The Good Shepherd: Image, Meaning, and Power

The Good Shepherd

The Good Shepherd

Image, Meaning, and Power

Jennifer Awes Freeman

Baylor University Press

© 2021 by Baylor University Press

Waco, Texas 76798

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of Baylor University Press.

Unless otherwise stated, Scripture quotations are from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Cover and book design by Kasey McBeath

Cover art: Good Shepherd Mosaic, Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, 425–450 C.E., Ravenna, Italy. Photo by Petar Milošević / Wikimedia Commons / CC-BY 2.5. Cover background courtesy of Shutterstock/korkeng.

The Library of Congress has cataloged this book under ISBN 978-1-4813-1537-1.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021939824

978-1-4813-1539-5 (ePub)

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To Robin, with gratitude

Contents

Acknowledgments

List of Figures

Abbreviations

Introduction

1. The Shepherd Who Brings Peace

Shepherd-Kingship in the Ancient Near East

2. Shepherd of the People

Divinity and Violence in the Greco-Roman World

Color Plates

3. The Shepherd-Victim as Lawgiver

The Good Shepherd in the Early Church

4. Pastor Francorum

Church and State in the Early Middle Ages

Conclusion

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Acknowledgments

I often tell my students that writing is thinking. I am particularly thankful to have had the opportunity to think about the ideas in this book. It has been an exciting and sometimes difficult journey, and I hope that my offerings here will provide other scholars with a more complete picture of the Good Shepherd, even as there is yet much work to be done.

Although the physical process of writing is a solitary act, one never thinks or writes in true isolation. There were many people, groups, and institutions that made the process of writing this book richer and to whom I am indebted. First among them is Robin Jensen, under whom I was privileged to study at Vanderbilt University. My understanding of and approach to art history is deeply shaped by her, for which I am thankful. Ever practical, she once invited me to compose a series of abstracts in lieu of a final research paper for one of our directed studies. The spark for this book came out of one of those abstracts, and for this and so much more (including generous use of her photographs), I dedicate this book to Robin.

The next step in the development of this project came in response to Lee Jefferson’s invitation to contribute to a panel at the North American Patristics Society conference, the paper for which was later included in the volume The Art of Empire: Christian Art and Its Imperial Context (2015), edited by Robin Jensen and Lee Jefferson. Lee is a consistently warm and humorous presence—the kind of person one is always relieved to run into at a conference.

Portions of this project were also presented at the Oxford Patristics conference and the Midwest Medieval History conference. The North American Patristics Society’s Small Research Grant funded a brief research trip. Further support came from the Undergraduate Research Opportunities Program at the University of Minnesota, which funded the assistance of Alisa Kamenev, who took up the work with interest and initiative. I look forward to witnessing her promising trajectory as a fellow scholar of the Middle Ages. As the work on this book was drawing to a close, I enjoyed a new correspondence with Avital Heyman, who generously shared her images and thoughts on the naughty shepherds of Romanesque capitals.

I am grateful for the engagement from my students and colleagues at United Theological Seminary of the Twin Cities, especially to my supportive dean Kyle Roberts, and to Max Brumberg-Kraus, who’s given me a new appreciation for folk horror and Ovid—to say nothing of their delicious baked goods that have sustained me on many an occasion. Special thanks must also go to my esteemed colleague Demian Wheeler, who, despite our irreverent rapport, takes the Good Shepherd very seriously, and whose enthusiastic encouragement and intrepid optimism have spurred me on.

Cade Jarrell has been an impressively patient and supportive editor over the last several years. His engaging questions and input have made this a better book. I am grateful for the anonymous readers, who accomplished the essential task of understanding this project on its own terms and representing it back to me in a way that helped me see it afresh, not to mention the constructive feedback and recommendations for additional sources. Because it is true, I must echo the familiar line: any shortcomings in this work are entirely my own responsibility. Still, the embarrassment of riches that I have mentioned here have certainly lessened them.

Plans to travel to Europe for research during the summer of 2020 were disrupted by the coronavirus pandemic. I am grateful that many libraries and other institutions increased digital access to their collections—even if only temporarily, without which it would not have been possible to complete this book when I did (that is, at home during a pandemic with three children). Speaking of which, my greatest debt of gratitude goes to my family: to my husband, Luke, who lent me his Greek translation skills early on, has read nearly everything I have ever written, and reminds me to leave my desk occasionally; and to my children, Alice, Thomas, and Agatha. If there are any incomplete thoughts or—God forbid—sentences in this book, it is surely due to the regular interruptions caused by their irresistible hugs. And finally, I thank my parents and in-laws, who provided childcare that enabled intensive periods of focused work, not to mention their encouragement and celebration at every stage.

St. Paul, Minn.

Advent 2020

List of Figures

1.1 Cuneiform Tablet, 3100–2900 B.C.E., New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. (Drawing by author.)

1.2 Law Code of Hammurabi, Paris, Louvre. (Photo by Mbzt / Wikimedia Commons.)

1.3 Hatshepsut, New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. (Photo by Luke Freeman.)

1.4 Seated Statuette of Pepi I with Horus Falcon, ca. 2338–2298 B.C.E., Brooklyn Museum. (Photo from Brooklyn Museum.)

2.1 Terracotta Vessel, 1725–1600 B.C.E., New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. (Photo from The Metropolitan Museum of Art.)

2.2 The Judgment of Paris Mosaic, 115–150 C.E., Paris, Louvre. (Photo by Mbzt / Wikimedia Commons.)

2.3 Kriophoros (Ram-Bearer) Statuette, 650–600 B.C.E., Cleveland Museum of Art. (Photo from Cleveland Museum of Art, John L. Severance Fund / CC0 1.0.)

2.4 Hermes Kriophoros, 500–490 B.C.E., Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, Henry Lillie Pierce Fund. (Photo © 2021 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.)

2.5 Ara Pacis Augustae (Detail), 9 B.C.E., Rome. (Photo by Robin M. Jensen.)

2.6 Orpheus Floor Mosaic, early 3rd c. C.E., Palermo, Italy, Museo Archeologio Regionale. (Photo by Marie-Lan Nguyen / Wikimedia Commons / CC-BY 2.5.)

3.1 Good Shepherd, Marble, 280–290 C.E., Cleveland Museum of Art. (Photo from Cleveland Museum of Art, John L. Severance Fund / CC0 1.0.)

3.2 Santa Maria Antiqua Sarcophagus, ca. 270 C.E., Rome. (Photo by Robin M. Jensen.)

3.3 Jonah Sarcophagus, ca. 300 C.E., Rome, Vatican Museum. (Alinari / Art Resource, N.Y.)

3.4 Good Shepherd Fresco, Dura Europos Church, mid-3rd c. C.E. (Drawing by author.)

3.5 Apse Mosaic, San Vitale, 547 C.E., Ravenna, Italy. (Photo by Petar Milošević / Wikimedia Commons.)

3.6 Abraham Mosaic, San Vitale, 547 C.E., Ravenna, Italy. (Photo by Petar Milošević / Wikimedia Commons.)

3.7 Abel and Melchizedek Mosaic, San Vitale, 547 C.E., Ravenna, Italy. (Photo by Robin M. Jensen.)

3.8 Apse Mosaic, Saints Cosmas and Damien, 527 C.E., Rome. (Photo by Lee M. Jefferson.)

3.9 Agnus Dei, Apse Mosaic Detail, Saints Cosmas and Damien, 527 C.E., Rome. (Photo by Lee M. Jefferson.)

4.1 Hrabanus Maurus, In honorem sanctae crucis, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Lat 2423, Fol. 1v. (gallica.bnf.fr / BnF.)

4.2 Utrecht Psalter, Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek, MS Bibl. Rhen. I Nr. 32, Fol. 45r. Used with permission.

4.3 Utrecht Psalter, Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek, MS Bibl. Rhen. I Nr. 32, Fol. 91v. Used with permission.

4.4 Stuttgart Psalter, Stuttgart, Württembergische Landesbibliothek, Cod. Bibl. Fol. 23, Fol. 164v. Used with permission.

4.5 First Bible of Charles the Bald (the Vivian Bible), Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, MS Lat. 1, Fol. 215v. (gallica.bnf.fr / BnF.)

4.6 Golden Psalter of St. Gall, St. Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. Sang. 22, Fol. 2v. (www.e-codices.ch.)

4.7 Fresco, Abbey at Lambach, Austria. (Drawing by author.)

4.8 Capital, Church of St. Pierre-en-haute, Chauvigny, France. (Drawing by author.)

4.9 Capital, Church of St. Austremoine, Issoire, France. (Drawing by author.)

4.10 Baptismal Font (Detail), Church of San Frediano in Lucca. (Drawing by author.)

4.11 Tympanum, South Façade, Church of St. James in Little Paxton, England. (Drawing by author.)

Color Plates

1 The Good Shepherd, 3rd c. C.E., Catacomb of Callixtus, Rome. (Photo by Jim Forest / Flickr.)

2 Book of the Dead, 1050 B.C.E., New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. (Photo from The Metropolitan Museum of Art.)

3 Traditio Legis Mosaic, Santa Costanza, Rome. (Photo from emv / Wikimedia Commons / CC BY-SA 3.0.)

4 Good Shepherd Mosaic, Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, 425–450 C.E., Ravenna, Italy. (Photo by Petar Milošević / Wikimedia Commons / CC-BY 2.5.)

5 Orpheus Mosaic, Antioch, Turkey. (© DeA Picture Library / Art Resource, N.Y.)

6 Apse Mosaic, Santa Pudenziana, Rome. (Photo by Robin M. Jensen.)

7 Justinian Mosaic, San Vitale, 547 C.E., Ravenna, Italy. (Photo by Roger Culos / Wikimedia Commons.)

8 Stuttgart Psalter, Stuttgart, Württembergische Landesbibliothek, Cod. Bibl. Fol. 23, Fol. 28v. Used with permission.

Abbreviations

Abbreviations for biblical books and most classical sources follow The SBL Handbook of Style, 2nd edition.

ANF The Ante-Nicene Fathers

CSEL Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum

DACL Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie

LCL Loeb Classical Library

MGH Monumenta Germaniae Historica

NPNF The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers

PL Patrologia Latina

Introduction

On the walls and ceilings throughout the early Christian catacombs in Rome, visitors are faced again and again with a youthful shepherd figure, dressed in a tunic and boots, often carrying a milk bucket, staff, set of pipes, or a small bag, and accompanied by goats or sheep, one of which he often carries on his shoulders (pl. 1). The shepherd was a fitting motif for early Christian funerary contexts, as it not only evoked the underworld travels of the likes of Hermes and Orpheus but also appropriately referenced the baptism of the faithful, the liturgy for which included Psalm 23 (The Lord is my shepherd . . .). At first glance, a contemporary viewer may be inclined to read the Good Shepherd as merely a comforting image, as indeed generations of scholars have contrasted him with the exalted depictions of Jesus that followed the legalization of Christianity in 313 C.E. For example, art historian Johannes Deckers writes:

In the third century, Christ was perceived exclusively as the Son of God in human form, as teacher, physician, and fount of life for the faithful. In his outward appearance, he resembles an unassuming philosopher. With his miracles, he puts into practice and demonstrates the truth and power of his doctrine of brotherly love and nonviolence. His simple garments are white, as a rule. His divinity is apparent from his deeds and does not have to be indicated with a nimbus. He does not carry a scepter-like staff in the form of a cross, and when he addresses his followers he is not seated on a golden, gem-encrusted throne.

During the first three centuries of Christianity, it would presumably have struck the faithful as blasphemous for the emperor to base his authority on Christ after receiving his help in killing his enemies. Why did the unprecedented imperialization of the images of Christ and of Christian churches—so contrary to the faith’s doctrines of peace and modesty—continue after the reign of Constantine?¹

This quote represents a sentiment that pervades scholarship on early Christian art, pitting the allegedly grassroots, anti-imperial Jesus of catacombs and sarcophagi against that of the triumphant, enthroned Jesus of apse mosaics (e.g., pl. 6)—a distinction that is often accompanied by valuative statements about the presumably wholesome humility and charity of the early church in contrast with the wealth and power of the corrupted post-Constantinian church.² This book challenges what I argue is a false dichotomy and instead suggests that these two types—the Good Shepherd and the enthroned Jesus—are in fact not so very different and, indeed, a figure need not be enthroned, gilded, and gem-encrusted to carry connotations of power and rule.

A non-narrative image, the Good Shepherd may appear simple, and the fact that to date there has not been a comprehensive scholarly treatment of the Good Shepherd in early Christian art—let alone one that traces its development in connection with imperial power—is perhaps evidence that it has been perceived as a straightforward and docile image.³ However, the Good Shepherd warrants more careful study because, when placed in its longer history in the ancient world, it can provide further insight into early Christian meaning making, and, more broadly, is a compelling example of the flexibility and durability of a particular motif over time and in various cultures and communities. The way that religious and political power is constructed and maintained through images is indeed a pressing issue in every age.

An important point of departure in this study is Thomas F. Mathews’ The Clash of Gods, which challenged what he calls the Emperor Mystique—that is, the interpretation that post-Constantinian images of Jesus adopted imperial iconography in order to emphasize the divinity of Jesus, associated Jesus with the emperor, and vice versa.⁴ In contrast, Mathews argues that these early Christian images were in fact borrowing iconography not from the Roman government but from the Greco-Roman pantheon, and in so doing they successfully asserted the superiority of Christianity over paganism. Mathews’ work will be addressed in relationship to specific images further below, but for the time being it is sufficient to note that I apply an analogous method to argue that images with a shepherd have too readily been interpreted by scholars as merely bucolic and peaceful, in part through romanticization of the pastoral. But in contrast to Mathews’ argument against the Emperor Mystique, my goal is to trouble the dominant narrative that the Good Shepherd was a kind of docile, grassroots representation of the early pre-Constantinian church to suggest instead that, along with the lamb on his shoulders, the Good Shepherd carried connotations of divinity and empire. Significantly, the Good Shepherd—and all its associations—was employed by the early church as a way of synthesizing earlier streams of thought only to subvert them, perhaps most effectively in the understanding of Jesus as the shepherd/lamb who sacrifices himself, that is, in the concept of power in powerlessness.

Tracing the development of the motif from its early iterations as a potent image for kingship in the ancient Near East, through its reimaging in biblical figures like the shepherd-king David to the shepherds of Greco-Roman literature reveals that the Good Shepherd offered early Christian viewers a complex set of associations that included king, priest, pastor, and sacrificial victim. This long view of the Good Shepherd is necessary to take because, while the most immediate referents for the Christian use of the image were biblical texts (e.g., John 10; Ps 23) and the Greco-Roman pantheon (e.g., Hermes), the shepherd figure had been invoked in political, religious, and literary texts and images in the ancient world for thousands of years before the advent of Christianity. Thus, the depths to plumb in order to understand the motif extend well beyond early Christian iconography.

Essential Theoretical Concerns

At least two points regarding visual interpretation are important to note at the outset: first, images are not merely illustrative of texts, as an artist always engages in some degree of interpretation,⁵ but they do reflect and engage with texts to various degrees. As Robin M. Jensen puts it:

Art is neither simply illustration of texts, nor is it necessarily challenging to them. Images are articulate and complex modes of expression that make no sense in isolation and have no meaning apart from ideas that emerge in a local community and engage that community’s values. The historian’s task is not unlike the artist’s—to make those ideas three-dimensional, having both surface and depth.⁶

In other words, texts and images each only give us partial views into a given historical context and thus are most effectively considered together, with a kind of give and take when it comes to emphasis. Such is the case in the discussion of sources below, depending on the period, surviving visual and textual materials, and so on. In the historical record of ancient Mesopotamia, for instance, the visual examples of the shepherd are relatively sparse, but the textual record indicates that the concept of the shepherd was central to understandings of divine kingship.

The second theoretical concern is that the identification and interpretation of images is not a simple matter of one-to-one decoding, in which one image automatically and always unequivocally bears one meaning. Rather—and particularly in physical environments in which several images are working in concert (or in conflict)—interpretation is more akin to a process of translation on the sentential level.⁷ Put plainly: context always matters. For example, early Christian depictions of the Good Shepherd are not identifiable as such in isolation, as visually they are the same as any other representation produced by a Roman workshop. But when an image of the shepherd is accompanied on the same sarcophagus or fresco by other scenes or motifs that carry Christian meaning, such as the baptism of Jesus or a Christogram, then the Christian Good Shepherd comes into focus. Additionally, an image of the shepherd in proximity to a baptismal scene (as will be discussed in chapter 3) may emphasize the baptismal symbolism of the shepherd, as Psalm 23 was recited in the baptismal liturgy. But to be precise, even in instances when the shepherd figure appears in an identifiably Christian context, the image need not necessarily signify Jesus the Good Shepherd but could simply be an image of philanthropy.

Dale Kinney’s article on the imperial and Christian associations of the basilica is useful in thinking about the multivalent meanings found in images and objects. In it she notes, The debate over whether the early church basilica was ‘imperial’ is bound up with many other questions, including the origins of the building type, and whether building types have fixed or only contingent associations.⁸ Kinney summarizes the theoretical considerations as follows: Recent advances in semiotic theory offer a way around this impasse, by suggesting that the ‘basilica’ is a discursive rather than a formal category, determined neither purely by form nor purely by use, but by a cultural and linguistic understanding.⁹ By analogy, the meaning of the Good Shepherd motif is determined not simply by its formal iconographic details but also by the various cultural contexts (e.g., pagan, imperial, Christian) in which it was created and viewed. Indeed, these multiple meanings influenced one another. Because of its long history of application to rulers and deities, the Good Shepherd motif was capable of carrying connotations of both gentle caretaking and protection by violence into its early Christian spaces.

Like most enduring images, the strength of the Good Shepherd is in its flexibility. Its meaning fluctuated not only over time but also in different contexts. Furthermore, as a symbol, it was able to invoke multiple and even contradictory meanings simultaneously. In his discussion of literal and figural interpretation in biblical exegesis, Augustine notes, But since there are many ways in which things may resemble other things, we should not imagine that there is a hard and fast rule that a word will always have the meaning that it has in a particular place.¹⁰ He continues, The various meanings of a particular thing may be either contrary or just different. By contrary I mean cases in which a particular thing is used sometimes in a good sense and sometimes in a bad one. . . . There are other things too which signify not just single ideas but, taken individually, two or often more ideas, depending on the contexts in which they are found.¹¹ This fluidity of meaning is readily applied to visual art. In undertaking a study of the historical function and interpretation of images, it is necessary to proceed with an awareness of the complexity of meaning making in text and image. The Good Shepherd is one such image that is capable of communicating multiple meanings, simultaneously and over time, and sometimes meanings that are in tension or even contradiction. In other words, a seemingly simple image, the Good Shepherd did not bear a single static meaning—neither as motif nor in its specific manifestations in various media over time. The richness of potential meaning makes interpretation and the study of reception all the more challenging—and rewarding.

The task of this book is to document the long history of the Good Shepherd in order to demonstrate that its use in early Christian contexts was more complex than previously understood. More specifically, the Good Shepherd