The Poetic Intertexts of Late Antique Christian Pedagogy

As the message of Christianity flew through the Mediterranean in the centuries after the life of Jesus Christ, the divinity of a lowly carver came to be preached to Romans living every kind of life. By the Late Antique era, Constantine had ended the uncertain social position of Christians with the Edict of Milan, though the future arc of his rule would have seemed similarly uncertain in its early years. About eight decades later, Theodosius the Great promulgated the Edict of Thessalonica, which cemented Nicene Christianity as the only recognized and valid religion of the Roman empire. Christianity since Constantine, to put it mildly, had drawn many adherents. Despite the recognizable popularity of the faith, its predecessor, a centuries-old tradition of Greco-Roman polytheism, did not quite leave the scene. Indeed, Christianity’s wrestle with the Greco-Roman culture, literary tradition, and religion into which it had been born and raised—for they were not altogether aloof, though “the world hath hated them, because they [were] not of the world” (John 17:14 KJV)—produced among the most consequential figures and ideas that “converged to produce that very distinctive period in European civilization—the Late Antique world” (Brown 1989: 9). Among the many moments of consequence in this transformative era, one of the more intimate and blurred convergences of traditional Roman religion and history with Christianity must have been in the lessons of the catechumens before baptism. Although the process of preparing for baptism widely varied in the early Church, its “long[]-term aim was  the  (life-long) formation of Christians” (Wepener 2023: 3), and this paper seeks to probe how Christian theologians conceived of and mediated the instruction of Christian doctrine for catechumens steeped in culture whose language and lore they reviled. Many took an instrumental approach, which saw pagan culture as a possible tool for conversion and self-fulfillment. Although this included, in his early years, Augustine, he revised that approach in his later work and sought to deemphasize the utility and necessity of poetry and myth in the construction of a Christian-self. Ultimately, Christian theologians prove to be widely ambivalent toward the figmentis…poeticis in the explication of the wider Gospel message (Ambrose, Expositio Evangelii secundum Lucam 3.3).

Since the Church was in an ongoing process of Christianizing the world, many theologians took the stance that, though fictitious and foolishly believed, poetic imagery and history could be of use within the Kingdom—or at least had to be reckoned with—because of its ubiquity in the Mediterranean psyche. Christ’s directive to “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations” and Paul’s later gentilic emphasis thereto were embraced by these theologians and demanded direct engagement with the pagan beliefs they sought to replace with Christian ones (Matt. 28:19, NRSV). Dotted throughout the works of Ambrose are references to mythology and poetry that denote he held an instrumental position towards their use in teaching Chrisitan doctrine. Before turning to those texts, it must be noted that to use Greco-Roman mythology as means of making converts to the Christian faith does not equate to respecting, or holding in any kind of esteem, that mythology or even the poetry that often conveyed it. Some theologians certainly did, but many did not. What results is a kind of cognitive dissonance wherein pagan principles prove simultaneously efficacious and abominable. Ambrose himself at once employs and disparages the mythology of Roman poetry. For him, and other theologians, therefore, the use of ancient myth could be construed as a doctrinal intermediary between truth and error, evoking the polytheistic myths so widely shared among dwellers of the Mediterranean but in the form of Christian truth. Eventually, the truth, and one’s perfection in it, would be attained: quid interest quo quisque credat ordine? (Ambr., Expos. VI.105). For this reason, Ambrose incredulously asks non-Christians to compare the gifts of Christ with those of pagan gods before recounting a version of the myth of Midas, qui quidquid tangebat aurum fiebat (who would turn anything he touched into gold, Ambr., Expos. VI.88). Ambrose leaves out much of the narrative characteristic of the myth of King Midas: he never names the king, and although he construes the golden touch as a gift, he omits any specific indication of the giver, who is usually Dionysius/Bacchus (cf. Ovid, Met. XI.89-145). Instead of these details, Ambrose supplies a contrasting description of Christ’s gifts, which, though insignificant and tame when compared to the opulence of Bacchus’ gift to Midas, non uni conlata, sed populis (are not conferred upon one, but the whole populace, Ambr., Expos. VI.88). Ambrose here exemplifies the instrumental use of mythical history in the furtherance of Christianization. Taking a story, so well-known even in his Christian milieu that he can leave unsaid the names of its protagonists, he distills the parts most useful for his narrative and at once turns to an explication of Christian doctrine. His engagement with the myth is bare, serving merely to introduce and contextualize bigger and better truths. Interestingly, Ambrose explicitly defends his intertextual engagement with pagan myth in De fide, a five-book treatise he at Emperor Gratian’s request railing against the heresy of Arianism. In book one, he likens heretics to the fabled Scylla, who in varias formas distincta perfidiae velut superne vacuum christianae sectae nomen obtendit (separated into various forms of falsity, as if—looking from above— empty, engulfs the name of the Chrisitan sect, I.vi.46). Later, in book three, Ambrose challenges: si quis contra licitum putat colorem disputationis eiusmodi a poeticis fabulis derivatum […] agnoscat non solum sententias, sed etiam versiculos poetarum scripturis insertos esse divinis (if anyone thinks such literary adornment, derived from the poets’ stories, of an argument to be impermissible…let him know that, not only sentences, but even entire verses of the poets have been introduced into the holy scriptures, III.i.3-4). For Ambrose, then, it was the use, not the origin, of an idea that rendered it fit for inclusion among even the most holy texts.

Likewise, the learning of the poets was at times seen as useful for reasons beyond a cultural currency for the commons. Greek paideia was, and had been for centuries, a key tool for the aspiring orator, lawyer, statesman, and, eventually, priest or bishop to begin to participate in a civil society still steeped in and overshadowed by Rome’s pagan past. It is no coincidence that one of Emperor Julian’s key policies in his attempt to dismantle Christianity’s institutions took shape as a prohibition against Christians teaching Homer, Vergil, and other poets (McLynn 2014: 121-122). These works, which drew moral critiques from even pre-Christian commentators, were lapped up by the youth of a burgeoning Christian elite. In his On Greek Literature, Basil, the Bishop in Caesarea, guides young Christians to what he takes to matter most as they begin their secular and religious studies. For Basil, there is no doubt that scripture exceeds any man-made work in value many times over; the scriptures, he counsels, should “lead the way, teaching us through mysteries” (II.6, Loeb). Holy writ, however, is often intractable at the beginning of one’s intellectual journey, and so “by means of other analogies which are not entirely different, [teachers] give, as it were in shadows and reflections” and train the minds and souls of the young for an eventual engagement with the scriptures themselves (Ibid.). The works of the poets can serve this imitative, prefiguring role for the scriptures, and Basil even goes so far as to remark that “pagan learning is not without usefulness for the soul” (IV.1). The salvific properties of poetry depend upon that poetry’s content, and Basil is eager to encourage young Christians to “apply themselves to [literature in praise of virtue]” (V.1). Basil continues his letter by running through exemplary thinkers and writers, like Homer and Solon (V.7-9), whose work anyone, including Christians, would be wise to engage with and give deep thought. Thus, the form and the content of Greek literature, for Basil, proved to be of spiritual usefulness because it could both prepare a Christian for deeper consideration of the scriptures and function themselves as reliable sources of moral instruction for the careful, moderate student.

As an early convert, Augustine of Hippo, too, recognized the study of poetry and the liberal arts as a means of approaching higher, heavenly truths, but that came to change in his later years as he reconsidered the prominent role he had ceded to the liberal arts in his curriculum. In his dialogue De ordine, penned in 386 CE while he was preparing for baptism, Augustine wrote himself into conversation with the younger Licentius, the son of a patron, Romanianus (Clark 2017: 438), where he counsels the young man to regard poetry instrumentally (I.8.24), employing mythic imagery within his advice, as Ambrose and Basil had done. In his later Retractationum Libri Duo (Retractions), however, Augustine withdraws his eariler advice, ruing his allusions to Greco-Roman myth as uncecessary and walking back his confidence in the liberal arts. Augustine wrote De ordine with the goal of developing an account of God’s order against the problem of evil, slogging through the confusion confronting him who believes God to order human affairs and likewise notes that in humanis rebus perversitas usquequaque diffusa est (perversities abound in every human concern, I.1.1). Augustine rejects answers to this conundrum that limit God’s omnimpotence or that make Him a willing participant in evil; quod homo sibi ipse est incognitus foments such erroneous conclusions (that a man does not know himself, I.1.3). To know ourselves, Augustine proposes that we forsake stimulations of the senses consuetudine […] animum in seipsum colligendi atque in seipso retinendi (with a practice of […] ordering our interiority and tarrying therein, ibid.). He then asserts that, in cultivating this process of self-knowledge, some plagas quasdam opinionum […] liberalibus medicant disciplinis (treat this or that conflict of opinions by studying the liberal arts, ibid.). Augustine, therefore, gives place to worldly learning, even pagan learning, as a means of discovering the order inherent to God’s creation. The destination to which this learning may lead, however, can prove either salutary or destructive, so far as knowledge of God is concerned, and Augustine goes on to qualify one’s pursuit of the liberal arts via Licentius’ character in the dialogue.

To illustrate the balanced approach to the pursuit of poetry, which the theologian contrasts with philosophy, Augustine puts himself in dialogue with Licentius, a young man repente admirabiliter poeticae deditus (a sudden and admirable acolyte of the poet’s craft; De ordine, I.2.5). Licentius enters the dialogue with a bang, literally, interrupting Augustine’s musings with a noise to scare away pesky mice (I.2.6). From that noise, Augustine realized that Licentius too was awake and surmised that Musam [suam] lumen ad lucubrandum accendisse (his Muse had him burning the midnight oil, ibid.). The conversation that follows concerns a discussion of order prompted by other night-time noises, and eventually Licentius grows tired of their discussion, which Augustine takes to be a philosophical one, nam valde in aliud intendi animum (for his mind is intensely dedicated to something else, I.3.8). In the dialogue, Augustine worries that Licentius’ attempt to avoid the discussion instantiates his preference for poetry over philosophy, probably picking up on the valde that Licentius uses as indicative of a sharp distinction in his preference for one over the other. Augustine challenges Licentius’ preference for poetry, and laments that, like the wall that divided Pyramus and Thisbe, his unckhecked fondness for poetry obstructs him from the truth (ibid.). Here, Augustine himself employs a mythic metaphor, most famous from book IV of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, to advise Licentius, showing that it is not the study of poetry itself that must be avoided. Later, Augustine, once assured of Licentius’s firm grasp of philosophy and conversion to God, makes this point explicit by advising the young student that redeundum tibi est ad illos versus. Nam eruditio disciplinarum liberalium modesta sane ac succincta, et alacriores et perseverantiores et comptiores exhibet amatores amplectendae veritatati (you should go back to that poetry, for knowledge of the liberal arts, if appropriately moderate and restrained, renders lovers of cherished truth more alacritous, diligent, and well-rounded., I.8.24). As the dialogue continues, it becomes clear how Augustine, in this dialogue, justifies such a stance towards worldly knowledge: order encompasses all, and through all things, even error, can the order of God be manifest (I.5.12-14). Poetry on this reading of Augustine, therefore—especially, it seems, as exemplified by Vergil, whom he often read before bed (I.8.26)—emerges as a comendable path towards discovering God’s all-encompassing truth for those securely grounded in Christian doctrine and committed to moderation.

Although recognizing the study of poetry and the liberal arts as not only as a useful propaedeutic, which use he employed to teach Licentius, but for one’s spiritual edification in his early years, Augustine’s later Retractions walk back this admission that poetry had a place next to holy writ. Retractions seems to have been written as an attempt of self-censorship—he wrote with a censor’s stylus, (censorio stilo denotem, Prologue 1)—by Augustine, looking back upon his voluminous writings with a goal of refining and correcting them in light of the further knowledge he had attained. The premise of this backward-looking endeavor was motivated by future-facing fears. Augustine quotes many scriptures warning of sin in a “multitude of words” (Proverbs 10:19 KJV) and “every idle word” (Matthew 12:36 KJV) (Prologue 2) and worries about some of his written work, quae si non falsa, at certe videantur sive etiam convincantur non necessaria (which, if not wrong, may certainly seem, or be proven as, unnessecarry, ibid.). For Augustine, God determines the necessity of things, and it is cuius de offensionibus meis iudicium evadere cupio (his judgement of my offenses that I [Augustine] wish to avoid, ibid.). Thus, the goal of Augustine’s revision is to bring his earlier writings into accordance with what he now (in 427 CE) understands to be least offensive, not just to God, but to other, presumably, Christians.

Before beginning, he draws special attention to those works from the beginning of his spiritual journey, which adhuc saecularium litterarum inflatus consuetudine scripsi (I [Augustine] wrote when I was still inflated by the traditions of worldly literatures, Prologue 3). Interestingly, Augustine does not seem to fully forsake that infatuation with secular literature in chapter three of the Retractions, which is aimed at De ordine. His retraction begins with a statement of purpose, an abstract of De ordine, which includes what he had understood to be the underlying impetus for writing it. It turns out that Augustine had immediately recognize the intractablity of order itself as the subject of a book, so he instead turned to discourse de ordine studendi […] quo a corporalibus ad incorporalia potest profici (on an order of studying by which one could be made to progress from corporeal matters to immaterial ones, III.1). Augustine goes on to list some of the regrets he then had about what was included, many of then pertaining to his allusion to the liberal arts and mythology generally: references to the Muses as godesses; his own attempt to posit a material and immaterial world from a faulty interpretation of scriture; and the praise he had furnished for Pythagoras (III.2-3). He also restricts, though not fully retract, it seems, the confidence he expressed the liberal arts as a path towards higher knowledge, quas multi sancti multum nesciunt (which many holy people know nothing about, III.2). This cursory clarification, in total a sentence, does little to rebut Augustine’s significant treatment of the liberal arts as a positive endeavor leading to Christ—indeed, that premise, that lower, carnal things can lead one to higher, holier ones is not itself rejected. Instead, Augustine seems to be anulling liberal arts insofar as he construed it as a necessary endeavor within one’s journey towards Christian truth, rejecting, in essence, a dogmatic version of what Basil had argued. Thus, although an aged Augustine became wary of lending any urgency to the study and use of the form and content of poetry and the liberal arts, he does not foreclose for them a place within one’s course of studies, or the possibility that they could enhance one’s knowledge on a path owards God.

The account that emerges from this compilation of Late Antique theologians of the position that one should take towards including, employing, or even pondering the mythology of Greco-Roman poetry and literature is an amibvalent one. Like Augustine, many of these theologians probably flip-flopped throughout their lives. It seems, for example, that Augustine always held Virgil in high regard, both the content and form of his poetry (Feilding 2017: 10). Like the stories themselves, these Christian thinkers were rendering in nova […] mutatas […] formas corpora (changed forms into new bodies, Ovid, Met. I.1-2). Christianity—often, in these earlier years, termed Christianities—was in flux because its doctrine, population, and structure were themselves in flux. The very process of Christianization forced Christians to respond to and deal with their Greco-Roman heritage seriously; otherwise, they would be ill-positioned to care for their converts seriously. There always remained, in the exhortations to moderation, common sense, and keeping an eye towards scripture, a latent skepticism of pagan myth, and even of the new forms that their writings bestowed upon it. Ovid would be proud. Although “[that poet] apparently offered less that was regarded as useful for the illustration of Christian truth” in Late Antiquity (the Christians were skeptical of his scandalous immorality), Ovid’s poetry, which embodied flux and new form, encapsulates the feeling of what Chrisitan theologians are trying to do with myth and poetry (Feilding 2017: 4). Funnily enough, one of Augustine’s clarifications of De ordine found in the Retractions is a caveat about Pythagoras. In his earlier work, Augustine praises Pythagoras’ pedagogy (De ord., II.20.54), so much so that some seem to have interpreted the theologian’s tout court approval of Pythagorean views (Retr. III.3). Ovid’s Pythagoras also teaches us lessons and, though his account of the world is well positioned to explain this ambivalence towards the form and content of poetry that I have endeavored to evidence, I wonder what Augustine, or Ambrose, or Basil, would have thought about it. Pythagoras in Ovid’s Metamorphoses was said to have seen things spiritually, and this insight allowed him to guide others—indeed, he felt compelled to guide others—towards the truths that were opened to him (XV.63-65). The message that Ovid puts in the sage’s mouth is one of flux and duty: is it right that “one living thing depends for its life on the death of its neighbor,” for either sacrifice or sustenance? (Ibid. 90, Raeburn’s translation). Certainly not, says Pythagoras, because “souls are always the same, though they move from home to home in different bodies” (Ibid. 171-172). While Pythagoras was directing his comments towards the way that the killing of a body entangles with the nature of the soul, the same message can find ready application for the theologians. The role of a teacher of Christian truth was determined by flux and duty. He was seeking to make changes to, or to strengthen, the theological commitments of those around him, and he himself seems to have often changed in that process. The urge to teach others, or revise oneself, was a duty conveyed by a professed knowledge of the eternal worth and position of souls. Ultimately, it seems, despite their dogmatic professions, the theologians worked by faith—like Pythagoras’ followers would have had to—and faith is flux and duty. A recognition that one doesn’t have the whole truth, but that one must nevertheless search after it, and bring others along with them by any means at hand.