Some scholars have thought that forgery was like that, a kind of fiction comparable to the invention of speeches in a history, in which the real author and the real readers agreed not to take seriously the false name attached to a writing. As I have shown, recent scholars who have actually studied the ancient discussions of forgery indicate that this view is not right at all. Forgeries were literary texts in which the author adopted a kind of fiction without the permission of readers. And readers, when they found out, did not appreciate it. Ancient people treated forged historical narratives, treatises, letters, and so on as “false writings” and “lies,” not as some kind of harmless and innocent fiction. That is why the ancients were so interested in seeing whether books were “authentic children” of their named authors or “illegitimate” (notha), not really belonging to the person named as the author.
So too ancient people recognized the difference between fabricated fictional accounts and historical narratives. Some historians, such as Lucian of Samosata and Polybius, unlike Thucydides, were quite insistent that historical narratives should indicate only what actually happened. Historians should not make up stories or even the speeches delivered by the characters in their histories. As Polybius, a second-century BCE Greek historian who wrote about Rome’s rise to power, succinctly states it: the historian should “simply record what really happened and what really was said.” For Polybius, the historian is different from the “tragic poet” (i.e., the author of fictional drama): “The tragic poet should thrill and charm his audience for the moment by the verisimilitude of the words he puts into his characters’ mouths, but it is the task of the historian to instruct and convince for all time serious students by the truth of the facts and the speeches he narrates.”5
The reason a historian such as Polybius had to argue this point so strenuously, of course, is that other historians did precisely what he opposed, inventing speeches and even narratives as they saw fit for their “historical” accounts. It is certainly true that people in general, not just professional historians, made up a lot of stories about historical figures. In Christian circles this can be seen for nearly every historical figure of importance we know of: Jesus, Paul, Peter, and other members of the apostolic band. In this chapter, since I’m interested in books that claim to be written by Peter, but in fact were forged in his name, let us begin by considering some of the stories invented about him, before looking at books falsely attributed to him.
Stories About Peter
WE HAVE A NUMBER of books from early Christianity that tell stories about Peter. These were almost entirely “made up” by one Christian storyteller or another. By my definitions these stories are not forgeries; they are not accounts that falsely claim to be written by Peter. They, instead, might be called “fabrications,” stories invented about Peter.6
One of the most interesting does happen to occur in a forged document. This forgery, however, is not in the name of Peter, but in the name of Titus, the companion of Paul. The New Testament contains a letter allegedly by Paul to Titus, which I argue in Chapter 3 is pseudonymous (i.e., a forgery). About four hundred years later another letter appeared, this one claiming to be written by Titus. It is an intriguing letter, because it argues vociferously that the only way to have eternal life is by living an ascetic, chaste life. Or to put it more bluntly, one can have salvation only by refraining from sex. In the context of the forger’s discussion he cites a story about Peter that serves to illustrate his point.
A peasant brings his virgin daughter to Peter to be blessed. Peter says a prayer over the girl, asking that God do what is best for her. She drops down dead. The peasant is understandably distressed, but the author of the story calls him “distrustful,” since he doesn’t believe that what has happened is in the girl’s best interest. He begs Peter to restore the girl to life, and Peter does so. But a few days later a visitor who claims to be a Christian comes to stay with the peasant and seduces his daughter. They run off together and are never seen again. And that’s the end of the story. In its context the message is quite clear: it is far better to be dead than caught up in sexual desire.
A similar narrative can be found in a collection of stories about Peter’s missionary activities, probably written in the second Christian century. The account, simply called the Acts of Peter, describes the great miracles Peter performed after Jesus’s resurrection and ascension, as he demonstrates the power of his risen Lord and converts innumerable persons to the faith.
In one of the stories Peter is talking to a gathering of Christians in his home on a Sunday; they have brought a group of sick people for him to heal. But someone in the crowd asks Peter why he won’t heal his own daughter, who is lying paralyzed in the corner. Peter assures his guests that God has the power to heal the girl, should he choose to do so. To prove his point, Peter orders the girl to arise and walk naturally. And she does so. But then he orders her to return to her corner paralyzed. The crowd is both amazed and distraught.
Peter then tells the story of his daughter. When she was young, Peter learned in a vision from God that if she remained healthy, she would lead many astray; she apparently was beautiful as a child, and as an adult she would entice men to sleep with her. When she was ten, a next-door neighbor attempted to seduce her, but before he could sleep with her, she became paralyzed, by the mercy of God. The neighbor went blind for his troubles, until healed by Peter and converted to faith in Christ. But the girl had to remain paralyzed, lest she lead others astray. Here again the point is perfectly clear: sex is dangerous and to be avoided at all costs, even if it means being an invalid for life.
The Acts of Peter is chiefly built around a series of contests between Peter, the representative of the true God, and a heretic named Simon, a magician empowered by the devil. Each of them can do miracles, and each tries to convince the crowds that he, not the other, stands for the truth. One of the miracles involves Peter and a smoked tuna. We are told that Peter has been trying to convince the crowds and is having little success. But he is standing by a fishmonger’s shop and sees a smoked tuna hanging in the window. He asks the crowds if they will believe if he can make the dead fish come back to life. Yes, they reply, then they will believe. So he removes the tuna from the hook, throws it into a nearby pond, and orders it to come back from the dead. The fish comes to life—not for just a few minutes, but for real. The crowd rejoices and comes to believe.
Greater miracles are yet in store. Peter and Simon the Magician are called by the local Roman official into the arena to compete in order to see who is the true spokesperson for God. A slave boy is ordered into the arena. Simon is instructed to kill the boy, and Peter to raise him from the dead. Simon speaks a word in the boy’s ear, and he falls down dead (it is the heretic who speaks the word of death). But Peter tells the boy’s master to take his hand and raise him up, and the boy is immediately restored to life (the man of God has the word of life).
A wealthy woman then comes up to Peter and cries out for him to help her as well. Her son has died, and she desperately wants Peter to raise him back to life. Peter challenges Simon to a duel to see who can raise the man. While the crowd looks on, Simon goes through several shenanigans: standing next to the dead body, he stoops down three times and stands up three times, and lo and behold, the dead man raises up his head. The crowds are convinced that Simon is the true power of God, and Peter must be an impostor. They prepare to burn him at the stake. But Peter shouts them down and points out that the man has not actually been raised from the dead; he has simply moved his head. If Simon is truly from God, he will be able to raise him up and make him talk. When Simon is unable to do so, Peter then has his chance. He speaks a word, raises the man fully from the dead, and has him speak. From that hour on, the people “venerated Peter as a god.”
The climax of the story comes when the heretic Simon announces to the crowds that he will prove his superior power by flying like a bird over the hills and temples of Rome. When the day of his feat arrives, he is true to
his word and takes off, flying like a bird. Peter, not to be outdone, calls out to God and deprives Simon of his power in mid-flight. He crashes to the ground and breaks his leg. The crowds converge on him and stone him to death as an impostor. It is Peter who has the true power of God.
Stories like this can easily be multiplied. In fact, they were multiplied as Christian storytellers fabricated legendary accounts of the great heroes of the faith in the second and third Christian centuries. So they made up stories about Peter. Did they also make up writings by Peter? There seems to be no doubt about that either. Nor are there many doubts about why they invented such writings. In no small measure it is for the reason we have seen. Different Christians had competing assumptions, outlooks, practices, and theologies, all of which needed apostolic “authority” behind them. A writing in the name of Peter could authorize one set of views in the name of a great “authority,” named as its “author.”
Noncanonical Writings Forged in the Name of Peter
THE GOSPEL OF PETER
One of the most significant Gospels to be rediscovered in modern times is the so-called Gospel of Peter. I say that it has been rediscovered, because we actually knew of its existence for centuries, before it turned up in an archaeological dig near the end of the nineteenth century. Our earlier source of information was Eusebius. Eusebius is often called the “father of church history,” since his ten-volume book, The Church History, was the first narrative account of the early Christian church. In this account Eusebius traces the spread of the Christian movement from the time of Jesus down to his own day, the early fourth century. Eusebius is an invaluable source of information for Christianity’s first three hundred years. For many of his narratives, his Church History is the only source we have. It is true, as scholars have increasingly recognized, that Eusebius very much puts his own slant on his accounts, that he has personal views, theological perspectives, and hidden agendas that dictate how he tells his narrative. He often needs to be taken with a pound of salt. But he is especially valuable when he quotes verbatim from the earlier sources that were available to him. In those cases we get primary sources preserved for us from authors living before his time, direct access to earlier Christian authors whose writings have otherwise been lost.
In Book 6 of his Church History Eusebius tells the story of an important bishop of the large church in Antioch, Syria, near the end of the second century, a man named Serapion. The story concerns a Gospel of Peter, and luckily this is one of those instances in which Eusebius actually quotes a primary source, a writing of Serapion himself.7 As bishop of one of the largest communities in Christendom, Serapion had under his jurisdiction the churches in the villages and towns of the surrounding area, including the church in the town of Rhossus. Serapion indicates that while making the rounds of his churches, he visited Rhossus and found there was a division in the congregation. He attributed the division to petty squabbling and learned that it may have had its roots in the Gospel that was being used in the church. It was not Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John (Gospels that he doesn’t mention), but a Gospel of Peter. Serapion’s response was that Peter, of course, was a disciple of Jesus; any Gospel that he wrote must be perfectly acceptable. On these grounds he allowed the parishioners in Rhossus to continue using it.
But he did so without reading the book himself. When he returned to Antioch, he learned from several informers that the Gospel in fact was a problem—it contained heretical teachings. In particular, it was used by a group of Christians known as docetists. Docetists (from the Greek word dokeo, “to seem” or “to appear”) maintained that since Christ was fully divine, he could not have been fully human and could not have really suffered (people suffer, God doesn’t suffer). Why then did Christ “seem” to be human? For docetists, it was all an appearance. Christ didn’t have a real flesh-and-blood body and didn’t really suffer and die. He only seemed to do so.
Docetists maintained that Christ was not a real human being in two different ways. Some docetists claimed that Christ’s body only seemed to be human, because it was, in fact, phantasmal (like Casper the Friendly Ghost). The other docetic view is a bit more complicated. It maintained that there was a real man Jesus (flesh and blood like the rest of us), but there was also a different being known as the Christ. The Christ was a divine being who descended from heaven and came into Jesus at his baptism (the dove that descended on him and went into him), empowering him to perform miracles and deliver his divine teachings. Then, before Jesus died, the Christ left him to return to its heavenly home. So some people might have mistakenly thought that the Christ was a human who really died; but that was only Jesus. The Christ was divine and could not suffer.
When Serapion received word that the Gospel he had previously approved might contain docetic teachings, he was naturally disturbed, and so he procured a copy to read. Sure enough, he came to think that even though most of the account was perfectly “orthodox” (a “right teaching”), some parts were not. Serapion decided that the book was forged, and he wrote a letter to the Christians of Rhossus disallowing its use. In a kind of appendix he gave a list of the offensive passages.
Eusebius quotes from the letter in his Church History, but unfortunately he does not include the appendix with the portions that Serapion found objectionable. That is very much to be regretted, for a Gospel of Peter has been discovered in modern times, and without knowing what Serapion’s book said, it is difficult to know if what we now have is the same book he had.
The modern discovery occurred in 1886 or 1887, during an archaeological dig near the city of Akhmim in Upper Egypt. To the northeast of this city are three cemeteries, and during the winter months of 1886–87 a French archaeological team working out of Cairo was digging in the tombs. They uncovered the tomb of a person they took to be a monk, because he was buried with a sacred book (modern scholars are less sure that he was a monk; almost anyone could have been buried with an important book). The book itself was highly significant. It is sixty-six pages in length, written in Greek on vellum (pages made out of animal skin), and it contains a small anthology of four texts. The first of these, occupying the first ten pages, is a Gospel that was previously unknown.8
The Gospel is not a complete text, with beginning, middle, and end. It starts in the middle of a story, “…but none of the Jews washed his hands, nor did Herod or any of his judges. Since they did not wish to wash, Pilate stood up.” What follows is an alternative account of the trial, crucifixion, and resurrection of Jesus—alternative in that the story differs in remarkable ways from the accounts in the New Testament Gospels. One key difference can be seen already in this opening verse. In the New Testament, it is only in the Gospel of Matthew that we have a story of Pilate washing his hands at Jesus’s trial, declaring himself “innocent of this man’s blood” (27:24). Matthew says nothing about anyone else washing or refusing to wash his hands. But that is stressed here. And who does not wash their hands? “The Jews,” Herod (the Jewish king), and his (Jewish) judges.
This Gospel maintains even more emphatically than the Gospels of the New Testament that the blame for Jesus’s death falls squarely upon the Jewish people and their leaders. This anti-Jewish emphasis is part of a trend we can see developing throughout the early Christian tradition. With the passing of time, the fact that the Romans killed Jesus retreats into the background, and the Jewish leaders and Jewish people are made increasingly culpable. That can be seen simply by looking chronologically at the Gospels of the New Testament.
Our earliest Gospel, Mark, seems to suggest that the decision to have Jesus killed is shared by the Jewish leaders and the Roman governor Pilate (although even here Pilate’s hand seems to be forced). When we come to the Gospel of Luke, written later, Pilate actually declares Jesus innocent three times—so that the fault for his death falls on the Jewish leaders who demand it. The Gospel of Matthew, written at about the same time as Luke, has Pilate wash his hands to declare that he is innocent in the shedding of Jesus’s blood. Somewhat notori
ously the Jewish people (this is only in Matthew) cry out, “His blood be upon us and our children” (27:25). In other words, for Matthew, the Jewish people are willing to accept the responsibility and consequences of Jesus’s death and to pass the responsibility on to their descendants. This verse, of course, came to be used for horrible acts of Christian anti-Semitism down through the Middle Ages, and even today.
The Gospel of John, the last of our canonical Gospels, goes a step farther. Here we are told that the Jewish people rejected Jesus as their king and declared that “we have no king but Caesar” (even though God himself was to be the king over his people). And then John says that Pilate “handed Jesus over to them to be crucified” (19:16). In this distortion of historical reality, it is the Jews themselves who actually kill Jesus.
And so, as time goes on, within the Christian tradition Pilate becomes increasingly innocent in the death of Jesus, and the Jewish people and their leaders become increasingly guilty. The Gospel of Peter is even later than John, and here Jewish responsibility is heightened further. Now it is not even the Roman governor Pilate who orders Jesus crucified; it is the Jewish king Herod: “Then King Herod ordered the Lord to be taken away and said to them, ‘Do everything that I ordered you to do to him’” (v. 2).
In other verses of this account the Jewish mistreatment of Jesus is intensified. The Jewish authorities crucify Jesus and take him off the cross. The author is quite clear that they are the ones who are at fault: “They brought all things to fulfillment and completed all their sins on their heads” (v. 17). More significant still, the Jewish people realize that what they have done is wrong and that they will be punished for it: “Then the Jews, the elders, and the priests realized how much evil they had done to themselves and began beating their breasts, saying, ‘Woe to us because of our sins. The judgment and the end of Jerusalem are near’” (v. 25). This is a reference to the view, found among Christians in the second century and later, that when the Roman armies destroyed Jerusalem in 70 CE after a Jewish uprising, it was not for political or military reasons, but religious ones. Jerusalem was destroyed and the Jewish Temple burned to the ground as divine retribution against the Jews for their sinful act of killing God’s messiah. Here in the Gospel of Peter the Jewish people themselves recognize their guilt and their imminent punishment.
Forged Page 6
