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Krawiec, Rebecca. “‘From the Womb of the Church’: Monastic Families.” Journal of Early Christian Studies 11, no. 3 (September 11, 2003): 283–307.

In this article, Krawiec analyzes four monastic texts to argue that an attitude of “profamilialism” existed alongside the familiar view of antifamilialism. These ideologies are based on the link between spiritual and “fleshly” families in late antique Christianity. While Krawiec recognizes that ascetics largely rejected biological family bonds, she is interested in how spiritual communities – especially monasteries – negotiated biological families within their institutional contexts.

Krawiec begins by offering a background on the evolution of Roman notions of family in late antique Christianity. First, she notes that there is a significant amount of continuity; even “Christian” values like “requiring sexual fidelity from husbands” have Roman antecedents (284). Yet asceticism also contributed to change in family discourse, as Elizabeth Clark detailed in “Antifamilial Tendencies in Ancient Christianity.” As Krawiec sees it, the core of this shift is the divide between “fleshly families and spiritual communities” (285). Ascetics did not argue against the family per se, but they did emphasize the spiritual family over the biological; late antique Christianity was less “antifamilial” than it was “antiflesh.” In Krawiec’s words, ascetic Christianity absorbed “all that was valuable and transcendent about the family” and left the fleshly family “to wallow in its valueless corporeality” (285).

In this article, Krawiec nuances this thesis by examining the roles of biological families in the institutional context of monasticism. Krawiec argues that the inclusion of biological family members within the spiritual family of Christianity created rich, binding, eternal ties that were praised by even the most antifamilial ascetics. The first text Krawiec uses to illustrate this is Augustine’s letter to Laetus. Krawiec acknowledges that the letter appears to be a typical example of ascetic antifamiliasm. Like many ascetics, Augustine presents the biological family as a hurdle that must be overcome “in order to follow the higher devotion to God” (289). Yet Krawiec’s analysis demonstrates that Augustine fundamentally redefines rather than rejects the family. For instance, Augustine acknowledges that Laetus still has a duty to provide financially for his biological family. This shows that although Laetus’ loyalty is owed to his spiritual family, not all his biological relations can be rejected. More significant is how Augustine discusses Jesus’ relationship with his mother. In Krawiec’s reading, Augustine believes that Jesus can claim Mary as his mother not because she happened to give birth to him but because “she fits his definition of spiritual family relationships” (291). Mary does God’s will by not following the example of Eve but rather following God. This is why Jesus can claim Mary as his mother. On the other hand, Laetus must reject his mother. But the reason for this renunciation is not because of their biological relationship, but because Laetus’ mother chose Eve as her role model. A mother that follows the correct spiritual path can reaffirm her biological ties and create a spiritual family relationship; a mother that goes astray must be renounced.

Krawiec next turns to Augustine’s letter to Ecdicia. His advice to her is quite different from Augustine’s advice to Laetus. In fact, Augustine deems Ecdicia’s asceticism a sin because it led her husband into sin. Krawiec ascribes these different approaches to asceticism to the difference in familial obligations between a son and his mother and a wife and her husband. Each of these bonds is due to the model of Mary, even though the responsibilities entailed vary greatly. Augustine admonishes Ecdicia to follow Mary’s example in remaining submissive to her husband (Joseph) despite “no longer mixing in carnal intercourse [carnali consortio]” (293, quoting Augustine ep. 262.1). When Ecdicia adopts a principle of sexual abstinence – asceticism – she fails in her “specific role as a wife” (293). Augustine sees intercourse as a debt that spouses owe each other, even when one party chooses celibacy. This debt continues to have power, even within asceticism. As with Laetus, choosing to be an ascetic does not give one license to neglect financial obligations to family members – even when these financial obligations include one’s body.

As these letters indicate, ascetic vows and biological families could coexist – but only as long as “family members placed their spiritual relationship above their biological one” (295). Krawiec notes that Philip Rousseau found this same “transformation of familial bonds in the context of Egyptian communal monasticism” (295). Another prominent example of the coexistence of spiritual and fleshly bonds is the relationship between Gregory of Nyssa and his sister Macrina. Gregory’s theology “celebrates the materiality of the logos, the Word made flesh” (297, quoting Derek Krueger). Therefore, when Gregory writes a hagiography of Macrina he understands and prioritizes biological relationships. These include both Gregory’s own relationship to his sister and Macrina’s “noble exchange” (298, in Gregory’s words) with her mother. This fellowship (κοινωνίαν) is not opposed to spiritual devotion; rather, it transcends “nature” (φύσις) to support the worship of God. In all of Macrina’s relationships, the spiritual and the fleshly “work in tandem rather than opposition” (301).

Finally, Krawiec turns to the Egyptian monastic leader Shenoute. The sermon she analyzes is directed to both monks and laity, each with their own complex familial relationships. Krawiec argues that Shenoute’s “family discourse” is “remarkably consistent” (303). In both contexts, this discourse includes advocating “the correct use of corporal punishment” as part of “strong leadership” and the “proper definition” of different roles (304). Only by making these principles cornerstones of the family and of the monastic community will “true Christian sanctity” be achieved. If the Christian ideals are followed as Shenoute stipulates them, “the biological family can be as sacred as the monastic life itself, connecting all Christians rather than separating them” (305). What happens through Shenoute’s antifamilialism is not the abandonment of biological family but a discursive transformation that allows for the exploration and reconciliation of tensions within Christianity.

Throughout this article, Krawiec convincingly demonstrates that a profamilial attitude played a central role in ascetic familial discourse. Rather than abandoning the biological family, antifamilalism argues that the fleshly must be harmonized with the spiritual to “create a vision of a united Christian family” (306). In her conclusion, Krawiec gestures towards the power of this discourse. She argues that the integration of the fleshly family and the spiritual “family” creates a “myth of the ascetic’s ability to attain near perfection by living out the injunction of Luke 14.26”[1] (306). Within this myth, the biological family is not erased. Instead, the fleshly family’s “brief appearance helps to facilitate the working of the illusion” (306, quoting James Goehring). This is a powerful conclusion (although all too briefly treated) that relates the sources Krawiec treats at length to a convincing “master narrative” of antifamilialism.

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[1] KJV: If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple. NTG: εἴ τις ἔρχεται πρός με καὶ οὐ μισεῖ τὸν πατέρα ἑαυτοῦ καὶ τὴν μητέρα καὶ τὴν γυναῖκα καὶ τὰ τέκνα καὶ τοὺς ἀδελφοὺς καὶ τὰς ἀδελφὰς ἔτι τε καὶ τὴν ψυχὴν ἑαυτοῦ, οὐ δύναται εἶναί μου μαθητής.

Krawiec, Rebecca. “The Memory of Melania.” In Melania: Early Christianity through the Life of One Family, edited by Catherine Chin and Caroline Schroeder, 130–147. Oakland: University of California Press, 2017.

In this chapter, Krawiec analyses Palladius’ Lausiac History to argue that Melania “is a transgressive figure in terms both of gender and of sexuality, most significantly because of her relationship to monastic memory” (131). In particular, Krawiec uses the category (or “noncategory”) of “queer” to understand Melania’s position and sexual status. Krawiec sees her status as an ascetic woman as a challenge to normative female sexuality – the same status that allows her to be an influential female voice even among men. Furthermore, the multiple roles Melania plays also contest and complicate the social memory of gender.

Krawiec begins by presenting her view of the Lausiac History as an artifact of “collective monastic memory” (132) that is meant to remind readers of important virtues. This monastic memory is cohesive at least in part, Krawiec argues, because it is primarily male. Even memories of women come from reports by men, often resulting in a view of women’s practice in men’s terms. For example, Palladius says that he attempts to “commemorate in this book the manly women to whom God granted struggles equal to those of men so that no one can plead as an excuse that women are too weak to practice virtue successfully” (133, citing Palladius 41.1).

However, Melania the Elder does not fit this pattern. Krawiec argues that rather than being gendered – masculinized – her memory is queered. An interesting example of this comes in the story of Alexandra, who leaves the city to entomb herself and refuses to meet face-to-face with any person. Melania narrates her encounter with Alexandra, through which she found out that Alexandra had hidden herself because her body had caused male heterosexual desire. What is interesting is that Melania “has a memory voice that serves in place of the male gaze” (134), indicating to the readers Alexandra’s desirability. Melania queers gender and sexuality because desire, even male heterosexual desire, has to be experienced through Melania’s gaze. Melania is termed he anthropos of God, a label that lets her function as both an object and subject of memory. For example, she is explicitly authorized to record the memory of Pambo, a male monk – ho anthropos of God. Melania’s memory is authoritative because she is queered through it.

Not only are Melania’s memories queered, but memory of Melania also “becomes a genderqueered memorial” (136). In creating this form of memory, Palladius promotes Origenist monasticism over Jerome’s ideology. To demonstrate this, Krawiec contrasts the Lausiac History with Jerome’s account of Marcella. Marcella, too, has authority – in her case as a teacher. But Jerome shows that “she teaches, but as a woman” (137); her voice does not contain the kind of agency that could “emasculate” the men she teaches. The strength of Jerome’s account of Marcella comes precisely from her “gender-fixity,” and so his account reinforces gender norms. In contrast, Melania teaches in her own words even to those of the highest rank. On the one hand, her roles as a scriptural interpreter, a “monastic abba,” and even an “orator to the Senate” (138) carry clear male connotations. On the other hand, Palladius also refers to Melania as a loving mother and concerned grandmother, clearly establishing her in female gender roles. Even outside the monastic setting, in the memory of Melania “gender has a distinctly different role than in Jerome” (138).

In this chapter, Krawiec crafts an excellent (and succinct) analysis of Melania’s gender in the Lausiac History. Her use of “queerness,” as suggested by Virginia Burrus and Amy Hollywood, is convincing and novel. At the same time, her argument is supported by many detailed analysesGenderqueer memory should provoke significant discussion in any analysis of late antique female asceticism.

König, Jason. “Sympotic Dialogue in the First to Fifth Centuries CE.” In The End of Dialogue in Antiquity, edited by Simon Goldhill. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008.

In this chapter, König explores the genre of sympotic writing in late antiquity. With the exception of Methodius’ Symposium, König finds few such texts in Christian writing from the first to fifth centuries CE. In what follows, he explores the neglect of sympotic forms within late-antique literature. König attempts to demonstrate that Christian literature does engage with sympotic dialogue, but in so doing Christian writers self-consciously reshape it in distinct ways.

König begins by asking what features of symposia made them so attractive to Greek writers under Roman rule. His answer is that the symposium, with its Hellenic, elite, philosophical associations, is a key “space for performing Greekness” (87). At the same time, the emphasis on dialogue within symposia makes them spaces for the “active treatment of inherited knowledge” (88): in the symposium, debate is based on both intricate knowledge of the past and novel ideas in the present. Finally, the symposium also draws in the reader because it is based on the premise that every listener – reader and symposiast alike – “must be ready with his or her own addition to the string of alternative explanations on offer” (90). Indeed, this participatory element means that we as readers can imagine that we are literally in dialogue with the writings of the past. This simultaneous dialogic engagement and blurring of boundaries makes the sympotic form particularly potent. König discusses Bakhtin’s distinction between heteroglossic and dialogic forms to clarify why the effect of sympotic dialogues is so powerful. Athenaeus, the great writer in the sympotic genre, thought of every voice as “a compound of previous utterances and associations” (94). This effect, foreshadowing Bakhtin, is made clear by the framing of Athenaeus’ writings as dialogues. In other words, the symposium form makes the texts active and dialogic, in the Bakhtinian sense.

König next uses these traits of the sympotic form to discuss the absence of symposia from Christian writing. One suggestion he makes is that the “emphasis on convivial openness and ingenuity, the sympotic dislike of authoritative statement … is not a comfortable one for Christian writers” (95). To examine this and other suggestions, König treats the dialogues of Augustine. Augustine pointedly avoids linking philosophical conversation with drinking and evening settings. He also prefers to describe writing and reading over transcribing oral debate. Augustine even suggests that the audience would not benefit from seeing a “public quarrel between the interlocutors” (97). König suggests that this wariness of “speculative and playful speech” might explain “Christian neglect of the sympotic genre more generally” (97). In addition, König suggests that associations with intoxication and seduction conflicts with Christian attitudes towards “the pleasures of eating and drinking” (98). Furthermore, the elitism of symposia clashes with inclusive Christian attitudes. To resolve this conflict in his Symposium, Methodius replaces “membership of a specific sympotic community” with “attendance at the universal … banquet of the Christian church” (98).

The first example König gives is Book 2 of Clement’s Paidagogus. In this text, Clement treats sympotic themes like “the question of how to behave at dinner” and “proper attitudes to food” (100), but he avoids use of the sympotic form. Instead, Clement gives the appearance that all sources agree with him. For example, he presents the readers with his Christian sources by acting as “a mouthpiece for their coherent and consistent instruction” (101). Clement is not always successful in maintaining this appearance, but he certainly tries hard to suppress the implications of the sympotic form. As König previously demonstrated, the dialogic voice of texts by non-Christian writers like Athenaeus emerges precisely because of the sympotic form. On the other hand, the dialogic voice of Clement’s text emerges despite avoiding the sympotic form. In sum, König’s examination of Augustine demonstrated that Christian writers are uncomfortable with the indeterminacy of symposia, while reading Clement showed that they also tried hard to avoid the many-voicedness of sympotic speech.

Finally, König turns to Methodius’ Symposium. He argues that this work is self-consciously dialogic: it includes a range of Christian views on “the traditionally sympotic subject of desire,” expressed “in Plutarchan fashion us[ing] the language of improvisation or contribution” (103). Methodius reshapes the agonistic traditions of symposia by incorporating language of competition, including wrestling, even while mimicking the language of Plato’s Symposium closely. Methodius redirects the language of agonism to emphasize the Christian ideal whereby “the true struggle is against oneself … with virginity, and the nearness to God it provides, as the prize” (106). In König’s analysis, this repurposing of sympotic dialogue signals that Methodius is not simply neglecting sympotic dialogue, but is consciously exploring the form and signaling how and why he differs in approach.

The last text König analyzes is Macrobius’ Saturnalia. Macrobius is generally closer to his Greco-Roman precedents than Methodius. Like Plato, Macrobius celebrates local identity; the Saturnalia were a distinct part of Roman religious and literary heritage. But König argues that Macrobius is also “highly self-conscious about his engagement with and reshaping of sympotic tradition” (107) in ways that are shared with Methodius. For instance, Macrobius too is wary of argument, uncertainty, and inventiveness. In his analysis of the Saturnalia, König draws on the work of Robert Kaster. In this view, Methodius couches the obligation to maintain harmony in moral language – with no place for competition or for humor. In Kaster’s words, “the only man who smiles in the Saturnalia is the expert” (108). To resolve conflict, Methodius uses a “brutality which far surpasses the recurrent atmosphere of gentle mockery in Plutarch’s Sympotic Questions” (108). König further argues that this reshaping of traditional sympotic forms is self-conscious and clearly signaled to Methodius’ audience. For example, Macrobius translates many passages from Plutarch’s Sympotic Questions very closely but still avoids “the typical Plutarchan preference for providing several different explanations” (110). Methodius even satirizes portions of the Sympotic Questions, discussing the same questions but mocking the “garrulousness” of the Greek approach. Like Methodius, Macrobius redirects the idea of dialogue to justify a more harmonious, Christian way of understanding their world.

König ends by pointing to the many omissions he has made and directions to further explore the connections between Christian writing and the sympotic form. Furthermore, he stresses that “we should be wary of generalizing too quickly and too simplistically about Christian and late-antique disinterest in dialogue” (113). With respect to Macrobius and Methodius, König’s main argument is that although they seem to be neglecting sympotic forms what they are really doing is “engaging with those traditions intricately, reshaping them for their own new contexts and new uses” (113).

Hinterberger, Martin. “Emotions in Byzantium.” In A Companion to Byzantium, edited by Liz James, 123–34. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010.

Note: For some quotations in this paper, I was unable to identify the page number because the top of the page was cut off in scanning.

Hinterberger notes that Byzantinists have paid little attention to emotions, despite their presence throughout Byzantine texts – especially in historiography. Hinterberger argues that if we look carefully we will find in Byzantine sources emotions that no longer exist or are far less important in modern society – and vice versa. He underlines this point by noting that all emotions differ depending on their social and historical context. Our objective must therefore not be to capture timeless truths but rather to identify the historical dimension and social function of emotions.

Hinterberger surveys next the kinds of texts that can “provide some access to the world of Byzantine emotions” (125). He notes that art can be a valuable source, but is prone to misinterpretation and presentism; for example, tears in Byzantium could indicate both sadness and anger. Partly because of this potential for misunderstanding, Hinterberger says that he will only use textual evidence in this article. These texts are diverse, but often include some description of the self – for example, autobiographies, diaries, and letters. Public statements that regulate emotional expression are also important, but Hinterberger (following Stearns’ emotionology) believes that they can only indicate emotional conventions. Religious writing is extremely important and can fall in both categories: Symeon the New Theologian describes his emotional relationship with God quite vividly, while sermons and catechisms are generally normative documents. Hinterberger asserts that the most descriptive statements about emotions are in historiography and hagiography. That being said, Hinterberger also says that “the theoretical engagement with emotions takes place primarily in context of theology” (126). This is particularly evident in the writings of Church fathers, including the fourth-century treatise by Ephrem entitled On Virtues and Vices.[1]

Hinterberger next turns to Byzantine terminology. The closest equivalent to “emotion,” he says, is pathos (πάθος). This word has several interesting characteristics. First, it is derived from the verb paschein (πάσχειν), which implies that a pathos is something that happens to someone. This includes the sense of “that which befalls the soul,” or what we would call a passion. Hinterberger notes that the word’s connotations are mostly negative and encompass both emotions and impulses like hunger, lust, and rudeness. The passions were seen as “typically human,” so God was described as apathes. Notably, the angels were understood as susceptible to passions – for example, Lucifer’s downfall was due to pride and envy – while Christ was seen as assuming some of the passions in his incarnation. Some authors mentioned positive and negative manifestations of the passions. For example, Abbas Isaias and Theodoret of Cyrrhus noted that zelos (eagerness) could be “directed toward the acquisition of virtues” (127) but could also become phthonos (envy) if misdirected. Other authors disagreed, pointing to the fact that God is passionless and that humans were made in God’s image to conclude that pathe could not have been part of human nature. This theological view was complemented by a philosophical conception of emotions rooted in Platonism and Stoicism. In this view, the soul has three components: the reasonable, the spiritual, and the covetous (logikon, thumikon, and epithumetikon). Each of these parts was located in a different part of the body and tasked with a distinct function. They were also each identified with different emotions. The theology of pathe developed into an understanding that “apatheia, passionlessness, was the condition for the view of God” (128). Indeed, the passions were seen as tools of the Satan and identified with demons (Evagrios used the words “thought,” “demon,” and “passion” interchangeably). This negative conception of passions filtered into hagiography. Monks were often described in terms of their fight against passions. Saints often struggled against passions or against the actions of people driven by passions. Indeed, Hinterberger argues that “the monastic-ascetic ideal shaped the Byzantine world … and is paralleled by a generally negative image of emotions” (129). There were exceptions – Alexios Komnenos was described as torn between passion for his mother and for combat – but by and large Hinterberger describes hagiography and theology as having very negative attitudes towards pathe.

Finally, Hinterberger examines a number of emotions in detail. First is penthos (mourning), which was epitomized by the “special mourning cult” developed in Byzantine monasticism. The monks “shed tears over their sins and those of mankind” (130) which were said to cleanse the soul. Tears were also used to demonstrate contrition – for example, by Leo VI on the occasion of his fourth marriage.

Envy was also associated with sorrow, though sorrow for the well-being of others. Many examples of envy are drawn from those who the emperor favored above their peers. Envy was associated with the devil because of the fall of man, and so envious humans were considered to be the devil’s tools. Hinterberger traces the Byzantine emphasis on envy to the “pre-Christian perceptions of a superhuman evil power” (130) but also to the strict hierarchy of the army and the civil service. This had the effect of downplaying jealousy, especially that between spouses or siblings.

The last emotion Hinterberger examines is anger (thumos) or wrath (orge). Although Byzantine theology recognized God as passionless (apathes), it did not ignore the Old Testament’s prominent discussion of the wrath of God (theomenia).[2] In fact, this term was later used to refer to any natural disaster. The wrath of emperors was also considered devastating. Anger was often caused by insult and rudeness. This was an easy violation to make in the context of the imperial court’s strict hierarchy.

To conclude, Hinterberger sketches some general characteristics of Byzantine emotions. He argues that they were intertwined with Byzantine Christianity and values. These aspects, he says, are particularly evident in cases where emotions differ significantly from today. Hinterberger’s analysis of emotions in Byzantium is comprehensive and combines perceptive treatment of a variety of sources. Although his observations are astute, his conclusions are rather lackluster. As it stands, this article mostly consists of summaries and descriptions of various sources. The next step is to consider questions Hinterberger doesn’t ask: Whose emotions are these texts describing? How can non-literary sources complicate this picture? What influences can we trace from the cultures Byzantium interacted with and traced its heritage to? There are many directions that this scholarship can and should lead to.

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[1] Ephraem Syrus, “Sermo de Virtutibus et Vitiis,” in Sancti Patris Nostri Ephraem Opera Omnia, ed. and trans. Konstantinos G. Phrantzoles, vol. 1, 6 vols. (Thessalonica: To Perivoli tis Panagias, 1988), 37–73, http://stephanus.tlg.uci.edu/Iris/Cite?4138:001:0. See also http://www.toperivoli.gr/pages/patr.htm.

[2] Note that θεομηνία has as its second word not θυμός or οργή but rather the Homeric μήνις.

Hahn, Johannes. “The Veneration of the Maccabean Brothers in Fourth Century Antioch: Religious Competition, Martyrdom, and Innovation.” In Dying for the Faith, Killing for the Faith, edited by Gabriela Signori, 79–104. Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2012.

In this article, Hahn discusses the various sources of the Maccabean books. He argues that the complex interweaving of narratives and source texts “contributed decisively” both to the story’s “extraordinary influence” and to its “tremendous potential for re-interpretation” (79). To support this thesis, Hahn focuses on the veneration of the Maccabees in fourth-century Antioch. By sketching a sociopolitical context characterized by religious diversity and competition, he demonstrates that the Maccabean tradition is characterized by “usurpation and re-interpretation.”

This “usurpation” takes three forms, in Hahn’s analysis. First, the seven brothers and their mothers are designated as Maccabees despite no link to the actual dynasty. Second, the account of this family’s martyrdom is a “literary usurpation” because the source for 2 Maccabees, a work by Jason of Cyrene, did not contain this episode. Third, the story of the Maccabean martyrs is always placed in the context of Jerusalem at the time of the Maccabean revolt, even though veneration of the martyrs is quite suddenly found in Antioch in the fourth century CE.

It is in this context (late Antique Syria) that what Hahn calls “an astonishing, indeed unique development” (85) occurs: the veneration by Christians of Antioch of “genuinely Jewish martyrs” – the Maccabean brothers. Hahn sees this transformation as “a remarkable bridge between Judaism and Hellenism” (81). First of all, the story of the Maccabean martyrs was part of the Diaspora. Christianity “ennobled” this story by transferring the name of the book in which it is found (itself taken from the name of a Jewish dynasty) to the brothers themselves. In the form the martyrology takes in 4 Maccabees, the story becomes “philosophical;” in Hahn’s analysis, it “underlines the rule of reason over both the affects and the strengths of Jewish faith” (81). This episode thus links Judaism with Christianity via Greek philosophy.

The link between “representatives of Jewish salvation history” and “Christian ideas of physical torment, mortal danger, and miraculous, divinely inspired deliverance” (86) has a long history. By integrating Old Testament proto-martyrs into the Christian tradition – especially as motifs in Early Christian art – Christians reaffirmed their status as the only people chosen by God. To see how this broader trend manifests itself in Antioch, Hahn provides a general background of the city. As a multiethnic, prosperous city, Antioch had “a wide range of religious groups” (88). After a damaging schism in the local church, the Jews of Antioch strongly asserted their religious identities in the public sphere. This resulted in “Judaizing tendencies … in the majority of Antioch’s Christian populace, challenging the Church’s identity and doctrine” (89). It is in this context that the cult of the Maccabean brothers spread from Jews to Christians. Hahn argues that the cult was “neutralized through appropriation and theological reinterpretation” (91). For example, the Church took control of the site associated with veneration of the brothers and built a basilica there.

Hahn demonstrates that Antioch in the fourth century CE was a site of “open religious competition” (101). In this struggle between the Church (and its factions), the Jews, and the Roman state, among other actors, the veneration of Maccabean martyrs by multiple groups had “intra-urban cohesive potential” (101). By taking control of the shrine, the Antiochian church transformed the Jewish brothers into “true proto-martyrs of Christian faith” (104). Hahn makes this much explicit; however, the structure of his chapter is unclear and this obscures his arguments. For example, there are no headings to indicate when one section transitions to the next and no introduction to lay out the various points he is making. Instead, Hahn uses continuous prose to provide an overview of the religious situation in Antioch and the sources of the Maccabean story. Unfortunately, the various elements do not cohere into a clear meta-narrative. Instead, Hahn ends with a fairly weak thesis: that the Antiochian church usurped the story of the Maccabean brothers in a context of intense religious competition. Hahn’s argument would be more convincing if he detailed how and why this transformation occurred.

Hackett, Rosalind. “Sound, Music, and the Study of Religion.” Temenos 48, no. 1 (2012): 11–27.

In this article, Hackett discusses “historical biases and methodological challenges” (11) in studying religion and sound/music. She notes that her perspective is rooted in the turn to materiality and lived religion. By engaging in the literature, Hackett hopes to identify topics that are crucial to further development of this field of study.

Hackett recognizes that modernity is based on the visual rather than the aural sense. She acknowledges the value of disciplines such as ethnomusicology, cultural anthropology, and some types of history in re-emphasizing the importance of sound and music. In particular, these disciplines have recognized that sound can take many forms – from Western liturgical music to Muslim recitation and the many cultures that emphasize drums and rhythm.

That being said, Hackett sees a number of challenges in this new turn towards sound. Firstly, sound is difficult to capture and (especially in traditional publications) transmit. In addition, many forms of music have highly developed technical requirements to fully understand and participate in them. These are certainly not insurmountable obstacles, but they do require commitment and sensitivity from the scholar.

Hackett next provides examples of research that she finds particularly successful. First is Steve Feld, who made sound recordings in Papua New Guinea and developed the concept of “‘acoustemology,’ a sonic way of knowing place” (14). Another example is given by Charles Hirschkind, who investigated the influence of recorded religious music and sermons on moral attitudes in Cairo. Guy Beck criticized traditional scholarship for underestimating the importance of sound to Hindu theology. He had the advantage of writing as an “insider” because of his extensive training in Indian classical music.

Hackett attempts to categorize these investigations in a few important areas. For instance, she names “Linking Sounds and Spirit Worlds” (16) as a broad field that emphasizes the importance of sound as a gateway to the spiritual realm. A completely different area is “Traditions and Compositions,” which encompasses among other studies the considerations of how religion has shaped the creation of music. Hackett gives as examples three Johns for whom religious experience was a profound influence on their compositions – Cage, Coltrane, and Tavener (to which one must certainly add Sebastian Bach). Yet more examples of areas Hackett finds are “Soundscape(s),” “Experience and Healing,” and “Sound and Music in Relation to Power and Conflict.” The final area Hackett discusses is “Sound and Music in Relation to Power and Conflict” (20). One example of this kind of study is the consideration of how bells and muezzins “intrude” in public space – responses to which are determined by “attitudes toward the sound-producers as much as by the sounds themselves” (20, citing Weiner 114). Hackett also points to the work of Anne Carson, among others who highlight the role of gender in “the control of sound, who produces the sounds, and who is capable of or is allowed to hear or interpret them” (21).

Hackett’s paper is remarkably well-organized, clear, and enjoyable to read. This article is also an excellent springboard from which to explore further any particular area of this important and rich area of study. Even a quick glance through the six-page bibliography (almost two-thirds the length of the actual article!) will reveal a wealth of fascinating scholarship.

Giordano, Manuela. “Women’s Voice and Religious Utterances in Ancient Greece.” Religions 2, no. 4 (December 20, 2011): 729–43. doi:10.3390/rel2040729.

In this paper, Giordano investigates women and religion in Ancient Greece by examining curses, supplications, and prayers. She draws on epic and tragedy as “pivotal literary genres in the ideological discourse of the Greek polis” (729). Giordano argues that female religious practice is confined by men to the private sphere.

Giordano sees religion as a social institution and an inextricable part of Greek civic life. Discourses like religion, manhood, and femininity are necessarily “performed in the public space” (730). Giordano notes that Homer describes being a man as being “both a speaker of words and a doer of deeds” (Iliad 9. 441). But women were barred from the public space and denied siderophorein and so could partake in neither aspect of manhood. Similarly, in Ancient Greek religion only men were allowed the “central acts of Greek cult: the deed of sacrifice and the word of prayer” (731).

Nevertheless, Giordano acknowledges that women “played quite a central role in the religious sphere” (731). But, she argues, these roles were severely restricted. Drawing on the work of JL Austin, Giordano examines the curse (ara) as a performative utterance. She notes that the religious power of curses is endowed by their public performance. She illustrates this by giving examples from the Iliad and the Odyssey of women cursing their sons by calling down the furies (Althaia and Meleager and Penelope and Telemachus, respectively). Thus, cursing is a power available even to those who are defenseless because of their “peculiar juridical status” (734). A similar power lies in funerary laments for those who have died unjustly. Taking the example of Electra’s prayer after Agamemnon’s murder by Clytemnestra, Giordano indicates that the performative power of cursing makes it “an agent of Dike” (735).

Next, Giordano analyzes Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes as a means to “reconstruct some perceptions and features of Athenian attitudes towards the gods” (735). Giordano traces the opposition of male and female elements in the tragedy. For example, Eteocles’ prayer for salvation is characterized by a kind of bargaining, while the Chorus of Theban women assumes a more supplicatory tone. Indeed, the Chorus “relies totally on the gods’ power” (737) to save them. Giordano shows that this is representative of the wider passive, supplicative role of women.

In sum, Giordano’s analysis of Seven Against Thebes convincingly demonstrates a fundamental opposition between the dominant, reciprocal, male prayer and the subservient, supplicative, female ritual actions. Giordano connects this to the broader challenge that women’s uncontrolled speech in the public sphere poses to male dominance. However, it seems that Giordano’s analysis has little nuance and relies too heavily on literary evidence, which was after all created by men. I would be interested to know, for example, what material culture might be able to demonstrate about women’s supposed passivity in Ancient Greek religion. A good example of this alternative viewpoint is evident in the following article: Nevett, Lisa. 2011. “Towards a Female Topography of the Ancient Greek City: Case Studies from Late Archaic and Early Classical Athens (c.520-400 BCE).” Gender and History 23 (3): 576–596.

Giordano-Zecharya, Manuela. “Ritual Appropriateness in Seven Against Thebes. Civic Religion in a Time of War.” Mnemosyne 59, no. 1 (2006): 53–74.

In this article, Giordano-Zecharya analyses religious themes in Seven Against Thebes, the fifth-century tragedy by Aeschylus. She argues that Eteocles and the Chorus represent a male and female religious attitude, characterized by their reciprocal and supplicatory relationships with the gods, respectively.

Giordano-Zecharya begins by noting that religiosity is interconnected with all aspects of Athenian civic life. Because tragedy is so integral to this political and cultural environment, it engages and represents in various ways the role of religion in Athens. Giordano recognizes that the assumptions made from this connection should be corroborated by evidence from non-literary sources about religion. However, she does not provide this kind of detailed background. Rather, she proceeds directly to analysis of the first scene. Here, Giordano reads Eteocles as embodying a reciprocal, ritual civic religiosity and the Chorus as representing supplicatory religious attitudes that are “described by Eteocles as negative and socially disruptive” (55).

In the prologue, King Eteocles opens the play with a rhesis (speech) addressed to the citizens of the polis. Giordano-Zecharya notes that he employs “traditional imagery of the ship, symbolizing the state, of which he proclaims himself steersman and leader” (57). In this position, Eteocles must say what is ritually appropriate: namely, protecting the polis and its gods (“πόλει τ’ ἀρήγειν καὶ θεῶν ἐγχωρίων βωμοῖσι”). Eteocles thus discharges his civic duty while demonstrating how deeply intertwined the city and its gods are. Giordano-Zecharya reads “ἐγχωρίων” (and similar adjectives like “πολισσοῦχοι” and “πολιάοχοι”) as demonstrating that the gods “form an integral and immanent part of the polis,” even “inhabiting the same landscape as men” (58).

After Eteocles’ speech, a messenger enters with news of the “seven.” In reaction to the scout’s description of the “bold leaders” (“θούριοι λοχαγέται”) and their plans to destroy Thebes, both Eteocles and the Chorus respond with a kind of prayer. Giordano-Zecharya parses Eteocles’ prayer as an εὐχή structured in three formal parts: invocation, argument, and request. He addresses the gods of the city, Zeus, Earth (Γῆ), Ares, and the Furies (Ἐρινὺς) and appeals for their assistance. This appeal reveals the reciprocal relationship between city and gods: Eteocles tells the gods that their destiny is the destiny of the polis, because “without polis they would have no cult, honor, nor ‘existence’” (60).

On the other hand, the Chorus begs the gods and goddesses to “save them from slavery” (“ἱκέσιον λόχον δουλοσύνας ὕπερ”). Their supplications are mixed with “expressions of helplessness, and sheer panic” (61). Indeed, they see no salvation in men and rely instead entirely on the power of the gods. In order to do so, they combine ritual action – ἱκετεία – and ritual speech – λιτή. Giordano-Zecherya suggests that supplication to the gods in this form is unusual, since hiketeia is normally addressed to other humans. In her analysis, supplication is reserved for when humans no longer have power. Instead of a prayer or sacrifice that involves some human agency in a reciprocal relationship with the gods, supplication involves utter desperation and self-abasement. It is this “damaging and inappropriate supplicatory modality” (64) that Eteocles opposes so trenchantly.

Giordano-Zecharya particularly draws out this opposition in the dialog between Eteocles and the Chorus. Eteocles argues forcefully that men have agency to change their circumstances – though women should remain quiet and stay at home (“τὸ σιγᾶν καὶ μένειν εἲσω δόμων”). Statements like these emphasize Eteocles’ view that the proper order – men’s reciprocal prayer with the gods – has been subverted by the female Chorus’ invasion of public space. The Chorus agrees to “restrain its wailing” (68) and Eteocles prays again for the gods to join the fray as allies. Finally, the Chorus too “transforms its laments into invocations to the gods in more reciprocal terms and with customary ritual addresses” (71). Civic order has been restored; the barbaric element has been subdued and the women have been “tamed.”

In sum, Giordano-Zecharya has thoroughly demonstrated how Seven Against Thebes highlights two contrasting religious attitudes. Her literary analysis is exhaustive, comprehensive, and persuasive. It is also quite clear and well-structured. This article raises many questions about how this one demonstration of Greek civic religion relates to broader themes in the social and political life of ancient Athens.

Garland, Lynda. “‘Till Death Do Us Part?’: Family Life in Byzantine Monasteries.” In Questions of Gender in Byzantine Society, edited by Bronwen Neil and Lynda Garland, 29–55. Farnham: Ashgate, 2013.

In this article, Garland describes family life in Byzantine monasteries, with a particular focus on mother-daughter relationships in convents. She provides an overview of life in monastic institutions with particular attention paid to the typika of these institutions.

Garland begins by noting that women’s monastic institutions are under-represented in Byzantine sources. However, both male and female monastic institutions were “clearly modelled on family groupings” (30). They were quite small and often attracted members from close-knit communities, including blood families. Convents were particularly close to their family origins; unlike the far-flung male monasteries, female monastic institutions were “expected to be settled in a civilised region, … indeed often on family estates” (32). In fact, Garland notes that many women took monastic vows in order to join a female relative who was already a nun. Some even joined the monastic life with their entire family, splitting along gender lines. Couples split fairly frequently, especially after the death of a child. More material motives were also common; Garland says that some monastic institutions were established with “the clearly stated aim of setting up a family property trust and private retirement home” (36) while some people took vows at the end of their lives “in the hope of gaining additional ‘brownie points’ towards salvation” (33).

Garland next examines the typika of five convents founded between 1110 and 1310 in Constantinople. The founders were all imperial women, and Garland believes that four of the five typika “may well have been the work of the founders themselves” (37). Garland traces the influence from earlier typika to later founding documents. For instance, when Theodora Palaiologina refounded Constantine Lips she relied on the previous typikon of Theotokos Kecharitomene. Theodora also restored the Anagyroi monastery along similar lines. Perhaps the most remarkable typikon is that of Christ Philanthropos Soter, which was founded by Irene Choumnaina Palaiologina when she was only 16. Irene was later joined by her parents, who died in the monastery. Garland next mentions a sixth typikon, the only other extant for a Byzantine convent and notable because it was composed in 1400 for an institution in Crete.

In all cases, the typika outline a clear hierarchy. The imperial women “celebrate their status” and reserve significant privileges for themselves and their family. For example, Irene Choumnaina “complained to her adviser Theoleptos that … she did not possess a suitable retinue or equipage, while she even irritated the patriarch by her superciliousness” (41). Indeed, the typika often laid out clear roles for different nuns (including “working” nuns) and also imposed strict punishments on those who didn’t toe the line. In sum, the convents replicated on a small scale “the structure and occupations of aristocratic households” (45). Furthermore, many typika prioritized the commemoration of the founders and their “past, present and future family members” (41). One strategy of commemoration was to order that the typikon be “studied by the inmates of the convent on an equal footing with the Scriptures and the Lives of female saints” (42). Garland analyzes orders like these to reveal the importance of both gendered ideology and literacy in convents. Reading was ordered at all times, including at meals and while performing domestic tasks. Libraries are not explicitly mentioned in the typika, but Garland suggests that the founders may have stocked them themselves. Perhaps the most interesting of Garland’s insights is that “despite their authoritarian and almost arrogant exposition of their own merits and status, the founders pay ‘lip service’ to stereotypes of themselves and their nuns as ‘weak women’, sinners, and in need of protection as a result of their sex” (44). Common gendered phrases and images are present in the typika. Furthermore, relationships are often conceived as explicitly gendered – especially as a mother addressing her daughter. Even the decorations of the convent and its church were explicitly female, often including primarily female saints and rituals like birth, baptism, and wedding that were particularly “feminine.”

Garland concludes by posing an interesting question: just why were convents so attractive, especially to aristocrats? The answer she suggests is that female monastic institutions largely duplicated the functions of the imperial household, including family life and a strict hierarchy. Relatives of the imperial women who founded convents were highly favored, and their own reputations were also heightened. At the same time, women now had more autonomy to live and worship together, exploring their own talents and interests. Byzantine monastic institutions were centered on the family and the continuation of life outside the institution.

Garland’s research is fascinating and quite detailed. Still, I felt that there was too little theory integrated into her arguments. Especially with regards to the hierarchy and gender ideologies expressed in the typika, I couldn’t help but wonder how a feminist or Marxist scholar would approach this material. It seems the field is open for provocative analysis.

Gador-Whyte, Sarah. “Changing Conceptions of Mary in Sixth-Century Byzantium: The Kontakia of Romanos the Melodist.” In Questions of Gender in Byzantine Society, edited by Bronwen Neil and Lynda Garland, 77–92. Farnham: Ashgate, 2013.

Gador-Whyte begins with an intriguing tale of Romanos and his muse: the Theotokos. She repurposes this traditional view of Romanos’ inspiration with the analysis that Mary is a “particularly interesting, helpful and flexible character” (77) for Romanos. In this article, Gador-Whyte concentrates on the manifestations of Mary Theotokos as protector, intercessor, and mother.

First is Theotokos, which Romanos often associates with parthenos (virgin). Gador-Whyte sees this juxtaposition of titles as indicating Mary’s status as both human virgin and divine God-bearer – thus elevating Mary and indicating the importance of virginity and asceticism in early Christianity. In the fifth century, the term “Theotokos” became particularly laden with Christological connotations. In one hymn, Romanos calls on the congregation to participate in the life of Christ through the Theotokos. Indeed, in other kontakia Romanos emphasizes Mary’s connection to God by indicating that salvation can come through Mary.

Mary is also a protector, as exemplified most famously in the Akathist (which Gador-Whyte does not believe was written by Romanos). She cites Limberis’ argument that Mary’s role as protector continues the tradition of city deities, like Pallas Athena. Romanos goes beyond this role to see the Virgin as protector of all Christians. In On the Nativity of the Virgin Mary, Romanos calls Mary “τείχος και στήριγμα” (wall and foundation) for every Christian. Gador-Whyte suggests that these metaphors combine military imagery with femininity and virginity: as the fortress, the Theotokos is a motherly protector who remains “the perfect virgin, inviolate and unpenetrated” (83).

Mary is also an intercessor who “speaks for humanity, interceding with God on behalf of mortals” (83). Romanos narrates how Christ himself gives this role to Mary. Gador-Whyte notes that this language is almost entirely absent from contemporary homilies on Mary. Nevertheless, other evidence indicates that Mary did fulfill an intercessory role. For example, Mary was the object of amulets and petitions on lead seals. Nevertheless, this image does remain rare in Greek sources. Gador-Whyte suggests that Romanos may have been influenced (though not directly) by authors of Syriac homilies, like Jacob of Sarug. Romanos characteristically sees Mary as an intercessor through her role as a mother. Gador-Whyte sees as evidence the emotions Romanos attributes to Mary, including compassion and pity.

Gador-Whyte next turns to Mary’s role as an ordinary mother. Passages that refer to Mary as a mother – for example, weeping for her son – emphasize the familiarity of what is otherwise a stiff, formal figure. Gador-Whyte notes that Romanos’ depiction of Mary as a “perfect, loving mother fits with sixth-century ideas of female roles” (88), as they are indicated in the Codex Justinianus. She further cites a wonderful passage from On Mary at the Cross, in which the Theotokos relates the crucifixion to Mary’s previous experiences. “Seeing her own lamb being dragged to slaughter, Mary the ewe-lamb” asks her son “Is there another wedding in Cana?” This beautiful depiction of ordinary motherly care exemplifies Mary’s depiction as – in Roger Scott’s words – a “suburban mum.”

Gador-Whyte concludes by drawing together the many facets of Romanos’ Mary she has outlined. She argues that the “diversity of images … is evidence in part for the burgeoning developments in the Marian cult in this period, and in part a function of how imagery works in poetry, with different symbols, metaphors and images resonating in different contexts” (92). Gador-Whyte’s sensitivity to the multiple facets of Mary is to her credit. Yet many of these facets are characterized in broad strokes – for instance, “masculine” military strength and “feminine” sensitivity – and more nuance and appreciation of historical context would go a long way. For example, Gador-Whyte briefly discusses the roles of emotions in characterizing Mary; sensitivity to the theoretical issues with writing a history of emotions would help complicate the picture she paints. Overall, though, the masterful poetry of Romanos the Melodist shines through in this article.