Institutional differences in Old-Greek and Theodotionic Susanna

Abstract

Despite the elaborative nature of Theodotionic Susanna, it is not merely an expansion. The narrative details of the different versions betray consistent institutional differences. One notable difference is the near elimination of the public synagogue as a place of assembly, and instead this source speaks of a more generalized, associational assembly that meets in Joachim’s house. The Theodotionic version’s associational, domestic assembly space is closer to the polity of a diasporic collegia assembly. Conversely, in the Old Greek, the perverse elders preside over an assembly building, which is at one point designated as “the synagogue of the city” (OG Sus 28). The Old Greek’s emphasis on a civic synagogue is closer to Palestinian Jewish texts, despite the exilic setting of this story. While such institutional designations are more of a spectrum than a binary difference, such difference in outlook offers invaluable data regarding the contexts of the two versions of this Danielic composition and the parallel presentation of these two different types of synagogues at such an early date is significant.

Ask any storyteller, and they will tell you that details and delivery can make all the difference in the meaning of a story. If you change the setting, the chronology, or the characters’ motivations, you may completely alter the meaning and moral of a story. While minor details would often be treated as mere artifice by the early folklore scholars of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, narrative criticism has reminded us of the immense difference that can be made by such details. Furthermore, the explosion of contextual details and studies in early Judaism have rapidly expanded our understandings of what these details may mean in a given story and to a specific audience. It is precisely in this intersection between narrative details and what they may tell us about context that the present article is situated. The marked differences in physical and narrative setting, character motivations, and the theological and social underpinnings we find in the Theodotionic (θ) and Old Greek (OG) versions of the Danielic tale of Susanna are prime examples. This deuterocanonical story of the paradigmatic wise youth of the Jewish scriptures bears drastically different readings, depending on which version is read.

In this article, I will argue that the institutional settings in these two versions are not merely the caprice of different author-redactors, but rather depict two viable options for pre-rabbinic synagogues. Purpose-built, public synagogues or domestic, associational synagogues are both attested at the purported time of the writing or editing of these two versions of this story. Such a difference is in keeping with the increasingly pluriform picture we find regarding the text of prophetic narratives, in general, and the stories of Daniel, in particular. Specifically, I will argue that the OG version is in keeping with the picture of a Palestinian “synagogue of the city.” The θ version, conversely, evinces a domestic association synagogue in which benefaction and other eurgetistic practices play significant roles in the story, and they are predominantly found in the Jewish Diaspora. While synagogues in this period could be set in a purpose-built edifice, a domus, or something in between, this difference would have been discernable and meaningful for an ancient reader, whether they were Jewish or Greek. However, it is noteworthy that the two versions present precisely the two most common variations of this nascent institution in two tellings of the same story, which should be considered as a possible recognition that these previously separate institutions could be treated as interchangeable in the late centuries BCE, at least to the author of the Theodotionic version.

While these versions share many elements, the narrative coloring and resultant rhetoric we find therein makes for different stories and meanings for this narrative, and both bear demonstrable effect on the characterization of Daniel and the meaning of the larger book that bears his name. In both cases, we find a distinct, coherent narrative revolving around people’s assemblies (that is, synagogues) that would have been meaningful in these specific historical contexts. Such dynamic institutional contexts provide data that may help to identify more precisely the contexts in which these separate narratives are set.

The book(s) of Susanna

The basic story of Susanna follows the legal entanglement of a Jewish woman in Babylon named Susanna, who is accused of adultery by two lascivious and corrupt elders or judges after she rejects their sexual advances. When the credulous people of the local Jewish community (and Susanna’s own family) are unable to see through this ruse, God empowers the young Daniel to stand up to these corrupt judges. Daniel manipulates the two judges into contradicting each other in their lies, thus proving their subterfuge and condemning them to the same death that they had sought for their victim. Carey Moore breaks this story into three distinct sections: the elders’ plan and Susanna’s rejection (1–27), the elders’ case (28–43), and Daniel’s defense (44–64). ¹ The two versions of this story exhibit numerous similarities and differences, including where they occur in the larger Danielic narrative. In this opening section, I will contextualize the two versions of this narrative with a brief survey of its place in the deuterocanonical Daniel literature, similarities and differences in the versions, chronological setting, and in the manuscript traditions.

As a constituent portion of the Greek Danielic apocrypha, Susanna is a section of Greek Daniel that is not found in the canonical book of Daniel, and it is heretofore unattested in the extant Semitic manuscripts related to Daniel. ² This loose-fitting set of three Greek texts present Daniel and his friends in various court or diaspora settings, though it has been noted that even the character of Daniel varies quite widely in terms of narrative presentation. ³ This has led to a particularly long controversy regarding the original language of this text, of which we have a dispute beginning as early as the third century CE, as attested in the correspondence between Origen of Alexandria and Julius Africanus. Julius Africanus identifies Greek wordplays in vv. 54–55 and 58–59 in order to argue that is a later forgery based on the seeming Greek language of composition and the inauthentic style of his “prophesying” in Susanna, to which Origen rejoins that similar wordplays can be made in Semitic languages and translated for dynamic equivalence. ⁴ There are no signs, to date, that either argument has won the day.

One issue in the corpus of non-canonical Daniel texts that has found relative consensus, however, is the understanding that a plethora of narratives and visions relating to Daniel existed and likely vied for inclusion in the comparatively late fixing of the canonical text of Daniel, which the pluriform versions found in OG and θ illustrate. This consensus is largely due to the discovery of several Aramaic, extra-canonical texts among the so-called Dead Sea Scrolls that speak of Daniel or bear similarities to the canonical texts, including most prominently Pseudo-Daniel^a–c, Four Kingdoms^a,b. and the Prayer of Nabonidus, the latter of which does not include Daniel in the extant text, though the contents and the unnamed Jewish seer are similar enough to be spoken of as part of this expansive tradition of Jewish youths showing their worth in courts of foreign empires. ⁵

As with all of Greek Daniel, Susanna is available in two (quite literally) competing versions, the aforementioned OG and θ. While the OG is generally regarded as the older version, θ became the version of choice in Christian communities by the late-third century CE, as evidenced by its usage in the Vulgate, Peshitta, the Armenian versions, and the Chronicles of Jerahmeel 65. ⁶ The OG version has predominantly been assigned a date of second century BCE based upon its use in 1 Macc 1:54 and 2:59. ⁷ However, the only extant copies of OG Daniel to antedate Origen’s Hexapla are Chigi 88 and Papyrus 967, the latter of which was identified too recently for it to be represented in Ziegler’s Göttingen Septuagint text.

Conversely, the appellative Theodotion is a traditional designation that refers to the second century CE translator Theodotian, whom Irenaeus (Her. 3.21.1, 3.30.5) calls an Ephesian proselyte, though subsequent scholars have argued that he conflates him with Aquila of Ephesus. ⁸ Likewise, Epiphanius mixes Theodotian with Aquila by having him come from Pontus (Weights and Measures 17), whereas Jerome calls him an Ebionite (Famous Men 54). However, both stress his ability to stay true to the LXX while translating the Hebrew. ⁹ Barthélemy in particular argues that the Danielic Theodotion was actually Yonathan b. Uzziel writing from a Palestinian context; he argues that there is no second century CE Theodotion, only a first century CE kaige-like translator. ¹⁰ Di Lella likewise argues that θ Daniel was written in Palestine or Asia Minor in pre-Christian times. ¹¹ Others, such as Gentry and McLay argue against a proto- or Ur-Theodotion and for the irrelevance of the patristic evidence. ¹² Further complicating matters, several early intertexts from the Christian New Testament point to at least some earlier versions of the traditions found in θ Daniel (for example, Heb11:33// θ Dan 6:23, or the various purported uses in Revelation), which points to the existence and circulation of a version closer to θ than OG by the first century CE. ¹³ Such issues have led many to reject this version of Daniel and its Greek editions as a Theodotionic translation. ¹⁴ The so-called θ version is thus extremely difficult to date. It has also become increasingly unclear how much access the author of θ Susanna had to the OG, which means that we can no longer merely assume that θ is a recension or revision of OG. ¹⁵

The variances between the different versions of Susanna are myriad and significant, and thus they produce distinctly meaningful narratives replete with irony and political commentary. The most notable variances are the expansive details of θ (especially in the introduction and conclusion), are the different settings of the trial and the different placements within the text of Greek Daniel. The latter issue of narrative placement—OG places this story between the visions of Daniel 7–12 and the narrative of Bel and the Dragon, whereas θ narrates the story at the beginning of the book—is a significant discrepancy. Marti Steussy is correct, in my opinion, to argue that this different sequencing creates entirely different purposes for the two versions of the story. As such, θ acts as an introduction to Daniel as a character, whereas OG’s placement after the apocalyptic visions offers a sobering warning about the dangers of self-rule, which renders the hope of Dan 12 unfulfilled, as the people continue to fail and the apocalyptic vision remains unactualized if this anthology is read as a linear narrative. ¹⁶ For our purposes, these differing purposes and the settings of the people’s assembly, which hints at differing socio-political settings for these synoptic versions of a common base-narrative, are notable.

Institutional settings in OG and θ Susanna

For many previous scholars, the setting of Susanna’s trial in either the home of her husband Ioakim or in the synagogue of the city are almost irreconcilable. In the latter case, scholars have noted that in the OG the people are meeting in an anachronistic public synagogue during the Babylonian Exile, though this setting marked the trial as an official, juridical context. In the former case, that of θ, Susanna is likely tried in her home for the sake of narrative fluidity, specifically to account for how the elders found themselves in this family’s gardens, ¹⁷ though even those who hold to such a distinction must admit that the θ version still holds all the institutional elements of a court legend. ¹⁸ However, given the recent advances in synagogue studies, we may affirm that the institutional settings of these narratives are both closer than past interpreters have allowed, but also that the differences are more meaningful to the story and telling of the contexts of the individual stories than has been noted previously. Specifically, the public synagogue of OG is a community center that expects contentious disputation in civic governance and the discussion of scripture, whereas the semi-private associational synagogue of θ necessitates the greater involvement of family and also justifies the office of the judges in the home of the community’s host as benefactor. In both cases, the juridical nature of the assembly and the place of “the people” in the narrative is also not merely accommodated, but rather necessitated.

The public “synagogue of the city” in Old Greek Susanna

In OG Sus 28, the people come to “the synagogue of the city” (τὴν συναγωγὴν τῆς πόλεως) and OG Sus 41 speaks of “the whole synagogue” (ἡ συναγωγὴ πᾶσα). The former passage speaks of this synagogue as a specific place where the people congregated and governed themselves. While scholars have often tried to argue that the συναγωγὴ refers to the people alone, ¹⁹ there are clear spatial referents—for example, OG Sus 28 “they came (ἐλθόντες) to the synagogue of the city”—and the details given fit well with the emerging picture of public, purpose-built synagogues from the first centuries. Thus, the claim that this text is merely speaking of a group of people should be rejected. This institution would act as a community center for local Jews/Judaeans, which meant a variety of functions including the liturgical reading and interpretation of the Jewish scriptures, education, community deliberations (thus acting as a community ἐκκλησιαστήριον), and juridical center, all of which make this meeting place a true “synagogue of the city.” Within OG Susanna, we see shades of all of the above functions. In this section, I will address the elements and implications of such a narrative context for OG Susanna. I will argue that these functions, especially the juridical and deliberative uses, are prominent in this depiction and that this may give us good reason to allow for a Palestinian setting for the OG or its vorlage(n), and at an early stage in this institution’s development.

Public synagogues in Palestine were purpose-built buildings that were expected to hold the whole community (Luke 4:16–22; Jos. Vita 277), but it would also hold smaller governing bodies such as a βουλή or the πρεσβύτεροι. It was a central, public institution that centered the community’s practice and socialization. ²⁰ This institution was a place for deliberation, and it was built as such, with rows of stepped benches lining 2–4 walls and facing inwards in order to allow for such deliberation. However, as James Strange notes, the ubiquitous use of pillars in the central area would obstruct the view of those in attendance, which favors auditory over visual performance. ²¹ All of this meant that these structures would be prominent buildings with a meeting room as the primary edifice, though some also included secondary rooms to allow for tertiary uses or smaller meetings. Gamla and Magdala both provide clear data of prominent, purpose-built, public buildings that were constructed to act as a public assembly space. More recently, the synagogue at Khirbet Majduliyya (in use ca. 1^st–3^rd centuries CE) has been excavated in a small, rural village in the Golan, though the extant edifice was clearly constructed as a prominent, public building in this small municipality, which further illustrates their ubiquity in Palestinian towns of all sorts. ²² This ubiquity is also illustrated by the socio-political prominence of this institution in Galilean towns and cities, so that Jesus’ teaching in first century CE synagogues was synonymous with him teaching among the townsfolk in the most public place in a town or city (for example, Mark 1:39, Matt 4:23, Luke 4:42–44). However, the civic nature of this institution did not mean that it was devoid of worship, as the reading of and teaching from the Law were key components, especially on the Sabbath.

For our purposes, though, the deliberative function is a key usage. In v. 28, we are told specifically that the “synagogue of the city” is where the children of Israel sojourn and where they “deliberate” or “sit together” (καὶ ἐλθόντες ἐπὶ τὴν συναγωγὴν τῆς πόλεως, οὗ παρῳκοῦσαν, καὶ συνήδρευσαν οἱ ὄντες ἐκεῖ πάντες οἱ υἱοὶ Ισραηλ). While this text likely predates the creation of the συνέδρια by Pompey and Gabinius in 57 BCE (B.J. 1.170, A.J. 14.91), the use of συνεδρεύω bears a clear denotation of institutional and juridical governance in Greek (for example, Polyb. Hist. 2.26.4, 3.68.15; PTeb.701.274 [3^rd c. BCE]) and Jewish (for example, Sir 11:9, 23:14, 42:12) sources. ²³ A particularly apt usage occurs in Diodorus Siculus’ Libr. Hist. 20.16.1 (1^st c. BCE), in which the elders of Syracuse sit in deliberation relating to the embassy of Hamilcar in order to decide the fate of Antander. While this example likely relates to a βουλή or town council (on which the elders often sat) of a Greek polis, it is still instructive as a term utilized for a civic body deliberating on behalf of the people.

In OG Sus 28, 41, and 60, however, we are told specifically that the “children of Israel” as a whole convene in order to pass judgment, with the elders or judges as the crown counsel or district attorneys and (problematically) as the key witnesses. Perhaps the best parallel for what we find in OG Sus is the attempt by the βουλή of Tiberias and its ἄρχων, Jesus, to try Josephus in the monumental synagogue of the city with the people as the deliberative body in Vita 273–303. The people here rebel against the council, but it provides a clear example of the synagogue as a civic assembly, or ἐκκλησία, and the synagogue building is treated as an ἐκκλησιαστήριον, in a judicial setting. ²⁴ At this point in synagogue development, we should not expect a separate space for a bet din or “house of judgment.” Josephus also interestingly uses this language for the Wilderness Wandering and Conquest assemblies, with the congregation here assembling with the technical call to εἰς ἐκκλησίαν συνάγω. ²⁵ Indeed, as Jordan Ryan argues, legal argumentation and juridical governance were key components of a purpose-built synagogue’s functioning during the Second Temple period; Ryan applies this general claim to illuminate the specific gospel passage of Luke 13:10–17, in which Jesus is made to account for his work on the Sabbath. ²⁶ In all of these cases, even the reading and interpretation of Law, which is the key liturgical element of public synagogues at this time, ²⁷ were political acts. ²⁸ The ancient public synagogue was a place in which people could seek honor or be shamed within the community; for example, Sir 41:18 speaks of such shame before a magistrate in the συναγωγὴ. ²⁹ Interestingly, John Collins relates this juridical institutional function to the “congregation of the many” in 1QS VI 8–9. ³⁰ However, we should be cognizant that this passage is notably problematic from a text critical standpoint and there are legitimate questions regarding the consistency and even singularity of the group or groups being treated in 1QSerekh ha-Yaḥad, as Collins himself has subsequently argued. ³¹

The terms used in OG Susanna for the elders (πρεσβύτεροι) and judges (κριταὶ) would fit well with the proposed institutional setting of a purpose-built synagogue, contra Delcor who translates πρεσβύτεροι with the more generalized and pejorative “anciens” or “old men.” ³² For example, in the Theodotus Inscription (CIJ 2.1404; Jerusalem, pre-70 CE) clearly lists synagogue elders who oversee the synagogue (lines 9–10). Josephus’ aforementioned description of the actions of the βουλή of Tiberias (Vita 273–303) is another example of a town’s elders, whether permanent or temporary, leading the people in their deliberations. This portrayal of the βουλή makes good sense in terms of both ancient civic governance and what we find elsewhere in Jewish literature relating to Palestinian synagogues at the time. Contra Clanton, this mistrust of corrupt judges is far too ubiquitous to identify this text as specifically Pharisaic, ³³ as indeed corruption of judges is a common motif in contemporaneous Jewish literature. As in the case of Josephus’ own trial in Vita 273–303, this stands as an example of how such bodies can abuse their positions and justice, though this critique also makes clear that such was indeed the case historically. ³⁴ This is especially alarming given that these elders would also pronounce judgments for the Jewish communities in other cities (OG Sus 6).

In OG Susanna, unlike in Vita 273–303, the assembled people are credulous to a fault. We are told in no uncertain terms in OG Sus 41 that the people believed these two elders and judges by virtue of their office alone. As noted by Marti Steussy, the assembly is easily led astray, though also led to repentance in Sus 60. This passivity of the people makes them appear similar to that of the congregation in the Wilderness Wanderings, ³⁵ a parallel to which I have already pointed in Josephus’ treatment above. This parallel illustrates how the people fall short of their own expectations of justice and faithfulness to the Law; unlike the rest of Daniel, it is the Jewish people and their rulers who are condemned, rather than foreign rulers and people. ³⁶

Despite the prominence of scripture reading in contemporaneous literature (for example, Luke 4:16–22; C. Ap. 2.170–75), this text offers few scriptural quotations in this disputation. The primary exception is the adaptation of Deut 19:18–21 in v. 61, as the people call for the false witnesses to suffer the punishment that would have been meted out to the wrongfully-accused. Certainly, the other elements of this text conform to certain elements of Jewish legal procedure as laid out in the Torah, such as the sufficiency of two witnesses in a capital case (Num 35:30; Deut 17:6, 19:5) or the placing of hands on the head of the condemned (specifically for the blasphemer in Lev 24:14). However, this may be part of the point, as the lecherous elders and the people of this community seem to be acting against the Law and contrary to the justice expected of them in such an institution, though any argument related to the lack of scriptural citation must remain speculative as an argument from silence. To this we might also add that, like the parallel text in Vita, this was a special meeting for the sake of a trial, so we should not expect scripture reading in this particular type of synagogual gathering.

The quality and quantity of the evidence in OG Susanna evince a public synagogue that is specifically civic in nature. This institution is spoken of as both a deliberative body and a purpose-built place in which the people would congregate. It was led by a group of leaders that preside over the larger people’s assembly. This place, like the synagogue of Tiberias in Vita 273–303, is implied to hold the whole community. ³⁷ While this description would best fit a Palestinian setting, there is plenty of ambiguating data to show that this geographic identification is not certain, as I will argue below. However, it is statistically more likely based on the evidence that we currently have extant that these synagogue elements would be at home in a Palestinian context. ³⁸

The associational domus synagogue of Theodotionic Susanna

In the purportedly later θ Susanna, numerous changes have been made. From the placement of Susanna’s prayer to increased erotic detail of the elders’ voyeurism, these are notable differences that change the story and its meaning, but none are as conspicuous as the new place that Ioakim’s house occupies in this narrative. To be sure, the OG sets the elders’ voyeurism in Ioakim and Susanna’s gardens, but only as a brief scene; θ Susanna, however, never leaves this setting. While the change of setting certainly simplifies the plot of the narrative in θ, we must also ask how it might change the meaning of the events that take place in this venue and what this new setting might reveal about the authors’ context. The answer, surprisingly, is that this change of scenery does not negate an ongoing synagogue setting for the story, it merely changes the type of synagogue involved. One of the major upheavals in synagogue studies over the past twenty years has been the recognition that synagogue origins should not necessarily start in a fixed point and that they do not develop linearly. Many now eschew such monogenetic understandings for a polygenetic view that would chart pluriform Jewish people’s assemblies that would eventually merge between the First Jewish Revolt and the rise of the rabbinic synagogue. In this new paradigm, the absence of a purpose-built, public synagogue in favor of an ethnic association meeting in a domus or villa need only point to a different branch of the synagogue typology during this period. In this section, I will argue that the domestic setting for the θ version of Susanna not only fits that of an associational synagogue, but that this model better fits the generalized diasporic setting of the story, while keeping most of the institutional elements of the OG version. Two important additions that are especially at home in this domestic, associational setting are the emphasis on Ioakim’s benefaction in a eurgetistic system of the late Hellenistic and early Roman periods—the reciprocal exchange of benefaction and honor as capital in social institutions—and the added prominence of her family. ³⁹

Associations, known in antiquity as collegia in Latin or θίασοι in Greek, came in a variety of forms and existed for just as many functions. These associations were either private or semi-public groups that met for specific purposes and based on various social connections. Philip Harland’s taxonomy is helpful here. According to Harland, associations provided networks and relational ties as the defining characteristics of the various species of associations. He specifically enumerates household, ethnic, neighborhood, occupational, and cultic associations. ⁴⁰ Within the Diaspora, Jewish groups would naturally have been viewed as ethnic associations, which would have allowed them to study and practice their ancestral customs, that is, the Jewish Law, including some elements of worship. ⁴¹

Contrary to earlier belief among scholars, these groups were not meant to supplant the city nor were their beginnings a sign of decline for the polis or Empire. ⁴² To be sure, these groups were often (but not necessarily) anti-establishment and anti-government, which led on several occasions to their censure, including by Caesar, as portrayed in Josephus’ A.J. 14.214,

It displeases me that such statutes should be made against our friends and allies [that is, the Jews] and that they should be forbidden to live in accordance with their customs (ἔθη) and to contribute money to common meals and sacred rites for this they are not forbidden to do even in Rome. For example, Gaius Caesar, our consular praetor, by edict forbade religious societies (θίασοι) to assemble in the city, but these alone he did not forbid to do so . . . ⁴³

Thus, in this case, the antiquity and loyalty to the empire are key components to this ongoing imperial countenance of these groups. That these groups took on the language of the city was more a function of their purpose within the city rather than contrary to the city. Members of such associations were often seeking the honor and community that they could not find elsewhere or by other means in the city. As John Kloppenborg argues, associations mimicked the functions, language, activities, and organizational structures of the polis as they sought to offer these same elements, so that sub-elite groups were able to reproduce civic practices and values among non-citizens which would have led to a greater sense of connectivity. ⁴⁴ Such localized and only nominally hierarchical structures also meant both that these associations could be set up by local groups with minimal contact with other similar groups and that connections were kept within the city. ⁴⁵ For our purposes, it is worth noting that this civic language provides some parallel to the OG version on the one hand, though also some ambiguation that can only be distinguished by the specification of distinct types and settings of the assemblies in the two versions. As Tessa Rajak aptly states with regards to associational synagogues,

The texts make perfectly clear one essential principle of the synagogue’s functioning. In common with other civic associations in a Greek polis, synagogues operate precisely as miniature versions of the city of which they are a part: not only the underlying social assumptions, but the language of symbol and gesture in which those assumptions are expressed, echo what goes on in the city. ⁴⁶

Interestingly, these commonalities between civic and associational assemblies also include the election of associational leaders such as elders for fixed periods, ⁴⁷ which may also help us to make sense of the appointment of the villainous elders to leadership positions in θ Sus 5.

What has this concept of an association to do with a Jewish household, though? It is well accepted that early Christ-believing assemblies took place in the homes of prominent members, but it is also now widely acknowledged that synagogues and many other associational groups such as Mithraea held similar meetings, which accounts for the place of household associations in Harland’s taxonomy. ⁴⁸ These assemblies could take place in either a large house (domus) or more modest apartment/tenement (insula), and would in these cases be dependent on the patronage and benefaction of the host. Thus, Cicero (De Domo Sua 41.109) speaks of the ubiquity and pluriformity of domestic cults and religious meetings. Likewise, Livy (Hist 4.30.9–11) speaks of the various small, foreign cults that met in houses throughout the city, though only those worship practices “inherited from the fathers” are appropriate, especially in a time of crisis. This ubiquity led to a legitimizing element of this evolution from household cult to institutional meetings as noted by Hans-Josef Klauck,

the domestic cult had the antagonistic effect above all by providing a detour along which foreign cultic forms could become established. This happens first of all in houses, from which they are diffused in an underground manner until they emerged into the public world as stable, independent realities. ⁴⁹

According to Klauck, the Serapis cult on Delos is a perfect example of how a cultus could grow from a household cult to a popular local cult through the devotion of a singular family, that of Apollonius, a Serapian priest from Memphis (280–200 BCE). Another more complex example is recorded in LSAM 20 (Philadelphia [Lydia]; late second–early first c. BCE), in which a man named Dionysius kept an Agdistis cult in Philadelphia, though it is expanded in favor of a cult of the full pantheon. ⁵⁰ Dionysius makes a habit of welcoming guests into his home and private cultus. Eventually, the house of Dionysius develops into a destination for those holding to the medical-ethical teachings of the Agdistis cult in the region of Lydia. Finally, in the ethnic associations of Berytians in Delos (IDelos 1774; 150–110 BCE), these Phoenician traders dedicated an οἶκος to “the oracles of the ancestral gods.” To these specific examples, we should also add the ubiquity of familial terms in association honorifics and titles—including mother, father, brother, and sister—as further proof of the connection between houses and associations. ⁵¹

Thus, the possibility of a domestic, associational synagogue makes a great deal of sense, as we return to θ Susanna. In the extended introduction of this version, Ioakim is spoken of first as a wealthy host of the local Jewish community in his house and garden (v. 4). Domus architecture was quite conducive to such meetings, as well. Pompeiian evidence and Vitruvius (Arch 6.3) point to courtyard or atrium style homes as the favorite domestic spaces for wealthy Romans and large enough to hold moderately or large sized gatherings. ⁵² Further, according to Arch 6.3, the entry gate or fauces (literally, “jaws” of the home) and the impluvium, a depression somewhere in the courtyard where rainwater would be channeled, both fit perfectly with the details of the story in θ Sus 15–18 relating to Susanna’s walking in the garden and shutting the gate so that she might bathe. Moreover, we are told that the recently appointed judges were always to be found at Ioakim’s home, which would be expected if this was indeed the institutional home of the Jewish population in Babylon. However, as in the ἐκκλησία of the city (that is, the public institution of the polis’ self-governance in which free male citizens could gather to make civic decisions), women were at first barred from associational membership. However, by the third century BCE, women’s names begin to appear on member roles. This inclusion of women, though, along with slaves, would lead to some of the accusations of antisocial behavior by orators, a fact which already points to some level of marginalization of even a wealthy wife in an associational setting. ⁵³ Indeed, the fact that θ Susanna consistently refers to Susanna in relation to her husband points to this gender disparity.

The scant information from what we have from the earliest semi-public synagogues supports this picture. First, among the oldest extant synagogue sources from Egypt in the third to second centuries BCE, we find several aspects of domestic architecture in these seemingly purpose built synagogues, including gardens (for example, CPJ 1.134; Arsinoë-Crocodilopolis; late-second century BCE), which we find in our story. ⁵⁴ Such ubiquity of smaller meeting places matches the picture of numerous Jewish assemblies in this area, which Josephus speaks of as heteropraxic to the point that the Leontopolis Temple was an improvement in the worship of the local Jewish population in A.J. 13.62–73. ⁵⁵ A more sustained, fitting example is found in CIJ 1.738 (Phocaea, Ionia; 3^rd c. CE), which speaks of a woman, Tation, who is the benefactor of a local synagogue. Like Susanna, she is specified in relation to her husband; she gives a building and a courtyard to “the Jews.” ⁵⁶ Finally, perhaps the most famous parallel can be found in the famous Iulia Severa Inscription (CIJ 2.766; Acmonia, Asia Minor; mid-first century CE), which is a donor inscription that purposefully connects the οἶκος and the συναγωγὴ:

The oikos built by Iulia Severa restored P. Tyrronius Klados, archisynagogos for life, and Lukios, Son of Lukios, archisynagogos, and Popilios Zotikos, archon, from their own and from collected resources. They decorated the walls and the ceiling, restored the security of the windows and the whole rest of the decoration. The synagogue honoured them with a gilded shield because of their virtuous disposition and their goodwill and their diligence towards the synagoguē. ⁵⁷

Interestingly, this dedicatory inscription—which uses house and synagogue interchangeably—names a likely non-Jewish benefactor, Iulia Severa, who has given a house, while also noting synagogue officials who are appointed for life and for given periods. Whether we take οἶκος simply to mean “house” or as a diminutive for a larger structure, this could mean that the structure was either a purpose-built or previously owned domestic edifice which was given for use as a Jewish assembly. ⁵⁸ The benefaction of Ioakim as a host in his own home and garden is entirely fitting in the setting of ancient diaspora Judaism of the late centuries BCE.

We still must ask the appropriateness of the trial at this domus association synagogue, though. Specifically, was the setting of the trial simply an easy narrative shift divorced from historical practice, or would this indeed have been a natural, culturally appropriate place for the trial? Like the other elements of ancient synagogues and other associations, we must be careful about speaking in general, normative terms. However, it was indeed common for associations to have local, enforceable codes, and Jewish associations were no different. For example, much of the inscription detailing Dionysius of Philadelphia’s Agdistis cult (LSAM 20) took the form of a medical ethics code. Moreover, the legal codes of the Yaḥad Movement are famous for their detailed controlling of this set of translocal associations, with recent studies illustrating the variances in these codes between the various local iterations. ⁵⁹ As Kloppenborg argues, associations often sought to adjudicate their own disputes in order to keep such conflict hidden from outsiders and to keep the associations from fragmenting, as well as to mark their “quasi-civic autonomy” and to be seen as “communities of honor” by their neighbors. ⁶⁰ Language of “ancestral laws and customs” is very common, including for Jewish groups in Josephus and the Gospel of Matthew, which should be read as associational interpretations of the Pentateuchal Law, which seems to be precisely the law being proffered in both versions of Susanna. ⁶¹ We should thus not be surprised to find this change of venue for the judgment scene, or rather that it remains at the scene of the alleged crime, in θ Susanna given the ubiquity of domus synagogues or domus features in even the earliest synagogues, especially in diasporic communities. While this chronological ubiquity of such associations does not help us to set a firmer date for this institution, it does likely point to a Sitz im Leben outside of Judea, the Galilee, or any other Jewish-controlled territory. However, we should exercise caution here, as many Jewish groups who opposed Judean authorities also held associational synagogue meetings in the Land.

Thus, as the associational synagogues represent miniaturized versions of the city, we should not be surprised to find the people meeting in the house of a prominent member and that official rulings might be offered. Ancient readers would not be confused or need to suspend disbelief as they read that these elders and judges would pass judgment within a domestic, semi-public assembly. The only irony here is that the same credulousness exhibited by the people here as in OG Susanna is amplified in the silence of those from Susanna’s own household until Daniel is able to prove her innocence in the expanded ending of θ Sus 63. ⁶² This initial silence accentuates the added irony that Ioakim was the one who welcomed the real law breakers into his home, thus placing his wife in danger, and that the most honored among the community (τὸ εἶναι αὐτὸν ἐνδοξότερον πάντων, v. 4) in terms of benefaction and eurgetistic status is too concerned with such honors to speak against these unfit judges.

Conclusion

In his landmark study, The First Urban Christians, Wayne A. Meeks compared and contrasted Greek-speaking synagogues, associations, philosophical schools, and households in order to find the closest fit to the model of the Pauline ἐκκλησία. ⁶³ Nearly four decades later, it is increasingly clear that none of these institutions are entirely distinct from one another. This is largely because semi-public associations (collegia or θίασοι) bore commonalities and affinities to all the others, and we find a fascinating example of this institutional overlap in the two extant versions of the narrative of Susanna. Like many other associations, the assembly of θ Susanna takes place in a home, though it also bears striking commonalities to Greek-speaking synagogues. Like the philosophical schools, it propagates and enforces virtues and ethical norms. The parallel language and functions we find in the public synagogue of the city in OG Susanna and the associational domus synagogue in θ Susanna is also entirely in keeping with associational practice that we would expect in a diasporic community. Both the public synagogues that dominated Judea and the associational synagogues that proliferated wherever Jewish groups settled would have disciplinary measures that fit the two versions of this story, and the two versions are consistent in their applications of their separate models. Also, as we come to understand these separate models, we find that the irony utilized in different versions find sharper focus based on these institutional designations.

The preceding arguments should lead us to two specific conclusions: (1) that the institutional portraits we find in both versions would have made sense and been internally consistent to an ancient reader, as they are both entirely commensurate with institutional norms for different forms of synagogues around this time, and (2) that this ambiguity should also caution us from making too much of the distinctions in terms of geographic contexts. By the latter point I mean that the language is sufficiently similar and practices were sufficiently variegated that we should beware of hastily concluding that OG must be Palestinian and θ should be diasporic. To be sure, this would be entirely in keeping with the general portrayals of pre-70 synagogues that we find elsewhere, but this nascent institution resists normativity at every turn. However, this limited geographic ambivalence should not diminish the importance of clarifying and better understanding the institutional and community formation elements envisioned by these parallel texts.