In a world that craved the authoritative presence of actual deities, it was natural that one of the many idioms of ritual expertise was inspired prophecy, whereby a person would become possessed by a god and speak as the god’s vessel. The Greco-Roman world had a number of oracles that had worked this way for so long that they had become effectively temple cults, with priesthoods on hand both to interpret the speech of the prophets and to direct festivals and the devotions of pilgrims. But inspired prophets appeared continually in the cities, towns, and villages of the Roman world: ‘‘Many... are nameless,’’ the Roman author Celsus described, ‘‘and prophesy at the slightest excuse for some trivial cause both inside and outside temples; and there are some who wander about begging and roaming around cities and military camps; and they pretend to be moved as if giving some oracular utterance. It is an ordinary and common custom for each one to say: ‘I am God (or a son of God, or a divine Spirit). And I have come. Already the world is being destroyed. And you, O men, are to perish because of your iniquities. But I wish to save you...’’’ (in Origen C. Cels. 7.9, tr. Chadwick 1965).
In their ecstatic performances, in their claims to direct divine mediation, and in their pretense to authority over civic and domestic cultic issues, prophets and inspired oracles sought to function as ‘‘regional cults,’’ standing at the periphery of social centers and traditional cultic domains as a source of supreme religious authority. Drawing clients from a broad catchment area, they might (as in Celsus’ description above) denounce all religious activities, or establish a new cult to supercede others, or propose reform of traditional cults. Regional cults in the ancient world and modern Africa have functioned in this way, sometimes demonizing, sometimes revitalizing tradition, generally from the social margins (Lane Fox 1986: 168-261; Potter 1994: 29-57; Frankfurter 1998a: 184-93; 2002: 170-3).
Perhaps the most important example of such a figure is Alexander of Abonuteichos, who established an oracle and healing cult in an Asia Minor town in the mid-second century. He accomplished this notoriety, so his satirical biographer Lucian tells it, through the force of personality and by a series of clever devices for ‘‘manifesting’’ the god Glycon, a hybrid of Asclepius (Luc. Alex.; Lane Fox 1986: 241-50). The phenomenon was widespread in Asia Minor: prophecy distinguished one kind of Christianity, elevating direct vision and divine presence, well into the fourth century (Revelation; Ascension of Isaiah; 5, 6 Ezra) and spreading westward during the second century in the form of ‘‘New Prophecy’’ or Montanism (Lane Fox 1986: 375-418; Frankfurter 1998c: 426-30, 435-6; Edwards, this volume). In Palestine, Roman writers like Celsus (above) portray a continuing stream of prophets acting in imitation of ancient Israelite prophets, some with enormous followings (Jos. AJ 20.97-8, 167-70); and popular prophets are reported elsewhere in the Roman world (Acts 16:16; Plut. de Def. or. 421; cf. Potter 1994: 29-37). Still in the later fourth century the intellectual pagan Antoninus, having set himself up as a holy man by an Egyptian temple outside Alexandria, began to utter memorable oracles about the imminent fate of traditional cult (Eun. VS 471-2; Frankfurter 1998a: 185-6;
2000a: 186-9). By this time it was Christianity that was bestowing special legitimacy on inspired prophets, dubbing them saints even if (as modern historians have noted) church officials were often unable to pull them in from the moral and social periphery: John of L ycopolis, Antony of the desert, and others serve explicitly as seers and regional prophets in their hagiographies (Frankfurter 1998a: 186-93). In all such cases, modern historians have examined the geographical and moral position of the prophet vis-a-vis central cults, his impact on traditional cults in the area, and the context of his often highly partisan literary portrayals.
World History
