Introduction

In the fifth century, Pope Leo the Great chastised Juvenal, the bishop of Jerusalem, claiming that the bishop was “blind to the Lord’s incarnation.” Juvenal, of course, believed in the incarnation, but considering his participation in the Robber Council of Ephesus and the danger of association with monophysite heresy, Leo believed he needed some Christological correction. Leo found Juvenal’s recalcitrance confusing, especially since he was in close proximity to the holy places in Jerusalem. For Leo, Juvenal could not disbelieve since he was in the presence of the holy by virtue of being surrounded by places such as the Holy Sepulcher, Gethsemane, and Bethlehem. Leo praises Juvenal’s subsequent return to orthodoxy, but still calls his break inexcusable due to his physical location, writing to the bishop, “Why is the understanding in difficulty, where the eyes are its instructors? And why are things read or heard doubtful, where all the mysteries of man’s salvation obtrude themselves upon the sight and touch?”1 Leo’s diatribe emphasizes the important place material culture and the visual tradition held in early Christianity: to see is really to believe. Leo even preaches that words may be useful but “the activity of sight was teaching them.”2 The early

1. Leo, 139 (NPNF 212.98). Ep. 2. Leo, . 37. See , Fathers of the Church Series (Washington, DC: Catholic University Serm Sermons Press, 1995).

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Christian visual language was critical in the development of the religion, particularly after Constantine when it was recognized as an official . Whether gazing upon an image of Jesus or visiting a religio church in Jerusalem, sight was the master for the early Christian. Christian art, however, did not arrive or develop . It ex nihilo borrowed and adapted elements of the existing visual examples of its Roman context. Early Christian narrative and non-narrative art utilizes prototypes from Roman cultic art and from Jewish art as well. This phenomenon has been well documented in recent years by scholars such Jas Elsner, Thomas Mathews, and Robin M. Jensen. This book focuses on one such influence, the imperial influence, upon early Christian art. Images of the emperor and the practice of the imperial cult had an obvious impact upon early Christianity. But how much of an impact is a subject that has caused some rancor among art historians and religion scholars. Constantine’s conversion in 312 ce and the subsequent Edict of Milan were seen by art historians of the twentieth century as climactic events for early Christian art. The art historian André Grabar was not the only voice that emphasized the imperial influence upon Christian art, but his was arguably the most influential. Grabar believed that Christian art was relegated to the private ante-pacem sphere and rarely went beyond the symbolic. The art was incohesive and uncomplicated. This perspective, though deeply ingrained, is not without flaws. By exploring third-century catacomb evidence this viewpoint can be challenged. For example, it seems clear that from the beginning Christian art was narrative art. Images served as visual “pages,” with the medium of wall painting serving as the manuscript.3 At the catacomb of Vigna Massimo, one painting features scenes of Daniel, Jonah, and Lazarus that are congruent with a funerary

3. Robin M. Jensen, (New York: Routledge, 2000), 90–91. Understanding Early Christian Art

2 INTRODUCTION

atmosphere. The images are integrated and intentionally placed within the surrounding examples, creating a cohesive whole rather than isolated images.4 Grabar argued that in the second half of the fourth century, beginning with the Junius Bassus sarcophagus, the central theme on Christian sarcophagi is Christ enthroned (what he calls “Christ in Majesty”).5 Following Constantine, Christians adopted the entire imperial style for portraying Jesus. What was once imperial art was appropriated by Christians and placed upon the person of Jesus. Grabar memorably argued that “the mark of imperial iconography in Christian art is recognizable everywhere and in different ways: appropriation of themes and subjects, borrowings of iconographic details, utilization of more remote models for the creation of analogous images. It is to the theme of the supreme power of God that imperial art contributed the most, and most naturally so, since it was the key theme of all the imagery of the Christian image-makers with a series of tested models, and they profited from them largely.”6 The art historian Hans Belting argues that Christians clearly adapted the imperial cult and the cult of images associated with the imperial cult for Christian purposes. Belting states that showing the emperor in a in a monument such as the Arch of Galerius, was clipeus borrowed by Christians who placed figures such as Jesus and John the Baptist in a in iconography. Moreover, Belting’s work repeats clipeus a popular assertion that ritual action involving imperial images was appropriated by the church. Such ritual actions would include paying homage to certain images of Jesus or even parading images on festival

4. Mathews disputes the long-held view that early Christian images held no connection from one image to another to create a programmatic whole. See Mathews, (Princeton: The Clash of Gods Princeton University Press, 1993), 13. 5. André Grabar, , (London: Thames & Hudson, 1966), The Beginnings of Christian Art 200-395 249. 6. Grabar, : (Princeton: Princeton University Press, Christian Iconography A Study of Its Origins 1968), 42.

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days. Belting asserts that in the sixth century and beyond, “icons of Christ and of the emperor were even worshipped side by side, with more or less the same rituals.”7 This position neatly explains images of the enthroned Jesus. Scholars following Grabar’s post-pacem and Belting’s arguments would interpret an ecclesial image of Christ enthroned as having imperial antecedents and connections. Thomas Mathews famously rebuts the imperial argument in his book , now in its second printing. In the first The Clash of Gods chapter, titled “The Emperor Mystique,” Mathews includes this term to describe the continual reaction to art of this period as imperial. In Mathews’s estimation, Christian art had a variety of influences, many of them nonimperial, that must be taken into account. In his introduction, Mathews delves into a social-historical critique of scholars such as Grabar, claiming that their arguments for an imperial influence are evidence of their own historical context. According to Mathews, those who advanced the imperial argument—Ernst Kantorowicz, Andreas Alfoldi, and André Grabar—were blinded by their social upbringing in failed empires such as Russia, Austria- Hungary, and Prussia.8 Mathews suggests that Grabar saw Jesus as an emperor out of nostalgia for a Russia of the tsars, for example. Grabar’s arguments in Mathews’s estimation thus reveal more about Grabar than about early Christian art.9 Such claims make Mathews an easy target to refute. Critics such as Liz James pointed out his characterization of the “Emperor Mystique” as flawed due to his unfortunate personal critique of Grabar’s social background.10 While Mathews’s book was pivotal, forcing a conversation and reevaluation of art of this period, his thesis was

7. Hans Belting, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 106. Likeness and Presence 8. Mathews, , 15–16. Clash of Gods 9. Mathews, , 16. Clash of Gods 10. Liz James, “Review: by Thomas F. The Clash of Gods. A Reinterpretation of Early Christian Art Mathews,” 136, no. 1096 (July 1994), 458–59. The Burlington Magazine

4 INTRODUCTION

never entirely accepted by art historians.11 In his review of Mathews’s book for the , Peter Brown critiques Mathews but also Art Bulletin points out that this was a “book that needed to be written. . . . Classical scholars tended to assume that the art and culture of the Christians were virtually non-existent; that they needed a ‘head start’ from imperial and upper-class patrons to flourish at all.”12 Mathews’s work still tends to be divisive for art historians rather than a unifying voice in the field. This book follows in the wake of Mathews, and desires to continue the conversation regarding the imperial influence on early Christian art. As the reader will see, the authors of the essays in this volume are not unified in their assessment of the imperial influence. However, despite our different viewpoints, the authors agree that this is a conversation worth having without retreating behind disciplinary lines or staid theories. Art historians and religion scholars have much to share to illuminate our conception of the art of Late Antiquity. We contend that the art and imagery of Late Antiquity require a deeper understanding of the context of the imperial period before and after Constantine. And a variety of voices, rather than one, can help gain perspective on art in this era. Thus a volume of different essays is perhaps the best approach to begin reevaluating Christian art of Late Antiquity. These chapters each treat an aspect of the relationship between early Christian art and the rituals, practices, or imagery of the empire. The persistent assumption that fourth-century Christian art was influenced primarily by Constantine’s acceptance of the religion and incorporated elements of the imperial cult must be challenged. These chapters offer a new and fresh perspective on the development of Christian art in its imperial background.

11. Reviews of Mathews’s book such as James’s and Annabel Wharton’s in American Historical (December 1995). Review 12. Peter Brown, “Review of by Thomas F. Mathews,” 77, no. 3 The Clash of Gods Art Bulletin (September 1995), 499.

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In the initial chapter, Robin M. Jensen examines the topic of how imperial procession rituals heavily influenced Christian liturgical rituals and early Christian art. Art historians and liturgical scholars simply presumed that after Constantine, Christianity merely transplanted imperial rituals and imbued them with a Christian understanding. Imperial rituals such as divinizing the emperor, worshiping his genius in official proceedings, witnessing triumphal processions in the city of Rome, and ritual practices involving temple sacrifice and the eating of sacrificial food were practices observed and understood by an early Christian audience. Among the most commonly cited examples of imperial ceremonies that influenced early Christian material culture are the presentation of tribute, the imperial , and the apotheosis or consecration of an emperor adventus after his death. Art historians have linked these three particular ceremonies with three parallel events in the life of Christ, all of them depicted in fourth- and fifth-century Christian art: the adoration of the magi, the entrance into Jerusalem, and the ascension. What Jensen shows is that the “imperializing” of Christianity through these artistic examples is overstated and much more complex than initially realized. Jensen goes even further, suggesting that these artistic examples could even be understood as counter-imperial rather than pro-imperial, an argument that has received little attention in prior scholarship. An early Christian artistic motif that is utilized to support the well- entrenched theory that Christian images prior to Constantine were relatively humble while post-Constantinian images exude glory is the . Thomas Mathews challenged this theory in his book traditio legis The , calling such a theory the “Emperor Mystique.” Despite Clash of Gods some misgivings of art historians, examining Mathews’s theory through the lens of the illuminates the logic behind his traditio legis argument. In his chapter, Lee Jefferson explains how the image of an

6 INTRODUCTION enthroned Jesus giving the law seemingly represents a triumphal Jesus and recalls the imperial cult. But Jefferson argues that the focus of the is not the enthroned Jesus at all, but rather the action traditio legis that Jesus is performing. In giving the law, the image represents and reflects ecclesial authority, an interpretation that can be illuminated by the historical context of fourth- and fifth-century Rome. By focusing on several examples of the , Jefferson believes traditio legis that the interpretation of the as an image suggesting traditio legis church hierarchy and authority can be realized. As the author of the pseudepigraphic letter 1 Peter saw it, writing in 80–90 ce, many early Christians lived as “sojourners” in an empire that was not really their own. Speaking in the guise of the apostle Peter, the author advised them not to draw attention to themselves, to show respect to everyone in their daily interactions, and above all, to “honor the emperor” (1 Pet. 2:17). Despite the apoplectic protestations of their peers, many Christians did just that by taking part in Rome’s imperial cult. In his chapter, Douglas Boin points out that from the text of Revelation to the writings of Tertullian, Christians can be seen participating in festivals and sacrifices for the emperor. Seen in light of other Christians who are known to have taken part in imperial festivals, this appeal to Peter as a voice of cultural resistance can now emerge as a highly “selective” social memory of certain writers within the Christian movement. According to Boin, the stereotype of Christians as a self-isolated minority that did not participate in festivals and celebrations of Roman civic life should be discarded. His study illuminates what it meant to be “Christian” in the time of Constantine and beyond. The execution of Jesus of Nazareth lies at the heart of the Christian faith. An image of Jesus crucified is exceedingly rare in visual art and material culture prior to the sixth century. However, images of the instrument of his death, the cross, rather than a crucifix,

7 THE ART OF EMPIRE appear in post-Constantinian art as references to salvation and victory instead of suffering. Felicity Harley-McGowan explains the Roman practice of depicting the conqueror over the vanquished as a trophy and symbol of victory. In early Christian literature, Jesus’ triumph over death is occasionally described as a military conquest, but it is curious how this imperial influence corresponds to early Christian art. Harley-McGowan points out that the symbol of the captive in Roman imperial examples, the trophy that was so critical, is absent in representations of Christian triumph. By utilizing the work and theory of André Grabar, Harley-McGowan explains how Christian art reversed the imperial prototype, and the victim was transformed into the victor. The effect was important for the development of Christian iconography, for it created a new genre of imagery: Christian suffering. However, Harley-McGowan examines how imperial themes were incorporated and understood in the development of Christian iconography. Jennifer Awes Freeman takes up the recognizable and important symbol of the Good Shepherd in early Christian art. Often the Good Shepherd is seen only through an imperial lens. She identifies the false dichotomy created by prior scholars, which pits the humble, grassroots Christ depicted in catacombs and sarcophagi against that of the triumphant enthroned Christ of apse mosaics. Freeman suggests that this understanding must be reexamined, and instead the two iconographic motifs are not so very different. Freeman argues that the image of Christ as the Good Shepherd, with connections to kings like David, can in fact be interpreted as another possible dimension of imperial iconography rather than one of pastoral, peaceful humility. Jacob Latham treats similar issues of negotiation and adoption, focusing on the . Latham describes the shift in imperial pompa circensis representations of the procession during the games in numismatic art. Rather than depict the gods, third-century coins depict the living

8 INTRODUCTION emperor as sponsor of the games. This shift was useful for post- Christian emperors. As Latham points out, Christian critics pacem such as Tertullian were merciless in their rhetoric against the games. Turning attention to the sponsor of the games occluded the presence of the gods, which allowed the procession (and so also the games) to appear neutral. Thus, the games and the procession that preceded them were sanitized of any patina of idolatry, and their practice could continue as a secular practice. Latham goes on to describe how the survival of the may have allowed it to be Christianized, pompa circensis with symbols of the Christian God appearing in representations in certain images, granting the practice a sense of legitimacy. Roman statuary, even entering into the Constantinian period, included prominent images of the gods and of the emperor. The Colossal Constantine statue, the remains now housed in the Capitoline Museum, exhibit such a tendency in fourth-century art. Michael Peppard asks the question: Why did early Christians in the fourth century populate their nascent visual language with statues not of Jesus? There are some images of Jesus as the Good Shepherd, but few if any of Jesus as “Colossal” as Constantine. Peppard’s chapter is not as much about what Christians did but what they, for the most part, did do—and will treat the decision ultimately not to not reinstall the commissioned silver statues for the Lateran Basilica after the sack of Rome. Peppard examines how early Christians mediated the divine presence in the absence of statues through art, ritual, and symbols. The decisions made by early Christians regarding statues allow us to more fully analyze theories of how art functioned in early Christianity during the imperial period. As Peppard argues, the avoidance of statues allowed early Christians to negotiate visually between Jewish and Roman identities. Late Antique Constantinople was far from Rome, and as Katherine Marsengill points out, the emperor Constantine mimicked elements

9 THE ART OF EMPIRE of Rome and also abandoned some of the visual aspects of Roman cultic influence. There certainly continued to be statues and images of the emperor in public spaces, but following Constantine, there were churches and also spaces for images of Christ. Marsengill argues that the development of Late Antique Constantinople is an apt example of the imperial influence on Christian iconography. It seems that there was space in which the emperor and his veneration could exist alongside a nascent Christian influence in the city. Marsengill claims that until around the turn of the fifth century the public spaces in Constantinople were dedicated to the adoration of the emperor. As time progressed, iconography expressed less of a severe dichotomy between Christ and the emperor and more of an intertwined relationship. In the final chapter, Adam Levine analyzes a little-discussed image of Jesus from the fourth century. The Hinton St. Mary mosaic was discovered in Dorset in England. The central image features the only surviving image of Jesus from Late Antique Britain. The figure appears in a with a above his head. The central image clipeus chi rho has been generally interpreted to represent Jesus; however, it shares features with representations of the emperor. Levine argues that the Hinton St. Mary mosaic is more complicated than previously reported, and that imperial iconography is an important factor in discerning how a Christian in Late Antique Britain would interpret the central image. Although varied in topic and stance, these chapters are united in the perception that Christian art in its imperial context deserves further attention. However influential, the work of previous scholars should be revisited and challenged. Providing more voices to the conversation rather than limiting them respects the complexity of Christian art in Late Antiquity and advances our understanding of the topic. This book, with its interdisciplinary methodology, hopes to

10 INTRODUCTION increase the awareness that early Christians were as visually oriented as Leo insisted. And early Christians were dedicated to portraying their relationship with their God with a variety of influences, including the most obvious one: the empire in which Christianity blossomed.

Lee M. Jefferson Robin M. Jensen

11 1

Allusions to Imperial Rituals in Fourth-Century Christian Art

Robin M. Jensen

Historians of early Christianity often assert that imperial court ceremonies were heavily influential on the development of Christian liturgy during the fourth and fifth centuries. For example, in his expansive history of Christian worship, Frank Senn asserts that one should seek the origins of the entrance rite, with its solemn procession of richly vested clergy, candle bearers, and acolytes wafting incense and singing psalms in the rituals of an imperial .1 The bishop’s chair at the back of the apse has been adventus

1. See, for example, Frank Senn, (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, Introduction to Christian Liturgy 2012), 31–32; Justo González, , 2nd edition vol. 1 (New York: The Story of Christianity

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compared to the of a presiding magistrate or governor, sella curulis the church building named for what it was perceived to be: the replication of a king’s audience hall (basilica). Historians of liturgy and art alike often simply presume that once Christianity became the dominant religion of the imperial house, Christian worship and ecclesiastical organization became little more than a wholesale transplantation of the trappings and symbols of secular kingship.2 In such constructions, images and activities alike served to equate God (or Christ) with the enthroned ruler and to view the local bishop as his earthly vicar. While the fourth-century church undoubtedly adapted practices and artistic motifs that had imperial associations, this chapter argues that it simultaneously infused those actions and images with a new significance and, in doing so, might even have undermined their previous meanings and purposes. Among the most commonly cited examples of these ceremonies are the presentation of tribute, the imperial , and the apotheosis or consecration of an emperor adventus after his death. Art historians have linked these three particular ceremonies with three parallel events in the life of Christ, all of them depicted in fourth- and fifth-century Christian art: the adoration of the magi, the entrance into Jerusalem, and the ascension. Moreover, these parallels are often cited as prime examples of the imperializing of Christianity.3 The following discussion will consider each of these exemplary scenes and argue not only that the influence and

HarperOne, 2010), 143–44; and Per Beskow, Rex Gloriae: The Kingship of Christ in the Early (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1962), 15–16; 4. Church 2. Including Theodor Klauser, (Oxford: Oxford University A Short History of the Western Liturgy Press, 1979), 34; and Allan Doig, Liturgy and Architecture from the Early Church to the Middle (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2008), 38. Ages 3. Most notably, Johannes Deckers, in his essay “Göttlicher Kaiser und kaiserlicher Gott: Die Imperialisierung des Christentums im Spiegel der Kunst,” in Epochenwandel? Kunst und Kultur , ed. F. A. Bauer and N. Zimmerman (Mainz: Philipp von zwischen Antike und Mittelalter Zabern, 2001), 3–16.

14 ALLUSIONS TO IMPERIAL RITUALS adaptation of imperial ceremonies is more complex than it appears, but that the message may even be counter-imperial in certain instances.

1. The Adoration of the Magi and the Aurum Coronarium

The earliest surviving visual representations of Jesus’ nativity do not show a baby lying in a straw-filled manger surrounded by adoring parents, shepherds, angels, and regally attired kings; instead they depict a somewhat older child sitting on his mother’s lap and eagerly accepting gifts from a queue of three nearly identical young men dressed in trousers, short tunics, flying capes, and little peaked caps (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1. Adoration of the Magi, lower left register, early Christian sarcophagus, Arles (Trinity sarcophagus), ca. 320–35. Now in the Musée de l’Arles et de la Provence antiques. Photo: Author.

Although these gift-bearers—the adventurous magi of Matthew’s Gospel (2:1-12)—approach the mother and child on foot, their camels often accompany them. Their leader points to a star that hovers just above Mary’s head, and each presents his offering, usually

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distinguished by shape or type of container (e.g., a wreath, box, or bowl). Versions of this basic composition, dated from the late third to the middle of the fifth century, decorated the walls of Christian burial chambers or sarcophagi. They also appear on engraved gems, silver caskets, and ivory panels. The only significant variant appears on the triumphal arch mosaic of Rome’s Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore (c. 435). Here, they are no longer in a single file, other characters join them, their gifts are identical and presented as small objects in shallow oval vessels, and the baby sits on an elaborate, wide, jeweled throne rather than on his mother’s lap (Fig. 2).

Fig. 2. Adoration of the magi, from the triumphal arch (center left), Sta. Maria Maggiore, Rome, ca. 435. Photo: Author.

Scholars have contended that a consistent compositional detail in these scenes seems to reflect aspects of a Roman imperial court ritual, the , in which representatives of provincial cities, aurum coronarium members of the Senate, or foreign ambassadors presented golden crowns to an enthroned ruler or conquering general. This ritualized giving of tribute, sometimes part of a triumphal procession or in honor of an imperial anniversary, symbolized the donors’ fealty to an acknowledged sovereign.4 Because the adoration of the magi

4. On the ceremony, see Fergus Millar, aurum coronarium The Emperor in the Roman World (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977); and Theodor Klauser, “Aurum Coronarium,” in

16 ALLUSIONS TO IMPERIAL RITUALS

iconography emerged and soon became particularly popular in the early years of the Emperor Constantine’s reign, such scholars have argued that the appropriation of this imperial motif is intentional and calculated to imply more than a parallel between the adoration of the magi and ambassadors presenting gifts to a regnant emperor. Beyond merely illustrating the Gospel narrative, it visually proclaims the sovereignty of the child and, to some, even affirms the divinely granted authority of a God-favored earthly ruler.5 For example, in the catalog of the 2008 exhibition, Picturing the , Johannes Deckers considers a Bible: The Earliest Christian Art particular fourth-century Christian sarcophagus that displays one of these adoration images and poses the question, “What would have prompted an early Christian to have his or her tomb adorned with this particular theme?” He answers that such an individual could not have been a mere, private citizen. Commenting that it is “remarkable” that one of the depicted gifts is a gold wreath rather than some other form of gold, such as a bag of coins, he concludes that its imperial associations are unambiguous: “The unusual appearance of an emperor’s gold wreath in the depiction of the Adoration of the Magi becomes more comprehensible if one hypothesizes that it was suggested by someone from Constantine’s own circle. . . . The depiction of the gift of gold as a wreath thus draws an explicit parallel between the divine power of Christ and the emperor.”6 Deckers further claims that contemporary viewers would

, Jahrbuch Gesammelte Arbeiten zur Liturgiegeschichte Kirchengeschichte und christlichen Archaeologie für Antike und Christentum Ergänzungsband 3 (1974): 292–309. 5. Here see Richard C. Trexler, The Journey of the Magi: Meanings in History of a Christian Story (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 17–18; Otto Simpson, Sacred Fortress: Byzantine (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976), 90, 94; and Gertrud Art and Statecraft in Ravenna Schiller, , vol. 1, trans. J. Seligman (London: Lund Humphries, Iconography of Christian Art 1971), 100. 6. Johannes Deckers, “Constantine the Great and Early Christian Art,” in Picturing the Bible: The , ed. Jeffrey Spier (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 105. See Earliest Christian Art also Deckers, “Die Huldigung der Magier in der Kunst der Spätantike,” in Die Heiligen Drei

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have immediately recognized the connection between an imperial wreath and this gift. Another art historian, Beat Brenk, makes a similar assertion, maintaining that the artisans of the Constantinian era “did not hesitate to equip the Magi with laurel wreaths” instead of the gifts specified in Matthew’s Gospel. He continues, “These were motives stemming from imperial iconography (i.e., the ), aurum coronarium which were chosen because they called special attention to the divine character of Jesus Christ and with the resulting adoration.”7 Brenk goes on to say that it was easier for Christians to adopt these imperial motifs because the imperial cult had “lost its negative connotation” and yet stresses that it still would be a “simplification to speak of the ‘imperialization’ of Christian art.”8 A few ancient literary sources mention this ritual of giving golden crowns to an emperor. The Roman historian Livy reports that the deputations of cities and nations west of the Taurus presented Gnaeus Manlius with golden crowns on account of his conquest of the Gauls in Asia circa 189 bce ( . 38.37), and that crowns were Hist carried in Manlius’s triumph procession ( . 39.7). References also Hist appear in some Christian documents; Gregory of Nazianzus’ First reports that reigning Roman emperors were Oration against Julian showered with various kinds of gifts, including crowns, diadems, and purple robes ( . 4.80). Synesius, bishop of Cyrene, also Or. con. Jul mentions offering a crown to Arcadius on behalf of his city ( . 2). Reg

, ed. F. Günter Zehnder (Köln: Wallraf-Richartz-Museum, Könige—Darstellung und Verehrung 1982), 20–32; A. Grabar, (Princeton: Princeton Christian Iconography: A Study of Its Origins University Press, 1968), 44–45; Franz Cumont, L’adoration de mages et l’art triomphal de Rome (Vatican City: Tipografia Poliglotta Vaticana, 1932), 81–105; and Klauser, “Aurum Coronarium,” 293–13. 7. Beat Brenk, (Wiesbaden: Richert, 2010), 62. The Apse, the Image, and the Icon 8. Ibid., 63, and see fn. 205, where he says that he disagrees with the works of Johannes Deckers, in “Göttlicher Kaiser und kaiserlicher Gott. Die Imperialisierung der christlichen Kunst,” and Thomas Mathews, in (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). The Clash of Gods

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Visual depictions of this ceremony of presenting golden crowns are scarcer than the documentary evidence. The most frequently cited example appears on the east face of the base of the column honoring the emperor Arcadius in Constantinople (dated to around 400). Although the column was destroyed around 1700, the image is known from sixteenth-century drawings, which show the upper register of the column’s east side depicting two groups of senators, each headed by a representative carrying a golden crown; an adjacent side apparently showed representatives of provinces bringing gifts. The late fourth-century base of the column (obelisk) of Theodosius I displays a similar scene on its northwest face (Fig. 3). Here, however, the gifts are not crowns but rather other objects of tribute, presented in large vessels. This Theodosian relief appears similar to an image on the older Arch of Galerius in Thessalonica (c. 300), which shows a group of Persians bearing gifts (including elephants) to a victorious emperor. Furthermore, literary evidence suggests that the usual tribute was not an offering of crowns, but something more practical: a gift of coins. According to Cicero, the was a way of aurum coronarium speaking about a gift of gold, not necessarily an actual crown (Cicero, . 5.6). Romans also referred to the mandatory yearly tribute Aul. Gel paid by the Jews of Rome for the maintenance of the patriarchate as . Thus, even it had once been a contribution to a aurum coronarium golden crown offered to a victorious general, by the early imperial period, the had become a straightforward tax, paid aurum coronarium in cash.9 The Theodosian code records a law, promulgated in 416 by Honorius and Theodosius II, that payments of “crown gold” should be made by a municipal council and collected by authorized (and honest) agents ( 12.12.15). Cod. theod.

9. “Aurum Coronarium,” in , vol. 3, 854. Encyclopedia Judaica

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Fig. 3. Northwest face of the base of the Theodosian obelisk (column), ca. Constantinople. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

Thus, the evidence of an ongoing practice of a procession of foreign dignitaries presenting golden crowns to a reigning Roman emperor is so slim that it seems unlikely that fourth-century viewers would perceive a direct allusion in images of the adoration of the magi with a specific Roman imperial ritual. Even if that ritual were implied, they would not have seen the magi as imposing dignitaries bringing tribute to an enthroned ruler. Rather, they would have seen three exotically dressed and relatively small young men offering gifts to an infant on his mother’s lap, not to a king on a throne.10 Only the

10. The magi became visiting kings only in later Christian art, based on an interpretation of Ps. 72:10.

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first of the three ever carries a crown (and even he does not always do so). In fact, one finds the closest iconographic parallel to the aurum elsewhere in early Christian iconography, in the coronarium depictions of processing saints bearing crowns, as in Ravenna’s Basilica of Sant’Apollinare Nuovo. Even here it is unclear whether the saints are offering their crowns to Christ or simply displaying them as emblems of their martyrdom. In fact, it is more likely that they are the recipients, rather than the givers, of these trophies.11 Representations of saints with their crowns are based on Rev. 4:4, which describes twenty-four elders clad in white and wearing golden crowns. In addition to saints, ordinary people received crowns for a variety of reasons. Secular and Christian iconography alike show crowns awarded as prizes to poets, athletes, married couples, and the newly baptized. Perhaps significantly, crowns and garlands also adorned animals being led to sacrifice. However, even if we allow that a procession of gift-bearing magi might allude to some ritual of giving tribute to a ruler, one must remember that only the first of the three magi is ever depicted offering an actual crown (and, again, not always). Moreover, this gift specifically illustrates the offering of gold. Vessels (boxes or dishes) contain the gifts of frankincense and myrrh. The substance of all three gifts was highly symbolic to early Christian exegetes, who interpreted each as signifying an aspect of the child’s identity and destiny. As gold indicated the sovereignty of the divine child, its representation as a crown makes perfect sense. Irenaeus (c. 175) was among the earliest Christian writers to contend that each offering foretold something about the divine child’s nature or future. He explained that the myrrh indicated that he

11. On saints’ crowns, see Paulinus of Nola, . 18.138, and Prudentius, . 1.80, 4.21–22. Carm Peristeph

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would die as a mortal, but also for the sake of the whole human race. The frankincense signified that he was also God. The gold was given to indicate that he was a king whose realm was eternal ( . 3.9.2). Haer Similarly, Clement of Alexandria claimed that the magi brought the Christ child a gift of gold as symbol of his royalty ( . 2.8). Paed These interpretive motifs became standard in later centuries, often appearing in sermons preached on the Feast of Epiphany. Peter Chrysologus, Bishop of Ravenna in the early fifth century, explained that the magi’s choice of gifts showed divinely granted awareness that this child was a human who was also God, a king who was to die. Thus they chose the three suitable gifts: incense, gold, and myrrh ( . 157.4, 159.10, 160.2). Serm Leo the Great’s sermons on Epiphany, preached sometime in the 440s, simply declared that the gifts reflected Christ’s threefold function: gold showed him as king, myrrh as human, and frankincense as God ( . 31.1, 33.2).12 In one of these sermons, he Serm elaborates:

But if we give attentive consideration to how that same threefold gift is offered by all who come to Christ in faith, will we not recognize the same offering repeated in the hearts of true believers? For the one who acknowledges Christ as ruler of the universe brings gold from the treasure of her heart: the one who believes the Only-begotten of God to have united humanity’s true nature to himself, offers myrrh; and the one who confesses his majesty to be in no way inferior to the Father’s, venerates him with incense.13

Given that early Christians understood that the gift of gold was intended to reveal Christ’s kingship, one may ask how an artist, working in Rome at this time, would have depicted such a gift in some way that would clearly convey that sense other than as

12. See also Prudentius, . 12.28; Maximus of Turin, . 44.2; and Fulgentius, . 14.20. Carm Serm Ep 13. Leo, . 36.1, trans. author (CCL 138:196). Serm

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a crown. A bag of coins—Deckers’s proposed alternative—would not have conveyed this idea. Of course, this gift of gold actually forges an explicit parallel between Jesus and a human ruler. Yet the contrast between the child on his mother’s lap and an emperor on a royal throne is striking, and one could interpret it as an intentional, visual repudiation of the trappings of earthly dominion. Tertullian expressed this eloquently in a treatise against the heretic Marcion, saying that his antagonist misunderstood the prophecies of the Hebrew Scriptures (e.g., Isa. 8:4) to say that the Messiah would come as a victorious warrior. Rather, he says, his call to arms is made with a rattle, not with a trumpet, and not from a parapet, but from his nursemaid’s arms. Then, he adds, “Let those eastern magi attend the infant Christ, presenting to the new-born their gold and frankincense; and surely an infant will have received the spoils of Damascus without either a battle or weapons.”14 More than a century later, Leo the Great articulated the same idea in one of his epiphany sermons. He accounted for Herod’s actions against Jesus on the basis of the Jewish expectation that their messiah would come as a rival earthly monarch:

You are being overly fearful, Herod, and you futilely try to take revenge on the infant you suspect. Your rule cannot contain Christ; the Lord of the world is not content with the constrictions of your power. The one, whom you do not wish to rule Judea, reigns everywhere: and you would rule more contentedly yourself, if you were to submit to his authority. Why not do with sincerity what you promise in treacherous deception? Come with the wise men, and in prayerful adoration worship the true king.15

Thus, the image of at least one of the magi presenting a gold crown to the baby Jesus may well have been meant to suggest his rulership,

14. Tertullian, . 3.13.6, trans. author (CCL 1:525). Marc 15. Leo I, . 34.2, trans. author (CCL 138:180–81). Serm

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and to do so in such a way as to have intentional resonance with imperial iconography while also confounding and contradicting those imperial allusions.

2. Jesus’ Entry to Jerusalem and the Adventus Regis

Early depictions of Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem occur primarily in sculpted reliefs on fourth-century Christian sarcophagi. Based on the biblical narrative (Matt. 21:1-11 and parallels), the composition typically presents Jesus in profile, mounted on a colt or donkey, wearing a tunic and , and holding the reins of the animal in pallium his left hand while raising his right in a gesture of blessing. One or more apostles follow him, often including an individual with Paul’s distinctive facial features. In some instances the foal of the donkey also appears beneath the legs of its mother. Often a single youth is shown placing a garment under the feet of the prancing animal, although other figures may be included, some waving palm branches in fairly close parallel to the textual narrative. Some of the scenes include representations of city gates. Most of the compositions also include the figure of a man in a tree, presumably Zacchaeus, who climbed up to get a better view of Jesus as he passed by (Fig. 4).16 This image appears with slight variations on dozens of early Christian sarcophagi and on some fifth- and sixth-century ivories: a Gospel cover from Milan, a diptych known as the Etchmiadzin Gospel, and one of the panels from the sixth-century ivory cathedra of Maximian in Ravenna. Additional early examples occur on a Coptic relief now in Berlin and a relief from the Monastery of St. John Studios in Constantinople. It also appears on one of the leaves of the Rossano Gospels, dated also to the sixth century. This last example is perhaps the most elaborate, as it depicts Jesus riding side-saddle, the

16. Not actually part of the Entry to Jerusalem narrative—but rather from Jesus’ passing through Jericho in Luke 19:1-6.

24 ALLUSIONS TO IMPERIAL RITUALS crowd holding palm branches and throwing down cloaks, spectators climbing a tree or leaning out of windows, and a small group of children in short tunics running out of the city gate. Behind the city walls, one can glimpse some of Jerusalem’s buildings.

Fig. 4. Jesus’ entry to Jerusalem, early Christian sarcophagus, Pio Cristiano Museum, Vatican (inv. no. 31549), mid fourth century. Photo: Author.

Many art historians identify the prototype for this iconography in depictions of the imperial , the ceremonial entrance of an adventus emperor to a city. For example, Ernst Kantorowicz asserts, “The influence of the imperial imagery [on the scene of Christ’s Adventus entry] cannot be mistaken. . . . The borrowing from imperial images here is quite manifest.”17 Some even judge that the image was designed to echo the triumphant entry of Constantine into the city

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of Rome following his defeat of his rival Maximian at the Milvian Bridge in 312.18 As Eusebius of Caesarea described that event, it undeniably had religious overtones. According to him, when Constantine formally entered Rome, all the senators and other important dignitaries, along with women and children, greeted him with hymns and shouts of praise. They expressed their insatiable joy, receiving him as their deliverer, savior, and benefactor with shining eyes and beaming faces ( . 9.9.9–10). Hist eccl. In his critical analysis of this longstanding perception, Thomas Mathews identifies an impressive list of art historians who took for granted that the Entry motif was derived from iconography of the emperor’s . Mathews even argues that this analysis caused the adventus very word “ ” to become the common way of labeling the adventus iconography of Jesus’ entry.19 Mathews, conversely, concludes that the image is modeled on that of a Roman nobleman returning home from the hunt, found on pagan sarcophagi.20 The ceremony was the traditional Roman way to adventus regis welcome an arriving emperor and has its origins in the ancient Hellenistic ruler-cult.21 Typically, the welcoming committee consisting of important dignitaries of the city, priests, and other

17. Ernst Kantorowicz, “The ‘King’s Advent’: And the Enigmatic Panels in the Doors of Santa Sabina,” 4 (1944): 207–31, here 216. Art Bulletin 18. See for example Erich Dinker, Der Einzug in Jerusalem: Ikonographische Untersuchungen im (Oplanden: Westdeutscher, 1970). André Anschluss an ein bisher unkekanntes Sarkophragment Grabar, (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1936), 234–36; and Schiller, L’empereur dans l’art byzantin , vol. 2, 18–23. Most of these are noted in Mathews, , 24, fn. 4. Iconography of Christian Art Clash 19. Mathews, , 24. Clash 20. Mathews, , 33–37, an argument that makes some sense on the basis of iconographic Clash parallels, but overlooks the nature of Jesus’ entry as described in the New Testament Gospels or the possibility that the hunt imagery might, itself, be based on scenes of imperial . adventus 21. On the ceremony of , see Sabine G. MacCormack, adventus Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 17–61; Michael McCormick, Eternal Victory: (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 84–100; Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity and an old, but much-cited study of the “reception of royalty” by Erik Peterson, “Die Einholung des Kyrios,” 7 (1930): 682–702. The ritual Zeitschrift für systematische Theologie departure was known as . profectio

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principal citizens would line the road for a certain distance in order to meet and accompany their arriving ruler through the gates and into the center of the town, where they would officially receive him with specially crafted speeches of praise ( ) and sacrifices panegyrics offered at the city’s sanctuaries. As he passed, the spectators would chant acclamations that hailed the guest as savior or liberator. They would offer gifts or garlands, scatter flowers, wave banners and palm branches, waft incense, and hold up torches or tapers. This was the imperial epiphany (or ) of a semi-sacred ruler. parousia Depictions of these ceremonies appear on coins and commemorative medals. The earliest known were those struck in Corinth to commemorate Nero’s arrival and bore the legend “ .”22 However, Nero’s coins did not display ADVEN(tus) AUG(usti) an image of the emperor himself but rather a Roman galley. Trajan also issued coins, as did his successor Hadrian, whose design adventus included a female figure pouring a libation upon an altar to personify the welcoming city or nation. Other mints of Trajan, along with some of Marcus Aurelius, Septimius Severus, Commodus, and Gordianus, show the emperor mounted, often with the accompanying legend . Perhaps the closest parallel Adventus Augusti to the iconography of Jesus’ entry appears on the so-called Arras medallion, minted in Trier to commemorate Constantius I’s arrival in Britain in 296 (Fig. 5). The obverse shows Constantius mounted on a horse and carrying a spear. The personification of London kneels before her city gate to receive him. Below the emperor is a ship, perhaps meant to be the one in which he arrived across the Channel. The legend “ ” (“the restorer of eternal light”) Redditor lucis aeternae may indicate his liberation of Britain from the usurper Carausius.

22. See Larry J. Kreitzer, Striking New Images: Roman Imperial Coinage and the New Testament World (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 213–14.

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Fig. 5. Copy of the Arras Medal of ca. 296, showing the adventus of Constantius I into London. Part of the Beaurains Treasure, now in the British Museum. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

scenes also appear on monumental arches, where the size Adventus of the relief allows far more detail. For example, one of the sculpted friezes on Thessalonica’s Arch of Galerius (c. 300) shows the emperor surrounded by mounted troops but enthroned in a carriage rather than on horseback himself. He appears to be departing from one city (represented by the gate on the left) and entering another, presumably Thessalonica, his home base. He is celebrating his victory over the Persians and their king Narses in 298. A group of citizens

28 ALLUSIONS TO IMPERIAL RITUALS waving banners bid him welcome (including the statue of a local god enshrined in a small temple). The Galerius frieze has a striking parallel on two separate adventus reliefs of the Arch of Constantine, commissioned by the Senate and erected to celebrate Constantine I’s victory over Maxentius (312) and to frame his ceremonial entry into the city of Rome. The arch’s western and eastern faces each include a frieze that shows the emperor in transit. The shorter western frieze shows the emperor departing from Milan, riding in a chariot behind his advancing army. Around the corner, the wider, southern side shows the events that followed: the siege of Verona and the battle of the Milvian Bridge. The eastern frieze depicts Constantine’s official entry to Rome. Here the emperor sits, enthroned, in a chariot drawn by four horses (Fig. 6). The goddess Victory, carrying the ceremonial wreath, guides the team as they pass through an arch (or perhaps a city gate). His troops, carrying standards, spears, and shields, head up the parade. Above this scene is a tondo showing Helios, the sun god, riding upwards.

Fig. 6. East face of the Arch of Constantine, Rome, ca. 312-14. Photo: Author.

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