RICHARD I. PERVO
EUSEBIUS opens the third book of his Ecclesiastical History with a description of the world mission of ‘the holy Apostles and disciples of our Saviour’ who had been disbursed throughout the inhabited lands:
Thomas, as tradition relates, obtained by lot Parthia, Andrew Scythia, John Asia (and he stayed there and died in Ephesus), but Peter seems to have preached to the Jews of the Dispersion in Pontus and Galatia and Bithynia, Cappadocia, and Asia, and at the end he came to Rome and was crucified head downwards, for so he had demanded to suffer. What need be said of Paul, who fulfilled the gospel of Christ from Jerusalem to Illyria and afterward was martyred in Rome under Nero? This is stated exactly (kata lexin) by Origen in the third volume of his commentary on Genesis. (3.1, Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, Loeb edn, 1.191)
The presumed citation from Origen (on which see Harnack 1918: 14–16; Junod 1981) mentions five apostles rather than twelve, the very five associated, since antiquity, with ‘major’ apocryphal acts. One theme underlying this account is the ‘apostolic lottery’ (on which see Kaestli 1981), according to which each of the twelve receives by lot as a missionary territory a portion of the twelve sections into which the inhabited world is divided. The idea of a universal mission is grounded in Matt. 28.19 and Acts 1.8 (cf. Justin, 1 Apol. 39.3), but is not described in Acts, where Peter is the only apostle whose missionary activity receives attention. The motif of a lottery is likewise probably inspired by Acts (1.23–6), but not utilized for missionary allotments there. Not only the lottery but also the realm of each apostle is legendary. (For the association of Andrew with Scythia see MacDonald 1994: 292; for Thomas in Parthia see Acts Phil. 8.1.) The NT could be held as the source of the idea that John died in Ephesus, by attributing Revelation to that apostle, and the death of Paul in Rome is a reasonable inference from 2 Timothy, but for the details one must consult the apocryphal acts, where one learns that John died a natural death in Ephesus (Acts John 115), that Paul was martyred under Nero (Acts John 14), and that Peter was crucified upside down (Acts Pet. 37). The notices about Peter and Paul integrate these stories with references to specific scriptures (1 Pet. 1.1; Rom. 15.19, respectively).
The essence of the apostolic office as reflected in most of the Christian Apocrypha is mission. The NT already presents conflicting views of the apostolic office. Linkage with the twelve disciples of Jesus, evident in the lists (e.g. Mark 3.13–19//Matt. 10.1–4//Luke 6.12–16; Acts 1.13; Acts Thom. 1; Ep. Apos. 2) emphasizes the historical and juridical (Luke 22.28–30 [Q]), but the understanding of apostles as missionaries authorized by a Christophany (1 Cor. 15.3–8), which may be characterized as charismatic legitimation, may well be earlier. Luke, as is well known, integrates the two (Acts 1.21–2). From the institutional and juridical understanding of the term derives ‘apostolic’ in the doctrinal sense, the faith of the apostles that provides the basis for orthodoxy and is grounded in apostolic succession. The apocrypha often maintain the charismatic, missionary understanding of ‘apostle’ in its purest form, but not exclusively so. Peter and Paul, for example, are the recipients of revelations in the various apocalypses attributed to them because of their authority. Tradition had long established the virtue of giving venerable status to great worthies, such as Enoch. The various acts focus upon the missionary role.
With a few exceptions, notably the Epistle of the Apostles, the Apocrypha display no interest in the Apostolic College as a repository of authority and orthodoxy. The apostles are not rivals so much as independent agents. Rivalry appears in so far as their names may be associated with particular theological traditions, as in works linked to John, to James, and to Thomas. The classic rivalry between Peter and Paul was rapidly papered over. In the later edition of the Acts of Peter that survives, known from the manuscript as the Actus Vercellenses, Peter goes to Rome to replace Paul. In due course they will become joint martyrs and supersede Romulus and Remus as patrons of Rome.
Canonical Acts establishes the narrative pattern for the apocryphal acts, but the impulse comes from the canonical Gospels (Bovon 1988). In a Christophany the risen Lord delivers an oracle (Acts 1.8). Oracles and epiphanies are normal features of cult-foundation stories (on which see Pervo 2009: 389–90). With this are often associated, logically, typical features of a prophetic call. The call of Paul in Acts 9 shows an interesting variation on the form, as both the objection of unsuitability and the oracle are stated by and to another character (Ananias). The Acts of Thomas 1 reports the division of the world by lots:
By lot India fell to Judas Thomas, also called Didymus. And he did not wish to go, saying that he was not able to travel on account of the weakness of his body. He said, ‘How can I, being a Hebrew, go among the Indians to proclaim the Truth? … The Saviour appeared to him during the night and said to him, “Fear not, Thomas, go away to India and preach the word there, for my grace is with you.’ (Trans. Elliott 1993: 447–8)
Thomas continues to resist, as the author builds a formal motif into a plot device with theological significance. Chapter 113 of the Acts of John suggests that John (possibly with his brother James) experienced a Christophany on the Lake of Galilee and was persuaded to embrace celibacy. These examples indicate both the standard features of apostolic commissions and the creative freedom with which the authors developed those typical elements. The apostolic office includes pastoral tasks, which were promptly associated with the office’s institutional component. John 21, an appendix that, like Mark 16.9–20, lies in the foothills of the Apocrypha, offers both. Verses 1–14 present a post-resurrection missionary commission, while vv. 15–17 focus upon Peter’s pastoral office. The Actus Vercellenses (mentioned earlier) concentrates upon his pastoral work in Rome: reconstituting a fractured community. Much of the Acts of Paul also attends to pastoral work in established communities. In Ephesus (Acts Paul 9), for example, statements about numerical growth are limited to summaries, whereas qualitative growth receives detailed attention. In general, the Christian Apocrypha do not segregate evangelism from pastoral care. The latter is part of the church’s mission.
As duly commissioned agents, apostolic missionaries represent the prophetic tradition exemplified by, e.g., Jonah. Without usurping Christ’s place at the right hand of power, apostles tend to become saviour figures. (This is to be distinguished from the identification with Christ achieved by martyrs.) Apostles also recruit pupils (disciples) rather than enrol fellow followers of Jesus. Once again, this tradition presented the author of the Acts of Thomas with a glittering opportunity, as he is the twin brother of Jesus (Jude the twin, Jude the brother of Jesus). Like other twins these two occasionally enjoy exchanging places. Cf. Acts Thom. 11. Twinning is congenial to the theology of the Acts of Thomas, since the ‘soul’ is the heavenly twin of the earthly body.
That the Acts of Thomas may be viewed as a development of earlier concepts is quite apparent from the Pauline tradition, in which notions of Paul as a salvation-conveying figure (e.g. Acts 27.1–28.15) whose suffering is redemptive (cf. Col. 1.24–6) can be traced through the wide-ranging Deuteropauline trajectories. (On this development see Pervo 2010. For detailed parallels between the Acts of Paul and the canonical Gospels see Pervo 2012.) A few examples from the story of Thecla in the less theologically sophisticated Acts of Paul should provide sufficient illustration. Shortly after arriving in Iconium the apostle preaches a sermon. Although little of the preceding part of the text survives, it is not unlikely that this was the inaugural sermon in the original, for authors preferred to establish the character of the hero before offering a detailed report of his message, as in Luke 4.16–30; Matt. 5–7; Acts 13.15–43). Paul’s inaugural message at Iconium opens with a series of beatitudes (Acts Paul 3.5–6). The author did not hit upon that beginning by mere coincidence.
When Thecla, converted by Paul’s message, finds herself condemned to public immolation,
… [A]s a lamb in the wilderness looks around for the shepherd, so Thecla kept searching for Paul. And having looked into the crowd she saw the Lord sitting in the likeness of Paul and said, ‘As if I were unable to endure, Paul has come to look after me.’ And she gazed upon him with great earnestness, but he went up to heaven. (Acts Paul 3.21, trans. Elliott 1993: 368)
Paul is the great shepherd of the sheep for this vulnerable lamb. For Paul to take the form of Christ would be remarkable. When the Lord adopts the appearance of the apostle, the structure of salvation seems inverted. Paul, physically absent, like Christ, is present for his disciple. After Thecla has been extricated from this unpleasantness and has located Paul, she exclaims, ‘I will cut my hair off and I shall follow you wherever you go’ (3.25, trans. Elliott 1993: 369). This is a component of the type of apophthegm classified as a ‘vocation story’. Its prototype is the Q material in Luke 9.57–62. Thecla’s proposal to cut her hair is, inter alia, a renunciation of her sexuality, a synecdoche for total renunciation. The second part of her saying is an unbounded commitment to be Paul’s disciple.
This propensity to blend the role of the one sent with the sender opens many Apocrypha to theological criticism. (See also below, under ‘Speeches and Rhetoric’.) An exception of sorts emerges when the content of revelation is more central than the deeds of the revealer. This is most apparent in systems designated as ‘gnostic’, where discovery of one’s true nature is essential. In those contexts apostles largely serve as acknowledged Christian authority figures, the recipients of full revelation. Among the major Apocrypha, revelation is particularly central to the Acts of Thomas, which resembles gnostic works in that way.
In the case of the Acts of Paul the objection remains. Those responsible for producing Christian Apocrypha were not attempting to turn the godhead into a pantheon. Granting that the finer points of soteriology—in truth some points ever so blunt—had not yet been proposed, tested, and resolved, the purpose of this effective identification is to make Christ and his benefits fully available to believers. The apostles do not merely talk about a future deliverance guaranteed by the atonement; they make salvation present. This is implicit. The authors probably did not reflect upon some possible ramifications of their narrative. More recent critics have frequently assumed a vicarious atonement as the normative christology and have held that apostles should stick to this talking point. That criticism is not valid.
A more immediate source of this approach was Luke and Acts, in which the continuity of salvation history is shown by presenting the apostles as performing deeds done by Jesus, who, in turn, did what Moses and the prophets, especially Elijah and Elisha, had wrought. Luke also wished to portray the presence of Christ; most of his apocryphal successors displayed no more than a limited interest in salvation history. A further question is whether this chain terminates with the apostles, i.e., whether they kickstarted a mission that could thereafter continue to run on normal power. The most radical response is manifest in the Acts of John. Chapters 22–4 narrate that John raises Cleopatra, who subsequently restores to life her husband Lycomedes, who had perished from grief. The power of the gospel (i.e. resurrection power) is transmitted to all, without regard to rules of office and succession. Even those who do not cavil at the identification of pupil with master, apostle with Christ, may object that the tendency to express this relationship through miracles, some of which are quite unedifying, is too limited in scope. Those who can tolerate the wonders may find the more or less omnipresent celebration of extreme asceticism unbearable. Talking dogs and balking wives have helped consign many Apocrypha to the fringes of the scholarly horizon. Both miracles and asceticism require discussion.
With regard to asceticism two questions arise: its origin(s) and its character. Is asceticism prescriptive or exemplary? The two are related. In dualistic contexts, where matter is the problem and the body the highest expression of that problem, asceticism rests upon strong ideological bases. Suppression of the body is a means for liberation of the spirit. Christian followers of Mani could read the apocryphal acts as reinforcement of their views, as could various gnostic groups, for example. Not all of the Apocrypha are dualistic, however. The Acts of Paul and the Acts of Peter are, in general, monistic, even if without thorough and consistent reflection. In the Acts of Paul asceticism seems to be both the means for attaining salvation and the expression of its achievement. Utopian ideas never lay at a great distance. By rejecting sexuality believers could return to the original human state, envisioned as either androgynous or as immaterial and, in any case, lacking reproduction through sexual intercourse or the attendant sexual desire.
Dietary asceticism looked back to the primeval state in so far as it was vegetarian, but its evident purpose was mastery of the body through the quest to consume no more than was necessary to maintain one’s existence. Fasting was a corporate as well as an individual practice in early Christianity (Matt. 6.16; Acts 13.2, 14.23; Did. 8, for example). Christian Apocrypha include, in addition to heroic fasting by apostles, regular references to individual, familial, and community fasting (e.g. Acts Paul 1, 2, 3.23, 6.5, 9.22, 11.1, 12.2, 13.1). Temporary fasts from sexual activity were general components of purity practices and religious devotion (e.g. 1 Cor. 7.5). Many Apocrypha represent strains of Christianity which viewed the demand for celibacy as universal. Luke is the first known representative of the Pauline tradition to reject sex entirely (e.g. Luke 20.34–6). Another strand, represented by 1 Timothy, viewed marriage as normative (and frowned upon dietary asceticism: 1 Tim. 4.3, 5.23). Eventually dominant orthodox Christianity retreated from descriptions of apostles as disrupters of lawful marriages. Although one can read of such deeds in modern editions and translations, the manuscript evidence for them is very tenuous.
In general, demands for celibacy and examples of ascetic rigour are somewhat more often exemplary than normative. Extraordinary examples will inspire the less motivated to middling achievements. Both sexual and dietary restraint provide believers at every level with motives and measures for and of self-control. These disciplines, excessive and sometimes abhorrent to modern westerners, represented early Christian efforts to teach even the most humble people the allegedly elite virtues of self-restraint and control. See 2 Clement and Hermas, representatives of the ‘Apostolic Fathers’ rather than the Apocrypha, for evidence of these ideals. Celibacy and dietary rigour were not alien intruders into the Graeco-Roman religious world; such phenomena were, pardon the oxymoron, culturally acceptable forms of countercultural behaviour. Most early Christians would view such antitheses to the error and vanity of ‘the world’ as examples of the miracle of new life.
All of the wonders depicted in the more flamboyant Christian Apocrypha respond to the question: how does one depict a miracle, specifically the miracle of new life? (Cf. R. Bultmann’s tenet that the essence of the miraculous is the forgiveness of sins.) Just as Jesus’ healings and exorcisms were signs of inbreaking of God’s rule, all wonders were symbols and synecdoches of grace. As such they were both harder and easier to grasp than parables. While the latter could be reduced to sanitized allegories of salvation history, miracles thrived in the climes of Madison Avenue, as it were. They served as excellent advertisements, having many features of modern commercials: the capacity to attack dreadful impediments to a full life freely and rapidly by producing instantaneous, thorough, and enduring results. The analogy serves to highlight several features important for understanding apostolic miracle stories. One is competition: other soaps, fragrances, and cigarettes exist. One must strive to achieve the strongest appeal, by one means or any. Another is that miracles are tropes. Commercials prefer synecdoche and metonymy. The latter involves substitution of effect for cause or vice versa. Marlboro cigarettes, after mediocre results from marketing aimed at women, introduced the ‘Marlboro man’, a rugged, handsome, outdoorsy type. The message was simply not that males should imitate these vigorous models but that manliness was the result of smoking the brand. Miracles advertised health and empowerment as the result of conversion to Christianity. Similarly, healings were synecdoches, parts standing for the whole of divine rule.
Models could be important. Decades ago athletes endorsed one brand of cigarette or another, implying that the choice contributed to their success. Testimonials had their value. At one time a brand of cigarette would present an apparent physician who stated that he recommended this brand (to his patients who smoked). Statistics count: at least one brand featured alleged survey data about the happier throats and lungs of their patrons. Those under seventy may doubt that such advertisements ever saw the light of day. They are also not unlikely to doubt some reports about apostolic miracles—the precise reason for selecting old cigarette ads. They level the playing field. An apparently logical but not particularly fruitful question to ask of either or both stories and commercials is whether people were expected to believe ‘this stuff’. The answer is that the creators wanted people to ‘buy’ the product. Good works have priority over faith.
As narrative miniatures miracle stories may include various literary devices and techniques, including suspense, humour, mystery, irony, and sensation. They may be sentimental, sensitive, sadistic, or violent, possibly all in the same narrative. The dynamic of competition sparked all of the above. Without competition advertisements are unnecessary.
From the perspective of the history of religion ‘new’ gods stand in particular need of miracles. Three qualifications beg for attention:
1. In Graeco-Roman antiquity priority resided not in the atypical or aberrant (‘violation of natural law’), but in the experience of epiphany. A glass of wine was an epiphany of Dionysios, a flash of lightning a manifestation of Zeus.
2. ‘New’ may mean ‘new on the scene’, with the connotation of mission, a willingness to seek new adherents and/or gain public acceptance.
3. In cultures and societies various gods had established functions, some of which we might call ‘miracles’. Eileithyia was a goddess of childbirth, Asclepius a healing deity. The work of each could be regarded as miraculous or otherwise, but it belonged to a defined sphere. When a goddess like Isis began to acquire attributes of Demeter, Asclepius, and others, the effects of competition began to emerge. Gods pursuing universal status might become proponents of ‘one-stop shopping’, offering wonders and epiphanies of every type for devotees. Many would have read John in this light: in chapter 2 Jesus works a Dionysiac wonder; chapter 5 sees him succeed at a healing pool; in John 6 he rivals Moses as a provider of wondrous food.
Still, the exuberantly competitive quality of apostolic miracles amounts, as noted, to dozens of different signs that all point to the same reference: God’s gracious rule. Moreover, the most important function of miracle stories is symbolism. This manifests itself in two tendencies. Resurrections tend to predominate, for they clearly exemplify the gift of new life. The Acts of John clearly but not exclusively manifests this tendency. Acts John 47 reports the resuscitation of the relative of a priest of the Ephesian Artemis, who is told: ‘You have been raised and are indeed not really living, and are not partaker and heir of the true life’ (trans. Elliott 1993: 324). He is exhorted to embrace the faith, does so, and follows John. Acts John 52 tells of a father murdered by his son, who, when raised, finds it regrettable, until convinced by John to rise to a better life. When Fortunatus has been raised, he wishes he had remained dead, a wish quickly granted (Acts John 83–6).
Corresponding to this narrowing of the symbolic range was a tendency to let symbolism run wild, as it were. That exuberance landed many Apocrypha in very hot water. Blame for this rests upon interpreters of the modern period, who both neglected the use of animal stories in antiquity, especially in the second and third centuries CE, and, more importantly, were guilty of a propensity toward unduly concrete interpretation. Talking animals imply that one is in the realm of myth, fairy tale, or fable. Children learn very early that, when animals speak, the outcome will be instructive. Children would have limited difficulty grasping the purpose of animal stories in the apocryphal acts; those requiring remedial instruction are likely to be highly educated adults. (On animals in the apocryphal acts, see Matthews 1999, Klauck 2008: 95–138, and Spittler 2008.)
Readers who encounter Gen. 3.1 (‘Now the serpent was more crafty than any other wild animal that the LORD God had made. He said to the woman, “Did God say, ‘You shall not eat from any tree in the garden’?”’) rarely react by exclaiming: ‘Wait a minute! Snakes don’t talk.’ In stories snakes can talk. The example is apposite for several reasons. This took place in Paradise, before the Fall. When holy persons can consult with animals, they display, as in their lifestyle, paradise restored, the situation evoked in Isa. 11.6–8. With the return of the primeval state will come cessation of the conflicts among species, including human wars and violence, the hunting and destruction of other species by people, and assaults of animals upon other living creatures, including humans. The resultant ‘peaceable kingdom’ will recreate the original world order, marked by harmony and cooperation rather than by enmity and conflict. As agents of grace, apostles can repair the breaches caused by sin. Mastery over the animal kingdom is also a standard attribute of the charismatically endowed leader, exhibiting both his wisdom and his power. (See Bieler 1967: 1.103–10.)
Balaam’s talking donkey (Num. 22.28–30) is a lesson about obstinacy. Acts 4 and 8 of the Acts of Thomas include longer (and more perceptive) speeches by wild and domesticated representatives of this species (e.g. Acts Thom. 74, 78–9). Is this a difference of kind or degree? The latter. Where difference in kind comes into play is that for the Acts of Thomas the donkey is a symbol of the fleshly body (a theme also arguably developed in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses).
The animal incident with the most venerable pedigree of opprobrium is Paul’s baptism of a lion, roundly denounced by Jerome (Vir. Ill. 7): ‘We therefore classify the Journeys of Paul and Thecla and the entire fable of a baptized lion with the apocryphal writings.’ Fable it is; shortly after his conversion, the apostle, travelling with two women, is accosted by a lion. Rather than lacerate them, the beast demands and receives baptism, whereupon he embraces celibacy. On the moral, fictitious level, this creature, famed for sexual potency and prowess, shames human males. Symbolically, the creature represents the Christian victory over feral lust. Paul’s wisdom is confirmed later (Acts Paul 9), when he is condemned to the beasts at Ephesus and finds the fierce lion selected to shred him to be none other than his protégé. The lion is also an apt literary fit, providing a nice parallel with Thecla, who is befriended by a lioness designated to devour her (Acts Paul 4).
Peter’s contest with Simon (Acts Pet. 9–32) deals with a serious matter: an exploitative imposter who deceives and seduces many of the faithful. The story is also a lot of fun, for the wicked magician is constantly foiled in his crude efforts. The action begins at chapter 9, when Peter engages Simon’s doorkeeper (continuing a theme launched in Luke 22.56–7 and continued in Acts 12.12–15). Since the porter has been instructed to report that Simon is not in, Peter deputizes the dog to deliver his message. This is a guard dog, a frightening brute, kept chained and doubtless menacing. Peter’s fearless handling of this creature, not to mention his ability to endow it with intelligent speech used both to shame and refute Simon (Acts Pet.12), demonstrates the ease with which he can wallop the wicked magician.
Acts Pet. 13 reports a deed that has sent waves of revulsion rippling through readers both naive and erudite. The apostle, beseeched for an additional sign—Simon had worked a basketful of awesome wonders—takes his cue from a smoked fish, which he tosses into a conveniently adjacent pond and summons, in the name of Jesus Christ, to revive and swim. It does so, and eats bits of bread tossed by the awestruck crowd. It is over the top and amusing. Might some detect symbolism in a fish (Mark 1.16–20, etc.) once dead but now brought to life by immersion in water? This is a vulgar but utterly memorable parable of baptismal regeneration. (When the resuscitated eat they prove they are not zombies. Cf. Mark 5.43; Luke 24.41–3.)
The inclination to view miracles as symbols was a response to important stimuli, such as the recognition that all those healed by Jesus—or Peter—had long since died and that for each person healed myriads remained in misery. The process began before the gospels were issued (e.g. Luke 5.1–11//John 21.1–14: mission; Acts 9, John 9: physical and spiritual blindness; John 11: resurrection). All the miracles represented charismatic legitimation. ‘Rule Miracles’, in which, for example, a healing on Sabbath justifies revision of Torah, as in Mark 3.1–6, are rarer. Predominant overt functions are propaganda/advertisement, as when a miracle attracts a crowd which then hears a sermon, and frank response to the demand for miracle as proof of the validity of the message. The revived fish in Acts Pet. 13 meets a demand for greater wonders to generate belief. Other than the Acts of John, to a degree, the Christian Apocrypha display little of the ambivalence toward wonders that characterize some major NT writers (e.g. Mark, John, and Paul).
In sum: miracles in the apocryphal acts are synecdoches for the miracle of the Christian mission. Although some are of similar types to those found in the canonical narratives, tendencies toward greater extravagant wonders appear. This extravagance is due in part to the symbolic presentation which dominates the narrative and in part to competition, some of which involved competing with texts about other apostles. Wondrous interaction between humans and animals functions at different levels in the Apocrypha, from fable and fairy tale to sophisticated theological reflection. Interpreters will do well to seek first a symbolic interpretation of animal stories before appealing to zoological reason.
This category embraces several forms and genres. Apocalypses are visionary literature that came to focus upon presumably edifying tours of heaven and hell. The Latin tradition served the far from unworthy purpose of providing inspiration and source material for Dante. Prominent among those was the Latin Apocalypse of Paul (Visio Pauli). A Coptic Apocalypse of Paul is rather different and related to Paul’s commission. (2 Cor. 12.2–5 made Paul a natural subject for vision reports. His reservations about reporting what he saw in Heaven could later be discarded.) On these texts see Klauck 2008: 139–98. Most apocalypses were not, in fact, associated with apostles. See, for example, the surveys in Schneemelcher 1992: 542–752, and Elliott 1993: 591–687.
Revelation ‘gospels’ in which the saviour appears to the Twelve or a group thereof on the Mount of Olives with epiphanic signs and demonstrations of polymorphy are characteristic of texts called gnostic. The Epistle of the Apostles is a more ‘orthodox’ rejoinder to this type, without reliance upon the full epiphanic apparatus.
In general, the Apocrypha do not utilize dreams as a medium of revelation. Visions are explicitly ‘real’. Christophanies predominate. See, e.g., Acts Pet. 5 and 16. The most famous of these is the ‘Quo Vadis’ episode (Acts Pet. 35). Dreams are, however, suitable for ordinary folk (e.g. Acts Pet. 5). Revelations are granted rather freely: to Thecla (Acts Paul 3.21) and to two members of the community at Corinth (1 Cor. 12.3–4). Revelations have varied and familiar functions: to give specific instructions and to rouse suspense with vague premonitions, to encourage, and admonish. They operate like coaches, who direct and motivate athletic teams.
The role of the Spirit is rather limited and non-specific in most of the Christian Apocrypha. ‘Being filled with the [Holy] Spirit’ is as likely to refer to ecstatic phenomena as to inspiration. Apostles tend to relate to the heavenly Christ rather than through the Spirit. This is due in part to the lack of Trinitarian reflection and development. (In the Acts of Thomas heavenly Wisdom is an important source and medium of divine power.)
Apostolic speeches are generally like those in the canonical Acts. Symboleutic rhetoric predominates. Even defence speeches, several of which can be found in the Acts of Paul (e.g. chs 3, 9, and 14), tend to become sermons. See Pervo (1997). Like the speeches in Acts, they are brief. Lengthier examples can be found in the farewell speeches (a well-developed ancient genre, on which, see Pervo 2009: 515–29). Acts Paul 12 follows the model of Acts: the farewell address is given to an assembly of believers prior to Paul’s voyage to Rome. Acts Paul 14 contains a post-resurrection speech to Nero, a fine treat for those who regret the obscure location and humble witnesses of the resurrection in the canonical tradition.
Acts Pet. 37–9 is a substantial farewell, beginning from Peter’s arrival at the place of crucifixion, which takes place, per his demand, upside down. The speech presents a mystical, paradoxical, esoteric theology quite unlike the generally simple doctrines proposed in earlier chapters. One clear and another possible allusion to the Gospel of Thomas (or similar traditions) indicate the divergence. Critics are left wondering if this is an aberration from the normal character of the Acts of Peter or a survival of a vigorously ‘heterodox’ work purged in the course of its transmission. The problem is not ameliorated by the location of this speech in the final chapter, a generally well-attested, widely used, and thus eminently correctable section of the book. It probably survived because construed as a mystical meditation on the meaning of the cross.
Andrew also delivers a speech from the cross, not just seven last words, but a sermon that lasts into the fourth day and comes within a millimeter of provoking a riot that would have delivered the apostle from death (Acts Andr. 51–63). His message is congruent with the dualistic tenor of the work, which participates in the philosophical tradition labelled Middle Platonism. The manner of Andrew’s death, and that of the other apostles, demonstrates, in accordance with the philosophical tradition, the validity of their message. Long speeches while undergoing crucifixion could not have been easy; these addresses manifest considerable fortitude and powers of concentration. The major Christian Apocrypha note suffering, but do not develop its potential for grand guignol, an opportunity already grasped by 2 Macc. 6–7, for example. Hagiography would provide ample portions of sadomasochistic narrative, as would later Apocrypha, such as the Ethiopic texts rendered by Budge (1935).
Not to be outdone, Thomas offers two pages of prayer before execution by spearmen (Acts Thom. 167, 144–8, 168), followed by a post-mortem appearance (169). John, who dies a natural death, enjoys a peaceful and edifying farewell with followers (Acts John 106–15). John was privileged to be the sole hearer of the words of Christ, who appeared to him in a cave on the Mount of Olives to interpret what was happening at Golgotha to the earthly Jesus (chs 97–102 of the current text).
In the last example, John serves as a transmitter of revelation. A basic shift is apparent when apostles become revealers proper. The distinction seems clear, but it is not. When John and Andrew (in their respective acts) are the visible revealers of an invisible saviour, either side could be argued with essentially equal weight. As a general rule, the more esoteric the theology (e.g. in the Acts of Andrew, the Acts of John, and the Acts of Thomas), the greater the propensity for the apostle to become a primary revealer. This is due in large part because the emphasis is less upon who is proclaimed than what is proclaimed.
Apocrypha do not draw a strong line between mission as enlarging membership and mission as pastoral care. The basic means of communication are preaching, miracle-working, and witness through self-denial and endurance under persecution. Itinerancy is the means for spreading the word; persecution is a frequent propellant. Apostles take advantage of whatever opportunity lies to hand: a wedding, a demoniac, a beggar, a polytheist celebration, an idol, a trial, and so forth. They also build social networks of supportive households, advance agents, messengers, and other helpful persons. The conversion of wealthy people brings both advantages and dangers, the former through support in high places and financial resources, the latter because of the threat to the established order. Converting the wife of a governor was asking for trouble. Such trouble apostles sought, and it paid dividends, for persecution led to growth. From the perspective of sources and the sociology of ancient missions, the techniques described tended to blend the itinerant style (Mark 6.7b–13; Luke 10.1–12) with the community-building model apparent in the NT letters. Canonical Acts also reflects this mixture.
Apostles in the Christian Apocrypha are first and foremost missionaries devoted to the worldwide enterprise of conversion and appropriation. Although works featuring apostles represent theological perspectives, ‘orthodoxy’ and polemic are rarely in the forefront. The apocryphal acts, in particular, continue the genres and impulses of the canonical Gospels and Acts, with developing literary capabilities, more diverse theological experiment, and tendencies toward the more sensational. Apostles tend to become saviour figures and teachers who recruit disciples rather than recruiters of disciples for Jesus.
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