Category: Critical abstracts — late antiquity

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.

Fontaine, Carol. “The Social Roles of Women in the World of Wisdom.” In Feminist Companion to Wisdom Literature, edited by Athalya Brenner-Idan, 24–49. Bloomsbury Publishing, 1995.

In this article, Fontaine investigates how women’s lived experience became part of the literary forms, content, and theology of the wisdom tradition in ancient Israel. To do so, she surveys the roles of women as portrayed in the books of Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes and also draws on examples from other ancient Near Eastern cultures.

To begin, Fontaine proposes a new definition of a “sage” as anyone who routinely performs “authorship, scribal duties, … counselling, management of economic resources, conflict resolution, teaching and healing” (25). She also notes the presence of great female figures in wisdom literature, such as Woman Wisdom and the Woman of Worth. Fontaine observes that these exaltations of women belie real women’s status in society – in the same way that venerating the Virgin Mary does not correlate with valuing real women. Therefore, characters like Woman Wisdom should only be seen as expressing partial truths, or at least only those “facts” that male sages felt were worth recording. In short, Fontaine complicates any kind of simple relationship between literary representations and “reality,” whatever that may be.

Next, Fontaine makes some methodological notes. First, she proposes that wisdom literature is a kind of art produced by “verbal artisans” (27) and so should be approached with literary sensitivity. Fontaine sees this literary wisdom as a result of the writers’ “intellectual ecumenism”; although Israel was emphasized as theologically unique, these writers felt comfortable drawing from their neighbors and their predecessors. Wisdom, in Fontaine’s reading, means precisely the kind of thought that is “honed” on “the cultures that preceded and surrounded them” (27). Fontaine also notes that wisdom literature drew on “folk wisdom” and in particular on the tribal heritage of Israel. She even suggests that “the Hebrew Bible’s indecision on the subject of monarchy … may be a survival of the sentiments of the non-elite” (28). Although wisdom literature may not be a “pure” representation of the folk, some elements of non-literary “reality” were certainly incorporated in it.

First, Fontaine analyzes literary representations of women. The “virtuous wife” or “Woman of Worth” is perceived as the mistress of the “private domain.” She completes day-to-day tasks, manages her servants, and even gives alms to the poor. Yet she also finds time to teach and counsel – in other words, she is a practitioner of wisdom. This wisdom has distinct characteristics, among them the association with young children and the home and, more negatively, craftiness and manipulation. Fontaine suggests that these “indirect means … are typical strategies employed by those who do not have direct access to power” (31). Fontaine notes that these characteristics are particularly associated with the negative counterpart of Woman Wisdom, Woman Stranger. Her use of language is seductive and deceptive; she takes all the wifely virtues and turns them upside down. In both forms, though, the woman is portrayed by the male sages who are authors of the literary texts.

Fontaine next turns to women as authors. She asserts that women almost never received a full scribal education. In other words, most women were illiterate. Fontaine also notes that some folk genres are traditionally associated with women – “lullabies, working songs, [and] love songs” (36) among them. This complicates determinations of authorship in interesting ways. For example, if a woman creates a work but it was transcribed by a male scribe, do both parties share authorship? What if a work emerges from a communal tradition but is put into its definitive form by a male scribe? Fontaine gives one example to illustrate this complexity of authorship. In Proverbs 31:1–9, King Lemuel records the admonitions, prohibitions, and proverbs given by his mother. Fontaine argues that these words of the queen mother are clearly part of “the mother’s Torah,” with much use of imperatives, familial terms, and common themes. Fontaine points out that other queens also used “the language of wisdom to achieve [their] goals” (39), including the Hittite Queen Puduḫepa. Once again, however, other parts of the Bible portray the same characteristics in inversion – this time in the story of Jezebel. The authorship of the “Instruction” in the Book of Proverbs is unclear – the queen mother? King Lemuel? The scribe who first wrote it down? – but the presentation of women as diplomats, in harmony with other contemporary cultures, is unmistakeable.

Another function of women in wisdom literature that Fontaine notes is as folk healers. Apart from evidence from the Bible, Fontaine points to the example of Hittite wise women. They used their “keen observation of natural phenomena” to practice “medical magic” (43). “Female sorcery” like this is condemned in multiple verses of the Hebrew Bible – and the function of women as folk healers is thereby confirmed. When they fail to heal, though, these women were accused of witchcraft and severely persecuted. In all situations, the perception of women as healers is strongly influenced by the wider societal climate.

The last role of women in wisdom literature that Fontaine describes is as professional mourners. These women used the “poetic conventions of ritual mourning” to express a sense of “orderly ritual” by “raising an outcry over the dead” (45). In ancient Sumerian, a special dialect (EME.SAL) was reserved specifically for women to use in ritual functions such as mourning. Similar roles of women are attested in Jeremiah 9:12, 2 Samuel, the Hittite MI.SU.GI, and examples of Ugaritic lament.

Fontaine draws a number of conclusions. First, she notes that all the roles of women she described hinge on the practice of “deliberate, formalized language acts” (46). Training of some sort was required to use these, even though the roles originated from the functions of wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters within the home. Finally, all the roles – as diplomats, healers, and professional mourners – had negative counterparts when women’s actions were perceived to be challenging the patriarchy. All of these characteristics of “real” roles are paralleled in the literary figures of Woman Wisdom and Woman Stranger. As Fontaine puts it, “these two metaphorical figures embody the social roles, positive and negative, which women filled within society at large and the wisdom movement in particular” (46). This parallel structure is coherent and convincing. In particular, Fontaine’s integration of literary evidence, “real-life” roles, and examples from other ancient Near Eastern cultures is skillful and strongly supports her argument. Parallels can certainly be drawn with the roles of women in ancient Athens, especially in the type of rituals described by Manuela Giordano. Unlike Giordano, however, Fontaine made a concise and convincing argument by adroitly incorporating a variety of sources while maintaining a tight focus.

Faulkner, Andrew. “The Gods in the Narratives of the Homeric Hymns.” In The Gods of Greek Hexameter Poetry: From the Archaic Age to Late Antiquity and Beyond, edited by James Joseph Clauss, Martine Cuypers, and Ahuvia Kahane, 32–42. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2016.

In this chapter, Faulkner examines the role of the gods in the Homeric hymns. In Homer’s epics, the gods are “essential cogs in the narrative machinery” (32) but are nonetheless not the primary focus. Faulkner notes that, after all, both the Iliad and the Odyssey begin with “an invocation to the Muse to sing of mortal characters and their agency” (32). In contrast, the Homeric hymns focus directly on the divine. Each poem names a specific god as its object and addresses the god directly. Their narratives recount important episodes in the gods’ lives. In sum, while the Homeric epics are about mortals the Homeric hymns are about gods.

Faulkner notes the links between the hymns and Hesiod’s Theogony. Faulkner cites Strauss Clay’s argument that the hymns can only be fully understood against the background of the Theogony. The most important difference is the role of Zeus. The Theogony narrates his rise; the epics portray the stable Olympian order with Zeus at its head. The hymns present an intermediate divine order, in which the gods still vie for supremacy but largely accept Zeus’ hegemony. Faulkner argues that this role of Zeus is apparent in his narrative role. Many of the plots are driven by Zeus and his will. On the other hand, Zeus has very little direct speech, in contrast to the Homeric epics. His role is important, but not yet fully established.

Faulkner next examines the role specific gods play in the narratives of the Homeric hymns. Demeter and Persephone are both lauded in the Hymn to Demeter. Faulkner argues that this “dual tribute reflects the close association of mother and daughter in both myth and cult” (36). This hymn also provides the first fully fleshed-out anthropomorphism of Hades. Faulkner claims that this is indicative of the space that the hymns give to relating the extended myth and background of gods and goddesses. At the same time, both the Hymn to Apollo and the Hymn to Demeter devote much of their narrative to the foundation of cults. Faulkner notes that the narrative of Apollo, in particular, echoes Book 1 of the Iliad. While the pestilence that Apollo inflicts in that episode is often seen from the perspective of the Achaeans, from a different view Apollo’s actions are fundamentally support for Chryses, his faithful priest. Hermes and Aphrodite are the objects of more light-hearted hymns. Hermes in particular is seen as a trickster, full of humor and wit. Less attention is given to cult in these hymns. Furthermore, the gods barely interact at all with the mortals.

In sum, the Homeric hymns clearly present the gods at the center of their narratives. Some gods that are barely seen at all in the Iliad and the Odyssey (like Demeter) have whole hymns devoted to them, while other gods (like Zeus) are seen very differently. Faulkner ends by concurring with Calame’s argument that the Homeric hymns are “not just songs about the gods, but themselves poetic offerings for the gods” (42).

Faulkner, Andrew. “The Female Voice of Justice in Aratus’ Phaenomena.” Greece and Rome 62, no. 1 (April 2015): 75–86. doi:10.1017/S0017383514000254.

In this article, Faulkner discusses the female in Aratus’ Phaenomena. In the middle of discussing Greek constellations, Aratus refers to the Maiden, who he identifies with “the virginal Justice” (75). According to Faulkner, previous scholarship linked Aratus’ depiction of this constellation with the narrative of Dike in Hesiod’s Works and Days. Aratus gives this character the only direct speech in his poem. It is this speech that Faulkner focuses on.

Faulkner begins by looking to Hesiod’s Theogony and referencing the speech in which Zeus threatens Prometheus with the evil of Pandora. He suggests that Aratus “has transposed the foreboding prophecy of mankind’s future from the male voice of Zeus to the female voice of his daughter Dike” (77). This link is emphasized by similar language in Hesiod and Aratus. That being said, there are differences between the two accounts: Zeus actively creates and destroys the ages, while Dike is more passive, letting humanity destroy itself. This shift hinges on the use of the second-person plural (υμεις). In Hesiod, the pronoun is used to address “the kings responsible for upholding justice” while in Aratus Dike uses the same pronoun to address “humankind as a whole, including both men and women” (81). Faulkner further links this form of address to the Stoic thinking that upholds an explicitly public role of women. In this view, Dike’s speech reflects a philosophical tradition that emphasizes the importance of women.

An alternative manuscript reading would further link Dike’s speech to the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite. In that poem, Aphrodite prophecies, but as a seductive trickster. She is deceptive and beautiful, in contrast to the “honest and virginal Dike” (84) that Aratus portrays. This contrast parallels that between Dike and Pandora, who can be seen as the mortal counterpart of the deceitful Aphrodite. In conversation with both these antecedents, Aratus uses Dike’s speech in his Phaenomena to “recast the potentialities of female power in human society” (85). Instead of fundamental difference, men and women are now seen as equal. Indeed, the very power of Dike’s speech provides an archetype for mortal women in an ideal society. She has female agency. When women and men do not work together, what results is the degenerate Bronze Age that ends the episode of Aratus’ narration.

In this short article, Faulkner makes a number of interesting points. It is remarkable how much can be made of just a few lines in an obscure poem of the third century BCE. Yet his arguments are convincing: it seems true that Aratus’ constellation – Justice – is a “visible sign relevant to all humankind … men and women alike” (86).

Erol, Merih, “The ‘Musical Question’ and the Educated Elite of the Greek Orthodox Society in Late Nineteenth-century Constantinople,” Journal of Modern Greek Studies, 32 (2014): 133–163.

In this article, Erol demonstrates various complex “positions and discourses” (133) of cultural identity in the Greek Orthodox community of nineteenth-century Constantinople. She draws on sources from the press, secular songs, and musicological writings to explore musical discourse in the context of broader Ottoman, Orthodox, and Greek issues. Through this survey of diverse sources, Erol convincingly argues that the discourse surrounding Greek Orthodox music is intertwined with sociopolitical concerns of the time.

To begin the article, Erol lays out the background of the Greek Orthodox community in the nineteenth century. This period was dominated by the Tanzimat, a series of reforms that helped create a “μεγάλη αστική ρωμέικη τάξη” (135). In this context, the millet asserted its Hellenic identity through, for example, the projection of “its ecclesiastical (and folk) music as ‘remnants’ of an ancient past to distinguish its identity as a distinct cultural group” (136). Erol also mentions other contextual factors that influenced this process. These included Westernization and conspicuous consumption as well as the backlash to this movement. Another factor is the agitation for an independent Bulgarian church, which provoked mixed reactions from the Ottoman Greeks. All these contextual elements are crucial to Erol’s subsequent analysis.

The first source Erol treats is the 1860 satire by Ioannis Raptarhis entitled Πικρά η αλήθεια. In Erol’s analysis, the criticisms that Raptarhis levels at the Church are drawn precisely from the sociopolitical concerns of the time. For example, Raptarhis “pleaded that the divine melody should rule in ‘one voice and one language’” (139) – a direct rebuke to the Bulgarians who sought to use Slavonic as the liturgical language. In analyzing the music of liturgy, Raptarhis both reflects on current political events and admonishes authorities for their perceived disunity. In the same vein, Raptarhis criticizes the use of “novel and different” (141) ecclesiastical music because it indicates encroaching Westernization. Erol’s analysis of Raptarhis also reveals that judgments about music, especially in ecclesiastical contexts, are closely tied to class divisions. Drawing on Pierre Bourdieu, Simon Frith, and Theodore Zeldin, Erol reads Raptarhis as seeing “the lower ranks of society … as fundamentally unable to engage in the spiritual dimension of the music because of the coarseness of the bodily labor by which they earn their keep” (142). What may seem to be an aesthetic problem is clearly a social judgment. Furthermore, Raptarhis writes that the tract was motivated by a sense of collective insult – in his words, his motivation came “εκ της εθνικής ημών φιλοτιμίας” (143). In sum, Erol convincingly argues that the Greek Orthodox community of Constantinople perceived liturgical music as crucial in determining ethnonational dignity.

Next, Erol examines the Musical Society of Constantinople and its connections with Romanticism and Hellenism. By examining the documents of the Society, Erol demonstrates that Greek Orthodox music symbolized the continuity of Greeks from antiquity to modern times and therefore represented a powerful civilizing force. The best demonstration of both these elements comes from the Musical Society’s choice of logo – the lyre of Orpheus. The hero of Ancient Greek mythology was famed for his ability to tame nature with his music. By choosing his lyre as their symbol, the Greeks of Constantinople “affirmed their identity as Greeks by paying tribute to the ancient Greek ideal” (145) while simultaneously aligning themselves with the ancient and contemporary (European) association of music with a civilizing moral mission. The Musical Society thus exemplifies Hellenism – the synchronic and diachronic unity of the “Hellenic-Christian” Greek national identity. At the same time, Erol notes that “this phenomenon had its ideological and conceptual origins in German Romantic nationalism” (146), the society diverges from this movement in its attention to “recording the folk melodies of non-Greek neighboring peoples” (146).

Erol turns next to musicological debates and ecclesiastical music itself. She traces the development of the “musical question.” On one side were the Greeks who “aspir[ed] to ameliorate the unpleasant situation of music” (148, quoting an 1890 book) by introducing European characteristics, including polyphony, harmony, and even the use of musical instruments in liturgy. On the other side were those who cherished “the restoration of the hyphos of ecclesiastical music” (149) through the use of original ecclesiastical chants and the recognition of the Patriarch’s authority. Erol notes that this view is aligned with the narrative of Hellenism and the Orientalist descriptions of Orthodox hymns corrupted by “meaningless, barbarian, and foreign syllables” (151, quoting an 1881 article). In sum, Erol demonstrates that the “musical question” is inseparable from sociopolitical concerns of the Greek Orthodox community in Constantinople.

Overall, Erol convincingly argues that musical discourse in this context is closely related to “seemingly disconnected issues, such as the aesthetic judgment of religious music, the formation of social and national identity, the integrity of the Rum millet, and the Westernization of the Greek community’s lifestyle” (154). Erol successfully draws on a variety of sources to support her thesis. This article should be a starting point for a broader discussion about what the links Erol demonstrates between music, religion, and politics mean in context. For example, it would be wonderful to trace this thread through the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire or to adopt a comparative approach with Turkish musical discourse at the time.