  Introduction
When the early Christians first began to develop a distinctive spirituality of their own, they claimed that they were singing a "new song". Of course they recognised that it was not new in an absolute sense. This is apparent even in the formulation of the claim itself. The phrase "new song" was in fact not new at all: it was taken over from the opening lines of Psalm 96 just cited (and also those of Psalm 98 and 149). But new wine was being poured into old bottles. And, they affirmed, it was new not only in relation to the heritage of Israel, but also in relation to the dominant Hellenic culture that surrounded them on all sides. The theme of this paper is the pre-Christian antecedents of early Christian spirituality. Some care is required in formulating this theme. If we speak of "pre-Christian origins", it is implied that some kind of causal relation must be involved. We should be aware, then, that we run the risk of giving the impression that Christian spirituality was derived from its antecedents in Hellenism and Judaism. But if, on the other hand, one speaks of the "pre-Christian background", it might be thought that we are dealing with no more than a setting or backdrop with no real influence on what actually happened on the stage itself. The course of my paper will make clear why I made the choice that is indicated in my title. What I certainly do not wish to say is that the foundations of Christian spirituality are located in the two great traditions that I will be focusing on. Early Christian spirituality cannot be reduced to its antecedents. This will become quite clear as we proceed. My argument falls into three parts. I shall commence with a brief examination of the spirituality of the Greek philosophical tradition. Thereafter the focus will move to the phenomenon of Greek-speaking Judaism, often known as Hellenistic Judaism. In both cases my presentation will have something of a status quaestionis. I will be drawing attention to the contributions of four eminent modern scholars (all of whom I have had the privilege of meeting during the past two decades), as well as adding comments and insights of my own. Thereafter, in the third and final part of my paper, I will examine the extent to which these two traditions made their presence felt in early Christian spirituality, illustrating this with the example of a particular text. One final remark before we embark on our subject. It will be salutary to say something, however brief, about the term "spirituality" itself. I hardly need point out that it is a notoriously slippery term, with a breadth of connotation that can have advantages or disadvantages depending on the context of its use. I confine my comments to two points. Firstly, spirituality in my view is not just an exploration of the "inner dimension of the person". Then it might be justly regarded as a sub-discipline of psychology. Spirituality involves a relationship to the divine, however that may be conceived. We shall see that this relationship differs for the Greek and for the Judaeo-Christian tradition. Secondly, the term excludes the entire area of dogmatic theology as developed in the Christian tradition. In this area too—or so great scholars as von Harnack and Goodenough would have us believe—the influence of Hellenism and Hellenistic Judaism was marked or even decisive, but this particular question falls outside the scope of our theme. The Greek Philosophical Tradition When the publishers of the well-known series "World Spirituality: An Encyclopedic History of the Religious Quest" were looking for an editor of a volume on ancient Greek and Roman spirituality, it was entirely appropriate that they turned to Hilary Armstrong, the great Plotinian scholar who recently passed away at an advanced age. Although most of Armstrong’s published work was focused on the later tradition of Greek philosophy and particularly on neo-Platonism, in his later years he came to reflect more and more on the roots of philosophy in what he emphatically called the Hellenic (and not the pagan) tradition, which he perceived in relation to, and sometimes also in opposition to, the Anglican Christianity in which he had been brought up. In his Introduction Armstrong affirms:
"Reflective spirituality" means a spirituality that not only engages in the discovery and celebration of the divine, but also actively reflects on the nature of that process, such reflection involving both contemplation of the object of that celebration and examination of the human subject engaged in it. Armstrong immediately goes on to add that "reflective" should not be understood in narrow terms as virtually equivalent to "philosophical", and this for two reasons. Firstly, Greek spirituality has its roots in the archaic piety of Homer and Hesiod which continued to exert its influence in various forms until the end of antiquity, and in the countryside remained a living force until it was replaced by, or perhaps better absorbed into, Christianity. Secondly, throughout the centuries, but especially in the fifth century BC, the Greek poets scrutinised the impact of the gods on the lives of humankind in a manner that left an indelible mark on ancient culture. Nevertheless, an examination of the contents of the volume that Armstrong edited will reveal that in the course of time the main vehicle of this reflective spirituality did become Greek philosophy. After initial conflict, and largely through the decisive intervention of Socrates and Plato, an alliance was struck between religion and philosophy. Greek religion had no scriptural canon (apart from Homer), no fixed body of dogma, no group of intellectuals whose prime task was to preserve the tradition. Philosophy filled the breach, but did so on its own terms. Three features stand out. Firstly, the old division into the world of the gods and the world of humans is replaced by a more cosmic perspective. The gods become part of the universe, whether existing immanently in it, or transcending its physical limitations. Secondly, the divine is, partly at least, internalised in the nature of the human being itself, in a development which Jean Pépin has aptly called microtheism. The divine in us is nothing else than the soul, or rather, the rational part thereof, to be identified with the intellect. Thirdly, God or the divine represents the ideal that one should strive to attain. This applies even to Epicureans who notoriously deny the gods any concern for human matters: the sage, Epicurus promises his disciple, will live like God amid immortal blessings (Ep. Men. 135). Philosophical spirituality as orientation towards the divine, in whichever form it takes place, thus has a direct link to life. The scholar who has done more than anyone else to bring this aspect to the fore is undoubtedly Pierre Hadot. I am thinking not only of his famous collection of essays entitled Exercices spirituels et philosophie antique, now translated into English as Philosophy as a Way of Life, but also his recent pocket-book survey of the history of ancient philosophy Qu’est-ce que la philosophie antique? Hadot’s claim is nothing if not far-reaching:
As an account of ancient philosophy Hadot’s survey is somewhat limited and even idiosyncratic. The Presocratics, for example, scarcely feature in it at all. Many of the more technical achievements of the ancient philosophers are set aside. Yet the point he is making is surely vital. Logos and bios are inextricably entwined in ancient philosophy. This assumption was generally accepted, and there was no need to advertise it at every turn. Without this background the description of early Christianity as a philosophia would have made no sense. Philosophy as a, or rather, the way of life furnished the therapy for the soul’s ills. The starting point was the Socratic knowledge of one’s self. This meant control, or even removal, of the passions under the guidance of reason, development of the virtues in a steadfast ethos, and orientation of one’s life towards the goals of freedom and self-sufficiency. In short, philosophy was the concern of the individual for his or her self. One’s teacher served as spiritual guide, but the aim of the process was to render that role otiose. The true spiritual guide was the logos, reason as fine-tuned instrument dedicated to the attainment of the life of well-being, eudaimonia. In a fine chapter Hadot showed how many philosophical exercises were adapted and continued in the Christian monastic tradition. This, we should note, was a continuation of the spiritual élitism that is a not to be overlooked feature of ancient philosophy. More needs to be said, however, about the goal of the philosopher’s spiritual quest. It is not just a state of spiritual freedom. It also has an intellectual content. Most philosophers in antiquity agreed that the life of contemplation was a higher goal than the mere practice of moral excellence. In his books Hadot perhaps pays too little attention to the theological underpinnings of philosophy as an ideal way of life. The spiritual ideal which it involves can also be described as divine knowledge in the double sense pointed out by Aristotle at the beginning of his Metaphysics, i.e. knowledge of who God is and the attainment of the knowledge that God himself possesses (alpha 2, 983a6). Both are possible because, as we noted above, the divine has been at least partly internalised within humankind itself. On this issue there is both optimism and pessimism. Even Aristotle, who formulated the ideal of knowledge more uncompromisingly than anyone else, compared humans to bats who can only tolerate light for the briefest period (alpha 1, 993b9). The long career of the Logos-ideal from the pioneering optimism of Parmenides to the final despair of Damascius has been impressively traced by Raoul Mortley in his two-volumed study From Word to Silence. It is true to say, I believe, that when the Christians first encountered Greek philosophy optimism was still dominant, though the first intimations of a more pessimistic theology of negation were already germinally present. God as first principle of reality could be known. He could be found, though not directly and certainly not fully, within oneself. The well-known Platonist formulation of the philosophical telos, "becoming like unto God to the extent possible", may be taken as representative of the spiritual quest of Greek philosophy as a whole at the time that the early Christians first came into contact with it. The Tradition of Hellenistic Judaism It is time to turn to the second of the traditions that form the point of departure for Christian spirituality. It may be sensed, I believe, that the distance between the Greek philosophical spirituality just outlined above and early Christianity was too great to allow a direct bridge to be formed between them (we recall that this was Paul’s experience on the Areopagus as recorded by Luke in Acts 16). But there was no need to do this anyway. A bridge existed already in the form of Greek-speaking Judaism. The "new song" of the early Christians was not the shir h’adash of the Hebrew Bible, but the asma kainon of the Septuagint. The language of Christian liturgy and thought was formed by the Greek Bible, the foundational book of Hellenistic Judaism. Because it was formulated in Greek, all sorts of connotations from general Greek culture were carried along as well. For example, kainon could be taken to mean not only "new and fresh", but also "novel" or even "revolutionary". The importance of Greek-speaking Judaism for the development of early Christian thought and spirituality cannot easily be overestimated. Here for the first time Greek and Jewish traditions join together. It can safely be said that, without this confluence of two hitherto wholly independent traditions, the present conference would not be taking place, or at the very least the subject of the conference would be a different one. In the surviving flotsam and jetsam of Hellenistic-Jewish literature there is one writer who stands out, the great exegete and philosopher Philo of Alexandria. It would be foolish to regard Philo as a typical representative of Hellenistic Judaism. He was too idiosyncratic, too much a member of an intellectual élite for that. Nevertheless I am convinced that the positive attitude shown by Philo towards the achievements of Greek culture was not only fundamental for Alexandrian Judaism, but is also found in other Greek-speaking Jewish communities as well. Moreover it cannot be denied that the thought and writings of Philo, difficult though they are, exerted a strong attraction on early Christians. By the third century Philo had been adopted as a church Father honoris causa. This is the fascinating story of the reception of Philo in the Christian tradition, which I have recently outlined in a monograph entitled Philo in Early Christian Literature. The first Philonist whose views I wish to cite is another French scholar, Marguerite Harl. She is perhaps best known as the instigator of the ambitious project on the Septuagint, La Bible d’Alexandrie. But the background to this project is the work she did earlier on Origen and Philo. In her magisterial translation and commentary on Philo’s treatise Who is the heir of divine things she argues that important conclusions can be reached on the basis of a reading of this work. The language of Philo’s writings is disconcerting because Greek and Jewish ideas interpenetrate each other so thoroughly. Greek images are used to express Jewish faith, Jewish images conceal convictions that are profoundly Greek. Nevertheless, she argues, it is through the study of imagery rather than a coherent conceptual scheme that one is able to enter Philo’s affective world. Harl shows how Philo places the individual soul within a cosmic context dominated by the immanence of the divine Logos. The soul is able to make an odyssey from the world of material things and claim its inheritance, through the exercise of intellect, in an ascent that aspires to a vision of God beyond the world itself. The fundamental motif is that of inner migration, an allegorical understanding of the Abrahamic quest. This is merged with what Harl calls a "levitic spirituality". The human person must come as suppliant before God’s grace. Even if it might seem on the surface that Philo’s ideal is none other than that of the Platonic or Stoic sage, such a conclusion would be a big mistake. We are far removed from Greek humanism with its vision of the achievement of human perfection. Humans in Philo’s view need to recognise their nothingness (oudeneia) before God, so that they can receive his grace and thus live a life according to the spirit and not according to the flesh. Madame Harl ends with the following conclusion:
This is a strong claim. In one respect at least it is too strong. There is no evidence to suggest that neo-Platonists were influenced by Philo’s spirituality. But it is the Christian heritage that interests us, and in that respect Harl’s claim commands consent. Philo’s spirituality shares many concerns with that of Greek philosophy, but differs in its manner of interiorisation. The human task is to know oneself—Philo finds an equivalent of the Delphic oracle in the words of Moses, "give heed to yourself" (Ex. 34:12, cf. Migr. 8). This is not, however, a matter of finding the divine within, but rather of recognising one’s status over against God. The life of the spirit thus entails a dialogic relation between two wholly unequal partners. The second Philonist whose work I want to refer to is the American Jewish scholar David Winston. His major study on Philo’s thought, which has been gestating for nearly twenty years now, is eagerly awaited. Winston would certainly be in general agreement with everything that has so far been said on Philo’s amalgam of Greek and Jewish thought, but he would wish to place more emphasis on the role of the Logos. This is because Winston’s Philo is just that little bit more Greek than in Harl’s perspective. Humankind is created, in the seminal words of Genesis 1:26, according to God’s image, i.e. in accordance with the divine Logos, that is to say, as an image of an image. This is what gives humankind its special status, its capacity to embark on a quest for its origin. The pursuit of this quest, Winston argues, is best described in mystical terms. There is no evidence to prove that Philo himself was a "practising mystic", but he certainly was a "mystical theorist". Knowledge of God is supreme bliss, separation from God is the greatest of evils. The aim must be to reach the state of "sober intoxication", that ecstatic condition of the soul in timeless union with God the source of all Being. As I already hinted at earlier, Philo is not an easy thinker to deal with. This accounts for his relative lack of popularity. Few scholars read Philo. There is the difficult question of the relation between the Jewish and Greek poles in his thought. There is the further question of how we should understand the reality underlying the flights of his language. Philo’s mysticism, as interpreted by Winston, was certainly not without influence on the Fathers. One thinks in particular of Origen and Gregory of Nyssa. But the more general influence that Philo and Hellenistic Judaism exercised on early Christian thought occurred at a somewhat less rarefied level: in the application of Greek (and particularly Platonic) terminology and conceptuality to a biblical context, often by means of an extensive use of the allegorical method. Let me give a single striking example from Philo’s Exposition of the Law:
This is a lovely example of Philo’s seamless marriage of Greek conceptuality and Jewish spirituality. God is Being with a capital letter. However, he is far from a mere philosophical abstraction, for we are exhorted to "hold fast" to him, and this will gain us eternal life. The chief question of interpretation here is what Philo means by that "knowledge of God" which is the goal of human life and well-being. Is this religious knowledge? Since the context here is exposition of the first commandment, this form of knowledge—involving acknowledgement of God’s presence, devotion and worship—must be included. But Philo surely intends more. Though Winston’s mystical knowledge (if one may be allowed to use this expression) cannot be excluded, it is surely spiritual knowledge, as understood by Madame Harl, that is meant first and foremost. What we read here is a new form of spirituality, and it lies at the origins of much of the Christian spirituality that is being examined and celebrated at this conference. An Example of Early Christian Spirituality: Clement’s "New Song" As promised at the outset, in the final part of this paper I shall turn to early Christian spirituality itself, in order to see the extent to which the origins which have been outlined so far actually make their presence felt. This might seem a well-nigh impossible task, because it can only result in the descent into fairly meaningless generalities. The best way to counter this danger, it seems to me, is to zoom in on a particular example, in which such influence may be discerned and analysed. The example that I have chosen will come as no surprise to those who recall the introductory part of my paper. It is Clement’s "New song of the Logos", the opening chapter of his Protrepticus or Exhortation to the Greeks. Plainly the choice of the example is not without significance. Clement belongs to that tradition, primarily associated with Alexandria but gradually fanning out into the wider Christian world, which did more than any other to introduce a sanitised Hellenism into Christian discourse. Clement’s "new song" is surely one of the foundational documents of early Christian spirituality. We should note, too, that it is a protreptic discourse. It aims to convert Hellenes from myth and error to truth and the true Logos. It thus consciously confronts the question of the relation between the old Hellenic spirituality, as Clement sees it, and the new Christian spirituality which he wishes to put in its place. It is therefore in one sense ideal for our purposes. In another sense, however, it is not an easy example. All readers of Clement know that he is a challenging author. Texts, images, themes are entwined together in a tightly woven fabric, the design of which may be sensed in the reading, but tends to get lost in the course of detailed scrutiny. In other words, the beauty and the art lies largely in the performance. Moreover, if one were to embark on detailed analysis, it would take at least half a book to show how in this short passage of ten sections covering eight pages of text countless Greek and biblical themes are interwoven into a new whole. For these reasons I can do no more than pick out and briefly discuss five major themes in this text which relate to points that I have made in the earlier part of this paper and illustrate how aspects of Greek and Judaeo-Hellenic spirituality are appropriated and transformed. (1) The song of the Logos is a new song, because it has come to wipe out the language of myth which is inextricably associated with the old polytheistic religion of Hellenism. The mountains sacred to Greek myth and literature, as in the case of the story of Eunomos and the grasshopper, are to be abandoned. Instead attention is demanded for the words of Isaiah (2:3): "From Zion the nomos will come forth, and the Logos of the Lord from Jerusalem" (Protr. 2.3). Let truth be taken down from heaven and brought to the holy mountain and to the prophetic choir (2.2). The textuality and imagery of Hellenism are replaced by that of the Bible. As we have noted, this does not entail an entirely new language. For example, in the passage just referred to the terms nomos, logos, and aletheia continue to retain many of the old associations they had in Greek culture. Nomos is not only the Law with a capital letter, but also, in Clement’s context, a melody or musical strain. (2) At the same time, however, the newness of Clement’s song is only partial. It is new because the Christian message is new. But the Old Testament prophecies that it incorporates were already old, certainly no less old than the rival Greek culture itself. They might seem new to the Greek convert, but only because he or she misses the background of the history of Israel. Clement is aware of the dangers of novelty in a conservative culture. The song of the Logos is kainos, but at the same time as old as anything can be. In order to make this clear, the role of the Logos has to be placed in a cosmic perspective. It is the Logos that is the origin and cause of cosmic harmony (5). If the truth be known, he preceded the foundation of the universe (6.4). Not only is the problem of novelty resolved in this way, but it also allows the human situation to be placed in a cosmic perspective. As J.C.M. van Winden has pointed out, Clement here in fact quotes a passage in Philo on the cosmic working of the divine Logos (5.2, from De plantatione 8-9). Philo thus serves as mediator between Clement and Greek philosophy. The human being is a microcosm (5.3). His or her destiny has to be placed in that cosmic perspective which all Greek philosophical schools regarded as fundamental. What is distinctively Christian is Clement’s allusion to Ephesians 1:4: God has chosen us in Christ, before the foundation of the cosmos, to be holy and blameless before him. Even Philo would not understand this. What preceded creation for him was the idea of humankind (De opificio mundi 134), not the destiny of individual human beings before they were born. (3) The "new song of the Logos" offers salvation to those who will listen to it (8.1). It is a medicine of persuasion (2.4). In the Greek myth Orpheus tames wild beasts with his song. The real beasts, however, are human beings with their passions and ignorance (3-4). These only the Logos can tame and give new life, converting them into anthropoi theou, humans belonging to God. The Logos is like a good doctor who has all manner of techniques for restoring the ailing body. Salvation brings about purification (10.2) and results in excellence (arete, 9.1), a godly life (4.2). All the themes of "philosophy as a way of life", as interpreted by Hadot, can be recognised here. Much too of the conceptual framework is retained (passions, ignorance, medicine, therapy, purification, excellence). As has often been pointed out, Clement seems more comfortable in this framework than in the biblical counterpart of sin, repentance, redemption, holiness. Strikingly, however, the term "philosophy" itself is absent. In a protreptic context it belongs to the world that must be left behind. The Logos and his song take its place. The Logos is not only our creator, who gives us the gift of life. He is also our teacher, so that we can live well, and ultimately obtain the eternal life that God extends to us (7.3). The experience of salvation is personalised beyond what we find in philosophical therapeutics. The Logos is not just the abstract spiritual guide of reason, but is Christ, both a human being and God. He is the teacher and spiritual mentor on a superior level, a theme which Clement will further develop in his Paedagogus. Wickedness too is not just a matter of succumbing to passions or making mistakes in one’s reasoning. It is the work of the evil one, the creeping serpent who has led humankind astray from the time of Eve onwards (9.4-5). Clement resists the move of his Alexandrian predecessor Philo, who allegorises the snake away in terms of pleasure or malevolence (cf. Opif. 157ff.). There is a real deceiver out there, one whom only the Logos can charm. (4) Clement’s treatise is an exhortation to the Greeks who are still in the grip of a pagan spirituality that is outdated and has to be replaced. The final section makes a very deliberate reference to the language of the mysteries, but the aim is to christianise it in terms of the true mystery of Christ (see esp. 10.2). As Madame Harl emphasised, Philo’s new spirituality had a universalist potential which he himself as a loyal Jew scarcely exploits. Clement shows no hesitation. The salvation that has been laid away is for those who obey and believe (9.3). Moreover, the key to the door which is Christ the Logos is furnished by faith (10.3): "the gates of the Logos are logikai (involving logos, let us say for the moment), opened by the key of faith (pistis)". It would seem that Clement is deliberately countering the spiritual élitism that we earlier saw to be inherent in Greek philosophy. Faith and salvation are open to all. (5) Yet, and this is my fifth and final point, I wonder to what extent Clement really does manage to surmount the spiritual elitism of both Greek philosophy and Philo. For this issue the final paragraphs of the chapter which I just referred to are telling (10.2-3). Let me quote this passage in full:
As came naturally to one trained in the methods of philosophical discourse, Clement ends his exposé of the "song of the Logos" by indicating its ultimate goal, and that is none other than "to truly see God" or "to know God", the same goal aspired to by Philo’s Israel, and particularly his great hero Moses. This goal is available to humankind because it was created in accordance with God’s image (5.3). Indeed the Logos of God became human so that humans could become God (8.4). The question here can be reduced to the following puzzle: what does Clement actually mean when he says "the gates of the Logos are logikai" (10.3)? He cannot not just mean "pertaining to the Logos (with a capital letter)", since that would render the phrase "of the Logos" otiose. The gates are logikai because they involve the use of logos, however we may wish to translate that notoriously multivocal term. I would like to be inclusive in my interpretation. It involves the use of reason. As Eric Osborn has taught us for more than forty years, Clement values highly the role of logic and argument. It also involves what we might call the orientation of our inbuilt spiritual antenna, inbuilt because we have been created in the image of God which is the Logos. All of this is a spirituality inherited from cognate strains in Greek philosophy and Hellenistic Judaism. But the Logos with a capital letter is Christ, as announced by John the Baptist, the voice in the wilderness (9.1). He is the merciful God who emptied himself and became human in order to save humankind (8.4). From the historian’s point of view, therefore, Clement’s song is both new and old, but not in the way that he himself understood it to be. The key lies in the Logos. It is new because it is the song of Christ the Logos. It is old because Logos as the crucial concept is old, older than Philo and the Hellenistic Judaism that took it over, as old as Greek culture and Greek philosophy itself. Conclusion At the outset of my paper I drew attention to a distinction between a background or backdrop, which provides a setting for something that takes place, and the origins of something, involving some kind of causal relation. As I said then, the title of my paper already indicates a decision on my part. I hope that I have been able to make clear the grounds for that decision. Both Greek philosophy and Hellenistic Judaism contributed to the formation of Christian spirituality. In analytical terms we might say that they were necessary conditions, that is to say, without them it would not have become what it became. But these fall a long way short of being conditions that were sufficient. Then there would have been no "new song". But there was a "new song", one that we ourselves today have briefly listened to, a spiritual melody sung in a Clementine mode. |
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