vv 9 and 22), and the people praying outside and waiting outside (vv 10 and 21). Most significantly, Schweizer's analysis overlooks the function of the two angelic speeches as an inclusio calling attention to Zechariah's response in v 18 as the central element.

Alberto Casalegno found a three-bevel chiastic structure in 1:5-25, with the dialogue between the angel and Zechariah (vv 11-20) as the central element (1984: 31-32):

A Introduction of the personages of the story (vv 5-7)
B Priestly service, entrance into the temple, prayer of the
people (vv 8-10)
C Appearance of the angel and dialogue with Zechariah
(vv 11-20)
B' Expectation of the people, exit from the holy place, end
of service (vv 21-23)
A' Epilogue (vv 24-25)
Casalegno's conclusions are essentially identical with those proposed in the present article, apart from the location of the central element of the chiasm. While Casalegno identified only three major levels of parallelism in his structural outline, he makes it clear in the course of his discussion that the events included in the second level of the chiasm, B and B', may be subdivided into three additional levels of parallels: vv 8 and 23, vv 9 and 22, and vv 10 and 21. Casalegno also divides the central level, vv 11-20 (C), into four subsections that are not chiastically structured: the appearance of the angel (vv 11-12), the annunciation (vv 13-17), the objection of Zechariah (v 18), and the sub. sequent angelic communication (vv 19-20). He narrowly misses making v 18 the central element of a chiastic structure by separating the appearance of the angel (vv 11-12) from the first half of the angelic oracle (vv 13-17).

Ronald Man, who curiously begins the pericope at v 6 rather than v 5, discovered an eight-level chiasm with the annunciation in vv 13-17 at its center (1984: 149-50):

A Godliness of Zechariah and Elizabeth (v 6)
B Elizabeth barren (v 7)
C Zechariah's priestly service (v 8)
D Zechariah enters the temple (v 9)
E The people outside (v 10)
F Angel standing (v 11)
G Zechariah's fear (v 12)
H The annunciation (vv 13-17)
G' Zechariah's doubt (v 18)
F' Angel who stands (vv 19-20)
E' The people outside (v 21)
D' Zechariah exits from the temple (v 22)
C' Zechariah's priestly service (v 23)
B' Elizabeth pregnant (v 24)
A' God's favor on Elizabeth (and Zechariah) (v 25)
The parallel Man draws between the references to the angel standing in v 11 and vv 19-20 is not convincing. Verse 11 is a narrative reference to the angel standing on the right side of the altar of incense; v 19 is direct discourse in which the angel identifies himself as Gabriel, the one who stands in the presence of God. Verses 19-20 do indeed constitute a level in the second half of the inverted parallelism, but they are concerned primarily with Gabriel's answer to Zechariah rather than with his incidental heavenly posture. As the an. gel's reply, vv 19-20 parallel the initial angelic oracle in vv 13-17 rather than the narration of the circumstances of the angelic epiphany in v 11 and therefore serve as the completion of an inclusio bracketing the response of Zechariah in v 18. Man concludes from his identification of the annunciation in vv 13-17 as the central element that the chiastic structure of 1:5-25 calls attention to the end of four centuries of prophetic silence in Israel, a conclusion that may be an uncritical imposition of a later rabbinical tradition about the cessation of prophecy (Greenspahn 1989).

I contend that 1:5-25 chiastically emphasizes the unbelieving response of Zechariah in order to introduce in the first episode of the narrative opening the recurring motif of the discontinuity of Christianity with Judaism because of Judaism's unbelieving response to Jesus and his movement. The juxtaposition of this passage with the following pericope underscores this theme of discontinuity. Zechariah, a sacerdotal representative of Jewish religious life ministering in the geographical and architectural center of Jewish piety, responds initially to the promise of the beginnings of the fulfillment of Jewish messianic hopes with disbelief. Mary, a representative of the `am ha'arez ("people of the land") on the margins of Jewish religious life, responds with belief and obedience. It is true that Mary's response in 1:34 is also incredulous. Both Zechariah and Mary ask how such a thing could be, and then offer grounds for their questioning--the old age of Zechariah and Elizabeth and the virginal status of Mary. Zechariah, however, is given a punitive sign, while the annunciation to Mary concludes with her pledge of willing submission. The angel calls attention to Zechariah's disbelief in v 20; he does not similarly chastise Mary. The contrast between Zechariah's unbelief and Mary's belief seeks to move the implied reader, the Godfearer, beyond the unbelieving community represented proleptically by Zechariah and toward the believing community represented proleptically by Mary. Zechariah himself does move from unbelief in v 18 to obedience in the naming of John in 1:59-63 and is filled with the Holy Spirit and prophesies in 1:67-79. Since Luke's portrayal of Zechariah in 1:5-25 both appeals to the implied reader's religious sympathies and seeks to move the reader beyond them, Zechariah's implicit pilgrimage from unbelief to belief may also serve as a paradigm to be followed by the Godfearer.

It may be objected that this chiastic interpretation of Luke 1:5-25 is an artificial literary reconstruction that does not take into account the way in which texts were read/heard in a predominately aural culture. Mark Coleridge (1993), for example, credits Casalegno for calling attention to the role of the twin references to the people outside the temple in flanking the central section of the pericope, but charges that Casalegno's structure "fails to reckon with ... the temporal flow of the narrative, which is not read according to the rhythm of spatial organization that a structure such as the above [Casalegno's chiastic structure] reveals" (p. 32). This objection is satisfactorily answered by Augustine Stock (1984), who in a previous issue of this journal rightly argued that recent criticisms of modern chiastic interpretations of ancient literature fail to take into account the pervasive didactic use of chiasmus in Homeric, Hellenistic, and Roman education that. produced a widespread sensitivity to the presence of chiastic structures in both literature and speech. Ears and eyes trained to be alert for elements of parallelism in oral and written communication could easily have caught Luke's chiastic focus on Zechariah's unbelieving response.

Conclusions

The narrative agenda of the Gospel of Luke, as presented by Tyson, seeks to move the Godfearer from an at. traction and tentative commitment to Judaism to conversion to Christianity. Tyson correctly notes the disclosure of that agenda in Simeon's prophecy of divided Jewish responses to Jesus (2:29-35). I differ, however, with his selection of that pericope as "the key passage in Luke 1-2" which anticipates "the relation of the Christian message to Judaism" (Tyson 1995: 27). The Lukan narrative implicitly introduces its "evangelistic" agenda more comprehensively, more artfully, and much earlier in 1:5-25, the initial episode of the narrative opening of Luke. The formal shaping of the pericope as a commissioning narrative establishes at the outset a continuity between Judaism and Christianity, on the one hand appealing to the religious affinities of the implied reader and on the other hand suggesting conversion to Christianity as the natural next step in his or her religious quest. The chiastic structure of the passage introduces at the outset the discontinuity between Judaism and Christianity which the Jewish rejection of Jesus will later occasion, hinting to the Godfearer that the time has come to go beyond Judaism. Such a supercessionist reading is consistent with the function of Second Testament portrayals of Judaism in the parting of the ways between Christianity and Judaism in the early centuries CE. The question of whether it ought to be sustained in the present is more properly the task of constructive theology and ecumenical dialogue than of the present investigation in biblical theology.

Works Cited

Baltzer, Klaus. 1968. Considerations Concerning the Office and Calling of the Prophet. HARVARD THEOLOGICAL REVIEW 61/4, 567-91.

Benoit, Pierre. 1957. L'Enfance de Jean-Baptiste selon Luc I. NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES 3/3, 169-94.

Brown, Raymond E. 1993. THE BIRTH OF THE MESSIAH: A COMMENTARY ON THE INFANCY NARRATIVES IN THE GOSPELS OF MATTHEW AND LUKE. Rev. ed. Anchor Bible Reference Library. New York, NY: Doubleday.

Casalegno, Alberto. 1984. GESU E IL TEMPIO: STUDIO REDAZIONAILE DI LUCA-ATII. Brescia, Italy: Morcelliana.

Coleridge, Mark. 1993. The Birth of the Lukan Narrative: Narrative as Christology in Luke 1-2. JOURNAL FOR THE STUDY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT SUPPLEMENT SERIES, 88. Sheffield, UK: JSOT Press.

Dunn, James D. G. 1992. The Question of Anti-Semitism in the New Testament Writings. Pp. 177-211 in JEWS AND CHRISTIANS: THE PARTING OF THE WAYS, A.D. 70 TO 135, edited by James D. G. Dunn. Wissenshcaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neun Testament, 66. Tubingen, Germany: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck).

Ellis, E. Earle. 1974. THE GOSPEL OF LUKE. Rev. ed. New Century Bible Commentary. London, UK: Marshall, Morgan & Scott.

Ernst, Josef. 1993. DAS EVANGELIUM NACH LUKAS. Regensburger Neues Testament. Regensburg: Verlag Friedrich Pustet.

Evans, C. F. 1990. SAINT LUKE. TPI New Testament Commentaries. London, UK: SCM Press/Philadelphia, PA: Trinity Press International,

Greenspahn, Frederick E. 1989. Why Prophecy Ceased. JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE 108/1, 37-49.

Habel, N. 1965. The Form and Significance of the Call Narratives. ZEITSCHRIFT FUR DIE ALTTESTAMENTLICHE WISSEN-SCHAFT 77/3, 297-323.

Hubbard, Benjamin J. 1977. Commissioning Stories in Luke-Acts: A Study of Their Antecedents, Form and Content. SEMEIA 8, 103-26.

Jervell, Jacob. 1972. LUKE-ACTS AND THE PEOPLE OF GOD: A NEW LOOK AT LUKE-ACTS. Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Publishing House.

Johnson, Luke Timothy. 1991. THE GOSPEL OF LUKE. Sacra Pagina 3. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press.

Klassen, W. 1986. Anti-Judaism in Early Christianity: The State of the Question. Pp. 1-19 in Vol. 1 of ANTI-JUDAISM IN EARLY CHRISTIANITY, edited by Peter Richardson. Studies in Christianity, and Judaism, 2. Waterloo, ON: Wilfried Laurier University Press.

Kuntz, J. Kenneth. 1967. THE SELF-REVELATION OF GOD. Philadelphia: Westminster Press.

Loisy, Alfred. 1924. L'EVANGILE SELON LUC. Paris: Minerva G.M.B.H.

Long, Burke O. 1972, Prophetic Call Traditions and Reports of Visions. ZEITSCHRIFT FOR DIE ALTTESTAMENTLICHE WISSENSCHAFT 84/4, 494-500.

Lund, Nils W. 1942. CHIASMUS IN THE NEW TESTAMENT: A STUDY IN THE FORM AND FUNCTION OF CHIASTIC STRUCTURES. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press; reprint, Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson Publishers, 1992.

Man, Ronald E. 1984. The Value of Chiasm for New Testament Interpretation. BIBLIOTHECA SACRA 141/562, 146-57.

Marshall, I. Howard. 1978. THE GOSPEL OF LUKE: A COMMENTARY ON THE GREEK TEXT. New International Greek Testament Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans.

Mullins, Terrence Y. New Testament Commission Forms, Especially in Luke-Acts 95/4, 603-14.

Nolland, John 1989. LUKE 1:1-9:20. Word Biblical Commentary 35a. Dallas: Word Books.

Oppenheim, A. Leo. 1956. THE INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST. Philadelphia, PA: American Philosophical Society.

Richter, Wolfgang. 1970. DIE SOGENNANTEN VORPROPHETISCHEN BERUFUNGSBERICHTE. Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 101. Gottingen, Germany: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

Ruddick, Jr., C. T. 1970. Birth Narratives in Genesis and Luke. NOVUM TESTAMENTUM 12/4, 343-48.

Sanders, Jack T. 1987. THE JEWS IN LUKE-ACTS. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press.

Sandmel, Samuel. 1978. ANTI-SEMITISM IN THE NEW TESTAMENT? Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press.

Schmithals, Walter 1980. DAS EVANGELIUM NACH LUKAS. Zurcher Bibelkommentare. Zurich, Switzerland: Theologischer Verlag.

Schweizer, Eduard. 1984. THE GOOD NEWS ACCORDING TO LUKE, translated by David E. Green. Atlanta, GA: John Knox Press.

Sternberg, Meir. 1978. EXPOSITIONAL MODES AND TEMPORAL ORDERING IN FICTION. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Stock, Augustine. 1984. Chiastic Awareness and Education in Antiquity. BIBLICAL THEOLOGY BULLETIN 14/1, 23-27.

Tyson, Joseph B. 1995. Jews and Judaism in Luke-Acts: Reading As a Godfearer. NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES 41/1, 19-38.

Steven R. Harmon, Ph.D (Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary), is an Assistant Professor of Christian Theology at Campbell University Divinity School, Post Office Drawer 4050, Buies Creek, NC 27506. E-mail: harmons@mailcenter.campbell.edu. He is currently working on an annotated translation of Gregory of Nyssa's Oratio Catechetica Magna (Great Catechetica Oration).

COPYRIGHT 2001 Biblical Theology Bulletin, Inc
COPYRIGHT 2003 Gale Group

Slaves in the New Testament: Literary, Social, and Moral Dimensions

2007-07-06T19:10:00.000-07:00

Slaves in the New Testament: Literary, Social, and Moral Dimensions

F. Scott Spencer
SLAVES IN THE NEW TESTAMENT: LITERARY, SOCIAL, AND MORAL DIMENSIONS. By J. Albert Harrill. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2006. Pp. xiv + 322. Cloth, $45.00.

This fresh examination of slaves in the New Testament and early Christian writings is distinguished by careful comparative analysis of Greco-Roman discourses about family, society, and politics. Mining a stunning array of ancient literature--including rhetorical and agricultural handbooks, philosophical and judicial treatises, physiognomic and medical texts, and comedic and satirical dramas--Harrill uncovers a variety of stock literary representations of slaves that were widely used to "think with" about morality and core values. In one way or another, these slave stereotypes supported the dominant Roman ideology of auctoritas (mastery, authority), which denoted the "actual power" (versus ascribed status) a householder possessed to command obedience and devotion from his subordinates and respect and admiration from his peers.

In the introduction, Harrill challenges standard assessments of Onesimus in Paul's letter to Philemon as a runaway slave (serous fugitivus). The correspondence shows no interest in the slave's personal plans or aspirations. Rather, along the lines of a "journeyman apprentice" contract, Paul petitions master Philemon to accept Onesimus as an apprentice in gospel ministry. The goal is not manumission, but redeployment of service.

Chapters 1-2 deal with psychological and physical images of the Roman slave as backdrops for Paul's discourse. In Romans 7:7-25, Paul employs the rhetorical device of "speech-in character" (prostpopoiia), whereby he assumes a persona ("I") to illustrate his argument. According to Harrill, the "I" in this text represents a typical Gentile convert in the Roman church caught in an inner, slavish tug-of-war between the old master of Sin and the new master of Christ. This conflicted "slave self" retains in Roman ideology the agency to determine which master it will serve. Paul thus implores the Gentile Christians to resist the auctoritas of Sin over them. In 2 Corinthians 10:10, the slurs of Paul's opponents against his "weak body" and "contemptible speech" evoke the emasculated image of the cowering, sycophantic slave seeking to gain advantage through fawning gestures and flattering comments. Such rhetoric fits the Sophistic notion that physical appearance reveals essential character. Paul's rivals thus brand him as an unmanly, slavish opportunist unfit to exercise authority in the church. In return, Paul fires back with Socratic-Cynic logic that places ultimate value not in outward appearances (physiognomy) but in humble (tapeinos), rational pursuit of truth (philosophy). As a weak, suffering servant of Christ, Paul has been graced with "divine power to ... take every thought captive to obey Christ" (10:4-5).

Chapter 3 correlates two characters in Luke-Acts with stock figures in Roman comedic theater. The slave-girl Rhoda in Acts 12:12-17 plays the slapstick part of the bungling "running slave" (serous currens), bursting with good news--which no one takes seriously--about Peter's arrival, while she absentmindedly leaves the apostle knocking at the gate. The conniving steward in Jesus' parable (Luke 16:1-13) enacts the dual role of "parasite" (parasitus) and "clever slave" (servus callidus), shrewdly manipulating his wealthy master's accounts for his own benefit and ultimately exposing his master as a rich fool. Both stories are entertaining literary fictions, in Harrill's view, designed to provide comic relief and dramatic contrast to the more sober, "realistic" incidents that follow (Acts 12:17; Luke 16:14-31).

Chapters 4-6 consider deutero-Pauline and other post-apostolic writings in light of additional Roman slave types. First, the household codes governing master-slave relations in Ephesians and Colossians, far from advocating a liberating cultural revolution, reinforce the conventional advice of Roman farm handbooks. As the chief slave bailiff (vilicus) commanded subordinate slaves on the absentee householder's (pater familias) estate with both authority and accountability, so Christian masters must fairly and faithfully manage their slaves in the household of God the Father. Second, the black market slave-trader or men-stealer (andrapodistes)--an unscrupulous figure associated with greed, fraud, and immorality outside the legitimate Roman slave economy--functioned as an apt deviant label for heretical teachers in 1 Timothy 1:10; for the label to work, however, this text assumes and accepts lawful slave commerce. Third, the stock images of the "faithful slave," loyal to his master at all costs, and the "domestic enemy," who betrays his master for personal gain, inform early Christian apologetic and martyrological responses to Roman opposition. For example, in the Martyrdom of Polycarp, one of Polycarp's domestic servants, under torture, exposes the bishop to the authorities; on the other hand, in the Letter of the Churches of Vienne and Lyons, Blandina stands out as a noble slave martyr for Christ.

In the final chapter and epilogue, Harrill turns to the modern era, tracking the battle for the Bible on both sides of the critical proslavery/abolitionist divide in nineteenth-century America. He demonstrates the difficulty, if not futility, in appealing to the Bible, especially its literalistic "plain sense," to settle complex moral debates. With respect to slavery, as far as he goes Harrill brilliantly elucidates the New Testament's basic complicity in the dominant ancient literary and rhetorical ethos of its day--and thus its limited ethical value for today. But he has seriously downplayed the religious and theological foundations of the text. Theology regularly trades on current metaphors, tropes, and symbols "to think with" about God, but with keen awareness of their ultimate inadequacy to capture divine truth. Images and personae of slaves and slave masters applied to God, Christ, and the apostle Paul do not so much undermine or subvert the system from which they derive (here Harrill makes his case) as overwhelm or burst it. "Plainly" identifying God's Son and humanity's Savior as both Lord/Master and slave/servant of all (cf. Mark 10:42-45; Phil 2:5-8), for example, provides enormously challenging and disorienting imagery with which to contemplate the mysteries of God and God's people in any age.

F. Scott Spencer

Baptist Theological Seminary

3400 Brook Road

Richmond, VA 23227-4538

COPYRIGHT 2006 Biblical Theology Bulletin, Inc
COPYRIGHT 2006 Gale Group
Biblical Theology Bulletin > Winter, 2006 >

Narrative insights into the crucifixion of Jesus in Luke

2007-07-06T18:50:00.000-07:00

Narrative insights into the crucifixion of Jesus in Luke

Carrie L. Lewis
In the crucifixion account, Luke 23: 33-43, Luke tells the story of a first-century man from Nazareth through whom God has chosen to make known the power of God to establish God's rule over the world and to call into question the power of the earthly rulers, both religious and political. Who really has power in this world? How is that power manifested? Do the rulers of the world have power over my life? Can I trust this Jesus who is telling me that the power of God is greater?

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

By the time the first hearers encountered the story of the crucifixion, they had traveled a long road with Jesus, a road that brought them to Jerusalem, where earthly power, both religious and political, was centered, a road that led to Jesus' arrest, sentencing, and now his crucifixion on the hill called the Skull. Along that road, they had "witnessed" Jesus calling disciples to follow him, breaking the laws of the Sabbath in front of the religious officials by working and healing on the Sabbath, performing miracles among the people of Israel and the Gentiles, and hearing Jesus preach, teach, and proclaim the coming of the kingdom of God. Now they stand at the foot of the cross, seeing Jesus hanging there between two criminals, and wonder how all that had been said and done before could be true. Has the power of the world finally overcome the power of God? Is Jesus really the anointed one?

The answer to these questions begins to be revealed in the episode of the crucifixion through the most unlikely of sources: the soldiers and the evildoers who surround Jesus. Although they do not know that they are speaking the truth and do not intend to be speaking the truth, the truth about Jesus' identity is ironically revealed in the voices of these characters.

In his narrative Luke shows that, through the crucifixion of Jesus, God turns the human understanding of power on its head. For Luke, the crucifixion of Jesus is not a payment for people's sins. He omits Mark's famous quotation "For the Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many" (10:45). Rather, Jesus' healings and offers of forgiveness are a proclamation of God's reign and God's comprehensive saving purpose. (1) Salvation is restoration of God's people through the forgiveness of sins. (2) Jesus' death was the opportunity though which God's authority would be manifest.

Through Jesus' ability to forgive and offer salvation, even at the time when Jesus appears to be powerless, Luke shows us that in the midst of apparent vulnerability and lack of power God continues to exercise authority in the world through Jesus.

The question of forgiveness

For whom is Jesus asking for giveness? As hearers enter this scene they are told that Jesus is crucified with two evildoers, one on his right and one on his left. Jesus takes the opportunity on the cross to ask God to forgive those who are executing him because they do not know what they are doing. Is he asking forgiveness for the Jewish leaders who have asked for his crucifixion? for the Roman soldiers who have carried out the death sentence? for the crowd who surrounds him but does not know what to say about the events that have transpired?

Jesus has taught forgiveness and offered forgiveness throughout the journey of this story. In fact, it was forgiveness that first caused the Pharisees to question who Jesus was: "Who can forgive sins but God alone?" (5:21). Jesus had taught the disciples that if another disciple sinned against them they must forgive that disciple if that disciple repented, and if that disciple sinned seven times and repented seven times the disciples were to forgive seven times (17:34). At the crucifixion, however, Jesus asks God to forgive people when there is no sign of repentance. Those who are crucifying Jesus show no faith in Jesus, which has rendered forgiveness for others (5:20; 7:47), and they are definitely not showing any remorse for what they are doing.

Forgiveness for the crowd. It is precisely because of the ignorance of the people that Jesus asks God for forgiveness. If the people had known who Jesus was, they would have repented. However, they neither heeded John's teaching to bear fruits worthy of repentance (3:8) nor understood that Jesus was the one of whom John had spoken when he said "I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire" (3:16-17).

Because they did not understand this teaching or who Jesus was, Jesus had to ask for their forgiveness. In the book of Acts, the apostles continue to preach and teach those whom Jesus classified as ignorant. The ignorant are given opportunities to see how God used the crucifixion to further God's plan, to repent, and to turn to God (Acts 2:22-36; 3:17-26), much like the remorse that the crowd who viewed the crucifixion expressed as "they returned home, beating their breasts" (23:48).

The crowd does not know what to think at this point. Luke portrays them as unsure of what is happening before them as they stand in silence watching the one who they thought came with the power to heal them and save them but who now hangs on the cross under the judgment of the worldly rulers. Jesus has been shown the greatest of dishonor. Because Jesus is their leader and has been dishonored in this way, his followers also have been dishonored. (3) The crowd still supports their leader, but, faced with the unexpected, has fallen silent.

Forgiveness for the Jewish leaders. The Jewish leaders understand their job to be preserving and defending God's honor. In their attempt to fulfill this duty, however, they have been blinded to an understanding of what their true role is and who Jesus is. Luke's portrayal of the ignorance of the Jewish leaders runs contrary to the general judgment by the New Testament writers that there was deliberate blindness and malevolence on the part of the Jewish authorities involved in the crucifixion. (4) When Jesus claims to have power to forgive sins (5:21), they fear that Jesus is lessening God's power, thus dishonoring God. When Jesus and the disciples gather grain on the Sabbath (6:1-5), and when Jesus heals on the Sabbath (6:6-11), these actions are seen as a threat to the power of God, as breaking God's laws and showing dishonor to God. The rulers are in awe of Jesus (5:26), some amazed by what he is doing but others waiting to catch him in something that he is saying (11:53-54). As time goes on and Jesus continues to teach and to heal, the Pharisees and the scribes do not recognize Jesus' revelation of God's power, and they grumble even more about what he is doing (15:2). This view of the ignorance of the Jewish authorities who are involved in the crucifixion is echoed by Peter in Acts 3:17.

Forgiveness for the Roman soldiers. Whereas the Jewish leaders lack understanding, the Roman soldiers lack knowledge. They have not had the opportunity to hear the gospel and do not have a frame of reference to understand who this is that they are executing. They only know what others are claiming, and they join with those others in the ignorant ridicule of Jesus. Jesus does not show vindictiveness toward any of these persons. Rather Jesus asks God not to judge them but to forgive them for not knowing that this is God's action. (5)

Why forgiveness now? In his Sermon on the Plain, Jesus teaches, "If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt" (6:29). He goes on to say, "But love your enemy, do good and lend, expecting nothing in return" (6:35). Jesus is living out what he has taught. Although he has been wrongly accused, he does not fight back but receives the beating of his enemies. Throughout Luke's account of Jesus' ministry. "Jesus showed tenderness to the stranger (the widow of Nain) and praised the mercy shown to the Prodigal Son and to the man beset by thieves on the road to Jericho; it is not surprising then that in his passion Jesus shows forgiveness to those who crucified him." (6)

Reactions to the crucifixion

The hearer comes into contact with three groups of people who have been important to Luke's story: the crowd, the Jewish leaders, and the Roman soldiers. Each of these groups has met Jesus at a different point on his journey and come to a different understanding of who Jesus is and why he is being executed. They have different reactions as they stand at the foot of the cross.

Reaction of the crowd. The crowd has been encountered numerous times throughout the story. Although the crowds may not be the same people in all instances, their role is the same. They offer an audience for the teachings of John, Jesus, and the disciples. The hearer first meets the crowd at the Jordan with John the Baptist. The crowd has come to John to be baptized, and they ask him what they need to do to bear good fruit (3:10). John tells them to share their clothing and food with those who have none (3:11). He also tells them that there is one who is greater who is coming after him (3:16-17). When Jesus begins his public ministry, many of those who had been following John begin to follow Jesus, the one who is greater. The crowds continue to follow Jesus throughout the story, seeking him, desiring his healing and acts of exorcism. They are amazed by the power that Jesus exercises, and they continue to seek him out throughout his journey to Jerusalem in order that he might continue to perform these miraculous works to save their loved ones. People, such as those who witnessed Jesus' raising of the son of the widow at Nain, praised God, declaring Jesus a great prophet and saying, "God has looked favorably on his people!" (7:16). And again, when the blind beggar receives his sight, he praises God, as do all those around him (18:35-43).

When Jesus declares judgment upon Israel in the synagogue at Nazareth (4:28), the crowds rise against him and seek his death. The people enjoy the power that heals them, but some are threatened by the power that judges them. They do not understand who Jesus is as an agent of God or that it is by God's power and authority that Jesus is accomplishing these miracles. John the Baptist sends two of his disciples to ask Jesus if he is the one who is to come (7:18-35). The people also try to make sense of who Jesus is by claiming that Jesus is John the Baptist resurrected, an appearance of Elijah, or a prophet of old that has arisen (9:7-9).

This confusion among the crowd is apparent at Jesus' trial and crucifixion. This crowd, who has been following Jesus, seeking his healing, and hindering the efforts of Jesus' enemies to do away with him earlier (19:47-48; 20:19; 21:38; 22:2, 6), cries out for Jesus' crucifixion, which the Jewish leaders had plotted (23:13, 18, 23-26). (7) At the crucifixion, the crowd seems to be playing a neutral role.

The crowd simply stands and watches what is going on around them. They are not ridiculing Jesus or defending him. They witness Jesus' death, but they do not mock him. Yet, as followers of this teacher, they are no longer honoring Jesus but are shaming him by their silence. Luke only mentions the passivity of the crowd, putting no value judgment on it. However, having witnessed Jesus' death and heard the centurion's declaration of Jesus as a righteous man (23:47), this crowd realizes what has actually happened before their eyes, and they are prompted to express remorse: "And when all the crowds who had gathered there for this spectacle saw what had taken place, they returned home, beating their breasts" (23:48). (8) They express grief at the death of Jesus and perhaps also at the death of the hopes that they had had in him. This image of beating the breast takes the hearer back to Jesus' parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector (18:9-14). In this story, the tax collector beats his breast in remorse for what he has done, begging that God be merciful to him, a sinner. So the hearer understands that the crowds are not only expressing their grief but also showing remorse for their actions in contributing to the crucifixion and for their inaction, silence, and dishonor of their teacher and leader.

As listeners, we can sympathize with the crowd. We have been awed by Jesus' actions throughout Luke's story. We have stood before the cross feeling helpless, unable to understand how this could be happening if Jesus is, in fact, the Messiah. At the conclusion of this episode, we turn away from the cross, grieving the death of the one in whom we had such hope.

Reaction of the Jewish leaders. The Jewish leaders include the chief priest, the Pharisees, and those who have consistently opposed Jesus. Now, with method and opportunity joined with motive, they have plotted for Jesus' death. (9) The rulers are no longer threatened by Jesus' words or actions that they believed were showing dishonor to God (5:21; 6:1-11), and they are no longer afraid of Jesus' followers (22:2). They are sure that the power that they wield as rulers has won the battle against this one who blasphemes. Throughout the journey, the hearer witnesses the jealousy and rage that the rulers have had for Jesus. The rulers have felt threatened by him and by his ability to save, to forgive, and to cast out demons, and they have been offended by his choice to work, heal, and gather food on the Sabbath and to break other laws of impurity. In their opinion, Jesus is threatening God's honor and defying their role as defenders of that honor.

Although Jesus sits at table with Pharisees at various times throughout the journey, teaching and preaching, it is the powerful whom he is rebuking. When he eats with the Pharisees and the lawyers, he rebukes them for their practices, for neglecting God's love, for ignoring God's wisdom, and for hindering those who were entering into God's wisdom (11:37-54). The Pharisees and lawyers became hostile toward Jesus because of his rebuke, and now they see Jesus' crucifixion as their chance to scoff at him in return.

When Jesus appears to be powerless and completely vulnerable the leaders take the opportunity to mock ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]) him. This word is used only in Luke's Gospel, only twice, and only with reference to what was said by the Pharisees and the rulers to Jesus--once when Jesus speaks out against their improper use of power and money (16:14), and again here (23:35). It literally means to turn one's nose up at. Previously, the leaders had not felt the freedom to mock Jesus in public because of the crowds that surrounded him, and they had worked in secret to find a way to gain some authority over him (22:2). Now that Jesus is in a place of vulnerability, these leaders are able to "turn their noses up at" Jesus, doing what they see as their duty to defend God's honor. (10) In mocking Jesus, the rulers are shaming him, the one who has been honored by the people and has been putting the rulers to shame. This is their chance to turn the tables, to dishonor Jesus as they believe Jesus has dishonored them, and tear Jesus down in the ultimate act of shame, crucifixion outside of the city.

Specifically, the rulers use the healing acts of Jesus against him by calling on him to save himself as he saved others (23:35). When Jesus is rejected in Nazareth, he says, "Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, 'Doctor, cure yourself!'" (4:23). Here, at the cross, the rulers are doing just that. They call out sarcastically, "Others he has saved. Let him save himself" (23:35). If Jesus truly is the anointed one, the one chosen by God, should he not be able to save himself? The hearer begins to think that maybe this is how Jesus will conquer the powers of earth.

Reaction of the Roman soldiers. The soldiers standing in front of the cross represent the Roman government, and they have been asked to crucify this man whom people have claimed to be the king of the Jews (23:3). When Jesus was on trial, the soldiers ridiculed Jesus because of this claim (23:11).

These soldiers also mark the end of the hopes of the Jewish people that Jesus would be the one to overthrow the Roman government and gain power for the people of Israel once again. When Jesus was presented as a baby at the temple, Simeon declared God's saving purpose through Jesus:

Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace,
according to your word;
for my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel.
(2:29-32)
Because of the teachings and miracles of Jesus throughout his life, people believed that Jesus must be one chosen by God to free them from Roman rule. Thus, shortly before Jesus' crucifixion, he was welcomed into Jerusalem as royalty. People lined up on the road as Jesus rode in on a colt, and they lay their cloaks on the road before Jesus as they would for a royal procession. The people cried out: "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!" (19:38) But now, as Jesus is being crucified, their hope that he will rule as king is being shattered by these Roman soldiers. This one who was to gain power over Rome is being shamed in the most significant way by the soldiers.

The soldiers cast lots for Jesus' clothing, leaving Jesus to hang naked, the most shameful of conditions, on the cross. (11) The soldiers then begin to mock Jesus in both action and word. They offer him sour wine to mock his royalty, and, like the religious leaders, call to him, "If you are the king of the Judeans, save yourself!" These outsiders are mocking Jesus by calling him a king. (12)

The charge for which Jesus was killed was that he opposed Roman rule by establishing himself as king over the Jews. (13) This understanding of regal kingship takes the hearer back to the examination by Pilate (23:3), who asks if Jesus is the king of the Judeans. It is then repeated on the sign that is hung over Jesus' head on the cross (23:38). (14) It appears to the soldiers that this one who was to have such power over them has no such power. The soldiers have been given the authority to remove this problem from their midst, and in this action they are also showing the Jewish people that, as Roman soldiers, they are the ones who truly have the power and the authority. This increases the tension within the hearer who struggles with the abuse of authority by the Roman soldiers and with the hearer's own desire for Jesus to save himself in this critical hour.

Reaction of the first evildoer. The tension continues to build as one of the criminals being crucified with Jesus derides him as well. "Are you not the anointed one? Save yourself and us!" Because he calls Jesus "the anointed one," it can be inferred that he is of Jewish descent. But, because of the sarcastic tone with which he speaks to Jesus, the hearer understands that the evildoer does not really believe that Jesus is the anointed one. Because of this callous disrespect for Jesus, Luke remarks that this evildoer is blaspheming Jesus. (15)

The question of salvation

Can Jesus save his own life? The unifying factor among the Jewish leaders, the Roman soldiers, and the first evildoer is that they are challenging Jesus' power and authority by taunting him to come down from the cross. Luke makes it clear through their language that these people do not believe that Jesus can actually come down or cause anyone else to do so. Through this use of language, Luke sets the hearer up for the greatest action of God. Because the hearer does not yet know what this action of God will be, the sarcastic attitude seems to contradict the expectations of Jesus as Savior heard in the first chapters of Luke. There the angel Gabriel announces to Mary that "'[Jesus] will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end'" (1:32-33). But here, on the cross, Jesus is losing his life.

"The paradox revolves around the fact that if Jesus would have saved his life, he would have indeed lost his life." (16) For in telling his disciples what becoming his followers would entail, Jesus said to them that "those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will save it" (9:24). In Luke's view, it is precisely the fact that Jesus cannot save himself that makes him "The Anointed One," the "King of the Judeans." For Luke, "the proof that Jesus is God's Christ lies precisely in his rejection and death." (17) Luke repeatedly states that it is necessary for the Son of Man to die (9:22, 17:25, 24:7), but for Luke what is most important is to identify Jesus as "The Anointed One" as was claimed at the announcement of Jesus to Mary (1:31-33, 35). Therefore, Luke argues that "the Christ must suffer (24:46; Acts 3:18; 4:25-28; 26:23), and this is according to God's providence, "according to the Scriptures" (Luke 24:26-27, 45-47; Acts 18:28). According to Jerome Neyrey's understanding of Luke, "Jesus cannot escape death since he is holy and appointed. If he is truly God's Christ, he cannot save himself." Even if Christ cannot save himself, "it is unthinkable that the Christ is not saved." God saves Jesus ultimately by raising him from the dead. "The person whom God vindicated was God's designated 'Leader and Savior' (Acts 5:31). Jesus' heralded role as 'Savior of Israel' (Luke 2:11) is vindicated by God's saving him." Jesus could not be the Savior for others had God not saved him. "His holiness and obedience, which constitute him as God's Christ, will ultimately be salvific for himself in his resurrection and will constitute him as Savior of others." (18)

The irony of the salvation challenge. The words of the Jewish leaders, the Roman soldiers, and the first evildoer, although spoken sarcastically in an attempt to shame Jesus, prove to be true. Jesus has saved others, and the hearer soon will find that Jesus saves the evildoer who repents. As God's chosen one, Jesus has the power to heal and rescue others, and he does so as is evidenced throughout Luke's narrative of Jesus. Jesus is proved to be the Christ only if he does not save himself, and yet by not saving himself he will in fact save others. (19)

The rebuke of the second evildoer. The second criminal reframes what the reality of the situation is. Jesus has done nothing wrong, and the second evildoer recognizes this. He also recognizes that he and the evildoer who rebuked Jesus are receiving what they deserve based on their action, or they are receiving their "just" sentence ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]). This idea comes back to the hearer a few verses later when the centurion offers another confession of Jesus' innocence as he declares Jesus' righteousness ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]) (23:47).

The promise of paradise

The request for remembrance. The second criminal does not ask to be saved from death. He also does not address Jesus by a title or function as the others had. Instead, he calls Jesus by name, an action of sincerity and intimacy, "an address used elsewhere in the Gospels in a friendly manner only by the blind beggar of Jericho." (20) He asks Jesus to remember him when Jesus comes into his kingdom. To "remember" ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]), according to Jewish tradition, was something that was asked of God on behalf of the dead. Many funerary inscriptions ask for the dead to be "remembered" or to be placed with the righteous at judgment. (21)

With this understanding of "remember," this second evildoer may understand Jesus as being from God. He seems to understand that Jesus has power, even though he does not understand how that power will be manifest. He declares faith in Jesus even if Jesus does not perform a great act of earthly salvation at that moment. He declares Jesus innocent, demonstrates the fact that Jesus has power to save, and connects power to Jesus' future kingdom in spite of his shameful death on the cross. Once again, it is through an outcast that believers are shown unique insight. (22) "Some saw Jesus raise the dead, and did not believe. The [evildoer] sees Him being put to death, and yet believes." (23)

Jesus responds to the plea for remembrance. Although this evildoer has done something deserving of death, Jesus promises that he will find a place with him "today" in paradise. In contrast to having to ask God for forgiveness of those who have not repented, Jesus is able to forgive this one who has repented. "In the midst of [Jesus'] suffering unto death we hear a personal and transformative promise." (24)

When is "today"? The use of time in Luke's narrative is very important. In many cases, Luke takes great pains to give us a time of reference for when things are occurring, especially with relation to who is in governmental and religious power (25) and where on the timeline of the Jewish calendar things are happening. (26) However, there is also a sense of immediacy that can be found in Luke. For example, the angels declare to the shepherds that "to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord" (2:11). (27) In addition, Luke's use of the word "today" portrays the immediacy of God's actions through Jesus.

Throughout the story, when Jesus declares a work of God, what Jesus says happens in the very act of speaking. For example, when Jesus reads from Isaiah, he sits to teach the people and says, "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing" (4:21). In Jesus' reading of the scripture, Jesus was anointed to bring good news to the poor and to release captives. Again, when Jesus visits Zacchaeus, Jesus proclaims, "Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham" (19:9-10).

But it is not only for the living that salvation is granted in the here and now. In Judaism, deliverance will come at the consummation of God's reign. (28) However, in the parable of the rich man and Lazarus (16:19-31) the hearer comes to know that the dead also have immediate rewards and punishments. Lazarus is immediately taken to Abraham's bosom upon his death, and the rich man is immediately sent to Hades to be tortured. The evildoer had no expectation of a reward to be given that day but rather at the time of judgment in the parousia. Because of the evildoer's confession of faith in the face of imminent death, Jesus granted him a place of honor that he would receive that same day. So, for Luke, salvation is not simply a radically future experience but an experience to be had in the present. (29)

Where is paradise? The word paradise, or garden, came into Greek from Persia and initially had no eschatological context. Later it came to have the connotation of an eschatological garden or the "abode of the righteous." (30) Thus Jesus is granting this evildoer precisely what he had asked for, to be with the righteous, including Jesus, when he came into his kingdom. The twist comes in that Jesus grants that request today. In confessing Jesus as the righteous king, this evildoer experiences victory in the midst of his greatest trial and immediate deliverance through this king. Herein lies the ultimate irony: the one who showed sincerity and hope in his confession not of salvation in the here and now but of the remembrance of Jesus in the future is the one who receives the reward of salvation after Jesus' death. (31)

This declaration of Jesus also gives the hearer hope. The one who could not save himself but could only be saved by God has the power to save even to his dying breath. Jesus is the one who holds the power to save, even when it looks like all of his power has been revoked.

The hearer is left with hope

At the end of this episode, the hearer is still hoping that Jesus will find a way to get down from his cross. Jesus does not deserve to die. And yet, in this episode, the criminal, who may never have known Jesus before that very moment, has shown faith in him. He has recognized Jesus as the righteous one and sincerely made a difficult request--for an eternal reward, being remembered in Jesus' kingdom, salvation. Jesus sees the sincere repentance of this evildoer and shows compassion to him, promising him a place in paradise. The hearer is able to relate to this evildoer, the one who deserves the sentence that Jesus is suffering but who realizes his evil doings and asks to be remembered. The hearer can then sincerely turn to Jesus as the evildoer did, repent, and ask to be remembered in Jesus' kingdom. Jesus promises to be with that evildoer and with us, and in that promise there is hope--the hope revealed to us in Jesus' resurrection in the final chapter of Luke's Gospel.

The apparent vulnerability of Jesus on the cross calls into question how this one whom God sent can possibly save the people. It seems that the powers of the world have overtaken the powers of God. And yet, this episode offers hope. Jesus asks for forgiveness for those who have crucified him and shows that he still has power in the last, painful moments of his earthly life by offering the promise of paradise to the evildoer. Jesus did not lose hope but trusted in God even when it appeared that he was in a hopeless situation. All hearers, therefore, should not lose hope but trust in God. Jesus has made good on his promises, bringing good news to the poor and offering healing to those who are in need. In the moment of his greatest vulnerability, when those with earthly power show that they have the power to condemn Jesus to death, God saves Jesus, and through God's saving of Jesus offers salvation to others.

Carrie L. Lewis

Holy Trinity Lutheran Church

Newton, Iowa

pastorhtlc@iowatelecom.net

1. Robert Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation. Volume 1: The Gospel according to Luke (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 89.

2. Luke Timothy Johnson, The Gospel of Luke, Sacra Pagina, ed. Daniel J. Harrington, S.J. (Collegeville: The Liturgical Press, 1991), 380.

3. Bruce J. Malina and Jerome H. Neyrey, "Honor and Shame in Luke-Acts: Pivotal Values in the Mediterranean World," in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, ed. Jerome H. Neyrey (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 60-61.

4. Raymond E. Brown, "The Passion according to Luke," Worship 60 (January 1986): 7.

5. Darrell Bock, Luke, Volume 2 (Grand Rapids: Baker Exegetical Commentary, 1995), 1849-50.

6. Brown, "The Passion according to Luke," 3.

7. John T. Carroll, "Luke's Crucifixion Scene," in Reimaging the Death of the Lukan Jesus, ed. Dennis de Sylva (Frankfurt am Main: Anton Hain, 1990), 111.

8. Carroll, "Luke's Crucifixion Scene," 112.

9. Carroll, 111.

10. Bock, Luke, Volume 2, 1851-52.

11. Bock, Luke, Volume 2, 1850.

12. Bock, 1853.

13. Richard J. Cassidy, Jesus, Politics and Society: A Study of Luke's Gospel (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1978), 72.

14. Bock, 1853.

15. Bock, 1854.

16. Joan Mueller, Is Forgiveness Possible? (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1998), 12.

17. Jerome H. Neyrey, The Passion according to Luke: A Redaction Study of Luke's Soteriology (New York: Paulist, 1985), 141.

18. Neyrey, The Passion according to Luke, 141-42.

19. Neyrey, 142.

20. Brown, "The Passion according to Luke," 7.

21. Bock, Luke, Volume 2, 1856.

22. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke. 2 vols. The Anchor Bible Commentary (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1985), 2:343.

23. Bock, 1856.

24. John W. Ehman, "Luke 23:1-49," Interpretation 52 (January 1998): 75.

25. For example, "In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness" (3:1-2).

26. For example, "After eight days had passed, it was time to circumcise the child" (2:21).

27. Other examples of immediacy in Luke can be found in 5:26; 13:21-33; 22:34-61.

28. Bock, Luke, Volume 2, 1856.

29. Neyrey, The Passion according to Luke, 138.

30. Bock, 1858.

31. Bock, 1858.

COPYRIGHT 2005 Lutheran School of Theology and Mission
COPYRIGHT 2005 Gale Group

"Like a Gleaming Flash": Matthew 6:22-23, Luke 11:34-36 and the Divine Sense in Origen

2007-07-06T18:41:00.000-07:00

"Like a Gleaming Flash": Matthew 6:22-23, Luke 11:34-36 and the Divine Sense in Origen

Hauck, Robert J
While the modern maxim says that the eye is the window of the soul, Jesus said that the eye is the lamp of the body. This essay relates one of the more opaque Gospel sayings to one of the distinctive themes of Origen's spiritual theology. In his interpretation of Jesus' saying that "The eye is the lamp of the body," Origen finds a reference to the mind, which serves as eye of the soul. In the context of Hellenistic theories of vision, which represent the eye as a light-emitting organ, Origen argues that the mind reaches out its ray to coalesce with the light of the Logos to produce vision for the soul. His interpretation provides insight into his understanding of how the divine sense works and its role as a faculty of spiritual perception.

Origen of Alexandria is one of the founders of Christian spiritual theology, and his doctrine of the divine senses provides a unique and influential contribution to that tradition. Origen believed that the soul has spiritual senses analogous to the five physical senses. Through these spiritual senses, the soul perceives divine rather than physical truths. This notion has provided both a fertile field for the development of mystical theology, and has stimulated a number of questions about his thought.

In a similar vein, Jesus' parable about vision in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 6:22-23; Luke 11:34-36) proves to be both puzzling and stimulating. Jesus' proverbial statement that the eve is the lamp of the body flies directly in the face of the modern maxim, which asserts that the eye is the window of the soul. In what way can the eve be considered a lamp, and what kind of light might it provide? How did people in the prescientific world of antiquity understand this passage? This essay examines Origen's interpretation of this passage and argues that it contributes to a fuller understanding of his view of the divine sense of vision and how it works. The parable also provides an example of how this passage was interpreted in early Christianity.

The Eye is the Lamp of the Body

In what is a Q-logion (Matthew 6:22-23; Luke 11:34-36), Jesus says that the eye is the lamp of the body. The two canonical versions1 of the saying are:

Matthew 6:22-23: The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is sound, your whole body is full of light; but if your eye is not sound, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!

Luke 11:34-36: Your eye is the lamp of your body; when your eye is sound, your whole body is full of light; but when it is not sound, your body is full of darkness. Therefore be careful lest the light in you be darkness. It then your whole body is full of light, having no part dark, it will be wholly bright, as when a lamp with its rays gives you light.

Modern commentators have struggled with this passage, at least partly because it does not harmonize with contemporary understandings of the physics and physiology of vision.2 For moderns, the eye is the window of the soul, since we know that the eye contains a lens which acts as a window to transmit light from outside the body to the interior of the eye.3 Often, modern interpreters have simply adapted the ancient proverb to modern understandings, and Jesus' lamp becomes the modern window. Barclay, for example, says:

The eye is regarded as the window by which the light gets into the whole body. . . . If the window is clear, clean, and undistorted, the light will come flooding into the room, and will illuminate every corner of it. . . . So, then, says Jesus, the light which gets into any man's heart and soul and being depends on the spiritual state of the eye through which it has to pass, for the eye is the window of the whole body.4

According to Mounce, "In the physiology of Jesus' day the eye was thought of as a window that brought light into the body."5

Recent critical scholarship has, however, changed the context for interpreting this passage. Hans Dieter Betz bas argued that this saying presupposes ancient theories of vision that provide a setting far different from those provided by modern optics and physiology. Betz surveys Greek philosophical treatments of vision and notes two dominant views. Parmenides, Empedocles, and Plato hold the "extramission" view in which vision occurs through an effluence from the body-light flows out from or through the eye to the object. The "intromission" theory, depending on Democritus, holds that atoms flow from the object into the eye. Betz concludes that the Jesus saving implicitly rejects the latter view and presupposes the former.6 The definition of the eye as a lamp reflects what can thus be considered the proverbial notion that light flows out from the eyes-the eye is a lamp because, like a lamp, it produces and emits light.

Dale Allison, in response to Betz, agrees that the context for the saying and its proverbial quality are ancient understandings of the eye as a light-producing organ. It is analogous to the sun, and its flashing gaze is similar to flashes of lightning or the rays of the sun.7 The glowing eyes of animals at night, the gaze as a beam directed at the object, and the dangerous sweep of the evil eye all reflect this view. However, he argues that this should not be limited to the Greek philosophical tradition. Rather, there is a wide background in antiquity in general, and in biblical and other Jewish literature in particular, of viewing the eye as a source of light. According to Allison, as a Q-logion, the earliest form of this saying accepts the extramission theory of vision as a commonplace-the eye is a lamp that produces and transmits rays or beams of light from inside out.8 As Via says, the statement "the eye is the lamp of the body" would strike the ancient reader as both a truism and a scientific fact: "This reader would experience a succinct statement of conventional wisdom, one accorded in a straightforward way with the current theory of vision. The eye in fact is a lamp."9

Origen

Origen's interpretation of this passage provides us with both an engagement with ancient understandings of vision and an application of these understandings to the spiritual interpretation in which Origen is interested. It particularly allows us to see how contemporary understandings of vision inform his understanding of the divine sense. If the eye, which is a lamp, is a model for the eye of the soul, what does this tell us about Origen's understanding of the way the mind knows divine truth? Origen asserts three things about this passage.10 First, he makes clear that this saying should be primarily understood as referring to the relationship between the intellect and the soul rather than the eye and the body. Although Jesus' parable seems to rely on the function of the eye as a lamp or source of light, Origen asserts an allegorical meaning: by eye Jesus means mind,11 and by body he means soul. "In the strict sense," he says, "Scripture calls our mind an 'eye'" (Fragmenta in Lucam 79). Origen is willing, however, to interpret this passage as an allegory applying to the church. "Some say," he writes, "that the lamp of the body is the eye' refers to one who teaches the church" (Fragmenta ex commentariis in evangelium Matthaei 126). He gives it this meaning in his homilies on Joshua: in the new dispensation, he says, the Levites represent those perfect souls who illuminate others in the church. Laypeople should provide such wise teachers with the necessities of life so they have time for the law of God. Origen says:

And if they do not have time and do not devote their work to the law of God, you are endangered. For the light of knowledge that is in them will be obscured, if yon do not supply oil for the lamp. . . . And also this that the Lord said will he fulfilled in you: "For if the light that is in you is darkness, how great is the darkness." You fulfill your duty; fulfill the commandment of God in relation to the service of the priest.12

In the Matthew fragments, however, Origen rejects this interpretation, since it fails to take into account the individual moral exhortations which follow in the Sermon on the Mount. He focuses instead on the application to the intellect in the individual soul: "Seek how," he says, "the body is now named the soul, and the eye is the mind" (Fr. Matt. 125). The intellect, Origen says, is the clear-sighted or perceptive faculty of the soul (Fr. Matt. 125, Fr. Luc. 78). And, he says, "you should not be surprised if in the verse, 'the lamp of the body is the eye,' we take the body as a figure for the soul" (Fr. Luc. 79).

So, first of all, Origen interprets this passage in terms of intellect and soul, rather than eye and body. Second, in interpreting this passage he argues that the intellectual eye, the mind, is indeed a lamp. His interest here is that the mind, like the physical eye, emits rays or beams that illuminate. If, as Jesus says, the whole body is full of light when the eye is sound, this is because, says Origen, the "body" (that is, the soul) is "illuminated by the lamp of the body" (Fr. Luc. 79). "Its [the mind's] rays can be compared to a lamp with a gleaming flash; the lamp illumines, but it does not dispel the darkness. For, illumination from the mind is like a gleaming flash, and the light in the body is like a lamp with gleaming rays" (Fr. Luc. 79).

This language of the eye as a lamp with gleaming rays places Origen's comments in the context of the Hellenistic philosophical discussion of vision. How sensation and perception are related to the movement from sensation to knowledge was one of the central issues in the development of Middle Platonism, as well as a significant area of debate between the Academy and the Stoa. Vision was a standard topic in the second-century handbooks of Platonism such as those of Alcinous and Apuleius.13 Embedded in this debate is the Platonic understanding that the eye is a light-emitting organ.

While Parmenides is the first to be credited with asserting that the eye is a lamp or source of light, it is Plato's treatment that is foundational for Middle Platonists in the second and third century.14 Plato describes the creation of the "light-bearing eyes" in the creation account in the Timaeus:

For [the gods] caused the pure fire within us, which is akin to that of day, to flow through the eyes in a smooth and dense stream, and they compressed the whole substance, and especially the center of the eyes, so that they occluded all other fire that was coarser and allowed only this pure kind of fire to filter through. So whenever the stream of vision is surrounded by mid-day light, it Hows out like unto like, and coalescing there with it forms one kindred substance along the path of the eyes' vision, wheresoever the fire which streams from within collides with an obstructing object without.15

Plato here expresses agreement with a common view, with foundations in Empedocles and Parmenides, that the eye or an organ within the body produces a ray or beam, and that vision occurs when the ray or beam from the eye meets that produced by an object. For Plato, sunlight is the other necessary ingredient, and when the three rays meet, an impression is conveyed to the soul by the eye. Theophrastus characterizes Plato's views in this way, "The organ of vision [Plato] makes to consist of fire; . . . assuming then that there is this effluence and that effluence and organ must unite, he holds that the visual stream issues forth for some distance and coalesces with the effluence, and thus it is we see."16 According to Beare, in this view:

Seeing takes place in the virtue of a coalescence between (a) the rays of the intra-ocular light emanating from the eyes to some distance into the kindred (illuminated) air; (b) that which, reflected from external bodies, moves to meet it; and (c) that which is in the intervening air, and which, owing to the diffusibility and nimbleness of the latter, extends itself in lines parallel with the fiery current of vision.17

Philo provides a representative example of this view. The sun, he says, "[surrenders] its power of burning hut [retains] that of giving light [so that it] might meet and hail its friend and kinsman, the light which is stored in the treasury of our eyes; for it is where these converge to meet and greet each other that the apprehension through vision is produced."18 As Theophrastus puts it, among the Platonists this becomes the "common and hoary doctrine" (Sens. 1.37). The handbook of Alcinous, contemporary with Origen, says, "Having placed upon the face the light-bearing eyes, the gods enclosed in them the luminous aspects of fire. . . . This flows out with the greatest ease through the whole of the eyes. . . . This becomes blended with the external light, like to like, and produces the sensation of sight" (Epit. 18). Apuleius likewise reports on the state of the question in these terms: "Or should we accept the view maintained by other philosophers that rays are emitted from our body? According to Plato these rays are filtered forth from the center of our eyes and mingle and blend with the light of the world without us; according to Archytas they issue forth from us without any external support" (Apologia 15).

Vision was important in subsequent philosophical debates, and in developments within Platonism.19 Aristotle rejected Plato's view, arguing that vision depends neither on light emitted from the eye, nor on a ray from the object entering it. Rather, it depends on the transparent medium between the eye and the object. The substance of the eye is moved by the object through the intervening medium.20 The Stoics, in large part following Aristotle, likewise saw perception as occurring in the medium between the object and the eye. For the Stoics, the medium is the pneuma, and pneuma, like fire, originates in the eye and emanates from it. In this view, pneuma from the eye makes contact with the intervening pneuma and transforms it into a sensory medium. Vision occurs by the activation of the pneuma by the flow from the eye. Mathematical theory about vision likewise reflected the notion that rays or beams are emitted by the eye. Euclid argued that rays emanate from the eye geometrically, forming a cone that has its point in the eye and its base at the object.21 Ptolemy developed this mathematical approach, describing the visual cone which results from the rays emitted from the eye. Whether visual theories at this time reflected Aristotelian or Stoic views based on the activation of the medium between the object and the eye, or Platonic theories about the coalescence of light emitted by the sun. the eye, and the object, they share the notion that streams, rays, or beams flow from the eye. The eye, many argue in the second and third centuries, is a lamp. And, for Origen, if the eye is a lamp for the body, the intellect which it signifies is the light-emitting lamp for the soul. When Origen applies Jesus' proverbial statement about the eve to the mind, he turns to the language of ray, beam, or flash.

Third, in addition to applying this passage to the soul, and arguing that the intellect is a lamp which illuminates it, Origen applies Jesus' saying to the "divine sense," In several places in his writings Origen asserts that wise and inspired people such as the prophets and the apostles possess a "divine sense" analogous to the physical senses, by which they perceive divine things. His proof text for this is Proverbs 2:5, which he quotes in Against Celsus, On First Principles, and elsewhere.22 When he comes to the language of vision in Luke, he quotes it here as well:

From them [the Scriptures] you will he able to avoid stumbling over the explanation of what "the body" means in the verse, "the lamp of the body is the eye," and in other passages like this one. In the Book of Proverbs, you will find the phrase, "divine sense-perception," recorded in a promise (as distinct from perception that is not divine) (Fr. Luc. 78).

Origen is usually credited with the development of this notion, and, as Rahner argues, his source for it seems to be biblical.23 Although the eve of the soul language is widespread through Platonism, Origen speaks of the divine sense in a distinctive way. The question remains whether he is simply extending Platonic metaphorical language about the eye of the soul, or whether he views the divine sense as a mental organ or faculty that has a role in the apprehension of intelligible truth. His interpretation of this saying of Jesus and his engagement here with contemporary understandings of vision suggest that he understands the divine sense as a faculty in the soul, and provides insight into his understanding of how it works.

For Plato, and for Platonists of Origen's day, the description of the eye as a lamp served as instructive analogy for nonphysical or intellectual perception. In Plato, Philo, Origen, and others, the illuminating power of the eye is analogous to the enlightening power of knowledge, and discussion of the perceptive ability of the senses serves as a means of understanding the cognitive power of the intellect. Since for Plato and Platonists. both vision and knowledge are based on the principle that like is known by like, vision is closely linked with knowledge. The illuminating and perceptive power of the eye served at least as a metaphor, and sometimes as a direct analogy, to the illuminating power of the Good in the intelligible universe, the enlightening power of the intellect in the soul, and the relationship between the intellect and the Good.

Plato provides the examples on which later Platonists build. In the myths of the divided line and the cave, the sun rules over the visible world and makes knowledge possible through vision. The Good, or the forms, rule over the intelligible world, and make knowledge through the intellect possible. For Plato, "as the good is in the intelligible region to reason and the objects of reason, so is [the sun] in the visible world to vision and the objects of vision" (Respublica 508 D). In the myth of the cave, the light from the fire in the cave and the sun in the sky are representative of the intellectual light from the good which makes true knowledge possible. Socrates says, "When seen it [the idea of the good] must needs point us to the conclusion that this is indeed the cause for all things of all that is right and beautiful, giving birth in the visible world to light, and the author of light and itself in the intelligible world being the authentic source of truth and reason" (Resp. 517 C).

For Platonists, then, it is a commonplace that the mind is the eve of the soul.24 And, according to Dillon, for Middle Platonists after Alexander of Aphrodisias, light and its relation to vision was "used as analogy for the role of the Good (or in Alexander's theory, Nous) in the activation of the human intellect in its cognizing of True Being."25 To see the true, the real, the good, one must purify, strengthen, and elevate the eye of the soul so it can participate in the intellectual light which shines above it.

Philo exemplifies this approach well. He uses the language of vision to represent intellectual knowledge, and draws a parallel between the way the eye functions in relation to the visible world and the way the intellect functions in relation to the intelligible world. In vision, for Philo, light from the eye coalesces with rays from the sun, and "apprehension through vision is produced" (Deus 79). While this consists of a reception of light from the sun, it is also an extension of the light from the eyes. Hearing, says Philo, is "sluggish" and "womanish," but sight is active. "The eyes," he says, "have the courage to reach out to the visible objects and do not wait to be acted upon by them, and anticipate the meeting, and seek to act upon them instead" (De Abrahamo 150). For Philo, as for both Plato and Origen. this serves as a parallel to the way in which true knowledge is produced. The intellect is the corresponding faculty of intelligible perception. It receives light from above and in this reception knowledge of God is produced, which illumines the soul. Philo says:

For as sight holds the leading place in the body, and the quality of light holds the leading place in the universe, so too in us the dominant element is mind. For mind is the sight of the soul illuminated by rays peculiar to itself, whereby the vast and profound darkness, poured upon it by ignorance of things, is dispersed (Deus 45).

The "pure rays of wisdom" illumine the soul, "through which the sage sees God and his potencies." says Philo (Deus 3).

Celsus, the Platonist critic of Christianity to whom Origen replies in Against Celsus, holds a similar view of vision and true knowledge. Using the eye of the soul language, and drawing on the myth of the cave in the Republic, Celsus says:

Thought is concerned with what is intelligible, the eye that which is visible. Accordingly what the sun is to visible things, being neither the eyes nor sight, but the cause of the eye's vision and the existence of sight and the possibility of seeing visible things, and is in fact itself the thing which enables itself to be seen, this is what God is to intelligible things. He is neither mind nor intelligence nor knowledge, but enables the mind to think and is the cause of the existence of intelligence and the possibility of knowledge (Cels. 7.45).

Origen agrees with Celsus on this point: "We are careful," Origen says, "not to raise objection to any good teachings" (Cels. 7.46), although Origen asserts that the notion of the eye of the soul was introduced first by Moses rather than by the Greeks.26 In this framework, then, the eye is a lamp whose light combines with that of the sun and the object to produce perception. It is also a metaphor for the intellectual knowledge of the soul, where the good shines like the sun and produces knowledge of the real or the true. It is in this context that Origen interprets this saying: when Jesus says the eye is a lamp, Origen has both a physical and intelligible context in which to understand him.

Origen, Matthew 6.22-23, Luke 11.35, and the Divine Sense

How does Origen interpret the Gospel saving, and what does this tell us about the divine sense? Origen approaches this saying of Jesus in the context of contemporary theories of vision and his doctrine of the divine sense. The fragments that deal with this passage are closely related to other areas of his writings that deal with these topics, especially the discussion of vision in On First Principle, the use of the Proverbs passage on the divine sense, and the discussion of the divine sense in the Dialogue with Heraclides. Origen's primary interest is in the illumination of the soul and the role of the mind, in its character as a lamp, in obtaining knowledge and governing the soul and its passions. He applies this passage to the development of his notion of divine senses. The lamp/eye signifies the reasoning or intellectual part of the soul. The body is the "rest of the soul," its powers or faculties, including its passionate and appetitive parts. Just as the body has parts, says Origen, so the soul has powers, such as sight and hearing.27 The body, in representing the soul, represents this collection of faculties or senses. Origen applies to the Luke passage his scriptural warrant for his doctrine of the divine senses. Proverbs 2:5: "You shall find in Proverbs, the 'divine sense'" (Fr. Luc. 78). He invokes here his doctrine of homonomy: "Indeed," Origen says, "we find the powers of the soul are equated to the bodily parts by homonomy" (Fr. Luc. 78, my translation).28 The eye is indeed a lamp, which, as a part of its perceptive function, emits light and enlightens. However, the eye that he is interested in is the inner eye. What can be understood of the physical eye refers, by homonomy, to the intellectual or spiritual eye, the intellect in its perceptive function. In this sense, like the bodily eye, the intellect illumines the soul and its lower faculties. "Illumination from the mind," says Origen, "is like a gleaming flash" (Fr. Luc. 79).

For Origen, then, the mind, the perceptive faculty of the soul, operates like the eye by emitting intellectual light that illumines the soul and coalesces with the divine light from above. His treatment of this passage relies on-and contributes to-contemporary Platonic understanding of vision and cognition. The intellect, as a lamp, emits a ray, beam, or flash that enlightens the soul and coalesces with the divine light coining from above. As an eye/lamp, the intellect has the essential elements of vision. Origen, commenting on Jesus' command to set one's lamp upon a lampstand, refers to "those who have in their souls a clear-sighted mind that participates in him who says, "I have come into the world as light.' "29

This coalescence, in which like is known by like, serves as an explanation of the operation of the divine sense.30 Higher perception is the apprehension of truth in the intelligible realm by the intellect. The intellect is the cognitive faculty, receiving illumination from above and enlightening the soul. "To see and be seen," he says, "is the property of bodies; to know and be known is an attribute of intellectual existence."31 "The names of the organs of sense," he says, "are often applied to the soul, so that we speak of seeing with the eyes of the heart, that is, of drawing some intellectual conclusions by means of the faculty of intelligence" (De Principiis 1.1.9). Mental vision operates as a coalescence. In this case divine truth is the effluent which meets the intellectual rays of the mind and produces knowledge:

Each of the bodily senses is appropriately connected with a material substance towards which the particular sense is directed. . . . Does it not appear absurd then that these inferior senses should have substances connected with them, as objects towards which their activities are directed, whereas this faculty, the sense of the mind (mentis sensui), which is superior to them, should have no substance whatsoever connected with it? . . . They are unwilling to have it understood that there is a certain affinity between the mind and God, of whom the mind is an intellectual image, and that by reason of this fact the mind, especially if it is purified and separated from bodily matter, is able to have some perception of the divine nature (Princ. 1.1.7).

Origen agrees with Philo that the mind is the sight of the soul. For Philo, while the eye of the soul is incapable of gazing on the brilliance of God, the illuminating rays proceed from the mind and enable the soul to perceive intelligible and rational truths.32 For Origen, likewise, the direct radiance of God is too overwhelming for the eye of the mind. However, the Logos illuminates the mind with its rays, which coalesce with the rays reaching out from the intellect that is turned away from the darkness of the body, The intellectual eye is a lamp, albeit a small one: "When it strains after incorporeal things and seeks to gain a sight of them it has scarcely the power of a glimmer of light or a tiny lamp" (Princ. 1.1.5). Nevertheless, as a perceptive faculty, the intellect is the eye of the soul, or as Jesus put it, the lamp of the soul/body.

Like the bodily eye, the medium of the eye of the soul is light-although here it is the divine and intelligible light. Rather than physical light, the mind receives the illumination of divine wisdom. By means of a divine light it perceives divine truth. "Does it not then appear absurd," says Origen, "that these inferior senses should have substances connected with them, as objects towards which their activities are directed, whereas this faculty, the sense of the mind, which is superior to them, should have no substance whatever connected with it" (Princ. 1.1.7). Like physical vision, this perception has to do with light: "He is that light, surely, which lightens the whole understanding of those who are capable of receiving truth" (Princ. 1.1.1). The eye of the intellect is not capable of sustaining a vision of God, anymore than the physical eye can look directly at the sun. But the Son of God is himself that light which illumines the intellect, "This brightness [of the Son] falls softly and gently on the tender and weak eyes of mortal man" (Princ. 1.2.7).

As the eye's vision is enabled by the light of the sun, the intellect's knowledge of divine things is illumined by the light of the Son of God. "The sun s the light of the world perceived by the senses. . . . .The savior, on the other hand, is the light of the spiritual world, because he shines on those who are rational and intellectual, that their mind may see its proper visions."33 As the "light of the world," the savior "does not illuminate corporeal natures. He illuminates the incorporeal intellect with an incorporeal power, in order that each of us, being illuminated as though by the sun, may also be able to see other intelligible things" (Comm. Jo. 1.164, my translation). The savior, says Origen, "is the 'light of men' and 'true light' and 'light of the world' because he enlightens and illuminates the intellect of men" (Comm. Jo. 1.181). The intellect thus has the essential elements of vision. As a lamp it directs its ray or beam upward, away from the body, and it coalesces with the light of the Logos to produce knowledge and illumination.

This is the sense that Jesus' saying makes for Origen. Like the eye, winch Jesus said is the lamp of the body, the intellect is the perceptive Faculty of the soul. In the same way that the eye produces light that illuminates the body, so the intellect is an illuminating presence in the soul. "The enlightenment from the mind," Origen says on this passage, "is like a brilliant flash, and the light in the body is like a lamp with gleaming rays. The body is by nature darkness, a thing to be led where the mind wills" (Fr. Luc. 79).34

Modern commentators conclude that Jesus' use of what is either a proverb or commonly held knowledge-that the eye is the lamp of the body-turns the issue away from a Greek scientific or philosophical framework to a moral one.35 While Origen retains the moral concern, for him this is equally a spiritual question: how can the soul ascend to the knowledge of God? The soul must lift its eye away from the lower realities in order to receive the divine light from above, and extend its ray to meet the light of the Logos. Within the Middle Platonic context of how vision occurs, Origen reflects on how the divine sense works. Like the eye with its sight, the mind must maintain its ability to reach out its ray to meet the illumination from above.36 For him the moral imperative does not have to do with the health or wholeness of the physical eye, or even the moral disposition in relation to generosity or simplicity, but rather the strength and capacity of the intellectual eye. "When our mind is a lover of matter," says Origen, "then the light in us is darkness" (Fr. Matt. 128). The enlightening flash of the mind consists of the establishment of the rule of the intellect over the lower parts of the soul.

For, illumination from the mind is like a gleaming flash, and the light in the body is like a lamp with gleaming rays. The body is by nature darkness, a thing to be led where the mind wills. So, if the minds of those who are unlearned and ignorant, which are by nature light, are in fact darkness, then the whole body is too-that is, the passionate part of the soul, which is the spirited and appetitive part, and the darkness is much worse (Fr. Luc. 178).

The moral dimension certainly is present-the present age, Origen says, is night for the saints-but his solution is intellectual. In the present darkness, our "noetic nature must be a lamp" (Fr. Matt. 125).

One of the lingering questions regarding Origen's views of the divine sense is whether his understanding of this is metaphorical, that is, whether this is a way to illustrate intellectual knowledge of the intelligible world; or whether he thinks there are actually such faculties in the human soul.37 The catenae on the Matthew and Luke passages provide evidence that he considers the divine sense to be an actual faculty of the soul and a help in understanding how the divine sense works. Origen turns to contemporary theories of vision to interpret Jesus' language regarding the eye as a lamp. He uses the mechanics of vision and applies them to the divine sense in a concrete way. This provides us with additional insight into how the divine sense works. Bodily vision works by the communication of rays of light: the eye is a lamp, sending out its beams. The sun emits an illuminating beam, as docs the object of perception. The coalescence of these three sources of light produces perception of the physical object in the eye. Likewise, the mind is a lamp, and the object of its illumination is the "entire soul"-all of the powers or faculties of the soul. The light of the savior and the light of the intellect coalesce and produce knowledge and illumination for, as Origen says, the whole soul. As the eye is the lamp of the body, so the mind, the organ of the divine sense, is the lamp of the soul.

Origen's treatment of this passage sheds light on a number of theories of vision and their place in the development of Platonism in the second and third centuries. Further, his work highlights early approaches to interpreting this otherwise obscure Gospel saying. Perhaps most important, his treatment illuminates a key element of his spiritual theology. For Origen, the soul possesses a spiritual sense that sheds its bright light "like a gleaming flash" on its lower faculties and mingles with the light of the Logos from above, so that like might be known by like.

1 A version also appears in the Gospel of Thomas 24: "Whoever has ears, let him hear. There is light within a man of light, and he (or: it) lights up the whole world. If he (or: it) does not shine, he (or: it) is darkness." Translation by Thomas O. Lambdin, in The Nag Hammadi Library, ed. James M. Robinson (San Francisco, Calif.: Harper and Row, 1981).

2 Hans Dieter Betz notes that a moratorium on academic discussion of this passage was proposed by early twentieth-century German scholars, and that it was declared "the most difficult to interpret in the entire Gospel tradition." Hans Dieter Betz, "Matthew vi.22f and Ancient Greek Theories of Vision," in Ernest Best and R. Mcl. Wilson, eds., Text and Interpretation: Studies in the New Testament presented to Matthew Black (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 43.

3 The origin of the modern proverb is obscure. Jowett's translation of Plato's Phaedrus has Socrates referring to the eyes as the windows of the soul, but the Greek refers to an inlet or entrance rather than a window (Phaedrus 255C, The Dialogues of Plato, trans. Benjamin Jowett, vol. 1 [New York: Random House, 1937]). Leonardo da Vinci says that the eye is called the window of the soul (Notebook 653). More importantly for English speakers, Shakespeare calls the eye the window of the heart (Love's Labour's Lost, V.2.848).

4 William Barclay, The Gospel of Matthew, vol. 1, rev. ed. (Philadelphia, Pa.: Westminster Press, 1975), 245.

5 Robert H. Mounce, Matthew (San Francisco, Calif.: Harper and Row, 1985), 56.

6 Betz argues that the saying represents a Jewish critique of the philosophical theory of vision. It assumes the extramission theory, but rejects the notion that physiology alone allows the eye to see. Rather, it imposes a moral condition for vision. Betz, "Matthew vi:22f," 54.

7 Dale C. Allison, Jr., "The Eve is the Lamp of the Body (Matthew 6.22-23 = Luke 11.34-36)," New Testament Studies 33 (1987): 61-83.

8 Allison argues that "the eye is the lamp of the body" is a proverbial saying, and the moral exhortation of Luke 11:36 was added (even in Q) us an interpretation of the proverb. He says, "Luke 11:36 is evidence that at least the earliest interpreter of the saying about the eye as a lamp understood it in terms of the extramission theory of vision." Allison, "Eye is the Lamp," 79.

9 Dan Via, "Matthew's Dark Light and the Human Condition," in The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1994), 356. See also Margaret R. Miles, "Vision: The Eye of the Body and the Eye of the Mind in Saint Augustine's De Trinitate and Confessions," Journal of Religion 63 (1983): 125-142.

10 Our knowledge of Origen's interpretation of this passage is fragmentary. His commentary on this saying is lost in both the Matthew and Luke commentaries, but appears as Greek fragments in the catenae. He also refers to it in his homilies on Numbers, Leviticus, and Joshua. The fragments used here for Matthew are fragments 125-128 in Die Griechischen Christlichen Schriftsteller, Origenes Werke, ZwÃ¶lfter Band (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs Verlag, 1941). Fragments on Luke used here are fragments 78 and 79 in OrigÃ¨ne. HomÃ©lies sur S. Luc, introduction, translation, and notes by Henri Crouzel, FranÃ§ois Fournier, and PiÃ©rre Perichon, Sources ChrÃ©tiennes 87 (Paris: Les Ã‰ditions du Cerf, 1998). English translation of the Luke fragments, except where noted, is that of Joseph T. Lienhard, Origen: Homilies on Luke; Fragments on Luke, Fathers of the Church 94 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University Press of America, 1996). There are questions about the reliability of the catenae in general, including the Luke fragments. See, for example, Ronald E. Heine, "Can the Catena Fragments be Trusted?" Vigiliae Christianae 40 (1986): 118-134. Fournier likewise notes that it is difficult to establish the authorship of the Luke fragments (FranÃ§ois Fournier, "Les HomÃ©lies sur Luc et leur traduction par Saint JÃ©rÃ´me," in Crouzel, HomÃ©lies sur S. Luc, 5-92). However, Fournier does include our fragments among those least doubtful, and Lienhard accepts them (Lienhard, Homilies on Luke, pp. xxxvi-xxxviii). The argument of this essay shows the coherence between the Luke fragments and other writings of Origen.

11 Origen often uses the terms nous (or intellect), the Stoic term hegemonikon, and dianoia (or reason) interchangeably. He means the governing or higher part of the soul, which rules the passions, but is distinct from the spirit. See Henri Crouzel, Origen, trans. A. S. Worrall (San Francisco, Calif.: Harper & Row, 1985), 89; Crouzel, OrigÃ¨ne et la "connaissance mystique" (Paris: DesclÃ©e de Brouwer, 1961), 382-395.

12 In Jesus Nave homilae xxvi 17. Translation is that of Barbara J. Bruce, Origen: Homilies on Joshua, ed. Cynthia White, Fathers of the Church 105 (Washington, D.C., Catholic University Press of America, 2002).

13 See Alcinous Didaskalikos [Handbook of Platonism] 18 (hereafter Epit.) and Apuleius Apology [Apologia] 15.11. English translations used here of Alcinous are from John Dillon, Alcinous: The Handbook of Platonism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). English translations of Apuleius are those of H. E. Butler, The Apologia and Florida of Apuleius of Madaura (Oxford: The Clarendon Press. 1909).

14 See Robert M. Berchman, From Philo to Origen: Middle Platonism in Transition (Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press, 1984), 167-200; David C. Lindberg, Theories of Vision from Al-Kindi to Kepler (Chicago, Ill.: University of Chicago Press, 1976), 1-17.

15 Timaeus 45 B. English translation of Plato's works used here is that of the Loeb edition: R.G. Bury, Plato (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1975).

16 De Sensu [On the Senses] 1.5. English translation is from George Malcolm Stratton, Theophrastus and the Greek Physiological Psychology before Aristotle (New York: Macmillan, 1917).

17 Quoting Stobaeus. John I. Beare, Greek Theories of Elementary Cognition from Alcmaeon to Aristotle (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1906), 44.

18 Quod Deus immutabilis sit [That God is Unchangeable] 79 (hereafter Deus). English translations of Philo are those of the Loeb edition: F. H. Colson and G. H. Whitaker, Philo in Ten Volumes (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1954)

19 Berchman makes the argument that this is the determinative element in the development of Middle Platonism. From Philo to Origen, 187.

20 See Lindberg, Theories of Vision, 7-9. Lindberg notes the essential agreement between Plato and Aristotle on the necessity of a medium.

21 Rudolph Siegel, Galen on Sense Perception (New York: Karger, 1970), 30-36.

22 For a list of texts and excerpts see Karl Rahner, "The 'Spiritual Senses' According to Origen," in Theological Investigations 16 (New York: Seabury Press, 1979), 81-103; and Hans Urs von Balthasar, Origen: Spirit and Fire, trans. Robert J. Daly (Washington, D.C.; The Catholic University of America Press, 1984), 218-257. For treatment of the divine sense in Origen, see also Berchman, From Philo to Origen, 169; Berchman, "Arcana Mundi between Balaam and Hecate: Prophecy, Divination, and Magic in Later Platonism," SBL Seminar Papers 28 (1989): 107-185; John M. Dillon, "AisthÃªsis NoÃªtÃª: A Doctrine of Spiritual Senses in Origen and in Plotinus," in Hellenica et Judaica: Hommage Ã Valentin Nikiprowetzky, ed. A. Laquot, M. Hadas-Lebl, and J. Riauad (Leuven: Editions Peeters, 1986), 445-455.

23 See Rahner, "Spiritual Senses," 82-83. Dillon agrees that Origen's motivation in developing this doctrine is primarily exegetical, but argues that he also relies on Platonist speculation, perhaps going back to Philo (Dillon, "AisthÃªsis NoÃªtÃª," 453-455).

24 Celsus provides a good example: "If you shut your eyes to the world of sense and look up with the mind, if you turn away from the flesh and raise the eyes of the soul, only so will you see God" (Contra Celsum [Against Celsus] 7.36). Henry Chadwick, Origen: Contra Celsum (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965).

25 John M. Dillon, "Looking on the Light: Some Remarks on the Imagery of Light in the First Chapter of the Peri Archon," in Charles Kannengiesser and William L. Petersen, eds., Origen of Alexandria: His World and His Legacy (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1988), 220.

26 See Crouzel, Connaissance, 153.

27 See Crouzel, Connaissance, 150.

28 Origen develops this notion fully in the Dialogus cum Heraclide [Dialogue with Heraclides], and uses it to explain the five divine senses that correspond to the physical senses (Dial. 16). For English translation, see Robert J. Daly, trans., Origen: Treatise on the Passover and the Dialogue of Origen with Heraclides, Ancient Christian Writers, no. 54 (New York: Paulist Press, 1992).

29 Fr. Luc. 121e, on Luke 8:16. For this fragment see Max Rauer, Origenes Werke, Neunter Band, Die Griechischen Christlichen Schriftsteller (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1959).

30 Dillon notes that Origen is concerned with the unknowability of God, and hence modifies the Platonic view on the vision of God. Origen is reluctant to accept the Platonic view of the incorporeality of light. He is influenced by the simile of the sun and of the cave, but in his adaptation of Platonic doctrine preserves the inability of the mind's eye to gaze directly on God. Dillon, "Looking on the Light," 219-229.

31 De principiis 1.1.8. English translation is that of G. W. Butterworth, Origen: On First Principles (Gloucester, Mass.: Peter Smith, 1973).

32 Philo, De Opificio mundi [On the Creation of the World], 71. See Dillon, "Looking on the Light," 227.

33 Commentarii in evangelium Joannis [Commentary on John] 1.160-161. English translation is that of Ronald E. Heine, Origen: Commentary on the Gospel According to John, Books 1-10, Fathers of the Church, vol. 80 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1989).

34 See Crouzel, Connaissance, 150.

35 Betz argues that the context is Greek, and Jesus introduces the moral setting. Allisun argues that the notion of the eye as source of light or fire is well established in Jewish literature in Jesus' time, and the ethical dimension is already in place. Betz, "Matt. vi.22f," 54-55; Dale C. Allison. Jr., "Eye is the Lamp," 69-71.

36 Scholars in the last century debated whether Origen should be seen primarily as a speculative philosopher who was interested in a philosophical system (see Eugene de Faye, Origen and His Work, trans. Fred Rothwell [New York: Columbia University Press, 1929] or a mystic focused on the soul's ascent to God (see Walther VÃ¶lker, Das Vollkommenheitsideal des Origenes [TÃ¼bingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1931]). Recent scholarship has noted that this polarization between philosophy and mysticism produces a false dichotomy, especially in relation to Christian and non-Christian thinkers of the second and third centuries. While this older debate is not the subject of this paper, the argument here shows that both philosophical and spiritual interests are in play. It attempts to demonstrate the way philosophical language used in contemporary debates is used by Origen to pursue his exegetical and spiritual interests, and indicates that Origen was both a Christian theologian and a philosopher.

37 See Rahner, "Spiritual Senses"; and Dillon, "AisthÃªsis NoÃªtÃª", 443-455, and "Looking on the Light," 219-220. Both Rahner and Dillon tentatively argue that as this doctrine unfolds in Origen, he develops it into actual faculties of the soul.

ROBERT J. HAUCK*

* Robert J. Hauck is Assistant Professor of Religious Studies at Gonzaga University.

Copyright Anglican Theological Review, Inc. Fall 2006
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved

NARRATIVE FUNCTION OF THE TEMPLE IN LUKE-ACTS, THE

2007-07-06T18:28:00.000-07:00

NARRATIVE FUNCTION OF THE TEMPLE IN LUKE-ACTS, THE

Fay, Ron C
Typically, discussions concerning the temple in the NT revolve around the theological issues to the neglect of the literary or narrative aspects.1 In the same way, narrative analyses of Luke-Acts typically focus on characters: Jesus in Luke and the early church or Paul in Acts. Rarely is a character or literary theme traced through the double work as a whole. This results in an unintentional negation of the supposed unity of Luke-Acts. This article will trace the temple throughout all of Luke-Acts, demonstrating that Luke contains a drive toward the temple and Acts describes motion away from and then back to the temple. Thus, the temple functions as the literary center of Luke-Acts in a geographical sense, with the followers of Christ firmly anchored there. While scholars have dealt broadly with NT treatments of the temple,2 with one arguing that Jesus is the fulfillment and replacement of the temple in the Gospel of John,3 this article will concentrate on the temple's narrative function. This study of the temple will first examine Luke and Acts. Rather than citing every mention of the temple and Jerusalem, only the major relevant passages will be considered in order to show the general concept.4 Next this author will argue that Jerusalem and the temple are closely interconnected, thus exploring Jerusalem in Luke-Acts as well. Finally, this article will suggest some possible implications and avenues for further study.

I. THE TEMPLE IN LUKE

The temple figures prominently in the first two chapters of Luke's gospel. The birth announcement of John the Baptist occurs in the temple, as the angel visits Zechariah in Luke 1:21-22. In fact, the only location explicitly mentioned within the pericope is the temple itself. Immediately after the birth of Jesus, Mary and Joseph take him to the temple in 2:22-52; note particularly 2:27 and 2:37. The next pericope deals with the celebration of the Passover Feast, after which Jesus remains at the temple in order to discuss the Torah.5 These early narratives of John and Jesus clearly delineate the temple as a focal point of their coming. With John's birth foretold at the temple and with Jesus' only childhood stories centering around the temple (with the exception of his birth and flight to Egypt), the gospel seems to anticipate the temple as an important place in the coming narrative.6 Simeon's prophecy of salvation coming from Jesus gives narrative significance as it occurs in the temple itself.7 The temple appears as a literary thread binding together the birth narratives of Jesus and John and serving as a focal point for their respective ministries.8 The temple as "my Father's house" foreshadows the future role the temple will play in Luke.9

Lk. 19:38, which makes reference to Jesus as the King, indicates that it is as Messiah that Jesus takes possession of the Temple. The Temple, therefore, is the Messiah's place. It is the proper place for Jesus to carry out his important messianic work of teaching. Unlike Mark, Luke does not condemn the Temple because the Messiah has arrived. Rather, the Messiah restores the Temple, rendering it fit to fulfill its eschatological role as a decisive center of God's saving work.13

If the temple had in fact functioned as the place of rejection, one would expect Jesus to teach either outside the temple or somewhere completely separated from the temple in order to represent the contrast between his ministry and that of the cultus. The explication of the teaching accounts in 20:1-21:38 demonstrate the final defeat of Jesus' opponents occurring on the temple grounds, a point quite different from the parallel in Mark 11:11-13:37.14 This portion of Luke, from the triumphal entry until the point of the betrayal, revolves around the temple itself, and makes the reader aware of the temple as a place of personal significance to Jesus like no other place in the gospel since his visit in 2:41-50. Far from portraying it as a symbol of rejection, Luke's treatment represents a cleansing and reclaiming of the temple.

The temple functions as a key location throughout Luke.20 It occurred in the earliest passages, anticipating what was to come in the gospel. Luke, in a narrative sense, transformed the entrance into Jerusalem into a parade to the temple, once again putting the temple at the forefront of the activity, which culminated in its cleansing.21 Although one would not expect to find the temple central to the crucifixion, especially since the action takes place elsewhere, it is notable that Luke recalls it at Jesus' death and after the ascension. While this article has not discussed every passage dealing with the temple, the major portions covered make a compelling case for the geographic location of the temple as a narrative focal point.22

II. THE TEMPLE IN ACTS

The next major portion of narrative in which the temple appears details Paul's arrest and the subsequent retellings.30 Acts 21:26-30 tells of Paul going to the temple in order to fulfill a vow. The Jews accuse him of allowing a Gentile into the temple precincts, at which point a riot ensues. Paul is then taken by the Romans and imprisoned. The verses leading up to this cast the account ironically, since Paul took this vow to demonstrate his allegiance to the temple cultus (21:24). While the reaction of the Jews is obviously problematic, it is interesting to note that Paul's "downfall," much like that of Jesus, occurs at the temple.31 In his defense before the crowd in 22:1-21, Paul asserts that he received a vision while in the temple.32 That this vision occurs in the temple demonstrates its importance to the narrative, even though Luke places this out of chronological order by Paul's retelling of the near-riot and his defense. Note the recurrences in 24:5-18; 25:7-12; and 26:2-23, which also deal with the charges against him of violating the temple. The temple is then central in the trials before various officials, and the Jewish leaders repeated this allegation more than once in order to keep him imprisoned. The temple continues as a center of action throughout Acts, even as the narrative apparently moves away from Jerusalem.

In Acts, the temple conveys many different thematic elements. It functions as the focus of the early church since it is central to the religious life of the church as a gathering place. As argued above, the first five chapters of Acts seem to revolve around the temple, with most of the major action occurring in the temple proper or in its immediate vicinity. One is unable to find any malice or lingering illwill on the part of the believers against the temple itself, based upon Luke's narrative. In the Pauline sections, the temple returns to prominence after a significant narrative gap.33 Throughout, the temple is a positive symbol for Paul, even though he is the "apostle to the Gentiles." Thus, the temple in Acts functions as a focal point, yet it seems to bookend Acts instead of playing a central role.

III. JERUSALEM IN LUKE

Scholars agree that the middle section of Luke, namely chs. 9-19, focuses in part on Jesus' drive toward Jerusalem.36 The transfiguration story of Luke 9:31 sets the stage for the rest of 9-19.37 Both Elijah and Moses understand what is about to happen, so the path of the story is foreshadowed by this conversation. Walker says,

After only five chapters dealing with the Galilean ministry Jesus "sets his face towards Jerusalem" (9:51). Throughout the ensuing "travel narrative," Jerusalem is frequently mentioned as the goal of Jesus' journey (13:33-5; 17:11; 18:31; 19:28).38

The journey toward Jerusalem has two important features. First, it is the longest portion of the book, dwarfing the birth narrative and early ministry sections as well as the final week and crucifixion scenes.39 Second, it causes the reader of the narrative to interpret events differently than one might otherwise. Jesus does not perform miracles for reasons unknown; he does not try to validate who he is at that moment. Rather, each pericope in Luke 9-19 must be understood in relation to this journey toward Jerusalem. The didactic elements and narrative asides should not distract the reader from the ultimate goal, nor do they detract from the narrative impetus.40 In fact, some scholars argue that the various elements in Luke 9-19 actually build up the tension of the journey.41

Within the broad category of Jesus' sayings, only two passages will be discussed: namely 13:33-35 and 21:8-28 (noting especially vv.20-24).42 The first passage, 13:33-35, known as the "Lament Over Jerusalem,"43 often is viewed as the first prophecy regarding the destruction of Jerusalem, for in it Jesus speaks of "your house being left desolate."44 Remarkably, Luke is the only evangelist to include 13:33, a unique defense of Jesus' journey to Jerusalem: specifically he goes in order to die.45 In this pericope, Luke begins to utilize Jerusalem to refer to its people. It likely stands for the Jewish leadership and the opposition to Jesus' own ministry especially in light of Jesus' comments regarding the killing of the prophets.46 The second passage relates to 13:33-35 due to the subject matter. In 21:8-28, Luke records his version of the Olivet Discourse. Both Mark and Matthew avoid specific reference to Jerusalem in their versions, but Luke mentions Jerusalem twice (21:20, 24) and uses it as a sign.47 Luke places the name of the city on both sides of an allusion to Jeremiah 51, which refers to David's city.48 Most commentators view this as a prophecy concerning the destruction of Jerusalem, generally assuming it refers to A.D. 70.49 The destruction of the leading city of Israel links 13:33-35 with 21:20-24.50 Thus, Jerusalem remains at the center of the narrative, even if in a poor light.

Obviously, the crucifixion itself and the events immediately leading up to it occur in and around Jerusalem.51 After the resurrection, however, one would assume that the narrative could move away from Jerusalem and back to Nazareth or Galilee (as in Matt 28:10 and John 21:1). Luke instead maintains Jerusalem as the setting for the post-resurrection accounts (note 24:13,18,47, 52), even though he likely knows of other appearances of the risen Christ.52 This suggests that he wishes to keep the location static, especially considering how he differs from Mark. While this presents no difficulty in terms of accuracy, it may indicate a deliberate choice on Luke's part, which in turn affects his narrative (and possibly theological) agenda.53 Even the story about two men leaving the area is peppered with explicit references to the city (24:13, 18, 33). Thus Jerusalem begins and ends the story, forming an inclusio that keeps the reader focused on the city even when the story moves away from it.54 The next mention of Jerusalem occurs in 24:47. While it anticipates the Gentile mission, it seems grammatically awkward due to the insertion of the phrase, "beginning at Jerusalem." Marshall states,

The reading which best explains the other variants is to be preferred generally, so keeping the phrase makes the most sense. Once more this sets up Jerusalem as the center of the action. The final mention of the city occurs in 24:52, leading the narrative back to Jerusalem for the conclusion of the gospel. This group of texts strengthens the idea that Jerusalem lies at the heart of the narrative flow of Luke's gospel.

Luke begins and ends in Jerusalem.56 While the actual birth of Jesus does not occur in Jerusalem, his dedication does. Luke is the only gospel writer who includes the story of the dedication at the temple and the meetings with Simeon and Anna. The story of Jesus remaining at the temple when his parents had left uses Jerusalem three times, giving it a near-poetic feel, driving home the emphasis in Luke 2 on the city. The middle portion of Luke, chs. 9-19, tells the story of Jesus as he journeyed toward Jerusalem, with phrases such as Luke 9:53, "He was heading for Jerusalem," appearing over and over again. The two sayings about Jerusalem, given by Jesus, focus on the catastrophic events which would soon unfold, but both hold the importance of David's city in front of the reader. Finally, the accounts of the post-resurrection appearances of Christ to his followers are limited to the city and the immediate surrounding area. The gospel of Luke points Jesus toward Jerusalem and then keeps his followers there.

IV. JERUSALEM IN ACTS

One of the key verses in the entire book is Acts 1:8, which features the mission statement or outline of the book as a narrative.57 These words of Jesus inform the reader from the beginning that the narrative will begin in Jerusalem and move out from there.58 The reader expects, then, to find the beginning of the book dominated by Jerusalem, and Luke obliges.59 The apostolic activity of the book begins in 1:12 (with a mention of Jerusalem) and remains in the city until 8:1.60 Chapters 2-4 center on what the apostles, and especially Peter, do there. They preach the gospel message and heal people within the confines of Israel's most prominent city. Even when brought before the leaders for a trial, the work of the apostles springs forth from the lips of their adversaries.61 The last explicit mention of the city in this section occurs in 6:7, which contains a summary statement for the opening chapters of the book.62

Acts 8:1 introduces the man who will become Paul the apostle, though it begins with the persecution of the church in Jerusalem, which causes the believers to scatter. The reader should expect the geographic location of the narrative to shift and for mentions of the city to diminish. Instead, one finds more references to the place of Jesus' death. While Acts 8:26-27 serves as the beginning of the story of the eunuch, 8:27 specifically mentions that he came to Jerusalem to worship. Although revealing the man as a God-fearing Gentile, it was an unnecessary detail since the city was also mentioned previously in 8:26.63 The story of Saul's conversion and subsequent time with Ananias also draws upon the Jerusalem motif, as Saul seeks to take any prisoners he finds back to Jerusalem, and Ananias acknowledges Saul's persecution of the believers there. Other believers also mention his persecution of those in the city in 9:21. Later Saul goes to Jerusalem himself in order to meet with the leaders of the church. Throughout this section, the importance and leadership of the church in Jerusalem arises again and again.64 Even as the narrative moves away from the city, it continues to play a role in the development of the plot.

Furthermore, the authority of the Jerusalem church emerges in 11:1-30, as the church leaders talk to Peter and send Barnabas from Jerusalem to see what is happening in Antioch.65 Each step in the process regarding how this new faith is to be understood and practiced has ties to the decisions and locale of Jerusalem. This theme culminates in the council of Acts 15, where the various leaders of the church gathered to make decisions pertinent to and binding on the catholic church. That the Jerusalem church delivered a ruling cannot be doubted; the authority of Jerusalem over the church appears absolute.66 Halfway through the book of Acts, the narrative still centers on Jerusalem even though the program of Acts laid down in 1:8 indicates that the story would move elsewhere.

From the Jerusalem council on, the book of Acts concentrates mainly on the character of Paul. His first journey, found in 13:4-14:28, ends with Paul in Antioch, but the story quickly drives Paul to Jerusalem. His next trip contained in 15:40-21:16 concludes with his arrival in Jerusalem, 21:17. His two major trips both start at Antioch and end with him in Jerusalem.67 Acts 19:20-21 provides a turning point in the narrative, as 19:20 summarizes the conquest of the Word of God. After 19:20, the only mention of the Word of God occurs in Paul's speech to the Ephesian elders.68 Presumably the Word of God has finished "conquering," so Paul now intends to return to the main stage of this drama, Jerusalem. From this point on, the tone of the narration changes, and one recalls Luke 9-19 where Jesus travels to Jerusalem. Just as Jesus went to Jerusalem knowing what was to come, so Paul journeys there with ample warning of his coming fate.69 As with Jesus, Jerusalem becomes the narrative downfall of Paul, as his arrest there exemplifies. References to the city occur repeatedly in his defenses, and much of the action (such as the plot on Paul's life in 25:1-7) revolves around Jerusalem as the crux of the events. Even in the last chapter of the book, Luke records how Paul was arrested in Jerusalem. Although it is no longer the setting for the story, Jerusalem still functions as a place around which the narrative takes place.

It is clear now that the course of Acts hinges on the use of Jerusalem. The story begins in Jerusalem, and through the first half of the book it remains there.70 The apostles feel no need to leave the city and continue to meet within Jerusalem. Not until the persecution arises at the hands of Saul and the Jewish leaders do the believers begin to spread out from the city. Even with that, the leadership of the fledgling church remains, sending its rulings to the Christian Diaspora. Paul, now a missionary, carries out his ministry, traveling all over the known world, though he consistently returns to Jerusalem at the end of his journeys. Paul is then arrested in the city and taken to trial, but even then Jerusalem lies at the center of the conflict that carries the story. Jerusalem serves as the narrative center of Acts with all of the activity either moving away from or drawing back to Israel's chief city.

V. A NARRATIVE THEME

This article has proposed that the temple functions as the narrative center of Luke-Acts, but while the temple serves as the hub of the cultus, the center point of God's presence on earth, Jerusalem, is the seat of the Davidic dynasty, the place where Jewish kings once ruled. Beale argues for a unity of thought here, noting that the function of ruler and of priest were often combined in ANE thought and therefore in ANE institutions.71 Some scholars lean toward Jerusalem and the temple as completely separate in Luke-Acts while others argue that the two are in fact synonymous.72 Since scholars diverge concerning this issue, one should examine the overlapping material in Luke-Acts to determine if the two locations are in fact interchangeable or distinct.73 First one must look at the beginning of Luke, where Jerusalem functioned as a center of the early life of Jesus. When Jesus traveled to the temple to be dedicated, Jerusalem and the temple appear close together in the narrative. Luke 2:22 shows Jerusalem as the goal of the journey, but in truth the temple must be the focus since that is where the young Jesus was to be presented.74 The repetition used in 2:41-45 strengthens the claim that Luke merges the temple and Jerusalem as one location, for once again the goal of the trip was to go to the temple. While many scholars have noted the parallel between Jesus and John according to Luke's gospel, Jesus emerges as the greater of the two, not because of his teaching, but because the temple is his true home.75 John is dedicated to the Lord at the temple, but Jesus, when journeying to the temple, is coming home.

The central section of Luke is filled with teachings and miracles, but the narrative is pointed directly at Jerusalem.76 After a few pericopae of teaching and events, Luke introduces a statement about heading toward Jerusalem. This may look like it refers to Jerusalem only, but the ultimate destination of Jesus is not the city proper, but the temple. In fact, Luke seems to go out of his way not to mention the city during the triumphal entrance pericope.77 Furthermore, while 13:33-35 predicts that people will declare "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord," Luke omits the fulfillment from his account in order to keep the temple at the center.78 Therefore, since Jesus' first act upon arriving in Jerusalem is the cleansing of the temple, it seems likely that when he turned toward Jerusalem, his thoughts were not chiefly of the city, but of his "Father's house."79

In the opening sections of Acts, it seems clear that Jerusalem and the temple are synonymous for the narrative. The believers met in the temple courts. The apostles did much of their preaching and teaching there. The people saw them in the temple and did not react adversely. Acts 1:8 declares the mission to be to Jerusalem first, but the missionaries apparently never leave the temple.80 Knowing the early believers held their gatherings in the temple courts, it is no stretch to view the temple as the place where much of the guidance for the church took shape. In fact, due to the conversion of many priests (6:7), ties with the temple become more likely.81 The mention in 8:27 of the eunuch who had come to "Jerusalem to worship" also shows an understood link between city and temple.82 Paul's trips always circle back to Jerusalem in general. He began his career partially in the temple. At the end of his first journey he met with the leaders of the church (Acts 15:2), and at the conclusion of his second trip he went to the temple courts (Acts 21:26). Throughout Acts, Jerusalem and the temple are closely linked.

Nevertheless, not all references to Jerusalem refer to the temple. For example, Luke 21:20-24 predicts the destruction of Jerusalem, but nothing within the content of those verses links it thematically with the temple. In fact, the differences compared to the Markan passage makes it more likely that Luke intentionally does not refer to the temple and thus is only concerned with the city.83 Luke 23:28 builds on the passages where Jesus weeps over Jerusalem, a reference pertaining more to the people than to the temple.84 The setting of Jesus' death was Jerusalem and, by geographical necessity, not the temple. In Acts one finds several mentions of Jerusalem denoting the people and not the place, such as in 13:27, 31. Thus Jerusalem is not always linked to the temple.

From this investigation, one can now conclude that the temple is indeed the narrative center of Luke-Acts. Jerusalem receives frequent mention but rarely without a close association with the temple.85 One must remain attentive, however, not to overplay this connection in every instance. This article maintains that Luke's gospel begins in the temple and focuses on Jesus' movement back toward the temple. Luke 19-24 concentrates on the temple and what occurs in and around it. Acts then begins at the temple and slowly moves away from it, though never leaving it for long. In some respects, Luke is movement toward the temple and Acts is movement away from the temple.86 A more nuanced statement is that Luke moves toward the temple while Acts remains centered on the temple, expressed in the movements of Luke's characters away from and then back to it. This makes the temple the narrative center of Luke-Acts since the stories hinge on the temple and revolve around it.

VI. CONCLUSION

It was suggested at the beginning of this article that the temple is the narrative center of Luke-Acts. It has been argued that Jerusalem and the temple both play important roles in the way that the story is told. The temple and Jerusalem have been closely linked to one another, though this is not always a direct correspondence. Rather it is a solid premise unless context dictates otherwise. By tracing references to the temple and Jerusalem throughout the two books, one observes the use of the temple as the beginning and goal of Luke and as the center of Acts. What is the theological significance of the temple? Is Luke necessarily critiquing the temple itself, or is it possible that he critiques only the leadership or misappropriation of the temple? How does Stephen's speech fit into this discussion?87 What is the relationship between the church and Israel?88 While a firm response to any of these questions is premature, this article should lead to a reassessment based upon the temple grounds as the center of the budding church, as the evidence seemingly points toward the temple as the rightful place or property of the church as the true heirs of the title "the people of God."

1 Klaus Baltzer ("The Meaning of the Temple in the Lukan Writings," HTR 58 [1965]: 263-77) introduces the idea of looking at the narrative use of the temple, but he leaves this idea behind for a brief theological analysis.

2 For an example Unking the church to the temple, see G. K. Beale, The Temple and the Church's Mission: A Biblical Theology of the Dwelling Place of God (NSBT 17; Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2004). Beale lumps all of the Gospels together, however, and therefore misses the links in Luke-Acts and fails to differentiate adequately the Synoptics from each other.

3 Paul Hoskins, "Jesus as the Replacement of the Temple in the Gospel of John" (Ph.D. diss., Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, 2002). This is also mentioned in passing by Baltzer, "Meaning of the Temple," 271.

5 Peter Bohlemann, Jesus und der Taufer: SchlÃ¼ssel zur Theologie und Ethik des Lukas (SNTSMS 99; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 35. Bohlemann speaks of the "positive assessment of the Temple in Luke 2," due to the way it is presented by Luke.

6 J. Bradley Chance, Jerusalem, the Temple, and the New Age in Luke-Acts (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1988), 48. Chance notes, "Omitting the prologue (1:1-4) from consideration, fifty-two of the 128 remaining verses describe activity which is taking place in the Temple (Lk. 1:2-25; 2:22-38, 41-51). Thus, almost forty percent of the first two chapters is devoted to the setting of the Temple."

7 I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1978), 114. Marshall talks about the power of the declaration by Simeon, whereas the point here is also the location of where this declaration takes place.

8 Allan J. McNicol, "Rebuilding the House of David: The Function of the Benedictus in Luke-Acts," ResQ 40 (1998): 25. McNicol notes the tie, but makes the link the "note of triumphalism" instead of the temple alone, though the triumphalism is associated with the temple since these births announce "a golden age of a political and spiritual restoration for Israel." For the link between John and Jesus in Luke's gospel, see Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Luke the Theologian (New York: Paulist, 1989), 102-10.

9 McNiCol, "Rebuilding," 32. Referring to this story, McNicol says, "Here Luke's account anticipates the future course of Jesus' ministry. Later, Jesus the son will make a momentous journey to Jerusalem to claim his right to the father's house (Luke 19:46)."

10 Peter L. Walker, Jesus and the Holy City: New Testament Perspectives on Jerusalem (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), 63. Walker makes a strong point in contrasting 19:46 with 13:35 and the inversion of to whom the temple belongs. See also Chance, Jerusalem, the Temple, 56-57. Chance argues from the differences between Mark and Luke that Mark is stressing the problem of the entire temple cult whereas Luke is referring only to the abuse of the temple and not the temple per se, making it a cleansing. See also I. Howard Marshall, Luke: Historian and Theologian (Devon: Paternoster, 1970), 155.

11 Chance, Jerusalem, the Temple, 57-58.

12 Contra McNicol, "Rebuilding," 34. He says, "All that is left is to state the reason for the rejection of the temple. This is now done when Jesus says it has become a den of robbers." Unfortunately, McNicol misses the point of 19:47-48 and in fact ignores the verses in his discussion.

13 Chance, Jerusalem, the Temple, 58, emphasis original.

14 Ibid., 61-62. Chance makes a strong argument for this, noting the Lukan fascination with the temple as important. Marshall (Historian and Theologian, 155 n. 1) also notes the contrast between the Markan movement to and from the temple and how Luke keeps Jesus stationary at the temple.

16 Marshall, Luke, 838. Marshall reflects on the importance of the insertion and darkness reference, but fails to note that it is the men who are being spoken of and not the place.

18 For a deeper look at this section, see Joel B. Green, "The Demise of the Temple as 'Cultural Center' in Luke-Acts: An Exploration of the Rending of the Temple Veil (Luke 23:44-49)," RB 101 (1994): 495-515. Green correctly points out that the larger issue of the temple in all of Luke-Acts needs to be understood before making a particular interpretation here.

19 Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 64-65 (see especially 64 n. 36). Chance (Jerusalem, the Temple, 63) talks about how Luke's Jesus and disciples seem to offer an affirmation of the temple cult. see also N. T. Wright, "The Resurrection and the Postmodern Dilemma," STRev 41 (1998): 150-51. Wright says, "The last Une of Luke's gospel picks up the fourth verse of Psalm 43: they worshiped him, and returned to Jerusalem with great joy, and they were continually in the Temple, praising God . . . the place where despair gives way to joy, and mourning to dancing."

20 Adolf Schlatter, Das Evangelium des Lukas (2d ed.; Stuttgart: Gutmann: 1960), 149-52.

21 Contra Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 63, this does not mean Jesus is cursing the temple since the disciples quickly return there after his death.

22 The most notable passage not covered would be the temptation account in Luke 4, but the juxtaposition of the events as compared to Mark would in fact support the thesis put forth rather than hinder it.

23 Yves Congar, The Mystery of the Temple (trans. Reginald F. Trevett; Westminster: Newman, 1962), 113-50.

25 See the description in Alfred Edersheim, The Temple: Its Ministries and Services (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1958), 45.

26 I. Howard Marshall, Acts (TNTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 124. Marshall talks of how the disciples for the time being did not fear any further mishandling in the temple environs.

27 See Chance, Jerusalem, the Temple, 63-72, and John Goldingay, "Are They Comic Acts?" EvQ 69 (1997): 102-3. Goldingay notes the humorous back and forth of the Jerusalem leaders trying to find the once imprisoned disciples, which is probably a subtle form of poking fun at the leadership of the Jews, but not the Jews themselves.

28 Robert C. Tannehill, "Israel in Luke-Acts: A Tragic Story," JBL 104 (1985): 75-77.

29 Gottfned Schille and Otto Bauernfeind, Die Apostelgeschichte des Lukas (Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1983), 157. They discuss how Christians seemingly take over the temple grounds.

30 This foregoes examining the uses of "temple" in 17:24, 19:24, and 19:27. In addition, due to the amount of ink spilt on Stephen's speech and the various controversies surrounding those verses, this article will not address that issue. Instead, the reader is referred to the following works for a summation of the issues: Robert T. Anderson, "The Use of Hebrew Scripture in Stephen's Speech," in Uncovering Ancient Stones: Essays in Memory of H. Neil Richardson (ed. Lewis M. Hopfe; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1994), 205-15; Michael Bachmann, "Die Stephanusperikope (Apg 6,1-8,3): Ihre Bedeutung fÃ¼r die lukanische Sicht des jerusalemischen Tempels und des Judentums," in The Unity of Luke-Acts (ed. J. Verheyden; BETL 142; Leuven: University Press, 1999), 545-62; Johann Bihler, Die Stephanusgeschichte. (MÃ¼nchen: Chr. Kaiser, 1963); Peter Dschulingg, "Die Rede des Stephanus im Rahmen des Berichtes Ã¼ber sein Martyrium," in judaica: BeitrÃ¤ge zum VerstÃ¤ndnis des JÃ¼disclien Schicksals in Vergangenlieit und Gegenwart (ed. Kurt Hruby; Basel: Stiftung fÃ¼r die Kirche und Judenrum, 1988), 195-213; John J. Kilgallen, "The Function of Stephen's Speech (Acts 7,2-53)," Bib 70 (1989): 173-93; Franz MuÃŸner, "Wohnung Gottes und Menschensohn nach der Stephanusperikope (Apg 6,8-8,2)," in ]esus und der Menschensohn: FÃ¼r Anton VÃ¶gtle (ed. Rudolf Pesch and Rudolf Schnackenburg; Freiburg: Herder, 1975), 283-99; N. H. Taylor, "Stephen, the Temple, and Early Christian Eschatology," RB 110 (2003): 62-85; Huub Van De Sandt, "The Presence and Transcendence of God: An Investigation of Acts 7,44-50 in the Light of the LXX," ETL 80 (2004): 30-59.

31 See the discussion above.

32 F. F. Bruce, The Book of the Acts (NlCNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 418-19. Bruce goes on to place this vision in its most likely context, but harmonization is not necessary for the point to stand.

33 The question of why there is a gap will be considered later in the article.

34 McNicol ("Rebuilding," 29) and Marshall (Luke, 114-15) both mention this as the mission of Jesus, which in turn becomes the focus of Luke's gospel as well as Acts (David Pao, Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus [Grand Rapids: Baker, 2002], 111-46).

35 Craig A. Evans, Luke (NIBC; Peabody: Hendrickson, 1990), 42.

36 R. J. McKelvey, The New Temple: The Church in the New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969), 58-59. McKelvey talks about how all the gospels are in some part a drive toward Jerusalem.

37 Marshall, Luke, 385; and David Lenz Tiede, Prophecy and History in Luke-Acts (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1980), 56-57. A few scholars, such as Walker in the following note, miss this connection.

38 Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 58. Unlike Walker, this paper breaks 13:33-35 off into a different section to be analyzed later.

39 Luke 1-2 has 132 verses, 3-8 has 276, and 20-24 has 265. By comparison, 9-19 contains 478 verses.

40 For some reflections on the narrative force of 9:51 and the debate over a possible parallel to Acts 19:21, see Armand Puig i TÃ rreich, "Les voyages Ã JÃ©rusalem (Lc 9,51; Ac 19,21)," in The Unity of Luke-Acts (ed. J. Verheyden; BETL 142; Leuven: University Press, 1999), 493-505.

41 Mikael C. Parsons and Richard I. Pervo, Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 58-59. However, one should not disregard the didactic material, just interpret it while understanding the role it plays in the narrative structure of Luke.

42 Here following the example of Chance (Jerusalem, the Temple, 115-17), who also closely links these two passages. See also Evans, Luke, 214. Evans links 13:31-35 with 19:41-44; 21:20-24; and 23:27-31 as the four laments over Jerusalem.

43 So Marshall, Luke, 573, and most Bible versions that contain headings.

44 Chance, Jerusalem, the Temple, 115.

45 Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 70. This is a discussion that will be resumed later.

46 Ibid. Chance (Jerusalem, the Temple, 115-16) applies this to the temple by assuming that Jerusalem always refers to the temple. However, this seems an unlikely spot to be referring to the temple, especially when taking into account the mention of the prophets being killed, which points more toward the people than the temple or cultus itself. See John Nolland, Luke (WBC 35a-c; Waco: Word, 1993), 3:1002. Nolland argues that this is referring only to the leaders of the Jews and not the people as a whole, though he does say that it very well could be the leaders should stand for the whole since they "will eventually take (the most part of) the Jewish People with them into opposition to Jesus and the Christian movement (see esp. 23:13, 18, 23; and developments in Acts)."

47 Mark does refer to the "desolation," which would have implications with respect to the Temple, but Judea is then mentioned without any specific reference to Jerusalem.

48 Nolland, Luke, 3:1001.

49 E.g., McKelvey, The New Temple, 159, and E. Earle Ellis, The Gospel of Luke (The Century Bible; London: Thomas Nelson, 1966), 244.

50 Ellis, Luke, 245.

51 Luke 23:28 will not be considered due to space limitations. It does not negatively affect the thesis of this paper, as per the discussion of it in John Nolland, Luke, 3:1137. For Jerusalem being the center of the action, see Joseph B. Tyson, The Death of Jesus in Luke-Acts (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1986), 93-94.

52 Chance, Jerusalem, the Temple, 65-66. At the very least, Luke would know Mark's account, if not Paul's listing in 1 Cor 15:5-8.

53 Ibid. Chance notes that the appearances cited by Luke may not occur in Jerusalem proper, but they all occur within "the city's immediate environs."

54 Nolland, Luke, 3:1208.

55 Marshall, Luke, 906. See also the discussion in Leon Morris, Luke (TNTC 3; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 374.

56 Tyson, The Death of Jesus, 90.

57 F. F. Bruce, The Acts of the Apostles: The Greek Text with Introduction and Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1951), 71.

58 Marshall, Acts, 61.

59 Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation (2 vols.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 1:295-7. Tannehill notes how Acts 1 parallels or even mirrors the end of Luke, with both structured around Jerusalem.

60 Acts 8:1 introduces Paul, which is the logical narrative time to begin moving the story away from Jerusalem, so that the "apostle to the Gentiles" has some Gentiles with which to work.

61 Acts 5:28 reads, "'We gave you strict orders not to teach in this name,' he said. 'Yet you have filled Jerusalem with your teaching and are determined to make us guilty of this man's blood.'"

62 Bruce, The Book of the Acts, 123. See also Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 84.

63 Bruce, The Acts of the Apostles, 191. Bruce calls the man a proselyte, God-fearer, or devout person.

64 Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 86.

65 Bruce, The Book of the Acts, 219-31.

66 Richard Bauckham, "James and the Jerusalem Church," in The Book of Acts in Its Palestinian Setting (ed. Richard Bauckham; vol. 4 of The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting [ed. Bruce W. Winter; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995]), 415-80. Bauckham explains this through a parallel between Jerusalem Judaism and the Diaspora, in that the Diaspora would appeal to Jerusalem for rulings on matters of faith which would then become the norm for all practicing Jews the world over. Also note 16:4 which says, "As they traveled from town to town, they delivered the decisions reached by the apostles and elders in Jerusalem for the people to obey."

67 Pao (Acts, 156) notes the circular movements of the missionaries, as they go out from a place and come back to it.

68 Ibid., 154-56.

69 For example, see Acts 20:22-23 and 21:11-13.

70 Dennis M. Sweetland, "Luke-Acts: An Overview," TBT 35 (1997): 337.

71 Beale, The Temple and the Church's Mission, 29-122. Beale contends that the Edenic themes of kingship tied with priesthood are carried throughout the OT and into the NT (N.B. 81-87).

72 For the former, see Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 60, though he only assumes it while keeping them together in terms of the judgment and destruction to be visited upon them (p. 63). For the latter, see Chance, Jerusalem, the Temple, 115, and he also does not argue for this position.

73 For the following discussion, see also Michael Bachmann, Jerusalem und der Tempel: Die geographisch-theologischen Elemente in der lukanischen Sicht des jÃ¼dischen Kultzentrums (BWANT 9; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1980), 63-67. 74 Ellis, Luke, 82.

75 McNiCol, "Rebuilding," 32. He says, "Jesus the son will . . . journey to Jerusalem to claim his right to the father's house. . . . the house of God in Jerusalem will play a central role in the story" (emphasis original).

76 Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 58.

77 Marshall, Luke, 720-21.

78 Robert C. Tannehill, "Israel in Luke-Acts," 84-85. Tannehill notes the omission for a different reason.

79 McNicol, "Rebuilding," 32. Cf. N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Christian Origins and the Question of God 2; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 490-93. Wright contends that Jesus' action in the temple constitutes a royal and priestly function, something that the Jews would have understood.

80 Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 64-65.

81 Bruce, The Book of the Acts, 123. Bruce says, "The fact that so many priests were joining the community meant that the ties which attached many of the believers to the temple order would be strengthened. It is not suggested that these priests relinquished their priestly office; the logic of such a step would not be generally appreciated at this stage."

82 Jacob Jervell, Die Apostelgeschichte (17th ed.; KEK; GÃ¶ttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 271. He links this with the charge against Paul in 21:28 in that it could be a destination without full participation. See also Friedrich Avemarie, Die TauferzÃ¤hlungen der Apostelgeschichte (WUNT 139; Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 63.

83 Nolland, Luke, 3:1000, states, "The Markan equivalent (13:14) maintained the temple focus but, with its Danielic allusion . . . concerned itself with the desecration rather than the destruction of the temple." Contra Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 64, who must be assuming that the desolation refers to the temple only.

84 Nolland, Luke, 3:1137.

85 I. Howard Marshall, New Testament Theology: Many Witnesses, One Gospel (Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2004), 140. With respect to Luke, Marshall states "with a kind of inclusio the Gospel begins and ends in Jerusalem with scenes in the temple."

86 Walker, Jesus and the Holy City, 56.

87 For an initial response, see James P. Sweeney, "Stephen's Speech (Acts 7:2-53): Is It as 'Anti-Temple' as Is Frequently Alleged?" TJ 23 (2002): 185-210; and Michael Bachmann, "Die Stephanusperikope (Apg 6,1-8,3): Ihre Bedeurung fÃ¼r die lukanische Sicht des jerusalemischen Tempels und des Judentums," in The Unity of Luke-Acts (ed. J. Verheyden; BETL 142; Leuven: University Press, 1999), 545-62. With respect to the charges against Stephen, and about Jesus, see Sasagu Arai, "Zum 'Templewort' Jesu in Apostelgeschichte 6.14," NTS 34 (1988): 379-410. On the distinctive issues tied to Hellenistic understandings of the Temple, see Alfons Weiser, "Zur Gesetzes- und Tempelkritik der Hellenisten,'" in Das Gesetz im Neuen Testament (ed. Karl Kertelge; QD 108; Freiburg: Herder, 1986), 146-68.

88 Attempts to address this question without first dealing with the temple in Acts or Luke-Acts are unconvincing. For example, see Erich Crasser, Forschungen zur Apostelgeschichte (WUNT 137; Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 37-43. Cf. works listed above.

RON C. FAY*

* Ron C. Fay just completed his Ph.D. at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School in Deerfield, Illinois.

Copyright Trinity International University Fall 2006
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved

NARRATIVE FUNCTION OF THE TEMPLE IN LUKE-ACTS, THE
Trinity Journal, Fall 2006 by Fay, Ron C