The people who owned the Nag Hammadi texts were Christian.Footnote ¹ That is beyond any doubt. We can debate how one best defines what constitutes a Christian in the fourth and fifth centuries, but there is no question that the owners and makers of the codices here studied viewed themselves first and foremost as Christians. There are several indications of this. Apart from the fact that many texts deal with the question of the salvific power of Christ, scribal markings throughout the texts and the covers, along with other material aspects, reflect the Christian identity of the owners.Footnote ² The codices are full of nomina sacra and the colophons inscribed on many codices and flyleaves leave no doubt of the Christian provenance of the codices. But can something be said regarding how the texts were used from these aspects of visual identity?Footnote ³

As has been elucidated in the previous chapter, the letters of the alphabet carried great potential; however, the power imbued in letters and words was not only applied in pursuit of spiritual development. In Roman antiquity, magical words, symbols and spells were often inscribed on an amulet or charm and used as powerful tools that were beneficial for humans in many practical ways. Almost any object would suffice: a piece of bone, wood or metal or, preferably, something made for writing such as papyrus or parchment, which could easily be folded up and carried upon one’s person, or buried at the location where the protection (or curse) was desired to take effect.Footnote ⁴ Amulets were carried for all sorts of reasons, for healing and protection from sickness, to increase one’s chances in the pursuit of love or business and, for those engaged with spiritual matters, as weapons or armour in the war against evil spirits. Christians were no different from pagans in their reliance on amulets and powerful charms when the situation called for it.Footnote ⁵ As Harry Gamble has noted, quoting John Chrysostom, Christians used books in which the word of God was inscribed as protective artefacts:Footnote ⁶ ‘the devil will not dare approach a house where a Gospel-book is lying’.Footnote ⁷ In this chapter, we shall survey the occurrences of powerful signs, words and formulae appearing on and in the Nag Hammadi codices and discuss what these material features can tell us about how they were used.

The Nomina Sacra in the Nag Hammadi Codices: Artefacts, Scribes and Contexts

A nomen sacrum is an abbreviated form of a holy word or name, and the type of words being shortened indicated that this was not only for the purpose of saving space. Nomina sacra were holy names and words imbued with power.Footnote ⁸ This feature of ancient writing was predominantly a Christian practice – to such an extent, as Larry Hurtado notes, that its use in a manuscript is usually taken as an indication of the Christian identity of the scribe/owner/text.Footnote ⁹ Nomina sacra occur in all the Nag Hammadi codices, but not all the texts. The words that are abbreviated are chiefly Greek holy words and names (infrequently, as with the name Jerusalem, with Jewish provenance). I will not give a full list of the numerous instances of the occurrence of nomina sacra in the Nag Hammadi texts, only note the patterns. One feature that strikes one immediately is that Coptic words are not converted to nomina sacra, not even in cases like ϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ, which in other Coptic manuscripts of similar provenance is abbreviated.Footnote ¹⁰ Codex I is a good representative of which Greek words are usually abbreviated, often (but not always), with a superliner stroke over the abbreviation:

The most common nomina sacra in early Christian manuscripts of Greek provenance, Θεὸς and Κύριος, do not occur in the Nag Hammadi codices. This is most likely because the translators opted to replace these words (and likely many others) with the Coptic equivalents ⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ and ϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ, and, as we mentioned above, the team of scribes behind the Nag Hammadi texts did not abbreviate Coptic words into nomina sacra. This is a strong indicator that the texts were copied within the same scribal milieux wherein certain practices concerning the use of nomina sacra were prevalent. The most frequent nomen sacrum in the Nag Hammadi texts is without a doubt ⲡⲛⲁ, for the word πνεῦμα. What is curious about this fact is that Hurtado categorises πνεῦμα among those words that are less likely to be abbreviated in early Christian manuscripts.Footnote ¹¹ The pattern that emerges for the use of nomina sacra indicates that the scribal team as a collective were tied to specific writing or copying practices; however, other facts regarding the use of sacred symbols in the Nag Hammadi codices reveal that scribes also applied their own signatures to the texts.

The Power of the Cross in Codex I

The symbol of the cross was imbued with great power among many early Christians, and it seems to have a particular function in Nag Hammadi Codex I. At the end of the flyleaf, page B, we find the title Prayer of the Apostle Paul followed by ‘In peace’ (see Fig. 6.1). Below this are scribal decorations, two Latin Crosses, one (most likely two) cruces ansatae and the words ⲟ ⳩ ⲁⲅⲓⲟⲥ, that is, the Greek nominative singular article, a Christogram representing the word ⲭⲣ(ⲓⲥⲧⲟⲥ) and the word ἅγιος, forming the words ‘Christ is Holy’:

Figure 6.1 The flyleaf of Codex I, page B.

Photo by Basile Psiroukis. Image courtesy of the Institute for Antiquity and Christianity Records, Special Collections, Claremont Colleges Library, Claremont, California.

We also find several staurograms – at least four are visible in the facsimile of Codex IFootnote ¹² – as well as cruces ansatae (e.g. at the end of Part I of The Tripartite Tractate, at 104:3).Footnote ¹³ Hurtado has argued that the staurogram was most likely a sign of the importance attributed to the crucifixion, but not all the texts in Codex I assign such importance to it.Footnote ¹⁴ The longest text, The Tripartite Tractate, does not even mention the crucifixion. Thus, the text’s content cannot have been the only reason for the importance placed on the cross in Codex I; rather, it is more likely that the use reflects a specific scribe’s preferences and practices.

Closer examination of the facsimile of Codex I also reveals a curious use of one of the Coptic letters, the one which is written as the Latin cross, ti (ϯ), which seems to have been enlarged, making it stand out when one observes the pages of the text from afar (see Fig. 6.2). These three pages are just a few examples where ti (ϯ) is presented in this manner.Footnote ¹⁵ (For more examples, see Fig. 3.2.)

Figure 6.2 Two examples of pages from Codex I with enlarged ti (ϯ). Pages 106 (left) and 108 (right).

Photo by Jean Doresse. Images courtesy of the Institute for Antiquity and Christianity Records, Special Collections, Claremont Colleges Library, Claremont, California.

The contents of the pages do not give us many clues, unfortunately. Most of them do not discuss the cross, or even mention it. There does not seem to be a pattern in the topic being discussed in the pages where ti (ϯ) is enlarged. So why would a scribe, other than for a purely decorative reason or inexperience, enlarge the letter ti (ϯ) in this manner? I suggest that it has to do with the similarity that this letter has to the symbol which would become the very sign of Christians around the world: the cross.

We know that in Greek, the letter tau (τ) was associated with the cross among Christians.Footnote ¹⁶ In the Epistle of Barnabas, the rescue of Lot and his crowd of 318 people (Gen 14:14) is explained by reference to gematria. We are told that the number 318 corresponds to the Greek letters tau, eta, iota, referring to Jesus on the cross. The tau represented the cross and iota + eta represented Jesus.Footnote ¹⁷ Justin Martyr also associated the letter tau with the cross, as did Tertullian.Footnote ¹⁸ The reason for this, of course, was that the letter tau looked like a cross. The Coptic letter ti, in comparison to the Greek tau which lacks the vertical line above the horizontal line of the letter, is also reminiscent of the form of the cross, if not more so than the Greek tau.

The cross was not solely used to indicate the Christian identity of an artefact or individual, it was also thought to have protective attributesFootnote ¹⁹ and was used in the battle against demons, as Athanasius’ version of The Life of Antony states:

The desert was the place of demons, and they particularly sought to attack the monks encroaching upon their domain. Several early Christian authors describe how the sign of the cross was effective against demonic attack, as well as in healing ailments of various kind.Footnote ²¹ Examining the content of Codex I leaves no doubt that considerable interest and focus is placed on the influence that demons and spiritual powers had over human life. Indeed, the opening text of the whole codex, The Prayer of the Apostle Paul, is a long invocation to the protective power of Jesus:

As we have seen above, this short text ends with a colophon, inscribed on the back of the flyleaf, clearly indicating the power this scribe attributed to the sign of the cross.Footnote ²³

Not only do the flyleaf and the enlarged ti throughout the codex reveal the power assigned to the cross. Several texts in Codex I are also occupied with possession by demons and the struggle against lower material powers; some even mention the importance of the cross in this struggle.Footnote ²⁴ In The Apocryphon of James we read the following:

In the following text, The Gospel of Truth, there is an episode where Jesus steps down to earth as a living book in which all the names to be saved are written. As he descends, he is captured and nailed to a cross. This act, the nailing of the book/Jesus on the cross, announces the publication of the book of life to one and all.Footnote ²⁶ Those people who hear and understand the message of the book on the cross are saved. Jesus is also described as having power over the evils of the world, able to disperse any sickness and make the torture of life on earth cease.Footnote ²⁷

The following text, The Treatise on the Resurrection, is the only text copied by Scribe B and does not include enlarged uses of the letter ti, nor does it devote attention to the cross or how to protect oneself from demonic attack. The Treatise on the Resurrection is, rather, one long defence of the theological position that it is the soul that rises in the resurrection, not the body.

The last and by far the longest of the texts in Codex I, The Tripartite Tractate, is largely occupied with explaining exactly how the cosmos is constructed and why different people react in different ways to the message of Jesus. We are told that before the Saviour’s appearance there is no real knowledge; the different cosmic powers hold domination over humans as well as the earth. As Jesus appears on earth, some people gain true knowledge right away (about the nature of Jesus and the heavenly powers), some must be convinced, while others never get the message due to their material nature.Footnote ²⁸ Jesus is then killed by the lower powers of the cosmos, but this has no effect on the salvation of humans.Footnote ²⁹ The Saviour gives humans the power to withstand evil demons and the destructive emotions with which they are associated.Footnote ³⁰ Even though the cross is not discussed in detail in The Tripartite Tractate, the letter ti appears enlarged at many places within the text, in the same manner as it does in the other texts inscribed by Scribe A, and it is clear that it is only through the salvific message of Jesus that the destructive powers of the cosmos can be combatted.

I am not arguing that all who read Codex I used it as a talisman but suggesting, rather, that there were those (Scribe A being one such individual) who would recognise both the ti and the crosses inscribed on the flyleaf as protective symbols of the cross, which was thought to be effective against demonic attack, destructive emotions and sickness. The cross was effective through its reference to the salvific message of the death of Jesus. I also suggest that the curious use of the letter ti, particularly in The Tripartite Tractate, could have been a way to deal with the lack of references to the crucifixion in the text. Scribe A was obviously greatly invested in the sign of the cross and, thus, scattered the text with references to it.

Let us now turn to the question of the sort of context that would have called for the use of a charm made for combatting evil spirits, and what the power of the book would have given its carrier.

Resisting Desert Demons with the Cross as a Sign of Firmness

One feature that set the monks belonging to the emerging coenobitic monasticism of fourth-century Egypt apart from other Christians was their choice of garments and dress. Dressing in a uniform way created a sense of community.Footnote ³¹ Here follows section 81 of Pachomius’ rules:

The cowls, or hoods, were at times ornamented with crosses.Footnote ³³ Some monks wore a scapular which, according to an apothegm from the anonymous Apophthegma Patrum, signified the cross: ‘The elders used to say: “The cowl is the symbol of innocence, the scapular of the cross, the girdle of courage. Let us then live in accordance with our habit, doing everything with diligence, lest we appear to be wearing an inappropriate habit.”’Footnote ³⁴

What did the cross do for the monks? The cross was a powerful tool in the fight against demons.Footnote ³⁵ Again, from the anonymous collection of Apophthegmata Patrum: ‘The athlete boxes in contests; the monk, contending using reasoning, stretches out his hands to heaven in the shape of the cross, calling on God.’Footnote ³⁶ And: ‘So does he who seeks Christ the Lord-and-master, keeping the cross in mind without wavering, overcome every offence he encounters until he reaches the crucified one.’Footnote ³⁷

As David Brakke and other scholars have discussed in detail in recent years, one chief monastic occupation and concern was that of resisting demonic influence. It is no secret that the Nag Hammadi codices are bursting with material devoted to the perpetual combat between humans and demons. As has been discussed above, one way to resist demonic attack was to carry signs of God to fill oneself with the protective power of Christ. But what did the monks imagine were the practical benefits of carrying and making these signs against the demons?

The monk who is successful in fighting the demonic powers is described as having mastered his passions, leaving him firm, restful and immovable. Firmness in both speech and demeanour represented transcendence. The opposite was chaos, change and unruliness. This was the domain of demons. The Greek term σάλος/σαλεxύω (tossing or rolling) is often used in the Septuagint to describe chaos and a shaking earth, the demeanour of the unjust and the enemies of God in his presence.Footnote ³⁸ It was also the word used by the Greeks to describe the unpredictable and terrible sea. The contrast is ἀσάλευτος, firmness and immovability. It is this concept that the monk portrayed as an ideal, thus carrying with him the ideals associated with the philosophers of old.Footnote ³⁹ As Michael Williams has shown, St Antony is often attached to this ideal of immovability, facing demons with an immovable (ἀσάλευτον) mind.Footnote ⁴⁰ An extreme example of this theme is seen in the practice of stylite ascetics: holy men living a life of literal immovability on high pillars in their quest to get closer to God.

As ample studies have shown,Footnote ⁴¹ these themes are firmly rooted in the Nag Hammadi texts. This is most clearly demonstrated by Michael A. Williams, who investigates the mention of ϯⲅⲉⲛⲉⲁ ⲉⲧⲉⲙⲁⲥⲕⲓⲙ (‘the immovable race’)Footnote ⁴² in Sethian texts in particular detail, connecting it to broader, late ancient philosophical and religious motifs of stability (ἵστημι) and unshakeability (ἀσάλευτος).Footnote ⁴³ But as Williams himself makes clear, the ideal of stability is not restricted to the Sethian Nag Hammadi tractates. The use of the term ⲙ̄ⲧⲟⲛ (rest) in the Valentinian Nag Hammadi texts is another example. The cross gave the monk firmness of mind, the very reason monks were the prime target for demonic attack. As we read in The Letter of Peter to Philip from Codex VIII:

The term ‘Fatherhood’ (ⲧⲉϥⲙⲛⲧⲉⲓⲱⲧ) we encounter here is one attached to the monasticism of Egypt, as Lundhaug and Jenott have shown.Footnote ⁴⁵ This passage encapsulates many elements which would have spoken to the preoccupation of monks:Footnote ⁴⁶ for example, apart from referencing the authority of the abbot, it calls on the monk to be an example to others, and reminds him that the activity of demons must be addressed because they work tirelessly to distract and entice the monk to do evil.

The Ontology of Sacred Symbols: How a Book Becomes a Weapon in Spiritual Warfare

How should we imagine the use of books for protection to have been undertaken? To help us conceptualise the power of sacred symbols, we have a lot to gain by bringing in perspectives from ritual theory, as well as the sociology and anthropology of religion. As has been long recognised in these fields, material objects used in ritual and religious contexts cannot solely be approached as passive carriers of cultural meaning as, in such settings, objects otherwise viewed as inanimate become imbued with agency with performative qualities.Footnote ⁴⁷ This is achieved not through the ‘beliefs’ of any individual, but through the cultural ontology of a collective. The sacred and protective symbols contained in the codices were scattered throughout the texts themselves, texts that relate a worldview corresponding to the broader early Christian monastic one wherein demons possessed real agency. The codices were kept and carried around by the monks in this environment, one in which the lurking presence of demons was always a reality. The protective power of the codex corresponded to the sacred words and symbols disseminated throughout its texts, protecting the monk when reading about topics featuring evil demons in central roles – just as the codex itself protected the monk as he/she walked through life, where a demon could appear at any time. Thus, both the sacred symbols and the codices as material objects played important performative roles as they were read and carried within the monastic milieu which produced them.

Conclusion

First and foremost, the colophon, scribal signs and nomina sacra indicate that the scribes of the Nag Hammadi codices saw themselves as Christian. That is no longer a controversial issue for most scholars. The structure of nomina sacra in the Nag Hammadi library indicates that the people behind the texts were most likely part of the same scribal network, and that we are not dealing with codices produced in separate scribal contexts and only brought together at a later time. The above also shows that the sign of the cross was particularly important for Scribe A of Codex I, which indicates that there was plenty of room for individual preferences in the way one inscribed and adorned the texts, preferences that most likely were guided by the monk’s engagement in spiritual warfare. The context where the Nag Hammadi codices were produced encompassed belief and practice in the protective power of the symbol of the cross. Even if a monastic context is not the only one in fourth- to fifth-century Roman Egypt where the power of the cross was held in high esteem, the preoccupation with spiritual combat in monastic environments – a topic reflected throughout the texts – makes a strong argument for the fact that these texts were used by monks as protective artefacts. The cross gave the monk firmness in the chaotic company of demons, whose presence was only amplified by the cold and empty desert.