PHEME PERKINS
EUSEBIUS’ account of the Gospel of Peter has shaped modern scholarly treatments of non-canonical gospel traditions (Hist. Eccl. 6.12). Bishop Serapion initially accepted public use of this gospel at Rhossus until he was shown that it promoted a heretical christology taught by Docetists. Citing a pamphlet Serapion composed to refute its errors, Eusebius provides a glimpse of the problem that bedevils interpretation of apocryphal gospels generally, distinguishing free-form, oral retelling of popular stories about or sayings of Jesus from a theological agenda. The bishop employed a text-critical strategy that had been taught in rhetorical schools for centuries, alleging that an original has been corrupted by the introduction of spurious additions. Unfortunately, Eusebius did not include the passages which Serapion listed as not in accord with ‘the authentic teaching of the Saviour’. Our only known section of the Gospel of Peter (P. Cair. 10759), from an anthology of selections buried in an eighth-century grave, begins with the trial of Jesus. Its dramatic ‘eyewitness’ rendering of the resurrection seems more a tribute to popular imagination than a piece promoting denial of Jesus’ humanity.
The correlation between dissident teaching about the Saviour and the composition of alternative gospels was as much a standard rhetorical move in the arsenal of second- to fourth-century heresiologists as it is in twenty-first-century advertising for the Gospel of Thomas or Gospel of Judas. For example, Irenaeus charges that the Marcosians not only misrepresented received gospels, but also forged a number of apocryphal and spurious writings. In addition, he asserts that they supported their claim to possess a hidden wisdom taught by the Saviour by citing Matt. 11.25–7 (Adv. Haer. 1.20.1–3). Refutation of their views focuses on canonical texts concerning Jesus’ baptism. Irenaeus correlates the heretical position that true Christian baptism involves the mystical ascent into heavenly regions with a deviant christology. According to Irenaeus, the Marcosians distinguish a baptism for forgiveness of sin instituted by the visible Jesus, from the redemption brought by ‘that Christ who descended upon him’ (Adv. Haer. 1.21.2). The baptism of Jesus also becomes a key focus of polemic against the Jewish Christian Ebionites in the fourth-century heresiologist, Epiphanius. He alleges that the sect promotes an angel christology that rejects both the divinity (‘born from the Father’) and the humanity of Jesus (Pan. 30.13.3–4, 30.14.3–5). This sect is not charged with forging false gospels, but misinterpreting and corrupting ‘their gospel’, a Hebrew version of Matthew. Epiphanius employs two stock rhetorical charges against their positions: (a) corrupting the text by excising Matthew’s genealogies from the beginning of the gospel (Pan. 30.14.3); and (b) misreading passages by abandoning the proper sequence of words (30.22.4).
These examples highlight the difficulty of using non-canonical gospel materials as evidence for second- and third-century views of christology and soteriology. Much of our evidence comes from statements about, quotations extracted from, or papyrus fragments of works no longer extant. What survives often appears to be oral variation of, midrashic elaborations on, or harmonizing combination of narratives and sayings also found in the canonical gospels. The connections to christology and soteriology made by patristic interpreters often appear extraneous. Rather than perpetuate ‘corruption of scripture and doctrine’ approaches in either the ancient heresiological polemic or its modern anti-orthodox mode, scholars should ask what this material indicates about second- and third-century theological imagination.
Scholars often attach titles with the word ‘gospel’ to newly discovered works or fragments thereof solely on grounds that some deeds, teaching, or Jesus and disciple interaction is mentioned. Standard collections of New Testament Apocrypha adopt the narrative sequence, infancy (and childhood), ministry, passion (and resurrection). Gospels described in patristic sources that are not extant, assorted sayings of Jesus, and the numerous fragments may be presented independently (so Elliott 1993) or included in the framework (so Ehrman and Pleše 2011). Assembling the surviving materials under these categories short-circuits obvious differences in genre and scope. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas, a modern title given to what may have been called ‘The Childhood Deeds of Our Lord Jesus Christ’, begins with Jesus at age five and concludes with a variant of Jesus in the Temple (Luke 2.41–52) at age twelve. The Gospel of Thomas has the formal title Gospel according to Thomas in the fourth-century Coptic codex, but the introductory line also preserved in earlier Greek fragments, ‘these are the hidden sayings that the living Jesus spoke’, better describes its genre. Epiphanius assumes that the selections he has from a Jewish–Christian gospel represent an altered or truncated version of a Hebrew ‘Gospel of Matthew’.
Neither the ‘childhood deeds’ nor the ‘hidden sayings’ were intended to complement the received gospels in presenting a ‘life and teaching’ of Jesus. Eusebius’ report concerning the Gospel of Peter suggests that it was such a ‘life’ even though the surviving extract is limited to the passion and resurrection. Some scholars have attempted to detect evidence for earlier parts of the Gospel of Peter in earlier fragments (P. Oxy. 4009; P. Vindob. G 2325) with little success (Lührmann 2004; cf. Foster 2006). Some papyri with gospel material are so small that they may have been amulets (P. Oxy. 840). Papyri classified as gospel fragments could also derive from homilies citing those passages (Hagen 2010).
The most plausible examples of narratives about Jesus intended to advance theological perspectives different from views based on a received canon derive from Gnostic groups. Revelation dialogues in which the risen Saviour imparts teaching to one or more disciples were contained in codices discovered in the twentieth century (Hartenstein 2000; Perkins 1980). The slight framing narratives employ details from the canonical gospels and Acts to support their authority, but these writings have no interest in expanding gospel-like narratives about Jesus. Most examples of this type have other genre terms such as ‘apocryphon’, ‘apocalypse’, ‘wisdom’, ‘dialogue’, or ‘letter’ in the codex titles. However, one example has the title Gospel according to Mary in the Coptic version. If ‘gospel’ is used in its Pauline sense akin to ‘preaching about salvation in Jesus’, then the title may derive from the final exhortation of Levi, ‘let us do what he has commanded us—to preach the gospel’ (P. Ryl. 463, 22.11–12), combined with the unusual genre element that Mary’s revelation of an earlier private teaching comprises the second half of the work after Jesus had left the scene. In that respect, the Gospel according to Mary departs from the usual revelation discourse as much as it does from other canonical and apocryphal gospels (Tuckett 2007).
Finally, the Gospel of Judas, published in 2006, presents another genre misfit. Its narrative chronology invokes the period of Jesus’ instruction prior to the Last Supper. The discourse shifts between Jesus and the Twelve and Jesus with Judas alone. It incorporates a long cosmogonic section that echoes Sethian mythemes (Gos. Jud. 46.5–53.7). This work might be the Gospel of Judas to which Irenaeus refers (Adv. Haer. 1.31.1–2) that celebrates Judas as the only disciple with knowledge of the divine realms above the creator and, according to this group (Cainites), charged with completing ‘the mystery of betrayal’. Pseudo-Tertullian explains that some Cainites honour Judas for betraying Christ lest the cosmic powers themselves prevent Christ’s death for the salvation of humanity (Adv. Omn. Haer. ii, 6), a theological position possibly grounded in 1 Cor. 2.8. These patristic notices suggest that the Gospel of Judas is a supplement to or insert for the received narrative of Jesus’ passion formulated to accommodate a revisionist soteriology. Its opening says of Jesus’ ministry: ‘When he appeared on earth, he performed signs and great wonders for the salvation of humankind. Some [walked] on the path of justice, but others stumbled in their mistakes, and so the twelve disciples were called’ (Gos. Jud. 33.6–14; Meyer 2007). The expression ‘he appeared’ suggests that this work had no place for birth or childhood narratives. ‘Appeared’ could be attached to the narrative with the descent of a divine figure at the baptism, for example. The Gospel of Judas concludes with Judas being paid for directing authorities to the room in which Jesus is praying with the Twelve (Gos. Jud. 58.9–26).
Scholars use the expression ‘rewritten scripture’ for works like Jubilees and Genesis Apocryphon that engage in major reconfigurations of the base text (Zahn 2010). Similar patterns occur in the apocryphal gospels. Distinctions between genre types are often blurred; a text may hew closely to its scriptural archetype in one section while diverging radically in another; it can be difficult to determine whether one should speak of a literary genre or simply a method of interpreting scripture in some cases. This ‘rewritten scripture’ analogy should prevent students of early Christianity from adopting the rhetorical ploy of heresiologists that ‘other gospels’ are replacements for the canonical gospels. They may foster interpretations of Jesus and salvation not evident in the received traditions, but their very existence depends upon readers familiar with a gospel canon.
When Ernst Käsemann attributed a naive docetism to the Fourth Gospel, insisting that it depicted a Jesus who was more of a god come to earth than a human being, scholars protested that his proposal was inadequate to the symbolic complexities of Johannine narrative (Hurtado 2003). Yet Irenaeus had concluded that the evangelist had docetic christology in his sights. According to Irenaeus, John opposed the heretic Cerinthus, who taught that ‘Jesus’ was the human son of Joseph and the ‘Christ’ was a heavenly aeon who descended upon Jesus at his baptism and departed before the crucifixion (Adv. Haer. 1.26.1, 3.11.1). Jerome adds ‘Ebion’, hypothetical founder of a Jewish Christian sect, as another opponent (In Matt. Prologue). These examples, one from a proto-gnostic sect, the other from a Jewish Christian one, employ different approaches to formulating a christology that draws a sharp distinction between what is necessary for salvation, a divine Saviour, and the human Jesus.
Such ‘naive docetism’ operates at the level of myth and folklore, that is, imagination rather than doctrine (Goldstein and Stroumsa 2007). In that setting deities appear to be ordinary human beings. Interaction with a god in that shape may bring unanticipated blessings or a devastating curse if one offends the deity. Acts 14.8–18 has the people of Lystra mistake Paul and Barnabas for gods in this fashion. The miracle-working child Jesus in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas both displays his divine powers and proves dangerous to those who cross him. But when he heals a young man who had split open his foot with an axe, the crowd responds appropriately, ‘When the crowd saw what had happened it worshipped the child, saying, “The Spirit of God truly resides within this child.”’ (Inf. Gos. Thom. 10.2).
Such a naive ‘god among us’ christology differs from the ‘two beings’ form associated with Cerinthus and the Jewish Christian Ebionites. In that type of docetism, ‘Jesus’ is a completely ordinary human being, the son of Joseph (and Mary). Consequently, Epiphanius reports that the Ebionite gospel chopped off the genealogies and virgin birth stories (Pan. 30.14.3). At his baptism in the Jordan a heavenly entity descends into and subsequently speaks and acts through Jesus. Measured against the emerging Nicene orthodoxy, Epiphanius finds the Ebionite view wanting, ‘They do not allege that he was born from God the Father, but that he was created as one of the archangels, yet he was made greater than they, since he rules over the angels and all things made by the almighty’ (Pan. 30.14.4). However, the citation from their gospel which follows this statement has nothing to do with this summary.
A different approach to describing the nature of the Saviour denies all ties to created beings, human or angelic. For example, in the Gospel of Thomas Thomas’ insight into the true nature of Jesus distinguishes him from humans and angels: ‘Jesus said to his disciples, “Make a comparison and tell me: who am I like?” Simon Peter said to him, “You are like a righteous angel.” Matthew said to him, “You are like a wise philosopher.” Thomas said to him, “Teacher, my mouth cannot let me say at all what you are like.” Jesus said, “I am not your teacher, for you have drunk and become intoxicated from the bubbling spring that I myself have measured out.”’ (Gos. Thom. 13). Because Thomas acknowledges that Jesus is like God, ineffable, he possesses the living water (wisdom or the Spirit) that flows from Jesus (cp. John 3.5, 4.10, 7.38–9). This example illustrates two characteristics of the docetic options in apocryphal gospels generally: (a) detachment from Jewish messianic categories; and (b) emphasis on a divine Saviour who is decidedly not ‘in every respect tested as we are, yet without sin’ (Heb. 4.15).
Christologies that emphasize the divine being of the Saviour have no place for interpreting the death of Jesus as atonement for sin. Ignatius of Antioch charges ‘some atheists’ with saying that ‘he suffered in appearance only’ (Trall. 9–10; Smyrn. 2–3). He mocks their view by suggesting that without a bodily resurrection the most they can hope for is to become ‘disembodied and demonic’. If the Saviour did not suffer and die for humanity on the cross, then the martyrdom of the apostles as well as his own would be a worthless gesture. This counter-argument sets the parameters for opposition to docetic interpretations of the passion in the second and third centuries. Salvation gained through comprehending the higher truth contained in the Saviour’s teaching as in Gos. Thom. has no place for bodily resurrection or martyrdom.
If the heavenly aeon which descended upon Jesus at his baptism departed prior to the crucifixion (Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 1.26.1, on Cerinthus), the passion narrative needed no revision to accommodate a docetic position. Scholars acknowledge that without the Serapion story in Eusebius, the passion and resurrection account from Gos. Peter would not lead one to ask if that gospel promoted a docetic christology (McCant 1984). Marcion allegedly taught that Christ appeared on earth as a ‘phantom’, without bodily substance (Irenaeus Adv. Haer. 1.27.2; Tertullian Adv. Marc. 3.8.1–3, 4.8.3). Yet the only reported excision from Luke’s passion narrative in Marcion’s version is the promise ‘today you will be with me in paradise’ (Epiphanius, Pan. 42, 11.6). Tertullian observes that logically one would expect Marcion to omit Luke 24.38–9 with its affirmation of resurrected body. He suggests that Marcion has twisted the interpretation of the passage so that Christ claims to be a ghost (Adv. Marc. 4.43.6–8). In limiting his deletions, Marcion makes it appear that he has not mutilated Luke’s Gospel, but only removed some textual accretions.
Contrary to Tertullian’s polemical reading of Marcion’s editing, one might consider it evidence for the importance of the passion narrative to early Christian gospels generally. Familiar elements from the canonical accounts are expanded and reshaped in revisions such as are found in the Gospel of Peter, but the basic structure remains. For example, the episode in Luke 23.39–43 appears in an abbreviated form. Instead of replying to the other criminal who mocked Jesus, the speaker addresses those dividing Jesus’ garments, ‘We have suffered like this for the evil things we did; but this one, the Saviour of the people—what wrong has he done you?’ (Gos. Pet. 13). The enraged guards break Jesus’ legs in order to increase the pain of death (contrary to John 19.32). However, Jesus is never reduced to agony. His final words, ‘My power, my power, you have left me behind!’ (Mark 15.34) meet with a divine response, ‘he was taken up’ (Gos. Pet. 19). The numinous power associated with his body causes an earthquake when the corpse is laid on the ground (Gos. Pet. 21). Where Luke had the crowd ‘return home beating their breasts’ (Luke 22.48), the Gospel of Peter has ‘the Jews, the elders and the priests … beating their breasts, saying, “Woe to us because of our sins. The judgement and end of Jerusalem are near”’ (Gos. Pet. 25).
By setting the stage for a dangerous public reversal of opinion, the Gospel of Peter provides the ‘scribes, Pharisees, and elders’ with the motive for establishing a high level of security over the tomb and preventing the disciples from staging a resurrection (Matt. 27.62–6). The centurion and soldiers posted as guards witness the angels descending into the tomb, and their emergence leading a Jesus whose head was above the sky followed by the cross. Like the centurion of Mark 15.39, they report to Pilate, ‘He actually was the Son of God’ (Gos. Pet. 45). Then the Gospel of Peter returns to the canonical stories of the women at the tomb, the disciples’ return to Galilee, and breaks off with Peter heading out to fish (John 21.1–4).
The Gospel of Peter is not concerned to explain how the enormous figure, greater than his angelic escort, who emerges from the tomb, is related to the figure who died on the cross. It is sufficient to demonstrate that his enemies in fact knew the truth about Jesus as the Son of God. Pilate passes off the execution to Herod and ‘the people’. They not only mock him as ‘King of Israel’ but as ‘Son of God’. No ‘Son of God’ would permit himself to be dragged around and flogged (6–8). Jewish leaders also acknowledge that the ‘end of Jerusalem’ will be God’s punishment for their sins.
Where the Gospel of Peter remains relatively close to storylines found in the canonical gospels, later Apocrypha associated with Pilate elaborate on Pilate’s innocence and role as witness, the responsibility of the Jews for Jesus’ death, numerous miraculous signs of Jesus’ divinity, as well as a detailed investigation of the resurrection by a Jewish court. Represented in over 500 medieval manuscripts in many languages, the materials contained in the ‘Acts of Pilate’ did as much to shape Christian imagining of Christ’s trial, death, harrowing of hell, and resurrection, as the Protoevangelium of James did for the Virgin Mary. Eusebius points to an anti-Christian ‘Acts of Pilate’ circulating in the early fourth century (Hist. Eccl. 1.9.3–4, 9.5.1, 9.7.1). The opening trial accounts might have been composed in response to such polemic. Earlier Christian versions of the trial before Pilate appear to have circulated as early as the mid second century (Justin Martyr, 1 Apol. 35.9; Epiphanius, Pan. 50.1; Tertullian, Apol. 21.24, as correspondence between Pilate and Tiberius). While the opening chapters take the form of reports concerning the proceedings before Pilate, the resurrection eyewitness guards report to the Jews who conduct the subsequent investigations. The medieval manuscripts prefer to title these works the Gospel of Nicodemus, who is the fictional author (in Hebrew) of an account employed by the alleged author of the work itself, a member of the procurator’s body guard who converted to Christianity (Gos. Nicod. A prologue). A search of the public records enabled this fifth-century Christian to piece together a colourful picture of events surrounding Jesus’ death and resurrection.
Although presented as an expanded passion narrative comparable to the much less elaborate Gospel of Peter, the Gospel of Nicodemus incorporates references to episodes from the canonical narratives of Jesus’ ministry into the trial testimony (Gos. Nicod. A 1.1). Despite being the son of Joseph the carpenter and Mary, Jesus ‘calls himself a son of God and king’. His healing miracles violate the Sabbath and undermine ancestral law. His power over unclean spirits proves that Jesus is really a magician. Pilate rejects that conclusion, ‘No one can cast out demons by an unclean spirit, but only by the god Asclepius’, and is even willing to accord Jesus a royal status that his Jewish accusers reject (Gos. Nicod. A 1.2–4). The scenario of Jesus’ entry confirms the presence of a powerful divine figure when the Roman standards insist upon bowing down in worship before him (Gos. Nicod. A 1.5–6).
For post-Constantinian Christians, this popular legend had a transparent message. Their legions no longer marched behind standards honouring pagan deities. They fought under the sign of the true God, which had brought Constantine victory (Eusebius, Hist. Eccl. 9.9.9). Eusebius describes the triumphant emperor setting up ‘a trophy of the Saviour’s passion’ with a Latin inscription on the emperor’s statue: ‘By this saving sign … I saved your city … and set her free;… and restored them [the senate and Roman people] to their ancient renown and splendour.’ Nothing could be clearer. The christology which sees the cross and resurrection as a divine Christ triumphant over demonic enemies enabled that same sign to inspire armies. As Peter Brown has pointed out, from the mid-fourth to the mid-fifth century this ‘sign’ would dominate the city of Rome, not only through the churches erected by Constantine as votive monuments to his victories but even more so by the titular churches erected by other wealthy aristocrats (Brown 2012: 241–54). ‘It was through such churches that Christianity moved, in the course of the fourth and early fifth centuries, from a state of virtual invisibility around the year 350 to being a religion whose presence was felt throughout the city’(Brown 2012: 246). Theologians of the fourth and fifth centuries will engage in vigorous debate over how to square the suffering of God incarnate with divine impassibility, but the apocryphal gospels do not engage in theological fine-tuning at the narrative level.
Since the divinity of Jesus can be represented as victory over the suffering imposed by those hostile to God, some narrative shifts require that the enemy acknowledge defeat, as in the expansions connected with the Jewish authorities in the Gospel of Peter. While second-century docetic Christologies retain the paradox that Paul expressed in 1 Cor. 2.8—‘… for if they [= the rulers of this age] had known (it), they would not have crucified the Lord of glory’—by distinguishing the inner reality of the Saviour from the body he employed, some later Apocrypha emend the canonical accounts to show that the rulers did know they were attacking ‘the Lord of glory’. The Gospel of Nicodemus introduces testimony to counter the charges against Jesus from those whom he had healed as well as Nicodemus’ argument that the Jewish leaders are repeating what their ancestors had done to Moses. They should accept Jesus’ miracles as signs from God (Gos. Nicod. A 5–8). A Jewish priest, teacher, and Levite witness the risen Jesus instructing his disciples on a mountain in Galilee and his ascension into heaven. Their testimony provokes a heated debate and investigation by the Sanhedrin. Priests and Levites conclude that if remembrance of Jesus continues until the Jubilee, ‘know that he will prevail forever and will raise a new people for himself’ (Gos. Nicod. A 16.7). With a reminder that anyone who worships as God a creature or idol fashioned by human hands is cursed, the people depart singing a hymn to the Lord God as their Saviour (Gos. Nicod. A 16.7–8). For a fifth-century Christian audience, this celebration should be directed to Jesus even if the characters in the story do not recognize that fact: ‘The Lord will be king over all the earth … the Lord will be one and his name will be one, the Lord our king…. Heal us by your power, O Lord, and we will be healed. Save us, O Lord and we will be saved.’
The narrative hardly reflects the turbulent christological debates of the fourth and fifth centuries. By referring to the commandment against worshipping any creature, the text could allude to the distinction ‘begotten not made one in being with the Father’. Despite its clear insistence upon the divinity of Jesus, Gos. Nicod. has no problem with his death, which the author treats as the soul’s departure from the body (Gos. Nicod. A 14.3). Christological disputes over the relationship of divine and human in the soul of the incarnate Son leave no traces in these narratives. However, the Gospel of Nicodemus does refute the allegation that appearances of the risen Jesus concerned a ghost. Jesus appears in angelic glory to rescue Joseph of Arimathea from the house in which the Jews had imprisoned him. Joseph treats the apparition as a ‘phantom’ by reciting the commandments that should have driven it off. Then Joseph tries addressing it as ‘Elijah’. Only a visit to the empty tomb with the grave wrappings intact persuades Joseph that the figure is Jesus (Gos. Nicod. A 15.6).
A later reworking of Gos. Nicod. sometime in the sixth century develops the obscure statement in 1 Pet. 3.19 that Christ ‘went and made proclamation to the spirits who were in prison’ and extends the triumph to Hades itself (Gos. Nicod. 17–27). The Son of God assumed humanity in order to deceive Satan so that he could bring salvation to the dead. The harrowing of hell became an established feature in Christian imagination, as celebrated in Dante’s Divine Comedy, for example: ‘I [= Virgil] was new-entered on this state when I beheld a Great Lord enter here; the crown he wore, a sign of victory … before them, there were no human souls that had been saved’ (Inf. 3.52–9, trans. A. Mandelbaum). In order to provide witnesses to the events in Hades, Gos. Nicod. B enlists the risen dead who appeared around Jerusalem in Matt. 27.52–3. Prior to Christ’s descent, John the Baptist preaches to those in Hades. Still believing that Jesus is human, Satan approaches Hades with the request to keep Jesus there. However, acknowledging Jesus’ superior powers especially in raising Lazarus, Hades rightly fears the approach of the King of glory, ‘We have been defeated…. What sort of being are you who comes here without sin, … You were nailed to the cross and placed in the grave, and now you have become free and destroyed all our power’ (Gos. Nicod. 22.1). Satan is permanently bound in Hades. The triumphant Christ establishes all of the righteous from Adam on in the heavenly kingdom.
The dramatic images of liberated people following the triumphant Christ to take up residence in a glorious, heavenly home convey the message that salvation is won through the cross without articulating a theological explanation of ‘why’ or ‘how’. Early formulaic summaries in the New Testament associate the death of Christ with sacrifices for sin (Rom. 3.24–6; 1 Cor. 15.3; 2 Cor. 5.21; Heb. 1.2–3). Since the visual scenarios of execution and sacrifice do not overlap, this explanation does not shape narrative accounts of the passion. Arguments against docetic Christologies in the second and third century rely on the sacrificial transposition. Unless a living body dies on the cross, Christ has not died for our sins. But atonement is not the only model for soteriology.
For the cosmological myths formulated in Gnostic sects, Hades is this material universe created and ruled by an ignorant or malicious demiurge and subordinate angels. When he arrogantly boasted of being the only god, the true divine realm was revealed in the image of the spiritual Adam. The creator and associates set about trying to trap that light in a human creature of their own fashioning, with a psychic and material body governed by various demons and planetary angels. Details vary between schools and with each retelling. But salvation requires clandestine incursions into the material cosmos by Saviour figures from the divine world to awaken humanity to its true divine nature, to inspire contempt for the creator who is depicted as the god of Jews or ordinary Christians, and to provide the ritual, ascetic, and cognitive mechanisms for souls to return to their divine source. Christian adaptations of this mythic pattern not only promote a docetic reading of the crucifixion as the heresiologists recognized, they also make separation of the ‘inner self’ from both the material body and the psychic passions necessary for salvation.
Most of our evidence for interpretations of the passion and the body of the Saviour in Gnostic circles derives from writings which are not designated gospels. However, one section of Gos. Mary appears to incorporate the soul’s instructions for ascending past the planetary powers and shedding the ignorance and passions as it does so (BG 15.1–17.1). Mary says she received this private teaching following a visionary experience of the Lord. Ability to stand without wavering in the presence of the divine was widely understood as evidence of spiritual enlightenment, so Jesus’ beatitude (BG 10.14–16) indicates that Mary receives this teaching because she is one of the spiritual elite (Tuckett 2007: 169–85). Just as the newly liberated soul enters ‘the rest of time’ in silence, Mary falls silent—possibly an indication that her soul has been able to imitate the journey recounted in the text (Tuckett 2007: 185).
Six pages from the beginning of the codex are missing. Gos. Mary opens in the middle of a dialogue between the Saviour and disciples concerning the nature of the material world, sin, death, and the passions. The conversation ends abruptly. After commissioning the disciples to go and preach the gospel of the Kingdom, the Saviour departs (BG 8.12–9.5). Afraid lest the Gentiles treat them as they had the Saviour, the disciples break down weeping until Mary rallies the group (BG 9.5–24). Whether or not the missing pages said anything about the crucifixion, Jesus’ disciples are afraid of being killed. Both their fear and the subsequent refusal to believe what the Saviour taught Mary (BG 17.10–18.5) show that the disciples have not reached the same level of spiritual maturity as Mary. Gos. Thom. 13 takes a more conventional position: Thomas will not divulge what Jesus said to him because it would provoke wrath in the less enlightened. By speaking rather than rejecting Peter’s request, Mary does provoke hostility. Levi defends the Saviour’s choice, scolds the others, and goes to preach as the Saviour commanded. The Greek only has Levi do so (P. Ryl. 463 22.15) while the Coptic has ‘them’ go out. In either case apostolic teaching is presumed to incorporate the special material found in the Gospel of Mary.
Its spiritual teaching incorporates an understanding of the material world, the body, the passions, their demonic or astrological equivalents intended to transform believers into ‘the perfect human’ (BG 9.20, 18.16) or ‘the Son of Man within you’ (BG 8.18–19). The weaknesses and fear of suffering which prevented the disciples from preaching the gospel as the Saviour commanded will be overcome. Whether visionary or mystical experiences of the risen Lord are part of the process by which the enlightened soul attains ‘the rest’ and silence is difficult to say, since ‘I have seen the Lord’ (BG 10.10–12) has adopted Mary Magdalene’s words from John 20.18.
The Saviour’s response to Peter’s question concerning the ‘sin of the world’ (John 1.29?) initially denies that there is sin (BG 7.10–14), but goes on to develop an account of matter as the source of passion or disturbances in the body that are contrary to nature (BG 8.2–6). Though commentators have filled out these references with parallels in gnostic anthropologies (Tuckett 2007: 142–8), the text as it stands reflects a hybrid of Platonic and Stoic elements without any gnostic mythological notes. Presumably this teaching serves to confirm some form of ascetic discipline. Thus the fear of hostility comparable to that faced by the Saviour only shows the immaturity of Jesus’ disciples. It does not provide evidence about christology in the Gospel of Mary. The Saviour’s relationship to his body would render him impassible in any case, but in a docetic account of the crucifixion only the spiritually enlightened see that the man being crucified is not the Saviour (for example, Second Logos of Great Seth, NHC VII 55.9–56.20; Apocalypse of Peter NHC VII 82.3–9). In other words, the spiritual state of the interlocutor not only determines whether or not she can receive Jesus’ hidden teaching, it also shapes her vision of the Saviour.
Socrates bans myths of shape-shifting deities from his imagined city as incompatible with the eternal, unchanging reality of the divine/Good (Plato, Rep.380a–382a). That metaphysical exclusion generally holds for the theological debates over the relationship of divinity and humanity in Christ. It is somewhat loosely held in the canonical gospels where walking on water (Mark 6.47–52 par.); transfiguration (Mark 9.2–8 par.) and resurrection appearances are in play (Luke 24.13–35; John 20.11–18 [hidden stranger]; Luke 24.36–51; John 20.19–29 [materializing in a locked room]). Divine beings cannot be constrained by the constraints of the material universe (Goldstein and Stroumsa 2007: 423–9). The miraculous birth of Jesus shrouded in light in the Protevangelium of James and the child Jesus not entirely beneficent with miraculous powers in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas are rather simple examples of spontaneous epiphanies of the divine. At the same time, the narrative archetype for such stories requires staging of conflict and rejection by enemies unable to perceive the hidden presence of a divine being. Similarly, the Gospel of Peter infers either from the canonical transfiguration stories or from association of the risen and exalted Jesus with angelic beings that witnesses to his emergence from the tomb must have seen a luminous figure stretching from earth into the heavens.
Any description of how the risen Jesus appeared to the disciples has been lost with the missing opening of the Gospel of Mary. The simple departure notice ‘when he had said this, he went away’ (BG 9.5) might indicate that there was no emphasis on the Saviour’s appearance. It could have opened as the Dialogue of the Saviour does with the Saviour inviting his disciples to grasp the occasion to leave suffering behind and stand in the rest (NHC III 120.1–4), for example. By contrast, the Apocryphon of John (NHC II 2.1–24) has the Saviour appear as a polymorphous luminous figure who self-identifies as the deity, father, mother, and son, the incorruptible and undefiled. At the conclusion he departs by disappearing. A similar description of the Saviour appearing to his disciples ‘not in his previous form but in invisible spirit … like a great angel of light … Mortal flesh could not bear it, but only pure and perfect flesh’ opens the Sophia of Jesus Christ (NHC III 91.10–17). The departure formula ‘these are the things the blessed Saviour said and he disappeared’ (BG 126.17–127.1) is followed in both instances by the recipients’ joyful departure to carry out the Saviour’s commands. Therefore the disciples’ fearful collapse in the Gospel of Mary plays out contrary to type. Mary’s previous vision of the Saviour, the instruction she received, and her closeness to the Saviour, who ‘made her worthy’, ‘knows her’, ‘loves her more than us’ (BG 18.10–14) enables her to carry out the task which Luke 22.32 attached to Peter: ‘when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers’. Some interpreters even see her stepping into the role of the revealer at this point (Pasquier 1983: 69). However, the text requires no more than that she function as the enlightened spiritual teacher whose vision of the real nature of the Saviour enables her to instruct immature followers.
Other Apocrypha incorporate dreams and visions into the passion narrative. Fragments from a fourth- or fifth-century Coptic manuscript in Strasbourg contain lines from a departure prayer comparable to John 17 along with Jesus’ words to encourage his fearful disciples. Small fragments from another page allude to a visionary experience in which the disciples not only witness the Saviour’s glory but even gaze (or journey?) up through the heavens to see the enthroned Lord, ‘We beheld the glory of his Godhead and all the glory of his dominion. He clothed us with the power of our apostleship …’ (Elliott 1993: 42). This vision of the divine throne room is the occasion for their investiture as apostles. How that episode which apparently concludes the apocryphal text is associated with the passion and resurrection stories is impossible to say. These fragments may be from a Coptic apocryphal gospel, the ‘Unknown Berlin Gospel’ or ‘Gospel of the Saviour’, first published in 1999. With echoes of Matthew and John, this work presents the Saviour’s farewell discourses. As in John 14.31, the summons to depart is followed by further discourse. Their vision of the Saviour’s entry through the heavens occurs on the Mount of Olives. Other elements from Rev. 4.4–10 describe the divine throne room. Apparently the Gethsemane prayer formula has been incorporated into a vision of Jesus praying before his Father there. When the Saviour informs his disciples of the impending resurrection, John asks that he not do so in his full glory: ‘ … change your glory into [some other] glory so that [we might be able to bear] it, lest we see [you and] despair from [fear]!’ (Gos. Sav. 66–8; Emmel 2002: 57). Though the prayer before the Father in heaven affirms the Son’s willingness ‘to die with joy and pour out my blood for the human race’ (Gos. Sav. 52; Emmel 2002: 56), the text is too fragmentary to determine how the divine figure relates to the body which dies.
The Gospel of Judas also exhibits features of this visionary pattern. Jesus has appeared to his disciples in multiple forms, often appearing in their midst unexpectedly (Gos. Judas 33). The gnostic features of Gos. Judas are more explicit than in the Gospel of Mary. From the beginning, Jesus chides the disciples for giving thanks over bread offered to the creator (Gos. Judas 34). Judas confesses that Jesus has come from the divine world, the Barbelo aeon familiar from Sethian traditions (Turner 2008). But unlike Mary Magdalene in the Gospel of Mary, even though Judas is able to stand before Jesus, which the others cannot do, Judas cannot look Jesus in the face (Gos. Judas 35). Not only is Judas taken apart from the Twelve, his replacement in that number (Gos. Judas 36; Acts 1.15–26) enables Jesus to designate Judas ‘the thirteenth’(Gos. Judas 44.21, 46.19–47.1), that is higher than the twelve astrological regions which dominate the material universe and the fate of all within it including the Twelve (Gos. Judas 42). Judas is destined to rule over the thirteenth aeon (Gos. Judas 55.10–11) despite the hostility he will experience from the Twelve. But scholars remain divided over whether Judas is included in the ‘generation without a king’ (Gos. Judas 53.24) or the generation to which the spiritual Jesus belongs but his disciples do not: ‘Truly I say to you, no one born of this aeon will see that generation; and no angelic host of the stars will rule over that generation; and no human of mortal birth will be able to come along with it’ (Gos. Judas 37.1). Neither patristic reports that make Judas the ‘hero’ nor the canonical ‘betrayer’ fit the picture of Judas in this text. At the present state of reconstruction of the text and research, the most cogent interpretations treat Judas as a mediating figure comparable to the psychics in Valentinian sources (Thomassen 2008; Painchaud 2008; Jenott 2011).
The rigid dualism separating what belongs to the eternal, divine world (Barbelo aeon) from the entire material cosmos is only overcome by Jesus, who is able to transit from one to the other even during his earthly activity. This transition pattern is marked by the fact that he appeared in the lower world—no conception or birth stories are required—and by the dramatic visionary episode in which Judas witnesses his ascent (Gos. Judas 57.15–23). Ambiguity in the referent of the ‘he’ led some interpreters to presume that Judas was the subject of the verb ‘entered’. However, with Jesus as the grammatical referent (Meyer 2008; Jenott 2011) this passage is comparable to others in which disciples witness Jesus’ ascent through the heavens. The missing lines at the top of page 58 may have dealt with what happened to Judas as a consequence of this vision. When the text resumes, Jesus and the Twelve are gathered in the ‘guest room’ (Gos. Judas 58.11; Mark 14.14; Luke 22.11). Judas, who is outside, hands Jesus over (paradidonai) to the authorities (Gos. Judas 58.9–26).
No dramatic betrayal scenario is involved. Judas appears to be accomplishing what Jesus had earlier prophesied was his destiny, ‘You will exceed all of them [= the Twelve?]. For you will sacrifice the man who bears me’ (Gos. Judas 56.17–21). Is Judas following a command of Jesus (cp. John 13.27b, after Satan has entered Judas)? Or is it a prophetic statement (cp. John 13.18, 21)? Again, the poor condition of the text has generated divergent interpretations. Two phrases are critical to our investigation of christology and soteriology: (a) ‘sacrifice’; and (b) ‘the man who bears me’. One might presume, as Epiphanius did, that Judas is praised for enabling the sacrificial death of Jesus. That view runs up against the extensive polemic against sacrifice, a ritual action demanded by the evil creator, earlier in the document (Gos. Judas 38.1–39.3; Kerchove 2008). Unlike the Jewish–Christian polemic against sacrifice because Jesus’ death is a perfect sacrifice, Gos. Judas portrays Jesus’ disciples engaged in that practice. Referring to the Ebionites, Epiphanius alleges that ‘ … in their gospel … I have come to destroy the sacrifices. And if you do not stop making sacrifices, God’s wrath will afflict you’ (Pan. 30.16.4–5). In the Gospel of Judas the vision of the horrors of sacrificial cult accepted even by the Twelve shifts from the outer reality of animals to the horrific slaughter of humans, women and infants. Rather than rest with the rhetorical use of a polymorphous vision to horrify the reader, a number of interpreters argue that this vision represents opposition to the developing cult of martyrdom in the second and third centuries (Jenott 2011).
Whether the Gospel of Judas has adapted an earlier Christian polemic against Jewish cult sacrifice to challenge sacrificial interpretations of Jesus’ death and eucharist in the larger Christian community or has a special focus—martyrdom as imitation of that sacrifice—‘sacrifice’ does not have positive associations. Therefore the death of ‘the man who bore me’ has no role in salvation for those who belong to the other generation, a race superior to mortal humans (Gos. Judas 36.11–17). Although neither the Twelve nor (apparently) Judas can belong to that group, the audience is certainly intended to identify as members of that generation (Thomassen 2008: 162). Within this framework Judas’ action is insignificant. His role belonged to the canonical gospel traditions that the author has reworked. Judas’ vision of the luminous ascent into the heavens may have been associated with the departure of the spiritual Saviour from that psychic–material entity prior to the passion events. However, the state of the text makes it impossible to determine whether or how it conceived the relationship between the Saviour and his body.
Clearly the apocryphal gospels provide snapshots of early Christian imagination. To imagine Jesus as a divine being active among humans and allegedly put to death by those who fail to recognize him employs imaginative forms of ‘appearance christology’ or docetism with roots in mythic and religious traditions that antedate the doctrinal disputes of the second and third centuries. Therefore, the patristic correlation between heretical teaching and apocryphal gospels is an element of polemic, not historical information. Furthermore, the apocryphal gospels like other ‘rewritten scripture’ presume that the audience is familiar with traditions comparable to those in the emerging four-gospel canon. They have not been composed as replacements for the gospels to which they allude. Nor, because of their dependence upon earlier traditions, do these texts serve as repositories for early Jesus materials suppressed by the orthodox promoters of the canonical Gospels.
Early Christian polemics endowed the term ‘docetic’ or ‘docetism’ with negative overtones of ‘denial of Jesus’ and of the saving significance of his death. However, a more diverse set of options underlie the depictions of Christ and his passion than this usage suggests. The divinity of the Saviour figures more prominently in the second- and third-century Christian imagination than his (Jewish) humanity. The many forms of docetic explanations for appearances of the divine occur in these presentations without engaging in the speculations concerning the complex relationships between human and divine that lead to Nicea.
Many of the apocryphal gospels do not associate salvation with Christ’s death on the cross as a sacrifice for sin. Instead Christ whose divine reality is displayed in resurrection and return to heavenly glory provides disciples a path to transformation. They too will strip off the material humanity dominated by passions and escape the demonic or planetary guardians seeking to retain souls. Not surprisingly, soteriology as disengagement from the world often requires ascetic praxis. Apocryphal gospels associated with Gnostic Christians locate secret teaching transmitted to individual disciples in a post-resurrection visionary experience or in the days before the passion. Narrative motifs from the canonical gospels provide the setting just as they do in other Apocrypha that fill in imaginative gaps in stories of Jesus’ life such as the Infancy Gospel of Thomas or the Gospel of Peter.
The collection of apocryphal gospels edited by Ehrman and Pleše (2011) provides the Greek, Latin, and Coptic texts and English translation on facing pages. Brief introductions and bibliography orient readers to the history of discovery and discussion of the texts. Foster (2004) enlists a number of scholars to provide longer introductions to the most important apocryphal gospels. Readers with some knowledge of Greek wishing to understand the problems in editing, translating, and interpreting fragmentary apocryphal gospels would be well served by working through Kraus, Kruger, and Nicklas (2009).
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