, that is, ‘useful for the soul’. It is my contention that today there is still a place in Christian spirituality for this third category of texts.FRANÇOIS BOVON
IN 1599 Elias Hutter presented a polyglot Bible in twelve languages that offered a fascinating solution to the perplexing problem of how to preserve an epistle that no one considered to be totally canonical, but that no one thought should be rejected as apocryphal. At p. 525 of the second volume of his Bible, Hutter reaches the end of the Epistle to the Colossians and leaves p. 526 blank, in order to begin the next letter on the right page. But—to our surprise—when he begins the next text we find that he abandons for a while the regular canon of the New Testament and what follows is not 1 Thessalonians, as we would expect, but the Epistle to the Laodiceans. Hutter knew that this letter was so beloved in the Middle Ages that it was copied in many manuscripts of the Vulgate. He therefore decided to publish it as well, and here it is side by side with the other Pauline epistles in twelve languages. But because he knew that this letter was not really canonical he did not dare to give those pages a number. Only after Laodiceans, when he takes up Thessalonians, does Hutter begin to number the pages again, and he starts with p. 527. Between pp. 526 and 527 we therefore read seven pages without numbers that contain the Epistle to the Laodiceans, a document that appears at the same time both ‘canonical’ and ‘apocryphal’!
This example illustrates a thesis that I have begun to address elsewhere (Bovon 2004, 2012) and that I develop here more fully: contrary to a commonly held assumption, church leaders, major theologians, and ordinary Christians from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance acknowledged and distinguished not two groups of texts, but three—those that were canonical, those that were rejected (apocryphal), and those that were useful for private piety, edification of the community, and a historical understanding of Christian origins. Many texts that today are referred to as ‘New Testament Apocrypha’ or ‘Christian Apocrypha’ belong to this third category. Among them are several gospel harmonies that played an immense role in the life of the Christian churches, beginning with Justin’s lost gospel harmony and Tatian’s Diatessaron (dated to the end of the second century CE) and ending with the Old English Pepysian gospel harmony. Also in this category are 3 Corinthians and Laodiceans, two epistles that are at the same time present and absent from the Armenian and Latin manuscripts of the Bible. Texts of other genres may also be identified as belonging to this category of books that were considered useful for the soul. A good example is a Greek version of the Prayer and Apocalypse of Paul, preserved in the Monastery of Saint Catherine on Mount Sinai, which together with other versions of the Apocalypse of Paul challenges the widespread opinion that the Byzantine church, following in the steps of earlier Alexandrian theologians, was reluctant to accept apocalyptic thinking and apocalyptic texts. Like the gospel harmonies and the non-canonical Pauline epistles, those revelations were not rejected. On the contrary, they were read and copied with enthusiasm. Of course they were not canonical—that is, they were not read in public worship—but neither were they rejected or considered to be apocryphal.
The descriptive adjective that was applied to these texts and that reappears across centuries of time, but has been largely ignored, is ‘useful’ or ‘profitable’. This term was already present in Origen’s writings in the third century CE, was used by Luther at the time of the Reformation, and reappears in a French dictionary of the eighteenth century. In Greek Orthodox piety these writings are called , that is, ‘useful for the soul’. It is my contention that today there is still a place in Christian spirituality for this third category of texts.
For instance, according to the author of the Martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicitas (dated early third century) this story was preserved and this text written in a particular form so that it might serve as a parallel to the canonical Gospels. Like the Gospels, the author considered the Martyrdom to be one of the instrumenta, the tools, facilitating the spread of evangelical truth (de Labriolle 1947: 1.156–9; on the text as a whole, see Salisbury 1997; Heffernan 2012). Two centuries later, Augustine developed a similar theory: the thaumaturgic virtue of Saint Stephen’s relics on the sick in Hippo, Carthage, and Utica in the province of Africa must be consigned in written documents by the healed persons themselves. These witnesses, called libelli, served as proofs that God’s salvific action and divine power were as powerful at that time as they were during the time of Jesus (Delahaye 1910; Bovon 2003: 283). Along with the martyrdoms, such miracle stories were not of course viewed as canonical—not in the sense that the gospels were—but neither were they rejected or considered apocryphal. Instead, they constituted the third category of texts that are discussed in this essay: they were profitable for the soul, useful for the individual, and beneficial to the community.
There was, I believe, a theological reason behind the practical decisions to save the texts of this third category and the age-old tradition to read them as a source of inspiration and devotion. For the first Christians, as well as for their successors, the structure of Christian faith might be pictured as an ellipse having Jesus Christ and the apostles as the two poles: these believers remembered not only the deeds and words of Jesus but also the activities of the apostles. They therefore welcomed stories related to the first Christians (Bovon 1993). If the foundation of Christian propaganda was the creed of Jesus’ death and resurrection, stories about the apostles and the first missionaries were also part of building up the Christian faith. As early as the time of Paul, the apostle had already become a model to be imitated (1 Cor. 11.1; Betz 1967; Castelli 1991); and the first epistle of the Romans to the Corinthian community (so-called 1 Clement), a very ancient document, proposed Peter and Paul as models of behaviour (1 Clem. 5–6).
My point is that non-canonical writings related to the apostles were not ipso facto rejected but initially formed the third category of texts under consideration here. Some of these were memories cherished by Christians who were considered to be heretical by the mainstream orthodox church; others expressed doctrinal positions, particularly in the speeches made by Christian protagonists—most often apostles—that either could not, or could no longer, be considered to be tolerable from an orthodox point of view. Accordingly, it was the clash between two contradictory needs—the respect for apostolic memories and the search for orthodox stability—that explains the paradoxical fate of many non-canonical acts of apostles.
Two of the oldest and most needed memories, the Acts of Andrew and the Acts of John (two apostolic figures neglected by the author of Acts), were among the most despised by orthodoxy. Their strange christology and the marginal position of their authors and first readers explain why both texts were held in contempt. In the Acts of Andrew the Father and the Son are merged into one God whose transcendence does not allow any place for incarnation. Jesus Christ, who is both Father and Son at the same time, remains in the divine realm, leaving the apostle Andrew to take over and fulfil the function of mediator and saviour (Prieur 1989: 1.293–307, 344–67; Bovon 1994). In the central section of the Acts of John (vv. 94–102 and 109), which is probably derived from an independent source, the text presents a christology that is clearly docetic. Jesus Christ is not really the incarnation of the Word of God but a divine figure who has the ability to modify his shape according to salvific or missionary needs (so-called polymorphy; see Junod and Kaestli 1983: 2.581–677; Junod 1982). Not surprisingly, these two books rapidly became suspect; they were not, however, simply rejected. The need for apostolic memories of John and Andrew remained too strong to allow simple rejection.
Several solutions offered themselves: expurgation, revision, reconstruction, and substitution of the contents of the stories. Gregory of Tours, a sixth-century bishop who was immune from any heresy, expurgated the Acts of Andrew and rewrote a Latin version in order to preserve the memory of the apostle’s peregrinations and miracles. The only censorship Gregory exercised was over Andrew’s speeches, which, he explains, were cut short because they were lengthy and tedious. In truth, it is more probable that Gregory considered them to be heretical or tendentious. In the East the Acts of Andrew endured another, more drastic solution: as soon as Patras, the location of the apostle’s martyrdom, was appreciated as a holy place, local legends developed which were then gathered together and fashioned into a new story. This process was repeated at a later date, when Constantinople, the unhappy capital short of an apostolic see, transferred Andrew’s relics from Patras to the second Rome. Nor was historical truthfulness the decisive question that argued either for or against the acceptance of non-canonical acts, for a preoccupation with reliability found in some authors today is an essentially modern phenomenon (e.g. Gasque 1975, Winter et al. 1993–6). Despite the fact that the chronology and geographical itinerary of the Acts of Paul are inconsistent with those in the canonical Acts of the Apostles, this book was read without hesitation and with interest by orthodox Christians for more than a century.
The Twelve were not the only ones who caught the attention of early Christian storytellers. The destinies of several women—Mary Magdalene, Salome, and the Virgin Mary—also entered into the focus of Christian memory. Stories written in the second century about Jesus’ mother recounted her providential birth and miraculous childhood; these are contained in the so-called Protevangelium of James (de Strycker 1961). Then, in the fourth and fifth centuries other tales about Mary’s old age and death appeared in the manifold recensions of the Assumption of Mary (Mimouni 1995; Shoemaker 2002). While the Virgin Mary’s function was more narrative and economical, Mary Magdalene’s responsibility was more doctrinal: was she not an important witness of Jesus’ teaching and resurrection? In the Gospel of Thomas, the Pistis Sophia, and the Gospel of Mary, Jesus’ friend plays a major role, welcoming women and men, teaching, and carrying out her own ministry. It was often the case that an explicit or implicit rivalry developed between Mary Magdalene and Peter, between the first two witnesses of Jesus’ resurrection. In one instance found in the Acts of Philip (probably fourth century) a woman named Mariamne—another name for Mary Magdalene—is not only a witness but also the hero of the narrative (Bovon 2002).
In addition to these women, Christians in Late Antiquity wished to hear about the destiny of the seventy, or seventy-two, disciples who were sent out by the Lord in Luke 10. Short notices preserving their names, origins, birthplaces, and final destinies were gathered together and have reached us in different forms, recensions, and languages (Schermann 1907; Dolbeau 1992). Paul’s main collaborators and companions also excited Christian imagination: their ministries and martyrdoms were recorded, and thus we have the Acts of Timothy (Delahaye 1939), the Acts of Titus (Geerard 1992: §§285–6), and the Martyrdom of Barnabas. There was similar interest in the evangelists Luke (Lipsius 1883–90: 2.2, 354–71) and Mark (Bovon and Callahan 2005); as members of the group of the Twelve, Matthew and John had already been taken care of. Even Stephen, the only early Christian hero for whom the New Testament itself provides a martyrdom story, aroused curiosity in the minds of early Christians.
We reach the following conclusion: as long as a text did not harm or pose a threat to the developing creed and emerging church order, the reading of non-canonical stories related to the apostles was permitted, even welcomed. And as long as their readers did not promote heretical habits, such as excessive ascetical rules, or condemn the emerging catholic ethics and christology, these texts were viewed as useful alongside the Gospels, the Epistles, the book of Acts, some Catholic Epistles, and—as long as it was accepted—the book of Revelation.
While many scholars have spent time and energy analysing the canonical book of Acts and its portrait of Stephen (Bovon 2003), few have written on the other texts in which Stephen also features. Indeed it is astonishing to realize how little intellectual curiosity has been stimulated by the following question: what do we know about Stephen from sources other than the canonical book of Acts?
The literature produced on Saint Stephen during the late antique period was extensive. These writings, although not canonical, should not be called apocryphal. As hagiographical narratives (Halkin 1957) and apocalyptic visions (Erbetta 1969: 397–408) they belong to the third category. The case of Stephen is exemplary of this third category in at least one important aspect: the multiplicity of texts, forms of the texts, recensions, and translations in existence. By way of contrast, a canonical text is characterized by its unicity. Even if there are always variant readings, the text of a canonical book—let us say, of a gospel—can still be considered stable. Sacralization implies and provokes a certain stability of the text. An apocryphal text, lying at the other end of the spectrum, is considered to be fallacious; it is expected to be rejected and has a tendency to disappear. The number of its copies often reaches the number zero. Some apocryphal texts, for example the Gospel of the Twelve Apostles (Puech and Blatz 1999), are known to us only through the appearance of their title on a list of apocryphal books.
In the case of Stephen, besides the Lukan narrative preserved in Acts 6–8, we can mention at least three different texts: (a) a martyrdom story, (b) a revelation concerning Stephen’s relics, and (c) the story of the translation of Stephen’s relics from Jerusalem to Constantinople (Bovon 2003: 294–301). This variety is only the beginning of what I call the text’s ‘multiplicity’, which is attested by the many manuscripts and the absence of textual stability, made evident by the many dissensions among the codices. Only the characteristics of the ‘profitable books’ can explain the devotion shown for such stories.
In contrast to canonical and apocryphal texts, profitable documents are flexible, adaptable to the needs of the audience, the taste of the scribe, and the circumstances of the moment. Each copy becomes something of a performance, and it is difficult—even impossible—to prepare an edition of the same text using several manuscripts, because all of them diverge markedly from one another. In the case of Stephen, there are at least nine different recensions of the Martyrdom. There are also several different recensions of the Revelatio to the priest of Caphar Gamala, and the same can be said of the Translatio (Bovon 2003: 305). To this multiplicity of recensions one has to add the large number of translations. For the Greek Revelatio there are versions in Syriac, Latin, Armenian, Georgian, Coptic, Ethiopic, Slavonic, and Gaelic!
One example of a book about Stephen that is better characterized not as ‘apocryphal’ but as ‘profitable for the soul’ is the Martyrdom of Saint Stephen (Bovon and Bouvier 2004). This is a text that combines both canonical and non-canonical traditions. The first part of the document relates a story that is unknown in the canonical book of Acts; the second part consists of a long quotation—also not introduced as a quotation—of Acts 6.14–7.59a (Stephen’s trial, defence, and condemnation); the third part forms a conclusion that is again made up of non-canonical material. In spite of being a mixture of canonical and non-canonical material, the narrative is logical and coherent as a whole. It should not be called apocryphal, for it was not rejected; nor can it be called biblical, for it was not considered holy scripture; it belongs to the tradition of the orthodox church. I must add that this martyrdom story exists in nine forms or recensions, all very similar and very different, which is again a characteristic of the third category, the useful books.
The first part of the Martyrdom of Saint Stephen explains the origin of a dispute that includes Stephen and the Hellenists, but spares the twelve apostles (see Acts 8.1). In this way, the story takes up a task that remains incomplete in the canonical book of Acts. It explains that the Hellenists, not the apostles, took the risk of participating in a dispute that arose among several Jewish groups. While christology remains strangely discreet in Stephen’s long canonical speech in Acts 7 and in his trial, in the Martyrdom it forms the central core of the dispute between the Sadducees, Pharisees, and Hellenists. In the story, Stephen attempts to explain to both the Sadducees and the Pharisees the providential stages in Jesus’ destiny while emphasizing the salvific effects of his ministry; the motif of tension between the two groups probably originates in another part of the canonical book of Acts (Paul’s appearance before the Sanhedrin, Acts 23.6–10). In order to give this local debate a universal dimension the author constructs—perhaps following the Lukan list of nations in Acts 2.9–11—a gathering of wise men and great scholars who come from Egypt and Babylon and converge at Jerusalem (the text says ‘from Thebaid and Alexandria, Mauritania, Jerusalem and Babylon’, a list that deserves further investigation).
Just as there are three groups engaged in the dispute, so there are three opinions regarding Jesus’ identity. According to one group, probably the Pharisees, Jesus must be a great prophet; according to another, probably the Sadducees, he was a seducer who led the people astray; according to still another group, probably the Hellenists, he was the Son of God. These diverging opinions provoke great turmoil. At this very moment, Stephen dares to speak. Our document—as all the others—respects a particular detail, which says that Stephen spoke ‘from a high place’. Stephen’s first speech, a non-canonical one, contains all the christological substance that is absent from the canonical speech found in Acts 7. Jesus, considered the hope of salvation for the world and the friend of the human race, came down from heaven because of the sins and ignorance of the world. Stephen also insists on the election of the Virgin Mary ‘from before the creation of the world’. Using a typological argument between Eve and Mary, he deduces that the name ‘Life’, which was given to Eve, is now valid also for Mary. Another kind of argument serves to transform the massacre of the innocents—Herod of course is responsible for this and behind him, the Devil—into a story of loving intercession: from now on, deceased small children will pray for the human race. In the final part of this speech Stephen urges his audience to believe in Christ, offering Christ’s miracles as proof of his divine origin and authority.
After this totally non-canonical narrative, the reader is confronted with a long quotation from the book of Acts. It must be noted first that the author does not introduce the quotation; that is, he does not intend to distinguish, from a literary and theological point of view, between the non-canonical and the canonical parts of the document. Second, we must note that the portion of Acts that is quoted is taken from neither the ancient Egyptian text nor the Western text, but from the Byzantine. In Acts 7.17, for example, what is mentioned is an oath, not a confession; in Acts 7.30 an angel of the Lord, not just an angel, is introduced. Third, it must be noted that the author is forced to create a transition, which he does by freely reshaping Acts 6.8–13; then, from Acts 6.14 on, the quotation is literal and faithful. It must be noted, fourth, that there is a small but decisive change in the quotation: where Luke insists on Stephen’s Jewish identity and has him refer to the patriarchs as ‘our fathers’, the author of the Martyrdom removes Stephen from his ancestors by using the homophony of 
(‘of us’) and 
(‘of you’): under his pen the patriarchs become ‘your fathers’. At this point, the divorce with Israel is pronounced.
After a new, indispensable transition, the author of the Martyrdom, wishing to continue the story beyond the canonical limits, proceeds with a totally non-canonical final section. Saul’s participation in Stephen’s death is increased. Gamaliel, opposing his former pupil, supports the Christians—as in Acts 5—and defends Stephen’s honour. The first martyr himself utters a prophecy that Luke does not mention: he predicts to Saul that in the end he will die in a similar way. The text also adds some new elements to the evocation of the funeral: the quality of the coffin, the location of the grave, and the inscription chiliel, which in Syriac—like stephanos in Greek—means ‘crown’. A last paragraph introduces Gamaliel’s nephew, Nicodemos, who brings his nightly visits with Jesus (John 3) to fulfilment through baptism, which is celebrated by Peter and Paul. Such adherence to Christianity is not without danger: only Gamaliel’s authority spares Nicodemos from capital punishment. While he avoids death, Nicodemos loses his belongings and is forced to accept brutal corporal pain. Fortunately, Gamaliel opens his home to him. But Nicodemos soon dies and is buried next to Saint Stephen.
It is clear from the three parts of this document that the first is totally original; the second is biblical; and the third part, which is also non-canonical, parallels narrative parts of the Revelatio; it is difficult to explain the kinship between the Martyrdom and the Revelatio. Concerning the third part, I would suggest that legends about Gamaliel’s care for Stephen’s remains and Nicodemos’ destiny were circulating in Palestine during the third and the fourth centuries. Ephrem the Syrian bears witness to such traditions in his commentary on the Acts of the Apostles (Bovon 2003: 288–9). Some of the details concerning Stephen’s coffin and the word chiliel that was inscribed on it were also included in these memories. Both the Martyrdom and the Revelatio adopted portions of these legends according to their literary, historical, and spiritual needs. Something similar can be said with regard to the first part of the Martyrdom. Just as the christological dispute received confirmation in more recent hagiographical texts and Stephen’s location on a high place is universally attested, so this non-canonical ‘preparation’ to the canonical sequence most likely relies on an ancient tradition.
The flow of apostolic memories did not dry up with the evangelical kerygma and the christological creed. The growing church preserved a stock of useful data concerning its origin and early witnesses. What interested her most was the ministry and death of the first generation of apostles on one hand, and the brave and noble martyrdoms of so many heroes of the Christian faith on the other. I have shown this here by reference to a Greek tradition about Stephen, but the same twofold focus of interest in the apostles may be seen also in the Coptic Church, where two different collections of literature also survive: the journeyings of the apostles and their martyrdoms (Morard 1981).
Among the many documents that were written about the apostles and the first Christian witnesses, only the second part of the Lukan enterprise, namely the book of Acts, was canonized; this book also became part of the cycle of readings in the liturgy. The early catholica decided to have not only two readings of scripture in the dominical liturgy—one from the Old Testament, the other from the New—but three (one from the Old Testament and two from the New). The church refused to have only a reading from the gospels and added a reading from the epistles or the Acts. This second New Testament reading was called the ‘Epistle’ in the West and the ‘Apostle’ in the East (Bovon 1993). Thus in the whole church—Greek, Latin, Syriac, and Coptic—Christian faith was not considered to be a circle with a christological centre, but an ellipse that had two poles: one christological and the other apostolic. Following tactful intuition, an appropriate time of year was chosen for reading the Acts of the Apostles: in Africa it was read after Easter; in Milan, after Pentecost (Bovon 1967: 30–2). Both solutions were theologically relevant, since the resurrection of Christ (the Easter solution) or the outpouring of the Spirit (the Pentecost solution) constitute the beginning of the church—such is the content of the book of Acts. The canonization of the book of Acts was of course a choice. Readers of the non-canonical acts who were considered suspect, like the Manicheans, inflicted great injury on these other documents. But in a spontaneous way the church in each country, in each language, did not confine herself to choosing the drastic solution: to accept Acts and reject the others. Instead, the patristic structure of three types of documents offered a much better solution. In addition to the canonical books, the church retained other respectable documents that concerned the apostles and first Christians. Such non-canonical but nevertheless profitable books were considered part of the Christian tradition. Some of the oldest acts of apostles were formally rejected, but their plots, the peregrinations of their heroes, and their martyrdoms were rescued. Revisions allowed them to become part of mainstream Christian tradition. Other Christian legends, such as those related to Stephen, Matthew, Mary Magdalene, Salome, Mark, Luke, Titus, and Timothy, were collected and appreciated for their ‘usefulness’. Piety, edification, and ethics could only benefit from such examples.
As modern readers, we might immediately raise the question of historicity. My own experience with Greek monks helped me understand retrospectively that such a question was not a priority in Late Antiquity. Once, I inadvertently embarrassed the higoumenos, the abbot, of the Monastery of Limonos on the island of Lesbos when I asked when the saint of the day—St Paraskeve—had lived. He hesitated about Domitian for a moment, then said that it was under Diocletian; he was however much more certain about the virtue and merits of dear Paraskeve.
Modern readers might also wonder how much this mine of apostolic material contains by way of historical nuggets. Any attempt to respond to this question must take into account three considerations: (a) like the Jewish faith, Christian faith is attached to historical events and shaped by religious memory; (b) this memory is, however, a creative, inspired memory that is eager to shape coherent, convincing, and exemplary stories. If the first remark insists on preservation, the second insists on the construction of Christian memories about its origins; (c) any new narrative that is partially constructed from memory but with the addition of much creativity, will not find final form unless it includes the influence of other, more ancient documents. There is always an element of imitation. The Jesus of the Gospel of Luke bears some traits of the prophet Elijah; the Stephen of the book of Acts dies uttering the same prayer for forgiveness as the Lukan Christ; Gamaliel’s attitude in the legends related to St Stephen follows the shape of the Gamaliel found in Acts 5.
Modern Christians who might follow in the traditions of their ancient counterparts and continue to read these texts would do well not only to insist on Christianity as a historical religion but also to admire and recognize the spiritual value of Christian memory more than its historical accuracy. For we should not forget that between the categories of sacred and rejected texts there exists a wide space for other Christian documents, documents that are ‘profitable for the soul’, and we should be open to the possibilities that such texts might offer to us today.
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