God’s Monsters: Vengeful Spirits, Deadly Angels, Hybrid Creatures, and Divine Hitmen of the Bible

Esther J. Hamori, God’s Monsters: Vengeful Spirits, Deadly Angels, Hybrid Creatures, and Divine Hitmen of the Bible. (Minneapolis: Broadleaf, 2023).

Friedrich Nietzsche’s most famous aphorism is probably his warning that “he who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.” In this context, “fight with” ostensibly means “fight against.” The idea is that opposing evil paradoxically brings a person so close to evil that they enter its noxious sphere of influence. However, the preposition “with” is suggestively ambiguous (in English, at least). It could also mean fighting alongside monsters—i.e., on the same team as the monsters. Alternatively, it could mean fighting by means of monsters—i.e., using the monsters to fight. If people who fight against monsters risk becoming monsters, how much more so these other people?

I thought about Nietzsche’s iconic line as I read Esther J. Hamori’s God’s Monsters: Vengeful Spirits, Deadly Angels, Hybrid Creatures, and Divine Hitmen of the Bible. YHWH, the Israelite deity, has a track record of fighting with monsters—i.e., against monsters. For instance, there is Leviathan, the “slippery, twisty serpent” (Isa 27:1) whom YHWH is periodically depicted as skewering. Leviathan has deep roots in pre-Israelite mythology, where he is the master of the sea and the embodiment of the primordial chaos that the sea represented for many ancient cultures. The Bible inherited and transformed a myth in which the high god establishes cosmic order by fighting and defeating this monster. It lurks behind many biblical depictions of creation—including the most famous one, with which the Bible itself begins.

For many religious readers of the Bible—both the Hebrew Bible, which is Hamori’s specialty, and the New Testament—the idea that God created the world by thrashing a creature straight out of Tolkien is probably somewhat unsettling. However, for Hamori, that’s the easy part. While she addresses Leviathan in God’s Monsters, she’s much more interested in the other possible meanings of Nietzsche’s aphorism (though, to be clear, she doesn’t cite him). “The most dangerous of [the biblical] monsters are in God’s employ,” she writes. “They’re not his opponents—they’re his entourage” (p. 8). YHWH, Hamori urges, fights alongside and by means of monsters. And she’s not shy about spelling out the terrifying implication, which makes Leviathan look like a pet goldfish: “This God may be the monster of monsters” (p. 7).

Hamori comes by this interest honestly. Throughout her career, she has shown a notable predilection for what can only be described as the “weird” parts of the Bible—i.e., the parts that challenge the rarified monotheism that many Jews and Christians eventually came to associate with it. Her first book addressed divine anthropomorphism, situating biblical depictions of God as a man in their West Semitic context. Next, she wrote an excellent volume about Israelite women’s divination—a combination of two categories that the Bible’s patriarchal authors typically considered dangerously subversive even separately. In this relief, a book about God’s monsters—and God as a monster—is par for the course.

At the same time, God’s Monsters represents something new for Hamori: it is her first book fully intended for a general audience. Whereas many scholars struggle with this transition, Hamori aces it. She clearly delights in challenging the norms of academic disinterest. (The parallel with her delight in challenging sanitized monotheism is no coincidence.) She tells us with disarming honesty that it was her brother’s death by suicide that led her to the Bible’s “macabre stories” and “their recognition of a troubled reality” (p. 9). She mobilizes instructive anecdotes from her experience as a Jewish professor at a Protestant seminary. And she is consistently, relentlessly hilarious—through both her irreverent authorial voice and her gleeful fluency in the monsters of pop culture. I’ve never seen a Bible scholar set the Good Book alongside the SyFy Channel original movie Sharktopus (2010). And, you know what…it works!

 Some readers might find Hamori’s combination of seriousness and frivolousness to be incoherent. However, I would argue that it’s a faithful reflection of what she’s talking about. Monsters themselves are both serious and frivolous. If we aren’t open to this duality, then we’re going to miss crucial dimensions of how the Bible presents God. Hamori’s goal is to encourage that openness. Through its unconventional style, God’s Monsters achieves a profound convergence of matter and form. It’s not just the Bible that is “wild and dangerous terrain” (p. 1). It’s this book too. It’s not just in the Bible that monsters have a “propensity to break into [our] realm” (p. 6). It’s in this book too.

 In Part 1, “God’s Entourage,” Hamori introduces us to six of the monsters who do God’s bidding. First, in Chapter 1, we meet the seraphim: winged, fire-breathing snakes whose terrifying form is conveniently obscured behind their transliterated Hebrew name. God deploys these creatures against Israel in order that he might then protect Israel from them, holding out the promise of healing their deadly bites. “This is ‘protection’ in the mafia sense,” Hamori argues (p. 21). She builds toward Isaiah’s famous throne vision (Isa 6), where seraphim ominously herald God’s decision not to heal the people and instead to facilitate their destruction.

 Chapter 2 brings us to the cherubim, another obfuscatory transliteration. These figures are known to most in the West as round-faced, winged babies. In reality, they are frightening hybrids of dangerous creatures such as eagles, lions, and bulls, plus (adult) humans (e.g., Exod 25; Ezek 10). Like the lamassu who guarded the Assyrian emperor’s palace, cherubim are heavenly border patrol agents who “prevent passage between [divine and human] realms—in both directions” (p. 29). They are all that stands between Israel and their God’s deadly physical presence. Unfortunately for them, God can tell his bodyguards to stand down when he wants to let loose and, say, destroy Jerusalem.

 In Chapter 3, Hamori complicates the regnant picture of Satan. She takes us to a time before his role as the Devil, when he was the Adversary (satan in Hebrew)—God’s close associate on the divine council, essentially a heavenly prosecutor (e.g., Job 2). “For the judge to prod the prosecutor to scrutinize anyone would already be shady,” Hamori writes of God’s permitting the Adversary to afflict the righteous Job. “Here, the judge is deliberately targeting someone he knows to be innocent. This is the very picture of corruption” (p. 84). If Satan eventually becomes the quintessential anti-God monster, his backstory shows that God’s relationship to monsters is always more complicated than such binaries.

 Chapter 4 addresses angels. If cherubim maintain boundaries, then angels transgress them; they are “realm-crossers” (p. 109). We usually think of this as a good thing: angels enter our world to help us. Biblical angels do sometimes come in peace. However, just as often, they come to kill (e.g., Gen 19; Num 22; 2 Kgs 19). Far from benevolent protectors with glowing halos and white wings, these angels are shapeshifting agents of divine violence. Hamori notes that when angels show up in biblical narratives, the humans frequently panic. This is because “biblical characters, more often than Bible readers, recognize angels for what they are, and know full well the lethal danger they pose” (p. 106).

 In Chapter 5, we meet demons. These are not like the explicitly personified demons famous from the New Testament or, for that matter, The Exorcist (1973). Rather, these monsters “are hidden, masked in natural phenomena and obscured in translation” (p. 140). These include pestilence and plague, who appear as a dynamic duo in a poetic account of God’s theophany (Hab 3). Hamori carefully traces their origins in pre-Israelite mythology. These hidden demons, Hamori warns, “are the demons you should be worried about” (p. 140). By now, it will not be surprising why: in contrast to many of their ancient Near Eastern predecessors, the biblical versions take their marching orders from God.

 Finally, Chapter 6 gives us mind-altering spirits, God’s go-to when he wants a subtler touch. Basically, they are weapons of psychological warfare. Saul (1 Sam 16) provides the textbook example: “God … sends the evil spirit to terrorize Saul as reprisal for his disobedience. … Saul’s downfall is a slower process, sparked by the effects of the evil spirit dismantling its victim, never ending until Saul is in the ground” (p. 180). If the image of God working behind the scenes has often been a source of reassurance, then evil spirits, Hamori urges, show us that these covert activities are not always benevolent.

 In Part 2, “The Monsters Beneath,” Hamori shifts to creatures whose relationship to God’s authority is more complicated. Chapter 7 takes up the famous monster whom I mentioned earlier: Leviathan, a sea dragon with an impressive mythological pedigree. Hamori reviews the familiar places (e.g., Isa 27; Ps 74) where these myths reverberate, with God and Leviathan battling for cosmic supremacy. However, her most interesting point is that sometimes, Leviathan is more frenemy than enemy. God’s painstaking description of the dragon’s wondrous body in Job 41 is tellingly reminiscent of the erotic poetry in the Song of Songs. God admires, even loves his cosmic sparring partner—like Christopher Nolan’s Joker telling Batman, “I think you and I are destined to do this forever” (The Dark Night, 2008). (I suspect that Hamori would approve that, in this comparison, God is the Joker.)

 In Chapter 8, Hamori’s tour stops in the underworld. “Ghosts and shades aren’t part of God’s entourage,” she concedes, “but they do reveal a God-monster dynamic that shows some of God’s more troubling interpersonal tendencies” (p. 227). While many people think of the afterlife as something that God is intensely invested in (for better or for worse), Hamori shows us that in the Hebrew Bible, God’s main attitude toward the dead is apathy. Biblical characters fear Sheol, the predominant biblical term for the underworld, in large part because it means being alienated from God (e.g., Isa 38; Ps 6)—although, based on what we’ve seen, we might reasonably wonder if that is really so bad.

 Chapter 9, the end of Part 2, addresses giants—sometimes referred to by the enigmatic Hebrew term “nephilim.” Hamori focuses on the giants who supposedly populate the promised land before Israel conquers it (Num 13). “These giants aren’t monsters,” she objects. “They’re human beings who have been monsterized. And specifically, they’re foreigners” (p. 254). If most of God’s Monsters challenges us to see the monstrous in what we have come to regard as benevolent (e.g., angels), then this is the one place where Hamori does the opposite: she urges us to see the humanity in what we have come to regard as monstrous—and to question this “monsterizing” impulse.

 Part 3, “The God-Monster,” consists of a single chapter that doubles as a conclusion to the book. By this point, the monstrousness of the biblical version of God is no longer a revelation; it has been reinforced in every chapter. Hamori briefly covers God’s own monstrous traits: he is enormous, he blasts fire, he can shapeshift. “In the Bible’s ancient context, it makes sense that God is a monster,” she observes. “The divine and the monstrous are all intertwined in mythology from this region” (p. 267). She closes with a plea that readers see this as an invitation to a deeper, more sophisticated relationship with the Bible: the God-monster may help us to understand and to navigate our objectively monstrous world.

 For all the monsters that Hamori surveys, there is one who plays a surprisingly minor role in her book: us. Human beings mostly appear in these pages as the hapless targets of God’s monsters, not as agents of monstrousness themselves. (Her critique of the monsterization of “giants” is the one clear exception.) Hamori, of course, would scarcely deny that the people in the Bible often do monstrous things. However, she might reasonably object that she doesn’t need to belabor this point because it’s not news to her intended audience. What’s probably more surprising to them is the idea that the God in the Bible does monstrous things—by means, no less, of literal monsters such as fire-breathing snakes and shapeshifting angels.

 Fair enough. However, the monstrous people that I have in mind are not the ones in the Bible. They are the ones who wrote the Bible. While almost no one in God’s Monsters is safe from Hamori’s brutally honest lens, she has a striking soft spot for the biblical authors—like God waxing poetic about Leviathan. To see this, it’s worth quoting at length from her conclusion:

 The Bible is a compilation of countless people’s diverse perspectives from different places and times. Some of these perspectives complement each other, and some conflict—and the Bible is all the richer for it. … This complexity is part of what gives the Bible its depth and dimension. … The biblical texts that depict God’s deployment of monsters and exhibit God’s own monstrosity give room for our grief, anger, and protest. … How poignant it is that many of the Bible’s ancient writers didn’t pretend that everything would be fine if people would just trust God. Sometimes, they said, God is why things aren’t fine at all. … The Bible isn’t a solution to the struggles of life, but a reflection of them (pp. 269–71).

 I wholeheartedly agree with this approach; it is, indeed, what draws me to the historical-critical study of the Bible in the first place. Yet I cannot help but wonder: If Hamori’s point is that God is a monster because he controls the other monsters, then aren’t the biblical authors also monsters because they control the God-monster? After all, the Bible doesn’t simply “reflect” the messiness and suffering of the world. The Bible also constructs such a world—often approvingly, taking God’s side and endorsing the resulting carnage, as Hamori acknowledges in the case of the giants. Sometimes, when the Bible depicts God unleashing his monsters on those who, from our perspective, might not deserve it, you can almost hear the biblical authors cheering, “Hell yeah!” This too is one of those “diverse perspectives” that they convey to their readers.

 Hamori’s God’s Monsters unflinchingly brings the Bible’s horrors to light. Nevertheless, the book issues its most productive challenge through the horrors that it more subtly leaves in the shadows. The biblical monsters certainly tell us something about the God who deploys them to do his bidding. But that monstrous God in turn tells us something about the ancient people who deployed him to articulate and to enforce their understanding of the world. In so doing, that monstrous God tells us something about us—i.e., us as people in general, but perhaps especially us as people who cherish the Bible itself, whether as a historical artifact or as a living scripture (or both). In God’s Monsters, Hamori pushes us to gaze into Nietzsche’s proverbial abyss. True to form, it gazes back.

Ethan Schwartz is Assistant Professor of Hebrew Bible at Villanova University.

The Origins of Early Christian Literature: Contextualizing the New Testament within Greco-Roman Literary Culture

Robyn Faith Walsh, The Origins of Early Christian Literature: Contextualizing the New Testament within Greco-Roman Literary Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021).

From the early days of Christianity, gospel authorship has been a question of fundamental importance. While the names donning the four canonical gospels of the New Testament have long held their place, critical scholars recognize that the original authors of these texts are unknown. Thus, the question of gospel authorship remains a vibrant conversation, one into which Robyn Faith Walsh has entered with The Origins of Early Christian Literature: Contextualizing the New Testament Within Greco-Roman Literary Culture. Offering a tantalizing possibility, Walsh argues that the Synoptic Gospels are not primarily religious texts, but literary works created by “elite cultural producers” (p. 110), Greco-Roman authors who had an interest in Judaean culture and religious motifs, but who may not have understood themselves as belonging to a Christian community.

In addition to the introduction and conclusion, this book is divided into five chapters, each with titled subsections that create a straightforward framework for the reader to follow. Its relatively short length betrays the amount of information that is packed within its pages, and yet it is written in a style fit for a broad range of readers, from undergraduates to fellow scholars in the field.

In the Introduction, “Diamonds in a Dunghill: Seeking New Approaches to Early Christian Studies,” Walsh lays the groundwork for her argument, suggesting that the scholarly efforts to reclaim definitive communities behind the Synoptic Gospels have been filled with trouble. New Testament scholarship has often ignored knowledge of ancient writing practices in favor of oral traditions and imagined literate spokespersons for early Christian groups. It is here that she first describes the Gospel authors as “creative writers” but not “biographers or historians” (p. 16) as we might understand those terms today. Furthermore, Walsh uses this introduction to dispel the notion that the Gospels were exceptional, asserting instead their proper place within Greco-Roman literary culture.  

In Chapter 1, “The Myth of Christian Origins,” Walsh seeks to reframe some of the perceptions of early Christianity as presented in the Gospels and the Book of Acts. Christianity did not have a rapid, explosive beginning but one which was slow and meandering. Nor were its early days comprised of overarching institutions or unambiguous communities. Its separation from Judaism, furthermore, was an ill-defined divergence which calls into question the early existence of a distinct Christian religion. Texts which became part of the New Testament functioned to reinforce notions of “Big Bang” (p. 8) Christian origins, especially as second century Christians began assembling and codifying material they found important. But Walsh cautions that scholars must be careful not to reinforce the mythic origins of the Christian movement as pure history.   

Chapter 2, “The Romantic Big Bang: German Romanticism and Inherited Methodology,” demonstrates the influence of German Romanticism on modern New Testament scholarship. This intellectual movement had wide-ranging impacts, influencing politics, philosophy, and religion, and adhered to the belief that humanity could not “exist outside a community or state” (p. 52). Critical New Testament scholarship emerged alongside and within these Romantic Era notions and was infused with the idea that the Gospel authors represented communities of early Christians. Textual studies of New Testament literature sought to recapture the spirit of the early Christian Volk, as the Brothers Grimm, Richard Wagner, Friedrich Nietzsche and others attempted to do for the German people. The Brothers Grimm, Walsh argues, were especially influential in their persistent belief that it was possible to reclaim the essence of communities through literature, and that the proper scrutiny of texts could reveal its oral roots. The Gospel authors came to be viewed as the “representative author-geniuses of their age” (p. 78) standing in for an otherwise amorphous community. Walsh dedicates ample time to this subject (over one quarter of the book) but feels greater reflection on the roots of modern New Testament methodology is needed and calls for a revision of some long-held practices.     

Chapter 3, “Authorship in Antiquity: Specialization and Social Formations,” analyzes the Greco-Roman world of literary education and production. It highlights the literary reality of the ancient Mediterranean world, one in which the vast majority of individuals could not read or write. Those who could read and write were set apart in their skillsets and their ability to produce and influence aspects of culture. The authors of the Gospels, therefore, should be recognized as writers engaging in the same categories of influence as other figures from this epoch of history such as Homer, Plato, and Virgil. It should be noted that these elite skillsets did not necessarily equate to elite socioeconomic status, as slaves were frequently deployed in the production of written texts. Writers would often share and adapt common subjects and motifs, crafting their own versions of stories which were already in circulation.[1] Walsh offers Philo of Alexandria as an example of an author who is interested in religious subjects but is not necessarily writing for religious communities.

In Chapter 4, “Redescribing Early Christian Literature: The Gospels, the Satyrica, and Anonymous Sources,” Walsh engages with the literary uses of eyewitnesses, anonymity, and shared motifs. She brings the Synoptic Gospels into conversation with these literary devices and offers the Satyrica as a valuable text for understanding common motifs in the Greco-Roman world. The reader is here exposed to a Greco-Roman work of fiction generally attributed to Gaius Petronius and dated sometime between the middle of the first century and the early second century of the Common Era. A character in the Satyrica is anointed at a meal with close friends in the face of impending death. Later, the crowing of a rooster is taken as a bad omen, and a series of wild events leads to an empty tomb following the crucifixion of several robbers. These motifs draw striking comparisons to Jesus’ anointing by a woman in Bethany, Peter’s denial of Jesus marked by a crowing rooster, and the empty tomb discovered by Jesus’ followers after his crucifixion. Earlier dates for the Satyrica may imply that the gospel authors borrowed these elements and incorporated them into narratives about Jesus, but what becomes abundantly clear, regardless of when one may date the Satyrica, is that the gospel authors were part of a literary world that shared similar thematic elements. Walsh uses these correlations to further espouse that the communities percolating behind the gospel texts, if any, were not religious groups circulating oral traditions about Jesus. Instead, authors in community with other literary minds adapted these texts as a way to flex their creative muscles.  

Lastly, Chapter 5, “The Gospels as Subversive Biography,” examines the Gospels as texts with rebellious themes, positioning them within the broader range of biographical material produced in the Greco-Roman world. In certain respects, the Gospels share similarities with other ancient biographies, although Walsh admits that “biography” is a term which could encompass several different types of ancient literature. Generally speaking, these biographies focus on an important figure, such as Alexander the Great, and seek to elevate them by highlighting their accomplishments and virtuous character. Sometimes the subjects of these texts possess magical powers and superior intellect and may even be portrayed as a social outsider. Authors of biographies sought to retell the story of an individual’s life, but embellished or outright created some stories if they felt it was necessary. The biography was not so much about telling an exact history, but explaining what type of person the subject was. Not all biographies were subversive, but Walsh claims that the Gospels’ portrayal of Jesus is best defined using such a term. Jesus is said to have taught in parables, belonged to a lower-class sector of society, and been a “social underdog” (p. 173). The main figure of the Gospels is on the fringes of society, and the Gospel narratives gave a voice to those on the margins.    

The conclusion, “‘Lions mate with lions’: Creative License and Future Directions,” is a short valediction filled with a challenge. The Gospels are literature. They are art. They may be something more, but critical engagement requires theoretical work be done on how to understand the authors, audiences, and literary cultures of the ancient world. Walsh poses a legitimate question regarding the scholarly attempts to “read between the lines” (p. 198) of ancient texts in order to gain access to a true, unadulterated version of the past: can one rely on the author of an ancient text to “truthfully communicate anything about real life?” (p. 198).   

A critique may be offered concerning a few of Walsh’s perspectives on early Christian communities. While her arguments regarding the Gospels’ relationship, or lack thereof, to religious communities is compelling, it is probable that some communities of early Jesus’ followers existed by the middle of the first century. Paul of Tarsus, author of at least seven New Testament texts, gives evidence of this in the various letters he wrote to Jesus followers. To be sure, attempts to define these communities encounter some the same problems Walsh describes concerning the Gospels, and accounts of Paul and Christian conversions in the Book of Acts are undoubtedly exaggerated. But Walsh claims that the scholarly acceptance of Paul’s “rhetoric about communities” (p. 41) reinforces the myths of Christian origins, a claim which requires greater explanation. Walsh’s strict understanding of a community may be to blame here, as she feels greater evidence for the “cohesion of the participants” (p. 42) in these groups needs to be demonstrated.    

Determining who wrote the Gospels will continue to be an endeavor of the scholarly community. Regardless of who the original authors were, the truth remains that these texts are products of the Greco-Roman literary world, and as such, they should be understood within that context, not as exceptional artifacts of an isolated time and place. Walsh succeeds at bringing this literary world to the forefront and her knowledge of the Classical world is on full display. This book challenges the longstanding perceptions of Gospel origins, as well as the established paradigms of New Testament scholarship, while reminding us that biblical scholarship must remain open to adaptation and introspection.

Tyler Blaine Wilson is a graduate student at the University of Denver. His research interests include the Gospel of Mark, the historical Jesus, and Christian origins.

[1] This is something which the author of the Gospel of Luke attests to.

Editor's Response

I wish to cordially thank Dr. Samuel Cook and Dr. Jacob Lollar for their reflections on and critique of the Parabiblica Coptica volume. They both have raised several important points, but in what follows, I would like to limit myself to two issues.

First, I believe that Cook is spot on in noting that the Coptic scholars of today are still struggling to overcome the colonialist prejudice of our predecessors (which, of course, does not mean that we should not explore and learn from past scholarship—only that we should not do it uncritically). Indeed, the assumption that a Coptic literary work, be it an apocryphon, a martyrdom, or a sermon, is inadvertently a translation from the Greek original still permeates the field—even if there is no evidence whatsoever that this work was ever available in the Greek language.

Today we are even ready to take a step further and to appreciate the fact that some texts in antiquity were undoubtedly translated from Coptic into Greek. For instance, Alin Suciu has recently convincingly demonstrated that the early ascetic authors Paul of Tamma and Stephen of Thebes wrote in Coptic—even though their works also exist in Greek. As for the Coptic apocrypha, the same most certainly holds true for the Investiture of Michael. We should, therefore, be open to the possibility that some other apocryphal texts, extant in both Greek and Coptic, were in fact original Coptic compositions. For example, all the extant Greek manuscripts of the Acts of Andrew and Bartholomew (Martelli 2015: 78–97) preserve an abbreviated version of the text, while the Coptic fragments (Guidi 1887) bear witness to the original, unabridged version. We should thus seriously consider the possibility that not only was this apocryphon written in Coptic, but that it may have never existed in Greek in its complete form.

With this in mind, perhaps we should also be more conscious about our presuppositions regarding the inner-Coptic literary transmission. The Sahidic dialect was undoubtedly the dominant one in the first millennium, and the vast majority of literary texts that came down to us from this period are written in Sahidic. But do we always need to assume that a text extant in a non-Sahidic dialect is necessarily a translation from Sahidic? Personally, I find it quite likely that, in the north of Egypt, various texts were originally composed in the Bohairic dialect.

In this respect, quite remarkable is the apocryphal Acts of Matthew in the City of the Priests, which was part of the “official” dossier of the apostle Matthew and until recently was known only in Arabic and Gəʿəz. In 2018, however, Suciu published a Bohairic fragment of this text, which was discovered in the “Dome of the Treasury” (qubbat al-khaznah) of the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. With this discovery, we can now be certain that the Acts of Matthew in the City of the Priests was initially written in Coptic. I strongly suspect, however, that it is not an accident of preservation that no fragment of this text survives in Sahidic. In codex MONB.QY, which contains exclusively the apostolic “preachings,” the place of the “preaching” of Matthew is occupied by the Martyrdom of Matthew, augmented with an episode about the apostles casting lots and dividing up their mission-districts. In codex MONB.MS, the heading that reads “This is the preaching and the passing-away of saint [Matthew], the apostle [and] evangelist” is similarly followed by the Martyrdom of Matthew. In both cases, the compilers needed the “preaching” of Matthew and, in both cases, they filled the slot with the Martyrdom of Matthew. The Acts of Matthew in the City of the Priests would seem to be a more fitting candidate, and a likely explanation as to why neither of the two compilers used it is that it never existed in Sahidic. In other words, it seems reasonable to surmise that the Acts of Matthew in the City of the Priests is an original Bohairic composition.

My second point pertains to Lollar’s apt remark on the Coptic and Syriac apocrypha as “distinct constellations” in the parabiblical universe. I believe that it is indeed advisable to abstain from trying to explain shared features between the two traditions by postulating direct influence or dependence. In many instances, the similarities emerge in the process of parallel development. This is why it is so exciting to observe those instances where the two traditions actually meet—as is the case of the famous Monastery of the Syrians in Wādī al-Naṭrūn. The mural painting referenced by Lollar is indeed remarkable. In my view, it represents a felicitous marriage of the Coptic and Syriac traditions. On the one hand, Andrew is depicted with bristling grey hair, its locks resembling tongues of flame. This depiction is typical for the Coptic iconography of the apostle, as evidenced, for example, by the famous fresco of the Virgin Enthroned from the Monastery of Apa Apollo at Bāwīṭ. Moreover, as I pointed out in an earlier publication (Miroshnikov 2018: 15–17) many Coptic apocrypha testify to the intimate link between Andrew and fire. For instance, the so-called Historia Sacra, a collection of legends of various biblical figures, reads:

Andrew, the brother of Peter, was a flame of fire more than all the apostles; and if he went into the city to preach, and they did not listen and receive his preaching, he would be wroth, so as to cause a fire to come forth from the heaven and burn them. For this reason one of the apostles was set to walk with him, so that, if his anger blazed against them (i.e., the unbelievers), he might say to him straightway: “Remember the commandment of our Savior which He gave us, saying: ‘Go and preach to all the nations, and baptize them in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost’ (Matt 28:19).” And so his spirit would rest and be established straightaway aright.

On the other hand, Andrew in the mural is depicted as preaching to cynocephalic (dog-headed) people. While Innemée in the publication referenced by Lollar correctly identifies this scene as that from the Acts of Andrew and Matthias in the City of the Cannibals, it is worth noting that nowhere in the Coptic tradition do the cannibals of this story seem to be portrayed as cynocephali. The Syriac version of this text, on the other hand, explicitly calls the city of the cannibals “the City of Dogs” (Wright 1871: 102, 115). This notion perhaps developed from a reading of the Acts of Andrew and Bartholomew, which features a cynocephalic individual (called Christianos in Coptic and Christomaios in Greek) hailing from the city of the cannibals. Be that as it may, the image of cynocephalic cannibals seems to be Syriac rather than Coptic, and thus the Andrew mural, I believe, is a beautiful love child of the Coptic and Syriac traditions.

Works Cited

Guidi, I. 1887. “Frammenti copti. Nota IVa.” Atti della Reale Accademia dei Lincei: Rendiconti 3.2,1 ser. iv: 177–90.

Martelli, L. 2015. “Acta Andreae et Bartholomaei (I 2056, CANT 238). Edizione critica e commento della versione greca.” PhD diss., Università di Bologna.

Miroshnikov, I. 2018. “The Coptic Martyrdom of Andrew.” Apocrypha 29: 9–28.

Suciu, A. 2018. “A Bohairic Fragment of the Acts of Matthew in the City of the Priests and Other Coptic Fragments from the Genizah of the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus.” Le Muséon: revue d’études orientales 131: 251–77.

Wright, W. 1871. Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles Edited from Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum and Other Libraries. London: Williams and Norgate.

Ivan Miroshnikov is a Pro Futura Scientia Fellow at the Swedish Collegium for Advanced Study, Researcher at the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, Mid Sweden University, Docent in Early Christian and Coptic Studies at the University of Helsinki, and Senior Research Fellow at the Centre for Egyptological Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences. He is the author of The Gospel of Thomas and Plato: A Study of the Impact of Platonism on the “Fifth Gospel”, the co-author of Coptica Fennica: Catalog of the Coptic Manuscripts from the Ilves Collection Exhibited at the National Archives of Finland (16 June–14 August 2020) , the editor of Parabiblica Coptica, and the co-editor of Women and Knowledge in Early Christianity. He is currently working on publishing various hitherto unedited manuscripts in Coptic, both documentary and literary.