Imagine yourself in the fi rst century, a Jewish resident of the burgeoning Roman
Empire. Perhaps you live in Rome itself, the eternal city. Or perhaps you live in
Alexandria, that other bastion of high culture around the Mediterranean. If you
live in Jerusalem, your perspective is slightly diff erent, as the Roman military
presses in on you from all sides. From there, it seems like the world is about to end.
Regardless of exactly where you live, you have a diff erent perspective on the
cosmos, a diff erent worldview, than that of a modern Western person. You are not
an autonomous individual with guaranteed liberties, but your entire life transpires
as a subject of an empire. You have never actually seen your emperor, but you know
a great deal about him. You have heard stories about him from everyone, about
what he says and does, about what his childhood was like, about his many triumphs.
You know his face from coins and the faces of his whole family from
statues; you know them almost as well as your own. In fact, in this era before
mirrors in every room, you probably know his face better than your own. He is the
most famous, the most powerful person in the world.
But there is someone else, also whom you have never seen, that you know even
better than the emperor. You fi rst heard of Jesus from people who actually did
know him. Th ey told you all kinds of stories about him, too many to remember,
accounts of what he said and did, about his tragic end and his glorious appearing.
You believe the stories, they give you life, and you want to share the stories with as
many people as you can. You decide to write a narrative. But where do you begin?
You don’t know about his childhood or what he looked like. You met his brother
once—maybe he looked a bit like him? Th en again, you think of yourself also as his
“brother.” Th ose who knew him passed on his chief teachings, and they proclaimed
him as the “son of God.” He prayed to his “father” and inaugurated a new “family”
of God. You believe this and you live by it, but believing and living are diff erent
than narrating. Again, where do you begin? One main problem you have, as a Jew,
with portraying God’s “son” is that your God does not have a partner. For this
reason, among others, your God is unusual in the Roman world. But if the paternal
God does not procreate, how do you portray the divine sonship of Jesus? Again,
where do you begin? Put yourself in Mark’s shoes—how do you narrate the life of
God’s son?
The chief objectives of this book are (1) to critique the conceptual framework
within which the term “son of God” has usually been construed in biblical scholarship
and (2) to reinterpret divine sonship in the sociopolitical context of early
Christianity. Th e method by which I resurrect the metaphor works toward both
objectives simultaneously. It is a well-known method but has not yet been applied
to this topic—namely, to interpret a concept by examining the social practices with
which that concept interacts. Concepts, especially metaphors, are almost always
rooted in practices. Human beings do not think in isolation from their cultural
practices: the metaphor of divine father-son relations only means in the context of
actual father-son relations. Yet actual father-son relations have rarely been examined
as a way to understand divine sonship. Examining social practices from the
fi rst and second centuries allows us to critique a conceptual framework drawn
from later eras, which is exactly what chapter 1 sets out to do.
Chapter 1 , “Divine Sonship Before Nicea: Biblical Scholarship on ‘Son of God,’ ”
argues that scholarship on divine sonship in the New Testament has relied anachronistically
on the philosophical and theological categories of fourth-century
Christianity, especially the key distinction, “begotten not made.” In the Roman
world before Nicea, begetting and making sons was not primarily a philosophical
distinction. On the contrary, the father-son relationship was at the heart of all
Roman social relationships—the crux of Roman kinship and politics. My argument
critiques the Nicene approach to biblical texts, which is oft en an unconscious
combination of fourth-century Christological categories with fi rst-century texts. It
further assesses what can be gained for the study of divine sonship from narrative,
historical-critical, and audience- oriented methods. My own approach is characterized
by a concern for social practices, an ear for political ideology, and a focus on
the singular fi gure of the Roman emperor.
The next two chapters break down the term “son of God” into its constitutive
concepts. In order to think diff erently about divine sonship in early Christianity,
we need to acknowledge the shift s in scholarly perspective on divinity (“god”) and
family (“son”) in the Roman world. Th e fi gure of the emperor—the fi rst famous
“son of god” in the Roman Empire—lies at the heart of the changes in perspective.
Chapter 2 , “Divinity and Divine Sonship in the Roman World,” engages scholarship
on divinity in Roman religion, with special attention to signifi cant studies of
emperor worship. Recent work in Roman history and religious studies has critiqued
previous modern understandings of ancient divinity as being mistakenly
grounded in elite philosophical ideas. Th e use of archaeological research and
nuanced theories of power has allowed scholars to incorporate into a coherent
worldview some previously anomalous data—not least the widely attested worship
of the Roman emperor as a god. Taken together, the changes in the study of Roman
religion and emperor worship have invited fresh comparisons with early
Christianity and the worship of Jesus Christ. Chapters 4 and 5 will fi ll out some of
those comparisons.
Chapter 3 , “Begotten or Made? Adopted Sons in Roman Society and Imperial
Ideology,” investigates father-son relationships in the Roman family, emphasizing
the practices of adoption and inheritance among elites. In the Roman worldview,
sonship did not primarily point backward to begetting, but forward to inheritance,
oft en through the medium of adoption. For emperors, this observation is especially
crucial, since these “fathers” of the Empire had no small trouble propagating
their family lines through natural begetting. Th ese divine fathers usually had to
adopt their divine sons. Th erefore, I analyze the transmission of power from father
to son in the imperial family and the competing family ideologies of natural
(“begotten”) sons and adopted (“made”) sons. My analysis shows that scholarship
on divine sonship has been hampered by mistaken assumptions about adopted
sons. Far from being second-class family members, they were pivotal and oft en
favored. Th e adoption of adult males helped to stabilize ruling families and formed
a key part of imperial ideology. When read in the light of Roman social practices,
emperor worship, and imperial ideology, several early Christian texts take on new
meaning. We can hear new resonances in the same old texts.
One of these “same old texts” is the Gospel of Mark, which has long been linked
to Rome and has sometimes been read in connection with Roman political ideology.
Chapter 4 , “Rethinking Divine Sonship in the Gospel of Mark,” demonstrates
the ways in which Mark’s image of Jesus and his followers interacts with that of the
Roman emperor and the imperial family. Th e practice of adoption in the political
ideology leading up to Mark’s era allows us to reimagine his Christology in unexpected
ways. Reading the baptism of Jesus through the lens of imperial ideology
encourages one to hear the divine voice as an adoption, the beginning of Jesus’
accession as a son and heir. Th e dove functions as an omen of this grace and
counter-symbol to the eagle, which was a public portent of divine favor and
election in Roman culture. Th e adoptive relationship can be traced later in the
gospel and understood to relate to the divine sonship off ered by God to all people
through the Spirit. Based on the arguments of chapter 3 , I contend that the supposedly
“low” connotations of such an adoption are a misconstrual of ancient evidence.
Viewed in its Roman sociopolitical context, Mark’s Christology was as high
as humanly possible. When facing the novel challenge of narrating the divine sonship
of a human being—in relation to a God that did not procreate—Mark craft ed
a portrayal that was theologically coherent and also resonated in its cultural context.
The resurrected metaphor enables us to read Mark anew.
Th e arguments of chapters 1 through 4 try to take the reader back before Nicea
to the fi rst and second centuries. What options had been available for characterizing
and narrating divine sonship? Th e book concludes by bringing the reader
forward from the Christologies of the New Testament all the way through to Nicea,
the triumphant philosophical Christology. Chapter 5 , “Begotten and Adopted Sons
of God—Before and Aft er Nicea,” synthesizes a broad range of texts in order to
show the shift ing relationship between begotten and adoptive metaphors during
the fi rst four centuries of Christianity. Th ese texts anchor the previous chapter’s
interpretation of Mark’s Christology, while they also show how the resonance of
“son of God” changed over time. Many authors of the fi rst and second centuries,
when describing the divine sonship of Christ and Christians, mixed the begotten
and adoptive metaphors. But by the fourth century, adoption was no longer a crucial,
visible component of imperial ideology and thus lost some (but not all) of its
appeal as a metaphor of power and exaltation. Moreover, with the predominance
of philosophical categories among Christian leaders, the terms “begotten” and
“made” changed in meaning: they ceased functioning as metaphors linked to
human practices. Th ey became increasingly abstract concepts, until the watershed
debates of the Nicene era established them fi nally as the property of theologians
alone. Jesus was now the begotten one, and everything else was made—and made
now meant “created,” not “adopted.” By the time of the fourth-century controversies,
adoption had become the Christological idea non grata among bishops
and other theologians. Th e chapter is roughly chronological and thus offers a clear
view of several interweaving themes on the road to Nicea: begotten and adoptive
metaphors of divine sonship; the sonship of Christ and the sonship of Christians;
Christ as unique and Christ as exemplar; philosophy and narrative; theological
doctrine and liturgical practice. In the end, with revised understandings of several
ancient phenomena—especially divine status, adoption, and baptism—this book
aims toward an ambitious goal: to rethink the Son of God in the Roman world.
■ C H R I S T O L O G I C A L Q U E S T I O N S
While working on this book, I encountered more than a few quizzical expressions
when I explained its topic, especially if I was speaking with colleagues educated in
Christian theology. I would explain that I was examining Jesus’ status as son of
God, as expressed by a selection of early Christian texts, in relation to the divine
sonship of the Roman emperors, who were usually adopted. Furthermore, I was
bringing that knowledge to bear on the understanding of Christian divine sonship
developing in the fi rst few centuries of theology and ritual practice. Th en came the
reply: “Do you think Mark was adoptionist?” or “Are you doing an Arian reading of
early Christian texts?” Depending on who was asking, the question was accompanied
by either (a) raised eyebrows and a confused look that said, “Good luck,” or
(b) squinted eyes and a steely glare that said, “Get away from me, you heretic.”
Th ere is some measure of intrigue at being accused of heresy; paradoxically, the
label sounds both ancient and urgent at the same time. I think it is inaccurate,
however, and I would rather it did not stick. I feel compelled to provide some
defense of my topic in advance. First, I do not think that Mark was an adoptionist,
at least not in any sense of the word commonly in use. Second, I am not doing an
Arian reading of early Christian texts, as if I were some Arian pastor doing sermon
preparation for a long-lost branch of Christianity. But both of these accusations do
provide opportunities to discuss what I am actually doing in this book. I try to
understand the Roman worldview of divine status and divine sonship and also the
singular role of the emperor fi gure in that worldview. Th ese points of emphasis
allow me to articulate a new way (as far as I am aware) of understanding the metaphor
of adoption in early Christianity, specifi cally by grounding it in the actual
adoptive practices and concomitant family ideology of the Roman Empire. In
chapters 1 , 2 , and 3 , I hope the reader will see where biblical scholarship has fallen
short in its analysis of ancient “son of God” concepts and how scholarship on
Roman religion and social practices can help chart a new path. Th rough the arguments
of chapters 4 and 5 , I hope the reader will come to imagine why certain
manifestations of Christology—now labeled pejoratively as “low” or “adoptionist”—
might have resonated culturally with many Christians in the Roman world. I ask
my readers to try to read part of the Gospel of Mark anew, in a diff erently emphasized
historical context. Mark’s ingenuity in craft ing the fi rst narrative Christology
ought to be understood independently, rather than in contrast to other “high” narrative
Christologies or in the terms of later theological debates. Therefore, my
readings of Mark and other ante-Nicene texts are neither Arian nor proto-Arian
nor crypto-Arian. What I want to emphasize is the irrelevance of fourth-century
philosophical concerns to the milieu of fi rst-century Christianity. My readings of
the early texts attempt to imagine nascent Christology before the cosmologies of
the Nicene era were relevant. In the third and fourth centuries, when these cosmologies
do become relevant, the understanding of divine sonship changes accordingly,
as I elaborate in my fi nal chapter.
By this book I do not intend to make any criticism of or contribution to
systematic or constructive Christian theology. Th e Gospel of Mark and most of the
other texts I interpret play limited roles in those enterprises anyway. Rather,
I intend to off er historically informed and, I think, new interpretations of these texts
for scholars of the New Testament and early Christianity, while hopefully adding
analysis of some benefi t to Roman historians along the way. Th ese interpretations
will stand or fall based on their appeal to the practitioners of historical-critical
methods. If theologians want to consider them, that is their prerogative, but it is
not my intention. In any case, whether theologians consider my arguments or not,
they should have nothing to fear from them. Th e early Christian perspective on
Jesus’ divine sonship did change over time, but this fact should not impede
theological discourse or orthodox faith. As Raymond Brown once affi rmed:
“orthodox Christians need have no confl ict with such a thesis of a growing retrospective
evaluation of Jesus, provided it is understood that the evaluation involves
an appreciation of a reality that was already there—Jesus was who he was during
his lifetime, even if it took his followers centuries to develop a partially adequate
theological vocabulary in which to articulate his greatness.” 1
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