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Sacred Scripture and Secular Struggles

The Bible in Ancient Christianity

General Editor

D. Jeffrey Bingham

Editorial Board

Brian E. Daley
Robin M. Jensen
Christoph Markschies
Peter Martens
David G.K. Taylor
Maureen A. Tilley
Robert L. Wilken

VOLUME 9

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bac


Sacred Scripture and
Secular Struggles

Edited by

David Vincent Meconi, S.J.

LEIDEN | BOSTON
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sacred scripture and secular struggles / edited by David Vincent Meconi, S.J.
  pages cm. — (The Bible in ancient Christianity, ISSN 1542-1295 ; volume 9)
 Includes bibliographical references and index.
 ISBN 978-90-04-30264-8 (hardback : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-90-04-30456-7 (e-book)
 1. Church and the world. 2. Christianity and culture. 3. Church history—Primitive and early church,
ca. 30–600. 4. Bible. New Testament—Criticism, interpretation, etc. I. Meconi, David Vincent, editor.

 BR195.C53S33 2015
 270.1—dc23
2015028493

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Contents

Author Biographies vii

Introduction 1
David Vincent Meconi, S.J.

Section 1
The Canonical Beginnings

1 The Fragmentation and Inversion of Empire in the Christian Apocryphal


Acts 15
Nicole Kelley

2 “Sic est voluntas Dei”: Latin Patristic Views on 1 Peter 2:13–17 32


Jonathan P. Yates

3 Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 62


Clayton N. Jefford

Section 2
2nd and 3rd Century Developments

4 Tertullian and Military Service: The Scriptural Arguments in


De corona 87
Geoffrey D. Dunn

5 Irenaeus and the Kingdoms of the World 104


D. Jeffrey Bingham

6 The Weak God of the Gospels: Mercy, Mysticism, and Martyrdom in


Origen’s Contra Celsum 118
Roberto J. De La Noval
vi Contents

Section 3
Scripture in the Service of Urban Unity

7 Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 139


Benjamin D. Wayman

8 Justus sibi lex est: The Donatist Interpretation of the Law in


Romans 2:14 162
Alden Lee Bass

9 Should a Christian Sell Everything? Early Interpretations of the


Rich Young Man 179
Stephen M. Hildebrand

Section 4
Augustine’s Legacy

10 Abraham, Samson, and ‘Certain Holy Women’: Suicide and Exemplarity


in Augustine’s De ciuitate dei 1.26 201
Melanie Webb

11 From Slave to Friend: John 15, Philemon, and Slavery in Augustine 235


Joseph E. Capizzi

12 From Ordo to Potestas: Romans 13 and Saint Augustine’s Chastened Civil


Confidence 250
David Vincent Meconi

Bibliograhy 265
Index 283
Author Biographies

Alden Lee Bass


teaches in the Department of Theological Studies at Saint Louis University and
at Kenrick-Glennon Seminary. He earned his Ph.D. from Saint Louis University
in Historical Theology in 2014, with a dissertation on Donatist catechetical
preaching. He has published articles on Donatist theology, early Christian
homiletics, and biblical interpretation, and in 2014 he received the Prize in
Patristic Exegesis from the Institute for Classical Christian Studies. He is cur-
rently co-writing an article on the Institutes of Junillus Africanus for Cambridge
University Press.

D. Jeffrey Bingham
is the Associate Dean of Biblical and Theological Studies at Wheaton College
in Wheaton, IL. Dr. Bingham is a graduate of New Mexico State University
(1982) and Dallas Theological Seminary where he received the Th.M. (1986)
and Ph.D. (1995). His academic specialties are Patristic Theology, History of
the Reception of the Bible, History of Biblical Interpretation, Second-Century
Christianity and Irenaeus. His published work includes Irenaeus’ Use of
Matthew’s Gospel in Adversus Haereses, Pocket History of the Church and The
Routledge Companion to Early Christian Thought. He is also General Editor
of the Monograph Series, The Bible in Ancient Christianity, and Consulting
Editor for the Evangelical Dictionary of Theology. Dr. Bingham is also cur-
rently President of the Southwest Region of SBL, he is also Section Chair of the
Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Christianity Section of SBL International,
Section Chair of the History of Interpretation Section of SBL, past President
of the Southwest Commission on Religious Studies and Former Director of the
Southwest Seminar on the Development of Early Catholic Christianity.

Joseph E. Capizzi
is Associate Professor of Moral Theology at the Catholic University of America.
He received his B.A. from the University of Virginia, his Masters in Theological
Studies from Emory University, and his M.A. and Ph.D. in Theology from the
University of Notre Dame. He currently teaches in the areas of social and
political theology, with special interests in issues in peace and war, citizen-
ship, political authority, and Augustinian theology. He has written, lectured,
and published widely on just war theory, bioethics, the history of moral the-
ology, and political liberalism. His book, Politics, Justice, and War is due out
viii Author Biographies

from Oxford University Press in the Spring of 2015. He is a former holder of The
Cardinal’s Chair at The Intercultural Forum for Studies in Faith and Reason,
The John Paul II Cultural Center, in Washington, D.C. He has been a Senior
Fellow at the Culture of Life Foundation as well as a bioethics advisor to the
Maryland State Stem Cell Commission. He lives in Maryland with his wife and
six children.

Roberto J. De La Noval
is a Ph.D. student in the History of Christianity at the University of Notre
Dame. He lives in South Bend, Indiana. His focus of study is Christianity in
Late Antiquity.

Geoffrey D. Dunn
received his Ph.D. from Australian Catholic University where he is currently
a Senior Research Fellow in the Centre for Early Christian Studies. He is also
a Research Associate in the Department of Ancient Languages, University of
Pretoria. He has published widely on Tertullian, Cyprian, and, most recently,
early fifth-century bishops of Rome. He is editor of Journal of the Australian Early
Medieval Association and associate editor of Journal of Early Christian Studies.

Stephen M. Hildebrand
holds the Ph.D. from Fordham University, and teaches in the Department of
Theology at Franciscan University in Steubenville, OH. He is the author of
Basil of Caesarea (Baker, 2014) and The Trinitarian Theology of Basil of Caesarea
(Catholic University of America Press, 2007), and the translator of Robert
Grosseteste, On the Cessation of the Laws (Catholic University of America Press,
2012), as well as Basil the Great, On the Holy Spirit (St. Vladimir’s Seminary
Press, 2007).

Clayton N. Jefford
received his Ph.D. in early Christian literature from The Claremont Graduate
School, and has been Professor of Scripture at Saint Meinrad Seminary and
School of Theology in St. Meinrad, Indiana for twenty-five years. The author of
numerous volumes and articles, his more recent works include The Apostolic
Fathers and the New Testament (Hendrickson, 2006), The Epistle to Diognetus
(with the Fragment of Quadratus): Introduction, Text, and Commentary (Oxford
University Press, 2013), and Didache: Teaching of the Twelve Apostles (Polebridge,
2013). A former Secretary-Treasurer of the North American Patristics Society,
he currently serves as co-editor of the online journal Forum and is preparing
a commentary on the Didache for publication in The Anchor Yale Bible com-
mentary series.
Author Biographies ix

Nicole Kelley
holds the Ph.D. from Harvard University and currently teaches in the
Department of Religion at The Florida State University. Her research focuses
on Christian apocryphal literature, the interaction between late antique Jews
and Christians, martyrdom and religious violence, the production and con-
testation of religious identities in the ancient world, and ancient conceptions
of the body as an artifact of religious import. She is the author of Knowledge
and Religious Authority in the Pseudo-Clementines: Situating the Recognitions in
Fourth-Century Syria (Mohr Siebeck, 2006). She is currently working on a book
provisionally entitled The Church Body: Deformity and Disability in Ancient
Christianity, which examines the religious significance of congenital deformi-
ties in late antique and early medieval Christian writings.

David Vincent Meconi, S.J.


teaches in the Department of Theological Studies at Saint Louis University;
he is also the editor of Homiletic and Pastoral Review. He holds the pontifi-
cal license in Patrology from the University of Innsbruck and the D.Phil. in
Ecclesiastical History from Oxford University. Most recently he published the
Annotated Confessions of Saint Augustine (Ignatius Press, 2012), The One Christ:
Saint Augustine’s Theology of Deification (Catholic University of America
Press, 2013), as well as co-edited (along with Eleonore Stump) the Cambridge
Companion to Augustine (2014). He is a former president of the Jesuit
Philosophical Association, as well as a Fellow at the Augustinian Institute at
Villanova University, and serves on the ecclesiastical board of Boston College’s
School of Theology and Ministry.

Benjamin D. Wayman
is assistant professor of religion at Greenville College and a pastor at St Paul’s
Free Methodist Church in Greenville, Illinois. He earned his M.Div. from Duke
Divinity School and his doctorate from Saint Louis University. Most recently
he authored Make the Words Your Own: An Early Christian Guide to the Psalms
(Paraclete Press, 2014) and Diodore the Theologian: Πρόνοια in his Commentary
on Psalms 1–50 (Brepols Publishers, 2014). He has published on a range of sub-
jects, which include biblical interpretation, patristic theology, political theol-
ogy, and theological education.

Melanie Webb
is a doctoral candidate at Princeton Theological Seminary. Her dissertation,
Desiring Life: Honor, Violence, and Sexuality in Augustine’s City of God, exam-
ines the intersection of Roman and Christian virtue traditions in order to expli-
cate Augustine’s revision of traditional ­narratives, and with them of societal
x Author Biographies

values and expectations regarding sex and sexuality, social justice, and salva-
tion. She is also Senior Teaching Fellow for the Certificate in Theology and
Ministry (CTM) that is offered online by Princeton Seminary’s Department
of Continuing Education, and is piloting CTM—Inside, a cohort of incarcer-
ated and community lay leaders who meet in a local prison in order to com-
plete the certificate together. In addition, she is a Research Assistant in the
Humanities and Liberal Arts Assessment Lab (HULA), a project based at the
Harvard Graduate School of Education.

Jonathan Yates
is an associate professor in the Department of Theology and Religious Studies
at Villanova University. He is an alumnus of the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven
(Leuven, Belgium), from which he holds an M.A. in Religious Studies, a Th.M.
in Theology, and a Ph.D./S.T.D. As an historical theologian his area is Early
Christian Thought and his research specialty is Augustine and early Latin
Christianity with a particular focus on how Augustine understood and applied
the New Testament. Dr. Yates is a member of Villanova’s Augustinian Institute
and serves as Editor of Augustinian Studies.
Introduction

In his attempt to eradicate Christianity from Rome’s soil, the Emperor Diocletian
(d. 313) implemented a three-fold plan of destruction: to raze all Christian sites,
to extirpate all Church leaders, and to set ablaze the faithful’s sacred scriptures:
“. . . with our very own eyes we witnessed the houses of prayer torn down to
their foundations, the inspired and sacred scriptures (ἐνθέους καὶ ἱερὰς γραφὰς)
committed to the flames in the middle of the town squares, and the Church’s
leaders captured and mocked by their enemies.”1 The Father of Church History,
Eusebius of Caesarea (d. 339/40), understood that in their engagement with
the wider empire, Christian survival and expansion depended on these three
pillars of proper leadership, a clear identity of this new community, and the
proclamation of an officially sanctioned collection of holy writ.
When we turn to how the first Christians employed their scriptures in the
non-Christian world, then, we are inevitably drawn back to this triplex process
of ecclesial authority, tradition, and the canonization of the bible’s pages. For
in forging their new identity, the nascent Christian people began by wonder-
ing who would speak to and for them, how they should conduct themselves
within and without their buildings of worship, and what books should be con-
sidered divinely inspired and thus proclaimed during these communal acts of
praise. As the Christian communities expanded across the Roman Empire, the
standard and formalized identity of what it meant to belong to this new eccle-
sia hence became a paramount task. As such, the process of forming a bibli-
cal canon was never achieved in isolation, but was always performed in the
larger context of a people who prayed and sang together, who sought to live a
new kind of life imitating Jesus of Nazareth as their definitive model, and who
had to navigate their way in a world oftentimes hostile to this newly-revealed
creed. These early disciples came to express their scriptures as “God-breathed
(θεόπνευστος)”, and thus “useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and train-
ing in righteousness” (2 Tim 3:16). But the question remained: Exactly what
scriptures should be considered divinely-inspired and how should they be
used when instructing the baptized in the world as well as in answering the
Church’s many critics?
Such questions would be answered in the context of a living, growing faith
community. It would hence prove to be the Church which caused the canon-
ization of the scriptures, not the other way around: “you will know how people
ought to conduct themselves in God’s household, which is the Church of the

1  Eusebius of Caesarea, Ecclesiastical History VIII.2.1; my translation.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_002


2 Introduction

living God, the pillar and foundation of the truth” (1 Tim 3:15). The Church thus
emerges from these first years as the adjudicator of what would be consid-
ered God’s truth and what would be condemned as opposed to the life God
intended for his world. As that pillar (στῦλος) and foundation (ἑδραίωμα), then,
the Church had to come to construct the means by which the Christian faith
would not only be expressed but be expanded as well. In this process, three
distinct but very much interrelated tasks became paramount for the Christian
community to address.
The first and perhaps most pressing was the question of proper leadership.
In his Epistle to the Corinthians, for instance, the earliest post-apostolic text
available, Pope Clement admits that the congregational leaders were divided
into presbyters and deacons (1 Clem 44:2–6). Early second century documents
do more or less the same (The Shepherd of Hermas 2.4.2–3; Didache §15), while
only the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch (d. 107) stand out as an early expression
of the threefold distinction of episcopoi, presbyters and deacons. As varied as
these designations were across the empire and across the formative decades
of Christian expansion, the eventual result of the monoepiscopacy was clear.
At a time of unprecedented growth and interaction with heterogeneous
and complicated communities across the empire, an undisputed authority and
concentrated leadership was needed. With the monarchial episcopate estab-
lished, the Christian community was able to provide a clear recognition of
what would thenceforth be considered orthodox teaching and practice.
The first Christians came to address their growing sense of traditio, by
means of the second means of expansion, a growing “rule of faith.” What
should be “handed on” as faithful to Jesus Christ and what should be rejected?
The eventual result of this ongoing discernment is what Irenaeus of Lyons first
called the regula fidei, a “catch all” term connoting how Christians should pray
and worship, theologize and taxonomize.2 When Monica despaired of never
seeing her son, Aurelius Augustinus, renounce his pagan life and take on the
faith of Christ, she was comforted by a vision wherein she saw herself “stand-
ing on some kind of wooden ruler (regula)”, portending how her prodigal son
would in fact one day be “standing close beside her on the same rule.”3 This
“measuring stick” (κανών) was a fluid guarantor of a Christian community’s
appropriation of the apostolic faith. Over the early decades of the Church’s
break from the synagogue, we see some texts being authoritatively cited, oth-
ers not; we see some post-apostolic theologians relied upon, others not; we
see some liturgical practices expected, others rejected. The umbrella concept

2  Irenaeus, Against the Heresies 1.1.9.4; 1.22.1.


3  Augustine, Confessions 3.11.19.
Introduction 3

regula fidei accordingly provided the growing Christian communities around


the Roman world a comprehensive process of winnowing the true wheat
from the harmful chaff.
The third important step in the formation of a cohesive creed and commu-
nity was the canonization of an authoritative collection of scriptures. Which
texts belonged as worthy of being the Christian people’s official book, and
which should be dismissed as either pious simulacra or, worse, baneful leg-
ends? The early Christian episcopoi would thus be charged with examining the
“rule of faith” and drawing from their own prayer and study of Christian holi-
ness to bind the bible with a definitive table of contents. For nowhere does
scripture itself tell us what belongs and what does not, so the living Christian
community was left with the task of discerning the various claims of apos-
tolic authenticity to determine which books would in fact prove able to be pro-
claimed publically and commandingly.
From their Jewish ancestors, the first Christians learned that the God
of Israel chooses to reveal himself in an accessible and definitive word.
Like their Jewish predecessors, the Christians too longed to have a sacred
text. And, just as the leaders of Israel came to form and close an authorita-
tive collection of inspired books, early Christian leaders also had to transmit
the new message of the Word of God now made flesh. To do this meant to
appropriate the first covenant and not excise the Jewish scriptures. We thus
see throughout what came to be known as the New Testament a robust reli-
ance on the Psalms and, following the Essenes at Qumran, a certain priority
to the prophet Isaiah who so beautifully foreshadowed the coming of the
Messiah. The early Church took care to preserve the Jewish canon so as to fulfill
the legal and prophetic statements with the advent of Christ. Unlike the theo-
logically anemic Marcion (d. c. 160) who found Christianity easier to explain
without its Old Testament moorings, the Christian bishops engaged learned
theologians like Hippolytus, Origen and Jerome who advised the uniformity
and the necessity of the Old Testament. There was nothing to fear here, only
foreshadowings to fulfill.
For the most part, New Testament authors drew from the Greek Septuagint
of the Old Testament, although some familiarity of the Aramaic Targum is evi-
dent as well. The missionary nature of Christianity necessitated an original
use of Koiné Greek but very soon thereafter translations into Coptic, Syriac
and Latin appear. Of these new writings, the epistles of Paul the Apostle came
first. In the sixth decade of the first Christian century, Paul wrote to numer-
ous ecclesiae around the Mediterranean. Whereas these Pauline (as well as
other more “universal” or catholic) epistles addressed the practical applica-
tion of Christianity to the world in which these new believers now found­
4 Introduction

themselves, the Gospels arose afterwards in order to provide a picture of Jesus’


own life on earth. Parallel to the foundational Torah for their Jewish prede-
cessors, the Christian communities afforded the Gospels a certain theologi-
cal priority as well as liturgical proclamation. Here were presented the most
important scenes from the life, the teachings, miracles, passion, death and
resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ, the normative and guiding Word to all
proceeding words.
The collection of canonized books as it stands today—four gospels,
13 Pauline epistles, the Acts of the Apostles, the Letter to the Hebrews, 7 catho-
lic letters, and the Book of Revelation—did not occur automatically. Only after
a few centuries was a universal list agreed upon: early ecclesiastics like Papias
(d. c. 163) and Irenaeus of Lyons hence sought to provide authoritative list-
ings of apostolic writings. Yet it would not be until 367 that a list closest to the
closed canon appears in the Christian story. In his Festal Letter 39, marking
the Paschaltide of 367, St. Athanasius of Alexandria provided a list that spread
throughout the episcopal ranks and soon thereafter became the canon for the
canon. This list helped to decide the uncertain fate of those books chosen last
as canonical. Local synods in Rome and in Hippo Regius followed Athanasius,
providing lists of canonical and non-canonical works. The Decretum of Pope
Gelasius (attributed to Pope Gelasius [492–96] but more likely of 6th century
origin) solidified this list of books which the Church should and should not
receive (de libris recipiendis et non recipiendis), marking an ongoing need to
solidify which books and epistles of sacred scripture could be used authorita-
tively and which, however helpful, could not be officially and publically pro-
claimed as part of the Church’s story.
Brill’s The Bible in Ancient Christianity series examines the use of sacred
scripture in the early Church’s encounter with a wider world. Contributing
directly to this series’ interest in the use of scripture in addressing “social
issues”, this volume aims to show how key theological figures chose and inter-
preted scripture when engaging the Roman-Hellenic world in which they
lived. With so much important work being done today in scriptural exegesis,
it is essential to show how the ancient Church used the bible in formulating
both doctrinal as well as political positions. This volume thus draws from a
wide range of academic experts to meet this important need: to understand
what biblical passages were being used in the Church’s first days, how were
they being interpreted, and toward what end were they being cited by those
early theologians looking to shape society. As such, this collection of essays
is evenly divided into three main sections: the earliest convergences between
ecclesia and empire, the next chronological series of developments (2nd and
3rd century), the more precise questions of social harmony as a Christian
Introduction 5

seeks to live authentically in this world, and the inestimable effect Augustine
of Hippo had on this trajectory.
Nicole Kelley from The Florida State University opens the pages of this
volume with her examination of how the second century Acts of Peter and
Acts of Pontius Pilate were used to achieve, what she cleverly calls, the “inver-
sion and fragmentation” of Roman imperial power. That is, early Christians
employed the most advantageously useful texts (even those moderns might
consider apocryphal) they could in order to confront and challenge their
persecutors and detractors. In particular, Kelley shows how these two actae
were employed to generate a clearly Christian apologetic inquiring into the
nature and name of the world’s true sovereign. We come to see how utilizing
images and lines thought to be from the middle decades of the first century
forcefully argues that a regional governor, such as Pilate, has no natural right to
question, judge and inevitably condemn a King.
Another subversive theme emerging from these apocryphal texts is to
use the figure of Simon Magus to undercut non-Christian worship wherever
encountered in the Empire. By enlisting key Roman figures, such as the sena-
tor Marcellus (however generic or fictional), these texts aim to show that
those who refuse to bow to Christ are really bringing evil and sordid magic
into all echelons of Roman society. Associating symbols of Rome’s greatness
with sorcerers and diviners, Christians thus began a literary campaign to show
not only the inadequacies of Roman worship, but even the degradation of the
bedrock of Roman culture. This created the space for the Christian apologist
to show that the relationship between Jesus and his followers effects the real
and everlasting power all are after, patronage and Romanitas now redefined as
Christian discipleship.
Jonathan Yates is an assistant professor of historical theology at Villanova
University and the editor of Augustinian Studies. His essay examines the
extant evidence for the western reception of 1 Peter 2:13–17 between ca. 180 CE
(Irenaeus) and 430 CE (Augustine). In 1 Pet 2:13–17, one of these most radical
passages in all the New Testament regarding the Christian’s relationship to gov-
ernment, the author admonishes all Christians that they are to submit them-
selves to all rightful authorities. During the span of 250 years that he considers,
Yates analyzes the works of all the western authors—including those that are
anonymous—whose reflections can be shown to have been influenced by this
passage—whether that influence was intentional or unintentional. Yates’s
analysis shows that the early western Patristic authors used these verses only
rarely and that, even when they did so, it was in often contexts that were not
particularly political. In fact, the available evidence for western patristic read-
ings of 1 Pet 2:13–17 shows that it was not a particularly important passage
6 Introduction

for ­understanding these authors’ views of politics or what would come to be


called church and state relations. Less surprising is the conclusion that when
1 Pet 2:13–17 does appear it is frequently in close proximity (or, in some cases,
due to confusion) with either Rom 13:1–7, the words of Jesus, or both. Yates’s
study also demonstrates that whether it was intentional or intuitive, these
authors, not unlike modern commentators, were influenced by linguistic, the-
matic, and theological similarities that exist between 1 Pet 2:13–17 and other
parts of the New Testament—a feature that, at least for the patristic authors,
was almost certainly compelled by their assumptions regarding congruence in
both content and doctrine between all constituent parts of the New Testament.
For these early patristic authors, to be fully faithful to the freedom found in
Christ required that they imitate his apostles and willingly surrender that free-
dom in order to become Christ’s slave (cf., e.g., Rom 1:1; Gal 1:10; 1 Pet 2:16);
however, as Yates writes, the fact “that this submission to Christ also entailed
a secondary submission to the various political powers that dominated their
worlds [as described by 1 Peter] was sometimes worth discussing, but only
occasionally and only secondarily.”
Saint Meinrad Seminary and School of Theology’s Clayton N. Jefford uses the
Apostolic Constitutions to argue that this text’s editor drew from the Didache
to advance a theological vision of the world interspersed with Arian tenden-
cies. By downplaying the divinity of the Son and the unique way the Father
acts alone in the ongoing formation of world events, Apostolic Constitutions 7,
especially, could claim that there is a heavenly power at work which clearly
transcends the dominance and domain of the emperor. Jefford thus shows the
struggle for power represented by an absolute canon of scripture, an irrevoca-
ble means for establishing universal principles by which the Christian people
would be governed. As he shows, the Constitutions are most likely the result
of a fourth century compilation, bringing together such foundational Church
order texts as the Didascalia apostolorum, Didache, Apostolic Tradition, and
Clementine Liturgy. It is intriguing to see how Constitutions 7 itself provides
a unique insight into the struggle for power by the formation of a scriptural
canon, a struggle one sees herein through various Christological and ecclesio-
logical concerns.
The second set of essays traces the more important movements from the
beginnings of the canon’s formation to the earliest applications of scripture
when engaging very practical concerns of the 2nd and 3rd centuries. For
instance, Geoffrey D. Dunn of the Australian Catholic University turns to
Tertullian to show how early Christians understood imperial military duty.
Known as the father of Latin Christianity, Tertullian laid many foundational
principles by which Christians came to understand how they should act within
Introduction 7

the Roman Empire. One very pressing concern was the moral question of serv-
ing as an imperial soldier. In good conscience, could Christians serve in the
Roman army or would the attendant obligations of imperial oaths necessarily
constitute a grievous act of idolatry?
Sometime in the second century, a Christian soldier refuses to don the impe-
rial garland, indicative of his military service. In so doing he raises awareness
of his creedal conviction, and is pilloried by some for being irresponsible in
that now all might again be persecuted. What, after all, is a piece of relatively
simple attire? Dunn accordingly traces the history of this question, by closely
examining the Carthaginian Tertullian’s De Corona. Dunn’s concern through-
out is not whether Tertullian thought Christians could defend their country or
not, but whether Roman inscription necessarily constituted idolatry through
the swearing of secular oaths and the wearing of non-Christian items, such
as the Roman garland or corona. In laying out his argument, Dunn adroitly
shows how scripture is employed rhetorically in Tertullian in ways and with
questions the authors of scripture never needed to busy themselves.
Next comes Wheaton College’s Associate Dean of Biblical and Theological
Studies and Professor of Theology. D. Jeffrey’s Bingham’s study shows how
Irenaeus of Lyons concerns himself with a theory of government only in so
far as it relates to his polemic for the one true God. Despite Satan’s claim to
the kingdoms of this world, Irenaeus argues that Jesus, by reference to the Old
Testament, puts forth a counter claim. The one Creator-Father alone ordains
human governments. He does this as a concession to humanity’s refusal to
fear him. These governments exist to structure justice after God’s own just
nature, and though they, because of their fallibility, may not always succeed,
God, through the totality of his means, accomplishes justice. Irenaeus’s the-
ory shows both continuity and originality with his predecessors’ reading of
Scripture and theological construction.
Among the earliest anti-Christian pieces of graffiti is the notorious
Alexamenos grafitto. This was discovered on the Palatine Hill and depicts a don-
key being crucified with a simpleton Christian named Alexamenos at prayer
before such a sight. For when Christianity encountered the Graeco-Roman
world one of the central Christian truths the gentile world could hardly com-
prehend was the “weakness” of a God-made-flesh. This comes through per-
haps nowhere more poignantly than in the second century Greek philosopher,
Celsus. To illuminate this exchange, Notre Dame’s Roberto De La Noval takes
up the “Weak God of the Gospels” in Origen’s Contra Celsum. Here we learn
how Origen relied on the kenosis of the Christ to show not only the power of
God, but the meaning of a noble death, as well as the goodness of the human
race for whom the eternal Word became an enfleshed mortal.
8 Introduction

Non-Christian philosophers like Celsus could not imagine a God who would
become weak for the sake of sinful mortals. A true deity defeats reliance and
rejection, not assume them to himself. Origen accordingly uses the passion
and crucifixion of Christ to show Celsus that such encounters with evil do not
bespeak weakness pure and simple but a voluntary weakness originating out
of love and ordered to ultimate victory. In this way, God does not only show
mercy to sinners, he provides the space in which all are welcome to come and
participate in his own perfect power by first embracing the humility of the
incarnate Logos. In this way, God’s kenosis becomes our theosis.
The third set of articles covers how scripture is used to address particular
views of social cohesion when various social groups must live side by side.
Greenville College’s Benjamin Wayman examines Diodore of Tarsus’ com-
mentary on Psalm 2 and shows that for Diodore, the politic established by
the crucified King is a cruciform kingdom. This subversive politic was some-
thing of a commonplace in Christian antiquity, which Wayman illustrates
by way of Ambrose and Athanasius. He therefore contends that fourth-
century Christians in the west and east were similarly occupied in resisting the
imperial claims of the state, insisting instead that Christ is king, not Caesar.
That Christ reigns as king over all was a commonplace celebration for the
early Christians but how Christ’s (what Wayman calls) “cruciform politic” was
manifested differently from an imperial polity of domination and suppression
was key. Here Diodore used Psalm 2 to contrast a true kingdom of peace and
justice over and against governments under such rulers as Herod and Pilate to
show how God reigns more cohesively and efficiently through justice and char-
ity than through violence.
Wayman also enlists Athanasius of Alexandria as well as Ambrose of Milan
to show what a cruciform politic looks like in other fourth century theologians.
What sets Diodore apart, however, is his intricate use of the psalms as well as
a mature pro-Chalcedonian Christology to show that the Son of God and the
Son of Mary coalesce perfectly in the new king of Israel, Jesus the Christ, who is
also perfect God and the perfect man in whom all other men and women now
find their truest identity. Wayman thus sets out to show how this tapestry of
biblical interpretation, constructive Christology, and pastoral practice emerge
not only in Diodore’s theology, even in his political machinations against Julian
the Apostate and his role as one of God’s bishops in the emperor’s world.
Alden Bass considers the Donatist interpretation “the law” in Romans 2:14 in
the context of the many legal disputes which dogged the dissident Church. The
Donatists are frequently represented as an anti-imperial or even antinomian
sect, yet Bass writes that Donatists did not simply reject Roman law outright,
but found a place for it within the scope of salvation history. Concentrating
Introduction 9

on the Pauline commentary in Tyconius’ Book of Rules, he argues that the


Donatists held a nuanced view of the law built on the eschatological dualism
of Paul’s epistles. Characterizing imperial laws as inherently violent and coer-
cive, the Donatists defined themselves as those who willingly suffered under
the law in the present age. The law’s lash serves to mortify the flesh—literally
in the case of the martyrs—and push believers toward the coming spiritual
age, when corporeal disciples will no longer be necessary. Unlike “carnal”
humans, who are enslaved by fear of the law, “the righteous” understand the
present necessity of the law’s discipline, through which God works in the lives
of his people. By drawing on the historical suffering of Donatists under the law,
Bass reminds us that “law” was not merely an abstract political or theological
concept, but a threat to the lives of real men and women.
Franciscan University’s Stephen Hildebrand then inquires into how the
Church Fathers understood the Lord’s invitation to the rich young man in each
of the synoptic Gospels (Mt 19:16–30; Mk 10:17–31; Lk 18:18–30) to sell all he has
and to come and follow Jesus and his other disciples. Hildebrand examines
the glosses on this lengthy scene written by Clement of Alexandria, Basil of
Caesarea, and Augustine of Hippo. Through Hildebrand’s eyes, then, we see
how each gospel author brings his own nuance to this riveting scene, while
each Church Father brings his own historical, social, and theological context
to the gospel passage.
In juxtaposing these three major patristic thinkers, Hildebrand shows the
subtle tendencies each Father uses to draw out what he thinks most important
from this passage: Clement seeks to save the rich of his day by showing them
the importance of this gospel, Basil relies on it to exhort his congregation to
greater almsgiving, and Augustine makes his classic distinction between uti
and frui to get his hearers to use all things to enjoy God alone. The open-ended
nature of this popular pericope thus allowed each Churchman to use the story
to achieve the end for which he sensed his congregations most needed at
the time.
Three essays treating the perennial figure of Saint Augustine of Hippo
(d. 430) round out this volume, as no one single figure has done more to influ-
ence how the Christian scriptures are to be understood and used when con-
fronting the larger problems of human society. Melanie Webb, of Princeton
Theological Seminary, examines how Augustine explained the ever-sorrowful
reality of suicide, especially as it found expression in the history of the Roman
empire’s legendary matron Lucretia who was raped by the son of the Roman
king, Sextus Tarquinius, and then dutifully took her own life so as to avoid social
stigmatization. With the Visigoths’ sack of Rome in 410, refugees who fled or
were taken captive and later released came en masse to Hippo where the great
10 Introduction

Bishop sought to comfort them and assure them that this travesty was not the
result of some divine wrath. Yet as the fires settled into ashes, the questions of
suicide, rape, guilt, pardon and the wonder if suicide was ever salvific became
unavoidable. To answer these questions, City of God relies on many scriptural
exemplars in whom Augustine finds theological and pastoral models. Webb
convincingly shows that Augustine refuses to think the living can know for
sure who is guilty of his or her own death—“commendable or condemnable”,
as she puts it. Augustine is confident that rape does not compromise the
victim’s chastity, but on the question of anyone’s guilt in subsequent suicide,
he remains agnostic.
Both his confidence and his agnosticism are coordinated towards interrupt-
ing the cycle of violence against women propagated through the Roman and
Roman Christian exemplarity traditions. His intervention is grounded not only
in scriptural commandments (“do not kill”) but also in scriptural narratives
that engage the reader in interpretive judgments regarding the applicability
of those commandments in different scenarios. Webb examines Augustine’s
Roman and Roman Christian predecessors as well as Augustine’s reliance
on the narratives of Abraham, Samson, and Jephthah in the opening book
of City of God in order to explore how he undermines the belittling associ-
ated with life after rape without shaming the women who have already killed
themselves in response to rape. The result is a compelling reconsideration of
Augustine’s views on suicide and the specific social and moral functions of his
arguments regarding suicide in the aftermath of the sack of Rome.
The next essay comes from Joseph Capizzi from The Catholic University of
America. Capizzi shows how Augustine engaged the images of “friend” and
“servant” in John 15 and in the Epistle to Philemon to show how the notion of
friendship was finally freed from rigid social stratifications and understood to
be a divine gift from God to all his people. As such, in Augustine’s reading of
these important parts of scripture, a slave can be transformed through God’s
grace into both friend and brother. In the first half of this essay, Capizzi looks at
the institution of servanthood within early Christian society and then turns to
Augustine’s theories of friendship and slavery. Augustine transforms a largely
Aristotelian and Ciceronian theory of friendship from a bond brought about
by socio-political exigencies into a form of unifying affection achieved through
God’s love and grace.
This is one of Augustine’s many ways of envisioning the practical impact
of the Christian life. If God himself can call mere creatures friends as at John 15,
the original pagan distance between master and slave has been abolished
in the humility of the incarnation. Yet, while Augustine cannot bring himself
to condemn slavery pure and simple, his Christological contextualization does
Introduction 11

temper the utter abuse and dehumanization of many within the Empire itself.
It is precisely his doctrine on friendship that allows Augustine to be relatively
forward-thinking in eradicating the subjugation of others for the gain of soci-
ety’s elite.
Finally, my essay shows how Augustine’s use and appreciation of Romans
13:1 softened over his years of civic involvement. So, when Augustine reads that
there is no authority that has not been ordained so by God (potestas nisi a Deo
quae autem sunt a Deo ordinatae sunt), he easily distinguished between the
potestas of the state and the ordo of God. Early on in his thinking Augustine
seems to embrace a greater symbiosis between God’s way and the state’s, but
that eventually ceased, especially as he himself seasoned as both a civil partici-
pant and representative.
That is, a less seasoned Augustine appears rather optimistic that secular rul-
ers could instill a divine order in society. Yet, as this essay shows, as Augustine
aged serving as priest and bishop, his enthusiasm for the state’s role in assisting
the Church’s mission to Christianize all peoples waned. For later in life he came
to see how the state could offer no sanctifying ordo but impose only crush-
ing potestas. Focusing on Augustine’s various expositions and uses of Rom 13:1
and St. Paul’s instructing Christians to be obedient to rightful authorities, we
come to learn that Augustine never demands that his flock disregard their civil
leaders. He simply loses any confidence that the state could assist in the order
needed for human souls to live in this world rightly. In this way, Augustine
of Hippo represents a long line of thoughtful and evangelical Christian think-
ers who sought to study sacred scripture well in order to address the secular
struggles which surrounded them.

David Vincent Meconi, S.J.


Saint Louis University
Feast of St. Peter Chrysologus, 2015
Section 1
The Canonical Beginnings


chapter 1

The Fragmentation and Inversion of Empire


in the Christian Apocryphal Acts

Nicole Kelley

1 Introduction

In the fifth-century Book of the Cock, Jesus resurrects the rooster that had
been cooked for the last supper and sends it to spy on Judas in Jerusalem. The
rooster reports back to Jesus, telling him that he saw Judas collect his reward
for betraying Jesus. He also reveals that Judas conspired with Saul of Tarsus,
who along with an armed retinue would soon take Jesus into custody. Jesus
grants the rooster a thousand-year stay in heaven for his services.1 Though this
story might sound bizarre to some, it was hardly unusual in its day. Christian
authors in the ancient world frequently created fantastic narratives based on
characters and episodes from the first century CE.
In much of the history of scholarship, Christian apocryphal stories have
been judged mainly on the basis of their connections to earlier traditions.
Late and obviously legendary accounts such as the Book of the Cock have, in
general, been valued less than texts with more direct connections to Christian
origins (such as the Gospel of Thomas). Only in recent years have scholars
begun to prefer the designation “Christian apocrypha” to the older category
“New Testament apocrypha,” which implied an anachronistic distinction
between canonical and non-canonical texts and suggested that later Christian
texts were to be judged on the basis of their relation to the New Testament.2

1  Pierluigi Piovanelli, “Exploring the Ethiopic ‘Book of the Cock’, An Apocryphal Passion
Gospel from Late Antiquity,” HTR 96.4 (2003) 427–454. See also Pierluigi Piovanelli, “Livre du
Coq,” in Pierre Geoltrain and Jean-Daniel Kaestli, eds., Écrits apocryphes chrétiens, volume 2
(Bibliothèque de la Pléiade 516; Paris: Gallimard, 2005), 135–203.
2  
Wilhelm Schneemelcher’s introductory words in the sixth edition of New Testament
Apocrypha are typical of the older approach: “New Testament Apocrypha are writings which
in some way, be it in terms of their form or of their content, stand in some relationship with
the writings of the New Testament.” Wilhelm Schneemelcher, “General Introduction,” in
New Testament Apocrypha, Volume One: Gospels and Related Writings, ed. E. Hennecke and
W. Schneemelcher and trans. R. McL. Wilson (Revised edition based on the sixth German edi-
tion; Cambridge, UK: James Clarke & Co Ltd, 1991), 51. It should be noted that Schneemelcher

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_003


16 Kelley

This rejection of a confessional framework does not mean, of course, that


scholars should not closely examine the relationship between Christian apoc-
ryphal works and the traditions and texts their authors regarded as authorita-
tive. But we must regard late antiquity as an important period of Christian
history in its own right, and treat apocryphal texts as significant witnesses
to that era rather than dim reflections of the bright light of the first century. To
that end, this essay looks at various apocryphal texts’ use of earlier traditions,
but I propose to examine how the apocrypha appropriate traditional materials
to speak to concerns in their own times, rather than attempting to separate the
“wheat” of earliest Christian tradition from the “chaff” of the late antique or
early medieval world.
Specifically, I want to look more closely at one scene from the second-century
Acts of Peter and another scene from the later Acts of Pilate, exploring them
as examples of what Bruce Lincoln has called “strategic tinkering with the
past”3—that is, a community’s deployment of stories about its past in order
to “confront and reshape their present moment.”4 These ancient Christian
narratives fall into two categories, one dramatizing the inversion of Roman
imperial power, and the other involving the dramatic, if figurative, fragmen-
tation of Roman imperial power. Both narratives, I would suggest, are using
images of inversion and fragmentation to “tinker with the past” and, in so
doing, employing bits of the Christian myth of origins as tools in more con-
temporary ideological contests. My procedure will be to describe the apocry-
phal episode, to discuss the traditional materials that are being recast in the
later retelling, and then to give a reasonably plausible interpretation of why
the apocryphal text is appropriating these earlier materials as it does.

2 The Imperial Standards in the Acts of Pilate

New Testament scholars have long pointed out that Pilate becomes more reluc-
tant to convict Jesus—and the Jews conversely become more culpable for Jesus’
death—as we move from the earliest account of the passion narrative (Mark)
to the latest (John). This trend continues well beyond the first century, with
Pilate eventually becoming a Christian sympathizer and apologist. According

regards this as an inadequate definition for the apocrypha, but he does generally frame the
discussion in terms of the relationship between apocryphal and canonical texts.
3  Bruce Lincoln, Discourse and the Construction of Society: Comparative Studies of Myth, Ritual,
and Classification (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), 21.
4  Lincoln, Discourse and the Construction of Society, 28, 32.
The Fragmentation and Inversion of Empire 17

to the Gospel of Peter and the Didascalia, it was Herod rather than Pilate who
gave the order for Jesus’ crucifixion.5 Many Christian authors did not go this far,
but some did suggest that the Christian versions of Jesus’ life and death could
be corroborated by texts Pilate himself had written. Justin Martyr is the first to
refer to the “acts of Pontius Pilate” (First Apol. 35.9, 48.3), and Tertullian men-
tions letters written by Pilate, whom he describes as “a Christian in his own
convictions,” to Tiberius (Tertullian, Apol. 5, 21). Conversely, Eusebius knows
of “memoirs of Pilate,” written by pagans and hostile to Christians, that were
circulated during the reign of the persecuting emperor Maximin Daia (Hist.
Eccl. 9.5.1, 9.7.1). No such writings have survived, if indeed some of them ever
existed, and the surviving Acts of Pilate derives from texts that originated no
earlier than the fourth century.6 Nevertheless, we can say with some certainty
that the figure of Pilate, and the story of Jesus’ trial before Pilate, figured prom-
inently in Christian attempts to defend themselves against both pagan and
Jewish criticisms.
The extant Acts of Pilate, an elaborate and dramatic account of Jesus’ trial
before Pilate, builds upon the familiar Gospel narratives but adds a number
of specific details and episodes not found in those earlier accounts. The text
begins with a prologue written by one Ananias, who claims to have searched
for and found “reports made . . . in the time of our Lord Jesus Christ which
the Jews committed to writing under Pontius Pilate,” and to have translated
them from the Hebrew original during the reign of the Emperor Theodosius II
(408–450). The account of the trial purports to be written by (the Johannine
character) “Nicodemus [who], after the passion of the Lord upon the cross,

5  Both Gos. Pet. 1–2 and Didascalia 5.19.4 refer to the hand-washing episode in Matthew 27.25
in explaining that Herod, not Pilate, sentenced Jesus to death.
6  Nearly 20 years ago, G.W.H. Lampe could declare with confidence that “It is probable that
an official record of the trial of Jesus before Pilate was made at the time and preserved.”
I am less sanguine about this possibility; Justin’s mention of the acts of Pilate may well be
a literary fiction. G.W.H. Lampe, “The trial of Jesus in the Acta Pilati,” in E. Bammel and
C.F.D. Moule, Jesus and the Politics of His Day (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press,
1984), 173–82, here 173. The Acts of Pilate (Acta Pilati) and Jesus’ Descent into Hell (Descensus
ad infernos) together constitute the two distinct halves of the Gospel of Nicodemus, which
exists in a variety of forms. For a discussion of the difficulties associated with the titles of
episodes belonging to the Pilate cycle, see Zbigniew Izydorczyk, ed., The Medieval Gospel of
Nicodemus: Texts, Intertexts, and Contexts in Western Europe (Medieval & Renaissance Texts
& Studies 158; Tempe, AZ: Arizona State University Press, 1997), 1–9; and G.C. O’Ceallaigh,
“Dating the Commentaries of Nicodemus,” HTR 56.1 (1963), 21–58, esp. 23–28.
18 Kelley

recorded and delivered concerning the conduct of the chief priests and the
rest of the Jews.”7
The casting of the Acts of Pilate as a product of “Jewish knowledge”—that
is, a text written by one Jew and discovered/translated by another Jew—is an
example of what Andrew Jacobs has called “a totalizing production of knowl-
edge about the dangerous heretical ‘others’ of Christian identity, [that] so
effectively makes use of the figure of the Jew as the entirely knowable and sub-
jectable sign.”8 In other words, the figures of Ananias and Nicodemus provide
Christian readers with “Jewish knowledge” that reinforces their own claims to
power.9
As one might guess, Nicodemus’ account of the conduct of the chief priests
and scribes during Jesus’ trial reveals that they have behaved badly. They—and
here they are not an undifferentiated mob but an assembly of individually-
named leaders—appear before Pilate and accuse Jesus of a litany of things:
he is Joseph’s son; he claims to be “the Son of God and a king”; he “pollutes the
sabbath and wishes to destroy the law of our fathers” (mainly by healing people
through sorcery). They ask Pilate to bring Jesus to trial, but Pilate replies, “Tell
me! How can I, a governor, examine a king?” The prefect’s question telegraphs
the conviction he will have by the end of the narrative. Pilate sends his mes-
senger to fetch Jesus “with gentleness,” and the messenger, upon meeting Jesus,
spreads his kerchief on the ground and says “Lord, walk on this and go in, for
the governor calls you.” After Pilate and the Jews discuss the appropriateness
of the messenger’s actions, Jesus enters the praetorium, and the images of the
emperor on the standards “bow and do reverence to Jesus.” Jesus remains silent
as Pilate converses with the Jews, who assert that the standard-bearers had
voluntarily lowered the standards, and the standard-bearers, who insist that
the images on the standards “bowed down of their own accord and reverenced
him.” Pilate wisely suggests a do-over. He tells the Jews, “Choose strong men
to carry the standards, and let us see whether the images bow by themselves.”

7  Translations of the Acts of Pilate are from Felix Scheidweiler, “The Gospel of Nicodemus:
Acts of Pilate and Christ’s Descent into Hell,” in Wilhelm Schneemelcher, New Testament
Apocrypha I: Gospels and Related Writings (Revised Edition; trans. R. McL. Wilson; Louisville,
KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1991), 505–21. This is, presumably, the Nicodemus men-
tioned in John 3.1 as a Pharisee and a “leader of the Jews”—a literary fiction to lend credence
to the narrative and, perhaps, to make the story’s anti-Jewish sentiment that much more
damning.
8  Andrew S. Jacobs, Remains of the Jews: The Holy Land and Christian Empire in Late Antiquity
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004), 50.
9  Jacobs, Remains of the Jews, 50. In context, Jacobs is discussing an episode of Epiphanius’
Panarion that features a Jewish convert to Christianity named Joseph.
The Fragmentation and Inversion of Empire 19

(They do.) The Jews are apparently unmoved by this display, attributing it to
Jesus’ skill as a sorcerer, but Pilate becomes afraid.
This episode with the bowing standards is not found in any other account
of Jesus’ trial, but it may well be a nod in the direction of an incident early
in Pilate’s career. It is one of three separate episodes that Josephus describes,
all involving conflict between the Judean prefect and his subjects. According
to Josephus, Pilate brought standards containing images of the emperor into
Jerusalem “by night and under cover.” When the Judeans discovered this, they
assembled en masse in Caesarea and demanded that Pilate remove the stan-
dards from Jerusalem. Pilate refused, and the Jews “fell prostrate around his
house” and remained motionless for five days and nights. Pilate summoned
his soldiers, and threatened to execute the Jews if they persisted. Josephus
reports, “the Jews, as by concerted action, flung themselves in a body on the
ground, extended their necks, and exclaimed that they were ready rather to
die than to transgress the law. Overcome with astonishment at such intense
religious zeal, Pilate gave orders for the immediate removal of the standards
from Jerusalem.”10
What, exactly, might it mean for the Acts of Pilate—which probably origi-
nated some time between the late 4th and 6th centuries—to adapt this tra-
dition involving Pilate and the presence of imperial standards in Jerusalem?
What function does the scene serve in a famously anti-Jewish text that was
written and circulated in an era of imperial Christianity?11 My starting-point
when answering these questions is to think of the Acts of Pilate as re-presenting
(or, as Lincoln puts it, “tinkering with”) the Christian myth of origins, in order to
make a series of ideological points germane to the late antique environment.12
Lincoln points out that groups can invoke myths to very different ends. An

10  Josephus, Jewish War 2.9.2–3; see also Ant. 18.3.1. Translation from H. St. J. Thackeray,
Josephus: The Jewish War, Books I–III (Reprint ed.; LCL 203; Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1989). Earlier in the passage Josephus mistakenly refers to Pilate as a
procurator. On the difference between Roman prefects, who ruled before the reign
of Herod Agrippa I (41–44 CE), and procurators who ruled Palestine after his tenure
ended, see Raymond E. Brown, The Death of the Messiah: From Gethsemane to the Grave;
A Commentary on the Passion Narratives in the Four Gospels, Volume One (New York:
Doubleday, 1994), 677–79.
11  On the term “imperial Christianity” see Jacobs, Remains of the Jews, 1–20. See also Seth
Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 BCE to 640 CE (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 2001).
12  My understanding of “myth” here is drawn from Bruce Lincoln, who describes it as “ideol-
ogy in narrative form.” In other words, myth is a story that is authoritative and can be used
to shape society; the term “myth” is not a comment about the story’s historicity (or lack
20 Kelley

authoritative story that is repeated frequently by those in power can be used


to maintain the societal status quo. Others might “contest the authority or
credibility of a given myth, reducing it to the status of history or legend,” in
order to limit its sociopolitical power; or put forward their own competing
story in an attempt to claim it as an authoritative myth; or “they can advance
novel lines of interpretation for an established myth or modify details in its
narration and thereby change the nature of the sentiments (and the society) it
evokes.”13
One important trend during this time period was the ascendancy of imperial
Christianity and its correlative, the “progressive marginalization of the Jews.”14
This marginalization took many forms, including legal and social, though
surviving textual and archaeological evidence suggests that the situation was
rather complex and varied.15 A second, related feature of the Mediterranean
world during this time period was intense competition and conflict among
different religious groups. Frequently, the contestation took the form of rival
interpretations of myth. The so-called “anthropomorphite controversy,” for
example, featured Christians with rival interpretations of the creation story
in the biblical book of Genesis.16 When Christians engaged in such ideological
contests with Jews or pagans, however, the topic of conversation was frequently
the story of Jesus’ life and death. The apocryphal second-century text known
as the Infancy Gospel of James provides a detailed account of the miraculous
birth and early life of Jesus’ mother Mary, culminating in the miraculous con-
ception and birth of Jesus. Although scholars are divided on what, ultimately,
might have been the purpose of the narrative, it is clear that some elements of
the text are strongly apologetic, and designed to counter criticisms of Mary’s
sexual purity and the legitimacy of Jesus based upon the birth narratives in the

thereof). Bruce Lincoln, Theorizing Myth: Narrative, Ideology, and Scholarship (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1999), xii.
13  Lincoln, Discourse and the Construction of Society, 25.
14  Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 195.
15  “As the interests of the state became ever more closely identified with those of the church,
especially from the reign of Theodosius I on, the legal position of the Jews declined. They
increasingly suffered various disabilities: they were barred from service in the army and
the government bureaus, forbidden to own slaves and build synagogues, and so on. As
early as the later fourth century, imperial constitutions might classify (licit) Jews with
(illicit) heretics and pagans for limited purposes. By the early sixth century, this occa-
sional similarity of status was approaching identity.” Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish
Society, 186.
16  Paul A. Patterson, Visions of Christ: The Anthropomorphite Controversy of 399 CE (Tübingen:
Mohr Siebeck, 2012).
The Fragmentation and Inversion of Empire 21

Gospels of Matthew and Luke. Similarly, Origen’s third-century treatise Against


Celsus addresses (among other things) the criticisms of Jesus’ birth leveled by
the Epicurean Celsus in his True Doctrine.
Such competing interpretations of Jesus’ life continued well into late antiq-
uity. The Toledot Yeshu, an “assortment of Jewish anti-Gospels” with a com-
plex history of transmission,17 reveal that Jews at least as far back as the third
century took issue with a number of features of the Christian myth of Jesus’
birth, life, trial, and death. Now-familiar elements of the Toledot Yeshu include
the following: Jesus was the illegitimate son of Mary and the Roman soldier
Joseph Panthera; Jesus’ miraculous powers were the result of sorcery; Jesus’
body was stolen and the disciples mistakenly (or knowingly) claimed that he
was resurrected.
Pierluigi Piovanelli has noted the connections between these Toledot
Yeshu traditions and what he calls the “sudden explosion of Christian apoc-
ryphal texts” dealing with the trial, death, and resurrection of Jesus from the
4th through 6th centuries.”18 Parallel, competing narratives emerge not only
in the Acts of Pilate, but in other works such as the Book of the Cock and the
Book of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ by Bartholomew the Apostle. Such texts,
he argues, allow us to witness “a polemical debate . . . carried out through the
medium of popular, oral retellings of the gospels.”19
Most of the attention given to these texts, understandably, has focused on
the events of Jesus’ crucifixion, the Christian claims of his resurrection, and
the Jewish counter-claims of the removal of Jesus’ body. It seems, however,
that little attention has been paid to the incident involving Pilate and the stan-
dards that I mentioned above. I would like to suggest that the addition of this
episode by the Acts of Pilate should likewise be read as a competitive, indeed
polemical, modification of the details in the Christian myth of origins. I want to
highlight three effects of this particular modification. First, this episode greatly
amplifies Pilate’s reluctance to convict Jesus, which is present in one degree or
another in all accounts, transforming the trial scene into a display of the

17  Hillel I. Newman, “The Death of Jesus in the Toledot Yeshu Literature,” JTS 50.1 (1999),
59–79, here 59. Newman places the literary creation of texts in the Toledot Yeshu tradition
between the fourth and ninth centuries CE but readily acknowledges that oral traditions
can be traced back further, especially in light of the writings of Tertullian and Origen.
On the transmission history see Riccardo Di Segni, “La tradizione testuale delle Toledòth
Jéshu: manoscritti, edizioni a stampa, classificazione,” La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 50
(1984): 83–100.
18  Piovanelli, “Toledot Yeshu,” 99–100.
19  Piovanelli, “Toledot Yeshu,” 99–100.
22 Kelley

governor’s deference and solicitude toward the real king, Jesus. The spatial ele-
ment should not be overlooked here, either. Just as Perpetua’s father, when he
throws himself at her feet and addresses her as domina, signals an abrupt rever-
sal of hierarchy in the Martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicitas, so too the bowing of
the emperor’s image in front of Jesus suggests that Tiberius is not the ultimate
sovereign.20 This recognition of Jesus as king by Roman imperial officials always
made sense as a fantasy for early Christians, but it is certainly fitting in an era
of imperial Christianity.21 Second, the addition of the episode of the standards
allows the author to recast the meaning of Jesus’ appearance before Pilate. In
this version of the passion narrative, Jesus is not betrayed by his closest friends
and brought by armed guards before the prefect. He isn’t even arrested.22
Instead, Jesus is brought “with gentleness” before Pilate and treated like a king
by Pilate’s messenger. Third, the episode with the standards intensifies the
already-negative character of the Jewish opposition to Jesus in the Gospel pas-
sion narratives. They are represented as querulous, wishing to prosecute Jesus
for healing people and arguing with every point of Pilate’s procedure in the
trial. They are also represented as (figuratively) blind, because they cannot see
what is plainly evidence of Jesus’ divinity in the form of the bowing standards.
To this end, the text contains two irony-laden scenes. The first occurs when the
Jews must say aloud the words spoken when Jesus entered Jerusalem: “Save
now, thou that art in the highest. Blessed is he that comes in the name of the
Lord” (Acts of Pilate 1.4).23 The second occurs when the Jews replace both of
Pilate’s standard-bearers with twelve of their own men, who stand—six men
to a standard—before Pilate’s seat of judgment. Despite their best efforts, they
are unable to prevent the images on the standards from bowing before Jesus;

20  Judith Perkins, The Suffering Self: Pain and Narrative Representation in the Early Christian
Era (London and New York: Routledge, 1995), 107.
21  Consider Tertullian’s statement in Apology 21.24: “All these things Pilate did to Christ;
and now in fact a Christian in his own convictions, he sent word of him to the reigning
Caesar, who was at the time Tiberius. Yes, and the Caesars too would have believed in
Christ, if either the Caesars had not been necessary for the world, or if Christians could
have been Caesars.” Jacobs, Remains of the Jews, 6: “The Christian world from the reign
of Constantine to Justinian was a world in which power was under constant negotiation
and contention. The creation of imperial Christianity was a delicate and variable process,
permeated and structured by language about power and domination.”
22  Pilate convicts Jesus by saying, “Therefore I have decreed that you should be . . . hanged on
the cross in the garden where you were seized” in Acts of Pilate 9.5. There is, however, no
corresponding narrative of Jesus’ arrest.
23  Matthew Z. Heintzelman, “The Acts of Pilate as an Isolating Force in the Frankfurt Passion
Play of 1493,” (PhD dissertation, University of Chicago, 2000), 36.
The Fragmentation and Inversion of Empire 23

the ironic twist is, of course, that the Jews are the ones holding the standards
when they make their obeisance to Jesus.
The incident with the standards—and, indeed, the entire Acts of Pilate—has
been discussed in terms of a quarrel over the divinity of Jesus. G.W.H. Lampe’s
assessment is a good example: “Jesus is a defendant in a trial which is purely
Roman throughout; Herod plays no part. Yet the charges are religious. Kingship
appears only as one aspect of divine Sonship, though the Acts follow the
Gospels in making Pilate sentence Jesus because his nation has ‘convicted him
as a king’. The real issue is Christ’s blasphemous claim to divinity, to which
other charges are secondary.”24 I agree that Jesus’ claim to divine status is at
issue here; I would also agree with Lampe that the issues raised in Jesus’ trial
before Pilate are precisely the topics of later polemical exchanges between
Jews and Christians.25 I would insist, however, that disputes about theological
matters are always also contests over more tangible forms of capital such as
prestige and power. By offering a reworked version of Jesus’ trial before Pilate,
the Acts of Pilate is laying claim to more than just Jesus’ divinity. It is also using
an account purportedly written by a Jew to assert that Christians, in an empire
that is increasingly Christian, have divine power on their side. Although the
Acts of Pilate is no heresiological text, it does represent an example of the late
antique Christian creation of “a world of imperial religious authority through
new relational webs of knowledge and power” that involved the knowing and
thus the control of others such as “criminals, heretics, ‘pagans,’ ” and Jews.26

3 The Statue of Caesar in the Acts of Peter

Now let’s turn our attention to the Acts of Peter, another collection of Christian
apocryphal stories that makes use of first-century traditions in order to sit-
uate Christians in the religious and political climate of the later Roman
empire. The Acts of Peter, like the Acts of Pilate, is best described as a collec-
tion of traditions rather than a single text. These traditions have come down
to us in what Christine Thomas has described as a “vexing multiformity” of
manuscripts.27 By far the most significant witness is the Actus Vercellenses, a

24  Lampe, “Trial of Jesus,” 177.


25  Lampe, “Trial of Jesus,” 177.
26  Jacobs, Remains of the Jews, 25.
27  Christine M. Thomas, The Acts of Peter, Gospel Literature, and the Ancient Novel: Rewriting
the Past (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 10.
24 Kelley

sixth or seventh-century manuscript that contains an incomplete28 but exten-


sive and apparently faithful Latin translation of the original Greek, which was
made between 359 and 385 CE.29 The Vercelli text and the other extant wit-
nesses all date from the fourth century or later, when the scriptural status of
much of the modern New Testament canon was no longer in question. But
the majority of interpreters agree, mutatis mutandis, that the numerous late
antique textual witnesses—and the multiple redactional layers of the Actus
Vercellenses in particular—give us access to an older version of the Acts of Peter
that can be dated to the latter half of the second century CE.30
Though the Acts of Peter is perhaps best known as an expansion of the
dramatic encounter between Peter and Simon Magus in Acts 8:14–24, I want
to focus on the text’s adaptation of another early tradition not in the New
Testament: namely, the story of Marcus Granius Marcellus, who was procon-
sular governor of Bithynia from 14–15 CE. According to Tacitus’ Annals 1.74,
Marcellus was accused of treason by his quaestor, Caepio Crispinus: “He alleged
that Marcellus had retailed sinister anecdotes about Tiberius: a damning

28  The Actus Vercellenses preserves approximately two-thirds of the more complete text
available to the fourteenth-century church father Nicephorus, whose Stichometry
records that the Acts of Peter consisted of some 2750 lines. Schneemelcher, “Acts of Peter,”
NTA II.278; Thomas, Acts of Peter, 17; Léon Vouaux, Les Actes de Pierre (Paris: Letouzey et
Ané, 1922) 43–49, here 35–36.
29  Carl Schmidt, Die alten Petrusakten im Zusammenhang der apokryphen Apostelliteratur
nebst einem neuentdeckten Fragment (TU n.s. 9.1; Leipzig: J. Hinrichs, 1903); idem, “Studien
zu den alten Petrusakten,” ZKG 43 (1924) 321–48; idem, “Studien zu den alten Petrusakten: II.
Die Komposition,” ZKG 45 (1926) 481–513. On the dating and provenance of the Vercelli
text see Jan N. Bremmer, “Aspects of the Acts of Peter: Women, Magic, Place and Date,”
in The Apocryphal Acts of Peter: Magic, Miracles and Gnosticism, ed. Jan N. Bremmer
(Leuven: Peeters, 1998), 1–20, esp. 19–20; cf. C.H. Turner, “The Latin Acts of Peter,”
JTS 32 (1931), 119–33, esp. 119; and Carl Schmidt, “Zur Datierung der alten Petrusakten,”
ZNW 29 (1930), 150–55. Recently Matthew Baldwin has offered a novel but ultimately
unconvincing assessment of the place of the Actus Vercellenses in the evolution of the
Acts of Peter; see his Whose Acts of Peter? Text and Historical Context of the Actus
Vercellenses (WUNT 2.196; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005).
30  Bremmer, following the earlier judgment of Schmidt, suggests a somewhat later date for
the Greek Vorlage of the Actus Vercellenses in the last two decades of the second cen-
tury, the 190s being slightly more probable than the 180s. Schmidt, “Datierung,” 150–55;
Bremmer, “Aspects of the Acts of Peter,” 17–18. Cf. Gérard Poupon, “Les ‘Actes de Pierre’ et
leur remaniement,” ANRW 2.25/6 (1988), 4363–83, here 4378–82. Matthew C. Baldwin has
argued against this consensus position in Whose Acts of Peter?, but a majority of schol-
ars still maintain the existence of a connection between the Actus Vercellenses and the
second-century Acts of Peter.
The Fragmentation and Inversion of Empire 25

indictment, when the accuser selected the foulest qualities of the imperial
character, and attributed their mention to the accused.” A second witness
“added that Marcellus’ own statue was placed on higher ground than those
of the Caesars, while in another the head of Augustus had been struck off to
make room for the portrait of Tiberius.” Tacitus writes that this report infuri-
ated Tiberius so much that he “exclaimed that, in this case, he too would vote,
openly and under oath,—the object being to impose a similar obligation on
the rest.” One of the senators then shrewdly asked whether Tiberius was plan-
ning to make his views known before or after the senate vote (“In what order
will you register your opinion, Caesar? If first, I shall have something to follow:
if last of all, I fear I may inadvertently find myself on the other side”). At that
point Tiberius backed away from his seemingly coercive stance and, Tacitus
tells us, “voted for the acquittal of the defendant on the counts of treason. The
charge of embezzlement went before the appropriate commission.”31
The Acts of Peter likewise features a senator named Marcellus, who is
accused by the emperor of diverting funds for his own purposes, and who suf-
fers the unfortunate destruction of a statue of Caesar in the courtyard of his
house. There has been considerable discussion of Marcellus as an historical
person with possible ties to the early first-century Christian community; I will
not focus on those issues here.32 Instead, I want to explore how the Acts of

31  Tacitus, Histories, Books IV–V, Annals, Books I–III, trans. Clifford H. Moore and John
Jackson (LCL 249; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1931), 369–371. I have modi-
fied the translation very slightly. Suetonius, Tiberius 58 gives a slightly different account
of what seems to be the same event: “It was at about this time that a praetor asked him
whether he should have the courts convened to consider cases of lese-majesty; to which
he replied that the laws must be enforced, and he did enforce them most rigorously. One
man had removed the head from a statue of Augustus, to substitute that of another;
the case was tried in the senate, and since the evidence was conflicting, the witnesses
were examined by torture. After the defendant had been condemned, this kind of accusa-
tion gradually went so far that even such acts as these were regarded as capital crimes:
to beat a slave near a statue of Augustus, or to change one’s clothes there; to carry a ring
or coin stamped with his image into a privy or a brothel, or to criticize any word or act
of his. Finally, a man was put to death merely for allowing an honour to be voted him in
his native town on the same day that honours had previously been voted to Augustus.”
Suetonius, The Lives of the Caesars, Volume I, trans. J.C. Rolfe (LCL 31; Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1914).
32  On the question of the historical figure see Gerhard Ficker, Die Petrusakten: Beiträge zu
ihrem Verständnis (Leipzig: Barth, 1903), 38–39, 43–44; Thomas, Acts of Peter, 48–50, 87–91;
Ranon Katzoff, “Tacitus, Annales, I, 74: The Case of Granius Marcellus,” AJP 92.4 (1971),
680–84.
26 Kelley

Peter has adapted this episode, and ask how the modified story might have
functioned in Christian circles of the second century and later.
Marcellus is introduced into the narrative of the Acts of Peter in chapter 8,
shortly after Peter’s arrival in Rome. The Roman Christians tell Peter that
a senator named Marcellus is hosting Simon Magus at his house; this news
is particularly upsetting for the Christians, since Marcellus was an erstwhile
patron of their community and had just recently abandoned them after being
deceived by Simon:

No one was so wise among men as this Marcellus. All the widows who
hoped in Christ found refuge with him; all the orphans were fed by
him. . . . All the poor called Marcellus their patron, and his house was
called (the house) of pilgrims and of the poor. The emperor said to him,
‘I am keeping you out of every office, or you will plunder the provinces to
benefit the Christians’; and Marcellus replied, ‘All my goods are yours’;
but Caesar said to him, ‘They would be mine, if you kept them for me; but
now they are not mine, because you give them to whom you will and to
I know not what wretches.’33

This passage introduces Marcellus as an aristocratic benefactor of Christians,


but also as a person embedded in other patronage relationships—with all the
reciprocal obligations those entailed—as well. Gérard Poupon has pointed out
that Marcellus is here identified as a patron of the Christian community but
not a Christian believer; only later in chapter 10 is he portrayed as a(n apostate)
Christian. For Poupon, this divergence is an indication of editorial activity in
the Actus Vercellenses, and a reflection of a later concern for reintegrating the
lapsed into Christian communities.34 Poupon may well be right, but I would
observe that Marcellus’ patronage in Acts of Peter 8 is described in terms
not incompatible with a Christian identity. For instance, he is described by
the Roman Christians as having believed that he had spent his wealth for “the
knowledge of God.”35 In addition, Peter’s dramatic speech about the devil’s
temptations—which could have been prompted only by news of Marcellus’

33  Citations of the Acts of Peter in English translation are taken from Schneemelcher, “Acts of
Peter,” NTA II.285–321. I have modified the translation slightly.
34  Poupon, “Actes de Pierre,” 4374–77. Thomas points to the evolution of the Marcellus char-
acter in manuscripts other than the Actus Vercellenses; see Thomas, Acts of Peter, 91.
35  Marcellus’ lament in Acts of Peter 8 also calls to mind Acts 8.14–24 and the story of Simon
Magus, who famously tried to pay Peter and John in exchange for their ability to channel
the Holy Spirit.
The Fragmentation and Inversion of Empire 27

defection—concludes by calling Satan a “devouring wolf” who “would carry off


sheep which are not yours, but belong to Christ Jesus.” Neither of these textual
elements requires the interpretation that Marcellus is already a Christian, but
they do lend support to the possibility. Moreover, I see no direct evidence in
the Acts of Peter that Marcellus is to be classified as a polytheist, though one
could argue that this would be the default identification for a Roman senator
in the first or second century CE.36
However Marcellus is to be identified in chapter 8, he soon realizes the error
of his ways. The incident with the statue occurs in Acts of Peter 11, just after the
repentant Marcellus has begged forgiveness from Peter. It is worth quoting at
some length:

Peter . . . saw in the crowd a man half laughing, in whom was a most


wicked demon. And Peter said to him, ‘Whoever you are, who laughed,
show yourself openly to all who stand here.’ . . . Peter said, ‘You too, then,
whatever demon you may be, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, come
out of the young man and do him no harm; (and) show yourself to all
who stand here!’ And hearing this he left the young man; and he caught
hold of a great marble statue, which stood in the courtyard of the house,
and kicked it to pieces. Now it was a statue of Caesar. And when Marcellus
saw that he beat his forehead and said to Peter, ‘A great crime has been
committed; if Caesar hears of this through some busybody, he will punish
us severely.’ But Peter answered him, ‘I see you are not the man you were
just now; for you said you were ready to spend your whole fortune to save
your soul. But if you are truly repentant and believe in Christ with all your
heart, take (some) running water in your hands and pray to the Lord; then
sprinkle it in his name over the broken pieces of the statue, and it will be
restored as before.’ And Marcellus did not doubt, but believed with his
whole heart, and before taking the water in his hands he looked upwards
and said, ‘I believe in you, Lord Jesus Christ, for I am being tested by your
apostle Peter whether I truly believe in your holy name. Therefore I take
water in my hands, and in your name I sprinkle those stones, that the
statue may be restored as it was before. So, Lord, if it be your will that
I remain in the body and suffer nothing at Caesar’s hand, let this stone be
restored as it was before.’ And he sprinkled the water upon the stones,
and the statue was restored.

36  The “historical” Marcellus mentioned in Tacitus’ Annals would almost certainly have been
a polytheist, but this seems insufficient to require such a reading of the Acts of Peter.
28 Kelley

Modern scholars have interpreted this passage in strikingly different ways.


Judith Perkins and Helen Rhee understand the statue incident, and the Acts
of Peter more generally, as a challenge to the authority of the Roman empire.
According to Perkins, “The action of this scene deflates the constitutive power
surrounding the cult; it displays that with belief in the Lord and trust in his
leaders, the Imperial statue is in reality just ‘stones’ (lapides istos).”37 In her
view, the anti-imperial sentiment of this scene is very much in keeping with
the work as a whole.38 Rhee echoes Perkins’ interpretation, observing that the
statue incident “demythologizes Imperial power and challenges the authority
of the imperial cult and of the emperor himself.”39 Many scholars, in one way
or another, have adopted a similar line of interpretation.
Ann Graham Brock and Callie Callon, on the other hand, have interpreted
this passage as far more congenial to imperial power than Perkins and Rhee
have allowed. Brock notes the presence of numerous sympathetic political
officials throughout the text, and observes, “the act of restoring an imperial
statue to wholeness coheres well with what appears to be the overarching posi-
tive political portrayal at work in the Acts of Peter.”40 Callon’s recent article in
Harvard Theological Review is perhaps the most detailed analysis of the statue
incident to date. She follows Brock in arguing that the statue episode is “best
understood as an articulation of Christian accommodation to and engagement
with imperial rule and culture, and perhaps even as a means of demonstrating
non-hostility to the imperial cult.”41 Callon notes that most previous scholar-
ship seems to have overlooked the fact that neither Peter nor Marcellus was
responsible for the destruction of the imperial image—instead, a demon, who
is hostile to Peter and Marcellus as well as the imperial statue, is responsible.42
Indeed, as she argues, Peter and Marcellus are represented as showing “respect
for an image of the emperor in the act of restoring it. Perhaps the clearest

37  Perkins, Suffering Self, 132.


38  Perkins, Suffering Self, 133: The Acts of Peter “strikes out at the two central supports of any
political culture—deference to superior authority and the state religion.”
39  Helen Rhee, Early Christian Literature: Christ and Culture in the Second and Third Centuries
(London: Routledge, 2005), 178.
40  Ann Graham Brock, “Political Authority and Cultural Accommodation: Social Diversity
in the Acts of Paul and the Acts of Peter,” in The Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles: Harvard
Divinity School Studies, ed. François Bovon, Ann Graham Brock, and Christopher R.
Matthews (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 145–69, here 149–52. I am
grateful to Ann for providing me with a copy of her essay on very short notice.
41  Callie Callon, “Images of Empire, Imaging the Self: The Significance of the Imperial Statue
Episode in the Acts of Peter,” HTR 106.3 (2013), 1–25, here 10.
42  Callon, “Images of Empire,” 17.
The Fragmentation and Inversion of Empire 29

i­ndication that the community depicted in the Acts Pet. is accepting of impe-
rial rule is that the restoration of the statue is not only closely linked to, but in
a crucial way dependent on, Marcellus’ reintegration into the Christian com-
munity and faith.”43
I am inclined to follow Brock and Callon’s interpretations of this passage,
preferring to see it as an example of a Christian accommodation of impe-
rial rule rather than as an affront to it. I do, however, think that there is more
to be said about the matter of patronage in the Acts of Peter, especially as it
relates to the fragmentation and restoration of the imperial statue. As is well
known, patronage networks were the scaffolding upon which the political and
social workings of the Roman Empire were built. Patrons offered beneficia to
clients in the form of money, influence, and protection, and in return clients
“displayed gratia in the form of honor, loyalty, gifts or whatever favors the
patron might require.”44
Robert Stoops, who has written at length on the topic of patronage in the
Acts of Peter, argues that because the relationship between Christ and believers
is configured as a patron-client relationship, “the roles of human patrons must
be redefined.”45 He understands the subplot centered around Marcellus—the
only person in the text explicitly identified as a patron—as an integral part of
this redefinition. Specifically, the Marcellus storyline in the Acts of Peter “com-
bats the natural inclination to honor the wealthy” since it highlights Marcellus’
spiritual flaws: in chapter 8, Stoops argues, Marcellus “mistakenly thought
his money could buy him knowledge of God, and was unable to resist Simon’s
deception. Giving alms may commend one to God, but it does not guarantee
salvation.”46 He reads the statue scene in much the same vein, as a continued
display of “the weakness of [Marcellus’] faith . . . Instead of marveling at the
power of God [because Peter just exorcised a demon], Marcellus fears imperial
reprisals. Once again he is caught up in social obligations that conflict with
loyalty to Christ.”47

43  Callon, “Images of Empire,” 18.


44  Robert F. Stoops, “Christ as Patron in the Acts of Peter,” Semeia 56 (1991), 143–57, here 146.
45  Robert F. Stoops, “Patronage in the Acts of Peter,” Semeia 38 (1986), 91–100, here 92.
46  Stoops, “Patronage,” 96, 97.
47  Stoops, “Patronage,” 98. Christine Thomas, however, reads the text as less critical of
Marcellus; I am inclined to agree with her. She observes, “Marcellus . . . functions as a
cipher for the ideal audience of the Acts of Peter. The rising fortunes of Marcellus among
the later texts of the Acts of Peter reflect the social reality of the increasing acceptance of
Christianity by ever higher classes of the Roman aristocracy. Second-century Christianity
may have known one or two aristocratic converts. In the Actus Vercellenses, this new
30 Kelley

Stoops is right to focus on patronage as an essential aspect of the Acts of


Peter, but I am not convinced by his interpretation of the statue episode. As
Peter Brown’s recent work has shown, wealth and patronage had a tremendous
impact on late antique Christianity, especially during the mid-fourth century
when large numbers of wealthy individuals and families joined the Christian
ranks.48 This is precisely the period in which the Latin of the Actus Vercellenses
was penned. How might the Marcellus story have been understood in an era
when Christian churches were becoming increasingly enmeshed in the patron-
age system, both as patrons and as beneficiaries of aristocratic largesse?
Andrew Jacobs has remarked that fourth-century Christians “could not con-
struct theories of ‘why Christians should possess power,’ as this might highlight
the constructedness and artificiality of such power. They could only portray
themselves as ‘discovering’ this information and mediating it to their wider
audience.”49 This statement offers us a way to think about the statue epi-
sode in a late antique context. As Stoops has argued, the miraculous repair of
the statue serves as a demonstration of the power of Christ, who is the ultimate
patron (and certainly the best explanation for why Christians in late antiquity
possessed political power).50 This power is manifest in two ways. First, and
most obviously, it is the power of Christ that enables the repair of the statue.
Second, it is the power of Christ that allows Marcellus to retain his status and
his sense of security. While we could read Marcellus’ fear about the broken
statue as evidence of the weakness of his faith, it may make more sense to
read it another way: as highlighting the gravity of the situation he faces, even
as a man of senatorial rank. After all, the damage to the statue also represents
damage to the relationship between Marcellus and the emperor, the patronus
(or amicus) par excellence.51 For the Acts of Peter, however, Christ rather than
the emperor emerges as the patron with the most power, who can exercise the
greatest degree of beneficence. It is highly significant that the emperor does
not lose his position as a patron; he is merely represented as enmeshed in the
patronage system rather than sitting at its apex.

­ istorical situation was retrojected into the very beginnings of the Christian movement
h
to provide these new converts with a role model.” Thomas, Acts of Peter, 90.
48  Peter Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of
Christianity in the West, 350–550 AD (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012), xix.
49  Jacobs, Remains of the Jews, 52.
50  On this see Stoops, “Christ as Patron,” and “Patronage,” passim.
51  On the emperor as patron, see Richard P. Saller, Personal Patronage under the Early Empire
(Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1984), esp. 41–78.
The Fragmentation and Inversion of Empire 31

The retained status for the emperor makes sense in a late antique context,
where any claim to the status of Christ as the ultimate patron also carries with
it an implicit claim to authority and power by those who would identify them-
selves as his friends, or clients. In an imperial Christian world, the emperor’s
power must be represented as given to him by Christ rather than seized by
human hands. He has power only to the extent that he can conceal the arbi-
trary and contingent nature of his election to the office—in some sense, no
Christian emperor wants to be seen as operating at the apex of the patronage
system, because a Christian emperor must have Christ as friend and benefac-
tor. Marcellus’ miraculous ability to repair the statue of Caesar, then, might be
read as a story about the way that imperial power and divine power are (in an
idealized sense) one and the same in late antique Christian circles.

4 Conclusion

Christians throughout the late antique world told stories involving famous fig-
ures or episodes drawn from earlier eras, and they frequently did so in order
to make ideological points relevant to their own times. In this essay I’ve exam-
ined two unrelated apocryphal stories, both of which make use of narratives
from the New Testament as well as traditions drawn from elsewhere. These
apocryphal texts—if one can indeed call them “texts” in a discrete sense—
are somewhat difficult to pinpoint chronologically and geographically, which
means that any attempt to precisely identify the social, political, or economic
realities behind them is fraught with difficulties. I would suggest, however, that
this should not prevent scholars from imaginatively reconstructing the “lives”
such texts may have had in late antiquity, and explaining why Christian apoc-
ryphal texts continued to be relevant to audiences in the fourth century and
beyond.
chapter 2

“Sic est voluntas Dei”: Latin Patristic Views on


1 Peter 2:13–17

Jonathan P. Yates

1 Introduction

It is surely no exaggeration to claim that politics in general and the church’s


relationship to society and to society’s structures of power in particular were
primary concerns for many important writers of the early Christian period.1
Within the Greek or eastern tradition, Eusebius immediately comes to mind;
for the Latin or western tradition, one just as immediately thinks of Augustine.2
Indeed, within the field of Augustiniana, year in and year out, Augustine’s views
on these topics continue to attract attention from theologians, church histo-
rians, and political scientists. This fact, duly supported by my own research

1  This was certainly true for the author of 1 Peter. Cf. C.F. Sleeper, “Political Responsibility
according to 1 Peter,” Novum Testamentum (1968): 271: “It is clear that its primary pre-
occupation is with Christian conduct, not only within the community, but in relation to a world
which may be hostile.” Cf. also ibid., 274–75. At the same time, it is helpful to keep in mind the
degree to which the thought categories of the ancient world—whether pagan or Christian—
differed from our own. Cf. H. Chadwick, “The Church of the Third Century in the West,” The
Roman West in the Third Century, eds. A. King and M. Henig (Oxford: British Archaeological
Reports, International Series 109, 1981), 5: “Ancient paganism was deeply woven into the
fabric and customs of society. But the pre-Christian world had no language or terminology
for discussing what we mean when we speak of ‘Church and State’ as a nexus of problems in
western political theory.”
2  For a helpful review of Eusebius’s perspective, see, e.g., M.J. Hollerich, “Religion and Politics
in the Writings of Eusebius: reassessing the First ‘Court Theologian’,” Church History 59
(1990): 309–25, esp. 311–16. Of course, Augustine was anything but Eusebian in his outlook on
society, the Empire, and their role in God’s plan for the future. For a basic orientation to the
complexities of his political thought, including the important point that “Augustine wrote
no political treatise,” see, A.D. Fitzgerald, ed., Augustine through the Ages (Grand Rapids, MI:
Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1999), s.v. “Church and State” by R. Dodaro. Also helpful is R. Williams,
“Politics and the Soul: A Reading of the City of God,” Milltown Studies 19/20 (1987): 55–72 and,
more recently, O. O’Donovan, “The Political Thought of City of God 19” in O. O’Donovan and
J. Lockwood O’Donovan, Bonds of Imperfection: Christian Politics, Past and Present (Grand
Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 2004), 48–72.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_004


“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 33

i­nterest in the history of biblical interpretation, is the impetus for this essay.
One can hardly read the New Testament alongside a standard history of the
development of Christianity without wondering about the specific ways in
which the Patristic tradition might have reacted to the New Testament’s some-
times shocking political injunctions, of which 1 Peter 2:13–17 is certainly not the
least. It is the western reception of this passage up to the death of Augustine in
430 CE that is investigated here.
If the chronological meets and bounds of this study were extended to the
death of the Venerable Bede in the early 8th-century, it would require close
scrutiny of more than two dozen different authors.3 By stopping at ca. 430,
both the number of authors and the total number of references remains man-
ageable. The first western author to cite from 1 Peter 2:13–17 and to introduce
it with an explicit reference to “Petrus ait” (or something similar) is Irenaeus
of Lyons.4 Including Augustine, an additional nine authors are involved. Taken
together, these ten authors reference our pericope at least two dozen times.
The single most striking feature of these references, when viewed collectively,
is that only a small percentage of them actually occur in overtly political con-
texts or are used to support overtly political claims.

3  In addition to Bede, important “post-Augustine” authors who clearly reference 1 Peter 2:13–17
include Fulgetius of Ruspe and Cassiodorus.
4  “Explicit” is an important qualification. That 1 Peter was known and used by 1 Clement and
the author of 2 Peter has long been recognized. See, e.g., W.C. van Unnik, “The Teaching of
Good Works in 1 Peter,” New Testament Studies 1 (1954/55): 92: “. . . some of [1 Peter’s] thoughts
are reflected in the earliest post-canonical writing, 1 Clement, and it is beyond question that
it is quoted by Polycarp.” For a more recent endorsements, see, e.g., L.M. McDonald, The
Biblical Canon Its Origin, Transmission and Authority (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers,
2006), 395–96 and T.B. Williams, Persecution in 1 Peter: Differentiating and Contextualizing
Early Christian Suffering, Supplements to Novum Testamentum 145 (Leiden/Boston: Brill,
2012), 28: “If one is to deny that Peter was the author of the letter, an adequate explanation
must be provided to explain [the] early and uniform attestation [throughout the first few
centuries].” For a review of the early reception history of 1 Peter, see J.H. Elliott, 1 Peter: A New
Translation with Introduction and Commentary, The Anchor Bible 37B (New York: Doubleday,
2000), 138–148. A complicating factor is that 1 Peter is missing from the so-called Muratorian
Canon, the fragmentary list of authoritative books probably produced in Rome in the
2nd-century. For a convincing demonstration of canon’s 2nd-century date, see J. Verheyden,
“The Canon Muratori: A Matter of Dispute,” in J.-M. Auwers and H.J. De Jonge eds., The Biblical
Canons, BETL 163, (Leuven: University Press-Peeters, 2003), 487–556; see esp. 528–530 for his
comments on its relationship to the Catholic Epistles.
34 Yates

2 The Text of 1 Peter 2:13–17

For the sake of convenience, the text of 1 Peter 2:13–17 in Greek,5 in Latin,6 and
in the relatively literal NASB English translation7 are supplied:

(12τὴν ἀναστροφὴν ὑμῶν ἐν (12conuersationem (12Keep your behavior


τοῖς ἔθνεσιν ἔχοντες καλήν, uestram inter gentes excellent among the
ἵνα ἐν ᾧ καταλαλοῦσιν ὑμῶν habentes bonam ut in Gentiles, so that in the
ὡς κακοποιῶν ἐκ τῶν καλῶν eo quod detractant de thing in which they slander
ἔργων ἐποπτεύοντες uobis tamquam de you as evildoers, they may
δοξάσωσιν τὸν θεὸν.) malefactoribus ex bonis because of your good
operibus considerantes deeds, as they observe
glorificent deum in die them, glorify God in the
uisitationis) day of visitation.)

13Ὑποτάγητε πάσῃ 13subiecti estote omni 13Submit yourselves for


ἀνθρωπίνῃ κτίσει διὰ τὸν humanae creaturae the Lord’s sake to every
κύριον, εἴτε βασιλεῖ ὡς propter dominum siue human institution,
ὑπερέχοντι 14εἴτε ἡγεμόσιν regi quasi praecellenti whether to a king as the
ὡς δι’ αὐτοῦ πεμπομένοις εἰς 14siue ducibus tamquam one in authority, 14or to
ἐκδίκησιν κακοποιῶν, ab eo missis ad uindictam governors as sent by him
ἔπαινον δὲ ἀγαθοποιῶν, malefactorum laudem for the punishment of
15ὅτι οὕτως ἐστὶν τὸ θέλημα uero bonorum 15quia evildoers and the praise of
τοῦ θεοῦ ἀγαθοποιοῦντας sic est uoluntas dei ut those who do right. 15For
φιμοῦν τὴν τῶν ἀφρόνων benefacientes such is the will of God that
ἀνθρώπων ἀγνωσίαν, 16ὡς obmutescere faciatis by doing right you may
ἐλεύθεροι καὶ μὴ ὡς inprudentium hominum silence the ignorance of
ἐπικάλυμμα ἔχοντες τῆς ignorantiam 16quasi liberi foolish men. 16Act as free
κακίας τὴν ἐλευθερίαν et non quasi uelamen men, and do not use your

5  This is the text of the Nestle-Aland Nouum Testamentum Graece 28th Edition provided
by the German Bible Society and was taken from: http://www.academic-bible.com/en/
online-bibles/novum-testamentum-graece-na-28/read-the-bible-text/bibel/text/lesen/
stelle/70/20001/29999/ch/ba88cd70387fa9d16b4f5378bab2dc92/.
6  This is the text of the Biblia Sacra Iuxta Vulgatam Versionem Editio Quinta (Stuttgart:
Württembergische Bibelanstalt, 2007) provided by the German Bible Society and was
taken from: http://www.academic-bible.com /en/online-bibles/biblia-sacra-vulgata/read-the-
bible-text/bibel/text/lesen/stelle/70/20001/29999/ch/ba88cd70387 fa9d16b4f5378bab2dc92/.
7  This version of 1 Peter, which is the “updated” NASB published in 1995, was taken from:
http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+Peter+1-5&version=NASB.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 35

ἀλλ’ ὡς θεοῦ δοῦλοι. 17πάντας habentes malitiae freedom as a covering


τιμήσατε, τὴν ἀδελφότητα libertatem sed sicut serui for evil, but use it as
ἀγαπᾶτε, τὸν θεὸν φοβεῖσθε, dei 17omnes honorate bondslaves of God.
τὸν βασιλέα τιμᾶτε. fraternitatem diligite 17Honor all people, love
deum timete regem the brotherhood, fear God,
honorificate. honor the king.

When serious conversations about the NT and politics are had, the focus is
almost always on either (a) the words of Jesus from the Gospels,8 or (b) Rom.
13:1–7.9 This is not without good reason. However, 1 Peter 2:13–17, despite being
much less frequently studied, is easily as germane to these discussions precisely
because it contains similar elements that, on the whole, are just as radical.10

8  Particularly important for the tradition is Jesus’s command to comply with the secular
authorities by paying one’s taxes “to Caesar”: cf. Matt. 22:21, Mark 12:17, Luke 20:25, as well
as Matt. 17:24–27.
9  In the relatively literal NASB English translation, this passage runs as follows: “Every per-
son is to be in subjection to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except
from God, and those which exist are established by God. Therefore whoever resists
authority has opposed the ordinance of God; and they who have opposed will receive
condemnation upon themselves. For rulers are not a cause of fear for good behavior, but
for evil. Do you want to have no fear of authority? Do what is good and you will have
praise from the same; for it is a minister of God to you for good. But if you do what is evil,
be afraid; for it does not bear the sword for nothing; for it is a minister of God, an avenger
who brings wrath on the one who practices evil. Therefore it is necessary to be in subjec-
tion, not only because of wrath, but also for conscience’ sake. For because of this you also
pay taxes, for rulers are servants of God, devoting themselves to this very thing. Render to
all what is due them: tax to whom tax is due; custom to whom custom; fear to whom fear;
honor to whom honor.”
10  Cf. n. 9 supra. On a general level, 1 Peter’s possible dependence on Paul has been offered
as one of three main reasons that 1 Peter suffered from “benign neglect” within the field
of New Testament studies through much of the 20th-century. See J.H. Elliott, “The
Rehabilitation of an Exegetical Step-Child: 1 Peter in Recent Research,” in Perspectives on
First Peter, ed. C.H. Talbert (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1986), 3–16, esp. 3–4 and
n. 2. This is not, however, to claim that New Testament scholars have failed to note 1 Peter
2:13–17’s distinctiveness: “The Christian duty of subjection is enjoined, but is not based
upon the doctrine that the authority of human government itself derives from God [as in
Romans] . . . [for 1 Peter] it is the will of God that the Christian should recognize the duty
of civil obedience; he is to submit ‘for the Lord’s sake’ ” (emphasis added). See F.W. Beare,
The First Epistle of Peter, 3rd edition (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1970), 140.
36 Yates

In fact, how one answers the question of the text’s date of composition may
increase its degree of radicalness. That is, if one accepts Petrine authorship
for 1 Peter, or even pseudonymous authorship by a near-contemporary, then
one must also reckon that, just as Paul authored Romans during the reign of
Nero in the late 50’s, 1 Peter also must have been written under Nero or, less
probably, under Claudius.11 And, if 1 Peter is actually that old, then its exhorta-
tions toward counterintuitive behavior in the face of a world that was at least
sporadically hostile to Christians take on even deeper significance.12 By exten-
sion, it should be immediately obvious how challenging these passages must
have been to Patristic authors and their readers—especially up to the reign of
Constantine and perhaps even as late as that of Theodosius.
Also important for this study are the frequently-noted similarities between
1 Peter 2:13–17 and Rom. 13:1–7, similarities which have sometimes proven
problematic for the Christian exegetical tradition.13 Modern commentators
often allot much space to theories of dependence between these sections of
these two letters, while also spilling much ink over these passages’ details in

11  For a defense of Petrine authorship, see K.H. Jobes, 1 Peter, Baker Exegetical Commentary
on the New Testament (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2005), 176. Such an early date
is a decidedly minority view. Cf., e.g., the detailed discussion in Beare, The First Epistle of
Peter, 28–38, who, while acknowledging that, “on the basis of literary relationships . . . we
can do no better than fix [1 Peter’s] date within the broad limits of AD 64–135,” ultimately
concludes that “. . . one is inclined to feel that he is indeed in the religious atmosphere
of the second century.” Elliott argues for a more moderate position, viz. “between 73 and
92 CE” See 1 Peter: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, 134–38, here 138.
For a thorough review of the relevant data, including a careful discussion of the links
between the question of the date and the question of authorship, see T.B. Williams,
Persecution in 1 Peter, 22–34 including the notes and bibliography given therein.
12  Cf. P.J. Achtemeier, 1 Peter: A Commentary on First Peter, E.J. Epp ed., Hermeneia
Commentary Series (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), 197: “The situation was one of
sporadic hostility to Christians . . . and [1 Peter 2:13–17 is] a response to that situation”; and
C.F. Sleeper, “Political Responsibility according to 1 Peter,” 284: “Because [Peter’s original
readers] were a minority, because they represented an illegal religion, because they did
not hold positions of political power, and because of the distinctiveness of their way of
life, they were being persecuted. The message of 1 Peter was directed to that situation, and
it cannot be made directly relevant to a modern state which is either nominally Christian
or in which nominal Christians represent a majority.”
13  Overlap and, in some cases, confusion between these passages was certainly an issue dur-
ing the Patristic period. For a discussion of Rom. 13:1–7’s significance in the Patristic tradi-
tion, see the essay by Meconi in this volume.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 37

order to highlight either their similarities or their differences.14 These sim-


ilarities include, but are in no way limited to (1) that both use forms of the
verb ὑποτάσσω to call for “submission,” (2) that both emphasize “doing good,”
(3) that both mention giving “fear” and giving “honor,” and (4) that both claim
that obedience to the governing authorities is in some sense part of the Lord’s
will for Christians.
Most specific, but certainly not least, is the way the common NT metaphors
of the Christian’s paradoxical status as simultaneously “a slave” and “free”
and 1 Peter 2:16’s mention of the proper way to appropriate this paradox.
For many commentators, this verse offers a negative counterpart to the posi-
tive exhortation of 2:12, which serves as the guiding principle for the particular
exhortations of verses 13–17.15
As noted above, the Patristic evidence for the use of 1 Peter 2:13–17 in the
Latin west must begin with the work of St. Irenaeus of Lyons, arguably the 2nd-
century’s greatest theologian.16

3 Irenaeus of Lyons

While he himself was thoroughly Greek in his theological orientation and, of


course, thought and wrote in Greek, Irenaeus is the first Patristic author who
referenced one or more of our verses by name17 and for whom a plausible case
can be made with respect to immediate influence on western Christianity.18

14  E.g., for the conclusion that the relationship between the two passages is more due to
“a common tradition than to any kind of literary dependence,” see Achtemeier, 1 Peter:
A Commentary on First Peter, 180–182.
15  Albeit for different reasons, 2:16 was also significant for more than a few of the authors
analyzed infra.
16  A work that promises to provide a far more comprehensive view of the reception of
1 Peter in early Christian literature is A. Merkt, 1 Petrus, Novum Testamentum Patristicum
21 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2016, forthcoming).
17  He is not, however, the first Christian author to make clear reference to 1 Peter.
L.M. McDonald, who offers parallels to Polycarp’s letter To the Philippians, has written
that “although there are several parallel phrases in Barnabas and 1 Peter (Barn. 5.6 and
1 Pet 1:20), it is only with Polycarp that clear use of 1 Peter is found.” See his The Biblical
Canon Its Origin, 395–96.
18  That both Tertullian and Augustine were familiar with Irenaeus’s biography and works
is beyond dispute—even if the degree to which his writings impacted them remains
debated. For evidence indicating that the Against Heresies had been disseminated as
far as Egypt by the end of the 2nd-century, see C.E. Hill, “Irenaeus, the Scribes, and the
38 Yates

While reference is made to 1 Peter by Irenaeus on a handful of occasions,19


only 2:16 is explicitly employed by him. In fact, it is employed twice in Against
Heresies Book 4 but never in order to make an overtly political claim. On the
contrary, 2:16 is employed by Irenaeus to support two different assertions
about Christian ethics in light of the “truths” that (a) the Ten Commandments
remain obligatory for the Christian despite God’s having granted him an
unprecedented degree of freedom, and that (b) no human being has been cre-
ated by God as either good or evil, but has merely become one or the other as
they used their God-given free will to practice or to reject God’s injunctions.
In 4.16.5 of the Against Heresies, Irenaeus is winding up a discussion of the
role of the Ten Commandments in the life of the Christian. And, in Pauline
fashion, he has here noted that God intended the Commandments to be both
a source of “bondage” and “a sign” to the Israelites (cf., e.g., Rom. 7–8 and
Gal. 4–5), before going on to assert that Christ “cancelled them by a new cov-
enant of liberty,” despite the fact that Christ had deepened and expanded their
import via the Sermon on the Mount. In Irenaeus’s view, this was so

that we may know that we shall give an account to God not of deeds only,
as slaves, but even of words and thoughts, as those who have truly
received the power of liberty, in which [condition] a man is more severely
tested, whether he will reverence, and fear, and love the Lord. And for this
reason Peter says “that we have not liberty as a cloak of maliciousness,”
but as the means of testing and evidencing faith.20

A bit later in this same Book, Irenaeus again refers to 1 Peter 2:16. This time,
however, it is part of a long but thoroughly scriptural defense of natural human
capacities in general and of “free will” in particular. Having noted at 4.37.1 that
“there is no coercion with God, but a good will [towards us] is present with
Him continually,” and at 4.37.2 that “if some had been made by nature bad, and
others good, these latter would not be deserving of praise for being good, for
such were they created,” Irenaeus notes at 4.37.4 that “. . . if anyone is unwilling
to follow the Gospel itself, it is in his power to reject it, but it is not expedient

Scriptures” in Irenaeus Life, Scripture, Legacy, S. Parvis and P. Foster, eds. (Minneapolis:
Fortress Press, 2012), 119–130, esp. 120.
19  Irenaeus uses 2:16 twice in Book 4 (cf. 4.16.5 and 4.37.4, both of which are discussed in this
study) and he refers to 1 Peter 1:8 once in Book 5 (cf. 5.7.2).
20  For this trans., see Ante-Nicene Fathers: The Writings of the Fathers Down to AD 325,
Volume 1 (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1994), 482. For the Latin and, in this case,
the Greek, see SC 100b:572–575.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 39

(cf. 1 Cor. 6:12; 10:23). For it is in man’s power to disobey God, and to forfeit what
is good.”21 Irenaeus then comments that “And on this account Paul . . . [by the
expression] ‘not expedient (non expedit)’ [is] pointing out that we should not
use our liberty as a cloak of maliciousness (non ad uelamen malitiae abuta-
mur), for this [too] is not expedient.”
Leaving aside that both of these passages have textual difficulties that pre-
vent us from being certain that Irenaeus was intentionally quoting Peter in the
midst of his Pauline-fueled defense of Christian ethics22 and of free will,23 it
remains at least possible that on both occasions Irenaeus was subtly incorpo-
rating Peter’s words in order to demonstrate that both of the Apostle to the
Gentiles and the Apostle to the Jews were in full accord. In any case, what is
important is how Irenaeus, the first western writer to employ the text of 1 Peter
2:13–17—even if he has done so unintentionally—uses only one of these five
verses and does so for ethical, theological, and philosophical ends and not in
support of any political claim.24 As we shall see, his employment of 2:16 seems
to set a precedent.

21  ANF 1:518–9. For the Latin, SC 100b:925–33.


22  The Greek of 4.16.5, which reflects the reading preserved in the Armenian version, reads
“Παῦλός ψεσι”; cf. SC 100b:575. However, given the length and the somewhat exceptional
vocabulary of the quotation, e.g., 1 Peter 2:16 contains the only occurrence of the noun
“ἑπικάλλυμα” in the NT, not to mention that the Latin version has preserved (or corrected)
the reading of (to) “Petrus ait,” it seems very likely that the reading of “Paul says” is either
an early scribal “correction” or a mistake that originated with Irenaeus himself. For the
latter view, i.e., that it is “plus probable” that this erroneous wording originates with
Irenaeus, see Rousseau’s “Note justificative” in SC 110a:239 (cf. 126). For a general state-
ment regarding Irenaeus’s scrupulosity when quoting scripture in Against Heresies, see
C.E. Hill, “Irenaeus, the Scribes, and the Scriptures,” 119–120.
23  4.37.4, while apparently a bit more textually stable than 4.16.5, nevertheless seems to
leave no doubt that Irenaeus thought he was quoting Paul when he quoted 1 Peter 2:16
since there is no other referent between the introduction “et propter hoc Paulus ait” at the
beginning of the paragraph and the reference to 1 Peter 2:16, which is introduced with the
participle “ostendens.” Cf. SC 100b:928–31.
24  Although a bit overstated, the remarks of Campenhausen do seem to have been con-
firmed by the results of this study: “. . . the so-called ‘catholic’ epistles figure hardly at
all in Irenaeus. [. . .] This is very remarkable. It is clear that these works have not yet
acquired sufficiently general recognition and importance for it to be possible to use
them in controversy with the heretics as of indisputable, ‘canonical’ authority.” See,
H. von Campenhausen, The Formation of the Christian Bible, trans. J.A. Baker (Philadelphia,
Fortress Press, 1972), 194.
40 Yates

4 Tertullian

The next western author to employ our verses—and the first to do so directly in
Latin—is Tertullian. Interestingly, despite having a lot to say about a Christian’s
relationship to the broader society and its laws and customs,25 Tertullian only
makes certain reference to our verses on one occasion.26 That single reference
is found near the end of his brief essay Scorpiace or, Antidote to the Scorpion’s
Sting. Scholars variously assign this work to the decade or so between 203 and
212 and usually conclude that it was written during a time of local persecu-
tion and in rebuttal to local Gnostics who were offering Christians a means to
accommodate the authorities’ requirements to offer sacrifice without losing
their identity so that everyone could relax and continue to live in peace.27 For
Tertullian, of course, maintaining the integrity of one’s faith—even if it means
martyrdom—is paramount and, thus, he offers his readers a spiritual antidote
to this poisonous threat. Not surprisingly, his antidote is largely drawn from
scripture.
Tertullian’s use of 1 Peter 2:13 is found in Chapter 14. It should be carefully
noted that this chapter begins with a discussion of Rom. 13:1–7. In fact, approx-
imately 75% of Chapter 14 is dedicated to this passage from Paul, who, accord-
ing to Chapter 13, consistently extolled the value of and need for martyrdom
throughout his letters. In the middle of Chapter 14, Tertullian summarizes his
reading of Rom. 13:1–7:

25  For a brief orientation, see, e.g., H. Rahner, S.J., Church and State in Early Christianity, trans.
L.D. Davis, S.J. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1992), 10–17 passim and A.M. Ritter, “Church
and state up to c.300 CE” in The Cambridge History of Christianity, Volume 1: Origins to
Constantine, M.M. Mitchell and F.M. Young, eds. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2006), 531–33.
26  According to M.A. Frisius, Tertullian’s Use of the Pastoral Epistles, Hebrews, James, 1 and
2 Peter and Jude, Studies in Biblical Literature 143 (New York: P. Lang, 2011), 13: “Tertullian
clearly knows and uses the book of 1 Peter,” despite nowhere betraying knowledge of
2 Peter. Frisius also concludes that in Tertullian’s extant corpus there are eleven “certain”
citations of 1 Peter and that four of these eleven are “direct citations or quotations.” For
the results of his research in chart form, see 137–38.
27  For a brief but updated review of the scholarly evidence on the questions of date and
context, see G.D. Dunn, Tertullian (London and New York: Routledge, 2004), 105–107.
For a detailed argument that settles on “late 203 or early 204” as a “working hypothesis,”
see T.D. Barnes, “Tertullian’s Scorpiace,” Journal of Theological Studies 20 (1969): 105–132,
esp. 128–29.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 41

Thus, [Paul] orders you to be subject to the powers that be, not as an
opportunity for eluding martyrdoms, but as a challenge to live well . . . he
also maintains . . . [that] . . . he wishes you . . . [to give] . . . to Caesar the
things which are of Caesar, and to God the things of God (cf. Matt. 22:21;
Mark 12:17; Luke 20:25). The human person, however, [belongs to] God
alone.28

Here Tertullian has taken it for granted that there must be harmony between
the teaching of Paul and the teaching of Jesus, since this quote clearly appro-
priates the words of Jesus as found in Matthew 22 and its Synoptic parallels.
Tertullian then continues, “No doubt Peter had agreed that the king (regem)
too should be honored, such that he is honored as king only when he pursues
his own proper interests, when he is far from divine honors. [. . .] It will not be
permitted to love another above God, not even life.”29
While it is given in support of martyrdom, Tertullian’s use of Peter here is
otherwise in accord with the conclusions propounded by modern commenta-
tors insofar as the consensus among them is that 1 Peter does not teach that
Christians must be absolutely subordinate to the state, but, rather, must be so
only to the point that their loyalty to God is not compromised.30 At the same
time and quite unlike modern commentators, Tertullian here clearly takes it for
granted that the teaching of Peter, Paul, and, most importantly of all, of Jesus
with respect to the Christian’s obligations to the broader society are fully in
harmony and are just as fully applicable to his own early-3rd-century context.

5 Pseudo-Cyprian’s de singularitate clericorum

The thirteen compositions31 that comprise the Pseudo-Cyprianic corpus


are substantial, broad in scope, and, at least in recent decades, rarely

28  For this (slightly adjusted) trans., see Dunn, Tertullian, 133. For the Latin, see CCSL 2:1096.
29  See Dunn, Tertullian, 133 (slightly adjusted). For the Latin, see CCSL 2:1096.
30  Cf., e.g., Achtemeier, 1 Peter: A Commentary on First Peter, 182, 186, and 188.
31  For brief introductions to every work traditionally attributed to Pseudo-Cyprian including
scholarly speculations about authorship and general bibliographies (up to the mid-20th
century), see J. Quasten, Patrology. Volume II. The Ante-Nicene Literature After Irenaeus
(Utrecht/Westminster, MD: Spectrum Publishers/The Newman Press, 1953), 367–373. For
his discussion of sing. cler., including the claim that in 1926 H. Koch “proved” the author
to be an unknown 3rd-century North African, see 369. On 367, the fact that these trea-
tises were attributed to Cyprian arbitrarily and primarily on the basis of the Carthaginian
bishop’s reputation is made explicit. In what must have been an oversight, M.Tilley,
42 Yates

studied.32 The standard edition of the works is from 1871 and is far from
impeccable.33 Thus far, no English translation of de singularitate clericorum
(hereafter sing. cler.) has appeared in print even though one was generated by
D.S. Fruchtman as part of an Indiana University M.A. thesis.34

The Bible in Christian North Africa: The Donatist World (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1997),
82 and 182 n. 9 cites p. 369 of Quasten’s volume in support of the claim that sing. cler. was
written ca. 350 by Macrobius, the Donatist bishop of Rome. In fact, Quasten merely notes
that this was the opinion of Harnack who, in turn, was “following a suggestion of G. Morin.”
Other published opinions about the date include: V. McNally and P.E. Demuth, “The law
on celibacy: soundings from its history—A third century attitude: the De Singularitate
Clericorum,” Resonance 3 (Fall 1966): 6, who are “certain” it is “of the third century”;
P. Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 372 and n.29, who, leaning on Harnack and
R. Gryson, Les origines du célibat ecclésiastique du premier au septième siècle (Gembloux:
J. Duculot, 1970), 195 and n.6, admits that the date and location has not been determined
with exactitude, before going on to imply acceptance of a date between 350 and 400.
Curiously, like Tilley, Brown has misread the opinion of one of his sources: Gryson’s
n. 6, according to Brown, dates this work to “the early fifth century.” While a quick read of
this note might give the impression that Gryson held to a date of “de la première moitié
du IVe siècle,” even this is problematic since, in the body of this note, Gryson tentatively
suggests authorship by either Cyprian of Toulouse or Cyprian of Bordeaux, men who both
were active as bishops in Gaul in the early 500’s. Thus, Gryson’s actual hypothesis must
have been a date “de la première moitié du VIe siècle” (italics added). In the intervening
years, Gryson’s opinion has continued to evolve since in R. Gryson, Répertoire général
des auteurs ecclésiastiques latins de l’antiquité et du haut moyen âge. 5e éd., mise à jour
du Verzeichnis der Sigel für Kirchenschriftsteller commencé par Bonifatius Fischer, continué
par Hermann Josef Frede, 2 volumes (Vetus Latina 1/15) (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder,
2007), 438, we read: “. . . les citations scripturaires . . . suggèrent une datation postérieure
au milieu du 4e s.”
32  One of the very few English publications on this text in the last fifty years is that of
V. McNally and P.E. Demuth cited in the previous note. It is, however, both too brief and
too introductory to be of significant value. While the actual Cyprian of Carthage’s use of
1 Peter is not extensive, his relationship to it is both important and interesting. According
to M.A. Fahey, S.J., Cyprian and the Bible: A Study in Third-Century Exegesis, Beiträge zur
Geschichte der biblischen Hermeneutik 9 (Tübingen: J.C. Mohr, 1971), 519–524, Cyprian
quotes nine different passages from 1 Peter a total of fifteen times in his extant corpus in
addition to making numerous clear allusions. While he does not cite any part of 1 Peter
2:13–17, Cyprian does cite or allude to 2:11–12 on at least three occasions.
33  See CSEL 3/3:173–220, ed. G. Hartel. For a brief discussion of the “problematic” state
of the text, see D.S. Fruchtman, De Singularitate Clericorum: A Third-Century Treatise
against Spiritual Marriage (unpublished master’s thesis, Indiana University, 2007), ii–iii
and nn.
34  Ibid., 1–41. I would like to thank Ms. Fruchtman for kindly granting me access to her thesis.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 43

While interesting in se since it seems to have been written by a person of


significant authority in the North African church35 and since it is one of the
very few texts from the early western Christian tradition that openly and
forcefully advocates for “singularitas as an entire lifestyle of separation from
women” even as it condemns the apparently accepted practice of priests and
other clerics being allowed to live together with women to whom they are nei-
ther related nor married,36 an even more important feature for the purposes of
this study is its relationship to scripture. It has been calculated that the author
quoted scripture “over 140 times” in order to support his claim to authority.37
Significantly, the sole use of any part of 1 Peter 2:13–17 in sing. cler. occurs in
Paragraph 8, a section that addresses the possible objection that, with regard
to the issue at hand, scripture might not be altogether helpful since it seems
to be internally contradictory. In Paragraph 7, the author, by quoting multiple
passages of scripture, has concluded his point that, in order to avoid charges
of hypocrisy, Christians should take the opinions of other human beings
into account as they make lifestyle choices.38 Regarding this passage,
Fruchtman noted:

Our author uses scripture to justify every step of his argument and to
supplement every answer he offers his opponents. His complete engage-
ment with the law [i.e., scripture], however, prevents him from neglect-
ing instances of contradiction and idiosyncrasy; he therefore deals with

35  V. McNally and P.E. Demuth, “The law on celibacy,” 6, raise the possibility that the author
was a bishop. Fruchtman, De Singularitate Clericorum, ii, is a bit more confident stating
that he was “most likely a bishop.” Cf. also ibid., 1 and n. 2.
36  Ibid., i.
37  V. McNally and P.E. Demuth, “The law on celibacy,” 7, but note that the authors do not
define a quotation nor do they explain how they arrive at the number 140. Fruchtman,
De Singularitate Clericorum, ii, takes issue with the claim by McNally and Demuth that
the author invoked scripture because he was unsure that his words would be heeded:
“he had other reasons for relying on scripture . . . including a desire . . . to assert the con-
temporary relevance of existing revelation against the threat of Montanism and its new
revelations.” For a fuller treatment of the role of scripture in the treatise and in the mind
of its author—including the claim that “he quotes scripture upwards of 150 times . . .,” see
also ibid., xxix–xxxi.
38  “It is worse than adultery to render continence shameful and to make sanctity disrep-
utable. He who does not fulfill before all what he confesses heaps reproach upon the
religion which he cultivates. Let Christianity not be believed to be a trick and adultery
seem clothed in a covering of sanctity!” For this trans., see Fruchtman, De Singularitate
Clericorum, 8. For the Latin, see CSEL 3/3:181. The passages of scripture that follow this
exhortation are all taken from the NT: Matt. 5:16; Rom. 14:16; Rom. 12:17; and 1 Cor. 10:31–33.
44 Yates

those instances directly. In situations where contradiction appears, our


author claims that “no part of the law cuts itself off from the rest, but in
certain places universal responses are attached” (De Sing., 8). This seems
to mean that there are universally acknowledged, logically-driven solu-
tions to these snags in scripture. The example he is dealing with . . . is
Galatians 1:10, which says that “If I wish to please men, I am not a servant
of Christ?” [sic]39 He introduces it after he has just finished quoting five
other sources, some of them Pauline, which mandate living by the laws
and opinions of men (De Sing., 7). The “universal response” is that of
course there are certain situations in which pleasing man undermines
your service to Christ: those are the situations where human law is anti-
thetical to God’s. In any other situation, obeying human law will result in
the proper edification of one’s neighbors about Christ (De Sing., 8).40

Significantly, it is in this same Paragraph 8 and in connection to this phase


of the argument that the author of sing. cler. quotes 1 Peter 2. At the very
end of Paragraph 8 he skillfully weaves together 1 Peter 2:12 and 2:15 even as
he omits 2:13–14 and 2:16–17, a choice that makes the author’s use of our pas-
sage only marginally political and prevents it from being taken as the author of
1 Peter seems to have intended.41 Despite, as noted above, freely acknowledg-
ing the existence and the potential application of Gal 1:10 to those clerics who
were persisting in the practice of cohabitation, the author of sing. cler. seems
to regard Gal 1:10 as the exception that proves the rule that any Christian—and
especially anyone who has been ordained—must take the opinions of other
human beings into account since doing so is the best way to guarantee a posi-
tive witness for the faith. He writes:

Since [offering a positive example] is fitting even for the laity (laicos), let
them neither expose pretexts for strangers to reproach you or opportuni-
ties for fornication (opportunitatem fornicationis) to the brotherhood;
besides, your obligation greatly and violently binds you clerics (clericos),

39  Unless this is a typo, it is unclear why Fruchtman has rendered this portion of Gal. 1:10 as
a question. Although 1:10a–b does offer two rhetorical questions, 1:10c is usually rendered
as a straightforward “if/then” statement. Cf. the NASB: “For am I now seeking the favor of
men, or of God? Or am I striving to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would
not be a bond-servant of Christ.”
40  Fruchtman, De Singularitate Clericorum, xxx.
41  Since v.12 and v.15 do make a similar point via similar vocabulary, this is not to deny
the legitimacy of the connection; rather, it is to highlight the exegetical selectivity of
the author of sing. cler. For a helpful comment on the links between the two vv., see
Achtemeier, 1 Peter: A Commentary on First Peter, 179.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 45

upon whom either your religion, having been reproached or your broth-
erhood, having been demolished, will impose twofold punishments. Nor
will they who have furnished the kindling of sinning to foreigners and
brothers find any solace at all in the judgment of the Lord.42

This is then immediately supported by three quotations drawn from the


Pastoral Epistles, two from Titus and one from 1 Timothy. And, apparently in
order to show that it is the universal teaching of all the apostles of Christ, these
three are followed by the aforementioned two from 1 Peter:

Which even the apostle Peter nourishes (satiat), saying: “Let your manner
of life (conuersatio) among the Gentiles be good,” he said, “so that in that
place where they disparage you as evildoers they might glorify God on
account of your good works” (cf. 2:12). And again, “Since thus,” he said,
“is the will of God: that you, doing good works, might silence the igno-
rance of foolish men” (cf. 2:15).43

While it is true that the passages from scripture employed here do thoroughly
illustrate the author’s point, it is also true that, in eliding 2:12 and 2:15 with-
out acknowledging the context or the contents of the intervening verses, the
author leaves no hint that, for 1 Peter, these two verses are actually part of two
diverse exhortations. Moreover, in omitting 2:13–14 with the controlling imper-
ative from v.13 “to be subject to every human authority (subiecti estote omni
humanae ordinationi/creaturae),” the author of sing. cler. has employed a verse
from the middle of our passage without so much as hinting at its implications
for Christians’ relationship to government or to the broader society. The reader
of this text is left to wonder what this text’s author understood regarding the
applicability of 1 Peter 2:13–17 as a whole to his particular context.

6 Ambrose

Like the author of sing. cler., Ambrose of Milan made just one reference to
our passage, quoting 1 Peter 2:13 all but in passing in Book 5 of his anti-Arian
treatise De fide ad Gratianum. Books three, four, and five of this work, the

42  For this trans., see Fruchtman, De Singularitate Clericorum, 9. For the Latin, see CSEL
3/3:182.
43  For this trans., see Fruchtman, De Singularitate Clericorum, 9. Here I have modified the
trans., replacing Fruchtman’s “conversation” with “manner of life,” which, in my view, is
more appropriate to the context. For the Latin, see CSEL 3/3:183.
46 Yates

contents of which were achieved by “rapidly adapting” sermones that Ambrose


preached in Milan following the composition of Books one and two of De fide,44
are securely datable to the winter of 380–81 CE.45 Important for this study is
the fact that “unlike De fide I–II, Books 3–5 entail a much more careful refu-
tation of specific scriptural interpretations or objections put forward by the
Homoians.”46 This observation is certainly true for Chapters 12–13 of De fide,
the section that includes the aforementioned reference to 1 Peter 2:13.
Chapter 12 is concerned to refute the Arian reading of Luke 19:11–27, the par-
able of the rich man who traveled to a far country, and 1 Cor. 15:24–28, part of
Paul’s complex discussion of the order and the timing of the general resurrec-
tion and its relationship to the resurrection of Jesus, in “pro-Nicene” terms.
Ambrose begins Chapter 12 by interpreting Luke’s parable in terms of the
Incarnation:

In divine fashion has [Christ] represented that parable of the rich man,
who went to a far-off country to receive a kingdom, and to return, thus
describing himself in the substance of the Godhead, and of his Manhood.
[. . .] He, I say, went to a foreign country in taking on Him a body, for he
entered upon the ways of men as though upon a strange journey, and
came into this world to prepare for Himself a kingdom from among us
(regnum sibi pararet ex nobis).47

Included in this same chapter is Ambrose’s observation that it is as the incar-


nate and resurrected Son of Man that Christ will deliver up the Kingdom to
God the Father. After this point, according to Ambrose’s reading of 1 Cor. 15:28,
the Son “also shall . . . be subject to him, who has put all things in subjection
under him, that God may be all in all.”48 And this, in turn, requires Ambrose to
explain how it is that we should understand Christ’s subjection, a claim that,
prima facie, would seem to provide the Arians with solid support for their posi-
tion if it is interpreted as applicable to the persons of the Godhead.
Ambrose then begins Chapter 13 by stating his Pro-Nicene assumption that
“the Son of God is also true God, and a king eternal,” as well as his intention

44  See D.H. Williams, “Polemics and Politics in Ambrose of Milan’s ‘De Fide’,” Journal of
Theological Studies 46/2 (1995): 528–29, a point accepted and elaborated upon by Barnes.
See T.D. Barnes, “Ambrose and Gratian,” Antiquité Tardive 7 (1999): 172 and n. 43.
45  For both the date and the context of de fide, see T.D. Barnes, “Ambrose and Gratian,”
165–174, esp. 172–73.
46  Williams, “Polemics and Politics,” 527.
47  For this English trans., see NPNF 10:302; for the Latin, CSEL 78:268.
48  De fide 5.12.147.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 47

for what follows: “Let us then . . . think how we ought to regard his subjection.”49
This is followed by a succession of short paragraphs that catalogs a few of the
places where the verb “ὑποτάσσω/subiectus” occurs in the Bible. Paragraph 156
asks about Psalm 8:6b’s line that “You have put all things under (subiecisti)
his feet,” a verse employed several times in the New Testament.50 Ambrose
rejects this as applicable to the case at hand since “Christ is not made sub-
ject to himself.”51 Paragraph 157, drawing from Eph. 5:21–22 and 1 Tim. 2:11, asks
whether Christ’s subjection should be likened to the subjection of “a woman
to a man.” Ambrose rejects this as applicable since “it is impious to compare . . . 
a woman to the Son of God.”52 Finally, in Paragraph 158, Ambrose writes: “Or
as Peter said: ‘Submit yourselves to every human creature’? But Christ was
certainly not so subject (nec sic itaque Christus),”53 before quickly moving on to
a more lengthy consideration of 1 Cor. 15.
Significantly, Ambrose does not offer any further exegesis or comment on
our passage; he merely asserts that it does not apply to the Christological ques-
tion he is investigating. It is also true that he never writes about what 1 Peter
2:13–17 does mean nor about how it should be applied. Despite his acute politi-
cal sense and, indeed, his profound views regarding how the church ought to
relate to the broader society, Ambrose gives no indication that he found our
passage relevant to that or any other overtly political discussion.

7 Jerome

The only plausible reference to our passage from the voluminous works
of Jerome is an allusion that occurs in near the end of Book II of his
Commentariorum in Michaeam, a relatively brief work that he completed in
early 393.54

49  See NPNF 10:303; for the Latin, CSEL 78:272.


50  Cf., e.g., 1 Cor. 15:27, Eph. 1:22, Heb. 2:8. Note that the paragraph numbers in the English
trans. are off by one when compared to the CSEL edition, the numbering of which is
followed here.
51  See NPNF 10:303; for the Latin, CSEL 78:272: “sed non christus sibi ipse subiectus est.”
52  See NPNF 10:303; for the Latin, CSEL 78:272: “sed sacrilegum est . . . dei filio mulierem
conparare.”
53  See NPNF 10:303; for the Latin, CSEL 78:272: “an quemadmodum petrus dixit: ‘subiecti estote
omni humanae ordinationi’?—nec sic itaque christus.”
54  This date is secure and can be narrowed to the first three months of 393. For brief discus-
sions, see A. Fürst, Hieronymus. Askese und Wissenschaft in der Spätantike (Freiburg im
Breisgau: Herder, 2003), 117 and 225 n. 32, and M.H. Williams, The Monk and the Book.
Jerome and the Making of Christian Scholarship (The University of Chicago Press, 2006),
48 Yates

The passage in question comes after Jerome has already spent more than
one hundred lines of text commenting on Micah 7:4c–7:5. As is typical for his
earliest efforts in the commentaries on the Twelve Minor Prophets,55 Jerome
first gives the lemma for the section he would comment upon both in a Latin
translation of his Hebrew text and then in a Latin translation of the Septuagint.56
In the relatively literal NASB, the Hebrew for Micah 7:5 reads: “Do not trust a
neighbor; put no confidence in a friend.” However, in the Latin translation of
both Jerome’s Hebrew text and the LXX, it is the first line, not the second, that
refers to a friend (or friends) and the second is altogether different, referring
to a leader (or leaders) rather than to a neighbor. Jerome’s translation from the
Hebrew reads: “Nolite credere amico, et nolite confidere in duce”; his translation
from the LXX reads: “Nolite credere in amicis, neque speratis in ducibus.”57 It is
clearly this second exhortation that provides a possible link to 1 Peter 2:14. In
line 216, Jerome introduces his comment on this exhortation by first quoting
again his translation of the LXX with its plural “ducibus.” This is immediately
followed by (1) a quotation of Jeremiah 17:5’s “Cursed is the man who trusts in
mankind (maledictus homo qui spem habet in homine),” (2) a quote attributed
to Paul from Acts 20:30, and, finally, (3) another quote from the LXX text of
Jeremiah, this time almost all of 4:22.58 Jeremiah 4:22 begins: “Duces populi mei
me nescierunt . . .” and this second mention of leaders in the plural elicits the
following statement from Jerome, who, at least here, is clearly in more inter-
ested in ecclesiastical political structures than he is in secular ones:

Do not trust in your leaders, not in the bishop, not in the elder, not in the
deacon, not in any human authority whatsoever. I do not say that you

119 n. 62, 190–91, where the Prologue to Book II is dated to 392, and esp. 283 n. 68, where
Williams signals that her conclusions draw upon the older studies of Cavallera and esp. of
Nautin.
55  “Efforts” is used here somewhat loosely since, as Jerome himself acknowledged, his
habit of borrowing heavily from the works of his predecessors—usually without naming
them—and from Origen in particular is clearly evident and, in many places, very direct.
For discussion of this point with reference to the commentaries on the Twelve Minor
Prophets, see, e.g., M.H. Williams, The Monk and the Book, 128–29, 190–91, etc. and J.N.D.
Kelly, Jerome: His Life, Writings, and Controversies (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1998),
163–69.
56  For helpful comments on why Jerome employed this method, see J.N.D. Kelly, Jerome,
164–65 and 168.
57  Cf. CCSL 76:507.
58  In the Greek, Jer. 4:22 reads: “οἱ ἡγούμενοι τοῦ λαοῦ μου ἐμὲ οὐκ ᾔδεισαν, υἱοὶ ἄφρονές εἰσιν καὶ
οὐ συνετοί· σοφοί εἰσιν τοῦ κακοποιῆσαι, τὸ δὲ καλῶς ποιῆσαι οὐκ ἐπέγνωσαν.”
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 49

ought not to be in submission to such ranks within the church, “for who-
ever curses his father or his mother by death shall he be put to death.” An
Apostle also teaches that we must be obedient to those who have been
given authority in the church, but I do say that it is one thing to honor
your leaders, but that it is something else to have hope in your leaders
(sed quod aliud sit honorare duces, aliud spem habere in ducibus; cf. 1 Peter
2:13–14, 17). We should honor the bishop, defer to the elder, rise in the
presence of the deacon; however, we should not hope in them because in
human beings hope is vain even as in the Lord hope is certain.59

While it is clear that, here, Jerome intends to invoke the authoritative teaching
of one of the apostles as preserved in the NT, it is not immediately clear which
apostle he is referring to. For most readers, the default assumption would be
that he is referring to Paul. Although the case is far from ironclad, there are a
few reasons for thinking that Jerome had 1 Peter 2:13–17 in mind here. First, it
seems clear that he knew 1 Peter well: the very first quotation of scripture in his
Commentariorum in Michaeam is from 1 Peter 5.60 Second, in the Vulgate NT,61
the plural Latin forms for “leaders,” that is, duces, ducum, and ducibus, do not
occur outside the Synoptic Gospels and the Book of Acts except for 1 Peter 2:14.
Third, and finally, In the Vulgate NT, 1 Peter 2:17 is the only passage in which

59  Trans. is my own. Cf. CCSL 76:510–11: “Nolite credere in ducibus, non in episcopo, non in
presbytero, non in diacono, non in qualibet hominum dignitate. Nec hoc dico, quod istius-
modi gradibus in ecclesia non debeatis esse subiecti: ‘quicumque enim maledixerit patri, aut
matri, morte morietur’; et apostolus docet praepositis in ecclesia oboediendum, sed quod
aliud sit honorare duces, aliud spem habere in ducibus. Honoremus episcopum, presbytero
deferamus, assurgamus diacono, et tamen non speremus in eis, quia hominis uana, et certa
spes est in domino.”
60  Cf. CCSL 76:421: “Humiliamini sub potenti manu dei, ut uos exaltet in tempore uisitationis”
(cf. 1 Peter 5:6).
61  It is crucial to note that modern scholarship has shown that Jerome was not the translator
of the Vulgate NT beyond the Gospels. See, e.g., J.N.D. Kelly, Jerome: His Life, Writings and
Controversies (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1998 [originally published by Gerald
Duckworth & Co., 1975]), 88–89. It follows from this that we should not necessarily expect
him to quote the NT according to the Vulgate. At the same time, we should not assume
that he never employed readings that would become Vulgate for the other 23 books of
the NT. As the volumes of the Beuron Vetus Latina project have amply demonstrated,
(1) the borders between any of the Old Latin “text-types” and what would become the
Vulgate for any particular NT book were often quite porous and (2) for some NT books,
the text that would eventually become standardized in the Vulgate was often close to or,
in places, even identical with, some of the Old Latin readings.
50 Yates

verbs for “to honor,” such as “honorare,” “honorate,” or “honorificate,” occur in


reference to what is owed to leaders or “duces.”62
Although this reference to 1 Peter 2:13–17 in Jerome is probably best classi-
fied as an allusion, a case can be made that he did have our passage in mind at
this juncture—even if it may well have been his intent to allude to Paul.63

8 Rufinus of Aquileia and Origen of Alexandria’s Comm. In Romans63

The ten-book digest of the great Alexandrian’s commentary on Romans


as made by Rufinus of Aquileia, probably ca. 407–410,64 contains just one

62  “Honorare” does occur in Rom. 15:9, but it is invoked in reference to God.
63  A few years before Rufinus’s translation of Origen’s Romans Commentary was becom-
ing available in the West, Innocent I, Pope and Bishop of Rome, issued one of his most
famous and, eventually, his most widely-disseminated compositions. Its potential rel-
evance for this study is due to the inclusion in the apparatus of the Vetus Latina fas-
cicle for 1 Peter of a small excerpt from Chapter 3 of Pope Innocent I’s ep.6 (or, more
properly, his authoritative “decretal” written in February, 405 in reply to a relatio that
Exsuperius, Bishop of Toulouse, had sent to Innocent). A portion of this decretal is cited
as possibly containing a reference to 1 Peter 2:14. However, a perusal of the context of
the excerpt reveals that it is more likely either to be (a) an allusion to Rom. 13:1–7—and
specifically to verses 1 and 4—or (b) an allusion to an amalgamation of Rom. 13:1–7 and
1 Peter 2:13–14, or (c) simply an interesting and less-than-fully-conscious verbal coin-
cidence. That Innocent is probably alluding to Rom. 13 is acknowledged by both the
Vetus Latina and the editors of PL 20. The entire sentence from Innocent’s epistle (cf.
PL 20:499) runs: “meminerant enim a deo potestates has fuisse concessas, et propter uin-
dictam noxiorum gladium fuisse permissum, et dei esse ministrum uindicem in huiusmodi
datum.” Even when all the variants for 1 Peter 2:14 noted by the VL are taken into account, the
only plausible link between it and Innocent’s letter is the phrase “uindictam noxiorum” or
“vengeance upon the guilty.” But even this is rather weak when it is observed that
“noxiorum” is a rarely attested (the chief support is Innocent himself!) minor variant for
the Vulgate’s “malefactorum” and for the “C” text-type’s “malorum.” Moreover, “gladium,” the
very next word in Innocent’s letter, does not appear anywhere in the more general 1 Peter
2:13–17, but does appear prominently in Rom. 13:4. Clearly Innocent, like Paul in Rom. 13, is
thinking about cases that might possibly involve sentences of capital punishment. In sum,
Rom. 13:1–7—and especially v.4—seems to be the biblical passage that is being alluded
to most directly, even if it is impossible to rule out 1 Peter 2:13–14 altogether. In any case,
this reference, which is the only one to 1 Peter 2:13–17 that has been located in Innocent’s
extant corpus, is too uncertain and problematic to be incorporated helpfully into any
history of the reception and use of our passage. While relatively few publications dealing
with Innocent’s several dozen letters have appeared—and virtually nothing on ep. 6 apart
from histories of the canon that occasionally reference Chapter 7’s list of the books that
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 51

r­eference to our passage: a direct quotation of the text of 1 Peter 2:14 in


Chapter 26 of Book 9.64
It should come as no surprise that Origen-Rufinus’s reference to our passage
occurs in the section in which Paul’s thoughts on the Christian’s relationship
to the state as found in Rom. 13:1–7 are the focus. Indeed, as is quite typical
for the great Alexandrian exegete, the reference to 1 Peter 2:14 comes amidst
a scriptural tour de force that includes references to Matt. 22:20–21, Acts 3:6,
Acts 5:29 and numerous invocations of Rom 13:1–7.65
Chapter 25 is taken up with an exposition of Rom. 13:1a’s “Let every soul
be subject to the higher authorities,” in fact, the verse “bookends” the chapter,

Innocent and the Roman church held to be in canone—helpful contributions regarding


specific letters have been made by G. Dunn. See, e.g., his “The Date of Innocent I’s Epistula
12 and the Second Exile of John Chrysostom,” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 45
(2005): 155–170, and “Episcopal Crisis Management in Late Antique Gaul: The Example
of Exsuperius of Toulouse” Antichthon 48 (2014): 126–143. For a helpful and highly
detailed discussion of the complex details surrounding the composition, dissemination,
and collection of papal letters and decretals including those drafted by Innocent I, see
D. Jasper and H. Fuhrmann, Papal Letters in the Early Middle Ages (Washington D.C.: The
Catholic University of America Press, 2001), esp. 13–22 and passim. Neither J. MacDonald,
Innocent I: his life and letters (unpublished B. Litt. thesis, Oxford University, 1957) nor
M. Green, Pope Innocent I: The Church of Rome in the Early Fifth Century (unpublished
D.Phil. diss., Oxford University, 1973) were available to me.
64  Given the parameters of this study, the date by which the Latin Version of Origen’s com-
mentary was available to Latin readers in the west—including those, like Augustine, who
were dwelling in North Africa—is important. C. Hammond Bammel has concluded that
“it is not unlikely that copies [of Rufinus’s translation] would have been brought from
Sicily to Africa after Rufinus’s death or perhaps even earlier direct from Rome” when
Melania the Elder visited Augustine in 407. See her “Rufinus’ Translation of Origen’s
Commentary on Romans and the Pelagian Controversy,” in Storia ed esegesi in Rufino di
Concordia, Antichità Altoadriatiche XXXIX (Udine: Arti Grafiche Friulane, 1992), 131–142,
here 135. See also S.M. Hildebrand, “The Letter Kills but the Spirit Gives Life: Romans 7
in the Early Works of Augustine and in Rufinus’s Translation of Origen’s Commentary,”
Augustinian Studies 31/1 (2000): 19–39. For a helpful and “pre-Hammond Bammel” claim
regarding the general reliability of Rufinus’s trans. as an accurate reflection of Origen’s
work and thought, see, e.g., M. Wiles, The Divine Apostle: The Interpretation of St. Paul’s
Epistles in the Early Church (Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 6.
Although not at all concerned with 1 Peter, Brian Dunkle’s “A Development in Origen’s
View of the Natural Law,” Pro Ecclesia 13 (2004): 337–351, esp. 342–347, offers a very helpful
orientation to Origen’s Romans Commentary in general and Rufinus’s interpretive transla-
tion in particular.
65  For a brief discussion of Origen’s views on Rom. 13:1–7 as reflected in this commentary, see
SC 532:84–5.
52 Yates

being quoted both at its beginning and its end. Chapter 26 then begins with
13:1b’s “For there is no authority . . . except from God.” Origen’s first remark here
comes in the form of a question that surely must have crossed the minds of
many thinking Christians prior to the 4th-century: “Is even that authority that
persecutes God’s servants, attacks the faith, and subverts religion from God?”
Although he answers this partially in the negative at the outset of Chapter 27,66
Origen’s initial response in Chapter 26 comes by way of an analogy with the
physical body. He writes:

There is no one who does not know that even sight is a gift from God to
us, as well as hearing and the ability to think. Well then . . . it nevertheless
is within our authority to make use of our vision either for good things or
evil things . . . and in this the judgment of God is just, because we misuse
these things that he has given for good use, for impious and wicked ser-
vice. So then (ita ergo), all authority (cf. Rom. 13:1b) has also been given by
God “to punish those who are evil but to praise those who are good”
(cf. 1 Peter 2:14); just as the same Apostle says in what follows [i.e.,
Rom. 13:3–4].67

Although Origen-Rufinus does not make this reference to 1 Peter explicit by


way of an introductory formula, there can be little question that he is refer-
encing our passage. It is most probable that Origen was consciously amalgam-
ating Paul’s language from Rom. 13:1–7 with Peter’s from 1 Peter 2:14. This is
supported by the facts (1) that no form of the substantive “potestas” occurs in
1 Peter 2:13–17,68 though it occurs in Rom. 13:1–3 no less than four times, (2) that,
even though Origen (or Rufinus or a later scribe) has altered the verb “missus”
from 2:14 to “data est,” the remainder of this substantial quotation is verbatim
from 1 Peter 2:14, the verse from our passage that is the closet parallel to any
part of Rom. 13:1–7.69 That Origen-Rufinus’s intention was to show agreement
between the apostles also seems most probable given his explicit reference

66  Here, following a quote of Rom. 13:2a, Origen writes “Here he is not speaking about those
authorities that instigate persecutions against the faith; for in such cases one must say,
‘It is necessary to obey God rather than men’ ” (cf. Acts 5:29).
67  For this trans., which is that of T. Scheck, see FOTC 104:223. For the Latin, see SC 555:166:
“Nemo est qui nesciat quod et uisus a deo donatus est et auditus et sensus. Cum ergo . . . in
potestate tamen nostra est uti uisu uel ad bona uel ad mala . . . et in hoc est iustum iudicium
dei, quod his quae ille ad usus bonos dedit, nos abutimur ad impia et inquia ministeria. Ita
ergo et potestas omnis a deo data est ad uindictam quidem malorum, laudem uero bonorum,
sicut idem apostolus in subsequentibus dicit.”
68  “postestatibus,” however, does occur in 1 Peter 3:22.
69  Cf. n. 9 supra.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 53

back to Paul as the “same Apostle (idem apostolus) [who] says in what follows”
immediately after referencing 1 Peter 2:14.
In sum, if this reference to 1 Peter 2:14 is accepted as intentional, it subtly
demonstrates that, for Origen/Rufinus, both Peter and Paul were in agreement
that all political powers in positions of authority were to receive the submis-
sion of Christians, except for when those powers were actively instigating
persecutions.

9 John Cassian

John Cassian, arguably the most important figure in the history of western
monasticism, makes just one reference to 1 Peter 2:13–17. This reference, which
is to verse 16, is located near the very end of Conference 21, which, as part of
the last set of conferences, dates from the very end of the 420’s and which is
the first conference written in the name of the otherwise unknown Abbot
Theonas.70 This conference addresses several questions including the differ-
ence between the law and the gospel, customs to be followed during Pentecost,
and the length of the Lenten season.
The most theological section of the conference and, indeed, Cassian’s ref-
erence 1 Peter 2:16, comes near its end in Chapters 31–34 and specifically at
21.34.3. Chapter 31 includes the penultimate question of Germanus, Abbot
Theonas’s interlocutor. As Chapter 31 opens, Germanus is drawing upon the
end of Chapter 30 and the fact that Theonas has concluded his previous answer
by quoting Rom. 6:14: “sin shall not have dominion over you, for you are not
under law (sub lege) but under grace (sub gratia).” Germanus begins by noting
that “these words of the Apostle [Paul] seem exceedingly obscure to us.” This
is because, in Germanus’s experience, “the dominion of sin flourishes in nearly
all the baptized” and this observation runs counter to Germanus’s assumption
that the “words of the Apostle [Paul] . . . cannot be false.”
Theonas’s response to this line of questioning comes in the form of a long
disquisition over law and grace, the ultimate goal of which is that “we may

70  For the dates of composition for the Conlationes, see D. Ogliari, Gratia et Certamen: The
Relationship between Grace and Free Will in the Discussion of Augustine with the so-called
Semipelagians, BETL 169 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2003), 124–28 and esp. 125 and
n. 155: “The Conlationes were written at different periods, from 425/426 to 428.” Additional
helpful sources for the context, the life, and the thought of Cassian include P. Rousseau,
Ascetics, Authority, and the Church in the Age of Jerome and Cassian, 2nd ed. (Notre Dame:
University of Notre Dame Press, 2010), 169–176 and C. Stewart, Cassian the Monk (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1998).
54 Yates

be able to understand from these things the dominion of sin and how it
can be expelled.”
In Chapter 34, Theonas addresses the case of those who have rejected the
grace of Christ’s precepts “because they are hard” and who have “disdained as
outdated” the Mosaic Law that was “imposed upon beginners and children.”
According to Theonas, these rejecters are in genuine spiritual peril. They are
neither sub lege nor sub gratia and, thus, remain “burdened by a double rule
of sin (duplici peccatorum opressus imperio).” Each individual in this group
“believes that he has received the grace of Christ solely in order that he may
liberate himself from [Christ] (ab eo) by this wicked freedom (noxiam liberta-
tem).” This, according to Theonas, is actually the fulfillment—either conscious
or unconscious—of Peter’s warning to his readers “that we must ‘act as free
persons . . . and not as those who have their freedom as a cover for wickedness’ ”
(cf. 1 Peter 2:16). Theonas immediately goes on to note how this Petrine senti-
ment concurs perfectly with what Paul wrote elsewhere, namely that “ ‘You
have been called to freedom, brothers’—that is so that you may be released
from the dominion of sin—‘only do not use your freedom as an opportunity
for the flesh’ (cf. Gal. 5:13)—that is, do not believe that the abolition ( frustra-
tionem) of the legal precepts is a permission to sin.”71
In addition to the assumption that Peter and Paul were teaching the exact
same principle, the reader of 21.34.3 immediately notes that the quotation of
our passage contained within it occurs in a context that is anything but politi-
cal. In fact, this usage is surprisingly similar both to the way Irenaeus employed
1 Peter 2:16 some 250 years previously and to the way that Ambrose had applied
it just a generation earlier.

10 Augustine

Augustine makes more than 170 references to the twenty-five verses that
comprise Chapter 2 of 1 Peter. Somewhat surprisingly, just seven72 of those
170 are references to 1 Peter 2:13–17.73 These seven are spread out over five

71  Trans. Ramsay, John Cassian: The Conferences, 747. For the Latin, see CSEL 13/2:611–612.
72  The total may be as high as nine if one accepts the two additional references to 1 Peter 2:16
noted in the VL’s Nachträge (cf. p. 457). The two additional references listed there are to
ep. 211.16 and to reg. III (or his Regula: Praeceptum), 12.1. However, both are at best allu-
sions to 2:16’s contrast between “serui” and “liberi” and are at least as likely to be references
to Rom. 6:14’s contrast between the states of “sub lege” and “sub gratia.”
73  In fact, the actual number of references in the certain works of Augustine is twelve. The
additional five all occur in Chapter 44 of the relatively late (ca. 427 CE) Speculum (quis
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 55

different compositions of vastly different genres: Augustine employs verse 13


twice (once at en. Ps. 61.8 and once at s. 299E.2); verse 14 once (en. Ps. 61.8);
verse 16 twice (both times in Paragraph 45 of de fide et operibus); and verse 17
twice (once at In Ioh. Trac. 6.26.274 and once at mor 1.6375). Given the fact

ignorat) (cf. CSEL 12:263). This work is basically an extract and compilation of all the verses
from both the Old and the New Testaments that, in Augustine’s judgment, were relevant
for living the Christian life in a morally responsible way. Interestingly, both the impetus
for composition and the contents of the work were commented upon by Possidius in
Chapter 28 of his Vita Augustini. For a trans. of Chapter 28, see H.T. Weiskotten, Sancti
Augustini Vita Scripta a Possidio Episcopo (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1919),
110–111. In the 20th-century, the Speculum’s authenticity, transmission/redaction history,
and the sources of its biblical citations were debated. It is now accepted that the Speculum
is authentic, that it was subject to extensive redaction at an early stage of the transmis-
sion process, and that one of the chief concerns of those responsible for the redaction was
to bring the work’s biblical citations into conformity with what would become known as
the Vulgate—even though this process of conformation was imperfectly executed. As for
1 Peter 2:13–17, in the CSEL edition, the text conforms exactly to the established Vulgate
text with just two notable exceptions, both of which occur in one phrase from 2:13: the
CSEL edition reads “. . . ordinationi proper deum” instead of the Vulgate’s “. . . creaturae
propter dominum.” For a helpful discussion of the nature and the text of the Speculum
as well as of the aforementioned 20th-century debates, see A.-M. La Bonnardière,
“Le Speculum quis ignorant,” in Saint Augustin et la Bible, Bible de tous les Temps (Paris:
Beauchesne, 1986), 401–409.
74  Datable with precision to Sunday, January 13th 407, the day it was actually preached,
Homily 6 of the Tractates on the Gospel of John is based upon John 1:32–33 and is thor-
oughly anti-Donatist. The reference to 1 Peter 2:17, which Hill, the English translator,
suspects that Augustine confusedly assumed came from one of Paul’s letters, occurs in
Paragraph 26, when Augustine is already deeply engaged in a fictional dialogue with an
imaginary Donatist interlocutor over the Donatist claim that their property was being
confiscated illegally and unjustly. When his imaginary interlocutor rhetorically asks, “But
what have we got to do with the emperor?,” Augustine responds by noting that “. . . the
case falls under human law; and in any case the apostle wished kings to be served,
he wished kings to be honored, and said: ‘Respect the king’ (cf. 1 Peter 2:17).” For the Latin,
see CCSL 36:66: “Sed quid nobis et imperatori? . . . de iure humano agitur. Et tamen aposto-
lus uoluit seruiri regibus, uoluit honorari reges, et dixit: ‘regem reueremini.’ ” The fact that,
in the Vulgate NT outside of the Gospels and Acts, the accusative singular “regem” only
occurs in 1 Peter 2:17 and Rev. 9:11, could be used to argue against the supposition that
Augustine thought this command came from Paul. As with most other early Christian
authors, however, it is true that, for Augustine, the unmodified word “apostolus” generally
refers to Paul.
75  It is this reference’s nature as a somewhat vague allusion to a blend of 1 Peter 2:13 and 2:17
that keeps it from being discussed in detail here. For the text, see CSEL 90:67; for a recent
English trans. by Teske, see WSA I/19, p. 60. While it does include phrases such as “subdere
regibus,” its language also resembles Rom. 13:1–7 and, to a lesser degree, Titus 3.
56 Yates

that Augustine’s extant corpus exceeds 5.5 million words, it compels the con-
clusion that 1 Peter 2:13–17 was not terribly important to him—despite the
facts (1) that he references this passage more than any other Latin Christian
author who proceeded him and (2) that he had such profound and influential
views regarding Christianity’s relationship to secular power.76
Paragraph 8 of his Enarratio 61 on the Psalms is certainly one of Augustine’s
two most political applications of our verses. This enarratio which, unlike
some, was actually preached, is relatively long; it employs both 1 Peter 2:13
and 2:14 after a rehearsal of the history of the persecution of the faithful,
after Augustine has connected that theme to his famous “two cities” motif,
and after he has reminded his audience of the eschatological hope repre-
sented by the New Jerusalem. All of this happens in Paragraphs 6 and 7. Then,
in Paragraph 8, Augustine notes the depressing fact that humanity has usually
been governed by bad kings and that this is was even true of ancient Israel:

Every earthly state makes use of some of the heavenly city’s citizens to
administer its affairs. [. . .] All these [citizens] are just and good, and all
they have at heart are the surpassingly glorious things that have been
spoken about the city of God. They are like servant messengers (quasi
angarium) in a state doomed to pass away, and while in that place (illic)
they are under orders from the teachers (doctoribus) in the holy city to
serve their masters conscientiously, “whether the king, as one who holds
supreme authority, or the officials appointed by him to punish evildoers
but to commend those who behave well (cf. 1 Peter 2:13–14).” [. . .] Matters
are arranged like this until iniquity passes away [. . .] for in this way [the
good citizens of Jerusalem] fulfill the injunction, “if anyone obliges you to
go a mile, go freely with him two miles more. (cf. Matthew 5:41).”77

Here Augustine is offering his audience a thumbnail sketch of a much larger


political vision, a vision which includes a clear exhortation for Christians to
serve their political masters. Fully in the spirit of 1 Peter 2:13–17, this service
is supposed to be granted freely, even though the system they are serving is
“doomed (transitura),” and even though they may well end up suffering for
their goodness in the here and now. It is also highly significant that in this
passage Augustine, not unlike several of his exegetical forerunners, has overtly
linked the words of 1 Peter 2:13–17 with the words of Jesus, thereby indirectly

76  Cf. n. 2 supra.


77  This English trans. is a modified version of that made by E. Hill. Cf. WSA III/8, p. 212. For
the Latin, see CCSL 39:779.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 57

making the claim that the views of Peter and Jesus are fully compatible. As we
shall see, this feature represents something of a pattern in Augustine’s refer-
ences to our passage.
A second important political use of (part of) our passage is found in
Paragraph 2 of Augustine’s sermo 299E (= sermo Guelferbytanus 30), a ser-
mon preached in Carthage on July 17th, the “birthday,” i.e., date of the execu-
tion, of the Martyrs of Scilli. It is noteworthy that there are parallels between
Augustine’s use of 1 Peter 2:13–17 in this sermon and what has been highlighted
in the passages from both Irenaeus and Tertullian that were cited above.
Throughout Paragraph 2, Augustine is intent on holding up the perfect
example provided by “the doctor” Christ for how to face “the bitter cup of
death,” including any number of horrible deaths that one might logically fear.
This leads Augustine to cite Luke 12:4–5 and Jesus’s claim that the only one who
really should be feared is God since he “has power . . . to cast into gehenna.”78
Augustine then asks “Who is really to be feared?” before periphrastically
answering “no human being but God alone,” since no human being “could do
anything against you unless that one permitted it.”79
This appeal to God’s sovereignty over life and death then leads Augustine
to a brief discussion of John 19 and the perfect example that Jesus provided
as he appeared before Pilate, a human being who mistakenly thought that
he, in and of himself, had the power to put Jesus to death. In his submissive
response, Jesus, just as he would do throughout his passion and just as he had
done when he had been tempted by Satan, was “teaching . . . how to answer the
persecutor.” From Augustine’s point of view, this is another example in which
“the head was speaking for the body (caput pro corpore loquebatur).” Following
a quotation of John 19:10–11, Augustine tells his listeners that:

[Christ] was teaching the martyrs to be submissive (subditum esse


debere), not to men (homini) but to God; he was teaching martyrs, when
they suffer anything from men, to fear, not men, but the one who permits
men to act like that, who gives men authority. Taught by this magisterial
lesson, that most valiant woman [Donata, one of the martyrs of Scilli;
cf. Prov. 31:10] said, “Honor to Caesar, as Caesar; but reverence to God”

78  For the Latin, see PLS 2:627: “qui . . . habet potestam mittere in gehennam.” In the relatively
literal NASB, Luke 12:4–5 reads: “ ‘I say to you, My friends, do not be afraid of those who
kill the body and after that have no more that they can do. But I will warn you whom to
fear: fear the One who, after He has killed, has authority to cast into hell; yes, I tell you, fear
Him!’ ”
79  For the Latin, see PLS 2:627.
58 Yates

(cf. Passio Sanctorum Scilitanorum 9; Matt. 22:21, Mark 12:17, Luke 20:25).
She rendered to both their due (cf. Rom. 13:7), making a fair distribution
(iuste distribuendo); her answer was prompted neither by pride nor by
weakness. She paid attention to what an80 apostle said (attendit apos-
tolum dicentem): “Be subject81 to every human institution for God’s sake”
(cf. 1 Peter 2:13). “Honor,” she said, “to Caesar, as Caesar.” However cruel
he may be (saeuiat licet), honor should be shown to him (honoretur); he
should be treated (reddatur) with proper respect, even though he doesn’t
possess the pinnacle of authority (et si principatum non habet potestatis).82

Although this passage is focused on martyrdom and even includes references


to the passio of the martyrs of Scilli, it is also clear that, at the same time, it is
both an exhortation to the Christians of Augustine’s own day regarding the
secular power and a scriptural tour de force. That it is intended for Augustine’s
present audience is made clear by the present tense of the verbal forms in the
final sentence: “saeuiat . . . honoretur . . . reddatur . . . habet.” That it is a tour de
force is evident from how, in the space of just a few lines, Augustine moves
effortlessly from John’s gospel, to Rom. 13, to Prov. 31:10, to the passio of the
martyrs, which itself references Jesus’s words from the synoptic gospels, to
1 Peter.83 Also notable here is that, once again, it seems possible that, due to the
unqualified reference to “apostle (apostolum),” Augustine may have thought
he was quoting from Paul when he in fact quoted from 1 Peter 2:13.
In 24.45 of his On Faith and Works and in the space of seven lines, Augustine
makes two references to 1 Peter 2:16 that, because of their similarities to the
usage of it discussed above from Cassian’s Conference 21 and from Book 4

80  This is the most significant change I made to Hill’s translation, who renders this as “the
Apostle.” Cf. pp. 49–50 supra where a similar issue is discussed regarding a citation from
Jerome. Unless Augustine became completely confused regarding the source of this refer-
ence, it is a bit gratuitous to supply “the” here since (1) the reference is so clearly to 1 Peter; and
(2) for Augustine, even more than for Jerome, “the Apostle” is Paul.
81  As has been noted repeatedly, confusion between Rom. 13 and our passage is common-
place. This passage offers a good example. Here, Augustine (or a scribe or perhaps even a
later copyist) has replaced “subiectus” with “subditus” and has done so in a location where
the reference to 1 Peter 2:13 could hardly be clearer: “omni humanae constitutioni subditi
estote propter deum.” Nevertheless, this switch is understandable given that the two terms
are synonyms and are both used to translate forms of the Greek “ὑποτάσσω.”
82  This English trans. is a slightly modified version of that made by E. Hill. Cf. WSA III/8,
p.265. For the Latin, see PLS 2:628.
83  Note that, in the very next lines, Augustine refers to Wis. 7:16 before circling back to
Luke 12:5.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 59

of Irenaeus’s Against Heresies, merit a brief discussion. The chapter, which


is closely connected to what has preceded it, continues with questions
­surrounding the proper application of Rom. 2:12.84 After noting that “it is
clearly evident” that the issue here is “one which concerns the Jews and the
Gentiles, not one which concerns good and bad Christians,” Augustine writes,

But our opponents would want us to understand that St. Paul is speaking
here of faith and not of law—an interpretation which is unthinkable and
absurd. But if this is the way they would understand his words, then they
would do well to read a certain very clear (apertissimam) passage from
the apostle Peter. In this passage St. Peter speaks of those who took as a
pretext for sins of the flesh and for doing evil those words of Scripture
which say that we who belong to the New Testament (ad nouum testa-
mentum) “are not the children of the bondwoman but of the free, by the
freedom wherewith Christ has made us free” (cf. Gal. 4:31 and 5:1). These
men thought that, since the redemption gave them security, liberty
meant they could do whatever they pleased. But they failed to consider
these other words of Scripture, namely, “For you, brethren, have been
called unto liberty (in libertatem); only make not liberty (libertatem) an
occasion to the flesh” (Gal. 5:13). And therefore (unde et) St. Peter says:
“as free (liberi) and not as making liberty (libertatem) a cloak for malice”
(cf. 1 Peter 2:16).85

Like both Irenaeus and Cassian, Augustine has assumed that Peter and Paul
had taught the exact same principle. Here, however, Augustine has also clearly
assumed that Peter’s teaching had followed Paul’s precisely because there were
some who had chosen to abuse Paul’s teaching and this abuse required correc-
tion. Going one step further, Augustine then leans on this assumption in order
to refute those among his opponents who understood Paul’s teaching on grace
as a form of libertinism, stating that, if they will not conclude that Paul did not
teach such radical moral freedom simply from reading Paul, then they should
still draw this conclusion by reading Peter, since, according to Augustine’s
assumption, Peter simply cannot be teaching anything other than what Paul
taught. Also not to be missed here is the fact that Augustine is claiming that

84  In the relatively literal NASB, Rom. 2:12 reads: “For all who have sinned without the Law
will also perish without the Law, and all who have sinned under the Law will be judged by
the Law.”
85  For this English trans., see ACW 48:50. For the Latin, see CSEL 41:89–90.
60 Yates

Peter’s teaching was based on firsthand knowledge of the contents of Paul’s


letter to the Galatians.

11 Conclusion

This investigation of the western Patristic tradition’s reception and use of


1 Peter 2:13–17 over the course of ca. 250 years (ca. 180 to ca.430 CE),86 has made
possible the following four conclusions. First, western Patristic authors used
our verses only rarely and, more often than not, used them in contexts that
were not particularly political. Indeed, even as late as the 4th and 5th centu-
ries, the use of our passage in the Latin-reading west frequently remained ad
hoc. Second, 1 Peter 2:13–17 is not very important for understanding western
Patristic authors’ views of politics in general or of their views on the Christian’s
relationship to the governing authorities in particular. Third, when 1 Peter
2:13–17 does show up in their works, it is frequently in close proximity (or, in
some cases, due to confusion) with either Rom. 13:1–7, the words of Jesus, or
both. That our passage’s contents were sometimes confused with Paul’s teach-
ing in Rom. 13:1–7 is most probably part of the explanation for the striking fact
that there is no sustained or even substantial extant exegesis of it by west-
ern authors prior to the death of Augustine. Fourth and finally, a close look
at the tendency of western Patristic authors to employ our passage in close
proximity with Rom. 13:1–7 and the words of Jesus shows that, whether it was
intentional or intuitive, they, not unlike modern commentators, were influ-

86  According to the apparatus of the VL edition for 1 Peter 2:13–17, there are capitula from
different manuscript traditions for the Catholic Epistles that are relevant for establish-
ing the Old Latin text-types of 1 Peter. While the dating of their sources is difficult to
establish, it is at least possible that two of them impacted the early reading and exegesis
of our passage—even though such direct influence is exceedingly hard to prove. The first
of these two is a capitulum for 1 Peter 2:13–14 found in a 9th-century Vulgate manuscript.
It reads: “Obsecrat liberos ab inlecebris saeculi continere et non solum deo sed et praeposi-
tis sibi oboedire postestatibus mundi.” The second is a capitulum for 2:17 drawn from two
important Vulgate codices, one from the 8th-century and one that is (possibly) from the
9th-century. It reads: “Et potestatibus debitum inpendamus honorem.” The VL apparatus
follows the system of D. De Bruyne, Sommaires, divisions et rubriques de la Bible latine
(Namur: A. Godenne, 1914), 384–85 for the capitula of 1 Peter. More readily available is
Novum Testamentum Domini Nostri Iesu Christi Latine, recensuerunt J. Wordsworth et
H.J. White, Pars Tertia Actus Apostolorum—Epistulae Canonicae Apocalypsis Iohannis
(Oxonii E Typographeo Clarendoniano, 1954), esp. pages 268–70; for their “Elenchus
Codicum,” see 271.
“ Sic Est Voluntas Dei ” 61

enced by linguistic, thematic, and theological similarities that exist between


1 Peter 2:13–17 and other parts of the New Testament. Of course, these Patristic
authors spilled little ink explaining theories of dependence. On the contrary,
the majority of their uses supplies evidence—either explicitly or implicitly—
of an assumed congruence between what Peter taught and what Paul taught.
For these authors, to be fully faithful to the freedom found in Christ required
that they imitate his apostles and willingly surrender that freedom in order
to become Christ’s slave (cf., e.g., Rom. 1:1; Gal. 1:10; 1 Peter 2:16). That this sub-
mission to Christ also entailed a secondary submission to the various political
powers that dominated their worlds was sometimes worth discussing, but only
occasionally and only secondarily.
chapter 3

Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7


Clayton N. Jefford

1 Introduction

The fourth century witnessed an auspicious advancement and notable con-


clusion in ecclesiastical history. The advancement derived from Constantine I,
provider of a fresh vision for Roman culture and society through legalization of
Christianity at the Edict of Milan (313) and allocation of theological principles
at the first Council of Nicaea (325). The conclusion came with Theodosius I
(ruled 379–395), last emperor to govern the full breadth of the empire prior
to its division into Roman west and Byzantine east. Constantine proved for-
mative for the foundation of orthodoxy,1 but Theodosius oversaw struggles
over Christology that came to full bloom within the global church.2 The result-
ing century was a watershed, taking shape in debate between supporters of
Nicaea—sponsored in form at least by the emperor and official position of the
state—and the more common perspective of Arianism.
The degree to which Theodosius engaged in this debate beyond political
concerns is in dispute,3 but literature of the period suggests two key struggles at

1  See, e.g., Stuart G. Hall, Doctrine and Practice in the Early Church (London: SPCK, 1991), 161–72.
For a useful survey of the transition from Constantine to Theodosius, see Stephen Williams
and Gerard Friell, Theodosius (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1994), 47–60.
2  Adolf Lippold, Theodosius der Grosse und seine Zeit (UB 7; Stuttgart et al.: W. Kohlhammer,
1968), 102–15.
3  This is nowhere more evident than in the contentious relationship of Theodosius and
Ambrose, driven in part by the Arian sympathies of empress Justina: see Allen Brent,
A Political History of Early Christianity (London and New York: T&T Clark International,
2009), 286–88; Kenneth G. Holum, Theodosian Empresses (TCH 3; Berkeley et al.: University
of California Press, 1982), 24–25. The Theodosian Code speaks specifically against heretics
and apostates (so 16.1.2, 16.5.6, 16.7.2), and reflects the reality that the barbarian opponents
of the emperor were themselves largely Arian: see Williams and Friell, Theodosius, 152–53.
Nevertheless, Theodosius held an ambivalent policy toward paganism and heresy in gen-
eral, enacting penalties against pagan sacrifices (so 16.10.11, 12) but allowing other traditional
forms of worship (12.1.112), while declaring boldly for Nicene views but accommodating
divergent perspectives: see Robert L. Wilken, “Cyril of Alexandria’s Contra Iulianum,” in The
Limits of Ancient Christianity (ed. W.E. Klingshirn and M. Vessey; Ann Arbor: University of

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_005


Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 63

work: theological regulation and institutional control. First under Constantine


and finally under Theodosius, the quest for theological and institutional hege-
mony became common goals of empire and church. At the heart of this con-
flict was the effort to establish a fitting canon of scripture—a task pursued by
church and state together as a means for establishment of universal norms for
theology and authority. The resulting canon has suggested that divergent tradi-
tions accepted a mainline consensus of texts with little dispute.
But there was much resistance to the process, perhaps best demonstrated
by the witness of the Apostolic Constitutions, whose compiler (hereafter the
“Editor”) exemplified the struggle over canonical norms as an act of resis-
tance to the growth of imperial power.4 While the empire (and via Theodosius,
the church) sought a unified vision of orthodoxy through an accepted
canon, the Editor clearly resisted such efforts, employing alternative textual
authorities.
The Constitutions likely derives from the end of the fourth century5 at some
juncture during the reign of Theodosius.6 It includes a compilation of older
sources, many already gathered as collations of early traditions and teachings
that circulated in late Christian antiquity. By its final editing—most likely in
Antioch, a city resistant to Theodosian policies in general7—the text became
a kind of ecclesiastical handbook on proper ethics and liturgy. The Editor

Michigan Press, 1999), 44–45; N.Q. King, The Emperor Theodosius and the Establishment
of Christianity (LHD: Philadelphia: Westminster, 1960), 53–59.
4  See Lee Martin McDonald, The Biblical Canon (rev. and exp. ed.; Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson,
1995), 314–49. Ancient framers of the canon in the fourth and fifth centuries themselves seem
uncertain on the matter, illustrated by the inclusion of the Epistle of Barnabas and Shepherd
of Hermas in Codex Sinaiticus and 1–2 Clement in Codex Alexandrinus, not to mention
various passages from the apostolic fathers used as sources of literary authority in late
Christian antiquity.
5  The writing was attributed secondarily to Clement of Rome by various manuscript editions,
as with the conclusion of the Sancti presbyteri et martyris pamphili ex apostolorum synodo
antiochiae celebrate. See F.X. Funk, ed., Didascalia et Constitutiones Apostolorum (2 vols.;
Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöning, 1905), 1.594–95 and 2.148–49. References to the text below
are taken from Funk. Scholars sometimes link the author with Pseudo-Ignatius, but this is
uncertain: so David A. Fiensy, Prayers Alleged to Be Jewish (BJS 65; Chico, CA: Scholars Press,
1985), 27.
6  A survey of assumptions about the provenance of the Constitutions appears in Joseph G.
Mueller, L’ancien testament dans l’ecclésiologie des pères (IPM 41; Turnhout: Brepols, 2004),
86–92. Scholars generally favor a date from 377–400.
7  Riots arose at Antioch in 387 typical of local and clerical rejection of the emperor’s policies:
see D.S. Wallace-Hadrill, Christian Antioch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 9;
Williams and Friell, Theodosius, 44–46. Otherwise in favor of Antioch, Fiensy notes in his study
64 Jefford

was either Arian or semi-Arian,8 opposed to Nicene orthodoxy and perhaps


Theodosius’ own reign.9
Most important are the sources behind the Constitutions—the Didascalia
apostolorum, Didache, Apostolic Tradition, and Clementine Liturgy—which
were widely used throughout the church of the late Roman world10 and appear
to have served as an informal canonical authority for the Editor.11 Several of
these texts are no longer extant apart from the witness of the Constitutions,
making it difficult to identify how their perspectives differed from the Editor.
The single exception appears in Constitutions 7, whose principle source (the
Didache) is still available12 and provides a way to see the Editor’s appreciation
for power and theology (especially with respect to scripture).13 Here one may
envisage how the Editor made alterations relevant to concerns of authority
within the church of Theodosius’ empire, and here deliberations on canon
and scripture are illustrated. Seven passages are offered below to indicate how
sources are employed throughout Constitutions 7, which together provide
some general overview of what may be assumed in terms of debates about
Christology, authority, and canon. Their appearance speaks to the importance

of Jewish prayers in Books 7–8: “One can conclude . . . that the Jewish prayers were
appropriated from Syrian synagogues since it appears that the compiler simply used
sources that were readily available to him in Syria” (Prayers, 217). Further consideration
of Constantine of Antioch’s (?) Christian Topography suggests the same: see Shulamith
Laderman, “Cosmology, Art, and Liturgy,” in Between Judaism and Christianity (ed.
K. Kogman–Apel and M. Meyer; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 121–38.
8  The designation “semi-Arian” is open-ended, given the wide variety of forms that Arianism
took and how it has been identified by scholars. See Joseph T. Lienhard, “From Gwatkin
Onwards: A Guide through a Century and a Quarter of Studies on Arianism,” AugStud 44
(2013): 1–40.
9  So already the Trullan Council of 692 and Photius, patriarch of Constantinople (d. 891).
See C.H. Turner, “A Primitive Edition of the Apostolic Constitutions and Canons,” JTS 15
(1913): 53–65; “Notes on the Apostolic Constitutions,” JTS 16 (1914): 54–61, 523–38; and
31 (1930): 128–41; Fiensy, Prayers, 26; Paul Bradshaw, The Search for the Origins of Christian
Worship (2d ed.; Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 84–86. Cf. however
Funk, Didascalia et Constitutiones Apostolorum, xv–xvi, who attributes such traits exclu-
sively to the Editor’s sources.
10  For a review of sources in the Apostolic Constitutions, see Fiensy, Prayers, 19–27.
11  Based on the ancient criterion of pseudepigraphy: so McDonald, The Biblical Canon, 347.
12  For the full version, see Codex Hierosolymitanus, while partial renderings are available
elsewhere in other Greek, Latin, Coptic, Ethiopian, and Georgian parallels. See Mueller,
L’ancien testament, 39–41, 55–56, and 70.
13  Fiensy, Prayers, 39 n. 25, observes that the editorial style of Book 7 is the same as that of
Books 1–6.
Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 65

of the Didache for the Editor, as well as the (perhaps consciously) limited role
that scripture plays in the formation of the Constitutions.

2 The Text

2.1 Apostolic Constitutions 7.1.1–3 (cf. 1 Kgs 18:21; Matt 6:24; 1 Tim 4:10)

(cf. Did. 1.1–2) There are two ways—one of life and one of death. And
there is a great difference between the two ways. So the way of life is this:
first, love God who made you; second, your neighbor as yourself. And
whatever you might not want to happen to you, similarly do not do to
another.14

The text of Constitutions 7 begins like the Didache with “two ways” instruction,15
but already the Editor diverged from this source, appealing to Moses and Elijah
as validation.16 The former figure serves as the basis for subsequent tradition
associated with wisdom instruction and authentic prophecy, while the latter
follows in support.17 These notables form the heart of Judaism’s greatest tradi-
tions and bedrock for Christianity’s own theological validation.

14  Translations of the Didache are taken from Clayton N. Jefford, Didache (ECA 5; Salem,
Ore.: Polebridge, 2013). For comparison of this passage with the Constitutions, see pages
19–20 and 49.
15  Many (if not most) scholars argue that the essential purpose of the two ways tradition
in Christianity was for catechetical instruction, though by the third century it often took
the form of a separate literary construct that served a variety of purposes. See especially
Alistair Stewart(-Sykes), On the Two Ways (PPS 41; Yonkers, N.Y.: St. Vladimir’s Seminary
Press, 2011), 95–117. Presumably the catechetical nature of the teaching held similar pur-
pose for the Editor.
16  Referencing Deut 30:19 and 1 Kgs 18:21 consecutively. Citing Klaus Koch here, McDonald
observes with respect to Mosaic tradition that “[p]seudonymous writings thus imply on
the part of the writer a consciousness that ‘association with a tradition confers legiti-
macy’ ” (The Biblical Canon, 347).
17  Not to mention that it is these two figures who, at least according to tradition, never
actually died: thus (in the case of Elijah) the ascension of 2 Kgs 2:11–12 and (in opposi-
tion to the scriptural witness that Moses died among the Moabites, so Deut 34:5–7) the
first-century testimony of Josephus, A.J. 4.8.48 (taken up in a cloud) and the so-called
Assumption of Moses, together with later rabbinic literary texts like Deut. Rab. 11. These
traditions undoubtedly are the conceptual basis behind the presence of Moses and Elijah
at the transfiguration of Jesus (Matt 17:1–7 pars.) and presumably the two figures at the
empty tomb (Luke 24:4–7) and before the apostles at Jesus’ assumption (Acts 1:9–11).
66 Jefford

Quotations from “the Lord Jesus” (ὁ κύριος Ἰησοῦς) have then been offered
as further support, presumably to place the authority of specific Christian exe-
getical tradition into play: the first warns that no one can serve two masters;18
the second is the two ways teaching itself.19 The Lord is described here by
the phrase “our teacher Christ, savior of all humanity, especially those who
believe” (τῷ διδασκάλῳ Χριστῷ ὅς ἐστι σωτὴρ πάντων ἀνθρώπων μάλιστα πιστῶν)
following 1 Timothy.20
The Editor expanded further on the Didache at this point, offering that the
ways are not only “different” (διαφορά), as the Didachist observed, “but happen
to be entirely separate” (μᾶλλον δὲ πάντη κεχωρισμέναι τυγχάνουσιν). The way
of life is “natural” (φυσική) to God’s vision, while that of death has come in a
secondary manner “from the deceptions of alienation” (τοῦ ἐξ ἐπιβουλῆς τοῦ
ἀλλοτρίου).21
For the Editor it is Christ who serves as the final and ultimate authority
for this instruction, standing both as lord and teacher. Viewed as the denoue-
ment of a tradition of training founded by Moses and transmitted by Elijah,
one might envisage that Christ likewise serves as the author of the teaching,
providing Christocentric authority behind these words. Yet while the Editor
has identified Christ as savior of all humanity, especially of those who believe,
no explicit effort was made to identify the Son with the Father either in person
or essence, nor does the Editor seek to associate God’s formation of the way of
life with any similar intention on the part of Christ himself. In other words, no
Johannine perspective is at work here. The Editor, despite incorporating histor-
ical examples of two ways teaching and appeals to scripture in order to define
the work of Christ, specifically did not offer a messianic perspective beyond
the extremely low Christology of the Didachist.22

18  Matt 6:24.


19  The wording compares favorably with Did. 1.1 (“there are two ways, one of life and one
of death”), with the Didache reading ὁδοὶ δύο εἰσί and Constitutions offering δύο ὁδοὶ εἰσιν
(cf. Matt 7:13–14).
20  1 Tim 4:10.
21  One might render this anthropomorphically as “the adversary or devil,” but this is not
demanded and may mean simply “whatever is contrary to faith” (cf. Eusebius, Hist. eccl.
3.39.3), “alien view” (cf. Ignatius, Phld. 3.3), or “apart from God” (cf. 1 Clem. 7.7).
22  See, e.g., Robert A. Kraft, Barnabas and the Didache (AF 3; New York: Thomas Nelson
& Sons, 1965), 70–71 (“the most that can be said is that Christology is incidental to the
Didache”); Aaron Milavec, The Didache (New York and Mahwah, N.J.: Newman, 2003), 370
(“. . . [John A.T.] Robinson named Acts 3 as ‘the most primitive Christology of all’ (1956).
Quite possibly, had Robinson examined the Didache, he would have concluded that the
Didache deserved being named ‘most primitive.’ ”); Jonathan Schwiebert, Knowledge
Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 67

Thus an opportunity to advance the Christological perspective of the


Didache has not been taken advantage. This is surprising, since Jewish tradi-
tions (Moses and Elijah) are brought into service, together with the witness
of scripture (1 Timothy) and authority of the logia of the lord Jesus. But no
other scripture is employed and Johannine theology seems purposefully to
have been ignored. Christology itself is not advanced, at least not with respect
to Nicene principles, leaving the roots of Arian thought in force. This decision
by the Editor is surely purposeful—a choice for Arian theology against Nicene
preferences. God the Father acts alone in the history of salvation, and scripture
is not utilized as a source for correction or expansion of the Didachist’s position
about the two ways! No special appeal to gospel perspective is offered. In other
words, canonical texts that formed the basis of authority for the Theodosian
church held no similar role for the Editor beyond the Didache, which appears
to hold as much status as do the evangelists.

2.2 Apostolic Constitutions 7.8.1–3 (cf. Prov 13:20; Isa 66:2; Matt 5:7;
Luke 16:15; 18:14)

(cf. Did. 3.8) Be patient and merciful and innocent and quiet and good,
and at all times respect the words you have heard.23

These words by the Didachist offer sound wisdom from common Judeo-
Christian tradition. Their context is established already in 3.7 with the
teaching “but be modest, for the modest shall inherit the earth,” which has
roots in Hebrew scripture at Ps 37:11 (36:11 LXX)24 and as a logion of Jesus at
Matt 5:5.25 While traditional wisdom combined with the words of the Psalmist

and the Coming Kingdom (LNTS 373; London and New York: T&T Clark, 2008), 145
(“. . . Johannine christology has clear sympathies with the Didache’s conception of Jesus
as the Father’s pais. But in John the special role of Jesus has led to his exaltation in the
eyes of the community, well beyond what we can glimpse in the Didache . . .”).
23  Jefford, Didache, 26.
24  “But the meek shall inherit land and delight in abundant peace” (οἱ δὲ πραεῖς
κληρονομήσουσιν γῆν καὶ κατατρυφήσουσιν ἐπὶ πλήθει εἰρήνης). The latter part of this phrase
is not preserved by the Didachist (nor the beatitudes of Matthew), likely because the term
carried a variety of meanings, including “to be frisky” (as lambs; so Cyril of Alexandria,
Michigan Papyri 50 3.441C) or “to behave wantonly” (Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. Bas. 6.18;
Cyril of Alexandria, Comm. John 3.6), neither of which are the intention of the teaching.
25  “Blessed are the meek, for they themselves shall inherit the earth” (μακάριοι οἱ πραεῖς, ὅτι
αὐτοὶ κληρονομήσουσιν τὴν γῆν). Matthew is a favorite gospel source for the Editor, being
employed almost twenty times in Book 7.
68 Jefford

and lord Jesus might be seen to provide singular authority for Christian moral-
ity, the Didachist attributed no special role for the instruction, mixing it into
the broader framework of two ways tradition.
The Editor was not so unintentional, however,26 making several alterations:
“Be patient, for such are prudent, for the one hasty of spirit is a fool; be merci-
ful, for blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy; be innocent, quiet,
and good, trembling at the words of God.”27 The source for the first emendation
(“for the one hasty of spirit is a fool”) is unknown, perhaps having been inserted
as general knowledge or derivation of the Editor’s personal perspective.28
The latter two insertions, however, are patent: the beatitude concerning “the
merciful” clearly derives from Matt 5:7, while “trembling at the words of God”
recalls Isa 66:2. Much like the Didachist, the Editor has chosen to incorporate
materials both from Israel’s ancient wisdom tradition and the Matthean record
of Jesus’ teachings. In this case the Editor’s technique is apparent, to indicate
the authority of the Didache by supplementing with specific traditions and
texts already utilized by the Didachist.
Here again is clear opportunity to invoke the authority of Christ in some
semblance of Nicene orthodoxy, especially in light of the Editor’s incorpora-
tion of an additional Matthean reference. But the allusion to authority is more
clearly oriented toward the hegemony of God as Father by whom wisdom
teaching and the instructions of Jesus are provided through scripture. This
is not an authority that the emperor himself can claim. It is reserved for
God alone.
This point is further emphasized in the materials that follow, wording that
recalls Luke 18:14 and 16:15 (both of which criticize the sins of authority—the
Pharisees)29 and concludes with the promise that “a reward will be given to
you as to Job and to Lazarus.” The allusions to Lazarus and Job indicate how
God blesses the commoner as opposed to self-appointed hierarchy. The Editor
again did not attempt to advance some Christological agenda. Having assimi-
lated teachings of Jesus, no further mention was made concerning the d­ ivinity

26  Jefford, Didache, 26 and 52.


27  In Greek: γίνου μακρόθυμος˙ ὁ γὰρ τοιοῦτος πολὺς ἐν φρονήσει, ἐπείπερ ὁ ὀλιγόψυχος ἰσχυρος
ἄφρων. γίνου ἐλεήμων˙ μακάριοι γὰρ οἱ ἐλεήμονες, ὅτι αὐτοὶ ἐλεηθήσονται. ἔσο ἄκακος, ἥσυχος,
ἀγαθός, τρέμων τοὺς λόγους τοῦ θεοῦ.
28  It may also anticipate the citation of Prov 13:20 that appears afterwards, though this is
uncertain.
29  From the Constitutions in order: “do not exalt yourself as did the Pharisees, for all who
exalt themselves shall be brought low” and “what is important among people is abomi-
nable to God.”
Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 69

of God’s Son. Likewise, though random applications of scripture have been


incorporated, no special appeal to scripture’s unique authority came to serve
as the essential substance for the Editor’s teachings. Instead, once again it is
the Didache that remains as foundational for the instruction, teaching that
applies to all whom God favors regardless of earthly power.30

2.3 Apostolic Constitutions 7.9.1–2 (cf. Sir 7:29–31; Matt 18:20; Heb 13:7)

(cf. Did. 4.1) My child, remember night and day the one who speaks God’s
word to you, and honor that one as Lord. For wherever one speaks of
<the> Lord, there <the> Lord is.31

The Didachist tells of respect due those who speak the divine word, an ancient
theme replete with biblical imagery.32 The Editor has read similarly but con-
cluded more precisely with the words “and honor that one not as from the same
origin, but as one who is truly your source of support, for where teaching about
God is, there God is present.” The final phrase, “there God is present” (ἐκεῖ ὁ
θεὸς πάρεστιν), undoubtedly reflects the wording of Matt 18:20 (“for where two
or three gather in my name, there I am among them [ἐκεῖ εἰμι ἐν μέσῳ αὐτῶν]”),
which itself bears high Christological overtones from the preceding verse in
Matthew: “if two of you ask about anything on earth in agreement, my Father
in heaven will do it for them” (Matt 18:19).33
This might suggest Johannine influence and, except for the fact that these
words are not in the Fourth Gospel, one would not be surprised to find them
there. Johannine theology overtly links the salvation of humanity with the will
of the Father, the intersection of which is found precisely in the Son.34 But the

30  The Editor’s inclusion of two texts from Luke—a gospel that clearly recalls God’s favor
for the common person—might suggest that this gospel in particular would have been a
useful tool to employ even further at this point, but no further effort in this regard is made
here.
31  Jefford, Didache, 27 and 52. The phrase “there the Lord is” recalls use of similar wording
from Pirqe Abot 3.3, which comments on the presence of the God’s Shekinah in Mal 3:16.
32  See, e.g., Sir 7:29–31 (“fear the Lord with all your soul and revere his priests. Love your
Maker with all your might and do not neglect his ministers. Fear the Lord and honor the
priest . . .”) and Heb 13:7 (“Remember your leaders, those who spoke the word of God to
you; consider the results of their way of life and imitate their faith”).
33  This is a distinctly Matthean teaching among the narratives of the synoptic gospels.
34  E.g., John 1:14; 5:19–24; 17:18–21.
70 Jefford

Editor indicated no desire to engage Johannine thought,35 offering only one


other allusion to that gospel in Book 7 where Judas Iscariot is identified as he
who stole the money of the poor and “handed over the Lord of glory to the
Jews” (τὸν κύριον τῆς δόξης παρέδωκεν Ἰουδαίοις).36 This observation from John
12:6, otherwise unknown in gospel tradition,37 indicates the Editor was aware
of Johannine tradition. Yet the gospel and its theology have been employed
nowhere else in support of the Editor’s views. This is noteworthy, since the
vision of the Fourth Gospel was essential to later Nicene interpretations, thus
to suggest the Editor chose (consciously?) to ignore the implications of that
exegetical tradition.
Once again no advantage has been made of the Father—Son connection
to emphasize the divine authority of those who teach within the tradition.
This avoids linking ecclesiastical (Nicene) authorities with direct support from
scripture. No reference to the authority of “the Lord Christ” has been elicited,
suggesting that the nature of the Son is not an item for consideration. Instead,
focus on the power of the Father and teachings about divinity remained the
primary authority for the Editor, once again to remove potential associations
with the ecclesiastical role of the emperor.
The alteration of wording here—from the Didachist’s “there <the> Lord is” to
the Editor’s “there God is present”—would appear to be a minor modification
on the surface. Yet the very adjustment of the phrase, begging for Christological
explanation, receives no added remark. As above, any Christological emphasis
yields to the role of the Father, ignoring more developed Trinitarian specula-
tion from ecclesiastical authorities or evidence from scripture.38

35  E.g., though not his immediate focus, Mueller (L’ancien testament) gives no particular rec-
ognition to the Editor’s use of the Fourth Gospel throughout the Constitutions.
36  See 7.2.12.
37  Even here there is some suspicion that the observation may have been added to the text
secondarily.
38  Literature remains in support of those who held the perspective of Trinitarian theol-
ogy, of course. E.g., the Didachist’s phraseology is further emended by the Epitome of the
Canons of the Holy Apostles, which in fact offers a Nicene focus here, reading that wher-
ever such teaching is offered, “one speaks of Jesus Christ” (Ἰησοῦς Χριστὸς λαλεῖται). One
can see that the Didachist’s tradition of honoring those who teach is interpreted by this
tradition with specifical Christological emphasis. Otherwise, the theological perspective
of the Constitutions continues with its own understanding, reframing the Didachist’s
phrase “there the Lord is” with the new wording “the teachings of God are” (ἡ περὶ θεοῦ
διδασκαλία). See Jefford, Didache, 52.
Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 71

2.4 Apostolic Constitutions 7.12.5 (cf. Prov 16:16; 19:17–18; 21:13; Sir 4:5a;
Matt 19:21; 26:9)

(cf. Did. 4.8) Do not turn away the one in need, but share all things with
your brother <or sister> and do not claim anything for yourself; for if you
are sharers in what is permanent, how much more in transitory things!39

The words of the Didachist reflect gospel teaching about the need to consider
the destitute,40 though the sentiment is a direct reference to Sir 4:5a: “do not
look away from the needy” (ἀπὸ δεομένου μὴ ἀποστρέψῃς ὀφθαλμὸν). The Didache
has expanded this instruction, first insisting that a person not hold back when
another has a need, then employing a kol ve-chomer (“light to heavy”) rationale
as reinforcement of the logic behind sharing one’s possessions.41
The Constitutions reads similarly about the necessity to share with those
in need,42 but offers a different conclusion: “for what all people commonly
receive is furnished by God” (κοινὴ γὰρ ἡ μετάληψις παρὰ θεοῦ πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις
παρεσκευάσθη). The sentiment is comparable perhaps, but the rationale
behind the altered wording is different. This motivation appears elsewhere in
scripture, namely at 1 Chr 29:14. Yet no scripture is invoked in support nor any
appeal made to the teachings of Jesus or mind of Christ. For the Editor, only
God’s creative goodness comes into play, presumably as a component of the
work’s theology. Once more any prospective connection with imperial author-
ity is avoided in this formulation.

2.5 Apostolic Constitutions 7.22.1–25 (cf. Matt 28:19)

(cf. Did. 7.1–4) And regarding baptism, baptize like this: having asserted
all these things, baptize in the name of the Father and of the Son and
of the Holy Spirit in running water. But if you do not have running
water, baptize in some other <water>; and if you cannot <baptize> in

39  Jefford, Didache, 29 and 53.


40  Cf. Matt 19:21 pars.; 26:9 pars.; Luke 4:18; 6:20; 14:13–14, 21–24.
41  While not preserved in the Constitutions, the Didachist’s emphasis on being sharers
“in what is permanent” (ἐν τῷ ἀθανάτῳ) is likewise preserved in a roughly contempora-
neous text, the Apostolic Church Order. Elsewhere the later Georgian translation of the
Didache offers a nuance to the idea, reading “in the spirit of immortality” (ἐν τῇ ἀθανασίᾳ
τῇ πνευματικῇ), which may more explicitly express the intention of the Didachist.
42  In reality the Editor’s instruction to give is somewhat expanded over that of the Didache,
incorporating several admonitions from Proverbs (instead of Sirach), specifically 16:16,
19:17–18, and 21:13.
72 Jefford

cold water, <then baptize> in warm. But if you do not have either, pour
water on the head three times in the name of Father and Son and Holy
Spirit. And before the baptism, let the one who baptizes and the one who
is to be baptized fast beforehand, as well as others who are able. So too,
instruct the one who is to be baptized to fast one or two <days> in
advance.43

Here the Didachist turns from materials associated with two ways tradition to
instruction on liturgical rituals. This is a marked change in the progression of
the text, both in the Didache and Constitutions. The Editor has offered direc-
tives in roughly the same way as the Didachist, which is particularly important
since no other literary witness preserves these materials. At the same time,
however, several differences indicate the degree to which the ecclesiastical
nature of the ritual has changed by the end of the fourth century.
From the outset the Editor has recognized the one who baptizes to be either
a “bishop or presbyter” (ἐπίσκοπε ἢ πρεσβύτερε), identifying precise ordinaries
for the ritual, which is not the case with the situation of the Didachist.44 Instead,
the Didache has not indicated the presiding celebrant, perhaps suggesting a
time of origin when specifics of baptismal ritual were not well defined, while
the Constitutions offers an experience of later liturgical awareness.
Secondly, while the Didachist has employed the Trinitarian formula twice
(7.1, 3) as an essential part of the baptismal ritual (presumably following Matt
28:19), the Constitutions offers it only once. This seems curious, since the precise
nature of liturgical details was surely of more concern late in the fourth cen-
tury than during the days of the Didache. One might expect the Editor (instead
of the Didachist) to have insisted on repetition of the formula as well. But this
is not the case, thus to provide a curiously unexpected twist of circumstances.45
Further, the command of the Didache to pour water on the baptismal can-
didate’s head “three times” as a reflection of the formula itself (so 7.3) has not

43  Jefford, Didache, 33–34 and 54–55.


44  While the offices (?) of bishop and deacon are mentioned elsewhere in Did. 15.1, it remains
unclear who is given instruction concerning baptismal ritual in 7.1–4. One might imag-
ine that the Didachist had presbyters in mind: see Clayton N. Jefford, “Presbyters in the
Community of the Didache,” StPatr 21 (1989): 122–28.
45  See similarly, Justin, Apol. 1.61; Apos. Trad. 21. The latter phrase (“in the name of Father and
Son and Holy Spirit”), omitting the definite article “the,” almost suggests the use of names
rather than labels of divinity.
Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 73

preserved by the Editor. As with the Trinitarian formula, this again runs con-
trary to expectation.
Finally, the Didachist has offered two liturgical “exceptions” to the pro-
cedure of baptism: it is no longer necessary to conduct the ritual either “in
living” (ἐν ζῶντι) or “in cold” (ἐν ψυχρῷ) water when unavailable, contrary to
traditional Jewish practice.46 This relaxing of standards indicates that baptism
according to ancient practices was no longer essential to the ritual. Yet such
exceptions are missing in the Constitutions, where the Editor was more con-
cerned to explain prospective links between the baptisms of Jesus himself and
later believers. Here is a perceived need to avoid any thought that the person
of Christ was somehow saved by baptism (7.22.4). Anxiety to explain the bap-
tism of Jesus thus assumes a central role in the narrative—a clear product of
theological reflection.47 This is nowhere evident in the mind of the Didachist.
On the one hand then, the Constitutions appears significantly more troubled
about ecclesiastical process and theological explanation than does the Didache.
This is expected given the Editor wrote in a later setting that thrived on such
debate. At the same time, however, aspects of baptismal ritual preserved by the
Didachist—such as repetition of the Trinitarian formula, exceptions to Jewish
practices, and pouring water on the head three times—have disappeared from
the tradition of the Constitutions. These omissions beg explanation, since all
three elements would seem at home within the post-Constantinian context
of Christian liturgy.48 Did the Editor see repetition of the Trinitarian formula
as redundant or unsympathetic to baptismal norms?49 There perhaps is no
surprise that the “exceptions” are no longer present, since the church of late
Christian antiquity certainly did not associate its baptismal ritual with older
Jewish practices and norms. But the absence of three-fold pouring of water

46  Based on Num 19:27. For the Jewish roots of Christian baptismal practices preserved in
the Didache, see Huub van de Sandt and David Flusser, The Didache (CRINT 3/5; Assen:
Van Gorcum; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 273–91 (on the nature of water specifically,
pp. 281–83); Bradshaw, Origins, 59–61.
47  The foundation for such thought appears already in Ign. Eph. 18.2: see Jefford, Didache,
54–55.
48  For prominent sources concerning baptismal liturgy in Syria late in the fourth century,
see Bradshaw, Origins, 107–12.
49  Mueller, L’ancien testament, 434–35. No scripture informs this tradition apart from
Matt 28:19, which offers the New Testament’s single use of the Trinitarian formula. One
might even question the originality of this formula here, which is missing as part of a
larger omission (28:7–20) in the Sinaitic Syriac version, though manuscripts otherwise
include it.
74 Jefford

in expression of Trinitarian theology seems odd, unless this feature was not
particularly pertinent to the Editor’s vision of salvation.50
One surmises that the Editor chose to work within the framework of the
ritual found in the Didache but when necessary, felt free to work outside of it
without need to justify traditions by way of scripture’s authority. There is no
overt expression of Nicene consciousness at work in this ritual, a view of ortho-
doxy whose absence is especially provocative in light of a liturgical event oth-
erwise so closely allied with admission into Christendom. The Editor clearly
reflected local liturgical traditions (centered on those of the Didache), refusing
to yield to forms of baptismal practice that had begun to gain broad accep-
tance by the end of the fourth century. This likely was conscious resistance to
the uniformity of imperial Christianity.51

2.6 Apostolic Constitutions 7.24 (cf. Mal 1:6; Isa 52:5)52

(cf. Did. 8.2a) And do not pray like the hypocrites but, as the Lord
instructed in his gospel, pray as follows . . .53

The Didachist’s phrase “as the Lord instructed in his gospel, pray as follows . . .”
(ὡς ἐκέλευσεν ὁ κύριος ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ αὐτοῦ) served as the author’s introduc-
tion to the so-called Lord’s prayer and was closely paralleled by the Editor,
though the latter read with slight adjustments using the words “as the
Lord appointed to us in the gospel” (ὡς ὁ κύριος ἡμῖν ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ διετάξατο).
Differences include a transition from the verb κελεύω to διατάσσω (both
meaning “command” or “give instruction”) and insertion of the personal pro-

50  It is clear that Christ is subordinate to the Father in this process. Mueller, L’ancien testa-
ment, 95, indicates that similar approach may be found in Basil of Caesarea and Flavian of
Antioch (presumably Flavian I, d. 404).
51  Diversity of baptismal practices in early Christian antiquity is otherwise clear prior to
standardization throughout the empire. See Bradshaw, Origins, 144–70, who argues that
one “cannot really talk of a standard or normative patterns of early initiation practice
in primitive Christianity” prior to the third century (p. 169). He finds variation to have
continued to flourish particularly in Syria, citing evidence from Acts of Thomas 49–50,
Theodore of Mopsuestia, Bapt. Hom. 14.19, John Chrysostom, and Severus of Antioch. This
persistence in Syria and Antioch may reflect the idiosyncratic religious identity of the
region, illustrated especially in the works of Chrysostom: see Isabella Sandwell, Religious
Identity in Late Antiquity (GCRW; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).
52  Both scripture references lie beyond the text under discussion here.
53  Jefford, Didache, 34 and 55–56. For brief discussion about the role of this prayer in the
Constitutions, see Mueller, L’ancien testament, 436–38.
Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 75

noun “to us” (ἡμῖν) in the Constitutions, indicating the personal nature of the
directive. These variances are minor. A third alteration likewise appears negli-
gible on the surface, the switch from “in his gospel” (ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ αὐτοῦ) in
the Didache to “in the gospel” (ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ) in the Constitutions. But this
change evokes more complex discussion related to the nature of what “gospel”
meant for the Didachist.
It is impossible to review arguments for this debate here, but there is much
dispute about whether the reference in the Didache is the oldest-known men-
tion of a written text or, instead, an allusion to a specific gospel message (pre-
sumably oral in form) associated with the kerygma of Jesus of Nazareth.54 In
the case of the Constitutions, however, no such dispute exists, since the Editor
several centuries later certainly imagined a specific gospel text (presumably
Matthew) within which the Lord’s prayer had been preserved. By distinction of
a single word (“the” versus “his”), the Editor specified the presumed authority
of a text that held community prominence.
But it is this very point that is most intriguing: the authority of the citation
itself no longer derived from the teaching of the lord Jesus’ own message but
from the dominion of the textual tradition in which that instruction had been
preserved. Thus, while “the Lord” in the Didache undoubtedly refers explicitly
to Jesus of Nazareth, “the Lord” in the Constitutions likely denotes the authority
of God the Father.55 An essential shift in perspective recognizes two transi-
tions in thought: (1) the role of divinely-instituted texts over the inspiration of
prophetic instruction56 and (2) the preeminence of divinity. As to the former,
clearly the Editor worked within a context of development that valued l­ iterary

54  Cf., e.g., Helmut Koester, Ancient Christian Gospels (London: SCM; Philadelphia: Trinity
Press International, 1990), 16–17, 141–42. Koester believes the word “gospel” here is “best
understood as a reference to the preaching of Jesus during his earthly ministry,” while
similar usage in 11.3 and 15.3–4 offers nothing that “indicates the presence of materials
which were derived from any known gospel writing” (pp. 16–17). For an opposing view,
see James A. Kelhoffer, “ ‘How Soon a Book’ Revisited: ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ as a Reference to
‘Gospel’ Materials in the First Half of the Second Century,” ZNW 95 (2004): 1–34. Kelhoffer
observes: “The Didachist assumes (and did not invent) εὐαγγέλιον as an appropriate term
for citing and referring to written ‘Gospel’ materials that reflect Matthean redaction
(Did. 8.2; 11.3–4, 15.3–4)” (p. 34).
55  Nothing suggests that the Editor has the triune Godhead in mind here.
56  This appears to run counter to Hill’s claim about specific concern for prophecy otherwise
seen in Antiochean exegesis: see Robert Charles Hill, Of Prophets and Poets (Brookline,
Mass.: Holy Cross Orthodox Press, 2007). But the Editor may have stood as an exception,
indicating some limited degree to which texts themselves had come to gain priority over
“prophetic tradition.”
76 Jefford

tradition beyond oral prophecy, and in this case the authority of a written gos-
pel clearly dominated—even if it was not accentuated otherwise. As to the
latter, one must necessarily think that the Editor saw the role of God the Father
at work instead of the risen Christ, given that no similar function was attrib-
uted to the latter elsewhere in Book 7. The theology of the Editor thus likely
remains in place (Father supersedes Son), though as a singular exception some
recognition of canonical texts was offered—not necessarily in place of the
Didache itself—but as supplement to it.

2.7 Apostolic Constitutions 7.25.1–7.27.2 (cf. 1 Cor 11:26–28;


Matt 26:26–29; Mark 4:10–11, 33–34)

Though not found elsewhere outside the Coptic version of the Didache, the
thanksgiving prayers of Did. 9.1–10.7 appear in the Constitutions with several
alterations. Several details reveal how the Editor has used the tradition.57
By way of illustration, while the Editor preserved the opening words “con-
cerning the eucharist” (περὶ μὲν τῆς εὐχαριστίας) from the Didache, the specific
phrases “concerning the cup” (περὶ τοῦ ποτηρίου) and “concerning the bro-
ken bread” (περὶ δὲ τοῦ κλάσματος) were omitted,58 undoubtedly to remove
the wooden feeling of the instruction. Inserted throughout are theological
enhancements, such as “we give thanks, our Father, for the precious blood of
Jesus Christ shed for us and for <his> precious body,” indicating orientation
toward a soteriology concerned with the cross as the focus of the Father’s econ-
omy of salvation, which is otherwise missing in the Didache. Further enhance-
ments have been derived from scripture, as seen in advice about the need to
observe the gravity of the ritual in order to “proclaim his death” (καταγγέλλειν
τὸν αὐτοῦ θάνατον; 1 Cor 11:26) and the warning against participation in an
unworthy manner in order to avoid condemnation (1 Cor 11:27–28). The Editor
appealed to the teachings of the apostle Paul here as addendum to those of the
Didachist, which is especially intriguing since the change in theological ori-
entation favors the phraseology of Pauline tradition over that of the gospels.59

57  For partial comparison and discussion, see Fiensy, Prayers, 46–47.
58  Curiously, however, the similar phrase “and concerning the ointment” (in the Coptic
only) appears in the Constitutions at 7.27 with reference to a blessing not preserved by
the Didachist. In result, Wengst opines that this section once stood in the Vorlage of the
Didache. See Klaus Wengst, Schriften des Urchristentums (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft, 1984), 82.
59  Cf. Matt 26:26–29, Mark 14:22–25, and Luke 22:14–23.
Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 77

In addition to these lesser variations, the theological focus of the


Constitutions is somewhat expanded beyond that of the Didachist, as is evi-
dent from a comparison of texts:

Didache 10.2–5a Constitutions 7.26.2–4a

2 We thank you, holy Father, for your holy 2 We thank you, God and Father of Jesus
name that you caused to inhabit <our> our savior, for your holy name that you
hearts, and for the knowledge and faith caused to inhabit in us, and for the
and immortality that you made known to knowledge, faith, and immortality that
us through your child Jesus. Yours is the you gave to us through your child Jesus.
glory forever. 3 You yourself, all powerful 3 You, all powerful Master, God of all
Master, created all things for your name’s things, created the world and the things
sake, and gave food and drink to in it through him, and placed law in our
humanity to enjoy so that they might souls and made early preparations for
thank you. But you favored us with human convenience. God of our holy and
spiritual food and drink, and eternal life blameless fathers Abraham and Isaac
through your child. 4 In particular, we and Jacob your faithful servants, powerful
thank you that you yourself are mighty. God, faithful and true and without deceit
Yours is the glory forever. in <your> promises, who sent Jesus your
Christ to earth to live among people as
human, God being word and human, and
5 Remember your church, Lord, to shield to remove error at the root, 4 here and
it from all evil and to perfect it in your now remember this your holy church,
love, and, being made holy, bring it which you purchased by the precious
together . . .  blood of your Christ . . . 

One observes the extended enhancements to the Didache, including specific


focus on God as Father both of Jesus and of the patriarchs of Israel, as well as
focus on agency Christology that includes the removal of error through the
blood of Christ. In addition, inserted into the prayers is some recognition that
divine law has been installed into human hearts, with distinction between
those favored by God and those who remain outside.60
Principles of Nicene thought are scarcely evident in the Editor’s confes-
sion, and the niceties of orthodoxy remain without clear delineation. There

60  One may already detect the foundations of such thought in Mark 4:10–11, 33–34.
78 Jefford

is no statement that Christ participates in the divine economy through any


specific self-will but instead only through the volition of the Father. This is spe-
cifically agency Christology without hint of incarnational thought. Admittedly
one might read an incarnational perspective between the lines, but to do so
flouts the lack of evidence for similar theology elsewhere. So too, the Editor’s
omission of the doxological expression “for yours is the glory” that appears
in the Didache suggests this phraseology was no longer central to the liturgi-
cal consciousness of the event. This is particularly unexpected with respect to
the development of the Lord’s prayer found elsewhere in the tradition, whose
extended form includes such wording.
In the final analysis the prayers of the Didache have been reshaped to fit
the theology of the Editor. But this new pattern falls short of what would later
be considered true to orthodox standards. And perhaps more importantly,
no appeal has been made to the institutional narrative preserved in the gos-
pels as a guideline for these alterations. The tradition of the Didachist is basi-
cally the core expression preserved by the Editor, not that of the evangelists.
In a setting where the church otherwise sought uniformity of expression in
thought and liturgy—a desirable outcome for the maintenance of empire—
the Constitutions endorses an approach that fits neither category, presumably
reflecting the perspectives both of the Editor and the audience.

3 Observations

From this limited review it is possible to see comparisons that are instructive
in several ways:

a) Definite authority is attributed to the Didache by the Editor. This confidence


likely justifies assumptions that the text derived from the region of Antioch,
the same city that was likely the home of the Constitutions as well.61
The role of Antioch in the formation of canon and biblical interpretation
in the early church is without debate. So too, connections between Antiochean
bishops and the imperial power at Constantinople are also well established,62

61  Antioch as a context for theological and political dispute—matters conducive to the pro-
duction of the Constitutions—is easily envisioned given the turbulent role of the city in
the fourth century: see the discussion of Sandwell, Religious Identity, 34–59.
62  During the time of Theodosius, the Arian position was the most “popular” at
Constantinople. The emperor also seems to have favored the region in some ways, sparing
its temples during his attack on paganism (see Wallace-Hadrill, Christian Antioch, 16–17)
Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 79

thus to make the setting commendable as a focal point of struggle over theol-
ogy and politics. Nevertheless, this was a setting in which Arianism continued
to thrive among the authors of the region.63
Constitutions 7 embodies this Arian theology, especially seen as one com-
pares the views of the Editor with those of the Didachist. From the illustrations
offered above one observes how the Editor appealed to the authority of Christ
as justification for two ways teaching in 7.1.1–3, yet no similar petition was
made for Trinitarian orientation (cf. #2.1). In 7.9.1–2 the Editor passed over the
opportunity to see “the Lord” as a reflection of Christ, having chosen instead
to feature God the Father as that one who is present when believers gather (cf.
#2.3). A further nod toward God’s creative goodness comes into play at 7.12.5
when the Editor did not endorse the Didachist’s focus on common wisdom
tradition or the authority of scripture (cf. #2.4). Finally, the baptismal instruc-
tion of 7.22.1–25, while containing necessary components of the Trinitarian
formula as preserved by the Didachist, offers nothing further to advance the
theology of Nicaea (cf. #2.5). In all ways the Editor has indicated a setting con-
ducive to Arian theology and liturgy, presumably standing adverse to the goals
of the emperor and the bishops of Nicaea.

b) Several texts now identified as “scripture” (γραφή) are clearly evident


throughout the book as witness to the fourth-century struggle for primacy of
canon. At the same time, however, the authority of scripture does not super-
sede that of the Didache. The perceived value of the Didache is its role as a
framework behind Book 7, both in terms of structure and authority. For the
Editor, the Didache was scripture in an informal sense64—the very antithesis

and encouraging development there as Arianism waned: see Glanville Downey, A History
of Antioch in Syria (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961), 414–49.
63  One need only recall the names of Euzoius and Eudoxius of Antioch and the theologian
Aetius as fourth-century representatives of the movement there. Zaharopoulos explicitly
states that among “all the great sees in Christian antiquity, Antioch was the first to fall into
heresy”: so Dimitri Z. Zaharopoulos, Theodore of Mopsuestia on the Bible (TI: New York
and Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist, 1989), 199. Following the analysis of F. Cavallera, Zharopoulos
notes that Nicaea’s condemnation of Arius turned Antioch into an Arian stronghold,
dividing its clergy there into four camps: Arians, semi-Arians, old Nicene party, and new
Nicene party (pp. 201–202). The Editor could easily have fallen into either of the first two
perspectives.
64  The Didache should likely be identified a “canon” only in an informal sense, however—
what McDonald labels as “Canon 1” versus the more formal “Canon 2” concept: McDonald,
The Biblical Canon, 55–58.
80 Jefford

to Constantine’s effort to amalgamate a unified literary standard for the church


of his empire.
At the same time, scripture does come into play in several specific ways.
Appeal to the figures of Moses and Elijah suggests the authority of the Torah
and prophets, while the quotation from 1 Timothy concerning the nature of
Christ draws on Pauline legacy (cf. #2.1). Thereafter, the Editor’s teaching on
Christian behavior borrowed from the prophets (here Isaiah and Job), turn-
ing ultimately to the evangelists as the text adopts wording from Matthew and
Luke (cf. #2.2). Teaching on where “God is present” (cf. #2.3) again appeals to
language from Matthew, while the thanksgiving prayers (cf. #2.6) provide for
incorporation of the apostle Paul’s instruction in 1 Corinthians.
Beyond these examples, scholars have indicated that the liturgical prayers
of Book 7 (and 8) were shaped around the traditional Jewish Amidah prayer,
drawing elements from Psalms, Isaiah, and Job into a structure that otherwise
incorporated Christian interpolations. The bilingual nature of Antioch—a
major site of Jewish and Christian activity—provided suitable context for such
use of scripture, whose Christian elements may have led to their very preserva-
tion by the Syrian church.65 So too, Jewish presence within Antiochean theol-
ogy provided fertile soil for Arian sentiments, an offensive heterodoxy against
church and state as imagined by Theodosius.66
Beyond these remarks, however, one sees that the Editor was not ultimately
dependent on scripture. Thus in an appeal for Christian charity (cf. #2.4) the
narrative abandons the Didachist’s citation from Sirach and, while it would
have been entirely appropriate to make use of 1 Chronicles in support of the
argument, makes no mention of such. Further, when offering the Trinitarian
formula with respect to baptism (cf. #2.5), no concern for words from Matthew
is evident. Indeed, nowhere has the Editor appealed to scripture itself as the
foundation for teaching.
Admittedly, the gospels (specifically Matthew and Luke) have a role to play
here, as well as the legacy of Paul and his teaching tradition. Each is supported
by the wisdom tradition of Judaism, expressed both in the figure of Moses and
the prophets. Christian authority is buttressed by Old Testament history, a ten-
dency of earlier literature from late Christian antiquity, seen for example in the
construction of Heb 11:4–34 and 1 Clem. 4:1–13 and 18:1–17. But at the same time
scripture does not serve as the authority behind the Editor’s teachings. In fact,
at certain points the Didachist held more concern for sacred texts than did the
Editor, who seems to have applied biblical materials as tools for ­illustration

65  See Fiensy, Prayers, 5–9; Laderman, “Cosmology, Art, and Liturgy,” 121–24.
66  Downey, History of Antioch, 47–49.
Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 81

rather than as focus of specific teaching points themselves. Evidently the


authority of scripture was not yet determinative for the Editor’s view.

c) Considerations of Christology are paramount as the rationale for numerous


alterations to the text of the Didache. But that perspective is hardly orthodox,
instead taking the form of at least semi-Arian views.
This is readily evident from the few illustrations provided above, begin-
ning with 7.1.1–3, where opportunity existed for the Editor to insert Trinitarian
perspective that was not otherwise advocated by the Didache (cf. #2.1). While
there is an appeal to the teachings of the lord Jesus (already suggested by
the Didachist), the real authority for two ways instruction remains with
God the Father. A similar situation is reflected in subsequent ethical instruc-
tion (cf. #2.2), a context in which passages from Matthew and Luke were incor-
porated as reinforcement of the Editor’s insistence that the believer be patient,
merciful, and innocent in response to the “words of God.” Yet once more the
ultimate authority does not lie with the person of Christ the Son but with
the Father. Finally, in the Editor’s call to recognize that where believers are
gathered there “God is present” (cf. #2.3) one once more finds primary depen-
dence on the image of God the Father versus the salvific role of the Son. In all
these instances the Editor continued with a refrain of Jewish instruction, pre-
serving the Didachist’s focus on Old Testament teachings, and integrated the
historical figures of ancient Israel, namely Moses, Elijah, and Job.
Otherwise in the instructions on baptism (cf. #2.5) there is no indication
that use of the Trinitarian formula was of concern to the Editor. Its appearance
within this ritual wording reflects similar usage within the Didache, but even
here only in a restricted manner. So too in the thanksgiving prayers (cf. #2.6)
the explicit references to “God and Father of Jesus,” “all powerful Master, God
of all things,” and “God of our holy and blameless fathers Abraham, Isaac, and
Jacob” indicate primary focus on God as Father. Most clearly featured is an
agency view of Christology, exhibited in such phraseology as you “sent Jesus
your Christ to live among people as human,” which indicates how the Son is
subordinate to the Father.67 Such wording is specific to the Editor’s alterations
of the Didache, reflecting how the Constitutions had been framed according to
secondary views. This suggests a perspective typical of Arian tradition.
Lack of concern for Nicene theology and Trinitarian focus are not extrapo-
lated simply from the Editor’s silence on such matters, but through phrases
inserted as supplements to the Didachist’s wording. The theology is not always

67  For more on the subordination of the Son to the Father, see Mueller, L’ancien testament,
92–101.
82 Jefford

specific in orientation, but is certainly deficient in comparison with the official


church’s position on orthodoxy during the fourth century.

4 Conclusions

The three observations offered above—authority of the Didache, limited


role of scripture, and semi-Arian beliefs—lead to several conclusions. The
Constitutions was a text that represented struggle between the church’s
acceptance of Nicene orthodoxy and the threat of Arianism at the end of
the fourth century in Antioch.68 In this respect one might imagine that the
Editor employed scripture in limited fashion to refute the empire’s support
for Nicene theology, perhaps most evident in the Editor’s use of Matthew (the
regional gospel of choice?) where only brief passages are employed from
the text and never the evangelist’s primary theme of “king of kings.”69 The
Editor chose instead to champion an alternative tradition—the Didache—as
basis for another theological (Arian) perspective. This would indicate prefer-
ence for local traditions in opposition to the empire’s choice of canon.
From the outset the authority of the Didache is paramount for Book 7, serv-
ing as an underlying framework. And while the Editor willingly left it when
required for purposes of argument, it was never abandoned in deference to
scriptural authority. Instead, scripture was applied primarily as illustration
when a specific point was desired. It was a tool by which to hone the con-
fession of the Didachist, not because it was necessarily dominant in terms of
authority.
It is hardly evident that the Editor viewed scripture as having primacy of
place over the Didache. On the contrary, there may be some sense in which the
Editor considered the voice of the Didachist to carry the weight of scripture.70
One might visualize the end of the fourth century as a juncture within the

68  Hill defines the approach to biblical texts at Antioch succinctly in this regard: “In this
Weltanschauung a particular way of approaching Scripture went along with an attach-
ment to the humanity of Jesus . . . a morality that highlighted accountability . . . a spiritu-
ality that involved ‘an asceticism without mysticism’ . . . and a soteriology where faith is
as much recompense as gift” (Prophets and Poets, 156–57). These elements might easily
be applied to the Constitutions as well as typical of the Antiochean view of authoritative
texts, including here the Didache.
69  Cf., e.g., the visit of the magi in Matt 2:1–12 or Jesus’ elevated position in the Sermon of
Matthew 5–7.
70  Though a somewhat earlier example, even Irenaeus made a similar assumption about
1 Clement, referring to that text as “scripture” (Haer. 3.3.3).
Power and Tradition in Apostolic Constitutions 7 83

post-Constantinian world when scripture gained certain authority among only


scattered churches of empire, while divergent texts and traditions continued
to survive in many regional communities, as with Antioch.
One appeals to the negative witness of Athanasius here, who famously
observed in Festal Letter 39 (CE 367) that the Didache should not stand in the
role of scripture,71 but nevertheless was worthy as instruction concerning
the divine word, especially by those new to the community.72 In certain respects
this was the bishop’s calculated effort to limit the authority of the Didache in
favor of writings that subsequently came to form the canon known today.73
The Editor, whether aware of such attempts, seemed predisposed to preserve the
text (as well as other sources) for its own authority. In the struggle for canon
the Editor appealed to the Didache as a conflicting tradition of influence. The
Editor was not unconcerned for scripture, but contrary to Athanasius, desired
to hold the words of the Didachist with the same respect as biblical tradition.
The degree to which such efforts were driven by struggle for theological
dominance among contemporary bishops and the emperor Theodosius him-
self remains unclear. The essence of Arian perspective is at work reshaping the
low Christological views of the Didachist into only a slightly higher vision of
the nature of Christ, which falls palpably short of Nicene confession. Unlike
Athanasius, who in certain respects embodied the tyranny of orthodoxy in
his times,74 the Editor indicated no particular desire to infuse the limited
Christology of the Didache with traits of equality between the Father and Son,
rejecting the perspective of Johannine tradition. Instead, the Constitutions
represents Arian forces that a generation later drove the bishops to establish
their Trinitarian position more firmly at the Council of Chalcedon in 451 under
an even more receptive emperor (Marcian, ruled 450–457), who would subse-
quently act to insure that Chalcedonian confession was universally observed.
In such circumstances the canon of scripture began to dominate in opposition
to the Editor’s chosen sources.

71  The text was likewise rejected as canonical by the late fourth-century Decretum
Gelasianum in Rome.
72  The wording in Greek reads: τοῖς ἄρτι προσερχομένοις καὶ βουλομένοις κατηχεῖσθαι τὸν τῆς
εὐσεβείας λόγον.
73  One might question whether Athanasius did not thus see the Didache itself as an inherent
threat to orthodox faith, perhaps reinforced from its use by the Editor here.
74  For a recent proposal that Athanasius shaped his Trinitarian position in opposition to spe-
cific Arian claims, see Khaled Anatolios, “ ‘Christ the Power and Wisdom of God’: Biblical
Exegesis and Polemical Intertextuality in Athanasius’s Orations against the Arians,” JECS
21 (2013): 503–35.
84 Jefford

Ironically, such efforts by the Editor ultimately condemned the Constitutions


to become a victim in the fight for Christological dominance, insuring that like
the Didache itself, it would be a work that remained outside mainline tradition.
For the church universal other texts gained primacy as scripture, becoming the
anvil by which orthodox confessions were forged, and different confessions
took center stage as the foundation of Christian faith, while the more prob-
lematic convictions of the Didachist and subsequently of the Editor fell to the
wayside as byproducts of late Christian antiquity’s heritage.
section 2
2nd and 3rd Century Developments


chapter 4

Tertullian and Military Service: The Scriptural


Arguments in De corona

Geoffrey D. Dunn

Although Tertullian’s pamphlet De corona militis at first sight appears to be a


discussion about Christians and military service, with the hardline Carthaginian
arguing against the possibility of Christians being soldiers because of the
necessity of being involved in idolatry, he soon realized that he was involved
more in an argument about the correct interpretation of scripture. This is not
to deny that Tertullian held a strong view opposing Christians as soldiers, for as
Louis Swift points out as he surveys a number of passages from Tertullian’s total
output “. . . he is the first articulate spokesman for pacifism in the Christian
Church.”1 However, De corona is about much more than that, as this chapter
seeks to present.
O’Malley pointed to the fact that citations and allusions from scripture satu-
rate Tertullian’s works.2 This pamphlet is no exception. Yet, our analysis is not a
simple matter of listing what texts of scripture he did or did not utilize in order
to make his case nor even how he exegeted those texts in order to respond to
a particular situation; there is altogether something more fundamental and
subtle going on here, which is the underlying and more general question of the
role of scripture in shaping the Christian interaction with the wider world. It is
this question we must address.
Tertullian’s problem was that the issue at hand about the wearing of mili-
tary decorations was not something discussed explicitly anywhere in the Bible.

1  L.J. Swift, The Early Fathers on War and Military Service, Message of the Fathers of the Church,
vol. 19 (Wilmington, Del.: Michael Glazier, 1983), p. 38. The fact that Tertullian could be proud
of Christians serving in the military in Apol. 37.4 (CCL 1.148) is one of the best examples of
his rhetorical skill in being able to use whatever argument best suited his needs in a particu-
lar context, whether that was his own conviction or not. See R.F. Evans, “On the Problem
of Church and Empire in Tertullian’s Apologeticum,” Elizabeth A. Livingston (ed.), Studia
Patristica, vol. 14, papers presented at the 6th international conference on patristic studies,
Oxford 1971, Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur, Bd 117
(Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1976), pp. 21–36, at p. 25.
2  T.P. O’Malley, Tertullian and the Bible: Language-Imagery-Exegesis, Latinitas Christianorum
Primaeva, vol. 21 (Nijmegen and Utrecht: Dekker and Van de Vegt, 1967), p. 2.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_006


88 Dunn

Some of his fellow Christians had concluded, therefore, that if something is not
expressly forbidden in the Bible it must be permitted to Christians?3 Tertullian
was opposed to the position they had taken and had to find a way of counter-
ing them and dealing with the fact that he had nothing by way of scripture to
support him. For him this had to be a matter that if something was not man-
dated explicitly in the scriptures it was forbidden to Christians. His expertise
in rhetorical argumentation came to his assistance. I have argued that classical
rhetoric is the best prism through which to interpret this enduringly fascinat-
ing character and his writings.4 In this chapter I wish to examine the place of
scripture in Tertullian’s rhetorical reasoning in De corona and conclude that
he used all his oratorical skills to craft a text in which not only did he reiter-
ate his opposition to idolatry and therefore military service but to those who
used scripture to reach conclusions with which he disagreed. This will support
the position I have adopted elsewhere that Tertullian employed a variety of
methods in interpreting scripture but all designed for the same purpose: to
defeat an opponent in debate. He interpreted a passage in whatever way was
most helpful in achieving that objective (allegorically if the opponent offered
a literal interpretation and literally if the opponent offered an allegorical inter-
pretation, for example).5 In order to achieve my own rhetorical objective of
persuading my readers to believe my thesis I shall begin by examining the rhe-
torical structure of the pamphlet. In fact, such a consideration shall go a long
way not only in understanding the purpose of the pamphlet but its content
and argumentation as well.

1 Rhetorical Analysis of De corona militis

A rhetorical analysis of an ancient text is never a clear-cut process for, despite


classical rhetoric being systematic, it is a system that admits of infinite variety
in all its constitutive elements. Indeed, the principal reason Quintilian wrote
his Institutio oratoria was at the urging of friends who found that rhetoricians

3  Tertullian, De cor. 1.6 (CCL 2.1041): “At nunc, quatinus et illud opponunt: ‘ubi autem prohibem
ur coronari?’ ”
4  G.D. Dunn, Tertullian, The Early Church Fathers (London and New York: Routledge, 2004),
pp. 25–29.
5  G.D. Dunn, “Tertullian’s Scriptural Exegesis in de praescriptione haereticorum,” Journal of Early
Christian Studies 14 (2006), pp. 141–155. See also E. Gonzalez, “Anthropologies of Continuity:
The Body and Soul in Tertullian, Perpetua, and Early Christianity,” Journal of Early Christian
Studies 21 (2013), pp. 479–502, at p. 488, for a recent consideration of Tertullian’s flexibility.
Tertullian and Military Service 89

sometimes taught contradictory opinions and they wanted him to adjudicate


between them.6 While we still have Quintilian’s masterpiece, most of the opin-
ions of those fellow theorists he evaluated are lost to us and so all that variety
within classical rhetorical theory too is no longer as evident to us as it was to
the educated Roman class. Indeed, Quintilian even refused to do as he was
asked; his was to be no rigid textbook.7 While there were rules of rhetoric and
while Quintilian was prepared to select between them to offer his opinion,
expediency was his most important concern for an orator.8

If the whole of rhetoric could be thus embodied in one compact code,


it would be an easy task of little compass: but most rules are liable to be
altered by the nature of the case, circumstances of time and place, and
by hard necessity itself. Consequently the all-important gift for an ora-
tor is a wise adaptability since he is called upon to meet the most varied
emergencies.9

Even in Cicero, who produced both theories of rhetoric and examples of it in


his speeches, both forensic and otherwise, it is sometimes difficult to discern
the theory in the speeches.10 Thus, in turning to someone like Tertullian and
attempting to discern the rhetoric to be found in any of his pamphlets we do
not know which particular rhetorical system he was following nor where he
employed his own wise (or unwise) adaptability. It is little wonder modern

6   Quintilian, Inst. 1.pf.2: “. . . quod inter diuersas opiniones priorum et quasdam etiam inter
se contrarias difficilis esset electio; ut mihi si non inueniendi noua at certe iudicandi de
ueteribus iniungere laborem non iniuste uiderentur.”
7   Quintilian, Inst. 2.13.1: “Nemo autem a me exigat id praeceptorum genus, quod est a ple­
risque scriptoribus artium traditum, ut quasi quasdam leges immutabili necessitate con-
strictas studiosis dicendi feram . . .” See M.L. Clarke, rev. D.H. Barry, Rhetoric at Rome: A
Survey (London and New York: Routledge, 1996 [3rd edn]), pp. 109–119.
8   Quintilian, Inst. 2.13.7: “Non negabo autem sic utile esse plerumque, alioqui nec scribe­
rem; uerum, si eadem illa nobis aliud suadebit utilitas, hanc relictis magistrorum auctori-
tatibus sequemur.”
9   Quintilian, Inst. 2.13.2: “Erat enim rhetorice res prorsus facilis ac parua, si uno et breui
praescripto contineretur; sed mutantur pleraque causis, temporibus, occasione, neces-
sitate. Atque ideo res in oratore praecipua consilium est, quia uarie et ad rerum momenta
conuertitur.” English translation from H.E. Butler, The Institutio Oratoria of Quintilian,
Loeb Classical Library, 4 vols (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Press,
1920–1922).
10  J.T. Kirby, “Ciceronian Rhetoric: Theory and Practice,” in William J Dominik (ed.), Roman
Eloquence: Rhetoric in Society and Literature (London and New York: Routledge, 1997),
pp. 13–31, at p. 18.
90 Dunn

scholars cannot agree about the rhetorical structure of any of his works, yet
there can be no doubt that some system of classical rhetoric operated to help
him frame his arguments. Agreement may not be found as to the exact struc-
ture of the pamphlet but a plausible reconstruction of its structure can be
offered. This is what we may call my rhetoric of rhetorical theory, to use Erik
Gunderson’s term.11
There has been little investigation into the rhetorical structure of De corona.
Timothy Barnes, who now dates the work to 211 as one of Tertullian’s earli-
est Montanist works12 and sets it in Carthage,13 offers only a summary of its
contents rather than a structure.14 He notes that there are arguments from tra-
dition, from nature, and from considerations of idolatry.15 The work is about
garlands in general, of which military garlands (and the related question of
military service) were only a particular example.
Jacque Fontaine, who agrees with situating the events narrated in Carthage
and rejected Barnes’ pre-revised date of 208 in favor of 211,16 divides the work
into three sections: theoretical (1.6–7.2), historical (7.3–10.10), and practi-
cal (11–15), moving from the general to the particular and the abstract to the
concrete.17 Robert Sider’s critique of this is that it does not reflect the influence

11  E. Gunderson, “The Rhetoric of Rhetorical Theory,” in E. Gunderson (ed.), The Cam­
bridge Companion to Ancient Rhetoric (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009),
pp. 109–125.
12  On the basis of the statement the future tense in Tertullian, De cor. 1.5 (CCL 2.1040–1041):
“Sed de quaestionibus confessionum alibi docebimus”, which is made in relation to flee-
ing in time of persecution, one would have to date De cor. prior to De fug.
13  T.D. Barnes, Tertullian: A Historical and Literary Study (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985
[rev. edn]), p. 328, in his revisions to the original edition, accepts, on the basis that the
Montanist statement in the first book Adu. Marc. is a later insertion into a subsequent
edition, that all Tertullian’s Montantist works must come after 208. Therefore, his original
argument, on pp. 37, 45–47, that 208 was to be preferred has been abandoned. His argu-
ment that it was in Carthage (p. 132) is based upon De cor. 1.3 (CCL 2.1039–1040), where
the soldier is described as awaiting his fate in prison. Y. Le Bohec, “Tertullien, De corona,
I: Carthage ou Lambèse?”, Revue des Études Augustiniennes 38 (1992), pp. 6–18, argues that
the incident took place in Rome in 211. For our purposes the historical reality or not of the
event and its setting is not important.
14  Barnes, Tertullian, pp. 132–135.
15  Barnes, Tertullian, pp. 133–134.
16  J. Fontaine, Q. Septimi Florentis Tertulliani De corona. Sur la couronne par Tertulline.
Édition, introduction et commentaire, Érasme, vol. 18 (Paris: Presses Universitaires de
France, 1966), p. 42.
17  Fontaine, Tertulliani De corona, pp. 10–12.
Tertullian and Military Service 91

of rhetoric.18 Instead he suggests that the work opens with a narratio with-
out the customary exordium (or, more precisely, achieving what the exordium
would achieve without actually employing it), which runs presumably from
1.1–5, followed by a propositio (1.6) that wearing the crown or garland (terms
that I shall use interchangeably) is neither sinless nor open to debate.19 He sees
De corona as possessing both forensic and deliberative themes.20 The main
body of the pamphlet is divided into two (3–10 and 11–15), in which the first is
further divided into arguments against the wearing of crowns based on custom
(3–4), nature (5–6), and origins (7–10), and the second part (11–13) devoted to
the causes for wearing crowns, with a conclusion (14–15).21
Jean-Claude Fredouille offers a more thorough consideration of the rhetori-
cal elements of De corona. He sees the work opening with a narratio relating the
incident itself (1.1–3) and reactions to it (1.4–6). Then comes the propositio (1.6)
with two objections to the action of the soldier in the narratio: how it impacts
upon the opportunity to flee persecution, which will be treated elsewhere in
another work, and the question of where it is written that the soldier’s action
was the right one to take. Fredouille points out that this second point holds
Tertullian’s attention and is the one to which the treatise is dedicated.22 We are
engaged with a thesis (propositum or general enquiry) rather than a hypothesis
(causa or particular enquiry),23 but one related to a particular fact.24 It is stated
that there is no partitio in this work. Fredouille divides the body of the work
differently from the others: he sees 2–6 forming the first part and 7–14 the sec-
ond part. In the early arguments from custom and nature Fredouille sees the
influence of the constitutio iuridicalis (the juridical issue of equity at stake in
forensic matters), as presented in Rhetorica ad Herennium and Cicero’s De par-
titione oratoria, where an action was admitted but then justified, in absolute
(by virtue of nature, statute, custom, previous judgments, equity, and agree-
ment) or assumptive terms.25 He accepts custom as the argument in chapters 2

18  R.D. Sider, Ancient Rhetoric and the Art of Tertullian (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1971), p. 40, n. 1.
19  Sider, Ancient Rhetoric, pp. 28–29.
20  Sider, Ancient Rhetoric, p. 121.
21  Sider, Ancient Rhetoric, pp. 121–122.
22  J.-C. Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique dans le De corona de Tertullien,” Museum
Helveticum 41 (1984), pp. 96–116, at p. 97: “C’est cette objection (illud opponunt) qui va
retenir l’attention de Tertullien et à laquelle est consacré le traité.”
23  Cicero, Top. 79–80; and Quintilian, Inst. 3.5.5–7.
24  Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique,” p. 98.
25  Rhet. Her. 2.13.19; and Cicero, De part. or. 37.129–130. See Fredouille, “Argumentation et
rhétorique,” p. 99.
92 Dunn

and 3 to 4, and nature in chapters 5 to 6.26 The second part in chapters 7.3 to
14.4 concerns the reasons why Christians do not wear the crown (“les raisons
propres qu’ont les chrétiens de ne pas porter de couronne”).27 Here he sees the
section from 7.3 to 10.8 as being concerned with idolatry, especially its origins.28

1.1 Narratio
Not unsurprisingly I shall offer my own rhetorical structure for this pamphlet,
but one that builds upon the perceptive insights of previous scholarship. The
pamphlet clearly opens with a narratio, a section in which the events that have
or might have occurred are set forth.29 Tertullian briefly tells the story of a sol-
dier whose refusal to wear a laurel crown30 because he was Christian saw him
imprisoned (1.1–3),31 and of the negative reaction to his action not only by non-
Christians but Christians as well who were more likely to flee than put their
lives at risk by admitting their Christianity—a topic to be discussed on another
occasion (1.4–5).

1.2 Partitio
These people put the question that Tertullian wanted to address in the pam-
phlet: where is it stated that it is forbidden to the Christian to wear a laurel
crown (1.6)? As Tertullian says, this is the point to be discussed.32 He intended

26  Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique,” pp. 99–106 and 106–107.


27  Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique,” p. 107.
28  Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique,” p. 108.
29  Rhet. Her. 1.3.4; 1. 8.12–1.9.16; Cicero, De Inu. 1.19.27–1.21.30; and Quintilian, Inst. 4.2.1–132.
30  Tertullian writes of some donative (liberalitas) being distributed to all the soldiers of
a camp all of who are crowned with laurel (laureati). This would seem to rule out this
corona being one of the Roman military decorations, which were only awarded to indi-
viduals who distinguished themselves from their fellow soldiers in some conspicuous act
of bravery or gallantry. This would suggest that what Tertullian was describing was some
celebration in the camp like an imperial birthday or anniversary of accession, or even the
accession of Caracalla himself if we accept the date of 211. On Roman military decorations
see V.A. Maxfield, The Military Decorations of the Roman Army (Berkeley and Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 1981).
31  There is no evidence that the solider was martyred, a claim made by P.J. Leithart,
Defending Constantine: The Twilight of an Empire and the Dawn of Christendom (Downers
Grove, Ill.: InterVarsity Press, 2010), p. 262.
32  Tertullian, De cor. 1.6 (CCL 2.1041): “Hanc magis localem substantiam causae praesentis
aggrediar, ut et qui ex sollicitudine ignorantiae quaerunt instruantur et qui in defensio-
nem delicti contendunt reuincantur, ipsi uel maxime Christiani laureati, quibus id solum
in solatium: ‘quaestio est,’ quasi aut nullum aut incertum saltem haberi possit delictum,
quod patiatur quaestionem.” Thus, I disagree with the statement in W. Tabbernee,
Tertullian and Military Service 93

to demonstrate that the practice of wearing laurel crowns was neither sinless
nor doubtful.33 It is clear here that we have a diuisio, as Rhetorica ad Herennium
called it, or partitio as Cicero called it, or propositio as Quintilian called it, where
the contested point is mentioned, and even an expositio (which Quintilian
called partitio), where the points to be discussed are mentioned briefly.34
Tertullian frames the question as: “where are we forbidden to be crowned?”
and he seeks to prove that the practice is neither sinless nor doubtful.
This partitio (to adopt Cicero’s term) continues into the next chapter (2.1–4),
more along the lines of Sider than Fredouille. Cleverly Tertullian sought to
establish in the mind of his reader the impression that he and his opponents
agreed that the wearing of garlands was something Christians traditionally did
not do,35 which was a normal feature of a partitio to identify areas of agreement
and disagreement (or seek to persuade one’s audience that such areas could
be identified), and that his work was going to be an explanation for the rea-
sons for this traditional practice (of not wearing garlands) not a questioning or
challenging of those reasons.36 His opponents, whom he wanted his readers to
agree had broken a convention they once accepted by receiving garlands, were

Prophets and Gravestones: An Imaginative History of Montanists and Other Early Christians
(Peabody, MA: Hendricksons, 2009), p. 116, when he writes that here Tertullian “primarily
dealt with the issue of alleged voluntary martyrdom.” I also disagree with M. Schoepflin,
“Servizio militare e culto imperiale: Il ‘De corona’ di Tertulliano,” Apollinaris 58 (1995),
pp. 185–207, at p. 195, when he writes “Tertulliano scrisse il De corona per un motivo ben
definito: la difesa di un soldato cristiano che si era rifutato di coronarsi il capo in occa-
sione della distribuzione di un suppemento di paga . . .” The soldier disappears from the
text and Tertullian is more engaged in defending the implicit teaching of the scriptures
against the wearing of the crown. The two are not unrelated, admitedly, but it is a ques-
tion of focus.
33  Tertullian, De cor. 1.6 (CCL 2.1041): “Nec nullum autem nec incertum hinc interim
ostendam.”
34  Rhet. Her. 1.10.17; Cicero, De Inu. 1.22.31–1.23.33; and Quintilian, Inst. 4.4.1–28. This over-
lap in classical terminology is something I have considered elsewhere: see G.D. Dunn,
Tertullian’s Aduersus Iudaeos: A Rhetorical Analysis, North American Patristics Society
Patristic Monograph Series, vol. 19 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America
Press, 2008), pp. 66–68.
35  Tertullian, De cor. 2.1 (CCL 2.1041): “Porro, cum quaeritur, cur quid obseruetur, obseruari
interim constat.”
36  Tertullian, De cor. 2.2 (CCL 2.1041): “Plane, ut ratio quaerenda sit, sed salua obseruatione,
nec in destructionem eius, sed in aedificationem potius, quo magis obserues, cum fueris
etiam de ratione securus.” and 2.3 (CCL 2.1041–1042): “Et ideo non ad eos erit iste tractatus,
quibus non competit, quaestio, sed ad illos, qui studio discendi non quaestionem defe­
runt, sed consultationem.”
94 Dunn

painted as being without a leg to stand on: if they were going to break this con-
vention they should not have bothered observing it previously. What is inter-
esting to note is that Tertullian introduces us to the custom (mos) of which he
approves, but it is a custom of something not done. The custom observed is the
custom of not wearing garlands. The practice is a non-practice! Unusually, but
not unsurprisingly for Tertullian, the position is somewhat inverted and not
immediately apparent to the reader, and requires close attention. He intends
to examine the reason for the custom without in any way wishing to alter its
practice.37 The sense of a twisted argument continues: if the wearing of a gar-
land is now acceptable then anyone who has not worn it before has offended.38
The question raised by the opponents is: where is it written that we should
not be crowned?39 Tertullian, employing contentio, one of the figures of
thought, turns this around: “But is it written that we should be crowned?”40
This writing, of course, refers to the scriptures. Rather than argue that what is
not forbidden is allowed, Tertullian seeks to construct his case on the basis that
what is not freely allowed is forbidden.41 All of this helps him to turn the point
at issue around from one framed by the opponents to one he framed himself.
From this partitio we can determine the rhetorical genus. Quintilian
accepted the traditional view that there were three genera: demonstrative,
forensic, and deliberative.42 While Tertullian’s work obviously has a delibera-
tive thrust to it, if one takes as one of the key elements in deliberative rhetoric
the focus on the future, in that he is seeking to persuade people about how
to behave in the future, his expressed focus is on whether or not something
has taken place in the past, which is the domain of forensic rhetoric: has the
wearing of military garlands been forbidden or not? Therefore, at its heart is
a forensic question. Of course even an orator involved in a law suit, arguing
about whether or not something had happened in the past, could also be inter-
ested in what ought to happen in the future: if someone was found guilty, what
ought their punishment to be?

37  Tertullian, De cor. 2.2 (CCL 2.1041).


38  Tertullian, De cor. 2.3 (CCL 2.1041): “Si enim non deliquit hodie suscepta corona, delequit
aliquando recusata.”
39  Tertullian, De cor. 2.4 (CCL 2.1042): “. . . ubi scriptum sit ne coronemur.”
40  Tertullian, De cor. 2.4 (CCL 2.1042): “At enim ubi scriptum est, ut coronemur?” See Rhet.
Her. 4.45.58; Cicero, Top. 11.47–49; and Quintilian, Inst. 9.2.101.
41  Tertullian, De cor. 2.4 (CCL 2.1042): “ ‘Sed quod non prohibetur, ultro permissum est.’
Immo prohibetur quod non ultro est permissum.”
42  Quintilian, Inst. 3.4.10–15.
Tertullian and Military Service 95

1.3 Refutatio and Confirmatio


From here Tertullian enters into the main body of the pamphlet, his refutatio
and confirmatio (3.1–13.9). He begins by countering the arguments of his oppo-
nents by appeal to custom (3.1–4.7). Thus, we start with refutatio. Conceding
in 3.1 that there is nothing in scripture to prescribe it (and by hanc we have to
understand him as meaning the practice of not wearing garlands)—and here I
would agree with Fredouille that there is constitutio iuridicalis in that he admits
this—Tertullian states his position that custom (consuetudo), which flows
from tradition (traditio), has prescribed it. To counter his opponents’ position
that unwritten tradition (by which we can infer he means something not in
the scripture) is not binding (3.1), Tertullian offers a whole series of examples
of Christian customary practice, particularly centred around sacraments and
liturgy, that are not to be found in scripture (3.2–4.7) to show that unwritten
tradition is important to Christian life. Indeed, with regard to the veiling of
virgins, the scripture would seem only to prescribe that virgins wear a veil as
they are coming to marriage as did Rebekah (4.2), and that the veiling of mar-
ried women, like Susannah, was voluntary (4.3). However, the long-standing
custom for Christian (and Jewish) married women and marriageable virgins
was to be veiled, so even if scripture did not demand it, tradition did (4.4).43
Tertullian can expand the basis for his objection by turning to civil law
where custom also often has legal force.44 Against the supposed objection of
an opponent that this would mean that any reasonable position would have
the force of law, Tertullian counters that God reveals what has the force of law
and what does not (a decidedly Montanist perspective) (4.5–7).45
Tertullian builds on the objection based on custom with one based on
nature (natura) (5.1–6.3). Flowers ( flores), from which garlands are made, are
meant to be enjoyed by the senses, namely sight and smell.46 Therefore they
are meant to be enjoyed by the eyes and the nose, not the head, which can-
not appreciate them (5.2–4). God has given a law, not in the scriptures, but in
nature, which even the scriptures acknowledge as being where God can lay

43  See Dunn, Tertullian, pp. 135–136 for the way Tertullian was able to argue against cus-
tom (at least local customs) in De uirg. See also G.D. Dunn, “Rhetoric and Tertullian’s de
Virginibus Velandis,” Vigiliae Christianae 59 (2005), pp. 1–30.
44  Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique,” p. 102, is able to point to Rhet. Her. 2.13.19,
about the authority of legal custom.
45  See C. Trevett, Montanism: Gender, Authority and the New Prophecy (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 92–95.
46  Quintilian, Inst. 5.10.12 considered arguments about things which could be perceived by
the senses as being particularly certain and irrefutable.
96 Dunn

down laws, i.e. natural law (lex naturalis) (1 Cor 11:14; Rom 2:14; and 1:26). Just as
nature reveals that entertainment spectacles are ungodly (and Tertullian refers
tacitly to his own De spectaculis), the unmentioned conclusion is that wearing
a garland is just the same (6.1–7.2a).47
As Cicero had pointed out, propositions in argumentation come from attri-
butes of person or action.48 Of the attributes of person (which for our pur-
poses may include things) one is nature. We have seen how Tertullian had
dealt already with the nature of crowns (at least in terms of the proper use
of the properties of its constitutive element: flowers). Now he turns to con-
sider other rhetorical aspects of the nature of something, viz., its origins and
developments (which overlaps with other attributes: manner of life (uictus) for
persons and time for things.49 Tertullian likewise turns aside from arguments
from nature and considers arguments from origin (7.2b–9). Here the antici-
pated objection is that if other crowns are not made of flowers then nature
might not dictate against their use. Tertullian counters by indicating that the
very origins of crowns, based on the fiction of Pandora and other Greek mythi-
cal events,50 are so anti-Christian that Christians cannot participate in their
use. The garlands offered to idols belong to the devil as part of a plan for wide-
spread idolatry.

1.4 Digressio
From here there is a digressio (8.1–5), a standard part of rhetoric (either as a
brief embellishment or a structural element) whereby an orator would wander
from the point at hand to deal with some related point and often to display
some florid skill.51 That this is a digressio is clear from Tertullian’s statement

47  Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique,” p. 107, sees 7.1–2 as a transitio.


48  Cicero, Inu. rhet. 1.24.35: “Omnes res argumentando confirmantur aut ex eo quod personis
aut ex eo quod negotiis est attributum.” This is altered by Quintilian, Inst. 5.8.4, to be argu-
ments from persons or things, and in 5.10.32, he sees actions as being related to persons.
49  In particular, arguments from the division of time. See Quintilian, Inst. 5.10.71.
50  While Tertrullian wished to disparage things of a non-Christian origin he was not at all
loathe to display his thorough knowledge of non-Christian literature in which this infor-
mation was contained. On Christian use of classical literature see P.E. Satterthwaite, “The
Latin Church Fathers,” in S.E. Porter (ed.), Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic
Period 330 BC–AD 400 (Leiden and New York: Brill, 1997), pp. 671–694, at pp. 675–676.
51  Cicero, Inu. rhet. 1.51.97; Cicero, De or. 3.53.203; and Quintilian, Inst. 9.2.55–56; 9.3.90;
10.1.33. With regard to this section Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique,” p. 108, sim-
ply notes “. . . par son caractère historique, elle complète le développement théorique
(chap. 8) qui la précède immédiatement.”
Tertullian and Military Service 97

that he is interrupting his train of thought.52 What about other things said to
be invented by the false gods, which Christians are happy to utilise? Tertullian
concedes the point (plane ita sit), but goes back to his argument from the
nature of a thing and whether it is used according to its design or not (8.4) and
whether it is useful. Things that are must have been inspired by God.53 In case
there is any doubt, things used by Christ are deemed acceptable while things
he did not use are suspect (8.5).

1.5 Refutatio Resumed


Tertullian turns back to the refutatio and to a question related to origins, that of
usage (9.1–10.9).54 The reference in 10.8 to habitus and origo is sufficient proof
that these two issues shape these middle chapters.55 Crowning has never been
part of that history. To the objection that Christ was crowned (with thorns),
Tertullian replies (to those Christians identifiable by the desire to flee persecu-
tion–1.5) that they are quite welcome to imitate this practice; would that they
did (9.2)! He sums up his argument about origins thus far: a thing that has been
used in the service of God is permissible for Christians to use, the crown or
garland has not been used, therefore it is not permitted (10.1).
He next considers not so much the origins of garlands as their use: they are
used to crown the dead and turn them into idols (10.2a). There is some tor-
tured logic here about the use and abuse of things in relation to those without
sensation (10.2b-3), but this leads on to a discussion about idols (10.3–10). Just
as idols are in reality nothing and those who make them become like them
(Ps 113:12–16 [115:4–8]), then while something (like a garland) may be innocent
enough in itself (Tit.1:15), it is impure because it is associated with idols. Since
garland use is not simple but is associated with idolatry, it falls under Paul’s
prohibition (1 Cor 10:28 and 10:14) and John’s (1 John 5:21). In a phrase typical of
Tertullian (except that it comes from 2 Cor 6:15) he writes: “What communion
have Christ and Belial?”56

52  Tertullian, De cor. 8.1 (CCL 2.1050): “Tene interim hunc finem, dum incursum quaestionis
excutio.”
53  The implication here is that even if some supposed god is credited with some good thing’s
origin, the inspiration came from God.
54  Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique,” p. 109, sees Tertullian in 10.8–10 harkening
back to 7.1–2 with the contrast between rational and irrational behavior.
55  Tertullian, De cor. 10.8 (CCL 2.1055).
56  Tertullian, De cor. 10.7 (CCL 2.1055): “Quae communio Christo et Beliae?” One is reminded
of the Athens-Jerusalem question in De praescr. 7.9 (CCL 1.193). See J.L. González, “Athens
and Jerusalem Revisited: Reason and Authority in Tertullian,” Church History 43 (1974),
98 Dunn

In essence this answers the objections of Tertullian’s opponents on their


own terms about where in the scriptures the wearing of garlands is prohibited.
By associating them by necessity with idolatry, 1 Corinthians 10:28 would have
been all the scriptural proof needed to demonstrate their prohibition. To this
commentator, it is surprising that Tertullian did not make this his central point.
From here Tertullian turns to what he calls the causes for wearing garlands
(causae ipsae) (10.10) and it is here that the question of Christians and mili-
tary service is raised (10.10–12.5). Is warfare and being a soldier permitted to
the Christian? It is really an argument from the general to the particular, for if
being a soldier is forbidden then of necessity the wearing of garlands, in the
military setting, is also forbidden. One can agree with Fredouille that Tertullian
examines this as a thesis with regard to Christian soldiers (11.1–4), soldiers who
convert to Christianity (11.4–5), and the necessity or pressure soldiers face to
participate in idolatry (11.6–7), and as a hypothesis (11.7) The Christian oath
(sacramentum) of initiation is incompatible with the military oath.57 There is
the scriptural injunction not to use the sword (Matt 26:52).58 This Christian
lack of aggression extends to not suing others (1 Cor 6:7), and not avoiding per-
secution (Matt 5:39; and Luke 6:29). Tertullian has a litany of idolatrous activi-
ties associated with being a soldier, all of which are forbidden (11.3–4a). Only
those who become Christian while in military service were treated less harshly
(11.4b). The only type of soldier a Christian could be was for Christ (obviously
for Tertullian not in any medieval crusading sense) (11.5). A Christian would
rather die than be involved in idolatry, so there is no necessity to participate in
such things as the wearing of a military crown (11.6–7).
For the sake of the argument, Tertullian grants that military service could be
reconciled with the Christian life. Even so, the wearing of the military crown
would still be forbidden.59 All the various garlands, whether of laurel, myrtle,
and olive, are associated with the gods and the crown is worn on occasions of
making an oath to Jupiter and receiving donatives, which Tertullian equates

pp. 17–25; and E. Osborn, “The Subtlety of Tertullian,” Vigiliae Christianae 52 (1998),
pp. 361–370, at pp. 365–366.
57  While Tertullian implies Ex. 20:12 about honoring father and mother (and the New
Testament passages that echo that like Matt 15:4; Mark 7:10; and Luke 18:20), as part of the
Christian oath, he fails to mention passages like Matt 10:37 and Luke 14:26 about Christian
turning their backs on fathers and mothers to follow Christ.
58  Of course, this could be contrasted with a passage like Luke 22:36, but Tertullian choose
not to mention that one either here or anywhere else in his extant writings.
59  Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique,” p. 109, sees a change in 12.1 (in the edition he
follows, it is 11.7) from indefinite to definite, or thesis to hypothesis. Serving in the military
is indeed the prima species questionis while the wearing of garlands is the secunda.
Tertullian and Military Service 99

with Judas’ pieces of silver (12.1–4). The triumphal garland denotes military
victory, which is nothing other than the slaughter of people, some of whom
might be Christian, even among barbarians. This is really his only comment
about the connection between military service and bloodshed. Almost imper-
ceptibly the scriptural truism that one cannot serve both God and mammon
(Matt 6:24; and Luke 16:13) is mixed with the requirement to render to Caesar
and God (Mark 12:16; Matt 22:21; and Luke 20:25) to become a statement that
one cannot serve both God and Caesar and that for the Christian God is more
important than Caesar (12.4–5). It is not just being in the military that is the
problem, it is being involved with idolatry that is.
On that basis, non-military crowns, like those made of gold for the magis-
trates or the crowd for festivals, are likewise associated with idolatry and are
forbidden (13.1–9). In marriage the groom wears a crown, and interestingly he
talks of non-Christians seducing Christians to idolatry through the ceremony
(13.4b).60 Freedmen are crowned, but Christians have been ransomed already
by Christ and to wear the crown of manumission is to become a slave once
again (13.5–6a). The use of crowns in spectacles has an obvious link with idola-
try (13.6b).
The refutatio ends with a short summary about these causes (13.7–9).
One may notice that there is no real confirmatio in this pamphlet; Tertullian
mixed his own positive arguments in with his negative arguments against his
opponents.
Many of the arguments in the last section of the refutatio where Tertullian
considers military service are also to be found in the earlier De idololatria.
What is new here is that the argument from necessity is no argument at all, and
the distinction between those who become soldiers as Christians and those
who become Christians as soldiers. In this pamphlet Tertullian is just slightly
less extreme in his anti-military views than in the earlier work.

1.6 Peroratio
Tertullian’s conclusion is simple: Christ is the only head of the Christian and
there is no room for any garland (14.1–15.4). Even Christian women, who are
required to wear the veil,61 did not wear any type of crown, even to keep the
veil in place. Again there is reference to the crown of thorns; only the Christian

60  The translation in NPNF has “brides” for ethnicis, which makes Tertullian say more than
he did. In Roman marriage the bride was crowned with verbenae or marjoram. See Festus
56.1; Servius, In Aeneadem 12.120; and Catullus 61.6–7. Why Tertullian did not refer to the
bridal crown is puzzling.
61  On this requirement see Dunn, “Rhetoric and Tertullian’s de Virginibus Velandis,” pp. 1–30.
100 Dunn

who endures the thorns can later be crowned with flowers in heaven, as Christ
was crowned in glory after the resurrection (14.3–4). This is the crown of life
(Jas 1:12; and Rev 2:10) or crown of righteousness (2 Tim 4:8) or the crown of
victory (Rev 6:2) (15.1). Tertullian urges his opponents to consider how these
crowns are worth more than mere flowers; indeed Christ as the branch of Jesse
is an everlasting flower that will not die (15.2). It is an appeal to a sense of
superiority. The implication is that these are the only crowns the scriptures
permit for a Christian to wear. He finishes by pointing to military initiates into
Mithraism who throw away the crown presented to them (15.3–4).
What is lacking is any explicit reference back to the partitio. There is only, as
I suggested, an implication at the end of the pamphlet: the only crowns men-
tioned in the New Testament must be the only crowns permitted. The argu-
ment about how to use scripture is only acknowledged through example not
discussion. Although I have argued that the pamphlet is to be characterized as
forensic in essence, it ends with the deliberative, as Fredouille notes.62

2 Tertullian on Military Service

In 1970 Stephen Gero argued that Tertullian held “changing views” on such a
topic as Christian military service.63 In this he is not alone.64 While his sum-
mary of the various ways in which being a soldier and warfare in general are
presented in the New Testament and later early Christian literature are helpful
(and need not be repeated here except to iterate the point that there was a
tension), as is his argument that the issue became pertinent in the last decades
of the third century in a period of crisis and increasing militarization within
the empire, I would think more along the lines of Evans, as indicated in note 1,
and Edward Ryan that Tertullian was able to present alternative points of view
depending upon his audience and what would be most effective at persuad-
ing them, rather than that Tertullian’s views changed.65 It was not the sudden
influx of Christians into the military after Tertullian wrote Apologeticum that
“. . . provoked his strongest opposition . . .” as a change of mind in De corona

62  Fredouille, “Argumentation et rhétorique,” p. 110.


63  S. Gero, “Miles gloriosus: The Christian and Military Service according to Tertullian,”
Church History 39 (1970), pp. 285–298, at p. 285.
64  Leithart, Defending Constantine, p. 262.
65  E.A. Ryan, “The Rejection of Military Service by the Early Christians,” Theological Studies
13 (1952), pp. 1–32, at pp. 17–18.
Tertullian and Military Service 101

militis and De idololatria, which he dates in that order, but his differing rhetori-
cal tactics.66
Tertullian’s point in a passage like Apologeticum 42.3 was to point out that
Christians were no threat to the empire and thus did not deserve to be per-
secuted.67 Showing that there were Christians in the military helped demon-
strate that point, and so it could be produced as a favorable piece of evidence.
I would maintain that Tertullian always was opposed to there being Christian
soldiers, but for the sake of winning an argument about the lack of logic in per-
secuting Christians was prepared to use the fact that there were to his advan-
tage, no matter his personal opinion about what they were doing.
The argument that until the crisis at the end of the third century many
Christian soldiers could avoid killing is irrelevant. Tertullian’s concern was less
about killing than it was about idolatry. No matter one’s rank or responsibility
in the army, this aspect could not be avoided. In this regard Ryan was right,
Tertullian was not so much a pacifist as he was anti-pagan.68
My analysis of De corona reveals that Tertullian’s purpose was not “. . . to
glorify a flagrant act of military disobedience on the part of a Christian
soldier . . .”69 He certainly did hold that soldier in high regard, but his purpose
was to counter an incorrect attitude towards the scriptures and to reject idola-
try. It is thus unwise to take Gero’s position where he says that “[m]ost of the
work is of no interest to us here, taken up as it is with a rather artificial anti-
quarian discussion on the use of wreaths and crowns.”70 Although he may be
more interested in the question of military service, to ignore the treatment
of garlands is to miss the main argument why Christians cannot be soldiers:
because of the idolatry involved. Therefore, Gero misses the point entirely
when he writes that “[i]t is most interesting that Tertullian does not give a very
prominent place in his argument to these acts of idolatry . . .”71 The wearing
of garlands is the act of idolatry around which this pamphlet is constructed.
To focus only on De corona 11, as Gero does, leads to his mistaken conclusion

66  Gero, “Miles gloriosus,” p. 291. One may certainly agree with him that the adoption of
Montanism in the intervening years was not a cause for a change of mind.
67  Tertullian, Apol. 42.3 (CCL 1.157). See L.J. Swift, “Forensic Rhetoric in Tertullian’s
Apologeticum,” Latomus 27 (1968), pp. 864–877.
68  Ryan, “The Rejection of Military Service,” p. 19.
69  Gero, “Miles gloriosus,” p. 294.
70  Gero, “Miles gloriosus,” p. 294.
71  Gero, “Miles gloriosus,” p. 294.
102 Dunn

that Tertullian was more interested in preventing bloodshed than in prevent-


ing idolatry.72
While Tertullian might have been slightly more moderate in De corona than
in De idololatria, evidenced with his comments about converts to Christianity
being able to stay in the army since demanding their desertion might have
been too much of an imposition upon one new in the faith. David Rankin
explains this as a result of Tertullian’s pragmatisim in the face of changing
political circumstances.73 This might well be true but it does not equate with
Gero’s point that Tertullian fundamentally changed his mind. Whatever the
reason, however, for his objection to Christians in military service, one could,
contrary to Ryan, characterize Tertullian as an opponent of war if not an out
and out pacifist.

3 Conclusion

Tertullian’s De corona militis is not a pamphlet all about whether or not he


approved of Christians being in the military. Certainly at one point he did
express his views directly about that question, but it was part of a larger
agenda. The question was not about whether or not a Christian could fight
and kill—the question of pacifism—(although he states his opposition to that
briefly in 12.4) but the question of whether or not a Christian in the army could
avoid idolatry. His objection to the wearing of garlands or crowns, both in the
military and civilian life, was because of its participation in non-Christian reli-
gious practices.
Tertullian was not composing a thorough treatise on the question of mil-
itary service or pacifism or even idolatry; he was responding to a particular
position put forward by Christians in Carthage in the early years of the third
century. Since, in all likelihood, his opponents did not argue that killing was
fine, Tertullian did not have to expend energy on that matter. They had argued
precisely that because the scriptures do not ban the wearing of garlands then
it must be permissible to wear them. Not only was Tertullian incensed at
their conclusion (and argued that what was not permitted by the scriptures
was therefore condemned) but he was angered by the method by which they
reached that conclusion. He objected to their interpretation and application of
scripture to contemporary issues.

72  Gero, “Miles gloriosus,” p. 295.


73  D.I. Rankin, Tertullian and the Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995),
p. 19.
Tertullian and Military Service 103

A rhetorical reading of De corona in comparison with an earlier work like


Apologeticum reveals the true complexity and dexterity of Tertullian in address-
ing this social issue. He did not change his mind over the course of his literary
career, as some has supposed. He employed whatever argument worked in a
given situation. It is clear, however, that his belief was that being a Christian
was utterly incompatible with being a soldier because of the evils of idolatry
and its contamination by non-Christian religion. His rhetoric is also important
for understanding the way he dealt with the scriptures to construct arguments.
chapter 5

Irenaeus and the Kingdoms of the World


D. Jeffrey Bingham

It seems that Irenaeus of Lyons had a two-sided view of the Roman Empire.
On the one hand he recognized its beneficial sovereignty.1 It had a far reach-
ing rule which made the Emperor’s strength known everywhere and which
provided the empire’s subjects with peace and security in journeys. On the
other hand, he recognized the empire as merely one of a long line of temporal
worldly kingdoms, which was ultimately doomed to destruction by God and
would perhaps bring forth the one who blasphemes God.2
In his mind, the Empire’s strength and benefits were great within his age
and he gratefully and honestly recognized them. But, he believed other king-
doms had been great and would be great. Eventually they all would fall and
God would accomplish even Rome’s fall. The Roman Empire is not the com-
prehensive, consummative empire. Although he and others benefited from its
great government, a greater government was coming.
His view of the Empire was inextricably linked to his perspective of an earthly
history and future managed by the one Father and Creator. God’s hand was in
the Babylonian captivity, God’s hand was in the bringing forth of the Septuagint
under the Macedonians, God’s hand was in the peace of the Romans. God’s
hand would also be in the destruction of the Romans and the founding of the
eternal kingdom. For the bishop, all this history of governments was sacred his-
tory although it played out upon the earth. They are all but temporal stages in
God’s ordering of his one, grand economy. This conviction comes forth when
in Adversus haereses 5.24.1, he sets forth through Scripture that the kingdoms

1  Adv. haer. 2.6.2 (SC 294: 62.26–30); 4.30.3 (SC 100.2:780.87–89). Cf. Euseb. Eccl. Hist. 5.21.1;
P. Keresztes, “A Favourable Aspect of the Emperor Commodus’ Role,” in Hommages à Marcel
Renard, vol. 2, CL, no. 102, ed. J. Bibauw (Brusselles: Latomus Revue d’Études Latines), 368–77;
W. Weber, “The Antonines: (7) The Accession and Reign of Commodus,” in The Cambridge
Ancient History, vol. 11, The Imperial Peace: AD 70–192, ed. S.A. Cook et al. (Cambridge: At the
University Press, 1936), 384.
2  Adv. haer. 5.26.1 (SC 153: 326.18–47); 5.26.2 (SC 153: 332.55–58); 5.30.3 (SC 153: 380.70–382.74);
3.21.2 (SC 211: 400.22–23; Fr. gr. 31.1–2); 3.21.3 (SC 211: 406.60–63). For a more detailed develop-
ment of Irenaeus on the Roman Empire see D.J. Bingham, “Evangelicals and the Rule of Faith:
Irenaeus on Rome and Reading Christianly,” in Evangelicals and the Early Church: Recovery,
Reform, Renewal, ed. G. Kalantzis and A. Tooley (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2011), 159–86.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_007


Irenaeus and the Kingdoms of the World 105

of the world are appointed by God for the benefit of the world’s nations.3 It also
comes forth when in 4.36.6 he alludes to the destruction of Jerusalem by the
Roman legions, the armies, of Titus.4 The bishop there refers to the armies of
Titus as “his (God’s) armies” because “all people belong to God.”
In Irenaean polemic, then, the seemingly secular realm of the empire is
actually the realm of the sacred. This is not surprising when we remember
that Irenaeus is an early champion of the continuity between the Old and New
Testaments, the celestial Father and the Creator-God, the Logos of the Father
and the Son of Mary, and the humanity of the gnostic and the humanity of
the non-gnostic. The bishop’s whole theology pivots around the transcendent
God’s immediacy to creation and its progressive history. Against the dualistic
thought of his opponents, he repeatedly presents a theology of unity and con-
tinuity. Because the one God who orders all things ultimately governs both
Rome and heaven, there is unity between the secular and the sacred.
God intends to gradually educate humanity, by his Word and Spirit, through-
out the various economies of history. He has therefore structured history stra-
tegically and governments have a role to play. Although God could have created
humanity perfect from the beginning, he elected not to do so. A fragile creature
required finesse. Humanity, in its weakness, was unable to bear perfection at
first. It had to mature into it. Humanity was uneducated in perfection.5 The
bishop of Lyons likens humanity’s state at creation to that of a newborn babe.
Humanity needs to be trained, taught and perfected so that eventually it may
see God.6 The patriarchs, law, prophets, Gospel and apostles, each in their own
turn, are all orchestrated by God to accomplish the purpose of human devel-
opment.7 So, too, are human governments.
Irenaeus does not compose an apologist’s address to the Romans or their
Emperor. We do not find an ingratiating address, petition, or plea to the
Emperor.8 There is no defense of Christianity before the non-Christian world,
no argument that would assist Christians under trial in the courts. What is not

3  Adv. haer. 5.24.1 (SC 153: 294–98).


4  Adv. haer. 4.36.6 (SC 100.2: 906–08). Cf. Orbe, Parábolas Evangélicas, 2:300; G. Wingren, Man
and the Incarnation, trans. R. Mackenzie (Philadelphia: Muhlenberg Press, 1959), 10–11.
5  Adv. haer. 4.38.1.
6  Adv. haer. 4.37.7.
7  Adv. haer. 4.14.2.
8  Frances Young, “Greek Apologists of the Second Century,” in Apologetics in the Roman Empire:
Pagans, Jews, and Christians, ed. Mark Edwards, Martin Goodman, and Simon Price (Oxford:
Oxford University, 1999), 83–84, 85–87; George A. Kennedy, A New History of Classical Rhetoric
(Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1994), 225.
106 Bingham

evident in Irenaeus is what Frances Young describes as the concern of works


like that of Justin or Athenagoras. In such works, categorized as “apologetic,”

a group that regards itself as a people is fighting for social and political
recognition. Lack of recognition means that its members are suffering
under what they regard as unjust laws. This literature in intended to
explain their position often pleading for justice, with the courts very
much in the background, and specifically addressed to the emperor.9

In Irenaeus, such a concern is not developed, despite the persecution of 177.10


Instead, he recognizes a favorable current situation flavored with a view of past
biblical history and eschatological expectation. All of this he sees under the
sacred hand of God which in one unified, educational process takes human-
ity from Eden to the eternal kingdom. Because of this optimism, Irenaeus, as
Denis Minns has said, “was at home in the civic world of late antiquity from
which the gnostics longed so desperately to escape.”11
My question here, nevertheless, is not one that ultimately concerns his
view of the Roman Empire. Instead, I am concerned with Irenaeus’s concept
of Church and Empire, or more generally, Church and State. In the end, for
him, it ends up being the Church’s theology of State or of governments in light
of his polemical agenda. Irenaeus does not develop a detailed theory of how
the Church should relate to the State. He is more interested in the relation-
ship of the Church to the earth, for the earth is the Father’s creation and he
thinks his opponents disparage it and the Church’s relationship to his oppo-
nents. The issue of civic responsibility is not a major interest of his. What we
do find is developed, second-century reflection on what the Church’s view of
human governments should be on the basis of the Church’s conception of God,
creation, human nature, angels, the flow of history as God orchestrates it, and
the consummation. His development of the question is integral to his task as
polemicist and pastor.
The procedure of this essay is to examine Irenaeus’s development of the
nature and function of the State from a network of biblical texts and his theo-
logical reflection in order to gain insight into how he views its contribution to
the one true faith. His treatment of the issue is not disconnected from his anti-
Marcionite and anti-Valentinian polemic. This essay analyzes three Irenaean

9   Young, “Greek Apologists of the Second Century,” 92.


10  Our witness to this persecution is the Letter of the Churches of Lyons and Vienne, a selec-
tion of which is preserved in Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical History (5.1–3).
11  D. Minns, Irenaeus (Washington, DC: Georgetown Univ. Press, 1994), 138.
Irenaeus and the Kingdoms of the World 107

paragraphs in the fifth book of Irenaeus’s Adversus haereses that begins with
a treatment of the question of the resurrection of the body (5.1–14).12 The sec-
ond part treats the question of the unity of the one God who is both Creator
and the Father of Christ (5.15–24).13 Within this second part Irenaeus dedicates
four chapters, 5.21–24, to provide warrant for his thesis of the one God through
consideration of Christ’s temptation.14 The portion studied here, Adv. Haer.
5.24.1–3, occurs within this latter discussion.

1 God Alone Establishes Human Authorities

In Adv. Haer. 5.24.1 Irenaeus begins by stating his major thesis that the devil
lied when he tempted the Lord by saying, according to Luke 4:6, “ ‘All this has
been delivered to me and I give it to whomever I will.’ ”15 The devil was speaking
of the kingdoms of this world as though he possessed them and had author-
ity to dispense them. Irenaeus does not read the devil’s words in light of such
texts as John 12:31, where Jesus calls Satan “the ruler of this world,” Revelation
13:2–10, where the dragon is described as having global authority, or in light of
Jesus’ lack of protest to the claim. Such texts and Jesus’ silence have influenced
others to see a degree of truth in the devil’s declaration of authority over the
world’s kingdoms.16 Irenaeus, however, sees no validity to the devil’s words,
and chooses to place against them other testimonies of Scripture. Irenaeus’s
catena of four texts argues that God, not the devil, determined or delimited
(determino) the world’s kingdoms.
First, Irenaeus cites Proverbs 21:1, “the heart of the king is in the hand of
God.” Second, he cites Proverbs 8:15, which he credits to the Word who spoke

12  Irenee de Lyon, Contre les heresies, Livre 5, eds. A. Rousseau, L. Doutreleau and C. Mercier,
Sources Chretiennes, no. 153 (Paris: Les Editions de Cerf, 1969), pp. 16–194 (hereafter cited
as SC 153).
13  Ibid., pp. 196–306.
14  Ibid., pp. 260–306.
15  Ibid., pp. 294–298.
16  N. Geldenhuys, Commentary on the Gospel of Luke, The New International Commentary
on the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1954), p. 160; S.R. Garrett, The Demise
of the Devil: Magic and the Demonic in Luke’s Writings (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989) p. 38;
G.B. Caird, Saint Luke, Westminster Pelican Commentaries (Philadelphia: Westminster,
1963), p. 80. Cf. C.F. Evans, Saint Luke, TPI New Testament Commentaries (Philadelphia:
Trinity, 1990), p. 259. Evans writes that the devil’s claim “is not out of harmony with an
increasing dualistic tendency in Judaism . . . and it underlines such passages as John 12:31;
2 Cor. 4:4; Eph. 2:2; Rev. 13:2ff.”
108 Bingham

through Solomon: “By me kings reign, and the mighty administer justice. By
me princes are exalted, and sovereigns rule the earth.” Third, he cites Paul’s
testimony in Romans 13:1: “Be subject to all the exalted authorities, for there is
no authority except from God, and those which exist have been established by
God.” Finally, he cites another word of Paul from Romans 13:4, which speaks of
the governing authority as one who “does not bear the sword in vain: for he is
the servant of God to exercise wrath on the one who does evil.”
This selection of texts from Proverbs and Paul provides Irenaeus with scrip-
tural language that counters the devil’s words. God (or the Word) appears as
the only one who determines or delimits the world’s kingdoms in the sense
that he establishes, maneuvers and directs them. Thus, through creating them
and exercising providence over them, God exclusively sets their limits.17 In
this way, Irenaeus’s has introduced doubt about the devil’s claim. It does not
appear he made legitimate claim to the authority to dispose of the kingdoms.
After Irenaeus presents his scriptural evidence for God’s sole determina-
tion of the world’s kingdoms, he quickly clarifies what Paul meant when he
spoke of authorities. Against the heretics who interpret them as angelic or
invisible authorities, Irenaeus insists that Paul has human authorities in mind.
Again, he supports his interpretation of Paul by calling forth Scripture. His
eye immediately returns to the context of the two citations from Romans 13
mentioned above. From Romans 13:6 he makes the point that they must be
human because Paul speaks of them as receiving tribute: “For on account
of this reason you also pay taxes, because they are the ministers of God For
According to Irenaeus, these powers must be human, because the Lord gave
directions to pay both his and Peter’s taxes to the tax-collectors (Mt. 17:27).
Irenaeus understands Romans 13:6 and Matthew 17:27 to be complementary,
each echoing the other. To fortify his reading of the Lord’s directions he again
cites Romans 13:6. For Irenaeus, the Lord’s payment of tribute to the human
tax-collectors teaches that the Lord only recognizes and submits to the earthly

17  Cf. Adv. Haer. 1.11.1 (Irenee de Lyon, Contre les heresies, Livre 1, eds. A. Rousseau and
L. Doutreleau, Sources Chretiennes, no. 264. [Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 1979], p. 168.)
Here determino occurs again and translates diorizo (Grk.), “to delimit, determine.” The
verb is applied to the function of the two limits which the Valentinians conceive as sep-
arating the highest spiritual Pleroma from: (1) the Aeons derived from the Father, and
(2) the Mother, Sophia. Determino in Adv. Haer. 5.24 is also likely a translation of diorizo in
Is. 45:18 (LXX) where it occurs in parallel with other verbs stressing the one, true God’s cre-
ation of the habitable earth. Diorizo occurs with the same force in Diogn, 7.2. Apparently,
Irenaeus has taken a term from a context of God’s sovereignty over earthly rulers on the
basis of creation. This is noteworthy, for later in Adv. Haer. 5.24.2 (SC 153:302) he states
that the same order which creates humans also establishes kings.
Irenaeus and the Kingdoms of the World 109

authorities established by God. He does not recognize or submit to any appar-


ent governing authority the (spiritual) devil, who tempted the Lord to wor-
ship him, may claim he has. Irenaeus’ rejection of the gnostic interpretation
of Paul’s authorities as spiritual, functions to oppose the devil’s claim to have
God-given authority.
At this point, Irenaeus has completed the expression and validation of his
first argument in support of his thesis that the devil’s testimony is unreliable.
The devil does not appoint the world’s human kingdoms and authorities. God
appoints them. This is the testimony of Scripture. Therefore, the devil is a liar.

2 God Establishes Human Authorities to Govern Godless Humans

Irenaeus develops his second argument in Adv. haer. 5.24.2.18 Again, he claims
that the devil is a liar when he proclaims himself the appointer of the world’s
kingdoms, but his approach is different. Now he explains the origin, need and
purpose of human government in light of God’s nature and plan for history.
In Irenaeus’ view, humanity has departed from God and has reached the apex
of savagery. Humans view each other as enemies; they engage in all types of
disorder, murder and greed. In response to this savagery, God imposed upon
humans the fear of humanity because they did not recognize the fear of God.
So, human government originated from God because humans had no regard
for God. God purposed that humans would attain some degree of justice and
mutual forbearance by being subjected to human authority and by being edu-
cated through the custodial guidance of human laws.
Yet another Pauline text informs Irenaeus’ notion that God nurtures justice
through the custodial guidance of human laws. He strategy is to extend the
teaching Galatians 3:23–25: as the law of the old covenant was a custodian that
restrained humanity until Christ’s coming, so civil law is a custodian of human-
ity’s growth toward justice in light of its rejection of God.19 For Irenaeus, the
dread of the sword is a consequence of humanity’s failure to fear God. In sup-
port of this notion, he cites Romans 13:4 for a second time: “For he does not

18  SC 153: pp. 298–302.


19  Cf. the note in Irenee de Lyon, Contre les heresies, Livre 5, eds. A. Rousseau, L. Doutreleau
and C. Mercier, Sources Chretiennes, no. 152 (Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 1969), 318.
Rousseau believes that the Latin translator, with adstricti, missed the deliberate image of
what was originally in Greek, paidagogomenoi. The French translation (SC 153:299) offers
“eduques.”
110 Bingham

bear the sword in vain; for he is the servant of God to exercise wrath on the one
who does evil.”
Thus, in Irenaeus’s understanding the State exists as God’s creation for
the purpose of ordering justice by penalizing injustice. Such State sponsored
Justice, however, can only be an external justice of outward appearance.
Mentioning the absence of humanity’s fear of God in this context Irenaeus
links it to improper neighborly relations and secret sin. The foundational cause
of injustice and evil, the failure of humanity to fear God, allows for secret, hid-
den, internal sins. Humanity, then, under the State, without the fear of God,
performs like Cain, not Abel.20

3 God Governs Human Rulers

Next, Irenaeus briefly addresses God’s oversight of even the human authori-
ties who impose the State’s penalties. Not even they are immune from God’s
judgement. The words of Romans 13:4 certainly apply to them as well, but
Wisdom 6:1–11 may also be informing Irenaeus’ thought at this point as well
as previously:

Listen therefore, O kings, and understand; learn, O judges of the ends of


the earth. (2) Give ear, you that rule over multitudes, and boast of many
nations. (3) For your dominion was given you from the Lord, and your sov-
ereignty from the Most High, who will search out your works and inquire
into your plans. (4) Because as servants of his kingdom you did not rule
rightly, nor keep the law, nor walk according to the purpose of God, (5)
he will come upon you terribly and swiftly, because severe judgment falls
on those in high places. (6) For the lowliest man may be pardoned in
mercy, but mighty men will be mightily tested. (7) For the Lord of all will
not stand in awe of any one, nor show deference to greatness; because he
himself made both small and great, and he takes thought for all alike. (8)
But a strict inquiry is in store for the mighty. (9) To you then, O monarchs,

20  See Adv. haer. 4.18.3 (Irenee de Lyon, Contre les heresies, Livre 4, ed. A. Rousseau et al.,
Sources Chretiennes, no. 100 [Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 1965], 2:598–606; hereaf-
ter cited as SC 100:2). Cf. Orbe, Teologia de San Ireneo: Commentario al libro V, vol. 3
(Madrid: BAC, 1988), pp. 519–520; W. Affeldt, Die Weltliche Gewalt in der Paulus-
Exegese: Rom. 13, 1–7 in den Romerbriefkommentaren der lateinischen Kirche bis
zum Ende des 13 Jahrhunderts, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte,
no. 22 (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1969), 40.
Irenaeus and the Kingdoms of the World 111

my words are directed, that you may learn wisdom and not transgress.
(10) For they will be made holy who observe holy things in holiness, and
those who have been taught them will find a defense. (11) Therefore set
your desire on my words; long for them, and you will be instructed.21

If the magistrates who employ the laws as incentives for justice govern with
means that are just and legitimate, they will not be questioned or given over to
punishment.22 Yet, if they rule in such a manner as to subvert justice, or with
iniquity, illegality, or tyranny, they shall perish. For God’s just judgment is dealt
equally to all without favoritism and is not defective.

4 The Just God Establishes Kingdoms for Justice

After his treatment of the State’s own accountability to God’s sovereign reign
of justice, Irenaeus argues that a government established for justice is con-
sistent with God’s just nature. He summarizes that earthly rulers have been
appointed by God—not by the devil—for the profit of the world’s nations. The
devil is never at peace and has no desire to see the nations living in peace. The
very idea of a human authority that exists for the nurture of peace is contrary
to the nature of the devil. Human authority exists so that out of the fear of
human rule people will not devour each other as do the fishes. That is, laws
exist to suppress excessive injustice among the nations. Therefore, because the
suppression of injustice is contrary to the devil’s nature, but is in accordance
with God’s nature, God must ordain human authorities. To seal his conclusion,
Irenaeus again cites a portion of Romans 13:6: “He is the servant of God.”

5 The Creator Establishes the Kingdoms of Creatures

The theme of the connection between the divine nature and the ordination of
human government is basic to Irenaeus’s thinking. In Adv. haer. 5.24.3, he con-
tinues to build his case upon it and arrives at a conclusion: human government
is ordained by God because its function is in keeping with God’s nature, not

21  RSV. Cf. A. Strobel, “Ein katenenfragment mit Irenaeus Adv. Haer. V. 24,2f” Zeitschrift für
Kirchengeschichte 68 (1957): p. 142; Orbe, Teologia de San Ireneo, p. 530.
22  Cf. Orbe, Teologia de San Ireneo, pp. 526–527, who favors the original Greek reading as
henausma, not henduma, which the Latin reflects with indumentum (SC 153: p. 300). The
force of the context supports Orbe’s decision, which he translates with “un incentivo.”
112 Bingham

the devil’s.23 To begin, he restates the testimony of Paul, in Romans 13:1, “the
authorities which exist have been established by God.” From this he returns
to his standard refrain: when the devil said at Jesus’ temptation, “ ‘All this has
been delivered to me, and I give it to whomever I will’” (Luke 4:6), he lied.
The claim is old, but the warrant is new. From the basis of God’s just nature,
Irenaeus now moves to God’s identity as Originator. Irenaeus limits the estab-
lishment of the State to God because only God is Creator.
Irenaeus understands Paul’s testimony regarding God’s ordination of human
authority within the same order as God’s creation of humanity. For him, the
order of God, which brought humanity into existence, also established kings
and placed human subjects under their rule. There is continuity between
God’s activity of creation and God’s activity of instituting human rulers. This
continuity complements Irenaeus’s theme of God’s personal, intimate involve-
ment in mundane matters and counters the dualism of his opponents.24 But,
the same continuity introduces a discontinuity. Since God as Originator of all
things, is also the point of origin for human rulers, this relationship under-
scores the reality that there is a gulf, a radical difference in nature, between
Creator and creature. This theological principle has fundamental implications
for the thesis at hand. Only the Creator can establish human authorities and
their kingdoms. The devil is merely one of the creatures. Therefore, he cannot
be credited with authority over creation.25

6 The Just God Fittingly Aligns Governments with Subjects

Irenaeus also states that God has established these human rulers in a man-
ner most fitting to those who at any given time are under their rule. The rul-
ers established by God practice a diverse set of policies as they conduct their
responsibilities. God establishes some rulers to provide correction, benefit
and preservation of justice for their subjects. He establishes other rulers to
provide fear, punishment and rebuke. He institutes still others who conduct
themselves toward their subjects with mockery, insolence and pride, for this is
what their subjects deserve. Thus, God creates the State and appoints the kind
of government that best fits the type of subject.26 To those due benevolence,
he raises up benevolent rulers. To those due harshness, he raises up harsh

23  SC 153: pp. 302–304.


24  Cf. Adv. Haer. 3.24.2 (SC 211: pp. 476–478).
25  Adv. Haer. 5.22.2 (SC 153: pp. 184–285).
26  Cf. Orbe, Teologia de San Ireneo, pp. 539–540.
Irenaeus and the Kingdoms of the World 113

rulers. To those due insolence, he raises up insolent rulers. For Irenaeus, earthly
governments exist to nurture justice, even if that justice comes as punishment
through wicked rulers.27 So he reminds his reader of his earlier statement con-
cerning the deliverance of God’s just judgment to all. Irenaeus has developed
his view of God’s fitting appointment of earthly rulers in order to emphasize
the just character of God and to underscore that God has ordained govern-
ments for justice.

7 An Apostate Angel Cannot Establish Just Governments

This restatement causes Irenaeus to return to his concerns about the devil. If
God by his nature intends to deliver just judgment to all through the govern-
ments he has created, then the devil couldn’t possibly have established them. It
is categorically impossible. The devil—an apostate angel—could not institute
governments for justice. As an apostate angel, the devil can only do what he
did at the beginning. He can deceive people and lead them astray in disobedi-
ence to God’s commands. Also, he may gradually darken their hearts so that
they forget the true God and cease to adore him as God. Disobedience and
false worship are antithetical to the justice that governments seek to imple-
ment. Therefore, governments cannot be ordained by the devil.

8 Summary of Irenaeus on State and Church

From the three paragraphs of Adv. Haer. 5.24.1–3, we are able to discern seven
principles that Irenaeus sets forth regarding his view of the State and the
Church’s relationship to it. First, human government exists through the ordi-
nation of God. Second, Christians are obligated to pay taxes to the government
ordained by God. Third, human governments exist as a concession to human-
ity’s refusal to fear God. Human authorities exist to confront people with the
fear of humanity’s sword in substitution for humanity’s fear of God. Fourth,
human governments exist as a means to benefit humanity through the struc-
turing of justice. Fifth, the aims of human governments to structure peace and
justice are consistent with God’s own benevolent, just nature and identity as
Creator. Sixth, human governments conduct themselves in diverse ways, both

27  Irenaeus leaves undeveloped some implications of this view. Cf. C.J. Cadoux, The Early
Church and the World: A History of the Christian Attitude to Pagan Society and the State
Down to the Time of Constantinus (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1925), pp. 376–377.
114 Bingham

just and unjust. Seventh, although human government exists by God’s design
as a concession to human rejection of God, in order to beneficially structure
justice, it does not supplant God’s own sovereign dispensing of universal jus-
tice. God still dispenses just judgment on all, whether through the just conduct
of the magistrates or his condemnation of their injustice.
In this way, to some degree, we are able to gain insight into Irenaeus’s under-
standing of the State and the Church’s relationship to it. We are able to see his
understanding of the origin, nature, purpose and limitations of government
and the Church’s civil obligation. Furthermore, we are able to see what biblical
texts inform his understanding. Clearly dominant in his thought is Romans
13:1–7. However, with selected texts from this passage he forms a network with
other texts from Proverbs (21:1; 8:15) a saying of the Lord from Matthew (17:27),
and very possibly, Wisdom 6: 1–11.

9 Irenaeus and His Predecessors

Irenaeus is the first to collect all these texts into a network that argues for God’s
ordination of earthly governments. Other Christian writers prior to him, nev-
ertheless, do reflect use of some of these texts in a parallel manner and men-
tion the Christian’s relation to the authorities.28 For instance, the Martyrdom
of Polycarp, after the manner of Romans 13:1–7 and 2 Peter 2:13–17, has Polycarp
speaking of the Christian’s obligation to render honor to the authorities
appointed by God. When the proconsul invites him to persuade the crowed
in the arena to hear his Christian teaching, he replies, “You, I should deem
worthy of an account; for we have been taught to render honor, as is befit-
ting, to rulers and authorities appointed by God so far as it does us no harm;
but as for these, I do not consider them worthy that I should make defense to
them.”29 Athenagoras, in his Plea for the Christians, remarks to the Emperor
that he believes the ruler received his empire from above. He does so on the
basis of an inexact citation of Proverbs 21:1 and perhaps a thought of Romans

28  Biblia Patristica, Index des citations et allusions bibliques dans la litterature patristique, ed.
J. Allenbach et al. (Paris: Editions du Centre national de la Recherche Scientifique, 1975),
1: p. 442.
29  Mart. Pol. 10:2 (A. Lindemann and H. Paulsen, eds. and trans., Die Apostolischen Vater:
Grieschisch-deutsche Parallelausgabe [Tuibingen: J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1992], p. 270;
translation by M.H. Shepherd, Jr. in Early Christian Fathers, ed. Richardson, The Library of
Christian Classics, no. 1 [Philadelphia: Westminster, 1953], p. 153).
Irenaeus and the Kingdoms of the World 115

13:1–2 and John 19:11.30 In the same vein, Theophilus of Antioch cites Proverbs
24:21–22 and presents language reminiscent of Romans 13:1–7. He affirms that
one should honor, revere, obey and pray for the emperor who was appointed
by God to judge justly. However, he states one should worship only God, for
God is sovereign over even the Emperor. He writes:

Wherefore I will rather honor the king [than your gods], not, indeed, wor-
shipping him, but praying for him. But God, the living and true God, I
worship, knowing that the king is made by Him. You will say, then, to me
“Why do you not worship the King?” Because he is not made to be wor-
shipped, but to be reverenced with lawful honor, for he is not a god, but
a man appointed by God, not to be worshipped, but to judge justly. For
in a kind of way his government is committed to him by God; as He will
not have those called kings whom He has appointed under Himself; for
“king” is his title, and it is not lawful for another to use it; so neither is it
lawful for any to be worshipped but God only. Wherefore, O man, you are
wholly in error. Accordingly, honor the king, be subject to him, and pray
for him with loyal mind; for if you do this, you do the will of God. For the
law that is of God, says, “My son, fear thou the Lord and the king, and be
not disobedient to them; for suddenly they shall take vengeance on their
enemies.”31

It seems, therefore, that Irenaeus fits into an early tradition that readily con-
fessed God’s sovereign ordination of earthly governments and the Christian’s
obligation of submission from Proverbs 21 and 24, Romans 13 and other New
Testaments passages.32 His usage of Proverbs 8:15 for this purpose, however,
is entirely unique.33 So too is his reading of Matthew 17:27 to teach that the
authorities spoken of by Paul are human, not spiritual, and to teach that
Christians are obligated to pay taxes.34 The Epistula Apostolorum and Melito of
Sardis both mention the incident of the payment of the temple tax, but with-
out any development towards civil theory or obligation.35

30  Athenag. Leg 18.2 (Athenagoras. Legatio pro Christianis, ed. M. Marcovich, Patristische
Texts und Studien, no. 31 [Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1990], p. 56).
31  Thphl. Ant. Auto 1.11 (Migne, Patrologia Graeca, 6.1040–1041; trans. by M. Dods, ANF, 2:92).
32  Cf. I Clem. 61; Just. I Apol. 17.
33  Cf. Biblia Patristica, p. 206.
34  Cf. Ibid., p. 268. W.D. Kohler, Die Rezeption des Mattausevangeliums in der Zeit vor Irenaeus,
Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2d series, no. 24 (Tubingen:
J.C.B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1987), pp. 475–476, 505 and 558.
35  Ep. Apos. 5; Mel. Sard. Pasc. 86.
116 Bingham

Furthermore, Irenaeus’ denial of the devil’s authority over the kingdoms


and his sensitivity to the potential that acquiescence to the devil’s lie may lead
to worship of the devil, also fit into an earlier stream of tradition. However,
where the earlier stream spoke against the cultural practice of worshipping
the Emperor, Irenaeus speaks against the worship of the devil, who ultimately
stands behind the falsely conceived Father of his opponents. Irenaeus specifi-
cally calls the disciples of Marcion and Valentinus the agents of Satan because
of their blasphemy against the Creator.36 The immediate pressure of the envi-
ronment, for Irenaeus, has switched from Emperor-cult to the theological
dualism of Valentinus and Marcion.
Finally, Irenaeus also shows continuity with earlier thought on God’s ordi-
nation of the State for the purpose of just judgment. However, he seems to
initiate the view of the role of the wicked rulers that he develops at some
length in Adv. Haer. 5.24.2.37 Wicked rulers, too, bring about a certain justice
through their insolent treatment of those deserving insolence. Irenaeus does
not discuss, as noted earlier, certain tensions that his view raises. But this is
not his focus. He wishes to assert God’s exclusive sovereignty over the world’s
kingdoms against the devil’s claim. His theory of the role of wicked rulers con-
tributed to his argument by removing any idea that if wicked rulers exist, the
devil must have established them. The fact that God’s exclusively establishes
the State is not challenged by the rule of wicked governors. They also might
work justice.

10 Conclusion

Irenaeus’ own discussion of governments must be understood within these


traditional concerns for the exclusive sovereignty of the one true God. For
Irenaeus, God is both Creator and Father of the Lord. Contextually, Adv. Haer.
5.24.1–3 fits inside a larger section (5.21–24) that treats God’s unity. This section
argues that there exists only one God, not one of the old covenant and one of
the new, because the Lord refused the devil’s temptation by using the Mosaic
Law. If the Lord uses the Law of the Old Testament, there is harmony and unity
between the Creator and the Father of the Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, he
summarizes:

36  Cf. Just. I Apol. 17 and Adv. Haer. 5.25.2 (SC 153:330–338).
37  Cf. J. Cadoux, The Early Church and the World, pp. 378–380.
Irenaeus and the Kingdoms of the World 117

Since this is the case we must not search for another Father besides him
or above him, since there is one God who justifies the circumcision by
faith and the uncircumcision through faith. Because if there were any
other perfect Father above him, the Lord never would have destroyed
Satan by means of his words and commandments.38

In addition, the larger section argues that there are ethical responsibilities
associated with monotheism. A Christian who has been freed from the devil
should be humble and not tempt God by being prideful. The Christian should
not be drawn away from the exclusive worship of the one God through a lust
for riches and worldly glory fed by the lies of the devil, for the devil is a liar. To
validate his claim he writes the following, citing Romans 12:16, Matthew 4:9
and alluding to Matthew 4:10:

Even as the apostle taught, saying, “Do not be concerned with lofty things,
but take part with lowly things”; that we should neither be carried away
with riches, nor mundane glory, nor present fantasy, but should know
that we must worship the Lord God and serve only him, and give no heed
to him who falsely promised things which are not his, when he said, “all
this I will give to you, if falling prostrate, you worship me.”39

Therefore, Within this larger context, his argument that the devil is a liar
and that God alone ordained the kingdoms supports his concern for the one,
true God who must be worshipped exclusively. The devil cannot be trusted
and the Christian must not worship other things or gods on the basis of the
devil’s words or the teachings of his agents, the Marcionites and Valentinians.
It is significant to our understanding of Irenaeus that in his other treatment
of Romans 13:1–6 in Adv. Haer. 4.36.6, he employs the passage to argue that
there exists one God who owns and governs all things.40 It should not surprise
Irenaeus’s readers that he concerns himself with a theology of government
only in so far as it contributes to his thesis of the one, true God. He writes as
a polemicist and pastor who must protect his community from the tragedy of
imagining another god after the manner of his opponents. His controlling con-
cern with the central element of the Church’s faith governs the development
of his polemical theology.

38  Adv. Haer. 5.22.1; SC 153: pp. 278–280.


39  SC 153: pp. 282–284.
40  SC 100.2: pp. 906–908.
chapter 6

The Weak God of the Gospels: Mercy, Mysticism,


and Martyrdom in Origen’s Contra Celsum

Roberto J. De La Noval

The Jews, then, leading a grovelling life in some corner of Palestine, and
being a wholly uneducated people, who had not heard that these matters
had been committed to verse long ago by Hesiod and innumerable other
inspired men, wove together some most incredible and insipid stories,
viz., that a certain man was formed by the hands of God, and had breathed
into him the breath of life, and that a woman was taken from his side, and
that God issued certain commands, and that a serpent opposed these,
and gained a victory over the commandments of God; thus relating cer-
tain old wives’ fables, and most impiously representing God as weak at the
very beginning (of things) (ποιοῦντες ἀνοσιώτατα τὸν θεόν, εὐθὺς ἀπ᾽ἀρχῆς
ἀσθενοῦντα) and unable to convince even a single human being whom He
Himself had formed.1

No one accuses Celsus of being a charitable interpreter of the Jewish and


Christian Scriptures. Yet lack of charity does not preclude interpretive insight,
insight such as we find in this quotation from Celsus.2 Putting aside his typi-
cally boorish assessment of the Jewish people’s learning and their geographi-
cal and cultural position in the world,3 Celsus’ reading of the creation story
highlights a major point of contention between conceptions of divinity repre-
sented by Celsus and those represented in the Scriptures: the depiction of God
as weak. What is even more offensive for Celsus—and more illuminating for

1  Origen Against Celsus, 4.36 (ANF 4:513). Emphasis mine. English translations of the Contra
Celsum (CC) are from ANF unless noted otherwise. Greek texts from Origène: Contre Celse I–V
(Sources chrétiennes; Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1968–1976). Many thanks to John Cavadini
for helpful comments on earlier drafts of this paper.
2  As Robert Louis Wilken writes: “The place to begin the study of early Christian thought is
with the critics. From the beginning they had an uncanny sense of what set Christianity apart
from the religion and philosophy of the ancient world.” Robert Louis Wilken, The Christians
as the Romans Saw Them. 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003), xii.
3  See N.R.M. de Lange, Origen and the Jews (London: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 64–66
for a good summary of Celsus’ criticisms of the Jewish people in the CC.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_008


The Weak God of the Gospels 119

us as we read along with him—is that the Genesis story portrays God as weak
at the very beginning, suggesting a future pattern of weakness which Celsus
expects to find as he reads other portions of the Christian Scriptures.4
Celsus does in fact discover that this portrayal of the Christian God as weak
holds true as he reads the gospels, especially in the pivotal moments of Holy
Week:5 “[I]t is clear that Celsus finds something amiss in the story of Jesus’
final days.”6 In this chapter I will analyze three moments from Jesus’ final days
which Celsus finds particularly amiss: Christ’s resurrection, his death on the
cross, and his agony in the garden of Gethsemane. As we read Origen’s reply
in the Contra Celsum (CC), we find our exegete sometimes subtly, sometimes
baldly, subverting Celsus’ reading of Jesus final days in the gospels.7 Origen will

4  As we have seen from Celsus’ criticism of the creation story, a similar analysis could be
undertaken of Celsus’ reading of the Hebrew Scriptures. This chapter will focus exclusively
on Celsus’ reading of the gospels, particularly Jesus’ final days.
5  Celsus delivers his criticisms of Christ’s final days not in his own voice, but in the voice of
a Jewish critic. Many scholars have agreed with Origen’s judgment that Celsus invented
this Jew and his criticisms in an act of prosopoeia. However, Maren R. Niehoff, representing
those scholars who are not convinced by Origen’s claim, has argued persuasively (“A Jewish
Critique of Christianity from Second-Century Alexandria: Revisiting the Jew Mentioned in
Contra Celsum,” JECS 21:2 [2013]), that Celsus employs in the first two books of the CC a mid-
second century Jewish document critical of Christian claims. Since I am primarily interested
in Origen’s theological development of the concept of the weakness of God in Christ, it is not
a matter of great concern whether the Jew of Celsus is real or fictional; nonetheless, I offer
here some brief thoughts on how my argument fits with Niehoff’s work.
If, in fact, Origen was wrong to attribute this Jewish critique only to Celsus’ hostile imagi-
nation, I argue that he was not mistaken in thinking that Celsus agreed with the substance
of many of the criticisms launched by this Jew; consequently, his directing his criticisms
towards Celsus, and not the Jew, makes sense. Through Niehoff’s analysis (153; 166–167), the
profile which emerges of this Jew is that of a highly educated and scholarly Platonist, both
steeped in the Philonic tradition of Alexandrian Judaism and well-versed in Greek epic litera-
ture. It is significant that this cultural and philosophical description of Celsus’ Jew matches
well the scholarly judgment of Celsus’ own “eclectic Platonism” as evinced in the eight
books of the Contra Celsum (Henry Chadwick, Origen: Contra Celsum [New York: Cambridge
University Press, 1953], xxvi). The overlap between their intellectual commitments becomes
even clearer when we read the similar arguments advanced in Book 2 (in the Jewish voice)
and in Book 7 (in Celsus’ voice), examples of which can be seen in the body of this paper,
(see n. 11, 21, 34 below). We have good reason, therefore, to read in the Jew’s criticisms many
of Celsus’ own.
6  Eugene V. Gallagher, Divine Man or Magician? Origen and Celsus on Jesus (SBL Dissertation
Series 64) (Chico: Scholars Press, 1982), 121.
7  For more on how Origen opposes Celsus’ reading of gospel passages (Jesus’ birth, baptism,
etc.,) other than those we will examine here, see Gallagher, Divine Man, (53–116).
120 De La Noval

occasionally deny Celsus’ reading of Christ’s actions as weak; at other times,


however, he affirms this weakness, regularly attributing it to the humanity
also present in the incarnate Logos. Origen, however, goes further than simply
attributing this weakness to Jesus’ humanity—Origen also provides an answer
for why the Logos in Christ willingly takes on this human weakness, namely, the
impetus of Jesus’ divine goodness. As we will see in our analysis below, through
Jesus’ willing embrace of weakness, God exercises mercy on sinners, makes
room for believers to mystically participate in Christ, and enlarges the defini-
tion of a noble death so as to benefit future Christian martyrs. For Origen, the
weakness of Jesus which Celsus perceives is always grounded in and motivated
by Jesus’ divine goodness.
The gospels’ portrayal of a weak god is, as Celsus notes repeatedly, a nov-
elty, both upsetting and unbelievable. As he read the gospels alongside, and
in response to, Celsus, Origen necessarily challenged the broader cultural pic-
ture of what a god could—and should—look like.8 As Robert Louis Wilken
puts it, “[O]n point after point, Christian thinking breaks with the categories
and conventions of Greco-Roman ways of thinking. Its imaginative horizon
is formed and nurtured from within Christian tradition. Though they worked
within patterns of thought rooted in ancient culture, Christian thinkers trans-
formed them so profoundly that in the end something quite new came into
being.”9 This paper treats just one major point where Christian thinking as
represented by one of its chief churchmen and intellectuals—Origen—broke
with that past: its bold affirmation of God’s embrace of weakness for the good
of humanity. With these introductory comments in place, let us begin our anal-
ysis of Christ’s weakness at the moment when Christ ought to have been most
powerful: his resurrection.

1 All about Appearances: Weak Resurrection and Virtuous Visitation

Upon first reading, the resurrection of Christ as the climax of Jesus’ story
appears somewhat limp. Jesus, unjustly condemned and killed, is gloriously
raised from the dead only to appear to a handful of disciples and then to disap-
pear again without major notice. This is not the way to go about a resurrection,
Celsus thinks. “[I]f Jesus desired to show that this power was really divine (θείαν
δύναμιν), he ought to have appeared (ἐκφῆναι) to those who had ill-treated him,

8  “For Celsus, if Jesus were actually a θεός, the world would drastically alter its meaning.”
Ibid., 178.
9  Wilken, The Christians as the Romans Saw Them, xii.
The Weak God of the Gospels 121

and to him who had condemned him, and to all men universally.”10 The prob-
lem is clearly one of weakness: the resurrection is not the right kind of display
of divine power. Indeed, it is barely a display of anything, inasmuch as Christ
does not appear often, and when he does, he appears to all the wrong people.
Instead of standing before his accusers, his judge, and the crowds in glorious,
resurrected splendor, Jesus appears to a mere few disciples, among whom was
counted “a half-frantic woman.”11 Not very impressive indeed.
Origen’s acknowledges that Celsus’ charge is a serious one, “not to be lightly
passed over.”12 In fact, Origen adds, not even believers advanced in Christian
knowledge can explain why Christ appeared publicly before his resurrection
but not after. In spite of these interpretive difficulties, Origen offers his own
solution to the problem. He begins his response by noting that even before
the resurrection, Jesus was in the habit of appearing differently at differ-
ent times to different people.13 The account of the transfiguration serves as
a good example, for only three of the apostles saw Christ’s transformation
on the mount at that time, and so even in the discontinuity between public
pre-resurrection and private post-resurrection appearances, a trend of selec-
tive revelation becomes clear.14 Moreover, even after the resurrection, Jesus
was not “perpetually present, nor did He constantly show himself to them
[the disciples and apostles] (Οὐδὲ . . . ἀεὶ συνῆν ἢ ἀεὶ ἐφαίνετο), because they
were not able without intermission to receive the vision of him (μὴ δυναμένοις
αὐτοῦ χωρῆσαι τὴν θεωρίαν διηνεκῶς). For his deity was more resplendent
(Λαμπροτέρα . . . ἡ θειότης ἦν αὐτοῦ) after He had finished the economy
(of salvation).”15
Jesus’ presence, it seems, is too ‘metaphysically taxing’ for humans now
that he has “put off the governments and powers” and is “dead to sin” in his
resurrected state.16 We will have occasion to return to the physical effects of
Christ’s deity at the end of this section, but for now we note that with these

10  CC 2.63. See also CC 2.35, where Celsus complains that Christ, if not before his condem-
nation, then at least after it, ought to have manifested his divinity and punished those
insulting him.
11  CC 2.59. Cf. CC 7.35, where Celsus unfavorably compares Christ to gods who can be seen
in human form: “they do not show themselves once, or at intervals, like him who has
deceived men, but they are ever open to conversing with those who desire it.” Translation
adapted.
12  CC 2.63.
13  Gallagher, Divine Man, 138.
14  CC 2.65.
15  CC 2.65. Translation adapted.
16  CC 2.64.
122 De La Noval

comments on Jesus’ “resplendent deity”, Origen both affirms and challenges


Celsus’ ideas about the power inherent in a post-resurrection appearance of
Jesus. Origen agrees that Jesus’ post-resurrection appearance is a moment of
divine power for those who would behold it; so much so, in fact, that Jesus
had to limit his appearances so his divinity would not overwhelm his disciples.
Origen’s disagreement with Celsus lies, however, in the purpose for the display
of such power. Whereas Celsus expects Jesus to display his power for judgment
on those who condemned him, Origen links the display of power with Jesus’
concern for those who would see him. Origen writes that Jesus spared the mul-
titudes who had formerly been able to see him by not appearing to them after
his resurrection, and he refrained from appearing to his judges and those that
ill-treated him so “that they might not be smitten with blindness” like the men
of Sodom, who “conspired against the beauty of the angels entertained by Lot.”17
Origen’s brief retelling of the story of Sodom here brings up a central point
in his response to Celsus: Jesus did not appear regularly after his resurrection
not only for metaphysical, but also for moral, reasons. Origen believes that the
wickedness of those who killed Christ would only have brought them blind-
ness from the vision of the resurrected Jesus, and because Jesus does not wish
such a punishment upon those who condemned him, he passes up the oppor-
tunity to appear in glory and judgment. Moral status determines the outcome
of divine visitation, and so Jesus’ resurrection “non-appearances” are to the
wicked not failures of power, but rather acts of mercy.
There are, of course, other texts in the Hebrew Scriptures which narrate
more favorable outcomes to visitation of God than those of the story of Sodom,
and Origen appeals to this strand of Old Testament tradition too in order to
justify Jesus’ selective and sparse appearances: “And as it is related that ‘God
appeared (ὤφθη) to Abraham,’ or to one of the saints (ἁγίων), and this ‘appear-
ance’ was not a thing of constant occurrence, but took place at intervals, and
not to all, so understand that the Son of God appeared in the one case on the
same principle that God appeared to the latter.”18
It is significant that Origen cites Abraham here, for not only does God
appear to Abraham three times in the Scriptures (Gen. 12:17; 17:1; 18:1), but also
the last of those appearances occurs soon before the judgment of Sodom and
Gomorrah, an event which we have just seen Origen reference. To shed further
light on the significance of Abraham in this context, we must turn to Origen’s
homilies on Genesis. In his fourth homily on Genesis, Origen contrasts the
visitation by the three men (two angels and the Lord, according to Origen) at

17  CC 2.64; 2.67.


18  CC 2.66.
The Weak God of the Gospels 123

Mambre (Gen. 18) with the visitation of two angels to Lot (Gen. 19): the three
men came to Abraham at midday, but only two visited Lot at night. These dis-
crepancies in the visits point to the great difference in moral stature between
Lot and Abraham: “See if, in the dispensation of the Holy Spirit, these events
did not occur as each man deserved (pro meritis). For Lot was far inferior to
Abraham . . . Three men, therefore, come to Abraham at midday; two come to
Lot and in the evening. For Lot could not receive the magnitude of midday light
(Non enim capiebat Lot meridianae lucis magnitudinem); but Abraham was
capable of receiving the full brightness of the light” (Abraham vero capax fuit
plenum fulgorem lucis excipere).19 Abraham, then, as the one capable of receiv-
ing the light of the vision of God, stands as a representative of all the saints
who can bear this vision in a fruitful manner. Only the holy can merit—and
withstand—the visitation and the vision of God, both in the Old Testament
and in the time after Jesus’ resurrection, when his divinity is most resplendent.
Origen speaks of these visitations to the patriarchs again in Book 6 of the
CC, and he clarifies there that the visions they received were not physical:
“For he was not seen by their bodily eyes, but by the pure heart. For, according
to the declaration of our Jesus, ‘Blessed are the pure in heart’.”20 Later in the
sixth book he adds a similar note: “God, moreover, is in our judgment invis-
ible, because He is not a body, while He can be seen by those who see with the
heart, that is, the understanding; not indeed with any kind of heart, but with
one which is pure.”21
The non-physical character of these ‘visions of God’ in the Old Testament
helps us understand more fully why Origen claims Christ did not appear to
his judges after the resurrection. The vision of God in the Old Testament was
primarily a moral affair: if someone was worthy and God deemed it right, He
would appear ‘spiritually’ to a person, in accord with his merits: “for that must
be itself pure which would worthily behold that which is pure.”22 To put it

19  Homily IV, Origen: Homilies on Genesis and Exodus, trans. Ronald E. Heine (Washington,
D.C.: CUA Press, 1982), 103. Latin from Origenes Werke: Homilien zum Hexateuch in Rufins
Übersetzung (GCS 29) (Leipzig: J.C. Hinrich’sche Buchhandlung 1920), 51. Also noteworthy
in this same homily (Origen: Homilies on Gen, 103) is Origen’s interpretation that it was
the Logos (along with two angels) who visited Abraham at Mambre; Lot received only
the two angels, without the Logos. For more on pre-incarnate Old Testament appearances
of Christ, see Crouzel, Origen, 193. For more on Origen’s theology of light, see Marcelo
Martínez Pastor, S.I. Teología de la Luz en Orígenes (Santander: UPC, 1963).
20  CC 6.4.
21  CC. 6.69. On this point see also CC 7.33.
22  CC 6.69. Crouzel’s comment (Origen, 117) in his discussion of Origen’s doctrine of knowl-
edge is appropriate here: “[T]he sense organ in order to perceive its object must have
124 De La Noval

another way: if “Christ in his divine reality is all the virtues and each virtue,”
then only the virtuous can see him.23 Accordingly, there is an impossibility
about the wicked seeing God in the Old Testament. Now, however, that the
Logos has become enfleshed, Christ has been resurrected, and Christ’s deity
is, as it were, bursting at the seams, the regular conditions of divine visitation
are suspended; in these post-resurrection days, the vision of God acquires a
physical character, and so God could indeed appear to the wicked, and to their
great detriment.
While Celsus may have deemed the punishment of Jesus’ accusers a fitting
outcome to the resurrection, Origen clearly does not.24 It is care for those who
would see him which dictates Jesus’ resurrection appearances: “Jesus, accord-
ingly, wished to show that His power was divine to each one who was capa-
ble of seeing it and according to the measure of his capability (ἐβούλετο τὴν
δύναμιν ἑαυτοῦ ὁ Ἰησοῦς θείαν οὖσαν ἑκάστῳ τῶν δυναμένων αὐτὴν ἰδεῖν, τὸ μέτρον
ἰδεῖν ἃ ἐχώρει). I do not suppose that He guarded against being seen on any
other ground than from a regard to the fitness of those who were incapable of
seeing Him (Καὶ οὐ δή που δι’ ἄλλο ἐφυλάξατο ὀφθῆναι ἢ διὰ τὰς δυνάμεις τῶν μὴ
χωρούντων αὐτὸν ἰδεῖν.).”25 This discussion of Jesus’ power in the resurrection
demonstrates that—for Origen—Jesus’ divine power and presence cannot be
separated from God’s concern for humans and his desire for their preservation
and moral improvement.26 In his reading of these Gospel texts, Origen expli-
cates a dynamic fundamental to his understanding of the economy of salva-
tion: the submission of divine power to this divine goodness. This divine way of

some analogy, some similarity with it . . . Here again we find the same principle that
only the like knows the like: it is the same with the presence in man of the ‘after-the-
image’ which makes him akin to God and causes him to know God whom he finds in a
way in himself, more and more intensely as he assimilates himself to the mysteries, and
progresses towards the eschatological likeness.”
23  Crouzel, Origen, 190.
24  Though Gallagher (Divine Man, 126) points out that Origen thinks God did in fact mete
out punishment on the Jewish people in the events and outcome of the Jewish War. Cf.
CC 8.42, where Origen interprets the destruction of the Jewish nation as a mercy meant to
stop their corporate descent into evil.
25  CC 2.67. Translation adapted. Cf. CC 6.67: “The true light, moreover, being endued with
life, knows to whom his full splendours are to be manifested, and to whom his light; for he
does not display his brilliancy on account of the still existing weakness in the eyes of the
recipient.”
26  “In Origen’s view the important benefits [Christ confers] . . . are less direct, immediate,
and tangible; they concern more the inner transformation of an individual’s character.”
Gallagher, Divine Man, 140.
The Weak God of the Gospels 125

acting cannot but be interpreted as weakness by those on the outside, ignorant


of the goals of divine goodness.
As Celsus concludes his critique of Jesus’ resurrection “non-appearances,”
he reveals the deeper source of his frustration with these gospel accounts:
Jesus seems to misunderstand the purpose of divine theophanies. “For
[Christ] had no longer occasion to fear any man after his death, being, as you
say, a God; nor was he sent into the world at all for the purpose of being hid”
(οὐ γὰρ δὴ ἔτι ἐφοβεῖτό τινα ἀνθρώπων ἀποθανὼν καί, ὥς φατε, θεὸς ὤν, οὐδ’ ἐπὶ
τοῦτ’ ἐπέμφθη τὴν ἀρχήν, ἵνα λάθῃ).27 Origen responds to this criticism by reject-
ing Celsus’ framework wholesale, asserting in turn that Christ was indeed “sent
into the world not only to become known, but also to be hid” (Ἐπέμφθη γὰρ οὐ
μόνον, ἵνα γνωσθῇ, ἀλλ’ ἵνα καὶ λάθῃ).28 Indeed, hiddenness has been a feature
of Christ’s entire earthly life, before and after the resurrection: “For all that He
was, was not known even to those to whom He was known, but a certain part
of Him remained concealed even from them; and to some He was not known
at all. And He opened the gates of light to those who were the sons of darkness
and of night, and had devoted themselves to becoming the sons of light and
of the day.”29
Divine hiddenness becomes, therefore, a marker of divine presence and
activity. God sends his Son precisely so that he may hide himself when he
deems it best. Not only is there no logical impossibility in a being “of diviner
nature” hiding himself when he pleases, says Origen, but the Scriptures them-
selves testify that this really was how it happened in Christ’s case.30 To prove
this point, Origen relates the conclusion of the story of the disciples’ encounter
with the risen Christ on the road to Emmaus: “Jesus after His resurrection took
bread, and blessed it, and breaking it, distributed it to Simon and Cleopas; and
when they had received the bread, “their eyes were opened, and they knew

27  CC 2.67.


28  Ibid.
29  Ibid. Cf. CC 6.2, where in disputation with Celsus over the simplicity of the language of
Scripture, Origen writes, “Therefore the disciples of Jesus . . . impress[ed], agreeably to
the desire of the Logos, each one of their hearers according to his desserts, so that they
received a moral amelioration in proportion to the inclination of their will to accept of
which is good.” We find here a strong connection between the Logos in Christ and the
Logos in the Scriptures: the effect of the vision of Jesus upon the viewer and the effect of
the Word preached on the listener are both dependent on the moral status and disposi-
tions of the individual.
30  CC 2.68. Robert M. Grant, The Earliest Lives of Jesus (New York: Harper & Brothers
Publishers), 76.
126 De La Noval

Him, and He vanished out of their sight” («διηνοίχθησαν αὐτῶν οἱ ὀφθαλμοί, καὶ
ἐπέγνωσαν αὐτόν· καὶ αὐτὸς ἄφαντος ἐγένετο ἀπ’ αὐτῶν»).31
Here is a story in which the resurrected Christ appears only in order to
become hidden.32 It is no accident, I suggest, that Origen chooses this pas-
sage to make his point. With this one quotation Origen summons not only
the Scriptures, but also the rich worship tradition of the Church as a living
validation of God’s economy of resurrected hiddenness, a hiddenness which
undergirds the sacramental life of the Church. It is precisely in Christ’s disap-
pearing from sight that the Eucharistic meal, the worship of the Church, is
established, and it is when Christ is hidden that he is recognized as present
in the breaking of the bread, in the gathering of the Christian community. For
Origen, Christ’s resurrected hidden power operates a level more profound than
the theophanies of power and judgment which Celsus demands from a resur-
rected and wronged deity—it operates to bring grace. Christ was indeed sent
into the world both to become known and to be hid—to visit after his resur-
rection those who could withstand the vision of him and to hide himself those
who would suffer from seeing him—and he was sent into the world to become
known in sacramental hiddenness.

2 “Room at the Cross”: Reading and Knowing Christ’s Crucified


Weakness

Celsus’ critique of Jesus’ “non-appearances” after the resurrection is of a


piece with his criticisms of the crucifixion, the most shameful moment in the
Christian god’s career.33 This god, Celsus maintains, has it all backwards—he
makes known his shame but hides his glory: “while undergoing his punish-
ment he was seen by all, but after his resurrection only by one.”34 Origen’s
response to this new criticism from Celsus continues to invert the categorical
unities which Celsus holds as self-evident. Power and presence, weakness and
hiddenness—these pairs can no longer be assumed to work in tandem after
they have been sifted through the story of Jesus of Nazareth. Nowhere is this

31  CC 2.68.


32  Though Origen does not capitalize on this point, it is suggestive that Jesus appears pre-
cisely as hidden in this story as well: the disciples on the road do not recognize him, even
as he physically walks with them.
33  “For [Celsus] the fact of the crucifixion was sufficient to overturn the Christian claim that
Jesus was the Logos.” Gallagher, Divine Man, 123.
34  CC 2.70.
The Weak God of the Gospels 127

uncoupling more evident than in Origen’s reply to Celsus’ criticisms of Christ’s


crucifixion.
The focus of the attack is similar to what we have seen already insofar as
it concerns how and where Christ as a god chooses to appear: “if this at least
would have helped as a demonstration of his divinity, he ought accordingly to
have at once disappeared from the cross” (ὤφειλεν εἰς ἐπίδειξιν θεότητος, ἀπὸ
τοῦ σκόλοπος γοῦν εὐθὺς ἀφανὴς γενέσθαι).35 Celsus here inverts his previous
assumption of power-as-presence; unlike in the resurrection, where Christ’s
weakness consists in his absence, now it is the continued presence of Christ
upon the cross which shows Christ not to have possessed true divine power.
He is too weak; no god undergoes such torment of his own will.36 This criti-
cism prompts Origen to develop in these chapters a defense of Jesus’ crucified
weakness which flowers into a mysticism which is at the same time exegetical,
sacramental, and ethical.37
Just as it was God’s goodness which kept the resurrected Christ from appear-
ing to his judges and so overwhelming them, so too now divine goodness moti-
vates Christ to stay on the cross: “We wish to show that His instantaneous
bodily disappearance from the cross was not better fitted to serve the purposes
of the whole economy of salvation (than His remaining upon it was)” (θέλομεν
δὲ παραστήσαι, πῶς οὺ χρησιμῶτερον ἦν πρὸς τὴν οἰκονομίαν ὅλην τὸ εὐθὺς ἀπὸ τοῦ
σκόλοπος αὐτὸν ἀφανή γενέσθαι σωματικῶς).38 Both Christ’s resurrected absence
and crucified presence are governed by divine goodness oriented towards
humanity, and this divine goodness is made manifest in the whole economy of
salvation, including Christ’s shame and suffering on Golgotha.

35  CC 2.68. Translation adapted. Celsus’ Jewish critic sounds very much here like the Jews
who in two gospel accounts taunted Christ during his final hours: “Let him come down
from the cross now, and we will believe in him” (Matthew 27:42; Mark 15:30–32, NRSV).
36  Cf. CC 2.17: “What god, or spirit, or prudent man would not, on foreseeing that such events
were befalling him, avoid them if he could?”
37  Gallagher (Divine Man, 128–129) points out another strategy Origen undertakes to defend
the crucifixion: asserting that it was the humanity—and not the divinity—of Christ
which underwent crucifixion (see especially CC 7.16). Origen agrees with Celsus that
the Supreme God (ὁ μέγας θεὸς) does not suffer death; instead it is the “express image
of the divine nature” (τῆς θείας φύσεως «ἀπαύγασμα» καὶ «χαρακτήρ»)—by means of
the enfleshed soul of Jesus—who suffers the shame and death foretold by the prophets
(CC 7.17; cf. Peri Archon, 2.6.3). This answer is clearly not a complete refutation of Celsus’
criticism, for in Origen’s scheme the divine nature of Jesus remains implicated in the
scandal of the cross.
38  CC 2.69.
128 De La Noval

Central to the fulfillment of this salvation economy is the assumption of


a full, enfleshed humanity by the Logos. Simply put, Christ—because he had
resolved to live a truly human life—needed to stay on the cross so he could
die and be buried like all other humans.39 The complete assumption of all
the characteristics of humanity is central to Origen’s vision of the incarnation
(and, accordingly, of his conception of the economy of salvation); we will have
occasion to discuss it more fully below when we look at Christ in the garden of
Gethsemane.40
This is Origen’s answer to Celsus on the historical and literal levels. The con-
tent and extent of this economy of salvation, however, is not as straightforward
as it first seems. Origen widens the scope of the economy beyond the confines
of the historical ministry of Jesus, his death, and his resurrection; as he rede-
fines the economy, Origen presses beyond the borders of the ‘letter’ of the text:
“The mere letter and narrative of the events which happened to Jesus do not
present the whole view of the truth (Τὰ συμβεβηκέναι ἀναγεγραμμένα τῷ Ἰησοῦ
οὐκ ἐν ψιλῇ τῇ λέξει καὶ τῇ ἱστορίᾳ τὴν πᾶσαν ἔχει θεωρίαν τῆς ἀληθείας).41 For
each of them can be shown, to those who have an intelligent apprehension of
Scripture, to be a symbol of something else” (σύμβολόν τινος).42 To comprehend
the weakness of the cross, says Origen, we must read beyond the letter and nar-
rative the gospels:

Accordingly, as His crucifixion contains a truth, represented in the words,


“I am crucified with Christ,” and intimated also in these, “God forbid that
I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom the
world is crucified to me, and I unto the world;” and as His death was nec-
essary, because of the statement, “For in that He died, He died unto sin
once,” and this, “Being made conformable to His death,” and this, “For if
we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him:”43

This passage is a prime example of Origen’s “spiritual exegesis” of the gospel,


which Henri Crouzel nicely summarizes as mostly “the application to each

39  Ibid.
40  See Crouzel, Origen, 192–198, for more on Christ’s humanity—body and soul, pre-existent
and incarnate—in the scheme of salvation.
41  CC 2.69.
42  Ibid. See Henri De Lubac, History and Spirit: The Understanding of Scripture According to
Origen, trans. Anne Englund Nash (Ignatius Press: San Francisco, 1950), 223–247, for an
illuminating analysis of Origen’s reading of the gospels as “spiritual Gospel.”
43  CC 2.69.
The Weak God of the Gospels 129

Christian of what is said of Christ, an interiorisation in each Christian of the


facts, of the deeds and virtues of Christ.”44 Our passage under discussion, how-
ever, encourages us to add to Crouzel’s summary another dimension to this
spiritual reading: Origen’s exegesis reveals that in the crucifixion of Christ
there was already hidden and contained the multitude of believers who would
conform to Christ’s death—the Church.45 In this spiritual reading we find
not only the mystical Christ in the believer, but the believer in the historical
Christ. This for Origen is the “whole view of the truth” of the crucifixion which
Celsus misses.46
This mystical reality, visible in the passages which Origen cites, discloses
the proper hermeneutical stance from which to read God’s crucified weak-
ness: personal participation in “crucifixion with Christ” and “crucifixion to the
world.”47 It is the mystery of the Christian life in conformity to Christ, taught
to believers by St. Paul’s spiritual exegesis of the Passion, which unlocks the
meaning contained in the letter and history of the life of Jesus Christ.48 If,
as Origen says here, everything in the narrative of Christ’s death and burial
is a “symbol of something else,” that “something else” is the very life of the
Christian made possible by Christ’s weakness on the cross.49

44  Crouzel, Origen, 76.


45  This interpretation of the crucifixion of Christ finds a surprising parallel in Origen’s
understanding that the Logos, as God’s Wisdom, contained in himself all of the intel-
ligible world from eternity. Crouzel, Origen, 189–190.
46  And so Gallagher, though correct in pointing out that Origen does not deliver the entire
“alternative explanation for the events that trouble Celsus,” does not give Origen enough
credit when he says that Origen fails to finally produce that explanation (Divine Man,
130–131); Origen’s spiritual reading of the crucifixion, as we have seen, does in fact go a
considerable distance towards illuminating the meaning of Christ’s crucified weakness.
47  Though in this passage Origen does not envision in this Pauline phrase the physical death
of Christians, see the next section of this chapter for the application of this mystical par-
ticipation in Christ to the realm of historical martyrdom.
48  C.W. Macleod’s assessment rings most true for this section of the CC: “Origen’s mysticism
is intimately connected to his central activity as an exegete.” C.W. Macleod, “Allegory and
Mysticism in Origen and Gregory of Nyssa.” JTS 22 (1971): 362–379. De Lubac, History and
Spirit, 240–241.
49  On the proper interpretation of σύμβολόν here, I refer to Harnack: “Today we understand
by symbol something which is not what it means, while in earlier times they meant by
symbol something which in some way is what it stands for and besides the heavenly real-
ity was always hidden in and behind this appearance, without ever being entirely con-
fused with it on earth.” Adolf von Harnack, Lehrbuch der Dogmengeschichte. I. Tübingen,
1909, p. 476. Quoted in Crouzel, Origen, 227.
130 De La Noval

Two important points follow from this. First, because this interpretive
stance is one of participation, it reveals a fundamental hermeneutical divide
between Origen and Celsus. Celsus can never understand Christ’s choice to
remain on the cross as anything other than mere weakness because he can-
not properly—spiritually—‘exegete’ Christ’s death. Second, the weakness of
God is here shown to further the economy of salvation by creating space for
believers to enter personally into the suffering of Christ. As the quotations of
Paul suggest, this occurs primarily in two ways: through the sacramental life
of the church (in baptism) and in the daily work of putting the flesh to death
so that the Spirit of Christ might live in believers. What Celsus stumbles on,
then, when he reads Christ suspended on the cross, is Christ’s weak “demon-
stration of divinity” which makes room—precisely by the choice to remain in
that weakness—for those who would be joined to his death.
In his response to Celsus’ challenge, Origen does not offer merely a Christian
method of allegorical reading which Celsus does not entirely comprehend; he
demonstrates a distinctively Christian epistemology which overcomes the
scandal of the cross precisely by embracing it in daily life. Reading and know-
ing alike are implicated. As De Lubac writes with respect to Origen’s spiritual
exegesis of the Passion: “What is at issue here is indeed still an interpretation
of Scripture: but it is also, at the same time, the substance of the faith.”50 We
may say, then, that if Christ’s weak, resurrected absence grounds the sacra-
mental life of the Eucharistic community reflected in the Emmaus story, it is
the weakness of Christ’s continued presence on the cross—animated by God’s
goodness—which enables the “whole truth of the crucifixion” to come to life
in the baptismal and moral life of believers.

3 “I’d Stay in the Garden with Him”: Weak Christ, Strong Martyrs

Origen’s understanding of Christ’s weakness on the cross invites us to read


other moments of the Passion as open to participation by believers. Indeed,
this is precisely how Origen reads the individual scenes of the Passion which
Celsus brings up for scrutiny.51 In this final section we will examine alongside
Celsus and Origen one other major moment of Christ’s Passion, the episode

50  De Lubac, History and Spirit, 241.


51  For another example which we cannot discuss here in detail, see CC 2.11, where Origen
interprets Jesus’ willingness to be bound and arrested as an example for those who would
suffer martyrdom. See Gallagher, Divine Man, 117–122 for a discussion of Christ’s arrest in
Book 2 of the CC.
The Weak God of the Gospels 131

in the garden of Gethsemane. Thus far we have identified God’s weakness on


the cross and in the resurrection as enabling participation as the sacramental
(baptismal and Eucharistic) and moral (crucifixion to self and world) life of
believers, but in my analysis of this scene in Gethsemane I wish to show that
the weakness of God there aims for one particular form of participation by
believers: participation in the physical death of Christ through martyrdom.52
Celsus’ critique of Christ in Gethsemane appears in chapter twenty-four of
Book 2:

After this, wishing to prove that the occurrences which befell Him were
painful and distressing, and that it was impossible for Him, had He
wished, to render them otherwise, he [Celsus] proceeds: “Why does he
mourn (ποτνιᾶται), and lament (ὀδύρεται), and pray to escape the fear of
death (τὸν τοῦ ὀλέθρου φόβον εὔχεται παραδραμεῖν), expressing himself in
terms like these: O Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me?’
(λέγων ὧδέ πως· «Ὦ πάτερ, εἰ δύναται τὸ ποτήριον τοῦτο παρελθεῖν;»).”53

Greg Sterling rightly locates Celsus’ problem with the story in the Greco-
Roman noble death tradition: “it was not acceptable for a hero—much less a
figure accorded divine honors—to demonstrate anxiety in the face of death.”54
Celsus himself gives us in Book 7 a tour of a “hall of fame” of men who died
noble deaths (τῶν γενναίως ἀποθανόντων): Hercules, Asclepius, Orpheus are all
suggested as men more worthy of divine homage than Jesus. Anaxarchus and
Epictetus as men who underwent suffering nobly are brought in as an espe-
cially important contrast to Christ:

At any rate you had Anaxarchus who, when cast into a mortar and while
he was being beaten with great violence, nobly showed contempt for the
punishment, saying ‘Beat on, beat the pouch of Anaxarchus, for you are
not beating him.’ The utterance is surely one of some divine spirit (θείου
τινὸς ὡς ἀληθῶς πνεύματος ἡ φωνή) . . . What about Epictetus then? When
his master was twisting his leg he smiled gently and calmly said ‘You are

52  Origen brings up Christian martyrdom (often in reference to the deaths of the apostles,
but also in regard to martyrs of the post-apostolic age and the readiness of Christians to
die) in all eight books of the Contra Celsum. Here are just a few of many references: 1.46;
2.10; 3.7; 4.26; 5.57; 6.32; 7.39; 8.44.
53  CC 2.24.
54  Greg Sterling, Mors Philosophi: The Death of Jesus in Luke," HTR, Vol. 94, No. 4 2001 383.
Gallagher, Divine Man, 123–124.
132 De La Noval

breaking it.’ And when he had broken it he said ‘Did I not tell you that you
were breaking it?’ What comparable saying did your God utter while he
was being punished? (Τί τοιοῦτον ὁ ὑμέτερος θεὸς κολαζόμενος ἐφθέγξατο)?55

It is clear from these examples that in evaluating the nobility of a person,


Celsus and the tradition he represents considered words uttered under suf-
fering, and especially around the time of death, as important indicators of a
person’s nobility. This is why Origen responds to Celsus first by taking umbrage
at the suggestion that Christ ‘lamented’ at any point: lamentation is too far
of a divergence from what Origen and Celsus think a noble death looks like.
Origen’s insistence that the word “lament” appears nowhere in the gospel
accounts of Gethsemane indicates that he agrees so base a level of weakness
would not befit Christ.56 This point of concurrence between Origen and Celsus
on what is appropriate divine comportment does not mean that Origen will
deny Christ’s weakness in the garden altogether; in this Origen will definitively
part company with Celsus. The main emphasis of Origen’s response to Celsus
here concerns what Jesus actually does say in his prayer in the garden. Origen
chides Celsus for omitting the crucial second half of the prayer: “Nevertheless,
not as I will, but as You will.”57
Sterling, in a brief analysis of the passage, reads Origen’s reply to Celsus as
something of a cop-out. He notes that Origen claims that the prayer of Christ
in the garden is to be discussed only by those whom Paul called ‘perfect’;
Origen then, in Sterling’s reading, puts the issue aside, “reduced to silence”
in the face of Celsus’ critique.58 The problem with this interpretation is that
Origen does not put the issue aside; rather, he takes it back up immediately
in the next chapter, chapter twenty-five. At the end of chapter twenty-four,
Origen does indeed bring up the Pauline ‘perfect,’ specifically in regard to those

55  CC 7.53. Translation by Henry Chadwick, Origen: Contra Celsum (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1965). It is surprising that Celsus does not also cite Socrates here, for he
stands as the example par excellence of how to suffer a philosophical death. “Socrates’s
passive countenance . . . casts him as the classical embodiment of masculine self-control.
While his friends weep tears like women, Socrates is composed, arguably joyful.” Candida R.
Moss, Ancient Christian Martyrdom: Diverse Practices, Theologies, and Traditions (The
Anchor Yale Bible Reference Library) (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012), 34–35.
56  This point corresponds closely with Origen’s concerns about proper martyrdom in the
Exhortation to Martyrdom 29, where he suggests that Christ in the garden was praying
not to avoid his impending death, but rather to receive a “cup” more severe than that of
crucifixion.
57  CC 2.24. Language of the translation adapted to contemporary usage.
58  Sterling, 383.
The Weak God of the Gospels 133

Scriptural passages which present troubling statements about God (e.g., “I kill
and I will make alive” [Deut. 32:39]), among which Origen numbers the prayer
in Gethsemane. It is the contrasting and troubling nature of these Scriptural
statements which makes them portents of deeper meaning and therefore fit-
ting material for the Pauline ʻperfect’ to ponder.59 It is this deeper meaning
which Origen puts aside at the end of chapter twenty-four, looking forward to
a different kind of discussion in chapter twenty-five concerning Christ’s prayer:
“[we] shall speak for a little of those matters which are useful for our present
purpose.”60
Origen emphasizes in chapter twenty-five that the two halves of Jesus’
prayer belong together, for they exhibit respectively the weakness belonging
to Christ’s human flesh and his human willingness of spirit. Though Origen
attempts to downplay the weakness of the flesh of Christ exhibited in the first
half of the prayer by emphasizing the second half, it is significant that he does
not deny that human weakness was a factor in Christ’s comportment in the
garden.61 Just as Christ had to die and be buried like all humans, so too must
Christ endure weakness before death. Origen makes this same point in a dis-
cussion of the prayer found in his commentary on Matthew: “For it is proper to
every true human not only not wish to suffer anything painful, but also espe-
cially not to suffer that which leads to death, for humans are made of flesh”
(Quoniam proprium est omnis hominis fidelis, primum quidem nolle pati aliquid
doloris, maxime quod duciet usque ad mortem, quia homo est carnalis).62 To be
human is to experience the weakness the fear of death brings. With this con-
cession, Origen owns Celsus’ point about the weakness Christ displays in the

59  Scriptural passages with a literal sense which Origen finds “contrary to Christ’s precepts,
scandalous, or impossible” often receive allegorical interpretations such as we find in
CC 2.24. Crouzel, Origen, 62–63.
60  In fact, Origen has occasion to discuss the prayer in Gethsemane again in chapter fifty-
five of Book 7, in reply to Celsus’ question which we quoted above: “What saying equal
to these did your god utter under suffering?” Origen answers that Christ’s courageous
silence throughout the duration of his physical punishments makes it impossible that
his prayer that the cup pass from him was motivated by base character (ἀπὸ ἀγεννείας).
Rather, Origen argues, the prayer manifests an admirable religious readiness to submit to
“the arrangements of Providence.”
61  Origen also in the same chapter acknowledges another interpretive possibility for the
first half of Christ’s prayer in the garden, namely that Christ was asking to be spared cru-
cifixion so that the Jewish people would not suffer the punishment they would receive in
return for killing Christ. Origen also mentions this interpretive possibility in Origenis in
Matthaeum, 903 (PG 13:1743).
62  Origenis in Matthaeum, 903 (PG 13:1743), translation mine.
134 De La Noval

garden. Just a few chapters later, in fact, Origen makes use of Christ’s weakness
as a marker of the divide between him and Celsus, for Celsus would “have Him
suffer nothing human (μηδὲν ἀνθρώπινον παθεῖν), nor to become a noble exam-
ple (παρἀδειγμα γενναῖον) to humanity of the manner of how to bear whatever
life throws at them.”63
Origen’s reference here to Christ as a “noble example” is significant, for it
serves to enfold Christ’s sufferings—including Christ’s fear in the garden—
into the very noble death tradition which Celsus himself uses to discredit
Christ as a god. Christ’s death is a noble example not only to humanity at large,
but specifically to Christians who in their martyrdoms would experience the
same fear and weakness as Christ in the garden. Origen concludes his discus-
sion of the scene in the garden by making this very point: “[h]ow could men
afterwards quote the example of Jesus as enduring sufferings for the sake of
religion if He did not suffer what are human sufferings . . .?” (πῶς ἂν οἱ μετὰ
ταῦτα παραδείγματι τοῦ ὑπομένειν τὰ δι’ εὐσέβειαν ἐπίπονα ἐδύναντο χρήσασθαι
Ἰησοῦ, μὴ παθόντι μὲν τὰ ἀνθρώπινα μόνον δὲ δόξαντι πεπονθέναι;).64 I suggest that
these sufferings refer not only to Christ’s physical suffering, but also to his emo-
tional suffering in the garden.
We have seen now that God embraces the weakness of the garden for the
good of his disciples to provide them with an example for their suffering—an
interpretation we might well have anticipated at this point in light of Origen’s
tendency to subordinate divine power to divine goodness. But how exactly
does Christ in the garden function as a noble example? How can Origen say
that Jesus “by His sufferings, cast no discredit upon the faith of which He was
the object; but rather confirmed the same among those who would approve of
manly courage (ἀνδρίαν)”?65 The answer to this question lies in Origen’s inter-
pretation of Christ’s prayer in the context of the entire Gethsemane episode.
According to Origen, Jesus’ entire prayer encapsulates the possibilities
of human action in the face of suffering. Origen makes it clear that though
there are other sayings of Christ in the gospels which reflect the divinity of the
Logos within him (“I am the way, the truth, and the life,” is one example Origen
gives),66 this prayer in the garden arises particularly from what is human in
Christ: “And here, accordingly, he describes both the weakness of human flesh
(τὸ τῆς ἀνθρωπίνης σαρκὸς ἀσθενὲς) and the willingness of spirit (τὸ τοῦ πνεύματος

63  CC 2.42. Translation mine.


64  CC 2.25. The context for this quotation at the end of the chapter is a discussion about
whether Christ suffered in appearance or in reality.
65  CC 2.42.
66  Cf. CC 7.16–17.
The Weak God of the Gospels 135

πρόθυμον) which existed in His humanity.”67 This two-fold description of what


is ‘in Christ’s humanity’ is not chosen simply because it reflects the bifurcation
in Christ’s prayer; rather, Origen lifts these two facets directly from Jesus’ other
famous saying in the Garden of Gethsemane found in Matthew and Mark’s ver-
sions of the story. Upon finding his disciples asleep when they ought to have
been praying with him, Jesus exhorts them to watch and pray that they not fall
into the “trial” or “temptation,” for “the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak”
(τὸ μὲν πνεῦμα πρόθυμον ἡ δὲ σὰρξ ἀσθενής).
“Weak flesh” and “willing spirit,” as we saw, are exactly the descriptors
Origen used to identify the human sources of both halves of Jesus’ prayer in
Gethsemane.68 We can understand, then, that Origen’s greater emphasis on
the willingness of Christ’s spirit over the weakness of his flesh is not simply a
distraction from the problem of weakness, but rather an explanation of how
Jesus’ prayer includes both weakness and strength precisely in order to dem-
onstrate strength overcoming weakness.69 Origen exploits the context of the
prayer—Christ about to successfully undergo his own martyrdom—as a key to
interpreting and personally appropriating Christ’s weakness in asking for the
cup to be taken away. If Christ could desire such a thing in his weakness and yet
ultimately overcome it in his spiritual strength, so too can his disciples as they
face their own deaths. As he reads Gethsemane in response to Celsus’ critique
of the Christian God’s weakness, Origen refashions the noble death tradition

67  CC 2.25. Translation adapted. Cf. Origenes in Matthaeum, 903: “Haec ergo voluntas quam
dicit: Si possibile est, transeat calix iste a me; sed non sicut ego volo, sed sicut tu, non est
secundum substantiam divinam et impassibilem, sed secundum naturam humanam ejus
et infirmam” (PG 13:1743).
68  Though we cannot be certain which texts Celsus or his Jewish critic possesses for Christ
in the garden, Origen does note in 1.34 that Celsus quotes from the Gospel of Matthew.
Gallagher, Divine Man, 51. Origen’s response from Matthew and/or Mark makes the
Matthean supposition most likely. We can at least rule out the Gospel of Luke for Celsus
or his critic: Greg Sterling is certainly right to suggest that had the critic in Book 2 pos-
sessed Luke’s account of Christ in the garden, he would have had less material with which
to criticize Christ as a god. Sterling argues persuasively that Luke has shaped his account
of Christ’s Passion—including the Garden of Gethsemane—so as to exclude any sign of
emotional duress in Jesus (Sterling, 402).
69  We may contrast the ἀνδρία Jesus displays in his prayer to the behavior of the disciples
during Holy Week. Origen explains that they “experienced a human thing at that time
arising from cowardice—for they had not yet been disciplined to courage” (τοὺς παθόντας
μὲν ἀνθρώπινόν τι ἀπὸ δειλίας τότε—οὐδέπω γὰρ ἦσαν πρὸς ἀνδρίαν ἠκονημένοι). CC 2.39,
translation adapted.
136 De La Noval

so as to include weakness as an essential element of an illustrious death, so


that Christ’s disciples might die with the same nobility as their lord.

4 Conclusion

It is apparent at the end of our analysis that of all the novelty which Christianity
offered to the culture in which it arose, the weakness of the Christians’ god
proved especially to be a major stumbling block for intellectuals like Celsus.
Origen’s response to Celsus in the CC reveals the willingness of Origen to
embrace the implications of the foundational narratives of the Christian story
and to find in Jesus’ weakness a window into God’s love for humanity. In Christ’s
resurrected hiddenness Origen finds a weakness motivated by mercy towards
those incapable of receiving the full vision of Christ’s splendor; this same hid-
denness serves to establish a Eucharistic community capable of recognizing a
God who comes not only to be seen, but also to be hid. Suspended on the cross,
Christ manifests his weakness and shame to the world and so invites believers
to be crucified with him, not only in the baptismal initiation of the Church
but also in the daily practice of dying to self and rising anew. This crucified
weakness trips up the reader not initiated into this life, and so represents an
epistemic and exegetical divide between intellectuals like Celsus and Origen.
Christ’s agony in the Garden of Gethsemane stands out as a prime example
of the Christian god’s weakness, an example which for Celsus sits uncomfort-
ably beside other exemplars in the noble death tradition who died heroic and
philosophical deaths. Origen subverts Celsus’ reading of Jesus in the garden,
and in so doing both redefines the content of a noble death and makes Christ’s
weakness a strength for those who would suffer the fear of death in the face of
their own martyrdoms.
The weak god of the gospels would remain a sign of contradiction to many
of the intellectual elite of Origen’s world. In this Origen was not surprised, for
he had learned from St. Paul that Christ crucified was to the world weakness
and foolishness, but to believers—wisdom and power.
section 3
Scripture in the Service of Urban Unity


chapter 7

Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2


Benjamin D. Wayman

Christ is king. This conviction was for early Christians an embodied com-
mitment which survived the Roman swords that sowed the seed of the early
church. Even in the years following the ostensibly pro-Christian rule of
Constantine,1 fourth-century Christians did not confuse the authority of the
emperor with that of Christ. Ambrose of Milan in the west and his eastern
contemporaries Athanasius of Alexandria and Diodore of Tarsus are but a few
examples of fourth-century Christianity’s insistence to distinguish between
the limited authority of the emperor and the eternal kingship of Christ. This
chapter most prominently features the last and least known of these three
bishops, Diodore of Tarsus (d. ca. 394), and will analyze his view of the poli-
tics of kingship in Psalm 2. I shall argue that for Diodore the incarnation and
crucifixion inaugurate the cruciform politic of the Crucified King, a politic that
must be distinguished from the imperial politic of domination and violence. To
unpack Diodore’s politics of kingship in Psalm 2, I shall examine his construal
of Herod and Pilate’s governance. Next I will contrast the weak and hostile rule
of Herod and Pilate with the strong and cruciform rule of Christ. And finally, I
shall indicate through the examples of Athanasius, Ambrose, and Diodore the
kind of politic congruent with the conviction that the incarnate and crucified
Christ is King and Lord. This essay shows that there was no easy identification
between the fourth-century church and the empire in the west or the east, and
that Diodore saw clearly how the cruciform politic of the church conflicted
with that of the empire.2 But first, I shall situate Diodore’s interpretation of the
Psalter in the history of scholarship.

1  The ‘Constantinian shift’ has become shorthand for Christianity’s transition from a per-
secuted minority to a privileged elite in the Roman empire. To be sure, the authenticity of
Constantine’s Christian commitment is complicated by his political ambition, but as I have
discussed elsewhere, “his name alone carries with it marked historical and theological signif-
icance for the church.” Wayman (2013), 306. Cf. Barnes (1981), especially p. 275, for a balanced
portrayal of Constantine’s complex person.
2  Recent scholarly assessments have provided a more nuanced picture of the fourth-century
political scene, but the residual effects of older accounts of eastern Christianity’s identifi-
cation with the empire, which fail to sufficiently note exceptions in fourth-century eastern
Christianity, still plague the popular imagination. For example, Rahner (2005) xv states,

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_009


140 Wayman

From its own time to the present, Diodore’s commentary on the Psalms
(ca. 372) has elicited a wide range of evaluations.3 Diodore’s student, Theodore
of Mopsuestia, affirmed his mentor’s approach to the Psalms by imitating, if
not verbatim at least the general sense of, Diodore’s understanding of individ-
ual psalms in his own commentary on the Psalms.4 Alternatively, early church
historians Socrates and Sozomen charged that Diodore’s interpretations of the
Old Testament adhered closely to the letter while neglecting spiritual readings
of the text.5 And modern assessments of Diodore’s commentary on the Psalms
occupy a range of views, the more scathing of which deny outright the value of
the commentary for Christians of Diodore’s time as well as our own.6
To be sure, Diodore’s ‘Antiochene’ reading of the Psalter differs from the
widespread christological interpretations produced by his Christian fore-
bears and contemporaries.7 But it is equally clear that the “urban ascetics” of

“In the Eastern half of the Christian empire, in the new Rome founded by Constantine . . . the
Church succumbed to the state.”
3  This study focuses on Diodore’s commentary on Psalm 2 but will draw as well from his
remarks on others among the first 50 Psalms, for which we have the commentary in the criti-
cal text. Diodore’s commentary on the remaining 100 Psalms survives among eight manu-
scripts, the critical edition of which was to be completed by Jean-Marie Olivier in the 1980s,
but remains unedited and awaits reconstruction.
4  Robert Hill maintains, for example, “What immediately becomes clear to a reader of all
four Psalm Commentaries [by Diodore, Theodore, Chrysostom, and Theodoret] is that the
blood line passes most directly and most abundantly from mentor [Diodore] to one student,
Theodore . . . While fellow student Chrysostom will deferentially refer in his Laus Diodori to
his master as ‘this wise father of ours’, Theodore will go much further in paying him [Diodore]
that sincerest form of flattery, imitation”. Hill (2004), 42. Cf. Hill (2006), xxvi and xxx.
5  Socrates, for example, states that Diodore ‘wrote many treatises, in which he limited his atten-
tion to the literal sense of scripture, avoiding that which was mystical [θεωρίας].’ Socrates,
Historia ecclesiastica, 6,3, trans. Zenos (2004), 138. See also Sozomen, Historia ecclesiastica,
8,2, trans. Zenos (2004), 399.
6  See O’Keefe (2000), 83–104. For example, O’Keefe maintains, “Diodore and Theodore restrict
the use of theological figuration so dramatically that the reader is hard pressed to find any-
thing particularly Christian in their biblical commentaries.” O’Keefe (2000), 96. O’Keefe thus
concludes, “[I]t is difficult to understand how Diodore thought this kind of interpretation
would be useful to those ‘who are singing the Psalms in worship’.” O’Keefe (2000), 103.
7  Everett Ferguson is thus mostly right when he asserts, “Athanasius shares the conviction of
early Christianity that in the Psalms Christ was either speaking or spoken about. The Psalms,
more so than any other Old Testament book, were read Christologically in the early church.
The principle that the Psalms are to be interpreted Christologically was the common stand-
point of early Christian exegesis.” Ferguson (1985), 303. But note Basil of Caesarea’s sparing
christological interpretation of the Psalms in his few extant homilies on the Psalter: see
Simonetti (1994), 65.
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 141

Diodore’s monastic school who were being trained in the “Psalter of David” not
only found his commentary useful, but also worthy of imitation.8 Elsewhere I
have argued that Diodore’s focus on God’s providence in the Psalter functions
as a religious vision that organizes his interpretation of Psalms 1–50.9 Despite
relatively few Psalms in which Diodore identifies a christological theme,10 he
underlines repeatedly God’s providence in the events and stories given witness
by the Psalter. Thus for Diodore, the Psalms testify to the nature of God’s care
and love for the world in the full salvation history and accordingly constitute
a commentary on the Psalms useful to his monastic school in Antioch. The
theme of Psalm 2, however, is one that Diodore explicitly identifies as “a proph-
ecy to do with the Lord”,11 and whose content lends itself well to an examina-
tion of the politics of kingship according to Diodore.12

1 Earthly Rule

The christological or messianic theme of Psalm 2 highlights the climactic


dispensation of God’s providential care for the world in the salvation history
as well as sheds light on Diodore’s view of the politics of kingship. In fact,
Diodore’s presentation of the incarnation as an economy of God’s providence
informs his understanding of divine governance in the world. Accordingly,
Diodore’s commentary on this ‘prophecy to do with the Lord’ can be analyzed

8   Leconte (1957), 533 and 535 respectively.


9   Wayman (2014a).
10  Louis Mariès identifies eight messianic references in Diodore’s commentary on Psalms
1–50 (Psalms 2, 8, 15 [16], 17 [18], 21 [22], 23 [24], 39 [40], and 44 [45]), to which I add
Psalm 9. According to Mariès, each of these Psalms can be said to be “messianic in varying
degrees (à des degrés divers, messianiques).” Mariès (1933), 143. While these Psalms accept
a messianic interpretation either in part or in whole, two take a more forceful rejection
of a messianic interpretation, despite christological similarities. Contrary to commen-
tarial tradition, which Diodore acknowledges, he rejects christological interpretations of
Psalm 9 (unless it is interpreted metaphorically) and Psalm 21 [22]. Robert Hill main-
tains that Diodore acknowledges a “direct messianic reference” in only three of the first
50 Psalms (Pss. 2, 8, and 44 [45]). Hill (2005b), 159.
11  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2, 11.2, trans. Hill (2005a), 7.
12  See the excellent study by Gerard Rouwhorst and Marcel Poorthuis who maintain,
“[T]he exegesis of this psalm leads us to the heart of the relationship between Judaism
and Christianity in all its complexity and ambiguity, showing both the common ground
of both religions as well as the polemics and the tensions within them, an issue which in
turn unavoidably calls for theological evaluation.” Rouwhorst and Poorthuis (2008), 42.
142 Wayman

to explore his understanding of how Christ’s kingship is one dynamic of God’s


providential care for the world. In what follows, I shall be concerned to show
what Diodore believes to be characteristic of the rule of Herod and Pilate and
by analogy, all earthly rulers who fail to recognize the kingship of Christ. Herod
and Pilate are for Diodore representative of earthly kings who rule by domina-
tion and violence rather than submission and obedience to God.
On three occasions in his commentary on Psalm 2, Diodore explicitly men-
tions the rule of Herod and Pilate. The first reference acknowledges the political
rule of Herod and Pilate. Diodore comments that the first verses of the psalm
convey “the groundless frenzy of the Jews against him [the Lord], and the fact
that they would betray him to Herod and Pilate, and that the Lord would come
to no harm [βλαβήσεται] from it.”13 Two points can be made. First, Herod and
Pilate are in the seats of power, and it is to such persons in authority that the
Jews betrayed Christ. It is important to note that it is to these political authori-
ties that the Jews, in their ‘groundless frenzy’ (ἀλόγιστον μανίαν) have turned.
Thus, Diodore here underlines the way in which political rulers become the
audience and agents of irrational and manic people.14 Second, Diodore here
asserts that despite the political agency of Herod and Pilate at the whim of the
Jews, Christ would not be harmed. This claim deserves a closer look.
Despite the fact that Diodore and his audience know that by being handed
over to Herod and Pilate Christ would be tortured and killed, Diodore claims
that the Lord would not be harmed by the Jews’ betrayal. Two accounts can
be given. First, Diodore may have in mind the body of Christ as presented in
Acts 4, where Peter and John are arrested and then released (vv. 23–31), with-
out being harmed. Acts 4:25b–26 in fact quotes Psalm 2:1–2, and thus corrobo-
rates Diodore’s christological interpretation of Psalm 2.15 That the story of their

13  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2, 11.3–12.5, trans. Hill (2005a), 7.


14  That Diodore views Herod and Pilate as types of earthly rulers is indicated by his use of
synonymous terms and descriptions elsewhere to describe the violent political action of
earthly authorities. Such mania (μανία) is indeed a hallmark of limited, temporal rule.
See for example Diodore’s commentary on Psalm 21:12–14 [22:11–13] when he mentions
the “frenzy” or “rebellion” (ἀπόνοια) of the “leaders and rulers” (τοὺς ἡγεμόνας καὶ τοὺς
ἄρχοντας) against David. Likening such manic behavior first to that of bulls and then to
lions, Diodore states, “both the subjects and rulers came gaping at me to swallow me
like a lion its prey.” Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 21:14, 131.115–117, trans. Hill (2005a), 71. See also
Diodore’s use of ἀπόνοια in Ps. 7:2a–b [7:1]; μανία in Ps. 9:35a [10:14] and Ps. 39:5 [40:4]; and
μαίνομαι in Ps. 36:13 [37:13].
15  Sam Janse notes, “In Acts 4:25b–25 the Septuagint-text of Ps.2:1–2 is quoted literally . . . The
real reversal lies in the judgement, that Israel, which implicitly stood on ‘the right side’
has now explicitly been shifted to ‘the wrong side’ (to the left). Its place is now completely
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 143

release is immediately related to the incarnate Lord’s destiny as prophesied by


David in Psalm 2 implies that Christ’s destiny is now that of Peter and John.
Indeed, the ‘τὰ νῦν’ of Acts 4:29 indicates that the pattern of Christ’s death and
resurrection is ‘now’ being reproduced in the story of Peter and John and their
release from prison, itself a kind of death and resurrection. On this reading,
Diodore can be understood as relaying how Christ’s body, the ekklesia repre-
sented by Peter and John in Acts 4, did not come to harm when arrested by
the Sadducees and religious authorities and in fact, were triumphant. In addi-
tion, the passage from Acts 4 can be seen to underscore the way in which the
apostles themselves made a clear distinction between the kind of power and
authority of the religious rulers and that belonging to God.16 The account in
Acts 4 accordingly marks “the first official resistance to Christian preaching”,17
and so supports as well a political reading of Diodore’s commentary on Psalm 2.
By challenging the power and authority of the crucified and risen Christ, the
religious rulers in Acts 4 expose the limited nature of their own power and
authority.
The more obvious explanation of Diodore’s claim that the Lord would not
be harmed concerns Diodore’s view of the very nature of earthly power and
authority itself. Expanding on his claim, Diodore states that not only would
Christ ‘come to no harm’, but that, “On the contrary, it would even redound to
his glory; he would save those believing in him and crush the unbelieving with
his powerful rule (referring to this as an iron rod).”18 Diodore here insists that

in opposition to the Messiah of God. To achieve this effect the author has to provide
a special exegesis of Ps.2: the words ἔθνη and λαοί, which in Ps.2:1 are indiscriminately
used for the nations, he now applies to the nations and Israel (‘the peoples of Israel’)
respectively. This means that Israel is ranked with the nations in its resistance against the
servant Jesus, who has been anointed by God.” Janse (2009), 91.
16  See especially vss. 7–10, 19–21, and 24–25.
17  Gaventa (2006), 1862.
18  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2, 12.6–9, trans. Hill (2005a), 7. Rouwhorst and Poorthuis state,
“Psalm 2 is one of the most frequently quoted psalms in the New Testament . . . The Book
of Revelation, finally, is the only New Testament text to offer an eschatological explana-
tion of the psalm: various motifs derived from the psalm, for instance the iron rod and
the pots of clay are used to describe the future victory of the Messiah and his sovereignty
over the nations (2:27, 12:5 and 19:5).” Rouwhorst and Poorthuis (2008), 434–435. Similarly,
George Gunn argues, “Few passages of Scripture could be considered more significant
for the study of the Messiah’s reign than Psalm 2. Based on New Testament quotations,
allusions, and verbal parallels, Psalm 2 is one of the most frequently referred to of all
the psalms. It is quoted either directly or indirectly seven times in the New Testament
(Matt. 3:17 [= Mark 1:11; Luke 3:22]; 17:5 [= Mark 9:7; Luke 9:35]; Acts 4:24–26; 13:33;
144 Wayman

Christ’s betrayal and subsequent crucifixion displays his glory and has the abil-
ity to both save those believing in him and crush the unbelieving. This ‘power-
ful rule’ (βασιλεία ἰσχυρός) by way of the cross surely includes the resurrection,
by which Christ defeated death.19 And this ‘powerful rule’ accordingly implies
the powerless rule of Herod and Pilate. Later, I shall return to this distinction
between powerful and powerless, but for the moment I wish only to point out
that Diodore here posits an alternative form of power and authority that defies
and in fact overcomes the domination and violence exercised by the Roman
Empire.
Diodore’s second reference to the governance of Herod and Pilate singles
out Herod and is qualified, but is nonetheless informative for understanding
Diodore’s view of their rule. Commenting on verse 1, Diodore remarks, “So why
did nations rage and peoples form empty plots? By nations and peoples he means
either the Israelites themselves or those of Herod’s company, both Gentiles as
the nations and Jews as the peoples.”20 By remaining agnostic about whether
‘nations rage’ refers to that of the Israelites or Herod’s entourage, Diodore here
subtly issues a judgment about the nature of Herod’s (and by association,
Pilate’s) rule: such rule is driven by rage (φρύαγμα) and is susceptible to a mob
mentality. Thus, the rage here mentioned by the Psalter is indistinguishable
from that of Herod’s company or the Israelites.
Diodore establishes the nature of this rage in his preceding comments when
he likens it to “the neighing that horses make when also pawing the ground,
even without anyone’s intervening to irritate them, instead their brutish char-
acter prompting them to hostility and an attack on any undeserving person.”21
By comparing the nations’ rage to the irrational and violent activity of horses,
‘without anyone’s intervening to irritate them’, Diodore maintains that the
rage that compels Herod’s political action is nonsensical, indiscriminate, and
violent. Diodore thus concludes, “Empty was a nice addition: such a perfor-
mance brought them no result.”22 Or perhaps more accurately, the people’s
rage expressed through the rule of Herod did not bring the definitive result
that Herod or the people expected to come from such domination and

Heb. 1:5; 5:5; Rev. 2:27) and is alluded to at least another five times (John 1:49; Heb. 1:2;
Rev. 12:5; 19:15, 19).” Gunn (2012), 427.
19  See Acts 13:33, which clearly refers Psalm 2:7 to Christ’s resurrection.
20  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:1, 12.17–21, trans. Hill (2005a), 7, modified. The author wishes to
thank Rowan Greer for his insight that Diodore understands peoples as referring to the
Herodians, or those Jews who supported Herod.
21  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:1, 12.13–17, trans. Hill (2005a), 7.
22  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:1, 12.21–23, trans. Hill (2005a), 7.
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 145

violence. So this second but qualified instance of Diodore’s treatment of


Herod’s (and Pilate’s) rule portrays how Diodore views such governance: it is
violent and ultimately inconsequential.
Thus far I have underlined that Diodore’s view of Herod’s and Pilate’s gover-
nance is that such earthly governance is real, vulnerable to the whims of irratio-
nality, violent, and in the end, ineffective. Diodore’s final discussion of the rule
proper to Herod and Pilate is perhaps the most nuanced. Diodore states that
verse 2, The kings of the earth presented themselves, and the rulers came together
in concert, clearly refers to Herod and Pilate. He explains, “The term presented
themselves means, They set themselves to this, as Paul also says, ‘Present your
bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing,’ that is, set aside your bodies.”23
Diodore’s explanation here is somewhat obscure and so requires his later
remarks to make better sense of what he means by ‘set aside your bodies.’
Before examining this remark in closer detail, I want to point out that in draw-
ing from Romans 12:1 (‘Present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleas-
ing’), Diodore omits mention of what will later become the church’s standard
recourse to the Pauline instruction to “be subject to the governing authorities”
(Rom 13:1, NRSV), and emphasizes instead the Pauline material in the previous
chapter. Diodore thus employs Paul’s appeal in Romans 12:1 to challenge the
‘kings of the earth’ to subject themselves in holy submission to God.
But this of course is what Herod and Pilate will not do. Instead of presenting
themselves sacrificially to God, Diodore maintains that Herod and Pilate set
themselves “Against the Lord and against his Christ. Here he [David] brought
out that the one who acts lawlessly against Christ and against the Lord com-
mits no less a sin against his Father as well.”24 Diodore goes on to remark that
by setting themselves against the rule of God rather than being subject to it,
Herod and Pilate collude together and thus make the plotting recounted in
verse 3 their very own: Let us break their bonds, and thrust away from us their
yoke.25 Referencing a similar example in Jeremiah 2:20, in which the Israelites

23  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:2a–b, 12.27–13.30, trans. Hill (2005a), 7.


24  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:2c, 13.31–34, trans. Hill (2005a), 7. In his review of Olivier’s critical
edition, Lionel Wickham states, “I doubt whether any Christology can be deduced from
this commentary . . . we must presume that he [Diodore] had either not yet begun to for-
mulate and propagate the views we think of as characteristically his, or (which is quite
as likely, I think) he did not drag them in to a commentary on a biblical text to which (on
his understanding of the text) they were largely irrelevant.” Wickham (1982), 292. Cf. Hill
(2005a), xxxiii–xxxiv. As will be seen, I am more optimistic that Diodore’s Psalms com-
mentary is instructive for understanding better his Christology.
25  Cf. Luke 23:1–12, which recounts how Herod’s and Pilate’s respective encounters with
Christ culminated in their friendship. The Evangelist writes, “Even Herod with his soldiers
146 Wayman

“lived in such a way as to wish to shake off [their] service of [God]”,26 Diodore
asserts that in their conspiring against God by refusing to serve the Father and
Son with their authority and position, Herod and Pilate have set themselves
against God.
In his presentation of the governance of Herod and Pilate as irrational, vio-
lent, weak, and fundamentally in opposition to the rule of God, Diodore pres-
ents a less-than-hopeful picture of these ‘kings of the earth’ and their rule. But
perhaps more importantly, he does so in order to contrast the limitations of
earthly power and authority with that belonging to God. By underscoring the
depravity of such imperial rule, Diodore highlights the majesty of God’s eter-
nal rule. Verse 4 provides Diodore the occasion to turn his attention from the
hopeless governance of Herod and Pilate to the hopeful reign of the Lord God.

2 Divine Rule

Near the conclusion of his commentary on Psalm 2, Diodore revisits his


remarks on the ‘kings of the earth’, but it is verse 4 that provokes Diodore to dis-
cuss ‘the Lord God’ and his rule. In his commentary on verse 4, He who dwells in
heaven will ridicule them, and the Lord will sneer at them, Diodore asserts, “[B]ut
the one who is superior to the schemers will render their schemes ridiculous.”27
Diodore here underlines the sharp contrast between the scheming governance
of worldly authorities and the divine rule of God. Not only is God superior
to such earthly leaders, but also God has the power to unravel the schemes
(ἐπιβουλαί) of such schemers (ἐπιβουλευόντων). Moreover, by so regarding the
political affairs of Herod and Pilate as ‘schemes’, Diodore accordingly calls into
question the merit and aim of imperial politics.
Diodore expands on his claim concerning the superiority of the Lord’s divine
rule over against that of earthly authorities in his anticipation of verse 5 and
accordingly illumines even more clearly the contrast between the two types
of governance. Diodore insists, “Not only will he reduce their affairs to ridi-
cule and reproach, he is saying, but they will also experience the most intense
wrath on his part.”28 Not unlike Diodore’s earlier mention that God will ‘crush

treated him [Jesus] with contempt and mocked him; then he put an elegant robe on him,
and sent him back to Pilate. That same day Herod and Pilate became friends with each
other; before this they had been enemies.” Luke 23:11–12 (NRSV).
26  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:3, 13.43–44, trans. Hill (2005a), 8.
27  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:4, 13.50–51, trans. Hill (2005a), 8.
28  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:4, 13.53–55, trans. Hill (2005a), 8.
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 147

the unbelieving’ with an iron rod, the powerful rule of God is again underlined
by Diodore in reference to the wrath of God. Diodore does not discuss in detail
the repercussions of the wrath mentioned in verse 5 (Then he will speak to them
in his wrath, and in his anger he will confound them), but he makes clear that
such earthly rulers will be aware that their confounded schemes are the result
of God’s wrath and anger toward them.
In his commentary on verse 6, Diodore underscores the just and holy rule
of God in contradistinction to that of the earthly authorities. Diodore under-
stands verse 6, But I have been established as king by him on Sion his holy moun-
tain, as referring to the Lord. What is noteworthy about Diodore’s commentary
on the verse is that he introduces an unnamed ‘victim’ (πάσχων) who has suf-
fered the schemes of earthly kings. Whether Diodore intends this victim to be
identified with Christ is unclear, but given Diodore’s presentation of Christ’s
kingship in Psalm 2, it is likely that this victim is in fact the appointed king.
Diodore conveys the victim’s challenge to the earthly rulers thusly, “[T]hen the
victim will say to those responsible for the action, Whatever you do and what-
ever your frenzy [μανῆτε], a king has been appointed, who gives evidence of
the beginning of his reign from Sion, and announces to all the will of God.”29
This divine reign from Zion is not only in accordance with the will of God, but
inaugurates a new kind of governance: one which opposes the schemes and
manic rule of earthly kings, and is rooted in the very holiness of God.
The rule of the Lord and its origin in the holiness of God is emphasized in
Diodore’s commentary on verse 7: Announcing the Lord’s decree. The Lord said
to me, You are my son, today I have begotten you. In Diodore’s fourth-century
context, this verse and the next became battlegrounds for conflicting views
regarding the divine nature of the Son. In contrast to Arius and those of his
theological cast, Athanasius and other pro-Nicene Christians maintained
that this verse did not suggest the conferral of divine favor on Jesus at a par-
ticular point in time such as at his baptism, but rather, presumed the divine
nature already possessed by the Son.30 Diodore positions himself alongside
such pro-Nicenes when he states, “The Father’s nature made me a son: it was

29  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:6, 14.64–67, trans. Hill (2005a), 8.


30  The ‘Arian’ interpretation is not without biblical warrant. Observing that “Psalm 2 is one
of the most frequently quoted psalms in the New Testament”, Rouwhorst and Poorthuis
state, “It is generally agreed that the words ‘you are my son’, mentioned in the story of
Jesus’ baptism and echoed in the narrative of the transfiguration, allude to Ps 2:7, the ref-
erence being made even more explicit in the Western text of Luke 3:22 which adds: ‘today
I have begotten you’. This means that Jesus is identified with the royal and anointed son of
the psalm.” Rouwhorst and Poorthuis (2008), 434.
148 Wayman

not that a decree transferred the dignity of sonship to me, but his being itself
imprinted on me a stamp of the person of the Father.”31 Nature, not grace nor
even an alignment of will, is the foundation of Christ’s sonship to the Father.32
To preempt mistaken understandings of the verse elicited by the term ‘today’
(σήμερον), Diodore continues,

Now the word today refers to the present time in terms of human affairs;
but what is present to us implies something further, conveying both
future and past. With God, on the other hand, where time is not a factor,
the three meanings are taken together, namely, present, future, and past.
So he means that in his case today and eternity are identical and not to
be distinguished.33

By pairing ‘human affairs’ with ‘time’ and ‘God’ with ‘eternity’, Diodore pro-
vides a correlate for his christological distinction between the Son of Mary and
the Son of God, while also insisting upon the unity of the two Sons: they ‘are
identical and not to be distinguished.’34 Though Diodore does not explain how
this can be so, it is clear that he aims to neutralize the adoptionist interpreta-
tion that the Son was begotten at a distinct time during the incarnation, rather
than begotten eternally. ‘With God,’ Diodore explains, ‘time is not a factor’.
That Diodore understands the kingship of Christ as a kingship established
by God and involving a full union of the divine king with the human king is
made even more clear in his following commentary on verse 8: Ask it of me, and
I shall give you the nations for your inheritance and the ends of the earth as your
possession. The lively history of interpretation pertaining to this verse elicits
from Diodore the second of only two explicitly polemical statements that tar-
get a non-Nicene group in his commentary on Psalms 1–50.35 He contends,

31  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:7, 14.70–74, trans. Hill (2005a), 8.


32  See note 18 above, where the New Testament citations and allusions to Psalm 2 seem on
the whole to refer to the Lord’s incarnation, death, and resurrection, rather than to the
eternal generation of the Son.
33  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:6, 14.74–81, trans. Hill (2005a), 8, emphasis original.
34  The author wishes to thank Rowan Greer for his fine-grained suggestions concerning how
Diodore’s commentary on Psalm 2 may be illumined by his Christology as presented in his
dogmatic fragments. Cf. Sullivan (1965), 172–196.
35  The other explicit polemical reference to a religious group (other than the Jews) can be
found in his commentary on Psalm 1, where Diodore challenges the determinism of the
Manichaeans and their view of the natural law as coercive. Cf. Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 1,
8.5–7, trans. Hill (2005a), 5. See also the discussion in Mariès (1933), 144–149.
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 149

Ask and I shall give you means, You can obtain the inheritance of all things
by nature. To whom does he say Ask? The Arians claim it is the Son. When
did he say this to him, after the creation of the world or before the making
of all that exists? I mean, if before creation, how could he ask for what did
not exist? and how did the Father hand over to him lordship of nations
when it was not available? The claim is ridiculous. If, on the other hand,
it was after creation that he said it to him, and clearly all that exists are
creatures and products of the Son, how did the Son not have lordship of
them when he was by nature lord of their making and creator?36

Diodore’s point here is that ‘Ask’ does not refer to the Son (of God), as the
Arians claim, but rather to the Son of Mary. It cannot refer to the Son of
God, Diodore reasons, because it would mean that the Father is here grant-
ing the Son either something that did not yet exist or something that prop-
erly belonged to him already. Either way for Diodore, ‘the claim is ridiculous.’
Diodore maintains rather that ‘Ask’ properly applies to the divine economy
rather than divine being, and so pertains to “the Lord’s incarnation [τοῦ κυρίου
τὴν ἐνανθρώπησιν]”.37 Thus, Diodore explains, “[A]ll that is said of him regard-
ing the descent touches on the incarnation [ἐνανθρώπησιν] and the divine plan
[οἰκονομίαν], not his existence from the beginning or his lordship.”38 Here again
Diodore alludes to his Son of God, Son of Mary distinction without further
elaboration. Much has been said about how Diodore understands the relation
of divine and human natures in Christ,39 but for our purposes it is important
to underline that as King, Christ is fully united with the divine nature of the
Father and exercises his eternal kingship in the world by aligning his human
nature to the will of God in perfect congruity with the divine plan (οἰκονομία).
It may thus be said that the reception and exercise of Christ’s kingship on

36  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:8, 15.84–95, trans. Hill (2005a), 8–9.
37  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:8, 15.96, trans. Hill (2005a), 9.
38  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:8, 15.96–99, trans. Hill (2005a), 9.
39  See, for example, the recent discussion in Behr (2011), esp. pp. 28–34. Summarizing the
influential work of Francis Sullivan, Behr states that in reaction to the Apollinarians,
“Diodore was led to distinguish, in Christ, two prosōpa, not only two subjects of predica-
tion, but two ‘persons’ or subjects of experience: the Son and Word of God, begotten of
the Father before all ages, on the one hand, and, on the other, the Son of Mary, who was
born, subject to passions, suffering the cross and death, and raised again.” Behr (2011),
30. Cf. Francis Sullivan (1956), 162. See also Rowan Greer’s challenge to Aloys Grillmeier’s
claim in Christ in Christian Tradition that Diodore had a non-Antiochene Christology.
Greer insists rather that Diodore be reclassified “as a true Antiochene.” Greer (1966), 341.
150 Wayman

earth in the divine economy indicates his union with the divine nature.40 The
condescension of God in the incarnation is in fact what makes possible God’s
providential plan to save the world. And as will be seen, the shape of this plan
is decisively cruciform.
To clarify Diodore’s understanding of the relation of the Son of God to the
Son of Mary in the incarnate Lord and the way in which they affect his kingship,
one can look to Diodore’s comments on Psalm 44 [45]. Diodore again identifies
the theme of this Psalm as messianic, referring to “later times when the Son of
God appears.”41 Diodore supports his claim that the Psalm refers to “the Lord
Jesus, not to Solomon, as Jews claim”,42 by emphasizing verse 7: Your throne, O
God, is forever and ever, the rod of your kingship a rod of equity, which Diodore
asserts, “completely shuts their mouth, since Solomon was not called God and
did not reign forever.”43 What is particularly instructive about this passage is
the way in which Christ’s kingship, in contrast to the wise king Solomon, is for-
ever and thus should not be confused with even the earthly kings of Israel. This
for Diodore illustrates how the Son of God and Son of Mary relate in Christ’s
unique kingship. God’s eternal kingship is exercised by the kingship given to
Jesus, which is what makes his kingship eternal. Diodore explains, “Christ alone
as God also adopted the human condition for our sake and, being God and
king forever, also retained his own status by nature.”44 Here Diodore indicates
that the Son of God, in ‘adopting’ or ‘receiving’ (καταδέχομαι) human nature,
retained his divine nature and eternal status as king. As well, the Son of Mary
receives the indwelling of the Son of God and in so doing, receives an eternal
kingship. This accordingly sheds light on Diodore’s remarks in Psalm 2:8 that
as the Divine King, Christ exercises his kingship for the people of the earth as
the God of Creation, and thus does so ‘forever and ever’.45

40  Contrary to the “traditional” understanding of the incarnation in which “The identity
of the eternal Son of God is revealed in the dynamic event of the passion” (Behr (2011),
28), a view articulated clearly by Gregory of Nyssa, for example, John Behr argues that
for Diodore “the womb becomes, in itself, the locus for the earthly journey of the man
Jesus . . . For [Diodore], there is no doubt that Mary gave birth to a man, not the Word
of God. The human being conceived in her womb was certainly, from the first moment
onwards, united to the Word of God. And, moreover, this union is by divine initiative”.
Behr (2011), 80.
41  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 44:1, 268.7–8, trans. Hill (2005a), 142.
42  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 44:1, 268.8–10, trans. Hill (2005a), 142.
43  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 44:1, 268.14–15, trans. Hill (2005a), 142.
44  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 44:1, 268.15–18, trans. Hill (2005a), 142.
45  In his commentary on Psalm 21 [22] Diodore underscores the exclusive nature of Christ’s
divine kingship. In his commentary on 21:29 [22:28], Diodore writes, “Because kingship is
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 151

Given Diodore’s nuanced christology, it is instructive to draw once again


from his commentary on Psalm 44 [45]. While insisting that as ‘God and king
forever’ Christ retains his divine nature, Diodore also points out that, “on the
other hand, most of the things it [the Psalter] mentions are human . . . since in
becoming incarnate [ἐνανθρωπήσας] he accepted also commendation for his
humanity. After all, if he accepted suffering as a human being, much more also
commendation as a human being, no harm [παραβλαπτόμενος] transferring to
his divine nature.”46 It is particularly significant that the participle Diodore
employs to convey that no ‘harm’ has been transferred to Christ’s divine nature
in Ps. 45:1 is from the same root verb (βλάπτω) as the ‘harm’ he mentions at the
onset of his commentary on Psalm 2. The correlation suggests that for Diodore
such ‘harm’ is properly a human affliction and is accordingly of only temporal
and hence, limited effect. Thus for Diodore, Christ suffers in his human nature
while ruling impassibly as God. Here can be seen how Diodore’s christology
aims not so much to preserve the humanity of Christ as to avoid diminishing
the Word of God. The importance of Diodore’s distinction for our purposes is
that it enables us to see how for Diodore, Christ’s kingship is altogether differ-
ent from the kingly politics of this world and operates in a kingdom that both
overcomes and outnarrates the political action of this world. Whereas earthly
kingship is powerless and temporary, Christ’s kingship is powerful and eternal.
Diodore’s distinction helps us understand as well how the divine and human
natures in Christ unite in his kingly rule. John Behr explains the dynamic thusly,

As such, ‘the Word, like the soul, takes the initiative and supplies the
power’, so that the humanity of Christ can act freely in accord with its
own nature, always in agreement with the divine will, so that the Word
is ‘the one who saves, but he achieves this through the ways that all of
creation is united with Christ’s humanity—and also indirectly with God
himself—and is able to share in what Christ’s human nature now enjoys’.47

In the incarnation, the Son of God accomplishes God’s divine plan of salva-
tion for the world through the Son of Mary. One implication of Diodore’s

the Lord’s, and he rules the nations (v. 28): they will also confess that you alone are king and
lord of all.” Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 21:29, 136.252–255, trans. Hill (2005a), 74.
46  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 44:1, 268.18–269.23, trans. Hill (2005a), 142–3, slightly modi-
fied. Similarly, see Behr (2011), 45 who states, “The problem presented by Diodore and
Theodore is . . . that they were unable to differentiate between person and nature, and so
were reluctant to ascribe suffering to the Word of God.”
47  Behr (2011), 82. Cf. McLeod (2005), 253.
152 Wayman

christology, then, is that from the very birth of Jesus can be observed “the
man benefiting from, and cooperating with, the Word.”48 Christ’s kingship is
indeed of divine origin and power and is exercised most decisively in the world
through the incarnation: the climactic action of the divine economy.
I should like to return to our examination of Psalm 2 to make one last point
concerning the divine rule of Christ. In his commentary on Psalm 2:9, Diodore
again contrasts the power and duration of Christ’s kingship with that of worldly
governance. But here Diodore takes the peculiar tack essential to the Gospel
that presents a stumbling block for those who would exercise their freedom
of unbelief or the politic of domination and violence. In his commentary on
verse 9, You will tend them with an iron rod, Diodore remarks, “By iron rod he
refers to a strong and effortless rule. You will smash them like pottery. He did
well to contrast the weakness of the adversaries with the strong rule [ἰσχυρᾷ
βασιλείᾳ], by earthen pottery referring to the Jews, on the one hand, and on
the other by iron to the reign of the one crucified by them.”49 The significance
of Diodore’s emphasis on the strong and powerful reign of Christ in contrast
to that of earthly kings and adversaries is that this rule is exercised by ‘the
one crucified (σταυρουμένου) by them.’ In so doing, Christ confounds imperial
politics by himself enduring its hostility and violence. What this means, then,
is that God’s governance is performed with the strong staff of a shepherd who
lays down his life for his sheep in order to save their lives.
God’s appointment of a Crucified King inaugurates a particular politic for
those who would serve him. In the following section, I shall explore the cruci-
form shape of Christ’s kingship.

3 The Politic of a Crucified King

The politic established by the Crucified King is a cruciform kingdom. And it


is this politic that animates Diodore’s closing remarks on Psalm 2. As I men-
tioned earlier, however, Diodore revisits the ‘kings of the earth’ in his conclud-
ing statement and so I shall say a word about this as well. But I also want to
show that Diodore’s interpretation of Psalm 2 is by no means an anomaly in

48  Behr (2011), 82.


49  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:9a–b, 15.101–107, trans. Hill (2005a), 9. See also Diodore’s commen-
tary on Psalm 22:4c [23:4], where he explains that in the face of death, “Your rod and your
staff comforted me. By rod he refers to kingship, and by staff to strength. So his meaning
is, Your powerful reign, which brought this consolation, proved my salvation.” Diodore,
Comm. in Ps. 22:4c, 138.32–36, trans. Hill (2005a), 75.
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 153

early Christian readings of the Psalm. Rather, Diodore represents a common


early Christian perspective on the relationship between the temporal rule of
‘kings of the earth’ and the eternal rule of Christ. Thus in this final section, I
shall note briefly that Diodore’s reading of Psalm 2 coheres with other early
Christian interpretations of the Psalm, recount the imperial opposition waged
by Athanasius, Ambrose, and Diodore, and conclude with Diodore’s closing
comments on Psalm 2. My aim here is to demonstrate not only that for Diodore
the incarnation and crucifixion require the cruciform politic of the crucified
King, but also that this subversive politic to that of the empire was something
of a commonplace in Christian antiquity.50

3.1 Psalm 2 and Early Christian Opposition to the State


Even a cursory look at early Christian readings of Psalm 2 reveals that Diodore’s
interpretation stands in a long tradition of early Christian opposition to impe-
rial power.51 Even in the commentary of one of the most indulgent supporters
of the Roman empire can be observed the early Christian mistrust of earthly
rule. Thus in his interpretation of Psalm 2:2, written sometime between 325
and 330, Eusebius of Caesarea states,

The leaders of the nations throughout the whole world and the kings of
the earth who have held dominion at various times have all been drawn
into this impious alliance together, holding on to whatever insult or for

50  Thus it shall become clear that I think assessments which sharply contrast eastern and
western Christians’ views of the empire, such as that by Boniface Ramsey, are somewhat
overdone. Ramsey states, for example, “Ambrose contributed to defining a distinction
between Church and state where one had hardly existed before. It was a distinction
that needed to be made because, as the history of the fourth century demonstrated, the
orthodoxy and moral probity of the Empire could not always be taken for granted. In
articulating this distinction Ambrose helped to break in the West the pattern that had
existed there for half a century, since Constantine, and that would continue for better
or for worse in the East.” Ramsey (1997), 48. As will be shown, Ambrose’s fourth-century
counterparts in the East were similarly occupied in distinguishing between church and
state.
51  See, for example, Rouwhorst and Poorthuis (2008), 434–439, and Blaising and Hardin
(2008), 11–17. Recognition of their general similarity, however, should not discount their
differences on finer points of interpretation. Rouwhorst and Poorthuis explain, “In the
various ways in which early Christian writers try to identify the raging nations and their
rulers, several tendencies may be distinguished. What all of them have in common is
that, on the basis of Acts 4:25–27, they blame both the Jews and the Gentiles, as well
as their prototypes, Herod and Pilate, for the death of Jesus.” Rouwhorst and Poorthuis
(2008), 436.
154 Wayman

whatever reason, or having suffered whatever offense, so that they devise


treacheries, they enter into the wicked counsel against the Lord of the
universe and God the King and against his anointed one.52

Eusebius accordingly not only anticipates Diodore’s view that ‘the kings of the
earth’ stand in opposition to God’s rule, but maintains as well that all such
leaders have done so throughout human history. Several more similar readings
can be gleaned from early Christian commentaries on Psalm 2, but I should
like to highlight especially that of Athanasius of Alexandria.
In his Epistola ad Marcellinum, likely composed in 367,53 Athanasius pro-
vides a guide to the Psalter that was cherished by the church for over a mil-
lennia and is only recently being recovered and appreciated afresh.54 In his
concise counsel to Marcellinus concerning how to read Psalm 2, Athanasius
writes, “If you want to condemn the evil plot of the Jews against the Savior, you
have Psalm 2.”55 Athanasius thus conveys that the main theme of Psalm 2 is the
‘evil plot’ or ‘treachery’ or ‘scheme’ (ἐπιβουλή) of the Jews against the Savior.
Throughout his letter to Marcellinus, in fact, Athanasius employs ἐπιβουλή to
describe the actions of his enemies, and accordingly demonstrates his mis-
trust of earthly rulers.56 Athanasius’ disparaging references to earthly rulers
have elicited the suggestion that Athanasius perhaps had in mind Constantius
or Julian.57 Athanasius’ critical stance towards the empire not only coheres

52  Eusebius of Caesarea, “Explanatio Psalmi 2:2,” Commentaria in Psalmos, PG 23:81b, trans.
Blaising and Hardin (2008), 12, emphasis mine.
53  Weinandy (2010), 275. Ferguson (1985), 295–296 similarly suggests a date in the 360s.
54  See my recent book, Make the Words Your Own: An Early Christian Guide to the Psalms
(Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press, 2014).
55  Athanasius, Epistola ad Marcellinum, PG 27.28d, my translation. It is additionally note-
worthy that “Athanasius compares the Arians to the nations of Psalm 2 that take counsel
against the Lord and against his anointed (On the Opinion of Dionysius 1).” Leithart (2011),
7. Leithart later concludes, “Athanasius’s biblical dramatizations of his life thus support a
political theology. As we have seen, he regularly charges that the Arians are like the Jews
who rejected the incarnate Son and sold themselves out to Caesar (that is, to Constantius;
History 4.33; Discourses 1.7; 1.10).” Leithart (2011), 13.
56  See Athanasius’ use of ἐπιβουλή in Psalm 12 [13], 27 [28], 33 [34], 58 [59], 68 [69], and
108 [109]. Commenting on Psalm 58 [59], Athanasius states, “If the one who is schem-
ing [ὁ ἐπιβουλεύων] against you gives the order for your house to be guarded closely and
you escape, credit the gift to the Lord and mark it on your soul like on a monument as
a memorial of your not being destroyed, and say the words in Psalm 58.” Athanasius,
Epistola ad Marcellinum, PG 27.33a, my translation.
57  Ferguson (1978), 379 posits, “The references to an evil king (chapter 20) and an enemy
tyrant (chapter 25) could have had either Constantius or Julian in mind.” Similarly,
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 155

with Eusebius’ interpretation above concerning the ‘treacheries’ (ἐπιβουλή) of


the ‘kings of the earth’ against ‘God the King’, but as well with Diodore’s own
understanding of the ‘groundless frenzy of the Jews against the Lord’ that cul-
minated in his torture and death. In addition, Athanasius’ use of ἐπιβουλή to
describe the ‘scheming’ of the Jews is the same term used by Diodore in his
comments on Psalm 2:4 to describe the ‘schemes’ of worldly rulers.
This early Christian view of empire, even post-Constantine, presupposes
a politic that is fundamentally different from that supposed by Rome. Not
only was this difference central to early Christian reflection on empire, but
the awareness was often accompanied by a deep skepticism toward imperial
power. This skepticism was confirmed time and again by state-mandated cen-
sures, fines, and exiles imposed on several fourth-century bishops and their
sees. Athanasius endured five exiles during his forty-six years as bishop of
Alexandria, which amounted to more than a third of his episcopal tenure. But
Athanasius was by no means the only fourth-century bishop to contend with
imperial rulers.
Ambrose was ordained bishop of Milan likely in the year 374 and was “stra-
tegically positioned to address . . . the appropriate relationship between the
Church and the state”.58 In his biography of Ambrose, Boniface Ramsey states,
“It would not be an exaggeration to say that, during his more than two decades
as Bishop of Milan, Ambrose was the most important ecclesiastical figure in
Italy and even in the West.”59 During his episcopacy Ambrose insisted upon
the supremacy of the church over the state and accordingly found himself at
odds with the empire on several occasions.60 In his famed confrontation with
the empress Justina in 385 and 386, Ambrose put into practice his view of the
relationship between church and state. Presumably at the behest of his mother
Justina, an ‘Arian’ sympathizer, emperor Valentinian requested of Ambrose
that the imperial court, then largely composed of homoian Arians, be allowed

Leithart (2011), 13 states, “Athanasius depicts Constantius as, in fact, a conglomeration


of all the worst kings and rulers in Scripture . . . Constantius is, in short, a Herod (History
7.52).”
58  Ramsey (1997), 14–15.
59  Ramsey (1997), 41.
60  In addition to his confrontations with Valentinian for example, “Theodoret of Cyrus
reports in his Ecclesiastical History [1.18] that Ambrose had once forbidden the Emperor
Theodosius to remain in the sanctuary after he had brought his offering to the altar—and
that Theodosius admired him for it.” Ramsey (1997), 22. Cf. Theodoret of Cyrus, Historia
ecclesiastica, 1.18. See also the discussion in Ramsey (1997), 32 concerning Ambrose’s
excommunication of Theodosius and demand for penance from him due to his imperial
command to lure and massacre several thousand Thessalonikans.
156 Wayman

to occupy the Portian Basilica for the celebration of their own liturgy. Ambrose
refused. Valentinian persisted and after several rebuffs by Ambrose, he ordered
that Ambrose surrender the Portian Basilica. Despite Valentinian’s threats,
Ambrose remained steadfast and in a letter to Valentinian declared,

Finally, the order comes: ‘Surrender the basilica!’ I reply: ‘Emperor, it is


not lawful for me to surrender the basilica, nor is it right for you to receive
it. No law entitles you to violate the house of a private individual, do you
think that you may seize the house of God? The argument put forward is
that everything is permitted to the emperor, that the world is his. I reply:
‘Do not make trouble for yourself, emperor, by thinking that you have any
sort of imperial right over things that are God’s. Do not exalt yourself. If
you wish to rule for any length of time, be subject to God.’61

Ambrose here makes clear not only the limitations of imperial rule, but that the
prerequisite for longer earthly rule is that such authorities be subject to God.
With his own life hanging in the balance, Ambrose set himself against emperor
Valentinian, presented himself in submission to God, and prevailed. Moreover,
in addition to his prominent position on the fourth-century Christian scene, it
is important for our purposes to note that, “Ambrose’s letters reveal a willing-
ness to endure martyrdom. Twice, in writing to Marcellina (Letter 20.5, 28), he
expressed a readiness to shed his own blood in the context of the confronta-
tion with the imperial court in 386.”62 Ambrose was aware that his primary
allegiance to God over, and at times against, the emperor may cost him his life,
and he was willing to make such a sacrifice.
In similar fashion, Diodore stood against emperor Julian when he moved
the imperial court to Antioch in 362, around which time Diodore was also
ordained a priest by Meletius, then bishop of Antioch. Diodore became a pri-
mary opponent to Julian ‘the Apostate’ and his program to restore paganism
to the empire, and thus attracted his imperial invective. In a letter to Photinus,
Julian calls Diodore a “priest sorcerer of the Galileans” and “a keen defender
of a religion for farmers.”63 It is noteworthy that Athanasius as well gained the
attention and ire of Julian, who called him a “disturber of the peace” and an
“enemy of the gods.”64 In fact, in October 362, Athanasius received the rare

61  Ambrose of Milan, Epistula 76.19, trans. Liebeschuetz (2010), 168.


62  Ramsey (1997), 44–45.
63  Julian, “To Photinus,” Letter 55, trans. Quasten (1950), 397.
64  Julian, “To the Alexandrians,” Letter 47, 435d, and “To Ecdicius, Prefect of Egypt,” Letter 46,
376a, trans. Gregg (1980), xii.
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 157

honor “of being one of the few bishops to be forced into exile by the last pagan
emperor.”65 Though Julian did not exile Diodore, Diodore was instead exiled to
Armenia in 372 for opposing the homoian theology of emperor Valens.66 In late
377, Valens reversed his banishment of several Nicenes and so upon return-
ing from exile, Meletius (whom Diodore had joined in exile, the former being
expelled in late 370) installed Diodore as bishop of Tarsus in 378.67 Thus along
with Athanasius and Ambrose, Diodore was yet another fourth-century bishop
whose primary allegiance to God put him at odds with and at the whim of the
frenzied politic of the Roman empire.
The above has served to demonstrate two points. First, that Diodore’s read-
ing of Psalm 2 is within the mainstream of fourth-century interpretations of
the psalm. And second, that Diodore’s view of the church’s cruciform politic,
fashioned after the rule of God in contradistinction to that of Rome, is a view
widely shared among fourth-century Christians living in the western and east-
ern parts of the empire. I should like to return now to Diodore’s commentary
on Psalm 2 to underline the implications Diodore draws concerning his read-
ing of the psalm, and I shall do so by revisiting first Julian’s critique of Diodore.

3.2 Diodore and the Politics of Psalm 2


In his letter to Photinus, Julian not only attacks Diodore’s person and reli-
gion, but he also takes aim at Christianity’s core proclamation. In so doing,
Julian brings into sharp relief the contrasting politic of Christ with that of the
empire.68 Julian charges, “[T]hat new-fangled Galilaean god of his [Diodore],
whom he by a false myth styles eternal, has been stripped by his humiliating
death and burial of the divinity falsely ascribed to him by Diodorus.”69 For
Julian, Christ’s ‘humiliating death’ ensures that all claims to his divinity are
null and void. In so doing, Julian employs the logic of the empire, which holds
that such weakness and humiliation is altogether unfitting for divinity and by
implication, for political rule.
Diodore and his fourth-century church disagree. Not only does Diodore
insist that Christ came to no harm by the hands of the empire, but also he insists

65  Gwynn (2012), 16.


66  Beeley (2011), 387.
67  Lenski (2002), 261.
68  Consider Robert Wilken’s insight that of all its Roman critics, emperor Julian uniquely
understood Christianity. A pagan convert from Christianity, Julian “knew Christianity
from the inside and was able to meet Christian apologists on their own terms.” Wilken
(2003), 177; see also pp. 171 and 191.
69  Julian, “To Photinus,” Letter 55, trans. Wright (2003), 189.
158 Wayman

that Christ’s kingship is divine and accordingly, the rule of earthly kings is no
match for that of Christ. Diodore thus comments on verses 10 and 11, “Kings,
now take heed; be instructed, all who judge the earth (v. 10): so learn, everyone
of any prominence throughout the earth, what God has decreed. To do what?
Serve the Lord with fear, and rejoice in him with trembling (v. 11): submit to him,
serving with joy, happy in the rightness of your submission.”70 Diodore’s coun-
sel is for leaders, rulers, and ‘everyone of any prominence’ to submit to the rule
of Christ, to serve him with joy, and to be happy in their submission to God.
Three times he reiterates the instruction to submit to God. But why would an
emperor, or anyone for that matter, submit to a king whose ‘humiliating death’
presumably nullifies his divinity and with it, his ability to rule?
To be sure, the crucifixion is foolishness and a stumbling block for an impe-
rial politic. But as Diodore makes clear in his commentary on verse 12a–b,
Take advantage of instruction in case the Lord should be angry and you fall from
the right path, the cruciform politic is alone truly wise. Expanding on his ear-
lier comment concerning the ‘rightness of your submission’, Diodore insists,
“embrace sound teaching and do not forsake such reasonable behavior.”71 Here
Diodore emphasizes the reasonableness and logic of the cruciform politic in
contrast to the ‘groundless frenzy’ and ‘mania’ of imperial politics he under-
lined at the outset of his commentary on Psalm 2. Not only is submission to
Christ’s kingship rational, it informs ‘reasonable behavior’; though to see such
behavior as reasonable requires the conviction that in the crucifixion, Christ
the King has conquered death itself and with it, imperial coercion.
The power and logic of Christ’s cruciform kingdom is one that Valens, Julian,
Justina, Valentinian, Herod, and Pilate know not of. This logic is what informs
early Christian opposition to the empire as well as the Christian embrace of
martyrdom. The power of the Crucified King is exercised by hoping and trust-
ing in God’s saving action in the world and his eternal rule through Christ. In
his commentary on the final verse 12c–d, Since his wrath is enkindled in a flash,
blessed are all who trust in him, Diodore explains, “[W]rath is destined to take
possession of all the transgressors, while you will then appreciate my advice
when wrath overtakes human affairs whereas you are proof against this experi-
ence by taking the initiative to hope in the savior.”72 By hoping in the cruciform
politic of the Crucified King, one submits to God’s providential and powerful
rule that alone can bring peace and salvation to the world.

70  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:10–11, 16.118–125, trans. Hill (2005a), 9.


71  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:12a–b, 16.128–129, trans. Hill (2005a), 9.
72  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 2:12c–d, 16.132–136, trans. Hill (2005a), 9.
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 159

In his interpretation of Psalm 43 [44], which Diodore regards as being writ-


ten from the perspective of the Maccabees, Diodore conveys that Christian
hope at times requires trust in God to the point of death. In his interpretation
of Psalm 43:23a–b [44:22], “Because for your sake we are being put to death all
day long (v. 22)”, Diodore explains,

He continues to use the term all day long: Because we consistently choose
death to avoid transgressing the laws. We were accounted as sheep for
slaughter: just as sheep are handed over to butchers not to be defended
but to be sacrificed, so we too handed ourselves over to the slaughterers
to avoid infringing the ancestral observances.73

Four points can be made. First, the cruciform politic of Christ coheres with the
politic of the Maccabees. This is of theological import, to be sure, and implies
continuity in the rule of God for both the first and second testament people of
God. Second, in light of the first point, Christ’s rule can be seen as the exemplar
of the kind of politic God’s people are called to practice in a world that insists
rather upon a politic that presumes death and domination are definitive.
Third, the possibility and probability of death at the hands of the empire is
fundamental to the cruciform politic. ‘We consistently choose death’, Diodore
writes, rather than submit “to a foreign god” (Ps. 43:21).74 And finally, Diodore
here depicts the people of this politic as sheep, and the persons to whom such
sheep are handed over as butchers and slaughterers. The cruciform politic of
God’s kingdom is such that Christ and his subjects, the shepherd and his sheep,
are handed over as a sacrifice for the very world Christ the King came to bring
peace and salvation.
But Diodore insists that the hope and trust which marks God’s people is rea-
sonable and secure because Christ is trustworthy. ‘Hope in the savior’, Diodore
writes to his urban monastic community, and you become proof against the
limited power of the empire. Diodore will not expand on what this ‘proof’
looks like. Indeed, he has already linked God’s strong and effortless rule with
the ‘crucified one’, and so one would be mistaken to think that such ‘proof’
would be triumphalistic or void of suffering. The point rather seems to be that
by submitting to God, one demonstrates a life of sound thinking and righteous
living that is proof not only of submission to God, but also indicative of hope
in God’s saving action in the world through the Crucified King who has bro-
ken the bonds of death. Thus, in his commentary on Psalm 8:6 [8:5], You have

73  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 43:23a–b, 266.170–267.178, trans. Hill (2005a), 141.
74  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 43:21, 266.164, trans. Hill (2005a), 141, emphasis original.
160 Wayman

brought him a little lower than the angels, you crowned him with glory and honor,
Diodore maintains, “Its proper application, however, is to the incarnation of
the Lord, who by the interval of the three days gave evidence of the difference
from the angels in regard to death, even though it was foreshortened, and by
rising in turn from the dead was shown to be Lord of all.”75 Christ’s resurrec-
tion from the dead provides Christians with hope that a politic of death and
domination is not definitive, nor can it be divine.
A moment ago I asserted that the cruciform politic of the Crucified King
is many things, but it cannot be ‘triumphalistic’. Now I should like to qualify
my statement both in light of my previous remarks concerning the logic and
power of the cruciform kingdom and the following discussion of Athanasius’
view of the peculiar politic of the church. Peter Leithart contends,

This Christian politeia is, for Athanasius, Christ’s means for remaking the
world . . . On the Incarnation presents a ‘triumphalist’ Christology, whose
main proof of the rationality, the logikē, of the cross is the fact that it pro-
duces people who have no fear of death, who are ‘impassibly’ determined
to do good and serve and worship their Lord, no matter what the cost or
what they suffer. Athanasius’ great proof of the power of the cross is the
martyr church.76

If Leithart’s assessment of Athanasius’ On the Incarnation is correct, much the


same could be said for the politic which surfaces in Diodore’s commentary
on Psalm 2. The cruciform politic of these early Christians may accordingly
be understood as ‘triumphalistic’ so long as one understands such triumph-
alism according to the logic and power of the cross and resurrection. Thus
for Diodore and Athanasius and arguably fourth-century Christians on a
grand scale, by submitting to the divine rule of Christ rather than the death-
dealing ways of the empire, the church lives in a violent world without the fear
of death. Empowered to confront the most threatening of earthly kings, even
if death should come, the church is proof that the Kingship of Christ is more
determinative than any claim to power by earthly rulers.

75  Diodore, Comm. in Ps. 8:6, 48.114–118, trans. Hill (2005a), 28.
76  Leithart (2011), 173.
Diodore on the Politics of Kingship in Psalm 2 161

4 Conclusion

For Diodore the politics of kingship in Psalm 2 concerns drastically different


forms of power and governance. And the difference is both in kind and degree.
The empire rules by violence and domination, which brings no lasting effect;
whereas the rule of the Crucified King is rooted in submission to God, endures
suffering, and accomplishes the salvation of the world. Thus for Diodore, the
imperial politic is a farce because it cannot offer peace, much less salvation.
In his commentary on Psalm 2, Diodore provides a critique of imperial rule
and illumines the way in which Christ’s divine rule is of an altogether different
kind and magnitude than that of the empire. His Christian contemporaries
shared Diodore’s assessment of imperial politics, the subversive power of
which perhaps only an apostate emperor such as Julian could begin to under-
stand.77 The cruciform politic embodied by Christ the King and his fourth-
century church was at fundamental odds with the coercive politic of Rome.
But to see this, Diodore and his church had to remain hopeful in the face of
this disparity, and to trust that the Crucified King has conquered death and in
so doing, disarmed the empire of its only weapon.

77  Cf. note 68 above. See also Behr (2004), 171 and Khaled Anatolios on how Athanasius’
Christian politeia subverts imperial politics. Anatolios (2005), 29 contends, “[I]n the
Contra Gentes—De Incarnatione, Athanasius is consciously revising the imperialist tri-
umphalism of Eusebius of Caesarea by making sure that the triumph of Constantine is
strictly attributed to Christ, to the point of not even mentioning the emperor.”
chapter 8

Justus sibi lex est: The Donatist Interpretation


of the Law in Romans 2:14

Alden Lee Bass

1 Introduction

In the Literary History of Christian Africa, Paul Monceaux mentions a pecu-


liar Donatist inscription from the ancient Numidian city of Constantine.1 The
epigraph, probably dating to the fourth century, was lifted from a mosaic in
the pavement of a Donatist chapel. Surrounded by decorative foliage and a
large, multi-colored wreath the inscription reads: Justus sibi lex est (“the just
man is a law unto himself”). The epigram echoes almost exactly the words
of Paul in Romans 2:14: ipse sibi sunt lex (“they are a law unto themselves”).
Whereas the original text refers to the “noble pagans” who lived apart from the
Mosaic Law before the coming of Christ, the Donatist inscription presumably
refers to the Donatists who paid to have the mosaic installed and who called
themselves “just” or “righteous.”2 What does this epigram mean? In what sense
did the Donatists of the fourth century consider themselves to be a “law unto
themselves”?

1  Corpus inscriptiorum latinorum VIII, 7922. See also, Paul Monceaux, Histoire littéraire de
l’Afrique chrétienne 4 (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1912), 455. Sodini has argued that the inscription
is pagan, not Christian. Jean-Pierre Sodini, “Archaeology and Late Antique Social Structure,”
in Theory and Practice in Late Antique Archaeology, ed. Luke Lavan and William Bowden,
Late Antique Archaeology, vol. 1 (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2003), 37. Recent socio-historical work
on identity in antiquity has shown that clear boundaries between “pagans” and “Christians”
simply did not exist, thus precluding any final judgment. Nevertheless, the evidence in
this case points to a Christian context. Besides the biblical correspondence, the Christian
bishop Ambrose used precisely this Pauline phrase (“justus sibi lex est”) in one of his epistles
(Ep. 7.18; PL 82.1).
2  Justus was a common self-designation among the Donatists. Witness the words of the
fifth-century bishop Petilian (Contra lit. Pet. 2.14.35; 2.92.202) and also Augustine’s critique
(Psalmus contra partem Donati 1.230; PL 43.25).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_010


Justus Sibi Lex Est 163

The Donatists’ “antipathy for secular law is well known.”3 The African
schismatics historically have been cast as an anti-imperial faction, if not as
antinomian perfectionists. This reputation is due in part to the dramatic excla-
mation of Donatus the Great—Quid est imperatori cum ecclesia? 4—as well
as Donatist participation in various political revolts in the fourth century. In
the 340s, the mysterious “Captains of the Saints” (sanctorum duces) Axido and
Fasir, led a peasant uprising against creditors and slave owners, “turning the
world upside down” by forcing aristocrats in carriages to change places with
their slaves driving the animals. According to Augustine, these Donatist scoff-
laws armed themselves against “public laws” and incited their countryman to
rebellion.5 In the 390s several Donatist bishops were accused of aiding and abet-
ting the rebellion of Gildo, leading some scholars to speculate that Donatism was
itself a nationalist movement masquerading as a church. So deep ran the anti-
authoritarian feeling that, Augustine speculated, some Donatist women
refused to take husbands “lest they have discipline.”6 Besides these instances
of Donatist-affiliated parties taking the law into their own hands, the Church
as a whole found itself on the wrong side of the law in Africa; judged an illicit
schism by Constantine’s courts, they became the target of anti-heretical legis-
lation in the early fifth centuries.
Here I wish to consider the Donatist relationship to the State by looking at
their theological understanding of lex, the law. Though the above-cited epi-
gram is tantalizing, it is not sufficient on its own to provide much insight; the
most substantial work of Donatist theology which has survived is the Book of
Rules, an exegetical manual written by Tyconius sometime around 380. Though
the subject of the Book of Rules is biblical interpretation, Tyconius dwells at
length on the issue of the law in the writings of Paul. Tyconius’ writing on the
law, like Paul’s, has generally been read in a religious, psychological, or meta-
physical sense, while the actual bureaucratic horrors endured by his people

3  Erika Hermanowicz, Possidius of Calama: A Study of the North African Episcopate in the Age
of Augustine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 97. The most thorogh discussion of
the Donatists’ political theology remains W.H.C. Frend’s “The Roman Empire in the Eyes
of Western Schismatics during the Fourth Century AD,” Miscellanea Historiae Ecclesiasticae
1 (1961): 9–22. See also Matthew Gaumer, “The Evolution of Donatist Theology as Response to
a Changing Late Antique Milieu,” Augustiniana 58 (2008): 201–33.
4  Optatus, 3.3. All translations taken from Against the Donatists, trans. by Mark Edwards
(Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1997), 62.
5  Augustine, Ep. 108.6. Augustine had a tendency to exaggerate Donatist violence and lawless-
ness however; see Peter Iver Kaufman, “Donatism Revisited: Moderates and Militants in Late
Antique North Africa,” Journal of Late Antiquity 2.1 (2009).
6  Ep. 35.2.
164 Bass

have been ignored, at least by patristic scholars.7 Using the Book of Rules, along
with other Donatist sources such as homilies and martyrial acts, I argue that
the Donatists8 held a nuanced view of the law built on the eschatological dual-
ism of Paul. Rejecting imperial laws as inherently violent and coercive, the
Donatists defined themselves as those who freely suffered under the law. The
law of God was not understood exclusively in terms of scripture or even natu-
ral law, but as God’s own governing Spirit.

2 Donatists and Roman Law

The Donatist controversy began over competing understandings of law—


“the dissident church . . . was born, she grew up where she could, and she
was to die, in the midst of forensic processes.”9 In the early fourth century,
certain Christians steadfastly refused to hand over written copies of scrip-
ture in compliance with Diocletian’s edict. Those who preferred death to
betrayal formed the nucleus of what became the Donatist party in Africa. The
edict of toleration promulgated by Galerius and Constantine in 312 officially
brought to an end the imperial anti-Christian legislation; however, within
three years Constantine began discriminating against the Donatist faction of
the African Church.10 Determined that the newly unified empire should be
served by a unified church, Constantine wrote to Eumelius, the vicarius Africae
on 10 November 316, ordering all churches belonging to the Donatists to be

7   This same phenomenon has been observed with regard to various literary figures such as
Kafka and Dostoyevsky. Richard Weisenberg observes that “humanists, when faced with
the same texts, often prefer to ignore or to devalue legal problems within the works rather
than to display the interdisciplinary interest necessary to understand the masterpieces
in their fullness.” See his “Comparative Law in Comparative Literature: The Figure of the
‘Examining Magistrate’ in Dostoevski and Camus,” Rutgers Law Review 29 (1976): 238.
8   There is a danger in speaking of “the Donatists” as a monolithic category, especially when
considering texts written over the course of a half century. A more accurate term might
be “dissident Christians,” denoting those Christians who found themselves on the wrong
side of the imperial powers. Nevertheless, “Donatist” remains the most convenient term,
at least for the moment. For a recent discussion and defense of the term “Donatist,”
see Brent Shaw, Sacred Violence: African Christians and Sectarian Hatred in the Age of
Augustine (Cambridge: 2011), 5–6.
9   Paul Monceaux, Histoire littéraire de l’Afrique chrétienne 6 (Paris: E. Leroux, 1922), 358.
10  F. Martroye, “La répression du Donatisme et la politique religieuse de Constantin et de ses
successeurs en Afrique,” in Mémoires de la Société Nationale des Antiquaires de France 1913
(Paris: 1914).
Justus Sibi Lex Est 165

confiscated.11 Harsher measures followed, and on 12 March 317 Roman soldiers


and a Carthaginian mob attacked Donatist churches, killing at least two bish-
ops and several laypersons. The repression continued until 321 under the over-
sight of the imperial comes Ursacius and dux Leontius.12 The reaction against
the unification was so violent that Constantine abandoned the plan, ordering
the vicarius Verinus to grant the Donatists freedom to act as their consciences
directed.13 On 5 May 321 all Donatist bishops were recalled from exile.
Twenty years passed with no major legislation against the Donatists; no
sign of violence was recorded until 346. In that year the dissident bishop
Donatus appealed to the emperor Constans to follow the protocol established
after the Council of Arles in 314, which provided that the next senior bishop
of the city, whether Donatist or Caecilianist, be recognized as Primate when
the presiding bishop died. When Donatus requested imperial recognition over
his Caecilianist junior bishop, Gratus, Constans sent the imperial notaries
Paul and Macarius to Africa, armed with troops and bribes, in an effort once
again to enforce unification.14 As a result of their investigation, the Proconsul
of Carthage issued an imperial decree confirming the Catholic Gratus as sole
head of the church at Carthage and requiring all Christians to recognize him
as bishop. Predictably, this decree (no longer extant) provoked violent oppo-
sition, and many Donatists were killed, including an entire congregation in
Bagai which was massacred along with its bishop.15 Scattered edicts were
issued for the remainder of the fourth century. Valentinian I issued an order on
20 February 373 which stated that any bishop who rebaptized was unworthy of
the priesthood. Gratian sent an order to the vicarius Flavianus in 377 requir-
ing them to rejoin the Caecilianists.16 In 404 the Donatists were officially rec-
ognized by imperial officials as heretics, and after the Council of Carthage in

11  T.D. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1981), 60.
12  The Donatists included Ursacius among the persecuting emperors, and believed his
death to be a divine punishment. According to Petilian, “Periit Macarius, periit Ursacius,
cunctique comites vestri Dei pariter vindicta perierunt” (Augustine, c. lit. Pet. 1.2.208).
13  Gesta coll. Carth. 3.548–551 (SC 195:551). On the imperial tolerance, see also Eusebius, Vita
Const. 1.45 (GCS 7A 39).
14  Passio Donati et Advocati 3. Constans wrote: “Christus amator unitatis est, unitas igitur
fiat.” See also Leslie Dossey, Peasant and Empire in Christian North Africa (Berkeley, CA:
University of California Press, 2011), 180–86.
15  F. Martroye, “La répression du Donatisme,” 82; E.L. Grasmück, Coercitio, Staat und Kirche
Im Donatistenstreit (Bonn, 1964), 139.
16  Codex Theodosianus, 16.6.2. The order was actually sent to Florianus, vicarius of Asia, but
it clearly applies to Africa.
166 Bass

411 the sect was completely repressed.17 Given the judicial discrimination and
violence that was a regular feature of Donatist life until the Vandal invasion, a
political reading of Tyconius’ interpretation of law seems fitting.

3 Interpretation of Romans 2:14

The early chapters of Romans are an excellent place to delve into the question
of the law and religion in late ancient Roman North Africa. As Jerome wrote,
“The laws of the Caesars are one thing, those of Christ another; Papinian taught
one thing, our Paul taught another.”18 While Paul did indeed say much about
the law, his writing on the subject is notoriously difficult to interpret because
of the ambiguity of his use of the term ὡ νόμος. Romans 2 preserves one of his
most extensive discussions of the law, yet in verse 14 alone, Paul employs νόμος
in at least two senses. The Gentiles “do not have the law,” yet they are a “law to
themselves.” The first instance of νόμος refers to the Mosaic law, however that is
to be understood; the second use is less clear. The inclusion of the tiny phrase
“by nature” (φύσει) led several early commentators to interpret the second use
as natural law, a concept borrowed from Stoic thought. Christian theologians
­

understood natural law to refer as an innate moral sense, a sort of inner-


Decalogue.19 Origen wrote that this law is “that which can be discerned natu-
rally, e.g., that they should not kill or commit adultery.”20 Natural law, which
originated in heaven, is at the heart of all human legal codes, which embody
the perfect law to a greater or lesser extent.21 Generally, in Greco-Roman

17  On this later period, see Hermanowicz, Possidius of Calama: A Study of the North African
Episcopate in the Age of Augustine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 97–131. She
also draws attention to the several instances where Donatists bishops appealed to the law,
despite their theological commitments.
18  Jerome, Ep. 77.3 (CSEL 55.39). The letter of Romans was particularly important in the
fourth century. See T.F. Martin, “Vox Pauli: Augustine and the Claims to Speak for Paul,
an Exploration of Rhetoric at the Service of Exegesis,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 8
(2000): 238–42.
19  On the early Christian uses of law as legal code, see Caroline Humfress, Orthodoxy and the
Courts in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 199–205.
20  Commentarii in Epistulam ad Romanos, edited by T. Heither (Freiburg im Bresigau: Herder,
1990–1995), 1:228. Translated by J. Patout Burns in Romans Interpreted by Early Christian
Commentators in The Church’s Bible (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), 50.
21  This was also the prevailing conception among the Stoics. See Cicero, De legibus 1.18.
Lactantius made a direct connection between the Ciceronian understanding of natural
law and his own. See Div. inst., 6.8 (PL 6:660).
Justus Sibi Lex Est 167

contexts lex and νόμος referred to a “way of life” rather than any particular formal
or textual legal system. With the advent of rulers sympathetic to Christianity,
however, Christians such as Lactantius came to see more and more of the natu-
ral law in the Roman legal code.22
Ambrosiaster, a lawyer by training, provides one of the most sustained treat-
ments of Paul and the law in antiquity in his commentary on Romans, written
from Rome in the third quarter of the fourth century.23 Like Origen, he con-
nects the lex divina and the lex naturalis in the Ten Words, yet he also distances
the pure form of the law from its incarnation in the laws of the Jews, steeped
as they are in ritual and pomp. For Ambrosiaster, the civilized Romans more
closely observed the ethical precepts of the natural law, enshrined for them in
the Twelve Tables, than the Jews. The culmination of this trend to harmonize
Mosaic laws and the opinions of Roman classical jurists is the so-called Collatio
Legum Mosaicarum et Romanarum, composed in Rome in the late forth cen-
tury and sometimes attributed to Ambrosiaster.24
Theological interpretations of lex in fourth century North Africa developed
within the context of the Donatist schism.25 Among some African Christians,
the written revelation of scripture was identified as “the law,” and this high
view of scripture contributed to the division of the church. The controversy
erupted after some clergy were accused of surrendering “God’s law” to imperial
agents, thereby defiling it. Because of this history, the interpretation of biblical
passages such as Romans 2:14 was a live issue, and a potentially divisive one.
Optatus, the Catholic bishop of Milevus, sought to set straight the record on
the meaning of law in his seventh book against the Donatists, written con-
temporaneously with Tyconius’ Book of Rules, around 380. Optatus mounted a

22  For more on Lactantius and the law, see Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, “Religion, Law and
the Roman Polity: The Era of the Great Persecution,” in Religion and Law in Classical and
Christian Rome, eds. Jörg Rüpke and Clifford Ando (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2006).
23  Gerald Bray, “Ambrosiaster,” in Reading Romans through the Centuries: From the Early
Church to Karl Barth, eds. Timothy Larsen and Jeffrey Greenman (Grand Rapids: Brazos,
2005).
24  An excellent overview of the Collatio is Andrew Jacobs’ “ ‘Papinian Commands One Thing,
Our Paul Another’: Roman Christians and Jewish Law in the Collatio Legum Mosaicarum
et Romanarum,” in Religion and Law in Classical and Christian Rome, eds. Jörg Rüpke
and Clifford Ando, Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 15 (Stuttgart: Franz
Steiner, 2006), 96.
25  Jean Daniélou provides a helpful background to the African understanding of lex in The
Origins of Latin Christianity, trans. David Smith and John Austin Baker, A History of Early
Christian Doctrine before the Council of Nicaea, vol. 3 (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1977),
105, 122.
168 Bass

defense of those who handed over the scripture during Diocletian’s persecu-
tion by discounting the law in relation to faith. Combining 1 Timothy 1:9 and
Romans 2:14, Optatus wrote that “the law was not given to the just, because
every single just person is a law to himself.” Because faith is the most efficient
path to justification before God, the law “becomes idle.”26 Earlier commenta-
tors read Paul in a similar way, subordinating νόμος to πίστις, but Optatus had
reason to push the distinction further. Insinuating that his Donatist rivals paid
inordinate respect to the scripture, he declared plainly: “the law and God are
not one.”27
Optatus’ suspicions were not unfounded. Not only did the Donatists have a
high regard for scripture, but they also defined themselves in terms of the law.
As Maureen Tilley has shown at length, the Donatists understood themselves
as collecta of Israel, and the hallmark of the collecta was its “fidelity to the law.”28
The centrality of the law is clear in acts of martyrs. The narrator of the Acts of
the Abititian Martyrs, which probably was composed in the late fourth or early
fifth century, testifies to this: “They all upheld the law of the Lord and stead-
fastly and bravely celebrated the assembly [collecta] of the Lord. They saved
the scriptures of the Lord and the divine testaments from flames and burning.
For the sake of the divine law, they offered their very selves to menacing fires
and diverse tortures in the manner of the Maccabees.”29 Whereas among other
post-Constantinian Christians scripture was losing its status as a binding legal
code, the Donatists continued to contrast their laws with the prevailing impe-
rial laws. According to Augustine, the Donatist bishop Crispinus criticized an
imperial judge for following the Roman law rather than the “law of the gospel.”30

4 Tyconius and the Law

Tyconius certainly shared the Donatists’ positive assessment of the biblical


law, as well as their antipathy towards imperial law. Tyconius was an edu-
cated African layman, possibly a lay elder, involved in theological debates and

26  Optatus 7.2 (Edwards, 134).


27  Ibid., 135.
28  Maureen Tilley, “Sustaining Donatist Self-Identity: From the Church of the Martyrs to the
Collecta of the Desert,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 5 (1997): 26.
29  Acts of the Abitinian Martyrs 19 (Tilley, Donatist Martyr Stories: The Church in Conflict in
Roman North Africa [Liverpool University Press, 1996], 44).
30  Sed iudicavit proconsul, inquit, secundum leges imperatorum, non secundum leges evan-
gelii (Augustine, s. Denis 19.8).
Justus Sibi Lex Est 169

ecclesiastical controversies of the mid-fourth century.31 He lived through the


majority of the Donatists’ fourth-century legal disputes, and he would have
been well-familiar with the imperial anti-Donatist policy. It is possible, if
indeed he were a senior laicus, that Tyconius would have been expected to take
a direct role in executing the imperial law in his city. According to fifth-century
witnesses, village elders in Africa were responsible for the application of impe-
rial legislation.32 At the very least, we know of one instance where lay elders
attempted to negotiate the release of a confessor, Marculus.33 Regardless of
his direct political involvement, however, as a Donatist Tyconius was caught
between his status as a Roman citizen and as a member of an illicit sect of
Christianity.
Though most of his other writings have been lost, we know from Gennadius
that Tyconius wrote at least two major works on the conflict between Donatist
and Catholic factions in Africa, as well as an influential commentary on
Revelation, which subsists only in fragments. His only work preserved in its
entirety is the Book of Rules, a manual of scriptural interpretation probably
written around 380.34 The book elaborates seven “mystical rules” which “reveal
the secrets of the law.” The survival of this work may be attributed to its recep-
tion by Augustine, who made extensive use of the seven rules in book three of
On Christian Teaching.35

31  For more on the man, see Kenneth Steinhauser, “Tyconius: Was He Greek?,” Studia
Patristica 27 (1993): 394–99. The most thorough study of Tyconius remains T. Hahn,
Tyconius-Studien: Ein Beitrag zur Kirchen und Dogmengeschichte des 4. Jahrhunderts
(Leipzig: Deitrich, 1900). See also, Alberto Pincherle, “Alla Ricerca di Ticonio,” Studi Storico
Religiosi 2 (1978): 355–65.
32  See Cod. Theod. 16.5.45 (408) and 46 (409). The role of seniore laici in ancient North Africa
is poorly understood. It was both a basic part of village political structure, as well as an
integral part of Christian polity. For more on the role of seniore and its responsibilities
in the church and community, see W.H.C. Frend, “Seniores Laici and the Origins of the
Church in North Africa,” Journal of Theological Studies 12(1961). Also, Brent Shaw, “The
Elders of Christian Africa,” in Mélagnes Offerts á R.P. Etienne Gareau, ed. P. Brind’Amour
(Ottawa: Editions de l’Université d’Ottawa, 1982).
33  Martyrdom of Marculus 3 (Tilley, Donatist Martyr Stories, 80).
34  SC 488. Here I will be using the text and translation of Babcock. The text is not numbered,
so Babcock’s pagination will be provided in the references. See William Babcock, Tyconius:
The Book of Rules, ed. Robert Louis; Schoedel Wilken, William, Texts and Translations 31
(Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1989). For more on the text, see Pamela Bright, The Book of
Rules of Tyconius: Its Purpose and Inner Logic (South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame
Press, 1988).
35  De doctrina Christiana 3.30–37.
170 Bass

As the preface of the Book of Rules makes clear, Tyconius, like his Donatist
contemporaries, identified scripture as the law. Yet unlike his co-religionists,
Tyconius also applied Paul’s critique of the law to the Donatists’ own ven-
eration of the law. For most ancient Christian interpreters of Paul, νόμος was
understood to be torah; in Christ, the law was superseded and nullified. The
people of the new covenant were justified not by fidelity to the outwad law, but
rather by the internal law of faith. Tyconius, on the other hand, held a positive
view of Israel and the law, making it difficult to simply dismiss the law, or even
subordinate it to faith.36
Tyconius addressed the issue of νόμος/πίστις in the third interpretive rule of
the Book of Rules, entitled “The Promises and the Law.” As Augustine observed,
this section is less a hermeneutic rule than the application of earlier rules
to a classic theological dilemma.37 The problem as Tyconius saw it was the
apparent contradiction in Paul’s theology of justification: “Divine authority
has it that no one can ever be justified by the works of the law. By the same
authority it is absolutely certain that there have always been some who do
the law and are justified.”38 He observed that while in Romans and Galatians
Paul frequently points to the insufficiency of the torah to make one righteous,
Paul himself claimed to be righteous under the law; even Jesus attested torah-
observant Jews who were justified. Moreover, how could the law, whose pur-
pose was to “multiply sin” (Rom 5:20), abolish sin? Though Tyconius does not
specifically engage Romans 2:14 here (or in any of his preserved writings),
Paul’s treatment of the law is clearly his dominate concern.39
For fourth-century Catholic exegetes such as Ambrosiaster, the line between
law and faith fell neatly along the division between Jews and Christians. Paul’s
negative use of law was understood to be a critique of the ceremonial law of the

36  See the brief remarks of Giorgio Agamben on Tyconius and the law in The Time That
Remains: A Commentary on the Letter to the Romans (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
2005), 92–94.
37  Augustine, De Doctrina Christiana, 3.33.
38  Auctoritas est divina neminem aliquando ex operibus legis iustificari potuisse. Eadem auc-
toritate firmissimum est numquam defuisse qui legem facerent et iustificarentur (Babcock,
The Book of Rules, 21). For more on Tyconius’ interpretation of Paul, see William Babcock,
“Augustine and Tyconius: A Study in the Latin Appropriation of Paul,” Studia Patristica
17 (1982). For the broader context of Pauline reception among the Donatists, see W.H.C.
Frend, “The Donatist Church and St. Paul,” in Le Epistole Paoline Nei Manichaei, I Donatisti,
Il Primo Agostini, Sussidi Patristici (Rome: Istituto Patristico Augustinianum, 1989), 91–133.
Tyconius is discussed ever so briefly in Apendix III, p. 133.
39  In the third rule alone he quotes: Rm 5:20; Gal 4:24; 3:7; 4:28; 3:12; Rm 4:13–15; Gal 3:17–18,
21; Rm 3:31; Gal 3:10, 19, 11; Rm 7:7–8, 5; Rm 7:14–23; 8:7–9; Gal 5:18.
Justus Sibi Lex Est 171

Jews. Optatus echoed this position in his critique of the Donatists. Tyconius,
however, because of his eschatological identification with Israel, drew the line
between the ethical system of Rome and that of “Israel,” now understood to be
the Church. The laws of God’s people are precisely what separate them from
the “nations,” those who remain outside the scope of salvation. Tyconius was
no supercessionist.
This anti-imperial reading of “law” in the early chapters of Romans aligns
with recent messianic interpretations of Paul.40 In this reading, Paul was not
opposed to “Jewish” law, but rather opposed the “law of Christ” to Roman law,
which he identifies as the law of Sin and Death. The justice (δικαισύνη) of God
is manifest in the messianic community, which by its very existence condemns
the Roman way. The perceived tension between law and grace dissolves in the
anti-imperial interpretation.

5 Law and the Justice of God

Tyconius shared Paul’s clear distinction between the kingdom of God and
the kingdoms of this world, embodied politically in the Roman Empire.
Anticipating Augustine’s later appropriation of the two cities imagery, Tyconius
wrote in his commentary on Revelation: “It is clear that there are two societies
(civitates) and two kingdoms (regna), Christ and the devil . . . One looks to the
prosperity of the world, the other flight from this world. The one chastises, the
other is chastened. Both work towards single aims, the one for damnation,
the other for salvation.”41 Later, Augustine cited this view as the Donatist posi-
tion in his polemical reply to the bishop Parmenian: “there is one people whose

40  Theodore Jennings, Jr., Outlaw Justice: The Messianic Politics of Paul (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 2013), 7 et passim. Also, Jacob Taubes, The Political Theology of Paul
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), 23–24. For an application of this perspective
on Romans 1:18–2:16 specifically, see the essay by Diana Swancutt, “ ‘O Dikaios ek Pistews
Zesetai’ in Intercultural Translation: ‘Living Justly’ as Paul’s Jewish Paideia to Roman
Greeks” a working paper for the SBL Consultation on Paul and Scripture, Online: http://
www.westmont.edu/~fisk/paulandscripture/SwancuttODikaios.pdf (2006), 1. Another
clear treatment of this issue is N.T. Wright, “The Law in Romans 2,” in Paul and the Mosaic
Law, ed. James D.G. Dunn, WUNT 89 (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1996).
41  Cited by Frend, “Augustine and Orosius on the End of the World,” Augustinian Studies
20(1989), 13. See also Alberto Pincherle, “Da Ticonio a Saint Agostino,” Ricerche religiose
1(1925): 443–66. Johannes Van Oort offers some necessary cautions about the relationship
of these texts however. See Jerusalem and Babylon: A Study into Augustine’s City of God
and the Sources of his Doctrine of the Two Cities (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 267–73.
172 Bass

leader is our Lord Jesus Christ, whose servants are good, and who is the ruler of
the city of Jerusalem which is our eternal mother in the skies . . . But the devil
is the lord of the other, evil community (populi) and the ruler of the city which
mystically is called Babylon.”42
The dualism that Tyconius posited was not a strict cosmic dualism, since the
saeculum would ultimately have an end and the Devil be subject to God; rather,
it was an ethical dualism. Besides their attitude to “the world” (either pros-
perity or flight), the two societies are characterized by their view of free will
with respect to the law—one people chastens, the other is chastened. Law is
designed to bring individual wills into line with the common weal by means of
discipline; thus the law is inherently coercive. Specifically, the law is enforced
by physical violence or more usually by the threat of violence—in Tyconius’
words, “the law was designed to punish.”43 The martyrs were well aware of this
aspect of the law. The narrator of the Passion of Saints Donatus and Advocatus
wrote: “when the course of justice holds firm and inflexible in the face of these
seductive temptations [i.e., wealth and power], judges are ordered to inter-
vene; the secular powers are forced to use coercion.”44 The justice which holds
firm is the justice of God’s kingdom, eternally opposed to the coercive secular
powers. Tyconius’ younger contemporary Petilian stated even more clearly the
Donatist objection to the violence of the law: “The Apostle says, ‘The law is
good if man use it lawfully. What then does the law say? Thou shall not kill’.”45
The justice of the world, and of Rome in particular, is murderous, and must be
rejected.
As important as the distinction between the two societies was for Tyconius,
he was far more concerned throughout his writings with the division within
the Body of Christ. Tyconius believed that the church itself, despite a veneer
of unity and common belief and practice, was likewise divided between Christ
and Satan. His second interpretative rule, entitled “On the Bipartite Body of
Christ,” asserted that the church has two sides, a left and a right, signaling the
good and the evil within the body. Even though everyone in the church bears
the name Christian and claims to be righteous, some members actually belong
to the body of the devil. The hidden evil members would be revealed at Christ’s
appearing.
The most important scriptural image of the divided body is the descendants
of Abraham. As Paul made clear in Romans and Galatians, “not all who are

42  Contra Epistolam Parmeniani, 2.5.9 (PL 43, col. 56).


43  Babcock, The Book of Rules, 27.
44  Tilley, Donatist Martyr Stories, 55.
45  Cited by Frend, “The Donatist Church and St. Paul,” 116.
Justus Sibi Lex Est 173

descended from Israel belong to Israel” (Rom 9:6). The two Abrahamic lineages
are represented by the brothers Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau—both pairs
were “sons of Abraham,” and thus belong within Abraham’s body, yet only one
side of each pair was a “spiritual” son of promise. Following Jesus’ critique of
the Pharisees in John 8, Tyconius observed that there are sons of Abraham by
birth and there are sons of Abraham by deed (cf. Jn 8:39: “If you were Abraham’s
children you would do what Abraham did”). Ishmael and Isaac were not dis-
tinguished simply by prophecy—it was their actions which divided them.
Ishmael was a “torturer,” and “just as [scripture] called Ishmael a persecutor
with respect to his play, so also it calls those people persecutors who fight (mili-
tant) to separate the sons of God from Christ and strive to make them sons
of Hagar . . . by appealing to what is of common use, i.e., the discipline of the
law.”46 The sons of Abraham hold the discipline of the law in common, but the
descendants of Ishmael used the law coercively against the sons of promise.
Clearly, when discussing false Christians who persecute and true Christians
who suffer, Tyconius had in mind the African schism. Just as Ishmael tortured
his younger brother Isaac, so the “children born according to the flesh” continue
to persecute those “born spiritually.”47 Donatists believed that their righteous-
ness was proved by their suffering; contrariwise, the Catholics were exposed as
false by their willingness to use force. A generation after Tyconius, the Donatists
were still identifying themselves in this way; the Donatist Mandatum, read by
Habetdeum in his opening statement at the Council of Carthage, declared:
“Januarius and the other bishops of the catholic truth that suffers persecu-
tion but does not persecute.”48 A similar statement is found in an anonymous
Donatist sermon, written shortly after the Council: “Wherefore if you suf-
fer persecution, you are a Christian; if you persecute, you are an enemy and
a stranger. And whence vainly you place upon yourself the name ‘Christian’,
you who persecute Christ through his servants? You desire to be called what
you feign with your pretend works. The name says you’re a Christian, but your
deeds show you’re Antichrist. Under the name you attack the name; under the

46  Babcock, The Book of Rules, 53. Sicut ergo Ismahel genere ludendi persecutorem dixit, ita
et istos, qui filios Dei velut per communem utilitatem, id est disciplinam legis, a Christo
separare et matris suae Agar filios facere militant.
47  Ibid.
48  Gesta Carth. 3.258 (SC 224:1194). Frend observed “In Tertullian’s, as in the Donatist, view,
persecution was the Divine means of separating just from unjust on earth.” See W.H.C.
Frend, The Donatist Church: A Movement of Protest in Roman North Africa (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 2000), 321.
174 Bass

law, you destroy the law.”49 The last line betrays the continuing ambiguity of
lex—under the lex Romana, they destroy the lex Christiana.
Those who appealed to the law in order to persecute were the imperially-
supported Catholics, and it is here that Tyconius’ use of the law to refer to civil
power becomes clearest.50 The ascension of a Christian to the imperial throne
led to the approval of a range of Christian legislation—“Constantine also
began to remold Roman law and the attitudes of Roman society in a Christian
direction”51—and opened the way for the persecution of heretical and schis-
matic groups. From the mid-fourth century to the early fifth century, Catholic
bishops were gaining power, especially in North Africa.52 Dissidents who
found themselves on the wrong side of the bishops recognized their power. For
instance, in the early fifth century, Felix the Manichee identified the Catholic
bishop with Roman law in his debate with Augustine: “not only am I up against
your power, which is the marvelous power of episcopal rank; but moreover I’m
up against the imperial laws.”53 The Donatist bishop Petilian observed that the
Catholics “adroitly interpreted profane law to their own advantage.”54
As the imperially-favored church of Africa, Catholics had access to temporal
power, particularly the power of the sword. This is the double meaning of the
“discipline of the law” which the persecutors abused in their coercion of the
sons of promise. The Catholics had appealed to scripture for justification of
the persecution of the Donatists, thereby abusing both the sacred and civil law
which ought to have been for “common use.”55 Marshaling a host of traditional

49  Homilia Cavete a Pseudoprophetis (PLS 4: 707–710). For more on this sermon, see François
Leroy, “L’homélie Donatiste ignorée du corpus Escorial (Chrysostomus Latinus, PLS IV,
Sermon 18),” Revue bénédictine 107 (1997).
50  At various times, Donatist bishops also used the imperial law, most notably in the appeal
for Mensurius and then Donatus, and later during the Maximinianist controversy of the
390s.
51  Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 51.
52  Peter Brown, “Religious Coercion in the Later Roman Empire,” History 48 (1963):
300–05. On Augustine’s “long and complex” journey from toleration to coercion, see
W.H.C. Frend, “Augustine and State Authority: The Example of the Donatists,” in Agostino
d’Ippona “Quaestiones Disputatae” (Palermo 3–4 Dicembre 1987), ed. Francesco Giunta
et al. (Palermo: Edizioni Augustinus, 1989; reprint, Orthodoxy, Paganism and Dissent in the
Early Christian Centuries [London: Variorum Reprints: 2001]).
53  “Non tantum ego possum contra tuam virtutem, quia mira virtus est gradus episcopalis;
deinde contra leges imperatorum” (Gesta cum Felice 1.12; CSEL 25:813).
54  Kaufman, “Donatism Revisited: Moderates and Militants in Late Antique North
Africa,” 141.
55  Babcock, The Book of Rules, 53. Also, see Petilian’s comment above.
Justus Sibi Lex Est 175

biblical invective Tyconius outlined the power of the law against the just: the
unrighteous “brought judgment . . . they persecuted every saint; they killed the
prophets; they always resisted the Holy Spirit; enemies of the Cross . . . they are
the spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavens, whom the Lord Christ, whom
they persecuted in the flesh, will kill with the breath of his mouth and destroy
when he comes in open manifestation.”56 Nevertheless, though Tyconius iden-
tified the Donatist church as the just and righteous, he was willing to place any
persecutor on the left side of the body—in other words, the boundary between
good and evil did not fall neatly between Catholics and Donatists.57 Given the
direct link between access to temporal law and violence, Tyconius developed
an alternative understanding of law, an inoperative law which retains no force.58
Both the righteous and the unrighteous live under the law, but for the just
the law is inoperable—“the just live by faith.” The righteous are not exempt
from the law by divine fiat, but the law literally has no power over them. The
law is only effective on fleshly bodies which can be punished. In the third rule
of the Book of Rules, he asserted that the sons of Sarah do not need the law
because they have faith, yet still keep the law. The sons of Hagar, on the other
hand, do not have faith and must seek justification through obedience to the
law, even though works cannot ultimately justify. Tyconius leans heavily on
Paul to make his case. According to Paul, the law is spiritual because it comes
from God. Fallen humans have difficulty keeping the law because they are
fleshly, not spiritual. Those who put to death the flesh and are indwelt by the
Spirit, however, are able to keep the law because they are now spiritual beings.
Tyconius argued that the faithful were the ones who accurately grasped their
inability to keep the law, and appreciating their own debility turned to God
for help. “Therefore anyone who fled to God for refuge received the Spirit of
God. And when the Spirit of God was received, the flesh was mortified. When
the flesh was mortified, the spiritual man was able to do the law, having been

56  Babcock, The Book of Rules, 55.


57  Contra Paul Monceaux, Histoire littéraire de l’afrique Chrétienne 5 (Paris: E. Leroux, 1920),
190. Tyconius seems to have been more than willing to consign some of his own bishops
to the left side of the church; he was ultimately excommunicated by Parmenian for his
critique of the Donatist hierarchy. See Augustine, Ep. 93.10, 44; cf. C. ep. Parm. 1.1.2. Yves
Congar calls Tyconius a “Reform Donatist.” See “Notes complémentaires,” Traités Anti-
Donatistes 1, Oeuvres de saint Augustin 28 (Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1963), 718, n. 10.
On Tyconius’ possible affiliation with the Catholics, see L.J. van der Lof, “Warum wurde
Tyconius nicht Katholish?” Zeitschrift für die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, 57 (1966).
58  According to Paul in Ephesians 2:14–15: Christ “destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall”
and “made inoperative (καταργήσας, “made powerless”) the Law with its commandments
and regulations.”
176 Bass

set free from the law since ‘the law is not laid down for the just’ [1 Tim 1:9]
and again, ‘if you are led by the Spirit’ of God ‘you are not subject to the law’.”59
Thus, the carnal are those who refuse to submit to the law, while the spiritual
are those who submit to the law even though they no longer need it.
Paradoxically, the law is good for the spiritual precisely because it literally
kills, or at least deadens, the flesh. The spiritual do not mortify their own flesh,
but by their surrender to the law they offer up their bodies as witnesses to
God’s power of resurrection. The spiritual remain “under the law,”60 but for
them the coercive law serves its original purpose—to discipline the body. As
the martyr Maxilla put it while being tortured, “It is in accord with the judg-
ment of God that a person should suffer for the master.”61 Tyconius affirmed
that even among the righteous, sin remains; as he puts it “God works in those
who are his in such a way that there remains something for him to forgive.”62
The spiritual person is not under the dominion of the law as the carnal person,
but understands the necessity of the law to confront the evil which remains in
themselves and in the world until the parousia. The carnal, who are enslaved to
the law, cower under its lash because they hate discipline, but the spiritual, like
children who honor their father, accept the discipline without fear.63
Even while working within the Donatist tradition, however, Tyconius
offered a critique of his fellow dissidents’ embrace of martyrdom and persecu-
tion. Tyconius clung to the interpretation of suffering as discipline exemplified
in the book of Hebrews: “Endure hardship as discipline; God is treating you as
sons. For what son is not disciplined by his father? If you are not disciplined
(and everyone undergoes discipline), then you are illegitimate children and
not true sons” (12:7–8). Tyconius followed this tradition (without directly quot-
ing this passage) in his understanding of persecution as discipline, a theol-
ogy ultimately rooted in 2 Maccabees, a text which he quotes and which was
important to Donatists generally.64 Martyrdom had become something in

59  Babcock, The Book of Rules, 29, 31. The connection between the law and the Spirit is
attested by the statement from the narrator of the Acts of the Abitinian Martyrs: “O martyr,
mindful of the Apostle who had the Law of the Lord written ‘not in stone but by the Spirit
of the living God, not on tables of stone but in the tablets of the fleshy heart’!” (12; Tilley,
Donatist Martyr Stories, 37). Like the prisoner of Kafka’s penal colony, the law is literally
inscribed on the flesh of the martyr by the torturers.
60  This is the external, coercive law.
61  Acts of Maxima, Donatilla, and Secunda 5 (Tilley, Donatist Martyr Stories, 23).
62  Babcock, The Book of Rules, 37.
63  Ibid., 45.
64  Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church: A Study of Conflict from the
Maccabees to Donatus (Oxford: Blackwell, 1965), 31–78.
Justus Sibi Lex Est 177

which Donatists boasted as a sign of their election. For instance, the Donatist
writer of the Acts of Saturnus claimed that “in our Church the virtues of the
people are multiplied in the presence of the Spirit. The joy of the Spirit is to
conquer in the confessors and triumph in the martyrs.”65 Tyconius did not deny
that persecution may be a sign of the elect, but by emphasizing the disciplin-
ary aspect of persecution, he advocated for humility—the need for discipline
suggests a moral lack. Tyconius acknowledged the centrality of martyrdom
for Christianity, but he moved away from it as a mark of the true church. He
wrote: “there are two types of martyrdom, one by the sword and one hidden
in penance.”66 True humility leaves no room for absolute assurance, but forces
believers to struggle with the ambiguity of their salvation. “To [the elect] also,
‘if you obey me’ is addressed; but for a different reason: not because they are
able not to obey, but to the end that they might always be anxious about their
own salvation, uncertain about their own destiny.”67
The force of the law is thus beneficial because it pushes the believer closer
to God. In the grand scheme, the torah acted as a custodian until the Messiah
came by creating within the people a desire which could not be satisfied apart
from God. “Law” continues to guard God’s people as they await the return of the
Messiah.68 Amplifying the disciplinary aspect of the law, Tyconius alters Paul’s
metaphor of the law as a schoolmaster so that the law is a prison warden. “We
were shut up in prison,” he wrote, “with the law threatening death and enclos-
ing us on all sides with an insurmountable wall. . . . We endured the law as our
guardian, compelling us to strive for faith, compelling us to Christ.”69 Here
you might hear an echo of Augustine’s justification of persecution in Letter
185—the law can indeed drive a person to Christ. The difference between the
two concerns the agency behind the law; Augustine believed the Christian can
coerce the erring back into the right, while Tyconius holds that God alone has
the authority of the sword. Vengeance is “reserved for God alone.”70 Corporeal
discipline can come only from the Father, never from the brother.71

65  Ibid., 555.


66  Cited by Hahn, Tyconius-Studien, 47–49.
67  Babcock, The Book of Rules, 47.
68  Cyprian had a similar view. See Andreas Hoffmann, Kirchliche Strukturen und Römishes
Recht bei Cyprian von Karthago (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2000), 74–79.
69  Babcock, The Book of Rules, 31.
70  Ibid., 127.
71  Tyconius’ critique of political kingship in Rule Seven is also significant, especially in light
of the Donatist slogan “What have Christians to do with kings?” (Optatus, Against the
Donatists 1.2).
178 Bass

Conclusion

According to Ramsay MacMullen, the fourth century was a particularly violent


era with regard to the judiciary: “the over-all picture is nowhere nearly so grim
as in the fourth century.” By the end of Constantine’s reign, the number of capi-
tal crimes rose above 60 (from less than ten in the early empire). MacMullen
suggests that the best explanation for this increase in violence is the changing
definition of citizenship, which came to be defined “in terms of culture rather
than according to the letter of the law.”72 When these facts are taken together
with the discrimination against the Donatists, Tyconius’ critique of the law and
those who abuse it takes on a new light. Retaining the pilgrim church ecclesiol-
ogy of an earlier age, the Donatists took refuge in their belief that the imperial
law was no longer operative: “the Messiah is the end of the law ( finis legis).”
The sons of promise are liberated, for they do not fear those who kill the body
but cannot kill the soul. Ultimately, Tyconius’ interpretation of the law reflects
the exilic ecclesiology of the pre-Constantinian era.73 Like Israel in Babylon,
the church is a pilgrim church, passing through a world of violence and sin.74
Christians live under the law of the land, indistinguishable from its citizens,
yet they also live outside the law as a law unto themselves: justus sibi lex est.
Since the Spirit has written the law on their hearts, the righteous are a “law
unto themselves” even while living under the repressive law of Rome.

72  See, Ramsay MacMullen, “Judicial Savagery in the Roman Empire,” Chiron 16 (1986):
147–66.
73  See Markus’s comments with regard to Tyconius and the saeculum. Robert Markus,
Saeculum: History and Society in the Theology of St. Augustine (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1970), 83–104.
74  Again, relying on Augustine’s summary of Donatist theology. De Baptismo contra
Donatistas, 1. 16.25 (PL 43, col. 123).
CHAPTER 9

Should a Christian Sell Everything?


Early Interpretations of the Rich Young Man

Stephen M. Hildebrand

The story of the Rich Young Man and its early interpretations illuminate
particularly well, I wish to show, the intersection of Christian life, thought,
and exegesis. The story, as variously interpreted by Clement of Alexandria,
Augustine of Hippo, and Basil of Caesarea, affords us insight into the ways in
which the biblical text shapes the life and thought of the early Church as well
as, in turn, the ways in which theological commitments and contemporary
concerns affect biblical interpretation. Clement finds in the text guidance in
bringing the Gospel to the higher social classes in Alexandria, Augustine, a bal-
anced view of the Christian life that steers a mean between the excesses of
Manichaean disparagement of this world and a Jovinian over-estimation of it,
and Basil, a challenging and universal call to the ascetic life.
Jesus’ encounter with the Rich Young Man is recorded in Matthew
(19:16–30), Mark (10: 17–31), and Luke (18:18–30). Each evangelist preserves the
basics of the story. In none of the accounts is the man called a Pharisee or
scribe, although Luke calls him a “ruler” (Lk. 18:18); and there is no overt indi-
cation that the man is testing Jesus or trying to trap him. The man approaches
Jesus and asks what he must do to inherit eternal life. Jesus recalls to him sev-
eral of the commandments: in each Jesus mentions the prohibitions on killing,
stealing, lying, and the injunction to honor one’s father and mother. Jesus then
points out what the man lacks: “Go, sell what you possess and give to the poor,
and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me” (Mt. 19:21; Mk. 10:21;
Lk. 18:22). Jesus then speaks of the difficulty of salvation for the rich: “it is easier
for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the
kingdom of God” (Mt. 19:23; Mk. 10:25; Lk. 18:25). In all accounts, the disciples
express their astonishment and wonder about the possibility of salvation for
anyone. In response, Jesus states that all things are possible with God. Finally,
in response to Peter’s statement of the disciples’ sacrifice, the Lord declares
that “every one who has left houses or brothers or sisters of rather or mother or
children or lands” for his name’s sake “will receive a hundredfold, and inherit
eternal life” (Mt. 19:29; Mk. 10:30; Lk. 18:30).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_011


180 Hildebrand

In spite of these basic similarities, there are subtle but significant differences
among them. Mark’s account is the most positive, even tender. Only Mark says
that the man “ran up” to Jesus and “knelt before him” (10:17). Only Mark says
that Jesus “looking upon him loved him” (10:21). Only in Mark does Jesus repeat
and qualify his statement of the difficulty of salvation for the rich. First he says,
“How hard it will be for those who have riches to enter the kingdom of God!”
(10:23). And then, after the disciples express their amazement, Jesus qualifies
his statement, “Children, how hard it is for those who trust in riches to enter
the kingdom of God!” (10:24).
Matthew’s account too has distinctive features and emphases. Only in
Matthew does Jesus not say, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God
alone.” Thus Jesus’ response to the man’s question is less harsh and less jarring.
Next, in the list of commandments that the Lord gives to the rich man, only
in Matthew do we find the commandment to love one’s neighbor as oneself.
More importantly, when Jesus points out what the rich man, having kept the
commandments, lacks, only Matthew reports Jesus’ statement: “if you would
be perfect” (19:21). Matthew also emphasizes the eschatological character, a
character surely present nonetheless in Mark and Luke, of Jesus’ instruction
to his disciples on the salvation of the rich, for only in Matthew’s account does
Jesus say, “Truly, I say to you, in the new world, when the Son of man shall sit on
his glorious throne, you who have followed me will also sit on twelve thrones,
judging the twelve tribes of Israel” (19:28).
In Luke there are fewer distinctive features. I have already mentioned that
Luke calls the man a “ruler.” We can add that only in Luke does Jesus speak the
hard saying about the camel and the eye of the needle to the rich man himself;
in Matthew and Luke Jesus is speaking to the disciples after the rich man has
gone away sad.
These subtle differences among the various accounts are important because
the fathers often latch on to one or another of them and use them as clues to
an over-arching interpretation or keys to unlock exegetical difficulties. Let us
consider now, in turn, the interpretations of Clement, Basil, and Augustine.
With these in place, we will be able then to draw some conclusions.

1 Clement of Alexandria’s Interpretation

Clement, who died around 215 in Alexandria, lived at a time when ortho-
dox Christianity had begun to make some head-way in the upper classes of
Alexandrian society. It would have been easy for the Alexandrian rich to draw
the conclusion that they were, in fact, not welcome in the Church: “there was
Should a Christian Sell Everything ? 181

the poor and simple life of Christ himself and of his apostles, there were the
numerous gospel warnings about the dangers of wealth, there was the severe
command to the rich man to sell all that he had, there was the communism of
the first Christians, there was the undoubted fact that the Church had spread
among poor people and had always been chiefly composed of them.”1 The
aim of Clement’s address is precisely to remove such obstacles and clear away
misunderstandings of wealth and poverty so that the rich have an accurate
understanding of the demands of the Gospel.2 He says early in The Rich Man’s
Salvation that the matter is complex and that he wishes to head off the despair
of salvation that the rich feel “after merely listening in an off-hand way to the
Lord’s saying, that a camel shall more easily creep through a needle’s eye than
a rich man into the kingdom of heaven.”3
Clement’s handling of the story of the Rich Young Man is unusual among
the Fathers in that he clearly cites the Markan text. Among the synoptic
Gospels, of course, it was Matthew’s that in the early Church received the most
attention. We should note that, even though Clement cites Mark’s version, he
interpolates a very important phrase found only in Matthew: “if you would be
perfect” (Mt. 19:21). His reading is also unusual in that, as one would expect
given his audience and purpose, he sees the rich man in a positive light. The
rich man asks a good question and asks the right person: “our Lord and Saviour
is pleased to be asked a question most appropriate to Him.”4 Most fathers
take a rather negative view of the rich man. Hilary of Poitiers writes that he

1  G.W. Butterworth, “Introduction,” in Clement of Alexandria, Loeb Classical Library, vol. 92


(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1960), 265–66.
2  This account of Clement’s interpretation of the story is straight forward; see, similarly,
Annewies van den Hoek, “Widening the Eye of the Needle: Wealth and Poverty in the
Works of Clement of Alexandria,” in Wealth and Poverty in the Early Church and Society, ed.
Susan R. Holman, 67–75 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2008); Justo L. González, Faith
and Wealth: A History of Early Christian Ideas on the Origin, Significance, and Use of Money
(San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1990), 112–18; and L.W. Countryman, The Rich Christian in the
Church of the Early Empire (Edwin Mellen Press, 1980), 47–68. Denise Kimber Buell offers
an account from the vantage point of contemporary feminist thought and the economic
disparities in the United States today (see “ ‘Sell What You Have and Give to the Poor’: A
Feminist Interpretation of Clement of Alexandria’s Who Is the Rich Person Who Is Saved? ” in
Walk in the Ways of Wisdom: Essays in Honor of Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, ed. C. Kittredge,
S. Matthews, and M. Johnson-DeBaufre, 194–213 (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International,
2003).
3  Quis dives 2; trans. Butterworth, 273.
4  Ibid., 6; trans. Butterworth, 275. Clement adds here a rhetorically powerful and beautiful
explanation: “the Life is asked about life, the Saviour about salvation, the Teacher about the
chief of the doctrines He was teaching, the Truth about the true immortality, the Word about
182 Hildebrand

“asked a question in a haughty manner.”5 He was arrogant and boastful, like


the Jewish people whom he prefigures, and had, in fact “performed no works
of righteousness at all.”6 Ambrose thinks that the ruler (he comments on the
Lucan version) is clever. He, a show-off who is full of himself, is tempting Jesus,
and Jesus responds with “well-directed shafts” that refute the rich man’s claim
to have kept the Law.7 Jerome too thinks that the man is a tempter. He is also
a liar, for if he had truly loved his neighbor as himself, he would not have been
sad to hear that he should sell his possessions and give them to the poor.8 For
Clement it is otherwise. He does not doubt that the man has, in fact, kept the
Law. It is a credit to the rich man that, having kept the Law, he realizes that he
is still lacking and humbly makes supplication to Jesus.9 Jesus, in turn, does
not refute him or send him “shafts”; rather he “loves him and warmly welcomes
him for his ready obedience in what he has learnt.”10 Clement does say that
the rich man did not “truly wish for life” and “aimed solely at a reputation for
good intentions,”11 but he also says that the rich man misunderstood Jesus. He
went away “gloomy and downcast” because he did not understand “how the
same man can be both poor and wealthy, can have riches and not have them,
can use the world and not use it.”12 The rich man has come half way. It is not
enough to be “justified by abstinence from what is evil”; one must in addition
be “perfected, by Christlike beneficence.”13

the Father’s word, the perfect one about the perfect rest, the incorruptible about the sure
incorruption” (ibid.).
5  See Hilary of Poitiers, Commentary on Matthew 19.4; trans. D.H. Williams, Fathers of the
Church, 125 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2012), 202.
6  Ibid., 19.5; trans. Williams, 203. It is interesting that Hilary thinks that the real problem
with the rich man is not that he could not give up his wealth, but that he could not give
up the Law. “He boasts in the Law [Rom. 2:23] and despises pagans as co-heirs [Gal. 3:29],
refusing to cross over to the freedom of the Gospel. This is why it is difficult for him to
enter the Kingdom of heaven” (ibid., 19.10; trans. Williams, 206).
7  Commentary of Saint Ambrose on the Gospel According to Saint Luke 8.65 and 69; trans.
Íde M. Ní Riain (Dublin: Halcyon Press, 2001), 294.
8  See Jerome, Commentary on Matthew 3.19.17–20.
9  See Quis dives 8.
10  Ibid., 9; trans. Butterworth, 289.
11  Ibid., 10; trans. Butterworth, 291.
12  Ibid., 20; trans. Butterworth, 311.
13  Clement, Stromata 4.6; trans. A. Cleveland Coxe, in Fathers of the Second Century: Hermas,
Tatian, Athenagoras, Theophilus, and Clement of Alexandria (entire), Ante-Nicene Fathers,
vol. 2 (orig. pub. 1885; repr. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1994), 414. Clement makes a similar
point in Quis dives 8: “if the law of Moses was able to supply eternal life, it is in vain that
the Saviour comes Himself to us and suffers on our account, running His human course
Should a Christian Sell Everything ? 183

Clement advises that we must avoid a superficial and shallow reading: “we
must not understand [the Lord’s] words literally.”14 This is precisely the misun-
derstanding at the root of the rich man’s sadness. The Lord is bidding the rich
man to sell, to rid himself of, not his possessions but his passions.15 “ ‘Sell what
belongs to thee.’ And what is this?,” Clement asks. “It is not,” he says, “what
some hastily take it to be, a command to fling away the substance that belongs
to him and to part with his riches, but to banish from the soul its opinions
about riches, its attachment to them, its excessive desire, its morbid excite-
ment over them, its anxious cares, the thorns of our earthly existence which
choke the seed of the true life. For it is no great or enviable thing to be simply
without riches, apart from the purpose of obtaining life.”16
Clement’s interpretation may seem little more than a rationalization. Indeed,
his very translator accused him of robbing us, by his interpretation of the Jesus’
words, “of one of the most striking appeals to a man’s heroism.” Clement has
avoided the plain meaning of the text and thereby caused the Church to suffer
much.17 There are a few points on Clement’s side. First, the Lord indicates from
the beginning of the conversation that he may not be speaking plainly, or as
Clement puts it, that he is speaking mystically. The whole conversation begins
with Jesus’ jarring question, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God
alone.” Then there is the fact that, we have already noted, Jesus himself seems
to qualify his own statement. First he says, “how hard it will be for those who
have riches,” and then, “how hard it will be for those who trust in riches.” Thus
the second statement seems to temper the first.
All that being said, it seems clear enough that Clement’s explanation has not
exhausted the meaning of our text. Peter’s statement that he and his colleagues
have left everything to follow Jesus seems, indeed, very straightforward, and
Clement’s interpretation does not really account for it. He takes Peter to be
speaking figuratively rather than literally. Thus Peter is not speaking about any
material possessions or family relations that he and the others left behind in
order to follow the Lord; rather, he speaks of “the old possessions of the mind
and diseases of the soul.”18 Clement spiritualizes Jesus’ words ­concerning the

from birth to cross; in vain, too, that he who has kept ‘from youth’ all the commandments
of Moses’ law kneels and asks immortality from another” (trans. Butterworth, 286).
14  Quis dives 5; trans. Butterworth, 281.
15  See ibid., 14: “let a man do away, not with possessions, but rather with the passions of his
soul” (trans. Butterworth, 299).
16  Ibid. 11; trans. Butterworth, 291–93.
17  See Butterworth, “Introduction,” 267–68.
18  Quis dives 21; trans. Butterworth, 315.
184 Hildebrand

leaving of father, mother, and brethren for his sake. They indicate not “simple
martyrdom, but the gnostic martyrdom, as of the man who has conducted him-
self according to the rule of the Gospel, in love to the Lord . . . so as to leave his
worldly kindred, and wealth, and every possession, in order to lead a life free
from passion.”19 “Mother” is a figure of country and sustenance, and “father,” of
the “laws of civil polity.”20
Clement’s interpretation, we have seen, leans at every turn toward the mys-
tical and spiritual. Possessions need not really be distributed, mother and
father need not really be left, Peter and the others did not really leave every-
thing behind. Moreover, Clement never cites or explains the decidedly escha-
tological features of the story. He never quotes Matthew 19:28, wherein the
Lord speaks of his sitting on the throne of glory exercising judgment or the
phrase in Mark and Luke concerning the “age to come” (Mk. 10:30; Lk. 18:30).

2 Augustine of Hippo’s Interpretation

Augustine does not treat the story of the Rich Young Man in any obvious place.
He has no commentary on Matthew, Mark, or Luke and does not treat the story
in any sustained way in his exegetical work. Rather, we must piece together
the main lines of Augustine’s interpretation from statements scattered among
a variety of works, from The Catholic Way of Life and the Manichean Way of
Life directed against the Manicheans to Faith and Works written to address a
contemporary pastoral problem. Augustine treats parts of the story also in
various sermons.
What then are the main lines of his reading of the story? First, like Clement,
Augustine does not take the wealth of the rich man too literally. Thus, it is
not the bare fact of having or not having riches that concerns him but one’s
interior disposition toward them. Augustine finds indications of this truth in
the exchange between the Lord and the disciples. When the Lord says that the
rich man cannot enter the kingdom, the disciples respond with the question,
“who can be saved?” Augustine sees the force of this exchange. There are, in
fact, few who are rich, and so, why would the disciples think that no one can
be saved? “It should be understood,” Augustine explains, “that all those who
desire [riches] are considered to be numbered among them.”21 If the Lord had

19  Stromata 4.4; trans. Coxe, 412.


20  Ibid.
21  Augustine, Questions on the Gospels 1.26, trans. Roland Teske, The Works of Saint
Augustine, pt. 1, vols 15 & 16 (Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 2014), 369.
Should a Christian Sell Everything ? 185

been speaking of those who actually had riches, the disciples’ response would
make no sense. Thus he must have spoken also about those who desire riches.
We see the same line of interpretation in Augustine’s anti-Manichean
polemic. He passionately defends the ordinary but saintly Catholic in the
world against Manichean abuse and chastises the Manicheans for noticing
only the sinners among Catholics:

Why do you rage? Why are you blinded with partisan zeal? Why are you
entangled in a long defense of so great an error? Look for the crops in the
field and for the grain on the threshing floor. . . . Why do you fix your eyes
so much on the refuse? Why do you deter ignorant people from the rich-
ness of the lush garden by the roughness of the hedges?22

The Manicheans had held that believers, after baptism, should not enjoy con-
jugal life or own any property and disparaged Catholics for doing so. Drawing
on the authority of St. Paul, Augustine eloquently refutes this mistake. There
were many Christian martyrs—businessmen, leaders of cities, senators, men
and women—who “left all these vain and temporal things, by which they
were not held back, though of course they used them!”23 By their deaths,
“they proved to unbelievers that they owned all those things rather than that
they were owned by them.”24 This, for Augustine, is the key. It is not whether
one owns possessions, but whether one is owned by them, and one can be
owned by them whether or not one owns them. To use the words of Jesus in
Mark’s Gospel, to be owned by possessions is to trust in them. Bare possession
is not what matters, and we must read more profoundly to catch the meaning
of the text.
Augustine’s argument with the Manicheans leads us straight away into
the second major line in his reading of the story of the Rich Young Man:
distinctions in levels of discipleship. The Manicheans, Augustine well knew,
taught a double standard. The elect were the real Christians and lived lives of
celibate and poor perfection. The Hearers, who are allowed to “make use of
their spouses” and to have money, are hardly living the Christian life at all.25
Augustine, with St. Paul, understands the Christian life as comprising stages on

22  Augustine, The Catholic Way of Life and the Manichean Way of Life 1.77; trans. Roland Teske,
The Works of Saint Augustine, pt. 1, Vol. 19 (Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 2006), 66.
23  Ibid., 1.77; trans. Teske, 66.
24  Ibid.; trans. Teske, 67.
25  Ibid., 1.80; trans. Teske, 68.
186 Hildebrand

the way to perfection. Those who are married and own possessions have not
yet arrived at the perfection of poverty and celibacy, but they can (and should)
“make use of them [their spouses and their possessions] as if they were not
making use of them.”26
Augustine’s thought, moreover, is not exhausted by the simple distinction
between, as later generations would put it, lay and religious. Drawing upon
Jesus’ response to his disciples, that those who leave everything will receive a
hundredfold (Mt. 19:29),27 Augustine elaborates steps on the way to perfection,
which he identifies with readiness for martyrdom.28 The stages of the Christian
life that are closer to perfection are more fruitful: so, the life of married chastity
more fruitful than a life of unchastity, a life of celibate widowhood more fruit-
ful than married chastity, a life of consecrated virginity more fruitful than celi-
bate widowhood, a life of poor virginity more fruitful than mere virginity.29 He
does not wish to be slavish about interpretations and so to assign a particular
stage in the Christian life to thirtyfold, sixtyfold, and hundredfold fruitfulness;
there are, nevertheless, many stages or steps in the life of holiness.30
This idea of a distinction in forms of discipleship, more or less perfect,
emerges again later in Augustine’s life. In 413 it came to his attention that a
North African church was admitting unrepentant adulterers to baptism.
Augustine received a dossier of biblical texts that argued for this practice as a

26  Ibid., trans. Teske, 68.


27  Mark also has “hundredfold” (10:30); Luke has “manifold” (18:30). In any case the textual
tradition is not perfectly clear here.
28  See Holy Virginity 44.45.
29  See ibid., 45.46: “Then we can consider that many men and women maintain virginal
chastity but still do not do what the Lord says: If you wish to be perfect, go, sell what
you have, and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven, and come, follow me
(Mt. 19:21), and they do not dare to share the life of those with whom no one has anything
to call one’s own, but with them everything is owned in common (Acts 2:44; 4:32). Do we
think there is no increase in fruitfulness for God’s virgins when they do this? Or that being
God’s virgins without doing this is not fruitful at all?” (trans. Ray Kearney, The Works of
Saint Augustine, pt. 1, vol. 9 [Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 1999], 99).
30  See ibid.: “Those who have a better understanding of these things that we do can give
thought to the interpretation of that difference in fruitfulness. Is it the life of a virgin that
bears fruit a hundred times over, the life of a widow that bears fruit sixty times over, and
the life of a married person that bears fruit thirty times over? Or is it rather that being
fruitful a hundred times over refers to martyrdom, being fruitful sixty times over refers
to celibacy, and being fruitful thirty times over refers to married life? Or does virginity
produce fruit a hundred times over when combined with martyrdom, but only sixty times
over by itself, whereas married people, who bear fruit thirty times over, increase this to
sixty if they are martyrs?” (trans. Ray Kearney, 98).
Should a Christian Sell Everything ? 187

pastoral accommodation on the grounds that faith, even bereft of acts of love,
was sufficient both for baptism and salvation. Augustine disagreed and wrote a
refutation of the practice, On Faith and Works. In short, Augustine argued that
“faith without works brings no benefit” and that it is the unambiguous teach-
ing of Scripture that one cannot be saved without works of love.
It is in this context that Augustine offers an explanation of the biblical text
that we have been considering. He asks his opponents to “recall what the Lord
himself answered when the rich man asked him what good thing he should
do to obtain eternal life.31 When the rich man indicated that he had kept the
commandments specified by the Lord, “the Lord added also the command-
ment of perfection: that, having sold everything he owned and given alms to
the poor, he would have treasure in heaven.”32 Augustine is clear that someone
who keeps the Decalogue but not the “command of perfection” is able to love
both God and his neighbor.33
All this is to say that Augustine reads the story of the young rich man in the
light of a larger distinction in Christian discipleship. In one sermon, Augustine
reminds his congregation that they have heard the same words of the Lord
as the rich man; they have heard both the greater and the lesser precepts.
From heaven the Lord continues to cry out, and Augustine exhorts his people
to listen:

Don’t let’s be deaf, because he’s the one who’s shouting at us; don’t let’s be
dead, because he’s the one who’s thundering at us. If you don’t want to do
the bigger things, do the smaller ones. The burden of the bigger things is
too much for you; well at least pick up the smaller ones. Why are you so
reluctant to about both of them? Why do you resist them both. The
tougher ones are, Sell everything you have, and give to the poor, and follow
me. The easier ones, You shall not commit murder; you shall not commit
adultery; you shall not seek false witness; you shall not steal; honor father
and mother; you shall love your neighbor like yourself (Mt. 19:17.21). Do
all that.34

31  Augustine, On Faith and Works 13.20; trans. Kearney, in On Christian Belief, The Works of
St. Augustine, pt. 1, Vol. 8 (Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 2005), 240.
32  Ibid.; trans. Kearney, 240.
33  It must be said that in ep. 157 Augustine takes a negative view of the rich man: he went
away sad because he spoke with pride rather than truth when he told Jesus that he had
kept the Law.
34  Augustine, Sermon 85.1; trans. Edmund Hill, in Sermons, The Works of Saint Augustine,
pt. 3, vol. 2 (Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 1991), 391.
188 Hildebrand

So, the Lord calls everyone to keep the commandments, to love God and neigh-
bor. Beyond this, however, he calls some to poverty and, we can add, to celibacy.
The young rich man, then, was on the way to salvation, but became discour-
aged when he realized that the more perfect life of poverty was beyond him.
Those commands that all must keep in order to believe in and love God at all
Augustine calls precepts; those that constitute a more intense form of disciple-
ship he calls counsels. “Virginity,” he writes, “is a counsel, not a command.”35
To marry is not to disobey God, and so to merit a punishment.36 Obedience to
the commands of the Lord bears on eternal life and death, while acceptance
of the advice of St. Paul bears on glory. The virgins will enjoy a higher level of
heavenly glory than the married who kept the commandments. “Think of that
special place in his house,” Augustine writes, “whatever it is, far better than
the one for the sons and daughters . . . . Believing in this and hoping for it and
cherishing it, you will have the power, not to avoid marriage because it is pro-
hibited, but to fly beyond it because it is allowed.”37 What Augustine says of
evangelical virginity equally applies to evangelical poverty.
Augustine’s interpretation has much to commend it, for it allows us a way to
understand the subtle shifts of meaning in the biblical text. Above all it forces
us to realize that the Lord himself instituted two forms of discipleship and that
we cannot accurately understand the demands of the Gospel without attend-
ing to this distinction. I should mention in passing that Augustine’s insight
(had by many other Fathers) is confirmed by Jesus scholarship. The promi-
nent Jesus scholar Dale Allison has offered new insights on the old thesis that
Jesus did, in fact, teach to two different audiences with a different set of rules
for each. Allison, of course, does not present Jesus as anachronistically teach-
ing fourth-century (and later) distinctions about lay and religious life—his
approach is strictly and self-consciously historical. He does, however, present
a very convincing explanation of the evidence that the Lord did in fact distin-
guish between an inner circle of followers who were expected to participate in
the missionary and itinerant preaching of the gospel and those who received
the gospel and lived it but without becoming missionaries themselves.38 Thus,

35  The Excellence of Marriage 23.30; trans. Ray Kearney, in Marriage and Virginity: The
Excellence of Marriage, Holy Virginity, The Excellence of Widowhood, Adulterous Marriages,
Continence, The Works of Saint Augustine, pt. I, vol. 9 (New York: New City Press, 1999), 55.
Augustine says the same thing in Holy Virginity 14.14.
36  See Holy Virginity 14.14.
37  Ibid. 30.30; trans. Kearney, 86.
38  See Dale C. Allison, Jr., Resurrecting Jesus: The Earliest Christian Tradition and Its
Interpreters (New York: T&T Clark, 2005), 27–41. Allison helpfully provides a long list of
patristic references to the distinction (29).
Should a Christian Sell Everything ? 189

the rich man seems not to reject the gospel itself but our Lord’s invitation to
join the inner circle, as Peter put it, to leave everything and follow Jesus.
Thus far, then, we have Augustine’s figurative interpretation of what it
means to be rich and his distinction among levels of discipleship. I would add
here a third, related, feature of his interpretation. Augustine makes sense of
aspects of the story that Clement had not. We see this in his understanding
of “perfect” and of “manifold.” In sum, while Clement confines himself to the
figurative level throughout, Augustine better explains those aspects of the text
that clearly refer to the outward expression of the Christian life. Indeed, he
articulates a profound understanding of the relationship between the interior
state of the soul and its outward expression in concrete actions. For example,
Augustine holds that a married woman or widow who is obedient is better
than a virgin who is not.39 While the obedient and God-fearing virgin would
not hesitate to rank the outward state of virginity above that of marriage, she
would not “dare to consider herself superior to any particular obedient and
God-fearing woman,” for she, though in a superior state, may not yet be ready for
martyrdom, while the married woman, though in an inferior state, “is already
able to drink the cup of the Lord’s humiliation, the cup he offered to be drunk
first to the disciples who were eager to have the places of honor.”40 Augustine
puts the relationship between internal an external succinctly: “strength lies
hidden in the powers and abilities of the spirit; it is brought out by being tested
and becomes evident when it is experienced.”41 The Christian, married or celi-
bate, rich or poor, must love, and without it “whatever other gifts” are had, “few
or many, great or small,” the Christian is nothing.42 Martyrdom, moreover, is
the ultimate test of love and the supreme evidence of it.43 The context here
is, of course, a broad reflection on virginity in body and soul, but he does refer
to the story of the Young Rich Man, and the broadly elucidated themes are
quite relevant to Augustine’s understanding of the story. The Christian life, in
its many forms, always involves the internal and the external, the spiritual and
the bodily, and the external and bodily express, evidence, and test the internal
and spiritual.
Augustine’s interpretation, we may mention next, picks up on some of the
eschatological features of the text. In City of God 22.4, Augustine offers an
extended interpretation of the Song of Hannah (1 Sam. 2:1–10). When Hannah,

39  Holy Virginity 44.45; trans. Kearney, 98.


40  Ibid.
41  Ibid. 47.47; trans. Kearney, 100.
42  Ibid.; trans. Kearney, 99–100.
43  Martyrdom itself can be divorced from love. As St. Paul writes, “If I deliver my body to be
burned, but have not love, I gain nothing” (1 Cor. 13:3).
190 Hildebrand

speaking in the person of the Church, says, “The Lord makes poor and makes
rich” (1 Sam. 2:7), Augustine uses a line from the story of the Rich Young Man
to explain that “that poor one is raised up from the earth above all the rich, and
that beggar is lifted up from that dunghill above all the wealthy, ‘that he may sit
among the mighty of the people,’ to whom He says, ‘You shall sit upon twelve
thrones’ (Matthew 19:27–28) ‘and to make them inherit the throne of glory.’ ”44
For Augustine, it is these “mighty ones” who said, “Behold, we have left every-
thing and followed you” (Mt. 19:27).45 Or, again, in City of God 20.7, Augustine
refutes the Millenarian interpretation of the thousand years mentioned in the
Apocalypse (Rev. 20:1–6). “Thousand,” just like the “hundredfold” of the story of
the Rich Young Man, indicates totality or wholeness. Thus St. Paul can speak of
himself as “having nothing” but “possessing all things” (2 Cor. 6:10), for the Lord
gives a hundredfold to those who leave everything to follow him (Mt. 19:29).46
The poor, then, are citizens of the city of God, and they belong to the sixth
and last period of history marked by the coming of the Second Adam. “For
Augustine,” writes J. van Oort, “the end times were heralded with this definitive
event [and] are already present now, from Christ’s incarnation until his glori-
ous return.”47 The poor are living the eschatological life.
Before we take leave of St. Augustine, I wish to mention a couple more
examples of his exegesis. First, in sermon 86 Augustine explored the mind of
the rich man who went away sad and speculates that the rich man may have
given away his money if he had properly understood what it would mean to
give it to the poor.48 We should not fear to give to the poor, says Augustine,
for we are not to “imagine that the one who receives it is the one whose out-
stretched hand he sees. The one who receives it is the one who ordered you to
give it.”49 God, not the poor man, is the one to whom we give our possessions.
“Give to God,” Augustine exhorts, “and serve a summons on God.”50 Secondly,

44  Augustine, City of God 17.4; trans. Marcus Dods, in Augustin: City of God, Christian Doctrine,
Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, 1, 2 (orig. pub. 1887; repr. Peadbody, MA: Hendrickson,
1995), 341.
45  See ibid.
46  See ibid., 20.7.
47  J. van Oort, “The End is Now: Augustine on History and Eschatology,” HTS Teologiese
Studies/Theological Studies 68 (2012): 4.
48  Augustine, Sermon 86.2.
49  Ibid., 3; trans. Hill, 397.
50  Ibid., 4; trans. Hill, 398. This idea of Augustine’s correlates with another, namely, that God
alone properly possesses all material goods. D.J. MacQueen has brought the principle
out: “God, the Creator of material things, has bestowed them without distinction upon
all human beings[, and] in so doing, He their only true Possessor, because He is their sole
Should a Christian Sell Everything ? 191

Augustine has a curious interpretation of the Lord’s dictum concerning the


camel and the needle. Jesus “wanted himself to be understood by the term
camel, because he lowered himself and carried burdens,” and by the needle he
signifies being pierced, and being pierced signifies the sufferings received in
his passion.”51 Jerome, Ambrose, and Hilary, by contrast, take the camel to sig-
nify the Gentiles or the pagans.52 Augustine’s interpretation of giving money
to the poor and of the camel and the needle reinforce the theo- and Christo-
centric character that permeates his reading of the whole story, and, indeed of
the whole Christian life. Augustine’s great accomplishment here, I think, is to
balance figurative and literal readings of the story of the Rich Young Man in
such a way as not only to make sense of the statements of the Lord and the dis-
ciples but also to fit them into the context of the larger message of the Gospel.

3 Basil of Caesarea’s Interpretation53

On the surface, Basil would reject everything we have said so far. He does not
spiritualize the text as Clement does, and he does not distinguish precepts
from counsels as Augustine does. Basil makes no distinction in the command-
ments of the Lord. When Jesus tells the young rich man, who had kept all the
commandments from youth, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you have, and
give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me”
(Mark 10:21), Basil takes this command to apply to all Christians. While
Augustine sees in the story of Jesus and the young rich man a distinction
between two forms of the Christian life—one in which eternal life follows upon
the keeping of the commandments and another in which perfection follows
upon poverty, and, we might add, celibacy—Basil treats the same text in his
On Baptism, but to make a different point. Basil notices that the Lord “bade the
young man [to] sell his goods and give to the poor before he said to him: ‘Come,

Master and knows them as they are, has by one and the same act bequeathed an example
of both consummate charity and perfect justice” (“St. Augustine’s Concept of Property
Ownership,” Recherches Augustiniennes 8 [1972]: 218).
51  Augustine, Questions on the Gospels 2.47; trans. Teske, 412–13.
52  See Jerome, Commentary on Matthew 3.19.24–26; Ambrose, Commentary on Luke 8.71; and
Hilary, Commentary on Matthew 19.11.
53  I have considered Basil’s interpretation of the story of the Rich Young Man previously and
draw on that account here. See my Basil of Caesarea, Foundations of Theological Exegesis
and Christian Spirituality (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2014).
192 Hildebrand

follow me.’ ”54 Thus, for Basil, one cannot truly be a disciple, a follower of the
Lord, without selling all of one’s possessions and giving to the poor. Indeed, the
young rich man’s keeping of all the commandments availed him nothing, “for
he had not yet received pardon for his sins, you see, nor had he been cleansed
by the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, but he was in the service of the Devil and
under the domination of sin dwelling within him.”55 The young man’s inability
or refusal to sell his possessions indicates, for Basil, a deadly attachment to the
things of this world. Genuine discipleship comes only when we “renounce not
only the world and its concupiscences, but also the just claims we have on one
another, and even our life itself, whenever any of these things distract us from
the whole-hearted and immediate submission we owe to God.”56
Thus, for Basil, every Christian must keep every commandment. The upshot
of Basil’s interpretation is that one must be a formal ascetic in order to be
saved. Or to put it another way, he simply collapses Christian discipleship into
the religious life. We can see this point in an emphatic way in a letter that Basil
wrote to ascetics under his direction. In the letter, Basil outlines in some detail
the life pleasing to God, and such a life is profoundly ascetic and bears the fea-
tures of a nascent organized religious life. Most importantly here, though, the
constant refrain throughout the letter is “the Christian ought.”

The Christian ought to think thoughts worthy of his heavenly


vocation.57
The Christian ought not to speak in a light vein.58
The Christian should not grumble, either at the scarcity of his necessities
or at the labour of his tasks, for those charged with authority in these
matters have final decision over each thing.59
The Christian should not be ostentatious in clothing or sandals, for all
this is idle boasting.60
The Christian should not turn from one work to another without the
approval of those assigned for the regulation of such matters.61

54  On Baptism 1.1; trans. M. Monica Wagner, in Saint Basil: Ascetical Works, Fathers of the
Church, 9 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1962), 341.
55  Ibid.; trans. Wagner, 341–42.
56  Ibid.; Wagner, 347.
57  Basil, ep. 22.1; trans. Roy J. Deferrari, in Saint Basil: The Letters, 4 vols., Loeb Classical
Library (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1926–34), 1:131.
58  Ibid.
59  Ibid., 22.2; trans. Deferrari, 1:131.
60  Ibid.; trans. Deferarri, 1:135.
61  Ibid.; trans. Deferarri, 1:135–37.
Should a Christian Sell Everything ? 193

So, Basil sees the organized ascetic life as the proper Christian life and the tru-
est evangelical discipleship. This is unexceptional in a way, for he is simply
following herein the teaching of St. Paul who said, “To the unmarried and the
widows I say that it is well for them to remain single as I do” (1 Cor. 7:8). Basil,
of course, is typical of fourth-century thinkers in considering celibacy as the
quintessential discipleship.
Perhaps the most famous example of this is St. Augustine’s account of his
conversion in The Confessions. Augustine had intellectually come to embrace
Christianity but had not yet been able to renounce sexual intimacy with his
concubine. At his mother’s behest, he left her and was betrothed to a girl of
higher social standing. Augustine, however, reminiscent of the rich man who
could not give away his possessions and went away sad, was disappointed with
himself that he was not able to live a celibate life. When he heard Ponticianus’s
story of the life of Antony and the two soldiers who abandoned life in the world
upon hearing of Antony’s great holiness, he was “vehemently stirred up” in the
“intimate chamber of the heart.”62 Then, of course, Augustine ran into the gar-
den, heard the child-like voice of God commanding him to pick up and read,
lighted upon Romans 13:13, and was flooded with the grace to live as a celibate
and undergo baptism. “The effect of your converting me to yourself,” Augustine
confesses to God, “was that I did not now seek a wife and had no ambition for
success in this world.”63 Augustine’s conversion experience in the garden was
not a conversion to Catholic Christianity, for he was already convinced of that.
It was a conversion to a life of celibacy—but not just celibacy. Augustine had
been moved to give his life entirely to God, which included being poor and
holding possessions in common.64
Thus, for St. Basil, monasticism is the most authentic form of Christian dis-
cipleship. As Basil sees it, if we would let the Lord’s grace have its way with us,
if we would follow our baptism to its end and keep all the commandments;
we would end up in the monastic life. Indeed, Basil’s word (eisagomenoi) for
candidates seeking to enter the monastic community is also the word for cat-
echumens, indicating a “link between the ascetic life and baptism.”65 Basil’s
“monks”—as they would later be called and as we call them—“were simply,”

62  Augustine, Confessions 8.8.19; trans. Henry Chadwick (New York: Oxford University Press,
1991), 146.
63  Ibid., 8.12.30; trans. Chadwick, 153–54.
64  See sermons 355–56 for Augustine’s description of the way of life he led before and after
his ordination to the priesthood, a life, essentially, of poverty and celibacy.
65  Augustine Holmes, A Life Pleasing to God: The Spirituality of the Rules of St. Basil (London:
Darton, Longman, & Todd, 2000), 196.
194 Hildebrand

Robert Taft writes, “Christians taking the whole business seriously.”66 The
monastic life, then, differs from the life of ordinary discipleship not in essence
but in intensity.
At first glance, it may strike us that Basil’s interpretation of the story of the
rich young man is the least helpful, and he comes across as an ascetic extrem-
ist. There was a group of fourth-century Christians, in fact, even more extreme
than Basil, and he rejected their way of life. The followers of Basil’s one-time
friend, Eustathius of Sebaste, the Eustathians, “find grave fault with marriage
and suppose that none of those in the married state has hope with God, so that
many married women, being deceived, have withdrawn from their own hus-
bands and husbands from their own wives.”67 They will not even offer prayers
in the houses of the married or take part in the Eucharist celebrated there,
and they despise married clergy and their liturgies.68 Their rejection of mar-
riage is made all the worse in the event that these ascetics, unable to control
themselves, commit adultery. And it was not only the husband and wife who
were the victims of these extreme views, for children were abandoned by their
ascetic parents and themselves encouraged to withdraw from their parents
and the filial obligations owed to them.69
The Eustathians, however, did not stop at the destruction of marriage and
the family, for they undermined in various ways not only the social order
in the church but also that in secular society. They withdrew from the church
and held their own assemblies, drawing away not only people, but also their
tithes.70 The secular social order was undermined by the encouragement of
slaves to withdraw from their masters and by the condemnation of the rich
who did not forsake all their possessions.71 This social disruption, secular and
ecclesial, was given concrete form in the Eustathians’ ascetic practices: they
wore strange clothes;72 women assumed men’s dress and cut their hair;73 they

66  Robert Taft, The Liturgy of the Hours in East and West: The Origins of the Divine Office and
Its Meaning for Today (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1986), 84.
67  Synod of Gangra, preface; trans. Anna Silvas, in The Asketikon of St. Basil the Great, Oxford
Early Christian Studies (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 487. See also canons 1,
9–10, 14.
68  See ibid., preface; and canons 4, 11, 20.
69  See ibid., canons 15–16.
70  See ibid., canons 15–16, 5–8.
71  See ibid., canon 3.
72  See ibid., canon 12.
73  See ibid., canons 13, 17.
Should a Christian Sell Everything ? 195

fasted on Sundays and mocked the fasts of the church;74 and some rejected the
eating of meat.75
What is going on here? Why would these ascetics behave in this way? The
answer, I think, is eschatology. Extreme asceticism fails to reckon with an
intermediate stage in the Christian dispensation between the first and second
advent of the Lord. These ascetics demanded that all Christians live accord-
ing to the eschaton, according to our final state, wherein there is no marriage,
no slavery, no gender subordination, no male and female dress, no male and
female hair doos, no rich and poor, no bishops exercising authority, and no kill-
ing of animals to eat them. In this view of the Christian life, there is no room
for a genuine living of the gospel in the secular order but only a replacement
of the secular order with the eschatological. This, of course, is nothing short of
revolutionary, both for the church and the state.
Basil emphatically rejected these ascetic extremists and their view of the
Christian life. Another way to put it is that for Basil, there is an intermediate
stage in the economy of salvation. There is a space between the first and sec-
ond coming of Jesus. There is, in other words, an earthly Church living in an
age that is passing. This means that there is a place for marriage, for bishops,
for sacraments, for feasting and fasting, for liturgy marked by seasons, for work
of all sorts—weaving, leatherwork, building, carpentry, copper-work, and
farming—all of which Basil’s monks engaged in.76 In addition, there is a place
in this world for those more fallen institutions like slavery and government
wherein men exercise power over one another and order each other about.
Basil, that is to say, recognizes that the end is not yet entirely upon us. The
ascetic extremists are in denial of this fact.
Basil’s view of the Christian obligation to renounce possessions rests upon
two important principles, one economic and one theological. The theological
principle is that there is no private property and no right to private property
in authentic Christian discipleship. The goods of this world belong to every-
one. Basil articulates this point most forcefully in a sermon delivered in the
great famine of 369. “Resolve,” he admonishes his congregation, “to treat the
things in your possession as belonging to others.”77 He goes so far as to say that
the greedy are robbers and thieves, for they “take for themselves what rightly

74  See ibid., canons 18–19.


75  See ibid., canon 2.
76  See his Longer Rules 38.
77  Basil, Homily, I Will Tear Down These Barns 2; trans. C. Paul Schroeder, in St. Basil the Great:
On Social Justice, Popular Patristics 38 (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press,
2009), 61.
196 Hildebrand

belongs to everyone.”78 The rich, writes Basil, are like someone who comes first
to the theater and then prevents everyone else from attending, so that “one
person alone enjoys what is offered for the benefit of all in common.”79 Those,
then, who have been given an abundance of material possessions are not the
owners of these goods but the stewards of them. “It befits those who possess
sound judgment,” Basil writes, “to recognize that they have received wealth as
a stewardship, and not for their own enjoyment.”80 But if this is so, if the goods
of the world are meant for all, why did God not distribute them equally? Why
are there wealthy and poor in the first place? “Why else,” Basil answers, “but so
that [the rich] might receive the reward of benevolence and faithful steward-
ship, while the poor are honored for patient endurance in their struggles?”81
God wishes to teach the rich generosity, and the poor, patience.
In addition to this theological principle—the earth’s goods were given to
everyone—there is an economic one that illuminates Basil’s understanding
of wealth. Basil himself puts it very simply: “Wealth left idle is of no use to
anyone.”82 This was true in the fourth century, but, of course, it changed as
economies developed and matured. Indeed, the growth of economies and
the emergence of the fruitfulness of money coincides with the growth of the
church’s understanding of usury. As economies became ever more complex, so
the prohibition on taking interest on money became ever more qualified. For
Basil, however, the matter is very straightforward: the prohibition on usury is
absolute. He has no conception of interest on a loan that could be an appro-
priate compensation for the loaner, who is sacrificing the fruitfulness of his
money by loaning it, and a wise investment for the borrower who could use the
borrowed money to generate enough wealth not only to pay back the loan with
interest, but also to provide better for himself and his own. For Basil, if you are
in a position to loan, it is because you have been selfish and greedy, withhold-
ing for yourself what you should have given freely, and if you are so poor that
you have need of a loan, then you have no hope of paying it back and should
not seek it in the first place.83 The only appropriate loan is a gift on which God
pays the interest. Basil quotes the Proverb, “He who is kind to the poor lends

78  Ibid., 7; trans. Schroeder, 69.


79  Ibid.
80  Basil, Homily, To the Rich 3; trans. Schroeder, in On Social Justice, 46.
81  Basil, Homily, I Will Tear Down These Barns 7; trans. Schroeder, 69.
82  Ibid., 5; trans. Schroeder, 66.
83  See Basil, Homily Against Those Who Lend at Interest 1 and 3.
Should a Christian Sell Everything ? 197

to the LORD” (Prov. 19:17). And God pays back in a currency vastly superior
to money.
The theological ground, if not also the economic, of Basil’s view of goods and
wealth inevitably yields the impression that he is a socialist. It is more accurate
to say that he is an “eschatological commune-ist”: the earth’s goods are for all
and to be held in common by all in anticipation of the eschaton. Basil’s under-
standing of wealth and ownership ultimately derive not from this-worldly con-
cerns about equality and social justice, but from the end. Very simply, Christian
discipleship is both a return to paradise and a forecast of the eschaton; in the
end, there is no private property, and so, according to Basil’s view of disciple-
ship, there should be none now. Thus Basil’s view of property approximates
his view of marriage and diet. We did not eat meat in paradise and will not, it
seems, eat at all in the end; so the Christian, especially the ascetic, eats only
vegetables, and even then, only as much as is necessary to sustain the body
until it no longer needs any physical nourishment. Likewise with marriage: it
should be avoided altogether if possible, for the time is short, and we are nei-
ther married nor given in marriage in the end. If one must marry, at least let
it be only once so that marriage may be made a pathway toward the escha-
ton rather than away from it.84 Basil did not escape being touched by ascetic
extremism after all. In his denial of a place in this world for ownership of prop-
erty, he teaches a slightly over-realized eschatology and an under-appreciation
of the logic of the in-between time.

4 Conclusion

Clement, Basil, and Augustine approach the story of the Young Rich Man from
different historical, social, and theological contexts, with different concerns
and questions. Clement’s dominant concern is to save the rich with the Gospel,
while Basil’s is to get them to live it and give their money to the poor, especially
during the great famine of 369. Augustine, often enough, addresses both rich
and poor urging both to use possessions and to enjoy God alone. Clement’s
interpretation of the story is the least literal and the least eschatological, while
Basil’s is the most literal and betrays an over-realized eschatology. Augustine
strikes a subtle balance between literal and figurative exegesis, between the
external and internal, and is able to see in the text (or behind it) his own

84  For a more sustained treatment of Basil’s view of marriage, see my Basil of Caesarea,
108–11.
198 Hildebrand

d­ istinctive eschatology. Basil and Augustine hold a number of positions in


common, although Basil appreciates the secular order or the in-between
time less than Augustine. For Basil, it is difficult to imagine how one can own
possessions without being owned by them, while for Augustine it is difficult
but possible to own possessions, as not owning them, to use them, as if not
using them.
Section 4
Augustine’s Legacy


CHAPTER 10

Abraham, Samson, and ‘Certain Holy Women’:


Suicide and Exemplarity in Augustine’s
De ciuitate dei 1.26
Melanie Webb

For the better life that comes after death does not receive those who are
guilty of their own death.1

Augustine’s writings on suicide were formative for later church councils.2


Indeed, the fragment above, extracted from the opening book of Augustine’s
De ciuitate dei (ciu. Dei), became the premise of fundamental church rulings on
the issue: The better life would not receive those who had killed themselves,
for suicide was prohibited in the command “do not kill.” Perplexingly, however,
the entry on suicide in the recent volume Augustine through the Ages addresses
the social context of Augustine’s comments on suicide in ciu. Dei 1 but does
not include mention of the afterlife or how this particular set of Augustine’s
writings, so important to church rulings, were received in later centuries.3

1  Augustine, De ciuitate dei, 1.19 (CCSL 47). “quia reos suae mortis melior post mortem uita
non suscipit.” Translations throughout are my own. I have relied frequently for guidance
on the English translation by Robert Dyson: Augustine, The City of God Against the Pagans,
trans. R.W. Dyson, Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought (New York: Cambridge
University Press, 1998). I am grateful for the support and encouragement of Jessica Wright as
I researched and wrote this chapter. She has also helped me at every turn with my transla-
tions from the Latin. Ellen Charry and Becky Jinks also read previous drafts and provided
indispensable comments. I do, of course, assume full responsibility for any errors that remain.
2  Lieven Vandekerckhove, On Punishment: The Confrontation of Suicide in Old-Europe (Leuven:
Leuven University Press, 2000), 18. Vanedkerckhove writes: “[Augustine’s] view, then, became
the doctrinal starting point of the centuries-long ecclesiastical and subsequently judicial tra-
dition that suicide should be described as no less than an unjust assault on human life, even
though it involves not the life of another, but the life of the author of the assault himself. . . .
[W]hen the decree of Gratianus was formulated (12th century), fragments of Augustine’s
treatment of suicide were incorporated word for word into the decree.”
3  John C. Bauerschmidt, “Suicide,” in Augustine through the Ages: An Encyclopedia, ed. Allan
D. Fitzgerald and John C. Cavadini (Grand Rapids, MI: W.B. Eerdmans, 2005), 820. A helpful

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_012


202 Webb

The Oxford Guide to the Historical Reception of Augustine does not include
an entry on suicide at all.4 Augustine’s influence on church teachings about
suicide is not the focus of significant concern in contemporary Augustinian
studies.
In striking contrast contemporary discussions of suicide outside of
Augustinian studies widely credit Augustine with formulating the association
between suicide and guilt that would shape the teachings of the church. In
her recent meditation on suicide, Stay, Jennifer Michael Hecht writes: “In his
City of God Augustine has no tolerance for suicide, calling it a ‘detestable crime
and damnable sin.’ Augustine’s approach to morality is based on the afterlife,
and his ideas about suicide are squarely prohibitive. . . . Augustine makes this
rather generous plea to the suicidal person who feels guilt and self-revulsion:
you must stay here to redeem past sins.”5 Alfred Alvarez, in The Savage God,
traces Christian bans on suicide codified in church councils during the 6th
and 7th centuries back to Augustine, suggesting that, “Augustine had attacked
suicide as a preventative measure: the cult of martyrdom had got out of hand
and was, anyway, no longer relevant to the situation of the Church.”6 Alexander
Murray claims that “only St. Augustine spoke at any length on suicide, and
bequeathed to later generations what became its locus classicus,”7 while Arthur
Droge and James Tabor refer to an “Augustinian reversal” of early Christian
outlooks on suicide.8 W.S.F. Pickering adds that later church practices, derived

discussion of priuatus is included the entry lacks a reference bibliography. The “suicide” entry
cross-lists “ethics” but not either “martyrdom” or “Timor Mortis.” More so than the “ethics”
article, those on “martyrdom” and “Timor Mortis” address themes directly associated with
Augustine’s views on suicide. Carole Straw notes the impact that rape-suicide martyrologies,
and their imitation among women raped during the sack of Rome, had on Augustine as he
developed what are widely recognized as his views on suicide. Carole Straw, “Martyrdom,” in
Augustine through the Ages, 539–40; “Timor Mortis” in Augustine through the Ages, 838–842.
4  Karla Pollmann and Willemien Otten, eds., The Oxford Guide to the Historical Reception of
Augustine, First edition., 3 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). Given the excellent
treatment of the works and themes covered, one hopes to see the inclusion of such an entry
in a future edition.
5  Jennifer Michael Hecht, Stay: A History of Suicide and the Philosophies against It (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 2013), 50.
6  Alfred Alvarez, The Savage God: A Study of Suicide (New York: W.W. Norton & Co, 1990), 62.
7  Alexander Murray, Suicide in the Middle Ages: Volume 2: The Curse on Self-Murder (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1997), 86.
8  Arthur J. Droge and James D. Tabor, A Noble Death: Suicide and Martyrdom among Jews
and Christians in the Ancient World, 1st ed. (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1992). In
response to Droge and Tabor, Ulrich Volp argues that: “Chrysostom condemns suicide even
more strongly than Augustine as a crime against God’s commandment.” Ulrich Volp, “That
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 203

from Augustine’s views, denied Christian burial to those who took their own
lives, culminating in “negative rituals and economic penalties” that were “not
only enacted by the Catholic Church but were taken over without question
by Protestants at the time of the Reformation.”9 These later concerns regard-
ing burial highlight the disjunction between Augustine’s treatment of suicide
in book 1 of the ciu. Dei and its reception: just chapters before he first men-
tions those who have killed themselves, Augustine insists that burial has, in
fact, no bearing on the afterlife. Clearly, Augustine’s writings were selectively
harvested, and for propositions rather than for arguments.10
The reception of Augustine’s views on suicide might be effectively sum-
marized in the words of Brent Shaw: “he created a new kind of bad death.
In this new totalizing moral universe, he defined the new death as ‘suicide’
whereby any kind of self-killing was by the very fact an evil thing. He removed
it completely from the debates over whether it was good or bad according
to circumstances.”11 While church practice and views regarding suicide have
changed, it has been in defiance of what Augustine is still understood to have
taught. The contention of this chapter is that this understanding does not

Unclean Spirit Has Assaulted You from the Very Beginning: John Chrysostom and Suicide,”
Studia Patristica 47 (2010): 284–5.
9  W.S.F. Pickering, “Reading the Conclusion: Suicide, Morality and Religion,” in Durkheim’s
Suicide: A Century of Research and Debate, ed. W.S.F. Pickering and Geoffrey Walford
(London: Routledge, 2000), 69.
10  For instance, in 533, the Council of Orleans ruled that, “Burial of the deceased who were
killed by another’s wicked deed, we deem ought to be accepted—[only] if, however, they
themselves are not proved to have borne death against themselves by their own hands”
(Oblationem defunctorum, qui in aliquo crimine fuerint interempti, recipi debere censuimus,
si tamen non sibi ipsi mortem probentur propriis manibus intullisse) (Conc. Aurel. A. 533,
15, lines 59–61). The sentiment expressed here, and the language in which it is formulated,
strikingly echo the words of Virgil in Aeneid VI.434–436, which are quoted by Augustine
in Ciu. Dei 1.19. We will come in the conclusion to how the quote from Virgil functions in
Augustine’s argument.
11  Brent D. Shaw, Sacred Violence: African Christians and Sectarian Hatred in the Age of
Augustine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 769. Shaw includes a very help-
ful discussion of different kinds of self-killing in the ancient world (pp. 733–58). His argu-
ment that Augustine codifies a “new kind of bad death” arises from the way in which
each of these actions seems to fall under the same description within Augustine’s works,
and be worthy of the same condemnation (p. 769). As Shaw observes, at no point does
Augustine introduce the term suicidium to replace homicidium. Indeed, the term “suicide”
was not applied to the person who died at their own hands until the twelfth century, and
was only attached to the act of intentionally bringing about one’s own death in the six-
teenth and seventeenth centuries (p. 769).
204 Webb

reflect Augustine’s own discussion of suicide. To the contrary, close reading


leads us to an entirely different set of sensibilities and concerns than are evi-
dent in the fragmentary quotation with which I began, and which has been so
influential.
In this chapter, I argue that Augustine makes it clear in ciu. Dei 1.26 that it
is impossible to know just who is in fact guilty of his or her own death. The
conditions that Augustine sets for knowing the guilt of another are impossible
to meet in the aftermath of suicide, such that the living can never judge whose
actions against themselves make them commendable or condemnable. What
is at stake in this chapter is not knowledge about the afterlife, or condemna-
tion of those who inhabit it, but rather recognition of who among the dead can
and cannot be upheld as exemplary for the living. If one cannot know whether
a person’s action was commendable or condemnable, then that person cannot
be upheld as an exemplar.
Augustine’s treatment of suicide in ciu. Dei 1.26 is not abstract. Rather,
he deals with a particular set of exemplars—Roman Christian women who
killed themselves in response to rape, and regarding whom the question had
arisen of whether these “certain holy women” could be justly venerated by the
church, and whether they should be upheld as models for living women who
experienced sexual violence. Augustine does not, however, dwell exclusively or
even at length on these women, but turns instead to figures from scripture who
can illuminate the dilemma. In this way, he draws upon the Roman Christian
exemplarity tradition and scriptural exegesis in concert with one another.
This essay seeks to establish the critical need to read both traditions together,
in order to understand Augustine’s goal to be not so much condemnation of
suicide, as the establishment of life as a choice open to all. The “certain holy
women” to whom he refers have willfully taken actions that resulted in their
own deaths; while the church venerates these dead women, it shames living
women who do not follow a similar course of action. Augustine seeks to forge
social conditions conducive to stability for women of his own day who have
been raped. In so doing, he intends to remove the shame associated with the
continuation of life after rape, but at the same time, importantly, does not set
out to shame the women who have already killed themselves in response to
rape (cf. ciu. Dei 1.17).
In the first book of ciu. Dei Augustine engages his elite male readers, both
civil and ecclesial leaders, in an enterprise to make life not only imaginable
but also desirable for women raped in the sack of Rome (410), many of whom
had come to North Africa as refugees. Augustine’s discussion of suicide is
not focused, as is that of later church councils, on life after death, nor indeed
on creating a “new kind of bad death” (pace Brent Shaw); rather, he seeks to
inscribe a set of social conditions in which death is not preferable to life.
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 205

Augustine and North African society faced the real-world possibility of imi-
tations of martyr narratives, particularly among women.12 Augustine penned
ciu. Dei in an effort to transform society’s vision both of women who had been
sexually violated and of the lives they may lead in contemporary North African
society. The opening books of ciu. Dei are, therefore, occasional literature in
which Augustine engages the Roman virtue tradition and scriptural exemplars
in order to respond to a persistent challenge he and his readers were facing
within their communities—that is, how to reorient women who had been sex-
ually violated away from the accepted solution of suicide. Within the received
Christian martyrologies, suicide constituted the only indubitable testimony
that a woman had not in any way desired or consented to rape. Augustine is
doing something different.
This paper will consider the exemplarity traditions in which Roman—and,
later, Roman Christian—conceptions of virtue were rooted. In particular,
I show that Augustine disassembles the machinery of Roman Christian exem-
plarity, refusing to uphold the suicides of virgin martyrs as models for evalua-
tion and imitation. Subsequently, I turn to Augustine’s treatment of scriptural
exemplars in relation to these women: Abraham, Samson, and—albeit con-
spicuous by his absence—Jephthah. Here, I argue that Augustine draws
upon scriptural and non-scriptural sources to explicate the stories of these
men—the deaths they inflict (or intend to inflict), and the mitigating circum-
stances surrounding them—in order to set forth the conditions under which
self-­killing might be justified, and even venerated by the church. The central
condition that Augustine elucidates is that the subject has received a direct
command from God. At the same time, he reveals through deductive exege-
sis that it is impossible for anybody to know that another has received such
a command, especially if the subject has killed herself or himself. In this way,
and contrary to later ecclesial and judicial traditions, Augustine manages to
condemn neither those who, in the aftermath of sexual violence, have done
violence to themselves (they might have received a special command from
God), nor those who have not (they live in conformity to the general command
“do not kill”).

12  Of particular concern in recent decades had been not only the suicides of women, but in
particular the wave of suicide-martyrdoms associated with the Donatists. While Catholics
and Donatists recognized the authority of the same scripture texts, their respective meth-
ods of interpretation and exegetical practices were radically different. See: Jonathan Yates,
“The Use of the Bible in the North African Martyrological Polemics of Late Antiquity,” in
Martyrdom and Persecution in Late Antique Christianity, ed. Johan Leemans, Bibliotheca
Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 241 (Paris: Peeters Publishers, 2010), 393–419.
206 Webb

1 Traditions of Exemplarity

Before we consider Augustine’s arguments in ciu. Dei 1.26, let us first exam-
ine the dynamics of exemplarity in ancient Roman and Christian martyrology
texts. I will then trace how, in this chapter particularly, Augustine both engages
and subverts the machinery of imitation. First, I will lay out how exemplars
functioned within Roman rhetoric, and then will explore how this was enacted
within Christian martyrological narratives, focusing on two of Augustine’s pre-
decessors, Ambrose and Tertullian. Finally, I will turn to Augustine’s reception
and revision of exemplarity discourses surrounding women.

1.1 Roman Rhetoric


As the driving force in the propagation of virtue, exemplarity in Roman litera-
ture took many forms. We will consider direct instruction to practitioners of
oratory, presented in two of the most widely-used handbooks: the Rhetorica
ad Herennium (Rhet. ad Heren.), written during the time of Cicero (mid-1st c.
BCE) and often (although falsely) attributed to him from late antiquity on,13
and Marcus Fabius Quintilianus’s Institutio Oratoria (Inst.), written in the late
1st c. CE.14 Both of these guides to rhetoric circulated widely, informing the
grammar school education of the likes of Tertullian, Ambrose, Jerome, and
Augustine.15 Their descriptions of exemplarity provide insight not only into
the warp and woof of ancient literature, but also into the texture of interper-
sonal communication and the everyday economy of virtue as it developed in
late antiquity.
As described in the Rhet. ad Heren., an “exemplum is [the citing] of some-
thing done or said in the past, along with the name of a certain auctor. It is

13  Peter L. Schmidt, “Rhetorica Ad Herennium,” ed. Hubert Cancik and Helmuth Schneider,
Brill’s New Pauly, Antiquity Volumes (Brill online, 2014), http://referenceworks.brillonline
.com/entries/brill-s-new-pauly/rhetorica-ad-herennium-e1022080.
14  Karl-Ludwig Elvers, “Quintilianus,” ed. Hubert Cancik and Helmuth Schneider, Brill’s
New Pauly (Brill online, 2014), http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/brill-s-new-
pauly/quintilianus-e1017540.
15  James J. Murphy, “Introduction,” in Quintilian on the Teaching of Speaking and Writing:
Translations from Books One, Two, and Ten of the Institutio Oratoria, Landmarks in
Rhetoric and Public Address (Carbondale, IL: SIU Press, 1987), xxxix. See also: Robert
A. Kaster, Guardians of Language: The Grammarian and Society in Late Antiquity, The
Transformation of the Classical Heritage 11 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988),
22–24, 43–44, 73–75, 83–86.
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 207

adopted for those cases in which a similarity exists.”16 An exemplum is, in other
words, a narrative repeated in order to illuminate a different “case” (perhaps
legal) or situation. Less simple is the identity of the “certain auctor.” While
some translators have interpreted this as the author who first recorded the
story, we can make better sense of it as a reference to the exemplary figures
themselves, who perform the exemplary deeds or speak the exemplary words
that inscribe their virtue into history, and in so doing become the patterns by
which the future cultural cloth is cut. As these commemorations provoke oth-
ers to exemplary behavior, the ones who imitate the exemplars make of them-
selves auctores as well. Discourses of exemplarity are invitations not only to
remembrance, but also to re-enactment. Anyone, though not everyone, can
perform an action worth commemorating.
Quintilian expands on this guide for exemplarity when he writes: “Most
potent among things of this kind (sc. proofs by similitude) is what we properly
call exemplum, that is, a reminder (commemoratio) of things done or as if done
that is useful for making persuasive the thing which you are aiming at. It must
be seen to be similar, either as a whole or in part, so that we might adopt from
it either everything or the [part] which was useful.”17 An author makes clear
his purpose for using a story by selecting certain elements for inclusion in his
re-narration, or his commemoratio, of the events. More importantly, his pur-
pose is acknowledged to be persuasive. Exempla did not simply invite imita-
tion, but were intended as resources for manipulation by their various authors.
The Rhet. ad Heren. and the Inst. both provide insight into the orator’s
mindset in appealing to exempla. Matthew Roller has further, and more sys-
tematically, examined uses of exempla throughout ancient literature in order
to illuminate the textual and social function of exemplarity.18 From his anal-
ysis, he has deduced a four-part process that constitutes the machinery of
exemplarity: (1) the performance of an exemplary deed; (2) its witnessing and

16  Rhetorica ad Herennium 4.49.62 (F. Marx 1923). “Exemplum est alicuius facti aut dicti
praeteriti cum certi auctoris nomine propositio. Id sumitur isdem causis, quibus simili-
tudo.” For an excellent discussion of how the exemplarity tradition, and this passage in
particular, sheds light on Augustine’s Confessiones, see: Lewis Ayres, “Into the Poem of the
Universe: Exempla, Conversion, and Church in Augustine’s Confessiones,” Zeitschrift Für
Antikes Christentum 13, no. 2 (2009): 263–81.
17  Quintilian, Institututio Oratoria 5.11.6 (M. Winterbottom, 1970). “Potentissimum autem est
inter ea quae sunt huius generis quod proprie uocamus exemplum, id est rei gestae aut ut
gestae utilis ad persuadendum id quod intenderis commemoratio. Intuendum igitur est
totum simile sit an ex parte, ut aut omnia ex eo sumamus aut quae utilia erunt.”
18  See: Matthew Roller, “Exemplarity in Roman Culture: The Cases of Horatius Cocles and
Cloelia,” Classical Philology 99 (2004): 1–56.
208 Webb

e­ valuation by the community; (3) commemoration of the deed, its performer,


and its moral evaluation; (4) deployment of the commemorated performance
as a normative model for others.19 While Roller’s account focuses on the Roman
virtue tradition, which manifested very different ethical content from those
espoused by fourth- and fifth-century Christians, his explication of the struc-
ture of exemplarity remains extremely pertinent. As we shall see, the dynamics
of spectatorship that are so central in Roman discourses of exemplarity hold
strong within late antique Roman Christian texts. Roller’s four stages, then,
might aid us not only in reading Livy and Seneca but also in engaging Ambrose
and Tertullian, and in appreciating the intervention that Augustine makes in
the Roman Christian virtue tradition of his day.

1.2 Christian Martyrological Narratives


The early Christian reception of the Roman virtue tradition appears in no text
more vividly than in the Acta Martyrum. These stories, often graphic in descrip-
tion, taught that martyrdom was not reserved for the apostles but inspired all
their readers to be athletes in the faith.20 Many upheld various forms of asceti-
cism, indicated by clothing of coarse fabrics or forced nakedness, endurance of
intense tortures, eschewal of food, and total chastity, all of which found fulfill-
ment in agonizing death.21 In the first few centuries CE, Christians had begun
to represent themselves as sufferers—with a purpose. Christian communities
in the late third and early fourth centuries responded to the persecutions of
this period in a similar fashion, promoting as exemplary those who died in
spectacular fashion because of their unwavering faith. Exemplarity, as it fil-
tered into popular Christian narratives, drew readers toward models of suffer-
ing and death.22

19  Matthew Roller, “The Exemplary Past in Roman Historiography and Culture,” in The
Cambridge Companion to Roman Historians, ed. Andrew Feldherr (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2009), 116–117.
20  Judith Perkins, The Suffering Self: Pain and Narrative Representation in Early Christianity
(New York: Routledge, 1994), 27.
21  Kate Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride: Idealized Womanhood in Late Antiquity (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1996), 44.
22  There were also, of course, the Acta Alexandrinorum, or the Acts of the Pagan Martyrs,
a series of fragments from second- and third-century Alexandria with primarily anti-
Roman sentiments. Neither asceticism nor martyrdom were new to Christian discourse
or experience; both, however, developed new resonances and intensity in the early
Christian world. Edith Mary Smallwood and Miriam T. Griffin, “Acts of the Pagan Martyrs
(Heathen)” in The Oxford Classical Dictionary (3rd rev.), eds. Simon Hornblower and
Antony Spawforth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005).
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 209

The stories presented in the Acts of the second and third centuries were dif-
fuse in fourth- and fifth-century theological literature, appearing in treatises
by Jerome, Eusebius, John Chrysostom, and Ambrose.23 Here we will consider
examples from just two authors, Tertullian (2nd/3rd c.) and Ambrose (4th c.).

1.2.1 Tertullian
A third-century bishop of Carthage, Tertullian is sometimes known as “the
Father of Latin Christianity.” In his treatise De exhortatione castitatis (de exhort.
cast.) Tertullian writes to exhort a widower to live chastely in his newfound
­virginity.24 Writing before the persecutions brought a proliferation of martyr
narratives, Tertullian’s treatise engages with passages from scripture to dis-
courage second marriage and culminates in a treatment of secularia exempla,
foremost of whom is the legendary Roman matron Lucretia. Rather than link
Lucretia to martyrdom, as will later authors, Tertullian focuses solely upon
her story’s implications for the maintenance of chastity within a Christian
community.
The quintessential exemplum of chastity in Roman literature, Lucretia’s
modesty aroused the lust of the king’s son, Sextus Tarquinius, who subse-
quently raped her. The next morning, Lucretia gathered her kinsmen and killed
herself, despite their insistence that she bore no guilt. Her suicide became the
impetus for the founding of the Roman Republic (509 BCE).25 Of her, Tertullian
writes: “although she had suffered another man but once, by force, and unwill-
ingly, [she] cleansed her stained flesh with her own blood, so that she might
not live on, to herself no longer an univira (‘one-man woman’).”26 Lucretia’s
story is an example, for Tertullian, of unwanted marital infidelity; it renders her
“no longer an univira.”

23  North African Christianity was also permeated by Donatist martyrological narratives. See
Donatist Martyr Stories, ed. and trans. Maureen Tilley (Liverpool: Liverpool University
Press, 1996).
24  Tertullian, De exhortatione castitatis, 1,1 (SL 2).
25  Livy, Ab urbe condita 1.58.1–11 (W. Weissenborn, 1931).
26  Tert., de exhort. cast., 13,24. “etsi semel per uim et inuita alium uirum passa est, sanguine suo
maculatam carnem abluit, ne uiueret iam non sibi uniuira.” Alongside Lucretia, Tertullian
also writes of Dido as the one who “having fled into an alien land, where she ought to have
wanted to wed a king of her own accord, she preferred—lest she should experience sec-
ond nuptials—to be burned rather than to marry” (13,24; quae profuga in alieno solo, ubi
nuptias regis ultro optasse debuerat, ne tamen secundas experiretur, maluit e contrario
uri quam nubere). The juxtaposition of Dido and Lucretia in Tertullian’s text intensifies
the queries surrounding Dido’s absence in Augustine’s treatment of chastity and suicide
in Ciu. Dei 1, though this is not a subject that can be treated here.
210 Webb

If we think it strange that Tertullian refers to Lucretia in a treatise addressed


to a man, then we should attend to Quintillian’s lesson: “Courage (uirtus) in a
woman is more admirable than in a man (uir). Therefore, if someone is to be
kindled . . . towards death, it is not so much Cato and Scipio as Lucretia [who is
appropriate].”27 In other words: Man, if a woman can be so courageous, so can
you. By appealing to secularia exempla, Tertullian also confronts his reader with
the challenge: Christian, if a pagan can value chastity, so can you. Tertullian’s
rhetorical logic, then, is squarely in the center of the Roman exemplarity tradi-
tion insofar as he uses examples of chaste pagan women to motivate his male
Christian recipient to keep himself unstained through celibate chastity after
the death of his wife.
Tertullian turns, in the final analysis, to Lucretia’s wish to have only ever
been an uniuira: “she cleansed her stained flesh with her own blood.”28 Implicit
in Tertullian’s imagery is Lucretia’s baptism in her own blood to cleanse the
stain left on her body.29 In this process, though, Tertullian insinuates that chas-
tity is interchangeable with a woman’s very life, and that just one violation is
enough to undermine a lifetime of integrity.
Tertullian concludes his treatise with a riff on Lucretia’s story as he describes
how chastity is secured, both in this life and the life to come: those “who have
preferred to be wedded to God” are those “who have restored honor to their
own flesh . . . murdering in themselves the concupiscence of lust (­occidentes in
se concupiscentiam libidinis), and all that which was not able to be admitted into
paradise.”30 Tertullian then describes Paradise itself as “intactus” (untouched).
One’s reception into Paradise is predicated on one’s will to remain, like Paradise
itself, intact. One either murders in oneself the concupiscence of lust or, if that
fails, murders oneself in order to manifest the endurance of one’s will not to
be touched. For Tertullian, chastity—for men as well as women—is figured in
the intact female body, such that after rape a woman could only remain intact,

27  Quint., Inst. 5.11.10. “admirabilior in femina quam in viro virtus. quare si . . . accendatur
aliquis . . . ad moriendum non tam Cato et Scipio quam Lucretia.”
28  Tert., de exhort. cast., 13,24.
29  For Tertullian, life with chastity is more gruelling than death for chastity. He writes, “it
is easier for you to set aside (your) soul because you have lost a good than by living to
preserve that for which you would prefer to die” (facilius animam ponas quia bonum
amiseris, quam uiuendo serues ob quod emori malis). de exhort. cast., 13,33.
30  Tert., de exhort. cast., 13,34–35. “qui deo nubere maluerunt, qui carnis suae honorem res-
tituerunt,–quique se iam illius aeui filios dicauerunt, occidentes in se concupiscentiam
libidinis et totum illud, quod intra paradisum non potuit admitti. Vnde praesumendum
est hos, qui intra paradisum recipi uolent, tandem debere cessare ab ea re, a qua paradi-
sus intactus est.”
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 211

though not an uniuira, by transposing herself to that Paradise which is intact.


In other words, chastity is the only way to live. Its compromise can only be
healed through reception in Paradise, where one’s intact state is restored.

1.2.2 Ambrose
About 170 years after Tertullian wrote de exhort. cast., Ambrose penned an influ-
ential treatise De uirginibus, which he addressed to his elder sister Marcellina.
Having just taken her vow of virginity and received her veil in a ceremony pre-
sided over by Pope Liberius, Marcellina later received a letter from her brother,
exhorting her through discussion of her high calling and through narration of
the great deeds of virgins who had gone before her.
The last chapter begins: “Now, holy sister, you aptly suggest to the one
spreading the sails (vela) at the end of the oration [the question of] what is to
be thought regarding the merits of those who have thrown themselves from on
high or have plunged into a river so that they might not fall into the hands of
persecutors, since divine scripture forbids the Christian (masc.) to bear force
against himself. Indeed, regarding virgins standing in need of guardianship we
have a straightforward answer, since an exemplum of martyrdom exists.”31
We note three things from these lines: 1) Ambrose is purportedly respond-
ing to a query that he had received from Marcellina; 2) the tension between
the exemplarity tradition and scriptural directives not to kill is recognized by
Marcellina, and in turn by Ambrose; and 3) the “straightforward answer” to
Marcellina’s question comes through extra-scriptural exemplarity rather than
from scripture itself. That is, the recognition of an example motivates the rep-
lication of that exemplar’s deed.
To the first point, Ambrose does not take up the question of sexual violence
and self-killing of his own accord. Rather, he treats it because, as a theme, it
has been supplied to him by his addressee. Although the treatise as a whole is
a compilation of letters and sermons written and preached by and sometimes
to others, it culminates in a direct epistolary interaction between Ambrose and
Marcellina. We do not know the wording of Marcellina’s question, but in it we
might imagine that Ambrose heard her asking him whether, in his judgment,
she should ever endure sexual violation in order to avoid violating scripture
(“since divine scripture forbids the Christian to bear force against himself”).

31  Ambrose, De uirginibus, 3.7.32 (F. Gori, 1989). “Iam ad finem orationis uela pandenti bene
suggeris, soror sancta, quid super eorum meritis aestimandum sit qui se praecipitauere
ex alto uel in fluuium demerserunt, ne persecutorum inciderent manus, cum scriptura
diuina uim sibi Christianum prohibeat inferre. Et quidem de uirginibus in necessitate
custodiae constitutis enodem habemus adsertionem, cum martyrii extet exemplum.”
212 Webb

Perhaps Ambrose could better endure the thought of his sister’s death than of
her rape.
Faced with a choice between condoning the violation of his sister and the
violation of scripture, Ambrose must find a way to communicate compellingly
to Marcellina what is so clear to himself. He turns, then, to the exemplarity
tradition. The exemplum martyrii to whom he refers is Pelagia, whom he calls
“a sister of virgins and herself a virgin” (soror uirginum et ipsa uirgo), in echo of
Marcellina’s position within her own community. Along with her mother and
sister, Pelagia drowned herself to avoid the punishment of rape after refusing
to burn incense before idols. Both Ambrose’s fraternal concern and rhetorical
skill are on display in his record of the speech Pelagia gave as she considered
for herself Marcellina’s question:

“What are we to do,” she says, “Unless you take heed, captive virginity? It
is both a prayer and a fear to die, because death is not received, but rather
is taken. Let us die, if it is allowed, or rather, (even) if they don’t want to
allow it, let us die. God is not offended by the remedy and faith alleviates
the (mis)deed. Certainly if we consider the force (uim, i.e. the meaning)
of the word, what force (uis) is voluntary?32 This is greater violence (uis),
to want to die and not to be able. Nor do we fear difficulty. For who is
there who wants to die and is not able, since the paths to death slope so
steeply down. But now, having been cast headlong, I will overturn the
profane altars and I will extinguish the lit hearths with blood. I am not
afraid that my right hand, failing, will not drive home the blow, nor that
(my) breast will flinch away with grief: I will leave behind no sin in (my)
flesh. Nor will I fear that the sword might fail: we are able to die by our
own arms, and we are able to die without the benefit of an executioner, in
the lap of (our) mother.”33

32  Juxtaposing uis and uoluntaria, Pelagia’s question (“Certe si uim ipsam nominis cogite-
mus, quae uis uoluntaria?”) invokes the haunting dual meaning of the Latin word uis,
which as a noun indicates “violence” or “force” and as a verb means “you want” or “you
wish.”
33  Ambr., uirg. 3.7.33. “‘Quid agimus, inquit, nisi prospicias, captiua uirginitas? Et uotum
est et metus est mori, quia mors non excipitur, sed adsciscitur. Moriamur, si licet, uel
si nolunt licere, moriamur. Deus remedio non offenditur et facinus fides ableuat. Certe
si uim ipsam nominis cogitemus, quae uis uoluntaria? Illa magis est uis mori uelle nec
posse. Nec difficultatem ueremur. Quis enim est qui uult mori et non possit, cum sint ad
mortem tam procliues uiae? Iam enim sacrilegas aras praecipitata subuertam et accensos
focos cruore restinguam. Non timeo, ne dextera deficiens non peragat ictum, ne pectus se
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 213

The short sentences exhibit swiftness of thought in a dire situation. The


questions invoke Marcellina’s compassion, directing it towards Pelagia, and
therefore also towards herself, should she ever find herself in such horrifying
circumstances. In the process, Ambrose implicitly shifts the focus from offense
against scripture to offense against God, crediting to the will the capacity to
choose death in faith. Ambrose wants Marcellina’s last act to be voluntary,
writing: “This is greater violence, to want to die and not to be able.” The choice,
then, is not between life and death but between greater and lesser violence.
Anticipating that, once taken captive, death will be desirable but impossible,
Pelagia then insists on her—and her sisters’ and mother’s—ability to carry out
their own death now, even if it is difficult. She does not wonder whether but
asserts that, “we are able to die by our own arms.” With soldiers approaching,
the strength of the women is on full display. Ambrose exudes fraternal warmth
as the speech ends “in the lap of (our) mother” (matris in gremio), at once evok-
ing both biological and ecclesial family relations.
Ambrose then recounts how, as they waded into the waters Pelagia and
her family “joined hands as though they might lead a dance” and the mother
dignified her daughters in their death as she prayed, “These sacrifices to you,
Christ, I offer as leaders (lit. leaders in a public dance) of chastity, guides for the
journey, companions in suffering.”34 In line with the tradition of exemplarity,
Ambrose gives the name of his auctor, Pelagia, identifying her along with her
mother and sisters as “leaders of chastity” for Marcellina to imitate. As a result,
Pelagia becomes a model for his sister’s behavior.

1.3 Augustine’s Use of the Exemplarity Tradition


At the end of ciu. Dei 1.25 Augustine poses the question of whether one should
“do oneself mortal violence” in order to avoid sin of any kind, and then writes:
“But certain holy women, they say, in the time of persecution, in order to
escape the persecutors of their chastity, threw themselves into the river so that
it might seize and kill them, and in this way they died.”35
With Roller’s four stages in mind, let’s consider how Augustine proceeds at
the beginning of ciu. Dei 1.26. In these opening phrases, Augustine accounts for

dolore subducat: nullum peccatum carni relinquam. Non uerebor, ne desit gladius: pos-
sumus mori nostris armis, possumus mori sine carnificis beneficio matris in gremio.’”
34  Ambr., uirg. 3.7.35. “. . . consertis manibus, tamquam choros ducerent. . . . ‘Has tibi, inquit,
hostias, Christe, immolo praesules castitatis, duces itineris, comites passionis’.”
35  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “sed quaedam, inquiunt, sanctae feminae tempore persecutionis, ut insec-
tatores suae pudicitiae deuitarent, in rapturum atque necaturum se fluuium proiecerunt
eoque modo defunctae.”
214 Webb

stages 1) and 2). At stage 1), the deed took place and “the women threw them-
selves into the river”; at stage 2), their action is judged as a demonstration of
their holiness such that they can be called “certain holy women.”
Furthermore, he comments specifically on the ways in which the values
associated with their martyrdom are propagated within the church: “And their
martyria are frequented with veneration by great numbers in the Catholic
Church.”36 The martyria constitute stage 3), in which their deed is commemo-
rated and made accessible to a wide audience. It is unclear, however, just what
martyria refers to in Augustine’s text: whether the supposed site of death, their
burial place, a basilica dedicated to them, or simply the exemplary testimony
of the martyrdom. In a sense, this vagueness of reference befits Augustine’s
argument. The act of commemoration could, and did, happen through all
these means, though differently for each exemplary figure.
Augustine continues by remarking that, “of these I dare not to judge rashly.”37
It is here that we find his intervention in the Roman Christian exemplarity
tradition. Those engaged at stage 4) are not only those who might imitate the
action, but all who would judge the deed to be normative not only for them-
selves but also for others. This Augustine refuses to do. Why is this? Augustine’s
Christian predecessors and contemporaries, though unnamed, are in the back
of his mind throughout the first books of ciu. Dei. In his unwillingness to judge,
he responds indirectly to their propagation of the exemplarity tradition as a
set of norms for the lives of contemporary women. While the possibility (and
undesirability) of imitation is implicit in Augustine’s argument from the open-
ing book of ciu. Dei, it is only at the midpoint of his treatment of Lucretia in 1.19
that he states his purpose clearly: “In this exemplum of so noble a woman, how-
ever, it is for us to refute those who are strangers to all consideration of sanc-
tity, and who revile Christian women forced [while in] in captivity.”38 In 1.19,
Augustine transfers the claim regarding Lucretia’s innocence to the Christian
women who are being shamed for not killing themselves in response to being
raped. Treating Lucretia’s story as the etiology of narratives that promote
death as the only witness to chastity (that is, as testimony that one did not
want rape), Augustine rejects the use of such women as examples of holiness.

36  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “sunt earumque martyria in catholica ecclesia ueneratione celeberrima
frequentantur.”
37  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “de his nihil temere audeo iudicare”
38  Ciu. Dei 1.19. “nobis tamen in hoc tam nobili feminae huius exemplo ad istos refutandos,
qui christianis feminis in captiuitate compressis alieni ab omni cogitatione sanctitatis
insultant.”
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 215

As Peter Brown has argued, Augustine’s goal is to make “the climax of a man’s
life . . . not . . . martyrdom but conversion from the perils of his own past.”39
While there may have been women who had already imitated the martyr-
dom of Pelagia, there were many who had not done so and were now living
under the scrutiny of the communities among which these exemplary narra-
tives were authoritative. Augustine refers to “certain holy women” and gives
us a sense of the action they took in order “to escape the persecutors of their
chastity,” yet he provides neither names nor enough detail to identify exactly
who he is talking about. This is in contrast to Ambrose’s account of Pelagia,
and, I will argue, was intended to discourage imitation.
Augustine differs in three main respects from his mentor: 1) he does not
address his work to a specific woman but rather to the civil leader Marcellinus,
while making clear that he is preoccupied with the impact of his teaching on
women within his community; 2) he writes in the aftermath rather than the
anticipation of the sexual violation of women whom he knows; and 3) most
pertinently, he does not name the “certain holy women” to whom he refers or
give specific details such that their stories might be used as models for living.
Augustine is not writing in defense of Christianity against pagan attacks but in
defense of Christian women’s virtue against elite male suspicion—Christian
or otherwise. To guard against imitation, he avoids indirectly transmitting any
of the most salient details of their narratives to which any of his readers might
attach expectations or aspirations. Rather, Augustine is concerned to reorient
his readers’ evaluation of narratives like Pelagia’s in order to shift their evalua-
tions of Christian women who were violated in the sack of Rome and have not
killed themselves. What is at stake, then, is not only whether women who have
been violated will imitate the narratives of women like Pelagia, but whether, if
they do live, their communities will be able to recognize them as chaste.
I recounted previously Ambrose’s narrative rendition of Pelagia and her
mother and sisters; there is also a story, recounted by Eusebius, of another fam-
ily of women—Dommina and her two daughters—who also drowned them-
selves in order to protect their chastity.40 When Augustine refers to “certain
holy women who threw themselves into the river which was to seize and kill
them, and in this way they died,” he says enough for his readers to ­recognize

39  Peter Brown, Augustine of Hippo: A Biography, New edition, with an epilogue (Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 2000), 152.
40  Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica 8.12. For this point, I am grateful to R.W. Dyson for adding
a note to his translation of this passage to the effect that Augustine may be indicating
either Pelagia or Dommina, or others like them. Augustine, The City of God Against the
Pagans, 39n68.
216 Webb

who he is referring to (or at least make a good guess) but his restraint is also
central to the argument he builds in this chapter.41 I take exception, then, to
the common scholarly opinion articulated by Gerard O’Daly, namely, that
“Augustine uses [Lucretia’s] example as a polemical weapon to counter pagan
critics of the Christian women: by their standards, they should admire these
women.”42 Tertullian’s use of Lucretia, though, demonstrates that she is influ-
ential not only for pagan but also for Christian aspirants to virtue. The contrast
between how extensively Augustine treats Lucretia in 1.19 and how tersely he
treats Christian exempla of chastity is notable, and, I argue, suggests a greater
sensitivity of his audience to Roman Christian exempla than to Roman exem-
pla. Even though the stories of Pelagia and Dommina more directly bolster
the conceptions of holiness that he challenges in his readers, he eschews their
narratives while instead intricately dismantling the rhetorical use of Lucretia
as an exemplum.
Contravening the guidelines given for exemplarity discourses in the Rhet.
ad Heren., Augustine leaves both the auctor in the narrative and the a­ uctor
of the narrative unnamed. As a result, he manages to evoke not only the

41  Note that this is similar to his treatment of interlocutors: not only do the exempla go
unnamed here, but his Christian contemporaries and predecessors also go unnamed as
he polemicizes with them in the City of God.
42  Gerard O’Daly, Augustine’s City of God: A Reader’s Guide (New York: Oxford University
Press, 2009), 78. Another instance of this view is articulated by Marcia Colish who, in a
magisterial chapter on Augustine and Stoicism, says that Augustine, in his engagement
with Lucretia, is “invoking the familiar apologetic technique of beating the pagans with
their own stick,” i.e., using a Stoic concept to overthrow other Stoic concepts. She argues
that, for Augustine, Lucretia’s suicide was a matter of indifference (adiaphora), not an
evil. Marcia L. Colish, “St. Augustine,” in The Stoic Tradition from Antiquity to the Early
Middle Ages: Stoicism in Christian Latin Thought through the Sixth Century, vol. 2 (New
York, NY: E.J. Brill, 1990), 166. She comes later, however, to conclude that Augustine con-
sistently rejects the Stoic conception of adiaphora, “because he sees the vicissitudes of
life which the Stoics included in that category either as created goods or as real evils,
neither of which is ethically neutral” (Colish, 210–211). The reading I advance here resolves
the tensions inherent in Colish’s account of Augustine’s treatment of Lucretia. Lucretia’s
suicide is neither a matter of indifference nor an evil, but rather is impossible to judge.
Augustine challenges his readers’s ethical norms by targeting their faulty epistemologies.
 Recent scholarship has continued to engage with the Stoic elements in Augustine’s
thought, most notably: Sarah Byers, Perception, Sensibility, and Moral Motivation in
Augustine: A Stoic-Platonic Synthesis (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013). Byers
does not, however, discuss either Lucretia or Cato. For a concise discussion of Augustine’s
reception of Cato as a Stoic exemplar, see: Ellen T. Charry, God and the Art of Happiness
(Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010), 52–54.
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 217

c­ ommemorations that are transmitted in texts and through memorial sites


for veneration but also those recounted from lay Christian to lay Christian in
response to the aftermath of rape. Where he intervenes is in the potency of
these stories as ideals to be upheld for women within such communities. Key
to our reading of this passage is not only the anonymity of Augustine’s women,
but also his suppositions regarding their eternal abode. While Augustine is
clear that these women are not exemplary, he nevertheless insists that their
eternal fate cannot be known, apart from verbal testimony from these women,
who are now dead. As we shall see, the impossibility of determining the fate of
these women is, for Augustine, closely tied to a refusal of the moral evaluation
so pivotal to the exemplarity machine.

2 Augustine’s Rhetorical Use of Scripture

As we have seen, Ambrose sidesteps the question of how the Church’s esti-
mation of women who kill themselves to preserve their chastity coheres with
scripture’s prohibition of killing. Augustine, as we shall see, addresses this
question, but obliquely. Let us revisit Marcellina’s question: “What is to be
thought regarding the merits of those who have thrown themselves from on
high or have plunged into a river so that they might not fall into the hands of
persecutors, since divine scripture forbids the Christian (masc.) to bear force
against himself?”43 From her inquiry, we can infer that Augustine was not the
first to apply scriptural prohibitions against killing to the killing of oneself; it
was the argument he developed, however, that was to stick.
While Ambrose’s response to the question seems to resonate with fraternal
affection for Marcellina, we find in Augustine a different driving concern. He
advances the charge that anyone who shames women for not killing them-
selves is a fool: “And those who did not wish to kill themselves lest they avoid
the shameful deed of another by their own misdeed ( facinore), whoever
accuses (crimini dederit) them on account of this, he himself will not evade the
charge (crimen) of senselessness.”44 Augustine focuses his criticism, then, not
on suicide but the accusation that suicide is a woman’s only available response
to rape.

43  Ambr., uirg. 3.7.32. “quid super eorum meritis aestimandum sit qui se praecipitauere
ex alto uel in fluuium demerserunt, ne persecutorum inciderent manus, cum scriptura
diuina uim sibi Christianum prohibeat inferre.”
44  Ciu. Dei 1.17. “et quae se occidere noluerunt, ne suo facinore alienum flagitium deuitarent,
quisquis <eis> hoc crimini dederit, ipse crimen insipientiae non cauebit.”
218 Webb

How, then, are Augustine’s readers to view these living women? They are
to coordinate their vision with the vision of God: “They have, to be sure, the
glory of chastity within, the testimony of conscience; but they have [it] before
the eyes of their own God and they do not require more, where there’s noth-
ing more that they might rightly do.”45 Ambrose displaces Marcellina’s con-
cern about scripture by reference to God and faith. Augustine meanwhile
turns his readers towards both God and scripture. Affirming that the women
stand chastely in the vision of their God, Augustine redirects attention to the
authority of the divine law that displaces human suspicion: there’s nothing
more for them to do “unless they deviate (deuiant) from the authority of divine
law when they wrongly avoid (deuitant) the scandal of human suspicion”46—
that is, unless they carry out their own deaths to avoid being seen as unchaste.
Suspicion of these living women is nourished by the norms advanced in the
Roman Christian exemplarity tradition, for example in the stories of Pelagia
and Dommina. This suspicion is the mechanism that motivates women who
see themselves in comparable situations to such exemplary figures to imitate
their actions and kill themselves. Far from noble and self-sacrificing aspiration,
imitative suicide is cast by Augustine as deviation (emphasized in deuiant and
deuitant) from the path of God. Perhaps Tertullian, Ambrose, and Eusebius,
who each supported the ideals of these exemplary tales, could not have antici-
pated the situation facing Augustine and his community. The need to adapt to
the unthinkable is precisely the purpose of the exemplarity tradition’s malle-
ability, and Augustine alters it beyond recognition.
For Augustine, the normative value of exemplars’ suicides could come not
through social recognition but only through their own obedience to divine
command. Yet, this does not mean that Augustine seeks to deny social recogni-
tion of women who have already died. In 1.17, he writes: “And who of human
affection would not wish to forgive those who killed themselves so that they
might not suffer anything of this sort?”47 Aware that some such women are
indeed venerated within the Catholic Church, Augustine must struggle with
how to uphold the church’s judgment of these women while precluding their

45  Ciu. Dei 1.19. “habent quippe intus gloriam castitatis, testimonium conscientiae; habent
autem coram oculis dei sui nec requirunt amplius ubi quid recte faciant non habent
amplius.” Contrast the rhetorical impact of these women living coram oculis dei sui with
Augustine’s presentation of the Donatist martyrs in ep. 185.3.12.
46  Ciu. Dei 1.19. “ne deuient ab auctoritate legis diuinae, cum male deuitant offensionem
suspicionis humanae.”
47  Ciu. Dei 1.17. “et quae se occiderunt, ne quicquam huius modi paterentur, quis humanus
affectus eis nolit ignosci?”
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 219

imitation. In a key step toward this, he asks, “But what if they did this not
because they were humanly deceived but because they were divinely com-
manded (diuinitus iussae), and so were not in error, but obedient?”48 With this
question, Augustine resumes a line of thought from 1.21: “But that same divine
auctoritas has made certain exceptions [to the command] that it is not permit-
ted for a human to be killed.”49 Where a just law or God himself orders death,
the auctor is neither the human undertaking the killing nor the human killed,
but rather God himself: “That one does not kill, however, who owes service to
the one commanding (it), just as the sword is of service to the one using it; and
therefore they in no way at all act against this precept.”50 Had Lucretia been
commanded by God to bring about her own death, she would not truly have
wielded a sword, but would herself have been the sword in God’s hand. God,
rather than Lucretia, would have been the auctor of her death, while she would
have been the auctor of faithful obedience. But is such a shift of auctoritas
from human to God merely rhetorical, or can Augustine demonstrate that God
does at times command death?
At this point in ciu. Dei 1.21, Augustine proceeds to give scriptural exemplars
who are responsive to God’s command to kill and are, therefore, not them-
selves the auctores of killing: Abraham, Jepthah, and Samson. Of the three,
Samson and Abraham are invoked again in 1.26. We will examine each of
these exemplars in turn, in order to evaluate how Augustine develops, through
deductive exegesis, the criteria necessary for simultaneously conceding the
Catholic Church’s laudatory appraisal of women such as Pelagia and Dommina
and upholding as praiseworthy Christian women who have not relied upon the
actions of these models for the corroboration of their own chastity.
An especial interest of this section will be to ascertain the sources for
Augustine’s conception of his three exemplars. As James O’Donnell has
observed: “Whenever Augustine is saying something that moderns find trou-
bling, the best first resort for an interpreter is to look closely to see what text
or scripture he has in mind and how it more or less forces him to say what he
says.”51 As we shall see, though, Augustine does not seem compelled towards his

48  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “quid si enim hoc fecerunt, non humanitus deceptae, sed diuinitus iussae,
nec errantes, sed oboedientes?”
49  Ciu. Dei 1.21. “quasdam uero exceptiones eadem ipsa diuina fecit auctoritas, ut non liceat
hominem occidi.”
50  Ciu. Dei 1.21. “non autem ipse occidit, qui ministerium debet iubenti, sicut adminiculum
gladius utenti; et ideo nequaquam contra hoc praeceptum fecerunt.”
51  James J. O’Donnell, Augustine: A New Biography, 1st ed. (New York: HarperCollins
Publishers, 2005), 292.
220 Webb

conclusions by scripture itself but instead situates scriptural allusions to maxi-


mize resonance with his argument. In many instances, it seems, Augustine’s
engagement with scripture arises not solely, or even primarily, from the text of
scripture itself, but from other interpretations that were theologically salient
for the themes he was treating. Nonetheless, as exemplars identified primar-
ily through scripture, these figures are uniquely authoritative: later in ciu. Dei,
Augustine writes that “when they [sc. auctores nostri] wrote those [sc. sacrarum
litterarum], God was speaking to them, or through them.”52 In this way, it is
not only God’s auctoritas motivating the auctor-actor who performs the excel-
lent deed, but also informing the auctor-author of its commemoration in nar-
rative. As we shall see, though, Augustine’s references to Abraham, Jepthah,
and Samson are just as rhetorically textured as his references to Pelagia and
Dommina.

2.1 Abraham
Of the three scriptural exemplars, Abraham is by far the most frequently dis-
cussed throughout Augustine’s corpus.53 In 1.21 Augustine offers him as the
first example of an exception to the law not to kill: “And not only is Abraham
not guilty of the charge of cruelty, but besides this he is lauded in the name
of piety, because he wanted in no way wickedly but obediently to kill (his)
son.”54 Augustine’s syntax startles the reader: uoluit filium is warmly pater-
nal; uoluit filium . . . occidere is horrifying; and uoluit filium . . . oboedientur
­occidere is disorienting. The paternal warmth, horror, and disorientation are
all part of Augustine’s argument across these chapters, and he does nothing to
relieve them.
Augustine does not recount Abraham’s story here, but rather leaves the
reader to infer how God’s direct command was delivered. In sermon 2, deliv-
ered early in his episcopate, however, Augustine reports God’s terse instruction
to Abraham: “kill for me your son” (occide mihi filium tuum).55 He further cites
scripture’s description of this command: “God, it says, tempted/tested (temp-

52  Ciu. Dei 18.41 (CSEL 48). “cum illa scriberent, eis deum uel per eos locutum.”
53  Abraham himself is mentioned well over 1700 times, and at least once in most of
Augustine’s writings. Samson appears by name about 20 times across 9 different works.
Iephte is named far less than Samson, as we shall discuss.
54  Ciu. Dei 1.21. “et abraham non solum non est culpatus crudelitatis crimine, uerum etiam
laudatus est nomine pietatis, quod uoluit filium nequaquam scelerate, sed oboedienter
occidere.”
55  Aug. sermo 2,27 (SL 41).
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 221

tauit) Abraham” (temptauit, inquit, deus abraham).56 The word temptare has
the double meaning of “test” and “tempt,” yet neither meaning is invoked in
ciu. Dei 1.21 or 1.26. Rather, if all one knew about Abraham came from ciu. Dei
1.21, one could easily be under the impression that Abraham was simply con-
sidered praiseworthy for killing his son.
Augustine’s concession in ciu. Dei 1.26 that the “certain holy women” who
have killed themselves may properly be venerated by the church presses his
representation of Abraham in 1.26, where he says, “But it is not therefore done
without wickedness if anyone determines to sacrifice his son to God because
it was praiseworthy for Abraham to do so.”57 Abraham’s action was done in a
praiseworthy way, but what he did is not to be imitated. Scelere and laudabiliter
parallel Augustine’s concise formula in 1.21, that Abraham wanted to kill his
son nequaquam scelerate, sed oboedienter. In other words, obedience is praise-
worthy. The church may venerate “certain holy women” on the grounds that
they acted in obedience, while also recognizing that it is their Abraham-like
obedience and not their actions that are to be imitated.
Abraham is upheld as good on account of obedience to God; yet this does
not mean that, in his specific actions, he is a good exemplum. His attentive-
ness to God makes him exemplary, and God’s command itself effected that for
which it tested, that is, faith and obedience. Indeed, as Augustine says in the
same sermon on Abraham: “For God tempts/tests in order that humans might
be opened, a heretic tempts/tests in order that God might be closed off to him-
self [the heretic].”58

2.2 Jepthah
The reference to Jephthah (hereafter, Iephte, as in Augustine’s Latin) in ciu.
Dei is the first in Augustine’s extant corpus. In 1.21, Augustine lists Iephte after
Abraham, describing how he “killed his daughter, who rushed to her father
when he had vowed that he would sacrifice to God whatever first rushed to him
as he returned victorious from battle” (Iephte filiam, quae patri occurrit, occidit,

56  S. 2,51.


57  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “sed non ideo sine scelere facit, quisquis deo filium immolare decreuerit, quia
hoc abraham etiam laudabiliter fecit.” We find in Augustine’s argument the logic, though
not the wording, of the 12th century canon law non imitanda set veneranda. See: Bruce C.
Brasington, “Non Imitanda Set Veneranda: The Dilemma of Sacred Precedent in Twelfth-
Century Canon Law,” Viator 23 (January 1, 1992): 139–140. Brasington does not explore how
veneration of “certain holy women” impacted Augustine’s reading of Abraham, Samson,
and Iephte in this section of ciu. Dei 1.
58  S. 2,95. “deus enim temptat ut aperiat homini, haereticus temptat ut deum sibi claudat.”
222 Webb

cum id se uouisset immolaturum deo, quod ei redeunti de proelio uictori primitus


occurrisset).59 Augustine fronts Iephte’s action, then provides explanation by
recourse to the oath he made. The collocation of occurrit, occidit is particularly
striking; the former is the daughter’s action and clearly does not warrant the
latter, which is the father’s deed. Whereas Abraham uoluit filium . . . oboedien-
tur occidere and filium immolare decreuit, Iephte filiam occidit.
With his mention just a few chapters earlier, the omission of Iephte in 1.26
is notable. Abraham sets out to but in the end does not kill his son in response
to a command from God; Iepthe kills his daughter on account of his own
oath. Abraham’s action is the one that Augustine insists it would be wicked
to imitate in 1.26. Yet when introducing Iephte in 1.21, Augustine writes: “And
it merits inquiry whether it was also for God’s command that Iephte killed his
daughter.”60 While Abraham is presented as an example of how God might
make an exception to the command not to kill, there is a question about
whether Iephte, who actually does kill, constitutes an exception to the general
law. Perhaps this is why Augustine does not mention him in 1.26.
Perhaps there’s another reason also: Iephte’s daughter more closely resem-
bles the exemplary women of whom Augustine is writing: she was a virgin, and
died a virgin. Yet at the same time, she differs markedly: Her virginity is not
under threat, and she requests time before her death to mourn the loss of mar-
riage rather than the loss of virginity (cf. Judges 11.37). After a period of mourn-
ing, she comes back to her father in conformity with his oath.61 Ambrose says
of her that, after her time of mourning with her companions, “she returned
to her father as though returning according to a vow (uotum), and of her own
will (uoluntate) urged him on when he was hesitating, and acted of her own
free decision (arbitratu spontaneo), such that what was an accident of impi-
ety became a sacrifice of piety.”62 According to Ambrose, Iephte’s vow was not
only impious, or without attention to family duty, but also made “incautiously,”

59  Ciu. Dei 1.21.


60  Ciu. Dei 1.21. “et merito quaeritur utrum pro iussu dei sit habendum, quod Iephte
filiam . . . occidit.”
61  Her willing return may be fruitfully compared to that of the Roman pagan exemplar
Regulus, who is highly commended for his pietas by Augustine in Ciu. Dei 1.15 and 1.24.
Regulus’s pietas consists in keeping an oath that results in his own death; Iephte keeps
an oath that results in the death of another, yet it is his daughter who, akin to Regulus,
insists upon his fulfillment of the oath. Although Iephte’s daughter resembles Regulus
more closely than does her father, nevertheless she goes unmentioned in Ciu. Dei except
as the one sacrificed by Iephte.
62  Ambrose, De officiis 3.12.81 (M. Testard, 1992). “Rediit ad patrem quasi ad uotum rediret, et
uoluntate propria cunctantem impulit fecit que arbitratu spontaneo ut quod erat fortui-
tum impietatis, fieret pietatis sacrificium.”
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 223

or “thoughtlessly” (incaute).63 Iephte’s action cannot be commended as exem-


plary, or even as excellent. It is not Iephte but his daughter who is exemplary
for Ambrose.
When Augustine comes later in his career to treat Iephte at length, we see
that he concurs with Ambrose’s conception of the man. In Queastiones in
Heptateuchum 7 (Qu. Judg.), Augustine compares Abraham and Iephte: “And
so, that which Iephte did differs from the deed of Abraham, since the latter
was commanded and offered his son, whereas the former did what was both
forbidden by the law and not commanded by any special command.”64 While
he comes a few lines later to Abraham’s inclusion in the letter to the Hebrews,65
he does not address the appearance of Iephte’s name there, and Iephte’s men-
tion as an exemplar of faith does not seem to influence his interpretation of
Judges 11. Augustine’s reading of the story of Iephte and his daughter resonates
more with Ambrose’s than with that of the letter to the Hebrews.
Augustine was in Milan during the mid-380s. As bishop, Ambrose headed
up efforts to emancipate captives brought from the provinces by the Goths
and sold in the slave markets following the battle of Adrianople in 378.66 He
mentions these men and women in De officiis (off.) 2.15.70: “It is the height of
liberality, moreover, to redeem captives, to seize them from enemy hands, to
drag people out from death and, especially, women from disgrace. . . .”67 Given
Ambrose’s involvement in releasing captives for return home, it seems impos-
sible that Augustine would not have heard something of this ecclesial mission
from the pulpit during his several years in Milan. Perhaps some of his fellow
congregants were emancipated captives who had remained in the city.
Faced with his own questions regarding captivity after the sack of Rome,68
Augustine does indeed heed the words of his mentor, but this requires him
to elide other of Ambrose’s views. Seeking to free women from the disgrace
of captivity by altering the exemplarity tradition that casts suspicion on their

63  Ambrose, off. 3.12.78.


64  Augustine, Qu. Judg. 49,914 (CSEL 28/2). “distat itaque hoc quod iephte fecit a facto abra-
hae, quoniam ipse iussus obtulit filium, iste autem fecit quod et lege uetabatur et nullo
speciali iubebatur imperio.” Qu. was written in 419, around the same time as books 15 and
16 of the ciu. Dei, though no mention is made in those books of Iephte.
65  Qu. Judg. 49,916.
66  Ivor J. Davidson, “Introduction,” in De Officiis / Ambrose, ed. and trans. Ivor J. Davidson
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 4.
67  Ambrose, off. 2.15.70. “Summa etiam liberalitas, captos redimere, eripere ex hostium
manibus, subtrahere neci homines, et maxime feminas turpitudini.”
68  For discussion that traces the battle of Adrianople to the sack of Rome, see Jakub Grygiel,
“To Survive, Decentralize!: The Barbarian Threat and State Decentralization,” Orbis 55,
no. 4 (2011): 663–84.
224 Webb

chastity, Augustine insists through his elision that Iephte’s daughter and her
decision arbitratu spontaneo for death cannot be an answer to Marcellina’s
question: “This we say, this we assert, this in all ways we affirm: that no one
ought to willingly (spontaneam) carry out death against oneself.”69

2.3 Samson
Samson’s is a story of homicide and suicide, par excellence. Known for killing
more in his death than in his life—that is, his call to kill was not for himself
alone—he is in addition a captive, and one whose virtue is threatened during
his captivity. For these reasons, Samson might be expected to figure promi-
nently into Augustine’s discussion of the aftermath of the sack of Rome and
the struggle of living under the power of oppressors whose religion is contrary
to one’s own. In ciu. Dei, Samson is most extensively discussed in 1.21, but his
function in Augustine’s argument is surprising.
Following his mention of Abraham and Iephte in ciu. Dei 1.21, Augustine
also lists Samson. He writes that Samson “is not otherwise excused for the
fact that he crushed himself and his foes with him when he brought about
the collapse of the house, except that the Spirit who was doing miracles
through him secretly commanded this.”70 While in Qu. Judg. 49,914 Augustine
notes that Iephte killed his daughter without “any special command,” the
Spirit’s secret command excuses Samson from culpability for his own and
his foes’ deaths. Augustine alludes to this description in Ciu. Dei 1.2671 where
Samson appears only in a clause that indicates to Augustine’s readers that the
women whom the church venerates were carrying out a command directly
addressed to them from God: “just as regarding Samson it is right for us not
to believe otherwise.”72 In so doing, he opens the possibility that this is so for
all who have killed themselves. But just what is it right for Augustine’s readers
to believe regarding Samson? Most poignantly, perhaps, that the Spirit com-
manded not only his death but the death of several thousand Philistines. As
a result, Samson is simultaneously an exemplum in but not the auctor of his
final act.

69  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “hoc dicimus, hoc asserimus, hoc modis omnibus adprobamus, neminem
spontaneam mortem sibi inferre debere.”
70  Ciu. Dei 1.21. “nec Samson aliter excusatur, quod se ipsum cum hostibus ruina domus
oppressit, nisi quia spiritus latenter hoc iusserat, qui per illum miracula faciebat.”
71  Samson’s only other appearance in ciu. Dei is at 18.19, where Augustine notes that Samson
was judge of the Hebrews during Aeneas’s reign in Italy.
72  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “sicut de samsone aliud nobis fas non credere.”
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 225

In reference to Samson, Augustine lays down this condition for judg-


ing whether a particular instance of self-directed homicidium is a “good” or
“bad” exemplum: “When God commands, however, and indicates without any
ambiguity that he is commanding, who would bring a charge against obedi-
ence? Who would blame the compliance of piety?”73 Augustine insinuates
into Samson’s story an unambiguous command from God that the reader is to
believe similarly directed women such as Pelagia and Dommina. Ambrose ven-
tiloquizes Pelagia; Augustine elusively alludes to God’s communication with
her. While the first question associates Samson with women, such as Pelagia
and Dommina, who are venerated by the church, the second links him and
venerated women with the Christian women who are being insulted for their
violation in captivity insofar as all these are exemplary for acting from “the
compliance of piety.” In following the generally applied just law, “do not kill,”
the women of Augustine’s day are also obedient. To put it another way, they
have their chastity in the eyes of their own God by pursuing obedience in life,
just as Samson and Abraham, in carrying out and pursuing obedience in death,
were swords in the hand of God. That is, the same divine auctoritas grounds the
obedience of these women, such that suspicion of their chastity is as “removed
from all understanding of sanctity” (1.19), as is any possible suspicion regarding
the obedience of Samson and Abraham.
As we have seen, scripture is not Augustine’s only—or even primary—
source for his representations of scriptural exemplars. Samson’s story in Judges
16 does not include a secret command from the Spirit “to crush himself and his
foes with him.” Has Augustine uncovered a command secretly given to Samson
but not recorded by the authors of scripture? We do not have record of the
story as Augustine read it,74 but we do possess Ambrose’s treatment of Samson

73  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “cum autem deus iubet, se que iubere sine ullis ambagibus intimat, quis
oboedientiam in crimen uocet? quis obsequium pietatis accuset?”
74  As is well known, Augustine did not use Jerome’s Vulgate translation. Indeed, his scrip-
tural sources are lost to us except in his quotations of them. For older testament books,
he relied on Latin translations from the Septuagint and would have read and preached
on these in worship services. Philip Burton notes that “Loose references to ‘the Latin
Bible’ appear to presuppose a single monolithic translation; no such homogeneity has
been demonstrated, and the term is therefore misleading. Statements made about the
origins, translation technique, and language of one part of the Bible should not be gen-
eralized to the Bible as a whole” (Philip Burton, The Old Latin Gospels: A Study of Their
Texts and Language (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 3–4). There was no single,
recognized version of a Latin text to which Augustine and his readers could refer—rather,
Augustine’s interpretation becomes the text on which his argument is based. We can per-
haps better appreciate, then, the role in late ancient Christianity played by exemplarity
226 Webb

in two places, which we find significantly echoed in Augustine: epistula (ep.) 62


and De spiritu sancto (de spir. sanct.) 2. From these two texts, we can envision
the transmission of the story and its significance to Augustine.
We might ascertain lessons that Augustine derived both in method and
content in Ambrose’s ep. 62, addressed to Vigilius of Trent upon his recent
consecration as bishop in 380. Regarding method, we find in both Ambrose
and Augustine that the malleability of the exemplarity tradition is adopted
in practices of scriptural exegesis and interpretation, as scriptural exemplars
themselves also prove tractable to the purposes of the rhetor and the perceived
needs of his community. Regarding Ambrose’s presentation of Samson in
ep. 62, J.H.W.G. Liebeschuetz has written:

Ambrose recounts the story at length in the expanded version of Josephus,


which may well have been unknown to Vigilius, and he tells it with relish.
He may have been quite serious about the moral lesson, but he certainly
also wants to entertain the new bishop by telling him a new version of the
old story, and telling it well.75

We note two things from these lines. First, scripture is not Ambrose’s sole or
even primary source for scriptural stories. The difference between what the
reader expects and what the reader gets maximizes attentiveness. Ambrose
relies in ep. 62 on “the expanded version of Josephus.” Second, a new version
of an old story may be better suited to a moral lesson than the canonical ver-
sion—indeed, entertainment, or we might say, engagement, with one’s audi-
ence draws them into an act of interpretation by which their behavior, and the
behavior they commend, is affirmed or challenged.
Regarding the content of Samson’s narrative, two of Ambrose’s points in
ep. 62 seem pertinent: while the death of his adversaries is the (divine) purpose
of Samson’s capture, Samson himself does not die virtuously. First, Samson’s
captivity was not for the sake of his own punishment or humiliation, but for
the death of his captors. Ambrose writes, “And so, since scripture testifies of
him that he killed more (when) stationed in death than in the light of life itself,
it seems that he was captured more for the death of (his) adversaries than so

narratives that supplemented the scriptural text, providing a communal cohesion of val-
ues and norms through more relatable, and contemporary, figures.
75  J.H.W.G. Liebeschuetz, “General Introduction,” in Ambrose of Milan: Political Letters and
Speeches (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2010), 33.
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 227

that he should be humbled or diminished.”76 Ambrose insinuates purpose into


Samson’s capture, rendering its meaning in terms of his adversaries’ deaths
rather than his own moral formation. In this way, per Augustine’s metaphor in
Ciu. Dei 1.21, Samson is represented as the sword in God’s hand, achieving God’s
purposes for the Philistines.
Second, in ep. 62, Samson is indeed an exemplum, although not primarily
of obedience to God, but rather of the importance of avoiding foreign women:
“By this exemplum, therefore, it is clear that the consort of foreign women is
to be shunned, lest the snares of treachery succeed by the dearness of the
spouse.”77 Though Samson was born especially empowered by God’s Spirit, his
association with foreign women cost him his favorable standing with God.78
Indeed, as he makes his secret known to Delilah, he says that if his hair is cut,
then he will lose his uirtus.79 While his restored strength enables him to kill
while dying, he by no means dies virtuous. That is, one does not get the sense
from this letter that the Spirit returns to Samson as he approaches his death.
While Augustine perceives purpose in Samson’s capture, he assesses his
status as exemplum differently than Ambrose does in ep. 62. For Augustine,
Samson is the one through whom the Spirit worked miracles. The same Spirit
commanded (iusserat) him to crush himself and his enemies. Why does he
attribute to Samson obedience to a command from God and treat him as tan-
tamount to Abraham? Augustine’s argument in 1.26 hinges on Samson’s killing
being the result of an unambiguous albeit secret command. In the absence,
however, of such a command recorded within scripture, it is not clear whether
or how Samson’s decision to kill differs from Iephte’s regrettable vow that leads
to the death of his daughter. The source of the command to Samson may be
elucidated if we turn our attention back to Ambrose—but this time not to ep.
62, from which Augustine does indeed depart, but rather to the treatise de spir.
sanct. 2.80

76  Ambrose, ep. 62,33 (CSEL 82,3). “Itaque cum scriptura ei testificetur quod plures in morte
quam in lumine vitae istius positus occiderit, videtur ad adversariorum magis exitium
captus, quam quo ipse deiectior fieret aut minor esset.”
77  Ambrose, ep. 62,34. “Hoc ergo exemplo liquet alienigenarum consortia refugienda, ne pro
caritate coniugii proditionis insidiae succedant.”
78  Ambrose, ep. 62,8.
79  Ambrose, ep. 62,29.
80  De doctrina christiana 4.21 suggests that Augustine had read closely Ambrose’s treatise on
the Holy Spirit, which was written around 381. Though not published until the mid- to late
420s, notes and drafts for book 4 may date to the time of the first books’ publication in
the 390s and so give us reason to believe that Augustine may have internalized the argu-
ment of this treatise before writing book 1 of ciu. Dei. See: James J. O’Donnell, “Doctrina
228 Webb

Samson’s story provides, in book 2 of the de spir. sanct., an illustration of


the Spirit’s power. This follows a discussion of Abraham in book 1, in which
Ambrose argues that the Spirit was known to the figures of the Old Testament.
At the beginning of book 2, Ambrose alludes to this earlier discussion of
Abraham: “But Abraham was not ignorant of the Holy Spirit.”81 To demonstrate
that the Spirit was not only known but also active in the Old Testament, he
turns subsequently to Samson.82
Ambrose’s narrative focus is striking. Recounting the birth of Samson, his
accompaniment by the Spirit, and his great deeds of strength and valor in kill-
ing lions and Philistines, Ambrose leaves Samson still alive. Instead of com-
pleting a renarration of his story, he turns his attention to the Spirit who was
said to have “departed from him” after his hair was cut. This is, indeed, the most
salient aspect of Samson’s story for Ambrose’s current purpose. Samson’s hair
was the sacrament of the strength he received from the Spirit, for Samson says:
“And if I will be shorn, my strength (uirtus) departs from me.”83 Samson indeed
suffered the sudden loss of his uirtus when his hair was cut for, as Ambrose
points out, “[scripture] says, ‘The Lord departed from him.’”84
Identifying virtue with the Lord, and the Spirit with virtue, Ambrose sets
forth the full divinity of the Spirit. He opens chapter 2 as follows: “Therefore
the spirit himself is virtue/strength (uirtus).”85 Ambrose turns to Isaiah 11:2
to bolster this identification: “because you read ‘the spirit of counsel and
virtue/strength (uirtus).’ ”86 Though Ambrose himself is not concerned in de
spir. sanct. with how Samson’s story ends, he provides theological warrant for
believing that Samson’s strength to carry out his final deed signifies the return
of the Spirit.
Presenting the Spirit as an agent of divine command, Augustine relies on
a theological vision of the Spirit like the one developed by Ambrose in the

Christiana, De,” in Augustine through the Ages, 278–80. Quite apart from questions of kill-
ing by divine command, Augustine’s pneumatology seems perhaps more directly to influ-
ence his mention of Samson and Abraham in 1.26, impacting also his inclusion of a key
passage from Paul’s epistles: “No one knows what moves a man except the man’s spirit,
which is in him” (nemo scit quid agatur in homine nisi spiritus hominis, qui in ipso est) (1.26,
quoting 1 Corinthians 2:11).
81  Ambrose, De spiritu sancto, 2, prol.,4 (CSEL 79). “Sed nec Abraham ignoravit spiritum
sanctum.”
82  Not surprisingly, given Ambrose’s assement of him in off. 2, Iephte is not mentioned.
83  Ambrose, de spir. sanct., 2.prol.,16. “Et si tonsus fuero, discedit a me virtus mea.”
84  Ambrose, de spir. sanct., 2.1.17. “Dominus, inquit, discessit ab eo.”
85  Ambrose, de spir. sanct., 2.2.20. “Ipse enim spiritus virtus est . . .”
86  Ambrose, de spir. sanct., 2.2.20. “. . . quia legisti spiritum consilii adque virtutis.”
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 229

s­ ubsequent chapters of book 2 of de spir. sanct. to introduce into Samson’s


story a direct message like the one given to Abraham. Samson’s strength from
the Spirit to carry out his final deed makes it so that, for Augustine and his
readers, it is “right ( fas) for us not to believe otherwise.”87 Fas indicates not
just propriety but also a religious dictate, that is, right according to divine law.
Though the Spirit is largely absent from mention in the first books of ciu. Dei,
the Spirit’s appearance in Samson’s story is significant. The Spirit displaces
Samson, and venerated women who have (unknowingly?) imitated him in car-
rying out their own deaths, as the auctor of killing.
Augustine’s engagement with scripture in 1.21 and 1.26, and particularly
his version of Samson’s story, is uniquely suited to provide an answer to
Marcellina’s question: “What is to be thought regarding the merits of those
who have thrown themselves from on high or have plunged into a river so that
they might not fall into the hands of persecutors, since divine scripture for-
bids the Christian to bear force against himself?” While upholding the exem-
plars to whom Ambrose refers, Augustine’s conclusion is antithetical to that of
Ambrose. Directly concerned with women in his own community who have
endured rape, Augustine intervenes in the transmission of exemplarity narra-
tives that uphold suicide as a virtuous act by suggesting that the most salient
point of similarity is not an experience that compromises one’s sense of honor,
such as rape, but the reception of a (secret) direct divine command to bring
about one’s own death.
In Augustine’s reliance on Samson and Abraham in ciu. Dei 1.26 Augustine
appropriates the exemplarity directive in Rhet. ad Heren. that we considered
above: “[An exemplum] is adopted for those cases in which a similarity exists.”88
In doing so, he demonstrates through named scriptural exemplars how the
contravening command to kill might and might not conduce to death. By
proposing three figures in 1.21 and then leaving Iephte unmentioned in 1.26,
Augustine highlights two conditions for honorable imitation of these figures:
like Abraham, imitators are to have an orientation towards obedience, and
like Samson, imitators are to receive a direct divine command, even if secret.
Moreover, by eliding Iephte, Augustine silences those who would impose
death on another out of their own sense of piety. Both Iephte’s vow and his
victim bear similarities to the situation Augustine faces. Like the unantici-
pated consequences of Iephte’s vow to God, Augustine’s society has commit-
ted itself, through its traditions of exemplarity, to the perpetuation of a view
of female chastity that is deadly in unexpected ways. Just as Iephte’s own life

87  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “. . . aliud nobis fas non credere.”


88  Rhet. ad Heren. 4.49.62.
230 Webb

was not directly implicated in his vow, those who propagate the exemplarity
narratives that conduce to death, such as Ambrose and Augustine’s male read-
ers, are often not among those who must endure death in order to validate
anew the normative claims of those narratives. Rather, as Augustine implores
his readers to see, the victims of this exemplarity machinery are, like Iephte’s
daughter, women who are valuable contributors both to civil society and to
ecclesial communities.

3 Conclusion: Conscience and Spirit

This we say, this we assert, this in all ways we affirm: that no one ought to
willingly carry out death against oneself as if fleeing temporal ills, lest
one should fall into perpetual [ones]; no one [ought to willingly carry out
death against oneself] on account of another’s sins, lest one who is not
polluted by another’s sin might begin to have a most grave (sin) of one’s
own through this; no one on account of one’s own past sins, since this life
is more necessary on account of these, so that one might be able to be
healed by penitence; no one, as if from desire of the better life, which is
hoped for after death, because the better life that comes after death does
not receive those who are guilty of their own death.89

Augustine seeks to forge a better life for his readers and their communities. In
the opening book of ciu. Dei, as I have argued throughout this paper, his par-
ticular concern is for women who have been raped and who must make a deci-
sion about how to respond to their violation: are they to follow the exemplars
of virtue encoded in the Roman and the Roman Christian traditions? Or are
they to obey the more general precept of scripture, “do not kill”? Augustine’s
emphasis on the grave consequences of suicide, where the act does not follow
a direct command from God, is part of an attempt to dissuade such women
from the first of these options. Without due contextualization, however, it can
be, and indeed has been, dangerously misread as a condemnation of those who

89  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “Hoc dicimus, hoc asserimus, hoc modis omnibus adprobamus, neminem
spontaneam mortem sibi inferre debere uelut fugiendo molestias temporales, ne incidat
in perpetuas; neminem propter aliena peccata, ne hoc ipso incipiat habere grauissimum
proprium, quem non polluebat alienum; neminem propter sua peccata praeterita, prop-
ter quae magis hac uita opus est, ut possint paenitendo sanari; neminem uelut desiderio
uitae melioris, quae post mortem speratur, quia reos suae mortis melior post mortem uita
non suscipit.”
Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 231

have killed themselves, regardless of their conditions. To the contrary, I have


argued here that Augustine’s own use of exemplarity narratives is designed to
persuade the reader that no one who has carried out one’s own death can in
fact be condemned by their human peers, since the possibility of a direct com-
mand from God can never fully be rejected.
Indeed, it is not only a direct command from God that might be hidden
from an onlooker’s eyes, and thereby made impossible to judge. Following his
discussion of Samson and Abraham, Augustine turns to a line from Paul’s first
epistle to the Corinthians in order to suggest how extra-scriptural figures, such
as Pelagia, Dommina, and formerly captive Christian women, are to be regarded
in light of scripture. So, how are we to fashion our judgments of anyone?
Augustine writes, “For we come to conscientiam through the ear (aurem),
and we do not use judgment regarding things hidden from us.”90 Augustine
distinguishes, here, between how himself and his readers come to know and
how scriptural authors and ecclesial tradition came to know whether others
are exemplary or not. Furthermore, Augustine does not specify whose consci-
entiam or aurem is at issue here. It is not only that we come to know others
through listening, but we come to know ourselves through being heard. The
things hidden from us, then, are not only matters pertaining to our neighbors
but also to ourselves. Indeed, in 1.17 Augustine writes of women who have
already killed themselves in response to being raped: “who of human affec-
tion would not wish to forgive (ignosci) them?”91 The term here for “forgive” is
­ignosci, which literally means “not to wish to know.”92
Next, Augustine quotes Paul, saying: “nobody knows what is happening in
a person except the spirit of a person, who is in him.”93 The attentiveness with
which one might listen to the Spirit of God in order to learn the things of God
is also to characterize how one listens to fellow human beings. Regarding the
“certain holy women” to whom Augustine refers at the outset of 1.26, there
exist only extra-scriptural attestation to their deeds and motives. In addition,
someone other than the “certain holy woman” whose stories are supposedly
being told pens all these accounts. We are deceived if we think we are hear-
ing anything of Pelagia’s thought process in the words of Ambrose, which are

90  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “nos per aurem conscientiam conuenimus, occultorum nobis iudicium non
usurpamus.”
91  Ciu. Dei 1.17. “. . . quis humanus affectus eis nolit ignosci?”
92  Charlton T. Lewis and Charles Short, “Ignosco,” A Latin Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1879).
93  Ciu. Dei 1.26, quoting 1 Cor. 2.11. “nemo scit quid agatur in homine nisi spiritus hominis, qui
in ipso est.”
232 Webb

e­ xquisitely designed to motivate Marcellina to imitation of (his version of)


Pelagia. Their value lies in their rhetorical efficacy. Without scriptural testi-
mony to or personal account of “what is happening” in “certain holy women,”
we cannot judge their actions.
Augustine transforms the Christian exemplarity tradition by forging a con-
ceptual space within which figures such as Pelagia and Dommina might, like
Abraham, be considered excellent but not exemplary in their actions, relegating
their exemplarity to their obedient orientation towards God. Precisely because
exempla carry normative force, Augustine wants to trouble the approval of cer-
tain narrative actions as exemplary. As modes of instruction, exempla can be
mistaken for conduits of divine command; he insists that they are not. The
condition he sets for exemplarity comes, in the end, not from a similarity in
actions but from one’s orientation towards God, in either obeying a direct
divine command (“kill”/“die”) or obeying a general divine command (“do not
kill”). Regarding the women in Augustine’s community who had already killed
themselves in response to being raped, it cannot be known by any of the liv-
ing whether they imitated only the actions of Pelagia and Dommina or their
obedience to an exceptional divine command. Given this agnosticism, their
exemplary status is ambiguous.
But how to move forward? The conditions that Augustine sets for what would
make a suicide “good” are conditions that cannot be met by any of the available
rape-suicide narratives, as one cannot now become aware of these women’s
conscientia, a matter on which only they can report in their voice through one’s
own ear. Augustine is shifting the focus of what is exemplary from what one
has seen or envisioned through renarration and other forms of commemora-
tion (i.e., martyria) to what one hears regarding another’s conscience. One
cannot judge another based on the actions they have taken, but on the testi-
mony they give (and one hears) about the reasoning and causes behind their
actions. Absent this, one must rely on judgments informed and guided not by
exemplarity narratives that provide too little detail, but by one’s own spirit
within oneself. Augustine’s repeated emphasis on the insufficiency of “certain
holy women” for providing reliable moral guidance constitutes a dismantling
of the exemplarity tradition. He further highlights this insufficiency as he with-
holds details that would enable his readers to identify clearly the exemplar(s)
to which he refers, and in this way he interrupts the cycle of commemoration
and imitation. In addition, Murray has observed that “Augustine omitted most
of the obvious suicide references in the Bible.”94 While for Murray these eli-
sions “reflect the rhetorical orthodoxies of his pagan readership, and partly the

94  Murray, Suicide in the Middle Ages, 119.


Abraham, Samson, and ‘ Certain Holy Women ’ 233

unsystematic character of his suicide chapters as an ensemble,”95 I argue that


Augustine evades presenting scriptural figures such as Saul for the same rea-
son that he eschews the details of Pelagia and Dommina’s stories: to prevent
imitation.96 Augustine’s interaction with both scriptural and extra-scriptural
exemplars bears out Karla Pollman’s comment that, for Augustine, love is “the
normative horizon of hermeneutics.”97 As a result of some women’s refusal to
kill themselves, Augustine endeavors to reshape the normative convictions of
his readers and their communities so that these women might be recognized
as valued members of their societies.
If it becomes impossible to judge a suicide as either “good” or “bad,” then
what of his ominous threat that “the better life that comes after death does not
receive those who are guilty of their own death”? In order to make sense of how
Augustine’s apparent claim to knowledge about the eternal fate of those who
have killed themselves fits into his more thorough-going argument that one
simply cannot know the fate of others, we must also address his comments on
the afterlife in ciu. Dei 1.19, which seem to support the former view, that is, that
suicide would send one to eternal punishment. Insofar as he quotes Virgil to
this effect, however, the reader cannot deduce Augustine’s own views. Rather,
his use of Virgil functions to corner his imagined interlocutor: if Lucretia died
innocent, then she is among those “innocents who beget death for themselves
by [their own] hand” and who “hating the light, cast down their souls; those
desiring to return to the world above (divine) law obstructs, and the sad marsh
and its hateful waters bind them.”98 Augustine’s point is precisely the opposite
of how he is read: if Lucretia is guilty, then she cannot from this Virgilian pas-
sage be said to “hate the light” and is not locked in “the sad marsh and unlovely
waters,” for it is only the innocent who suffer this fate. This is Augustine’s way
of making his readers prefer Lucretia’s guilt to her innocence in killing her-
self, not of advancing a position on what happens to those who die by suicide.
Augustine does not here say what becomes of those who may indeed be guilty
of their own deaths. When Augustine states in conclusion at ciu. Dei 1.26 that

95  Ibid.
96  While he does discuss Judas in 1.17, as a figure Judas is more rhetorically useful in accusa-
tions against one’s opponents than as an inspiration for virtuous imitation. See: Maureen
Tilley, The Bible in Christian North Africa: The Donatist World (Minneapolis: Fortress Press,
1997), 161–168.
97  Karla Pollmann, “Hermeneutical Presuppositions,” in Augustine through the Ages, 427.
98  Ciu. Dei 1.19. “quam certe apud infernos iudices etiam tales, quales poetarum uestrorum
carminibus cantitantur, nulla ratione defenditis, constitutam scilicet inter illos, qui sibi
letum insontes peperere manu lucem que perosi proiecere animas; cui ad superna redire
cupienti fas obstat, tristisque palus inamabilis undae adligat.” Cf. Virgil, Aeneid 6.434–9.
234 Webb

“the better life that comes after death does not receive those who are guilty
of their own death,”99 he does so only after he has demonstrated that the liv-
ing cannot have enough information about those who have died by suicide to
know just who is guilty of their own deaths.
While one might say that legislation, ecclesial or otherwise, that punishes
suicides by denying them burial or precluding inheritance rights seeks, with
Augustine, to prevent imitation suicides, the invocation of a specific person’s
status in the afterlife presupposes a stability of judgment regarding the qual-
ity of that person’s death itself. In this way, such legislation misses Augustine’s
most central concern in the first book of ciu. Dei. Augustine’s argument regard-
ing “certain holy women” is not about whether or not these women and any
who have imitated them have entered “the better life after death,” but whether
or not they are good exemplars for the living. This is insufficient grounds for
legal measures that purport knowledge, the conditions for which Augustine
has designed to be impossible to meet. Augustine advances an unprecedented
collocation of certainty regarding both the imperative of life and the ambigu-
ity regarding those now dead by disassembling the mechanisms by which the
exemplarity tradition functions and normative values are propogated, yet his
efforts are consonant with the malleability of the exemplarity tradition that
offers to its authors the capacity to absorb the vicissitudes of each historical
age.

99  Ciu. Dei 1.26. “quia reos suae mortis melior post mortem uita non suscipit.”
CHAPTER 11

From Slave to Friend: John 15, Philemon, and


Slavery in Augustine

Joseph E. Capizzi

This essay is part of a project on the relationship of Christianity with the insti-
tution and practice of slavery. I here bite off a piece of that larger project by
focusing on Augustine’s reflections on friendship as they pertain to slavery.
The idea I am pursuing presupposes that friendship plays a central role in any
political and social structuring; thus, to transform friendship affects the wider
socio-political context, and vice versa. Augustine’s conception of friendship,
then, if different from accounts prior to his, would influence subsequent socio-
political reflection and structuring, including perhaps slavery. The purpose of
this essay is to explore comments Augustine makes concerning the transfor-
mation of the slave into a “friend” or brother that entails a reformulation of the
relationship of the individual with the political community. By transforming
received accounts of friendship, Augustine creates the possibility for a radical
restructuring of society—including slave society.1
The connection of philosophical or theological doctrines to sociological
developments is notoriously difficult to track, but such a connection is often
asserted by historians. The first part begins by looking at opposing conclusions
about the relationship of Christian doctrine to the problem of slavery. According
to one perspective, Christian doctrine, and Augustine in particular, is respon-
sible for entrenching slavery more deeply into Western society. Though relying
on a thin presentation, the perspective has both the plausibility of numbers
(it seems a common historical perspective that Christianity is a conservative
social force) and the plausibility of argument: certain Scriptural passages, in
particular Romans 13, and theological positions, in particular, Augustine’s,
appear to incline Christianity towards a kind of social conservatism. Another
perspective, however, reaches a different, more ambivalent, conclusion. It

1  “Slave society” is a technical term in much of the literature on slavery, introduced by the
historian Moses I. Finley and subject since then to much discussion. Finley’s idea was to
distinguish places where slavery existed (perhaps uiniversal) from those fewer places where
“the economic and political elite depended primarily on slave labor for basic production . . .”
Moses I. Finley, “Slavery,” in David L. Sills, ed., International Encyclopedia of Social Sciences
(New York: MacMillan, 1968) vol. 14, 310.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_013


236 Capizzi

advances the thesis that Christianity had a corrosive effect on Western politi-
cal culture. The presupposition of this position seems to be that its effect could
only be corrosive—that is, slow and gradually transformative of problem socio-­
political structures—and to look for something else—like a more radical, pro-
gressive social transformation—is misplaced because anachronistic. Among
the problems with this view is it often engages in special-pleading and does
little of the work necessary to evaluate the conclusion. Yet, Christian theolo-
gians should find themselves drawn to it, or its more radical alternative, out
of the presupposition that Christian doctrine ought to have some real effect
on the way people—and especially believers—live in and form communities.
The third alternative—that Christianity left things as it found them—would
seem nearly unimaginable.2
In the second and final part of my essay, I will look at Augustine’s reflections
on friendship, advancing the case that here we have an innovation of prior
philosophical reflection that may provide the basis for corrosion of slavery. To
do that I will briefly contrast Augustine’s view on friendship with Aristotle’s
influential classical account, itself alleged to have a socio-politically conserva-
tive influence. Aristotle, it is said, questions the capacity of unequal persons
to be friends and thereby sets up an understanding of friendship and social
status that becomes influential upon other thinkers and entrenches a static
conception of human relationships. By excluding the possibility of friendship
among unequals, we have in the Aristotelian account a view of humans being
locked into relationships—and manners of interaction—utterly dependent
upon social status.

1 Part One: Different Models of Political Engagement

According to many commentators, the dominant Christian tradition did little


to challenge the socio-political order in which Christians found themselves.
Heavily influenced by certain Scriptural passages to adopt an attitude of indif-
ference towards the world, Christians were content to acknowledge political
authority, much as Jesus had acknowledged Pilate’s (worldly) authority over
him.3 This Christian attitude of indifference influenced Christian thinking on
slavery. For most of Christian history, some commentators argue, Christians
accepted the socio-political orders in which they found themselves and rec-
ognized nothing peculiar about slavery. Following what many take to be an

2  That’s not to deny its possibility. I leave it aside in this investigation and pursue only the first
two alternatives.
3  Cf., John 19:11.
From Slave To Friend 237

Augustinian political analysis, Christian doctrine maintained that slavery


did not differ essentially from other forms of social order. W.L. Westermann
agrees with Adolf Harnack’s conclusion that “it is false to ascribe to the early
Church any consciousness of a ‘slave problem.’ ”4 While some might acknowl-
edge great difficulty in drawing conclusions from Paul’s letter to Philemon,
other commentators agree there is little reason to conclude that Christianity
and slaveholding were in conflict, generally, according to the Apostle.5 Writes
Westermann, “What Paul had done for slavery as it applied to Christian believ-
ers was to accept it as a physical fact, but to spiritualize that acceptance so
that it became almost, if not fully, meaningless for those who were imbued
with his own fervent conviction that Jesus of Nazareth was the ordained Savior
of mankind.”6 Even those who argue that Paul’s admonitions to slaveholders
amount to an innovation do so against the grain of conservative interpreta-
tions of the Pauline texts.7 Thus, James Dunn writes that slavery was not recog-
nized by Paul and the early church as a moral question.8

4  W.L. Westermann, The Slave Systems of Greek and Roman Antiquity (Philadelphia: The
American Philosophical Society, 1955) 150. Westermann quotes from Harnack’s Expansion
of Christianity 1 (New York: Putnams, 1904): 207. James D.G. Dunn makes the same point,
claiming that “in the ancient world slavery was accepted as an integral part of society . . .”
Dunn, The Epistles to the Colossians and to Philemon: A Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand
Rapids, Mich.: Eedmans, 1996) 306.
5  On the ambiguity in Philemon, cf. Peter Stuhlmacher, Der Brief An Philemon, Evangelisch-
Katolischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament, (Zurich: Neukirchener, Benziger Verlag, 1981);
Jean-Francois Collange, L’épitre de Saint Paul A Philémon Commentaire du Nouveau Testament
Deuxieme Série XIc, (Geneve: Labor et Fides, 1987); John M.G. Barclay, “Paul, Philemon and
the Dilemma of Christian Slave-Ownership” New Testament Studies 37 (1991) 161–186, and
Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Letter to Philemon, The Anchor Yale Bible (New Have: Yale University,
2008). Collange (at 72) suggests the ambiguity allows Philemon to work out the legal aspects
of his relationship to Onesimus: “Il est un peu vain dés lors de tenter de préciser les formes con-
crétes d’une attente que Paul se garde bien de préciser pour laisser justement é Philémon l’usage
plein et entier de sa responsabilité; simple pardon, libération partielle, affranchasiment, renvoi
auprés del Paul pour le seconder, etc.”
6  Westermann, Slave Systems, 150.
7  See John Howard Yoder, The Politics of Jesus, 2d ed., (Grand Rapids, MI.: Eerdmans Press, 1995)
166–167 and 178. Yoder calls the conservative reading the “traditional position” and presents
a powerful case for a non-coercive alternative interpretation of Philemon. Yoder reveals
implicitly the extent to which the traditional position is based on an unexamined assump-
tion about the nature of political action (much as he does throughout this book). See also
James Burtchaell’s Philemon’s Problem (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1998) introductory
essay by the same name.
8  Dunn, The Epistles, 306. See to the contrary of this startling conclusion, Peter Garnsey’s con-
clusion: “The ancient world does not fit the model of a slave society (or societies) wherein
slavery was simply accepted. . . . Interventions of a critical or justificatory nature did occur,
238 Capizzi

The claim that Christianity entrenches slavery draws on theological argu-


ment casting Augustine as the villain. Arthur Rupprecht locates a subtle
change in attitude towards the slave in the writings of Origen, Clement and
Tertullian.9 According to him, the earliest Christian fathers exhibited no
prejudice towards slaves, indeed “one has the feeling that the early Church
took seriously the injunctions to care for the slave as a brother.”10 By the time
Origen, Clement and Tertullian are writing, Rupprecht argues, the tone of the
early Fathers has changed from sympathy for the slave to harshness. He finds
this mutation of Christian sympathy particularly bemusing since his sources
indicate that slavery was infrequently practiced in the societies of Origen and
Clement. He concludes that perhaps the infrequency of slavery was itself the
cause of their prejudice. “[T]he hostile and rigid views of slavery that both
Origen and Clement entertained may be due to the fact that they never really
came in contact with them in any numbers.”11
Then Rupprecht drops the hammer to the anvil: Augustine’s analysis, he
writes, adds a “nauseating” paternalism to the prejudice of these forebears.
Citing two damning phrases from The City of God, Rupprecht concludes that
it was a great tragedy of history that Augustine’s thought became set in the
consciousness of the middle ages at a time when the disappearance of slavery
and the favored status of the faith could have combined to prevent a further
1500 years of misery. “Sad to say,” however, “Augustine’s shrill tone has echoed
and re-echoed through the ages.”12 And now for the kicker: Rupprecht’s alle-
gation is that Augustine turned from Christian and Stoic theories of equality

anxieties and tensions surfaced, and ideologies were actively engaged in keeping them in
check. The voices raised in justification and loaded explanation of the existence of slavery
are much the more numerous and authoritative, but this in itself implies there was per-
ceived to be a case to be answered.” Garnsey, Ideas of Slavery from Aristotle to Augustine
(W.B. Stanford Memorial Lectures) (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1996) 238.
9  Arthur A. Rupprecht, “Attitudes on Slavery Among the Church Fathers,” New Dimensions
in New Testament Study ed. Richard N. Longenecker and Merrill C. Tenney (Grand Rapids,
Mich.: Zonderan Publishing House, 1974.
10  Rupprecht, op. cit., 266.
11  Ibid., 268.
12  Ibid., 273. In The City of God, Augustine writes: “when men are subjected to one another in
a peaceful order, the lowly position does as much good to the servant as the proud posi-
tion does harm to the master” [Bk. 19, ch. 15; Hominibus autem illo pacis ordine, quo aliis
alii subiecti sunt, sicut prodest humilitas servientibus, ita nocet superbia dominantibus.];
and “masters ought to feel their position of authority a greater burden than servants do
their service”; [Bk. 19, ch. 16; magis debent patres quod dominantur, quam servi tolerare
quod serviunt].
From Slave To Friend 239

towards Aristotle’s theory of the natural inequality (and natural servitude of


some) of humanity.13 We have, then, Rupprecht arguing that the noxious mix
of Aristotelian inequality added to Christian paternalism poisons Western
Christian attitudes towards slavery for a millennium and a half.
Similar to Rupprecht, and perhaps of greater consequence, the noted classi-
cal historian Keith Bradley writes, that “though Christianity offered its adher-
ents an equality of opportunity that had previously been unknown . . . by the
turn of the third century Christianity had brought little change for good to the
Roman slavery system.”14 There was no Christian objection to owning slaves,
there had been little change in treatment of slaves, and this only got worse
as time passed. “The effect [of Christianity] was to reinforce the legitimacy of
slavery as an institution, not to bring alleviation to those who suffered under
it or in any way to promote equality in the church between master and slave.”15
As with Rupprecht, Bradley connects the Christian view of slavery to the
Aristotelian view of natural slavery: the Christians “relied on a spiritual image
that bolstered the acceptability of slavery in the real world and increased the
ammunition of those who wished to regard it as a natural human institution.”16
By the time Augustine got through pronouncing slavery an apt punishment for
human sin, Bradley writes, “Christianity did not humanise or otherwise improve
the life of the slave; it destroyed it.”17 The catastrophic influence of Christian
theology on slavery is, as Bradley suggests, ironic. He notes how “Christian
teachers took their good news directly to the slave population. Slaves were
addressed in a new way, in their own right,. . .”18 The sarcasm in Bradley’s use of
“good news” is impossible to miss: the “good news” was delivered “not with the
end of breaking down barriers between slave and free in mind; rather, slaves as
in the past were to know their place, but, because eternal life after death was so
important, they were now positively instructed by those in authority to stay in
it, to be content with it, not to question it. . . .”19 Here Bradley quotes historian
Geoffrey de Ste Croix’s acidic conclusion, “Whatever the theologian may think

13  Ibid., 271: “[Augustine] takes the biblical data quite literally and develops a system
based on Aristotelian logic—more particularly, with regard to slavery, an Aristotelian
anthropology.”
14  Bradley, Slavery and Society at Rome 145–146.
15  Ibid., 150.
16  Bradley, 153.
17  Ibid., 151.
18  Ibid., 150.
19  Ibid.
240 Capizzi

of Christianity’s claim to set free the soul of the slave . . . the historian cannot
deny that it helped to rivet the shackles rather more firmly on his feet.”20
Christianity is not without its defenders, however. In a comprehensive
article in the 1913 edition of The Catholic Encyclopedia,21 Paul Allard rehearses
some of the points he defended elsewhere, particularly in his Les esclaves chre-
tiens depuis les premiers temps de l’Eglise jusqu’d la fin de la domination romaine
en Occident. His thesis is to “show what Christianity has done for slaves and
against slavery, first in the Roman world, next in that society which was the
result of barbarian invasions, and lastly in the modern world.”22 Allard alludes
to the new relationship between master and slave occasioned by Christianity,
but Allard claims that this is the result first of the different attitude of Mosaic
law to slavery: “The Mosaic Law was merciful to the slave.” The combination
of the Judaic form of slavery with Christian equality “grew up as the effect of
[the Apostles’] teaching.”23 Although Christianity “accepts society as it is, influ-
encing it for its transformation through, and only through, individual souls,”
Christianity steadily “relieved the condition of the slave” until “the church
became by force of circumstances a proprietor of human beings, for whom,
in these troublous times, the relation was a great blessing.” By the Middle
Ages slavery had been virtually wiped out in Western Europe, particularly in
Catholic countries. Slaves still could be found in Western Europe, “but the
number of these slaves was always very small in comparison with that of the
Christian captives reduced to slavery in Mussulman [sic] countries.”24 So even
though slavery lingered in West Europe, comparatively slavery was much less
entrenched than in Muslim society.
Allard’s point is clear. Christianity, particularly Catholic Christianity, did not
include among its goals the eradication of slavery. Yet the mere message of
equality directed by Christianity towards the souls of individuals eroded the
foundation of slavery throughout Europe. Other recent encyclopedias repeat
the fundamental assertion of older analyses, that “the early Christian ideol-
ogy undermined the institution of slavery, declaring an equality of all people
in Christ.”25 The emphasis of their explanations rests on the transformative

20  Ibid. From G.E.M. de Ste Croix’s, The Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World, 420.
21  The Catholic Encyclopedia, vol. 14 (New York: The Universal Knowledge Foundation, Inc.,
1913) 36–39.
22  Ibid., 36 col. I.
23  Ibid.
24  Ibid., 36–38.
25  The Anchor Bible Dictionary vol. 6 ed. David Noel Friedman (New York: Doubleday,
1992) 65.
From Slave To Friend 241

effect of Christian principles. Thus, Paul’s admonitions to slaves and masters26


“sought to transform attitudes that were endemic to the patriarchal system,
such as cruel dominance by owners into fairness and compassion, and servile
deception by slaves into honesty and hard work.”27 “The Church took men and
society as she found them and did her utmost to transform them.”28 Carrying
the message of the fundamental equality of all people in Christ, then, “it was
only a question of time” before Christianity “must disintegrate this venerable
institution, however deeply rooted and widely spread.29
Most of these kinds of claims, however, come with little theological reference
or argument. Rupprecht’s and Bradley’s can seem sneering, and Allard’s spe-
cial pleading. Rupprecht’s claim about Augustine adopting Aristotle’s theory
of the natural inequality of humanity seems in desperate need of support for
its vindication, especially since unlike Aristotle (arguably), Augustine rejects
the idea slavery derives from a natural hierarchy among persons. Regardless
of whether Aristotle endorsed or merely passed on the view that some were
destined by nature for enslavement, Augustine decisively rejected that idea,
arguing to the contrary that slavery was a convention and not the natural state
of any man. “The first cause of slavery is sin,” he writes in book nineteen of the
City of God.30
A better analysis of the relationship of Christian thought to social develop-
ments would, at a minimum, have to begin with a closer analysis of Christian
thought itself. This is not to deny that Christian theology or scripture could be
used to support (or undermine) social institutions if they were misunderstood
or abused. Of course that could, and no doubt did, happen (and will continue
to happen). But to give a fair hearing to Christian thought would seem a first
step in assessing our expectations for its possible social influence. Rupprecht
and Bradley pay no attention to other Christian doctrines that may have chal-
lenged social relationships. Instead, as with Allard we get airy references to
Christian notions of equality, but little effort to spell out what those were or

26  See, for example, Col. 3:22–23, 4:1 and Eph. 6:5–9.
27  The Anchor Bible Dictionary 69.
28  New Catholic Encyclopedia vol. 13 “Scu to Tex” (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1967), article
“Slavery (And the Church) C. Williams: 281. Cf. also J.K. Ingram, LL.D., “Slavery,” The
Encyclopedia Britannica: A Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, and General Literature 9th ed.,
(American Reprint) vol. XXIII, 1888: 142 col. II–143 col. I.
29  J.B. Lightfoot, St. Paul’s Epistles to the Colossians and Philemon: A Revised Text with
Introduction, Notes and Dissertations (Hendrickson Publishers, 1995) 325.
30  “Prima ergo servitutis causa peccatum est”; ciu. Dei XIX, ch. 15. Augustine continues, deny-
ing that slavery to other men or sin is from nature: “Nullus autem natura, in qua prius Deus
hominem condidit, servus est hominis aut peccati.”
242 Capizzi

how they might challenge received assumptions about socio-political status.


The closest we come is to Rupprecht’s allegation about Augustine’s adoption
of Aristotle’s view on slavery and Bradley’s insinuation that Christian thinking
“increased the ammunition” of those who regarded slavery a natural institution.
We can already begin to see the oddness of Bradley’s claim: the Jewish and
Christian scriptures rather clearly argue against slavery as natural. As Augustine
points out in the City of God, we don’t encounter any mention of slavery until
Genesis 9.25, when Noah punishes his son’s sin with the name “slave.” As
Augustine says, “The son earns the name because of his fault, not his nature.”31
Why, or how, would such explicit rejection of slavery as natural arm those who
argue slavery is natural? Now, it remains possible that Christianity could sup-
plant the “by nature” justification of slavery with its “by fault” justification,
which, possibly, could be worse for the slave. But that is not what Bradley
argues and to argue the “by fault” case would involve him in greater attention
to the specifics of the Christian message than he may have wanted to entertain.
His failure, and the failure of many on either side of this approach is to assume
some timetable by which to measure the effect of the ideas on social change
and use that timetable to influence the assessment of the ideas. So, beginning
with the assumption that Christianity failed in a timely way to dissolve the
relationship of master and slave, Bradley accuses Christian thinking of rein-
forcing a position (slavery by nature) it explicitly and repeatedly rejected.

2 Part Two: Friendship and Slavery

So, for the sake of looking again at this nettlesome question I would like to look
at friendship and its place in Augustine’s thought. I cannot do this at length, but
I hope to set up subsequent conversation about the way Augustine’s thinking
on friendship may have influenced social developments, including develop-
ments in slavery as traced out by Rupprecht, Bradley, Allard and others. Again:
the understanding of friendship Augustine advances seems contrary to that of
Aristotle in at least one important respect. Aristotle places friendship into the
context of politics and arguably a politics marked by rigid social stratification.
Augustine, on the other hand, drawing on scripture converts this understand-
ing of friendship, basing friendship not on anything to do with social class or
human capacity, but instead upon the gift of God’s love.
Aristotle’s primary discussion of philia comes in books 8 and 9 of his
Nicomachean Ethics. His lengthy discussion there reflects the importance of

31  “Nomen itaque istud culpa meruit, non natura”; ciu. Dei XIX, ch. 15.
From Slave To Friend 243

the subject: Aristotle understands “friendship” not just to be important for per-
sonal relationships, but for political ones as well. He states, “friendship seems to
hold states together, and lawgivers care more for it than justice.”32 Friendship,
or philia, was “the central, organizing principle of Greek life.”33 Without friend-
ship, one loses connection to the world. Among the ways friendship relates to
politics can be numbered that the political community sets the framework for
the possibilities of friendships. The polis and friendship implicate each other
at every turn. Even the highest form of friendship, the friendship of virtue,
requires the polis “to allow for the conceptual and practical space for friendly
seeking of the good.”34
The starkest expression of the interwoven nature of politics and friendship
is in the ways status sets boundaries on types of friendships into which one can
enter. Social status both determines with whom one can make friends and the
limits of the kinds of friendships one can have.35 Only free men, for instance,
can attain to the highest form of friendship often called “virtue” or “character”
friendship. Both partners in such a friendship must be of the same class and
have similar capacity and character. People of limited rational capacity are
incapable of pursuing certain goods and thus are excluded from friendships
with others having full capacity.36 Slaves, women, and the vast majority of men
are thus excluded from having the highest kind of friendship. Further, friend-
ships presuppose equalities that find—or should find—political expression.
Friendship rests on freely chosen goods around which the friendship develops.
The well-structured socio-political order reinforced and mediated the param-
eters of friendships and the friendships themselves further entrenched that
socio-political order.37

32  Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 1155a23–25.


33  Frank Vander Valk, “Friendship, Politics, and Augustine’s Consolidation of the Self,”
Religious Studies v. 45, no. 2, June 2009 125–146 at 127. See also Jacques Derrida, Politics of
Friendship (London: Verso, 1997).
34  Ibid., 128.
35  This is a standard interpretation of Aristotle on friendship. I do not here endorse this
view. To the contrary, see John Cooper, “Aristotle on Friendship,” in Essays on Aristotle,
ed. Amélie Oksenberg Rorty. (Berkeley: University of California, 1980) 301–340. Compare
as well Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1958), see
chapter one especially.
36  See Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics II.1161b1–2.
37  This contrasts sharply with Epicurean thought. “For Epicurus there is intrinsically no con-
nection between politics and friendship. Rather, the state and friendship are ­antithetical.
The Epicurean sage, in distinction from previous Greek philosophical heroes, escapes
from the political life into friendship. (H. Hutter, Politics as Friendship 1978, 117)
244 Capizzi

Augustine’s account of friendship, however, contains no such political


entailments—which is not to deny its political consequence. Augustine drew
on classical Greek and Roman accounts of friendship. Aristotle contributed
to this intellectual milieu, as did Gospel and Pauline texts. At least some of
these Christian texts on friendship occurred in contexts of political collision
or challenge. Significant among these are John 15.15: Jesus tells his disciples,
“No longer do I call you slaves [douloi], for the slave does not know what the
master’s doing, but I have called you friends” [philoi—equal and intimate asso-
ciates38], and Philemon 16: “No longer as a slave [hos doulon] but as more than
a slave, as a beloved brother [adelphon agapeton—drawing on Paul’s reference
to Philemon in his greeting as agapetos].39 He is such to me, but how much
more to you, both as a human being and in the Lord.” In cases like these and
others, the language is saturated with social and political significance, even
if the activity is not. In Philemon, Paul returns Onesimus to his master as the
law requires, but he does so on the grounds that Philemon see beyond the law
to Onesimus’s new status as a new creature (2 Cor. 5.17), an adopted child of
Paul and thus of God; a brother and a friend in Christ. In both texts, we see the
speaker reject the status of slavery in favor of a new relationship, a relationship
of equals who “know what the other is doing” or a relationship of brothers with
the expectation as Paul tells Philemon, “that [Philemon] will do even more
than [Paul asks].”
Augustine’s references to friendship are sprinkled throughout his works.
They develop over time, drawing with equal ease on scriptural and Greek and
Roman philosophical sources, and his own intimate experiences. The unifying
element is love, or caritas, a “unique form of affection made possible by the
love and grace of God.”40 God is the source of love. Man’s love of God, self, and
other reflects the gift of love he has received from God. Man has not earned it:
he makes no claims upon it by race, birth, social status, or capacity. Such love
is universal, dissolves given socio-political bonds, and creates the basis of new
communities formed on love of God. Love makes universal friendships pos-
sible. Humans can be friends of the angels (amicitia sanctorum angelorum,41

38  See Francis J. Moloney, S.D.B. The Gospel of John in the Sacra Pagina Series, ed. Daniel J.
Harrington, p. 425.
39  Fitzmyer, 114. Compare what Paul here says to Colossians 4.9, when Onesimus is called
“dear and beloved brother, who is one of you.”
40  Vander Valk, 140–141.
41  Ep. 130, 13 (CSEL 44, 54).
From Slave To Friend 245

Augustine writes) and friends with Christ (amicitia Christi42) and friends with
all other men in Christ.
Upon his conversion and over time, Augustine becomes increasingly con-
vinced true friendship must be rooted in shared love of God.43 In fact, he will
claim that absent that shared love, even partial friendship does not exist. His
point, it seems, is not to deny that people can have other sources of agree-
ment, but that without a shared agreement on divine and human things, even
human agreement becomes suspect because the divine is their true measure.
In his letter to Martianus, written while Augustine was a bishop, he explains
to Martianus that until he converted their friendship was only apparent.
“Between friends who do not agree on things divine there cannot be a full and
true agreement on things human either.”44 Augustine and Martianus were not
even “partly” friends, Augustine writes. He therefore gives thanks that “ ‘now
we have agreement on things human and divine along with good will and love’
in Christ Jesus, our Lord, our truest peace.”45 Christ makes true friendships pos-
sible among all men.
Augustine elevates and transforms friendship by placing Christ at its cen-
ter. Christ makes friendships possible, sustains them by his loving activity, and
purifies men’s capacity to love. To our ears Augustine’s comments centering
friendship in the love of Christ sound narrow and intolerant, suggesting that
Christians can only have other Christians as friends (and perhaps that real
friendship is not possible among non-Christians). There are two reasons to
allow his teaching to challenge our perception. The first is that far from being
narrow, the claim he recounts to Martianus allows friendships to travel up
and down social classes without distinction. In essence, it destroys the social
impediments to friendships found in Aristotelian thinking. All those who love
God may be friends and are united and sustained by the love of God in friend-
ships despite their social location. The second reason is that we must recall
for Augustine the boundaries of the church are not settled during its sojourn
through time and were not defined by membership in the visible Christian
community. We already saw that he announced those who love God count as
friends the angels and the saints; in addition, however, for Augustine those
united by love of God may be outside or inside the visible church. The commu-
nity formed by Christ’s love is a mystical community, united by that love and

42  En. Ps. 131, 6 (PL 37, 178).


43  Following John F. Monagle, “Friendship in St. Augustine’s Biography: Classical Notions of
Friendship,” Augustinian Studies, vol. 2, 1971, 85.
44  New City, ep. 258 to Martianus, p. 195. (CSEL 57, 608)
45  Ibid.
246 Capizzi

c­ onfounding the boundaries of settled human communities.46 Augustine thus


writes memorably of how the reprobate and the good are caught up in the net
of the Gospel, and swim intermingled as in the sea only to be sorted out upon
being pulled into shore.47
It is important to note that love does not deny the distances between people.
As we see from his comments on man’s capacity to be friends with God and
angels, love does not require similarity. We see the obvious and banal differ-
ences between us, Augustine notes, adding, “What is so far away, so remote, as
God from men, the immortal from mortals, the just one from sinners? Not far
away by space, but unlikeness?” Nothing is more distant—or unlike—than the
just one and the sinner, and yet the just one made possible friendship between
himself and us by taking on our mortality. “He came down to us to become,
that far distant being, our near neighbor.”48 Just as Christ, then, can conde-
scend to love us despite that seemingly unbridgeable divide between us and
Him, he makes capable concord among men despite the “great many nations
throughout the world, living according to different rites and customs, distin-
guished by many different forms of language, arms and dress. . . .”49
Related to this is the relocation of the basis of reciprocity in friendship.
Whereas Aristotle’s understanding of friendship understandably rests reci-
procity on sameness—the giving and receiving characteristic of friendship
requires a face to face encounter, for Augustine reciprocity in friendship stems
from the love of Christ. Christ’s love elevates the loves of friends to the point
of equality, regardless of their prior station. According to Augustine the eleva-
tion occurs because “when men are rightly loved, what is loved in them is love
itself.”50 By the act of loving men are drawn up into the love by which they
love. Men can do this because of they share in the image of the Creator “whose
love is eternal and true.” As they “contemplate His image in themselves” men
“arise and return to Him Whom [they] had forsaken by [their] sin.”51 None of
this washes away our uniqueness; it comports with it.52

46  See ciu. Dei Bk. XVIII, ch. 54.


47  Ciu. Dei, Bk. XVIII, ch. 49, “. . . multi reprobi miscentur bonis et utrique tamquam in sage-
nam evangelicam colliguntur et in hoc mundo tamquam in mari utrique inclusi retibus
indiscrete natant, donec perveniatur ad litus . . .”
48  Sermon 171, 3, 3. (New City, Sermons, pp. 248–249.)
49  Ciu. Dei, XIV, 1. (Cambridge 581).
50  Ciu. Dei XI, 28.
51  Ibid.
52  See Augustine’s beautiful claims about moral differences among persons in ciu. Dei
XVI, 36.
From Slave To Friend 247

Christian friendship, then, as conceived of by Augustine, describes rela-


tionships transformed by the transforming love of Christ in each man. The
transformations occur in the person himself who becomes capable of “seeing
rightly” not only the source of all love in Christ, but by that seeing the world
aright for the first time. Christ becomes the standard by which all loves are
measured. His condescension towards all becomes the measure of man’s con-
descension to others: there is no a priori limitation placed upon man’s capacity
to love other men. The bonds of friendship extend outward and inward: toward
man himself, toward all other men, toward the angels and the saints.53
Augustine’s view of friendship at least allows the possibility of friendship
among slaves and free. In sermon 296 (written in 411), he draws upon John 15:15
in counseling patience to those who wish to know why Christians must suffer
(and why, more precisely, Rome suffers). Throughout the sermon, he refers to
himself and followers of Christ as slaves (servi), so by the time he comes to
the text of John 15:15, the gospel’s use of the term becomes inclusive of all,
regardless of station: all those who follow Christ as slaves and friends, joined
by Christ’s love and entitled to know God’s plan.
It is clear from this sermon and other texts in Augustine that he regards
the Christian’s lot as joined to the slave’s, not merely in a spiritual sense, but
in a physical one as well: the Christian will suffer in this world for his belief.
The dissolution of social status as it relates to the possibilities of goodness
and friendship pertains to suffering as well: Christians, Jew or Greek, slave or
free, male or female will find themselves ruled by unjust masters. They are all
counseled to be patient, to obey, not because the master is unjust, or the slav-
ery acceptable, but because they know—unlike those around them—that the
injustice and its suffering are only seasonal.54 In his “exposition” on Psalm 124,
Augustine continues this moral analysis of the state of the believer. Society has
been flattened out, as it were, such that the only significant point of distinc-
tion is between believer and unbeliever. All believers are servi, ready to tolerate
suffering as is the lot of the slave, but yet ready to rejoice should the suffering
be mild. They can expect and demand nothing and only accommodate them-
selves to God’s will.55
Augustine’s constant counsel of patience and obedience, combined with
advancing the metaphor of master-slave throughout his writings does indeed
provide “ammunition” to those who would rivet the shackles more firmly to his

53  Cf. ciu. Dei, XIV, 28: “id ex” . . . pectans praemium in societate sanctorum non solum homi-
num, uerum etiam angelorum, ut sit Deus omnia in omnibus.” (PL 41, 436)
54  Augustine, en. ps. 124, no. 8.
55  Sermon 296, 8.
248 Capizzi

ankles. The counsel to obedience, to serve dutifully even him the slave knows
to be unjust, appears to us now as entrenching a manifestly unjust institu-
tion when at some level we wish Augustine (and Paul before him) had instead
counseled resistance. There can be no question that many served by the main-
tenance of slavery drew upon these texts. But this is not the whole story of
the relationship of belief to social institutions. Augustine’s message, follow-
ing Paul’s, of the friendships possible in Christ’s love were a toxin to the roots
of slavery and an impetus to action. Yes, Paul does not tell Philemon to free
Onesimus; he tells him instead to welcome his slave as he would welcome Paul
and coyly says he expects him to do still more. And Augustine, who counsels
obedience and patience to the slave, writes passionately of his and his see’s
attempts to ransom citizens kidnapped into slavery.56
Much more on this needs to be said, of course. The relationship of philo-
sophical and religious beliefs to social transformation remains hard to track
and is fraught with moves in contrary directions. In a sense, the criticisms of
Paul and Augustine are akin to their praise in suggesting a simpler case than
does, and possibly can, exist. Even when, in Letter 10*, Augustine exhorts
Alypius to see to it that Roman law is enforced protecting “Roman provincials”
from the mangones (slave traders), he cannot bring himself to condemn the
practice of slave-trading in barbarians. The off-key note he plays here rings
of a similar failure by Bartolomé de las Casas, whose early efforts on behalf
of the indigenous populations of the Americas accompanied a call to increase
the African slave trade, a call he later retracted.57 But, of course, the possibili-
ties of de las Casas’s insight into the injustice of slavery differed greatly from
Augustine’s, separated as they are by a millennium. Still, for an unambiguous
denouncement of slavery, the West would wait another two centuries when,
in 1688, the Germantown, Pennsylvania Quakers protested the institution. The
abolition movement, as we know, had another 150 years or so until it gained
traction. And today, we live in the midst of a revival of the trade in human
beings, particularly girls and young women that arguably depends upon global
economic forces we find difficult to condemn unambiguously.58

56  Augustine, Epistle 10*.


57  For a “complicating” view of Las Casas’s place in the advancement of the rights of
native populations, see Daniel Castro, Another Face of Empire: Bartolomé de Las Casas,
Indigenous Rights, and Ecclesiastical Imperialism (Durham: Duke University, 2007).
58  See for instance, Siddharta Kara, Sex Trafficking: Inside the Business of Modern Slavery
(New York: Columbia University, 2009).
From Slave To Friend 249

What I hope to have shown is the basis for a reconsideration of the


Augustinian doctrine on friendship as providing the basis for giving some sub-
stance to an account of Christianity’s relationship to socio-politics, including
slavery, being more complex than typically thought. Certainly there are many
conservative impulses in Christian doctrine and many of these were developed
with great sophistication by social conservatives—including pro-slavery min-
isters and theologians. But there are also countervailing impulses in Christian
thought which must be considered. The relationship of Christianity to slavery
cannot be reduced to how it shackled the slave more tightly without work-
ing through how Christianity made sense of Paul’s reference to Onesimus,
the former slave, as “the faithful and beloved brother, who is one of yourselves.”
(Col. 4:9)
CHAPTER 12

From Ordo to Potestas: Romans 13 and


Saint Augustine’s Chastened Civil Confidence

David Vincent Meconi

The Vandal siege during which Augustine died was precipitated by


political treachery and a petty thirst for revenge. According to the historian
Procopius, the two leading Roman generals of the fifth century, Aetius and
Boniface, came to serious disagreement over affairs of state (διαφόρω μὲν τὰ
πολιτικὰ)—namely, the Empress Placidia’s naming Boniface comes domestico-
rum of North Africa.1 In one deceiving stroke of cunning, Aetius consequently
pitted the two against each other: he first wrote to his new rival and informed
Boniface that the Empress Mother actually was working to get him out of the
way (ἐκποδὼν), and then turned around and slandered (διέβαλεν) Boniface to
Placidia, spreading rumors of his mistrust and perfidy. Placidia was already
challenged by Boniface’s popularity on two fronts, so this further agitation
only made her more suspicious. Unlike the Empress-Mother, Boniface enjoyed
great popularity among most of the Roman populace, both plebian and sena-
torial classes alike; furthermore, he was also accepted by very powerful people
outside the Nicene-Church, evidenced by his supposed easygoingness toward
Catholic heretics (he not only married a pagan, their daughter was baptized by
an Arian priest, and many of Boniface’s leading soldiers proved to be Gothic
Arian foederati and friends with Donatist remnants in Africa). From her own
fear, then, Placidia recalled the great Boniface to Rome (ἐς Ῥώμην) in 427.2
However, Boniface unawares continued to entrust himself to the duplici-
tous Aetius, who persisted in assuring him that Placidia would not rest until
Boniface was stripped of all power. Fearful for his life, Boniface consequently
forged an alliance with the Vandals in Spain, making it worth their while to
travel down en masse into Libya. Even for a pagan sympathizer like Boniface,
this act of treason seemed wholly incongruous with his life of imperial ­service;

1  This listing of events is found at Procopius of Caesarea’s History of the Wars, III.3; the Greek
is taken from H.B. Dewing’s The Loeb Classical Library edition (vol. 81 [1916] 1990) 26–35; see
also, Theophanes, Chronicles 1.95.
2  Giusto Traina suggests that this was done at the behest of Felix, cf., 428 AD: An Ordinary Year
at the End of the Roman Empire (Princeton University Press, 2009) 85.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���5 | doi ��.��63/9789004304567_014


From Ordo to Potestas 251

consequently, some of his senatorial friends intervened. Once Boniface had


revealed Aetius’ letter to them, the Roman delegation and the Empress knew
they had been duped. Yet it was too late: Gaiseric and his marauders took
Boniface’s command to pull back as an insult and began their conquest of
North Africa. By the year 429, the Goth general Sigisvult had taken Carthage,
Boniface had retreated surely shamefacedly back to Placidia, replacements
from Rome as well as Byzantium were slaughtered, and 14 long months later,
Gaiseric entered Hippo Regius victorious.
This brutal time during which Augustine himself died, symbolizes well his
own diminishing trust in the ability of civil leaders to effect true peace. While
his belief that the political realm was somehow a manifestation of divine prov-
idence never wavered, Augustine does show greater and greater misgivings
about the earthly ruler’s potential in establishing divine order. Nowhere is this
more obvious than in his reading of Romans 13, and Augustine’s reliance on
St. Paul to iterate secular authority’s divine origin. All temporal laws worthy of
civil obedience are necessarily derived from eternal justice, thereby bringing
true equity to all concerned.
Bracketing Augustine’s use of Romans 13 is particularly important because
here the later theoretical groundwork needed to develop the Christian state
was established. In a series of studies a generation ago, Wilfrid Parsons, S.J.
contends that this Augustinian application of St. Paul provided later political
justifications with the dialectic that those who preside politically must first obey
God as the source of their power, while all citizens must obey rightful author-
ity out of Christian duty. According to Parsons, this is what would “remake the
world and will, in fact, create what we call Christendom, a ­politico-religious
order designed to unite mankind, by bending the super­natural to the uses of
the temporal state.”3 Such unity was of course sanctioned by St. Paul in his
directive at Rom 13:1:

Let every person be subordinate to the higher authorities, for there is no


authority except from God, and those that exist have been established
by God.

Omnis anima potestatibus sublimioribus subdita sit non est enim potestas
nisi a Deo quae autem sunt a Deo ordinatae sunt.

3  Wilfrid Parsons, S.J., “The Influence of Romans XIII on Christian Political Thought II:
Augustine to Hincmar,” Theological Studies 1.4 (Dec, 1940) 337–64; 327.
252 Meconi

In this passage, the Apostle reintroduces Caesar to God, and reminds the
Romans that there are in fact not two distinct sources of authority but only
one, and that all potestas is ultimately derived from the Lord himself.
Recall how this passage plays out in Augustine’s own tracing of imperial
power in the middle books of his De Ciuitate Dei: “The same God who gave
power to Marius also gave it to Gaius Caesar; the same God who gave power
to Augustus also gave it to Nero . . . the same God gave power to Constantine
the Christian also gave it to Julian the Apostate . . . Clearly the one true God
rules and governs all these things as he pleases.”4 Augustine does not hesitate
to acknowledge the rightful potestas of both a Catholic Constantine as well as
an apostate Julian, because he realized that all true dominance comes from the
one, true Dominus. He accordingly uncovered in Rom 13:1 the scriptural war-
rant for both Christians’ assenting to non-Christian rulers as well as the pos-
sibility of civil disobedience whenever any ruler is in discordance with divine
justice.
This essay thus traces the decades of Augustine’s own use of Rom 13:1 and
his acknowledgement of the source and the validity of secular authority. My
study here argues for three distinct interpretive schemes as Augustine’s think-
ing on the on the relationship between divine order and secular power devel-
oped over his many years of Christian service.
First, when Augustine aimed to live as a withdrawn contemplative in the
otium of his studies and the stability of his community (386–91), he more easily
interweaves the concept of divine order within his recognition of civic power.
That is, there is evident an initial optimism when treating the state’s ability
to establish the proper order needed for the soul’s graced perfection. Second,
as an ordained ecclesiastic and as one now necessarily charged with a certain
level of secular involvement, Augustine grew out of his initial exuberance for
the state’s effecting the order needed for beatitude. Now ordo instead became
a more cosmological and spiritual term, attributed to the work of the Spirit in
aligning creation aright. The third phase comes as Augustine matured in his
episcopal authority (especially as he composed the City of God). With many
decades of civil and ecclesial involvement behind him, he ultimately came to
terms with the obvious reality that the state was not able to effect any salvific
order but, rather, existed to put into force the civil potestas needed to squelch
social unrest and individual corruption.

4  De Ciuitate Dei (ciu. Dei) 5.21; trans., William Babcock, The City of God, Books 1–10 (Hyde Park,
NY: New City Press, 2012) 175.
From Ordo to Potestas 253

1 The Need for Executioners (386–91)

The central concern evident throughout the extant works composed between
Augustine’s baptism and his ordination (387–91) is how to raise the human
mind through and above sensible goods to an everlasting union with the immu-
table God.5 While Augustine’s political reflections in these years are admittedly
scant, the attention he does pay to civil affairs reveals an exuberance in the
ability of secular rulers to effect the ontological order needed for the men and
women entrusted to them to transcend their disordered loves and thus attain
the beatitude all seek. Or as F.E. Cranz noticed, the early dialogues reveal how:
“Man has within himself and his power all that is necessary for the right deci-
sions and the right choices. He rises by reason through ordered stages to his
goal.”6 Whether Cranz might be overly optimistic here is open to argument;
yet what is correct is his emphasizing the order inherent in humanity and, by
extension, human society in Augustine’s thinking at this nascent period. As
Augustine composed his early dialogues, he affirmed how divine order runs
through the whole of creation, even sin enjoying a role to play, and is therefore
readily discernible by those spiritually-formed enough to recognize this har-
monious arrangement.
In these early dialogues, Augustinian order emerges as a two-fold real-
ity: ontologically, as the proper alignment of goods—material bodies, cre-
ated souls, and God in an ascending hierarchy or reality—and morally, as the
proper positioning of loves—God, souls and bodies in descending order. In
Augustine’s earliest treatises, ordering these realities in their proper place
clearly falls within the power of the secular ruler, thereby providing the state
with its divine duty to assist the church in ordering this world: ensuring that
material and mutable existents remain below the worship of the one God
above all.
Nowhere does this connection play out more famously than the example
from the De Ordine (Nov, 386–Mar, 387) and Augustine’s macabre treatment of
the need for the local executioner. Having to set out to show how the civil order
(ordo ciuitatis) is organically related to the divine order (ordo diuinae proui-
dentiae and ordo naturae), he asks “What is ghastlier than a savage and terrible
public executioner? Yet he holds a necessary office in law, and is inserted in the

5  In fact, Augustine even admits toward the end of his life that this understanding of “religion”
as divine union was a deliberate break from his Latin predecessors’ definition as calling back
or together: cf., Retractiones (retr.) 1.13.19 on De Uera Religione (uer. rel.).
6  
F.E. Cranz, “The Development of Augustine’s Ideas on Society before the Donatist
Controversy”, Harvard Theological Review 47.4 (Oct, 1954) 255–316; 269.
254 Meconi

social order of a well-governed state. His personal noxious character is ordered


by others toward punishing other noxious characters.”7 Where one might
expect the attribution of power to one who (literally) wields an axe, Augustine
twice associates the need of a carnifex with the ordering of the city.
For at this time not long after his own Christian catechumenate, Augustine
still saw political authority as able to achieve an order that assists in the process
of Christian salvation. Such order, moreover, represented the created realm’s
participation in the only true concord, the divine law. Augustine sought every-
where in the creation for any imitation, however faint, of that perfect order of
the divine realm. Government played a role in helping to establish this “link”
between the individual and God, Augustine thus stressing how the executioner
achieves civic order (ciuitatis ordinem) and not the lesser important attribute
of power. As unseemly as his agency may be, the executioner assists in estab-
lishing the order needed for the soul to ascend more readily upward; in this
instance supposedly, to suppress violent outbreaks of violence which disrupt a
people and leads only to paralyzing fear or incessant chaos.
In the last work before his ordination, On True Religion (390), Augustine
again unites political power with divine order when discussing the relation-
ship between the inner and outer self. When acting in tandem, the human
person makes progress (profectus) toward God; when discordant, the human
person fails (defectus) to achieve the end for which he or she has been created:

By the advancement of the inner-self it is broken down in such a way that


the whole self may be put together again in better shape and reconsti-
tuted in its entirety at the last trumpet, so that from then on it is neither
broken down nor breaks down. By its own failure, however, it is tossed
into more breakable beauties, that is into the order of pains and penal-
ties. And let us not be surprised at my still calling them beauties. There is
nothing, after all, that is in order which is not also beautiful. And as the
Apostle says: All order is from God.8

7  De Ordine (ord.) 2.4.12: “Quid enim carnifice tetrius? quid illo animo truculentius atque dir-
ius? At inter ipsas leges locum necessarium tenet et in bene moderatae ciuitatis ordinem
inseritur estque suo animo nocens, ordine autem alieno poena nocentium”; CCL 29.114.
8  Uer. rel. §41.77: “Sed profectu interioris ita corrumpitur, ut totus in melius reformetur, et res-
tituatur in integrum in novissima tuba, ut iam non corrumpatur neque corrumpat. Defectu
autem suo in pulchritudines corruptibiliores, id est poenarum ordinem praecipitatur. Nec
miremur quod adhuc pulchritudines nomino: nihil enim est ordinatum, quod non sit pul-
chrum; et, sicut ait Apostolus, omnis ordo a Deo est.” CCL 32.237.
From Ordo to Potestas 255

True to his Platonizing pedigree, Augustine maintains that even sinful pursuits
entail the chasing of some refracted beauty. All things, he admits, are thus
beautiful because all things are to some degree ordered and, then re-phrasing
Paul to meet his aim here, quotes that all order (ordo, not potestas) is from God,
thus conveniently adapting the Apostle to his own use.
What is quite telling about this early solecism is that at the very end of his
life Augustine admits to having not used Paul’s identical words (non eisdem
uerbis) when analyzing the nature of secular authority at this time. Instead,
Augustine realizes that at this point in his writing, relying on how all order is
from God, omnis ordo a Deo est, seemed to him at that time to have had the
same meaning (quamuis eadem videatur esse sententia).9 This “slip”, as Robert
Markus calls it, occasions an early connection between divine order and sec-
ular power which is characteristic of the early Augustine. Markus continues,
maintaining that here at Rom 13:1,

Augustine’s memory had betrayed him, and betrayed him in a revealing


manner. One key-note of his earliest reflections is the idea of order, and
in so far as political authority enters the range of his thought at this stage,
this is the idea in terms of which Augustine understood it. With neo-­
Platonism he shared the notion of an order which pervades the whole
human universe, at all its levels, from the transcendent One at its summit
to the lowest.10

Markus is right in detecting how Neoplatonism provided Augustine with the


idea of cosmic order and he is helpful in showing how such taxis was expected
to be an integral part of political power in his early thought. This is not a con-
tinuum that would last, however. Let us now turn to later writings where order
and power are slowly cleaved apart in Augustine’s seasoning views of Church
and state.

2 The Spiritualization of Order (391–c. 400)

Despite this earlier enthusiasm, Augustine slowly became convinced that that
the state in fact could not impose true harmony. While he was aware of the
power the political realm necessarily exhibited, it was unable to provide the
order needed for the human person to fulfill his or her ultimate vocation. Order

9  Retr. 1.12 (8), on uer. rel.


10  Robert A. Markus, Saeculum (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1970) 76.
256 Meconi

became less a matter of the state, and seen now as the direct effect of the Holy
Spirit. During these years of the latter part of the fourth century, Augustine
is studying the scriptures assiduously, he is learning the ways of the North
African church and clergy, and he is finding himself on a larger and larger stage
interacting in various roles as priest, bishop, adjudicator and mentor with a
large and diverse demographic of Christian and Roman alike.11
The first significant use of Rom 13:1 during these middle years of Augustine’s
career appears, unsurprisingly, in his Expositio on Romans from 394/95.
Here we read that the Apostle most rightly warns (rectissime admonet) the
Christian body to be subject to temporal rule, as the success of making this
life’s journey rightly depends to a large degree on keeping one’s proper place
(ordinem suum) while in the body. A certain dualism is now being detected in
Augustine’s thought: the body may be subject to the order imposed imperially
(e.g., the need to pay taxes, to follow civic codes, etc . . .), but the human soul
does not ultimately belong to any temporal grasp. Christians are therefore now
exempt from spiritually assenting to immorality, even though it may be politi-
cally imposed. While a Christian’s bodily self may have to endure all sorts of
hardships and impositions, the “part” of oneself by which one is united to God
(ex illa uero parte)—Augustine’s “inner man”—must never submit to a mis-
guided ruler or unjust dictate:

And let [the Christian] not suppose that in this life’s journey he should
not keep his place, nor let him suppose he ought not be subordinate to
those higher authorities who, for the time being, may govern temporal
things. For we are both soul and body, and however long we exist in this
temporal life, we use temporal things to support it . . . But concerning our
spiritual selves (ex illa uero parte), by which we believe in God and are
called into his kingdom, we should not submit to any man desiring to
destroy that very thing in us through which God deigned to give us
eternal life.12

As this passage attests, during these last years of the fourth century, Augustine’s
description of ordo begins to bifurcate between living necessarily in the

11  For the best description of what constituted Augustine’s very busy day, see Serge Lancel,
St. Augustine, trans., Antonia Nevill (London: SCM Press, 2002).
12  Propositions from the Epistle to the Romans (ex. prop. Rm.) §72; Augustine on Romans:
Propositions from the Epistle to the Romans and Unfinished Commentary on the Epistle to
the Romans, trans., Paula Fredriksen Landes (Chico, CA: Scholars Press [Society of Biblical
Literature’s Text and Translation Series], 1982), 41.
From Ordo to Potestas 257

­ olitical realm and the higher call to live in accord with a God whose claims
p
on each human soul transcends any secular grasp. The more seasoned pastor is
exhibiting more caution toward secular rulers.
The result is that during the mid-390s, (1) ordo tends to be restricted to the
work of the Holy Spirit only, and (2) ordo is found less and less in human agency
but is explained more and more exclusively in terms of the Holy Spirit’s work
only.13 The political provides the means by which the embodied masses are
kept from going too far astray, but it cannot supply the any real direction which
every created soul needs to achieve its rightful place. There is now a separation
between the order achieved by the political realm and the providence brought
about by the Holy Spirit independent of any given society or political makeup.
As Fredrick Russell has commented, “At this point” of Augustine’s life (around
and after 393), “he saw political authority as an essentially benign agency of
divine providence, without considering its workings and limitations.”14 This
“middle position” thus marks Augustine’s “middle years”—government was no
longer expected to provide an order coterminous and contemporaneous with
the Church’s order, but instead offered a “benign” power that kept people from
falling too far from the harmony civic concord demands.
It seems that once he is ordained into the Church’s presbytery, Augustine’s
political thinking is decentralized, internalized, and the necessary effect of
order, by which the human soul loves and thus ascends properly, is not to be
found in any considerable way in the body politic. Now Augustinian order
has less to do with the human governing of temporal realities and more to
do with how and what one chooses to love: “A body gravitates to its proper
place by its own weight . . . They are not at rest as long as they are disordered,
but once brought to order they find their rest. Now, my weight is my love, and
wherever I am carried, it is this weight that carries me.”15 This love that gov-
erns is ultimately the Holy Spirit, the one to whom Augustine now attributes
all right ordering. The Spirit is the one who arranges not only all creatures
properly in their own place, but who places all of creation under its sover-
eign God.
During this period in which he composes the Confessions, Augustine accord-
ingly begins to shift his understanding of “order” away from human rulers and

13  James O’Donnell argues that providing the gift of charity which aligns the human soul
to loving rightly is “the animating and governing force of the third person of the trinity”;
Augustine: Confessions, vol. 1 (Oxford University Press, 2000) 47.
14  Fredrick Russell, “ ‘Only Something Good can be Evil’: The Genesis of Augustine’s Secular
Ambivalence”, Theological Studies 51 (1990) 698–716; 704.
15  Conf. 13.9.10; Boulding, Confessions (Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 1997) 348.
258 Meconi

place it squarely in the economy of the Spirit. Any salvific “governing” is no lon-
ger the effect of the state, regardless how efficient and even ecclesially-friendly
any one emperor might be. Augustine’s maturing view is that all order comes
from God and while civil authority may (and must) wield power, it cannot pro-
vide the order which infuses the soul with the steps it needs to make heav-
enly progress. The structure of creation may necessarily speak to the attentive
listener but not necessarily the senate or local magistrate. In this regard
F.E. Cranz’s comment is especially illuminative when he notices that, “By 396
Augustine maintains that all mankind, the ‘mass of sin,’ has fallen into dis-
order, and that no man can win his way back to order except through God’s
grace. But there is not sign that Augustine has new ideas on the characteristics
of proper order. God’s order—the hierarchy of God, souls, and bodies—still
exists, and Augustine continues to describe it as he had earlier.”16 In this inter-
mediate period, the ontological order stretching throughout creation unto its
creator stays the same and, in fact (I would add), actually had never wavered
for Augustine; but now the hope of the political order, once thought of as pos-
sibly assisting the soul’s ascent, is clearly diminishing.
One way we see this change begin to emerge is through Augustine’s need to
qualify temporal power (potestas) with divine power. While Augustine tends to
an initial deference to secular rule, he comes to qualify this so it not be taken
absolutely. In his later writings, temporal power must always be judged and
measured by divine power. This move is seen most readily in sermons where
Augustine is preaching to those Christian living in the world under Roman
rule. In a homily dated 399 on the centurion’s requesting Christ to come and
heal his servant (cf. Mt 8:8; Lk 7:6–7), for instance, we hear Bishop Augustine
ask his flock (immediately after quoting Rom 13:1–2) if they would not submit
to a higher power when an unjust command is given to them by a mere human:

But what if [the secular authority] orders something you ought not to do?
In this case certainly make light of authority by respecting authority.
Consider the grading of authority in human affairs. If the person in
charge gives an order, should it not be carried out? However, if his orders
go against the ruling of the governor, you are not, surely, showing con-
tempt for authority when you decide to be at the service of the higher
one. Nor should the lower authority be angry if the higher is given
preference.17

16  Cranz, “The Development of Augustine’s Ideas on Society before the Donatist
Controversy”, op. cit., 284.
17  S. 62.13; trans., Edmund Hill, Sermons III (51–94) (Brooklyn, NY: New City Press, 1991)
163: “Sed quid, si illud iubeat, quod non debes facere? Hic sane contemne potestatem,
From Ordo to Potestas 259

Clearly order and power are no longer interchangeable, as we encountered


above with De Uera Religione, and now we see even in Augustine’s extrapo-
lation of Pauline “power”, various grades and accountabilities. This no doubt
came simultaneously with his more cosmic view of power and order.
True to Paul, the origin of all power is of course still one. Yet, as such power
descends from God to creatures, it diminishes from a greater (maior potestas)
to a lesser (minor) power. This distention is how Augustine can now explain
civil disobedience. Because the lower secular authorities have no command
over the soul, as we saw above, the faithful Christian never has to submit to a
potentate usurping true power for himself. This dissonance is nowhere more
evident than in the lives of the martyrs. Preaching in 400 on the adored feast of
St. Lawrence, for example, we hear that while we should at least.
The result of this loss of confidence becomes much more obvious after
the year 400 or so. The couplet of power and order, which once seemed inter-
changeable to Augustine, is no longer in the hands of the civil authority but is
now found securely in the ecclesial realm only. For example, commenting on
Psalm 124 and God’s deliverance of Israel, we hear how, “God has so ordered
affairs in his Church that every authority duly constituted in this world should
be accorded respect, and this sometimes means by persons better than those
to whom it is paid.”18 Power and thus authority are still found outside the Body
of Christ but the order Augustine insists on is no longer attainable outside of
the Church, the true keeper of order.

3 Ecclesia as Endower of Order (after 400)

In his introduction to the 1931 Everyman’s Library edition of the City of God,
the eminent Cambridge political theorist, Sir Ernest Barker (d. 1960), empha-
sized Augustine’s exclusivizing reliance on ecclesial ordo over and against civil
potestas. While not every student of Augustine would today agree with Barker’s
conclusion that, “the ultimate effect of the City of God is the elimination of the
state,” he does convincingly show how ordo is a pivotal (and packed) term in

timendo potestatem. Ipsos humanarum rerum gradus aduertite. Si aliquid iusserit cura-
tor, nonne faciendum est? Tamen si contra proconsulem iubeat, non utique contemnis
potestatem, sed eligis maiori servire. Nec hinc debet minor irasci, si maior praelatus est”;
PL 38.420–21. Most date this homily at 399, but (as Hill notes) one has placed it around
407/08.
18  En. Ps. 124.7; trans., Maria Boulding, Exposition of the Psalms, vol. 6 (121–50) (Hyde Park,
NY: New City Press, 2004) 62: “Ordinauit enim sic Deus Ecclesiam suam, ut omnis potestas
ordinata in saeculo habeat honorem, et aliquando a melioribus”; CCL 40.1840.
260 Meconi

Augustine, a word capturing the entire web of rightly-ordered relations that


allows true human flourishing and ultimate salvation.19 While Barker’s intro-
ductory assessment may say more about the state of interbellum British politi-
cal theory than about the actual aim of the City of God, it accurately captures
an aspect of the later Augustine—namely, the dominium of the world and the
ordering of masters over slaves, or generals over foot soldiers, is not true order
but “conditioned by, and relative to, the sinfulness which it has to correct, and
it is therefore only relatively good.”20
While the state was not to be suppressed or absorbed, Augustine did come
to see that it could no longer provide the ordo needed for foster. Compared
to his writings thirty years prior, the proverbial bar has by now been lowered
drastically: the state is necessary and good but “the end of the state is no longer
the fostering of the conditions for best human life, the attempt to mold the
human soul toward its highest virtues, but rather the role of the state is merely
to counteract man’s basest desires and instincts, to provide the grounds for
earthly peace.”21 The state can not render virtue, it could only retard vice.
Now it seems that any order entrusted to the state is not the type of ordo that
aligns the soul’s loves properly but it is more a matter of restraint, a response to
the fallen condition of the concupiscent. Order is now realized merely as the
dearth or at least diminishment of public violence: “God did not wish that the
rational creature made in his image should rule over anything but the irratio-
nal; not man over man, but man over cattle,” we read in ciu. Dei 19.15. The state
is no longer involved positively for the order required for the soul’s assent out
of its sinful self and into God. Secular authority is now presented as a post-
lapsarian restraint, needed and good but unable to provide what Christians
need for true beatitude.
At best, the state may be an ordered affair—ordinata est respublica22 or bene
ordinata23—but such an ordering is received by the state from God and is no
longer entertained as coming from or even through the state. Now the ordered
state’s primary purpose is to keep in check the libido dominandi and to use its

19  The City of God by Saint Augustine, trans. and ed., John Healey, with an introduction
(vii–lx) by Ernest Barker (London: J.M. Dent and Sons Ltd., 1931) xxxii.
20  Barker, op. cit., xxvi.
21  Richard J. Dougherty, “Christian and Citizen: The Tension in St. Augustine’s De ciuitate
dei”, Collectanea Augustiniana: Augustine, “Second Founder of the Faith”, ed., Joseph C.
Schnaubelt, OSA and Frederick Van Fleteren (New York: Peter Lang, 1990) 205–24; 205.
22  S. 302.13 on the Martyrial Feast of Saint Lawrence (dated 400).
23  Ciu. Dei 17.14.
From Ordo to Potestas 261

power to remove or keep distant the tensions and upheavals which threaten
the most basic welfare of any society. The property of Christ’s Church effects
the ordo which enables virtue, while the state enforces potestas which can
really only restrict vice. The order does not establish the conditions any longer
for an upward ascent to God, the profectus of the early dialogues, but now only
makes the conditions possible by which an individual’s assent might perhaps
be facilitated. The state now establishes external order and imposes punish-
ments on those who offend temporal justice; its authority is God’s authority,
regardless how misused.
Augustine’s theology of the Church’s martyrs captures this well: no martyr
disagrees with the emperor’s potestas over him or her and even his “right” to
enact the most brutal of punishments, torture unto death. Where the Christian
martyr distances himself unequivocally is from the order the magistrate seeks
to enforce and for this the true follower of Jesus freely lays his or her life down.
Instead of placing himself and his power under the God from whom he and
his power is derived, the wicked emperor inverts the ontological order of God
and then created soul by usurping Christ’s lordship, demanding that the per-
secuted find rest in him, the emperor. The blood of the martyrs (and in fact
the daily discipleship of every serious Christian—non saltando, sed orando;
non potando, sed jejunando; non rixando, sed tolerando) thus attests to the true
order in which all creation plays apart.24
The authorities who put the martyrs to death exemplify Rom 13:3, “Do good
and you will have praise from them [i.e., the authorities]”, because even in their
assaults against the faith, these potentates are involved in divine order in occa-
sioning the Christian people’s veneration of the martyrs: even if the authori-
ties are iniquitous, Augustine encourages, when you have died for the faith, for
justice, for truth, you will have praise from them, even while they are raging
against you. It’s from them, you see, you will have [praise] not because they are
the ones praising you but because they are providing you with the opportunity
to be praised.”25 Temporal power now does not co-establish God’s order but
nonetheless participates in it by giving rise to God’s providential ordering of
his faithful.

24  S. 326.1; PL 38.1449.


25  S. 302.12, trans., Edmund Hill, Sermons (273–305A) (Hyde Park, NY: New City Press,
1994) 306.
262 Meconi

4 Conclusion

When considering St. Augustine’s political principles and argumentations,


Peter Brown warns against treating them in isolation. For Augustine, Brown
suggests, has no political theory apart from his “anxious search for at least
some echo, for some stunted analogy, that might lead men, in the misery of
this life, to share with him some appreciation of the fulfilment of the human
being that will be achieved beyond the saeculum.”26 Keeping Brown’s lesson
here in mind, this essay has argued that as Augustine matured, he came to see
that the state could not provide the ordo needed for human felicity but instead
was divinely-sanctioned simply with the potestas required to arrest the fallen
desire for dominance and vengeance.
Augustine never relinquished his understanding that exemplary order runs
through the good copy which is creation; here even rebellion and sin can play
a role in realizing ultimate harmony. A properly-ordered society is of course a
part of that harmony but what changes for Augustine is that the state cannot
provide the order which leads to God. His youthful optimism had been tar-
nished by his own maturity and most probably his own authority and interac-
tion with high-ranking imperial officials. As Robert Markus came to see:

By the time Augustine completed the Confessions, his work Against


Faustus, and embarked on the Genesis Commentary, all in the years
around 400, his view of life had darkened. Disenchantment with the pos-
sibility of an all-embracing rational order was soon to be followed by dis-
enchantment with the ideas of the Roman Empire generally current in
the 390s . . . Augustine had shared his contemporaries’ euphoric percep-
tion of these “Christian times”; but unlike them, he came to discard it in
the course of the first ten of fifteen years of the fifth century.27

All along, Augustine knew and refused ever to equate the state with the ciuitas
terrena and, as such, the order of polity is always redeemable and still condu-
cive to God’s aims. What Augustine came to stress later in life, however, was
how the state was wholly accidental to the true ordering that needed to occur
for the soul’s salvation in Christ. What happens as he leaves the dialogical writ-
ings of his first decade of writing is that ordo become associated no longer with

26  “Augustine and Political Society”, The City of God: A Collection of Essays, ed., Dorothy F.
Donnelly (New York: Peter Lang, 1995) 17–35; 26.
27  R.A. Markus, “Conversion and Disenchantment in Augustine’s Spiritual Career”, Saint
Augustine Lecture Series (Villanova, PA: Villanova University Press, 1989), 38.
From Ordo to Potestas 263

the state but with the Spirit. That is, over time, Augustine’s understanding of
order’s author was slowly removed from the political sphere and placed more
exclusively in a theological framework.
Accordingly, this essay has shown that as Augustine became more and more
involved in his civic duties as bishop, he became less and less convinced that
the state could do more than perhaps impose a certain potestas on the bodily
and temporal. True ordo was now the effect of the Holy Spirit and the domain
of Christ’s Church.
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Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians, edited by Mark Edwards, Martin Goodman,
and Simon Price, 81–104. Oxford: Oxford University, 1999.
Zaharopoulos, Dimitri Z. Theodore of Mopsuestia on the Bible. New York: Paulist, 1989.
Index

Abraham 122–123, 173, 219, 220–221, 222, 223, conclusions 82–84


225, 227, 228, 229 introduction 62–65
Acta Martyrum 208 observations 78–82
Acts of Peter 16, 23–31 text 7.1.1–3 65–67
Acts of Pilate 16–23 text 7.8.1–3 67–69
Acts of Saturnus 177 text 7.9.1–2 69–70
Acts of the Abititian Martyrs 168 text 7.12.5 71
Acts of the Apostles 4 text 7.22.1–25 71–74
Actus Vercellenses 23–24, 26, 30 Apostolic Tradition 6, 64
Adversus haereses (Adv. Haer.) (Irenaeus)  Aramaic Targum 3
104–105, 107, 109, 111, 113, 116, 117 Arianism 6, 62, 64, 78–79n62, 79, 82, 147n30,
Aetius 250, 251 155
African church 43, 164, 174, 186, 256 Aristotle 236, 239, 241, 242, 243, 244, 246
Against Celsus (Origen) 21. See also Contra Arius 147
Celsum (Origen) Athanasius of Alexandria 4, 8, 83, 139, 147,
Against Heresies (Irenaeus) 38, 58 153, 154–155, 156, 157, 160
agency Christology 77, 78 Athenagoras 106, 114
Alexamenos grafitto 7 Augustine of Hippo 4, 5, 9, 10, 11, 32, 33,
Allard, Paul 240, 241, 242 54–59, 163, 168, 169, 170, 174, 177, 179,
Allison, Dale 188 180, 184–191, 193, 197, 201–234, 235, 238,
Alvarez, Alfred 202 239, 241, 242–249, 251, 253–263. See also
Alypius 248 specific works by Augustine
Ambrose of Milan 8, 45–47, 139, 153, Augustine through the Ages
155–156, 191, 206, 208, 209, 211–213, 215, (Bauerschmidt) 201
217, 218, 222, 223, 225, 226–227, 228, 229, Augustiniana 32
230, 231 Aurelius Augustinus 2
Ambrosiaster 167, 170 authority (of Didache) 78–79
Amidah prayer 80 Axido 163
Ananias 17, 18
Anaxarchus 131 baptism 71–74, 79, 80, 81, 130, 131, 136, 185,
Annals (Tacitus) 24 186, 187, 193
anthropomorphite controversy 20 Barker, Ernest 259, 260
anti-authoritarian feeling 163 Barnes, Timothy 90
Antioch 78, 82 Basil of Caesarea 9, 179, 180, 191–197,
apocrypha 198
Christian 15, 16, 17, 23, 31 Behr, John 151
New Testament 15 biblical canon, formation of 1
apocryphal stories/texts 15–16, 23, 31 Boniface 250–251
apologetic works 106 Book of Revelation 4
Apologeticum (Tertullian) 100, 101 Book of Rules (Tyconius) 8, 163, 164, 167, 169,
Apostle to the Gentiles 39 170, 175
Apostle to the Jews 39 Book of the Cock 15, 21
Apostolic Constitutions 7 Book of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ by
7.24 74–76 Bartholomew the Apostle 21
7.25.1–7.27.2 76–78 Bradley, Keith 239, 241, 242
284 Index

Brock, Ann Graham 28, 29 Constans (emperor) 165


Brown, Peter 30, 215, 262 Constantine (city of) 162
Constantine I 62, 63, 80, 164, 165, 174, 178
Caecilianists 165 Constantinople 78
Callon, Callie 28, 29 Constantius 154
“Captains of the Saints” (sanctorum duces) Contra Celsum (Origen) 7, 119. See also
(Axido and Fasir) 163 Against Celsus (Origen)
The Catholic Encyclopedia 240 corona (garland) 7, 90, 91, 93–99, 101, 102
catholic letters 4 Council of Arles 165
The Catholic Way of Life and the Manichean Council of Carthage 165, 173
Way of Life (Augustine) 184 Council of Chalcedon 83
celestial Father 105 Council of Nicaea 62
Celsus 21, 118–136 Cranz, F.E. 253, 258
Christ Creator-Father 7
crucified weakness of 126–130, 136 Creator-God 105
eternal kingship of 139 Crouzel, Henri 128–129
post-resurrection appearance of 121, 122, crown of life 100
123, 124, 125 crown of righteousness 100
resurrection of 120–126 crown of victory 100
the Son 81. See also Son of God Crucified King, politic of 152–160
weak Christ 130–136 crucified weakness (of Christ) 126–130,
Christian apocrypha 15, 16, 17, 23, 31 136
Christian apologetic 5 cruciform politic 8, 139, 153, 157, 158, 159,
Christian discipleship 5, 187, 192, 193, 195. 160, 161
See also discipleship
Christian myth of origins 16, 19, 21 De ciuitate dei (ciu. Dei) (Augustine) 201,
Christianity, legalization of 62 203, 204, 205, 206, 213, 214, 219, 220,
Christology, considerations of 81–82 221, 224, 227, 229, 230, 233–234,
Church and State, Irenaeus’s concept 252, 260
of 106–114 De corona militis (Tertullian)
Cicero 89, 91, 93, 96 digressio 96–97
City of God (Augustine) 10, 189, 190, 202, 238, introduction 87–88
241, 242, 252, 259, 260 narratio 92
civic order (ciuitatis ordinem) 254 overview 100–103
civil order (ordo ciuitatis) 253 partitio 92–94
Claudius 36 peroratio 99–100
Clement of Alexandria 2, 9, 179, 180–184, refutatio and confirmatio 95–96, 99
189, 191, 197, 238 refutatio resumed 97–99
Clementine Liturgy 6, 64 rhetorical analysis of 88–92
Collatio Legum Mosaicarum et De exhortatione castitatis (de exhort. cast.)
Romanarum 167 (Tertullian) 209
Commentariorum in Michaeam De fide 46
(Jerome) 47, 49 De idololatria (Tertullian) 99, 101, 102
commentary on Romans (Rufinus of de las Casas, Bartolomé 248
Aquileia) 50–53 de Lubac, Henri 130
Conference 21 (Cassian) 53, 58 De officiis (off.) (Ambrose) 223
The Confessions (Augustine) 193, 257, 262 De Ordine (Augustine) 253
conscience and spirit 230–234 De partitione oratoria (Cicero) 91
Index 285

De spectaculis (Tertullian) 96 Eumelius 164


De spiritu sancto (de spir. sanct.) Eusebius of Caesarea 1, 17, 32, 153–154, 155,
2 (Ambrose) 226, 227, 228, 229 209, 215, 218
de Ste Croix, Geoffrey 239 Eustathians 194
De Uera Religione (Augustine) 259 Eustathius of Sebaste 194
De uirginibus (Ambrose) 211 Evans, R.F. 100
deacons 2 executioners, need for 253–255
Decretum 4 exemplarity, traditions of
devil 26, 96, 107–109, 111–112, 113, 116, 117, 171, Augustine’s use of 213–217
172, 192 Christian martyrological
Didache 6, 64–69, 71–79, 81–84 narratives 208–218
Didachist 66–83 Roman rhetoric 206–208
Didascalia 17 Expositio (Augustine) 256
Didascalia apostolorum 6, 64
Diocletian (emperor) 1, 164, 168 Fasir 163
Diodore of Tarsus 139–161 Felix the Manichee 174
discipleship 5, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 192, 193, Festal Letter 39 (Athanasius) 4, 83
194, 195, 197, 261 Flavianus 165
dissident Christians, as more accurate term Fontaine, Jacque 90
than Donatists 164n8 fragmentation of/inversion of Roman
divine hiddenness 125 imperial power 15–31
divine order 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 261 Fredouille, Jean-Claude 91–92, 93, 95, 98,
divine rule 146–152, 160, 161 100
Dommina 215, 216, 218, 219, 220, 225, 231, friendship, according to Augustine 10, 235,
232, 233 242–249
Donatism 163 Fruchtman, D.S. 42, 43
Donatists 162–178
Donatus the Great 163, 165 Gaiseric 251
Droge, Arthur 202 Galerius 164
Dunn, James 237 garland (corona) 7, 90, 91, 93–99, 101,
102
earthly rulers/earthly rule 111, 113, 141–146, Gelasius (pope) 4
147, 153, 154, 156, 160, 251. See also Gennadius 169
human rulers Germanus 53
Ecclesia, as endower of order 259–261 Gero, Stephen 100, 101, 102
Edict of Milan 62 God
Elijah 65, 66, 67, 80, 81 Creator-God 105
emperor, authority of 139 the Father 46, 67, 75, 76, 79, 81
Enarratio 61 (Augustine) 56 justice of, law and 171–177
endower of order, Ecclesia as 259–261 the King 154, 155
Epictetus 131 kingdom of 171, 179, 180
episcopoi 2, 3 Son of. See Son of God
Epistola ad Marcellinum (Athanasius)  as weak 118–136
154 Gospel of Peter 17
epistula (ep.) 62 (Ambrose) 226, 227 Gospel of Thomas 15
Epistula Apostolorum 115 Gospels
Esau 173 origin of 3–4
Essenes 3 parallel of to Torah 4
286 Index

governments Johannine influence/theology/thought 66,


apostate angel as not establishing just 67, 69, 70, 83
governments 113 John Cassian 53–54, 58, 59
just God as aligning of with John Chrysostom 209
subjects 112–113 Judaism, inspired books of 3
Gratus 165 Julian (emperor) 154, 155, 156, 158
Greek Septuagint 3 Julian the Apostate 8, 252
Justin Martyr 17, 106
Habetdeum 173 Justina 155, 158
Hagar 173, 175 justus sibi lex est 162–178
Hannah 189–190
Harnack, Adolf 237 kerygma (of Jesus of Nazareth) 75
Harvard Theological Review 28 kingdom of God 171, 179, 180
Hecht, Jennifer Michael 202 kingdoms for justice, just God as
Herod 8, 17, 23, 139, 142–146, 158 establishing 111
Hilary of Poitiers 181, 191 kingdoms of creatures, Creator as
Hippolytus 3 establishing 111–112
human authorities 107–113 kingdoms of this world 107, 171
human rulers 110–111, 112, 257. See also kings of the earth 145, 146, 152, 153, 154, 155.
earthly rulers/earthly rule See also earthly rulers/earthly rule
kingship, politics of (in Psalm 2) 139–161
Iephte (Jepthah) 219, 220, 221–224, 227, 229,
230 Lactantius 167
Ignatius of Antioch 2 languages, of New Testament 3
imperial Christianity 19, 20, 22, 74 law (lex), Donatist interpretation of in
imperial power, early Christian opposition Romans 2:14 162–178
to 153–157 Lazarus 68
indifference, Christians’ attitude of 236 Leithart, Peter 160
Infancy Gospel of James 20 Les esclaves chretiens depuis les premiers
Institutio Oratoria (Inst.) (Quintilianus) 88, temps de l’Eglise jusqu’d la fin de la
206, 207 domination romaine en Occident
institutional hegemony 63 (Allard) 240
inversion of/fragmentation of, Roman Letter to the Hebrews 4, 223
imperial power 15–31 Liberius (pope) 211
Irenaeus of Lyons 2, 4, 5, 7, 33, 37–39, 54, 57, Liebeschuetz, J.H.W.G. 226
59, 104–117 Lincoln, Bruce 16, 19, 20
Isaac 173 Literary History of Christian Africa
Isaiah 3, 80 (Monceaux) 162
Ishmael 173 Logos 8, 105, 120, 124, 128, 134
Lord’s prayer 74, 75, 78
Jacob 173 Lot 122, 123
Jacobs, Andrew 18, 30 Lucretia 9, 209, 210, 214, 216, 219, 233
Jepthah (Iephte) 219, 220, 221–224, 227, 229,
230 Maccabees, politic of 159
Jerome 3, 47–50, 166, 182, 191, 206, 209 MacMullen, Ramsay 178
Jewish knowledge 18 Mandatum 173
Jews, progressive marginalization of 20 Manicheans 184, 185
Job 68, 80, 81 Marcellina 156, 211–212, 213, 217, 218, 229, 232
Index 287

Marcellinus 154, 215 Nicene orthodoxy 64, 68, 82


Marcellus (senator) 5, 25, 26–27, 28, 29, 30, Nicene theology 81, 82
31. See also Marcus Granius Marcellus Nicene thought 77
Marcion/Marcionites 3, 116, 117 Nicodemus 17, 18
Marculus 169 Nicomachean Ethics (Aristotle) 243
Marcus Fabius Quintilianus 206. See also Niehoff, Maren R. 119n5
Quintilian
Marcus Granius Marcellus 24–25. See also O’Daly, Gerald 216
Marcellus (senator) O’Donnell, James 219
Markus, Robert 255, 262 Old Testament
Martianus 245 continuity of with New Testament 105
martyrdom 40, 41, 58, 118, 131, 134, 135, 136, Greek Septuagint of 3
156, 158, 176, 177, 184, 186, 189, 202, 208, use of in explaining Christianity 3
209, 211, 214, 215 O’Malley, T.P. 87
Martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicitas 21 On Baptism (Basil) 191
Martyrdom of Polycarp 114 On Christian Teaching (Augustine) 169
martyrology texts/narratives 206, 208–213 On Faith and Works (Augustine) 58, 184, 187
martyrs, strong 130–136 “On the Bipartite Body of Christ”
Maxilla 176 (Tyconius) 172
Maximin Daia (emperor) 17 On the Incarnation (Athanasius) 160
Meletius 156, 157 On True Religion (Augustine) 254
Melito of Sardis 115 1 Peter 2:13–17
mercy 118 according to Ambrose 45–47
military decorations, Tertullian on 87–88, according to Augustine 54–59
98. See also garland (corona) according to Irenaeus of Lyons 37–39
military service, Tertullian on 100–102 according to Jerome 47–50
Minns, Denis 106 according to John Cassian 53–54
Mithraism 100 according to Origen of Alexandria 50–53
Monceaux, Paul 162 according to Pseudo-Cyprianic de
Monica 2 singularitate clericorum 41–45
Mosaic laws/Mosaic Law 54, 116, 162, 166, according to Rufinus of Aquileia 50–53
167, 240 according to Tertullian 40–41
Moses 65, 66, 67, 80, 81 overview 33, 35–37
Murray, Alexander 202, 232 text of 34–35
mysticism 118, 127 1Tim 3:15 2
myth 19–20n12 Onesimus 244, 248, 249
myth of origins, Christian 16, 19, 21 Optatus 167, 168, 171
order, spiritualization of 255–259
natural inequality of humanity, theory of  ordo (order) 252, 253, 255, 256, 257, 259, 260,
239, 241 261, 262, 263
Nero, Paul and 1 Peter as writing under  Origen of Alexandria 3, 7, 8, 21, 50–53,
36 119–136, 166, 167, 238
New Testament The Oxford Guide to the Historical Reception of
continuity of Old Testament with 105 Augustine (Pollmann and Otten,
focus of 3 eds.) 202
New Testament apocrypha 15
Nicene authorities 70 Papias 4
Nicene consciousness 74 paradoxical status 37
288 Index

Parsons, Wilfrid 251 Ramsey, Boniface 153n50, 155


passion narrative 16, 22 Rankin, David 102
Passion of Saints Donatus and Advocatus 172 regula fidei 2
Pastoral Epistles 45 resurrection (of Christ) 120–126
Patristic authors/thinkers/tradition 6, 9, 33, Rhee, Helen 28
36, 37, 60, 164 Rhetorica ad Herennium (Rhet. ad Heren.)
patronage 26, 29, 30, 31 (Cicero) 91, 93, 206, 207, 216, 229
Pauline epistles 3, 4 The Rich Man’s Salvation (Clement) 181
Pauline legacy 80 Rich Young Man, early interpretations of
Pelagia 212, 213, 215, 216, 218, 219, 220, 225, by Augustine of Hippo 184–191, 197–198
231, 232, 233 by Basil of Caesarea 191–197, 198
Perkins, Judith 28 by Clement of Alexandria 181–184, 197
Petilian 172, 174 overview 179–180
Philemon 237, 244, 248 Roller, Matthew 207, 208, 213
Photinus 156, 157 Roman imperial power, fragmentation of/
Pickering, W.S.F. 202 inversion of 15–31
Pilate 5, 8, 16–19, 21, 22, 23, 57, 139, 142–146, Romanitas (Christian discipleship) 5.
158, 236 See also Christian discipleship
Piovanelli, Pierluigi 21 Romans 2:14 162–178
Placidia (empress) 250, 251 Romans 13, 6, 35, 36, 40, 51, 52, 57, 58, 60,
Plea for the Christians (Athenagoras) 114 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 114, 115, 117, 193, 235,
political engagement, different models of  251, 255, 256
236–242 Rufinus of Aquileia 50–53
politic(s) rule of faith 3
of a Crucified King 152–160 Rupprecht, Arthur 238, 239, 241, 242
cruciform politic. See cruciform politic Russell, Fredrick 257
of kingship (in Psalm 2) 139–161 Ryan, Edward 100, 101, 102
of Maccabees 159
subversive politic 8, 153 Samson 10, 219, 220, 224–230
Pollman, Karla 233 Sarah 175
Polycarp 114 The Savage God (Alvarez) 202
post-resurrection appearance (of Christ)  Scorpiace (Antidote to the Scorpion’s Sting)
121, 122, 123, 124, 125 (Tertullian) 40
potestas (power) 52, 252, 258, 259, 261, 262, scriptures
263 Augustine’s rhetorical use of 217–230
Poupon, Gérard 26 canonization of 1, 3
powerful vs. powerless 144, 151 limited role of 79–81
“The Promises and the Law” (Tyconius) 170 use of in addressing social issues 4
pro-Nicene Christians 147 semi-Arian 64, 81–82
Psalm 2, politics of kingship in 139–161 Septuagint 3, 48, 104
Psalms 3, 140–141 sermo 299E (= sermo Guelferbytanus 30)
Psalter of David 141 (Augustine) 57
Pseudo-Cyprianic de singularitate Sextus Tarquinius 9, 209
clericorum 41–45 Shaw, Brent 203, 204
public laws 163 Sider, Robert 90, 93
Sigisvult 251
Queastiones in Heptateuchum 7 (Qu. Judg.), Simon Magus 24
(Augustine) 223, 224 slave society 235
Quintilian 88, 89, 93, 94, 206, 207, 210 slavery 10, 195, 235–242, 244, 247, 248, 249
Index 289

Socrates 140 Toledot Yeshu 21


Sodom and Gomorrah 122 Torah 4, 80, 170, 177
Son of God 8, 18, 46, 47, 122, 148, 149, 150, 151 traditio (tradition) 2, 95
Son of Mary 8, 105, 148, 149, 150, 151 Trinitarian formula 72, 73, 79, 80, 81
Sozomen 140 Trinitarian perspective/position 81, 83
spirit, conscience and 230–234 Trinitarian speculation 70
spiritualization of order 255–259 True Doctrine (Celsus) 21
Stay (Hecht) 202 Twelve Minor Prophets 48
Sterling, Greg 131, 132 Twelve Tables 167
Stoops, Robert 29, 30 two ways instruction/two ways tradition 65,
subversive politic 8, 153 66, 67, 68, 72, 79, 81
suicide 9–10, 201–234 Tyconius 8, 163, 166, 167, 168–171, 172, 173,
Swift, Louis 87 174, 175, 176, 177, 178

Tabor, James 202 urban ascetics 140


Tacitus 24, 25
Taft, Robert 194 Valens (emperor) 157, 158
Targum 3 Valentinian (emperor) 155–156, 158, 165
Ten Words 167 Valentinus 116
Tertullian 6, 7, 17, 40–41, 57, 87–103, 206, Vandal siege/invasion 166, 250
208, 209–211, 216, 218, 238 Venerable Bede 33
thanksgiving prayers 76, 80, 81 Vigilius of Trent 226
Theodore of Mopsuestia 140 Virgil 233
Theodosius I 36, 62, 63, 64, 80, 83
Theodosius II 17 weak Christ 130–136
theological hegemony 63, 68 weak flesh 135
Theonas (abbot) 53, 54 weak God of the gospels 118–136
Theophilus of Antioch 115 Westermann, W.L. 237
theory of natural inequality of Wilken, Robert Louis 120
humanity 239, 241 willing spirit 135
Thomas, Christine 23
Tilley, Maureen 168 Young, Frances 106

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