Michael Peppard - The Son of God in The Roman World - Divine Sonship in Its Social and Political Context-Oxford University Press (2012)

■ The Son of God in the Roman World
This page intentionally left blank

The Son of God in
the Roman World
Divine Sonship in Its Social
and Political Context
Michael Peppard
1
1
Oxford University Press, Inc., publishes works that further
Oxford University’s objective of excellence
in research, scholarship, and education.
Oxford New York

Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi
Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi
New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto
With offices in
Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece
Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore
South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam
Copyright © 2011 by Oxford University Press, Inc.
Published by Oxford University Press, Inc.

198 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016
www.oup.com
Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press

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 of Oxford University Press.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Peppard, Michael.
The Son of God in the roman world : divine sonship in its social and political
context / Michael Peppard.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-19-975370-3 (pbk.)
1. Son of God—History of doctrines—Early church, ca. 30–600. 2. Rome.
3. Adoption—Rome. 4. Jesus Christ—Divinity—History of doctrines—
Early church, ca. 30–600. 5. Son of Man—History of doctrines—
Early church, ca. 30–600. 6. Theological anthropology—Christianity. I. Title.
BT198.P467 2012
231'.209015—dc22 2011015623
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
■ parentibus optimis
■ contents
Preface ix
Acknowledgments xi
Introduction 3
1 Divine Sonship Before Nicea: Biblical Scholarship on

“Son of God” 9
2 Divinity and Divine Sonship in the Roman World 31
3 Begotten or Made? Adopted Sons in Roman Society

and Imperial Ideology 50
4 Rethinking Divine Sonship in the Gospel of Mark 86
5 Begotten and Adopted Sons of God—Before and After Nicea 132
Conclusion 173
Epilogue: The Son of God in the Christian World 177

Abbreviations 181
Notes 183
Bibliography 249
Subject Index 269
Index of Ancient Sources 282
Index of Modern Authors 288
■ pre fac e
Imagine yourself in the first 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 different, 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 different perspective on the
cosmos, a different 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 tri-
umphs. 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 first heard of Jesus from people who actually did
know him. They 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? Then again, you think of yourself also as his
“brother.” Those 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 different
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?
ix
■ acknowledgments
My sincere gratitude goes first to Harold Attridge. At the beginning of graduate

work, he persuaded me to study at least two languages at a time, and at the end, he
helped me to see this book through to completion. I thank him for many conver-
sations and look forward to more. Equally formative on stages of this project have
been Adela Yarbro Collins, Dale Martin, Steve Davis, and Bentley Layton. For var-
ious points of advice, encouragement, and correction, I would like to thank Siobhán
Garrigan, Julia Prest, Judy Gundry, John Collins, Skip Stout, Carlos Noreña, David
Kelsey, Jeremy Hultin, Shane Berg, Ward Blanton, Yonder Gillihan, Bryan Spinks,
and Fr. Peter Walsh. Working for (and with) Lou Martyn was uniquely beneficial to
my growth as a young scholar. My undergraduate professors introduced me to the
fields of religious studies, theology, and philosophy, and to these I owe belated
thanks: Greg Sterling, Al Neiman, Blake Leyerle, Fr. David Burrell, Fr. John Jenkins,
and Rabbi Michael Signer (‫)זכר צדיק לברכה‬. At Fordham University, Terry Tilley,
Larry Welborn, and Ben Dunning have greatly eased my transition from doctoral
student to professor—and from New Haven to the Bronx. Graduate students Allan
Georgia, John Penniman, and Patrick Burns provided assistance in manuscript
preparation. At Oxford University Press, Cynthia Read and others expertly guided
the manuscript into a completed book.
For financial support I am grateful to a Fordham University faculty research
grant and at Yale University, the Graduate School, Divinity School, Institute of
Sacred Music, Department of Religious Studies, and Department of Classics for
various monies. The Catholic Biblical Association also provided generous financial
aid during my Ph.D. program. Portions of this book were previously published in
different form. Material from chapters 2 and 4 appeared in “The Eagle and the
Dove: Roman Imperial Sonship and the Baptism of Jesus (Mark 1.9–11),” NTS 56
(2010): 431–51; material from chapter 5 appeared in “Adopted and Begotten Sons
of God: Paul and John on Divine Sonship,” CBQ 73 (2011): 92–110. Thanks to
Cambridge University Press and the Catholic Biblical Association of America for
permission to reprint this material here.
Numerous friends and colleagues have supported me over years of study and
research, especially Steve and Pat Ahearne-Kroll, Alice Kearney Alwin and Scott
Alwin, Joshua Ezra Burns, Ryan Carlin, Joshua and Kristi Garroway, Khurram
Hussain, Steve and Rachael Jungkeit, Tim and Christie Luckritz-Marquis, Luke
Moorhead, Candida Moss, Brent Nongbri, John Oksanish and Devon Mackay, Chris
Pramuk, Patrick Redding and Kathryn Reklis, Mark Roschewski, Lauren and John
Steele, Linn Tonstad, Raymond Ward, Natalie Wigg-Stevenson, Kevin and Warrena
xi
xii ■ Acknowledgments
Wilkinson, Molly Worthen, Linda Zenner, and Courtney Zenner. Shelly and Paul
Russell have been supportive of my career throughout, in ways they likely don’t
recall. Tyler Wigg-Stevenson was part of this project since its inception, and he
joined me for a final, grueling editing session.
Final thanks go to those closest to me: Christiana, Montana, and my parents.
During the research and writing, Christy consistently reminded me of the ideas
with which I began the project and kept me honest to them. In the last phases, she
often sacrificed her own scholarly work to help me out, and she provided a coffee,
a joke, or a bolt of seriousness—whatever was needed. I really can’t believe how
often she allowed me to read bits of this book to her while we made dinner. Thanks
to her for the habits of close companionship. Montana has renewed my spirit
every day. She never lets me take anything too seriously. Now if she would only
learn to sit still on my lap while I type.
Parentibus optimis: this work is dedicated to my parents, Gerard and Linda, who
are the best. My mom unwittingly guided me toward biblical studies long ago,
through her own faith and devotional practices. And in the end, she made sure we
had a good restaurant reservation to celebrate the completion of this book. My dad
was not sure about my career path but always supported my ambitions nonetheless,
this book project included. And with those two weeks of childcare in the middle of
a New England winter, he enabled me finally to finish it off. As a Roman might say:
Bene te, Dad.
■ The Son of God in the Roman World
Introduction
Over time and through repeated use, metaphors die. A metaphor dies when its
meaning becomes stable for its audience, when it stops being considered, when
everyone knows what it means. That insight from literary theory is an impetus for
this book: the metaphor “son of God”—a central expression of ancient Christians—
has died for most contemporary interpreters of early Christianity. We think we
know what it means.
But the divine sonship metaphor is rarely considered in the Roman sociopolit-
ical environment of the first and second centuries, which is a key context of the
New Testament and other early Christian literature. Most interpreters instead ana-
lyze divine sonship and the term “son of God” using conceptions from elite
theological debates of later centuries. Furthermore, divine sonship is customarily
discussed only in reference to the person that became known uniquely as the Son
of God, Jesus of Nazareth, without reference to other people who were considered
sons and daughters of God.
How did early Christians imagine the filial relationship between Jesus and God?
To whose divine sonship would his have been compared? Moreover, how did
Christians understand Jesus’ divine sonship vis-à-vis their own relationships to
God as sons and daughters? What models of sonship did they use to understand his
status and their own? Why did divine sonship come to be distinguished as “begotten”
or “made,” and why was the former eventually considered to have higher status than
the latter? When we try to answer these questions, we find ways to bring the sonship
metaphor back from the dead. All metaphors die, but some can be resurrected.
■ AN OVERVIEW
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 scholar-
ship and (2) to reinterpret divine sonship in the sociopolitical context of early
Christianity. The 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 exam-
ined as a way to understand divine sonship. Examining social practices from the
first and second centuries allows us to critique a conceptual framework drawn
from later eras, which is exactly what chapter 1 sets out to do.
3
4 ■ Introduction
Chapter 1, “Divine Sonship Before Nicea: Biblical Scholarship on ‘Son of God,’”

argues that scholarship on divine sonship in the New Testament has relied anach-
ronistically 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 often an unconscious
combination of fourth-century Christological categories with first-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 character-
ized by a concern for social practices, an ear for political ideology, and a focus on
the singular figure of the Roman emperor.
The next two chapters break down the term “son of God” into its constitutive
concepts. In order to think differently about divine sonship in early Christianity,
we need to acknowledge the shifts in scholarly perspective on divinity (“god”) and
family (“son”) in the Roman world. The figure of the emperor—the first 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 scholar-
ship on divinity in Roman religion, with special attention to significant studies of
emperor worship. Recent work in Roman history and religious studies has cri-
tiqued previous modern understandings of ancient divinity as being mistakenly
grounded in elite philosophical ideas. The 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 fill 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,
often through the medium of adoption. For emperors, this observation is espe-
cially crucial, since these “fathers” of the Empire had no small trouble propagating
their family lines through natural begetting. These divine fathers usually had to
adopt their divine sons. Therefore, 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 often
favored. The 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,
Introduction ■ 5
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 ide-
ology. 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. The practice of adoption in the political
ideology leading up to Mark’s era allows us to reimagine his Christology in unex-
pected 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. The 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. The adoptive relationship can be traced later in the
gospel and understood to relate to the divine sonship offered by God to all people
through the Spirit. Based on the arguments of chapter 3, I contend that the suppos-
edly “low” connotations of such an adoption are a misconstrual of ancient evi-
dence. Viewed in its Roman sociopolitical context, Mark’s Christology was as high
as humanly possible. When facing the novel challenge of narrating the divine son-
ship of a human being—in relation to a God that did not procreate—Mark crafted
a portrayal that was theologically coherent and also resonated in its cultural con-
text. The resurrected metaphor enables us to read Mark anew.
The arguments of chapters 1 through 4 try to take the reader back before Nicea
to the first and second centuries. What options had been available for character-
izing and narrating divine sonship? The 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 After Nicea,” synthesizes a broad range of texts in order to
show the shifting relationship between begotten and adoptive metaphors during
the first four centuries of Christianity. These 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 first 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 cru-
cial, 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. They became increasingly abstract concepts, until the watershed
debates of the Nicene era established them finally 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 contro-
versies, adoption had become the Christological idea non grata among bishops
and other theologians. The chapter is roughly chronological and thus offers a clear
6 ■ Introduction
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.
■ CHRISTOLOGICAL QUESTIONS
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 first few centuries of theology and ritual practice. Then 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 accompa-
nied 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.”
There 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 figure in that worldview. These points of emphasis
allow me to articulate a new way (as far as I am aware) of understanding the met-
aphor of adoption in early Christianity, specifically 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. Through the argu-
ments 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 differently empha-
sized historical context. Mark’s ingenuity in crafting the first narrative Christology
ought to be understood independently, rather than in contrast to other “high” nar-
rative Christologies or in the terms of later theological debates. Therefore, my
Introduction ■ 7
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 first-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 cosmol-
ogies do become relevant, the understanding of divine sonship changes accord-
ingly, as I elaborate in my final chapter.
By this book I do not intend to make any criticism of or contribution to
systematic or constructive Christian theology. The Gospel of Mark and most of the
other texts I interpret play limited roles in those enterprises anyway. Rather,
I intend to offer 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 benefit to Roman historians along the way. These 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. The 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 affirmed:
“orthodox Christians need have no conflict with such a thesis of a growing retro-
spective 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
■ T H E W R I T I N G O N T H E WA L L
A few years ago, before he passed away, I had the honor and pleasure of sharing a
lunch conversation with Jaroslav Pelikan, an inimitable scholar and teacher. When
he found out that I was both Catholic and a biblical scholar, he smiled and asked,
“Now what do you have hanging over your desk where you work?” I described the
icon that hangs there, portraying Jesus as ἡ ἄμπελος, “the vine,” and the disciples as
the branches. “Well that’s fine,” he retorted, “but what you should have is a framed
copy of Divino Afflante Spiritu! It’s your Magna Carta!” Prof. Pelikan was referring
to the 1943 encyclical of Pope Pius XII, which promoted biblical studies in the
Roman Catholic Church. Among other things, the encyclical endorsed what has
come to be called “historical criticism,” which was encouraged in this way: “Let the
interpreter, then, with all care and without neglecting any light derived from recent
research, endeavor to determine the peculiar character and circumstances of the
sacred writer, the age in which he lived, the sources written or oral to which he had
recourse, and the forms of expression he employed.”2
In my work, I follow this tradition and, employing the “light derived from recent
research,” explore in a new way the historical context within which the life of Jesus
8 ■ Introduction
was first narrated, interpreted, and celebrated. But first I must offer a belated
apology to Prof. Pelikan. I am sorry to say that I never had Divino Afflante Spiritu
framed and hung over my desk. The text is just too long, and I like the icon besides.
However, to the side of my desk is another document close to the heart of Prof.
Pelikan. In parallel columns of Greek and Latin hangs the Nicene Creed, one of the
texts that inspired Prof. Pelikan’s four-volume work, Creeds and Confessions of
Faith in the Christian Tradition, the last of his magna opera. If the aforementioned
encyclical undergirds my work, perhaps the Nicene Creed hangs over it. For it was
through reflection on three of that text’s words—γεννηθέντα οὐ ποιηθέντα, natum
non factum, begotten not made—that I began to ask the questions leading to this
book.3 How did the issue of “begotten” or “made” arise as a chief dispute concerning
divine sonship? Before Nicea, how would the terms “begotten” and “made” have
resonated in the Roman context? What worldview might have encouraged some
committed Christians to think of Jesus as an “adopted” or “made” son of God? How
did that view relate to their own sense of themselves as sons and daughters of God?
Is there ancient evidence we have overlooked? By pursuing these questions, we can
breathe new life into a dead metaphor.
1 Divine Sonship Before Nicea
Biblical Scholarship on “Son of God”
Son of God . . . eternally begotten of the Father . . . begotten, not made.

—n i ce n e c re e d
In the earliest period of Christianity “Son of God” was not an obvious

vehicle of a christology of incarnation or pre-existence.
—james d. g . dunn
The meaning of “son of God” has become stable over time and through repeated
use by Christians. We all think we know what it means, and indeed, we do know
what it meant for the theologians gathered at the Council of Nicea. Scholars have
at least agreed on the conceptual meanings of the key phrases in that fourth-
century debate: the Son was eternally begotten of the Father, begotten not made,
and though they were two, they are also one-in-being. I argue, however, that our
understanding of divine sonship in early Christianity—especially in the Roman
world before Nicea—relies on some false assumptions and untested anachronisms.
That is to say, when examining the term “son of God” and the concept of divine
sonship in the New Testament era, biblical scholars have too often conducted their
research within the later framework of fourth-century Christian thought. The elite
philosophical debates of the Nicene era have so dominated scholarly discourse
about divine sonship that it has been difficult to examine “son of God” language in
its first-century context. Instead of searching for the most relevant meaning of the
term in the immediate milieu of nascent Christianity, scholars have often posed
the questions that Athanasius and Arius asked centuries later: Did “son of God”
imply absolute divinity? When did the son come into existence? But these ques-
tions were not relevant—indeed, were hardly even considered—in the first-century
Roman world, the sociopolitical context of nascent Christianity. And though the
central Nicene question, “Was the son begotten or made?,” was relevant in the first-
century context, it meant something quite different at that time.1
In this chapter and the next, I will argue that our understanding of divine
sonship in the first-century context of early Christianity can be rejuvenated by
setting aside the Nicene framework and interacting with current scholarship on
Roman religion and emperor worship. I contend that the most relevant single
datum that would help to illuminate divine sonship in early Christianity—the
divine sonship of the Roman emperor—has been ignored or rejected by most
biblical scholars. The argument begins with a critique of biblical scholarship on
“son of God” language. By organizing and evaluating previous interpretations of
9
10 ■ the son of god in the roman world
divine sonship in the New Testament, this chapter begins to rethink the “son of
God” in the Roman world.
In order to explain how my work fits in to the long history of scholarship on
the New Testament and early Christianity, I have grouped selected scholars into
four categories. The review will not march diachronically through a long series of
authors and books, since that approach can prove soporific, but will instead clas-
sify scholars according to the method by which they deal with the “son of God”
concept in the texts they interpret. I discuss the Nicene approach, narrative criti-
cism, and the history-of-religion methods of Wilhelm Bousset, Martin Hengel,
James Dunn, and Larry Hurtado. Then I explain a fourth method, employed by
Adela Yarbro Collins, which listens for how the term “son of God” might have res-
onated in various cultural contexts of the ancient world. This will not be only a
history of scholarship, but also an overture for my own scholarly argument. It will
outline how this book builds on the research of the third and fourth groups but
also attends to the ancient social practices undergirding father-son metaphors.
That is to say, my argument begins presently, through the following re-appraisal of
the available options for interpreting “son of God” in the historical contexts of
early Christianity.
■ THE NICENE APPROACH
The first group includes scholars who write as if the concept of divine sonship no
longer needs interpreting. For them, the “son of God” metaphor has become “dead,”
in the terminology of Paul Ricoeur. Like the dead metaphors, “foot” of a chair or
“foot” of a mountain, everyone knows what “son of God” means—its meaning is
stable. These same scholars can be quite careful and critical, however, about other
terms of New Testament Christology, such as “son of man.” This difference occurs
because the term “son of man” is no longer in common use by Christians as a title
for Jesus. Like “son of God,” the term “son of man” is also dead, but not from
repeated use. It is dead because it is never used. Therefore, scholars bring it to life
again for modern readers of the New Testament, using all the exegetical methods
available. For this, Christians and other interested readers are rightfully thankful.
The term “son of God,” on the other hand, is often treated uncritically because its
meaning has been stabilized through sixteen centuries of theological and litur-
gical use. It is not usually regarded as a metaphor at all, but as plain, nonfigurative
speech.2 By default, then, in the vast majority of interpretive moments, and unless
an author makes a case otherwise, the term carries with it the philosophical and
theological categories of the Nicene era.
For many scholars, Nicene christological thinking has become second nature
and thus guides their analyses of New Testament texts. William L. Lane, for
example, evokes the language of the Creed when interpreting the divine sonship
portrayed by the Gospel of Mark: “Jesus did not become the Son of God, at baptism
or at the transfiguration; he is the Son of God,” and it is “an eternal and essential
Divine Sonship Before Nicea ■ 11
relationship.”3 Clear echoes of the Creed resound in Lane’s analysis—the

relationship is “eternal” (eternally begotten of the Father) and “essential” (homoou-
sios, “one-in-being” or “of the same essence”). What is more, this quotation
emphasizes the fundamentally Platonic concerns of Nicene-era theologians and
their modern recapitulators. For Plato and his philosophical heirs, the chief
metaphysical distinction divides the static world of Being from the dynamic world
of Becoming. By the time of Nicea, many Christian theologians had embraced this
philosophical distinction and, having all agreed that God the Father belonged on
the side of Being, were then concerned with where the Son belonged.4 Lane
pronounces in favor of the orthodox: the Son is, he did not become.
More recently, Simon Gathercole has taken up the Platonic debate anew with
regard to divine sonship in the Synoptic Gospels. In The Preexistent Son, he argues
that “the preexistence of Christ can be found in the Synoptic Gospels,” precisely the
place where most biblical scholars would not look for such a doctrine.5 When
commenting on the Gospel of Mark, Gathercole describes Jesus’ divine sonship
with the following terms: it is “beyond a merely functional sonship possessed by
someone with otherwise entirely natural origins,” having instead a “supernatural,
transcendent origin.”6 The Son “participates in the same reality as the angels and the
Father.”7 His concern here is thus metaphysical in Platonic terms: is the Son natural
or supernatural, mundane or transcendent, earthly or heavenly?8 (The language of
“participation in reality” would find a perfect home in a philosophy course on
Plato.) In Gathercole’s own words, on which side of the “God/Creation divide” does
Jesus exist? Being or Becoming?
But such questions are anachronistic when asked of the New Testament era
(with the possible exceptions of John and Hebrews). Do we have any reason to
believe that the Synoptic authors or original audiences thought about Jesus in such
terms? At the conclusion of his “prolegomena,” Gathercole attempts this reductio
ad absurdum argument: “it would in fact be strange,” he writes, “if Jesus were not
regarded as preexistent. He would then be a divine, heavenly, space-transcending
figure who was somehow not preexistent.”9 Indeed, in a Platonic philosophical
worldview, his reductio argument works. But in the New Testament era, and among
every non-philosopher in the Roman world, the argument fails. In this worldview,
there were figures regarded as divine, heavenly, and even space-transcending who
were not considered preexistent or eternally existent. The problem of Jesus’ divine
sonship has been created by our seeing that sonship only in the terms of Nicea.
Another way of framing my critique is by contrasting protological and eschato-
logical divine sonship. Some biblical scholars rightly interpret the divine sonship
of Jesus in eschatological terms; what mattered to first-century followers of Jesus
was not the (protological) origin of his divine sonship, but its (eschatological)
power. As son of God, Jesus had power to usher in God’s kingdom and to populate
it with other sons and daughters of God. In the words of Richard Bauckham, “Jesus
understood the Fatherhood of God as the eschatological relationship of God to
men.”10 The divine sonship of Jesus means precisely his making other sons and
daughters for God. Bauckham also argues, perhaps unintentionally, against the
Platonic framework by saying, “Neither in the Synoptics nor in John do we find
that sonship is static being: sonship is a relationship to be fulfilled in mission. . . .
Christology may not conceive of the sonship of Jesus simply as the timeless being
of the eternal Son. Jesus cannot be said to be the Son independently of his mission:
the two are inseparable.”11 Eschatological sonship is grounded in the New Testament
texts and provides a more cogent interpretative framework than that of Nicea. As
we will see later, it also coheres with the understanding of divine sonship in the
Roman worldview.
In short, most biblical scholars use the term “son of God” without explaining
what they mean by it, thus leaving readers to infer that it means for them basically
what it has come to mean from Nicea to the modern day. I have offered only a
couple examples to represent a large segment of New Testament scholarship. This
Nicene position, though usually implied unknowingly in the process of exegesis, is
also consciously defended by a small cadre of scholars.
■ I N S I G H T S F R O M N A R R AT I V E C R I T I C I S M
A second group of scholars treats divine sonship in the Gospels through narrative
criticism. By narrative criticism of the Gospels, I mean a method that regards each
Gospel as a finished, whole story, whose meaning is best articulated through pre-
cise analysis of the story’s narrative features (plot, characterization, point of view,
etc.), with minimal reference to data external to the story.12 This method focuses
on the hermeneutical stance of the “implied reader,” described by Jack Dean
Kingsbury as “the imaginary person in whom the intention of the text is to be
thought of as always reaching its fulfillment.”13 I will review here exemplary appli-
cations of this method to divine sonship in each of the Synoptic Gospels. Each of
these offers a challenge to the Nicene “son of God” concept passed down through
theology and liturgy.
Donald Verseput’s analysis of divine sonship in Matthew begins with research
questions similar to my own: although the title “son of God” is universally regarded
as important for Christology, Verseput expresses surprise that “the actual content
of this expression has of late received comparatively little attention from many of
those concerned to establish its importance.”14 Verseput then persuasively argues—
contrary to the untested assumptions of most readers—that divine sonship for
Matthew is not related to his distinctive narration of Jesus’ conception and birth.
“Although possessing every opportunity to do so, the First Evangelist actually
avoids drawing any direct connection between the miraculous conception and the
divine Sonship of Jesus.”15 The son of God is not “he who was begotten by God”—at
least, not in this text, not in this century.
By examining the entire narrative, Verseput’s exegesis challenges the status quo
and coheres with several criticisms outlined above. He shows how Matthew’s vision
of divine sonship does not look primarily backward to begetting but forward to
the eschaton. The Gospel “appears unconcerned with the pre-temporal existence
of Jesus,” but he is indeed “the eschatological representative of the Father . . . quali-
fied to bring eschatological deliverance to men.”16 This eschatological sonship is
not a metaphysical essence. Contradicting the Platonic framework, Verseput writes,
“the primary function which leads the Evangelist to exalt Jesus’ Sonship role is not
to be found in such static speculations, but rather in the opportunity which the
divine Sonship offered to witness to the reality of the messianic mission.”17 Jesus’
divine sonship is a functional, superhuman power—a power over the inheritance
of God’s kingdom and to make other sons and daughters for God in the new age.18
This clarification of Jesus’ divine sonship as dynamic is not to deny, however, the
“intimate” and “unique” relationship between Father and Son, which Matthew has
emphasized. In Matthew’s worldview, the intimacy between Father and Son is
expressed and proven through Jesus’ obedience to the will of his Father. Jesus is
uniquely endowed with spirit and power, uniquely sent to make children for the
kingdom, and intimately bonded to God in will.
So is Matthew not interested in the origins of Jesus? To be sure, Matthew is very
interested in where Jesus came from, his genesis.19 But his Davidic sonship is more
important than his divine sonship, at least as far as the narrative itself permits us
to see. The crucial account of Jesus’ infancy narrative emphasizes his legitimacy as
a son of David, and its ending reveals “the crux of the Matthean concern: Jesus is
adopted into the kingly line of David at the behest of God.”20 Matthew never
defends that Jesus is rightly called God’s son, though he certainly assumes his audi-
ence will agree with that designation. But he does labor to show how Jesus is rightly
David’s son, a relationship legitimized through his adoption by Joseph, himself a
“son of David” in this text (1:16, 20, 24–25).21 The focus on Davidic sonship does
not stop after the family leaves Bethlehem. Scholars consistently show how
“Matthew has from the beginning to the end of his Gospel thrust the image of
Jesus as the royal Davidic Messiah to the forefront.”22
Scholarly attention to the Gospel of Mark has taken a different tack, with con-
sensus that the characterization of Jesus as God’s son is crucial to Mark’s overall
portrayal. In The Christology of Mark’s Gospel, Jack Dean Kingsbury argues that,
despite the greater quantity of the terms “son of man” and “messiah,” the term “son
of God” best captures the thrust of Jesus’ characterization throughout the narra-
tive.23 Previous scholars had downplayed divine sonship in Mark, contending that
Mark depicted a suffering son of man, thereby trying to oppose or correct his
readers’ idea of a glorious son of God. Kingsbury responds, however, that “God’s
understanding of Jesus is normative in Mark’s story,” so God’s declarations of
his sonship at the baptism and transfiguration govern the characterization of
Jesus throughout.24 Kingsbury is less concerned with the content of the term “son
of God” than with its proclaimers—who calls Jesus God’s son? Throughout the life
of Jesus, human beings do not. Kingsbury therefore considers the famous “messianic
secret” to be an inadequate description of Mark’s point of view.25 The secret of
Jesus’ identity was not his messiahship but his sonship; it is the sonship secret.
The Roman centurion, as the only human character to make the declaration of
divine sonship, thus takes center stage at the Gospel’s conclusion. The secrecy motif
“is so to guide the action of the story that the way God ‘thinks’ about Jesus” during
his life should ultimately “be espoused at the end by human characters.”26 To the
question, “But why a Roman centurion?,” Kingsbury unfortunately does not offer a
response. He had brought divine sonship to the foreground of Mark’s Gospel but
leaves its further interpretation open to future scholars.
Charles G. Dennison uses the baptism narrative of Luke as a key witness to divine
sonship and asks the question, “How is Jesus the Son of God?”27 His narrative-critical
approach draws out a crucial tension in the portrayal of Jesus’ sonship: it is a unique
relationship and yet unifies him with those who would become the church. From
birth to baptism, from humiliation to exaltation, Luke depicts Jesus as the exemplar
of the divine sonship available to his followers. Jesus was not a static being but one
who traveled a path of salvation. Dennison goes so far as to interpret Jesus’ divine
sonship with the outline of traditional Reformed soteriology:
In his union with the people, Jesus travels their road of humiliation to glory; . . . Their
need dictates his experience. According to the traditional formulation of the ordo salutis,
their need is calling (regeneration), faith, repentance, justification, adoption, sanctifica-
tion and glorification. All of this Jesus undergoes in the work of salvation; the baptism is
a proleptical experience which comprehends the character of his mission. In his baptism
we see a picture of Jesus’ vicarious experience of redemption. If then baptism is related
to redemption and therefore adoption, it can be said that the word of the Father, “Thou
art My beloved Son . . .,” suggests adoption even for Jesus. In the resurrection, Jesus
became Son in a way he never was before.28
Yet his is no “low” Christology, nor is it adoptionist in the classical sense, since
Dennison affirms Jesus’ uniqueness as God’s Son and as God. “In Jesus, God has
given himself,” he writes, and yet “[Jesus’] Sonship is replete with humanity. Jesus is
the Son of God as we are and as we shall be in conformity to him.”29 This tension in
Luke’s narrative, which exhibits a “both-and” vision of Jesus’ divine sonship, is not
welcome in the “either/or” dichotomies of later, Nicea-inspired Christology.30
Dennison’s narrative interpretation imagines divine sonship as far richer and more
complex than Platonic philosophical categories allow. Narratives are never easily
transferred into dogmas, and Luke’s is no exception.31 Furthermore, Dennison points
out that “neither Justin [Martyr] nor Clement [of Alexandria]” saw Luke’s under-
standing of Jesus’ baptism as “a threat to orthodoxy.”32 It is only after Nicea that Jesus’
divine sonship has been construed as the marker of a static, preexistent being.
■ THE RELIGIONSGESCHICHTLICHE SCHULE

AND ITS HEIRS
A third group of scholars has examined “son of God” language as a key aspect of
early Christology by using the so-called history-of-religion method. Historical
analysis had been sporadically brought to biblical texts through the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries, and a seminal focus of historical inquiry was achieved at
the beginning of the twentieth. A particular group of scholars at Göttingen, who
straddled the turn of that century, shared enough data, methods, and presupposi-
tions to be characterized together as the religionsgeschichtliche Schule, or
“history-of-religion school.”33 New data—in the form of manuscript discoveries
and philological research on Greek, Egyptian, Iranian, and other “Hellenistic”
religions—partially fueled the school of thought. These data were incorporated
into a comparative method, through which certain terms, concepts, and narratives
of Hellenistic religions were isolated and magnified according to their perceived
resemblances to the New Testament. Perceived resemblances were rarely left as
such, though, but were framed as decisive influences on the development of early
Christianity. The method was thus undergirded by two key presuppositions: first,
the historical scholar ought to arrange resemblances between terms and concepts
into an orderly process of influence;34 second, the final result of historical analysis
should provide a narrative of Christian religious development.35 That is, the one
“religion” of the history-of-religion school was Christianity, a great river that accu-
mulated the influx, both water and silt, from many tributaries.36
The “brightest star in the galaxy of the history of religion school” was Wilhelm
Bousset.37 His greatest and most lasting work, Kyrios Christos, charts the develop-
ment of early Christian veneration for Jesus, from the primitive Palestinian com-
munity’s acclamation of the “son of man” as a preexistent, heavenly Messiah to the
later Gentile communities’ confession of Jesus as “Lord.”38 The “son of God” title is
not neglected, though, since Bousset interprets it as a less frequent but important
concept. He begins his chronology with “the primitive Palestinian community,” to
which he gains access through the Synoptic Gospels. For them the “son of man”
concept is dominant, and divine sonship is less important. Though he admits its
importance for the Gospel of Mark, it is not for Bousset the dominant feature of
earliest Christology. The term “son of God” is used rarely by Jesus; according to
Bousset, it contradicts “the sensitivities of Old Testament piety. It has a much too
mythical ring which stands in contradiction with the rigid monotheism of the Old
Testament.”39 Bousset dismisses the evidence of the concept in pious Jewish texts
like the Psalms and the Wisdom of Solomon; and when he cannot dismiss “son of
God” language easily, he argues for its origin in a “servant of God” tradition (the
Hebrew db[ and Greek παῖς can mean both “servant” and “son”).40
In the Gentile community, however, the title “son of God” achieves “undisputed
dominance.”41 According to Bousset, the term is both metaphysical, satisfying the
theological speculations of Paul and John, and mythological, satisfying the popular
imagination. Though he does not phrase it in this way, Bousset seems to argue that
“son of God” gained prominence as Christianity spread because it performed
wide-ranging rhetorical work; more than other concepts, it allowed Jesus to be many
things to many people.42 Turning to the “son of God” concept in Paul’s letters, Bousset
conjectures that the term “could be an independent creation of Paul” because it
“points to theological reflection” on “the relation of the two beings, God and Christ.”43
Whether Paul drew on older Jewish ideas in his articulation of divine sonship is
unimportant for Bousset. What is crucial for him is how Paul presents the son of
God as “a supraterrestrial being who stands in the closest metaphysical connection
with God,” who has a “heavenly nature.”44 Bousset does not give much evidence from
Paul’s letters to defend such assertions; as the prooftext for his definition of divine
sonship, he footnotes Romans 1:4 (“appointed son of God in power”), a phrase which
on its own cannot bear the weight of Bousset’s claim (and some scholars would say
contradicts it, as I discuss in chapter 5). His argument for metaphysical divine son-
ship is made more confusing when he admits Paul is not concerned with Jesus’
“divine pretemporal essence” but rather with Jesus’ death as God’s son.45 If Paul is
more focused on Jesus’ “actuality” than his “essence”—the analysis itself is built on a
Platonic heritage—then how can Paul be said to portray divine sonship as suprater-
restrial and metaphysical?46 Is it not eschatological and actual?
Furthermore, Bousset states that “son of God” was chosen by Paul to inform “his
Hellenistic congregations, in a formula current among them, how the relation of
God the Father and Christ was to be grasped conceptually.”47 I applaud Bousset’s
openness to formulas current among Paul’s Greco-Roman audience, but there are
at least two problems with his analysis: First, the majority of people designated as
“sons of gods” in Greek were not heavenly beings in the philosophical sense that
Bousset implies. Egyptian worship practices do provide some evidence for heav-
enly divine families, but most sons of gods were heroes and rulers who accrued
such titles during their lives. Second, Bousset dismisses the evidence of Roman
emperor worship, even though he admits divi filius / θεου̑ υἱός was a “well-known
formula.” He does not address the evidence because he believes emperor worship
was not prominent at the time of Paul and the title had “a very concrete and
well-defined content” for the emperor.48 Recent scholarship on Roman religion
shows, however, that the emperor was venerated much earlier than was thought in
Bousset’s era. Furthermore, chapter 2 will argue that the concrete content of
emperor worship is not irrelevant to the divine sonship of Jesus. For Bousset, the
“son of God” is “the present exalted Lord . . . venerate[d] in the cultus.”49 That
description also fits the Roman emperor.
Regarding the Johannine writings, Bousset considers divine sonship to be the
central christological characterization. “Son of God” is “the actual title with which
John paraphrases Jesus’ position of honor”; it is “at the center of the proclamation”;
and with it “the Christian confession is summarized.”50 Yet Bousset’s argument
about the content of the term is surprisingly sparse.51 He presumes from the outset
that the title has “a metaphysical significance” for a “supraterrestrial” being, just as
he had presumed with the Pauline writings.52 He then focuses on texts indicating
the unity of Father and Son, but does not entertain ways in which “unity” could
mean something other than the preexistent, metaphysical, essential unity clarified
at Nicea centuries later.53 Instead, he presumes the argument has been made already
and moves on to reflect on Johannine piety, a “mystical piety” sharing “a common
soil” with texts from the Corpus Hermeticum.54 The son of God, while sojourning
on earth, is the mystical mediator of present salvation between the Father and the
world.55 Most importantly for Bousset’s historical chronology, the Johannine writ-
ings signify the time when divine sonship and divinity “move very close together.”56
Through Paul and John, “the dogma of the deity of Christ is on the march.”57
While the ideas of Paul or John might titillate theological minds, the popular
imagination is kindled instead by the narrative of the miraculous birth, which
Bousset consigns to the late first century (Matthew, Luke, and Ignatius).58 As a
contrast to the “supernaturally, metaphysically structured Christology” proper to
Paul and John, the miraculous birth story is a “natural, crudely drawn interpre-
tation which suggests itself to the simple mind, in particular on the basis of
Hellenistic mythology.”59 For him, it “represents a popular coarsening of the idea
of the supraterrestrial Son of God.”60 Bousset’s language implies disdain for the
materiality of the myth—how dare they take the term “son of God” so literally?
The myth of this enfant is so terrible, the mature Bousset becomes embarrassed
and cannot bring himself to blame early Christians for it: “one will not be able to
avoid the conclusion that influences of the surrounding Hellenistic milieu were
exerted upon this folk theology of the infant Christianity.”61 A crude Hellenistic
influx had muddied the pure waters of the Christian river—infancy narratives
for the infantile Volk. Bousset was certainly pleased that the perspectives of Paul
and John, which he viewed as more mature, eventually came to dominate
Christian thought.
After Bousset, the next major work on divine sonship and the origins of Christology
came from Martin Hengel.62 His inaugural lecture at Tübingen, which later became
a short, pithy monograph, criticizes the findings of the religionsgeschichtliche Schule
from Bousset to Bultmann.63 He strongly rejects their theories of Hellenistic
influence on the development of early Christology. In repudiating their data and
conclusions, Hengel does not, however, challenge the methods undergirding the
work. On the contrary, he retains the religionsgeschichtlich methods and presuppo-
sitions of his forebears but applies them to a different set of data—the texts of early
Judaism.
Using the data from the Hebrew Bible and Hellenistic Judaism, Hengel’s anal-
ysis seeks a point of origin for “son of God” and a historical process of its
development through the New Testament era—where did the term come from and
how did it travel through time? The book’s subtitle is “The Origin of Christology
and the History of Jewish-Hellenistic Religion,” and its stated task is “the difficult
question of the historical derivation of the title Son of God.”64 He seeks to chart
this “development”—an “inner trend in christological thought”—by “moving back
from Paul to the origins of Christian belief.”65 He checks and rejects the older reli-
gionsgeschichtlich parallels offered as precursors to the Pauline doctrine, such as
mystery cults, ruler cults, θεῖος ἀνήρ traditions, and Gnostic redeemer myths. “All
this gets us no closer to the origin of christology.”66
Most of his deft arguments against supposed parallels hit the mark, but his
dismissal of the imperial “son of God” title is based on rather flimsy reasoning. He
initially grants some importance to the imperial title, correctly noting that the
term “son of God” is “relatively rare in the Hellenistic world and, with one exception
[the emperor], is never used as a title.”67 He then contends, however, that the divi
filius / θεου̑ υἱόϚ title “was no more a serious influence on the conceptuality of the
earliest Christianity . . . than the title Kyrios used of the ruler, . . . or the εὐαγγέλια
which appears on individual imperial inscriptions. This official, secular state reli-
gion was at best a negative stimulus, not a model.”68 The first problem with this
very brief argument is how it treats “son of God” and “kyrios” as if they were used
similarly in the Roman world. Hengel himself acknowledges how rare the term
“son of God” was in the Greco-Roman world, whereas “kyrios” was a matter of
everyday speech, from the simplest master/slave relationship all the way up to
rulers and gods. The imperial use of “son of God” is relevant because of its rarity as
a title for an individual combined with its wide dissemination as a title used by the
emperor. As for the εὐαγγέλια inscriptions, recent scholars disagree with Hengel’s
dismissal of their relevance. Many argue that Christian usage of the term εὐαγγέλιον
was influenced by the public announcements of imperial activities and travels;69
but even if it was not a source of Christian usage, it was certainly “the background
against which distinctively Christian usage was forged and heard.”70 Finally, Hengel
admits that the imperial title, described unusually as part of a “secular religion,”
was perhaps a “negative stimulus” of Christian usage. I interpret him to mean that
Christians disagreed with and challenged the titles of emperor worship; imperial
usage was not a model to be emulated but perhaps a foil to be rejected.71 If I am
correct in how to interpret Hengel here, he has granted imperial usage much more
power than scholars before him did. A “negative stimulus” is negative not because
it lacks formative power, but because it repels.72 If early Christian usage of “son of
God” or “kyrios” developed in part because Christians found imperial usage repul-
sive, then imperial usage certainly had an influence.
Hengel rejects Greco-Roman parallels to early Christology; instead he finds
Hellenistic Jewish texts to be the primary sources for early Christian thinking.73 He
follows “son of God” language as it pops up periodically in Sirach, Wisdom of
Solomon, Joseph and Aseneth, 3 Enoch, various wisdom traditions, and especially
Philo. From these examples, Hengel draws out three streams of influence: the
“thought-patterns” of “pre-existence, mediation at creation, and sending into the
world.”74 Using a “mosaic collection of Jewish sources,” he cobbles together “a hypo-
thetical reconstruction of the development of the Son of God christology in the
brief twenty years” between the death of Jesus and the ministry of Paul.75 When he
applies the “thought-patterns” of Hellenistic Judaism to the New Testament evi-
dence, Hengel concludes that “son of God” is “primarily an explicit expression of
Jesus’ exaltation.”76 If that is so, how did the notions of pre-existence enter the
stream of Christian doctrine? He argues that the Son’s pre-existence developed as
a matter of “consistency”: because the exalted status of Jesus needed to be
distinguished from all the other intermediary figures in early Jewish cosmology
(angels, Logos, Wisdom, etc.), there was “an inner necessity” to bring Jesus as far
backward in time, and as close to God, as possible.77
Hengel’s contribution is, on the whole, deeply learned and contributes posi-
tively for our continued study of the topic. If we take Bousset’s analysis (gradual
development, rooted in Hellenistic sources) together with Hengel’s (rapid
development, rooted in Hellenistic Jewish sources), we have the raw material to
create an overview of the best theories of early Christology.
Thanks to James Dunn, such a synthesis exists. The foundational chapter of

Christology in the Making manages to incorporate the most relevant data from
Jewish and Greco-Roman texts into a clear history of the divine sonship concept
in the New Testament.78 Among this third group of scholars, Dunn is the most
self-aware regarding his own method: he combines the search for “historical con-
text of meaning” with the chronological interest in “conceptuality in transition.”79
Thus, although he is critical of the original religionsgeschichtliche Schule, his method
bears some similarities. The focus on “historical context of meaning” is familiar
enough, and Dunn explains it better than most. He interprets texts in their broad
cultural contexts and their narrower particular circumstances of composition and
delivery. Later theological considerations are especially to be avoided, as much as
possible. By “conceptuality in transition,” Dunn means to acknowledge the chang-
ing meanings of words over time. To trace how the term “son of God” travels
through time is necessarily to chart the conceptual changes associated with the
term. This is done best when interpreters attempt to limit themselves to “the possi-
bilities available at the time of writing, to take a stand within the inevitably limited
horizon of writer and readers, who did not and could not know how the words
written were going to be taken and understood in subsequent years and decades.”80
In other words, Jesus did not know there would be a Paul to proclaim his divine
sonship; Paul did not know that the divine sonship he proclaimed would come to
be narrated; Mark did not know that Logos Christology would become the most
prominent corollary of divine sonship, and so on.
The product of this method is a detailed description of how the term “son
of God” and the concept of divine sonship developed in the first century of
Christianity. First, Dunn establishes the most relevant “historical context of
meaning.” He mines the same raw materials as previous scholars did, noting espe-
cially his debt to Hengel, but finds more similarities between Jewish and Hellenistic
“son of God” usage than had been previously noted.81 Usage in diverse cultures
overlapped especially with regard to kings or rulers, who were considered divine
sons in many ancient societies. Furthermore, royal divine sonship frequently inter-
mingled with notions of divine status. According to Dunn, “divine” and “god” were
amply applied to human beings in Greco-Roman and Jewish contexts, such that
“son of God,” “divine,” and “god” were interrelated and not infrequent ascriptions of
human beings. He finds, in the end, “little or no good evidence from the period
prior to Christianity’s beginnings that the Ancient Near East seriously entertained
the idea of a god or son of god descending from heaven to become a human being,”
but he does portray a diverse usage of “son of God” language that tends toward
exaltation and blurs our modern distinctions between humanity and divinity.82
His trajectory of “conceptuality in transition” begins with the historical Jesus
and carries through the New Testament era. Using the Synoptic Gospels as his
initial data, Dunn describes Jesus’ divine sonship as “intimate,” “distinctive,” and
“eschatological”; it was also a relationship upon which the sonship of his disciples
depended. Jesus’ sonship was “unique” precisely in the sense that it was eschato-
logical.83 Next Dunn moves to the earliest post-Easter confessions, which he finds
preserved in Romans 1:3 and Acts 13:33. These imply that “the first Christians
thought of Jesus’ divine sonship principally as a role and status he had entered
upon, been appointed to at his resurrection.”84 Paul’s own teaching did not change
this view very much. Divine sonship is still eschatological, and the “God sent his
son” texts should be read in that light; Dunn interprets “sent” as a divine commission
and not as a sending from heaven.85 As for the narrative characterizations in the
Synoptic Gospels, Jesus’ divine sonship means progressively an “anointing with the
Spirit . . . with a view to his suffering and dying” (Mark); a focus on “his conception
and attributing that to the (creative) power of the Spirit” (Matthew); and a confir-
mation of divine sonship from the moment of conception without denying other
traditional moments of emphasis, such as resurrection and baptism (Luke-Acts).86
Up to this point, as Christianity has traveled forward through time, Jesus’ divine
sonship has moved backward—from resurrection to death to baptism to birth.87
Next, with the Epistle to the Hebrews, Dunn thinks discussions of pre-existence
may be appropriate; he concludes, however, that this supposed pre-existence is not
a “personal” pre-existence and must “be set within the context of [the author’s]
indebtedness to Platonic idealism.”88 For the concept of a personal pre-existence of
God’s Son, only the Gospel of John satisfies Dunn’s critical judgments. For John,
Jesus’ divine sonship existed before his birth and is neither “given” nor “enhanced,”
neither “interrupted” nor “disturbed,” by resurrection, death, baptism, or birth.89
Jesus’ intimate relationship with God, as Son to Father, existed before his birth,
continued undisturbed on earth, and endures eternally.
Through this Geschichte of divine sonship, Dunn makes some noteworthy
advances. First, he demonstrates the diversity of perspectives on divine sonship in
the New Testament and cautions against leveling their differences. Second, he per-
suasively argues that, in the historical context of meaning, the term “son of God”
was “not an obvious vehicle of a christology of incarnation or pre-existence.”90 For
almost all of the New Testament authors, the idea of pre-existent divine sonship
“does not yet seem to have crossed the threshold of thought, is neither affirmed nor
denied.”91 We ought not assume that Johannine or other Christologies were avail-
able to Paul or Mark and rejected by them. In the final analysis, Dunn is careful to
point out that his christological narrative does not simply ascend over time from
“low” to “high” Christology. The earliest versions of Jesus’ divine sonship may not
delineate later orthodox dogma, but neither do they proclaim a “mere man.”92
From the beginning, Jesus had a cosmos-altering significance as “son of God”: his
sonship was uniquely intimate and eschatological, inaugurating a new and eternal
family of God through the resurrection.
After Dunn’s major contribution to New Testament Christology, what remained

to be done? The final scholar to be reviewed in this group is Larry Hurtado, whose
many publications address similar questions to those of Bousset, Hengel, and
Dunn. He is concerned above all with early Christology, in which divine sonship
plays a key role. Specifically, Hurtado has tried to demarcate first-century Jewish
monotheism and articulate how “devotion” to Jesus came to be incorporated into
what he calls “binitarian” monotheism. As a method, he claims to be interested in
the “practices” or “religious experience” of the earliest Christians. Since he wants to
recover the earliest possible Christian practices, he looks almost exclusively at
Jewish, not gentile, practices as his data. The focus on early Judaism aligns him
with Dunn and especially Hengel. Hurtado’s chosen predecessor, however, is
Bousset; the title of his massive Lord Jesus Christ plainly invokes the former’s Kyrios
Christos. He obviously reveres Bousset’s work, even as he intends his own work to
supersede it. Taken as a whole corpus, Hurtado’s work is representative of “a new
religionsgeschichtliche Schule,” which appropriates most of the aims of the old one
but focuses instead on the “Jewish religious matrix of the Christian movement.”93
What is more, if the old Schule breathed the air of modern liberalism, the new one
is imbued with a spirit of neo-orthodoxy. Hurtado’s work is, if not apologetics,
unapologetically Christian, with an emphasis on orthodox Christology. Such con-
victions are present on the first page, as it were, since he dedicates Lord Jesus Christ
to the “EHCC” (acronym for “Early High Christology Club”), an informal group of
scholars of which he is a co-founder.
The content of Lord Jesus Christ has been summarized in dozens of scholarly
reviews and need not be rehearsed in detail here.94 Overall Hurtado has three
interweaving theses to demonstrate. First, devotion to Jesus arose “phenomenally
early” and “cannot be restricted to a secondary stage of religious development or
explained as the product of extraneous forces.”95 He describes Jesus-devotion as a
“volcano-like” eruption, at the earliest period possible.96 (For Hurtado, perhaps the
Christian ‘river’ is better portrayed as a lava flow.) Second, “devotion to Jesus was
exhibited in an unparalleled intensity and diversity of expression, for which we have
no true analogy in the religious environment of the time. . . . [It] is not one example
of a class of analogous religious phenomena in comparable groups.”97 The compar-
ative approach of the old Schule will be avoided. Third, devotion to Jesus, “which
includes reverencing him as divine, was offered and articulated characteristically
within a firm stance of exclusivist monotheism.”98
Was divine sonship a force in this christological eruption? Yes, but in a different
way than that depicted by the old Schule. Though Hurtado does not dispute that
“divine sonship was a category in the pagan religious environment of the Roman
era,” he dissents from Bousset’s interpretation of this fact.99 The “son of God” idea
was not “a clever marketing device used by Paul” for the Gentiles—in Hurtado’s
rather reductionistic summary of Bousset’s analysis—but actually “derive[d] its
meaning from biblical and Jewish traditions.”100 For Paul, according to Hurtado,
divine sonship “communicated Jesus’ unique status and intimate relationship with
God” by alluding especially to the enthronement of the Israelite king and the
binding of Isaac.101 In addition, Hurtado rightly follows Bauckham and Dunn on
two key points: he emphasizes the eschatological aspect of divine sonship102 and
also describes Jesus’ divine sonship as “the pattern for, and basis of, the enfran-
chisement of Christians as ‘sons of God.’ ”103
Hurtado is less persuasive in his treatment of divine sonship in the Gospels, espe-
cially the Synoptics. He approaches them chronologically, and already in Q he
argues for a surprising construal of “son of God.” Despite claiming to emphasize
the Jewish tradition of divine sonship, which he admits has a “diverse background”
and application, Hurtado declares that “son of God” in Q “connotes a transcendent
status.”104 I am not certain where he finds this in the Jewish tradition, but in Q he
finds it in the temptation narrative and the so-called “Johannine thunderbolt.”105 In
the Gospel of Mark, divine sonship again equates to “transcendent status,” “tran-
scendent significance,” or “even his ‘intrinsic divinity.’”106 A Platonic framework
undergirds the analysis, such as when Hurtado concludes, regarding all the
canonical Gospels, that ‘son of man’ “designates Jesus operating in the human/his-
torical sphere,” and ‘son of God,’ on the other hand, “discloses the higher signifi-
cance of who this human figure really is.”107 Does Hurtado mean to imply that
Jesus operating as a human, in history, is not who he really is? Such a claim would
verge on docetism.
Hurtado’s view of all four Gospels seems to be governed by the Christology of
John’s. Indeed, this is the only of the four to receive detailed analysis of sonship
language in his book. As in the Synoptics, divine sonship language in John means
“who [he] really is” and “from whence he really comes”; but with John’s Gospel, at
least Hurtado provides exegetical defenses for giving divine sonship “transcendent
significance.”108 His analysis of John is mostly laudable, but it still seems, in the end,
only to serve Nicene Christology. The crucial Jewish use of “son of God” as an
earthly, royal title is mentioned but subordinated to texts supporting a heavenly
characterization.109 More importantly, Hurtado does not elaborate on the most dis-
tinctive aspect of divine sonship in the Johannine writings—the fact that Christians
too have a begotten divine sonship.110 Hurtado argues that John distinguishes the
unique divine sonship of Jesus, “the Son” (ὁ υἱός), from the divine sonship of
Christians, “the children” (τὰ τέκνα). Yet the term “children” is different from “the
Son” in number and gender, not nature. Hurtado does not explore how, for John,
the same metaphor of begetting is used for both Jesus and his followers.111 The
tension in the dialogue with Nicodemus, for instance, should not be so easily
resolved: Jesus is called “unique” (μονογενής, 3:16, 18), but others are also “begotten”
from above (3:3–10). Thus, how can Jesus’ begottenness be his uniqueness,
according to John? This tension is not acknowledged by Hurtado because, in the

end, he does not deal with “son of God” as a metaphor—for him its meaning is
stable. The Platonic-Nicene conception of divine sonship provides the framework
for his history of Christology.
Getting back to Hurtado’s main theses: of the three, I can support the first. His
book goes a long way toward challenging the “gradual development” narratives of
previous scholars. I have strong objections, however, to his second and third theses.
In both cases, Hurtado’s shortcomings are errors of omission; however, they cannot
be absolved by the customary “one can’t cover everything” excuse. His book is
exceptionally long, but more importantly, these omissions are crucially significant
to his argument. By omitting well-known facts from the arguments toward his
second and third theses, Hurtado has smoothed the path toward his own
conclusions.
The third thesis omits contravening evidence when characterizing the Jewish
context of Christ-devotion as maintaining “a firm stance of exclusivist mono-
theism.” My own criticisms on this point have been expressed well by other
reviewers of Hurtado’s work. William Horbury finds the line drawn by Hurtado
between humanity and divinity to be too sharp. For example, Horbury criticizes
him for “a series of interpretive decisions which tilt Jewish conceptions that might
suggest complexity in the godhead” and “a neglect of the importance of spirits,
divine and human, in the Jewish as well as gentile thought of the time.”112 Most
people, whether Jews or Gentiles, did not have a Platonic conception of God’s
absolute transcendence; moreover, the intermediary beings common in the Greco-
Roman world were too a part of Judaism, including spirits, angels, and demons—
but also rulers, whether Jewish and Hellenistic kings or Roman emperors. With
Bousset, Deissmann, and others, Horbury finds the “cultic praise of deities and
rulers in the ancient world” to be of “comparable exuberance” to early Christian
devotion.113 The hints of this comparison have instigated my own work.
Regarding the “Jewish context of Christ-devotion,” Hurtado’s narrative usage of
ancient “Jews” bears a peculiar resemblance to the narrative of John’s Gospel. In
that text, the infamous “Jews” appear about eighty times, as is well known.
Everywhere Jesus goes, “the Jews” are there, usually to antagonize him. Hurtado
also has a composite character popping up throughout his book: the “scrupulous
Jews” or, more frequently, “devout Jews.”114 In previous work, Hurtado had tried out
different characterizations; they were also “conscientious Jews” or “faithful Jews.”115
But by the time of his major work, and in subsequent work,116 he has settled on the
term “devout.” (It is a good choice for his purposes—“conscientious” is too cum-
bersome, “faithful” too Christian, “scrupulous” too pejorative.) Though the mon-
iker of these Jews is changeable, their essence is not: these are the “exclusivist
monotheists,” who are crucial to his argument, but the reader never finds out who
they were historically or how representative they are of early Judaism. If, for John,
“the Jews” were Jesus’ foil—the negative “religious environment”—are “devout
Jews” the positive “religious environment” for Hurtado?
Paula Fredriksen takes Hurtado to task on his idealization of early Judaism,

arguing that the monotheism he imagines did not exist: “Ancient monotheism is
about the imagined architecture of the numinous, not (certainly) its absolute
population. [Hurtado] knows this, but when he turns to describing ancient
Christologies or later heretics, he seems to forget.”117 In the same vein as my
argument later in chapter 2, she writes: “Divinity was on a gradient all throughout
this period and before and long after—probably up until the Scientific Revolution.
That may make ‘devotion to Jesus’ seem less explosive or startling or revolutionary.
Its oddness survives intact, I think, without the false impression created by defining
monotheism as Hurtado does.”118 Both Horbury and Fredriksen thus encapsulate
my criticisms of the third thesis vis-à-vis the “Jewish context.” My analysis of the
Greco-Roman context brings us to his second thesis.
Hurtado’s second thesis, that there was “no true analogy” for Jesus-devotion “in
the religious environment,” also omits too much data. The main question is: which
religious environment? Hurtado hardly engages the gentile religious environ-
ment, which was the environment of most early Christians for whom we have
evidence. Even if we were hypothesizing only about the regions visited by Jesus in
the first years of the Christian movement, most scholars have robust descriptions
of Hellenization and Romanization in those locales.119 Was not a Roman imperial
temple towering over Peter’s confession at Caesarea Philippi—a temple which
was built there because of the adjacent Hellenistic sanctuary of Pan? What is
more, if we were to limit ourselves only to Jewish practices as relevant, what would
be our evidence for the first century? Josephus, Jewish-Roman historian? Philo,
Jewish-Greek philosopher? There is little evidence of the first-century Jewish
environment unmediated by the Greco-Roman world. Many would contend that
the New Testament, the very chronicle of Jesus-devotion, is itself actually the best
evidence of Judaism in the first century. But then Hurtado’s argument would
circle back on itself.
Late in Hurtado’s history of early Christology, the metaphor of the river returns,
and his use of it highlights his neglect of Christianity’s Greco-Roman environ-
ment. Bousset was not the first to chart the influence of non-Christian sources on
Christianity; already in the second century, Clement of Alexandria taught, “There
is only one way of truth, but various things from various places come into it, just
like tributaries discharging into an ever-flowing river.”120 However, since Hurtado
ignores the gentile environment of early Christianity, the river metaphor functions
much differently for him than for earlier historians.121 Like others, he looks
“upstream” to discern the “tributaries” that influenced the “mainstream” Christian
river up to its early-second-century “confluence.”122 But whereas Bousset and the
religionsgeschichtliche Schule tried to chart how foreign, non-Christian matter was
introduced into the Christian river, Hurtado has instead reinforced its banks.
Though the book’s introduction pays lip service to non-Christian influences, stat-
ing that “the Christian movement was not hermetically sealed from the cultures in
which it developed,” this statement is not elaborated in the ensuing argument.123
Rather, Hurtado fashions a history of early Christianity of which Irenaeus would

be proud—an orderly progression of original doctrines and practices. He ignores
the influential thesis of Walter Bauer, that Christian orthodoxy developed over
several centuries through a diverse process of distillation and exclusion.124 On the
contrary, in Hurtado’s river metaphor, the tributaries bolstering Christianity are
neither non-Christian nor proto-heterodox influences but are actually forms of
canonical Christianity (especially Hebrews and the disputed Pauline Epistles). The
great orthodox river welcomes proto-orthodox ideas, of course, by definition. But
the foreign matter of heterodox Christianity has been shut out completely—
Valentinus, Marcion, and others have been dammed. In the end, the basin of
Hurtado’s river system comprises only Christian streams, and the heterodox rivu-
lets do not even reach the main. One wonders, in this image, where on earth is
everyone else, the entire Roman Empire not yet inundated in Christianity? Across a
continental divide, flowing to a distant shore? Or in the desert, parched and dead?
Hurtado’s analysis ignores just about everything religious going on in the
Roman world. I am mostly concerned, though, with the avoidance of cultic prac-
tices devoted to divine humans and divine sons—heroes, ancestors, rulers, gods.125
Ruler cults were widespread in antiquity, and Roman emperor worship confronted
Jews not only in the Diaspora. By the time of nascent Christianity, it had a presence
for several generations in Judea, Samaria, and Galilee. (Under Gaius Caligula, it
approached the temple itself.) The Roman emperor was a prominent feature of the
“religious environment,” in the words of Hurtado’s second thesis, and I hope to
show his relevance as an “analogy,” (though I will leave its “true”-ness to be assessed
by my readers).
When Hurtado does briefly engage the worship of the emperor, his arguments
are strained. For example, in the course of addressing challenges by Crispin
Fletcher-Louis to his “exclusivist monotheism” thesis, Hurtado discusses the gesture
of “bowing down” (προσκύνησις) before various figures.126 He admits that ancient
people, including Jews, performed this gesture to “any superior person or being,
whether human or heavenly . . . to any victor in battle and by subject peoples to
those who subdued them.”127 But he does not admit such evidence as “ ‘worship’ in
the ‘hard’ sense of reverencing a figure as a deity” because “the specific connotation
of the prostration or other gestures depended entirely on what kind of honor the
person offering the reverence intended to attribute to the figure receiving the
gesture.” In this rebuttal, Hurtado moves—either unintentionally or sophistically—
from discussing gestures to intentions. Not only is it methodologically tricky to
discern the intention of ancient figures when they bowed before their rulers or
masters, but it also goes against Hurtado’s own stated emphasis on practices.
Practices have a logic of their own; intention does not always, or even usually, play
a part.128 If Jews engaged in some of the same practices toward rulers and masters
as they did toward the God of Israel, this fact should register strongly within
Hurtado’s own system of analysis. Yet he remains committed to the “no true
analogy” thesis, strongly worded as it is.
The omissions that clear the path for Hurtado’s second thesis should give us
pause. Since he demonstrates such thoroughness elsewhere in his scholarship, why
this particular lacuna? Though it receives scant mention in his book, he undoubt-
edly knows of emperor worship. He prefers to relegate its importance for divine
sonship, however, to a later date: “I contend that the rising frequency in the chris-
tological use of divine sonship language that we see in the Christian writings of the
late first century and thereafter may very well reflect a reaction against the contem-
poraneous increase in the use of the same rhetoric in the emperor cult under the
Flavians and thereafter.”129 A charitable interpretation of this view is that Hurtado
has relied on older scholarship on emperor worship,130 thereby remaining unaware
of scholarship that dates emperor worship as earlier and more widespread.
Regarding divine sonship in the Roman world, he thus follows Hengel’s argument
and reproduces its mistakes. But a more skeptical interpretation is that the titles,
tales, and images shared by both Jesus and the Roman emperor render emperor
worship “too close for comfort” and complicate Hurtado’s defense of Jesus-devotion
as sui generis. On the whole, his presentation of Jesus as sui generis—the “no true
analogy” thesis—is successful in this work only because he avoids the primary
analogies to Jesus Christ: other powerful human beings considered divine by those
receiving their benefactions. I agree with Hurtado that Jesus came to be regarded
quickly as a divine human son of God, but in the Roman world, “a world full of
gods,” he was not alone in that status.131
Through ingenuity, labor, and mettle, the religionsgeschichtliche Schule and its
heirs have established a formidable hoard of historical data concerning the New
Testament’s environment. But there is more than historical data (or Historie) in
their work; as we have seen, they also narrate historical processes (or Geschichte)
according to which certain terms and concepts were imagined to have traveled
through time. Scholars like Bousset, Hengel, Dunn, and Hurtado have told grip-
ping stories of conceptual development, and the geschichtlich part of their mon-
iker is aptly given. The disagreements among them largely concern not whether
but how quickly transition happened: did “son of God” gain prominence gradu-
ally (so Bousset and Dunn) or rapidly (so Hengel and Hurtado)? When viewing
the members of this group together, the affinity between their method and their
object of inquiry is unmistakable: using a genealogical method, they seek the
origin of a son.
■ LISTENING FOR RESONANCE
A fourth kind of scholar has been drawing on the third group’s indisputable
treasury of merit but avoiding its stemmatic reconstructions of the past. This
fourth method rejects the religionsgeschichtlich construal of linguistic and
conceptual development, which organizes terms and concepts diachronically
along a root-and-branch model, as with a family tree or the stemma of a manu-
script tradition. Instead of looking for the origin of a term, for example, this
fourth method listens primarily for its resonance. Regardless of where or when a
word came from, how would it have sounded to its different audiences? What
meaningful connections would listeners likely have made, connections both
intended and unintended by speakers? If the religionsgeschichtliche Schule sought
the meaning of terms and concepts in their origins, this method judges meaning
by use. The meanings develop over time not like a stemma or family tree, but like
a multifaceted culture. No one person in a culture can determine the meaning of
a term or concept, even its originator. Once released into the culture, its meaning
develops through innumerable moments of being used; it is defined by everyone
and no one at the same time.
As applied to the terminologies and ideologies of the cultural environments of
the New Testament, the method can be traced back at least to Adolf Deissmann
and continues through the recent work of John Dominic Crossan and Jonathan L.
Reed.132 For our purposes, the method is best exemplified by Adela Yarbro Collins
in her twin studies of how “son of God” language would have been heard in the
various historical milieux of the Gospel of Mark.133 Her point of departure is to
imagine the Gospel’s audiences: it was “read aloud in gatherings of Christians,” but
the listeners “were not all equally committed to the Christian faith.” Therefore, they
“probably assimilated and interpreted the instruction that they received in various
ways.” What is more, though Mark was “written primarily for insiders,” it is also
“likely that copies were available to interested or critical outsiders.” Over the course
of two articles, Yarbro Collins lays out a wide array of concepts and figures with
which Mark’s “son of God” portrayal could have interacted to make meaning for
original audiences. She does not argue for one meaning of “son of God”; rather,
many compelling options are presented. The words and images in Mark do not
establish meanings, but they evoke meanings as they resonate in their audiences.134
This approach, more open-ended than that of the second or third group, is mani-
fested in the rhetoric of her work. It often follows a form like this: “those who link
A with B” will interpret “son of God” one way, while “those who hold that all C are
D” will be led to see it another way.135 This openness does not lead to vacuousness,
however; it allows her to clarify many scholarly positions and draw sound
conclusions.
In the first study, she asks how “son of God” might have resonated among “those
members of Mark’s audience who were knowledgeable about and preferred Jewish
traditions.”136 For them, the term and concept would have called to mind the
Israelite royal ideology established through David and Solomon, the prophetic ser-
vant of the Lord traditions, the spiritual endowment of Elijah and Elisha, or the
Qumran messianic expectation, among other traditions. The summary “force” of
the “ancient mythical language” was “to express the ideas that God will choose the
messiah, appoint him as God’s agent, and endow him with divine power.”137
In the second study, Yarbro Collins takes soundings of the Greek and Roman
cultural environs. Its method is similar to that of the first—she focuses on “diver-
sity of meaning” in the “reception” of Mark. But she is open in this study to even
the unconscious connections made by certain listeners, namely “those members of

Mark’s audience who were more familiar with Greek and Roman religious tradi-
tions than with Jewish traditions and who preferred, consciously or unconsciously,
to interpret the Christian proclamation about Jesus in Greek or Roman terms.”138
What did “son of God” mean, when heard by these listeners? Those imbued with
the tales of the Greek gods might have associated Jesus with various sons of Zeus
or Apollo, especially the many kings and rulers who appropriated such titles.
Divine sonship might also have brought to mind great poets, sages, heroes, or
healers like Asclepius, among other figures. But above all, the term “son of God”
would have resonated with a common acclamation of the most famous person in
the world—the Roman emperor, divi filius. This “most striking parallel” reinforces
the general connection between divine sonship and kings or rulers found in Jewish,
Greek, and Roman usage.139 While Yarbro Collins does not single the emperor out
as the only relevant comparison to Jesus’ divine sonship, she does depict him as the
most compelling figure with which Mark’s image of Jesus would have interacted in
a Greco-Roman worldview.
■ M E T H O D S A N D P R E S U P P O S I T I O N S G O I N G F O R WA R D
I am now in a position to articulate how this book fits into the above categories. As
for the first group, the general lack of critical attention to divine sonship in biblical
scholarship is what led me to this research; I hope this book partially fills in that
lacuna. I have benefited greatly from the narrative-critical work of the second
group, and I employ its focus on whole, individual documents in my analyses of
the Gospels and Acts. When appropriate I incorporate insights from literary criti-
cism and postmodern epistemologies into my analysis, as Foucauldian and postco-
lonial interpretations of power have guided some of my research questions. But
this book, while not religionsgeschichtlich in the sense of the third group, is funda-
mentally historical-critical, and I hope it will be judged as such.
My argument builds on the method of the fourth group in two ways. First, it
examines the resonance of “son of God” in the Roman worldview and asks how
this resonance affects our understanding of the Gospel of Mark and other selected
Christian texts.140 As I will argue, the Roman worldview was not limited to the city
of Rome or Roman citizens; it pervaded the Empire, even as did the visage and
presence of the emperor. So how did “son of God” resonate? The only titular use of
“son of God” in the New Testament era, outside of the New Testament itself, was
for the Roman emperor, who was divi filius in Latin and θεου̑ υἱός in Greek
(regarding these terms, see chapters 2 and 3). Besides its application to the emperor,
the term “son of God” was almost nonexistent in Latin and Greek because gods
typically have names. Someone might be called “son of Zeus” or “son of Hercules”
to express an affiliation to one of those gods.141 But the plain “son of God” was used
for the emperor and, of course, for Jesus Christ. My argument thus emphasizes the
Empire-wide recognition of the emperor as “son of God,” a fact which makes
imperial divine sonship a relevant, though neglected, historical comparandum for

divine sonship in early Christianity.
Second, this book provides a “thick description” of divine status and divine son-
ship in the Roman worldview. Clifford Geertz used that term as shorthand for his
way of doing ethnography, which offered rich details of context so that outside
observers could better participate in the meanings of foreign behaviors.142 His
famous essay encouraged me to try to describe more thickly what “god” and “son
of God” meant in the Roman world and how emperors came to be acclaimed as
both. In recent years, Roman historians have already been describing more and
more thickly what “god” meant in the Roman world. The scholars treated in the
next chapter have gotten away from the “map” of Roman divinity offered by Cicero
and other philosophically inclined thinkers. By examining instead the “territory”
of Roman religion—temples, inscriptions, processions, jewelry, omens, sacrifices—
they show, among other things, that there was no absolute dividing line between
humanity and divinity in the Roman worldview. Few Romans were Platonists.
Another fruit of their research has been a renewed perspective on ruler cults in
antiquity. Previously thought to be mere political flattery, scholars have now
focused on them as crucial features of ancient religion. Before, the question was
asked whether the emperor was viewed as a man or a god. But if the entire cosmos
is a spectrum or gradient of honor, this “problem” of the ruler cult ceases to be a
problem. Though the emperor was certainly a man, he was also, as one scholar
notes, the only universal deity in the Roman world.143
While the concept of “god” has received some thick description, the “son of
God” concept still needs attention. Roman historians have not treated it in much
detail, and descriptions of Roman divine sonship in biblical scholarship have also
been too “thin,” usually describing the mere datum of the emperor’s divi filius title.
Though almost every scholarly introduction to the New Testament will mention
that the emperor was called “son of God,” almost none of them pursue the matter
beyond a footnote. My work puts a magnifying glass to that footnote. Or, to use a
more technologically current metaphor, if that footnote is a hyperlink, my work
might open up in a new window.
My approach to the study of divine sonship seeks to complement the “reso-
nance” method by examining in more detail the social practices of sonship in the
Roman world. Concepts, especially metaphors, are almost always rooted in prac-
tices. Human beings do not think in isolation from their cultural practices; the
metaphor of divine father-son relationships only means in the context of actual
father-son relationships. However, the social practices surrounding fathers and
sons—even divine fathers and sons—in the Roman Empire are not usually brought
into scholarship on divine sonship in early Christianity.144 Instead, as stated above,
most scholars treat the first-century concept of divine sonship with a Nicene-era
disdain for adoptive or “made” sonship. As I will discuss in chapter 5, the dichotomy
of “begotten” vs. “made” had a particular conceptual meaning for the two sides of
the Arian controversy, functioning to distinguish whether there was ever a time (at
the beginning of time) when the Son did not exist. Stated philosophically, the
Nicene question was, “On which side of the Being/Becoming line did the Son fall?”
But in the first century, begetting and making sons was not primarily a philosophical
distinction. On the contrary, the father-son relationship was the center of all
Roman social relationships—the crux of Roman politics and kinship. In chapter 3,
I investigate father-son relationships in the Roman family, emphasizing the prac-
tices of adoption and inheritance. In the Roman worldview, sonship did not point
primarily backward to begetting, but forward to inheritance, often through the
medium of adoption. More specifically, 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. As I will argue, scholarship on divine
sonship has been hampered by mistaken assumptions about adopted sons. Far
from being second-class family members, they were pivotal and often favored;
they stabilized ruling families and formed a key part of imperial ideology. The
close examination of Roman fathers and sons will allow us to hear new resonances
of divine sonship in early Christian texts (chaps. 4 and 5).
A presupposition stands behind my method. By examining the political-family
ideology of Roman society together with the Christian theology that grew and
eventually flourished in that society, I presuppose fundamental connections bet-
ween them. I presume that political ideology and religious theology are almost
always related; at the same time, they are almost never related in a simplistic
way.145 Throughout the book, I will examine the interface between divine
status in the Roman worldview and early Christian theology, and between
divine sonship in the Roman worldview and early Christian Christology.
To conclude this chapter, I would like to recall my earlier assessment of Larry
Hurtado’s major work on Christology. As stated above, Hurtado rejects the grad-
ualism of the religionsgeschichtliche Schule and argues instead for a “volcano-like”
eruption of devotion to Jesus in earliest Christianity.146 I do not see reason to
challenge that first of his theses; I find it quite compelling. I respond, however,
that the term “son of God” also had a volcano-like eruption in the Roman world,
namely when Octavian claimed it as the title which most legitimated his imperial
power. His new status as “son of God” spread throughout the Empire, via every
medium of Roman communication. By the end of Tiberius’s principate, the
mantle of divine sonship had been laid upon each princeps, the most famous
person in the world, for about eighty years. Therefore, the divine sonship of the
emperor—how it was acquired, how it was portrayed, what it meant—is of utmost
relevance for understanding the divine sonship of Jesus. Stated most succinctly,
my ultimate critique of biblical scholarship on divine sonship is this: its field of
vision has a blind spot the size of the Roman emperor. To interpret the term “son
of God” in the Roman world without discussing the emperor shows a neglect of
his importance and a lack of sensitivity to how language functions in society.147 It
is like interpreting the “American dream” without discussing the world-changing
speech of Martin Luther King.
2 Divinity and Divine Sonship
in the Roman World
Caesar, god from god . . . .
— p.oxy. XII 1453
The twin powers of Platonism and Christianity have governed the intellectual
traditions of the Western world with lasting authority. It has been almost impossible
for a resident of that world to think independently from their metaphysical and
theological systems. But the postmodern era—defined perhaps most clearly as
incredulity toward those two metanarratives—has enabled scholars to reassess the
constitutive concepts of the human perspective on the cosmos. In the fields of
Roman history and religious studies, some scholars have begun to incorporate new
perspectives into their understanding of divinity in the Roman world. For example,
scholars such as Simon Price, Ittai Gradel, and Clifford Ando articulate interpreta-
tions of divinity that confound the categories customarily used by Roman histo-
rians and scholars of religion. In their view, divinity in the Roman world was not an
essence or a nature, but a concept of status and power in a cosmic spectrum that had
no absolute dividing lines. The realm of the gods was not, in the famous maxim of
Rudolf Otto, “wholly Other.” In this chapter, I survey and synthesize the current
conclusions of this burgeoning field of research, in order to encourage fellow
scholars to question their presuppositions about divinity in the Roman world, just
as I have scrutinized and reoriented my own. My approach to the matter draws
especially from recent studies of emperor worship, while also making some anal-
ogies to scholarship on Judaism and Christianity in their Roman context. The
synthetic viewpoint of the chapter allows us to see the scope of the changes that
have occurred in the last generation—from the bird’s eye view, perhaps we can also
see the way forward.
■ DIVINIT Y IN THE ROMAN WORLD
Investigating what the term “son of God” meant in the Roman world necessi-
tates a reassessment of its constitutive concepts. This section uses recent schol-
arship on Roman religion to elucidate some aspects of the concept of “god”
prevalent in the Roman world, especially as it came to be applied to the emperor.
Since this book is not primarily about Roman religion, my treatment of Roman
divinity will contain more synthesis than analysis; enough innovative work has
recently been done on the topic, however, that a survey of old and new perspec-
tives should still prove beneficial to both Roman historians and scholars of
31
early Christianity. The final section and the subsequent chapter then address
the concept of “son” as it functioned in the Roman family and specifically the
imperial family.
Divinity and Religion: Perspectives Old and New
When surveying a field of information as large as the scholarship on Roman

divinity and emperor worship, a chart of key features may be helpful. The accom-
panying chart (see table 2.1) of old and new perspectives on Roman divinity and
emperor worship has emerged from my study of the most recent work on the
topic, and I offer it to aid my necessarily brief prose description of the status quaes-
tionis. What I call the “old perspective” on Roman divinity was first generated by
philosophical and other intellectual opinions about the gods, such as those
expressed in Cicero’s De natura deorum. The data of Roman divinity were what
TA B L E 2 . 1
Divinity in the Roman World
Old New
—data: the “map” of divinity provided —data: the “territory” of religious practices
by philosophical sources provided by artifacts and accounts of practices
—interpretation: a Christian “lens” —interpretation: the “lenses” of anthropology,
and an anachronistic view of monotheism cultural studies, ritual studies
® these combine to undergird a ® these reveal a gradient of honor or status
presupposition of absolute division in the cosmos
between material world / divinity
Emperor Worship
Old New
—viewed from the top, emperor —evidence of practices reveals the vibrancy
worship was political manipulation; of devotion; widespread geographically
from the bottom, it was flattery and over time
or empty formality
® as to his divinity, the people ® their beliefs, even if accessible, are not the
did not really believe it best way to judge emperor worship
—power: a top-down imposition —power: worship arose substantially from local
of a new cult; characterized by initiatives by subjects negotiating complex
domination and excess systems of power; excess of a couple emperors
was the exception, not the rule
® “imperial cult” as centrally controlled ® worship studied by region; diverse
monolith local manifestations, but with enough
resemblances to cohere
—deus/divus distinction: —deus/divus distinction not stable in actual
divinity manufactured Latin usage and nonexistent in Greek
only after death (both rendered by θεός)
® no worship of the living emperor ® worship of living emperor, especially
his genius and numen, suggested by the
archaeological evidence
*This chart is my own compilation but indebted to many scholars. A helpful survey of some of these shifts can be
found in Rives, “Roman Religion Revived.”
Divinity and Divine Sonship in the Roman World ■ 33
intellectuals thought about the gods.1 Not only was this corpus deemed a convenient
place to learn about Roman divinity, but it was also consulted to address the
question posed most often by modern scholars of the old perspective: what did the
Romans believe about the gods? I call this set of data the “map” of divinity—it was
compact, organized, free of obstacles, and could be drawn with knowledge gleaned
from just a few volumes of the Loeb Classical Library.
But through the incorporation of archaeological research, the first shift in per-
spective took place. When the “territory” of Roman divinity emerged as a complex,
if partially preserved, landscape, newer scholars discovered that the compact “map”
was insufficient. The imagined religion of the urbs had sprawled—and they needed
more than Cicero to navigate it. Already a generation or two ago, scholars such as
Fergus Millar propounded the study of material artifacts and records of ritual
practices, evidence of what Romans did with respect to the gods: temples, priest-
hoods, inscriptions, papyri, milestones, amulets, jewelry, oaths, sacrifices, libations,
hymns, pilgrimages.2 The focus on religious practices continued in the next gener-
ation and shows no signs of abating in current scholarship. John Scheid’s popular
primer on Roman religion is so grounded in material evidence and ritual practices
that the intellectual systems of Cicero and Varro appear only briefly at the very end
of his book. “Obviously, to most Roman citizens,” he writes, “these systems meant
nothing at all.”3 When commenting on Varro’s learned portrayal of the Roman reli-
gious system, Cicero himself said that it was unfamiliar to most Romans.4 Perhaps
he would have admitted the same of his own system. Then Ittai Gradel would not
be too bold in warning, “Only with extreme caution should philosophical treatises,
such as Cicero’s De Natura Deorum or De Divinatione be employed in the study of
Roman religion; and as for its interpretation, they are best left out of account
altogether.”5
The shifting of focus from map to territory has not been the only change in the
new perspective on Roman religion.6 Recent scholars are also using different lenses
to examine and interpret the data—lenses ground most precisely by Simon Price,
whose seminal Rituals and Power galvanized new interpretive trends by applying
them so brilliantly to the erstwhile “imperial cult.” His thick description of ritual
practices in Asia Minor—with indebtedness to Geertz explicit throughout—turned
out to be the perfect catalyst for new modes of analysis because the historical fact
of emperor worship transgresses so many of the categorical boundaries presumed
by the old perspective. In order to describe the evidence, Price needed to jettison
old assumptions and introduce new methods. He explicitly points to several
“Christianizing assumptions”: religion necessarily involves emotional participa-
tion; internal beliefs are more real than external practices; individual/private rela-
tions to divinity are more important than communal/public expressions.7 By
identifying and rejecting these assumptions, Price was able to incorporate data
that had been previously de-emphasized: the well-known and continuously
growing set of archaeological evidence for emperor worship.8 Indeed, if com-
munal, public practices are regarded as proper and legitimate data for the study of
religion, then the evidence for emperor worship is as broad as for almost any other
ancient religion.9
The new data—because it was ritual, communal, public—also opened up Roman
religion to social-scientific modes of analysis. Price explicitly employs the theories
of Foucault and Bourdieu, for example, at crucial points of his argument; in truth,
their influences teem beneath the surface of every chapter. Foucault enables Price
to collapse the dichotomy of religion and politics—both are means of symbolically
constructing power.10 Bourdieu enables him to collapse the dichotomy of belief
and ritual—both have structures and create them.11 With binaries collapsing all
around, one begins to wonder whether “Christianizing assumptions” were actually
the problem in the first place. Could something more ancient, even more ingrained
than Christianity, have been governing the assumptions of older scholars?
In recent years, Clifford Ando has argued that it is actually the philosophical
binaries inherited from Plato that have made our interpretation of ancient religion
difficult and imprecise. Deeper than the dichotomies of religion/politics or belief/
ritual lie the root Platonic binaries: reality/appearance; form/matter; object/name;
being/becoming. In a trenchant essay on the ancient critique of idolatry, for in-
stance, Ando demonstrates how Platonic epistemology and ontology hinder us
from understanding the Roman stance toward statues of the gods (“idols”).12 His
master example concerns the question of what Romans thought they were doing
when, following a military conquest, they transported a foreign god back to Rome.
The Platonic worldview would have us decide: either they believed the statue really
was the god, in which case the god would no longer exist if the statue were lost at
sea or otherwise destroyed, or the statue represented the god, in which case that
particular statue is no different than other statues of the same god. But neither pole
of this dichotomy adequately explains the ancient evidence.13 The “problem” of the
ancient evidence is created by the binaries of reality/appearance and being/repre-
senting. As with Price’s use of Geertz, Foucault, and Bourdieu, Ando’s rejection of
Platonism is no mere submission to current philosophical trends (though Plato
has no doubt been under attack in the postmodern era). More important, the
Platonic-Christian lens fails to help us interpret central practices of ancient reli-
gion, such as those involving statues of gods or rulers, and for our purposes, the
practice of emperor worship. Therefore other lenses, with more explanatory power,
must be used. When this shift occurs, one gains nothing less than a different per-
spective on humanity and divinity in the Roman world.
In the old view of Roman divinity, the data of Roman intellectuals (many of
them Platonists) were read through a Platonic-Christian framework, a combination
which undergirded two key presuppositions: First, there was an absolute dividing
line between the realm of the divine and the realm of the human. For example,
Otto Weinreich’s seminal article on divine humans in antiquity begins: “If we
speak of ‘divine humanity,’ then we bring together two concepts between which a
world-wide distance seems to lie: God and Human. The more absolute the essence
of God, the more frail the essence of the human is felt, so much deeper gapes the
abyss, the larger is the tension between the two poles.”14 In short, divinity was
absolute. God was das ganz Andere, or “Wholly Other,” in the famous words of
Rudolf Otto.15
Correlated to this presupposition was an anachronistic view of monotheism
among scholars of the ancient world.16 Previous scholars had too often accepted
the argument of early Christian apologists—that Christians, like Jews, were
monotheists, and pagans were polytheists—as a basically accurate portrayal of
religion in the Roman Empire.17 But this neat division is problematized by all
kinds of evidence. Ancient Christians (or Jews) cannot uniformly be categorized
as monotheistic.18 In the world of practices, even if one manages to incorporate
early Christian devotion to Jesus into monotheism, one would still have to dis-
count too many cults of the martyrs and saints and other superhuman beings to
construct a clearly monotheistic version of early Christianity.19 In the world of
ideas, some intellectuals—especially those influenced by Platonism—were ges-
turing toward monotheism in the first and second centuries. But on the whole,
early Christians struggled to articulate a coherent monotheistic view amid a mul-
titude of superhuman forces—heroes, martyrs, rulers, angels, saints, demons,
spirits, along with gods and their mothers and sons. The complexity of Sethian
and Valentinian theological systems is the paramount and most famous example
of this challenge. It took proto-orthodox theology centuries to find a partially
adequate vocabulary to express Christian monotheism. For Christianity, as for
Judaism earlier and Islam later, the challenge to construct divine unity in belief
and practice was ongoing.20
Building on new data and new presuppositions, research on emperor worship
has led many scholars to a new understanding of divinity in the Roman world: it
was not an essence but a status—a status honored because of powerful benefac-
tions. Few first-century listeners would have understood a claim of divinity apart
from some enactment of power. When continuous benefactions led to continuous
honors, that process could admittedly lead to a kind of ontology—a status solidi-
fied because of a god’s perpetual benefactions. But this was a process nonetheless:
divinity was dynamic.
Divinity was also relative. Contrary to the view expressed by Weinreich, divinity
and humanity were not best expressed as fixed “poles” stationed across a “gaping
abyss” of “world-wide distance.” As Arthur Darby Nock observed, “to the ancients
the line of demarcation between god and man was not as constant and sharp, or
the interval as wide, as we naturally think.”21 Hans-Josef Klauck sees the supposed
abyss as “not completely unbridgeable”—the emperor was the pontifex maximus,
after all—and he employs the category of “myth” to deal with the evidence of the
emperor’s divinity; it is “the work of myth” to mediate between contrasting con-
cepts.22 Other scholars have abandoned the abyss metaphor altogether and opted
instead for images of continuous change: divinity exists along a cosmic gradient or
spectrum.23 The “problem” of emperor worship, using these new interpretations of
divinity, ceases to be a problem.
The most recent and forceful expositor of this perspective is Ittai Gradel, but the
idea has an older history among a small cadre of scholars. Over sixty years ago, one art
historian observed the relative aspect of Roman divinity as if it should be obvious:
“Men and gods were not on two completely separate and differentiated levels, the one
on the natural, the other on the supernatural, plane. They occupied either end, as it
were, of a sliding scale.”24 Some years later, but before Price’s work, J. Rufus Fears
further noted how divinity was not an essential property but a status honored because
of benefactions: “[The Greeks and Romans] were ready at all times to recognize a
newly manifested divine force capable of rendering supernatural benefits to the
community or the individual.”25 But what a few earlier scholars had noted in passing,
Gradel has featured as a foundation of his major work, Emperor Worship and Roman
Religion. He begins and ends his reassessment of the material evidence for emperor
worship in Italy with the new perspective on Roman divinity, which finds its most
succinct expression in his discussion of Roman sacrifice:
One may stress these demarcations between sacred and profane, between men and gods,
and thus neatly isolate Graeco-Roman religion from secular society as an independent
category. Such an approach, convenient because it will make the ancient world fit into
our own categories, may not be entirely wrong, but is far too narrow. One should rather
stress the fact that the sacrificial system formed an integral part of a larger social context,
which should be examined as a whole to become intelligible in contemporary terms.
Temples, priests, and sacrifices were the ingredients of the highest or divine or heavenly
honours (summi, divini, caelestes honores), and such were the most prestigious honours
known to men. But they differed in degree, not in kind, from lower, terrestrial, or—as
we would say—secular honours. They were ultimately an aspect of the honours-for-
benefactions structure found in all relationships between parties of vastly unequal power
and social standing in Roman society, such as in the interplays between subjects and
ruler, cities and benefactors, dependants and patrons, slaves and masters.26
Gradel’s methodological commitments to material evidence, ritual practices, and

the interpretation of Roman religion with a scale of relative divinity allow him to
situate the worship of the emperor within the normal functioning of Roman reli-
gious practice.27 The worship of the emperor, both man and god, becomes less
perplexing to modern interpreters.
With the new perspective on Roman divinity, what is most important to Roman
historians is that crucial ancient evidence can be read anew. Old anomalies no
longer seem so strange. By way of conclusion, consider the following inscription:
in 27 b.c.e., the city of Mytilene on Lesbos established many honors for Augustus,
sent ambassadors to Rome with the news, and had their decree inscribed in other
major cities for all to see. After explaining in the decree the new honors by which
they would worship Augustus as a god, they also went on to promise that “if
something more splendid should be found later on, the city [of Mytilene’s] eager-
ness and piety will not neglect whatever can be done to deify him even more.”28
Whatever could that have meant, if divinity was absolute?
Emperor Worship: Perspectives Old and New
Under the Roman Empire, from the time of Augustus to that of

Constantine, the cult of the emperor was, according to the patterns of
“religion” (not in a Christian sense but in the sense of Roman
religion), the most important type of worship.
—géza alföldy
The outlines of the old and new perspectives on emperor worship have been drawn
already in the previous pages and accompanying chart, but here let us fill in some
detail and color.29 The most easily identified tendency among older scholars on
emperor worship is this: they could not imagine that it was genuine. The emperor
was clearly a human being and not a god; for most twentieth-century scholars,
attempting to imagine the emperor as the object of genuine divine worship pro-
duced a cognitive dissonance that was difficult to rectify. (Their trouble with imag-
ining a divine human is more than a bit ironic, considering the “Christianizing
assumptions” governing older scholarship.) Viewed from the top, emperor worship
was interpreted as political manipulation. Lily Ross Taylor, whose book The
Divinity of the Roman Emperor defined a field of inquiry, concludes that “for
Augustus the imperial cult was primarily an instrument of politics. . . . He found in
the worship an effective instrument of government.”30 Viewed from the bottom, it
was empty flattery, a vacant formality. The people could not have believed it—they
just played along for the sake of expediency.
Some scholars barely corral their disdain for the practice and place themselves
alongside the cultured despisers from the Roman elite. A century ago, J. S. Reid pro-
claimed, “No men of culture, and of the emperors only crazy men like Gaius and
Elagabalus, regarded the superhuman powers as anything but accompaniments
and attestations of power.”31 His attitude was matched in German scholarship of
the early- and mid-twentieth century.32 But years later, and surprisingly at the
same conference where the shift in perspectives was beginning, Glen Bowersock
echoed Reid’s incredulity.33 According to his reading of the “Greek intellectuals,”
emperor worship was comprised of “civic duties suitable for the wealthy and ambi-
tious but in no sense a display of piety,” a “routine part of the Roman administrative
machinery” with “no evidence at all for such religious emotion.” Pliny, for example,
“was an intelligent person” so he could “hardly” have believed Trajan to be a god—
“no thinking man” would believe that! The Greek intellectuals learned to “accept”
and “ignore” the divinity of the emperor. As long as such literary and philosophical
sources were the data, it was difficult for modern scholars—with their aforemen-
tioned presuppositions—to imagine that the Romans genuinely worshipped the
emperor.
The evidence from material artifacts and ritual practices, however, reveals the
vibrancy of devotion to the emperor. As a counterpoint to Bowersock, Fergus
Millar drew these conclusions from his preferred evidence: “firstly that the
conception of a human attaining divine status had already long been integral to
ancient paganism; and secondly that the Imperial cult was fully and extensively
integrated into the local cults of the provinces, with the consequence that the
Emperors were the object of the same cult-acts as the other gods.”34 The evidence
of rituals and artifacts (especially inscriptions) for emperor worship was wide-
spread geographically and over time. Other scholars who focused on practices,
such as H. W. Pleket and Keith Hopkins, blazed new interpretive trails in the years
leading up to Price’s work. Pleket was the first to take emperor worship seriously in
comparison with other “mystery” cults in antiquity.35 Hopkins was among the first
to get beyond “belief ” as the main category for evaluating the topic.36 The question
“Did they really believe it?” had been answered with an emphatic “No” for too long
because of an over-reliance on philosophers—and occasionally misinterpretations
of philosophers.37 Hopkins thinks the question is not the most useful one to ask,
but his answer, more or less, is: “They certainly acted like it.” The conclusion to his
essay pointed the way forward:
Sophisticated Romans may not have believed that the emperor was a god, nor did the
courtiers who saw him, but they sacrificed to him, as though he was a god, and perhaps
they covered the conflict of evidence with a metaphysical metaphor—god made manifest,
son of god, the least of gods but highest of mortals, son of Apollo, Hercules on earth.
Most people probably did not bother with the demarcation; the emperor was clearly
both man and god.38
If Hopkins sketched the guidelines of how emperor worship enacted the “symbolic
unity” of the Roman Empire, Géza Alföldy was able later to paint the details of its
universal appeal. In his analysis of the evidence, emperor worship became all
things to all people over time; it spread horizontally throughout the Empire’s lands
and, more surprisingly, vertically through different social strata. This, his summary
assessment of a major conference on emperor worship, radically overturns the
older perspective:
Practically everybody was involved [in emperor worship]. This is true in a double sense.
Spatially, the ruler-cult was carried out at Rome as well as in all the towns of Italy and the
provinces, and even in private houses. Socially, it was spread through all classes and
groups. The fratres Arvales and the collegia of sodales Augustales, sodales Flaviales, etc.
represented the participation of the senatorial aristocracy in this cult; the flamines or
sacerdotes provinciae, coming from the equestrian order and other local élites, repre-
sented the whole population of their province; the flamines of the towns represented the
élites of the municipia and coloniae; the seviri Augustales the “second class” of the urban
population, especially rich freedmen; the magistri and the ministri of the Lares
Augustorum etc. were freedmen and slaves.39
In short, the scholarship that emerged from a new focus on material artifacts and
ritual practices shared a relatively simple underlying insight: the actions of many
speak louder than the words of a few.
A second limitation of the old perspective on emperor worship was its unilateral
understanding of power. The divinity of the emperor was construed as a top-down
imposition, centrally controlled by the emperor himself, upon people powerless to
reject it. The older term “imperial cult” helped to manifest this view, carrying as it did
the connotations of organization and unity. Again, reliance only on literary sources
played a role in propagating the idea, since they tended to focus on the domination
and excess of a few emperors (e.g., Gaius Caligula and Domitian).40 But there were
also unstated theories of power and ideology at work. Rome was thought to have
ruled only by force—if they wanted an “imperial cult,” by Jove, they would get it!
New archaeological data and new theories of power have altered these views.
The past thirty years have broadened the available evidence of emperor worship;
in fact, there is so much data that research has progressed through local and
regional studies. Major scholarly contributions have covered Iberia (Étienne), Asia
Minor (Price), the Latin West (Fishwick), the Germanic provinces (Liertz), Italy
(Gradel), Judea and Galilee (Bernett), and Greece (Kantiréa).41 These are no mere
antiquarian collections either; most of them offer nuanced and detailed interpre-
tations of emperor worship in its diverse local contexts. Yet the local manifesta-
tions of emperor worship share enough resemblances to cohere as a group, about
which some general conclusions can be drawn. Emperor worship was not a
top-down phenomenon but was usually initiated by local subjects—in Kantiréa’s
eloquent phrasing, “Le prince ne se faisait pas adorer, il se laissait adorer.”42 Emperor
worship offered a unique opportunity for local elites to express their relationships
to their distant Roman benefactor, while simultaneously building clout within
their proximate social hierarchies.43 Emperor worship was not only, or even pri-
marily, directed to the dead emperors and their relatives, as some of the literary
sources would have us believe; but the living emperor was also worshipped, often
in the form of his genius or numen, as were other members of the imperial family
(see below). Those who spend time with the material evidence of temples, sacri-
fices, and priesthoods conclude that the emperors received worship as gods.
Both Gradel and Kantiréa reach similar conclusions about how ultimately to
understand the divine status of the emperor. His divinity made sense as a part of
the honors-for-benefactions structure of Greco-Roman society. In the old per-
spective on divinity in the Roman world, the honors-for-benefactions structure
had led scholars to discount the divinity of the emperor—he wasn’t really a god
because he had to earn it. Bowersock, channeling the satirist Lucian, uses exactly
this criterion to disparage emperor worship.44 But interpretations of divinity as a
status, not an essence, allow us to see things differently. Before the Platonic world-
view became dominant, all gods were gods because of their benefactions. How else
would a god come to be regarded as such? Even the Jewish worship of the God of
Israel developed in this way: the Exodus was the great benefaction that engendered
worship.45 In short, gods don’t first tell you they’re gods; they show you, and then
you tell them—this is one reason why the supposed self-aggrandizements of Gaius
Caligula and Domitian might have been viewed as appalling and unbelievable.
Benefactions were what led to worship, and continuous benefactions led to

continuous worship. Benefactions deemed superhuman eventually led to super-
human status. Regarding the emperor specifically, the initial divine honors for
Julius Caesar and Augustus were rooted in their benefactions (euergetism). But
over time, and “without ever departing from its principal framework of euerget-
ism, [emperor worship] was crystallized in a dynastic ideology”—a subject of the
next chapter.46 Over the course of about three generations (from the battle of
Actium to the principate of Claudius), one can say that emperor worship expand-
ed—and now I am using Christian labels—from a “soteriology” of the emperor to
a “theology” of the imperial family.47 This is not conceptually different from the
trajectory of Christian thought about Jesus Christ: the path from the Crucifixion
to the Gospels to Nicea was a soteriology in search of a theology. As with the
worship of the emperor, the worship of Jesus Christ began by proclaiming his
divine power to save and then moved toward situating his power among the other
accepted divine powers.
In some cases, scholars of emperor worship use distinct theories of power and
ideology to explain their evidence. Price interprets the rituals of emperor worship
à la Foucault and, to a limited extent, Bourdieu, in order to elucidate how they
constitute a “public cognitive system” of power.48 Ando also relies on French
social theory but extends his work to incorporate the theories of Weber and
especially Habermas. In his analysis, the worship of the emperor was a constitu-
tive aspect of an overall “imperial ideology,” which was “the product of a complex
conversation between center and periphery,” between Rome and the provinces.49
He uses the communicative theories of Habermas to demonstrate meticulously
the Roman achievement of “consensus, a unanimous intersubjective agreement
about social, religious, and political norms,” which allowed the Empire to last as
long as it did.50 The emperor was the key to imperial ideology and, in a real sense,
was the Empire. Most recently, insights from postcolonial theory have enabled
scholars to describe societal power structures with more nuance than previous
models allowed. The study of formerly colonized peoples around the world—
specifically, the texts and practices developed by them as responses to their
colonization—has generated a body of social theory distinct from that suggested
by the colonizers’ perspectives alone. This body of theory is now being applied to
power relations more generally speaking, in contexts not properly “colonial,”
with mixed but generally positive results. Briefly stated, postcolonial theory
allows us to see that sustained relationships of power are never simply imposed
from one culture onto another. Power that lasts never comes unilaterally from
the top, and there are many points on the spectrum between domination and
resistance. The colonized always retain agency, though it is an agency enacted, in
part, through the particular modes of expression by which they have been
oppressed. The Roman Empire, probably the most famous (if not the most
recent) colonial power in world history, is beginning to be studied fruitfully with
this theoretical lens.51
Another way of understanding the new perspective on emperor worship is to

connect it with a new consensus on the terminology of divinity in the Roman
world: specifically, what was meant by deus, divus, and θεός? (And how were genius
and numen related to these?) The consensus on deus, divus, and θεός is that all
three terms should be translated as “god” without qualification, and they exhibited
wide flexibility in actual ancient usage. Regarding the deus/divus distinction, the
word divus had been usually and mistakenly interpreted as denoting a lower status
than deus—a divus was considered a god that had been a human, while a deus is,
well, a real god. But before the consecration of Julius Caesar as divus, that distinc-
tion did not exist at all, nor did it exist for many Latin speakers afterward. In fact,
Varro, the grammarian who tried to distinguish the terms etymologically, had
argued in the first century b.c.e. that divus was the more honorable of the two
terms—exactly the opposite of how it came to be understood.52 In his view, divus
denotes “a subcategory . . . the ‘elite division,’ so to speak, of the gods,” which
“implied the noblest condition, that of the eternal gods, and was therefore the
more dignified term.”53 But because of its continued application to members of
the imperial family, divus eventually came to mean “gods that had been humans”
and thus came to carry a lower connotation than deus. What is more, neither
did deus only denote gods that were not humans. As J. Rufus Fears notes, the term
deus was amply applied to living humans:
It is too often forgotten that for the pagan Roman deus was not charged with the absolute
meaning which it has for the Christian. Anyone could establish his own cult to any force
which seemed superhuman in its power to benefit him. In this sense, Tityrus could say
of the young Octavian: Ille mihi semper deus [“He is always a god to me”] (Verg. Ecl.
1.6–8); and Cicero could call Lentulus Spinther parens ac deus nostrae vitae [‘parent and
god of our life’]. (Red. in Sen. 4.8)54
In recognition of their unique power, the term deus was applied to emperors often
by poets and in some inscriptions from the Latin West.55 Therefore, both divus and
deus could refer to a god, whether a living human or not.
In parts of the Empire where Latin was not predominant—and that was an
enormous portion—the deus/divus distinction was thus not relevant, even in
the few cases when it was known.56 For example, a neo-Punic inscription from
the province of Africa refers to Augustus as elim, from the main Semitic word-
group meaning “god” (el, elim, elohim).57 More importantly, the Greek word
θεός was generally used to translate both deus and divus across the Empire. Like
the Latin terms, the Greek could be applied to humans, confirming the inade-
quacy of a stark divine/human dichotomy as a framework for interpreting the
ancient world.58 Regarding the Roman emperor in the early and high Empire,
imperial titulature that contained divus would have been rendered as θεός;
every divi filius would have been θεου̑ υἱός (or a close variant). In addition, the
emperor was called θεός on many occasions independently of titulature, and all
emperors of the first century c.e. were called θεός, even though they were not
all divi. Therefore, as Simon Price has correctly argued, historians should not
try to get “behind” the Greek usage of θεός to uncover an intended meaning of
divus.59 On the one hand, divus itself did not always mean “dead emperor”; on
the other hand, even in the time period when it did, it cannot be presumed
always to have been behind the articulation of θεός. Like ritual practices,
linguistic practices matter, and they have a logic of their own—often independent
of intentions. What we do know as historians, and what we can say with cer-
tainty, is that θεός was applied to the emperor broadly throughout the Empire,
and by all social classes. The evidence comes in diverse forms: literature, coins,
inscriptions, papyri, et cetera.60 All these uses of θεός should be interpreted as
such, and not as substitutions for either deus or divus. In Price’s words, “The
predication of theos of the emperor, though it is in certain contexts equivalent
to divus in Latin, has meaning in the context of general Greek usage of
theos.”61
Some scholars have pointed to various emperors’ refusal of divine honors as
a way of arguing that they were not really considered as gods.62 However, as
stated above, the worship of the emperor was not centrally controlled, and
divine honors were heaped upon emperors whether they accepted them or not.
Furthermore, the linguistic situation in Greek does not allow simple conclu-
sions to be drawn about the supposed imperial refusal of divinity. For example,
in his “Embassy to Gaius,” Philo praises Augustus’s refusal of divinity as a way
to chastise the self-righteous current emperor: “That [Augustus] was never
elated or puffed up by the vast honours given to him is clearly shown by the fact
that he never wished anyone to address him as a θεός but was annoyed if
anyone used the word.”63 On the contrary, Philo claims that Gaius really thought
he was a θεός, having been encouraged in this belief by the Alexandrians, who
used the term for him just as they did for many other powerful beings.64 But
Philo’s arguments make sense only in one particular perspective on the cosmos,
in which someone cannot be both god and human. (Elsewhere, Philo does not
himself seem to maintain the stark division.)65 Augustus’s refusal of the term
θεός did not necessarily mean he was refusing divinity, since there were many
other ritual expressions of divinity he did accept, and on Philo’s own admission,
θεός was a term used for all sorts of powerful beings. Augustus might have
disliked the connotations of the term, but that does not mean he rejected
worship of himself. Moreover, even when emperors explicitly refused the
term, that did not stop anyone from using it—even the emperors’ own
spokesmen. The glaring example of this paradox comes from Claudius’s letter
to the Alexandrians (P. Lond. 1912).66 In the body of the letter, the emperor
delineates which honors he accepts and which he rejects from the Alexandrians.
He specifically rejects the establishment of a priesthood and temples to himself,
thus refusing to be worshipped as a god there.67 But what often goes unnoticed
is how the letter itself is introduced.68 The Roman prefect of Egypt posts
the letter publicly so that all may read it and “admire the greatness of Caesar,
our θεός,” namely Claudius, the very living emperor that asks not to be
worshipped in the body of the letter!
This brings us to the final shift in the new perspective on emperor worship:
the acknowledgment that the emperor was worshipped while he was alive.
Older scholars had thought—relying on the deus/divus distinction, a strong
divine/human dichotomy, a top-down view of emperor worship, and a neglect
of archaeological evidence—that the emperor was worshipped in Rome and
Italy only after death, though he was possibly worshipped while alive in the
eastern provinces (due to their history of divine rulers).69 Based on new data
and new presuppositions, recent scholars have strongly challenged that view.
The old view relied mostly on literary sources, especially Dio’s claim that
emperors, even Augustus, were not worshipped in Italy while alive.70 When
archaeological evidence did not line up with this claim, the errant data were
incorporated into the “genius theory” of imperial worship. According to Lily
Ross Taylor, the theory’s most eloquent proponent, worship in Italy “was directed
not to the emperor as a god on earth but to his shadowy attendant spirit [genius].
But the cult given his attendant spirit had taken on the character of the
Hellenistic ruler cult, and the Genius was but a thin veil for the emperor
himself.”71 This theory has been found wanting by Gradel, whose argument
establishes a reasonable way of construing worship of the living emperor in
Italy itself.72 The emperor’s genius was indeed worshipped, but for a separate
reason—it was proper to do so for the paterfamilias of the Empire. As chapter 3
will explain, his own family life-force had invaded neighborhoods and homes
and superseded that of other patresfamilias. 73 People also worshipped the
emperor’s numen, or divine power, widely in the Empire.74 According to
Fishwick, a numen is “what all gods possess, and by virtue of which they manifest
their efficacy, . . . [it is] the quintessential property of a god: that which makes a
god a god.”75 An emperor’s numen was the immanent power of his divinity, a
property that distinguished him from other humans. The collection of evidence
overall thus attests to the worship of the emperor himself, his genius, and his
numen—in addition to the worship of other members of the imperial family or
the whole domus divina.76 The work of Fishwick and Gradel in English is sup-
ported in German by that of Manfred Clauss, probably the most vigorous
defender of the divinity of the living emperor. In his bold words, “The princeps
was god. He was so from the beginning, since Caesar and Augustus, he was so
during his lifetime, he was so even in the Western parts of the Roman Empire,
in Italy, in Rome.”77
In conclusion, recent scholarship on emperor worship has catalyzed a
new understanding of divinity in the Roman world. A focus on material culture
and ritual practices, combined with a rejection of old presuppositions,
illuminates a conception of divinity as a status based on power, not an essence
or nature. The old “problem” of emperor worship—was he a man or a god?—
has turned out to be a mirage, which vanishes when the background horizon is
altered. In her study of emperor worship in Greece, Maria Kantiréa encapsu-

lates the resolution of the old “problem”:
The raison d’être of the imperial cult was not limited to persuading the subjects of
their rulers’ divine nature—indeed, a pseudo-problem, to which the older bibliog-
raphy has attached a great importance—but it existed above all to propagate, in a way
much more subtle than the coinage, the preeminent ideas upon which the princeps
based the moral support of his legitimation, and consequently, to conceal under a
civic form the historical necessity of this type of monarchy. And yet, the more
characteristic aspect of the imperial honorific system was the coexistence of civic
honor and cultic veneration. The enactment of two types of sacrifices, those which
were offered to the gods for the well-being of the emperors and those which were
directed to the emperors as gods, reflected the bipolarity of the nature of the prin-
ceps—as much divine as human—and the double character of his power—dominus et
deus—in the Greek world.78
In the new perspective, several dichotomies have collapsed—not least the sup-
posed abyss separating humanity and divinity. On the contrary, the worship of the
living emperor as a god appealed broadly throughout the Empire. His reach tran-
scended space and time, since he was present at his temples, shrines, and statues in
distant provinces, even while he mediated between heaven and earth.79 It is not
surprising, then, that the worship of the emperor, as it is now understood, has
invited fresh comparisons to the worship of Jesus Christ. Clifford Ando is charac-
teristically astute in juxtaposing them, the only two gods that reached the whole
Empire:
In the end, Rome gave to the Empire as a whole two very different gods, who shared one
essential quality. So long as his power endured, the emperor’s immanence in his ubiqui-
tous portraits made him ἐπιϕανέστατος, “the most manifest,” of the numinous powers of
this world. His chief rival, who became his chief patron, was likewise present everywhere
in potentiality and promise: Ubi enim sunt duo vel tres congregati in nomine meo, ibi sum
in medio eorum, “Wherever two or three of you are gathered in my name, there I am in
your midst.”80
Emperor Worship and Early Christianity
The new age has a savior figure, the greatest benefactor of all times,
the divi filius . . . the victorious Augustus.
—helmut koester
At the end of chapter 1, when I criticized the guild of biblical scholarship for
having “a blind spot the size of the Roman emperor,” I noted that exceptions to
this sweeping criticism would be forthcoming. Clifford Ando’s comparison of
the space-transcending presence of the emperor and Jesus Christ is a clever, but
not unique, example of reading old evidence in new ways. Among biblical
scholars too, there have been notable exceptions to Hurtado’s “no true analogy”
thesis. Indeed, the exceptions will soon become mainstream through new refer-
ence works such as The Cambridge History of Christianity, whose “Prelude”
seems to counter Hurtado directly: “The earliest and most insistent analogy
between the way Christ was celebrated and pagan cultic activity is to be found
in the use of language from the ruler-cult tradition, by then associated with the
divinization of the Roman emperor.”81 In what follows, I can cite only a small
sample of representative types, as the research on emperor worship, imperial
ideology, and early Christianity is currently proliferating through conferences
and publications.82
Some scholars have assessed the relationship of early Christianity to the Roman
emperor and imperial ideology through text-specific studies on the Gospels,83 the
Epistles,84 or Revelation,85 asking how particular texts have resisted or accommo-
dated the demands of Empire. Other scholars have addressed a certain topic or
theme that spans different texts and centuries, such as the titles or narratives shared
by Jesus Christ and the emperor,86 the worship of the emperor and the worship of
Jesus Christ,87 conceptions of the imperial family and the Christian family,88 and
the relationship between imperial power structures and Christian communal self-
understanding.89 A few noteworthy scholars have tried to issue a general wake-up
call to their colleagues about the importance of all these topics for historians of
early Christianity.90
Yet despite this excellent work, which brings the historical fact of emperor
worship to bear on diverse aspects of early Christianity, some of the most fasci-
nating connections between the Roman emperor and Jesus Christ have still yet to
be analyzed in detail. As I stated in a previous section, “son of God” has received
some treatment as a topic that connects Jesus Christ and the emperor, but the
studies have been thin; the imperial “son of god” title has been often noted but
rarely elaborated.91 The aspects of imperial divine sonship that are most provoca-
tive for the study of early Christianity have only begun to be addressed—if noticed
at all. Consider, for example, a papyrus which shows, in the first year of Caesar
Augustus (30/29 b.c.e.), a group of Egyptian temple “lamplighters” swearing by
“Caesar” as “god from god” (θεὸν ἐκ θεου̑).92 Though the lamplighters’ duty to
make “light from light” must be judged an amusing coincidence, the “god from
god” connection to identical Nicene language is scintillating. What did such lan-
guage mean 350 years earlier, when already in the first year of Augustan rule,
residents of the Empire were inspired to address the emperor as “god from god”?
Clearly the emperor was both “god” and “son of god,” but how did this succession
of gods begin? From father to son and beyond—again in the unavoidable lan-
guage of the Creed—how did divinity proceed? And most importantly for our
topic, did it matter that Augustus, divi filius, was not actually the begotten son of
divus Iulius?
■ ROMAN EMPEROR AS “S O N O F G O D”
To the Emperor Caesar, God, Son of God, Augustus

—Inscriptions throughout the Roman Empire
Origin and Propagation of the Title
According to standard encyclopedic resources, the origin of the “son of god” title
in the Roman Empire is simply explained. Julius Caesar was considered divine
during his lifetime by some and was, in any case, declared a god of the Roman
state—divus Iulius—after his assassination.93 During the ensuing battle for power
with Mark Antony, Octavian (later “Augustus”) used his status as Caesar’s son to
bolster his legitimacy—a status that Antony had desired for himself.94 Octavian
was therefore able to call himself, and was called, divi filius or “son of god.” This
claim of continuity with Caesar was sufficient to rouse troops and public support
for the defeat of his rivals and consolidation of imperial powers. So goes the
handbook version, and it is correct, as far as it goes.
But there is much more to say, a series of questions to be explored. Why did
Octavian choose this particular claim to portray his legitimacy? To what social
mores was he appealing? Did it matter that he was not a biological son of Caesar,
but an adopted son? Within what matrix of cultural practices was that intelligible?
After Augustus, how did divine sonship propagate through later emperors? These
are the questions—normally left unasked—that drive the remainder of this chapter
and the argument of the next.
The adoption of Octavian by Julius Caesar is described by several ancient sources,
some of which date from the Augustan age.95 Although Caesar had a biological son,
Caesarion, by Cleopatra, he had long showed favor for Octavian, his great-nephew.
Before he died, he had adopted Octavian in his will—a quasi-legal practice usually
called “testamentary adoption” (cf. ch. 3)—but kept this fact secret from Octavian.96
While alive, however, Caesar’s special fondness for Octavian, and even his treatment
of him as a son, was clear to those who spent time with them together.97 His decision
to make Octavian his heir was further strengthened by favorable omens.98 It was
also said that Octavian’s mother, Atia, had been visited and impregnated by Apollo.99
Just as Caesar’s own divinity was supported by divine ancestry, traced to Venus
through Aeneas, so would Octavian’s be secured as a “son of Apollo.” If anyone was
to carry on the charismatic leadership of Caesar, it was this young man.
Octavian, for his part, preferred to be “son of god” (i.e., the son of divus Iulius)
rather than “son of Apollo,” though both lineages helped establish his augustness.
Surprisingly, after his divine adoptive father had been assassinated, he seems to
have been only briefly vexed by the burden of inheriting the name, property, genius,
and status of divus Iulius. Some relatives encouraged him to refuse the adoption
out of fear for his safety amid political turmoil. But he decided that now, as Caesar’s
son, he must avenge his father’s murder and carry on the noble Julian gens.100 He
called himself, “Caesar, son of Caesar,” and most famously, divi filius. His filial
connection to Caesar won him great public support,101 not to mention a vast
entourage of clients, so the divi filius title was disseminated in coins, inscriptions,
and monuments as part of official titulature.102 Aside from the name “Caesar” itself,
the “son of god” title was what most enabled the transition to Octavian’s rule to be
interpreted in the terms of Roman dynastic ideology.
And yet a paradox lies at the core of this ideology: after Octavian secured sole
rule over the Empire, the so-called Julio-Claudian “dynasty” had no small amount
of trouble propagating itself through natural, begotten sons. The emperor was
actually made “son of god” through the act of adoption, and this fact caused tension
between ideologies of natural (begotten) sons and adopted (made) sons throughout
the first century of the principate. Moreover, the fact that subsequent emperors
(after Augustus) used and were called by the title might lead one to ask whether it
denoted anything at all about sonship (either natural or adoptive). Perhaps the
“son of god” title was just honorific. Or, to reframe the issue for the purposes of
this book: in the mid-first century, as the “son of god” title was also starting to be
used for Jesus Christ, did it refer to an actual process of imperial sonship, whether
begetting or adoption, or was it merely one of the emperor’s titles of exaltation?
It is tempting at first to see the title as just one among many honorific expres-
sions. However, as the next chapter elaborates, the evidence suggests that the
begetting and making of imperial sons was charted quite carefully by residents
of the Empire, especially during the Julio-Claudian “dynasty.” People took note
of who was born and adopted in the imperial family. Furthermore, a helpful
inscription noting Nero’s divine sonship comes from the time after his adoption
by Claudius but before his accession to imperial power (between 50–54 c.e.),
thus showing that the “son of god” title was connected more to his adoption than
to his rule.103 At the end of the Julio-Claudian “dynasty,” the fictive lineage of
sons experienced a rupture—the “Year of Four Emperors” (69 c.e.). When
Vespasian and the Flavians rose to power, the “son of god” title still drew on
images of divine lineage, but the new era necessitated a shift in understanding.
That is to say, the fact that Vespasian could be called “Caesar” and “son of god,”
although he had neither divine begetting nor imperial adoption to justify the
titles, demonstrates how the terms could sometimes stand as honorifics that
could be divorced from their origins.104
Begotten or Made?
The tension between begotten and made divine sonship began with Julius Caesar
and Augustus. As a segue to the detailed investigations of the next chapter, it will
be helpful here to summarize briefly the foundation of divine sonship in the
Augustan age. During his ascendancy to divine status, Julius Caesar relied upon
and propagated the image of his divine ancestry. He traced his genealogy to Aeneas,
son of Venus, and her importance in Rome was starkly augmented by Caesar’s new
temple to Venus Genetrix (dedicated 46 b.c.e.) in his Forum Iulium.105 In this grand
building project, he honored Venus as a divine ancestor and invoked her patronage
on the whole city. Such claims of divine ancestry were common among nobility
from republican times, even if they were not always believed.106 But Caesar’s own
achievement of divine status changed the tenor of subsequent claims. When
Octavian trumpeted himself as “son of god,” he needed only to appeal to his divine
adoptive father, not a distant figure from hoary antiquity. Divine ancestry shifted
to divine sonship.
In fact, Octavian wanted to have it both ways—he was a “son of god” by Caesar’s
adoption and a “son of Apollo” by divine begetting. (Add in his divine ancestry
from Mars and the claims that he was a “new Romulus” refounding Rome, and
one can see how his divine connections were diverse and powerful.)107 In his
competition with Antony for sole possession of Roman imperium, he used both
aspects of his divine sonship: the filial connection to Caesar swayed the troops and
much of the public, while the patronage of Apollo served to rival Antony’s self-
presentation as Dionysus or Hercules.108 Ultimately, though, the connection to
Caesar proved most powerful, and it was this particular divine relationship—divi
filius—that was propagated by adoption through the Julio-Claudian “dynasty.”
As the divinity of the emperors—and of the whole imperial house as domus
divina109—became a central aspect of imperial ideology over time, claims to
divine ancestry diminished in number and power. Olivier Hekster has persua-
sively argued that the Augustan preference for sonship to a divine emperor,
rather than a distant divine genealogy, continued and intensified for subsequent
emperors.110 He concludes, “The impact of Empire, through the centrality and
divinity of the Roman emperor, had made emphasis on divine genealogies a
practice of the remote past.”111 To be “son of god” in the Roman Empire, in the
time period under consideration, meant primarily to be the son of the emper-
or—whether begotten or made. The next chapter uses that fact as its point of
departure; for the divine sonship of the Roman emperor, both begetting and
adoption functioned to grant legitimacy, though in different modes. In the terms
of a previously explained methodology, both have “resonance” in a Roman
understanding of father-son relations. Most scholars, however, have focused
almost exclusively on natural, begotten, dynastic relationships in the study of
Roman imperial ideology; the next chapter attempts to shed light on the role of
adoption in that ideology.
For Augustus, the different expressions of divine sonship were mutually ben-
eficial, as stated above. For the other famous “son of God,” the situation was
surprisingly similar. In the first century, before the philosophically rooted con-
ception of divine sonship became the standard, Jesus’ status as “son of God” was
grounded in multiple claims: there were dynastic considerations in depicting
him as a son of David, who himself was a royal son of God; his miraculous
infancy and childhood narratives suggested a divine begottenness from birth;
and his baptismal experience suggested an adult divine election or adoption.112
Yet it is not surprising that a concept as challenging to grasp as divine sonship

should be expressed in diverse, and even mutually exclusive, ways. One ancient
scholar, well known for grappling with the concept of divine sonship, expressed
the tension of the begotten/made distinction in these words: “concerning
subjects that are obscure, and which require advancement toward understanding,
often not only different but even contradictory demonstrations can become
clarifications of the things sought for.” The source of this quotation is Athanasius,
who favorably excerpted these words while defending a colleague’s beliefs about
the divine sonship of Jesus Christ.113 Even Athanasius himself, champion of
Nicene orthodoxy par excellence, acknowledged the complexity of portraying
divine sonship. It is the task of the rest of this book to reach further into that
complexity and draw out some fresh interpretations of the “son of God” in the
Roman world.
3 Begotten or Made?
Adopted Sons in Roman Society and Imperial Ideology
All the emperors who took the imperial throne through hereditary
succession, with the exception of Titus, were bad; those who did so
through adoption were all good, as were those five from Nerva to
Marcus; and when the empire lapsed into hereditary succession, it
came again to ruin.
—niccolò macchiavelli
George H. Bush and George W. Bush represented the first American presidential
dynasty in almost two hundred years. Most pundits speculated that Bill Clinton
would eventually be followed by Hillary Clinton, and some championed the elect-
ability of Jeb Bush. Might it have been Bush, Clinton, Bush, Clinton, Bush? Things
did not work out that way, but even the close possibility suggests that Americans
need to look no further than their own government to see the resilience of dynastic
ideology amid a supposedly meritocratic system of succession.1 Roman familial
and political succession also exhibited a tension between meritocratic and dynastic
ideologies. However, the Romans had a technique at their disposal—the adoption
of adult men—that enabled the different ideologies of succession to coexist for
hundreds of years.2 To read a list of powerful Roman men is necessarily to read a
list of adopted Roman men: Scipio Africanus the Younger, Caesar Augustus,
Tiberius, Germanicus, Gaius Caligula, Nero, Pliny the Younger, Trajan, Hadrian,
Antoninus Pius, Marcus Aurelius, Lucius Verus, and Constantius I, to name only
the most famous.
This chapter analyzes the idea and practice of adoption in Roman society and
especially in the burgeoning ideology of the emperor during the early principate.3
It first surveys the ancient evidence for Roman adoption in law and in actual prac-
tice; adoption was a crucial technique for sustaining the peculiarly Roman per-
spective on fathers and sons, in which every Roman was under the patria potestas
or “paternal power” of the eldest male in the family. Adopted sons were chosen for
the job and then assimilated into new families as natural sons through text and
image. An adopted son became literally “affiliated” with his adoptive family. In the
early principate, Romans began to live not only under the potestas of their proxi-
mate fathers, but also under the emperor, who was pater patriae—the “father of the
fatherland.” We will examine what cultural changes were necessitated by refashion-
ing the entire Empire as a large family under the emperor. Within the imperial
family, as elsewhere in Roman culture, adoption constituted a chief mode of sus-
taining family lines. The evidence of adoption as a method of imperial succession,
of transmitting power from father to son, will be addressed in some detail.
50
Begotten or Made? ■ 51
Regardless of whether such adoptions were private or public in their ceremony, they
were highly publicized in coins, portraits, texts, and tales. The Empire was a family,
after all, and the family needed to know what was going on at the top. The chapter
concludes with treatments of some key imperial adoptions, analyzing how the
adopted sons were “affiliated” into their roles and whether Roman observers
accepted them as natural members of the ruling “dynasty.”
■ ADOPTION IN ROMAN SOCIETY
One great difference between Roman families and those of the modern
West is the former’s readiness to extend relationships.
—suzanne dixon
The Romans seem to have been always ready to create kinship

and affinity.
—mireille corbier
In The Law of the Ancient Romans, Alan Watson describes patria potestas as “the
most fundamental and most peculiarly Roman part of family law.”4 All children
born to a father lived under the power of their father (in potestate) as long as he
lived; that is, the father had complete power over each child, even the power of life
and death. In theory, a Roman paterfamilias could do whatever he wanted to those
under this power, and fathers did make decisions about their familiae which modern
Western readers find deplorable. When speaking of patria potestas, the Roman jurist
Gaius proclaimed, “there are hardly any other men who have such authority over
their children as we have.”5 Yet historians have also argued that, in practice, Roman
fathers were not usually the despots that the law permitted them to be.6 The power
of the father was used most frequently not to administer beatings, but to distribute
goods. For this reason, the power of the father came to a head, so to speak, in the
matter of the family’s inheritable goods. As in the modern West, these included land
and wealth, but also—sometimes more importantly—the family name, honor, and
cult.7 Those fathers with the most to pass on were the ones most concerned with
their heirs. What could a Roman father do when he did not have male sons to carry
on the family wealth, name, honor, and cult? He could adopt.
The issue of inheritance brings into focus the chief differences between adop-
tion in Roman culture and in the modern West. In modern Western countries,
adoption often springs from a concern for child welfare, as a way to situate orphans
or otherwise parentless children in stable and loving homes. It does not only pro-
vide children with homes, but often provides childless couples with “social progeny”
to pass on their culture.8 Only thirdly is modern adoption construed as a means of
securing heirs. But this third reason to adopt, which is almost absent from modern
minds, was the most prominent cause of adoption on the minds of Roman fathers.
It will be difficult for many modern readers to comprehend, first, the real sense of
duty that Romans felt to their ancestors and, second, the way in which such duty to
the past was manifested in the future continuity of the familial gens, name, glory,
and cult. All of these needed an heir.
The focus on inheritance explains other peculiar features of Roman adoption.
For example, they adopted adults more frequently than children; an adult would
have already proved himself as a viable and trustworthy heir, but children could
easily die or prove otherwise unsuitable. By adopting an adult, a father had confi-
dence in the security of his inheritable goods. Furthermore, those with the most
to bequeath were most likely to adopt. Those with little property or status had
little cause for adoption; but for patricians and emperors, the stakes were high
indeed.
The relationships between fathers and sons were the primary connections gov-
erning the systems of politics and kinship, which were the two dominant and over-
lapping “social spheres” of Roman society.9 The modern “nuclear family” was hardly
a concern because, in most cases, only the father-son relationship mattered for
politics and kinship; in fact, scholars have persuasively argued that there is no term
in either Greek or Latin which corresponds to the modern Western concept of
“family.”10 Therefore, adoption was performed neither for the sake of a child’s wel-
fare nor to satisfy a “nuclear” couple’s desire to nurture, but for the sake of a father,
who needed to pass on his wealth, name, honor and family cult. Since all property
and status were concentrated in the paterfamilias, even bachelors could adopt in
Roman culture. On the whole, “adoption of adult men was a convenient resource
for childless aristocrats and for emperors in need of successors.”11
Adoption in Law and Literature
Our understanding of adoption in the Roman Empire comes from a few descrip-
tions by Roman authors, the family law sections of the Roman civil codes, legal
declamations, and some documentary papyri. In his compilation of miscellanies,
Noctes Atticae or “Attic Nights,” Aulus Gellius provides the earliest explicit descrip-
tion (mid-late second century) of the practice in Rome.12 He distinguishes two
forms of adoption: adoptatio (usually called simply adoptio) and adrogatio (also
spelled arrogatio). The former is the process by which a man already under the
power of a father is transferred to the power of a different father. It is enacted
through a thrice-repeated formula by the former father and an acceptance by the
new father in front of a Roman official. The latter is the process by which men who
are their own masters deliver themselves into a father’s control and are accepted
into the other’s family. It is enacted through the consideration of a comitia curiata
(an assembly comprised of Rome’s constituent tribes and families) and under the
auspices of the pontifices. In addition to these forms reported by Aulus Gellius and
confirmed by legal codes, the late Republic and principate also give evidence of
testamentary adoption, when fathers would declare adoptions posthumously in
their testaments.
The legal codes of Gaius and Justinian chart the details of adoption laws and
practices, some of which are germane to our topic.13 Roman adoption was different
from that of the modern West in the irrelevance of the adopter’s wife to the transac-
tion and the ensuing family structure. “If I adopt a son, my wife does not occupy
the place of a mother to him” (Dig. 1.7.23). The adopted son does, however, become
related as a sibling to the other children of the father. “But he whom I have adopted
becomes the brother of my daughter, since my daughter is a member of my family”
(Dig. 1.7.23). The irrelevance of the wife/mother explains the Roman allowance for
bachelors to adopt (Dig. 1.7.30). Some further details are: the good news that a
son’s former liabilities and debts are taken from him and transferred to his adop-
tive father (Dig. 1.7.45), but also the bad news that the adopted son, being of the
same status as a biological son, cannot obtain release from under the power of his
new father (Dig. 1.7.31).
Buried in the legal codes one finds a small reference to illegal practices: any
adoption “not legally made” could later be confirmed by the emperor (Dig. 1.7.38).
But when a Roman historian looks under the rock of those three words, he or she
finds a confusing swarm of crisscrossing data. Indeed, modern scholars have
compiled and analyzed evidence demonstrating that Roman adoption law, though
an important source for understanding the idealized vision of society, does not
begin to describe the variety of adoptive family relations that existed in the
Empire. Patricians in the late Republic and emperors in the principate often
ignored or flagrantly violated the rules of adoption. The documentary evidence
from papyri further depicts instances of adoption that do not map on to the legal
sources. The preeminent study of those data concludes that papyrus contracts for
“adoption” (υἱοθεσία) do not have an obvious connection to Roman laws of adop-
tion and should be considered rather as local manifestations of a “common law”
form of adoption.14
In her landmark study, Römische Adoption, Christiane Kunst concurs, arguing
that the performance and social acceptance of various kinds of adoptive or quasi-
adoptive relationships—other than those legalized according to the Roman
codes—was much more common than previous scholarship acknowledged.15 As a
point of departure, Kunst articulates the distinction between the narrow sense of
the noun adoptio and the wide semantic range of the verb adoptare, a linguistic
distinction which symbolizes a real difference between adoption in the law and
adoption in Roman practice: “This divergence between verb and noun provides
cause for the supposition that adoption in the strict sense indeed denoted the
formal legal acceptance of a child, but as an occurrence it was carried over into a
much larger spectrum of social reality.”16 The Greek terminology for adoption dur-
ing the Roman era was even less regular than the Latin, as one would expect: adop-
tions were described using diverse verbs (such as ποιέω, εἰσποιέω, ἐκποιέω,
υἱοποιέω, τίθημι, υἱοθετέω, etc.) and their related nouns.17 Moreover, Kunst shows
that even Roman authors writing in Latin do not properly distinguish forms of
arrogatio and adoptio, nor do they distinguish formal adoptions from what she
labels “quasi-adoptions.”18 The social practice of adoption seems to be least regulated

in the era under consideration by the present study, the first two centuries of the
principate. On the whole, the “stark mixture of terminology” for adoption in the
Roman era reveals a highly adaptable social practice, which fits the Roman family’s
ubiquitous “readiness to extend relationships.”19
The legal and historical sources make clear that those to whom family relations
had been extended were not supposed to be thought of as inferior to biological
kin. In most cases, Romans did not regard the status of adopted sons as lower
than that of biological sons. As Watson states, “The adopted person not only
entered the family of the adopter; he acquired the status in the community which
he should have as a son of the adopter.”20 His adoption was precisely the legal and
cultural construction which allowed him to take over the social position of his
adoptive father.21 Certainly some Roman authors record opinions that denigrate
adopted sons, which will be considered later, but many sing the praises of adop-
tion as a cultural practice, especially as a method of imperial succession.22 The
Roman civil law proclaims that “adoption imitates nature” (Inst. Iust. 1.11.4), and
“the rank of a person is not diminished by adoption, but is in fact increased” (Dig.
1.7.35). Cicero could readily rely on this legal evaluation of adoption to elaborate
a philosophical point. When discussing his hometown with Atticus, he favor-
ably compares the Roman citizenship of someone not born in Rome to an adop-
tive relationship. Though one still honors a bond with his natural fatherland
(patria), the adoptive fatherland of Rome has increased his status and “must stand
first in [his] affection.”23 Kunst summarizes these ideas as a conclusion of her
thorough study: “The adopted son was really to become the son and agent of the
adoptive father; he was not a substitute son, nor some kind of second-class son.
The adopted son also exchanged his own [status] and took over the status of the
adoptive father.”24
As implied in the discussion of inheritance above, adoption occurred most
frequently among Roman elites—those with the most wealth and status to pass on.
Patricians and emperors often got themselves entangled in intricate webs of adop-
tions and marriages in order to control their familial property and name for the
future. Much was permitted to these Roman fathers, each of whom had a “recog-
nized right . . . to reshape his relationships,” according to Mireille Corbier; adop-
tion was a strategy used for regulating “the formation of alliances between families
and between individuals” and providing “the definition of legitimacy in the con-
text of political power.”25 In his monograph on the topic, Les Adoptions politiques
à Rome, Marcel-Henri Prévost agrees with Corbier, arguing that the legal
consequence of adoption (securing an heir), though important, was only a small
feature of the overall role adoption played in Roman political culture. Prévost
surveys the political adoptions of the Republic and principate to conclude that
issues of social status, especially the continued extension of patron-client rela-
tionships, trumped the legal matters of inheritance. During both the Republic
and the Empire,
the social reality [of adoption], which is covered by—and sometimes risks being hidden
by—the constitutional contingencies, is the same. Whatever the legal technique used to
allocate powers under public law, these [powers] are always entrusted, practically
speaking, to the holder of a social power which is made real by the possession of various
clienteles and whose cohesion requires the assurance of a continuous line of successive
patrons.26
Regardless of the legal techniques used or the inheritances involved, the status or
“social power” of the father was made real by the possession of clients gained
through adoption. In the ancient Roman economy of status, which was a zero-sum
system, a father needed always to maintain or bolster the status of his family line as
a patron. Through the process of adoption, the new clients were also elevated. The
Stoic philosopher Epictetus even warned that the sudden acquisition of status
through adoption could go to a person’s head. For him, imperial adoption is a ready
example of the constant temptations for the aspiring philosopher: “If Caesar were to
adopt you as a son, no one would be able to put up with your arrogance.”27
With immense wealth and status at stake, it is not surprising that Roman sons
wrangled with their fathers and brothers over inheritances and favors. Examples of
this strife and its attempted resolution are on display in several extant Roman dec-
lamations (especially the Controversiae, or “legal case studies”), a genre which has
long been dismissed by most Roman social historians as a kind of school-boy rhet-
oric. However, the rhetoric of these speeches trenchantly explores the faultlines in
Roman society and the liminal spaces in which Roman identity or “Romanness”
was produced. The orators also offer frequent epigrams and commonplaces designed
to appeal to the “epistemological unconscious” of their intended audiences.28 One
can thus interpret the kind of “common sense” that an orator expects from his
audience. The intended audiences, moreover, are not aptly depicted by the image of
school boys. S. F. Bonner situates the declamations of the Elder Seneca in this way:
“the whole atmosphere of the Senecan declamations is that of men of standing
who found therein a means of sharpening their wits, elaborating and exhibiting
their legal knowledge, and spending their leisure hours in a friendly, amusing, and
by no means futile intellectual exercise.”29
Utilizing the work of Bonner and the more recent critical editions of declama-
tions by the Elder Seneca, Quintilian, and Calpurnius Flaccus, historians Mary
Beard and Erik Gunderson have helped usher in “an emerging consensus . . . that
the connection between declamation and Roman society is profound and that it
cannot be ignored.”30 In his book, Declamation, Paternity, and Roman Identity,
Gunderson offers a cogent and sophisticated argument about how declamation
relates to social reality. He endorses Beard’s interpretation of declamation as “myth,”
in which “Romans construct and reconstruct for themselves questions of their
Romanness,” but investigates it from the supplementary perspective of social psy-
chology, “beyond mere social practice and into the space where society and psyche
intersect.”31 Gunderson finds that the Roman psyche is most concerned with how
to negotiate social inequality, and the declamations manifest this in their portrayal
of asymmetrical father-son relationships.32
As mentioned above, the Roman father-son relationship came to a head in the
issue of inheritable goods—specifically, who would be the son to inherit them?
The declamations are thus outfitted with legal case studies concerning disinheri-
tance (abdication) and adoption. Such are fitting topics for the noble and the
upwardly mobile in Roman society, who are trying to negotiate the many “trans-
formations of the family and corresponding alterations in social station” necessary
to propagate an elite familia.33 Among the extant Controversiae of the Elder Seneca,
five deal with adoption in some way and three are germane to our topic.34 These
references bolster and augment the construal of adoption advanced already
through analysis of Roman law and literature. One of Seneca’s orators makes an
analogy to adoption during a speech treating a different issue. In order to elaborate
an argument about how one should scrutinize a woman before deciding to marry
her, the orator compares the situation to a youth being requested for adoption. “If
[the young man] wants to go, he should inquire how many ancestors the old man
who seeks him has, what rank they are, what the old man’s wealth is—whether he
can auction himself off at a sufficient price” (1.6.6).35 This pursuit of “due diligence”
about the wealth and status of one’s future parents highlights the dispassionate,
businesslike character of the transaction. It also supports the earlier interpretation
of Roman adoption as a vehicle for social prestige and upward mobility.
The second and third examples deal with adoption more directly, posing case
studies about its proper use. In a speech taking the side of a poor father, who has
tried to convince his recalcitrant son to be adopted by a rich man, Porcius Latro
(Seneca’s favorite orator) offers a rhetorical commonplace on the social benefits of
adoption.“The family portraits of the Fabricii found room for the Metelli. Adoption
merged the families of the Aemilii and the Scipios. Even names that age has blotted
out shine in the person of new heirs. That is how the nobility of the patricians has
survived to this day from the founding of the city. Adoption is the remedy for
chance” (2.1.17).36 Latro appeals to classic Roman families, several of whom have
used adoption to continue their lines and merge with others. And he concludes
with the eminently quotable epigram, “Adoptio fortunae remedium est.” Here adop-
tion is a force for good, sustaining great families and protecting them against the
vicissitudes of nature.
Latro provides further memorable material in a different speech about an
uncouth adoption, whose details are these: A father disinherited a son (1), who
himself proceeded to go and have a son (2) of his own with a prostitute. When son
(1) fell ill and died, his father came and adopted son (2). But now the brother of the
deceased son (1) has become outraged because his father has adopted the son
(2) of a prostitute. When speaking on the side of the brother, questioning the
appropriateness of his father’s adopting son (2), Latro uses another commonplace
about adoption—this time, a negative one. Seneca reports: “Latro was speaking on
the side of the [brother], and when he got to the part about adoption, he said: ‘Now
through adoption, this [child] from the very bottom is grafted on to the nobility,’
and made other remarks to this effect” (2.4.13).37 It is clear from Seneca’s context
that the image of “grafting” was not interpreted as a positive one; this was a figura-
tive way of challenging someone’s “genetic” purity. Being one of the finest orators,
Latro could thus provide the perfect images either to defend (as above, 2.1) or
reject (as here, 2.4) a particular adoption.38
At one instance of publicly declaiming on this case study, Latro probably
wished he had taken a more positive stance toward adoption than he did. Seneca
reports that Latro had declaimed on the subject “in the presence of Caesar
Augustus and Marcus Agrippa, whose sons—[Gaius and Lucius,] the emperor’s
grandsons—the emperor seemed to be proposing to adopt at that time” (2.4.12).39
Latro’s line that portrayed adoption as “grafting” and raising up someone “from
the very bottom” insinuated that the adopted son was not really noble; this com-
ment would have struck a dissonant note with both Augustus and Marcus Agrippa.
(To make matters worse, one of Latro’s rhetorical opponents made a gesture to
make certain that Augustus noticed the slip-up.) One problem was that “Agrippa
was one of those who were not begotten noble, but made noble” (2.4.12), so Latro
was accidentally insulting Agrippa himself.40 Furthermore, his remark risked
insulting Augustus too, by comparing Gaius and Lucius to the son of a prostitute
and thus challenging their worthiness as imperial heirs. This was an example par
excellence of the failure to adapt one’s argument to one’s audience, resulting in a
faux pas of imperial proportions. Seneca concludes from the example that
Augustus deserves admiration for allowing such a comment to go unpunished—
the emperor’s clementia on public display.
On the whole, the declamations uphold the general depiction of adoption in
Roman law and literature and expand our understanding of how adoptions could
be construed. As in Roman law, the father reigns supreme; he uses adoption as a
means to reshape his relationships and secure a future for his inheritable goods.
Though we learn little to support or contradict the summary observations of
Gellius, we do find a keen awareness of the social status involved in Roman adop-
tions. A son could be raised up from the bottom of society and installed among the
nobility; furthermore, an adopted son could supersede a natural son in favor and
inheritance. Finally, several rhetorical commonplaces about adoption help situate
the Roman “common sense” about adoption: it was of great benefit to families and
a remedy for chance, but it could be used inappropriately to blur the lines between
patricians and plebeians.
Adoption Procedures?
Despite the abundant evidence of adoptions in Roman society, the actual procedure
by which fathers adopted sons remains obscure and seems not to have been
uniform in the Empire. The Roman law codes are silent concerning rituals or
formulae; some authors do, however, describe the practice, and extant papyri and
inscriptions provide limited evidence. According to Aulus Gellius, adoptio occurs

through a thrice-repeated declaration by the former father, releasing the son or
sons into the custody of the new father, who accepts them in the presence of a
Roman praetor. An arrogatio requires the additional confirmation of the afore-
mentioned comitia curiata, which represents the will of the people to approve the
transaction. Gellius even cites the language of an arrogatio ceremony, in which the
question is put to the Roman people for approval: “May it please you to command
that N1 be the son of N2 as justly and lawfully as if he had been born of that father
[N2] and the mother of his family, and that N2 have the power of life and death over
N1 which a father has over a son.”41 The will of the Roman people is necessary for
the arrogatio ceremony because it has more drastic effects than an adoptio. By sub-
suming an independent man, who was under his own legal power, into the power
of another man as father, an arrogatio effectively annihilates the former gens of the
adopted son. His former name, status, and family cult are gone, everything having
been brought under the power of his new father.
Extant papyri and inscriptions do not corroborate Gellius’s description of a
Roman adoptive formula; rather, they demonstrate the diversity of terminology
and ideas involved. As noted above, Kurylowicz concludes that the papyri reflect
neither the terminology nor law of Rome but reveal a “common law” situation in
Greco-Roman Egypt.42 The terminology and implications of adoption were not
uniform there, and moreover, the Greek-speaking eastern provinces used a differ-
ent vocabulary from both Rome and Egypt. The epigraphic evidence, though more
abundant than the papyrological, does not allay our uncertainty about finding a
standard language or formula for adoptive practices in the Roman Empire. Martin
Smith charts more than ten different linguistic descriptions of adoptive relation-
ships in Greek inscriptions.43 Yet this diversity is a boon for research when con-
trasted with the paucity of explicit references in Latin inscriptions; as Smith
explains, “apart from the extremely rare occurrences of filius adoptivus and the
like, we are forced to make inferences chiefly from cognomina in –ianus. As soon
as this type of name comes to be commonly used for purposes other than adoption
we are left with no reliable guide.”44 In short, we are not lacking evidence of adop-
tion in the Roman Empire, but we are restricted from describing the terminology
or ritual of the event in a simple way that fits the extant data. Adoption was cer-
tainly happening in diverse regions of the Empire, but there does not seem to have
been knowledge of the formulae preserved in Gellius’s description or concern for
the details of the legal codes.
Indeed, Roman elites—the most prolific and prominent adopters—did not
always abide by the laws they had established. There were some famously trans-
gressive adoptions, such as when the patrician Clodius had himself adopted by a
plebeian younger than himself, ostentatiously violating the principle that “adoption
imitates nature.”45 One of the Elder Seneca’s declamation case studies, in which a
man tries to adopt his brother while their father was still alive, seems less fanciful
in light of Clodius’s real-life maneuver.46 And then there were the testamentary
adoptions, in which a father would adopt a son or sons through his last will and
testament; though absent from the legal codes, they were used widely by patricians
and emperors. These posthumous adoptions express quite clearly the connection
between adoption and inheritance in the Roman worldview. Furthermore, one
can behold in them the potency of the Roman paterfamilias: he could sire children
even from beyond the grave.
Sometimes extenuating circumstances necessitated a brief, informal adoption
ceremony, such as happened with several imperial adoptions. An example of
intrigue comes from the principate of Gaius Caligula. In his “embassy to Gaius,” a
sharp invective speech against the rule of Gaius Caligula, Philo of Alexandria
describes the situation which led Gaius to adopt Tiberius Gemellus, his cousin.
Gaius had come to fear the claims that Tiberius Gemellus might have on imperial
power, “since Gaius was the grandson of [the emperor] Tiberius by adoption while
the other was by nature.”47 As a conniving way to dispose of his rival claimant,
Gaius decided to adopt Tiberius Gemellus as his son, thus enabling Gaius (legally,
at least) to have power over his life and death. Philo described the adoption as “a
snare to assure not the sovereignty which [Tiberius Gemellus] expected, but the
loss of that which he held already, . . . for the Roman laws assign absolute power
over the son to the father.”48 Once adopted, Gaius would order him killed (though
he ended up committing suicide instead).49 This tension and violence between
natural and adoptive sons foreshadows the latter portion of this chapter; at this
point, I would only emphasize the brief, ad hoc nature of the adoption procedure.
It occurred through these words: “I will be more than a tutor, teacher, and guardian.
I will presently appoint myself to be his father and him to be my son.”50 Later, in the
tumultuous “Year of Four Emperors,” the adoption of Piso by Galba seems to have
been enacted just as hastily, introduced by the simple declaration of the word “son.”
Nerva’s adoption of Trajan was similarly terse, requiring barely a sentence. The
memory and evaluation of these imperial adoptions will be analyzed later in this
chapter.
Despite the stark repercussions of Roman adoptions, entailing the permanent
transfer of wealth and status, Kunst points out that the transactions seem to have
been free of pageantry. The urbane Roman sensibility considered it barbaric to
associate adoption with any kind of birth ritual, and they “did without any distinc-
tive gestures, such as setting on the knees or hugging,” examples of adoptive rituals
from other ancient cultures.51 A point of contrast is provided by Diodorus Siculus,
when he describes the apotheosis and adoption ritual performed on Heracles by
Zeus and Hera.
We should add to what has been said about Heracles, that after his apotheosis Zeus
persuaded Hera to adopt him (υἱοποιήσασθαι) as her son and henceforth for all time to
cherish him with a mother’s love, and this adoption (τέκνωσις), they say, took place in
the following manner. Hera lay upon a bed, and drawing Heracles close to her body then
let him fall through her garments to the ground, imitating in this way the actual birth
(τὴν ἀληθινὴν γένεσιν); and this ceremony is observed to this day by the barbarians
whenever they wish to adopt a son (ὅταν θετὸν υἱὸν ποιει̑σθαι βούλωνται).52
Just as Ancient Near Eastern cultures used an imitation ritual of nursing or rearing
(setting on the knees) to enact adoption, Diodorus Siculus reports that “barbar-
ians” of his own time used an imitation ritual of “actual birth” to enact adoption.
But for Roman adoptive parents, such expressions neither were built into the adop-
tive ritual nor do they seem to have been spontaneous reactions of the parent. This
portrayal coheres with the overall picture of Roman parent-child relations, which
are totally foreign to a modern Westerner; the role of the Roman parent had almost
nothing to do with what we consider a parent’s proper functions.
Lack of pageantry is not the only feature distinguishing Roman adoption from
its cultural parallels. When examined cross-culturally, two other features stand out.
First, as mentioned above, Roman adoption was not a fosterage or child welfare
system but rather a method of passing on wealth and status to heirs, to secure the
continued existence of a family line.53 From the perspective of the adopted son,
Roman adoption was not for a child to gain a home of love and care but for an
adult to gain an inheritance of wealth and status. Stated another way, it was not
enacted to stabilize the life of a child, but to stabilize the future of a father. Second,
Roman adoption, as with most other Roman family relations, was unusually
focused on the paterfamilias. At issue were his name, his wealth, his status, and his
sacred rites; without a son, his divine spirit (genius) would perish. One could say
that all laws led to the Roman father.
■ E M P E R O R A S FAT H E R , E M P I R E A S FA M I LY
“Augusto, patri patriae, feliciter!”

“Bene te, patriae pater, optime Caesar.”
—Invocations of the emperor, after a meal
On a winter’s day in 2 b.c.e—February 5, to be exact—the Roman family changed

forever. The city brimmed with excitement because the Senate had a celebratory
announcement to make. But it’s not what you might think. No important birth
occurred that day. Proclamations of “It’s a boy!” did not resound on the Palatine hill
or in the Forum. On the contrary, a new father was born that day, when Caesar
Augustus was declared pater patriae—father of the fatherland. In lieu of gifts, the
new father requests honors instead.
And honors he would receive. In his Res Gestae, a public résumé of accomplish-
ments, Augustus himself describes the events of 2 b.c.e: “In my thirteenth consul-
ship the Senate, the equestrian order, and the whole people of Rome gave me the
title of pater patriae, and resolved that this should be inscribed in the porch of my
house and in the Curia Julia and in the Forum Augustum below the chariot that
had been set there in my honor by decree of the Senate.”54 But what was this
honor? What did it mean for the Senate and the Roman people to consider
Augustus as a father?
Augustus was actually not the first to be honored with such a title, but its ramifi-
cations were more explicitly fleshed out under his rule than at any previous time.
The titles parens patriae and pater patriae had occasionally been bestowed on
heroic individuals “to equate the role of a benefactor with that of a father.”55 That is
to say, because someone had acted powerfully for the benefit of Rome, as a father
exercises his power for the benefit of his family, he was honored with such a title.
For his defense against the Catilinarian conspirators, Cicero was hailed as parens
patriae; for his victory at the battle of Munda, Julius Caesar was called pater patri-
ae.56 Neither of these leaders developed an overall fatherly image, however. With
the long reign of Augustus and concomitant shifts in political ideology, pater patriae
did shift from an honorific title to an authentic role.57 Romans throughout the
Empire began to consider Augustus as a paterfamilias—of the largest family on
earth. After his death, the fatherly image of the divine Augustus was distributed on
the legend of a new coin issue: “Divus Augustus Pater.”58 Besides Tiberius, who did
not accept the title of “father,” every emperor thereafter was known by it.59
But didn’t the Roman people already have a pater—the god Jupiter? Indeed, the
fatherly role of Jupiter has been documented and analyzed in the study of Roman
religion, and it frequently played a role in the official political ideology of
Roman rulers during Republic and Empire. In his monograph on “Jupiter and
Roman Imperial Ideology,” J. Rufus Fears offers an astute, chronological analysis of
how Roman rulers used Jupiter in their official ideology and how that usage was
reflected back in the unofficial piety of the people. He argues that “the concept of
Jupiter as pater clearly predates the Capitoline cult” of Roman Jupiter, stretching
back to the Indo-European roots which engendered the Vedic Dyaus Pitar, the
Greek Zeus Pater, and the Roman Iuppiter.60 Crucial to note for our topic is Fears’s
observation that “the implication of the epithet Father is not generation but rather
rule and dependence, the dependence of the human worshiper upon his divine
protector who can supply his needs and protect him and under whose power he
stands as one inferior in age and status.”61 In the Roman worldview, the father-son
relationship did not primarily connote “generation” or a “begotten” relationship; if
this fact is kept in mind, our interpretations of father-son language in the Roman
Empire can be deepened and expanded.
When investigating the political appropriation of Jupiter throughout Roman
history, Fears isolates a specific time when the fatherly god is absent from official
political ideology: the principate of Augustus. “If we consider the implications of
Augustus’ official acts and of such official testimony as the coinage, it becomes
clear that after 27 B.C. Jupiter was relegated to a position of honored insignificance.”62
The absence was “marked and intentional,” and it made room for the new political
ideology of the Augustan age. This was the main point: Augustus was now the
father of the Roman people, he himself with divine lineage through his adoptive
father, and his family would now preside in the fatherly role over the Empire.
In reconceiving the principate as the inheritable property of one man, and the
entire Empire as a large family under the patronage and power of that man as a
father, Augustus incarnated (or even displaced) Jupiter’s traditional fatherly role.
The Julio-Claudian family dynasty, perpetuated through adoption, was the manifest
divine order of fathers and sons.63
Roman writers of the first and second centuries commented on the new role
played by Augustus and his successors. For example, from his position of exile,
Ovid uses the titles of “parent” and “father” to laud Augustus’s family line and also
to appeal to his mercy. He praises the Roman “fatherland” to be “safe and secure”
under the “parental” care of Augustus because he has established (the adopted son)
Tiberius and (the grandsons) Germanicus and Drusus the Younger to continue the
imperial family.64 This interpretation of “father” was shared by Strabo, who inter-
prets Augustus’s fatherly status as both a metaphor for good authority and a literal
assurance of political stability: it would be “a difficult thing to administer so great
a dominion otherwise than by turning it over to one man, as to a father.”65
Furthermore, Ovid invokes Augustus’s fatherly mercy: he begs for “a milder and
nearer place of exile” with the cry, “Spare me, pater patriae! Do not, forgetful of this
name [pater], take from me the hope that I may appease you!”66 For Ovid, the title
of pater connoted authority over a solid line of family descendants and a merciful
demeanor toward all under his power.
Seneca the Younger provides an example of how, after two generations of Julio-
Claudian reinforcement, the title had become clearly indicative of a role. It now
seemed natural to speak of the princeps as a pater. When articulating the ideal
vision of an emperor’s clementia, Seneca explains:
This [clementia] is the duty of a parens, and it is also the duty of a princeps, whom not in
empty flattery we have been led to call “pater patriae.” For other designations have been
granted merely by way of honor; some we have styled “the great” and “the fortunate” and
“the august,” and we have heaped upon pretentious greatness all possible titles as a
tribute to such men. But to the pater patriae we have given the name in order that he may
know that he has been entrusted with patria potestas, which is most forbearing in its care
for the interests of his children and subordinates his own to theirs.67
According to Seneca, the title of “father” is not simply an honorific title like
“Augustus,” which acknowledged past actions (as the title “father” did for Cicero
and Caesar). This title instead denotes a present and future function of the
emperor; he will continue to act as the paterfamilias, entrusted with patria potes-
tas. Seneca exhorts the emperor not to use the full powers allotted to him, but to
deal with his children mercifully.68
Imagining the emperor as father did not only affect the imagery of Latin high
literature; this reconfiguring of the fundamental Roman social unit had practical
consequences. For example, Suetonius encapsulates the event of 2 b.c.e and its
repercussions throughout the Empire (Aug. 58–60). Some of the events described
by Suetonius were generic gestures of adulation for a heroic ruler, such as the
redating of municipal calendars, the establishment of temples and games, and the
renaming of cities. But others were rather specific responses to the new Augustan
role as father. Upon the new declaration, many Roman family heads altered their
testaments—the symbols of their fatherly statures—to include offerings to
Augustus. By including him in their wills, these previously independent Roman
fathers indicated their obeisance to the emperor’s overall paternity. The rulers of
the various provinces were also sure to situate themselves as members of his family
entourage and “show him the attentions usual in dependents” (more clientium).
Most importantly, the Empire swiftly developed an innovative devotion to the
emperor’s genius, starting with a large-scale enterprise to complete the temple to
Jupiter Olympius at Athens and dedicate it to the genius of Augustus. Though some
scholars have viewed the explosion of dedications and offerings to the emperor’s
genius as a way of honoring the emperor without giving in to direct worship of
him, the focus on the genius should be interpreted in its proper role as the tutelary
spirit of a family line (gens).69 If Augustus had become the father of all, the Roman
worldview necessitated an honoring of the family genius.70 John Scheid situates
this development in the overall program of the Augustan principate:
Creating this kind of cult [to the genius of Augustus] extended to the public persona of
the emperor domestic forms of cult (such as that of the genius of the paterfamilias),
or forms previously reserved for particular Roman surroundings (the genius of Rome or
some other place). Augustus exploited this ambiguity, for he was always keen to resort to
categories of the family and to the symbolism of the powers of the paterfamilias in order
to define his own relations with the citizens.71
Refashioning the Empire as a large family thus engendered a shift in cultic

practices, both in public and private. Using the sacrificial record of the Acta
Fratrum Arvalium as his main source, Gradel completely rewrites the scholarly
history of the emperor’s genius in the Roman state cult.72 Taylor had previously
argued that the genius and numen of Augustus were both worshipped during
Augustus’s lifetime and were incorporated into official state cult.73 Gradel’s presen-
tation takes seriously, however, the servile implications of honoring someone’s
genius; that is to say, participating in the family cult of another man’s genius is to
put oneself under that man’s power in a poignant way. Roman elites, each with his
own status concentrated in his patria potestas, would be loath to submit to such an
activity, much less enshrine it in state cult. This conflict with high-ranking Roman
men was likely the reason that Tiberius initially refused the title of pater patriae. It
was only under Claudius that the genius Augusti entered the state cult. In Gradel’s
own words:
The decisive development [in adding the ruling emperor’s genius to the state cult] took
place under Claudius, who joined this cult to that of his deified ancestress Livia and her
husband Augustus. The ideological connotations were obvious, stressing Claudius as the
true heir of Augustus. With the worship of his Genius, the emperor’s position in the state
was for the first time clearly expressed in constitutional terms as that of a paterfamilias
for the whole Roman people . . . . By implication, if the emperor was a mega-paterfamilias,
his fellow senators would be his clientes . . . [Claudius] linked the title [pater patriae] with
its logical consequence in practice, namely state worship of his own Genius, as the Genius
of a paterfamilias was worshipped by his familia in the Roman household.74
By studying the sacrificial practices of the Arval brethren, Gradel concludes that,
after Claudius, the installation of the living emperor’s genius in state cult was
on-and-off for over a century, corresponding roughly to the senatorial character-
ization of each emperor.75 The emperor’s genius was officially worshipped by the
state only if the Senate had good relations with that particular emperor.
The argument that worship of the genius did not immediately enter the state
cult and was not always embraced by Roman elites should not be interpreted as a
diminution of Augustus’s and his successors’ power to penetrate public and private
spaces in less official ways, through practices not sponsored by the Senate. On the
contrary, Augustus was honored throughout the city of Rome and beyond, espe-
cially by those who had more to gain by his fatherly patronage than to lose of their
own status. The best evidence of honoring the genius of Augustus in Rome are the
so-called compital altars, of which several are extant.76 Roman residents in the
Augustan era imagined their city as a collection of neighborhoods (vici), with each
vicus being centered on a compitum.77 An urban compitum was a kind of “cross-
roads,” larger than a simple intersection and smaller than a piazza—it might now
be called a piazzina. During the Republic, the neighborhood collegia, each of which
was oriented around an individual compitum, had developed a reputation for
political unrest, specifically during the holiday of Compitalia. The holiday and its
games were thus abolished in the late Republic. Augustus resurrected them, how-
ever, as part of his plan for restoration and innovation of traditional cults.78 Instead
of excluding the plebeian leaders of each vicus from the closed system of status, he
adapted the neighborhood cults in distinct ways. The cults had previously been
devoted to the Lares compitales, a pair of guardian spirits which ensured the
well-being of a particular place (whether house, neighborhood, or entire city, as
with the Augustan temple of the Lares). Augustus invited leaders from among the
freedmen (vicomagistri), with slaves to assist, to rededicate altars to the Lares, with
the added benefit of gaining permanent status for themselves as dedicators.
But the extant altars from Augustan Rome also depict a third figure honored—
the genius Augusti—alongside the Lares, who were themselves renamed Lares
Augusti in most examples. The altars depict neighborhood freedmen and slaves
engaged in sacrifice to the Lares and the genius, surrounded by Augustan family
symbols and, in some cases, portraits of the imperial family itself. This linkage of
the twin Lares and the genius had been noted by Ovid, when he described the
Augustan restoration. In times past, says Ovid, he had “sought for images of the
twin gods”; sadly they had fallen into disrepair. But now, in the Augustan restoration:
“The city has a thousand Lares and the genius of the leader who delivered them,
and the neighborhoods worship three divine powers.”79 Though this threesome of
divine powers was bound together as a restoration of a republican cult, Gradel
astutely observes that among the sacrifices offered, the sacrifice of a bull to the
genius indicates that it had become “the main divinity of the cult.”80 The local
leaders of the neighborhoods were thus symbolically bringing themselves and
their constituents under the familial headship of Augustus.
The penetration of Augustus and his successors did not stop there, but extended
into the private homes of the Empire’s residents.81 Though ancient home life is
extremely difficult to assess, there is some evidence of honoring the imperial family
in home altars and especially libations. For example, writing after the death of
Augustus (and still from exile), Ovid describes how his piety is evident to his
foreign neighbors by virtue of his household altar:
Nor is my piety unknown: a strange land sees there is a shrine to Caesar in my house.
Beside him stand the pious son and priestess wife, divine powers not less important than
himself who has now been made a god. To make the household group complete, both of
the grandsons are there, one by the side of his grandmother, the other by that of his father.
To these I offer incense and words of prayer as often as the day rises from the east.82
Ovid is clearly concerned to articulate the completeness of the imperial domus

that resides in his own domus. Has the shrine to Ovid’s biological family been
replaced with this sacrum Caesaris? He goes on to explain how he celebrates “the
birthday of the god” on this “altar,” as one would the birthday of one’s own paterfa-
milias.83 And though he obviously describes his pietas in order to be noticed by
Roman elites and hopefully brought back from exile, he also claims that he is not
too worried about their attention, because news of his piety “shall sometime reach
the ear of Caesar from whom nothing which occurs in the whole world is hidden.”84
Caesar, who has been “adopted in the ranks above” and made “a new member of
the heavens,” can see everything and answer prayers from his place among the
stars.85 Ovid concludes by appealing to the overarching image which governs his
entire perspective: “thus I prophesy that your divine power [numen] is yielding to
these prayers, for not undeservedly do you have the gracious name parens.”86
Augustus, adopted as son by Caesar on earth, exalted to father of the Empire, has
now been adopted by heaven, and his parental mercy is thus widened by his
universal gaze.
Tantalizing though examples like this may be, the private invocation of
Augustus and his successors is more frequently encountered in less ornate contexts—
specifically, the practice of invoking the emperor at all meals, public and private. Dio
describes the institution of the practice: “The priests and priestesses were instructed,
when they prayed on behalf of the Roman people and the Senate, to pray likewise for
him [Augustus]. And at banquets—not only public but also private—everyone was to
pour a libation for him.”87 One finds a spontaneous instance of this libation during
the famous dinner of Trimalchio. When a bizarre and enticing dessert was pre-
sented to the dinner guests, they perceived a sacredness in its flavor and
ornamentation. Therefore they stood up and said, “Cheers to Augustus, pater

patriae!” Presently two attendants brought in images of the Lares and another car-
ried around a bowl of wine, crying out, “May the gods be gracious!”88 Here we find
the emperor hailed as pater and offered a libation alongside the household gods,
the Lares. Though the genius of the emperor is not explicitly invoked, the paternity
of Augustus is connected with the Lares, just as on the compital altars.
Horace and Ovid adduce more florid portrayals of the libation at meals. Their
descriptions are undoubtedly stylized, due to their affections for Augustus, but
they nonetheless provide food for our rumination about idealized conceptions of
how the emperor could fit into the private home. In one of his Odes to Augustus,
composed while awaiting his return from abroad, Horace describes a pastoral
scene: after a full day’s work in the field, a vintner “returns happily to his wine and
invites you to the second course of the meal, O god. He honors you with many a
prayer, pouring libations from the dish, and combines your divine power with the
Lares.”89 Augustus is clearly invited to the table as a god (te . . . deum), and his divine
power (numen) is mixed with the guardian household spirits (Laribus), just as his
own spirit was juxtaposed to them on the compital altars.90
Ovid also links the emperor with the Lares in his depiction of libations at a
family feast, the Caristia of February 22. For the home liturgy, one should:
Make a libation of sacrificial food, an acceptable pledge of honor, so that the girt Lares
may feed at the offered platter. And now, when the damp night is about to induce peace-
ful slumber, fill up the wine with an abundant pour for the prayer, and say, “May it be well
with you, [Lares]! May it be well with you, pater patriae, best Caesar!,” pouring out the
wine with these sacred words.91
Again the title pater patriae is the chosen form of address, which this chapter has
shown to be intimately linked with the genius of the emperor. Ovid’s description
corroborates the argument, as he links the family Lares with the family genius
through the invocation of the emperor as head of the family. In all these examples,
scholars have debated whether the invocation of the emperor was direct worship
of the man as a god, the beseeching of his numen as a divine power, or rather
the honoring of his genius as a guardian spirit. Though such distinctions could be
made for purposes of analysis, all three interpretations congeal together within the
emperor’s role as pater patriae.
In sum, Augustus and his successors established the emperor’s role as father of
the Empire, the paterfamilias of a large family. Roman authors regarded the image
as befitting Augustan stability, and they hoped it would portend continued imperial
clementia. The genius Augusti, the guardian spirit of the imperial gens, thus radi-
ated out from the Palatine hill, filled the neighborhoods of Rome, and reached
household altars and triclinia at the frontier of the Empire. The provinces responded
with loyalty to their new father, demonstrating the successful inculcation of
imperial ideology. The emperor was not only the father of Rome, as Romulus was,
but “the father of the whole human race,” as he was called in the province of Asia.92
Augustus had indeed become the father of fifty million people—but in a great
irony, he himself had trouble rearing a natural, begotten son to inherit his power.
Instead, he would have to make a son. Augustus, the great father, had to adopt.
■ ADOPTION AND IMPERIAL SUCCESSION
The desire at all levels of the [Roman] population to see stability in the
history of the empire was expressed first and foremost by the fiction of
dynastic continuity on the throne.
—clifford ando
Adoption as Transmission of Power
Roman historians have acknowledged the crucial function of adoption in imperial

successions at least since the work of Mason Hammond.93 In a masterful series of
monographs, and especially in his essay on “the transmission of powers” in the
Roman principate, Hammond highlights the indispensability of adoptions,
whether formal or informal, for the legitimation of emperors.94 He isolates three
sources of possible legitimation that each gain a hearing at the death of an emperor
and accession of an heir. First, the Senate held the constitutional control to assign
specific powers to Roman citizens, such as priesthoods, consulships, and other
public offices; however, already in the early first century, the historical sources
make clear that the “senate had in fact no choice as to the new princeps.”95 The var-
ious public powers granted to Augustus had been consolidated into the figure of
the man, whose quite absolute power swallowed up the distinctions among his
diverse offices.96 The Senate may have been the body to acknowledge imperial
authority in a symbolic and documentary sort of way, but the actual social power
or auctoritas of a new emperor came from elsewhere. The second source of legiti-
mation was “the support of the troops,” both the legions and the praetorian guard,
which “came to be recognized openly as the real source and mainstay of the
imperial power not only in cases of violent change but even when the succession
was peaceful and prearranged.”97 One can perceive the clout of the troops espe-
cially in the “Year of Four Emperors,” when Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and Vespasian
successively claimed the imperial power, based almost entirely on various troop
allegiances secured through battle. Vespasian’s dating of his imperium to the date
of the army’s acclamation “recognized what had from the beginning been true, that
the army could in fact make or unmake emperors and that ‘constitutional’
succession was possible only by its sufferance.”98 The entire drama of that year
caused Tacitus to wax poetic: “the secret of empire was now disclosed, that an
emperor could be made elsewhere than at Rome.”99 Hammond further demon-
strates that the troops were not only important in a time of civil war, but their
influence continued into times of peace. (Though, in a sense, such “times of peace”
are themselves not aptly named, since the Roman frontier was ever-expanding for
the years under our consideration, and emperors were often engaged in battle at
great distances from Rome.) Finally, Hammond subordinates even the support of
the troops to a third source of legitimation: above all, “the status of destined suc-
cessor was consolidated through heredity, either natural or adoptive”—and most
successors were adopted.100 In a thorough examination of the transmission of
imperial power from the Julio-Claudians through the Severans, he concludes that
the adopting of sons, whether through a legal procedure, an informal emergency
ceremony, a testamentary adoption, or a deathbed proclamation, undergirded the
entire system of imperial power. The emperor’s “choice of a successor, as indicated
by adoption, by conferring special privileges or powers, and by designation as his
personal heir, was the determining factor in securing the support of the army and
the confirmation of the senate.”101 The most powerful son in the world gained his
power by adoption.
In his analysis of the relationship between Roman imperial ideology and pro-
vincial loyalty, Clifford Ando also examines the principles by which emperors
legitimated their claims to power. He goes far beyond the work of Hammond and
other modern historians, though, by his attempts to re-present the classic texts
and artifacts with refreshing theoretical sophistication. Drawing from sociological
and philosophical theorists—especially Weber, Habermas, and Bourdieu—Ando
emphasizes the central importance of adoption in the burgeoning ideology of the
Roman emperor. He argues that the adoption of imperial heirs is a paradigmatic
case of a “Roman political ritual” which appealed to multiple strata of society and
could be viewed according to different principles of legitimation.
The use of adoption to designate a successor appealed on one level to those who inter-
preted the Principate as a legal institution: after all, the bureaucracy had started out as
the personal familia of one man, and, as such, it had to be willed by the emperor to his
successor, although in practice its fate was never in doubt. To the extent that adoption
announced a specific heir to the charisma of the current emperor, it also might appeal to
those who wished to see dynastic succession at the heart of imperial rule; even if the
designated successor then required the acclamation of his subjects, this need should not
distract from the charismatic power that accrued to the adopted heir from the mere fact
of his designation. Without doubt few if any people assigned their loyalties through a
single principle of legitimation, but nothing about a Roman adoption precluded an
individual from viewing it from many perspectives simultaneously.102
Ando deftly employs the Weberian categories of “legal authority” and “charismatic
authority” to illuminate how the practice of adoption helped Augustus navigate the
uncertain waters of imperial succession.103 The uncertainty arose because the “con-
stitutional fiction” of Augustus’s unique statio as the princeps did not “provide an
explicit mechanism to oversee the succession.”104 Adoption allowed him to satisfy
the legal conceptions of inheritance and the charismatic conceptions of auctoritas.
Through the mechanism of adoption, Augustus successfully solved what Weber
identified as the primary problem with charismatic authority—its transmission to
another individual. Augustus’s successors then continued to procure sons through

adoption, generating a fictive linear succession of power through the Julio-Claudian
family; it was “a multivalent system for concretizing the transfer of charisma bet-
ween generations.”105 Even the Flavians, who were related through natural kinship,
affiliated themselves with the Augustan line of succession. This was most evident in
Vespasian’s formal titulature: Imperator Caesar Augustus Vespasianus. The name
Flavius is nowhere to be found. The High Empire, with its long chain of “good and
adoptive emperors,” allowed for the ultimate communication of the imperial ide-
ology of adoption, though still in the terms of dynasty.106 In Ando’s words, “the sta-
bility and concord of the Antonine house, then, provided time for all to familiarize
themselves with the language appropriate to the fiction.”107
In the first two centuries of the Empire, how widespread was the knowledge of
imperial adoptions? How did the imperial family “get the news out” about its
changes, and to whom did the news go out? Though we do not have abundant evi-
dence for every imperial adoption, there is enough to conclude that the emperors
utilized a wide range of media to advertise key adoptions. They used images and
legends of coins; construction and dissemination of portraiture and other monu-
ments; official texts and religious commemorations; and displays at public events.
Through these various means, residents of the Empire in diverse locales and social
classes learned about imperial adoptions and how to construe them.
Imperial coins were struck to advertise adopted sons,108 from those of Gaius
and Lucius Caesar early in the principate109 to the Trajan-Hadrian “ADOPTIO”
coins in the High Empire.110 Such media were reinforced by portraiture and other
monuments. Statues of imperial family members were instrumental in shaping the
dynastic “grammar” by which (especially provincial) residents of the Empire could
track its changes in leadership.111 In Rome itself, permanent monuments to adop-
tion were debated (and probably commissioned) by the Senate, such as whether
Livia-cum-Julia Augusta should have an “altar” established to commemorate her
testamentary adoption by Augustus.112 Moreover, the Acta Fratrum Arvalium, the
best extant sources for Roman state cult during the principate, record the official
religious honoring of adoptions.113 For example, on January 10, 69 c.e., the occasion
of Galba’s adoption of Piso was honored by the Arval brethren at the Capitol with
a host of sacrifices “on account of the adoption” (ob adoptionem), including cows
offered to providentia and securitas—which the adoption was thought to have
ensured—and also “a bull offered to the genius of Galba himself ” (genio ipsius
taurum).114 A decade earlier, the Arval brethren had used a similar sacrificial lit-
urgy to honor the adoption of Nero by Claudius (February 25, 58 c.e.) and its
anniversary the following year (59 c.e.).115 Finally, Roman historians recount the
public proclamations or introductions of adopted sons to the people, some of
which will be treated later.116 Through all these means, the news of adoptions
spread and became part of the gossip network. A proximate observer like Suetonius
offers glimpses into such Roman tales about high-profile adoptions—whether they
were auspicious, what precedents they followed, and what the “word on the street”
was. More distant observers like Philo, Josephus, and Epictetus knew enough of the
imperial adoptions to incorporate them into their works without much explana-
tion. Residents of the Empire did not always agree about the appropriateness of
imperial adoptions, but they did know what was going on at the top of the family.
The Role of Divine Election
At various points in the political history of Rome, emperors and those who prop-
agated their ideology expressed their rise to power as the result of a specific divine
election. Though the powers of the principate were granted nominally by the
Senate and the Roman people, the actual forms of legitimation came from else-
where. As Hammond has already argued, both the support of the army and the
securing of imperial heirs by adoption were methods far more important than the
constitutional niceties of the Senate. In times of Roman political crisis, especially
when rule had transitioned to a new family, the gods also got involved in the pro-
cess, carrying out a divine “electoral college” and then choosing an emperor—
usually by telling the current emperor whom to adopt. These divine elections were
made known to the Empire’s inhabitants through reports of omens, auspices, and
other specific revelations, in addition to concrete portrayals in coins, portraits, and
liturgies.
In his thorough study, Princeps a diis electus, J. Rufus Fears surveys and analyzes
how divine election functioned as a political concept in the Roman Empire and its
relevant antecedents. By his definition, the concept of divine election means that
“the ruler has been elected by the gods of the state to serve as their minister on
earth and, by virtue of this divine investiture, he insures the prosperity of the
temporal community.”117 Previous historians assumed that divine election was not
a part of Greek or Roman political ideology until the second century c.e., but
Fears demonstrates that “the divine election of kings was well-known in Greece
from the time of Homer and that, in various periods, it played an important role in
practical political ideology in Greece and in the late Roman republic and early
Empire.”118 Alexander the Great, for example, was adept at using the concept of
divine election to shore up support for his rule; and once each particular victory
had been presented as chosen by the gods, Alexander paid careful “attention to the
native ceremonies of kingship” in each conquered culture in order “to rule as a
legitimately chosen divine king.”119 The divine election of Augustus was a common
theme in early imperial literature, such as the works of Horace, Ovid, and Vitruvius.
Fears is careful, though, to separate literary tropes from what he calls the “official
ideology” of coins, monuments, and “quasi-official proclamations,” such as imperial
panegyrics.120 Both types of evidence support a concept of divine election in
Roman politics, but they do so in different ways and at different times. In the end,
Fears depicts Roman political ideology as oscillating between two contrasting
modes of legitimation: on the one hand, the Roman people appreciated the sta-
bility of (good) dynasties, and dynastic rulers preferred to emphasize their human
lineage rather than superhuman election; on the other hand, each time a dynasty
failed—creating a power vacuum and political crisis—a new ruler would look to
divine election for legitimacy. Therefore, Fears identifies divine election as “a major
theme in official imperial ideology only in eras of constitutional crisis: the
foundation of the Augustan principate, the civil wars of 68–69 and 193–194, the
reigns of Domitian, Trajan, and Hadrian, in which principate was transformed into
monarchy, and again in the late third century. In a sense, divine election remained
a doctrine to justify illegal power.”121
Fears’s elegant argument is, on the whole, persuasive. On one crucial point,
however, he has not inspected carefully enough the dynasties about which he
reports. Many of the imperial successions which he considers “dynastic” are
enacted through adoption. Fears seems to have been swayed by the rulers’ own
propaganda, since, at least in the early Roman Empire, most of the sons were
sons by adoption. His inattentive characterization of these “made” sons as
“begotten” sons shows to what extent the propagandists of imperial heirs have
successfully shaped our perceptions of them. For example, Fears passes over the
Julio-Claudian emperors from Augustus to Nero; by his reckoning, election did
not play a role here because the so-called dynasty was stable. However, several
key adoptions took place in this period, some of which were tenuous and most
of which received divine election in the form of omens and auspices. If these
adoptions had not been portrayed and construed by the people as a legitimate—
though fictive—succession of fathers and sons, the “dynasty” would never have
been interpreted as such. Whereas Fears sees the Empire as an oscillation back
and forth between political ideologies of human dynasty and divine election,
I find the two ideologies continuously throughout. Sometimes they cohere;
sometimes they conflict.
Among the many examples of divine election, two examples bear special rele-
vance for our topic. Each one explicitly connects the events of adoption and divine
election. The first comes from Plutarch’s treatise, “On the Fortune of Alexander,” in
which he analyzes the cause of Alexander’s momentous achievements—whether
they arose because of his virtue or his good fortune.122 According to Plutarch, the
two powers of Fortune and Virtue had mutually generative effects on Alexander,123
and the treatise reads as part philosophical exploration of these effects and part
encomium to Alexander’s greatness. At the conclusion of a section delineating
Alexander’s virtue, Plutarch reports how Darius III, the last king of the Achaemenid
Empire of Persia, eventually succumbed to Alexander on account of his virtue. In
fact, Darius was so impressed that he wanted Alexander as his own son and succes-
sor. He confessed that, if his own fortune and virtue should fail, he would choose
Alexander to take over: “ ‘But if my power should be lost—O Zeus, paternal god of
the Persians, and the ruling gods—may none other than Alexander sit on the
throne of Cyrus.’ With the gods as his witnesses, this was Darius’s adoption of
Alexander.”124 Darius invokes the fatherly god as chief witness over his own expres-
sion of fatherhood to Alexander. On the one hand, the use of adoption in this text
may simply express a new relationship between Darius and Alexander, who
married Darius’s daughter Stateira in a political union.125 On the other hand, it may
also serve as a fascinating challenge to the common portrayal of royal ideology in
the Hellenistic monarchies, which have been normally construed as consistently
dynastic and not open to adoptive modes of succession. Since he lived and wrote
at the height of adoptive imperial ideology, Plutarch’s own knowledge of adoptive
succession in the Roman Empire probably influenced his interpretation of Darius’s
speech as an adoption.
The second example comes from a fascinating papyrus known as P.Giss. 3.126
The well-preserved text contains part of the script for a specific liturgical celebra-
tion of Hadrian’s accession, a celebration that took place in Heptakomia, the
metropolis of the Apollopolite nome in Egypt.127 From another papyrus (P.Oxy.
3781), we know that the Egyptian prefect had ordered such celebrations to take
place, in either 117 or 118 c.e., to inform the people of the new emperor and,
apparently, to legitimate him in their eyes. The libretto is a call and response for two
voices, a dialogue between the god Phoebus [Apollo] and the responding voice of
the people. My translation follows:128
[Phoebus Apollo:] Having just ascended with Trajan in a white-horsed chariot,

I, the not unknown god Phoebus [Apollo],
have come to you, proclaiming Hadrian as the new ruler,
to whom all are subject on account of his virtue
and the genius of his father, a god.
[The people:] Rejoicing, therefore, let us light up the altars for sacrificing,
lifting up our souls with laughter and drinks from the well
and the ointments of the gymnasia—
for all of which we are indebted
to the reverence of our governor for the lord [emperor]
and his beneficence to us.
In the first part, Apollo announces that Trajan has just become divine, having died
and ascended heavenward in Apollo’s chariot. But Apollo has chosen a new ruler,
Hadrian, and everyone should be subject to him, just as they were to Trajan. In the
second part, the people thank their governor, the aptly named Apollonios (who is
known to us from other papyri in his archive, published in P.Brem. and P.Giss.), for
his financial support of the festivities honoring their lord.
The divine election portrayed here in words was later symbolized on Hadrian’s
coinage (sestertii and dupondii) of 119 c.e., which depicted an eagle flying down to
Hadrian with a scepter in its talons.129 Fears interprets the eagle as the messenger of
Jupiter, delivering imperial power to Hadrian, while Arthur Darby Nock interprets it
as the apotheosized Trajan.130 In either case, the legend “PROVIDENTIA DEORUM”
evokes the divine participation in Hadrian’s election. Jupiter and Divus Trajan were
working together.
Divine election thus constituted a major part of Hadrian’s official imperial

ideology. And although I am presenting this example under the rubric of divine
election, there is rather more achieved by the pithy rhetoric of Apollo’s speech. In
addition to this direct legitimation from Apollo, Hadrian’s rule is further bolstered
through his virtue and through his adoption by a divine father, whose genius he
now possesses (ἀρετὴν κ[αὶ] πατρὸς τύχην θεου̑). Therefore, Hadrian is legitimated
by three separate means: his divine election, his human merits, and his adoption by
Trajan, the human-cum-divine father. Since Hadrian’s position as emperor would
be under serious scrutiny, causing him to issue the ADOPTIO and PROVIDENTIA
coins, he had to defend its legitimacy with all available means in these liturgies.
■ I D E O L O G I C A L T E N S I O N S : N AT U R A L D Y N A S T Y
OR ADOPTIVE MERITOCRACY?
Now there is a distinction between natural and adopted sons: for a

begotten son (τὸ γεννώμενον) becomes whatever kind of person
seems appropriate to the heavenly powers, but a man takes an adopted
son (τὸ ποιούμενον, a “made” son) to himself through a deliberate
selection. The result is that, through natural processes, a man is often
given a deformed and incompetent son, but through a process of
judgment, one of sound body and mind is certain to be chosen.
—hadrian, according to Cassius Dio, Roman History 69.20
In the foregoing presentations of imperial ideology, some tensions between com-

peting and often mutually exclusive modes of legitimation remain unresolved. Is
imperial power conferred by birth or by adoption? By victory in battle or by divine
election? The remainder of this chapter will analyze in some detail the tension bet-
ween natural (“begotten”) sonship and adopted (“made”) sonship in the transmis-
sion of Roman imperial power from Augustus to Trajan. Though the tension
cannot be easily resolved, since the tension itself is what generates the complex
ideology of Roman familial power, it can nonetheless be examined more closely
than previous scholars have done.131 On the one hand, as argued above, adoption
functioned as a dynastic necessity: a childless emperor could use adoption to pro-
cure a son or sons for which he would try to orchestrate the smooth transmission
of imperial power. The vast majority of these adoptions stayed roughly “within the
family”—the emperor would adopt a grandson, a nephew, a stepson, or a son-in-law
as his son to keep the power in the same dynasty. On the other hand, adoption
offered a meritocratic ideal: an emperor could forestall the vicissitudes of biological
chance by instead choosing the “best” man for the job. Biological sons were not
necessarily reliable, and an emperor might prefer to select his successor based on
his proven merits. These different conceptions of adoption did not develop histor-
ically in a simple linear fashion, from “necessity” at the beginning to “ideal” in the
High Empire. Some authors of the early second century do, however, maintain a
very high view of imperial adoption—even idealizing it as a mode of succession.

Nevertheless, my analysis will demonstrate that an ideology of adopting successors
did not cleanly supersede the dynastic ideology that pervaded Roman culture. A
pure meritocratic system of imperial succession never won the day. Close readings
of Roman authors, with occasional reference to the images of imperial ideology,
will demonstrate that imperial adoption was inexorably bound up with the logic
and rhetoric of dynasty.
This section cannot, of course, analyze every imperial adoption. Instead, we will
first gather a brief synchronic analysis of certain recurring topics: the prioritiza-
tion of natural family lines and the various techniques of “affiliation” for adopted
sons. Then we consider some crucial moments from Augustus to Galba that high-
light the tension between differing ideologies. Tacitus and Suetonius constitute our
principal sources, and other texts and images will be used as appropriate. Finally
we turn to the most illustrious expression of adoptive meritocratic ideology, Pliny’s
Panegyric, to see whether it is the exception that proves the rule.
Despite all that has been said so far about adoption, natural family lines were
often definitive of one’s political future in Roman society—the examples of this are
so manifest that the historian can almost miss them. For instance, Suetonius’s work
on the twelve Caesars has often been construed as a characterization of twelve
individuals, and indeed it purports to be that. But each individual characterization
begins (and sometimes ends) with a characterization of that person’s family. Within
the first sentence, and usually in the opening words, of each life, Suetonius invokes
a family and begins to evaluate its attributes:
gentem Octaviam . . . patricia gens Claudia . . . Germanicus, Gaius Caesaris pater, . . .
Patrem Claudi Caesaris Drusum . . . ex gente Domitia . . . Progenies Caesarum in Nerone
defecit . . . Maiores Othonis . . . Vitelliorum originem . . . gens Flavia . . . Titus, cognomine
paterno, and Domitianus . . . gentis Flaviae.
The function of these ancestral genealogies is not merely informational. Suetonius

traces virtues and vices to one’s progenitors and identifies them also in one’s chil-
dren. His characterization of the Claudian family (Tib. 2) sets up for that of
Claudius himself later on (Claud. 15–16). “There are on record many distinguished
services of the Claudii to their country, as well as many deeds of the opposite
character” (Tib. 2).132 Claudius exemplifies that ancestral inconsistency by his
behavior (Claud. 15–16). On the flip side, the daughter of Gaius Caligula was irre-
futably identified as his offspring by her “savage temper” and behavior with other
children (Cal. 25).
The lineage of natural sons bears special relevance. The thorny relationship of
Britannicus (the natural son) and Nero (the adopted son) will be discussed below.
But even after the fictive line of “Caesars” ended with Nero, natural sons still car-
ried importance. (And the Flavians adopted the name “Caesar” anyway, even
without a legal fiction of adoption.) Vitellius had issued coins of his two children
to try to establish his line as a viable dynasty.133 And Vespasian’s two natural sons
were considered a boon for his accession to the principate.134 Tacitus has Mucianus,
governor of Syria, deliver a speech of loyalty to Vespasian on precisely these
grounds: “your house . . . possesses two young men, one of whom is already equal
to ruling the empire; . . . It would be absurd for me not to bow before the throne of
a man whose son I should adopt if I myself held it.”135 Ando argues that a dynastic
imperial ideology, represented by the logic of Mucianus’s concession, formed part
of the “generative grammar dictated by Rome to its provincial audiences.”136
But this observation should not weigh against the arguments advanced earlier
about the importance of adoption in Roman culture; on the contrary, the centrality
of family lines was precisely what necessitated these high-profile adoptions. The
adoptive practices, although they seem prima facie opposed to a dynastic ideology,
actually prop up that ideology. The making of sons was usually a substitute for the
begetting of sons in order to secure successors, but the grammar of “sons and
fathers”—the grammar of dynasty—perpetuated throughout.
Emperors utilized several techniques of “affiliation” to uphold and disseminate
the fictive kinship of their adopted sons—to “affiliate” a new filius. The changing of
a name simply and clearly represented a new status, as happened with every
imperial successor. Even Otho was awkwardly called “Nero” in his brief princi-
pate.137 Overall, the name “Caesar” exhibited unbelievable staying power and bore
much of the burden of affiliating successors to the absolute pater patriae. For Dio,
the names “Caesar” and “Augustus” are sufficient to demonstrate “the succession of
their family.”138 For those in and outside of Rome, adopted sons were affiliated to
new fathers through statues and portraiture. By the features of their faces and hair
and by their positioning vis-à-vis their adoptive fathers, artisans could naturalize
these sons into an appearance of biological kinship.139 Finally, coins covered the
most ground in imperial dynastic publicity. William Metcalf has opined that most
imperial coinage in the period covered by this chapter served two functions: to “get
your face out” to the Empire, and to “establish legitimacy, either forward or
backward.”140 An adopted son could validate his new status “backward” in the
imperial family, and adoptive and natural fathers could establish their legitimacy
“forward” by advertising the existence of their sons. Such “forward” publicity fos-
tered an image of providentia, an imperial virtue that the first emperor had a rather
tough time fulfilling.
Augustus and His Adopted Sons
Augustus’s travails in securing a successor are well known: he prepared Marcellus,

Gaius and Lucius, and Agrippa before ultimately settling with Tiberius.141 We have
both textual and material sources to examine the adoption of his grandsons, Gaius
and Lucius, and how they were affiliated into Augustan dynastic ideology. When
recording Augustus’s public appointments and honors, Suetonius explains that he
demanded a thirteenth consulship, “wishing to hold the highest magistracy at the
time when he introduced each of his [adopted] sons Gaius and Lucius to public life
upon their coming of age” (Aug. 26.2). He wanted to be in the highest legal position
in order to anchor for the Roman audience the image of Gaius and Lucius as his
imperial successors. He also held public performances and games in their honor
(Aug. 43.5). Josephus knew of the adoption of Gaius and reports that his first
appearance at an important meeting was when Augustus received the embassy of
the various claimants to Herod the Great’s territory.142 The adoptions and their
implications for imperial power came to be widely known.
Beyond these ephemeral actions, Augustus established permanent dedications
to his adopted sons, such as the portico and basilica of Gaius and Lucius (Aug.
29.4), and minted coins to introduce their faces to the wider Empire. These were
the largest issues of gold and silver coins up to that time.143 What is more, the adop-
tive relationship was portrayed in portraiture throughout the Empire. In his
detailed study of the extant portraiture, Dynastic Commemoration and Imperial
Portraiture in the Julio-Claudian Period, Charles Brian Rose emphasizes the role
that such images played in the naturalization of adopted sons into the Augustan
dynasty. The production of statuary groups was often prescribed “from the top
down” through senatorial decrees sent to the provinces, commissioned to acknowl-
edge “adoptions, marriages, and deifications. . . . Such a system ensured that changes
in the Imperial family received extensive publicity, and the decrees themselves
served as potential blueprints for the designs of dynastic groups.”144 The relation-
ships between members of the Augustan family were potentially confusing to a
viewer, especially because, in the case of Gaius and Lucius, their natural father
(Agrippa) was a man of status and was also depicted in the portraiture. Rose
explains that an Eastern audience would not have been accustomed to a situation
in which an heir had two powerful fathers, one natural and one adoptive.145 (This
confusion would return a century later when Trajan also had two fathers of high
status.) Thus the portraiture was designed with sophistication, to highlight the pri-
ority of Augustus’s paternal relationship.
The specifics of this early imperial portraiture demonstrate the deliberate goal
of distancing the adopted sons from their natural father, Agrippa. When analyzing
the portraiture from Thespiae, Rose notes that this goal would have required expert
artistic diplomacy because Agrippa’s presence in the East at the time would have
allowed him to see the completed monument.146 So Agrippa is still cast in the role
of a father, but the father of his daughter, Agrippina. Meanwhile, Gaius (the eldest
adopted son) is placed between Julia and Livia, and Lucius remains near the
Agrippan side. Furthermore, the inscription records Gaius and Lucius with the
name “Caesar,” but they are the only two without patronymics. “Agrippa’s role as
natural father of Gaius and Lucius was therefore subtly minimized while the legal
[adoptive] connection of the two boys to Augustus was quietly emphasized.”147
The presentation of Gaius and Lucius as sons and successors did not all come “from
the top down.” At least two of the compital altars of Augustan Rome, probably products
of local artisans in particular Roman vici, feature these adopted sons and heirs on their
panels.148 The adopted status of Gaius and Lucius had been sufficiently publicized so
that these local leaders felt encouraged to honor them at the altars of their
neighborhood compita. The “Belvedere Altar” has been variously interpreted, but
Paul Zanker surmises that the main panel of this altar features Gaius and Lucius with
Augustus as he delivers statues of the Lares to the ministri of the neighborhood.149
Another panel seems to depict the apotheosis of Caesar with Augustus, Livia, and the
two heirs looking on. If these interpretations are correct, the Belvedere Altar portrays
Gaius and Lucius as key members of the household of Caesar and coworkers with
Augustus in his liberalitas to the Roman vici.
The altar from the vicus Sandalarius emphasizes more clearly the elder adopted
son, Gaius. This altar has also been variously interpreted, but most scholars agree
that the augural observation of the sacred chicken on the front panel manifests a
good omen for the departure of Gaius Caesar on his military campaign to the east.
The lituus and the chicken identify him as an augur and commander with imperium
to hold the tripudium, the augury that portended the success or failure of the
army.150 This altar was dedicated in 2 b.c.e, also the year Augustus became pater
patriae. J. Bert Lott argues that this altar “recalled the importance of Gaius’s entry
into public service” and reveals how local leaders perceived and honored the pre-
cise movements of the imperial family.151 He concludes thus: “The care that the
Vicus Sandalarius paid to the precise ideological nuances of the events of 2 b.c.e
demonstrates an astonishing desire on the part of the new neighborhoods to par-
ticipate in the new imperial scheme and to demonstrate their loyalty to Augustus
and his family.”152
Since both Gaius and Lucius died before they could accede to imperial power,
the adoption of Tiberius and the subsequent transfer of power to him became the
most important topic of Augustan publicity. Suetonius reports that, once he was
adopted, Tiberius ceased to act as a paterfamilias or to keep any particular privi-
leges of that position. “He neither made gifts nor freed slaves, and he did not even
accept an inheritance or any legacies, except to enter them as an addition to his
peculium. From this time on nothing was left undone which could add to his pres-
tige, especially after the disowning and banishment of Agrippa made it clear that
the hope of the succession lay in him alone” (Tib. 15.2). But another remark of
Suetonius shows the salience of dynastic ideology for Augustus and the common
people. “Augustus’s will began in this way: ‘Since a cruel fate has bereft me of my
sons Gaius and Lucius, let Tiberius Caesar be heir to two-thirds of my estate’ ” (Tib.
23). Even though all three men were adopted as sons, Augustus only refers to the
first two as “my sons.” Presumably this is because only they were in his direct
bloodline, although personal affection may also have played a role. In the will,
Tiberius is connected to his family only by the name “Caesar,” and Suetonius
reports the common interpretation of the will: “These words in themselves added
to the suspicion of those who believed that he had named Tiberius his successor
from necessity rather than from choice, since he allowed himself to write such a
preamble” (Tib. 23). He provides further corroboration that the Roman people
dishonored Tiberius’s adopted status by citing their verse of mockery: “You are no
knight. Why so? The hundred thousands you are lacking; If you want to know the
whole story, you were an exile at Rhodes” (Tib. 59). The first line of this verse
implies that he cannot be an eques (“knight”) because, as the adopted son of
Augustus, he had no power over money or property. Another translation presents
the mockery more plainly: “You are no knight—Caesar’s adopted son / May own
no cash to qualify as one; / And banishment in Rhodes cancelled your right / To be
a citizen—far less a knight.”153
Tiberius was certainly cognizant of his questionable status. He was cautious
about assuming power in the immediate wake of Augustus’s death (Tac. Ann. 1.7),
so he made a clear public declaration in three coin issues after his accession, the
most prominent of which features his own visage on the obverse and the image of
divus Augustus on the reverse.154 He was the first member of the imperial family to
have an obverse coin type with all of his titles on it.155 After these coin issues,
Tiberius would have hoped his relationship to Augustus was unambiguous. But a
century later, Suetonius still felt it necessary to defend the adoption of Tiberius as
legitimate.156 In fact, the legitimation of this particular adoption, which procured a
son from outside the immediate bloodline, set the historical precedent for all
subsequent imperial adoptions. For this author, writing from the era of the adop-
tive emperors, the defense of adoption was critical. Therefore he cites at least five
excerpts from Augustus’s private epistolary correspondence, in order to show that
Augustus “was adopting Tiberius for the good of the res publica” (Tib. 21.3).
Suetonius speculates that Augustus weighed “the faults and the merits of Tiberius”
and decided that the merits were greater (Tib. 21.3). From these excerpts, we get
the sense that Roman citizens from the plebs up to Augustus were predisposed to
value a natural dynastic lineage over a fictive one; but in Suetonius’s brief apologia,
we glimpse an argument for meritocracy.
Britannicus versus Nero
Claudius’s adoption of Nero constitutes another key moment in the tension bet-
ween natural and adoptive sons. Tacitus narrates the events soberly, while Suetonius
provides a colorful evaluation. Tacitus first reports how Pallas, a freedman of
Claudius, was “goading” Claudius to adopt Domitius (who took the name “Nero”),
in order to “place a protective cordon of maturity around the boyhood of
Britannicus,” the natural son (Ann. 12.25).157 Pallas refers to previous imperial
adoptions to strengthen his case, notably invoking the adoptions performed by
Augustus and Tiberius. Tacitus further records that at the time, “experts noted that
no previous adoption could be discovered among the patrician Claudii and that
they had lasted continuously from Attus Clausus” (Ann. 12.25.2). Later he calls it a
“ruinous adoption,” in which Claudius “had destroyed himself ” and the purity of
his lineage (Ann. 13.2.2). The common people lamented the fate of Britannicus,
who, being younger than Nero, was now second to Nero in his father’s line. “There
was no one so devoid of pity that he was not affected by sorrow at Britannicus’s
fortune” (Ann. 12.26.2). The divergent destinies of Britannicus and Nero were then
advertised through their titles, garb, statues, and coins. Britannicus does appear
with Nero in coins and portraiture, but he appears so only in the provinces and
often in a clearly subordinate role.158 It is no wonder that Nero did not want
Britannicus’s face all over the Empire: Agrippina herself admitted that his face was
“the true likeness of his father’s” (Ann. 12.68.2). One can see the unequal status of
Nero and Britannicus in a relief from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias. Nero holds a
globe and aplustre, symbols of dominion over land and sea; Britannicus has no
such attributes.159 Furthermore, Nero’s physical features have been likened to those
of Britannicus—his affiliation as adopted son was on display.
Nevertheless, the presence and appearance of Britannicus caused difficulty for
manipulating public opinion about Nero. Tacitus recounts how, after Claudius
died, the will was not read out by Nero, “lest the preference of [adopted] step-son
to natural son should, by resentment at its injustice, disturb the disposition of the
public” (Ann. 12.69.3). This testifies yet again to the public preference, at least as
Tacitus represents it, for dynastic ideology over adoptive. Suetonius assesses
Claudius’s behavior in his usual direct manner: “Just before his adoption of Nero,
as if it were not bad enough to adopt a stepson when he had a grown-up son of his
own, he publicly declared more than once that no one had ever been taken into the
Claudian family by adoption” (Claud. 39.2). The adoption was also reported by
Josephus, who seems to have understood the sensitivities aroused by preferring an
adopted son to a natural son.160 Although adoption could be rationalized as merit-
ocratic when necessary, the dynastic ideology seemed to dominate public opinion
when natural sons were available.
Tacitus again grants credence to the dynastic ideology when reporting about
Agrippina’s contrivance against Junius Silanus, proconsul of Asia. “Agrippina . . .
dreaded an avenger, given the frequent reports from the public that in preference to
Nero . . . there should be someone of settled years, guiltless, noble, and (something for
which there was regard at that time) belonging to the posterity of the Caesars”
(Ann. 13.1.1). Why does Tacitus add the aside, italicized above? He indicates that the
public opinion had more regard for natural than adopted sons, at least when the
imperial family was concerned. The aside could be read as merely informative, but it
may also be evaluative. Is Tacitus here evoking “the good old days,” when a particular
bloodline got the respect it deserved? It is difficult to be sure because, as this chapter
will soon demonstrate, Tacitus reflects quite positively on the adoption of Piso by
Galba. Again, Suetonius addresses the matter less subtly. He characterizes Claudius’s
repentance for his adoption of Nero, and when Claudius intended to give Britannicus
the toga of manhood, he supposedly said, “That the Roman people may at last have a
legitimate [verus] Caesar” (Claud. 43). He later explains how Nero attempted to
murder Britannicus “from fear that he might sometime win a higher place than him-
self in the people’s regard because of the memory of his father” (Nero 33.2). But if
only a natural son could be a verus Caesar, as Suetonius’s quotation of Claudius
implies, then the Empire had been full of false Caesars.
Both authors report Britannicus’s reaction to Nero’s adoption. Obviously

humiliated by the adoption and immediate elevation of Domitius (now Nero),
Britannicus could not contain his contempt. “When meeting each other, Nero
hailed Britannicus by name, the latter him as ‘Domitius.’ Agrippina, with many a
complaint, denounced this to her husband as being the start of disaffection: [she
thought] the adoption was being spurned” (Ann. 12.41.3). Though the adoption of
Nero was legally binding, and he legally acquired the status proper to a natural son,
such a change was hardly acceptable to the natural son himself. Suetonius reports
that Nero had a response to his brother’s jibe: “For merely because his brother
Britannicus had, after his adoption, greeted him as usual as Ahenobarbus [his
other natural name], he tried to convince his [adoptive] father that Britannicus
was a subditivus,” that is, a ‘mix-up at the hospital’ (Nero 7). Nero thus reacted to
Britannicus’s taunt of his biological lineage with a clever accusation of his own.
Finally, Tacitus reports Britannicus’s act that made Nero ultimately arrange his
murder, an act that publicly scorned his adopted status. Conscious that Britannicus
would soon be approaching manhood, Nero seized an opportunity to make a spec-
tacle of him while still a youth. At the Saturnalia he achieved through a game the
right to compel an embarrassing task from another player. He ordered Britannicus
to rise in the midst of everyone and sing a song, “thereby hoping for ridicule of a
boy ignorant of even sober, to say nothing of drunken, gatherings,” but Britannicus
“embarked steadfastly on a poem in which it was indicated that he had been turned
out of his paternal abode and the supremacy” (Ann. 13.15.2). This aroused an out-
pouring of pity from the crowd, and Nero, having been thwarted in his attempt at
humiliation, proceeded with the arrangements to poison him. On the whole, we
must grant the possibility that Tacitus and Suetonius shape and color their narra-
tives in these ways because of the egregious legacy of Nero. However, the details
reveal part of the ideological unconscious of Roman culture: despite the legal
equivalence of natural and adopted sons and the real options for social advance-
ment through adoption, the appropriateness of a natural son’s inheritance
continued to hold the attention of the Roman populus.
Galba and Piso
The beginning of the end for the short-lived principate of Galba happened when
the army in upper Germany refused to swear allegiance to him and demanded
another emperor instead (Tac. Hist. 1.12; Suet. Gal. 16). The army despised him
primarily because he had failed to reward them adequately for their services.
However, both Suetonius and Tacitus report that Galba understood matters differ-
ently. He thought the army disapproved of him because he did not have a son.161
Suetonius narrates his ensuing actions:
When this was reported to Galba, thinking that it was not so much his age as his lack of
children that was criticized, he picked out Piso Frugi Licinianus from the midst of the
throng at one of his morning receptions, a young man of noble birth and high character,
who had long been one of his special favorites and always named in his will as heir to his
property and name. Calling him “son,” he led him to the praetorian camp and adopted
him before the assembled soldiers. (Gal. 17)
What constituted the adoption ceremony in this case? Was it the simple pro-
nouncement of the word “son,” as seemed also to be enough in Gaius Caligula’s
adoption of Tiberius Gemellus? Hammond doubts “the legal validity of this
procedure,” but it did acknowledge “the de facto importance of securing the favor
of the [praetorian] guard.”162
Tacitus describes the adoption in a similarly ad hoc way, but he appends a
substantial speech that rationalizes the choice of Piso. He first connotes the
irony of the proceedings by calling it an “imperial comitia, which he regarded as
his only remedy” (Hist. 1.14).163 By this, he attempted to substitute for both the
comitia curiata necessary for an arrogatio and the consular comitia that would
govern a normal election.164 The speech itself contains a defense of the merito-
cratic method of adoption and a strong rejection of dynastic succession (even if
the former still relies on the grammar of dynasties, of “fathers” and “sons”). After
some opening praise of Piso’s birth and character, Tacitus’s Galba quickly moves
to rationalization by connecting his action with the adoptions of Augustus.
However, he boldly transcends Augustus’s adoptive practices: “Herein I follow
the example of divus Augustus, . . . but Augustus looked for a successor within
his own house [domus], I in the whole state [res publica]” (Hist. 1.15). Galba
thus takes a logical step. Once the hope for a natural son is lost, why not search
for the best possible candidate? Next he elucidates how completely he has
rejected dynastic ideology by his behavior. The rejection is twofold: Galba did
not choose one of his own relatives (“I do this not because I have not relatives
or associates in arms,” Hist. 1.15); but moreover, he also passes over the older
brother of Piso, saying, “You have a brother as noble as yourself and older,
worthy indeed of this fortune, if you were not the better man [potior]” (Hist.
1.15). In place of this doubly rejected dynastic ideology, Galba substitutes the
idea of meritocracy. With the word potior, Galba prepares the listener for his
next rhetorical move.
Tacitus’s Galba has now rationalized his adoption of an emperor from outside
his family. Then, after a section of general exhortation about leadership, he attempts
also to universalize this adoption—to establish it as a model for the future of the
principate. The words are audacious and deserve a full quotation:
Under Tiberius, Gaius, and Claudius we Romans were the heritage, so to speak, of one
family; the fact that we emperors are now beginning to be chosen will be for all a kind of
liberty; and since the houses of the Julians and the Claudians are ended, adoption will
select only the best; for to be begotten and born of principes is mere chance, and is not
reckoned higher, but the judgment displayed in adoption is unhampered; and, if one
wishes to make a choice, common consent points out the individual.165
With these words, Galba attempts not only to defend his particular actions, but to
establish adoption as the preferred method of future imperial succession. What
was once merely a dynastic necessity ought to become a meritocratic ideal. Galba
delineates some stark contrasts: by praising the liberating aspect of this new
method (libertatis), he judges the dynastic ideology as restrictive. He also criticizes
the fortuitus aspect of natural birth, whereas adoption occurs through “unham-
pered judgment” (iudicium integrum). This observation resonates with the rhetor-
ical commonplace about adoption, preserved already by the Elder Seneca:
“Adoption is the remedy for chance.”166 Moreover, although Piso himself is only
potior than other men, Galba predicts that this method should hypothetically
search the res publica for the best man. Tacitus undoubtedly reflects the spirit of his
own age—illumined by Trajan, the optimus princeps—by this choice of words:
optimum quemque adoptio inveniet.
Galba closes his speech with a brave flourish: “For with us there is not, as among
people where there are kings [ut gentibus quae regnantur], a fixed house of masters
[dominorum] while all the rest are slaves; but you are going to command [imperatu-
rus] people who can endure neither complete slavery nor complete liberty” (Hist.
1.16). It is known that throughout the principate, emperor after emperor disdains
the language of rex, regius, or regnum. And at first glance, Galba’s invocation of dis-
tant kingdoms seems to be only a foil for his commendation of the dignity of Roman
citizens. But in light of his previous censure of dynastic ideology and “fixed houses”
of rulers, Galba’s allusion to kingdoms constitutes a sharp comparison of the Julio-
Claudian house to a succession of kings. In truth, if the historical Galba said
anything remotely like this, it is not surprising Piso and he ended up as they did.
Other elements from this section of the Histories betray Tacitus’s own attraction
to the adoptive ideology. Piso comes off quite well in the narrative. He has a good
reputation and noble birth, though bad luck (Hist. 1.14, 1.48); he received the prin-
cipate without anxiety or exaltation (Hist. 1.17); he spoke with comitas (“affability,”
Hist. 1.19) and seemed like one “who had the ability more than the desire to be
emperor” (Hist. 1.17). Tacitus also has Piso commend the adoptive process as a
stabilizing force in the Empire; Piso declares that “adoption seemed to provide, lest
there be any occasion for war even after Galba’s death” (Hist. 1.29). He claims that
“provisum adoptione videbatur,” a passage which I have translated to emphasize the
word “provide,” since this word group has often been associated with the stability
of dynastic succession.167 Ando explains the importance of the emperor’s providen-
tia, a quality displayed “above all in his taking thought for the stability of the empire
after his death, and that act had its most concrete realization in the designation of
a successor.”168 Tacitus puts this key concept in the speech of Piso, as he tries to
rationalize the adoptive ideology to the soldiers.
Finally, we should notice that, in the responses to the speeches of Galba and
Piso, Tacitus does not have Otho denounce adoptive ideology in principle. He does
not positively refute the idea of adoptive succession. Rather, he opts for an ad ho-
minem argument against the supposed gloominess and greed of Piso, whose
“ill-starred adoption” [infaustam adoptionem] was disapproved by the gods

through a remarkable storm (Hist. 1.38).169 On the whole, Tacitus forcefully
expresses an adoptive ideology of imperial succession—detached from dynastic
considerations—through the speeches of Galba and Piso. What is more, he leaves
this ideology open and available for future use by not having Otho or anyone else
reject it in principle. Of course, for Tacitus, the pseudo-hypothetical “future use”
occurred in his own era, to which we now turn.170
Pliny’s Panegyric
The emperor Nerva was old and feeble already at his accession to the principate and
was “thus despised on account of his age.”171 As a solution to his image problem, and
to promote the virtue of providentia, Nerva secured a transmission of power to
Trajan, who was a victorious military commander on the frontier. After hearing of
Trajan’s victory over the Germans and sensing his own impending demise, Nerva
ascended the Capitol, proclaimed prayers for the Senate and the people, and
announced, “I adopt Marcus Ulpius Nerva Trajan.”172 He later appointed him
“Caesar” before the Senate. With little evidence on which to verify the details of this
adoption scene, one can only say, “perhaps, as in the case of Galba and Piso, strict
legality was neglected in view of the emergency and the authority of the emperor.”173
What can be deduced from the event is the priority of the adoption for the imperial
succession. Before any dealings with the Senate, before the granting of any other
powers proper to the emperor, Nerva saw fit to adopt Trajan as his son. This adop-
tion would become for the period of adoptive emperors a paradigmatic event,
deemed worthy of praise by the authors of encomia, including Pliny the Younger.
Like Galba’s speech in Tacitus, Pliny’s Panegyric to Trajan examines adoption as
a mode of imperial succession, but it surpasses the former speech by its universal
claims and its rhetorical force. More importantly, while the scholar must constantly
wrestle with Tacitus to distinguish his views from those of his historical subjects,
Pliny’s Panegyric likely arose from a direct and intimate connection to the imperial
ideology of Trajan himself.174 Pliny’s personal connections to Trajan are well
known, but this oration bears importance beyond that amicable relationship. As
Fears explains, “Pliny’s Panegyric to Trajan is a public oration spoken before the
emperor and court by Pliny in his official capacity as consul. Like the coinage,
public panegyrical orations of this form can be regarded as publicity notices of a
reign. . . . His composition was free, but he was aware of the policies and the image
of himself which the emperor wished to project.”175 To some degree, this official
panegyric discloses the emperor’s own conception of the principate.
This speech is the preeminent expression of adoptive imperial ideology, and
Pliny front-loads the bulk of his statements on the topic (5–8). Although he knows
well the Galba-Piso adoption, he has clearly dismissed it as unsuccessful because
he acclaims Trajan’s adoption as, “O new and unheard of path to the principate!”
(7.1).176 He defends this new path by several devices. Adoption offers a peaceful
means of transmitting imperial power: the princeps “was not created for us by civil
wars and a country racked by the arms of battle, but in peace, through adoption”
(5.1). Piso also tried to make this point (Hist. 1.29). Pliny opines about the unpre-
dictability of nature. “Such are the vicissitudes of our mortal lot: misfortune is born
of prosperity and prosperity of misfortune” (5.9). Galba too enunciated this idea as
a reason for adoption (Hist. 1.16). Moreover, it was Trajan’s merits that warranted
his selection as emperor: “your merits did indeed call for your adoption as succes-
sor long ago” (6.3). Pliny plainly employs the language of meritocracy.
The next section alludes strongly to Galba’s speech, either drawing on a similar
source or, more likely, a topos among ancient political theorists.177 Pliny speaks
even more boldly in favor of meritocratic adoptive ideology. He lauds the fact that
no cognatio bound adopter and adopted, except the bond of excellence (optimus,
7.4). “This is the only fitting way to adopt a son, if the adopter is an emperor” (7.5).
Thus Pliny advocates choosing from outside the family line: “would you look for a
wife to provide him, or seek no further than the four walls of your own home? . . .
If he is destined to rule all the people, he must be chosen from all the people”
(7.5–6). He also makes evident the comparison to kingship that Galba only implied,
declaring that “not to adopt the one man, who in the eyes of all could have proved
himself an emperor even without adoption, would be tyrannical and kingly!”
(superbus and regius, 7.6). If an excellent man is available for adoption, only a
tyrant or king would neglect that option.
Then, after narrating the divine blessings concomitant with Trajan’s adoption,
Pliny contrasts it with the adoption of Piso. “It is not so long since there was an
adoption which failed to check an outbreak of rebellion, and indeed was its
occasion” (8.5). Pliny even delineates why this adoption succeeded when the other
failed—because of the charismatic authority of the adopted. “Can it be doubted
that if an emperor who had forfeited men’s regard was able to bestow the imperial
power, it could only be because of the auctoritas of the recipient?” (8.6). This main
section on the adoption ends with a memorable phrase to sum up Pliny’s arche-
typal vision of imperial succession. After a peaceful adoption of a person with
charismatic authority, the adopted son becomes “simul filius, simul Caesar” (8.6).
There should be no doubt that the adopted son, as Caesar, is the next emperor; but
the adopted son should also honor his role, as filius, until his adoptive father dies.
This is the Trajanic model of imperial succession.
Pliny returns to these themes at the end of the Panegyric. He repeatedly invokes
Trajan’s merits as the source of his greatness (88–89). His imperial power was not
the result of biological chance; he earned it. Pliny even tackles the problem of
Trajan’s two fathers in a finely crafted and diplomatic paragraph, lubricated with
compliments. Although he honors divus Nerva (adoptive father) as being above
Trajan pater (natural father) in the celestial realm, he tries to mitigate their
difference in status. “You also, Trajan pater, must know such delight . . . when you
enter into most friendly rivalry (amicissime contendis) with his adopter [Nerva] so
as to determine where the greater glory must be assigned—to his begetter or to the
one who made him his choice” (89.2). This playful image attempts to smooth over
an unusual situation, when an important man had two fathers of high status. We
saw above (with Augustus and Agrippa) how such a conundrum was negotiated
with the art of sculpture; we see here how it is done with the art of rhetoric.
In the years from Augustus to Trajan, then, the Panegyric of Pliny stands out as
the most developed exposition of the meritocratic adoptive ideology. But one must
read it all the way to the end. The very last sentence of the body of the speech—the
last word on the subject—subverts the audience’s expectation. Pliny addresses the
gods to end his speech:
I make this my earnest prayer: If he rules the res publica well, and in the interests of all,
first preserve him for our grandsons and great-grandsons; then grant him one day a suc-
cessor born of him and formed by him in the image of the adopted son he is; or if fate
denies him this, guide and direct his choice to someone worthy to be adopted in your
temple on the Capitol. (94.5)178
So after all that, after composing the most persuasive exposition of meritocratic
imperial ideology in Roman history, does Pliny’s last word on the subject undermine
the whole enterprise? His first prayer is for Trajan’s long life, but his second prayer is
for a natural son to be his successor—someone that he will “beget” and “form.” He
combines this smoothly with the fact of Trajan’s own adoption, but the prioritization
of dynastic ideology is unmistakable. Pliny only prays in the third place for Trajan to
find a worthy successor by adoption—and only if fate denies him a natural son. Was
Pliny merely offering a standard invocation at the end of the speech, one directed as
much at Trajan’s wife as the emperor himself? Or was he stepping back from the mer-
itocratic adoptive ideology of succession, so sumptuously argued earlier in the speech?
The spirit of Roman dynasty hovers over even this masterful defense of adoption.
In Roman culture, where political, economic, and social powers were governed by
father-son relations, natural family lines were undoubtedly important. Family ide-
ology was so important, in fact, that any successor to great paternal power ought to
be construed as the son of that father. If the most powerful fathers in the cosmos—
paradigmatic emperors such as Augustus and Trajan—did not have eligible natural
sons, the adoption of sons would therefore be necessary and appropriate to the prop-
agation of Roman power and ideology. In the second, third, and even fourth century,
the practice of adoption was often hailed as the best mode of familial and political
succession.179 In sum, when Roman adoption is properly understood and anachro-
nistic comparisons to the modern West are avoided, we can more precisely interpret
Roman father-son relationships and, in particular, the transmission of imperial
power. Whenever a man in the Roman world is the son of a powerful father, whether
through decree or narrative characterization, his sonship can be interpreted anew in
the pervasive light of Roman family ideology, which was concentrated in the imperial
household. And the more powerful a father is—even all-powerful, as a god—the
more relevant adoption becomes to understand that father’s relationship to his son.
4 Rethinking Divine Sonship
in the Gospel of Mark
In the preface to this book, through a short thought experiment, I tried to imagine
the real options and significant challenges Mark faced when beginning to narrate
the life of Jesus. He had received the central Christian kerygma that Jesus of
Nazareth was the son of God. But how could he put this proclamation into narrative
form, especially if the God of Israel had no partner? Where would one begin? It is
extremely difficult to imagine his situation as an author, writing before there existed
other narratives of Jesus’ life. Especially if one is a Christian or a scholar of early
Christianity, this requires some disciplined forgetting. Think of everything that
must be left behind: Chalcedonian christological orthodoxy, the philosophical
foundations of Nicea, the emanations of neo-Platonism, the procreative cosmol-
ogies of the Gnostics, the logos Christologies of Justin or John, and the virgin birth
narratives of Matthew and Luke. But then what remains? The resources available to
Mark: his Jewish traditions and his Greco-Roman world. With these resources, how
could Mark best narrate the kerygma about the divine sonship of Jesus Christ?
In her study of the transfiguration in the Gospel of Mark, Candida R. Moss
demonstrates how Mark utilized the conventions of Hellenistic epiphany stories in
addition to the motifs of the Jewish Scriptures.1 She argues that interpreters of
Mark have often worked with the incorrect assumption that “New Testament
authors, such as Mark, were unaware of the diversity of their intellectual climate.”2
By showing the multiple connections between the transfiguration and Hellenistic
epiphany stories, Moss does not, however, reject the commonly proposed allusions
to the Hebrew Bible. Rather, she takes seriously the diversity of the audience and
recognizes the probability that Mark intended the narration of this one event to
have multiple functions: “This practice of accommodation conveyed the gospel
message to a variegated audience with varying degrees of familiarity with Jewish
and non-Jewish Hellenistic traditions.”3
I maintain that this foundational concept of “Markan accommodation” can be
fruitfully applied to the rest of the Gospel of Mark. This chapter will deal with
aspects of the baptism of Jesus and its repercussions in the rest of the gospel.
Readers of Mark have long noted the allusions to Jewish Scriptures in the baptism
account, and those will not be rejected—though they will be held up to scrutiny.
But how would a listener more attuned to Roman culture than the Jewish Scriptures
have understood this short narrative?4 What connections and conclusions might
that listener have made concerning the identity of Jesus? This chapter will analyze
the account of Jesus’ baptism in light of contemporaneous Roman culture,
specifically the burgeoning ideology of the Roman emperor. Reading the baptism
86
Rethinking Divine Sonship in the Gospel of Mark ■ 87
of Jesus through the lens of this ideology encourages one to see the baptismal voice
as an adoption, the beginning of Jesus’ accession as a counter-emperor.5 The dove
will be interpreted as an omen and counter-symbol to the Roman eagle, which was
a public portent of divine favor and ascension to imperial power. Concomitantly
this reading eradicates the supposedly “low” christological connotations of such an
adoption. Finally, the adoptive relationship, which can be traced later in the gospel,
also relates to the divine sonship offered by God to all people through the Spirit.
■ MARK AND ROME
Author-Text Relationship: Connecting Mark to Rome

Among the four canonical Gospels, probably none is more consistently associated
with a particular place than Mark is with Rome. From the earliest testimonia to
modern commentaries, most historians of early Christianity favor the connection.
For patristic writers, the connection between Mark and Rome was mediated by the
figure of Peter. Mark was thought to have helped Peter in Rome, perhaps as an
interpreter or scribe, and written down some of Peter’s accounts after his mar-
tyrdom. As C. Clifton Black notes, “Nowhere in patristic testimony . . . is a link
between Mark and Rome ever wrought in the absence of a coincident coupling of
Mark and Peter.”6 Yet modern scholars are suspicious of the Mark-Peter-Rome
connection, corresponding to their general mistrust of patristic testimonia.
Wouldn’t a connection to the apostle Peter be exactly what one would fabricate—so
goes the hermeneutic of suspicion—if one wanted to authenticate an anonymous,
non-apostolic gospel? Perhaps so, but Black rightfully adds, “The figure of Peter
played a significant role in Syrian Christianity, but none of the early fathers—even
those from Syria themselves—located the composition of the Second Gospel
there.”7 If the tradition of Mark’s provenance was flimsy in the minds of the patristic
authors, wouldn’t some of them—so goes a different hermeneutic of suspicion—
have tried to claim the Gospel of Mark for themselves and their locales?
Furthermore, Mark was hardly a popular text among Christians in the patristic
era, neither was its content the most Petrine: why would it (and not Matthew) have
been universally connected to Peter and Rome? Yet the mistrust of the patristic
testimonia lingers among most modern scholars.
Therefore, most arguments about the provenance of Mark focus instead on
internal evidence, among which the most important aspects are (in a descending
order of specificity): Latinisms, errors of Palestinian geography, the explanation of
Jewish customs, connections to Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, and motifs of persecu-
tion and martyrdom.8 The so-called Latinisms provide significant support for the
Mark-Rome connection. Most obvious are the occasions where Mark uses specific
Latin terms to explain Greek words (12:42; 15:16). But there are many other
individual Latin words and also awkward Greek phrases that can be explained by
linguistic interference from Latin.9 The term “Syro-Phoenician” has also caused
debate, since this geographical designation is only evidenced from the West at the
time of Mark’s composition. The infelicities in describing Palestinian geography
(especially at 5:1 and 7:31) would not necessarily favor a Roman context, except that
when scholars reject that context, it is usually in favor of a Syrian or Palestinian one
(where geographical errors would be less likely). Mark’s occasional explanation of
Jewish customs also suggests an audience unfamiliar with typical Jewish practices
(e.g., 7:3–4), which would make more sense at some distance from Palestine. Some
scholars find ample resonances of Markan terminology, theology, and community
concerns in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, not to mention the tantalizing “Rufus”
greeted there by Paul (Rom 16:13; cf. Mark 15:21).10 Finally, almost all scholars who
take up the issue address the correlation between the evident motif of persecution
in Mark and the known persecution of Christians by Nero, which possibly involved
the martyrdom of Peter. Based on the content of Mark’s Gospel and the context of
the early Christians in Rome, Black summarizes the defense of Roman provenance
in this way: “Given our present state of knowledge, we can nevertheless acknowl-
edge an appreciable social, religious, and theological congruence between the Second
Gospel and first-century Roman Christianity.”11
As I have already mentioned, when scholars reject a Roman provenance for
Mark, it is in favor of Palestine or Syria. Though a theory of Galilean provenance
was once popular among some prominent scholars, Syria is now a more prevalent
choice.12 Joel Marcus has argued for Syria, claiming that Mark makes the most sense
when read in the immediate geographical context of the Jewish War: “Mark 13 and
the gospel in general seem to many scholars to mirror more closely [than the
Neronian persecution] the events of the revolt of Palestinian Jews against the
Romans in 66–73 c.e. . . . And the course of events in chapter 13 matches the general
course of events in the Jewish War.”13 Marcus reads the apocalyptic vision of Jesus in
Mark 13 as a detailed prophecy ex eventu; once this linchpin is established, “other
elements of the Markan Gospel fall neatly into place,” some of which are fleshed out
in the course of his commentary.14 As for the motif of persecution, he argues that
Mark reflects the Eusebian report of early Christians’ flight from Jerusalem to Pella
(Hist. eccl. 3.5); once they had moved farther north, Christians “may have become
targets” when the Jewish War “spilled over” from Palestine into Syria.15 Moloney
replicates this argument, arguing that “the recalcitrant states of Syria and Palestine”
were places where “the might of Rome” was felt more poignantly.16
Each of these arguments can be matched by an argument in favor of Rome. The
interpretation of Mark 13 as ex eventu prophecy is the strongest of the points, but
it does not necessitate geographical proximity to the site of battle. The movements,
successes, and failures of the Roman military were among the most trafficked bits
of information available in the Empire, through oral reports and official propa-
ganda (cf. military processions and the famous Judaea capta coins).17 And if Mark
was not relying on eyewitness experience of the war, what would be the difference
between a location in Syria or Rome? Both were some distance from Jerusalem;
both would have received reports of the events there. In any case, many citizens of
the Empire would have seen the events of the Jewish War—realistically depicted on
multistory panels—as Titus led his processions through their cities on the way
back to Rome.18 Yet even the ex eventu argument is still stronger than the vague
argument about persecution. In fact, we know nothing about early Christian expe-
rience of persecution in Syria (even though we know as much about Antioch as
just about anywhere else). However, a specific persecution of Christians in Rome
was documented by Tacitus, a non-Christian source.
In my assessment, the internal evidence, though sparse, slightly favors Rome. The
geographical “absurdities”—called such by a defender of Syrian provenance—surely
count against Syria or Palestine.19 The arguments about Mark 13 and persecution
are similarly strong for Rome or Syria; perhaps geographical proximity explains
the ex eventu prophecies better, but the documentation of a temporally proximate
Roman persecution mitigates that argument. Finally, the Latinisms suggest a Roman
context in tangible ways that the other internal evidence cannot. The detractors of
the Roman hypothesis unsuccessfully dismiss their extent and specificity.
But even if the arguments over internal evidence were called as a stalemate, all
the external evidence would lead to Rome. As stated above, the patristic testimonia
connecting the authorship of the Gospel of Mark to Rome are strong but viewed
suspiciously by most modern scholars. Mark was believed to have been in Rome
with Peter, derived his material from the teachings of Peter, and authored the work
while still in Rome or elsewhere in Italy.20 The testimonia to these basic facts have
been compiled and analyzed elsewhere;21 in short, the list extends from the ancient
report of the “elder” via Papias via Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 3.39), to Irenaeus, Clement
of Alexandria, Tertullian, Origen, Ephrem, Epiphanius, and Jerome.22
In the search for provenance, though, we should keep this fact in mind: if we
know nothing else about early Christian leaders, we know that they traveled. The
author of the Gospel of Mark might have been born in Jerusalem, traveled often to
nearby major cities like Antioch, and ended up later in Rome. In fact, these are the
places with which the biblical “John Mark” (a traditional option for matching up
the author “Mark”) is associated: first found in Jerusalem (Acts 12:12), then
traveling with Barnabas and Paul (Acts 13:5, 13; 15:36–41), then living in Rome
(Phlm 24; cf. Col 4:10) with Peter (1 Pet 5:13; patristic testimonia). This traditional
“Mark” was a Judean-Syrian-Roman—that is, he was exactly what a composite of
modern scholarship says he was.
Among all the testimonia, there is one that deserves special mention for the
purposes of this chapter. Clement of Alexandria provides second-century attesta-
tion of Mark’s connection with Peter and Rome, but only three of his four com-
ments usually figure into scholarly analysis. Those are his two explanations of
Mark’s activity in Rome (apud Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 2.15 and 6.14), which cohere
with the general picture summarized above, along with Morton Smith’s controver-
sial discovery of his comments on the so-called “secret Gospel of Mark.”23 The
fourth comment comes from Clement’s Adumbrationes, which were short
expansions on lines of scripture.24 His expansion on 1 Pet 5:13 is unsung in the

study of Mark’s origin, but it contains a peculiar detail. It was preserved only in
Latin, passed on by Cassiodorus, the sixth-century founder of a monastery and
library at Vivarium, Italy:
When Peter was openly preaching the Gospel in Rome, in front of certain imperial
equites, and furnishing for them many testimonies of Christ, Mark, a follower of Peter,
having been petitioned by these men (so that they might be able to commit to memory
what had been said), wrote the Gospel called “According to Mark” from the things which
were spoken by Peter.25
This does not contradict Clement’s other reports nor the general patristic narra-
tive. However, it does make the audience of Peter’s preaching, upon which Mark
based his text, much more specific. In the other testimonia, Peter’s listeners are
imagined, if they are mentioned at all, as a generic crowd who eventually per-
suades Mark to write things down for posterity. But here, Peter speaks “in front of
certain imperial equites” (coram quibusdam Caesareanis equitibus), men of the
equestrian order in close proximity to the imperial household. In the early Empire,
the majority of these equites had political roles “as senior local magistrates and
councillors or as high priests of the imperial cult”—and it was precisely at their
request that Mark decided to put stylus to papyrus.26 According to Clement, the
fact that such imperial men heard and requested more of “the good news” had
some explanatory power for understanding the Gospel of Mark. This testimony
encourages us to read Mark not only in light of Roman provenance, but even in
light of Roman imperial ideology.
The connection of Mark and Rome has been often defended by German
scholars,27 and by way of conclusion to this survey, Martin Hengel offers a curt and
forceful representation of their position:
The constantly repeated assertion that the [Gospel of Mark] was written in Syria-
Palestine—most recently, Antioch has also been mentioned—has no really serious
basis. . . . In the case of the earliest Gospel we are in the happy position of being able to
define a historical point of origin with more accuracy than in the case of the later Gospels.
It was written in a time of severe affliction in Rome after the persecution of Nero and
before the destruction of Jerusalem, probably during AD 69, the “year of revolution.”28
Though I am not as confident as Hengel about such a positive identification as

the “Year of Four Emperors,” I find the general connection between Mark and
Rome persuasive.29 More importantly, there is great value in spinning out some
interpretations on the loom of this or that theory. Theories about the distant past
are not so much proven or disproven as they are employed. They allow us to see
certain things, even if they do not let us know anything with certainty. In the
words of John Ashton, “Nevertheless a ‘may be,’ even one masquerading as an ‘is,’
often promotes understanding and when it does is to be preferred to a prudent
‘don’t know.’”30
Text-Reader Relationship: Mark’s Ancient Readers and Roman Culture
According to Adela Yarbro Collins, “the evidence is not strong enough to point
definitively to either Rome or Antioch,” the two favored options for Markan prov-
enance, “but it is compatible with both locations (and others).”31 And despite my
assessment of Rome as the most probable location of Mark’s Gospel, the argument
of this chapter does not depend on it alone. This chapter will interpret the divine
sonship portrayed by Mark in the light of Roman imperial ideology, and that ide-
ology, though concentrated in Rome, pervaded the Empire. Rome’s projection of
power was not bounded by the pomerium of the city; it was similarly propagated—
and just as vital—at the Empire’s distant frontier. Recent scholarship on the mech-
anisms of Roman imperial ideology has specifically analyzed its spread to the
eastern provinces of Asia, Syria, and even Judea. Through an analysis of material
evidence, Roman historian Werner Eck even demonstrates that Judea was in many
ways “a normal province” of the Roman Empire.32 Whether or not Mark was writ-
ten in the city of Rome, it was written in the context of empire.
The extent and distribution of Roman imperial ideology can be traced through
its diverse means of transmission, such as imperial coinage, portraiture, and offi-
cial texts. Coins were by far the most abundant, reliable, and portable means of
imperial news and values. Through their images and legends, emperors communi-
cated military victories, largesse to the provinces, the securing of heirs to the
throne, and the virtues with which they wanted to be affiliated.33 Furthermore,
coins were uniquely effective at controlling a message—it was quite against the
interest of their recipients to deface their texts and images.
Imperial portraits were less abundant but no less significant than coins. In truth,
they were rather more abundant and significant than is usually acknowledged.
According to Fronto, images of the emperor were literally “anywhere and
everywhere.”34 Modern scholars estimate that between 25,000 and 50,000 portraits
of Augustus existed in the Roman Empire—about one portrait for every 1,000–
2,000 people.35 Those numbers become more understandable by considering an
analogy to the contemporary United States: there were as many portraits of
Augustus per capita then as there are Christian churches per capita now in the
United States.36 To get a sense of how widespread the imago of Augustus was, we
might imagine seeing him in the place of every church in an American neighbor-
hood or city; and all those churches would be strikingly similar to each other in
their art and architecture, each designed to reinforce the same features and val-
ues.37 With this analogy in mind, it does not seem an exaggeration to call the
emperor—especially Augustus—the only Empire-wide god in the Roman panthe-
on.38 Furthermore, these portraits did not only establish a visual connection bet-
ween the emperor and his subjects; they also brought the presence of the emperor
to places he would never actually be. This presence was thought necessary to con-
duct all manner of official business, from judicial procedures to birthday celebra-
tions. As noted in chapter 3, portraits were also manufactured to legitimate the
processes of imperial succession—to explain who was related to whom, by blood

or adoption, and to whom obeisance should be paid.
Imperial values, events, and movements were also broadcast through texts, both
documentary and monumental. The most pertinent text for our topic is the famous
inscription from Priene, which proclaims a redating of the Asian calendar. The
proconsul Paullus Fabius Maximus had reconfigured the year (effective c. 9 b.c.e.)
to begin with the birthday of Augustus. Then “the Greeks of Asia” made a formal
decree in praise of the decision. In the decree, they praise Augustus, among other
things, as the “savior” and describe “the birthday of the god” Augustus as that which
“began for the world the good news that happened because of him.”39 The connec-
tions between this text and the opening of Mark’s Gospel are well known.40 Mark
introduces Jesus’ status of “son of God” as the “beginning” of his “good news.”41
Augustus, at that time the only universal god of the Roman Empire, was imagined
also as a “god” and a “son of god” who “began” the “good news” for the world. Also
relevant to the argument of this chapter is the “good news” reported of Vespasian’s
accession to the principate. When the channels of communication spread the news
that the chaotic “Year of the Four Emperors” was over and Vespasian would be the
new emperor, “every city celebrated the good news [εὐαγγέλια].”42 As I will argue
later, the baptism of Jesus can be fruitfully compared to such a Roman imperial
accession.
In addition to this general picture of Roman imperial ideology, historians have
also assessed the specific role of emperor worship throughout the Empire. Chapter
2 grew out of the seminal work of Simon Price (regarding the province of Asia)
and Duncan Fishwick (the Latin West) and the recent research of Ittai Gradel
(Italy) and Maria Kantiréa (Achaia), among others. Less well known is the work of
Monika Bernett, who has challenged standard views about emperor worship in
Judea, Samaria, and Galilee.43 Scholars have long noted the presence of imperial
temples in first-century Palestine, even if they have often downplayed their signif-
icance. A generation before the birth of Jesus, Herod the Great had already
established three:44 a temple of Augustus at the new city Sebaste in Samaria (27
b.c.e.);45 a temple of Roma and Augustus and correlated imperial games at the new
Caesarea Maritima (23 b.c.e.);46 and another temple of Augustus near Banias (20
b.c.e.), placed at the erstwhile sanctuary of Pan, above what later became Caesarea
Philippi.47 (A fourth temple, whose date and function is still being debated, is cur-
rently being excavated at Khirbet Omrit, a few kilometers southwest of Banias.)48
These temples are spread throughout the Herodian territory, and each is promi-
nently situated—Samaria’s on the summit of a hill, with the sea visible many kilo-
meters to the west; Caesarea’s on a manufactured hill, facing the harbor port and
visible from far out at sea, and Banias’s either directly in front of the ancient grotto
of Pan or on a cliff summit adjacent to the grotto. (The Omrit temple is also on a
summit east of the Hula valley, adjacent to and above where the Roman road to
Damascus passed by.) Indeed, a strong argument could be made that these imperial
temples were more prominent in Palestine than elsewhere because of their sharp
contrast to the surrounding religious environment. An imperial temple in Herodian

Palestine was not just one among many temples to various gods, as in a city such
as Ephesus. These monuments to the emperor—each almost as large as a football
field and towering over its surroundings—would not have escaped the attention of
local residents and passersby.49
Bernett demonstrates that scholars have made two mistaken assumptions about
emperor worship in Roman Palestine. First, they considered the Jews to have been
exempt from participation in emperor worship. She argues instead that a legal
exemption for the Jews never existed because “no law requiring veneration of the
Roman emperor in cultic forms existed, and therefore nobody could be exempted
from it.”50 The burgeoning worship of the emperor presented unique problems for
the Jews, but they could not avoid it by a legal pronouncement. Throughout the
first century, “emperor worship was steadily becoming an established form by
which someone in the Roman Empire . . . expressed his connection to the Roman
imperial household.”51 Second, scholars have interpreted the appearance of
imperial temples in Palestine as examples of Romanization which encroached
upon the otherwise purely Jewish land and culture. But Bernett questions the sim-
plicity of that dichotomy. Jews did not just accept or resist a dominant Roman
ideology; as she demonstrates, the Jews understood emperor worship as a “huge,
acknowledged symbolic communication system” and used it to negotiate their
new identities as residents of the Empire.52 There were many points on the spec-
trum of identity between Herod the Great’s acceptance and Judas the Galilean’s
resistance.53
To read Mark as having some general connection to Rome is not a novel idea,
but new and surprising interpretations do emerge when specific aspects of Roman
culture and ideology are emphasized. Whether located in Rome or elsewhere in
the Empire, Mark’s narrative characterization of Jesus can be justifiably construed
in the light of Roman imperial ideology. Regardless of exactly where Mark began
to narrate the Son of God, he was doing so in the Empire governed by the other
“god” and “son of god,” the emperor who had begun to be worshipped in Palestine
itself.
■ BAPTISM AS ADOPTION
Calling him “son,” Galba led Piso into the praetorian camp, and before
the assembly, he adopted him.
—suetonius, Galba 17
“σὺ εἰ̂ ὁ υἱός μου ὁ ἀγαπητός, ἐν σοὶ εὐδόκησα.”54 This divine voice at Jesus’ baptism
has usually been regarded by commentators as a composite allusion to Jewish
Scriptures. The argument goes: a listener attuned to Jewish Scriptures probably
had a category in his or her mind into which to assimilate the voice as a character-
ization of Jesus; this new “anointed one” was construed in terms of messianic
expectations which perhaps combined Davidic kingship with Isaianic restoration.

My argument does not flatly reject such suggested allusions. On the contrary, this
chapter will ultimately offer a different reading of the voice from heaven, an inter-
pretation that imagines how the voice might have resonated in its Roman imperial
context. What category would a listener attuned to Roman culture have had in his
or her mind? And what might Mark have had in his mind, when he attempted to
depict Jesus’ divine sonship in a Roman milieu?
It will now come as no surprise to the reader that my argument will refer to the
ancient practice of adoption. But when this chapter suggests that the baptismal
scene would have been interpreted as an adoption, the implications of adoption
should be understood much differently than they have been by previous scholar-
ship.55 The very mention of the word “adoption” in the same sentence as “Jesus” can
stymie a conversation and kindle the ire of typically placid scholars. Furthermore,
since Adolph von Harnack’s History of Dogma popularized the term, “adoptionism”
has become one of heresiology’s black holes, a center of gravity which collects into
itself multifarious constellations of “low” Christology, obscuring any nuanced
perspective on them.56
But adoption has been misconstrued, and an analogy might help to explain
how. Not long ago, most biblical scholars thought they had an adequate under-
standing of slavery in the Roman Empire. They maintained an unstated assump-
tion that slaves were destitute, without hope, at the bottom of the social system. But
research has shown that this picture of Roman slavery looks more like the popular
American visualization of slavery—gleaned unconsciously from Uncle Tom’s Cabin
or Civil War movies—than the ancient Roman economy of status. In his book
Slavery as Salvation, Dale Martin demonstrated that most biblical scholars carried
around an image of ancient Roman slavery that ignored a key aspect—the use of
slavery as upward mobility in the Roman Empire.57 Through an examination of the
classical sources and material culture, Martin illuminated a new way of under-
standing the motifs of slavery, manumission, and freedom in Pauline soteriology.
I contend that there is an analogous misconception among biblical scholars
about adoption in Roman culture. The crucial unstated modern assumption is that
adopted sons carried a lower status than biological sons in the Roman conception
of the family (see argument from chapter 3). In some cases this was true. But the
creation of fictive kinship was common in the Roman world, and it was binding. Far
from carrying a stigma, adoption could be a vehicle for prestige.58 What is more, the
most important and visible Roman family in the first century, the imperial family,
executed many high-profile adoptions which contributed to a burgeoning imperial
ideology. By applying our understanding of how adopted sons were viewed in
Roman culture and the imperial family, we can better understand how Mark and
others depicted the relationship of Jesus and God as son and father.
This is not to say that Mark was “adoptionist” in the usual sense of the term,
which tends to be an imprecise catch-all for “low” Christologies, as noted above.
Mark’s Christology was neither connected to the second- and third-century
Roman “adoptionists” (Theodotus and followers) nor somehow related to the

so-called adoptionism of eighth-century Spain.59 But Mark’s Christology can be
interpreted as “adoptionist,” if by that term one means that Mark narratively char-
acterizes Jesus in comparison with the adopted Roman emperor, the most pow-
erful man-god in the universe. If readers of Mark consider the resonance of the
concept of adoption in the Roman ideology of Mark’s era, it does not appear to be
a “low” Christology at all. To the contrary, adoption is how the most powerful man
in the world gained his power.
■ . . . IN THE LIGHT OF JEWISH PRACTICE

AND IDEOLOGY
Traditional Interpretations of the Voice

Earlier I wrote that this chapter does not “flatly reject” suggested allusions to the
Old Testament in the divine voice at Jesus’ baptism. However, these suggested allu-
sions merit a bit more scrutiny than they typically receive. Here let us first examine
how commentators have traditionally understood the divine voice and then review
the evidence for adoption in ancient Judaism.
Critical scholarship about the divine voice at Jesus’ baptism is bifurcated. On
the one hand, there is almost universal agreement about the set of biblical texts to
which the divine voice is thought to allude. On the other hand, there is a panoply
of judgments about what these allusions might mean for the overall interpretation
of the episode. Most commentators suggest allusions to Ps 2, the royal psalm of
coronation, and Isaiah 42, one of the so-called Servant Songs. Some commentators
also point to Genesis 22, where Abraham binds and almost offers up his “beloved
son” Isaac. Taking these allusions together, the reader supposedly understands
Jesus to endow the Messianic role with a composite character: as a Davidic royal
Son of God (Ps 2:7), a Spirit-possessed servant of God (Isa 42:1), and perhaps an
obedient suffering son (Gen 22:2).60 But do these allusions hold up under
scrutiny?
The latter portion of Ps 2 is paramount among the suggested allusions made by
“you are my son” (σὺ εἰ̂ ὁ υἱός μου). The fact that this psalm addresses the corona-
tion of an “anointed one” as king of Israel anchors the interpretation of this allu-
sion. In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus has already been introduced as the anointed one
(1:1). The divine voice, according to the standard interpretation, then ratifies this
ascription with reference to the royal psalm of coronation. An influential com-
mentary calls it a “near-exact quotation” of the psalm,61 but we should not forget
that the correspondence (“you are my son”) includes some of the most common
words in Greek—or any language, for that matter—and Mark does not include the
rest of Ps 2:7.
For the second phrase, usually rendered “with you I am well pleased” (ἐν σοὶ
εὐδόκησα)—but see the section on this translation below—an allusion to Isaiah 42
is frequently adduced but also not without problems. In fact, the relevant portion of
Isaiah 42:1 lxx (προσεδέξατο αὐτὸν ἡ ψυχή μου) shares exactly zero verbal corre-
spondences with the divine voice in Mark.62 The correspondence is made rather
through other means: (1) the subsequent line of Isaiah 42 states “I gave my spirit
upon him,” which correlates to the overall scene in Mark, though not the exact voice;
(2) an alternate Greek translation of Isaiah 42:1–4, preserved in Matt 12:18–21, does
exhibit verbal correspondences with the divine voice in Mark; (3) the Hebrew verb
hxr (of Isa 42:1 mt) can exhibit a similar semantic range to the Greek εὐδοκέω. What
is missed by most commentators in this morass is the fact that the verbs involved in
the suggested allusions (Isa 42:1 and Matt 12:18) connote something like “election”
or even “adoption.” The words from Isa 42:1 lxx (προσδέχομαι) and from Matt 12:18
(αἱρετίζω and εὐδοκέω) normally suggest the performance of a choice. What is more,
if Matt 12:18 is the hermeneutical key to this allusion, then the first line of it must be
accounted for,“Here is my servant, whom I have chosen.” The verb αἱρετίζω (“chosen”)
is used twice in the lxx to mean precisely the act of adoption, the choosing of a son
(1 Chr 28:6, 29:1; Mal 3:17), just as it is used by Plutarch when discussing the Emperor
Galba’s adoption of a son.63 On the whole, the allusions to Ps 2 and Isa 42 are not as
unshakable as commentators make them out to be, and the connotations of those
biblical texts are not always spelled out in full.
According to the standard interpretations, then, what was the point of the
divine voice at Jesus’ baptism? Commentators do not agree exactly on that, but
most do agree on what the voice did not do. Just as they are sure that Jesus’ baptism
was not for repentance and forgiveness of sins (even though that is exactly what
Mark tells us John was doing out there in the wilderness), so also are they sure that
the divine voice did not announce anything new or change Jesus. Apparently, at
this profound inaugural event in the life of Jesus and the Gospel of Mark, nothing
really happened. Certitude about this fact comes packaged in many forms.
According to Cranfield, “The voice does not proclaim Jesus’ newly established
status of sonship . . . rather it confirms his already existing filial consciousness.”64
According to Lane (italics original), “Jesus did not become the Son of God, at
baptism or at the transfiguration; he is the Son of God”—it is “an eternal and
essential relationship.”65 R. T. France is most emphatic, asserting:
The divine declaration, and the whole experience of which it forms a part, is not phrased
in such a way as to suggest that Jesus at this point becomes something which he was not
before. The pericope has sometimes been spoken of as marking Jesus’ adoption as Son of
God. Such a view cannot be derived from Mark’s wording, but must be based on dogmatic
considerations drawn from elsewhere.66
France’s accusations of dogmatism are poorly chosen. Certainly dogma is on the side
of his position, which attempts to harmonize Mark’s narrative depiction of Jesus with
those of the other Gospels and with later christological orthodoxy. Indeed, Bart Ehrman
has thoroughly charted how “dogmatic considerations” à la France contributed contin-
uously to “anti-adoptionistic” modifications of biblical manuscripts in antiquity.67
Throughout commentaries on Jesus’ baptism according to Mark, actual

arguments about divine sonship are found wanting. Scholars that are otherwise
critical simply assert that the adoptive interpretation is false. The voice was not
declaring anything new, but was simply a confirmation of an already existing state.
Taylor summarizes, “The words are best understood as an assurance, or confirma-
tion, of this relationship, rather than a disclosure or revelation.”68 But if the voice is
directed privately to Jesus, and Jesus already was the son of God, and already knew
that he was, then why did the scene happen at all? Perhaps the episode took place
for the sake of the reader. However, later readers know what it looks like for an
author to portray Jesus’ already-existing status as son of God (see Matthew, Luke,
John). If Mark was trying to depict Jesus as already God’s Son, he did not do a very
good job. Maybe that was not his intention.
Despite the chorus of scholars that forcefully disavow the adoptive reading—
protesting too much, like the queen in Hamlet—there are some commentators that
do acknowledge its plausibility. Yarbro Collins argues against interpreting Ps 2:7 as
an adoption in its original Israelite context, but she also states, “it may be that this
language evoked ideas of adoption in at least some of the early social contexts in
which Mark was read and heard.”69 Donahue and Harrington go further, using the
language of adoption to interpret the meaning of Jesus’ baptism. Mark “narrates
simply the baptism of Jesus in preparation for the opening of the heavens and the
divine adoption and commissioning of Jesus.”70 Their exegesis then opens up to
imagine the early Christian experience of the text: Jesus’ baptismal scene “contains
resonances with the experiences of Mark’s first readers . . . [who] received a spirit
of adoption at their baptisms.”71 They suggest that the divine sonship of Jesus was
more similar to the adoptive divine sonship of early Christians than it was differ-
ent.72 Christians saw in Jesus’ sonship a resonance with their own baptisms.73
In the analysis of Eduard Schweizer, the allusion to Ps 2 “indicates that the
baptism of Jesus was considered to be his induction into the eschatological office
of the Son of God, corresponding to the enthronement of an Israelite king.”74 To be
“inducted” into a new “office” as a “son” sounds quite like an adoption; sensing this
fact, Schweizer nominally disavows an adoptive reading, saying that Mark is not
expressing “the concept of some kind of adoption as the Son of God.” But without
resolving the tension between how he describes the sonship and what name he
gives it, he moves on by asserting that sonship “is not the real issue” in this episode.
“Who Jesus might have been before his baptism or even before his birth is a
question which might be asked in modern times, but is not being asked here. . . .
What is important to Mark is the beginning of Jesus’ sonship in the world, i.e., the
point in time when he began to exercise his sonship.”
Later in his commentary, Schweizer analyzes Jesus’ divine sonship in ways
compatible with my argument from chapter 2.
In Old Testament terminology “son” was purely a statement of function and described
the authority of the one who reigned on behalf of God over his people. A contemporary
of Jesus who was instructed in the Old Testament would be more concerned about a
person’s action or a thing’s function than about its nature. He would not be interested in
the question of whether a person was God’s Son “in and of himself ”; in fact, he would
not have been able to understand such a question. He considered a person’s actions to be
important because they really indicated that this person encountered him as one who
demanded obedience, exercised authority over him, protected and guided him. It was in
this sense that the church confessed it had experienced Jesus’ authority since Easter, i.e.,
his divine Sonship, and had proclaimed this to the whole world. But if the one who arose
on Easter was the same person who lived on earth as Jesus of Nazareth, his baptism must
be regarded as the actual beginning of his reign as God’s representative.75
Though Schweizer ultimately avoids the cultural practice of adoption as the

master-metaphor by which to understand Jesus’ divine sonship in Mark, his
interpretations share affinity with those offered in this chapter. Contemporaries of
Jesus were not concerned with the “nature” of God’s Son, but with his “status” and
“authority.” With respect to his status and authority, Jesus had not always functioned
as God’s Son. Rather, he was “inducted” into a new office as son, which inaugurated
“the actual beginning of his reign” as God’s representative.
According to some scholars, something really happened that day in the
Jordan River. Perhaps adoption is the best way to understand it. But when one
is open to the suggestion that, according to Mark, Jesus’ divine sonship is adop-
tive, it still remains to be asked: what is the best cultural matrix in which to
understand the episode? To what kind of adoption can this sonship be com-
pared? This chapter will ultimately offer a reading informed by the Roman
cultural context, but could the adoptive reading also be maintained in light of
Jewish thought and practice?
Jewish Adoptions in Antiquity?
This line of inquiry leads us to a fundamental question: were there Jewish adop-
tions in antiquity? The short answer is “not exactly”—not in the sense that we nor-
mally think of adoption.76 Then can we, in light of Jewish practice and ideology,
interpret Jesus’ baptism as an adoption? That question requires a longer answer.
Though there is no certain evidence of adoption law or adoption ceremonies in the
canonical literature of ancient Judaism, there are episodes resembling what we call
adoption and there are examples of parent-child relationships developed through
nonbiological means. Specifically, ancient Jews encountered identity questions
about foundlings, fosterage, and the practice of surrogate motherhood. To whom
does a foundling belong? Should it be considered a child of its foster parent on a
par with that parent’s biological children? Whom should a child call “mother”—
the one who bore him or the (different) one who reared him? In the rabbinic
period, the question was raised: whom should a child call “father”—the one who
begat him or the (different) one who instructed him? Furthermore, ancient Jews
often found themselves in foreign legal contexts that had codified adoption.
To explore these questions, we will examine biblical narratives, rabbinic exegesis,
and the sparse nonliterary evidence.77
Though biblical law provides no prescriptions for adoption, several biblical nar-
ratives present scenarios relevant to the study of adoption.78 Only the strongest
cases will be summarized here. The most famous foundling and fosterage candi-
date in ancient Judaism is, of course, Moses (Exod 2:5–10). After his abandonment
by his mother and sister, Moses was found by Pharaoh’s daughter at the river.
Serendipitously, he was nursed and reared to adulthood by his own mother. But
when he had grown up, he was brought back to Pharaoh’s daughter, and “he became
her son” (˜bl hlAyhyw, Exod 2:10). The interpretation of this event as an adoption is
corroborated by Philo (Mos. 1.19–33), Josephus (A.J. 2.232), and New Testament
authors (Acts 7:21; Heb 11:24). Another famous case of fosterage is that of Esther,
whom Mordecai “reared” (˜ma) and “took as his daughter” (tbl wl ykdrm hjql) after
her mother and father died (Esth 2:7).79 Finally, the reaction of Naomi after the
birth of Ruth’s child appears to instigate a scene of adoption: Naomi “took the child
[of Ruth and Boaz] and laid him in her bosom, and became his nurse (tnma). The
women of the neighborhood gave him a name, saying, ‘A son has been born to
Naomi (ym[nl ˜bAdly)’ ” (Ruth 4:16–17). However, this declaration does not affiliate
the child to Naomi as a son but rather as a grandson. From a legal viewpoint, the
purpose of Ruth’s marriage to Boaz was “to engender a son who would be accounted
to Ruth’s dead husband,” and thus “the child is legally Naomi’s grandson.”80 These
three examples are clear cases of fosterage and/or nursing; in addition, the first two
examples resemble the cultural practice we would call adoption. However, their
relevance for our understanding of common Jewish practices is diminished by
their extraordinary circumstances and their occurrence in some foreign context
(under Egyptian rule, under Persian rule, and with a Moabite, respectively).
Different perspectives on these and other biblical narratives are provided by
rabbinic interpretations. The locus classicus for examining nonbiological parent-
child relationships in rabbinic literature is one sugya from the Babylonian Talmud
(b. Sanh. 19b) and its parallels in the Tosefta (t. Sotah 11:17–20). The situation
discussed is too complex for a complete analysis here, but in short, the Tosefta and
Talmud deal with a perceived problem in the biblical record of David’s wives and
children. On the one hand, several texts from 1 Samuel and 2 Samuel coalesce to
express an unproblematic narrative about David and two of Saul’s daughters, Merab
and Michal (cf. 1 Sam 18:17–27; 25:44; 2 Sam 3:14–16; 6:23). Merab, daughter of
Saul, was promised to David, but actually Saul had already given her to Adriel.
Instead Saul gave another daughter, Michal, to David in marriage. But then Saul
took Michal from David and gave her to a certain Palti, who was ultimately left
without her when David demanded her back. Through it all, Michal remained
childless. On the other hand, there is one verse (2 Sam 21:8) which clearly wit-
nesses to Michal’s bearing children—five of them, to Adriel! What is going on
here?81 To whom do these children belong?
Both the Tosefta and the Talmud treat the specific exegetical and halakhic
problems of the narrative, trying to understand how all the texts can be telling the
truth. But while the Tosefta is mostly interested in resolving specific problems, the
Talmud includes some generalizing principles about fosterage and nonbiological
parent-child relationships. In order to address the contradiction between Michal’s
fertility in one text and her childlessness in another, the Tosefta affirms that her
childlessness was true in the plain sense (she did not conceive and bear them),
but that she did have five sons in another sense. Merab actually gave birth to
them but Michal reared them (lkym ˜twa hldygw brym hdly, 11:20). In order to jus-
tify their being called Michal’s sons, even though she did not bear them, the author
marshals two prooftexts. The first is the aforementioned situation of Ruth and
Naomi. The second prooftext simply records a discrepancy at the beginning of
Aaron’s lineage (Num 3:1–2); this text introduces the lineage of Moses but never
actually provides the list of his offspring. If the Tosefta’s author wants the reader to
interpret this text by analogy to Ruth and Naomi, then one would conclude that
Aaron begat the sons and Moses reared them.
Thus the Tosefta makes specific points about fosterage and child-rearing, but
both prooftexts are expanded by the Talmud. The first expansion comes after a rep-
etition of the Tosefta’s conclusion that Merab bore the sons but Michal reared
them. Then the Talmud states, “This teaches you that whoever brings up an orphan
in his home, Scripture ascribes it to him as though he had begotten him”
(wdly wlyak ).82 This generalizing principle of fosterage is as close as one comes in
ancient Judaism to a principle of adoption—the relationship of foster-parent to
foster-child is “as though he had begotten him.”
This generalizing doctrine is only the first of the Talmud’s expansions on t.
Sotah 11:20. The Talmud includes both previous prooftexts from the Tosefta (about
Naomi and Moses), but it expands on these examples and adds two more. Whereas
the Tosefta marshals the examples of Naomi and Moses to corroborate the specific
instance of Merab and Michal, the Talmud proffers three examples from which the
general principle could have been derived. First, it could be derived from the
infancy of Moses. The example hinges on a comparison between different accounts
of Moses’s ancestry: 1 Chronicles 6:3 calls Moses, Aaron, and Miriam the children
of Amram. Numbers 26:59 calls these three the children of Amram by Jochebed.
But 1 Chronicles 4:17–18 records Miriam to be the child of Bithiah (the daughter
of Pharaoh), whom Mered married. Furthermore, Mered’s “Judean wife”—presumed
by R. Yohanan to be the same person as Bithiah—also “bore Jered father of
Gedor, Heber father of Soco, and Jekuthiel father of Zanoah.” The rabbis had to
account for these different sets of data. A full explanation is offered by R. Yohanan
elsewhere, in b. Megillah 13a. There, R. Yohanan first demonstrates why Bithiah, the
daughter of Pharaoh, is the same person as Mered’s “Judean wife”—because she
repudiated idolatry by bathing in the river (Exod 2:5). Once he has connected
these two names, he then shows through etymologies that the six names born by
Mered’s Judean wife were all references to Moses.83 That argument is presumed
knowledge here in b. Sanhedrin. Bithiah is the same person as the Judean wife, and
the children of this Judean wife are all encoded names for Moses. From all of these
premises, R. Yohanan can draw his conclusion and relate it back to the general
principle in question: “But was he [Moses] indeed born of Bithia and not rather of
Jochebed? But Jochebed bore and Bithia brought him up. Therefore he was called
after her.” Again, the nonbiological parent-child relationship occurs through a
situation of fosterage.84
The next example, brought by R. Eleazar, involves Jacob and Joseph. He defends
the general principle through an interpretation of Ps 77(76):15, “With your strong
arm you redeemed your people, the descendants of Jacob and Joseph.” He asks,
“Did then Joseph beget them; surely it was rather Jacob? But Jacob begot and
Joseph sustained (lklyk) them; therefore they are called by his name.” R. Eleazar
does not elaborate on how Joseph “sustained” them, but he probably refers to
Joseph’s actions during the famine in Egypt (Gen 47:11–12). Even so, this explana-
tion does not exhaust the meaning of R. Eleazar’s argument. There were other pos-
sible examples of nonbiological parenthood concerning Jacob and Joseph. That is,
they are also implicated in what some scholars consider an overt “adoption cere-
mony” in the Bible—the adoption of Joseph’s sons (Ephraim and Manasseh) by
their grandfather Jacob (Gen 48:1–12).85 When Joseph and his sons visited Jacob
on his deathbed, Jacob said, “Your two sons, who were born to you in the land of
Egypt before I came to you in Egypt, are now mine; Ephraim and Manasseh shall
be mine, just as Reuben and Simeon are. As for the offspring born to you after
them, they shall be yours” (Gen 48:5–6). After this speech, but before Jacob deliv-
ered his blessing, “Joseph removed them from his father’s knees,86 and he bowed
himself with his face to the earth” (Gen 48:12). Then Jacob blessed both of them
with words that omit Joseph from the lineage (Gen 48:15–16). Even granting that
this episode serves an etiological function, explaining the place of Joseph’s sons
instead of Joseph in the twelve tribes, that fact does not preclude understanding it
as an adoption. Therefore when R. Eleazar offers the example of Jacob and Joseph
to defend the general principle of nonbiological parenthood, he draws on a poly-
semic tradition. The biological children of Joseph were also sons of Jacob through
an adoption ceremony (biblical text), and the biological children of Jacob were also
sons of Joseph through his sustenance (R. Eleazar’s argument).
The final example, offered by R. Samuel b. Nahmani in R. Jonathan’s name,
involves Moses and Aaron. This example is not brought as proof for the general
principle about raising another’s child; rather it introduces a different principle:
“Anyone who teaches the son of his neighbor the Torah, Scripture ascribes it to
him as though he had begotten him” (wdly wlyak bwtkh wyl[ hl[m hrwt wrybj ˜b dmlmh
lk). The earlier principle encompassed examples of caring for someone else’s child;
this principle explicitly denotes the teaching of Torah to someone else’s child. Here
the Talmud draws on the second of the two Tosefta prooftexts (11:20). “ ‘Now these
are the generations of Aaron and Moses’s’s (Num 3:1); while further on it is written,
‘These are the names of the sons of Aaron:’ thus teaching thee that Aaron begot
(dly) and Moses taught them (dmyl); hence they are called by his name.” The
prooftext left bare in the Tosefta is expanded in the Talmud. Moses deserved to be
called their father in so far as he taught them the Torah.
The Talmud therefore encapsulates various teachings under two generalizing
principles. Scripture ascribes the parent-child relationship not only to biological
processes, but also to two other circumstances—“whoever brings up an orphan in
his home” and “whoever teaches the son of his neighbor the Torah.” We can further
notice how the Talmud arranges the examples of nonbiological parentage in a kind
of ascending order. There are five examples given and four different types of
parentage: Merab/Michal head the list with an example from fosterage; then follow
Ruth/Naomi (nursing/fosterage); Jochebed/Bithia (fosterage); Jacob/Joseph (sus-
tenance); and Aaron/Moses (teaching of Torah). The series from Naomi to Moses
is shaped by the Talmud to represent the stages of human growth: Naomi nurses
an infant; Bithia raises a child to adulthood; Joseph sustains the bodily health of
his people; and ultimately, Moses teaches the Torah. For the Talmud, the teaching
of Torah is the ultimate way to gain the status of parent to another’s child.87
In addition to these examples from the Bible and rabbinic literature, there are
intriguing (though sparse) documentary and epigraphic examples to corroborate
relationships of adoption or fosterage in ancient Judaism. One of the Aramaic
papyri from Elephantine is documentary evidence of manumission and adoption
among the Jews in that place and time (papyrus dated 416 b.c.e.). A certain Uriah
has an adoption contract written to secure the manumission and transfer of a
certain Yedoniah. In addition to manumitting him, Uriah also adopts him in plain
language: the text uses the adoption formula, “My son he shall be” (hwhy yrb) three
separate times in the course of the declaration.88 Finally, evidence of adoption (or
at least fosterage that uses parent-child language) also exists in the Jewish inscrip-
tions of ancient Rome. At least four of the inscriptions reveal an intimate relation-
ship between a foster-parent and foster-child.89
In sum, we do not have evidence of a codified or widespread system of adoption
in ancient Judaism, as we do for the Roman world. However, biblical accounts of
some key figures (Moses, Joseph, Ruth, David) do portray parent-child relation-
ships enacted not through biological reproduction but through nursing and fos-
terage. By the Tannaitic period, some of these examples were deployed to resolve
exegetical problems of biblical genealogy. By the Amoraic period, these examples
had been developed into generalized principles promoting the parentage of foster-
parents and teachers. Such principles offer a glimpse into one of the interstices of
rabbinic law: while the lack of adoption law in Tannaitic or Amoraic literature
does demonstrate its diminished importance vis-à-vis Roman law, the rabbinic
support of fosterage shows concern for the actual conditions of a society brim-
ming with orphans. Finally, evidence from ancient Egypt and Rome suggests some
practice of fosterage or adoption by Jews in those locales. This evidence notwith-
standing, one may still wonder to what degree these examples should be under-
stood as indicators of actual social practices. Since we have scant evidence of legal
adoption in ancient Judaism (save the Elephantine papyrus), should we not regard
the available evidence in the metaphorical way? Indeed, adoption was employed as
a metaphor in ancient Judaism, a phenomenon to which we now turn.
Adoptive Divine Sonship in Ancient Judaism
In ancient Judaism, God was understood to have offered adoptive divine sonship
to specific communities and individuals, in addition to the well-known portrayal
of God’s parent-child relationship with all Israel in the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Exod
4:22–23; Jer 3:19; 31:9, 20; Hos 11:1–4) and New Testament (Rom 9:4).90 The early
Christians—especially the communities founded by Paul—are the most famous
group from antiquity that thought God had established a special adoptive relation-
ship with them.91 Early Christian family relations have been explored in some
detail by scholars, and it is clear that Christians’ understanding of themselves in
kinship, family and household metaphors was one of the most widespread features
of the nascent movement.92 For now, we will put this part of the argument on hold
and examine a different group of Jews who can be seen as a large family under
God: the Essenes.
According to Josephus, the Essenes imagined their social relations to be as one
large family “like brothers” (B.J. 2.123), although “among them, marriage is looked
down upon” (B.J. 2.120). Pliny the Elder expresses amazement at their continuous
existence as a kinship group (gens) amid such conjugal restrictions: “Thus for thou-
sands of ages—unbelievable to say—there exists an eternal gens, in which no one
is born!” (Nat. 5.73).93 How then did they perpetuate this large family, if they did
not customarily procreate with each other? Josephus describes it: “having received
the children of others, while they are still impressionable enough to be instructed,
they consider them to be family members and form them in their customs” (B.J.
2.120). He does not say that the Essenes adopt these young members as their own
children, but rather that they consider them to be family members (συγγενει̂ς).
Did new members also receive a parent along with their new siblings? Was there
an overall head of the Essene family?
While the interpretation that the Essenes imagined this large family to be under
God as adoptive parent is not certain, there is at least one text from Qumran that
offers strong support of it.94 One of the Hodayot contains a discrete section of
prayer, in which the speaker95 reflects on the different parent-child relationships he
experiences as a member of this community. Speaking directly to God, he writes:
For you have known me since my father,

from the womb [. . ., . . . of] my mother you have rendered good to me,
from the breasts of her who conceived me your compassion has been upon me,
and on the lap of my wet-nurse [. . .]
From my youth you have shown yourself to me,
in the intelligence of your judgment,
and with certain truth you have supported me.

You have delighted me with your holy spirit, and until this day [. . .].
Your just rebuke is with my [. . .],
your complete watchfulness has saved my soul,
with my steps there is an abundance of forgiveness,
and a multitude of compassion when you judge me,
and until old age you will sustain me.
For my father did not know me,
and my mother abandoned me to you,
because you are father to all the [son]s of your truth.
You will rejoice in them, like her who loves her child,
and like a wet-nurse you will sustain in your lap all your creatures.
—1QHa XVII.29–3696
In this remarkable text, the speaker first traces God’s guidance over time, from his
father’s seed and mother’s womb, to the nursing of his mother and wet-nurse,
through his maturity and learning, his blessings and missteps. He concludes with
assurance that God will continue to sustain him until old age. Through the first
section, it seems that the speaker holds a rather unproblematic view of how God’s
sustenance has corresponded to that provided by his biological parents. However,
the second section takes a sharp turn, like a Petrarchan sonnet, and recounts a
rejection and abandonment by his biological parents. The key line is: “For my
father did not know me, and my mother abandoned me to you, because you are
father to all the [son]s of truth” (line 35). In one stanza, the author believes that
God has sustained him since his mother’s womb, but in the next, he recounts a
specific moment of transfer from the care of his biological mother to that of God
as adoptive parent. The author then depicts God providing the same services—
nursing/rearing (˜ma) and sustaining (lklk)—which typified foster-parents or
adoptive parents in the narratives of the Hebrew Bible (see above).
His biological father did not know him, and his (unmarried?) mother aban-
doned (bz[) him to God—does this line recall the procedure by which he entered
the covenant community at Qumran?97 It coheres with Josephus’s explanation of
how children came to enroll in the Essene community; the mother did not
abandon her child in some vague manner, but she handed her child over specifi-
cally “to you,” acknowledging God also as parent to her child. After she hands him
over to God, God the father also replaces the role of the mother (to love) and the
wet-nurse (to sustain/nurse). While the first stanza portrays God’s sovereign
guidance of the mother’s and wet-nurse’s sustenance up to the point of maturity,
the second stanza portrays the author—though clearly an adult—as an infant
again, in need of God’s sustenance as father, mother, and nurse. What is more,
after being handed over and adopted by God, the child is no longer alone but lives
in a family under God. Though he was at risk of becoming an orphan, he now
lives with “all the [son]s of truth,” God rejoices in “them,” and God sustains in his
lap “all his creatures.” In short, though a certain conclusion cannot be drawn from
the sparse evidence, these texts from Josephus and the Dead Sea Scrolls suggest
an image of the Essenes as a large family, linked to one another by their adoptive
relationship to God.
Ancient Jews also used metaphors of adoption to express the divine sonship of
individuals—especially the Israelite king.98 Through biblical and other ancient
texts, scholars have traced a royal ideology of adoptive sonship between the Davidic
king and the God of Israel. John J. Collins has analyzed the relevant materials,
building on a solid line of previous research.99 The foundational event for the royal
ideology is Nathan’s oracle to David (2 Sam 7:5–17), during which God declares
about David: “I will be a father to him, and he shall be a son to me.” The oracle was
spoken both to glorify David’s earthly royal lineage and to promote the status of
his son in an adoptive relationship to God.100 As Collins writes, “The king becomes
the son of God by adoption but the paternity of the human father is also essential
to the ideology.”101 The related Psalms demonstrate how the trope of divine son-
ship formed a key aspect of the overall royal ideology. The Davidic king’s status as
son of God was what assured his “perdurable dynasty,” which God makes clear he
will not destroy in the “ultimate statement” of Ps 89:19–27:102
I have set the crown on one who is mighty,

I have exalted one chosen from the people.
I have found my servant David;
with my holy oil I have anointed him;
my hand shall always remain with him;
my arm also shall strengthen him. . . .
He shall cry to me, “You are my Father,
my God, and the Rock of my salvation!”
I will make him the firstborn,
the highest of the kings of the earth.
(Ps 89:19–21, 26–27)
This text corroborates several points made about divine sonship in chapter 2.
Divine sonship was thought of as a status that a human being could acquire
through election, as God says, “I have exalted one chosen from the people.”
Nevertheless, this new adopted status can be depicted in the mixed metaphor of
“making” someone “begotten,” as in “I will make him the firstborn.” To be “the
firstborn” and “the highest” was not a feature natural to the king; rather, a “servant”
was “chosen” and “exalted” to that status.
The crucial text of Ps 2—often quoted by early Christian authors—also portrays
the royal ideology of divine sonship. The central proclamation, “You are my son;
today I have begotten you” (Ps 2:7), is thought to have been the apex of a Jerusalem
enthronement ceremony for an Israelite king. Mowinckel encapsulates this view:
In spite of all the mythological metaphors about the birth of a king, we never find in
Israel any expression of a “metaphysical” conception of the king’s divinity and his rela-
tion to Yahweh. It is clear that the king is regarded as Yahweh’s son by adoption. When,
in Ps. ii, 7, Yahweh says to the king on the day of his anointing and installation, “You are
My son; I have begotten you today,” He is using the ordinary formula of adoption,
indicating that the sonship rests on Yahweh’s adoption of the king.103
Though the text uses the language of “begetting,” it does not suggest a preexistent divine
sonship for the king.104 Indeed, it makes precisely the opposite point, by declaring that
the king becomes a son of God “today.” The psalm thus had a performative function: it
enacted a new status for the king, but said nothing about his former status. Collins
finds this point essential for understanding the overall relationship between the ideas
of messiah and son of God: “The designation ‘Son of God’ reflects the status rather than
the nature of the messiah. He is the son of God in the same sense that the king of Israel
was begotten by God according to Ps 2. There is no implication of virgin birth and no
metaphysical speculation is presupposed. He may still be regarded as a human being,
born of human beings, but one who stands in a special relationship to God.”105
On the whole, can the baptism of Jesus be interpreted as an adoption in the
light of Jewish practice and ideology? The evidence for Jewish adoptions in antiq-
uity does not, in general, resemble the kind of adoptive sonship imagined by Mark.
But many scholars are correct to see the adoptive sonship of Israelite kings as a
background to understand the narrative characterization of Jesus’ divine sonship.
The textual allusions are not as strong as they are normally made out to be, but
there is some continuity of imagery and concepts with royal divine sonship in the
Jewish Scriptures. On the other hand, Mark writes to a diverse audience, and a
fresh interpretation of his gospel arises when the Roman practice and ideology of
adoption is spelled out. What does this new comparison allow us to see?
■ . . . IN THE LIGHT OF ROMAN PRACTICE

AND IDEOLOGY
Chapter 3 laid out a historical argument about the social practice and conceptual
understanding of adoption in the Roman world. That argument will be presumed
here in our rethinking of Mark’s Gospel. In addition to that cumulative presenta-
tion, there is one specific linguistic argument that supports my interpretation of
the baptism as an adoption. A detailed word study of the verb used by God’s voice
reveals that its customary English translation has been misleading to generations
of scholars, dating back to 1611.
The Greek Root ευδοκ-
In Mark’s version of the baptism, the divine voice declares two things to Jesus:
(1) “you are my beloved son” and (2) ἐν σοὶ εὐδόκησα, often translated “with you
I am well pleased.” But many philological questions surround the second

declaration. What is the force of the verb εὐδοκέω? Why is it in the aorist tense (as
opposed to the perfect or the present)? How does it function with the preposition
ἐν? Does the verb confirm something previously known about its object or, rather,
does it declare something new about its object? In other words, does this verb have
a performative function? This section addresses these questions by summarizing
the usage of the Greek root ευδοκ- and analyzing some key examples.106
The verb εὐδοκέω occurs frequently in the lxx and nt. Its semantic field encom-
passes meanings such as: to choose, to select, to take pleasure, to have delight, to
agree, to consent, etc. Yet all of the major English translations of Mark 1:11 (except
one107) translate the verb in the same way, as “to be well pleased,” based undoubt-
edly on the precedence of the King James Version.108 While “to be well pleased” is a
legitimate translation for some of the lxx and nt texts, so too are many of those
texts translated by other verbs—verbs which shade toward the “to choose” or “to
select” side of the semantic field. And for scholars not as influenced by the King
James, the translations vary more widely: a foundational German commentary
translates the relevant phrase as “dich habe ich erwählt” (I have chosen you); and an
important French translation of the Bible also emphasizes the choice, “il m’ a plu de
te choisir” (I was pleased to choose you).109 If we were looking for one English
translation that fits the most examples, the translation “pleased to choose” would
better express the usual force of the Greek verb.
In texts from the Septuagint, the verb can connote a collective decision made by
a group of people. When Jonathan and the Jews are debating whether to support
King Demetrius or Alexander Epiphanes, the text states that “they did not believe
or accept” the words of Demetrius, but εὐδόκησαν ἐν Ἀλεξάνδρῳ (1 Macc 10:47).
The context indicates that the verb connotes more than pleasurable feelings toward
Alexander; it manifests a choice of Alexander from the two available options.110
Later, after the death of Jonathan, the people select Simon as their new leader and
high priest with the following words: “The Jews and their priests εὐδόκησαν του̂
εἰ̂ναι αὐτω̂ν Σιμωνα ἡγούμενον καὶ ἀρχιερέα forever, until a trustworthy prophet
should arise” (1 Macc 14:41; cf. 14:46–47). The verb here takes an accusative object
and a genitive articular infinitive, which could be translated as “[they] were pleased
to choose Simon to be their leader and high priest.” Again the text and the context
indicate that the verb connotes a choice—a selection based indeed on positive feel-
ings toward Simon, but a selection nonetheless.
The use of the verb to describe choosing or selecting is not limited to the
human domain. For example, the lxx records God’s choice of a dwelling place by
means of it. Psalm 68(67) provides a liturgical commemoration of God’s dwelling
on the temple mount, and it mocks other mountains for looking upon Mount
Zion, τὸ ὄρος, ὃ εὐδόκησεν ὁ θεὸς κατοικει̂ν ἐν αὐτῳ̂ (Ps 67:17 lxx). The juxta-
position of this one mountain vis-à-vis the other mountains highlights the con-
notation of choice in the verb. From among the available options, God chose to
dwell on this one.111
Most importantly for our purposes, the lxx uses the verb to record God’s
election of a particular person. The most relevant example comes from Ps 151
(= 11QPsa XXVIII 3–12), which records the election and anointing of David,
purportedly from his own point of view. The relevant portion (Ps 151:4–5) from
the lxx reads:
It was [the Lord] who sent his messenger
and took me from my father’s sheep
and anointed [ἔχρισεν] me with his anointing oil.
My brothers were handsome and tall,
but the Lord οὐκ εὐδόκησεν ἐν αὐτοι̂ς.
The psalm reports how, though David was the youngest in the house of his earthly
father and the tender of his sheep, God chose him instead of his older brothers to
be the leader of the people. The Lord “was not pleased to choose them,” but anointed
David instead.112 The connotation of choice in this text is corroborated by the
Hebrew version of the psalm, which was discovered at Qumran. That version offers
a fuller narrative than the Greek, and the order of the verses flows more logically.
The parallel portion (lines 9–12) reads:
My brothers went out to meet him,
handsome of figure and handsome of appearance.
Though they were tall of stature, handsome by their hair,
the Lord God did not choose [rjb] them,
but sent to fetch me from behind the flock
and anointed me [ynjçmyw] with holy oil,
and made me leader of his people
and ruler over the sons of his covenant.
The Hebrew version makes clear the connotation suggested by the Greek, since the
Hebrew verb rjb (“to choose”) functions equivalently to εὐδοκέω + ἐν. God sur-
veyed the available options, did not choose any of the brothers, did decide to select
David, and anointed him as leader of the people. In these examples from the lxx,
one can see that the verb εὐδοκέω, even in its different grammatical formulations,
readily functions as a verb of choosing or selecting.
In other Greek texts from the Greco-Roman world, the verb functions in sim-
ilar ways, although two other connotations are also prominent: “to be satisfied” and
“to consent.” Examples abound in authors like Polybius and Diodorus Siculus.113 In
addition, Greek papyri from the Roman era offer plentiful examples of the mean-
ings “to approve” or “to consent.” The verb can be used in the body of a document
to approve or disapprove of a state of affairs or course of action. For example, when
a certain Tabetheus was explaining how her son, Tiberianus, had encountered
some unfortunate circumstances, she expressed her disapproval of his actions in
this way: οὐκ εὐδόκηκα αὐτὸν τὸν υἱόν μου α[ὐ]τὸν πιστευ̂σαι Μηνᾳ̂ (“I did not
approve that he, my son, should trust Menas”).114 The verb is also used by authors
of documentary papyri (in the body or conclusion of a document) to indicate a

party’s consent to the terms of a contract. For example, a certain Tabesammon was
left without a male guardian and needed to choose someone to act as her κυρίος.
In the document, she recorded that Amoïtas, her new guardian, was παρόντα καὶ
εὐδοκου̂ντα (“present and consenting”) to the new relationship.115
One tantalizing example for our purposes comes from a Roman adoption
contract. When a certain Teeus drafted a contract to adopt her grandson Paësis as
her own son, she added the following subscription to the papyrus in her own
handwriting: Αὐρη[λ]ί[α Τ]εεὺς Παήσι[ο]ς ἡ προκειμένη ἐθέμην τὴν υἱοθεσί[α]ν
καὶ εὐδοκω̂ καὶ πί[θ]ομαι π[α̂]σι τοι̂ς ἐ̣ν̣γ̣[εγρα]μ̣μ̣έ̣ν̣[ο]ις ὡς πρόκειται (“Aurelia
Teeus Paesios, mentioned above, established this adoption and I consent and I
comply with everything as it is written above”).116 In this text, the best preserved
adoption papyrus from Roman antiquity, Teeus uses the verb εὐδοκέω as her
personal ratification of the adoption. While it is certainly true that the verb had a
formulaic function in various papyrus contracts, it is nonetheless noteworthy that
the verb is linked here to the act of adoption. Furthermore, it is crucial to examine
the rhetorical force of the verb in these documentary instances. My translation of
εὐδοκέω as “I consent” should not be understood as only a confirmation of a pre-
existing state of affairs. On the contrary, the verb εὐδοκέω has a performative
function in this and other papyrus contracts; that is to say, the adoption was really
enacted through the adopter’s declaration of “εὐδοκέω,” just as the English decla-
ration “I do” really enacts a marriage in contemporary American society. One
could say quite properly that, in the case of this adoption contract, the verb εὐδοκέω
completes the act of adoption and formally inaugurates the new adoptive relation-
ship between parent and child.
It remains to consider the usage of the verb in the New Testament. In general,
the semantic field of the verb in the nt is narrower than elsewhere. It only rarely
connotes “to be well pleased,” “to be satisfied,” or “to consent,” as it sometimes does
in the lxx and Greco-Roman texts. Rather, most of the nt examples would best be
construed as “to choose,” “to elect,” or “to decree.” The subject of the verb is most
frequently God, and Schrenk interprets it on almost all occasions as election,
choice, or decree—regardless of the grammatical formulation (εὐδοκέω + ἐν, + εἰς,
+ accusative, + dative, or + infinitive).117 He deals directly with the divine voice at
the baptism and transfiguration (Mark 1:11 and parr.):
What is meant [by εὐδοκέω + ἐν] is God’s decree of election, namely the election of the
Son, which includes His mission and His appointment to the kingly office of Messiah. . . .
Of all the terms for election (αἱρετίζειν, ἐκλέγεσθαι, προσδέχεσθαι, θέλειν), εὐδοκει̂ν
brings out most strongly the emotional side of the love of Him who elects. The question
whether the election of Jesus as Son comes only at baptism or is already present before
is not answered by the term in spite of the aor. εὐδόκησα. . . . In view of the total presen-
tation in Mt. and Luke. we can hardly read into the baptism an adoptionist deduction
from Is. 42:1.118
From a philological perspective, Schrenk concludes that the verb functions in the
baptismal voice as “God’s decree of election” with a strongly “emotional” connota-
tion. Realizing, however, that this philological conclusion may lead toward a
Christology he would rather avoid, he quickly qualifies it. He states that the
question of when the election to divine sonship happened is “not answered” by the
philological analysis, “in spite of ” the aorist tense. Schrenk thus admits (“in spite
of ”) that the aorist tense indicates the punctiliar aspect of the action, whereas a
perfect tense would have indicated an action completed in the past and carried
into the present. (For instance, the divine voice in Luke’s version of the transfigu-
ration uses the perfect tense: οὑ̂τός ἐστιν ὁ υἱός μου ὁ ἐκλελεγμένος, Luke 9:35.)
Yet to avoid presenting an “adoptionist” Christology for Mark, he must move
beyond the philological analysis and interpret the baptismal voice “in view of the
total presentation in Matt. and Luke.” Schrenk’s analysis, while philologically astute,
exemplifies the difficulty scholars have in reading Mark’s version of the baptism on
its own terms. Having reached a philological conclusion about the baptismal voice,
first attested in the Gospel of Mark, he nonetheless abandons that conclusion in
light of the “total presentation” of Jesus’ identity in the other Gospels.
Later in his article, Schrenk takes up the temporal question again, asking “Does
εὐδοκει̂ν imply an eternal decree of pre-temporal resolution or an intervention of
God in the course of temporal affairs?”119 Having already decided that, in the case
of Jesus’ baptism, the question is not answered by the verb alone, he turns to differ-
ent cases from the epistles. Based on two Pauline texts (Gal 1:15 and 1 Cor 1:21),
he argues that the verb does not indicate an eternal decree but rather “the divine
resolve which is contemporary with the historical revelation.”120 In these two texts,
the verb indicates a new event that God elected to perform in the world: the choice
to reveal God’s son to Paul (Gal 1:15) and the choice to save believers through
Christ crucified (1 Cor 1:21).121 Schrenk concludes that some uses of the verb indi-
cate divine intervention in the normal course of events, but he leaves open the
possibility that the verb can indicate an eternal decree. The philological analysis of
“the temporal question” is ultimately difficult to extricate from a philosophical
analysis of God’s transcendence vs. God’s immanence in the act of electing (an
analysis that Schrenk does not attempt, nor will I).
The text that provides the best analogy to the use of εὐδοκέω in Mark 1:11 is
Colossians 1:19—ὅτι ἐν αὐτῳ̂ εὐδόκησεν πα̂ν τὸ πλήρωμα κατοικη̂σαι. Schrenk
treats this text only briefly, taking “God” as the subject of the verb, and interpreting
it as God “resolving” that the whole pleroma should dwell in Christ. With regard to
the temporal question, he does not think the context fixes any particular time
when God did this “resolving.” On the contrary, Gerhard Münderlein has argued
that Colossians 1:19 does identify a particular point in time: it is a specific allusion
to the baptism of Jesus.122 Münderlein first provides his own survey of the verb
εὐδοκέω in the nt. He echoes the general conclusions of Schrenk, but with regard
to the baptismal voice, he does not attempt to avoid the christological implications
of his philological analysis:
It is clear, therefore, that in the New Testament, we are dealing with the citation from
Isaiah 42 in almost all instances. It evidently occurs in contrast to the Old Testament
usage, as a narrowing of its field of application and also of its meaning. God testifies his
Wohlgefallen [εὐδοκία] clearly to his son and with that brings him out from the crowd
of other human beings, indeed thereby making him properly and actually to be his son
( = adoption formula). Therefore, the sense of εὐδοκει̂ν ἐν can clearly be defined as “to
choose.”123
Applying this narrower understanding of the verb’s meaning to the text of

Colossians, he adduces that “God chooses for himself his firstborn, his image, and
makes him to be head and lord over all people and things.”124 Moreover, he high-
lights the punctiliar aspect of the verb: “It remains still to emphasize that εὐδόκησεν
should be understood as an aorist in the strict sense, which indicates the one-time
performance of an event.”125 But Münderlein goes further than drawing an analogy
between the texts of Mark and Colossians:
But if one goes ahead and takes the word group ἐν αὐτῳ̂ εὐδόκησεν, in its meaning ‘to
choose,’ as the crucial point, then one must earnestly raise the question of whether Col.
1:19 must then be understood as an allusion to the baptism (and respectively the transfig-
uration) of Jesus. . . . Our interpretation of Col. 1:19 as a statement about the election of
Christ—more specifically as a comment on the baptism—moves this term [πλήρωμα] to
a certain sphere and suggests that we should understand it as a peculiar circumlocution
for the Holy Spirit.126
In the most relevant examples from the lxx and the nt, both Schrenk and
Münderlein thus interpret the verb εὐδοκέω and the clause ἐν αὐτῳ̂ εὐδόκησεν
with the force of to “choose,” “select,” or “elect.” With regard to the baptismal voice
specifically, Münderlein further argues for the interpretation of the punctiliar
aspect of the aorist verb, going so far as to call the voice an “adoption formula.” He
finds in Colossians 1:19 a direct allusion to the baptismal voice and the descent of
the Holy Spirit. In short, our study of the Greek verb εὐδοκέω does not inveigh
against interpreting this scene as an adoption; on the contrary, a philological anal-
ysis supports it.
The Greek noun εὐδοκία is not as widely used as the verb εὐδοκέω. It is first
attested in the lxx and used mostly there and in the nt; it is not well attested
outside of biblical literature and correlated patristic comments on biblical cita-
tions. A preponderance of examples occur in Sirach (twenty-three times), where
the word usually signifies God’s “will,” “grace,” or “favor” and translates the
Hebrew ˜wxr.127 The examples from the nt mostly signify God’s “will” similarly to
the lxx. It is important to note that the noun does not usually signify God’s
feeling of “good pleasure” at a previously existing state of affairs, as most English
translations imply; rather, it connotes “the strongest expression” of “all the
descriptions of the divine will.”128 The word εὐδοκία expresses God’s sovereign
will to elect and to save.
An important usage for our purposes comes from the opening exordium of
Ephesians (1:3–14). In praising God’s saving work among the Ephesians, the author
recounts how God “destined us for υἱοθεσία through Jesus Christ to him, according
to the εὐδοκία of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace, which he freely granted
us in the beloved one” (1:5).129 In this sentence, God’s εὐδοκία is clearly linked to
adoption (υἱοθεσία)—indeed, it is the specific feature of God’s will that has
established the adoption of those in Christ. By the title of “the beloved one”—in
some manuscripts “his beloved son”130—the author also alludes to the baptismal
voice, which designated God’s primary son through whose grace (χάρις) God’s
other children could be adopted. The rest of the benediction continues the other
chief metaphors of the divine family (God’s οἰκονομία, also established according
to εὐδοκία, 1:10; and κληρονομία, 1:14), which has been inaugurated through
baptism in the Holy Spirit (1:13). Therefore, God’s εὐδοκία is understood by the
author of Ephesians as the aspect of God’s will that inaugurated the new adoptive
divine family through baptism. This usage is corroborated by Luke’s use of the
word, when he has Jesus encourage his disciples, “do not be afraid, for your Father
εὐδόκησεν [was pleased to choose] to give the kingdom to you” (Luke 12:32). The
disciples’ membership in the divine family and subsequent inheritance of the
divine kingdom is granted by God’s εὐδοκία.
In sum, a philological analysis of the lxx, the nt, and other Greco-Roman texts
demonstrates that both the verb and the noun from the root ευδοκ- support an
interpretation of Jesus’ baptism as a scene of adoption. The verb frequently signifies
choice, selection, or election in different grammatical formulations and in diverse
contexts. Even when the verb signifies consent, it often has a performative function,
as in the papyri. Therefore, the popular English translation of “well pleased,” which
implies static approval of a pre-existing condition, does not adequately portray the
verb’s dynamic agency. Moreover, both the verb and the noun were used in allusion
to the act of baptism and in connection with the act of adoption, examples which
constitute small but vital parts of the cumulative argument of this chapter.
The Spirit of the Divine Family
Like the traditional interpretations of the divine voice at Jesus’ baptism, the tradi-
tional interpretations of the Spirit are usually based on perceived allusions to the
Jewish Scriptures. Stated most simply, the “Spirit” or “Holy Spirit” or “Spirit of the
Lord/God” in the Hebrew Bible seems to be a property of God that can be bestowed
upon a human and which confers some kind of power. Those endowed with it play
many different roles: for example, it enables prophecy (Mic 3:8), physical strength
(Judg 14:6), charismatic authority (1 Sam 16:13), or the mantle of kingship
(Isa 11:2). At a future time, it is even promised to all humankind (Joel 2:28–29).131
The Spirit is, in short, a chief manifestation of God’s power. The text of Isaiah
61:1–2 enjoys particular favor as a background for the descent of the Spirit, because
Mark’s opening chapter characterizes Jesus in Isaianic terms: “The Spirit of
the Lord” is what “anoints” Isaiah and sends him to “proclaim the good news,”
among other noble deeds.
Some of these meanings of “Spirit” are congruent with the Spirit in Mark.
According to Mark, the Spirit certainly comes from God (1:10) and confers power
(1:21–28; 3:28–30), and the Isaianic echoes are compelling. However, among all
the options for interpreting the Spirit by means of the Jewish Scriptures, none
mention divine sonship, which is a precise feature of Jesus’ baptism. The divine
voice reveals that the Spirit is the identifying characteristic of the divine family, of
which Jesus is the beloved son. He receives the Spirit of sonship, just as others will
receive it later. Though we do not see the disciples receive it in Mark, we are told
that Jesus would baptize with it (1:8), and later it is clear that they possess it (13:11).
Moreover, the Spirit is not some inert attribute that just identifies them like an
iconographic halo would; rather, it is the active expression of the will of the Father
through the children. In Jesus, the Spirit enables his power of healing, such that
when his powers are questioned, he understands this questioning as blasphemy
against the Spirit (3:28–30). In the disciples, the Spirit will speak the proper words
in future times of trial (13:11) and ensure that they do God’s will as members of
the family (3:35). Yet even these same disciples can be hindered: though the Spirit
dwells in them and is “eager” to act, their “flesh” does not cooperate (14:38). The
parallels to Paul’s understanding of the Spirit and divine sonship (Rom 1:4; 8:9–30)
will be treated in the next chapter.
If the suggested biblical allusions do not help us interpret Mark’s connection
between the Spirit and divine sonship, perhaps a different set of comparanda can
illuminate the scene. Here I contend that the Spirit-sonship connection can be
fruitfully understood by reference to the Roman concepts of the genius and numen,
especially as they were combined in the emperor.132 In the general Roman world-
view, a genius is an unseen spiritual power, often personified as an object of worship,
which unifies the members of a family (gens).133 Though each member of a family
has a share in the family genius, it is manifested uniquely by the head of the family,
the paterfamilias. Overall, the genius has two chief functions: it is a life-force that
enables the continuation of a family (passed on by both procreation and adoption)
and also a tutelary spirit that guards over its members while they are alive.
In modern scholarship on the history of religions, the Roman concept of numen
has often been thought of as an impersonal superhuman power; however, recent
scholarship on primary sources, especially material artifacts, demonstrates that a
numen is attached to a specific being and is best defined as “the expressed will of a
divine being.”134 Ancient and modern grammarians interpret the noun as devel-
oped from the verb nuere (to “nod”)—a gesture which expresses the internal will
of an agent.135 Though often appearing along with genius in votive inscriptions, it
is a distinct property of divine beings, separable from the genius and somewhat
distinguishable from the divine being itself. In terms of the phenomenology of
religion, the numen of a divine being expresses its immanence; it is “the functional
property of a god” in the world.136
According to my interpretations of Mark (and Paul in the next chapter), the

Spirit represents the functions which Romans ascribed to the genius and the
numen. I am drawing a functional—not a linguistic or etymological—connec-
tion.137 Like the genius, the Spirit is the unifying life-force of a family, the divine
family inaugurated by God’s election of Jesus as Son. The Spirit is possessed by
Father, Son, and all the new members of the family. Like the genius, it must be hon-
ored by members of the family; indeed, dishonoring it is unforgivable (Mark 3:29).
The tutelary aspect of the Roman genius can be compared to how the Spirit guards
the members of the divine family, attempting to preserve them when their lives are
in danger (Mark 13:11). Like the numen, the Spirit expresses the will of God in the
world. It has endowed Jesus with God’s power, and others who possess it also do
God’s will (Mark 3:35).
The Roman concepts of genius and numen gained specifically imperial reso-
nances in the first century of the Empire, as they were brought together in new
ways during the principate of Augustus (see above chaps. 2 and 3). The genius and
numen of the emperor were honored primarily during an emperor’s life—after all,
they were the life-force and manifest power. One crucial instance from 18 c.e.
invites the genii of the living Augustus and his adopted son Tiberius, on their
respective birthdays, to dine at an altar dedicated to the Augustan numen.138 The
development of a cult to the genius Augusti makes sense, once the emperor was
thought of as the paterfamilias; but the surprising boom in the cult of the numen
Augusti suggests attention to the emperor that can properly be described as
worship. In the words of Fishwick, the effect of the cult of the numen Augusti “can
only have been to focus attention more sharply on the person of the living emperor
and to enhance the charisma of Augustus and his successors. Freely used by the
poets, the concept might even conjure up the idea of Augustus as a deity on the
same level as the gods.”139
While the functional concept of Spirit in Mark (and Paul) resembles the general
concepts of the genius and numen, it also mimics their imperial versions. Like the
imperial genius and numen, the Spirit is a divine agent that must be honored and
not blasphemed. Romans honor and participate in “the genius of the Lord Emperor”
even as Christians honor the “Spirit of the Lord God.” The Spirit is concentrated in
the “paterfamilias” (God) and his chosen son (Jesus)—just like in the imperial
family—while it watches over the other members of the family and empowers
them to do the will of the pater.140
During the second and third centuries, there developed some tension for early
Christians compelled to honor the spirits of two different divine fathers, a fact
brought out by early Christian martyrdom accounts. It is well documented that
swearing by or sacrificing to the genius of the emperor was a test by which imperial
subjects could avoid persecution.141 If someone would “swear by the genius of our
Lord the emperor,” he or she would be left alone. But Christians, having been
adopted by God as Father and honoring Christ as Lord, preferred not to honor the
emperor as paterfamilias. Having been united by the Spirit into the family of the
Father and the Son, they would not honor the guardian spirit of the imperial family.
Their imperial pater unfortunately did not regard their supposed adoption into a
different divine family, so he had them killed. For Christians in the Empire, divine
sonship confers not status but suffering.
The Dove as Omen
Διατί δὲ ἐν εἴδει περιστερα̂ς; Ἣμερον τὸ ζω̂ον καὶ καθαρόν.

But why in the form of a dove? Gentle is that animal, and pure.
—john chrysostom, Hom. in Matt. 12.3
. . . neque imbellem feroces progenerant aquilae columbam. . . .

and courageous eagles do not beget unwarlike doves.
—horace, Odes 4.4.32
The long history of New Testament exegesis never fails to provide abundant
interpretations—from the skeptical to the whimsical to the brilliant—of the small-
est words and phrases. The words used by Mark to describe the spirit that descended
on Jesus at his baptism, “as a dove” (ὡς περιστεράν), certainly do not disappoint in
this respect. The poet Wallace Stevens penned “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a
Blackbird,” but one New Testament commentary offers sixteen ways of interpreting
the dove.142 Other studies describe even more interpretations, many of which
stretch the boundaries of plausibility.143 Despite these many options, there seems to
be a consensus view, namely that the spirit which descends as a dove alludes to the
spirit that hovered over the face of the waters at creation (Gen 1:2).144 The allusion
rests on the connection between water and spirit in the two images. This consensus
view is far from perfect, since the spirit in Genesis is only linked to a bird through
an interpretation of the verb (tpjrm / ἐπεϕέρετο). Was the spirit “hovering” over the
waters like a bird? Genesis is not explicit.145 R. T. France adopts the consensus view
but chooses not to speculate about the dove per se: “we are not aware of any
ready-made dove symbolism at the time of Mark, and it seems futile to try to pro-
vide one. More probably the species of bird is not at issue, any more than it was in
Gen 1:2; the dove is mentioned simply as one of the commonest and most familiar
birds.”146 Notice how, even as he affirms the connection with Genesis 1:2, this
author reveals its tenuousness. He proposes that “the species of bird is not at issue,
any more than it was in Gen 1:2,” which would be a fine argument, except that
there is no bird in Gen 1:2!
This chapter cannot address most of the options for interpreting the dove. Some
of the proposed allusions are tenable, but many of them are fanciful and most are
only attested from sources much later than Mark. Furthermore, this chapter tries
to imagine how a listener attuned to Roman culture might understand the dove,
but most of the interpretations offered in commentaries are based squarely in the
Palestinian or Babylonian Jewish traditions. The few exceptions are suggested
allusions to Persian or other Near Eastern motifs. Again, let me reiterate that the
connections to Jewish motifs are not rejected by this chapter; rather, it presumes
that Mark was written to a diverse audience.
Bird Omens in Roman Culture
In many ancient Mediterranean cultures, the flight of birds was pregnant with
meaning. Individual birds helped seafarers navigate, while flocks of birds marked
the seasons. Birds were “messengers” of other meanings in diverse ways throughout
the Near East.147 Romans took special concern for augury, a precise practice that
observed the flight of birds in the quadrants of the sky. But they were also attuned
to the omens borne by individual birds in flight, omens which were not authorized
by a college of augurs but rather by common opinion. One could say that Romans
used omens to interpret and explain their experience of the world in analogous
ways to how Jews used Scriptures to interpret and explain their experience of the
world. If scholars have had trouble interpreting the baptismal dove, perhaps that is
because they have been using too limited a set of cultural symbols. So what might
the alighting of a bird on a person have meant in a Roman context?
Suetonius, the Roman historian and collector of tales, reports many bird omens
from the lives of the emperors. For instance, he describes how an eagle was an
omen of Domitian’s victory over Lucius Antonius. “Even before news of this suc-
cess arrived, Domitian had wind of it from portents: on the very day of battle, a
huge eagle embraced his statue at Rome with its wings, screeching triumphantly.”148
In all his accounts, Suetonius is a rich source of common Roman assessment of
omens such as birds, weather, dreams, oracles, soothsayers, and unusual spectacles.
Unlike other Roman historians, he prefers to record these kinds of omens instead
of the official public portents and divinations common since republican Rome.
Andrew Wallace-Hadrill notes that “Suetonius’ signs are of the types that best
reveal the destinies of individuals.”149 Furthermore, he argues that “all Suetonius’
lists of signs revolve round two issues, and two only: the rise to imperial power and
the fall from it.”150
For example, the accession of Claudius was predicted by a bird omen as he
began public life: “Claudius entered on his belated public career as Gaius’s col-
league in a two-months’ consulship; and when he first entered the Forum with the
consular rods, an eagle swooped down and perched on his shoulder.”151 Augustus
had personal eagle omens early152 and late153 in life but also at a key moment in his
rise to power: “At Bononia, where the army of the Triumvirs Augustus, Antony, and
Lepidus was stationed, an eagle perched on Augustus’s tent and defended itself vig-
orously against the converging attack of two ravens, bringing both of them down.
This augury was noted and understood by the troops as portending a rupture bet-
ween their three leaders, which later took place.”154
Signs illuminating the rise to imperial power are especially important to this
chapter because, in the years preceding the Gospel of Mark, imperial power was
transmitted through adoption. The most crucial imperial adoption in this period
was Augustus’s adoption of Tiberius, primarily because it was the first peaceful
transfer of imperial power. If Augustus had ruled because of his personal or “char-
ismatic authority,” then it could not have been clear whether or how such rule
could be passed on.155 The final omens that Suetonius records before the accession
of Tiberius are revealing for our purposes: “Finally, a few days before the letter
arrived recalling him from Rhodes [where he was exiled], an eagle—a bird never
previously seen in the island—perched upon the roof of his house; and on the very
eve of this welcome news the tunic into which he was changing seemed to be
ablaze.”156 The two final omens indicating the ensuing accession of Tiberius are a
bird, as at the baptism of Jesus, and a transfiguration of his tunic, as happened to
Jesus in Caesarea Philippi.
Suetonius’s references to eagles in the life of Vespasian bear more than analog-
ical relevance to our topic, since Vespasian’s quelling of the incipient Jewish revolt
catalyzed his accession to imperial power. Suetonius recounts the conditions of
Vespasian’s accession in the following way:
An ancient superstition was current in the East, that out of Judaea at this time would
come the rulers of the world. This prediction, as the event later proved, referred to a
Roman emperor, but the rebellious Jews, who read it as referring to themselves, murdered
their Governor, routed the Governor of Syria when he came down to restore order, and
captured an Eagle. To crush this uprising the Romans needed a strong army under an
energetic commander, who could be trusted not to abuse his considerable powers. The
choice fell on Vespasian.157
The fact that the Judeans “captured an Eagle” (rapta aquila) was the last straw in
Suetonius’s account.158 This symbolic action indicated the magnitude of the
revolt and the necessity for a sweeping Roman military response. Later, when
Otho, Vitellius, and Vespasian were “disputing the purple,” an omen appeared
just before the battle of Betriacum between the armies of Otho and Vitellius (69
c.e.): “two eagles fought in full view of both armies, but a third appeared from
the rising sun and drove off the victor.”159 This final bird omen indicated that the
military leader from the East would eventually accede to imperial power over
both Otho and Vitellius.
All these bird omens involve the rise to power, but Suetonius provides one
omen associated explicitly with adoption—the adoption of Octavian by Caesar.
As Julius Caesar was felling a wood near Munda in Spain to clear a site for his camp,
he noticed a palm-tree and ordered it to be spared, as a presage of victory. The tree
then suddenly put out a new shoot which, a few days later, had grown so tall as to
over-shadow it. What was more, a flock of doves began to nest in the fronds, although
doves notoriously dislike hard, spiny foliage. This prodigy was the immediate reason,
they say, for Caesar’s desire that his grand-nephew, and no one else, should succeed
him.160
This omen does not accompany the exact moment of adoption, a procedure
scarcely attested in Roman historical sources, but it does relate to the moment
when Caesar knew he would adopt Octavian. What about this omen inspired
Caesar’s choice? Suetonius does not interpret it. It seems clear that the “new shoot”
that sprouted from and outgrew Caesar’s victory tree was understood to represent
Octavian’s succession of Caesar, since sprouting shoots are common in Roman
folklore as symbols of successful children.161 The flock of doves is open to multiple
interpretations—Suetonius does not cite doves as symbols anywhere else. One
likely option is that the doves, often symbolic of peacefulness in ancient
Mediterranean culture (see next section), portend the pax Romana inaugurated
with the victory of Octavian at the battle of Actium. The “hard, spiny foliage” of the
civil wars would soon be occupied by the “doves” of imperial peace. According to
the scholar of Roman omens and divination, Annie Vigourt, the doves might also
have called to mind Caesar’s special relationship to Venus Genetrix.162
As tempting as this final omen is for the argument of this chapter, its bird
imagery is ambiguous, and it seems that the sprouting tree constitutes the primary
symbol. The doves add a sort of bonus to the omen. On the other hand, the fre-
quent eagle omens exemplified above do depict a common Roman point of view:
they thought that birds, especially eagles, indicated providential favor for the
accession to power of the person on or near whom they alighted.163
Eagles and Doves
Roman authors refer to doves often enough that one can get a sense of their usual
symbolism. First, Roman authors occasionally associate doves with the geographical
region of Syria-Palestine. For example, the Roman elegist Tibullus (c. 55 b.c.e.–c.
19 b.c.e.), when describing the peaceful aftermath of a military victory, writes:
“Why should I tell how the white dove, sacred in Syria-Palestine, flies safely through
the crowded cities?”164 In addition to the sense that the dove was sacred to those in
Syria-Palestine—a fact seemingly corroborated by Lucian—there may also have
been knowledge of the dove and pigeon industry in the area, which provided many
birds for sacrificial offerings (e.g., Mark 11:15).165 Coins minted in Ashkelon dur-
ing the Roman era also frequently display doves, corroborating Tibullus’s notion
that they were “sacred in Syria-Palestine.”166
But the most prevalent employment of the dove as a symbol occurs in relation
to that most famous bird, the eagle. These two comprise a contrasting pair of
birds, a recognizable juxtaposition of natural enemies (like the wolf and the lamb),
in which one is the mighty predator and the other the timorous victim. Ovid por-
trays the pair in his Metamorphoses: “O nymph, I beg, daughter of Peneus, stay!
I who pursue you am not an enemy. O nymph, stay! So lambs flee the wolf, so deer
flee the lion, so doves with trembling wings flee the eagle, all things flee their
enemies: but the cause of my pursuit is love.”167 Another example of the tradi-
tional contrast between eagle and dove occurs in Horace’s Odes. He devotes Ode
4.4 to praise of Drusus’s military might on the northern frontier (c. 13 B.C.E.).
After noting how the Claudians were nurtured in youth by the “fatherly disposi-
tion of Augustus” (Augusti paternus animus), he continues by describing how
strength begets strength in the animal kingdom. “Strong men are created (only)
by strong and good men; in both steers and horses appears the virtus of their
fathers, and courageous eagles do not beget unwarlike doves.”168 The fatherly
Augustus is thus imagined as an eagle that produced a succession of warlike
eagles in the Julio-Claudian “dynasty.” The final two lines of the stanza epitomize
Horace’s style of antithetic juxtaposition: the qualities of the two birds are set
side-by-side (imbellem feroces) to prepare for the juxtaposition of the two nouns
to complete the stanza (aquilae columbam).169 Other examples could be brought
to confirm the contrast of eagle and dove in the Roman worldview.170 But we have
enough here to establish that the bellicose eagle was the primary symbol of
Roman military might and concomitantly of the Roman imperial ideology, while
the dove was a contrasting symbol of nonviolence or fear.
Several examples of extra-biblical Jewish literature also utilize these symbolic
roles of eagles and doves. Josephus expresses a Jewish attitude toward the Roman
eagle in the build-up to the Jewish War. For example, he recounts the famous tear-
ing down of the golden eagle, which constituted the apex of disgust with Herod,
especially his collaboration with Rome. After outlining the pay-offs that Herod
had made to various members of the imperial family and his own kin (A.J.
17.146–8), Josephus narrates how Judas and Matthias, two men “well beloved by
the people,” instigated many young men “to pull down all those works which the
king had erected contrary to the law of their fathers” (A.J. 17.149). He provides
the example that Herod had erected a large golden eagle over the great gate of the
Temple; although Herod claimed this eagle was dedicated to God, it was a not-so-
subtle honoring of Rome that overlooked the Jerusalem Temple. Monuments such
as these were common among all the client kingdoms of the Roman Empire, but
the Judeans would not endure it because of their stance against idolatry. Therefore,
“in the very middle of the day, they got upon the place, they pulled down the eagle,
and cut it into pieces with axes, while a great number of the people were in the
temple” (A.J. 17.155).
Josephus also provides a clear analysis of the military symbolism which the
legionary eagle bore for the Romans and their enemies. As mentioned above, the
Judeans had stolen a legionary eagle from the XII Fulminata legion in 66 c.e..
Josephus portrays the position of such an eagle in the military procession of
Vespasian’s army in Galilee:
After these came the commanders of the cohorts and tribunes, having around them
selected soldiers. Then came the standards surrounding the eagle, which is at the head of
every Roman legion, both the king and the most warlike of all birds, which seems to
them a sure sign of empire, and an omen that they shall conquer all against whom they
march. These sacred things are followed by the trumpeters.171
The eagle leads every Roman legion; it is the “king” (βασιλεύς) and “most warlike”
(ἀλκιμώτατος) of all birds, a “sure sign of empire” (τη̂ς ἡγεμονίας τεκμήριον), and
an “omen” of victory (κληδών). From the Roman perspective, the eagle was the
legion’s “very own numen,” or divine power.172 With this symbolism, it is not sur-
prising that the XII Fulminata was terrified after having its legionary eagle stolen
or that the golden eagle over the Temple incited a minor sedition.
The apocalypse called 4 Ezra employs the symbol of an eagle in the seer’s fifth
vision (4 Ezra 11–12). “I saw rising from the sea an eagle that had twelve feathered
wings and three heads . . . it reigned over the earth and over those who inhabit it.
And I saw how all things under heaven were subjected to it, and no one spoke
against it” (11:1, 5–6). The eagle is “the fourth kingdom that appeared in a vision to
your brother Daniel. But it was not explained to him as I now explain to you or
have explained it” (12:11–12). The author explicitly interacts with the four king-
doms vision of Dan 7 and reinterprets the fourth kingdom as Rome (whereas it
originally symbolized the Greek or Macedonian Empire in Daniel). The vision
concludes with a lion, which chastises the eagle for unrighteousness and represents
“the Messiah whom the Most High has kept until the end of days” (12:32). Although
4 Ezra chooses to symbolize Rome as a bellicose eagle, it does not symbolize Israel’s
salvation with a contrasting bird of peace. Rather, the author chooses the king of
the land (a lion) to overpower the king of the air (an eagle). But elsewhere the
author acknowledges that, among the species of birds, God has selected the dove
for Israel: in the second vision, Ezra says, “O sovereign Lord, . . . from all the birds
that have been created you have named for yourself one dove, and from all the
flocks that have been made you have provided for yourself one sheep” (5:26).173
Two other extra-biblical works provide a Jewish perspective on the dove that
illuminate the argument of this chapter.174 Like Josephus and 4 Ezra, the Liber
antiquitatum biblicarum of Pseudo-Philo probably emerged from Palestinian
Judaism in the first century c.e. Among several different uses of the dove as a
symbol in this work, one scene imagines the dove as a long-suffering or even for-
giving bird. In his targumic interpretation of the Jephthah story, the author expands
at length on Judg 11:7. Jephthah protests to the elders of Gilead because they had
previously rejected him but now they begged his help in their time of distress; in
short, he sternly rebukes them as hypocrites. But they respond thus: “Let the dove
to which Israel has been compared teach you, because when her young are taken
from her, still she does not depart from her place, but she puts away the injury
done her and forgets it as if it were in the depth of the abyss” (L.A.B. 39:5).175 As
opposed to the aggressive eagle, the dove here depicts clemency and a spirit of
forgiveness.
The Letter of Aristeas contains an ethical interpretation of doves in terms of
Jewish halakha. The text is well known for its allegorical and ethical interpretations
of various commandments and prohibitions of the Torah. The author desires to
demonstrate that the laws are not primitive or arbitrary but “in each particular
everything has a profound reason for it, both the things from which we abstain in
use and those of which we partake” (Let. Aris. 143).176 As one example of this
rational basis, Aristeas explains why some birds are permitted and others
forbidden.
The birds which we use are all gentle and of exceptional cleanliness, their food consisting
of wheat and pulse—such birds as doves (περιστεραί), turtledoves, [etc.] . . . As to the
birds which are forbidden, you will find wild and carnivorous kinds, and the rest which
dominate by their own strength, and who find their food at the expense of the aforemen-
tioned domesticated birds—which is an injustice. . . . By calling them impure, he has
thereby indicated that it is the solemn binding duty of those for whom the legislation has
been established to practice righteousness and not to lord it over anyone in reliance
upon their own strength, . . . in the manner of the gentle creatures among the aforemen-
tioned birds . . . . By means of creatures like this the legislator has handed down (the
lesson) to be noted by men of wisdom, that they should be righteous, and not achieve
anything by brute force, nor lord it over others in reliance upon their own strength.177
For Aristeas, the salient feature of these permitted birds is gentleness, which is also
construed as righteousness. The vocabulary corresponds exactly to the quotation
from John Chrysostom that preceded this section of the chapter: the dove is ἥμερος
and καθαρός. On the contrary, the forbidden birds “dominate by their own strength”
and prey on other birds—this domination is plainly called injustice (ἀδικία). We
should not forget that the first bird listed among the forbidden birds in the Levitical
law is the eagle. “And these you shall regard as abominable among the birds, and
they shall not be eaten, it is an abomination—the eagle and the vulture and [etc.]”
(Lev 11:13 lxx).178 In the Torah, the eagle further symbolizes how a foreign nation
can quickly and powerfully overtake Israel, such as Rome had done in the first
century: “The Lord will bring a nation from far away, from the end of the earth, to
swoop down on you like an eagle, a nation whose language you do not under-
stand” (Deut 28:49). Aristeas envisions the dove as the primary symbol of gen-
tleness, purity, and even righteousness among the birds of the air, as opposed to
the eagle, which is the abomination among birds in the Torah. Israelites are
called to “practice righteousness,” like the dove, and not “achieve anything by
brute force,” like the eagle.
Other Bird Omens in Early Christianity
In terms of modern scholarship on the Bible, I am offering a new reading of the

baptism of Jesus in Mark. Therefore, a fair question to ask is whether any ancient
readers interpreted Mark in this way. That question is almost impossible to answer
because so few interpretations of Mark have come down from late antiquity. The
consensus view is that Mark was the earliest gospel of the canonical four, but it was
eventually trumped by Matthew and John in the teaching and preaching of the
major Christian commentators.179 The Gospel of Mark—especially chapters 1–9—
was scarcely quoted and barely interpreted in writing, although many authors
clearly knew its content. It is possible that understanding the baptism in Mark as
an adoption helps account for the diminished reception of Mark in early Christian
communities.
We lack extant homilies or commentaries on the Gospel of Mark from antiq-
uity that could corroborate my interpretation of his baptismal narrative, and the
ancient interpretations of the baptism in Matthew, Luke, and John are usually
overshadowed by the pre-baptismal narratives of those gospels. Nevertheless there
are a few examples from early Christianity that presume a cultural context in which
my reading of Mark would have been plausible or even likely. Two texts use dove
omens as indicators of divine election. Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical History records the
accession of Fabian to the episcopal seat of Rome (236 c.e.) in the following way:
They say that Fabianus having come, after the death of Anteros, with others from the
country, was staying at Rome, and that while there he was chosen to the office through a
most wonderful manifestation of divine and heavenly grace. For when all the brethren
had assembled to select by vote him who should succeed to the episcopate of the church,
several renowned and honorable men were in the minds of many, but Fabianus, although
present, was in the mind of none. But they relate that suddenly a dove flying down
lighted on his head, resembling the descent of the Holy Spirit on the Savior in the form
of a dove. Thereupon all the people, as if moved by one Divine Spirit, with all eagerness
and unanimity cried out that he was worthy, and without delay they took him and placed
him upon the episcopal seat.180
The connection to the baptism of Jesus is made explicit, and at least a few ele-
ments of his interpretation are clear. He interpreted the dove at Jesus’ baptism in
connection with this actual bird that landed on Fabian. The spirit was not like a
dove only in so far as both things “descend” or “hover”; rather, the bodily form of
the dove constituted the descent of the spirit. Here in the case of Fabian, it was a
real dove that flew down and alighted on his head. In place of the general verb,
καταβαίνω (“to descend”), Eusebius uses the specific verb for birds, καταπέτομαι
(“to fly down”). For everyone present, the flight of this bird was an omen of divine
election. Note also that it indicated an accession to power—not of a Roman
emperor, but of a Roman bishop. This is not a case of adoption, to be sure, but it
does enact a Roman rise to power, which is at the same time a divine election
through a descending dove.181
Second, the Protoevangelium of James utilizes a dove omen in connection to the
sonship of Jesus. Amid the “garland of legends” that comprises the pre-history of
Jesus’ family in this text, the author relates a story of Joseph’s betrothal to Mary
(Prot. Jas. 8.1–9.1).182 Mary spent her childhood in the temple, being “nurtured like
a dove” (ὡσεὶ περιστερὰ νεμομένη), but when she turned twelve, the priests did not
know what to do with her. An angel commanded that all the widowers should each
bring a rod—a clear allusion to the election of Aaron in Numbers 17—and “to
whomsoever the Lord shall give a sign, his wife she shall be.” But whereas the sign
in Numbers 17 was the sprouting of the rod, here the sign is different:
And when they were gathered together, they took the rods and went to the high priest.
The priest took the rods from them and entered the Temple and prayed. When he had
finished the prayer he took the rods, and went out and gave them to them: but there was
no sign on them. Joseph received the last rod, and behold, a dove came out of the rod and
flew on to Joseph’s head.183
Like the previous example, this story uses a dove as an omen indicating divine election.
But what is more, the dove here marks a critical moment in the sonship of Jesus.
Whereas the dove in Mark’s baptism account signifies the adoption of Jesus by his
divine father, the dove in the Protoevangelium signifies the earthly (though non-
biological) father of Jesus—an earthly succession of human sonship. In the virgin-birth
Christology of the Protoevangelium, the divine sonship of Jesus is never questioned, but
the earthly sonship must be established and vindicated through stories.
The eagle-dove trope can even be found centuries later, in a Christian discourse
about baptism. During his oration, In sanctum baptisma, before baptismal candi-
dates, Gregory of Nazianzus encourages them to protect themselves from the
temptations of the urban life: “As much as possible, flee also from the marketplace
along with the good company, putting on yourself the wings of an eagle—or, to
speak more appropriately, of a dove. For what do you have to do with Caesar or the
things of Caesar?”184 It is a playful turn of phrase, of which there are many in
Gregory’s corpus, but as such it attests to the recognizable symbolism of the eagle-
dove pair in the Roman world. The imagery was stable enough that the imperial
eagle and the baptismal dove could be conjured in a quick, almost parenthetical
remark. At this feast-day sermon on baptism in fourth-century Constantinople,
Gregory knew he could play on his audience’s “common sense” interpretation of
doves—a Christian counterpoint to the eagle omens and imagery of imperial lore.
Through these small examples, we can imagine one more way in which the flight
of a dove had meaning in the Roman world.
Divorum Filii
This foray into Roman, Jewish, and early Christian literature has often wandered
from the target text for our exegesis, the baptism of Jesus in Mark. With this anal-
ysis of the dove and the eagle, we can now step back to assess our original topic:
when Mark depicts the voice and the dove at Jesus’ baptism, what is he up to? And
how might this affect a listener attuned to Roman culture? This chapter has tried
to show that, with the baptism, Mark begins a narrative characterization of Jesus as
a counter-emperor. This Jesus of Nazareth is an adopted heir to power. The dove is
a bird omen of the transmission of power from father to son. But this counter-
emperor will rule not in the spirit of the bellicose eagle, but in the spirit of the pure,
gentle, peaceful, and even sacrificial dove.
Furthermore, this characterization of Jesus can be construed in terms of colo-
nial mimicry.185 In postcolonial theory, the concept of mimicry has been described
as “a reinscription or duplication of colonial ideology by the colonized.”186 It

describes instances in which the colonized produces discourse that simultaneously
and necessarily mimics the domination of the colonizer even as it differentiates
itself and disavows the other. In the theory of Homi Bhabha, “colonial mimicry is
the desire for a reformed, recognizable Other, as a subject of a difference that is
almost the same, but not quite . . . . mimicry emerges as the representation of a
difference that is itself a process of disavowal” (italics original).187 Therefore, the
colonized subject is not an autonomous agent that cleanly and in its own terms
renounces the colonizer. The very process and signification of disavowal is neces-
sarily intertwined with the powerful discourse of the authoritative other. Stated
another way, the act of disavowing the colonizer depends on the forms through
which the colonizer enacted its domination. Bhabha again: “It is as if the very
emergence of the ‘colonial’ is dependent for its representation upon some strategic
limitation or prohibition within the authoritative discourse itself.”188
Hence the eagle and the dove: a bird descends and absolute power comes upon
a son of God—almost the same, but not quite. Read in the light of Roman imperial
ideology, the narrative characterization of Jesus’ baptism mimics the accession of
imperial power even as it disavows the authority and methods of imperial power.
It mimics Roman imperial adoption but disavows the militaristic type of power
transmitted through adoption. It mimics the bird omens of Roman warfare and
imperial lore but disavows the dominating war-symbol of the Roman eagle. The
bird omen of the dove instead portends the accession of a different son of God,
whose rise to power, though it would be mocked and suspended by the colonial
authority, would ultimately be vindicated by his adoptive father.
■ T R AC I N G T H E A D O P T I V E R E L AT I O N S H I P
THROUGHOUT MARK
The benefits of understanding the inaugural baptism as an adoption scene do not stop
the moment Jesus leaves the Jordan River. One can trace the adoptive relationship
throughout Mark’s Gospel, from the baptism to the passion, and it helps explain some
subsequent features of the text. Regarding the early chapters of the gospel, our new
understanding clarifies why Mark did not provide details about the genealogy or
childhood of Jesus, as Matthew and Luke would do later. Whatever former stance
Jesus had as a son under a former father, it was no longer relevant under the patria
potestas of his new father. His former ancestors and familial status were abrogated. He
had no claim on the inheritance of his previous father or forefathers. In the Roman
conception, he was now a true son of the new father, and he accrued all the status asso-
ciated with true sonship in this new family.
Mark’s narrative clearly portrays the baptism of Jesus as the inaugural event
that authorizes Jesus to do works of power. Much later in the gospel, when asked
about the origin of his authority to do such things, Jesus himself points to that
inaugural event—the baptism offered by John. Though his authority was a source
of wonderment and confusion from the beginning of his ministry (1:22–27), Jesus
is only directly asked about it near the end: the chief priests, scribes and elders
asked him, “By what authority (ἐξουσία / potestas) are you doing these things?
Who gave you this authority to do them?” (11:28). Jesus responds with a question,
referring them back to the baptism of John: “Did the baptism of John come from
heaven, or was it from human origin?” (11:30). The questioners had been trying to
entrap Jesus, trying to get him to say that his authority came from God. But Jesus’
response springs their own trap back on them, according to Mark’s narration
(11:31–32), because they do not want to publicly dismiss the popular John the
Baptist, but neither can they explain why they did not believe in his baptism if it
was divine in origin.189 Thus Jesus forces them either to admit that Jesus’ own
authority came from heaven at his baptism—which the reader of Mark knows
from the outset—or to deny the divine sanctioning of John’s baptism, which had
been well received among the people. It is true that Jesus does not explicitly say
that he himself received his authority at the baptismal event, but then again, he
does not explicitly answer most questions in this string of controversies in Mark.
Nevertheless, the beginning of Mark’s Gospel, coupled with this elliptical reference
to baptism in the dialogue, encourages such an interpretation.
Furthermore, the entire debate takes on a different tone when imagined from a
Roman worldview. As Mary Rose D’Angelo has argued, the uses of “father” and his
accompanying potestas in the Roman imperial context have received too little
attention in interpretations of the fatherhood of God in Jewish and Christian texts.
According to Cassius Dio, the title pater for the emperor “acknowledges that the
emperor has the same authority (ἐξουσία [= potestas]) over his subjects as the
father once had over children . . . that of patria potestas.”190 When Jesus is asked
about his potestas, he refers to the sonship he received at baptism from his pater.
The adoptive sonship of Mark’s Jesus is also upheld when Jesus rejects the ide-
ology of dynastic sonship by which some Jewish followers try to understand him.
Though he was hailed as “son of David” by Bartimaeus (10:47–48) and as the har-
binger of David’s kingdom by the Jerusalem crowds (11:10), Davidic descent is nei-
ther confirmed by Jesus nor emphasized by Mark, as it is in Matthew’s portrayal.191
According to Benjamin Bacon, Mark only reports “a bare trace or two of the early
(perhaps authentic) belief in Jesus’ Davidic descent. But so little value attaches to it
that the reader remains wholly in the dark as to whether Jesus is, or is not, actually
descended from David.”192 Mark is fixed not on Davidic but on divine sonship, and
a reading of Jesus’ baptism as an adoption helps explain this curious feature. As a
contrast to Matthew’s emphasis on Davidic descent, Mark has an “ἀγενεαλόγητος”
(genealogy-less) Christology, in Bacon’s words, which is “almost defiantly
independent of what the scribes say” in 12:35–37.193 In this controversy, they say
the Christ is the son of David, but Jesus questions that dynastic ideology: David
himself calls the Christ “Lord,” so how can the Christ be David’s son? According to
Mark, Jesus is indeed related to God as a son to a father, but he is not concerned
with any lineage of Jesus before his baptism.
The new familial ties depicted at the baptism are sustained throughout the
Gospel of Mark, in which a previous father never appears. Indeed, in the places
where one expects to find a reference to an earthly father in Mark, one finds every
other kind of family member except a father. It seems that Mark knew not Joseph.
For example, when Jesus’ “family” comes to round him up early in the gospel
(3:21–35), an earthly father never appears looking for him—it is only “his mother
and his brothers” from his former family. His mother and brothers think “he has
gone out of his mind” because of his controversial teachings and miracles. Jesus
only confirms their fears—from their point of view—when he disavows any
familial ties to them. He does not even admit them entry inside to speak with him,
but rather he rejects their familial claims on him. Furthermore, Jesus affirms his
membership in a new family and explains how one joins it, when he says, “Whoever
does the will of God—that one is my brother and sister and mother” (3:35).
An earthly father is also absent later in Mark’s version of the “rejection” at
Nazareth, when the onlookers ask, “Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and
brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with
us?” (6:3). Only in Mark’s version is Jesus called “the carpenter, the son of Mary” by
the synagogue crowd.194 Matthew labels him “the son of the carpenter” (Matt
13:55), while Luke (4:22) and John (6:42) call him “the son of Joseph.” It makes
sense for Matthew and Luke to use patronymics, since they have already established
the royal lineage of Joseph and taken pains to connect Jesus to this lineage.195 But
why does Mark have the crowd call Jesus by his mother’s name? One may conjec-
ture that the crowd’s appellation for Jesus casts doubt on the legitimacy of his birth,
that calling him by his metronymic effectively labeled him fatherless. However, Tal
Ilan, an expert in ancient Jewish onomastics, has made “a strong case against the
assumption that the metronymic, as used in Mark 6:3 and studiously avoided in
the synoptic parallels, conferred an air of odium on the man so designated.”196
Neither Mark nor the synagogue crowd slandered Jesus through the metronymic.
Either they did not know the identity of Jesus’ earthly father or they chose to
de-emphasize it. In any case, the title “son of Mary” and the absence of “Joseph” in
Mark 6 corroborate the new father-son relationship begun in chapter 1 and
continued in chapter 3.197
The absence of the earthly father is confirmed a third time in Jesus’ teachings
after the second passion prediction, when he goes beyond the Jordan, on his way
to Jerusalem (10:1–31).198 There he encounters the rich man who asks how to
inherit eternal life (10:17), a question which provokes Jesus’ difficult teachings on
wealth to the rich man (10:21) and to Jesus’ own disciples (10:23–27). After hearing
the challenge, Peter responds affirmatively: “Look, we have left everything and fol-
lowed you” (10:28). Jesus acknowledges the accuracy of Peter’s statement and
explains the rewards the disciples should expect for their renunciation: “Truly I tell
you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or
children or fields, for my sake and for the sake of the good news, who will not
receive a hundredfold now in this age—houses and brothers and sisters and
mothers and children and fields, with persecutions—and in the age to come eternal
life” (10:29–30). Although all the Synoptics (Mark 10:29; Matt 19:29; Luke 18:29)
have some form of the first list in this saying (the list of things left behind), only
Mark contains the second list (the list of things received “a hundredfold now in
this age”).199 A closer inspection of the two lists in Mark reveals the function of the
second list:
house houses
brothers brothers
sisters sisters
mother mothers
father
children children
fields fields
with persecutions
The first list delineates a realistic description of what a disciple must leave behind.
The list is framed by the material property left behind (the central “house” and the
surrounding “fields”) and filled in by the family relationships left behind (brothers,
sisters, mother, father, children). In return for this extreme renunciation, all the
Synoptics portray an inheritance of “eternal life.” But Mark’s version promises a
second list, comprised of particular rewards in this age: before you had one house
and some fields, now you will have many houses and fields; before you had brothers
and sisters and children, now you will have them a hundredfold; before you had a
mother, now you will have many mothers. This is beginning to sound like the
“prosperity gospel” so prevalent in American Christianity, in which discipleship
leads to riches. But Mark’s Gospel cannot be championing that, given the previous
teachings on the perils of wealth. So what is Mark saying? For example, how can
one receive new mothers in this age?
The contents of the second list can be fruitfully interpreted in the context of
early Christian social relations. From the earliest Christian texts, Paul’s Epistles, we
know that Christians addressed each other in kinship language. “Brother” and
“sister” are most commonly known, but Paul also calls Onesimus his “child” (Phlm
10) and the mother of Rufus his own “mother” (Rom 16:13).200 Therefore, the new
household members gained in this age would be the new family gained through
the network of hospitality for itinerant Christians. Depending on age, one would
relate to the new kin as to mothers, siblings, or children. These people were the new
family, and one would relate to them and their property—their houses and
fields—as to the previous biological family. As the movement grew in the cities
around the Mediterranean, a disciple could literally receive new family relation-
ships and material possessions “a hundredfold.” For every biological brother or
sister left behind, there were hundreds of new “brothers” and “sisters” to be had. For
every biological mother left behind, there were hundreds of new “mothers.” But the
same is not true for the “father” left behind. In the first list, the biological father is
present, but in the second list, he is not replaced by the plural “fathers.” Rather,
there is a gap in the list, one that cannot be easily explained by recourse to scribal
error or intentional textual corruption. As we have seen, Mark has previously omit-
ted references to a father where we might have expected it. Again in this case,
something more is going on in Mark’s omission.
Reading this text in its surrounding literary context helps us interpret Mark’s
curious omission. The block of teaching from Mark 10:1–31 is grouped in part by
various associations to familial teachings and metaphors (marriage, children,
household members, inheritance). The omission of “father” or “fathers” in the sec-
ond list (Mark 10:30) coheres with the previous texts. That is to say, Mark 10:17–31
should be read as one continuous encounter, so that the lists of 10:29–30 are Jesus’
ultimate response to the rich man’s question posed in 10:17, “What must I do to
inherit eternal life?” One must leave behind everything in the first list, and one will
inherit everything in the second list now and eternal life in the age to come. Not
only is the textual unit grouped by teachings on wealth and poverty, but more spe-
cifically it is unified by the familial metaphor of inheritance.
From whom does one inherit? In the ancient context, one inherits most fre-
quently from a father. Just previously, Jesus had established that the kingdom of
God belongs to ones like the little children, and “whoever does not receive the
kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it” (10:14–15).201 How does the
omission of the “father” or “fathers” fit in with this message? When a disciple leaves
behind an earthly father for the sake of the good news—which is, we must not
forget, the good news of the kingdom of God (1:14–15)—he or she has accepted the
invitation of the heavenly Father. The disciple has become “like a little child” in
relation to God, has been adopted by God, and thus cannot relate to anyone else as
to a father. When entering the new family of God by relating to God as Father, the
disciple cannot ipso facto receive new “fathers” in the same way that other new
family members would be received. There is only one new Father to receive, and
the disciple has already received him, a reception which is the precondition for all
the other benefits in the second list.202
The inheritance from the Father in the age to come is perfectly clear: through
membership in the new family of God, the household of the divine paterfamilias,
the disciple will inherit eternal life. Thus the rich man’s question is answered. But
in the Gospel of Mark, relating to God as Father does not only entail a hundredfold
benefits and eternal life. Just as something was omitted from the second list above,
so also was something added. When a disciple leaves behind an earthly father to do
the will of the heavenly Father, that person receives, in this age, “persecutions.” The
sign of one’s new identity as son or daughter of God is not only a new network of
familial hospitality; unfortunately the sign is also persecution. This corresponds to
the motif of suffering in Mark. Earlier in the gospel, suffering has already been
linked to discipleship (8:34); here we learn that suffering is also necessary for divine
sonship and inheritance of the kingdom of God. One might say that in the Gospel
of Mark, this is the “bad news.”
If the text just analyzed has only intimated the connection between suffering
and sonship, the connection is confirmed by the accounts of Jesus in Gethsemane
and his death on the cross. The Gethsemane account has many functions in the
Gospel of Mark, one of which is to clarify the divine sonship of Jesus. In Jesus’ cru-
cial prayer to God, he says, “Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove
this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want” (14:36). Several features
of this brief prayer support the image of divine sonship laid out in the previous
pages. First, this is the only time Jesus directly addresses God as “Father” in Mark
and the only time Jesus addresses God as “Abba” in any of the Gospels. If that
seems unremarkable to most readers, it is likely because of the prevalence of Jesus’
addresses to God as Father in the other Gospels, especially John. However, inter-
preting Mark on its own terms, with its own distinctive view of divine sonship,
Jesus’ prayer is important because it recalls when Jesus first introduced the stipula-
tions for membership in the divine family. In Mark 3, Jesus rejected his biological
family and claimed that the new divine family consisted of “Whoever does the will
of God” (3:35). Here at Gethsemane, Jesus enacts this obedience, a fact obscured a
bit by English translations but clear in the Greek. In his prayer, he commits to
doing not what I will (θέλω), but what you will, drawing on the same Greek root as
the will (θέλημα) of God in chapter 3.
Second, when Jesus acknowledges that for the Father “all things are possible”
(πάντα δυνατά), this is not the first time he has made this claim. In the passage
analyzed above (Mark 10:17–31), Jesus taught that, although it is very difficult for
“children” to “enter the kingdom of God” and receive a new “Father,” the disciples
should not despair because for God “all things are possible” (πάντα δυνατά, 10:27).
These are the two times in Mark where Jesus aphorizes about the Father’s omnip-
otent sovereignty. But Jesus’ request in Gethsemane is ironic: whereas earlier he
had declared the Father’s omnipotence to welcome whomever he wanted into the
divine family, here he wants to avoid the suffering obedience which is the very
identifier of membership in the divine family. The absolute sovereignty of the
Father has two sides: on one side is sonship, on the other side is suffering. Just as
the Father exercises sovereignty by adopting “whoever does the will of God” into
the divine family, so does the Father exercise sovereignty by requiring the “perse-
cutions” which lead ultimately to Gethsemane and the cross. Such power over life
and death resonates poignantly with that of the paterfamilias in the law and ide-
ology of the Roman family.203 The two sides of paternal sovereignty are two sides
of the same coin. Just as the Roman paterfamilias holds the power of benefactions
to his household, so does he hold the notorious ius vitae necisque—the legal power
of life and death—over everyone in his familia. From Gethsemane to the cross,
God exercises that power available to every paterfamilias. For a father, “all things
are possible” indeed.
It remains in this section to examine the two other times in Mark where Jesus’
divine sonship is identified: the divine voice at the transfiguration and the centurion
at the crucifixion. Both of these scenes can be reasonably interpreted in the light of
Roman imperial ideology. First, scholars have noted the specific and peculiar loca-
tion of the transfiguration in Mark: Jesus was with his disciples in “the villages of
Caesarea Philippi” (8:27) from where he led Peter, James, and John up to a high
mountain and was transfigured before them (9:2–8). Why does Mark place Jesus
specifically there, the remote northern tip of Israel, to declare him as Christ (8:29)
and Son of God (9:7)?204 As noted above, this was one of the sites of emperor worship
in the first century. Herod’s son Philip had refounded Paneion as Caesarea and
erected a temple to Augustus there. To declare Jesus as “son of God” at Caesarea
Philippi was therefore to challenge the “son of God” already being worshipped in the
immediate vicinity—the emperor. Furthermore, God’s declaration of Jesus as “my
son” to Peter, James, and John provides witnesses to Jesus’ status, a key point because
the earlier voice was given only privately to Jesus. This gathering would then resemble
the comitia curiata, or “representative assembly,” necessary to confirm Roman adop-
tions. Though a father could adopt a son in private at any time, that transaction must
eventually be made public, either through a comitia or a final testament. At the site of
another adopted divi filius, God makes his election of Jesus known.
At the crucifixion, Jesus is finally announced publicly as God’s son (15:39), but
the unexpected identity of the announcer has become—pardon the pun—a crux
interpretum. To the question of “Why a Roman centurion?” there have been many
scholarly responses.205 Viewed in the light of Roman imperial ideology, a new one
arises. Let us recall that the charismatic authority of the Roman emperor was
derived in part from military achievement and concomitant military acclamation.
Before an emperor could be divi filius, he must first be regarded as a “commander”
(or imperator, the source of the English word “emperor”). Even adopted imperial
heirs needed to prove themselves in battle and gain the approval of (enough of)
the army. An emperor could simply not accede to the principate without it.
Returning to Mark’s characterization of Jesus, we can see some events with new
eyes. Jesus’“battles” are mostly with unclean spirits, the exorcisms of which have been
interpreted fruitfully through postcolonial criticism—the Roman colonizers being
symbolized as the “spirits” convulsing the people of Palestine. Mark cues the reader
toward this interpretation in the exorcism of the Gerasene demoniac, in which Jesus
purges and fantastically destroys the violent and indomitable “legion.”206 After his
battles are completed, and after his status is announced above the site of imperial
worship in Caesarea Philippi, Jesus marches into Jerusalem in a mock triumphal
entry (11:1–11).207 While there, he himself initiates a direct comparison between his
father, the God of Israel, and the father-son gods imaged on Roman coins (12:15–17).
He declares himself to be the son of the God of Israel (14:61–62), but is mockingly
clad in imperial purple by Roman soldiers of the praetorium (15:16–20).
The first and final public declaration of Jesus’ divine sonship—the statement of
the centurion, “Indeed, this man was God’s son”—is perhaps explained best by
colonial mimicry. Roman power, concentrated in the figure of its military, is at

once both the challenge to and the legitimation of Jesus’ divine sonship. Up to this
point, Mark had narratively characterized Jesus as a counter-emperor, a “son of
God” whose rise to power in the cosmos had mimicked imperial power on a kind
of parallel cursus and triumphus. Now the course ends with a mockery and subver-
sion of the triumph. But with the Roman centurion’s cry, the parallel tracks of
analogy and reality converge and intersect, like a cross: the acclamation of the
army was in reality a necessary element of imperial power, and the death of an
emperor was in fact the time when his exalted status was finally evaluated.
The public declaration of Jesus as God’s son also confirmed his status as God’s
rightful heir. For that heavenly inheritance to function as an earthly one would,
Jesus’ divine father would need to have died—and such an audacious claim is not
made. God did not die, but God’s inheritable goods were certainly perishing dur-
ing the time of Jesus’ life and Mark’s writing: God’s land and people, name and
glory, temple and cult, had all been or were about to be usurped by the Roman
legions, under the authority of their imperial divine father. As for Jesus, he felt like
his own divine father had “abandoned” him—“disinheriting” him as God’s son by
“exposing” him to death on a Roman cross. His father gave him a sign, however,
that the inheritance was about to be transferred. God did not die, but with the tear
of the temple curtain, God was beginning to let go of his inheritable goods. In one
sense, they were being usurped by the Romans. In another sense—despite appear-
ances—the Son of God was about to inherit the Empire of his Father.
The centurion therefore got it right: vere hic homo divi filius erat. Almost the
same, but not quite. In the end, Mark’s view of divine sonship, which had been
refracted throughout the gospel in the light of the Roman emperor, now shines
through unmediated. It is Jesus who is the Roman world’s “son of God”— sorrowful
as a Roman criminal, and powerful as a Roman emperor.
Reading Mark from the perspective of Roman adoption and imperial ideology
allows us to see the ingenuity of Mark’s theological mind. Faced with an unprece-
dented challenge—narrating the divine sonship of a human being in relation to a
God that did not procreate—Mark articulated a model of sonship that was theo-
logically coherent and also resonated in his cultural context. Later authors chose
incarnational moments or virgin birth vignettes to characterize the divine sonship
of Jesus. Therefore, compared with these narrative developments, Mark’s
Christology is usually labeled “low.” And that label certainly fits in the terms of
later christological debates, heavily influenced by philosophical categories. But
viewed in the political ideology of its time period—a view of the cosmos more
widely held than that of Platonist philosophy—Mark’s Christology was as high as
humanly possible. The Roman emperor, the most powerful person in the world,
gained his sonship by adoption. If Mark was crafting a narrative that presents Jesus
to Roman listeners as a counter-emperor, the authoritative son of God, then adop-
tion was the most effective method of portraying his divine sonship.
5 Begotten and Adopted Sons
of God—Before and After Nicea
The same thing happens regarding us also, for whom the Lord has
become an exemplar: being baptized, we are illuminated; being
illuminated, we are adopted as sons; being adopted as sons, we are
perfected; being perfected, we become immortal. “I said, ‘You are
gods,’” he said, “ ‘and all sons of the Most High.’ ”
—clement of alexandria
No one among the sons of God can be likened to the Son of God.
He himself is called “Son” of God, but we are called “sons” of
God. . . . He is unique, we are many; he is one, we are one in him;
he was born, we were adopted; he was begotten as Son through nature
in eternity, we were made sons through grace in time.
—augustine
The close examination of Roman fathers and sons allows us to hear new resonances
of divine sonship in early Christianity, as I hope to have just demonstrated with the
Gospel of Mark. This final chapter will analyze how those resonances changed over
time—the shifting relationship between begotten and adoptive metaphors in early
Christianity. My framework is roughly chronological, and therefore different genres
have been interspersed. But the diachronic presentation enables a clearer view of
the interweaving themes on the road to Nicea: begotten and adopted, the sonship of
Christ and the sonship of Christians, Christ as unique and Christ as exemplar,
philosophy and narrative, theological doctrine and liturgical practice.1
In the first two centuries, and especially in areas more influenced by Roman
culture, the high view of adopted sons was well established, and I contend that it
influenced the metaphors used to portray divine sonship. At that time, “begotten”
natural sonship and “made” adoptive sonship were metaphors based on actual
human practices. And contrary to popular belief, both metaphors were used to refer
to the divine sonship of Jesus Christ and also to the divine sonship afforded to all
Christians. This will be demonstrated through some major New Testament and
second-century authors on divine sonship. For them the metaphors were mixed.
But by the fourth century, the metaphors no longer referred to actual practices;
stated another way, the metaphors were no longer metaphors. In Roman culture,
adoption had ceased to be a crucial, visible component of imperial ideology.
Moreover, with the rise of philosophical, especially Platonist, speculation
among Christian leaders, the terms “begotten” and “made” changed in meaning.
They became increasingly abstract concepts, until the watershed debates of the
Nicene era established them finally as the property of theologians alone. Jesus was
132
Begotten and Adopted Sons of God—Before and After Nicea ■ 133
the begotten one, and everything else was made—and “made” now meant “created,”
in addition to “adopted.” This Nicene orthodoxy struggled, however, to line up with
the way the terms were still being used by Christians “on the ground.” It is true that
adoption metaphors were no longer common to describe Jesus, but begotten
metaphors were still extremely common to describe Christians. The final section
of the chapter maps one liturgical trajectory in which these metaphors were
brought under control.
■ A D O P T E D A N D B E G OT T E N I N T H E N E W T E S TA M E N T
The “Backwards Development” of Christology

and the Synthesis of Luke
Among the most influential ideas in Raymond Brown’s The Birth of the Messiah, his
classic study of the infancy narratives in Matthew and Luke, is his opening sketch of
the “backwards development” of Christology in the New Testament.2 He argues
that, in the period before the Gospels were written, the chief moment encapsulating
Jesus’ divine power as God’s son was his resurrection. Brown finds this primitive
Christology in sections of Paul’s letters and older strata of Acts.3 He suggests that
even this might not be the oldest understanding of the “christological moment,”
proposing that the earliest disciples of Jesus might have focused on the second com-
ing (parousia)—“when Jesus would return in glory, then God would fully reveal
him.”4 Either way, the Gospel of Mark decisively moved the moment backward into
Jesus’ lifetime, emphasizing his baptism, transfiguration, and crucifixion. Matthew
and Luke went further still, back to his conception and birth: in Brown’s careful
words, “Matthew and Luke saw christological implications in stories that were in
circulation about Jesus’ birth; or, at least, they saw the possibility of weaving such
stories into a narrative of their own composition which could be made the vehicle
of the message that Jesus was the Son of God acting for the salvation of mankind.”5
Finally, the Gospel of John championed the idea of Jesus’ preexistence before all
creation.6 The key moment of Jesus’ relationship to the Father thus moved from the
end of time—in so far as his resurrection was understood to have inaugurated the
last days—all the way back to before the beginning of time.
Brown’s sketch was filled out a few years later by James Dunn’s Christology in the
Making, whose treatment of divine sonship was analyzed and praised earlier in this
volume in chapter 1. Dunn traces the term “son of God” as a “concept in transition,”
from the primitive resurrection Christologies retained by Paul and Acts to the pre-
existence Christology of John. Though he relies on Brown’s synthesis, Dunn thinks
it would be “unwise” to chart “a straight line of development” as Brown’s explication
had implied, “if only because we cannot be sufficiently certain of dates of docu-
ments or of interrelationships of the communities, individuals, traditions, and ideas
which lie behind them.”7 Brown’s big picture was the right outline for historical-
critical scholars, but filling in the contours and shading has not proved easy.
What is more, early Christians like Luke “saw no difficulty in affirming several
christologically decisive moments in Jesus’ life and ministry.”8 The picture painted
of Jesus’ divine sonship in the New Testament should be more cubist than realist.9
One reader might try to unearth the primitive Christology preserved in the speeches
of Acts, in which the resurrection was the moment where God “made” Jesus “Lord
and Messiah” (2:36) and “begat” him as “son” (13:32–33), in the words of Ps 2.
Perhaps this begotten-made Christology is older than the begotten-born Christology
of the infancy narrative. Another might emphasize the “Lukan variant” at the
baptism of Jesus (3:22), a fuller citation of Ps 2:7 that locates divine sonship at
baptism instead of at conception and birth (the latter being stories which would
have been added, according to this reading, at a still later stage of redaction).10
Nevertheless the final composite text of Luke-Acts remains before us: Jesus is God’s
son at conception, baptism, and resurrection.11 What we find to be mutually exclu-
sive—because of our Nicene emphasis on the when of divine sonship—Luke seems
to have found mutually reinforcing.12
In this way, Luke was similar to many other Christians of the first and second
centuries: regarding the concept of divine sonship, they mixed metaphors. Begetting,
making, genealogical chronicling, bearing, or adopting were all reasonable ways of
portraying the mystery of how God might have human children. (Through the
influence of Platonism, many Christians would also add emanating and proceeding
to this list.) A textual reason for metaphor-mixing in the New Testament was that
Ps 2, the Israelite royal psalm of coronation in which so many early Christians
found christological import, encouraged the mixing of metaphors in the first place.13
In Ps 2:7, the king is “begotten” as God’s “son,” but the begetting happens “today.” The
fact that it happens “today” implies that the recipient of the voice was not God’s son
yesterday, and so the metaphor would seem to be that of “adopting.” But the verb
itself is clearly “begetting,” and the metaphor remains mixed.14
In the famous catena that begins the Epistle to the Hebrews, its author also quotes
Ps 2 to bolster the status of Jesus Christ—and there too, interpreters have had diffi-
culty assessing precisely which status that quotation is intended to bolster. Does the
quotation imply a preexistent begotten sonship or an eschatological adoptive son-
ship? “The tradition of citing Ps. 2:7 in connection with Christ’s exaltation points in
one direction,” writes Harold Attridge, but “the cosmic perspective of the prologue of
Hebrews points in another direction.”15 Several attempts have been made to recon-
cile these seemingly conflicting presentations of sonship.16 But it is crucial to
remember that the exegetical conflict primarily concerns the origins of sonship—the
when question—which has preoccupied christological interpretations of the New
Testament since the Nicene era. Regarding the final status of Jesus’ divine sonship,
Hebrews does present a coherent message: he is the super-exalted Son of God, at the
highest status possibly imaginable for a human being to possess. The proclamation
of this super-status is the purpose of the catena. The author’s overall goal is “to
establish the significance of Christ for the present and future of his addressees by
indicating the superiority of the Son to any other agent of God’s purposes.”17
Returning now to Luke, perhaps he had a different rhetorical reason for his
mixed images of divine sonship: namely, his concern for, and masterful skill with,
presenting the history of nascent Christianity to a broad audience with diverse
social practices and cultural ideologies.18 Adoptive divine sonship is suggested by
the resurrection (Acts 13:33) and the baptism (Luke 3:22), a proximate divine
begetting is secured in the infancy narrative (Luke 1:35), while a distant divine
genealogy is also delineated (Luke 3:23–38). That “genealogy” is not as simple as it
appears, however: Jesus is a non-biological son of Joseph,19 whose ancestry passed
through the Davidic royal line—those kings who themselves were begotten-adopted
sons of God (2 Sam 7:14; Ps 2:7; Ps 89:19–37)—and primordially originated
with Adam, the created-made son of God (Luke 3:38; Gen 1:26–27). The more
sources of legitimacy that Luke could articulate for Jesus, the better. Such an
approach is similar to how the divine sonship of the Roman emperors in the Julio-
Claudian era was legitimated, as explained in chapter 2. Augustus was son of the
divine Apollo by begetting and son of the divine Julius by adoption; he traced
ancestry to the divine Mars and styled himself as a new Romulus. In the Julio-
Claudian dynasty—and again later in the second-century imperial successions—the
adoptive relations turned out to be the most important. But like the supporters of
Roman divine sons, Luke might have thought, why not claim all the different
sources of legitimation, to reach the widest possible audience?
Among New Testament authors, Paul and John represent the closest we have to
ideal types of portraying divine sonship, with one preferring adoptive imagery and
the other begotten imagery.20 They do not mix their metaphors—or mix them the
least. The following sections argue that, despite their different choices of metaphor,
their visions of divine sonship have key similarities. In crafting their metaphors,
neither is primarily concerned with the precise temporal origins of Christ’s divine
sonship. More importantly, for both authors divine sonship unites Christ with
Christians more than it divides them.
Paul on Adoptive Divine Sonship
There are several excellent explications of Paul’s arguments on adoptive sonship in

Galatians and Romans.21 Here I will primarily emphasize that the imagery is per-
fectly in line with our knowledge about adoption in Roman society.22 James Walters
is right to argue that Paul’s adoption metaphor functions well in the cultural con-
text of Greco-Roman household practices, and especially laws of inheritance.23 In
the two places where Paul explains adoption as the means of Christian divine son-
ship, he has already introduced inheritance as the chief concern.24 In both contexts
“there was controversy regarding the status of Gentile believers vis-à-vis Jewish
believers. So adoption functions for Paul as a metaphor that gives nuance to what
he wishes to communicate about inheritance.”25
In Gal 3:23–4:7, Paul establishes adoption as his master-metaphor for Christian
divine sonship, and he returns to it again in Rom 8:12–25. In the first example, Paul
envisions a realistic household of both “slaves” and children (νήπιοι or “minors”),

in which the children are afforded a παιδαγωγός or “tutor” throughout their youth.
In this household, the “sons” of the father—and thus his rightful heirs—are not
empowered until adulthood, and they can be drawn from either the slaves or the
children. That is to say, the adoption of an adult slave (or any other man) as a son
should not place that adopted son in a lower status than the biological children.
Until maturity, the children are kept under “guardians” and “trustees” anyway
(ἐπιτρόπους καὶ οἰκονόμους). The ultimate factor determining who counts as a
son is the father’s judgment, regardless of whether a son has just completed a yoke
of slavery or the lighter burden of the παιδαγωγός.
Whoever is granted sonship by adoption also gains inheritance. As I argued in
chapter 3, adoption in the Roman world was enacted for far different reasons than
it is in the modern Western world; the securing of an heir was the chief impetus.
That inheritance included not only land and other wealth, but also the family
name, the family glory, and a share of the family spirit. These are high stakes, and
Paul no doubt knew that there were often disputes between biological and adopted
sons, or between adopted sons and biological nephews or grandsons. His argument
thus relies on a crucial feature of the social context—the certainty of an adopted
son’s right to inherit from his adoptive father. Roman laws and cultural mores
clearly held that the inheritance claims of adopted sons were valid. For example,
the high-profile adoptions of Octavian by Julius Caesar and of Tiberius by Augustus
were legally bound to be honored in the distribution of inheritances. Or, as Paul
says to the Galatians, whether Jew or Gentile: “if a son, then an heir.”
In his letter to the Romans, the imagery is quite similar and rather cleaner in its
exposition (as are the other tropes revised from Galatians into Romans). But here
Paul further emphasizes the adult-age, even eschatological-age, time frame of adop-
tion into God’s family. The divine family spirit has been given already—“the spirit of
adoption” (Rom 8:15)—but the ultimate adoption has not yet occurred.26 Adoptive
sonship is both already and not yet, a fact which Paul expresses through two images
familiar to other ancient apocalypticists: the birth pangs of labor and the first-fruits
of harvest. “For the yearning of creation is awaiting the revelation of the sons of
God,” he writes, and “all of creation has been joined in groans and labor pains until
now. Not only that, but we ourselves, who have the first-fruits of the spirit, we also
groan while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our body” (Rom 8:19, 22–23).
He returns the imagery at the end to that of the household; the transition from slave
to son is enacted by the “redemption” of the slave’s price and a subsequent “adoption.”
Divine sonship for Paul did not look primarily backward to origins, but forward to
inheritance—just as it did in Roman society.
Paul’s understanding of Christian divine sonship is continued by other writings
in the Pauline tradition. The eloquent exordium of Ephesians (1:3–14) echoes the
“household” ideas of Galatians 3–4 but somewhat collapses the time line of adop-
tive sonship articulated in Romans 8.27 The Father “chose” those whom he wanted as
sons “before the foundation of the world” and “predestined” them for “adoptive
sonship” (1:4–5). But the already aspect of this redemptive adoption is emphasized,
since the time when the “household plan” takes effect—“gathering up all things”
under God as Father and Jesus Christ as Lord—seems to be now (1:10). God’s adop-
tive sons have already “been made heirs” (ἐκληρώθημεν, 1:11). There is a gesture,
however, toward the not yet aspect of adoptive divine sonship in the portrayal of the
Spirit: it is the “pledge” or “down payment” of the “inheritance” (1:14).
The apocryphal Pauline letter known as 3 Corinthians also uses the metaphor of
adoptive sonship at a crucial juncture—when the author is summarizing his version
of Christian doctrine.28 Straightaway in the letter “Paul” encapsulates the kerygma
that he “received from the apostles” who came before him, which includes the birth
of Christ from Mary, Christ’s “liberation of all flesh through his own flesh,” and his
resurrection that typified the future resurrection of all (4–6). The next of the doc-
trines to be passed on is “that the human being was fashioned by his Father; and
thus he was sought while he was lost, so that he might be made alive through adop-
tive sonship” (7–8).29 This teaching is intended to refute a doctrine that the
“Corinthians” claimed they were being taught by others, that the human being was
not created by God.30 But it also serves to combine different Pauline images into one
moment: the eschatological “adoption” foretold in Romans is united with the “mak-
ing alive” of the dead Adamic body described in 1 Corinthians (15:22).
Through these texts from Paul and the Pauline tradition, the adoptive metaphor
of Christian divine sonship is relatively easy to parse, especially using details of the
Greco-Roman social context. As for the divine sonship of Jesus Christ himself, the
details are more difficult to discern. Paul proclaimed the kerygma of Jesus Christ’s
divine sonship often enough,31 but he never tried to narrate its mythos, as did the
evangelists. He did not chart the origin and development of Jesus’ relationship to
God the Father.32 Scholars have only a few distinct moments through which to
interpret Paul’s take on Jesus as “Son of God”—why, when, and how?
The question why is the easiest to answer: First, Paul makes clear that Jesus’
divine sonship is constitutive of his being the eschatological Messiah (e.g., 1 Cor
15:20–28). “Son of God” is a royal title. But Paul also explains that, in the interim,
Jesus is God’s Son for the purpose of making other sons of God, of gathering up
the rest of humanity into a divine family under the paternal God. Paul understands
Jesus’ divine sonship as primarily soteriological and eschatological. He expresses it
eloquently in Gal 4:4–5:
When the fullness of time had come,
God sent his son,
born of woman
born under the law,
so that he might redeem those under the law,
so that we might receive adoptive sonship.33
The purpose of God’s sending Jesus his son was so that others might receive son-
ship. But what about this verb “sent”? Doesn’t it answer the question when?
Interpreted in the framework of post-Nicene orthodoxy, God’s “sending” of his son

implies the preexistence of Jesus Christ as God’s son. It is possible that Paul meant
that, but it is not very likely. As Dunn and others have argued, God’s sending of Jesus
is eschatological, not protological.34 Throughout his writings, Paul is not concerned
with proclaiming that God sent Jesus to be incarnated and born, but rather to be
crucified and resurrected. God sent him to Golgotha—not Bethlehem.
Paul’s emphasis on death and resurrection does, in fact, lead us to an answer of
the question when, which turns out to be inextricable from the question how. In
the very first sentence of his most influential letter, Paul tells us the when and how
of Christ’s divine sonship: Jesus Christ, a son of David by natural lineage, was
“appointed God’s son in power, by the Spirit of holiness at the resurrection of the
dead” (Rom 1:4).35 The resurrection of Jesus was the key event in Jesus’ relationship
to God, as Paul expresses elsewhere (1 Cor 15:20–28), just as in Luke’s portrayal of
Paul’s missionary speech (Acts 13:30–37). But from late antiquity to the present,
some translators and commentators have attempted to diffuse this interpretation
of Rom 1:4, which locates Christ’s divine sonship as adoptive at the resurrection.36
For example, the extant Latin translations of this verse rendered the participle
“appointed” (ὁρισθέντος) as praedestinatus (“appointed beforehand” or “predes-
tined”) instead of the expected destinatus. Those translators apparently understood
the Greek word as I have and by changing it were attempting to bring it in line with
later christological orthodoxy.37 Ironically, these careful scribes overlooked the fact
that calling Jesus “predestined” for divine sonship at resurrection would not go
very far in solving their christological conundrum—doing so would say no more
about Jesus’ sonship than Paul also says about the divine sonship of all Christians.
Paul is clear that all Christians, who will receive adoptive sonship at the resurrection,
have also been “predestined” for it (Rom 8:29).38
Paul’s portrayal of a powerful father granting adoptive sonship would have had
particular resonance in Rome itself, which was—lest we forget—the intended des-
tination of the text in question. Not only would it have appealed to common social
practices, but it would also have invoked the transmission of power in the imperial
family. The Julio-Claudian “dynasty” was a mix of begotten and adoptive relation-
ships (though I have argued the adoptive were more influential), with a correlated
tension between dynastic and meritocratic ideologies of political succession.
Through his opening proclamation of the sonship of Jesus as both dynastic
(through David) and adoptive (through God), Paul—like Luke—would have
appealed to both kinds of father-son relationships, which were the central loci of
power in Roman society.
That being said, Paul does not use the begotten metaphor to describe the divine
sonship of Christians or Christ himself. The dynastic image comes only through
Abraham (especially for Christians) and David (especially for Christ), not directly
through God. Nonetheless, there are Pauline texts that have been thought to make
his presentation of adoptive sonship less clear. For example, Paul also uses the
adoption metaphor to refer to the filial relationship maintained by the Israelites
with God: “to them belong the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the
law, the worship, and the promises” (Rom 9:4). If this “adoption” is neither messi-
anic (as for Christ) nor eschatological (as for Christians), then what does Paul
mean by it? Dunn has argued that the assigning of “the adoption” and “the glory”
to the Israelites at the head of the list draws a link between their status and the
status of the new community in Christ, whose adoption (8:15, 23) and glory (8:18,
21, 30) had just been discussed.39 Hebrew biblical texts suggest that God’s adoption
of Israel as son was understood chiefly to have occurred at the Exodus (Exod 4:22;
Hos 11:1).40 Therefore, just as that adoption was effected by passing through the
water, with a period of waiting before ultimately entering the promised land, so
will the adoption of all in the messianic age occur through water (Gal 3:26–28;
1 Cor 10:1–2) and a period of waiting before final consummation (Rom 8:18–39).
The adoption of Israel was a type of the eschatological adoption.
A final text where one might see a begotten metaphor in Paul’s Epistles comes
just earlier: “Those whom [God] foreknew, he also predestined to be conformed to
the image of his son, so that he might be the firstborn (πρωτότοκον) of many
brothers” (Rom 8:29).41 But despite the English translation “first-born,” the Greek
πρωτότοκος does not necessarily designate a begotten sonship.42 It is true that the
word derives etymologically from the verb for birth (τίκτω), but it had come to sig-
nify sonship in different ways. Most importantly for our purposes, the term is quite
clearly denotative of adoptive sonship in the text of the royal Ps 89, in which God
says: “I have set a crown on one who is mighty, I have exalted one chosen from the
people. I have found my servant David; with my holy oil I have anointed him. . . . He
shall cry to me, ‘You are my Father, my God, and the Rock of my salvation!’ I will
make him the firstborn (πρωτότοκον θήσομαι αὐτόν), the highest of the kings of
the earth” (Ps 89[88]:19–20, 26–27, nrsv). God finds his servant, his anointed one,
his son, and then makes him the firstborn, with the lxx Greek using one of the
common verbs for adoption (τίθημι). As a signifier of divine sonship, then, the met-
aphor was already being mixed centuries before Paul would employ it.43 The term is
also used for adoptive sonship in the best extant Greek adoption contract from
antiquity, P. Lips. 28.44 The contract stipulates that the adopted son will “be your
legitimate and firstborn son, as if begotten to you from your own blood” (τὸ εἰ̂ναι
σοῦυἱὸν γνήσιον καὶ πρωτότοκον ὡς ἐξ ἰδίου αἵματος γεννηθέντα σοι).45 Nowhere
is it clearer than here—in an official adoption contract—that “firstborn” in Greek
often connotes “privilege more than primogeniture.”46 The evidence that the term
πρωτότοκος was used for adoptive sonship thus comes from both an everyday
papyrus transaction and the highest messianic language in the Jewish Scriptures.
The context of the verse in Romans suggests that, in any case, Paul is not trying
to separate the divine sonship of Christ from the divine sonship of Christians. On
the contrary, he draws them together as closely as he can. “Conformed to the image
of his son” and “firstborn of many brothers” are meant to unify all those who share
in the spirit of the resurrection, the family spirit which binds them under one
father.47 A Nicene reading would take “firstborn” to distinguish Christ as begotten
from Christians as adopted, but a less anachronistic interpretation takes “firstborn”

to designate Christ as the preeminent son among a large and growing group of
siblings. Scott’s summary of adoptive sonship in Paul hits the mark:
It seems that πρωτότοκος in 8:29c expresses the same adoption of the Son according to
the Davidic promise at the resurrection as ὁρισθέντος υἱου̂ θεου̂ in 1:4, except that in
8:29c πρωτότοκος is used to draw in the relationship of the Son to the sons, that the sons
follow the destiny of the Son at the resurrection. Actually, however, Rom. 1:4 already
hints at this relationship between the Son and the sons, since ἀνάστασις νεκρῶν implies
that the Son’s resurrection is proleptic to the future resurrection of the dead. At the res-
urrection of the dead, the elect will be conformed to the image of the Son (v. 29b), which
expresses the redemption of the body associated with υἱοθεσία (v. 23). Since the purpose
for which the elect will be conformed to the image of the Son at the resurrection is that
the Son might be the Firstborn among many brothers (v. 29c), the adoption of the sons
(v. 23) is directly related to the adoption of the Firstborn. In fact, it can be said that the
sons who share in the messianic inheritance and reign with the Son (vv. 17b, 32b) are
adopted on the basis of the same Davidic promise as the Son, because they participate in
the sonship of the Son.48
The adoptive divine sonship imagined by Paul, though it can be effectively

interpreted in the Greco-Roman context of adoption and inheritance, was not
simply an allegory of or transfer from social practices into soteriology. For example,
the abundance of Christian women in Pauline communities, who presumably
were considered to have filial relationships with God (2 Cor 6:18), would not have
mapped on to the all-male social practice of Roman adoption. Furthermore, while
Paul’s vision of an ever-expanding family under one father does fit well with the
Roman family’s well-documented “readiness to extend relationships,” his soteri-
ology is built on a crucial discontinuity with the sociopolitical context. In law and
literature about Roman adoption, the rivalry of sons over inheritances constituted
a central topos. In Paul’s cosmic vision, the privileged son of the father—the
πρωτότοκος—is instead engaged in the process of making more children for the
father, of increasing the size of the family. This son is paradoxically eager to share
and thus dilute his inheritance; such behavior is decidedly “foolish” by worldly
standards, but for Paul, it shows the power of Christ through his mercy. A century
later Irenaeus would also come to read Paul in this way, such that Christ demon-
strates his “power made perfect in weakness” in part through his communal sharing
of sonship.49 Christ is willing to share his rightful inheritance and glory with
countless siblings, and this disconnection with social reality is for Paul a chief
manifestation of his abundant grace (χάρις).
John on Begotten Divine Sonship
For the metaphor of begotten divine sonship, one turns undoubtedly to Johannine
literature. There the metaphor of begottenness is used to describe both Christians
and Christ himself. Because of the prominence of Jesus’ dialogue with Nicodemus
in Christian popular consciousness (John 3:1–21, especially vv. 1–10), the fact that
Christians are begotten or “born” from above is widely known. Being “born again”
has caught on as shorthand for being Christian in a way that being “adopted” never
has. But the proclamation of Christ himself as “begotten” or “born” of God is actu-
ally not found in John’s Gospel.50 Nowhere in the Johannine prologue (1:1–18) is
Jesus called God’s “begotten” son, despite the important role the prologue would
later play in the shoring up of Nicene christological orthodoxy. There is someone
“sent from God” according to the prologue, but it is John, not Jesus (1:6); and God
does do some “begetting,” but it is Christians who are begotten, not the Christ
(1:12–13). To find a reference to Jesus Christ as God’s “begotten” son, one has to
read to the very end of John’s first Epistle—and even there, one finds substantial
disagreement among the manuscripts (see below).
Let us not get ahead of ourselves, though, but work first from John’s Gospel. In
the famous dialogue already mentioned, Christians are clearly portrayed as
“begotten” or “born” in a metaphorical way (John 3:3–8). The begetting happens
“from above” and/or “again” (ἄνωθεν, 3:3) and is enacted by “water and spirit” (3:5),
or simply “the spirit” (3:6, 8). The double-meaning of the spatial-temporal word
ἄνωθεν combines with the twin-agency of water and spirit in order to generate an
image of divine begetting that is both sacramental and sapiential. The sacrament of
baptism is implied by the temporal “again”51 and the substance of “water,” while the
spatial imagery of a “spirit” birth “from above” perhaps suggests a wisdom tradi-
tion.52 The result of the begetting is the ability to “see the kingdom of God” and
“enter into” it, the former of which is distinct from other New Testament authors’
concepts of “inheriting” and “entering” the kingdom of God. For John, the beget-
ting assures not only an eschatological inheritance of a father’s goods, as does
divine sonship for Paul, but a currently accessible revelation of God as father—his
glory, truth, grace, light, and life. This revelation can only happen through his son,
Jesus Christ, who has already claimed possession of the kingdom (John 18:36).
The begotten relationship between Christians and God is further solidified in
the rest of the Gospel and especially the first Epistle. In John 8:39–47, Jesus draws
a kind of “dichotomous key” for the human race, dividing people ultimately into
children of God and children of the devil.53 The question-and-answer of this dia-
logue format is then clarified in 1 John by the author’s plain and repeated declara-
tions about the “children of God” (3:1–2, 10; 5:2), who have been “begotten” (2:29;
3:9; 4:7; 5:1, 4, 18). The metaphors of divine and diabolical lineage are made even
more concrete when the author emphasizes how “everyone who commits sin is (a
child) of the devil,” but “everyone who has been begotten by God does not sin
because God’s seed (σπέρμα) abides in each of them” (1 John 3:8–9). The image
could hardly be more tangible. While other proto-orthodox authors (especially
Paul and Matthew) were concerned with Jesus’ lineal descent from the “seed” of
David or Gentile-Christians’ relationship to the “seed” of Abraham, for John it is
God’s own σπέρμα that issues forth. The seed of David is mentioned in John only
by a crowd questioning Jesus’ origins (John 7:42), and descent from Abraham is
never claimed as positive during the debate over lineage (John 8:31–59). For John,
as for many proto-heterodox Christians in the second century, earthly lineage was
trumped by divine begetting.54
The two remaining texts about begetting are crucial—yet both have variants in
ancient manuscripts or citations. In the Johannine prologue, after explaining that
the Word/Light was rejected by “his own,” John 1:12–13 states that, “as many as
received him, to them he gave authority to become children of God, to those who
believe in his name: they were begotten not by blood, nor by the desire of the flesh,
nor by the desire of man, but by God.” This rendering interprets v. 13 as an elabo-
ration of v. 12. How did they become children of God? They were begotten by God.
A text-critical question has arisen, however, regarding whether v. 13 has a plural
verb (“they were begotten”) resuming the noun “children” or a singular (“he was
begotten”) resuming “him,” namely the Word. Despite the fact that not one Greek
manuscript supports the singular reading, several scholars have argued for it, based
on a few early Latin sources.55 Tertullian cited the singular version in order to
defend his proto-orthodox Christology, and perhaps he knew of Greek manu-
scripts that contained it.56 But he seems also to have known that his version was
not the only one, since he accused others of altering the text to a plural. With the
impressive manuscript evidence and a reasonable interpretation, the plural reading
is compelling.
One must go to 1 John, then, to find the references to Jesus Christ as a “begotten”
son of God. When the author is exhorting Christians to the sinless life proper to
the children of God, he writes, “We know that everyone who has been begotten by
God does not sin, but rather, he who was begotten by God protects him (ὁ γεννηθεὶς
ἐκ του̂ θεου̂ τηρει̂ αὐτόν) and the evil one does not touch him” (5:18). There are
textual variants of ἡ γέννησις for ὁ γεννηθείς and ἑαυτόν for αὐτόν, and the result-
ing clause would mean “the begetting by God protects him(self).” But Vellanickal
explains well how these variants might have arisen in the manuscript tradition,
and I concur that the majority readings cause less difficulty than the variants.57 The
idea that Christ offers protection for the Christian against the devil fits well the
immediate context (5:19–20) and also recapitulates an earlier theme (3:7–10). In
this text, then, the author links the divine sonship of Christ and Christians in their
begottenness, but he distinguishes the two with the tense of the participles: a
Christian “has been begotten” (perfect tense, ὁ γεγεννημένος) while Christ “was
begotten” (aorist tense, γεννηθείς). This corresponds to the other reference to
Christ as begotten, which is also a bit elliptical (1 John 5:1).
Unfortunately for our purposes, the author does not specify in either verse of
1 John the point at which Christ was begotten—whether baptism, birth, concep-
tion, or earlier.58 He does not answer the question when. Most scholars think that
John does support a preexistent view of the divine sonship of Jesus Christ. Some
kind of personal preexistence is expressed by texts about the descent from above
(6:38; 8:23; 16:28) or the previous apprenticeship with the Father (5:19; 8:38), but
especially the claim of existence “before Abraham” (8:58) and “before the world
existed” (17:5, 24). I would still stress, however, that John is never explicit about a
divine begetting that occurred before the earthly life of Jesus. He might presume
it in the passages just cited, but he does not articulate it, especially in the prologue
where one might expect it (see below). Regarding divine sonship, John is actually
quite restrained in his mythologizing; he could have extrapolated much more
narrative from the sonship metaphor.59 But for John, the divine father-son rela-
tionship is more logos than mythos: the logos connects the son to the siblings,
whereas a mythos would have divided them. So regardless of when the divine
begetting occurred, the parallel use of begotten metaphors in 1 John “underlines
the solidarity” between the divine sonship of God’s son and God’s children.60
According to John, Jesus Christ is absolutely unique—but his uniqueness is not
his begottenness.
This leads us back to the Johannine prologue and two interrelated questions.
First, why do most readers think the prologue proclaims the begottenness of Jesus?
For sixteen centuries, readers have been led to believe that John 1:14–18 presents
the Word as the “only-begotten Son” of God, even though the word “begotten” is
nowhere to be found in the Greek text of the prologue (and the word “son” appears
only in a contested variant, about which see below). The Greek term behind the
translations “only begotten” (1:14; kjv), “only begotten son” (1:18; kjv), and “only
son” (1:14, 18; nrsv) is μονογενής, an adjective that is best translated as “unique,”
“only,” or “one of a kind.”61 It can refer to an only son, but that is because an only son
fits into the category of unique; it can also refer to a unique son that is not an only-
begotten son.62 The word further describes unique non-human things, of which
two relevant examples are: the “unique spirit” (πνευ̂μα μονογενές) that subsists in
God’s “wisdom” (σοϕία; Wisd 7:22); and according to one summary of Plato’s cos-
mology, the cosmos we inhabit is “unique and beloved to God” (μονογενη̂ τῳ̂ θεῳ̂
καὶ ἀγαπητόν).63 The trajectory that led to today’s mistranslation of μονογενής
seems to have begun in the second century, when Justin Martyr interpreted the
word in connection with the notion of preexistent begottenness in his Logos
Christology.64 The trend took off primarily in the fourth and fifth centuries, how-
ever, with the switch from Greek to Latin. The oldest Latin manuscript of the
Gospels, dated to the mid-fourth century, uses unicus (“unique”) as the transla-
tion.65 But instead of the suitable unicus, Jerome’s Vulgate (c. 383 c.e.) offered the
christologically charged term unigenitus (“only-begotten”) for μονογενής.66 He
was following a pattern established by Hilary of Poitiers, who also used unigenitus
to translate μονογενής in the Nicene Creed.67 These translations were solidified
through the influence of the Creed and eventually the King James Version, which
used “only begotten.”
The second question is: what constitutes Jesus’ unique-ness or only-ness, if not
begotten-ness? In John 1:14–18, the uniqueness of Jesus Christ is imagined through
his functioning as the Word/Light, which is unique in its glory, its closeness to the
Father, and its power to reveal. John proclaims that, after the incarnation of the
Word, “we beheld its glory—glory as of a unique [one/kind] from a father—full of

grace and truth” (1:14). The phrase, δόξαν ὡς μονογενου̂ς παρὰ πατρός, is difficult
to translate without supplying a noun for μονογενής, which is the reason why the
word “son” has been added to translations so often. Yet the main point is not about
sonship or begetting, neither of which is present in the verse. On my reading, the
main point is that the Word/Light revealed the glory of the Father in a unique way
through the incarnation.68 This was the turning point in cosmic history, as John
then explains: “As for God, no one has ever seen him. But the only God (the Word/
Light), who was in the bosom of the Father, that one revealed him” (1:18). Again the
translation is challenging, not least because of the text-critical problem with the
noun modified by μονογενής.69 I contend that this verse is also not about son-
ship or begetting, neither of which is present in the text (according to Nestle-
Aland and most text critics). It is primarily about the combined transcendence
and immanence of God in the Incarnate Word/Light. The Word is the only
God and is thus one with God, as in 1:1, but it also reveals the previously unseen
God, as Light that shines in darkness (1:5) and Word that becomes flesh (1:14).
I grant that this verse—like v. 14—would be much easier to construe and trans-
late with the addition of the word “son,” just as many manuscripts have it.70 But the
addition of “son” to each would not, in any case, undercut my main point: there is
no divine begetting expressed in the prologue, except that of Christians in v. 13.
Even if one admits that the word “son” must be supplied in vv. 14 and 18, the pro-
cess of that sonship is not a focus for the author. The Word is uniquely close to the
Father—in his very bosom—a relational bond between God and the Incarnate
Word portrayed in various ways throughout the rest of John’s Gospel.71 And
the Word uniquely reveals the Father, mediating between the unseen God and the
world. But begotten sonship is not an issue.
The Word’s revelation of God is inextricable from Jesus’ mission of salvation as
God’s unique son on earth.72 In the one pericope where the μονογενὴς υἱός does
actually appear as a title, during the teaching to Nicodemus, the unique son’s mission
is that everyone might believe in him and have eternal life (3:16–18). This mission
continues throughout the gospel, according to John Ashton, a scholar who inter-
prets Father-Son unity with great dexterity and appropriate tentativeness.73 He finds
a paradox at the heart of the Father-Son relationship in John. In one sense, the
sender is greater than the one sent; in another sense, the one sent—as emissary—
possesses the full agency of the sender. These statements cannot be isolated from
one another without distorting John’s image of Jesus. The Johannine conceptions of
Jesus are best understood, in Ashton’s estimation, within the context of Jewish jurid-
ical conventions: the functional “son” executing a father’s will may be the natural
son, but the natural son is not necessarily the functional “son.” For John, Jesus’
moment of mission (sending) is conceived primarily as a commission (the bestowal
of authority of plenipotentiary powers). As son, Jesus has been given full control
over the household of God. Therefore, Ashton finds a strikingly similar meaning of
divine sonship in John as others have found in the Synoptics and Paul—an
eschatological, functional sonship, which consists primarily in a mission to make

other sons and daughters for God. In John’s own words, Jesus’ divine sonship was “to
gather into one the dispersed children of God” (11:52).
In the end, divine sonship is an image that unites Christ with Christians more
than it separates them—another similarity John has with Paul on this topic. Each
point that might be advanced to separate off the sonship of Christ can be coun-
tered or tempered. First, the terminological argument that the word “son” separates
Christ from Christians, who are called the “children” of God, cannot bear much
weight. As I said in chapter 1, υἱός is different from τέκνα in gender and number,
not nature.74 Whether “son” or “child,” all are “begotten” of God in John’s under-
standing—and he would not want to exclude from divine filiation the women
central to his gospel (especially Mary, the Samaritan Woman, Martha, and Mary
Magdalene). Second, some have proposed a distinction based on the when of
divine begetting. In 1 John 5:1 and 5:18, the begetting of Christians is denoted by
the perfect tense, while Christ was begotten in the aorist. Perhaps this does refer to
the incarnation of the Word in the person of Jesus.75 But a simpler explanation for
this would be that Christ was dead and resurrected at the time 1 John was com-
posed; while Jesus was alive he himself spoke of his begetting in the perfect tense
(John 18:37).76 Furthermore, the immediate contexts of these passages in 1 John
concern the relationship that Christians share with Christ as children of God. In
Judith Lieu’s expert analysis, the use of the begotten metaphor for both Christ and
Christians “acknowledges some degree of consanguinity between them.” Regarding
the function of Christ’s relationship with the Father,
1 John is neither interested in the nature or the occasion of this begetting, nor concerned
with the inner being of God. . . . On the contrary, it is the relationship that the Son shares
with them as born from God that enables them to share in the benefits that he has
achieved. Without this connection, the imagery of believers as having been born of God
could suggest that they possess in their own right all the benefits this brings, leaving no
meaningful role for the Son of God, whose importance the author has been at such pains
to assert.77
The third proposed marker to distinguish Christ’s divine sonship has the most
merit—his portrayal as the μονογενής son (John 3:16, 18; 1 John 4:9). But for John,
his unique-ness or only-ness was not due to his means of acquiring sonship. John’s
use of μονογενής is therefore analogous to Paul’s use of πρωτότοκος. In John’s por-
trayal, Jesus Christ was uniquely close to God the Father, uniquely revelatory of
God’s glory, and uniquely able to empower others to become God’s sons and
daughters. But, with apologies to King James, he was not the only begotten son.
Mixed Metaphors
The kinds of divine sonship attributed to Christ and Christians were not uniformly
portrayed by the earliest authors. Divine sonship followed something like the
“backwards movement” of Christology delineated by Brown and filled out by

Dunn, but the texts do not always fit the neat historical model. Early Christians
widely agreed that Jesus Christ was God’s son, and God was their father too—the
head of a new extended family for the eschatological age. But these proclamations
were not precisely located temporally, nor were these family metaphors easily
explainable without further metaphors. Still more onerous was the task of narrat-
ing how these things were true. Paul and John are the closest examples we have to
ideal types of understanding divine sonship in earliest Christianity, but dogmatic
theologians they were not. Their metaphorical sketches of the divine-human rela-
tionship often leave us without conclusive interpretations of divine sonship.
What we can say for sure about the New Testament authors that deal with divine
sonship is that baptism was crucial to their understanding of it. The way for
Christians to become God’s sons and daughters, according to John, is to be begotten
from above by water and spirit—that is, to be baptized, just as Jesus himself was.
On the centrality of baptism, John and Paul agree, but they choose different meta-
phors to portray what happens. Through his description of Jesus’ own baptism,
John draws a ritual connection between the sonship of Christ (1:32–34) and
Christians (3:3–8). Jesus says Christians must be begotten of “water and spirit”;
John describes Jesus’ baptism in exactly those terms. Jesus says Christians must be
begotten “from above”; John recounts the descent of the Spirit from heaven. The
baptism of Jesus took place “so that he might be revealed to Israel” (1:31), and the
content of that revelation is then stated by John: “This is the Son of God” (1:34).
The narration of the divine sonship of Jesus may have moved backward over
time, from resurrection to death to baptism to birth, but in Paul’s understanding of
Christian initiation, the ritual of baptism could simultaneously enact all four of
these events in the life of Christ. During the early centuries of Christianity—and
already present in nuce in Paul’s letters—baptism epitomized the divine sonship of
begetting/birth, of adoption, of death, and of resurrection.78 This surplus of
meaning was eventually brought under control in later centuries, but here in the
nascent Christian movement, the living-dying-rising of one’s filial relationship to
God in Christ was richly imagined. In early Christianity the begotten and adoptive
metaphors of divine sonship were mixed. Perhaps they were mixed in the font.
■ ADOPTIVE DIVINE SONSHIP IN THE SECOND

CENTURY
There is none other called “God” by the Scriptures except the Father of
all, and the Son, and those who possess the adoption.
—irenaeus
If asked to discuss adoptionistic kinds of Christology in early Christianity, most

scholars would likely mention the Ebionites right away. Indeed, Bart Ehrman
leads off his popular New Testament introductory textbook with this “group of
second-century Jewish Christians known to be living in Palestine, east of the

Jordan River,” who “maintained that Jesus was a remarkable man . . . chosen by God
to be his son . . . ‘adopted’ at his baptism.”79 But we really know very little about the
so-called Ebionites, and from what we do know, they did not use adoptive imagery
per se to describe the divine sonship of Jesus or themselves.80 The description of
Jesus’ baptism in the “Gospel of the Ebionites”—in so far as it can be reconstructed
from quotations in Epiphanius—does little more than harmonize the two attested
baptismal voices, claiming that both resounded from heaven.81 But if their focus
on Jesus’ baptism and their full citation of Ps 2:7 makes them “adoptionist,” then
many other early Christians are also.82 Or if their lack of biographical material
about Jesus’ first thirty years makes them “adoptionist,” then Paul, Mark, and John
will also be subject to the same criticism. Therefore some scholars have wisely
rejected the term “adoptionist” with regard to the Ebionites.83 The truth is, we do
not know enough about the Ebionites to assess their imagery and metaphors of
divine sonship.
Rather, if adoptive imagery were to have successfully portrayed the divine son-
ship of Christ or Christians in the first centuries of Christianity, I have argued it
would have been more at home in definitively Roman cultural contexts. In fact,
besides the Ebionites, the other famous handbook “adoptionists” were located in
Rome: Theodotus and his followers, who were active in the late second century.84
Unfortunately, we do not know much about them either. The group is traced to a
certain Theodotus, a σκυτεύς (leather-worker, shoemaker, cobbler), who was active
in Rome under Bishop Victor (c. 189–99 c.e.) and was succeeded by followers during
the time of Bishop Zephyrinus (c. 199–217 c.e.). They were said to have been well
educated and scientifically inclined, and they were accused of manipulating texts of
Scripture.85 As to their teachings, the anonymous source quoted by Eusebius claims
that Theodotus, the “founder” and “father” of the “God-denying apostasy,” was the
“first” to teach that the Christ was a “mere man.”86 According to the source, it was
primarily for this doctrine that Victor excommunicated Theodotus (though the
group lingered for some time). Hippolytus records that Theodotus’s teachings
focused on the baptism of Jesus. It was through the water and the dove that Jesus was
empowered by the Spirit of Christ from above, although there seems to have been
disagreement within the group about whether Jesus became divine at that time, later
at his resurrection, or not at all.87 Beyond these glimpses, we are not able to see much
more of this group of early Christians. But we can say that the adoptive imagery of
the Theodotians would have been especially resonant in urban areas of the second-
century Roman Empire because of the established adoptive imperial ideology. The
long chain of “good and adoptive emperors” (96–180 c.e.) led to a concomitant
political ideology of meritocratic succession that praised adoptive father-son rela-
tions. This worldview provides a reasonable basis for explaining why adoptionistic
Christologies were, in the words of one scholar, “mostly a Roman affair.”88
We have scant evidence about the handbook “adoptionists,” the Ebionites and
the Theodotians, but there are some well-attested Christian theologians that can be
fruitfully interpreted in the sociopolitical context of the second century.89 One is

usually associated with “adoptionist” Christology (Hermas). The other two are
famous for denouncing proto-heterodox Christologies (Irenaeus and Clement)—
while actually being quite innovative themselves. What they all have in common is
familiarity with Roman family ideology, a fact which situates their theological
metaphors in a particular sociopolitical context.90 For these early Christians,
adoption was far from a low concept. It was a powerful, eschatological expression
of divine sonship.
The Shepherd of Hermas
The second-century Christian named “Hermas” was a freed slave from “central
Italy and probably Rome,” who became “a moderately wealthy freedman and
householder” and eventually wrote one of the most popular early Christian texts
that is not in the canon—The Shepherd of Hermas, or simply, The Shepherd.91 The
Christology of The Shepherd has been often discussed by modern scholars, despite
the fact that the words “Jesus” and “Christ” are never used in the text.92 Rather,
christological analysis focuses on the “son / Son of God” in the text and especially
his relationship to the “highest angel” and the “spirit / Holy Spirit,” both of whom
are profoundly important in the revelations of The Shepherd. Though many have
attempted to decipher an underlying cosmology in The Shepherd that might explain
these different heavenly figures and their relationships,93 I agree with Carolyn
Osiek that “speculative or systematic christology is not the author’s goal. All
attempts to reconstruct a systematic christology in Hermas falter.” It is “only by
letting each passage and each image stand on its own” that we can “come to some
glimpse of the whole.”94
The most influential stand-alone passage for scholarly assessment of the author’s
Christology is undoubtedly Similitude 5—the “Parable of the Son, Slave, and
Vineyard” and its accompanying explanations.95 In the course of teaching Hermas
about the best kind of fasting, the Shepherd tells him the following parable (here
paraphrased): A wealthy householder chose a slave and gave him charge of his vine-
yard while he was away. He promised the slave his freedom if he would build an
enclosure around it. The slave did so and also decided to remove its weeds, so that the
vineyard flourished. When the householder returned, he was very pleased and
decided to make the slave co-heir with his son, who had been summoned to the scene
as an advisor along with the householder’s friends. The householder then sent much
food to the slave to celebrate his new status, and the slave distributed most of it to his
fellow slaves. Again, the father, son, and friends were overjoyed at the behavior of the
slave, who was now co-heir. The different explanations of the parable in the
subsequent text can be outlined as follows:96
The Shepherd describes how to fast (5.1)

The Shepherd tells the parable (5.2)
1st explanation: an ethical exhortation about fasting (5.3)

Hermas requests further explanation (5.4–5.5.1)
2nd explanation: a doctrinal-allegorical interpretation about Christian cosmology
(5.5.2–3)
Hermas asks a clarifying christological question (5.5.4–5)
The Shepherd answers (5.6.1–4a)
3rd explanation: the relationship between the “son” and the “slave” (5.6.4b–7a)
Paraenetic application of the 3rd explanation (5.6.7b–5.7.2)
Hermas asks a clarifying soteriological question (5.7.3a)
The Shepherd answers and concludes (5.7.3b–4)
There are three explanations of the parable, which I will summarize briefly before
going into detail about the second and third of them. The first is an ethical exhor-
tation about fasting, in which Hermas is encouraged to keep the commandments
of the Lord and even to go beyond them in generosity during his fasts. The sec-
ond is a doctrinal-allegorical interpretation with point-by-point correspon-
dences between the story world and the real world. Of the ten correspondences
revealed by the Shepherd, the relevant ones for our topic are these: the “master of
the field” is the one who created everything [= God]; the “son” is the Holy Spirit;
and the “slave” is the Son of God (5.5.3).97 The third explanation is an expansion
of the second, spelling out in more detail the relationship between the “son” and
the “slave” in the parable—that is to say, the relationship between the Holy Spirit
and the Son of God. This explanation leads into paraenesis for Hermas about his
own relationship to the Holy Spirit; Hermas must keep his flesh pure and unde-
filed because the Holy Spirit dwells in it. After each of the second and third
explanations, there is a question-answer session that elaborates on the Shepherd’s
previous comment.
Franz Overbeck has rightly quipped, “There is no interpreter from whom one
can expect the solution to every riddle of the Shepherd.”98 But the understanding
of adoptive sonship laid out in this book can help to unlock at least the riddle of
this parable and its explanations. The challenge begins with the second explana-
tion, which comprises ten point-by-point correspondences between the story
world and the real world (5.5.2–3).
“field” = this world
“master of the field” = the one who created everything (God)
“son” = the Holy Spirit
“slave” = the Son of God
“vines” = this people
“fences” = angels
“weeds” = lawless deeds of God’s servants
“food” = commandments given through the Son of God
“friends and advisors” = angels that were created first
“absence of the master” = time remaining until his arrival
Such allegorical readings are familiar enough to readers of early Christian texts.
Hermas is perplexed, though, by the equation of the “slave” with the Son of God,
and he asks, “Why, sir, in the parable is the Son of God placed in the guise of a
‘slave?’ ” (εἰς δούλου τρόπον κει̂ται, 5.5.5). Modern scholars have wondered the
same thing. But the Shepherd’s answer has not always been helpful. He says, “Listen,
the Son of God is not ‘placed in the guise of a slave,’ but rather he is placed in great
authority and dominion” (εἰς ἐξουσίαν μεγάλην κει̂ται καὶ κυριότητα, 5.6.1). By
denying that the Son of God was placed in the guise of a “slave,” the Shepherd’s
answer seems to contradict his own allegorical interpretation. Confusion about
this led one ancient scribe to omit the word “not” (οὐ) from this sentence, and
Osiek avers that “the interpretation is easier without it.”99 But emphasizing the
unique understanding of sonship in the Roman worldview can provide the social
context for making sense of it. Hermas’s question was motivated by concern about
the origin of the figure that symbolized the Son of God: why was he “placed” in the
guise of a slave? The Shepherd, on the other hand, emphasizes the final status of the
figure that symbolized the Son of God: regardless of where he was “placed” at the
beginning of the parable, look at where he ends up! He is ultimately “placed” in
great authority and dominion. The “not” of the Shepherd’s answer is thus crucial to
his overall point, an idea stated often in this book: sonship did not primarily point
backward to origins but forward to inheritance.
The remainder of the Shepherd’s answer fills out his correction of Hermas’s
misunderstanding. The Son of God is placed in great authority and dominion
because God “planted the vineyard,” that is, created the people, and gave them over to his
Son. And the Son appointed the angels over them to protect them. But the Son himself
cleansed their sins, laboring much and undergoing much toil. For no “vineyard” can be
“dug” without toil or labor. Then, when he had cleansed the sins of the people, he showed
them the ways of life, giving them the law which he received from his Father. You see,
therefore, that he is lord of the people, having received full authority from his Father.100
Thus ends the christological question-and-answer—and with it the main section

used to deduce the Father-Son relationship in the Shepherd’s cosmology. (The
Son-Holy Spirit relationship is yet to come.) This Christology has often been called
“adoptionist,” but it is not definitively so.101 In the parable, the “slave” is never
explicitly adopted as “son”; and in the answer to Hermas’s question, the Son of God
is designated as such from the beginning.102 But in the parable, the “slave” does
change status, being granted “freedom” and made an “heir,” which are pronounced,
dramatic movements upward in the household; likewise, in the allegorical inter-
pretation, the Son of God does gain authority from his Father, so that he himself is
lord of the people with full authority in the end. This upward mobility from slave
to heir with full paternal authority might have been enacted through a presumed
adoption, but it would more properly be called an “exaltationist” Christology.
Commentators have had difficulty interpreting the text immediately following
the Shepherd’s answer to Hermas’s christological question.103 In Osiek’s words, “the
correspondence of characters suddenly shifts with brutal abruptness. We are back

to the parable . . . .”104 It is true that a shift in allegorical correspondences occurs, but
the Shepherd indicates the beginning of a new explanation with the rhetorical cue,
“Listen” (ἄκουε). He uses it to introduce four parts of this Similitude: the original
parable, the second explanation, the answer to the christological question, and
here to begin the third explanation.105 He now addresses the relationship between
the Holy Spirit and the Son of God, or the “son” and the “slave” in the parable. And
his explanation is tricky to interpret, just as above, because he blends figures from
the story world and the real world:
But now listen to why the “master” took his “son” as an “advisor”—along with the glorious
angels—concerning the “inheritance” of the “slave.” The Holy Spirit, the preexistent one
that created all of creation, God caused to dwell in flesh which he (or it) preferred. Then
this flesh, in which the Holy Spirit dwelled, “served” the Spirit nobly, living in sanctity
and purity, not defiling the Spirit in any way. Then when the flesh had lived nobly and
purely, having both labored with the Spirit and cooperated with it in every deed, behaving
with strength and bravery, God chose it as a partner with the Holy Spirit. For the behavior
of this flesh pleased God, namely that it was not defiled while possessing the Holy Spirit
on earth. Therefore, God took the “son” as an “advisor”—along with the glorious
angels—so that this flesh, which had “served” the Spirit blamelessly, might have a certain
resting place and not seem to have lost the “reward” for its “service.”106
In this explanation, the exaltationist Christology is continued, but the role of the
Holy Spirit (or “son”) in the exaltation of the Son of God (or “slave”) is delineated.
In the original parable, the “advising” role of the “son” was limited only to observing
the productive work of the “slave” and agreeing with the decision of the “master” to
make the “slave” his “co-heir.” But the Shepherd predicts the confusion of one who
hears this parable: why would the “son” have been involved in this decision at all,
which was the father’s alone to make? Furthermore, any ancient listener to this
parable would have been shocked by the willingness of a son and sole heir to
share his inheritance, if he were actually to have been summoned as an “advisor”
on the decision. As with the parables of Jesus, the moment of shock is likely the
best place to pursue this parable’s meaning. So here the Shepherd is attempting to
justify the surprising graciousness of the “son.”
In his interpretation, the Holy Spirit (or “son”) was involved from the beginning
in the selection and advancement of the Son of God (or “slave”). The explanation
of in what sense the “son” was an “advisor” comes through a verbal correspondence
between the noun “advisor” (σύμβουλον, 5.6.4b) and the verb in the phrase, “flesh
which he (or it) preferred” (ἠβούλετο, 5.6.5). It is grammatically likely that God
did the “preferring” of which flesh the Holy Spirit would inhabit because “God” is
the noun closest to the verb, but it is possible that the Spirit is the subject of the
verb.107 The latter option would make more sense of the Shepherd’s argument—the
Spirit was an advisor (σύμβουλον) in that the Spirit chose (ἠβούλετο) which flesh
to inhabit. The matter remains obscure, though, and one must be satisfied only
with the conclusion that God and the Holy Spirit are closely united in their counsel
from the beginning. Therefore, though not reported in the parable, the “sonship” of
the “son” was proleptically present in the “slave” from the moment he was chosen
by the “father.” From the time of his selection until he is made “heir” and partner
with the “son,” the “slave” is serving the “son” and “father” together as a tandem. He
is able to do so successfully because he already possesses a share of “sonship.” In
theological terms, the Father chose that the Holy Spirit should dwell in the
particular flesh of the Son, and because the Son lived perfectly while the Spirit
dwelt in him, the Son was exalted to be the partner of the Holy Spirit, sharing the
inheritance of the Father in his final resting place.108
Despite this cosmological interpretation, the Shepherd’s ultimate focus in the
fifth Similitude is not the relationships among heavenly beings. The immanent
Trinity may be a concern of Hermas, as it will be for later Christian theologians,
but the Shepherd wants to emphasize the economic Trinity.109 In other words, what
do the relationships between heavenly beings mean for human flourishing and
salvation?110 According to the Shepherd, the Holy Spirit has a clear soteriological
purpose because it enables all Christians to gain their status as heirs of the Father’s
inheritance—the reward for their service. He concludes the third explanation thus:
“For all flesh in which the Holy Spirit has dwelt, if it be found undefiled and spot-
less, shall receive a reward.”111 We might then call the Christology of this Similitude
“exemplarist,” in addition to “exaltationist.” The course of action that “this flesh”
(αὕτη ἡ σάρξ, i.e., the “slave” or Son of God, 5.6.5) has experienced and achieved
through the Holy Spirit is precisely the model that the Shepherd wants “all flesh”
(πα̂σα σάρξ, 5.6.7) to follow under the Spirit’s direction. This conclusion hearkens
back to the original allegorical explanation, in which the Son of God was one
“slave” serving among the other “slaves of God” (δοῦλοι τοῦ θεοῦ, 5.5.3).
Hermas, as a former slave himself, knew well the trials experienced by human
flesh in the pursuit of a life according to God’s Spirit. When he tried to imagine
what the human Son of God did to deserve his exalted status, as joint heir with
God’s own Spirit, he turned to his own social context—where upward mobility
toward the inheritance of a divine family spirit was enacted through manumis-
sions and adoptions.112 The Son of God was the exemplar of how Christians might
gain their share of God’s inheritance through the Holy Spirit. In the second century,
this was modeled at the top by the divine imperial family and presented by The
Shepherd as a model of the divine Christian family. So when Norbert Brox won-
ders how the author of The Shepherd got away with publishing such a Christology
in Rome, I respond, how could he have published it anywhere else?113
Clement of Alexandria
Clement of Alexandria’s articulation of Christian identity in the terms of procre-

ation and kinship has been well documented and deftly analyzed by Denise Kimber
Buell.114 She demonstrates how procreative metaphors serve to naturalize a set of
socially constructed relations, in order to empower one kinship group over another.
Procreation and kinship thus constitute a “rhetoric of legitimacy.” Though such
natural, begotten metaphors do predominate in Clement’s corpus, he also uses the
adoption metaphor to great rhetorical effect.115 It enables him to portray the
divine sonship of Christians, but he does not shy away from using it with reference
to the divine sonship of Christ himself. By the time of the fourth-century
controversies, adoption will have become the christological metaphor that dare
not speak its name. But here in the second century, it could still be put to good
rhetorical use.
Let us begin by looking at how Clement used the metaphor for Christians. In
the New Testament, the Johannine corpus prefers “begotten” language, while the
Pauline corpus prefers “adoption” language. As an heir of both apostolic traditions,
Clement mixes the metaphors. For example, in book 1 of the Paedagogus, when
explaining the ways in which Christians are children of God, he writes: “The Father
of all accepts those who have taken refuge in him, and having begotten them again
by the Spirit into adoption, he knows them as gentle, he loves them alone, he fights
on their behalf, and therefore names them ‘child.’ ”116 Christians are begotten again
into adoption—John and Paul are both appeased. In the Stromata, he mixes the
metaphors again, this time with respect to a Christian’s status as legitimate heir:
when speaking about a human being’s highest attainable level of relationship to
God, Clement promises the revelation of the holiest things to “those who are legit-
imately and not illegitimately heirs of the lordly adoptive sonship.”117 Here the
crafty rhetorical move is not as clear in translation as it is in the original: in Greek,
the categories of “legitimate / genuine” (γνήσιος) and “illegitimate / spurious”
(νόθος) are used most fundamentally to distinguish certifiably natural children
from those who are not; metaphorically the terms can also be used to distinguish
all kinds of true and false lineages.118 But here—for one of the only times in ancient
Greek literature—Clement combines the concept of “legitimate/genuine” with
adoptive sonship.119 This is a singularly Roman perspective, in which adopted heirs
could be regarded as γνήσιος, a term normally reserved for begotten children.120
The metaphors of both begetting and adopting were thus found by Clement to be
useful for articulating the divine-human relationship.121
These initial formulations do not give us any sense of a chronology of divine
sonship, of any time that might elapse between begetting again, receiving the Spirit,
and adoption into inheritance. One might guess that they are rolled into one event
at baptism. But Clement’s usage implies that adoption is a metaphor for an adult,
while begetting is a metaphor for an infant. When explaining how Jesus, our
παιδαγωγός, established for us the model of the true life, Clement imagines Jesus
to have had a role in every stage of a Christian’s maturation: “It seems to me that
[Jesus] himself formed the human being from the dust, begat him again in water,
reared him in Spirit, and instructed him in word into adoption and salvation,
leading him by holy commandments.”122 Adoption comes late in this process, and
it is linked with salvation itself.123 This vision of maturation lines up perfectly with
the Roman social practice of Clement’s day, in which the vast majority of adopted
sons were adult males—the most prominent of them being the so-called adoptive
emperors of the second century. Clement probably knew of many other adult
adopted sons from his upbringing among elites.
Elsewhere, Clement demonstrates how, in the household image, adoption is the
highest advancement. He describes the upward progression from first being God’s
“slave” (δου̂λος), then God’s “trustworthy attendant” (πιστὸς θεράπων), until
finally, if one ascends higher, “he is enrolled among the sons” and “integrated into
the chosen adoptive sonship which is called ‘beloved of God.’ ”124 Adoptive sonship
is “the highest advancement” (ἡ μεγίστη προκοπή), and also carries with it a certain
“authority” (ἐξουσία) that can be difficult to bear.125 In short, adoption for Clement
is a metaphor of perfect maturation—adoptive sonship is τέλειος.126
Yet even though adoption comes later in life, making an adult male into a son,
it can be conceived much earlier in the mind of the father. Alluding to Pauline lan-
guage, Clement states that “before the foundation of the world,” God “predestined
the friend of God”—that is, the true Gnostic or perfect Christian—“to be enrolled
in the highest adoption.”127 This is compatible with Roman social practice, as Paul
also knew. Roman fathers often decided which men they wanted as sons well in
advance of the actual adoptions, as was the case with the most famous adoption in
Roman history: the posthumous testamentary adoption of Octavian by Julius
Caesar.
Clement also uses the adoption metaphor to depict Christ himself. In an early
portion of the Paedagogus, Clement expounds what it means for Christians to be
children of God, but in this text he makes specific comparisons with the divine
sonship of Jesus Christ. He portrays Christ as an exemplar of Christian life,
beginning with his baptism: “At the moment when the Lord was being baptized, a
voice sounded from heaven as a witness for the beloved: ‘You are my beloved son,
today I have begotten you.’ Then let us ask the wise ones, ‘Is Christ, having been
begotten again today, already perfect?’ ”128 Clement goes on to debate this issue in
a long diatribe, which I will not analyze here. At the end, he concludes that
[Christ] was perfected by the washing alone and sanctified by the descent of the Spirit.
Such is the case, and the same thing happens regarding us also, for whom the Lord has
become an exemplar: being baptized, we are illuminated; being illuminated, we are
adopted as sons; being adopted as sons, we are perfected; being perfected, we become
immortal. “I said, ‘You are gods,’ ” he said, “ ‘and all sons of the Most High.’ ”129
The presentation of Christ here as the “exemplar” (ὑπογραϕή) of adoptive divine

sonship is as clear as any in early Christian literature.130 The striking text has
received full treatment by Antonio Orbe, who concludes that the exemplarist
Christology, even with its adoptive imagery, is unmistakable. Jesus was the model
of progress, and “the baptism of Jesus was the exemplar for all baptisms. . . . In his
humanity, Jesus passed through various stages to attain exemplary perfection:
cleansing, illumination, proclamation of sonship, infusion of the Holy Spirit.”131
Despite Orbe’s expert analysis, he nonetheless flinches when translating Clement’s

text about sonship: the Greek verb used for Christians is the same as that for Christ,
but Orbe calls the former “adopción” and the latter “filiación.” The text of Clement
is quite clear, though, in its parallelism: adoption is a crucial step for Christians
on the path from baptism to immortal divinization, a step taken first by Christ
himself.132 Psalm 82 is understood to predict both divinity and divine sonship.133
As I have argued, adoptive sonship was not a “low” concept in Clement’s world-
view, based as it was on the actual social practices of contemporary Roman culture.
Adoption was how the most powerful men in the world gained their power; and
he quotes the psalmist to that effect—to be an adopted son of God is to be a god, a
sentiment quite in line with Roman imperial theology.
Let us not forget, though, that Christ is the exemplar of begotten divine sonship
too. While Clement undoubtedly presupposes and preserves a unique divine son-
ship for Jesus Christ—none of what is quoted and analyzed above challenges that,
in Clement’s view—Christ’s uniqueness was not primarily constituted by begot-
tenness. Christ’s baptism was his “being begotten again” (ἀναγεννηθείς), though
this word is translated without the “again” prefix in the most-widely available
English translation of the text.134 And this begetting again was a model for
Christian baptismal rebirth. Christ was begotten again and adopted as son, just as
Christians were foreordained to be. Christ was the unique exemplar that Christians
followed.135
Irenaeus
That one might eventually look to Irenaeus of Lyons, the great heresiographer,
during a discussion of adoptionistic Christology in the second century should not
come as a surprise. His chief publication included all the heresies fit to print. But
I turn now to Irenaeus not to examine his opponents, whom he so excellently dis-
sects and whose Christologies come down to us sometimes only through his
descriptions, but rather to consider Irenaeus himself. He was certainly a theological
innovator, even as he styled himself a chronicler and protector. Several of his texts
use adoptive metaphors in scintillating, even shocking, ways. Some of his formula-
tions are so receptive to adoptionistic interpretations that it took Antonio Orbe,
the peerless scholar of Irenaeus, almost fifty pages to answer the question, “¿San
Ireneo adopcionista?”136 Why did it take Orbe so long? How did Irenaeus use the
metaphor of adoptive divine sonship?
In the words of Walter Kasper,“the depth and breadth of Irenaeus’s Christological
ideas have never really been equalled.”137 Irenaeus thought and wrote expansively
about how the fact of Jesus Christ reconstituted everything, and accordingly, his
Christology is deserving of the large-scale treatments it has received.138 But here,
I must limit my own analysis to his deployment of adoptive metaphors. Like others
before him, Irenaeus found the adoption metaphor particularly useful in the
overall context of household imagery. More specifically, it was a necessary part of
the argument for how Christians might receive inheritance from God the Father.
The question of who rightfully possessed the inheritance of Abraham was crucial,
just as it was for Paul and John. Irenaeus defends the Christian possession of the
inheritance against Marcion and his followers (who disregarded the covenant with
Abraham), claiming that Abraham’s “seed” is the “church,” to whom is bestowed
“the adoption and the inheritance promised to Abraham.”139 When defending the
incarnation against opponents such as the Ebionites, Irenaeus claims that there
would be no divine inheritance for Christians, unless it came through Abraham.
For if Christ had been begotten by Joseph, he argues, Christ himself would not
have had the inheritance allotted by the God of Israel, since Joseph’s ancestors had
been disinherited (3.21.9). In general, whenever covenants and inheritances are at
issue in the arguments of Irenaeus, “those who have received adoption” becomes a
shorthand designation for Christians.140
The shorthand can also be elaborated through an image of upward mobility in a
household. During one of Irenaeus’s sweeping summaries of salvation history, he
describes the ascent of humanity through God’s household ranks: God (or the
Logos) was “at one time conversing with his creature, at another time giving the law,
one time reproaching, another time exhorting, then subsequently liberating him
from being a slave and adopting him as a son, and at the proper time, furnishing an
incorruptible inheritance for the perfection of humanity.”141 The human race,
figured as usual for Irenaeus in the body of Adam, ascends through the proba-
tionary childhood and servitude before being liberated, adopted, and made heir of
God’s household.142 In other texts, he conflates this longer trajectory into a concise
slave-son trope, with its correlated culminations of liberation and adoption.143
Sometimes Irenaeus mixes begotten and adoptive metaphors when portraying
the divine sonship of Christians. For example, writing again against the Ebionites,
Irenaeus asks: “How can a human pass into God, unless God has passed into a
human? And how can [humanity] leave behind the generatio of death, unless they
are begotten again by faith into a new generatio, wonderfully and unexpectedly
granted by God as a sign of salvation, which is from the Virgin? Or how can they
receive adoptio from God, if they remain in this genesis, which is according to
humanity in this world?”144 The normal human mode of begetting (called by the
Latin generatio and Greek genesis) is only a begetting unto “death,” but a “new
begetting” (novam generationem) has been introduced “from the Virgin” as a “sign
of salvation.”145 And yet this new begetting is either a preparation for or tanta-
mount to “receiving adoption from God” (adoptionem accipient).146 Elsewhere,
Irenaeus seems to equate “adoption” with “begetting” more explicitly. When arguing
for the unity of God, even amid God’s different manners of relating to the world,
he makes the following distinction: God’s Logos gives the Spirit to some as a spirit
of creation, which is made, on account of their createdness, but to others as a spirit
from God, which is begotten, on account of their adoptedness.147 The text is difficult
to understand and translate, but it is clear that begottenness and adoptedness are
one side and createdness and madeness are on the other. It is possible that, just as
for Clement of Alexandria, the mixing of metaphors can be attributed to Irenaeus’s

reliance on both Paul and John in developing his soteriological vocabulary. What
is important to see now, though, is that divine sonship by adoption had not yet
been linked with “createdness” or “madeness.” To the contrary, adoption was
connected closely to begottenness and distinguished from madeness.
That being said, Irenaeus does seem to prefer the adoptive metaphor to portray
the divine sonship of Christians.148 The first key text occurs during his scriptural
arguments against Valentinian theology. Irenaeus argues against the proliferation
of divine beings in the Valentinian system by attempting to demonstrate from
Scripture that only the Father and the Son are properly called “God” and “Lord.”
But in doing so, he must deal with texts that complicate that thesis, such as those
mentioning other “gods.” Chief among them is Ps 82 (81), a vision of a divine coun-
cil where God judges the other gods, whose sixth verse reads: “I have said you are
gods and all sons of the Most High.”149 Irenaeus interprets the “gods” of this psalm
to be a prediction of the exalted status afforded to Christians through adoptive
divine sonship. When the psalm says, “God stood in the congregation of the gods”
(82:1), Irenaeus argues that the Spirit “spoke about the Father and the Son and
those who have received adoption; then these are the church, that is the ‘congrega-
tion’ of God, which God, that is the Son, has gathered himself.”150 Irenaeus de-
emphasizes the “gods” per se and focuses instead on the “gathering” function of the
Son to constitute a “congregation” of divine “sons.” He later clarifies that this inter-
pretation is derived primarily from Pauline teaching about divine sonship. Irenaeus
again: “Of which ‘gods,’ then, did the Spirit speak? Of those to whom it said, ‘I have
said you are gods and all sons of the Most High,’ undoubtedly of those who have
obtained the gift of adoption, through which we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’”151 Therefore, Ps
82 becomes for Irenaeus not a justification of multiple primordial divine beings
but a prophetic foreshadowing of eschatological adoptive sonship of Christians.152
He later summarizes this teaching in the preface to the next book: “There is none
other called ‘God’ by the Scriptures except the Father of all, and the Son, and those
who possess the adoption.”153
Irenaeus further tries to explicate the relationship between the divine sonship
of Christ and that of Christians. How was the sonship of the sons connected to the
sonship of the Son? According to the Irenaean script, God’s unique Son played the
pivotal role in the dramatic plot through which the lost children of God gained
sonship in the immortal, divine family. In a reframing of the Pauline sonship sote-
riology of Gal 4:4–5, Irenaeus teaches, “the Son of God was made a son of a human,
that through him we might receive adoption—humanity bearing and receiving
and embracing the Son of God.”154 But this soteriology is also expanded through
Johannine theology to include the incarnation of the Word, which Irenaeus depicts
as a necessary event in the process leading to divine sonship for all. “For by what
method could we become partakers of [God’s] adoption of sons, unless we had
received from [God] through the Son that communion which is with Godself—
unless [God’s] Word had communed with us by being made flesh?”155 This synthesis
of Pauline and Johannine ideas in Irenaeus is often called the “exchange formula,”
since it presents a parallel descent and ascent that implies an exchange of humanity
and divinity between the Son and the sons.156 Such an understanding is adequate,
as long as one does not press it into a static Christological dogma. In Kasper’s
words, for Irenaeus, “the larger theological context of the Christological problem is
apparent: the unity of Godhead and humanity in Christ also involves the question
of the unity of creation and redemption, of God and world. Jesus Christ is not
understood simply as a great exception, but rather as the new beginning.
Consequently Irenaeus treats the Christological problem particularly from the
soteriological point of view.”157 Irenaeus undoubtedly portrays Christ as the
uniquely incarnate Son of God (the “great exception”), but when he speaks about
divine sonship, he is more concerned with Christ as “the new beginning,” the key
to the eschatological adoption of Christians. Divine sonship unites Christ with
Christians more than it divides them—indeed, it is their “communio.”158
The fullest expression of the “exchange formula” comes further on in book 3.
When defending the unique birth of Jesus Christ, that he was not a “mere man,
begotten by Joseph,” Irenaeus writes:
For this reason the Word of God became human, and he who was the Son of God became
a son of a human: so that a human, having been joined with the Word of God and
receiving adoption, might become a son of God. For by no other means could we have
attained to incorruptibility and immortality, unless we had been united to incorrupt-
ibility and immortality. But how could we be joined to incorruptibility and immortality,
unless, first, incorruptibility and immortality had become that which we also are, so that
the corruptible might be swallowed up by incorruptibility, and the mortal by immor-
tality, so that we might receive the adoption of sons?159
The Pauline sonship formula of Gal 4, which had already been reframed and
expanded with Johannine Logos theology, has now been bolstered further by
Pauline resurrection language (1 Cor 15:50–57). Humanity will share not only the
sonship of the Son, but also the “immortality” (ἀθανασία) and “incorruptibility”
(ἀϕθαρσία) proper to divine beings. In the end, then, will the Son and the sons be
indistinguishable?160
That is a difficult question to answer, but Irenaeus does begin to answer a differ-
ent question about divine sonship—the main question that has driven this whole
chapter. Namely, how did the divide between the begottenness of Jesus Christ and
the adoptedness of Christians come to be articulated in early Christianity?
It perhaps began in nuce with Paul, but it becomes explicit here with one of Paul’s
great interpreters. Just before the large quotation above, Irenaeus describes his
opponents who deny the incarnation with these words: they are “those who have
not received the gift of adoption, but rather, they dishonor the incarnation of the
pure begetting of the Word of God and defraud humanity of its ascent to God.”161
This is the most clear distinction yet between the begottenness of Jesus Christ, “the
pure γεννήσις,” and the “adoption” of Christians. The language is unmistakable.
Elsewhere Irenaeus supports the begotten divine sonship of Jesus Christ, even
as he encourages his readers not to speculate about it. In book 2, he is plainly frus-
trated with the ever-multiplying begettings and emanations within the theological
systems of his opponents, and he counsels for apophaticism about the how and the
when of the Son of God’s begetting:
If anyone says to us, “How then was the Son produced by the Father?” we reply to him,
that no one understands that production or begetting or calling or revelation, or by
whatever name one may describe his generation, which is in fact altogether indescrib-
able—neither Valentinus, nor Marcion, nor Saturninus, nor Basilides, nor angels, nor
archangels, nor principalities, nor powers—but only the Father who begat, and the Son
who was born. Since therefore his begetting is unspeakable, those who strive to set forth
generations and productions cannot be in their right mind, inasmuch as they undertake
to describe things which are indescribable.162
Despite his commitment to the begotten, incarnate Son of God, Irenaeus is still not
at pains to make the distinction between the Son and the sons in the way later
authors would be. On the whole, he views divine sonship as the communio that
unites Christ with Christians (3.18.7; cf. 3.20.2). In the words of Richard Norris,
“Irenaeus is eager to maintain the analogy—indeed the commonality of nature—
between the Christ and believers that is presupposed by his understanding of the
adoption of sons.”163 Because of this emphasis on communio, he actually leaves sev-
eral other texts open to adoptionistic interpretations. For example, when arguing
again against the Ebionites and other incarnation-deniers, Irenaeus describes how
the Spirit announced through the apostles that “the fullness of the time of adoption
had arrived”—and that this was made known to those who acknowledge the vir-
ginal birth of Jesus Christ (3.21.4). Knowing his whole system of exchange, one
can figure out what Irenaeus must have meant: the same Spirit which begat Jesus
Christ in the virginal womb of Mary also adopts Christians later. But a fourth-
century author with primarily Nicene concerns would never voluntarily put adop-
tion language so close to a discussion of Jesus’ divine sonship. That would be too
close for comfort.164
In summary, Irenaeus provides a synthesis of the images of divine sonship that
came before him (at least among proto-orthodox authors). He mixes the begotten
and adoptive metaphors, but he is beginning to separate them apart through the
influence of Johannine Christological language.165 The begottenness of Jesus Christ
has begun to separate from the adoptedness of Christians, a great unmixing that
will take two more centuries to effect. He was still influenced, though, by the
positive connotations of adoption in the sociopolitical context of the second
century. For Irenaeus, the adoption metaphor performs the dramatization of
upward mobility, just as it did for previous authors. And a grandiose ascent it is—
described as an ascent of the human to God, the greatest glory of promotion.
Finally, the adoption metaphor helps Irenaeus in his overarching project of defend-
ing the unity of God against the various cosmologies of the “Gnostics falsely
so-called.”166 The imagery of divine begottenness had engendered vast cosmic

lineages among proto-heterodox Christians in the second century, like divine
stemmata fractured across the heavens. Irenaeus loathed such complex cosmol-
ogies, whether from Valentinians or other Christian groups, and adoptive imagery
was well suited to his monarchian tendency. That is to say, a large adoptive
household is unified under the paterfamilias. The father passes on the divine family
spirit through his son, and if he wants more sons, he does not have to find a new
partner. All by himself, he can adopt them into the family as heirs—this is the glory
of promotion, “to receive adoption and become a son of God.”
■ U N M I X I N G M E TA P H O R S
Regarding the divine sonship of Christians, the metaphors of begetting and adop-
tion were interwoven through the first four centuries, and especially the first two
centuries. In the mid- to late-fourth century, however, the emphasis of Christian
divine sonship shifted markedly toward adoption. A broad historical perspective
allows us to see why: during the fourth-century’s christological controversies, the
divine sonship of Jesus Christ came to be authoritatively defined as “begotten, not
made.” In order to shore up this definition thereafter, the divine sonship of
Christians should not be portrayed as “begotten,” lest their filial relationship to
God be confused with that belonging to Jesus Christ alone. Instead, the divine son-
ship of Christians would be portrayed as adoptive. By the end of the fourth century,
several Christian leaders were preaching the same message: Jesus is God’s begotten
son, by nature; you are all God’s adopted sons, by grace.
Since the christological developments of the third and fourth centuries are
among the most well-known paths of Christian theology, I will not attempt here to
blaze a new trail. I would like only to pass quickly along the road from the second
to the fourth century and highlight a few signposts.167 Through the texts of third-
century theologians such as Origen; the Nicene-era disputes of Alexander, Arius,
and Athanasius; and then the post-Nicene Latin formulations of Augustine, the
unmixing of metaphors can be plainly observed to the end of the fourth century.
Origen
Origen, writing about 150 years after Mark, is the first major theologian to distin-
guish starkly the begotten and adoptive metaphors for the divine sonship of Christ.
According to Peter Widdicombe, “the contrast and the similarity between the two
types of sonship are central to Origen’s thinking” about how humans come to
know God as Father.168 For example, in his major theological work, On First
Principles, Origen treats the issue of the Son of God’s origin in some detail.169 He
endorses the begotten metaphor for the relationship of Father and Son, but he is
not comfortable with the modes of begetting—sexual relations and birth—that
this metaphor calls to mind from the human and animal world. He seeks out
instead “some exceptional process, worthy of God,” in order to “apprehend how the
unbegotten God becomes Father of the only-begotten Son.”170 Origen suggests the
now-classic image of “light from light”: the generation of Father to Son “is an
eternal and everlasting begetting, as brightness is begotten from light.”171 He also
relies on the figure of Wisdom as an explanation of the Son, although this figure
gets him into a bit of trouble: Origen is clear that the Son is “begotten,” but if the
Son is Wisdom, then he is also a “created thing” (κτίσμα) according to Scripture.172
That is, the Son is both “begotten” and “made,” a tension that would be precisely
forbidden later by Nicene orthodoxy. Nevertheless, whatever image one chooses,
Origen is clear to exclude the adoptive metaphor entirely: “He does not become
Son in an external way through the adoption of the Spirit, but he is Son by
nature.”173
Since John himself does not narrate or locate the divine begetting of the Son of
God, Origen is also wary to mythologize it. He emphasizes the naturalness of the
sonship as opposed to adoption, but he does not want to elaborate the how or the
when of it much further. In his words, nowhere does John “set forth the noble birth
of the Son. But when ‘You are my son, today I have begotten you’ is said to him by
God, it is always ‘today’ for God. . . . [Any] day for God is ‘today,’ in which the Son
has been begotten. Therefore the origin of his beginning is not found [in the Gospel
of John], nor is the day [of that beginning found there].”174 Even though the
quotation of Ps 2:7 does not occur in John’s Gospel, Origen claims it to mark the
divine sonship of Jesus, and he offers an interpretation of the troubling “today” that
would influence subsequent theologians.175 The begotten metaphor is certain for
Origen, but the “origin of his beginning” (ἀρχη̂ς γενέσεως) is not determinable
because for God every day is “today.”
As for the divine sonship of Christians, Origen still mixes the metaphors of
begetting and adoption. In his treatise on Passover, he quotes the plural reading of
John 1:13 as applying to Christians, who are “begotten of God,” but then explains
the reading with the adoptive metaphor: “For adoption in Christ has given us the
authority of such a salvation, we who came to be not from the blood and desire of
man and woman, and whom [Christ] confesses to be his brothers when he says,
‘I will proclaim your name to my brothers’ ” (Ps 22[21]:23; Heb 2:13).176 Similarly,
he describes Christian divine sonship as both begotten and adopted in his expo-
sition of Proverbs—even endorsing a begetting from Wisdom: “Let Christ be a
friend to you in every season, and if the sons are of Christ, they are friends to each
other. The angels and the righteous human beings are brothers to each other, since
they are begotten by the spirit of adoption. It was for this purpose that they are
begotten by wisdom: so that they might guide people from wickedness to virtue
and from ignorance to knowledge of God.”177
The begotten metaphor is unavoidable when interpreting Johannine literature,
but when Origen interprets Paul, he makes the division between the begottenness
of Christ and the adoptedness of Christians with a force not yet seen. And the text
that allows him to make the distinction is one flagged earlier, when discussing
Paul’s views on divine sonship—the use of the word ἴδιος, “God’s own son,” in Rom
8:32. Origen interprets it thus: Paul “had said above that even we who have received
the Spirit of adoption are sons of God. But lest it should be thought that he handed
over one of these who appeared to be adopted among his own sons, by the general
sense of ‘sons,’ he has added, ‘his own Son,’ in order to point to him who alone is
begotten by an ineffable generation from God himself.”178 The distinction of the
Son from the sons that Paul had left in nuce has now grown and sprouted in early
Christian theology.179
Like Irenaeus, Origen was shaped by Paul’s imagery of adoption and John’s met-
aphor of rebirth. At times he seems to prefer the adoptive metaphor for Christians
because it connoted a progression to exalted status.180 At other times, however, he
uses the begotten metaphor for Christians to portray their unity with Christ: “If
the Savior is continuously begotten by the Father, so also, if you possess the spirit
of adoption, God continuously generates you in him [the Savior] according to each
of your works, each of your thoughts. And being begotten, you thereby become a
continuously begotten son of God, in Christ Jesus.”181 In this concluding perora-
tion of a homily, the hortatory power of unifying Christians with Christ seems
more important than the finer distinctions of dogma. Participation in the sonship
of Christ may be through a “spirit of adoption,” but it also allows a Christian to be
a “continuously begotten son of God” (ἀεὶ γεννώμενος υἰὸς θεου̂). After the Nicene
era, to which we now turn, that kind of description of Christian divine sonship
would no longer be casually uttered.
The Nicene Era
The distinction of the Son from the sons had its watershed moment in the Arian
controversy of the Nicene era. This complex period of theological, ecclesiological,
and political strife has been treated with great dexterity by many scholars,182 so
I will here only include the points crucial for my history of begotten and adoptive
metaphors. Before Arius and Nicea, the begottenness of Christ was quite well
established, but the question of when that divine begetting had occurred was still
not emphasized. Christian theology had been using ideas from (Middle and
Neo-) Platonism for at least 200 years already, especially the doctrine of the Logos
as a mediating agent between the transcendent God and the created world. But a
new question was now being pressed: what was the temporal relationship between
the Father-God and the Son-Logos? Did the Son-Logos belong to the transcendent
realm of Being or to the lower realm of Becoming? In the words of the Nicene era,
was there a time, at the beginning of time, when the Son was not? Here in the
fourth century, the “backwards movement” of Christology, which had begun in
the New Testament era, was finally approaching its terminus—or rather, its
principium.
As far as the texts allow us to see, Arius himself did not prefer the adoptive met-
aphor to describe the divine sonship of Jesus Christ; as I said, the begottenness of
Christ was now being used as the master-metaphor about which all debate
revolved.183 But adoption remained a relevant image for opponents’ descriptions of
Arianism because of the dual valence of the term “made” in the Nicene era. On the
one hand, “made” (ποι-) meant “created” (κτισ-), and so the Nicene formulation
“begotten not made” (γεννηθέντα οὐ ποιηθέντα) defined Jesus Christ as not a cre-
ated thing (κτίσμα). On the other hand, “made” also meant “adopted” when used in
the context of sonship, as many ancient sources attest,184 and so the divine sonship
of Christ was also officially pronounced as not adoptive.
The “Letter of Alexander of Alexandria,” a key document of the early Arian con-
troversy, illuminates the role of the adoption metaphor for the opponents of Arius.185
After explaining all the Scriptures that proclaim the eternality of the Son—that
there was never a time when the Son was not—Alexander then offers the following
distinctions between the “son-ness” of the Son and the sons:
The son-ness of our savior has nothing in common with the son-ness of the rest [of the
sons]. For just as it has been shown that the nature of his existence cannot be expressed
by language, and infinitely surpasses in excellence all things to which he himself has
granted existence, so also his son-ness, naturally partaking of the paternal divinity, is
unspeakably different from those who have been adopted as sons by adoption through him.
He is by nature immutable, perfect, and all-sufficient, whereas they are liable to change
and need his help.186
The crucial Platonic distinction of Being and Becoming is here shown to under-
gird the debate on divine sonship. Jesus Christ is “immutable” (ἄτρεπτος) and “per-
fect” (τέλειος) in the realm of pure Being, while Christians are “liable to change” in
the realm of Becoming. To mark the static sonship of the Son, fourth-century
authors coined and propagated the term “son-ness” (υἱότης).187 This unchanging
son-ness had “nothing in common” (οὐδεμία κοινωνία) with the sonship of the
sons, those who were “adopted as sons by adoption” (θέσει υἱοθετηθέντων). Natural
sonship is “unspeakably different” from adoptive sonship.
A lot had changed since the second-century writings of Clement and Irenaeus.
For Clement, adoptive sonship was described as “the highest advancement” and “per-
fect,” and immutability was not a point of emphasis for him, Platonist though he
was.188 Perhaps it is better, then, to speak of two different inflections of Platonic meta-
physics: if the Nicene orthodox theologians are Platonists of the “divided line,” where
the realms of Being and Becoming are clearly demarcated and bounded, Clement
would instead be a Platonist of the “myth of the cave,” where in fact the divided line
can be breached through the cave’s mouth—individual souls progressing and
ascending into the realm of pure Good.189 For Irenaeus, sonship was a characteristic
that united Christ with Christians; it was precisely their communio. But in Alexander’s
perspective, the Son of God has no κοινωνία with the sons of God.
Like Origen before him, Alexander uses Paul’s language in Romans 8 to provide
his best scriptural defense of how the Son differed from the sons. Commenting
again about natural vs. adopted sons, he writes:
[O]ur Lord, being the Father’s natural Son, is worshipped by all. But whoever casts off
the spirit of slavery, and by brave deeds and progress receives the spirit of adoption,
receives benefaction through the natural Son, and they themselves become sons by
adoption. As for his legitimate, individual, natural, and exceptional son-ness, Paul declared
it in the following way: speaking about God, he said, “who did not spare his own Son, but
on behalf of us”—who are clearly not sons by nature—“he handed him over.” For it was
to distinguish him from those who are not his own that he said “his own son.”190
Alexander piles up the adjectives that set Jesus’ sonship apart and then champions
the separation of sonships through the little word ἴδιος. That word was introduced
by Paul, he argues, precisely to “distinguish” (πρὸς ἀντιδιαστολήν) the Son over
against the sons. Viewed in a longer historical trajectory, John’s μονογενής may
have begun the separation of sonships in Christian theology, but Paul’s ἴδιος closed
the deal.
A further point about adoptive sonship in the Nicene era is that its connotation
of upward mobility, of progress, was no longer viewed positively. For Clement and
Irenaeus, adoption had been the “highest advancement” and the “greatest promo-
tion,” the ascent to perfection with God. Alexander acknowledges the connotation
of progress in adoption, but he makes sure that progress is not attributed to Christ:
“[The] natural son-ness and paternal birth [of the Son] is his not by diligence of
conduct or exercise in moral progress but by individuality of nature. Hence it
follows that the son-ness of the unique Son of the Father is incapable of falling. The
adoptive sonship of reasonable beings, however, because it does not belong to them
naturally but by a certain fitness of character and a gift of God, may fall away.”191 The
static/dynamic distinction between “son-ness” (υἱότης) and “adoptive sonship”
(υἱοθεσία) is here emphasized. Alexander’s chief concern is: if one could progress,
one could also regress.192 In other words, progress means change, and change means
becoming, and the realm of Becoming is not where the Son eternally Is. Existing in
the realm of pure Being, the Son does not go up or go down. He just Is.
The debate over progress has catalyzed an important scholarly analysis of
Arianism that preceded my own work on adoptive metaphors. Typically, the Arian
controversy has been considered as a theological debate about the relationship bet-
ween the Son and the Father, the Christological controversy par excellence, and it can
be fruitfully interpreted as such. But Robert Gregg and Dennis Groh have offered an
alternative view of the controversy that merits serious attention, even if it shall
remain the so-called minority interpretation of the era.193 Gregg and Groh contend
that early Arianism was less about Son-Father relations than it was about the rela-
tionship between the Son and the sons; that is, it was a soteriological controversy. In
short, they argue that Alexander and Athanasius were driven by the idea that every-
thing predicated of the Father must be predicated of the Son; salvation relied on the
Son’s essential identity with the Father. But Arius thought that salvation relied on the
Son’s identity with the sons—a communion of will. The Son does not descend to
their level; rather, they ascend to his level of divine sonship and divinity.
Believers’ identification of themselves with the pioneer and perfecter of their faith, as
proclaimed by Arianism, Athanasius hoped to combat with a sharp line of demarcation:
“But if [Christ] wishes us to call his very own Father ‘our Father,’ it is not necessary, on
account of this, to equate ourselves with the Son according to nature.” The entire
campaign of the Arians is waged, however, in order to win just this. . . . The Arians pro-
claim no demotion of the Son but a promotion of believers to full and equal status as
sons—that is, υἱοί, understood to mean θεοί.194
Through a worldview that maintains a high view of adoption, so that adopted sons
are not second-class sons but really and truly sons just like natural sons, the Arian
argument makes sense.195 But through a worldview that props up natural sonship
above adoptive sonship, identity of essence over communion of will, Being over
Becoming, then Nicene orthodoxy will triumph.
As is well known, Athanasius did more than anyone to establish the orthodox
position on divine sonship. His writings were “the first time in the Christian tradi-
tion [that] the concept of divine fatherhood and the relation of Father and Son are
made the subjects of systematic analysis. Confronted with the challenge that he
believed Arian theology posed to the church’s largely unreflective acceptance of
fatherhood language to refer to God, Athanasius attempted to clarify and to deter-
mine specifically what that tradition of usage meant for a coherent theology of the
divine nature and a coherent theology of salvation.”196 Regarding the issue of
begotten and adoptive imagery, Athanasius continued Origen’s division of the two
and rooted it more deeply in scriptural exegesis. For example, he strongly preferred
adoptive language for Christian divine sonship: according to Widdicombe, “the
begetting language of Scripture is reserved for the Son; there is to be no blurring
of the sonship of the Son and that of man.”197 Therefore Athanasius had to deal
gingerly with the begotten imagery in John 1. Because John says that people can
“become” children of God (1:12), Athanasius argues that this means they “are not
sons by nature but by adoption.”198 Why then did John use the word “begotten”
(1:13) to describe Christians? Because “they too had received, in any case, the name
‘son,’ ” and Athanasius apparently presumes that only begotten sons deserve prop-
erly to be called “sons.”199 The idea that natural sonship is the only real sonship thus
served as a crucial, unstated premise of his scriptural argument.
He also takes up the issue of the key terms μονογενής and πρωτότοκος, which
I argued above served rather similar functions in the biblical formulations of John
and Paul. Athanasius ascribes distinct meaning to the two terms, however:
μονογενής seems to denote the unique, eternal relationship between the Father
and the Son, while πρωτότοκος refers to the role of the incarnate Son as the pre-
eminent, but not necessarily unique, exemplar of Christian divine sonship.200 In
other words, Athanasius deftly uses the two terms to straddle the sides of the Arian
controversy: in his reading, Scripture portrays the Son as unique, only-begotten,
and essentially unified with the Father (μονογενής) and also as a model of the
adoptive divine sonship that all Christians can share (πρωτότοκος). For Athanasius
the distinction between sonships must not be blurred because, in the words of
Virginia Burrus, “therein lies the fertile tension from which man emerges not as a
divine but yet as a divinized subject, for whom transcendence (having begun as a
gift) must become second nature, founded on the suppression of another nature
that came first.”201
There remain moments, nonetheless, when Athanasius seems to cross one of his
own boundaries and blur the lines between the sonship of Christ and that of
Christians. One of these times occurs—perhaps unsurprisingly—when he dis-
cusses baptism, the fundamental enactment of divine sonship that unites Christ
with Christians. When Christians are baptized, Athanasius says, “we also are truly
made sons” (υἱοποιούμεθα καὶ ἡμει̂ς ἀληθῶς).202 He does make sure to clarify that
Christian sonship is not “natural” like Christ’s, but it is still surprising that he would
use the word “truly” (ἀληθῶς) because “true” sonship is one of the attributes he
elsewhere ascribes to Christ alone.203 “True” (ἀληθινός) sonship is supposed to be
opposed to sonship “by adoption” (θέσει) in Athanasius’s system.204 The text about
baptism, then, is “an index of how important it was for [Athanasius] to be able to
affirm the reality of that sonship, even if it is an adoptive sonship.”205 As we saw
above and will see below, Athanasius is not the only one to have blurred the lines
between sonships when discussing the effects of baptism.
The debate that peaked with Arius and Athanasius would rage for decades and
linger for centuries—in a sense, it is never over. We have enough now for the pur-
poses of my christological narrative, but I would like to conclude this section by
recalling the importance of political ideology for theology. The nexus of religion
and politics in the Nicene era has been given careful study by Roman historian T.
D. Barnes,206 but most theologians or religious historians have avoided the political
undertones of the theological discourse.207 As one small but shocking example of
that nexus, when Athanasius needs an analogy to explain the divine unity of Father
and Son, he appeals to the imperial statues ubiquitous around the Empire: just as
Christ said “I and the Father are one,” so “the statue would say [if it could speak],
‘I and the Emperor are one.’ . . . Whoever worships the image, in it worships the
Emperor also.”208 More pronounced is the case of Eusebius, who overtly champions
a monarchic political ideology of dynastic succession in the exact era when theo-
logians articulate an analogous vision of God.209 The opening lines of Eusebius’s
Life of Constantine envision the immortal Constantine in heaven, a great monar-
chical sovereign dwelling with the Great Monarchical Sovereign. But what is more
revealing is the way in which the adoptive mode of political succession, a
quasi-meritocratic succession of adopted adult sons—which had secured a flour-
ishing empire in a previous era—was now viewed as superseded by Constantine
and his begotten sons. Eusebius showers praise on Constantine’s provision of
natural sons, through whose rule on earth one may still perceive “the Blessed One,
present with his own sovereignty” and “powerfully alive.”210 The emperor’s natural
sons are “like new lamps filling the whole with his radiance”—indeed, their father-
son relationship is “light from light.”211
Eusebius is content to praise natural succession, but Constantine, in his own

letter to Arius and his followers, brings adoption into the discussion. Pausing to
beseech his “monarchic” God during a lengthy invective, the emperor says:
O master, who has supreme dominion over all things, O Father of singular power,
because of this unholy man [Arius] your church receives both reproaches and bruises,
indeed both wounds and pains. Presently, Arius furnishes a place for you and—this is
quite clever—establishes there, it seems to me, a “synod” for himself; or rather, he estab-
lishes your Christ as a son. He procures and retains for himself the one born from you,
the source of our assistance, by the law of adoption.212
The mockery runs thick. The Father has sole rule (μονήρης), in contrast to the two
gods which Arius’s opponents accuse him of supporting. But instead of chastizing
Arius for holding an adoptionist Christology between Christ and God, Constantine
imagines Arius convening an episcopal “synod” for himself and there taking Christ,
the natural Son of God, as a child for himself by adoption.
Through the efforts of many, the begotten sonship of Christ carried the day. Eusebius
could conclude his magisterial history of Christianity with reference to the divine
tandem of Father and begotten Son in heaven that guided the divine tandem of father
and begotten son on earth. After achieving supreme power, the sovereign Constantine
“went forth with his son Crispus, a most beneficent sovereign, and extended the saving
right hand to all who were perishing,” they being together a “father and son, having
God, the sovereign of all, and the Son of God, the savior of all, as their leader
and ally . . . .”213 The father-sovereign and son-savior on earth are the image of the
father-sovereign and son-savior in heaven. Or perhaps it is the other way around.214
By the end of the pivotal fourth century, it had become completely normal for
Christian theologians to segregate begotten sonship from adopted. Among the many
great post-Nicene defenders of orthodoxy, Augustine stands out as eloquent and
precise.215 For example, commenting on Ps 89, a christological crux, he preached: “He
is unique, we are many; he is one, we are one in him; he was born, we were adopted;
he was begotten as Son through nature in eternity, we were made sons through grace
in time.”216 All the questions of the previous centuries can be resolved in one pithy
quote—the issues of uniqueness, individuality, origin, and temporality. Augustine
even connected the issue directly to the Arian controversy, which he perceived as the
pivotal battle in the fight against the adoptive metaphor. Again from one of his ser-
mons: “What do you say, Mr. Arian? . . . You say [the Word] was made. If you say it was
made, you are denying he is the Son. You see, we are looking for a Son by nature, not
by grace, a Son who is unique, only-begotten, not adopted. That’s the kind of Son we
are looking for—a legitimate Son.”217 In Augustine’s formulation of divine sonship, the
concepts of adopted, created, and made are equated without a blink. And those cate-
gories have nothing to do with a legitimate son—a verus son, like the verus Caesar
some longed for in the early Empire. Here at the end of the fourth century, the divided
line is sharp, the metaphors are unmixed, and the Son is distilled. Unique means only-
begotten. Legitimate means natural. That’s the kind of Son they were looking for.
■ BAPTISM AND DIVINE SONSHIP IN

THE FOURTH CENTURY
The unmixing of metaphors was not happening only in the papyri sent back and
forth between theologians and bishops of the third and fourth centuries. Christians
were still becoming God’s children all the time through baptism—even at a higher
rate than before—and they needed metaphors, of course, to enact their divine son-
ship. This final section of the chapter will demonstrate how the begotten and adop-
tive metaphors of sonship, separated out by the highest authorities of hierarchy
and monarchy, came also to be distinguished in the context of Christian ritual
practices common throughout the Empire. The extant texts describing baptismal
liturgy from Eastern Christianity—we do not have as much evidence from the
West—offer us a unique view of the shift in metaphors during the fourth century.218
We will examine the two primary sources from Syria: the Didascalia Apostolorum
(DA) and the Apostolic Constitutions (AC), which redacts the DA as part of its
compilation. Chronologically in between these church orders are two sources for
understanding baptismal liturgy in the Jerusalem church—a letter of Macarius,
bishop of Jerusalem, and the catechetical writings of Cyril of Jerusalem, bishop a
short time later. Looking at these four sources chronologically allows us to recapit-
ulate a leitmotif of the chapter. In the Nicene era, one can watch the divine sonship
of Christians change.
The DA, considered to have been composed in North Syria during the first half
of the third century, is a chief source for our knowledge of early Christian liturgy.
Of interest for our topic are the description of baptism and its concomitant effect
of divine sonship. In the course of exhorting Christians to honor their bishop, the
DA highlights his role in their baptism and rebirth: he is the one “through whom
the Lord in baptism, by the laying on of the hand of the bishop, bore witness to
each one of you and caused his holy voice to be heard that said: ‘You are my son:
today I have begotten you.’ On this account, O human, you should acknowledge
your bishops, those through whom you became a son of God, and the right hand,
your mother.”219 Liturgical historians are tentative about whether Ps 2 was actually
invoked by the bishop at baptism.220 Yet the quotation from Ps 2 was undoubtedly
meant to signify the divine sonship of Christians, and not just Christ himself. The
Ethiopic version of the Didascalia corroborates this fact, when it renders the
quotation with a plural predicate: “You are my sons.”221 The metaphor of the psalm’s
verb is certainly one of begetting, as it was in the Hebrew and still is in the Syriac.
The metaphor is then elaborated in the subsequent exhortation, in which the
fatherhood of God is unified with the spiritual parentage of the bishop. One
becomes a son of God through the parentage of the bishop, the spiritual father-
mother. What is more, the begotten metaphor is not only used when quoting Ps 2,
but it is also linked with baptism two other times in the text.222
Chronologically the next piece of evidence comes from Macarius, bishop of
Jerusalem in the early fourth century (314–333). In his Letter to the Armenians of
335 c.e., which survives only in Armenian and has recently been published by
Abraham Terian, Macarius responds to a written petition delivered by Armenian
priests about discrepancies between the performance of baptism and Eucharist in
the two locations.223 The relevant excerpt occurs when Macarius explains and
defends the three particular days when baptisms were performed in Jerusalem: the
feast of Nativity/Epiphany (a combined feast), Easter, and Pentecost. Macarius
spells out the symbolism: baptism unifies Christians with Christ’s birth/baptism,
with his death/resurrection, and with the descent of the Spirit. The connection
between baptism and birth can be seen through the celebration of Christ’s own
birth and baptism on the same feast day—Nativity and Epiphany were both cele-
brated on January 6.224 Christians are called to identify with not only his baptism,
but also his birth: as Macarius says, “For on that same salutary day, with the
luminous Nativity of Christ, our expiatory birth of the holy font is realized; for on
that same day he himself was baptized, condescending to be among us.” He later
quotes from John’s Gospel, “Unless one is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot
enter into the kingdom of God,” and then concludes, “In the same fashion as we
are born with him, we are baptized with him, on the same holy day of the Nativity
of Christ.” The Jerusalem church of the early fourth century thus drew from the
“begotten” and “born” images of John’s Gospel and used them to articulate the
divine sonship available to all Christians through baptism.225 Christians were born
and baptized with Christ.226
If Macarius’s letter offers us a quick glimpse into the interpretation of baptism in
the Jerusalem church, the teachings of Cyril present a sweeping panorama. He was
bishop from 350–386, but his most important extant writings, the pre-baptismal
Catechetical Lectures, were begun early in his episcopate or even while he was still a
presbyter.227 Several times in these lectures, Cyril provides catechesis about divine
sonship, no doubt a hot topic of the fourth century. But contrary to the letter of
Macarius, Cyril draws a sharp distinction between the sonship of Christ and the
sonship of Christians. The most emphatic statement comes in Lecture 3, “On
Baptism.” After explaining the descent of the Holy Spirit and the sounding of the
Father’s voice at the baptism of Jesus, Cyril says to the catechumens:
If you yourself also have genuine reverence, the Holy Spirit comes down upon you too,
and a Fatherly voice sounds over you from above—not “This one is my son,” but “This
one has now become my son.” For the “is” comes upon him [that is, Christ], since “in the
beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” The “is”
comes upon him, since he is always God’s son. But upon you comes the “now has become,”
since you do not possess it by nature; rather, by adoption, you receive adoptive sonship.
He is eternal, but you receive the grace of advancement. Therefore, prepare the vessel of
your soul, so that you might become God’s son—an heir of God and co-heir with
Christ.228
Recall that for Bishop Macarius, the union of a Christian with Christ’s birth was a
chief function of baptism. But in this pithy teaching, Cyril tries to prevent several
ways by which Christian baptism could be unified with the sonship of Christ
himself. It is true that they both receive the Spirit, they both hear Ps 2 overhead,
and they both are called God’s son. But not so fast. Before the text quoted above,
Cyril had already explained that Jesus didn’t need the Spirit the way Christians do;
it was sent upon him for the benefit of John’s testimony.229 The voice was different
too: Jesus heard the voice, in what we now have as Matthew’s version, saying, “This
is my son,” but a Christian hears, “This has now become my son.” It is unclear
whether those modified words were actually uttered over the baptized in the
Jerusalem church of Cyril’s day or they were merely supposed to be imagined. (We
already saw how the Ethiopic Didascalia modified the psalm to fit a liturgical
situation; there is no reason why Cyril’s church could not have done the same.) In
any case, Cyril completely avoids the “begotten” metaphor that follows in the
psalm; either he is more familiar with a version of the baptismal voice that ends
differently, or he cuts the quotation short on purpose.
That is to say, instead of dealing with the troublesome verb of the second clause
(“begotten”), he focuses on the verb of the first clause (“is”)—and he does so in a
way that resonates with the Platonism of the Nicene era. Jesus is God’s son, existing
as such in the realm of pure Being; there is no change in Jesus’ divine sonship.
Elsewhere in the Lectures, Cyril uses the newly coined term to describe Jesus’
unique divine sonship: υἱότης, or “son-ness,” which ensured there was no slippage
between Jesus’ son-ness (υἱότης) and υἱοθεσία, the adoptive sonship that Christians
possessed.230 Returning to Platonist terms, Christians become God’s sons, dwelling
in the lower realm of Becoming, and their sonship is an advancement from one
state to another. Here Cyril explains the advancement with the metaphor of adop-
tion into inheritance; later he will elaborate the household image further—the
advancement is from slavery to adoptive sonship and an unmerited inheritance
alongside Christ, the true son and heir.231
Our fourth text, the late-fourth-century (c. 380) compilation called the Apostolic
Constitutions (AC), returns us to Syria. Its first six books redact the text of the
Didascalia (DA), revealing how the portrayal of divine sonship in Syrian Christian
liturgy had changed in 150 years—and after Nicea. The AC retains the “begotten”
metaphor of Ps 2 but makes several key changes in the elaboration of the quotation:
“You are my son: today I have begotten you,” but then it adds, “Through your
bishop, God adopts you, O human.”232 From begotten to adopted—why this change
of metaphors at baptism? I argue that the redactor of AC knew well the many ways
Ps 2 was applied to Jesus in early Christianity; it was a hotly contested scriptural
citation already, but it was made more contentious if it applied to all Christians as
well as Jesus. By the late fourth century, Christians should no longer be begotten of
God; they were adopted, even if that meant that the metaphors—which had
become mutually exclusive—were clumsily left side-by-side. The unusual juxtapo-
sition can perhaps be attributed to the conservatism of liturgical redactors, who
are much more likely to add than subtract from their received texts. The AC keeps
the quotation of Ps 2, either out of conservatism or knowledge of its actual liturgical
usage, but makes sure to elaborate its meaning in a way congruent with
late-fourth-century theological language. The redactor did the same thing in a
previous section of the text, adding an adoption metaphor without deleting the
begotten metaphor from the DA.233 But redactors do sometimes delete things from
their received texts. Later in this section, he omits one use of the begotten meta-
phor by reordering his received text.234 Much later in the AC, when he is no longer
redacting the DA, he uses exclusively the adoption metaphor when discussing
Christian baptism.235 For our purposes, the chief example of deletion occurs when
the redactor removes the phrase “son of God” from the DA’s description of Christian
baptism and replaces it simply with “son.”236 Presumably he finds the title “son of
God” for a Christian to be too close for comfort; if Christians are called “son of
God,” well, someone might get the wrong idea. The begotten sonship of Christ
must be protected as unique.
In a sense, that last line is a summary of what many Christian theologians spent
the late fourth century trying to do: defining and protecting the unique sonship of
Jesus Christ.237 Earlier, in the first two centuries, adoptive sonship could be used
to symbolize both Christ and Christians, based as it was on the exalted status of
well-known adopted sons in Roman society. But by the late fourth and into the
fifth century, theologians like Cyril and Augustine would hammer home a differ-
ent point: stop mixing metaphors. Jesus is God’s begotten son by nature; you are all
God’s adopted children by grace. Orthodoxy is nothing if not tidy.
And yet, something ancient and crucial was lost in their drawing of the sharp
dichotomy—namely, the sense of Christ’s divine sonship as an exemplar. In the
earlier texts, Christ is imagined alongside the Christian being baptized. Christ was
the “firstborn” of a large family, to use Pauline language; and the Christian follows
his lead. But in the later texts, Christ becomes distanced.238 He is not the “firstborn”
older brother, standing in the Jordan with the one being baptized; he is the “only-
begotten,” in the sky above. He was naturally begotten, the rest are adopted—and
since that split, the ideology of the Christian family has never been the same.
■ conclusion
One Sunday morning in the late-fourth century, a congregation gathers to pray to

God and celebrate their Lord Jesus Christ, who by now had become the dominant
Son of God in the Roman world. As a bonus, they get to listen to the greatest
preacher in the history of Christianity—just like they do every week. John, also
called “Chrysostom” or “golden mouth,” is set to preach on the baptism of Jesus.1 It’s
not seen as a tough text for preaching nowadays, but in the fourth century, it posed
significant doctrinal challenges. If we listen in, Chrysostom’s homily can offer an
opportunity to review several main themes of this book. In early Christianity, atten-
tive listeners might have wondered: Why did Jesus need to be baptized? Did he
possess the Holy Spirit before the dove descended? Most importantly, what did
Jesus’ baptism signify about his divine sonship, and their own? The congregation
perks up their ears. Thankfully, someone is taking notes.
Chrysostom answers the doctrinal questions swiftly, effortlessly, elegantly. Jesus
Christ was God made human and μονογενής. But knowing that this incarnational
Christology does not flow obviously from the baptismal narrative, he defends
against some common (mis)interpretations of it. Jesus was not in need of anything
that day in the Jordan; rather, he went to the water for the sake of the plan of
human salvation—for you. And yes, it may seem that Jesus was portrayed as just
like you, one of many coming to the waters of baptism, but the miraculous signs
surely identify him as unique. And no, the dove did not deliver the Spirit to Jesus,
as if he didn’t have it before; rather, the descending bird was like the finger of God
pointing out to whom the voice was directed. It’s this one (the baptized), not that
one (the baptizer). Chrysostom is carefully tending his flock and protecting them
from error. So far, so good.
But a great preacher is never content with doctrinal clarifications alone. Once
Chrysostom has gotten those out of the way, he shifts his direction to the lives of the
people in front of him. Specifically, he relates the baptism of Jesus to their own
baptismal experience. The baptism of Jesus indeed symbolizes the close connection
of divine sonship shared by Christ and Christians. Why were the heavens opened?
Because the same thing happens to you at your baptism. Why the dove? To teach
you that the Spirit comes also upon you. Even the voice speaks to you: God calls you
heavenward because you are “sons of God” and “beloved,” Chrysostom says.
And just like that, Christological doctrine is no longer at issue. The divine son-
ship of Jesus Christ, unique though Chrysostom declares it to be, has begun to be
shared with the Christians participating in the homily. Jesus is not the only “son of
God,” and “beloved” sonship is not his distinctive feature. In fact, the baptism of
Jesus has opened up divine sonship to the entire world, and that is the grander
reason for the dove’s descent. Chrysostom recalls the end of the flood, when the
173
174 ■ Conclusion
world had been washed and saved from its sin by drowning and rising again. But
now a greater gift is brought by the dove: “For it does not lead just one person out
of an ark, but when it appears it leads the whole world to heaven. And instead of an
olive branch, it brings adoptive sonship to the universal human race.”2 For the gift
of adoption, Christians must remain thankful, Chrysostom warns. “Don’t become
ungrateful to your benefactor,” for “wherever the status of adoptive sonship is
granted, there is the removal of bad things and the giving of every good thing.”3
Chrysostom has now hit his homiletical stride, bringing the baptism of Jesus
backward to the world-changing flood and forward into the daily practices of
Christian gratitude to God. But one now wonders whether the baptism of Jesus is
still being preached. If the dove offers adoptive sonship to the world, what did the
dove offer Jesus? Chrysostom, if given a pop-quiz of theological dogma, would no
doubt provide the orthodox answers—that the dove did nothing to Jesus, added
nothing to the μονογενής Son of God. But as every preacher knows, homiletics is
not dogmatic theology. And here Chrysostom gives us a glimpse of how the differ-
ent metaphors of divine sonship, the one afforded to Christ and the other to
Christians, could be difficult to keep separate in practice.4
He calls on Christians to “keep watch of their noble lineage (εὐγένεια), which
[they] received from the beginning,” a lineage which they acquired legitimately
through adoption and whose beginning was at baptism, not birth.5 They should
focus not on earthly things but on their imperial courts (basileia) above, which
they will inherit.6 Sensing a good rhetorical flourish—and now seemingly uncon-
cerned with the danger of preaching about adoption during a homily on the
baptism of Jesus—Chrysostom then makes this analogy:
For if a basileus, one of the earthly ones, were to find you as a poor beggar and suddenly
adopt you as a son, you would never stop to think about your little hut and its meager
conveniences, even though in that case the difference [between former life and new life]
is not very much. So here, in this case, do not take account of the former things, for you
are called to something far greater. The one who calls you is the master of the angels, and
the good things that are given surpass every thought and accounting. For this one does
not take you from one piece of land to another, as the basileus, but rather from earth to
heaven, and from mortal nature to immortal, and to an unspeakable glory, which can
only be manifested at that time when we will profit from it.7
To exhort Christians to appreciate and honor their adoptive divine sonship,

Chrysostom describes the highest kind of sonship on earth—an adoption into a
ruling family. He does not necessarily refer to the imperial family in his example,
although βασιλεύς is a Greek word typically used for the emperor.8 Certainly for
him and his congregation, the imperial family has the highest status imaginable.
Even in the late-fourth century, well after the main era of adoptive political ide-
ology, he still finds it useful to compare divine sonship to the adoptive sonship
offered by powerful rulers to exalt those below them.9 In short, it is exceedingly
good to be adopted as a son by an emperor or other sovereign, and thus to be
Conclusion ■ 175
granted a noble lineage through adoption; but it is unspeakably, unimaginably

good to be adopted as God’s son and await an inheritance in the heavenly courts.
Such an exalted sonship comes with a caveat, however. A Christian, if he or she
should falter and displease the Father, is not punished as a human but as a son of
God, warns Chrysostom. And the Christian will not be spared on account of the
sonship; Chrysostom claims that masters punish slaves and sons just the same,
especially if they have received a great benefaction. In fact, the punishment of a
son of God will be worse than that inflicted upon the primordial Adam: “For if he
who had paradise for his portion, but after his honor, underwent such dreadful
things because of his one disobedience; then as for us, who have received heaven
and become joint heirs with the μονογενής, what excuse shall we have if, after the
dove, we run to the serpent?”10
Chrysostom’s homily eventually ends on a positive note, but we will stop listening
in at this point. The portion narrated and explained provides a fitting conclusion to
this book’s examination of divine sonship in early Christianity. Through the homily,
several themes can be recapitulated. The imagery of the Roman household, and
especially the ruling imperial household, comprised a pervasive cultural ideology
within which early Christian authors lived, thought, and wrote. A key aspect of this
family ideology was the upward mobility of adoption. Adoptive metaphors were
used for diverse rhetorical purposes, especially in the first two centuries of
Christianity, but even here in the late-fourth century. The doctrines about divine
sonship had taken several centuries to be distilled, codified, and disseminated; and
even when that had been accomplished, those ideas did not always translate into
other forms of speech. That is to say, theological doctrines about divine sonship
were not easily transferrable into other genres, such as narratives, homilies, and
liturgies. Finally, the idea of Christ as exemplar of divine sonship demonstrated sur-
prising staying power, even when it had become difficult to uphold doctrinally. In
the end, through these intersecting themes, I hope to have demonstrated that the
social and political practices of adoption during the Roman Empire, especially
those of the ruling imperial families, can indeed help us to re-imagine divine son-
ship and resurrect the “son of God” metaphor.
■ epilogue: the son of god
in the christian world
One Sunday morning in Boston—sixteen centuries later—I was in a Roman

Catholic parish, listening to a different homily about the Son of God. While looking
up to the front of the church, I had a stark realization about the abiding presence of
the Roman son of God in my Christian world. Recall that earlier in this book,
I encapsulated my criticism of biblical scholarship on my topic by claiming that its
field of vision has a blind spot the size of the Roman emperor. At that point, I meant
that we should not interpret the “son of God” in the Roman world without
consideration of what it meant also to call the emperor by that title. But more might
be done with the image I chose. A blind spot is that singular place that one cannot
see, although the surrounding periphery can be seen just fine. When it occurs in the
center of the eye—the relatively common condition called “macular degeneration”—a
person is prevented from seeing precisely the location at which he or she is looking.
Have we overlooked the emperor’s significance for interpreting early Christianity,
even though he was right in front of our eyes?
Here at St. Cecilia parish in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood, I discovered one
of my own blind spots. Indeed, the emperor has been right in front of our eyes.
Looking at the photo of the church’s apse (Fig. 7.1), what do you see? What don’t
you see? What I did not see, for the first time that day, was a colossal statue of Jesus
Christ in the center niche, at the focal point of the architecture and the liturgy.
There are statues to the right and left; there is a statue in the wall above; there are
certainly more statues around the church that I do not recall. But there in the
center, the colossal Christ whom Christians worship is absent.
Compare this to the architecture of imperial temples and shrines throughout
the Roman Empire: for example, a shrine of similar design is currently being
excavated at Hippos-Sussita, a Roman city of the Decapolis. It is adjacent to the
western gate of the city, which is on a hill high above the eastern shore of the Sea
of Galilee. It stands above the kind of precipitous slope down which Jesus cast the
legion into the sea. The excavators have identified this imperial shrine as a “kalybe
structure,” a term derived from that Greek word (meaning something like “hut” or
“cabin”), which happened to be found in an inscription at one of the seven known
structures of this type in the Roman East. In the reconstructions of these shrines
(Fig. 7.2), one will find in the central of three niches the towering figure of the
emperor, a marble colossus glistening against the surrounding basalt walls.1
I am certainly not the first to notice connections between Greco-Roman and
Christian architecture. For example, it is well known that Christians, after the
conversion of the Empire, adapted Roman basilicas to be used as churches, and
177
178 ■ Epilogue
Fig. 1 Photo by Raymond Ward. Used by permission.
Fig. 2 Illustration by Eran Ben-Dov and Arthur Segal. Used by permission.

Epilogue ■ 179
that even the positioning of clergy and other authority figures in those basilicas-
cum-churches perhaps resembled the previous placement of Roman political offi-
cials. However, there is more than architectural borrowing happening—or rather,
not happening—in the central niche of St. Cecilia’s. That is to say, the adaptation of
the form is almost the same, but not quite: it can be interpreted fruitfully, as I have
done with other images, in the terms of colonial mimicry. This Roman Catholic
church is a suggestive adaptation of a Roman imperial shrine, but at its precise
focal point—where the emperor should be—the niche is empty. There is no statue
of Christ, the triumphant “son of God” more powerful than Caesar. The Son of
God is not there.
Or so I thought, at first glance. Walking closer, one can see that the niche is
indeed empty of a statue, but it does contain two images. Just below where the
colossus would be, there stands a small crucifix, dwarfed by the statues to its right
and left and rendered virtually invisible from the pews by the scope of the entire
scene. Where the Roman emperor should be, there stands a miniature of the most
famous Roman criminal, crucified for sedition against imperial power. The second
image is a replica of Da Vinci’s Last Supper within the niche itself. This celebration
of the death of Christ combines with the crucifix image—and the funerary meal
celebrated just below it. Together the images make the “empty” niche into a com-
pelling postcolonial enactment, a performance still re-enacted centuries after the
conversion of the Empire.
The power of the Roman emperor, a son of god, came down with brutal authority
upon Jesus Christ, the crucified Son of God. But for Christians, this power and
authority unto death provided a generative grammar to articulate the way in which
the crucified one had triumphed. Just as the eagle—the power of Roman conquest—
had been mimicked by the Christian dove, so also do Christians mimic the statue-
cum-cross—the power to punish the conquered. The Roman centurion, at the foot of
this cross, proclaimed Christ as divi filius. Roman power both challenged and legiti-
mated Jesus’ divine sonship. Still today, Christians honor the crucified one in the
niche of the emperor—almost the same, but not quite. It is Jesus, the dove on the
cross, who became the Roman world’s Son of God. What else might the resurrection
of this metaphor allow us to see?
■ a b b r e v i at i o n s
ABD Anchor Bible Dictionary

ANF Ante-Nicene Fathers
ANRW Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt
BASOR Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research
BDAG A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Early Christian
Literature
BTB Biblical Theology Bulletin
CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly
CCSG Corpus Christianorum Series Graeca
CIL Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum
FRLANT Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des AT und NT
GCS Griechischen Christlichen Schriftsteller
HTR Harvard Theological Review
IEJ Israel Exploration Journal
IG Inscriptiones Graecae
IGRR Inscriptiones Graecae ad Res Romanas Pertinentes
JBL Journal of Biblical Literature
JECS Journal of Early Christian Studies
JHS Journal of Hellenic Studies
JRA Journal of Roman Archaeology
JRASup Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplements
JRS Journal of Roman Studies
JSJSup Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplements
JSNT Journal for the Study of the New Testament
JTS Journal of Theological Studies
LCL Loeb Classical Library
NHMS Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies
NIGTC New International Greek Testament Commentary
NovT Novum Testamentum
NovTSup Novum Testamentum Supplements
NPNF Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers
NTS New Testament Studies
OGIS Orientis Graecae Inscriptiones Selectae
OTP The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha
RIC Roman Imperial Coinage
RPC Roman Provincial Coinage
181
182 ■ Abbreviations
SHA Scriptores Historiae Augustae

SNTSMS Society of New Testament Studies Monograph eries
TDNT Theological Dictionary of the New Testament
WUNT Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament
ZAW Zeitschrift für Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft
ZNW Zeitschrift für Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft
ZPE Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik
Abbreviations for papyri are according to: John F. Oates, Roger S. Bagnall, Sarah J.
Clackson, Alexandra A. O’Brien, Joshua D. Sosin, Terry G. Wilfong, and Klaas A. Worp.
Checklist of Greek, Latin, Demotic and Coptic Papyri, Ostraca and Tablets. Online:
http://scriptorium.lib.duke.edu/papyrus/texts/clist.html.
■ notes
■ Introduction
1. Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah (New York: Doubleday, 1977), 134 n. 6;
cf. 29–32.
2. Pope Pius XII, Divino Afflante Spiritu 19, official English version reproduced in The
Scripture Documents: An Anthology of Official Catholic Teachings (ed. Dean P. Béchard,
S.J.; Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2002), 128.
3. The Latin “natum non factum” is the original translation done by Hilary of Poitiers
between 356 and 361. The Western recension of the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed (381),
confirmed by the Council of Trent and still present in the Roman Missal, uses genitum
instead of natum in this phrase, though the natum a few lines earlier is left alone. The
Athanasian Creed also prefers genitum over natum. Cf. Jaroslav Pelikan and Valerie Hotchkiss,
eds., Creeds and Confessions of Faith in the Christian Tradition (4 vols.; New Haven and
London: Yale University Press, 2003), 1:158, 1:672, 1:675.
■ Chapter 1
1. Throughout I use the shorthand of “Nicea” or “Nicene” to refer to the Niceno-

Constantinopolitan Creed, the combination which emerged from the Councils of Nicea
(325) and Constantinople (381). There are many translations, of which the most common in
English is the 1975 version from the International Consultation on English Texts. The follow-
ing survey is limited to biblical scholarship on earliest Christianity, but divine sonship is a
key concept in the study of later Christian theology, especially from the Nicene era. Important
treatments of that era include: Frances M. Young, From Nicaea to Chalcedon (Philadelphia:
Fortress Press, 1983); Rowan Williams, Arius: Heresy and Tradition (London: SCM Press,
1987); R. P. C. Hanson, The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God: The Arian Controversy
318–381 (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1988); Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy: An Approach
to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). For an
influential challenge to standard interpretations of the controversy, see Robert C. Gregg and
Dennis E. Groh, Early Arianism—A View of Salvation (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981).
For the discussion throughout later theology, see the relevant sections of Adolph Harnack,
History of Dogma (7 vols.; trans. of 3rd German edition by Neil Buchanan; Gloucester, Mass.:
Peter Smith, 1976); Aloys Grillmeier, Christ in Christian Tradition (2 vols.; 2d ed.; trans. John
Bowden; London: Mowbrays, 1975); cf. Roger Haight, Jesus, Symbol of God (Maryknoll, N.Y.:
Orbis, 1999), for engagement with the postmodern context of pluralism.
2. There are notable exceptions to this statement, such as Eberhard Jüngel, who used
“Son of God” as the guiding example of metaphorical speech in theology. Eberhard Jüngel,
“Metaphorische Wahrheit: Erwägungen zur theologischen Relevanz der Metapher als
Beitrag zur Hermeneutik einer Narrativen Theologie,” in Paul Ricoeur and Eberhard Jüngel,
with an introduction by Pierre Gisel, Metapher: Zur Hermeneutik religiöser Sprache (Munich:
Chr. Kaiser Verlag, 1974), 71–122. Cf. John Dominic Crossan and Jonathan L. Reed,
183
184 ■ Notes to Pages 11–13
Excavating Jesus: Beneath the Stones, Behind the Texts (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco,
2001), 85–88; and idem, In Search of Paul: How Jesus’ Apostle Opposed Rome’s Empire with
God’s Kingdom (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2004), passim. Crossan and Reed
rightly emphasize comparisons between the many titles of Jesus and the Roman emperor,
and my work extends one aspect of this comparison, examining the “son of God” connec-
tion in more detail.
3. William L. Lane, The Gospel According to Mark (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1974), 58.
Italics original.
4. Frances M. Young, The Making of the Creeds (London: SCM Press; Philadelphia:
Trinity Press International, 1981), 65, describes the chief issue of Nicea as how to put the
Son/Logos on the side of “radical transcendence.”
5. Simon J. Gathercole, The Preexistent Son: Recovering the Christologies of Matthew,
Mark, and Luke (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 1. For a strong critique of Gathercole’s
exegesis, see Adela Yarbro Collins and John J. Collins, King and Messiah as Son of God
(Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 123–26.
6. Gathercole, Preexistent Son, 274.
7. Ibid., 276.
8. For another example of concern about Jesus’ “unique metaphysical” sonship, see I.
Howard Marshall, “The Divine Sonship of Jesus,” Interpretation 21 (1967): 87–103. His
exegesis of the Gospels seems to begin from the “one-in-being” part of the Creed.
9. Gathercole, Preexistent Son, 79.
10. Richard Bauckham, “The Sonship of the Historical Jesus in Christology,” Scottish
Journal of Theology 31 (1978): 249. He relies on the earlier argument of Jeremias, that “In
Jesus’ eyes, being a child of God is not a gift of creation, but an eschatological gift of salvation.”
(Joachim Jeremias, New Testament Theology [New York: Scribner, 1971], 181).
11. Bauckham, “Sonship,” 257–58. Similar arguments are found in William R. G. Loader,
“The Apocalyptic Model of Sonship: Its Origin and Development in New Testament
Tradition,” JBL 97 (1978): 525–54; James D. G. Dunn, Christology in the Making: A New
Testament Inquiry into the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, 1989), 12–64. Regarding Paul’s view of divine sonship, a similar point is argued
by Karl-Josef Kuschel, Born Before All Time? The Dispute Over Christ’s Origin (trans. John
Bowden; London: SCM Press, 1992), 305–08.
12. On the method of narrative criticism, see Mark Alan Powell, What Is Narrative
Criticism? (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990); this method’s challenge to historical criticism is
deftly laid out in Stephen D. Moore, Literary Criticism and the Gospels (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1989).
13. Jack Dean Kingsbury, Matthew as Story (2nd ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1988), 38;
cited in Powell, Narrative, 20.
14. Donald J. Verseput, “The Role and Meaning of the ‘Son of God’ Title in Matthew’s
Gospel,” NTS 33 (1987): 532. Italics original.
15. Verseput, “Role and Meaning,” 532. This argument is demonstrated more fully by
John Nolland, “No Son-of-God Christology in Matthew 1.18–25,” JSNT 62 (1996): 3–12.
16. Verseput, “Role and Meaning,” 539–40.
17. Ibid., 541.
18. Matthew’s use of “son of God” language has been problematic for dogmatic
Christology because he uses the term explicitly for Jesus’ followers (e.g., the “peacemakers”
are called “sons of God” in Mt 5:9).
Notes to Pages 13–15 ■ 185
19. On the use of the same Greek word (γένεσις) in Matt 1:1 and 1:18, see John Nolland,
The Gospel of Matthew: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans;
Bletchley: Paternoster Press, 2005), 71; and Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah
(New York: Doubleday, 1977), 58 and 123.
20. Verseput, “Role and Meaning,” 533.
21. Cf. Yigal Levin, “Jesus, ‘Son of God’ and ‘Son of David’: The ‘Adoption’ of Jesus into
the Davidic Line,” JSNT 28 (2006): 415–42.
22. Verseput, “Role and Meaning,” 536. For a full defense, see Brian M. Nolan, The Royal
Son of God: The Christology of Matthew 1–2 in the Setting of the Gospel (Fribourg: Éditions
universitaires; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979).
23. Jack Dean Kingsbury, The Christology of Mark’s Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983).
24. Ibid., 66.
25. The secrecy motif was identified and coined by Wilhelm Wrede, Das Messiasgeheimnis
in den Evangelien: Zugleich ein Beitrag zum Verständnis des Markusevangeliums (Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1901); The Messianic Secret (trans. J. C. G. Greig; Cambridge:
James Clarke, 1971).
26. Kingsbury, Christology, 141.
27. Charles G. Dennison, “How Is Jesus the Son of God? Luke’s Baptism Narrative and
Christology,” Calvin Theological Journal 17 (1982): 6–25. A related treatment of Luke is
Malcolm Wren, “Sonship in Luke: The Advantage of a Literary Approach,” Scottish Journal
of Theology 37 (1984): 301–11.
28. Dennison, “How Is Jesus the Son of God?,” 22. Italics original.
29. Dennison, “How Is Jesus the Son of God?,” 24–25.
30. Cf. quotation of Athanasius at the end of this chapter.
31. Wren’s essay on Luke argues a similar point: “Luke seems to be confusing the issue [of
Jesus’ divine sonship] deliberately in order to underline the impossibility of making total sense
of Jesus. The principal literary effect of chapter 3 is that, in demonstrating the impossibility of
defining the term ‘son of God’ in a rational sense, it leads us to expect of the remainder of the
text a solution to the question ‘What is the Son of God?’ in terms of the role and activity of the
person. Luke’s is a narrative where meanings come from the portrayal of a life, rather than a
discourse where meanings are presented in definitions.” Wren, “Sonship in Luke,” 309–10.
32. Dennison, “How is Jesus the Son of God?,” 11.
33. The religionsgeschichtliche Schule had concentric circles, at the center of which was
Wilhelm Bousset. Others near the center included Albert Eichhorn, Hermann Gunkel,
Wilhelm Heitmüller, and Johannes Weiss. Franz Cumont and Richard Reitzenstein provided
much of the data on Hellenistic religion that catalyzed the school’s research on the New
Testament and early Christianity. Cf. William Baird, History of New Testament Research, Vol.
2 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 221–53, and literature cited there.
34. This presupposition—or rather, its extravagant use—was decried in the middle of the
century on the largest stage for biblical scholars, during Samuel Sandmel’s SBL Presidential
Address; cf. Samuel Sandmel, “Parallelomania,” JBL 81 (1962): 1–13. He criticizes “that extrav-
agance among scholars which first overdoes the supposed similarity in passages and then
proceeds to describe source and derivation as if implying literary connection flowing in an
inevitable or predetermined direction” (p. 1). The tendency is especially heightened when
new data arrives on the scene, as it did for the religionsgeschichtliche Schule in the form of
Hellenistic religious texts and for mid-century scholars in the form of the Dead Sea Scrolls
(about which Sandmel speaks at some length) and the Nag Hammadi hoard.
35. This presupposition was made explicit by Bousset, who traced the progressive
evolution of religion up to its apex with Jesus and Paul in the first century; cf. Wilhelm
Bousset, Das Wesen der Religion: Dargestellt an ihrer Geschichte (3d ed.; Halle: Gebauer-
Schwetschke, 1906); What Is Religion? (trans. F. B. Low; New York: G.B. Putnam, 1907).
36. As has been often noted, the “s” in religion-s-geschichte is not plural but genitival—
the history of one religion is at issue. The river metaphor is more evident in German, where
notions of “influence” (Einfluß, beeinflußen) are etymologically connected to the word for
river (Fluß).
37. Baird, History, 243.
38. Wilhelm Bousset, Kyrios Christos: Geschichte des Christusglaubens von den Anfängen
des Christentums bis Irenaeus (4th ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1935); quota-
tions from Kyrios Christos (trans. John E. Steely; Nashville: Abingdon, 1970). The titular
approach to Christology on display in Bousset’s analysis was later delineated and brought
into scholarship through a similar work by Ferdinand Hahn, Christologische Hoheitstitel
(Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1963); The Titles of Jesus in Christology (trans. Harold
Knight and George Ogg; London: Lutterworth, 1969).
39. Bousset, Kyrios, 93.
40. Ibid., 93–96.
41. Ibid., 97.
42. For confirmation of this, see the wide semantic range on display in Adela Yarbro
Collins, “Mark and His Readers: The Son of God among Jews,” HTR 92 (1999): 393–408; and
eadem, “Mark and His Readers: The Son of God among Greeks and Romans,” HTR 93
(2000): 85–100; both discussed below.
43. Bousset, Kyrios, 206–07.
44. Ibid., 207. German of first quotation: “ein überweltliches, in engster metaphysischer
Beziehung zu Gott stehendes Wesen.”
45. Ibid., 208–09. German: “die göttliche vorweltliche Wesenheit.”
46. The German words are “Wirklichkeit” and “Wesenheit.”
47. Ibid., 207.
48. Ibid., 207 n. 142.
49. Ibid., 209.
50. Ibid., 213.
51. I grant that his book is primarily about the κύριος title, which is not important for
John. This gap left an opening for the work of Matthew Vellanickal, The Divine Sonship of
Christians in the Johannine Writings (Analecta Biblica 72; Rome: Biblical Institute Press,
1977).
53. Ibid., 215, 227–242. Contra Bousset, see chap. 5 on John Ashton’s interpretation of
Father-Son unity in John.
55. This interpretation seems to rely on the Gnostic “redeemer myth” that had just begun
to enter the dogma of the religionsgeschichtliche Schule, mostly through the work of Richard
Reitzenstein on the Corpus Hermeticum. Defending the relevance of this myth were Richard
Reitzenstein, Die hellenistichen Mysterienreligionen: Nach ihren Grundgedanken und
Wirkungen, (3d ed., 1927; repr. Stuttgart: B.G. Teubner, 1956); ET: Hellenistic Mystery-Religions:
Their Basic Ideas and Significance (trans. John E. Steely; Pittsburgh: Pickwick Press, 1987) and
Rudolf Bultmann, “Die Bedeutung der neuerschlossenen mandäischen und manichäischen
Quellen für das Verständnis des Johannesevangeliums,” in Exegetica: Aufsätze zur Erforschung
des Neuen Testaments (ed. Erich Dinkler; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1967), 10–35,
while later scholars like Carsten Colpe, Die religionsgeschichtliche Schule: Darstellung und
Kritik ihres Bildes vom gnostichen Erlösermythus (FRLANT 78; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck
& Ruprecht, 1961), and Edwin M. Yamauchi, Pre-Christian Gnosticism: A Survey of the Proposed
Evidences (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1973), offered sharp criticisms. The interpretation
of Christology according to a purported pre-Christian Gnosticism, though important for
understanding twentieth-century biblical scholarship, will not be treated here.
57. Ibid., 210.
58. With respect to divine sonship, the division of the Synoptics from Paul and John is
widespread in the work of this group of scholars. For another example, see Eduard Schweizer,
“Variety and Unity in the New Testament Proclamation of Jesus as the Son of God,”
Australian Biblical Review 15 (1967): 1–12.
60. Ibid., 344. German: “eine volkstümliche Vergröberung der Idee des überweltlichen
Gottessohnes.”
61. Bousset, Kyrios, 344. German: “Man wird sich deshalb auch der Folgerung nicht
entziehen können, daß auf diese Vulgärtheologie des jungen Christentums Einflüsse des
umgebenden hellenistichen Milieus eingewirkt haben.”
62. A shorter work on the topic was completed just earlier by Petr Pokorný, Der
Gottessohn: Literarische Übersicht und Fragestellung (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 1971),
which was a summary of ancient sources with some ramifications for theology.
63. Martin Hengel, Der Sohn Gottes, Die Entstehung der Christologie und die jüdisch-
hellenistische Religionsgeschichte (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1975); The Son of
God (trans. John Bowden; London: SCM; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977). Page numbers from
English version.
64. Hengel, Son of God, 8.
65. The German “Duktus” or “duct” behind the English translation “trend” fits nicely our
previous comparison to a river. If the Schule tried to chart the flow of the Christian river,
this “son of God” question is a key component in the flow. Hengel, Son of God, 18.
67. Ibid., 30.
68. Ibid., 30. German: “Die offiziell-profane Staatsreligion war bestenfalls negativer
Anstoß, nicht Vorbild.”
69. E.g., Helmut Koester, Ancient Christian Gospels: Their History and Development
(Philadelphia: Trinity Press; London: SCM, 1990), 1–4; quoted in Adela Yarbro Collins,
Mark: A Commentary (ed. Harold W. Attridge; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress Press,
2007), 130 n. 2. See also chap. 4, on connections between Mark and Rome.
70. Graham N. Stanton, Jesus and Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2004), 2; quoted in Yarbro Collins, Mark, 130 n. 2. Italics original.
71. As critical theory has demonstrated, there are more than two options (appropriation
or rejection) when cultures and their symbols encounter one another. Postcolonial theory
proves especially useful, as in chapter 4 below, to illuminate how early Christians under-
stood Jesus’ exaltation vis-à-vis the Roman imperial ideology.
72. The German “Anstoß” behind the English translation “stimulus” can mean “initiative,
impetus, nudge, etc.,” but it often has a negative connotation of “offense,” as with the adjective
“anstößig” or “offensive.” The noun is also used for the “kickoff ” of a soccer/Fußball match:
did the imperial usage of the title “kick off ” a culture/counterculture competition for who
was the preeminent son of God in the Roman world?
74. Ibid., 57.
75. Ibid., 58.
76. Ibid., 66.
77. Ibid., 67–71.
78. Dunn, Christology, 12–64.
79. Ibid., xiv. Cf. idem, “In Defence of a Methdology,” ExpT 95 (1983–84): 295–99.
80. Ibid., xvi.
81. On one important detail, Hengel is more precise than Dunn. Dunn conflates the
various sons of named gods in the Greco-Roman world (“son of Hercules,” etc.) with the
much less common “son of God” title. The bare title “son of God” for an individual was less
common than Dunn’s summary implies. Dunn, Christology, 14–16.
82. Dunn, Christology, 22.
83. Ibid., 32.
84. Ibid., 36.
85. Ibid., 36–46.
86. Ibid., 46–50.
87. Cf. below, chap. 5, on this topic. Liturgical commemorations of Jesus Christ also
moved backwards in his own life as the Church moved forward in time. Early liturgies pri-
marily celebrated his death and resurrection. Furthermore, the feast of his Baptism/
Epiphany was more prominent than the feast of Nativity (which did not gain prominence
until the late-fourth century and was still joined to or overshadowed by Epiphany in the
East after that). Cf. Hermann Usener, Religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen. Erster Theil:
Das Weihnachtsfest (Bonn, 1889).
89. Ibid., 59.
90. Ibid., 64.
91. Ibid., 62.
92. I am here alluding to descriptions of low Christologies by ancient heresiologists:
nudus homo (e.g., Irenaeus, Haer. 3.19; Tertullian, Carn. Christ. 14.5) or ψιλὸς ἄνθρωπος
(e.g., Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.28; 6.17; Eccl. theol. 1.45.)
93. Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity
(Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 11–12. Though he apparently did not invent the label,
attributing it to Hengel, Hurtado “think[s] there is reason to describe this more recent body
of work as constituting a ‘new history-of-religions’ effort that can be linked with and likened
to the classic efforts of the Göttingen circle.”
94. Besides the reviews cited below, see that of Stephen E. Fowl in Modern Theology 22
(2006): 152–54; Luke Timothy Johnson in Scottish Journal of Theology 59 (2006): 358–62;
and the long review by Maurice Casey, “Lord Jesus Christ: A Reponse to Professor Hurtado,”
JSNT 27 (2004): 83–96, and Hurtado’s response (97–104).
95. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ, 2. By “extraneous,” I take Hurtado to mean its etymolog-
ical but lesser-used sense of “external” or “foreign.” If he means “extraneous” in its more
frequently used sense of “irrelevant,” then he is arguing against a straw man.
96. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ, 653.
97. Ibid., 2–3.

98. Ibid., 3.
99. Ibid., 22.
100. Ibid., 22. Italics original.
101. Larry W. Hurtado,“Son of God,” Dictionary of Paul and His Letters (ed. G. F. Hawthorne
et al.; Downers Grove, Ill.: InterVarsity, 1997), 900; cf. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ, 101–8.
103. Hurtado, “Son of God,” 900.
105. The “Johannine thunderbolt” is Luke 10:22–23//Matthew 11:25–27.
106. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ, 287, 306.
107. Ibid., 306.
108. Ibid., 358–63.
109. Ibid., 362.
110. On this key aspect of Johannine thought, see chap. 5 below and also the excellent
analysis in Vellanickal, Divine Sonship, 89–351. It is distinguished in metaphorical imagery
(though not necessarily in functional meaning) from the adoptive sonship of Christians in
the Pauline writings.
111. Cf. 1 John 2:29–3:10; 4:7–8; 5:1–4. The similarity is most explicit in 1 John 5:18.
112. William Horbury, review of Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus
in Earliest Christianity, JTS 56 (2005): 537–38.
113. Horbury, review of Hurtado, 536.
114. After using “scrupulous” early in the book (34–38), Hurtado settles on the term
“devout” (passim).
115. Larry W. Hurtado, “First-Century Jewish Monotheism,” JSNT 71 (1998): 3–26; repr.
as chap. 5 of How on Earth Did Jesus Become a God? (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005),
111–33; see esp. 117, 121, 127–28. Here too we find one instance of Jews both “scrupulous”
and “devout”—a super group able to avoid syncretism (125).
116. Cf. the first four chapters of How on Earth Did Jesus Become a God? in which
“devout Jews” is predominant.
117. Paula Fredriksen, review of Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus
in Earliest Christianity, JECS 12 (2004): 539.
118. Fredriksen, review of Hurtado, 541.
119. A helpful balance to this view, concerning Galilee in particular, is Mark A. Chancey,
The Myth of a Gentile Galilee (SNTSMS 118; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2002).
120. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 1.5.29.
121. The most poetic use of the metaphor comes in Grillmeier’s depiction of how
Christology diffused in the second century before coming together again: “In the second
century, the Christian tradition is like a young stream, coming down from the mountains,
which can now for the first time spread itself on a broad landscape and extend into a lake.
The landscape becomes wider and more varied, but at the same time less noble. The lake
threatens to lose itself at the edges and to form stagnant water. But then at last the river
again re-forms, to go on its way more strongly and more swiftly than before.” The broad lake
comprises the pseudonymous and apocryphal works of the second century, while the re-
formed river includes the proto-orthodox witnesses of that era. Grillmeier, Christ in
Christian Tradition, 1:53–54.
122. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ, chapter 8, “The Second Century—Importance and
Tributaries,” and chapter 9, “Radical Diversity.”
124. Walter Bauer, Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity (trans. by a team from
the Philadelphia Seminar on Christian Origins; ed. Robert A. Kraft and Gerhard Krodel;
Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1971); original ed.: Rechtgläubigkeit und Ketzerei im ältesten
Christentum (Tübingen: Mohr, 1934).
125. Hurtado’s avoidance of ruler cults in his argument has also been noted by Adela
Yarbro Collins, “‘How on Earth Did Jesus Become a God?’ A Reply,” in Israel’s God and
Rebecca’s Children: Christology and Community in Early Judaism and Christianity (ed. David
B. Capes, April D. DeConick, Helen K. Bond, and Troy A. Miller; Waco: Baylor University
Press, 2007), 55–66.
126. The challenge, which will not be taken up here, is from Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis,
“The Worship of Divine Humanity as God’s Image and the Worship of Jesus,” in The Jewish
Roots of Christological Monotheism (ed. Carey C. Newman, James R. Davila, and Gladys S.
Lewis; JSJSup 63; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 112–28. Fletcher-Louis’s work on angels and other
intermediary beings shows another possible accounting for the development of Christology.
Cf. Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis, Luke-Acts: Angels, Christology, and Soteriology (WUNT II
94; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997).
127. Quotations in this paragraph are from Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ, 38.
128. This is a truism of social-scientific studies, philosophically elaborated by Pierre
Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice (trans. Richard Nice; Cambridge: Polity, 1990).
129. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ, 75–76. See his other assessments of language used for
the emperor at 21, 92, 102, 108–9, and 516–17. Throughout the book, when the emperor or
other “foreign” influences are mentioned, they are often positioned with a false dichotomy:
Christianity either rejects or appropriates the foreign elements. But theorists of religion and
identity present more complex and nuanced descriptions of cultural interaction, some of
which will be used later in my argument. Hurtado seems to know the dichotomy is false,
admitting it at least once (75), but he does not incorporate theories of cultural interaction
in his analysis. Cf. also his interpretation of Ignatius vis-à-vis emperor worship (638), and
idem, “Christ-Devotion in the First Two Centuries: Reflections and a Proposal,” Toronto
Journal of Theology 12 (1996): 17–33.
130. Notably Lily Ross Taylor, The Divinity of the Roman Emperor (Middletown, Conn.:
American Philological Association, 1931).
131. Here I allude to the playful and often illuminating work, Keith Hopkins, A World
Full of Gods (New York: Free Press, 2000).
132. Adolf Deissmann, Licht vom Osten: das Neue Testament und die neuentdeckten
Texte der hellenistisch-römischen Welt (2d and 3d ed.; Tübingen: Mohr, 1909); Crossan and
Reed, In Search of Paul.
133. Yarbro Collins, “The Son of God among Jews,” and “The Son of God among Greeks
and Romans.” The subsequent quotations are from her methodological outline in eadem,
“Among Jews,” 393. Though I am calling this the method of a fourth “group,” one which can
be traced back to Adolf Deissmann, I treat only Yarbro Collins’s work here because hers is
the only example I know of that applies the method uniquely to divine sonship. The other
giant figure in this group is John Dominic Crossan, whose work with Jonathan L. Reed on
Jesus and Paul in their Roman imperial contexts is among the most impressive examples of
this burgeoning field. His research is primarily synthetic, however—and excels in that
vein—so that he does not offer a sustained “thick” description and analysis of the sonship
motif in Roman imperial society and early Christian theology. That I have benefited much
from Crossan and Reed should be evident from the thrust of my book.
134. For example, her interpretation of the blasphemy encounter with the high priest,
Yarbro Collins, “Among Jews,” 404–5.
135. An example of this phrasing is from Yarbro Collins, “Among Jews,” 400.
136. Yarbro Collins, “Among Jews,” 394. The history and interpretation of “Son of God”
as a royal and messianic title among ancient Jews and early Christians is given a longer
treatment in Collins and Collins, King and Messiah.
137. Yarbro Collins, “Among Jews,” 408.
138. Yarbro Collins, “Among Greeks and Romans,” 86.
139. Ibid., 98. I would add Egyptian usage as well, due to their regard for divine
succession among their rulers. Augustus’s situating himself as divi filius would have reso-
nated with the native Egyptian ideology of divine rulers. Cf. Günther Hölbl, Altägypten im
römischen Reich: der römische Pharao und seine Tempel (3 vols.; Mainz: Philipp von Zabern,
2000–05), 1:22–46.
140. My method is thus related to New Historicism, and connections to Foucauldian inter-
pretation will be unavoidable, since my specific subject involves power relations—
between fathers and sons, emperor and subjects, the Roman gods and the God of Jesus Christ.
141. Mark Antony even claimed descent from the obscure (and too-conveniently
named) “Anton,” a son of Hercules. A statue of Hercules as Antony’s ancestor was probably
set up in Rome (cf. Taylor, Divinity, 107). On the Antony-Hercules connection, cf. Appian,
Civil Wars 3.16–19.
142. Clifford Geertz, “Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture,” in
The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 3–30.
143. Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 392. The emperor held this role alone for
four centuries, until the universalizing of Christianity by Theodosius I (380 c.e.).
144. A noteworthy exception is the work of Mary Rose D’Angelo, who has studied
Roman family relationships in order to understand early Christian family language, e.g.,
“Abba and ‘Father’: Imperial Theology and the Jesus Traditions,” JBL 111 (1992): 611–30. See
also Halvor Moxnes, ed., Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and
Metaphor (London; New York: Routledge, 1997).
145. I call this a “presupposition” of my work primarily to indicate the unfortunate fact
that I will not labor to defend it in this book. Although the “religion and politics” nexus is a
foundation of my thinking about early Christianity, it will have to remain—for now—a
presupposition that I do not have the space to explore and defend. For excellent essays on
this interface in general, see Peter Scott and William T. Cavanaugh, eds., The Blackwell
Companion to Political Theology (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2004). In the Roman context,
Jörg Rüpke notes the connection between theology and political ideology. Of the burgeon-
ing imperial ideology, he writes: “A slowly developing absolute monarchy and a monistic
world view . . . are snug bed-fellows. Chicken-and-egg-like, they exercise a mutual influence
upon one another—sometimes, through failure to be flexible, for the worse.” Jörg Rüpke,
Religion of the Romans (trans. Richard Gordon; Cambridge: Polity, 2007), 78, 84. Original
ed.: Die Religion der Römer (Munich: Beck, 2001).
147. Some exceptions to this sweeping criticism will be noted in the next chapter.
■ Chapter 2
1. Cf. S. R. F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 5–7.
2. Discussion in Willem den Boer, ed., Le Culte des Souverains dans l’Empire Romain
(Entretiens sur l’antiquitè classique 19; Vandœuvres-Genève: Fondation Hardt, 1973), 37. In
the same conference volume (p. 12), Bickerman similarly wanted to understand Roman
religion “not according to our ideas of religion, or on authority of Roman intellectuals” but
with regard to “rites, auspices, and the interpretation of omens.”
3. John Scheid, An Introduction to Roman Religion (trans. Janet Lloyd; Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 2003), 183; trans. of La Religion des Romans (Paris: Armand Colin/
Masson, 1998). Elsewhere he comments, “The speculations on the ultimate nature of the
divine in which philosophers of antiquity sometimes indulged have nothing to do with the
Roman religion of ritual and sanctuaries and amount rather to an attempt to reduce poly-
theism to monotheism” (158). Jörg Rüpke foregrounds philosophical systems in his presen-
tation of Roman divinity, but only in order to demonstrate their limited usefulness—to
leave them behind for the rest of the study. Jörg Rüpke, Religion of the Romans (trans.
Richard Gordon; Cambridge: Polity, 2007), 65–68; trans. of Die Religion der Römer
(München: Beck, 2001).
4. Cicero, Acad. 1.9. Cited also by Arnaldo Momigliano, “The Theological Efforts of the
Roman Upper Classes in the First Century BC,” CP 79 (1984): 199–211.
5. Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 3.
6. Many of the shifts in the field have been helpfully delineated by James B. Rives,
“Roman Religion Revived,” Phoenix 52 (1998): 345–65.
7. These assumptions are tilted toward the priorities typically associated with
Protestant Christianity. Price, Rituals, esp. 10–15. On these points, Price uses as a foil the
work of J. H. W. G. Liebeschuetz, Continuity and Change in Roman Religion (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1979).
8. Some of the data were not actually “new” but were buried in old volumes of the anti-
quarian approach to ancient religion—lists of priesthoods, inscriptions, altars, etc. E.g.,
Georg Wissowa, Religion und Kultus der Römer (2nd ed.; München: C.H. Beck, 1912).
9. See below for Alföldy’s assessment of the broad appeal of emperor worship.
10. E.g., Price, Rituals, 241–42. Mary Beard, John North, and Simon Price, Religions of
Rome, Volume I: A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 43, note the
impossibility of extricating religion from other aspects of Roman society. For a critical anal-
ysis of using the category “religion” in the study of the Roman Empire, see Brent Nongbri,
“Dislodging ‘Embedded’ Religion: A Brief Note on a Scholarly Trope,” Numen 55 (2008):
440–60.
11. E.g., Price, Rituals, 248.
12. Clifford Ando, “Idols and Their Critics,” in The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the
Roman Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 21–42.
13. Rüpke, Religion, 69–74, and James B. Rives, Religion in the Roman Empire (Malden,
Mass.: Blackwell, 2007), 32–37, also treat this issue.
14. Otto Weinreich, “Antikes Gottmenschentum,” Neue Jahrbücher für Wissenschaft und
Jugendbildung 2 (1926): 633; repr. in Römischer Kaiserkult (ed. Antonie Wlosok; Wege der
Forschung 372; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978), 55. Trans. my own. I
offer this quotation as a concise statement of a perspective and not as a criticism of the
remainder of Weinreich’s article. The position is still defended by Peter Herz, “Der römische
Kaiser und der Kaiserkult: Gott oder primus inter pares?”, in Menschwerdung Gottes—
Vergöttlichung von Menschen (ed. Dieter Zeller; Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus 7;
Freiburg: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), esp. 135–40.
15. Rudolf Otto, The Idea of the Holy (trans. John W. Harvey; London: Humphrey Milford,
Oxford University Press, 1925), 25—a phrase used also by Kierkegaard and Barth.
16. On this topic, see Paula Fredriksen, “Mandatory Retirement: Ideas in the Study of
Christian Origins Whose Time Has Come to Go,” Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses
35/2 (2006): esp. 241–43. A wide-ranging critique of constructions of monotheism is found
in Henry Corbin, Le Paradoxe du Monotheisme (Paris: Éditions de l’Herne, 1981).
17. Neither were pagan thinkers as polytheistic as the dichotomy suggests. The main
philosophical trajectory from Plato through late antiquity and into the Islamic era was
trending toward monotheism (a trend in which Christianity came to fit nicely, after a few
centuries of conceptual tinkering). Cf. Robert M. Grant, Gods and the One God (Philadelphia:
Westminster Press, 1986); and the excellent set of essays, Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity
(ed. Polymnia Athanassiadi and Michael Frede; Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), esp. the sum-
mary of the issue in Polymnia Athanassiadi and Michael Frede, “Introduction,” 1–20.
18. On the inclusion of Jews in this argument, see Paula Fredriksen, “What ‘Parting of
the Ways’?,” in The Ways that Never Parted (ed. Adam Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed;
Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 35–63.
19. On the martyrs, see now Candida R. Moss, The Other Christs: Imitating Jesus in
Ancient Christian Ideologies of Martyrdom (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), esp.
chap. 5, “Martyr as Divine Heir.”
20. Fredriksen’s call for the “mandatory retirement” of the category “monotheism” in the
study of ancient religion is perhaps too strong, but her argument generally hits the mark.
Scholars have used the term anachronistically when describing ancient phenomena.
Fredriksen, “Mandatory Retirement,” 231.
21. Arthur Darby Nock, “Notes on Ruler Cult I-IV,” JHS 48 (1928): 31; repr. in Essays on
Religion and the Ancient World (2 vols.; ed. Zeph Stewart; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
University Press, 1972), 1:145. Nock is often cited as promoting a distinction between “hom-
age” and “worship” with regard to ruler cults, but he warns, “our distinction between worship
and homage, Kultus and Ehrung, did not exist with anything like comparable sharpness in
antiquity.” Arthur Darby Nock, “ΣΥΝΝΑΟΣ ΘΕΟΣ,” HSCP 41 (1930): 52; repr. in Essays,
1:241.
22. Hans-Josef Klauck, Die religiöse Umwelt des Urchristentums II: Herrscher- und
Kaiserkult, Philosophie, Gnosis (Kohlhammer-Studienbücher Theologie 9.2; Stuttgart:
Kohlhammer, 1996), 72.
23. Many different metaphors are used to express the notion: gradient, spectrum, sliding
scale, etc. Cf. Duncan Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West (2 vols.; Leiden: Brill,
1987–92), 1:33, “divine and human honours differed in degree but not in kind; both belong
at different intervals on essentially the same scale.” In her book on the divine qualities or
abstractions in Republican Rome, Gillian Clark notes the “fluid boundaries” between deities
and divine qualities. Gillian Clark, Divine Qualities: Cult and Community in Republican
Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 25. Cf. the discussion of “the nature of the
divine” in Rives, Religion, 15–21.
24. J. M. C. Toynbee, “Ruler-apotheosis in ancient Rome,” Numismatic Chronicle 7
(1947): 126–27. Cf. her similar remarks in the review of H. P. L’Orange, Apotheosis in Ancient
Portraiture, JRS 38 (1948): 160–63. It should be noted that, as an art historian, she was
immersed in the images and rituals of antiquity and thus less prone to construing it through
philosophical models alone.
25. J. Rufus Fears, Princeps a diis electus: the Divine Election of the Emperor as a Political
Concept at Rome (Rome: American Academy in Rome, 1977), 131.
26. Gradel, Emperor Worship, 25–26.
27. Others seeing emperor worship as a coherent aspect of Roman religion are Manfred
Clauss, Kaiser und Gott: Herrscherkult im römischen Reich (Stuttgart; Leipzig: Tuebner,
1999); and Rüpke, Religion, 85.
28. IGRR 4.39, col. b, lines 12–18; cited also in Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the
Age of Augustus (trans. Alan Shapiro; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1988), 304,
and Price, Rituals, 243 no. 31. Greek: εἰ δέ τι τούτων ἐπικυδέστερον τοι̑ς μετέπειτα χρόνοις
εὑρεθήσεται, πρὸς μη[δὲν] τω̑ ν θεοποιει̑ν αὐτὸν ἐπὶ [πλέ]ον δυνησομένων ἐλλείψει[ν] τὴν
τη̑ς πόλεως προθυμίαν καὶ εὐσέβειαν. Although the word [πλέ]ον is partially damaged, its
reconstruction is in line with other inscriptions that increase honors to various gods, e.g.,
OGIS 1.56A.9: τὰς τιμὰς τω̑ ̑ν θεω̑ ν ἐπὶ πλέον αὔξοντες.
29. I prefer the term “emperor worship” to “imperial cult,” as has probably become clear
by now, for reasons explained later (cf. Gradel, Emperor Worship, 7). In this section, I cannot
treat the larger subject of “ruler cult” in antiquity, which can be surveyed with the help of:
Arthur Darby Nock, “ΣΥΝΝΑΟΣ ΘΕΟΣ”; Christian Habicht, Gottmenschentum und
Griechische Städte (2nd ed.; München: Book, 1970); Simon R. F. Price, “Hellenistic Cities and
Their Rulers,” in Rituals, 23–52; Frank W. Walbank, “Könige als Götter: Überlegungen zum
Herrscherkult von Alexander bis Augustus,” Chiron 17 (1987): 365–82; R. R. R. Smith,
Hellenistic Royal Portraits (Oxford: Clarendon, 1988); Frank Kolb, Herrscherideologie in der
Spätantike (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2001); and Angelos Chaniotis, “The Divinity of the
Hellenistic Rulers,” in A Companion to the Hellenistic World (ed. Andrew Erskine; Malden,
Mass.; Oxford: Blackwell, 2003), 431–45.
30. Lily Ross Taylor, The Divinity of the Roman Emperor (Middletown, Conn.: American
Philological Association), 237–38. At the time, an important dissenting voice to this view
was Mason Hammond, The Augustan Principate in Theory and Practice During the Julio-
Claudian Period (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1933), 107–08: “There is no
evidence that [Augustus] deliberately or artificially sought to set himself up as a god for any
political reasons. But there is plenty of proof that the world to which he had brought peace
and prosperity, from the most polished court poets to the humble artisans, felt that his
achievements were more than human.”
31. J. S. Reid, “Roman Ideas of Deity,” JRS 6 (1916): 174.
32. E.g., Kurt Latte, Römische Religionsgeschichte (München: C.H. Beck, 1960), 308,
312–26. Cf. Martin Nilsson, Geschichte der griechischen Religion (2 vols.; 2nd ed.; München:
C.H. Beck, 1961), 2:384–95. Latte was so incredulous concerning the worship of the
emperor that he privately told Robert Étienne that he thought it was an invention of
Christian apologists! Cited from a personal letter in Robert Étienne, “Du nouveau sur les
débuts du culte impérial municipal dans la péninsule ibérique,” in Subject and Ruler: The
Cult of the Ruling Power in Classical Antiquity (ed. Alistair Small; Journal of Roman
Archaeology Supplements 17; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1996), 153.
33. The “Greek intellectuals” covered by Bowersock include Plutarch, Marcus Aurelius,
Dio Chrysostom, Aelius Aristides, Lucian, and Pliny. The string of quotes comes from
G.W. Bowersock, “Greek Intellectuals and the Imperial Cult in the Second Century A.D.,” in
den Boer, Culte, 183, 187, 180, 185, 206, 187. For a different analysis of similar data, see
Harold W. Attridge, “The Philosophical Critique of Religion under the Early Empire,” ANRW
2.16.1 (1978): 45–78.
34. Millar, “The Imperial Cult and the Persecutions,” in den Boer, Culte, 164. Another of
the early studies focused on the temples for Julius Caesar and Augustus: Heidi Hänlein-
Schäfer, Veneratio Augusti: Eine Studie zu den Tempeln des ersten römischen Kaisers
(Archaeologica 39; Rome: Giorgio Bretschneider, 1985).
35. H. W. Pleket, “An Aspect of the Emperor Cult: Imperial Mysteries,” HTR 58 (1965):
331–47.
36. Cf. also C. R. Phillips, “The Sociology of Religious Knowledge in the Roman Empire
to A.D. 284,” ANRW 2.16.2 (1986): 2697–2711; and on Roman “knowledge” as counterpart
to Christian “belief,” see Ando, Matter of the Gods, esp. 1–18. In fact, the entire notion of
belief as a universally applicable category has been deftly challenged by Rodney Needham,
Belief, Language, and Experience (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972).
37. E.g., the fresh interpretation of Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis in Gradel, Emperor Worship,
325–30.
38. Keith Hopkins, “Divine Emperors or the Symbolic Unity of the Roman Empire,” in
idem, Conquerors and Slaves: Sociological Studies in Roman History (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1978), 242. Cf. similar remarks by Paul Zanker about the material artifacts
of Augustan ideology: “In his images, Augustus was thus manifest as both god and man.”
Zanker, Power, 300. Rives, Religion, 153, describes how “the emperor’s status flickered back
and forth between divine and human.”
39. Géza Alföldy,“Subject and Ruler, Subjects and Methods: An Attempt at a Conclusion,”
in Small, Subject and Ruler, 255.
40. On Gaius, e.g. Suetonius, Cal. 22, 52; and Philo, Legat. 78–113. On Domitian, e.g.,
Suetonius, Dom. 13; and Pliny, Pan. 2, 52. See brief discussion at Beard, North, and Price,
Religions, 209–10. C. J. Simpson argues that even the divinity of Caligula should be taken
more seriously than it has been, C. J. Simpson, “Caligula’s Cult: Immolation, Immortality,
Intent,” in Small, Subject and Ruler, 63–71.
41. Robert Étienne, Le Culte Impérial dans le péninsule ibérique d’Auguste à Dioclétien
(Paris, E. de Boccard, 1958); Price, Rituals; Fishwick, Imperial Cult; Uta-Maria Liertz, Studien
zu Kaiserkult und Kaiserverehrung in den germanischen Provinzen und in Gallia Belgica zur
römischen Kaiserzeit (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 1998); Gradel, Emperor
Worship; Monika Bernett, Der Kaiserkult in Judäa unter den Herodiern und Römern:
Untersuchungen zur politischen und religiösen Geschichte Judäas von 30 v. bis 66 n. Chr.
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007); Maria Kantiréa, Les dieux et les dieux augustes: Le culte
impérial en Grèce sous les Julio-claudiens et les Flaviens: Etudes épigraphiques et archéologiques
(ΜΕΛΕΤΗΜΑΤΑ 50; Athens: Κέντρον Ἑλληνικη̑ς καὶ Ρωμαϊκη̑ς Ἀρχαιότητος του̑ Ἐθνικου̑
Ἰδρύματος Ἐρευνω̑ ν; Paris: Diffusion de Boccard, 2007). To this one might add a study of
Egypt: Eleanor G. Huzar, “Emperor Worship in Julio-Claudian Egypt,” ANRW 2.18.5 (1995):
3092–3143.
42. Translation: “The princeps did not make himself worshipped; he allowed it.” Kantiréa,
Les dieux et les dieux augustes, 197.
43. In addition to the previous citations, see Ronald Mellor, “The Goddess Roma,”
ANRW 2.17.2 (1981): 950–1030, esp. 1004.
44. Cf. his (mis?)interpretation of Lucian, Apol. 13 at Bowersock, “Intellectuals,” 202.
Lucian alludes to the emperor being “paid” with honor and worship, but it is not at all clear
he is mocking that fact. In any case, his use of this example as an a fortiori argument attests
to widespread acknowledgment of the honors-for-benefactions structure of Greco-Roman
society. Whether satire or not—and in this case, it would be self-satire, since he is defending
his own position as a paid member in an imperial administrative post—Lucian was here
appealing to a generally accepted view of emperor worship.
45. At Sinai, the first words of God to Moses refer to the destruction of the Egyptians
and the liberation of the Israelites (Exod 19:4).
46. Kantiréa, Les dieux et les dieux augustes, 198–99.
47. The term “soteriology” is introduced by Kantiréa, Les dieux et les dieux augustes, 14.
48. Price, Rituals, 9. Cf. 235–48. Jörg Rüpke also uses Bourdieu to defend his focus on
practices, which are “not of course unnecessary codes for something that could be expressed
more easily in words.” Rüpke, Religion, 68.
49. Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), xiii. This is the argument of his whole book,
but for some passages relevant to our topic, cf. 19–48 and 385–98.
50. Ando, Imperial Ideology, 6–7.
51. In addition to this basic reconceptualization of power, many scholars have found the
most useful concept from postcolonial theory to be that of “mimicry,” famously encapsu-
lated in Homi K. Bhabha, “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse,”
in The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 85–92. Some historians of Roman
provincial material culture have hinted at this view without using the critical jargon: com-
menting on the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias, one scholar suggested, “we should bear in mind
the possibility that Aphrodisians, on occasion, looked to Roman colonists in Asia for evi-
dence of what a Roman community, and of what they as syngeneis, relatives, of Rome
through Aphrodite, should be doing.” Joyce M. Reynolds, “Ruler-cult at Aphrodisias in the
late Republic and under the Julio-Claudian emperors,” in Small, Subject and Ruler, 49–50.
There was also an indigenous development of emperor worship in rural Spain, among the
Celtic Iberians, who had received no physical colonization, and yet responded to imperial
power with worship. Leonard A. Curchin, “Cult and Celt: Indigenous Participation in
Emperor Worship,” in Small, Subject and Ruler, 143–52. The question remains whether pro-
vincial mimicry served to challenge the authority of the colonizer or not. In the study of
early Christianity, the assumption is usually that it did.
52. Varro, Ling. Lat. fr. 2 (apud Servius, Ad Aen. 12.139) and Varro fr. 424 (apud
Servius, Ad Aen. 5.45), Grammaticae Romanae fragmenta (ed. Hyginus Funaioli; Stuttgart:
Tuebner, 1969); cited in Gradel, Emperor Worship, 65 no. 23, 66 no. 24. On distinguishing
the terms in modern scholarship, see W. Schwering, “Deus und divus. Eine semasiologis-
che Studie als Ergänzung zum Artikel divus in Thesaurus linguae latinae,” Indogermanische
Forschungen 34 (1914–15): 1–44. Cf. Stefan Weinstock, Divus Julius (Oxford: Clarendon,
1971), 391–92.
53. Gradel, Emperor Worship, 66–67.
54. Fears, Princeps, 98.
55. E.g., Horace, Carm. 4.5.32, Ovid, Ep. ex Pont., 4.9.117; for inscriptions, see citations
and discussion in Fishwick, Imperial Cult, 2:436–54. It is surprising to find that Lucretius
increasingly presents Epicurus as a god over the course of De Rerum Natura, a trend which
culminates in the proem of Book 5 (cf. 5.8).
56. Cf. the interpretations of Dio in Gradel, Emperor Worship, 61–65.
57. The original is sfsgw[ μla. Cf. Hänlein-Schäfer, Veneratio, A53, lines 8–10, p. 227.
58. Cf. the many examples from diverse authors and genres in BAGD 451b–452a. For
example, the author of a papyrus letter regards his brother “not only as a brother but also as a
father, lord, and god” (θεόν, P.Mich. III 209.12–13 [II/III]). Even Paul, a “monotheist,” refers to
“the god of this age/world” (ὁ θεὸς του̑ αἰω̑ νος τούτου, 2 Cor 4:4) and admits, perhaps ironi-
cally, “there are many gods” (εἰσὶν θεοὶ πολλοί, 1 Cor 8:5, perhaps referring to Ps 136:2).
59. His eloquent case is made in Simon R. F. Price, “Gods and Emperors: The Greek
Language of the Roman Imperial Cult,” JHS 104 (1984): 79–95.
60. Even John Chrysostom used the word when referring to emperor Severus Alexander
(PG 61:580), though perhaps that was in response to his well-documented affection for
Christ? (SHA, Sev. Alex. 14, 22, 29, 49, 63). For examples from literature, coins, and inscrip-
tions, see the previously cited bibliography on emperor worship; for papyri, see also Janneke
de Jong, “Egyptian Papyri and ‘Divinity’ of the Roman Emperor,” in The Impact of Imperial
Rome on Religions, Ritual, and Religious Life in the Roman Empire: Proceedings of the Fifth
International Network, Münster, June 30–July 4, 2004 (ed. Lukas de Blois, Peter Funke, and
Johannes Hahn; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 239–52.
61. Price, “Gods and Emperors,” 85. This view is endorsed by Kantiréa, Les dieux et les
dieux augustes, 198.
62. E.g., Christian Habicht, “Die augusteische Zeit und das erste Jahrhundert nach
Christi Geburt,” in den Boer, Culte, 41–88, esp. 76–85.
63. Philo, Legat. 154. Trans. LCL.
64. Philo, Legat. 162–65.
65. For example, Moses is a θεός (Mos. 1.158; Mut. 128; Det. 161–62; Prob. 43–44), a des-
ignation Philo takes over from Exod 4:16 and 7:1. Cf. Wayne A. Meeks, “Moses as God and
King,” in Religion in Antiquity: Essays in Memory of Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough (ed. Jacob
Neusner; Studies in the History of Religions 14; Leiden: Brill, 1968), 355; John Lierman, The
New Testament Moses: Christian Perceptions of Moses and Israel in the Setting of Jewish
Religion (WUNT II 173; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 229–46.
66. Published in H. Idris Bell, Jews and Christians in Egypt (London: Oxford University
Press, 1924) [= CPJ 153]. On worship of Claudius in Egypt, see now Huzar, “Emperor
Worship,” 3136–37.
67. Lines 48–51.
68. Cf. lines 6–9. This paradox will gain more attention, since it has been noted by Beard,
North, and Price, Religions, 1:313.
69. For the older view, cf. W. Warde Fowler, Roman Ideas of Deity (London: Macmillan
and Co., 1914), 107–33.
70. Cassius Dio, Roman History, 51.20.6–8.
71. Taylor, Divinity, 203–04.
72. This argument comprises a large portion of Gradel, Emperor Worship. Cf. Ando,
Imperial Ideology, 385–98. For a helpful critique of Gradel, see John Scheid, “Comprendre le
culte dit impérial. Autour de deux livres récents,” L’Antiquité Classique 73 (2004): 239–49.
For a stronger rebuttal, see Peter Herz, “Caesar and God: Recent Publications on Roman
Imperial Cult,” JRA 18 (2005): 638–48.
73. On genius and numen, see Fishwick, Imperial Cult, 2:375–87.
74. E.g., CIL 11.3303; 12.4333.
75. Fishwick, Imperial Cult, 2:383. On numen, see Fishwick, Imperial Cult, 2:388–422;
Gradel, Emperor Worship, 234–50; Walter Pötscher, “ ‘Numen’ und ‘numen Augusti,’ ” ANRW
2.16.1 (1978): 355–92.
76. For all of this, see the regional works on emperor worship cited above and also J. M.
Santero,“The ‘Cultores Augusti’ and the Private Worship of the Roman Emperor,” Athenaeum
61 (1983): 111–25.
77. Manfred Clauss, “Deus praesens: der römische Kaiser als Gott,” Klio 78 (1996): 400.
Trans. my own. Cf. idem, Kaiser und Gott. Clauss is opposed, perhaps balanced, by Peter
Herz, “Emperors: Caring for the Empire and Their Successors,” in A Companion to Roman
Religion (ed. Jörg Rüpke; Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2007), 304–16.
78. Kantiréa, Les dieux et les dieux augustes, 196. Trans. my own.
79. For an example of the emperor’s space-transcending presence, consider the scene
before a likeness (effigies) of Nero (Tacitus, Ann. 15.29).
80. Ando, Matter of the Gods, 119. This quotation is the Latin translation of Jesus’ words
to his disciples in Mt 18:20.
81. Frances M.Young,“Prelude,” in The Cambridge History of Christianity (9 vols.; ed. Margaret
M. Mitchell and Frances M. Young; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 1:14.
82. One need only search the word “empire” among the annual conferences of the
Society of Biblical Literature, American Academy of Religion, and North American Patristics
Society for a sense of the topic’s sudden adventus into early Christian studies.
83. Richard A. Horsley, Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World
Disorder (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002); John Dominic Crossan and Jonathan L. Reed,
Excavating Jesus: Beneath the Stones, Behind the Texts (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco,
2001); for a keen assessment of the status quaestionis, see Stephen D. Moore, Empire and
Apocalypse: Postcolonialism and the New Testament (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press,
2006); for studies specific to Mark, see chap. 4 below.
84. Essays in Richard Horsley, ed., Paul and Empire: Religion and Power in Roman
Imperial Society (Harrisburg, Penn.: Trinity Press International, 1997); John Dominic
Crossan and Jonathan L. Reed, In Search of Paul: How Jesus’s Apostle Opposed Rome’s Empire
with God’s Kingdom (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2004); Adela Yarbro Collins,
“Psalms, Phil. 2:6–11, and the Origins of Christology,” Biblical Interpretation 11 (2003):
361–72; Peter Oakes, “Re-mapping the Universe: Paul and the Emperor in 1 Thessalonians
and Philippians,” JSNT 27 (2005): 301–22; Diana Swancutt, Pax Christi: Empire, Identity, and
Protreptic Rhetoric in Paul’s Letter to the Romans (NovTSup; Leiden: Brill, forthcoming).
85. Steven J. Friesen, Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John: Reading Revelation in the
Ruins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) is a good gateway into this large bibliog-
raphy; another cogent analysis is Christopher A. Frilingos, Spectacles of Empire: Monsters,
Martyrs, and the Book of Revelation (Divinations; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania
Press, 2004). For a recent analysis with German bibliography, cf. Jörg Frey, “The Relevance
of the Roman Imperial Cult for the Book of Revelation: Exegetical and Hermeneutical
Reflections on the Relation between the Seven Letters and the Visionary Main Part of the
Book,” in The New Testament and Early Christian Literature in Greco-Roman Context: Studies
in Honor of David E Aune (ed. John Fotopoulos; NovTSup 122; Leiden: Brill, 2006),
231–55.
86. This process began in earnest with Adolf Deissmann, Licht vom Osten: das Neue
Testament und die neuentdeckten Texte der hellenistisch-römischen Welt (2nd and 3rd ed.;
Tübingen: Mohr, 1909), 287–328; cf. Dominique Cuss, Imperial Cult and Honorary Terms in
the New Testament (Fribourg: University Press, 1974); Along with Crossan and Reed, Helmut
Koester, From Jesus to the Gospels, 204–17, has also recently emphasized the narrative
comparisons between Augustus and Jesus, especially the eschatological tenor of Augustus’s
Notes to Page 45 ■ 199
principate. The most adventurous of these is Carsten Peter Thiede, Jesus und Tiberius: Zwei
Söhne Gottes (München: Luchterhand, 2004).
87. Ernst Lohmeyer, Christuskult und Kaiserkult (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck],
1919); D. L. Jones,“Christianity and the Roman Imperial Cult,” ANRW 2.23.2 (1980): 1023–54;
Adela Yarbro Collins, “The Worship of Jesus and the Imperial Cult,” in The Jewish Roots of
Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on the Historical Origins
of the Worship of Jesus (ed. Carey C. Newman, James R. Davila, and Gladys S. Lewis; Leiden:
Brill, 1999), 234–57; George Heyman, The Power of Sacrifice: Roman and Christian Discourses
in Conflict (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2007).
88. Mary Rose D’Angelo,“Abba and ‘Father’: Imperial Theology and the Jesus Traditions,”
JBL 111 (1992): 611–30; James S. Jeffers, “The Influence of the Roman Family and Social
Structures on Early Christianity in Rome,” in SBLSP 1988 (ed. David J. Lull; Atlanta: Scholars
Press, 1988), 370–84; Eva Marie Lassen,“The Use of the Father Image in Imperial Propaganda
and 1 Corinthians 4:14–21,” TynBul 42 (1991): 127–36.
89. Martin Dibelius, Rom und die Christen im ersten Jahrhundert. Vorgelegt am 10.
Januar 1942 (Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1942); Averil Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of
Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse, (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1991); Allen Brent, The Imperial Cult and the Development of Church Order: Concepts and
Images of Authority in Paganism and Early Christianity before the Age of Cyprian (Leiden:
Brill, 1999); H. A. Drake, In Praise of Constantine: A Historical Study and New Translation of
Eusebius’ Tricennial Orations (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976); Ando, Imperial
Ideology, esp. 42–48 and literature cited at 48 no. 148.
90. In addition to the aforementioned work of Crossan, along with Moore’s Empire and
Apocalypse, see Justin Meggitt, “Taking the Emperor’s Clothes Seriously: The New Testament
and The Roman Emperor,” in The Quest for Wisdom: Essays in Honour of Philip Budd (ed.
C. Joynes; Cambridge: Orchard Academic, 2002), 143–170, available online at <http://www
.religion-online.org/showarticle.asp?title=3278>. The direction of these projects has been
challenged by Seyoon Kim, Christ and Caesar: The Gospel and the Roman Empire in the
Writings of Paul and Luke (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008); and, to a lesser degree, by
Christopher Bryan, Render To Caesar: Jesus, The Early Church, and the Roman Superpower
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2005).
91. See the compilation of evidence by Tae Hun Kim, “The Anarthrous huios theou in
Mark 15:39 and the Roman Imperial Cult,” Biblica 79 (1998): 221–41; with corrections and
elaborations by Robert Mowery, “Son of God in Roman Imperial Titles and Matthew,”
Biblica 83 (2002): 100–110. But scholars are just beginning to interpret the “son of God” con-
nection between the emperor and Jesus Christ, e.g., Adela Yarbro Collins, “Mark and His
Readers: The Son of God among Greeks and Romans,” HTR 93 (2000): 85–100; and eadem,
Mark: A Commentary (ed. Harold W. Attridge; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress Press,
2007), 767–68. Thiede’s Jesus und Tiberius, is an iconoclastic approach to the issue.
92. P.Oxy. XII 1453.11. Cited also by Millar, “Imperial Cult,” in den Boer, Culte, 146. On
the precise dating of the papyrus, cf. T. C. Skeat, “The Augustan Era in Egypt,” ZPE 53 (1983):
241–44. Cf. the same phrase in BGU I 16.2594.3; Dittenberger, OGIS 655.2. The Egyptian
provenance of the language may suggest that it was influenced by Egyptian royal ideas of
divine dynastic rulers: for example, on the Rosetta Stone, the Ptolemaic divine dynasty is
analogized to Isis, Osiris, and Horus. Ptolemy V is θεὸς ἐκ θεου̑ καὶ θεάς (Dittenberger,
OGIS 90.10). For other examples invoking Augustus as “son of god” (θεου̑ υἱόν), cf. BGU II
543.2–3 and P.Tebt. II 382.21.
93. January 1, 42 b.c.e., after which Octavian was divi filius. Three expert and distinc-
tive assessments of Caesar’s divinity can be found in Taylor, Divinity, 58–99; Weinstock,
Divus Julius; and Gradel, Emperor Worship, 54–72. The topic is too large to be treated here,
except as it relates to the issue of divine sonship.
94. Cf. Nicolaus of Damascus, Life 21, where Antony was thought to have overly exalted
Caesar during the Lupercalia in the hopes of being adopted as his son. Text and translation
found in Nicolaus of Damascus’ Life of Augustus (trans. Clayton Morris Hall; Smith College
Classical Studies 4; Northampton, Mass., 1923). Cf. Appian, Bell. civ. 3.16–19.
95. The adoption of Octavian is described in: Nicolaus of Damascus, Life 8, 11, 13,
17–18, 29–30; Livy, Periochae 116.5; Appian, Bell. civ. 3.11–14; Suetonius, Jul. 83.2; Aug. 7.2,
94.11. For a compilation and analysis of the candidates available to Caesar for adoption, see
Monroe E. Deutsch, “Caesar’s Son and Heir,” California Publications in Classical Philology
9:6 (1928): 149–200.
96. For a study of the testamentary adoption, see Walter Schmitthenner, Oktavian und
das Testament Cäsars (München: C.H. Beck, 1952). I call it “quasi-legal” because it was not
present in the law codes but was enacted through a legally binding document.
97. Nicolaus of Damascus, Life 8 and 11.
98. Suetonius, Aug. 94.11, discussed in chap. 4.
99. Suetonius, Aug. 94.4. Cf. Cassius Dio, Roman History 45.2.
100. This is narrated in Appian, Bell. civ. 3.11 and Nicolaus of Damascus, Life 18.
101. Cf. Nicolaus of Damascus, Life 30.
102. Examples abound, but for the beginning of the title, see Taylor, Divinity, 106.
103. Otto Kern, Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Mäander (Berlin, 1900), no. 157b,
housed in the Staatliche Museen, Berlin. Cf. a “son of god” inscription to Drusus the Younger,
who was in line to be emperor but never acceded to power (IG II2 3257).
104. He took “Caesar” in his official titulature, and “son of god” is found, for
example, in a plaque from Achaia (IG II 2 3281); cf. RIC 2, p. 127, note 93. See chap. 3 on
adoption and divine election in times of crisis. As for Vespasian’s divinity, his deathbed
utterance is well known: Vae, puto deus fio (“Oh dear, I think I’m becoming a god”),
Suet., Vesp. 23.
105. On his connection to Aeneas, cf. Cassius Dio, Roman History 41.34.1. On the temple
of Venus Genetrix, cf. Weinstock, Divus Julius, 80–90.
106. On this topic, see T. P. Wiseman, “Domi Nobiles and the Roman Cultural Elite,” in
Les «Bourgeoisies» municipales italiennes aux IIe et Ier siècles av. J.-C. (Cébeillac-Gervasoni;
Paris: Éditions du Centre national de la recherche scientifique; Naples: Bibliothèque de
l’Institut français de Naples, 1983), 298–306. Cf. the skepticism of Seneca toward such gene-
alogies (Ben. 3.28.2).
107. Augustus crowned his new forum with the temple of Mars Ultor, dedicated to Mars
in 2 b.c.e. for aid in avenging (hence, ultor, “avenger”) the murder of Caesar.
108. Taylor, Divinity, 138–41.
109. Fishwick, Imperial Cult, 2:423–35.
110. Olivier Hekster, “Descendants of Gods: Legendary Genealogies in the Roman
Empire,” in The Impact of Imperial Rome on Religions, Ritual, and Religious Life in the Roman
Empire: Proceedings of the Fifth International Network, Münster, June 30–July 4, 2004 (ed.
Lukas de Blois, Peter Funke, and Johannes Hahn; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 24–35. Cf. idem,
“Honouring Ancestors: The Dynamic of Deification,” Ritual Dynamics and Religious Change
in the Roman Empire: Proceedings of the Eighth Workshop of the International Network
Impact of Empire (Heidelberg, July 5–7, 2007) (ed. Olivier Hekster, Sebastian Schmidt-
Hofner, and Christian Witschel; Leiden: Brill, 2009), 95–110.
111. Hekster, “Descendants,” 35.
112. On the different inflections of “son of God” in Christology, see Adela Yarbro Collins
and John J. Collins, King and Messiah as Son of God (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008).
113. During his Nicene-era Christological debate, he was defending the pre-Nicene
position of Dionysius of Alexandria. Greek: τῶν ἀγνοουμένων, καὶ προσαγωγη̑ς εἰς
ἐπίγνωσιν δεομένων, οὐ μόνον ἀλλοι α̑ πολλάκις, ἀλλὰ καὶ ὑπεναντία τεκμήρια γίνεται τῶν
ἐπιζητουμένων δηλώματα (Athanasius, De Sententia Dionysii 18 [79]; PG 25b: 508; critical
edition in Hans-Georg Opitz, ed., Athanasius Werke 2.1 [Berlin: de Gruyter, 1935], 46–67).
■ Chapter 3
1. For analysis of this issue, see Nicholas D. Kristof, “The Dynastic Question,” New
York Times, January 31, 2008. He does not note the coincidence that a member of the “Julian”
household was also among the top candidates for the office—R. Giuliani, former mayor of
New York City.
2. Though the actual mechanism of adoption is not relevant in the American political
analogy, it did function as a metaphor in the 2008 election. Since Barack Obama was not
from a lineage of American “nobility,” he was frequently “affiliated” with and sometimes
described by pundits as “adopted” by the Kennedys—the only left-wing political dynasty
stronger than the Clintons. Cf. Jonah Goldberg, “Myth of Camelot,” National Review Online,
February 1, 2008, available at <http://www.townhall.com/Columnists/JonahGoldberg/
2008/02/01/the_myth_of_camelot>.
3. In using the term “ideology,” I am relying on the excellent work of Clifford Ando,
Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2000), noted frequently in the following pages. He has used the critical the-
ories of Weber, Habermas, and especially Bourdieu to defend the appropriateness of the term
for describing—in Bourdieu’s words—the “doxic system” of the Roman Empire. See Pierre
Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (trans. R. Nice; Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1977), especially “Structures, habitus, power: basis for a theory of symbolic power,”
159–97. Bourdieu’s term doxa encapsulates those elements of a societal worldview, “social
structures and mental structures,” which remain “undiscussed” and thus unquestioned by
almost all members of a given society. For our purposes, some of these are: the centrality of
father-son relationships, the transmission of power from fathers to sons, and the necessity of
adoption to fulfill the dynastic grammar through which Roman power was expressed. For
Bourdieu (and Ando), ideology denotes the discourses and processes through which power
relationships become naturalized and universalized. But ideology is not only, or even pri-
marily, dictated from the powerful at the top of a social pyramid; it permeates the society and
is quite like the substrate on which power relationships are activated. Returning to the linguistic
metaphor, ideology is the set of grammatical rules according to which power speaks.
4. Alan Watson, The Law of the Ancient Romans (Dallas: Southern Methodist
University Press, 1970), 37.
5. Gaius, Inst. 1.55: fere enim nulli alii sunt homines, qui talem in filios suos habent
potestatem, qualem nos habemus.
6. Emiel Eyben, “Fathers and Sons,” in Rawson, ed., Marriage, 106–43; Richard Saller,
“Patria Potestas and the Stereotype of the Roman Family,” Continuity and Change 1 (1986):
7–22; idem, “Pietas, obligation, and authority in the Roman family,” in Alte Geschichte und
Wissenschaftsgeschichte: Festschrift für Karl Christ zum 65. Geburtstag (ed. Peter Kneissl and
Volker Losemann; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1988), 393–410.
7. Cicero refers to the law of adoption as concerning “the inheritance of the name and
property and sacred rites of the family,” hereditates nominis pecuniae sacrorum (Dom. 35).
8. The contrast summarized here is discussed in Jack Goody, “Adoption in Cross-
Cultural Perspective,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 11 (1969): 55–78. See also
Hugh Lindsay, “Adoption and its Function in Cross-Cultural Contexts,” in Childhood, Class,
and Kin in the Roman World (London: Routledge, 2001), 190–204.
9. On this point, see Halvor Moxnes, “What Is Family?” in Constructing Early Christian
Families (ed. Halvor Moxnes; London: Routledge, 1997), 19. In the same volume, see also
Eva Marie Lassen, “The Roman Family: Ideal and Metaphor,” 103–20.
10. Moxnes, “Family,” 20–21.
11. OCD, 13.
12. Aulus Gellius, Noct. Att. 5.19.
13. For a good general treatment of adoption based on the legal codes, see Jane F. Gardner,
Family and Familia in Roman Law and Life (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 114–208; and the
essays in Rawson, ed., Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome. I have found
these to be more helpful than Hugh Lindsay, Adoption in the Roman World (Cambridge;
New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009), which is neither as cogent as Gardner on the
legal materials nor as stimulating as Kunst on the nonlegal evidence (see below).
14. The term used is “volksrechtlich” in Marek Kurylowicz, “Adoption on the Evidence
of the Papyri,” Journal of Juristic Papyrology 19 (1983): 61–75.
15. Christiane Kunst, Römische Adoption: Zur Strategie einer Familienorganisation
(Hennef: Marthe Clauss, 2005).
16. Ibid., Adoption, 14. Translations of Kunst are my own.
17. See Martin S. Smith, “Greek Adoptive Formulae,” CQ 61 (1967): 302–10; and Kunst,
Adoption, 14 no. 4. Some Greek authors prefer forms of [υἱο]ποιου̑μαι (Polybius, Diodorus
Siculus, Dinarchus apud Dionysus of Halicarnassus, Cassius Dio, etc.), but others prefer forms
of the τίθημι group (Philo and most papyri, though the terminology is not limited to Egypt).
Many, such as Appian, prefer the former for a verb (ποιου̑μαι) and the latter for a noun (θέσις).
Nicolaus of Damascus varies his terminology when discussing the adoption of Octavian.
18. This argument is further supported by a comparative study of epitaphs for Roman
children: Hanne Sigismund Nielsen, “Quasi-Kin, Quasi-Adoption and the Roman Family,”
in Adoption et Fosterage (ed. Mireille Corbier; Paris: De Boccard, 1999), 249–62; and idem,
“Alumnus: A Term of Relation Denoting Quasi-Adoption,” Classica et Mediaevalia 38
(1987): 141–88.
19. Kunst, Adoption, 31; and Suzanne Dixon, The Roman Family (Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1992) 162.
20. Watson, Law, 39.
21. Cf. Kunst, Adoption, 14.
22. See below on Pliny’s Panegyric of Trajan; cf. Hadrian’s speech on adoption of
Antoninus Pius (Cassius Dio, Roman History 69.20).
23. Cicero, Leg. 2.5. sed necesse est caritate eam praestare, trans. LCL adapted. In Atticus’s
response he compares the confluence of a tributary and a main river to “enter[ing] a patri-
cian family” (2.6). The upward mobility of adoption was established enough to be used as an
analogy for other phenomena, whether river flow or city citizenship.
24. Kunst, Adoption, 294.

25. Mireille Corbier, “Divorce and Adoption as Roman Familial Strategies (Le Divorce et
l’adoption ‘en plus’),” in Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome, (ed. Beryl Rawson;
Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 76–77.
26. Marcel-Henri Prévost, Les Adoptions politiques à Rome sous la République et le
Principat (Paris, 1949), 72. Trans. my own.
27. Trans. my own. Epictetus, Disc. 1.3.2: ἀλλ᾽ ἂν μὲν Και σ̑ αρ εἰσποιήσηταί σε, οὐδείς
σου τὴν ὀϕρυ̑ν βαστάσει.
28. The phrase “epistemological unconscious” is borrowed from social theorist Pierre
Bourdieu (cf. Pierre Bourdieu and Loïs J.D. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology
[Chicago, Ill.: University of Chicago Press, 1992], 41).
29. S. F. Bonner, Roman Declamation in the Late Republic and Early Empire (Liverpool:
University Press of Liverpool, 1949), 40. Suetonius mentions prominent participants and
audience members in Gramm. 22; cf. Nero 10.2.
30. Erik Gunderson, Declamation, Paternity, and Roman Identity (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2003), 9. Cf. Mary Beard, “Looking (Harder) for Roman Myth:
Dumézil, Declamation and the Problems of Definition,” in Mythos in mythenloser
Gesellschaft: Das Paradigma Roms (ed. Fritz Graf; Stuttgart: Teubner, 1993), 44–64.
31. Gunderson, Declamation, 22 and 233.
32. This theme is also examined by Lewis A. Sussman, “Sons and Fathers in the Major
Declamations Ascribed to Quintilian,” Rhetorica 13 (1995): 179–92.
33. Gunderson, Declamation, 103.
34. The declamations of Calpurnius Flaccus contain three dealing with adoption (nos.
11, 30, and 53, in Lewis A. Sussman, The Declamations of Calpurnius Flaccus [Leiden: Brill,
1994]). The major declamations of Quintilian do not address the subject (Lewis A. Sussman,
The Major Declamations Ascribed to Quintilian [Frankfurt; New York; P. Lang, 1987]). The
lesser declamations ascribed to Quintilian contain one instance which treats the rights of a
natural father over a son he gave away in adoption (LCL no. 346), but unfortunately the text
is cut short.
35. Trans. adapted from LCL. Latin: si volet ire, quaerat senex ille qui petit quales et quot
habeat maiores, quanta bona, an satis magno se possit addicere.
36. Trans. LCL. Latin: Fabriciorum imagines Metellis patuerunt; Aemiliorum et Scipionum
familias adoptio miscuit; etiam abolita saeculis nomina per successors novos fulgent. Sic illa
patriciorum nobilitas <a> fundamentis urbis habet usque in haec tempora constitit: adoptio
fortunae remedium est.
37. Trans. my own. Latin: cum diceret partem adulescentis Latro et tractaret adoptionis
locum, dixit: “iam iste ex imo per adoptionem nobilitati inseritur,” et alia in hanc summam.
(The verb inseritur is a long-accepted emendation by Nikolai Madvig in an often-corrupt
manuscript tradition of the Controversiae.) The close connection between adoption and
grafting is also employed by Philo in his comments on husbandry (Agr. 6), a fact noted
already by James M. Scott, Adoption as Sons of God: An Exegetical Investigation into the
Background of ΥΙΟΘΕΣΙΑ in the Pauline Corpus (WUNT II 48; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
1992), 81, as a comparandum for Paul’s use of the adoption metaphor. Paul uses images of
both adoption (Rom 8–9) and grafting (Rom 11) to symbolize the inclusion of Gentile sons
into the inheritance allotted to the sons of Israel. Philo also discusses non-Israelite lineage
in terms of plant metaphors at Praem. 152. When we add to Philo and Paul this example
from Roman declamation—and one other from Pliny the Elder (comparing grafting to
adoption in Nat. Hist. 15.41)—we may plausibly suggest that Paul has deftly deployed a
commonplace learned in his rhetorical education.
38. The same controversia is also extant in the declamations of Calpurnius Flaccus. He
speaks against the father, like Latro, but is more positive about the overall benefits of adop-
tion. Speaking on behalf of adoption in general: “Adoption is a sacred process, of course it
is, one which duplicates the privileges conferred by birth and statute.” Trans. from Sussman,
Calpurnius Flaccus, no. 30. Latin: adoptio sancta res est; quidni, quae beneficia naturae et
iuris imitatur.
39. Trans. LCL adapted. Latin: declamabat illam Caesare Augusto audiente et M. Agrippa,
cuius filios, nepotes suos, Caesar adoptaturus diebus illis videbatur.
40. Trans. LCL adapted. Latin: erat M. Agrippa inter eos qui non nati sunt nobiles sed
facti. (The phrasing is similar but contrary to the most famous case of natum non factum—
the Nicene Creed.)
41. Aulus Gellius, Noct. Att. 5.19. Trans. LCL adapted. Latin: Velitis, iubeatis, uti L. Valerius
L. Titio tam iure legeque filius siet, quam si ex eo patre matreque familias eius natus esset,
utique ei vitae necisque in eum potestas siet, uti patri endo filio est.
42. Kurylowicz, “Adoption,” 72–75; and see the list of papyri cited in Raphael
Taubenschlag, The Law of Greco-Roman Egypt in the Light of the Papyri, 332 B.C. – 640 A.D.
(2nd ed.; Milano: Cisalpino-Goliardico, 1972), 100, especially notes 12–13.
43. Smith, “Formulae,” 303–07.
44. Ibid., 302.
45. This event of 59 b.c.e was excoriated by Clodius’s political enemy, Cicero, in Dom.
34–38: “And so, having thrown the ceremonies of religion into confusion, having polluted
both families, both the one which you have abandoned and the one which you have entered,
having violated the legitimate practices of the Romans with respect to guardianships and
inheritances, you have been made, contrary to all the requirements of religion, the son of
that man of whom you were old enough to be the father.”
46. Elder Seneca, Controversiae 3.3.
47. Philo, Legat. 23. ὁ μὲν γὰρ θέσει υἱωνὸς ἠ̑ν, ὁ δὲ ϕύσει Τιβερίου.
48. Philo, Legat. 28. Trans. LCL. δέλεαρ γὰρ ἠ̑ν ἡ θέσις οὐκ ἐλπιζομένης ἡγεμονίας, ἀλλ̕
ἀϕαιρέσεως ἡ̑ς εἰχ̑ εν ἤδη . . . ἡ γὰρ υἱου̑ παντελὴς ἐξουσία κατὰ τοὺς τῶν Ῥωμαίων νόμους
ἀνάκειται πατρί.
49. Philo’s account of this affair is the only detailed one extant: the praetorian guard
soldiers dispatched to kill Tiberius Gemellus could not go through with the deed and
implored him to kill himself instead. But he was untrained in killing and had to be
instructed by the soldiers how to proceed. Cf. Suetonius, Cal. 23.3; Cassius Dio, Roman
History 59.8.1.
50. Philo, Legat. 27. Trans. LCL adapted. ἐγὼ δὲ [ἔϕη] παιδαγωγοὺς καὶ διδασκάλους
καὶ ἐπιτρόπους ὑπερβαλὼν, ἐμαυτὸν μὲν ἤδη γράϕω πατέρα, υἱὸν δὲ ἐκει ν̑ ον. Here the verb
γράϕω is used to enact adoption.
51. Kunst, Adoption, 15. Contrast the ritual of placing on the knees in the ancient Near
East, presumed by E. A. Speiser, Genesis (AB 1; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1981), 357,
based on B. Stade, “Auf Jemandes Knieen gebären,” ZAW 6 (1886): 143–56; and Isaac
Mendelsohn, “A Ugaritic Parallel to the Adoption of Ephraim and Manasseh,” IEJ 9 (1959):
180–83.
52. Diodorus Siculus, Roman History 4.39.2. Trans. LCL. This text exemplifies the flu-
idity of Greek terminology for adoption, using the verb υἱοποιου̑μαι, the verbal adjective
θετός, and the noun τέκνωσις—the last of which is used almost always in Greek literature
to mean natural begetting or bearing of children.
53. Though this is a contrast to the modern West, the focus on inheritance was present
in European and some Asian pre-industrial societies. Cf. Goody, “Adoption,” and Lindsay,
“Adoption.”
54. Res gest. divi Aug. 35.1; cf. Suetonius, Aug. 58.
55. DNP, 9:396. Cf. Andreas Alföldi, Der Vater des Vaterlandes im römischen Denken
(Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1971).
56. Cassius Dio, Roman History 44.4.4; Suetonius, Jul. 76.
57. This argument is made persuasively by Ando, Imperial Ideology, 400.
58. For example, Harold Mattingly, ed., Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum
(3 vols.; London: British Museum, 1965), Tiberius no. 155 [= plate 26.5]; cf. RPC 66–67; 538.
Others cited in Charles Brian Rose, Dynastic Commemoration and Imperial Portraiture in
the Julio-Claudian Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 225 no. 15.
59. Included in the formal titulature, abbreviated as P.P., from Augustus to Theodosius.
60. J. Rufus Fears, “Jupiter and Roman Imperial Ideology,” ANRW 17.1: 20.
61. Ibid., 21.
62. Ibid., 59.
63. After the Julio-Claudian dynasty came to an end, but the Empire continued and
expanded, later emperors returned to using Jupiter (and Zeus) as a unifying image to legitimate
their rule. According to Fears, there was a conscious attempt after the end of that dynasty,
especially under Domitian, Trajan, and Hadrian, to re-establish “the central role of Zeus-
Jupiter” as an “ideological foundation for the imperial structure, one which was neither
narrowly Roman nor linked to a single dynasty, but which could instead elicit the under-
standing and loyalty of the empire as a whole.” Fears, “Jupiter,” 89.
64. Ovid, Tristia 2.157: per patriam, quae te tuta et secura parente est. Composed c. 9 c.e.
65. Strabo, Geogr. 6.4.2. Trans. LCL. χαλεπὸν δὲ ἄλλως διοικει ν̑ τὴν τηλικαύτην
ἡγεμονίαν ἢ ἑνὶ ἐπιτρέψαντας ὡς πατρί.
66. Ovid, Tristia 2.181–2. Trans. LCL adapted. parce, pater patriae, nec nominis inmemor
huius / olim placandi spem mihi tolle tui.
67. Seneca, Clem. 1.14.2. Trans. LCL adapted. Hoc, quod parenti, etiam principi facien-
dum est, quem appellavimus Patrem Patriae non adulatione vana adducti. Cetera enim cog-
nomina honori data sunt; Magnos et Felices et Augustos diximus et ambitiosae maiestati
quicquid potuimus titulorum congessimus illis hoc tribuentes; Patrem quidem Patriae appel-
lavimus, ut sciret datam sibi potestatem patriam, quae est temperantissima liberis consulens
suaque post illos reponens.
68. Cf. Cassius Dio, Roman History 53.18.3 on the emperor’s function as father.
69. E.g., Taylor does not attend to the family associations of the genius, but instead inter-
prets it as a “thin veil for the emperor himself,” in Lily Ross Taylor, The Divinity of the Roman
Emperor (Middletown, Conn.: American Philological Association), 204.
70. Cf. chap. 2 on how the genius fits in to the overall picture of emperor worship.
71. John Scheid, An Introduction to Roman Religion (trans. Janet Lloyd; Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 2003), 162.
72. Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002),
chap. 7, “The Emperor’s Genius in State Cult,” 162–197.
73. Taylor, Divinity, 151–54, 182, 220, 227.
74. Gradel, Emperor Worship, 187.
75. Ibid., 196.

76. On the compital altars in general, see Michel Hano, “A l’origine du culte impérial: les
autels des Lares Augusti. Recherches sur les thèmes iconographiques et leur signification.”
ANRW 16.3: 2333–81; Heidi Hänlein Schäfer, “Die Ikonographie des Genius Augusti im
Kompital- und Hauskult der frühen Kaiserzeit,” in Subject and Ruler: The Cult of the Ruling
Power in Classical Antiquity (ed. Alistair Small; Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplements
17; Ann Arbor: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1996), 73–98; Karl Galinsky, Augustan Culture
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 300–12; and Gradel, Emperor Worship, 116–28.
77. See J. Bert Lott, The Neighborhoods of Augustan Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2004). According to Pliny the Elder, Flavian Rome was “divided into 14
districts and 265 compita for the Lares” (Nat. Hist. 3.66). Suetonius reports these divisions to
have originated with Augustus: “He divided the area of the city into regions and neighbor-
hoods (vicos), arranging that the former should be under the charge of magistrates selected
each year by lot, and the latter under magistri elected by the inhabitants of the respective
neighborhoods” (Aug. 30.1). Some of the names of the neighborhoods and outlines of the
compital altars can be seen in the partially preserved “Severan Marble Plan” map of the city;
see Lott, Neighborhoods, 16–17.
78. Res gest. divi Aug. 19–21; Suetonius, Aug. 31.4.
79. Ovid, Fast. 5.145–46. Trans. my own. mille Lares Geniumque ducis, qui tradidit illos,
/ urbs habet, et vici numina trina colunt.
80. Gradel, Emperor Worship, 128.
81. On the relationship of the Roman household to Roman imperial headship, see
Moxnes, “Family,” 26. Scholars have also emphasized how Augustus did not only enter others’
private houses as father, but also reshaped the Roman cults to center on his own house.
Roman religious sensibility was attuned to the proper places for cultic practices, so when
Augustus’s home on the Palatine became the location of the pontifex maximus and the cult
of Vesta, it meant that “the public hearth of the state . . . had been fused with the private
hearth of Augustus . . . . From 12 B.C. onwards, for the first time, Roman religion had a head.”
Mary Beard, John North, and Simon Price, Religions of Rome, Volume I: A History
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 191–92.
82. Ovid, Ep. ex Pont. 4.9.105–12. Trans. LCL adapted. nec pietas ignota mea est: videt
hospita terra / in nostra sacrum Caesaris esse domo. / stant pariter natusque pius coniunxque
sacerdos, / numina iam facto non leviora deo. / neu desit pars ulla domus, stat uterque nepo-
tum, / hic aviae lateri proximus, ille patris. / his ego do totiens cum ture precantia verba, / Eoo
quotiens surgit ab orbe dies. Composed c. 16 c.e.
83. Ovid, Ep. ex Pont., 4.9.115–16. Trans. LCL adapted. Pontica me tellus, quantis hac
possumus ara, / natalem libis scit celebrare dei.
84. Ovid, Ep. ex Pont., 4.9.125–26. Trans. LCL. et tamen haec tangent aliquando Caesaris
aures: / nil illi, toto quod fit in orbe, latet.
85. Ovid, Ep. ex Pont., 4.9.127, 132. Trans. LCL adapted. superis ascite . . . caelite novo. Cf.
4.6.17 on Augustus as a recent caelitus after his death and apotheosis, about which Ovid
wrote a poem, unfortunately not extant.
86. Ovid, Ep. ex Pont., 4.9.133–34. Trans. LCL adapted. auguror his igitur flecti tua
numina, nec tu / inmerito nomen mite Parentis habes.
87. Cassius Dio, Roman History 51.19.7. Trans. my own. τούς τε ἱερέας καὶ τὰς ἱερείας ἐν
ται̑ς ὑπέρ τε του̑ δήμου καὶ τη̑ς βουλη̑ς εὐχαις̑ καὶ ὑπὲρ ἐκείνου ὁμοίως εὔχεσθαι, καὶ ἐν τοις̑
συσσιτίοις οὐχ ὅτι τοι ς̑ κοινοις̑ ἀλλὰ καὶ τοις̑ ἰδίοις πάντας αὐτῳ̑ σπένδειν ἐκέλευσαν.
88. Petronius, Satyricon 60: Augusto, patri patriae, feliciter! and Dii propitii!
89. Horace, Carm. 4.5.31–35: hinc ad vina redit laetus et alteris / te mensis adhibet
deum / te multa prece, te prosequitur mero / defuso pateris et Laribus tuum / miscet numen.
90. Cf. Horace, Ep. 2.1.16, which mentions altars to the numen of Augustus.
91. Ovid, Fast. 2.633–38: et libate dapes, ut, grati pignus honoris, / nutriat incinctos missa
patella Lares. / iamque ubi suadebit placidos nox humida somnos, / larga precaturi sumite vina
manu, / et “bene vos, bene te, patriae pater, optime Caesar” / dicite, suffuso per sacra verba mero.
92. πατὴρ τη̑ς πατρίδος καὶ του̑ σύμπαντος τω̑ ν ἀνθρώπων γένους. E.g., Ios PE I2 181.3
(reign of Tiberius). Cf. Ando, Imperial Ideology, 403 no. 315, citing inscriptions compiled in
W. H. Buckler, “Auguste, Zeus Patroos,” Revue de Philologie 9 (3rd series, 1935): 177–88.
93. Its importance was also emphasized by a contemporary of Hammond: Herbert
Nesselhauf, “Die Adoption des römischen Kaisers,” Hermes 83 (1955): 477–95. The work of
Kunst has now superseded that of Nesselhauf, though Hammond’s analysis is still the best
available in English.
94. Mason Hammond, The Augustan Principate in Theory and Practice During the
Julio-Claudian Period (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1933); The Antonine
Monarchy (Rome: American Academy in Rome, 1959), 1–24; and especially, “The
Transmission of Powers of the Roman Emperor from the Death of Nero in A.D. 68 to that
of Alexander Severus in A.D. 235,” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 24 (1956):
63–133.
95. Hammond, “Transmission,” 65.
96. Cf. Hammond, Augustan, esp. 23–24.
98. Ibid., 77.
99. Tacitus, Hist. 1.4.2: evulgato imperii arcano posse principem alibi quam Romae fieri.
Trans. LCL.
101. Ibid., 67. Italics added.
102. Ando, Imperial Ideology, 27.
103. See Max Weber, Economy and Society (2 vols.; ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich;
Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 1:212–301; 2:1111–57.
105. Ibid., 34.
106. This consensus view is still accurate, but it has been tempered by Olivier Hekster,
“All in the Family: The Appointment of Emperors Designate in the Second Century AD,” in
Administration, Prosopography and Appointment Policies in the Roman Empire (ed. Lukas de
Blois; Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben, 2001), 35–49. He helpfully points out that this was not a
clean meritocratic system; there were dynastic considerations even in the period of the
so-called adoptive emperors.
107. Ando, Imperial Ideology, 39. The connection between second-century adoptive
succession and the imperial virtue of pietas has been explained well by Brian K. Harvey,
“Two Bases of Marcus Aurelius Caesar and the Roman Imperial Succession,” Historia:
Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 53 (2004): 46–60.
108. On the general role coins played in legitimating imperial successions, see
Christopher Howgego, Ancient History from Coins (London: Routledge, 1995), 80–82.
109. E.g., the gold aurei and silver denarii listed in RIC 1, coins 55–56 (= plate IV.207,
209, 211).
208 ■ Notes to Page 69
110. Hadrian had to respond to skeptical rumors that his adoption by Trajan was not
legitimate. One means of response was the issue of silver denarii with the legend “ADOPTIO”
on the reverse, underneath a scene of Trajan and Hadrian clasping hands (cf. the Galba-Piso
adoption, during which Galba “took hold of Piso’s hand”; Tacitus, Hist. 1.15). Coins are listed
in RIC 2 under Hadrian as no. 3a (= plate XII.217); cf. no. 22a and 22c.
111. Cf. Rose, Dynastic Commemoration, passim. See below on the portraiture of
Augustus’s adopted sons. See also the adoption relief from the “Great Antonine Altar” at
Ephesus, which commemorates Hadrian’s adoption of Antoninus Pius (fig. 42, slabs M and
N, in Cornelius C. Vermeule, Roman Imperial Art in Greece and Asia Minor [Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1968], 111).
112. On the bizarre testamentary adoption of Livia, see Anthony A. Barrett, Livia: First
Lady of Imperial Rome (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), esp. 148–51. Tacitus
records how, although the Senate wanted to shower Livia with all kinds of honors after her
adoption as “Julia Augusta,” Tiberius wanted instead to limit the honors granted to women.
Cf. Suetonius, Tib. 50.3; Cassius Dio, Roman History 57.12. Tacitus states that an “altar of
adoption” (ara adoptionis) was one of the items Tiberius denied her. This exact term is not
used elsewhere, but it corresponds to monuments erected for other major events among
ruling families. From the argument of Tacitus, one can plausibly infer that Tiberius himself
received some commemoration of his adoption—perhaps an altar—and did not want Livia
to receive the same, being “tense with resentment and interpreting her womanly elevation
as depreciation of himself ” (Tacitus, Ann. 1.14; trans. from The Annals [trans. A.J. Woodman;
Indianapolis: Hackett, 2004]), 11. For comparable altars, cf. Tacitus, Ann. 4.74.2; and
Suetonius, Cal. 8.1. Elsewhere Livia is commemorated as “daughter of Augustus,” making
her probably unique in world history—as wife (Aug.), daughter (Aug.), and mother (Tib.)
of an emperor (e.g., CIL 11.1165).
113. This source has been brought into the discussion of emperor worship by Gradel,
Emperor Worship (see my chap. 2). The Arvales Fratres or “Arval brethren” were a collegium
of 12 priests, known from at least the 4th century b.c.e to the 4th century c.e., who per-
formed periodic sacrificial rituals in a sacred grove west of Rome and at various locations
within Rome. Besides their primary devotion to the otherwise unknown goddess Dea Dia,
the Arval brethren enacted votives and sacrifices for the emperor and the imperial family.
From at least the second century c.e., we know they maintained a Caesareum on their prop-
erty devoted to the genius of the living emperor and also the divi and divae. The Arval
brethren offer unique evidence for Roman imperial religion, since they recorded their acta
on plaques in the grove, many of which are still extant. The inscriptions are edited in Acta
Fratrum Arvalium (ed. Guil. Henzen; Berlin, 1874); and John Scheid, Commentarii Fratrum
Arvalium qui supersunt (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1998). Cf. John Scheid, Romulus
et ses frères: le collège des Frères Arvales, modèle du culte public dans la Rome des empereurs
(Rome: École Française de Rome, 1990).
114. Clearly depicted in the first line of the inscription is the occasion: “adoptio facta.”
Henzen, p. XCI, lines 24–33 [= Scheid, p. 100, no. 40, lines 24–32].
115. Despite a damaged inscription, we can deduce that, on February 25, 58 c.e., the
sacrifices for the adoption of Nero by Claudius (and its anniversary) followed a similar
format (Henzen, p. LXVII, lines 28–32 [= Scheid, p. 63, no. 26, lines 28–32]; and Scheid p. 67,
no. 27, lines 57–60).
116. Public games for Marcellus and Gaius and Lucius (Suetonius, Aug. 43.5); a public
adoption of Agrippa Postumus and Tiberius (Suetonius, Aug. 65.1); Nerva’s adoption of
Trajan at the Capitol (Cassius Dio, Roman History 68.3.4). Peter Herz discusses the adoption
of Gaius and Lucius Caesar as part of the calendar of festivals at Messene (Achaia): Peter
Herz, “Die Adoptivsöhne des Augustus und der Festkalender: Gedanken zu einer Inschrift
aus Messene,” Klio 75 (1993): 272–88.
117. J. Rufus Fears, Princeps a diis electus: the Divine Election of the Emperor as a Political
Concept at Rome (Rome: American Academy in Rome, 1977), 1.
118. Ibid., 317.
119. Ibid., 68.
120. Ibid., 12.
121. Ibid., 321.
122. On the considerable impact of Hellenestic royal ideology (especially that of
Alexander) on Roman imperial ideology, see Fears, Princeps, 45–83.
123. The best summary statement is: “And even though he became great through
Fortune, he is even greater in that he made good use of his Fortune. And the more we praise
his Fortune the more shall we exalt his Virtue by reason of which he became worthy of his
Fortune.” Plutarch, Alex. Fort. 340B. Trans. LCL.
124. Plutarch, Alex. Fort. 338F. Trans. my own. “Adoption” is the translation of
εἰσποίησις.
125. Plutarch, Alex. 703E.
126. Primary publications are in Ernst Kornemann, Klio 7 (1907): 278–88; and in
Griechische Papyri im Museum des oberhessischen Geschichtsvereins zu Giessen (ed. Ernst
Kornemann and Otto Eger; Leipzig and Berlin: Teubner, 1910–12), 15–22. Reprinted several
times, e.g., no. 29 in P. W. Pestman, ed., The New Papyrological Primer (2nd ed.; Leiden: Brill,
1994).
127. This celebration’s occurrence in the “Apollopolite” nome is almost certainly the
reason why Apollo refers to himself as “not unknown” (= very well known). The nome is
named after him.
128. The most relevant phrase, “the genius of his father, a god,” is a translation of πατρὸς
τύχην θεου̑. The most common Greek rendering of genius is τύχη.
129. RIC 2, p. 415, coin 589 (= plate XV.304); cf. RIC 2, p. 418, coin 602.
130. Fears, Princeps, 244; Arthur Darby Nock, “A DIIS ELECTA,” HTR 23 (1930): 268 ;
repr. in Essays on Religion and the Ancient World (2 vols.; ed. Zeph Stewart; Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1972), 1:265.
131. I await the continued work of Olivier Hekster, which will likely bear some relation
to my own. He indicates a research project “eventually to appear as Emperors and Ancestors:
Lineage and Roman Imperial Ideology” in a footnote to his article, Olivier Hekster,
“Descendants of Gods: Legendary Genealogies in the Roman Empire,” in The Impact of
Imperial Rome on Religions, Ritual, and Religious Life in the Roman Empire: Proceedings of
the Fifth International Network, Münster, June 30–July 4, 2004 (ed. Lukas de Blois, Peter
Funke, and Johannes Hahn; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 35 n. 58.
132. Trans. of Suetonius for the remainder of this chapter are adapted from LCL,
unless noted.
133. E.g., Mattingly, British Museum, 1:368–93; cf. nos. 12 [= plate 60.22], 27–29 [= plate
61.4–6], 119 [plate 62.7]. Tacitus, Hist. 2.59 narrates the pageantry surrounding his young
son, Germanicus.
134. A natural dynastic succession appealed to the Roman military mind-set, as typified
in Josephus’s speech-in-character by Vespasian’s troops: “The best safeguard of peace lies in
a legitimate succession of rulers.” Josephus, BJ 4.596–97: μέγιστον γὰρ δὴ πρὸς ἀσϕάλειαν

̑ τὰς γνησίους τω̑ ν βασιλέων διαδοχάς.
εἰρήνης εἰ ναι
135. Tacitus, Hist. 2.77. Trans. LCL.
137. Plutarch, Otho 3.1–2.
138. Cassius Dio, Roman History 53.18.2: τὴν του̑ γένους σϕω̑ ν διαδοχήν.
139. For the Julio-Claudian period, see Rose, Dynastic Commemoration. For individual
emperors and dynasties, see the series, Das römische Herrscherbild (Berlin: Mann).
140. William Metcalf, personal interview, April 5, 2005.
141. For the beginnings of imperial adoption with Julius Caesar and Octavian, see the
end of chap. 2.
142. Josephus, BJ 2.25.
143. William Metcalf, personal communication, April 5, 2005.
144. Rose, Dynastic Commemoration, 9.
145. Ibid., 14. Recall the tension caused by Porcius Latro in his declamation about adop-
tion in the presence of Augustus and Agrippa (Elder Seneca, Controversiae 2.4.12).
146. Rose, Dynastic Commemoration, 14.
147. Ibid., 14.
148. For analysis and images of the compital altars, see Michel Hano, “A l’origine du
culte impérial”; Galinsky, Augustan Culture, 300–12; and Gradel, Emperor Worship, 116–28.
149. Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (trans. Alan Shapiro; Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1988), 130–34.
150. See Lott, Neighborhoods, 120–5.
151. Lott, Neighborhoods, 125–6. Gaius and Lucius were also honored in Athens at this
time. On top of the Roman Market’s “West Gate,” most of which is still standing today, there
was an equestrian statue of Lucius Caesar dedicated by “the people” of Athens to “Lucius
Caesar, son of the Emperor Son of God Augustus Caesar.” The “son of god” is part of the title
of Augustus, not Lucius: Ὁ Δη̑μος Λούκιον Καίσαρα Ἀυτοκράτορος Θεου̑ Ὑου̑ Σεβαστου̑
Καίσαρος Ὕον (IG II2 3251; spelling defective). It seems that Gaius was also honored that
year, and that the Athenian inscription to him as the “new Ares” was likely a dedication cor-
related to the transplantation of a temple of Ares to Athens, to honor Gaius’s military tour
of the East. He had left Rome from the Temple of Mars Ultor and would be honored in a
similar fashion upon his arrival in Athens. For images and analysis, see Michael C. Hoff, “An
Equestrian Statue of Lucius Caesar in Athens Reconsidered,” Archäologischer Anzeiger
(2001): 583–99.
152. Lott, Neighborhoods, 126.
153. Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (trans. Robert Graves; rev. Michael Grant; London:
Penguin, 1979), 139.
154. E.g., RIC 1, p. 103, coin 1 (= plate V.78).
155. Cf. Rose, Dynastic Commemoration, 20.
156. On the favorable omens surrounding the selection of Tiberius, see below.
157. Trans. of Ann. 12–13 adapted from Tacitus, The Annals (trans. Woodman).
158. Rose, Dynastic Commemoration, 42–3.
159. Ibid., 43.
160. Josephus, BJ 2.248–49. “ . . . Nero, the successor of [Claudius’] rule, whom he
adopted into the inheritance of his rule through the connivance of his wife Agrippina,
although he had a legitimate son, Britannicus, by his former wife Messalina.” Trans. my own.
Greek: . . . Νέρωνα τη̑ς ἀρχη̑ς διάδοχον, ὃν ταις̑ Ἀγριππίνης τη̑ς γυναικὸς ἀπάταις ἐπὶ
κληρονομίᾳ τη̑ς ἀρχη̑ς εἰσεποιήσατο καίπερ υἱὸν ἔχων γνήσιον Βρεττανικὸν ἐκ Μεσσαλίνης
τη̑ς προτέρας γυναικὸς. Cf. AJ 20.150.
161. Ando does suggest that in the provinces and “the barracks,” there was more faith in
dynastic continuity than in constitutional debates or leges de imperio. Ando, Imperial
Ideology, 33.
163. Translations of the Histories are from the LCL.
164. Formal leges curiatae were promulgated for some other imperial adoptions:
Octavian was most explicit (Appian, Bell. civ. 3.94) and convened a lex curiata to ratify all
the rights he ought to have had as a son of Julius Caesar. Cf. Agrippa Postumus and Tiberius
(Suet., Aug. 65.1); and Nero (Tac., Ann. 12.26.1).
165. Tacitus, Hist. 1.16: sub Tiberio et Gaio et Claudio unius familiae quasi hereditas
fuimus: loco libertatis erit quod eligi coepimus; et finita Iuliorum Claudiorumque domo
optimum quemque adoptio inveniet. nam generari et nasci a principibus fortuitum, nec ultra
aestimatur: adoptandi iudicium integrum et, si velis eligere, consensu monstratur.
166. Elder Seneca, Controversiae 2.1.17: adoptio fortunae remedium est. The doctrine
would be reiterated by Hadrian’s speech at his deathbed adoption of Antoninus Pius: “Now
there is a distinction between natural and adopted sons: for a begotten son (τὸ γεννώμενον)
becomes whatever kind of person seems appropriate to the heavenly powers, but a man
takes an adopted son (τὸ ποιούμενον) to himself through a deliberate selection. The result
is that, through natural processes, a man is often given a deformed and incompetent son, but
through a process of judgment, one of sound body and mind is certain to be chosen” (Dio
69.20.3). Trans. my own.
167. Otho was also concerned about providentia: if he would have been victorious over
Vitellius at the battle of Betriacum, he would have adopted his nephew Salvius Cocceianus
as his son and heir (Plutarch, Otho 16.2). This boy was executed over twenty years later
(while consul) by Domitian, who was suspicious of him as a possible rival. Cf. Suetonius,
Dom. 10.3; and P. A. Roche, “The Execution of L. Salvius Otho Cocceianus,” CQ 53 (2003):
319–22.
169. The storm is cited also by Plutarch, who states that “the act of adoption was inaus-
picious and was not favored or approved by the heavenly powers.” Galba 23.2. Trans. LCL.
170. Ronald Syme notes resemblances between the political circumstances of the adop-
tions during 69 (Galba-Piso) and 97 (Nerva-Trajan). He describes Tacitus as primarily “a
political historian” who is preoccupied less with events than with “the sources of power.” The
speech of Galba is thus one of “high policy” about adoption as a means of transmitting
power. Ronald Syme, Tacitus (2 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1958), 1:147, 153, 207.
171. Cassius Dio, Roman History 68.3.4: διὰ τὸ γη̑ρας οὕτω καταϕρονούμενος. The
phrasing is reminiscent of Plutarch’s assessment of Galba thinking himself “despised not
only on account of his old age but also his childlessness” (μὴ μόνον διὰ τὸ γη̑ρας ἀλλὰ καὶ
διὰ τὴν ἀπαιδίαν καταϕρονούμενος, Plutarch, Galba 19.1).
172. Cassius Dio, Roman History 68.3.4: Μα̑ρκον Οὔλπιον Νέρουαν Τραϊανὸν ποιου̑μαι.
The simplicity of the declaration echoes the speech given by Gaius Caligula to adopt Tiberius
Gemellus, as recorded by Philo (Legat. 27) and noted earlier in this chapter. Note again the
flexibility of the verbs used for adoption—here it is just the unprefixed verb ποιου̑μαι, used
also by Dio to describe Galba’s adoption of Piso (Cassius Dio, Roman History 63.5).

174. It is also true that Pliny’s positive portrayal of adoption should not be divorced
from his own status as an adopted son (cf. Pliny, Ep. 5.8.5).
175. Fears, Princeps, 151. See also the literature cited there.
176. Translations of Pliny, Panegyric, are adapted from the LCL.
177. The connection between the two speeches has been noted already; e.g., Karl
Büchner, “Tacitus und Plinius über Adoption des römischen Kaisers,” Rheinisches Museum
für Philologie 98 (1955): 289–312. On the relationship of the speeches, I concur with Fears:
“Both Pliny and Tacitus drew from the common stock of political literature of the early
principate, and for this reason there is little point to the question whether Pliny influenced
Tacitus’s language in this passage or vice-versa” (Fears, Princeps, 164).
178. Italics added. Latin: oro et obtestor, si bene rem publicam, si ex utilitate omnium regit,
primum, ut illum nepotibus nostris ac pronepotibus serves: deinde, ut quandoque successorem
ei tribuas, quem genuerit, quem formaverit, similemque fecerit adoptato; aut, si hoc fato neg-
atur, in consilio sis eligenti, monstresque aliquem, quem adoptari in Capitolio deceat.
179. In the late-third or fourth century, the author of the “Life of Septimius Severus,”
who claims to be writing under the reign of Diocletian, praises adoption as a mode of
succession (SHA, Septimius Severus, 20–21). Eusebius, on the other hand, would come to
praise the begotten sons of Constantine, as I will discuss below in chap. 5.
■ Chapter 4
1. Candida R. Moss, “The Transfiguration: An Exercise in Markan Accommodation,”

BibInt 12 (2004): 69–89.
2. Moss, “Transfiguration,” 70.
3. Ibid., 89.
4. I do not want to reinforce an artificial divide between “Jewish” and “Roman”
listeners. I think the audience of Mark is diverse, and many of its members were culturally
variegated in themselves. But imagining a listener attuned to Roman culture allows us to
hear the text in new ways.
5. By counter-emperor, I do not mean simply that Jesus is depicted as against the
emperor. I use “counter” in the sense of musical counterpoint, which is a musical figure or
theme that is independent but also interdependent with another musical line. The
counterpoint is constantly interacting with the other line and in some sense drawing its
motif from the pervasive melody.
6. C. Clifton Black, “Was Mark a Roman Gospel?,” ExpT 105 (1993): 36. Cf. C. Clifton
Black, Mark: Images of an Apostolic Interpreter (Columbia: University of South Carolina
Press, 1994).
7. Black, “Roman Gospel?,” 39–40.
8. For a balanced treatment of these issues, see Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark: A
Commentary (ed. Harold W. Attridge; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 2007), 7–10,
96–102.
9. See the full list at Robert H. Gundry, Mark: A Commentary on His Apology for the
Cross (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993), 1044.
10. On these points, see Benjamin Wisner Bacon, Is Mark a Roman Gospel? (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1919), 66–75; and John Donahue and Daniel Harrington,
The Gospel of Mark (Sacra Pagina 2; Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2002), 40.
11. Black, “Roman Gospel?,” 39.

12. Galilee was defended by Willi Marxsen, Mark the Evangelist (Nashville: Abingdon,
1969); and later by Hendrika N. Roskam, The Purpose of the Gospel of Mark in Its Historical
and Social Context (NovTSup 114; Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2004). Syria is defended currently
by Gerd Theissen, The Gospels in Context (trans. Linda M. Maloney; Minneapolis: Fortress
Press, 1991), 236–49; and Joel Marcus, Mark 1–8 (Anchor Bible Commentary 27; New York:
Doubleday, 2000), 33–37.
13. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 33–34. Cf. Marcus, “The Jewish War and the Sitz im Leben of
Mark,” JBL 111 (1992): 441–62.
14. Ibid., 34.
15. Ibid., 34.
16. Francis J. Moloney, The Gospel of Mark (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2002), 15.
17. Cf. Brian J. Incigneri, The Gospel to the Romans (Biblical Interpretation Series 65;
Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2003), 138, and literature cited there about details of such communi-
cation in the first-century Empire.
18. Josephus, B.J. 7.37–40, 139–46.
19. Theissen, Gospels, 242, though he tries valiantly to explain away the absurdities.
20. The sixth-century hagiography of Barnabas even contains this surprising descrip-
tion of the relationship between Mark and Peter: when Peter went to Rome, “he took along
Mark, adopting him like a son, and there he put together the Gospel narrative” (παρέλαβε
μεθ’ ἑαυτου̑ τὸν Μάρκον, τρόπον τίνα τεκνοποιήσας αὐτόν· ἐκει ̑ συνέταξε τὴν εὐαγγελικὴν
ἱστορίαν), from “Laudatio Barnabae,” in Hagiographica Cypria (ed. Peter Van Deun and
Jacques Noret; CCSG 26; Turnhout: Brepols, 1993), 106, lines 559–60. The hagiographer
could be extrapolating from 1 Pet 5:13.
21. Compiled helpfully as “Testimonia patrum veterum” in Kurt Aland, Synopsis
Quattuor Evangeliorum (rev. ed.; Stuttgart: Deutsche Biblegesellschaft, 2001), 547–64.
Analyzed at length in Black, Mark, 77–191.
22. The data is also reported in the “anti-Marcionite” and “Monarchian” prologues. In all
this, only John Chrysostom diverts from the basic account—but he does not locate Mark in
Syria, as one might expect, given that Chrysostom spent much of his life there. Rather, he
claims Mark wrote in Alexandria, a statement scholars regard as a misunderstanding of
Eusebius’ report about Mark’s preaching in Egypt. Eusebius had said that Mark was the first
to be sent to Egypt “to preach the Gospel, which he also had written” (τὸ εὐαγγέλιον ὅ δὴ
καὶ συνεγράψατο κηρυ̑ξαι, Hist. eccl. 2.16).
23. A vast amount of literature has been produced about this text, which is not germane
to the argument I make in this chapter.
24. The Adumbrationes, preserved in Latin, seems to be the same text as the lost Greek
Hypotypōseis (‘Υποτυπώσεις).
25. Trans. my own. The text is from the edition of “Fragment 24” by Otto Stählin, GCS
17:206 = Aland, Synopsis, 555 = Berol. Phill. 1665. Two variants (neither of which is relevant
for my argument) are preserved in Migne (PG 9:732). Latin: Marcus Petri sectator, praedi-
cante Petro Evangelium palam Romae coram quibusdam Caesareanis equitibus, et multa
Christi testimonia proferente; petitus ab eis ut possent quae dicebantur memoriae commen-
dare, scripsit ex his quae Petro dicta sunt, Evangelium quod secundum Marcum vocitatur.
26. “Equites,” OCD, 551.
27. R. Pesch, Das Markusevangelium (HTKNT II/1–2; 2 vols.; Freiburg: Herder,
1976–77); J. Ernst, Das Evangleium nach Markus (RNT; Regensburg: Pustet Verlag, 1981);
J. Gnilka, Das Evangelium nach Markus (5th ed.; EKKNT II/1–2; 2 vols.; Zürich/Neukirchen/
Vluyn: Benziger Verlag/Neukirchener Verlag, 1998). But a defender of Syrian provenance is
Ludger Schenke, Das Markusevangelium (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2005).
28. Martin Hengel, Studies in the Gospel of Mark (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 28–30.
29. The interpretive practice of locating the Gospel of Mark in a specific time and place
has been taken to its limit by Incigneri, Gospel to the Romans, which reads Mark as addressed
to traumatized Roman Christians in late 71 c.e., after the triumphant return of Titus from
Jerusalem. His interpretation has many fascinating moments, but it ultimately reads the
Gospel of Mark too frequently as an allegory for current political events. Adam Winn, The
Purpose of Mark’s Gospel (WUNT II 245; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), was brought to my
attention during this book’s final revisions, and I was not yet able to assess its arguments.
30. John Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 198, after
analyzing the debate over the provenance of the Gospel of John.
31. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 101.
32. Werner Eck, Rom und Judaea: Fünf Vorträge zur Römischen Herrschaft in Palaestina
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 51, 236.
33. To supplement the general analysis of Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial
Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 215–28, see
the specific treatment of Carlos F. Noreña, “The Communication of the Emperor’s Virtues,”
JRS 91 (2001): 146–68.
34. Fronto, Ep. 4.12: usquequaque ubique imagines vestrae sint volgo propositae.
35. Based on an approximate figure of 50 million residents in the Roman Empire in the
mid-first century. See M. Pfanner, “Über das Herstellen von Porträts: Ein Beitrag zu
Rationalisierungsmaßnahmen und Produktionsmechanismen von Massenware im späten
Hellenismus und in der römischen Kaiserzeit,” Jahrbuch des deutschen archäologischen
Instituts 104 (1989): 178; cited in Ando, Ideology, 232.
36. There are over 300,000 Christian churches in the United States and about 300
million people. For this estimate of churches, see the Hartford Institute for Religious
Research: http://hirr.hartsem.edu/index.html.
37. On the overall function of the portraits and other images, see Paul Zanker, The
Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (trans. Alan Shapiro; Ann Arbor: University of
Michigan Press, 1988).
38. Cf. Ando, Ideology, 392.
39. ἠ̑ρξεν δὲ τω̑ ι κόσμωι τω̑ ν δι’ αὐτὸν εὐανγελί[ων ἡ γενέθλιος] του̑ θεου̑. OGIS
2:48–60, cited in Lily Ross Taylor, The Divinity of the Roman Emperor (Middletown, Conn.:
American Philological Association, 1931), 273.
40. The connections were made as early as Julius Wellhausen, Einleitung in die drei
ersten Evangelien, (2nd ed.; Berlin: G. Reimer, 1911), 98; and Ernst Lohmeyer, Christuskult
und Kaiserkult (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1919), 24. They have been charted
out by Craig A. Evans, “Mark’s Incipit and the Priene Calendar Inscription: From Jewish
Gospel to Greco-Roman Gospel,” Journal for the Study of Greco-Roman Christianity and
Judaism 1 (2000): 67–81.
41. On the textual problems with Mark 1:1, see Yarbro Collins, Mark, 130; eadem,
“Establishing the Text: Mark 1:1,” in Texts and Contexts: The Function of Biblical Texts in
Their Textual and Situational Contexts (ed. Tord Fornberg and David Hellholm; Oslo:
Scandinavian University Press, 1995), 111–27; N. Clayton Croy, “Where the Gospel Text
Begins: A Non-Theological Interpretation of Mark 1:1,” NovT 43 (2001): 105–27. There is
Notes to Page 92 ■ 215
also a new papyrus witness, tentatively dated to the third century, lacking “Son of God,”
which will soon be published (probably by Geoffrey Smith) in P.Oxy.
42. Josephus, B.J. 4.10.
43. Monika Bernett, Der Kaiserkult in Judäa unter den Herodiern und Römern (Tübingen:
Mohr Siebeck, 2007). Cf. Joan E. Taylor, “Pontius Pilate and the Imperial Cult in Roman
Judaea,” NTS 52 (2006): 555–82.
44. In addition to these three temples (plus the Omrit temple), there is also a Roman
temple being excavated at Hippos-Sussita (above the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee).
Reports at <http://hippos.haifa.ac.il/report.htm>. It is not yet known to whom the Roman
temple there was dedicated, but the excavation director dates it to the principate of Augustus
(late-first century b.c.e.), and it is possibly dedicated to him. It was built on a Hellenistic
temple complex, and it was in turn supplanted by a Byzantine-era Christian Church (also
undergoing excavation). Additionally, the forum at Hippos-Sussita features a kalybe shrine
for emperor worship, dating from the late-second/early-third century c.e. and more in line
with the other open shrine “Kalybe-structures” found along the eastern frontier. Arthur
Segal and Michael Eisenberg, “Sussita-Hippos of the Decapolis: Town Planning and
Architecture of a Roman-Byzantine City,” Near Eastern Archaeology 70:2 (June 2007):
86–107; and Arthur Segal, “The ‘Kalybe-Structures’—Temples for the Imperial Cult in
Hauran and Trachon: An Historical-Architectural Analysis,” found at http://www.tau.ac.il/
arts/projects/PUB/assaph-art/assaph6/articles_assaph6/ArthurSegal.pdf.
45. Josephus, B.J. 1.403; A.J. 15.292–98. I have not been able to see this site for myself, due
to instability in the region surrounding Nablus (West Bank). I rely on the archaeological
reports from the first “Harvard Expedition” and the later “Joint Expedition.” George A. Reisner,
Clarence S. Fisher, and David G. Lyon, Harvard Excavations at Samaria, 1908–1910 (2 vols.;
Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1924), 1: 26–50, 1: 170–80, 2: plates 17–19.
Some elements of the Herodian temple were excavated along with a headless statue (prob-
ably of Augustus?, 1: 176). An altar and stelae with votive inscriptions date from a Severan
expansion of the temple complex. John W. Crowfoot, Kathleen M. Kenyon, and Eliezer L.
Sukenik, Samaria-Sebaste: Reports of the Work of the Joint Expedition in 1931–1933 and of
the British Expedition in 1935, vol. 1: The Buildings at Samaria (London: Palestine Exploration
Fund, 1942), 123–32. Cf. the proposed temple reconstruction in Ehud Netzer, “The
Augusteum at Samaria-Sebaste—A New Outlook,” Eretz-Israel 19 (1987): 97–105 [Hebrew],
75* [English summary].
46. Josephus, B.J. 1.408–15; A.J. 15.331–41; Philo, Legat. 299–305. For descriptions and
explanations from the excavation director, see Kenneth G. Holum, “The Temple Platform:
Progress Report on the Excavations,” in Caesarea Papers 2: Herod’s Temple, the Provincial
Governor’s Praetorium and Granaries, the Later Harbor, a Gold Coin Hoard, and Other
Studies (ed. Kenneth G. Holum, Avner Raban, and Joseph Patrich; JRASup 35; Portsmouth,
RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1999), 13–34. Though there are no extant inscriptions
concerning Herod’s temple, there was some kind of “Tiberieum” dedicated by Pontius Pilate,
which may have been a temple, and the city did have “[severi] Augustales, an officially sanc-
tioned association of wealthy freedman [sic], originating in Italy, who helped finance the
imperial cult, including ludi Augustales honoring the emperors . . . To judge from the inscrip-
tions, emperor worship figured prominently among Caesarea’s public cults.” Clayton Miles
Lehmann and Kenneth G. Holum, The Greek and Latin Inscriptions of Caesarea Maritima
(Joint Expedition to Caesarea Maritima 5; Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research,
2000), 17.
47. Josephus, B.J. 1.404–06; A.J. 15.363–64. Two sites at Banias have been proposed as
the Temple of Augustus. For a summary of the status quaestionis, see the separate arguments
of Andrea M. Berlin and Ehud Netzer in “Debate: Where was Herod’s Temple to Augustus,”
BAR 29:5 (Sept/Oct 2003): 22–25. The consensus view, stated by the current National Parks
placard at the site and reinforced by Andrea Berlin’s argument, locates the temple directly in
front of the grotto of Pan. The western wall of that building is partially preserved, and one
can see niches carved in it, probably for statues of the imperial family. To access the ancient
sanctuary of Pan, therefore, one would have had to pass through the Temple of Augustus.
For an interpretation of the site according to the consensus view, see Andrea M. Berlin, “The
Archaeology of Ritual: The Sanctuary of Pan at Banias/Caesarea Philippi,” BASOR 315
(1999): 27–45. Ehud Netzer defends a different site at Banias, a partially excavated platform
just west of the grotto, perched on the cliff. Cf. Ehud Netzer, “The Sanctuary of Pan at Banias,”
Qadmoniot 115 (1998): 18–25 [Hebrew]. Bernett follows Netzer’s identification.
48. The excavators at Omrit argue that this temple is actually Herod’s Temple of
Augustus. J. Andrew Overman, Jack Olive, and Michael Nelson, “Discovering Herod’s
Shrine to Augustus: Mystery Temple Found at Omrit,” BAR 29:2 (Mar/Apr 2003): 40–49,
67–68; cf. their argument in “Debate,” 24. They base their conclusion on the architectural
style of the Omrit temple, a tetraprostyle temple with dimensions and features corresponding
to other Augustea in the Roman Empire. Berlin, however, weighs the literary evidence
heavily—the descriptions of Josephus depict a closer proximity to the sanctuary complex
at Banias itself. I await further publications from the Omrit excavation, but my current
judgment is that there is a way to account for all the evidence (literary, archaeological, and
numismatic), as adduced by Andrea Berlin, “Debate,” 24. Herod’s Temple of Augustus is
one of the two sites at Banias (corresponding to Josephus’s testimony), but that does not
mean that the Omrit temple is not an imperial temple (corresponding to the archaeolog-
ical evidence of Omrit). The Omrit temple would then be an imperial temple constructed
by Herod’s son Philip, a few decades later. The evidence of the coins of Herod Philip then
would make more sense (cf. RPC 4951; AJC 2.245.6a). Previously, the clear depiction of a
tetraprostyle Roman temple on Philip’s coins was thought to have evoked his father’s
building of a temple for Augustus. However, it would have been a more common practice
for Philip to have been advertising a building project of his own—the tetraprostyle temple
at Omrit, dedicated to either Augustus or Tiberius. The shield depicted in front of the
temple on Philip’s coins of Tiberius would then be an allusion to Tiberius’s intervention on
behalf of the Jewish appeal (led by Herod’s sons, Philip likely among them) regarding the
golden shields that Pilate tried to set up in Jerusalem (Philo, Legat. 299–305; cf. Paul L.
Maier, “The Episode of the Golden Shields at Jerusalem,” HTR 62 [1969]: 109–21). In
Berlin’s words, “a more compelling argument could be made that this [Omrit] temple was
a construction of Herod Philip, who raised this structure on the edge of his new city not
only to mark his territory but also to make an architectural statement in keeping with that
of his father.” It could also have served as an expression of thanks for Tiberius’s siding with
the Jews against Pilate in the golden shields episode.
49. According to the excavators at Samaria-Sebaste, “the general plan of Herod’s great
temple is plain, and it can be realised what an imposing building it must have appeared, on
the summit of the hill, with its great artificial platform and the temple towering above that.”
Kenyon, Buildings at Samaria, 126.
50. Her objections to the consensus are found in Bernett, Kaiserkult in Judäa, 1–15;
quotation from Monika Bernett, “Roman Imperial Cult in the Galilee,” in Religion, Ethnicity,
and Identity in Ancient Galilee (WUNT 210; ed. Jürgen Zangenberg, Harold Attridge, and
Dale Martin; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 341.
51. Bernett, Kaiserkult in Judäa, 354. Trans. my own.
52. Bernett, “Roman Imperial Cult,” 341.
53. Judas the Galilean led a revolt against Roman occupation; he is mentioned in Acts
5:37 and described in Josephus, A.J. 18.1–10, 23.
54. I translate εὐδόκησα + ἐν in the baptismal voice as “pleased to choose,” which will
sound unfamiliar to most readers of English Bibles because the “well pleased” translation of
the King James Version has influenced almost every subsequent English translation. See
below for discussion.
55. For an example of the standard dogmatic rejection of an adoptionist reading, see James
R. Edwards, “The Baptism of Jesus According to the Gospel of Mark,” JETS 34 (1991): 55–7.
56. Adolph von Harnack, History of Dogma (7 vols.; 3rd ed.; trans. Neil Buchanan;
Gloucester, Mass.: Peter Smith, 1976) discusses earliest Christology (1:183–204), the later
Roman monarchian adoptionists (3:14–51), and the adoptionism of eighth-century Spain
(5:278–92).
57. Dale B. Martin, Slavery as Salvation: The Metaphor of Slavery in Pauline Christianity
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990).
58. Cf. Christiane Kunst, Römische Adoption: Zur Strategie einer Familienorganisation
(Hennef: Marthe Clauss, 2005), especially 59–62.
59. On Theodotus and followers, see Bart D. Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of
Scripture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 47–54; and Winrich A. Löhr, “Theodotus
der Lederarbeiter und Theodotus der Bankier—ein Beitrag zur römischen Theologiegeschichte
des zweiten und dritten Jahrhunderts,” ZNW 87 (1996): 101–25. For a cogent analysis of the
so-called adoptionism of eighth-century Spain, see John C. Cavadini, The Last Christology
of the West: Adoptionism in Spain and Gaul, 785–820 (Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 1993).
60. This general picture is supported by: Vincent Taylor, The Gospel According to
St. Mark (London: MacMillan, 1959); C. E. B. Cranfield, The Gospel According to St. Mark
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963); Lane, Gospel According to Mark; Robert A.
Guelich, Mark 1–8:26 (Word Biblical Commentary 34A; Dallas: Word Books, 1989); Gundry,
Mark; Marcus, Mark 1–8; Moloney, Mark; and R. T. France, The Gospel of Mark (New
International Greek Testament Commentary; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002).
61. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 165.
62. There are, however, some Greek mss. of Isaiah which use εὐδοκέω to translate hxr
(see France, Gospel, 82). See below on the ευδοκ- root.
63. Plutarch, Galba 7.3.
64. Cranfield, Gospel, 55.
65. Lane, Gospel, 58.
66. France, Gospel, 82.
67. Ehrman, Orthodox Corruption, 47–118.
68. Taylor, Gospel, 162.
69. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 150.
70. Donahue and Harrington, Mark, 67.
71. Ibid., 69.
72. Cf. chap. 5 below, on the patristic-era bifurcation of Jesus’ divine sonship from that
of Christians.
73. Marcus too draws the connection between Jesus’ baptism and the divine sonship
afforded to all Christians, however he does not think an adoptive interpretation follows
from the connection (Marcus, Mark 1–8, 164–65). Without arguing for it, he presumes a
distinction between Jesus’ “real” sonship and Christians’ sonship by adoption.
74. Quotations in this paragraph are from Eduard Schweizer, The Good News According
to Mark (trans. Donald H. Madvig; Atlanta: John Knox, 1970), 40–1.
75. Schweizer, Good News, 356–7.
76. In the modern West, we normally think of adoption as a legal procedure, enforceable
under the law, which transfers full parental authority from a biological parent or set of par-
ents to another person or persons who gain(s) the full legal status of parent(s). Though the
line between biological parents and adoptive parents can be fuzzy emotionally for all
involved, the line is quite clear legally. The classic argument against the practice of adoption
in ancient Judaism is Herbert Donner, “Adoption oder Legitimation? Erwägungen zur
Adoption im Alten Testament auf dem Hintergrund der altorientalischen Rechte,” Oriens
Antiquus 8 (1969): 87–119. Donner’s thesis has been skillfully critiqued, however, by James
M. Scott, Adoption as Sons of God: An Exegetical Investigation into the Background of
ΥΙΟΘΕΣΙΑ in the Pauline Corpus (WUNT II 48; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), especially
62–75. He argues that “the Jews recognized adoptions in the Old Testament; they knew of
Roman adoptions; they used adoption in comparisons; and they probably even practiced
adoption themselves” (75).
77. Surveys of adoption in ancient Judaism can be found in F. W. Knobloch, “Adoption,”
ABD 1:76–79; and Jeffrey Howard Tigay and Ben-Zion Schereschewsky, “Adoption,”
Encyclopedia Judaica (2nd ed.; 22 vols.; ed. Fred Skolnik; New York: Macmillan, 2007),
1:415–18. The continuing debate about adoption and Jewish identity is exhibited by both
orthodox and reform perspectives: Melech Schachter, “Various Aspects of Adoption,” in
Halacha and Contemporary Society (ed. Alfred S. Cohen; New York: Ktav, 1984), 31–53; and
Michael Gold, “Adoption: A New Problem for Jewish Law,” Judaism 36 (1987): 443–50.
78. In addition to the biblical narratives treated here, one should also note the
relationships considered adoptive by Josephus (Abram and Lot, A.J. 1.154; Jethro and Moses,
A.J. 2.263, making Moses adopted on two different occasions) and Philo (Sarah and Ishmael,
Abr. 250).
79. The word “as” in the English translation should not be construed as contrary to fact
(took her “as if she were” his daughter) but as an actual fact (took her “to be” his daughter).
The sense of these two narratives was clear enough to Jerome that these two examples con-
tain the only use of the verb adoptare in the Latin Vulgate: quem illa adoptavit in locum filii
(Exod 2:10); and Mardocheus sibi eam adoptavit in filiam (Esth 2:7).
80. Tigay, “Adoption,” 1:416.
81. The modern scholarly answer is simple: this is a case of textual corruption. Though
the mt and lxx contain “Michal,” some Hebrew and Syriac manuscripts contain “Merab.”
Both ancient and modern readers identify the same problem but choose to deal with it
much differently.
82. The word group wlyak stands behind the translation “as though.” According to Marcus
Jastrow, the combination wlyak connotes a situation contrary to fact. The foster-parent is
considered “as though” he had begotten him, even though the reader knows that he did not.
Thus it expresses well what we would call a “metaphorical” function, since metaphors
function precisely to signify two things which both are and are not the same. On wlyak, see
Marcus Jastrow, A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Talmud and Yerushalmi, and the
Midrashic Literature (2 vols.; New York: P. Shalom, 1967), 1:49a. On this functional definition
of metaphor, see Paul Ricoeur, Interpretation Theory: Discourse and the Surplus of Meaning
(Fort Worth: Texas Christian University Press, 1976), especially “Metaphor and Symbol,”
45–69.
83. See b. Meg. 13a for a tour de force of etymology.
84. Another example stating this general principle comes from Exod. Rab. 46:5.
A mashal there does not purport to solve an exegetical or halakhic problem, but rather it
provides an imaginative parallel to illuminate how Israelites can claim a dual parentage
from both Abraham and God (cf. the claims of “the Jews” in the John 8:39–41). What is
important for our subject is its quotation of the general principle about fosterage: “he that
brings up a child is called a father, and not he that gives birth.”
85. For example, the “adoption ceremony” is presumed in E. A. Speiser, Genesis (AB 1;
Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1981), 357. Cf. Isaac Mendelsohn, “A Ugaritic Parallel to the
Adoption of Ephraim and Manasseh,” IEJ 9 (1959): 180–83.
86. Cf. Gen 30:3; 50:23 for other references to sons on “the knees”; and B. Stade, “Auf
Jemandes Knieen gebären,” ZAW 6 (1886): 143–56.
87. This aligns with a thesis argued by Martin Jaffee, that the teacher-student relation-
ship outweighed the parent-child relationship in late ancient discipleship communities. The
teacher-student relationship, “at least in its ideal representations, supplanted and superseded
even those of the patriarchal family. . . . The Mishnah teaches: ‘Where a disciple finds a lost
object of his father’s and of his master’s, the return of his master’s takes precedence, for his
father brought him into this world, but his master, who has taught him wisdom, brings him
into the coming world’ ” (m. B. Metzia 2:11 / t. B. Metzia 2:30). Martin S. Jaffee, Torah in the
Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism 200 b.c.e.—400 c.e. (New York:
Oxford University Press, 2001), 148.
88. Papyrus 8, lines 5, 8 and 9, in Emil G. Kraeling, ed., The Brooklyn Museum Aramaic
Papyri. New documents of the fifth century B.C. from the Jewish colony at Elephantine (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 1969), 224–31. For other adoption formulae from the Ancient
Near East, see Shalom M. Paul, “Adoption Formulae: A Study of Cuneiform and Biblical
Legal Clauses,” Maarav 2 (1979–80): 173–85.
89. See the analysis in Harry J. Leon, The Jews of Ancient Rome (Philadelphia: Jewish
Publication Society of America, 1960), 232–3 and inscription nos. 3, 21, 144, and 358.
90. For the concept of divine sonship in the Jewish mystical tradition, see Moshe Idel,
Ben: Sonship in Jewish Mysticism (London: Continuum, 2008), esp. 1–107. He describes
adoptive divine sonship as one of four types in Judaism (generation, emanation, adoption,
and vocation, pp. 34–35).
91. The best analysis is Scott, Adoption, especially 221–70.
92. Joseph H. Hellerman has presented a cogent sociological analysis of the metaphor of
the early church as a surrogate patrilineal kinship group. Joseph H. Hellerman, The Ancient
Church as Family (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001).
93. Latin: Ita per saeculorum milia—incredibile dictu—gens aeterna est, in qua nemo
nascitur. The issue of celibacy among the Essenes is still debated, since there seem to have
been non-celibate Essenes as well. Josephus calls them “another order” of Essenes (ἕτερον
τάγμα, B.J. 2.160), and their existence may be corroborated by the Damascus Document
(CD VII 6–7).
94. I am here adopting the Essene hypothesis of the Qumran community, though I
acknowledge its detractors.
95. There are strong arguments in favor of this section of the Hodayot having been
spoken/written by the Teacher of Righteousness. Cf. Michael C. Douglas, “Power and Praise
in the Hodayot: A Literary-Critical Study of 1QH 9:1–18:14” (Ph.D. diss., The University of
Chicago, 1998), esp. 144–72.
96. Translation is from Florentino García Martínez and Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar, eds., The
Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition (2 vols.; Leiden; Boston; Köln: Brill and Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, 1997–1998), 1:185, slightly modified.
97. As with the Hodayot generally, it is difficult to assess whether the speaker’s prayer
is individual and private, individual and yet representative of others’ experiences, a com-
munal and liturgical recitation, or something else altogether. Furthermore, the speaker’s
identification of God as adoptive father, mother, and wet-nurse does not preclude the
speaker’s depiction of himself in similar ways (1QHa XV 20–22), if indeed it is the same
speaker.
98. Though the king is most prominent, there were other individuals imagined as
adopted sons of God. For example, Abraham is called εἰσποίητος υἱός (“adopted son”) by
Philo (Sobr. 56–57). If the aforementioned text from 1QH is a “Teacher Hymn,” then it also
proclaims individual divine sonship. I will not here enter the debate about the “son of God”
text in 4Q246, which would take the argument far off course. Cf. Joseph A. Fitzmeyer,
“4Q246: The ‘Son of God’ Document from Qumran,” Biblica 74 (1993): 153–74; John J.
Collins, “The ‘Son of God’ Text from Qumran,” in From Jesus to John: Essays on Jesus and the
New Testament Christology in Honour of Marinus de Jonge (ed. Martinus de Boer; Sheffield:
JSOT Press, 1993), 65–82; James D.G. Dunn, “Son of God as Son of Man in the Dead Sea
Scrolls: A Response to John Collins on 4Q246,” in Scrolls and the Scriptures (ed. Stanley
Porter and Craig Evans; Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1997), 198–210; and Karl A.
Kuhn, “The ‘One Like a Son of Man’ Becomes the ‘Son of God,’ ” CBQ 69 (2007): 22–42.
99. Gerald Cooke,“The Israelite King as Son of God,” ZAW 73 (1961): 202–25; Sigmund
Mowinckel, He That Cometh. The Messiah Concept in the Old Testament and Later Judaism
(Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1955; repr. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005); Frank Moore Cross,
Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973),
especially “The Ideologies of Kingship in the Era of the Empire: Conditional Covenant and
Eternal Decree,” 217–73; John J. Collins, The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead
Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature (New York: Doubleday, 1995); and Adela Yarbro
Collins and John J. Collins, King and Messiah as Son of God (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,
2008), 1–47.
100. The promise to David has a complex tradition history, analyzed deftly by William
M. Schniedewind, Society and the Promise to David: The Reception History of 2 Samuel 7:1–17
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).
101. Collins, Scepter, 23.
102. Cross, Canaanite Myth, 258.
103. Mowinckel, He That Cometh, 78. Cf. Martin Noth, “God, King and Nation,” in The
Laws in the Pentateuch and Other Studies (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1966), 172–3; and
Yarbro Collins and Collins, King and Messiah, 10–15, 19–22.
104. Other scholars have looked to Egyptian royal ideology to illuminate divine sonship
in Judaism, e.g., Joachim Kügler, Pharao und Christus: religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung
zur Frage einer Verbindung zwischen altägyptischer Königstheologie und neutestamentlicher
Christologie im Lukasevangelium (Bodenheim: PHILO, 1997), which compares Egyptian
divine sonship to the Christology of Luke.
105. Collins, Scepter, 167–8.

106. This survey is based in part on G. Schrenk, “εὐδοκέω, εὐδοκία,” TDNT 2:738–51.
107. The New Jerusalem Bible translates it as “my favour rests on you.” Although the New
Jersualem Bible (1985) was translated directly from the original languages, it preserved
some of the choices of the previous Jerusalem Bible (1961; English 1966), which was a
French translation and was not influenced by the King James Version on this point.
108. I should also note that the Vulgate may have also influenced translators over the
centuries. It often (though not exclusively) uses forms of conplacere to translate the word-
group, e.g., the end of Mark 1:11 is rendered, in te conplacui.
109. Julius Wellhausen, Das Evangelium Marci (Berlin: Georg Reimer Verlag, 1909), 5.
The parallel to the KJV would be the German translation, “an dir habe ich Wohlgefallen.”
The French is from La Traduction Oecuménique de la Bible (the “TOB,” 1975–76).
110. The KJV uses “well pleased” for the examples in this paragraph, despite the clear
contextual connotations of “choice” or “selection.”
111. Cf. also 2 Macc 14:35 for another use of εὐδοκέω to grant the temple as a
habitation.
112. The French TOB of the lxx renders it, “pourtant le Seigneur ne les a pas préferés.”
113. See citations in Schrenk, “εὐδοκέω, εὐδοκία,” TDNT 2:739–40.
114. P.Mich. VIII 473.14.
115. P.Oxy. I 56.20.
116. P.Lips. 28.24. For the best edition, see L. Mitteis and U. Wilcken, eds., Grundzüge
und Chrestomathie der Papyruskunde (Leipzig, 1912), no. 363.24. The fact that a woman here
adopts a son confirms how adoptive practices in parts of the Roman Empire were based
more on “common law” than the official legal codes.
117. Schrenk, “εὐδοκέω, εὐδοκία,” TDNT 2:740–41.
118. Ibid., 2:740–41.
119. Ibid., 2:742.
120. Ibid., 2:742.
121. The use at 1 Cor 10:5 can also be viewed similarly. The emphasis there is not on
how God was displeased with a previous state of affairs, but rather on how God intervened
to choose to punish some of the Israelites. The connection to the “baptism” in this passage
is likely a coincidence.
122. Gerhard Münderlein, “Die Erwählung durch das Pleroma: Bemerkungen zu Kol. i.
19,” NTS 8 (1961): 264–76.
123. Ibid., 267. Trans. my own.
126. Ibid., 271–72. Trans. my own.
127. Schrenk, “εὐδοκέω, εὐδοκία,” TDNT 2:743–44.
128. Ibid., 2:747.
129. For a different interpretation of the verbal connections between Mark and
Ephesians, see Joel Marcus, The Way of the Lord: Christological Exegesis of the Old Testament
in the Gospel of Mark (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1992), 74; and the literature
cited there.
130. Several ancient mss. do not end with “the beloved one” (τῳ̑ ἠγαπημένῳ), but rather
“his beloved son” (τῳ̑ ἠγαπημένῳ υἱῳ̑ αὑτου̑); especially D* F G, the Old Latin (it), and
Sahidic Coptic (sa).
131. These and other features of the Spirit are discussed in Fritzleo Lentzen-Deis, Die
Taufe Jesu nach den Synoptikern (Frankfurt: Josef Knecht, 1970), 127–60.
132. See discussion of these in chap. 2.
133. The root use deals with members of a family, but it was also expanded: Romans
imagined genii for the Roman senate, the Roman people, particular places, military legions,
and individual gods.
134. This short definition of numen as “der ausgedrückte Wille einer Gottheit” is from
DNP 8:1047–49.
135. It is thus related etymologically to the Greek νευ̑μα, but not πνευ̑μα.
136. Duncan Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West (2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1987–92),
2:383.
137. There is not an etymological connection between Spirit (πνευ̑μα) and genius or
numen, despite the phonemic similarities of the latter (which is actually related to the Greek
νευ̑μα). The genius is often translated in Greek as τύχη. It is also possible that the early
Christian connection of “Spirit” with “power” (πνευ̑μα and δύναμις) would connect
functionally to the pairing of genius and numen.
138. The relevant text of CIL 11.3303 is: et ut natalibus Augusti et Ti. Caesarum, prius
quam ad vescendum | decuriones irent, thure et vino genii eorum ad epulandum ara | numi-
nis Augusti invitarentur | . “ . . . and so that on the birthdays of Augustus and Tiberius,
before the council members go to eat, their genii should be invited with incense and wine
to dine at the altar of the Augustan numen.” See discussion in Fishwick, Imperial Cult,
2:380, and Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
2002), 239–45.
139. Fishwick, Imperial Cult, 2:386–7. Despite this assessment, Fishwick still holds to a
stark god/human dichotomy in his analysis.
140. These connections are all functional, as stated earlier. But there is at least one
linguistic connection between the Spirit and the spiritus of the emperor. In Seneca’s De
Clementia, written to Nero, he elaborates on the stock metaphor of the political “body” in
this way: the Roman people are an “immense multitude encircling the life of one man and
ruled by his spirit [spiritu] . . . ; for he is the bond by which the republic stays together, the
living breath [spiritus vitalis] which these many thousands draw” (Seneca, Clem. 1.3.5; 1.4.1).
This image of the imperial spiritus is rather similar to the early Christian understanding of
the Spirit as the unifying power of the divine family.
141. Acts of Scillitan Martyrs, 5; Martyrdom of Apollonius 3; Martyrdom of Pionius 18;
Martyrdom of Polycarp 9–10; all compiled in Herbert Musurillo, Acts of the Christian
Martyrs (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972). Cf. Keith Hopkins, Conquerors and Slaves:
Sociological Studies in Roman History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978),
227–8; and Fergus Millar,“The Imperial Cult and the Persecutions,” in Le Culte des Souverains
dans l’Empire Romain (ed.Willem den Boer; Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 19;
Vandœuvres-Genève: Fondation Hardt, 1973), 145–50.
142. W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, The Gospel According to St. Matthew (3 vols.; ICC;
Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997) 1:330–4. To these we now add Edward P. Dixon, “Descending
Spirit and Descending Gods: A ‘Greek’ Interpretation of the Spirit’s ‘Descent as a Dove’ in
Mark 1:10,” JBL 128 (2009): 759–80, which interprets the dove in connection with the
common Greek mythological topos of gods descending in human form.
143. See those listed in Stephen Gero, “The Spirit as a Dove at the Baptism of Jesus,”
NovT 18 (1976): 17–35.
144. E.g., Marcus, Mark; and Davies and Allison, Matthew. Some have also proposed an
allusion to Noah’s messenger bird (Gen 8:8–12), since the bird brings a sort of good news of
salvation (see Davies and Allison, Matthew, 332). But this interpretation too has problems,
discussed there and elsewhere.
145. The verb is used in another context to describe a bird (Deut 32:11), but elsewhere
in the Hebrew Bible it portrays the shaking of bones (Jer 23:9). Another important passage
is 4Q521, where the Lord’s spirit “will hover upon the poor” (4Q521 1 II.6). The anointed
one is also mentioned in this fragment, but the connection between the Lord and the
anointed one is unclear. Furthermore, the spirit hovers here just as in Gen 1:2, but the
issue for this chapter is to what degree that invokes a bird. 4Q521 gives no reason, apart
from the verb, to interpret the spirit as a bird. Finally, the spirit here hovers on the poor, not
the anointed one.
146. France, Gospel, 79.
147. See Othmar Keel, Vögel als Boten (Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 14; Freiburg:
Universitätsverlag Freiburg, 1977).
148. Suetonius, Dom. 6. For other eagle omens not covered in this chapter, see Suetonius,
Galba 4, and Vit. 9.
149. Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Suetonius: The Scholar and His Caesars (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1984), 192.
150. Wallace-Hadrill, Suetonius, 191.
151. Suetonius, Claud. 7.
152. Suetonius, Aug. 94.
153. Ibid., 97.
154. Ibid., 96.
155. On the difficulties of transferring charismatic authority, see Max Weber, Economy
and Society (2 vols.; ed. and trans. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich; Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1978), 1:212–301; 2:1111–57.
156. Suetonius, Tib. 14.
157. Suetonius, Vesp. 4. The claim that the Judeans killed their governor is not corrobo-
rated by Josephus.
158. This almost certainly alludes to the capturing of a legionary eagle from the XII
Fulminata, a Roman legion that suffered heavy losses in retreat (Josephus, B.J. 2.500–55,
although he does not mention the lost eagle), whose remnant was later assigned to Titus for
the assault on Jerusalem (Josephus, B.J. 5.41).
159. Suetonius, Vesp. 5.
160. Suetonius, Aug. 94.
161. This is a common trope: elsewhere in Suetonius, see Vesp. 5.
162. Annie Vigourt, Les presages impériaux d’Auguste à Domitien (Paris: De Boccard,
2001), 217. Cf. an anonymous quadrans with a bust of Venus and a dove on the reverse (RIC
2, p. 218, coins 24–25).
163. I have not documented here the use of eagles on Roman imperial coins and por-
traiture, but many examples could be offered to establish the widespread prevalence of the
eagle in the physical images of imperial ideology. One coin type mentioned already in chap. 3
was the PROVIDENTIA DEORUM coin of Trajan, which depicts an eagle descending
toward him. In Roman imperial ideology, providentia was the virtue often associated with
an emperor’s provision of sons/heirs to ensure a stable succession of power. RIC 2, p. 415,
coin 589 (= plate XV.304); cf. RIC 2, p. 418, coin 602.
164. Tibullus, Elegiae 1.7.18, c. 27 b.c.e.. Latin: Quid referam, ut volitet crebras intacta per
urbes / Alba Palaestino sancta columba Syro?
165. The presence of the dove in the worship and iconography of “the Syrian goddess”
(likely Atargatis) is notable, but its meaning or function is not usually discernible (cf. Lucian,
De Dea Syria, 14, 33, 54). On doves and pigeons in this area, see “Doves and Pigeons,” ABD
6:1144–45.
166. E.g., RPC 2.2211.
167. Ovid, Metam. 1.504–07. Latin: Nympha, precor, Penei, mane! non insequor hostis; /
nympha, mane! sic agna lupum, sic cerva leonem, / sic aquilam penna fugiunt trepidante
columbae, / hostes quaeque suos: amor est mihi causa sequendi.
168. Horace, Carm. 4.4.29–32. Latin: fortes creantur fortibus et bonis; / est in iuvencis, est
in equis patrum / virtus, neque imbellem feroces / progenerant aquilae columbam.
169. Another example occurs at Horace, Epod. 16.32–33, where the dove and the “bird
of prey” (milvus) are contrasted.
170. In one of his letters to Marcus Aurelius, Fronto refers to “sheep and doves with
wolves and eagles” (oves et columbae cum lupis et aquilis, Ep. 4.1) as part of a legend of
Orpheus. The sheep-wolf and eagle-dove pairs symbolize archetypal enemies, which Fronto
claims Marcus Aurelius has brought together in harmony. For a quite different use, see Pliny,
Ep. 9.25, in which he calls his little letters “doves” as a contrast to his recipient’s military stan-
dards (“eagles”).
171. Josephus, B.J. 3.122–24. Trans. adapted from LCL.
172. There are myriad examples of how the eagle symbolized Roman military might. In
a pivotal battle between the Romans and the Cherusci at the entrace to a forest, “the finest
of auguries” appeared: eight eagles entering the forest. Tiberius, the commander, said, “Go
and follow the Roman birds, the legions’ very own divine powers!” (sequerentur Romanas
avis, propria legionum numina; Tac. Ann. 2.17).
173. The author probably draws on the animal symbolism of a text like Ps 74: “Remember
this, O Lord, how the enemy scoffs, and an impious people reviles your name. Do not deliver
the soul of your dove to the wild animals; do not forget the life of your poor forever” (Ps
74:18–19). It is true that the animal here is a rwt (turtle-dove), not a hnwy (dove, pigeon), but
the terminology oscillates, especially in translations of the Hebrew.
174. There are, of course, other references to Israel as a dove in the Bible and Jewish
literature that do not directly inform my understanding of the eagle/dove trope. Nor have
I incorporated Matthew’s aphoristic simile in 10:16, portraying doves as “pure/innocent”
(ἀκέραιος) or “most simple” (ἁπλούστατος, Codex D).
175. Trans. adapted from OTP 2:352. A more negative interpretation of such behavior is
that the doves are timorous prey, as stated in b. B. Qam. 93a: “there is none among the birds
more persecuted than doves.”
176. Trans. adapted from OTP 2:22.
177. Let. Aris. 144–48. Trans. adapted from OTP 2:22.
178. The lxx states: βδέλυγμά ἐστιν—τὸν ἀετὸν . . . [etc.]. The proximity of these two
words suggests a possible interpretation of Mark 13:14. The βδέλυγμα to which Mark refers
could be the golden eagle set up over the temple by Herod. It would be difficult to argue
definitively for this reading, but the historical event (combined with Mark’s text) resonates
with this passage of the Levitical law.
179. The story is not quite so simple, however. If one takes a simple tally of citations of
the four Gospels in Biblia Patristica, one finds that the four Gospels are rather balanced in
citation until the end of the second century (Clement of Alexandria). Mark is in fourth
place, but the differences are not large. Cf. Brenda Deen Schildgen, Power and Prejudice: the
Reception of the Gospel of Mark (Detroit, Mich.: Wayne State University Press, 1998), 40.
After the second century, however, Mark fades almost completely from the scene, such that
not one of the third- or fourth-century commentators engages it on its own. The pattern
corresponds with the christological trends among Christian theologians. After the second
century, Christologies of divine begetting begin to dominate Christian discourse (cf. chap. 5
below).
180. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 6.29. Trans. NPNF2 1:274–75.
181. Both Eusebius’s Life of Constantine and the speech, In Praise of Constantine, suggest that
he was at least attuned to and perhaps persuaded by the Roman political ideology of his day.
182. The description of this text as a “garland of legends” belongs to Vielhauer, cited in
Wilhelm Schneemelcher, ed., New Testament Apocrypha (2 vols.; Louisville: Westminster
John Knox, 2003), 1:435.
183. Prot. Jas. 9.1, trans. from Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, 1:429–30.
Greek of last portion: καὶ ἰδοὺ περιστερὰ ἐξη̑λθεν ἀπὸ τη̑ς ῥάβδου καὶ ἐπεστάθη ἐπὶ τὴν
κεϕαλὴν του̑ Ἰωσήϕ.
184. Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 40.19 (In sanctum baptisma, PG 36:384).
185. The interpretation of the dove as colonial mimicry builds on—or rather, provides a
theoretical foundation for—many of the astute observations about Mark and Roman power
made by scholars such as Donald Senior, “With Swords and Clubs: The Setting of Mark’s
Community and His Critique of Abusive Power,” BTB 17 (1987): 10–20; and John Donahue,
“Windows and Mirrors: The Setting of Mark’s Gospel,” CBQ 57 (1995), 1–26. An intriguing
parallel to this example of narrative mimicry is the report of the emperor Titus’s death in
rabbinic literature (Lev. Rab. 22:3), which ends with God’s killing of Titus by means of a
mosquito that transforms into a dove at the autopsy. For interpretation of the full version of
this fascinating story as colonial mimicry, in part based on an eagle/dove trope, see Joshua
Levinson, “‘Tragedies Naturally Performed:’ Fatal Charades, Parodia Sacra, and the Death of
Titus,” in Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Roman Empire (ed. Richard Kalmin
and Seth Schwartz; Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 349–82.
186. Tat-Siong Benny Liew, “Tyranny, Boundary and Might: Colonial Mimicry in Mark’s
Gospel,” JSNT 73 (1999): 13.
187. Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 86.
188. Bhabha, Location, 86.
189. The baptism “from heaven” is a circumlocution for “from God.” See Moloney, Gospel
of Mark, 231, and literature cited there.
190. Reference to Cassius Dio, Roman History 53.18.3; quotation from Mary Rose
D’Angelo, “Abba and ‘Father’: Imperial Theology and the Jesus Traditions,” JBL 111 (1992):
623. Philo also translates the imperial potestas with the word ἐξουσία (Legat. 28).
191. When I say that Mark is not focused on Davidic descent or Davidic sonship, I do not
mean to discount the portrayal of Jesus in relationship to David as psalmist. Cf. Stephen P.
Ahearne-Kroll, The Psalms of Lament in Mark’s Passion: Jesus’ Davidic Suffering (SNTSMS
142; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).
192. Bacon, Roman Gospel?, 87.
193. Ibid., 89.
194. Despite the variant manuscript tradition attesting “the son of the carpenter and of
Mary” (P45vid, f 13, Old Latin, Bohairic, and Armenian), I agree with Nestle-Aland that the text
of the major codices is to be preferred. Cf. Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah
(New York: Doubleday, 1977), 537–39.
195. On the sonship status of Jesus in Matthew and Luke, see Brian M. Nolan, The Royal
Son of God: The Christology of Matthew 1–2 in the Setting of the Gospel (Fribourg: Éditions
universitaires; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979); Donald J. Verseput, “The Role
and Meaning of the ‘Son of God’ Title in Matthew’s Gospel,” NTS 33 (1987): 532–56; Yigal
Levin, “Jesus, ‘Son of God’ and ‘Son of David’: The ‘Adoption’ of Jesus into the Davidic Line,”
JSNT 28 (2006): 415–42.
196. Tal Ilan, “ ‘Man Born of Woman. . .’ (Job 14:1) The Phenomenon of Men Bearing
Metronymes at the Time of Jesus,” NovT 34 (1992): 24. Cf. Brown, Birth, 537–41; and the
contrasting previous positions of E. Stauffer, “Jeschu ben Mirjam (Mark 6:3),” in
Neotestamentica et Semitica: Studies in Honour of Matthew Black (ed. E. Earle Ellis and Max
Wilcox; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1969), 119–28, and H. K. McArthur, “ ‘Son of Mary,’” NovT
15 (1973): 38–58.
197. In Roman adoptions, the adopted son did not usually get a new mother. Therefore,
“son of Mary” is in line with the adoptive idea.
198. This teaching is not about Jesus’ divine sonship but rather about that of other sons
and daughters of God. In chap. 5, I discuss the relationship between the divine sonship of
Christ and of Christians in early Christianity.
199. In the three related sayings from Matthew and Luke, Jesus describes what must be
left behind, but he does not elaborate a second list of what will be received (Matt 8:21–22//
Lk 9:59–62; Matt 10:34–36//Lk 12:51–53; Matt 10:37//Lk 14:26). Mark uniquely emphasizes
the new family and its benefits.
200. These connections are suggested by Donahue and Harrington, Mark, 308.
201. In addition, only in this block of teaching, about entering the kingdom of God,
does Jesus address the disciples as “children” (τέκνα, 10:24).
202. The point about having only one Father—the heavenly kind—is made less subtly
by Matthew (23:9).
203. Scholars have called into question “the stereotype of the Roman father as an author-
itarian figure wielding vast and oppressive disciplinary powers over his children,” suggest-
ing that the real relationships were less harsh or despotic than previously thought. Yet the
powers legally granted to the paterfamilias were “awesome indeed,” and the ideology of
paternal sovereignty remained strong. Quotations from Richard Saller, “Pietas, Obligation
and Authority in the Roman Family,” in Alte Geschichte und Wissenschaftsgeschichte:
Festschrift für Karl Christ zum 65. Geburtstag (ed. Peter Kneissl and Volker Losemann;
Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1988), 395 and 410.
204. In Nestle-Aland’s edition, Peter confesses only that Jesus is the “Christ,” but two
early uncials do have a confession of divine sonship: “the Son of God” (a), or “the Son of the
Living God” (W).
205. Cf. Earl S. Johnson, “Is Mark 15.39 the Key to Mark’s Christology?” JSNT 31 (1987):
3–22; and the survey and analysis in Yarbro Collins, Mark, 764–71, who interprets the
response of the centurion as dramatic irony (769).
206. Cf. Richard A. Horsley, Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World
Disorder (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002), 100–08; Stephen D. Moore, Empire and
Apocalypse: Postcolonialism and the New Testament (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press,
2006), 24–32, especially literature cited at 25 no. 2; and Joshua Garroway, “The Invasion of a
Mustard Seed: A Reading of Mark 5.1–20,” JSNT 32 (2009): 57–75. For a thoroughgoing
postcolonial interpretation of Mark, see Simon Samuel, A Postcolonial Reading of Mark’s

Story of Jesus (Library of New Testament Studies 340; London; New York; T & T Clark,
2007).
207. The interpretation of these events as an “anti-triumph” and a “parabolic drama” are
explored well in T. E. Schmidt, “Mark 15.16–32: The Crucifixion Narrative and the Roman
Triumphal Procession,” NTS 41 (1995): 1–18. Cf. W. Barnes Tatum, “Jesus’ So-Called
Triumphal Entry,” Forum 1 (New Series, 1998): 129–144.
■ Chapter 5
1. When I discuss the “sonship” of Christians or Christian “divine sonship,” I by no

means exclude women from that category of filial relationship to God. There were obviously
many influential and authoritative women in early Christianity, such as Mary, Mary
Magdalene, the Samaritan Woman, Mary and Martha of Bethany, Prisca, Phoebe, Lydia,
Thecla, Perpetua and Felicitas, Blandina, Priscilla and Maximilla, Macrina, Olympias, Melania
the Elder and Younger, Marcella, Paula—and so many more that history does not allow us to
see. I remain with the words “son” and “sonship,” though, because the masculine terms enable
me to portray more clearly the interaction in early Christian texts between the divine sonship
of Jesus Christ and the filial relationship afforded to all Christians. This interplay of meta-
phors can be seen more easily with literal translations of “sons” or “sonship.”
2. Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah (New York: Doubleday, 1977), 29–32,
90 n. 68, 134 n. 6. He is not the first to argue this, but his formulation of it has had a wide
influence.
3. Rom 1:3–4; Phil 2:8–9; Acts 2:32, 36; 5:31; 13:32–33. Although Brown does not
elaborate here on his citation of Phil 2:8–9 as an example of this idea, his use of it clearly
shows that he does not find the preexistence of Jesus Christ in the so-called Philippians
“hymn.” Cf. James D. G. Dunn, Christology in the Making: A New Testament Inquiry into the
Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989), 114–25;
and Karl-Josef Kuschel, Born Before All Time? The Dispute Over Christ’s Origin (trans. John
Bowden; London: SCM Press, 1992), 243–66. On the implications of the “hymn” designa-
tion, cf. Michael Peppard, “ ‘Poetry, ‘Hymns,’ and ‘Traditional Material’ in New Testament
Epistles or How to Do Things with Indentations,” JSNT 30 (2008): 319–42.
4. Brown, Birth, 29 n. 14.
5. Ibid., 29.
6. There are dissenting opinions to this majority view, however. Cf. Francis Watson,
“Is John’s Christology Adoptionist?” in The Glory of Christ in the New Testament: Studies in
Christology in Memory of George Bradford Caird (ed. L.D. Hurst and N.T. Wright; Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1987), 113–124; and recently, Gitte Buch-Hansen, “It Is the Spirit That
Makes Alive: a Stoic Understanding of Pneuma in John” (Copenhagen diss., 2007), esp.
151–203.
8. Ibid., 62.
9. For another use of the cubist idea in New Testament studies, see Harold W. Attridge,
“The Cubist Principle in Johannine Imagery: John and the Reading of Images of
Contemporary Platonism,” in Imagery in the Gospel of John: Terms, Forms, Themes, and
Theology of Johannine Figurative Language (ed. Jörg Frey, Jan G. Van der Watt, and Ruben
Zimmermann; WUNT 200; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 47–60.
10. An emphasis on Jesus’ baptism is supported also by Peter’s speech to Cornelius (Acts
10:38). On the Lukan variant in the manuscript tradition, see the excellent analysis in Bart
D. Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993),
62–67. On the Lukan variant in early liturgical traditions, see Kilian McDonnell, The Baptism
of Jesus in the Jordan: The Trinitarian and Cosmic Order of Salvation (Collegeville, Minn.:
Liturgical Press, 1996), 85–100. Also worthy of consideration is the theory that Luke origi-
nally began with the canonical chap. 3, a theory made more interesting by the ancient testi-
monium that the Gospel of Luke “began with the baptism of John” (from the appendix—of
unknown origin—to Ephrem’s Commentary on the Diatessaron).
11. Brown knows this (cf. Birth, 30 n. 15), but he still desires a chronological chart. I do
not include the transfiguration in my list of Luke’s divine sonship “moments” because he
distinctively de-emphasizes the transfiguration as a sonship event. The divine voice there
looks backwards—to the baptism, on my reading, but one could argue it refers also to the
conception—when it says, “This is my son that has been chosen” (οὑ̑τός ἐστιν ὁ υἱός μου ὁ
ἐκλελεγμένος, 9:35).
12. Bousset comments similarly about divine sonship in the writings of both Paul and
Luke: with respect to Paul’s letters, “even where one talks of the resurrection of Jesus as his
installation as Son of God or of the birth of the Son of God at the baptism, the assumption
of a preexistent nature of Jesus is not flatly ruled out. Here conceptions which are for us
apparently altogether different have, as it appears, existed peacefully side by side.” Wilhelm
Bousset, Kyrios Christos: Geschichte des Christusglaubens von den Anfängen des Christentums
bis Irenaeus (4th ed; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1935); quotations from Kyrios
Christos (trans. John E. Steely; Nashville: Abingdon, 1970), 337; cf. 338 on Luke.
13. For a survey of how Ps 2 is used by New Testament authors, see Jacques Dupont,
“Filius meus es Tu. L’Interprétation de Ps. II, 7, dans le Nouveau Testament,” Recherches de
Science Religieuse 35 (1948): 522–43.
14. Recall that in ancient Hebrew there was no terminology for adoption as there was in
Greek and Latin.
15. Harold W. Attridge, “The Psalms in Hebrews,” in The Psalms in the New Testament
(ed. Steve Moyise and Maarten J.J. Menken; London; New York: T & T Clark, 2004), 200. Cf.
the excursus on sonship in Harold W. Attridge, Hebrews (ed. Helmut Koester; Hermeneia;
Philadelphia: Fortress, 1989), 54–55.
16. E.g., Ernst Käsemann, The Wandering People of God: An Investigation of the Letter to
the Hebrews (trans. Roy A. Harrisville and Irving L. Sandberg; Minneapolis: Augsburg,
1984), 99; Das Wandernde Gottesvolk: Eine Untersuchung zum Hebräerbrief (2nd ed.;
FRLANT 55; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1957). Another helpful contribution is
that of Dunn, Christology, 52–56, who reconciles different sonship ideas in Hebrews by
interpreting its Platonic metaphysics—the Son of God did not have personal preexistence,
but did have a formal preexistence (in the Platonic sense).
17. Attridge, Hebrews, 55. Cf. William R. G. Loader, Sohn und Hoherpriester: Eine tradi-
tionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zur Christologie des Hebräerbriefes (WMANT 53;
Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1981), esp. 7–15, 118–19.
18. Luke’s skill in this rhetorical presentation of Christianity has been aptly called “apol-
ogetic historiography.” Gregory E. Sterling, Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephos,
Luke-Acts, and Apologetic Historiography (Leiden; New York: Brill, 1992).
19. On Joseph as adoptive father in Matthew, see Yigal Levin, “Jesus, ‘Son of God’ and
‘Son of David’: The ‘Adoption’ of Jesus into the Davidic Line,” JSNT 28 (2006): 415–42. Early
Christian interpreters also explained Joseph’s presumed adoption of Jesus, and some even
used adoption to explain Joseph’s two fathers (a natural father in Matthew’s list, an adoptive
father in Luke’s), e.g., Augustine, Sermon 51 (PL 38: 348).
20. For a theological analysis along these same lines—distinguishing begotten from
adopted in the New Testament—see Jean Richard, “Fils de Dieu. Reconsidération de
l’interprétation adoptioniste,” in Le Christ Hier, Aujourd’hui et Demain: Colloque de chris-
tologie tenu à l’Université Laval (ed. Raymond Laflamme and Michel Gervais; Québec: Les
Presses de l’Université Laval, 1976), 431–65.
21. The most thorough studies of Paul’s use of adoption metaphors are James M Scott,
Adoption as Sons of God: An Exegetical Investigation into the Background of ΥΙΟΘΕΣΙΑ in
the Pauline Corpus (WUNT II 48; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992); and Brendan Byrne, S.J.,
Sons of God – Seed of Abraham (Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1979). Both interpret Paul’s
language in connection with Jewish textual traditions and ideas. Scott’s study is especially
careful, and his argument (121–86) for interpreting a Moses/Exodus typology behind the
example of Gal 4:1–7 is cogent. In my research, I emphasize the Greco-Roman resonance of
the terms and concepts without necessarily dismissing the importance of other
interpretations.
22. Understanding Roman adoption as the basis of Paul’s metaphor is now quite
common; for an early argument toward this end, see Francis Lyall, “Roman Law in the
Writings of Paul—Adoption,” JBL 88 (1969): 458–66.
23. James C. Walters, “Paul, Adoption, and Inheritance,” in Paul in the Greco-Roman
World (ed. J. Paul Sampley; Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2003), 42–76. For an
excellent analysis of how patrilineal descent functions overall in Paul’s “ethnic map,” see
Caroline Johnson Hodge, If Sons, Then Heirs: A Study of Kinship and Ethnicity in the Letters
of Paul (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2007).
24. I try generally to avoid using the word “Christian” as a noun to describe this early
period, since Christian identity was still in the beginning phases of being worked out; how-
ever, I use it here and elsewhere as an adjective that comprises relationship to God “in
Christ.” It is meant to distinguish when I am talking about Christian divine sonship from
when I am talking about Jesus Christ’s divine sonship.
25. Walters, “Adoption,” 55.
26. The already-not yet understanding of adoption is captured well in Origen’s com-
mentary, which connects this text with 1 Cor 13:10–12: “We receive adoption, then, but that
which is through a mirror and in a riddle. But when the things that are perfect come, then
we shall attain adoption face to face” (Origen, Comm. on Romans 7.5.9). There is unfortu-
nately no extant Greek manuscript, but only the Latin translation. English translation from
Origen, Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, Books 6–10 (trans. Thomas P. Scheck;
Fathers of the Church 104; Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2002).
27. For interpretation of this passage for a different purpose, see the section in chap. 4
on ευδοκ-.
28. For centuries 3 Corinthians was known only as part of the Armenian biblical canon
and through Ephrem’s commentary on the Pauline Epistles. But in the twentieth century it
was discovered in several manuscripts of The Acts of Paul in Coptic and Latin. For an
English translation of the text in its literary context (The Acts of Paul) and a brief explana-
tion of its transmission, see Wilhelm Schneemelcher, ed., New Testament Apocrypha (2 vols.;
Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2003), 2:217, 254–56. The extant Greek version was
found among the Bodmer papyri: published with French translation by Michel Testuz,
Papyrus Bodmer X–XII (Cologny-Genève: Bibliotheca Bodmeriana, 1959), 9–45. A detailed

treatment of the manuscripts and their contents is A. F. J. Klijn, “The Apocryphal
Correspondence between Paul and the Corinthians,” Vigiliae Christianae 17 (1963): 2–23.
29. The Bodmer papyrus has ἵνα ζωοποιηθῃ̑ δ{ε}ιὰ τη̑ς υἱοθεσίας, and for υἱοθεσίας, the
Latin manuscripts have either adoptionem or filii creationem. Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer, 36.
This word lies in a lacuna of the Coptic manuscript.
30. See Letter of the Corinthians to Paul 2:13 (Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha
2:254; Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer, 32).
31. There are seventeen references to Jesus as “son” in the traditional Pauline corpus
(thirteen epistles), compared to over 200 references to Jesus as “Lord” (Dunn, Christology,
36–37). They are clustered in Romans (seven times) and Galatians (four times).
32. The only narrative Christology in Paul comes in Phil 2:6–11, but the emphasis there
is the lordship of Jesus Christ, not his divine sonship.
33. The strophic presentation of the text is borrowed from Dunn, Christology, 41.
34. Dunn, Christology, 37–46. Yarbro Collins connects this sending to the sending of
prophets in the Hebrew Bible; Adela Yarbro Collins and John J. Collins, King and Messiah as
Son of God (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 107. Rom 8:3 also proclaims God’s “sending”
of his son unto death “in the likeness of sinful flesh”—a soteriological and eschatological
commission from God. Rom 8:32 heightens God’s compassion in “handing over” Jesus to
die by calling him “his own son” (του̑ ἰδίου υἱου̑). The adjective ἴδιος undoubtedly empha-
sizes Jesus’ close relationship to God before his death and resurrection. Although the word
does not describe a particular process of acquiring sonship, it does express in nuce a distinc-
tion between the sonship of Christ and the sonship of Christians. In the third and fourth
centuries, this distinction would come to be articulated through two different ways of
acquiring sonship.
35. On the translation of ὁρισθέντος as “appointed,” of κατά as instrumental, and of ἐξ
as causal (and thus also temporal), see Scott, Adoption, 237–44. On Rom 1:4, cf. Dunn,
Christology, 33–35; Collins and Collins, King and Messiah, 117–18; and especially the study
of Davidic kingship echoes by Christopher J. Whitsett, “Son of God, Seed of David: Paul’s
Messianic Exegesis in Romans 2[sic]:3–4,” JBL 119 (2000): 661–81. Robert Jewett also argues
that the verb denotes adoptive sonship: “At the core of the original confession, therefore, is
the affirmation of Jesus as the traditional Davidic Messiah, who was adopted and enthroned
as the Son of God on the basis of his resurrection.” But he states, in an argument that I do
not understand, that Paul has modified this adoptive connotation by adding the phrases
“concerning his son” and “in power” to the traditional formulation he had received. These
“additions” imply “the preexistent Son of God.” See Robert Jewett, Romans (Hermeneia;
Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), 104–07.
36. In addition to the Latin translators, several early Christian commentators understood
the Greek to suggest an adoption enacted at the resurrection. See citations in Scott, Adoption,
221–23. Hurtado acknowledges that “in 1:4 the resurrection clearly seems to be seen as a
salvation-historical event that places Jesus in a new position as the Son in power, appointed
to rule on God’s behalf,” but he is convinced that the “sending” texts show that “for Paul Jesus
is to be thought of as God’s Son from the outset.” L. W. Hurtado, “Jesus’ Divine Sonship in
Paul’s Epistle to the Romans,” in Romans and the People of God (ed. Sven K. Soderlund and
N. T. Wright; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 228.
37. Old Latin and Vulgate versions; see Ehrman, Orthodox Corruption, 71–72.
38. Noted also by Scott, Adoption, 222 no. 6.
39. James D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997),
503.
40. See Scott, Adoption, 148–49. For the motif later, see Isa 43:1–7 and Jer 31:7–9. Origen,
however, is reasonable to link the “adoption” of Israel to the time when it was granted its
“inheritance” (Deut 32:8–9; Origen, Comm. on Romans 7.13.6).
41. Being “conformed to the image of his son” likely refers to his “death and subsequent
glorification,” as argued by Collins and Collins, King and Messiah, 121.
42. The term also occurs at Col 1:15 (perhaps implying preexistent begottenness), but at
1:18 it is clearly connected to the resurrection. In Heb 1:6 it perhaps implies preexistent
begottenness, but at 12:23 it refers to an assembly of inhabitants in the heavenly Jerusalem.
The use at Rev 1:5 is clearly connected to the resurrection.
43. The Hebrew rwkb behind the Greek translation is also used figuratively in the Bible
besides in this Psalm (cf. Ex 4:22; Isa 14:30; Jer 31:9; Job 18:3).
44. Cf. above, chap. 4, section on ευδοκ-.
45. P. Lips. 28.15.
46. A phrase adapted from Scott, Adoption, 252 no. 107.
47. On God as “father” in Paul’s theology, see John L. White, “God’s Paternity as Root
Metaphor in Paul’s Conception of Community,” Foundations and Facets Forum 8 (1992):
271–95. On father theology in Romans in particular, see Marianne Meye Thompson,“ ‘Mercy
Upon All’: God as Father in the Epistle to the Romans,” in Romans and the People of God (ed.
Sven K. Soderlund and N. T. Wright; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 203–16.
48. Scott, Adoption, 255.
49. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.20.2. Cf. Richard A. Norris, “Irenaeus’ Use of Paul in His
Polemic Against the Gnostics,” in Paul and the Legacies of Paul (ed. William S. Babcock;
Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1990), 95.
50. But see below on a key textual variant in John 1:13.
51. Dionysius of Alexandria (apud Eusebius) must have understood Johannine beget-
ting “again” to be another way of portraying “adoption,” since he surprisingly refers to it with
that word. To defend the authorship of John and 1 John by the same person, he offers a list
of the similar terms and themes they share (in contradistinction to the Revelation of John,
whose Johannine authorship Dionysius rejects). One theme that he thinks they share is “the
adoptive sonship of God” (ἡ υἱοθεσία του̑ θεου̑), even though that word never appears in
the Johannine corpus (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 7.25.21).
52. The portrayal of wisdom in Wis 7:22 provides background.
53. The language is more explicit in 1 John 3:10. A dichotomous key is a modern taxo-
nomic tool used in biology to organize plant and animal specimens into their correct species
by analyzing their characteristics.
54. Sethians, Valentinians, and Ophites are examples of early Christian groups concerned
with lineages of divine begetting that connected to special classes of Christians on earth.
For the Sethians as descended from the primordial Seth, see Birger A. Pearson, “The Figure
of Seth in Gnostic Literature,” in The Rediscovery of Gnosticism (2 vols.; ed. Bentley Layton;
Leiden: Brill, 1981), 2:472–514. For detailed interpretations of this among the Valentinians,
see the studies of the Gospel of Philip, the Tripartite Tractate, and other sources for Valentinian
protology, spermatology, and soteriology in Einar Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed: The
Church of the “Valentinians” (NHMS 60; Leiden: Brill, 2006).
55. Early Latin sources with the singular are Irenaeus (Adv. Haer. 3.16.2; 3.19.2),
Tertullian (Carn. Chr. 19, 24), and one Old Latin manuscript (b); the apocryphal Epistula
Apostolorum (chap. 3) has the singular in Coptic and Ethiopic. For modern citations and a
thorough analysis of the issue, see Matthew Vellanickal, The Divine Sonship of Christians in
the Johannine Writings (Analecta Biblica 72; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1977), 112–32,
who favors the singular reading.
56. He interprets the singular to signify the miraculous birth of Jesus, and this works
apologetically on two fronts. On one side, it defends the divine begetting of Jesus against the
Christology of the Ebionites (Tertullian, Carn. Chr. 24); on the other, it tempers the
Valentinian claim that they themselves were begotten of God (Tertullian, Carn. Chr. 19). Cf.
Ehrman, Orthodox Corruption, 59, who favors the plural reading.
57. Vellanickal, Divine Sonship, 276–78. Cf. Ehrman, Orthodox Corruption, 70–71.
58. Cf. Judith Lieu, I, II, & III John (New Testament Library; Louisville; London:
Westminster John Knox, 2008), 200.
59. A point noted also by Kuschel, Born Before All Time?, 383.
60. Vellancikal, Divine Sonship, 286.
61. On the history of translation and mistranslation for this word, see Dale Moody,
“God’s Only Son: The Translation of John 3:16 in the Revised Standard Version,” JBL 72
(1953): 213–19.
62. E.g., Isaac is described thus by Josephus, A.J. 1.222, and Heb 11:17. It is true that
Isaac was Abraham’s only legitimate son, but to call him an “only-begotten” son would
stretch the boundaries of what “begetting” normally means. There are many other examples
from Greek texts, the most relevant of which are compiled and analyzed by Gerard Pendrick,
“ΜΟΝΟΓΕΝΗΣ,” NTS 41 (1995): 588–92.
63. Plutarch, Moralia 423A (“The Obsolesence of Oracles”). For a thorough discussion
of the nonbiblical uses of the word in ancient Greek, see Pendrick, “ΜΟΝΟΓΕΝΗΣ,” which
is a persuasive rebuttal of those that claim begottenness is contained within the sense of the
word (especially J. V. Dahms, “The Johannine Use of Monogenes Reconsidered,” NTS 29
[1983]: 222–32).
64. Cf. Justin, Dial. 105.1, and discussion at Pendrick, “ΜΟΝΟΓΕΝΗΣ,” 598.
65. Codex Vercellensis, which is normally cited as Old Latin (OL) manuscript (a).
66. Moody suggests that Jerome’s translation was influenced by Gregory of Nazianzus,
especially his Oration 29 (PG 36: 74–103), during Jerome’s stay in Constantinople (379–81
c.e.). Moody, “God’s Only Son,” 215.
67. His is the first known Latin translation of the 325 Nicene Creed: natum ex patre
unigenitum (PL 10: 536). One Latin version of the Creed, quoted in the context of reporting
on the 451 Council of Chalcedon, uses unicus to translate the 381 Niceno-Constantinopolitan
Creed: Filium Dei unicum (PL 56: 532).
68. This is not to say that the adjective μονογενής modifies δόξα grammatically, which
it obviously does not. It is a substantive adjective for which most translators supply “son,” but
I am calling attention to the lack of a defined begotten sonship of the Word in John’s
prologue.
69. The issues are treated in detail in Ehrman, Orthodox Corruption, 78–82. The best-
attested variants are μονογενὴς θεός, ὁ μονογενὴς θεός, and ὁ μονογενὴς υἱός. Based on
external criticism, Nestle-Aland prints the first of these, the anarthrous μονογενὴς θεός,
which I also support. Ehrman agrees with that judgment of external evidence, but he argues
for the third option, ὁ μονογενὴς υἱός, based on the grounds of internal criticism. He claims
that it makes more sense for the text originally to have read “unique son,” and that the var-
iant “God” was “created to support a high Christology in the face of widespread claims. . .
that Christ was not God but merely a man, adopted by God. . . . This Alexandrian reading
derives from an anti-adoptionistic context” (p. 82).
Though the resolution of this issue is not necessary for my argument about begotten-
ness—and I dispute Ehrman’s textual criticism with some trepidation—I do see the internal
evidence differently. The Johannine prologue is not primarily about the “Christ,” in Ehrman’s
words, nor is it about the “son,” a word that does not otherwise appear. It is most explicitly
about the Word/Light, and so it is internally consistent at the prologue’s conclusion to recall
its opening. John 1:18 recapitulates John 1:1 (the Word is θεός), just as it finishes the thought
of 1:14 (where the Word is already linked uniquely to the Father). Furthermore, I would
argue that an “anti-adoptionistic” change to this text works better in the direction opposite to
what Ehrman proposed. When “son” is added to the prologue, it encourages a view of Jesus
Christ’s divine sonship as preexistent, “in the bosom of the Father.” If “son” is not in the pro-
logue, however, the Gospel of John is wide open to adoptionist interpretations—the first time
Jesus is called “son of God” comes from John the Baptist, recalling Jesus’ baptism (1:34).
70. Some of the difficulties presented by John’s use of μονογενής can be ameliorated by
postulating a theological development within the Johannine corpus. I have tried to treat the
examples as contemporaneous and all meaning roughly the same thing, but others have
shown the fruits of charting an “evolution” of meaning within the Johannine tradition, e.g.,
Michèle Morgen, “Le (Fils) monogène dans les écrits johanniques: Évolution des traditions
et elaboration rédactionelle,” NTS 53 (2007): 165–83.
71. Besides the father-son unity expressed in Jesus’ prayer (17:1–25), he is also accused
of “calling God his own Father” (ἴδιος), which his opponents interpret as equality to God the
Father (5:18).
72. Cf. Vellanickal, Divine Sonship, 128.
73. See John Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991),
292–329; in which he relies also on the analysis of John’s “Sendungschristologie” in Jan-Adolf
Bühner, Der Gesandte und sein Weg im vierten Evangelium (Tübingen: Mohr, 1977).
74. Cf. my critique (chap. 1) of Hurtado’s interpretation of divine sonship in John.
75. Vellanickal, Divine Sonship, 124.
76. In the dialogue with Pilate, he says, “It is for this that I have been begotten
(γεγέννημαι), and for this I have come into the world: to testify to the truth” (John 18:37).
Again, neither Jesus nor John gives us any clue as to the point in past time to which he refers.
Even though the Nicene reading would see here his pre-temporal begetting and his later
incarnation, the two expressions can also refer to Jesus’ birth from Mary. In a different con-
text in the Gospel of John, Jesus has already described a natural birth in these terms
(ἐγεννήθη ἄνθρωπος εἰς τὸν κόσμον, 16:21).
77. Lieu, I, II, & III John, 230–31.
78. Paul begets new believers in Christ (1 Cor 4:5; Phlm 10), whose baptism is adoption
(Gal 4:5; Rom 8:15), death (Rom 6:3), and resurrection (Rom 6:4). All these images (and
more!) would come to flourish in early Christianity; cf. the source book by Maxwell Johnson,
Images of Baptism (Chicago: Liturgy Training Publications, 2001).
79. Bart Ehrman, The New Testament: A Historical Introduction to the Early Christian
Writings (4th ed.; New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 3.
80. Tertullian claims that they “did not think that Jesus was the Son of God” at all (De
praescript. Haer. 33.11). For a good survey and analysis of the evidence about the Ebionites,
see Oskar Skarsaune, “The Ebionites,” in Jewish Believers in Jesus (ed. Oskar Skarsaune and
Reidar Hvalvik; Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2007), 419–62.
81. Epiphanius, Pan. 30.13–14, esp. 30.13.7. Excerpts and English translations in
Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, 1:166–71, esp. 1:169.3. Orthodox authors such
as Augustine also defended both baptismal voices (PL 34: 1093).
82. A better example of a baptismal “adoption” in an apocryphal gospel might be the
narration from the “Gospel of the Hebrews” (quoted by Jerome, Comm. on Isa. 4, on Isa
11:2): “And it came to pass when the Lord came up out of the water, the whole fount of the
Holy Spirit descended upon him and rested on him and said to him: My Son, in all the
prophets was I waiting for you that you should come and I might rest in you. For you are my
rest; you are my first-begotten Son that reigns forever” (Schneemelcher, New Testament
Apocrypha, 1:177.2, trans. adapted and italics added). Yet the imagery is actually more
Johannine: it is a begetting again from above, as corroborated later by the Gospel’s construal
of the Holy Spirit as Jesus’ “mother” (Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, 1:177.3)
Father and Mother begat Jesus as son at his baptism.
83. Michael Goulder, “A Poor Man’s Christology,” NTS 45 (1999): 335.
84. For summaries of what we know about this group, see Ehrman, Orthodox Corruption,
51–52; Winrich A. Löhr,“Theodotus der Lederarbeiter und Theodotus der Bankier—ein Beitrag
zur römischen Theologiegeschichte des zweiten und dritten Jahrhunderts,” ZNW 87 (1996):
101–25; Peter Lampe, From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries
(ed. Marshall D. Johnson; trans. Michael Steinhauser; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 344–48.
85. Cf. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.28, quoting an anonymous early-third-century source
(5.28.7), which is often called the “Little Labyrinth.” The charge about Scripture is assessed
in Bart D. Ehrman, “The Theodotians as Corruptors of Scripture,” Studia Patristica 25
(1993): 46–51.
86. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.28.6. Greek: . . . Θεόδοτον τὸν σκυτέα, τὸν ἀρχηγὸν καὶ πατέρα
ταύτης τη̑ς ἀρνησιθέου ἀποστασίας . . . πρω̑ τον εἰπόντα ψιλὸν ἄνθρωπον τὸν χριστόν.
87. Hippolytus, Ref. 7.35; cf. 10.23.
88. McDonnell, Baptism, 89.
89. In the selection of authors that follows, I have limited myself to major figures and
texts that either use adoptive imagery in their portrayals of divine sonship or have been
accused of doing so. Hence some major Christian theologians—notably proto-heterodox
thinkers such as Valentinus—have been left out.
90. For a complementary analysis of how early Christian ecclesiology interacted with
Roman images and models in the second century, see Allen Brent, The Imperial Cult and the
Development of Church Order: Concepts and Images of Authority in Paganism and Early
Christianity before the Age of Cyprian (Leiden: Brill, 1999).
91. This description of the portrayal of Hermas is from Osiek’s commentary, which is
the best English-language analysis of the text: Carolyn Osiek, Shepherd of Hermas:
A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), 18, 23. On the social status of
Hermas and its relationship to the text, cf. Carolyn Osiek, Rich and Poor in the Shepherd of
Hermas (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1983); Jeffers, “Influence
of the Roman Family”; and Lampe, From Paul to Valentinus, 90–99.
92. The word “Christ” appears only in three mansucript variants (Vis. 2.2.8; 3.6.6; Sim.
9.18.1), which are not accepted by most scholars. Osiek, Shepherd, 34; cf. Molly Whittaker,
ed., Der Hirt des Hermas (GCS; Berlin: Akadamie-Verlag, 1967), and now the latest critical
edition: Martin Leutzsch, “Hirt des Hermas,” in Papiasfragmente. Hirt des Hermas (ed.
Ulrich H. J. Körtner and Martin Leutzsch; Schriften des Urchristentums 3; Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1998), 107–497.
93. One recent attempt is Bogdan G. Bucur, “The Son of God and the Angelomorphic
Holy Spirit: A Rereading of the Shepherd’s Christology,” ZNW 98 (2007): 120–42.
94. Osiek, Shepherd, 36, 35.
95. This passage is a main focus for Martin Dibelius, Der Hirt des Hermas (Tübingen:
Mohr Siebeck, 1923), esp. 572–76; Luigi Cirillo, “La christologie pneumatique de la
cinquième parabole du ‘Pasteur’ d’Hermas,” Revue de l’histoire des religions 184 (1973):
25–48; Norbert Brox, Der Hirt des Hermas (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991),
301–28, 485–95; Philippe Henne, La Christologie chez Clément de Rome et dans le Pasteur
d’Hermas (Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires, 1992), 157–210; J. Christian Wilson, Toward
a Reassessment of the Shepherd of Hermas: Its Date and Pneumatology (Lewiston, N.Y.:
Mellen, 1993), 104–35; Bucur, “Son of God.” But Osiek also emphasizes the statement of
Sim. 9.1.1 (“The Holy Spirit is the Son of God”), which is difficult to harmonize with the
doctrinal interpretations of Sim. 5. The Son of God is also portrayed as preexistent in
Sim. 9.12.1–2.
96. This outline is similar to but more detailed than that of Osiek, Shepherd, 168.
97. The identification of the “son” with the Holy Spirit is absent from most Greek man-
uscripts, though it is accepted by most commentators. The restored text comes from a Latin
ms.: filius autem spiritus sanctus est. Leutzsch, “Hirt des Hermas,” 262. In terms of later
Trinitarian doctrine, the restored text is certainly lectio difficillima.
98. From his review of Gebhardt and Harnack’s 1877 edition of The Shepherd, cited in
Brox, Hirt des Hermas, 6. Trans. my own.
99. Osiek, Shepherd, 178.
100. Sim. 5.6.2–4a. Trans. adapted from LCL (ed. Kirsopp Lake). Quotation marks are
placed around verbal correspondences with the original parable. The final sentence (5.6.4a)
is omitted from an important manuscript but accepted by most editors and commentators:
vides inquit dominum eum esse populi accepta a patre suo omni potestate. Osiek proposes
omission by homoioteleuton with the previous sentence. I have left out the inquit (“he said”)
in my translation.
101. The moniker was attached to The Shepherd through the influence of Adolph von
Harnack, History of Dogma (7 vols.; 3rd ed.; trans. Neil Buchanan; Gloucester, Mass.: Peter
Smith, 1976), 1:183–204, but most subsequent scholars that have treated the text in detail do
not call it “adoptionist.”
102. The parable might presume that the making of an heir implied adoption as son,
since adoption was indeed the primary method of designating heirs. Most commentators
also make this assumption. However, heirs could be designated without adoption, and the
parable is careful not to call the slave a son, even after he has been granted inheritance.
103. For a different way of reckoning the text of Sim. 5, see Henne, Christologie,
157–210.
104. Osiek, Shepherd, 179.
105. Sim. 5.2; 5.5.2; 5.6.1; 5.6.4b.
106. Sim. 5.6.4b–7a. Trans. adapted from LCL and Osiek, Shepherd, 176. Quotation
marks are placed around verbal correspondences with the original parable, including the
verb “to serve” (δουλεύω), since it echoes the noun “slave” (δούλος). The idea that a slave
does not have a “resting place” in the household, unless he becomes a son/heir, is similar to
that expressed by Jesus in John 8:35.
107. Greek of Sim. 5.6.5a: τὸ πνευ̑μα τὸ ἅγιον τὸ προόν τὸ κτίσαν πα̑σαν τὴν κτίσιν,
κατῳ̑κισεν ὁ θεὸς εἰς σάρκα, ἣν ἠβούλετο.
108. For a contrasting interpretation of the third interpretation, see Philippe Henne,
“La Véritable Christologie de la Cinquième Similitude du Pasteur d’Hermas,” Revue des
Sciences Philosophiques et Theologiques 74 (1990): 182–204.
109. This point has been made, though in different words, by Aloys Grillmeier, Christ in
Christian Tradition (2 vols.; 2nd ed.; trans. John Bowden; London: Mowbrays, 1975), 1:54;
Brox, Hirt des Hermas, 486; Osiek, Shepherd, 36; Lage Pernveden, The Concept of the Church
in the Shepherd of Hermas (Studia Theologica Lundensia 27; Lund: CWK Gleerup, 1966),
49–50; and Robert J. Hauck, “The Great Fast: Christology in the Shepherd of Hermas,”
Anglican Theological Review 75 (1993): 187–98.
110. This is also the emphasis given to the Arian controversy by Robert C. Gregg and
Dennis E. Groh, Early Arianism—A View of Salvation (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981),
about which see below.
111. Sim. 5.6.7b. Trans. adapted from LCL.
112. The relevance of upward mobility in a household for the interpretation of this text
is noted also by Martin Leutzsch, Die Wahrnehmung sozialer Wirklichkeit im “Hirten des
Hermas” (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 149–53.
113. Brox, Hirt des Hermas, 328. Brox further argues that Hermas was not a political
thinker. I am inclined to agree, but his revelatory use of household imagery would have res-
onated in his particular sociopolitical context. Cf. Norbert Brox, “Hermas und eine »poli-
tische Metaphysik«?” in Panchaia: Festschrift für Klaus Thraede (ed. Manfred Wacht;
Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 22; Münster: Aschendorffsche Verlagsbuchhandlung,
1995), 24–31.
114. Denise Kimber Buell, Making Christians: Clement of Alexandria and the Rhetoric of
Legitimacy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999). She expands this type of study to
other early Christian authors in Why This New Race: Ethnic Reasoning in Early Christianity
(New York: Columbia University Press, 2005).
115. Clement’s use of adoption language has been briefly summarized in Carlo Nardi, Il
Battesimo in Clemente Alessandrino: Interpretazione di Eclogae propheticae 1–26 (Studia
Ephemeridis “Augustinianum”; Rome: Institutum Patristicum “Augustinianum,” 1984), 157–62.
116. Clement of Alexandria, Paed. 1.5.21. τω̑ ν ὅλων ὁ πατὴρ τοὺς εἰς αὐτὸν
καταπεϕευγότας προσίεται καὶ ἀναγεννήσας πνεύματι εἰς υἱοθεσίαν ἠπίους οἰ δεν ̑ καὶ ϕιλει ̑
τούτους μόνους καὶ βοηθει ̑ καὶ ὑπερμαχει ̑ καὶ διὰ του̑το ὀνομάζει παιδίον.
117. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 6.8.68. τὰ ἁγιώτερα ἀποκαλύψαντος τοις̑ γνησίως
καὶ μὴ νόθως τη̑ς κυριακη̑ς υἱοθεσίας κληρονόμοις.
118. At Strom. 2.23.137, Clement uses the term in its fundamental sense, to describe the
legitimate offspring of a marriage.
119. None before this, according to a full corpus search in TLG (Thesaurus Linguae
Graecae). But the concepts are also linked in a Greek document, P. Lips. 28, the papyrus
adoption contract quoted several times above.
120. Clement does not refer to Christians as God’s γνήσιος sons or children. Christians
are “legitimate children of light” (τέκνα ϕωτὸς γνήσια, Prot. 10.92.5), but Jesus Christ is the
“legitimate child of God” (τέκνον γνήσιον, Quis. 36.2). The “legitimacy” of Christian divine
sonship is constituted by their adoption as “legitimate” heirs.
121. I will not attempt to parse the difficult text, Excerpta ex Theodoto, in which Clement’s
views are often tough to distinguish from the Valentinian, Theodotus, whose cosmology he
is depicting. The issue of adoptive and begotten sonship occurs at Clement of Alexandria,
Exc. 33 and 67.
122. Clement of Alexandria, Paed. 1.12.98. μοι δοκει ̑ αὐτὸς οὑ̑τος πλάσαι μὲν τὸν
ἄνθρωπον ἐκ χοός, ἀναγεννη̑σαι δὲ ὕδατι, αὐξη̑σαι δὲ πνεύματι, παιδαγωγη̑σαι δὲ ῥήματι
εἰς υἱοθεσίαν καὶ σωτερίαν, ἁγίαις ἐντολαι ς̑ κατευθύνων.
123. For another clear connection of adoption with adulthood, cf. Clement of Alexandria,
Paed. 1.6.33–34.
124. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 1.27.173. θεου̑ δου̑λον μὲν τὰ πρω̑τα, ἔπειτα δὲ
πιστὸν γενέσθαι θεράποντα, ϕοβούμενον κύριον τὸν θεόν, εἰ δέ τις ἐπαναβαίη, τοι ̑ς υἱοι ̑ς
ἐγκαταλέγεσθαι . . . του̑τον ἐγκαταταγέντα τῃ̑ ἐκλεκτῃ̑ υἱοθεσίᾳ τῃ̑ ϕίλῃ κεκλημένῃ του̑
θεου̑. The language at the end also resonates with the amici / ϕίλοι of a household’s
paterfamilias.
125. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 2.16.75; Paed. 3.8.45.
126. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 2.22.134.
127. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 6.9.76. τὸν ϕίλον του̑ θεου̑, ὃν προώρισεν ὁ θεὸς
πρὸ καταβολη̑ς κόσμου εἰς τὴν ἄκραν ἐγκαταλεγη̑ναι υἱοθεσίαν.
128. Clement of Alexandria, Paed. 1.6.26. αὐτίκα γου̑ν βαπτιζομένῳ τῳ̑ κυρίῳ ἀπ’
οὐρανω̑ ν ἐπήχησε ϕωνὴ μάρτυς ἠγαπημένου, υἱός μου εἰ ̑ σὺ ἀγαπητός, ἐγὼ σήμερον
γεγέννηκά σε. πυθώμεθα οὐ̑ν τω̑ν σοϕω̑ ν· σήμερον ἀναγεννηθεὶς ὁ χριστὸς ἤδη τέλειός
ἐστιν . . . ;
129. Clement of Alexandria, Paed. 1.6.26. τελειου̑ται δὲ τῳ̑ λουτρῳ̑ μόνῳ̑ καὶ του̑
πνεύματος τῃ̑ καθόδῳ ἁγιάζεται; οὕτως ἔχει. τὸ δὲ αὐτὸ συμβαίνει του̑το καὶ περὶ ἡμα̑ς, ὧν
γέγονεν ὑπογραϕὴ ὁ κύριος· βαπτιζόμενοι ϕωτιζόμεθα, ϕωτιζόμενοι υἱοποιούμεθα,
υἱοποιούμενοι τελειούμεθα, τελειούμενοι ἀπαθανατιζόμεθα· ἐγώ, ϕησίν, εἰπα, ̑ θεοί ἐστε καὶ
υἱοὶ ὑψίστου πάντες.
130. Elsewhere, Clement describes Christ also as a “pattern” (ὑπόδειγμα) and as the sub-
ject of the verb “to model” (ὑποτυπώσασθαι, Paed. 1.12.98). This is the same section in which
Clement refers to Christians as “becoming gods” or “being deified” (ἐκθεούμεθα), and the
implication is that this action is part of the “model” established by Jesus Christ in his life.
131. Antonio Orbe, “Teología Bautismal de Clemente Alejandrino según Paed. I, 26,
3–27,2,” Gregorianum 36 (1955): 440, 442. Trans. my own. Orbe argues that the different
stages can be best understood as exegesis of a fuller (extra-canonical) depiction of the
“events of the Jordan,” such as are presumed by Justin Martyr, Dial. 88.
132. On the origin and development of the concept of divinization/deification in early
Christianity, see Norman Russell, The Doctrine of Deification in the Greek Patristic Tradition
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), who deals with the doctrine from ancient Israel
and the Greco-Roman world all the way through to the end of the patristic era.
133. The interpetation of Psalm 82 is also related to the question of divinity and divine
sonship in the Gospel of John (10:31–39), but for John, only the divinity and divine sonship
of Jesus himself is at issue.
134. ANF 2:215.
135. Cf. a similar text on imitation of Christ and likeness to God at Strom. 6.14.114,
which concludes as follows: “‘For it is enough for the student to be like the teacher,’ says the
Teacher. Then as far as ‘likeness to God’ is concerned, whoever is appointed to adoptive son-
ship and friendship with God becomes so according to the joint inheritance of the lords and
gods, if indeed, he be perfected according to the gospel, just as the Lord himself taught.”
Greek: ἀρκετὸν γὰρ τῳ̑ μαθητῃ̑ γενέσθαι ὡς ὁ διδάσκαλος, λέγει ὁ διδάσκαλος. καθ’ ὁμοίωσιν
οὐν̑ του̑ θεου̑ ὁ εἰς υἱοθεσίαν καὶ ϕιλίαν του̑ θεου̑ καταταγεὶς κατὰ τὴν συγκληρονομίαν τω̑ ν
κυρίων καὶ θεω̑ν γίνεται, ἐάν, καθὼς αὐτὸς ἐδίδαξεν ὁ κύριος, κατὰ τὸ εὐαγγέλιον τελειωθῃ̑.
136. Antonio Orbe, “¿San Ireneo adopcionista?” Gregorianum 65 (1984): 5–52.

137. Walter Kasper, Jesus the Christ (trans. V. Green; New York: Paulist Press, 1976), 234;
trans. of Jesus der Christus (Mainz: Matthias-Grünewald Verlag, 1974).
138. Especially the voluminous work of Antonio Orbe, much of which is encapsulated
in Teología de San Ireneo (4 vols.; vols. 1–3 from Madrid: La Editorial Catolica, 1985–88; vol.
4 from Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1996). A shorter treatment dealing with
many of the texts I cover here is Bousset, Kyrios, 420–53.
139. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 4.8.1. Translations of Irenaeus are my own unless noted.
Critical edition is Irénée de Lyon, Contre les Hérésies (5 vols.; ed. Adelin Rousseau et al.;
Sources Chrétiennes 34, 100, 152–53, 210–11, 263–64, 293–94; Paris: du Cerf, 1952–82).
140. Cf. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 4.25.3 and 5.32.2.
141. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 4.11.1. Latin: . . . aliquando quidem colloquente eo cum suo
plasmate, aliquando autem dante legem, aliquando vero exprobrante, aliquando vero exhor-
tante, ac deinceps liberante servum et adoptante in filium, et apto tempore incorruptelae
hereditatem praestante ad perfectionem hominis. In the context, what I have translated here
as a statement is in the form of a question to the opponent.
142. Cf. the long exposition on the ascent of humanity to God at Irenaeus, Adv. Haer.
4.38.1–4. Cf. Robert F. Brown, “On the Necessary Imperfection of Creation: Irenaeus’
Adversus Haereses IV, 38,” Scottish Journal of Theology 28 (1975): 17–25; Miyako Namikawa,
“La Paciencia del Crecimiento y la Maduración,” Estudios Eclesiásticos 83 (2008): 51–85.
143. Cf. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 4.16.5 and 4.36.2.
144. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 4.33.4. A difficult text to interpret and translate: Et quemad-
modum homo transiet in Deum, si non Deus in hominem? Quemadmodum autem relinquent
mortis generationem, si non in novam generationem mire et inopinate a Deo, in signum autem
salutis datam, quae est ex Virgine, per fidem regenerentur? Vel quemadmodum adoptionem
accipient a Deo, permanentes in hac genesi, quae est secundum hominem in hoc mundo?
A Greek fragment from Theodoret offers the first line of what I translated here from the
Latin: ἢ πω̑ς ἄνθρωπος χωρήσει εἰς θεόν, εἰ μὴ ὁ θεὸς ἐχώρησεν εἰς ἄνθρωπον; (crit. ed.
4:2:810). On the interpretation of these lines, cf. Antonio Orbe, “En torno a los Ebionitas,”
Augustinianum 33 (1993): 315–37.
145. The introduction of “the Virgin” into the argument is primarily a response to the
Ebionites’ denial of Christ’s miraculous origin. The relationship between the virgin birth
and the two modes of Christian sonship is not spelled out by Irenaeus.
146. For Clement of Alexandria, the begetting again of Christians is prior to adoption. The
same interpretation of Irenaeus might possibly be supported by his use of an adoptive idea in
a different text (Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 4.31.1) to explain how Lot was related to the children he
had unwittingly begotten through his own daughters (Gen 19:30–38). Had he begotten them
first, and then adopted them later? Irenaeus’s typological exegesis is obscure, not least because
the Latin translation has added an incorrect allegorical correspondence to its translation. The
seduction-incest plot producing two family lines is interpreted as two synagogae or “groups”
that have become adopted children to God as one Father. The Greek fragment is crucial to
make sense of it (crit. ed., 4:1:83 and 4:2:790). Cf. Orbe, Teología, 4:428–40.
147. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 5.18.2. Again, the text is very concise and difficult to translate.
Latin: Pater enim conditionem simul et Verbum suum portat, et Verbum portatum a Patre
praestat Spiritum omnibus quemadmodum vult Pater: quibusdam quidem secundum condi-
tionem, quod est conditionis, quod est factum; quibusdam autem secundum adoptionem, quod
est ex Deo, quod est generatio.
148. He returns to the metaphor “again and again” (più volte), in the words of Elio
Peretto, La lettera ai Romani cc. 1–8 nell’ Adversus Haereses d’Ireneo (Quaderni di “Vetera
Christianorum” 6; Bari: Istituto di Letteratura Cristiana Antica, 1971), 229. Cf. the analysis
of Norris, “Irenaeus’ Use of Paul,” 89–98.
149. The lxx Greek is: ἐγὼ εἰ ̑πα Θεοί ἐστε καὶ υἱοὶ ὑψίστου πάντες. The interpretation
of Psalm 82 in the second century has been expertly analyzed by Carl Mosser, “The Earliest
Patristic Interpretations of Psalm 82, Jewish Antecedents, and the Origin of Deification,”
JTS 56 (2005): 30–74, esp. 41–54 on Irenaeus. He argues rightly that “the chief significance
of the psalm was its declaration of divine sonship” (30).
150. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.6.1. Latin: De Patre et Filio et de his qui adoptionem percepe-
runt dicit; hi autem sunt Ecclesia: haec enim est synagoga Dei, quam Deus, hoc est Filius, ipse
per semetipsum collegit. The lxx Greek of 82(81):1a is: ὁ θεὸς ἔστη ἐν συναγωγῃ̑ θεω̑ ν.
151. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.6.1. Latin: Quorum autem deorum? Quibus dicit: Ego dixi: Dii
estis et filii Altissimi omnes, his scilicet qui adoptionis gratiam adepti sunt, per quam clama-
mus: Abba Pater.
152. In addition to Mosser, “Psalm 82,” see Jacques Fantino, La Théologie d’Irénée (Paris:
Cerf, 1994), 213–16.
153. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 4.Preface.4. Latin: neminem alium Deum appellari a Scripturis,
nisi Patrem omnium et Filium et eos qui adoptionem habent.
154. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.16.3. Gal 4:4–5 is quoted just before this text. Latin: Filius Dei
hominis filius factus, ut per eum adoptionem percipiamus, portante homine et capiente et
complectente Filium Dei. On Irenaeus as interpreter of Paul, see Norris, “Irenaeus’ Use of
Paul”; Rolf Noormann, Irenäus als Paulusinterpret (WUNT II 66; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
1994); Jeffrey D. Bingham, “Irenaeus’s Reading of Romans 8,” Society of Biblical Literature
Seminar Papers 2001 (2001): 131–50.
155. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.18.7. Latin: Qua enim ratione filiorum adoptionis eius partici-
pes esse possemus, nisi per Filium eam quae est ad ipsum recepissemus ab eo communionem,
nisi verbum eius communicasset nobis caro factum?
156. A version of the “exchange formula” is still present in the Roman Catholic Liturgy
of the Eucharist. In preparing the cup, the priest says: per huius aquae et vini mysterium eius
efficiamur divinitatis consortes, qui humanitatis nostrae fieri dignatus est particeps, or “By the
mystery of this water and wine, may we come to share in the divinity of the one who deigned
to partake of our humanity.”
157. Kasper, Jesus Christ, 234.
158. Cf. Norris, “Irenaeus’ Use of Paul,” 97.
159. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.19.1. For detailed analysis of this text, see Orbe, “¿San Ireneo
adopcionista?” and Noormann, Irenäus, 487–92. My trans. adapted from ANF. Latin: Propter
hoc enim Verbum Dei homo, et qui Filius Dei est Filius hominis factus est, <ut homo>,
commixtus Verbo Dei et adoptionem percipiens, fiat filius Dei. Non enim poteramus aliter
percipere incorruptelam et immortalitatem nisi aduniti fuissemus incorruptelae et
immortalitati. Quemadmodum autem adunari possemus incorruptelae et immortalitati nisi
prius incorruptela et immortalitas facta fuisset id quod et nos, ut absorberetur quod erat cor-
ruptibile ab incorruptela et quod erat mortale ab immortalitate, uti filiorum adoptionem
perciperemus? A Greek version of the first sentence is extant from Theodoret: εἰς του̑το γὰρ
ὁ Λόγος ἄνθρωπος καὶ Υἱὸς ἀνθρώπου ὁ Υἱὸς του̑ Θεου̑, ἵνα ὁ ἄνθρωπος χωρήσας τὸν
Λόγον καὶ τὴν υἱοθεσίαν λαβὼν γένηται υἱὸς του̑ Θεου̑. Crit. ed. 3:2:374. The Latin ut homo
is supplied from the Greek ἵνα ὁ ἄνθρωπος. The main difference between the two versions
is the verb used to describe how the human encounters the Word: in the Greek, the human
“makes room for” the Word; in the Latin, the human is “joined with” the Word. Cf. Irenaeus,
Adv. Haer. 4.33.4.
160. Cf. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.20.2, yet another elaboration of the exchange formula.
161. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.19.1. Trans. from the Greek of Theodoret: τοὺς μὴ δεξαμένους
τὴν δωρεὰν τη̑ς υἱοθεσίας, ἀλλ̕ ἀτιμάζοντας τὴν σάρκωσιν τη̑ς καθαρα̑ς γεννήσεως του̑
Λόγου του̑ Θεου̑ καὶ ἀποστερου̑ντας τὸν ἄνθρωπον τη̑ς εἰς τὸν Θεὸν ἀνόδου.
162. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 2.28.6. Trans. adapted from ANF. “Begetting” is generatio, and
“born” is natus.
163. Norris, “Irenaeus’ Use of Paul,” 97.
164. Another example of a turn of phrase that would never again be repeated is the fol-
lowing description of how God is visible throughout salvation history. Its context draws on
the language and imagery of John 1 and John 3. “For God is powerful in all things, having
been seen indeed [in the past], prophetically through the Spirit, and then seen adoptively
through the Son; and God shall also be seen paternally in the kingdom of heaven—the Spirit
truly preparing the human to become a son of God, and the Son leading him to the Father,
then the Father confers upon him incorruption for eternal life, which comes to every one
from the fact of his seeing God” (Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 4.20.5). It is difficult to imagine a later
orthodox theologian writing the words, per Filium adoptive, even though the text probably
means that God enacted the adoption of others through the Son. Cf. Orbe, Teología, 4:
288–89. The adverbial use of the adoptive metaphor would not be precise enough for later
centuries.
165. It is important to recall that Irenaeus had the singular reading of John 1:13 (see
above), which would catalyze the separation of sonships.
166. As I mentioned above, I have limited my inquiry to those who engage directly with
adoptive imagery. The complex lineage systems of Valentinians, Sethians, and other Christian
groups are unfortunately not able to be addressed here.
167. I will not deal with the murky topic of Paul of Samosata, bishop of Antioch
(260–68), who often receives the label “adoptionist,” because of our limited information
about his views on divine sonship (cf. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 7.27–30).
168. Peter Widdicombe, The Fatherhood of God from Origen to Athanasius (Oxford:
Clarendon, 1994), 92.
169. In addition to the Latin and limited Greek fragments, I have consulted the English
translation of G.W. Butterworth in Origen, On First Principles (trans. G.W. Butterworth;
Gloucester, Mass.: Peter Smith, 1973).
170. Texts in this paragraph are from Origen, De Princ. 1.2.4 (PL 42: 1178). Relevant
Latin excerpt: quomodo ingenitus Deus Pater efficitur unigeniti Filii. Est ita namque aeterna
ac sempiterna generatio, sicut splendor generatur ex luce. Non enim per adoptionem spiritus,
Filius fit exstrinsecus: sed natura Filius est.
171. The image is Middle Platonic, attested already in Numenius of Apamea (2nd c.).
Numenius, Fragments: Texte Établi et Traduit par Édouard des Places, S.J. (trans. and ed.
Édouard des Places; Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1973), fr. 15. Origen subsequently cites Wis
7:25–26 and Heb 1:3 in the course of his argument.
172. Origen, De Princ. 4.4.1, for which there is a Greek fragment. He relies on the pre-
sentation of Wisdom in Prov 8:22.
173. Origen, De Princ. 1.2.4. Cf. Origen, Comm. on John 1.28, where the kingship of the
Son of God is described as kinship—it is a natural trait and not one added-on. “Then [should
we say that] the kingship of the Son of God is something added-on and not congenitally
his? How could it be that the firstborn of all creation does not exist as a king, but later must
have become a king?” The terms for “added-on” and “congenital” are often used to describe
plants in Greek. (ἀ̑ρ οὐ ̑ν ἐπιγενητή ἐστιν ἡ του̑ υἱου̑ του̑ θεου̑ βασιλεία καὶ οὐ συμϕυὴς
̑ τε τὸν πρωτότοκον πάσης κτίσεως, οὐκ ὄντα βασιλέα, ὕστερον βασιλέα
αὐτῳ̑; καὶ πω̑ ς οἰόν
γεγονέναι;)
174. Origen, Comm. on John 1.29. Greek: ἀλλὰ διὰ τούτων πάντων οὐ σαϕω̑ ς ἡ εὐγένεια
παρίσταται του̑ υἱου̑, ὅτε δὲ τὸ Υἱός μου εἰ ̑ σύ, ἐγὼ σήμερον γεγέννηκά σε λέγεται πρὸς
αὐτὸν ὑπὸ του̑ θεου̑, ᾡ̑ ἀεί ἐστι τὸ σήμερον . . . ἡμέρα ἐστὶν αὐτῳ̑ σήμερον, ἐν ᾑ̑ γεγέννηται
ὁ υἱός· ἀρχη̑ς γενέσεως αὐτου̑ οὕτως οὐχ εὑρισκομένης ὡς οὐδὲ τη̑ς ἡμέρας.
175. Cf. Augustine’s interpretation of Jesus’ baptism, “semper hodiernus est” (PL 40: 255),
cited also in McDonnell, Baptism, 98 no. 77.
176. Origen, Peri Pascha 41. There are some lacunae in this manuscript, but the key
words ἐγεννήθησαν and υἱοθεσία are clear. The participle rendered as “we who came to be”
is the partially reconstructed γεν[ομέ]νοις, which perhaps should instead be completed as
γεννωμένοις, in line with the verb in the scriptural citation. Cf. critical edition in Origène,
Sur la Pâque: Traité inédit publié d’après un papyrus de Toura (ed. Octave Guérard and Pierre
Nautin; Christianisme Antique 2; Paris: Beauchesne, 1979), 235 no. 2. English translation
available in: Origen, Treatise on the Passover and Dialogue with Heraclides (trans. and ed.
Robert J. Daly; New York: Paulist, 1992), 50.
177. Origen, Exp. in Prov., PG 17: 200–01. Relevant Greek excerpt: οἱ ἄγγελοι καὶ οἱ
δίκαιοι ἄνθρωποι, ἀλλήλων εἰσὶν ἀδελϕοὶ, τῳ̑ τη̑ς υἱοθεσίας γεννώμενοι πνεύματι· τούτου
γὰρ χάριν καὶ γεννω̑ νται ὑπὸ τη̑ς σοϕίας, ἵνα ἀνθρώπους ὁδηγήσωσιν ἀπὸ κακίας εἰς
ἀρετὴν, καὶ ἀπὸ ἀγνωσίας εἰς ἐπίγνωσιν Θεου̑.
178. Origen, Comm. on Romans 7.9.3.
179. Another third-century theologian to champion the distinction in sonships was
Methodius of Olympus, e.g., Symposium, Logos 8: Thecla 9.
180. E.g., Origen, Comm. on John 20.24–34; 32.21.
181. Origen, Hom. in Jer. 9.4 (PG 13: 357). Trans. in Widdicombe, Fatherhood, 98.
182. For example, Frances M. Young, From Nicaea to Chalcedon (Philadelphia: Fortress
Press, 1983); Rowan Williams, Arius: Heresy and Tradition (London: SCM Press, 1987); R. P.
C. Hanson, The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God: The Arian Controversy 318–381
(Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1988); Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-
Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); Gregg and Groh,
Early Arianism.
183. We do not have many of Arius’s own words, of course. But if the teachings recorded
in Athanasius, De synodis 15, are to be counted as those of Arius—as extracts from the
Thalia, which many scholars do consider them to be—then one can see where the charge of
adoptionism might have found a foothold. That text says, God “bore him into a Son for him-
self, τεκνοποιήσας him” (ἤνεγκεν εἰς υἱὸν ἑαυτῳ̑ τόνδε τεκνοποιήσας). I leave the word
τεκνοποιήσας untranslated because, although it normally means the making of a child
through natural birth, there are rare uses of it in the middle voice for surrogate parenthood
or adoption. Interestingly, the two biblical cases of its use for surrogate parenthood (Gen
16:2; 30:3) are held up by Athanasius as cases of “natural” offspring (Or. 1.38), and so per-
haps he was not troubled by the verb in any form. More importantly, it contains the verbal
root ποι-, which places the Son on the side of Becoming. The term may have invited the
opponents of Arius to use adoptive metaphors to describe his Christology, even though he
had just previously described the Son as naturally begotten (τὸν τὴν ϕύσιν γεννητόν). Cf.
Hanson, Search, 14; and Williams, Arius, 102, 259.
184. Cf. chapter 2 for some non-Christian sources. For a famous example from a
Christian source, see Tertullian’s quotable maxim: Fiunt, non nascuntur, Christiani
(“Christians are made, not born”). Tertullian, Apol. 18.4.
185. The intended recipient of the letter, also named Alexander, cannot be identified for
certain. Theodoret identifies him as Alexander of Byzantium, but it was more likely Alexander of
Thessalonica. In any case, it was meant for a wider readership. Later on, Athanasius also accuses
Arius of representing Christ’s sonship as an adoption (e.g., Athanasius, Or. 1.38; 2.64; 3.9).
186. Greek text of Alexander of Alexandria, Letter to Alexander, available in Athanasius
Werke: Dritter Band, Erster Teil (ed. Hans-Georg Opitz; Berlin and Leipzig: De Gruyter,
1934), Urkunde 14 (apud Theodoret, Eccl. Hist. 1.4). This quotation is from sections 28–29.
Greek: ἐξ ἡ̑ς ἔστιν ἰδει ̑ν τὴν υἱότητα του̑ σωτη̑ρος ἡμω̑ν οὐδεμίαν ἔχουσαν κοινωνίαν πρὸς
τὴν τω̑ν λοιπω̑ν υἱότητα. ὃν τρόπον γὰρ ἡ ἄρρητος αὐτου̑ ὑπόστασις ἀσυγκρίτῳ ὑπεροχῃ̑
ἐδείχθη ὑπερκειμένη πάντων οἱς̑ αὐτὸς τὸ εἰναι ̑ ἐχαρίσατο, οὕτως καὶ ἡ υἱότης αὐτου̑, κατὰ
ϕύσιν τυγχάνουσα τη̑ς πατρικη̑ς θεότητος, ἀλέκτῳ ὑπεροχῃ̑ διαϕέρει τω̑ν δι̕ αὐτου̑ θέσει
υἱοθετηθέντων. ὁ μὲν γὰρ ἀτρέπτου ϕύσεως τυγχάνει, τέλειος ὢν καὶ διὰ πάντων ἀνενδεής·
οἱ δὲ τῃ̑ εἰς ἑκάτερα τροπῃ̑ ὑποκείμενοι τη̑ς παρὰ τούτου βοηθείας δέονται. I have consulted
the English translation of NPNF in making my own.
187. I use the term “son-ness” to indicate the neologism υἱότης of the Nicene era. The
orthodox side needed an abstraction to talk about the fact of Jesus Christ being God’s son,
and this static term of Being helped distinguish his sonship from the dynamic kind of
Becoming (υἱοθεσία) that Christians possessed. Besides this occurrence, the noun υἱότης is
attested in the text of Hippolytus’s Refutatio [Philosophoumena], a fact which may bolster
the argument against the authenticity of that text’s authorship by Hippolytus. The word also
appears once in Origen, but there it refers to the “son-ness” that is “impressed” like an “image”
upon “the saints” (εἰκὼν οὐ̑ν εἰκόνος οἱ ἅγιοι τυγχάνοντες, τη̑ς εἰκόνος οὔσης υἱου̑,
ἀπομάττονται ὑιότητα, PG 11:485b). That is, it is functioning in precisely the opposite way
to how it would be used later by Alexander of Alexandria. For Origen, son-ness connects
Christians with Christ; for Alexander, son-ness distinguishes Christ’s unique sonship from
that of Christians. From the fourth century on, use of the word increases, in the way
Alexander means it. Cf. below on Cyril of Jerusalem.
188. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 2.16.75; Paed. 3.8.45; Strom. 2.22.134.
189. The “divided line” and the “myth of the cave” are parallel expressions of Platonic
metaphysics in Plato, Republic, books 6 and 7.
190. Alexander, Letter to Alexander 31. Greek: ὁ κύριος ἡμῶν, ϕύσει του̑ πατρὸς υἱὸς
τυγχάνων, ὑπὸ πάντων προσκυνει ̑ται· οἱ δὲ ἀποθέμενοι τὸ πνευ̑μα τη̑ς δουλείας, ἐξ
ἀνδραγαθημάτων καὶ προκοπη̑ς τὸ τη̑ς υἱοθεσίας λαβόντες πνευ̑μα, διὰ του̑ ϕύσει υἱου̑
εὐεργετούμενοι γίγνονται αὐτοὶ θέσει υἱοί. Τὴν μὲν οὐ̑ν γνησίαν αὐτου̑ καὶ ἰδιότροπον καὶ
ϕυσικὴν κατ̕ ἐξαίρετον υἱότητα ὁ Παυ̑λος οὕτως ἀπεϕήνατο, περὶ θεου̑ εἰπών· ὅς γε του̑
ἰδίου υἱου̑ οὐκ ἐϕείσατο, ἀλλ̕ ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν δηλονότι τω̑ν μὴ ϕύσει υἱω̑ν παρέδωκεν αὐτόν.
πρὸς γὰρ ἀντιδιαστολὴν τω̑ν οὐκ ἰδίων αὐτὸν ἴδιον υἱὸν ἔϕησεν εἰ ν̑ αι.
191. Alexander, Letter to Alexander 34. Greek: οὐχὶ ἄντικρυς τη̑ς πατρικη̑ς μαιώσεως
ϕυσικὴν ἐνδείκνυται υἱότητα, οὐ τρόπων ἐπιμελείᾳ καὶ προκοπη̑ς ἀσκήσει, ἀλλὰ ϕύσεως
ἰδιώματι ταύτην λαχόντος; ὅθεν καὶ ἀμετάπτωτον ἔχει τὴν υἱότητα ὁ μονογενὴς υἱὸς του̑
πατρός. τὴν δὲ τῶν λογικῶν υἱοθεσίαν, οὐ κατὰ ϕύσιν αὐτοις̑ ὑπάρχουσαν ἀλλὰ τρόπων
ἐπιτηδειότητι καὶ δωρεᾳ̑ θεου̑, καὶ μεταπτωτὴν.
192. Origen, however, did not think that one could regress from or lose the status of
adoptive sonship. Christians can become better and better sons of God, but they cannot lose
the status altogether. Cf. Widdicombe, Fatherhood, 104–05.
193. Gregg and Groh, Early Arianism, esp. 50–70.
194. Ibid., 70. The appeal of identification with Christ, of promotion to divine sonship
with Christ, is still considered the attractive feature of adoptionistic Christologies for
Christians. See the quite empathetic essay in a contemporary handbook of heresiography
and apologetics: Rachel Muers, “Adoptionism: Is Jesus Christ the Son of God by Nature or
by Adoption?” in Heresies and How to Avoid Them (ed. Ben Quash and Michael Ward;
London: SPCK; Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2007), 50–58.
195. Gregg and Groh suggested that the sociopolitical context of adoption might have
influenced the theological use of adoptive metaphors, but they did not pursue the point.
Gregg and Groh, Early Arianism, 72 no. 45. My work is, in one sense, a large expansion of
their footnote.
196. Peter Widdicombe, “The Fathers on the Father in the Gospel of John,” Semeia 85
(1999): 116.
197. Widdicombe, Fatherhood, 238–39. His chapter, “Adoption, Salvation, and Life of
Unity” (223–49), has deeply informed my own research on these matters, and the following
paragraphs bear many similarities to his persuasive arguments there.
198. Athanasius, Or. 2.59. The entire argument is 2.57–72.
199. Athanasius, Or. 2.59. Discussed also at Widdicombe, Fatherhood, 240–41.
200. Athanasius, Or. 2.64.
201. Virginia Burrus, Begotten, Not Made: Conceiving Manhood in Late Antiquity
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 186.
202. Athanasius, De Decretis 31.
203. It is likely that Athanasius uses the adverb in a colloquial way, meaning something
like “really,” “certainly,” “indeed,” “of course,” etc. But that does not much diminish the sur-
prise at this juxtaposition.
204. Athanasius, Or. 1.9.
205. Widdicombe, Fatherhood, 241.
206. Timothy D. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
University Press, 1981); Timothy D. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and
Politics in the Constantinian Empire (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993). Cf.
Friedrich Vittinghoff, “Staat, Kirche und Dynastie beim Tode Konstantins,” in L,Église et
L’Empire au IVe Siècle (ed. Albrecht Dihle; Genève: Fondation Hardt, 1989), 1–34.
207. But see Grillmeier, Christ in Christian Tradition, 251–64; and Dale B. Martin,
Inventing Superstition (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2004), 217–25.
208. Athanasius, Or. 3.5. Since the statue is most certainly a “made” thing, Athanasius’s
choice of example was unusual. More fitting for the anti-Arian argument was Ephrem’s
analogy, which likens Father and Son to a tree and its fruit. P. J. Botha, “Ephrem’s Comparison
of the Father-Son Relationship to the Relationship Between a Tree and Its Fruit in His
Hymns ‘On Faith,’ ” Acta Patristica et Byzantina 4 (1993): 23–32. For other arguments based
on imperial images from this era, cf. Basil, Hom. 24.4; Spir. 9.23; 18.45, and discussion in
Jaroslav Pelikan, The Spirit of Eastern Christendom (600–1700) (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1977), 103.
209. The best place to interpret the relationship between Eusebius’s political ideology
and his theology is the speech, In Praise of Constantine (Laud. Const.). The Greek edition—
essential to see the rhetorical play between the depictions of Constantine and God—is
Oratio de laudibus Constantini in Eusebius’ Werke I (ed. Ivar A. Heikel; GCS 7; Leipzig, 1902),
195–223. The English translation of NPNF must be avoided because it does not render the
ambiguities of how the emperor and God are presented; in fact, it tries to eliminate them.
Instead, use the excellent version of H. A. Drake, In Praise of Constantine: A Historical Study
and New Translation of Eusebius’ Tricennial Orations (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1976). For examples of Eusebius’s connection between political ideology and the-
ology, see Laud. Const. 0.2; 1.3; 2.1–5; 4.2–5.1; 6.21; 9.18; and especially 3.1–6.
210. Eusebius, Vit. Const. 1.1.2–3. Greek: τὸν μακάριον αὐτῃ̑ συνόντα βασιλείᾳ . . . ζῶντα
δυνάμει. The best English translation is Eusebius, Life of Constantine (introduction, transla-
tion and commentary by Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall; Oxford: Clarendon, 1999).
211. Eusebius, Vit. Const. 1.3. Greek: τοὺς αὐτου̑ παι ̑δας οἱ ά̑ τινας νέους λαμπτη̑ρας τῶν
αὐτου̑ μαρμαρυγω̑ν συνορᾳ̑ πληρου̑ντας τὸ πα̑ν. Cf. Eusebius, Laud. Const. 3.4.
212. Constantine, Letter to Arius and the Arians 26 (Athanasius, De decretis 40 = Opitz,
Urkunde 34). Greek: ὠ̑ τω̑ν πάντων ἔχων τὸ κυ̑ρος δέσποτα, ὠ̑ τη̑ς μονήρους δυνάμεως
πάτερ, διὰ τουτονὶ τὸν ἀνόσιον ὀνείδη τε καὶ μώλωπας καὶ μέντοι καὶ τραύματα καὶ ὀδύνας
ἡ σὴ ἔχει ἐκκλησία. Ἄρειός σοι τόπον ἤδη προσαρμόζει καὶ μάλα γε εὐϕυω̑ς ἐϕ̕ οὑ̑ καθιζάνων
οἰ μ̑ αι σύνοδον ἑαυτῳ̑ ἢ παι ̑δα τὸν χριστὸν τὸν σὸν τὸν ἐκ σου̑ τὸν τη̑ς ἡμετέρας ἐπικουρίας
ἀρχηγέτην θέσεως νόμῳ περιπεποίηται καὶ ἴσχει.
213. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 10.9.4. Greek: ὁ τω̑ν ἀγαθω̑ν ἀρωγὸς πρόεισιν ἅμα παιδὶ Κρίσπῳ
βασιλει ̑ ϕιλανθρωποτάτῳ, σωτήριον δεξιὰν ἄπασιν τοι ̑ς ἀπολλυμένοις ἐκτείνας. εἰ θ̑ ̕ οἱα̑
παμβασιλει ̑ θεῳ̑ θεου̑ τε παιδὶ σωτη̑ρι ἁπάντων ποδηγῳ̑ καὶ συμμάχῳ χρώμενοι, πατὴρ ἅμα
καὶ υἱὸς. . .
214. The emperor is the “image” (εἰκών) of God in Eusebius, Laud. Const. passim. But
note that his political ideology seems to precede his theology (at least as they are presented
logically) at Laud. Const. 3.6.
215. Another clear example of the orthodox view here represented by Augustine comes
from Gregory of Nazianzus, Ep. 101 (To Cledonius, Against Apollanaris): “If any assert that
[Christ] was made perfect by works, or that after his Baptism, or after his Resurrection from
the dead, he was counted worthy of an adoptive sonship, like those whom the Greeks inter-
polate as added to the ranks of the gods, let him be anathema. For that which has a beginning
or progress or is made perfect is not God” (Ep. 101; PG 37: 180; NPNF II 7:440).
216. Augustine, Enarrationes in Psalmos (comment on Ps 89[88]:6), PL 37: 1124. The
lxx and Vulgate versions of the psalm verse are: ὅτι τίς ἐν νεϕέλαις ἰσωθήσεται τῳ̑ κυρίῳ,
καὶ τίς ὁμοιωθήσεται τῳ̑ κυρίῳ ἐν υἱοι ̑ς θεου̑; and Quoniam quis in nubibus aequabitur
Domino; similis erit Deo in filiis Dei? Latin original of commentary: Ergo nemo in filiis Dei
similis erit Filio Dei. Et ipse dictus est Filius Dei, et nos dicti sumus filii Dei; sed quis similis erit
Domino in filiis Dei? Ille unicus, nos multi; ille unus, nos in illo unum; ille natus, nos adoptati;
ille ab aeterno Filius genitus per naturam, nos a tempore facti per gratiam.
217. Augustine, Sermon 183 (on 1 John 4:2), PL 38: 990. Latin: Quid dicis, Ariane? . . . Factum
dicis. Si factum dicis, Filium negas. Filium enim quaerimus natura, non gratia; Filium unicum,
unigenitum, non adoptatum. Talem Filium quaerimus, tam verum Filium quaerimus. Trans.
adapted from The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century: Sermons,
Part III (trans. Edmund Hill; Brooklyn, N.Y.: New City Press, 1990–2008), 339.
218. On these texts, a solid bibliography has emerged: for historical analyses, cf. Maxwell E.
Johnson, The Rites of Christian Initiation: Their Evolution and Interpretation (Collegeville, Minn.:
Liturgical Press, 1999), 89–124; Bryan D. Spinks, Early and Medieval Rituals and Theologies of
Baptism: From the New Testament to the Council of Trent (Hampshire: Ashgate, 2006), 38–67;
Juliette Day, The Baptismal Liturgy of Jerusalem: Fourth- and Fifth-Century Evidence from
Palestine, Syria and Egypt (Hampshire: Ashgate, 2007). None of these yet had access to Macarius’s
Letter (see below). For theological analysis of the early evidence, cf. McDonnell, Baptism.
219. Didascalia Apostolorum 9 (ed. Arthur Vööbus; CSCO 175–76, 179–80, 401–02,
407–08; Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1979), 109 (Syriac). Trans. my own. Relevant
Syriac (translit.) and Latin: dbry )nt)n) ywmna yldtk / Filius meus es tu, ego hodie genui te . . . mt[l
hn) )w br ns\) hwyt yd( l)pysqwpyk lhnwn db)ydyhwn hwyt br) l)lh) / Propterea, homo,
agnosce episcopos tuos, per quos es filius Dei.
220. The actual uttering of these words by the baptizer is interpreted by McDonnell
(91–92) as historically accurate, though other historians are more cautious: it was “appar-
ently recited as a formula” (Johnson, Rites, 1st ed., 42), “the formula . . . is uncertain” (Spinks,
Rituals and Theologies, 19), and “possibly recited” (Johnson, Rites, 2007 rev. ed., 54). Baptism
is also described as “begetting again” or “regeneration” in Apostolic Tradition 21.21, our other
early liturgical source (Latin, Arabic and Ethiopic; the Bohairic differs). Paul F. Bradshaw,
Maxwell E. Johnson, and L. Edward Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition (ed. Harold W. Attridge;
Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 118; Latin text available in Hippolyte de Rome, La
Tradition Apostolique (2nd ed.; ed. Bernard Botte; Sources Chretiénnes 11; Paris: Les
Éditions du Cerf, 1984), 88.
221. J.M. Harden, The Ethiopic Didascalia (London: SPCK; New York: Macmillan, 1920), 54.
222. Didascalia Apostolorum 9; Vööbus p. 103 and 110.
223. Abraham Terian, Macarius of Jerusalem, Letter to the Armenians (A.D. 335):
Introduction, Text, Translation, and Commentary (Crestwood, N.Y.: St. Vladimir’s Seminary
Press, 2008). The text quoted here is from the oldest and most reliable version of the letter,
preserved in the Fragment in Anania of Shirak 284.5–24, pp. 81–87.
224. The feast of Epiphany, the celebration of Jesus’ baptism, is actually second only to
Easter in antiquity. Though the extent of its celebration is uncertain, it predated the feast of
the Nativity (or “Christmas”). Clement of Alexandria knew of the celebration of Epiphany,
although neither of the dates he records as the ones proposed for the feast day line up with
the date he records for Jesus’ birth. He notes that the followers of Basilides mark the feast
with an all-night vigil of readings (Strom. 1.21.145). For a compilation and historical anal-
ysis of the evidence for Epiphany and Nativity in early Christianity, see Hermann Usener,
Religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen. Erster Theil: Das Weihnachtsfest (Bonn, 1889).
225. The later redactor (eleventh c.) of Macarius’s letter deletes almost all of the author’s
explanations of the proper days for baptisms, eliminates the references to Christians as
born/begotten of God, and at the end of the section introduces the adoption metaphor (cf.
Letter 223.9–11, p. 87).
226. The baptism of Jesus was a troublesome datum for apologists of high Christological
orthodoxy, as is well known, and remembrance of Jesus’ baptism did not survive in any
Christian creeds except one—the creed of the Armenian Church (cf. McDonnell, Baptism,
35–41). For another early text attempting to explain the relationship of the baptism of
Christ and Christians, see Methodius of Olympus, Symposium, Logos 8.
227. On the various attempts to date Cyril’s writings, see Day, Baptismal Liturgy, esp.
23–25. It is also possible that these lectures were refined each year and their present form
should thus be regarded as late-fourth-century interpretations.
228. Cyril of Jerusalem, Cat. Lect. 3.14–15. Greek: Ἐὰν καὶ αὐτὸς ἔχῃς ἀνυπόκριτον
εὐλάβειαν, κατέρχεται καὶ ἐπὶ σὲ τὸ Πνευ̑μα τὸ ἅγιον, καὶ ϕωνή σοι πατρικὴ ἄνωθεν ἐπηχει̑·
οὐχ, οὑ̑τός ἐστιν ὁ υἱός μου, ἀλλ̕ οὑ̑τος νυ̑ν γέγονεν υἱός μου. Ἐπ̕ ἐκείνου μὲν γὰρ τὸ ἔστιν·
ἐπειδὴ ἐν ἀρχῃ̑ ἠ̑ν ὁ Λόγος, καὶ ὁ Λόγος ἠ̑ν πρὸς τὸν Θεὸν, καὶ Θεὸς ἠ̑ν ὁ Λόγος· ἐπ̕ ἐκείνου
τὸ ἔστιν· ἐπειδὴ πάντοτέ ἐστιν υἱὸς Θεου̑· ἐπὶ δὲ σου̑ τὸ νυ̑ν γέγονεν· ἐπειδὴ οὐ κατὰ ϕύσιν
ἔχεις, ἀλλὰ κατὰ θέσιν τὴν υἱοθεσίαν λαμβάνεις· ἐκει ν̑ ος ἀΐδιός ἐστι· σὺ δὲ ἐκ προκοπη̑ς
λαμβάνεις τὴν χάριν. Οὐκου̑ν ἑτοίμασον τη̑ς ψυχη̑ς τὸ ἄγγος, ἵνα υἱὸς γένῃ Θεου̑, καὶ
κληρονόμος μὲν Θεου̑, συγκληρονόμος δὲ χριστου̑.
229. This had by then become a common way of explaining why Jesus needed to be
baptized.
230. Cyril of Jerusalem, Cat. Lect. 10.3, 10.5.
231. Cyril of Jerusalem, Cat. Lect. 7.7–8. For a longer analysis of Cyril’s divine sonship
language vis-à-vis Nicea, see Robert C. Gregg, “Cyril of Jerusalem and the Arians,” in
Arianism: Historical and Theological Reassessments (ed. Robert C. Gregg; Patristic
Monograph Series 11; Philadelphia: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation, 1985), 85–109.
232. Apostolic Constitutions 2.32. Critical edition is Marcel Metzger, ed., Les Constitutions
Apostoliques (Sources Chrétiennes 320, 329, 336; Paris: Cerf, 1985–87). Greek: υἱός μου εἰ ̑
σύ, ἐγὼ σήμερον γεγέννηκά σε. διὰ του̑ ἐπισκόπου σου ὁ Θεὸς υἱοποιειτ̑ αί σε, ἄνθρωπε.
233. Didascalia Apostolorum 9; Vööbus, p. 103: “the bishop is a servant of the word and
mediator, but to you a teacher and your father, after God, who has begotten you (pl.) through
the water” (d)wldkwn byd my)/ per aquam regenerans). Apostolic Constitutions 2.26: the
bishop “is after God, your father, having begotten you (pl.) again through water and spirit
into adoption” (δι̕ ὕδατος καὶ πνεύματος ἀναγεννήσας ὑμα̑ς εἰς υἱοθεσίαν).
234. He replaces the DA’s description of bishops as “those who have begotten you again”
with the phrase “your spiritual parents.”
235. Cf. the use of the adoption metaphor with baptism later in the AC: 7.39–40, 7.43,
8.8.
236. Apostolic Constitutions 2.32. “Acknowledge then, O son . . .” Greek: γνώριζε οὐν̑ , υἱέ . . .
237. On the christological significance of interpreting Jesus’ baptism in the fourth
century, see Robert L. Wilken, “The Interpretation of the Baptism of Jesus in the Later
Fathers,” Studia Patristica 11 (1972): 268–77.
238. The AC (2.32) makes this clear by adding Christ as an object of belief in its redac-
tion of the DA. Instead of hearing the holy voice like Christ, being baptized and born with
Christ, the Christian has come to believe in Christ.
■ Conclusion
1. John Chrysostom, Hom. in Matt. 12 (PG 57: 205–07). I will paraphrase the long
homily and translate some key portions.
2. Greek: οὐδὲ γὰρ ἀπὸ κιβωτου̑ ἄνθρωπον ἐξάγει ἕνα, ἀλλὰ τὴν οἰκουμένην ἅπασαν εἰς
τὸν οὐρανὸν ἀνάγει ϕανεισ̑ α, καὶ ἀντὶ θαλλου̑ ἐλαίας τὴν υἱοθεσίαν τῳ̑ κοινῳ̑ τη̑ς οἰκουμένης
κομίζει γένει.
3. Greek: μὴ τοίνυν ἀχάριστος γίνου περὶ τὸν εὐεργέτην . . . ὅπου γὰρ υἱοθεσίας ἀξίωμα,
ἐκει ̑ καὶ ἡ τω̑ν κακω̑ν ἀναίρεσις, καὶ ἡ τω̑ν ἀγαθω̑ν ἁπάντων δόσις.
4. Cf. a similar moment in Ps-Hippolytus, Discourse on Theophany 6.
5. On adoptive sonship as “legitimate” (γνήσιος) for Chrysostom, cf. Hom. in Eph. 5.2
(PG 62: 39).
6. This is not the singular ἡ βασιλεία, but the plural τὰ βασίλεια (courts, palaces, imperial
confines).
7. Greek: οὐδὲ γὰρ εἰ βασιλεύς τις τω̑ ν ἐπὶ τη̑ς γη̑ς πτωχὸν ὄντα σε καὶ προσαιτου̑ντα
λαβὼν, υἱὸν ἐξαίϕνης ἐποιήσατο, τὴν καλύβην καὶ τὴν εὐτέλειαν τη̑ς καλύβης τη̑ς ση̑ς
ἐνενόησας ἄν· καίτοιγε οὐ πολὺ τὸ μέσον ἐκει.̑ μὴ τοίνυν μηδὲ ἐνταυ̑θα λογίζου τι τω̑ ν
προτέρων· καὶ γὰρ ἐπὶ πολλῳ̑ μείζοσιν ἐκλήθης. ὅ τε γὰρ καλῶν, ὁ τῶν ἀγγέλων δεσπότης
ἐστί· τά τε διδόμενα ἀγαθὰ, καὶ λόγον καὶ διάνοιαν ὑπερβαίνει πα̑σαν. οὐ γὰρ ἀπὸ γη̑ς εἰς
γη̑ν σε μεθίστησι, καθάπερ ὁ βασιλεὺς, ἀλλ’ ἀπὸ γη̑ς εἰς οὐρανὸν, καὶ ἀπὸ ϕύσεως θνητη̑ς
εἰς ἀθάνατον καὶ δόξαν ἄῤῥητον, τότε δυναμένην μόνον ϕανη̑ναι καλω̑ς, ὅταν αὐτη̑ς
ἀπολαύσωμεν.
8. This is generally the case, and Chrysostom is no different (cf. PG 62: 622; 63: 491).
9. He uses a similar analogy in his instructions to catechumens; cf. St. John Chrysostom,
Baptismal Instructions (trans. Paul W. Harkins; Ancient Christian Writers 31; Westminster,
Md.: Newman Press; London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1963), 89–90.
10. Greek: εἰ γὰρ ὁ παράδεισον λαχὼν, διὰ μίαν παρακοὴν τοσαυ̑τα μετὰ τὴν τιμὴν
ὑπέστη δεινά· οἱ τὸν οὐρανὸν ἀπολαβόντες ἡμει ς̑ , καὶ τῳ̑ μονογενει ̑ γενόμενοι
συγκληρονόμοι, τίνα ἕξομεν συγγνώμην, τῳ̑ ὄϕει μετὰ τὴν περιστερὰν προστρέχοντες;
■ Epilogue
1. This is an illustration by Eran Ben-Dov of the well-preserved shrine at Philippopolis,

to which the shrine at Hippos-Sussita may be compared. Arthur Segal, “The Kalibe Buildings
— Temples for the Worship of Emperors in Hauran and in Trachonitis — a Historical-
Archaeological Analysis,” Qadmoniot 34/1 [121] (2001): 60–66, image from p. 63 [Hebrew].
■ bibliography
Note: For ancient sources, I have tried to use the editions and translations most widely avail-
able in the United States: the Hebrew Bible, Septuagint and New Testament from Deutsche
Bibelgesellschaft (Stuttgart); the Loeb Classical Library (Harvard University Press);
Patrologia Graeca and Latina; Corpus Scriptorum; Sources Chrétiennes; Thesaurus Linguae
Graecae (electronic); Library of Latin Texts (electronic). Ancient sources are listed below
only if their editions or translations come from elsewhere.
Ahearne-Kroll, Stephen P. The Psalms of Lament in Mark’s Passion: Jesus’ Davidic Suffering.
SNTSMS 142. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007.
Aland, Kurt. Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum. Rev. ed. Stuttgart: Deutsche Biblegesellschaft,
2001.
Alföldi, Andreas. Der Vater des Vaterlandes im römischen Denken. Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1971.
Alföldy, Géza. “Subject and Ruler, Subjects and Methods: An Attempt at a Conclusion.” Pages
254–61 in Subject and Ruler. Edited by Alistair Small.
Ando, Clifford. Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire. Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2000.
. The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the Roman Empire. Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2008.
Ashton, John. Understanding the Fourth Gospel. Oxford: Clarendon, 1991.
Athanassiadi, Polymnia, and Frede, Michael, eds. Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity.
Oxford: Clarendon, 1999.
Attridge, Harold W. “The Cubist Principle in Johannine Imagery: John and the Reading of
Images of Contemporary Platonism.” Pages 47–60 in Imagery in the Gospel of John: Terms,
Forms, Themes, and Theology of Johannine Figurative Language. Edited by Jörg Frey, Jan G.
Van der Watt, and Ruben Zimmermann. WUNT 200. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006.
. “The Philosophical Critique of Religion under the Early Empire.” ANRW 2.16.1
(1978): 45–78.
. “The Psalms in Hebrews.” Pages 197–212 in The Psalms in the New Testament. Edited
by Steve Moyise and Maarten J.J. Menken. London; New York: T. & T. Clark, 2004.
. Hebrews. Edited by Helmut Koester. Hermeneia. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1989.
Augustine. The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century: Sermons, Part
III. Translated by Edmund Hill. Brooklyn: New City Press, 1992.
Ayres, Lewis. Nicaea and its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004.
Bacon, Benjamin Wisner. Is Mark a Roman Gospel? Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1919.
Baird, William. History of New Testament Research, Vol. 2. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003.
Barnes, Timothy D. Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian
Empire. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993.
. Constantine and Eusebius. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1981.
249
250 ■ Bibliography
Barrett, Anthony A. Livia: First Lady of Imperial Rome. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004.
Bauckham, Richard. “The Sonship of the Historical Jesus in Christology.” Scottish Journal of
Theology 31 (1978): 245–60.
Bauer, Walter. Rechtgläubigkeit und Ketzerei im ältesten Christentum. Tübingen: Mohr, 1934.
English version: Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity. Translated by a team
from the Philadelphia Seminar on Christian Origins. Edited by Robert A. Kraft and
Gerhard Krodel. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971.
Beard, Mary. “Looking (Harder) for Roman Myth: Dumézil, Declamation and the Problems
of Definition.” Pages 44–64 in Mythos in mythenloser Gesellschaft: Das Paradigma Roms.
Edited by Fritz Graf. Stuttgart: Teubner, 1993.
Beard, Mary, North, John, and Price, Simon. Religions of Rome, Volume I: A History.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.
Béchard, Dean P. The Scripture Documents: An Anthology of Official Catholic Teachings.
Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2002.
Bell, H. Idris. Jews and Christians in Egypt. London: Oxford University Press, 1924.
Berger, Adolf, Nicholas, Barry, and Treggiari, Susan M. “Adoption, Roman.” Oxford Classical
Dictionary. 3rd ed. Edited by Simon Hornblower and Antony Spawforth. Oxford;
New York: Oxford University Press, 2003.
Berlin, Andrea M. “The Archaeology of Ritual: The Sanctuary of Pan at Banias/Caesarea
Philippi.” BASOR 315 (1999): 27–45.
Berlin, Andrea M., and Netzer, Ehud. “Debate: Where Was Herod’s Temple to Augustus.”
Biblical Archaeology Review 29:5 (Sept/Oct 2003): 22–25.
Bernett, Monika. Der Kaiserkult in Judäa unter den Herodiern und Römern: Untersuchungen
zur politischen und religiösen Geschichte Judäas von 30 v. bis 66 n. Chr. Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2007.
. “Roman Imperial Cult in the Galilee.” Pages 337–56 in Religion, Ethnicity, and
Identity in Ancient Galilee. WUNT 210. Edited by Jürgen Zangenberg, Harold Attridge,
and Dale Martin. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007.
Bhabha, Homi K. “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse.” Pages
85–92 in The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994.
Bingham, Jeffrey D. “Irenaeus’s Reading of Romans 8.” Society of Biblical Literature Seminar
Papers 2001 (2001): 131–50.
Black, C. Clifton. Mark: Images of an Apostolic Interpreter. Columbia: University of South
Carolina Press, 1994.
. “Was Mark a Roman Gospel?” Expository Times 105 (1993): 36–40.
Bonner, S. F. Roman Declamation in the Late Republic and Early Empire. Liverpool: University
Press of Liverpool, 1949.
Botha, P. J. “Ephrem’s Comparison of the Father-Son Relationship to the Relationship
Between a Tree and Its Fruit in His Hymns ‘On Faith.’ ” Acta Patristica et Byzantina
4 (1993): 23–32.
Bourdieu, Pierre. The Logic of Practice. Translated by Richard Nice. Cambridge: Polity, 1990.
. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Translated by Richard Nice. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1977.
Bourdieu, Pierre, and Wacquant, Loïs J.D. An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology. Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1992.
Bousset, Wilhelm. Kyrios Christos: Geschichte des Christusglaubens von den Anfängen des
Christentums bis Irenaeus. 4th ed. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1935. English
version: Kyrios Christos. Translated by John E. Steely. Nashville: Abingdon, 1970.
Bibliography ■ 251
. Das Wesen der Religion: Dargestellt an ihrer Geschichte. 3rd ed. Halle: Gebauer-
Schwetschke, 1906. English version: What is Religion? Translated by F. B. Low. New York:
G.B. Putnam, 1907.
Bowersock, G.W. “Greek Intellectuals and the Imperial Cult in the Second Century A.D.”
Pages 177–212 in Le Culte des Souverains. Edited by Willem den Boer.
Bradshaw, Paul F., Johnson, Maxwell E., and Phillips, L. Edward. The Apostolic Tradition.
Edited by Harold W. Attridge. Hermeneia. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002.
Brent, Allen. The Imperial Cult and the Development of Church Order: Concepts and Images of
Authority in Paganism and Early Christianity before the Age of Cyprian. Leiden: Brill, 1999.
Brown, Raymond E. The Birth of the Messiah. New York: Doubleday, 1977.
Brown, Robert F. “On the Necessary Imperfection of Creation: Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses
IV, 38.” Scottish Journal of Theology 28 (1975): 17–25.
Brox, Norbert. “Hermas und eine »politische Metaphysik«?” Pages 24–31 in Panchaia:
Festschrift für Klaus Thraede. Edited by Manfred Wacht. Jahrbuch für Antike und
Christentum 22. Münster: Aschendorffsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1995.
. Der Hirt des Hermas. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991.
Bryan, Christopher. Render to Caesar: Jesus, the Early Church, and the Roman Superpower.
New York: Oxford University Press, 2005.
Buch-Hansen, Gitte. “It Is the Spirit That Makes Alive: a Stoic Understanding of Pneuma in
John.” Ph.D. diss., Copenhagen, 2007.
Büchner, Karl. “Tacitus und Plinius über Adoption des römischen Kaisers.” Rheinisches
Museum für Philologie 98 (1955): 289–312.
Buckler, W. H. “Auguste, Zeus Patroos.” Revue de Philologie 9 (3rd series, 1935): 177–88.
Bucur, Bogdan G. “The Son of God and the Angelomorphic Holy Spirit: A Rereading of the
Shepherd’s Christology.” ZNW 98 (2007): 120–42.
Buell, Denise Kimber. Making Christians: Clement of Alexandria and the Rhetoric of
Legitimacy. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999.
. Why This New Race: Ethnic Reasoning in Early Christianity. New York: Columbia
Bühner, Jan-Adolf. Der Gesandte und sein Weg im vierten Evangelium. Tübingen: Mohr,
1977.
Bultmann, Rudolf. “Die Bedeutung der neuerschlossenen mandäischen und manichäischen
Quellen für das Verständnis des Johannesevangeliums.” Pages 10–35 in Exegetica:
Aufsätze zur Erforschung des Neuen Testaments. Edited by Erich Dinkler. Tübingen:
J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1967.
Burrus, Virginia. Begotten, Not Made: Conceiving Manhood in Late Antiquity. Stanford, Calif:
Stanford University Press, 2000.
Butterworth, G.W. Origen On First Principles. Gloucester, Mass.: Peter Smith, 1973.
Byrne, Brendan. Sons of God – Seed of Abraham. Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1979.
Cameron, Averil. Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian
Discourse. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991.
Cancick, Hubert, and Schneider, Helmuth. Der Neue Pauly. 16 vols. Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler,
1996–2003.
Casey, Maurice. “Lord Jesus Christ: A Reponse to Professor Hurtado.” JSNT 27 (2004): 83–96.
Cavadini, John C. The Last Christology of the West: Adoptionism in Spain and Gaul, 785–820.
Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993.
Chancey, Mark A. The Myth of a Gentile Galilee. SNTSMS 118. Cambridge: Cambridge
Chaniotis, Angelos. “The Divinity of the Hellenistic Rulers.” Pages 431–45 in A Companion
to the Hellenistic World. Edited by Andrew Erskine. Malden, Mass.; Oxford: Blackwell,
2003.
Cirillo, Luigi. “La christologie pneumatique de la cinquième parabole du ‘Pasteur’ d’Hermas.”
Revue de l’histoire des religions 184 (1973): 25–48.
Clark, Gillian. Divine Qualities: Cult and Community in Republican Rome. Oxford: Oxford
Clauss, Manfred. “Deus praesens: der römische Kaiser als Gott.” Klio 78 (1996): 400–33.
. Kaiser und Gott: Herrscherkult im römischen Reich. Stuttgart; Leipzig: Tuebner, 1999.
Collins, John J. The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other
Ancient Literature. New York: Doubleday, 1995.
. “The ‘Son of God’ Text from Qumran.” Pages 65–82 in From Jesus to John: Essays on
Jesus and the New Testament Christology in Honour of Marinus de Jonge. Edited by
Martinus de Boer. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993.
Colpe, Carsten. Die religionsgeschichtliche Schule: Darstellung und Kritik ihres Bildes vom
gnostichen Erlösermythus. FRLANT 78. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1961.
Cooke, Gerald. “The Israelite King as Son of God.” ZAW 73 (1961): 202–25.
Corbier, Mireille. “Divorce and Adoption as Roman Familial Strategies (Le Divorce et
l’adoption ‘en plus’).” Pages 47–78 in Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome.
Edited by Beryl Rawson.
Corbin, Henry. Le Paradoxe du Monotheisme. Paris: Éditions de l’Herne, 1981.
Cranfield, C. E. B. The Gospel According to St. Mark. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1963.
Cross, Frank Moore. Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
Crossan, John Dominic, and Reed, Jonathan L. Excavating Jesus: Beneath the Stones, Behind
the Texts. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2001.
. In Search of Paul: How Jesus’ Apostle Opposed Rome’s Empire with God’s Kingdom.
San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2004.
Crowfoot, John W., Kenyon, Kathleen M., and Sukenik, Eliezer L. Samaria-Sebaste:
Reports of the Work of the Joint Expedition in 1931–1933 and of the British Expedition
in 1935, vol. 1: The Buildings at Samaria. London: Palestine Exploration Fund, 1942.
Croy, N. Clayton. “Where the Gospel Text Begins: A Non-Theological Interpretation of
Mark 1:1.” NovT 43 (2001): 105–27.
Curchin, Leonard A. “Cult and Celt: Indigenous Participation in Emperor Worship.” Pages
143–52 in Subject and Ruler. Edited by Alistair Small.
Cuss, Dominique. Imperial Cult and Honorary Terms in the New Testament. Fribourg:
D’Angelo, Mary Rose. “Abba and ‘Father’: Imperial Theology and the Jesus Traditions.” JBL
111 (1992): 611–30.
Dahms, J. V. “The Johannine Use of Monogenes Reconsidered.” NTS 29 (1983): 222–32.
Davies, W. D., and Allison, Dale C. The Gospel According to St. Matthew. 3 vols. International
Critical Commentary. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997.
Day, Juliette. The Baptismal Liturgy of Jerusalem: Fourth- and Fifth-Century Evidence from
Palestine, Syria and Egypt. Hampshire: Ashgate, 2007.
de Blois, Lukas, Funke, Peter, and Hahn, Johannes, eds. The Impact of Imperial Rome on
Religions, Ritual, and Religious Life in the Roman Empire: Proceedings of the Fifth
International Network, Münster, June 30–July 4, 2004. Leiden: Brill, 2006.
de Jong, Janneke. “Egyptian Papyri and ‘Divinity’ of the Roman Emperor.” Pages 239–52 in
The Impact of Imperial Rome on Religions, Ritual, and Religious Life in the Roman Empire:
Proceedings of the Fifth International Network, Münster, June 30–July 4, 2004. Edited by
Lukas de Blois, Peter Funke, and Johannes Hahn. Leiden: Brill, 2006.
Deissmann, Adolf. Licht vom Osten: das Neue Testament und die neuentdeckten Texte der
hellenistisch-römischen Welt. 3rd ed. Tübingen: Mohr, 1909.
den Boer, Willem, ed. Le Culte des Souverains dans l’Empire Romain. Entretiens sur l’antiquitÈ
classique 19. Vandúuvres-GeneÃve: Fondation Hardt, 1973.
Dennison, Charles G. “How Is Jesus the Son of God? Luke’s Baptism Narrative and
Christology.” Calvin Theological Journal 17 (1982): 6–25.
Deutsch, Monroe E. “Caesar’s Son and Heir.” California Publications in Classical Philology
9:6 (1928): 149–200.
Dibelius, Martin. Der Hirt des Hermas. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1923.
. Rom und die Christen im ersten Jahrhundert. Vorgelegt am 10. Januar 1942.
Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1942.
Dixon, Suzanne. The Roman Family. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992.
Donahue, John. “Windows and Mirrors: The Setting of Mark’s Gospel.” CBQ 57 (1995):
1–26.
Donahue, John, and Harrington, Daniel. The Gospel of Mark. Sacra Pagina 2. Collegeville,
Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2002.
Donner, Herbert. “Adoption oder Legitimation? Erwägungen zur Adoption im Alten
Testament auf dem Hintergrund der altorientalischen Rechte.” Oriens Antiquus 8 (1969):
87–119.
Douglas, Michael C. “Power and Praise in the Hodayot: A Literary-Critical Study of 1QH
9:1–18:14.” Ph.D. diss., The University of Chicago, 1998.
Drake, H. A. In Praise of Constantine: A Historical Study and New Translation of Eusebius’
Tricennial Orations. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976.
Dunn, James D. G. Christology in the Making: A New Testament Inquiry into the Origins of
the Doctrine of the Incarnation. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989.
. “Son of God as Son of Man in the Dead Sea Scrolls: A Response to John Collins on
4Q246.” Pages 198–210 in Scrolls and the Scriptures. Edited by Stanley Porter and Craig
Evans. Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1997.
. The Theology of Paul the Apostle. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997.
Dupont, Jacques. “Filius meus es Tu. L’Interprétation de Ps. II, 7, dans le Nouveau Testament.”
Recherches de Science Religieuse 35 (1948): 522–43.
Eck, Werner. Rom und Judaea: Fünf Vorträge zur Römischen Herrschaft in Palaestina.
Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007.
Edwards, James R. “The Baptism of Jesus According to the Gospel of Mark.” Journal of the
Evangelical Theological Society 34 (1991): 43–57.
Ehrenberg, Victor, and Jones, A.H.M. Documents Illustrating the Reigns of Augustus &
Tiberius. 2nd ed. Oxford: Clarendon, 1955.
Ernst, J. Das Evangleium nach Markus. Regensburger Neues Testament. Regensburg: Pustet
Verlag, 1981.
Ehrman, Bart D. The New Testament: A Historical Introduction to the Early Christian Writings.
4th ed. New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008.
. The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993.
. “The Theodotians as Corruptors of Scripture.” Studia Patristica 25 (1993):
46–51.
Étienne, Robert. Le Culte Impérial dans le péninsule ibérique d’Auguste à Dioclétien. Paris:
E. de Boccard, 1958.
. “Du nouveau sur les débuts du culte impérial municipal dans la péninsule ibérique.”
Pages 153–64 in Subject and Ruler. Edited by Alistair Small.
Eusebius. Life of Constantine. Introduction, translation and commentary by Averil Cameron
and Stuart G. Hall. Oxford: Clarendon, 1999.
Evans, Craig A. “Mark’s Incipit and the Priene Calendar Inscription: From Jewish Gospel to
Greco-Roman Gospel.” Journal for the Study of Greco-Roman Christianity and Judaism 1
(2000): 67–81. Online: http://craigaevans.com/Priene%20art.pdf.
Eyben, Emiel. “Fathers and Sons.” Pages 106–43 in Marriage, Divorce, and Children in
Ancient Rome. Edited by Beryl Rawson.
Fantino, Jacques. La Théologie d’Irénée. Paris: Cerf, 1994.
Fears, J. Rufus. “Jupiter and Roman Imperial Ideology.” ANRW II.17.1 (1981): 3–141.
. Princeps a diis electus: the Divine Election of the Emperor as a Political Concept at
Rome. Rome: American Academy in Rome, 1977.
Firmage, Edwin. “Zoology: Doves and Pigeons.” ABD 6:1144–45.
Fishwick, Duncan. The Imperial Cult in the Latin West. 2 vols. Leiden: Brill, 1987–92.
Fitzmeyer, Joseph A. “4Q246: The ‘Son of God’ Document from Qumran.” Biblica 74 (1993):
153–74.
Fletcher-Louis, Crispin H.T. Luke-Acts: Angels, Christology, and Soteriology. WUNT II 94.
Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997.
. “The Worship of Divine Humanity as God’s Image and the Worship of Jesus.” Pages
112–28 in The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism. Edited by Carey C. Newman,
James R. Davila, and Gladys S. Lewis. JSJSup 63. Leiden: Brill, 1999.
Fowl, Stephen E. Review of Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ. Modern Theology 22 (2006):
152–54.
Fowler, W. Warde. Roman Ideas of Deity. London: Macmillan and Co., 1914.
France, R.T. The Gospel of Mark. New International Greek Testament Commentary. Grand
Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002.
Fredriksen, Paula. “Mandatory Retirement: Ideas in the Study of Christian Origins
Whose Time Has Come to Go.” Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 35/2 (2006):
231–46.
. Review of Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ. JECS 12 (2004): 537–41.
. “What ‘Parting of the Ways’?” Pages 35–63 in The Ways that Never Parted. Edited by
Adam Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003.
Frey, Jörg. “The Relevance of the Roman Imperial Cult for the Book of Revelation: Exegetical
and Hermeneutical Reflections on the Relation between the Seven Letters and the
Visionary Main Part of the Book.” Pages 231–55 in The New Testament and Early
Christian Literature in Greco-Roman Context: Studies in Honor of David E Aune. Edited
by John Fotopoulos. NovTSup 122. Leiden: Brill, 2006.
Friesen, Steven J. Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John: Reading Revelation in the Ruins.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001.
. Twice Neokoros: Ephesus, Asia and the Cult of the Flavian Imperial Family. Leiden:
Brill, 1993.
Frilingos, Christopher A. Spectacles of Empire: Monsters, Martyrs, and the Book of Revelation.
Divinations. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004.
Galinsky, Karl. Augustan Culture. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996.
García Martínez, Florentino, and Tigchelaar, Eibert J.C., eds. The Dead Sea Scrolls Study
Edition. 2 vols. Leiden; Boston; Köln: Brill and Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997–1998.
Gardner, Jane F. Family and Familia in Roman Law and Life. Oxford: Clarendon, 1998.
Garroway, Joshua “The Invasion of a Mustard Seed: A Reading of Mark 5.1–20.” JSNT 32
(2009): 57–75.
Gathercole, Simon J. The Preexistent Son: Recovering the Christologies of Matthew, Mark, and
Luke. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006.
Geertz, Clifford. “Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture.” Pages 3–30
in The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays. New York: Basic Books, 1973.
Gero, Stephen. “The Spirit as a Dove at the Baptism of Jesus.” NovT 18 (1976): 17–35.
Gnilka, J. Das Evangelium nach Markus. 5th ed. 2 vols. Evangelisch-katholischer Kommentar
zum Neuen Testament II/1–2. Zürich/Neukirchen/Vluyn: Benziger Verlag/Neukirchener
Verlag, 1998.
Gold, Michael. “Adoption: A New Problem for Jewish Law.” Judaism 36 (1987): 443–50.
Goldberg, Jonah. “Myth of Camelot.” National Review Online. 1 February 2008. Cited
20 February 2009. Online: http://www.townhall.com/Columnists/JonahGoldberg/2008/
02/01/the_myth_of_camelot.
Goody, Jack. “Adoption in Cross-Cultural Perspective.” Comparative Studies in Society and
History 11 (1969): 55–78.
Goulder, Michael. “A Poor Man’s Christology.” NTS 45 (1999): 332–48.
Gradel, Ittai. Emperor Worship and Roman Religion. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002.
Grant, Robert M. Gods and the One God. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1986.
Gregg, Robert C. “Cyril of Jerusalem and the Arians.” Pages 85–109 in Arianism: Historical
and Theological Reassessments. Edited by Robert C. Gregg. Patristic Monograph Series
11. Philadelphia: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation, 1985.
Gregg, Robert C., and Groh, Dennis E. Early Arianism—A View of Salvation. Philadelphia:
Fortress Press, 1981.
Grillmeier, Aloys. Christ in Christian Tradition. 2nd ed. Translated by John Bowden. 2 vols.
London: Mowbrays, 1975.
Guelich, Robert A. Mark 1–8:26. Word Biblical Commentary 34A. Dallas: Word Books, 1989.
Gunderson, Erik. Declamation, Paternity, and Roman Identity. Cambridge: Cambridge
Gundry, Robert H. Mark: A Commentary on His Apology for the Cross. Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, 1993.
Hahn, Ferdinand. Christologische Hoheitstitel. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1963.
English version: The Titles of Jesus in Christology. Translated by Harold Knight and
George Ogg. London: Lutterworth, 1969.
Habicht, Christian. “Die augusteische Zeit und das erste Jahrhundert nach Christi Geburt.”
Pages 41–88 in Le Culte des Souverains. Edited by Willem den Boer.
. Gottmenschentum und Griechische Städte. 2nd ed. München: Beck, 1970.
Haight, Roger. Jesus, Symbol of God. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis, 1999.
Hall, Clayton Morris. Nicolaus of Damascus’ Life of Augustus: A Historical Commentary
Embodying a Translation. Smith College Classical Studies 4; Northampton, Mass.,
1923.
Hammond, Mason. The Antonine Monarchy. Rome: American Academy in Rome, 1959.
. The Augustan Principate in Theory and Practice During the Julio-Claudian Period.
Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1933.
. “The Transmission of Powers of the Roman Emperor from the Death of Nero in
A.D. 68 to that of Alexander Severus in A.D. 235.” Memoirs of the American Academy in
Rome 24 (1956): 63–133.
Hänlein-Schäfer, Heidi. “Die Ikonographie des Genius Augusti im Kompital- und Hauskult
der frühen Kaiserzeit.” Pages 73–98 in Subject and Ruler. Edited by Alistair Small.
. Veneratio Augusti: Eine Studie zu den Tempeln des ersten römischen Kaisers.
Archaeologica 39. Rome: Giorgio Bretschneider, 1985.
Hano, Michel. “A l’origine du culte impérial: les autels des Lares Augusti. Recherches sur les
thèmes iconographiques et leur signification.” ANRW 2.16.3 (1986): 2333–81.
Hanson, R. P. C. The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God: The Arian Controversy
318–381. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1988.
Harden, J. M. The Ethiopic Didascalia. London: SPCK; New York: Macmillan, 1920.
Harnack, Adolph. History of Dogma. Translated from the 3rd German edition by Neil
Buchanan. 7 vols. Gloucester, Mass.: Peter Smith, 1976.
Hartford Institute for Religious Research. Online: http://hirr.hartsem.edu/index.html.
Harvey, Brian K.“Two Bases of Marcus Aurelius Caesar and the Roman Imperial Succession.”
Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 53 (2004): 46–60.
Hauck, Robert J. “The Great Fast: Christology in the Shepherd of Hermas.” Anglican
Theological Review 75 (1993): 187–98.
Heikel, Ivar A., ed. Eusebius’ Werke I. GCS. Leipzig, 1902.
Hekster, Olivier. “All in the Family: The Appointment of Emperors Designate in the Second
Century AD.” Pages 35–49 in Administration, Prosopography and Appointment Policies in
the Roman Empire. Edited by Lukas de Blois. Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben, 2001.
. “Descendants of Gods: Legendary Genealogies in the Roman Empire.” Pages 24–35
in Impact of Imperial Rome. Edited by Lukas de Blois et al.
. “Honouring Ancestors: The Dynamic of Deification.” Pages 95–110 in Ritual
Dynamics and Religious Change in the Roman Empire: Proceedings of the Eighth Workshop
of the International Network Impact of Empire (Heidelberg, July 5–7, 2007). Edited by
Olivier Hekster, Sebastian Schmidt-Hofner, and Christian Witschel. Leiden: Brill, 2009.
Hellerman, Joseph H. The Ancient Church as Family. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001.
Hengel, Martin. Der Sohn Gottes, Die Entstehung der Christologie und die jüdisch-hellenistische
Religionsgeschichte. Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1975. English version: The Son
of God. Translated by John Bowden. London: SCM; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977.
. Studies in the Gospel of Mark. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985.
Henne, Philippe.“La Véritable Christologie de la Cinquième Similitude du Pasteur d’Hermas.”
Revue des Sciences Philosophiques et Theologiques 74 (1990): 182–204.
. La Christologie chez Clément de Rome et dans le Pasteur d’Hermas. Fribourg:
Éditions Universitaires, 1992.
Henzen, Guil, ed. Acta Fratrum Arvalium. Berlin, 1874.
Herz, Peter. “Die Adoptivsöhne des Augustus und der Festkalender: Gedanken zu einer
Inschrift aus Messene.” Klio 75 (1993): 272–88.
. “Caesar and God: Recent Publications on Roman Imperial Cult.” JRA 18 (2005):
638–48.
. “Emperors: Caring for the Empire and Their Successors.” Pages 304–16 in
A Companion to Roman Religion. Edited by Jörg Rüpke. Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2007.
. “Der römische Kaiser und der Kaiserkult: Gott oder primus inter pares?” Pages
115–40 in Menschwerdung Gottes—Vergöttlichung von Menschen. Edited by Dieter
Zeller. Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus 7. Freiburg: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen:

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988.
Heyman, George. The Power of Sacrifice: Roman and Christian Discourses in Conflict.
Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2007.
Hippolyte de Rome. La Tradition Apostolique. 2nd ed. Edited by Bernard Botte. Sources
Chretiénnes 11. Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1984.
Hodge, Caroline Johnson. If Sons, Then Heirs: A Study of Kinship and Ethnicity in the Letters
of Paul. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2007.
Hoff, Michael C. “An Equestrian Statue of Lucius Caesar in Athens Reconsidered.”
Archäologischer Anzeiger (2001): 583–99.
Hölbl, Günther. Altägypten im römischen Reich: der römische Pharao und seine Tempel. 3
vols. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2000–05.
Holum, Kenneth G. “The Temple Platform: Progress Report on the Excavations.” Pages
13–34 in Caesarea Papers 2: Herod’s Temple, the Provincial Governor’s Praetorium and
Granaries, the Later Harbor, a Gold Coin Hoard, and Other Studies. Edited by Kenneth
G. Holum, Avner Raban, and Joseph Patrich. JRASup 35. Portsmouth, RI: Journal of
Roman Archaeology, 1999.
Hopkins, Keith. Conquerors and Slaves: Sociological Studies in Roman History. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1978.
A World Full of Gods. New York: Free Press, 2000.
Horbury, William. Review of Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ. JTS 56 (2005): 537–38.
Horsley, Richard A. Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World Disorder.
Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002.
, ed. Paul and Empire: Religion and Power in Roman Imperial Society. Harrisburg,
Penn.: Trinity Press International, 1997.
Howgego, Christopher. Ancient History from Coins. London: Routledge, 1995.
Hurtado, Larry W. “Christ-Devotion in the First Two Centuries: Reflections and a Proposal.”
Toronto Journal of Theology 12 (1996): 17–33.
. How on Earth Did Jesus Become a God? Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005.
. “Jesus’ Divine Sonship in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans.” Pages 217–33 in Romans and
the People of God. Edited by Sven K. Soderlund and N.T. Wright. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,
1999.
. Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,
2003.
. “Son of God.” Pages 900–06 in Dictionary of Paul and His Letters. Edited by
G.F. Hawthorne et al. Downers Grove, Ill.: InterVarsity, 1997.
Huzar, Eleanor G. “Emperor Worship in Julio-Claudian Egypt.” ANRW 2.18.5 (1995):
3092–3143.
Idel, Moshe. Ben: Sonship in Jewish Mysticism. London: Continuum, 2008.
Ilan, Tal.“ ‘Man Born of Woman . . .’ (Job 14:1) The Phenomenon of Men Bearing Metronymes
at the Time of Jesus.” NovT 34 (1992): 23–45.
Incigneri, Brian J. The Gospel to the Romans. Biblical Interpretation Series 65. Leiden; Boston:
Brill, 2003.
Irénée de Lyon. Contre les Hérésies. 5 vols. Edited by Adelin Rousseau et al. Sources
Chrétiennes 34, 100, 152–53, 210–11, 263–64, 293–94. Paris: du Cerf, 1952–82.
Jaffee, Martin S. Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism 200
b.c.e—400 c.e. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001.
Jastrow, Marcus. A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Talmud and Yerushalmi, and the
Midrashic Literature. 2 vols. New York: P. Shalom, 1967.
Jeffers, James S. “The Influence of the Roman Family and Social Structures on Early
Christianity in Rome.” Pages 370–84 in Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers
1988. Edited by David J. Lull. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988.
Jeremias, Joachim. New Testament Theology. New York: Scribner, 1971.
Jewett, Robert. Romans. Edited by Eldon Jay Epp. Hermeneia. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007.
John Chrysostom. Baptismal Instructions. Translated by Paul W. Harkins. Ancient Christian
Writers 31. Westminster, Md.: Newman Press; London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1963.
Johnson, Earl S. “Is Mark 15.39 the Key to Mark’s Christology?” JSNT 31 (1987): 3–22.
Johnson, Luke Timothy. Review of Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ. Scottish Journal of
Theology 59 (2006): 358–62.
Johnson, Maxwell. Images of Baptism. Chicago: Liturgy Training Publications, 2001.
. The Rites of Christian Initiation: Their Evolution and Interpretation. Collegeville,
Minn.: Liturgical Press, 1999.
Jones, D. L. “Christianity and the Roman Imperial Cult.” ANRW 2.23.2 (1980): 1023–54.
Jüngel, Eberhard. “Metaphorische Wahrheit: Erwägungen zur theologischen Relevanz der
Metapher als Beitrag zur Hermeneutik einer Narrativen Theologie.” Pages 71–122 in
Metapher: Zur Hermeneutik religiöser Sprache. Edited by Paul Ricoeur and Eberhard
Jüngel, with an introduction by Pierre Gisel. München: Chr. Kaiser Verlag, 1974.
Kantiréa, Maria. Les dieux et les dieux augustes: Le culte impérial en Grèce sous les Julio-
claudiens et les Flaviens: Etudes épigraphiques et archéologiques. ΜΕΛΕΤΗΜΑΤΑ 50.
Athens: Κέντρον Ἑλληνικη̂ς καὶ Ρωμαϊκη̂ς Ἀρχαιότητος του̂ Ἐθνικου̂ Ἰδρύματος
Ἐρευνῶν; Paris: Diffusion de Boccard, 2007.
Käsemann, Ernst. Das Wandernde Gottesvolk: Eine Untersuchung zum Hebräerbrief. 2nd ed.
FRLANT 55. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1957. English version: The Wandering
People of God: An Investigation of the Letter to the Hebrews. Translated by Roy
A. Harrisville and Irving L. Sandberg. Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984.
Kasper, Walter. Jesus der Christus. Mainz: Matthias-Grünewald Verlag, 1974. English ver-
sion: Jesus the Christ. Translated by V. Green. New York: Paulist Press, 1976.
Keel, Othmar. Vögel als Boten. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 14. Freiburg: Universitätsverlag
Freiburg, 1977.
Kern, Otto. Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Mäander. Berlin, 1900.
Kim, Seyoon. Christ and Caesar: The Gospel and The Roman Empire in the Writings of Paul
and Luke. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008.
Kim, Tae Hun. “The Anarthrous huios theou in Mark 15:39 and the Roman Imperial Cult.”
Biblica 79 (1998): 221–41.
Kingsbury, Jack Dean. The Christology of Mark’s Gospel. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983.
. Matthew as Story. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1988.
Klauck, Hans-Josef. Die religiöse Umwelt des Urchristentums II: Herrscher- und Kaiserkult,
Philosophie, Gnosis. Kohlhammer-Studienbücher Theologie 9.2. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer,
1996.
Klijn, A.F.J. “The Apocryphal Correspondence between Paul and the Corinthians.” Vigiliae
Christianae 17 (1963): 2–23.
Knobloch, F.W. “Adoption.” ABD 1:76–79.
Koester, Helmut. Ancient Christian Gospels: Their History and Development. Philadelphia:
Trinity Press; London: SCM, 1990.
. From Jesus to the Gospels: Interpreting the New Testament in Its Context. Minneapolis:
Fortress, 2007.
Kolb, Frank. Herrscherideologie in der Spätantike. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2001.
Kornemann, Ernst. “Ἄναξ καινὸς Ἁδριανός.” Klio 7 (1907): 278–88.
Kornemann, Ernst, and Eger, Otto. Griechische Papyri in Museum des oberhessischen
Geschichtsvereins zu Giessen. Leipzig and Berlin: Teubner, 1910–12.
Kraeling, Emil G., ed. The Brooklyn Museum Aramaic Papyri. New Documents of the Fifth Century
B.C. from the Jewish Colony at Elephantine. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1969.
Kristof, Nicholas D. “The Dynastic Question.” The New York Times. 31 January 2008.
Accessed 20 February 2009. Online: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/31/opinion/
31kristof.html.
Kügler, Joachim. Pharao und Christus: religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zur Frage einer
Verbindung zwischen altägyptischer Königstheologie und neutestamentlicher Christologie
im Lukasevangelium. Bodenheim: PHILO, 1997.
Kuhn, Karl A. “The ‘One Like a Son of Man’ Becomes the ‘Son of God.’ ” CBQ 69 (2007):
22–42.
Kunst, Christiane. Römische Adoption: Zur Strategie einer Familienorganisation. Hennef:
Marthe Clauss, 2005.
Kurylowicz, Marek. “Adoption on the Evidence of the Papyri.” Journal of Juristic Papyrology
19 (1983): 61–75.
Kuschel, Karl-Josef. Geboren vor aller Zeit? Der Streit um Christi Ursprung. München: Piper,
1990. English version: Born Before All Time? The Dispute over Christ’s Origin. Translated
by John Bowden. London: SCM Press, 1992.
Lampe, Peter. From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries. Edited
by Marshall D. Johnson. Translated by Michael Steinhauser. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003.
Lane, William L. The Gospel According to Mark. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1974.
Lassen, Eva Marie. “The Roman Family: Ideal and Metaphor.” Pages 103–20 in Constructing
Early Christian Families. Edited by Halvor Moxnes.
. “The Use of the Father Image in Imperial Propaganda and 1 Corinthians 4:14–21.”
Tyndale Bulletin 42 (1991): 127–36.
Latte, Kurt. Römische Religionsgeschichte. München: C.H. Beck, 1960.
Lehmann, Clayton Miles, and Holum, Kenneth G. The Greek and Latin Inscriptions of
Caesarea Maritima. Joint Expedition to Caesarea Maritima 5. Boston: American Schools
of Oriental Research, 2000.
Lentzen-Deis, Fritzleo. Die Taufe Jesu nach den Synoptikern. Frankfurt: Josef Knecht, 1970.
Leon, Harry J. The Jews of Ancient Rome. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of
America, 1960.
Leutzsch, Martin. “Hirt des Hermas.” Pages 107–497 in Papiasfragmente. Hirt des Hermas.
Edited by Ulrich H.J. Körtner and Martin Leutzsch. Schriften des Urchristentums 3.
Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1998.
. Die Wahrnehmung sozialer Wirklichkeit im “Hirten des Hermas.” Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989.
Levin, Yigal. “Jesus, ‘Son of God’ and ‘Son of David’: The ‘Adoption’ of Jesus into the Davidic
Line.” JSNT 28 (2006): 415–42.
Levinson, Joshua. “ ‘Tragedies Naturally Performed:’ Fatal Charades, Parodia Sacra, and the
Death of Titus” Pages 349–82 in Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Roman
Empire. Edited by Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz. Leuven: Peeters, 2003.
Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G. Continuity and Change in Roman Religion. Oxford: Oxford

Lierman, John. The New Testament Moses: Christian Perceptions of Moses and Israel in the
Setting of Jewish Religion. WUNT II 173. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004.
Liertz, Uta-Maria. Studien zu Kaiserkult und Kaiserverehrung in den germanischen Provinzen und
in Gallia Belgica zur römischen Kaiserzeit. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 1998.
Liew, Tat-Siong Benny. “Tyranny, Boundary and Might: Colonial Mimicry in Mark’s Gospel.”
JSNT 73 (1999): 7–31.
Levin, Yigal. “Jesus, ‘Son of God’ and ‘Son of David’: The ‘Adoption’ of Jesus into the Davidic
Line.” JSNT 28 (2006): 415–42.
Lieu, Judith. I, II, & III John. New Testament Library. Louisville; London: Westminster John
Knox, 2008.
Lindsay, Hugh. “Adoption and Its Function in Cross-Cultural Contexts.” Pages 190–204 in
Childhood, Class, and Kin in the Roman World. Edited by Suzanne Dixon. London:
Routledge, 2001.
. Adoption in the Roman World. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009.
Loader, William R. G. “The Apocalyptic Model of Sonship: Its Origin and Development in
New Testament Tradition.” JBL 97 (1978): 525–54.
. Sohn und Hoherpriester: Eine traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zur Christologie
des Hebräerbriefes. Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1981.
Lohmeyer, Ernst. Christuskult und Kaiserkult. Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1919.
Löhr, Winrich A. “Theodotus der Lederarbeiter und Theodotus der Bankier—ein Beitrag
zur römischen Theologiegeschichte des zweiten und dritten Jahrhunderts,” ZNW 87
(1996): 101–25.
Lott, J. Bert. The Neighborhoods of Augustan Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2004.
Lyall, Francis. “Roman Law in the Writings of Paul—Adoption.” JBL 88 (1969): 458–66.
Macchiavelli, Niccolò. Discourses on Livy. Translated by Julia Conaway Bondanella and Peter
Bondanella. The World’s Classics. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 1997.
Maier, Paul L. “The Episode of the Golden Shields at Jerusalem.” HTR 62 (1969): 109–21.
Marcus, Joel. “The Jewish War and the Sitz im Leben of Mark.” JBL 111 (1992): 441–62.
. Mark 1–8. Anchor Bible 27. New York: Doubleday, 2000.
. The Way of the Lord: Christological Exegesis of the Old Testament in the Gospel of
Mark. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1992.
Marshall, I. Howard. “The Divine Sonship of Jesus.” Interpretation 21 (1967): 87–103.
Martin, Dale B. Inventing Superstition. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2004.
. Slavery as Salvation: The Metaphor of Slavery in Pauline Christianity. New Haven:
Yale University Press, 1990.
Marxsen, Willi. Mark the Evangelist. Nashville: Abingdon, 1969.
Mattingly, Harold, ed. Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum. 3 vols. London:
British Museum, 1965.
McArthur, H. K. “ ‘Son of Mary.’ ” NovT 15 (1973): 38–58.
McDonnell, Kilian. The Baptism of Jesus in the Jordan: The Trinitarian and Cosmic Order of
Salvation. Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 1996.
Meeks, Wayne A. “Moses as God and King.” Pages 354–71 in Religion in Antiquity: Essays in
Memory of Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough. Edited by Jacob Neusner. Studies in the History
of Religions 14. Leiden: Brill, 1968.
Meggitt, Justin. “Taking the Emperor’s Clothes Seriously: The New Testament and The
Roman Emperor.” Pages 143–70 in The Quest for Wisdom: Essays in Honour of Philip
Budd. Edited by C. Joynes. Cambridge: Orchard Academic, 2002. Online: http://www
.religion-online.org/showarticle.asp?title=3278.
Mellor, Ronald. “The Goddess Roma.” ANRW 2.17.2 (1981): 950–1030.
Mendelsohn, Isaac. “A Ugaritic Parallel to the Adoption of Ephraim and Manasseh.” IEJ 9
(1959): 180–83.
Metzger, Marcel, ed. Les Constitutions Apostoliques. Sources Chrétiennes 320, 329, 336. Paris:
Cerf, 1985–87.
Millar, Fergus. “The Imperial Cult and the Persecutions.” Pages 143–75 in Le Culte des
Souverains. Edited by Willem den Boer.
Mitchell, Margaret M., and Young, Frances M. The Cambridge History of Christianity. 9 vols.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006.
Mitteis, L., and Wilcken, U., eds. Grundzüge und Chrestomathie der Papyruskunde.
Leipzig, 1912.
Moloney, Francis J. The Gospel of Mark. Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2002.
Momigliano, Arnaldo. “The Theological Efforts of the Roman Upper Classes in the First
Century BC.” Classical Philology 79 (1984): 199–211.
Moody, Dale. “God’s Only Son: The Translation of John 3:16 in the Revised Standard
Version.” JBL 72 (1953): 213–19.
Moore, Stephen D. Empire and Apocalypse: Postcolonialism and the New Testament. Sheffield:
Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2006.
. Literary Criticism and the Gospels. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989.
Morgen, Michèle. “Le (Fils) monogène dans les écrits johanniques: Évolution des traditions
et elaboration rédactionelle.” NTS 53 (2007): 165–83.
Moss, Candida R. The Other Christs: Imitating Jesus in Ancient Christian Ideologies of
Martyrdom. New York: Oxford University Press, 2010.
. “The Transfiguration: An Exercise in Markan Accommodation.” Biblical
Interpretation 12 (2004): 69–89.
Mosser, Carl. “The Earliest Patristic Interpretations of Psalm 82, Jewish Antecedents, and the
Origin of Deification.” JTS 56 (2005): 30–74.
Mowery, Robert. “Son of God in Roman Imperial Titles and Matthew.” Biblica 83 (2002):
100–110.
Mowinckel, Sigmund. He That Cometh. The Messiah Concept in the Old Testament and Later
Judaism. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1955; repr. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005.
Moxnes, Halvor, ed. Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and
Metaphor. London; New York: Routledge, 1997.
. “What Is Family?” Pages 13–41 in Constructing Early Christian Families. Edited by
Halvor Moxnes.
Muers, Rachel. “Adoptionism: Is Jesus Christ the Son of God by Nature or by Adoption?”
Pages 50–58 in Heresies and How to Avoid Them. Edited by Ben Quash and Michael
Ward. London: SPCK; Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2007.
Münderlein, Gerhard. “Die Erwählung durch das Pleroma: Bemerkungen zu Kol. i. 19.” NTS
8 (1961): 264–76.
Musurillo, Herbert. Acts of the Christian Martyrs. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972.
Namikawa, Miyako. “La Paciencia del Crecimiento y la Maduración.” Estudios Eclesiásticos
83 (2008): 51–85.
Nardi, Carlo. Il Battesimo in Clemente Alessandrino: Interpretazione di Eclogae propheticae

1–26. Studia Ephemeridis “Augustinianum.” Rome: Institutum Patristicum “Augustinianum,”
1984.
Needham, Rodney. Belief, Language, and Experience. Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1972.
Nesselhauf, Herbert. “Die Adoption des römischen Kaisers.” Hermes 83 (1955): 477–95.
Netzer, Ehud. “The Augusteum at Samaria-Sebaste—A New Outlook.” Eretz-Israel 19 (1987):
97–105 [Hebrew], 75* [English summary].
. “The Sanctuary of Pan at Banias.” Qadmoniot 115 (1998): 18–25 [Hebrew]. Nielsen,
Hanne Sigismund. “Alumnus: A Term of Relation Denoting Quasi-Adoption.” Classica et
Mediaevalia 38 (1987): 141–88.
. “Quasi-Kin, Quasi-Adoption and the Roman Family.” Pages 249–62 in Adoption et
Fosterage. Edited by Mireille Corbier. Paris: De Boccard, 1999.
Nilsson, Martin. Geschichte der griechischen Religion. 2 vols. 2nd ed. München: C.H. Beck,
1961.
Nock, Arthur Darby. Essays on Religion and the Ancient World. 2 vols. Edited by Zeph
Stewart. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1972.
Nolan, Brian M. The Royal Son of God: The Christology of Matthew 1–2 in the Setting of the
Gospel. Fribourg: EÏditions universitaires; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979.
Nolland, John. The Gospel of Matthew: A Commentary on the Greek Text. NIGTC. Grand
Rapids: Eerdmans; Bletchley: Paternoster Press, 2005.
. “No Son-of-God Christology in Matthew 1.18–25.” JSNT 62 (1996): 3–12.
Nongbri, Brent. “Dislodging ‘Embedded’ Religion: A Brief Note on a Scholarly Trope.”
Numen 55 (2008): 440–60.
Noormann, Rolf. Irenäus als Paulusinterpret. WUNT II 66. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994.
Noreña, Carlos F. “The Communication of the Emperor’s Virtues.” JRS 91 (2001): 146–68.
Norris, Richard A. “Irenaeus’ Use of Paul in His Polemic Against the Gnostics.” Pages 78–98
in Paul and the Legacies of Paul. Edited by William S. Babcock. Dallas: Southern
Methodist University Press, 1990.
Noth, Martin. The Laws in the Pentateuch and Other Studies. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1966.
Numenius. Fragments: Texte Établi et Traduit par Édouard des Places, S.J. Translated and
edited by Édouard des Places. Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1973.
Oakes, Peter. “Re-mapping the Universe: Paul and the Emperor in 1 Thessalonians and
Philippians.” JSNT 27 (2005): 301–22.
Opitz, Hans-Georg, ed. Athanasius Werke. Berlin and Leipzig: De Gruyter, 1934–.
Orbe, Antonio. “En torno a los Ebionitas.” Augustinianum 33 (1993): 315–37.
. “¿San Ireneo adopcionista?” Gregorianum 65 (1984): 5–52.
. “Teología Bautismal de Clemente Alejandrino según Paed. I, 26,3–27,2.”
Gregorianum 36 (1955): 410–48.
. Teología de San Ireneo. 4 vols. Madrid: La Editorial Catolica, 1985–88 (vols. 1–3).
Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1996 (vol. 4).
Origen. Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, Books 6–10. Translated by Thomas P. Scheck.
Fathers of the Church 104. Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2002.
. Sur la Pâque: Traité inédit publié d’après un papyrus de Toura. Edited by Octave
Guérard and Pierre Nautin. Christianisme Antique 2. Paris: Beauchesne, 1979.
. Treatise on the Passover and Dialogue with Heraclides. Translated and edited by
Robert J. Daly. New York: Paulist, 1992.
Osiek, Carolyn. Rich and Poor in the Shepherd of Hermas. Washington, D.C.: Catholic
University of America Press, 1983.
. Shepherd of Hermas: A Commentary. Edited by Helmut Koester. Hermeneia.
Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999.
Otto, Rudolf. The Idea of the Holy. Translated by John W. Harvey. London: Humphrey
Milford; Oxford University Press, 1925.
Overman, J. Andrew, Olive, Jack, and Nelson, Michael, “Discovering Herod’s Shrine to
Augustus: Mystery Temple Found at Omrit.” Biblical Archaeology Review 29:2 (Mar/Apr
2003): 40–49, 67–68.
Paul, Shalom M. “Adoption Formulae: A Study of Cuneiform and Biblical Legal Clauses.”
Maarav 2 (1979–80): 173–85.
Pearson, Birger A. “The Figure of Seth in Gnostic Literature.” Pages 472–514 in vol. 2 of The
Rediscovery of Gnosticism. 2 vols. Edited by Bentley Layton. Leiden: Brill, 1981.
Pelikan, Jaroslav The Spirit of Eastern Christendom (600–1700). Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1977.
Pelikan, Jaroslav, and Hotchkiss, Valerie, eds. Creeds and Confessions of Faith in the Christian
Tradition. 4 vols. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2003.
Pendrick, Gerard. “ΜΟΝΟΓΕΝΗΣ.” NTS 41 (1995): 587–600.
Peppard, Michael. “ ‘Poetry, ‘Hymns,’ and ‘Traditional Material’ in New Testament Epistles or
How to Do Things with Indentations.” JSNT 30 (2008): 319–42.
Peretto, Elio. La lettera ai Romani cc. 1–8 nell’ Adversus Haereses d’Ireneo. Quaderni di
“Vetera Christianorum” 6. Bari: Istituto di Letteratura Cristiana Antica, 1971.
Pernveden, Lage. The Concept of the Church in the Shepherd of Hermas. Studia Theologica
Lundensia 27. Lund: CWK Gleerup, 1966.
Pesch, R. Das Markusevangelium. 2 vols. Herders theologischer Kommentar zum Neuen
Testament II/1–2. Freiburg: Herder, 1976–77.
Pestman, P. W., ed. The New Papyrological Primer. 2nd ed. Leiden: Brill, 1994.
Pfanner, M. “Über das Herstellen von Porträts: Ein Beitrag zu Rationalisierungsmaϐnahmen
und Produktionsmechanismen von Massenware im späten Hellenismus und in der
römischen Kaiserzeit.” Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 104 (1989):
157–257.
Phillips, C. R. “The Sociology of Religious Knowledge in the Roman Empire to A.D. 284.”
ANRW 2.16.2 (1986): 2697–2711.
Pleket, H. W. “An Aspect of the Emperor Cult: Imperial Mysteries.” HTR 58 (1965): 331–47.
Pokorný, Petr. Der Gottessohn: Literarische Übersicht und Fragestellung. Zürich: Theologischer
Verlag, 1971.
Pötscher, Walter. “ ‘Numen’ und ‘numen Augusti.’ ” ANRW 2.16.1 (1978): 355–92.
Powell, Mark Alan. What Is Narrative Criticism? Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990.
Prévost, Marcel-Henri. Les Adoptions politiques à Rome sous la République et le Principat.
Paris, 1949.
Price, Simon R. F. “Gods and Emperors: The Greek Language of the Roman Imperial Cult.”
JHS 104 (1984): 79–95.
. Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor. Cambridge: Cambridge
Rawson, Beryl, ed. Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome. Oxford: Clarendon,
1991.
Reid, J. S. “Roman Ideas of Deity,” JRS 6 (1916): 170–84.
Reisner, George A., Fisher, Clarence S., and Lyon, David G. Harvard Excavations at Samaria,
1908–1910. 2 vols. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1924.
Reitzenstein, Richard. Die hellenistichen Mysterienreligionen: Nach ihren Grundgedanken
und Wirkungen. 3rd ed. Stuttgart: B.G. Teubner, 1927; repr., 1956). English version:
Hellenistic Mystery-Religions: Their Basic Ideas and Significance. Translated by John
E. Steely. Pittsburgh: Pickwick Press, 1987.
Reynolds, Joyce M. “Ruler-cult at Aphrodisias in the Late Republic and under the Julio-
Claudian Emperors.” Pages 41–50 in Subject and Ruler. Edited by Alistair Small.
Richard, Jean. “Fils de Dieu. Reconsidération de l’interprétation adoptioniste.” Pages 431–65
in Le Christ Hier, Aujourd’hui et Demain: Colloque de christologie tenu à l’Université
Laval. Edited by Raymond Laflamme and Michel Gervais. Québec: Les Presses de
l’Université Laval, 1976.
Ricoeur, Paul. Interpretation Theory: Discourse and the Surplus of Meaning. Fort Worth:
Texas Christian University Press, 1976.
Rives, James B. Religion in the Roman Empire. Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2007.
. “Roman Religion Revived.” Phoenix 52 (1998): 345–65.
Roche, P. A. “The Execution of L. Salvius Otho Cocceianus.” Classical Quarterly 53 (2003):
319–22.
Rose, Charles Brian. Dynastic Commemoration and Imperial Portraiture in the Julio-
Claudian Period. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997.
Roskam, Hendrika N. The Purpose of the Gospel of Mark in Its Historical and Social Context.
NovTSup 114. Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2004.
Rüpke, Jörg. Die Religion der Römer. München: Beck, 2001. English version: Religion of the Romans.
Translated by Richard Gordon. Cambridge: Polity, 2007.
Russell, Norman. The Doctrine of Deification in the Greek Patristic Tradition. Oxford: Oxford
Saller, Richard. “Patria Potestas and the Stereotype of the Roman Family.” Continuity and
Change 1 (1986): 7–22.
.“Pietas, obligation, and authority in the Roman family.” Pages 393–410 in Alte Geschichte
und Wissenschaftsgeschichte: Festschrift für Karl Christ zum 65. Geburtstag. Edited by Peter
Kneissl and Volker Losemann. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1988.
Samuel, Simon. A Postcolonial Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus. Library of New Testament
Studies 340. London; New York: T. & T. Clark, 2007.
Sandmel, Samuel. “Parallelomania.” JBL 81 (1962): 1–13.
Santero, J. M. “The ‘Cultores Augusti’ and the Private Worship of the Roman Emperor.”
Athenaeum 61 (1983): 111–25.
Schachter, Melech.“Various Aspects of Adoption.” Pages 31–53 in Halacha and Contemporary
Society. Edited by Alfred S. Cohen. New York: Ktav, 1984.
Scheid, John. Commentarii Fratrum Arvalium qui supersunt. Rome: École Française de
Rome, 1998.
. “Comprendre le culte dit impérial. Autour de deux livres récents.” L’Antiquité
Classique 73 (2004): 239–49.
La Religion des Romans. Paris: Armand Colin/Masson, 1998. English version: An
Introduction to Roman Religion. Translated by Janet Lloyd. Bloomington: Indiana
. Romulus et ses frères: le collège des Frères Arvales, modèle du culte public dans la
Rome des empereurs. Rome: École Française de Rome, 1990.
Schenke, Ludger. Das Markusevangelium. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2005.
Schildgen, Brenda Deen. Power and Prejudice: The Reception of the Gospel of Mark. Detroit:
Wayne State University Press, 1998.
Schmidt, T. E. “Mark 15.16–32: The Crucifixion Narrative and the Roman Triumphal
Procession.” NTS 41 (1995): 1–18.
Schmitthenner, Walter. Oktavian und das Testament Cäsars. München: C.H. Beck, 1952.
Schneemelcher, Wilhelm, ed. New Testament Apocrypha. 2 vols. Louisville: Westminster
John Knox, 2003.
Schniedewind, William M. Society and the Promise to David. The Reception History of 2
Samuel 7:1–17. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999.
Schrenk, G. “εὐδοκέω, εὐδοκία.” TDNT 2:738–51.
Schweizer, Eduard. The Good News According to Mark. Translated by Donald H. Madvig.
Atlanta: John Knox, 1970.
. “Variety and Unity in the New Testament Proclamation of Jesus as the Son of God.”
Australian Biblical Review 15 (1967): 1–12.
Schwering, Walther. “Deus und divus. Eine semasiologische Studie als Ergänzung zum Artikel
divus in Thesaurus linguae latinae.” Indogermanische Forschungen 34 (1914–15): 1–44.
Scott, James M. Adoption as Sons of God: An Exegetical Investigation into the Background of
ΥΙΟΘΕΣΙΑ in the Pauline Corpus. WUNT II 48. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992.
Scott, Peter, and Cavanaugh, William T., eds. The Blackwell Companion to Political Theology.
Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2004.
Segal, Arthur. “The Kalibe Buildings—Temples for the Worship of Emperors in Hauran and
in Trachonitis—a Historical-Archaeological Analysis,” Qadmoniot 34/1 [121] (2001):
60–66 [Hebrew].
. “The ‘Kalybe-Structures’—Temples for the Imperial Cult in Hauran and Trachon:
An Historical-Architectural Analysis.” Accessed 20 February 2009. Online: http://www
.tau.ac.il/arts/projects/PUB/assaph-art/assaph6/articles_assaph6/ArthurSegal.pdf.
Segal, Arthur, and Eisenberg, Michael. “Sussita-Hippos of the Decapolis: Town Planning and
Architecture of a Roman-Byzantine City.” Near Eastern Archaeology 70:2 (2007): 86–107.
Senior, Donald.“With Swords and Clubs: The Setting of Mark’s Community and His Critique
of Abusive Power,” BTB 17 (1987): 10–20.
Simpson, C. J. “Caligula’s Cult: Immolation, Immortality, Intent.” Pages 63–71 in Subject and
Ruler. Edited by Alistair Small.
Skarsaune, Oskar. “The Ebionites.” Pages 419–62 in Jewish Believers in Jesus. Edited by Oskar
Skarsaune and Reidar Hvalvik. Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2007.
Skeat, T. C. “The Augustan Era in Egypt.” ZPE 53 (1983): 241–44.
Small, Alistair, ed. Subject and Ruler: The Cult of the Ruling Power in Classical Antiquity
Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplements 17. Ann Arbor: Journal of Roman
Archaeology, 1996.
Smith, Martin S. “Greek Adoptive Formulae.” Classical Quarterly 61 (1967): 302–10.
Smith, R. R. R. Hellenistic Royal Portraits. Oxford: Clarendon, 1988.
Speiser, E. A. Genesis. Anchor Bible 1. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1981.
Spinks, Bryan D. Early and Medieval Rituals and Theologies of Baptism: From the
New Testament to the Council of Trent. Hampshire: Ashgate, 2006.
Stade, B. “Auf Jemandes Knieen gebären.” ZAW 6 (1886): 143–56.
Stanton, Graham N. Jesus and Gospel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.
Stauffer, E. “Jeschu ben Mirjam (Mk 6:3).” Pages 119–28 in Neotestamentica et Semitica:
Studies in Honour of Matthew Black. Edited by E. Earle Ellis and Max Wilcox. Edinburgh:
T. & T. Clark, 1969.
Sterling, Gregory E. Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephos, Luke-Acts, and Apologetic

Historiography. Leiden; New York: Brill, 1992.
Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars. Translated by Robert Graves. Revised by Michael Grant.
London: Penguin, 1979).
Sussman, Lewis A. The Declamations of Calpurnius Flaccus. Leiden: Brill, 1994.
. The Major Declamations Ascribed to Quintilian. Frankfurt; New York: P. Lang, 1987.
. “Sons and Fathers in the Major Declamations Ascribed to Quintilian.” Rhetorica 13
(1995): 179–92.
Swancutt, Diana. Pax Christi: Empire, Identity, and Protreptic Rhetoric in Paul’s Letter to the
Romans. NovTSup. Leiden: Brill, forthcoming.
Syme, Ronald. Tacitus. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon, 1958.
Tacitus. The Annals. Translated by A. J. Woodman. Indianapolis: Hackett, 2004.
Tatum, W. Barnes. “Jesus’ So-Called Triumphal Entry.” Forum 1 (New Series, 1998): 129–144.
Taubenschlag, Raphael. The Law of Greco-Roman Egypt in the Light of the Papyri, 332 B.C. –
640 A.D. 2nd ed. Milano: Cisalpino-Goliardico, 1972.
Taylor, Joan E. “Pontius Pilate and the Imperial Cult in Roman Judaea.” NTS 52 (2006): 555–82.
Taylor, Lily Ross. The Divinity of the Roman Emperor. Middletown, Conn.: American
Philological Association, 1931.
Taylor, Vincent. The Gospel According to St. Mark. London: MacMillan, 1959.
Terian, Abraham. Macarius of Jerusalem, Letter to the Armenians (A.D. 335): Introduction,
Text, Translation, and Commentary. Crestwood, N.Y.: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2008.
Testuz, Michel. Papyrus Bodmer X-XII. Cologny-Genève: Bibliotheca Bodmeriana, 1959.
Theissen, Gerd. The Gospels in Context. Translated by Linda M. Maloney. Minneapolis:
Thiede, Carsten Peter. Jesus und Tiberius: Zwei Söhne Gottes. München: Luchterhand, 2004.
Thomassen, Einar. The Spiritual Seed: The Church of the “Valentinians.” NHMS 60. Leiden:
Brill, 2006.
Thompson, Marianne Meye. “ ‘Mercy Upon All’: God as Father in the Epistle to the
Romans.” Pages 203–16 in Romans and the People of God. Edited by Sven K. Soderlund
and N. T. Wright. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999.
Tigay, Jeffrey Howard, and Schereschewsky, Ben-Zion. “Adoption.” Pages 415–18 in vol. 1 of
Encyclopedia Judaica. 2nd ed. 22 vols. Edited by Fred Skolnik. New York: Macmillan,
2007.
Toynbee, J.M.C. Review of H.P. L’Orange, Apotheosis in Ancient Portraiture. JRS 38 (1948):
160–63.
. “Ruler-apotheosis in ancient Rome.” Numismatic Chronicle 7 (1947): 126–149.
Usener, Hermann. Religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen. Erster Theil: Das Weihnachtsfest.
Bonn, 1889.
Van Deun, Peter, and Noret, Jacques, eds. Hagiographica Cypria. CCSG 26. Turnhout:
Brepols, 1993.
Vellanickal, Matthew. The Divine Sonship of Christians in the Johannine Writings. Analecta
Biblica 72. Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1977.
Vermeule, Cornelius C. Roman Imperial Art in Greece and Asia Minor. Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1968.
Verseput, Donald J. “The Role and Meaning of the ‘Son of God’ Title in Matthew’s Gospel.”
NTS 33 (1987): 532–56.
Vigourt, Annie. Les presages impériaux d’Auguste à Domitien. Paris: De Boccard, 2001.
Vittinghoff, Friedrich. “Staat, Kirche und Dynastie beim Tode Konstantins.” Pages 1–34 in
L’Église et L’Empire au IVe Siècle. Edited by Albrecht Dihle. Genève: Fondation Hardt, 1989.
Vööbus, Arthur, ed. Didascalia Apostolorum. CSCO 175–76, 179–80, 401–02, 407–08.
Louvain: Secretariat du CorpusSCO, 1979.
Walbank, Frank W. “Könige als Götter: Überlegungen zum Herrscherkult von Alexander bis
Augustus.” Chiron 17 (1987): 365–82.
Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew. Suetonius: the Scholar and His Caesars. New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1984.
Walters, James C. “Paul, Adoption, and Inheritance.” Pages 42–76 in Paul in the Greco-Roman
World. Edited by J. Paul Sampley. Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2003.
Watson, Alan. The Law of the Ancient Romans. Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press,
1970.
Watson, Francis. “Is John’s Christology Adoptionist?” Pages 113–24 in The Glory of Christ in
the New Testament: Studies in Christology in Memory of George Bradford Caird. Edited by
L. D. Hurst and N. T. Wright. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987.
Weber, Max. Economy and Society. 2 vols. Edited and translated by Guenther Roth and Claus
Wittich. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978.
Weinreich, Otto. “Antikes Gottmenschentum.” Neue Jahrbücher für Wissenschaft und
Jugendbildung 2 (1926): 633–51. Repr. as pages 55–81 in Römischer Kaiserkult. Edited
by Antonie Wlosok. Wege der Forschung 372. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft, 1978.
Weinstock, Stefan. Divus Julius. Oxford: Clarendon, 1971.
Wellhausen, Julius. Einleitung in die drei ersten Evangelien. 2nd ed. Berlin: G. Reimer, 1911.
. Das Evangelium Marci. Berlin: Georg Reimer Verlag, 1909.
White, John L. “God’s Paternity as Root Metaphor in Paul’s Conception of Community.”
Foundations and Facets Forum 8 (1992): 271–95.
Whitsett, Christopher J. “Son of God, Seed of David: Paul’s Messianic Exegesis in Romans
2[sic]:3–4.” JBL 119 (2000): 661–81.
Whittaker, Molly. Der Hirt des Hermas. GCS. Berlin: Akadamie-Verlag, 1967.
Widdicombe, Peter. The Fatherhood of God from Origen to Athanasius. Oxford: Clarendon,
1994.
. “The Fathers on the Father in the Gospel of John.” Semeia 85 (1999): 105–25.
Wiles, Maurice F. Archetypal Heresy: Arianism Through the Centuries. Oxford; New York:
Clarendon, 1996.
Wilken, Robert L. “The Interpretation of the Baptism of Jesus in the Later Fathers.” Studia
Patristica 11 (1972): 268–77.
Williams, Rowan. Arius: Heresy and Tradition. London: SCM Press, 1987.
Wilson, J. Christian. Toward a Reassessment of the Shepherd of Hermas: Its Date and
Pneumatology. Lewiston, N.Y.: Mellen, 1993.
Winn, Adam. The Purpose of Mark’s Gospel. WUNT II 245. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008.
Wiseman, T. P. “Domi Nobiles and the Roman Cultural Elite.” Pages 298–306 in Les
«Bourgeoisies» municipales italiennes aux IIe et Ier siècles av. J.-C. Edited by M. Cébeillac-
Gervasoni. Paris: Éditions du Centre national de la recherche scientifique; Naples:
Bibliothèque de l’Institut français de Naples, 1983.
Wissowa, Georg. Religion und Kultus der Römer. 2nd ed. München: C.H. Beck, 1912.
Wrede, Wilhelm. Das Messiasgeheimnis in den Evangelien: Zugleich ein Beitrag zum
Verständnis des Markusevangeliums. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1901.
English version: The Messianic Secret. Translated by J. C. G. Greig. Cambridge: James

Clarke, 1971.
Wren, Malcolm. “Sonship in Luke: The Advantage of a Literary Approach.” Scottish Journal
of Theology 37 (1984): 301–11.
Yamauchi, Edwin M. Pre-Christian Gnosticism: A Survey of the Proposed Evidences. Grand
Rapids: Eerdmans, 1973.
Yarbro Collins, Adela. “Establishing the Text: Mark 1:1.” Pages 111–27 in Texts and Contexts:
The Function of Biblical Texts in Their Textual and Situational Contexts. Edited by Tord
Fornberg and David Hellholm. Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1995.
. “ ‘How on Earth Did Jesus Become a God?’ A Reply.” Pages 55–66 in Israel’s God and
Rebecca’s Children: Christology and Community in Early Judaism and Christianity. Edited
by David B. Capes, April D. DeConick, Helen K. Bond, and Troy A. Miller. Waco: Baylor
. Mark: A Commentary. Edited by Harold W. Attridge. Hermeneia. Philadelphia:
. “Mark and His Readers: The Son of God among Greeks and Romans.” HTR 93
(2000): 85–100.
. “Mark and His Readers: The Son of God among Jews.” HTR 92 (1999): 393–408.
. “Psalms, Phil. 2:6–11, and the Origins of Christology.” Biblical Interpretation 11
(2003): 361–72.
. “The Worship of Jesus and the Imperial Cult.” Pages 234–57 in The Jewish Roots of
Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on the Historical
Origins of the Worship of Jesus. Edited by Carey C. Newman, James R. Davila, and Gladys
S. Lewis. Leiden: Brill, 1999.
Yarbro Collins, Adela, and Collins, John J. King and Messiah as Son of God. Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, 2008.
Young, Frances M. From Nicaea to Chalcedon. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1983.
. The Making of the Creeds. London: SCM Press; Philadelphia: Trinity Press
International, 1981.
Zanker, Paul. The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus. Translated by Alan Shapiro. Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1988.
■ subject index
Aaron, 100, 101–102, 122 in baptism rituals of fourth century, 168,

Abraham, 95, 138, 141, 156, 219n84, 170–171, 246n233
220n98, 232n62 in Clement of Alexandria, 148, 153–155,
Acta Fratrum Arvalium, 63, 64, 69, 208n113 163, 164, 236n120
See also Arval brethren and Ebionites, 146–147, 156, 159,
Adam, 135, 137, 156, 175 232n56, 238n145
adoptio adoption, 52, 53–54, 58 in Gospel of Mark, 5, 6–7, 94, 124–131
adoption in Roman society implying upward mobility, 150, 152, 154,
of adult males, 4, 50, 52, 60, 154, 166 156, 159, 160, 164, 202n23
declamations on, 56–57, 58, 203n34, in Irenaeus, 148, 155–160, 163, 164
203n37, 204n38 as master-metaphor for Christian divine
disappearance of, 5, 132, 174 sonship in fourth century, 5, 132–133,
Greek terminology for, 53, 58, 139, 160, 165–166, 167, 171, 174
202n17, 204n52 in Nicene era, 162–168
inheritance/wealth transfer through, of Origen, 161–162, 229n26, 243n192
51–52, 54–55, 56, 57, 60, 135, 136, in Pauline Epistles, 135–140, 146, 153,
140, 202n7 229n21
Latin terminology for, 52, 53–54, 58 resonance with Roman social practice,
legal frameworks for, 52–55, 57–59, 136, 147, 148, 150, 152, 153–154, 155, 160,
202n7, 221n116 174–175
papyrus contracts for, 53, 58, 109, 139 of Theodotus and his followers, 147
preservation of family lines through, 50, in The Shepherd of Hermas,148–152,
51–52, 56, 57, 60, 85, 136 235n102, 235n106
rituals and procedures, 57–60 See also divine sonship of Christians;
role of women, 53, 226n197 divine sonship of Jesus
scholarly misconceptions of, 5, 30, 54, adoptions by Jews. See Jews
56–57, 94 adrogatio adoption, 52, 53–54
social status of adoptees, 4, 5, 30, 54, 56, Aeneas, 46, 47
57, 94, 132, 139 Agrippa, Marcus, 57, 75, 76, 77, 210n145
tensions between biological and adopted Agrippa Postumus, 208n116, 211n164
sons, 73–74, 78–80, 136, 140 Agrippina, 76, 79, 80, 210n160
testamentary, 52, 58–59, 68, 154 Alexander Epiphanes, 107
vs. modern Western practice, 51, 53, 85, Alexander of Alexandria, 163–164,
136, 218n76 242n187
well-known examples of, 50 Alexander the Great, 70, 71–72,
See also family ideology ; imperial 209n123
adoption; imperial ideology ; Roman Ancient Near East, 20, 60, 116
Empire/sociopolitical realm See also Egypt; Palestine; Syria
adoption metaphor Antoninus Pius, 50, 211n166
in American politics, 201n2 Antony, Mark, 46, 48, 191n141,
in ancient Judaism, 103–106, 220n98 200n94
in Arian controversy, 163–165, 167, Apollo, 46, 48, 72, 73, 135, 209n127
241n183, 242n185 Apollonios, 72
269
270 ■ Subject Index
Apostolic Constitutions (AC), 168, divine voice at, 93–94, 95–97, 106–107,
170–171, 246n238 108–112, 113, 169, 173
Arius dove at, 5, 87, 115, 122, 123–124,
and Arian controversy, 9, 162–165, 173–174
166, 167, 241n183, 242n185 as exemplar of all baptisms, 154
and Arianism, 6, 29–30, 165 feast days celebrating, 169, 188n87,
arrogatio adoption, 52, 53, 58 245n224–225
Arval brethren, 69, 208n113 in Gospel of John, 122, 146
See also Acta Fratrum Arvalium in Gospel of Luke, 14, 122, 134, 135,
Athanasius, 9, 49, 160, 164–166, 185n31, 228n10
183n3, 201n113 in Gospel of Mark, 5, 10–11, 13, 92, 94,
Atia, 46 95–98, 112–115, 134, 228n12
Augustine, 167, 171 in Gospel of Matthew, 122, 170
Augustus Holy Spirit at, 111, 113, 169
adoption by Caesar, 46–48, 61, 117–118, Jesus as counter-emperor in, 87,
136, 154, 202n17 123–124
adoptions by, 57, 69, 75–78, 81, 85, in Pauline epistles, 146
117, 136, 208n112, 210n151 reading through lens of Jewish adoption
bird omens and symbolism, 77, 116, practice, 98–106, 112
117–118, 119 reading through Roman sociopolitical
divine ancestry of, 48, 135 lens, 5, 86–87, 92, 121–124, 125
divine election of, 70 uniting Christ with Christians in, 146,
as “father” of Roman Empire, 60–67 166, 169, 173–174
forum built by, 200n107 See also Mark, Gospel of
and Lares cults, 64–65, 206n81 Barnabas, 89, 213n20
and Mark Antony, 46, 48 Bartimaeus, 125
portraiture, 91 Bauer, Walter, 25
refusal of divine title, 42 begotten metaphor
Res Gestae, 60–61 in baptism rituals of fourth century,
as “son of god” (divi filius), 30, 46–47, 168–170
48, 191n139 in Clement of Alexandria, 152–153, 155
urban planning, 206n77 in Irenaeus, 156–157, 159
worship of, 36, 37, 40, 41, 45, 60–67, 92, and John’s master-metaphor of divine
114, 130, 215n44, 216n47–49 sonship, 140–145
as master-metaphor for Jesus’ divine
Babylonian Talmud, 99 sonship in fourth century, 5, 132–133,
baptism 160, 162–163, 165, 167, 171
in fourth century, 168–171, 245n220, in Nicene creed, 8, 9, 163, 183n3
245n226, 246n233, 246n238 in Nicene era, 162–168
uniting Christ with Christians in, 146, in Origen, 160–162, 229n26,
166, 169, 173–174 240n173
See also baptism of Jesus “begotten not made”. See Nicene creed
baptism of Jesus Belvedere Altar, 77
adoptive interpretation of, 5, 48, Bible
86–87, 93–95, 97–98, 106–112, 122, King James Version, 143, 145
123–126, 218n73 Vulgate, 143, 218n79, 221n108
divine sonship as preexistent at, 10–11, bird omens/symbolism
13, 95–97, 134, 228n12 in early Christianity, 115–123
divine sonship bestowed at, 97–98, 113, in Roman life, 77, 116–118, 119
123, 124–125 See also dove; eagle
Subject Index ■ 271
Bithiah, 100–101, 102 exemplarist, 152, 154

Britannicus, 74, 78–80, 210n160 Hellenistic influences on, 15, 16, 17
Logos, 19, 143
Caesar Augustus. See Augustus See also baptism of Jesus; Jesus Christ;
Caesarea Maritima, 92, 215n46 metaphors; modern scholarship
Caesarea Philippi on divine sonship; Nicene era;
Roman temples at, 24, 92, 130 son of God; individual gospels
and transfiguration, 117, 130 Claudian family, 74, 119
Caesar, Gaius, 57, 69, 75–76, 208n116, Claudius
210n151 adoption of Nero, 47, 50, 69, 74,
Caesarion, 46 78–80, 208n115
Caesaris, Julia, 76 ancestry, 74
Caesar, Julius omen predicting accession, 116
adoption of Augustus, 46–48, 61, refusal of divinity, 42–43
117–118, 136, 154, 202n17 worship of, 63–64
battle of Munda, 61 Clement of Alexandria
benefactions, 40 adoptive metaphors of, 148, 153–155,
divine ancestry, 46, 47–48 163, 164, 236n120
divinity of, 41, 46, 200n94 begotten metaphors of, 152–153, 155
Caesar, Lucius, 57, 69, 75–76, 208n116, mixed metaphors of, 153–155
210n151 teachings, 14, 24, 89–90
Caligula. See Gaius Caligula Cleopatra, 46
Catechetical Lectures (Cyril), 169–170 Clodius, 58, 204n45
Christianity, early comitia curiata (representative assembly),
bird omens and symbolism, 52, 58, 81, 130
115–123 compital altars, 64–65, 76–77,
heterodox, 25, 26 206n77
monotheism vs. polytheism, 35 compitum, 64
nascency in Roman sociopolitical See also compital altars
realm, 3, 9 Constantine, 166–167, 212n179
proto-heterodox, 25, 142, 148, 160, Constantius I, 50
189n121, 234n89 Controversiae, 55–57, 203n37
second-century, 89, 132, 146–160, 163, Crispus, 167
189n121 crucifixion
See also Christians, early ; Christology ; centurion at, 14, 130–131, 179
divine sonship of Christians; divine in Gospel of Mark, 129–131
sonship of Jesus; metaphors; modern cults
scholarship on divine sonship; free establishment of, 41
Nicene era Lares, 64–65, 206n81
Christians, early of martyrs and saints, 35
spiritual lineage of, 138, 141, 142 See also emperor worship/Roman
martyrdom of, 114–115 religion; imperial cults; ruler cults
persecution by Nero, 88, 89, 90 Cyril of Jerusalem, 168, 169–170, 171,
See also baptism; Christianity, early ; 245n227
divine sonship of Christians;
divine sonship of Jesus Darius III, 71–72
Christology David, 13, 27, 48, 99, 105, 108, 225n191
“backwards” development of, 20, Davidic descent. See Jesus Christ
133–135, 146, 162 Dead Sea Scrolls, 103–105, 108,
exaltationist, 150–152 185n34, 220n97
declamations begotten metaphors for, 5, 132–133,

on adoption, 56–57, 58, 203n34, 134–135, 140–141, 142–144, 160–163,
203n37, 204n38 165, 167, 171
on inheritance, 56 begottenness as master-metaphor in
role in Roman society, 55–56 fourth century, 5, 132–133, 160,
deus, 41, 43 162–163, 165, 167, 171
Didascalia Apostolorum (DA), 168, 170, considered through Roman
171, 246n233 sociopolitical lens, 3, 26, 28,
divi filius 40, 44–45, 48, 95, 132, 135,
Augustus as, 45, 46–47, 48, 191n139 154, 155, 179
Jesus as, 130–131, 179 eschatological power of, 11–13, 20, 21,
scholarly dismissal of, 16, 18 22, 97, 134, 137, 138, 140, 144–145,
translation, 28, 41–42 157, 158, 184n10, 230n34
See also emperors; emperor worship/ as exemplar, 6, 14, 132, 152, 154, 155,
Roman religion 165, 171, 175, 237n135
divine ancestry, 46, 47–48 mixed metaphors for, 134–135, 139,
divine election, 70–73, 122–123 145–146, 161
divine sonship as preexistent, 10–11, 14, 15, 16, 20, 134,
John’s master-metaphor of begotten, 142–143, 228n12, 228n16, 230n35,
140–145 233n69
Paul’s master-metaphor of adoptive, rooted in multiple claims, 48
135–140 as unique, 6, 13, 14, 20, 22–23, 132,
See also divine sonship of Christians; 143–145, 167, 171, 173
divine sonship of Jesus uniting Christ with Christians
divine sonship of Christians through, 135, 139–140, 142, 145,
adoption as master-metaphor in 146, 158, 159, 162
fourth century, 5, 132–133, 160, unmixing of metaphors for, 159,
165–166, 167, 171, 174 160–171, 162–171, 240n166–167
adoptive metaphors for, 5, 132–133, See also baptism of Jesus; Christology ;
134, 135–137, 138, 139–140, 160, divine sonship of Christians; Jesus
163, 165–166, 167, 171, 174 Christ; modern scholarship on divine
baptism central to, 146, 166, 169, sonship; son of God; individual
173–174 gospels
begotten metaphors for, 22–23, 132–133, divine voice
134, 140–142, 189n110 at baptism of Jesus, 93–94, 95–97,
considered through Roman 106–107, 108–112, 113, 169
sociopolitical lens, 174–175 at transfiguration, 109, 110, 111, 130
Mark’s stipulations for, 126–129 Divino Afflante Spiritu, 7–8
mixed metaphors for, 139, 145–146, divus, 32, 41–42, 43
160, 161 Domitian, 39, 71, 116, 205n63, 211n167
offered by God through the Spirit, 87, Domitius. See Nero
112, 113, 114–115, 132 domus divina, 48
uniting with Christ, 3, 135, 139–140, See also imperial ideology
142, 145, 146, 158, 159, 162 dove
and women, 140, 145, 227n1 at baptism of Jesus, 5, 87, 115, 122,
See also baptism; divine sonship of Jesus 123–124, 173–174
divine sonship of Jesus at betrothal of Joseph, 123
adoptive metaphors for, 132–133, as colonial mimicry, 123–124, 225n185
134–135, 137–140, 146–152, 154–155, as counter-symbol to eagle, 5, 87,
157–160, 171 118–121, 123, 124
in Jewish scripture, 120–121, 224n173, of dead vs. live rulers, 39, 43

224n174 earliest, 16, 26
as messenger to Noah, 173–174, honors-for-benefactions structure,
223n144 39–40, 195n42, 195n44
as omen in early Christianity, 121–123 rejection by some emperors, 42–43,
in Roman imperial ideology, 117–118, 61, 63
122, 123–124 rethinking Jesus’ divine sonship through,
in Syria-Palestine, 118, 224n165 4, 6, 9–10, 26, 28–30, 40, 44–45, 48–49,
Drusus, 119 95, 198n86
Drusus the Younger, 62, 200n103 rituals of, 40, 62–65, 196n48, 208n113
Dunn, James D.G., 10, 19–21, 22, 26, 133, role of sacrifice in, 36, 44
138, 139, 146, 188n81 in Roman Palestine, 92–93, 177, 178,
dynastic grammar 215n44
in American politics, 50, 201n1–2 scholarly reexaminations of, 4, 9, 16, 25,
in imperial ideology, 50, 73–75, 75, 32–45, 192n2–3
77–78, 79, 201n3 as status vs. essence, 31, 35, 36,
39–40, 43
eagle See also cults; emperors; genius; imperial
as counter-symbol to dove, 5, 87, ideology ; numen; Roman Empire/
118–121, 123, 124 sociopolitical realm; individual
as omen/symbol in early Christianity, emperors
121, 123 Ephrem, 89
in Roman imperial/military ideology, 5, Epistle to the Hebrews, 11,
72, 116, 117, 119–120, 179, 223n158, 25, 134
223n163, 224n172 Epistle to the Romans, 87, 88
Ebionites, 146–148, 156, 159, 232n56, See also Pauline Epistles
238n145 Essenes, 103–105, 219n93–94
Egypt, 16, 42–43, 58, 191n139 Esther, 99, 218n79
Elijah, 27 Eusebius, 89, 122, 147, 166–167
Elisha, 27 Exodus, 39, 196n45
emperors Ezra, 120
on continuum of humanity and
divinity, 29, 32, 34–36, 41, 43–44, Fabian, 122
193n21, 193n23 family ideology
as gods, 4, 9, 29, 41–42, 44, 66, 93, duty toward ancestors, 52
191n143 importance of ancestral genealogy,
legitimation options for, 67–68, 70–73, 74–75
78, 91–92, 135, 205n63 importance of status and inheritance,
as pater patriae (father) of Empire, 51–52, 54–55, 56, 57, 59, 60
50–51, 60–67, 114–115 “readiness to extend relationships,” 51,
“son of god” as title for, 4, 18, 28–29, 54, 140
45–47, 48, 93 relationship to imperial head, 61, 64–65,
terminology of divinity, 41–42 85, 206n81
See also emperor worship/Roman supreme authority of fathers, 50, 51, 57, 59,
religion; imperial adoption; imperial 60, 226n203
ideology ; specific emperors See also adoption in Roman society ;
emperor worship/Roman religion emperor worship/Roman religion;
archaeological and cultural evidence for, father-son relationships; genius;
4, 33–34, 37–38, 39, 42, 43, 92–93, 177, numen; Roman Empire/sociopolitical
178, 192n8, 215n44 realm
father-son relationships gospels. See individual gospels

as center of Roman life, 4, 30, 50–51, 52, Greco-Roman world, 23, 24, 39, 58
85, 138, 201n3 See also Roman Empire/sociopolitical
declamations on, 56–57 realm
and scholarship on divine sonship, 4–5, Greek terminology
29–30, 132 for “adoption,” 53, 58, 139, 202n17,
supreme authority of fathers, 50, 51, 57, 204n52
59, 60, 226n203 for “firstborn,” 139
See also adoption in Roman society; for God, 41–42, 197n58
family ideology ; imperial adoption; root word “ευδοκ,” 93–94, 106–112,
imperial ideology ; paterfamilias; pater 217n54, 221n107–108
patriae; patria potestas for “son-ness,” 163–164, 170, 242n187
Flavians, 26, 47, 69, 74 for “son of god,” 28
fourth century. See Nicene era for “unique,” 143
for “will” of God, 129
Gaius Caligula Word/Light translation in John,
as adoptee, 50 143–144, 232n69–71
adoption of Tiberius Gemellus, 59, 81, See also Nestle-Aland (NT); Septuagint
204n49, 211n172 (LXX)
daughter of, 74 Gregory of Nazianzus, 123, 232n66,
divinity of, 25, 195n40 244n215
excesses of, 39, 42
Galba Hadrian, 50, 69, 71, 72–73, 205n63,
adoption of Piso, 59, 69, 79, 80–83, 84, 208n110, 211n166
93, 96, 208n110, 211n169–172 Hebrew Bible, 17, 86, 103, 104, 112–113,
and “Year of Four Emperors,” 59, 67 139 See also Septuagint (LXX)
genius (divine spirit) Hellenistic influences
acquisition by adoption or inheritance, on early Christianity, 15, 16, 17, 18,
46, 73 72, 86
comparisons with Holy Spirit, 114, study of, 15, 185n33–34
222n137 Hengel, Martin, 10, 17–19, 26, 90, 187n65,
described, 32, 43, 113 187n82, 188n81
functions of, 113, 205n69 Hera, 59
maintaining, 60 Hercules/Heracles, 28, 59, 191n141
worship of, 39, 43, 63–65, 66, 113, Hermas
114–115, 222n138 life of, 148, 152, 236n113
genius Augusti, 63–64, 66, 114 The Shepherd of Hermas,148–152,
gens, 58, 63, 113 235n102, 235n106
Germanicus, 50, 62 Herod the Great
Gnosticism, 17, 186n55 son of, 130
God temples built by, 92–93, 119, 216n47–49,
adoptive relationship with Israel, 224n178
103, 139 Hilary of Poitiers, 143, 183n3
as “wholly other,” 31, 35, 193n15 Hippos-Sussita, 177, 215n44,
Word/Light incarnation, 143–144, 145, 247n1
157, 158, 232n68–71 history-of-religion method
See also divine sonship of Jesus; divine in author’s approach, 28
voice; Holy Spirit; Jesus Christ; son Bousset’s analysis, 10, 15–17, 21, 22, 24,
of God 26, 186n35
Dunn’s analysis, 10, 19–21, 22, 26, as upward mobility, 94

188n81 See also adoption in Roman society ;
Hengel’s analysis, 10, 17–19, 26, 187n65 emperors; imperial ideology
Hurtado’s analysis, 21–26, 30, 45, 188n93, imperial cults, 39, 194n29
188n95 See also emperor worship/Roman
See also religionsgeschichtliche Schule religion
Hodayot, 103–105, 108, 220n97 imperial ideology
Holy Spirit divinity of household (domus divina), 48
at baptism of Jesus, 111, 113, 169 dynastic grammar of, 50, 73–75, 75,
comparison to genius and numen, 114 77–78, 79, 201n3
divine sonship offered to all through, 87, eagle as symbol of, 5, 72, 116, 117,
112, 113, 114–115 119–120, 179, 223n158, 223n163,
as manifestation of God’s power, 224n172
112–113 and providentia, 75, 82, 211n167,
See also divine voice 223n163
homoousios (one-in-being), 11 publicity for, 69–70, 91–93
Horace, 66, 118–19 reading Christian writings through
Hurtado, Larry, 21–26, 30 lens of, 5, 28–30, 48–49, 90,
91–93, 131, 174–175, 179,
Ignatius of Antioch, 17, 190n129 191n145
imperial adoption role of divine ancestry in, 46, 47–48
dynastic ideology in, 73–75, role of divine election in, 70–73
77–78, 79 and Bourdieu’s doxa, 201n3
of Hadrian by Trajan, 69, 72–73, See also emperors; emperor worship/
208n110 Roman religion; father-son
meritocratic vs. dynastic succession, 50, relationships; imperial adoption
69, 73–74, 79, 81–82, 138, 207n106, Irenaeus
211n166 adoption metaphors of, 146, 148,
of Nero by Claudius, 47, 50, 69, 74, 155–160, 163, 164, 240n164
78–80, 208n115 begotten metaphors of, 156–157, 159
phasing out by fourth century, 132, 174 exchange formula of, 157–158, 239n156,
of Piso by Galba, 59, 69, 79, 80–83, 84, 239n159
93, 96, 208n110, 211n169–172 mixed metaphors of, 156–157, 159,
and Pliny’s Panegyric, 83–85 238n146
public attention to, 47, 70, 79, 80 sonship uniting Christ with Christians,
publicity methods for, 47, 51, 69–70, 71, 140, 158, 163
75–77, 78, 79, 83, 91–92, 208n110, Isaac, 95, 232n62
208n112, 208n115–116 Isaiah, 112–113
techniques for “affiliating” adopted sons, Islam, 35
74, 75–77 Israel
tensions with natural sons, 30, 73–74, dove as symbol for, 120, 121, 224n174
78–80 God’s adoptive relationship with, 103, 139
testamentary, 59, 68, 69 Israelites
of Tiberius Gemellus by Caligula, 59, 81, exodus from Egypt, 39, 196n45
211n172 God’s adoptive relationship with, 22,
of Trajan by Nerva, 50, 59, 76, 83–85, 103, 139
208n116
transmission of power through, 4, 30, Jacob, 101, 102
67–70, 73–75, 211n170 James, 130
Jephthah, 120 uniqueness of Jesus in, 22–23, 143–145

Jerusalem, Jesus in, 130 uniting Christ with Christians in, 135,
Jesus Christ 142, 145, 146
as counter-emperor, 87, 123–124, Word/Light incarnation, 143–144, 145,
131, 212n5 157, 158, 232n68–71
crucifixion, 14, 129–131, 179 John Chrysostom, 115, 121, 173–175,
Davidic descent of, 13, 27, 48, 125, 197n60, 213n22
135, 138, 141–142, 225n191 John the Baptist, 96, 124–125, 130, 170
feast days and commemorations, 169, Jonathan, 107
188n87 Joseph (father of Jesus)
resurrection, 20, 134, 135, 137, 138, 158, absence from Gospel of Mark, 126–128
230n36 adoption of Jesus, 13, 135, 156, 228n19
“son-ness” of, 163–164, 170, 242n187 ancestors, 156
“son of Man” as title for, 10, 13, 15, 22 betrothal to Mary, 122–123
See also baptism of Jesus; Christology ; dove omen, 123
divine sonship of Jesus; son of God; Joseph (son of Jacob), 101, 102
transfiguration; individual gospels Judaism, ancient
Jewish Christians, 147–148 adoptive metaphor in, 103–106,
Jewish scripture. See Hebrew Bible 220n98
Jewish War, 88–89, 117, 119 belief in intermediary beings, 23
Jews Exodus as benefaction, 39, 196n45
adoptions in antiquity, 98–103, 218n76, Hellenistic, 17, 18
218n82, 219n84, 228n14 Hurtado’s idealization of, 21, 22, 23–24
emperor worship, 93 student-teacher relationships in,
Essenes, 103–105, 219n93–94 101–102, 219n87
in Gospel of John, 23 See also Jews
in Gospel of Mark, 87, 88–89 Judas, 119
Jewish War, 88–89, 117, 119 Judas the Galilean, 93, 217n53
monotheism vs. polytheism in, 23–24, 35 Judea, 25, 39, 91
uses of scripture, 116 Julia Augusta, 69, 208n112
See also Judaism, ancient; Palestine Julia the Elder, 76
Jochebed, 100, 101, 102 Julio-Claudian dynasty
Johannine works/Gospel of John end of, 205n63
audience for, 121 perpetuation through adoption, 47, 62,
baptism narrative, 122, 146 68, 119, 135, 138
begotten as metaphor for divine sonship Junius Silanus, 79
in, 22, 135, 140–145, 146, 153, 157, Jupiter, 61–62, 72, 205n63
161, 164, 165, 169, 233n76
on eschatological mission of Jesus, 12, kalybe structure, 177, 215n44
141, 144–145, 233n78 “Kyrios,” 18
Father-Son relationship in, 16, 142–143,
144–145 Lares compitales
Jesus’ lineal descent, 141–142 described, 64, 206n77
Jews as foil in, 23 devotions to, 64–65, 66, 77
Logos theology of, 143, 158 Latin terminology
“only begotten son” interpretation in, for adoption, 52, 53–54
141, 142, 143–144, 145 for fathers, 50, 51
preexistent mystical Christology of, 15, in Gospel of Mark, 87–88, 89
16–17, 20, 22–23, 133, 142–143 Livia, 63, 69, 208n112
Logos Christology, 19, 143 Jesus as counter-emperor in, 87,

Logos theology of John, 143, 158, 162 123–124, 131, 212n5
Lucius Antonius, 116 as “low” Christology, 5, 94–95, 131
Lucius Verus, 50 motif of suffering in, 20, 128–129
Luke, Gospel of provenance of, 87–90, 213n20,
audience for, 135 213n22, 214n29
baptism narrative in, 14, 122, 134, 135, reading through Roman sociopolitical
185n31, 228n10–11 lens, 28–29, 90, 91–93, 94–95,
birth/infancy narratives, 17, 112–115, 125, 129, 130–131, 132,
133, 135 212n4
christological events in, 20, 133, 134, secrecy motif, 13–14
228n11 stipulations for entering divine family,
on Jesus’ divine sonship, 14, 126–129
185n31 transfiguration scene, 13, 130
sources of Jesus’ legitimation, 135 See also baptism of Jesus
LXX (Septuagint), 96, 107–108, 109, Mars, 48, 200n107
111, 112, 139, 239n149 Mary, 122, 126, 145, 156, 159,
See also Greek terminology 227n1
Matthew, Gospel of
Macarius of Jerusalem, 168–169, audience for, 121
245n225 baptism narrative, 122, 170
Macchiavelli, Niccolò, 50 christological event, 133
“made” conception and birth, 13, 17, 133
adoption as being, 73 on divine sonship of Jesus, 12–13, 20
as lower status than begotten, 3 genealogy, 13, 125, 141
See also adoption metaphor Jesus’ followers, 184n18
Marcellus, 75, 208n116 Matthias, 119
Marcion, 25, 156, 159 Merab, 99, 100, 102, 218n81
Marcus Aurelius, 50, 194n33, metaphors
224n170 dead, 3, 8, 10
Mark function of, 218n82
relationship with Peter, 87 procreative, 152–153
Mark, Gospel of of rivers in biblical scholarship,
adoption metaphors in, 5, 6–7, 94, 15, 17, 24–25, 186n35–36,
124–131 187n65, 189n121
audience for, 27–28, 86, 116, 121–122, rooted in social practice, 3, 29
212n4 unmixing of, 159, 160–171
christological moment, 133 See also adoption metaphor; begotten
crucifixion scene, 14, 129–131 metaphor; mixed metaphors
dating of, 90 Michal, 99–100, 102, 218n81
familial ties and genealogy in, 125–128, Miriam, 100
225n191, 226n197 mixed metaphors
as first narrative Christology, 6–7, 121 in Clement of Alexandria, 153–155
Hellenistic influences on, 86 in early Christianity, 5, 134–135, 139,
Holy Spirit-sonship connection, 145–146, 160, 161
112–113 in Irenaeus, 156–157, 159, 238n146
identification of divine sonship in, in Psalms, 134
11–12, 13–14, 15, 22, 125–126, 129, unmixing of, 159, 160–171,
130–131 240n166–167
modern scholarship on divine sonship Alexander’s teachings, 163–164

adoptionism as heresy in, 6–7, 94–95 Arian controversy, 162, 163–165,
author’s methods and presuppositions, 3, 241n183, 242n185
4, 28–30, 191n140, 191n145 Athanasius’s teachings, 9, 49, 160,
blind spot in, 30, 44, 177 164–166
cultural practice as lens for, 3, 28–30 begottenness as master-metaphor in
history-of-religion analyses, 10, 14–26, 28 divine sonship of Jesus, 5, 132–133,
insights from narrative criticism, 139–140, 160, 162–163, 165, 167, 171
12–14, 28 dominance in scholarly discourse, 3, 9,
listening for resonance, 10, 26–29, 10–11, 162–167
190n133 philosophical debates of, 5, 9, 132–133
Nicene approach, 3, 4, 9, 10–12, 28 preoccupation with assigning
Platonic frameworks for, 11, 12, 13, 20, christological moment, 134, 138
22, 23, 132 rejection of adoptionist christologies,
reinterpreting through Roman 29–30, 132–133, 153, 159, 160, 171
sociopolitical lens, 3, 9–10, 28–30, unmixing metaphors in, 159, 160,
132, 177 162–171, 240n166–167
See also metaphors; religionsgeschichtliche See also metaphors; Nicene creed;
Schule Platonism
monotheism, 24, 35, 193n17, 193n20 Nicodemus, 22, 141, 144
Moses, 99, 100–102, 196n45, 197n65, 218n78 numen (divine power)
Mytilene on Lesbos, 36 comparisons with Holy Spirit, 114,
222n137
Naomi, 99, 100, 102 described, 32, 43, 113
narrative criticism, in biblical analysis, worship of, 32, 39, 43, 63, 114,
12–14, 28 222n138
Nathan’s oracle to David, 105–106 numen Augusti, 63, 66, 114
Nero
adoption by Claudius, 47, 50, 69, 74, Octavian. SeeAugustus
78–80, 208n115, 210n160 Odes (Horace), 66
conflict with Britannicus, 74, 78–80 omens
divine sonship of, 47 in Roman life, 77, 116–118, 119
persecution of Christians, 88, 89, 90 See also bird omens/symbolism; dove;
Nerva, adoption of Trajan, 59, 83–85, 208n116 eagle
Nestle-Aland (NT), 107, 109, 110, Onesimus, 127
112, 144, 232n69 Origen, 89, 160–162, 163, 165, 229n26,
See also Greek terminology 240n173, 243n192
New Testament, 24 Otho, 67, 75, 82–83, 117, 211n167
See also Christology ; individual gospels Ovid, 62, 64–66, 118–19
Nicene creed
“begotten not made” in, 8, 9, 163, 183n3 paganism, 35, 38, 45, 193n17
origins of, 183ch.1n1 Palestine
in scholarly analysis, 10–11 emperor worship in, 92–93, 215n44
translations of, 183n3, 143, 183ch.1n1, and Gospel of Mark, 87, 88, 90
232n67 Jewish War, 88–89, 117, 119
Nicene era See also Ebionites
adoption as master-metaphor in Pallas, 78
Christian divine sonship, 5, 132–133, Panegyric to Trajan (Pliny the Younger), 74,
160, 165–166, 167, 171, 174 83–85
Pan, sanctuary of, 24, 92, 216n47 uniting Christ with Christians, 135,
Papias, 89 139–140, 145, 158
papyri See also specific Epistles
adoption contracts, 53, 58, 109, 139 Paullus Fabius Maximus, 92
Bodmer, 229n28, 230n29 Pelikan, Jaroslav, 7–8
Elephantine, 102, 103 Peter, 24, 87, 88, 89, 90, 126, 130,
Greek verb “to choose” in, 108–109, 112 213n20
P.Brem., 72 Philip (Herod’s son), 130
P.Giss. 3, 72 Piso, adoption by Galba, 59, 69, 79,
P.Lips. 28, 139, 221n116, 236n119 80–83, 84, 93, 96, 208n110,
P.Oxy. 1453, 31, 45, 199n92 211n169–172
P.Oxy. 3781, 72 Pius XII, 7–8
See also Dead Sea Scrolls Platonism
Passover, 161 being vs. becoming, 11, 163, 170
paterfamilias,113, 129, 222n140, “divided line” vs. “myth of the cave,” 163,
226n203 242n189
See also family ideology ; father-son and doctrine of Logos, 162
relationships; imperial ideology influence on Nicene thought, 11, 12, 23,
pater patriae, 50, 60–61, 125 30, 35, 132, 143, 163, 170
See also emperors; emperor worship/ in postmodern era, 31, 34
Roman religion and preexistent sonship, 134, 228n16
patria potestas, 50, 51, 125 See also Nicene era
See also family ideology ; father-son Pliny the Younger, Panegyric, 74,
relationships 83–85
Paul polytheism, 35, 193n17
Christian communities founded by, postcolonial theory
103, 140 and colonial mimicry, 123–124,
travels of, 89 130–131, 179, 196n51,
See also Pauline Epistles 225n185
Pauline Epistles uses of, 40, 187n71
adoption metaphors in, 135–140, princeps, 30, 43, 44, 62, 195n42
146, 153, 157, 158, 162, 163–164,
171, 189n110, 203n37, 229n21, Q source, 22
230n36 Qumran, 103, 104, 108, 219n94
on adoption of Israelites, 138–139 See also Dead Sea Scrolls
apocrypha, 137, 229n28
baptism central to, 146 religionsgeschichtliche Schule
Christ as “firstborn” in, 139–140, 171 Bousset’s analysis, 10, 15–17, 21,
concept of Spirit in, 114 22, 24, 26, 186n35, 186n51,
family lineage of Jesus, 138, 141 186n55
kinship language in, 127 Christianity as central “river” in, 15, 17,
primitive Christology of, 20, 133, 137, 24, 186n35–36, 187n65
146, 230n32 and Hellenistic data, 185n33–34
religionsgeschichtliche Schule analysis of, key members of, 185n33
15–16, 17 key suppositions of, 15
resonance with Greco-Roman methodology, 15, 17, 185n34
ideology, 135–136, 138, 140, See also history-of-religion method
203n37, 229n21 Resurrection, 20, 134, 135, 137, 138, 158,
resurrection, 138, 158, 230n36 230n36
Roman Empire/sociopolitical realm 187n65, 187n72, 188n81

as a family, 50, 61–63 See also divine sonship of Jesus; emperor
insights from postcolonial theory, 40, worship/Roman religion; Jesus Christ
123–124, 130–131, 187n71 “son of Man,” 10, 13, 15, 22
Jupiter as first father of, 61–62, spirit of the Lord, 115, 223n145
205n63 See also God; Holy Spirit; Word/Light
omens in, 77, 116–118, 119 incarnation
resonance of “son of God” in, 6, 28–29 Synoptic Gospels. See Luke, Gospel of;
role of consensus, 40 Mark, Gospel of; Matthew, Gospel of
role of declamations, 55–57 Syria, 87, 88, 89, 90, 168, 170
slavery, 94 Syria-Palestine, 118
“Year of Four Emperors,” 59, 67, 90, 92, 117
See also adoption in Roman society; Temple of Augustus, 92, 216n47–49
emperors; emperor worship/Roman testamentary adoption
religion; family ideology ; imperial of Augustus by Caesar, 46, 154
ideology and imperial ideology, 52, 58–59, 68
Rome legal frameworks for, 59, 200n96
connecting Mark to, 87–90, 213n20 of Livia by Augustus, 69, 208n112
neighborhood divisions, 64, 206n77 See also adoption in Roman society
See also cults; Roman Empire/ Theodosius I, 191n143
sociopolitical realm Theodotus, 95, 147
Romulus, 66, 135 Tiberius (emperor)
ruler cults, 25, 29, 38, 90, 114, 193n21, accession, 78, 117
194n29, 196n51 adoption by Augustus, 50, 62, 75, 77–78,
See also cults; emperor worship/Roman 117, 136, 208n112, 208n116
religion principate of, 30
Ruth, 99, 100, 102 refusal of pater patriae title, 61, 63
Tiberius Gemellus, 59, 81, 204n49, 211n172
Scipio Africanus the Younger, 50 Titus (emperor), 89, 223n158, 225n185
Septuagint (LXX), 107–108 Tityrus, 41
See also Greek terminology Torah, 101, 102, 121
Sethian theology, 35, 231n54 Tosefta, 99–102
Severans, 68 Trajan
Shepherd of Hermas, The,148–152, adoption by Nerva, 50, 59, 76, 83–85,
235n102, 235n106 208n116
Simon Maccabee, 107 adoption of Hadrian, 69, 72–73,
“son-ness” of Jesus, 163–164, 170, 242n187 208n110
son of God imperial publicity, 223n163
as “concept in transition,” 133–134 legitimating rule, 205n63
as dead metaphor, 3, 8, 10 in Tacitus’s Histories, 82
Latin and Greek terminology, 28 transfiguration
as name for Jesus’ followers, 184n18 divine voice at, 109, 110, 111, 130
stabilization of meaning over time, 3, 9, in Gospel of Luke, 228n11
10, 23, 183n2 in Gospel of Mark, 13, 130
as title for Jesus Christ, 3, 15, 28, 45, 47, site of, 117, 130
48, 132
as title for Roman emperors, 4, 18, Valentinian theology, 25, 35, 157, 160,
28–29, 45–47, 48, 93 231n54, 232n56
tracing origins of through time, 17–19, Valentinus, 25, 159
Venus, 46, 47–48 vicus Sandalarius altar, 77

Venus Genetrix, 48, 118 Vitellius, 67, 74, 117, 211n167
Vespasian
accession, 47, 74–75, 92, 117, 209n134 “with you I am well pleased,” 106–112
death, 200n104 Word/Light incarnation, 143–144, 145, 157,
divine titles for, 47, 200n104 158, 232n68–71
eagle omens for, 117
and Julio-Claudian succession, 69 “Year of Four Emperors,” 59, 67, 90, 92, 117
Year of Four Emperors, 67
vici, defined, 64 Zephyrinus, Bishop, 147
Victor, Bishop, 147 Zeus, 28, 59–60, 71, 205n63
■ index of ancient sources
Old Testament 1 Chronicles

Genesis 4:17–18, 100
1:2, 115, 223n145 6:3, 100
1:26–27, 135 28:6, 96
8:8–12, 223n144 29:1, 96
16:2, 241n183 Esther
19:30–38, 238n146 2:7, 99, 218n79
22:2, 95 Job
30:3, 219n86, 241n183 18:3, 231n43
48:1–12, 101 Psalms, 15, 134
48:15–16, 101 2, 95, 97, 134, 168, 170–171
50:23, 219n86 2:7, 95, 97, 105–106, 134, 135, 147, 161
Exodus 22, 161
2:5–10, 99, 100, 218n79 23, 161
4:16, 197n65 67:17, 107
4:22–23, 103, 139, 74:18–19, 224n173
231n43 77:15, 101
7:1, 197n65 82, 155, 157, 237n133, 239n149
19:4, 196n45 89, 167, 244n216
Leviticus 89:19–37, 105–106, 135, 139
11:13, 121 136:2, 197n58
Numbers 151:4–5, 108
3:1–2, 100, 101 Proverbs
17, 122 8:22, 240n172
26:59, 100 Isaiah, 217n62
Deuteronomy 11:2, 112, 234n82
28:49, 121 14:30, 231n43
32:8–9, 231n40 42, 111
32:11, 223n145 42:1–4, 95–96, 109
Judges 43:1–7, 231n40
11:7, 120 61:1–2, 112–113
14:6, 112 Jeremiah
Ruth 3:19, 103
4:16–17, 99 31:7–9, 103, 231n40, 231n43
1 Samuel Daniel
16:13, 112 7, 120
18:17–27, 99 Hosea
25:44, 99 11:1–4, 103, 139
2 Samuel Joel
3:14–16, 99 2:28–29, 112
6:23, 99 Micah
7:5–17, 105 3:8, 112
7:14, 135 Malachi
21:8, 99 3:17, 96
282
Index of Ancient Sources ■ 283
New Testament 14:38, 113

Matthew,12–13, 228n19 14:61–62, 130
1:1, 185n19 15:16–20, 87, 130
1:16, 13 15:21, 88
1:18, 185n19 15:39, 130
1:20, 13 Luke, 14, 185n31, 220n104, 228n18,
1:24–25, 13 229n19
5:9, 184n18 1:35, 135
8:21–22, 226n199 3:22, 134, 135
10:16, 224n174 3:23–38, 135
10:34–36, 226n199 4:22, 126
10:37, 226n199 9:35, 110
11:25–27, 189n105 9:59–62, 226n199
12:18–21, 96 10:22–23, 189n105
13:55, 126 12:32, 112
18:20, 198n80 12:51–53, 226n199
19:29, 127 14:26, 226n199
23:9, 226n202 18:29, 127
Mark, 5, 6–7, 10–12, 13–14, 214n29, John, 11, 12, 231n51, 232n68, 233n70,
224n179, 225n185 234n82
1:1, 95, 214n41 1:1–18, 141, 142, 143–144, 161, 165,
1:8, 113 233n69
1:10, 113 1:31, 146
1:11, 107, 109, 221n108 1:32–34, 146, 233n69
1:14–15, 128 3:1–21, 22, 141, 144,
1:21–28, 113, 125 145, 146
3:21–35, 126 5:18, 233n71
3:28–30, 113, 114 5:19, 142
3:35, 113, 114, 126, 129 6:38, 142
5:1, 88 6:42, 126
6:3, 126 7:42, 142
7:3–4, 88 8:23, 142
7:31, 88 8:31–59, 142, 235n106
8:27, 130 8:39–47, 141, 219n84
8:29, 130 8:58, 143
9:2–8, 130 10:31–39, 237n133
10:1–31, 126–127, 128, 129 16:21, 233n76
10:47–48, 125 16:28, 142
11:1–11, 130 17:1–25, 143, 233n71
11:10, 125 18:36, 141
11:15, 118 18:37, 145, 233n76
11:28, 125 Acts, 20, 133, 134, 135
11:30, 125 2:32, 227n3
11:31–32, 125 2:36, 134, 227n3
12:15–17, 130 5:31, 227n3
12:42, 87 5:37, 217n53
13, 88–89 7:21, 99
13:11, 113, 114 10:38, 228n10
13:14, 224n178 12:12, 89
14:36, 129 13, 89
284 ■ Index of Ancient Sources
New Testament (continued) 2:13, 161

13:5, 89 11:17, 232n62
13:30–37, 138, 227n3 11:24, 99
13:32–33, 20, 134 12:23, 231n42
15:36–41, 89 1 Peter
Romans, 87, 88, 230n31 5:13, 89, 90, 213n20
1:3, 20, 227n3, 230n35 1 John
1:4, 16, 113, 138, 230n36 2:29–3:10, 141, 189n111,
6:3, 233n78 231n51
6:4, 233n78 3:1–2, 141
8, 163–164 3:7–10, 142, 231n53
8:3, 230n34 3:8–10, 141
8:9–30, 113, 135, 136, 138, 139, 233n78 4:2, 244n217
8:32, 162, 230n34 4:7–8, 141, 189n111
8–9, 203n37 4:9, 145
9:4, 103, 139 5:1–4, 141, 142, 145, 189n111
11, 203n37 5:18–20, 141, 145, 189n111
16:13, 88, 127 Revelation, 231n51
1 Corinthians 1:5, 231n42
1:21, 110 Apocrypha
4:5, 233n78 Acts of Paul and Thecla, 229n28
8:5, 197n58 3 Corinthians, 137, 229n28
10:1–2, 139 3 Enoch, 18
10:5, 221n121 Epistula Apostolorum, 231n55
13:10–12, 229n26 4 Ezra, 120
15:20–28, 137, 138 Gospel of the Hebrews, 234n82
15:50–57, 158 1 Maccabees, 107
2 Corinthians 2 Maccabees, 221n111
4:4, 197n58 Sirach, 18, 111
6:18, 140 Wisdom of Solomon, 15, 18, 231n52,
Galatians, 230n31 240n171
1:15, 110
3:23–4:7, 135–136, 139, 229n21 Early Jewish Writings
4:4–5, 137, 157, 158, 233n78, Aristeas, Letter of, 120–121
239n154 Babylonian Talmud (b. Sanh. 19b),
Ephesians 99–100, 101–102
1:3–14, 112, 136–137 Dead Sea Scrolls (Hodayot), 103–105,
Philippians 220n95, 220n97
2:6–11, 227n3, 230n32 Exodus Rabbah, 219n84
Colossians Joseph and Aseneth, 18
1:15, 231n42 Josephus, 24, 70, 76, 79, 119–120,
1:18, 231n42 216n48, 219n93
1:19, 110–111 A.J. 1.154, 218n78
4:10, 89 A.J. 1.222, 232n62
Philemon A.J. 2.232, 99
10, 127, 233n78 A.J. 2.263, 218n78
24, 89 A.J. 15.292–98, 215n45
Hebrews, 11, 20, 134, 228n16 A.J. 15.331–41, 215n46
1:3, 240n171 A.J. 15.363–64, 216n47
1:6, 231n42 A.J. 17.146–8, 119
A.J. 17.149, 119 Prot. 10.92.5, 236n120

A.J. 17.155, 119 Quis. 36.2, 236n120
A.J. 18.1–10, 217n53 Strom. 1.21.145, 245n224, 245n224–225
A.J. 23, 217n53 Strom. 1.27.173, 237n124
B.J. 1.403, 215n45 Strom. 2.23.137, 236n118
B.J. 1.404–06, 216n47 Strom. 6.14.114, 237n135
B.J. 1.408, 215n46 Strom. 6.8.68, 236n117
B.J. 2.120, 103 Strom. 6.9.76, 237n127
B.J. 2.123, 103 Cyril of Jerusalem, 169–170
B.J. 2.248–49, 210n160 Didascalia Apostolorum, 168
B.J. 2.500–55, 223n158 Dionysius of Alexandria, 231n51
B.J. 4.596–97, 209n134 Epiphanius, 89, 147, 234n81
B.J. 5.41, 223n158 Eusebius, 122, 147, 166–167, 212n179,
Leviticus Rabbah, 225n185 225n181, 243n209–210
Mishnah (m. B. Metzia 2:11), 219n87 Eccl. theol. 1.45, 188n92
Philo of Alexandria, 18, 24, 42, 59, Hist.eccl. 2.16, 213n22
70, 99, 197n65, 202n17 Hist.eccl. 5.28, 188n92, 234n85
Abr. 250, 218n78 Hist.eccl. 6.17, 188n92
Legat. 27, 204n50, 211n172 Hist.eccl. 7.25.21, 231n51
Legat. 28, 225n190 Hist.eccl. 7.27–30, 240n167
Legat. 299–305, 215n46, 216n48 Laud. Const. 0.2, 244n209
Mos. 99, 1.19–33 Laud. Const. 1.3, 244n209
Praem. 152, 203n37 Laud. Const. 2.1–5, 244n209
Sobr. 56–57, 220n98 Laud. Const. 3.1–6, 244n209,
Pseudo-Philo, 120 244n214
R. Eleazar, 101 Laud. Const. 4.2–5.1, 244n209
R. Samuel b. Nahmani, 101–102 Laud. Const. 6.21, 244n209
R. Yohanan, 100–101 Laud. Const. 9.18, 244n209
Tosefta (t. Sotah 11:17–20), 99–100, Gregory of Nazianzus, 123, 232n66,
101–102 244n215
Hilary of Poitiers, 143
Early Christian Writings Hippolytus, 147, 242n187
Alexander of Alexandria, 163 Irenaeus, 25, 89, 140, 146, 148, 155–160,
Apostolic Constitutions, 170–71 188n92
Arius, 9, 162–165, 241n183, Adv. Haer. 3.16.2, 231n55
242n185 Adv. Haer. 3.16.3, 239n154
Athanasius, 9, 49, 160, 164–66, Adv. Haer. 3.18.7, 159, 239n155
241n183, 243n203, 243n208 Adv. Haer. 3.19, 188n92
Augustine, 132, 167, 234n81, 241n175, Adv. Haer. 3.19.1, 239n159,
244n215–217 240n161
Cassiodorus, 90 Adv. Haer. 3.19.2, 231n55
Clement of Alexandria, 14, 24, 89–90, Adv. Haer. 3.20.2, 159, 240n160
132, 148, 152–155, 163, 224n179, Adv. Haer. 3.21.4, 159
236n115 Adv. Haer. 3.21.9, 156
Exc. 33, 236n121 Adv. Haer. 3.6.1, 239n150–151
Exc. 67, 236n121 Adv. Haer. 4, 239n153
Paed. 1.12.98, 237n122, 237n130 Adv. Haer. 4.20.5, 240n164
Paed. 1.5.21, 236n116 Adv. Haer. 4.31.1, 238n146
Paed. 1.6.26, 237n127–128 Adv. Haer. 4.33.4, 238n144
Paed. 1.6.33–34, 237n123 Adv. Haer. 5.18.1, 238n147
286 ■ Index of Ancient Sources
Early Christian Writings (continued) Epictetus, 55, 70

Jerome, 89, 143, 218n79, 223n145, Fronto, 91, 224n170
232n66, 234n82 Gaius (Roman jurist), 51, 53
John Chrysostom, 115, 121, 173–175, Gellius, Aulus, 52, 58
197n60, 213n22 Horace, 66, 115, 118–119, 207n90,
Justin Martyr, 14, 143, 237n131 224n168–169
Macarius of Jerusalem, 168–69 Latro, Porcius, 56–57, 204n38
Origen, 89, 160–162, 240n171, 242n187, Lucian, 39, 118, 194n33, 195n44,
243n192 224n165
Comm. on John 1.29, 241n174 Nicolaus of Damascus, 200n94–95,
Comm. on Romans 7.13.6, 231n40 200n97, 202n17
Comm. on Romans 7.5.9, 229n26 Ovid, 62, 64–65, 66, 118, 205n64, 206n85,
De Princ. 1.2.4, 240n173 224n167
De Princ. 4.4.1, 240n172 Pliny the Elder, 103, 194n33, 203n37,
Peri Pascha 41, 241n176 206n77
Protoevangelium of James,122–123 Pliny the Younger, 50, 74, 83–85,
Shepherd of Hermas, 148–152, 212n174, 212n177, 224n170
235n100–102, 235n106–107, Plutarch, 96, 194n33
236n113 Alex. Fort., 71–72
Tertullian, 89, 142 Alex. Fort. 340B, 209n123–124
Apol. 18.4, 242n184 Galba 19.1, 211n171
Carn. Chr. 14.5, 188n92 Galba 23.2, 211n169
Carn. Chr. 19, 231n55–56 Otho 16.2, 211n167
Carn. Chr. 24, 231n55–56 Polybius, 108
De praescript. Haer. 33.11, 233n80 Quintilian, 55, 203n34
Seneca the Younger, 62, 222n140
Other Ancient Sources Suetonius, 69–70, 74, 116, 117, 118
Appian, 200n94–95, 202n17, 211n164 Aug. 26.2, 75–76
Calpurnius Flaccus, 55, 203n34, Aug. 30.1, 206n77
204n38 Aug. 43.5, 75–76, 208n116
Cicero, 29, 32–33, 54, 61, 62, 202n7, Aug. 58–60, 62–63
202n22–23 Aug. 65.1, 211n164
Dom. 34–38, 202n7, 204n45 Cal. 8.1, 208n112
Leg. 2.5, 202n23 Cal. 25, 74
Leg. 2.6, 202n23 Claud. 15–16, 74
Red. in Sen. 4.8, 41 Claud. 39.2, 79
Dinarchus, 202n17 Dom. 6, 223n148
Dio, Cassius, 43, 65, 75, 125, 202n17 Dom. 10.3, 211n167
Roman History 53.18.3, 205n68, Galba 17, 80–81, 93
225n190 Gramm. 22, 203n29
Roman History 57.12, 208n112 Nero 7, 80
Roman History 63.5, 211n172 Nero 33.2, 79
Roman History 68.3.4, 208n116, Tib. 2, 74
211n171–172 Tib. 15.2, 77
Roman History 69.20, 73, 202n22 Tib. 21.3, 78
Diodorus Siculus, 59–60, 108, 202n17, Tib. 23, 77
204n52 Tib. 50.3, 208n112
Dionysus of Halicarnassus, 202n17 Tib. 59, 78
Elder Seneca, 55, 56–57, 58, 82, 210n145, Vesp. 4, 223n157
211n166 Vesp. 23, 200n104
Tacitus, 74, 75, 78–83, 89, 211n170, 212n177 Ann. 13.2.2, 78

Ann. 1.14, 208n112 Hist. 1.12, 80–81
Ann. 2.17, 224n172 Hist. 1.14, 81, 82
Ann. 4.74.2, 208n112 Hist. 1.15, 81
Ann. 12.25, 78 Hist. 1.16, 82, 84
Ann. 12.25.2, 78 Hist. 1.17, 82
Ann. 12.26.1, 211n164 Hist. 1.19, 82
Ann. 12.26.2, 78–79 Hist. 1.29, 82, 84
Ann. 12.41.3, 80 Hist. 1.38, 83
Ann. 12.68.2, 79 Hist. 1.48, 82
Ann. 12.69.2, 79 Hist. 2.59, 209n133
Ann. 13.1.1, 79 Tibullus, 118
Ann. 13.15.2, 80 Varro, 33, 41
■ i n d e x o f m o d e rn au t h o r s
Alföldy, Géza, 37, 38 Fears, J. Rufus, 36, 41, 61–62, 70–71,

Ando, Clifford, 31, 34, 40, 44–45, 67, 68, 69, 72, 83, 205n63
75, 82, 191n143, 201n3, 211n161 Fishwick, Duncan, 39, 43, 92, 114
Ashton, John, 90, 144–145 Fletcher-Louis, Crispin, 25, 190n126
Attridge, Harold, 134 Foucault, Michel, 28, 34, 40, 191n140
France, R.T., 96, 115
Bacon, Benjamin, 125 Fredriksen, Paula, 24, 193n20
Barnes, T.D., 166
Bauckham, Richard, 11–12, 22, 184n10 Gathercole, Simon, 11
Beard, Mary, 55 Geertz, Clifford, 29, 33, 34
Bernett, Monika, 39, 92, 93 Gradel, Ittai, 31, 33, 36, 39, 43, 63–64,
Bhabha, Homi, 124, 196n51 65, 92, 208n113
Black, C. Clifton, 87, 88 Gregg, Robert, 164–165
Bonner, S.F., 55 Groh, Dennis, 164–165
Bourdieu, Pierre, 34, 40, 68, 196n48, Gunderson, Erik, 55–56
201n3, 203n28
Bousset, Wilhelm, 10, 15–17, 21, 22, 24, Habermas, Jürgen, 40, 68, 201n3
26, 185n33, 186n51, 228n12 Hammond, Mason, 67–68, 70, 81, 194n30
Bowersock, Glen, 37, 39 Harnack, Adolph von, 94
Brown, Raymond, 7, 133, 146, 227n3 Harrington, Daniel, 97
Brox, Norbert, 152 Hekster, Olivier, 48, 209n131
Buell, Denise Kimber, 152–153 Hengel, Martin, 10, 17–19, 26, 90, 187n65
Burrus, Virginia, 166 Hopkins, Keith, 38
Horbury, William, 23, 24
Clauss, Manfred, 43 Hurtado, Larry, 10, 21–26, 45, 188n93,
Collins, Adela Yarbro. SeeYarbro 188n95
Collins, Adela
Collins, John J., 105, 106 Ilan, Tal, 126
Corbier, Mireille, 51, 54
Cranfield, C.E.B., 96 Jaffee, Martin, 219n87
Crossan, John Dominic, 27, 190n133 Jewett, Robert, 230n35
D’Angelo, Mary Rose, 125, 191n144 Kantiréa, Maria, 39, 44, 92, 196n47
Deissmann, Adolf, 23, 27, 190n133 Kasper, Walter, 155, 158
Dennison, Charles G., 14 Kingsbury, Jack Dean, 12, 13–14
Dixon, Suzanne, 51 Klauck, Hans-Josef, 35
Donahue, John, 97 Koester, Helmut, 44
Dunn, James D.G., 9, 10, 19–21, 133, 138, Kunst, Christiane, 53–54, 59
139, 146, 188n81, 228n16 Kurylowicz, Marek, 58
Eck, Werner, 91 Lane, William L., 10–11, 96

Ehrman, Bart, 96, 146–147, 232n69 Latte, Kurt, 194n32
Étienne, Robert, 39, 194n32 Liertz, Uta-Maria, 39
288
Index of Modern Authors ■ 289
Lieu, Judith, 145 Rose, Charles Brian, 76

Lott, J. Bert, 77 Rüpke, Jörg, 191n145, 192n3,
196n48
Marcus, Joel, 88, 218n73
Martin, Dale, 94 Scheid, John, 33, 63
Metcalf, William, 75 Schrenk, G., 109–110, 111
Millar, Fergus, 33, 37–38 Schweizer, Eduard, 97–98
Moloney, Francis, 88 Scott, James, 140
Moss, Candida R., 86 Smith, Martin, 58
Mowinckel, Sigmund, 105–106 Smith, Morton, 89
Münderlein, Gerhard, 110–111 Stevens, Wallace, 115
Nock, Arthur Darby, 35, 72, 193n21 Taylor, Lily Ross, 37, 63, 97, 205n69
Norris, Richard, 159 Terian, Abraham, 169
Orbe, Antonio, 154–155 Vellanickal, Matthew, 142, 186n51

Osiek, Carolyn, 148, 150–151 Verseput, Donald, 12–13
Otto, Rudolf, 31, 35 Vigourt, Annie, 118
Overbeck, Franz, 149
Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew, 116
Pelikan, Jaroslav, 8 Walters, James, 135
Pius XII, 7 Watson, Alan, 51, 54
Pleket, H.W., 38 Weber, Max, 40, 68–69, 201n3
Prévost, Marcel-Henri, 54–55 Weinreich, Otto, 34–35
Price, Simon, 31, 33–34, 38, 39, Widdicombe, Peter, 160, 165
40, 42, 92
Yarbro Collins, Adela, 10, 27–28, 91, 97,
Reed, Jonathan L., 27, 190n133 190n133, 191n136, 230n34
Reid, J.S., 37
Ricoeur, Paul, 10 Zanker, Paul, 77

Michael Peppard - The Son of God in The Roman World - Divine Sonship in Its Social and Political Context-Oxford University Press (2012)

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Michael Peppard - The Son of God in The Roman World - Divine Sonship in Its Social and Political Context-Oxford University Press (2012)

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Michael Peppard - The Son of God in The Roman World - Divine Sonship in Its Social and Political Context-Oxford University Press (2012)

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

What is the main topic of the book?

What is the main topic of the book?

What contexts are explored regarding divine sonship?

What contexts are explored regarding divine sonship?

■ The Son of God in the Roman World

This page intentionally left blank

Oxford New York

Copyright © 2011 by Oxford University Press, Inc.

Published by Oxford University Press, Inc.

Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

1 Divine Sonship Before Nicea: Biblical Scholarship on

2 Divinity and Divine Sonship in the Roman World 31

3 Begotten or Made? Adopted Sons in Roman Society

4 Rethinking Divine Sonship in the Gospel of Mark 86

5 Begotten and Adopted Sons of God—Before and After Nicea 132

Epilogue: The Son of God in the Christian World 177

My sincere gratitude goes ﬁrst to Harold Attridge. At the beginning of graduate

Chapter 1, “Divine Sonship Before Nicea: Biblical Scholarship on ‘Son of God,’”

Son of God . . . eternally begotten of the Father . . . begotten, not made.

In the earliest period of Christianity “Son of God” was not an obvious

■ THE NICENE APPROACH

relationship.”3 Clear echoes of the Creed resound in Lane’s analysis—the

■ THE RELIGIONSGESCHICHTLICHE SCHULE

Thanks to James Dunn, such a synthesis exists. The foundational chapter of

After Dunn’s major contribution to New Testament Christology, what remained

according to John? This tension is not acknowledged by Hurtado because, in the

Paula Fredriksen takes Hurtado to task on his idealization of early Judaism,

Rather, Hurtado fashions a history of early Christianity of which Irenaeus would

■ LISTENING FOR RESONANCE

the unconscious connections made by certain listeners, namely “those members of

imperial divine sonship a relevant, though neglected, historical comparandum for

■ DIVINIT Y IN THE ROMAN WORLD

Divinity and Religion: Perspectives Old and New

When surveying a ﬁeld of information as large as the scholarship on Roman

Divinity in the Roman World

Gradel’s methodological commitments to material evidence, ritual practices, and

Emperor Worship: Perspectives Old and New

Under the Roman Empire, from the time of Augustus to that of

Benefactions were what led to worship, and continuous benefactions led to

Another way of understanding the new perspective on emperor worship is to

altered. In her study of emperor worship in Greece, Maria Kantiréa encapsu-

Emperor Worship and Early Christianity

To the Emperor Caesar, God, Son of God, Augustus

Origin and Propagation of the Title

Yet it is not surprising that a concept as challenging to grasp as divine sonship

■ ADOPTION IN ROMAN SOCIETY

The Romans seem to have been always ready to create kinship

Adoption in Law and Literature

labels “quasi-adoptions.”18 The social practice of adoption seems to be least regulated

inscriptions provide limited evidence. According to Aulus Gellius, adoptio occurs

“Augusto, patri patriae, feliciter!”

On a winter’s day in 2 b.c.e—February 5, to be exact—the Roman family changed

Refashioning the Empire as a large family thus engendered a shift in cultic

Ovid is clearly concerned to articulate the completeness of the imperial domus

ornamentation. Therefore they stood up and said, “Cheers to Augustus, pater

■ ADOPTION AND IMPERIAL SUCCESSION

Adoption as Transmission of Power

Roman historians have acknowledged the crucial function of adoption in imperial