Contours of the Holy Jerusalem on Earth: Elements of Montanist Ecclesiology

Abstract

The paper presents the ecclesiological convictions of the so-called New Prophecy or ‘Montanist’ movement, a prophetic movement that rapidly gained prominence throughout the Empire from the middle of the second century CE. By regarding themselves as the mouthpieces of the Johannine Paraclete-Spirit, the founding prophets conveyed primarily ethical messages to the contemporary church. It is argued that their ascetic imperatives can be regarded as the practical implementation of a more complex ecclesiological and eschatological conviction. In the Montanists’ understanding, their prophetic communities were the earthly realisation of the heavenly Jerusalem, to which the Apocalypse of John attached concrete ethical contours (Rev 21:7–8). Such ‘realistic’ eschatology prevented the prophets and their adherents from seeing the reality of the church in a dualistic way or upholding the sanctification of the individual believer as a futuristic fulfilment. They believed that the coming of the Paraclete had instituted a new era for the church, and the ‘spiritual’ believers must prove to be ready to achieve moral perfection. Such pneumatic-prophetic and ascetic-perfectionist convictions give the contours of Montanist ecclesiology, one that proved to be widespread in the second century and influential on later Christian ecclesiological trajectories as well.

1. Introduction

Anyone interested in the formation of early Christian ecclesiology easily finds themselves in a tension between the somewhat ideal dogmatic concept of the church and the more down-to-earth historical unfolding of this reality. Already the canonical writings later to be regarded as the New Testament betray the fact that the prayer of Jesus regarding his followers “that they may become completely one” (John 17:23)1 had not been realised in the first generations of Christians, and the frequent apostolic exhortations to unity (e.g., 1 Cor 1:10; Eph 4:1–3; Phil 1:27; 1Pet 3:8) further testify to the diversity of opinion among the earliest believers. In scholarly circles, it has become common in the last century to portray early Christianity as an intrinsically multiform and pluralistic movement which professed various understandings of the divine and the ways these beliefs informed the individual believer and the community in their formulation of the limits of Christian living. Whether we talk about ‘orthodoxy and heresy’ (Bauer 1934), ‘trajectories’ (Koester and Robinson 1971; Koester 1965) or ‘interactive diversity’ (Hurtado 2013) in the first centuries of Christianity, one thing becomes clear: complexity, differentiation and diversity await those who peek through literary or material evidence of the era. This conviction touches upon the heart of Christian ecclesiology as well. As Haight has rightly pointed out, the diversity of Christian self-perception results in “… different ecclesiologies based on different shared suppositions and premises that are directed by the different situations of the church” (Haight 2004, p. 44; cf. Käsemann 1965). It is inevitable, therefore, to examine and reveal the various factors that contributed to the formulation of the ecclesiological self-understanding of any Christian group and provide an account of how such self-perception interacted—whether in more harmonious or, at other times, in more conflicting ways—with other ecclesiological convictions.

In this paper, I intend to pull only one thread out of the many Christian ecclesiologies of the first three centuries and present the ways in which an Asian prophetic movement, generally referred to in scholarly literature as ‘Montanism,’ envisioned the idea and the realisation of the church within its own ranks. I will argue that the founder(s) of the movement employed the name ‘Jerusalem’ for the headquarters of their gatherings in rural Phrygia primarily for ecclesiological reasons, and they used the concept as a hallmark to underline the pneumatic-prophetic and moral character of the movement. Montanist ecclesiology, the paper argues, can be seen as a form of realised eschatology based on ethical practice rather than apocalyptic expectation. Such conviction drew heavily on the thought-world of the Johannine writings, most notably the fourth gospel and the Apocalypse of John and inevitably found itself at odds with other ecclesiological self-understandings circulating in the era.

In order to expound on these points, I first present a brief sketch of the movement and how the name Jerusalem was used in the primary sources, while also presenting the secondary scholarly discourse on the problem. Second, I will explain how the term πνευματικός was employed to designate the members who valued spiritual and prophetic experience. Lastly, the paper displays the basic moral and ascetic teachings of the movement, which made up the requirements for ‘citizenship’ in the ‘Montanist Jerusalem.’ Throughout the discussion, it is worth keeping in mind that ancient sources dealing with Montanism are almost entirely polemical in nature; thus, the original and authentic convictions of Montanist adherents must be reconstructed through the critical investigation of these sources. We do not possess any Montanist treatise on the church, yet by piecing together the scattered sayings of the founding prophets and the more comprehensive works of one of the sympathisers to the movement, those of the Carthaginian theologian Tertullian, a more or less clear picture emerges regarding the elements of Montanist ecclesiology.

2. New Prophecy and (New) Jerusalem

The prophetic movement, which referred to itself simply as ‘Prophecy’ or ‘New Prophecy’, began in the second half of the 160s CE in Phrygia, western Asia Minor. One of the earliest accounts—written approximately thirty years after the actual events by an anonymous presbyter (Tabbernee 2007, pp. 3–7)—connects the beginning of the movement with the appearance of Montanus: “a recent convert to the faith named Montanus, in his soul’s immense ambitious desire, gave the adversary access to himself and was carried away as by the Spirit, and suddenly experiencing some kind of possession and spurious ecstasy, he was inspired and began to speak and say strange things” (Anonymous, ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.16.7).2 The ecstatic prophetic utterances caused considerable unrest among the believers in Asia, and soon two other prophetesses, Maximilla and Priscilla, also joined Montanus in his ministry (Anonymous, ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.16.9). According to the unknown presbyter, those in the ecclesiastical hierarchy took quick measures to contain the spread of the prophetic ‘frenzy’: bishops came to exorcise the prophetesses (ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.16.16–17), and finally local ecclesiastical gatherings were held where “they examined the recent sayings carefully, declared them profane, and rejected the heresy” (Anonymous, ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.16.10).

Despite the quick resolution of the matter in Asia, by the end of the 170s, through the Asian, more notably Phrygian emigrants (Handl 2020, pp. 123–25; Tabbernee 2007, p. 38), the Prophecy reached Rome and Gaul. For a brief period of time, it even enjoyed the support of the Roman leader of the house churches, Eletheurius, until another Asian emigrant, a certain Praxeas, allegedly convinced Eleutherius’s successor, Victor, to withdraw from this previously supportive or at least more tolerant position (Tertullian, Prax. 1.5; see Lampe 2003, pp. 394–95; Tabbernee 2007, pp. 38–40). By the turn of the third century, the Prophecy had also taken root in North Africa and influenced, in many ways, the already rigorous mind of Tertullian. Although the extent to which Tertullian’s own views wholly reflect those of the original Phrygian-type Prophecy is dubious (Wilhite 2024), it is indisputable that the Carthaginian theologian knew and used the prophetic sayings of Montanus, Maximilla and Priscilla in his arguments related to the matters of Christian ethics (Barnes 1971; Trevett 1996, pp. 66–73; Tabbernee 2007, pp. 129–32). Therefore, Tertullian’s works must be taken into account in the reconstruction of the teachings and practice of early Montanism, even if at times, as we will see, his views are not totally in line with those of the Asian prophets.

Montanism remained a lively phenomenon in the pre-Constantinian era, both in the East and the West. Anti-Montanist synods (most notably in Iconium in ca. 230–235 CE) and anti-Montanist literary campaign flourished to battle the spread of the prophetic movement, yet it is beyond doubt that apart from occasional success on the side of the ‘orthodox’ clergy to win over Montanist adherents to the ‘catholic’ fold, Montanism continued to attract followers especially in the birthplace of the movement, in rural Phrygia. In the post-Constantinian era, due to the now state-sponsored anti-heretic legislations, Montanist believers were persecuted, yet, considerable literary and epigraphic evidence testifies that they were active in the West until the beginning of the fifth century, and in the central locations of the movement in Phrygia until the middle of the sixth century (Mitchell 2023, pp. 530–44; Tabbernee 1997, pp. 471–76; Trevett 1996, pp. 198–232).

Montanism had been suspect in the eyes of the early anti-Montanist writers for a number of reasons. As we have seen in the account of the anonymous presbyter, the ecstatic manner of Montanist prophecy convinced their opponents that they were under the influence of demons. The lives and behaviour of the prophets were also tested, just as Jesus ordered (see Matt 7:15–20), and they were found lacking in the eyes of their opponents: financial misconduct, dyed hair, gluttony and other ad hominem claims were enumerated against them. Among these allegations, Apollonius, writing probably in the early third century (Tabbernee 2007, pp. 45–49), accused Montanus of renaming two small Phrygian towns, Pepuza and Tymion, Jerusalem and “wanted people to gather there from everywhere” (ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.18.2). Apollonius’ accusation sparked widespread speculation in modern scholarship. From the 19th century, a good number of scholars believed that the main motivation for Montanus in renaming Pepuza and Tymion Jerusalem must be found in his millennialist conviction. Accordingly, Montanus and his adherents must have anticipated the inauguration of Christ’s millennial reign and the descent of the heavenly Jerusalem upon the earth, as it was presented in Revelation 20–21 (Schwegler 1841, pp. 71–77; Baur 1860, pp. 237–38; Soyres 1878, pp. 77–78; Bonwetsch 1881, pp. 79–81; Schepelern 1929, pp. 160–61; Frend 1988, p. 29; Cohn 1970, pp. 25–26; Williams 1989; Gager 1975, pp. 73–74).

Two other pieces of evidence also seem to support this interpretation. First, it is well-known that Tertullian held millennialist views (cf. Spect. 30.1–2; Scorp. 12.8–9; Tabbernee 2013, pp. 266–67); moreover, he was so sure about the imminent advent of the heavenly city that he took at face value a report from a contemporary military campaign in Judea according to which eyewitnesses had already seen the city appearing above the clouds (Marc. 3.24). Second, a logion attributed to one of the Montanist prophetesses, and cited by the fourth-century heresiologist, Epiphanius, also reinforced the allegedly millennialist character of the movement. It reads: “For these Quintillians, or Priscillians say that in Pepuza either Quintilla or Priscilla, I cannot say precisely, but one of them, as I said before, had been asleep in Pepuza and the Christ came to her and slept with her in the following manner, as that deluded woman described it. ‘Having assumed the form of a woman,’ she says, ‘Christ came to me in a bright robe and put wisdom in me, and revealed to me that this place is holy, and that it is here that Jerusalem will descend from heaven’” (Pan. 49.1). Although Epiphanius could not decide on the exact origin of the oracle, many scholars attributed it to Priscilla (Carrington 1957, p. 143; Jensen 2003, pp. 322–23; Hirschmann 2005, pp. 40, 101; Grant 2004, p. 133), thus the notion was once again reinforced that from the very beginning, the movement expected the heavenly city to descend upon Pepuza, and those Montanists who heeded the call of Montanus and the prophetesses would have awaited their millennial reward in the Phrygian towns.

A closer look at these points, however, betrays the fact that the millennialist character of the movement is not as self-evident as it has been previously held. In the earliest reports, we find no explanation for Montanus’ motivation in renaming the Phrygian towns as Jerusalem. Similarly, those authentic prophetic logia that are concerned with eschatology provide no evidence of a millennialist orientation. The Anonymous informs us that Maximilla “foretold that there would be wars and anarchy” (ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.16.18.), and understood her own ministry in the context of the end times: “After me there will no longer be a prophet, but the end (συντέλεια)” (ap. Epiphanius, Pan. 48.2.4; See Mader 2012, pp. 162–69; Trevett 1997). If we give credit to later sources according to which the first prophets threatened people with apocalyptic judgments (e.g., Michael the Syrian, Chron. 9.3), the idea that Montanus and his companions fantasised about a peaceful rule lasting for a thousand years is less than credible (Hill 1993, 2001, p. 147; Trevett 1997, pp. 221–22; Trevett 1996, p. 101).

The above-cited passage of Tertullian, likewise, presents a novel idea. As Hill has pointed out, those second-century sources which do reflect millennialist views usually speak about Jerusalem after the thousand-year rule of the saints, and—similarly to other contemporary Jewish sources—they write about the rebuilding, not the descending of Jerusalem (Justin Dial. 80.1; Irenaeus Haer. 5.35.2; Hill 2001, p. 151). In contrast to this, the Carthaginian theologian in a rather innovative way, presents the heavenly city as a starting point for the millennial era: “After its thousand years (post cuius mille annos), … we shall be transferred to the heavenly kingdom” (Marc. 3.24.6). Tertullian sees in the news from the military campaign in Judea the fulfilment of the “word … of the new prophecy” (novae prophetiae sermo) which before the visible “manifestation of its presence” predicted the “image of the city” in the skies (Marc. 3.24.5). Despite his reference to the word of the New Prophecy, Tertullian’s nouvelle idée of the millennial Jerusalem, does not seem to have its basis in the original prophetic conviction. It is more than clear that he knew nothing about the descent or appearance of Jerusalem in Phrygia—a point, which is crucial in the arguments of those who uphold the millennialist character of Montanism. Furthermore, his words testify that the “word of the New Prophecy”, which he chooses not to cite here, speaks only of the precursory signs that precede the actual manifestation of the city. It is Tertullian who connects the dots by using the words of the New Prophecy to reinforce his own millennialist conviction. If any affiliation between Montanism and millennialism is to be found in the earliest times, Tertullian most likely is to blame (Hill 1993; Trevett 1996, p. 97; Laato 2019).

It is also worth taking a closer look at the logion of one of the prophetesses that Epiphanius quoted. The name of Quintilla does not appear in the earliest sources. Neither the Anonymous presbyter nor Apollonius mentions any prophetess by that name, although they are clearly aware of the second- and third-generation leaders of the movement. Furthermore, had the vision been publicly propagated by Priscilla at the outset of the movement, its controversial elements—particularly the female representation of Jesus—would not have escaped the attention of the male ecclesiastical authorities. Eusebius, likewise, would not have resisted the temptation to point out the absurdity of any millennialist speculation—like he did with Papias, for example (Hist. eccl. 3.39.13)—if such speculation had been widespread in the earliest stages. Considering that even Epiphanius was hesitant about the actual speaker of the logion, it is safer to say that the saying should be attributed to the otherwise unknown Quintilla—probably from the late third or early fourth century –, and that her Jerusalem-vision, thus, originates from a more advanced stage of Montanism (Tabbernee 2007, pp. 117–18). While it may seem plausible that Quintilla’s vision sought to soothe the frustration that resulted from the lingering ‘end’ that had been proclaimed by Maximilla (Trevett 1996, p. 101), there are good reasons to doubt that the words of the female Christ about Jerusalem descending in Pepuza were meant to kindle any kind of millennialist hope. As Porier has emphasised, the connection between wisdom and prophecy is a recurring motif in the deuterocanonical literature. In Sir 24:11, for example, the personified wisdom proclaims: “Thus in the beloved city he gave me a resting place, and in Jerusalem was my domain.” It is probable, then, that for Quintilla, Pepuza becomes a ‘holy place’ not because in the (near?) future Jerusalem is expected to descend there from heaven, but it is already to be called Jerusalem, because the wisdom proclaimed by the prophetess had already settled there (Poirier 1999; Denzey 2001, pp. 438–41; Trevett 1996, p. 100).

I am convinced that the renaming of Pepuza and Tymion as Jerusalem finds its true significance in a much broader biblical horizon. We know that the first prophets were not only familiar with the Jewish and Christian writings of their time, but through the method of the so-called ‘charismatic exegesis’, they were engaged in the creative readaptation of ancient promises to contemporary Christians (Groh 1985; S. E. McGinn 1997; Trevett 1996, pp. 80–86; Mader 2012). The renaming of Pepuza and Tymion as Jerusalem is likely to be seen as the result of a ‘silent’ charismatic exegesis on the part of the prophets. Both in the Old and New Testaments, Jerusalem is always more than a geographical location: it is the idealised place where the faithful can experience the direct presence of the divine, and the locus for the gathering of the nations who are expected to pay their visit and honour to God in the eschatological times (von Rad 1987, pp. 303–8).

John, the writer of the Apocalypse used the symbol of Jerusalem in a similar fashion to provide hope to the troubled churches in Asia. In the Apocalypse, the promised city, which is descending from heaven, is the exact antithesis of all that the author portrays through the image of the hedonistic, power-hungry, and persecuting Babylon (Bauckham 2003, pp. 131–32). Throughout the book, John consistently states that ‘the bride of the Lamb’, ‘the holy city’ (Rev 21:2, 9) opens its gates only to those who ‘conquer’ (21:7). This conquer, however, is not some abstract, metaphysical victory but refers to the perseverance and steadfastness of those Christians who had walked the narrow paths in the terrains of morality. Those who conquered endured the perils of persecution (2:10–11). They refused to give heed to those false teachers who intended to weaken the boundaries of Christian morality and encouraged believers to compromise with the world (2:14–17, 20, 26). Those who conquered did not soil their clothes (3:4), did not deny Christ’s name (3:8, 12), and did not focus on material and financial richness (3:17, 21). In contrast, those who proved to be cowards in times of persecution, or even denied their faith, fell into the sin of idolatry, committed adultery cannot claim the city for themselves (21:8). Therefore, the promise of God’s presence is only for those who promptly comply with all the expectations of the nonconformist Christian lifestyle that John had propagated in the Asian churches. It is clear, then, that the term ‘Jerusalem’ meant less a topographic reality for the Asian Christians but more a kind of community-identity. In the Apocalypse of John, Jerusalem is not so much a geographic place but the characteristic designation of God’s and Christ’s conquering people who walk in holiness (Bauckham 2003, pp. 136–40; Holtz 1962, pp. 191–95; McKelvey 1969, pp. 167–76; Gundry 1987; Deutsch 1987, p. 109; Aune 1997, pp. 1121–22). In the beginning of the book, it is the Philadelphian church that receives this new identity in the form of a promise: “If you conquer, I will make you a pillar in the temple of my God; you will never go out of it. I will write on you the name of my God and the name of the city of my God, the new Jerusalem that comes down from my God out of heaven, and my own new name” (3:12). The archaeological excavations of Tabbernee and Lampe (2008) have confirmed that Pepuza and Tymion laid only some eighty kilometres to the ancient city of Philadelphia, placing the two small towns well within the sphere of the Philadelphian genius loci. It would, therefore, be hardly surprising if Montanus, inspired by the promise once addressed by the seer John to the Philadelphians, should have envisioned his Jerusalem community in Pepuza and Tymion. After all, the first prophets regarded themselves as successors of the Philadelphian prophetess Ammia (Anonymous, ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.17.2–3), so it is only natural that they were familiar with the kind of Christianity that thrived in the city.

Among second-century Christian writers who were waiting for the heavenly Jerusalem, many indulged in envisioning the future material wealth and pleasures the city would offer to the saints. According to Origen, some even dreamed about the bodily pleasures and abundant feasts (Princ. 2.11.2–3; cf. Gaius [ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.28.2]; and the Dionysian fragments in Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.28.3–5; B. McGinn 2007; Hill and Koester 2020; Moss and Feldman 2020, pp. 364–65). In contrast to such literalistic interpretation and excessive material abundance, Montanus surely did not expect people to come to Pepuza and Tymion for festive dinners. It is hardly conceivable that the strict disciplinary measures proclaimed by the first prophets would have proved an enjoyable feast for those gathered there. Montanus, Maximilla and Priscilla, much like many of their contemporaries, probably awaited the end of this age with great intensity, yet, it appears, instead of being occupied with the calculation of the exact arrival of the ‘Bride’ and the ‘Holy City’, the preparation for its worthy reception was of greater concern for them. Jerusalem was a well-established concept to use it as a self-understanding: Pepuza and Tymion could become already a place for them where the Spirit revealed wisdom and prophecy for those willing to listen (cf. Joel 3:1–5), where the presence of God was felt and experienced, and which could be called home only by the elect, the faithful, the just and those who conquered according to the logic and standards of the Apocalypse (Tabbernee 1989; Powell 1975, pp. 45–46; Moltmann et al. 1985, pp. 377–78; Trevett 1996, pp. 99–100, 103–105). This consistent communal self-perception made it possible for the followers of the New Prophecy to enjoy already, here and now, all the benefits of the glory and fulfilment of dwelling with God. This original conviction was once again reinforced by Quintilla’s vision and sustained the enthusiasm of those Montanist believers who visited the sites of Pepuza in the centuries that followed. In their celebration of mysteries and other liturgical practices—deemed aberrant by outsiders (e.g., Cyril of Jerusalem, Catech. 16.8; Jerome, Ep. 41.4; Epiphanius, Pan. 48.14.1–2)—they could repeatedly experience that the riches of the heavenly Jerusalem were already accessible on earth (Betz 2025, pp. 110–39).

3. The Pneumatic Community

The most important hallmark of Montanism consisted of its high emphasis on prophecy. The prophets regarded the active presence of the Spirit in the church as an empirical reality to which their prophetic sayings were just the proof. Despite its geographical diversification across the empire and its broad temporal span, such high regard for prophecy persisted among the adherents of the movement from the appearance of Montanus in Phrygia until the destruction of Pepuza in the middle of the sixth century. Montanus, Maximilla and Priscilla saw themselves as mouthpieces of the divine and successors of New Testament and other early Christian prophets active in second-century Asia Minor (see Anonymous, ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.17.3–4). Their ecstatic mode of prophecy, in the face of serious opposition, convinced their audience that the message uttered by the prophets was not of ‘flesh and blood’ but of divine origin. While it is impossible to present a detailed analysis here of the Montanist understanding of prophecy, it is important to highlight how their prophetic self-understanding correlated with their ecclesiological convictions and how it found itself at odds with other ecclesiological trajectories at that time.

Tracing the roots and the context of the Montanists’ prophetic self-understanding, scholars drew attention to the Asian context and the so-called ‘Johannine Christianity’ prominent in the region, which seemed to have welcomed enthusiastic and visionary experiences within its own ranks (Aland 1955; Stewart-Sykes 1999; Seim 2010). Building on the works of Eugene M. Boring on the fourth gospel (Boring 1978; 1991, pp. 77–82), Trevett has argued that if we are to find the direct New Testament source of inspiration of Montanist prophecy, we have to turn to the figure of the Johannine Paraclete (Trevett 1996, pp. 92–95). A close study of the so-called ‘Paraclete passages’ (John 14:16–17, 25–26; 15:26–27; 16:7–11, 13–15) revealed for Boring that the mysterious figure promised by Jesus to his disciples was not seen as an abstract and transcendent power by ‘Johannine’ Christians but was experienced as “a function within the community performed by an identifiable group endowed with the Spirit in a particular manner and exercising its gifts on behalf of and for the benefit of the community as a whole, but not a gift possessed indiscriminately by all its members” (Boring 1978, p. 114). In short, the Paraclete was another name for Christian prophets within the congregations whose charismatic ministry and prophetic proclamation guaranteed that the Risen Christ continued to be present to and experienced by believers. Although the earliest mentions of a link between the Montanist prophets and the Paraclete came from Rome in the early third century (see ‘Hippolytus,’ Haer. 8.19; Pseudo-Tertullian, Haer. 7; Heine 1987), Trevett insisted that such connection must have been self-evident within the Asian context: “Montanus, Priscilla and Maximilla, then, were Prophets for the community and functioned as Paraclete figures” (Trevett 1996, p. 93). Tertullian’s writings certainly bear similarity with such understanding. On a number of occasions, he connects the proclamations of the Paraclete with the activity of the Montanist prophets (e.g., An. 55.5; 58.8; Virg. 1.6; Mon. 1.2; 2.1.3; Fug. 14.2f; see Barnes 1971, pp. 43–48). For the North African, the Montanist prophets demonstrated that the Paraclete was a vibrant reality within the church. Its guidance in matters of doctrine, but more particularly in morality, was evidence that the fulfilment of Jesus’ promise that the Paraclete would lead the believers to ‘all the truth’ has been fulfilled (John 16:13; cf. Tabbernee 2007, p. 146).

Montanists envisioned a church where the activity of the Spirit was not restricted to particular historical periods. They believed that the eschatological promise of Joel about the intensified prophetic activity and the co-dwelling of God with their people in Jerusalem(!) (2:28–32; cf. Acts 2:16ff) was continually unfolding within their own circles (cf. Pass. Perp. 1.1–4; Butler 2006, p. 59). Prophetic voices for them were not regarded as remnants of a bygone era but as living and immediate realities resulting from the intensified activity of the Paraclete in their time. Epiphanius’ early third-century source (ap. Pan. 48.1.4.–48.13.8; Nasrallah 2003, p. 46; Tabbernee 2007, pp. 50–53) saw clearly that the real point of difference between the Montanists and the wider church lay in the legitimacy and acceptance of this charismatic focus (ap. Pan. 48.1.4–5). In a similar vein, Tertullian discovered the root of the problem in the fact that the ‘spirituals’ (spiritales) accepted and recognised the ‘spiritual gifts’ (spiritalium charismatum) and the demanding imperatives of the Paraclete in contrast to the ‘psychics’ (psychici) who defied these words (Mon. 1.2–3; Prax. 1.4–5). The use of the name ‘spiritual’ (πνευματικός) was certainly a clear reference to the Pauline conviction. The apostle used the term to describe those believers who, having received the Spirit (1 Cor 2:12), had attained a state of perfection (1 Cor 2:6) and were thereby able to gain insight into divine mysteries otherwise inaccessible to ‘outsiders’ (Schweizer 1988a). In contrast to these perfected believers, the ψυχικός rejected the spiritual realities as folly (1 Cor 2:14) and excluded themselves from the ‘supernatural’ experiences in which the spirituals had a share (Schweizer 1988b). In the second century, the Pauline πνευματικός–ψυχικός distinction attained great success within certain ‘Gnostic’ groups. According to Irenaeus, Valentinians systematised this Pauline dichotomy into a tripartite anthropology (spiritalis/πνευματικóς—choicus/χοϊκóς—psychicus/ψυχικóς), frequently designating the members of the ‘orthodox’ church as psychici (Haer. 1.7.5; see Pagels 1975, pp. 57–59; Markschies 2003, p. 93). The Montanists’ self-branding as ‘spirituals’ was probably not directly connected with this categorisation, though; it is more plausible that they adapted the apostle’s terminology to articulate their own ecclesiological conviction. Nonetheless, as Labriolle has noted, in the anti-Gnostic polemical climate of the second century, such a label inevitably carried elitist overtones and created an association between the two groups in the eyes of the opponents (Labriolle 1913, p. 143). Suspicion of elitism was not ungrounded. Tertullian rigorously maintained that “the Church itself is properly and principally the Spirit himself” (Pud. 21.16) and this axiom led him to adopt the idea that the authenticity of the church was not found merely in the doctrinal orthodoxy safeguarded by the apostolic succession of the episcopal hierarchy, but also in the tangible activity of the Spirit-Paraclete (Rankin 1995, 77–78; Evans 2010, pp. 29–30). “The Church of the Spirit” (ecclesia spiritus) must always outweigh “the church which consists of a number of bishops” (ecclesia numerus episcoporum; Pud. 21.16). For him, therefore, the ‘spiritual’ nature of the church consisted in hearing and listening to the words of the Paraclete. Those who did could rightly claim the title ‘spiritalis.’

Over the course of the centuries, this mentality remained unchanged within Montanist circles. While there is no evidence that, apart from Tertullian, the adherents of the movement elsewhere would have denounced as psychici their fellow Christians who rejected Montanus’ teachings, the spiritales/πνευματικός self-designation recurs repeatedly in literary and epigraphic sources. From the second half of the third century onward, numerous Phrygian and Roman funerary inscriptions attest that the deceased—and, by extension, their communities—explicitly employed this epithet to indicate that they had fully conformed to the demands of the ‘spiritual lifestyle’ imparted by the Paraclete, thus distinguishing themselves from other Christians (Strobel 1980, pp. 94–95; Tabbernee 1997, p. 24). In the course of the institutionalisation of the movement, we also find a particular group of Montanist leaders who bore the name κοινωνός. Jerome reports that these figures occupied the second rank in the Montanist ecclesiastical hierarchy, positioned between the patriarch of Pepuza and the bishops (Ep. 41.3). This enigmatic designation—unlike the other Montanist clerical ranks which followed the clerical titles of the ‘orthodox’ church—most likely expressed the close association or communion of the title’s bearer with the Spirit (cf. 2 Cor 13:13; Phil 2:1). Consequently, the κοινωνοί presumably embodied in an institutionalised form the original pneumatic emphasis of the movement: “Just as the apostles had been the ‘companions of Christ’ and living witnesses to his teachings, koinōnoi could have been considered ‘companions of the Spirit’ in that they were companions of the new prophets through whom the Holy Spirit’s ultimate teachings were revealed” (Tabbernee 1993, p. 263; cf. Vokes 1993).

With its emphasis on the pneumatic character of the church, Montanists did not advocate anything intrinsically heretical. Probably they would have assented readily to Irenaeus’ proclamation that “Where the church is, there is the Spirit of God, and where the Spirit of God is, there is the church and all grace; and the Spirit is truth” (Haer. 3.24.1, transl. Grant 1997, p. 107). The pneumatic ecclesiology of Montanism did not contest this foundational and widely shared principle but it did cast doubt on the growing tendency in the church whereby the presence of the Spirit became more and more equated with the structures of institutional office. In order to understand why early ecclesiastical leaders reacted so vehemently to the appearance of Montanus, Maximilla and Priscilla, it must be recognised that from the early decades of the second century, a new conception of legitimate Christian prophecy was emerging which proved to be quite different from that of the Montanists (Ash 1976, p. 234).

Ignatius of Antioch was one of the earliest exponents of this novel understanding. Confronted by the threats of theological ‘errors’, Ignatius intended to safeguard the unity of the church by employing closer and more centralised episcopal leadership on the local congregations. On his journey toward the capital, while enjoying the hospitality of the Asian churches, he sought to impart his nouvelle idée to the assembled congregations. The campaign, however, did not meet with universal approval; as far as we can reconstruct from the sources, several communities received Ignatius’ propagation of the monarchical episcopate with only lukewarm enthusiasm, or outright disapproval. The most conspicuous example of such resistance was most evident in Philadelphia, in the community to which John the seer had previously entrusted the promise of the New Jerusalem (Rev 3:12). In his letter to the Philadelphians, the Antiochene bishop-designate recalled somewhat with a bitter sentiment his recent experience in the congregation, where he “called out… speaking with a loud voice, God’s voice” and declared “Pay attention to the bishop” and “Do nothing without the bishop” (Phld. 7.1–2, transl. Holmes 2007, pp. 241–43). The exhortation, which Ignatius seemingly regarded as a direct revelation of the Spirit (“τὸ δὲ πνεῦμα ἐκήρυσσεν,” 7.2), elicited suspicion instead of obedience in the audience, especially among those who were not convinced that such an imperative could hold up against the scrutiny of ancient scriptures which were familiar to them (8.2).

Following Trevett (1983, 1989, 1992, pp. 93–95, 198–99; cf. Brent 2007, p. 35ff.), I take this episode as evidence that Ignatius’ promotion of the centralised ecclesiastical leadership failed in Philadelphia precisely because it was confronted with the charismatic ecclesiology prevalent in western Asia Minor. Those accustomed “to listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches” (cf. Rev 2:7, 11, 17, 29; 3:6, 13, 22) were unlikely to accept any programme that aimed to displace the free movement of the Spirit with a less charismatic form of leadership. Ignatius must have been aware of such tension and accordingly presented himself as a bearer of charismatic gifts, endowed with supernatural knowledge inaccessible to the ‘immature’ faithful (e.g., Trall. 5.1–2). From the appearance of Ignatius of Antioch onward, there was a tendency to regard prophecy as an episcopal privilege, and at the same time, dismiss other non-episcopal charismatic manifestations as disruptive. The legitimate bearers of charisma came to be identified with the leaders of the congregations (cf. 1 Tim 4:12; 2 Tim 1:6), and the pantheon of second-century illustrious men(!) were filled not with eccentric and ecstatic visionaries but with figures such as Polycarp who could unite in one role and person the sophisticated apostolic teaching with prophetic fever (cf. Mart. Pol. 16.2). Perhaps it is not too much an exaggeration to suggest that the Montanists clung to a pre-Ignatian ecclesiology where prophets were valued and their messages were welcomed (cf. Did. 11.1–13.7; Trevett 1989, p. 321; Trevett 1992, pp. 198–99; Knox 1950, p. 40; Koester 1965, p. 317; Frend 1985, p. 69). Yet this type of ecclesiology was already coming to an end. Ecstatic prophecy had become an anachronism, and the nonconformist admonitions attributed to the Paraclete undermined the authority of the episcopal leadership in their striving for stability. The days of the prophets—at least those of the Montanist-type—were numbered. Thereafter, the prophetic charisma—now in a more ‘routinised’ or domesticated form—transformed into either an exegetical tool in the hands of learned intellectuals and interpreters or a quiet companion of prominent leaders, stripped of its disruptive and unsettling force.

Despite the high emphasis on pneumatic ecclesiology, Montanism cannot be labelled anti-institutional. Montanus, Maximilla and Priscilla did not launch any direct attack on episcopal authority to dissolve the established churches into some kind of ‘charismatic chaos.’ On the contrary, the evidence suggests that they were already laying down the organisational foundations of the movement (Vokes 1993). Tertullian, in a similar vein, conceded that among the psychici there were certain bishops who—even by ‘Montanist’ measures—deserved to be labelled ‘spiritual’ (Jejun. 16.3). What the Montanists resisted was the claim that office per se—notwithstanding its supported charismatic self-legitimation—held absolute and exclusive authority in every ecclesiastical affair. The church was “non numerus episcoporum, sed spiritus” (Tertullian, Pud. 21.16), and whenever such conviction resulted in conflict against the ecclesiastical hierarchy, the Montanists chose to obey the voice of the Spirit rather than those of human authority (cf. Acts 5:29).

4. The Holy City and Its Inhabitants

If in the preaching of the first prophets Jerusalem was not merely an eschatological ideal yet to be achieved but had already begun in Pepuza and Tymion, it was inevitable then that the community sought to live out in practice the holiness which, according to the Apocalypse of John, constituted the most binding characteristic of the city (Rev 21:2). John the Seer made no secret that Jerusalem has narrow gates, and “nothing unclean will enter” through them, “nor anyone who practices abomination or falsehood” (Rev 21:7–8, 27). The Paraclete, with its moral imperatives touching upon the limits of orthopraxis, served as a ‘gatekeeper’ in guarding the ethically binding sanctity of the city. The high emphasis on controversial issues of Christian morality came to define the distinctive profile of the movement.

Both Apollonius and Epiphanius’ source accused Montanus of legislating new fasts (ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.18.2; ap. Epiphanius, Pan. 48.8.8), and the author of the Refutatio in Rome knew of Montanist dry fasts (xerophagy) instituted by the prophetesses (Haer. 8.19). In later centuries, the more frequent and stricter fasting practices of the movement remained a fixed accusation, to the extent that Jerome reported of three forty-day-long fasts among Montanist believers (Ep. 41.3). Tertullian’s writings, especially the De jejunio, written precisely to defend the Montanist fasting practices, enumerated various benefits of fasting for believers; among them, the chief was the preparation for receiving divine revelations (Jejun. 12.1)—a point frequently attested in non-Christian literature as well (Arbesmann 1949, pp. 9–32; Fox 1986, p. 396; Trevett 1996, pp. 105–9; Tabbernee 2007, pp. 147–50).

In matters of marriage and remarriage, too, Montanists took a harder stance than many of their contemporaries. Apollonius reported that Montanus “taught the dissolution of marriages” and that Maximilla and Priscilla “left their husbands the moment they were filled with the spirit” (ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.18.2, 4). The early third-century writer quoted by Epiphanius is more detailed in their arguments against the movement, claiming that Montanists “cast out the one who has been joined in a second marriage” while the ‘orthodox’ church, taking into account the weakness of the flesh, allows believers to remarry (ap. Pan. 48.9.1–10). In contrast to certain ‘Gnostic’ and Encratite groups in the second century, there is no evidence that Montanists ever forbade marriage, but as it is again attested by Tertullian (Mon. 2.1; Exh. cast. 4.4), they—following the apostle (1 Cor 7:1)—placed a higher value on virginity than on matrimony. Remarriage after the death of a spouse, though, was not an option for the ‘spirituals’ who followed the discipline instituted by the Paraclete (Mon. 1.3; 2.1; Exh. cast. 9.1). The Carthaginian theologian was at pains to portray Montanist marital ethos as a kind of via media between two extremes: “The heretics”, he argues, “desist from marriages; the psychics heap them up. The former do not marry even once; the later do not stop with one marriage” (Mon. 1.1). Later opponents did not cease to point out that the forbiddance of second marriage in Montanist circles is a kind of rigidity which equals to actual denial of marriage (e.g., Theodoret, Haer. 3.1; cf. Jerome, Ep. 41.3; Augustine, Haer. 26; Praedestinatus, Haer. 1.26; cf. Tabbernee 2007, pp. 151–53; Trevett 1996, pp. 109–14; Labriolle 1913, pp. 374–97; Bray 1979, pp. 109–12; Osborn 2001, pp. 210–11; Barnes 1971, pp. 136–40; Köhne 1931; Soyres 1878, p. 86).

Previous scholarship vehemently argued that Montanist believers were guilty of ‘voluntary martyrdom’, that is, they readily and fanatically sought any opportunity to die in order to attain the glory promised to martyrs (Schwegler 1841, pp. 65–67, 125–26; Buschmann 1998, pp. 51–52, 119–29; Klawiter 1975, pp. 101–8; Klawiter 1980; Calder 1923, pp. 332–33). Such attestation does not hold up if we look at the early sources. The Anonymous knew of Montanist martyrs in Asia (ap. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.16.20–22), yet there is no mention of any zealous self-surrender to the authorities. A Montanist logion, probably uttered by a local prophetess (Tabbernee 2020, pp. 328–29) and cited verbatim by Tertullian, does betray the fact that in times of persecution, Montanists chose to die rather than flee from the persecuting authorities. “Wish not to die in your beds, nor in miscarriages and mild fevers, but in martyrdoms, that he who has suffered from you may be glorified” (ap. Tertullian, Fug. 9.4). Yet as Tabbernee has argued convincingly, this pronouncement can hardly be seen as a call to voluntary martyrdom (Tabbernee 1985, 2007, pp. 201–42). Tertullian’s work De fuga, written to address the ethical dilemmas in times of persecution, further attests that the Paraclete disapproved of any form of flight or bribery during persecution (11.3); however, such disapproval did not result in any form of positive exhortation to seek martyrdom. Similarly to their fellow ‘catholic’ believers, ‘Montanists’ did not react to state opposition by volunteering for martyrdom but neither did they run away from persecution”(Tabbernee 2007, p. 259).

Perhaps the most controversial Montanist ethical divergence touched upon the issue of forgiveness of post-baptismal sins and penitential discipline. Strikingly, there is no mention of any early Asian debate on the matter. Still, in Carthage, there was a difference in opinion between Tertullian and the psychici on whether believers could be readmitted to the church after having committed sins, and who held the authority to proclaim forgiveness for penitents. Reversing his previously more permissive stance formulated in his De paenitentia (ca. 203), the mature Tertullian now denied any possibility of a second forgiveness. In De pudicitia (ca. 210/211), Tertullian combatted a recent episcopal decree that had remitted the sins of adultery for penitents. In his understanding, such loose measures inevitably weakened the holiness of the church. Against this type of moral laxity the Paraclete has clear guidance in the proclamation of one of the local prophets: “The Church can pardon sin, but I will not do it, lest they also commit other offences” (ap. Tertullian, Pud. 21.7). Whereas orthodox bishops permitted the reconciliation of Christian sinners on account of human weakness, the Montanists, invoking the authority of the Paraclete, insisted that those guilty of grave sins could never again be restored to the fellowship of the saints (Trevett 2004; Vokes 1976; DeVine 1995; Tabbernee 2001).

More frequent fasting, restrictions on remarriage, the prohibition of flight during persecution, rejection of readmittance to post-baptismal penitents—these were the primary ethical directives the Montanist prophets proclaimed to their contemporary fellow Christians. These paraenetic exhortations easily can be dismissed as manifestations of frustration, as Brown observes: “For all his drastic claims, the Paraclete of the Montanists emerged as a fussy and old-fashioned martinet, ministering to the anxieties of small, puritanical groups who felt that they lived on the edge of a very slippery slope” (Brown 1978, pp. 67–68). Such critical judgement does make sense from today’s perspective, but if we place these moral imperatives within the broader ecclesiological conviction of the Carthaginian and the Montanists, another picture begins to emerge. As Wilhite points out, for Tertullian, there is no ‘neutral’ ground in this world for Christians—outside the boundaries of the church, the believer is constantly in danger of being contaminated by sin (Wilhite 2017, p. 121). Such a dualistic outlook (‘world’ vs. ‘church’) created a basis for Tertullian to regard strict moral discipline not as an optional choice but as the essential, life-saving and exclusive way for Christians to live. For Tertullian, the church was not an abstract community, but a tangible reality experienced here and now within the framework of history (Rankin 1995, p. 111; Osborn 2001, p. 179). If the temptations of Satan and the manifestations of the corrupt powers are not abstractions but concrete threats, the holiness ordained and required by God cannot be idealised concepts either. Christ will present to himself a holy church “without a spot or wrinkle” (Pud. 18.11; cf. Eph 5:25–27). This ecclesia sine macula, however, is not the object of an eschatological promise waiting to be fulfilled some day in the future, but a state required and yet to be achieved within the framework of this world. By opening the possibility for readmission to adulterers or permitting digamy, some ecclesiastical leaders in fact defile the blamelessness of the church (Pud. 1.8; Mon. 11.2). In Tertullian’s mind, the later Augustinian distinction between the ideal (invisible) and the real (visible) church was unthinkable. As Dunn notes, Tertullian never read the parable of the wheat and the weeds (Mt 12:24–30) in an eschatological way; for him, wheat and weeds (the just believers and the sinners) must be separated already in this life, so that God’s threshing floor might be pure before the end (Dunn 2017). The holy and virgin church was not a future hope but a mandate to be realised in this world, a concrete reality attainable even before the eschaton. The Paraclete had come in these final days to reveal the way to perfection and to empower mature believers to overcome the weakness of the flesh (Mon. 14.7–9). Such material and empirical realisation of the sancta ecclesia fuelled his anger against moral laxity. The permissive edicts of the psychici threatened the integrity of the spotless church and blurred the boundary between church and world.

Early Christian writers in the second century conceived the church as “the empirical, visible society”, observes Kelly (Kelly 1978, p. 191). Although we can find some sporadic allusions to a spiritual or metaphysical church (cf. 2 Clem. 14:1–4; Hermas, Vis. 2.4.1; 3.5.1), such a spiritualising tendency came to be widespread later. Surely, pastoral concern contributed to the rise of such an ‘ideal’ or ‘high’ ecclesiology. As the gates of the community were being widened, and the self-definition of the ascetic community shifted toward a less literalistic understanding, theologians began gradually to speak of the true nature of the church in dualistic terms. In the capital, a new exegetical tradition was in formation to validate remarried clergy, saying “that it is necessary for ‘clean and unclean’ to be in the church” (ap. ‘Hippolytus’, Haer. 9.12.23, transl. Litwa 2016, p. 657). Yet not only Roman theologians were at pains to bridge the gap between the inherited vision of the New Testament on perfection and the experienced reality, unable to measure up to the high demands. Clement of Alexandria also sought to split the church in two, formulating the idea of a ‘heavenly’ church of which the earthly, visible institution was merely an ‘image’ (Strom. 4.8.66). In his footsteps, Origen also maintained that strictly speaking ‘the church’ is the community “which is without spot or wrinkle or anything of the kind, which is holy and blameless” (Or. 20.1 transl. Stewart-Sykes 2004, p. 156); such a designation, however, was fit to describe the heavenly church (ἡ οὐράνιος ἐκκλησία) since in its earthly realisation “it is not possible to cleanse it to such purity that neither an ungodly person nor any sinner seems to reside in it” (Hom. Jos. 21.1, transl. White 2002, p. 185; cf. Joshua 15:63; cf. McGuckin 2006; Ledegang 2001, p. 475ff.).

By the time the messages of Montanus, Maximilla and Priscilla spread throughout the empire, a new ecclesiological perception was on the rise, one that defined the church less as the ‘community of saints’ per se and more as a ‘training-ground for sinners’ (Kelly 1978, p. 201). Montanists in Phrygia or elsewhere regarded this changing paradigm with utter disapproval. Christians fleeing persecution, reluctant to fast or cling to the pleasures of the body and even obtaining ecclesiastical permission or toleration to do so, was a troubling and upsetting scene for them. Christianity, therefore, required urgent practical correction. Discipline was under fire, and only the new ethical imperatives of the Paraclete could save the virginity of the Bride (cf. Eph 5:27; Rev 21:2,9). Montanist prophets and their Tertullian-like followers vehemently opposed any ecclesiology that postponed moral perfection until the end. Christ’s command “Be perfect!” (Matt 5:48) was to be taken literally, they argued. Even in the fourth century, Montanists could still declare with confidence: “Behold, then, Montanus, the Paraclete, has come and has given us perfection!” (Dial. Mont. et Orth. 4.9 [cf. 1 Cor 13:10]; Tertullian, Virg. 1.6).

5. Conclusions

Throughout history, the term Jerusalem denoted more than just a geographical location. The ancient name of an ancient city outgrew its original meaning to signify something more spiritual or even metaphysical. After the destruction and renaming of the city following the Bar Kokhba revolt in the 130s CE, the idea of a New Jerusalem became a potent theme in early Christian writings, expressing a variety of convictions. One such conviction had to do with the ecclesiological self-perception of certain communities. This paper presented the ways in which Montanism utilised earlier descriptions of the heavenly city descending to earth, most notably those found in the Apocalypse of John. It has been pointed out that the founders of the movement regarded their communities in Pepuza and Tymion as the earthly realisation of the heavenly Jerusalem. Drawing on the Johannine concept of the Paraclete, they were convinced that through their prophetic ministry, the Spirit is active in their own time and leads Christians to ethical perfection. The moral imperatives, uttered through the prophetic sayings of Montanus, Maximilla, and Priscilla, and other prophets, were used by Tertullian in Carthage to combat those ‘catholic’ Christians who were seemingly less rigorous in their way of life. These ethical admonitions were the result of their realistic ecclesiology, which did not permit them to view the church’s holiness as a future ideal. In their understanding, individual and communal perfection was available and had to be achieved here and now. The coming of the Paraclete had inaugurated a new era, and believers were expected to attune their ethical conduct with its demands. Montanists were by no means alone with their opinion in the second century yet found themselves at odds with ecclesiastical leaders. Their pneumatic ecclesiology challenged the authority of the episcopate, which reserved charismatic insights for itself. Their stricter disciplinary measures likewise questioned whether those who proposed less rigorous moral standards to their flock were really suitable to guide believers to perfection.

Montanus and the prophetesses did not mean to cause schism. Every message they had articulated about the church, they intended to deliver within and to the church. Yet, after the confrontation, it became evident that the word, spirit and power of the Montanist prophets surpassed the ecclesiological convictions of the era. Despite their condemnation and even the burning of the Montanist ‘Jerusalem’ in Pepuza, the nonconformist and pneumatic ecclesiology of the prophets could not be silenced, and throughout history, it has returned to question and challenge the institutional church.