The Bible in History: How the Texts

Have Shaped the Times 2nd Edition

David W. Kling
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The Bible in History
The Bible in History
How the Texts Have Shaped the Times
Second Edition

DAV I D W. K L I N G
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kling, David W., 1950- author.
Title: The Bible in history : how the texts have shaped the times / David W. Kling.
Description: Second edition. | New York, NY, United States of America : Oxford University Press, [2023] |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022027337 (print) | LCCN 2022027338 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780197669075 (pb) | ISBN 9780197525364 (hb) | ISBN 9780197525388 (epub) |
ISBN 9780197525395
Subjects: LCSH: Bible—Influence. | Church history.
Classification: LCC BS538.7 .K55 2022 (print) | LCC BS538.7 (ebook) |
DDC 220.09—dc23/eng/20220810
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022027337
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022027338

“The Four Moments of Lectio Divina” from Sacred Reading: The Art of Lectio Divina by Michael Casey.
Liguori Publications, 1995. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise noted or within a quoted source, all Scripture quotations contained herein are from the
New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National
Council of Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197525364.001.0001

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Paperback printed by Lakeside Book Company, United States of America
Hardback printed by Bridgeport National Bindery, Inc., United States of America
To the memory of Gordon S. Kling, Sr. and E. Regina Kling
 Contents

Preface to the Second Edition  ix

Acknowledgments  xi
List of Abbreviations  xiii

Introduction  1
1. “Follow Me”: Anthony and the Rise of Monasticism  10
2. “Upon This Rock”: Peter and the Papacy  41
3. “Let Him Kiss Me with the Kisses of His Mouth!”: Bernard
and the Song of Songs  80
4. “The Righteous Will Live by Faith”: Luther’s Search for
a Gracious God  116
5. “Love Your Enemies”: Anabaptists and the Peace Tradition  153
6. “Let My People Go”: Exodus in the African American Experience  190
7. “Filled with the Holy Spirit”: The Roots of Pentecostalism  228
8. “One in Christ Jesus”: Women’s Ministry and Ordination  266
9. “Go and Make Disciples of All Nations”: The Great Commission
and the Modern Protestant Missionary Movement  307
10. “Men Committed Shameless Acts with Men”: The Homosexual
Debate in Our Time  338
Conclusion  382

Notes  387
General Index  461
Index of Scripture  477
 Preface to the Second Edition

When The Bible in History was first published over fifteen years ago (2004), I had
no idea that I was adding to an ensuing surge of articles, monographs, books se-
ries, and encyclopedias dedicated to the reception of the Bible. One large-​scale
project had already been in the works—​InterVarsity Press’s Ancient Christian
Commentary on Scripture (2002–​), to be followed by its new companion series,
Ancient Christian Texts (2009–​). Two other projects, more extensive in geograph-
ical and chronological reach, included the Wiley-​Blackwell Bible Commentaries
(2004–​), whose editors claimed that the series was “the first to be devoted prima-
rily to the reception history of the Bible;” and The Encyclopedia of the Bible and
Its Reception (2009–​), “the first-​ever and only comprehensive reference work on
the Bible and its reception.” This mammoth project of thirty projected volumes
(twenty-​one currently published) is edited by a team of international scholars
and involves nearly four thousand authors. De Gruyter also publishes a book
series (Studies of the Bible and Its Reception) and the Journal of the Bible and Its
Reception. In addition, a multivolume series from 2000 to 2013 emerged from
the Society of Biblical Literature, “Romans Through History and Cultures” sem-
inar/​consultation.1 Single-​volume edited works published in the last decade
include A Concise Dictionary of the Bible and Its Reception (Westminster John
Knox, 2009), The Oxford Handbook of the Reception History of the Bible (2011),
Reception History and Biblical Studies: Theory and Practice (Bloomsbury, 2015),
The Oxford Handbook of the Bible in America (2017), The Bible in American Life
(Oxford, 2017), and The Cultural Reception of the Bible (Four Courts Press, 2018).
Although ostensibly the “first ever,” the recent proliferation of published
works on the history of biblical interpretation and its allied partner, recep-
tion history, is not a new phenomenon.2 Biblical interpretation and the recep-
tion of the Bible have been present in some form for as long as there has been a
Christian tradition. But why the extraordinary focus of scholarly inquiry today?
I offered my own personal reasons in the Introduction to this book, but I was
unaware of other factors that may have been at play. I did mention that biblical
scholars, mining the historical critical method for its remaining nuggets of in-
sight, turned to reception history as a new and compelling area of research. Yet
there are other reasons, at least some of which lie beyond interests purely ac-
ademic. In his General Introduction to the Ancient Christian Commentary on
Scripture, Thomas Oden maintained that a “revitalization of Christian teaching”
could come from an examination of ancient biblical commentators.3 Here, the
x Preface to the Second Edition

past becomes a useable resource. On the other end of the spectrum, the post-
modern ethos, which recognizes that historical and personal contexts shape dif-
ferent readings of texts, has undoubtedly contributed to the upsurge in reception
history. Here, the present is a discomfiting resource. Finally, the digital revolu-
tion has made possible the proliferation of published works, including books
and articles on the history of interpretation and reception history. A generation
ago, it might have taken weeks or months to secure an author for a single en-
cyclopedia entry; it now takes only a few days or a week. In short, because the
publishing process is much more efficient these days, the market has enjoyed a
considerable benefit.
Whatever the reasons for this publishing profusion, I am complicit by adding
two new chapters to this second edition. The first additional chapter, focusing
on what became known in the nineteenth century as the “Great Commission”
text in Matthew 28:18–​20, considers the various interpretative emphases before,
during, and after the text emerged as the iconic text of missionary motivation
in the modern period. The second chapter takes up the divisive and ongoing
issue of the Bible and male homosexuality. In this case, there is not a single text
that I examine (although Romans 1:26–​27 is crucial), but several Old and New
Testament texts that allude (or may allude) to male homosexual practices. Both
chapters engage the subtitle of this book, “how the texts have shaped the times,”
but, as I contend in the chapter on male homosexuality, the “times” have had an
enormous impact on shaping the interpretation of the texts, and hence, on the
continuing disputes over the meaning of those texts.
As in the first edition, I have incurred multiple debts in seeing this second
edition to completion. Once again, I thank the team at Oxford University Press—​
especially the now-​retired executive editor, Cynthia Read, who endorsed this
second edition with the same enthusiasm as the first; and her successor, Theo
Calderara, who has overseen this book to publication. Closer to home, my col-
league and longtime friend, Daniel Pals, provided his usual keen insights and
sparkling editorial hand to these new chapters. Even closer yet, my wife, Barbara,
remains a constant source of love and support.
These chapters were researched and written from 2020 to 2021, the years of
the COVID-​19 pandemic. The only social reprieve during several months of iso-
lation was the “COVID Crowd” of Dan, Phyllis, and Katie Pals; colleague Dexter
Callender; daughter Hannah Kling and her husband, Nicholas Kuntz; and my
wife, Barbara. I thank them for reinforcing the truism that indeed, we are social
animals in need of the company of others.
The first edition of The Bible in History was dedicated to my parents. This
second is dedicated to their memory.
 Acknowledgments

As the reader will observe from textual references and endnotes, this work is
greatly indebted to the scholarship of others. It is also indebted to the suggestions,
insights, and assistance of numerous other people. Apart from my own ear-
lier ruminations on this project (discussed in the Introduction), an impetus
for this book came in 1994 from John Corrigan, whose manuscript draft of the
“Christianity” section in the subsequently published Jew, Christians, Muslims: A
Comparative Introduction to Monotheistic Religions (Prentice-​Hall, 1998) I was
asked to review. Corrigan’s attention to the role of Scripture in the history of
Christianity, though not extensive, meshed with my own embryonic thoughts
about the role of Scripture in Christian history. I wondered, could a more com-
prehensive story of the Bible’s influence in Christian history be told in a way that
would at once blend history and hermeneutics? Could I offer some insight into
why a particular biblical text came to the fore, was given a particular interpreta-
tion, and subsequently influenced the course of Christian history? What follows,
of course, is an answer to these and many other questions raised by the readers
and listeners of presentations of this book in its various stages of development.
I first tried out the general shape of this book in two settings—​ecclesiastical
and academic. For listening patiently to underdeveloped ideas and prodding
greater clarity of expression, I thank the participants in a 1996 adult educa-
tion class at Immanuel Presbyterian Church (Miami) and students in a 1998
fall seminar at the University of Miami. Among the latter, I gratefully acknowl-
edge the indulgence of Glaister Brown, Scott Chadda, Jessica Gilbride, Kateri
Hilton, Nathan Novak, Kristen Oostdyk, Jenny Reider, and Renata Schwedhelm.
Another student, Sarah Thompson Chule, rendered helpful bibliographic assis-
tance and commented on several chapters. Thanks also to Alex Cuenca, my stu-
dent assistant, for reconfiguring the manuscript to conform to the guidelines of
Oxford University Press.
A number of colleagues, known and unknown to me personally, took time
away from their own work to lend assistance. For adding conceptual clarity to this
project, I thank Mark Noll and several anonymous readers for Oxford University
Press. Henry Green, Dexter Callender, Nancy Hardesty, Daniel Pals, Willard
Swartley, and Michael Westmoreland-​White offered bibliographic suggestions
and/​or clarifications on portions of chapters. Bernard McGinn, Mickey Mattox,
Douglas Sweeney, Martin Marty, J. Denny Weaver, Stuart Murray, Arnold Snyder,
Will Coleman, and Douglas Jacobsen read and commented upon individual
xii Acknowledgments

chapters. I have also benefitted from conversations with long-​time friends Bruce
Hultgren and David and Margo Miller.
To three scholars and friends who read the entire manuscript, I express my
heartfelt thanks. In his usual timely and efficient manner, Craig Blomberg offered
balanced judgments and bibliographic suggestions. I am especially grateful
to two colleagues in the Department of Religious Studies at the University of
Miami. With the eye of an assiduous editor, Stephen Sapp combed through the
entire manuscript and saved me from infelicities in grammar and diction. John
Fitzgerald plunged me deeper into the complex world of biblical scholarship,
offered extensive, thought-​provoking comments, saved me from embarrassing
blunders, and heightened my respect for his own field of biblical studies.
The staffs of several libraries answered queries and offered much-​needed assis-
tance. Thanks to the library personnel and specialists at St. John Vianney College
Seminary (Miami), Western Michigan University, Associated Mennonite
Biblical Seminary, and especially the University of Miami, whose staff processed
hundreds of interlibrary loan requests.
Several other people and institutions deserve special thanks for their encour-
agement and largesse. I probably would not have written this book if it were not
for Cynthia Read of Oxford University Press, whose enthusiastic endorsement
of this project in its prospectus stage enabled me to work with the confidence
that what I was doing would eventually appear in print. I could have not sus-
tained this project without the financial assistance of several granting agencies.
The University of Miami supported this work through a summer Max Orovitz
Research Grant and a General Research Grant for travel. I am especially grateful
to the Lilly Endowment–​funded Louisville Institute for its generous Christian
Faith and Life Sabbatical Grant that enabled me to devote the 1999–​2000 aca-
demic year to this project.
Family members did not contribute anything directly to this work, but I have
been sustained by their love in the realization that the meaning of human
relationships far exceeds the meaning of texts. Parents-​in-​law Gordon and
Phyllis Bacon deserve special recognition for their care and support through the
years. Thanks to my children—​Elizabeth Corson, Justin Kling, Phillip Kyrk, and
Hannah Kling—​for enriching life in so many ways and offering a welcomed res-
pite from “another day at the office.” A thank you hardly expresses appreciation
to my wife, Barbara, who has graced my life and on numerous occasions adjusted
her busy schedule to accommodate my scholarship.
This book is dedicated to parents whose call to serve and minister in the
Christian church inspired me in the pursuit of another, though not unrelated,
calling. It is to them that I owe my first exposure to the Bible.
 Abbreviations

AB Anchor Bible
ABR American Benedictine Review
ACW Ancient Christian Writers: The Works of the Fathers in Translation. Edited by
J. Quasten et al. 55 vols. New York: Newman; Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist, 1946–​.
ANF Ante-​Nicene Fathers: Translations of the Writings of the Fathers Down to A.D.
325. Edited by Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson. 10 vols. 1885–​96.
Reprint, Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1978–​79.
ANTC Abingdon New Testament Commentaries
BNTC Black’s New Testament Commentaries
BTB Biblical Theology Bulletin
BJRL Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester
CFS Cistercian Fathers Series
CGR Conrad Grebel Review
CH Church History
CS Cistercian Studies
CSS Cistercian Studies Series
CWS Classics of Western Spirituality: A Library of the Great Spiritual Masters.
Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist, 1978–​.
FC Fathers of the Church
FCB Feminist Companion to the Bible
GNC Good News Commentary
HTR Harvard Theological Review
IB Interpreter’s Bible. Edited by G. A. Buttrick et al. 12 vols. New York: Abingdon,
1951–​57.
IBCR International Bulletin of Missionary Research
ICC International Critical Commentary
ITC International Theological Commentary
JAAR Journal of the American Academy of Religion
JAH Journal of American History
JBC Jerome Biblical Commentary. Edited by Raymond E. Brown et al. Englewood
Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1968.
JBL Journal of Biblical Literature
JES Journal of Ecumenical Studies
JETS Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society
JPT Journal of Pentecostal Theology
JPTSS Journal of Pentecostal Theology Supplement Series
JR Journal of Religion
JRS Journal of Roman Studies
xiv LIST OF Abbreviations

JSNT Journal for the Study of the New Testament

JSNTSS Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series
JTS Journal of Theological Studies
LCC The Library of Christian Classics. Edited by J. Baillie et al. 26 vols.
Philadelphia: Westminster, 1953–​66.
LCL Loeb Classical Library
LQ Lutheran Quarterly
LW Luther’s Works, American Edition. Edited by Jaroslav Pelikan, vols. 1–​30;
Helmut T. Lehman, vols. 31–​55. St. Louis: Concordia, and Philadelphia:
Fortress (formerly Muhlenberg Press), 1955–​86.
MFC Message of the Fathers of the Church
MQR Mennonite Quarterly Review
MS Monastic Studies
NCB New Century Bible (Commentary)
NICNT New International Commentary on the New Testament
NICOT New International Commentary on the Old Testament
NIGTC New International Greek Testament Commentary
NPNF A Select Library of the Nicene and Post-​Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church.
Edited by Philip Schaff et al. 2 series (14 vols. each). 1887–​94. Reprint, Grand
Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1952–​56.
NTM New Testament Message
OTG Old Testament Guides
OTL Old Testament Library
Pneuma Pneuma: Journal for the Society of Pentecostal Studies
PSB Princeton Seminary Bulletin
SAC Studies in Antiquity and Christianity
SP Sacra Pagina
SEC Studies in Early Christianity: A Collection of Scholarly Essays. Edited by
Everret Ferguson. 18 vols. New York: Garland, 1993.
StPatr Studia Patristica
ThTo Theology Today
TLS Theology and Life Series
TNTC Tyndale New Testament Commentaries
TOTC Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries
TPINTC TPI New Testament Commentaries
TS Theological Studies
WBC Word Biblical Commentary
WC Westminster Commentaries
 Introduction

The basic idea for this book originated in the classroom. During my teaching career,
I have taught in two kinds of educational environments: one a private, nonsectarian
university, the other a variety of Christian settings, including a Protestant college, a
Catholic seminary, and a number of Protestant churches. In my experience, students
in both groups labor under misapprehensions that, although quite different, are re-
lated. On the one hand, university students may learn something from a course in
the history of Christianity, but when the last assignment is completed and the final
exam taken, they have little knowledge of the Bible’s relationship to developments
in the history of Christianity. Ironically, it is as if the Christian faith, often labeled a
“religion of the book,” were bereft of a guiding sacred text throughout its history. On
the other hand, although students in Christian educational settings have a working
knowledge of the Bible, they have little understanding of how various biblical texts
have been interpreted and applied throughout history. For them there is a different
irony: it is as if the Christian faith, often called a “historical religion,” were devoid of
twenty centuries of history. And so the idea occurred to me, now expressed in the
pages that follow, to make some attempt to bridge the gap between Scripture and its
place in the history of Christianity.
Given the specialties and subspecialties of the field, historians of Christianity
seldom venture into the discipline of biblical scholarship. In fact, a perusal of
general works on the history of Christianity turns up limited references to the
impact of the Bible as a formative influence in Christian history. Apart from a
discussion of the formation and role of sacred texts as they relate to the early
Christian community and a comment on Luther’s “evangelical breakthrough” in
his reading of Romans 1:17, few narratives on the history of Christianity consider
specific biblical texts in any depth. Biblical scholars, although they are attuned to
historical developments, typically focus on the original Sitz im Leben—​the life
setting in which the text was produced and used—​rather than on the appropria-
tion and application of a text in subsequent history.
Several consequences arise from detaching biblical texts from their applica-
tion in diverse historical contexts. For one, such neglect creates a false impression
that sacred texts are static, stable entities, that they function independently of time
and place. But this has never been so. First, the Bible itself is embedded in a va-
riety of cultural contexts and reflects the influences of its social settings. Second,
because of the changing nature of life itself, nearly every generation of Christians

The Bible in History. David W. Kling, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197525364.003.0001
2 The Bible in History

has reinterpreted Scripture (with varying degrees of self-​awareness) in order to

make the Bible relevant to their concerns. This interpretive task is precisely what
the hermeneutical enterprise endeavors: to understand how a biblical text is to be
interpreted and applied in the present-​day situation.1 In the words of Paul Ricoeur,
“Hermeneutics is the very deciphering of life in the mirror of the text.”2 We deci-
pher life by carrying on a dialogue with the text about our world and its world.
Consider the example of Anthony, the subject of the first chapter. After
hearing the words of Jesus, “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your possessions,
and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven,” this ob-
scure Egyptian Christian in the late third century took this advice with a literal-​
minded passion. He gave away his possessions, left the civilized world, headed
to the desert, and became the putative founder of the monastic movement.
Throughout the centuries, however, other Christians have understood Jesus’
words to the rich young man quite differently, and, in fact, some see in Anthony
a perversion of Jesus’ intent. No, they argue, Anthony was more influenced by
his surroundings (e.g., a general ascetic environment) than he was by a cor-
rect reading of the text. What, then, was the rise of monasticism? A continua-
tion of themes adumbrated in the New Testament, an unwitting concession to
the ascetic milieu of the ancient world, or some combination? Such questions
prompt other questions engaged throughout this book. Why do particular texts
become the focus of attention? What factors give rise to a new understanding of
a text? What traditions or pre-​understandings does an interpreter bring to the
text? How do we understand the interaction between text—​be it in oral form as
in Anthony’s case or in written form as in Luther’s—​and the interpreter? Who
discerns the correct meaning of a text—​the learned, the pious, the ecclesiastical
authorities, the poor, the marginalized? Is there a single meaning, or are there
multiple meanings to the text?3
As a work of both history and biblical studies, this book addresses the history
of ten texts—​in some cases a single text, in others clusters of related texts, and
in still others, whole chapters or large portions of a particular book in the Bible.
Although I discuss my criteria for choosing particular texts later, the necessary
limitation of texts indicates that this study is intentionally episodic, illustrative,
and selective rather than exhaustive or comprehensive in scope. Dozens, even
hundreds, of texts have exerted influence in the history of Christianity (though
exactly how one measures influence is not easy to define). In tracing the history
of ten texts, I offer not so much an introduction to the history of biblical inter-
pretation as “the operation of taking soundings”4 or identifying certain texts at
certain moments in history that resonate (“sound”) in the lives of individuals
and extend to a larger Christian community. Each chapter is shaped roughly like
an hourglass. That is, I trace the history of a text on either side of a particular
episode in which the text undergoes an innovative interpretation. This critical
 Introduction 3

juncture—​the neck of the hourglass—​becomes the primary focus of attention in

each chapter.
As noted, the concerns of this book address a wide audience of nonprofessionals
(students, informed laypeople) and scholars. For the uninitiated in the academic
guild, as well as for instructors who may wish to use this book as a supplement to
other reading or to assign only selected chapters, I have sought to provide suffi-
cient historical background so that each chapter stands alone as a discrete unit.
Where possible, I have also sought to avoid the technical language and apparatus
that characterize contemporary biblical studies.
At the same time, by undertaking an interdisciplinary study of history, the-
ology, and biblical studies, I hope to offer scholars new ways of thinking about
the function of sacred texts within the cultural communities that engage and ap-
propriate them. Historians, biblical scholars, theologians, and ethicists will ob-
viously find some things that are familiar to them, but this work of synthesis is
intended to broaden their interdisciplinary horizons. For example, this project
extends the previous work of Gerhard Ebeling, Karlfried Froelich, Ulrich Luz,
Roland Murphy, and recent scholars (primarily biblical) who have expressed a
renewed appreciation for the Wirkungsgeschichte, or history of the effects that
Scripture has produced in many contexts throughout the history of Christianity.5
My work differs from theirs, however, in its focus on the role of a biblical text in
a particular historical episode; that is, a historical event or development is the
framework for the understanding and application of a biblical text.
Ebeling envisioned the history of Christianity as the complex interplay of self-​
understanding and biblical interpretation, but as Froelich has remarked, “There
seems to be no comprehensive attempt anywhere to write church history from
the angle of the history of the exposition of Scripture. Ebeling himself . . . never
tackled the task.”6 After working on this project for a number of years, I think
I know why. The task is simply too daunting. The influence of hundreds of texts
upon thousands of individuals and groups over the course of two thousand years
is a challenge too big for any one individual to comprehend.
In its attention to “hourglass episodes,” this book proceeds chronologically.
I have applied three criteria in selecting such episodes.
1. Significance. The primary criterion of selection is the extent to which an in-
terpretation or application of a biblical text significantly shaped or was invoked
as a critical text in the subsequent history of Christianity. I am not suggesting
that great shifts in the Christian church necessarily turn on important biblical
texts, for great shifts tend to be attitudinal and general in scope. As the histo-
rian Edmund Morgan observes, “Change in Christian thought, even so rad-
ical a change as in the Reformation, has usually been a matter of emphasis, of
giving certain ideas a greater weight than was previously accorded them or of
carrying one idea to its logical conclusion at the expense of another.”7 During
4 The Bible in History

such upheavals, a specific scriptural text is cited (e.g., Luther’s use of Rom. 1:17),
brought to bear on the situation, and accorded a special status, often thereby
assuming a paradigmatic quality. Reasonable people will disagree about what
events I deem significant—​perhaps more about what I have left out than what
I have included—​but my list generally accords with the consensus of other
historians of Christianity and biblical scholars concerned with the history of
texts. Space limitations required eliminating a number of texts and episodes of
comparable significance to those that are included.8
2. Diversity of traditions and texts. I have taken into account the major
Christian traditions, though with different degrees of emphasis roughly pro-
portionate to my assessment of each tradition’s historical impact. I have also
selected a variety of settings among diverse peoples, although emphasis is given
to American developments for reasons of my own academic expertise and the in-
tended reading audience. In addition, I have chosen a variety of scriptural genres
such as narrative, poetry, and didactic literature.
3. Interpretive strategy and varied themes. I have selected incidents that dem-
onstrate a cross section of exegetical and hermeneutical approaches, be they
simplistic or sophisticated. Moreover, I have chosen episodes that illustrate
the varied application of scriptural texts in matters related to church polity
(­chapters 2, 8), theology (­chapter 4), missiology (­chapter 9), ethics (­chapters 1,
5, 6, 10), and religious experience (­chapters 3, 7). Some texts have been a source
of comfort; others have been a source of social transformation; still others have
been the basis of revolutionary behavior.
As I have intimated, this book is less concerned with the most accurate or latest
critical understanding of a sacred text than with the way a text was appropriated
by an individual or a community. Along the way I consult biblical scholars and
literary critics and apply their insights to establish a modern critical reading of
the text. However, this approach is of secondary importance to discerning the
impact of a text within a particular historical setting. From the perspective of
some biblical scholars, this approach may appear to be an irrelevance, especially
if a text was grossly misunderstood in light of modern historical-​critical schol-
arship.9 Why should anyone care about the influence of a flawed interpretation
of Scripture? But raising this question gets to the very heart of what this project
is about, namely, describing the assumptions, presuppositions, or mentalité by
which Christians apprehend a sacred text and live out its teachings. Experience
accompanies and even informs these assumptions to create a dynamic interplay
among belief, experience, and Scripture. Put another way, on some occasions
Scripture confirms one’s predispositions; on others, it challenges or alters them.
The dynamics of scriptural interpretation point to the fact that a sacred text, as
with all literature, is contested territory. And truth be faced, it is no less hotly
contested among contemporary scholars.
 Introduction 5

For readers unfamiliar with the history of biblical interpretation, it may be

helpful to note briefly its broad contours.10 Perhaps the simplest way of viewing
this complex history is to demarcate the traditional period from the modern
period or, to be more precise, to distinguish between the pre-​historical-​critical
(more commonly but less accurately known as “precritical”) and the historical-​
critical period. The latter emerged during the Renaissance and came into its own
in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This distinction, it should be noted,
locates the interpretive enterprise among the learned and privileges their under-
standing of the Bible. Such is a conventional perspective, for the very existence of
a text implies a literate reader, one who is able to discern meaning in the written
word. Yet other ways have been proposed. On occasion, especially since the
Reformation, there has been the recognition that the Spirit of God enables the
unlearned, even the illiterate, to grasp the basic teachings of Scripture. The cross-​
cultural missionary enterprise has proceeded on this assumption. Throughout
Christian history, not only have the learned read the Word, but also perhaps more
often the ignorant have heard it. The theme of exodus in the African American
experience discussed in c­ hapter 6 highlights the latter perspective. At the same
time, in the precritical period, both black slaves and literate Euro-​Americans
shared the traditional interpretation of Scripture, for both groups affirmed that
the words and sentences (as heard or read) accurately described real events and
real truths. This assumption underlay the traditional view of the Bible.
Hans Frei has noted three basic elements of the “traditional realistic interpre-
tation of biblical stories.”11 First, the Bible describes actual historical people and
events. Thus Moses actually existed, and the exodus event actually occurred as
described. Second, a single narrative, what has been called a “grand narrative”
or “metanarrative,” holds the Bible together. For Christians, this narrative is the
story of redemption, foreshadowed and anticipated in the Old Testament and
fulfilled in the New with the coming of Christ. Thus Moses, in leading the people
of Israel to the Promised Land, foreshadows or prefigures Christ, who led his
followers to the heavenly Promised Land of the celestial city. The story of Moses
was indeed true, but it also prefigured the larger narrative of Christ’s redemptive
work. Third, if the world as described in the biblical narrative is “the one and only
real world,” then its message transcends time and space. The reader sees her own
life, attitudes and actions, motivations and behavior, in the biblical narrative. All
of life is filtered or understood through this real biblical world.12
We see this view of Scripture embedded in the New Testament itself.
Through a typological (or figurative) and christological interpretation of the
Old Testament, the authors of the New Testament believed that the Hebrew
Scriptures anticipated or foreshadowed the coming of Christ. For example, in
Luke 4:16–​19, Jesus quotes from the Book of Isaiah (61:1–​2; 58:6) to announce
that “today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing” (Luke 4:21). The
6 The Bible in History

author of Hebrews envisions the prophecies and promises of the Old Testament
fulfilled in the “new covenant” that now through the unique priesthood of Christ
superseded the old Jewish system. Paul draws a correlation between Adam and
Christ (the new Adam) and between Israel and the church (the new Israel). Even
as the New Testament emerged, its writers were conscious that all of Scripture
bore the imprint of God’s salvation history that culminated in Christ.
In the early church, two understandings of Scripture predominated. Both re-
flected continuities with the early hermeneutical approaches of Jewish rabbis, an-
cient philosophers, and the writers of the New Testament. The literal approach,
which often bordered on extreme literalism, referred to what the divinely in-
spired author intended to convey by what he wrote. It involved the meaning of
the smallest of units (words, phrases, sentences) and extended to paragraphs,
chapters, and whole books. This textual meaning or contextual meaning com-
municated belief in the divine origin, authority, and trustworthiness of Scripture.
The other way of interpreting Scripture, one that reached its greatest expression
during the medieval period, was the spiritual or allegorical meaning of the text.
In this reading, the text pointed to Christ or some higher, deeper, or hidden spir-
itual truth than was contained in the literal sense. Whether a reader approached
Scripture in a literal or spiritual way, both patristic and medieval interpreters
assumed that the normative sense of Scripture must accord with the rule of faith,
that is, with what Christians believe and the church teaches.
Under the influence of John Cassian (ca. 360–​435), these two modes of in-
terpretation expanded into what became known as the medieval fourfold
sense of Scripture: the letter (facts), allegory (what is to be believed), the moral
(what one is to do), and the anagogical (what is hoped for). As we will see with
Bernard of Clairvaux in c­ hapter 3, the literal sense was not abandoned but often
was obscured or neglected because of what the other senses offered the inter-
preter: an elasticity of interpretation that fed the imaginative and creative spir-
itual juices of the commentator. A text had not one but multiple meanings, and
together these conveyed a variety of truths, though all pointed to the one Truth.
To be sure, commentators who followed this fourfold interpretive scheme en-
gaged in flights of fancy, but their fidelity to Catholic dogma reined in the possi-
bility of heterodox interpretations.
In varying degrees, the application of modern critical methods to under-
standing the Bible—​“critical” because these methods applied literary, grammat-
ical, scientific, and technical methods to the ancient text and made judgments
about it (“critical” comes from Greek, krisis =​judgment)—​challenged the tra-
ditional ways of viewing the Bible. With the Renaissance cry of ad fontes (“to
the sources”) came a renewed interest in the meaning of original ancient texts
and other sources. Scholars, notably Desiderius Erasmus (1466–​1536) and John
Colet (1466–​1519), began to read Hebrew and Greek, the original languages of
 Introduction 7

the Bible that had been largely ignored (or were unavailable) in the West since
Jerome’s Latin translations in the fourth century. This attention to the ancient
languages resulted in a greater interest in the original meaning of the text (i.e.,
the author’s intention) and in the minimization (though not the abandonment)
of the allegorical interpretation. The contributions of the Protestant Reformers
Martin Luther and especially John Calvin proved decisive in establishing the
grammatical-​historical method. Calvin wrote commentaries on nearly every
book of the New Testament wherein, like Luther, he stressed the necessity of
historical and literary context, as well as the analogy of faith (i.e., Scripture is
interpreted by other like passages of Scripture).
Reacting to the Protestant stress on the literal sense of Scripture, Catholics
continued to emphasize the value of the allegorical as the traditional time-​
honored interpretation. Still, the literal (plain) sense gained currency, abetted
by the eighteenth-​century Enlightenment and the subsequent historical and
archaeological discoveries that enlarged the contextual understanding of the
biblical Near East and uncovered genres of literature (legal, historical, poetic,
and wisdom texts) similar to that of the Bible. With these finds, the allegorical
method all but disappeared.
The modern critical perspective assumes that the events described in the
Bible reflect a particular historical background. The Bible did not magically ap-
pear or drop down from heaven; rather, its style and content disclosed the cul-
tural settings of the writers. Scripture’s literary forms or genres confirmed its
place within the larger context of Near Eastern culture (Old Testament) and the
Greco-​Roman world (New Testament). Increasingly, the Bible was subjected to
the same rigorous critical scrutiny as other ancient literature. At the same time,
its study was increasingly disconnected from church doctrine as academics (with
varying degrees of religious commitment) investigated its contents free from the
constraints of ecclesiastical boundaries.
In the last two centuries, scholars have raised questions about the Bible’s au-
thorship, date of composition, sources used by the authors, purpose in writing,
audience, and genre (style, form, content, function). Some concluded that the di-
versity and irreconcilable differences of Scripture were so vast as to rule out any
kind of unity—​the very unity that informed the traditional view and that Calvin
and other Reformers affirmed as the analogy of faith. In some cases, critical
methods were joined with naturalist assumptions to yield skepticism regarding
biblical miracles and the divine nature of Jesus. John Goldingay observes how
this approach differed from the traditional view of the Bible: “In the precritical
period interpreters would have taken for granted that there was no distinction
between the story told by a biblical narrative and the events that actually took
place in biblical times, or between the figure traditionally associated with a par-
ticular book and its actual author. During the critical age it is these distinctions
8 The Bible in History

that have been taken for granted, and the major concern in interpretation of the
stories has been to establish and defend views of their historical background and
reference.”13 In the traditional view, the exodus was a real event as described; the
critical view assumed no such similitude. One might of course reach the conclu-
sion that the exodus was a real event (either in every detail or in a general way)—​
but only after subjecting the narrative to critical scrutiny.
It is beyond the scope of this introduction (and the intention of the book)
to discuss the complex twists and turns in contemporary biblical scholarship,
but several summary observations are in order. First, increasing dissatisfaction
with the limits of the historical-​critical method, combined with the exposure of
biblical scholars to the interpretive methods of the social sciences and literary
theory, has resulted in the proliferation of new interpretive approaches. Literary
methods, for example, tend to focus on the text itself in its final form (not on
the pre-​text as is the focus of historical methods), the relationships among texts,
and the interplay between the text and the reader. In the past half-​century, struc-
turalist criticism, narrative criticism, and reader-​response criticism, to name
several literary methods, have assumed their place alongside conventional
historical-​critical inquiry. Not just two or four levels of understanding Scripture
govern the life of the church or rule the academy; rather, multiple and often com-
peting approaches characterize the interpretive enterprise. To be sure, there is
general agreement that the historical-​critical method is a useful tool and that
the primary task of interpreting biblical texts is to determine (or approximate)
what the writers were conveying to people in their own time. But an emphasis
on the pre-​text (e.g., sources and traditions) has been viewed by some scholars
as of limited value in establishing the meaning of the existing text. Some have
objected that the historical-​critical method so brackets the transcendent inten-
tion of the text that it skews the very nature of the text itself. Others contend that
the narrow focus on the original meaning of the text limits or eliminates the rel-
evance of the text for people today. Others complain that the method is so rooted
in European Enlightenment assumptions that it cannot address the concerns of
the Third World. Still others wonder whether it is possible to discern the original
meaning of the text unless they recognize biases of such things as culture, gender,
and economic situation in the interpretive process.
These objections point to a second observation: hermeneutics has increas-
ingly preoccupied the contemporary study of Scripture.14 Hermeneutics
(derived from Hermes, the messenger god of the Greeks) defines the rules,
guidelines, or methods by which one determines the meaning of Scripture—​not
only the meaning in its original context but its meaning for today. Although most
Christians consider Scripture the rule of faith and practice, an appeal to “What
does the Bible say?” is, by itself, inadequate. Why is it that Christians differ in
their views of creation, war, homosexuality, or roles of women in the church? The
 Introduction 9

Bible, written under diverse circumstances and cultural settings and addressed
to diverse audiences, contains diverse points of view. Moreover, diverse interpre-
tive methods can yield and—​as this book demonstrates—​have yielded diverse
understandings of a particular text. One can exegete a text, that is, determine the
meaning of the text as the author of the text intended his original audience to
understand it, but once established, how does the meaning of that text correlate
with other related texts? Moreover, what principles or axioms are brought to bear
in making those texts applicable for the contemporary Christian community?
How does one bridge the cultural chasm between the ancient writers and the
twenty-​first-​century reader? Or, more germane for our purposes, how was that
cultural gap bridged throughout and at particular moments in two millennia of
Christian history? These are the questions of hermeneutics that I engage in what
follows.
“To a large extent,” writes Wesley Kort, “either by acts of dependence or by
acts of rejection, Western culture can be understood as a long and complex com-
mentary on and reapplication of biblical texts.”15 Similarly, Northrop Frye has
described Scripture’s profoundly shaping influence as a kind of “great code” for
comprehending Western culture.16 I offer this study as a way of describing and
explaining how the Western Christian tradition—​or, better yet, selected individ-
uals, groups, and institutions within that tradition—​encountered, grappled with,
and were shaped by the sacred text. Most of us (despite our visually saturated
culture) continue to be inspired by texts of one sort or another, be they stories,
lyrics, or poems. Such texts may not be accorded a sacred status, but they none-
theless alter our ways of thinking and behaving. So this book makes explicit what
is implicit. It seeks to highlight those texts that have transformed people’s lives
and that have a significant bearing no less pertinent today than in the past. At the
same time, the biblical texts I have chosen influenced ordinary people in extraor-
dinary ways that not only transformed individuals but also inspired a movement
or a collective response that would eventually take on a life of its own and reshape
the contours of history.
 1
“Follow Me”
Anthony and the Rise of Monasticism

Then someone came to him and said, “Teacher, what good deed
must I do to have eternal life?” And he said to him, “Why do you ask
me about what is good? There is only one who is good. If you wish
to enter into life, keep the commandments.” He said to him, “Which
ones?” And Jesus said, “You shall not murder; You shall not commit
adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; Honor
your father and mother; also, You shall love your neighbor as your-
self.” The young man said to him, “I have kept all these; what do I
still lack?” Jesus said to him, “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your
possessions, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treas­
ure in heaven; then come, follow me.” When the young man heard
this word, he went away grieving, for he had many possessions.
—​Matthew 19:16–​22

The Bible is full of stories—​and for good reason. Storytelling was one of the fun-
damental aspects of ancient culture. Stories functioned in ancient times much
like books, television, movies, videos, computers, and other forms of social media
function in our modern world: to instruct, inform, and entertain. Although
storytelling is something of a lost art in contemporary culture, Christians eve-
rywhere and literate people in the Western world have some familiarity with an-
cient biblical narratives. I grew up on a steady diet of biblical stories, all presented
as real and literal. The Old Testament contained unforgettable action stories and
heroes: the ten plagues upon Egypt, Moses and the parting of the Red Sea, Joshua
and the battle of Jericho, the boy David slaying the giant Goliath, and Jonah and
the whale, to name only a few. The New Testament, though containing fewer
spectacular stories, had its share of riveting tales, whether conveyed as real events
or instructive parables: the resurrection of Lazarus, the feeding of the five thou-
sand, the Good Samaritan, Zacchaeus the tax collector, the Prodigal Son, and the
day of Pentecost, when “tongues of fire” descended upon the first Christians. The
life of Jesus was, of course, “the greatest story ever told,” as Fulton Oursler titled
his best-​selling book of 1950.1

The Bible in History. David W. Kling, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197525364.003.0002
 “Follow Me” 11

During my childhood, I learned biblical stories through the medium of the

flannel-​graph board. Today, church schoolteachers often rely on videos or dig-
ital media, even Christian “comics,” but in the 1950s and 1960s, “flannel-​graph
stories” were the standard visual teaching aid. A board, about the size of a
painting easel, was covered with flannel cloth; on the board were placed flannel
cutout figures and props. As the teacher told the story, she (and the teacher was
always a she) would visually re-​create the story on the board by adding and
removing figures and scenes as the story progressed. Over time, these lessons
shaped both my imagination and my perception of the biblical world.
It is one thing to be regaled, even smitten, by stories as a child, and it is
quite another thing to internalize and act on them as an adult. One of the dis-
tinguishing features of the stories that Jesus told was their purposive nature.
Typically, they called for a response from the listener: emulate the wise, not the
foolish builder; choose the straight and narrow path over the winding and broad
one; change your ways, change your attitudes; come and follow me. Through
stories or parables, Jesus constantly challenged his listeners to make a decision.
And in his personal contact with others, he was even more direct. The gospel
writers not only record stories Jesus told but also present us with stories about
Jesus’ encounters with a variety of people: the rich and the poor, the wise and the
ignorant, the religious seeker and the spiritually indifferent, the upright and the
degenerate.
One of the best known stories in the Gospels, though one that I cannot recall
seeing in a flannel-​graph lesson, is that of the “rich young ruler.” The title itself
represents a composite picture drawn from the three synoptic Gospels (see Matt.
19:16–​22; Mark 10:17–​22; Luke 18:18–​23), for only Matthew notes that the man
is young, and only Luke that he is a ruler. Although there are subtle shifts in em-
phasis among the synoptic narratives, all three focus on the issue of true and false
discipleship.2 What does it mean to be a follower of Jesus? All three iterations em-
phasize that obedience consists in more than following the Jewish law (for the
interlocutor informs Jesus that he has done so), but in following a “higher right-
eousness,” Jesus himself. In the Matthew passage, if the man were to be “perfect”—​
the Greek is teleios, meaning in the biblical Jewish sense, “mature,” or complete
in one’s discipleship—​if he were “to have eternal life,” then, Jesus informed him,
he must forsake those things that meant the most to him: “Sell your possessions,
and give the money to the poor.” Upon hearing this, the rich young ruler hesitated
and eventually “went away grieving,” for he was unwilling to give up those things
that meant the most to him—​his possessions. What Jesus asked of the man—​
what ultimately mattered, what would make him “perfect”—​was not even love of
neighbor or complete obedience (though these are important) but, above all, the
setting aside of all distractions and all loves to follow Jesus himself.3
12 The Bible in History

That is the crux of the story. But what exactly did Jesus mean in his counsel?
How is discipleship specifically manifested? Anyone engaged in a discussion
of literature quickly discovers that conversations about the content of a short
story or a novel produce several interpretations or layers of meaning. In the
story of the rich young ruler, we can readily grasp the principle of discipleship,
but the specific form that discipleship should take is somewhat elusive. Is the
literal application to be made universal? Was Jesus calling his followers to sell
their possessions and give to the poor? Anthony (ca. 251–​356), the subject of
this chapter and the putative founder of monasticism, thought so. Immediately
after hearing this passage read in church, Anthony acted. He divested himself
of his inherited wealth, became an anchorite (from the Greek word anachorein,
“to withdraw, to leave”), and retreated from society to the vast and uninhabited
Egyptian desert. Did this act of “holy madness” represent the true meaning of
discipleship or a perversion of Jesus’ intent? The biblical text makes no mention
of withdrawing as Anthony did. Being a nomad or wandering disciple—​a char-
acteristic of the first followers of Jesus—​is not the same as becoming a hermit.
Is the life of a monk a necessary precondition of attaining perfection? To what
extent is the divestiture of wealth to be universalized and Anthony’s monastic
life embraced?
The text that so moved Anthony, “arguably the central monastic scriptural
text,” eventually became the source of what Catholic and Orthodox interpreters
refer to as “the evangelical counsels”—​ the ideals of poverty, chastity, and
obedience—​given by Jesus to those who seek perfection.4 In traditional Catholic
thought, this text, with its appeal to “perfection,” confirmed a higher form of
Christian life, distinct from the common obligations of all Christians.
In the latter part of the fourth century, Ambrose (ca. 339–​97), bishop of Milan
and one of the five “fathers” of the Western church, was the first to use the story
of the rich man and Jesus to differentiate between “precepts” and “counsels.” As
the number of Christians from a variety of social backgrounds increased, per-
haps it was inevitable that Jesus’ words to the rich man, understood by earlier
interpreters as applicable to all, would be tempered in applicability. Ambrose
observed that despite the rich man’s affirmation of following the command-
ments, Jesus counseled him to go one step farther: sell all that he had. “There are
two ways of commanding things,” the bishop noted, “one by way of precept, the
other by way of counsel.” Or as Paulinus (353/​4–​431), bishop of Nola (Spain),
put it, Jesus gave counsel, not a command: “The freedom of the will . . . is not
coerced but persuaded.” Similarly, John Cassian (ca. 360–​435), a monk and stu-
dent of early Egyptian monasticism, observed that “Christ . . . forces no one to
the highest reaches of virtue by the obligation of a precept, but he moves by the
power of a free will and inflames by salutary persuasion [counsel] and by the de-
sire for perfection.” Augustine (354–​430) judged precepts as “lesser things” and
 “Follow Me” 13

counsels as “greater things,” making a qualitative spiritual distinction between

those who followed one or both instructions.5
By traditional Catholic and Orthodox reasoning, then, all Christians are ex-
pected to follow the commands of Christ as introduced in the Old Testament
(e.g., “You shall not commit adultery”) and expanded on in the New (“But I say
to you, any man who lusts after a woman has committed adultery in his heart”).
But Jesus’ words to the rich man are not words of command but of counsel or
advice. They require the free choice on the part of the hearer as to whether they
are obeyed. God equips people with different abilities and gifts. A few will ad-
vance beyond the norm to dedicate themselves to deeper understanding and
more thorough observation of the commands and counsels of Christ. Some
Christians will follow Anthony’s literal application of the story of the rich young
ruler, though most will not. Saintly, heroic behavior is universally admired but
seldom imitated.
There are other, less radical ways of interpreting the story of the rich young
ruler than as the biblical basis for the monastic and religious life. Perhaps Jesus
was telling the young man that he had made possessions his consuming passion,
that he simply needed to reorder his priorities and not necessarily divest him-
self of his wealth. Perhaps Jesus was speaking hyperbolically when he said “all,”
meaning only a large amount. Or, again, the text might be interpreted allegori-
cally. According to Hilary of Poitiers (ca. 315–​67), Venerable Bede (ca. 673–​735),
Paschasius Radbertus (ca. 790–​865), and a handful of other exegetes throughout
the history of interpretation, the rich man represented the Jews who remained
tied to the law, whereas the poor represented the Gentiles open to the truths of
the gospel.6 From all these interpretations, the principle is clear: following Jesus
requires the man’s allegiance. Still, because the specific application remains am-
biguous, widely varying applications have been proposed throughout history.
An examination of other New Testament passages complicates the issue.
Attitudes regarding wealth and possessions vary, contends Martin Hengel, to the
extent that “we cannot extract a well-​defined ‘Christian doctrine of poverty.’ ”
For example, in other passages in Matthew, notably the Sermon on the Mount,
“a nuanced attitude towards wealth” is evident.7 Among other gospel writers,
the evangelist Luke expresses sensitivity to the poor and outcast (through the
words and actions of Jesus), and he emphasizes the willingness of Christians
to share goods and practice hospitality, but even he does not make wholesale
condemnations of possessions. According to Luke T. Johnson, Luke employs
the language of possessions not so much literally but “as a symbol of the state
of a man’s heart before God.”8 In Luke’s gospel, Jesus pronounces blessings on
the physically poor (compare Matthew, where this beatitude is for the poor in
spirit), the hungry, the rejected, and the persecuted and inveighs against the rich
with imprecatory “woes.” Yet when Zacchaeus, the despised tax collector for the
14 The Bible in History

Romans, informs Jesus that he will give half (not all) of his possessions to the
poor, Jesus responds by saying, “Today salvation has come to this house” (Luke
19:8–​9). In the Book of Acts, Luke relies on his Greek rhetorical training to de-
scribe an idealized version of the Jerusalem church practicing a kind of commu-
nalism, where they “had all things in common,” so that “there was not a needy
person among them” (Acts 2:44–​45; 4: 32–​37). At the same time, he dedicates his
work to Theophilus (Luke 1:3), probably his patron and therefore likely a man of
material means.
Taken together, however, the message of Matthew, Mark, and Luke is unmis-
takably clear. According to Jesus, how one uses one’s money indicates the true
state of the heart: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. . . .
No one can serve two masters; . . . You cannot serve God and wealth” (Matt. 6:21,
24). Wealth and material possessions make it particularly difficult to hear the
message of the kingdom of God, for they becloud judgment and create a false
sense of security in opposition to complete dependence on God. As Ulrich Luz
observes in his discussion of the rich man, “The surrendering of possessions of
which Jesus now speaks is no more optional than discipleship or the love of one’s
enemies.”9 At the very least, the rich are challenged to give to others as God’s
mercy and human need require.
Turning to Paul’s writings, we find no mention of Luke’s communalism but a
stress on self-​sufficiency and giving to others. Paul himself received from others,
for he acknowledged Phoebe as his patron (Rom. 16:2). The apostle instructs one
group of followers to labor and toil so as not to be a burden (2 Thess. 3:6–​10)
and another to be generous givers (2 Cor. 9:6–​11). The wealthy are enjoined not
to abandon the making of wealth but to use their wealth on behalf of the poor.
Paul did not make his own poverty and homelessness—​self-​imposed, voluntary
conditions for the sake of the gospel—​a universal norm, yet he repeatedly called
all believers to use their possessions for others, to give where needed in an ab-
sentminded way with no thought of material reward in this life. “Paul as much
as Jesus,” writes Craig Blomberg, “recognizes the danger of mammon as an idol
and its potentially damning effects. Christ must be served rather than money.”10
Attitudes toward wealth (and poverty) are related to a broader category
of ascetic behaviors discussed (with varying degrees of emphasis) in the New
Testament. In Western antiquity, asceticism (from the Greek askesis, “to exer-
cise”) referred initially to physical training for athletic contests and then was
extended to include philosophical, ethical, and spiritual training. Applied to
the Christian context, definitions of asceticism vary. According to William
Countryman, it is “a relatively demanding bodily praxis, voluntarily undertaken,
that sets those who adopt it apart from and, in the view of some, above the ordi-
nary run of people in the world.” Although asceticism is often viewed in negative
terms in the sense of denying the body of food or sex, Marilyn Dunn suggests
 “Follow Me” 15

that it “might more productively be seen as a collectivity of disciplines which

aim at the transformation of the self and the construction of a new one.” Such as-
cetic transformation challenges and critiques the prevailing culture and may be
viewed as a countercultural or a culturally subversive movement.11
The extent to which asceticism is featured in the New Testament has been
a topic of recent interest among biblical scholars.12 After surveying New
Testament views on the three traditional aspects of asceticism in the ancient
world—​ voluntary poverty, abstinence from food, and celibacy—​ Hans von
Campenhausen concludes that “there is no one abstract principle that can settle
it all. . . . It is clear that the New Testament can give no such answer to the ques-
tion whether asceticism is right or wrong itself.” Consider the Gospel of Matthew.
Jesus sometimes challenges those who would become his disciples to leave the fa-
miliar home setting—​the very center of economic life and society in the ancient
world—​and follow him into a life of voluntary poverty. At the same time, though
single himself, Jesus upholds the marriage covenant and neither encourages nor
praises celibacy (see Matt. 19:10–​12). As well, though he practiced fasting, Jesus
did not require it of his disciples or followers, though he clearly assumed that
they would fast (see Matt. 6:16–​18), just as he assumed they would give alms (i.e.,
share their wealth) and pray (see Matt. 6:2–​15). According to Anthony Saldarini,
ascetic “laws and practices promulgated in the Gospel of Matthew are often un-
determined and suggestive rather than explicitly worked out into a disciplinary
or ascetical program with practices fully explained and related to one another.”13
In addition, ascetic extremes are tempered by the Old Testament doctrine of cre-
ation, with its pronouncement of “good” on the natural order, and by the New
Testament doctrine of the incarnation, with its proclamation of God appearing
in the flesh. In both cases, a positive, not negative, value is placed on the material
and physical aspects of life.
We may conclude from the biblical record that doing God’s will in obedience
to Christ may involve ascetic renunciations, but only when such practices are
freely embraced. Discipleship, a higher spiritual state, or greater consecration
to God’s service is the end, and renunciation but one of the means. As we will
see, later Christians would draw upon Matthew and the other Gospels as guides
for a more systematic and zealous ascetic life, and in fact they would claim that
they had the Gospels on their side. At the same time, because the New Testament
contains various perspectives on wealth, it is not surprising, even expected, that
believers could come to diverse conclusions depending on which texts they
emphasized.
These perspectives on wealth in Scripture pale in comparison to the range of
responses found in the history of Christianity. In his discussion of the history of
interpretation of the story of the rich man, Richard Haskin finds eight different
types of explanations. They range from unlimited applicability (including literal,
16 The Bible in History

nonliteral, and mixed) to limited applicability (a religious vocation or the period

of Jesus’ ministry only) to a limited application to the rich man yet applicable to
all in a nonliteral sense. Moreover, Haskin concludes that three distinct trends
characterize this history of interpretation. First, the interpretation of the story
of the rich man has known two periods of creativity, the patristic era and the
sixteenth-​century Protestant Reformation period. Second, throughout history,
there has been a general movement away from a literal interpretation of the story
to some kind of nonliteral or spiritual interpretation. Several broad influences
account for this, the primary one being Christianity’s accommodation to the cul-
ture of the West. Christians saw little tension between the values of the society
and their own religious faith, and especially as the West became more econom-
ically affluent, Jesus’ words to the rich man taken in the literal sense appeared
quaint and irrelevant. “It is quite possible,” contends Haskin, “that it is these
conditions in the Western world which pre-​dispose an exegete not to discover
within a pericope such as ours anything fundamentally concerned with wealth,
poverty, and the Christian life.” Third, except for the text’s profound impact on
the rise of monasticism, it has had little influence upon the course of history.14
Among the varied understandings of the story of the rich man, I cite but a
few examples in the history of interpretation. The earlier patristic interpreters,
including the influential biblical exegete Origen (ca. 185–​ca. 254) and Cyprian
(d. 258), the bishop of Carthage, emphasized the necessity of abandoning wealth
and possessions if one wished to be perfect. For neither was the act of disposses-
sion a good in itself (for it could heighten fears and cravings), but taking Jesus’
words literally was a prerequisite for following the Lord in complete obedience.15
A well-​ known exception to this literal interpretation was advanced by
Clement of Alexandria at the end of the second century. Though given to ascetic
tendencies himself, this famous Christian teacher defended the wealth of his rich
parishioners in his treatise “Salvation of the Rich Man.” Over against Anthony’s
“ascetic” interpretation of the rich young ruler, Clement offered a “liberal” in-
terpretation. He interpreted Mark’s rendition of the rich young ruler in a spir-
itual fashion, concluding that the story did not require a literal reading. To keep
his wealthy parishioners from despairing of their status vis-​à-​vis New Testament
pronouncements about the dangers of riches, Clement argued that riches were
neutral, even useful, and that Jesus’ words really referred to the desire for, not
the possession of, riches. Indeed, “it is no great thing or desirable to be destitute
of wealth.”16 What truly matters is poverty of spirit, not poverty of possessions.
At the same time, Clement assumed with Origen and Cyprian that “the words of
Jesus to the rich man, while not explicitly addressed to everyman, have relevance
for every man who is rich in the things of the world.”17
In the sixteenth century, the Anabaptist Hutterites embraced a position closer
to Anthony’s than Clement’s, but they eschewed the individual’s renunciation of
 “Follow Me” 17

wealth for a communal ownership of goods. Peter Walpot (1521–​78), a Moravian

Hutterite leader, defended the “Bruderhof ” system of economic community on
the basis of the story of the rich young ruler: “It is clear that those who hold
onto their wealth—​unable to renounce their possessions and place them before
the spiritually poor for the common use—​are not able to become disciples and
followers of Christ.” Responding to the Catholic distinction between precept and
counsel, Walpot observed that “to sell all is a general commandment and not a
new counsel. So the person who keeps his property and possessions does not
obey Christ. Christ also has no place among his elect for those who keep their
wealth.” Indeed, “private property does not belong to the Christian Church,” for
it “is a thing of the world, of the heathen, of those without divine love, of those
who would have their own way.”18 To this day in rural communities in Canada,
Montana, and the Dakotas, the Hutterites continue to practice what Walpot
preached.
In the eighteenth century, John Wesley (1703–​91), the founder of Methodism,
offered a more Pauline response to wealth. The words of Jesus to the rich man
were “never designed for a general rule.” They applied to him because wealth
had become his preoccupation, but for others, to sell all “would be an absolute
sin.” At the same time, Wesley ministered to the economically depressed social
classes during the early stage of England’s industrial revolution and was exceed-
ingly concerned for the poor. The itinerant evangelist urged his followers to “gain
all you can; save all you can; give all you can”—​with an emphasis on the third
imperative. A century later, during America’s era of the so-​called robber barons,
the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher (1813–​87) defended the wealth of his upper-​
middle-​class Protestant parishioners (not to mention his sizable salary) by quip-
ping, “God has intended the great to be great and the little to be little.”19
This much can be said: history offers no consensus on what it means practi-
cally to “follow me.” Responses range from the “rags” of Anthony to the “riches”
of Frederick Price, the recently deceased (2021) “gospel of wealth” televangelist
in Anaheim, California, who preached that it is God’s will for Christians to be-
come rich. Quoting as his proof-​text Jesus’ words in John 14:13–​14 (“And what-
soever you ask in my name, that will I do. . . . If you shall ask any thing in my
name, I will do it”), Price correlated robust faith with material prosperity.
Modern biblical commentators, self-​consciously limited in their quest to dis-
cern the original meaning of the text, considerably mitigate the widely varying
responses in history. They generally agree that when Jesus instructed the
young man to sell his possessions, he was not issuing a universal rule. Rather,
it was an “ad hoc” command, limited to a particular situation (notwithstanding
Matthew’s earlier demand that “perfection” is incumbent upon all [5:48] and
his contrast of the rich man’s refusal to dispense with his possessions with the
action of the disciples who left everything [19:23–​27]).20 Nor, according to
18 The Bible in History

contemporary scholars (Catholics included) was Jesus advocating a two-​tier

morality—​one for masses of ordinary Christians and another for an elite of su-
perior Christians.21 Many agree with the conclusions of John Calvin (1509–​64),
the sixteenth-​century Protestant Reformer, who declared, “Our Lord is not
proclaiming a general statement that is applicable to everyone, but only to the
person with whom He is speaking.” In his Institutes of the Christian Religion,
Calvin concluded his discussion of Matthew 19:21 (and his argument against
monasticism) by observing, “When Christ commands the covetous rich man
to give up all that he has, it is like commanding an ambitious man to give up all
his honors, a voluptuary all his pleasures, or a shameless man all means of lust.”
Jesus insisted that anyone who followed him must renounce all impediments to
discipleship, whether wealth, personal ambition, or family. Obeying the com-
mandments, even the greatest commandment, was secondary to following
Jesus. Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906–​45), in The Cost of Discipleship, wrote of the
confrontation between Jesus and the rich young man, “Here is the sum of the
commandments—​to live in fellowship with Christ. . . . The call to follow means
here what it meant before—​adherence to the person of Jesus Christ and fellow-
ship with him. The life of discipleship is not the hero-​worship we would pay to a
good master, but obedience to the Son of God.”22
Although biblical commentators concur that Jesus demanded the surrender
of anything that hinders one from commitment to God, they offer differing
assessments of wealth. Some point out that scribal legislation prohibited the
giving away of all of one’s possessions precisely because it would reduce a man
to poverty and dependence upon others. The real issue was not selling all, but
following Jesus, to be introduced to a new way of life based on fellowship with
him. And yet Jesus did not stand in the scribal tradition or advocate the cove-
nantal model that assumed material reward for devotion (“godly materialism”);
rather, he took a prophetic stance, closer to the sectarian Qumran community
than the Pharisees. Jews typically regarded natural possessions—​and marriage
and family—​as signs of divine favor, but Jesus’ “theology of reversal” inverted
these values, even to the point of confusing his own disciples.23 After Jesus in-
formed his disciples that “it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle
than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God,” they asked in amaze-
ment, “Then who can be saved?” (Matt. 19:24, 25).
One commentator challenges the ready dismissal of wealth as a hindrance to
true discipleship:

In ancient times and on into the present, the opinion has been popular that
riches in themselves are no problem, and that only when the wealthy man
engages in evil practices is he in spiritual danger. But the force of this passage
is precisely to the effect that riches in themselves are a hindrance to a person’s
 “Follow Me” 19

participation in the Kingdom of God and that the mere accumulation of wealth
and consequent attachment to it can prevent a person from following Christ.24

Ulrich Luz, directing his remarks to Protestants, observes, “We must learn again
that a central issue of faith is how one deals with money. . . . The obedience of
discipleship must fundamentally change the way we deal with our own money,
because money governs the world, and following Jesus is love’s protest against
this ‘government.’ ”25
Perhaps the most balanced judgment comes from Eduard Schweizer. He notes
that Jesus’ counsel to the young man was neither a blanket endorsement of pov-
erty nor the creation of two classes of Christians. “All one can say,” he concludes,
“is that a special form of service is required of some and to them it is granted,
giving them great responsibility and richer ministry.”26 Hundreds of years earlier,
in a far different context from our own, Anthony well understood the dangers of
riches. To follow Christ entailed freeing himself of wealth, embracing an ascetic
existence, and retreating to the desert. His act of obedience forever altered the
life of the church.

The Life of Anthony

The story of Anthony provides an instructive example of how a particular his-

torical context shaped the understanding of Scripture and, conversely, how
Scripture shaped what became one of the most important movements in the his-
tory of Christianity. Anthony was not the first monk (nor was Egypt the original
home of monasticism), but his biography, believed to be written by Athanasius
(ca. 295–​373), the controversial and often exiled bishop of Alexandria, became
one of the most influential works in Christian history. Depending on one’s judg-
ment of the monastic movement, that influence was for good or for ill. Adolf
von Harnack, the nineteenth-​ century German Protestant scholar, referred
to Athanasius’s Life of Anthony as “probably the most disastrous book that has
ever been written,” whereas a recent, more sympathetic observer considers the
work “next to the Gospel of St. Mark the most important biography of early
Christianity.”27The Life of Anthony, our primary source of knowledge of Anthony,
is not the kind of critical work that we expect from modern biographers.28
Written shortly after Anthony died and at the request of monks in the West, The
Life of Anthony represents a genre of writing called hagiography—​the story of a
holy one or a saint. Intended to heighten devotion and to inspire acts of piety,
the Life shaped and transformed its readers. Indeed, others sought to imitate
Anthony’s heroics, whether in the desert of Egypt, the mountain cliffs of Greece,
or the rural environs of Europe.
20 The Bible in History

Athanasius writes for two reasons. He offers an apologia for the monastic life,
but he also writes to defend Christian orthodoxy against the Arians, his theolog-
ical archenemies. Anthony is thus presented as an exemplar of holy living and
orthodox thinking. Despite Athanasius’s idealized portrait of Anthony, the Life
is not fantasy. It may border on historical fiction, but in other ways Athanasius’s
writings comport with what is known about the Egyptian church in the fourth
century. For example, Athanasius’s descriptions of Anthony’s exposure to
Scripture in Coptic translation and of Egyptian monasticism in general agree
with other contemporary accounts of Egyptian Christianity. However polished
or refined, The Life of Anthony is, according to Douglas Burton-​Christie, “based
on fact.”29
Anthony, though an educational dropout, was every pious parent’s dream.
Born to wealthy Coptic Christians in the village of Coma in Lower Egypt,
Anthony feared the worldly influences of other children attending the Greek
academies. He never received a formal education and, consequently, never
learned to read or write.30 He was, however, an obedient child who dutifully
attended church services with his parents and listened to the teachings and
readings of the priest. Despite the wealth surrounding him, Anthony did not
crave the good life. When he was eighteen or twenty, his parents died, leaving
him responsible for his younger sister and the family’s two-​hundred-​acre estate.
In our own day, and no doubt in Anthony’s, most twenty-​year-​olds, after a requi-
site period of grief, would enjoy the benefits of a large inheritance. But Anthony
was different, for he was troubled by the responsibilities of wealth.
Six months after his parents’ deaths, while on his way to church, he pondered
how the apostles gave up everything to follow Christ (Matt. 4:20) and how, in the
Book of Acts (4:35), some Christians sold all their possessions, gave the proceeds
to the disciples to be used for the poor, and stored up treasures in heaven. Upon
entering the church, Anthony heard the priest read the words of Jesus from the
Gospel of Matthew: “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your possessions, and give
the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven.” The verse haunted
Anthony. He, too, was young, rich, and pious; he, too, lacked spiritual maturity.
Jesus’ counsel, Anthony concluded, was plainly meant for him. And so, after
returning home, he gave away his possessions to the townspeople, sold the re-
mainder, and gave the proceeds to the poor, but he kept aside a few things for his
sister. Soon after, Anthony attended church and heard the priest read again from
Matthew: “Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will take care of
itself ” (6:34). Here was the clincher. Anthony promptly gave away the rest of his
possessions and placed his sister in the care of a Christian community of virgins.
He now made a complete break with his past. He left home, encamped in a hut
near the edge of town, and sought spiritual advice from a neighboring hermit
who had lived in solitude since his youth. Athanasius informs us that Anthony
 “Follow Me” 21

“prayed constantly, since he learned [from Scripture] that it is necessary to pray

unceasingly in private.” His inability to read was no handicap, because “he paid
such close attention to what was read that nothing from Scripture did he fail to
take in—​rather he grasped everything, and in him the memory took the place of
books.” A life of spiritual and physical discipline ensued. Anthony learned the
Christian virtues of prayer, study, watchfulness, patience, fasting, gentleness, and
love of Christ. He resisted the devil’s blandishments, including the temptation to
return to his old life. He continued to discipline his body by fasting for three or
four days at a time, restricting his diet to bread and water, and sleeping on a rush
mat. “The soul’s intensity is strong,” he reasoned, “when the pleasures of the body
are weakened.”31
After years of building up his soul’s stamina, Anthony was now prepared to
confront the demons of the desert. He left his hut and moved into the mortuary
chamber of an Egyptian tomb, supplied periodically with bread and water from
a friend. Living among the bones of the dead, he battled with demons, rebuked
them with the words of Scripture, and reminded them that “nothing shall sepa-
rate me from the love of Christ” (Rom. 8:35). When Anthony emerged from the
tomb some fifteen years later, he was hailed as a spiritual warrior who had fought
and conquered the powers of darkness. He then withdrew farther into the desert
to an abandoned fortress on Mount Pispir, across the Nile River, where he lived
for nearly twenty years in almost total seclusion, praying, fasting, and weaving
mats from palm leaves that he sold or exchanged for bread.32
As word circulated of Anthony’s exploits, a train of visitors and disciples
followed. Some sought out his spiritual counsel; others desired to emulate his ex-
ample. The hermit who wanted only to be alone had attracted a crowd, and around
the year 305, he gathered some disciples into a quasi-​community. Anthony was
soon recognized as an authoritative holy man whose powers, teaching, and pas-
toral advice were much in demand.33 He healed the sick and performed other
miracles, offered guidance to fellow monks, argued with philosophers, and coun-
seled emperors (Constantine and his sons), judges, and military officers seeking
his advice. On several occasions Anthony traveled to Alexandria, first to comfort
Christians being persecuted by the emperor Maximin (308–​13), and later pub-
licly to renounce the heretical Arians.
After 313 he withdrew to the eastern desert, near the Red Sea, about one hun-
dred miles southeast of Cairo. For the next forty years, Anthony resided in his
“Inner Mountain,” Mount Colzim (now St. Anthony’s Mount), and occasionally
visited the “Outer Mountain,” where other monks lived and people visited. To the
end, Anthony remained ever the holy man. Athanasius informs us that Anthony
“kept his fervent commitment to the discipline from his youth to such an ad-
vanced age. He never succumbed, due to old age to extravagance in food, nor did
he change his mode of dress because of frailty of the body, nor even bathe his feet
22 The Bible in History

with water, and yet in every way he remained free of injury.”34 According to tra-
dition, Anthony died on January 17, 356, at the age of 105, ostensible proof that
what is good for the soul is good for the body.

The Rise of Monasticism

Within several decades of its writing, The Life of Anthony circulated among
Greek-​speaking Christians in the eastern Mediterranean, and by 375, Evagrius,
bishop of Antioch, translated the Life for Latin-​speaking Christians in Gaul and
Italy. Thanks to Athanasius’s biography, Anthony attained star status throughout
the Roman Christian world by the year 400. Hundreds and eventually thousands
followed his flight into Lower Egypt. Toward the end of the fourth century, a
traveler through Egypt and Palestine reported that the inhabitants of the desert
equaled the population living in towns. In the words of Athanasius, “There were
monasteries in the mountains and the desert was made a city by monks.” There
are reports of more than five thousand monks living in the Nitrian Valley alone.
By the year 500, perhaps as many as twenty thousand men and women had made
the desert their refuge. A whole new, alternative society was brought into being.35
But why the desert, and why such deprivation? Every major religion has an
ascetic tradition, but each tradition assumes its own distinct character, shaped
by a variety of influences, be they the sacred texts of the tradition, current phil-
osophical ideas, or geographic, economic, and political factors. And each tradi-
tion produces its own heroes whose physical, mental, and spiritual discipline sets
them apart from others. In considering Christian monasticism, students of the
ancient world and early Christianity agree that the roots of monasticism are com-
plex, but they disagree as to the importance given to the individual influences
that contributed to the phenomenon. For purposes of clarity and economy, I will
limit this discussion to four factors, and then turn to the often overlooked but
formative role of Scripture in shaping the monastic ideal.

A General Mood of Asceticism

Monasticism may be viewed as a specific response—​and by far the most

popular—​to a general climate of asceticism in the ancient world. According
to Anthony Meredith, Christians and Greeks shared a religious milieu that in-
cluded “asceticism in food, a belief in the need of some form of divine aid, the
need for physical and psychological withdrawal in order to further the pro-
cess of reflection, and finally some, admittedly attenuated, belief in the value
of prayer.” I have already noted ascetic tendencies present in early Christianity,
 “Follow Me” 23

and clearly, monasticism’s origins are closely related to earlier forms of Christian
askesi. The New Testament writers reflect the demand for self-​discipline, but
as Campenhausen cautions, “The prevalence of ascetic tendencies in the early
Christian period should not be overestimated.” Nonetheless, owing in large
part to Hellenistic influences on Christianity, such tendencies persisted. By
the second century, for example, an “order” of widows lived off the charity of
Christians in exchange for intercessory prayer and service, and there appeared
in Syria a band of wandering ascetics who had no possessions.36 Toward the end
of the third century, “Sons and Daughters of the Covenant” lived as celibates in
small, segregated households and offered spiritual advice to the Christian com-
munity in Syria. That monasticism became a geographically widespread move-
ment throughout the Roman world attests to the pervasive mood of asceticism,
for parallel movements to the one in Egypt developed, as just noted, in Syria, and
also in Mesopotamia, in Cappadocia, and, by the sixth century, in the western
regions of the empire.
In addition, influences from pre-​and post-​Christian religious traditions and
philosophies contributed to the ascetic milieu and undoubtedly reinforced ex-
isting Christian practices. All in some way sought mastery over the body. As
early as the fourth century, Eusebius of Caesarea cited the influence of earlier
Jewish ascetic groups such as the Theraputae of Lower Egypt and the Essenes of
the Qumran community. Outside of the Judeo-​“orthodox” Christian matrix, the
religious philosophies of Manicheanism and Gnosticism embraced the ascetic,
world-​denying ideal. Both stressed the evils of matter and the goodness of the
spiritual realm. Both stressed a heavenly rather than a physical and earthy cit-
izenship, sharing a view of humanity infused by a Platonic dualism. According
to Plato, the body is a prison of the soul, or a “weight” that ties down humanity;
therefore, the body must be disciplined so that it can be refined and transformed,
ultimately making it less material and more spiritual. We hear of Plotinus, the
Neoplatonic philosopher of the third century, who “lived as one ashamed to have
been born into a human body.”37 Philosophers affirmed that the “good life” (or
virtuous life) required various ascetic behaviors ranging from bodily disciplines
and physical withdrawal from society (Epicureans, Cynics, and radical Stoics)
to spiritual and psychological withdrawal (aristocratic Stoics, Peripatetics, and
Neoplatonists).
Clearly, the Christian monastic movement tapped into this broad stream of as-
cetic thought and practice. Origen, the brilliant Christian thinker who proposed
a theology of monasticism, adopted the ascetic lifestyle of the philosophers of his
day—​and then some. The church historian Eusebius viewed Origen as emulating
the ideal philosopher but within a Christian context.
24 The Bible in History

For many years he persisted in this philosophic way of life, putting away from
him all inducements to youthful lusts, and at all times of the day disciplining
himself by performing strenuous tasks, while he devoted most of the night to
the study of the Holy Scriptures. He went to the limit in practising a life given
up to philosophy; sometimes he trained himself by periods of fasting, some-
times by restricting the hours of sleep, which he insisted on never taking in
bed, always on the floor. Above all, he felt that he must keep the gospel sayings
of the Saviour urging us not to carry two coats or wear shoes and never to be
worried by anxiety about the future. . . . About the same time, while responsible
for the instruction at Alexandria, Origen did a thing that provided the fullest
proof of a mind youthful and immature, but at the same time of faith and self-​
mastery. The saying “there are eunuchs who made themselves eunuchs for the
kingdom of heaven’s sake” he took in an absurdly literal sense [by the act of
self-​castration].38

Despite structural similarities to the askesis of philosophers, there were

differences. The means to the end of godliness for Manicheans, Gnostics, and
Neoplatonists were hidden knowledge or a classical education; for Christian
ascetics such as Origen, it was obeying Christ’s commands. In contrasting
Christian with pagan askesis, Anthony Meredith observes that “whereas the pur-
suit of poverty in obedience to Scripture and a strong sense of dependence on
God marks the effort of Antony, neither of these features appears in the lives of
either Pythagoras or Apollonius.”39

A New Ideal

Ideas alone did not make monasticism popular. Monasticism arose amid one
of the most decisive shifts in Christian (and Western) history. This shift, begin-
ning with the conversion of the emperor Constantine (306–​37) to Christianity,
forever altered the status of Christianity in the empire and indirectly acceler-
ated the growth of the monastic movement. Before Constantine came to power,
Christians lived in an inhospitable environment where they faced the threat of
social harassment, physical persecution, and even death. New Testament writers
captured this sense of the impermanence of life and threat of persecution in
referring to Christians as “aliens and exiles” (1 Pet. 2:11), whose “citizenship is
in heaven” (Phil. 3:20). Other early Christians expressed similar thoughts as both
the prospect and the reality of persecution continued to be a fact of life for many
Christians. The author of 1 Clement (usually dated ca. 96) employed the verb
paroikousa, meaning “sojourns” or “has temporary residence,” to describe the
churches residing in Rome and Corinth. The anonymous author of a letter to
 “Follow Me” 25

Diognetus depicted Christians as those who “dwell in their own fatherlands, but
as if sojourners in them; they share all things as citizens, and suffer all things as
strangers. Every foreign country is their fatherland, and every fatherland is a for-
eign country.”40
The Roman political authorities generally tolerated other religions—​their
policy was one of absorption rather than exclusion—​but they took exception
to cases of suspected treason and sedition. Christianity was eventually labeled
an illicit religion because its followers refused to recognize both the gods upon
whom the empire was founded and the divinity or “genius” of ruling emperors.
Christians were deemed unpatriotic at best, traitors as worst.
They were also viewed as social misfits. Accusations against Christians ranged
from the warranted to unwarranted, from the legitimate to the bizarre. They
were considered intolerant and called “atheists” and “haters of the human race”
for their refusal to worship other gods. Such undivided loyalty could threaten the
basic structures of society by setting pagan parent against Christian child or by
endangering the livelihood of craftsmen who built pagan shrines and likenesses
of the gods. One of the more bizarre accusations (familiar to the readers of weekly
tabloids) involved accusations of cannibalism and sexual promiscuity. Why did
Christians practice their faith in secret? critics asked. What of the common
meal where blood and flesh are consumed? And what about the Christian in-
vocation of “brothers and sisters”—​an all too obvious reference to incestuous
relationships. Finally, Christians were blamed for natural disasters. Tertullian,
the second-​century Latin Christian, graphically portrayed the dilemma: “If the
Tiber floods the City, or the Nile refuses to rise, or the sky withholds its rain, if
there is an earthquake, famine, or pestilence, at once the cry is raised: Christians
to the lion.”41
Indeed, Christians were thrown to lions—​and branded and maimed and
starved. But the persecuted represented a small minority. Although pre-​
Constantinian Christians were always liable to persecution and even death, the
vast majority never faced martyrdom. Up until the middle of the third century,
persecution depended on local circumstances of popular feeling and the dispo-
sition of local authorities. Then, beginning with the emperor Decius (249–​51)
and extending into the reign of Diocletian (303–​11), under whom the “Great
Persecution” raged, the state tried (unsuccessfully) to quash Christianity.
It is within this context of harassment and suppression that the martyr ideal
arose. Those facing death had to look no farther than Jesus himself for an ex-
ample to follow. He suffered and died as a witness (the literal meaning of martyr)
to the kingdom; so, too, Christians followed him in a “baptism of blood” or
“second baptism.” For enduring (or in some cases embracing) bodily persecution
and death, martyrs were accorded a special place in the church and recognized
as having special spiritual authority. Those who confessed their faith in the face
26 The Bible in History

of persecution were seen as receiving the gift of prophecy and visions, much like
Old Testament prophets. As models of spiritual purity, linked closely to God,
they became recognized as intercessors, both in this life and in the life to come.
The martyr, then, was known in his or her own day as the ultimate Christian,
the heroic one who stood firm, successfully fought the powers of darkness, and
triumphed in the Spirit.
The end of persecution brought an end to martyrdom. Constantine’s coming
to power introduced an altogether new situation for Christians. Eusebius (d.
339), a Greek historian of Christianity and eulogist of Constantine, was aston-
ished by the sight of a Christian emperor fraternizing with Christian bishops at
the Council of Nicaea in 325: “One might easily have thought it a picture of the
kingdom of Christ, the whole a dream rather than a reality.”42 But reality it was.
The Christian community was no longer an enemy of the empire but its ally, no
longer a sect but a church prepared to absorb all of society. Previously the state
built pagan temples, supported pagan priests, and suppressed Christianity; now
under Constantine and succeeding Christian emperors, the state built Christian
basilicas and churches, supported Christian bishops, and, by the end of the
fourth century, suppressed pagan religions. In this altogether novel situation
and into the vacuum created by the disappearance of the martyr stepped a new
holy man—​the monk. Whereas martyrs died a physical death for their Christian
beliefs, now monks died within to the pleasures of the world. Whereas tales of
the martyrs were often couched in the language of gladiatorial combat, so now
the monk emerged as another kind of heroic Christian athlete.

A Form of Protest

The end of persecution and the increasingly favored status of Christians

portended an inevitable decline in Christian standards. As congregations
swelled, the standards of discipleship inevitably lowered. As Christians began
to feel at home in this world, the otherworldly desert beckoned. The rise of
monasticism, then, may be seen as a form of protest against lax requirements,
growing wealth in the church, and the pressures of church organization. In the
epigrammatic phrase of Roland Bainton, “When the masses entered the church,
the monks went to the desert.” Even before the end of persecution, there is ev-
idence of growing numbers and increasing wealth in the church, but with the
end of persecution, the wealth and power of the church increased rapidly as the
Christian faith became a source of prestige. To adopt the emperor’s faith could
enhance one’s opportunities in the world. As one notable pagan Roman senator
said in jest to Pope Damasus (366–​84), “Make me a bishop of Rome and I will be-
came a Christian tomorrow.”43
 “Follow Me” 27

In this new context, bishops assumed greater responsibilities for the ad-
ministration of revenue and the social, political, and economic duties of the
church. Their position was further enhanced when Constantine introduced state
contributions to church funds (for poor relief) and the bishops were exempted
from taxation. The position of the bishop became a coveted prize, with the pos-
sibility of enrichment. In such a favorable environment, more and more people
entered the church, including the rich and wellborn. The contrast between
ascetics and ordinary Christians became more pronounced, so that the first
monks who retreated to the desert served as mirrors, reflecting the realities and
the ideals of the early Christian community. According to Wilfred Griggs, “The
appearance and growth of monasticism in third century Egypt is another expres-
sion of the perceived inadequacies of the ecclesiastical organization spreading
from Alexandria into the rest of the country.”44 Monks sought freedom from a
growing church establishment.

A Form of Escape

If we focus on Anthony’s Egypt, the cradle of monasticism, we may view

the rise of monasticism as a form of escape from the demands of the em-
pire. Beginning in the third century, the Romans increasingly integrated
Egypt into the orbit of the Greco-​Roman world and, in so doing, ushered the
country into a period of transition and crisis. They introduced greater effi-
ciency in governing Egypt, especially in the collection of taxes and military
requisitions, but on the heels of taxation came economic distress. In our own
day, financially strapped businesspeople seek relief from financial hardship
through the assistance of shrewd accountants and lawyers who help restruc-
ture their debt, or they may take extreme measures and file for bankruptcy.
In cases where laws have been violated, they may flee the country both to
avoid prison and to retain their ill-​gotten gain. In the third century, Egypt’s
upper crust—​those in a position similar to Anthony’s—​abandoned the polis
and fled from the tax collector to outlying desert regions. As the elite fled,
greater burdens were placed upon peasants, who, in turn, followed suit. By the
end of the third century, increasing numbers of people opted out of civiliza-
tion and abandoned their villages in a conscious act of anachoresis. Some fled
to neighboring towns or villages; others escaped to the fringes of the desert.
Over time, whole villages, notably those contiguous to the desert, were aban-
doned. The problem became so acute that Roman authorities paid bounties
for returnees. Questions addressed to an oracle by despairing farmers reveal
the level of anxiety: “Am I to become a beggar?” “Shall I be sold up?” “Should
I take flight?” “Shall I get my salary?”45 Although there is little evidence of tax
28 The Bible in History

evaders turning into Christian monks, the possibility of flight became a reality
of Egyptian life in the third and fourth centuries.
Following this chronicle of the conditions favorable to the rise of Christian
monasticism—​a general climate of asceticism, the need for a new ideal following
the age of the martyrs, a form of protest against a growing spiritual laxity, and a
way of escape from the harsh conditions imposed on Egypt by Rome—​several
caveats are in order. First, although the monastic movement flourished in the
fourth and fifth centuries, monasticism existed before Constantine came to
power. The Constantinian era provided a suitable environment for the devel-
opment of monasticism, but it did not in any sense “cause” Christian monasti-
cism. Prior to Constantine, the threats and realities of persecution had scattered
Christians into the desert and hills of Egypt, where some took up a hermitlike
existence. Anthony’s first master, for example, is said to have been an elderly
hermit surviving from the Decian persecution of the mid-​third century. And yet
what began as a trickle in the second and third centuries reached flood stage in
the fourth and fifth centuries as thousands headed to the desert of Egypt and
the caves of Syria. Second, although socioeconomic conditions in Egypt resulted
in flight from towns and villages, we have no statements from monks that such
circumstances led them to the desert. Rather, as Peter Brown has observed, the
decision to flee to the desert “sprang quite as much from the disruptive effects
of new wealth and new opportunities as from the immemorial depredations
of the tax collector.” Witness Anthony’s flight. Third, we should not exaggerate
the tension between monks and the institutional church. There were repeated
contacts between desert monks and lay Christians, and instances where monks
were ordained as bishops—​sometimes grudgingly but more often accepting the
vocational legitimacy of the priesthood and episcopate.46
These qualifications make clear that certain conditions favored the develop-
ment of monasticism, but they hardly created the phenomenon itself. There were
other factors of a genuinely religious nature that must be emphasized. I have al-
ready noted the influence of the martyrs and alluded to protomonastic practices
in early Christian communities. I now turn to the specific ways in which
Scripture shaped the monastic ideal.

Scripture in the Desert

As we have seen, the words of Jesus in Matthew 19:21 became the immediate
cause of Anthony’s pilgrimage to the desert. Such an incident, where a pas-
sage of Scripture, even this very same passage, has a life-​changing outcome,
is not uncommon. In his Confessions, St. Augustine (354–​430) related how, in
agony over the condition of his soul, he heard the voice of a child “coming from
 “Follow Me” 29

a neighboring house, chanting over and over again, ‘Pick it up, read it; pick it
up, read it.’ ” Believing the voice was a divine command to open the Bible and
read whatever passage appeared before his eyes, he obeyed, for he had recently
heard how Anthony had been converted “after accidentally coming into church
while the gospel was being read.” Augustine’s eyes lit upon Romans 13:13: “Not
in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and
envying, but put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh to
fulfill the lusts thereof.” “I wanted to read no further,” he wrote, “nor did I need
to. For instantly, as the sentence ended, there was infused in my heart some-
thing like the light of full certainty and all the gloom of doubt vanished away.”47
More than eight centuries later, after hearing the very passage that transformed
Anthony’s life, Francis of Assisi (ca. 1180–​1226) forsook a life of wealth and rev-
elry, embraced “lady poverty” as his chivalrous ideal, and created a new reli-
gious order dedicated to the apostolic ideals of obedience, poverty, chastity, and
service.
Clearly, an individual must be primed for the kind of spiritual transformations
that we see in an Anthony, Augustine, or Francis. A number of circumstances—​
social, political, economic, or psychological—​occasion receptivity to personal
transformation. A text of Scripture, an individual’s state of being, and other so-
cial influences converge in such a way as to bring about a new understanding,
commitment, or way of behaving. For Anthony, a peculiar state of mind, the
conditions of his personal life, and his contemplation of the disciplines of the
primitive church prepared him for radical action after hearing the reading of
Matthew 19:21.
Often overlooked in the details of Anthony’s life and in the desert monks
in gen­eral is the extent to which Scripture—​and not just the Matthew 19:21
passage—​permeated their experience. Several recent studies correct this ne-
glect and, in so doing, challenge the (Protestant) critique of monasticism as
antibiblical. Anthony Meredith observes five salient themes in The Life of
Anthony: Scripture, physical withdrawal, askesis, prayer, and demonic activity.
He concludes that Scripture stands apart from the other four because it is “nor-
mative for the rest and influences the existence and forms the others take.”48
In addition to the Matthew 19:21 text, other biblical passages are crucial to
Anthony’s spiritual life, particularly Ephesians 6:12 (“For our struggle is not
against enemies of blood and flesh, but against . . . the cosmic powers of this
present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in heavenly places”) and 1
Thessalonians 5:17 (“Pray without ceasing”).
In a revisionist work, Samuel Rubenson challenges Athanasius’s idealistic
portrayal of the unlettered, saintly Anthony, and yet he affirms that Anthony
remained biblically grounded. By reconstructing Anthony’s mental world from
what he argues are genuine letters of St. Anthony, Rubenson juxtaposes the
30 The Bible in History

simple illiterate monk in Athanasius’s Life with a philosopher who was perhaps
“the first real Coptic author.” According to Rubenson, Anthony was indebted to
the Platonic tradition, mediated by the Christian philosopher Origen. Still, how-
ever much Anthony developed a Christian gnosis (i.e., the presence of a secret,
hidden truth behind the plain words of a text), “it is the Biblical message that is
his message.”49
Douglas Burton-​Christie sounds a similar refrain in The Word in the Desert, a
work that examines not just Anthony but the larger movement of desert spiritu-
ality in the fourth and fifth centuries. He claims that

any attempt to understand the history of early monasticism must take into ac-
count the central role that Scripture played in the life of the monks. Whether
it was the primary force behind the rise and development of early monasti-
cism is uncertain; but it was surely among the key influences shaping the early
monks’ life and spirituality. . . . The texts were proclaimed, recited (in solitude
and in community), memorized, ruminated upon, and discussed. They served
as a basic frame of reference and primary source of sustenance to the early
monastics. . . . Certain key texts . . . especially those having to do with renuncia-
tion and detachment, stood at the beginning of desert monasticism, serving as
primary sources of inspiration for the whole movement.50

Although Scripture shaped the spirituality of the desert, so, too, the desert set-
ting shaped the spirituality derived from Scripture. Used within the context of
Christian spirituality, “desert” is not only a geographic space (a barren, inhos-
pitable wilderness—​not necessarily a barren, sandy region), but it symbolizes a
temporary site or condition of religious testing. We must recognize that all spir-
itual quests require a degree of isolation, for the very nature of spirituality is the
soul’s solitary quest after God. In both the Bible and the monastic movement,
the desert provided the transformative setting for the soul’s encounter with
God. Scripture characterizes the desert as a place of journey to God, “a place,”
in Andrew Louth’s words, “where the human is refined and God revealed.”51 The
Israelites escaped from Egypt into the desert for a period of testing and prepara-
tion. Elijah fled evil Queen Jezebel to Mount Horeb in the Sinai Desert, where he
spent forty days and nights (1 Kings 19:1–​9). John the Baptist appeared in the de-
sert region proclaiming a baptism of forgiveness and the coming Messiah (Mark
1:4–​8). Jesus “was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the
devil” (Matt. 4:1). There he fasted “forty days and nights.”
So, too, monks, in their journey to God, retreated to the desert and self-​
consciously patterned their lives after Elijah and John the Baptist. Anthony
deemed Elijah a monastic model, and Jerome, who lived in Rome and later in
monastic retreat in Bethlehem, claimed that Elijah founded the eremitical life.
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pas qu’il n’y ait une remarquable quantité d’ivoire — pour la plus
grande partie fossile. — Il nous faut le sauver en tous cas — mais
voyez comme la situation est précaire — et pourquoi ? Parce que la
méthode est imprudente… » — « Appelez-vous cela, fis-je en
regardant la rive, méthode imprudente !… » — « Sans aucun doute,
s’écria-t-il avec chaleur. N’est-ce pas votre avis ?… » — « Absence
complète de méthode », murmurai-je après un moment. — « Très
juste ! exulta-t-il. Je m’y attendais !… Témoigne d’un manque
complet de jugement. Il est de mon devoir de le signaler à qui de
droit… — Oh, fis-je, ce garçon là-bas, — comment s’appelle-t-il,
l’homme aux briques, fera pour vous là-dessus un rapport très
présentable… Il demeura un instant confondu. Jamais, me parut-il,
je n’avais respiré atmosphère aussi vile, et mentalement je me
détournai vers Kurtz pour me réconforter — oui, je dis bien, pour me
réconforter. — « Néanmoins j’estime, fis-je avec emphase, que M.
Kurtz est un homme remarquable. » Il sursauta laissa tomber sur
moi un lourd regard glacé, et très rapidement : « C’était un homme
remarquable… » fit-il, et il me tourna le dos. Mon heure de faveur
était passée. J’étais désormais, au même titre que Kurtz, mis au
rancart, comme partisan des méthodes pour lesquelles les temps
n’étaient pas mûrs. J’étais un « imprudent »… Du moins était-ce
quelque chose d’avoir le choix de son cauchemar…
« En fait c’est vers la sauvagerie que je m’étais reporté et non
vers M. Kurtz qui, je l’admettais volontiers, pouvait d’ores et déjà être
considéré comme un homme en terre. Et pendant un instant, il me
parut que moi aussi, j’étais enterré dans un vaste tombeau plein
d’indicibles secrets. Un poids insupportable pesait sur ma poitrine :
je sentais l’odeur de la terre humide, la présence invisible de la
pourriture triomphante, l’obscurité d’une nuit impénétrable… Le
Russe cependant me frappa sur l’épaule. Je l’entendis bredouiller et
bégayer : « Les marins sont tous frères… Impossible dissimuler…
Connaissance de choses propres à nuire à la réputation de M.
Kurtz ». — J’attendis. Pour lui, évidemment, M. Kurtz n’était pas
encore dans la tombe. Je soupçonne qu’à ses yeux, M. Kurtz était
l’un d’entre les immortels. — « Eh bien ! fis-je, à la fin. « Parlez… Il
se trouve que je suis l’ami de M. Kurtz, dans une certaine
mesure… »
« Non sans formalité, il commença par déclarer que si nous
n’avions pas appartenu à la même « profession », il aurait tout gardé
pour lui, sans se soucier des conséquences. « Il soupçonnait qu’il y
avait une malveillance délibérée à son égard chez ces blancs
que… » — « Vous avez raison, » lui dis-je, me souvenant de certaine
conversation que j’avais surprise. « Le Directeur considère que vous
devriez être pendu… » Il manifesta à cette nouvelle une
préoccupation qui m’étonna tout d’abord. « Il vaut mieux, fit-il
gravement, que je m’éclipse sans bruit. Je ne puis rien faire de plus
pour Kurtz maintenant, et ils auraient bientôt fait d’inventer quelque
prétexte… Qu’est-ce qui les arrêterait ?… Il y a un poste militaire à
cinq cents kilomètres d’ici. » — « Ma foi, répondis-je, peut-être vaut-il
mieux que vous vous en alliez, si vous avez des amis parmi les
sauvages de ce pays… » — « J’en ai quantité, reprit-il. Ce sont des
gens simples et je n’ai besoin de rien, voyez-vous… » Il demeura un
instant à se mordiller la lèvre. « Je ne souhaite aucun mal à ces
blancs, continua-t-il ensuite, je songe avant tout à la réputation de M.
Kurtz, mais vous êtes un marin, un frère et… » — « Ça va bien »,
répondis-je après un instant. « La réputation de M. Kurtz ne court
avec moi aucun risque… » Je ne savais pas à quel point je disais
vrai…
« Il m’informa alors, en baissant la voix, que c’était Kurtz qui avait
donné l’ordre d’attaquer le vapeur. « L’idée d’être emmené, parfois
lui faisait horreur et parfois aussi… Mais je n’entends rien à ces
questions… Je suis une âme simple. Il pensait qu’il vous ferait battre
en retraite et que vous abandonneriez la partie, le croyant mort.
Impossible de l’arrêter… Oh, j’ai passé de durs moments ce dernier
mois… » — « C’est possible, fis-je, mais il est raisonnable
maintenant. » — « Vous croyez ? » murmura-t-il d’un air pas très
convaincu. — « Merci en tout cas », fis-je. « J’ouvrirai l’œil… » —
« Mais pas un mot, n’est-ce pas ?… » reprit-il avec une anxieuse
insistance. « Ce serait terrible pour sa réputation si n’importe qui… »
Avec une grande gravité, je promis une discrétion absolue. — « J’ai
une pirogue et trois noirs qui m’attendent non loin. Je pars. Pouvez-
vous me passer quelques cartouches Martini-Henry ? » J’en avais :
je lui en donnai avec la discrétion qui convenait. Tout en me clignant
de l’œil, il prit une poignée de mon tabac. — « Entre marins, pas
vrai ?… Ce bon tabac anglais… » Arrivé à la porte de l’abri de pilote,
il se retourna. — « Dites-moi, n’avez-vous pas une paire de
chaussures dont vous pourriez vous passer ? » Il souleva sa jambe.
— « Voyez plutôt ? » La semelle était liée, à la manière d’une
sandale, avec des ficelles, sous son pied nu. Je dénichai une vieille
paire qu’il considéra avec admiration avant de la passer sous son
bras gauche. L’une de ses poches (rouge écarlate) était toute
gonflée de cartouches ; de l’autre (bleu foncé) émergeait les
Recherches de Towson. Il paraissait s’estimer parfaitement équipé
pour affronter à nouveau la sauvagerie. — « Ah ! jamais, jamais plus
je ne rencontrerai un homme comme celui-là !… Vous auriez dû
l’entendre réciter des poésies, — ses propres poésies à ce qu’il m’a
dit… » Des poésies ! Il roulait des yeux au souvenir de ces délices !
— « Ah ! il a élargi mon esprit… Au revoir… », fit-il. Il me serra les
mains, et disparut dans la nuit. Je me demande parfois, si je l’ai vu,
réellement vu, s’il est possible que je me sois trouvé en présence
d’un tel phénomène…
« Lorsque je me réveillai, peu après minuit, son avertissement
me revint à l’esprit et le danger qu’il m’avait fait sous-entendre, me
parut, parmi l’obscurité étoilée, suffisamment réel pour mériter que je
prisse la peine de me lever et de faire une ronde. Sur la colline, un
grand feu brûlait, illuminant par saccades un angle oblique de la
maison. Un des agents avec un piquet formé de quelques-uns de
nos noirs montait la garde autour de l’ivoire, mais au loin, dans la
forêt, de rouges lueurs qui vacillaient, qui semblaient s’élever du sol
ou y replonger parmi d’indistinctes colonnes d’un noir intense,
désignaient l’endroit exact du camp où les adorateurs de M. Kurtz
prolongeaient leur inquiète veillée. Le battement monotone d’un gros
tambour emplissait l’air de coups étouffés et d’une persistante
vibration. Le murmure soutenu d’une multitude d’hommes qui
chantaient, chacun pour soi, eût-on dit, je ne sais quelle étrange
incantation sortait de la muraille plate et obscure de la forêt comme
le bourdonnement des abeilles sort de la ruche, et produisait un
étrange effet de narcotique sur mes esprits endormis. Je crois bien
que je m’assoupis, appuyé sur la lisse jusqu’au moment où je fus
réveillé dans un sursaut effaré par de soudains hurlements,
l’assourdissante explosion d’une frénésie mystérieuse et
concentrée… Cela s’arrêta aussitôt et le murmure des voix en
reprenant donna presque l’impression calmante d’un silence. Je jetai
un coup d’œil distrait sur la petite cabine. Une lumière brûlait à
l’intérieur, mais M. Kurtz n’était plus là.
« Je crois bien que j’aurais crié si j’avais sur-le-champ pu en
croire mes yeux, mais je ne les crus pas. Le fait paraissait à ce point
impossible !… La vérité, c’est que je me sentais complètement
désemparé par une terreur sans nom, purement abstraite, et qui ne
se rattachait à aucune forme particulière de danger matériel. Ce qui
faisait mon émotion si irrésistible, c’était — comment le définir — le
choc moral que je venais de recevoir, comme si j’avais été confronté
soudain à quelque chose de monstrueux, aussi insupportable à la
pensée qu’odieux à l’esprit. Cela ne dura bien entendu que l’espace
d’une fraction de seconde ; ensuite le sentiment normal du danger
mortel et banal, la possibilité de la ruée soudaine, du massacre, que
sais-je ! que j’entrevoyais imminent, me parut positivement
réconfortante et bienvenue. En fait, je me sentis si bien tranquillisé
que je ne donnai pas l’alarme.
« Il y avait un agent boutonné jusqu’au nez dans son ulster, qui
dormait sur une chaise, à un mètre de moi. Les hurlements ne
l’avaient pas réveillé ; il ronflait très légèrement. Je le laissai à ses
songes et sautai sur la berge. Je n’eus pas à trahir M. Kurtz ; il était
dit que je ne le trahirais jamais ; il était écrit que je resterais fidèle au
cauchemar de mon choix. Je tenais à traiter seul avec cette ombre,
et à l’heure actuelle, j’en suis encore à me demander pourquoi j’étais
si jaloux de ne partager avec personne la particulière horreur de
cette épreuve.
« Aussitôt que j’atteignis la rive, je distinguai une piste, une large
piste dans l’herbe. Je me souviens de l’exaltation avec laquelle je
me dis : Il est incapable de marcher : il se traîne à quatre pattes ; je
le tiens !… — L’herbe était mouillée de rosée. J’avançais à grands
pas, les poings fermés. J’imagine que j’avais quelque vague idée de
lui tomber dessus et de lui administrer une raclée. C’est possible.
J’étais plein d’idées ridicules. La vieille qui tricotait avec son chat
près d’elle s’imposa à mon souvenir, et il m’apparaissait qu’elle était
bien la personne la moins désignée au monde pour prendre une
place à l’autre bout d’une telle histoire. Je voyais une file de pèlerins
criblant l’air de plomb avec leurs Winchester appuyés à la hanche.
J’avais l’impression que je ne retrouverais plus jamais le vapeur et je
m’imaginais vivant seul et sans arme, dans une forêt, jusqu’à un âge
avancé. Un tas de pensées absurdes !… Et je m’en souviens, je
prenais les battements du tam-tam pour les battements de mon
cœur et me félicitais de leur calme régularité.
« Je suivais la piste et m’arrêtais de temps en temps pour
écouter. La nuit était très claire, une étendue d’un bleu sombre,
étincelante de rosée et de la clarté des étoiles parmi laquelle des
choses noires se dressaient immobiles. Puis je crus distinguer une
sorte de mouvement devant moi. J’étais étrangement sûr de mon
affaire cette nuit-là. Je quittai délibérément la piste et décrivis en
courant un large demi-cercle (non sans ma foi ! je crois bien, rire
dans ma barbe) de manière à me porter en avant de cette chose qui
bougeait, de ce mouvement que j’avais aperçu, pour autant que
j’eusse aperçu quelque chose… Je cernais bel et bien mon Kurtz,
comme s’il se fût agi d’un jeu d’enfant.
« Je le rejoignis et même, s’il ne m’avait pas entendu venir, je
serais tombé sur lui, mais il s’était redressé à temps. Il se leva, mal
assuré, long, blême, indistinct, pareil à une vapeur exhalée par la
terre et chancela légèrement, brumeux et silencieux cependant que
derrière mon dos les feux palpitaient entre les arbres et qu’un
murmure nombreux de voix s’échappait de la forêt. Je l’avais
proprement coupé, mais quand, me trouvant face à face avec lui, je
recouvrai mon sang-froid, le danger m’apparut sous son jour
véritable. Il était loin d’être passé. Qu’arriverait-il s’il se mettait à
crier ? Bien qu’il pût à peine se tenir debout, il lui restait pas mal de
vigueur dans le gosier — « Allez-vous-en ! Cachez-vous !… » me dit-
il de son accent profond. C’était affreux. Je jetai un coup d’œil par-
dessus mon épaule. Nous étions à trente mètres du feu le plus
proche. Une ombre noire se leva à ce moment et fit quelques pas
sur de longues jambes noires, en agitant de longs bras noirs, dans le
reflet du brasier. Elle avait des cornes — des cornes d’antilope, je
pense — sur la tête. Quelque sorcier ou jeteur de sorts, sans doute ;
il en avait bien la mine diabolique. « Savez-vous ce que vous
faites ?… » murmurai-je. — « Parfaitement ! », répondit-il en élevant
la voix sur ce mot qui résonna pour moi distant et clair à la fois,
comme un appel dans un porte-voix. Pour peu qu’il se mette à faire
du bruit, nous sommes fichus, pensai-je. Ce n’était pas évidemment
une histoire à régler à coups de poings, abstraction faite de la
répugnance très naturelle que j’éprouvais à frapper cette Ombre,
cette misérable chose errante et tourmentée… — « Vous serez un
homme fini, fis-je, irrémédiablement fini ! » On a parfois de ces
inspirations ! Je venais de prononcer la parole qu’il fallait, bien qu’en
vérité on n’imaginât pas qu’il pût être plus fini qu’il l’était déjà, à ce
moment où se jetaient les fondations d’une intimité destinée à durer,
à durer jusqu’à la fin et même au delà…
« J’avais de vastes projets !… » murmura-t-il d’un ton indécis. —
« C’est possible, fis-je, mais si vous essayez de crier, je vous casse
la tête avec, avec… — Il n’y avait ni pierre ni gourdin à proximité. —
Je vous étrangle net, » rectifiai-je. — « J’étais à la veille de faire de
grandes choses !… » insista-t-il d’une voix avide et d’un ton de
regret, qui me glaça le sang… « Et à cause de ce plat coquin… » —
« Votre succès en Europe, affirmai-je fermement, est de toute façon
assuré… » Je ne tenais nullement à lui tordre le cou, vous
comprenez, sans compter que cela m’aurait pratiquement servi à fort
peu de chose. Je tentais simplement de rompre le charme, le
charme pesant et muet de la sauvagerie, qui semblait vouloir l’attirer
à elle, le reprendre dans son sein impitoyable en ranimant chez cet
homme de honteux instincts oubliés, le souvenir de je ne sais
quelles monstrueuses passions satisfaites. C’est là simplement, j’en
suis persuadé, ce qui l’avait ramené à la lisière de la forêt, vers la
brousse, vers l’éclat des feux, le battement des tam-tams, le
bourdonnement des incantations inhumaines ; c’est là, avant tout, ce
qui avait entraîné cette âme effrénée au delà des limites de toutes
convoitises permises. Et le terrible de la situation, voyez-vous, tenait,
non dans le risque que je courais d’être assommé, bien que je fusse
assez vivement conscient de ce danger-là aussi, mais dans le fait
que j’avais affaire à un être auprès de qui je ne pouvais faire appel à
quoi que ce fût de noble ou de vil. Il me fallait, comme faisaient les
nègres, l’invoquer lui-même, sa propre personne, sa dégradation
même orgueilleuse et invraisemblable. Rien qui fût au-dessous ou
au-dessus de lui, et je le savais. Il avait perdu tout contact avec le
monde… Que le diable l’emporte ! Il avait bel et bien supprimé le
monde… Il était seul, et devant lui j’en arrivais à ne plus savoir si
j’étais encore attaché à la terre ou si je ne flottais pas dans l’air… Je
vous ai dit les mots que nous échangeâmes, en répétant les phrases
mêmes que nous prononçâmes — mais qu’est-ce que cela ! Vous
n’y voyez que paroles banales, ces sons familiers et indéfinis qui
servent quotidiennement… Pour moi, elles révélaient le caractère de
terrifiante suggestion des mots entendus en rêve, des phrases
prononcées durant un cauchemar. Une âme, si jamais quelqu’un a
lutté avec une âme, c’est bien moi… Et notez que j’étais loin de
discuter avec un insensé. Croyez-moi si vous voulez ; son
intelligence était parfaitement lucide, — repliée sur elle-même, il est
vrai, avec une affreuse intensité, mais lucide, et c’était là la seule
prise que j’eusse sur lui, — sauf à le tuer bien entendu, ce qui au
surplus était une piètre solution, à cause du bruit qu’il m’aurait fallu
faire. Non, c’était son âme qui était folle ! Isolée dans la sauvagerie,
elle s’était absorbée dans la contemplation de soi-même, et par
Dieu ! je vous le dis, elle était devenue folle. Pour mes péchés, je le
suppose, il me fallut subir cette épreuve de la contempler à mon
tour. Aucune éloquence au monde ne saurait être plus funeste à
notre confiance dans l’humanité que ne le fut sa dernière explosion
de sincérité. Il luttait d’ailleurs contre lui-même ; je le voyais, je
l’entendais… J’avais sous les yeux l’inconcevable mystère d’une
âme qui n’avait jamais connu ni foi, ni loi, ni crainte, et qui
néanmoins luttait aveuglément contre elle-même. Je contrôlai mes
nerfs jusqu’au bout, mais lorsqu’enfin je l’eus étendu sur sa
couchette j’essuyai mon front en sueur, tandis que mes jambes
tremblaient sous moi, comme si c’était un poids d’une demi-tonne
que j’eusse rapporté de la colline sur mon dos… Et pourtant, je
n’avais fait que le soutenir, son bras osseux passé autour de mon
cou — et il n’était pas beaucoup plus lourd qu’un enfant !…
« Lorsque le lendemain, nous nous remîmes en route, à midi, la
foule, dont la présence derrière le rideau d’arbres n’avait cessé de
m’être perceptible, afflua à nouveau de la forêt, emplit le
défrichement, recouvrit la pente de la colline d’une masse nue,
haletante et frémissante, de corps bronzés. Je remontai à contre-
courant pendant un instant, pour virer ensuite et mille paires d’yeux
suivaient le redoutable Démon-du-fleuve qui, bruyant et barbotant,
frappait l’eau de sa queue et soufflait une fumée noire dans l’air. En
avant du premier rang, au bord du fleuve, trois hommes barbouillés
de rouge de la tête aux pieds s’agitaient de long en large sans répit.
Quand nous arrivâmes à leur hauteur, ils firent face, frappèrent du
pied, hochèrent leur tête encornée, balancèrent leur corps écarlate ;
ils brandissaient vers le redoutable Démon une touffe de plumes
noires, une peau galeuse à la queue pendante, quelque chose qui
avait l’air d’une gourde séchée et à intervalles réguliers, ils hurlaient
tous ensemble des kyrielles de mots extraordinaires qui ne
ressemblaient aux sons d’aucune langue humaine, et le murmure
profond de la multitude, subitement interrompu, était pareil aux
répons de quelque satanique litanie.
« Nous avions porté Kurtz dans l’abri de pilote ; cet endroit était
plus aéré. Étendu sur sa couchette, il regardait fixement par le volet
ouvert. Il y eut un remous dans la masse des corps, et la femme à la
tête casquée, aux joues bronzées, s’élança jusqu’au bord même de
la rive. Elle tendit les mains, cria je ne sais quoi et la foule tout
entière se joignit à sa clameur dans un chœur formidable de sons
rapides, articulés, haletants.
— « Vous comprenez cela ?… » demandai-je.
« Il continuait de regarder au dehors, par-dessus moi, avec des
yeux avides et furieux, une expression où le regret se mêlait à la
haine. Il ne répondit pas, mais je vis un sourire, un indéfinissable
sourire passer sur ses lèvres sans couleur, qui aussitôt se tordirent
convulsivement. — « Si je comprends !… » fit-il lentement, tout
pantelant, comme si ces mots lui eussent été arrachés par une
puissance surnaturelle.
« A ce moment, je tirai le cordon du sifflet, et ce qui m’y décida fut
d’apercevoir les pèlerins sur le pont qui sortaient leurs fusils avec
l’air de se promettre une petite fête. Au bruit abrupt, une onde de
terreur passa sur la masse coincée des corps. — « Arrêtez ! Arrêtez !
Vous allez les mettre en fuite !… » cria une voix désolée sur le pont.
Je fis jouer le sifflet coup sur coup. Ils se débandèrent et
commencèrent à courir : ils bondissaient, s’abattaient, fuyaient dans
tous les sens pour échapper à la volante épouvante du sifflement.
Les trois hommes rouges étaient tombés à plat-ventre, face contre
terre, comme fauchés net. Seule, la femme barbare et magnifique
n’avait pas fait mine de bouger et continuait de tendre tragiquement
ses bras nus vers nous par-dessus le fleuve obscur et étincelant.
« Et c’est alors que ces imbéciles sur le pont commencèrent leur
petite farce et je cessai de rien apercevoir, à cause de la fumée.

« Le sombre courant qui s’éloignait avec rapidité du cœur des

ténèbres nous ramena vers la mer avec une vitesse double de celle
de notre montée. La vie de Kurtz s’échappait non moins rapidement,
entraînée par le reflux qui la poussait vers l’océan du temps
inexorable. Le Directeur était très calme : il n’éprouvait plus à
présent d’inquiétudes sérieuses ; il nous enveloppait tous les deux
d’un regard sagace et satisfait : « l’affaire » s’était terminée aussi
bien qu’il l’eût pu souhaiter. Je vis approcher le moment où j’allais
être seul à représenter le parti des « méthodes imprudentes ». Les
pèlerins déjà me considéraient d’un œil défavorable. J’étais, si je
puis m’exprimer ainsi, accouplé au mort. Étrange, la manière dont
j’acceptai cette association imprévue, ce choix de cauchemar qui
m’avait été imposé sur une terre ténébreuse envahie par ces piètres
et rapaces fantômes…
 « Kurtz discourait. Quelle voix ! Elle conserva sa profonde
sonorité jusqu’à la fin. Elle survivait à sa force pour continuer de
dissimuler sous les draperies magnifiques de l’éloquence l’aride
obscurité de son cœur… Ah, il luttait ! Il luttait ! Le désert de sa
pensée fatiguée était hanté à présent d’images brumeuses, images
de gloire et de fortune circulant servilement autour de son
inépuisable don d’expression noble et élevée. « Ma Fiancée, ma
station, ma carrière, mes projets » — tels étaient les thèmes de ces
manifestations de sentiments sublimes. L’ombre du vrai Kurtz se
tenait au chevet creux du simulacre qui avait eu pour destin d’être
bientôt enfoui dans la moisissure de cette terre des premiers âges.
L’amour diabolique et la haine surnaturelle des mystères qu’elle
avait pénétrés se disputaient la possession de cette âme saturée
d’émotions primitives, avide de gloire trompeuse, de faux honneurs,
de toutes les apparences de succès et du pouvoir.
« Parfois il était risiblement puéril. Il rêvait de rois pour l’attendre
à la gare, à son retour de je ne sais quel effroyable Nulle Part où il
se proposait d’accomplir de grandes choses. — « Faites-leur voir,
disait-il, que vous avez en vous quelque chose de réellement
profitable, et il n’est pas de limite aux égards qu’on aura pour votre
mérite. Bien entendu, c’est à vous qu’il appartient de contrôler vos
mobiles — de justes mobiles toujours !… » Les longues étendues du
fleuve, l’une à l’autre pareilles, les tournants monotones, exactement
semblables, glissaient au long du vapeur, avec leurs multitudes
d’arbres séculaires qui considéraient patiemment ce misérable
fragment d’un autre monde, avant-coureur de changement, de
conquête, de négoce, de massacres, de bénédictions. Les yeux à
l’avant, je gouvernais, « Fermez le volet ! » dit un jour Kurtz
brusquement, « je ne puis plus supporter de voir cela… » Je fis ce
qu’il demandait. Il y eut un silence. « Ah ! je te briserai le cœur tout
de même !… » cria-t-il à l’invisible sauvagerie.
« Nous eûmes une panne, comme je m’y attendais, et il fallut
nous arrêter à la pointe d’une île pour procéder aux réparations. Ce
retard fut la première chose qui ébranla la confiance de Kurtz. Un
matin, il me donna une liasse de papiers et une photographie, le tout
lié avec un cordon de chaussure. — « Gardez cela pour moi, fit-il. Ce
malfaisant imbécile — il voulait dire le Directeur — est capable de
fouiller dans mes caisses lorsque j’aurai le dos tourné… » Dans
l’après-midi je le revis. Il était étendu sur le dos, les yeux fermés, et
je me retirais sans bruit quand je l’entendis murmurer : « Vivre
honnêtement, mourir, mourir… » Je tendis l’oreille. Il n’y eut rien de
plus. Répétait-il quelque discours pendant son sommeil, ou était-ce
un fragment d’article de journal ?… Il avait collaboré à des journaux
et comptait le faire à nouveau, « pour la propagation de mes idées :
c’est un devoir pour moi… »
« Les ténèbres qui l’entouraient étaient impénétrables. Je
l’observais comme on considère de haut un homme étendu au fond
d’un précipice où le soleil jamais ne luit. Mais je n’avais guère de
loisirs à lui consacrer, parce que j’aidais le mécanicien à démonter
les cylindres qui fuyaient, à redresser une bielle faussée et autres
préparations du même genre. Je vivais au milieu d’un infernal fouillis
de rouille, de limaille, de boulons, d’écrous, de clefs anglaises, de
forets à cliquet, toutes choses que j’abomine parce que je n’arrive
pas à m’en servir. Je surveillais aussi la petite forge
qu’heureusement nous avions à bord et trimais dur parmi un sacré
tas de ferraille, à moins que la tremblote de la fièvre ne m’empêchât
de tenir sur mes jambes.
« Un soir, entrant avec une bougie allumée, je fus surpris de
l’entendre dire d’une voix un peu tremblante : « Je suis étendu dans
le noir à attendre la mort… » La lumière en fait brûlait à moins d’un
pied de son visage. Je fis effort sur moi-même pour lui dire : « Pas
de bêtises, voyons !… », et demeurai penché au-dessus de lui,
comme cloué sur place.
« Jamais je n’avais vu, — et j’espère bien n’avoir plus jamais à
revoir — rien qui approchât du changement qui s’était opéré sur ses
traits. Je n’étais pas apitoyé, certes ! J’étais fasciné. On eût dit qu’un
voile avait été déchiré. Sur cette face d’ivoire, je discernais
l’expression d’un sombre orgueil, d’une farouche puissance, d’une
terreur abjecte, et aussi d’un désespoir immense et sans remède.
Revivait-il sa vie dans le détail de chacune de ses convoitises, de
ses tentations, de ses défaillances, durant ce suprême instant de
parfaite connaissance ? Deux fois, d’une voix basse il jeta vers je ne
sais quelle image, quelle vision, ce cri qui n’était guère qu’un
souffle : « L’horreur ! L’horreur !… »
« Je soufflai la bougie et sortis de la cabine. Les pèlerins dînaient
dans le carré : je gagnai ma place en face du Directeur qui leva les
yeux pour me jeter un regard interrogateur que je réussis à éluder. Il
se pencha en arrière, serein, avec un sourire particulier dont il
scellait les profondeurs inexprimées de sa médiocrité. Une grêle
continue de petites mouches s’abattait sur la lampe, sur la nappe,
sur nos visages et nos mains. Soudain, le boy du Directeur montra
son insolente face noire au seuil de la porte et déclara d’un ton
d’insultant mépris :
— « Moussou Kurtz… lui, mort… »
« Tous les pèlerins s’élancèrent pour aller voir. Je ne bougeai pas
et poursuivis mon dîner. Mon insensibilité, j’imagine, dut être jugée
révoltante. Je ne mangeai guère, cependant. Il y avait une lampe là
— de la lumière, comprenez-vous — et au-dehors il faisait si
affreusement noir ! Je n’approchai plus de l’homme remarquable qui
avait prononcé un tel jugement sur les aventures terrestres de son
âme. La voix s’était éteinte. Y avait-il jamais eu autre chose ?… Je
ne fus pas sans savoir cependant que, le lendemain, les pèlerins
enfouirent quelque chose dans un trou plein de boue.
« Et ensuite, il s’en fallut de peu qu’ils ne m’enterrassent à mon
tour.
« Toutefois, comme vous voyez, je n’allai pas rejoindre Kurtz sur-
le-champ. Non. Je demeurai pour endurer le cauchemar jusqu’au
bout et témoigner ma fidélité à Kurtz une fois de plus. C’était la
destinée : Ma destinée ! Quelle chose baroque que la vie : cette
mystérieuse mise en œuvre d’impitoyable logique pour quels
desseins dérisoires !… Le plus qu’on en puisse attendre, c’est
quelque lumière sur soi-même, acquise quand il est trop tard et,
ensuite, il n’y a plus qu’à remâcher les regrets qui ne meurent pas.
— J’ai lutté avec la mort. C’est le plus morne combat qui se puisse
concevoir. Il se déroule dans une pénombre impalpable, rien sous
les pieds, rien autour de vous, pas de témoins, nulle clameur, nulle
gloire, aucun grand désir de victoire, pas grande appréhension non
plus de défaite, et quelle morbide atmosphère de tiède scepticisme,
sans ferme conviction de votre bon droit et encore moins de celui de
l’adversaire. Si telle est la forme de sagesse suprême, la vie
vraiment est une plus profonde énigme que certains d’entre nous se
l’imaginent. Il tint à un cheveu que je n’eusse l’occasion de
prononcer ma dernière parole, et je constatai avec humiliation que
probablement je n’aurais rien eu à dire. Voilà pourquoi j’affirme que
Kurtz fut un homme remarquable. Il eut quelque chose à dire ; il le
dit. Depuis que j’ai moi-même jeté un regard par-delà le seuil, je
comprends mieux la signification de son fixe regard, qui n’apercevait
plus la flamme de la bougie, mais était assez étendu pour embrasser
l’univers tout entier, assez perçant pour pénétrer tous les cœurs qui
battent dans les Ténèbres. Il avait conclu, il avait jugé : « L’horreur ! »
— C’était un homme remarquable. Après tout, c’était là l’expression
d’une façon de croyance ; elle avait sa naïveté, sa conviction ; il y
avait un vibrant accent de révolte dans son murmure ; c’était le
visage terrifiant de la vérité qu’on vient d’apercevoir ; le bouleversant
mélange du désir et de la haine. Et ce dont je me souviens avec le
plus de netteté, ce n’est pas de ma propre extrémité : vision grisâtre,
sans forme, remplie de douleur physique et d’un mépris inconscient
pour toutes les choses qui s’effacent, pour la douleur même. — Non,
c’est par son agonie que j’ai l’impression d’avoir passé. Il avait, lui, il
est vrai, fait le dernier pas, il avait franchi le seuil dont il m’avait été
donné de détacher mes pieds hésitants. Et peut-être est-ce là ce qui
fait la différence ; peut-être toute la sagesse, toute la vérité, toute la
sincérité tiennent-elles précisément dans cet inappréciable instant
où nous passons le seuil de l’Invisible… Peut-être !… J’aime à croire
que ma conclusion n’aurait pas été qu’un mot de mépris insouciant.
Mieux vaut son cri, cent fois !… C’était une affirmation, une victoire
morale, achetée par d’innombrables défaites, des terreurs
abominables, des satisfactions abominables ; mais c’était une
victoire. Et c’est pourquoi je suis demeuré fidèle à Kurtz jusqu’au
bout et même au delà : quand bien plus tard, j’entendis à nouveau,
non pas sa voix, mais l’écho de sa magnifique éloquence qui
jaillissait vers moi d’une âme aussi lucidement pure qu’une falaise
de cristal.
« Non, ils ne m’enterrèrent pas, bien qu’il y ait eu en fait une
période de mon existence dont je ne me souviens que confusément,
avec un étonnement frissonnant, comme d’un passage au travers
d’un monde sans espoir et sans désir. Je finis par me retrouver dans
la ville des sépulcres, excédé de l’aspect des gens qui se pressaient
dans la rue pour se dérober mutuellement quelques sous, absorber
leur infâme cuisine, avaler leur bière malsaine, rêver leurs rêves
médiocres et imbéciles. Ils empiétaient sur mes pensées. C’étaient
des intrus et leur prétendue connaissance de la vie n’était à mes
yeux qu’irritante prétention, tant j’étais assuré qu’ils ne pouvaient
savoir les choses que je savais. Leur attitude, qui était simplement
celle de créatures ordinaires vaquant à leurs affaires dans un
sentiment de parfaite sécurité, me paraissait intolérable comme
l’outrageante suffisance de la folie en face d’un danger qu’elle est
incapable de discerner. Je ne me sentais aucun désir spécial de les
éclairer, mais quelquefois j’avais peine à me retenir de pouffer au
nez de ces personnages gonflés de suffisance. Il me faut dire que je
ne me sentais pas fort bien à cette époque. Je me traînais dans les
rues (il y avait plusieurs affaires à régler) en ricanant amèrement en
face de personnes parfaitement respectables. Je reconnais que ma
conduite était inexcusable, mais ma température était rarement
normale en ce temps-là. Et les efforts que faisait mon excellente
tante « pour me rendre des forces » semblaient bien être tout à fait à
côté de la question, mes forces ne laissaient rien à désirer, mon
imagination, tout simplement, demandait à être calmée. J’avais
gardé le paquet de papiers que m’avait donné Kurtz, ne sachant trop
qu’en faire. Sa mère était morte récemment, soignée, me dit-on, par
la Fiancée de son fils. Un monsieur rasé de près, d’allure officielle et
portant des lunettes d’or, vint me voir un jour et me posa diverses
questions, enveloppées tout d’abord, discrètement pressantes
ensuite, au sujet de ce qu’il se plaisait à appeler certains
« documents ». Je n’éprouvai aucune surprise, attendu que là-bas
j’avais déjà eu deux attrapades à ce propos avec le Directeur. Je
m’étais refusé à livrer le moindre bout de papier du paquet, et
j’observai la même attitude à l’égard de l’homme à lunettes. Il finit
par devenir confusément menaçant et, avec chaleur, me fit observer
que la Société avait des droits sur le moindre renseignement
touchant ses « territoires ». — « Et, ajoutait-il, les lumières qu’avait
M. Kurtz sur les régions inexplorées ont dû être très étendues et très
particulières, étant donné ses grandes capacités et les circonstances
déplorables dans lesquelles il s’est trouvé. Par suite… ». Je l’assurai
que les lumières de M. Kurtz, si étendues fussent elles, ne portaient
sur aucun problème administratif ou commercial. Il invoqua le nom
de la Science. « Ce serait une perte incalculable si… » et ainsi de
suite. Je lui offris le rapport sur la Suppression des Coutumes
Barbares, dont le post-scriptum avait été préalablement déchiré. Il
s’en saisit avec empressement, mais en terminant, il eut une moue
dédaigneuse : « Ce n’est pas ce que nous avions le droit
d’attendre », remarqua-t-il. — « N’attendez rien d’autre, fis-je. Il n’y a
que des lettres personnelles ». Il se retira sur une vague menace de
mesures judiciaires et je ne le revis plus. Mais un autre gaillard, se
disant le cousin de Kurtz, apparut deux jours après et se déclara
désireux d’avoir les détails les plus complets sur les derniers
moments de son cher parent. Incidemment, il me donna à entendre
que Kurtz avait été, avant tout, un grand musicien. « Il avait tout ce
qu’il fallait pour le plus grand succès… », me dit l’homme, un
organiste, je crois, dont les raides cheveux gris débordaient un col
d’habit graisseux. Je n’avais aucune raison de mettre en doute cette
affirmation et même à l’heure actuelle, je demeure incapable de dire
quelle était la vocation de Kurtz — pour autant qu’il en eût une — et
quel était le plus éminent de ses talents. Je l’avais pris pour un
peintre qui écrivait dans les journaux ou, inversement, pour un
journaliste qui savait peindre, mais le cousin, lui-même, qui durant la
conversation se bourrait le nez de tabac, ne fut pas en mesure de
m’indiquer ce que Kurtz avait été, exactement. C’était un « génie
universel » ; j’en tombai d’accord avec le vieux bonhomme qui, là-
dessus, se moucha bruyamment dans un vaste mouchoir de coton
et se retira avec une agitation sénile, emportant quelques lettres de
famille et des notes sans importance. Finalement s’amena un
journaliste, désireux d’obtenir quelques informations sur le sort de
son « cher collègue ». Ce visiteur m’informa que l’activité de Kurtz
aurait dû s’orienter du côté de la politique, d’une politique « à
tendances populaires ». Il avait des sourcils touffus et droits, les
cheveux raides tondus ras, un monocle au bout d’un large ruban et,
devenant expansif, il me confia qu’à son avis Kurtz n’était pas
écrivain pour un sou : « Mais, bon Dieu ! ce qu’il savait parler… Il
électrisait son auditoire !… C’était un convaincu, voyez-vous : il avait
la foi… Il arrivait à croire en n’importe quoi !… Il eût fait un admirable
chef de parti avancé. » — « De quel parti ?… » demandai-je. —
« N’importe quel parti ! » répondit l’autre. « C’était un… un
extrémiste… N’était-ce pas mon avis ? » — Je l’admis. — « Et
savais-je, reprit-il, avec un élan subit de curiosité, ce qui l’avait
poussé à aller là-bas ? » — « Oui, » fis-je et incontinent, je lui fourrai
entre les mains le fameux Rapport avec autorisation de le publier s’il
le jugeait à propos. Il le parcourut hâtivement, en marmottant tout le
temps, opina que « cela irait » et s’esquiva avec son butin.
« Je finis par demeurer avec une mince liasse de lettres et le
portrait de la jeune fille. J’avais été frappé de sa beauté — j’entends
de la beauté de son expression. Je sais qu’on arrive à faire mentir
jusqu’à la lumière du jour, mais on sentait bien qu’aucun artifice de
pose ou d’éclairage n’avait pu prêter à ses traits une aussi délicate
nuance d’ingénuité. Elle apparaissait prête à écouter sans réserve,
sans méfiance, sans une pensée pour soi-même. Je décidai que
j’irais la voir et lui remettrais moi-même son portrait et ses lettres.
Curiosité ? — sans doute et aussi quelque autre sentiment, peut-
être… Tout ce qui avait appartenu à Kurtz m’était passé entre les
mains : son âme, son corps, sa station, ses projets, son ivoire, sa
carrière. Il ne restait guère que son souvenir et sa Fiancée, et dans
un certain sens je tenais à céder cela aussi au passé, à confier
personnellement tout ce qui me restait de lui à cet oubli qui est le
dernier mot de notre sort commun. Je ne me défends pas. Je ne me
rendais pas clairement compte de ce qui se passait en moi. Peut-
être n’était-ce qu’instinctive loyauté ; peut-être réalisation d’une de
ces ironiques nécessités qui se dissimulent derrière les événements
de l’existence humaine. Je n’en sais rien, je ne cherche pas à
expliquer. Simplement j’allai chez elle.
« J’imaginais que le souvenir de Kurtz était pareil à tous les
souvenirs d’autres morts, qui s’accumulent dans la vie de chaque
homme — vague impression faite sur la mémoire par les ombres qui
l’ont effleurée durant leur rapide et suprême passage. Mais devant la
haute et massive porte, entre les larges maisons d’une rue aussi
tranquille et respectable qu’une allée de cimetière, bien entretenue, il
m’apparut ainsi que dans une vision, couché sur son brancard, la
bouche voracement ouverte, comme pour dévorer la terre tout
entière avec toute l’humanité. Il surgit à ce moment devant moi,
aussi vivant qu’il l’avait jamais été, ombre avide, de magnifique
apparence et d’épouvantable réalité, ombre plus noire que l’ombre
de la nuit et drapé noblement dans les plis de son éloquence
éclatante. La vision parut pénétrer dans la maison en même temps
que moi : la civière, les porteurs fantômes, la cohue sauvage des
dociles adorateurs, l’obscurité de la forêt, l’étincellement du fleuve
entre les courbes embrumées, le battement du tam-tam régulier et
voilé comme le battement d’un cœur, du cœur des Ténèbres
victorieuses. Ce fut un moment de triomphe pour la sauvagerie, une
ruée envahissante et vengeresse que j’aurais, semblait-il, à refouler,
seul pour le salut d’une autre âme. Et le souvenir de ce que je lui
avais entendu dire là-bas, dans la lueur des feux, au sein de la
patiente forêt, tandis que les ombres encornées s’agitaient derrière
moi, ces phrases entrecoupées retentirent à nouveau en moi, dans
leur sinistre et terrifiante sincérité. Je me rappelai ses abjectes
instances, ses abjectes menaces, l’ampleur démesurée de ses
basses convoitises, la médiocrité, le tourment, l’orageuse angoisse
de son âme. Et ensuite il me parut revoir l’air nonchalant et posé
dont il me dit un jour : « Tout cet ivoire en réalité m’appartient. La
Société n’a rien eu à payer pour l’obtenir. Je l’ai recueilli moi-même,
à mes risques personnels. Je crains cependant qu’ils n’essaient d’y
prétendre comme s’il était à eux. Hum ! c’est un point délicat… Que
pensez-vous que je doive faire : résister ! Hé, je ne demande rien de
plus que justice, après tout !… » Il ne demandait rien de plus que
justice, rien que justice !… Je sonnai à une porte d’acajou au
premier étage, et tandis que j’attendais, il semblait me regarder du
fond du panneau verni, de son regard immense et vaste qui
étreignait, condamnait, exécrait tout l’univers. J’eus l’impression que
j’entendais son cri, son cri à voix basse : « l’horreur ! l’horreur !… »
« L’ombre tombait. On me fit attendre dans un ample salon où
trois hautes fenêtres s’ouvrant du plancher au plafond, avaient l’air
de piliers lumineux et drapés. Des dorures luisaient sur les pieds
recourbés et le dossier des fauteuils. La large cheminée de marbre
était d’une froide et monumentale blancheur. Un piano à queue
s’étalait massivement dans un angle, avec d’obscurs reflets sur ses
plans unis, pareil à un sombre sarcophage poli. Une haute porte
s’ouvrit, se referma. Je me levai.
« Elle s’avança, tout en noir, la face pâle, comme flottant vers moi
dans le crépuscule. Elle était en deuil. Il y avait plus d’un an qu’il
était mort : plus d’un an depuis que la nouvelle était arrivée, mais il
apparaissait bien qu’elle était destinée à se souvenir et à pleurer
toute la vie. Elle prit mes deux mains dans les siennes et murmura :
« J’avais entendu dire que vous viendriez… » Je remarquai qu’elle
n’était pas très jeune — j’entends qu’elle n’avait rien de la jeune fille.
Elle avait, de l’âge mûr, toutes les aptitudes à la fidélité, à la foi, à la
souffrance. La pièce s’était faite plus obscure, comme si toute la
triste lumière de cet après-midi couvert se fût réfugiée sur son front.
Cette chevelure blonde, ce pâle visage, ce dur sourcil, semblaient
comme entourés d’un halo cendré d’où les yeux sombres me
dévisageaient. Leur regard était innocent, profond, respirant la
confiance et l’invitant à la fois. Elle portait sa tête meurtrie, comme si
elle eût été fière de sa meurtrissure, comme si elle eût voulu dire :
moi seule sais le pleurer comme il le mérite ! Mais tandis que nos
mains se touchaient encore, un air de si affreuse désolation passa
sur sa face que je compris qu’elle n’était point de celles dont le
temps se fait un jouet. Pour elle, c’est hier seulement qu’il était mort.
Et vraiment, l’impression fut si saisissante qu’à moi aussi, il sembla
n’être mort qu’hier — que dis-je ? à l’instant même… Je les vis l’un
et l’autre au même endroit du temps : la mort de celui-là, la douleur
de celle-ci. Je vis quelle avait été sa douleur : je revis ce qu’avait été
sa mort. Comprenez-moi. Je les vis ensemble, je les entendis en
même temps. Elle m’avait dit, avec un sanglot profond dans la voix :
« J’ai survécu !… » et cependant mes oreilles abusées croyaient
entendre distinctement, mêlé à ses accents de regret tragique, le
murmure décisif par quoi l’autre avait prononcé son éternelle
condamnation. Je me demandai ce que je faisais là, non sans un
sentiment de panique dans le cœur, comme si je m’étais fourvoyé en
quelque région de cruels et absurdes mystères interdits au mortel.
« Elle me mena vers un siège. Nous nous assîmes. Je déposai
doucement le paquet sur la petite table et elle mit la main dessus.
— « Vous le connaissiez bien… » murmura-t-elle après un instant
de douloureux silence.
— « L’intimité est prompte, là-bas, fis-je. Je le connaissais aussi
bien qu’il est possible à un homme d’en connaître un autre…
— « Et vous l’admiriez, reprit-elle. Il était impossible de le
connaître et de ne pas l’admirer, l’est-ce pas ?…
— « C’était un homme remarquable »… fis-je d’une voix mal
assurée. Et devant la fixité implorante de son regard qui semblait
attendre autre chose encore, je repris : « Il était impossible de ne
pas…
— « De ne pas l’aimer !… » acheva-t-elle gravement, cependant
que je demeurais muet et confondu. — « Que c’est vrai ! Que c’est
vrai !… Mais penser que personne ne l’a connu comme je l’ai
connu… J’avais toute sa noble confiance… C’est moi qui le
connaissais le mieux… »
— « C’est vous qui le connaissiez le mieux », répétai-je. Et peut-
être était-ce exact. Mais à chaque parole qui était prononcée, la
pièce se faisait plus sombre, son front seul, uni et clair, demeurait
illuminé, de l’inextinguible lumière de la foi et de l’amour…
— « Vous étiez son ami, continua-t-elle. Son ami, répéta-t-elle un
peu plus haut. Vous devez l’avoir été, puisqu’il vous a donné ceci et
qu’il vous a envoyé vers moi… Je sens que je puis vous parler et…
Ah ! il faut que je parle… Je veux que vous sachiez, vous qui avez
recueilli ses derniers mots, que j’ai été digne de lui. Ce n’est pas de
l’orgueil… Eh bien, oui, je suis fière de savoir que je l’ai compris
mieux que quiconque au monde — c’est lui-même qui me l’a dit… Et
depuis que sa mère est morte, je n’ai eu personne, personne pour…
pour… »
« J’écoutais. L’obscurité s’épaississait. Je n’étais même pas
assuré d’avoir reçu la liasse qui lui était destinée. J’ai quelque lieu
de croire que ce qu’il avait voulu me confier, c’était un autre paquet
de papiers qu’un soir, après la mort de Kurtz, j’avais vu entre les
mains du Directeur qui les examinait sous la lampe. Et la jeune fille
parlait, tirant de la certitude qu’elle avait de ma sympathie un
réconfort dans son affliction ; elle parlait comme boit l’homme altéré.
J’avais entendu dire que ses fiançailles avec Kurtz n’avaient pas été
approuvées par sa famille. Peut-être n’était-il pas assez riche… En
fait j’ignore s’il n’avait pas été un pauvre diable toute sa vie. Il
m’avait donné quelque raison de supposer que c’était l’impatience
de sa pauvreté relative qui l’avait poussé là-bas.
— « Qui n’eût pas été son ami, après l’avoir entendu parler !… »
disait-elle. — « C’est par ce qu’ils avaient de meilleur en eux qu’il
prenait tous les hommes… » Elle me jeta un regard intense. —
« C’est le don des plus grands, reprit-elle, et le son de sa voix basse
semblait trouver son accompagnement dans les autres bruits, pleins
de mystère, de désolation et de tristesse que j’avais entendus
ailleurs ; le ruissellement du fleuve, le bruissement des arbres agités
par le vent, les murmures de la cohue sauvage, le faible
frémissement des mots incompréhensibles proférés au loin, le soupir
d’une voix qui parlait par-delà le seuil des ténèbres éternelles. —
« Mais vous l’avez entendu !… Vous savez !… » s’écria-t-elle.
— « Oui, je sais !… » fis-je, avec je ne sais quoi dans le cœur qui
ressemblait à du désespoir, mais incliné devant la foi qui l’animait,
devant cette grande illusion salutaire qui brillait d’un éclat surnaturel
dans les ténèbres, les victorieuses ténèbres dont je n’aurais su la
défendre, dont je ne pouvais me défendre moi-même.