The Lost Christianities: The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew

by Bart D. Ehrman

  This then was a mark of the proto-orthodox tradition, an emphasis on church order guaranteed by a rigid church structure, with one person at the top making the key decisions. Things had not always been that way. Sixty years or so before Ignatius, when the apostle Paul had written to the church of Corinth, a church wracked with problems of division, infighting, flagrant immorality, chaotic gatherings, and doctrinal error, he did not address the "pastor" of the church or the "bishop," telling him to resolve the church's problems. He wrote the entire church with instructions concerning how to handle the situation. But why did he not write the person in charge? It was because there was no person in charge. Paul's churches, as evident from Corinthians itself, were organized as charismatic communities, directed by the Spirit of God, who gave each member a special gift (Greek: charisma) to assist them to live and function together as a communal body, gifts of teaching, prophesying, giving, leading, and so on (1 Cor. 12).

  An organization like that may work for the short term, for example, in what Paul imagined to be the brief interim between Jesus' resurrection and his imminent return in glory. But if Jesus were not to return immediately, and as a result, the church has time to develop and grow, having no one in charge can lead to serious chaos. And it did lead to serious chaos, especially in Corinth.

  After Paul's death, an aspiring author in one of his churches wrote the Pastoral epistles (Timothy and Titus) in Paul's name. These books are addressed not to troubled churches but to the pastors of troubled churches, who are told to deal with the problems and to bring their people into proper order. These books also give instructions for church leaders, indicating qualifications for the offices of bishop and deacon, for example, and directives for church life together. Here we are on the road to a proto-orthodox church hierarchy.

  It is interesting to note that the road ran through Corinth. One of the most intriguing proto-orthodox documents from early times is an anonymous letter written by the church of Rome to the church of Corinth, traditionally called Clement. This was a very important book to many of the proto-orthodox of the second and third centuries. It was evidently read as Scripture during worship services in Corinth in the 170s; so reports Dionysius, the bishop of Corinth at the time (Eusebius Church History 4, 23). And later still, some orthodox Christians continued to regard Clement as one of the books of the New Testament. It is included, for example, as part of the canon in one of our oldest surviving manuscripts of the New Testament, the fifth-century Codex Alexandrinus.

  Although the book is anonymous, it was later attributed to a man named Clement, who was thought to be the bishop of Rome. Tertullian indicated that Clement was the second bishop there, ordained by the apostle Peter himself (Prescription 32); more commonly it was thought, as early as Irenaeus, that he was the third bishop, following Linus and Anacletus (thus Irenaeus in Against Heresies 3.3.1). The book itself, however, does not claim Clement as its author or, in fact, even mention his name. It was probably written near the end of the first century. Its significance lies not only in being a proto-orthodox writing at least as old as some of the books that became part of the canon, but also in being one of the earliest instances of one church helping with (or interfering with, depending on one's perspective) the internal problems of another. Scholars have not been slow to notice that it was precisely the Roman church doing this, the church that later was to become the center of Christendom, the church whose bishop was in fact to become the pope. Possibly this letter marks the beginning of bigger things.

  In any event, there was a situation in Corinth that called for intervention. The church leaders (presbyters, or elders) had been removed from office, and others had taken their place (1 Clement 3, 4, and 47). We don't know whether it was a violent coup (which seems a bit unlikely), a failed election (which seems a bit anachronistic), or some other kind of power play. But the Roman Christians who wrote the letter did not approve of the situation, and they wanted it reversed. The letter upbraids the Corinthian church for its disunity, convicts members of the guilty party of the error of their ways, and urges them to return the deposed presbyters to their positions of authority.

  In addition to providing extensive citations of Scripture, principally the Old Testament, in order show the atrocity of the jealousy and strife at the center of the dispute, the letter mounts a particular argument for reinstating the church leaders. This is an argument that, in suitably modified form, was destined to become part and parcel of the proto-orthodox understanding of church structure. Within a century or so after the writing of Clement, proto-orthodox Christians had become accustomed to opposing "aberrant" forms of Christianity by arguing that the bishops of the leading churches in the world could trace their lineage back through their personal predecessors to the apostles themselves, who had appointed them. This argument from "apostolic succession" is not found yet in full form in Clement, as there is no evidence in the letter of a solitary bishop over the churches in either Rome or Corinth. But the argument is already here in nuce: According to the author, Christ chose the apostles, who appointed the leaders of the churches, who then handpicked their successors (chaps. 42, 44). Since the (deposed) presbyters of Corinth stood in the lineage of leaders chosen by the apostles, to oppose them meant to set oneself against the handpicked successors of the apostles, who had been chosen by Christ, who had been sent from God.

  A powerful argument, this, especially when the leaders of the churches you have in mind happen to agree with your own understanding of the faith. Within proto-orthodox circles there came to be a heightened emphasis both on having a strict hierarchy of authority, in which the bishop oversaw the work of the presbyters and the deacons (who may have dealt, respectively, with the more spiritual matters of the church and the more material side of things), and on making certain that only those with the proper understanding of the faith be allowed to serve in that capacity. Administrative skill was important, but a correct understanding of the Truth was a sine qua non. In the course of these developments, Irenaeus, Tertullian, and their successors were to use the argument of "apostolic succession" to counter any claims of the Gnostics, or others, to the truth: No one except the bishops appointed by the heirs of Christ could possibly be right about the precious truths of the faith.

  The argument overlooked the uncomfortable circumstance that already in the second and third centuries there were bishops—including bishops of Rome— who were themselves declared heretical by well-intentioned (and often ambitious) proto-orthodox theologians. But an argument's rhetorical force should never be confused with the practical realities compromising its logic, as anyone conversant with modern political debates knows full well.

  Proto-orthodoxy and the Jewish Traditions

  Some proto-orthodox writings try to resolve church conflict by pressing for the authority of church officials ("Obey the bishop!") without going into the content of the disputes, on the assumption that if the right people are in charge, they will know what to do. That is the tack taken, for example, by the Pastoral epistles, Timothy and Titus, far more concerned with getting the right kind of leaders in office than in explaining why the erroneous views that need to be overthrown are a problem. Ignatius is different, though. Ignatius deals with problems head on and argues a case.

  Apart from his letter to the Christians in Rome, in which he urges them not to intervene with his bloody ordeal soon to come, Ignatius's letters are all addressed to churches (and one individual, Polycarp) that he has encountered on his way to martyrdom either personally, by passing through town, or indirectly, by meeting representatives sent to greet him and provide moral support. In these encounters he has learned of various problems in the churches. Some of these could be resolved simply by unleashing the authority of the bishop and insisting that everyone follow his lead. But others needed to be addressed. One of the most interesting involved the relationship of true Christianity to Judaism. This was a problem the proto-orthodox dealt with in a way quite different from the Ebionite Christians (who continued to embrace
Judaism more or less wholesale), the Marcionites (who rejected all things Jewish), and various groups of Gnostics (who rejected historical Judaism but read the sacred Jewish texts through the lenses of their own complicated mythologies). Even among the proto-orthodox there were various attitudes and approaches to Jews and their Scripture, within broad parameters. Ignatius clearly understands those parameters, here already at the outset of the proto-orthodox movement.

  One of the final letters Ignatius wrote was addressed to the Christians in the Asia Minor city of Philadelphia, which he had passed through on his journey to Rome. As is typical, he speaks highly of the bishop of Philadelphia and is eager that the church be united behind him. It appears that when he was there, Ignatius had seen divisions in the church and recognized a simple solution for them: "I cried out while among you, speaking in a great voice, the voice of God, 'Pay attention to the bishop and the presbytery and the deacons!'" (7:1). He urged the community to "do nothing apart from the bishop; keep your flesh as the temple of God; love unity; flee divisions" (7:2).

  The divisions were evidently rooted in different theological and practical perspectives advanced by some members of the congregation. Among the Philadelphians were Gentile believers who had come to think that Christians needed to follow the practices of Judaism. It is difficult to know whether these people were spiritual descendants of Paul's opponents in nearby Galatia, converts to Ebionite Christianity, or just Jewish sympathizers with an agenda of their own. In any event, their position could elicit small sympathy from Ignatius, who argued: "If anyone should interpret Judaism to you, do not hear him. For it is better to hear Christianity from a man who is circumcised than Judaism from one who is uncircumcised" (6:1).

  And when his opponents claimed not to accept anything as true that was not supported in their "ancient records" (i.e., the Hebrew Bible), Ignatius insisted that "Jesus Christ is the ancient records" (8:2). Although he obviously doesn't say so, their reply (which he does record) may have cut him to the quick: "That is just the question!" But for Ignatius, the Old Testament patriarchs and prophets were looking forward to Christ and had salvation only through him (9:1-2).

  Proto-orthodox Christians found themselves in a difficult situation when it came to the Jewish Scriptures. On the one hand, they were not at all inclined to adopt the ways of Judaism. Even by the time of Ignatius, the vast majority of Christians had converted from paganism and saw Jews and their religion as something distinct from the salvation wrought by Christ. At the same time, as they themselves knew, Jesus had been Jewish, as had his followers, and from the beginning, the Jewish Bible had been the Christian Scriptures, the revelation of the one true God, the God of the Jews. Moreover, as we have seen, without the Jewish Scriptures, Christians lacked the one thing they needed for religious legitimacy in the ancient world: a claim to antiquity. It was only by claiming to be rooted in the ancient traditions that they had inherited—found in the Jewish Scriptures, whose oldest parts were produced long before Homer, let alone Plato—that Christians could be seen as respectably ancient, in an ancient world that set a high premium on antiquity. But actually to follow the laws of Judaism and become Jews—that was out of the question.

  How were proto-orthodox Christians to solve the problem? The most common road taken is that presumed by Ignatius, who wrote that Christ is himself the point of the Jewish Bible. This may not have sounded plausible, let alone convincing, for non-Christian Jews, but it became a trademark for non-Jewish Christians among the proto-orthodox. And as one might imagine, this perspective led to enormous tensions with Jewish neighbors, who thought Christians were trying to usurp their traditions: How can you Christians claim to be heirs of the Jewish Scriptures, when you don't even keep its laws?

  That's exactly what Christians claimed, however, sometimes in ways that in hindsight may appear insidious and inflammatory. We are still living with the repercussions of this incipient anti-Judaism today.

  One of the most famous proto-orthodox writings to deal with the issue is another book that nearly made it into the New Testament. The Epistle of Barnabas was sometimes quoted as Scripture in the early centuries of the church, and it was included among the books of the New Testament in one of our most ancient manuscripts, this time the famous Codex Sinaiticus. The epistle came to be attributed to Barnabas, the traveling companion of the apostle Paul, even though it is written anonymously. Had it been finally admitted into the canon, the history of Jewish-Christian relations might have been even more horrendous than it was. Among all the early Christian writings vying for a spot in the sacred canon, this is the most virulently anti-Jewish in its message, arguing that it is Christians, not Jews, who are heirs of the covenantal promises made to the patriarchs of Israel, that the "Old Testament" is a Christian, not a Jewish book, and that, as a result, the Jews have always adhered to a false religion."

  As became typical among his proto-orthodox successors, the author of the letter does not spurn the Jewish Scriptures per se. He instead embraces them, insisting that when the prophets of Scripture attack the people of Israel for their opposition to God, their words are to be taken as literal truth. Because Jews rebelled against God from the very beginning, this author claims, they were misled into thinking that scriptural laws concerning how to live and worship were to be taken literally (4:6-8). But these biblical laws concerning sacrificial rites, ritual practices, and sacred institutions, he avers, were meant to be taken figuratively, pointing forward to the salvation to be brought to the world by Christ.

  And so the author provides a "true" interpretation of key passages, informed by the special knowledge (interestingly enough, he uses the word gnosis) that he claims to have received from God, in order to discount the Jews' understanding of significant aspects of their own religion: the covenant, fasting, sacrifices, circumcision, kosher food laws, Sabbath, the Temple, and so on. The Jews' misunderstanding, the author maintains, can be traced to the very beginning, when Moses received the Law of God on Mount Sinai. Learning that the people, who had just been delivered from their slavery in Egypt, had already turned to worship foreign gods, Moses angrily smashed the two tablets containing the covenant given him by God. For this author, once the covenant was broken, it was never restored—until the coming of Christ and the formation of the true people of God, his followers (4:6-8, 14:1-5). The Jews, on the other hand, were excluded from their covenant and misled by an evil angel into thinking that they were members of God's covenantal community and that the laws they inherited were to be interpreted literally (9:4).

  Barnabas devotes most of his energies to driving home this basic point, time and again giving the "true" interpretation of the Jewish Law in opposition to their own literal understandings of it. For example, when God spoke of honoring the Sabbath day and keeping it holy, he did not mean that Jews should refrain from work on the seventh day. As unholy people, Barnabas claims, Jews could not possibly keep the day itself holy. God was instead referring to his own act of creation in which he spent six days making the world before resting on the seventh. Moreover, as the Scriptures themselves testify, "With the Lord a day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as one day" (2 Pet. 3:8; cf. Ps. 90:4). The "six days" of creation, then, refer to a period of six thousand years in which God is actively involved with the world, to be followed by a "seventh day" of rest, in which he will finally put an end to sin and bring peace on earth once and for all. The injunction to keep the Sabbath day holy is therefore not to be interpreted as a commandment to refrain from work; it is an instruction concerning the future apocalypse in which God's millennial kingdom will come to earth. Only then will there be a completely holy people who can keep "the day" holy (15:1-8). This is the first instance in which a Christian writer indicates that the world would last six thousand years.

  Barnabas is especially intent on showing that Jews are wrong to take the dietary laws of the Old Testament literally. God did not mean that his people were not to eat pork or rabbit or hyena, all of which are proscribed in the Torah. The i
njunction not to eat pork means not to live like swine, who grunt loudly when hungry but keep silent when full. People are not to treat God in this way, coming to him with loud petitions when they are in need but ignoring him when they are not (10:3). Not to eat rabbit means not to live like those wild creatures, who with every passing year increase their sexual appetites and— Barnabas tells us, in a very strange passage—every year grow another orifice, allowing them to propagate at random and even commit incest (10:6). So too, not to eat hyena means not to live licentious lives, like those promiscuous animals who were "known" to change their gender every year, alternately becoming male and female (10:7). Yet more peculiar is the command not to eat weasel. Barnabas points out (based, probably, as in the other instances, on evidence provided by an ancient bestiary) that the weasel conceives through the mouth; he takes this command, then, to forbid oral sex. Do not, he says, "be like those who are reputed to perform a lawless deed in their mouth because of their uncleanness, nor cling to unclean women who perform the lawless deed in their mouth" (10:9).

  For Barnabas, the laws of God are meant to induce ethical behavior and are totally misread if taken literally. This also applies to the most distinctive Jewish law of all, the law of circumcision, for God did not literally want his people to cut the foreskins off the penises of their baby boys. The sign of circumcision given to Abraham was in fact something quite different: It was the sign that salvation would be given to the world through the cross of Jesus. To derive this rather unusual interpretation, Barnabas points to the first account of circumcision in the Bible, where the father of the Jews, Abraham, took his 318 servants into the wilderness to rescue his nephew Lot, who had been captured by an army of invading kings (Genesis 14). Prior to going into battle, Abraham had these 318 members of his household circumcised (a conflation of Gen. 14:14 and 17:23). What is significant for Barnabas is the number 318 itself, a mysterious and significant number that he explains by the method of interpretation known in ancient Jewish sources as "gematria."