Cut from the same cloth: A study of female patrons in Luke–Acts and the Roman Empire

Much of my published work has focused on the Gospel of Luke and its complex relationship with the sociopolitical hierarchy of the Roman Empire. This has led me into diverse areas such as the Gospel’s status-reversal texts as veiled resistance to the imperial status quo, ¹ its countercultural take on the proper use of wealth and possessions, ² and the dramatic impact (social, political, and spiritual) of embracing the marginalized Other in Christian community. ³ This ongoing study has revealed a much more nuanced picture of the relationship between Rome and Luke–Acts than that suggested by the dominant scholarly view of a conciliatory portrayal of the Empire.

In the midst of imperial negotiation scholarship, I have thus far not engaged deeply in the formal dialogue about women in Luke–Acts. My commitment to feminist criticism is alive and well in my pedagogical and exegetical work, but it has in recent years played a much larger role in my teaching than in my scholarly publications. There are, however, some important connections between Lukan imperial negotiation and the Lukan portrayal of women that are ripe for more in-depth exploration, and my hope is that this initial foray will provide a starting point for burgeoning conversation. In brief, twenty-first-century biblical scholars have come to regard the topic of women in Luke–Acts, perhaps accurately, as a mixed or double message, in that there are certainly women included in the stories, but they are not nearly as vocal and active as many of us today might like. ⁴ This article will enter into that conversation with an exploration of female patrons in Luke–Acts, from the perspective of imperial negotiation and the Roman status quo. As with so much else about Luke’s imperial negotiation, the picture painted by the third evangelist is messier and more complex than is usually assumed. These wealthy women of the Lukan narrative offer a carefully nuanced redefinition of the roles of client/recipient and patron/benefactor that blurs the lines between the two, and challenges us to avoid simplistic categorization either of them or of one another.

First, I will discuss how female patrons functioned in Greco-Roman society, and how that system might have informed Luke’s presentation of women disciples. In this section, I will keep my focus on how the Lukan audience likely understood these women and their role as patrons in the early communities of Jesus-followers, rather than employing a source or redaction criticism approach. Second, I will demonstrate how the narrative of Luke–Acts blurs the lines between patrons and clients. Here and throughout, my primary biblical case studies are the female disciples listed in Luke 8:1–3, and the householder, businesswoman, and convert Lydia, from Acts 16. Finally, I will consider the female patrons of Luke–Acts in relation to the changing power differential between individual wealthy benefactors and the institutional church hierarchy. Many scholars assume that Luke was a part of that emerging institutionalization, but I will argue that in this area (among others) the work of Luke–Acts offers hints of a more nuanced and complex imperial negotiation.

The patron–client system was a basic building block of Roman imperial culture and a key factor in the maintenance of power and control across the far-flung Empire. ⁵ It played a particularly central role with regard to status competition, through the creation of a web of mutually beneficial relationships between a patron or benefactor of higher power and status, and a client of lower status. Based on cross-cultural study, Eisenstadt and Roniger list nine total characteristics of patron–client relationships, as cited by Osiek and MacDonald:

They are usually “particularistic and diffuse.” They are characterized by simultaneous exchange of different kinds of resources, economic and political on one side, and “promises of reciprocity, solidarity, and loyalty on the other.” The exchange of resources usually comes as some kind of package deal, in which none can be exchanged separately but only in full combination. They contain an ideal of “unconditionality and of long-range credit.” They bring with them a strong sense of interpersonal obligation that is intricately connected with concepts of honor and shame. Patron-client relationships are not fully legal but rather more informal and at times go directly against or furnish a means to circumvent laws. These relationships are entered into and can be abandoned more or less voluntarily, though social constraints can certainly set up a situation in which a client has little choice. They are formed in vertical personal relationship and tend to undermine any sense of horizontal solidarity. Finally, they are “based on a very strong element of inequality and of differences of power between patrons and clients.” ⁶

Of particular importance in the Roman system, and hence for our study, are the economic, social, and political resources offered by the patron, in return for the client’s public loyalty and support, votes, and other forms of reciprocity. This vertical patron–client relationship was founded on status inequality and a clear power differential, usually working (whether intentionally or not) to undermine social solidarity and loyalty between those of similar socioeconomic status. ⁷ In its most common form, patronage was a relationship between individuals. But it was also typical for an individual patron to act as the designated benefactor of a lower-status group of clients; these groups included professional trade guilds, cities themselves, clubs and other associations and, most relevant for our purposes, devotees of a particular religious movement or cult. ⁸

Although classical studies sometimes overlook or minimize this fact, Roman and Romanized women participated robustly in the patron–client system in a variety of roles. They were involved in business of all types, particularly if they were widowed or independent of male authority in some other way. ⁹ Of central importance, they ate at banquets alongside men, offering them “greater access to the corridors of informal power and greater ability to influence them.” ¹⁰ The satirist Juvenal, for example, complained about women who hosted dinner parties and discourse on politics, and mocked men who advanced politically through allying themselves with a socially powerful, rich, elderly woman. ¹¹ Even non-elite women and freedwomen could act as patrons and clients, as long as they had accumulated a modest amount of wealth and social connection. ¹² At Herculaneum (buried in mudslides from the Vesuvius eruption in 79 CE), 40 percent of the dedicatory statues found in the theater and forum were of women, placed alongside and intermingled with those of men. ¹³ Benefaction and patronage practices offered women of means an avenue for power and prestige beyond the limitations of their gender. ¹⁴ Women could not vote or run for office, but they could be and often were appointed to municipal public offices. Thus female patrons and benefactors did not only provide financial resources, but also received some modicum of power and influence in return for that patronage.

All of this should lead us to rethink our characterization of the female patrons we read about in Luke–Acts. Scholarly literature often understands women like Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Susanna as second-class disciples according to the Lukan narrative—women who “just” give money to support Jesus and his male disciples without wielding any true influence. How would the earliest Lukan audiences have thought about patrons who happened to be women, however? If we place Luke and his reading communities, as I think is most likely, in an urban context in Asia Minor or the Greek East, ¹⁵ the Jesus-followers reading the Gospel and Acts would not necessarily have interpreted these women as background players, or as uninvolved donors. Luke 8:1–3 identifies Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Susanna, and “many others” as providing for Jesus and presumably other disciples out of their own resources. Richard Pervo notes that “out of their own resources” (ἐκ τῶν ὑπαρχόντων) was such an established benefaction formula that it was often abbreviated with initials. ¹⁶ Therefore, these were women of some financial means. Joanna, in particular, as the wife of a Herodian official, appears as a woman with clear connections to the governing elite. The first-century audiences hearing Luke, then, would not be thinking of these women as voiceless society matrons. They would be thinking instead, to offer one example, of women like Menodora of Pisidia, who was honored in first-century Asia Minor with multiple statues and inscriptions. They detailed her numerous public offices, including, among others, supervisor of the gymnasium, priestess of Demeter, city magistrate, and priestess of the imperial cult. Her generous donations of grain and money, such as one designation of three hundred thousand denarii for the support of Pisidia’s children, are memorialized as well. ¹⁷

Like Menodora, the women of Luke 8 chose to use their financial resources to make a statement and wield power within their chosen community. Again, this is not meek behavior, and I am not convinced that Luke’s reading communities would have understood it as such. Tal Ilan, as cited in Scott Spencer’s chapter on the “historical Joanna,” writes, “Opposition movements rallied support where they could, and thus adopted a more democratic attitude [than ruling parties] … Through their monetary contributions, such women may have influenced decision- and policy-making in the opposition parties they chose to support.” ¹⁸ Spencer envisions Jesus and his male followers staying for periods of time in the houses of their female patrons, and acknowledges that Mary, Joanna, and others quite possibly had a voice in the strategy discussions around their own dining tables. ¹⁹ I would argue, based on the above historical characterization of patrons in the imperial system, that readers would almost certainly have understood that these women did indeed wield influence alongside the other disciples. Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and their compatriots also likely traveled with Jesus through at least some of his itinerant ministry in Galilee, as Luke states in 8:1–3 that the Twelve and these women were “with” (σὺν) Jesus as he went throughout the land “preaching and proclaiming the good news of God’s reign.”

Finally, we meet these same women again in the pivotal closing chapters of the Gospel. Luke presents them as traveling to Jerusalem to witness Jesus’ crucifixion, burial, and eventual resurrection (23:49, 55–56; 24:1–12). The words the angels speak to the women at the empty tomb are significant for how Lukan audiences would have understood their role. In Luke 24:5–7, the angels remind the women to “remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again” (NRSV). The women do indeed remember this teaching of Jesus, and convey the news of the resurrection to the rest of the disciples (24:8–9). This scene characterizes these female disciples as full participants in Jesus’ teaching, expected by the angels to remember it and understand its significance—which they do. As much as commentators speak of Luke–Acts silencing women, here the women understand and speak the truth of Jesus’ resurrection. To be sure, the male disciples do not believe it, and dismiss it as idle talk—the gossip and ramblings of hysterical women (24:11). But I think we must lay the responsibility for that misjudgment at the feet of the disciples, not the author of the Gospel.

Some scholars present this doubt of the women’s witness as evidence of Luke’s discomfort with women’s proclamation. ²⁰ There is a parallel instance of disbelieving the words of a female messenger in Acts 12 as well. Interestingly, this event happens at the home of another wealthy female patron (and thus perhaps a house church leader) of the early Jesus movement, Mary the mother of John Mark. The female servant Rhoda announced Peter’s miraculous return from prison to the gathered Jesus-followers, and is, like her sisters from Luke, dismissed as a woman “out of her mind” (Acts 12:12–17). Although characters within the narrative disbelieve them, both Rhoda and the female patrons of Luke are, in fact, correct in their proclamations. Luke records, in both stories, the women’s truthful witness, and the (presumably male) resistance to that truth. What I see here, then, is Luke gently but firmly prodding and questioning problematic gender assumptions. This aligns well with the larger Lukan agenda of challenging social boundaries of all forms, as they were central to maintaining the imperial hierarchy and its system of status competition. Other relevant examples of Lukan women speaking the truth include the strong prophetic voices of Elizabeth and Mary in the birth narratives (Luke 1–2), and the female prophets foretold at Pentecost (Acts 2:17) and glimpsed in the person of Philip’s four daughters in Acts 21:9 (if not, regrettably, with their actual words of prophecy). Thus, Luke–Acts paints a picture of appreciation for the truth of women’s witness, and a subtly destabilizing take on imperial values.

Thus, the women of Luke 8 should not be sidelined as minor characters lacking in any status as influential disciples. They act, in many ways, as traditional patrons of a religious group, although their work serves not the empire of Rome, but the radically different reign of God proclaimed by Jesus. Another Lukan female patron in the same tradition is the Macedonian businesswoman and householder Lydia, whose story is told in Acts 16. An examination of her presence in Paul’s ministry will offer more insight into Luke’s presentation of women as patrons and leaders of house churches, and transition us into consideration of how Luke–Acts blurs the traditional status division between patron and client. In Acts 16, Paul receives a vision of a Macedonian man urging him to cross to Macedonia and help them (16:9). When Paul and his coworkers arrive in Philippi, however, they encounter not a man, but a group of women gathered at a “place of prayer,” among them a merchant dealing in purple cloth named Lydia (16:11–14). Lydia’s conversion is narrated memorably, in that the Lord takes a particular interest in her, and opens her heart to pay close attention to Paul’s teaching. She and her household are baptized, and then she takes the initiative in urging (παρεκάλεσεν; cf. the Macedonian man in Paul’s dream in 16:9) and persuading (παρεβιάσατο) the missionaries to accept hospitality in her home (16:14–15). Commentators like Beverly Roberts Gaventa and Justo González both note how passive Paul is in this story, and how active God and Lydia are. ²¹ González in particular points out the unexpected work of the Spirit here: Paul’s vision was of a Macedonian man, but God’s Spirit chose instead to inspire a woman, in particular a businesswoman who, as a female head of household, resided somewhat outside normal social expectations. ²² Lydia is not just the first Macedonian convert after Paul’s vision, but she is also, by the end of the Philippi sequence, hosting a gathering of Jesus-followers in her home (Acts 16:40).

As with the Luke 8 women discussed above, biblical scholars commonly view Luke’s presentation of Lydia as somehow obscuring or limiting her likely leadership role as a patron and house church leader, and reducing her to “merely” providing housing and money for the mission. ²³ Again, though, I would argue that this is not necessarily the case. Early readers and auditors of Acts would likely have seen Lydia as a businesswoman and householder who decided to use her resources to influence and advance the Jesus movement. Her active role in the story and her relatively quick ascent from becoming a convert to hosting a gathering of Christian sisters and brothers do not minimize or mitigate that natural impression; rather they support it. Luke does not, perhaps, emphasize or highlight the fact that this is a woman leading a church; he does, however, quietly but significantly overturn the gender expectations of Paul’s vision and present the Spirit as working once again in unexpected ways that take no account of cultural or human boundaries. Even when he does not record the actual words of women, Luke’s destabilization of imperial norms includes gender norms as well.

Thus far, I have mostly discussed how early readers would have understood the female benefactors of Luke–Acts in light of the typical Roman patronage system. Now, I want to draw attention to the ways in which Luke–Acts, unlike typical imperial practice, blurs the hierarchical lines between patron and client. As I discussed above, patrons were typically of higher social and political status than their clients, and they gave favors (χάρις in the language of imperial benefaction) to those clients in return for, primarily, public loyalty and support. ²⁴ The material gifts (such as business connections, banquet invitations, low-interest loans, and recommendations, among others) went one direction only, from superior to inferior. But in Luke–Acts, patronage is multidimensional and multidirectional. Lydia, as we have seen, offered her patronage and hospitality as an effusive, and insistent, response to her conversion, in which God had taken a direct hand (Acts 16:14–15). God, clearly the more powerful player, acted (through Paul) as a patron to Lydia, and she responded with public loyalty, as one would expect. ²⁵ But Lydia also responded with patronage through her own resources, thus embodying dual roles: a client who receives God’s favor, and a patron who supports God as embodied in the Jesus movement.

To return to the female disciples of Luke 8:1–3, we see a similar dual role in their behavior. They receive the patronage of Jesus’ healing powers, even to an extreme degree in, for example, the case of Mary Magdalene, who was cleansed of seven demons. But they also very clearly act as patrons by serving, ministering to, or providing for Jesus “out of their own resources” (which, remember, was a formulaic phrase in benefaction vocabulary). Thus, Luke essentially erases the firm line between “superior” patrons and “inferior” clients, as Spencer notes. Both Jesus and his female supporters give as benefactors and receive favors as clients. ²⁶ This blurring of lines is the beauty of Luke’s presentation. It turns clear-cut hierarchical boundaries into muddled shades of gray where even those of high social status need and accept the aid of others, and where everyone is expected to contribute equally with whatever resources they have available to them. Whether they have been possessed by demons as Mary was, embedded in the Herodian-Roman ruling alliance like Joanna, or facing Lydia’s status inconsistency as a businesswoman, they should both give and receive favors of χάρις within the Jesus movement.

Even Luke’s word choices blur the lines between patron and client. Luke 8 uses διακονέω as the verb to describe the action of Mary, Joanna, Susanna, and the other women. Its meaning in this context has been debated, as there are several possible definitions. It can refer, on the one hand, to the work of an officially designated envoy or representative—a position with some status attached to it. ²⁷ Additionally, διάκονος (male or female) is the closest the New Testament comes to a word for minister or pastor. Romans 16:1–2, for example, calls Phoebe both a διάκονος and a προστάτις, or benefactor and patron, in the service of Paul and the church. But διακονέω can also refer, in a literal sense, to service at table and other domestic duties—all tasks typically associated with slaves, servants, and those of lower status, including women. This is how Spencer, for example, tends to understand its use in Luke 8, with reference to the action of the women disciples named here, and throughout the Gospel. ²⁸ Significantly, however, Spencer also notes that Jesus presents both himself and the ideal disciples (male or female) as those engaged in διακονέω. ²⁹ The status of the seven men appointed to “wait on tables” (διακονεῖν τραπέζαις) in Acts 6:1–6 is also relevant here. The Jerusalem church appoints Stephen, Philip, and five others to the task of food distribution, to free the apostles for the presumably higher-status work of prayer and “ministry of the word” (τῃ διακονίᾳ τοῦ λόγου). But in the end, these men, often called deacons in modern parlance (from διάκονος), end up doing much more. Stephen, for example, is credited with “wonders and signs” and wise, Spirit-inspired teaching (Acts 6:8–10), whereas Philip does transformative, boundary-crossing evangelical work with the Ethiopian eunuch a few chapters later (Acts 8:26–40). As I have shown in my previous work with Lukan status-reversal texts, the third evangelist frequently employs words with double meanings, and the use of the διακονέω word family, in Luke 8 and elsewhere, seems to be another instance of this rhetorical tactic. It works to continue reinterpretation of the imperial patronage system in a more liberating way for the early followers of Jesus.

Although not directly related to this immediate study, it is also worth noting that a similar blurring of lines is seen in the role of widows in early Christian communities. They are designated as a special charitable concern, as was traditional in the Hebrew Bible tradition. But there are clear indications in the New Testament and other early Christian writings that widows were also a group of women that the church leaders called upon for a variety of services, including care for those sick and in prison, charity for the poor, and instruction of other women. ³⁰ Thus a group that would typically receive benefaction and charity in early Christianity instead comes to offer, in their own right, service to the community as ministers and even patrons of a sort.

Finally, I want to briefly consider the power balance and negotiation between individual Christian patrons and the emerging institutional church leadership. In their discussions of female patrons, both Pervo and Osiek and MacDonald emphasize that the centralization of Christian leadership in the male clergy, and especially the ruling bishop, greatly diminished the influence of individual church patrons. Because patronage was a primary way for women to wield power outside of the official channels that were closed to them because of their gender, this diminishing of individual patronage in the early church affected female leaders in particular. ³¹ Pervo also notes that some ancient manuscripts of the Gospel obliterate or obscure the women of Luke 8. ³² This indicates to me that the portrayal of these female patrons by the third evangelist was considered problematic and challenging to the patriarchal church structure. I am not convinced, then, that Luke was trying to diminish the image of these female leaders, or somehow to circumscribe their power. If so, it would appear he did not do so very successfully, in the view of at least some Christian scribes. Rather, Luke’s inclusion of these female patrons, in a more prominent way than either Mark or Matthew, speaks to the opposite goal. Instead of going along with the institutionalizing moves to consolidate power in the clergy hierarchy, Luke offers a more prominent place to these influential female patrons in Jesus’ lifetime and ministry, and in the early Jerusalem-based Jesus movement.

I will conclude this exploratory article by noting its limits. Luke’s portrayal of female patrons is not, in any sense, perfect or ideal from a modern gender studies, intersectional, or liberation perspective. One of the major limits that must be acknowledged is the simple fact of how few people (men and women) had access to the status of patron. The power of female patronage was certainly restricted to the small minority of women with financial means and some measure of independence from male authority (or, at the very least, the support of their male connections). In that sense, female patrons (like male patrons) support rather than subvert the socioeconomic hierarchy of the imperial system. And, of course, we would all, I think, like very much to hear more of the teaching and witness of these fascinating female disciples rather than the mere glimpses we get of their role. Even as I note the implicit critique, nuancing, and redefining of imperial values found in Luke’s portrayal of Lydia, Joanna, and others, it is undeniable that the third evangelist, like all the biblical writers, and like all of us, was still inextricably intertwined with the dominant power of his day. But the hints he leaves of alternative community and nuanced negotiation of imperial norms can, perhaps, offer us inspiration for the everlasting work of the church: to critique, nuance, and redefine our own cultural values and practices that are not life-giving to all people, and to join God in the work of birthing the reign of God into the world.