4. The Character of Ancient Historiography
4
Determining that Acts is a historical monograph is of little value for helping us understand more about this book unless there are some defining features of the genre that provide otherwise missing clues for how an ancient urban Mediterranean audience would have approached Acts. What does the genre into which Acts fits suggest to us about the nature of Luke’s work?
will explore the pervasiveness of theological, political, or other agendas among ancient historians and in their use of sources. This chapter, however, investigates two sides of ancient historiography that modern scholars sometimes play off against each other, although both were in fact important (in varying degrees) to most ancient historians. The latter were concerned both for historical information and for rhetorical presentation of this information; contrary to some modern assumptions, these two goals are not inherently incompatible. Most historians valued historical accuracy regarding events where they could achieve it; they often displayed critical thinking regarding sources (as often, though not always, exemplified in Polybius); and they recognized that sources closer to the events were more apt to be accurate. But they also used rhetoric, and although Luke is not as sophisticated in rhetoric as many elite historians were, he employs some conventional features of historical rhetoric. Historians knew how to expand and abridge sources as needed, and Luke could have followed the same sort of practices.
Chapters 5 and 8 will examine historians’ relative freedom in speeches and the moralistic adaptations in historiography. Here we examine the more “conservative” side of ancient historiography, in that historians did not normally invent “events” in their sources. (Even those who accused others of extensive embellishment rarely accused them of inventing battles, deaths, etc.) Rhetorical adaptation (in which some historians, e.g., Josephus, apparently took great pride) was not novelistic composition from scratch, and events tended to appear consistently in different writers even as interpretations of these events varied. Not surprisingly, Luke’s writing provides sufficient evidence of interest in historical concerns, and it is likely that authentic historical traditions would still be available to Luke. In line with this, Paul’s letters suggest that the earliest Christians were interested in the apostles and their advance of the gospel.
As mentioned above, contrary to what some scholars have argued, ancient historians generally had concerns for accuracy regarding events. Although historians, especially elite historians, were also concerned with rhetorical presentation (see below), they did not consider factual and rhetorical goals incompatible so long as rhetoric was kept within appropriate bounds (what they considered appropriate admittedly varying from one historian to another). Many historians did not achieve common ideals of accuracy, but accuracy remained an ideal by which other historians evaluated their work.
In a seminal study a generation ago, A. W. Mosley examined the claims and practices of various ancient historians and concluded that some (he includes both Herodotus and Thucydides) followed their material as carefully as they could whereas others (he includes Strabo and Plutarch) were much less careful. Among Romans, Tacitus proved a more critical historian, but many were not. Moses Hadas provides a balanced evaluation: an ancient historian such as Tacitus did not share modern historians’ interest in reproducing speeches or details of battles to a high degree of accuracy, but
with allowance made for rhetorical embellishment customary in his day, and within the limits of distortion which his own views of morality and politics made inevitable, Tacitus never unconsciously sacrifices historical truth. He consulted good sources, memoirs, biographies, and official records, and he frequently implies that he had more than one source before him. He requested information of those in position to know. . . . He exercises critical judgment.
Long before Tacitus’s era, Cicero treated as common knowledge the expectation that historiography should avoid falsehood, include truth, and remain impartial. Others similarly defined facticity (in terms of events’ substance) as a key feature of history’s genre that distinguished it from other genres. Historians, who regularly drew on the work of earlier historians, took for granted this expectation of the genre.
History was supposed to be truthful, and historians harshly criticized other historians whom they accused of promoting falsehood, especially when they exhibited self-serving agendas. To a lesser extent, they critiqued those who unknowingly made factual errors. More seriously, a writer who consistently presented the least favorable interpretation, ignoring the diverse views of his sources, could be accused of malice. Even biographers, who had somewhat more freedom to be one-sided, might evaluate sources’ or witnesses’ motives; thus Antiphon’s report about Alcibiades was suspect, Plutarch opines, because Antiphon hated him (Alc. 3.1).
Aristotle notes that the difference between “history” and “poetry” is not their literary style (for one could put Herodotus into verse if one wished) but that the former recounts what actually happened whereas the latter recounts what might happen. Cicero contrasts the objective of entertainment in mythical poetry with the objective of truth in historiography (Leg. 1.5). Likewise, even the most rhetorical historians recognized that historical inquiry required not merely rhetorical skill but research, and those thought guilty of inadequate research or firsthand acquaintance in their reports were likely to be doubted (Arrian Ind. 7.1). In the early empire, Tacitus warned against comparing his sober history to implausible rumors and fictions (Ann. 4.11).
In the imperial period, the perspectives of Pliny the Younger, a public figure who never found leisure to write history yet valued it, are helpful. Ideal subjects for history offer original and interesting material, he opines, but only provided that the material is based on genuine facts (Pliny Ep. 8.4.1). In contrast to some other genres, history’s primary goal was truth and accuracy rather than rhetorical display (7.17.3), and accuracy was praiseworthy (5.5.3; 5.8.5). (see below on the role of rhetoric in historiography.) Historians would insist that their duty was to present facts accurately, though acknowledging that some individuals discussed in their histories viewed the facts (and the political perspectives informing the presentation of facts) quite differently (9.19.5).
Still, contemporary political exigencies could affect the telling of current history; eager to appear in Tacitus’s history, his friend Pliny reminds him of one of his own noteworthy deeds (Ep. 7.33.1, 3), although the incident, the prosecution of one bad governor (narrated in 7.33.4–9), is barely worthy of mention. Tacitus can increase Pliny’s fame, the latter urges, but of course he ought not to go beyond the facts, Pliny allows, since history must attend only to the truth (7.33.10).
Pliny’s interest in appearing in a contemporary history, fitting the Roman value of glory, might reflect the earlier example of Cicero, who offers a similar suggestion about his own acts’ inclusion in a history (Fam. 5.12). Cicero recognizes that history, as understood in his era, must contain facts that are not only accurate but also politically significant, yet insists that the facts about himself are noteworthy and their appropriate treatment as praiseworthy will honor also the historian, Lucceius. Political and personal pressures may not have freely rewritten facts, but they certainly shaped the way that historians selected and framed them. The lavish praise of Tiberius in Velleius Paterculus (passim, e.g., 2.94.2–3; 2.129.1–130.5), as opposed to later authors, is presumably not unrelated to Tiberius’s reigning at the time of writing (e.g., 2.94.3).
In general, it is possible that Greek historians may have followed such rules of research more than Romans, because the latter were often interested in history more for collections of moral examples than for its own sake (although both Greeks and Romans valued both uses for history). Thus, because Livy valued history for its examples, he sometimes failed to research alternative perspectives on the character of those about whom he wrote. But even among Romans, although some may have written something like fiction, “such excess . . . for which there are enough modern parallels, was a gross evasion of the rules of historical responsibility.” Thus where we can test Livy himself against one of his sources, Polybius, he does not engage in much imaginative creation; he largely follows his source. Likewise, free creation would have led to competing versions of Roman history among ancient authors, whereas the basic story instead remains consistent throughout. In the first century B.C.E., Cicero noted that everyone expected historians to avoid falsehood and bias. Accuracy was not always achieved, but the desire for it distinguishes the conventions of historiography from those for novels or epic.
Fornara argues that despite the failures of some writers, objectivity remained the goal in history. For this reason, modern scholars dispute which direction Sallust leaned; he produced “a designedly neutral text,” “concealed his predilections,” and, “for the sake of historical truth, he repressed his loyalties and took (or tried to take) an objective view.” “Honesty and objectivity” were part of the genre, Fornara contends, part of “the contract between author and reader.” He concludes, “On balance, therefore, tendentiousness, though an omnipresent danger, probably threatened the integrity of historiography no more than in present times.” Fornara very likely plays down tendentiousness too much (see of this chapter and further in below); but he is surely correct to the extent that historians did not normally feel free to invent events but only to interpret them. They were not always objective, but blatant fabrication of persons and events violated the rules of their genre, inviting severe criticism. Interests shaped the telling of history, but they did not allow anything close to the same degree of freedom from facts that they normally afforded novels and epics.
As one sample of a range among earlier Greek historians, we may contrast Herodotus and Thucydides, perhaps the two most widely read historians in antiquity. Ancients recognized that Herodotus wrote more for his audience’s pleasure than Thucydides did; his charm consisted especially in making a reader feel that they were reading stories rather than history (Dio Chrys. Or. 18.10). Thucydides, however, had a reputation for notably accurate history writing (Jos. Ag. Ap. 1.18).
Herodotus employed but sometimes misunderstood his oral sources in his travels, and could not read other nations’ written sources. Yet even Herodotus, who was pioneering the sort of ethnographic research he undertook, was a genuine ancient historian. His depiction of the eastern Mediterranean coastal regions fits what we know of these regions from other sources. One faction of modern scholars has made him out to be “a mere ‘arm-chair scholar’ who only feigned his journeys, his personal observation and his sources,” but Meister judges this view an “aberration” that has been refuted yet really merits little refutation. It is unbelievable, he argues, that Herodotus simply invented the vast array of citations scattered throughout his work. Granted, Herodotus does not work from the consensus methodology of critical scholarship laid down after his time, in that he offers little attempt to evaluate his sources, but he does not invent them. Herodotus also displays far less Hellenic bias than we might expect. Ancient historians’ frequent use of sources is not simply an anachronistic supposition (see below for some explicit evidence for their use of sources).
Although there were plenty of cases of historical credulity and ancient historians were less critical of their sources than are their modern successors, most historians and biographers were capable of critically evaluating their sources. For example, Plutarch disputes a claim of Herodotus (Hdt. 9.85) on the basis of the numbers and an extant inscription (Plut. Arist. 19.5–6; others also cite inscriptions, e.g., Vell. Paterc. 2.25.4). Elsewhere he tries to distinguish more accurate from less accurate sources on the basis of reason (Plut. Themist. 25.1–2) and questions a later source that includes information missing in an allegedly primary source (Plut. Alex. 20.4–5).
Such concerns are hardly rare. Livy discounts an event in his source because it did not appear in the older histories and it suspiciously honored the source’s ancestral line (Livy 7.9.5). Elsewhere he opines that some numbers he found in early “annals” may be exaggerated and simply concludes that, in any case, the slaughter was great (Livy 3.8.10; for historians and numbers, see comment on ). So, too, Tacitus recounts the views of the majority and most reliable historians but then mentions another view (Ann. 4.10), which he goes on to refute logically (4.11) despite its utility for his perspective. The geographer Pausanias complains that many think that Theseus instituted democracy, despite the inconsistency of such a notion with the claim that he was in fact a king. Then he adds, “There are many false beliefs current among the mass of mankind, since they are ignorant of historical science and consider trustworthy whatever they have heard from childhood in choruses and tragedies.” On the basis of historical plausibility, the Jewish historian Josephus similarly argues against various claims (Ant. 19.68, 106–7).
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, himself a rhetorician, critiques not only Thucydides’s style but also his failure to achieve the expected standard of historical accuracy. “Art,” the rhetorician opines, “does not excuse history from such exaggeration.” Yet Thucydides himself was hardly oblivious to the need for critical evaluation. He recognizes (Thucyd. 1.3.2–3) that Greeks were not called “Hellenes” before the Trojan War, since Homer, writing long after that war, does not yet use the term. He refuses to dismiss Mycenae’s past splendor on the basis of limited remains in his day, noting that cities of his own day might hold power without impressive physical structures (1.10.1–2). When a distinction between accurate and inaccurate sources proved impossible, writers often simply presented several different current opinions on what had happened. A writer might simply admit that he did not know how something happened.
Even Herodotus’s methodology of reporting a range of sources without evaluating their accuracy did not thereby assume or pronounce judgment in their favor; the audience would be duly warned to, or would understand that they were obligated to, make their own decisions. Thus Lucian advised that the historian should report a myth found in one’s source without committing oneself to it: “Make it known for your audience to make of it what they will—you run no risk and lean to neither side.”
Polybius recognizes that myth may be helpful for bringing pleasure (Polyb. 34.4.3) and suggests that the Odyssey mixes myth with truth (34.4.1), but argues that the goal of history is purely truth (34.4.2). Dionysius of Halicarnassus warns that history is concerned with truth rather than legends and that one should pursue facts, “neither adding to nor subtracting from” them. (Even if these historians underestimated the role of an author’s presuppositions, the value of facticity they articulated for historiography is not a standard easily applied to novelistic or purely mythical narrative forms.) Herodian criticizes earlier historians for preferring rhetorical style to truth (Hdn. 1.1.1–2) and emphasizes that he never depends on unconfirmed information (1.1.3). Historians could report unflattering accounts of individuals they generally respected. Historians might recognize exaggerations in an account, though averring that genuine historical tradition stood behind it, or might regard an account as too implausible altogether.
Although not all historians shared Polybius’s more rigorous standards, his work provides special opportunity to explore these questions because he raises them so frequently in his writing. Polybius’s invective against the excessively rhetorical historian Timaeus (Polyb. 12.3.1–12.15.12) provides an example of the standards by which historians might be judged. Granted, Polybius’s peer review of Timaeus seems hardly objective itself; he impugns Timaeus’s motives (12.7.6) while opining that Timaeus warrants such harsh treatment because he has been harsh with others (12.4a.1). Fornara rightly questions the fairness of Polybius’s critique: he polemicized “against Timaeus, by our standards an indefatigable and enterprising scholar,” because the latter merely collected books rather than traveled. (Lucian similarly uses hyperbole as part of his wit in satirizing “bad” historians.) Although bias may have been more acceptable and hence more pervasive in antiquity than it is today, it was probably not commonly as severe or malicious as accusers (and perhaps competitors) such as Polybius suggest. (However harsh some modern reviewers may be, modern scholars may be grateful that they did not write two millennia ago.)
Nevertheless, Polybius’s critique illustrates the demands for accuracy to which ancient historians could be subjected and the public consequences of leaving oneself open to the criticism of having failed to achieve such accuracy. Polybius complains that Timaeus’s work reveals that he was unacquainted with Africa, about which he writes (12.3.1–2); that Timaeus’s errors are hardly surprising, since he failed to do sufficient investigation (12.4c.2–5) and, even when he did visit places and consult witnesses, he got his facts wrong (12.4d.1–2); and that when covering matters treated properly by other historians, Timaeus elaborates excessively and confuses the information that is there (12.28.12).
Polybius is not above assuming that he can infer Timaeus’s motives. Timaeus’s problem, Polybius argues, is not ignorance but prejudice; he is more concerned with epideictic rhetoric (praise and blame) than with proper history (12.7.1). One could forgive historians who err, but Timaeus’s errors are intentional lies (12.7.6). Polybius charges that Timaeus slanders people by presenting them in a worse light than is appropriate (12.15.12). This criticism may well unfairly impugn Timaeus’s motives for his perspective and may simply inform us that Polybius evaluated the data differently. One could not easily avoid rivals’ criticisms, but from Polybius’s description, it appears likely that Timaeus did at least exaggerate.
More broadly, Polybius condemns authors who sensationalize their story to make it more graphic and provide cohesiveness (15.34.1); Polybius himself might permit a little of this to tie the narrative together, but (he contends) not very much. He condemns those who make up or pass on hearsay about distant lands that cannot be verified (3.38.3). Polybius accuses Timaeus of fabricating sources where he fails to name them (12.9.1–12.11.7). (This accusation is probably unfair, reflecting simply different approaches to style or different target audiences.)
Yet on a more general level, the standards Polybius cites are not simply his own but are shared with Timaeus himself, however well or poorly he may live up to the standard in a given instance. Timaeus admits that falsehood is the worst vice in writing history, and that those who write falsehood should find a different name for their book than history (Polyb. 12.11.7–8). Timaeus would also agree with Polybius that the truth of a book’s content, rather than its style or length, confirms that a work is history (12.12.1–3).
Likewise, Polybius feels compelled to explain why he himself depends on Aratus rather than the often-contradictory accounts of his contemporary Phylarchus (2.56.1–2). He contends that the latter “makes many random and careless statements” (2.56.3), and promises to offer just the most relevant examples (2.56.4). Polybius complains that Phylarchus records tragic scenes of women, children, and the aged wailing as they are enslaved; he objects to this portrayal (even though we can suspect that it is a historically likely inference) because it is meant to arouse pity, that is, pathos used for entertainment value (2.56.7). The historian should not, Polybius opines, “try to thrill his readers” with exaggeration or with tragic poetry endeavoring “to imagine the probable utterances of his characters” (2.56.10). A tragic poet should entertain and settle for verisimilitude, he contends, but a historian should stick with facts (2.56.11).
Historians of the early empire maintained such standards as the ideal; Tacitus declares that history should cater to leaders neither by flattering nor by attacking them (Hist. 1.1). Although political pressure might require some adjustments for current monarchs or dynasties (or even influence the selection process by which historians survived and published and by which their works remained extant), this pressure did not permit wholesale invention of facts (nor ought we to imagine Luke constrained by such political pressures from his protagonists). Historians who invented events (far more than sensational or rhetorical historians merely embellishing relevant details) risked refutation and serious denunciation, and their works were unlikely to survive their patrons.
The question of how soon Luke’s sources derive after the events that he reports is essential to the discussion of his potential reliability. Ancient as well as modern historians valued firsthand sources most highly (all other factors being equal) and, after that, those closest in date to the events reported. On this count Luke fares better than many historians; many of the events he reports are relatively recent (at most, his reports about Paul are less than a generation old on the usual dating), and some (see comment on Acts 16:10) reflect eyewitness testimony.
Ancient historians were especially happy, when reporting recent events, to include oral tradition from eyewitnesses. The second best source after the author himself being an eyewitness was the author’s use of others as eyewitnesses; eyewitnesses who participated in events were considered ideal. Josephus concurs with Gentile historians in preferring this practice. Whether because of bias or because of memory lapse, however, even eyewitnesses did not always agree on details, which required some weighing of individual testimony. (Among logical principles deemed useful then as today, witnesses were considered most dependable shortly after the events they purported to attest.)
Because oral traditions were most reliable in the generation they recounted, Greek historians liked to travel to compile oral sources from the generation of the current events they reported. Thus “the historians of each generation establish the record of their own time” most effectively. Nevertheless, sources committed to writing often held a special authority; even an eyewitness might cite another eyewitness source written before his own work had been committed to writing. Writers often recognized that whereas oral tradition could be modified over time, written sources were fixed.
When the historian himself was an eyewitness, he usually noted this point (see comment on Acts 16:10). Readers naturally would give special credence also to writers whose works bore the approval of eyewitnesses. Josephus emphasizes that he wrote his autobiography while witnesses remained alive who could verify or falsify his claims (Ant. 20.266), and he complains that Justus, one of his rivals, waited twenty years to publish, till after the eyewitnesses were dead (Life 359–60). Josephus contends that Justus should be less believable than himself, whose work is known to the eyewitnesses and never contradicted by them (Life 361–66).
Josephus condemns Greek historians willing to write about events where they were not present and for which they could not depend on those with firsthand knowledge (Ag. Ap. 1.45). Some, he complains, wrote about the war without having been there, which was inadequate research for appropriate histories (1.46). By contrast, Josephus says, he was present (1.47) and he alone understood the Jewish refugees and wrote the information down (1.49); his accusers did not know the Jewish side of the story (1.56). Justus was not present when the events he describes took place in Galilee, and those who could have supplied Justus with such information perished in the siege of Jerusalem (Life 357).
As will be argued in below, Luke wrote after 70 and hence more than four decades after the events described in the Gospel, albeit while some eyewitnesses may have remained alive; this date, however, allows that he wrote much sooner after the later events described in Acts, which is especially likely if (as also will be argued) he was one of the eyewitnesses of some of those events himself.
The critical sensitivity of ancient historians in general applied especially to the remote past. Ancient historians were less accurate when they wrote about people of the distant past than when they wrote about recent events (as Luke does), and they were themselves aware of this difference. (Conversely, the advantage of writing about ancient history was that one could simply collect what earlier historians said, whereas writing about recent matters could lead to offense.)
Ancient historians, like their modern successors, generally preferred writers closer in time to the events reported rather than later sources. Following the same principle, many ancient writers pointed out the obscurity of reports from centuries earlier but expected a much higher standard of accuracy when handling reports closer to their own period. Most recognized that the earliest period was shrouded in myth, even if they sometimes found the myths’ basic outline acceptable. They were also aware that propaganda helped create legend (Arrian Alex. 4.28.1–2).
Sources about characters of centuries past often conflicted, a conflict that inadvertently attests to a proliferation of written historical sources no longer extant (see esp. , , below). When writing about characters of the distant past, then, historians would have to sort through legendary as well as actual historical data and might well have difficulty ascertaining which was which. Sometimes they simply repeated apparently incredible information and warned readers to use discretion; often, however, they sought to “demythologize” their reports. Thus for example Plutarch, when he writes about Theseus, who reportedly lived more than a millennium before him, proposes to purify “Fable, making her submit to reason and take on the semblance of History” by determining what is probable and credible. This means that when it was depending on historically remote sources, ancient historiography sometimes had to settle for historical verisimilitude rather than high probability (by modern standards) concerning the events that ancient historians reported.
Their criteria for distinguishing what was credible from what was not were often inadequate, but they illustrate ancient intellectuals’ recognition of the problem and their critical intentions. Sometimes writers employed a criterion of coherency with other evidence, such as known customs of a report’s day; other historical context (including chronological data); coherence with documentary sources; consistency of reported behavior with a person’s other known behavior (something like form critics’ criterion of coherence); and even material remains. Following the probability argument standard in the law courts (see the comments at Acts 24:11; 26:8), Dionysius of Halicarnassus challenges an event recounted in earlier histories because of intrinsic improbabilities in their accounts. Arrian often evaluates various reports by comparing them; he notes that one story too prominent to ignore is not reported by any of the eyewitness writers and so is likely unreliable.
Historians’ generally more cautious approach to early sources contrasts with their greater trust in more recent material. We respect Thucydides, Polybius, and (closer to Luke’s era) Josephus as contemporaries of much of what they report (regardless of rhetorical embellishments). We depend heavily on writers of the early empire, such as Tacitus and Suetonius, who report relatively recent events (of the past century to century and a half, with accuracy increasing further later in that period); despite their biases, they provide an invaluable source for understanding the early empire (see the discussion in below on evaluating degrees of historical reliability).
Barring convincing evidence to the contrary (such as much greater divergence from primary sources than we find in such historians), we should regard Luke in the same manner. Luke writes about events fulfilled within the past century, mostly (depending on when we date Luke) within the past half century or so. He grows more detailed in the Pauline material in Acts and especially the “we” material in Acts 20–28, the most recent material and that on which he appears most fully informed.
Claiming that historical writers used sources (as in below) and were concerned about genuine historical information does not mean that they did not place their own “twist” on the material. To the contrary, it was customary for writers to do so, and the more rhetorically sophisticated the expected audience, the greater the expectations of such displays of rhetorical prowess. (See also below on historians’ ideological Tendenz.)
Because time has, naturally, preserved mostly the rhetorically respected historians of the elite class (who also had the most leisure and resources to publish their histories), these histories are typically more rhetorical (and certainly usually include fuller speeches) than Luke-Acts is. Nevertheless, this emphasis on rhetoric shows that ancient historiography was more reader-driven (better, hearer-driven) than its typical modern academic analogue, and we must take this factor into account when reading ancient historical works, including Acts. Luke was writing ancient, not modern, historiography.
Some traditional modern approaches to the Roman historians were interested especially in mining them for facts about Roman history; some newer approaches focus on the historians’ rhetoric with little interest in evaluating the sources of information on which they may have drawn. Although some scholars in either camp still insist on one approach to the exclusion of the other, others recognize that both historical information and rhetorical or literary presentation are legitimate objects of inquiry. Indeed, it is problematic to try to isolate the former from the latter. One cannot access much information on which a historian draws without reading the historian’s presentation.
Rhetorical techniques were pervasive in ancient historiography, and the presence of such elements does not militate against the assignment of a work to the genre of history. Although Herodotus probably improved the literary character of writing beyond his predecessors, it was Isocrates who most placed a rhetorical stamp on subsequent historiography. His orations preserved praise and blame concerning politics, and, as a later rhetorical historian points out (Dion. Hal. Isoc. 1), his students included historians. Polybius, by contrast, criticized undue rhetorical influence, challenging especially Isocrates’s student Theopompus.
Like other literary works, many histories were apparently designed for oral performance. Even apart from this expectation, elite historians would have drawn on their rhetorical training, both consciously and unconsciously, to satisfy elite audiences. Ancient writers used rhetorical techniques to make their histories persuasive. Greek historians knew how to present their material in an artistic way, and rhetorical conventions helped shape the telling of good history. This was especially true during the empire, when rhetorical style marked not only speeches but even Roman literature. Romans not only continued the Greek emphasis on argumentative history with an “interpretive superstructure” for the information; they also mixed it far more deliberately with rhetoric. Pliny the Younger declares that one orator’s histories are as charming as the writer’s speeches, though more concise (Ep. 1.16.4). Even Tacitus, one of the most respected Roman historians and our principal source for the early empire, was a powerful orator in his own right (Pliny Ep. 2.11.17). Although Greek historians, on the whole, maintained a standard of accuracy in the events they told, rhetorical principles did influence the ways they told their stories and how they conceived historical verisimilitude.
As Clare Rothschild notes, historians were interested not only in accuracy but also in plausibility and probability, as in rhetoric more generally. They might claim to prefer truth over style, but so did orators; such claims merely show that they dealt with information as well as style. The measure of each of these elements varied from one historian to another, but historians in general both appealed to the tradition of historical research and sought to represent the past persuasively. Historians could draw on epic literary strategies and interests in how they told their narratives.
Although some historians sought restraint in the use of rhetoric, no one opposed it entirely. “Pleasure and beauty” remained important purposes for any work (Dion. Hal. Demosth. 47). Not only Thucydides (Thucyd. 1.1) but even the methodologically insistent Polybius could succumb to the temptation to exaggerate the unique importance of his subject matter (Polyb. 1.4.5; 39.8.7). Rhetorical conventions also appeared in ancient biography, though more so in rhetorical biographers such as Isocrates. If for no other reason, the prominent role of speeches in ancient histories (see below) made the heavy use of rhetoric inevitable.
Some ancient historians allowed rhetoric more control over their presentation of history than others. As Rothschild points out, ancient historians debated “not about whether, but about how methods of argumentation should be used”: should the orator persuade by logical appeal or by “inferior means (obsequy, amusement, sensationalism)”? By Luke’s day, historians imitated and mixed the various types of earlier historical approaches, including “epic, tragic and scientific approaches.” Some “sacrificed standards of critical research for the immediate gratification of their audiences,” using especially epic and tragic techniques; “others catering to more critical audiences imitated the more subtle argument strategies of Herodotus and his tradents”; most mixed techniques to some degree to reach the widest possible audience.
We should not, however, use the rhetorical element to summarily dismiss all historical value in ancient historical writers; if Theopompus’s rhetoric spoiled his history, that of the orator Tacitus did not spoil his. Writers fall at various places on a spectrum of rhetorical license. Even the best historians employed standards of rhetoric, but they used more restraint in rhetorical embellishment. Moreover, although historians even as early as Herodotus employed rhetorical strategies, history was written quite differently “from poetry, drama, oratory, and forensic argument.” Most historians recognized that historical inquiry required not merely rhetorical skill but research. The historian’s moral or political aims could weigh more heavily than literary artistry, and neither such aims nor rhetorical presentation meant that historians simply “‘revised’ the past to serve their own purposes.” Whereas some modern interpreters debate the genus of rhetoric (e.g., deliberative or epideictic) dominating various historical works, historians themselves do not define their own narratives in these terms.
Some writers explicitly criticized those more interested in showing off rhetorical skill than in historical truth. Lucian expresses this concern in a particularly emphatic manner, heavily criticizing those who overemphasize rhetorical embellishment in histories (Hist. 22–23). In his essay How to Write History, Lucian summarizes the expectations of at least the more stringent historical critics (the standards by which other historians could expect to be evaluated). He complains about writers who want to praise their rulers and generals (thereby attesting to the excess of epideictic interests among some historians; hence our discussion on “historians and rhetoric”) and emphasizes that true history must not include any lies, unlike encomia (Hist. 7).
Such writers, Lucian warns, must recognize that history employs rules “different from poetry and poems,” which can blame their excesses on inspiration (Hist. 8). “This . . . is the one thing peculiar to history, and only to Truth must sacrifice be made”; the writer of history must ignore all other concerns (Hist. 40). Flatterers work for the present; historians preserve truth for the future (Hist. 40). History’s purpose, he opines, should not be to give pleasure but only to be useful, “and that comes from truth alone” (Hist. 9). As particular models of good historians, he offers Xenophon and Thucydides (both contemporaries of the events they report), who would not let personal bias make them change facts; “public interest” and truth take priority over personal enmity or friendship (Hist. 39). Of course, not all ancient historians agreed with Lucian, who is among the most critical writers in this regard; Dionysius of Halicarnassus, by contrast, emphasizes rhetoric in the writing of history. Josephus, too, is heavily rhetorical; indeed, Dionysius was his Hellenistic model. Josephus’s free composition of some speeches is apparent, and a comparison of his Antiquities with the LXX reveals the degree of his rhetorical adaptation (see below).
Was Luke heavily or only mildly influenced by models of dramatic rhetorical history writing? Luke’s preface indicates some concerns shared with rhetorical historiography; his emphasis on an “orderly” account suggests that he valued persuasive arrangement. But Luke is not on the rhetorical level of Dionysius or Josephus, as may be illustrated by his failure to elaborate scenes rhetorically. Osvaldo Padilla has demonstrated particularly fully that Luke probably lacked tertiary training in rhetoric, though he allows for his exposure to a secondary level of literate training. Those schooled in rhetoric at a tertiary level learned various literary competencies, such as classics, Attic style, and the composition of elaborate speeches. Padilla offers detailed examples of how Luke does not fit this.
In particular, Padilla’s observation that Luke lacks rhetorical elaboration is appropriate. Vividness was an important element of rhetorical style in general, and so it is hardly surprising that some measure of it usually appears in ancient narratives, including Acts. Yet one goal in rhetoric was to make hearers feel as if they witnessed events with their very eyes (cf. Gal 3:1), and historians often sought to achieve this goal (e.g., Vell. Paterc. 2.89.5–6, explicitly). Luke, by contrast, is quite selective in his vividness (limited mostly to speeches and a few scenes). Luke generally provides more detail in the “we” material, especially in the later chapters of Acts, but even here the details surround the narrative’s key events, with little attention to, for example, the descriptions of local scenery characteristic of rhetorical display. In contrast to rhetorically lavish scenes designed to elicit pathos, Luke omits Paul’s martyrdom, narrating mourning over Stephen only concisely (8:2) and over Paul briefly in advance (see comment on 20:37–38).
It is significant that the more detailed rhetorical exercise of elaborately describing scenes is missing in Luke-Acts; Acts uses rhetoric, as all literary works did, but is not intended as anything like an epideictic showpiece. (In its extreme forms, the practice of vivid description also earned critics, who might insist on praising virtue rather than topography. Lucian suggests that such rhetoricians fixate on irrelevant details because they lack matters of importance on which to discourse.)
As later rhetoricians defined it (but earlier writers practiced without the terminology), ekphrasis (rhetorical description) could “describe both persons and things, occasions and places, dumb animals and, in addition, growing things.” Yet even the shortest sort of ekphrasis (e.g., Thersites being “bandy-legged, lame in one foot”) is missing in Luke’s work. Luke depicts action and itineraries, but hardly graphically; he offers physical descriptions of neither places nor people, as all those who wish they knew what Jesus or Paul looked like are well aware.
Homer’s detailed depiction of Achilles’s shield (Il. 18.468–608) offered the standard for descriptiveness, and other writers (e.g., Aeschylus Eum. 39–59; Eurip. Ion 82–183) used such accounts long before ekphrasis is attested as a rhetorical exercise in the Second Sophistic; Latin forms followed Greek ones in this practice. Rhetors demanded more graphic scenes providing visual horror; but some historians protested if narration of such scenes exceeded necessary details of history. That Luke, though reporting several martyrdoms, avoids all mention of gore places him toward the more restrained end of this continuum.
Second Sophistic orators appreciated the work of earlier rhetorical historians, such as Sallust, who painted a vivid picture of details and feelings (Fronto Ad Ant. imp. 2.6.4–15), and thought that historians ought to describe the countryside (2.6.6). Luke never does either to any extent worth comparing to more rhetorical historiography. (This is true even in the “we” material, where Luke is most vivid and detailed. There is nothing, for example, about the famous hundred-petaled roses around Philippi.) But even most writers concerned with rhetoric noted that nice-sounding words were less important than words appropriate to a subject. In contrast to Dionysius of Halicarnassus, some subsequent historians such as Appian and Dio Cassius largely neglected classicizing language, leading to their neglect among scholars studying the Second Sophistic. And Luke, surveying the gospel’s movement from Jerusalem to Rome in a single monograph, appears to emphasize a different rhetorical virtue: conciseness.
I thus differ from the scholars who see Acts as “dramatic” history in terms of such elaborations. Still, Luke is “dramatic” in other ways—for example, by including numerous “signs” reports. Plümacher sees miraculous elements as more dominant in “tragic-pathetic” history, yet Luke is readier to report signs than to develop specifically tragic-pathetic elements at any length. Popular literature often developed tales of exotic distant lands, unusual “natural phenomena,” divine interventions, and wonders; Luke’s lands belong to the real world, and he focuses on only the unusual phenomena (miracle reports) relevant to his story. Such features suggest not that he wrote tragic-pathetic history but that he wrote in a manner more consistent with an audience immersed in Scripture (which reported many such signs) than in elite Greco-Roman rhetorical conventions and that he wrote more about miracle workers (whose role he hardly invented; cf. 2 Cor 12:12).
Care in composition, however, entailed not just the choice of words but also larger structural issues, such as arrangement. Movement and changes of scene are also important in history as well as in other sorts of narratives. Thus one ancient critic prefers Herodotus to Thucydides: the former, though long, addresses diverse events whereas the latter wearies the reader with his narrow focus and tedious detail. Varying literary forms within a work made it more palatable for its audience (e.g., Pliny Ep. 6.33.7–10).
That historians and novelists alike share such features reveals the dependence of both on standard rhetorical expectations. The pervasiveness of rhetorical elements in ancient sources warns against facile genre assignments based on such elements. At the same time, we should not obliterate the distinctions between pure rhetoric and the use of rhetoric in historiography (outside its speeches). Pliny the Younger points out that, for all their commonalities, history and oratory are different disciplines: rhetoric focuses on trivial narratives, and history on famous deeds (5.8.9); style, vocabulary, rhythm, and subject matter all differ (5.8.10–11).
Various ancient historians indicated the careful balance they often sought. Polybius recognizes the epideictic function of historical writing (see below). He opines that historians must render judgments about whether peoples or individuals “are worthy of praise or blame” (Polyb. 3.4.1 [LCL]). Moral judgments and rhetorical artistry, however, do not require abandonment of historical responsibility; a history is not a speech (epideictic or otherwise).
Thus Polybius warns that he would depart from his earlier comments about a person that were offered in an encomium. There he provided a “somewhat exaggerated account of his achievements,” but “the present history, which distributes praise and blame impartially, demands a strictly true account and one which states the ground on which either praise or blame is based” (10.21.8 [LCL]). In a later period, Dio Cassius emphasizes that he has given attention to both tasteful literary style and historical accuracy in his narrative (Dio Cass. 1.1.1–2). Suetonius, though more disposed to credit scandals about some of his subjects than about others, avoided embellishment and would not easily be classified a “rhetorical” historian in spite of his considerable interest in rhetoric. But his contemporary Tacitus, a renowned orator who also wrote about oratory (Dialogus de oratoribus), was no less careful a historian (and in some respects was more so). On average, modern readers will invest greater confidence in more concise historical works that summarize information than in those that indulge rhetorical elaboration, such as Tacitus; yet a comparison of Tacitus with other extant sources suggests that he followed the story line of his sources for recent history. It seems clear where Luke’s concise narrative and speeches rank him by these standards.
Samuel Byrskog, in emphasizing that ancients narrativized their history (i.e., told it as story), underlines the influence of rhetoric on ancient historiography, but points out that rhetoric did not eradicate the goal of historical truth. Granted, some historians distorted facts, but it was generally considered that the most effective persuasion rested on facts and “persuasion and factual credibility were supplementary rhetorical virtues, not contradictory.” Historians had a factual “core” that they developed in narrativizing history, in telling “history by means of a story.” Thus one cannot easily separate history’s story/narrative from its extratextual, factual past. Ancient historiography allowed for flexibility in recounting the information, but mainstream historiography differed greatly from the writing of novels.
As we have already been emphasizing, Luke was no rhetorical historian like Theopompus; he was certainly not even as rhetorically trained as Tacitus or Suetonius, leading Roman historians and biographers trained first of all in rhetoric. Most historians by Luke’s day mixed the various approaches of their predecessors—both rhetorical and dramatic elaboration, on the one hand, and critical research, on the other—though many gravitated closer to one side or the other, depending on their audiences. Luke, too, offers an eclectic combination of elements, in this case characteristic of early Christian circles. Less rhetorically sophisticated and with only two volumes to work with, he lacks the rhetorical elaboration or detailed scene descriptions of, for instance, Josephus, yet he also appeals to an audience prepared for a hardier diet of miracles than most elite historians would provide (see below).
Modern scholars evaluating Luke-Acts in terms of Greco-Roman rhetoric come to strikingly different conclusions—perhaps depending on which part of Luke-Acts they are reading. On the one hand, Philip Satterthwaite correctly argues that classical rhetorical conventions deeply influenced Luke’s literary techniques in Acts. On the other hand, Pervo argues that Luke’s literary level would be considered low to educated Greeks, in contrast to refined Hellenistic history.
Both perspectives have some value, depending on the foil with which Acts is contrasted. As noted above, Luke does seem to write for a more popular audience than most elite historians did. A style differing from that of elite historians does not mean that Luke was not writing history, however; there were no “professional historians” in his day (most were politicians, philosophers, rhetoricians, and soldiers). Luke surely did not belong to the elite like the historians of the Roman senatorial class or of the order of the equites. Most Hellenistic historians had formal rhetorical training; it is not clear that Luke received such training. From the preface in Luke 1:1–4, Loveday Alexander suggests that if Luke writes history, he writes it from the more scientific, less rhetorical side of historiography. Patristic writers were often embarrassed by the poor Greek and the lack of rhetoric in the NT (though this may be partly because they wrote after the rise of, and hence may have been influenced by the standards of, the Second Sophistic).
Luke’s ability to write a lengthy and cohesive work demonstrates significantly more education than was common among nonelites, but this does not mean that he displays advanced training in rhetoric. Osvaldo Padilla has rightly shown that while Luke may well have had secondary training, he did not have tertiary training in rhetoric. I began my study of Acts and Paul with the assumption that Luke (whose Greek is sometimes excellent) was rhetorically proficient and Paul (contrary to Luke’s portrait of him) was not. Further study has invited me to reverse these views, especially in light of the respective genres in which they wrote: rhetorical flourishes were far more common in historians’ reports of speeches than they were in letters, but I find considerably more of them in Paul than even in Luke’s speeches. Although Luke expresses excellent Greek when it is called for (e.g., Luke 1:1–4), the speeches in Acts are not extraordinarily sophisticated.
Members of the elite class expected histories to conform to the appropriate historical style. Readers noticed when the pre-Lukan Roman historian Sallust regularly displayed rhetorical tropes in his historical writing (Fronto Ad Ant. imp. 2.6.1–2). A history written in a style between the normal historical and discursive styles could sell well among the rhetorically trained elite (Pliny Ep. 5.5.3). Later elite writers shaped by the Second Sophistic averred that historians should write in the “grand” style (splendide, Fronto Ad verum imp. 2.1.14), which is not Luke’s preferred style. The initial influence of the Second Sophistic was already, in some sense, under way when Luke wrote, although it had probably not yet affected members of his social circle. Even in the first century B.C.E., however, some writers were already advocating the literary use of Old Attic Greek rather than Koine, by which standard Luke generally falls short, though less so than most other first-century Christian writers.
Luke lacks the apology for poor Greek that some provided when they expected to fall short of the highest rhetorical standards. The lack of an apology may be not because Luke’s Greek is better than that of, for example, Josephus (far from it) but because his audience would not hold such critical expectations of him as elite readers might for Josephus. (With his royal patrons, Josephus could also afford considerable scribal help.) Further, Luke does not take rhetorical conventions as far as many of his contemporaries who wrote for more elite audiences. Most historians in the period of the empire followed the approach of the earlier rhetorician Isocrates in (1) stressing the moral purpose of histories (providing exempla, such as models relevant for virtue); (2) pursuing encomiastic or epideictic aims by praising persons, as in biography; and (3) the “excessive use of declamation, moralizing digressions, the display of rhetorical virtuosity for stylistic effect,” and the use of wonders primarily for entertainment. Sociorhetorical critic Ben Witherington argues that Luke made little use of these practices, and he is certainly correct regarding the sort of “moralizing digressions,” elaborate scene descriptions, and lavish displays of epideictic prose more characteristic of some elite works (see discussion above). Luke plainly avoids the rhetorical bombast of those derided as “Asianists” (Asiani). He does not even seek to vary style in speeches as much as one would expect of some rhetoricians; for example, the address ἄνδρες ἀδελφοί (men, brothers) appears frequently throughout Acts (but not the Gospel) regardless of the speaker (Acts 1:16; 2:29, 37; 7:2, 26; 13:15, 26, 38; 15:7, 13; 22:1; 23:1, 6; 28:17).
At the same time, Luke shows himself a master of classical rhetoric where he finds the need for it (e.g., Luke 1:1–4; Acts 17:22–31), including in periodic sentences (Luke 1:1–4; Acts 15:24–26; cf. Luke 3:1–2). He employs the same rhetorical authentication techniques found in many of the more elite historians. The ability to vary style, even in a single speech, was rhetorically important; variation was useful even in vocabulary. Even if speakers in Acts often sound the same, Luke sometimes varies the speeches (see below). He fairly often employs the rhetorically clear technique of “inflection,” but this was apparently one of the more basic exercises. More significantly, Luke makes use of prose rhythm (based on vowel rhythm), which is otherwise rare in the earliest extant Christian documents. The cumulative effect of ancient rhetorical patterns appearing in speeches in Acts suggests that Luke knew various rhetorical strategies and devices.
More problematic is the question of linguistic register. Although an educated person did not need to invariably employ Atticism, a prestige dialect utilizing the old Attic Greek, an uneducated person could not have competently employed it; that Luke sometimes does so suggests his education. Still, Luke “is basically no Atticist in his style” and proves uninterested in rhetoric inappropriate to the form of history he is writing. He clearly did not write for a typical elite Greco-Roman audience. Despite classicizing passages mentioned above (esp. Luke 1:1–4), his Koine style elsewhere reflects his primary ideal audience and their appreciation for the sometimes semitizing rhythms of the LXX. God-fearers, even of moderately high social status, would recognize language from the LXX that might sound offensive to elite ears schooled merely in rhetoric. Some scholars have even plausibly suggested that Luke’s appeal to “biblical,” LXX style at times serves the archaizing, “classicizing” function for his audience that Attic style served for elite Greek audiences of other works.
Luke does not use the “grand” style or bombast; he appears to take a mediating approach rhetorically, with a literary style of educated Koine. Luke lays less emphasis on rhetorical technique than on the story he must recount; he avoids the “excessive use of declamation” that characterized many ancient historians. (Of course, rhetoricians in general usually preferred a plain, rather than flowery, style in narratives, although the nature of this plain style might depend on the topics addressed.) Although Luke is not Josephus nor his audience the Flavian household, neither is he Mark. Aune offers a balanced conclusion: “Luke-Acts is a popular ‘general history’ written by an amateur Hellenistic historian with credentials in Greek rhetoric.”
Ancient writers freely expanded or abridged accounts without any thought that their contemporaries might find this practice objectionable. Contrary to early form-critical studies of the Gospels, which supposed that the tradition’s tendency was always expansive, it is impossible to predict whether the passage of time would lengthen or shorten accounts. Expansion sometimes resulted from the passage of time and the consequent growth of tradition; in other cases, lengthy stories were sometimes progressively abbreviated in time.
Among Aelius Theon’s rhetorical exercises is the practice of “expanding” and “condensing” fables: “We ‘expand’ by lengthening the speeches-in-character in the fable, and by describing a river or something of this sort. We condense by doing the opposite.” When applied to other kinds of narratives, this approach need not tamper with historical substance; aside from adding details known from other sources and adding some description that is either implicit in the narrative or inherently probable in itself, Theon’s example for expanding a chreia (anecdote) does not substantially change its basic meaning. Likewise, Longinus explains amplification (αὔξησις) as adding more and more phrases to bring home the point with increasing force. In rhetorical exercises one can elaborate a chreia by offering an encomium on a character, then paraphrasing, then explaining, and so forth.
Hellenistic Jewish historians followed this practice. Josephus, for example, often follows accurately the sequence and substance of the biblical account, at the same time expanding some biblical narratives; many Jewish readers would have readily recognized the additions. Second Maccabees openly claims to be a careful abridgment of a five-volume work by Jason of Cyrene (2 Macc 2:24–25), noting that the author has followed the rules of abridgment (2:28). Most Synoptic scholars likewise believe that Matthew (and less frequently Luke) abridges Markan accounts. Few stylistic critics would have complained about abridgments. Greco-Roman writers and rhetoricians appreciated conciseness in a narrative, provided that it did not impair clarity or plausibility. Perhaps more important for many readers, longer works were not only more expansive but also more expensive.
Many of the changes that writers made in their sources were matters of arrangement, which was of great importance to those trained in rhetoric. Both poets and prose writers sometimes added clauses nonessential to the meaning or removed essential ones simply to make the arrangement sound better (Dion. Hal. Lit. Comp. 9). Perhaps relevant for Luke’s Gospel, inserting sayings from sayings collections into narratives, or narratives into sayings, was considered a matter of arrangement, not a matter of fabrication. One matter reminding the narrator of another was a common rhetorical technique for transition.
Even writers intending to write accurate history could “spice up” or “enhance” their narratives for literary, moralistic, and political purposes. Again, this is not to say that good historians fabricated events (sometimes, in fact, they simply repeated their sources); but they did often alter or add explanatory details to events. Given the importance of vividness for rhetorical style, it is not surprising that some writers added details to augment dramatic effect (Plut. Alex. 70.3). Orally oriented cultures would be less troubled by variations than modern Western critics are.
Some writers were more careless or tendentious than others. Asinius Pollio, Caesar’s contemporary, complained that he was careless with the truth, sometimes accepted too readily his subordinates’ reports, and preferred higher estimates of enemy casualties than did Pollio. None of this is surprising in Caesar, who has obvious political agendas and does not conceal his own pursuit of glory. Even Caesar, however, apparently did not compose so freely as to be accused of having fabricated significant contemporary events such as battles.
Authors differed among themselves as to how much variation in detail they permitted, but some writers who wanted to guard the historical enterprise from distortion had strong feelings about those who permitted too much (see , , of this chapter). Thus the second-century rhetorician Lucian objected to historical writers who amplified and omitted merely for literary or encomiastic purposes (i.e., to make the character look better). Herodian shares this criticism (Hdn. 1.1.1–2) despite his own rhetorical adjustments. The complaint appears even in mythography; we may expect that the practice was more common there.
Palestinian Jewish haggadah permitted greater amplification than Hellenistic historiography, but it may be comparable to Greek mythography. (A significant difference between the historical and the mythical was often perceived as that between recent historical figures and remote characters of the mythical or legendary past.) The process was probably often incremental, preserving earlier legendary accretions and speculations. Writers used amplification to answer questions posed by a narrative, to heighten the praise of God or the protagonist (sometimes by fanciful midrash), or to improve the story. Sometimes they added names, which at times were arrived at midrashically or for symbolic value. One could emphasize a theme already present in a source by reiterating it where it appeared and occasionally adding it elsewhere. Similarly, negative incidents could be toned down, omitted, or justified in the character’s favor. But while such traditional techniques may have influenced Hellenistic Jewish historians and particularly their sources, they did not characterize the genre of history per se.
Luke follows Greek historiographic conventions rather than a haggadic approach (cf. comment on Acts 7:20–22); even apart from his own Hellenistic setting, the haggadic approach may have been known but not favored in the Pauline mission (cf. 1 Tim 1:4; Titus 1:14). What may therefore be more relevant is the degree of variation among Hellenistic Jewish works concerning historical traditions, such as 2 Maccabees and 4 Maccabees or, perhaps more closely, the historian Josephus.
But even here one does not expect as free a treatment of recent characters (the sort covered in Luke or Josephus’s report of the Jewish War) as of those of the distant past, where audience expectations for accuracy of details were less (see above). Moreover, as noted above, Luke did not write on the rhetorical level of Josephus, who needed to impress the Greek and Roman elite with his rhetorical skills; whatever Luke’s education, he clearly did not have at his disposal the resources available to Josephus. But what Luke lacks in elite rhetoric, he makes up for in the cohesiveness of his more popular and concise narrative. He does not have sensational scene descriptions, but he does include adventures and signs that would nevertheless hold attention (as argued later, Luke abridges, rather than expands, the adventures and signs available to him; cf. 2 Cor 11:23–12:9; 12:12; Rom 15:19).