Author: Aliosha Bielenberg

Doerfler, Maria. “Holy Households.” In Melania: Early Christianity through the Life of One Family, edited by Catherine Chin and Caroline Schroeder, 71–85. Oakland: University of California Press, 2017.

Doerfler begins in medias res, by analyzing an episode from the Vita Melaniae Iunioris. When a fetus died during childbirth, the mother became “neither able to live or die” (71, citing the vita). Melania the Younger then miraculously saved the woman’s life – but did not heal the child in her womb. For Doerfler, this “incomplete miracle” gives a glimpse into late ancient thought about children and even about ascetic women. First of all, the fact that something so tragic – the death of a child – is passed over so lightly indicates that infant mortality was distressingly normal in late Antiquity. Doerfler also sees this story as a metaphor: only through the intervention of a saint – only through asceticism – can a woman overcome the bonds of biological motherhood and marriage to reach “the fullness of life in Christ” (72). Doerfler sees a similar pattern in the story of Melania the Elder, whose husband and two sons died at the same time. Jerome claims that instead of mourning excessively, Melania saw the tragedy as an opportunity to serve Christ and God with greater devotion. Even Melania the Younger was “blessed” in this way: after her child’s early death, her husband gave his assent to “live together in chastity thenceforth” (74).

Doerfler recognizes that these tales reveal little about “real” feelings around infant mortality and parental bereavement. Rather, the accounts presented provide a glimpse of the rhetorical strategies employed by the Church Fathers. On the one hand, the ascetics praised breaking biological bonds between mothers and offspring and relinquishing hope of more children. On the other hand, the ascetics did not reject motherhood. Indeed, they saw the women’s adoption of ascetic practice as a way to become greater mothers by adopting spiritual children. A prominent example of this is provided by Melania the Younger’s visit to Constantinople. There, the Empress Eudocia – in Gerontius’ words – “received her with every honor, as Melania was a true spiritual mother” (76). Doerfler contends that “relations of spiritual mentorship” between women often used “maternal terms” (77). This rhetoric was based on the real bonds between mothers and their (biological) children in late Antiquity. In the view of Jerome and John Chrysostom, these kinds of relationships are only made stronger by “shared ascetic devotion” in monastic contexts. A good example is Jerome’s attitude to “little Paula.” In Epistle 107, he recommends that she be pledged from birth to a life of asceticism – a member of not only the Roman but also the Christian monastic elite. Drawing from Rebecca Krawiec, Doerfler recognizes that even the famously antifamilial Jerome “demonstrate[s] an investment in ascetic genealogies” (79).

In sum, Doerfler argues that Christian writers “labored to rescript women’s experiences of renunciation” (80) in order to incorporate the important roles of wife and mother. The Vita Melaniae Iunioris illustrates how renouncing the motherhood that is “corporeal, painful, ultimately producing nothing but death” in favor of that which is “spiritual, joyful, and genuinely life-giving” (80) sets one free to serve, nourish, and revive many. Whether most non-ascetics followed this rhetoric is another question entirely; Doerfler stresses, again, that the “male ascetics who composed, translated, and copied these texts … were preoccupied less with ordinary households, women, and mothers than with their expediency as metaphors and their usefulness in theological debates” (81). Ultimately, what Doerfler convincingly demonstrates is that late ancient women “had to negotiate their existence between experience and metaphor, their roles both defined and circumscribed within a male framework of textuality” (81). Like Elizabeth Clark, Doerfler is very successful at working with texts to make them yield up their ideological content; however, her reliance on literary sources (abetted by an unclear structure) constrains the power of her thesis.

Cribiore, Raffaella. “The Education of Orphans: A Reassessment of the Evidence of Libanius.” In Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, edited by Sabine Hübner and David Ratzan, 257–72. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.

In this article, Cribiore investigates “the influence of an orphan state on advanced education” (258) by examining the writings of Libanius, a Greek teacher of rhetoric in fourth-century Antioch. She evaluates the earlier conclusion of Krause that fatherless boys encountered obstacles that often prevented them from being students of Libanius. She convincingly demonstrates that the picture conveyed through Libanius’ writing is more complex than Krause indicated.

Libanius himself was an orphan. In his case the loss of his father, although tragic, had many “unforeseen positive consequences” (257). For example, his mother assumed guardianship of her children, choosing to be “everything” (τὰ πάντα) for them and encouraging them to pursue academic studies. Not all widows had as much power as Libanius’ mother had. For example, widows could not be designated as tutor (guardian) for their children if they decided to remarry. Usually, other male relatives assumed responsibility for the upbringing of orphans. Some of Libanius’ letters discuss boys whose relatives in fact made pursuing studies quite easy – particularly if the students were scions of wealthy families. One boy, for example, had two excellent letters of recommendation solicited by his male relatives. Mothers usually did not write to Libanius themselves – the world of rhetoric was, after all, almost exclusively male – but their influence helped their sons in other ways.

Libanius’ letters also provide evidence that some orphans faced significant financial difficulties. Cribiore rightly cautions that these obstacles should not always be read as the result of being fatherless. For example, Libanius wrote to one family pleading that his student be given enough money to continue his studies. The family refused – but they still wanted to provide an education to the boy, just not in Antioch. In addition, the relatives were angry with the boy because he had run away from them. Their decision to cut off funding, although unfortunate, thus had nothing to do with the boy’s loss of his father. On the other hand, students with neither mother nor father often had genuine difficulties with their education that stemmed from their condition as orphans. In these cases, Libanius often solicited external support – for example, from the governor or another prominent politician – to ensure that the boy could continue his studies. Libanius often advocated for boys like these because of his affection for his students. At the same time, he supported promising students in particular because their success increased his own reputation.

Cribiore acknowledges that these factors distort her sources; after all, Libanius is most likely to write about exceptional students and so the record is biased against average pupils. Accounting for these factors, Cribiore estimates the average attendance of Libanius’ students at “two or three years” (268). This was true for all types of students, including orphans, since the reasons for ending rhetorical training were diverse – from poor health to a desire to enter the job market or pursue training for another profession. Some students were even compelled to enter civic service by the city council.

Cribiore draws on this large, diverse body of evidence to make several conclusions about the education of orphans in fourth-century Antioch. First, she acknowledges that losing a father does not paralyze a boy’s education – especially if Libanius becomes his personal advocate. Indeed, orphans could even aspire to a “future at the highest echelons of society” (272) if they had the right support. In the end, the most important factor for education was not the presence of a father. Instead, what “helped a young man go to and stay in school were family support, ability to pay for costly studies, lack of urgent need to earn a living, and personal motivation and talent” (271). Cribiore sees many of these factors as being indicative, fundamentally, of belonging to “elite social strata” (272). In sum, what matters most is not whether a boy is an orphan but rather whether a student comes from a background of privilege.

Clark, Elizabeth. “Antifamilial Tendencies in Ancient Christianity.” Journal of the History of Sexuality 5, no. 3 (1995): 356–80.

In this article, Clark traces the “ideology of antifamilialism” (358) in Christian antiquity. She draws on a variety of sources to parse the argumentative and interpretive techniques used to promote this ideology. Clark identifies antifamilialism with a variety of Christian principles, including the promotion of celibacy, the exaltation of the virgin, and the emphasis on a spiritual rather than temporal family. But, Clark notes, this literary evidence “gives us little access to ‘reality’” (358). Rather, antifamilialism as Clark characterizes it is fundamentally a form of propaganda whose effect is to “bolster the power of ecclesiastical leaders and their values” (358).

Clark begins by providing examples of antifamilial views advocated by Church Fathers. She first presents Jerome’s disgust at pagan marriage and the Roman “‘sentimental ideal’ of matronhood” (358). Christianity’s ideal is, of course, the virgin. Jerome characteristically says that the virgin will receive a “one-hundred-fold harvest” while the married woman will only get “thirtyfold” (358). Clark reads similar tendencies even in the New Testament itself. Here, the motivation for antifamilialism is that the end times are near. In this eschatological context, Clark says that Christians understood Jesus as preaching that traditional values must be displaced by “an ethic of radical allegiance to God alone” (359). Clark supports this assertion by quoting Paul’s epistles, in which the apostle “praises the unmarried state ‘because of the impending distress’ (1 Cor. 7:26)” (359). In the fourth and fifth centuries, though, antifamilialism was extricated from its eschatological context. Clark gives the example of John Chrysostom, who continued to disparage marriage but denied that the end times were near. Instead, his antifamilialism was motivated by misogynism. For Chrysostom, women (especially rich ones) are “wild beasts” rather wives. Many antifamilial writers imagined that men “bear the greatest burdens of marriage” because they are unable to “try out” the “commodity” – that is, their wives – before “acquiring it” (361).

Yet antifamilalism was not always misogynistic. Clark cites authors who exhorted women to remain virginal in order to avoid “female servitude and subjection,” not to mention “the difficulties of bearing and raising children” (361). Furthermore, at least one argument in favor of virginity was relatively indifferent to gender. Gregory of Nyssa promotes celibacy as a way to avoid “the constant production of new beings doomed to die” (362). This dark turn has philosophical appeal for both sexes. The Old Testament also offers broad support for celibacy through the transposition of codes on priestly purity onto Christian marriage. At the same time, the ascetics’ appeals to the Hebrew Bible are necessarily selective, avoiding the “tales of incest, polygamy, and rape” (364). From the story of Abraham, for example, the willingness to sacrifice family (Isaac) for God was greatly esteemed – but the patriarch’s polygamy was diminished. A final example of “gender-neutral” exhortations for celibacy are those based on the idea of a family of Christian faithful. Jesus repeatedly calls his followers “brother,” “sister,” and “mother.” At first, this appeal was eschatological. But the most potent articulation is due to John Chrysostom’s image of Jesus as Bridegroom, which is especially directed to (young) female ascetics. Indeed, Chrysostom promises “the faithful virgin that … Jesus will be ‘hotter’ (sphodroteros) than any human” (368).

These exhortations had a fair amount of success. Yet they also encountered significant resistance. For example, non-ascetic audiences might have viewed celibacy as “a genuine threat to the reproduction of society” (371). Even the ascetics themselves acknowledged the fierceness of their opposition, including from fellow Christians. One motivation for resistance to antifamiliasm is that family wealth might be given by an ascetic to the church “rather than entering the family’s coffers” (373). In many cases, this involves the transfer of vast sums of money; Clark claims that Olympia’s donations to the church “would have sustained around 211 000 poor people” (374).

Partly in response to these criticisms, the ascetics did temper their ideology of antifamilialism at times. For instance, Augustine inveighs against lust rather than family per se. Indeed, he warned virgins “not to presume that they are better than Sarah and Abraham” (376). Ascetics also praised the marriages of some parents – especially their own. The emphasis, again, is on moderation and sexual restraint rather than celibacy. And Augustine, too, was faced with criticism, notably from Julian of Eclanum. Clark claims that these voices upholding marriage, isolated as they were, “may well have reflected the views of the majority of ‘ordinary’ Christians” (378). If ascetic propaganda had limited success, Clark suggests that the aims of ascetic rhetoric may have been less to make “social norms or the law more rigorously ascetic” (379) and more to communicate what they believe God commanded.

In this article, Clark paints a complex and convincing picture of antifamilialism in early Christianity. On the one hand, ascetic antifamilial rhetoric convinced thousands of Christians to divert energy – and wealth – “from families and secular pursuits to religious institutions and charities” (380). Clark suggests that this shift benefitted women; from a feminist perspective, she claims, antifamilialism was a success. On the other hand, the Church fathers failed to bring about significant, swift change in law or societal norms. Indeed, Clark argues that most “ordinary” Christians remained unconvinced by antifamilialism. Yet this talk of success and failure is problematic. First of all, Clark does not convincingly show why a feminist perspective should be used to deem antifamilialism a success, and does little to show a real improvement in women’s lives. Additionally, Clark supports her analysis of “ordinary” Christians’ views only through the tangential evidence that they “continued to marry and reproduce” (378). Second, Clark herself recognizes that discussing “success” and “failure” suggests “there is some ‘reality’ … [that] we might be able to measure without ambiguity” (380). But literary sources – especially those written by educated men with financial interests at stake – are fundamentally ideological; as Clark says, “the literary remains are not a copy of some extraliterary domain of ‘the real’” (380). Clark’s recognition of this is heartening. Within this framework, she has certainly succeeded at her goal “to push and jab at these documents to make them yield up their ideological content” (380). What remains is to contextualize her findings and, crucially, to shore up the ramifications of the artifacts of a literary elite for ordinary men and women.

Brown, Amelia. “Psalmody and Socrates: Female Literacy in the Byzantine Empire.” In Questions of Gender in Byzantine Society, edited by Bronwen Neil and Lynda Garland, 57–76. Farnham: Ashgate, 2013.

In this paper, Brown investigates the presence and importance of literate women in the Byzantine Empire. She uses hagiography, biography, history, and fiction, among other sources, to illuminate the prevalence and influence of female literacy in the Greek-speaking world from the fourth to fifteenth century. Brown acknowledges the limitations of her literary sources, but argues that “there is enough information to perceive some radical changes in women’s literacy over the one thousand years of the Byzantine Empire” (59).

Brown follows a chronological approach in what follows. She begins from the fourth century, in which the Byzantine Empire was mostly a continuation of Roman and earlier Hellenistic culture and traditions. Boys and some girls learned the alphabet, words and sentences before eventually progressing to the works of Homer, Euripides, Menander, and Demosthenes – all part of the εγκύκλιος παιδεία (general education). Byzantine education combined this heritage with the trivium and quadrivium of the Latin West, along with a few Christian texts. Brown is particularly interested in how the rise of Christianity affected female education. On the one hand, Christianity emphasized the text and therefore encouraged literacy; on the other, some Christians rejected Classical texts as pagan. The Life of Macrina exemplifies the “ambivalent effects of Christianity on education” (60).

Christianity was important for expanding women’s access to literacy in a number of ways. For example, the Life of St Matrona describes the importance of the convent in women’s education. In Nisibis, the abbess apparently “read from the Scriptures to the assembled sisters, and to women of the community” (63). Nuns like Eulogia, Thomais, and Egeria are probably the most important female writers of late antiquity. Outside the church, women did read; Brown cites Hägg’s work which suggests that women read ancient Greek novels by Heliodorus and Xenophon. There were also some non-Christian female writers, such as Faltonia Betitia Proba, although they mostly wrote letters. Hypatia of Alexandria was notably well-educate, including in sciences and mathematics. But Brown cautions that letters “by” women may in fact have been dictated to scribes.

From the sixth to eighth centuries, Brown argues that education, including female literacy, suffered tremendously. Cities and their literate populations shrank, partly because of invasions, while the Iconoclasm and Justinian’s moves against pagans were quite devastating. Brown argues that the “low point in Byzantine literacy” (65) came at the beginning of the Iconoclasm and the height of Arab invasions. What education women did receive now used “the Bible and the Psalms as the basic teaching texts” (67).

Brown next turns to the “Macedonian Renaissance,” which began in the ninth century. The number of well-educated men and women increased significantly, partly because of the use of paper instead of papyrus, the end of Iconoclasm, and the invention of minuscule. As a result, there were a number of new texts both religious and secular. Theodosia, Thekla, and Kassia were all nuns who composed hymns. Kassia’s remain important until today. There were also some female saints from outside Constantinople who were literate, including Febronia (in Nisibis) and Elizabeth the Wonderworker. Women also learned to read and write for secular purposes; Brown mentions that some women participated in trades that require literacy, such as shop-keeping and book-copying. Michael Psellos describes in detail how he provided for the education of his daughter, Styliane, before she died at the age of nine. Even in this funeral oration, though, Psellos praises his daughter for spending an equal amount of time at the loom as at her letters.

Next Brown shifts to the Comnenian period, which includes the most famous Byzantine literate woman of them all: Anna Comnena. The number of women who could read and write, especially among the aristocracy, continued to grow. Brown points to detailed legal documents concerning women as indications that even non-Constantinopolitan women were often literate. Education beyond this level was less accessible, though. Even Anna Comnena had to study the classics in secret, because her parents “feared the moral effects of a classical education” (72). Nevertheless, she acquired enough knowledge to brag of in the Alexiad.

Finally, Brown turns to the period between the Fourth Crusade and the Fall of Constantinople. She uses typika of convents to indicate that many nuns were assumed to be literate. Indeed, some typika even provide for libraries in convents as well as the education of novices and even nuns’ daughters. Turning to other sources, Brown notes that Ibn Battuta and other travel writers recorded “large numbers of women in the retail trade” (74). This period also had increasing contact with the West. Some erotic literature, such as the Greek romance Livistros and Rodamni, were apparently written for female audiences and combined both Greek and Latin influences. Brown points to two upper-class women who are notable for their erudition: Theodora Raoulaina and Irene-Eulogia Choumnaina. Although most women remained illiterate, Brown points to these two Palaiologans as examples of the most educated Byzantine women – who, she suggests, “undoubtedly helped to spread Greek literacy along with the more famous men” (75).

Brown concludes with the simple observation that there were always fewer literate women than men in Byzantium, but that the numbers of both fluctuated with the size of the upper class. Nuns and Christianity also played important roles in the evolution of women’s literacy throughout the Byzantine Empire. Brown’s survey of the evidence seems fairly comprehensive and it is certainly interesting to gather the scattered records of individual literate women. However, there are quite a few statements that would have been worth exploring and arguing more strongly for. For example, is it true that women were part of the Greek exodus to Italy? If yes, how so? How did attitudes and social norms towards female literacy evolve throughout the period? Were women always marginalized to the same extent? Was there a conscious effort to avoid educating women, or was widespread illiteracy the inevitable result of Byzantine society? These and more questions would be fascinating to answer using Brown’s research as a solid foundation.

Bril, Alexander. “Plato and the Sympotic Form in the Symposium of St Methodius of Olympus.” Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 9, no. 2 (2006): 279–302.

In this article, Bril examines Methodius’ Symposium in light of the Platonic work it imitates. While Plato’s theme is eros, Methodius’ is the Christian counterpart: virginity (παρθενία). Bril argues that these pervasive formal similarities illustrate that Methodius’ only sympotic model was Plato. Bril asserts that Methodius “had little understanding of the symposion, and that what little he did grasp, he had imperfectly grasped from Plato” (281).

Bril begins by comparing Plato’s Symposium to the “real” symposion. Although Plato’s aims are primarily literary and philosophical, he does include many sympotic details – even minutiae like drinking rules, seating arrangements, and garlands. Nonetheless, he omits numerous elements and activities that appear in other symposia. Bril recognizes other characteristics of symposia that are present, though unacknowledged, in the Symposium – including the fact that “the male dominance of Athenian society informs the whole setting of the dialogue” (285). Indeed, Plato’s symposiasts are all aristocratic men (πλοὐσιοι) who can afford to hire not only flute-girls but also komoi. Furthermore, this environment encourages the intermingling of alcohol and lust, especially in the form of homosexual eros.

Next, Bril discusses Methodius’ use of the symposion. Methodius imitates Plato in his general “sobriety” and “restricting of entertainment to intellectual conversation” (291). Some of these characteristics are borrowed from Plato and adapted to the Christian context. For example, the hymn that was dedicated to Apollo in the Classical text is now sung “to the lord” (τῷ Κυρίῳ). Other changes were probably made because of Methodius’ “knowledge, or rather ignorance, of Attic convention” (293). For instance, Methodius sets his Symposium outside, under the shade of a plane tree in a garden. In reality, ancient symposia were conducted indoors (in the ἀνδρῶν) and at night, when there would be no need for shade. Yet other characteristics of symposia – including drinking customs, seating arrangements, washing, and unshoeing – were omitted for no apparent reason, according to Bril. Perhaps the most significant change Methodius makes is to transform an entirely male (and quite sexually charged) institution into a chaste, female gathering. Methodius’ virgins are educated, enjoy leisurely activities, and lead lives outside the home: in short, they “are completely out of place in a classical setting” (294). Unfortunately, Bril does not thoroughly probe the significance of Methodius’ choice to make the Symposium all female.

Bril ends by delivering a “verdict” on each of the texts. He praises Plato’s Symposium for its “remarkably perfect unity of form, content and technique” (298). His alterations, Bril argues, are always for the sake of broader philosophical and artistic aims. On the other hand, Bril is remarkably harsh on Methodius, whose “absolute failure” he deems “painfully obvious” as a result of Methodius’ “meagre literary talents” and “ignorance of genuine sympotic custom” (299). Bril particularly castigates Methodius’ ignorance with a remarkably potent metaphor: “not only is Methodius’ sympotic genre dead, but, because of his imperfect understanding of the symposion, the exhumed cadaver has missing bits, hence the resulting monstrosity” (301). Bril dismisses with little discussion other scholars’ more positive views of Methodius. In his final section, Bril turns to the question of why Methodius chose the sympotic form, especially given its strong associations with Platonic philosophy. Here, Bril is more open to other scholars’ opinions. He particularly praises the thesis of M. Benedetta Zorzi, who argued that Methodius in the Symposium attempts to synthesize Platonic eros and New Testament agape.[1]

I think that it would be fruitful to examine the work of other scholars, like Zorzi, who are more sympathetic to Methodius and less likely to lambast him for “grotesque incongruities and artistic infelicities” (302). Although many of Bril’s points are not inaccurate, they seem to be clouded by an overwhelming dislike of Methodius’ work. It is particularly illuminating to contrast Bril’s argument that Methodius simply neglects the sympotic form with König’s thesis that the seeming neglect is really a self-conscious, purposeful transformation to suit Methodius’ artistic and philosophical aims.

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[1] M. Benedetta Zorzi, “The Use of the Terms Ἁγνεία, Παρθενία, Σωφροσύνη, and Ἐγκράτεια in the ‘Symposium’ of Methodius of Olympus,” Vigiliae Christianae 63, no. 2 (2009): 138–68, http://www.jstor.org/stable/20474911. The work Bril cites (in Italian) is M. Benedetta Zorzi, “Castità e generazione nel bello. L’eros nel Simposio di Metodio d’Olimpio,” Reportata: Passato e presente della teologia, September 1, 2003, https://mondodomani.org/reportata/zorzi02.htm.

Barry, Jennifer. “Diagnosing Heresy: Ps.-Martyrius’s Funerary Speech for John Chrysostom.” Journal of Early Christian Studies 24, no. 3 (2016): 395–418.

In this article, Barry examines the Funerary Speech for John Chrysostom by Pseudo-Martyrius. She argues that Ps.-Martyrius uses medical language to make the case that John is not a heretic but rather a “symbol of Christian orthodoxy” (395). Specifically, Ps.-Martyrius compares John with the Empress Eudoxia to point out that her suffering is the result of heresy while John’s is the symptom of righteous suffering. Barry points to the author’s treatment of the community of lepers in Constantinople as further evidence that he (or she) prioritizes accurate diagnosis as a means to distinguish righteousness from heresy.

According to Barry, the Funeral Speech was written by an anonymous author soon after John’s death in 407 CE. John had been exiled due to his connections with Arianism, but his reputation had fully recovered by 438 CE. In Barry’s analysis, this “discursive politics” points to “a larger dilemma: episcopal exile was not always a clear indicator of orthodoxy” (398). In this context, Ps.-Martyrius works hard to shore up John’s reputation. One of the techniques he uses is to connect John to Job, whose suffering was also misunderstood by those around him. Ps.-Martyrius also ensures that the motives and methods of John’s enemies are made clear. These were chiefly Theophilus of Alexandria and also the Empress Eudoxia.

Barry turns next to examine Ps.-Martyrius’s use of an “imperial literary foil” (400). According to T. D. Barnes, Eudoxia in the Funeral Speech fits the standard template of a ruler who persecutes Christians, falls ill and, in pain, acknowledges error before finally dying. Barnes cites Antiochus IV and Herod Agrippa as other examples of this literary schema. Barry also points to Lactantius’ text On the Death of Persecuting Emperors, which follows the same pattern. Barry notes that these “retributive schemas and vivid depictions of human suffering … surface in heresiological texts as well” (401).

Eudoxia is singled out through use of this framework. Barry notes that Ps.-Martyrius subverts the schema by making his object a woman. Barry suggests that the author made the choice to single out Eudoxia because “her body contains a more grievous error” (404). To elaborate on this, Barry points to a key passage in the Funeral Speech that links John’s exile to Eudoxia’s miscarriage. Ps.-Martyrius explicitly makes the target of God’s anger Eudoxia’s body – not the emperor’s and not the bishop Theophilus’s. Furthermore, the author emphasizes this point by quoting Genesis 3:16 – the curse of Eve. Other typological links are also established with, for example, Jezebel. The result of Eudoxia’s miscarriage is that the evil within the empress is killed; immediately after, she calls for John to return from exile. But John’s return is temporary. Ps.-Martyrius describes how Eudoxia called for John’s exile a second time. As he narrates, in response “another arrow of the Lord again hit the woman” which released a “painful and many-headed illness” (νόσημα πολυκέφαλος) (406). What follows is a detailed, gory description of Eudoxia’s suffering – but notably without any gynecological ailments. Barry argues that Ps.-Martyrius “intentionally distances Eudoxia from her sex and queers her gender” to ensure that she is placed “firmly within the retributive tradition” (408). In case there are any lingering doubts as to the cause of Eudoxia’s suffering, Ps.-Martyrius writes that she asks “Why do you attack me, John?”

The description of Eudoxia’s illness as “many-headed” is a deliberate reference to the legend of Hercules and the Lernean Hydra. Eudoxia, in Ps.-Martyrius’ view, spews many-headed lies, including heresy, the “many-shaped monstrosity” (410, referencing a contemporary’s description). The only solution is the intervention of the divine. The result is a second miscarriage. Rather than repenting, Eudoxia calls John’s rival to her bedside and receives communion. Through Ps.-Martyrius’s narration, we then “hear her vomit out both soul and Eucharist, and we smell the stench emanating from her belabored breaths and the decaying bodies” (411). In the author’s view, this disease proves that Eudoxia harbors “nothing short of a war against the Church” (411). But it is only through divine intervention that we are able to perceive the contagious, corrupting influence of Eudoxia’s many-headed illness and many-shaped lies.

Barry also argues that Ps.-Martyrius is deeply concerned with proper diagnosis. To further demonstrate this point, she examines the medical language used to describe John’s charitable works with Constantinopolitan lepers. John was drawn to those who had what Ps.-Martyrius calls “the sacred disease” (413). This illness, commonly identified as epilepsy, had no clear cause. The author is very concerned with this; in true Hippocratic fashion, he sees that “to understand when a disease is from natural causes and when it is from the divine is to affirm one’s credibility as a true physician” (415). Ps.-Martyrius stresses the contagious nature of the sacred disease as well as its alienating properties. Because of its contagiousness, the sacred disease was seen as a “plague on society” (415) whose best treatment was ostracism. John fights against this stigma, as did many other Christian writers. Ps.-Martyrius consciously connects these church fathers, emphasizing that it is John’s righteousness that allowed him to recognize the true nature of the “sacred disease.” John’s response to the ostracism of lepers is to build a hospital for them in the heart of the community. But his neighbors protested and even filed suit. Ps.-Martyrius narrates that these opponents of John were “lamely launch[ing] arrows into the heavens” (417). Like Eudoxia, they will one day feel the – much deadlier – arrows of the divine.

In conclusion, Barry re-emphasizes that Ps.-Martyrius places great value on accurate diagnosis. Only by developing a “discerning eye” (418) can one distinguish the suffering caused by heresy from that which proves righteousness. To develop this distinction, the author relies on the suffering of two “very public and very visible bodies” (418): the Empress Eudoxia and the lepers of Constantinople. By taking a closer (and rather unpleasant) look, we readers will be able to distinguish this unrighteous suffering from the pains of the martyr John Chrysostom. Throughout this article, Barry makes her argument thoroughly and very clearly. She provides a persuasive analysis of a neglected source that points out many fascinating facets and avenues for further exploration.

Barrett, Richard. “Byzantine Chant, Authenticity and Identity: Musicological Historiography through the Eyes of Folklore.” Greek Orthodox Theological Review 55, no. 1–4 (2010): 181–98.

In this paper, Barrett contributes to the discussion of Byzantine music and its relationships with identity, nationalism, and politics. He approaches the subject of Byzantine chant from the perspective of ethnomusicology, in an attempt to investigate the meaning of “authenticity.”

Barrett begins by citing John Finley, who in an address to the Antiochian Orthodox Archdiocese of North America expressed concern that “ancient” Orthodox music is in fact remarkably modern. Finley argued that Byzantine music should be altered and modernized to suit American tastes. After all, if the received tradition is not really authentic why should further changes be problematic? In contrast to this line of thought, Barrett also presents the views of Alexander Lingas, who asserted that Byzantine music is “part of a continuous tradition reaching back into the Middle Ages” (184, citing Lingas 140). Barrett attempts to illuminate this historiographical disconnect by turning to the Monumenta Musicae Byzantinae (MMB), a Western organization founded to transcribe Byzantine chant into Western notation. In so doing, they omitted many elements that were integral to Greek singing but were not notated. Yet another musicologist, a Greek named Simon Karas, argued these unwritten conventions are the “very elements that made [the received tradition] authentic” (186). In fact, he claimed that they are the “authentically Greek” elements, which the Arabs, Turks, and Persians drew on in their musical traditions.

Barrett next analyzes these various historiographies. He argues that nationalist motives are inextricable from the creation of these narratives. The narrative Karas presents is clearly nationalistic, in that he aligns Byzantine and Hellenic identity through music while presenting this common music as “original” and “authentic.” But even the work of the Monumenta Musicae Byzantinae is “but another path up the same mountain” (188). By claiming that Greek music is “tainted” by Ottoman and other foreign influences, they undermine the legitimacy of Karas’ claim. Although this view may not be precisely nationalistic, it is certainly part of the discourse of nationalism.

Barrett argues that another tension also plays a key role in historiography: the divide between “real scholars” and “amateurs.” There may be legitimate concerns about verifiability and trustworthiness, but many concerns over the “scholarliness” of a work manifests as condescension. For instance, the MMB dismissed much of Karas’ work because it was “amateur” and he was too “close” to his subject. In this way, the MMB could present its “quest” for “original purity” as a moral matter: they are rescuing the sullied and defaced received tradition. These discourses influence and are influenced by institutions like the MMB and the Greek Orthodox Church.

Barrett briefly discusses current scholarship. He says that musicologists working on medieval vocal technique now see it as “decidedly different from that of later centuries” (191). In fact, this tradition seems to have its origins in Roman singing – a tradition that might also have been the source of Byzantine chant. Another view, drawn from an ethnography of singing in the Estonian Orthodox Church, is that what matters is not “real” authenticity but the perception thereof. Even if nobody can say for certain what the “real” status of Byzantine music is, the very idea that it is authentic deeply shapes notions of identity, religion, and nationalism.

Returning to Finley, Barrett discusses what authenticity means for him – an Orthodox Christian, to be sure, but an Anglophone American one. Barrett notes again that the “real” authenticity is not important. What matters is that “the received tradition of ψαλμωδία does not mesh with Finley’s American identity, and therefore is not authentic to his own experience” (193). In my opinion, this is the best conclusion to draw from the conflicting narratives of “authentic Byzantine music” amassed over the years: not to get caught up in musical details, but to examine the ways people use debates over these musical details. As Barrett puts it in his conclusion, discussing what authenticity meant (and still means) “will provide more satisfying answers to how authenticity is represented in quality of lived experience than arguments over whether microtonal melismatic monophony is authentically Byzantine enough, whatever authentic actually means and whatever Byzantine actually means” (194).