Jesus as a Teacher and Prophet
It is hard to explain how the harmless, noneschatological sage of the Jesus Seminar, Crossan, Mack, and others, like that of the nineteenth-century lives of Jesus, would get himself crucified (cf. Meier 1991a: 177; Stanton 1995a: 177).160 Admittedly, the historical method can give us only a partial picture of the Jesus who lived in history (Meier 1991a: 21-31); but the broader the base of evidence, the fuller the picture we can likely construct.
Because the commentary proper cannot provide as much background as I would like for recurrent themes every time they occur, I will provide a brief treatment of some of Matthew's primary christological motifs here. Further, because the commentary must focus especially on social-historical interpretation rather than investigating the historical reliability of Matthew's traditions (though I will not neglect that investigation entirely), I will address the historical roots of Matthew's christological motifs most fully here.
I am working from two basic methodological assumptions. First, much evidence suggests that Palestinian Judaism was very hellenized, although the Greco-Roman world on the whole was far less Judaized (e.g., Hengel 1974a; Lieberman 1962). Second, and consequently, a confluence of Jewish and hellenistic motifs is Jewish, and cannot be purely hellenistic with no regard for traditional Jewish components. Thus I reject the view that Jesus, though Jewish by birth, was more "hellenistic" in his behavior (Mack 1988: 87n.7).
Jesus as a Teacher and Prophet
Jesus as a Teacher
Matthew portrays Jesus in a variety of ways that neither he nor his audience would have regarded as mutually exclusive. First, he portrays Jesus as a teacher, for example, in the Sermon on the Mount; others, including Jesus' enemies, also recognized that he filled this role, inadequate as it was to describe him fully (9:11; 12:38; 17:24; 22:16, 24, 36).161 Perhaps because Matthew heavily emphasizes teaching, "understanding" also becomes a central motif in his Gospel (9:13; 12:7; 13:14-15, 23, 51; 15:10, 16; 16:9, 11-12; 17:13; 22:29; 24:15, 39). Matthew could simply have derived this motif from Mark, who also emphasizes it (Mk 4:12-13, 33-34; 6:52; 7:14, 18; 8:17, 21; 9:31),162 but he sometimes adds it to Mark or develops it (e.g., Mt 13:23, 51).163
The available evidence clearly indicates (and few would dispute) that Matthew is historically correct: Jesus was a teacher. Although scribes in the ancient Mediterranean world in general were executors of legal documents (e.g., CPJ 1:12, 18, 21, 70, etc.; Goodman 1983: 59), a position that sometimes included high status (e.g., B.G.U. 1256.1-2; P. Tebt. 39.1), a more significant role traditionally befell some Jewish scribes in Palestine (cf. Ezra 7:6; 1 Macc 5:42; 1 Enoch 12:4; 92:1; Test. Abr. 11 B). Many scribes in Jewish Palestine also educated local children in the law, and the most skilled would have trained disciples to become scribes as well (Keener 1991a: 23, 145-46; cf. Stambaugh and Balch 1986: 99). Given their economic situation and religious education, probably a disproportionate number of priests became scribes (Sanders 1992: 170-71). Although a wide gap exists between prototypical sages of traditional wisdom like Joshua ben Sira on the one hand and local legal experts on the other (many, like Witherington 1994: 345-46, rank Jesus among the former), many people apparently expected popular teachers to straddle the continuum, and many teachers accommodated such expectations (see, e.g., m. Abot 1-3).
Some scholars, emphasizing that Jesus was a charismatic leader of some sort, are reticent to call Jesus a teacher of the law.164 It is true that Jesus was not part of what later became the rabbinic movement, nor was he merely a Jewish scribe or ancient Near Eastern wisdom sage.165 But many early sages traveled,166 and it is unlikely that most Galilean Jews who saw themselves as faithful to God's law would have sharply contrasted charismatic teachers from other teachers of the law as if the former lacked legal wisdom (cf. Meeks 1986: 117; Hengel 1981b: 55-56). Although others besides scribes undoubtedly expounded Scripture in first-century synagogues,167 Jesus' frequent teaching in synagogues suggests that many viewed him as an authoritative teacher, though not an ordained rabbi in the later sense (Hill 1979: 50). Most scholars note that many characteristics of Jesus' ministry fit expectations for sages and scribes, and whatever else Jesus may have been, he was clearly a Jewish teacher of one or both types as well.168
Each teacher had some unique or characteristic elements in his style (e.g., Tarfon's "May I bury my sons," t. Hag. 3:33; Shab. 13:5; Sifra V. D. Deho. par. 4.7.3.2; b. Shab. 16b-17a; 116a), and many scholars have commented on specific characteristics of Jesus' teaching style, some unique to him and others common to ancient Jewish teachers in general (see Jeremias 1971: 22-37; Stein 1978: 13-32; Tannehill 1975). For instance, few if any other teachers sometimes prefaced their words with, "Amen [Truly], I tell you."169
By contrast, other elements of Jesus' style are characteristic of his contemporaries in general. Most rhetorical forms in biblical wisdom literature, such as proverbs and riddles, continued among sages of Jesus' day (cf. Gottlieb 1990). Jewish teachers typically employed the rhetorical techniques of hyperbole and rhetorical overstatement (e.g., m. 'Abot 2:8; ARN 36 A); Greek and Roman readers were also comfortable with such figures of speech (cf. Rhet. ad Herenn. 4.33.44; Quint. Inst. Or. 8.6.73-76; Arist. Rhet. 3.11.15; Demetrius On Style 2.124-27; 3.161), a rhetoric disseminated perhaps most commonly in the marketplace (cf., e.g., PGM 36.69, 134, 211-12, 320). Jesus employed the same method, in each teaching seeking to evoke specific responses rather than provide direct proof-texts for subsequent theological systems (cf. Stein 1978: 8-12). It is particularly important for modern interpreters to remember this characteristic of Jesus' teaching, or we will find contradictions among his teachings precisely because we have not read his teachings carefully enough to learn to understand them as catchy figures of Jewish speech rather than developed doctrinal pronouncements. Like other sages, Jesus employed riddles, parables, and other figures of speech as evocative language forcing the hearer to contemplate his message (Witherington 1994: 3).
Jesus as a Prophet
Second, and closely connected with Jesus' teaching role, Matthew presents Jesus as a prophet like Jeremiah (Mt 16:14; 21:12; 23:29-32; cf. Zucker 1990: 292) and especially a prophet-healer like Elijah and Elisha (e.g., the healings of Mt 8-9; Mark especially develops this signs-prophet Christology).170 That a follower of John should have been considered a prophet is hardly surprising (cf. Vermes 1993: 73-74). The Gospel tradition identifies John as the expected Elijah at various points (e.g., 17:10-13; Mk 1:6; Lk 1:17), elsewhere reserving this image, alongside that of the new Moses, for Jesus (e.g., Lk 4:24-27; 9:8, 30-35, 61-62; Jn 1:21; 6:14-15; cf. Robbins 1992: 54).171 Unlike the Baptist, Jesus apparently claimed that his ministry was actually introducing (not merely presaging) the kingdom, and all strata of Gospel tradition confirm that Jesus performed miracles like those of Elijah and Elisha (cf. Meier 1994: 1044-45).172
Those who insist that because Jesus was a sage he was not a prophet (e.g., Mack 1988: 57, 87n.7; cf. idem 1993: 31-32) assume exclusive modern categories that would not have held among Jesus' contemporaries. Some popular charismatic teachers looked more like prophets, and despite more scribal teachers' objections, the line between popular teachers and prophets may have remained thin for the masses. Some scholars have proposed that Jesus resembled an ancient magician (Smith 1978); this proposal falters because it ignores the lack of techiques that normally characterized magicians, whereas what Jesus shared with magicians he also shared with other categories of wonder workers.173 More popular was the comparison of Jesus with hellenistic "divine men." Because the disparate details of the latter portrait paralleling Jesus were assembled only long after the Gospels, however, the latter view has fallen from favor.174
One need not look to purely Greek sources for charismatic healers; Palestinian Judaism had more orthodox healers, like Hanina ben Dosa. While Vermes may go too far in thinking that Galileans of Jesus' era listened to holy men like Hanina ben Dosa more than to priests or scribes, he rightly emphasizes that many people would have followed such charismatic leaders (cf. Vermes 1984: 5; cf. Hengel 1981b).175 Although scholars increasingly concur that the historical Jesus was a "charismatic leader" in some sense, they dispute whether he was "(with Vermes) a charismatic healer like Hanina ben Dosa and Honi the Circle-Drawer or (with Hengel, Theissen and others) a charismatic prophet" (Sanders 1990: 3).176 Given the fluidity of such distinctions in antiquity and the Gospel portrayal of Jesus as a legal teacher, healer, and prophet, one must ask why we are forced to choose among these options. Observers probably approached him in terms of whichever role they needed him to fill, although this probably meant in practice that most people approached him as a charismatic signs-prophet (cf. Mt 4:24-25; 16:14; 21:11,46; Lk 24:19).177
Excursus: Early Disciples as Wandering Prophets?
Theissen creates and overemphasizes the type of early Christian "wandering prophets" (cf. Theissen 1978: 8-16; Gager 1979: 176).178 Wandering charismatics may appear at times in early Christianity, such as in Acts ll:27-28;179 the Didache;180 and, if the prophetic element is dominant enough, in the activities of both Paul and some of his opponents (2 Cor 11:22-27). Elsewhere in antiquity, wandering prophets often traveled outside their land, preserving collections of oracles (Collins 1972: 6). But itinerancy marked teachers at least as much as prophets (cf. Dio Chrys. passim, e.g., Or. 3; 4; 80; Socrates Ep. 2 to Xenophon; Diog. Laert. Lives 2.22; Sent. Sext. 18-19; Liefeld 1967: 26-133; Bowers 1980: 318-19), and the landless commonly wandered as well (Goodman 1983: 39). In other words, mobility characterized first-century Roman society in general, rather than merely prophets in particular (Aune 1983: 211-12; cf. Boyd 1995: 122-23).181
The Jesus tradition, while charismatic, provides no evidence that specifically links him or his disciples with the wandering prophets proposed by Theissen (cf. Boring 1982: 59-61; Fiorenza 1983: 74). Paul himself provides our best concrete evidence for the lifestyle commitment commanded in the Gospels (e.g., 1 Cor 4:9-13),182 and he is as much a teacher as a prophet. The travels of Samuel, Elijah, and Elisha indeed provide the strongest Palestinian models for Jesus' itinerancy, but these otherwise dominant models in the Jesus tradition make the lack of clear evidence for groups of itinerant followers of Jesus after the resurrection all the more striking.
Further, one should not exclude all signs-prophets from being viewed as messianic (hence in some sense end-time) figures as well. First-century Jewish Palestine's most popular figures were probably the prophets of deliverance, leading messianic movements and modeling their ministries after Moses and Joshua.183 These were signs-prophets like Theudas, who tried to part the Jordan, and the Egyptian false prophet who expected Jerusalem's walls to collapse before him, both seeking to anticipate eschatological deliverance by working Moses- or Joshua-like miracles.184 Some of these signs-prophets may have envisioned themselves as possible messiahs; Josephus, who tells us of them, had good reasons to play down messianic claims (although he does fail to brand them "brigands" as he normally does revolutionaries).185 Some of their followers undoubtedly understood them in such terms, and they could not help but recognize that their followers did so.186
Modern scholars who insist that if Jesus were a sage he could not be an eschatological figure ignore the intensely eschatological orientation of Palestinian Judaism as a whole in Jesus' day (cf. Horsley and Hanson 1985: 25); nor can teachers and revolutionaries always be distinguished (cf. Horsley and Hanson 1985: 119). Most of this forced-choice logic represents the strict imposition of modern categories on much more fluid concepts of charismatic leaders held by people in first-century Jewish Palestine.187
Excursus: "Zealots" and Revolutionaries
Evidence seems to tell against a unified revolutionary movement in first-century Palestine.188 The term "Zealots" applies strictly only to some rather than to most early Jewish revolutionaries; Josephus seems to reserve the title for a limited group.189 Horsley and Hanson 1985: 220-41 see the Zealots as peasant brigands in contrast to more educated groups of resisters (cf. Crossan 1991a: 217).
Josephus portrays the revolutionaries as "brigands," endeavoring to marginalize them from the mainstream Jewish population. Some modern scholars view the brigands before the Jewish revolt in the light of modern studies of social bandits.190 The revolutionaries and bandits of Jesus' day may have had some support from Galilean villagers; at least Cumanus thought so (Jos. War 2.228-29; note, however, that the villagers could not have caught everyone — cf. Deut 21:1). But it is not clear to what extent Galilean peasants really supported the goals of such bandits, especially in the Lower Galilee from which Jesus came (see comment on 26:69);191 one should also allow for the impact of a certain degree of urban unrest (cf. Donaldson 1990). Nevertheless, many bandits may have circulated among the peasantry (cf. Horsley and Hanson 1985: 77-85).
Much of this brigandage before the first revolt may have been "prepolitical" rather than aimed at an overthrow of Roman domination, as the objective became toward the beginning of the Jewish War.192 Brigandage was common in antiquity and inevitably warranted execution if the brigands were captured (Lewis 1983: 204). Yet revolution was always a possibility. Many dissatisfied persons opted to work within the system, but many likewise hoped for its overthrow, eschatologically or otherwise (Sanders 1992: 35-43). Even Josephus informs us that some of these fancied themselves kings (Jos. Ant. 17.285), suggesting that the authorities could view the line between revolutionary and messianic sentiment as thin (see Mt 27:11-14, 37).
Although some Pharisees may have opposed the Zealot ideal (Davies 1967a), the Zealots, while distinct from other Pharisees, seem to have carried out a basic Pharisaic ideology in a more militant manner (Simon 1967: 44; cf. Neusner 1984: 26-27; see especially Jos. Ant. 18.4, 23-25).193 Sanders (1992: 13-14; cf. pp. 280-84, 408-11) is surely right that the "Fourth Philosophy" was "largely Pharisaic in opinion, but whose members would accept no master but God (Antiq. 18.23; War 2.118)."194 Most of their ideas were probably widespread in early Judaism (Horsley and Hanson 1985: xv), and eschatological expectation probably fueled all levels of Jewish resistance (cf. Horsley and Hanson 1985: 19, 76). Both resentment against Rome (Horsley and Hanson 1985: xv; Borg 1984: 36-47) and confidence that God would defend those loyal to him (Sanders 1992: 241) were also widespread. Josephus disparages "brigands" of all sorts except in the one case in which he need not do so, the speech he creates for Eleazar (Sanders 1992: 6-7).
Witherington 1990: 83 points out that some Pharisees did "basic training" (Jos. Life 11-21) and that revolutionary leaders could send Pharisees in charge of military contingents (Jos. Life 197).195 In the earlier Wars, when the material is still sensitive, Josephus plays down both Pharisaic involvement in the revolt and Jewish involvement more generally, but in the later Antiquities a revolt as early as a.d. 6 appears to be part of a larger movement toward the revolution (Jos. Ant. 18.9-10, 23-25; Acts 5:34-35). Menahem of the revolt of 66-70 was descended from Judas the Galilean of the earlier revolt (Jos. War 2.433), and Josephus admits the revolutionaries' theological commitments (Jos. Ant. 18.4-5, 23); the evidence may not entirely support the early use of the title "Zealot," but it does support the continuing existence of simmering revolutionary sentiments through the early first century (Wright 1992: 179-80; Witherington 1990: 84-87, against Horsley and Hanson).
Was Jesus a revolutionary? Against Brandon (e.g., 1967: 283),196 little evidence connects Jesus with insurrectionary activity; one can unfortunately argue almost any case when one rejects as unreliable the only historical evidence we have (cf. Harvey 1982: 14-15). Nevertheless, it is not difficult to see how some would have understood his popular appeal to the masses and open challenges to social customs as potential political threats. Yet Jesus comes closer to another paradigm of his day, namely, the paradigm that depended on God to intervene supernaturally to bring history to a close. Sanders 1993: 262 cites the repeated expectation in some strands of early Jewish literature that God would bring down a new temple (1 Enoch 90:28-29; llQTemple 29:8-10) or fight for Israel and bring in the kingdom by his own power (1QM; Ps. Sol. 17:33-34). Some scholars think that Jesus went to the cross as a deluded visionary, hoping to provoke God's hand: Christian scholars more often affirm instead that he accomplished exactly what he intended.
Jesus as Messiah/King
More important than his portrayals of Jesus as a teacher and prophet, Matthew hails Jesus as the true king of Israel (2:2; 21:5-9; 25:34; 27:11, 29, 42; of God in 22:2), that is, the Messiah (Christ; 16:16-20). Jesus' teachings have such special authority for Matthew's Jewish-Christian audience precisely because he is God's appointed king. (Witherington 1990: 180 provides sufficient evidence for the overlap of messianic and sage categories in early Judaism.)
Messianic Categories in Early Judaism
Israel's prophets had promised a final king and/or dynasty descended from David (e.g., Is 9:7; Jer 23:5), a theme that continued in early Judaism (e.g., Ps. Sol. 17:21; Fitzmyer 1974: 113-26). Because the king was the "anointed one," Jewish people often labeled this ultimate king "the anointed one," or "the Messiah," which the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible regularly renders "the Christ." The timing of Daniel 9:24-27 had probably increased messianic expectation in the decades immediately preceding Jesus' ministry (see Beckwith 1981: 521-42).
Later Christians and Jews outside Palestine were far less interested in a "Messiah" than the Gospels were, which indicates how unlikely it would have been for the Gospel writers simply to have invented the tradition of Jesus' Messiahship (pace Mack 1993: 4-5). (That Greek Christians seem to have used "Christ" as Jesus' surname certainly suggests that the title did not originate among them!) Of course, the Gospels may simplify matters for their readers when they provide the impression that Palestinian Jews in general understood the term "Messiah" and expected his coming. Although most Jews who read the Old Testament believed in a Messiah, not all Jews had the same ideas concerning what he would be like.197
The Dead Sea Scrolls, for instance, may report a priestly community's expectations of two "anointed ones, a Davidic ruler and a priest rivaling his prestige (both priests and kings were anointed for office). The Zadokite priests who founded the Qumran community rejected the Hasmonean combination of priesthood and kingship in the same person (1 Macc 14:41-42; lQpHab 8.8-10; 9.4-7; 11.5-6; 12.5); like some others, they anticipated a future priest (cf. Test. Reub. 6:8; Test. Jud. 21:1-2; Zech 4:14; 6:13). In time, some scholars contend, these sectarians believed in two or three Messiahs (e.g., Aune 1983: 123),198 though others hold that they accepted one Messiah (Higgins 1953: 333),199 that Qumran sectarians varied among themselves (Smith 1959), or that the documents in question represent different stages in the community's development of thought (Longenecker 1981: 114).200 The texts probably do imply diverse views (e.g., 1QS 9.11; CD 12.23-13.1; 14.19; 20.1; 1QM 11.7-8), but once we recognize that "anointed one" can mean anyone anointed for a leading office, the apparent conflict diminishes (LaSor 1956: 429; Gaster 1976: 392). The two "anointed ones" refer to "the anointed high priest" (in contrast to the wicked one in the temple) and "the anointed king of Israel" (cf. Silberman 1955: 82). Still, the Qumran emphasis on the anointed priest shows how a sectarian community could come up with very different ideas of the messianic era.
Probably more relevant on the popular level were deliverance movements surrounding prophetic messiahs (Horsley 1993b). Some of Josephus's "false prophets" must have been would-be messiahs of various sorts, though Josephus carefully avoids talk that would sound revolutionary to his Roman readers.201 After the failed Bar Kochba revolt of a.d. 132-35 and the execution of rabbis who had supported him, rabbis, too, grew more cautious in their messianic expectations (Moore 1971: 2:346), though they still maintained messianic hopes afterward (e.g., Sifre Deut. 34.4.3; p. Ketub. 12:3, §13). In a first-century environment, however, the masses would surely interpret messianically one who promised an imminent kingdom and the meek inheriting the land, as well as implied a central role for himself in its inauguration (Witherington 1990: 272-73; cf. Marshall 1990: 54-56).
The pseudepigraphic Psalms of Solomon, which may be Pharisaic but probably reflect popular Jewish thought, expected a Davidic warrior Messiah (17:21-25, 32) similar to the one expected by the disciples in the Gospels. This view of a warrior Messiah was surely one of the most popular among the masses (cf. 1QM for a related picture). The very concept of the Messiah normally at least connoted a divinely ordained future ruler with political (not merely spiritual) rule (a criterion that many Jewish people felt Jesus had failed to satisfy).202
Evidence for Jesus' Messianic Claim
Even the earliest strands of Gospel tradition, however, indicate that Jesus taught that his disciples would have a role in the messianic kingdom, which would naturally imply that he attributed to himself the role of Israel's king (Sanders 1985: 234). Despite the subsequent course of events (not conforming to any contemporary pattern for the Messiah's career), his disciples claimed that he was the Messiah, and his execution as king indicates that others believed that he considered himself king, despite his reticence to employ the title "Messiah" publicly.203 One might add to this case other factors such as the Palestinian features of the Triumphal Entry narrative (such as the Hallel) that suggest the authenticity of the Entry, when Jesus approached Jerusalem as a king (cf. Sanders 1993: 242), especially because Mark does not explicitly cite Zechariah 9:9, which Jesus may have consciously fulfilled (see comment on Mt 21:1-9). E. P. Sanders thus thinks that many scholars have been too cautious about assuming that Jesus believed he was a king (1985: 307):
Jesus taught about the kingdom; he was executed as would-be king; and his disciples, after his death, espected him to return to establish the kingdom. These points are indisputable. Almost equally indisputable is the fact that the disciples thought that they would have some role in the kingdom. We should, I think, accept the obvious: Jesus taught his disciples that he himself would play the principal role in the kingdom.
Sanders allows a potential distinction between the image of king here and the traditional title of Messiah, but only to elevate the claim still further (1993: 242).
Yet the Gospels provide ample reason why Jesus would limit public testimony to his messiahship.204 Contemporary messianic figures usually avoided claiming their own messiahship, depending instead on others to acclaim them (Witherington 1990: 265-67). Also significant from a theological standpoint, his mission redefined the meaning of the term (cf. Marshall 1990: 89-90). Perhaps equally significant on a practical level, deferring messianic acclamation could delay the political consequences of such an acclamation — and hence control the timing of his own execution (on the "messianic secret," see further comment on 8:4). After examining evidence for Jesus' Messiahship (1994: 473-80), Brown concludes (1994: 480):
... I judge it plausible that during Jesus' lifetime some of his followers thought him to be the Messiah, i.e., the expected anointed king of the House of David who would rule over God's people. Jesus, confronted with this identification, responded ambivalently because associated with that role were features that he rejected, and also because God had yet to define the role that he would play in the kingdom beyond what he was already doing. Such an indefinite and ambivalent answer could have constituted the basis on which his enemies gave him over to the Romans as would-be king.
At least very soon after his death, his disciples understood his kingdom in a manner quite different from typical messianic expectations of their contemporaries. Pilate had Jesus executed as a would-be king, but the messianic movement that followed him did not pursue military or political power; Jesus had planted in them an expectation for a messiahship "not of this world" (Sanders 1985: 294).205
Son of God
Matthew also frequently employs the expression "Son of God," which he regards as virtually interchangeable with "Christ" (cf. 16:16 with Mk 8:29). Kingsbury may very well be correct that this represents Matthew's primary christological title (1975: 40-83; cf. Thiemann 1989: 322-38), although others have challenged this contention (Hill 1980 thinks that "servant" defines Sonship, and Meier 1979: 218-19 thinks that Son of Man is as prominent as Son of God). At any rate, it represents an important title expressing Jesus' authority under the Father. The Aramaic expression in Mark 14:36 indicates that Jesus historically did call God his Father, but people employed the expression "son of God" in various ways.
How might the first disciples have understood the term? Various people in the Greek world employed the expression loosely for heroes (e.g., Grant 1986: 68-69), sorcerers (Smith 1978: 101; but cf. Blackburn 1986: 189), philosophers (e.g., Epict. Disc. 1.9.6), or reigning emperors (e.g., Sherk 1988: passim). But no less a scholar of hellenistic antiquity than Arthur Darby Nock long ago demonstrated that the early Christian usage of "God's Son" has little in common with hellenistic usage; the closest parallels function only by way of contrast (1964a: 45). Early Christian usage bears this out: Paul emphasized Christ's Lordship far more than his Sonship, perhaps to avoid specifically hellenistic associations of the term (Hengel 1976: 7). Further, not only does every known stratum of Gospel tradition and redaction portray Jesus as God's "Son" at least occasionally; the title occurs in one saying of Jesus that is nearly impossible to attribute to early Christianity (Mk 13:30). Matthew stresses it more than Mark and Luke do, and John, who stresses it most, is just as Jewish as Matthew (see Longenecker 1981: 98). Further, in extant Gospel tradition, Jesus is not merely a son of God, but the Son of God, his beloved and unique Son (see Hengel 1976: 24).
The Old Testament and Jewish tradition apply the title to the righteous (Vermes 1973: 195-97), those who belong to God (Hengel 1976: 21-23), and especially to Israel (see Longenecker 1981: 97); but Matthew's identification of Jesus with Israel is not thoroughgoing enough to account for this title in his Gospel, and the Jesus of our sources is again not merely one son of God among many. While other figurative nuances of sonship like obedience, intimacy, and delegated authority (all natural aspects of the metaphor in a Jewish context) also apply, the ultimate Old Testament example of a special son of God was the Davidic dynasty (e.g., 2 Sam 7:14; 1 Chron 22:10; Ps 2:7), and at least some Jews still used the title this way in Jesus' day (4QFlor 1.10-11; lQSa 2.11-12; perhaps 4Q246; in Longenecker 1981: 95; Stanton 1989a: 225; idem 1995: 154-55; Collins 1993; but on 4Q246 cf. Fabry 1993; Fitzmyer 1993). But our Gospel evidence does indicate that, at the earliest stage, Jesus allowed others to voice the claim rather than embracing the title for himself (Vermes 1993: 168), fitting the "messianic secret" noted above.
Other Christological Issues
Son of Man
"Son of Man" represents another important christological term for Matthew, although he borrows it from sources like Mark, who develops an eschatological Christology related to the son of man in Daniel 7 (cf. Manson 1961: 72-73; Longenecker 1981: 82-92).206 Because "son of man" can mean a "human being" (and perhaps occasionally function as "I"), some scholars reject its eschatological sense in the Gospels.207 Most, however, recognize that at least some of the "Son of Man" sayings use the title eschatologically, whether they derive the title's background from Daniel or, less likely, from the uncertainly dated Similitudes of 1 Enoch (Burkitt 1910: 66-68),208 a usage perhaps also reflected in 4 Ezra (cf. 13:1-56; Boring 1995: 143; J. Collins 1992). When the Pharisees think that Jesus "blasphemes" because he forgives sins, Jesus demonstrates the "Son of Man's authority on earth" (Mt 9:6; Mk 2:10); he likewise claims authority for the Son of Man as "Lord of the Sabbath" (Mt 12:8; Mk 2:28). But Jesus' allusion to Daniel 7:13-14 becomes most explicit in Matthew 24:30//Mark 13:26 (to Jesus' disciples) and in Matthew 26:64//Mark 14:62 (to Jesus' opponents, ending Mark's "messianic secret").
Although some scholars have argued that the later church created many or all of Jesus' "Son of Man" sayings,209 "Son of Man" in early Christian texts appears almost exclusively on Jesus' lips. The proper, positive use of the criterion of dissimilarity thus would suggest that if any title of Jesus is authentic, this one is.210 Although many scholars agree that Jesus used the title, they dispute the authenticity of one or more groups of sayings in which the title is used (especially the future "Son of Man" sayings). Yet if the title is authentic and barely used by anyone except Jesus, one should not a priori exclude any of the uses; and if Jesus proclaimed a kingdom and implied his Messiahship, one especially need not exclude the eschatological sayings. If the Gospels provide any indication at all, Jesus apparently defined his mission — both its suffering and exaltation — in terms of the son of man of Daniel 7:13-I4.211 For Matthew's source Mark, the Son of Man who suffered before his exaltation is the forerunner of the community of faith, his readers, now suffering great tribulation at the hands of hostile world-rulers (cf. Dan 7:21-22, 25-27). Matthew likewise interprets the title in view of Daniel 7 (see Davies and Allison 1991: 50-52). Yet because of its more common idiomatic associations, "Son of Man" retains an ambiguity that "Son of God" as a title for a specific person would lack. Thus Kingsbury suggests that "Son of God" reveals Jesus' identity in Matthew, whereas "Son of Man" is his public title, emphasizing how Jesus must relate to a world that rejects him as God's Son: "conflict" and "vindication" (Kingsbury 1984: 31-32; though contrast Hill 1984: 50-51).
Judge, Lord, and Mediator of the Divine Presence
In the Q traditions Jesus portrays himself not as a mere human teacher but as judge in the day of judgment who will be addressed as "Lord, Lord" (Mt 7:21// Lk 13:25; Mt 7:24-27//Lk 6:46-49; Tuckett 1996: 209-82 focuses on Jesus as Son of Man and Wisdom's suffering envoy in Q). Even John the Baptist recognizes the Coming One as greater than a merely human, natural messiah or teacher. He presents Jesus as one whose sandals he is unworthy to unloose or carry (Mt 3:11; Lk 3:16) — that is, as one whose servant he is unworthy to be (see comment on Mt 3:11). This supernatural figure would not baptize in mere water, but in the Spirit of God (for the righteous) and fire (for the wicked); he would likewise perform the divine role of judge, separating the righteous for eternal life and the wicked for damnation (Mt 3:11-12; Lk 3:16-17). If Matthew and Luke believed Jesus to be a merely natural messiah, they both did an inexplicably sloppy job of editing Q. One may dispute the witness of Q and other early evidence for a "high" Christology, but one should be clear about what one is doing: dismissing early parts of the evidence that do not fit traditional critical theories and then reconstructing a more favorable portrait with what remains.
Early Christian writers preferred to make their case through a variety of images rather than to focus on answering a small number of precise christological questions no one was yet asking in their century; but their images from the start include a superhuman role subordinate to the authority of the Father (e.g., Mt 25:31-34). Later Christian vocabulary has tended to follow the language of the creeds, but the Gospel writers had much more creative liberty and drew from a vast reservoir of biblical images for God and God's agents in history. A degree of subtlety and connection with prior biblical history and established Jewish categories of divine leadership may also reflect the apologetic context of early Christianity: whereas the masses were probably uncomfortable with the Jesus movement's portrait of a divine Christ, like the "crowds" in the Gospels they undoubtedly thought very highly of the signs-prophet and teacher from Nazareth. Thus the Synoptic writers, less concerned with lower-Christology schismatics than the Johannine community encountered, may have preferred to recount stories of a prophet-teacher who only occasionally revealed his higher identity. In this the Gospels likely follow their tradition; one may suspect that if the prophet-teacher from Nazareth thought himself to be more than a prophet-teacher, he might have followed the same strategy for communicating it in such a public context.
Matthew, like John, represents a strain of Jewish Christianity less hellenized than that of Mark or Luke; and like John, Matthew emphasizes Jesus' deity to monotheistic readers.212 Whereas John uses especially the image of Wisdom to develop his Christology, however, Matthew also focuses on the Shekinah. Although Matthew elsewhere articulates Wisdom Christology (cf. Suggs 1970; Deutsch 1990; Johnson 1986: 189-90), he frames his Gospel with the portrait of Jesus as the present, saving God. Jesus is not only God present with his people (1:23), after his exaltation as Son of Man (28:18) equal to the Father and divine Spirit (28:19) and virtually omnipresent (28:20); Jesus is God's presence among his people (18:20), fulfilling a function Jewish teachers ascribed to the Shekinah, God's presence.
Yet for all this "high" Christology, it is hardly Matthew's emphasis (cf.Pregeant 1996); Matthew devotes far more space to Jesus as authoritative teacher, Messiah (rightful King of Israel), the fulfillment of ancient Israel's history and prophecies, and so forth (on Matthew's Christology, see especially Kingsbury 1975). One of the most prominent characteristics of Matthew's Jesus is how he fulfills Scripture, sometimes literally and sometimes as the embodiment of Israel's history (passim below). Matthew is clear that Jesus is the goal of the law and prophets, hence anyone faithful to the heritage and Bible of Israel must recognize and follow him.
The Kingdom of Heaven
With but four exceptions, Matthew employs the phrase "kingdom of heaven" rather than the phrase "kingdom of God" found elsewhere in the New Testament, including all other material from the Gospel tradition. Some other Jewish texts use "kingdom of heaven" as a periphrasis for "kingdom of God" (e.g., Sifra Qed. pq. 9.207.2.13; p. Qidd. 1:2, §24).213 Matthew, preferring a usage that would communicate better in the Pharisaic-type circles he was engaging, naturally preferred this synonymous expression (Goulder 1974: 63; Jeremias 1971: 97; contrast Guelich 1982: 77).
The Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek terms here translated "kingdom" usually signify the concept "reign" or "authority" or "rule."214 Like the Old Testament (e.g., Is 6:5), Jewish teachers could speak of God's present rule (especially among the people who obeyed his law; see, e.g., m. Ber. 2:2; Sifra A.M. pq. 13.194.2.1; Sifre Deut. 313.1.3; 323.1.2; see Bonsirven 1964: 176; cf. Ps 145:2; 146:10). But the Jewish people also looked for the kingdom as God's future rule, when he would reign unchallenged (e.g., Is 9:6-7; 24:23; 52:7; Zech 14:9; Wis 5:16; Jub. 1:28; Mek. Shir. 10.42-45; Sifra Behuq. pq. 8.269.2.3),215 as attested in regular Jewish prayers (see, e.g., Oesterley 1925: 65, 70). Jesus' picture of the kingdom, as well as of the Son of Man, may derive especially from Daniel 7, a passage less frequently mined by Jesus' followers (Witherington 1990: 242).
Because virtually every stratum of Gospel tradition testifies that Jesus regularly announced the kingdom, there should be no doubt that this was a characteristic emphasis of Jesus' teaching (Sanders 1985: 139-40). Scholars have sometimes debated whether Jesus emphasized a present or future kingdom, however. More clear evidence seems to favor Jesus announcing a future (impending) kingdom.216 Yet many have noted an emphasis on the presence of the kingdom in the Gospels, especially in the kingdom parables and sayings like the one about entering the kingdom as a child.217 If one examines the total picture of the Gospels, the kingdom is both present and future, as is widely recognized today.218 It was only natural for Jesus and his first followers, once they recognized that Jesus would need to come again to establish his kingdom fully, to recognize that the anticipated kingdom would arrive in two stages corresponding to Jesus' first and second comings. If one does not arbitrarily exclude either set of evidence by virtue of posing a contradiction that the first generations of disciples would not have seen as a contradiction, both sets of evidence fit together adequately. As noted above, in the Gospel tradition Jesus implied his Messiahship, spoke of a Son of Man, and was introduced by John's prophecy of the Coming One; we may thus assume that when he announced the kingdom, he undoubtedly announced God's imminent rule in the final sense (rather than simply God's providential rule over creation or over Israel through the law, as above). But in his own person, the kingdom was present in a hidden, obscure way, just as the anticipated destiny of a mustard bush was implicitly present in a mustard seed (Mt 13:32).
Early Christians (most notably in the Pauline circle) continued the present and future tension in eschatology required by a Messiah who had not yet visibly completed Israel's eschatological hopes. As Jesus' resurrection is the first installment on the future resurrection of the righteous, guaranteeing that it will occur (1 Cor 15:20), so Jesus' demonstrations of God's rule at his first coming foreshadow the completed revelation of his rule when he returns. In the interim, according to the distinctive perspective probably shared by most early Christians, believers enjoy the Spirit as the "down payment" of their future hope (Rom 8:23; 2 Cor 1:22; 5:5; Eph 1:13-14; Heb 6:4-5). In short, the present significance of the future kingdom in early Christian teaching was thus that God's people in the present age were citizens of the coming age, people whose identity was determined by what Jesus had done and what they would be, not by what they had been or by their status in the world.
Some scholars, who maintain that Jesus' future kingdom is an unrealistic hope for modern people, label the kingdom a myth and translate it into existential language more appropriate for their own academic circles of thought.219 But their position presupposes modern contempt for apocalyptic thought rather than a detailed historical argument (see Sanders 1985: 7, 27, 125-27; cf. also Meier 1994: 242). Further, the future kingdom is hardly irrelevant to the persecuted and oppressed, who nurture hope that God's justice will ultimately triumph and vindicate them (cf. also Thompson 1985: 95; Thurman 1981: 20-27).220
Conclusion
Matthew's portrait of Jesus recognizes Jesus' role as the supreme teacher (23:8-10), for whose teachings his disciples must make more disciples (28:19). But Jesus' teaching is supremely authoritative precisely because he is the rightful ruler of Israel, God's Son the Messiah (16:16-17), who will return to judge the world (3:12; 25:31-32). Matthew derives each aspect of his portrait of Jesus from earlier, substantially accurate historical traditions, but emphasizes these particular aspects to address the concrete situation of his audience.
Internal evidence from Matthew and John supports the notion that Jesus remained a popular figure, and Jewish Christians maintained a measure of respect among many of their Galilean siblings; the threat to them is not yet a populist one. But Matthew and John both focus on the threat from the leadership, particularly the Pharisees (a tendency even clearer in John, perhaps a decade or more later than Matthew). After a.d. 70, one relatively small group of Pharisees and some allies in many synagogues may have become a dominant influence in Syro-Palestinian Judaism. According to the emerging consensus from archaeological sources, it appears unlikely that this group had yet achieved much influence on the popular level, but internal evidence from both Matthew and John, alongside exaggerated later views of the rabbis, suggests the possibility that this group maintained enough influence with the intelligentsia — the minority who would ultimately wield the most social power — to make the more popular Jewish Christians feel threatened.
This group of predominantly Pharisaic scribes and some synagogue leaders allied with their agendas may have set out to define Judaism according to their traditions, bringing them into direct conflict with the mission of the more numerous but less socially powerful Jewish Christians. Matthew writes to equip his readers in their responses to the Jewish legal scholars who challenged them, and also to call them to look beyond the horizons of Israel to another mission that had to be completed before Israel as a whole would come to repentance, that is, the mission to the Gentiles (24:14; 28:19). The Christians faced persecution (10:17; 24:9), counterfeit prophets (7:22; 24:11, 24), apostasy (13:21-22; 24:10, 12), and an incurable need for more laborers with Jesus' heart (9:37) — in short, the hostility of their society and the apparent inadequacy of their church to transform the situation for good.
Matthew counters these challenges with the call of Jesus to radical discipleship (8:20-22; 16:24-27; 24:13), Jesus' demand for obedient and holy living (chs. 5-7), and Jesus' promise of ultimate success in their mission (24:14; 28:19-20), albeit probably at the cost of most of their lives (10:17-39). But above all the teaching towers the figure of Jesus himself: King, Messiah, Son of Man, the rightful Lord of Israel whom their people would one day acknowledge (1:21; 23:39). The final judge, the true revelation of the Father (11:27), was the meek and lowly One who had walked among the first disciples and died for his people (11:29; 20:28; 21:5), the One who would also empower Matthew's readers to fulfill the task he had given them (10:19-20; 11:28-30).
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1. Although narrative criticism rightly emphasizes intrinsic information, narratives generally assume rather than state some information shared by the implied author and implied audience (see, e.g., Powell 1993; Bauer 1996: 132). For important comments about the need for extrinsic methodology in NT scholarship, see Hengel 1994; idem 1996, both based on his 1993 SNTS presidential address.
2. Cf. Kingsbury 1991: 260, 262; Johnson 1996: 91; also the correct if overstated warning of Patte 1987: 13.
3. Although I here adopt the usual expression "Matthean community," Stanton 1992a; idem 1993: 50-51 is correct that Matthew must intend a wider circulation than a single house church of fifty or so members. How wide an audience Matthew intended is unclear, but within a few decades after publication his Gospel became a favorite in the Eastern churches.
4. Thus Dion. Hal. 7.1.6 permits prior historians a few years' latitude in their citation of dates but is quite annoyed with a historian who is two or more generations off due to failure to check his sources (7.1.4-6). Even the most accurate historians usually made some mistakes on details; e.g., Herodian 3.4.3; 3.9.3; likewise Dio Cassius R.H. 48.26.2 contradicts the earlier Jos. Ant. 14.13.9-10; War 1.13.9-11 and Dio Cassius himself in R.H. ch. 41 and 49.22.6 (see Dio Cassius LCL 5:272-73 n.l); historians also were normally ready to reveal errors once they were discovered (Diod. Sic. 4.56.7-8). Yet ancients could also affirm that histories that are true (Jos. Apion 1.15), like the Scriptures (Apion 1.37-38), should not contradict one another.
5. Cf. Wright 1992a: 106: modern scholarly constructions often proceed on the basis of hypotheses. but the Gospel writers had access to much more of the firsthand data.
6. On recent Matthean scholarship, see especially Stanton 1995b.
7. To accomplish this purpose in the face of the ever-increasing number of secondary resources, I have made use of abstracts where necessary on numerous points not central to my examination, just as many commentaries list more works in their segmented bibliographies than they actually cite in their text. Although it is no longer possible to be exhaustive, my purpose here is to provide the reader with a brief idea of other resources she or he may pursue further.
8. See, e.g., Aune 1987: 36; cf. Lyons 1985: 29-32; Feldman 1993b; Dihle 1991: 367-73. Sometimes writers explicitly stated these morals in narrative "asides" (e.g., Dio Cassius 1.5.4; Dion. Hal. 7.65.2-3; Arrian Alex. 4.10.8; Corn. Nep. 16 [Pelopidas], 3.1; as noted below. Matthew's explicit narrative asides are mainly fulfillment quotations).
9. Such moral examples regularly appeared in historically based exhortation (Sir 44:16; 4 Macc 1:7-8; 13:9; 2 Bar. 18:1; 1 Clem. 16-19; cf. Rhet. ad Herenn. 4.2.2; Plut. Educ. 14, Mor. 10BE; Theseus 11.1; Epict. Disc. 1.2.22; Diog. Laert. 7.1.10-11; Herodian 3.13.3; Gray 1987), in speeches (e.g.. Isoc. Demon. 51, Or. 1; Dion. Hal. 6.80.1; cf. Kennedy 1980: 70), or to set precedent for case law (e.g., p. Yebam. 4:11, §8). One should imitate the virtuous rather than the wicked (Isoc. To Nic. 26, Or. 2; Nic./Cypr. 37, Or. 3.34; Nic./Cypr. 61, Or. 3.39; Demon. 9, 11, 36, Or. 1; Sen. Dial. 10.15.2; Epict. Encheir. 51.3; Marc. Aur. Med. 1.9; Socratics Ep. 28; Athenaeus Deipn. 13.611c; Ep. Arist. 280; Ps-Phocyl. 77; Test. Benj. 3:1; 4:1) or proficient (Cic. De Oratore 2.21.89-22.90; Plut. Lectures 6, Mor. 40B; Quint. 10.2.14; Theon Progymn. 1.81-83; 2.138-43; Kennedy 1980: 116-19); some moralists invited imitation of themselves (1 Cor 4:16; 11:1; Epict. Disc. 4.8.31; contrast Sen. Dial. 7.18.1). Classical Greek theories of artistic imitation of reality and appropriate limits (cf.. e.g., Verdenius 1949: 17-18; Lodge 1953: 167-91; Warry 1962: 100-118) are more distantly related.
10. See, e.g., Burridge 1992: 68-69, comparing Plutarch's Pompey and Cato, sporting many morals, with Caesar, which emphasizes few.
11. Careful narrative criticism also points to Jesus as the primary model for discipleship in this Gospel (Howell 1990: 249-59). Because it possesses the omniscient narrator's commentary, the implied audience is superior to, though linked with, the narrative's disciples (Howell 1990: 248).
12. Cf. Burridge 1992: 125: ".. . the purpose of the author is essential to any concept of genre as a set of expectations or contract between the author and the reader or audience."
13. This approach would be even more to the point if Matthew's implied reader is not a specific late-first-century community but rather any disciple (Kingsbury 1988b), though even this premise (if accepted) would not obviate the need to understand the implied author's and audience's own social-historical location, which, intentionally or unintentionally, will inform the environment in which the Gospel is best understood.
14. Scholars who tend to favor some sources over others and criticize the use of other sources should note that if I am able to cite a variety of sources, I am also cognizant which of those sources are primarily Jewish, which are probably pre-Christian (e.g.. the Scrolls and Josephus versus the rabbis), which are closer to the NT era (Tannaim versus Amoraim, earlier versus later collections), and so forth. But I choose to cite a greater amount of data that are possibly relevant, though preferring the data that are most relevant, rather than citing only the assured minimum of sources (which is sometimes not substantial). That is, because I differ methodologically from some other scholars does not imply that I am unaware of critical issues in the use of such sources.
15.1 do not think, however, that their date lays most of them open to a great deal of Christian influence, except in plainly apologetic texts. Provided "we allow for the difference in social location and cultural background" (Horsley 1995: 198), I do not agree with those who wish to bracket rabbinic literature from consideration altogether (convenient as that omission would be for many NT scholars, given the special difficulties inherent in interpreting rabbinic texts).
16. E.g., the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs and Sibylline Oracles include Christian interpolations; with less consensus, the Testament of Job and Joseph and Aseneth may also betray some Christian influence. Such sources nevertheless reflect a general cultural-philosophical milieu that is helpful for reconstructing early Jewish Christianity.
17. For a helpful and more detailed list of possibilities, see Boring 1995: 23-32.
18. For the same reason, I do not provide a running textual commentary on Matthew, although I will note the most important variants. As Stanton 1995a: 33-48 observes, the Gospels contain many textual variants, but we retain essentially the right text. A one-volume commentary on Matthew may explore only the larger issues, leaving the details to more detailed projects.
19. Some prefer to cite only the most relevant sources; I prefer to cite even less relevant sources but to leave conclusions more tentative when these constitute the only available evidence, except where parallels with NT tradition are very strong yet early Christianity is unlikely to have furnished the source of the tradition. Earlier rabbinic collections (Mishnah, Tosefta, and then Tannaitic Midrashim) reflect our earliest rabbinic sources; then baraitot, then citations attributed to Tannaim in Amoraic sources, and lastly Amoraic sources. Because this is a commentary on Matthew, however, reproducing all attributions in Amoraic sources (or exploring other issues in my cited texts) would drive this work to inordinate length, so I provide the late citations as secondary rather than central corroboration, for those who have space to explore them in greater detail.
20. For the history of interpretation of Matthew, see presently especially Luz 1989; idem 1994; for the earliest period, Massaux 1990-1993; in more detail, watch for the forthcoming project published by InterVarsity and edited by Thomas Oden.
21. For more detailed discussion, see, e.g., Duling and Perrin 1994; 11-16; France 1985; 34-38; Carson, Moo, and Morris 1992; 26-38; Stein 1992c.
22. Cf. Longstaff 1977; 218; Murray 1984. For proto-Matthew see Lowe and Flusser 1983; some have also contended for something like Lukan priority (e.g.. Lindsey 1990; 84; Young 1989; 129-63; cf. Lindsey 1992-93), though this thesis has so far gained few adherents outside modern Israel (cf. Ådna 1992-93).
23. The abbreviation is, however, less often theologically motivated than supposed in the heyday of redaction criticism (e.g., Held 1963; 169; on expansion, 193-206).
24.. Sometimes he follows the MT sequence but the LXX wording (e.g., in 19:18-19; cf. Hagner1995: 557). Gundry 1975: 174-85 also argued that the eclectic text-types behind citations found in all three Gospels fit only the trilingual milieu of first-century Palestine; while I would contend for common oral tradition in the earliest community on this point, Gundry suggests that this material goes back to Matthew the tax collector's notes (xii). Rabbis also used eclectic text-types (see Goulder 1974: 27); they are most obvious where Matthew's redactional hand is clearest (see Soares Prabhu 1976: 63-106; cf. Cope 1976:121-22). For a survey of views regarding the source of Matthew's quotations, see Hagner 1993: lvi.
25. Apart from many members of the "Q Seminar," this skepticism probably characterizes the majority of Gospels scholarship; see, e.g., Stanton 1974: 5; idem 1995: 73-74; Keck 1974: 448; Overman 1990a: 193; Theissen 1991: 204; Catchpole 1993: 6; Meier 1994: 177-80; Johnson 1996: 52-53.
26. A significant number of scholars, e.g., Drury 1976: xi, 121; Farrer 1956b: 247-48; Goulder 1978: 234; Gundry 1982: 5; Abogunrin 1987; Sanders and Davies 1989: 91, 112. Linnemann 1996: 7-11 provides a recent challenge to the Q hypothesis.
27. Cf. also the well-argued case against any literary dependence among the Gospels by Linnemann 1990; idem 1992. Nevertheless, I remain confident that the Synoptics share too much common ground with Mark, while simultaneously reflecting a far broader knowledge of abundant tradition outside Mark (cf. also Jn 21:25) to deny some measure of interdependence.
28. Commonalities between John and the Synoptic tradition besides Mark and Q also support the existence of oral traditions (see Stein 1992b). If the "M" material is oral, Matthew may be able to adapt it more freely, however (cf. Brooks 1987).
29. Cf. Johnston 1992, who even compares it to a manual produced by a committee; and Jones 1995: 36, who uses the dominance of tradition to question the current biographical, literary, wholistic approach to the Gospels. Jones 1995: 52-54 emphasizes Matthew's conservatism with his sources and failure to rewrite them, challenging traditional redaction-critical assumptions.
30. Diod. Sic. 1.37.4, 6; Dion. Hal. 1.6.1-3 explicitly note that they provide additional information from different sources that some previous historians lacked. Technical historians sometimes cite sources by name (e.g., Dion. Hal. 1.6.1); more popular-level Jewish sources generally do not, however, so from Matthew's silence we can infer nothing about Mark's or "Q's" anonymity.
31. See Hill 1972: 31-34; Davies and Allison 1988: 124-25; Luz 1989:48; Brown 1994: 59-61.
32. The oral development of sources does not challenge the existence of written sources. Against the idea that an apocalyptic community like the earliest Christians would not care about writings (hence all written Gospel sources must be late), one need simply compare the early Qumran texts (cf. Boyd 1995: 125). Concern for history also makes sense in a Jewish covenant context in which people believed God had revealed himself in history (Wright 1992a: 426).
33.1 will address some of the traditional criteria in more detail below, when asking how reliable Matthew and his traditions are.
34. For surveys, see, e.g., Duling and Perrin 1994: 20-23; Spivey and Smith 1982: 64-65; Car son, Moo, and Morris 1992: 38-45; Osborne 1992; Blomberg 1987: 35-43. In view of redaction criticism, a commentary might wish to speak of "Matthew's Jesus" rather than simply of "Jesus," but to avoid the cumbersome nature of that expression, I have followed the latter wording and trust readers to keep in mind the larger redactionai framework I articulate elsewhere.
35. Dio Cassius R.H. 1.1.1-2 explicitly affirms the contrary. Thus, e.g.. Matthew's account of Judas's death is so Matthean that Gundry 1982: 553 admits that one might think it Matthew's "wholesale creation" — were it not for Acts 1:15-20. For specific characteristics of Matthean style (useful for redaction criticism) see, e.g., Davies and Allison 1988: 74-96; but on the dangers of inaccurate use of style criteria, see Jones 1995: 12.
36. Jones introduces further complications: What if Matthew's version of Mark is an oral tradition based on but differing from our text of Mark (1995: 29-30, 39)?
37. Cf. Theon Progymn. 1.46-52; 2.79-81; 8.2-3; Arist. Poetics 15.4-6, 1454a; in a history, see, e.g., Dio Cassius R.H. 62.11.3-4.
38. Note further the Semitic parallelism pervading Jesus' sayings, probably more emphatic in Matthew (cf. Hagner 1993: xlviii). Held 1963: 242 argued that Matthew adapted healing stories to the form of scholastic controversy dialogues; Gundry 1982: 2 emphasizes the biblicizing style. Cf., e.g., the frequently Semitic "behold" (1:20, 23; 2:1, 9, 13; 3:16; 4:11; 8:2, 24, 29; 9:2; 10:18; 11:8, 19; 12:2, 10, 18, 41, 46, 47 MS, 49; 13:3; 15:22; 17:2; 19:16, 27; 20:18, 30; 21:5; 22:4; 23:38; 24:23; 25:6; 26:45, 51; 27:51; 28:2).
39. For other complaints about older redaction critics' assumption of transparency and failure "to distinguish sufficiently between the 'act of reading or hearing' and the 'act of historical reconstruction,' " between story world and real world, and between implied reader and intended reader, see especially Kingsbury 1988b: 458. On the limits of redaction criticism, see also Carter 1996: 275-76.
40. Perhaps the most thorough examination of repetition in Matthew's Gospel, including recent perspectives on narrative development, is Anderson 1994.
41. See, e.g., Patte 1976; Barton 1984; 104-39, 180-97; Tompkins 1980; see also Osborne 1991: 153-73, 366-96. When used as a descriptive tool, reader-response criticism can prove very valuable in reconstructing how various historical communities have understood texts (on a semi-popular level, cf., e.g., Usry and Keener 1996: 98-109).
42. In personal conversation, my associates David Fraser in sociology and Maria Frederick in anthropology, both cognizant of some trends in biblical scholarship, have emphasized this contemporary approach. For a specific example of questions concerning some applications (while remaining largely favorable), see my review (Keener 1996b: 226).
43. It is unlikely that "gospel" in 24:14 and 26:13 identifies Matthew's genre (pace Stanton 1993: 16); although Mark may have applied the term to his document (Mk 1:1; cf. perhaps 14:9) as a title indicating that his task is proclamation, Matthew and Luke may have received this title simply by later association with Mark (see Gundry 1996). Some have argued that the language of "gospel" derives from LXX Is 52:7; 61:1-2 and Jesus' consequent "gospel of the kingdom," perhaps even in light of Is 52:13-53:12 (see Stuhlmacher 1991a; 1991b: 19-25; Betz 1991; cf. Hengel 1991: 244-48; Guelich 1991: 194-96).
44. For a complete history of the question, see Burridge 1992: 3-25.
45. See Aune 1987: 46-76; Stanton 1974: 117-36; idem 1992b; idem 1993: 64; Shuler 1982;Sanders and Davies 1989: 252-58; Burridge 1992; Robbins 1992: 2-3; Blomberg 1992a: 46-47;Hagner 1993: lvii
46. Contrast Mack 1988: 322-23, who views Mark as fiction; for sound critiques of the novelistic genre as applied to earliest Christian historiography, see Burridge 1992: 245; Hengel 1991: 212, and (in this instance the Book of Acts), Bauckham 1993; Porter 1994: 548-58; cf. Palmer 1993, especially 3, 29 (though elements modern readers would consider fictitious elaborations could occur in
some forms of biographies; cf. Chance 1991; cf. especially works about much earlier characters —e.g., Lefkowitz 1996: 82). Scholars debate the character of Matthean biography, however: Shuler 1982 finds laudatory biography (but most biography was by its nature epideictic in some sense, whether Tacitus's Agricola, Plutarch's Lives, or Josephus's Life [see Neyrey 1994], though some focused
more on encomium and others on moral instruction; see Burridge 1992: 88); Robbins 1992: 10 focuses on biographies that addressed teachers and disciples. Modern research probably cannot assign a more specific category than "biography" (Stanton 1993: 64-65). The apomnēmoneumata with which early Christians compared the Gospels (Justin Apol. 66.3; 67.3; Dial. 103.8; 106.3) probably recall Xenophon's Memorabilia, his "life" of Socrates (Stanton 1993: 62-63; cf. Robbins 1992: 63- 67); pace some recent proposals, these "memoirs" of the apostles clearly refer to our Gospels (see
Abramowski 1991).
47. See further Sanders 1969: 19, 46-189, 272; Stein 1980: 238-40. The better historians opposed excessive amplification, however (e.g., Polyb. R.R.E. 15.33-34); thus the second-century rhetorician Lucian also objected to those historical writers who amplified and omitted merely for literary or encomiastic purposes (i.e., to make the character look better; Shuler 1982: 11-12). A writer could cite witnesses to support his accuracy while admitting that his account was incomplete (Jos. Life 365- 67); early Christians also recognized the differences in sequence among their Gospels as inconsequential (Augustine Harmony of Gospels 21.51, ACCS 25).
48. Matthew probably abridges Mark less for theological reasons (contrast Held 1963: 168- 92) than to keep his account concise and to fit all his narratives on one scroll! Greco-Roman readers may have appreciated conciseness (Theon Progymn. 5.39-43, 52-53); the Gospels and most ancient "lives" also fit the standard length for scrolls to be read in one "sitting" (Burridge 1998: 141).
49. See, e.g., Dion. Hal. 7.66.5; 11.1.1-6. There apparently were bad historians and biographers who made up stories, but they became objects of criticism for violating accepted standards (cf. Lucian History 12, 24-25).
50. Various genres, including biography and history, overlapped considerably in antiquity (see Burridge 1992: 63-69). Nevertheless, the Gospels are too brief to represent nonbiographical history (pace Dihle 1991: 379), and Suetonius did not originate historical biography (pace Dihle 1991: 383-84), as the value of Tacitus's Agricola from the same period indicates.
51. For further detail on this point see Momigliano 1977: 71-73; Mason 1992: 60-71, 77-81; Lyons 1985: 29-32; Robbins 1992: 110-11. For ancient historians suggesting inspired interpretation of the historical data, see especially Hall 1986: 13-46, particularly on Josephus.
52. On this point see Dio Cassius R.H. 1.1.1-2; Vermes 1984: 19-20; Lyons 1985: 66; cf. Davies 1966a: 115. Thus, e.g., Diodorus Siculus teaches morals in his history by reporting good, bad, and mixed characters (15.1.1; 37.4.1), yet tries to get them right; he elsewhere criticizes a historian who allowed "personal enmity" to distort his perspective (21.17.1, LCL 11:30-31; cf. Jos. Life 356). Dionysius of Halicarnassus teaches morals about divine activity (8.56.1), but criticizes historians who investigate their data inadequately (7.1.4).
53. Ancient historians recognized that they were less accurate in reporting the less documented, more distant past (Diod. Sic. 1.6.2; 1.9.2; 4.1.1; Dion. Hal. 1.12.3). and that the best one could sometimes do with the prehistoric past was write edifying fiction (Diod. Sic. 4.8.3-5).
54. Thus many historians were not shy about criticizing their predecessors' accounts of particular events, sometimes merely due to intrinsic improbabilities (Dion. Hal. 4.6.1; 9.22.1-5; Paus. 9.31.7; Arrian Alex. 6.28.2; Appian R.H. 11.7.41; Aul. Gel. 10.12.8-10; Plut. Isis 8, Mor. 353F) or that a tradition appealed only to local pride (Paus. 2.1.1), in other cases charging that they preferred flowery rhetoric to facts (Jos. Apion 1.24-25; Herodian 1.1.1-2). Most exposed predecessors' inadequacies (e.g., Diod. Sic. 1.3.1-2; Jos. Life 336-39, 359, 361; Sallust War with Catiline 3.2); others tactfully warned that they were not criticizing their predecessors (Dion. Hal. 1.1.1; 1.8.1; cf. Diod. Sic. 1.37.4, 6; Jos. Life 339).
55. Although more apt to creativity in summary statements (e.g., Ant. 6.390-91), Josephus usually stays close to the biblical text he retells, e.g., in the David story (Ant. 6.156-392), even in recounting David's sin with Bathsheba (Ant. 7.130-31) and Uriah's murder (7.131-46), though he adds details and perspectives and modifies for encomiastic or apologetic purposes (cf., e.g., Begg 1988; 1993ab; 1994; 1995a-h; Levison 1991).
56. On the range of permissible rhetorical liberties, see, e.g., Diod. Sic. 20.1.1-2.2. Cf., e.g., Theissen 1991: 149, comparing Jos. Ant. 18.289-309 and Philo Leg. Gai. 261-336. although the primary problem on detail here may be, as Theissen suspects, an exaggerated Herodian source.
57. E.g., Demetrius the Chronographer, Fr. 5 (Euseb. P.E. 9.29.16); Jub. 4:1, 9; 12:14; 13:11; 27:1, 4-5 (Esau and Jacob vs. Isaac and Jacob); p. Ketub. 12:4, §8. Sometimes details are added for literary purposes, to make a better story (Jub. 11:14-15, 13:18, 22); this includes names (Jub. 11:14-15; Lives of the Prophets 19 [Joad]; §30 in Schermann's Greek text; Jos. Ant. 8.231; Ps-Philo 40:1; in Ps-Philo in general, cf. Bauckham 1983: 67).
58. 2 Macc 2:1-8 (expanding Jeremiah's mission); Jub. 29:14-20 (rhetorically contrasts Jacob's respect for his parents with Esau's disrespect); Test. Job 9-15 (see OTP 1:832); Test. Jos. 3:1.
59. Pesiq. Rab Kah. 4:3 ("the rabbis" on Solomon); cf. Artapanus on Pharaoh's behavior toward Moses in light of 1 Sam 18:17, 21-25 (Euseb. P.E. 9.27.7). Genre conventions could also dictate amplifications; Joseph and Aseneth, a hellenistic romance, incorporates features ideal in such romances.
60. Ps-Philo 12:2-3 (Aaron's sin with the golden calf). Test. Job 39:12-13 (OTP)/39:9-10 (Kraft); 40:3/4 seems concerned to soften God's letting Job's children die for his test. Cf. Freund 1991.
61. Jub. 13:17-18 (conflict between Lot's and Abram's servants), 14:21-16:22 (omitting Sarah's problems with Hagar, though they surface in 17:4-14), 29:13 (omits Jacob's fear); Test. Zeb. 1:5-7 (Zebulun did not act against Joseph). In Jubilees (e.g., Abram passing off his sister as his wife), see Wintermute 1985: 35-36; Josephus, cf. Aune 1987: 108; in Greco-Roman literature, see Shuler 1982: 50 (following Cic. De Partitione Oratorio 22). The same tendency of tradition may be noted in the Chronicler's omission not only of David's but also Solomon's sins reported in Samuel-Kings (cf., e.g., Williamson 1982: 236).
62. CD 4.20-5.3 (David's polygamy); Jub. 19:15-16 (Rebekah, in light of current morality), 27:6-7 (how Jacob could leave his father), 28:6-7 (Jacob's sororal polygyny), 30:2-17 (Simeon and Levi), 41 (Judah and Tamar both made more innocent, though Tamar's deed is interpreted as deathworthy); lQapGen 20.10-11 (Sarah rather than Abraham proposes the pretense that she is his sister); Jos. and Asen. 23 (Levi and Simeon); Test. Jud. 8-12 (whitewashing Judah, and to a lesser extent Tamar, though Judah confesses it as a lesser sin): Test. Iss. 3:1 (cf. Gen 49:15).
63. See Veldhuizen 1985; Silver 1973; Rajak 1978; Feldman 1982; Feldman 1985; cf. Runnalls 1983; Amaru 1988; Feldman 1988ab; 1989b; 1992a-h; 1993a; Begg 1989b.
64. Different perspectives on history were not necessarily mutually exclusive regarding the data; thus Dion. Hal. 5.56.1 proposes to investigate the causes (hence meaning) of events rather than merely the facts; cf. the ancient Christian dictum that John was a "spiritual" Gospel.
65. E.g., Jones 1995: 41 points out that Goulder's midrashic expansion thesis fails the test in the parables.
66. Goulder, who regards Matthew as a midrash on Mark (1974: 32-34), also puts forth the hypothesis that Matthew is arranged around lectionary readings (1974: 171-201; cf. 202-473); but this suggestion falters still more on inadequate evidence and undue speculation (cf. Aune 1987: 26; Talbert 1977: 15)
67. Pointing out that one was appealing to facts already known to one's hearers was an effective rhetorical technique (Dion. Hal. 7.43.2); Josephus explicitly appeals to public knowledge shared by all the people (Apion 2.107) and to witnesses who could have been consulted (Apion 1.50-52); he regards history dependent on public records as more reliable (Apion 1.20, 23, 28-29).
68. For a comparable claim of extensive investigation see Diod. Sic. 1.4.1; 1.4.4-5, though his geography, unlike Luke's in Acts, may suggest that he overstated his case, especially with regard to Mesopotamia; cf. also Appian R.H., pref. 12; Herodian 1.1.3. For criticism of inadequate travel research, see Arrian Indica 7.1.
69. "We" appears in fictitious narratives (Dibelius 1956: 202-3), but fiction customarily used the same vocabulary as history did, and hundreds of other words are shared by both, too. "We" appears in historical narratives no less, and only historical works, not novels, had historical prologues like that of Luke (Aune 1987: 124). Further, the "we" leaves off in one city as Paul moves on (Acts 16:12-18), and picks up there again after Paul returns (Acts 20:1-6; Philippi was in Macedonia), which seems to me more difficult to explain as a literary device. On a more common view, Luke is simply using someone else's earlier travel journal (e.g., Foakes Jackson and Lake 1979b: 158-59; Morton and MacGregor 1964: 41; Cadbury 1968: 60-61). The travel journal itself is extremely precise: the number of days he reports from one port to the next is exactly the number of days it would take for a boat in his time to make those ports under the weather conditions he describes, and the titles of local officials, which in his day varied from city to city and decade to decade, are exactly correct. Clearly the travel narrative is reliable, and reflects the experience of someone who traveled with Paul as he was planting churches (and everyone agrees the churches got there somehow). That Luke employs a meticulous travel journal is likely, but that it was not his own is not likely: Luke writes some of the most polished Greek in the NT, and he puts his sources in Acts into his own words so thoroughly that we cannot distinguish different sources there. If this is the case in the rest of Acts, it would be remarkable if he left the "we" of someone else's travel journal in without changing it to "they."
70. Few scholars today agree with the older views of published proto-Gospels (Streeter 1925: 199-222; Taylor 1935: 6), but knowing how ancient narratives were written may suggest that such documents existed at least temporarily! Josephus secured help editing his materials after first taking notes and then arranging them (Apion 1.49-50).
71. See Aune 1987: 65, 139; cf. Downing 1988a; idem 1991; Burridge 1992: 204-5; Meier 1979: 7. For traditions and arguments for Mark's use of Petrine material, see ACCS, xxi-xxviii; Hengel 1991: 238-43; cf. Feldmeier 1991: 252-56.
72. Thus Luke, Acts, and Matthew are about the same length: John is close to three-quarters of this length, and Mark is about half that length (Morton and MacGregor 1964: 16; Metzger 1968: 5-6; cf. F.F.Bruce 1963: 12; Palmer 1993: 5). For scroll length forcing abbreviation, see, e.g., Jos. Apion 1.320; Corn. Nep. 15 (Epaminondas), 4.6; for length determining genre, see Arist. Poetics 24.4, 1459b.
73. Pace Mack 1993: 198, "speeches-in-character" would not be relevant to Synoptic composition (although one might consider them for Johannine tradition and speeches in Acts); prosopopoeia normally applies to composing discourses, not to the transmission of individual sayings (Theon Progymn. 1.46-52; 2.79-81; 8.2-3; cf. Isoc. Nic./Cypr., Or. 3; Diog. Laert. Lives 3.62). Even with most speeches, however (possibly excepting Josephus — Gempf 1993: 289-90; Rajak 1983: 80-82), there were limits (see Gempf 1993: passim, especially 264, 272, 283-84).
74. Cf., e.g., repeated citations of earlier rabbis in halakic texts; less randomly, Pirqe 'Abot or Arrian's Encheiridion of Epictetus.
75. It may be true in Matthew that Pharisees and strangers rather than Jesus' disciples except Judas call him "teacher," and that Matthew prefers for Jesus the divine title "Lord" (Bornkamm 1963a: 41-43). But this preference is because Matthew views Jesus as more than a teacher, not less than a teacher.
76. They also avoided harmonizing their portrayal of early Christianity. As Wright 1992a: 454 notes, after recounting Luke's recital of Ananias and Sapphira. church divisions, and the separation of Paul and Barnabas, the mythical claim to early Christian uniformity was the invention of Eusebius, not of first-century Christians still close to the events.
77. Davids 1980: 89-90; France 1986: 100-101; cf. Blomberg 1995: 22; pace Koester 1990; idem 1994. Ancients also regarded eyewitnesses as generally more reliable (e.g., Jos. Life 357; War 1.2-3; Apion 1.46-49; Arrian Alex. 6.11.8; Indica 15.7; Corn. Nep. 23 [Hannibal], 13.3; 25 [Atticus], 13.7; 17.1), especially if they knew both sides of the story (Jos. Apion 1.49, 56).
78. Pace Beare 1967: 181;Bultmann 1968: 163;Boring 1972: 501-2; Boring 1982;Miller 1988. Boring 1982: 77 thinks that prophets contributed to the Jesus tradition because they valued it; yet the opposite is far more likely: they valued it enough to retain it as a distinct standard for evaluating prophecies. Boring 1982: 110 may be less far afield when he contends that early Christian prophets often adapted rather than simply created Jesus material (cf. Hill 1979: 163); but lack of adequate formal criteria undercuts his attempts to argue that Christian prophets transmitted and adapted Jesus material. As he himself concedes, some prophetic material must stem from Jesus the prophet (1982: 138-39).
79. See Aune 1983; Hill 1979; Hill 1974; Bauckham 1976-77; Dunn 1978a. See Sanders 1993: 62-63 for the view that it occurred occasionally but rarely. This position sounds more conservative than the language in Sanders 1969: 27-28.
80. The prejudice against anonymous oracles also counts against the prophetic generation of Synoptic Jesus material, as does the relative scarceness of material attributed to Jesus outside the Gospels (Stanton 1989a: 159). Given his prophetic activity, could not Jesus himself be responsible for genuinely prophetic material in the tradition (cf. Hill 1979: 180-81)?
81. Greek writers like Pausanias might even depend on a tradition circulated purely orally for half a millennium (Paus. 1.23.2); in such cases skepticism might be more warranted. Ancients themselves recognized that centuries of oral transmission could introduce variants (Jos. Apion 1.12 and Diog. Laert. 9.12.113 on Homer; cf. Gen. Rab. 49:7), though Jewish people insisted they were meticulously careful with their own Scriptures (Jos. Apion 1.28-36; p. Sanh. 2:6, §3; Gen. Rab. 36:8).
82. Cf., e.g., Jos. Ant. 4.211; m. 'Abot 5:12. If this was purely propaganda, it proved more effective than most; despite prevalent anti-Judaism, many Greeks viewed the Jews as a "nation of philosophers" (Gager 1983: 39; Stern 1974: 8-11, 46, 50; cf. Mayer 1972: 125-26). The view that the Greeks borrowed from the Jews (e.g., Aristobulus, Fr. 3-4 in Euseb. P.E. 13.12.1-8; Ep. Arist. 312-16; Justin / Apol. 59; Stern 1974: 93-96) was more often mere propaganda, although Thales and Pythagoras may have had geographic links with Syro-Palestine (Green 1991 -92). The specific examples of Jewish education undoubtedly apply best to the educated class (Horsley 1995: 246), but the evidence seems to imply greater facility in the national traditions than was common in most ancient cultures. Although scholars debate whether Jewish disciples in this period would treat the traditions of their sages as equivalent to Scripture, disciples who came to acknowledge their teacher as "Messiah" and "Lord" surely might do so.
83. The original data can also be understood in a much more positive direction; see Blomberg 1987: 28-31; Boyd 1995: 122.
84. Despite Philo's Aristotelian language concerning memory (Boccaccini 1991: 192-94), he draws on Jewish tradition such as the Epistle of Aristeas (194-98), recalling God's acts in history (197).
85. Riesner 1984a has refined and corrected Gerhardsson's overstatements, especially by drawing on nonrabbinic sources (cf. Boyd 1995: 121-22); indeed, if understood as simply making an analogy between early Christian and later rabbinic transmission, Gerhardsson's views are now becoming mainstream (see Neusner 1998). As against Bultmann's informal uncontrolled tradition and Gerhardsson's formal controlled tradition. Bailey 1991 makes a good case for informal controlled tradition, noting that most elements preserved in the Synoptic tradition were those most apt to be transmitted orally.
86. Recent scholars have critiqued even the criterion of coherence (e.g., Johnson 1996: 130), though it was used even by ancients (Arrian Alex. 7.14.4-6). Although less warranted than criticism of the dissimilarity criterion, the critique is at least somewhat deserved, given the unsystematic and sagelike character of Jesus' teaching.
87. Ancient historians could also test a report's probability according to coherency with known customs of the report's day (e.g., Dion. Hal. 9.22.1-5).
88. The older liberal view that the earliest Christology evolved from a Palestinian Jewish apocalyptist to a hellenistic divine man does not fit all the evidence, but it certainly fits better than the contemporary "Jesus Seminar's" reversal of the sequence, which contends that later Christians Judaized Jesus (Blomberg 1995: 22), a thesis that makes no sense in view of Roman anti-Judaism and the growing influence of Diaspora Christianity as years passed. Paul shares an apocalyptic worldview with much of Palestinian Judaism as much as two decades before Mark (Overman 1990a: 194).
89. Claims about Greek use based on the hellenized cities, however, should not be extrapolated to all Palestine, as Schwank 1987 does.
90. A Semiticist as early as Dalman already recognized the use of Greek in Jerusalem (1929: 3). For discussion of Jesus' language through Dalman, see Schweitzer 1968: 270-78.
91. More adaptation might occur in the "translation" into Greek (although Josephus claims in Apion 1.1 that he "translated" his Antiquities from the Hebrew Bible, he clearly exercised stylistic and apologetic freedom where he felt necessary; the degree of "translation" is not quite clear — e.g., Jos. War 1.3; cf. Ant. 1.7; 20.263-64; see Townsend 1971: 148; Hata 1975).
92. Horsley's case (Horsley 1989: 5-40) against Nigel Turner's "Jewish Greek" (Turner 1964: 46-47; cf. Nock 1933b: 138-39; Malherbe 1983: 35-36) does not dispute the presence of Semitisms or other features of bilingualism, but that a separate dialect is in view (6, 40). Most bilinguals are less fluent in their second language, which may be the culture's dominant language (Horsley 1989: 23-24).
93. To a lesser degree, cf. the broader Greco-Roman principle of imitation among disciples (Quint. 1.2.26; Philost. V.A. 5, §21) and children (Isoc. Nic./Cypr. 57, Or. 3.37; Quint. 1.1.5; 1.3.1-3; 1 Cor 4:16). For the importance of imitating virtuous fathers or elder brothers in Judaism, see, e.g., Ps-Philo 20:6; 4 Macc 9:23.
94. Disciples could readily adapt both the Jesus tradition and Cynic tradition, both highly critical of the social establishment, to fit this form (cf. Theissen 1991: 115; Wright 1992a: 427-35), but this does not imply that chreiai represent a strictly Cynic form or that the stories were composed under Cynic influence. Synoptic pericopes fit both Greco-Roman and Jewish forms (Theissen 1991: 120-22, especially 120n.l43; cf. Guenther 1989, though Greek rhetorical forms may have prevailed less in first-century Palestine than he thinks); the specifically Cynic position of Mack 1988: 179, 186-87 is thus too narrow, as is his attribution of Q to "Cynic-like" circles (1988: 69, 84; cf. Downing 1988b; idem 1991; but also the critique in Overman 1990a: 193; Tuckett 1988; Witherington 1990: 184; Blomberg 1995: 21; Boyd 1995; 160).
95. See, e.g., Plut. Agesilaus 21.4-5; Alsup 1981; Robbins 1981; Poulos 1981; Barrett 1981: 119-26; in Jewish contexts, cf., e.g., 1 Kings 3:16-28; 10:3; t. 'Abod. Zar. 6:7; Sanh. 13:5.
96. These seem to have been substantially more rare in strictly Jewish works, perhaps due to the genres involved; cf. VanderKam 1981 (19 examples, mainly in Test. Job and Ahiqar); Greenspoon 1981; and especially Porton 1981, who alone deals with the Jewish equivalent of "sage" narratives found in the Greek parallels. Yet Porton may underestimate the value of the rabbinic texts, which cite Scripture as in the Gospel narratives (see Theissen 1991: 120n.l43). These do admittedly become dominant, especially in the Amoraic period, however, probably due to the primarily halakic character of Tannaitic texts preserved. In rabbinic controversy-dialogues (e.g., b. Rosh. Hash. 32b), the rabbis debate pagan interlocutors in general (e.g., b. Bek. 8b; Sanh. 39a; p. Meg. 1:11, §3; 3:2, §3; Pesiq. Rab Kah. 1:2; 4:7; Num. Rab. 4:9; 9:48; Qoh. Rab. 2:8, §2) and pagan philosophers (t. 'Abod. Zar. 6:7; b. 'Abod. Zar. 54b, bar.; Bek. 8b-9a; cf. b. Sanh. 39a), including "Epicureans" (possibly used in its general denigrating sense of those who denied divine providence and judgment; t. Sanh. 13:5; p. Sanh. 10:1, §7; cf. m. 'Abot 2:14, expounded in b. Sanh. 38b), Sadducees (b. 'Erub. 101a), Samaritans (p. Yebam. 1:6, §1), and minim (schismatics) in general (b. Sanh. 38b. 39a; 43a; b. Hul. 84a; perhaps b. Yoma 56b-57a; Herford 1966: 226-27 also lists Qoh. Rab. 30:9, 53cd; b. Hul. 87a; Shab. 152b; Sukk. 48b; cf. Bagatti 1971: 98ff.
97. Perhaps especially by way of protest oracles, hellenism probably exerted significant influence on Jewish eschatological thought (cf. Glasson 1961, though overstated); Roman yearning for a new golden era in Augustan propaganda may have also contributed (Virg. Ecl. 4.4-25; 8.27-28). Nevertheless, the Egyptian Potter's Oracle and prior Egyptian and Asian models for apocalyptic suggest that the influence moved more from east to west (cf. also Baker 1963). In our period, eschatological material would reflect more a definite Jewish than a purely hellenistic milieu.
98. Pace Crossan 1991a: 288-91, who cites only extremely hellenized sources. Crossan likewise contrasts Paul's apocalyptic Jesus with the Corinthians' sapiential one (228-30), but Paul hardly rejects the sapiential (1 Cor 1:30; 8:5-6); nor does Jesus' beginning a ministry distinct from that of John the Baptist support Crossan's conclusion that Jesus must have rejected John's apocalypticism (230-38). Even Koester allows that Jesus' message probably contained eschatological elements (see 1992).
99. In more detail, see Keener 1995.
100. For most reconstructions this includes the Gospel of Thomas (e.g., Meier 1991a: 139; Wright 1992: 437-43; Blomberg 1995: 23-24; Stanton 1995a: 84-93; Johnson 1996: 89 on the evidence and current consensus), but especially the Secret Gospel of Mark (Brown 1994: 297; Stanton 1995a: 93-95) and the Gospel of Peter (Meier 1991a: 117; Brown 1994: 1317-49; Stanton 1995a: 78-81), against current uses by Crossan, Koester, and others. Some even regard Secret Mark as a scholarly forgery (Neusner 1998: xxvii, calling it a "scholarly fraud"). Ancient fiction writers sometimes pretended that they were translating "ancient writings that no one but themselves had seen" (Lefkowitz 1996: 111). Preserved agrapha appear of such varying quality as to underline the comparative value of our written Gospels as more dependable sources for Jesus' teaching (see Hofius 1991).
101. Similar sayings of the wise appear, e.g., in Ben Sira. In a Roman context, one may compare, e.g., the poetry of Publilius Syrus, which greatly resembles wisdom sayings of the Egyptian and Israelite traditions.
102. Kennedy thinks that 1:1-17 function as the proem, chs. 1-4 as the narration, and the Sermon on the Mount as the proposition, with the examples in chs. l-4 providing the basis for chs. 5-7 (1984: 103-4). Matthew may not have thought in these precise terms, but his neat division of material lends itself to such observations.
103. Among the rabbis, whose literature includes little biography, one notes the penchant for arrangement, even into tractates, by the time of the Mishnah (cf. Goulder 1974: 27). Still, Josephus is concerned lest some stricter Jews misunderstand his reason for rearranging some of Moses' laws (Ant. 4.197).
104. For a full survey of views, see Bauer 1988: 21-55. Bauer's own outline arises from internal features, particularly various forms of repetition developed throughout the Gospel (see especially 57-128).
105. Some others overzealously locate structural clues, e.g., the overstated evidence for inclusio in Ellis 1974: 98 (this "rabbinic habit" is also less common in Matthew than Goulder 1974:27 supposes).
106. Cf. Plummer 1910: xviii, using "from then on" in 4:17; 16:21; 26:16; but cf. the warning of Neirynck 1988 on the inadequacy of this common expression for a structuring schema. Strecker's threefold schema for Matthean salvation history (1995) is probably overdependent on Conzelmann's schema for Luke (see Stanton 1995b: 9).
107. See, e.g., Gundry 1982: 10; Aune 1987: 19, 49; Kee 1980: 141; Jeremias 1963: 13-14; Argyle 1963: 64; Beare 1981: 200; Thompson 1970: l;Luz 1989: 43-44. For such a completion formula accompanying divine revelations in the OT, cf. Gen 17:22; 18:33; Ex 31:18; but the particular LXX wording differs and the phrase is idiomatic Hebrew.
108. Keegan 1982 finds five discourses but omits ch. 23 on the basis of "key" introductory words, but the words he finds characteristic of Matthean speech introductions are too typical of Matthew's narratives in general to count for much. Guelich finds five closing formulas but six discourses, counting ch. 23 separately from chs. 24-25 (1982: 55).
109. The structure may follow Enoch's biography in Jub. 4:16-25 rather than the Pentateuch (Dimant 1983), but the fivefold division may remain significant (Milik preserves it though substituting the Book of Giants for the Similitudes).
110. Rabbis did sometimes read "five" as symbolic for the Pentateuch (e.g., Gen. Rab. 64:8).
111. On this networking, see, e.g., Stuhlmacher 1991b: 16; Bauckham 1998a: 33-36 (for letters and messengers between churches, see 37-44; for the network implied in Ignatius's letters, see 40-42); and especially Thompson 1998: 49-70. Travelers regularly networked the Pauline churches (e.g., 1 Cor 1:11; 11:16; 14:33; 16:12, 19; 2 Cor 9:2), and any Pauline scholar approaching Gospels research will be astounded at the lack of networking Gospels scholars sometimes assume among the early churches. Pauline scholars in this case work with a much more solid base of explicit data than Gospels scholars do.
112. Sanders 1993: 64 does not believe the Gospels were titled before our first clear evidence for their titles ca. 180, but one wonders whether second-century Christians (less organized than their immediate descendants) would have achieved unanimity over a wide geographical area so quickly without prior tradition. Stanton 1995a: 16-18 provides evidence for four-Gospel codices, hence the use of collections containing exactly four Gospels, by the end of the second century.
113. Papias in Euseb. H.E. 3.39; probably followed by Iren. Haer. 3.1.1, also cited in Euseb. 5.8.2 (Davies and Allison 1988: 8). The variants Davies and Allison mention in Matthew's title (1988: 7-8) are irrelevant to the issue of authorship.
114. Our current Gospel of Matthew was clearly written in Greek (see Horbury 1997 against an early dating of Shem Tob's Hebrew Matthew, though cf. Shedinger 1997), but I intend this as an evaluation of Papias's claim, not an argument against Matthean authorship based on the quality of the Greek. On Josephus's fluency in Greek (on a more sophisticated level), see Rajak 1983: 46-64. Some also read Papias's "Hebrew dialect" as "with Jewish rhetorical forms" (Stanton 1993: 116, following Kürzinger 1963).
115. It is also possible that Papias's tradition, or Papias himself before being distorted by later tradition, may have meant simply that Matthew wrote the logia of Q, as many hold (e.g., Hill 1972: 23-27, 53; F. F. Bruce 1980a: 40; Hagner 1993: xliv cites also F. Schleiermacher, T. W. Manson, M. Black, and B. de Solages); Papias does, however, elsewhere apply logia to Markan narrative as well as sayings (Stanton 1993: 117n.l). Cf. similarly the suggestion of Matthew's "notes" as "the basis for the apostolic gospel tradition" (Gundry 1975: 182, following A. T. Robertson and E. J. Goodspeed).
116. The usual reply in favor of Matthean authorship is that Matthew was supplying a catechetical manual for new disciples already aware of Mark and other early traditions (e.g., Mounce 1985: xiv). This reply functions as a better argument than suggesting that Mark may have depended on Peter's dependence on Matthew's notes anyway (Gundry 1975: 184), which, if true, might make Matthew's dependence on Mark more difficult to fathom.
117. A pun on the disciple's name with the similar Greek term for "disciple" is not impossible, fitting the way a haggadist might have solved the Gospel's anonymity, but it does not commend itself as the most probable origin of the Gospel's title.
118. Nepper-Christensen 1991 is even willing to look for elements of the apostle Matthew's original Hebrew Gospel in our current First Gospel.
119. Sanders 1993: 66 seeks to turn anonymity to advantage, but this would have been the exception among ancient historical works rather than the rule, unless we are to accept the Gospels as purely cultic aretalogies (which is unlikely; against the aretalogy proposal, see Burridge 1992: 18-19).
120. Many scholars concur here, in the 1970s (e.g., Hill 1972: 39, 43; Ellis 1974: 3), 1980s (Carson 1984b: 18; Davies and Allison 1988: 17-58; Senior 1983: 11-12; Luz 1989: 79-82), and 1990s (Kingsbury 1991: 264; Stanton 1993: 131-39); yet von Dobschütz suggested Matthew as a rabbi as early as 1928 (reprinted 1995); see further below. We thus disagree with Nepper-Christensen 1958; Meier 1979: 17-25; idem 1980: xi; cf. Van Tilborg 1972b: 96-97. Schoedel 1991 is concerned how Ignatius's Gentile-Christian community could make such heavy use of Matthew, suggesting that he also employed M traditions; Meier 1991b argues that Ignatius probably just used the Gospel.
121. For his precision in his use of various fulfillment formulas, see Soares Prabhu 1976: 48-58. See also the extensive treatment of OT citations in Matthew in Stendahl 1968 (who sees a scribal community at work); Cope 1976: 11-83 (on what he views as key texts placed in the middle of sections); cf. Jn 12:38.
122. E.g., Goppelt 1962: 198; Hill 1972: 50-52; Ellis 1974: 6; Zumstein 1980; Hengel 1980: 98; Senior 1983: 12-14; Meier in Brown and Meier 1983: 15-27; Mounce 1985: xiv; Davies and Allison 1988: 138-47; Blomberg 1992a: 37; cf. Hagner 1993: lxxv; Schweizer 1995: 149-50.
123. Cf. Gal 2:11-14 and the uncertain but interesting thesis of Brown and Meier 1983, that Petrine tradition was used to "domesticate" the Pauline tradition, bringing it more in line with traditional Jewish Christianity.
124. Hagner 1996 explains the tension between ethnic particularism and universalism (29-32) in terms of tension between the early Christians and Judaism (32-45), but he may postulate a more severe break than we might suspect in this period.
125. E.g., Gundry 1982: 599-608; Robinson 1977: 76-78; France 1986: 121; cf. tentatively France 1989: 82-91; Blomberg 1992a: 41-42; Hagner 1993: lxxiv.
126. E.g., Ellis 1974: 5; F. F. Bruce 1980a: 40; Senior 1983: 13-14; Mounce 1985: xv; Davies and Allison 1988: 127-38; Duling and Perrin 1994: 333.
127. A date after the end of the first century is untenable; pace Koester, the second-century citations clearly represent our extant First Gospel (Davies and Allison 1988: 130). Even a suggestion of the 90s is probably too late (White 1991: 241 dates it between 70 and 132, but thinks that the period near Agrippa II's death, ca. 92-93, most likely; but his evidence is hardly compelling by itself, and other evidence for an earlier date, plus a situation less advanced than in the Fourth Gospel, outweighs it).
128. Overman 1996: 12-13, 15 rightly notes that the Gospel portrays the "Pharisees" and "scribes" as Jesus' primary opponents, and that elements of these groups achieved considerable influence in the post-70 "leadership coalition."
129. Hagner objects that Mark need have been in circulation only a short time before Matthew could use it (1993: lxxiv), but with all the other traditions Matthew had and presumably other Gospels in circulation (Lk 1:1), it is doubtful that Matthew would have depended so heavily on Mark unless Mark had become a standard in the church. Even if the early church was well networked by travelers (which I regard as almost certain based on Paul and on analogous Jewish material), if Mark derives from Syria (which is possible) and if he had a wealthy patron with many scribes functioning as an ancient equivalent of a "printing press" (which is less likely), Mark's popularity presupposes a number of years after its initial publication, perhaps as much as a decade.
130. Given the frequency of Gentile adherents in Mediterranean Jewish communities, Overman 1996: 33 is skeptical about the significance of Gentiles for an implied "Gentile mission" in Matthew; but the issue was certainly central in the church earlier (e.g., Acts 11:18; 15:28-29; Rom 15:7-29) and can only have been intensified in the wake of a.d. 70.
131. Matthew's "apocalyptic eschatology" also fits this situation (see Sim 1996), though there is no reason to limit such eschatology to this situation or period.
132. Despite Matthew's emphasis on the Gentile mission, judgment on the Judean religious establishment takes precedence where the two themes might compete (cf. Mt 21:13 with Mk 11:17). This also suggests fresh hostility with Judean religious leaders and exultation over the temple's ruin, but a Syrian Jewish Christian community could have faced such situations anywhere in the 70s or 80s.
133. Not only mainstream Jewish and Gentile Christians but also Gnostics apparently made early use of this Gospel (Stanton 1993: 256-77). By contrast, it is possible that John's relative lateness (along with its adoption by some Gnostics) may have delayed its widespread acceptance among the orthodox as belonging to the same category as the Synoptics.
134. Patte 1987: 13 is more skeptical about historical reconstruction than necessary, though caution is needed; Stanton 1993: 45 strikes the right balance.
135. This view was already widespread in the 1970s (e.g., Van Tilborg 1972b; Ellis 1974: 4-6; Cope 1976: 126), and continued in the 1980s (e.g., Meeks 1986: 137; Harrington 1980: 97; Senior 1983: 6-10) and 1990s (e.g., Segal 1991: 35-37; White 1991: 240; Duling and Perrin 1994: 335). Yet as Stanton 1993: 26 observes, this common current view was earlier and independently advanced by A. Schlatter (Der Evangelist Matthäus, Stuttgart: Calwer, 1929).
136. For more details, see the discussion in Overman 1990b: 35-71.
137. As far as particular sects are concerned, the Pharisees would remain the primary competition after a.d. 70 (Schiffman 1985: 52). Matthew exhibits far less concern regarding the Sadducees, a group that had ceased to provide much of a threat after a.d. 70 (cf. Van Tilborg 1972b: 2); nor is Matthew's Jewish world of thought primarily that of the Qumran sectarians (Ito 1992). Bultmann 1968: 52 may be correct that even Mark emphasizes particularly Pharisaic and scribal opposition.
138. Some doubt that the Christians are primarily in view (Stemberger 1977; Finkel 1981). But Jewish Christians seem to have understood the malediction as aimed at them: Justin, a Gentile Christian raised in Palestine, half a century later seems to take the same curse (the Amida was the only thrice-daily prayer — Schiffman 1981: 151) as specifically anti-Christian (Horbury 1982: 19; Barnard 1964: 400; idem 1967: 44-45; Shotwell 1965: 83-84; Williams 1930: xxxii; pace Kimelman 1981: 235-38). Schafer suggests that the primary point of the malediction is deliverance from political oppression; while it would also have terminated the unpopular schismatics' participation in the divine service, this was not its primary goal (1975: 61). But its title suggests a different emphasis, a secondary emphasis would have been an emphasis nonetheless, and even had its framers intended no harm against the sectarians (which is unlikely), the sectarians would have suspected malicious intent (cf. Whitacre 1982: 8). Nozrim may have been added to minim later (so Urbach 1981: 288; Jocz 1979: 54-57; Flusser 1988: 638; Marmorstein 1923: 389; pace Schoeps 1961a: 55-56; Moore 1911: 111-12), but the numerous Jewish Christians probably provided the primary original object of the minim.
139. With Davies and Allison 1988: 136. Stanton 1993: 142-44, 281 allows that although the curse may have been a factor in the separation and Matthew probably contended with the Jamnian academy's agendas, "we cannot say more." Evidence for a unified prayer liturgy throughout the synagogues is disputed even in Palestine; its pervasive use in the Diaspora by the end of the first century is highly questionable. For evidence that does not suggest a common liturgy, cf. Levine 1986: 19-20; Cohen 1986: 175; Sanders 1992: 205-7; for evidence that could favor some common Jewish liturgy, cf. Schiffman 1986; Goodman 1983: 86. (Jos. Life 277, 290-295 probably reflects a more common custom of synagogue prayers, but not necessarily common recitation.) Some common prayer probably did exist at least in Palestine, however; cf. purportedly Tannaitic traditions in b. Ber. 28b, 29a and Herford's possible case regarding Samuel haKaton (1966: 129-32).
140. In my commentary on John (with Hendrickson Publishers) scheduled for publication shortly after this one, I allow for more tradition flowing from the conflict with Jamnia, both because of the later date and because of internal evidence in the Fourth Gospel; but even there the Birkath probably functions more as an example of conflict than its cause.
141. The Birkath would not itself accomplish a formal excommunication (Katz 1984: 46-49), though early evidence seems to exist for the full ḥerem: see Horbury 1985: 13-38; cf. R. Eliezer in p. Mo'ed Qat. 3:1, §6. (In later times, rabbinic grounds for excommunication could include casting doubt on a ruling of the sages, even if one did so on the basis of the sages' words — p. Mo'ed Qat. 3:1, §§7, 9.) The nature of any attempts to drive schismatics from synagogues would also have varied from place to place in the early period (see also Overman 1990b: 53). But such a curse would have made most "schismatics" feel unwelcome (Katz 1984: 51; Hare 1967: 56).
142. Hagner 1996: 41-42, 64 cites, e.g., Hebrews and material in Dunn 1983: 10; see also France 1989: 101.
143. See Stuhlmacher 1991b: 16; Bauckham 1998a: 33-36, for early Christians. Davies and Allison 1997: 700 complain that modern scholars underestimate the impact of larger changes on local communities, noting that first-century couriers could get a letter from Rome to London in a week; the seventeenth-century doctrine of Sabbatai Zevi spread throughout all Europe in less than three years; and the Reformation's most significant impact spread through much of Europe in five years.
144. As many scholars recognize; see Stanton 1984; idem 1993: 146-68; cf. Harrington 1980: 13, 95-97; idem 1989a; Niedner 1989. This is not to deny Matthew's later exploitation by anti-Semites (e.g.. Hare 1979: 27).
145. E.g., Strecker 1966; Meier 1979: 15-17; Meier in Brown and Meier 1983: 49; Meeks 1986: 137; Gundry 1991; Stanton 1993: 6-7, 124-31.
146. E.g., Hummel 1963; Saldarini 1991; idem 1994; White 1991: 217; cf. Kingsbury 1991:265.
147. Cf. Hagner 1993: lxviii. Overman 1989: 338 thinks that the Matthean community view themselves as a persecuted minority withdrawing from the world (for the Gospel's providing cohesion for a persecuted sectarian group cf. also Stanton 1992a; idem 1993: 91-98). Various scholars also point to "their" synagogues in 4:23; 9:35; 13:54, as distinct perhaps from "ours"; but this argument's weight is questionable, since one cannot explain Mk l:39's identical phrase on the basis of Mark's "sectarian" Judaism. On "Q" Christians still seeing themselves as part of Judaism, see Tuckett 1993.
148. Boccaccini 1991: 16-19 views early Christianity as a whole as a form of early Judaism, a thesis that accurately reflects earliest Christianity's self-perception.
149. By "synagogue communities" I mean the social ties within the local communities, rather than only Sabbath prayer services. But even in the case of Sabbath gatherings, if Jewish Christians met early on Sunday mornings (cf. Acts 20:7) they would remain free to attend Sabbath services in the synagogues. It is highly doubtful that early Jewish Christians, unlike later Gentile Christians, believed the Sabbath had been changed to Sunday (a change lacking in first-century attestation). (Minim emphasize the holiness of Sunday in b. Ta'an. 27b, but this is the third century, and it is doubtful that most Jewish Christians would have accepted an eighth-day Sabbath based on the Epistle of Barnabas.)
150. Horsley may well be right that a Galilean Christianity external to Judaism does not predate Constantine (1995: 105-6).
151. Schnackenburg 1985: 10 contends that Matthew's audience includes Gentile as well as Jewish Christians, but that Matthew himself is more at home in Jewish views and modes of expression.
152. As Overman 1996: 229 notes, other early Diaspora Christians (e.g., Acts 15:1-20; Rom 9:25-30) and Jews (Philo Mos. 2.43; Spec. 1.97; 2.165-67; Praem. 114) also discussed how Gentiles could become part of their Jewish communities. That Matthew does so less than some others (Overman 1996: 230-31) stems from his scope as a biographer of Jesus, for Luke may emphasize it less than Matthew, yet Luke authored Acts. The Pauline position that such Jewish culture was not normative for Gentile converts is more nuanced, but if that debate had ever been part of the Matthean communities (as one would expect if they grew near Antioch), it does not clearly register in Matthew's Gospel. Perhaps some compromise position was deemed acceptable, as in Acts 15:20 or as in the case of Gentile God-fearers in the synagogues, except that they would be accepted as full members. Gentiles could have converted as they normally would to Judaism, but had these been the circles of Matthew's Gospel, it would be more difficult to explain its Gentile mission and especially its early acceptance by catholic Gentile Christendom.
153. Thus Schiffman dates the separation of Jewish Christians from Judaism to the Bar Kochba period and the major influx of Gentile Christians into Palestine (1985: 75-78). Even then, I suspect that many Jewish Christians marginalized from Gentile Christianity remained faithful to their heritage in Judaism.
154. Compare also Goulder 1974; Bonnard 1963; Ellis 1974: 3; Gundry 1982: 606; cf. Vermes 1993: 73.
155. Matthew is not reacting against Paul (cf. Davies 1967a: 27-28).
156. Matthew's own community was probably more susceptible to false charismatics precisely because he and his community were charismatic, not because they were anticharismatic (cf. 5:12; 23:34; Michaels 1976: 309-10).
157. Ancient biographies included both "flat" and "round" characters (Burridge 1992: 182-84); rather than directly analyzing character, ancient biographers more often displayed "character through deeds and words" (Burridge 1992: 205, 208; e.g., Mt 8:27; 9:36). Lucian criticizes historians who merely praise their own leaders and slander the enemy (History 7-8). Although some characters were wholly good (like Matthew's Jesus; cf. Josephus's Moses or Josiah, Feldman 1992f; 1993d) or bad (like Matthew's religious leaders; cf. Josephus's Jeroboam, Feldman 1993c), ancient biographers and historians reported various character traits (Corn. Nep. 4 [Pausanias], 1.1; 11 [Iphicrates], 3.2) and often rounded characters on both sides of a conflict (e.g., Dion. Hal. 9.39.1-6; Feldman 1994c), including their heroes (Dion. Hal. 8.60.1-2; 8.61.1-3; Arrian Alex. 3.18.12; 4.7.4; 4.8.1.4.9.6;Lavery 1994). Reporting fears and motives on both sides in a conflict of the distant past increases suspense and praise for the victor, while augmenting the enemy's nobility deepens tragic pathos (e.g., the Albans in Dion. Hal. bk. 3).
158. Crossan 1991a: xxvii-xxviii puts the matter quite well (cf. similarly Meier 1991a: 3), but he then proposes a methodology to circumvent the impasse (xxviii-xxix) that in my opinion fails for lack of adequate attention to the Jewish and, despite his claim, Greco-Roman context.
159. Since Schweitzer 1968, scholars have periodically remarked on how frequently presuppositions shape one's conclusions in Jesus research (e.g., Stanton 1995a: 145), a practice to which even the Jesus Seminar objects in principle (Funk 1993: 5). For summaries of the first quest, see Schweitzer 1968; for the first and second quests, Thompson 1985: 90-111; for all three, briefly Wright 1992b: 1-18; for the third quest, see especially Witherington 1995.
160. Johnson 1996: 41 challenges the Jesus Seminar's claim to be representative of mainstream Gospels scholarship in its skepticism concerning Jesus' eschatology. For a full refutation of those who doubt Jesus' eschatological orientation, see Allison 1998: 95-130.
161. Developing and perhaps more fully re-Judaizing Mark, who also presents Jesus as a teacher (on which see Robbins 1992: 82).
162. Robbins 1992: 167-68 finds in "understanding" a typically Greek pattern of thought, but many of his points here (e.g., rejection of the protagonist by authorities; cf. Jer 7:27; 11:18-23; 15:10, 21; 18:18-23; 20:2, 10; 29:26-27; 36:5-26; 37:1-38:13) could as easily be explained on Jewish grounds.
163. Cf. Luz 1995: 119, who suggests that Matthew reduces the Markan disciples' misunderstanding.
164. E.g., Freyne 1988: 249-50; Hengel 1981b: 42-50; Smith 1978: 22-23.
165. E.g., Jeremias 1971: 77; Vermes 1984: 30-31; cf. Borg 1987: 97-124. Vermes 1993: 54 doubts that Jesus would have used implicit quotations, opining that few Galileans would have been educated enough to catch them. Yet this misrepresents the educational status of the Galileans (perhaps acceding to Judean propaganda in early rabbinic sources), and Jesus' contemporaries did not shun such allusions aimed at those who would catch them (cf. Jos. Apion 2.178; Philo Leg. Gai. 115, 210, cited by Vermes himself, 1993: 186); further, can we suppose that later Gentile Christians added the allusions? Yet even Vermes would differ from Mack 1988: 64, who (exhibiting little feeling for first-century Palestinian Judaism) suggests that Jesus employed only wisdom thought and may have been as conversant in the Cynic thought of Meleager as in the Bible. Wright 1992a: 104n.41 correctly notes Mack's book as one "modern example of a hypothesis which constantly dismembers the evidence in the interests of a broad overall scheme."
166. Safrai 1974/76a: 965; cf. 1974/76b: 762; Sifre Deut. 43.3.7; 48.2.4, 6; Liefeld 1967: 89-133. Cf. the related Greek tradition of traveling philosophers (see Diog. Laert. Lives 2.22; Liefeld 1967: 26-59). Liefeld uncovers little evidence for itinerant rabbis before a.d. 70 (119), but this is hardly surprising given the scarcity of evidence for rabbis before a.d. 70 in general. Georgi sought Diaspora Jewish parallels for Cynic-Stoic itinerancy and various ancient missionary religions (1986: 99-101, 111-12).
167. Although elders and synagogue "rulers" undoubtedly welcomed scribal exposition when available (cf. Acts 13:15), in Galilee probably these leaders were frequently simply the village equivalent of municipal aristocracies, the most respected community leaders (see comment on synagogue "rulers" [9:23-26]).
168. See Davies 1964: 422-25; Davies 1966: 134; Stein 1978: 1-3; Carlston 1980; Meeks 1986: 117; Cohen 1987: 122; Vermes 1993: 50-70, 76-119.
169. Scholars often comment on the meaning of this distinctive trait; see Jeremias 1971: 35-36; cf. Hill 1979: 64-66; Aune 1983: 164-65; Witherington 1990: 186-88; Marshall 1990: 43-44
170. On the new Moses motif, besides what appears briefly below under eschatological prophets, see especially Allison 1993b and comments on the relevant passages in the Gospel loc. cit.; in early Judaism, e.g., Knowles 1989; for greater detail see my forthcoming commentary on John (see also Glasson 1963a; Teeple 1957), though in that Gospel it is subordinate to divine Christology.
171. Nortjé 1989 may be correct in harmonizing these images by viewing Jesus as a John redivivus: John and Jesus may both have carried on functions of the eschatological Elijah. Roth 1992 may also be correct that Mark emphasizes Jesus as one greater than Elijah, whereas Matthew emphasizes the comparison with Moses. Comparison (synkrisis) was a standard rhetorical technique of the period (e.g., Demosthenes On the Embassy 174; Stanton 1993: 83).
172. See Jos. Ant. 18.63 (comparing the language for Elisha in Ant. 9.182) and (in a negative vein) the rabbinic sources also preserve this tradition of Jesus as miracle worker (Meier 1994: 621; Vermes 1993: 5), making it one of the best-attested features of Jesus' ministry. In view of Q tradition (Mt ll:4-5//Lk 7:22), Jesus probably viewed his miracles as special eschatological signs fulfilling Scripture (especially Is 35; see, e.g., Witherington 1990: 171; Sanders 1993: 167-68).
173. See, e.g.. Yamauchi 1986; Meier 1994: 537-52; Twelftree 1993; 190-207; Witherington 1990: 202, following Goergen 1986: 173-75. Few have followed Smith here, and some are scathing (Neusner 1998: xxvii).
174. See, e.g., Blackburn 1986; Tiede 1972; Holladay 1977; Pilgaard 1997; cf. Lown 1986.
175. Horsley 1995: 152-55 also suspects the Galileans' loyalty to Torah. From a Pharisaic standpoint such suspicions would be justified, but most Galileans undoubtedly saw themselves as loyal to Torah as they understood it.
176. Borg 1987: 15 correctly acknowledges that Jesus was "a charismatic who was a healer, sage, prophet, and revitalization movement founder"; yet he denies that Jesus was an eschatological prophet (ibid., 14, but based primarily on a very selective poll — 20n.25). For a critique of Vermes and Borg on the "close" relevance of charismatic teachers like Hanina and Honi, see Witherington 1990: 153, 182-83; Chilton 1994: 45. On Jesus as a prophet, see, e.g., Jeremias 1971: 78-80; Hill 1979: 50-69; Aune 1983: 153-69; Borg 1987: 150-71; Harvey 1982: 36-65.
177. Thus, e.g., Sigal 1986: 154 sees Jesus as both a proto-rabbi and "a charismatic prophet-
figure."
178. Some evidence supports traveling Galilean teachers at this time, although it is probably exceptional rather than the norm (Vermes 1993: 46). For a critique of Theissen's "wandering charismatic" thesis, see Witherington 1990: 249. Galilee was small enough that Jesus could have traveled without spending most nights away from home (Overman 1990a: 194). For further discussion, see comment on 4:18-22.
179. All three NT cases of traveling prophets represent a specific purpose, not aimless itinerancy, and probably the prophets returned to their sending communities when they finished their mission (Acts 11:27-28; 21:8-11; 15:32; Aune 1983: 212).
180. Aune 1983: 213, however, notes that visiting teachers (11.1-2; 13.2) and apostles (11.3-6) are more prominent in the Didache than are itinerant prophets (13.1); Harnack overstated the itinerant nature of early Christian prophecy (Aune 1983: 202, 211). NT itinerancy (Philip, John) more often resembles the apostolic model (Aune 1983: 215); some cultists of the mysteries were itinerant (Burkert 1987: 31); and Theissen himself (1978: 14-15) parallels Cynics in the Greek tradition.
181. Aune 1983: 214 is too generous; he regards Theissen as basically convincing, but after undercutting both the prophetic composition of sayings for Jesus and the idea that such sayings reflect the social reality of those among whom they circulated, he has dismantled the whole foundation for the thesis.
182. Many of Jesus' radical sayings are hyperbolic (see Tannehill 1975: 73-76, 139-40), but even if they are to be taken literally, they may function as much as a critique of the community as a description of it (see Keck 1974: 450; Aune 1983: 243). Cf. the proposed competition of local and translocal traditions in Scroggs 1980: 172.
183. Besides popular Judaism, the Mosaic prophet was important to the Essenes (Villalón 1972: 62-63; cf. Teeple 1957: 51-52) and apparently to the Samaritans (F. F. Bruce 1978: 39; Simon 1958: 61, 73).
184. Cf. Sanders 1985: 138, 171; Meeks 1967: 163-64; Horsley 1985.
185. See Hill 1979: 28-29; cf. Betz 1968: 68. Crossan puts Josephus's bias best (1991a: 93); "Nobody from the highest aristocracy on either side is guilty of anything."
186. The portrayal of at least some of the apparent revolutionaries in first-century Palestine as "social bandits" has much to commend it (see below). Although general studies of peasant culture shed some light on Galilean agriculturalists (cf., e.g., Malina 1981: 71; Scott 1989: 85-86,92; Oakman 1992: 117-18), however, the picture of Jesus as a "peasant" (e.g., Oakman 1992: 120-21) is not very nuanced, being dependent on a rather broad definition of "peasant" (cf. Vermes 1993: 6; Witherington 1990: 75). Particularly objectionable is Crossan's characterization of Jesus as a "peasant Jewish Cynic" (1991a: 421 -22; cf. 1991 b), a type that one may claim with confidence never existed (Cynics were characteristically urban, while peasants in the strict sense were rural, and very few Jews adopted Cynicism).
187. Cf. Robbins 1992: 114; Sanders 1993: 153; Witherington 1994: 201.
188. Mason 1992: 206; Borg 1984: 27-28; idem 1987: 90; cf. Kingdon 1972.
189. Now widely held: Horsley and Hanson 1985: 214-17; cf. 190-243; Baumbach 1965; Smith 1971; Borg 1971; Sanders 1992: 281-83; Borg 1984: 35-36.
190. Horsley and Hanson 1985: 190 distinguish the Sicarii themselves from peasants and social bandits, relating them to a line of teachers of resistance (194-97). They suspect that Judas the Galilean may have advocated martyrdom rather than violence (197-98), but this is unclear.
191. Pace Crossan 1991a: 304-5; Horsley and Hanson 1985: 48-50, 69-70; Oakman 1992: 131. Horsley and Hanson 1985: 71 contend that the common people asked for justice against Herod when he killed the bandits, citing Jos. Ant. 14.168, but Josephus seems to refer to relatives. Villagers did protect bandits who robbed a servant of Caesar (72, citing Jos. Ant. 20.113-17; War 2.228-31), and War 2.253 may also be relevant, but Josephus himself does not indicate that the "inhabitants" ravaged by the brigands were nobles. The drowning of nobles is significant (War 1.314-16, 326; Ant. 14.431-33), but Ant. 20.255-56 does not explicitly differentiate "Jews" as gentry from the "masses." Jos. War 2.235-38 may well be relevant, but one wonders whether the elders in Ant. 14.167 are peasants since the speaker is a Pharisee. The nuancing of Crossan 1991a: 170 (their social location between the powerful and powerless) may be helpful.
192. Horsley and Hanson 1985: xiii-xiv, 250-51; Crossan 1991a: 194; Horsley 1995: 259. Josephus's sources regarding brigands appear weak for 6-44, though he reports some uprisings (cf. also Mk 15:27); but after 44 he supplies many reports of bandits with heavy followings (War 2.228, 235, 238, 253; Ant. 20.121, 124, 161: Horsley and Hanson 1985: 66-69).
193. Falk 1985: 57-58, 120-25 even decides (too narrowly) that the Zealots were Shammaites.
194. Hengel 1961 saw them as a religiously motivated movement; Giblet 1974 believes that they saw themselves as more religious than political. While assuming specific religious beliefs, the nationalists did not represent an organized religious group (Salomonsen 1964). Applebaum 1971 regarded the revolutionary movement as a natural response to the Roman situation. Evidence at Masada indicates the Sicarii's religious commitment (Josephus 1982: 489, 499).
195. Josephus may have assumed command of many brigands himself; see the evidence in Horsley 1995: 266-67.
196. For the history of the revolutionary thesis, see Bammel 1984d: 11-68. For critiques of Brandon (and implicitly his first predecessor Reimarus), see, e.g., Cullmann 1956b: 8-49; Hengel 1969; Sweet 1984; Anderson 1976: 41-42; some even contend that the charge of sorcery was a greater issue (Horbury 1984: 183-95). Note also Stanton 1995a: 176 (Q's "love your enemies" is probably authentic). Sanders 1985: 68 regards Brandon as adequately refuted; see his own case on 231-32.
197. Cf., e.g., Villiers 1978; Goldstein 1984-85; Glasson 1963b: 8-13.
198. Also Villalón 1972: 63; Burrows 1958: 297-311; de Jonge 1966: 141-42; Brown 1957:
54-66.
199. Also idem 1966-67: 215-19; Laurin 1963: 52; cf. possible conflation in Garcia Martinez
200. Also Driver 1965: 468-69; Priest 1962: 55-61. Qumran may have developed the Chronicler's dual leadership as well as reacting against the Hasmonean conflation of the two (Schniedewind 1994).
201. Cf. Kraeling 1951: 52; Freyne 1988: 194-95; Witherington 1990: 83; Josephus may have even toned down the biblical portrait of David for his Roman audience (Feldman 1989a). Peasants and slaves throughout the Mediterranean were especially open to enthroning prophets (Diod. Sic. 34/ 35.2.5-6; 34/35.2.22); leaders of such movements usually met swift retribution from the authorities (Diod. Sic. 34/35.2.22-23).
202. See Wächter 1976; Berger and Wyschogrod 1978; 18-19; Borowitz 1980: 21. Among some later rabbis, apparently any Davidic descendant who fulfilled the role properly could "become" the eschatological Messiah; cf. R. Joshua bar Levi concerning Hezekiah (Song Rab. 4:8, §3).
203. Sanders 1985: 307; cf. Chilton 1981: 168; Witherington 1990: 104; Stanton 1995a: 173-87. Fredriksen 1988: 123 regards as ambiguous evidence for whether Jesus claimed to be messiah, but notes that "he certainly died as if he had."
204. This is not to deny that he may have also drawn on 2 Sam 7:4-17 and Is 61:1-4 (Davies and Allison 1991: 600). Despite brilliant aspects of Wrede's thesis of Mark's combination of messianic and nonmessianic traditions (Wrede 1971: 228), its internal inconsistencies have rendered it untenable (Wright 1992a: 104; Burkill 1972: 1-38).
205. Without immediate political repercussions, it is not surprising that the earliest Jesus movement does not spring quickly into the purview of Rome's historians; even Herod the Great finds little space in Dio Cassius (49.22.6; 54.9.3). Josephus happily compares Herodotus's neglect of Judea (Apion 1.60-65) with his neglect of Rome (Apion 1.66).
206. While the allusion in Mt 28:18-20 suggests the importance of the passage for Matthew, Ellis 1974: 24-25 probably goes too far in building the whole structure of Matthew around Dan 7:13-14. At the same time, Donahue is wrong to suppose that Matthew rejects Mark's eschatological orientation (1973: 234-35).
207. Vermes 1973: 160-91; Leivestad 1972: 266-67; cf. Cullmann 1959: 138; Chilton 1994: 75-109. "That man" can function periphrastically (Pesiq. Rab Kah. 9:1; p. Hag. 2:1, §9; Ketub. 4:14, §1; Sukk. 5:1, §7; Ta'an. 1:4, §1; 4:5, §1).
208. Also, e.g., Tödt 1965; Ladd 1974b: 145-58; Lindars 1975; idem 1983: 99; Boccaccini 1991: 219. Glasson 1976 argues fully for an early date.
209. E.g.. Higgins 1964; Borg 1987; 14; idem 1984: 221-27; Boring 1982: 239-50.
210. Many scholars have concluded this; cf., e.g., Bowman 1943: 125-42; Jeremias 1971: 260-76; Kümmel 1973: 106; Gerhardsson 1979: 57: Riesenfeld 1964: 94-95; Marshall 1966; idem 1990: 63-82; Davies and Allison 1991: 43-50; Witherington 1992: 170.
211. Cf. Stanton 1974: 160-61; Witherington 1990: 234-45; Brown 1994; 509-14; pace Crossan 1991a: 238-55.
212. On Jesus' deity in Matthew, cf. comment on 1:23; Danker 1992. Witherington 1994: 336-37 rightly suggests that Matthew and John arose in the same sort of milieu, with Jewish Christian teachers "being trained in a school setting where sapiential thinking and Wisdom literature are important formative influences." He is also undoubtedly right (201-8) that Jesus presented himself on some occasions as divine Wisdom, and (339-40) that the Wisdom Christology in Matthew and John may account for the increase in Father/Son language already present in earlier strata of the tradition. (John seems to develop his sources in light of this pervasive Wisdom theme more freely.) Others have also concluded that the early Christians worshiped Jesus from the start (Wright 1992: 362; cf. Pliny Ep. 10.96).
213. This is commonly pointed out, both by scholars of Judaism (e.g., Bonsirven 1964: 7; Marmorstein 1968b: 93; Moore 1971: 1:119) and of the NT (e.g., Goppelt 1981/82: 1:44).
214. Frequently acknowledged by scholars, e.g., Dodd 1961: 34; Perrin 1963: 24; Betz 1968: 33; Boring 1995: 54; but contrast Aalen 1962.
215. For further data, cf. Moore 1971: 1:423; 2:309; Bonsirven 1964:176-77; Laurin 1958; Young 1989: 193; Targ. Ezek 7:7, 10 in Boring 1995: 53.
216. So, e.g., Sanders 1985: 151-54, 231-32; Allison 1994; cf. Burkitt 1910: 69; Schweitzer 1968: 223-397.
217. So, e.g., Dodd 1961; Jeremias 1972; Young 1989; 221; Vermes 1993: 147-49.
218. E.g., Stein 1978: 60-79; Ladd 1974b: 70-80; Aune 1972: 3-4; Dunn 1975: 89; Harvey 1982: 91; Davies and Allison 1988: 389; Witherington 1992: 51-74; Blomberg 1992a: 74; Meier 1994: 10, 289-506. Sanders 1993: 177-78 grudgingly concedes this possibility, but he remains doubtful that any authentic passage clearly teaches the kingdom's presence. But especially odd here is Mack 1993: 126, who thinks the authentic kingdom sayings in Q simply match the Cynic use of a philosopher reigning as king (in contrast to the LXX and other Jewish traditions of the reign of Israel's one God!); pace Mack, though the kingdom is not dominant in early Jewish texts, it is quite frequent (see Meier 1994: 240-69; cf. Vermes 1993: 127-30).
219. E.g., Bultmann 1951: 1:24; Perrin 1963; Tannehill 1975: 56; Borg 1984: 248-63; cf. Bultmann 1984: 137-38.
220. Sim 1996 finds Matthew's "apocalyptic eschatology" appropriate to a sectarian community in crisis and conflict after a.d. 70.