Argument Is War: Relevance-Theoretic Comprehension of the Conceptual Metaphor of War in the Apocalypse [1 ed.] 9789004435773, 9789004435735

Citation preview

Argument is War

Linguistic Biblical Studies Series Editors Stanley E. Porter Jesús Peláez Jonathan M. Watt

VOLUME 18

This series, Linguistic Biblical Studies, is dedicated to the development and promotion of linguistically informed study of the Bible in its original languages. Biblical studies has greatly benefited from modern theoretical and applied linguistics, but stands poised to benefit from further integration of the two fields of study. Most linguistics has studied contemporary languages, and attempts to apply linguistic methods to study of ancient languages requires systematic re-assessment of their approaches. This series is designed to address such challenges, by providing a venue for linguistically based analysis of the languages of the Bible. As a result, monograph-length studies and collections of essays in the major areas of linguistics, such as syntax, semantics, pragmatics, discourse analysis and text linguistics, corpus linguistics, cognitive linguistics, comparative linguistics, and the like, will be encouraged, and any theoretical linguistic approach will be considered, both formal and functional. Primary consideration is given to the Greek of the New and Old Testaments and of other relevant ancient authors, but studies in Hebrew, Coptic, and other related languages will be entertained as appropriate.

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/lbs

Argument is War Relevance-Theoretic Comprehension of the Conceptual Metaphor of War in the Apocalypse

By

Clifford T. Winters

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Winters, Clifford, author. Title: Argument is war : relevance-theoretic comprehension of the conceptual metaphor of war in the apocalypse / by Clifford Winters. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2020. | Series: Linguistic biblical studies, 1877–7554 ; volume 18 | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “In Argument is War: Relevance-Theoretic Comprehension of the Conceptual Metaphor of War in the Apocalypse, Clifford T. Winters demonstrates that the apparent war in the Apocalypse is rather telling the story of the gospel: how Christ will restore Israel and, through them, the rest of the world. When Revelation is viewed through the corrective lens of cognitive linguistics, its violence becomes victory, its violent characters become Christ, and its bloody end becomes the blessed beginning of the New Jerusalem. Revelation is simply telling the story of the early church (the Gospels and Acts) to the early church, and it is using a conceptual metaphor (‘ARGUMENT IS WAR’) to do it”— Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2020021907 (print) | LCCN 2020021908 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004435735 (hardback) | ISBN 9789004435773 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Bible. Revelation—Criticism, interpretation, etc. | Metaphor in the Bible. | War—Biblical teaching. Classification: LCC BS2825.52 .W56 2020 (print) | LCC BS2825.52 (ebook) | DDC 228/.066—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020021907 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020021908

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 1877-7554 isbn 978-90-04-43573-5 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-43577-3 (e-book) Copyright 2020 by Koninklijke Brill NV, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill NV via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents List of Figures and Tables ix Abbreviations x 1 Introduction 1 1.1 Revelation Has Two Problems 1 1.2 Defining the Problem: “Relevance” 3 1.2.1 Structure 5 1.2.2 Strategy 6 1.3 Defining the Problem: “Violence” 10 1.4 How These Problems Relate: “Judgment” 11 2 Methodology 15 2.1 A Long History of Study 18 2.2 Metaphor Is Natural to Cognition 22 2.2.1 Conceptual Metaphor Theory 23 2.2.2 Deliberate Metaphor Theory 29 2.2.3 Blending Theory 32 2.3 Metaphor Is Natural to Comprehension 33 2.3.1 General Principles of Inferential Pragmatics 34 2.3.2 H. P. Grice 36 2.3.3 Relevance Theory 37 2.3.4 Carston’s Two-Stage Theory of Metaphor Comprehension 39 2.4 A Model for Combining Rt and Cmt: Hybrid Theory 41 2.5 Acknowledgment: “Structure” and “Meaning” in Other Disciplines 43 2.6 What This Book Is Arguing 51 3 Composing the Conceptual Metaphor argument is war 52 3.1 Σημαίνω 52 3.1.1 Composition 60 3.1.2 Elaboration 66 3.1.3 Completion: Is It a Metaphor? 71 3.2 Metaphors in Revelation That Look like Daniel 2 72 3.3 ARGUMENT IS WAR Looks like Daniel 2 79 3.3.1 The Composition of ARGUMENT IS WAR 80

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4 Elaborating and Completing argument is war 161 4.1 The Elaboration of ARGUMENT IS WAR 161 4.1.1 Emergent Structure 161 4.1.2 Selective Projection 172 4.1.3 Recursion 179 4.1.4 Unpacking and Reverse Projection 193 4.2 The Completion of ARGUMENT IS WAR 216 4.2.1 Poverty of Metaphors 217 4.2.2 Metonymies 221 4.2.3 Pattern Completion and Multiple-Scope Creativity 223 5 The Linguistic Instantiation of argument is war 228 5.1 Metalinguistic Signals and Deliberate Metaphors 228 5.1.1 The Relative Rarity of the “A Is B” Formula 229 5.1.2 Is the War Itself a Metaphor? 240 5.2 Linguistic and Semantic Signals Other Than M-Flags 243 5.2.1 Indirectness, Similarity, and Levels of Language 243 5.2.2 Systematicity 247 5.2.3 Post-Comprehension Processes 263 6 The Pragmatic Implicature argument is war 272 6.1 Ad Hoc Construction 272 6.1.1 Other Types of Loose Use 274 6.1.2 Metonymy Is Not Loose Use 276 6.1.3 Loose Use versus Reference in Revelation: Examples 279 6.2 Metarepresentation 291 6.2.1 High Effort and Literal Activation Levels 293 6.2.2 A Mix of Literally and Metaphorically Used Words 297 6.2.3 Extension, Novelty, and/or an Evocative Nature 299 6.2.4 The Use of Both Propositions and Non-Propositional Mental Images 300 6.2.5 Simulation 301 6.2.6 Images as the Contextual Basis for New Implicatures 303 6.2.7 Intention-Attribution and Pragmatic Failure 305 6.3 Weak Implicatures 309 6.3.1 The Weak Implicatures of Death 312 6.3.2 The Weak Implicatures of Righteousness 315 6.3.3 The Strong Implicature of Judgment 317

Contents

6.4 Backwards Inference 318 6.4.1 The (Backwards) Implication for Argument Is War: the New Jerusalem 320 6.4.2 Inference and the Hermeneutical Task(s) 322 7 Implications and Conclusions 328 7.1 Summary of Evidence for Argument Is War 328 7.2 Summary of Implications 333 Bibliography 343 Linguistic and Literary Resources 343 Biblical and Historical Resources 350 Index 359

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Figures and Tables Figures 1 The four primary mental spaces of Daniel’s vision of the statue 62 2 The vital relation of representation 62 3 Projection to the blended space 63 4 The generic spaces of Dan 2 65 5 The alternative blends of Dan 2 66 6 Recursion: the inclusion of the gentile nations in the Kingdom of God? 70 7 The network structure of Revelation’s Two Cities 73 8 The network structure of Revelation’s Two Women 74 9 The network structure of Revelation’s Two Harvests 76 10 The cognitive structure of the two metaphorical ways in the Apocalypse 79 11 The war mental space 85 12 The two mental spaces, war and argument 100 13 A metonymical relationship between judgment and war 101 14 A metaphorical relationship between judgment and war 104 15 The vital relation of analogy between argument and war 115 16 The witness blend 118 17 The death compression 122 18 The competition generic space 154 19 The alternative spaces and their parallel structure 159 20 The conceptual network of argument is war in Revelation 180 21 The Lion network 198 22 Harm and redemption 200 23 Altar-souls and earth-dwellers 202 24 The systematic mappings of argument is war 263

Tables 1 2

The parallel fates of the Red Beast and the Dragon 127 The events of Revelation as compared with the Gospels and Acts 269

Abbreviations AB Anchor Bible ANEM Ancient Near East Monographs ANTC Abingdon New Testament Commentaries AUSS Andrews University Seminary Studies BDAG Danker, Frederick W., Walter Bauer, William F. Arndt, and F. Wilbur Gingrich. Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature. 3rd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000 (Danker-Bauer-Arndt-Gingrich) BECNT Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament BETL Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium BHGNT Baylor Handbook on the Greek New Testament BNTC Black’s New Testament Commentaries BZNW Beihefte zur Zeitschrift fur die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly CMT Conceptual Metaphor Theory CNT Commentaire du Nouveau Testament CTQ Concordia Theological Quarterly CTR Criswell Theological Review CurBR Currents in Biblical Research DMT Deliberate Metaphor Theory IBC Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching ICC International Critical Commentary ICLA International Cognitive Linguistics Association ICLC International Cognitive Linguistics Conference JBL Journal of Biblical Literature JBQ Jewish Bible Quarterly JSNT Journal for the Study of the New Testament JSNTSup Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series JSP Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha JSPSup Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Supplement Series JTS Journal of Theological Studies LCL Loeb Classical Library LNTS The Library of New Testament Studies MIP Metaphor Identification Procedure MIPVU Metaphor Identification Procedure Vrije Universiteit NAC New American Commentary NICNT New International Commentary on the New Testament

Abbreviations NIGTC New International Greek Testament Commentary NovT Novum Testamentum NovTSup Supplements to Novum Testamentum NTS New Testament Studies RT Relevance Theory RTCP Relevance-Theoretic Comprehension Procedure SBL Society of Biblical Literature SHBC Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary SIL Summer Institute of Linguistics SNTSMS Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series SP Sacra Pagina StBibLit Studies in Biblical Literature (Lang) STI Studies in Theological Interpretation TNTC Tyndale New Testament Commentaries TOTC Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries WBC Word Biblical Commentary WTJ Westminster Theological Journal WUNT Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament

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Introduction 1.1

Revelation Has Two Problems

This book sets out from an uncontroversial place: the Apocalypse is hard. As a narrative, as a record of revelation, as a piece of religious literature, it is difficult to understand and even to accept. Lynn Huber, on the first pages of her work on metaphorical nuptial imagery in the Apocalypse, recounts the struggles of Dionysius (bishop of Rome, d. 264 CE) to accept the work as authoritative for the churches.1 She presents his struggle as between a literal and an imagistic hermeneutic, with the imagistic winning out. Certainly, as she points out, the imagistic, “spiritual interpretation” does win out after Augustine (d. 430 CE),2 at least until the time of Joachim of Fiore (d. 1202 CE).3 This schematization of the early interpretative history of Revelation is helpful and insightful, but it skips over an important point that Dionysius was trying to make: he did not understand the book. Whether imagistic or literal, he could not come to a conclusion as to what Revelation meant, even on a broad level: Some indeed of those before our time rejected and altogether impugned the book, examining it chapter by chapter and declaring it to be unintelligible and illogical, and its title false. For they say that it is not John’s, no, nor yet an apocalypse (unveiling), since it is veiled by its heavy, thick curtain of unintelligibility … But for my part I should not dare to reject the book, since many brethren hold it in estimation; but, reckoning that my perception [φρονήσεως] is inadequate to form an opinion concerning it, I hold that the interpretation of each several passage is in some way hidden [κεκρυμμένην] and more wonderful. For even although I do not understand [συνίημι] it, yet I suspect that some deeper meaning underlies the words. For I do not measure and judge these things by my own reasoning [λογισμῷ], but, assigning to faith the greater value, I have come to the conclusion that they are too high for my comprehension [καταληφθῆναι], 1  Lynn R. Huber, Like a Bride Adorned: Reading Metaphor in John’s Apocalypse (Emory Studies in Early Christianity 10; New York: T&T Clark, 2007), 1–2. 2  Ibid., 7. 3  Ibid., 8–13.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004435773_002

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and I do not reject what I have not understood [άποδοκιμάζω], but I rather wonder that I did not indeed see them. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 7.25 [J. E. L. Oulton, LCL]

Insofar as Dionysius is an early witness, and speaks to the adverse perception of the book among “those before our time,” Revelation’s canonical problem according to Eusebius (who quotes Dionysius in just that context)4 seems to be primarily one of comprehension. Dionysius (and so, Eusebius) does not feel that he can reject the book because of its popularity, but he is not willing to accept that he understands it either (even if the things which he has yet to perceive are “deeper” and “more wonderful”). Thus, the first problem. A second problem he had was that it’s tenor is very unlike the Gospel of John or First John: “the Apocalypse is utterly different from, and foreign to, these writings; it has no connexion, no affinity, in any way with them; it scarcely, so to speak, has even a syllable in common with them” (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 7.25 [J. E. L. Oulton, LCL]). In this second caution, we begin to see another issue associated with the Apocalypse from the earliest witnesses to the present day. It is utterly violent.5 Its tone does not seem to have an “affinity” with the Jesus of the Gospels or the Pauline Epistles.6 This is the explicit position of Gaius, the early-third-century anti-Montanist and a man of good repute according to Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 6.20), who considered Revelation “garish”—and noncanonical for that reason.7 William Weinrich, in his introduction to the Latin commentaries on the Apocalypse, makes a passing note that Victorinus (third century author of the earliest full commentary on the book) “makes no attempt to interpret all 4  See Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 7.24. 5  For a recent review of perspectives on the violent language and imagery of the Apocalypse, see Susan E. Hylen, “Metaphor Matters: Violence and Ethics in Revelation,” CBQ 73.4 (2011): 777–796; also Loren L. Johns, The Lamb Christology of the Apocalypse of John: An Investigation into Its Origins and Rhetorical Force, WUNT 2/167 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 185–202 (“But Is the Vision Really Ethical?”). Craig Koester’s introduction to his recent commentary is an excellent review of how the violence was historically received; for which, see Craig R. Koester, Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB 38a (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014), 29–65. See also Judith L. Kovacs and Christopher Rowland, Revelation: The Apocalypse of Jesus Christ, Blackwell Bible Commentaries (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004),14–38. 6   See, e.g., Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1998), 19, 24; David Arthur deSilva, Seeing Things John’s Way: The Rhetoric of the Book of Revelation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 1. 7  Bruce M. Metzger, The Canon of the New Testament: Its Origin, Development, and Significance (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987), 104–5.

Introduction

3

portions of the Revelation.”8 What that terse note obscures is that the three chapters not commented upon were chapters nine, fifteen, and sixteen—the trumpet “woes” and the bowls. Victorinus isn’t just leaving random parts out, he’s leaving the more violent parts out. It is in chapter nine that the locust army tortures humanity for five months without even the reprieve of death (9:5– 6). It is in chapters fifteen and sixteen that the bowls of wrath are filled and poured out (15:7, 16:1), seas and rivers are filled with blood (16:3–4), and people are “scorched with great heat” by God (16:9) and “bite their tongues in agony” (16:10). Most commentators, helped not a little by the writer’s own signals of coming “woe” (8:13), take the three series of seals, trumpets, and bowls to be getting progressively worse.9 And so it is the worst of God’s supposed judgments that Victorinus “makes no attempt to interpret,” not just material he did not have room for. Victorinus, like Dionysius, finds the book hard to interpret, but Victorinus’ trepidation gives the origin of that difficulty a name: violence. 1.2

Defining the Problem: “Relevance”

Before we begin to assemble and assess more recent opinions of how well we understand the Apocalypse, it may be useful to define what we will take “understanding” to mean. Comprehension is associated with the pragmatics branch of the linguistic sciences. To quote from Horn and Ward’s 2006 Handbook of Pragmatics, “pragmatics is the study of those context-dependent aspects of meaning which are systematically abstracted away from in the construction of content or logical form.”10 In other words, it is the study of “language in use.”11 Much of this material will be covered in the next chapter (section 2.3) because how we receive information (such as the Apocalypse) is at least as important to the communication event as how it was produced. For now, it is only needful to state that I have chosen Dan Sperber and Deirdre Wilson’s 1986 pragmatic 8  William C. Weinrich, Latin Commentaries on Revelation, Ancient Christian Texts (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2011), xxii. 9  E.g., Gregory K. Beale, The Book of Revelation: A Commentary on the Greek Text, NIGTC (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 127–29; Koester, Revelation, 651; M. Eugene Boring, Revelation, IBC (Louisville: John Knox Press, 1989), 29. 10  Laurence R. Horn and Gregory Ward, “Introduction,” in The Handbook of Pragmatics, eds. Laurence R. Horn and Gregory Ward (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006), xi. 11  For the use of this phrase to describe pragmatics, see, e.g., Herbert H. Clark, “Pragmatics of Language Performance,” in The Handbook of Pragmatics, eds. Laurence R. Horn and Gregory Ward (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006), 365; and François Recanati, “Pragmatics and Semantics,” in The Handbook of Pragmatics, eds. Laurence R. Horn and Gregory Ward (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006), 443.

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definition of “relevance” as the starting point for understanding what “understanding” means.12 Comprehension is achieved when expectations of relevance are met— when a communication has been processed to the point of “satisfaction” such that the effort put into understanding an utterance is rewarded with an equal or greater level of cognitive effect.13 Unlike Dionysius, most commentators do not explicitly state when they don’t understand the thing upon which they are commenting. But there are signs of pragmatic frustration, evidences of dissatisfaction. The Apocalypse is regularly and openly considered “bewildering,”14 “bizarre,”15 and “difficult”16—a symptom of a wider “perplexity” with apocalyptic in general.17 And so we will be probing two aspects of the Apocalypse for such signs or evidences of pragmatic dissatisfaction: its basic structure and its historic interpretive strategies. This will help us establish that there is a generally negative degree of scholarly “satisfaction” with the work as a whole—which establishes,

12  The volume was updated in 1995, and there have been several salient publications by the duo since, but the basic definition for “relevance” has undergone few changes since the original publication. See Dan Sperber and Deirdre Wilson, Relevance: Communication and Cognition, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Blackwell Publishers, 1995), 122; and Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” in The Handbook of Pragmatics, eds. Laurence R. Horn and Gregory L. Ward (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006), 609. 13  For “satisfaction” being essential to comprehension, see Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 116, 272; and Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 613–14. It is important to note that it is expectations of relevance that need to be satisfied for communications to be successful. The satisfaction of artistic, or moral, or truth conditions are not, in themselves, necessary. “Positive cognitive effect” is defined as a worthwhile difference to one’s representation of the world (Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 608). 14  George Bradford Caird, A Commentary on the Revelation of St. John the Divine, BNTC (New York: Harper & Row, 1966), 2; A. J. P. Garrow, Revelation, New Testament Readings (London: Routledge, 1997), front matter; Edith M. Humphrey, And I Turned to See the Voice: The Rhetoric of Vision in the New Testament, STI (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007), 155; Robert L. Thomas, Revelation 1–7: An Exegetical Commentary (Chicago: Moody Press, 1992), front matter. 15  J. P. M. Sweet, Revelation, Westminster Pelican Commentaries (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1979), 14, 135; Leonard L. Thompson, The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 5; George Eldon Ladd, A Commentary on the Revelation of John (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1972), 10; Boring, Revelation, 4, 5. 16  Robert H. Mounce, The Book of Revelation, NICNT 17 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1977), 5; Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 15; Caird, Revelation, 1; Grant R. Osborne, Revelation, BECNT (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002), 1. 17  To quote John J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 1 (who is quoting Klaus Koch).

Introduction

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on a pragmatic level and with Dionysius, that we do not feel we have sufficiently understood it. 1.2.1 Structure Victorinus finds Revelation broadly difficult to interpret. He has a hard time even outlining the book. In his comments on chapter eight, we are warned “not to pay too much attention to the order of what is said … Nor ought we inquire too much into the order of the Revelation. Rather, we ought inquire after the meaning, for there is also the possibility of a false understanding.”18 This warning comes only four sentences before he breaks the continuity of his commentary and skips over chapter nine. Victorinus feels compelled to explain Revelation in an orderly fashion (as is evident from the orderliness of the first eight chapters, including the seven letters), but also feels that he cannot (as evidenced by the disorder of the remaining ones).19 Outlines demonstrate understanding, and so his avoidance of giving a full “order” to Revelation is some evidence that he does not understand it—particularly, the violent parts of it. This frustration with having to outline such a difficult text is also felt by several modern interpreters. Adela Yarbro Collins famously wrote in her 1976 doctoral dissertation that “In current research on the book of Revelation, there is very little consensus on the overall structure of the work and how that structure should be interpreted. There are almost as many outlines of the book as there are interpreters. The root of the problem is the presence of the numerous parallel passages and repetitions within the book.”20 The two things I want to draw attention to here are that, with Victorinus, Yarbro Collins is recognizing a connection between general understanding (or “interpretation”) and the outlining of the book; and, second and also with Victorinus, she finds the breakdown at the point of the “repetitions”—including and primarily the seals, trumpets, and bowls—which, importantly for this work, are also the violent parts. In her 1995 The Ladies and the Cities, Edith Humphrey begins the chapter on “Transformation and Continuity in the Apocalypse” with a table of eight representative scholarly outlines of the book of Revelation,21 which is then followed

18  Weinrich, Latin, 12. 19  Nine is skipped, thirteen and seventeen are combined, fourteen and seventeen are combined, and fifteen and sixteen are skipped. 20  Adela Yarbro Collins, The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation, Harvard Dissertations in Religion 9 (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1976), 8. 21  Edith M. Humphrey, The Ladies and the Cities: Transformation and Apocalyptic Identity in Joseph and Aseneth, 4 Ezra, the Apocalypse and the Shepherd of Hermas, JSPSup 17 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 82–83.

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by an extended discussion of those and several others.22 Her conclusion, which she offers at the beginning of the chapter, is the following: “The very number of suggestions witnesses to the frustration of scholars in adequately comprehending the piece. This frustration is also, it seems, expressed in two opposite attitudes: over-confidence regarding a new scheme as ‘the key’ to understanding, or a failure of nerve in some commentators seen in the conspicuous lack of any outline at all.”23 Once again, Humphrey makes an explicit connection between structuration and comprehension and, with Yarbro Collins, goes on to make the claim—important to the argument of this book—that the “frustration” in “comprehending the piece” is a generalized experience among commentators. To use Yarbro Collins’ word, it is a problem of “consensus.”24 This lack of consensus as to the outline of the Apocalypse points to a lack of consensus as to its meaning. There is a certain “frustration” even at the general level of “comprehending” (to use again Humphrey’s words); and that frustration, or lack of satisfaction, indicates that the communication has not achieved “relevance” from a pragmatic point of view. The communication, on the whole, has not been processed to the point of being even provisionally settled. This unsettledness, or lack of basic consensus even at the broad level of structure, is diagnostic for pragmatic failure. Note here that the point is not that we don’t like any particular reading (though that may be true), or the book itself (which might also be true); the point is that we are looking for consensus and cannot find it, and that lack of consensus is at the broadest level of understanding. 1.2.2 Strategy It has been popular for over a century for commentators to divide and categorize the many historical interpretive strategies used for Revelation into four camps—preterist, historicist, futurist, and idealist25—and many commentators 22  Ibid., 82–103. 23  Ibid., 84. 24  Many other scholars use similar words. See Mounce, Revelation, 46 (“rather complete lack of consensus about the structure of Revelation”); Richard Bauckham, The Climax of Prophecy: Studies on the Book of Revelation (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1993), 2 (“many divergent attempts”); David E. Aune, Revelation 1–5, WBC 52a (Dallas: Word, 1997), xci (“The problem of the literary analysis of Revelation, despite many proposals, remains a matter on which there is no general consensus among scholars.”); Alan S. Bandy, “The layers of the Apocalypse: an Integrative Approach to Revelation’s Macrostructure,” JSNT 31.4 (2009): 469 (“The structure of John’s Apocalypse represents a perennial problem, drawing much attention while managing to elude a consensus around any one structural model”); etc. Emphases mine. 25  E.g., Henry Barclay Swete, The Apocalypse of St. John: The Greek Text (London: Macmillan, 1909), ccxiv.

Introduction

7

continue that trend still.26 There are several books available that have some variation of the title Four Views on Revelation.27 These categorizations may or may not be “helpful” to the reader (or scholar),28 but they are helpful to the present study because they constitute strong evidence for a general lack of understanding (in the pragmatic sense) of the book. The preterist view is essentially that the visionary material in Revelation was meant to be thought of as occurring—if not fulfilled—by the end of the first and second centuries.29 The historicist view puts events later, throughout past history, as its name implies. Revelation is now a “key” to the events of the entire historical past, not just the first century. The futurist view rather has that key unlock events in the future, which have little to no analogy to present ones. These three interpretive stances point at different time periods and even in opposite directions. They are mutually exclusive. Each approach has had periods of great success and influence in the history of interpretation and are not just different from each other, but refute each other. The idealist or spiritualist interpretive strategy, though it may be an alternative to the above interpretive dilemma, is no solution either. It actually just creates another dilemma. In rejecting any specific time period, it now stands opposite of all three strategies at once. Several scholars with that mindset have gone so far as to argue that the language of Revelation is not even ostensive in the formal sense—it is not intended to be understood propositionally.30 26   Most recently in Gregory K. Beale and David H. Campbell, Revelation: A Shorter Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2015), 7–9; and Paige Patterson, Revelation, NAC (Nashville: B&H Publishing, 2012), 26–30. 27  E.g., C. Marvin Pate, ed., Four Views on the Book of Revelation (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1998); Steve Gregg, ed., Revelation, Four Views: A Parallel Commentary (Nashville: Nelson, 1997); G. R. Beasley-Murray, Herschel H. Hobbs, and Ray F. Robbins, Revelation: Three Viewpoints (Nashville: Broadman Press, 1977); etc. 28  Craig Koester rejects these groupings as “problematic” and not “helpful” (xiii), but must reference them because they are part of the history of interpretation; for which, see Koester, Revelation, 57, 59–61. 29  Beale does a fine review of the four “Major Interpretive Approaches” in his larger commentary. See Beale, Revelation, 44–49; also Mounce, Revelation, 39–45. 30  Thus Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation, New Testament Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 20: “we need also to avoid the opposite mistake of taking them [Revelation’s images] too literally as descriptive of the ‘real’ world and of predicted events in the ‘real’ world. They are not just a system of codes waiting to be translated into matter-of-fact references to people and events. Once we begin to appreciate their sources and their rich symbolic associations, we realize that they cannot be read either as literal descriptions or as encoded literal descriptions, but must be read for their theological meaning and their power to evoke response.” Also Beale, Revelation, 52: “the predominant manner by which to approach the material will be according to a nonliteral interpretative method. Of course, some parts are not symbolic, but the essence

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Chapter 1

The idealist/spiritualist hermeneutic accepts and normalizes pragmatic frustration rather than resolving it.31 Anyone who adopts that interpretive posture de facto argues for the non-relevance of the communication (the point this introduction is attempting to make). And it is a popular interpretive stance.32 Recently Judith Kovacs and Christopher Rowland have reconceptualized the interpretive matrix within which Revelation’s commentators can be located.33 It is a simple but helpful graph with the x-axis being a continuum of readings between the two poles of “decoding” (making it less allusive, seeking “precise equivalence”) and “actualization” (circumstantial, gnomic, and ethical) and the y-axis being a continuum between past and future. Unlike the “four views” schema above, the interpretive matrix does not relegate commentators to one or another pole. It allows for nuance and degrees of agreement. It also opens the graph to methodologies other than just the historical ones. It is not just that new advances in the study of Revelation are coming from rhetorical,34 feminist,35 liberationist,36 and social-scientific37 corners, it’s that of the book is figurative. Where there is lack of clarity about whether something is symbolic, the scales of judgment should be tilted in the direction of a nonliteral analysis.” Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, v: “Scholarly scientific readings seek to translate the book’s ambiguity into one-to-one meanings and to transpose its language of symbol and myth into propositional language, description, and facts. Both approaches—the popular and the scientific one—end up literalizing the Apocalypse. The essays in this volume seek to chart a third way of reading that understands Revelation’s multivalent language, mythic images, and visions of doom and bliss as a subaltern rhetorical discourse.” And Collins, Apocalyptic Imagination, 282 (of all apocalyptic): “The language of the apocalypses is not descriptive, referential, newspaper language, but the expressive language of poetry, which uses symbols and imagery to articulate a sense or feeling about the world. Their abiding value does not lie in the pseudoinformation they provide about cosmology or future history, but in their affirmation of a transcendent world.” 31  It must be said that this is the strategy also tends to be selective, and is appealed to when it serves the interpreter’s purposes. No commentator is happy to leave any and all interpretive questions unresolved. 32  Stephen S. Smalley, The Revelation to John: A Commentary on the Greek Text of the Apocalypse (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2005), 16. 33  Kovacs and Rowland, Revelation, 7–11, with the graph on page 8. 34  E.g., deSilva, Seeing Things; Ben Witherington, Revelation, New Cambridge Bible Commentary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 35  E.g., Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment; Tina Pippin, Apocalyptic Bodies: The Biblical End of the World in Text and Image (London: Routledge, 1999). 36   E.g., Pablo Richard, Apocalypse: A People’s Commentary on the Book of Revelation (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1995). 37  E.g., Bruce J. Malina and John J. Pilch, Social-Science Commentary on the Book of Revelation (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000).

Introduction

9

new points of consensus have come from those places. Most commentators now believe the Apocalypse to have a strong imperial-critical stance.38 Most commentators believe John to have rhetorical goals, and believe that he uses his art in service of those goals.39 These advancements situate within the Kovacs/Rowland graph much more easily than they do the “four views.” But they are also post-comprehension procedures. One moves on to critique an utterance one has already understood (in a best-case scenario). These new methodologies are popular likely because they move beyond the old practice of mining words for meaning and historical background for context. They are doing something new with the text, and that is to be celebrated, I think. What they do not do is settle the meaning of the text. In taking up a new conversation, they are leaving behind—in some cases, intentionally and thankfully40— Dionysius’ old problem of what John meant in the first place. And so what the Kovacs/Rowland grid does is demonstrate that there are not just four interpretive strategies, but potentially infinite ones; and none agreeing on even the most basic data, including the time period under consideration or how to approach the subject material. The fact that their grid can be fairly filled in with plot-points indicates, again pragmatically, that there isn’t a point. We all seem to recognize that there is not even a broad agreement as to when John thought the events of his narrative happened or will happen, how they might happen, or whether they “happen” at all in the usual sense of the word. That lack of agreement is the subject at hand, and—for someone to make the argument that the Apocalypse, as a communication, has achieved relevance—they would have to demonstrate that the “four views” schema and the Kovacs/Rowland matrix don’t exist. Their very existence is the evidence for non-relevance. The fact that the entire book can be read simultaneously as past and future, real and allegorical, coded and actionable, demonstrates that its interpretation is not finding—and has never found—an agreed-upon meaning.

38  R  ichard B. Hays and Stefan Alkier, “Introduction,” in Revelation and the Politics of Apocalyptic Interpretation, ed. Richard B. Hays and Stefan Alkier (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2012), 1, 4. 39  David Arthur deSilva, “What has Athens to Do with Patmos? Rhetorical Criticism of the Revelation of John (1980–2005),” CurBR 6.2 (2008): 257–58. 40  Adela Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1984), 15–16.

10 1.3

Chapter 1

Defining the Problem: “Violence”

If it is generally agreed that Revelation is hard to understand, it is perhaps even more generally agreed that it is violent—surpassingly so. And that violence has been considered worthy of comment. David Barr says of the seals, “[t]his is the deplorable logic of the Inquisition.”41 Loren Johns not only claims that “[t]he Apocalypse virtually seethes with images of blood and violence,” but also that “God and the Lamb are often envisioned as the source of the violence.”42 Tina Pippin writes “I choose to take the violence at face value and condemn it.”43 Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza cautions, with Adela Yarbro Collins, that “Rev. today can function as an outlet for envy, hatred, resentment, vengefulness, and aggression of the weak against the strong.”44 J. P. M. Sweet, former fellow and chaplain at Selwyn College, Cambridge, wrote in his 1979 commentary: There is a vindictive harping in chs. 6–20 on the torture and destruction of enemies … It may be said that the vindictiveness is directed against abstractions … It may be said that the language is part of the conventional idiom of apocalyptic … But when all has been said it must be admitted that there is a spirit in Revelation which is at home in the Old Testament but hardly in the New; what can be found in small deposits elsewhere in the NT crops up here in lethal concentration. These excesses might be excused as the product of the author’s personal situation and psychology— an outburst of negative feelings, as Jung put it (see pp. 42–4), in one striving for perfection. But the picture of God in Revelation cannot so easily be excused if it endorses and propagates such a spirit.45 And so the desire to “excuse” God is also evident in many commentaries. Greg Beale responds to his own question in the affirmative when he asks “can the righteousness, goodness, and holiness of Christ and God be maintained [even] if they are so directly linked as the ultimate cause behind all the judgments and behind the demonic agents who carry out many of the destructive judgments under ultimate divine supervision?” because he considers the

41  D  avid L. Barr, “Doing Violence: Moral Issues in Reading John’s Apocalypse,” in Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, ed. David L. Barr (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 98. 42  Johns, Lamb Christology, 187. 43  Pippin, Apocalyptic Bodies, x. 44  Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 6–7. 45  Sweet, Revelation, 49–50.

Introduction

11

judgments as justified “punishments.”46 Koester explains that Revelation “sets the Creator of the world against the destroyers, who must be defeated if life is to prevail.”47 Ladd says that “behind the outpourings of God’s wrath … was a merciful purpose.”48 Aune agrees that “[t]he plagues are not meant to be ends in themselves but are meant to be stern messages of warning from God intended to produce repentance.”49 I do not wish, at this point, to take sides in the above controversy but merely once again to point out that there is a controversy.50 There is a general perception that the things that God is doing in the narrative need rather serious explanation, however they are actually explained. Modern commentators have not felt free, with Dionysius, to merely skip the hard parts of the book (and rightly so); but there is not a consensus as to what the violence is, what it means, how it affects the text, and how it has and should (and should not) affect the reader. This is especially true of the violence in which God and the Lamb take part (as the quotes above demonstrate). How are we to make sense of a book that seems to make God and Christ violent? 1.4

How These Problems Relate: “Judgment”

The way that has classically been done is by naming the violence “judgment.” The idea seems to be that God shouldn’t be committing violent acts for no reason, and so the reason must be judgment. The earliest commentators on Revelation thought so. Victorinus of Petovium (late third century Slovenia),51 Caesarius of Arles (early sixth century France),52 Apringius of Beja (mid sixth century Portugal),53 the Venerable Bede (early eighth century England),54 46  Beale, Revelation, 172–73. 47  Koester, Revelation, 393. 48  Ladd, Commentary, 195. 49  Though he admits this never actually happens in the story. David E. Aune, Revelation 6–16, WBC 52b (Dallas: Word, 1998), 419. 50   Hylen, “Metaphor Matters,” 777: “most scholarly interpreters treat the violence of Revelation as a problem to be addressed.” She deals with this debate throughout her introductory section, pp. 777–780. See also Neufeld’s summary of the two sides in Thomas R. Yoder Neufeld, Killing Enmity: Violence and the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2011), 129–35, with the conclusion “CAVEAT LECTOR” (emphasis original, 135). 51  Weinrich, Latin, 1. 52  Ibid., 77. 53  Ibid., 32. 54  Ibid., 115.

12

Chapter 1

Oecumenius (early sixth century Greece),55 and Andrew of Caesarea (early seventh century Turkey) treated God’s violence that way.56 Augustine,57 Jerome,58 the Scholia in Apocalypsin,59 Joachim of Fiore,60 Wolfgang Aytinger,61 Jonathan Edwards,62 and John Wesley63 all named it “judgment” as well. More might be historically attested if more had been willing to comment on the book in the first place: Erasmus considered it non-canonical, Luther peripheralized it as a book in which “Christ is neither taught nor recognized,” and it was the only book of the NT on which Calvin refused to write a commentary.64 And among modern commentators, I have not found one that has not treated it as judgment, including (but not limited to): Hermann Gunkel,65 H. B. Swete,66 R. H. Charles,67 D. H. Lawrence,68 John Walvoord,69 G. B. Caird,70 G. E. Ladd,71 J. M. Ford,72 Adela Yarbro Collins,73 Robert Mounce,74 J. P. M. Sweet,75 Pierre 55  W  illiam C. Weinrich, Greek Commentaries on Revelation: Oecumenius and Andrew of Caesarea, Ancient Christian Texts (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2011), 40. 56  Ibid., 121. 57  City of God 20.12. 58  Epist. 14.9. 59  Panayiotis Tzamalikos, An Ancient Commentary on the Book of Revelation: A Critical Edition of the Scholia in Apocalypsin (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 151. 60  Bernard McGinn, Visions of the End: Apocalyptic Traditions in the Middle Ages (New York: Columbia University Press, 1979), 133. 61  Ibid., 276. 62  Wilson H. Kimnach, Kenneth P. Minkema, and Douglas A. Sweeney, eds., The Sermons of Jonathan Edwards: A Reader (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 165. 63  John Wesley, Explanatory Notes upon the New Testament (New York: Lane & Tippett, 1847), 679. 64  See Irena Backus, Reformation Readings of the Apocalypse: Geneva, Zurich, and Wittenberg, Oxford Studies in Historical Theology (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 1, 7. Koester, Revelation, 51, adds that Calvin was unwilling to comment on it. 65  Hermann Gunkel, Creation and Chaos in the Primeval Era and the Eschaton: A ReligioHistorical Study of Genesis 1 and Revelation 12, trans. Heinrich Zimmern and K. William Whitney (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 226–27. 66  Swete, Apocalypse, xxxix. 67  R. H. Charles, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Revelation of St. John, ICC, vol. 1 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1920), xxiv. 68  D. H. Lawrence and Mara Kalnins, Apocalypse and the Writings on Revelation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 103. 69  John F. Walvoord, The Revelation of Jesus Christ (Chicago: Moody Press, 1966), 130. 70  Caird, Revelation, 85, 91. 71  Ladd, Revelation, 201. 72  J. Massyngberde Ford, Revelation, AB 38 (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1975), xv. 73  Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis, 115. 74  Mounce, Revelation, 80. 75  Sweet, Revelation, 69.

Introduction

13

Prigent,76 Leon Morris,77 Eugene Boring,78 Robert Mulholland,79 Leonard Thompson,80 Robert Thomas,81 Christopher Rowland,82 Judith Kovacs,83 Eduard Lohse,84 Jürgen Roloff,85 Wilfrid Harrington,86 Richard Bauckham,87 J. Ramsey Michaels,88 Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza,89 Craig Keener,90 Bruce Malina and John Pilch,91 Greg Beale,92 David Aune,93 Simon Kistemaker,94 Mitchell Reddish,95 Ranko Stefanovic,96 Grant Osborne,97 Ben Witherington,98 David Barr,99 Stephen Smalley,100 Edmondo Lupieri,101 Ian Boxall,102 James 76  Pierre Prigent, L’Apocalypse de Saint Jean, CNT 14 (Paris: Delachaux & Niestlé, 1981), 68. 77  Leon Morris, The Revelation of St. John: An Introduction and Commentary, TNTC 20 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1969), 15. 78  Boring, Revelation, ix, 30. 79  M. Robert Mulholland, Revelation: Holy Living in an Unholy World, Francis Asbury Press Commentary (Grand Rapids: Francis Asbury Press, 1990), 30. 80  Leonard L. Thompson, Revelation, ANTC (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1998), 8. 81  Thomas, Revelation 1–7, 30. 82  Christopher Rowland, Revelation, Epworth Commentaries (London: Epworth Press, 1993), vi. 83  Kovacs and Rowland, Revelation, 33, 79. 84  Eduard Lohse, Die Offenbarung des Johannes (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1960), 97. 85  Jürgen Roloff, Revelation: A Continental Commentary, trans. John E. Alsup and James S. Currie (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), vi. 86  Wilfrid J. Harrington, Revelation, SP 16 (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1993), viii–ix. 87  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 4. 88  J. Ramsey Michaels, Revelation, IVP New Testament Commentary (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1997), 101. 89  Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, title page. 90  Craig S. Keener, Revelation, NIV Application Commentary (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2000), 34. 91  Malina and Pilch, Social-Science, 51, 56, 58. 92  Beale, Revelation, xii. 93  Aune, Revelation 1–5, xcix, ci. 94  Simon Kistemaker, Exposition of the Book of Revelation, New Testament Commentary (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2001), 11. 95  Mitchell G. Reddish, Revelation, SHBC (Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2001), xv, 1. 96  Ranko Stefanovic, Revelation of Jesus Christ: Commentary on the Book of Revelation (Berrien Springs, MI: Andrews University Press, 2002), 39. 97  Osborne, Revelation, vii. 98  Witherington, Revelation, 15. 99  Barr, “Doing Violence,” 101. 100  Smalley, Revelation, iv–vi. 101  Edmondo Lupieri, A Commentary on the Apocalypse of John, trans. Maria Poggi Johnson and Adam Kamesar (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 183. 102  Ian Boxall, The Revelation of Saint John, BNTC (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 2006), 7.

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Chapter 1

Resseguie,103 David deSilva,104 Gordon Fee,105 Allan McNicol,106 Paige Patterson,107 and Craig Koester.108 This is the true—and, as far as I can tell, universal—consensus in Revelation studies: God’s violence is treated as judgment. And it is the one I wish to take issue with in this book. I intend to show that the violence of God and the Lamb is meant to be seen as a war—or rather the war, the great eschatological war—for the rescue and restoration of Israel (à la 1QM), God’s beloved bride (4Q434 1, II 6–7). The violence was meant as a metaphor for restoration, but has been treated instead as a metonymy for judgment. The general sense of unease about the meaning of the Apocalypse, the place of violence in the Apocalypse, and the place of Israel in the Apocalypse are products of an absolutely unquestioned conviction that the violence must be describing something harmful or disadvantageous. It is this root from which all historical interpretation has sprung, and I wish to make the claim that the root is poisoned and so the tree has never produced its proper fruit. The war was supposed to be positively understood as Israel’s (and, through them, the world’s) eschatological salvation rather than in any way destructive, harmful, or judgmental; and it is this very failure of understanding that has caused Revelation to never achieve “relevance.” The problem we will face in the next chapter is that an interpretation which has no historical precedent might also be said to have no historical warrant; which is to say, if the violence in Revelation was ever meant to be taken as something other than judgment, how would that be recoverable? And if it were stumbled-upon, how would one ever prove it?

103  J ames L. Resseguie, The Revelation of John: A Narrative Commentary (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2009), 58. 104  deSilva, Seeing Things, 14, 43. 105  Gordon D. Fee, Revelation: A New Covenant Commentary, New Covenant Commentary 18 (Cambridge: Lutterworth Press, 2013), 18, 155. 106  Allan J. McNicol, The Conversion of the Nations in Revelation, LNTS 438 (London: T&T Clark, 2011), 8. 107  Patterson, Revelation, 49. 108  Koester, Revelation, xiv.

Chapter 2

Methodology There are a lot of metaphors out there. In fact, even giving an external quality to metaphors (“out there”) is itself a metaphor. I don’t write this sitting in a container outside of which metaphors dwell. We can’t escape them (ideas are people1 metaphor) because they are everywhere (ideas are objects metaphor). Given the commonness and accessibility of their use, it may seem arbitrary to choose a particular methodology to study them (or, in our case, several). When you want to appreciate artwork, you don’t read up on the processes of visual perception and the optic nerve, you just look. If metaphor is a cognitively native ability for humans (and I will argue that it is), why not just rely on that ability and appreciate the metaphors on their own terms? The answer of course is the previous chapter. Appreciating American Gothic is a fine Thursday evening diversion if one can see it. If not, one’s Thursday may better be spent with the eye doctor. Like any native ability, metaphor has a pathology. It can fail. Our goal will not (just) be to appreciate the metaphors that John uses but to ascertain whether, to what degree, and how accurately we are “seeing” them in the first place. It is true that language can be selfcorrecting. If two partners are talking and one does not hear the other, he can ask her to repeat what she just said.2 There are circumstances however where such straightforward correction is not possible (ergo, the sub-field of forensic linguistics).3 Revelation is one of those cases. We can’t ask John to repeat or 1  It is customary to indicate conceptual domains, metaphors, and metonymies by the use of small caps. We will be following that convention. Mental spaces (when given a name) will likewise be in small caps because they are conceptual (non-linguistic or pre-linguistic) entities. The exception will be words within figures and diagrams; for which, see note 39 concerning figure 1 in section 3.1.1.1. Frames will have their first letter capitalized, following the convention established by FrameNet (http://framenet.icsi.berkeley.edu/). 2  Sperber and Wilson assign the feminine pronoun to hypothetical speakers and the masculine to hearers (Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 232n13). We will be following that convention, unless the speaker is known to be—or projects himself to be—male, as in the case of Revelation (1:4, 9; 22:8). 3  For introductions to forensic linguistics see John Olsson, Forensic Linguistics, 2nd ed. (London: Continuum, 2008) and Malcolm Coulthard and Alison Johnson, An Introduction to Forensic Linguistics: Language in Evidence (London: Routledge, 2007). For examples of the relationship between metaphor and forensic linguistics, see Malcolm Coulthard and Alison Johnson, eds., The Routledge Handbook of Forensic Linguistics (New York: Routledge, 2010), 128, 132, 212, 220.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004435773_003

16

Chapter 2

clarify what he said. If the historical interpretation of Revelation has a “poisoned root,” it is going to take more than normal linguistic analysis to recover the original meaning. And so, like one might need to go to the eye doctor before she goes to view American Gothic, appreciating Revelation’s metaphors fully may first require a little metaphorical “medicine”—a particular group of methods useful for recovering and re-comprehending lost metaphors. Metaphor recovery, and forensic linguistics in general, may seem an idealistic and impractical enterprise. I am nonetheless encouraged to embark on it for three reasons: (1) many researchers already use these particular methodologies—some of them forensically—in the study of metaphor;4 (2) the parent methodologies we will be using already inform the field of biblical studies, even if they aren’t as broadly popular as others;5 and (3) they are broadly popular in their own fields and across other disciplines. Latent in this last point is a certain amount of critique. Our two “parent” methodologies— conceptual metaphor theory (CMT)6 and relevance theory (RT)7—are no fads. Introductions to the entire field of pragmatics are being written from an RT perspective,8 and introductions to cognitive linguistics (which is a field considerably broader than metaphor) feature CMT prominently and its unique “assumptions and commitments” are theirs.9 They have their own conferences,10 tens of thousands of publications to their credit,11 their own 4   E.g., within Revelation, see Huber, Like a Bride, particularly the section “Using Conceptual Metaphor Theory as a Guiding Method,” 80–88. Within the NT in general see, e.g., Robert H. von Thaden, “Guiding Socio-Rhetorical Commentary with Conceptual Integration Theory (Blending Theory),” Conversations with the Biblical World 31 (2011): 184–203. 5  E.g., the present (annual) Cognitive Linguistics in Biblical Interpretation and former (international) Relevance Theory and Biblical Interpretation sections of SBL. 6  As set forth in George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003); and more recently in Zoltán Kövecses, Metaphor: A Practical Introduction, 2nd ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010). 7  As set forth in Sperber and Wilson, Relevance; and more recently in Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber, Meaning and Relevance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 8  E.g., Diane Blakemore, Understanding Utterances: An Introduction to Pragmatics (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992), preface and acknowledgments, ix and xi. 9  E.g., Vyvyan Evans and Melanie Green, Cognitive Linguistics: An Introduction (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2011), 27. 10  E.g., the Conference on Metaphor in Language and Thought (http://www.ufrgs.br/ ivcmlp/index_EN.html) and the International Cognitive Linguistics Conference (ICLC; http://www.cognitivelinguistics.org/en/event/detail/international-cognitive-linguistics -conferences-iclcs). 11  As of 28 August 2016, Francisco Yus has compiled an online bibliography of RT-related literature alone comprising 4456 entries; for which, see Francisco Yus, Relevance Theory

Methodology

17

research institutes,12 and several important theoretical developments trace their origins back to these two (including most of those used herein). It is past the time that biblical studies should be aware of their existence. Ours is not a case of methodological cherry-picking either, just using whatever theories are most in vogue and producing a mash-up of “the greatest hits.” CMT and RT have been used in concert before,13 they are aware of and even rely on one another to some extent,14 and they have already been integrated at the theoretical level (if not yet in practice).15 The interoperation of CMT and RT will take some explanatory work and justification, but the payoff will be something very much worth the effort—a full-orbed, scientific, and evidencebased treatment of the phenomenon of metaphor in the Apocalypse, from thought to language to comprehension. Forensic validity requires such a full, empirically-grounded understanding of how the metaphorical process works, from beginning to end. If we can describe with some degree of certainty how and why metaphor “works” cognitively and pragmatically, we are in good stead to describe how and why it stopped working in the history of the interpretation of Revelation, and how it might have been meant to work originally. The warrant for applying cognitive theory to Revelation, then, is simply stated. Our author had a mind. He thought. He displayed cognitive processes. And cognitive study applies to cognitive phenomena and culture (especially

Online Bibliographic Service, 28 August 2016, http://personal.ua.es/francisco.yus/rt2.html. The Cognitive Linguistics Bibliography has 7000 (available, upon subscription to the International Cognitive Linguistics Association (ICLA), at http://www.cognitivelinguistics .org/the-cognitive-linguistics-bibliography). 12  E.g., the Metaphor Lab in Amsterdam (http://metaphorlab.org) and the UK-based Association for Researching and Applying Metaphor (RaAM; http://www.raam.org.uk). 13  E.g., Francisco José Ruiz de Mendoza Ibáñez and Lorena Pérez Hernández, “Cognitive Operations and Pragmatic Implication,” in Metonymy and Pragmatic Inferencing, eds. Klaus-Uwe Panther and Linda L. Thornburg (Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 2003). 14  Deirdre Wilson has written on their relationship in “Parallels and Differences in the Treatment of Metaphor in Relevance Theory and Cognitive Linguistics,” Intercultural Pragmatics 8.2 (2011): 177–96. Blending theory was developed partly in conversation with Gricean pragmatics; for which, see Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities (New York: Basic Books, 2002), 68–69, 333; and Paul Grice, Studies in the Way of Words (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1989). As argued elsewhere, Gricean pragmatics gave rise to RT; for which, see Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 21–38. 15  Markus Tendahl, A Hybrid Theory of Metaphor: Relevance Theory and Cognitive Linguistics (Houndmills, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009). Also Zoltán Kövecses, Where Metaphors Come From: Reconsidering Context in Metaphor (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015).

18

Chapter 2

language)16 in much the same way that archaeological study applies to material phenomena and culture. Their design is to exhume and explicate sometimes long-hidden details, either in text or tel. For someone to make the argument that CMT and RT don’t apply to the study of Revelation, they would have to make the argument that John composed it without thinking about it. 2.1

A Long History of Study

It used to be customary to begin research into metaphor with at least a nod to Aristotle (384–322 BCE).17 That may not be the case as often of late, but it serves our purpose here to understand not just how metaphor operates but also how it has operated historically, and how it has been understood to operate. Revelation likewise has not just a meaning but a history of meaning. And if it is true that the Apocalypse has been often understood to be metaphorical (as it has; see below), those two histories—of metaphor and of Revelation—have likely interacted with and informed each other. Aristotle’s so-called “comparison theory”18 has been a stalwart and a standard in the study of literature since it was penned twenty-four centuries ago.19 That theory runs like this: Metaphor is the application of a word belonging to something else either from the genus [genos] to a species [eidos], or from the species to the genus, or from the species to a species, or according to analogy … By 16  Evans and Green, Cognitive Linguistics, 54: “language reflects and is informed by nonlinguistic aspects of cognition. In particular, given the premise that the principles that inform language reflect general cognitive principles, the language system itself can be seen as a window that enables the direct investigation of conceptual structure (knowledge representation, including the structure and organisation of concepts) and conceptualisation (the process of meaning construction).” 17  Max Black, Models and Metaphors: Studies in Language and Philosophy (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962), 34; Andrew Ortony, “Metaphor, Language, and Thought,” in Metaphor and Thought, ed. Andrew Ortony, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 3; see especially the first chapter “Between Rhetoric and Poetics: Aristotle” in Paul Ricœur, The Rule of Metaphor: The Creation of Meaning in Language, trans. Robert Czerny, Kathleen McLaughlin, and John Costello (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1977), 8–48. 18  Ortony, “Metaphor,” 3. 19  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 190: “Aristotle’s theory of how metaphors work is the [Italics original] classic view.”

Methodology

19

analogy, I mean when the second is to the first as the fourth to the third. For instead of the second one will say the fourth, or instead of the fourth the second. And sometimes they add instead of what it says what is related to it. I mean, for example, a cup is to Dionysus as a shield to Ares. Then one will say that the cup is the shield of Dionysus and the shield the cup of Ares. Poet. 1457b.6–9, 17–23 [Bernardete and Davis, transliterations original]

This is the essence of the comparative theory. One word “belonging to something else” is “applied” to the subject at hand, as the shield of Ares is to Dionysus. The nature of this comparison is made explicit in his Topica: “a metaphor [μεταφορά] in a way adds to our knowledge of what is indicated on account of the similarity [ὁμοιότης], for those who use metaphors always do so on account of some similarity” (140a.9–12 [Forster, LCL]). Similarity prompts for comparison, and that comparison prompts for “added” similarities—for added knowledge—in a kind of “hermeneutic circle.”20 It also used to be the custom, once having begun with Aristotle, to dissect and critique his work on metaphor—usually finding it insufficient in some way—which then led into an argument for how the new theory was superior. This study will take a somewhat nuanced tack in that direction. One certainly doesn’t wish to issue “[s]weeping attacks on ‘Western philosophy and linguistics.’”21 One does notice, however, that Aristotle’s definition of “metaphor” also applies to other tropes, particularly metonymy. His examples of genus-to-species and species-to-genus could be textbook definitions for synecdoche (part/whole metonymies). Someone who knew Aristotle’s nomenclature and grew up with his categories would not be able to differentiate between metaphor and metonymy at the literary-critical level (though they would still

20  Cf. Heidegger’s concept of this inherent “circle” in the very structure of meaning in Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. John Macquarrie and Edward Schouten Robinson (Oxford: Blackwell, 1967), 194–95, under the heading “Understanding and Interpretation.” 21  C MT is less a countering of the classical model than a clarification of it. Comparison does play a part in metaphors, but the similarities we find are more often the result of the metaphorical association than the cause; see Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 147–55. For concern that CMT may be overturning “Western philosophy and linguistics,” see Anna Wierzbicka, “Metaphors Linguists Live By: Lakoff and Johnson contra Aristotle,” Papers in Linguistics 19.2 (1986): 307 and in toto.

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be able to do so at the cognitive).22 They would interpret them as the same trope, or with metonymy “subsumed” or “included” beneath metaphor.23 Some methodological questions posed by this conflation are: 1. Are they the same trope? If not, 2. Are the two tropes (metaphor and metonymy) natural categories, meaning do they exist as separate and separable phenomena in the mind, in language, and in comprehension? And if so, 3. How might their differences produce different readings of the same material? How does a metaphorical interpretation differ from a metonymic one? 4. How does one construct an utterance to help a listener opt for one interpretation over the other? 5. What happens when one opts for a reading the speaker did not intend? 6. How, if this has occurred historically, can a reader recover the intended reading? 22  It is in this way, and for this reason, that cognitive linguistics is fundamentally forensic and literary criticism is fundamentally not. Consciously interpreting material using philosophically-based and culturally-bound categories imports potentially foreign functions of those categories into the interpretative event. Consciously interpreting material using natural categories avoids this by only including functions that are cognitively and psychologically real. In the same way, interpreting a painting might be a very different experience depending on whether one’s eyeglasses were fashioned according to one’s actual level and type of visual impairment or whether they were stylistically fashioned without regard to prescription. If we don’t know how the eyes work, we cannot correct vision; if we don’t know how metaphor actually cognitively operates, we cannot expect to interpret metaphors reliably. Again, Heidegger: “In the [hermeneutic] circle is hidden a positive possibility of the most primordial kind of knowing. To be sure, we genuinely take hold of this possibility only when, in our interpretation, we have understood that our first, last, and constant task is never to allow our fore-having, fore-sight, and fore-conception to be presented to us by fancies and popular conceptions, but rather to make the scientific theme secure by working out these fore-structures in terms of the things themselves” (emphasis mine). For which, see Heidegger, Being and Time, 195. See also Gadamer’s treatment and response in Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method, trans. Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall, 2nd ed. (New York: Continuum, 2006), 268–273. 23   Klaus-Uwe Panther and Günter Radden, “Introduction,” in Metonymy in Language and Thought, ed. Klaus-Uwe Panther and Günter Radden (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 1999), 1: “Many different classifications of tropes have been proposed, starting with Aristotle, who subsumed metonymy and synecdoche under metaphor” (emphasis mine). Also Brigitte Nerlich, David D. Clarke, and Zazie Todd, “‘Mummy, I like being a sandwich’: Metonymy in Language Acquisition,” in Metonymy in Language and Thought, ed. Klaus-Uwe Panther and Günter Radden (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 1999), 362: “In Chapter 21 of his Poetics Aristotle distinguished between four classes of ‘metaphors,’ which included what was later to be called ‘metonymy’ and ‘synecdoche’” (emphasis mine).

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Of course, there are other methodological questions attending these. Do natural categories even exist? If they do, to what degree are they culturally informed or bound? If they do, why is it useful to maintain old categories (such as “metaphor,” “metonymy,” and “synecdoche”) at all? How can lines be drawn between historic and natural categories? These last questions will be the subject of this chapter, because they lay the methodological groundwork for the kind of analysis I will be doing throughout. The six listed above, then, will be the methodological questions that drive later chapters. For the present, let us begin with this: there may be an historical inclination to conflate (or perhaps even confuse) metaphor and metonymy. My interest in this chapter will be to seek natural kind terms for these two tropes, and to propose definitions for them that are based in human, embodied cognition (a condition that would render the terms “natural”—and my methodological approach warranted).24 My hope is that, once meanings and phenomenologies have been established, it will begin to become clear what strategies have been employed in the history of Revelation’s interpretation, what strategies have not, and perhaps what strategies should be. It will be my contention that, although the language of metaphor has long attended the Apocalypse,25 the actual cognitive and pragmatic functions of the natural category of metaphor have not.26 It has not truly been read metaphorically (by our definition of 24  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 117–19. It is true that some relevance theorists don’t agree that metaphors are natural, but those objections are specifically to linguistic metaphors; see Dan Sperber and Deirdre Wilson, “A Deflationary Account of Metaphors,” in The Cambridge Handbook of Metaphor and Thought, ed. Raymond W. Gibbs (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 84. To say a linguistic (non-cognitive) metaphor is non-natural is like saying a flightless bird cannot fly. The category presumes the characteristic. 25  The idea of “metaphor” occurs in the commentaries almost as often as the idea of “judgment” does. In the interests of space, I will only point for example to Beale, Revelation, 55–58; Aune, Revelation 1–5, 13, 47–48; Koester, Revelation, 142; and Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 99–101. 26  Susan Hylen, in her excellent 2011 article in CBQ “Metaphor Matters: Violence and Ethics in Revelation,” comes closest to treating the violence of the Apocalypse as a conceptual metaphor (781), and even of the type argument is war (782, 795). But she decides ultimately to treat God’s violence metonymically as judgment (“[t]he metaphor of Christ’s battle against his enemies speaks to God’s judgment against oppression and injustice,” 794); Christ’s violence as real, even if metaphorical (“to say that the lamb’s conquering is metaphorical is not to say that it is nonviolent … [t]he lamb does not magically transform the lion into something nonviolent,” 789); and the outcome of the use of those violent metaphors as dangerously shaping “the imagination of the interpreter” (780; though she uses the same argument is war metaphor herself on p. 783.) Hylen even talks about how “[o]ne might experience academic discourse [which she had just been describing using the metaphor] as a conversation or as a cooperative effort” (783), but does not apply

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the term). Instead, the book has been treated—almost without exception— metonymically, at least as regards the supposed “judgment” material. And that interpretive strategy has kept it from becoming relevant to its readers, ancient and modern. 2.2

Metaphor Is Natural to Cognition

Things don’t need to be recognized to exist. Gravity, centripetal force, and dark matter performed their operations long before we were aware of them, and our becoming aware hasn’t changed them. There are also neuronal processes in our own bodies that operate, and have always operated, without requiring our awareness of them to do so. Photoreceptors in the eyes are activated and we see. Sound waves in the inner ear are transduced and we hear. We did not have to take classes in anatomy, physiology, or neurobiology for that to happen. It works how it works, whether or not we understand it. Cognitive phenomena have that sense of reality and materiality. They don’t need recognition to be or to work. Metaphor is a phenomenon.27 It can be—and has long been—used, recognized, named, argued over, accepted, rejected, and responded to. Perhaps like eyes or ears or gravity, there have been historic arguments between this explanation and that; but the phenomenon just keeps working away oblivious to our models for it. People continue to explain things by using words “belonging to something else.” Love is a journey (“we’ve come far”), happy is up (“you really lifted my spirits”), and argument is war (“let me defend my argument”).28 The question that is pertinent to our study is whether this phenomenon (or perhaps better this class of phenomenon) is a real thing. Is it a natural category? Can it be analyzed like the process of sight can? Can it be explained like the process of hearing can?

that positive, cooperative sense to God’s or the Lamb’s use of violence, which remains “something one does over one’s enemies” (784). Argumentation in the academy is a positive and productive thing. Why would it not be in Revelation? 27  For studies on the neuronal processes attending metaphor (the “neural theory” of metaphor) see Jerome Feldman and Srinivas Narayanan, “Embodied Meaning in a Neural Theory of Language,” Brain and Language 89.2 (2004): 385–92. The neural theory is entirely compatible with CMT; for which, see Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 254–59. 28  Each are common and well-established conceptual metaphors; see Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 44, 14, and 4 respectively.

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There are several theories within the fields of cognitive studies and cognitive linguistics that say that it is and it can. For the purposes of our research, we will be focusing on three in particular: conceptual metaphor theory (CMT), deliberate metaphor theory (DMT),29 and blending theory. They are genetically related through CMT, though they have diverged in terminology, research interests, and application over the years. 2.2.1 Conceptual Metaphor Theory In 1980, George Lakoff and Mark Johnson coauthored Metaphors We Live By. It looks at metaphor as a cognitive process first, and only subsequently (and sometimes) a linguistic phenomenon. Metaphors are cognitive constructs, “understanding and experiencing one kind of thing in terms of another.”30 By a process of neuronal “mapping,”31 ideas from two separate and distinct domains are related to one another. This “contemporary theory” has largely replaced Aristotle’s comparison to become a theoretical pillar in the scientific study of metaphor;32 but notice how very close Aristotle’s intuition was to the actual mental processes that describe cognitive metaphor. “One thing in terms of another” is not very different from Aristotle’s “word belonging to something else.” That separateness or other-ness is an essential component of metaphor. Love and journeys are not very similar things, nor are emotions and height or argument and war. The main difference between the two lies in the empirical (versus philosophical) grounding of CMT. The necessary and sufficient condition for metaphor from a CMT perspective is cross-domain mapping.33 Domains are “experiential gestalts”—groups of experientially-related elements that form a whole.34 Driving is a modern domain. From a young age we have the experience of getting in the family car, going on long rides, perhaps getting lost, breaking down, stopping to see the scenery, etc.; and these experiences form a cohesive 29  As set forth in Gerard Steen, “From Three Dimensions to Five Steps: The Value of Deliberate Metaphor,” Metaphorik.de 21 (2011): 83–110. 30  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 5. Italics original. 31  Ibid. For a discussion of the development of this term, see the sections “Metaphors for Metaphors” (252–54) and “Primary Metaphor and the Neural Theory” (254–57). 32  Raymond W. Gibbs, “Why Do Some People Dislike CMT?,” Cognitive Semiotics 5.1–2 (2009): 14: “Conceptual metaphor theory (CMT) is the dominant force in the contemporary world of interdisciplinary metaphor studies”; George Lakoff, “The Contemporary Theory of Metaphor,” in Metaphor and Thought, ed. Andrew Ortony, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 202–51. 33  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 117. Also see Kövecses, Metaphor, for the glossary entries for “conceptual metaphor” on p. 324 and for “mapping” on p. 327. 34  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 77 (and the rest of chapter 15).

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whole in our cognitive architecture that could be termed the driving or riding domain. The ability to form gestalts is the psychological origin of domains and frames.35 These ever-forming and ever-refining knowledge structures are large building blocks of cognition that can be recruited at need, occasionally for the purpose of forming metaphors. War (as a subdomain of struggle) is one such domain-forming gestalt.36 When the gestalt-formed domain of war is used to understand the other domain of argument (in other words, when they have been “mapped”), a metaphor is born. There will usually be multiple available mappings between the two domains, as Aristotle’s comparison theory predicted there would be multiple (potential) similarities. The necessary and sufficient condition for metonymy on the other hand is intra-domain mapping.37 An element within a domain is standing for another element within that same domain, or within the same gestalt-unified “domain matrix.”38 Talking about a player at third base as in the phrase “we need a better glove at third base” is a metonymy because there is a single mapping between two elements (the glove and the player) in the same domain (baseball).39 Because this is a simple, single mapping, metonymy does not have the complexity that metaphor does. Multiple similarities do not grow out of the initial mapping like they do with metaphors. This is to be expected, given that 35  For a fuller definition of “frame,” see section 3.3.1.1.1.1 “lexical units.” 36  For war as a domain, see Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 83–85 and section 3.3.1.1.1 (below); for a discussion as to whether war or more general struggle is mapped to argument in the metaphor argument (struggle) is war, see Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 265 (in the section Some Corrections and Clarifications) and David Ritchie, “ ‘ARGUMENT IS WAR’-Or Is It a Game of Chess? Multiple Meanings in the Analysis of Implicit Metaphors,” Metaphor & Symbol 18.2 (2003): 125–46. 37  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 265. This sub-section on the whole (“Some Corrections and Clarifications,” 264–67) is in fact a very helpful discussion of the differences between the two. Also Kövecses, Metaphor, 324 (under “Conceptual Metonymy”). 38  At the theoretical level, this distinction may be helpful; but at the practical level, people “experience” domain matrices as unitary domains; for which, see William Croft, “The Role of Domains in the Interpretation of Metaphors and Metonymies” in Metaphor and Metonymy in Comparison and Contrast, ed. René Dirven and Ralf Pörings (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 2003), 177. This is because they are formed by gestalts. Riding and driving may be two different domains; but they are related closely enough that, though the riding domain may have been formed in youth (when one rides rather than drives), an appeal to it is an appeal to the driving domain as well. They aren’t sufficiently different to be outside the same domain matrix (or, within our nomenclature, the same domain). Argument is war and argument is struggle show this same theoretical nuance. Struggle and war are sufficiently similar that an appeal to one (war) would be an appeal to the other (struggle). And so we will continue to use Lakoff and Johnson’s customary language of domains rather than domains and domain matrices. 39  An example from Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 38.

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the metonymy never leaves the single domain. All entailments are available with or without the mapping. All the metonymy does (and this is not truly a minor feature) is give prominence to one particular feature of the domain. The baseball fan is not particularly worried about the player at third base as a person, she is worried about his ability to catch and the effect that ability has on whether her team will win or not. In the “Some Corrections and Clarifications” section of the Afterword, 2003 in the new edition of Metaphors We Live By,40 Lakoff and Johnson actually make the distinction between metaphor and metonymy on the basis of single or multiple domains somewhat less clear; but this confusion will help make our point. They use an intentionally (purportedly) difficult example: “San Francisco is a half hour from Berkeley” (italics original).41 They are trying to explain some of the complexities in differentiating between metaphor and metonymy. After having just claimed one page prior that “In a metaphor, there are two domains … [and] In a metonymy, there is only one domain” (italics original), they say that the half hour trip to San Francisco is a two-domain metonymy (which, according to their own theory, shouldn’t exist).42 Their justification for this is that the trip is a “single complex frame” (italics original).43 And it is this single frame—constituted by the two simple domains of time and space as well as the single mapping between them (rather than multiple ones)—that causes the phrase to be metonymic.44 There are two problems with their clarification. 1. There is a category confusion. Time and Space are being considered as separate gestalts (and so as separate domains) but also as frame elements 40  Ibid., 264–67. 41  Ibid., 266. 42  And most theorists would agree that it does not exist, specifically because the number of domains mapped (two or one) constitutes metaphor and metonymy respectively. See Kövecses, Metaphor, 108, 173; and Croft, “Role of Domains,” 161–205. 43  Cf. note 38 above on “domain matrices.” 44  Or do frames reside within domains? For which, see Karen Sullivan, Frames and Constructions in Metaphoric Language, Constructional Approaches to Language 14 (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2013), 23–28, under the heading “Frame structure in metaphor input domains.” She ultimately decides, largely because metaphors are constituted by them, to retain domains as the superstructure and to see frames as working within them. This shouldn’t matter for the present discussion, however, because both domains and frames are gestalt-originated and are constituted by several related elements. In other words, metonymies should be intra-domain and intra-frame, and metaphors inter-domain and inter-frame, equally. For the theory that the terms “domain” and “frame” are actually describing the same cognitive phenomenon, see William Croft and David A. Cruse, Cognitive Linguistics (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 16–17, under the heading “Some consequences of the profile-frame/domain distinction.”

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(within one frame).45 The frame-level, they say, then joins the two gestaltformed domains, rendering the metonymy. The category confusion is that frame elements are being equated with experiential gestalts. Elements can’t be gestalts. It is the gestalt-level experience—the larger experience, the experience as a whole—that gives meaning and substance to the constituent parts (the elements).46 If time and space are elements (which they clearly are), they should be elements within gestalts, not gestalts themselves. “Element” is the wrong conceptual size for a gestalt, and therefore for a domain. Time and space should be viewed as elements in this case and not domains. 2. There is no theoretical reason to separate time and space here; rather the opposite. Domains, as experiential gestalts, will commonly be constituted by time and space elements. Much work has been done on the fusion of time and space in cognitive systems that they neglect here. FrameNet (http://framenet.icsi.berkeley.edu) regularly lists “time” and “space” as element-types within single frames.47 Both frames and domains commonly want time and space within them, and together. Taking the domain driving as an example, that experiential gestalt is formed by covering distances (space) over periods of time. Time and space have to be elements within that domain because people can’t take trips without both time and motion. They are not separate experiences, they will not form separate gestalt concepts, and so they will not be separate domains. Time in a Hawkingian sense and space in a Euclidean sense may be separate domains, but these are not the “time” and “space” being appealed to in a trip to San Francisco. The time and space for driving is. And in that (single) domain, time and space are harmonious elements. One reason that Lakoff and Johnson nevertheless (and rightly) intuit a metonymy here is that all terms are occupying the same knowledge structure 45  For an introduction to frame semantics, see Charles J. Fillmore, “Frame Semantics and the Nature of Language,” Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences 280.1 (1976): 20–32. 46  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 70–71, 81. 47  E.g., the time and place frame elements under the frame Hostile_encounter (http:// framenet2.icsi.berkeley.edu/fnReports/data/frameIndex.xml?frame=Hostile_encounter). This frame is broadly representative of many others in this way, and the FrameNet Project out of U.C. Berkeley’s International Computer Science Institute is broadly representative of frame theory in general. To quote Miriam R. L. Petruck, “Advances in Frame Semantics,” in Advances in Frame Semantics, eds. Mirjam Fried and Kiki Nikiforidou (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2013), 2: “Without a doubt, FrameNet (http://framenet.icsi.berkeley.edu) represents the most important advance in Frame Semantics theory since the introduction of the frame into linguistics.”

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(of whatever designation). Metonymy wants sameness. Metaphor wants difference.48 Metonymy will only use one mapping to provide access and prominence to the element under consideration. Metaphor on the other hand will invite multiple mappings because it wants to provide new inferences to a separate domain that, otherwise, would remain largely opaque.49 This speaks to the origins and pragmatic uses and usefulness of metaphor. Metaphors are used to understand things—“one thing in terms of another.” If Revelation is hard to understand, a metaphorical reading might be able to resolve the interpretive difficulty. A metonymic one should not be able to do that.50 Using a metonymic strategy to resolve a metaphor would yield nonrelevance. If the target domain is “bewildering,” or “bizarre,” or “difficult,” only a source domain that is more clear, concrete, and basic (and so different, and so metaphor) will help explain it. Arguments are notoriously complex and intangible. Wars however are very concrete experiences. Metaphorically picturing argument as a war, then, is a way of “getting a handle” on an otherwise intangible subject. If someone says to her partner “stop attacking my position,” she doesn’t mean that mortars have been launched, she means her partner is being perhaps overly aggressive in countering her opinion. She is using the conceptual metaphor argument is war to structure her language. In that way, the source domain (war) gives understanding and concreteness to the target domain (argument). A metonymy on the other hand provides no new inferences. Its task is not to explain but to highlight.51 It relies on similarity rather than difference. Lakoff and Johnson are consciously responding to Aristotle’s thesis (that metaphor is based on a perceived similarity) when they define metaphor as crossdomain mapping. The first metaphor they discuss in Metaphors We Live By is the argument is war metaphor: “Arguments and wars are different kinds of things—verbal discourse and armed conflict—and the actions performed are 48  Granted that “sameness” and “difference” are not sufficiently constitutive principles of metonymy and metaphor by themselves (for which, see Nick Riemer, “When is a Metonymy No Longer a Metonymy?,” in Metaphor and Metonymy in Comparison and Contrast, ed. René Dirven and Ralf Pörings (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 2003), 400); but they are indicative of them (Croft, “Role of Domains,” 178). 49  “In the case of metonymy, there is never more than one relation connecting source and target”; thus, Beatrice Warren, “An Alternative Account of the Interpretation of Referential Metonymy and Metaphor,” in Metaphor and Metonymy in Comparison and Contrast, ed. René Dirven and Ralf Pörings (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 2003), 117. 50  See note 51, below. 51   Klaus-Uwe Panther and Linda L. Thornburg, “Introduction: On the Nature of Conceptual Metonymy,” in Metonymy and Pragmatic Inferencing, ed. Klaus-Uwe Panther and Linda L. Thornburg (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2003), 5.

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different kinds of actions. But argument is partially structured, understood, performed, and talked about in terms of war.”52 Warfare is useful in explaining arguments particularly because it is different—it is concrete and embodied and physical. Structural relationships (cause and effect, obstacles and goals) are helpful but actual inferences (harm, death) should not be. Metonymies do however rely on similarity or even identity. Because all terms occupy the same domain, every term comes pre-related. The “glove” at third base is already related to the baseball player wearing it; and if it were not, the metonymic target would never be understood. Because metonymies are singly mapped and are referential, they are grammatically sub-sentential. They do not “occur above the phrase-level.”53 Once the reference is made (“glove” to “baseball player,” “shield” to “Ares,” etc.) the code is decoded and the trope has served its purpose. Further elaboration is unnecessary and non-relevant. Metaphors however—whose mappings are potentially unlimited—can extend through a sentence, paragraph, or even the entire length of a story (the so-called “extended metaphor” or “megametaphor”).54 Metonymies don’t explain large sections of text. In fact, they don’t explain at all. They reference. Metaphors can however make those extended explanations, and the presence of the extension of a single trope is evidence that metaphor is at play rather than metonymy.55 And so, to summarize, within CMT there are several diagnostic characteristics of metaphor that differentiate it from metonymy. These characteristics establish “metaphor” and “metonymy” as natural categories:56 1. Metaphors have two domains, metonymies have only one. 2. Metaphors make use of (or at least make available) multiple mappings, metonymies only use one. 3. Metaphors provide new understanding, metonymies provide access. 4. Metaphors use a source that is not naturally related, metonymies use a source that is. 5. Metaphors want difference, metonymies want sameness. 52  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 5, alongside their earliest definition for “metaphor.” 53  Warren, “Alternative Account,” 117. 54  Kövecses, Metaphor, 57–59 (section titled “Megametaphors”). 55  Gerard Steen, “Developing, Testing and Interpreting Deliberate Metaphor Theory,” Journal of Pragmatics 90 (2015): 68–69 (“extended metaphors,” the extensions of which he explicitly takes to be proof of metaphor). 56  For a comparative list of differentiating characteristics by Beatrice Warren see Warren, “Alternative Account,” 116–18. Note also that her six-item list is self-awaredly incomplete (116).

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6. 7.

Metaphors seek to explain, metonymies seek to highlight. Metaphors’ source domains are concrete, basic, and tangible compared to their target domains which are abstract, complex, and intangible; metonymies have no such disparity. 8. Metaphors can be extended and can cover sentences, paragraphs, and even whole works; metonymies are local and operate only at the level of the word or phrase. These eight diagnostic characteristics hold also within DMT, and we will consider them more fully as regards the text of Revelation in chapter five. Blending theory (chapters three and four) makes use of the intuitions and relationships proposed by CMT in its own ways. But generally, and for all of them, it is worthwhile to emphasize one important insight CMT gives to the definition of metaphor that Aristotle did not have: metaphors like difference. They want source domains that are not like their targets. If Revelation’s violent imagery is metaphorical, the target domain of that metaphor should be something dissimilar to violence. Whatever it may be, war as a domain was not chosen because of the implications of violence; it was chosen because the real, concrete, structural operations of war could provide tangible and experiential explanation for another, more abstract, domain (such as restoration or even salvation). The classical, Aristotelian model for metaphor has led interpreters to look for a target for John’s violent imagery that was itself violent. That is a methodological assumption that may have served its time. 2.2.2 Deliberate Metaphor Theory Deliberate metaphor theory is a development out of CMT. In 2008, Gerard Steen made the observation that, while the theoretical definition of metaphor may happily remain cross-domain mapping, in practice metaphors often seem to not actually prompt hearers to map across domains.57 Most metaphors a person uses—almost tautologically—are standard ones. They are used often enough that they have become conventionalized. When that happens, the 57  Gerard Steen, “The Paradox of Metaphor: Why We Need a Three-Dimensional Model of Metaphor,” Metaphor and Symbol 23.4 (2008): 213–41. I will not be making this argument myself, however. I do agree that some metaphors are “deliberate” in the sense that they call metalinguistic attention to themselves as metaphors in general—and will be making the case that the war metaphor in Revelation does this in particular—but I do not agree that non-deliberate metaphors don’t make use of cross-domain mapping. See Raymond W. Gibbs, “Evaluating Conceptual Metaphor Theory,” Discourse Processes: A Multidisciplinary Journal 48.8 (2011): 529–562. This is a non-issue for the present work, however, because both Gibbs and Steen (and I) agree that deliberate metaphors do certainly make use of cross-domain mapping.

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words that instantiate the metaphor in language begin to take on the lexical meaning that the metaphor imputes to them. In other words, the metaphor “dies.”58 Its evidence is still in the language, but the mind is no longer making a conscious (or, better, “deliberate”) association between domains. Two examples Steen uses are “fervent” and “ardent.”59 Humans (especially in the West) tend to conceptualize love and passion in terms of heat and fire. The words fervent and ardent used to have temperature-related meanings (from the Latin ardere “to burn” and fervere “to boil”). Those words now are very rarely used in that literal sense. They have been mapped so fully and completely to the domain of human emotion that the actual lexical concepts have changed.60 On the basis of examples like these, Steen came to two conclusions pertinent to our study. The first is that, while the theoretical definition for metaphors may stand, how metaphors are actually processed in real-world discourse situations needs further exploration.61 I would suggest that the progression from living to dead metaphors can be explained by Lakoff and Johnson’s category choices in their explanation of the above metonymy “San Francisco is a half hour from Berkeley.”62 Though they ultimately decided on metonymy, they struggled with wanting to name it a metaphor as well because the time for space metonymy ostensibly looks like the space is time metaphor. The issue is the size and type of knowledge structures under consideration. We have so far considered two types of knowledge structure: domains and frames.63 War is an experientially-based domain64 while Hostile_encounter is 58  Kövecses, Metaphor, xi. 59  Gerard J. Steen et al., A Method for Linguistic Metaphor Identification: From MIP to MIPVU (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2010), 6–7. 60  These two could constitute a case where a “metaphor” (if it could still be called that) does not exhibit cross domain mapping. But this is an unusual case for two reasons: 1) the metaphor has truly died (most interlocutors are unaware of the original association of “fervent” and “ardent” to the source domain heat), and therefore 2) it is an instance of, at least partial, pragmatic failure. The interlocutors are using words that cannot yield full relevance because the lexical connotations have been lost (and so other heat-related weak implicatures won’t be prompted). It would be odd to use instances of how language fails to derive explanations for how language works. 61  Gerard J. Steen et al., “Metaphor in Usage,” Cognitive Linguistics 21.4 (2010): 765–96. 62  Steen is also much concerned with “dead metaphors” or the so-called “career of metaphors,” as they form the origin story for his development of DMT; see Steen, “The Paradox of Metaphor,” 216–8. I would suggest that there are actually three levels of metaphor, based on the interoperation of mapping and recognition: deliberate metaphors (which are mapped and recognized), standard conceptual metaphors (which are mapped and largely un-recognized) and dead metaphors (which are unmapped and unrecognized). 63  See sections 2.2.1 above and 3.3.1.1.1.1 below, and particularly note 44 in section 2.2.1 discussing the distinction (or lack thereof) between domains and frames. 64  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 4.

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the abstracted frame within which war situates.65 There is another knowledge structure we will consider in the next section which is much smaller and more ephemeral than these, called a “mental space.”66 Every thought, however small, uses them. Because metaphors are cognitive associations, they can exist at all three of these levels. When they exist at the level of mental spaces, they are new and ad hoc and ephemeral (and so “deliberate”). Those new metaphors can become conventionalized however.67 They can solidify through regular use into more permanent levels of knowledge structure, and their metaphorical denotations become more permanent as well. Steen believes, at that point, that speakers may still perform the mapping, but need not because the crossdomain associations are now concretized into the lexical units themselves. Frames however are the abstract structure of language, thought, and experience. Some metaphors become so entrenched that they fully “die” and move into the permanent framework of our thought. The lexical units may now no longer point to the source domain at all, Steen argues, as with “fervent” and “ardent.” It is almost impossible, for example, to talk about love without appeal to metaphor. Love is a journey (we’ve come a long way), or a contest (he won her love), or a container (they fell in love), etc. It is almost never described in terms of its psychosomatic phenomena (though it can be; e.g., “you make my pulse quicken”). Most love metaphors are so fundamental (read “frame-level”) that we don’t even realize we’re using them. The three levels at which metaphor can exist, then—mental space, domain, and frame—describe the progression for the “death” of metaphors. The deeper they go, the more fundamental and “dead” they become, and the less aware of them we are (though the more crucial to our cognition).68 Steen’s second conclusion is that the relatively small sub-group of metaphors that do actually cause cross-domain mapping in the minds of interlocutors should be terminologically differentiated from conventional ones. This is the origin of the term “deliberate” in DMT.69 Deliberate metaphors seem to be 65  http://framenet2.icsi.berkeley.edu/fnReports/data/frame/Hostile_encounter.xml. Note the other lexical units related to this frame such as “brawl,” “confrontation,” and “struggle.” Clearly (at least in this case) the frame is more generalized than the domain. 66  Gilles Fauconnier, Mental Spaces: Aspects of Meaning Construction in Natural Language (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). 67  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 103: “frames are entrenched mental spaces that we can activate all at once.” 68  Kövecses, Metaphor, xi, where he points out that “dead” is rather a misnomer here. The more “dead” a metaphor becomes, the more “alive” it is in one’s cognition. It may seem dead because we are less aware of it, but that subconscious activity allows it to structure our knowledge with minimal processing. “Dead” metaphors make thought efficient in other words. 69  Steen, “Paradox of Metaphor,” 222.

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doing in actual practice what all metaphors do on the theoretical level. Since 2010 Steen and his working group, the Metaphor Lab in Amsterdam,70 have been working to produce a complete account of metaphor that involves a cognitive (conceptual), semantic (linguistic), and pragmatic (discursive) description of the phenomena. The structure of my research is owed in part to theirs. And so, in terms of differentiating between metaphor and metonymy, DMT retains the benefits and insights of CMT (especially the eight diagnostic differences listed above in section 2.2.1). It also adds that deliberate metaphors, because they demand deliberate processing, call attention to themselves as metaphors. They wish to be called up into consciousness and processed at the knowledge-structure-level of the mental space (either because they are new or because processing them consciously serves some deliberative purpose, as was the case in our discussion of “fervent” and “ardent”).71 This “calling up” is signaled by various means in the discourse, and the linguistic “flags” that do the calling will be the subject of chapter five. They are an important addition to our study because they are evidence that the metaphor argument is war is at play, and that the author of Revelation meant his readers to process it in a deliberate metaphorical (cross-domain) way. 2.2.3 Blending Theory The intricacies of blending theory will be introduced at the start of the next chapter because its “constitutional and governing principles” are best explained by example,72 and our particular example will be from a passage of central importance to the opening words of Revelation (Dan 2:1–49). It is therefore only necessary at this point to give a general overview. Blending theory owes its origin partly to Lakoff and Johnson’s work with metaphor,73 but it comes most directly from Gilles Fauconnier’s work with mental spaces. Mental spaces are knowledge structures of the mind which can be quickly recruited, changed,

70  http://metaphorlab.org/. 71  Domains and frames can be recruited as mental spaces; see Fauconnier, Mental Spaces, 31 (section 1.6.3, “Domain Spaces”) and Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 40 (“Mental Spaces”). This gives truth and procedural explanation to Steen’s claim that even the most conventional metaphorical concepts can be marked for deliberate processing. In those cases, there is a pragmatic prompt to recruit from a domain or frame to (re)construct a (once-)dead metaphor. 72  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 309–52. Their entire work is based on exemplar case studies. 73  Recognized to some degree in Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, Acknowledgements (vii) and throughout the text (e.g., 15 and 397).

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embellished, and discarded for the purposes of localized thought and action.74 One does not have the mental space break in eternally in one’s conscious mind, but the sound of breaking glass late at night can recruit that mental space with great speed.75 Mental spaces are smaller, quicker, and more ephemeral than the more stable (and usually more involved) cognitive domains and frames. The “blending” of blending theory is the activity of blending elements within mental spaces to create something new. Metaphors are a kind of blending. One mental space (the source) is used to understand another (the target), with the result that the target has a new subsistence (the blend). The strength and added value of blending theory to CMT is that it describes the actual process of metaphor formation, where CMT largely looks at it in a static and synchronic way.76 Blending, and conceptual integration on the whole, works in certain ways and not in others. And those rules allow one to make predictions about how metaphors (and metonymies) will and will not behave. Particularly important for our purposes are how mental spaces are formed, how they relate (especially by analogy), and how they make use of compression, emergent structure, selective projection, recursion, and reverse projection. These terms will be defined and the actual functionality of the theory will be fully demonstrated in and through the next two chapters, and so I will not anticipate that demonstration here. Pertinent for the moment is that blending theory is genetically related to CMT, and each one of the theoretical features listed will be shown to be operating in ways consistent with metaphor and not metonymy in the war narrative of Revelation. 2.3

Metaphor Is Natural to Comprehension

History is communication in need of contextualization. Even historical documents that are not themselves histories require contextualization. This is so because modern readers do not share the cognitive environment of the original readers and authors. Works were written assuming a certain mutual cognitive environment, and so the task of the historian is to restore that context.77 74  For the original definition of mental spaces, see Fauconnier, Mental Spaces, 16–22. Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 40 provides a shorter summary. 75  To use an example from RT; see Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 612. 76  A point made in Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 3. 77  Mutual manifestness and the mutual cognitive environment are defined in full in Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 38–46. They argue that “mutual manifestness” is to be preferred over “mutual knowledge.” To know something mutually is an infinitely regressing

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Communicative sciences therefore may speak meaningfully to the process of historical reconstruction.78 Pragmatics is the study of language production and comprehension in actual use, or “context-dependent aspects of meaning.”79 In the study of literature, even (and perhaps especially) historical literature, it therefore has a rightful place. 2.3.1 General Principles of Inferential Pragmatics I have made the charge that comprehension is the essential point of failure in the history of the interpretation of Revelation. If that is true, then there is (and has always been) an assumption or an array of assumptions within John’s cognitive environment that wasn’t in that of his later readers (or vice-versa). I will be making the argument that the specific assumption that he had, that we have not shared, is the presence and perceptibility of the extended metaphor argument is war. John was mapping war to argument (yielding the conceptual metaphor argument is war) while every one of his historical readers has mapped war rather to judgment (yielding the conceptual metonymy war for judgment).80 Without the assumption of the metaphor, our cognitive environments could never become “mutual” and the communication could never be fully comprehended. Relevance is a theory-specific way of talking about the effects utterances are supposed to have on hearers (and readers).81 An utterance (a unit of comproposition, whereas manifestness (which relies on mental representation and not full knowledge) does not, because to know that we mutually know something requires that we know that we know that we know, etc.; but for something to be mutually manifest, it is simply a matter of it being representable to the degree the conversation requires, and considered to be probably true (p. 39). The resultant shared mental space is mutual cognitive environment, from which all context that does, or can, create contextual implications is drawn. 78  For an introduction to the field of historical pragmatics, see Andreas H. Jucker, ed., Historical Pragmatics: Pragmatic Developments in the History of English (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 1995), especially its introduction (3–33). Note that our approach is of the form “diachronic function-to-form mapping” (13, italics original), whereby the function “metaphor” is being analyzed for change in comprehension. 79  Horn and Ward, “Introduction,” xi. 80  Not that no one has applied the argument is war designation to Revelation; for which, see Hylen, “Metaphor Matters,” 782, 795. But note that, instead of allowing the cognitive metaphor to turn God’s actions into an actual “argument” (as the metaphor would seem to demand), she allows it to remain a signal for “violence” (789, 795–96) and “judgment” (793–94), as a metonymy might. Effectively, she is naming the trope the metaphor argument is war, but treating it as the metonymy war for judgment. 81  For the purposes of this study, we will be using the terms “hearer” and “reader” largely interchangeably.

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munication) is relevant if it yields a positive cognitive effect—if it changes the hearer’s conception of the world in worthwhile ways either by revision of assumptions or the derivation of contextual implications.82 Of course “worthwhile” is a subjective idea, and speaker and hearer may disagree as to what constitutes it, but at least the assumption of relevance is always there.83 It is an exceptionless promise which, like metaphorical mapping or seeing or hearing, doesn’t need to be understood to work.84 The hearer has that expectation, and the speaker knows that he does. It is, in fact, on the basis of this principle that communication is ever attempted. A person’s ability (or at least inclination) to guess what an interlocutor’s idea of “worthwhile” (and therefore “relevance”) is finds explanation in the psychological theory of metarepresentation.85 Metarepresentations are representations of representations, including thoughts about thoughts. People who are communicating with one another make metarepresentational guesses about what the other is thinking. It would be impossible to infer meaning otherwise. The first metarepresentation that interlocutors make is an assumption of relevance. You are communicating with me for some purpose that you metarepresent me as thinking will make a worthwhile difference to my own representations of the world. You think I’ll care. I metarepresent that what you are communicating is something you think I will care about. I think you think I’ll care. What relevance theory is attempting to do then is to explain how communicators move from this general assumption to the more specific assumptions that will achieve meaning-transference in any actual instance of communication. Metarepresentation is, or at least contains, the “module” of the mind that enables communication.86 When language fails, the metarepresentational 82  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 609. 83  Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber, “Introduction: Pragmatics,” in Meaning and Relevance, ed. Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 6: “Speakers may fail to be relevant, but they can not, if they are genuinely communicating (as opposed, say, to rehearsing a speech), produce utterances that do not convey a presumption of their own relevance.” 84  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 162: “Communicators and audience need no more know the principle of relevance to communicate than they need to know the principles of genetics to reproduce … The principle of relevance applies without exception.” It is named “exceptionless” on page 287. 85  For a thorough exposition of metarepresentation from an RT perspective, see Eun-Ju Noh, Metarepresentation: A Relevance-Theory Approach (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2000). 86  For modularity as a structure of the mind within which language comprehension is achieved, see Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber, “Pragmatics, Modularity and Mindreading,” in Meaning and Relevance, ed. Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber (Cambridge: Cambridge

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system has failed. Attributions are made that are inaccurate. We will see in later chapters that the metonymic metarepresentation of judgment—rather than the metaphorical metarepresentation of argument—is the specific failure that has rendered Revelation non-relevant. 2.3.2 H. P. Grice Relevance theory is a development generally from the field of pragmatics and specifically from the work of Paul Grice. In 1967, Grice delivered the William James series of lectures at Harvard on the theme “Logic and Conversation” that substantively changed the world of linguistics.87 It is there that he set out his inferential theory of communication—that communication takes place not just by a process of encoding and decoding language, but by doing so within contexts shared by the speaker and hearer (which Sperber and Wilson have defined as the mutual cognitive environment), upon the basis of which meaning can be ostensified (and so implied) and attributed (and so inferred). Language, taught Grice, is cooperative. And so his theory is set out in the form of a “Cooperative Principle” and four categories of super-maxims that should be followed in interest of that cooperation.88 What is methodologically telling for the purposes of this present work is that Grice counted figurative language (specifically irony, metaphor, meiosis, and hyperbole) as the intentional flouting of his maxim of Quality (truthfulness).89 The Cooperative Principle, at least on the whole, was not “exceptionless.” Love is not a journey, so it is strictly untrue to say, “we have come a long way.” Just the trope of metaphor alone (not to mention irony or hyperbole or even just approximation) made the principle of truthfulness largely a useless one. Truthfulness is often flouted. It was another one of his maxims instead—the Maxim of Relation (“be relevant”)90—that was the seed from which sprung

University Press, 2012), 261–78. Modularity as a theory is in direct conflict with the embodiment hypothesis of Lakoff and Johnson (Metaphors We Live By, 247, 254). Though Tendahl does not resolve it (choosing to side rather with Lakoff and Johnson), he does demonstrate that the conflicting cognitive-structural models do not constitute a fatal flaw in the co-operation of the two theories; see Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 180–88. 87  Grice, Studies in the Way of Words, (published posthumously). For an overview of his theory, see Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 21–24, 32–38. Horn and Ward, “Introduction,” xi, name Grice’s James lectures “The landmark event in the development of a systematic framework for pragmatics” on the first page of this 842-page handbook. 88  Grice, Studies in the Way of Words, 26–27. 89  Ibid., 34. 90  Ibid., 27.

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Sperber and Wilson’s pragmatic theory of “relevance.”91 And it had in itself enough explanatory power to render the other maxims unnecessary. The great contribution of Grice was that he, fully if not for the first time, replaced the old “code model” (italics original, and once again attributed to Aristotle).92 In that model, Person A has a thought and encodes it into language, and Person B decodes the language and arrives more or less at the same thought. The problem is that the code model is incomplete. There are several inferential steps that lie before, after, and around the process of decoding that are necessary for communication to take place. For instance, the phrase (code) “you should leave” has a very different sense when it is uttered to a loved one who is late to catch a plane than when it is uttered to a person who is being insulting in one’s home or office. It is the full spectrum of these inferential routines and subroutines that Gricean pragmatics attempts to explain. Metaphors are comprehended. That is a phenomenon. There can therefore be an empirical study of how they are comprehended, how they can be miscomprehended, and how they can be recomprehended if they have been lost.93 2.3.3 Relevance Theory The original theory of relevance was introduced in Dan Sperber and Deirdre Wilson’s 1986 Relevance: Communication and Cognition. Grice’s intuition that language was inferential was the theoretical given they began with.94 Language comprehension is a fundamentally inferential (which is to say, contextual and metarepresentational) process. And the first inference that is made is relevance. When one person produces an ostension (a communicative signal), that “act of ostensive communication communicates a presumption of its own optimal relevance.”95 The speaker presumes that what she is saying will produce the maximum cognitive effect (consistent with her own interests and abilities) for the minimum processing effort. It is essentially a 91  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 607. 92  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 2. 93  For calls for the empirical study of comprehension within an RT framework, see Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 32 and Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 608. For actual studies see, e.g., Dan Sperber, Francesco Cara, and Vittorio Girotto, “Relevance Theory Explains the Selection Task,” Cognition 57 (1995): 31–95; and Guy Politzer, “The Class Inclusion Question: a Case Study in Applying Pragmatics to the Experimental Study of Cognition,” SpringerPlus 5.1 (2016): 1–20. Francisco Yus’s well-maintained and online bibliography (http://personal.ua.es/francisco.yus/rt2.html) is an excellent resource for (many) other examples. 94  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 2. 95  Ibid., 260.

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communicative “‘cost-benefit’ analysis.”96 That promise of positive cognitive effect (that the benefits will outweigh the processing “costs”) is the presumption of all ostensive-inferential (purposeful) communication. Unlike Grice’s maxims, relevance is never flouted. It is based in cognitive pragmatics, specifically the cognitive principle that we seek maximum relevance in all things. We are scales (to use a deliberate metaphor). We constantly weigh the relative merit of our expenditures of energy. This is so because we have (and especially during our evolutionary development had) limited resources, and thus selection pressures. Attention wasted in one direction could make us vulnerable (to predators or competitors) or unaware of potential benefit (of food or sex) in another. It is an evolutionary law of our minds that we are constantly searching for relevance. The sound of breaking glass has much the same effect on tonight’s erstwhile sleeper that the sound of a roaring lion might have had several millennia ago.97 We are wired for efficiency, and that desire for efficiency is expressed in our communication by the cognitive principle of relevance: “Human cognition tends to be geared to the maximisation of relevance.”98 We do not wish to take part in communication that is not relevant, nor will we. The way these principles work out in practice is that there is a short and streamlined inferential process that humans use to lead them, by the quickest and most direct route, to speaker meaning. Wilson and Sperber have named it the relevance-theoretic comprehension procedure (RTCP) and this is their description of it: Relevance-theoretic comprehension procedure99 a. Follow a path of least effort in computing cognitive effects: Test interpretive hypotheses (disambiguations, reference resolutions, implicatures, etc.) in order of accessibility. b. Stop when your expectations of relevance are satisfied (or abandoned). One might recognize, in the language of “follow,” the essential inferentiality of comprehension. Also, they give greater detail to the processes that constitute the “test” phase:

96  Stephen Pattemore, The People of God in the Apocalypse: Discourse, Structure and Exegesis, SNTSMS 128 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 50. 97  To paraphrase an example: Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 612. 98  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 260. 99  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 613.

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Sub-tasks in the overall comprehension process100 a. Constructing an appropriate hypothesis about explicit content (in relevance-theoretic terms, EXPLICATURES) via decoding, disambiguation, reference resolution, and other pragmatic enrichment processes. b. Constructing an appropriate hypothesis about the intended contextual assumptions (in relevance-theoretic terms, IMPLICATED PREMISES). c. Constructing an appropriate hypothesis about the intended contextual implications (in relevance-theoretic terms, IMPLICATED CONCLUSIONS). The processes of following, testing, and constructing are metarepresentationally performed, based on a balance between what the communication costs one to process it and what potential benefit it has. Communicational analysis is a cost/benefit analysis. The speaker knows that the hearer is constantly performing that analysis, and so she will alter her delivery to not just provide a relevant meaning, but a meaning that is more relevant than any other possible meanings.101 A competition between strategies is cognitively expensive to process (as between a metonymic and metaphoric reading), and so RT predicts that a speaker or writer will clarify which she intends. How that is achieved in the case of metaphor is the subject of the next section. 2.3.4 Carston’s Two-Stage Theory of Metaphor Comprehension Robyn Carston (especially, though among other RT proponents)102 has concentrated over the last decade-and-a-half on explaining the phenomenon of metaphor from an RT perspective. Though she does not agree—and no RT pragmaticist would—that metaphor requires a unique comprehension procedure,103 there are functions within the general procedure (the RTCP) which will be normalized across all instances of metaphor. Two in particular are the formation of ad hoc concepts and a unique kind of metarepresentation of images.104

100  Ibid., 615. 101  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 270. 102  Including especially Deirdre Wilson (e.g., “Parallels and Differences”) and Catherine Wearing (e.g., “Autism, Metaphor and Relevance Theory,” Mind & Language 25.2 (2010): 196–216). 103  Robyn Carston and Catherine Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole and Simile: A Pragmatic Approach,” Language and Cognition 3.2 (2011): 285, 310; and as opposed to the “inflationary” accounts posed by Lakoff, Johnson, Kövecses, et al. (310). 104  Ibid., 285.

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Ad hoc concepts, in their immediacy and ephemerality, compare favorably to Fauconnier’s mental spaces. Their utility is in the immediate and localized processing of discourse. The proximality in the term “ad hoc” refers to the local, lexical change that words undergo when they are metaphorically used. The words “long way” mean something in common parlance (extended distance) that, under the contextual pressure of a relationship, come to mean something non-standard—a lot of shared experiences (as in “we’ve come a long way”). The lexical units now, in this particular discourse circumstance, have an ad hoc use, a use local to this particular conversation and context. For many uses of metaphor, this explanation is sufficient. Lexical units are “loosened” (a common pragmatic operation, though this is of a particular kind; see section 6.1.1) and ad hoc, metaphorical denotative concepts are derived. In the above example, the concepts “long” and “way” are loosened to include the relational categories of time and shared experience. But ad hoc formation does not describe all kinds of metaphor. Some metaphors are longer or more complex than the process of lexical loosening can allow for. In such “extended metaphors,” the reader or hearer will reach a point of processing overload and begin to process the metaphor literally.105 The entire, literal “story” or “image” will then be metarepresented as a metaphorical one. Life is a journey is a common metaphorical construct, so under normal circumstances a person will hear a phrase like “it’s been a rough road” and use standard lexical loosening to derive the ad hoc concept “it’s been a difficult time in my life.” But in Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress—in which a metaphor extends the length of a whole book—Christian’s life, instead of being processed loosely lexeme by lexeme, will more likely be processed metarepresentationally image by image.106 The whole story of the “slough of despond” for example will be re-imagined as a guilt-bound time in a Christian’s life. The images will be constructed literally (as a person caught in a bog) and then subsequently processed metaphorically (as a person trapped by guilt). Carston’s pragmatic take on metaphors largely predicts Steen’s third (discourse) approach. Carston is not concerned with theoretical metaphors that operate purely at the cognitive level. For pragmatics (even cognitive pragmatics) what matters is how communication is processed and understood, and if a person is not constructing ad hoc concepts or metarepresenting larger literal discourse in non-literal ways, he is not comprehending metaphor. This characteristic may seem to account for Steen’s “paradox of metaphor” (that most 105  Robyn Carston, “Lexical Pragmatics, Ad Hoc Concepts and Metaphor: A Relevance Theory Perspective,” Italian Journal of Linguistics 22.1 (2010): 171. 106  An example used by Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole and Simile,” 308.

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metaphors are not processed metaphorically). When metaphorical meanings enter into the standard lexical meanings of words, ad hoc concepts are no longer formed (because lexical loosening is no longer required), literal images may no longer need to be metarepresented, and metaphors die.107 They become lexicalized. For example, because life is a journey is such a ubiquitous and standard metaphor, some words associated with journeys—the “roughness” of the road, the “obstacles” in the way, etc.—have gained life-applicable meanings in their dictionary entries.108 People don’t have to loosen “rough” to mean “difficult in my life” because the word already (now) means that. People don’t have to loosen “fervent” or “ardent” to include human emotion because those words carry emotional implications in our encyclopedic knowledge.109 In fact, a person now needs fairly broad encyclopedic knowledge to even know that “fervent” and “ardent” used to have to be interpreted using metaphorical operations. 2.4

A Model for Combining Rt and Cmt: Hybrid Theory

This study is going to be prone to the objection that it is methodologically confusing—or perhaps even confused. Arguments that are unclear are unlikely to be accepted, just like methodologies that are unclear are unlikely to be reused. If Aristotle and CMT disagree as to how metaphor is constructed and interpreted, it may be fairly asked, why should we not leave the conversation between them and so simplify the argument? We now have a fair constellation 107  Again, I will not be making this argument; nor need I. I will be saying that the metaphor underlying the war in the Apocalypse (argument is war) is a deliberate metaphor, and so all parties in the CMT/DMT debate would agree that it functions in a cross-domain way. But, for clarity’s sake, I agree rather with Robyn Carston that, even when standard metaphors need not be processed by forming ad hoc concepts (the first mode of metaphor comprehension) their imagistic nature is still available to be metarepresented in the mind to derive further implicatures (the second mode). See Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole and Simile,” 304: “[Even in the] case of a very conventional metaphor, its literal compositional meaning remains perfectly transparent and is available to the hearer well after he has grasped the intended meaning, so he can access encyclopaedic information associated with that literal meaning and extend the metaphorical use into his own utterance.” What this implies, then, is that Carston’s theory might be in closer agreement with Raymond Gibbs and the CMT theorists than with Steen and DMT. 108  See “rough” and “obstacle” in Angus Stevenson and Christine A. Lindberg, eds., New Oxford American Dictionary, 3rd ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 1521 and 1211 respectively. 109  For the notion of “encyclopedic knowledge,” see Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 618; also L. David Ritchie, Metaphor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 100.

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of theories—CMT, DMT, gestalt theory, blending theory, frame theory, mental space theory, relevance theory, and metarepresentation theory, among others. If any one of these theories responds perhaps better to the comparison theory than the others, why not just focus on that one? There are several answers to these questions. To begin with, if there is a constellation of theories, at least that constellation is binary. There are two “parent theories” that pull together and give order to the many theoretical stars—CMT and RT. These theories are established—including within biblical studies— and the sub-theories are established beneath them, and so devotees of the two will already have the vocabulary and categories necessary to understand our method of approach. If the methodology is confusing to some, it will not be for others. And, what is more, it should not be. As argued above, these two theories are over three decades old. They are used, they are vetted in the academy, and they are important. If not everyone is well-acquainted with them, this is only another opportunity to become so. Also, and more importantly, they are already being used in concert. The methodology of this present work is repeating, with some important modifications, what Markus Tendahl has done already in his 2012 Hybrid Theory: Relevance Theory and Cognitive Linguistics.110 Granted, that he was looking at metaphor alone (not in intentional distinction from metonymy) and at the lexical level rather than the discourse level; but his is a theoretical justification for combining CMT and RT and, insofar as he has done that successfully, his work justifies my own. If some details differ (like my adding Robyn Carston’s work on metarepresenting larger units of metaphorical discourse or adding Gerard Steen’s work on deliberate metaphor), that does not diminish the validity of his findings regarding the interoperability of the two master theories. This study is not doing something new, it is just doing it at a new level (discourse) and in a new discipline (biblical studies). If either of those emendations to Tendahl’s work abrogate it or my own, that will need to be demonstrated. And finally, although I feel keenly the weight of the potentially diminished rhetorical effect of an hypothesis argued on many fronts, my decision was to make a scientific argument, not a (primarily) rhetorical, historical, or literary one. And the scientific study of metaphor and metonymy requires a full

110  For earlier but more compact arguments warranting the combination of RT and CMT, see Markus Tendahl and Raymond W. Gibbs, “Complementary Perspectives on Metaphor: Cognitive Linguistics and Relevance Theory,” Journal of Pragmatics 40 (2008) 1823–64 and Raymond W. Gibbs, Markus Tendahl, and Lacey Okonski, “Inferring Pragmatic Messages from Metaphor,” Lodz Papers in Pragmatics 7.1 (2011): 3–28.

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explanation.111 It would not be a full explanation of the phenomenon of eyesight to deal only with the eye and not the optic nerve or the visual cortex. Metaphor is a broad phenomenon, occupying a place in the mind, in language, and in comprehension, as Steen has repeatedly argued.112 Those three disciplines (cognitive, linguistic, and pragmatic) include some difficult ideas and from several fields. This is not uncommon in scientific research. Every field is dealing with having to become increasingly interdisciplinary. I am not well inclined to produce an incomplete study scientifically to produce a better one rhetorically. If I fail in being clear, that is certainly my own fault; but if I fail in being comprehensive, I have done less than I could to justify the presence of the metaphor—and to add to the body of knowledge. 2.5

Acknowledgment: “Structure” and “Meaning” in Other Disciplines

For those readers from a more philosophical, philological, and/or literarycritical background, this approach might appear at first blush to exhibit certain characteristics of a bygone structuralism,113 particularly because of its stated goal of deciphering and describing in detail the cognitive structure that underlies the narrative of the apocalypse.114 It may also seem to be antideconstructionist, given that it treats the author’s cognitive structure and 111  From Kövecses, Where Metaphors Come From, xi (from the Preface): “Despite the heavy emphasis on the importance of context in meaning making in pragmatics and many branches of the humanities and social science, … the by now dominant view of metaphor—conceptual metaphor theory—still suffers, in general, from a lack of integrating context into its model of metaphorical meaning making. This situation has given rise to a great deal of criticism of conceptual metaphor theory from a variety of different authors and disciplines over the years.” Kövecses, Tendahl, and Gibbs (among others) are each attempting to resolve that lack of an integrated theory in their own ways, particularly by appeal to pragmatics in general and RT specifically. See again Kövecses, Where Metaphors Come From, 177–78 (“Relevant Context”). 112  Most recently at his installation and inaugural address as professor of Taalbeheersing (Language Competence) at the University of Amsterdam on February 12, 2016 (available to view online at http://webcolleges.uva.nl/Mediasite/Play/1169e40861fa4c7cbb61a6aabe 4d309c1d). 113  Not that structuralism is entirely “bygone,” especially within biblical studies. Several prominent works of the last few decades have made considerable use of structuralist theories. See, e.g., the extended use of A. J. Greimas’ semiotic “actantial model” in Richard B. Hays, The Faith of Jesus Christ: The Narrative Substructure of Galatians 3:1–4:11, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), xxvii, 81–92, and N. T. Wright, The New Testament and the People of God, vol. 1 of Christian Origins and the Question of God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1994), 69–77. 114  See sections 2.2.1, 2.2.2, and 3.3.1.

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intent as the arbiter of meaning.115 I don’t want at this point to take part in the ongoing debate between the philologists and literary critics on the one hand and the linguists and cognitive scientists on the other.116 I have chosen to approach my topic from a thoroughly cognitive linguistic perspective, and I’m happy to rely on the epistemologically plausible and methodologically developed foundation that approach provides.117 But it is perhaps fitting to respond to these questions, if only quickly, so as to help allay some of the concerns of those from the more humanities-oriented side of the spectrum. Structuralism and cognitive linguistics are not equivalent. To begin with, structuralism is based on philosophical systems and intuitions,118 whereas linguistics is based in the cognitive sciences.119 This is not to say that one is better 115  Which has some agreement from within the literary community; see, e.g., E. D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1967), 1–23 (chapter 1, “In Defense of the Author”). Knapp and Michaels’ famous 1982 essay goes beyond this to entirely identify the two terms (intent is meaning—a position Hirsch disagrees with), for which see Steven Knapp and Walter Benn Michaels, “Against Theory,” Critical Inquiry 8.4 (1982): 724: “once it is seen that the meaning of a text is simply identical to the author’s intended meaning, the project of grounding meaning in intention becomes incoherent” (emphasis original). Many contemporary literary theorists—including Hirsch, Stanley Fish, and Richard Rorty—have been disturbed by this claim (among others) of Knapp and Michaels, though in some positive and constructive ways. For their combined critical responses (also among others), see W. J. T. Mitchell, ed., Against Theory: Literary Studies and the New Pragmatism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985). 116  This debate, if it can be called that, was the main topic of concern for the 2017 “Linguistics and Biblical Hebrew” section of SBL. For an early introduction of biblical scholarship to the theoretical and methodological differences and distances between the two, see Eugene A. Nida, “Implications of Contemporary Linguistics for Biblical Scholarship,” JBL 91.1 (1972): 73–89. For a more recent treatment, see Robert Rezetko and Ian Young, Historical Linguistics and Biblical Hebrew: Steps Toward an Integrated Approach, ANEM 9 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014), 26–33, under the heading “Philology.” 117  See sections 2.2, 2.3, and 2.4. 118  It has its origin in anthropology and seeks to determine human patterns of thought, and then to use those patterns to understand language (and other types of human expression) in individual, and commonly less familiar, expression. Thus Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, trans. George Weidenfeld and Nicolson Ltd. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), 10: “The thought we call primitive is founded on this demand for order. This is equally true of all thought but it is through the properties common to all thought that we can most easily begin to understand forms of thought which seem very strange to us.” The cognitive linguistic approach is not different in intent; but note how Lévi-Strauss’ “structures” (in this case, the orderliness of the natural world) are philosophically and intuitively derived. 119  Raymond Gibbs’ The Poetics of Mind (an obvious play on Aristotle’s Poetics) is an early, but still very useful, compendium of evidence for the psychological validity of CMT; see Raymond W. Gibbs, The Poetics of Mind: Figurative Thought, Language, and Understanding (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994), especially the References section on

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than the other (though that may be true, or true in some instances and not in others, etc.); simply that their conclusions are derived by different means. When Ferdinand de Saussure was first describing the core semiological idea of the “sign,” he did describe his semiology as a “science,” but as a science as-yet unrealized: “One remark in passing: when semiology becomes organized as a science, the question will arise whether or not it properly includes modes of expression based on completely natural signs, such as pantomime. Supposing that the new science welcomes them, its main concern will still be the whole group of systems grounded on the arbitrariness of the sign.”120 One also notes that Saussure derives his fundamental model of the bifurcated “sign” by means of “psychological”—or, one might amend, “philosophical”—thoughtexperiment.121 Again, thought experiments are valid tools, but within the philosophical enterprise.122 Actual experimentation is the domain of the sciences.123 This provides grounds for another real and substantive difference in that the concept “metaphor” can therefore have many definitions, implications, and applications within literary-oriented theory.124 That interpretive multi-facility is pp. 455–498. More recently Dirk Geeraerts, ed., Cognitive Linguistics: Basic Readings, Cognitive Linguistics Research 34 (New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 2006), and—maybe most essentially—Raymond W. Gibbs, ed., The Cambridge Handbook of Metaphor and Thought (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 120  Ferdinand de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics, ed. Charles Bally and Albert Sechehaye, trans. Wade Baskin (New York: Philosophical Library, 1959), 68. 121  Ibid., 66: “The psychological character of our sound-images becomes apparent when we observe our own speech. Without moving our lips or tongue, we can talk to ourselves or recite mentally a selection of verse.” 122  Which is not to say that cognitive linguists don’t make use of such exercises; for which see, e.g., Kövecses, Metaphor, 9. The issue isn’t whether cognitive linguists use them, the issue is whether they rely on them. Saussure does. Kövecses doesn’t. 123  E.g., ibid., 40–42, 236. Kövecses reviews in some detail experiments run by Lera Boroditsky and especially Raymond Gibbs. One may see in these how “thought experiments” and cognitive psychological experimentation differ. 124  E.g., Aristotle’s definition quoted at length in section 2.1. Jacques Derrida, Writing and Difference, trans. Alan Bass (London: Routledge Classics, 2001), 31–32: “Metaphor [is] in general, the passage from one existent to another, or from one signified meaning to another, authorized by the initial submission of Being to the existent, the analogical displacement of Being.” Ricœur, Rule of Metaphor, 1: “Metaphor, therefore, is classed among the single-word figures of speech and is defined as a trope of resemblance. As figure, metaphor constitutes a displacement and an extension of the meaning of words; its explanation is grounded in a theory of substitution.” And, summarily, Max Black, “More about Metaphor,” in Metaphor and Thought, ed. Andrew Ortony, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 27–28, under the heading “The interaction view revisited,” and in which he details his own “interaction view” alongside the two other main and competing definitions: the “substitution view” and it’s sub-form, the “comparison view.”

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not un-useful in the critical process. Seeing things from different points of view is commonly advantageous. But the sciences require fundamental agreement. One might not be willing to cross a bridge that was constructed by engineers who couldn’t agree what units of measurement to use, for example. One might not be willing to take a medicine manufactured by a lab that had no clear and uniform understanding of the concept of “poison.” One would expect them to solve the “poison” or “measurement” clarification issue before going off to engineer the medicine or the bridge. Scientific uniformity and reproducibility makes for safe bridges, safe medicines, and safe (forensically valid) reconstructions of “meaning.” No such uniformity exists among literary critics, and so the very basis for forensic analysis is absent. Many of the linguists whose theories I am appealing to in this book are in fact consciously trying to distance themselves from the structuralist, semiotic enterprise of the last century, and partly for this very reason.125 Sperber and Wilson make the charge that “[t]he recent history of semiotics has been one of simultaneous institutional success and intellectual bankruptcy,” and although “invaluable empirical work” has been done by various practitioners, “no semiotic law of any significance was ever discovered.”126 The core issue for them however is not unity as much as it is inferentiality.127 Structuralism, and semiotics on the whole, is based on—again, and not surprisingly, given its provenance in Western philosophy—Aristotle.128 And Aristotle’s “code theory” has no room for inferring speaker meaning in general (it places meaning rather in the “code” or the text), or for assumptions or differentiations of “relevance” in particular.129 Lakoff and Johnson’s core issue is objectivism. They name all objectivist linguistics (and objectivism on the whole) as “myth,” and so they were never likely

125  Saussure’s Course in General Linguistics—the lectures underlying which are commonly taken to be the originating events for semiotics as well as for modern linguistics—was published, posthumously, in 1916; see Ferdinand de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics, ed. Charles Bally and Albert Sechehaye, trans. Wade Baskin (New York: Philosophical Library, 1959). 126  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 7. 127  Ibid., 9. 128  Ibid., 2. 129  Sperber and Wilson do not consider the Grice’s inferential theory to be a sufficient either (Ibid., 31–38), and for largely the same reason that the code theory is not: they are both, like semiotics, too general to be predictive and explanatory. Relevance theory, they argue, is a valuable development not just because it is empirically-based, but also because it is explanatory and predictive (for which, see ibid., 8, 57–58).

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to tolerate the structuralism that lies within that tradition.130 Their philosophical point of departure is “embodiment”: The conceptual structure is grounded in physical and cultural experience, as are the conventional metaphors. Meaning, therefore, is never dis-embodied or objective and is always grounded in the acquisition and use of a conceptual system. Moreover, truth is always given relative to a conceptual system and the metaphors that structure it. Truth is therefore not absolute or objective but is based on understanding. Thus sentences do not have inherent, objectively given meanings, and communication cannot be merely the transmission of such meanings.131 And once again, the point they are departing from, expressly and consciously, is that of the “Western philosophical tradition,”132 including and especially Aristotle.133 The semiotic structuralism of Saussure and Pierce was perhaps the origin of modern cognitive linguistics,134 but they have become so divergent in methodologies and even philosophical underpinnings that an uncritical lumping of them together is both unhelpful and unwarranted. And so, anyone objecting to CMT on the grounds that it is “structuralist” would be employing a straw man argument. Cognitive linguistics stands, or falls, on its own. But the cognitive linguistic experiment is “structuralist” in the sense that it shares with Saussure the desire to find the structures of the mind that give rise and reason to language.135 The “structures” they use however are discovered through experimentation and trial-and-error, and not by philosophical speculation (which is why they can be unified). This kind of research forces the concept of “structure” to be specific enough and unified enough to be predictable, testable, and reproducible—and, therefore, forensically useful. Without specific and empirically-based predictions for the operations of language, again, 130  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, especially 204–205, as well as all of chapters 26 and 27. 131  Ibid., 197. Note their move here from “meaning” to “sentences” (language) by means of the writer’s/speaker’s “conceptual system.” As Knapp and Michaels, above, they are grounding “meaning” firmly in terms of authorial intent. 132  Ibid. 133  Ibid., 190, 244. 134  Lakoff, “Contemporary Theory of Metaphor,” 232. 135  Thus Saussure, Course, 68: “Signs that are wholly arbitrary realize better than the others the ideal of the semiological process; that is why language, the most complex and universal of all systems of expression, is also the most characteristic; in this sense linguistics can become the master-pattern for all branches of semiology although language is only one particular semiological system.”

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there is no basis for forensic analysis. One can’t, in other words, describe how language should behave without a concrete, detailed, and unified notion of how it actually does behave. And so, I would make the argument that cognitive linguistics actually makes good on structuralism’s promise—by providing the psychologically-real “structures” by which language operates.136 There is a sense in which cognitive theory and cognitive pragmatics respond to deconstructionism as well. In 1946, W. K. Wimsatt and M. C. Beardsley published an influential article entitled “The Intentional Fallacy.”137 As advocates and exponents of the “new criticism,” their interest was to show that “the design or intention of the author is neither available nor desirable as a standard for judging the success of a work of literary art.”138 Probably their most substantial criticism of the search for intent was in the form of a bit of deductive reasoning: if the writing is what the writer intended, then we need only the writing to discover that intent; if not, the intention is unrecoverable; in either case, the psychologically- and biographically-derived intent of the author is unnecessary to the critical process.139 With the Russian formalists and I. A. Richards, they are trying to encourage a “close reading”140 of the text because meaning resides in the text (and not in its imagined relationship to the author). In that sense, new criticism is as fundamentally objectivistic as structuralism though, because meaning is still derivable and subject to “evidence.”141 This is the space into which step Jacques Derrida and the deconstructionists. Not only does Derrida acknowledge a separation of meaning from the author’s situation and intent,142 but he argues for its separation from an absolute standard at all. Language is ultimately and entirely self-referential (or, perhaps 136  See section 2.1. Experientialist cognitive linguistics demands that theories be “psychologically real,” because only then can those theories offer reproducible experimental results—the test for any scientific theory; for which, see Kövecses, Where Metaphors Come From, 77. If they aren’t “real” (i.e., based in how the mind actually operates), they won’t be reproducible. 137  W. K. Wimsatt, Jr. and M. C. Beardsley, “The Intentional Fallacy,” The Sewanee Review 54.3 (1946): 468–488. 138  Ibid., 468. 139  Ibid., 469. For Hirsch’s response, see Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation, 1–13. 140  Ewa M. Thompson, Russian Formalism and Anglo-American New Criticism: A Comparative Study (The Hague: Mouton, 1971), 7–8, 34. 141  Particularly “internal,” “external,” and “intermediate”; Ibid., 477–78. They are recommending adhering closely to the public, internal evidence because it is demonstrable and verifiable. In contrast, the second and third types are usually “not quite clear,” if not altogether fantastic. 142  Derrida, Writing and Difference, 363: “The absence of a center is here the absence of a subject and the absence of an author,” where he’s actively arguing for the absence of a transcendental center.

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better, inter-referential—whence his famous quote, “there is nothing outside the text”).143 Language points to itself, not to steady-state concepts. There is as a result a “play” in language between these signifiers we speak or write and the “transcendental signified” the old semioticians used to believe they pointed to.144 But that transcendental “center is not the center,”145 the metaphysical project has collapsed, the structuralists were building on a centering principle that wasn’t there, and language is now opened up to possibilities of meaning that are not circumscribed by any “archia” or rule.146 In this deconstructed system, it is not clear that meaning is even subject to evidence. In this system, meaning is therefore never “clear” in any sense. Derrida is not frightened by this “monstrosity”147 or “abyss,”148 however. Though meaning is not guaranteed, it also is not destroyed. The “center,” which is no center, now cannot limit freedom; and it is in that freedom that Derrida wishes to semantically and conceptually “play.”149 Modern linguistics responds to Derrida and the deconstructionists largely in the same way it does the structuralists: with cautions regarding their methods and findings, but also with an acknowledgment and validation of some of their intuitions. For example, pragmatics of all branches treats authorial intent as the source of meaning: “Although different pragmatic theories give different answers to these questions [of empirical regularities and the relationship of utterance to context] …, they share two basic assumptions: that comprehension is inferential, and that its goal is, by drawing on both the sentence meaning and the context, to discover the speaker’s intended meaning.”150 And they certainly argue that this intent is recoverable: Ostensive behaviour provides evidence of one’s thoughts. It succeeds in doing so because it implies a guarantee of relevance. It implies such a guarantee because humans automatically turn their attention to what seems most relevant to them. The main thesis of this book is that an act 143  Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 163. 144  Derrida, Writing and Difference, 354: “The absence of the transcendental signified extends the domain and the play of signification infinitely.” 145  Ibid., 352. 146  Ibid., 361. 147  Ibid., 370. 148  Derrida, Of Grammatology, 163. 149  Derrida, Writing and Difference, 352–54, 365–370. 150  Dan Sperber and Gloria Origgi, “A Pragmatic Perspective on the Evolution of Language,” in Meaning and Relevance, ed. Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 333.

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of ostension carries a guarantee of relevance, and that this fact—which we will call the principle of relevance—makes manifest the intention behind the ostension. We believe that it is this principle of relevance that is needed to make the inferential model of communication explanatory.151 But linguistics also presents authorial intent as problematic. That is a point of agreement. It is hard to recover. If that were not so, there would be no communication that was non-relevant (which is, as Sperber and Wilson themselves argue, a common occurrence)152 and no need for a dedicated study of how and why language fails (forensic linguistics).153 And even if it is recovered, it is not always obvious how that folk-psychologized understanding of intent should inform meaning (whence the psychological studies of metarepresentation and theory-of-mind.)154 Large areas of study don’t exist for issues that are not problematic or complex. What new criticism and deconstructionism do for us, in other words, is to problematize “structure” and “meaning” in some of the same ways that pragmatics does. And that’s important for this study, because I am arguing that 1) the author’s cognitive structure and intent (meaning) are recoverable and that 2) they have never been so recovered. No scholar to my knowledge has ever made the claim that John isn’t issuing (or having God issue) judgment when he is telling the story of the war.155 That is an “intent” that has gone fundamentally unquestioned in the history of interpretation. We have been treating the supposed metonymic structure and intent (in this case, violent intent) as essentially unproblematic, over and against the insightful cautions of the literary theorists.

151  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 50. 152  Ibid., 44: “The most fundamental reason for adopting the mutual-knowledge framework [which they reject], as for adopting the code model [which they also reject], is the desire to show how successful communication can be guaranteed, how there is some failsafe algorithm by which the hearer can reconstruct the speaker’s exact meaning. Within this framework the fact that communication often fails is explained in one of two ways: either the code mechanism has been imperfectly implemented, or there has been some disruption due to ‘noise.’ A noiseless, well-implemented code mechanism should guarantee perfect communication.    In rejecting the mutual-knowledge framework, we abandon the possibility of using a failsafe algorithm as a model of human communication.” 153  See the introduction to chapter 2. 154  For metarepresentation, see sections 2.3.1 and 6.2; for theory-of-mind and mirroring, see sections 3.3.1.2.2 and 6.2.7. 155  See section 1.4.

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They were asking the right questions and issuing the right challenges, and I am attempting to take those seriously. What are the structures that give rise to language? How do we know that? Where is meaning located? What role does authorial intent play? How might that be determined? They were just asking them before the science had caught up with their questions. And some of them—as with Saussure looking forward to a time that his semiology would attain to a “science”—knew that they were. If interpreters of Revelation had been as tempered in their confidence historically, I wonder if the metonymic folk-theory of the Violent Judge would have gone as unquestioned as it has. 2.6

What This Book Is Arguing

This study will attempt to show that the extended conceptual metaphor argument is war—and not the conceptual metonymy war for judgment— underlies and operates the violent narrative of Revelation, turning the morally and pragmatically fraught “wrath of the Lamb” rather into his progressive, eschatological restoration of Israel and the nations.

Chapter 3

Composing the Conceptual Metaphor argument is war 3.1

Σημαίνω

Communication—if it must be said to begin somewhere—must begin in the mind of the speaker or writer.1 It exists first as a thought, then as language, then as language comprehended. It has been argued that CMT describes metaphorical thought in a static, synchronic way. Blending theory on the other hand gives us a dynamic representation of metaphor-in-progress. It is able to trace not just the mental-architectural form of a metaphor, but to set it in diachronic motion from one utterance to the next.2 For this reason, I will be relying on blending theory to trace the contours of the cognitive metaphor argument is war in Revelation in the first place. From an RT perspective, if there is an extended metaphor in Revelation that is both necessary to the comprehension of the story and sufficiently original, complex, or unfamiliar to the reader to possibly be missed, the writer likely would signal for its use early on.3 It is also likely, in a work replete with OT allusions, that the signal might come from the Hebrew Bible.4 The author will want to establish the mental architecture within which the metaphor makes sense, and one way of doing that would be to appeal to an example already known by the letter’s recipients that uses the same architecture. John does in fact describe how his vision was to be received and understood in the opening verse of the book—by allusion to Dan 2:23, 30, 45.5 It was “signified” or “explained” (aorist indicative ἐσήμανεν) by Christ’s angel to John, having also been “sent” (aorist participle ἀποστείλας). The whole verse runs thus: 1  Lakoff, “Contemporary Theory of Metaphor,” 203, wherein metaphorical expressions are but the “surface realization” of cognitive metaphors. 2  Fauconnier and Turner, “Rethinking Metaphor,” in The Cambridge Handbook of Metaphor and Thought, ed. Raymond W. Gibbs, (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 61: “Conceptual work is never-ending, and we can continue to bring more spaces and even networks into play.” 3  For an example of the use of “contextual clues,” see Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 192. 4  On the position that the Hebrew Bible is the main source text for John, including and especially for metaphor and symbol, see, e.g., Beale, Revelation, 56. 5  Beale, Revelation, 50–52, 137, 153, 181–82; Beale, John’s Use, 166, 295–97.

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Ἀποκάλυψις Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ ἣν ἔδωκεν αὐτῷ ὁ θεὸς δεῖξαι τοῖς δούλοις αὐτοῦ ἃ δεῖ γενέσθαι ἐν τάχει, καὶ ἐσήμανεν ἀποστείλας διὰ τοῦ ἀγγέλου αὐτοῦ τῷ δούλῳ αὐτοῦ Ἰωάννῃ. It is generally agreed (when it is commented on at all) that ἀποστείλας is being used adverbially as a participle of means (it was signified or explained by being sent).6 That is a logically problematic translation. Delivering a correspondence is a different process, and kind of process, than explaining it.7 The two concepts want a greater amount of conceptual space between them because one is modal (how it arrived to John), the other material (what it contained). Note a similar use of the verbs ἔδωκεν … δεῖξαι also in 1:1 (the revelation which God “gave … to show”). Their use may demonstrate that the “revelation” is supposed to be seen as a document or scroll (and likely the same scroll given to the Lamb and subsequently revealed in chapters 5 and 6).8 The metaphorical system at play seems to be a king on a throne holding (in this case, a heavenly) court.9 The kingly missive is sent to be delivered and then explained by the messenger.10 An adverbial use that gives the appropriate distance between the two verbal ideas is the temporal: it was signified or explained after it was sent.11 John received the revelation, but he also received a separate explanation of the revelation. An angelus interpres is an expected component of apocalypses,12 in which visions and explanations are related, but separate, events (e.g., 1 Enoch 18:11–14, 6  E.g., David L. Mathewson, Revelation: A Handbook on the Greek Text, BHGNT (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2016), 2; Ronald L. Trail, An Exegetical Summary of Revelation 1–11, 2nd ed. (Dallas: SIL International, 2008), 11. 7  Σημαίνω should be understood in the sense of “to explain” or “to indicate clearly,” as it is used elsewhere. Aune notes this, though in ironic contrast “with the symbolic and enigmatic character of much of what follows” (Aune, Revelation 1–5, 15). Cf. Koester, Revelation, 212: [of signified images], “their function is to reveal meaning rather than to conceal it.” 8  Smalley, Revelation, 128. 9  Koester, Revelation, 367–69. There are eighteen uses of ἀποστείλας in the LXX and NT. In Prov 26:6 it is a substantival. The other seventeen uses are adverbial. In each of those cases, a person of authority is “sending” someone or something to do his or her bidding. In fifteen of the seventeen, that person is a king or God. See Gen 31:4 (Jacob), 41:8 (Pharaoh), 14 (Pharaoh); Exod 9:15 (God), 27 (Pharaoh); Num 20:16 (God); Josh 24:9 (King Balak); 1 Sam 20:31 (King Saul); 2 Kgs 6:13 (king of Aram); Job 2:5 (God); Matt 2:16 (King Herod); Mark 6:17 (King Herod), 27 (King Herod); Luke 14:32 (a parabolic king); Acts 7:14 (Joseph, as Egypt’s governor), 19:22 (the Holy Spirit); and, of course, Rev 1:1 (Christ). 10  Ibid., 373. 11  The participle is aorist, making it temporally antecedent to the main verb; for which, see Daniel B. Wallace, Greek Grammar beyond the Basics: An Exegetical Syntax of the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996), 624–25. 12  Aune, Revelation 1–5, 15; Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 176 (of Revelation specifically), 339 (of apocalypses in general); Collins, Apocalyptic Imagination, 99 (of Daniel). Cf. Rev 17:1–3, 21:9–10.

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4 Ezra 2:42–48, 2 Baruch 56:1–16). This dual mode of vision-cum-explanation occurs often in the narrative of Revelation as well: 1. The one who looks “like a Son of Man” (a vision, 1:13) explains himself to be the “first, last, and living one” (1:17–18) to John and later the star-holder (2:1), first and last (2:8), sword-keeper (2:12), son of God (2:18), sevenspirit-holder (3:1), holy and true (3:7), and the Amen (3:14) to each of the seven congregations. Jesus is thus the first to explain a vision (his own), in a fulsome way, and early in the narrative. This establishes the precedent. 2. The seven stars (seen in 1:16) are subsequently explained to be the seven angels (1:20). 3. The seven lampstands (seen in 1:12) are explained to be the seven congregations (1:20). 4. The scroll in the throne room scene needs explanation (5:1). John is weeping, although the scroll is there. He sees it (it is in God’s hand), but there is no one who can read it. If “sending” were equivalent to “explaining,” John wouldn’t be crying. 5. The seven horns and eyes John sees are explained as the seven spirits (Holy Spirit; 5:6). 6. The incense he sees is explained to be the prayers of the saints (5:8). 7. He sees the multitude in white robes (7:9), yet not until an elder explains does he know who they are (7:13–17). 8. John is allowed to relate the “vision” of the voices of the seven thunders, but he is not allowed to include their content or explanation (10:3–4). 9. There is a spiritual (πνευματικῶς) revelation of the great city as Sodom and Egypt, but there is also an explanatory one: it is the place “where their Lord was crucified” (11:8). 10. The frogs seen coming from beastly mouths (16:13) are explained to be demons (16:14). 11. The judgment of the great adulteress is “shown” (δείκνυμι, 17:1), but then the explanation has to be separately “told” (λέγω, 17:7). 12. The larger section on the adulteress in chapters 17–18 is itself but a further explanation of the bowl sequence (ch. 16), or at least the last two.13 This must be the case because judgment was completed by the time the bowls were over (γέγονεν, 16:17), and so the only narratival space for her judgment to take place is during that sequence. 13. The adulteress (vision, 17:4) is named Babylon (explanation, 17:5). 14. Likewise the vision of the bride of Christ appears quite briefly (19:7–9) and then morphs into the New Jerusalem (21:2, 9–10), which receives 13  Beale, Revelation, 847.

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much greater explanatory detail (all of chapter 21 and the beginning of chapter 22). 15. The fine linen vestments of the saints (vision) are explained as righteous deeds (19:8). 16. The rider of the white horse (vision) is explained to be (named) Faithful and True (19:11) and Word of God (19:13). There are many other minor examples.14 In a book that is as centered on Jewish language, thought, practice, and cultic symbols as Revelation, it is difficult not to imagine an analogy to written and oral law—an analogy a good Jewish exegete would likely want to make.15 Whether that is intended or not, the effect is the same: John has a revelatory vision for which he is given (and giving) a separate explanation. This vision/explanation dynamic explains a broad and well-recognized phenomenon in the book—the length, frequency, and great detail of the interludes.16 It has long been noted that the seals, trumpets, and bowls carry the narrative forward and form the structural backbone of the work.17 These are the spaces where the conceptual metaphor argument is war is controlling most especially (as will be shown in section 5.1.1). The seals, trumpets, and bowls are the primary visionary material in the apocalypse that the interludes 14  The reed given John (vision) is explained to be a rod (explanation) in 11:1; God’s wine (vision) is wrath (explanation) in 14:10 and 16:19; the adulteress’s wine (vision) is her combined adulteries (explanation) in 14:8, 17:2, and 18:3; etc. 15  For the (particularly Palestinian) Jewish exegetical practice of John, see David E. Aune, “The Apocalypse of John and Palestinian Jewish Apocalyptic,” Neotestamentica 40.1 (2006): 1–33; for the profusion of Jewish symbolism and thought see, e.g., John Ben-Daniel and Gloria Ben-Daniel, The Apocalypse in the Light of the Temple: A New Approach to the Book of Revelation (Jerusalem: Beit Yochanan, 2003); for the likelihood that a Jewish exegete would want to emphasize “the eternal validity of God’s written and oral law,” see Herbert W. Basser, “What Makes Exegesis Either Christian or Jewish?” in The Reception and Interpretation of the Bible in Late Antiquity: Proceedings of the Montréal Colloquium in Honour of Charles Kannengiesser, 11–13 October 2006, ed. Lorenzo DiTommaso and Lucian Turcescu (Bible in Ancient Christianity 6; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 38. 16  E.g., Koester, Revelation, 113, 356. For a comparative and fairly exhaustive review of the different terms for, and theories of, the “interludes,” see Peter S. Perry, The Rhetoric of Digressions: Revelation 7:1–17 and 10:1–11:13 and Ancient Communication, WUNT 2/268 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 39–52. 17  Victorinus treated the book as recapitulative because the seven-fold trumpets and bowls seemed to him recapitulative (Weinrich, Latin, 12). For a critical summary of recent work on the structure of Revelation (that focuses especially on the seals, trumpets, and bowls), see Felise Tavo, “The Structure of the Apocalypse: Re-Examining a Perennial Problem,” NovT 47.1 (2005). See also Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 7–15 (“The Series of Sevens”) and Yarbro Collins, Combat Myth, 8.

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are attempting to explain—sometimes using other metaphors, and sometimes giving explanation for events before they happen.18 For example, the throne room scene (the metaphor of chapters 4–5) and its four living beings set up the war’s four horsemen in the seals (the metaphor of chapter 6) so that the horsemen are “explained” by other metaphors before they are “seen.”19 When the four living beings of chapters four and five call forth the four horsemen of chapter six (6:1, 3, 5, 7), they explain at the very least that God, through his courtiers, is helping to operate the war. That device also shows that the war is being explained by other metaphors (in this case, heavenly or kingly courts). And the two reapings in chapter 14 (agriculture domain) explain the outcome of the bowl sequence in chapter 16 (war domain) before it happens as well.20 There is a promise of the cup or bowl of God’s wrath during the reaping interlude (14:10) and a delivery on that promise in the bowls series (16:1). There is an announcement of Babylon’s judgment at the reaping (14:8) and a completion of it (16:19). Thus, when John breaks out of the story told by the seals, trumpets, and bowls, it seems that he also largely breaks free from the war domain21—which is some evidence that the story is controlled by the metaphor. The interludes may thus be the “explanation” material for the otherwise-sealed “vision” of the war. Returning to σημαίνω then, ἀποστείλας is not likely a participle of means. Daniel Wallace recommends a certain test here: “If the participle of means is 18  R  . H. Charles also noticed “certain proleptic visions” in 7:9–17, 10:1–11:13, 12, and 14—each of which lie within the interludes. Charles, Revelation, 1:xxiii. 19  Beale recognizes the proleptic nature of some of the explanatory material; for which, see Beale, Revelation, 172. Also, though I am arguing that John is saying he received his visions first and then their explanations (as is clear from the list on pages 76–78), he apparently feels free to give some of his own explanations first. That is to say, the vision-thenexplanation device seems to apply to how John received his material, not necessarily to how he wishes his readers to receive it. 20  Stefanovic, Revelation, 462. 21  Granted, “war” shows up with the celestial woman. I am not making the argument that the war metaphor disappears completely, but merely that it is being “explained” by the interludes, including by being given other metaphors. Bauckham seems to intuit that the interludes are explanatory, especially as regards the salvific nature of the story, when he makes his famous argument for the “conversion of the nations” using only passages from within the interludes (“Eating the scroll,” chapter 10; “Measuring the sanctuary,” 11:1– 2; “The two witnesses,” 11:3–13; “From first fruits to harvest,” chapter 14; “The song of Moses,” 15:2–4; and “The New Jerusalem,” chapters 19–21); for which, see Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, chapter 9). He would not likely have avoided the seals, trumpets, and bowls if he had felt they were sufficiently “explanatory” for his purposes. This avoidance—and particularly of the final battle sequence in chapters 19 and 20—are part of the grounds for Allan McNicol’s sustained criticism in Conversion of the Nations.

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absent (or removed), the point of the main verb is removed as well” (italics original).22 If the participle were removed from 1:1, the meaning of the sentence would actually be made clearer. What seems more likely is that it is a temporal participle that is attempting to explain why there are so very many breaks in the narrative of the war. John saw things and then, afterward, he heard explanations for those things, as is clear from the list above. John has other uses for σημαίνω as well, beyond pointing to the vision/ explanation device. Greg Beale argues in the introduction to his commentary that he also uses it to allude directly to Dan 2:15–2:45,23 which happens to be using the same device. In the Daniel story, Nebuchadnezzar has dreamt of a large statue that was smashed by a rock not cut by human hands. It had a composite body: a golden head, silver chest and arms, bronze belly and thighs, iron legs, and mixed iron-and-clay feet. The rock that smashed it to pieces then grows to be a huge mountain, filling the earth (2:35). The problem is that Nebuchadnezzar doesn’t understand what he has seen. Daniel has to “explain” (σημαίνω; 2:30) it. And that explanation happens several days after he had the vision.24 Daniel also and likewise recounts the vision and explanation entirely separately (2:31–35 and 37–45, respectively). This clarity of procedure is likely why John chose Dan 2 as his exemplar. This is important to the present study because it provides concrete precedent for John’s method of showing things and then explaining them (or vice-versa), which explains the interludes. But, and more importantly, it also provides precedent for the use of metaphor within visions. Visions not pointing to external domains shouldn’t need to be explained. All of the relevant material would already be in the vision. The explanations themselves are evidence for metaphoricity. If John really is copying the vision-plus-explanation method of Daniel (and 1 Enoch, and 2 Baruch, 22  Wallace, Greek Grammar, 629. 23  Beale, Revelation, 50–69 (“Interpretation of Symbolism”). It may also be acting as an implied fulfillment of Zechariah 10:8: “I will signal to them and gather them in, for I will redeem them and they will be multiplied as they were many before” (σημανῶ αὐτοῖς καὶ εἰσδέξομαι αὐτούς διότι λυτρώσομαι αὐτούς καὶ πληθυνθήσονται καθότι ἦσαν πολλοί). This, then, would be the first allusion to the restoration of Israel (using the middle form of λυτρόω/“to redeem”). If it is to Daniel as well, this may be a case of Hillel’s rule of gezerah shavah (“equal ordinance”), based on the word σημαίνω. 24  Demonstrating that they were conceived of as entirely separate events. Nebuchadnezzar received the vision (2:1), challenged his own magicians with it (3–11), made the edict that they should all die (12), the edict at least began to be carried out (13), Arioch told Daniel (14–15), Daniel approached Nebuchadnezzar (16), Daniel told his friends (17) and had at least one night to receive the vision himself (19), and only then made it back to the king to “explain” the meaning of the vision (25–45). At least one full night intervened, but likely many days and nights.

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and so on; see above), that by itself is a signal for the presence of cognitive metaphors, of which argument is war is a type. Does Rev 1:1 allude to Dan 2:30? There are several correspondences between the two texts beyond the use of σημαίνω. Beale makes the argument that there are four phrases within these two passages, used together and in the same order, that are not repeated as such in any other part of the OT.25 He also notes that the mode of visionexperience is analogous (“pictorial”) in both.26 There are several other largescale structural and thematic points of comparison between Revelation and Dan 2 I would add: 1. As argued above, both Daniel and Nebuchadnezzar received a “vision,” with an “explanation” of the vision remaining a separate matter. Vision and explanation are inter-operative but separate, as in Revelation. 2. God “explains” to Daniel (2:23)—and then Daniel “explains” to King Nebuchadnezzar (2:45)—the meaning behind the vision, like God does for the angel and the angel for John (Rev 1:1). They both have mediators.27 3. Both are revelations (Dan 2:19; Rev 1:1).28 4. Both revelations deal with the eschaton (Dan 2:28; Rev 1:3, 22:10). 5. Both deal with the temporal supremacy of a gentile nation (Dan 2:37–38; Rev 13:4, 7). 6. Both view the history of the nations in stages (Dan 2:37–41, Rev 17:9–12), and as beasts (Dan 7:3–7; Rev 13:2). 7. Both present the destruction of those nations (Dan 2:44; Rev 17:8, 11). 8. Both use violent imagery in that overthrow (e.g., Dan 2:34–35; Rev 19:15). 9. Both present the establishment of God’s eternal kingdom, and specifically as a replacement of those worldly kingdoms (Dan 2:44, Rev 11:15). There is also the contextual pressure of John appealing to Daniel quite a lot in general, especially in chapter one. The title “Apocalypse” itself is likely an allusion to Dan 2, which uses the verbal ἀποκαλύπτω three times in 25  Beale, Revelation, 50: “‘revelation … God showed … what must come to pass … and he made known (σημαίνω)’” (italics original). 26  Ibid., 51. 27  It is true that this characteristic is diagnostic for apocalyptic literature in general; for which, see John J. Collins, “Introduction: Towards the Morphology of a Genre,” Semeia 14 (1979): 6. And yet that helps prove the point, if only moderately. Apocalyptic literature is a much smaller subset than the entire cultural and literary background that John could have appealed to. It narrows the possible field of allusion considerably. 28  Dan 2:19 ‫( גֲ ִלי‬MT) and ἀπεκαλύφθη (Theodotion’s translation; ἐξεφάνθη in the LXX); ἀποκάλυψις Rev 1:1.

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the LXX (2:22, 28–29) and seven times in Theodotion’s translation (2:19, 22, 28–30, 47).29 Jesus is first revealed (Rev 1:13–16) as a combination of the Danielic Son of Man (7:13), the Ancient of Days (7:9), and the man in linen (10:5–6). The beast is first presented (Rev 13:2) as a mash-up of Daniel’s beasts (7:3–7). Daniel’s ten days of testing (1:12–15)—from the verses just before the dream— show up in the letter to Smyrna (Rev 2:10). Daniel’s following chapter, the fiery furnace in chapter 3, is used in Rev 9:2 to describe the abyssal furnace. And many more examples are available.30 Beyond the internal evidence, specific and general, there is also an external, reader-oriented issue of pragmatic warrant. There was no grammatical need for John to include the verb “explain.” The “revelation” could simply have been “sent.” Concepts require pragmatic work to be comprehended, and as was argued above (section 2.3.3) RT predicts that such labor (however small) won’t be asked of readers for no purpose or payoff. The relevance-theoretic comprehension procedure is fundamentally a cost-benefit analysis, and so pragmatic “costs” should come with “benefits.” The reader is being prompted to ask what benefit there is to John’s inclusion of the concept of σημαίνω. It could be that this is an intertextual prompt to look for a source of origin.31 In a book that is replete with OT references in general, and Danielic references in particular— and that uses a word that occurs relatively infrequently in the OT (21 times) but four times in Daniel chapter 2 (15, 23, 30, 45)—that discrete intertextual appeal is pragmatically more highly activated than any other. This conforms exactly with expectations of “optimal relevance.” Does Dan 2 use a cognitive metaphor? Beale is right to appeal to σημαίνω in his description of John’s strategy in Revelation, but he ends up describing “metaphor”32 in generally applicable ways 29  This is the first argument Beale makes in his commentary section; see Beale, Revelation, 181–82. 30  Beale has written extensively on this topic, beginning with his published doctoral thesis: Gregory K. Beale, The Use of Daniel in Jewish Apocalyptic Literature and in the Revelation of St. John (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1984). 31  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 40: “our expectations of relevance will lead us to search for a context that will make an utterance optimally relevant.” 32  Beale, Revelation, 55: Metaphor in its “essence” is a “transgression of the meanings of words established on the basis of common usage.” One notes in this statement a Gricean predisposition to think of metaphor as an intentional flouting of truthfulness (see section 2.3.2). Relevance theorists now reject this approach (Wilson and Sperber, “Introduction: Pragmatics,” 18–19). Cognitive linguists would also disagree with the assumption that metaphor is not “common usage” (e.g., Kövecses, Where Metaphors Come From, 3–6 in the section titled “Metaphor and Universal Embodiment”).

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rather than working out in detail how his source text—the statue metaphor— is actually operating in Daniel 2. He, normally, is much concerned with original contexts of OT allusions.33 It should be fruitful, therefore, to now give some attention to Daniel’s manner of description—his actual practice of “signing” or “explaining.” For this purpose, we will use a cognitively realistic and descriptive model— the network model of Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner (see section 2.2.3)— to parse out and analyze the more fine-grained phenomena that appear there.34 And so, what follows is an analysis of Dan 2 using the tools and categories native to blending theory. There will also be consideration (as per Tendahl)35 of the pragmatic prompts that give theoretical rise and resolution to this expansive metaphor. In the remaining sections of this and the following chapter, we will see to what degree John actually does copy Daniel’s conceptual architecture and methodological model. For the time being, it is enough that I explain a source text informing John’s thought in his opening verse. This will also serve to give methodological foundation and understanding for those less familiar with the field of cognitive linguistics and blending theory. 3.1.1 Composition When Daniel is done recounting the contents of Nebuchadnezzar’s dream (which he also first received by revelation), he begins to “explain” (σημαίνω; Dan 2:30, 45) it by using the characteristic “A is B” formula for metaphor: “You [King Nebuchadnezzar] are that head of gold” (2:38).36 “A” in this case stands for the explanatory material (for Nebuchadnezzar himself), the part informed by σημαίνω. “B” stands for the visionary material (the head of gold), the part that needs to be explained. In the material that comes before this explanation (2:31–35), the bare vision is recounted to the king. This is the part Nebuchadnezzar is not pragmatically satisfied with. He expects more—perhaps because it’s a vision, and so a 33  I refer to the Beale/Moyise debates of the late 1990’s and early 2000’s, an able summary of which can be found in Jon Paulien, “Dreading the Whirlwind: Intertextuality and the Use of the Old Testament in Revelation,” AUSS 39.1 (2001): 5–22. Essentially, “Beale argues that John uses the OT with sensitivity to its original context” (13). 34  For a rationale for using this model above others, and particularly over CMT per se, see the first paragraph under section 3.1. 35  For an example of pragmatic metaphorical prompting within a blending-theoretical framework, see his consideration of the standard “this surgeon is a butcher” in Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 131. 36  For a discussion of the A is B convention, see Kövecses, Metaphor, 4, 33.

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potential communication from the gods (who would not likely contact him without having a wider point). The writer narrates that he was pragmatically “troubled”—dangerously so (2:1, 3)—and far from willing to leave the “explanation” of the story there. This is analogous to how John “wept and wept” when he saw the seven-sealed scroll, with no one to open it. He, like Nebuchadnezzar, was pragmatically “troubled.”37 In terms of blending theory, Nebuchadnezzar is looking for another mental space, different from the concrete realm of statues and mountains, that might give explanation to an otherwise opaque vision. The dream is not relevant because it has not been mapped to the necessary, external sources. The remainder of the story is, then, Daniel’s solution—and, thereby, the author’s solution—to the problem. He has the key that “explains” Nebuchadnezzar’s vision to him and resolves the pragmatic failure. That key is a metaphor. Daniel attempts to construct in the mind of the king (and the reader) a mental architecture—a metaphorical network—that will yield relevance for all parties involved. This, I am arguing and by appeal to Daniel 2, is the same strategy John recommends for his own readers. 3.1.1.1 Mental Spaces Mental spaces are mental packets of localized memory and experience, represented by groups of activated neuronal assemblies in the brain whose activations give unity to certain regionalizations of thought.38 There are four distinct mental spaces in Daniel’s recapitulation and explanation of the story (Dan 2:27–45). Two occur within the vision (2:31–35) and are physical and concrete: the statue and the rock/mountain. These are the mental spaces already available to the king, and are products of his own vision as well (2:1–3). Two new mental spaces (the four kingdoms of the world and the kingdom of God, 2:37–44) are then introduced by means of Daniel’s interpretation or explanation. These are from the external domain kingdoms, and are what make the explanatory “key” metaphorical. It may be helpful at this point, and in keeping with blending theory, to begin to demonstrate the network graphically:39

37  For being pragmatically troubled as the hearer, see Manuel Padilla Cruz, “Pragmatic Failure, Epistemic Injustice and Epistemic Vigilance,” Language and Communication 39 (2014): 34–50. 38  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 40. 39  In keeping with Fauconnier and Turner, we will not use small caps in diagrams.

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The four primary mental spaces of Daniel’s vision of the statue

3.1.1.2 Vital Relations Daniel gives an explanation of the vision, and he has a methodology for doing it. When he says, “you [Nebuchadnezzar] are that head of gold” (2:38), he is constructing a relationship between domains. The copulative is expressed in the Septuagint directly as εἶ, and indirectly (but still explicitly) in the MT Hebrew pseudo-copulative ‫הּוא‬. It acts as a linguistic prompt for forming a vital relation between the referential “you” and predicate “head of gold”—a crossdomain signal for metaphorical comparison of some sort.40 This vital relation is the relation by “representation.”41 The external mental space of statues is being recruited to provide new representational information about the king and his kingdom. This serves to give the reader the “click of comprehension”42 that, pragmatically, begins to yield a sense of “satisfaction.” One sees how this might immediately render the communication more relevant to the character, Nebuchadnezzar. The story is now about him. And,

Figure 2

The vital relation of representation

40   Cross-domain signals (or Steen’s “metaphorical flags”) are the subject of chapter 5. 41  For a discussion of “Vital Relations and Their Compressions,” see Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 89–111. For representation in particular, see pp. 97–98. 42  Steen, “Paradox of Metaphor,” 223.

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insofar as the intended readership may be thought to have opinions and attitudes—perhaps strong ones—toward Nebuchadnezzar and Babylon, it becomes more relevant to them as well. 3.1.1.3 Input Spaces The four spaces (statuary, rocks/mountains, the four kingdoms, the kingdom of God) are “input spaces.” They are the local knowledge structures which form the building blocks for the network.43 As they begin to interact by means of their vital relations, new spaces will begin to form in Nebuchadnezzar’s mind (and also, by reflection, in the mind of the reader). Input spaces, set in relation, are the soil from which spring innovative thought. 3.1.1.4 Blended Space The newly-created, ad hoc spaces are called “blended spaces” or just “blends” because they are comprised by the products of the systematic blending and compressing of elements from the input spaces.44 Nebuchadnezzar’s kingdom, as an element in the input space of the four kingdoms, is now understood in terms of the statue. It now has characteristics (headedness or firstness, goldenness or high value) imputed or projected to it, forming the ad hoc concept Kingdoms*.

Figure 3

Projection to the blended space

43  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 40–41. 44  Tendahl has been helpful here in theoretically combining the pragmatic concept “ad hoc” with the cognitive linguistic concept “blend.” See Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 135. Note that ad hoc concepts will receive italics and the asterisk (e.g., Kingdoms*).

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3.1.1.5 Compressions In Dan 2, the two foreign elements of Babylon/Nebuchadnezzar and the head of gold are compressed to uniqueness in the newly-created, metaphoricallyblended mental space. That is to say, they are made to be seen as the same entity. This is a normal two-stage compression within blending theory of analogy to representation and then representation to uniqueness. Much the same happens when you see the picture of a friend. It is recognizable, and so “analogous.” That analogy prompts you to regard the picture as a pictorial representation of your friend. The representative nature of the picture can then be further compressed to uniqueness, such that it feels intuitively reasonable and normal to say of the picture, “that is my friend.”45 There are dozens of compressions that operate the story of the statue. Many are compressions of representation to uniqueness, but there are also important compressions by scaling of time (history is scaled dramatically into the single moment of the statue) and cause-effect (the fairly involved process of the fall of nations is scaled to a simple smashing action of a rock). Not all vital relations are immediately compressed, however. The rock is disanalogous to the statue’s metals, and that disanalogy remains uncompressed. It is not metallic. It explicitly is not fashioned by human hands like they are. The writer wishes to highlight that disanalogy because it implies that the kingdoms of the world and the kingdom of God are also disanalogous (the former, by implication of being hand-made, being idolatrous).46 Israel is a different sort of material. It is a different sort of kingdom. And it was made by different sorts of hands. 3.1.1.6 Generic Spaces Generic spaces give rise and reason to the outer-space connections between input spaces. In other words, they are the abstracted sociological and psychological impetus to the creation of networks and their blends.47 A person can more easily metarepresent a network in a way that an author or speaker intends48 when it is based on a common, generic, space. And because RT predicts that 45  This is effectively the same example that Fauconnier and Turner use in their description of “representation”; Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 97–98. 46  Or “something wholly other”; see John E. Goldingay, Daniel, WBC 30 (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996), 59. 47  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 41–42, 47, 105. 48  For a discussion of the mutual responsibility inherent to metarepresentation, see section 6.2. Though sometimes reduced to discussions of power and control, communication is fundamentally a mutual social contract, engaged in because of its inherent and evolutionary value to society; for which, see Dan Sperber, “Metarepresentations in an Evolutionary Perspective,” in Metarepresentations: A Multidisciplinary Perspective, ed. Dan Sperber (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 117–137.

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The generic spaces of Dan 2

ease of inference is a controlling factor in communication (along with the value of the inference), most blends will have recognizable generic spaces. For Daniel, the statue-kingdom comparison is pragmatically optimized by the fact that statues commonly represented royalty, and so their kingdoms. Royal iconography was ubiquitous, which made it a useful material anchor for the metaphor.49 The association of rocks and mountains with the kingdom of God is also an easy association—particularly for Israelites, whose God is their “rock” (e.g., Ps 18:2, 31, 46) and on whose mountain (Zion; e.g., Ps 76:2, Isa 8:18) he resides. 3.1.1.7 Alternative Space So far, all consideration has been given to the four kingdoms; but Daniel is a prophet of Yahweh, a king in his own right (2:44, 47). Mental spaces, when they make assertions in one direction, prompt the reader or hearer to begin to set up alternative mental spaces that push back in the opposite direction.50 A revelation of the four (gentile) kingdoms and their fate, in a work of Hebrew and Aramaic literature, would naturally prompt the reader to wonder where the Hebrew God fits into the story—and, so, to begin to construct an alternative space occupied by his kingdom. That is the cognitive space into which Daniel speaks his special revelation—the “explanation” of the story and the part that Nebuchadnezzar did not know. 49  Ibid., 195–216. For their claim that material anchors commonly attend blends, see especially 195. 50  For a discussion, see Barbara Dancygier and Eve Sweetser, Mental Spaces in Grammar: Conditional Constructions (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 31–35.

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Figure 5

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The alternative blends of Dan 2

And so, the “composition” phase of the metaphor is complete. Mental spaces have been formed (statuary/four kingdoms, rock-mountain/kingdom of god) and set in analogous relation to one another under the influence of well-established generic spaces (royal iconography and Mount Zion). Those vital relations have then created blended spaces (kingdoms* and kingdom of God*), together with their constituent compressions (of uniqueness, disanalogy, and so forth). But, if there are two alternative networks (or, more to the point, two alternative kingdoms) that are competing, what will be the resolution of that implied competition? How will Daniel help his readers choose what he feels to be the better alternative? Or might he go one step further, make one more compression, and perhaps turn the two kingdomtypes into one? 3.1.2 Elaboration Now that all the network components are in place (composition stage), full associations can be made and patterns can be completed (completion stage), so that new structures and implications can emerge (elaboration stage).51 As a 51  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 48–49.

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matter of expediency, we will cover elaboration before completion because it is during the completion stage that one discovers or determines metaphoricity. 3.1.2.1 Emergent Structure Certain elements appear in the blends that don’t project from any of their input spaces.52 Rocks and mountains do not “grow,” and certainly not to the point that they “fill the whole earth” (Dan 2:35). Those ideas emerge out of the blend, which is evidence that there is a blend. It is in the blend that the analogous kingdom of God and rock are compressed to uniqueness, and it is only from that unique and blended entity (the kingdom-rock) that “growth” is emergent. The rock/mountain can happily exist in its own mental space, and the kingdom of God its own as well, but a growing rock has nowhere to go. It does not exist in either world. But it does and can (and can only) exist in the blend. 3.1.2.2 Selective Projection and the Optimality Principles Not all elements in the inputs have a “home” in the network, however. That gold, silver, bronze, or iron might bend rather than break when struck by a rock is not projected from the statuary input. They are “shattered” (‫ ַה ֵּד ֶקת‬/ κατήλεσεν; Dan 2:34), which is not a characteristic of those materials. That particular detail of their nature (that they bend or dent) quiesces so that the metaphor can operate as it needs to. Various optimality principles operate in the construction and comprehension of blends. They can work with or against each other. Two that commonly work against each other are the integration principle (integrate wherever possible)53 and the topology principle (maintain as much of the topology from the inputs as possible).54 The topology of materials-characteristics in the statuary input (that they bend and don’t shatter) conflicts with the integration principle that a good and workable blend be achieved (they need to leave the scene entirely and not just be “bent”). In this struggle integration wins, topology loses, and the characteristics drop out. These struggles between optimality principles would not be taking place if a cross-domain (metaphorical) blend was not being made. If two people are communicating within the scope of a single domain, topology need not be violated. If Daniel were really talking about metals, the gold would never “shatter.” If John were really talking about death, he wouldn’t need a “second” one. Those

52  Ibid., 42–44. 53  Ibid., 328–29. 54  Ibid., 325–28.

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violations of topology indicate that the writer is appealing to another domain, and that appeal is by itself constitutive of metaphor. 3.1.2.3 Elaboration Several times, Daniel maps one specific element from the source domain (or framing input) to one specific element from the target domain (or focus input)55 by means of representation and compresses them to uniqueness, with the result in the blend that—for example—when the statue is smashed the nations are “smashed” along with it. This causal projection is made explicit in the text (2:44). A causal projection that is not made explicit is the growth of the kingdom of God to fill the whole world. The rock/mountain undergoes that transformation (2:35), but Daniel never actually says that God’s kingdom does (2:44). It is a (strongly implicated) elaboration in the mind of the reader. That natural inference is only made available by “running the blend” in one’s own mind,56 combining rock and kingdom of God in the blend and then projecting “growth” back from the blend onto the kingdom of god input. The network serves its full pragmatic function and the emergent structure actually emerges only when it is represented in the mind of the reader.57 Relevance is achieved by “running the blend.” 3.1.2.4 Backward Projection (the Unpacking Principle) Daniel states that the second kingdom is “inferior” to Nebuchadnezzar’s, but that has already been implied by the use of silver, as silver is a less valuable metal than gold.58 The property of the metal becomes the property of the kingdom through backward projection59 just like the growth of the rock becomes the growth of the kingdom of God, above. Silver is naturally compared to gold, since both are modes of currency as well as types of metal. It is also implicitly 55  For the equation of frame and focus inputs and source and target domains, see Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 167. 56  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 44, 48, 61. 57  This is related to the psychological theories of “mirroring” (“matching or replication of a cognitive or mental event”) and “theory of mind” or “mindreading” (“the attribution of a mental state”); Alvin I. Goldman, Joint Ventures: Mindreading, Mirroring, and Embodied Cognition (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 89. If one can’t mirror, one can’t communicate (Ibid., 287). 58  Goldingay makes the claim that “[t]here is no indication of deterioration,” an odd interpretive stance, given that Daniel makes that deteriorization explicit in naming it “lesser than you” (‫ ֲא ַרעא ִמּנָ ְך‬/ἐλάττων σου; Dan 2:39); see Goldingay, Daniel, 49. 59  For discussions of backward projection, see Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 44, 49, 338.

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compared to gold by being placed lower on the statue. That comparative valuation is projected to the blend, attributed to its parallel kingdom (the one after Babylonia), and then reverse-projected back up into the other input space of the four nations, where it did not reside before. The network has changed. Elements now exist in the inputs that weren’t there before the blend was formed. Ideas can change because of that faculty. Knowledge can be revised. In the story, Daniel is trying to lead Nebuchadnezzar and his readers to revise their ideas of his kingship and kingdom, and he is using their native ability to project backwards from the statue to do it. 3.1.2.5 Recursion When the rock grows to become a mountain, the kingdom of God grows to fill the whole earth. This is a people are mountains metaphor in which, as the mountain grows, the citizenship of the kingdom of God grows. Daniel is not explicit as to how that happens. There is however an implicit disanalogy between the fate of the four kingdoms and God’s. There are two sides of the mental model—“two ways,” if you will60—but only one of them is lasting. The kingdoms of the world diminish and the kingdom of God grows (Dan 2:44). Disanalogies commonly compress to identity with change.61 This new blend is an example of recursion, where blends from old networks become inputs to new ones. The two ways that are being set in disanalogous relationship are the ad hoc concepts Kingdoms* and Kingdom of God*. They prompt for change because, if the two disanalogous items are successfully compressed to identity, the new unity now has the differing phenomena of both to deal with. Those differing elements are then put into diachronic relationship. Change is projected onto the new unity, and the kingdoms become the Kingdom.62 The citizenship of one fills up because the citizenship of the other diminishes. The metallic kingdoms may blow away like chaff, but their inhabitants are the material from which the people-as-mountain is caused to “grow” (the two operations occurring in the same verse, 2:35). This is the point of the two-ways device. The kingdoms “change” and are enfolded into the new, one-world Kingdom of God**. The “two ways” will eventually become one.

60  Cf. e.g., Ps 1:1, 4; 1 Enoch 91:18–19. For the use of the Hebrew wisdom “two ways” motif specifically in apocalyptic literature, see Collins, Apocalyptic Imagination, 83, 140; and especially Loren T. Stuckenbruck, 1 Enoch 91–108 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2007), 246–50. For its use in the NT, see Darian R. Lockett, “Structure or Communicative Strategy? The ‘Two Ways’ Motif in James’ Theological Instruction,” Neotestamentica 42.2 (2008): 269–287. 61  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 314, 326. 62  For a description of the process, see ibid., 93–94.

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Recursion: the inclusion of the gentile nations in the Kingdom of God?

This is the mental architecture Daniel uses to compose, and then to elaborate, his story of the statue. It is, in thorough fashion, a metaphorical one. The emergent structure that appears (rocks growing); the topology that gets selected out (gold shattering); the elaborations (a growing kingdom of God), backwards projections (the inferior nations), and especially the recursion (the kingdom of God growing because the inferior nations diminish) are all evidence that the writer is thinking about nations in terms of things—“one thing in terms of another.” We will see that it is also the exact mental structure of the story of Revelation (see figure 20). There is, granted, no direct evidence that Daniel intends this final recursion to happen. It is, in inferential pragmatics terms, a “weak implicature”: an implicature “which the hearer is given some encouragement but no clear mandate to construct.”63 Revelation however makes it a strong impli63  Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber, “Truthfulness and Relevance,” in Meaning and Relevance, ed. Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 69;

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cature: the “kings of the earth,” who have been made “pure” (Rev 21:27), enter the New Jerusalem (21:24–26) and the gentiles are “healed” (22:2). This time, the end effect of the “war” between the kingdoms is not going to be left to guesswork. 3.1.3 Completion: Is It a Metaphor? 3.1.3.1 Poverty of Metaphors Metaphors, by their nature, are “impoverished.” They are only partial mappings to, and partial explanations of, the target domain.64 It is very common, for that reason, for multiple metaphors to be used in discourse.65 One picks up where another leaves off. Dan 2 uses two other (auxiliary) metaphors that do certain things that kingdoms are statues cannot. One is lexically primed by “chaff” and “threshing floor” in 2:35. Temporary things are chaff is being recruited into the network to turn the bits of statue, by analogy, to chaff and compresses them to identity so that, when he blows the chaff away, the pieces of the statue and the detritus of the kingdoms are blown away with it. The chaff metaphor fully eliminates the kingdoms in a way that the statue metaphor could not.66 3.1.3.2 Metonymies (Inner-Space Mappings) Metonymies, like metaphors, map elements; but the elements that are being related are within the same domain. Nebuchadnezzar is performing doubleduty in the passage as both a metaphor and a metonymy. Metaphorically he is the head of gold, as has been shown above. Metonymically, he stands as a representative for the entire Babylonian empire—king for kingdom. That inner-space relation is the product of an easy part-whole compression to uniqueness.67 The part of the whole becomes the part for the whole, which is a standard metonymy.68 also see Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 212 (for a definition) and 222 (for its relationship to “poetic effect”). 64  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 118–19. 65  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 258. 66  This complete dissolution is necessary even if the writer intends the recursive blend of the inclusion of the gentiles, as considered above. The writer is not trying to include Babylon as Babylon (an entailment that would pertain if any of the gold remains). He needs a tabula rasa whether the citizens of these kingdoms are destroyed or enfolded, and turning the metal to chaff achieves that. Note that Revelation similarly “destroys” Babylon entirely and permanently (18:14), but that some nevertheless “come out of her” (18:4). 67  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 97. 68  Or, perhaps better (or at least more historically), a synecdoche; see Kenneth Burke, A Grammar of Motives (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969), 503–17 (“Four Master Tropes”).

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3.1.3.3

Pragmatically Solving for the “Kingdom of God” and “Testimony of Jesus Christ” All of these metaphorically-related dynamics (cross-domain mapping, unpacking, emergent structure, etc.) will help this present study solve for metaphor in Revelation. If Daniel had never explained the king’s vision, Nebuchadnezzar’s mental network would have remained incomplete. The crumbling statue and the growing rock would have continued to seem strange, foreign, and fanciful. But they only seemed that way because Nebuchadnezzar was unaware of their real frame of focus—the Kingdom of God. He lacked a mental-architectural place to put these things, until Daniel built it for him. Revelation has felt strange, foreign, and fanciful.69 It has suffered from that kind of incomplete mapping—the lack of the true frame of focus. And that has caused it to remain pragmatically non-relevant. We struggle with saying what it is (completion stage) because we haven’t found the network that gives sense to all the elements within it (elaboration stage), again because we have not mapped the story to the subject of John’s great concern (composition stage): “the testimony of Jesus Christ” (Rev 1:2). Once war and argument are mapped, the story should turn into an explanation of the spread of the gospel;70 and much of what has been difficult to comprehend may end up falling into place. 3.2

Metaphors in Revelation That Look like Daniel 2

There are many metaphors that operate within the story of Revelation, and many of them use Daniel’s σημαίνω-style structure. The New Jerusalem is a people are cities metaphor.71 People and construction materials are compressed into a city in which human beings are themselves the gates (21:12), foundations (21:14), and walls (21:17), to form a population massive enough to 69  Perhaps partly because the modern interpretive stance had been derogatory and suspicious toward mythopoeic cultures; see Rudolf Bultmann, “New Testament and Mythology,” in Kerygma and Myth: A Theological Debate, ed. Hans Werner Bartsch, trans. Reginald H. Fuller (New York: Harper & Row, 1961), 1–44. The post-modern stance has been more accepting of mythopoiesis; for which, see Debra Scoggins Ballentine, The Conflict Myth and the Biblical Tradition (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), 16–21. Her point is that the ancient mind is not substantially different from the modern one, an assumption cognitive linguists also make. 70  The idea of the NT using a war metaphor to explain the gospel is hardly new; e.g., Peter W. Macky, St. Paul’s Cosmic War Myth: A Military Version of the Gospel (New York: Peter Lang, 1998). 71  Pilchan Lee, The New Jerusalem in the Book of Revelation, WUNT 2/129 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 276–77; Koester, Revelation, 293, 804; Huber, Like a Bride, 170–73.

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fill all the known earth (21:16).72 People are cities that fill the earth is directly reminiscent of the people are mountains metaphor that does the same in Dan 2:35. There is also an alternative space, as there is in Daniel. The alternative city to the New Jerusalem, the “city” constructed of the unrighteous, is the doomed city of Babylon (14:8; 16:19; 18:2, 10, 21). The full network could be represented this way, in obvious parallel to Daniel 2’s structure:

Figure 7

The network structure of Revelation’s Two Cities73

72  Beale, Revelation, 151, 173: “new Jerusalem (= God’s people) …” 73   These diagrams are not meant to, in themselves, constitute evidence but rather to make clear what evidence is being presented, as if by shorthand. They concatenate evidence (as most diagrams do). These are not cases of a pre-formed diagram seeking information to fill it. For critics to make that argument, they would need to show that Jerusalem and Babylon are not represented in the text, that they are not presented as in some way opposite or oppositional, that they are not representative of people groups, etc. The fact that all of these diagrams look identical may not be evidence for the presence of the metaphor, but they certainly are not evidence to the contrary.

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Figure 8

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The network structure of Revelation’s Two Women

There is also a faithful bride (19:7–9; 21:2, 9) and an unfaithful one (14:8; 17:2, 4; 18:3, 9; 19:2).74 John is again using two metaphorical blends (primed by the metaphorical generic space people groups are women) set in two alternative spaces. This network blends the adulteress (rather than Babylon) with the unfaithful and the bride (rather than Jerusalem) with the faithful. That these two characters are alternatives of each other is more expressed in the text than with the two cities. One dresses inappropriately to the writer’s mind (17:4, 18:16), the other appropriately (19:7–8; 21:2). One is clean (19:8), the other unclean (17:4–5; 18:2). One inspires blasphemy of God (17:3), the other 74  For a full study of the bride metaphor from a CMT perspective, see Huber, Like a Bride, especially 134–78 (chapter 5: “Reading Revelation’s Nuptial Imagery”). Edith Humphrey compares and contrasts the two in Edith M. Humphrey, “A Tale of Two Cities and (At Least) Three Women: Transformation, Continuity, and Contrast in the Apocalypse,” in Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, ed. David L. Barr (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 81–96.

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inspires worship (19:6–7). One is accepted (19:7, 9), one is rejected (18:21). One mourns (18:7–8), and one mourns no more (21:4). This again replicates the two-kingdom (or two-ways) model of Daniel 2, with women replacing statues and rocks. The question is prompted then whether the individuals within these people groups can move from one group to the other.75 It seems plausible at least that the bride (12:1–2)76 becomes the adulteress (14:8–11, the adulterous receivers of the mark) at some point in the narrative (say, at 13:16–18, where the mark is given and received). Does the adulteress return to become the bride again? Or does she stand as the bride’s eternal doppelganger? A third metaphor that uses the two-metaphors or two-ways (σημαίνω) network structure is the dual harvest of chapter 14. An angel comes out of the temple and easily reaps the wheat harvest (14:16), and another one comes out and reaps the harvest of grapes (14:19) which get trodden in God’s winepress (14:20). Both of these are using as their base the common people are plants metaphor77 (a point made obvious by the fact that, when the grapes are trodden, blood rather than juice flows out). If the harvest is the restoration, as it is elsewhere in the NT,78 then the wheat is a metaphor for people who are easily restored and the grapes for people who are less easily restored.79 75  In the last two pages of the appendix to her book-length study of the bride metaphor in Revelation, Lynn Huber poses this very question of whether the contents of Babylon being emptied and those of the New Jerusalem being filled are related. See Huber, Like a Bride, 188–89. One of the hopes of the present study is to answer that question in the affirmative. One notes that this was our conclusion as to how the mountain grew in Dan 2 from the “chaff” of the broken nations of the world (see section 3.1.2.5). For the idea of the transformation of the woman figure(s) of Revelation (though not of the adulteress herself), see Humphrey, Ladies and the Cities, 84–118, wherein the “Queen of Heaven … becomes the bride” (21). 76  I name the celestial woman of chapter 12 “bride” for several reasons: 1) she shares with the bride of Christ (21:2) the only other exalted and heavenly status among female characters in the narrative (12:1); 2) she is pregnant (12:2); and 3) she is—or at least her offspring are—righteous (12:17). If one would want to make the argument that she is not a “bride,” one would need to answer why she is both pregnant and righteous in a book that is profoundly critical of sexual indiscretion (2:14, 20; 17:2). 77  Kövecses, Metaphor, 123. 78  Cf. Mark 4:26–29, Matt 9:36–38 // Luke 10:2, and John 4:35–38 (“ripe unto harvest”). See N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God, vol. 2 of Christian Origins and the Question of God (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1996), 230–34 (his section on the parable of “The Sower,” from Mark 4:1–20 par.). “Redemption” in Koester, Revelation, 619, where he proposes an allusion to Jer 2:2–3 (a passage that combines the metaphors of bride and first-fruits in talking about Israel, as Rev 14:4 does). 79  Bauckham only makes the claim of “redemption” (though from all nations) in the case of the wheat harvest, but this narrowing of God’s redemptive activity to the first harvest

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Figure 9

The network structure of Revelation’s Two Harvests

It is unlikely that the stylized “death” of either group is meant as a proleptic vision of the day of judgment for the following reasons: (1) this vision asks that it be taken as present reality rather than prolepsis (14:13, 15); (2) death is not the point of differentiation between the two events (the wheat “dies” just as much as the grapes do), which—if death equals judgment—would yield an undifferentiated judgment; (3) judgment has not yet begun within the narrative (20:12–15), even the temporal judgments of the bowls (16:5) which should also “complete God’s wrath” (15:1); and (4) the text has just told us in the immediately preceding verse (14:13) that people “who die from now on” are blessed, making it difficult to see either of these types of death as something other than blessed. is unnecessary if violence is metaphorically argument. In that case, the second harvest simply requires a more “forceful” argument. See Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 283–96 (the subsection “From first fruits to harvest (chapter 14)” in his chapter “The Conversion of the Nations”).

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In this conceit, the grapes do not become the wheat (topology constraint), but they do become part of the harvest (by integration). They are expressly “gathered in” (τρυγάω; 14:18) and become at least as useful a food source (within the agriculture domain) as the wheat. They do not, in other words, become weeds (Matt 13:24–30) or chaff (Matt 3:12 // Luke 3:17) as they so easily might, nor are they “cast out” (Rev 19:20; 20:10, 14–15). Regardless of the possible recursion, it is almost universally agreed at least that the wheat and grapes are metaphors for people,80 and commonly that they stand in some kind of alternate or mirror status to one another.81 They then also mirror the structure of Daniel 2 (which itself had a weakly implicated recursion). Many more alternate or two-ways-styled metaphors can be attested. In the metaphor honor is a crown, the faithful wear laurels (achieved honor; 2:10, 3:11, 4:4, etc.) and the unfaithful wear diadems (ascribed honor; 12:3, 13:1).82 In deeds are clothing, the righteous are dressed in bright and clean linens (19:8, 14), but the unfaithful are warned against nakedness (3:17–18; 16:15). There is good “purchasing” (3:18) and bad “purchasing” (13:17, 18:11) in religious commitment is trade. There is cleanness (19:8) and uncleanness (18:2) in moral purity is cleanliness. And so on. John wants to present all of these two alternatives (“two ways”) metaphorically. Readers are effectively being given the choice of one metaphorical outcome or the other—eternal city or destroyed city, adulteress or bride, first fruits or trodden grapes, laurel or diadem, clothed or naked, clean or soiled. In the case of the war, the choice is between living and dying. Life and death are a common subject of the two ways motif (e.g., Jer 21:8–9, Did. 1.1)—but this time, and uncommonly if not uniquely (John 12:24–25, Mark 8:34–35 parr.), he isn’t recommending living. It isn’t the “path of life” that he’s trying to get his readers to choose. He wants them to be clean and clothed … and dead: 1. “Be faithful unto death and I will give you the crown of life.” (2:10) 2. “I saw under the altar the souls of those who had been slain.” (6:9) 80  Beale, Revelation, 772–73. 81  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 283–96 and Osborne, Revelation, 552; but cf. Beale, Revelation, 774–76. 82  Jesus alone wears them both (14:14, 19:12), implying that he was both “born into” his honor and had earned more besides. The dragon and beast have only ascribed honor. John would not want to indicate that they had earned theirs. They therefore wear the seven diadems (symbols of honor ascribed by nations), never the στέφανος or laurel (symbol of honor ascribed by God). Note also that the first horseman and the locust army wear the laurel (6:2, 9:7) promised to the faithful alone (2:10, 3:11), indicating that the writer considers them honorable and faithful characters. For a discussion of the two types of honor, see David A. deSilva, Honor, Patronage, Kinship & Purity: Unlocking New Testament Culture (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2000), 28–29. I owe the point concerning the two crown-types to a personal conversation with Robert Mulholland.

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3. 4. 5.

“These are the ones who have come out of the great tribulation.” (7:14) “They did not love their life, even to the point of death.” (12:11) “They sang a new song before the throne … No one could learn the song except the 144,000 who had been redeemed from the earth.” (14:3) 6. “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.” (14:13) 7. “those who had been hewn … They came to life and reigned with Christ 1000 years.” (20:4). This remarkable two-ways contrivance within the War frame does not seem to work on any level other than a metaphorical one. Bauckham has proposed that John sees the suffering witness of the church—even to the point of death— as the means by which the nations are persuaded in the truth of the gospel and converted.83 This might seem to solve the problem of the “choose death” implication of the two ways motif; but there are two serious problems with Bauckham’s conclusion. The first, as pointed out by Allan McNicol, is that it isn’t the witness of the church that converts the nations in the actual story; it is their utter decimation in the last battle.84 John wouldn’t likely be so strongly recommending martyrdom if he thought it would be ineffective. The other problem—which is more serious—is that God is the one doing the killing. John isn’t asking people to die by Caesar’s hand. It isn’t the beast that is prosecuting the seals, trumpets, and bowls or the final battle. God is. The commentator should then take it as instructive how rarely God’s enemies (the dragon, the beasts, the blasphemers of the bowls, etc.) die, and how often his friends (the altar-souls, the 144,000, etc.) do. John is asking his readers to choose death by God’s hand as the preferable of the two ways, like being clean is or being clothed is. Agreement is death and witness is killing are entailments of argument is war. That is why God is killing, and why John is asking his readers to die. In God’s war of witness, the literally faithful should metaphorically die. And so, whether people are cities, people are plants, or people groups are women, John is having us picture only two groups in each case: one group that is faithful to God and one that is not. These metaphorical constructs—which run throughout the narrative—are some evidence that 83  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 258: “Where judgments alone have failed to bring the nations to repentance, the church’s suffering witness, along with judgments, will be effective to this end. Thus God’s kingdom will come, not simply by the deliverance of the church and the judgment of the nations, but primarily by the repentance of the nations as a result of the church’s witness.” 84  McNicol, Conversion of the Nations, 129: “The argument that, on the basis of the witness of the martyr-church, there will be a massive conversion of the nations … cannot be substantiated from the text of Revelation.”

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John is generally approaching his subjects metaphorically. But they also serve to make the more specific argument: that John is thinking (and so writing) in a two-ways metaphorical style, which makes use of a recursion that resolves the implied competition between his two “sides.” He is conceptualizing and constructing a competition, in other words, in order to give his Christ a chance to win it. If the above competitions—of cities, of women, of plants, etc.—are conceptualized metaphorically, what are the chances that John’s war is as well? 3.3

ARGUMENT IS WAR Looks like Daniel 2

This then is what I am arguing to be the general construct of John’s thought within the war narrative:

Figure 10

The cognitive structure of the two metaphorical ways in the Apocalypse

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We are approaching John’s narrative, on the whole, as an intentional allusion to a specific metaphor in Daniel 2. John has read Daniel 2, he has formed a conceptual network of the type in figure 10 (a type I have labeled “Two Metaphorical Ways”), and now he is using that structure to convey his own revelation. The research question at hand is whether he is using it to structure the concept war in particular. And if the metaphor exists mostly at the cognitive and implicit level and not at the level of explicature, how can we know if it is really there? We will answer these questions in three stages. They will follow the structure we used to assess the metaphor in Daniel: Composition (the remainder of this chapter), and then Elaboration and Completion (the following chapter). 3.3.1 The Composition of ARGUMENT IS WAR Thought has structure. There is a phenomenology to how thoughts are made, maintained, changed, and discarded. Because mental architecture has form and process, it can be studied.85 Revelation is the output of John’s thought. It was built on the architecture of John’s mind at the time of writing. And so, in trying to resolve the pragmatic difficulties in understanding the book of Revelation, it is perhaps best to begin where the book of Revelation began—in John’s thought. This section will look at seven types of structures common to Fauconnier and Turner’s “conceptual networks”: mental spaces, vital relations, inputs, blends, compressions, generic spaces, and alternative spaces. Each mentalarchitectural type will be described and their presence in the narrative will be ascertained using the phenomenology that represents them. For example, mental spaces are recruited when they are triggered by key, framing words and ideas, so we will be looking for those key words and ideas. Compressions compact diffuse pluralities into easily-accessible unities, so we will hope to find such simplifications. Blends combine ideas in a new way, so we will be looking for such integrations. Ideas have empirical phenomena, and Revelation is one such phenomenon. There is thought that underlies it, and that thought has architecture. If we can discern and describe the architecture clearly, it may be that what issues from it (the book) will also become more clear.

85  This is a claim fundamental to both CMT and cognitive pragmatics, including RT. See Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 246–49 (“Evidence for Conceptual Metaphor”); Bruno G. Bara, Cognitive Pragmatics: The Mental Processes of Communication, trans. John Douthwaite (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2010), ix–x, 55–58.

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3.3.1.1 Mental Spaces Mental spaces are temporary constructions for the purpose of thought. They are recruited for immediate use from long-term knowledge structures (memory) and experience (the environment), and they interact to form new ideas.86 If I have a memory of ice cream or see ice cream, I can form the mental space ice cream. I can then form another mental space for myself (me) and blend the two into an imagined circumstance in which I am eating some as-yetunpurchased ice cream. If I like the blend well enough I am liable to make the decision to go buy ice cream so that I can experience it in reality, rather than just as a simulation in the blend. That ad hoc blend was only able to be formed because I was able to form the mental space ice cream (and me) in the first place. If I had no memory of ice cream and no prompt around me to experience it in the moment, I would be unable to form the mental space, unable to blend it with myself, unable to run the simulation of me eating ice cream, and unable to come to the decision that I should go buy some. Mental spaces in this way are the building-blocks of online thought and action, and any active thought (including Revelation as John wrote it) includes at least one. For networks to combine disparate thoughts to form new ones (as by blending), they include at least two. The first step then in analyzing the network structure of John’s thought in Revelation is to clarify what mental spaces he’s using in its construction. 3.3.1.1.1 WAR There are two outstanding mental spaces set up by the book, and particularly by the violent sections from the beginning of the seals (6:1) to the end of the battle of Magog (20:10): argument and war. The war mental space might seem self-evident.87 Nearly constant war-like interchanges between the two universal powers (God and Satan) and their agents make the idea almost a logical necessity. If they aren’t at “war” in some sense, the reader is left with few other options to frame the violence. But how might the presence of the frame of war in John’s thought be established empirically?

86  Gilles Fauconnier, “Mental Spaces,” in The Oxford Handbook of Cognitive Linguistics, ed. Dirk Geeraerts and Hubert Cuyckens (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 351–53 (“What Is a Mental Space?”) 87  Osborne, Revelation, 122: “One of the most important messages of the book is the challenge to be a ‘conqueror’ … an athletic and military metaphor”; David L. Barr, “The Lamb Who Looks Like a Dragon? Characterizing Jesus in John’s Apocalypse,” in The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation, ed. David L. Barr (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006), 211: “There can be no question that this is a war story and that John uses the conventions of war, with all their repulsive details.”

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3.3.1.1.1.1

Lexical Units

3.3.1.1.1.2

Frame Element: Instruments

Gilles Fauconnier states that mental spaces “are structured by frames,” and “[w]hen the elements and relations of a mental space are organized as a package we already know, we say that the mental space is framed and we call that organization a frame.”88 Texts lead readers to recruit from intended frames through the use of these “elements and relations.” Coming along the word “purchase” in a communication, for example, prompts one to recruit from the Commerce frame,89 finding “sow” prompts Planting, and so on. Their uses pragmatically “evoke” the relevant frames in the mind of the reader.90 Charles Fillmore, the originator of frame theory and frame semantics,91 established the still-growing FrameNet database project out of UC Berkeley.92 FrameNet is a repository of these “elements and relations” for hundreds of cognitive frames. It maps out the elements and lexical units that are diagnostic for frames. The frame for war (Hostile_encounter) has an unusually robust representation. Forty-seven distinct lexical units have been discovered that point to it.93 Most of the lexemes are unsurprising: to war, a war, to battle, a battle, to clash, a clash, to/a duel, to/a fight, to/a struggle, etc. There are also several key, Greek words that appear regularly throughout the text of Revelation that seem to be rough equivalents to the above lexical units—particularly Πολεμέω (to war; 2:16, 12:7, 13:4, 19:11), πόλεμος (a war; 9:7, 9:9, 12:7), νικάω (to conquer; 2:7, 11, 17, 26; 3:5, 12, 21 (2×); 5:5; 6:2 (2×); 12:11; 15:2; 17:14; 21:7), and θλῖψις (tribulation; 1:9, 2:9, 2:22, 7:14). So much is probably uncontroversial. Frames also have “frame elements,” which are common constituent categories.94 They change with the frame. Hostile_encounter has “instruments,” for example, while Personal_ relationship does not. War wants weaponry or “instruments” for the prosecution of war. Revelation not only has those instruments, but they are the types of weapons most natural to a war setting: the ῥομφαία (sword; 1:16; 2:12, 16; 6:8; 19:15, 21) and μάχαιρα (sword; 6:4; 13:10, 14), τόξον (bow; 6:2), ἅρμα (chariot; 9:9), ἵππος (horse; 6:2, 4, 5, 8; 9:7, 9, 17, 19; 14:20; 19:11, 14, 18, 19, 21) and rider, ἱππικός (cavalry; 9:16), θώραξ (breastplate; 9:9, 17), πῦρ (fire; 8:5, 88  Fauconnier, “Mental Spaces,” 351 and 352 respectively (italics original). 89  Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 73–74. 90  “About FrameNet,” http://framenet.icsi.berkeley.edu/fndrupal/about. 91  Fillmore, “Frame Semantics,” 20–32. 92  http://framenet.icsi.berkeley.edu/fndrupal/IntroPage. 93  http://framenet2.icsi.berkeley.edu/fnReports/data/frameIndex.xml?frame=Hostile_ encounter. 94  http://framenet.icsi.berkeley.edu/fndrupal/about.

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7, 8; 9:17, 18; 11:5; 15:2; 16:8; 17:16; 18:8; 20:9), ἅλυσις (chain; 20:1), λιμός (famine; 6:8, 18:8), βασανισμός (torture; 9:5; 14:11; 18:7, 10, 15), and of course θάνατος itself (death; 2:10, 11, 23; 6:8; 9:6; 12:11; 13:3, 12; 18:8; 20:6, 13, 14), among others. Also “sealing” seems to have a protective quality to it, like a shield might have (7:2–8; 9:4; and, by implication of the disasters unleashed at their being broken, the seven seals in chapter 6).95 It is true that many of these weapons are oddly produced or wielded (like fire or swords coming from mouths, horses coming from heaven, etc.), but that only proves the point. If the writer isn’t constrained by the logical and normal use of weaponry, framing the violence as war may be the only purpose behind using these weapons. It’s like going to a party in costume (where the weapons are the costume). The party-goer isn’t trying to be a character but simply to evoke a character. It’s the famous person’s frame that is the desired implication, not to actually be mistaken as the famous person. John wants to frame the narrative using war, whether or not it actually is a war. The question is whether it is the thing itself or is only wearing the costume of “war.” 3.3.1.1.1.3

Frame Element: Sides

“Sides” (as well as specifically “Side 1” and “Side 2”) are another frame element within Hostile_encounter. The sides involved in this case ask the reader to conceptualize a war. It is not just because of the conflict between the two classic enemies, God and Satan (12:9; 20:2, 10).96 Jesus’ role as military-styled Messiah is more prevalent in Revelation than it is in the Pauline epistles or the gospels (2:16, 19:11–21).97 He is more Lion-like (5:5, 10:3) and violent (19:15). Two battles are named (Armageddon in 16:16 and Gog and Magog in 20:8). Also, the agents that fight on either side are explicitly called στράτευμα (army; 9:16; 19:14, 19), διαφθείρω (destroyer; 11:18), βασιλεύς (king; e.g., 1:5, 6:15, 9:11), χιλίαρχος (commander; 6:15, 19:18), ἐχθρός (enemy; 11:5, 12), ἱππικός (cavalry; 9:16), or παρεμβολή (military camp; 20:9). If one would want to place the violence within a different frame, these sides would also have to be explained within a different frame. What other frame is more fitting than war for “armies,” “enemies,” “commanders,” “cavalry,” and “camps”? Note that some of these sides never even fight (e.g., the kings and commanders in 6:15 and the camp of God’s people in 20:9). They appear to be there more as staging than as actual combatants. Once again, the writer is dressing the book in the costume of War. He seems to want to evoke the frame of war more than he wants to actually force his characters to fight it. 95  Beale, Revelation, 409, 426, 467. 96  Yarbro Collins, Combat Myth, 82. 97  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 213–15 (“The conquering Messiah”).

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3.3.1.1.1.4

Frame Element: Results

3.3.1.1.1.5

Other Frame Elements

The results of the violence also have special application in a warfare schema. Granted, “death” would be a sensible outcome of violence whatever the specific frame. Consuming opponents in battle by fire, however, fits war (20:8–9). Taking captives (13:10), torturing (9:5; 11:10; 14:10–11; 18:7, 10, 15; 20:10), leaving bodies for carrion-birds (19:17–18, 21), and causing famine (6:8, 18:8) are all results within a war frame and less so in others. And the “heavy burden” of suffering (2:10), woe (8:13; 9:12; 11:14; 12:12; 18:10, 16, 19), weeping (7:17; 18:9, 11, 15, 19; 21:4), and fear (2:10, 14:7, 15:4) are ones familiar to “victims of war.”98 The imagery of Revelation is of war on a massive scale, prosecuted by God, delivered upon every living creature in heaven and on earth, and resulting in a destruction so complete that a new heaven and new earth (21:1) are needed to replace them. In other words, the result of this war is, at least rhetorically, “complete devastation.”99 And it is difficult to envision how such utter destruction might be wrought by means other than one, massive, world-wide war. The purpose of the war is expressly “victory” in battle (2:7, 11, 17, 26; 3:5, 12, 21; 5:5; 6:2; 11:7; 12:11; 13:7; 15:2; 17:14; 21:7), the conquest of the earth (e.g., 20:8–9, but also the entirety of the seals, trumpets, and bowls series), and the establishment of a one-world kingdom of God or of the beast (5:10, 11:15, 12:10, 13:7, 17:18).100 The means by which God and the devil manage their “troops” are agency (e.g., 1:6; 5:10; 13:7, 16; 16:8), authority (2:26–27; 6:8; 9:3, 10, 19; 11:6; 12:10; 13:2, 4, 5, 7, 12; 16:9; 17:12, 13; 18:1), strength (5:2; 6:15; 10:1; 18:8, 21; 19:18), and commands or orders (e.g., 6:1, 6; 7:2–3; 9:4, 14; 13:14). Sides are depicted as “outfitted for war,”101 including breastplates (9:9, 17) and blood (7:14, 19:13) and in arrangement (7:4–8; 16:14; 19:19; 20:8) and readiness (14:4–5) for battle. The issue that is being contested is “who is lord?” (13:1–8; cf. 19:16)—a disagreement classically settled in battle.102 The degree of the violence is total and world-wide (the trumpets and bowls cover earth, sea, rivers, celestial bodies, underworld, and heaven)103 but the duration of the battling is discrete (11:3; 12:12, 14; 20:3) as would be expected from a war. The places where 98  Boxall, Revelation, 110. 99  deSilva, Seeing Things, 290–91. 100  Thompson, Apocalypse and Empire, 186–87. 101  Malina and Pilch, Social-Science, 132. 102  Bauckham, Theology, 8–9. 103  Ronald Herms, An Apocalypse for the Church and for the World: The Narrative Function of Universal Language in the Book of Revelation, BZNW 143 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), 1 (passim).

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the war is fought look like battlefields (8:7; 16:3–4; 19;20; 20:10, 14, 15; 21:8). And the battles occur in series of multiple iterations (seven seals, seven trumpets, seven bowls) in a way that is customary in full-scale warfare. 3.3.1.1.1.6

Sources

The author is also drawing on OT descriptions of battle to tell his story. The darkening of the sky in the sixth seal (6:12–14) may be drawn partly from the prophesied destruction of Babylon in Isa 13:10–13, a destruction wrought by “the Lord of Armies mustering an army for war” (‫;יְ הוָ ה ְצ ָבאֹות ְמ ַפ ֵּקד ְצ ָבא ִמ ְל ָח ָמה‬ 13:4).104 The “great tribulation” (Rev 7:14; cf. 1:9; 2:9–10, 22) is likely an allusion to Daniel’s eschatological “day of tribulation” (Dan 12:1).105 Whether “Armageddon” is a reference to a final battle at Megiddo ([har]-mǝgiddôn, ‫ ְמגִ ּדֹון‬, from Zech 12:11) or Jerusalem (har môʿēd, ‫ר־מֹועד‬ ֵ ‫ ַה‬, from Isa 14:13),106 in both cases it is a final battle. John’s locust army of the fifth trumpet (9:1–12) is drawn from Joel’s (2:1–11).107 The trumpets and bowls on the whole are largely structured by the plagues on Egypt (Exod 7:14–12:30).108 Those events are usually not described as “war” exactly, but they did end that way (Exod 14:4, 6, 14, 20, 27), and they were hardly un-hostile (Exod 12:30). And the battle of Gog and Magog—though it is a much longer story in Ezekiel (chs. 38 and 39; 52 verses)—forms the climax of the war in Revelation (19:17–18, 20:8–9; 4 verses). Again, it’s as if the writer were appealing to Gog and Magog (explicitly and uniquely; 20:8) as a shorthand way of priming the reader to understand these events within the domain of war. John’s revelation isn’t just donning the costume of war; it’s a particular costume, taken from particular closets of OT prophetic literature.

Figure 11 The war mental space

104  Beale, Revelation, 396. 105  Ibid., 292. 106  Kline, “Har Magedon,” 208, 210. 107  Boxall, Revelation, 142–44. 108  Beale, Revelation, 498, 787.

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And so, in summary, our writer is drawing from war sources and using war implements, outcomes, and staging to host a narrative-wide series of violent events that he actually names “war.” This is how one “frames” thought using discourse. It may also be an extended example of George Lakoff’s “don’t think of an elephant” exercise.109 In it, his students were simply asked not to think of an elephant—an activity that required them to think of the very thing. It would be difficult at this point to argue that the writer is not attempting to form in the mind of his readers the mental space war, even if he isn’t really asking them to fight one. John is not parsimonious in his use of war-frame-recruiting lexical units. But war also seems to be something that God does not want (7:16, 21:4). Killing is treated as a grievous moral imperfection (16:6, 17:6, 18:24, 19:2) and those who take part in it do not enter the eternal kingdom (21:8, 22:15). It appears as if John is actually running Lakoff’s experiment. He’s eliciting war while seeming to have serious misgivings about violence. Why does John recruit a frame that he doesn’t want people to act on? Why say “war” if he doesn’t want them to think it? War was already a firm eschatological expectation among devotees of Second Temple literature and culture.110 Qumran, and especially the War Scroll, springs immediately to mind.111 There was no avoiding it, even if John wanted to. But he is doing something new with it. Joel’s locust army, the Tribulation, Armageddon, the celestial blackout, the plagues, and Gog and Magog are being woven into one story. The seals, trumpets, bowls, and last battles aren’t de novo creations; they’re a harmonization of prophetic themes and images, centered around the eschatological war, and reinterpreted in light of the Christ event. The RT question is, if John is harmonizing, why so little harmony? Why so little narrative unity and clarity? Why so little relevance? War is being appealed to extensively, but it is not the only “scope” in operation.112 Something else 109  George Lakoff, Don’t Think of an Elephant!: Know Your Values and Frame the Debate: The Essential Guide for Progressives (White River Junction, VT: Chelsea Green, 2004), 3. 110  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 210 (and chapter 8 passim). 111  For Qumran’s expectation of eschatological war, see John J. Collins, The Scepter and the Star: Messianism in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010), 77–78. 112  In blending theory, metaphors can be single-scope or double-scope, which is to say that they either get their structure primarily from one of the inputs or primarily from both. See Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 126–35. If Revelation has structural problems (for which, see section 1.2.1), and if it is a blend of ideas, the likelihood is that the topology from at least one of the inputs is not being sufficiently projected. We have lost one of our “scopes.”

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is providing structure as well. Something else is being harmonized—or, one might say, blended—with it. 3.3.1.1.2 ARGUMENT Argument is not that easy a mental space to establish, which is likely one of the reasons the metaphor has been missed. Of course there are hundreds of instances where things are spoken, heard, shown, seen, revealed, understood, or sent or received as some form of communication. The book is called Revelation, after all.113 There are innumerable signs, visions, and auditions as well as witnesses to these things (John himself not the least). FrameNet arranges these frames into hierarchical relationships whereby the “parent” frame Cause_to_ perceive (causing, in particular, the revelation of something to someone) is inherited by the “child” of Communication and used by the “grandchild” of Reasoning (argument), such that 1) “seeing” or “revealing” and 2) making an “argument” are inexorably linked cognitively.114 In other words, the “vision” or “revelation” just by itself is evidence for John’s intent to frame an argument. One must “cause [someone] to perceive” something one wishes to make an argument for (or against). How else might the argument be made? John explicitly “sees” or “reveals” his “visions” for that precise paraenetic purpose (1:3, 11; cf., e.g., 2:1–5a), and is pastorally and eschatologically concerned for those not persuaded thereby (2:5b, 16, etc.). His very authority to make the argument in the first place is predicated on what he has seen (1:19), because it establishes ethos.115 And the whole apocalyptic genre—if it can be called that—has even been reconsidered in terms of this (visionary) attempt to persuade.116 But, unlike war, the text doesn’t use the same number and degree of easilytranslated, diagnostic lexical units for argument as it did for war. Under 113  For the effect of the title on the contextualization of the book, see Beale, Revelation, 181–82. 114  These hierarchies, and their types and inter-relationships, can be accessed through any of the individual frame entries one-by-one, as well as—collectively and visually— through the FrameGrapher, located here: https://framenet.icsi.berkeley.edu/fndrupal/ FrameGrapher. A legend is available to describe the (seven) types of parent→child relations. 115  The sine qua non of rhetorical arguments; for which see, e.g., deSilva, Seeing Things, 121: “He [John] reinforces the visionary aspect of the work, and thus its otherworldly origin, with every ‘I saw’ (εἶδον) and ‘I heard’ (ἤκουσα), anchoring the authority of the text in the otherworldly sources of the reported speech and vision.” See also the entirety of his chapter 5, “Why Should We Listen to John? The Construction of Ethos in Revelation,” ibid., 117–145. 116  Greg Carey and L. Gregory Bloomquist, eds., Vision and Persuasion: Rhetorical Dimensions of Apocalyptic Discourse (St. Louis, MO: Chalice, 1999).

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the frame Reasoning, FrameNet lists as lexical units: argue, argument, case, demonstrate, demonstration, disprove, polemic, prove, reason (verb), reasoning, and show (verb).117 Some Greek equivalents of those concepts are used certainly (demonstrate, demonstration, and show as ἀποκάλυψις and δείκνυμι especially).118 Critically, however, some are not. Διαλογίζομαι, διαλογισμός, διαλέγομαι, διαλογή, συζητέω, ζήτησις, ἀντιλέγω, and ἀντιλογία never appear in the narrative and ἀποκρίνομαι only appears once (7:13, and not in the context of an actual argument). One of the reasons for this relative lack, as argued at the end of the previous section, is that war is being used as one scope to help frame speech here. Note that “polemic” (from πόλεμος, “war”) is also one of the lexical units for argument, and it is well represented. Metaphors are tools for conceptualizing abstractions. Love is framed by journey, for example. When two partners talk about how “far” they’ve “come,” they are using the concrete ideas and intricacies of traveling to conceptualize their years and experiences together. Likewise, war is providing some of the concrete structure for argument (thus taking it away from argument). This is the benefit of the argument is war metaphor. Arguments are events that are abstract and that can be difficult to conceptualize.119 Their purposes can be diffuse, their outcomes are not always clear, and even which “side” someone takes can be hard to discern. But, when overlaid with the stark contrasts and terminology of warfare, “purposes,” “outcomes,” and “sides” become much more clear: the purpose is to win, the outcome is either a win or a loss, and the side against you is anybody not helping you win. If Revelation is making use of the argument is war metaphor, argument should be less clear than war is. The metaphor explains Revelation’s strange language about language. Another reason that argument might be a less-than-clear mental space in Revelation is that it projects parity. Equals argue. Equals give the ἀπόκρισις; in which case nobody should be arguing with God, because God has no equal (Job 40:1–5, 42:1–6). That is topology that John does not want to project to the blend. Note that the lexical units not used are ones that presume a twoway conversation. John doesn’t particularly want a two-way conversation. Although he programmatically presents the devil as an (ironic and unsalutary) 117  http://framenet2.icsi.berkeley.edu/fnReports/data/frameIndex.xml?frame=Reasoning. 118  As indicated below, ἀποκάλυψις is only used once (1:1), but its semantic domain provides the gist of the entire book. Δείκνυμι is used more often, and also at critical points in the narrative: 1:1; 4:1; 17:1; 21:9, 10; 22:1, 6, 8. For the last point, see also e.g., Yarbro Collins, Combat Myth, 15, 20, 25. 119  Kövecses, Metaphor, 7, 34.

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alternative to God, he in no way wants to present him as an equal (20:10). There is likewise never an argument enacted in the story, which would also project equality. Putting the argument in terms of a one-sided war helps solve that problem. So does giving the vast majority of the showing and telling in the narrative to God—and not giving a response to the beasts or dragon.120 Therefore, the one-way lexical units “show” and “demonstrate” abound and any “answers” or “dialogues” are largely suppressed. Narrative asks for ideas to relate; and ill-formed ideas (mental spaces) lead to ill-formed conclusions (blends).121 And so to begin reconstructing the author’s mental architecture, which is one of the pragmatic goals of communication, some organizing frame must be found for the communicational elements in Revelation. It may be fitting to begin in the same place as with war. Something is going on between God, the dragon, and their agents. Some of those things (most of them) are violent, but many are verbal and visionary as well—the two witnesses (11:3–13), the eternal gospel proclaimed in mid-air (14:6–7), signs performed on both sides (15:1 versus 13:13–14; 16:14; 19:20), etc. If there is communication between the two groups, and the two groups are at odds, it is not a far leap in logic to guess that the words are also at odds. In other words, they are instantiations of a conceptualized argument.122 Whatever else the image is doing that the second beast sets up in 13:14, it is an argument for the lordship of the one it portrays (the first beast). It “speaks,” as an oracle, to that purpose (13:15).123 Whatever else the great earthquake is doing in 11:13, it is an alternative argument for God’s lordship. Those not killed respond as if to that proposition. 3.3.1.1.2.1

Lexical Units

Lexical units prompt for frame recruitment and, most importantly for our purposes, form spaces (the building blocks of metaphor) in the mind. The pragmatic question is what words and concepts might be acting in that capacity for argument. Perhaps the most obvious ones are those with which John chose 120  deSilva, Seeing Things, 215: “John’s presentation is certainly one-sided, giving no voice to Rome’s positive contributions to life in that province.” 121  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 340–42 use several examples from the computer desktop domain. Trashcans aren’t normally on desktops, copying rarely has anything to do with pasting, and moving a floppy drive to the trashcan intuitively feels like telling the computer to delete it rather than eject it. These blends are harder to learn than other operations because the topology of one input (physical desktops, copying, and trashcans) is ill-formed in the blend. 122  Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 187–92: “The Rhetorical Strategy of Revelation.” 123  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 762–64.

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to open his revelation: “revelation” (ἀποκάλυψις), “to signify/explain” (σημαίνω), and “to show” (δείκνυμι) all occupy the very first verse of the book. “To show” or “to demonstrate” (δείκνυμι) is already considered a lexical unit for Reasoning (argument) within frame theory. This revelation “shows” the reader the near future (δεῖξαι τοῖς δούλοις αὐτοῦ ἃ δεῖ γενέσθαι ἐν τάχει, 1:1) specifically to argue for the urgent observance of the things written in it (1:3). And so, evidence that δείκνυμι has a programmatic function in Revelation is evidence that the Argument frame does as well: 1. The book begins with the idea. 2. It also ends with the idea. The exact statement of purpose from 1:1—δεῖξαι τοῖς δούλοις αὐτοῦ ἃ δεῖ γενέσθαι ἐν τάχει—is repeated verbatim in 22:6. 3. Those two instances form an inclusio around the whole narrative.124 4. Δείκνυμι introduces several important revelatory scenes. John is “shown” the heavenly throne room (4:1), the judgment of the great adulteress (17:1), the bride of Christ (21:9), the New Jerusalem (21:10), and the river of the water of life (22:1). 5. These “showings” are intended to argue for the reality of the things shown, and more particularly to make John a convincing eyewitness (1:2, 22:8) in that argument. The fact that he has seen these things gives him authority (22:18–19).125 It has already been discussed at length how σημαίνω may characterize John’s (metaphorical) structure for “explanation” or “argumentation” (section 3.1). Σημαίνω should therefore be taken as a lexical unit evoking Reasoning or argument. Σημαίνω and σημεῖον elicit some kind of communicational frame. But within Revelation, agonists counter-message through signs. They argue by signing. The celestial woman is a sign (12:1) but the dragon is a counter-sign (12:3); the second beast produces miraculous signs (13:13–14), but the seven plague angels perform far more (15:1). Two groups of communicators that are at odds with one another put the reader firmly within the Argument frame. “Testimony” (μαρτυρία; 1:2, 9; 6:9; 11:7; 12:11, 17; 19:10; 20:4) is leading and central to the story as well.126 The book’s protagonists (Jesus, John, God’s servants, overcomers, the two witnesses, etc.) are all “witnesses,” and are considered faithful specifically because they are witnesses; and the books antagonists are false witnesses, and usually explicitly so (2:14–15, 20–21; 9:20–21; 12:9; 13:5–6, 13–15; 16:9, 11, 13–14; 17:3, 5; 19:20; 20:3; 21:8; 22:15). There are few who are 124  This is generally recognized; see, e.g., Reddish, Revelation, 423. 125  deSilva, Seeing Things, 119–21. 126  Beale, Revelation, 33: “the focus of the book is exhortation to the church community to witness to Christ.”

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considered good in Revelation who do not in some way speak up for—or make an argument for—Christ (12:17). Likewise, the “bad” characters either refuse to speak up (2:20) or testify for the wrong side (13:4).127 “Testimonies” can be described as “arguments” in whichever setting they are found. In the setting of a court of law (forensic), they might be used to argue for or against someone on trial. In the senate (deliberative), they might be used to argue for or against a course of action. In the forum (epideictic), they might be used to argue for or against someone or something’s reputation.128 In Revelation, testimonies seem to be set particularly within “prophetic” kinds of activities. John the testifier in 1:2 becomes a deliverer of προφητεία in 1:3. The two witnesses are prophets (προφήτης, 11:10) prophesying (προφητεύω, 11:3) prophecy (προφητεία, 11:6). That prophetic inclination to change others’ moral and religious behavior (symbolized by wearing sackcloth in 11:3) is matched by the “misleading” prophetess (προφῆτιν … πλανᾷ, 2:20), Jezebel, at the beginning and the false prophet (ψευδοπροφήτης; 16:13, 19:20, 20:10) at the end. And at one point the text actually equates the two explicitly: “the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy” (19:10). The prophetic word group is used nearly exhaustively in the Apocalypse (προφητεία, προφήτης, προφητεύω, προφῆτιν, ψευδοπροφήτης), as is that of witness (μαρτυρέω, μαρτυρία, μάρτυς, μαρτύριον); and they are being used, often together, in open argumentation. Argumentation can also be implied by material culture. The seals, trumpets, and bowls are communication devices. The seals are upon a sealed document, so their removal implies the opening of communication. Voices are like trumpets (1:10, 4:1), and the trumpets themselves summon (and therefore communicate; 8:10; 9:1, 13–14) as often as they bring events directly into being (8:7, 8, 12). The bowls are filled with the spoken prayers of God’s people (5:8) and his own communications of “wrath” (15:7); and at their end the saints give thanks that their prayers against the great adulteress were effective (19:2; cf. 6:10). In a tripartite series that is structured by events of war, it is telling that John uses communicational devices for their delivery. It’s as if communication itself is prosecuting the war. Communication, in the form both of books and spoken judgment, certainly concludes it (20:12–15). Καὶ εἶδον occurs in this exact form thirty-two times between 5:1 and 21:1, roughly the area occupied by the war. “Seeing” is serving a rhetorical function here. John is admitting his testimony into evidence.129 And the evidence he is 127  P  aul B. Duff, Who Rides the Beast?: Prophetic Rivalry and the Rhetoric of Crisis in the Churches of the Apocalypse (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 14. 128  deSilva, Seeing Things, 19–20. 129  deSilva, Seeing Things, 75–78.

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most custodial toward concerns the war. He “sees” the beginnings of the seals and most of the individual ones as well (6:1, 2, 5, 8, 12); he sees the beginnings of the trumpets (8:2) and the woes within them (8:13, 9:1); and he sees the beginning of the bowls (15:1, 2) and Armageddon at the end of them (16:13). He also sees the particular judgment of the great adulteress (17:3, 6), and sees the last battle three times (19:11, 17, 19). John is shown these things in the narrative so that he will pass them along through the long chain of custody from God to the seven congregations (1:11). Making John “see” is God’s way of making his appeal through John, which evokes the frame of Reasoning (argument).130 The lexical units diagnostic for argument we have considered so far then are ἀποκάλυψις, δείκνυμι, σημαίνω, σημεῖον, μαρτυρία (and its entire word group), προφητεία (and its entire word group), and the characteristic phrase καὶ εἶδον, along with the communicative nature of the seals, trumpets, bowls, and final judgment themselves. We will continue to discover lexical units within the following frame elements, as we did with war above. It does begin to appear however that an argument is being had in the actual story of Revelation; and, through the story, between John and his readers. 3.3.1.1.2.2

Instruments

The instruments used in John’s war are manifold: swords, fire, stings, hailstones, bows, earthquakes, drought, and so on. Argument is more parsimonious, being constrained by the topology of how arguments are actually made (one does not usually think of “instruments” in regard to their making). But there are some. Probably the most obvious instrument of argument is simply the mouth (στόμα). The most frequent use of the στόμα in Revelation is with the sword that comes from Christ’s mouth. It also constitutes the first and last two uses, so that Christ’s mouth fairly frames the whole war narrative (1:16, 2:16, 19:15, 19:21). His mouth is doing something unusual, however. Where one might expect to find an argument, there is a sword.131 In the same way, the two witnesses issue fire from their mouths rather than words of prophecy (11:5) and the 130  One might note that seeing is showing in reverse, which makes it the effective equivalent of one of FrameNet’s lexical units for argument. 131  Bauckham makes the beginnings of this connection in Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 233, though note that he maps “language” to judgment instead of to argument: “Revelation makes lavish use of holy war language while transferring its meaning to nonmilitary means of triumph over evil. Even the vision of the parousia, while sharing with 4 Ezra 13 the concept of the Messiah’s victory by his word (‘the sword that issues from his mouth’ …), nevertheless depicts the parousia in military terms as a theophany of the divine Warrior (19:11–16).” Italics original.

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trumpet cavalry issue fire, smoke, and sulfur from theirs in the sixth trumpet (9:17–19). It is not yet germane why mouths are behaving in these unexpected ways; I merely want to show, for the purposes of composition, that mouths— instruments of argumentation—are operating at all. But it is telling that it is difficult to even talk about speech in a book of prophecy without running into lexical units that prime for war. The first four seals are activated by the direct command of the four living beings (6:1, 3, 5, 7). The trumpets generate a call to action by means of the mouth (cf. Hos 8:1). And, as was noted above, the bowls are filled with prayers. On the other side, the beast was “given a mouth” (ἐδόθη αὐτῷ στόμα; 13:5) as an instrument with which to boast and blaspheme. Mouths are thus integral to the very structure of the war, and are treated as instruments thereof. Scrolls are as well. John’s own commission is specifically to both send (1:11) and receive (10:8–11) scrolls.132 The entire opening series of the war is initiated by means of Christ breaking the seals on the scroll from God’s hand (5:9, 6:1), in which case there is a written (scroll) and verbal (“come!”) component of the seals. The “scroll of life” is integral to the outcome of the war. The single condition under which someone is thrown finally into the lake of fire is if their name has not been written there (20:15). And John’s own scroll (the Apocalypse itself) forms the basis on which the seven congregations will be blessed (22:7) or cursed (22:18–19). Along with mouths and scrolls, words themselves function in the story as agents or instruments (which is perhaps why the dragon is never given any). That John saw “the word of God and the testimony of Jesus Christ” (1:2) is nearly the only thing we know about him, and that is sufficient in his mind to give him authority (1:3). The altar-souls have knowledge of that “word” which sets them apart as well (6:9). John’s Son of Man uses the prophetic formula τάδε λέγει at the beginning of each of the ex/inculpatory letters to the congregations (2:1, etc.).133 Satan was “overcome” in the celestial battle by words (and the Lamb’s blood; 12:11)—which, just by itself, is some evidence that the metaphor is at play. And it is not just the scroll that has the power to bless and curse, but the “words of this scroll” (22:7, 18–19). More particularly, “the words of the prophecy [προφητεία] of this scroll” (22:7, 18–19) have that power. The word προφητεία is uncommon in the LXX. There are only seven instances, which happens to be as many as in the single book of Revelation. Five of those occurrences—1:3; 22:7, 10, 18, 19—classify the genre

132  Boxall, Revelation, 44, 150–58. 133  Osborne, Revelation, 111.

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of the book itself.134 The other two establish prophecy as testimony (19:10) and explain what the two witnesses are doing by calling down plagues (11:6). If prophecy is being presented in (metaphorical) terms of war, this makes sense of how naturally and unexplainedly the second beast (13:11–18) turns into the false prophet (16:13, 19:20). If war is argument, adversarial might (beast) is adversarial messaging (false prophet). It is a simple elaboration of the metaphor. No explanation is needed. There are other modes of argumentation than mouths, scrolls, words, and prophecies that are perhaps less numerous and schematized but still notable. Not all arguments are simply “spoken.” Some are prayed (5:8; 8:3–5). The implication of the prayer-incense being cast to the earth immediately prior to the beginning of the trumpet series is that the prayers brought on the trumpet series (and in answer to another prayer of the altar saints in 6:10). Arguments can also be sung (5:9, 12, 13; 15:3), though not by everyone (14:3). And perhaps most speech is shouted. The phrase φωνὴ μεγάλη is used twenty times.135 Strong voices map to strong arguments. Jesus naturally is depicted as having a strong voice (1:10, 15; 10:3). Note that, by contrast, in the twenty uses of “great voice” none of them are for the devil or any of his agents. In fact, out of fifty-five total uses of φωνή, the devil is never given a “voice” at all. If John were only writing about war or judgment, the devil having a strong and scary voice—as he has a strong and scary presence (12:3–4, 12, 17; 13:4)—would be a desirable implication.136 The fact that he indicates the reverse shows that John is not just writing about war and judgment. A weak-voiced adversary can still be terrifying to meet on the battlefield; less so on the debate stage. And so, even given the topological constraints placed on “instruments” as regards the frame Reasoning, the apocalypse still manages (at least) mouths, scrolls, words, prophecy, prayers, songs, and shouts. And they are used in sometimes very odd ways—ways that highlight them as “instruments” that put John’s story in the dress of a debate.

134  Beale, Revelation, 37–39. 135  There are also variations such as a strong voice (18:2), the voice of a lion (10:3), the voice of thunder (6:1), etc. 136  Usually, commentators will consider the supposedly persecuted church “voiceless”; see, e.g., Boxall, Revelation, 115. The fact that the reverse is true in the narrative needs to be reconciled by commentators.

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Sides

Arguments, like wars, have sides. Instead of protagonist and antagonist, there is an Arguer and an Addressee.137 Someone is making an argument and someone else is hearing it. This may, again, be why the “war” is so one-sided. John would not wish to make Satan’s argument for him—especially when he seems to feel that the Nicolaitans (2:6, 15), Jezebel (2:20), the beasts (13:1–18), the adulteress (17:1–5), and the false prophet (16:13–4; 19:20) are already his “mouthpiece.”138 John’s sides are being construed as sides of an argument. John could have left the conceit of the dragon in place and never explained him further, as he does do in 12:9. He never explicitly named either beast or the great adulteress, so he doesn’t feel a general pressure to decode his own work. By choosing to name him the “accuser” (διάβολος), the “adversary” (σατανᾶς), and the “misleader” (ὁ πλανῶν), John is reframing the warring dragon rather as confessional and communicational adversary. The heavenly voices in 12:10 celebrate the casting-down of the “accuser” (κατήγωρ) of the brothers, the one who “accuses” (κατηγορέω) day and night. When he’s further cast into the abyss (20:3), the celebration is now that he can’t “deceive” (πλανάω). He’s released and deceives again (20:8), and is finally cast all the way down into the fiery pit where his deceiving is done once and for all (20:10). Why, if the dragon were such a pitiless and intractable killer, would the saints be celebrating that he can’t lie anymore? The “war”—that the enemy is fighting at least—is an argument. It would be surprising if Christ didn’t reciprocate in kind. Jesus is also argumentatively framed as a “faithful and true witness” (3:14, 19:11). And his followers are those who don’t hold on to false teaching (2:24) but to true (2:25, 3:11), and who “have victory [war frame] by the word of their testimony [argument frame]” (12:11)—again, an explicit statement of the metaphor. Saints (11:18, 13:10, 14:12, 17:6) and witnesses (2:13, 11:3, 17:6) are more naturally at home in a frame of confessional disagreement than a world war, and frame theory predicts that they are named those things—as Christ was—specifically to evoke that frame.139 The sides are acting like debate partners. As noted below in section 3.3.1.7, the second beast uses all his great power and influence to get God’s people to “lose the argument” to the first beast and to worship him, not to kill them. 137  Josef Ruppenhofer et al., FrameNet II: Extended Theory and Practice (http://framenet.icsi .berkeley.edu/fndrupal/the_book), 18. 138  Stefanovic, Revelation, 419. 139  Seana Coulson, Semantic Leaps: Frame-Shifting and Conceptual Blending in Meaning Construction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 18: “words are defined with respect to frames and are used to evoke them.”

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It might be that the seals, trumpets, and bowls—the demonstration of God’s power and influence—are being used to similar ends. 3.3.1.1.2.4

Results

It is an odd facet of the narrative that though many people die in the war, no one seems to win the argument on either side. The sealed faithful are imperturbable (7:2–8; 9:4). The devil, beast, and false prophet go to the burning lake without ever capitulating to God (20:10), and their followers likewise (20:15, 21:8). No human ever seems to change their opinion one way or the other, even after God’s fairly convincing displays in the seals, trumpets, and bowls.140 There simply is no (explicit) repentance by any character. The reason this is odd is that repentance is a narratival (and probably real) goal.141 The seals (6:15–17), woes (9:20–21), and plagues (16:9, 11) are portrayed to have partly failed exactly insofar as they failed to bring repentance. The rhetorical goal of possibly the entire book is the repentance of some within the seven congregations (2:5, 16, 21–22; 3:3, 19). In that case, both John and God seem to be failing entirely. What of the great voice? What of the fearful presence and the prophetic word? Does John believe that God’s speech has lost all of its power? Whether the dispute is successful or not is, for the moment, not important. What is important in establishing argument as a mental space is whether an argument is being attempted in the first place. God seems to be losing the debate, which means that one is being had. A failed argument is the “result” of an argument, not a war. But it is perhaps telling that the two groups, the dead and the unrepentant, are always shown to be different groups. Nobody who repents is among the “living” and nobody among the living repents. This dynamic affects the narrative of the seals, trumpets, and bowls. The seals are filled with death—one of them actually being named “Death” (6:8)—and repentance is not mentioned as a need of theirs in particular. The altar souls are dead and unqualifiedly good (6:9–11), while the kings of the earth are hiding from the Lamb’s wrath (and therefore likely bad) and they are alive (and seem to wish to remain so; 6:15–16). The bowls have no one die, and no one repents either (though they are said to need to; 16:9, 11). And while many die in the trumpets (9:18), it’s just the ironic “remnant” that did not die that didn’t repent (9:20–21). The implication is that there are two groups of people in Revelation: the bad and the dead.142 140  Beale, Revelation, 534, 811; Thomas, Revelation 8–22, 33. 141  Koester, Revelation, xiv. 142  Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 620: “in the coming crisis [supposedly depicted in Revelation] the only

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If the living are bad and the dead are good, it needs to be answered why God would be killing the righteous—and only them—in the seals and trumpets. It’s as if “killing” them justifies them and makes them good. The metaphorical “result” of the war has the actual result of an argument. 3.3.1.1.2.5

Other Frame Elements

As with Hostile_encounter (war), there are other elements that point to Reasoning (argument) as one of John’s narratival frames. In regard to the element of purpose, just as Jesus calls the congregations to be “victors” (e.g., 2:7), he also wants them to be “faithful witnesses” (2:13), resolute in their convictions (2:25, 3:11), unimpressed by syncretistic alternatives (2:20), and proclaimers of the Christ (11:18). Within the element of means, the protagonists—nonexhaustively—explain (1:1), warn (2:5, 22:18), testify (1:2, 22:20), evangelize (10:7, 14:6), write (1:3, 19), read aloud (1:3), make signs (12:1, 15:1), shout (10:3, 18:2), speak (1:12, 4:1), answer (7:13), make known (2:23, 7:14), describe (1:12–16), sing (5:9, 12–13), pray (5:8), make oaths (10:6), show (1:1, 4:1), or otherwise make manifest (15:4). The antagonists lie (2:2, 21:8), claim (2:2, 3:9), accuse (12:10), boast (13:5, 18:7), blaspheme (13:5–6; 17:3), teach (2:14–15, 20), lead astray (2:20, 12:9), scandalize (2:14), incant (9:21, 18:23), and renounce (2:13, 3:8). The ones doing any of these things are making arguments, which amounts to nearly everyone. Depiction as a frame element “describes a participant of the state of affairs.”143 In Revelation, quality of character is demonstrated by appearance, and that appearance is itself an argument or testimony (3:4, 19:8). The righteous are in white (1:14, 3:4–5), the wicked are in purple or scarlet (17:3–4; 18:16) or are naked (3:17–18; 16:15). The righteous wear laurels (2:10, 3:11) while the wicked wear diadems (12:3, 13:1). The righteous act in conformity with Torah (12:17, 14:12) and the wicked act lawlessly (2:14, 22:15). The righteous shine (1:16, 19:8) while the wicked hide (6:15–16; 18:10). John isn’t just describing who is on one or the other side of a war, he’s describing who is on one or the other side of Torah.144 He’s writing about war but he’s thinking about righteousness. Being morally correct is within his “state of affairs.”

good Christian will likely be a dead Christian!” Quoted appreciatively in Paul Middleton, “‘Come out of Her, My People … Repay Her Double for Her Deeds’ (Rev. 18. 4, 6): Martyrs as Agents of Divine Wrath in the Apocalypse” (paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the SBL, San Francisco, CA, 21 November 2011), 5. 143  Ruppenhofer, FrameNet II, 102. 144  deSilva, Seeing Things, 154, 172, 343.

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The implicit issue in the Apocalypse is who to worship, God or the beast (14:7 and 9–11), and the book is an open argument for the former.145 The dragon and beast worship themselves and so they are irremediable (13:4, 8); but the seven congregations have a choice, or are being given a choice (2:24–25). Some have fallen into syncretism.146 The adulteress has fallen into blasphemy altogether (17:3). But the faithful resist emperor worship, even at the cost of their lives (2:13, 13:15). One side argues for the lordship of the dragon and his beast (13:4) and the other for the lordship of God and his Christ (19:6–7). In terms of degree and duration, God wins the argument fully (20:11–21:1) and finally (11:15). The pretenders and their followers are eternally exiled from the city (20:10, 15), and only those purified remain (21:27). The New Jerusalem makes even the gold as clear (pure) as glass (21:18, 21). There is nobody who is not judged (20:13), that judgment is complete and final (20:14), and the judgment is only in favor of those who are obedient (20:12), which is to say those that submit to John’s argument (1:3). The place of the argument seems to center around “the land” (of Israel) in general and Jerusalem in particular.147 John himself is likely a Palestinian Jewish teacher of some variety.148 As noted before, all of the seals happen within “the land,” and both the trumpets and bowls begin there (8:7, 16:2) and move out from there. Armageddon occurs within “the land”—either within Israel in general or in Jerusalem in particular.149 The temple is certainly in “the land” (11:1–2) and the two witnesses are holding debate in “the great city [Jerusalem]” (11:8). They stand in a “broad place” (πλατεῖα) presumably so that many people can gather, which would be more strategic for public proclamation (Matt 6:5, 12:19; Luke 10:10, 13:26) than for fighting multitudes. And then the final confrontation with the gentiles takes place at Jerusalem, the “city [God] loves” (20:9); the final judgment takes place there (20:14–15);150 and God’s New Jerusalem comes to rest there forever (21:2–4). Jerusalem is supposed to be the location of the final 145  Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 24. 146  Ford, Revelation, 392–93. 147  Lee, New Jerusalem, 239, 256. 148  David E. Aune, “Palestinian Jewish Apocalyptic,” 29. 149  See section 3.3.1.1.1.6. 150  In terms of the judgment itself, the judgment throne (20:11) is immediately pictured in the New Jerusalem (21:2–5). And its effect is that marked idolaters are “tormented with fire and sulfur before [ἐνώπιον] holy angels and the Lamb; and the smoke of their torment rises for ever and ever” (14:10–11). Since the Lamb and his holy angels retire eternally to the New Jerusalem (21:3, 10, 23; 22:1, 3, 5), the condemned must be in proximity to the city as well. This is likely an image of Gehenna (Hell)—the Hinnom Valley that runs just outside Jerusalem’s southern and western city walls (for which, see note 84 on page 255 and section 5.2.2.6 in general).

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battle of course (Zech 12, 14), but it is also supposed to be the place where the gentiles come to finally learn who God is (Isaiah 2:3, Mic 4:2). If the metaphor is blending argument and war, it may also be blending eschatological war with eschatological conversion in this way. That a war would have iterations is not unusual. It is unusual, however, that a war with God would have them. It is a serious issue in the interpretation of Revelation that God keeps burning and plaguing the same places over and over. Who should be able to withstand him? A debate or argument, however, naturally has “rounds.” Rhetorically, one needs to construe an argument in anticipation of a riposte.151 God makes the first argument (the seals and trumpets), the beasts and dragon respond quickly and ineffectively (chapter 13), and God gives the concluding statement (the bowls, the final battle, the judgment, and the New Jerusalem). As will be discussed in the section on the burned grass (section 4.1.4.4), destruction—especially by God—should be final, not iterative. John would not likely want to depict God as ineffective or weak (19:15, 20:9). Needing to make a follow-up argument to an obstinate debate partner however is altogether likely (2:21), and would demonstrate rather God’s patience (1:9). The iterations presume resistance to God, as seems clear from the responses to them (16:9, 11), and resistance is a more common response to debate than divine destruction. 3.3.1.1.2.6

Sources

John relies heavily on prophetic sources for the telling of his own narrative.152 Many of those sources are openly and obviously of war (Gog and Magog most notably). It should not be missed however that John is using prophetic sources. He is relying not just generally on his historic, cultural, and literary background but on that element within his background that is most analogous and amenable to the making of arguments.153 War may pertain to several OT allusions, but argument pertains to almost all of them. Daniel’s revelation of the Son of Man and Ezekiel’s opening vision by the Kebar River structure the opening chapter of the Apocalypse.154 Ezekiel’s New Jerusalem structures the closing

151  On the dynamics of challenge and riposte, see deSilva, Honor, 70–73. For God’s ripostes in Revelation, see Malina and Pilch, Social-Science, 185–86, 208. 152  Koester, Revelation, 123. 153  Or, more particularly, a covenant charge or lawsuit; for which, see Alan S. Bandy, The Prophetic Lawsuit in the Book of Revelation, New Testament Monographs 29 (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2010), 18–19 (passim). 154  Beale, Revelation, 137; Boxall, Revelation, 22.

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The two mental spaces, WAR and ARGUMENT

chapters.155 Zechariah156 and Isaiah157 especially help inform the material in between. It would be strange for John to use so many arguments from the prophets of the past without mounting an argument himself, especially when he considers himself to be one of them.158 What function argumentation has in Revelation is naturally another question, but that the mental space argument is in use should be difficult to deny based on the sources John uses. We can now say that there seem to be two large and well-formed mental spaces at play in the construction of the narrative of Revelation: war and argument. As with war, argument’s lexical units are present (ἀποκάλυψις, δείκνυμι, σημαίνω, σημεῖον, μαρτυρία, προφητεία, καὶ εἶδον); its frame elements point to argument (mouths as instruments, deceivers as sides, non-repentance as result, etc.); and its prophetic sources prompt for prophetic argumentation. 3.3.1.1.3 JUDGMENT There is a third mental space that is part of the metaphor: judgment. It is this space that has caused much of the confusion in processing the story. Instead of mapping war to argument, we have mapped it to judgment instead; and the swords, fire, locusts, and death that we see in the book became instantiations of that judgment. The underlying interpretive strategy appears to be that God has had enough of humanity’s sinful disregard,159 and is now in 155  Beale, Revelation, 1121; Boxall, Revelation, 298. 156  Marko Jauhiainen, The Use of Zechariah in Revelation, WUNT 2/199 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 74–75, 101. 157  Jan Fekkes, Isaiah and Prophetic Traditions in the Book of Revelation: Visionary Antecedents and Their Development, JSNTSup 93 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 1–2. 158  Ibid., 49–57. 159  Beale, Revelation, 94.

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A metonymical relationship between JUDGMENT and WAR

the process of taking up a war against them that will result in the judgment and destruction of many160 but the salvation and purification of the remnant,161 who will then enter the New Jerusalem untroubled by their wicked fellow humans. Judgment and punishment are the purpose of God’s war (it is thought),162 so that in the mind of the reader the mental space judgment resides within the mental space war (or vice-versa). And so, however hyperbolic, symbolic, figurative, or metonymic we make the violence, we cannot change the fact that 1) it is violent and 2) God is perpetrating it. All those mappings are internal. God has to be involved (as ultimate judge) and his involvement has to be violent (as a part of the war). To John (so we think) wicked people are judged, and lots of people suffer violence at God’s hand, so—ipso facto—we name his victims “wicked” and their deaths “judgment” or “punishment” in the seals, trumpets, and bowls. There are two problems with this metonymic mapping. The first is that John says he isn’t talking about judgment. The seals are not judgments. The souls under the altar (the fifth seal) are crying out specifically because judgment has not yet begun (6:10). And the heavenly response agrees (6:11), asking them to “wait a little longer.” The trumpets aren’t judgments either. In the last trumpet (the third woe), judgment is again announced as ready to begin (11:18), which points to the inevitable conclusion that it has not in fact begun. The word “judgment” does not apply to any action of God until the third bowl (16:5), well 160  Ibid., 372, 505, 827, 949. 161  Ibid., 237, 416–23. 162  Ibid., 467: “the overall purpose of the trumpets from God’s perspective was, after all, to judge by hardening unbelievers further … the trumpets must ultimately be understood as punishments that further harden the majority of people.”

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more than two-thirds of the way through the war. For the purposes of our overall argument, this cannot be overstated: mapping the war to God’s judgment is an expressly invalid association until chapter sixteen. John is asking that the seals and trumpets not suffer that mapping. The second problem with the metonymic association of war and judgment is that the wicked aren’t the ones God is killing. If the war is an instantiation or illustration of God’s justice (15:3; 16:5, 7; 19:2), the writer has gotten it backwards. The people get worse through the series of seals, trumpets, and bowls, not better, so that by the bowls only “blasphemers” are left.163 Though one might expect John to be destroying the blasphemers (16:9, 11, 21), the unrepentant (9:20–21; 16:9, 11), the idolaters, murderers, and immoral (9:20–21), these are the very ones that stay alive. If the seals, trumpets, and bowls are successive judgments and God is progressively removing the wicked from the earth, the last group should be the best, not the worst. One’s carpet should be cleaner the third time one vacuums it. These “judgments” are having the opposite effect. They’re leaving behind the wicked. Also, the ones least associated with unrepentance and blasphemy—those occupying the seals series—do experience death, on a massive scale. One quarter of the population of the earth dies in the fourth seal (6:8), plus however many kill each other in the second (6:4). This is during the time of the “sealing” of the righteous 144,000. The trumpets have the bifurcated result of the dead and the unrepentant, implying the dead are the repentant. And in the very strongest instance of rejection of God in the book—the bowls—nobody dies. The wicked don’t die. God is killing and torturing the wrong people. He has killed the good and has left behind the bad. These implications are only with the greatest difficulty attributable to John, who thinks that God is “just” (15:3–4), a repayer on the basis of “works” (19:8, 20:12), and who is working these violent series with salvific intent (7:10, 12:10, 19:1). There is no solution to the second conundrum (God killing the righteous) as long as war and judgment are metonymically equated. By that internal mapping, violence in one mental space becomes simply the metonymic equivalent to violence in the other. God is still killing the wrong people, whether by “war” or by “judgment.” Both remain within the Hostile_encounter frame, and in that frame violence is violence, death is death, torture is torture, and they are all being perpetrated by God against the innocent. There is no metonymic solution to the first conundrum either. Metonymy pertains when two mental spaces are mapped within the same domain (see 163  deSilva, Seeing Things, 98: “That there really is an unredeemed group becomes clearer as the visions devolve.”

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section 2.2.1). Therefore, there are three possible metonymic relationships here between war and judgment: war is a subset of judgment, judgment is a subset of war, or they occupy the same space altogether. War can’t be a metonymic subset of judgment because the war begins in 6:1 and the judgments don’t begin until, at the earliest, 16:5.164 John is trying to ensure that we not make that contextual assumption by explicitly saying that not all of the war is judgment (6:10–11; 11:18). Making them the same mental space has that same problem. And making judgment a subset of war is no solution because then God is still killing the wrong people, but now not even under the pretext that he is acting as righteous judge. Wars that aren’t explicable as judgments don’t serve that purpose, in which case God is killing people expressly without regard to justice. From a network-theoretical perspective, there is no warrant to associate judgment and war. And from a moral and even just practical perspective, John simply would not have God kill the innocent and leave behind the wicked. The only solution then is that he isn’t. The violence isn’t being mapped internally, as between war and judgment; it is being mapped externally, as between war and argument. Judgment is a subset of argument, not war. And that external mapping is causing “violence” to mean something other than “violence.” God is causing something to happen to the innocent that isn’t happening to the wicked, something that has to do with the argument that he’s making. This might implicate that God “killing” people is a metaphorical representation of their restoration.165 That restoration is being variously applied: to many people in the seals, to some people in the trumpets, and to nobody in the bowls. It is the nonapplication of the restoration in the bowls that constitutes their “judgment” (exclusion for judgment). They suffer but they don’t die, like the ἄνθρωποι 164  The time for judgment is declared to have “come” in 11:18 and 14:7, but they are both proleptic anticipations of the final judgment. The announcement in 11:18 is expressly of the judgment of the “dead,” which does not take place in the narrative until 20:12–13: “I saw the dead, the great and the small, standing before the throne … The dead were judged … The sea gave up the dead that were in it, and death and Hades gave up the dead that were in them, and each person was judged.” Likewise, 14:7 is looking forward to the eternal torment of fire and sulfur (14:10–11), which does not occur in the narrative until 20:10–15. Also, both passages occur only after all the seals and trumpets have been completed (11:15); so, even if the announcements weren’t proleptic, they still could not be used to argue that the seals and trumpets were judgments. 165  For a treatment of biblical metaphors for the restoration, see J. Richard Middleton, A New Heaven and a New Earth: Reclaiming Biblical Eschatology (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2014), 25 (through resurrection in Ezek 37), 67 (through “battle” with the “powers of evil and death” at the crucifixion), and 105–7 (for a 7-part taxonomy of restoration themes).

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A metaphorical relationship between JUDGMENT and WAR

(gentiles) in the fifth trumpet did not (9:6).166 Both groups are excluded for the time being. In the case of the gentiles, it is because the time for their inclusion had not come yet (9:5), though it would soon (9:15). In the case of the bowls, it is because the people in that group were unwilling to repent (16:9, 11). In neither case are they suffering as from war or violence. They are rather suffering an unpreparedness to receive the gospel of their salvation. The κρίσις/κρίνω word-group only occurs in two places outside of the proleptic visions of final judgment in 11:18 and 14:7:167 during the period of the bowls (16:5, 7)—and their interpretive interlude (the judgment of the adulteress; 18:8, 10, 20; 19:2; cf. 17:1)168—and during the narration of final judgment itself (20:12–13). The final judgment is irremediable (20:10, 14). The temporal judgments of the bowls are not. There is a certain exasperation in fact on John’s part that these “blasphemers” remain unrepentant after each series of bowls (16:9, 11, 21), which presumes that repentance and return to God is still a viable option. But the two kinds of judgment, temporal and eternal, are alike in this way— nobody who is judged dies.169 The bowls are the only war-time judgments, 166  For an observant Jewish person, being lumped in eschatologically with gentiles might constitute defamation, which is the metaphorical target of “torture” in an argument is war schema. John uses this same tactic when he calls some within two of the congregations to which he writes “synagogue of Satan” and “those who call themselves Jews and are not” (2:9, 3:9). 167  See note 164, in this section. 168  And in four sections that either look forward to those events (6:10, the prayers of the altarsouls for judgment; 11:18, the 14:7, the proclamation that the time for judgment is at hand) or retrospectively back on them (19:11, the return of Jesus for the final battle). 169  It is true that the great adulteress is both judged (18:8, 20; 19:2) and killed (17:16, 18:8), but 1) John removes himself from the war narrative into the frame of adultery to tell that

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and they are also the only series in which nobody dies. And of course people famously suffer the “lake of fire” undyingly (14:11, 20:10). Continued “life” then is the judgment: not becoming a part of the restoration by metaphorical “death.” People who don’t “die” don’t enter the heavenly temple (15:8; cf. 6:9, 7:9–14). That is their judgment. They are unprepared, in their present state, to be brought into full fellowship with God (like others had; cf. 3:12, 7:15, 11:1), at least for the time being. Commentators need to deal with this. The seals and trumpets see death on a massive scale but are not judgments while the bowls see no death at all but are judgments. Logically, this has to strongly imply that not dying is the judgment. It is for those thrown—alive—into the lake (19:20; cf. 20:10, 15). An important concept, though it isn’t immediately apparent in Revelation, for receiving a figurative death is “atonement.”170 But, although the word group isn’t there, the atoning Lamb certainly is.171 He’s the first one to die in the story (1:5, 5:6), and the last one before the seals begin (5:12). And immediately after that, a beneficial “death” begins to be applied to the “dwellers of the land.” The slain in the seals and trumpets may be receiving, instead of their own “death,” a “substitutionary” death—the atoning death of the Lamb. Atonement is applied to them and they are ushered into the heavenly temple and into full (spiritual) fellowship with God (7:13–17). The people in the bowls are, for the moment, being excluded from that fellowship (15:8). They are as of yet “unfaithful” (17:2) and, so, un-atoned-for. If judgment is a subset of argument, John is explaining the result of noncompliance with his gospel message, or non-agreement with his argument (3:12, 20; 22:19). The temporal and eternal judgments are non-inclusion (one temporary, one not) in the fellowship and family of God on the basis of not submitting to the gospel. War is just a handy, metaphorical way to illustrate that. Death is repentance, life is non-repentance, and the sins of the people who haven’t metaphorically “died” by the end of the story haven’t been absolved.

story (it is an explanatory interlude). That is perhaps why the judgment of the bride is made into a separate story in the first place. John might want to maintain the conceit of judgment-as-non-death to clarify the nature of that judgment. And, more importantly, 2) it isn’t until the bride is the “cleansed” (19:8) by her “death” (19:3) that she is restored to God and Christ; for which, see section 3.2. The bride becomes “righteous” (19:8) again by her death. 170  Beale, Revelation, 802. See also Jay Sklar, Leviticus: An Introduction and Commentary, TOTC 3 (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2014), 50 (under the heading “Atonement as ransom”). 171  Johns, Lamb Christology, 158: “The rhetorical fulcrum of the Apocalypse.”

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John fears that the people in the bowls are on the edge of that particular eschatological precipice. 3.3.1.2 Vital Relations Mental spaces want to do something. Their recruitment takes processing effort, and RT predicts that they therefore won’t be recruited for no reason. To do so would yield a lack of relevance.172 It is also true that, for mental spaces to do something in the network, they have to interact in the network.173 There are fifteen types of relation outlined in blending theory.174 All of them are used at one point or another in the story that Revelation tells. But there are two types that will be particularly important for our purposes—disanalogy and analogy. 3.3.1.2.1 Comparison by Disanalogy If the mental spaces war and argument do exist in the narrative thought of John, they actually become a metaphor when they are mapped in some analogous way to one another (argument is war). The metaphor hasn’t been seen traditionally, and so that mapping hasn’t been made traditionally. Spaces want to relate to other spaces, though. They want to have relevance in the overall network or they wouldn’t be activated in the first place.175 And so these two mental spaces have been related to each other historically, just not in ways that have yielded the metaphor. Argument has been made disanalogous to war rather than analogous to it. Humans aren’t supposed to “take up arms” in the war, it is thought.176 God is fighting the war as righteous judge, but humans aren’t God. Their roles are disanalogous. The dragon and his agents are fighting the war, but they’re the antagonists. People shouldn’t be following the dragon, so their roles are still disanalogous. And so, it is thought, the job of human beings is not to fight at all, but to simply be stolid in their witness even to the point of death.177 This leaves very little left for the seven congregations to do. Much of the work on mitigating the violence of Revelation focuses on these inferred disanalogies

172  Wilson and Sperber, “Truthfulness and Relevance,” 63, 67. 173  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 333–34. 174  Ibid., 93–102. 175  Sperber and Wilson, “Deflationary Account,” 88–89. 176  Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis, 170, where she also helpfully points out the fatal flaw in using stories of violence (as Revelation is perceived to be) to argue for non-violent protest: “what is cathartic for one person may be inflammatory for another.” 177  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 236–37; Koester, Revelation, 426.

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with both God’s judgment activity and the dragon.178 Good people don’t kill in the narrative, God does. There are three problems with that reading. The first is that good people do kill.179 The clearest example is the two witnesses who kill with fire from their mouths (11:5). It may be in self-defense, but wars are commonly justified by the self-defense argument. The question is not how it is justified, but whether good people (in John’s estimation) fight in the war. The two witnesses seem unreservedly good (11:4), and they kill everyone who opposes them (11:5), which seems like a sizeable number given the resulting celebration at their deaths (11:9–10). Another example is in the second seal where, through God’s agency, people are made to slay one another (6:4; note the purposive ἵνα clause). God wants them to “kill” each other. The dragon doesn’t show up until chapter 12, so evil agency (13:5, 7, 12) isn’t in view yet. The altar-souls (seem to) pray for this retributive justice and are rewarded for their prayer (6:11). And it is very likely that the “armies of heaven” (19:14) dressed in white linen that help fight the final battle are the same white-robed group of humans that were shown to John in 7:13–14, including the troops that constitute the 144,000.180 “To overcome” (νικάω) is one of the main lexical units for war, and is the single basis upon which Jesus promises his blessings to each of the seven congregations (2:7, 11, 17, 26; 3:5, 12, 21; repeated for all in 21:7). Someone might object, along the lines of Bauckham’s thought, that they are to overcome as the Lamb overcame (that is, self-sacrificially and as martyrs; 12:11).181 But Jesus isn’t just a slaughtered Lamb, he’s a warring Lion too (5:5), and he overcomes through warfare as well as sacrifice (17:14). There are two sides to the final battle, and Christ does not fight alone (17:14, 19:14–15; cf. 2:26–27). The second problem with making argument and war disanalogous is that God and particularly Christ are presented as exemplars (3:4–5). People are supposed to be analogous to them, and are chided for being otherwise (3:18). The author wants his readers to take Jesus’ side, and to “overcome” like he does (5:5, 17:14). The righteous “follow him wherever he goes” (14:4), including into battle (19:14). They dress like him (7:9, 13–14), talk like him (6:10, 7:10; cf. 1:10), take up the offices of kings and priests like him (1:6, 20:6), and of course are 178  See, e.g., Michael J. Gorman, Reading Revelation Responsibly: Uncivil Worship and Witness: Following the Lamb into the New Creation (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2011), 77–80, 183–84. 179  Osborne, Revelation, 167: “The imagery [of the last battle] is that of total destruction. This depicts the absolute devastation of the hostile nations by the Messiah and his people … The saints will take part …” 180  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 20, 310. 181  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 226.

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treated like him (3:21, 11:8–9). And it is God and Christ that do the great majority of the fighting in Revelation. The seals, trumpets, and bowls all originate in heaven and by God’s agency.182 The final battle is fought by Christ himself, almost to the exclusion of every other character (19:21). The tortures, burnings, and plagues seem to all come from God’s side of the battle. If argument is supposed to be disanalogous to war, John seems to want his readers to find themselves rather on the side of war. And the third problem is that, if John wants his readers to choose argument (witness) over war, the righteous should actually be making some arguments in the story. For the most part, that doesn’t happen. The two witnesses are pictured more as agents of death than of debate (11:5–6). The war is engaged with no warning and very little explanation. Even when there does seem to be some sort of verbal discussion, as in the bowls (16:1, 5–7), it appears to be riotously ineffective. There, the enemy seems to respond with blasphemy (16:9, 11, 21), anguish (16:10), or open hostility (16:14–16), and never repentance (16:9–11). Aune makes the point that in fact nobody ever repents in this story.183 It is hardly an encouragement to take part in an argument if it is promised to fail. And so humans in fact make very few explicit “arguments” in the book. These are serious inconsistencies, and they exist at the broadest level of the narrative. People aren’t witnessing—even the ones who are called “witnesses”—in a book that is supposed to be about being faithful witnesses.184 When inconsistencies are that broad, they are at the level of cognition. Either the writer’s thought is broken, or the readers’ is. Thought produces and comprehends story, and so story-wide inconsistencies are thought-wide inconsistencies.185 Connecting argument to war by disanalogy is the interpretive strategy that is creating these inconsistencies. 3.3.1.2.2 Comparison by Analogy They are solved if we connect them by analogy. If war is made analogous to argument, “warring” is analogous to “arguing” or “witnessing.” Warriors killing becomes witnesses witnessing. The book is about witness and tells the story of war because the war is the witness. Good people, in John’s thinking, would witness for Christ (20:4), and competitors would naturally counter with their own witness (13:14–15). It also immediately solves the problem of why there are so 182  Ibid., 136: “the role of Christ as the divine agent of salvation and judgment.” 183  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 419: “The plagues, however, are not meant to be ends in themselves but are meant to be stern messages of warning from God intended to produce repentance (9:20–21; 16:9), although this is never the result.” 184  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, xvi; Beale, Revelation, 193. 185  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 312, 323.

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few arguments in Revelation. The seals, trumpets, and bowls, which structure the entire story, are phases of an argument. And it solves the problem of Christ being the exemplar warrior as well. The revelatory message is his (1:1), is by him (1:11, 19; 4:1), is about him (1:12–16), and is brought to fruition through him (6:1, etc.). The agency that he is engaging in is not intended to get people to kill one another on his behalf but rather to bear witness to one another on his behalf, using the “sword” (message) that he has given them (6:4; cf. Eph 6:17). In this way, an analogous mapping between war and argument solves each of the three inconsistencies above: the violence in the book is standing in place of testimony (which is why it appears to not be there), and so good people should be killing (testifying), like their Lord does (“the faithful witness,” 1:5). The question is, then, whether the vital relation of analogy is the one John intended. Within CMT, a metaphor pertains when two domains are related by “mapping,” a term borrowed from mathematics that describes a basically analogical or representational relationship in which multiple elements from one domain are associated with those of another (picture a matching section on a high-school test).186 As in the mathematical model, elements in the source domain should have analogies or representation in the target domain. Love is a journey for example has many analogical mappings. A rough road maps to a difficult time in the relationship, traveling a long way maps to having a long history, going in different directions maps to having incompatible life-goals, and so forth. George Lakoff calls this rule the “invariance principle” which states that the topology of the source domain should be maintained in a manner consistent with the structure of the target domain.187 Fauconnier and Turner name it the “topology principle,” which states that the topology of the inputs should be maintained in the blend.188 The implication of these principles is that there should be multiple points of possible intersection between the structures of two domains related by analogy. If John is writing Revelation with the cognitive structure argument is war in his head, the invariance hypothesis and topology principle suggest there should be multiple instantiations of analogical mappings between the two domains. The way a reader learns the structure argument is war then—and the way we may discern if that is John’s intent—is by collocation.189 The reader will 186  Fauconnier, Mappings in Thought and Language, 1. 187  Lakoff, “Contemporary Theory of Metaphor,” 215. 188  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 327. 189  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory of Metaphor, 225. For a demonstration of sustained, forensic use of collocation to find and describe metaphor within a corpus-level study (as we will be using it regularly in this present study), see Olga Pavpertova, “Corpus-Based Analysis of

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see elements of war and argument together in the same space (which are together because the writer’s own mind has mapped them together), those two regions of the brain will be coactivated and mapped,190 and the structure of the mind of the reader will then mirror that of the writer. Take for example someone who had never used the cognitive metaphor theories are buildings before. If an interlocutor said, “her argument was poorly constructed,” the hearer would still be able to mirror the speaker’s thought. He would experience the collocation of theory (“argument”) and building (“constructed”). Those two domains would then be coactivated in his mind and recruited to the blend where the construction of ideas could be understood in terms of the construction of buildings (which is a metaphor). At that point, the thought of the hearer would roughly match that of the speaker. Collocation yields coactivation which yields analogical mapping, which yields metaphor. In the case of Revelation, if war is being mapped by analogy to argument in John’s mind, terms and ideas related to one should show up in conversation about the other (like journey did love and building did theories). They should be collocated, those collocations should prime for coactivation, and the resulting coactivation should pragmatically lead to metaphor comprehension. For example, most commentators recognize the bride of Christ to metaphorically be the New Jerusalem.191 Those two things are collocated in the text (21:9–10), and so they are metaphorically blended into the same character (as is confirmed in 21:2). So too, there are several important ways in which the domains of argument and war collocate, and these (sometimes striking) collocations are evidence that war is analogically mapped to argument in John’s mind. 3.3.1.2.2.1

Mouths and Weapons

Many of the instruments of war are located in, or issue from, people’s mouths. Christ, the main character (1:1), regularly has a sword coming from his mouth and those instances frame the entire war narrative (1:16; 2:16; 19:15, 21). What Jesus’ words and the sword compress to is the subject of the next section, but for now it is only important that they are occupying the same space. They collocate, which is evidence that they have mapped to each other by analogy in John’s mind in some way. Conceptual Metaphors of HAPPINESS in Russian and English,” in Cognitive Explorations into Metaphor and Metonymy, ed. Frank Polzenhagen, Sonja Kleinke, Stefanie Vogelbacher, and Zoltán Kövecses (New York: Peter Lang, 2014), 35–50. 190  Ibid., 114. 191  E.g., Huber, Like a Bride, 89–112; Lee, New Jerusalem, 264–66.

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The two witnesses have fire coming from their mouths (11:5), and the cavalry in the sixth trumpet has fire, smoke, and sulfur coming from the mouths of the horses (9:17–19). The dragon is doing something opposite of them however. He has water coming from his mouth instead of fire (12:15–16). Likewise later on, he and his accomplices have frogs coming from their mouths (16:13)—frogs which are both unclean and waterborne (Lev 11:9–12). The implication is that, even as fire and water are opposites, the dragon opposes the two witnesses (as might be expected; 11:7) and the two-hundred-million-strong cavalry (as might not).192 These collocations of “instrument of war” and “instrument of speech” occur regularly throughout the text and at the beginning and end, and to characters who are essential to the story (both protagonists and antagonists). This implies that the writer thinks of them analogously, and wishes us to as well. Like he has the New Jerusalem show up at the introduction of the bride, John is using verbal proximity to create cognitive proximity to cause us to “see one thing in terms of the other”—to cause us to see metaphor. The bride becomes the city and fire becomes testimony. These forced analogies create neuronal couplings or coactivation bindings in the mind, especially when they are often repeated.193 As the readers/hearers are progressing through the revelation, those early bindings (Christ’s mouthsword appears in 1:16) serve as prototypes for the mind, causing it to make other, broader connections later on.194 The argument-war analogy has been pre-activated in the mind, creating a strong contextual implication that resolves apparent incoherencies as soon as they appear. For example, when John has the altar-souls pray for retribution (6:10), the readers are already primed to see death (loss of a war) as repentance and submission to God (loss of an argument). The goal becomes repentance and plenary sanctification, not death—a prayer that might be expected of saints. 3.3.1.2.2.2

Violent Witnesses

The two witnesses are “witnesses” (11:3) who are given the task of “prophecy” (11:3, 6, 10), and yet the only work we see them take part in is killing and plaguing (11:5–6). They don’t speak in the narrative, and their prophetic ministry seems to be fairly poorly received if not completely ineffective (11:9–10). There 192  The cavalry is regularly labeled “demonic”; see for example Mounce, Revelation, 201–4; Koester, Revelation, 465. 193  Kövecses, Where Metaphors Come From, 22. 194  George Lakoff, Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal about the Mind (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 48–50 (on prototype theory).

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is a cause-effect relationship, based on analogy, between witnessing and death that is implied by their collocation. Witnessing causes death. Fauconnier and Turner describe a similar situation in the case of “voodoo death.”195 A witch doctor takes the hair of a subject and burns it, thus projecting death upon the subject. The cause (burning) is able to prompt for the effect (death) because the hair has already been mapped to its owner (by part-whole association—it’s the owner’s hair). If one doesn’t know that the burnt hair is analogous to a person, the purpose of the whole process is lost. Once that mapping is made, the meaning behind the burning of the hair becomes intuitively clear—the death of the subject. The two witnesses appear to not want “the death of the subject,” however. They are prophesying, which is fundamentally a warning activity.196 They are doing it in sackcloth (11:3), which is the garb of repentance.197 John epexegetically defines the plagues (11:6) as “testimony” (11:7). And the text depicts the “survivors” of their prophetic ministry as notably unrepentant (11:10), which implies that those that did not survive were repentant. Witnessing yields death, which yields repentance (the goal of their prophesying to begin with). But regardless of how witness and violence relate, they do relate in some fashion. Most “witnesses” are violent (6:9; 11:3, 7; 12:11, 17; 15:5–6; 19:10; 20:4), including and especially Christ (1:2, 5, 9; 3:14; 22:16, 18, 20; cf. 19:11–21). The only exceptions are those to whom violence is done (as it had been to the two witnesses; 2:13, 17:6). In nearly every case, violence and witness collocate. Any one of those collocations would be evidence for analogical mapping. John is somehow thinking of one of those things in terms of the other. 3.3.1.2.2.3

Cleansing Death

A similar use of analogy and cause-effect is the entry of the kings of the earth (οἱ βασιλεῖς τῆς γῆς) into the New Jerusalem (21:24). Nothing unclean should enter (21:27), so the implication is that they have been cleansed. The problem with that traditionally has been that the last time we saw them (τοὺς βασιλεῖς τῆς γῆς) they were in a world war, against God, losing with no remainder (19:18), and being eaten by God’s birds (19:19–21).198 This is easily resolvable through analogy. The effect in one domain (the cleansing of the kings) is simply being mapped again from the cause in another (death). The nations’ kings 195  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 97. 196  Beale, Revelation, 256. 197  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 277; Boxall, Revelation, 163; Koester, Revelation, 225, 306, 411, etc. 198  See, e.g., David L. Barr, “John’s Ironic Empire,” Interpretation 63.1 (2009): 28.

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are “defeated” by Christ finally in the last battle—an argument that he is likely to win because he has shown up in person to make it—and that “loss” on their part is their submission to him. It is on this basis that they are “cleansed” and welcomed into the New Jerusalem. Again, even if one doesn’t accept that specific conclusion, being clean and dying do collocate in Revelation, and those collocations need to be explained.199 The multitude who died in the great tribulation are given “washed” and “whitened” robes (ἔπλυναν … καὶ ἐλεύκαναν; 7:9, 14). The martyred altar souls are given ones already white (6:11). The armies of heaven wear clean and white linen (βύσσινον λευκὸν καθαρόν) and, if they are in heaven and are in any way human, are dead (19:14).200 And birds are called to feast on corpses at God’s great supper (τὸ δεῖπνον τὸ μέγα τοῦ θεοῦ; 19:17; cf. 19:21)—a supper that, being God’s, is unlikely to be “unclean.” Cleanness is being analogically mapped from death in John’s thought somehow. That is a very specific (and, if it isn’t metaphorical, odd) collocation that recurs at least five times in the story, and with regard to important characters. 3.3.1.2.2.4

The Lion and the Lamb

Christ returns after a seemingly long narratival absence in chapter 19, at the head of a heavenly army and with bloodied robes. Within the depictive frame element however, Christ’s robes are doing something unusual. They aren’t spattered in blood, they’re calmly dipped (βεβαμμένον; 19:13).201 Spattering depicts violence, dipping depicts sacrifice (especially the Passover sacrifice; cf. βάψαντες, Exod 12:22).202 He is therefore doing something violent (waging war) while wearing something redemptive (his own blood; cf. 5:9), and those two things are collocated in the final battle. This blood has already cleansed others in the story (7:14). It has also given them the power to witness and to overcome (ἐνίκησαν; 12:11). There is an intentional parallelism between Christus Victor and Christus Salvator that both opens and closes the war narrative. In the throne room scene, just before the start of the seals, an angel promises to show John the “victorious” Lion of the tribe of Judah (5:5) but instead John sees only the “redeeming” slain Lamb (5:6, 9). The Lion and the Lamb are not only collocated, they are actually compressed all the way to the unique person, Christ. This is 199  Middleton, “Come out of Her,” 8. This is the specific argument that Middleton makes— righteous (cleansed) martyrs return to take part in the destruction of Babylon. 200  McNicol, Conversion of the Nations, 53. 201  Boxall, Revelation, 274. 202  Koester, Revelation, 376–77.

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a compression by way of analogy.203 John is analogically mapping the Lion to the Lamb (5:5–6) in the beginning so that at the end, when the blood-soaked Christus Victor reappears, the reader already knows that he comes as Christus Salvator. The blood that had cleansed (7:14) and given victory (12:11) to some in the story is now being made available to all (19:15, 18). This is perhaps the strongest argument for an analogical reading. The sword and mouth, the violent witnesses, and the cleansing death are only collocated. The Lion and the Lamb are actually fused. They are one character. Compressions to uniqueness are compressions by way of analogy. For someone to argue that John hasn’t mapped violence and redemption, they would have to argue against the Lion being equated to the Lamb, which is strongly implicated by the text and recognized by most commentators.204 3.3.1.2.2.5

The War Scroll

The goal of this section has been to show that John is mapping war to argument by analogy, because analogical mapping produces metaphor. The war is the argument. That relationship is seen in the microcosms of violent mouths, violent witnesses, violent cleansing, and violent Lambs, but it is also seen at the macro-level. It is not normal for scrolls, trumpets, and bowls to be violent or instruments of violence. Violence is not within their normal domains. As noted before, it is normal for them to be related to communication (section 3.3.1.1.2.2). What John has done then is to structure the war by means of communication. The seven bowls are bowls of judgment (16:5) in which nobody dies (16:21), but which are full of prayers (5:8). There has been a prayer-call for the judgment of this group of people (6:10), and the bowls are the result. War is being mapped to prayer. The seven trumpets are annunciative (8:13, 10:7, 11:15), discriminate (9:18, 20–21), and verbal. They “speak” with Christ’s voice (1:10, 4:1). War is being mapped to Christ’s voice. And the seals lay over a scroll that is known to have writing on it (5:1), whose meaning can be concealed (5:4), and whose opening is revelatory of the Lamb’s “wrath” (6:16–17). War is being mapped to Christ reading a scroll. The majority of the violence in the book happens within these communicative mappings, which means that the majority of the violence should be understood within them—one thing in terms of the other.

203  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 98–99. 204  E.g., Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 179; Boxall, Revelation, 98; Koester, Revelation, 117–18, 237.

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The vital relation of analogy between ARGUMENT and WAR

One of the problems that Revelation has faced is that some of these coactivation bindings became over-associated. The Way We Think likens it to Pavlov’s experiments with his dog.205 The bell rings and the dog is fed. These two instances occur together over and over so that, one day, the bell is able to activate the hunger response (salivation) without food. The two regions of the brain are now bound. It would be a serious cognitive error on the part of the dog, however, to forget the uniqueness of the two inputs and eat the bell. They are meant to coactivate, not coalesce entirely. When we read Revelation and think that the two witnesses are actually burning people alive with their mouths (instead of witnessing with their mouths), we have coalesced cause and effect across two mental spaces that were only supposed to be coactivated. We have eaten the bell. But the larger problem in the book’s reception history is that we have underassociated argument and war. Death just means death. Torture just means torture. In most places in the book, the coactivation bindings have become unbound altogether. War is no longer mapped to witness at all, and so can’t render it relevant. They don’t relate any longer. The bell rings and the dog doesn’t salivate. This is the core issue within the seals, trumpets, and bowls, which unfortunately for comprehension form the backbone of the entire narrative.206 War is the apparent theme of the book, but it has never been able to render it pragmatically relevant because it cannot make sense of witness, conversion, restoration, redemption, or even judgment as it is. The story simply doesn’t work without the vital relation of analogy because it’s two most essential features—war and witness—can’t “relate” without it. 205  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 76–77. 206  Yarbro Collins, Combat Myth, 8; Koester, Revelation, 113.

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But they do relate. That is an explicature in the text. Mouths do have swords and fire, witnesses are strangely violent, death is cleansing, and lambs are lions. Those are features of the narrative, and they are analogous ones. John isn’t trying to distance the mouth from the sword or the lion from the lamb, he’s bringing them into the closest possible proximity. And that proximity, that forced analogy, is making them metaphorical. 3.3.1.3 Input Spaces Mental spaces are “very partial assemblies constructed as we think and talk for purposes of local understanding and action.”207 They are small, versatile, easily manipulable, and ad hoc, and they are called up from long term memory to perform certain functions by means of blending. It is cognitively costly to form mental spaces for no reason, and so RT predicts that they won’t be.208 When John recruits from the Reasoning frame to form the argument mental space, that demonstrates that he wants to do something with it. He wants to use it as an input. Sperber and Wilson use as an example the following. Mary, who does not like meat and is allergic to chicken, may be told by her hosts:209 – We are serving meat. – We are serving chicken. – Either we are serving chicken or (72–3) is not 46. The first communication is relevant to Mary. The second is more relevant because it relates more information for the same processing cost. The third is less relevant again because the calculation was a pointless drain on Mary’s processing energies. Argument has been the math problem in this scenario. It has seemed like an add-on to a story otherwise entirely about war and judgment. But John is not recruiting argument for no reason. If it exists at all, it has some ad hoc purpose in the narrative. It is an input to some kind of blend. Argument and war are being related dynamically to produce new inferences (blends), without which they cannot yield relevance. 3.3.1.4 Blended Space Metaphorical interpretations, if they can be called that, are justified by their blends. Conceptual metaphors can be reconstructed from language. If that 207  Fauconnier, “Mental Spaces,” 351. 208  Wilson and Sperber, “Truthfulness and Relevance,” 62–65. 209  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 611.

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were not true there would be no such theory as CMT, and perhaps no such field as cognitive linguistics. Because of the integrative nature of blending, blends carry in themselves the entire network.210 They are, as it were, a “key” to the metaphorical system that gives them rise because they carry within themselves the key elements from both inputs as well as the changes they’ve undergone to achieve the blend. Consider how a child is a blend of her two parents. She may have her father’s eyes, her mother’s hair, her father’s love of chilies, and her mother’s sense of humor. But all of these elements have undergone a change in the new person. She is a blend of two people, not the two people themselves, and that blendedness makes her a new and unique person. The space that argument is war forms is also new. It is an ad hoc idea constructed by the blend of the two spaces.211 When the witnesses are burning people, they are doing something like what people do in argument. They are opening their mouths and changing those around them. They are also doing something like what people do in war. They are burning people alive. The activity of burning people by opening their mouths is a blend. It’s the unique child of the argument and war spaces—like them, and yet also new. Arguers don’t usually burn each other and arsonists don’t usually employ their mouths. The name that John gives this blend—which we will use to distinguish it from the input space argument—is witness. John is blending argument and war in fact to describe witness. It is the new thing in his mind, the child of his imagination. This imaginative blend is perhaps best seen in the case of the conversion of the nations. The kings of the earth entering the New Jerusalem is a salvation theme (Isa 60:35).212 But “salvation,” “restoration,” or “inclusion” are not at home in either mental space that created them. People are not “saved” in an argument. They may win or lose the argument, they may learn something new, they may come to new conclusions, but “salvation” is not a normal outcome. War certainly does not produce salvation, at least for its victims; rather the opposite. But, in the witness blend, losing the war to God (which the kings do in 19:19–21) has been mapped to losing the argument to God, which projects to the blend as restoration with God and consequent salvation. The salvation of the nations is only achievable within the blend witness.

210  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 332–33. 211  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 131, 143, describes the relationship of ad hoc concept formation and blending. 212  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 241–42.

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The witness blend

Another “child” that war and argument have is the size of the city. The New Jerusalem is constructed out of human beings (see section 3.2).213 They are its walls (21:17), gates (21:12), and foundations (21:14)—“hewn” (πελεκίζω, 20:4) as it were by Christ’s warcraft in the seals, trumpets, and bowls. Normally, cutting or hewing people would be a destructive activity, but in 20:5 it is said to be a necessary condition for the first resurrection. We also know that the city is a metaphor for humanity because it is being used in intentional parallel with the bride of Christ (21:2, 9–10). What the bride is, the city is. This is important because the city is massive (21:16–17), which means that John thinks the number of people who are saved to become a part of it is massive.214 The only other thing that happens to humans en masse in Revelation is death. A quarter of the earth-dwellers are killed in the seals (6:8), a third of humanity is killed in the sixth trumpet (9:15, 18), and seemingly everybody else is killed in the final battle (19:17–18). The analogy vital relation is once again providing the explanation for the size of the city. The cause in one domain (death in war) is being mapped to effect in the other (changeof-mind in argument), to yield a result that only has a natural home in the blended domain of religious witness: eschatological salvation. War doesn’t save. Argument doesn’t kill. The city made out of innumerable, hewn bodies is only comprehended in the blend. Those killed are converted to God in some sense and are now a part of God’s eschatological work—the New Jerusalem. 213  Also, Robert H. Gundry, “The New Jerusalem: People as Place, not Place for People,” NovT 29 (1987): 254–64. 214  Reddish, Revelation, 406.

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If that is not true, it needs to be explained where else a city half the volume of the moon could otherwise come from.215 The remainder of this chapter and the following (chapter 4) will be taken up with the details of the blended space: compressions within it, elaborations of it, recursions of it, and alternatives to it. These facets also constitute empirical evidence for the blend witness specifically and the metaphorical network argument is war in general. 3.3.1.5 Compressions Metaphors borrow compressions. Usually, the target domain will borrow the structure of the source domain because the target is more diffuse or abstract.216 It wants the clarity and comprehensibility of the compressions already in the source domain. Love borrows the experiential compressions of walking along a path when journey maps to it. The metaphor uses compressions of space, time, cause-effect, intentionality, and representation within journey to make love easier to talk about. “We’ve come a long way” uses the compression of time into space and represents the years spent together as a road of a certain length. The causal compressions of the journey (rough roads) explain relational difficulties. Intentionality compressions (“it was a fun ride”) explain emotional dynamics. And so on. In this section, we will investigate several important kinds of compressions that indicate the metaphorical (compression-borrowing) mapping of war to argument. Cause-effect compressions will help explain causal relationships in Revelation’s world-wide debate—particularly, how people are restored or saved by means of war. Various compressions of analogy (to category, identity, uniqueness, and representation) will help us see unity in the story and to identify characters. Time, space, and intentionality compressions will further focus the timing, places, and emotions that inform the debate. And, finally, disanalogy—which has been historically misapplied to argument and war—will be discovered to be an important feature of Revelation, but in a different way, between different subjects, and by way of comparison of their different fates. Before we begin, it is important to note that compressions transfer with or without inferences.217 Love is war (“he fought for her”) does not borrow the 215  The city is 12,000 stadia (12,000×600 feet), cubed (21:16). (12,000 × 600)3 = 3.73×1020 cubit feet or 2.54×109 cubic miles. The moon is 5.27×109 cubic miles; see http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa .gov/planetary/factsheet/moonfact.html. 216  Fauconnier, Mappings, 9. 217  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 21–22, 35.

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idea of violence or anger. They are an unwanted inference. War likewise has numerous compressions that help explain argument, but the violence that war implies is not intended to be transferred. It is the commendable people in the story that are being “killed.” They are John’s favorites, who are described as virginal (14:4), clean (7:14, 19:14), righteous (19:8, 22:11), holy (20:6, 21:2, 22:11), and worthy (3:4). The violence of the war is resolved by the metaphor because the metaphor makes the violence serve a redeeming purpose (20:4–6). Therefore, disassociating argument and war has also disassociated redemption and death (a difficult proposition for this book; cf. 5:9) to ill pragmatic effect. War has to map to something and judgment is perhaps the only other obvious and available frame; so death has been turned into the dishonorable and violent fate of the ungodly by later readers.218 Honor and death are not disassociated in the war narrative, however. Most people that die are good (or become good thereby).219 That non-transference of inference predicts pragmatically that John intends the metaphorical association of argument and war because metaphors use compressions without inferences. Metonymies do not. They are bound by the single domain to retain them—even more so if we associate judgment and war. War for judgment makes dead people into bad people, which just is not the case in this story. 3.3.1.5.1 Cause-Effect Cause-effect is a commonly compressed vital relation. Metonymies often use cause-effect compressions of the producer/product type.220 The car company Ford makes a vehicle for example, and that vehicle is now called a “Ford.” The cause has been compressed to a property of the car. Metaphors also use Cause-effect compressions. In love is a journey, having to constantly go up hill (cause) can result in someone becoming tired (effect) of the relationship. The cause in one domain is blended with the effect in the other so that the outer-space relations of having to climb hills and getting tired in a relationship are forged into an inner-space relation in the blend. This type of outer-to-inner-space compression is common within Revelation. One of the most interesting and ubiquitous ways it shows up is death itself. People die very easily in Revelation (with some notable exceptions). Winning arguments, however, is not normally so easy. As noted above, nobody seems

218  deSilva, Seeing Things, 270–74; Beale, Revelation, 250–51. 219  Middleton, “Come out of Her,” 5. 220  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 96–97.

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to be changing their opinions about God or the beast.221 John, as an encouragement to witness for Jesus Christ, presents the difficult task of witness in the clear-cut guise of killing. The two witnesses simply open their mouths and people “die” with little objection or even sense of self-preservation (11:5). As evidence of this type of causal compression, odd things happen when people don’t submit to God’s argument. Certainly the people who are tortured by God are an example of this (9:5–6, 10). They desire to die and are earnestly seeking it, but cannot. Within the war frame per se, this makes no sense.222 From a medical perspective, it would be more difficult to live through five months of sustained torture than to die from it, especially if one wants death. But the metaphorical effect in the war frame (death) is being forestalled by the real effect in the argument frame (conversion), and so the unpreparedness of this group to convert (a logically possible condition) is envisioned as a group unable to die (a logically impossible one). The purpose of the sealing of the 144,000 is that it makes them into an indestructible, heavenly army (7:3–8; 14:1; 19:14) who are already in the presence of God (7:9) and of Christ (14:1, 19:14).223 Because their names are already in the book of life (13:8), they are no longer in danger of surrendering their faith. Again, the source cause (harm) is being forestalled by the target effect (conversion), and in the compressed blend the faithful who aren’t susceptible to conversion to the dragon aren’t susceptible to physical harm. The logical impossibility of not being able to be harmed pragmatically points to a causal compression: from harm-causes-death and witness-causes-conversion to harm-causes-conversion. The two witnesses also have this seemingly super-human ability of not dying (for 3.5 years; 11:1, 5–7),224 as well as every single character thrown in the lake of fire (14:10–11). People who can’t or won’t convert to one side or the other can’t be killed by one side or the other. That is not how death works, but it is how witness works. God’s sealed and holy 144,000 (7:3) should not be susceptible to foreign, pagan influences like their adulterous compatriots (17:1). God’s condemned cannot convert post-judgment (19:20, 20:10). All of these groups are impervious to death. John is using the conversion-is-death compression to express the fundamental conviction of the righteous and the irremediable

221  Section 3.3.1.1.2.4. 222  Malina and Pilch, Social-Science, 130: “Death flees people … For some reason, not specified in the passage …” 223  Beale, Revelation, 697. 224  Boxall, Revelation, 160; Beale, Revelation, 566, 579.

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The death compression

condition of his condemned, not to create a science-fiction-styled account of indestructible warriors. People die in different ways in Revelation, however. If argument is war, then death doesn’t just map to conversion. If someone is making an argument, you can lose it; you can also just agree. You only “lose” if at some point you took the opposite side. The different types of death in the war frame might speak to different types of agreement in the argument frame. Particularly, deaths might not all be “losses” or conversions. The two reapings in 14:13–20 have several notable similarities. Most importantly, both groups die (14:16, 19). Both deaths are also described as “blessings” (14:13). Both the wheat and the grapes are gathered in (as opposed to being burned, left unharvested, given away, etc.). Both are important food resources (vintners don’t make wine they don’t intend to drink any more than farmers reap a harvest they don’t intend to eat). And both, together, provide the material for the Eucharistic sacraments. But there is also an important difference: the second group needs a little more post-processing.225 The grapes are thrown into the winepress of the wrath of God and trampled. The causal action in the source domain has changed from reaping (θερίζω, 14:16) to gathering-andtreading (τρυγάω and πατέω, 14:18–19). 225  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 293. Understanding death as judgment, he concludes that the “vintage of the earth” is negative but that the “harvest of the earth” is positive (296) because eschatological “harvests” are supposed to be positive (293).

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Reaping likely compresses simply to restoration in the blend, as the great eschatological harvest should.226 The post-processing of the treading likely compresses to conversion, as above. The people represented by the harvest “of the earth” (14:15) were already on God’s side. They didn’t need to be converted, they just needed to be gathered. They were already “ripe” (ξηραίνω, 14:15). The people represented by the grapes were not ready, as they should have been (3:2–3; 16:15). They needed more than simple gathering. They needed to be changed constitutionally (by treading). They needed to be (re-)converted. This may be part of the meaning of the third seal, in which the grains are available for immediate purchase but the oil and wine are not (6:5–6). The wine does not flow, as it were, until the second reaping, at which point it becomes a flood (14:20). The wine was purchased (or redeemed) eventually, just not during the seals. Most kinds of dying in Revelation fall fairly easily into one or the other of these two categories, the easy harvest or the hard one. The earliest deaths seem to happen with great ease. The quarter of the earth’s population in the seals goes without a single complaint (6:8), and those killing each other are doing so in normal and immediate fashion using Christ’s “sword” (by implication of collocation; 6:3–4). It is likely that these early and easy deaths are the origination of the 144,000, who first appear in heaven during the seals (7:3–8, 14–17).227 After the departure of Christ’s sword, deaths become a more fraught affair in the trumpets (though possibly even more common; cf. 9:18). Fire and wind pointedly play no part in the seals (7:1, 8:5). But fire especially becomes a preferred means of “killing” throughout the trumpets—the first six of the seven trumpets explicitly (8:7, 8, 10; 9:2, 17–18; 11:5). People aren’t just burned as they are in the bowls (καυματίζω, 16:8–9), they are “consumed” or “burned up” by the fire (καίω, κατακαίω, κατεσθίω). Likewise, at the wedding feast of the Lamb, the birds “consume” the flesh of nearly every human being left on earth (ἐσθίω, 19:18; χορτάζω, 19:21). Both groups are killed, and in a way reminiscent of the secondary processing of the grapes. Again, this may point to conversion, rather than simple restoration. This is so especially in the case of the “humans” (ἄνθρωπος, 9:4) who are tortured for five months during the fifth trumpet, and only then and finally burned up in the sixth trumpet (9:18). This group needs an extraordinary amount of “processing,” likely because the generalized group ἄνθρωποι now

226  Koester, Revelation, 624. 227  Thomas, Revelation 1–7, 485. If these “sealed” aren’t those slain during the “seals,” it will need to be answered where they do come from, and why they are dressed so much like the souls under the altar (στολὴ λευκὴ in 6:11, στολὰς λευκὰς in 7:9).

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includes formerly-pagan gentiles (9:20–21).228 Non-“earth-dwellers” are never the subjects of the easy harvest. All of the generalized “humans” (ἄνθρωπος) suffer either from bitterness (8:11), torture (9:5–6), burning (9:18; 16:8–9), sores (16:2), hail (16:21), or consumption (19:18), or they just don’t die at all (9:20; 20:15). It is only in the seals, and among the “dwellers of the land,” that people die a simple and un-suffering “death” (θάνατος, 6:8) indicative of the restoration. The Israelite earth-dwellers (or some of them; cf. 16:1) are “ready” or “ripe” in a way that the rest of the general, gentile population is not. These post-processing activities help us to separate people groups within the story. Those who undergo the burning, treading, and eating (including gentiles) are not as apt to God’s use as the 144,000. This implication of suffering causing death gets compressed in the blend as conversion causing restoration. In that case, it seems that the seals and the 144,000 are most closely analogous to the reaping of the wheat (those who die easily and are simply restored), the trumpets are most closely analogous to the treading of the grapes (those who die with more difficulty and require actual conversion, including the gentiles), and the bowls are analogous to neither (those who don’t die or convert at all, or at least not yet). If this is not the case, it will need to be answered why the gentile-inclusive ἄνθρωποι occupy the latter trumpets (8:11; 9:4–6, 10, 15, 18, 20) and bowls (16:2, 8–9, 18, 21) and never the seals, and why the “land” or “dwellers of the land” dominate the seals (6:4, 8, 10, 13, 15; 7:1–3) and early trumpets (8:5, 7, 13; 9:1, 3; and cf. 9:4). The important point for this section is that many of the causal compressions that occur in Revelation are outer-space compressions of two causal elements that occupy different domains (particularly, argument and war). In other words, they are metaphorical—not metonymical—compressions, thus demonstrating the thesis. In particular, death is a metaphorical compression expressive of a change in spiritual status. The dead become the restored righteous. The living don’t “become” anything because death is the change agent. John is therefore recommending death (2:10, 12:11).229 3.3.1.5.2 Analogy to Category Computer programs acquire the category “virus” when they behave in certain ways analogous to biological viruses. That analogy by behavior within a system is compressed to the category “virus.”230 There are a number of “beasts” operating in Revelation. Here as well, there is an analogy among them as regards how 228  Koester, Revelation, 805. 229  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, xvi, 52, 233–37. 230  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 100, 274–75.

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they operate in John’s worldly system. They are wicked (13:1), they are powerful (13:2), they bear witness to themselves (13:8, 12), and they are opposed to Christ (17:14). They are John’s viruses. The analogy implied by the behavior of the kingdoms of the world has prompted John (following Daniel 7)231 to categorize the kingdoms as “beasts.” Once categorized thus, the reader is prompted to wonder how the “virus” will be cured and the beastly enemies of humanity finally defeated. There are several reasons to believe that John conceptualizes the two beasts as two different kingdoms.232 To begin with, he gives them different titles: the first beast is not the “other” beast (13:11), the first beast is not the false prophet (16:13, 19:20, 20:10), and the seven heads (17:9–10) are not the ten horns (17:12–14). Throughout chapter 13, they are doing different things in league with one another (e.g., 13:14). The writer also gives them different points of origin. The first is based in or over the sea (13:1), likely in Rome (17:9). The other is from “the land” (13:11), the same place where the land-dwellers are (13:12). I would argue, at least tentatively, that the second beast’s origin is Israel. The fact that John splits the category compression implies a disanalogy between the two types of “virus.”233 That disanalogy certainly pertains to point of origin, foreign or domestic. It pertains to agency, the second being an agent of the first (13:12; making the first beast the greater). But the disanalogy also applies to the type of activity each takes part in. The first beast is more the warrior (13:4, 7), while the second is more the priest (13:14–15) and prophet (16:13). The first seeks worship for itself (13:4, 8), while the second conjures worship for the first (13:12–15). The first is therefore more blasphemous (13:5–6) while the second is more conciliatory and deceptive (13:14). The first was wounded (13:3, 12, 14), the second was not. The second beast is uniquely like a lamb (13:11), performs miraculous signs (13:13–14), gives breath to the image of the first beast (13:15), and it is the second beast that marks the people (13:16–18). And so there are two types of kingdoms in John’s thought, and they have been different throughout history (12:3). One kind is Roman and gentile: they have seven heads, which are seven hills (evocative of Rome’s seven hills, 17:9);234 they are war-like and colonialist (13:2–7);235 and they unabashedly call

231  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 424–25. 232  I am responding to Beale’s thesis that the first beast represents the Roman state and the second represents the provincial councils of Asia Minor; see Beale, Revelation, 717. 233  By backward projection; see Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 49. 234  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 343. 235  Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, Revelation: Vision of a Just World (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991), 102, 127.

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for worship of their own emperor-king (13:4).236 The second kind has several Hasmonean and Herodian characteristics. They use their positions in the community of faith to further Roman religion (13:12, 13, 14–15) and agendas (13:16–18),237 they have roles that blend priestly and kingly functions (13:12–13; cf. 16–17),238 those priestly functions pertain to “heaven” in particular (13:13), those pseudo-priestly functions are also pseudo-prophetic (16:13), and they promote worship of an emperor-king not their own (13:12, 14).239 The first beast therefore likely represents morally-failing gentile kingship, and the second morally-failing Judean kingship; one from the sea, one from the land. The beast who was, is not, and is going to destruction from 17:8 and 11 is not a kingdom or a king at all, he is Satan. He turns red in 17:3, which analogically compresses him by color to identity with the dragon (12:3). He is wearing the seven heads of the seven kingdoms and the ten horns of the ten kingdoms (17:3, 7), as the dragon does (12:3), so he is distinguishable from those two kingdom-types. But he is a compression of all human non-divine kingship, which is why he is now called “beast” instead of “dragon” (17:3, 7–8). If that is not so, one must ask where the dragon is in chapter 17—a chapter in which John is careful to explain the “mystery” of God’s adversaries (17:7). Though it is seldom recognized, Revelation actually goes on to tell the story of how the dragon “was, is not, and goes to destruction” (17:8).240 That is the story of the millennium (20:1–10), not of Nero or any other earthly king.241 In 20:1–2 the dragon is bound by the angel with the chain, which presumes that he was in a relatively free position prior to that. In 20:3 he is cast into the abyss, and then released in 20:7–8. He deceives the nations (20:8) into fighting a battle (20:8–10). In both cases his time is short-lived, implied by his “departure” (ὑπάγω) in 17:8 and made explicit in 20:3 by his subsequent “little time” (μικρὸν χρόνον). In both cases, he is released explicitly from “the abyss” (17:8; 20:3). And in both cases he then suffers final judgment (17:8; 20:10). Surely, if the judgment is final in both, they must be the same event.

236  Steven J. Friesen, Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John: Reading Revelation in the Ruins (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 3–4 (passim). 237  Emil Schürer, Géza Vermès, and Fergus Millar, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 B.C.–A.D. 135), vol. 1 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1973), 148–50, 304–5, 312–13. 238  Ibid., 2, 139, 193–94. 239  Ibid., 391. 240  Beale recognizes this connection (Beale, Revelation, 865), though he continues to treat the red beast as Rome. 241  Nero easily being the majority opinion. See Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 396, 431; Beale, Revelation, 870–75.

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The parallel fates of the Red Beast and the Dragon

The Red Beast (Dragon) in 17:8

The Dragon (Satan) in 20:1–10

the beast “was” the beast “is not” the beast is “about to ascend from the abyss” only to “depart” people “wonder” the beast “goes to destruction”

before Satan is bound (1–2) Satan is “bound” (2) in the “abyss” (3) Satan is released from the abyss (7) for a “short time” people are “deceived” (8) Satan is cast in the lake of fire (10)

It is traditional to see an allusion to the Nero redivivus myth in the departure and return of the beast242—though, as Bauckham notes, Nero does not actually die in the first century version of that myth.243 It also misses the explanation of the event in chapter 20. And it doesn’t make sense of the category compressions going on in chapter 17. It’s not the seven heads (even less one of the seven) who “was, is not, and is coming,” it is the dragon-colored beast. The author had just separated the seven kings from the red beast in the immediately preceding verse (17:7). If Nero were the one leaving and returning, a head or a hill should be doing it, not the red beast himself. We’ve inferred a category mistake in John’s writing, but the confusion of categories—kings and kingdoms—is more likely the readers.’ John’s characterization of the red beast isn’t the first beast or the second, and certainly isn’t one of the kings therein; it’s a characterization of the only other (wicked) character in the story to depart and return in the narrative—Satan. Commentators who wish to maintain that Nero (or some other erstwhile king) is the subject of the return will need to answer why it is the beast and not one of the heads that leaves and why, when the story is actually and fully told in chapter 20, it does not involve an earthly king at all. .

3.3.1.5.3 Analogy to Identity and Uniqueness These compressions to category are important to the story, but the beastly characters are not truly central. They don’t show up until chapter 11, leave two chapters before the end (20:10), and don’t take full part in the story until chapter 13. The central character of Revelation, if the introduction is to be believed (1:1), is Jesus. In that case it seems odd that he is largely absent, except in 242  Ibid. 243  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 421.

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name only, from 5:8 to 19:11—the central war narrative. Whether this is a story of war or witness, Jesus should be more involved if the “revelation” is “of” him.244 It has been noticed as early as Irenaeus (d. ca. 200 CE) that the white horse on which Jesus appears at the end of the war (19:11) is being made analogous to the white horse of the first of the four horsemen at the beginning of the war (6:2).245 They both use the exact phrase καὶ ἰδοὺ ἵππος λευκός καὶ ὁ καθήμενος ἐπ᾽ αὐτὸν. The problem with making that comparison has been that there is then no reason to separate the other three horsemen; and, to many commentators, the supposedly “deathly” green horse and especially the fiery red one seem more like the Antichrist.246 In other words, where we might want to insert Jesus into the story, he seems most unwelcome. But again, the author creates connections not only by having Jesus ride the white horse of the first horseman, but carry the sword of the second (6:4; 19:15, 21), redeem like the third (6:5, 5:9), and comport with the titles “death and Hades” of the fourth (6:8; 1:18). John seems intent to make each of these uncomfortable analogies between Jesus and the four horsemen rather than to diminish them. Compressions of analogy to identity and uniqueness are one of the most common types of compression because it is nearly impossible to make generalizations without them. If a person (generalization) had to speak about a subject (generalization) without ever compressing the contents of that subject into some kind of unity, she would have to talk about every example every time. Imagine having to talk about politics, scientific studies, or what your friends did last night without allowing yourself to use generalities. It (another generality) would be nearly impossible. An example of compression to identity and then to uniqueness Fauconnier and Turner give is of a New York Times story on the American pronghorn antelope, titled “Ghosts of Predators Past.”247 The story itself looks at why the pronghorn can run so very much faster than any of its modern predators (the reason being that it learned to run from much faster, but now extinct, predators). Fauconnier and Turner however are analyzing how the story was conceptualized. There have been millions and millions of pronghorns over the long years of evolutionary history. For the study to talk about them, they had to be identified with each other and made into distinct entities, the ancient and the modern pronghorn. Those two entities were then turned into one unique 244  I owe the making of this point to Elaine Pagels, at a session of the “John’s Apocalypse and Cultural Contexts Ancient and Modern” group at the 2012 SBL meeting in Chicago. 245  Haer. 4.21.3. 246  See, e.g., Koester, Revelation, 394, 753; Stefanovic, Revelation, 226. 247  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 115–19.

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entity, the American pronghorn. That unique character can now be said to have “learned” to run fast from predators past. In an integration network however, the web of compressions and decompressions needs to be maintained.248 One needs to understand that no single pronghorn “remembers” what it “learned.” That isn’t how evolution works. The single pronghorn “learning” is a compression of millions of pronghorns facing the strong selection pressure of quick predators. The authors of the article assumed their readers would maintain that web and be able to decompress the unique pronghorn back out into the millions of pronghorns it represents. If John is trying to explain or reveal the Christ, he is going to use different ideas: he’s like a lamb (5:6), he’s like a warrior (19:11), he’s like a bridegroom (19:7), etc. And each of those characters gets combined into one gestalt and unified idea of “the Christ.” What if there are other characters, especially those in the war narrative, that are part of John’s gestalt idea of “the Christ,” but that haven’t been for ancient and modern interpreters? Those characters would now seem odd and disassociated. They would not integrate in the blend. They might be frightening because they take part in the war conceit. They would likely seem important, and would share some similar (and also dissimilar) characteristics with the Lamb, but their identities would be dis-integrated from the person of the Christ. This is the historical condition the four horsemen have occupied.249 They seem related to the Christ character of 19:11–16, but there are characteristics that seem unattributable to him. If argument is war, death is repentance and restoration. Giving the fourth horseman the power over “death” effectively gives him (and only him) the power of redemption. That is a power John would want to give his Messiah (and only his Messiah; 5:9). If argument is war, the restoration begins with the war in 6:1. And the very first character happens to look at his first coming exactly like Jesus looks several chapters later in his second coming—on a white horse, with a crown, and conquering.250 That is hardly a coincidence. A Christian telling the story of the restoration would want to begin with the 248  Ibid., 331–32. 249  Along with Irenaeus (see above), Tyconius also dis-integrated the four horsemen by making the first a Christ character and the subsequent three the devil (or his works). See Kovacs and Rowland, Revelation, 84–85. For Oecumenius, however, the four were stages in salvation history: the birth of Christ (white horse), the temptation of Christ (red horse), the defeat of Satan (black horse), and the defeat of one quarter of “the wicked demons” (pale horse). See Weinrich, Greek, 27–31. 250  Thus Boring, Revelation, 123, before concluding that “this first, definitive horseman does indeed belong to the series of agents of eschatological catastrophe and thus cannot mean the Christ.”

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advent of Christ. Jesus, who was “slain from the foundation of the world” (13:8), is seen by John as crucified in heaven but not yet on earth in chapter 5. John has to be caught up to heaven to see him. It isn’t until the seals are open that people on earth begin responding to Christ (6:16). And at the end of the seals series, the sixth seal sees some of the same celestial catastrophes that Matthew uses at the crucifixion: particularly the earthquake (Matt 27:51, 54; Rev 6:12) and the darkened sky (Matt 27:45; Rev 6:12). Even Matthew’s resurrections of the saints (27:52–53) may have an analogy in the 144,000 (7:14–17). There are other reasons to see the four horsemen as decompressed identities of Jesus. The four heavenly “living beings” call the horsemen to “come.” The plea to “come” is used explicitly for the parousia in Revelation (22:20).251 And in regard to the living beings themselves (τό ζῷον; 4:6–9), the only thing that was said to be “living” (ζάω; 1:18, 2:8) prior to the entrance of the four “living beings” is Jesus. The implication of Jesus has already been “activated.”252 John is naming Ezekiel’s four cherubim “Jesus”253 and giving them (him) earthly manifestations in the form of Zechariah’s four horsemen254—all of whom are agents of God and protagonists in their original settings. In other words, John is compressing Ezekiel’s cherubim and Zechariah’s angelic horsemen into the identity “Christ” and the unique person “Jesus.” This is not the only place where Jesus appears in “angelic” form (10:1; 14:14–15). There are other possible compressions of analogy to uniqueness. John calls one of the twenty-four elders “lord” while they’re standing together in heaven (7:14), and he isn’t corrected for it (as angels might; cf. 19:10, 22:9). This quote from Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones (‫וָ א ַֹמר ֲאד ֹנָ י יְ הוִ ה ַא ָּתה יָ ָד ְע ָּת‬, Ezek 37:3) implies that the twenty-four elders are representations of the only one other than God and his Spirit who may rightly be called “lord” in the story—Jesus (11:8; 17:14; 19:16; 22:20–21).255 That is likely why their task is usually to explain things to 251  Boring, Revelation, 123. 252  Sperber and Wilson, “Deflationary Account,” 108: “Implications activated by both the utterance and the context are the first to come to mind, and are tentatively added to the interpretation until the hearer’s expectations of relevance are satisfied.” 253  See Beale, Revelation, 328–30 for the connection between the four living beings and Ezekiel’s four cherubim. He does not go on to investigate whether their presence “in the midst of the throne” (328–29) implies that they share it with the one seated there. 254  Ibid., 378, 388. 255  Koester and Beale recognize this allusion to conversations between God (!) and Ezekiel (Ezek 37:3), but uncharacteristically do nothing with it. See Koester, Revelation, 421; Beale, Revelation, 84, 432. Interestingly, in 5:6, the Lamb (ἀρνίον, neuter) is shown “standing” (ἑστηκὸς, neuter participle) with the elders (πρεσβυτέρων, masculine) in the midst of the throne, but “having” (ἔχων, masculine participle) seven horns and eyes. The second participle agrees with the elders in gender (though not number) while the first agrees with the

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John (5:5; 7:13–17), as Jesus consistently does in the opening chapter (1:1, 17– 18, 20). Wormwood, a star (a sign of Christ; 22:16), fell from heaven burning like a “lamp” (a sign of the “spirit of God”; 4:5) and turned the waters of rivers and springs bitter (8:11). The only other person to turn something bitter is the mighty angel (also a Christ-figure; 10:1),256 who makes John’s stomach bitter with the little scroll he bids him eat (10:9). Abaddon or Apollyon is an agent of God (9:1; cf. 9:11), is so “destructive” in the war of witness that his actual name is “destroyer” (9:11), and he appears well before the first hint of the beasts (11:7) or the dragon (12:3).257 And the Danielic “one like a Son of Man” of the two reapings is Christ in the only other place he appears (1:13; cf. 1:18), is called into service like the four horsemen (using “send” rather than “come” presumably because he is absent from the earth; 14:15, 18), is absolutely devastating in terms of dealing out “death” (14:16, 19–20), and has the imprimatur of God himself (14:15, 17, 19).258 These appearances of Christ are made pragmatically available to John’s readers by the compressions of analogy to identity. Whether restoration is death or not, Jesus kills large numbers of people in Revelation (19:21). That is an explicature in the text, and its avoidance or diminution is unlikely to aid comprehension. That explicature also has a logical implicature—that characters who are likewise destructive bear an analogy to him. Blending theory predicts that those analogies are compressible to identity.259 The pragmatic signal for Christ being at work in the narrative is death, in which case the problem of the absence of Christ in the war narrative is well and truly solved. If argument is war, it also solves the problem of why John makes the first horseman and the last seem so very similar. They are the same unique person, Lamb (in gender and number). Mathewson, Revelation, 74, recognizes that a “construction according to sense” is “less likely” because the other participle doesn’t do that. What might be happening instead is that the “construction according to sense” is following the elders rather than the Lamb. They, as the Lamb, have the seven horns and eyes. John is grammatically blending his genders, numbers, and cases because he’s analogically blending his characters (into one). 256  Beale, Revelation, 522–26. 257  Matthias Reinhard Hoffmann, The Destroyer and the Lamb: The Relationship between Angelomorphic and Lamb Christology in the Book of Revelation, WUNT 2/203 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 125–28 considers extensively whether Abaddon/Apollyon is referring to Christ (and see the several reasons he gives), but ultimately decides against it, based on the supposedly “satanic” identity and activity the character takes part in (126). This is an example of how theories-of-mind can influence interpretation (see section 6.2.7.) 258  It is generally recognized that the harvesting “Son of Man” is Christ (e.g., Koester, Revelation, 623; Beale, Revelation, 772; Boxall, Revelation, 212). It is inconsistent to allow this one destructive character to be associated with Jesus but not the others. 259  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 98–99, 118.

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Jesus. John has decompressed the various ministries of Jesus—as king (6:2), as prophet-warrior (6:4), as redeemer (6:6), as slain lamb (6:8)—into separate characters in chapter six so that he can explain or “reveal” Christ more fully; and then simply recompresses them in chapter nineteen. In the same way, I might talk about myself as a child, an adolescent, a college student, and a professional; and each one of those people or characters would be giving a different side or element of my overall, gestalt self-identity. John is using the war not just to describe the progress of the gospel, but also to reveal the one the gospel is about and his relationship to history. He’s not just telling the story of the great eschatological war, he’s telling the story of the great eschatological warrior, the Messiah. Those characters—the twenty-four elders, the four living beings, the four horsemen, Wormwood, Abaddon or Apollyon, the harvesting Son of Man, and the white rider—are not confusing and horrific characters if one has mapped war to argument. Jesus is doing, as those characters, exactly what a messiah should be doing: restoring Israel (the “earth-dwellers”; 8:7), and through them all other people (9:15; cf. 19:14).260 He’s just doing it in the narrative through the conceit of “war.” An interesting corollary of this is that he only prosecutes this redemptive war as earth-bound characters in the seals and in the final battle. Every other intervention he makes is from a heavenly position (4:4, 6; 7:1; 8:3, 10–11; 9:1, 11; 10:1; 14:14). This implies that the seals were Christ’s earthly ministry and the final battle is his parousia. And everything in between—the trumpets and bowls—take place in his (physical) absence.261 From a forensic linguistic perspective it may be useful to consider why Christ’s alternate characterizations were lost. In a book that is about him, it seems strange to disassociate Jesus from the majority of the narrative. The problem is in how the analogy-to-identity compressions were made. The point of analogy between the millions of pronghorns, the signal that they should or could be compressed, was the fact that they were all one species. There was a genetic relationship between them. The point of analogy between Jesus and the violent characters of the seals, trumpets, and bowls is violence. That is the primary “genetic trait” that John was using to help his readers track Christ’s activity. It is almost a syllogism that, if John is telling a story about Jesus, and if that story is violent, John is telling a story about Jesus using violence.

260  Middleton, New Heaven, 67–68; Beale, John’s Use, 222–27. 261  Oecumenius holds the seals to be events in the life of Christ, though he takes the seventh to be the parousia. See Weinrich, Greek, xxx, 27–37.

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The problem came when later readers tried to de-emphasize the violence of the Lamb.262 When they did that the signal for analogical compression was lost, the main character in his many iterations remained decompressed, and so the story remained un-integrated and non-relevant.263 The metaphor argument is war resolves relevance primarily because it makes it acceptable to attribute violence to Jesus—which allows the story of the war to be about him, and the characters in that story to be him. 3.3.1.5.4 Analogy to Representation Representations are compressions by analogy.264 When Van Gogh paints a self-portrait, the painting looks like him, and that analogical relationship gets compressed in the blend of person and portrait to now represent him. The mind, however, retains the full network. If someone were to attack the painting, one would not suppose that the subject himself was under assault (being deceased). It is a representation of a person, not the person himself. And because there are many self-portraits by Van Gogh, there are many representations of him, all related by analogy (they all look like him). The iron rod represents Christ. The text explicitly attributes it to him (19:15). It is Christ’s representative weapon likely because of the popularity of the messianic Psalm 2.265 God, speaking as father to son (Ps 2:7), says “you will break them with a rod of iron, like the vessel of a potter you will smash them” (Ps 2:9). It is perhaps worthwhile to note, especially for the purposes of the overall argument, that John chooses to retain the LXX translation of “shepherd” (ποιμαίνω) for the MT “break” (‫ ) ָר ַעע‬to describe the activity of the iron rod. It is clearly an important representation to John, as it shows up three times in the book, beginning (2:27), middle (12:5), and end (19:15). If the rod is said to be “shepherding” and shown to be “breaking” or “smashing,” the word by itself could represent a cross-space (metaphorical) mapping to shepherding from smashing or to shepherding from war, which are not far from argument and war. The iron rod doesn’t only show up as a “rod” (ῥάβδος) however. In 19:15, John uses the quote from Ps 2:9 to explain the sword which comes from Christ’s 262  For example, in Richard Hays and Stefan Alkier’s edited volume Revelation and the Politics of Apocalyptic Interpretation, the fourth of “six areas of convergence” that the nine scholars (including also Steve Moyise and N. T. Wright) came to was “The book summons its readers to follow the pattern of Jesus through countercultural, suffering witness to the one God, rather than through acts of violence.” See Hays and Alkier, “Introduction,” 7–8. 263  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 342–43. 264  Ibid., 266, 326. 265  Collins, Apocalyptic Imagination, 275, makes the argument that the male child of Rev 12 “is clearly identifiable as the messiah” because of the iron rod alone.

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mouth. The sword is the rod. There is a compression by analogy between these two representations which is based on both being made of “iron” (σιδηροῦς). Like Van Gogh’s likeness, iron is the common thread that allows John to equate the rod and the sword; which is to say it is iron itself that is representing Christ (as gold represented Nebuchadnezzar), not any kind of iron implement in particular. It is the iron that “breaks” or “shepherds,” therefore it is the iron that demonstrates Jesus’ messiahship. This is an important point because there are several other iron implements in use in the Apocalypse (and none of them are ever in use by the dragon or his agents). The first we see is this sword from Christ’s mouth (1:16)—whence it likely comes under the secondary influence of a restoration prophecy in Isaiah 11.266 There, the messianic “rod” (ῥάβδος), budded from the “root” (ῥίζα) of Jesse (11:1), will “strike the earth with the rod of his mouth” (11:4); and, by so doing, to re-gather “the remnant of his people” (11:11) and the gentiles besides (11:10).267 That early use of an allusion to a restoration passage provides a “contextual implication” or premise for later swords and other iron implements well before the decoding of 19:15—that they belong to the Christ, and that they serve his purposes in the restoration.268 The Psalm 2:9 rod of iron is breaking and effecting the Isaiah 11:11 restoration of Israel, in which case the mouth-sword is simply another case of John’s use of gezerah shavah (this time based on ῥάβδος).269 Another use of iron implements that is clearly by Christ is when the “Son of Man” uses two sickles to reap the harvests of grain and grapes. It must be Christ, being the “Son of Man” (14:14; cf. 1:13, Dan 7:13), and is likely under the influence of Joel 3:13, in which “the harvest is ripe” and “the grapes” should be “trodden” in the “winepress” because of their wickedness.270 If those who die ἐν κυρίῳ (14:13) are “blessed,” the harvests are doing something conceptually close to what the sword was doing—restoring by means of metaphorical death. Moving deductively from known to unknown, there are two other iron weapons used in the text that are less clearly handled by Christ, but which 266  Koester, Revelation, 757. 267  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 219. 268  For the RT notion of “contextual implication,” see Sperber and Wilson, “Deflationary Account,” 115–118. 269  See section 3.1, note 23. See also Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, xi, where he claims that John’s exegetical technique “especially” employs gezerah shavah; and page 323, where he makes the specific claim of its use in this passage. 270  The LXX seems to treat the MT’s first (grain) harvest as part of the second harvest of grapes. Where Joel 3:13 MT uses ‫ ָק ִציר‬, the translation Joel 4:13 LXX uses τρύγητος. In that case, if John is appealing to Joel here, he is rather siding with the MT, as he usually does (for which see Charles, Revelation, 1:lxvi and Aune, Revelation 1–5, l).

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lend themselves to that interpretation. The first is in regard to the saints who reign with Christ in the millennium. They have been “hewn” (πελεκίζω, 20:4), presumably by the double-sided iron axe named by the verb (the πέλεκυς; cf. Hom. Il. 23.851, 882).271 The πέλεκυς, like the sword, is two-sided and has a constructive purpose (in this case, literally). It was used in the building of the temple (1 Kgs 6:7 LXX), which—as the New Jerusalem (21:16)—is just about to reappear on the scene (21:2). The saints having been so “hewn” is what qualifies them to take part in the millennium (along with not worshipping the beast or receiving the mark; 20:4). Assuming that John would not want to attribute any authorizing activity to the beast—which is surely the point of the worshipping and marking caveats—the “hewing” must then be at the hands of Christ. The saints were hewn “by” (διά + acc.) two “efficient causes”: the testimony of Jesus and the word of God.272 We have already seen how the saints under the altar have been slain “by” (διά + acc.) the word of God and testimony (6:9; see also section 4.1.4.3). In the same way, the brothers overcame the dragon “by” (διά + acc.) the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony (12:11), and the second beast deceived the earth-dwellers “by” (διά + acc.) the signs he was given power to perform (13:14). The testimony of Jesus, analogically represented by the iron of the double-sided πέλεκυς, hewed the saints, qualified them for the millennium, and fashioned them as quarry for the New Jerusalem (as promised; 2:17, 3:12). The second iron implement that may be analogously related to Jesus’ messianic iron rod is actually a group of weapons—the locust army of the fifth trumpet (9:1–11). They are wearing iron breastplates (θώρακας σιδηροῦς; 9:9). Oddly, 271  In the Iliad passages, note how Homer consciously contrasts the πέλεκυς with the onesided axe, the ἡμιπέλεκκον. 272  While it is true that διά + gen. usually supplies “efficient cause,” BDAG notes that this is not always the case with Revelation. It, in fact, uses both Rev 12:11 (the brothers “overcame by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony”) and 13:14 (the beast misled the earth-dwellers “by signs”) as examples where “efficient cause” is rendered by διά + acc. (and they are the only biblical examples it uses, demonstrating that it is characteristic for Revelation in particular). See BDAG (3rd ed.), 226. It is difficult to answer why John would be using διά + acc. in this way, but I might propose a metaphorical explanation. The preposition with the accusative is usually causal in the sense of “the reason why someth.[ing] happens, results, exists” (p. 225). In other words, the faithful are killed “because of” their testimony. But, when John sets the precedent that the preposition with the accusative can also be used to show efficient cause (in the sense of “by”), he might be creating two possible meanings for the same phrase: one that works within the literal, martyrological schema (the faithful being killed “because of” their faith) and one that works within the metaphorical, restoration schema (the faithful being killed or restored “by” their faith). We will see in sections 6.2.1 and 6.2.2 that metaphor comprehension always makes use of these two types of meanings (literal and metaphorical).

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they are also double-sided weapons, like the sword and the πέλεκυς, in that they have the Lion’s teeth (9:8) and tails like scorpions (9:10). And they are also agents or tools of their “king” (9:11): the powerful, heavenly figure of Abaddon or Apollyon. It was discussed above that this is likely one of the many figures in the war that form John’s gestalt concept of the Christ (section 3.3.1.5.3). If iron represents Christ, this story makes sense of a promise that Jesus makes to the Thyatiran overcomers.273 The first time Psalm 2 is appealed to is not directly of Christ (as it is later). John gives the overcomers themselves “authority” to smash the gentiles (2:26–27), like the iron rod smashes the pottery. How that authority relates to the authority of the son (2:27) is not explained until 9:1–11. The ones wearing the breastplates are themselves Apollyon’s weapon—his army—for assaulting the unsealed (9:4). They become the iron rod, in which case the fifth and sixth trumpet are the envisioned fulfillment of Jesus’ promise to the Thyatiran faithful. This might also explain the use of the sword in the second seal. The sword is given to Christ and then people kill one another (6:4). The implication is that they kill one another by his sword. The sword (as testimony) is given to Christ, which is given in turn to the “slayers” (σφάζω). Christ is the supplier of the requisite testimony concerning himself and his faithful are the wielders of it (2:27). In that case, neither the “slayers” (a cultic, sacrificial term anyway; Exod 12:6, Lev 1:5) in the second seal nor the “torturers” in the fifth trumpet are likely being presented as wicked; certainly not “demonic.”274 Their authority is coming from heaven (6:3, 9:1). And so all of these weapons—the iron rod, the sword, the two sickles, the πέλεκυς, and the locust army—show remarkable similarity. They are all made of iron, they are all two-sided (or there are two of them),275 and they all rest in the hands of heavenly characters who are analogous to Christ. Those (sometimes striking and unusual) similarities need to be explained. The analogies between these weapons are able to be compressed into a single entity—the iron rod of Psalm 2 (which some of them are explicitly; 19:15). And that entity 273  Boxall, Revelation, 66, for example calls it “surprising.” Thomas, Revelation 1–7, 233 calls it “fierce.” 274  Charles, Revelation, 1:xxvi; Witherington, Revelation, 154; Mounce, Revelation, 48, 162, 181, 191, etc. It is particularly Mounce’s preferred designation for the locusts and cavalry of the fifth and sixth trumpets. 275  The “keys of death and Hades” may also be an iteration of the iron rod. They are made of iron, there are two of them (as there are of the sickles), and Christ holds them (1:18) and rides out represented by them (6:8). Keys are not a normal part of a Hostile_encounter frame; but because they are a part of a revelatory frame, and because they bear the characteristics of Christ’s other weapons, they may constitute cross-domain mappings themselves.

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is a unique characterization of the one that wields it—the messianic son of God (Ps 2:9). Analogy has been compressed to representation. The fact that only those who have been hewn by the πέλεκυς are resurrected into the millennial rule of Christ (20:4) then makes sense as well.276 Only those converted to Christ, or restored by him, can “reign” with him. And only they are prepared to take part in the final battle (20:9). Everybody else will have to wait (20:5). As instruments of iron compress by way of analogy to represent Jesus (or the testimony of Jesus, as they commonly come from his mouth), the instruments of fire and wind compress to represent the Holy Spirit of God, and perhaps more specifically the Holy Spirit’s testimony. The wind stirs and shakes heaven at the penultimate seal (6:13). Something—whatever ἄνεμος might represent at this point (though see John 3:8)—is happening in heaven that isn’t happening on earth. The four winds (7:1) are not yet allowed to “harm” the earth, sea, or trees. Interestingly, the wind never is released. 7:1 is the last mention of “wind” in the book. When something is finally released from heaven to harm the earth (8:7), sea (8:8), and trees (8:7), it is now called “fire” (πῦρ; 8:5; cf. 8:7, 8, 10). Fire is being related analogically to wind, as the sword was to the iron rod (19:15). They are different manifestations or representations of the same thing. The question is, then, what are they representing? The first instance of fire in the Apocalypse is in the eyes of the Son of Man (1:14, repeated in 2:18). If Mediterranean eyes are the “windows” to the soul,277 Jesus has fire inside him. And then every time Jesus speaks subsequently in the letters (2:1, 8, 12, 18; 3:1, 7, 14), “the spirit” is saying the exact same things he is (2:7, 11, 17, 29; 3:6, 13, 22). John treats Jesus as if his testimony is the same as that of the Holy Spirit (as one might expect). He confirms this when he actually names it “spirit” (πνεῦμα) in 19:10. He does this using the metaphorical A is B formula: “the testimony of Jesus [A] is the spirit of prophecy [B].” Fire and wind are being analogically related to “spirit” in John’s mind and compressed to the “testimony of Jesus Christ”—and particularly that testimony attested by the Holy Spirit.

276  There is a classic interpretive problem in 20:4 in which the text seems to be saying that only martyrs will have a part in the millennium. It is compounded by the fact that the group seems to be coterminous with those who haven’t been marked by the beast (the implication being that only martyrs avoid the lake of fire; cf. 14:9–11). For discussions see, e.g., Boring, Revelation, 204; Boxall, Revelation, 282–84. Beale, Revelation, 999, concludes “No decisive answer can be given.” The metaphorical solution simplifies this by making the slain the faithful, without remainder. 277  Elliott, John H., Beware the Evil Eye: The Evil Eye in the Bible and the Ancient World (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2015), 19.

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John does the same thing when he later describes Jesus as a lamb which is covered in “seven horns” and “seven eyes”—which also explicitly represent the “seven spirits of God” (5:6). John in fact uses the same phrase εἰσιν τὰ ἑπτὰ πνεύματα τοῦ θεοῦ278 to describe both the torches of fire (4:5) and the horns and eyes on the Lamb (5:6), and only in these two places. He’s pragmatically signaling for an analogy to be made. The analogy to be made is that the Spirit of God dwells in Jesus, and that the Spirit is represented by fire. The Spirit is outside of him and inside of him. Jesus is saturated with the Holy Spirit in a way analogous to how the scroll in God’s hand is saturated with revelatory words inside and out (5:1) and the four living beings are saturated with spiritually revelatory eyes front and back (4:6; like the Lamb is in 5:6). The Spirit is also of course related to God, and as fire as well. The “seven spirits of God” which are before God’s throne (1:4) and which are in his hand (3:1) are “seven torches of burning fire” (ἑπτὰ λαμπάδες πυρὸς καιόμεναι; 4:5). Like iron represents Jesus, fire and wind represent the Holy Spirit.279 This is perhaps not surprising given the Pentecost tradition (Acts 2:2–3; though note the use of πνοή rather than ἄνεμος).280 The wind and fire are withheld as long as the seals are being opened (7:1). Once the horsemen and sword depart—those things associated with the earthly ministry of Christ281—the fire falls from heaven. That, too, is a part of the Pentecost tradition, and the Johannine Pentecost tradition at that: (“unless I depart, the παράκλητος will not come to you”; John 16:7).282 The “silence in heaven for half an hour” is a time when neither the living beings nor the fire are “talking”—the time after the ascension but before Pentecost (Acts 1:4–5, 2:1–4). Those “ten days” (the fifty days of Pentecost from Lev 23:16 minus the forty days within which Jesus “showed himself alive” from Acts 1:3) are already a part of John’s conscious thought (Rev 2:10).283 What is telling is that the Smyrnan ten days of testing is analogous, not to the seals or the fire, but to their absence. The time of testing is when the fire isn’t falling. There is pre-Pentecostal silence.

278  Certain mss remove ἑπτά from 4:5 and 5:6, but most remove it from one or the other. Only 1006 and 1841 remove ἑπτά entirely (and they are quite late). 279  Beale, Revelation, 579. These are not of course new ideas (Matt 3:11 par.; John 3:8). 280  For a recognition of the use of the Pentecost traditions in Revelation, see Beale, Revelation, 69, 78, 310. 281  See section 3.3.1.5.3. 282  Cf. John 14:26, where the παράκλητος is equated with the Holy Spirit. 283  Stefanovic, Revelation, 34.

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The number seven then may represent the Holy Spirit.284 The seven lamps of burning fire (4:5) and the seven eyes and seven horns (5:6) do explicitly. In the same way, the number four may be taken to represent Jesus (four living beings, four horsemen, and four angels withholding the wind). If these are the case then the seals which are initiated by the four living beings (6:1), carried out by the four horsemen (6:2), and concluded by the four angels (7:1–3) represent the ministry of Christ on earth and are roughly covering the content of the gospels; and the trumpets and bowls (which are carried out by the seven angels in 8:2, 6 and 15:1, 15:6–16:1, and 17:1, respectively) represent the ministry of the Holy Spirit and are covering the content of the book of Acts. Like Van Gogh’s visual compressions of his likeness into the representations of his self-portraits, John is painting the Holy Spirit as wind and fire. Some of those portraits are unproblematic. Christ having the spirit of God is not an unusual proposition in the NT (e.g., Mark 1:10 parr.) But there are two places where ideas of fire and the Holy Spirit seem ill-matched: the lake of fire (20:14–15) and fire being called down from heaven by the second beast (13:13). The lake of fire and those in it seem eternally separated from God (20:10), and the Holy Spirit shouldn’t be summonable by demonic characters and charlatans (13:15). These two instances have conceptual problems whether fire is a representation of the Holy Spirit or not, however. The beast-worshippers and the marked are being threatened with being tortured with burning sulfur “in the presence of [ἐνώπιον] the holy angels and the Lamb” (14:10), with the smoke rising “forever” (14:11). John is already putting several of his protagonists in close and eternal proximity to the lake. Putting “fire” there as well is only more of the same. And the second beast is calling something from heaven, whatever the fire represents. He should have no power over heaven (12:7, 12), though he does over the earth (13:12). If the fire somehow represents the Holy Spirit, that is again only more of the same kind of problem that is there inherently. The solution to these two conundrums is in the compression. Fire compresses to a tool of the Holy Spirit, not the Holy Spirit himself, in the same way that iron was the tool of Jesus and not Jesus. It is, in particular and in both cases, their testimony. John is troubled by a world that has lived in wanton rejection of God (e.g., 9:20–21). He presents a temporal, beastly order that is designed, above all, to obfuscate who the real Lord is (13:1–8). At the great resolution, John will not allow that lack of clarity to continue (22:3). The lake 284  Bauckham, Theology, 25, 110–15, certainly argues for the seven spirits being the Holy Spirit, though he does not go so far as to give that sense to the number seven in general. He takes it rather standardly as the number of completeness (66).

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is filled with fire because no corner of the universe is going to be left without the witness that Jesus is King of Kings and Lord of Lords (19:16). The rest of the heavens and the earth are free to be burned (20:9) and then to be made “new” (21:1) because—in keeping with the compression—everything that burns is restored. The universal conflagration can and should do its job and burn out.285 But the characters in the lake are not restored. They therefore can’t be consumed. The fire can’t go out in the lake, ever. John was forced into an eternal lake of fire by his compressions to representation. If fire wasn’t in the lake at all, the people in the lake wouldn’t know whom they rejected, which is not something John wishes to say.286 His envisioned rejections of God are always conscious (6:15–17; 9:20–21; 11:10; 16:9, 11, 21; etc.). And the fire could never burn out because that would imply post-mortem conversion, which is also something that he doesn’t wish to say (20:11–15). That is why there is an interminable lake of fire. The writer isn’t trying to project eternal conscious suffering, but eternal impenitence. Within the metaphor testimony is fire (a natural entailment of argument is war), John’s unrepentant have to burn forever. The fire coming down from heaven is solved in a similar way. Fire isn’t the Holy Spirit, it is the testimony of the Holy Spirit. It can map to spoken words, but it doesn’t have to. Fire can map to written words as well. It is—or it can be, given the fire-to-testimony mapping—Torah (Deut 33:2, Jer 23:29).287 The second beast is acting like a priest.288 He looks like a sacrificial lamb (13:11), conducts worship services (13:12), has authority over the fire (a priestly authority; 13:13, cf. 14:18), is the manager of the sacred icons (13:14), and promotes the state religion (though of the wrong state; 13:11–12). This land-originated beast has access to heaven-originated testimony, but he uses that priestly authority and access to cause people to follow the foreign-originated first beast instead. Once again, John’s second beast is being critiqued for his syncretism like the Hellenizing Herodians and their conciliatory priesthood were.289 John is constrained by his compression to representation to turn the Torah into fire. He believes it to be the authentic testimony of God. But the priestly classes weren’t (in John’s opinion) using the authentic fire to bring anybody to covenant 285  For the argument that eschatological burning is a smelting, purifying metaphor (judgment is fire), see Clifford T. Winters, “A Strange Death: Cosmic Conflagration as Conceptual Metaphor in 2 Peter 3:6–13,” Conversations with the Biblical World 33 (2013): 147–61. 286  Beale, Revelation, 536, 556, 579–80. 287  Mark Verman, “The Torah as Divine Fire,” JBQ 35.2 (2007): 94–102. 288  S. R. F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 197–98; Koester, Revelation, 588–89. 289  See notes 237–39 in section 3.3.1.5.2.

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faithfulness so, unlike every other appearance of fire during the war, it can’t consume anybody. The “fire” was used for show, and to promote the priestly beast’s own political self-interests. For those who wish to maintain a literal or metonymic reading of the fire here, they need to answer why the fire is coming from heaven (a show of authenticity) but at the bidding of an inauthentic and scandalizing beast. The compression of fire to testimony can answer that. The other instances of fire in the war narrative are then easy by comparison. Fire comes from the mouths of the two witnesses because authentic testimony comes from the mouths of the two witnesses (11:5). And “it is necessary for [their adversaries] to be killed thus” because faithful witnesses in John’s mind would not use tools other than the authentic witness of the Spirit. The fire, smoke, and sulfur in the sixth trumpet (9:17–18) are likely indicative of people who burn easily (fire), with some difficulty (smoke), or not at all (sulfur; cf. the unconsuming and sulfurous lake of fire in 14:10, 19:20, 20:10, 21:8—the only other place θεῖον is used). The cavalry’s testimony is authentic as well, but it isn’t always successful, as evidenced both by the explicit unrepentance of some and by their “injury” without death (9:19–21), which is the same thing. The “unrepentant” in the bowls are burned without success at all. None are being consumed (16:8) because, like the people in the lake, they aren’t converting. They receive the testimony, but don’t respond to it. Importantly, however, there is still a possibility that they might (16:9, 11, 21). And of course the gentiles can enter the New Jerusalem (21:24–26) because, at the battle of Gog and Magog, they are finally consumed by fire (20:9). Only the devil, beast, and false prophet get burned without being consumed (20:10), along with anyone else failing the final judgment (20:15). In that case, the final battle is the resolution of the bowls. These compressions—the testimony of Jesus to iron and the testimony of the Holy Spirit to fire—are important to the story. Fire is doing different things than iron is, and at different and crucial points in the narrative. Why they are acting differently, and how their differentiation serves John’s purposes, needs to be explained. The very normal compression of analogy to representation seems to meet this need. 3.3.1.5.5 Time and Property Time is also compressed. There are three main time compressions in Revelation:290

290  There are other time periods (2:10, 9:5), but I will not be making the claim that they are compressions.

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A short duration: “quickly” (ἐν τάχει—1:1, 22:6; ταχύς—2:16; 3:11; 11:14; 22:7, 12, 20), “near” (ἐγγύς—1:3, 22:10), or a “little time” (χρόνος μικρός—6:11; ὀλίγος—17:10). 2. A three-and-one-half or 3.5 time duration: 42 months (11:2, 13:5), 1,260 days (11:3, 12:6), 3.5 days (11:9, 11), and “time, times, and half a time” (12:14). 3. A thousand (1000) time duration: 20:2–7. The first time is quantitative and is meant to express the nearness of eschatological events (i.e., that the eschaton isn’t far off).291 One hour was the shortest time span measurable in the ancient Mediterranean world,292 so anything happening in “one hour” was likewise short-lived (17:12; 18:10, 17, 19; cf. Mark 14:37 par.) The second kind of time, that which is reducible to 3.5, is qualitative. It is derived at least partly from Dan 7:25 and 12:7.293 This is meant to express a time of disadvantage.294 Those undergoing the Danielic 3.5 times are suffering the once-in-creation “tribulation” (θλῖψις, Dan 12:1), which also shows up in Revelation (7:14), and the oppression (κατατρίβω, Dan 7:25) of the worst king of the fourth kingdom. Revelation even goes so far as to quote Daniel’s unique formulation “time, times, and half a time” (12:14) to make sure the allusion isn’t missed. And as Daniel’s 3.5 times are accompanied by persecuting forces, all of the 3.5 times in the Apocalypse (11:2–13:5) are localized around the introduction of the beast (11:7, 13:1) and the dragon (12:3). When John’s “bad” actors show up, they bring “bad” time with them. The more open question is the thousand years of the millennium and where it comes from. Second Peter 3:8 quotes Ps 90:4, but that thousand years is used to show that time is meaningless to God, which doesn’t seem to fit the exalted and joyous millennium. Even less does the hopeless Eccl 6:6, in which it doesn’t matter if a person lives one thousand years or two because it is all a loss in the end. The 1000 times though is qualitatively a time of advantage. John explicitly calls it “blessed” (20:6). The 1000 times are then the qualitative opposite of the disadvantageous 3.5 times. An important place in the Pentateuch where 3.5 disadvantageous times are intentionally being contrasted with 1000 advantageous times is in the second commandment of the Decalogue (Exod 20:5, Deut 5:9). There, the Israelites are promised disadvantage in the form of 291  This might point to an inaugurated eschatology—i.e., that the events are soon to begin, though not necessarily to end (for which, see Beale, Revelation, 137–41.) 292  Olaf Pedersen and Alexander Jones, A Survey of the Almagest (New York: Springer, 2011), 5. 293  Beale, Revelation, 565; Boxall, Revelation, 91. 294  Originally, that experienced during the time of Antiochus Epiphanes; see Prigent, L’Apocalypse, 162.

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“punishment” (‫ ָעֹון‬/ἁμαρτία) “to the third and fourth generation [‫ ֵּבן‬/γενεά] of those that hate me.” But advantage (in the form of “kindness,” ‫ ֶח ֶסד‬/ἔλεος) is promised “to a thousand to those that love me and keep my commands” (Exod 20:6, Deut 5:10). There are two compressions happening here. The first is a compression of two times (“third and fourth generations”) into one (3.5 times), which is a compression Daniel has already made (Dan 7:25, 12:7). The second compression is a property compression. The time over which God will disadvantage becomes a symbol for that disadvantage.295 Likewise, the “goodness” or blessing of the 1000 generations becomes compressed to the number itself. Now 3.5 is a property-compressed cipher for “bad” and 1000 becomes a property cipher for “good.” In evidence of this conclusion, while the 3.5 “bad time” shows up with the introduction of the beast and dragon, the “good time” of the millennium shows up when Christ does (19:11, 20:4). Also, although the 1000 years is only used in one place (though fairly extensively and importantly; 20:2–7), the number 1000 is used more often in Revelation and always of things that are blessed: the multitudes praising the Lamb (5:11), the 12,000’s of the twelve tribes and the combined 144,000 (7:3–8, 14:1–3), and the measurements of the New Jerusalem (21:16). It will be shown that the seven thousand killed in the earthquake at the resurrection of the two witnesses is a positive conversion event, under the influence of Elijah’s seven thousand faithful (11:13; see section 4.1.4.6, and cf. 1 Kgs 19:18). These property compressions are further proof of that conclusion. Thousands of anything should be good because 1000 has been compressed with the property of covenant faithfulness.296 Conversely, the 3.5 times are always negative. The time of the beast’s authority is forty-two months (13:5). Though the celestial woman is being nurtured for 1,260 days (12:6) or time, times, and half a time (12:14), she’s doing it on the run (12:13–14) and under threat of imminent death (12:15–16). The temple is trampled for 42 months (11:2; the same time as the rule of the beast). And seemingly while that is going on the two witnesses prophesy in repentant sackcloth for 1,260 days (11:3), at the end of which their bodies lie in the street for 3.5 days (11:9, 11; the shortest time span for the 3.5 device). 295  See Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 100, in which they use the example of a “warm coat.” This is a coat that has the property of making one feel warm. “Warmth” has been projected directly to the coat in the blend, as “bad” has been to 3.5 times. 296  For the idea of Revelation being a call to covenant faithfulness, see Gordon Campbell, “Findings, Seals, Trumpets, and Bowls: Variations upon the Theme of Covenant Rupture and Restoration in the Book Of Revelation,” WTJ 66 (2004): 71–96. Also Beale, Use, 304–6.

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These are both compressions of property whereby the “sins of the fathers” are projected on those enduring the 3.5 times and the love and mercy of God is projected on those of the 1000 times. These compressions confirm many of the intuitions of the conversion is death metaphor (an entailment of argument is war). At the introduction of the first beast, the saints are being “conquered” (νικάω, 13:7) and killed (13:10, 15), causing some of the earth-dwellers to worship the beast (13:8). This takes place over 3.5 years (13:5). The metaphorical deaths, the reverse-conversions, and the years all say the same thing in that one story, using different devices. They demonstrate the 3.5 “property” of covenant unfaithfulness. Only someone who is covenantally unfaithful would worship the idol (the original context of the 3.5 time in the second commandment). The story of the two witnesses uses the 3.5 time in two ways. They prophetically cause suffering for 1,260 days (3.5 years; 11:3) because of the covenant unfaithfulness of their “enemies” in Jerusalem (11:5). John is fulfilling that covenant promise in his narrative. But the two witnesses themselves also suffer a 3.5 time, 3.5 days (11:9, 11). What that should mean is that they become unfaithful themselves at some point. This is confirmed by the one that kills them— the beast (11:7). In the argument is war schema, the one doing the killing should be the one to whom the killed convert. They are also left to suffer exposure before the nations (a shaming device).297 But their “conversion” doesn’t last long. Where every other 3.5 time is measured in years, theirs is measured in days. And their “resurrection” is their return, final vindication, and restoration (11:11–12), as seemingly it is in other places (20:4–6).298 Some might object that the two witnesses are only good characters, who are also “my witnesses” (11:3) who “stand before the Lord” (11:4). They certainly begin as good characters and end as good characters; that much is granted. But notice also that they stop witnessing. And it is not because they die; rather, the reverse. It is when they stop witnessing—or one might say because they stop witnessing—that they die (ὅταν τελέσωσιν τὴν μαρτυρίαν αὐτῶν; 11:7). They did not “witness until death,” as the faithful do (2:10). Also, if it be objected that John’s righteous should not fail, that is precisely what happens in chapter 13 where “the saints” are “conquered” (13:7) and at least some of them fall into the worship of the beast (13:8). The witnesses are righteous, but they aren’t sealed until their resurrection. The “sealed” are always visualized as having a heavenly presence (7:4, 9, 15; 14:1–3; 20:4–6), and that doesn’t happen to the two witnesses until their “resurrection” and “ascension” (11:11–12). If the two witnesses started out restored, they should be wearing white robes (6:11, 7:9) not black 297  Koester, Revelation, 500. 298  Beale, Revelation, 596–97.

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ones (11:3). God’s hedge of protection offered to some (7:3, 20:6) gets removed from the two witnesses for a short time (11:7), and it needs to be answered why God (or John) would do that. That answer needs to include in some way John’s own answer—their ceasing to bear witness. And, lastly, the celestial woman is nurtured in the wilderness for “time, times, and half a time” (3.5 “times,” 12:14). If the celestial woman is meant to be evocative of Israel299—particularly the Israel that was “nurtured” (τρέφω; Rev 12:6, 14; Deut 32:18) in the “wilderness” (ἔρημος; Rev 12:6, 14; Deut 32:10, passim) for forty years—they both benefited from the care of God (e.g., Exod 16:4, 17:6) and suffered the forty years as a judgment for unfaithfulness (Num 14:29– 35) at the same time. The time in the wilderness was, in itself and literally, a covenant curse (Num 14:34). By way of confirmation, John invokes the Great Eagle parable (Rev 12:14, Ezek 17:1–24) in which Israel is explicitly being judged for its covenant unfaithfulness (“he despised the oath by breaking the covenant,” Ezek 17:18). There is no other likely reason to invoke that parable. And so the celestial woman, like the two witnesses, is a good character—but not uncomplicatedly so.300 These compressions by property and time help John tell the story of Revelation and shade characters that otherwise would seem one-dimensional. But John does not expect one-dimensional responses to Jesus. The seven letters demonstrate that (e.g., 2:3–4). The compressions also demonstrate how John is thinking: in covenant terms, of covenant people. All of time is compressible into “good” and “bad,” and “good” time and “bad” time are experienced on the condition of covenant faithfulness, as is eternity (20:12–13). This has implications for those that think John is writing to gentile “churches.”301 3.3.1.5.6 Space Space is also compressed. The creation is compressed by syncopation302 into earth, sea, water-sources, and the heavens (14:7). That the writer intends to compress all of creation into these four domains is evidenced by the fact that 299  Yarbro Collins, Combat Myth, 134–35. 300  Humphrey as well recognizes a certain “complexity of the woman’s identity” (see Humphrey, Ladies and the Cities, 108), but she is not willing to attribute covenant unfaithfulness as Yarbro Collins is (Combat Myth, 134–35), likely due to her conclusion that the woman represents “the community of witnesses” (118) who are rather in a state of “holy weakness” (115). Yarbro Collins takes the character to be evocative most particularly of Hosea’s unfaithful wife, Gomer (134; cf. Hos 1:2–3). 301  E.g., Philip L. Mayo, “Those Who Call Themselves Jews”: The Church and Judaism in the Apocalypse of John, Princeton Theological Monograph Series 60, (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2006). 302  Syncopation of space is explained in Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 114, 314.

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the trumpets and bowls are careful to visit their battles on each of them, and in the same order (8:7, 8, 10, 12; 16:2, 3, 4, 8). Spatial compressions make broad and diffuse areas conceptually manageable; so, in a book that intends to deliver “a new heavens and a new earth,” it is to be expected that space is compressed. There is, however, a special prominence given to the “land” (which, I will argue, should be seen as the “land of Israel”) and even to Jerusalem in particular. The fact that γῆ is part of a syncopated compression indicates that it is used in some restrictive sense. “Land” in general isn’t a compression; and, in particular, the lands of the “rivers and streams of water” don’t seem to be included in this “land” (8:10, 16:4). The word γῆ is used 82 times. Many of them are in structured phrases such as “kings of the earth” (1:5, 6:15, 17:2, etc.), “tribes” or “dwellers of the earth” (1:7, 3:10, 6:10), and “merchants” and “magnates of the earth” (18:3, 23). These earth-dwellers tend to experience things before general humanity does (signified by the use of ἄνθρωπος). For example, while the later trumpets and bowls involve themselves in each of the global, four-part divisions of creation, the seals only seem to focus on the earth (6:4, 8, 10, 13, 15) and its relationship to heaven (6:13–14). That relationship seems to be unusually close.303 Also, each one of the series—seals, trumpets, and bowls—begins with the “land” (6:4, 8:7, 16:2) and ends inclusively with an “earthquake” (6:12, 11:13, 16:18). The sea isn’t even implied until the sixth seal (6:14), isn’t named until the wind is said to be withheld from it in the first interlude (7:1), and receives no actual action toward it until the second trumpet (8:8). The seals, trumpets, and bowls are simply fixated on “the land.” In the interludes, the two witnesses do all of their work only in “the land” (11:4, 6) and specifically in Jerusalem (11:8). It is the earth-dwellers in particular that celebrate their deaths (11:10), and the trumpets’ earthquake follows their resurrection (11:13), wherein only the one city (Jerusalem) collapses. The first beast is from the sea, but he enters the narrative only when he comes to stand on the land, as if he weren’t important to the story before that incursion (13:1). And it is the earth-dwellers who are amazed and begin to follow him (13:8). The second beast is actually from the earth (13:11) which is presumably why only the second beast is described as a false prophet (16:13). He wouldn’t likely be a “false” prophet if he hadn’t been expected to be a “true” one. A beast from “the earth” should know better. 303  As the location of God’s dwelling—the temple—might engender. See Ben-Daniel and Ben-Daniel, Apocalypse, 19: “Representing the area closest to the heavenly Sanctuary, but below it, this ‘holy place’ can be understood as part of the Sanctuary on earth.” Cf. 14:1–3 where the 144,000 can stand simultaneously on Mount Zion (14:1) and before the throne (14:3) with its four living beings and elders.

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The last battle of Gog and Magog is fought in the land (20:8–9) and over “the beloved city” (20:9), Jerusalem—thus equating the two. And while the sea goes away permanently (21:1), Jerusalem is fused with heaven and established eternally (21:2–3) so that all of creation (earth, sea, springs, and heaven) is massively compressed not just into the land of Israel but into that one specific city. In a sense, Revelation is telling the story of the spatial compression of all of creation into the city of God, which is unquestionably Jerusalem. And so the very existence of a beast from the sea, or the sea itself, is an obstacle that John wants to overcome. It isn’t part of his integration. If the great dénouement is that all creation is finally compressed into one land (Israel) and even into one city (Jerusalem)—and that much is not a matter of serious debate—it would not make sense to have “the land” not mean “Israel” during the story. Dénouements don’t work like that. Relevance doesn’t work like that. John’s conclusion should be solving for something that was already important to the narrative. “Land,” however it is conceived, is important to the narrative (appearing 82 times). It strains credibility to make that “land” that is so much the focus of the war in the seals, trumpets, bowls, interludes, and final battle anything other than Zion, which is so much the focus of the finale. It therefore also strains the bounds of relevance, based on the rules of optimality.304 And that, because optimality principles are based on universal rules of cognition,305 makes “land” meaning “land in general” unlikely. Those who wish to maintain that Revelation was written to gentile “churches” will also need to deal with such a Jerusalem-centric document (rather than Asia-centric or Rome-centric) being written to a religious group that lives in Asia Minor. This group has an ancestral and eternal home that is not their present one. 3.3.1.5.7 Intentionality Compressions of intentionality attribute intentions, sometimes even to inanimate objects. If one were to say, “cancer took him,” she would be attributing nefarious intent to the disease itself.306 Intents that are already present can be modified or intensified. “The department has to fight to maintain the budget” is a way of metaphorically mapping an intent in the war domain (strong opposition) onto the department’s budgetary argument (normal opposition). Clearly, in a war—whether real or metaphorical—strong emotions should be projected. “Wrath” (θυμός; 14:10, 19; 15:1, 7; 16:1, 19; 19:15) or “anger” (ὀργή; 6:16–17; 304  Wilson and Sperber, “Introduction: Pragmatics,” 7; Wilson and Sperber, “Truthfulness and Relevance,” 65. 305  See their sustained argument for the same in Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 261–79. 306  To use an example from Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 100–101.

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11:18; 14:10; 16:19; 19:5) are attributed to God fairly frequently in the text, and occasionally to the dragon (12:12) and his followers (14:8, 18:3) as well. The altarsouls pray passionately for “vengeance” (ἐκδικέω, 6:10).307 The enemies of the two witnesses celebrate their deaths (11:10) while heavenly beings regularly justify and celebrate God’s own violent activity (11:17–18, 12:10–12, 14:7–11, 15:3–4, 16:5–7, and the massive series of responses from 18:1–19:7). It is perhaps important that John’s protagonists demonstrate angry intent far more often than do the antagonists. Wrath, anger, vengeance, and celebration of death show intentionality within the war frame (the intent to harm). Faithfulness fits within the argument and witness frames (the intent to give and secure agreement). Several times, terms related to faithfulness collocate with terms for witness or speech, as might be expected (1:5, 2:13, 3:14, 19:11, 21:5, 22:6). But faith-related terms also collocate with war-related terms. People are encouraged to be “faithful up to death” (2:10, 12:11) or “up to the end” (2:26), and faithfulness is called for in a war context regularly (2:13, 2:19, 13:10, 14:12, 17:14). In 19:11, Jesus the whitehorsed warrior is actually named “Faithful and True” (πιστὸς καὶ ἀληθινός), a title befitting someone who is speaking rather than someone who is warring. The intentionality of one domain (argument) is being blended with the intentionality of the other (war). Θυμός and ὀργή are essentially the same thing if they remain entirely within the war domain. The intent behind killing has to be “anger” in some form (disregarding psychopathy). But in the domain of argument, emotions and intentions can range more widely. Particularly, if you’re making an argument, you may anticipate that it will be believed or not believed. You might share your argument excitedly or passionately with hearers who are sympathetic; but with people who are not sympathetic, that intent will become more adversarial. In other words, argument allows not only for anger or displeasure, but also for passion and zeal. It is for this reason worthwhile to note that θυμός and ὀργή are not being used in the same way in the Apocalypse, or at least not in the same places. To begin with, apparently only God feels ὀργή. As a noun, it is only attributed to God.308 This would be unusual in a war involving all of creation. He should not be the only one “angry.” If John were only trying to present the beast as unreasoning and hate-filled, one would expect that the dragon would be at least as 307  A moral problem for some. See, e.g., Pattemore, People of God, 83; Mounce, Revelation, 276. 308  Though, in verb form, ὀργίζομαι is attributed to the opposing nations in 11:18 and the dragon in 12:17. The two forms seem to be used intentionally differently in 11:18 where the nations “rage” (verb) but God’s “rage” (noun) has come.

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“angry” as his opponent. And the places where God’s ὀργή is primarily active is in the seals and trumpets (6:16–17; 11:18). In the bowls, it only appears alongside θυμός (14:10, 16:19, 19:15); while θυμός itself only appears in the bowls (15:1, 7; 16:1, 19) or in the interludes that point to them (14:10, 19; 19:15). And God’s θυμός does not just begin with the bowls, but ends with them too. It is “fulfilled” by them (τελέω, 15:1). God’s “anger” carries out the seals and trumpets, but his “wrath” is the intention behind the bowls, which also happens to be the only series which is described as “judgment” (16:5, 7). Θυμός and judgment are mapped in a way that ὀργή and judgment are not. The critical question here is why John is using ὀργή only (by itself) in the seals and trumpets and why he is using θυμός only in the bowls. To answer that question, it might perhaps be best to begin in the three places where he uses them together: 14:10, 16:19, and 19:15. Wrath is “mixed with” (κεράννυμι) anger in 14:10. That implies that wrath and anger are different things. The wellknown practice of “mixing” wine (and that is the express context of each of these three passages)309 involved the mixture of wine and water—two different things. Likewise, the phrase “the wrath of his anger” or “the wrath of God’s anger” (16:19 and 19:15, respectively) is needless repetition if ὀργή simply means θυμός. Assuming John isn’t wasting our processing effort (which RT predicts he will not), they aren’t needless repetition, which also means that they aren’t the same (which also implies that they are not bounded entirely by the war domain.) What might help here is how the words are used by characters other than God. To begin with, if the writer—who is happy to picture the dragon and his followers as “wrathful”—isn’t willing to attribute ὀργή to them, there may be a positive sense to ὀργή that there isn’t to θυμός. This conclusion would seemingly be confirmed by John making the bowls “of wrath” judgments, and not the seals and trumpets. Θυμός is negative in a way that ὀργή is not. Or, more importantly for our purposes here, ὀργή is positive in a way that θυμός is not. If war is being mapped to argument, anger in the war domain becomes passion in the argument domain. They are each the motivating force in their respective domains. And the “passion” of God’s argument is contagious among those who are sympathetic to it. People who are celebrating deaths in the story are celebrating un-ironically because God’s passionate argument is having its intended effect, a result that they are also passionate about. For example, in 11:17 the twenty-four elders celebrate because God has “begun to reign,” and that beginning was occasioned by the death of 7,000 within the earthquake-struck city (11:13). They died, so they submitted to the argument, so 309  Charles, Revelation, 2:16–17.

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God has begun to reign (with them), so their faithfulness is being celebrated by those who share God’s passion. The people in the bowls (who do not “die”) are not so faithful. They are not receiving this gospel with the same level of excitement, and so God’s passion that he had during the seals and trumpets turns to displeasure during the bowls. Θυμός in the war domain maps to displeasure or disappointment in the argument domain. John marks this by using θυμός and ὀργή differentially. In the places where John seems to be talking about the “anger of his anger,” he’s talking about the passion of God’s displeasure. His passion has been “mixed” with displeasure because of the recalcitrance of those symbolized in the bowls. Therefore, ὀργή seems to be the word John uses for God’s passion in his argument with the world, and θυμός is the word he uses for his displeasure. If argument or witness are a part of the story of Revelation at all (and few would argue that they are not), passion and displeasure or disappointment should play a part. If ὀργή and θυμός don’t mean those things, some terms need to. Intentionality should compress. This is a story, and stories use compressions.310 And θυμός and ὀργή clearly show intentionality in the story, particularly on the part of God, whatever they might mean. In order to follow John’s thought as to how those intentions compress and blend, we need to answer why John is using these two terms in different places and in different ways. The way to comprehend a compression is to de-compress it.311 Ὀργή describes the seals and trumpets, θυμός describes the bowls. They differ in terms of intentionality. To decompress them, they can no longer remain within the war domain. 3.3.1.5.8 Disanalogy One final compression is worthy of special mention. In setting up the mental spaces that John used to tell his story, we discovered that argument was not meant to be disanalogous to war. The people who are making the arguments, like the two witnesses, are also waging the war—and that is true whether or not one concedes the metaphor. They are witnesses and prophets and they burn people to death. How those two domains relate (metaphorically or metonymically) is the subject of this study, but they certainly must relate in some way. The vital relation of disanalogy commonly compresses to change.312 This happens because the analogies implicit in disanalogies compress to identity or uniqueness and that one new entity now has disanalogous elements within it. 310  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 313. 311  Ibid., 353–54. 312  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 93–94.

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The disanalogous elements are then made to be evidences of change in the one entity. An example might be a person at two stages of life, younger and older.313 A friend sees him, notes the analogy (both the younger and older person are her friend), and attributes the disanalogy to change (by aging). We don’t always do this however. We can also imagine our younger selves, for example, as an entirely other person. A person could look at a photograph of herself and remark, “she looks so hopeful.” This may be a device for accentuating the disanalogies we feel with our younger selves. The disanalogy is strong enough to resist being compressed. One disanalogy that absolutely resists being compressed in Revelation is that between God and Satan. There are several points of analogy that help prompt for the disanalogy.314 They are both of heavenly origin (4:1–2; 12:3), they both claim worship (4:8–11; 13:8), they both are depicted as being red (4:3, 12:3), both of their mouths are used in the war (16:13, 16:17–18), and they both use human (11:3, 13:3) and angelic agents (1:1, 12:7–9). Several have noticed that they are also both represented as having a tripartite inner-relation (Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and dragon, first beast, second beast).315 But the disanalogy is never resolved to identity. The one never becomes the other. The “unholy trinity” sinks into the eternal lake of fire (20:10) while the “holy trinity” is exalted in the New Jerusalem forever (21:10, 22). John is very clear that the analogies are functional ones, not ontological. They do some of the same things, and Satan copies many of God’s (and Christ’s) characteristics, but John does not equate them in the sense of putting them on the same level ontologically. He introduces Christ much earlier and more fully (1:13), presents Satan later and as intentionally derivative (12:3), makes one praise-worthy (5:9–14) while making the other cringe-worthy (13:4, 7–8), gives Christ great advantage in the war (19:20–21), and leaves no question as to the outcome (20:10). It is a disanalogy meant to show Christ’s utter superiority, in other words. That is its rhetorical function. There are other disanalogies that may serve different functions however. Babylon (18:2) certainly has a different fate than Jerusalem (21:2), as the great adulteress does (17:16) with the bride of Christ (19:7–9); but their differences aren’t ontological. They are both groups of humans.316 These humans act differently (functional disanalogy), and they have different fates (teleological 313  An example from ibid., 325–26. 314  See, e.g., Koester, Revelation, 570: “the beast as the demonic counterfeit of Christ.” 315  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 32, 284; Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 14; Beale, Revelation, 722. 316  Particularly, they may be parts of the same group of people, “the congregation of God”; see Austin Farrer, The Revelation of St. John the Divine: Commentary on the English Text (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964), 215.

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disanalogy), but they aren’t different in kind. Their disanalogy is not like that between God and Satan. Therefore, their disanalogy is subject to compression. The text makes it clear that those individuals who are marked (14:9–11), and thus whose names aren’t written in the book of life, are thrown into the lake of fire (20:15). People can make decisions. People can “change” (2:5, 7:14). And they receive different fates as a result (3:5, 21:7–8). It is likely that John is presenting Babylon vs. New Jerusalem and adulteress vs. bride, not just as separate fates but as alternative ones. This disanalogy, insofar as it implies an alternative space, will be dealt with more fully in section 3.3.1.7. Suffice it for now that two important levels of disanalogy pertain in Revelation. The ontological and eternal disanalogy between the unholy and holy trinities, and the functional and (possibly) remediable disanalogy between their followers. One is not subject to compression to change, but the other may be. And that “change” or “conversion”—especially of the adulteress, who takes up the largest single section of the book—may be also a large part of the reason that Revelation was written.317 These compressions—of cause-effect, analogy to category, analogy to identity and uniqueness, analogy to representation, time and property, space, intentionality, and disanalogy—are “outer-space” compressions.318 They rely on the mapping and blending of two separate domains, of mental spaces “outside” of each other. It is because war maps to argument that it makes sense that some people in John’s story would be un-killable. That biologically impossible proposition is made necessary by his outer-space compression of cause and effect: in the sub-metaphor conversion is death, people who can’t convert (effect in the target domain) can’t “die” (effect in the source domain). John being forced to turn his two kingdoms into two beasts rather than one is outer-space. The kingdoms are expressly not different within the war frame (13:15), but—as evidenced by the fact that the second beast alone becomes a “false prophet” (16:13)—they are different, and have always been, within the argument frame. The outer-space compressions of analogy to identity explain where Jesus goes during the war (he is most of the named characters). The outer-space compressions of analogy to representation explain what he looks like (iron), and what the Spirit looks like as well (wind and fire). It has to be an outer-space compression that turns 3.5 into “bad time” and 1000 into “good,” that makes 317  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 238: “the question of the conversion of the nations—not only whether it will take place but also how it will take place—is at the centre of the prophetic message of Revelation.” 318  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 92–94, 100.

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little Jerusalem the center of a realistic global “war,” that turns God’s anger to good and his wrath into the agent of redemption and the world’s change, and that (through an implied disanalogy) shows that change is possible in the first place. Most of these compressions, which are evidenced in the text, are impossible if argument is not mapped to from war. If they pertain, so does the metaphor. When the metaphorical framework was lost, God’s passion became murderous anger, Jesus disappeared from the core of the narrative, Jerusalem became an afterthought, and the strands that were meant to knit the narrative together—iron and fire, 3.5 and 1000, anger and wrath—became unraveled and non-relevant. These “massive decompressions” are one of the primary causes for the failure of Revelation to achieve relevance,319 in which case the solution is simple: to re-compress them in the metaphorical blend. 3.3.1.6 Generic Space Metaphors are motivated by several factors. A general motivation is to provide concreteness and clarity to abstract ideas.320 Many ideas are complex and diffuse. We need to bring them down to a more “human scale.”321 When metaphors map concrete source domains onto abstract target domains, they put those abstractions in our hands as it were so that we can manipulate them and study them—so that we can understand them, appreciate them, and see how they “work.” A motivation in the creation of specific metaphors in discourse is the presence of a generic space.322 Generic spaces contain the crucial elements of both input spaces and give reason and comprehensibility to their mapping. In other words, they are what make the metaphor “work.” Both arguments and wars are instances of competition. As Tendahl points out, an argument attempts to achieve goals and ends without having to kill or die for them.323 When human beings gained the ability to debate, we also gained an alternative to fighting. Political discussion is an alternative to war specifically because it is a competition—a means of achieving one’s own ends. In evidence of this, where politics fails war soon follows. Similarly, people who are involved in a strenuous debate can feel like they almost literally are having a “fight,” and arguments do sometimes devolve into actual fights (which demonstrates that arguments did in fact “evolve” from war). 319  For an example of a “massive decompression,” that isn’t even nearly as massive as this, see Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 352. 320  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 109, 112–13. 321  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 312 (passim). 322  Though he doesn’t name the generic space in his diagram (p. 68), see Kövecses’s use of the generic space “competition” in Kövecses, Where Do Metaphors Come From?, 67–69. 323  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 123.

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The competition generic space

Revelation hasn’t much evolved. We aren’t inclined to see swords as testimony or fire as the Spirit partly because we have rejected the implicit competition in the story. God, as judge, has no competition (20:11–15). Once again, judgment has forestalled the analogical comparison between argument and war. If the story of Revelation is about judgment primarily, judgments are not competitions and so the story is not one of competition. The problem with that position is twofold: 1) the story can’t primarily be about judgment because judgment doesn’t begin until 16:5, three-quarters of the way through the book; and 2) the story is one massive instance of competition.324 The seven congregations are each counseled to be “over­ comers” (2:7, 11, 17, 26; 3:5, 12, 21; 21:7), as Jesus himself was (5:5) and will be again (17:14). Everything that God does, Satan tries to copy (e.g., bringing fire from heaven in 8:7 and 13:13 or sealing versus marking in 7:3 and 13:16).325 They compete for the same people (12:17; 13:8, 10, 12), the same territory (16:16, 20:9), 324  This is argued in full in Duff, Who Rides the Beast?, 31–47 (“The Issues”). 325  For a helpful list (with comparative tables) of “Counterfeit Motifs” including trinity, seal, message, and city, see Stefanovic, Revelation, 368–75.

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to the same world-dominating ends (12:10, 13:17), and even by the same violent means (13:15, 19:21). And the end of the story doesn’t come until Christ’s competitors are defeated utterly and finally (20:9–10). If the narrative concludes in any sense with a “win,” it is about a competition. Things that aren’t competitions don’t have winners and losers—they don’t have “victors” (5:5). The overall story is about competition, and so the overall story is not about judgment. The generic space of competition is strongly arguing for two input spaces to be created—related to each other by analogy—that are frame-specific instances of competition. There are not two competitive frames more important or ubiquitous in Revelation than argument and war. If competition exists as a generic space in Revelation, argument is war is likely to be there too. 3.3.1.7 Alternative Space There are seven promises within the letters to the seven congregations. They are each addressed exclusively to “the overcomer” (ὁ νικῶν; 2:7,11, 17, 26; 3:5, 12, 21). Most of the promises are eschatological—which is to say future—in nature (eating of the tree of life in 2:7, not being hurt by the second death in 2:11, etc.). Promises serve rhetorical functions. They are conditionals that establish the conditions (protasis) under which desired outcomes (apodosis) might be achieved.326 They also serve a cognitive-structural function. They establish an alternative space in the mind of the reader.327 One of the functions of mental spaces is in fact just this sort of prompt to imagine alternatives.328 When a person reads that “if one overcomes, she gets A,” that proposition creates a mental space that then automatically prompts for its own alternative: “if one does not overcome, she does not get A.” They are alternative spaces because they are 1) contemporary, 2) arise from the same base, and 3) are incompatible.329 One cannot both overcome and fail to overcome in the same situation and at the same time. She could win at baseball and lose at tennis (different bases) or win one game of baseball and lose another (different times), but she could not both win and lose the same game of baseball. John is using the promise form to establish in the minds of his

326  For the conditional nature of oaths, see Alan H. Sommerstein, “What is an Oath?,” in Oaths and Swearing in Ancient Greece, ed. Alan H. Sommerstein and Isabelle C. Torrance (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), 1–5, and Kyriaki Konstantinidou, “Oath and Curse,” in Oaths and Swearing in Ancient Greece, ed. Alan H. Sommerstein and Isabelle C. Torrance (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), 6–47 (in the same volume). 327  Dancygier and Sweetser, Mental Spaces in Grammar, 35. 328  Ibid., 31. 329  Ibid., 35.

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readers an “alternative-based conditional prediction.”330 And that alternative space has a cognitive structure just like the original space did. The question for the purposes of this study is what that alternative structure looks like and how it operates in the narrative section. To begin with, it seems to be prompted by the generic space “competition.” “Overcoming,” “winning,” or having “victory” operate generally in a competitive (war, argument) frame. That is the common base for the two alternative spaces. The alternatives themselves then are winning and losing (overcoming and not overcoming). And the “extension space”331—the space in which results of the two choices are considered and weighed—are the eschatological blessings (or their withholding). It has been noted several times in this study that some see the alternative in Revelation as between war and witness, meaning that John is recommending “victory” in witness while the other side is attempting a “victory” through war.332 When they make that claim, they are creating an alternative space in which one group wars (the side of the beast) and one group witnesses (the side of the Lamb), with the side of the Lamb winning that contest.333 The problem is that isn’t one “contest.” They’re playing different games, like in the above example where one side was playing tennis and the other was playing baseball. Victories in war and witness could be said to operate from the same base (competition) and at the same time (either the present or the eschaton), but they can’t be said to be mutually exclusive. The results need to be incompatible to be alternatives,334 like both winning and losing the same baseball game. But one could easily win a war but lose an argument (or vice-versa). The warversus-witness thesis is creative, but it doesn’t match cognitive-linguistic models for alternative spaces. It also doesn’t match the narrative. The alternatives that are being presented are God and Satan (2:9, 13; 3:9; 9:20; 13:4, 8, 12, 15; 14:9–11; 19:20; 20:4, 10), not war and peace. God is for victory—in war—here, and he does not fight alone (17:14; 19:11, 14, 19). In both alternatives—God’s side and Satan’s—the war is being fought with absolute and fundamental abandon (12:17, 13:7 / 19:17–21). Both sides kill (11:5 / 13:15). Both sides exalt in triumph (11:17–18; 19:4 / 11:10; 13:4). Both sides mourn in defeat (6:10; 18:24 / 1:7; 18:8–11). Faithful warriors are honored (11:12; 20:4 / 13:12; 14–15). And death itself is celebrated (19:1–3 / 11:10). 330  Ibid., 38. 331  Ibid., 32. 332  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 235. 333  E.g., ibid., in which Bauckham asks, “who is the real victor?” 334  Dancygier and Sweetser, Mental Spaces in Grammar, 35.

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Sides that are against war don’t celebrate death. All of these alternatives are based only on which side one identifies with (God’s or Satan’s), not on whether one is violent or not. Violence in fact is the element they all have in common. As creative as a “third way” is, John seems uninterested in presenting a third alternative (peace). People are alive or dead, faithful or unfaithful, in or out of the heavenly temple (3:12, 15:8), in or out of the New Jerusalem (20:15, 21:27). And none of these extensions or results are dependent on peacefulness or violence. They seem only to be concerned with one’s object of devotion, God or Satan (21:27, 22:3 / 20:4, 10). Nobody who follows Satan has a good (ultimate) ending, nobody who follows God has a bad (ultimate) one. This point is perhaps over-obvious to say, but John wants people to follow the Christ (14:4), and it is that decision that he concerns himself with in the opening seven letters (2:4–5, 9, 13, 24–25), not their level of violence. On the contrary, he seems to actively shun “tolerance” (2:2, 20). The proposition that witness and war were alternatives likely came about to help us “read Revelation responsibly.”335 That is a noble goal, but it is finally unsustainable because it creates too many inconsistencies in the narrative. In John’s mind, good people kill, good people die, and good people are happy about those things. Of course there is also a strong interest in witness in the book, and this interest is likewise mirrored on both sides of the God/Satan alternative divide.336 The two witnesses witness for God (11:3, 7), the beasts witness for Satan (13:4, 13–14). Jesus gathers the faithful (14:1), the beast gathers the unfaithful (16:16). The faithful display the seal (7:3), the unfaithful display the mark (13:16). They both have a message they want to promulgate (15:3–4 / 13:14–15), they both use signs in its promulgation (15:1 / 13:13–14), and they both are out to win converts thereby (16:9 / 13:15–18). There is a message (19:12–13, 16) and a counter-message (13:1, 5–6; 17:3). Again, the act of messaging or witnessing is the element the two sides have in common. The difference lies in the object of their witness. John isn’t contrasting violence with witness, he’s contrasting godly violence with satanic violence and godly witness with satanic witness. In this way, both the war and argument mental space on one side are mirrored by alternative mental spaces of war and argument on the other. This mirroring makes the two options incompatible; and, by making them incompatible, it also makes them alternatives.337 If violence and witness were really the terms John was setting up as alternatives, not only should the godly not be killing (a point made several times 335  Gorman, Reading Revelation Responsibly, 43, 76. 336  Beale, Revelation, 301–3. 337  Dancygier and Sweetser, Mental Spaces in Grammar, 35.

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previously) but Satan shouldn’t be counter-messaging. If he is a “deceiver” (20:3, 8, 10), a “misleader” (12:9, 18:23), and “false” (16:13), he isn’t an alternative to witness, he is a witness. Satan is on the wrong side of the war-versus-witness divide too. He, like Christ, is a witness. The contrast John wishes to make is rather between the contents of those testimonies (2:24–25)—a contrast of sides, not methods. As more generalized evidence that God and Satan are John’s alternatives, note that God has the only activity in the narrative until 12:3 and the advent of the dragon (with, granted, a quick and proleptic view of the beast in 11:7). The dragon doesn’t achieve his own agent until 13:1 and the full advent of the beast, more than halfway through the book. John is establishing God’s agency first— making it fundamental to the narrative and to the readers’ understanding of the eschaton. Only when that space has been firmly established (through the enormously successful campaigns of the seals and trumpets) does he allow the alternative space to appear. And, no sooner does it appear than John begins to explain the dire results of choosing that alternative (14:9–11). He is following Dancygier and Sweeter’s move from alternative space to extended space.338 John was always going to have to deal with the alternative. It is impossible to talk about a “war” or an “argument” without prompting the hearer to wonder about the other “side.” Relevance demands it.339 Wars and arguments have “sides.” He also had to deal with it because it was the real situation his seven congregations were facing. Not only did they feel like they were being cast as religiously “deviant minorities” (2:13),340 they had also capitulated as religious minorities (2:20). John can’t avoid talking about Satan’s prosecution of the “war.” Nor would he want to. The fact that he ends with detailed visions of the judgments of the bowls (chapter 16), the protracted judgment of the great adulteress (chapters 17–18), the final judgment (chapter 20), and the New Jerusalem (chapter 21) points to a strong narrative interest in the extended spaces—the results—of both alternatives. He has a great deal of pastoral concern for those who, he estimates, occupy the negative alternative space. It is true that he establishes God’s sovereignty first, as might be expected, but that is also the background against which the counterargument is made to seem like folly. John is not ultimately worried about the 144,000. They’re already sealed (7:3–8). He is very worried about Jezebel and her “children” (2:20–24). They’re in immediate danger (2:21), and he feels that he needs a forceful and clear message to wake 338  Ibid., 32. 339  Ibid., 35. 340  deSilva, Seeing Things, 99.

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The alternative spaces and their parallel structure

such people up and change their course (3:2–3). John wants to present the one side in view of the other because the differences prompt for a decision, as alternative spaces are meant to do.341 There is therefore an alternative space in Revelation. The alternatives are prompted by the base space of “competition,” they mimic each other in their strategies of both war and argument, and forge outcomes wherein the faithful followers in either group become witnesses for that group, with all of the eschatological blessings or curses that follow. The markings and sealings are thus evidence of either side’s evangelistic success, and so those evidences are grounds for inclusion either in the lake of fire (14:9–11) or in the holy city (22:4)—the eschatological “extension spaces” with which John ends his book. The book in fact ends as it began: with two choices or two alternatives being laid before the seven congregations. They can “overcome” or not “overcome,” “win” or “lose”; and John wishes for them to have a very clear idea, not just about which side will “win,” but what the means to that victory really are. 341  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 217.

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And so, in this chapter, we have seen a conceptual metaphor start to take shape which I have labeled argument is war. John seems to be composing a metaphor, using a two-ways-styled model available to him from Dan 2, in which two mental spaces (argument and war) are being blended to describe John’s challenge and change-agent for those in the eschaton: witness. He has constructed those spaces—and is constructing them in the mind of the reader— by using several, key frame elements (instruments, sides, results, etc.) that give them rise and recognizability. He puts them into narrative motion through several outer-space (i.e., metaphoric) relations by analogy (mouth-weapons, violent witnesses, cleansing death, etc.) And those analogized spaces then are compressed (by cause-effect, time, intentionality, and especially analogy to category, identity and uniqueness, and representation) to tell a story in which Christ is the central, iron-wielding hero and death is his blessed, restorationeffecting quest. The goal of this newly-composed story is to present a choice to the seven congregations. Will they suffer the (metaphorical) death of the faithful and submit to Christ’s argument, or will they resist and be rejected? Metaphors don’t just operate however; they evolve. Especially by and through the diachronic experience of a narrative, ideas build on ideas. Metaphors are, or can be, recursive. They grow, develop, and expand. In the next chapter, we will see that there are many evidences for the growth and development of argument is war. What emergent structures it produces, how it selectively projects, how it creates new blends of its own, and how its blends project back into the network to create seeming—and sometimes very striking—narratival incongruencies will help demonstrate and clarify John’s metaphorical intent in the Apocalypse.

Chapter 4

Elaborating and Completing argument is war 4.1

The Elaboration of ARGUMENT IS WAR

We have now composed a conceptual network that may be underlying Revelation, piece-by-piece. There seems to be one controlling metaphor that is mapping war onto argument, creating a new blended space in which witness takes shape. But there is also another war which is mapping onto another argument, and projecting to another kind of witness. These two metaphors are set against each other, occupying two alternative spaces, as if presenting themselves as a choice. Networks form the foundation for innovative cognition, however. They are the beginnings of stories, not the ends.1 It still remains for the network to be “run.” This also goes for the standard metonymic model. The running of one network model should yield different products than the running of the other. If John had argument is war in his mind as he was writing the story, that should yield different cognitive and narratival phenomena than war for judgment. Either or both of these disparate phenomena will be the subjects of exploration in this section. The cognitive products we will be looking for are of four kinds: emergent structure, selective projection, recursion, and unpacking and reverse projection (as a combined operation). I hope to show that, within each category, the cognitive products the narrative contains are consistent with the metaphorical network model argument is war and not with the popular metonymic model war for judgment, thus demonstrating the main proposition of this book. 4.1.1 Emergent Structure When a network is “run,” elements are commonly created in the blended space that cannot exist in either input space alone. In the metaphor anger is heat, the sentence “smoke is coming out of her ears” is emergent.2 In the anger domain, smoke is not a product. In the heat domain, it doesn’t originate in 1  Because there is no “end”; see Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 48–49. Running the blend in blending theory is similar to deriving implicatures in RT—the person doing the “running” or inferring is the one that stops the process, or does not. 2  To borrow, by paraphrase, an example from Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 300–302.

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a person’s head. It is only in the blend that ear-smoke makes sense. And it is the blend that demonstrates the external inputs. In other words, the emergent structure proves the outer-space blend, which proves the metaphor. For the New Testament, Revelation is a long book and violence makes up a large part of it. There are therefore many structures that emerge from the “war.” We will investigate four in particular. The first has been introduced already (section 3.3.1.2.2.1). Mouths and weapons collocate regularly in the narrative, just as ear-smoke does in the example above, and they constitute emergent structure. Cannibalism is a similar implied collocation of mouths and death. “Second death” presupposes a “first death” and “first resurrection” looks forward to a “second” one as well. These are also emergent.3 4.1.1.1 Mouth-Originations As has been shown (section 3.3.1.2.2.1), many of the weapons that are used in Revelation’s war come from people’s mouths. In the metonymic model, these mouth-originations are believed to indicate pronouncements of judgment.4 War maps to judgment it is thought, and so Christ’s mouth-sword or the witnesses’ mouth-fire are leveling judgment against the world. This reading is problematic. John insists that only the bowls are judgments (16:5, 7). The seals and trumpets are expressly not judgments (6:10, 11:18), and judgment—or at least wrath—should end with the bowls as well (15:1). Because no one dies during the bowls, it can also be said that the judgments shouldn’t be seen as permanent pronouncements but rather “calls to repentance” (16:9, 11).5 Perhaps a bigger problem is that mapping to judgment from war puts “judgment” in the mouths of several characters whom John would likely consider unfitting. The two witnesses are righteous, but human. One may argue that they are only announcing God’s judgments rather than enacting them themselves,6 but that person would have to answer why the opponents are being burned to death by fire from the witnesses’ own mouths, especially when fire from heaven was already in John’s vision (13:13, 20:9). And if the two witnesses through their righteousness or faithfulness can be said to be worthy of delivering God’s judgment, that argument will be harder to make of the 200-million-horse cavalry with snakes’ tails (9:17–19). The horses in the sixth trumpet burn people 3  I don’t mean to say that “second death” is entirely novel. The phrase appears in Tg. Ps.-J. Deut 33:6, Tg. Isa. 65:5, etc. (see Beale, Revelation, 1036–37). “First resurrection” however has no precedent. 4  E.g., Koester, Revelation, 133 (mouth-sword), 212 (mouth-fire). 5  Beale, Revelation, 121. 6  Koester, Revelation, 499.

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with fire from their mouths just like the two witnesses do (and before they do), and most commentators do not think them “righteous.”7 But the real problem for mouth-originations as judgments comes directly from the leaders of the opposing side. The dragon and his trinity issue “judgments” from their own mouths (12:15, 16:13). This is not an implication that John would want to make. Even if it is an ironic or twisted “judgment,” John would be needlessly attributing authority to characters he so clearly wishes to deauthorize (12:8; 13:8, 14; 19:20; 20:10). It would have been more apt, in that case, to give the dragon offensive weapons that did not originate in the mouth. And those mouth-originated weapons are effective. The celestial woman has to be saved from the water (12:16) and the whole world is well and truly duped by the frogs (16:14). Even if these are ironic “judgments,” they are working, which implies that Satan has the authority to judge (which, in the narrative, he does not; 12:10). On the other hand, anyone who is able to speak is able to make an argument; and both parties seem interested in making arguments (and must use mouths to do so). While John would not want to attribute the authority of judgment to the dragon, he certainly would want to attribute false teaching to him (2:24, 12:9).8 And so two things are true: offensive weaponry is mapping to mouths, and is not mapping to judgment. The only domain left to them then is argument. Mouth-swords, mouth-fire, mouth-water, and mouth-frogs are emergent structures in a blended space of argument and war. They have no natural home in any one domain. They don’t fit in argument because swords, fire, water, and frogs aren’t used in arguments; and they don’t fit in war because those things aren’t located in the mouths of literal combatants. It is only in the blend that things like mouth-swords and mouth-fire can exist, and that blend is a metaphor because it blends two domains. The emergent structures prove the blend, which proves the metaphor. 4.1.1.2 Cannibalism Mouths need not have separate weapons mapped to them to act as weapons. At the first telling of the last battle in chapter 19, John puts on two suppers: the wedding supper of the Lamb (τὸ δεῖπνον τοῦ γάμου τοῦ ἀρνίου, 19:9) and the great supper of God (τὸ δεῖπνον τὸ μέγα τοῦ θεοῦ, 19:17). They are seven verses away from each other, and the word δεῖπνον is only used in these two places 7  See, e.g., Smalley, Revelation, 235 (“fiendish cavalry”) or Mounce, Revelation, 201 and Boring, Revelation, 138 (“demonic cavalry”). 8  Beale, Revelation, 673.

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in the book. John did not likely forget that he had just told us about the one supper when he begins to describe the other. By implication of repetition and collocation, the reader is invited to see one supper in terms of the other.9 The blessed who are being invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb are standing in analogous position to the birds who are being invited to feast on the gentile hordes (which they do in 19:21). Otherwise, they are invited to a wedding banquet that never actually takes place in the narrative. As we will see in section 4.1.4.10, the carrion-birds are an allusion to Gog and Magog from Ezekiel 39. This allusion serves to tie together the first account of the final battle in Revelation 19 (which uses the carrion birds but not the names Gog and Magog) with the second account in Revelation 20 (which mentions Gog and Magog explicitly but does not have the birds).10 John is turning the last battle into the wedding feast,11 and the attendants are being given the nations to “eat.” “Eating” the nations is likely a parallel metaphor to the adjoining promise of “striking the nations” (πατάξῃ τὰ ἔθνη, 19:15) with the iron rod/ sword—this in fulfillment of Christ’s promise to the faithful in Thyatira that they will “smash [the nations] like pottery” with Christ’s iron rod (2:26–27). Again, if the smashing is not equivalent to the eating, Thyatira’s promise goes unfulfilled. This “cannibalism” is emergent structure. Humans certainly aren’t eaten in argument. Cannibalism does fit within war (though not even comfortably there), but not in a war that one is winning (19:20),12 that Christ is leading (19:11–13), that might be termed “the great supper of God” (19:17), that is commanded by angels (19:17), and eaten by the blessed (19:9). Unless John actually thought cannibalism was a righteous activity (which is unlikely; cf. 2:14, 20), it is emergent in the blend and not at home in either input. But argument is given meaningful explanation if cannibalism is mapped to it. As in the second seal, people are killed by Jesus’ mouth-sword, but humans are involved in the process as well. It is implied that they are killing each other with his sword (6:4).13 In the argument frame, people are involved in the conversion of one another. When blended with the war frame, this could look like cannibalism. Like the beast tries to “consume” its prey (17:16), or fire “consumes” God’s enemies (11:5), the birds eating humans becomes humans 9  Stefanovic, Revelation, 554, sees this as a way of proposing a choice between the two fates. 10  Smalley, Revelation, 496, 512; Beale, Revelation, 132. 11  Huber, Like a Bride, 188–89. 12  Cannibalism was a result of losing a war, of being besieged and starved (e.g., Deut 28:51– 57, 2 Kgs 6:24–29), which is not the case here. The winners of the war are the ones doing the eating. 13  See section 3.3.1.5.4.

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converting humans. But only when they’re blended does it yield full relevance. Defeating people by eating them is not a normal (or righteous) war, nor is cannibalism a good argument. It can only “emerge” in the narrative because argument and war have been blended metaphorically in John’s mind. If they are not blended, the reader is forced to infer that God is going to ask his saints—in however metonymical or figurative a way—to eat corpses. John did not likely wish to imply that, so RT predicts the metaphorical blend. 4.1.1.3 First Resurrection Obviously, the ideas of the two resurrections and the two deaths are related. They form cycles of life and death, life and death. Instead of beginning with death however, we will comparatively consider the two resurrections. The first resurrection is named during the account of the millennium in 20:4–6. The idea has no exact precedent, so it might seem the more difficult. A “second resurrection” is never named as such but likely occurs when the sea, death, and Hades “gave up the dead that were in them” at the final judgment (20:13).14 If the second resurrection is the actual, plenary resurrection, the first resurrection is the one more likely to be spiritual in nature. The people who take part in the first resurrection are those that have been “hewn” (πελεκίζω) by the testimony of Jesus and the word of God (20:4). As we saw in section 3.3.1.5.4 the two-headed πέλεκυς, being made of iron and twosided, is evocative of the sword coming from Christ’s mouth. The axe, like all other iron implements, is meant to be seen in his possession under the influence of Ps 2:9. In other words, those “hewn” have been “killed” by Christ, not the beast. The causal διά + acc (see section 3.3.1.5.4, n. 271) includes no negative operators or agents. People have “died,” the instrument of their deaths is the πέλεκυς, and the agent of their deaths is the testimony of Jesus and the word of God. The first “death” is therefore, again, likely a spiritual experience of Christ, and a positive one at that. It ends in spiritual resurrection—the first cycle.15 Those who make the assumption that the first death is instead a negative and literal experience—a martyr’s death at the hands of those rejecting the testimony and word—have several counter-arguments to overcome. The first is that the text simply doesn’t say that. The testimony and word are the only listed causes, and they both belong to Jesus. The second is that neither the 14  Boxall, Revelation, 285. 15  According to Koester, Revelation, 744, several ancient commentators held this position. Augustine came to agree with Tyconius that it implies new, spiritual life in the present, as after faith and baptism; so also Oecumenius and Andrew of Caesarea. Some more recent scholars do as well. See, e.g., Prigent, L’Apocalypse, 312: “La première résurrection est actuelle, spirituelle, la seconde sera corporelle et générale.”

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dragon nor his agents carry weapons at all in the narrative, much less iron ones. The writer employs the two-headed, iron axe thinking that the reader has heard about such weapons already. Not only have Jesus and his followers been the only ones carrying them so far, Jesus is shown “killing” with one only four verses prior (19:21). If John wanted to intimate that the beast had killed these people, he is using the wrong tool (he might have used water, for instance; 12:15). The third is that those killed by the beast—if there are any at all—have been much fewer, and much less in focus, during the unfolding of the war than the vast numbers killed by Christ. If we’re talking about people who have died in numbers large enough to mount a counter-offensive against all assembled nations of the world at once (20:8–9), that number can only come from the seals, trumpets, and bowls (the people that Christ killed). And the fourth, and perhaps most compelling, reason that the “dead” have neither physically died nor been physically resurrected is that they’re still in danger.16 The millennium has an end, and it ends in war. Satan is released to draw all the nations together in battle against “the camp of God’s people, the city that he loves” (20:9), which he would not likely do against immortal foes. This “camp” is constituted by the resurrected co-regents of Christ (20:6). There aren’t any other protagonists in view. The final battle is the terminus ad quem of their reign, which means that the battle must involve them, and they must be defeatable. An implication of the argument is war metaphor is that, as the first death is not a physical death but rather repentance, the first resurrection is not a physical resurrection but rather restoration. Repentance (2:5, 16, 21–22; 3:3, 19) and restoration (3:4, 20–21; 14:1) are after all responses to an argument or a witness, and the faithful should be of the group that has so responded (14:1). They “reign” with Christ in the sense that they are with him and have authority to minister (“kill”) in his name (19:14, 17–18). They have the same authority, in other words, that the two witnesses had (11:5–6). A non-physical resurrection is an emergent structure. It cannot occupy the war input entirely because wars don’t have spiritual resurrections, and it cannot occupy the argument input either because arguments don’t have resurrections at all. It is also emergent because there are two of them, which is an innovation within the biblical literature up to that point.17 But, in the blended space, this spiritual resurrection makes sense. John is telling the story of selfperpetuating conversion—being witnessed to and then turning around and 16  Beale notes that even as early as the heavenly tabernaclists of 13:6, the beast is assaulting the dead saints. Beale, Revelation, 697. 17  Collins, Scepter and the Star, 209; Reddish, Revelation, 387.

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bearing witness oneself. What this would look like on the battlefield is people dying (repenting, believing) and being resurrected to fight and kill again for the other side (bearing witness). Satan is “in prison” in the sense that this conversion cycle is endlessly recursive and self-replicating. The priestly ministry of witness and conversion can progress apace. “Violence” begets “violence” in a war, as hearing good news begets the telling of it in witness, and Satan has no real way to break that cycle. The millennium is a vision of faithful people doing what, in John’s estimation, faithful people would do when unencumbered by Satan’s influence—bearing witness to God and to Christ. But it is only the repentant-and-restored (dead-and-resurrected) that can take part in that recursive millennial ministry. Everybody else will have to wait (20:5). 4.1.1.4 Second Death It is perhaps worthwhile to begin by pointing out that there are in fact multiple “deaths,” as there were multiple resurrections. In the domain of war, there should only be one. “Death” is a well-known result of war. The fact that John is creating a “second death” indicates that he is not just thinking within that one domain. Something is forcing his mental-architectural model of reality to construct an emergent idea of a life/death cycle that is outside the norm, and outside the domain. Having a “second death,” by itself, is evidence for emergence, which is evidence for metaphor. But perhaps more can be said. If the second resurrection is the real, physical one John still anticipates prior to the day of judgment (as must be, given that it occurs last; 20:13),18 the first resurrection must be a spiritual resurrection of those who have been restored to God through repentance and faith (an entailment of argument is war). In that case, second death (that giving rise to the second resurrection) should be real death. What is important for the central proposition of this book is that the vast majority of the earth isn’t experiencing “second death.” Potentially very few do even after the war (εἴ τις, 20:15), when that judgment explicitly takes place. Mathewson notes the first class conditional here.19 Conditionals insert a certain amount of “epistemic distance” between the protasis and the belief of the speaker20—either positive (it is likely true), negative (it is likely not true), or 18  Thus, e.g., Swete, Apocalypse, 263; Middleton, New Heaven, 153. 19  Mathewson, Revelation, 282. 20  Dancygier and Sweetser, Mental Spaces, 55: “A given mental space, including conditional spaces, will have some epistemic stance attached to it. The conjunction if is associated with non-positive-(neutral or negative) stance space building, in contrast with positivestance conjunctions such as when and since.”

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neutral (the speaker makes no claim).21 “Since we are going to the play” is an example of a positive epistemic stance regarding going to the play. The speaker anticipates going. “If we are going to the play,” is neutral or negative (signaled by “if”).22 The speaker is unsure or openly negative about the prospect. The epistemic stance of “if anyone is found not written in the book” is thus either neutral about the possibility of anybody being found in that condition or actually negative. John considers it an open question whether anyone other than the wicked trinity will suffer the lake of fire. The “metarepresentational antecedent” of being able to find people unrestored (not written in the salvific book) is not being able to find people unrestored.23 Eun Ju Noh, in her work on metarepresentational conditionals, proposes that the “given” that underlies conditionals is either in the world in general, or it is in the context of the communication itself.24 The implication of this is that John believes he has told a story in which it might reasonably be asked at the end of it, “will everybody then be saved?” John, at least, thinks he’s telling a story of near-universal salvation, at least at the point of the final battle. During the war, everybody is suffering “first death.” The phrase “second death” disappears throughout the entire war sequence (between 2:11 and 20:6). Also, and more importantly, “second death” is explicitly defined as being thrown—after the final judgment—into the lake of fire (20:15). Nobody is cast in the lake during the war narrative, and nothing whatever happens after the final judgment, in which case the story of the war isn’t about the second death—in which case the story isn’t about real and physical death (that giving rise to the second and real and physical resurrection), in which case the story is metaphorical. The millennialists die and live at the beginning of the 1000 years—well before the final judgment. The two witnesses die and live before the trumpets are over. The 144,000 and the altar-souls die and live within the seals. Everybody that dies in the first death/life cycle is a protagonist. The antagonists are not able (or willing) to die that death (6:15–17; 9:20–21; 11:13; 15:8; 16:9; 19:20; 20:10). That is because the first “death” is a metaphorical and “blessed” (14:13, 20:6) one. John is giving the righteous an extra (spiritual) death-and-life cycle. The millennialists “die” spiritually to be “raised” spiritually, reign during their actual lives, and then physically die to be physically raised: “death” → “life” → death → life—two cycles (20:4, 13). The unfaithful simply die the second (normal, 21  Ibid., 46. 22  Ibid., 45. 23  Noh, Metarepresentation, 179, 186–87. 24  Ibid., 180.

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physical) death: life → death—one cycle (and the reverse of the other, ending in death).25 And a person experiences one or the other based on whether one chooses to “die” now or “die” later. For the faithful, the spiritual death/life cycle is first and the physical death/life cycle is second (both ending in life). For the unfaithful, who are unwilling to undergo the first spiritual cycle, their first death is actual death (and it is the end of their cycle). The only death that everybody experiences together is the real and physical one, the common term between the faithful and unfaithful, and the one that results in the real and physical resurrection in the eschaton. Every other one—including the seals, trumpets, and bowls—is experienced 1) before the end and 2) only based on faithfulness towards God and Christ. It is a death of initiation into communion with Christ (Rev 7:14–17; cf. Gal 2:20), just like baptism is (Rom 6:3–11; Col 2:12–13).26 The early church had strong precedent for understanding death as conversion and salvation. This study may be overturning centuries of presuppositions concerning Revelation, but it is turning the story into one first-century Christ-followers would have recognized readily. “Dying” with Christ to then “live” with him was the first “church” experience many of them would have had.27 And this strongly implies that the deaths of the seals, trumpets, and bowls are not real and physical ones. The people who die by the πέλεκυς (20:4), or the iron rod (19:15), the sword (19:21), sickle (14:16, 19), and fire (8:7, 20:9) are experiencing a spiritual death/life cycle, on the basis of responding to testimony (which is to say, to argument). Like the millennialists, the two witnesses, the 144,000, or the altar-souls, people who die during the “war” are made alive again in real time, before the general resurrection and while they can still have an effect on earth (6:9–11; 7:3; 11:11–13; 14:1; 19:14; 20:4). Their effect, especially on unbelievers, is evidence that 1) John thinks the time of the first resurrection is present time; 2) there isn’t an actual, physical separation between the first-resurrected and the living (14:1, 20:4); and 3) the only difference between the first-resurrected and the merely living is whether they are believers or not (metaphorically symbolized by their having been “killed” by Christ or his agents). The first resurrection is a spiritual resurrection based on believing Christ’s testimony, and so the first death is a spiritual “death,” not a literal one. 25  Kline recognizes this reversal, though he puts the real death and resurrection before the spiritual ones rather than after. See Meredith G. Kline, “The First Resurrection,” WTJ 37 (1975): 366–75. 26  See section 5.2.2.10. See also Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 150–57 (under the heading “BAPTISM: RITUAL OF INITIATION”). 27  Ibid., 153.

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And that kind of “death” is emergent. It doesn’t fit in the argument frame because people don’t die by losing arguments. It doesn’t fit in the war frame either because death isn’t figurative in war, it’s literal. The essentially literal nature of the metonymic model constrains the reader to see “death” as physical death such that everybody experiences it the same way. That is a problem because God and Christ seem to be doing a lot of the killing, because there aren’t supposed to be multiple resurrections,28 and because the subjects of the “first resurrection” are still in danger of death (20:9). If a first and non-general resurrection is emergent (and it is because it was unique to that point),29 then the deaths that lead to it should be emergent as well. There are therefore several compelling reasons to see the idea of “death” within the seals, trumpets, and bowls as emergent and metaphorical: 1. The “second death” is already thought by most to be spiritual,30 so the literality of any deaths in revelation can be brought into question (lest one be accused of special pleading). 2. The lake of fire being actual death fits present and well-established theological schemas for the fate of the unredeemed (conditionalism and annihilationism).31 3. There are multiple deaths, so at least one of the types has to be metaphorical or spiritual in some sense. 4. The second resurrection is real and physical, so the second death should be real and physical as well. 5. Neither the lake nor the second death appear in the war narrative, except proleptically (“the smoke of their torment rises forever and ever”) in 14:9–11. 6. Those killed in the war are presented as righteous and holy (6:9, 7:14, 14:1, 20:4). 7. Those not killed in the war are presented as idolatrous and unrepentant (6:15–17; 9:21; 11:10; 16:9, 11). 8. Deaths during this period are actually named “blessed” (14:13, 20:6).

28  For ancient attempts to explain that “difficulty,” see Kovacs and Rowland, Revelation, 204, 207. 29  Beale, Revelation, 1004: “the ordinal ‘first’ (πρῶτος) with ‘resurrection’ occurs nowhere else in the OT or the NT.” 30  Beale, Revelation, 105: “It is clear that ‘the second death’ in v 6 is the spiritual death of the unrighteous.” 31  Evangelical Alliance, The Nature of Hell: A Report by the Evangelical Alliance Commission on Unity and Truth Among Evangelicals (Waynesboro, GA: Paternoster, 2000), 4–6.

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9.

John puts his resurrected in contemporary time and space, such that they can be seen, affect the present world order, and be harmed by it (11:11; 14:1–5; 19:14, 19; 20:4, 8–9). 10. Seemingly only few (εἴ τις, 20:15)—and perhaps none—are cast into the lake of fire. Vast multitudes die in the war (6:8, 9:15, 19:17–18) however. If John’s group of unfaithful is small, the large group in the story should be inversely faithful. 11. An emergent (metaphorical) concept explains why deaths in the war are selective and partial (death is based on the individual’s faith response; 9:21, 16:9). 12. If the first life/death cycle isn’t a spiritually life-giving cycle then Revelation doesn’t have one. There are no conversions in the book.32 Again, one then wonders where the size of the New Jerusalem comes from (21:16). 13. All the attendant problems with the metonymic reading: God is forced to kill indiscriminately, many of those killed include the righteous, and there are multiple physical resurrections (an innovation within the NT and Hebrew Bible).33 14. It is the first death/life cycle that gets a person’s name in the “book of life.” Only those who die during the war are pictured as being already present in heaven with Christ (6:9, 7:14, 14:1, 20:4)—where the book should likely been seen as a heavenly citizenship role.34 If the book has the names in it prior to final judgment (as it does; 20:12–15), the qualifying death has to be the first, not the second. Death has emergent ideas in Revelation. No commentator seriously thinks otherwise. It is doing some strange things. Blending theory can explain why those strange, new ideas are cropping up in a book about plain, old war. John’s

32  I agree with Bauckham—though we arrive at our conclusions differently—that the book is about “conversion” (also somewhat differently conceived); but his examples from the text demonstrate more his cleverness than their obviousness. See for example his resolution of the story of the two witnesses (Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 282–83). Beale considers the presence of a conversion theme “possible” (Beale, Revelation, 191), but without giving any examples. He never says how the gentiles of 21:24 are “converted,” and even questions whether they are (1097). See also Beverly Roberts Gaventa, From Darkness to Light: Aspects of Conversion in the New Testament (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), which includes not one passage from Revelation. My point is that, without granting the metaphor, there are no obvious examples. 33  Reddish, Revelation, 387: “Nowhere else in the Bible does the concept of two resurrections appear.” 34  Osbourne, Revelation, 180: “record of citizens.”

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blend is bringing in material from an external domain. That alone makes death a metaphor. And so, we have seen four examples of metaphorical “emergent structure” that compete rather better for a reader’s pragmatic sense of “satisfaction” than their metonymic counterparts do. If mouths are instruments of judgment (metonymy), John’s demonic antagonists have an undifferentiated authority to judge (and even to resist judgment); but, if mouths are instruments of witness (metaphor), they simply have a false- or counter-witness (as, for example, the false prophet does). If mouths bring repentance through metaphorical witness, the heavenly party will celebrate by bringing salvation to the multitudes, rather than by metonymically eating their corpses. And a completed metaphorical frame makes sense of two of the most confounding interpretive issues in the history of the study of Revelation—the “first resurrection” and the “second death.” All cognitive structure has, or at least enables, further elaboration; and the unwanted implications of demonic judgment, righteous cannibalism, a de novo first resurrection, and a second death that no one seems to be dying argue against the metonymical structure from which they emerge. 4.1.2 Selective Projection Because metaphors relate external domains, not everything in those domains is able to map fully.35 In the metaphor love is war (“she fought for him”), AK-47’s are not projected to love and honeymoons don’t project to war. On the other hand, the topology principle asks that the topology of the inputs be maintained as much as possible in the blend.36 As many of their features as are able to be projected should be projected. A test for metaphor then is whether topology gets frustrated—whether some of it drops out or is “selected” out of what is projected. Two different domains have different topologies, which should not allow full integration. Therefore, when elements can’t be projected, their input spaces are external and a metaphor pertains. By contrast, two inputs within the same domain (a metonymy) should retain full topology in the blend because their topologies— that of the single domain—are also the same. In the case of “the glove at third base” for example, the topology of the glove maps completely to the one who wears it. Anything then that the glove does, the player does. They share a fully integratable topology. The war frame is useful to John to describe his idea of a developing and progressive witness for Jesus Christ. A “world war” has more concrete and pointed 35  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 331–32. 36  Ibid., 327.

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events, characters, and outcomes than a “global discussion” would. It gives clarity and scale to the argument.37 But there are some elements that it can’t give to the argument. Some things happen very commonly in warfare that happen seldom or not at all in Revelation, and these selective projections are evidence that the war is acting only to frame a metaphor and not to project implications of actual violence. 4.1.2.1 Surrender The first and perhaps most obvious is the profound lack of surrender. Nobody surrenders, or even considers doing so.38 In the sixth seal, the kings run and hide (6:15). In the fifth trumpet, the ἄνθρωποι wish for death (9:6). But nobody lays down arms. In the face of implacable death, even the dragon’s side shows a stout unwillingness to capitulate (19:19–21). Surrender is not being projected. Interestingly, John very much does recommend “surrender” to God in the letters to the seven congregations. The war is coming partly in interest of “killing” the Nicolaitans (2:16) and Jezebel and her children (2:23); of giving the iron rod to the Thyatirans to “smash” the nations (2:27); and of killing the remnant in Sardis (3:2). These groups at least should be surrendering. John seems to believe that people can surrender; they just don’t. A plausible reason surrender was selected out is that John is already using “death” in that capacity. Conceptually, he is using the metaphor (devotional) surrender is death. It is the people who die (metaphorically) that are surrendering (in faith) to God—which explains why the dead are so often the righteous (6:11, 7:9, 20:4, etc.). It also explains where the large number of people (21:16) and the kings of the earth (21:24) come from in the New Jerusalem. Death is the faith response for the other side as well. Those who are killed by the dragon are instead surrendering to him—which is why the faithful are sealed against death (7:3). The two witnesses can’t die during their years of ministry (a logical impossibility), which demonstrates their faithfulness (11:5–6). If John had added the surrender topology that is native and prominent in war (topological principle), it would have broken the integrity of the network by casting two characters, as it were, for the same role (integration principle). The governing principles of blending theory often compete,39 and the fact that an essential element of the war mental space does not project indicates that the war is only serving as a framework for some other external mental space. 37  Ibid., 329. 38  Koester notes this unexpected behavior even of the beast and false prophet (Koester, Revelation, 760). 39  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 336.

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4.1.2.2 Defense Defense is almost never employed in the Apocalypse,40 and defense should be as fundamental to war as offense is. The earth swallows the water that the dragon spews after the celestial woman (12:16), but that is not her own selfdefense. She does flee (12:6), but that is rather an attempt to avoid having to defend herself (which, presumably, she could not do). Similarly the kings hide in the sixth seal rather than defend themselves (6:15). The witnesses don’t need to defend themselves because they are apparently indestructible (11:5). The “sealed” 144,000 have that same lack of need for defense (7:3–8). The cavalry had breastplates of iron (9:9) but they are never said to need them, and we have already discussed that the θώραξ is actually acting as an offensive weapon in the trumpets rather than a defensive one (see section 3.3.1.5.4). An army of 200 million mounted troops would barely need a defense anyway (9:16–17). The only convincing instances of “defense” in the narrative, therefore, revolve around the “seals.” That is telling for the purposes of this study because “seals” are not from the war domain. The one defense that John imagines for his protagonists (and ironically, through the beast’s mark, for his antagonists; 13:16–18) is not a defense within war but within argument. Their sealing makes them “spiritually sealed” (they’re in heaven; 7:9).41 It protects them spiritually, it keeps them within their original devotional “camp,” and so it is a defense against foreign (imperial) arguments. Everybody else just dies—easily, quickly, and without riposte or response. The fourth seal almost flippantly mentions the death of one quarter of the earth (6:8). The cavalry of the sixth trumpet likewise easily kill one third of humanity in general (9:18). And in the two accounts of the final battle, seemingly the entire earth’s population dies in the span of less than one verse (19:21 and 20:9). John is presenting a very easy war. The narratival problem is that people do normally defend themselves. If this were a real war, the story would want the beast and his armies to so defend. It would make them look more rebellious. Even if John wanted to describe it as being very one-sided (as he does),42 his story is not helped by an easily-capitulating enemy. There should be broken shields and cloven helmets and other evidences of the world’s upstart rejection 40  Beale names the church “defenseless” at Megiddo (Armageddon), but does little with the theme beyond that (Beale, Revelation, 840). Bauckham makes suffering witness a major theme of his, but he insists this witness is more than even “passive resistance” (Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 234). His two witnesses do not just throw up their hands at the onslaught (275, 277–78). 41  Beale, Revelation, 133. 42  Pattemore, People, 191–92 (of the proleptic view of the last battle in 17:14).

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of the rightful king. Nobody dies during the bowls, but there is no apparent defense either. If the weapons used against them are harmful but not fatal ones,43 they would have opportunity to take a defensive posture (and don’t). Even the ἄνθρωποι being tortured in the fifth trumpet aren’t trying to defend themselves. They are actually doing the opposite—they are trying to capitulate and die, but are unable (9:5–6). There is no space for defense in the story. This is because, within the metaphor, the idea of defense is already occupied by not dying. With the metaphor surrender is death (an entailment of the larger metaphor argument is war), people who are killed submit to God’s argument. Therefore the people who are not killed do not submit. Their “defense” is simply not dying. Defense is not being projected because its topology once again conflicts with the web of representations that John has already established. As with “surrender,” John is not imagining a real war and so he does not need real defense. It is not relevant to the story he is telling. 4.1.2.3 Peace Nobody surrenders, nobody defends themselves, and nobody really wants peace. In fact, the better a person is, the more intractably “hostile” they are. Thyatira is confronted for being “tolerant” of Jezebel (ἀφίημι, 2:20) and Ephesus is congratulated for being intolerant (2:2, 6), though not intolerant enough (2:4–5). The righteous 144,000 are organized into a company of fighters (7:3–8)44 while everybody else remains unmarshaled, unsealed, cowardly, and unrighteous (6:15–17). God simply doesn’t want peace in this story (15:1), Jesus doesn’t want it (6:16, 19:21), the dragon and his agents don’t want it (12:17), and even John doesn’t want it. His blessings are reserved for the “conquerors” alone (e.g., 2:7). He weeps until the seals on the war scroll are removed and the war begins (5:4, 6:1).45 And he concludes with a thinly veiled threat to get involved in the war (22:7, 12).46 John is for war, and won’t countenance the congregations being otherwise (2:26–27). The exception that proves the rule is the great adulteress. She does want peace—though with Rome (17:9) rather than with the prophets on whose blood she is drunk (17:6). These personified characters are living lasciviously 43  16:2 has sores, 16:8 a scorching sun, 16:10 darkness, etc. 44  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 215–29. 45  Koester captures the irony of the metonymic view well when he notes that John’s weeping results in the opening of the seals, whereupon “the reasons for grief seem to multiply.” Koester, Revelation, 405. 46  “Keeping the words of this prophecy” probably does not mean keeping the scroll and not losing it. Prophetic utterances demanded obedience from their hearers, and the call here is to be among the 144,000 and therefore to be on God’s side of the “war.”

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(17:2) and in luxury (18:3) with the beast, riding and reveling upon it instead of engaging it in testimonial battle. These, her friends, spend a large part of chapter eighteen lamenting her fall—probably un-ironically—because they had such a beneficial, peaceful trade relationship with one another (18:19).47 It can hardly be missed that John is unimpressed with this group of people specifically because they are for peace with the dragon and the beast. Everybody that wants war in Revelation is righteous and everyone that wants peace is a prostitute. The problem with this glaring lack of peacemakers is not just its incongruity with, say, the gospels (Mark 14:48 parr.) or Paul (Rom 12:18). It’s internally incongruous as well. God doesn’t like murderers in this story (21:8). He doesn’t even like liars (22:15). But mass-murders seem to get a pass. The two witnesses are burning people alive (11:5). In a mass-killing situation, stopping the perpetrators might usually be considered a noble act. Also, God is trying to restore order and to produce a new kingdom in which pain and suffering no longer exist (21:4). But the means to his goal seems to be “to take away peace from the earth” (6:4). The proposition that he’s taking away peace to bring peace is difficult in the extreme. Peace is largely unprojected in this story; and when it is projected, it’s backwards. The reason for that selective projection is that peace already exists in the narrative, again as death. If surrender is death, those whom God (metaphorically) kills are restored to him and are at (real) peace with him, as evidenced by the great number of people who are worshiping God in an irenic, heavenly setting (7:9). They have “died” and now have peace with God and a heavenly representation. But metaphorical peace in the war frame can’t be a goal for John. In a war of witness, it becomes syncretism and non-witness—the very failing that he is writing to help combat (2:14–15).48 And so, unlike surrender and defense, the concept of peace is projected in the story (though it is reversed). The word group does show up. When, in the second seal, Jesus takes away “peace” (6:4), he is causing people to stop being syncretists, to become fully devoted followers of God, and to take up the “sword” (the testimony of Jesus Christ) and “slay” (lead to repentance) one another with it. The removal of peace is central to the narrative, which is why 47  J . Nelson Kraybill, Imperial Cult and Commerce in John’s Apocalypse, JSNTSup 132 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 17: “John warned Christians to sever or to avoid economic and political ties with Rome because institutions and structures of the Roman Empire were saturated with unholy allegiance to an Emperor who claimed to be divine (or was treated as such).” Italics original. Cf. p. 102 and the lure of the “profitable market.” 48  Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis, 124, 132.

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Jesus and the 144,000 are so opposed to peace (and the adulteress is so accepting of it). 4.1.2.4 Traitors and Mercy There aren’t many kinds of involvement other than full-throated support. No one is guilty of treason, desertion, or even conscientious objection. The great adulteress exists largely in another metaphor (that of adultery or prostitution; 17:2–5),49 so the one character that surely might have been pictured as traitor, deserter, or conscientious objector is instead pictured as adulteress—a person faithless in relationship as opposed to a person faithless in war. Those accepting the mark of the beast could also be counted traitors or adulterers, but there the metaphor of commerce is being used.50 Both times, John changes the metaphor rather than describe behavior as betrayal. He’s avoiding traitorism. And there’s no mercy.51 Leaving aside for the moment that a self-consciously religious document (22:18–19) might want at least to seem merciful, and that some of the most tyrannical kings and emperors often wanted to appear merciful (Suetonius, Nero, 10), this document is just not aware that it is an option. It’s not just that the ἔλεος word group doesn’t appear (which it does not), but any even rough equivalent is never called for (even ironically), or considered. We never see treaties or truces. Though the war is fought on all global fronts, there are no embassies and no ambassadors. John is avoiding mercy. Why is nobody conscientiously objecting or showing mercy? That should be surprising. The narrator himself will often bemoan the fact that, even after certain catastrophic events, nobody attempts to resolve things with God (9:20–21, 16:9–11), or vice-versa (9:5). Everybody either dies or remains antagonistic. And this inverse correspondence explains why there are no “traitors,” and why there is no “mercy.” The cognitive association of death with repentance is made by the narratival disassociation of death and unrepentance (2:16, 21–23; 9:21–22; 16:9, 11). People either die or they don’t repent, prompting the implicated conclusion that people who do die in the story do repent. John is avoiding making traitors in the war because that role is already being played, once again, by death. Switching sides from one to the other (conversion) is what “death” is trying to explain in the metaphor. It is a faith response, like repentance or “surrender” is. People who are “surrendering” to God or making “peace” with 49  Duff, Who Rides the Beast?, 56. 50  Kraybill, Imperial Cult, 146. 51  Commentators will make occasional claims of a lack of mercy from God in this or that element of the war (e.g., Stefanovic, Revelation, 479–80; Mounce, Revelation, 275), but rarely own the general lack of mercy in the book.

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him are turning away from the beast. They are traitors to him. They are now on God’s side, having been won by the merciless testimony of those who witness for Christ (11:5). The stories of deaths that different characters undergo in revelation yield different implicatures. When the 144,000 die in the seals, that death seems to be an easy case of surrender. They just die, early on and utterly defenseless (6:8). Their restoration to God is easily wrought. Also, nobody mourns them. They hadn’t chosen another side to begin with, a side other than God’s, so no one is going to complain when they are “killed.” They are not being restored from a position of unfaithfulness. But when the adulteress dies, it is a much later and more difficult “passing” (17:16; 18:6–10, 18; 19:3), and her former allies are very upset about it and lament wildly (18:9–19). Unlike the 144,000, she isn’t as ready to be restored. She needs to become a traitor to her former beastly alliances—which indicates that she had former alliances.52 Not all “deaths” are the same. Types of death (easy or hard), times of death (early or late), and responses to death (hailed or mourned) tell us more about our characters usually than their actual lives do. Often, the manner of their death is the only thing we know about them (6:4, 8; 8:7, 9, 11). And so, none of these normal circumstances and outcomes of war are projected to the blend because this is not a real war. It is an argument. Mercy, treason, peace, defense, and surrender have no place in the narrative of Revelation because they don’t fit John’s blended space. They have been forced out by his great actor, “death.” And a blend in which death is surrender is a metaphor. If this isn’t true, it not only needs to be answered where each of these normal and moderating elements of war have gone (including and especially “mercy” and “peace”—and we should stop pretending that the beast is the only offender here), but also why death is so various and multifaceted.53 If John is mapping war to judgment, there’s no reason to have seven seals, seven trumpets, seven bowls, two reapings and two world wars. Death is overplayed—that is, unless “death” is playing several roles at once. A metonymy won’t allow that. A literal reading certainly won’t allow that. Only a metaphor can explain the great attention and detail “death” receives in the Apocalypse, because only a metaphor can make “death” mean several things substantially more complicated and many-sided than actual death. Where John would normally be projecting

52  Kraybill, Imperial Cult, 154. 53  In a comment on second death, Koester quickly but helpfully discusses differences between Judaic and Greco-Roman concepts of “types of death.” See Koester, Revelation, 781. However, he doesn’t have metaphorical concepts in view, but rather philosophical ones.

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surrender, peace, and treason he is projecting simply death. And that selective projection is evidence for metaphor. 4.1.3 Recursion Blends can be reused as inputs to new blends. The products of older networks can become the material for forming new ones, which in terms of blending theory is called “recursion.”54 In our model as it has stood, God’s war mapped to his argument and blended to what John would call authentic witness. But Satan’s side of the model mirrored God’s war and argument spaces and yielded its own brand of competing witness. These alternative spaces turned Revelation into a “war of witness”—and also into a metaphor. John could have left his model there, unresolved; but he was writing out his story to its full conclusion (21:5–6). He did not wish for inauthentic witness to remain permanently on-stage. There needed to be a change between present reality (3:11) and future glory (3:12). And change, as one may remember, decompresses to disanalogy. The two testimonies—of Christ and of the beast— are disanalogous. They are unlike. For them to compress and for the world to go through its needed change to become the New Jerusalem, God’s witness needed to win the “war.” John therefore had one more blend to make. There needed to be a recursive blend in which the war of witness was finally resolved and creation restored to its creator (22:1–5). The figure on the following page (figure 20) demonstrates the final stage of John’s network model in which the restoration of Israel and the world is completed. We will consider five resolutions to the narrative that this recursion provides. These also constitute evidence for the metaphorical structure below that gives them rise. 4.1.3.1 The Preparation of the Bride When the bride of Christ is presented, the narrator tells us that she puts on “bright and clean linen,” which he explains to be “righteous deeds” (19:8). She gets dressed only very late for her party, however. “Righteous deeds” are apparently new to the group she represents. All of the other protagonists are already so dressed. The 144,000 and the great multitude are in white robes by the first interlude (also indicative of righteousness and purity; 7:14). The altar-souls were given white robes even before that, in the fifth seal (6:11). She, in contrast, is not declared “righteous” until chapter nineteen—at the end of the war. There is also the implication that the clothes she was wearing previously weren’t so “bright and clean” (λαμπρὸν καθαρόν, 19:8) as the ones she’s been given. She was previously (and recently) unfit for the wedding banquet on the 54  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 334.

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Figure 20 The conceptual network of ARGUMENT IS WAR in Revelation

basis of them (19:7). The bride in 19:8 has clean and bright clothes because the adulteress in 17:4 has crimson and scarlet ones—which, like the wine, demonstrate that she had been “detestable and unclean.” The adulteress and the bride are in fact the only characters in the story that explicitly need a wardrobe change. So, when readers come across the cleansed bride who is newlydressed for the wedding supper, the mental space of the adulteress is already activated.55 They already know which character’s garments must have received the cleaning. It is customary to see the great adulteress and the bride of Christ as different characters, even diametrically opposed.56 But they never do oppose one 55  See Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 108: “Implications activated by both the utterance and the context are the first to come to mind.” Also see 66–67 for an illustration of “activation.” 56  Humphrey, “Tale of Two Cities,” 92–96.

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another. Like Superman and Clark Kent, they are never on the scene at the same time. Just as the smoke is going up from fallen Babylon (19:3–4), the bride is introduced (19:7). This is, once more, a collocation that is meant to signal the reader to compress to identity. The two characters are actually one character. Otherwise, John is introducing an entirely new character, and at a late and critical point in the narrative. The bride does not play a part in the story (as such) until the nineteenth chapter. The great multitude (19:6) is cheering a character that nobody knows anything about to this point. But if she is the adulteress, the reader has known about her since nearly the beginning (2:21). Both πόρνη and γυνή imply a marital relationship. The πόρνη is more “adulteress” than “prostitute” because she is having (metaphorically) sexual contact with the kings of the earth that is deemed illicit (17:2), as might not be if she didn’t have previous commitments (2:20–21).57 The γυνή is more “wife” than “woman” here because she is particularly the γυνή of the Lamb (21:9), and was even before the wedding feast (19:7).58 The πόρνη is the γυνή of the Lamb, and had been before her return and “cleansing” (2:20, 12:1). John is prompting us to compress them to identity by means of analogy: they both are married, they appear in the same place, and they both have clothing issues. But there are also disanalogies. One is unclean while the other is clean, one is dressed in scarlet while the other is in white, one is blasphemous while the other is worthy of honor. When disanalogy compresses to identity, the disanalogous parts become change.59 The one being unclean while the other is clean, once compressed, turns into the same character becoming clean. The same character changes scarlet clothes for white ones. The same character trades in blasphemy for honor. The adulteress is changed to become, once again, the bride of Christ.60 This recursion is based on the argument is war metaphor. The adulteress changes; but it might be wondered how that comes to be. She dies (17:16). People who die in the metaphorical source-space are changed, converted, brought to repentance, and restored in the metaphorical target-space. The redressing of the bride in the wedding metaphor is the equivalent of the death 57  Ford, Revelation, 285: “if it is the covenant relationship with Yahweh which makes Israel his special people, his bride, how could a non-Israelite nation be called ‘harlot’ except in a much less precise sense? It is the covenant which makes the bride, the breaking of it which makes the adulteress.” Italics mine. See also, Duff, Who Rides the Beast?, 55: “In the LXX, the word group πορνεία/πορνεύω is frequently used to translate the Hebrew root znh; it typically refers to a woman’s unfaithfulness to her husband (Hos. 1:2, Ezek. 16:23).” 58  The attendees are celebrating a wedding they apparently had been anticipating for some time (ἦλθεν), and note the possible anaphoric use of the definite article (ἡ γυνὴ αὐτοῦ). 59  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 94, 99. 60  Huber, Like a Bride, 188–89.

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of the adulteress in the war metaphor. They are two tellings of the same event, as happens with metaphor.61 When the bride dies, the kings and merchants lament—not because of her death, but because she isn’t buying their goods anymore (18:11, 17). Her allegiances have changed. She isn’t a willing (trade) partner of her former lovers (18:15). She has been purified and returned to her husband, like Gomer to Hosea (Hos 2:19–20). It is likely, in fact, that Gomer is the prototype for the adulteress. They are both “adulteresses” (Hos 1:2, Rev 17:1), they both stand in symbolically for the unfaithful among Israel (Hos 1:2, 2:14; Rev 12:6, 17:3),62 they both take “lovers” that are symbols of gentile nations and their influences (Hos 3:1, 8:10; Rev 2:22, 18:3), they both bear “children” by those lovers (Hos 2:4–5, Rev 2:23), they both suffer in their separation (Hos 5:13, Rev 17:16) which may cause their return (Hos 5:15–6:3, 17:17), and they are both restored to God in the end by means of re-marriage (Hos 2:19–20, Rev 19:7–9). Even if Gomer were not the one specific allusion, Israel as an unfaithful wife is a common trope in the OT.63 The reason why the 144,000 are already dressed in white and the adulteress is not is because the 144,000 are faithful Israel. They never changed clothes (to crimson) in the first place. Their “deaths” were easy (6:8), amounting to a restoration and even a confirmation of their faithful status from the beginning. The adulteress however had to be “consumed” (17:16), and that death was not easy. Like those in the second reaping, she needed more processing than the “wheat” did. Her death was her re-conversion. The adulteress can’t be saved within the metonymical mapping of war to judgment. She dies. But that metonymic reading creates several problems for the narrative. It cannot explain where the bride comes from, why she needs to change her clothes, and why so late in the story. It also can’t explain the many similarities the adulteress has with Gomer, Jezebel, and the celestial woman. All of these characters can be knit into a unified character if argument is mapped to from war. Israel begins in glory (celestial woman, 12:1), but has difficulty maintaining a faithful covenant relationship with Yahweh (3.5 times in the wilderness, 12:6). For God’s purposes for his bride to not be thwarted (Jezebel, 2:20–23), his unfaithful need to be returned to him (wedding banquet, 19:6–9), which would be a reasonable cause for elation and celebration (19:6–7, 10). 61  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 120. 62  Yarbro Collins also makes this connection between Gomer and the celestial woman, though not (strangely) with the adulteress who likewise is found in the “wilderness.” Yarbro Collins, Combat Myth, 134–35. For a glancing recognition of the similarity between Gomer and the bride, see deSilva, Seeing Things, 169. 63  Huber, Like a Bride, 25, 94.

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The faithful are not just celebrating because of her return, but also because they had played a part in it. Paul Middleton has argued persuasively that the faithful “martyrs” are the ones who subject the adulteress to “torture and mourning” in 18:6–7.64 This is an uncomfortable text if torture remains torture. Bluntly, saints shouldn’t torture—especially not dead ones. But in the conceit of war, it maps to testimony. Faithful Israel (in John’s opinion) should be witnessing to unfaithful (Hellenized) Israel in chapter 18, so that they can celebrate her “salvation” (19:1) and their own testimonial success in chapter 19. This was the cry of the souls under the altar (6:9–10)—only now fully answered in the return of the bride to “complete the number” (6:11). The war is what “kills” the adulteress. It is the story of the war that tells the story of the return and restoration of the bride, as well as what part “faithful Israel” should be playing in her return. By chapter 19, not only is she not a new character, she’s got one of the longest character arcs in the story (from chapter 2 to 22). Revelation is, roughly, a story of God’s war to rescue his bride from the captivity of the beast and to bring her back to himself. That is the very definition of “restoration.” The whole war is for her. For her, and not against. 4.1.3.2 The Great Feast The reason the adulteress needed to be re-converted to faith in God (and Christ) seems to be the same reason the bride needed to be given new clothes to wear. The war. They needed to go out as one unified and purified people to begin to wage the eschatological war for the gentiles ( for, not against).65 This part of the story is told in the two last battles. The bride/adulteress was being prepared so that she could eat one specific meal—the “wedding feast” (γάμος; 19:7). As has been shown (section 4.1.1.2), that wedding feast in the marriage metaphor is the equivalent of the “great feast of God” in the war metaphor, in which the birds feed on the corpses of the dead at the end of the last battle (19:21). Not coincidentally, the armies of heaven happen to be wearing the same clothes as 64  Middleton, “Come out of Her,” 2. 65  McNicol, Conversion of the Nations, 44, 53, 61, sees the connection between cleanness and the preparedness of God’s “martyrs” for the battle with the gentile nations. Note also his appeal to other second temple writings which have the same eschatological expectation (Pss. Sol. 17:3, 45; Dan 11:33–35); thus, on page 53: “It is often overlooked that the maśkîlîm of Daniel 11:33–35, after being cleansed and refined through martyrdom, are made white (i.e., clean). Throughout Revelation, John views the followers of the Lamb as their antitype. In the immediate context at 19:8 the ‘bride of the Lamb’ is clothed in clean pure linen; and similar terminology is used in other places to describe the clothing of the faithful who are vindicated (3:4–5; 6:11; 7:9, 13–14). Thus, it is evident that John wished to stress that the presence of the martyrs of 6:9–11 is central to the constituency of the heavenly army.”

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the bride (περιβάληται βύσσινον λαμπρὸν καθαρόν, 19:8; ἐνδεδυμένοι βύσσινον λευκὸν καθαρόν, 19:14).66 Once again, this collocation and repetition demonstrates their identity with one another. And so all of these characters (the adulteress, the bride, and the heavenly army) have been outfitted to take part in this last battle to secure the gentiles for the kingdom as well (21:24). This two-stage restoration (cf. Acts 10:44–48) is a recursion of the argument is war metaphor. The nations are “killed” by, or at least in conjunction with the appearance of, the purified army of Israel. The writer is explicit about this. All the gentiles (τὰ ἔθνη, 20:8) gather around the “camp of the saints” in Jerusalem (20:9)—where a Jerusalem-centric war should be a Judeo-centric war—and they are all there finally “consumed” (κατεσθίω, 20:9). How this story works out after translating the metaphor is that Israel, having been prepared and purified, presents an argument that the world is no longer able to refute. Presumably, Jesus joining in that argument post-parousia is no small help (19:11). Israel wins the testimonial argument and the nations are themselves now cleansed and prepared to enter the New Jerusalem (21:24, 27). The reason this is a recursion and not just another part of the story is that the deaths of the gentiles are predicated on the full restoration of Israel. One group has to “die” (be restored) so that it can go on to “kill” (restore) in a later recursion. John seems to believe that “the end will come” (1 Cor 15:26) only after “all Israel is saved” (Rom 11:26). The final battle can’t begin until the initial battle is fully won. This is why the seals, trumpets, and bowls focus primarily (or, in the case of the seals, entirely) on “the land.”67 They are telling the story of the restoration of Israel, for which “the land” is a material anchor.68 A metonymic hermeneutic cannot answer the question of where the restored gentiles come from, because there can’t be a recursion of the dead or condemned (or at least not a positive one). As shown elsewhere, McNicol’s solution to Bauckham’s problem of the “conversion of the nations” only creates a new one (section 3.2): the “sublimation” of the nations cannot be the cause of their conversion because there aren’t any nations left. Everything has been killed (19:18)—“a number like the sand on the seashore” (20:8). But if argument is war, the destruction of all the gentiles is the conversion of all the gentiles—a condition under which the above-quoted Abrahamic promise (Gen 22:17, 32:12) would be fulfilled.69 And that fulfillment is not ironic (21:24). 66  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 227. Here he also, and correctly, makes the analogical connection with the many other characters so dressed (2:4–5, 18; 6:11; 7:9; 19:8, 14). 67  See 4.1.4.1, 4.1.4.4, 4.1.4.5, 4.1.4.7, and others in the aporias section (4.1.4). 68  For the use of material anchors in blends, see Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 195, 202, 204. 69  Smalley, Revelation, 513.

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4.1.3.3 The Role of Temporal Judgment The final judgment is pictured in Revelation as (real, physical) resurrected humanity throughout history (20:13) standing in one place (before God’s throne, 20:12) and receiving one final decision regarding their fate (20:15). The two other explicit instances of “judgment” in the book are temporal judgments— they aren’t plenary, they aren’t before God’s throne, and they aren’t final.70 The bowls cycle is the only one of the three cycles that claims to be judgment (16:5, 7). The other two cycles (the seals and the trumpets) insist they are not judgments (6:10, 11:18). The story of the bowls is then immediately followed by the only other temporal judgment in the book, that of the great adulteress (17:1). The judgment of the adulteress is the explanation to the bowls series.71 Several things indicate this beyond the coincidence of their being the only two temporal “judgments.” The first is that John usually explains his visions. The “interludes,” so-called, are generally explanations of the war visions.72 Commonly, they will include other metaphors alongside war (as explanations might), and the story of the “adulteress” is no exception.73 Second, they are the only two non-beast entities that use blasphemy (16:21 and 17:3) and within two verses of each other. As we have seen, repetition prompts for compression to identity and uniqueness.74 Third, John directs the consummate seventh bowl directly at “Babylon the Great” (16:19), a name only used elsewhere for the adulteress (17:5). Fourth, insofar as the bowls “complete God’s wrath” (15:1) and his wrath still presents itself even after the judgment of the adulteress in the final battle (19:15), the story of the adulteress should be included within the bowls framework. Fifth, it is a bowl-angel that “shows” John the judgment of the adulteress, 70  Those that hold that previous events—especially those that end the seals, trumpets and bowls—are proleptic views of the same, final judgment (see, e.g., Beale, Revelation, 118, 122–26, 395–402, passim) need to explain these differences, especially as regards being before the throne, which most of the war is not fought in view of (and when there are characters before it, they are righteous without exception; 7:9, 8:3, 14:3). Thus Witherington, Revelation, 245: “The sequence of preliminary judgment, millennium, final judgment, new heaven and new earth in Rev. 19–22 must be taken seriously.” 71  Beale, Revelation, 847: “Revelation 17:1–19:10 is a large interpretive review of the sixth and seventh bowls.” 72  Even though most of the interludes contain self-awaredly explanatory material (e.g., 7:13–14, 17:1–5), this opinion is far from general. See, e.g., Boxall, Revelation, 121, who considers their purpose to be “to heighten the dramatic tension in the narrative,” or Aune, Revelation 1–5, cxxii, who makes them into the original “self-contained textual units” around which the narrative was built. 73  Once again, on the use of multiple metaphors see Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 120. 74  E.g., Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 196, where an endlessly repeating clockface prompts for the compression of “days” into one unique and universal “day.”

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indicating that their task is not yet complete (17:1). And sixth, both stories end with the same (rather positive and creation-sounding) exclamation of completion, Γέγονεν (16:17, 21:6), implying that the two have accomplished the same creative task.75 This is important to the story of the war because, although nobody dies at the end of the bowls, the adulteress does finally die (rather completely) by being desolated, devoured, and burned (17:16). This is an example of recursion. John is establishing the nature of judgment in the original instance of the metaphor and its effects in the recursion. The temporal judgment on the adulteress (who is an image of unfaithful Israel from the bowls series) is that she does not get to take part in the restoration until the final battle (she doesn’t die until just before then, 19:3). The unfaithful are not being killed, where being killed is mapped to being restored. That may, in fact, be why they’re angry. “Pains and sores” (16:11) in battle could be the analogical equivalent of “suffering” defamation in witness.76 But, once the nature of the judgment is established, John can return to the adulteress and demonstrate that she does eventually repent and return to God. The nature of the judgment is non-involvement in the gospel, and the effect of the judgment is that the unfaithful are finally compelled to join in. This makes the judgments before the final one “temporal” judgments. They only last as long as the recalcitrance of the adulteress does, or as long as the bowl-sufferers respond with blasphemy instead of repentance (16:9, 11).77 When they repent, they rejoin the “fight.” This may be why, during the millennium, only the resurrected get to “reign” (βασιλεύω, 20:4). God is making his kingdom-building army only out of priests (1:6, 5:10).78 One has to die to assume military leadership and fight in the war (7:3–8; 14:1; 18:4–6; 19:14; 20:4). One has to be restored to assume priestly leadership and take part in the restoration (symbolized by the new, priestly garments and signaled explicitly by λατρεύω; 7:13–17). The unfaithful will get another chance however (presumably during the millennium) because Satan is unbound in the end to draw in the nations (20:8); and in that last, global battle, all of Israel fights (20:9). This recursive conclusion is signaled much earlier in the text. The first use of “Babylon the Great” is in 14:8, in the account of the two reapings. “Judgment” 75  C.f. Gen 1:3 LXX: καὶ εἶπεν ὁ θεός γενηθήτω φῶς καὶ ἐγένετο φῶς. 76  “Slings and arrows,” as it were. This defamation is something that the false apostles (2:2), the Nicolaitans (2:6), the “synagogue of Satan” (2:9), the Balaamites (2:14), and Jezebel and her “children” (2:20–23) certainly suffer. “The great adulteress,” by her very name, does as well. 77  Koester, Revelation, 651. 78  Beale, Revelation, 960–61.

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also appears there, in confirmation of her identity (14:7). She hasn’t even been introduced as a character yet, and already John is pronouncing her “Fallen! Fallen!” (14:8). As usual, he’s explaining before he shows; and the first condition he shows her in is, effectively, dead. Immediately after that, the two reapings take place (14:14–20). Because the only two composite characters in chapter 14 are the 144,000 and Babylon (the adulteress), it is reasonable to assume that the wheat (those who die easily) are the 144,000 and the grapes (those who die with difficulty) are the adulteress. In this way, chapter 14 is a microcosm of the rest of the war narrative.79 The adulteress is under judgment (14:7 / 16:1–17), she dies (14:8 / 17:16), and is finally restored (14:19–20 / 19:7–8). Conversely, the 144,000 (who are never under judgment) die during the seals and trumpets (in which there is no judgment). The battle of Armageddon also tells her story. It is not pictured as a direct war between God and Satan like the last battles. On one side, the dragon, beast, and prophet rather issue frogs from their mouths (16:14); so, unlike in the battle of Gog and Magog (20:8), Satan does not assemble the nations himself. He does it indirectly. The frogs are deceiving spirits (16:14) that assemble the nations for him as his agents. On the other side, Jesus is also called up symbolically but not bodily to the war.80 The Euphrates is dried up for the Kings from the East (16:12). These are divine kings. Their origin is in the east, where God is (7:2). And their agents are agents of God: 1. the angels come directly from the temple of God, where God is present (15:6); 2. they are commissioned by one of the four living beings (15:7); 3. the sixth angel or one of his six fellow angels remains post-judgment to explain the bride and the New Jerusalem (21:9), indicating that they aren’t subject to the judgment and therefore aren’t evil; 4. this angel “prepares the way of the kings” (ἑτοιμασθῇ ἡ ὁδὸς τῶν βασιλέων, 16:12) in a manner evocative of John the Baptist “preparing the way of the Lord” (ἑτοιμάσατε τὴν ὁδὸν κυρίου, Mark 1:3 parr.); and 5. the three frogs—who are agents of Satan—are a response and opposition to that preparation, coming in the very next verse (16:13). And so Armageddon is the first pitched battle between God and Satan, though it is still by proxy. It is thus clearly an apex in the story. But it’s a spiritual battle rather than one fought in-person, like Gog and Magog. It is “preparatory” 79  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 795. 80  Smalley objects to this old claim of Milligan on the basis of the passage’s “martial context” (Smalley, Revelation, 408). There is, throughout the modern commentaries, a general unwillingness to attribute militarism to the Lamb.

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(16:12). The thing that is being prepared is Israel, specifically for the arrival of “the kings.” If at the end of Armageddon Babylon the Great is judged (16:19), her judgment and consequent death (18:8) are then presumably the fulfillment of that preparation of Israel for God’s return—an event that a Hebrew prophet might well call “the great day of God Almighty” (16:14).81 John will explain this in greater detail in chapters 17–19, but at the moment he’s happy to leave it at this: God is going to stage a special battle of witness, centered in Israel and for Israel, at the end of the war; and, in that battle, all of Israel will be saved and restored to him. The goal then of all “temporal judgment”82—the shame of not being restored along with all the other “brothers” (6:11)—is to return the less-thanfaithful portion of Israel (those not of the 144,000) to covenant faithfulness so that God’s restored “heavenly armies” (19:14) are clothed and equipped (19:7–8) for the final battle of witness with (and for) the gentiles (19:18). This same story is told from different perspectives and in increasing detail by the two reapings (chapter 14), the bowls and Armageddon (chapters 15 and 16), and the judgment of the adulteress and the final battle (chapters 17 through 20). And all of these are recursions of the original argument is war metaphor because he can’t use non-death as a judgment against the bowls-sufferers unless he first establishes that restoration is death. Once the initial blend is formed, John can go on to use death (or non-death) in other creative ways. 4.1.3.4 The Role of the Beasts The first and second beasts are antagonists of God in Revelation. They are considered essentially evil (16:13). It is odd then that John would promise death by them in the fourth seal (6:8). One would think that he would keep the purposes of God and those of the beasts separate.83 But John doesn’t do that. He actually explains how they are meant in fact to relate. In 17:16, the beast and ten horns kill the adulteress, as John promised in 6:8. Then immediately after (in 17:17) John explains that intent was “given to their hearts” by God to achieve his purpose, rather like the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart (Exod 4:21, 7:3, etc.). What 6:8 implies, 17:17 actually states. God’s purpose (γνώμη) is achieved by 81  Beale rightly puts this in the OT context of judgment, as John does (16:7), but does not recognize the metaphor, and so does not recognize the restorative nature of the judgment. Beale, Revelation, 834–36. 82  Borrowing a term and (partly) an inference from Greg Beale. Beale recognizes that the events of the first six bowls are temporal judgments (Beale, Revelation, 148, 811, 824), but makes the culmination of each of the three series (seals, trumpets, and bowls) a view of the final judgment. 83  Koester, Revelation, 116–19 (“Character Portrayal”).

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the beast and ten horns achieving their purpose (γνώμη), which thus fulfills (τελέω) God’s words. This combination of intents is also implied in the language of 6:8. At God’s direction (6:7), Death and Hades will kill not only “by” (ἐν) sword, famine, and death, but also “by” (ὑπό) the beasts of the earth. The sword, famine, and death are merely instruments (the instrumental use of ἐν). But the beasts of the earth are not just instruments. John changes the preposition to ὑπό, which expresses actual agency. While it is true that the beasts are there partly under constraint of the passages in Ezekiel and Jeremiah from which they are drawn,84 John is not required to use all four components. The prophets actually prefer (by nineteen-to-three) the tripartite “sword, famine, and plague.”85 Also, in LXX Jer 16:4 where all four parts of the formula are used, ἐν governs the first three terms but the dative (and not ὑπό) is used for beasts.86 This implies two things: that the “beasts” are important to John’s own purposes rather than obligatory, and that he particularly wanted to express the kind of agency that ὑπό implies. To state the problem plainly then, God is using these evil beasts (together with their evil intents) as his own agents, which implies God doing evil—an implication John is not likely wanting to make (4:8, 6:10, 15:4, 16:5, 21:27). John’s use of agency here highlights one of the central difficulties in the metonymic interpretation of Revelation. If the metonymy war for judgment controls the narrative, God and the beast have the same purpose, which is to destroy the inhabitants of the earth. They have to have the same intent because the goal that the beasts are achieving on God’s behalf are deaths, particularly of the quarter of the earth’s population in 6:8 and the adulteress in 17:16. And in the metonymy, death means death. The goals of the two agencies can’t be differentiated because death can’t be differentiated. But if the metaphor argument is war controls the narrative, God and the beasts can have different purposes. Death maps to conversion, but that does not say to whom or to what one converts. The beasts of the earth are not kind to the inhabitants of the earth. They hate, destroy, denude, devour, and burn (17:16). That is the beast’s intent. But that ill-treatment is causing the adulteress (as the bride) to turn back to God (19:7–9). And the restoration of the bride is God’s intent.

84  “Sword, famine, and plague” are a common refrain in both books, but “beasts” are also additions to the tripartite formula in both (LXX Jer 16:4; LXX Ezek 5:17, 14:21). See Beale, Revelation, 372–74. 85  L XX Jer 14:12; 21:7, 9, 24:10; 27:8, 13; 29:17–18; 32:24, 36; 34:17; 38:2; 42:17, 22; 44:13; LXX Ezek 5:12, 17; 6:11–12; 7:15; 12:16; 14:21. 86  In LXX Ezek 5:17 and LXX Ezek 14:21 they are in the nominative and accusative. Neither use prepositions.

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In this way, the beast does have an evil intent and agency and God has a good intent and agency; and, in John’s mind, those two conflicting purposes actually conspire to restore Israel to God. The beast, and being under the religious oppression of the beast (as also under Pharaoh), is a scourge that is meant to bring the 144,000 to joyful acceptance of the savior-messiah (7:10) and the adulteress to repentance (19:3). But, once again, this conclusion is only available as a recursion of the argument is war metaphor. If death only means death, all intents only point in one direction, and that direction is not restorative. But God does seem to want to restore (1:5–7), and the story does seem to result in restoration (21:1–5).87 The middle term—the war—can never explain how God’s great goal is achieved without the metaphor. 4.1.3.5 The Role of Agency in General Revelation is a dangerous book, and has been throughout its life.88 Murderous people have found home and sanction there (it was Charles Manson’s favorite book).89 There has been increasing momentum within Revelation studies to take away that sanction. One of the primary ways this is achieved is by arguing that, although God is delivering very serious and deadly judgments against the earth in the Apocalypse, he does not wish his followers to do so.90 There is a notable infrequency of human involvement in the developing story. The argument is that John is giving the great majority of the activity to God and Christ in the eschaton to take it away from the church and to cause it to see itself as passive in regard to violence, while being active in regard to witness. The relative passivity of humanity should not be applied to the war, however (as has been shown in section 3.3.1.2.1). Humans do take part in the war (6:4); and the more righteous they are, the more violent they get (11:5–6). The passivity of humanity is by way of agency. John is picturing righteous humanity as God’s agents in the world, and unrighteous humanity as Satan’s. For example, the 144,000 (as the “armies of heaven”) take part in the first instance of the final battle (19:14, 19). They are not passive in it. But it doesn’t seem that the gentiles are killed by them. This is an odd facet of the story. Armies are gathered, but 87  Reddish, Revelation, 416. 88  Loren Johns has claimed that “[t]he Apocalypse of John is arguably the most dangerous book in the history of Christendom in terms of the history of its effects.” See Johns, Lamb Christology, 186, cited approvingly in Michael J. Gorman, “What Has the Spirit Been Saying?,” in Revelation and the Politics of Apocalyptic Interpretation, ed. Richard B. Hays and Stefan Alkier (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2012), 12. 89  Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry, Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders (New York: Norton, 1974), 301, 322. 90  E.g., Johns, Lamb Christology, 187–88, and citations therein.

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only Jesus kills (19:21). This strange dynamic is repeated in the second instance. The gentiles gather around God’s “army” but it is only the fire from heaven that consumes (20:9). Why would God assemble armies that don’t fight? The deaths in the two final battles happen very quickly (one short sentence each), so much explanation is left out. The seals, trumpets, and bowls however are more expanded accounts. In the second seal, dwellers of the earth kill one another by God’s command (6:4), but they don’t do it with their own weapons. The killings occur at the granting of “the sword” to Christ. It is his weapon and not theirs, though they seemingly are free to use it. Likewise the locusts are covered in Christ’s iron (9:9), and they “strike” (παίω, 9:5) with their tails using a strangely similar action to Christ’s iron rod (πατάσσω, 19:15). Towards the end, the righteous army is only constituted by those who have been hewn by such iron (20:4). The two witnesses are fire-breathing prophets (11:5), where the fire is a granted “authority” like the plagues are (11:6). The tools are God’s, they are only in the mouths of the witnesses. The cavalry burns others with fire from their mouths like the witnesses do (9:17). It’s not true to say that God’s people don’t kill in the apocalypse, but it is true that no God-authorized actor kills anybody else using their own weapons. They are always stylized weapons belonging to God or to Christ. People aren’t passive, they are “agents.”91 This is the more likely reason human activity is more rare in Revelation. It isn’t because the righteous aren’t supposed to “kill.” They do that. It is because they are supposed to “kill” (metaphorically, through their witness) only with the weapons God gives them. And so when John visualizes that war, he may describe in some detail how God uses his agents (the two witnesses, the locust army, etc.) or he may not (the first and last final battles). This is causal compression.92 Instead of God commanding something, Christ enacting something, the Holy Spirit applying something, angels messaging something, humans performing something, and other humans responding to something, he’ll simply have fire fall and people die (20:9). Causation is nearly always compressed in some way in communication.93 When WWII historians say things like “Truman bombed Japan,” there is a list of potentially thousands of causes that led to the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.94 Even just within the Enola Gay, thousands of mechanical operations had to work just 91  Middleton, “Come out of Her,” title page, 1; based on the activity of the saints in the judgment on the adulteress in 18:4 and 6. 92  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 75–87. 93  Ibid., 75, 315. 94  Example from Gilles Fauconnier, “How Compression Gives Rise to Metaphor and Metonymy” (lecture, Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH, 18 October 2008), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kiHw3N6d1Js&t=1680s.

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so to successfully deliver the payload. But Truman’s decision was the ultimate cause that set all the other causes in motion. It was the one that “counted.” God’s decisions in Revelation are the ones that “count” to John. Whether humanity is willing or not—even whether God’s demonic opponents are willing or not (17:17)—divine fiat effects the narrative of Revelation (6:1, 19:17). The call of the book is therefore to become a secondary cause—an agent—in that narrative, to let God “reign” in this way (11:15, 17; 19:6), and so to “reign” alongside him (20:4, 6; 22:5). John wants his congregations to become “overcomers” (2:7), not by their own strength and means, but rather by the power of the heavenly overcomer (17:14), who gains the victory through their faithful witness (12:11); which is to say, through their willing agency. Agency also helps clarify one common interpretive mistake. The beast isn’t the ultimate agent that wields death in the book, God is. Revelation isn’t a response to a hyper-oppressive Roman government (which never existed in the first century in the broad way that John depicts).95 God wages the war. It is he that initiates the seals (6:1), trumpets (8:2), and bowls (16:1)—himself and through his own agency.96 The beast and dragon are rarely mentioned in them. When they are, they aren’t active participants in causing violence (9:20, 16:2). The beast is in fact the recipient of violence in the fifth bowl (16:10). The “war” in the seals, trumpets, and bowls is being waged by God exclusively, except when he uses intermediate (and sometimes ironic) means in 6:8 and 17:17 (as shown above). God is waging a war that seems even to have little to do with the beasts or the dragon. They are barely involved, except as examples for ridicule and pawns themselves in God’s cosmic conquest. They are not maybe less interested in doing testimonial battle (13:10), just vastly less capable of it (20:15). When they concentrate their proselytizing efforts on Jerusalem at Armageddon and the last battle, the strength of their argument cannot match the strength of God’s. And so the idol-based propaganda (13:14) has the opposite effect it sought to achieve—it actually re-unifies the country around the worship of their one true God. Each of the above examples demonstrate the cognitive dynamic of recursion—blends building on blends. The adulteress can become the bride, a feast on gentile corpses can become the conversion of the nations, temporal judgment can be the restoration, the beasts can serve God’s righteous ends, and human agency can have a meaningful part in God’s own “war” if, and only 95  Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis, 84, 104; Thompson, Apocalypse and Empire, 16, 191–97 (“cognitive minorities”). 96  Bauckham, Theology, 6: “God’s activity in history.”

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if, the writer’s (and reader’s) mind has already blended argument and war. The primary metaphor allows second-level, recursive stories—which is to say, the narrative—to unfold. Without that mapping, the story becomes several strange, unrelated, and non-relevant “self-contained textual units”:97 the adulteress simply burns and the bride appears ex nihilo, Christ’s wedding dinner can’t be related to the feast of the birds, temporal judgments get expressed over and over and over with no improved response, the inter-agency relationship of God and the beasts becomes inexplicable (or terrifyingly unified), and humans remain passive in a war in which they are called to “overcome.” In other words, the metaphor yields relevance in ways the metonymy has not and cannot, which predicts that it was the one intended. 4.1.4 Unpacking and Reverse Projection Attending to how elements are projected (or not projected) to the blend has been helpful in discovering the arc of Revelation’s narrative. Much if not most of the war space is being changed under the influence of John’s argument so that, when the war is projected into the blended space, it becomes a war of restoration (particularly, I have been suggesting, for Israel). But projection and compression can run backwards as well, and must for them to be cognitively useful. Within active networks, integrations can be disintegrated98 and compressions can be decompressed.99 Sometimes a speaker presents clearly-formed input spaces and we are led along a curated path to their newly-constructed blends. Syllogism has this form.100 “If A is B” is one input, “if B is C” is another, and “then A is C” is the blend. More often however readers are presented with just the blend and are left to reconstruct the network themselves. Fauconnier and Turner use as an example a billboard that shows a cowboy smoking a drooping cigarette.101 The caption underneath simply says “smoking causes impotence.” Cognitively, we are predisposed to know that relevant items show up in the blend, and so the drooping cigarette—out of place in a normal cigarette add—prompts the observer to unpack the drooping shape, not to the cowboy input, but to the input of the male sexual organ. This association is strongly implicated by the caption, but is already weakly implicated by the shape. The result is that the spectator of the billboard understands the effects of smoking on sexual performance. 97  Aune, Revelation 1–5, cxxii. 98  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 29, 119. 99  Ibid., 115–16, 119. 100  Ibid., 9. 101  Ibid., 81–82, 333.

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Fauconnier and Turner suggest that it is the “incongruity” of the shape itself that prompts for this unpacking, because relevance asks for congruity. As with the pragmatic theory of relevance, expectations of network relevance prompt for certain contextual assumptions (in this case, congruity). These can then be exploited to cause interlocutors to unpack in anticipatable ways (in this case, to recruit from external domains to resolve the apparent incongruity). The makers of the billboard image knew passing observers would be able— in a matter of seconds—to unpack the drooping shape to the input of sexual performance, and they created the incongruous shape (the visual “aporia,” as it were) to pragmatically prompt for that exact operation. The metaphor, in other words, can be reconstructed from the incongruity alone, just as the full network can be recreated from the blend alone.102 Revelation is rife with “incongruous” material103 that has caused it to remain non-relevant (see chapter 1). And so, in a sense, these last two chapters have been an attempt to “unpack” Revelation: to recreate John’s conceptual network from the blended text and specifically to re-comprehend John’s metaphor from the numerous seeming incongruities in the narrative. The cigarette is bent, and there should be a reason for that. It is a datum that, according to the rule of network relevance, should have representation in an input.104 A sword is coming from Christ’s mouth. Swords do not normally do that. There should be a reason for it. It is a datum that should have a mental space it can unpack to. Argument is just such a space. The gentiles being included in the New Jerusalem (21:24–27) when they had just been wiped out by Christ’s mouth-sword (19:21) was an incongruity that is resolved when death becomes conversion. Likewise, fire doesn’t usually come from mouths (11:5). That is an incongruity or incoherency. But readers could form the external knowledge structure argument and unpack the causal compression of being burned by witnesses back out to being witnessed to by witnesses. In both cases, the incongruity of the mouth-originations is the signal to form an external (and therefore metaphorical) input in which mouthoriginations make sense. They are even guided specifically to a witness or argument input by putting the fire in the mouths of “witnesses” (11:3) and

102  Ibid., 332. 103  E.g., Beale, Revelation, 981 (the “incongruity” of the gentiles being deceived in chapter 20 after they’ve been killed in chapter 19); Bauckham, Climax, 19 (of the “incongruously” multiple harvesters of chapter 14); etc. 104  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 333.

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the “faithful witness” (1:5). This is how a specific reverse projection might be curated or implicated.105 We will now investigate eleven aporias in Revelation, spaced fairly evenly throughout the text from chapter five to twenty-two, where the author makes use of just such “incongruities” to point the reader to unpack to a domain outside of the war. If the metaphor argument is war is in John’s mind, and if we traditionally have attempted to unpack it within the single domain of war alone, the passages should pragmatically fail in fairly predictable ways. Specifically, because the reader has not recruited the second domain argument, there should be details that don’t seem to “fit” well in the reader’s comprehension (which is why we experience them as “aporias”). According to Gerard Steen, “deliberate metaphors” are employed to force the metaphorical issue in just this sort of way. The narrative is construed to induce real-time, online processing of the metaphor (informative intent) and to ensure that it is comprehended as a metaphor (communicative intent).106 Two quick acknowledgements should be made before we begin, however. First, it should be noted that, because these are elaborations, they are also logically subsequent to the foregoing argument (that argument is war is operating in the story at all). In other words, they are only as sure as—and are potentially less sure than—the presence of the conceptual metaphor itself. To use a deliberate metaphor, they are “further out on the limb” than the main proposition. I am encouraged in this, however, because the situation is thus for any who would suggest elaborations to the contrary, including the metonymic one of judgment. Elaborations are always subsequent to the compositions they are elaborating, and must be. The presence of war for judgment has been the universally assumed composition of John’s thought in the history of 105  And, as an inferential process, it very closely follows the relevance-theoretic comprehension procedure as well (see section 2.3.3). For example, recognizing the incongruity of fire coming from the witnesses’ mouths is equivalent to a computation of insufficient “cognitive effects”; creating and testing the mental space argument is how one would “test interpretive hypotheses”; and formalizing the network as a metaphorical one would effectively be the pragmatic stopping point at which “expectations of relevance are satisfied.” For a discussion of the RTCP, see Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 617–18. 106  Steen, “Developing, Testing and Interpreting,” 67. I am here comparing Steen’s pragmatic categories of metaphorical comprehension and comprehension of metaphor as metaphor (deliberate metaphor) with Sperber and Wilson’s pragmatic categories of informative and communicative intent (see Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 54–60 and 60–64). They compare favorably, even with metaphor being a special case, because in both the deliberate metaphor and in communicative intent, the speaker’s intention is that the hearer realize her communicative intent. In RT, that intent is to communicate at all; in DMT, that intent is to communicate metaphorically.

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Revelation’s interpretation (see sections 1.4 and 3.3.1.1.3), almost always without justification or even recognition; and so it has stood—and indeed still stands—in need of justification itself, before opposing readings are offered. It makes little sense to argue the details of the text if interlocutors haven’t critically assessed the conceptual network within which those details situate. It would be like a group of people trying to shelve library books without all the parties agreeing on which alphabet to use. The second acknowledgment is that there is some pragmatic “fuzziness” in these reconstructions. Again, I am encouraged. Semantic ambiguity serves John’s rhetorical and theological purposes (for which, see section 6.3). Particularly—and, at least among CMT theorists, predictably—they turn very concrete and basic ideas (like death) into much more abstract and complex ones (like conversion), as metaphors might.107 Again, this is a natural outworking of elaboration and reverse projection. There is and should be nuance. “Death” in Revelation has for too long lacked any such nuance in my opinion, and it is a great benefit of blending theory that it can comprehend and allow for creativity in reception and comprehension. I just wish to produce a principled model for “elaboration”—one that is based on how human cognitive faculties actually operate.108 In an attempt to be precise enough for my reconstructions to be understood and critiqued, however, I have elected to be rather plain and direct in my language and associations (as, indeed, I have heretofore). For example, I will often baldly equate elements such as “death” and “restoration” (section 4.1.4.1) or “torture” and “witness” (section 4.1.4.5). Again, this is standard practice within CMT. One says argument is war, for example, rather than (pedantically) something like a verbal confrontation between two or more interlocutors is something like a confrontation involving physical violence. A certain amount of semantic “grey area” is granted, and I shall only ask for that same level of grace. And if someone discovers a more apt word or phrase for the source or target domain, those can be adopted. For example, the form argument is war has itself been critiqued. Might the embodied experience of competition not as readily be described as a game of chess?109 The point is to start the conversation of how argument and war cooperate, not end it.

107  Kövecses, Metaphor, 23: “it is exactly the simplified nature of this world that enables us to make use of parts of it in creating more complex abstract ones.” 108  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 44, 48–49. 109  Ritchie, “Game of Chess?,” 125–46.

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4.1.4.1 The Lion Purchasing Humans The Lamb redeems (ἀγοράζω) tribes (φυλαί, perhaps “Jews”) and gentiles (ἔθνη) in the throne room scene in 5:9. He does it by being “slain” (σφάζω; 5:6, 9). In the verse prior however (5:5), Jesus is presented as a conquering Lion. The Lion who conquers in 5:5 becomes the slain Lamb in 5:6 who redeems in 5:9. Bauckham, among others, has recognized this relationship and equated the two to Christ.110 In terms of blending theory, he has blended the two characters; but not fully. In his schema, the Lamb subsumes the Lion entirely and Christ becomes the slain redeemer only, and not the warrior (or, perhaps more precisely, he wars by being slain).111 For Bauckham, the Lion is not replaced by the Lamb (a position he attributes to G. B. Caird),112 but rather John represents “the messianic conqueror [Lion] as a sacrificial Lamb.”113 The problem is that, in both cases equally, the topology of the Lion input drops out completely. Though the Lamb is acting like a lamb, the Lion isn’t acting like a lion.114 Blending theory pushes back against that hypothesis. A space whose topology doesn’t get used won’t get recruited in the first place. This is the direct implication of the principle of relevance: “The expectation of relevance encourages the listener to seek connections that maximize the relevance of the element for the network.”115 Bauckham is effectively removing the Lion from the network and rendering him non-relevant, to which both blending theory (on the basis of network relevance) and RT (on the basis of high processing cost for minimal effect) object. There is also the objection of the narrative itself. Violence is rampant in the seals, in the very next chapter. And, if the mountain-hiding kings are to be believed, it is coming directly from the Lamb (6:15–17). Violence, in other words, is being projected back up into the lion input space. The Lion and Lamb do blend as Bauckham importantly noted, but they both retain their topologies; thus, the aporia. While the Lion and Lamb are related by analogy to become the unique Jesus, their methods don’t blend as Bauckham intuited. Having 110  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 179. 111  Ibid., 183: “John forges a symbol of conquest by sacrificial death.” 112  Ibid., 179. 113  Ibid., 183. 114  Hylen, “Metaphor Matters,” 779, critiques these positions along the same lines: “Such accounts tend to move quickly to nonviolent meanings of the metaphors, as if this can negate the violent imagery itself.” Such “replacement” strategies “simply give preference to the lamb” (785). Hylen says in response that, within the “complex concept” of the Christ, “the images are somewhat contradictory” and “in tension with each other,” and should remain so (786). 115  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 334 (italics original).

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Figure 21 The Lion network

victory (Lion) is related by analogy to being slain (Lamb), but the typologies of both remain. Christ’s death is therefore the means of restoration, but so is Christ’s violence. Being harmed by Christ becomes the metaphorical equivalent of being atonedfor by him, which would be incongruent if not for the metaphor. This prolepsis of the Lion and the Lamb both and equally serving a redeeming role reaches full expression in 7:13–17 where the sealed from the tribes are now dressed in white robes. Those robes come from two sources: “the great tribulation” and “the blood of the Lamb” (7:14). Both the “harm” they suffered in the tribulation and sacrifice of the Lamb on their behalf, equally and together, make them clean and give them white robes. The Lion, and not just the Lamb, is “purchasing” Jews (the 144,000)116 and gentiles (the great multitude). Within the Lamb’s side of the metaphorical network, this purchase is retrojected in the form of Christ’s blood (as is fitting within the sacrificial system that it prompts). Within the Lion network, the purchase is unpacked as “victory” (νικάω; 5:5)—the death (and consumption) of its prey.117

116  For which see, e.g., Ellul, Apokalypse, 161, and Charles, Revelation, 191–93. 117  Which is perhaps why so many in the war are “consumed” by various means. See for example 11:5, 17:16, 19:18, and 20:9.

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It should not be surprising then that Jesus begins “killing” in the very next scene (the seals in chapter 6). The kings hiding in the mountains were right. Jesus is the “killer” in this story. But, in the guise of a killer, he is the redeemer. “Killing” projects back into the input space as “saving,” as 7:14 confirms. 4.1.4.2 Do Not Harm the Oil or the Wine The third seal (6:6; “a quart of wheat for a denarius and three quarts of barley for a denarius, but do not harm the oil and the wine”) uses an “incongruity” similar to the above lion-turned-redeemer. The ones that are getting “harmed” at God’s direction are the righteous—an obvious incongruity. John’s word choice for the unit of measure of the wheat and barley is an unusual one—the χοῖνιξ. Almost every time the Hebrew measure “ephah” (‫ ) ֵא ָיפה‬gets translated by the LXX it is translated by μέτρον (measure), a word John uses elsewhere in Revelation of the city walls (21:15, 17). He does not wish to use that word here, however. The χοῖνιξ is used in only one place in the LXX, and that is in Ezekiel’s New Jerusalem (45:10–11), a passage also important to John (3:12, 21:2). The appearance of righteous measures, including the “righteous ephah” (‫ת־צ ֶדק‬ ֶ ‫יפ‬ ַ ‫ ֵא‬, χοῖνιξ δικαία; Ezek 45:10), is a sign of the restoration of Israel (45:1). The ones being purchased by the third horseman (symbolized by the wheat and barley) are therefore the “righteous ephah,” and their redemption is the start of the restoration. By far, the more common reading of this passage is of unfair trade practices and resulting starvation, based on the high cost of the wheat and barley;118 but that interpretation misses the fact that the third horseman seems to be the purchaser in this story. He is the one (not) harming the oil and the wine and so he should be the one paying the high price for the redemption of the “righteous measure.” Why the cost is counted so high may have already been answered— their purchase (ἀγοράζω) comes at the price of the Lamb’s blood (5:9). A voice in the midst of the four living beings (presumably God) tells someone unnamed (presumably Jesus, the “redeemer” or “purchaser”; 5:9) to purchase the wheat and the barley (presumably the 144,000, who are elsewhere “purchased”; 14:3, 4) using the righteous measure of the χοῖνιξ. The other group (the oil and the wine) neither gets purchased or “harmed” (ἀδικέω); at least not yet. The writer seems again to be blending “harm” in the warfare frame with “redemption” in the commerce frame, as “having victory” and “being slain” were blended in the case of the Lion and the Lamb. 118  See, e.g., Thomas, Revelation 1–7, 432; Stefanovic, Revelation, 231.

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Figure 22 Harm and redemption

This is the incongruity that should have caused us to recruit from a domain external to the war. Those not being harmed are not being redeemed, therefore those being harmed are being redeemed. Redemption gets projected back up into the mental space harm, thus demonstrating the blend (and thus demonstrating the metaphor). In terms of RT, the opposite condition is put into the explicatures (the Lamb is slain, the oil and wine are not harmed) so that its alternative is prompted in the implicatures (the Lion slays, the wheat and barley are harmed).119 This is an important prompt in the narrative because the war saw its first casualties only one verse prior (6:4, where people are made to “slay” one another in the second seal). The reader/hearer will want to know what that means. The answer is immediately forthcoming. “Harming” (ἀδικέω) is the means of purchase of righteous Israel (χοῖνιξ).120 119  For the pragmatic operation of alternative spaces, see section 3.3.1.7. 120  We will see this metaphorical inversion again several times, including the holy city being a μέτρον (21:15–17) of human, axe-fashioned (πελεκίζω; 20:4) ashlar stones. Harm in the war frame becomes purchase in the commerce frame and building in the construction frame, all by means of metaphor. This city is now a μέτρον rather than a χοῖνιξ presumably because the city now has gentiles as well (21:24). John is measuring all humans at the end (μέτρον ἀνθρώπου; 21:17), whereas at the beginning he is employing the χοῖνιξ to refer only to restored Israel (under constraints from Ezekiel 45).

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4.1.4.3 Altar-Souls Waiting for Fellows to Be Killed By the common reading, the souls under the altar (6:9–11) are a pretty unforgiving lot.121 As those who have been slain (if being “slain” is taken literally), it is perhaps understandable, if not laudable, that they cry out for vengeance. The incongruities of this reading are not just moral ones however. There is also the problem of the manner and means of death. The souls do not cry out for the deaths of their assailants exactly, but rather “judgment” (κρίνω) and “vengeance” or “justice” (ἐκδικέω). It is the divine response that actually equates death with “justice.” An undisclosed heavenly figure (likely God) promises that the earth-dwellers will be “killed” (ἀποκτείνω), and that the process is not yet complete (6:11). God has already begun (ἕως πληρωθῶσιν; 6:11) “killing,” and those killings have been demonstrations of his “justice” or “vengeance.” It is assumed that “death” is the fate of the unjust. It isn’t. Three things have been pragmatically primed for the reader so far: 1) God is the one doing the killing, 2) the souls have suffered it, and 3) they are righteous. We now learn that the “death” that is promised the earth-dwellers is the very same one that the righteous suffered—they will be killed “as [the altar-souls] had” (ὡς καὶ αὐτοί). The souls died the death of the righteous, and they had been “slain” (σφάζω; 6:9)—a sacrificial term previously applied to Christ (5:6, 9, 12). That implies that the earth-dwellers will die a righteous death. They must because it is explicitly this “death” of the earth-dwellers that fills the ranks of the σύνδουλοι and the ἀδελφοί (6:11) of the altar-souls. Deaths are good here. They sanctify people and qualify them as co-servants, which is expressly a salvation motif (22:3). And the killings are not carried out by the wicked. God is the one filling the number (6:11). The only explicit cause of the deaths of the souls is “by of the word of God and the testimony which they held” (διὰ τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ διὰ τὴν μαρτυρίαν ἣν εἶχον; 6:9). This is possibly the “efficient cause” use of διά + acc.122 These incongruities point to metaphor. It is, once again, “testimony” in the blend that projects salvation back up into the war mental space, much like the sword did in 6:4. Note that there, too, people are “slain” (σφάζω) in Christ-like fashion, not just killed. The “sword” in that space occupies the same role as the “word and testimony” in this. What is more likely than the common reading of retaliation for martyrdom here (an odd idea anyway) is that the souls are those redeemed by being “slain” in the second and fourth seals, now crying out to God that he will finish the 121  For a list of commentators who agree, see Joel Nobel Musvosvi, Vengeance in the Apocalypse (Berrien Springs, MI: Andrews University Press, 1993), 1–3. For a sympathetic reading toward reprisal, see Mounce, Revelation, 158–59. 122  See BDAG (3rd ed.), 226; see also note 272 in section 3.3.1.5.4.

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Figure 23 Altar-souls and earth-dwellers

job and redeem (by metaphorically “slaying”) the rest of the brotherhood of Israel. The souls seem to be pleading for the plenary judgment and justice that will come at the restoration.123 God responds, effectively, by saying, “be patient—I’m working on it just now.” 4.1.4.4 Don’t Harm Any of the Green Grass In the fifth trumpet, the locust army is told not to “harm any of the grass of the earth” (μὴ ἀδικήσουσιν τὸν χόρτον τῆς γῆς; 9:4). That should not be possible, however, because all of the grass of the earth was already burned up in the first trumpet (8:7).124 John had likely not forgotten that he had already burned it all up. The earth/green/trees/grass (γῆ/χλωρός/δένδρον/χόρτος) motif in 8:7 is actually repeated in 9:4 and nowhere else in Revelation. He’s rather appealing directly and intentionally back to it. The question the perceptive reader will ask is why he would draw attention to this incongruity. When John reports that the grass not be harmed but the unsealed be harmed (ἀδικέω; 9:4), he is once again setting up two alternative spaces like 123  Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 48. 124  Koester, Revelation, 444. Beale, Revelation, 496, solves this by making nature the object in the first instance, and “rebellious humanity” the object in the second. This schema dismisses the intended parallelism (see above).

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he did with the grain and barley and the oil and wine (see section 4.1.4.2). The grass and the unsealed (like the grains and the liquids) are two different people groups, and (also like the grains and the liquids) they stand in two different positions. The alternative group is not sealed, which implies that the grass is sealed. And the grass is not to be harmed, which implies that the unsealed should be harmed—as indeed immediately comes to pass (9:5–6). The only other thing that we know about the grass thus far is that it has been “burned up” (κατακαίω). If it has been sealed and it has been burned, that implies that it has been sealed by being burned. In that case, it no longer stands in need of sealing because the “burning” or “harming” achieved that already in 8:7. The unsealed do have to be sealed however, and so they are still in need of “harm.” “Harming” or “burning” in the war space is being blended in John’s mind with “sealing” in the restoration space. “Sealing” gets projected back up into the war mental space and the green grass doesn’t need to be restored anymore— because it already has been at its “burning.” A different group still requires that restoration however, as of the fifth trumpet. They will not start to “die” (be restored, and notably by fire; 9:18) until the sixth trumpet. The grass who are the early-restored were expressly of “the land” (τῆς γῆς/‫) ָה ָא ֶרץ‬. This might imply Israel, the people of “the land [of Israel].” The later unsealed were ἄνθρωποι in general. This general humanity should then imply (or include) the gentiles. They were not allowed to “die” in the fifth trumpet, which maps to their redemption and inclusion not being allowed to fully take place during that time. They are finally allowed to fully participate in the restoration in the sixth trumpet. The restoration begins with Israel and ends with the inclusion of the nations. This is not an idea unique to Revelation (cf. Acts 1:8). 4.1.4.5 The Two Witnesses Torture the Earth-Dwellers Figuration is often appealed to unevenly in the story of the two witnesses as compared to the rest of the book. The “torture” (βασανίζω) of the ἄνθρωποι in 9:5–6 is commonly taken to be literal or metonymic (mapping to enacted violence in some sense), but many commentators feel uneasy picturing the witnesses’ “torture” (βασανίζω) of the earth-dwellers in 11:10 that way.125 Torture is made to be more figurative (if not actually metaphorical), likely because it seems ethically “incongruous” for righteous witnesses to torture people. The seeming vitriol wants a bit of toning down, or so it is often treated. 125  Koester, Revelation, for example is willing to name βασανίζω “torture” in 9:5 (458), but says the enemies “suffer” (499) “pain” (502) in 11:10, wherein “[t]he witnesses’ power is defensive” (499).

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John isn’t toning the violence down. The witnesses immolate pointedly every one of their enemies, and must do so (9:5). “Torture” can rather being made ethically congruous by relating it to an external domain: “witness.” It is being engaged in by witnesses, and from the origin-point of the mouths of witnesses. When readers were unable to find an ethically congruous target for torture within the domain of war, that should have instigated a pragmatic search for relevance in external domains. The collocation of both the fire and the witness in the mouths of the two witnesses strongly implicates witness or religiously-styled argument as that intended external domain. There are other incongruities or aporias in the story that the metaphor also solves. For example, if the witnesses really had burned up all their enemies, who would have been left to celebrate their demise (11:10)? This is a logical incongruity that almost exactly matches the return of the burned grass (above). The grass isn’t really burned and the earth-dwellers aren’t really either. In a metaphorical system where argument is war, death becomes surrender to the argument of your enemy, which is why the ἐχθροί die. Torture not ending in death becomes lack of that surrender, which is why the remaining earthdwellers don’t. The enemies of God don’t remain enemies, but the disinterested earth-dwellers do (11:10). They are, as it were, “lukewarm” (Rev 3:16). They remain alive and unrestored, having not really “died” in the fire of witness, because they weren’t willing to have the argument in the first place. This also answers the question why the ἄνθρωποι in 9:6 are unable to die (a biologically difficult proposition): they want to “surrender” to Christ’s argument like some among the Jewish people have, but as of the fifth trumpet the time of gentile inclusion seems not yet to have come. The thing that occasions their inclusion is the coming of the “fire” (metaphorically, the Holy Spirit; see section 3.3.1.5.4) in the sixth trumpet. The tale of the two witnesses constitutes a return of focus to the “dwellers of the land [of Israel]” after the gentile-focused fifth and sixth trumpets. The land-dwellers have “enemies” among them, but this group of “enemies” (that the two witnesses intentionally confront) are also the first to take part in the restoration after the 144,000. It’s the non-combatant earth-dwellers that celebrate the demise of true witness. Their concerns are more commercial than religious (vis-à-vis “presents”; 11:10). The two witnesses themselves are likewise not the uncomplicated characters they are usually presented to be.126 They also “die,” but not by God’s hand (11:7). Nevertheless, after the shortest specific

126  K  enneth A. Strand, “The Two Witnesses of Rev 11:3–12,” AUSS 19.2 (1981): 127–35; Beale, Revelation, 572–76.

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span of time used in Revelation, they are also restored (11:11);127 and, when they are, seemingly a large number within the city are restored with them (11:13). One might start to notice a certain scatter-shot approach John has taken regarding his target metaphors. In the case of the two witnesses God restores his “enemies,” which seems to implicate the metaphorical concept of reconciliation. The burning of the grass (9:6) achieves a “sealing” of the faithful, which is possibly in keeping with the domain of baptism (and certainly Ezek 9:3–6).128 In the case of the altar-souls, God is achieving “judgment” and “justice,” which has forensic and judicial qualities. The wheat and barley are “purchased,” which evokes the metaphor of redemption. And the Lion and the Lamb evoke the sacrificial system and atonement. But they all make use of life and death (where death is a moral good and continued life is a moral evil); which is to say, violence and war are the common thread that John is using to hold his story together. That is the sense in which argument is war is a controlling metaphor. It is operating within and around all the others. And (in the parlance of the NT) it seems to be telling the story of salvation (7:10, 12:10, 19:1), in which atonement, redemption, justification, sealing, and reconciliation all take part. 4.1.4.6 The Seven Thousand One of the clearer indications that restoration is death operates in Revelation occurs at the end of the story of the two witnesses. They’ve been killed, but are raised three-and-a-half days later and ascend into heaven. A massive earthquake then strikes the city (Jerusalem) and seven thousand people “die.” These people are probably “good” in John’s mind. To begin with, there are seven thousand of them—a number likely evocative of the seven thousand faithful Israelites revealed to Elijah in 1 Kings 19:18.129 Also, it was seven thousand “names of people” (ὀνόματα ἀνθρώπων) that were killed. This would be an odd construction in another book, but in Revelation having an ὄνομα (3:4) or being given one (2:17) or having it inscribed in the heavenly book (3:5) is 127  If it be objected that they are restored by God’s breath and not “death,” note that death is already a part of the story. John could not have re-killed the two dead witnesses and simultaneously maintained narrative coherence. What he seems to choose to do instead is to introduce an element nevertheless related to death—resurrection (11:11)—which also carries the positive connotation that the two witnesses are now with God in a way they had not been before (11:12). 128  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 457–59. 129  Caird and Bauckham recognize the allusion, but make the seven thousand ironically wicked. See Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 282–83; Caird, Revelation, 140.

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tantamount to salvation (20:15). It is rather the remnant who don’t die who remain “fearful” (11:11, 13) and separate from the exultations the two witnesses. The fairly obvious aporia here is that God celebrates the resurrection of two righteous people by killing 7000 other righteous people. That is incongruous in the extreme. If argument is war however, the resurrection of the two witnesses simply serves to make their argument convincing to the 7000, as it might. The rest of the earth-dwellers are the more interesting and complex part of this story. The text initiates the conversation about this resistant group here, but it does not complete it. The story of the two witnesses is an interlude and so, as was shown in section 3.1, it is being used partly to introduce themes that will work out more fully later on. The beast, for example, is first introduced here in a proleptic way. We will not learn any great detail about him until chapter 13. In fact, outside of the seven letters, chapter 11 constitutes the earliest introduction of those who resist God’s “war” in any way. The dragon himself isn’t introduced until chapter 12. Up to this point, God and Christ have been doing all of the fighting (6:16; 8:5–6, 13). Because most of the interludes look at least as much forward as backward it is also possible that it is these same un-burned, un-restored earth-dwellers in chapter 11 that suffer undyingly in the bowls in chapter 16. There are several points of comparison.130 They both: 1. begin with scenes of the heavenly temple (11:1–2; 15:5–16:1); 2. end with a “great” hailstorm (11:19; 16:21), only here; 3. experience a “great earthquake” (11:13; 16:18), only here and in 6:12; 4. focus on the “great city,” which is likely Jerusalem (11:8; 16:19); 5. have water turning to blood (11:6; 16:3–4), only here and in 8:8; 6. have “plagues” in general (11:6; 16:9); 7. constitute a call to repentance (symbolized by sackcloth in 11:3; 16:9, 11);131 8. present torture, sometimes without death, by fire (11:5; 16:8–9); 9. confront the beast (11:7, in its earliest appearance; 16:13); 10. hear a “loud voice” from heaven (11:12; 16:17); 11. have the city divided (11:13; 16:19); 12. have cities also “fall” (11:13; 16:19); and 13. respond, by praise or cursing, to “the God of heaven” (11:13; 16:11) only here. That last point is worth expanding upon. All of the earth-dwellers fear and glorify God at the end of the story of the witnesses in chapter 11, but in the bowls 130  Several of these points can also be found in Humphrey, Ladies and the Cities, 99, including the temple and hailstorm. 131  Swete, Apocalypse, 135.

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in chapter 16 they are still cursing. The fate of the earth-dwellers in chapter 11 actually looks beyond chapter 16 to a time when, as Bauckham argued, all the remnant would respond in faith (as, I am arguing, the seven thousand already had).132 In other words, it hints at the restoration of all Israel.133 The bowls do not yet have that full restoration in view. Nobody dies during the bowls. Literally or metaphorically, the bowls aren’t the end of the story. The faithful die in Revelation and the unfaithful do not, until they become faithful. It isn’t until the final battle that everybody dies; and, in that battle, everybody seems to die (19:18). In the interim (during the seals, trumpets, and bowls) one might notice a certain recurring theme in the book surrounding ease of death however. Wheat and barley are more easily purchased (6:6), grass is more easily burned (8:7), and the seven thousand die right away (11:13). John has in view at least two groups among the Jewish people of his day: those who are easy cases and ready to be restored, and those who are hard(ened) and who are not ready (yet another recursion in the “two ways” schema). This differentiation is the subject of Jesus’ warning that he will “come as a thief,” for which some will be prepared and some will not (3:3, 16:15). Those two groups will be important in the story of the two reapings as well (see section 3.3.1.5.1) in which one group can simply be harvested (again, the grain), but the other needs a little post-processing before it’s ready for use (the treading of the grapes). In both cases they are “harvested,” in both cases they “die,” and so in both cases they should be metaphorically “restored.” But the restoration experience is easier for (and perhaps on) one group than it is for the other. 4.1.4.7 War of Deception and Trade If it is true that a war is going on in Revelation, much of it is a war of words, particularly on the part of the dragon. As has been suggested, the dragon and his minions actually do little of the “killing” in the book. They do quite a lot of counter-messaging though.134 When the second beast appears and gathers all 132  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 278. 133  For the idea that Israel’s restoration from continued exile might be influencing Revelation, see Beale, Revelation, 19. For the idea of continued exile itself, see N. T. Wright, The Climax of the Covenant: Christ and the Law in Pauline Theology (New York: T&T Clark, 1991), 140–41. 134  Friesen, Imperial Cults, 203 (passim); For Revelation’s attempts to redress imperial propaganda, see deSilva, Seeing Things, 102–9. See also Fredrick J. Long, “Ἐκκλησία in Ephesians as Godlike in the Heavens, in Temple, in γάμος, and in Armor: Ideology and Iconography in Ephesus and Its Environs,” in The First Urban Christians: Volume 3: Ephesus, eds. James R. Harrison and Laurence L. Welborn (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016), 193–234.

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power and influence to itself (13:12), it mostly uses it to “mark” or “brand” people (13:16–17). It does attempt to “kill” everyone that is non-compliant (13:15), but “kill” seems to be metaphorically used for the beast as well—as something akin to “convert.” As a loss in war yields death, a loss in religious confrontation yields conversion, a substantive change in perspective and commitments from one group and message to another group and another message.135 The beast then, like God, has those who are “easy” and “hard” to kill. It was substantially less difficult for the beast to change the commitments of those names not written in the celestial book (13:8), but he must mount an entire “war” (πόλεμος; 13:7) to win the saints over to the majority group. The goal of this “war” is explicitly worship of the beast, not death (13:8). The weapons are “speaking loud” and “blasphemies” (13:5), miraculous signs (13:13) and images (13:14). The last one especially—marking (13:16–18), which takes place on the same bodily locations as the heavenly sealings (7:2–8), and in keeping with or mockery of Deut 6:8—demonstrates that this is a branding war. It is intended to keep Israel (the “earth-dwellers”; 13:8, 12, 14) in a continued Babylon-styled “captivity” (13:10). The beast is denounced as a “deceiver” more than a “killer” (13:14). That would be odd if he had murdered, or was likely to murder in the narrative, even a very few people. One doesn’t remember Al Capone for his tax evasion. This produces an inconsistency or incoherency in a narrative that is supposed to be about beastly, demonic violence. Every element of this “war,” from its purposes to its tools to its outcomes, points to it being a war of witness; and Caesar is not pleased to leave it entirely one-sided. God wants a restoration and return of his people from spiritual captivity;136 the beast wants to maintain the captivity in perpetuity. It is probably not a coincidence that the great adulteress is expressly the consort of Babylon-as-Rome (17:3, 5).137 This group—who of course is presented as 135  These are metaphorical concepts and not amenable to exact one-to-one semantic correspondences. That is why “death” can at one point mean conversion, and at another restoration, redemption, atonement, etc. See sections 6.1.3 and 6.3. I choose “conversion” here because the beast is expressly intending, not just a new worship pattern (centered on itself), but a changed worship pattern from the one previous. For a recent treatment of “conversion” in the NT from a CMT perspective, see Joel B. Green, Conversion in Luke-Acts: Divine Action, Human Cognition, and the People of God (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2015). 136  Pattemore, People of God, 216: “the story of the new people of God can be told in colours not only of the original Exodus from Egypt, but even more of the New Exodus from Babylon. This journey occupies the whole of the book, and their destiny is thus described in terms of a New Jerusalem, the dwelling place of God.” 137  Koester, Revelation, 736. He, helpfully and correctly, separates the actions of the adulteress here from those of her consort, the beast.

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unfaithful most particularly to God—is also fairly well-to-do (17:4). They have made an alliance (received the mark) with the source of their wealth (Rome), and that alliance has caused them to “convert” or change sides in the argument from God to the beast. John does not anticipate that this arrangement will continue to be quite so happy (17:16). Regardless of how the story plays out for the adulteress, the strategy of the beast is not truly to “kill” any more than it is God’s strategy. It is his intent to win converts, and so to perpetuate captivity (anti-restoration), using the economic and social pressures he has at his disposal (group inclusion or rejection). If this is not so, it needs to be answered why the beast is so much less effective a killer than God is. 4.1.4.8 The “Gospel” Is the “Hour of Judgment” Towards the end of the large interlude (chapters 12–14) that separates the trumpets from the bowls, an angel flying in mid-heaven is said to be proclaiming the “eternal gospel” (εὐαγγέλιον αἰώνιον; 14:6). The stated contents of that gospel, however, are “the hour of judgment” (ἡ ὥρα τῆς κρίσεως; 14:7), because of which nations, tribes, languages, and people are to fear, glorify, and worship God. Judgment need not be a negative experience, of course.138 The righteous are judged and thereby vindicated (e.g., Ps 7:8, 35:23–24). But the judgments that John has in view are punitive (14:19–20) and an expression of “wrath” (14:19, 15:1). They also lead the reader back into the bowls sequence where the “judgment” (κρίνω 16:5; κρίσις 16:7) is of the marked, murderers, and blasphemers (16:2, 6, 9). These are not judgments of the righteous. The incongruity that needs to be resolved then is how these tortuous (16:10) and ineffectual (16:11) judgments can be called “good news” in 14:6.139 An entailment of argument is war, when that argument is had with God, is that the righteous and the faithful should lose the argument. They should lose the war. They should die. “Death,” when it is projected back up into the argument space, should be something akin to “agreement.” The unrighteous and unfaithful will not die in that schema, because they are not agreeing with God (16:9). It is important to notice at this point then that nobody dies during the bowl sequence. They don’t die because they aren’t on God’s side of the argument. They aren’t (yet) part of the restoration, or allowed to be. 138  Koester, Revelation, 294, 785, in which Koester sees “positive judgment” also at work in the book. 139  Boring offers that it is “good news,” though flanked by “the coming violence of God’s judgment,” because it is a harbinger of the new age. That of course does not answer the question. The announcement is in the chapter with the bloody reapings, not the New Jerusalem. See Boring, Revelation, 115.

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And that is what constitutes the “judgment.” They are judged, at least for the moment, to be unprepared (16:15; cf. 19:7–8, 21:2). The gospel itself is a judgment on the unprepared and unrighteous (exclusion for judgment). There is good news (the restoration) and not everybody gets to take part (yet). As with the treading of the grapes, the second part of the global harvest needs a little more work before it’s ready. The bowls constitute that “work.” The “judgment” (17:1) of the great adulteress in chapters 17 and 18 is an interlude in the war story that serves to explain the bowls in chapter 16.140 Her judgment begins in the bowls, but doesn’t end until 18:8—when she dies. Her death is then celebrated in the beginning of 19. This celebration seems to be of her “salvation” (19:1). The heavens rejoice at the judgment of the adulteress (19:1–4) because it is by that judgment that she once again becomes the bride (19:7–9). The group symbolized by the adulteress is finally restored. The gospel stirs them to jealousy (à la Rom 11:13–14) because there is a restoration in which they had been unable to take part, as symbolized by their harm—but not death—during the bowls (e.g., 16:9). That carrot (the possibility of getting to take part in the restoration), along with the stick of their mistreatment by Rome (17:16), finally causes the re-conversion even of those previously converted away from—what John would take to be—orthodox Judaism (13:16). How else could the adulteress die twice, by two different sets of means, and by two very different agents (17:16, 18:8)? Like the grass of the earth, John hasn’t forgotten that he had just said the beast would kill her; he’s explaining that there would be at least two reasons for her repentance and return. And so two killers rather than one are projected back up into the war space. One would be Christ and his new and exciting messianic restoration movement, and the other would be the beast and his false and dissatisfying friendship. They both—and oddly together, as John indicated (17:17)—would “kill” her. The judgment is the carrot here, not the stick. That is because it is the gospel, the good news, for those prepared to take part. 4.1.4.9

Not Dying during the Bowl Plagues Is Equated to Not Entering the Temple Chapter 15 is a short set-up to reintroduce the last of the war sequences (the bowls) after the long interlude of chapters 12–14. Its language is more negative than was that of its counterpart sequences.141 The bowls are “plagues” and “judgments” of God, now also explicitly of the unrepentant (16:9, 11). Two important outcomes of the bowl sequence are that 1) nobody dies—which is an 140  Yarbro Collins, Combat Myth, 14–15. 141  Boxall, Revelation, 224–25.

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incongruity given the previous statement and the fact that many others in the seals and trumpets already had died, and in great numbers—and 2) nobody enters the temple (the inner part, ὁ ναός). The righteous are already in the ναός (11:1–2) so the barring of access is against this specific group of “blasphemers” (16:9, 11, 21), a word group that will be conjured again three verses later at the introduction of the adulteress (17:3). What is implicated is that the blasphemers aren’t entering the temple because they’re not dying. The bowls are worse because of the lack of death. The unprepared are refusing the restoration and responding with blasphemies instead. In contradistinction, the people in white robes in 7:14 had just come through the great tribulation and so were now praising God before his throne (which is to say, they are dead); and they are doing it, expressly, “in his temple” (ἐν τῷ ναῷ αὐτοῦ; 7:15). They had entered by means of dying, which implies that the subjects of the bowl judgments can’t enter the temple because they can’t or won’t (yet) “die.” There is a consistent story here between chapters 7 and 15: death gives access to God.142 It is the means of restoration. And so restoration gets projected back up into the war space, where it would not otherwise belong. The bowls aren’t the end of the story however. There is a recursion. The judgment of the bowls carries over into the judgment of the adulteress (17:1), and in that judgment she finally “dies” (18:8). It is only then that the restored bride is prepared for the final battle (19:7–9). The messianic leader returns (19:11), the “armies of heaven” follow in the clean dress of the bride (βύσσινον λευκὸν καθαρόν 19:14; cf. βύσσινον λαμπρὸν καθαρόν 19:8),143 the gentile nations (19:15) advance to counter her (19:19), and they are utterly defeated (19:20–21). The bride can’t win the war until she’s been fully restored.144 The seals, trumpets, and bowls achieve that—by means of death. 4.1.4.10 The Bride, the Birds, and the Two Suppers There are two “suppers” (δεῖπνον) in the Apocalypse, both at the last battle (the culminating event of the war) in chapter 19. The first is the wedding supper of the Lamb (19:9), a celebratory event. The second is eight verses later (19:17)— the “great supper of God,” in which Ezekiel’s birds (Ezek 39:4) feast on the “flesh 142  L oren L. Johns, “Atonement and Sacrifice in the Book of Revelation,” in The Work of Jesus Christ in Anabaptist Perspective: Essays in Honor of J. Denny Weaver, eds. J. Denny Weaver, Alain Epp Weaver, and Gerald J. Mast (Telford, PA: Cascadia, 2008), 126–27. 143  Pattemore, People of God, 192–93. 144  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 219–20: “the return of the ten tribes and the reunion of all Israel [was] a traditional element in the eschatological hope … specifically in order to take part in the messianic war” (219).

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of all [people]” (Rev 19:18). Δεῖπνον is not used anywhere else in the book. John seems to be quickly—and, one might say, violently—turning the celebratory wedding supper into a cannibalistic frenzy (see section 4.1.1.2). Humans don’t process lexical items based on some universal, abstracted essence of their meaning, but rather are prompted by context to process lexical items a certain way. If two friends are by a river and one of them mentions the “bank,” her interlocutor will likely understand that term to mean the edge formed by the ground abutting the river. If they are discussing finances, it will mean a place where money is kept. If they are pilots discussing flight operations, it will mean to turn the plane. The context prompts for meaning.145 John uses the wedding “supper” to contextualize the battle “supper.”146 The “consumption” of the battle-dead is now celebratory. This produces an aporia of both the moral and logical type. It is a logical aporia under the literal/ metonymic interpretation because there’s no seeming reason to bind one supper to the other. It’s a non-sequitur, a comparison of radically different things on the literal level. And of course on the moral level, it creates the unwanted implication of the celebration of human suffering and debasement, even post-mortem.147 If the metaphor argument is war pertains, however, “consumption” unpacks in the network as conversion. The wedding feast on corpses becomes Bauckham’s conversion of the nations.148 The battle in 19:11–21 is a proleptic vision of the battle of Gog and Magog in 20:8–9,149 in which the assailants of the “saints” are explicitly “the gentiles” (τὰ ἔθνη; 20:8). Note that the gentiles are “consumed” (κατεσθίω; 20:9) at Magog as well, this time by fire. The conversion is consumption sub-metaphor is tying this entire section together by employing two visions of the same “supper.” If the metaphor does not pertain, the comparison becomes truly ghastly (and the aporia remains).

145  This example is a paraphrase of an extended one from Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 621–26. 146  Huber, Like a Bride, 157–59, also makes this connection between the two in an excursus, though not on the basis of the “supper.” She sees the cognitive metaphors a bridegroom is a warrior and war is sex operating. 147  Koester, Revelation, 731, 741, 759, notes what he takes to be a contrastive relationship between the two suppers—though there is no evidence of such a contrast—but leaves unanswered the moral implications of a celebratory feast on corpses or why John would create an intentional connection between an event so “gracious” (731) and one so brutal. 148  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 238. 149  That chapters 19 and 20 are the same battle is made evident by the fact that the birds from the original battle of Gog and Magog in Ezekiel 39 are in the battle in chapter 19, not chapter 20 (which is actually named “Gog and Magog” in 20:8).

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4.1.4.11 Entry into the New Jerusalem And so the entry of the gentiles—led by the “kings of the earth”—into the New Jerusalem (21:24–26) is a straightforward and un-ironic inclusion of the gentiles in the covenant blessings of the bride.150 Through her ministrations (her “consumption” of them), they too have been cured of “all uncleanness” (πᾶν κοινόν; 21:27) and their names are now also “written in the Lamb’s book of life.” This is conversion language, not subjugation. McNicol’s main argument against Bauckham was that the nations don’t seem to convert in chapter 20 as much as they seem to be subjugated or “sublimated.”151 McNicol arrives at that conclusion because he thinks that it is only the survivors of the world war that cower and “convert.” The problem with that conclusion is that there are no survivors. This point needs to be dealt with by any who wish to hold on to a literalist or metonymic reading of Revelation. The birds eat “all flesh” (σάρκας πάντων; 19:18), from all “four corners of the earth” (20:8), including kings, generals, the mighty, horses and riders, free and slave, small and great (19:18)—a number “like the sand on the seashore” (20:8).152 There isn’t anybody left to subjugate. There isn’t anybody left to process into the city. The only three beings that expressly don’t “die” are the beast, the false prophet (both 19:20 and 20:10), and the devil (20:10). They are thrown—pointedly “alive” (19:20)—into the lake of fire, and in which they will never “die.” Dead grass can’t be hurt, the dead enemies of the two witnesses can’t rejoice, and dead kings can’t process. These are all nearly insurmountable incongruities in the narrative of Revelation—unless of course “death” means something very much different than what it usually means. Death is being substantively changed in the witness blended space and projected back into God’s war with the world as something that has the power to bring the gentiles into the kingdom of God. If there is no blend, there is no change to “death”—and the processing kings are coming out of nowhere. These eleven aporias or incongruities are functioning as markers for the metaphor argument is war. They occur throughout the narrative, from 150  Hylen, “Metaphor Matters,” all but names the standard metonymic reading of these events an “aporia” when she writes “[a]lthough the language of Revelation 19 implies the utter annihilation of the kings of the earth, the imagery of the holy city contradicts this notion” and “the juxtaposition of these images disrupts the logic of each metaphor” which creates “tensions” (791). They are “contrary aspects of God’s nature” (794). 151  McNicol, Conversion of the Nations, xv, 120–21. 152  Both “free and slave” and “small and great” are merisms, which are devices for saying “everything,” or in this case “everybody”; e.g., Gen 1:1. “Sand on the seashore” is an allusion to the Abrahamic promise of numerous descendants (Gen 22:17, 32:12)—the war being how John believes that promise will finally be fulfilled.

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chapter five to twenty-two, and at regular intervals in between. They present real processing difficulties for someone interpreting the violent language literally or metonymically, but are easily resolved by appealing to metaphor. Over and over again in the text, the writer presents these incongruities as inferential clues to recreate his network. The problem has not been that the incongruities were unseen, but rather that many of them were resolved by projecting back into the judgment space instead of argument. This strategy has the appearance of validity because 1) judgment does take place in the text and 2) judgment, like argument, is often mouth-oriented. John apparently also recognized this potential retrojection and, to help his readers avoid the implication, repeatedly and explicitly denied that the seals and trumpets were judgments (6:10, 11:18). And, when he did introduce the temporal judgments (in the bowls series), intentionally kept anyone from dying. Unfortunately, instead of taking the incongruities and using them to reconstruct a network in which those incongruities could be resolved, historical and modern interpreters have inferred that John was either unwilling to be congruent153 or that he was just unable to be for some reason.154 These two options relate directly to the two qualifications of the communicative principle of optimal relevance. Human beings construct our communications to be optimally relevant within our own interests and abilities.155 We have our own intentions in communication and our own unique abilities to produce language. Human beings aren’t computers. Our outputs are rarely maximally relevant to our hearers or readers. But we also need to preserve processing effort and we need good enough effects to make communication worthwhile, so human communication evolved to be optimally (but not maximally) beneficial. And that is what has yielded pragmatic consternation as regards Revelation. The writer wasn’t a computer. He could have been insane (or momentarily 153  E.g., Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis, 144, in which she argues that the language of Revelation is not primarily “referential,” but rather “evocative.” I don’t disagree, but merely point out that “evocation” somewhat hides the comprehension issue by putting the many difficulties behind the firewall of rhetorical and mythopoeic effect (148). I am rather trying to solve the comprehension issue than explain it. deSilva (Seeing Things, 6–8) and Schüssler Fiorenza (Justice and Judgment, 6, 22–24, 183–86, 187–92) have similar strategies. See also Humphrey, Ladies and the Cities, 164–68 (“The Allusive Symbol”). 154  Mulholland, Revelation, 15–25 makes an argument that visionary experience isn’t amenable to “naturalistic” inquiry (15). In other words, certain textual and narratival inconsistencies have to attend “mystic experiences” (17) because of the “nature of vision.” I don’t disagree with this stance either; but, again, I am seeking normal, discourse-level comprehension of Revelation, not spiritual comprehension of it (at least for the purposes of this study). 155  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 615–16.

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insane under the influence of some visionary or psychotropic experience) or simply uninterested in telling the story. Incongruity is also an evidence of those two states. But it didn’t seem like he didn’t care about getting a single, actionable, comprehendible story across (22:18–19). And it didn’t seem like he was so far out of touch with reality that he couldn’t produce an exquisitely intricate piece of writing (e.g., the seven beatitudes).156 If he was willing and able to produce a coherent or congruent story, then it should have been those things. The solution isn’t in how John wrote, but in how we read. The pragmatic failure has not been in the writing, it has been in the reading. We didn’t create the mental spaces John implicitly asked us to—the ones in which the incongruities could be resolved and relevance achieved. There has been some unwritten but absolute rule within the history of interpretation that has said that we must read Revelation metonymically, and every commentator has followed it (see section 1.4). Even if John did actually intend his book to be read using the war for judgment strategy, that can’t explain the universal proclivity towards it. Humans regularly project meanings onto language that they know can’t have been intended (whence the psychological term “projection”). Why was the metaphor argument is war never considered, even as an impossible alternative? We will consider this question more fully in sections 6.2.7 and 6.3.3. For the time being, it should be clear by now that relevance is pushing the reader in one of two directions: either John was sane and wanted to be understood, or he was not and did not. If the former, the incongruities in Revelation point to external knowledge structures that render relevance to the incongruities in the narrative. This may be, subconsciously, why so many writers use terms like “key”157 or “solution”158 for their strategies to interpret Revelation. There is a natural pragmatic inclination, if one takes John to be interested and able to communicate, to see the meaning of Revelation as achievable by “deciphering” or “decoding” it.159 Interlocutors that find incongruities are led by the principle of relevance to search for a “key”—an input space that they can retroject to that will cause the incongruities to resolve. Somehow argument was never considered. In the next section, we will “complete” (in the sense that blending theory uses that word) our unraveling of Revelation’s narrative tangle using the 156  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 29–30 (and the chapter “Structure and Composition” on the whole). 157  E.g., ibid., x, xvi. 158  E.g., Malina and Pilch, Social-Science, 7. 159  E.g., David E. Aune, “The Apocalypse of John and the Problem of Genre,” Semeia 36 (1986): 90.

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hermeneutical “key” of conceptual metaphor. If John intended argument is war to be his controlling metaphor, the structure of the narrative should somehow intuitively look like an argument. Conceptual networks want to resolve to known structures because that is the point in the communication at which the interlocutor says “Ok, I get what you’re saying; I know what this is.” That point is called “relevance,” and the intention for its achievement is the principle upon which all ostensive communication is based.160 4.2

The Completion of ARGUMENT IS WAR

The completion stage of network formation is the “flash of comprehension” that begins to yield relevance.161 This is so because the completion of a network takes place when a reader assigns or recognizes its type.162 Patterns within and around the network seem to fit together in a certain recognizable way. This study began with the deductive conclusion that the metaphor argument is war underlies the narrative of Revelation; but in the real-world, on-line processing of the communication, that experience is inductive. The reader takes in the communication and categorizes it by completing it with patterns native to known structures. When an apt background pattern presents itself, the reader will then begin to run the network using that pattern. Some structures do a better job of “completion” than others, however. If the reader chooses a completing pattern that was not intended, pieces of the network will not work together. Judgment, for instance, has been tried as the background pattern that completes the Revelation network. We saw God apparently killing people and thought, “ah, we know what this is—judgment!” But the patterns of judgment couldn’t make sense of why God would kill the righteous but leave the unrighteous alive, or why he would torture and destroy in so many fanciful (and one might add “unmerciful”) ways, or why John would claim that most of these weren’t judgments at all (6:10, 11:8). Judgment is a background (16:5, 7; 17:1), but not the background. Fauconnier and Turner use as an example an hypothesized conversation between a modern philosopher and Immanuel Kant.163 The modern professor is in a seminar critiquing Kant’s theory of innate ideas and, in a mock discussion with the long-dead philosopher, triumphs over his theory by means of 160  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 271. 161  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 44. 162  Ibid., 104. 163  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 59–62.

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appealing to neuronal group selection (a concept about which the 18th century thinker could know nothing). When the attendees experience the interchange between Kant and the modern philosopher they naturally and unconsciously recruit from the debate frame to structure it. And that added recruitment makes sense of the whole network, gives it a framework according to which it can be creatively elaborated, and puts what otherwise would be a disorienting and impossible conversation into a very human-scale and recognizable activity: debating. In this way, the goal of promoting the theory of acquired reason over innate reason is achieved by constructing an ad hoc network in which the proponent of innate ideas is successfully defeated in debate. John is promoting one idea (the lordship of Jesus Christ; 19:16) over another (the lordship of Caesar; 13:4),164 and he is using an ad hoc network to do so. In that network, the proponent of Caesar as lord is successfully defeated in debate just as Kant was. Caesar is not defeated in the war, at least not completely. As the beast, he never dies (19:20). Caesar, Satan, and everybody who stands with them continue living ad infinitum (20:10, 15). It is their message that is thoroughly defeated (14:9–11).165 The fundamental background frame that John wishes his readers to use is argument. It is the frame that yields optimal relevance because, by recruiting it, maximal pattern completion becomes available in the network (as the aporias demonstrated; see section 4.1.4). As nearly everything that happens between the philosopher and Kant can be described in terms of “debate,” nearly everything that happens between the beast, the dragon, Christ, God, humanity, and angels can be described in terms of “argument.” Even if that were not so, judgment as a framing device has serious difficulties (many that argument does not have), and it should at least be discussed more widely than it has been which completion strategy is more compelling. 4.2.1 Poverty of Metaphors Metaphors complement one another because they map only partially. They are necessarily incomplete tools for the description of abstract concepts.166 They do a good job of yielding accessible blends, but the process of making a topic accessible is the same one that causes metaphors to break down. The source is not the target, it is only like the target in some useful way. When that usefulness wears off, the speaker will often need to change metaphors and begin mapping from some other source. And so it is common for writers and 164  Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 4, 24. 165  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 237. 166  Kövecses, Metaphor, 96–103.

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speakers to appeal to more than one metaphor, as we have seen (section 3.2). One metaphor picks up where another must leave off. This poverty and complementarity of metaphors is displayed in Revelation. The war carries the narrative from chapter 6 (the seals) through chapter 20 (the end of the last battle), which is why I am calling it the “controlling metaphor.”167 But there is substantial material before and after that core section, and several interludes in between. The last major metaphor is the city.168 God takes these human “stones” (21:11, 14, 19–20), “pearls” (21:12–13, 21), and “pillars” (3:12) that he has “hewn” (20:4), and forms them into the foundation (21:14), walls (21:17–18), gates (21:12), and streets (21:21) of the New Jerusalem.169 It is by God “killing” the righteous that his city is completed (a process that otherwise goes entirely unexplained). These metaphors, in other words, are complementary. The war is useful for describing whom and how God is “destroying” (restoring), but it is less useful for describing what God is “building.” Wars don’t build things. The city metaphor is much more fit for that task. It is the positive side of the war narrative—the description of the fate of the “dead” in positive terms. And so now the people not taking part in the restoration are simply left outside God’s newly-constructed building (21:27) rather than burning in the lake of fire (20:15). Their fate becomes exclusion from the city rather than burning in the war. That unexplained change of fates demonstrates the metaphorical nature of John’s language. The great adulteress is another important and complementary metaphor. Her illicit sexuality is meant to be mapped to from the illicit cultic and priestly practices of some among the Israelite leadership (see section 3.3.1.5.2). Her metaphor is intertwined with both the war and city metaphors. She dies in the course of the war, but the way she dies is reminiscent of how an ancient Near Eastern city was destroyed (made desolate, stripped or ransacked, devoured as by famine, and burned with fire; 17:16).170 So, like John uses the war to describe faith responses to God (conversion, repentance, restoration) and like he uses the city to describe the positive goal of God’s new dwelling-place (the New Jerusalem), he uses the adulteress to describe the lack of faith response 167  For a theoretical defense of “the hierarchical nature of metaphors” from a frame-theory and CMT perspective, see Elise Stickles et al., “Formalizing Contemporary Conceptual Metaphor Theory: A Structured Repository for Metaphor Analysis,” Constructions and Frames 8.2 (2016): 1. 168  Eva Maria Räpple, The Metaphor of the City in the Apocalypse of John (New York: Peter Lang, 2004), 7. 169  See Gundry, “New Jerusalem,” 262. 170  Peter F. Gregory, “Its End Is Destruction: Babylon the Great in the Book of Revelation,” CTQ 73 (2009): 137–53.

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among certain groups within Israel. Each of these maps its part. Recalling the section on selective projection above (section 4.1.2), the war can’t tell the story of traitors and deserters because traitorism, desertion, and surrender already exist within the blend as “death.” When John comes to those topics, the usefulness of the war metaphor has worn off. So, in its stead, he creates a complementary interlude, renames the blasphemous bowls-characters “the great adulteress,” and continues on with a new metaphor to fill in the gaps where the war metaphor became functionally impoverished. This is why there are “interludes.” Without complementary metaphors, the story would remain impoverished and unfinished. A third complementary metaphor, this time that John uses to initiate the war, is the heavenly throne room (chapters 4–5). The four horsemen come at the call of the four living beings (6:1–2), who themselves are agents of God (15:7). The throne room scene connects the events of the war to God’s (and the Lamb’s) conscious and intentional agency. Much of what happens in the war would be less clearly by Christ’s design and doing if the throne room scene hadn’t established that Jesus was the sole controller of the seals (5:5, 6:1) and that the Holy Spirit was the seven angel-spirits (4:5, 8:2). The war was less able to explain the nature of the relationship between God, the Lamb, and the Holy Spirit, so John leads off with a metaphor in which dynamics of agency and authority are maximally clarified and ritualized—a kingly throne room.171 There isn’t one, large section for the redemption (commerce) metaphor, but it occurs in important places throughout.172 Laodicea should buy refined gold (3:18), the Lamb purchased from every tribe (5:9), the third seal secures the redemption of the restoration wheat and barley (6:6), the beast-followers trade one kind of redemption for another (13:17), and the 144,000 are redeemed from the “earth” (14:3, 4). Redemption describes something in the process of restoration that the act of killing cannot—the cost to the person doing the killing. Purchasing can be costly. Not surprisingly, the redemption metaphor commonly collocates with the Lamb, who effected the “purchase” by his blood (5:9). There are many more metaphors in the Apocalypse of course. Vision and revelation itself is one (3:17–18).173 Knowing is seeing is operating throughout the book,174 and the author’s dedication to the truth claims inherent in this 171  J . Daryl Charles, “Imperial Pretensions and the Throne-Vision of the Lamb: Observations on the Function of Revelation 5,” CTR 7.3 (1993): 86, 89. 172  Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 73–74. 173   Aune, for example recognizes several metaphors using “blindness” (see Aune, Revelation 1–5, 259, 286–87). 174  On the near-universality of knowing is seeing see, e.g., Kövecses, Where Metaphors Come From, 94.

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metaphor is seen nowhere more clearly than in the fact that, in order to make his own argument, he attempts to give the reader a “vision.”175 Agriculture appears in the two reapings to describe the “readiness” of people to die in a way that the war can’t; clothing describes righteousness in a way the war can’t; celestial events describe heavenly responses, the priestly metaphors describe cultic dynamics, ingestion describes appropriation, and pastoring describes spiritual leadership all in ways that war is not apt to be descriptive. They are all complementary to the seals, trumpets, and bowls—either setting them up (the throne room), explaining them (the adulteress), or concluding them (the city). These metaphors are complementing war because war is a metaphor. It maps incompletely.176 It is impoverished by the fact that it can’t explain the great eschatological debate fully. And it need not. John could have made the “great adulteress” a “great traitor.” There were traitors in the first century. The fact that he felt comfortable switching to a completely different metaphor indicates that war is in fact just a metaphor. It isn’t real in John’s thought. It is a useful, meaningful, structuring domain for the (real) great debate that he is happy to diverge from when the need arises. Given the massive numbers of metaphors that surround the war and explain it in Revelation,177 it is hard to understand why the war itself was never treated as one. This needs to be answered by those who wish to maintain that John saw the war as metonymic and real. If there is not one, real, human adulteress who really is drunk on blood, why must the war that kills her be real? If she isn’t real, how is it even possible for her death to be? If someone would wish to counter that John saw the throne room as real or the New Jerusalem as real, they would need to explain why creatures are covered and filled with eyes (4:6, 8) and why cities are made out of human beings (21:12, 14, 17). These are all metaphors. That John literally thought God ruled (the implication of the throne room) or that he would come to dwell among his people (the implication of the New Jerusalem) is likely true. Metaphors are not untrue, they are an out-sourced explanation of something the writer/speaker believes to be true. John believed in the sovereign rule of God and Christ and used a human throne room to envision that reality. He believed in the eschatological family of God and used a 175  deSilva, Seeing Things, 196 [of the function of the vision in 5:13]: “Such a vision, if imaginatively engaged, cannot fail to arouse genuine awe in response.” 176  As metaphors have to; see Tendahl and Gibbs, “Complementary Perspectives,” 1842. 177  I count thirty-five beyond argument, war, and judgment: agency, agriculture, anatomical, arithmetic, audition, celestial, clothing, commerce, construction, creation, criminality, cult (imperial), cult (pagan), cult (temple), dramatic, emotion, fauna, family, flora, health, ingestion, kingship, learning, legal (‫) ִריב‬, marriage, music, nautical, pastoral, purity, scribal, sexual, time, topology, travel, and vision.

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human city to envision that reality. And he believed that, in order to get from one to the other, God would need to bring the world to a willing and grateful knowledge of himself and used a human war to envision that. 4.2.2 Metonymies Metonymies are not impoverished. There is no theoretical reason why every bit of the source can’t be mapped to the target in a metonymy because they share the same domain.178 It is, unlike metaphor, a complete mapping. If a person were to use the metonymy the white house for the federal administrative branch of government, anything that she might say about the administration could be mapped to from “White House,” and there isn’t anything she could say that can’t be mapped. If the administration made a mistake, the White House made one. If the administration aided a foreign entity in distress, the White House also provided that aid. When the administration changes hands, the White House does as well. “White House” is providing access to the conceptual region united states federal administrative branch of government. Once that equation is made, all other crossmappings become available as well—and, at least theoretically, necessary. As stated above, this is not the case with metaphors. Love might be like a war, but it doesn’t use AK-47’s. An argument might be like a war, but the one losing it doesn’t die. There are metonymies in Revelation. The first beast is a metaphor for Rome because beasts and governments occupy different domains. But the seven hills are not a metaphor (17:9). Rome actually has seven hills. They provide access to Rome via metonymy, and once that equation is made everything that happens to the seven hills happens to Rome.179 The adulteress sitting upon the seven hills (17:3, 9) is equal to the adulteress sitting on Rome. The relationship between the adulteress and Rome is a (sexual) metaphor,180 but the one between the seven hills and Rome is not. Similarly, naming Jerusalem Sodom or Egypt is a metaphor (11:8). They are like and unlike. But naming it the place where the 178  René Dirven, “Introduction,” in Metaphor and Metonymy in Comparison and Contrast, ed. René Dirven and Ralf Pörings (New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 2003), 10. 179  E.g., Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 343–50. For an origin-story of the seven hills “canon,” see Aune, Revelation 1–5, 115. 180  Many commentators take this character’s “sitting” in Rome’s lap as a kind of enthronement (e.g., Osborne, Revelation, 617). Her character’s name (17:1, 5), dress (17:4), and behavior (17:2) however argue rather for a sexual interpretation. Notice that she is also (and first) said to “sit on many waters” (17:1), who are later explicitly said to be “peoples, multitudes, nations and languages” in general. The implication is that she is sexually (spiritually) “promiscuous,” not that she has a great deal of political authority. The enthronement position disregards the power structure inherent in prostitution as well.

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witnesses’ lord was crucified is a metonymy. Jesus was crucified there. Every equative mapping becomes available once that association is made. This is important to our purposes because the war (as such) isn’t always available in the narrative. Some very good things happen to a large section of the earth’s population. The new city is massive (21:16–17) and stocked with happy people (21:3–4), including gentiles (21:26) and even their kings (21:24).181 This outcome isn’t available in the war for judgment schema. Wars have aftermaths and this is simply the wrong one. People “die” and return to the narrative with regularity (the two witnesses, the 144,000, etc.). And John recommends “overcoming” to the seven congregations (e.g., 2:7) in a war in which, seemingly, no one makes it out alive (19:18). These are mappings in the narrative that aren’t available in a purely judgment/war domain. Life is the wrong outcome for war. There are also mappings that have to be made if war for judgment pertains that commonly are not. Death has to be bad. It can’t mean faithfulness or restoration or anything else positive because a war of judgment doesn’t intend anything positive.182 Good outcomes for enemies lie outside of the domain. And so when God is killing and torturing innocents (9:5, 11:13), however creatively one maps from “death” and “torture,” that can’t mean anything positive (at least for those so suffering). By comparison, God is then treating the blasphemers preferentially because they aren’t dying (16:9, 11, 21). One might also note the regular (and disturbing) heavenly celebrations of divine violence (e.g., 11:17–18, 19:1–4). These implications must remain if Revelation is using divine war to tell the story of judgment. It is not enough to recognize that God, Jesus, and the saints are given angry and retributive attitudes (6:10, 16–17, etc.). They are more inclined to kill innocent people than any other group. How will metonymic interpreters answer that objection? Mental spaces are usually much smaller cognitive structures than frames, and they reside and form within frames.183 The smaller mental space war resides within the larger frame of Hostile_encounter (where things other than wars, including judgments, can be “hostile encounters”) and the mental space argument resides in the frame Reasoning. When the blend is made and the metaphor achieved, those two larger frames also blend so that the good 181  Gundry, “New Jerusalem,” 260. 182  Bauckham, Theology, 123: “Judgment at the parousia threatens the churches (2:16; 3:3; cf. 16:15) no less than the world. Prophecy warns of that judgment with salvific intent, just as does the churches’ witness to the world.” That may be, but Bauckham never satisfactorily explains why, if God’s judgment has “salvific intent,” it is pictured as being so ineffective in the actual narrative (e.g., 9:21; 16:9, 11). 183  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 40.

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outcomes of argument (conversion, salvation, restoration) now apply to war. If war is being mapped to judgment however, both of those mental spaces are within the one frame Hostile_encounter. “Hostility” must therefore always apply. There isn’t a positive domain to draw from (so there should be no city of God) and the domain they are in is undifferentiatedly unsalutary (so God is doing only harmful things). If God is doing anything good, and if there are any good outcomes, those things strongly implicate that Revelation is not based on a metonymy. Metonymy won’t allow overcoming, new life, and the New Jerusalem because it is prisoner to a hostile frame. It is perhaps for this reason that Revelation has seemed so disjointed. To move so quickly and seamlessly from the total destruction of the war (21:1) to the exalted city (21:2) is a massive non-sequitur on a metonymic reading. The people that don’t die (and there aren’t many, and they aren’t good) get to walk into the city. But on the metaphorical reading, it is the war that builds the city. It is the “dead” (and there are many, and they are good) that get to walk in. There is also a massive non-sequitur between the throne room scene where the redeeming Lamb is exalted for his loving sacrifice (5:9) and the beginning of the war where that same Lamb opens the seals and one quarter of the earth dies (6:8).184 On the metaphorical reading however, the quarter of the earth is being saved, which does and should follow the precedent of the loving and saving Lamb (1:5). Even if argument is war is not the correct metaphor, some metaphor operates within Revelation because any metonymy must disintegrate the narrative as it stands. Metonymies are intra-domain, and in a domain that accommodates war and judgment, there is no place for redeeming messiahs (the beginning of the story) or tearless cities (the story’s end). Either the metonymy is abandoned or the non-sequiturs remain; and so, therefore, does lack of comprehension. 4.2.3 Pattern Completion and Multiple-Scope Creativity There are four basic kinds of networks: simple, mirror, single-scope, and doublescope.185 Argument is war is usually a single-scope network.186 Arguments, which are abstract and diffuse concepts, are structured by war. It is that “single scope” of the war that frames our understanding of arguments. For example, if someone were to say to her friend “how do you defend yourself?” her hearer 184  For a discussion of several such “shifts in point of view” in Revelation, including this one, see Witherington, Revelation, 131–32. 185  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 119–35. 186  Ibid., 126–27, and the example of “boxing CEO’s.”

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would understand that he was now being placed in the context of an argument. He might demonstrate that he had completed the war pattern by putting himself in a defensive posture, taking up an argument of his own (going on “offense”), or trying to restore peace and resolve the argument (by apologizing, explaining, etc.). Any of these would show that he is now thinking about his conversation in terms of “war.” John’s is not a single-scope network. The “war” is doing some things that wars don’t usually do. God is fighting and killing his friends (7:14), and not his enemies (16:9, 11, 21). Wars don’t work like that. Also, the result of the war is life and peace of those so killed (7:15–17; 20:4; 21:24). Wars don’t end like that. Another “scope” is intruding on the metaphor and causing it to behave in unusual ways. The last two chapters have been making the case that argument is acting as a second scope, a second framing element in what is usually only a single-scope metaphor.187 Why would John be thinking that way? As was argued earlier, the way that networks (and metaphors) come to be recognized is through pattern completion.188 We recognize things as happening within a pattern that we know. Eschatological war was a pattern that John’s readers already knew.189 They were expecting it, perhaps imminently (1:1, 2:16, 22:20), and so many of the OT passages that he draws from use that pattern, such as Joel’s locust-horses (Joel 2:4, Rev 9:7) or Ezekiel’s Gog and Magog (Ezek 38:2, Rev 20:8).190 John isn’t just understanding argument in terms of war, he is understanding (or re-understanding) the “war” in terms of argument. If he had just wanted to talk about God’s war, he would not have changed the pattern. If he had just wanted to talk about the gospel (God’s argument), he would not have changed the pattern. But he wanted to talk about both, and so what should have been a single-scope metaphor became double-scope. Revelation is trying to explain OT predictions of violence and war at the end of the age, but it is also trying to explain OT predictions of restoration and the inclusion of the gentiles. Those things need to be reconciled and harmonized in his mind. It is not enough for him to anticipate a universal acceptance of Yahweh even among the gentiles, John attempts to show that Gog and Magog predicted that (Ezek 38–39). It isn’t enough that God would restore unfaithful Israel to himself, he uses passages prophesying the judgment of the adulteress for that (πόρνη; Isa 1:21, Ezek 16:30, 23:43, Rev 18:2). He’s re-interpreting the

187  See especially sections 3.3.1.2 and 4.1.2. 188  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 48–49, 328. 189  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 210–37. 190  Boxall, Revelation, 233–34; Beale, Revelation, 132.

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Hebrew scriptures in light of Christ.191 Specifically, he is offering argument is war as the hermeneutical key that reconciles OT predictions of wide-spread eschatological death192 and wide-spread eschatological salvation.193 If argument is war, death is salvation. Take for example what many commentators recognize to be a consistent appeal to the plagues of Egypt in the war narrative.194 Frogs don’t appear very often in scripture,195 and so when they do appear it prompts the reader to read the sixth bowl (Rev 16:13) in light of the second plague (Exod 8:1). It happens soon after water is turned to blood in the second bowl (Rev 16:3), as also happens during the first plague (Exod 7:14). John helpfully even calls them “plagues” (πληγή; 15:1, 6, 8; 16:9). What is interesting for the purposes of this study is that, although the first and second plagues of Egypt happen late and in the same order in Revelation’s bowls, the other plagues happen in reverse order and early. John begins the war narrative with a “slain Lamb” (ἀρνίον … ἐσφαγμένον; 5:6), an allusion to the story of the Passover (ἀρήν/σφάζω; Exod 12:5–6).196 He is starting the story of the Egyptian plagues from the wrong end. Following Revelation’s order, the tenth plague of the death of the “firstborn” (πρωτότοκος, Exod 12:29) opens not just the war narrative but John’s whole letter (πρωτότοκος, Rev 1:5). The ninth plague, that of “darkness” (σκότος, Exod 10:21), occurs in the sixth seal (μέλας, Rev 6:12). The eighth plague of locusts (ἀκρίς, Exod 10:4) happens in the fifth trumpet (ἀκρίς, Rev 9:3). The seventh plague of hail (χάλαζα, Exod 9:18) is in the seventh trumpet (χάλαζα, Rev 11:19). And the sixth plague of sores (ἕλκος, Exod 9:9) are the very first bowl (ἕλκος, Rev 16:2). John is using (seven of) the ten Egyptian plagues as is generally recognized, but the first five of them— those operating during the seals and trumpets, which are not judgments— are happening in reverse order. During those periods, John is redeeming Israel from its bondage to the beast. And for those of Israel who don’t wish to be set free (those enthralled by the beast; 13:4, 8, 10), the story returns to its right and original (and discomfiting) order.197 191  Beale, Revelation, 132; Beale, John’s Use, 63; Bauckham, Theology, 68, 74–77. 192  Collins, Apocalyptic Imagination, 167–71, 275–76. 193  Ibid., 5. 194  E.g., Aune, Revelation 6–16, 499–506; Boxall, Revelation, 136, 149, 177. 195  Exod 8 (eleven times), two Psalms that remember Exod 8 (78:45, 105:30), and Rev 16:13. 196  Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 97; Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 184; Bauckham, Theology, 70–72. 197  If someone might object that the Egyptian plagues, in their original order, rescued Israel, it should be pointed out that—as he does with Babylon—John now reinterprets unfaithful Israel in terms of Egypt (11:8).

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Much has been written on “John’s use of the Old Testament in Revelation.”198 It should be more broadly recognized that he is self-consciously re-interpreting especially OT prophetic literature in light of the (redeeming) Christ event. John regularly uses restoration passages (Ps 2, Zech 12 and 14, Isa 2, Hos 2, Ezek 40– 48, etc.),199 and commentators have taken to saying that many of those uses are ironic reversals200 or “inverted uses.”201 If argument is war however, Revelation isn’t reversing the restoration, it’s reversing the war. It is Gog and Magog and the Egyptian plagues that are inverted instead of the restoration passages. If that is not the case, then in what sense is John using the slain Lamb to reinterpret anything, as should be (5:1–5)? That becomes just a good idea that never gets worked out through the actual narrative. And so John is trying to complete two patterns or two “scopes” at once. He has to talk about the war. It is all over his source material. But he wants also to talk about the restoration, which is equally present. He’s trying to harmonize the OT prophetic expectations of global, eschatological war with the return of Israel from exile and the conversion of the nations. Making the war a war of witness is his means of doing that. The end of his story is life, the beginning of it is Christ, but the narrative itself is of death. Some harmonization has to be affecting the war. If argument is war, the series of battles that make up the seals, trumpets, and bowls are agonistic and verbal challenges and ripostes,202 as in the debate with Kant. In a book that is supposedly about the implacable cruelty of Rome (13:15–18),203 this explains why the beast takes so little part in the three battle series. John sees the final testimonial battles for Israel and the world to be largely unanswerable on the part of the dragon (as a prophet might). Jesus is revealed through the seals (they at least reveal that he is “worthy”; 5:2, 5), which fairly easily convince the 144,000 to follow him (14:4). The ministry of the Spirit during the trumpets (5:6, 8:6) convinces the multitude in white robes (7:14) which are constituted by larger sections of Israel (8:7), the diaspora (8:8– 11), and even now some of the gentiles (9:15). And the judgment (by way of 198  The title of Greg Beale’s book on the subject. See also Steve Moyise, The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation, JSNTSup 115 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995); Jauhiainen, Use of Zechariah; and Fekkes, Isaiah and Prophetic Traditions. 199  See, e.g., Jauhiainen, Use of Zechariah, 37–61 (the chapter “Zechariah and the Restoration of Israel”). 200  Beale, Revelation, 289; Boxall, Revelation, 32. 201  Beale, Revelation, 94–96 (under the heading “Inverted Uses”); Beale, John’s Use, 122–24 (under the heading “Inverted Use of the Old Testament”). 202  Malina and Pilch, Social-Science, 185. For a short explanation of the honor-seeking social device, see pp. 208–9. 203  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 409; Smalley, Revelation, 3–4.

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non-inclusion) of the unfaithful adulteress is the last argument that finally restores all of Israel as the bride of Christ (19:6–8), helped by the false friendship of Rome (17:16). She is now prepared to have a serious debate with the rest of the world over who is Lord. In a last-ditch effort to win that argument, the dragon aggregates all of the world’s resistance to the Lamb into a final challenge (20:8) and in that gambit loses everything (20:9–10) while the woman wins the pot (21:9–10). All of creation is then returned to peaceful relationship with their creator (22:1–5). Judgment can’t complete the pattern of what is happening in the war, but argument can. As noted above, the metonymy war for judgment can’t explain the outcome of the New Jerusalem or why John would have the redeeming, suffering Lamb introduce the seals. They constitute non-sequiturs in the narrative, caused by keeping all the relevant mental spaces within a single, violent domain. If the external domain of argument is appealed to, however, implications of conversion and repentance are possible whereby the Lamb, as progenitor of the eschatological war, can be progenitor of the restoration as well, with the city is its outcome. It is judgment that has completed the war pattern in the history of interpretation, though. That is why the book never achieved relevance. The metonymic story doesn’t completely lack relevance; it just has less relevance than the metaphorical story does. The readers were supposed to experience John’s own “flash of comprehension” at the realization that the Lamb was restoring Israel and all the other nations to God by means of the promised eschatological war, but that flash never came. War was never mapped to argument, OT prophecies of war remained literally or metonymically interpreted, and the story remained a disintegrated and horribly violent mess.

Chapter 5

The Linguistic Instantiation of argument is war Because metaphors exist in thought, they also exist in language. Conceptual metaphors create linguistic phenomena that make them discernible from other types of figurative uses of language (or we wouldn’t likely have the word “metaphor” at all). This chapter will investigate the way the language of Revelation has encoded John’s metaphorical thought. In the first half of the chapter, special attention will be given to what Gerard Steen calls the “deliberate” use of metaphors. “[A] metaphor,” he writes, “is used deliberately when its structure signals that the addressee has to move away their attention momentarily from the target domain of the utterance or even phrase to the source domain that is evoked by the metaphor-related expression.”1 I am arguing that war is the source domain that receives that increased attention in the Apocalypse. Deliberate metaphors ask to be conceptualized as metaphors. There is some “metaphor flag,”2 some metalinguistic signal that the word or phrase should be understood metaphorically rather than otherwise, and particularly that the source domain should be given deliberate (though not necessarily conscious) attention. In the second half of the chapter, we will return to several of the linguistic characteristics of metaphor as predicted by CMT generally (see section 2.2.1) and investigate to what degree they too indicate the presence of the conceptual metaphor argument is war. 5.1

Metalinguistic Signals and Deliberate Metaphors

There are several kinds of “metaphor flags” or signals for readers to perform cross-domain mapping in comprehension.3 Potentially, any part of speech can be metaphorically used.4 Theoretically, any words or phrases that prompt for cross-domain lexical disambiguation prompt for metaphor. Occasionally, these prompts will also serve the purpose of deliberately making that prompt—making it in such a way that the source must be appealed to in real time in order for the communication to yield relevance. Deliberate metaphors, 1  Steen, “Developing, Testing and Interpreting,” 68. 2  Steen, “From Three Dimensions,” 100–101. 3  Steen, Finding Metaphor, section 11.2.1 (“Signaling”), 317–18. 4  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 197–98.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004435773_006

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therefore, have two pragmatic goals: to convey metaphorical meaning and to signal that that meaning should be metaphorically derived. The second intent is a second-order representation (a metarepresentation) of the first, and so its signal is a metalinguistic signal.5 This insight comports well with the pragmatic expectations of RT. Conveying metaphorical meaning is a particular instantiation of the general, pragmatic “informative intent”—the intent to inform a hearer of something (in this case, something metaphorical).6 Drawing metalinguistic attention to the metaphorical nature of that conveyance is an instantiation of the “communicative intent”—the intent to inform the hearer of the communicator’s informative intent.7 Within DMT, this informing of intent constitutes “deliberate” metaphor. This distinction is not an essential one on the cognitive level. John thinks in metaphor so he writes in metaphor. And so many of the insights from Fauconnier and Turner deal with that transition from thought to language.8 But there is a second transition, from language to communication.9 A language will package how the speaker intends her speech to be framed and received. This second-level intent, beyond the informative intent, resides in the domain of pragmatics and begins at the level of language. Language signals, and can signal for signals as well. Whether and how and how well hearers comprehend those signals will be the subject of the next chapter. For the present, it is important to note that language is the middle term between cognition and comprehension, and as such it has its own metaphorical phenomenology. And metaphor flags are a large part of the linguistic phenomenon. 5.1.1 The Relative Rarity of the “A Is B” Formula One of the important uses of metaphor is as a shorthand, pre-compressed way of talking about things that are complex. Like words in general, they are precompressions (when they are not novel) that ease the communication task and allow it to move along quickly and smoothly.10 Metaphors save processing effort and render greater relevance, especially when considering abstractions.11 5  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 74: “The human internal representation system is clearly rich enough to allow for second-order representations of representations. In other words, the language of thought acts as its own meta-language.” 6  Ibid., 163. 7  Ibid. 8  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, chapter 9 (“The Origin of Language”), 171–93. 9  Steen, Finding Metaphor, section 1.1 (“Grammar versus usage”), 5–7. 10  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 153–54. 11  Kövecses, Metaphor, 7.

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For this reason, interlocutors will likely not draw attention to their use of metaphors unless some need compels them to. That second-level intent causes extra processing, and RT predicts that the extra effort will not be called for without reason.12 If a professor were to try to help one of her students pace himself in his studies by asking him to think of them as a “marathon” and not a “sprint,” she would be using one deliberate metaphor over another for a purpose: to help him not be anxious or to over-exert himself in the short-term. “Sprint” causes anxiety and strain simulations that “marathon” does not. Usually when argument is war is employed, it is not deliberate. It does not ask interlocutors to process the communicative intent separately by giving deliberate attention to war. If one were to say, “were you able to defend your thesis?” her interlocutor would be able to lexically disambiguate “defend” without having to appeal to the war frame. The metaphor is utterly common,13 and used only to clarify and simplify the idea of successfully arguing a thesis. An appeal to the source domain in this case would cause extra processing effort that would have no added cognitive effect. However, her interlocutor could respond by saying, “I should have worn a flak jacket.” The original speaker then is required to recruit from the source domain. This response is not less relevant for that fact, however, because jokes are (under the right circumstances) positive cognitive effects.14 It caused a little extra processing by making the metaphor now deliberate, but there was a purpose behind it that comports with relevance expectations. The most commonly recognized form of metaphor is the form “A is B,”15 where A and B are in different domains. The copulative acts as a metaphorical flag, asking the one to be mapped to the other.16 An example might be “Juliet is the sun.”17 This is an odd convention of metaphor studies, however, because “Juliet is the sun” is a novel (and deliberate) metaphor. The A is B form actually appears quite infrequently in corpus studies. Gerard Steen, whose Metaphor Lab performs corpus-linguistic studies on the use of metaphor in real language situations, reports that less than one in a thousand words that they’ve studied

12  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 150. 13  Kövecses, Metaphor, 34. 14  Francisco Yus, Humour and Relevance (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2016), 14–15. 15  Kövecses, Metaphor, 12, 33. 16  Fauconnier, Mental Spaces, xxv. 17  An example used by several researchers; e.g., Steen, “Paradox of Metaphor,” 222.

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served this function.18 In a lecture, he reported that in a recent study of 25,000 metaphorically used words, none of them used that form.19 John uses the signal “A is B” form, or variations of it, ninety-two times in a span of 9,893 Greek words, for a statistical frequency of 0.92995%. In a study based on the British National Corpus (BNC-Baby), Steen’s group found an average frequency of only 0.075527%.20 John’s use of deliberate metaphorical flags represents a better than twelve-fold (1,231%) increase over the corpus study. The implication that John was very interested to communicate metaphorically (and deliberately so) will be difficult to deny from a DMT perspective. 5.1.1.1 A Is B If John is using σημαίνω (Dan 2:30, 45) to allude to Daniel’s explanation of the statue vision,21 the metaphorical form he is using as his precedent is precisely of this uncommon “A is B” form: “you [Nebuchadnezzar] are that head of gold” (Dan 2:38). Not only does it begin Daniel’s explanation, but it also constitutes the core metaphor (kingdoms are human anatomical regions) that will make sense of the other associations (those of the silver chest, bronze waist, iron legs, and feet of clay). Daniel thinks in “A is B,” and—as evidenced by his use of the deliberate metaphorical flag—wishes his readers to do the same. One of the earliest uses of “A is B” in Revelation is by Christ: “I am the Alpha and the Omega” (ἐγώ εἰμι τὸ ἄλφα καὶ τὸ ὦ, 1:8). Jesus’ character is mapping the letters to himself; particularly the first and last ones, as he goes on to explain (1:17, 2:8, 21:6, 22:13). This metaphorical association is achieved by naming two domains (Jesus and the letters) and equating them by the explicit use of the copulative. The fact that εἰμι is not grammatically required, but is nevertheless present, only makes this associative intent stronger. John usually uses “A is B” for establishing his characters. Jesus is the Alpha and the Omega, the seven stars are the seven angels (1:20), the seven lampstands are the seven congregations (1:20), the congregation in Sardis is a corpse (3:1), the Laodiceans aren’t hot or cold (3:15), the 144,000 are virgins (14:4), the frogs are the spirits of demons (16:14), the seven heads are the seven mountains and 18  G  erard J. Steen et al., “Metaphor in Usage,” 772. 19  Gerard J. Steen, “Life is Life: What Deliberate Metaphor Theory Has to Offer Conceptual Metaphor Theory” (paper presented at the fourth International Conference on Metaphor and Discourse, Universitat Jaume I, Castellón de la Plana, Spain, 3 December 2015). http:// metaphorlab.org/watch-gerard-steens-keynote-at-the-international-conference-on -metaphor-and-discourse/. 20  Or 141 times out of 186,688 total words; Gerard J. Steen et al., “Metaphor in Usage,” 774. 21  Beale, Revelation, 50–52, 137, 153, 181–82; Beale, John’s Use, 166, 295–97. See section 3.1, above.

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seven kings (17:9), the beast is an eighth king (17:11), the ten horns are ten kings (17:12), the adulteress is the great city (17:18), God and the Lamb are the temple (21:22), and Jesus is the root and morning star (22:16). There are exceptions— the scroll is sweet to John (10:9–10), fine linens are the righteous deeds of the saints (19:8), and the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy (19:10)—but these exceptions are also personal in that they apply to persons. John has the sweet scroll, the saints have righteous deeds, and Jesus has testimony. This is all to say that John’s use of A is B is both ubiquitous and formulaic. He seems to have a specific intent to explain who is who by its use, like Dan 2:38 does with Nebuchadnezzar (“you are that head of gold”). Note also that most of these examples (all, except for the frogs) appear in the interludes. “A is B” is for the explanation, not the vision—just as it is for Daniel (2:36–38). So far, we have now discovered twenty-one uses of the formula. 5.1.1.1.1 This Is “A is B” has other formulations as well. These should be considered subgroupings of the original formula. “This is …” (οὗτος εἰμί) is used six times, always with the copulative expressed, always in the explanations sections, usually in that order, and (again) usually of persons. The 144,000 are those who have come from the great tribulation (οὗτοί εἰσιν; 7:14) and are before God’s throne (τοῦτό εἰσιν; 7:15). The two witnesses are the olive trees and lampstands (οὗτοί εἰσιν; 11:4). The 144,000 are those who have not been defiled by women (οὗτοί εἰσιν; 14:4).22 The second death being the lake of fire is not personal, but it also does not use the exact formulation either (οὗτος ὁ θάνατος ὁ δεύτερός ἐστιν; 20:14). The demonstrative and copulative are uniquely separated and it is the only use in the singular. The first instance of the sub-formula’s use is particularly important because it stands in a part of the narrative where an explanation is explicitly being given by one of the elders to John. The elder asks who the people dressed in white are (7:13), and answers his own question by saying “these are …” (7:14). We have now seen twenty-seven total uses of the metalinguistic signal “A is B.” Almost all of them are for characters and are in explanation sections. 5.1.1.1.2 Which Is The “which is” (ὅς εἰμί) sub-formulation of “A is B” is about equally mixed between persons and objects. The seven lamps are the seven spirits (4:5), 22  Smalley, Revelation, 358: “The best solution, therefore, is to take the lack of defilement and the ‘virginity’ of the redeemed as a metaphor of all the true saints of God who have not compromised with the standards of the world.”

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the seven horns and seven eyes are the seven spirits (5:6), the dragon is the devil (20:2), and the measure of a man is the measure of an angel (21:17). But the bowls of incense are the prayers of the saints (5:8), the book is a book of life (20:12), and the fiery lake is the second death (21:8). Like the “this is” subformula, the copulative is always expressed, they are always in this order, and always in the explanations sections. This sub-formulation has one sub-formulation of its own as well. Four times, John uses “which … is” with the verb of seeing (ὁράω) interposed. The beast which John saw was like a leopard (13:2), the ten horns which he saw were ten kings (17:12), the waters he saw were peoples (17:15), and the woman he saw is the great city (17:18). Most of these uses collect around chapter 17, all of them are in explanation sections, all of them are personal, and all of them are for John’s antagonists. Once using it for the beast, John perhaps was unwilling to use the formula for any positive character. We have now seen thirty-nine uses of the deliberate metaphorical signal “A is B.” 5.1.1.2 A Is Like B: Like and As The most common linguistic signal for cross-domain mapping in Revelation however is the use of explicit words of comparison (ὡς, ὅμοιος, ὁμοίως, ὁμοίωμα, ὥσπερ).23 Together, they are used as metaphorical flags fifty-three times in thirty-six verses. Voices are like trumpets (1:10) or thunder (1:10), feet are like burnished bronze (1:15), Jesus will crush the nations like pottery (2:27), and so on. “Like” or “as” are only signals for comparison by themselves, but if the objects being compared are from different domains, they become signals for metaphor.24 This metaphorical signal does not avoid the seals, trumpets, and bowls. On the contrary, the war narrative makes sustained use of “like” or “as” comparisons. At the beginning of the seals, one of the four living beings spoke with “a voice like thunder” (6:1), and “the sky was split like a scroll” (6:14) at their end. In the trumpets, something “like a burning mountain” was thrown into the sea (8:8) and a falling star “burned like a torch” (8:10). The most concentrated use of comparatives occurs at the end of the trumpets. In the fifth trumpet, the locust army had “power like scorpions” (9:3), inflicting harm like their sting (9:5). They were also like horses, wearing crowns like gold, with faces like humans,’ 23  For these as evidence of “Semitic influence” on the Greek of Revelation, see Aune, Revelation 1–5, 271. For use of comparison in general, see Beale, Revelation, 55–58. 24  For the uses of comparatives such as “like” and “as” as signals for metaphorically-used words and concepts, see Steen et al., From MIP to MIPVU, 57–58. Within Steen’s rubric, similes are a type of “direct metaphor.”

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hair like women’s, and teeth like lions’ (9:7–8). They had breastplates like iron, and wing-sounds like chariots (9:9), and the horses’ tails were like scorpions (9:10). The sixth trumpet likewise had horses’ heads like lions’ heads (9:17) and horses’ tails like snakes’ (9:19). This concentration around the fifth and sixth trumpets may indicate a particular desire to explain these events more fully than others (as evidenced also by the relatively larger space they are afforded in the narrative).25 And then, finally, the sea becomes blood like corpse blood (16:3) and the three unclean spirits issuing from the mouths of the dragon, beast, and false prophet are like frogs (16:13). Even in the last battle, Jesus’ “eyes are like flames of fire” (19:12). There are many uses of comparatives in the interludes as well, and some seem to respond to each other (see section 3.3.1.7 on John’s use of alternative space). The living beings were like a lion, ox, person, and eagle (4:7) while the beast is like a leopard, bear, and lion (13:2). John has a rod like a staff that protects (11:1–2) while the dragon issued water from his mouth like a river to do the celestial woman harm (12:15). The Lamb stood as slain in the throne room (5:6), and the beast has a head “like it was slain” though it was healed (13:3). The person that receives the greatest number of comparative explanations is Jesus (that being anticipatable given that the book is “a revelation of Jesus Christ”; 1:1). It is Jesus’ voice that is like a trumpet (1:10). He is like a son of man (1:13), his hair like wool and snow (1:14), his eyes like flames of fire (1:14, 19:12), his feet like burnished bronze (1:15), his voice like many waters (1:15, 14:2), and his face like the sun (1:16, 10:1). He comes like a thief (3:3) but is honored in heaven as the slain sacrifice that redeems (5:6). The fact that death is attributed to the main protagonist in the story, and that this attribution is honorific, should be some indication of John’s marriage of death and blessedness (for which, see also 14:13).26 Words of comparison act formulaically like “A is B” and the genitive metaphors (see below), but they do somewhat different things. These metaphors operate throughout, they operate particularly in the trumpets, and they are used to reveal Jesus in particular (though not exclusively). This last feature is likely under the influence of the Danielic “one like a son of man” (Dan 7:13), 25  The fifth and sixth trumpets constitute one entire chapter (chapter nine) and 497 Greek words. The first four (chapter 8) combine for only 319. All the first six seals together only total 417, and all the first six bowls together are 351 Greek words. Such a concentration on the fifth and sixth trumpets may also indicate—if the revelation was meant to be taken as forward-looking and the predictions therein are therefore vaticinia ex eventu—that the author thinks himself to be living during the time of those two trumpets. For the operation of predictions-after-the-fact, see Collins, Apocalyptic Imagination, 27, 87–88, 110–111. 26  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, xvi, 171, 281–83.

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which our author quotes directly (1:13, 14:14), just as “A is B” is likely a reflection of his “you are that head of gold” (Dan 2:38). One use of the comparative ὡς is worth special consideration, and its use will help clarify what John is intending to do by means of this group of metaphorical flags. Comparatives project an “indirect” relationship between two terms, like metaphors do.27 For an example from Tendahl, in the context of a conversation about the heading skills of favorite soccer players, the metaphor “Ruud is a tree” implies that Ruud is in some ways like a tree.28 He may be tall or strong (or both). But the hearer is forced to disconnect the two terms in other ways. Ruud the soccer player is not leafy, he does not make use of photosynthesis for energy, he is not covered with bark, etc. The mind is inferentially led to construct certain mappings between Ruud and tree and to cast off certain others that do not lead to positive cognitive effect. That indirectness or incomplete consistency is necessary in any comparison because, if there were not any inconsistencies, the two terms would be equal and the comparison nonsensical. Robyn Carston uses as an example “a pear is like a fruit.”29 That sentence is nonsensical because a pear is a fruit. To say that it is like a fruit is to imply an inconsistency between “pear” and “fruit” that is not there. Comparison in general, like metaphor in particular, entails the mapping of certain qualities and the negation of others, so this comparison is invalid. There is nothing about a pear that is not fruit. But similes actually draw attention to this indirect, non-equative relationship of source to target. They strongly implicate (in the RT sense) negation of the literal equation of the two terms. The use of the term “like” actively and deliberately negates a complete mapping. In pragmatics, this effect is termed a “scalar implicature.”30 A weakened form of a statement is used specifically to imply a negation. When John says that he saw a Lamb who “stood like having been slain” (ἀρνίον ἑστηκὸς ὡς ἐσφαγμένον, 5:6), he is creating a comparison in which, in 27  Steen and his group operationalize metaphor as “indirectness by similarity,” which is the linguistic equivalent to cognitive cross-domain mapping. See Steen et al., From MIP to MIPVU, 10–16. 28  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 212. 29  Robyn Carston, Thoughts and Utterances: The Pragmatics of Explicit Communication (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2002), 357–58. 30  Ira Noveck and Dan Sperber, “The Why and How of Experimental Pragmatics: The Case of ‘Scalar Inferences,’” in Meaning and Relevance, ed. Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 309: “When a less informative term on a scale is used in a way that appears not to satisfy the first Maxim of Quantity, the speaker can be taken to implicate that the proposition that would have been expressed by use of a stronger term is false.”

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some sense, the Lamb has not been slain.31 The full veracity of the statement has been scaled down by the qualifying comparative conjunction. The use of the comparative there is otherwise superfluous. The Lamb could very easily have just “stood slain,” and in fact that grammatical construction would have been easier to process. RT predicts then that it stands there for a reason, and the reason for comparatives to be used is to 1) imply similarity and 2) imply dissimilarity. John intends, in other words, for the reader to not map death entirely to the Lamb. This creates a conundrum. John presents the literal, historical death of Christ eight (other) times throughout the book. It is the necessary condition upon which the seven congregations are “freed from sins” (1:5), the tribes mourn (1:7), and the tribes also are redeemed (5:9). He was dead and is alive again (1:18). On the basis of being slain, he receives the seven-fold doxology (5:12). The blood of the Lamb cleanses the 144,000 (7:14). He is explicitly remembered as crucified in the story of the two witnesses (11:8). And Jesus’ robe is dipped, not spattered, in blood in the final battle (19:13), a contrivance that remembers the “dipping” of the blood of the Paschal lamb (βάπτω; Exod 12:22 LXX, Rev 19:13).32 Why then is Jesus (uniquely) “like” slain in 5:6? That incomplete projection lies perilously close to the slaying of the beast in 13:3—a slaying that expressly was not carried to completion (this wound was “healed”). The writer in fact uses the exact phrase ὡς ἐσφαγμένην (“like having been slain”) that he uses for Jesus, except for the difference in gender and case.33 This comparative conundrum is not resolvable by appeal to a literal or metonymic reading. If we remain within the domain of war, death is death and Christ in some sense didn’t suffer it, just like the beast did not. If however conversion is death, as would be the case if war is mapped to argument, John would very likely want to distance his readers from the idea that Jesus was converted either to or from positions contrary to God. But he can’t remove the idea of Jesus’ actual death because that death is the code switch upon which his entire metaphorical system is based.34 What he does to 31  Contra Aune, Revelation 1–5, 353: “the fact that the adjectival participle ἐσφαγμένον, ‘slaughtered,’ is introduced with the comparative particle ὡς, ‘as, like,’ does not mean that the Lamb only appeared to have been slaughtered but rather that the Lamb had been slaughtered and was now alive.” Italics original. How the addition of the comparative can be made to mean that is not made clear. 32  Pataki, András Dávid. “A Non-Combat Myth in Revelation 12.” NTS 57.2 (2011): 265. 33  Aune, Revelation 1–5, 353; Beale, Revelation, 354, 379. They recognize the connection of the two passages, but not the problem presented by the comparative. 34  Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 121: “As Paul modified a cosmological theology by stressing the importance of the historical death of Jesus Christ on the cross, so Rev. emphasizes that Christ’s lordship over the world is rooted in his violent death (5:3–14).”

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resolve the unwanted entailment of the conversion of Jesus is to make him, at one point, “like” slain instead of fully slain. The strangely equivalent “death” of the beast in 13:3 is also resolved by a metaphorical reading. The beast at some point seemed to be “converted” to the cause of the Jewish people. It was because of this purported friendship that many, in John’s estimation, worshiped him (13:3–4). One thinks immediately to Rome and Augustus’ edict protecting Jewish rights and establishing them as a religio licita.35 But Rome only seemed to be a friend; it had not “died” (been converted to the Jewish cause) in reality.36 The comparative is used for the beast to distance the Caesars from the idea of true conversion just as John wished to distance Jesus from it. That is why he uses the same language (ὡς ἐσφαγμένον/ὡς ἐσφαγμένην). Neither “dies” in the metaphorical sense. Neither converts, nor will they. That is the only way in which the beast and the Lamb are the same. Those wishing to maintain the literal/metonymic reading of Revelation then have two difficult questions to answer. Why is John implying that Christ didn’t really die in 5:6? And why is that pseudo-death being set in intentional parallel with that of the noxious beast in 13:3? 5.1.1.3 A Is Related to B: the Genitive In the last section, we saw that John used variations of the “A is B” formula ninety-two times out of nearly ten thousand words, which is at least a magnitude more often than the one-in-a-thousand words Steen’s working group anticipates for normal communication.37 But of course “A is B” is not the only form metaphors come in. Oblique cases also put things into relation. If those things are cross domain, they become metaphorical flags as well. 5.1.1.3.1 The Genitive (“of”) Genitives of course do not necessarily indicate metaphors. But they can indicate analogical mappings;38 and if those mappings are between different domains, then metaphors may pertain.39 A metaphorical expression we have already considered at the cognitive level is “the sword of [Jesus’] mouth” 35  Schürer, History, vol. 3.1, 114–18; Kraybill, Imperial Cult, 172–77; Aune, Revelation 1–5, 170. 36  Kraybill, Imperial Cult, 177–80, wherein Kraybill notes the Talmudic response to the “wicked Roman government.” 37  Gerard J. Steen et al., “Metaphor in Usage,” 772. Given Revelation’s roughly ten thousand words and the expected frequency (provided by Steen’s work) of less-than-one-m-flag-ina-thousand words, we should expect fewer than ten m-flags. 38  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 145, 149–50. 39  Ibid., 166.

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(τῇ ῥομφαίᾳ τοῦ στόματός μου; 2:16). The sword in some sense relates to the mouth, and vice-versa. Mouths and swords occupy different domains and so their mapping could constitute a metaphor. Often, the relationship between Jesus’ mouth and the sword coming out of it is treated as a cause-effect compression where his speech (as judgment) is the cause and death (by figurative sword) is the effect.40 I agree with the compression, but disagree that the speech is from the judgment domain (because, through the seals and trumpets, it is expressly not). I argue that the speech is instead from the argument domain, and so the compression implied by the genitive is contracting Christ’s testimony and the metaphorical results of that testimony—conversion. The outcome “death,” by that change of domain, changes from actual death to new (spiritual) life, which is why people so “beheaded” also “came to life and reigned with Christ” (20:4). Many of the other genitival metaphors likewise map an instrument to a person. If Death and Hades are personified, the “keys of Death and Hades” (1:18) are an example.41 The “key of David” (3:7) is certainly an example. Consider also the “number of the beast” (13:18) which he uses to mark people (13:16–17), “the wine of the passion of [the adulteress’s] immorality” (14:8) with which she makes drunk the nations, and the “wine of God’s fury” or the “cup of his wrath” (14:10), the “great winepress of God’s wrath” (14:19), and the “seven bowls of God’s wrath” (16:1). Deathly keys, beast-numbers, immorality-wine, and wrathcups are comparing things across domains, causing metaphorical mapping to occur in real-time for readers. They are encouraging actual metaphorical processing and not just constituting metaphors in some absolute, theoretical sense. The grotesque nature of the adulteress’ immorality-wine cannot be captured without in some sense simulating the act of drinking the wine in one’s mind, at which point the association between her adulteries and wine has been made and the metaphor mapped. It isn’t grotesque without simulation and it can’t be simulated until it is mapped. Some of the genitive metaphors are metaphors perforce. The key of the shaft of the abyss (9:1), the smoke of torment (14:11), and the lake of fire especially (19:20) are mappings to things that don’t really have keys, smoke, or fire. The key to the shaft of the abyss may be an exception if John is thinking of the shaft or well as a literal holding-place,42 but note that this is the only example 40  Aune, Revelation 1–5, 99; Beale, Revelation, 211–12. 41  For a discussion on the Hellenistic localization of a classically personified “Hades,” see Smalley, Revelation, 155. In classical Greek, he was always personified. 42  The “shaft of the abyss” is likely a reference to the holding place of the Titans (see Charles, Revelation, 1:239), those archaic rulers of earth that the gods supplanted in Greek mythology. If God’s agents arise from the shaft in the trumpets, they may be doing it as Titans

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that occurs in the seals, trumpets, or bowls. If he isn’t intending it as a metaphor, then once again all these “explanations” are occurring in the interludes. The idea of a “revelation of Jesus Christ,” to begin with, is a metaphorical one. It has the genitival metaphorical form, where the genitive is providing the connection or potential mapping. Jesus is relating to the revelation likely as its object (the objective genitive), using the knowing is seeing metaphor.43 Jesus being represented by the domain of hiddenness (or un-hiddenness) is a metaphor because 1) hiddenness and persons (especially public ones) occupy different domains and 2) they are mapped by the genitive. Hiddenness (or unhiddenness) is not a natural human trait, and even when it is (say, in the case of a fugitive) its solution is not writing a letter (1:1). John is thinking in terms of his readers’ knowledge of Jesus, but writing in terms of his degree of visibility— one thing in terms of another. Revelation and its alternative space of hiddenness are being mapped to a public person, thus constituting a metaphor of the genitive type. There are therefore now eleven fairly well-established genitival metaphor flags. 5.1.1.3.2 “Of Life” The genitive metaphor also has a sub-grouping, and it is actually larger than the parent group. Sixteen times, John presents some article that he qualifies with ζωῆς (“of life”): the tree of life (4×), crown of life (1×), book of life (6×), water of life (4×), and breath of life (1×). Unsurprisingly, none of these occur in the seals, trumpets, or bowls. There are some variations within the formula. The water of life can be a spring (7:17, 21:6) or a river (22:1) or neither (22:17), the book of life can belong particularly to the Lamb (21:27), and the format is usually article-object-article-ζωῆς but not always (7:17; 11:11; 20:12; 22:1, 2, 17). Still, the occurrence is frequent, usually of the same form and order, always of the same word (ζωῆς), and it enjoys the highest concentration in the concluding chapter (5×). It and its parent are acting like a formula, just as “A is B” and its sub-forms do. We have now considered 119 individual metalinguistic signals for deliberate metaphor, 92 of the form “A is B” and 27 of the genitive form. 5.1.1.4 Other Metaphorical Flags Any part of speech can be metaphorically used.44 Nominal forms (such as the “A is B form”) are usually most easily recognized, which is likely why they are re-invented. John sees some ancient group, supplanted by Greeks, that will return in the eschaton to reclaim the earth for God. He is possibly recasting faithful Israel in that role. 43  Kövecses, Metaphor, 65, 186. 44  Steen et al., From MIP to MIPVU, 197.

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used to signal deliberate metaphors. But verbs, pronouns, adjectives, adverbs, conjunctions, and especially prepositions can constitute metaphors as well. “She runs the company” is a verbal metaphor for example, and “he’s in Delta Chi” is a prepositional one. Verbal metaphors are not infrequent in Revelation. The idea of the sun being “struck” (πατάσσω, 8:12) is a metaphorical one. When John puts the group of people characterized by the adulteress into the feminine, God or the beast acting upon “her” is a pronominal metaphor (e.g., 18:7). “Unclean” spirits would be an example of an adjectival metaphor (16:13). Jerusalem being “spiritually” called Sodom and Egypt is an adverbial metaphor (11:8). The 144,000 following “where” (ὅπου) the Lamb departs is a metaphor using a conjunction (14:4). And those killed prepositionally “under” (ὑπό) the beasts in 6:8 are killed while under their agency and influence, not while being physically beneath them. There are also words that act as signals for metaphoricity in culturallybound ways. John has Jesus explain the seven stars and seven lampstands as the angels and congregations, and he calls this metaphorical explanation a “mystery” (μυστήριον, 1:20). Other “mysteries” occur in the text as well (17:5, 7). We have already seen how σημαίνω (section 3.1) and ἀποκάλυψις (the section above) act as just such signals. The nominal form of σημαίνω, σημεῖον, can as well (13:13, 14; 19:20). Visions or appearances present one thing in terms of another, as when John sees God on his throne like jasper and sardian “in appearance” (ὅρασις, 4:3), or when he sees the “vision” of the horses in the sixth trumpet (ὅρασις, 9:17). All of these metalinguistic signals for cross-domain mapping indicate not just an authorial inclination to employ metaphor, but that the author wishes the reader to make that mapping deliberately and in real time. Many of John’s most characteristic words—“revelation,” “vision,” “explanation,” and “mystery”—are all acting as metaphorical flags. When we add metaphors in every part of speech and formulaic uses of “like/as,” “of,” and “A is B,” together with their sub-forms, it seems reasonable to think that John intended his readers to read his metaphors as metaphors, deliberately. That we did not could explain why the meaning of the text has seemed so inaccessible. 5.1.2 Is the War Itself a Metaphor? In the previous two chapters, we saw how the metaphor argument is war exists at the level of cognition. John is constructing his narrative with the metaphor in his mind. Thus far in this chapter, we have seen how metaphors also exist at the level of the text. They are encoded in the language as deliberate metaphors—metaphors which ask to be interpreted as metaphors. But are these metaphors controlling the war? If one out of eight words in normal

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communication is metaphorically used, we were always going to find metaphors in the book. What warrant is there for applying the general argument that there are deliberate metaphors in Revelation to the specific instance of the war? Especially when John seems to be actively avoiding using several of his deliberate metaphorical formulae in the seals, trumpets, and bowls? There is an important pragmatic reason that the metaphor may seem implicit in the war sections which will be explored in the next chapter—extended metaphors are supposed to be processed literally first (see sections 6.2.1 and 6.2.2). But there is also a strong reason within DMT that John would avoid using his deliberate metaphors during the seals, trumpets, and bowls. Deliberate metaphors “explain.”45 That is their role and function. The “A is B” form and its sub-forms are being employed to establish characters in the interludes so that, in the war narrative, those characters can just take part without interruption.46 The narrative already had “little or no continuity,” particularly “in the dramatis personae.”47 Letting the explanations bleed into the seals, trumpets, and bowls would have left the narrative hopelessly fragmented. All of the important characters are involved in the war, but note that they are named or explained outside of it. Jesus—who rarely appears explicitly in the central narrative of this revelation that is supposed to be about him—is the Alpha and Omega (1:8, 22:13). Stars are angels (1:20), lampstands are congregations (1:20), the seven lamps are the seven Spirits (4:5), the white-robed are the tribulationists (7:14), the two witnesses are olive trees and lampstands (11:4), the 144,000 are virgins (14:4), the seven heads are seven mountains and seven kings (17:9–10), the beast is an eighth king (17:11), ten horns are ten kings (17:12), the adulteress is the great city (17:18), the dragon is the devil (20:2), etc. Several of them (the tribulationists, the two witnesses, the dragon, the 144,000, the seven kings, the beast, and the ten kings) exist primarily within a war frame without being in the war narrative at all. They only show up in the explanation sections. Who, for example, are the tribulationists if not those killed in the war (7:14)? And yet they are never named as such there. These deliberate metaphors operate in the war frame, even if they don’t in the war narrative, and at least the “A is B” metaphors are specifically war metaphors. In each of these cases, the war-framed character also has witness-related characteristics. The people who died in the tribulation are also “cleansed” 45  Steen argues that deliberate metaphors are used to prompt for “post-comprehension processes such as recognition, interpretation and appreciation” (Steen, “Developing, Testing and Interpreting,” 69.) In other words, deliberate metaphors give interpretive, or explanatory, insight. 46  Perry, Rhetoric of Digressions, 44, discusses the interludes as “interruptions.” 47  Aune, Revelation 1–5, cviii.

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(7:14) worshippers (7:11) of God. The two people who burn opponents with fire are two “witnesses” (11:3). The dragon is a vocal “accuser” of God’s people (12:10). The 144,000-strong army are virtuous and virginal (14:4) and carry the Father’s name on their foreheads (14:1). And the beast in his many forms is the propagandistic, Roman imperial order (13:5–6, 12–18).48 And what the “A is B” metaphors do to map war-framed characters to the witness frame, the genitive metaphors do to map war-framed instruments to the witness frame. The sword of Jesus’ mouth maps the instrument of war (sword) to the instrument of witness (mouth). The keys likewise govern places of death (1:18) in the war frame; but these places actually act as store-houses or jails, keeping their inhabitants from giving witness (20:3). Nobody in the story who is kept in them remains there (9:1–3; 11:7; 17:8; 20:3, 13). The “book of life” metaphor in particular is related to war as the alternative space to death, but relates to witness as well insofar as it is a book whose contents argue for one’s fitness to enter the New Jerusalem (20:12). The metaphors signaled by “like” or “as” comparatives, though they aren’t exclusively in the explanation sections, do concentrate there; and they are likewise often explicitly mapping war and argument elements. Voices in the argument frame become trumpets (1:10, 4:1) in the war frame. John the witness (1:2) becomes like a corpse (1:17). The nations under authority become smashed pottery (2:27). The living beings who testify (4:8) are like animals, one of which is a lion (4:7). The scroll-opening Lamb is slain (5:9). The severed sky is a scroll (6:14). The mountain of testimony is set on fire and thrown into the sea (8:8). Rods for measuring become staves of authority (11:1). Dragons attempt to look like lambs (13:11). And bowls of prayer turn water to blood (16:3). It is true that many of the comparative metaphors uniquely avoid mapping to argument from war within the seals, trumpets, and bowls (6:1, 8:10; 9:3, 5, 7–10, 17, 19; 16:13). But in these sections (chs. 6, 8–9, 16) the vision is being given, not explained. The comparative metaphors may not avoid the visionary material like the “A is B” and genitive metaphors do, but they do avoid mapping war to argument there, and when they are not there they rarely do not. In other words, John is trying to keep all of his explanatory material in the explanatory sections—the interludes. Most deliberate metaphors operate there and nearly all of the argument is war metaphors do. John is at one time giving the vision (the seals, trumpets, bowls, and final battles) and at another time giving the explanation of those things (the throne room, the 144,000, the mighty angel, the two witnesses, the celestial woman, the beasts, the reapings, the great adulteress, and the New Jerusalem). And it is during the 48  Kraybill, Imperial Cult, 17, 82; Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis, 88–94.

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explanations that he is attempting to make the mapping explicit, using deliberate metaphors. During the seals, trumpets, bowls, and last battles then he is using the metaphor implicitly. The language becomes direct and the metaphor flags drop out. This serves the narrative in that he rarely breaks out of metaphorical fiction in order to maintain narrative unity. The “A is B,” genitive, and specific “like/as” metaphors are reserved for his interludes. During the trumpets, fire just shows up (8:7). But during the tale of the two witnesses, it (in explanatory fashion) comes from their mouths (11:5). During the seals, the sword just shows up (6:4). But during the introduction and letters, it explanatorily comes from Christ’s mouth (1:16, 2:16). During the war narrative (chs. 6, 8–9, 15–16, 19–20) people just die. But during the explanatory interludes it is the dead (the 144,000, the great multitude, the resurrected witnesses, the New Jerusalem) that play the essential protagonist roles. Like Dan 2, John is separating his vision from his explanation; and the on-again-off-again deliberate metaphorical signals of the “A is B,” genitive, and comparative types demonstrate that intent linguistically. DMT gives psychologically real and empirically demonstrable foundation to the popular intuition that there are in fact such things as “interludes” operating in Revelation. 5.2

Linguistic and Semantic Signals Other Than M-Flags

CMT and DMT give insight into the linguistic nature of metaphor beyond m-flags. 5.2.1 Indirectness, Similarity, and Levels of Language Cognitively, cross-domain mapping is metaphor.49 Linguistically, indirectness with similarity is metaphor.50 It could be said, roughly, that indirectness requires mapping from some source for meaning resolution and similarity (rather than full contiguity) ensures that mapping happens across domains, so indirectness with similarity is the linguistic instantiation of cross-domain mapping (and therefore of metaphor). Meanings are normally arrived at by application of the standard lexical concepts of words.51 In the phrase “we’ve come a long way,” the speaker would mean that she and a fellow traveler have

49  Kövecses, Metaphor, 7–10. 50  Steen et al., From MIP to MIPVU, 10–16. 51  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 85–87; on the whole, termed “lexical knowledge” on 175, 215.

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covered a large distance. That would be an easy inference to make if they had just arrived at a shelter along the Appalachian Trail. But meanings are sometimes arrived at indirectly. On an anniversary, the more likely implication of “we’ve come a long way” is that she feels her and her partner have experienced a lot of life together or have improved their relationship. The idea of “a long way” in this case is applied indirectly, from travel to relationship. Where it more standardly has application in the domain of travel, that basic meaning is now being applied less directly to the domain of relationships. Similarities begin to be noticed or created (as between a physical “way” and a relational one, or a physical “length” and a temporal one) and a metaphor is created. Because language is a product of cognition and cognition can be itself indirect and metaphorical at any level, language at any level—phoneme, morpheme, word, phrase, clause, sentence, paragraph, chapter, book, or entire corpus—can be metaphorical as well. For example, the persistent search for “Paul’s theology” could be described as a search for the metaphor(s) that inform his entire corpus.52 The primary way metaphor has been studied in its history is at the level of the word, however.53 It is easier to see indirectness when it is just between a couple of words. “We’ve come a long way” in the context of an anniversary party is fairly obviously an indirect use of the idea of travel. Its basic meaning is compared to the celebration of lives together. And because it is a fairly localized metaphor, love is a journey is appealed to quickly and discretely, without need to give much contextual priming or postcomprehension processing. Sometimes, however, the indirectness exists at larger discourse levels. The source domain may be explained over longer stretches of discourse, and so the metaphor will only be pragmatically resolved after more processing has taken place. There is as a result an opportunity for greater continuity within the linguistic description of the source domain. In those cases, words or phrases— perhaps even sentences and paragraphs—may not seem indirectly related. Extended metaphors can particularly demonstrate this internal consistency.54 The words that constitute and instantiate them are related to one another directly. The indirectness that is normally diagnostic for metaphor in these cases 52  E.g., James D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 332, 469. 53  Steen et al., From MIP to MIPVU, 12. 54  Kövecses, Metaphor, 57: “Some metaphors, conventional or novel, may run through entire literary texts without necessarily ‘surfacing.’ What one sometimes finds at the surface level of a literary text are specific micrometaphors, but ‘underlying’ these metaphors is a megametaphor that makes these surface micrometaphors coherent.” Kövecses also calls these megametaphors “extended metaphors.” Emphases original.

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lies further apart in the text or communication, perhaps in the following sentence or even the following chapter. It may lie before or after (or, as interludes, within) the controlling metaphor. In other words, the diagnostic indirectness may not be from word to word, but rather sentence to sentence, paragraph to paragraph, or chapter to chapter. Conceptually the metaphor is always there, but linguistically it may not seem to be. To illustrate, I will use Gerard Steen’s example of the Bruce Springsteen song “I’m on Fire.”55 “Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife baby edgy and dull and cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my soul” is a deliberate metaphor that uses mostly directly-related language rather than indirect. “Like” provides a deliberate signal for cross-domain mapping, as with most similes. But the following indirectness isn’t at the level of one or two words. Knives are edgy and dull and they cut. The writer maintains the cognitive metaphor as he writes about the dullness of the blade and so forth, but there is no linguistic signal for the target domain until the word “soul.” The person listening to the lyric will not be able to resolve how Springsteen is being indirect until the last word. Nearly the entire sentence then remains within the novel fiction of the knife. In terms of processing, 1) a metaphor is signaled early on by “like,” 2) a seemingly direct narrative unfolds, and 3) a final word of reorientation to the target domain is given. That word changes the discourse in the mind of the reader from a story about physical cutting to one of emotional “cutting,” rendering it metaphorical by conceptual indirectness. Linguistic metaphors may not be resolved right away. As long as the language remains consistent with the source domain (i.e., “direct”), it is not apparent that a metaphor pertains. And it is up to the author how long she will keep her readers in suspense before she reveals the true referent. Something very much like this is occurring in Revelation: 1. John is giving several signals for metaphoricity early on.56 He names his work a “revelation” (1:1). That revelation will need a Danielic-styled “explanation” (1:1). John delivers the revelation “in the Spirit” (1:10) and after being taken up to heaven (4:1). These are roughly equivalent to the “like” signal in the lyric.

55  Steen et al., From MIP to MIPVU, 10–11, 15. 56  Beale, Revelation, 50–58. Beale calls the symbols used in Revelation “pictorial” rather than “metaphorical,” but the way he treats the “pictures,” at least in theory in the introduction, is cross-domain. See his example by way of a “pictorial” assessment of the relationship between Daniel 2’s statue and the major world kingdoms (51).

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2.

Then much of the narrative of Revelation remains very firmly within the domain of war.57 Several morally difficult things seem to be happening as the story remains fairly unified around the theme of violence. Most of the war seems literal or metonymic. Bauckham’s “Christian War Scroll” relates to Springsteen’s “story” of the knife.58 3. It is not until the end of the book that we learn about the New Jerusalem. It is absolutely massive—3.375 billion cubic miles, or roughly the size of the moon.59 And, because the inhabitants of the city constitute the city (21:9–10), we now know that the number of people in it is likewise massive.60 This great salvation at the end of the war narrative is the indirectness that points to the story being a metaphor, like “soul” does for Springsteen’s lyric. John certainly provides signals for indirectness throughout, but the big reveal is withheld until chapter 21. It is this revelation that is intended to make all of the preceding material make sense. Where could such a large group of the saved come from if not from the equally large number of those “killed” in the seals, trumpets, bowls, and last battles? This balance between describing a source and decoding it also helps us understand how the explanatory interludes are being used. In the main narrative, swords are just swords and death is just death. The source domain is being described there. The internal mapping of war to argument goes unexplained because John is using one massive “megametaphor” that asks to remain integrated for the purposes of narrative cohesion. It needs to tell the story before the story gets explained, as with the story of the knife. What the interludes are doing at various check-points is what the New Jerusalem is supposed to do fully and finally at the end of the story. They provide running keys to the metaphorical mappings John ultimately intends. There is an indirectness in them that there is not in the seals, trumpets, and bowls.61 The sword (6:4, 8) becomes a mouth-sword, for example (1:16, 2:16). The mouth locations of things create an indirectness that wants to be resolved immediately rather than at the end of the story. Faithful witnesses burning people with their mouths (11:5) creates an indirectness that more immediately seeks a solution than a relatively coherent series of destructive seals, trumpets, and bowls do. They are happy to just end 57  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 213: “the eschatological war which is described in the central part of the book.” 58  Ibid., 212. 59  See note 215, in section 3.3.1.4. 60  Gundry, “New Jerusalem,” 260. 61  C.f. Beale, Revelation, 520–22, who claims that “the interlude [in chapters 10–11] explains the theological basis for the punishment portrayed in the trumpets.”

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in death and await their explanation at the introduction of the New Jerusalem. The interludes don’t wait. That’s why the “living dead” seem to occupy them so often: Jesus the slain Lamb in chapter 5, the tribulationists in chapter 7, the resurrected witnesses in chapter 11, the souls in the temple (or not) and the eternally burned in chapter 14, etc. What happens after death is a matter of decoding and explanation; what happens up to and including it is a matter of the descriptive, extended metaphor of war. For those commentators who would want to maintain a metonymic or literalist stance regarding the violence in Revelation, they will need (and have needed) to answer the question of how such great numbers of people show up at the end of the story, in the New Jerusalem, when—by the metonymic reading—such a vast majority of the earth’s population is subject to God’s punitive actions in the seals, trumpets, and bowls. Many more people die than do not, world-wide.62 Large numbers are killed and large numbers dwell in the New Jerusalem, and by the indirectness of that relationship the reader is (or should have been) led to the comprehension of the metaphor. 5.2.2 Systematicity In metaphors, and especially in extended metaphors, there will be more than one mapping between source and target.63 If there were only one point of possible comparison between the two domains, the metaphor would not likely be used in the first place. Truly useful metaphors tend to display multiple mappings, because it is in that way that they seem to roundly “explain” their metaphorical targets.64 There is also a certain expected “systematicity” to that group of mappings—an intuitive sense of a “pattern” which makes the source seem particularly apt to explain the target. Fauconnier and Turner’s idea of “pattern completion” speaks to this metaphorical dynamic.65 Relations of elements can (and should) be made richer by the systematic patterns elicited by the metaphor. In Lakoff and Johnson’s terms, this is systematicity—the structured relationship between source and target that gives the reader the sense of a system or pattern and not simply a single mapping.66 It is not just that argument and war are mapped. Their relationship is systematic. One is patterned on the other. This is one of the earliest arguments that CMT ever made—the first 62  Beale, Revelation, 844: “conclusive, universal destruction of the earth.” 63  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 267; Kövecses, Metaphor, 7–10. 64  Thus, Beatrice Warren, “Alternative Account,” 117: “This makes [metaphor] a potentially very suggestive and powerful, yet economic meaning-creating device.” 65  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 48, 328. 66  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 7–10; Kövecses, Metaphor, 7–10.

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“metaphor we lived by.”67 Once a person knows she is in an argument, she can navigate it using the structures implicit in war (taking sides, planning offensive and defensive strategies, etc.). In fact, realizing that part of the “war” pattern is present in a conversation is one of the ways we realize we’re in an argument in the first place. If we have part of the pattern (our interlocutor is acting more aggressively, they take an opposing side, anger becomes involved, etc.), we can complete the rest of the pattern and realize we have moved from a discussion to an argument. It’s like seeing a picture of an eye or a nose. You aren’t literally seeing a face, but by pattern completion you may reasonably say, “whose face is that?” Eyes and noses relate systematically to faces, and so seeing one part is essentially seeing the whole. John can leave large sections of the metaphor directly expressed as war because (he thinks) we have enough of the idea to systematically relate all of the rest of the elements he’s discussing—the swords and bows and death and fire—back to their target elements in the argument domain. Systematicity is the fruit of having the cognitive structure of the metaphor in one’s mind; and without it, metaphors (and the narratives based on them) will be neither “systematic” nor “complete” nor “relevant.” It is not just (or even primarily) the reader who should demonstrate a systematic appropriation of the metaphor, however. In such an extended metaphor, John will demonstrate his own systematic mapping. He will consciously or subconsciously pattern his elements as he is telling his story. Elements in one domain should point systematically to elements in another. It is this full set of mappings that we will attempt to reconstruct in this section. At the end, we will see a visual representation of John’s systematic pattern of mapping war to argument (figure 24). But for the time being, picture a matching section of a multiple-choice exam. There are two boxes. The one on the left is titled war, and it contains many elements. The one on the right is argument and it contains nearly as many. There are arrows pointing from elements in the source box (war) to analogous elements in the target box (argument). Most elements will have arrows to and from them and most elements will have only one between them such that they are parallel. That pattern of arrows (mappings) visually demonstrates systematicity.68 We will investigate several such matched pairs below, and attempt to discern whether a pattern begins to emerge. That pattern is evidence not just for a metaphor, but for the specific metaphor argument is war.

67  See Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 4–5, 7. 68  For examples, see Kövecses, Metaphor, 9–10.

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5.2.2.1 Consumption Maps to Conversion John is careful not to mix terms. Death in the war domain is not just simply mapped to conversion in argument. He is being more detailed than that. How one dies tells a lot about what spiritual condition John considers one to be in. The adulteress, for example, is “consumed” (ἐσθίω, 17:16). She also is being bereft of her former relationships with the kings of the earth (18:3, 9). It is, in fact, those relationships that cause her to die such a death (18:2–3). Her mode of death-by-consumption maps to conversion because, in terms of frame semantics, she is changing “sides.”69 The kings are no longer her paramours. Similarly, the gentiles at the end of the trumpets are “consumed” by fire (9:18), where their former relationships had been with “demons and idols of gold, silver, bronze, stone, and wood” (9:20). They, too, have changed sides. The ministry of the two witnesses is described—in its entirety (εἴ τις …, οὕτως δεῖ …, 11:5)—as a consumption-by-fire (πῦρ … κατεσθίει, 11:5). The people converted symbolically by that consumption expressly began as “enemies” (ἐχθρός, 11:5) of the righteous prophets (11:3). They change sides. And the nations that gather against God in the last battle are “consumed” both by birds in the first instance (ἐσθίω, 19:18, 21) and by fire from heaven in the second (κατεσθίω, 20:9). It is this conversion that cleanses them and qualifies them for the New Jerusalem (21:24, 26). In all of these cases, enemies are “eaten” and thus do not remain enemies. Consumption in the source domain is regularly and programmatically being mapped to conversion in the target domain. Otherwise, it will need to be answered why God is so very interested to “eat” all of his enemies. 5.2.2.2 Harm and Tribulation Map to Redemption But not all deaths are by consumption. Not all deaths are conversions. The wheat and barley in the third seal are being purchased (a redemption metaphor, 6:6; cf. 5:9)70 by the χοῖνιξ (a unit of measure of the restored and righteous kingdom of Israel; cf. Ezek 45:10–11). Their “harm” (ἀδικέω, 6:6) is implicitly a restoration and a redemption of the already-righteous then, not a conversion (as of the erstwhile enemies of God above).71 These people were never enemies. In the same way, the 144,000 and the multitudes in white robes have suffered the great tribulation (7:14), but there is no indication that they died in thrall to any foreign entity or idol—rather the reverse. They were already 69  https://framenet2.icsi.berkeley.edu/fnReports/data/frameIndex.xml?frame=Hostile_ encounter. 70  Aune, Revelation 1–5, 47. 71  I am defining “restoration” as a return to full (including spiritual and heavenly) relationship with God and “redemption” as the metaphorical “purchase” by Christ that enables that restoration. “Conversion” has already been defined as “a change of sides.”

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“servants of our God” before they were “sealed” (7:3).72 This sealing is also introduced in the context of “redemption” (5:9) rather than any kind of “conversion.” Thus, and like the purchased wheat and barley, the 144,000 are both restored (in that they stand with God in heaven, 7:9) and redeemed (by the redeeming blood that “cleansed” them, 7:14, cf. 5:9) without ever having opposed God. Ultimately, everybody who dies by any means is “restored” in that they are with God in the New Jerusalem (21:3)—in which case “restoration” may be the most generally-applicable term for what God is doing, and Christ is achieving, in the narrative—but harm and tribulation seem to map more particularly to “purchase” and “redemption” in these two examples. 5.2.2.3 Torture Maps to a Call to Repentance There is also a middle term between conversion and restoration. By reverse implication, those who “die” during the sixth trumpet “repent” (μετανοέω, 9:20–21), and those experiencing the fourth and fifth bowls were meant to (though they all seemingly refused; 16:9, 11). That call to repentance, expressed repeatedly throughout the letters to the congregations (2:5, 16, 21–22; 3:3, 19), has no explicit place in the story until the sixth trumpet, however—rather infrequent for a message written to seven congregations said to be in rather dire need of it (e.g., 2:22). Repentance instead has a visual or experiential cipher. Where there is not “torture” in this story, there is not “repentance,” indicating that torture stands metaphorically as a call to repentance. Those two terms collocate (2:22; 9:5, 20–21), as mappings do.73 One-third of the gentiles that are tortured in the fifth trumpet (9:5) repent and convert in the sixth (9:18). The adulteress also demonstrates this relationship in being “tortured,” but unwilling (for a time) to “mourn” (18:7).74 And those that the two witnesses “torture” without killing (11:10) likewise celebrate their deaths rather than repent (11:3), presuming that those tortured all the way to death (11:5) did repent. The call to repent is sometimes answered and sometimes not. Those that remain eternally unconvinced and unrepentant, in order to maintain the war conceit, are tortured eternally in the lake of fire—tortured, but never to “death” (14:11). Torture is therefore the metaphorical cipher for a call to repentance, answered 72  Witherington, Revelation, 136. 73  See section 3.3.1.2.2. 74  We find out in the following verse that she will, finally, “mourn” and repent (18:8). This repenting is mourning metaphor was established early, in 1:7, where Zechariah’s House of David redemptively “mourning” in repentance at the piercing of the Messiah (Zech 12:10) is alluded to. See Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 320–22. This is important to Bauckham’s thesis that the narrative of Revelation is concerned with the conversion of the nations.

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or unanswered. If this is not the case, God and his righteous agents are often in the business of causing human suffering, and often to no effect (9:20–21, 16:8–11) and with no end (14:11). 5.2.2.4 Iron Implements Map to the Testimony of Christ The sword of the Son of Man is the only weapon that is effective in the last battle (19:21, cf. 1:16).75 It is obviously a select tool to the writer, and yet many people die by such iron implements: the μάχαιρα (6:4), the iron-breasted cavalry (9:17, cf. 9:9) equaling a third of humankind (9:18), the two sickles (14:16, 19) equaling at least in the second instance quite a large number of people (14:20), again the ῥομφαία of Christ (19:21) equaling seemingly the entire rest of humanity (19:18), and the πέλεκυς (20:4). As I have noted before (section 3.3.1.5.4), Jesus is the rightful owner of such weapons (Rev 19:15, cf. Ps 2:9), but others may either wield them on Christ’s behalf (6:4) or be the instrument itself (2:26–27; 9:9); and so, they are far more destructive than if wielded by only one. The multitudes killed by iron implements—and only those people—are qualified to join Christ in the millennium and last battle (20:4), but that number is large enough to overcome the world (20:8). This implies that the “warriors” in the last debate can only be said to be fighting on God’s side because they’ve succumbed to “the testimony of Jesus” and to the iron πέλεκυς. The collocation of those two causative agents (the testimony and the iron, 20:4) prompts for them to be equated (iron implements are the testimony). As Christ fights the war with his iron-clad testimony, the number of people killed and qualified to testify grows and grows until, in the last battle, the entire world can be overcome by the armies bearing that one testimonial “sword” (19:21). Christ’s testimony is the effective tool in God’s argument to regain the world. What start out as local verbal contests over the Christ (those based in “the land [of Israel],” 6:4) gain bigger (9:17) and bigger (14:16, 19) audiences so that by the end all the world is talking about him (19:21). This explains why Christ’s entire “army” (στράτευμα, 19:19) wields one single sword (19:21), and why that one sword is the only weapon that wins the war for them. They all have one witness, or one subject of their plural witness: Jesus. And it is by that one sustained witness that the argument is to be won. 5.2.2.5 Fire Maps to the Testimony of the Holy Spirit Like iron, fire seems to be operating in certain prescribed ways (see section 3.3.1.5.4). It isn’t used while the four horsemen (Jesus) are on earth. Once he departs (ἄλλον ἄγγελον ἀναβαίνοντα ἀπὸ ἀνατολῆς ἡλίου, 7:2), it falls (8:7). And once it falls, it is involved in nearly every subsequent death (8:7, 8, 10; 75  Koester, Revelation, 680.

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9:2, 17–18; 11:5; 17:16; 18:8–9, 18; 20:9), or judgment that should have ended in death but didn’t (14:10; 16:8; 19:20; 20:10, 14–15; 21:8). The implication is that the fire is the Holy Spirit (Matt 3:11 // Luke 3:16; cf. 1 Thess 5:19), or the testimony of the Holy Spirit, which did not descend in such fashion until the departure of Christ (John 15:26, 16:7; again, Rev 7:2) and Pentecost (Acts 2:3–4; again, Rev 8:7).76 The writer is implying that it is the Holy Spirit that is the real cause of these conversions, and that its “fire” is using the mouths of its agents (the two witnesses in 11:5, the great cavalry in 9:18) merely as conduits, like the iron implements did.77 One fire, one sword, one witness. The fire falling and consuming the nations (20:8–9) then in the last battle may be in fulfillment of Joel’s prophecy that God would pour out his Spirit on “all flesh” (ἐπὶ πᾶσαν σάρκα, Joel 3:1 LXX; cf. σάρκας πάντων, Rev 19:18), which also would involve fire (Joel 3:3 LXX). Regardless, the fact that the second beast has access to the fire from heaven (presumably at this point the authentic teaching of Torah; see Deut 33:2 Tg. Onq., Tg. Ps.-J.), but is unwilling to actually burn anyone with it (13:13), qualifies this group’s status as “false prophet” (16:13). They have Elijah’s authentic prophetic gift of calling down fire (13:13; cf. 1 Kgs 18:38; 2 Kgs 1:10, 12, 14; 2:11) and authentic prophetic office (16:13, 19:20, 20:10; cf. 1 Kgs 18:22), but they are as “false” as his nemesis, Jezebel.78 They both encourage worship of foreign gods (Rev 13:12; 1 Kgs 16:31), they both encourage idol worship specifically (Rev 13:14– 15; 14:9–11; 15:2; 16:2; 19:20; 20:4; 21:8; 22:15; 2 Kgs 9:22), they kill God’s saints and prophets (Rev 13:15, 16:6, 18:20; 1 Kgs 18:4, 13), and they practice magic (Rev 13:13, 15; 2 Kgs 9:22). And as the second beast has Elijah’s office but does Jezebel’s work, it is in this same sense that it looks like a lamb but talks like a dragon (13:11). It has all the trappings of (Israelite) religious authority, but it uses that authority for the dragon’s purposes. 5.2.2.6 The Non-Fatally Cut and Burned Map to the Un-Converted Generally, any who do not die map to the unfaithful because only (and all of) the faithful die.79 People un-killed by God in the war are unconvinced by God in the argument, which is the sense in which they are “unfaithful.” But, like 76  Osborne, Revelation, 350. 77  For a proposed relationship between the two witnesses and Pentecost on other grounds, see Aune, Revelation 6–16, 621. 78  For the Elijah/Jezebel tradition in Revelation in general, see Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 277; for “Binding ‘Jezebel’ to the Beast from the Earth” specifically, see Duff, Who Rides the Beast?, 113–25. 79  Koester, Revelation, 429: “Revelation gives the impression that all the faithful will die violently (13:15; 17:6).”

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there were specific kinds of death that told us about our characters, there are specific kinds of death-avoidance that do the same. Three in particular stand out: “the beast who suffered the plague of the sword but lived” (13:14), those who were burned without being consumed (9:20, 16:8), and those who burn in the lake of fire (19:20; 20:10, 14–15; 21:8). One should note that John considers all the killed “blessed” (14:13) but each (and all) of these un-killed characters wicked (9:20–21). The beast’s sword-wound is difficult on several levels. The common interpretation would make it mirror Nero’s suicide by dagger (Suet. Nero 39);80 but the verb ἐσφαγμένην is in the passive, which rather fits a wound inflicted by someone else. Also, the strike to one of its heads was a “plague of his death” (ἡ πληγὴ τοῦ θανάτου αὐτοῦ, 13:3, 12). It has been considered odd that John would then have such a fatal wound “healed” (θεραπεύω, 13:3, 12). Fatal wounds, by definition, should not be. And having his head be only “like having been slain” (ὡς ἐσφαγμένην, 13:3) creates problems because Jesus’ crucifixion—which John seems to take fully literally (11:8)—is described in exactly the same terms (ὡς ἐσφαγμένον, 5:6). A beastly head being struck (rather than striking itself, à la Nero) with a fatal blow (that nonetheless was healed) just to have it intentionally mirror Jesus (whose slaying expressly should not be repeatable; cf. 5:2–4, 9) is a difficult story in the extreme. But if war is mapped to argument, the beast has simply withstood true testimony without converting—“struck” by the testimony, as it were, but not “killed” by it. We could expect that at least one manifestation of the beast (one “head”) might have heard that testimony (as at least one did; 11:7), and that the blasphemous beast might well reject it (as at least one did; 13:6–7). What has been a difficult and confusing case resolves to metaphorical entailments that already occur in the text explicitly. Those who don’t fully “burn” in the trumpets and bowls remain idolatrous (9:20–21) and blasphemous (16:9). As noted above, their burning or consumption was meant for their conversion, but that conversion-attempt fails (for the time being; cf. 20:9). In both cases, the afflicted choose to “give glory” (16:9) or “worship” (9:20) to other things instead. They still explicitly occupy the “side” of the war opposite God. In other words, they are responding to the fire in exactly the way characters should respond if consumption by fire metaphorically 80  Easily, the majority opinion regarding these passages is that they point to the Nero redivivus myth. See, e.g., Koester, Revelation, 570–71; Aune, Revelation 6–16, 726, 729–30; Smalley, Revelation, 338. For certain problems with how the myth is used in recovering John’s meaning (especially as regards Nero’s supposed death), see Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 421, 439–40; Jan Willem van Henten, “Nero Redivivus Demolished: The Coherence of the Nero Traditions in the Sibylline Oracles,” JSP 11.21 (2000): 3–17. Beale isn’t sure it applies (Beale, Revelation, 17–18).

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means “conversion.” Both their lack of consumption-by-fire and their continued pagan practices testify that they are unconverted, one metaphorically and one literally. Some resist conversion or consumption forever. Burning eternally in a lake of fire, if taken literally, has several serious problems. The first is that it is outrageously violent.81 It is also seemingly unnecessary. Why add fire to the fate of the unrighteous? It doesn’t resolve anything, improve anything, or refine anything.82 It amounts only to an eternal memorial to God’s malevolence. And of course, and crudely but accurately, it’s impossible. Lakes don’t burn, and nothing burns forever. John and his readers would have known that. It’s just an odd and difficult part of the story. If war is mapped to argument, fire may be mapped to the true testimony of the Spirit. But the dragon and the beasts have their own testimony. That false testimony, in order to show it’s opposite and opposing nature to the gospel, is envisioned rather as water (12:15–16) and water-borne frogs (16:13). John envisions the present world as one in which God’s lordship can be, and is, actively denied (13:4). A sizable proportion of the world is in fact reliant on the “sea” (8:9, 18:17–19). But that sea won’t stand forever (16:3, 21:1). False testimony won’t stand forever (12:9, 18:23). There will be an eternal and unquenchable testimony or memorial to who the real Lord is. John puts that memorial in the lake or valley of Gehenna,83 just “outside” the city of Jerusalem (22:15). If fire is truth to John in some sense, it needs to touch everything. Knowledge of the Lord needs to cover everything, as waters cover the sea (Isa 11:9). The problem that he runs into is that not everyone will be consumed and converted by that truth. Gehenna is his solution to the eternally unconvinced. It is supposed to be the final repository of the unrighteous anyway (Mark 9:43–47 par.) But in that place of final repose, the metaphorical fire (of testimony) can never go out because the unrighteous can never win the argument, and they can’t be consumed because that would imply their 81  Some commentators claim that eternal suffering is in view (e.g., Beale, Revelation, 762; Osborne, Revelation, 541) while others attempt to soften the judgment by turning it into “extinction and total oblivion” (Caird, Revelation, 186–87) or a period of time “which is intense while it lasts, but which will not last for ever” (Smalley, Revelation, 367–68). Of the more literalist views, Smalley rejoins “[s]uch a picture of unremitting punishment by God, however, calls into question both the justice and character of God, and indeed his saving purposes for the world” (Smalley, Revelation, 368; quoting, in part, Boring, Revelation, 170). 82  Beale, Revelation, 277, 394, casts Revelation’s fire as a “refining fire.” This association he very much does not extend to the fire in the lake (762–65). 83  Yarbro Collins, Combat Myth, 12.

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conversion. And so the “valley of slaughter” (Jer 7:32, 19:6) becomes, metaphorically pictured, a place of eternal burning. But Gehenna stands here for the eternally unpersuaded, not for eternal conscious suffering. Torture is witness without conversion, and this group never converts, so John pictures them in a constant and eternal state of torture (14:11), as the metaphor demands. If argument is war, John is just expecting what anyone might expect—that not everyone will respond to Christ’s testimony. If argument is not war, God is adding needless suffering and John is adding needless detail. The smoke rising from the valley shouldn’t be taken as evidence that people are still suffering in the metaphorical reading. Having suffered the “second death” (see 20:14, where “death and Hades” are destroyed thereby), they shouldn’t be experiencing anything.84 The smoke is rather evidence that they made their final decision not to be consumed or converted. And, metaphorically, things that reside in fire and are never consumed burn forever—but only metaphorically. 5.2.2.7 Earthquakes Map to Restoration Earthquakes (σεισμός) mark the end of the seals (6:12), trumpets (11:19), and bowls (16:18), as well as the beginning of the trumpets (8:5) and the resurrection of the two witnesses (11:13).85 God harming “the earth” by shaking should be seen as analogous to its being harmed by being “burned” by him (8:7) or “struck” by him (11:6). If argument is war, then generally harm, in whatever form, done to the earth should map to arguments won with the earth-dwellers (the metonymic target of “earth”).86 But a “shaking” of the earth would map more specifically to a “shaking” of the earth’s inhabitants. They are being pictured as being deeply “moved” by the surrounding events. Insofar as those events are actuated by God, they are moved by him in particular. In several places, the recalcitrant are presented in opposite fashion—they are rather unmoved and 84  Caird, Revelation, 187. Note that, if the second death/lake of fire doesn’t destroy humans in a real way (20:15), “death and Hades” aren’t destroyed in a real way either (20:14). They are cast to the lake as a means of their destruction. This reading comports rather well with the theological positions of conditionalism and annihilationism. See section 4.1.1.4, above. 85  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 199–209. 86  Malina and Pilch, Social-Science, 3, 147. Though “earth” is usually taken to be generalizing, it is also recognized that the more specific “land of Israel” could be the target. See Aune, Revelation 1–5, 56, 240; Campbell, “Findings,” 88. If “land” is meant to be taken as “land of Israel,” that might tie the women-centered narratives (chapters 12, 17, 18, and parts of 19 and 21) more closely to the land-centered narrative of the war. See Humphrey, Ladies and the Cities, 21: “In the Old Testament, both the land of Israel as a whole and the city Zion (as Israel’s synecdoche, or even epitome) were pictured as women, in various aspects.” The story of the land (Israel) is the story of the lady (the bride).

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unchanged by the events around them (9:20–21; 16:9, 11)—a stubbornness that John takes to be deplorable (21:8). Those “shaken” then are responding appropriately to God’s argument. They are moved by it, which is perhaps why they die in response (11:13). They are, in religious terms, experiencing something like a “revival.” And this progression of revivals is telling a story. The first earthquake attends the breaking of the sixth seal and the darkening of the heavenly bodies. I have already suggested that this may indicate the crucifixion of Christ (section 3.3.1.5.3). Indeed, and uniquely here, the earth isn’t the only thing that shakes; heaven does too (σείω, 6:13). And if this is the only time it happens it seems likely that the death of the Christ, who is present through the four horsemen (6:2) but absent through the trumpets and bowls (10:1, 11:12, 16:15) only to return in the last battle (19:11), would be the cause. The second shaking occurs at the arrival of the fire at Pentecost (8:5–7).87 One can see how John might take this to be a “revival” event. The restoration and resurrection of the two witnesses creates opportunity for another revival, this time of the seven thousand (and perhaps of the onlookers as well, 11:13). That earthquake may be a proleptic vision of the more general one in 11:19 that closes out the trumpets; and regardless, the two witnesses are important religious leaders, so their restoration would likely have a broad impact on Jerusalem’s inhabitants. But the last earthquake is the one that receives the most attention by the author. The great earthquake at the seventh bowl is unlike any “since humans appeared on the earth” (16:18). It splits Jerusalem, destroys the cities of the gentiles, subjects Babylon to wrath, and even removes the islands and mountains (16:19–20). If earthquakes are revivals, this is “the great revival.” The earthdwellers are shaken to the degree that, at least from their vantage point, there aren’t any other nations—or potential foreign “lovers” (17:2, 18:3)—anymore (οὐχ εὑρέθησαν, 16:20). If the Apocalypse envisions the revival and restoration of Israel, this is it. What the reader will be asking at this point is how we got to the restoration from the bowls. All of them were ineffective seemingly (nobody died) and the sixth bowl, the one just before the great earthquake, left off with the kings of the whole world gathered against Israel at Armageddon (16:14–16). They are about to be destroyed, and that at a point when some of them are at the zenith of their disobedience and blasphemy toward God (6:9, 21). That is a poor setup for “revival.” The question of how we got there is the very one that the interlude of the great adulteress answers (as the text implies that it does; 17:1). The reason that nobody dies at God’s hand during the bowls—but that the great 87  See section 3.3.1.5.4, above.

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earthquake is the final and full revival and restoration of Israel—is that the unfaithful remainder of Israel after the seals and trumpets (by now, surely, not a large number; 15:4) aren’t “killed” by God exactly like their fellows were. They are “killed” by the beast and the ten horns (17:16). John goes on immediately to say that this killing, as predicted in 6:8, would be by “the beasts” but for God’s own “purposes” (γνώμη, 17:17). The false friendship of the beast, once having turned on Israel and shown the true nature of its “friendship” at Armageddon, would convince the remainder of Israel that had capitulated with Rome to return to their ancestral religion. In this sense, the Hellenistic Jews are (re)converted to (John’s concept of) orthodoxy by the actions of the beast and for the purposes of God. If this is not the case, it needs to be answered why the death of the adulteress is attributed to both agencies (18:8, 20; 19:2; and 17:16), as again had been promised (6:8). It may also be fairly asked why the nations would both rend and eat and burn the adulteress (17:16) and then immediately mourn her passing (18:3, 9–10, etc.), as if it was a surprise to them (18:10, 17). Argument is war may answer that question as well. If, by the faithlessness of her gentile paramours, the adulteress felt encouraged to return to her ancestral God, both effects (metaphorical “murder” and unironic and surprised sorrow) are in fact achieved not only simultaneously but by one and the same action—faithlessness. Armageddon, the destruction of the adulteress, and the cleansing of the bride are all different metaphorical tellings of the same story. The last, and all, of Israel is finally “moved” to return to God not just by his war for them, but by the beast’s war against them. And that return is received ungraciously by the gentiles (ἄνθρωποι, 16:21) such that their next act in the play is to bring war against the entire, unified nation of Israel (19:19, 20:8–9). This is the event that John has been looking forward to. He believes the great eschatological battle between Israel and the nations will be won by the restored “armies of heaven” (19:14), who are the “bride of Christ” (19:8), because Christ himself will return to lead them (19:11), as a messiah might.88 And so the earthquakes are progressive because the restoration of “the earth” (Israel) is progressive. Christ moves the earth-dwellers mightily at his crucifixion, the arrival of the Holy Spirit shakes them again, the opening of the restoration to the gentiles (ἄνθρωποι, 11:13–19) shakes them twice, and the false friendship of the world shakes everything left to be shaken. And yet, in all of that movement, there is only one event that shook heaven. Heavenly bodies darken (8:12) and fall (12:4) in other places, but in this way the sixth seal is 88  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 216 (“military Messiah”).

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constitutionally different than every other event in the war. Heaven quakes.89 God is moved in the sixth seal in a way that he is nowhere else, and why that might be should be answered. I am arguing that that heaven-quake in the sixth seal comes in response to the death of his son, as it might. 5.2.2.8 Blood Maps to Cleansing John is explicit that Christ’s blood is emancipating (1:5), redeeming (5:9), and cleansing (7:14). It is perhaps important to notice then that blood is regularly coming down from heaven and covering things. There is no blood from heaven during the seals. This is in keeping with the seals being the time of the physical ministry of Christ on earth (see above). Atonement has not been achieved yet. But, as with fire, when blood joins the narrative in the first trumpet (8:7), it remains an important tool in the war. The first trumpet showers hail and fire mixed with blood from heaven, fire perhaps to consume and blood to cleanse. Fire and blood also mix in the second trumpet, at the casting of the mountain into the sea. Implausibly (from a literal point of view) one-third of the sea becomes blood (8:8). The blood is thus spreading out from land to sea in a kind of diaspora. Blood coming from heaven is particularly a part of the bowls however. All water sources are filled with it (sea, 16:3; rivers and streams, 16:4), so that there is no water left to “drink” (16:6). If argument is war, the opposite of water might be considered blood, just as it is of fire (see above); which is to say, blood is true testimony that cleanses (7:14) and water is false testimony that makes unclean (16:13; cf. 12:15). When God is taking water sources away from the earth, then, he is taking away the earth-dweller’s sources of false testimony and replacing them with authentic testimony. He is cleansing the whole land (of Israel), such that it becomes filled with the testimony of Christ’s blood. John had already and proleptically envisioned this at the second reaping (14:20). The grapes are harvested and trodden and blood (and it does not say whose) comes out of the winepress and covers an area just large enough to incorporate the historical boundaries of Israel.90 The first argument represented by the reaping of the wheat goes smoothly, and is fine as far as it goes. The second argument is much more difficult; but the fierceness and violence (passion) of that second argument spreads the testimony further afield than the first did—far enough to symbolically cleanse the whole land. The two witnesses have this same ability to cleanse the land, though it is more localized (11:6). 89  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 413, rightly makes this point that the σεισμός is rather a shaking of the heavens “which caused the disruption of the heavenly bodies.” 90  Charles, Revelation vol. 2:26; Mounce, Revelation, 283; Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 48.

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In the judgment on the great adulteress, one of the chief arguments against her is that she was drunk on the blood of the saints and prophets (17:6, 18:24). The text might have in mind some formal idea of martyrdom-as-death here, but she isn’t the only one that drinks. When the dragon spews his false witness in the wilderness, the land drinks it down so that the celestial woman is not “carried away” (12:15–16) by that false teaching. It’s a defensive strategy to prevent witness. The great adulteress may be employing that same strategy in the suppression of the witness of the saints and prophets by the drinking of their “blood” (17:6, “the blood of those who bore testimony to Jesus”). Blood then appears in a most fulsome way at the final battle, when the white rider returns doused in it (19:13). This is the last instance of blood coming from heaven. Interestingly the blood only affects heaven itself once, again at the sixth seal. The moon becomes blood (6:12). Heaven is cleansed before earth is. The crucifixion in the sixth seal effects the spiritual cleansing of all of heaven, and that cleansing continues to work itself out on the earth until it is completed in the final battle. Something very much like this happens in the celestial battle of chapter 12. Michael and his angels cast out the dragon and his “angels” (elsewhere “unclean demons”; cf. 16:13–14)—thereby cleansing heaven—and that rout is effected “through the blood of the Lamb and through the word of their testimony” (διὰ τὸ αἷμα τοῦ ἀρνίου καὶ διὰ τὸν λόγον τῆς μαρτυρίας αὐτῶν, 12:11). If the blood cleansed heaven in chapter 12, how are we to take its effect in chapter 6? And whose blood would it be if not the Lamb’s (5:9)? In 12:10–11 heaven is cleansed, but earth and sea are still in a time of “woe” (12:12) because they haven’t been yet. The story of the war then is effectively the story of that progressive “cleansing” of the rest of creation, resulting at the uttermost end in a “new heavens and new earth” (21:1). 5.2.2.9 Prisons Map to Suppression of Testimony Satan is famously captured and imprisoned in the abyss at the beginning of the blessed millennium. The purpose of that internment is to keep him from misleading the gentiles (ἵνα μὴ πλανήσῃ ἔτι τὰ ἔθνη, 20:3), which presumes that the Jewish people were already insusceptible to such leadings (see “the great earthquake” discussion in the previous section). Satan’s prison is not primarily punitive, much less purgatorial. It suppresses the false testimony of the dragon, who is finally released so that he can deceive the nations again (20:8), unwittingly drive them to God (20:8–9), and subsequently be destroyed (20:10). This is not of course the first prison we have seen. The locusts emerge after being freed from the shaft of the abyss by the key-bearing star (9:1–2), presumably Apollyon (9:11). They immediately begin torturing the unsealed (9:4–6). They were not “free” to do that before. If argument is war, one of its entailments

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is that torture is (difficult) witness. Another entailment is that capture or physical suppression is suppression of testimony. One is not “free” to “torture.” The fact that the sky is darkened by the number released by Apollyon is indicative of the number of the faithful released by this Christ-figure to bear witness. A common material anchor between these two events is the key of the abyss (τὴν κλεῖν τῆς ἀβύσσου, 20:1) or the key of the shaft of the abyss (ἡ κλεὶς τοῦ φρέατος τῆς ἀβύσσου, 9:1). This comparison of terms makes it fairly difficult to demonize the holder of the keys, as is commonly done.91 Only Christ is allowed to hold keys (or at least only his keys are effective; cf. 3:7) because he is the only one that was dead and is alive again (1:18). The presumption is that he has access to death and Hades because he’s been there. He therefore uses the keys in a way similar to how he uses his blood—to set free (1:5). It might also be noticed that there are two, presumably iron, keys. There were likewise two iron sickles, two-sided swords, two-sided axes, and a two-sided, iron-breasted cavalry (see section 3.3.1.5.4). The keys add something to what the other iron implements are doing. They are setting people free. This is why those harmed by the πέλεκυς are freed to take part in the millennium, or why those killed by Christ’s sword in the final battle are free to enter the New Jerusalem. There is a certain systematicity to Christ’s keys, blood, and iron. They are slightly different metaphorical anchors in the large and adaptable blend of the war of witness. The purpose of being set free is to once again take part in the war (9:1–4, 14–15; 16:12) by bearing witness. 5.2.2.10 Death Maps to Restoration In a metaphor as involved as the one that underlies the Apocalypse, there are many other potential mappings that can be made; and those mappings help tell more of the story. Horses for example are involved in the war in a different way when Christ is present (the seals and last battle) than when he is not (the trumpets)—in the trumpets, the horses (not the riders) mount the attack (9:17–19).92 The rider has left the picture for the time being (until his return in 19:11). Tails, hail, bows, smoke, sulfur, scales, and stings likewise do things inexplicable on a literal level that may be systematically decipherable on a metaphoric one. But there is one mapping, underneath the general one of war to argument, that seems to inform and control most of the others. Death seems to map to restoration. As death is fundamentally the point of war (6:2), restoration is fundamentally the point of the argument (5:9–10). For heaven to “win,” covenant relationship needs to be restored (21:3). Whereas 91  E.g., Witherington, Revelation, 153–54; Beale, Revelation, 502–4; Aune, Revelation 6–16, 546. 92  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 540.

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God begins in his heaven—far enough away that John has to be led, singly, through a door even to see him (4:1)—by the end, many have seemingly walked through that door (22:4–5), which will never again be closed (21:25). The separation of God, first from the earth-dwellers (19:7), and then from people in general (21:24), seems to be the overall problem that the war is attempting to solve. And not just finally by the New Jerusalem. There are several stages along the way. Most of the (positive) interludes include a vision of one group or another already in his presence: the 144,000 and white-robed multitudes at the end of the seals (7:4, 9), the witnesses called to heaven at the end of the trumpets (11:12), the celestial woman hidden with God in the wilderness (12:14), the two harvests being gathered (14:16, 19–20), the bride being purified and introduced to the bridegroom (19:7–9; 21:2), and Eden being restored (22:1–5).93 Even the negative interludes presume at least the need for restoration: the eternal repudiation of the faithless in chapter 14, the announcement of non-inclusion of anyone in the temple in chapter 15, and the final judgment and eternal disassociation of those names not written in the book in chapters 20–22. Every other human problem—actual death (2:13), sin (1:5–6), ignorance (9:20–21), false witness (17:1–6), etc.—seems to be reinterpreted around the idea of its effect on one’s relationship to God (22:15, 19). John also seems to believe that there is a real change in a human being restored to God in Christ (by blood, sword, testimony, burning, consumption, or any of the other myriad ways to die available in the text). They have an immediate spiritual representation in heaven. In this way, the 144,000 can be before God’s throne (7:9) and simultaneously (or subsequently) involved in Christ’s pre-parousia war on earth (14:1). Those multitudes killed in the seals, trumpets, and bowls can return to fight in the last battle (19:14). The dead millennialists (20:4) can rule alongside Christ in such a way that the devil, who is cast into the abyss for a time, cannot (but presumably could otherwise) interfere in their earthly rulership (20:1–3). Of course, John himself has blurred the lines between heaven and earth (4:1–2), and is writing perhaps in interest of that very thing. The line is erased completely by the descent of the city (21:2). For the time being, John seems interested in his charges living as citizens of the heavenly politeuma (2:13) rather than any earthly one (2:14, 3:17),94 as the political 93  For New Eden in particular, see McNicol, Conversion of the Nations, 82; Smalley, Revelation, 561–63. For the theme of “restoration” being fundamental to John’s purposes on the whole, see Frederick David Mazzaferri, The Genre of the Book of Revelation from a Source-Critical Perspective, BZNW 54 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1989), 282: “the purpose of the pervasive judgments in Rev is restoration” and [of John’s source text of Ezekiel] “[t]he theme of restoration could receive no greater emphasis” (144). 94  Malina and Pilch, Social-Science, 251; Smalley, Revelation, 341.

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seals (7:2–5; 9:4) versus markings (13:16–18, 14:9–11) and citizenship rolls (3:5, 20:15, 21:27) indicate.95 This kind of metaphorical “death” leading to a heavenly and present relationship with God through Christ (being “raised and seated in the heavenly realms,” as it were; Eph 2:6) is hardly innovative in the NT. Paul was “crucified with Christ” (Gal 2:20) as well as “crucified to the world” (Gal 6:14) in such a way that, though he continues to “live in the body” (Gal 2:20), he is also and presently a “new creation” (Gal 6:15). The Colossians are expected to know that they “died” at some point in the past (Col 3:3) and that their lives are “now hidden with Christ in God” because they were “raised with Christ” at that point in the past as well (Col 3:1). The point in question appears to be the “burial” ritual of baptism (Col 2:12), as a part of which they both “died with Christ” (Col 2:20) and were “raised with him” (Col 2:12). In the case of the church in Rome, “as many as were baptized into Christ Jesus, were baptized into his death” (6:3). This also entails being “buried,” “raised,” and granted “new life” with him (6:4); being “united with him” in death and resurrection (6:5); and being “crucified with him” (6:6). And those “deaths” had to have happened in the past because it was on the basis of those deaths that they “have become [perfect tense] united” (σύμφυτοι γεγόναμεν, 6:5) with him and are now to count themselves “dead to sin” (6:11) in all the various ways Paul recommends in the remainder of the chapter. These Pauline “deaths” read very much like the metaphorical “first death” emergent structure we discovered in chapter 3—a positive, first death prior to the real, second one (see section 4.1.1.4). Likewise, Jesus asks his followers to “destroy” (ἀπόλλυμι, Mark 8:35 parr.) or “hate” (μισέω, John 12:25) their lives for his sake, whereupon they would “keep” (φυλάσσω, John 12:25), “make alive” (ζωογονέω, Luke 17:33), “save” (σῴζω, Mark 8:35, Luke 9:24), or “find” (εὑρίσκω, Matt 10:39, 16:25) them. These are also spoken in the context of the “crucifixion” of said followers (σταυρός, Mark 8:34 parr.), which appears also to be metaphorical (vis-à-vis “daily”—καθ᾽ ἡμέραν— Luke 9:23) in nature. And there are other examples as well (hating one’s own life and carrying one’s own cross in Luke 14:26–27, everyone dying because Christ died and so being made a “new creation” in 2 Cor 5:14–17, etc.) The point here is that—even if one were to find outlandish the use of a hybrid, conceptual theory of metaphor for the study of Revelation—what that method is uncovering is pretty common in the rest of the NT. People “die” in a way that is beneficial to them and not at all literal. And commentators will need to explain, if John is not thinking metaphorically, why a metaphorical reading of him is producing a story we already know. That would be a mighty coincidence. 95  Smalley, Revelation, 86; Aune, Revelation 1–5, 224–25.

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Figure 24 The systematic mappings of ARGUMENT IS WAR

And so, in summary, above is a diagram of the several and systematic mappings between the domain of war and of argument. Systematicity is a product of metaphor.96 There would be no reason for these well-ordered relationships (say, between blood and earthquakes or fire and water) were it not for the presence of the metaphor argument is war in John’s mind. Not having the metaphor ourselves has caused his later readers to lose that sense of unity and relevance in regard to the story because it was the systematic mappings of the metaphor that gave it unity in the first place. Blood does certain things in this story that blood doesn’t usually do in war. So too with iron, fire, earthquakes, and the rest. They are not just acting strangely, they are acting systematically; and why that might be—if it is not under the influence of metaphor—needs to be answered. 5.2.3 Post-Comprehension Processes Steen and his group predict that post-comprehension processes don’t occur in cases where metaphors aren’t deliberate.97 Representations are made (of the metaphorical material) but not metarepresentations (that the material is metaphorical). This is because non-deliberate metaphors meet their pragmatic goals without need of recognition. Most often, we use war to understand 96  Kövecses, Metaphor, 9. 97  Steen, “Developing, Testing and Interpreting,” 69.

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argument without even realizing it.98 Lexical disambiguation (using alreadyavailable definitions of words) usually does the job, and we move on in “fast and frugal” fashion to the next sentence.99 Sometimes, however, recognition is required. We’re doing something with the metaphor that draws attention to the source domain, and to the metaphor itself, to get more out of it than usual. This is the case with deliberate metaphor. In a previous example, I used the following interchange: (1) Student 1: “Did you successfully defend your thesis?” (2) Student 2: “Yes, but I should have worn a flak jacket.” The first utterance is a non-deliberate metaphor. Student 2 can understand the sentence meaning simply by disambiguating “defend.” “Defend by argument” is an available meaning for “defend” in common use (and most English dictionaries), and so the mapping of argument and war is unnecessary (though still possible—it is a weak implicature). The second utterance however demands that Student 1 actually make that mapping. “Flak jacket” cannot be resolved by means of standard enrichment processes because “instrument for defense in arguments” is not a meaning within the common use of that item. For the meaning to be successfully resolved, an online mapping of war and its instruments must be made to argument and its instruments. Once that metaphorical association has been made, Student 1 can infer that Student 2 was successful but only with serious difficulty. She can go on to imagine other weak implications like fear, a sense of relief at its conclusion, perhaps his ongoing anxiety, etc. Whatever Student 1 imagines based on that mapping is what Steen means by “post-comprehension procedures.” In fact, her recognition of the mapping in the first place and by itself constitutes deliberateness. “Recognition” is one of the three post-comprehension processes anticipated by DMT, along with interpretation and appreciation.100 Because the student recognized her fellow student’s metaphor, she could make several relevant interpretations of it (fear, relief, etc.), and perhaps appreciate its novelty or humor. Returning once more to Fauconnier and Turner’s model, a blend (of which metaphor is a type) is only completed when its pattern is recognized.101 Steen and Fauconnier and Turner have the same intuition. For people to do something with metaphor beyond bare information-sharing (including “interpret” 98  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 5. 99  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 624–25. 100  Steen, “Developing, Testing and Interpreting,” 69. 101  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 48.

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it), they need to “recognize” it first. The metaphor argument is war was never so appreciated by later readers of the Apocalypse because it was never recognized in the first place, and that made “interpretation” difficult, if not impossible. But John did not have that difficulty. As the author, he already recognized the metaphor. The book then is likely able to demonstrate those postcomprehension procedures even if its readers are not. When the book says that it is an “apocalypse of Jesus Christ” (1:1), that is an interpretive statement. John sees what he is doing and labels it a “revelation of Jesus.” The problem for later interpreters has been that much of the material seemed unrelated to him.102 Occasional appearances perhaps in the stories of the celestial woman or the two reapings notwithstanding, Jesus has seemed almost entirely absent from the war until the final battle (19:11). Unfortunately for the explication of that character, it is the story of the war that constitutes the majority of the narrative.103 If argument is war, however, people being metaphorically “killed” are being “saved” (σωτηρία, 7:10, 12:10, 19:1); and, because Jesus should be the one doing the saving in the interpretation of the story, he should be the one doing the “killing” in the metaphor. DMT predicts that Jesus should be the one fighting the war. One notes that the use of the term σωτηρία coincides with the events of the war generally (chapters 6–20) and with the slain 144,000 (7:14), the brothers who “did not love their souls up to death” (12:11), and the death of the adulteress (19:2) in particular. The narrative is declaring “saved” the very people in the seals, trumpets, and bowls that it is “killing,” or at least those terms are collocating (and why they are should be answered). The war itself is the instrument of people’s salvation. If John in any sense thinks that Jesus is the guarantor of that salvation (1:5, 5:9, 7:10, 12:11), Jesus will be the main actor in the war. And so John made Jesus violent—surpassingly so.104 Most of John’s named characters in the war are leading the charge, and so taking on the violent role that Jesus should have. At least the first of the four horsemen (6:1–8), the one in white (6:2), is sometimes considered to be Christ because the last white

102  For the position that the seals are carried out by demonic forces, see Beale, Revelation, 376, 409 and Boring, Revelation, 124. For the position that the trumpets are demonic, see Aune, Revelation 6–16, 546–47 and Beale, Revelation, 147. For the position that the bowls are demonic, see Caird, Revelation, 201–5 and Koester, Revelation, 461, 658–59. 103  Yarbro Collins, Combat Myth, 2: “The basic motifs and pattern of the combat myth play a dominant role in the book of Revelation.” 104  Neufeld, Killing Enmity, 129: “While the dragon and the beast and their hordes are quite obviously violent, the solution to this violence appears to be the hyper-violence of God and the Lamb.”

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horseman explicitly is (19:11).105 The seals close with the kings hiding in the hills from the wrathful Lamb (6:16–17), thus confirming that it was in fact the Lamb who fought that opening salvo of the war. During the trumpets, Wormwood is coming from heaven and burning like a torch (καιόμενος ὡς λαμπὰς, 8:10) in a way directly and only reminiscent of the Holy Spirit (ἑπτὰ λαμπάδες πυρὸς καιόμεναι, 4:5). He also “embitters” the waters (πικραίνω, 8:11) in the same way that the mighty angel (another Christ figure)106 “embitters” John’s stomach with the small scroll (πικραίνω, 10:9–10). That verb is only used in those two places. The four angels (a number reminiscent of the four-horse-cavalry of the seals) get released in the sixth trumpet at the head of another much larger cavalry (now of 200 million). Abaddon or Apollyon 1) is a king like Jesus is (9:11, cf. 11:15), 2) is from heaven (9:1), 3) has a key as only Jesus should (9:1; cf. 1:18, 3:7, 20:1), and 4) is in control of the locust army in exactly the same way that God appears to be (9:4). The only other time somebody opens or closes the Abyss is at the millennium, when the angel (another possible Christ figure, who nevertheless is entirely good)107 imprisons Satan there (20:1–3). The two harvests (14:16, 19) are reaped by “one like a son of man” (14:14). This is the first title John gives to Jesus, and only to him (1:13). The kings from east of the sun (16:12) are returning from the same place (ἀπὸ ἀνατολῆς ἡλίου, 16:12) that the “other angel” ascended from (ἀπὸ ἀνατολῆς ἡλίου, 7:2), carrying the seal of the living God. This “other angel” is another Christ figure.108 And finally, the rider on the white horse (19:11) must be Christ because the names given him are “Faithful and True” (19:11), “Word of God” (19:13), and “King of Kings and Lord of lords” (19:16); because he is accoutered like Christ in crowns, bloody robes, and the messianic iron scepter of Ps 2:9; and because “his eyes are like flames of fire” in nearly exactly the same terms as the Son of Man (οἱ δὲ ὀφθαλμοὶ αὐτοῦ ὡς φλὸξ πυρός, 19:12; οἱ ὀφθαλμοὶ αὐτοῦ ὡς φλὸξ πυρὸς, 1:14).109 If this character as the Christ can “wage war” (πολεμέω, 19:11), lead “armies” (στράτευμα, 19:14), bear the sword, strike down nations, and tread the winepress (19:15), kill “all flesh” (σάρκας πάντων, 19:18), and direct its consumption by birds (19:17–18), there is no convincing reason that the other warring characters cannot do those things as Christ as well. 105  See, e.g., Zane Clark Hodges, “The First Horseman of the Apocalypse,” Bibliotheca Sacra 119.3 (1962): 324–34; Lupieri, Apocalypse, 142–43. 106  Beale, Revelation, 522–26. 107  Ibid., 984–88. 108  Roloff, Revelation, 96–97; Prigent, L’Apocalypse, 119. 109  This is nearly universally recognized. See, e.g., David E. Aune, Revelation 17–22, WBC 52c (Dallas: Word, 1998), 1046, 1053.

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In fact, the other Christ characters do those exact things: killing by sword (6:4), striking the nations (παίσῃ ἄνθρωπον, 9:5), waging war (9:7, 9), leading armies (9:16), and treading the winepress (14:20). John is combining all of his named warriors in the narrative into one super-soldier in the last battle, and then naming him Jesus. This was supposed to signal his readers that John had been talking about Christ all along, in the different guises of Wormwood, Apollyon, and so on. But, because commentators were loath to attribute violence and torture to Christ (as is understandable), Christ’s connection with the named characters was lost. And yet those connections remain in the text itself. Bitterness relates Wormwood to the mighty angel, the “east of the sun” relates the sealing angel to the “kings from the east,” “one like a son of man” relates the harvester back to Jesus in chapter 1, the winepress relates the harvester forward to the one with the messianic iron scepter in chapter 19, and the white horse and the sword relate the four horsemen to the white rider. Those connections are there in the text. Interpreters who would continue to argue for a metonymic or literal reading of the Apocalypse need to answer why that is. And they will need a better explanation than that the unseemly characters are ironic or false versions of the real Christ. The characters are doing the same things, to the same people, at the imprimatur of the same God. These connections are John’s own post-processed “interpretation” of the argument is war metaphor. They are entailments that are available in his mind only because he has already mapped “death” and “restoration.”110 The person in his story with the strongest and most persuasive argument (1:2, 5, 9; 3:14) is going to be the person most violent and destructive in the war (19:11, 21). This second-level interpretation of the metaphor has essentially the same dynamics as a recursion in blending theory.111 Because argument is war, death becomes restoration, and warriors become saviors. The Holy Spirit, as the “seven spirits” (1:4, 3:1, 4:5, 5:6), also becomes a warrior, after the seals are completed. His character is complementing Christ’s work in salvation by being mapped to by most of the remaining characters in the trumpets and bowls. The “seven angels who stand before God”—just as the seven spirits stood “before the throne” (1:4, 4:5)—sound the seven trumpets (8:2, 6, 7, 8, 10, 12; 9:1, 13; 11:15) and pour out the seven bowls (15:1, 6–8; 16:1; 17:1; 21:9). They should therefore be associated with the Holy Spirit, as the seven 110  See Kövecses, Metaphor, 122–23. Entailments are differentiated from mere mappings by the fact that they associate a level of “rich additional knowledge” (122) between source and target. This “rich additional knowledge” is only available by further processing, as of deliberate metaphor. 111  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 334–36.

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spirits are.112 As pointed out before, these “seven angels” are certainly righteous because they are present in the New Jerusalem (21:9) and carry on most of their activity either in heaven or from there (8:4, 15:6) and by God’s express will and command (8:2, 16:1). And so either Jesus or the Holy Spirit (or both) are fighting the entire war—seals, trumpets, bowls, and last battle.113 They are also trading off responsibilities. Jesus fights the war of the seals on earth and in person. The four horsemen have to “come” (6:1, 3, 5, 7). Jesus then returns in person (19:19), on one of the same horses (19:11), and carrying some of the same weapons (19:15) at the end for the last battle.114 In between those two instances however, every time he appears in the trumpets or bowls, he is either in heaven or working from heaven (8:10, 9:1, 10:1, 14:14, 16:12). He isn’t around for them in person. The horsemen fight in the seals and last battle, but it is the horses themselves—and not any rider—that fight in the battle of the 200-million-strong cavalry (9:17–19). The horses are rider-less for a time. This implies that the seals are the time of Christ’s ministry on earth, the period of the four horsemen—the period covered by the Gospels. The trumpets and bowls are the time of the ministry of the Holy Spirit, the period of the seven angels—the period covered by the book of Acts. That is ultimately what was supposed to be “recognized”; the key with which we could unlock the text. John is just telling the story of the early church to the early church. The seven congregations already knew it (2:2), or parts of it (2:25), and would have (or should have) been able to recognize the historical patterns, interpret the narrative, and perhaps appreciate John’s ability to synthesize innumerable OT allusions to eschatological restoration and war with the earlychurch events of the mid-first century. Later readers lost that ability because the metaphor John used, argument is war, was deliberate and extended which made it be expressed in direct terms,115 which then made the events seem literal and Jesus seem needlessly violent. Revelation is therefore another witness to the history of the early church in the first century. The seals and its interludes transition the reader from Christ in heaven (chapter 5) to Christ on earth (chapter 6) and back to Christ in heaven (chapter 7). The trumpets tell the story of the successes of the gospel in the “land” (of Israel, 8:7), in the diaspora (the ejection of the mountain, 8:8), and at last among the gentiles (or “humankind” in general; ἄνθρωπος, 9:4–6, 10). 112  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 509 (though he is only willing to say it is “possible”). deSilva makes this association, but rejects the association of the seven spirits with the Holy Spirit. See deSilva, Seeing Things, 97. Most commentators take the seven angels to be the seven angels of the presence (see, e.g., Koester, Revelation, 432). 113  Beale, Revelation, 172–73. 114  Hodges, “First Horseman,” 330–34. 115  Steen, Finding Metaphor, 278; Steen et al., “Metaphor in Usage,” 778.

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The bowls give a parallel view of the failures of witness in the same expanding pattern (land, sea, rivers, springs, etc.)116 The story then begins to look to the future (16:12), when the whole Jewish nation will be restored by Christ’s witness (16:17) and the false friendship of Rome (17:16). Rome will object to being spurned and will turn in full testimonial force against a united Israel (19:19, 20:8–9). But in that last attempt to convert the Jewish people, Rome will lose the argument (helped by the fact that it will have it in part with the newlyreturned Messiah; 19:11), be converted itself instead (19:21, 20:9), and the new age will begin in a combined and cleansed New Jerusalem (21:24–27). This then is a proposal for the order of historical events related by the war in Revelation, put in comparison with parallel events in the Gospels and the book of Acts: Table 2

The events of Revelation as compared with the Gospels and Acts

Event

In Revelation

In Gospels/Acts

Christ’s pre-existence with the Father Christ’s advent

5:6 (the Lamb’s revelation; 13:8 puts him at creation) 6:1–2 (the four horsemen “come”) 6:12–17 (earthquakes and a darkened sky) 7:2 (the sealing angel “ascends”) 7:3 (“sealing” the 144,000 before harming land, sea, and trees; cf. 8:6–9) 8:1 (actually named the “ten days” in 2:10) 8:5 (fire from heaven) 8:8 (a mountain is cast into the sea, making it bloody) 9:4–6 (the ἄνθρωποι can’t yet die) 9:15, 18 (the ἄνθρωποι are finally killed)

John 1:1–3, 15

Crucifixion Resurrection and ascension Waiting in Jerusalem

Period of silence (10 days) Pentecost Christian diaspora Gentiles begin to respond Gentiles are accepted and included

Luke 2:6–7 Matt 27:45, 50, 51–54 Luke 24:51; Acts 1:2, 9 Acts 1:4

Acts 1:5 Acts 2:1–4 Acts 8:1, 11:19 Acts 10:44–48 Acts 11:18

116  Boxall, Revelation, 104; Beale, Revelation, 808–12 (see especially his helpful table showing their parallel elements on 809–10).

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John is doing something with Christ’s story here. Jesus is an important character (1:1). But much of that story has seemed altogether too “visionary” and difficult to interpret, requiring us to continue to process especially the war domain substantially beyond our initial comprehension. And it is that difficulty, especially in “interpretation,” that should have been our signal to approach it metaphorically.117 Post-comprehension processing is a function of deliberate metaphor.118 If the work seemed to require post-processing procedures, it was requiring something that is diagnostic for deliberate metaphor. Also, and perhaps more importantly, this reading of Revelation—that Christ and the Holy Spirit are winning the war of witness in and through the first century church—makes the book canonical.119 It is not just the internal story (the restoration of the bride, the conversion of the nations, the size of the New Jerusalem) that doesn’t make sense without the post-comprehension processes argument is war provides. If people don’t recognize the metaphor as metaphor, they can’t substantially reconcile Revelation’s story with the other first century stories being told about Christ and the early church. That is a comprehension issue, a “recognition” issue, and historically a—or perhaps the—canonical issue (see section 1.1). The lack of recognition that John was employing a deliberate metaphor kept the story from resolving and denied Revelation the place it should have had among the other historical witnesses of the first century. In this chapter, we have explored the metaphor argument is war from a DMT perspective. The research around deliberately used metaphors has added several important insights to our conversation thus far. The first is that deliberate metaphors have flags or signals (an unusually large number appearing in Revelation): the various “A is B” formulae (“A is B,” “this [A] is B,” and “which [A] is B”), the comparatives (“A is like B”), and the genitive (“of,” and “of life”). We also considered several functional characteristics of metaphor that are present and operating in Revelation. The text shows a great degree of indirect use of language (a point that feels fairly obvious to make), and at levels of discourse (the paragraph and chapter) that are larger than are usually considered for the presence of metaphor. It also demonstrates a systematicity among the war elements. Fire, iron, torture, and death are not only behaving indirectly 117  G  erard J. Steen, “Deliberate Metaphor Affords Conscious Metaphorical Cognition,” Journal of Cognitive Semiotics 5.1–2 (2013): 182. 118  Steen, “Developing, Testing and Interpreting,” 69. 119  Gorman, “What Has the Spirit Been Saying?,” 23, recommends keeping the canon in mind when interpreting Revelation (the second of his four-part “interpretive framework”). This suggests, as the introduction does explicitly (pp. 2–3), that the book resides still on the periphery of the canon.

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but systematically so, as if by some internal rule. And our post-comprehension interpretations of argument is war yield an utterly familiar story—the life of Christ and the origin of the early church. As we shall see in the next chapter, the fact that Revelation is able to be mapped to those stories is its own confirmation of the presence of the metaphor. The story of the early church was relevant to the early church, as the story of the head of gold was relevant to Nebuchadnezzar. The stories were about them. And because it would have been more relevant, RT anticipates that it is the metaphoric reading that is the one originally intended.

Chapter 6

The Pragmatic Implicature argument is war 6.1

Ad Hoc Construction

Pragmatically speaking, metaphors are one type of lexical loosening.1 They “loosen” or “broaden” lexical concepts beyond their normal semantic bounds.2 Picture a semantic field as a target with a bull’s-eye in the middle. Within the bull’s-eye are the standard, lexical meanings that words carry with them. These standard lexical boundaries are useful. They are clues to meaning (where unbounded lexical items—if such things were possible—would not be). Often a person will use a word whose meaning is within that narrow semantic bull’seye. When someone talks about a “tree” for example, she will often mean a leafy, bark-encased plant. Words are not always used so narrowly however. When someone says, “Ruud is a tree” (to return to Tendahl’s example), metaphorically mapping a tree to the soccer player Ruud, that use of the word “tree” is loose. It has struck somewhere outside of the bull’s-eye. The hearer needs to loosen his semantic determination of the word “tree” to accommodate the person, Ruud. The newly-loosened construction is what Robyn Carston terms an “ad hoc concept”—a “concept whose denotation is broader than that of the lexically encoded concept.”3 It is “ad hoc” in the sense that the term is doing things that it normally does not. It is operating outside of its lexical bull’s-eye. Many, if not most, things in Revelation—death, beasts, eyes, heavenly bodies, fire, mouths—seem to be doing things that they do not normally do. They are operating outside of their normal semantic fields, even within prophetic literature. Eyes do not normally surround a person (4:6), mouths would be burned if fire came from them (9:17, 11:5), the inability to die is not a normal condition of mortality (9:6), etc. In other words, they are ad hoc ideas. The denotative concepts of many of these terms lie outside the normal bull’s eyes encoded by their lexical concepts. Words don’t seem to mean to John what they usually mean.

1  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 626. 2  Deirdre Wilson and Robyn Carston, “Metaphor, Relevance and the ‘Emergent Property’ Issue,” Mind & Language 21.3 (2006): 410. 3  Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole and Simile,” 285.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004435773_007

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And it has been difficult to fix meanings to many of them because of the historic bias toward a metonymic interpretation. Metonymies don’t loosen lexical concepts; they are rather referential.4 They “name” or point to things.5 Referentiality is a function of metonymy because the source and target are already inherently related (being within the same domain). Loose use on the other hand is diagnostic for metaphor.6 Lexical items that make semantic appeal to something of a different kind are metaphors. Metaphors map between external domains. Because domains are mental constructs of lexical items that are normally related to one another, mapping between domains necessarily is mapping between lexical items not normally related to one another. Therefore, cross-domain mapping on the cognitive level produces lexical loosening on the pragmatic level (metaphor) while intra-domain mapping invites reference assignment (metonymy). The words and ideas that constitute a metaphor will be loosely used in such a way to accommodate both domains. While using the conceptual metaphor love is a journey for example, a person might say, “It’s been uphill a lot lately.” She would mean by “uphill” that things have been difficult relationally. The idea of trudging up a hill is mapped to the idea of working with difficulty through a relationship. This is a loose use of the word “uphill.” Relational difficulty is not part of the normal semantics of “uphill.” The meaning is derivable by mapping from the external domain of journeys, and that mapping takes the interlocutor out of the bull’s eye for the standard meanings of “uphill.” The new concept uphill* is ad hoc because it is qualitatively different from the normal, lexical concept uphill. A qualitative change has been made by loosening the lexical concept. An example from Revelation is beast*.7 Most animals are doing non-standard things in the book, and the two beasts most particularly. Actual animals don’t build (13:14), speak (13:6), or run governments (13:7). These beasts are undergoing a qualitative change-of-kind that allows them to do things humans normally do. That kind of qualitative loosening is pragmatically determinative for metaphor. The lexical concept beast is loosened to form the ad hoc concept beast*, which is inclusive now of humans. If the reader does not successfully metaphorically loosen the concept beast to include humans, he might think that John believes actual animals rule Rome. He would likely find that assumption ridiculous and discard the communication as non-relevant. But if he were 4  Anna Papafragou, “On Metonymy,” Lingua 99 (1996): 171, 181. 5  Ibid., 179. 6  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 2, 84. 7  For a short discussion of the loose use (he terms “symbolic” use) of the concept beast, see Beale, Revelation, 53.

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to loosen the concept and derive the ad hoc implication of “beastly” Roman rulers, the reader would then understand that the one building idols, speaking blasphemies, and running the world in God’s stead is a human enemy of God. Another example of loose use might be the water that the dragon projects from his mouth to sweep away the celestial woman (12:15).8 That is an unreasonably large amount of water, and so the reader will try to loosen “water” to include other things that are projected from mouths. Remembering the fire that had just come from the mouths of the faithful witnesses (11:5), one might assume it to be opposite in some way—that whatever is coming from the mouth of the dragon is the opposite of “faithful witness.” The dragon might be trying to counter-witness God. That assumption seems to be confirmed in the next chapter. The beast counter-messages through blasphemous names (13:1), the mouth of a lion (13:2, cf. 5:5), the followership of the earth’s inhabitants (13:3), worship (13:4), proud words (13:5), blasphemies (13:6), dragon-speech (13:11), miraculous signs (13:13), a talking image (13:15), and of course the mark (13:16– 18). Chapter 13 is the dragon’s “plan b.” He can’t successfully “carry away” (12:15) the celestial woman by his counter-witness while she is being protected by “the land” (12:16), so he recruits a home-grown beast “from the land” (13:11) to start a counter-messaging insurgency (13:12). That tactic of internal destabilization did work (13:14). The earth-dwellers began to worship the beast (13:14–15) like all the other nations did (13:3–4). This seems to be how the celestial woman (or, better, some of those people represented by her) becomes the adulteress. The people that are marked in 13:16 are condemned as Babylon for their “adulteries” (πορνεία) in 14:8 with the words “Fallen! Fallen!” Those words are repeated at the fall of the adulteress in 18:2. The dragon isn’t warring against the whole world; he already has the whole world (13:7). He’s warring against what he can’t have—the celestial woman, Israel.9 This is only possible if water is loosened to water* in such a way to include “false testimony.” And that qualitative loosening pragmatically constitutes metaphor. 6.1.1 Other Types of Loose Use Of course, metaphor is not the only figure of speech that employs lexical loosening. Carston and Wearing consider three other figures of speech that 8  See Aune, Revelation 6–16, 664 (“thoroughly mythological details”). 9  Humphries, Ladies and the Cities, 114, makes the point of divine protection; Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis, 44–45, 52, makes that point that she is, or at least includes, Israel: “she is both the Israel from whom the Messiah came according to the flesh and the Israel who was being persecuted for belief in the Messiah. In our language, she is both the Old and the New Israel” (52n43).

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necessarily loosen lexical concepts: hyperbole, approximation, and category extension.10 These are all extensions of quantity, not quality, however. They are of a different type than metaphor. As to the first two (hyperbole and approximation), to say that water is “boiling”11 when it in fact was boiling five minutes ago (and is now perhaps several degrees cooler) is an approximate loose use. To say that warm water (perhaps in a pool) is “boiling” is a full-blown exaggeration—a hyperbolic loose use. These loose uses exhibit differences, but along the same scale. One says that the temperature of the water is 212 degrees when it may be only 205 degrees, the other when it is perhaps 80. The scale is the same, but the degree has changed. In a book characterized by strong and globalized language, it is difficult to know which ideas John himself would have considered hyperbolic, but one instance of hyperbole might be the unceasing praise of the living beings (4:8). If they truly never ceased praising God day or night, they wouldn’t have been able to call the four horsemen (6:1) or to be silent for the half hour (8:1). John loosens “never have rest” to include some ability to rest. But, as an extension of quantity (of rest), this is a different kind of loosening than metaphor. Category extension (which will be reconsidered under the subsection on metonymy, below) is also an extension-by-quantity, as its name implies. If one were to say “can you Xerox this for me?,” she would not usually mean that the person should make a facsimile of the document using only a photocopier manufactured by the Xerox Corporation.12 Any manufacturer will do. The category should be appropriately extended to include other manufacturers normally within that category. It wants more of the same. The hearer is meant to loosen the category elicited by Xerox (photocopiers) to include Toshibas, Canons, etc. Such loosenings-by-extension are common. If one goes out shopping for “Roller Blades,” usually any brand of in-line skate will do. If someone is looking for a “Kleenex,” any brand of tissue will do. The name is a cipher for the category, and the category is extended (loosened) beyond the name. Metaphorical loosening can be distinguished from hyperbole, approximation, and category extension then fairly easily. They exhibit a quantitative difference in degree or extent, like differences in temperature or amount of time to rest. Metaphor is a qualitative difference, a difference in kind, like say that between a soccer player and a tree or an animal and an emperor. Carston and Wearing identify this kind of loose use (qualitative) with metaphor on the grounds that the comparison is between different semantic ideas rather than 10  Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole, and Simile,” 284–86. 11  Ibid., 290. 12  Ibid., 286.

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differing degrees of the same idea. It is, once again, a qualitatively loose use that determines metaphoricity. This is an important point for especially the popular interpretations of the Apocalypse because the violent language that John uses has commonly been loosened by commentators, but quantitatively rather than qualitatively. People burn eternally in the lake of fire, but the level of pain may be mitigated13 or perhaps the time period is.14 These loosenings exhibit quantitative changes to βασανισθήσεται ἐν πυρὶ (14:10) or to εἰς αἰῶνας αἰώνων (14:11). The thought seems to be that this fate is just too terrible, and so it must be an hyperbole; and hyperboles allow one to make the fire less hot or eternity less long. This demonstrates that those people are in fact thinking quantitatively. There has been a real and a strong bias—one would think unconscious, but fairly universal— against qualitatively loosening the violence. There is no theoretical reason, if fire can be loosened quantitatively, that it can’t be loosened qualitatively. If commentators were struggling with the morality of the lake of fire, one would think that at least one of them would have opted rather for a lake of eternal testimony (or some equivalent qualitative loosening). Methodologically, it is suspect that nobody ever loosened those terms qualitatively. And by “suspect” I mean that that degree of consensus should not have been possible. 6.1.2 Metonymy Is Not Loose Use Metonymy is not loose use. And it cannot be, though there has been some confusion on this point in the RT literature. Tendahl at one point argues that the phrase “my head is empty” (meaning roughly “I do not have any relevant ideas on this topic”) could be a case of metonymic loose use.15 He claims that “head” is standing in metonymically for “mind.” He further claims that this lexical substitution forces a loosening of the lexical concept head to form the ad hoc concept head* which would be inclusive of the person’s mind. There are two problems with this interpretation. The first is that, for the lexical concept to be converted into the ad hoc concept, head would need to not already carry the lexical implication mind. You can’t loosen a word to mean something that 13  Boring, Revelation, 170–71, 213; Boxall, Revelation, 285. 14  Smalley, Revelation, 367–68; Caird, Revelation, 186–87. 15  Tendahl, 151. Tendahl admits that this example is “arguably … metonymical.” For other examples of looseness being attributed to metonymy, see Mendoza, Cognitive and Pragmatic Aspects of Metonymy, 174 and René Dirven, “Metonymy and Metaphor: Conceptualisation Strategies,” in Metaphor and Metonymy in Comparison and Contrast, ed. René Dirven and Ralf Pörings (New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 2003), 83–84. In each case, there is both a metaphor and a metonymy (and it is the metaphor that causes the lexical loosening). Also, notice the similarity of Dirven’s example.

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is already a salient meaning.16 In general use, mind might not be a necessary entailment of head (though it likely is even then). But in a discourse circumstance in which ideas are being discussed, lexical associations of “head” and “mind” are present. It is already in the bull’s-eye. The second problem constitutes a more fundamental disagreement of the pragmatics of metonymies. Metonymy has a referential function—to quote Papafragou a “naming” function,17 or perhaps more popularly now an “access” function18—not a semantic function. One thing points to another. That is a different pragmatic process than one thing being defined as another. Imagine having a conversation, and somebody uses the word “she” to refer to your friend Sue. “She” points to Sue but is not defined that way. The next time you have a conversation using the word “she,” you aren’t expected to think of Sue. The definition hasn’t changed. No one person is defined as “she” because that is not what pronouns do. They are referential, and so they are resolved by reference assignment, not lexical loosening. For reference or access to work, the referring word’s meaning needs to be salient—the word needs to mean what it usually means in that context. When somebody uses “White House” to metonymically refer to the President of the United States, the phrase “White House” needs to be understood as the building located at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue (an easily recoverable reference usually). If it is taken to refer to some other house that happens to be white, or the small town in Virginia named White House, etc., the connection with the president and the executive branch of government will never be made. Likewise, for the lexeme “head” to metonymically point to mind, “head” must maintain its normal semantic sense (head). If it is disambiguated—as it might metaphorically—to point to something else (say a “head” of garlic, or the “head” of a line, etc.) the contextual implication mind will become unrecoverable. Garlic and lines don’t have minds. Head pointing to mind is therefore a referential and access function, by means of saliency, not a semantic one.19 It is a metonymy, in other words, and not a metaphor. And so, in neither case can head for mind be construed as loose use. If they are semantically related 16  Wilson and Sperber, “Truthfulness and Relevance,” 55. 17  Papafragou, “On Metonymy,” 179, 190, 193. 18  Panther and Thornburg, “Introduction,” 1–7. 19  While it is true that mind is part of the lexical concept head as argued above, and that relationship is therefore a semantic one, mind is only in the semantic space of head because head for mind is a dead metonymy. The association between head and mind is so strong historically that the referential association has become a semantic one. Many such “dead” metonymies show the lexical appropriation of metonymic associations. A dictionary meaning for “White House” is the executive branch, for example.

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already, the term doesn’t have to be loosened; and if they are not, the connection will be made by reference assignment rather than semantic loosening.20 This example is confusing because there is loosening actually occurring in the sentence, “my head is empty.” “Head” references mind metonymically, but the person’s mind being “empty” loosens mind metaphorically to turn it into a container. This is the standard the mind is a container metaphor, (supplemented by ideas are objects, of which the container is now empty).21 Those metaphors can be recognized only after the reference of “head” is (metonymically) resolved. If the listener loosens head (to mean something other than an actual human head) rather than mind, the metaphor will never be arrived at and the meaning of the sentence will be lost. These two functions (reference assignment and semantic disambiguation) are related, but distinct, in the pragmatic process of enrichment.22 Reference (or access) and salience therefore are the two constitutive principles of metonymy within RT,23 like qualitative loosening was for metaphor. And so, while metaphor requires loose lexical concepts (to accommodate two disparate domains), metonymy requires them as tight, standard, and salient as they can be. This is a substantive, theoretically real, and empirically identifiable difference between the pragmatics of metaphor and metonymy. And it can be exploited to help readers recognize and differentiate these two tropes. “Beast” isn’t metonymically used by John, for example. If “beast” were a metonymy it would be a salient reference, in which case John thinks actual animals (perhaps of some particular kind) are emperors. If swords or fire were metonymies, the people who had them coming out of their mouths should be dying from self-inflicted wounds, not killing others. If they are not actually swords and fire, those words have been semantically loosened, and that indicates metaphor. Using the pragmatic insights gained by RT, we can now successfully differentiate between metaphor and metonymy on the pragmatic level. Metonymically used words are referentially salient while metaphorically used words are semantically loose. We can also differentiate between metaphorical loosening and other kinds of loosening. Metaphors are qualitatively loose while other types of loosening are quantitative. 20  The person’s head being “empty” is of course a metaphor, and so the attribute “empty” (as a metaphor) is a loose use, as Tendahl recognizes. 21  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 148; Kövecses, Metaphor, 84, 237. 22  See the first of the three “sub-tasks in the overall comprehension process” in Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 615. 23  Papafragou, “On Metonymy,” 177, 181–82.

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And finally, we now have definitions for metaphor from all three disciplines. Cognitively, metaphors are the product of cross-domain mapping. Linguistically, they are constituted by indirectness by similarity. And pragmatically, metaphors are qualitative loosening. In contrast, metonymies use intradomain mapping (cognitively), indirectness by contiguity (linguistically), and referential saliency (pragmatically). One can see that each theoretical perspective wants metonymies to remain close to the bull’s-eye (saliency, contiguity, intra-domain) and metaphors to move outside of the target altogether (loosening, similarity, cross-domain). 6.1.3 Loose Use versus Reference in Revelation: Examples It is not possible to rehearse all loose uses of language throughout Revelation. If the definition of “loose use” for a word is that the denotative concept (the concept in context) is broader than the lexical concept (as it is usually used),24 many if not most of the words in Revelation seem to fit that bill. To return to Eusebius’ quote of Dionysius from the introduction, the problem is one of “understanding”; in other words, it is a semantic problem. And semantic obscurity, or looseness, is diagnostic for metaphor. Metaphor therefore explains a very real and long-noticed phenomenon of the language in Revelation—that it is hard to understand. Concepts have to be loosened, sometimes extraordinarily so, because John is talking about one thing (argument) in terms of another (war). Therefore, those wishing to maintain a metonymic reading of Revelation will need to demonstrate how all of this “obscure” language in Revelation is not semantically loose. If it is loose, the book is primarily metaphorical not metonymical. 6.1.3.1 Weapons And so, to test on the pragmatic level whether John is using terms loosely or referentially in his “war,” it may be fitting to consider once again two of his favorite weapons: iron and fire. Swords are not usually in mouths; and even when they are, as in the case of sword-swallowers or pirates climbing masts, the swords aren’t coming out of mouths. They are going into them or being carried by them. Jesus has a sword coming out of his mouth (1:16). This implies that the word ῥομφαία is being used loosely to mean something other than, but related to, what a sword usually is and does. Whatever it might mean denotatively, it bears a qualitatively loose relationship to its normal lexical concept. This loose use signals metaphor. The sword, which is usually located in 24  Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole and Simile,” 286–87.

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the domain of war, is now being used in a different domain. The process of ascertaining which domain that might be is achieved by the pragmatic work of relevance-guided disambiguation.25 One refines the meanings of words in context.26 The writer wishes to be (or at least to seem) relevant,27 and so he will leave contextual clues back to the domain he intends us to map to.28 In this case, the contextual clue is the mouth. Jesus’ mouth is the point of origin for the sword. It is also the odd inclusion that needs to be resolved. Jesus is generating the sword with his mouth (which is perhaps why he is the only one who explicitly wields it). Another thing that Jesus generates with his mouth is testimony (1:2, 5; 3:14; 19:11; 22:20). By a process of the contextual disambiguation of the lexeme “sword,” one discovers these contextual clues, loosens the word “sword” to include “testimony,” and infers that John is giving us a visual representation of “the testimony of Jesus Christ” (1:2, 22:16).29 The testimony of Jesus, when converted into visionary language, is made to look like a sword. Likewise, that of the two witnesses is made to look like fire (11:5) and the dragon’s like water (12:15). John uses other similarities to give continuing and developing interpretive context to his narrative. Revelation has (the characteristic number) seven iron instruments:30 ῥομφαία, δρέπανον, πέλεκυς, μάχαιρα, θώραξ, ῥάβδος, and κλείς. And because they are also always doubled or double-sided (see section 3.3.1.5.4), those two characteristics—iron-ness and double-ness—create connections between the iron implements, unifying not only their purpose (to metaphorically “kill”) but also the character of the one wielding them (who, several times explicitly, is Christ—1:16, 18; 2:12, 27; 3:7; 14:14–19; 19:15, 21). Revelation’s tools are iron, doubled, used by Christ, and are usually fairly devastating to his “enemies.” They may also be sharp like the ῥομφαία (1:16, 2:12) and sickles (14:14, 17–18) or a tool for sacrificial-styled “slaying” like the μάχαιρα (6:4, cf. 6:9; 13:3, 25  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 183–93. 26  Wilson and Sperber, “Introduction: Pragmatics,” 1, passim. 27  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 156, 264. 28  Ibid., 192, 239. 29  A testimony that he can pass on to others (6:4). One is reminded of the testimonia hypothesis of J. R. Harris and C. H. Dodd. See C. H. Dodd, According to the Scriptures: The Sub-Structure of New Testament Theology (London: Nisbet, 1952), 23–24. When the witnesses (11:5) or the horses (9:17–18) are breathing fire, they may be voicing rehearsed messianic proofs from the OT (à la Acts 2:16–21 or Heb 1:5–13). It may also be in this sense that a revelation of Jesus was given to Jesus, to pass along to his “servants” (Rev 1:1). Revelation itself, in that case, may be a collection of testimonia. See Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 318–26; Smalley, Revelation, 37. 30  For John’s great interest in numbering things by sevens see, e.g., Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 7–15 (“The Series of Sevens”).

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cf. 13:14). Thus they can, by compression31 and on several grounds, be unified into one and the same weapon, as happens explicitly in the case of the sword and rod (19:15). It is interesting then that the beast was wounded (13:10, 14) by the μάχαιρα. The wound is not likely Nero’s.32 It was not self-inflicted (see sections 5.2.2.6 and 3.3.1.5.2, above) and has been struck by somebody John would more likely consider righteous. He clearly portrays the beast as the antagonist of God (13:6). It would then be odd for the beast to suffer such a wound from another wicked operator. We’ve already been told that nobody compares to the beast or can even pretend to do battle with him (“Who is like the beast? Who can war against him?”; 13:4), that he has universal control (13:7), and that the dragon is not divided in his support of him (13:4). The difference between the beast’s fate and that of, say, the altar-souls is not whether they receive the wound (hear the testimony), but whether they die from it (convert). Nobody goes unwounded in this story (nobody avoids hearing the testimony). But it is the good that die from it (the altar-souls, the 144,000, the millennialists, etc.) and the evil that do not (the dragon, the beast, the false prophet, etc.). This is because the “wounds” are being dealt by Christ; and, in the beast’s case, by the same weapon that Christ was wounding and killing with during the seals (6:4, cf. 6:16).33 The seeming death-wound of the one head of the beast fits the metaphorical schema in a way that it cannot the metonymic one. One of the kingdoms was around for the advent of Christ (the Romans). That is likely the sixth kingdom, the head that is wounded (13:3, cf. 17:3)—the kingdom that “is” (17:10). A seventh kingdom will follow it—the kingdom of the dragon, when it is released to gather the nations (20:7–8; see section 3.3.1.5.2). The time of his reign however will be short (12:12, 17:10, 20:3). It is the kingdom that “is” (the sixth, 17:10) and that is wounded (13:3) that John is worried about at present. The kingdom “yet to come” (17:10) won’t be around long (20:3) and it won’t be wounded, they’ll be destroyed (20:9). In other words, the war of witness will only be partly effectual now during Rome’s rule, as indicated in the deaths of only some during the seals and trumpets. But it will be won fully and finally when Satan is released, because when the dragon returns the Messiah does too (19:11). And that war will have no survivors (19:21, 20:9). 31  For John’s compression of the iron implements to represent Christ, see section 3.3.1.5.4. 32  The majority opinion; see Aune, Revelation 1–5, lxi. For objections, see Beale, Revelation, 17–18. 33  Bauckham makes a similar connection through the repetition of the divine “plague,” but considers it (ineffectual) divine judgment rather than witness. See Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 433.

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The metonymic reading would make God the enemy of the beast as well; but in that case, the beast should not have survived the intendedly-mortal wound (13:3, cf. 20:10).34 Or it would make the enemy somebody other than God (the stated enemy; 13:6), even though the beast has no earthly enemy (13:7). It would have him suffer a wound that any enemy other than God should not be able to deliver (13:4), and that is otherwise only delivered by Christ (6:4). And, lastly, it suffers from a confusion of kingdoms. The five kingdoms have passed (17:10). The sixth kingdom is the one who has suffered the wound (13:3, 12). It is the one that “is” (17:10), or how else would it presently be an issue? The seventh kingdom “was” (17:11, cf. 12:7), but right now “is not” (17:11, cf. 12:8). That is the kingdom of the dragon that will “come up out of the abyss” (17:8; cf. 20:3, 7) and “go to his destruction” (17:8, cf. 20:10) and that right quickly (17:10, cf. 20:3). If the sixth “is,” and the seventh “is not,” how can they be the same kingdom?35 They not only exist under very different conditions, John explicitly says they are different (17:10), and he names the fate of both separately (19:20, 20:10). One is a kingdom that has heard the message, but was unimpressed (13:3); the other is a kingdom that will be eschatologically consumed by that message (20:9). Five points where the metonymic strategy fails The prevailing metonymic strategy for interpreting the sword generally produces several difficult readings. The sword, it is thought, is a salient example of authority or judgment (à la Rom 13:4),36 and that saliency makes it apt to be used metonymically. The sword has then been referentially taken to point to judgment.37 In this reading, the sword remains a sword semantically and is evocative of Christ’s authority to judge the world. This interpretive strategy would seem to be confirmed by the fact that, as noted above, Jesus is the only one who wields it and it originates from his mouth. But there are several problems with that metonymic interpretation, and it may be worthwhile to consider them in greater detail in this short section. The first is that Jesus becomes only one of many judges. In the metonymic understanding, the second horseman is not Jesus.38 This sword of judgment therefore should not be given him, and certainly not by heaven (6:4). The greater problem however is what the earth-dwellers are doing. The μάχαιρα 34  The problem being that God would have wanted to kill the beast, but just wasn’t able to. 35  Bauckham for example names them the same beast; Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 396. 36  Thomas, Revelation 1–7, 429; Koester, Revelation, 286. 37  E.g., Aune, Revelation 1–5, 99: “In all these passages, the ‘sword’ is clearly a metaphor for judgment.” 38  Beale, Revelation, 375: “The last three horsemen are typically seen as evil agents.”

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appears in two places, with the second horseman and as the weapon that (incompletely) slays the beast (13:10, 14), with both taking part in the activity of “slaying” (σφάζω; 6:4, 13:3). If the sword is a metonymic sword, then lots of people are judging one another—an authority God and/or Christ alone is supposed to have (6:10, 11:18, 14:7, etc.; cf. 5:9, if read from the metonymic—and therefore judgment—standpoint). The second problem is with the sword-wounded beast again. If the sword is judgment, the beast was able to resist that judgment (13:3). This is a difficulty in a book that seems to want to portray Christ’s sovereignty in the most complete terms.39 And the express intent of the aggressor was to bring “death” (θάνατος). It was a real attempt in other words. Why was Christ not able to kill the beast? The presumption would be that he was not strong enough, even though Michael—merely an angel40—had just been shown to be strong enough to defeat the superior force of the dragon and his entire army (12:7–9). Metonymically, the beast should be altogether dead if Christ’s sword is judgment. There is a similar issue with the generalized humans (ἄνθρωπος) in 9:6 who cannot die. They are being tortured (9:5), eventually to be killed (9:15). This is also commonly considered to be judgment.41 And so it is also, and insensibly, an incomplete one. The metonymic reading needs to answer the question of why the judgment is forestalled five months (9:5). If the number is supposed to reflect the time of the flood (150 days; Gen 7:24), the people should be dying like they do in the flood, not suffering. And if they’re being miraculously kept alive (9:6) for a Noahic five months then they’re taking the narrative position of Noah, a righteous person of faith who should not be subject to judgment at all. Metaphorically, though, this points to a people group who are associated with the Noahic covenant,42 but who are not fully prepared to respond to the testimony of Jesus in the fifth trumpet (and are in the sixth). It points to the gentiles. A third problem with metonymic weapons is derivable from how metonymy acts pragmatically. Metonymies can be extended,43 similar to how metaphors 39  Bauckham, Theology, 105; Koester, Revelation, 234–35; Witherington, Revelation, 27–32. 40  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 145–49. 41  E.g., Aune, Revelation 6–16, 541; Beale, Revelation, 491. 42  Many commentators see the Noahic Covenant in operation in Revelation, though in the form of the rainbow in 4:3 rather than the 150 days. Once again, violent language forestalls the association. See, e.g., Bauckham, Theology, 51–53; Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 254; Beale, Revelation, 321; Mounce, Revelation, 135; Caird, Revelation, 63; Middleton, New Heaven, 92–93. 43  Fauconnier, Mental Spaces, 144.

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can be.44 Dancygier and Sweetser use an example from Jonathan Raban’s Passage to Juneau in which the author’s travel library—books by Edmund Leach, Evelyn Waugh, Hannah Arendt, Myron Eels, and others—get tossed around his cabin by the rough passage of his boat.45 He imagines the scene, upon returning, as one in which the authors themselves are strewn about the cabin like revelers in a saloon. If Revelation is using a similar metonymic strategy, the sword is being used to point to judgment like the authors are to the books. It is pragmatically resolved by pointing to the authority or right of judgment of the persons holding such a sword (in the way a robe and gavel might today). The books on the floor and judgment are what the two writers are reporting as reality, and the revelry of the authors and the war are metonymic narratives that the authors have constructed to give that reality life. The problem with the metonymic view is that extended metonymies are still referential.46 This makes all the weapons of Revelation the same thing (judgments), as all of the authors in Raban’s fantasy are the same thing (books). Outside of the fiction, they are unable to actually do anything new. Every violent act becomes just another manifestation of that judgment, however creatively pictured. The sword in 6:4 is judgment (even though the text says it isn’t; 6:10), the deaths in the fourth seal are judgments (6:8; though these aren’t either), the fire from heaven, the blood in the sea, wormwood, the locusts, the 200-million-horse cavalry, the two witnesses, the two reapings, the bowls, the battles—these are all just interesting-sounding names for the same thing: judgment. Metonymies don’t add information. You can refer to the president of the U.S. by saying “White House,” “Washington,” “Commander in Chief,” “POTUS,” etc., but you aren’t saying anything new about the president by using those different names. Metonymies don’t offer new implications, they offer access.47 Once they’ve all been decoded to mean “judgment,” they serve no further purpose. The problem isn’t just that the text becomes much more one-dimensional that way. Each of those new expressions requires processing effort (in some cases, to the extreme)—effort that, because they are metonymies, promises little to no cognitive effects.

44  Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole and Simile,” 306. 45  Dancygier and Sweetser, Figurative Language, 194–95; Jonathan Raban, Passage to Juneau: A Sea and Its Meanings (New York: Vintage Departures, 2000), 33. 46  Panther and Thornburg, “Introduction,” 5: “The source of a metonymy serves as a ‘reference-point’ … whose sole purpose is to provide access to a target meaning.” 47  Jeannette Littlemore, Metonymy: Hidden Shortcuts in Language, Thought and Communication (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 4.

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And that fails the test of relevance.48 Metonymies are supposed to reduce processing effort, not increase it.49 And an author would not likely ask her readers to process mountains of images using a metonymic strategy because they would all amount to the same thing. Unfortunately, that is exactly how the situation has been treated.50 And so Revelation has not achieved relevance. It was an interpretive strategy that was constitutionally incapable of producing a relevant reading, due to the principle of access upon which it is predicated. On the cognitive level, this is a case of interpretive over-integration. Fauconnier and Turner consider just such a circumstance in their discussion of the topology principle (that topology of inputs should be maintained).51 Integration and topology often compete. Integration wishes to reduce things to simpler unities while topology tries to maintain its complexity. When interpreters decide that swords and fire, hail and blood, locusts and armies and death are all metonymies for judgment, all of those terms become radically integrated. To quote Fauconnier and Turner: “such a severe compression produces a blend with virtually no counterparts for the topology of the inputs and their outer-space relations” and is no longer “at human scale” [read: “no longer relevant.”]52 Metaphor, by its looseness, maintains topology in a way that metonymy, by its referentiality, cannot. When Revelation was treated as referential and decodable, it lost its topology—and, with that, its relevance. The fourth issue with interpreting weapons as judgment is that it causes a lack of cohesion in the text. Sometimes swords are made to stand in metonymically for the authority to bring judgment, as with the second horseman (6:4), but sometimes the sword seems to be actually doing things. The first beast has suffered a sword-wound that other people can see (13:3, 14). Birds feast on 48  See Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 609–10, and particularly their example “[e]ither we are serving chicken or (72 − 3) is not 46.” Raban’s story is relevant because he has taken something relatively boring—a disheveled cabin—and turned it into a playful and imaginative story. The metonymic reading of Revelation has done the exact opposite. It has taken perhaps the most creative and dynamic stories of the NT and turned them back into a heap of books on a cabin floor. It flattens the narrative and turns it into something non-relevant. 49  Panther and Thornburg, “Introduction,” 8: “easily activatable associations”; Klaus-Uwe Panther and Günter Radden, “Introduction,” in Metonymy in Language and Thought, ed. Klaus-Uwe Panther and Günter Radden (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 1999), 12–13. 50  The idea of the repetitive nature of the Apocalypse goes back as far as the earliest commentaries on it; for which, see Weinrich, Latin, xxiv. Beale, Revelation, 536: “The seven thunders are kept hidden perhaps because they are so repetitive of the previous two synchronous sevenfold cycles that they reveal nothing radically new.” If that is the case with the thunders, then why not the trumpets and bowls? 51  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 327–28. 52  Ibid., 328.

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sword-slain corpses (19:21). John is making a literal interpretation out of his own metonymy (seemingly). Prompting the use of competing interpretive strategies creates pragmatic confusion. In similar fashion, the fire of judgment seems to burn some fully (20:9), some partially (16:9), and some not at all (8:7). Fire, like the sword, seems to have real outcomes. People are cursing God “for their pains and wounds” (16:11). The sword, if it is a metonymy, should be disambiguated to mean a normal and militaristically-salient sword. It then should be taken to refer to its relevant conceptual space (authority/judgment). At this point, the sword shouldn’t be acting like a literal sword anymore. Metonymies make reference to the thing a speaker is really talking about; and, once they’ve served that purpose, retreat to the background. Take for instance the statement, “The White House held talks with Iran.” The White House is standing in metonymically for the president and/or relevant diplomatic staff. Once the building becomes a representation of the executive branch, it should no longer operate as an actual building. One would not say for example, “the White House held talks with Iran, and received new carpet in the west wing.” When the White House becomes a representation, it ceases acting like a building. Or take “the Ford broke down.” The company is not what is sitting sadly in the front driveway. The car, metonymically signaled by the company who made it, is. One would not say, “the Ford broke down, and started manufacturing trucks with aluminum frames.” The company, like the building, leaves the foreground after the metonymic reference is made. To do otherwise creates multiple targets for the metonymic triggers. They are being made to metonymically fire at several targets at once, making it difficult to resolve any given reference. Once again, this fails the test of relevance. Metonymies bring clarity, particularly because they have one target, one reference resolution, one idea to which they are giving access.53 If the sword is metonymically pointing to judgment, it should not be cutting people any more than a building should be having talks with foreign dignitaries or a company should be exsanguinating fluids in the driveway. Making the metonymical sources (fire, sword, hail, etc.) point to multiple targets has the effect of confusing the narrative and increasing the processing effort with little to no effect. Once again, that is the definition of “non-relevant.”54 Metonymies provide interpretive access to a thing and then

53  Rebollar, Bárbara Eizaga, “A Relevance-Theoretic Perspective on Metonymy,” Procedia– Social and Behavioral Sciences 173 (2015): 195. 54  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 267. They make the argument that, effect being equal, effort should not rise.

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get out of its way. The sword is staying in the way. It’s not an access vehicle like a metonymy would be. It has a broad set of semantic implicatures, like metaphors do. Metaphors, especially literary and poetic ones, commonly do not rely on one strong implicature.55 Instead, they make use of the reader’s choice among many (related and coherent)56 weak ones. Take for example, Robert Burns’ opening line “my love is like a red, red rose.”57 Burns isn’t making us choose one implicature without which the communication won’t make sense (the definition of a strong implicature).58 Rather, he is offering the metaphor as a way of causing us to wander through a trove of possible weak implicatures. Maybe she is rosy in color, smells fragrant, is lovely, is delicate of feature, etc. Any one of these, and many more besides, are possible implicatures of the “rose.” Metonymies are useful because they are narrow. They hit the target in the bull’s-eye. Metaphors are useful, partly, because they are broad. They hit the target in scattershot fashion. The sword is semantically scattershot. John is interpreting and drawing out the implicatures of his own metaphors when in, say, 19:15 he turns it into the messianic iron scepter but in 19:21 turns it immediately back into a literal sword so that it can slay the kings and their armies. “Sword” has become a broad term to John. The fact that it is broad to him is an indication that he takes it metaphorically. Broadness points to metaphors, narrowness points to metonymies, and the weapons of revelation are used in a demonstrably broad fashion. Even in Raban’s creative and extended metonymy, the authors are still pointing back to books—and even to their own books. Those references are specific. Much in Revelation is not specific, and that lack of specificity serves John’s purposes. The fire for example is able to serve several of John’s purposes because its meaning is metaphorically broad. In some places, it acts as the testimony of the Holy Spirit (or perhaps the Spirit itself) as when it falls in the first trumpet (8:5, 7). In the case of the two witnesses, it seems to stand more as a call to repentance (11:3, 5). In 20:9 it is the testimony of God himself. In 1:14, it is the Spirit indwelling Christ. In 13:13, it is the true testimony of God that “false prophets” misuse—likely the Torah. And in the “lake of fire,” it is used as a way of saying that God’s testimony will never be extinguished (19:20, 20:10). All of these are able to come under the symbol of fire because fire is a metaphor in

55  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 83, 144. 56  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 236: those which are “contradictory” will be “discarded.” 57  To use a common example; see, e.g., Black, “More about Metaphor,” 30. 58  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 620.

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John’s mind. It’s meaning has been semantically broadened to be able to become Spirit, Torah, or testimony at need. The fifth problem with the metonymic hermeneutic is with some of the operators of the supposed judgments. The metonymic reading makes fire into judgment.59 It may be easy enough to say that of the sword (even though the text says it is not), but making fire into judgment gives that authority to characters to whom it should not belong. Exactly like the two witnesses, the 200 million horses of the sixth trumpet kill people with “fire from their mouths” (ἐκ τοῦ πυρὸς … τοῦ ἐκπορευομένου ἐκ τῶν στομάτων αὐτῶν, 9:18; πῦρ ἐκπορεύεται ἐκ τοῦ στόματος αὐτῶν, 11:5; where most commentators take the horses to be wicked or demonic).60 Even more troubling, though, is the other character with authority over the fire—the second beast.61 It is able to call down fire from heaven (13:13). And this isn’t being pictured as a fake or false sign, like the breath of the image (13:15). It was done before the people (13:13) and resulted in their deception (13:14), which presumes that there was something for them to be deceived by. And it came—according to John, not the beast—“from heaven” (13:13). In similar fashion, the dragon is able to produce a dangerous river from his mouth (12:15), and the wicked trinity produce frogs that manage to gather the nations at the battle of Armageddon (16:13).62 In the metonymic system, these tools are representations of judgment, in which case John is granting the most wicked in his story an undifferentiated authority to judge. Once again, this seems at odds with John’s thought world, in which even the Lamb is found worthy to receive such power only under stringent conditions (5:12). Advocates of the metonymic theory need to answer why the beast is able to call fire from heaven and why he and the dragon are able to dispense judgments like the Lamb does. The metaphor theory does not suffer these same cognitive dissonances. If fire is testimony rather than judgment, the second beast is simply using the authority of true testimony for false purposes (to encourage emperor worship). This is why he changes from the second beast (13:11) into the false

59  E.g., Beale, Revelation, 409 (“fire of judgment”). 60  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 614, recognizes this connection at the end of a long consideration of what the fire might mean in the case of the two witnesses, but does nothing with it. He notably doesn’t consider the chimera as a possible source, as he does with the cavalry (539–41). 61  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 758–60. 62  This example is particularly helpful in tracing the metaphorical intent of the author. Whatever the frogs may be or symbolize, their effect is propositional and testimonial. They gather the kings.

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prophet (16:13).63 He is using his God-given, priestly office against God. This also explains why water comes from the mouth of the dragon. Water is the opposite of fire. Frogs are likewise both water-borne (Ex 8:3) and, because they do not have scales, unclean (Lev 11:9–12),64 where fire is an agent of cleansing (e.g., Num 31:23, Rev 3:18).65 As unclean frogs are associated with water (the opposite of fire), unclean spirits are associated with false testimony (the opposite of the testimony of Jesus). They are water (16:13) and falsehood (16:14) personified, like Jesus is fire (1:14–15) and truth (19:11) personified. The dragon has a competing testimony to that of Christ (as one would expect), rather than a competing ability to judge (as one would not). The metaphor theory also answers why it is fire that so often comes from mouths. It’s not the witnesses’ speech that converts their hearers, it’s the fact that their witness is based on true testimony (the testimony of the Spirit). The writer isn’t trying to say that the 200 million horses have refined rhetorical skills, he’s trying to say that they are clothed and filled with the Holy Spirit (symbolized by fire, 9:17) which is the source of their “authority” (ἐξουσία, 9:19).66 And of course it easily explains why some aren’t burned up. Like the beast received a “fatal wound” that did not end in death, so too people can be burned and not consumed (16:9, 20:10). They can hear testimony and not respond in faith or repentance. It is not a coincidence that the people who were incompletely burned during the bowls “refused to repent or glorify him” (16:9). 6.1.3.2 Outcomes There is another, larger, pragmatic problem with “sword” and “fire” and the other weapons of the war being metonymically used: outcomes. John is using the wrong outcomes for his war. For the weapons to be metonymic, they can’t be instances of loose use, which means that they must point to something else semantically nearby, in the war domain. The traditional metonymic strategy has been to place them within the sub-domain of God’s judgment on humankind, whereupon the sword, fire, hail and so forth become instruments of destruction as was argued above. The problem lies in two areas: Jesus is killing the wrong people, and there should be nobody left to occupy the New Jerusalem. Jesus kills the 144,000. They die in the great tribulation (7:14), which is “in Christ Jesus” (1:9) and carried out by Jesus (2:22). The seals—within which the 63  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 419, 759. 64  Beale, Revelation, 831–36. 65  Ibid., 437. 66  Aune, Revelation 6–16, 613: “The motif of fire emanating from a person’s mouth was used as a metaphor for speaking forth the word of God.”

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144,000 are “sealed” (7:2, 3, 4), as seems obvious—are carried out by the Lamb (6:1, 3, 5, 7), the only one worthy in all of creation to do so (5:9). And, at the end of them, the kings of the earth are hiding from the Lamb and his “wrath” (6:16), so they at least think he has been the one doing the sealing/killing. If the 144,000 aren’t really dying, “sword” (6:4) and “death” (6:8) are being used in the seals in a loose fashion—which is to say, “metaphorically.” If they are really dying, Christ kills the righteous and leaves behind the wicked (6:15; cf. 9:20, 21; 16:21), and commentators need to deal with that. Heaven is in fact actively involved in nearly every death in Revelation: the seals (6:1), the trumpets (8:2), the two witnesses (11:3, 12), the global harvest (14:14, 17), the bowls (15:1), the adulteress (18:20), and the final battles (19:11, 20:9). Most of those alone are catastrophic; but, all together, they seem to constitute the end of every life on earth.67 Concepts are loosened under contextual pressure.68 There is a tremendous amount of contextual pressure pushing back on the war narrative from the end of the book.69 Jerusalem is large (21:16) and rich (22:2) and full (21:24, 26). The war is also under the contextual pressure of the suffering and redeeming Lamb (5:9) who “loves us” (1:5).70 The metonymic reading of the war dismisses that context,71 or has focused on it to the exclusion of the core narrative.72 The story of the war can be telling the story of salvation 67  Beale, Revelation, 844 [of 16:20 alone]: “The absolute nature of the judgment … the conclusive, universal destruction of the earth.” 68  Croft, “Role of Domains,” 163. 69  E.g., Smalley, Revelation, 365: “But, as always in the Apocalypse, God’s reaction to such opposition [in chapter 14] is not to be thought of in human terms, as an unbridled explosion of anger. Rather, it includes a creative and positive outcome. Through God’s judgmental anger flows salvation.” Italics mine. How God’s wrath achieves Smalley’s “positive outcome” is of course the question. 70  See the fourth agreement between the international scholars gathered for the 2010 conference “The Book of Revelation: Theology, Politics, and Intertextuality”: “The book summons its readers to follow the pattern of Jesus through countercultural, suffering witness to the one God, rather than through acts of violence” (Hays and Alkier, “Introduction,” 8.) 71  Barr appears to use this hermeneutic in his student-directed resource when he allows his “criterion of ethical concern” to change “the moral equation” and excise the violent material, leaving only “persuasion” and “testimony.” See David L. Barr, “Conclusion,” in Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, ed. David L. Barr (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 170. 72  This more subtle case of special pleading is represented in its best expression by Bauckham’s Climax of Prophecy and Theology of the Book of Revelation. For his ideas concerning the “conversion of the nations” (Climax of Prophecy, 238–337). For a critique on the grounds of not including the Lamb’s use of violence in the submission of the nations (hence “special pleading”), see McNicol, Conversion of the Nations, especially 135–36 (“Universal Sovereignty Not Universal Salvation”).

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if readers will loosen their semantic stance regarding the violence; otherwise, it will continue to be two stories that simply cannot recognize each other. Loose use of language looks for a target outside of the semantic bull’s eye. It can take terms that seem oddly applied (like a loving Lamb that kills) and make sense of them by broader semantic appeal. In other words, it can resolve semantic indeterminacy.73 It isn’t “love” or “redemption” or “salvation” that has felt underdetermined in this book. Commentators seem to feel comfortable and sure in those parts. It’s the war that has remained semantically underdetermined (see section 1.3). It simply hasn’t made much sense. Relevance-led, metaphorical loosening is the solution to that semantic indeterminacy. It allows us to move outside of normal semantic bounds—in a well-defined, established, and utterly normal way—to find meanings for the heavenly-orchestrated violence that make it consistent with the love of the Lamb and the joy and fullness of the New Jerusalem. Metonymy can’t do that. It never has. 6.2

Metarepresentation

Imagine for a moment how impoverished human communication would be if we could not create mental simulations. If the only things that humans could talk about were either propositional in nature or within their physical surrounds, many of our conversations would be impossible. Context—in the pragmatic form of the mutual cognitive environment74—helps one determine meaning, but not all of that context needs to be real and present. If two friends wanted to talk about hiking the Grand Canyon, and if they could not represent the massive fissure in their minds, they would actually have to be at the canyon to have the conversation. One of the things that separates human communication over that of animals is that we can speak abstractly about things that aren’t there spatially or temporally, things that aren’t observable at all, even things that are impossible.75 We can also rely on each other’s ability to represent those things for the sake of conversation. Our ability to do that is a

73  Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber, “Mood and the Analysis of Non-Declarative Sentences,” in Meaning and Relevance, ed. Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 218–20. Particularly, they use RT to solve the metaphorical indeterminacy “build your own road through life” on 219. 74  For an early definition of “mutual cognitive environment,” see Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 38–46; for a more developed definition and evaluation, see Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 26–30. 75  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 19–20, 39.

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particular part of our psychological skill-set called metarepresentation.76 We can conjure mental images ourselves (the Grand Canyon), but we can also create in the mind of our hearers those same non-propositional mental images (“picture the Grand Canyon”). Our “encyclopedic knowledge”77 in that case does not just have words and propositions, it has pictures too.78 A metarepresentation is a representation of a representation.79 If one is thinking of the Grand Canyon, that mental image is a representation of the Grand Canyon (not of course the canyon itself). If one decides to talk about the Grand Canyon, that speech is also a representation of the canyon (again, not the real one). If one talks about the thought, or thinks about the word, or produces words replicating those words, or produces thoughts about those images, these are all representations of representations. They are metarepresentations. And there can be multiple levels or “orders” of metarepresentation. If I hear someone say, “A said B,” I am being encouraged to form a second-order metarepresentation. My thought is a representation, it being about what the speaker said makes it a metarepresentation, and the content being about what A said makes it second-order (and as you are reading this they now become third-order, and so on). Orders of metarepresentation are layers of thoughts, mental images, and communication. There is no theoretical upper-end for how many orders of metarepresentation can be involved in a communication. But there is a lower end. Metarepresentational ability is crucial for language acquisition and comprehension, to the point that language cannot exist without it.80 If I can’t have a thought about what someone is saying, and if they can’t give word to their own thoughts (both of which are first-order metarepresentations), communication can’t even begin. Ostensive stimuli are signals that one party should listen to another (with the promise that what will be heard will be optimally relevant).81 That signal only works because the speaker metarepresents the attitude of the hearer to be such that he may be willing and able to attribute communicative intent.82 And the hearer successfully infers 76  Deirdre Wilson, “Metarepresentation in Linguistic Communication,” in Meaning and Relevance, ed. Deirdre Wilson and Dan Sperber (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 230–33. 77  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 86–93. 78  Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 199: “Encyclopaedic information does not just consist of propositional knowledge, but also of image-schematic knowledge”; contra Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 73, which claims that encyclopedic knowledge is only propositional. 79  Deirdre Wilson, “Metarepresentation in Linguistic Communication,” 230–31. 80  Ibid., 235. 81  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 611. 82  Ibid., 623.

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the ostensive intent of the speaker only, again, by metarepresentation of her attitude and intent. Both parties naturally represent the thought of the other. Such folk-psychological “theories-of-mind” or “mind readings” are the basis of human communication.83 The inferential systems upon which RT is based rely on a hearer attributing intentionality to a speaker. That intention-attribution is a metarepresentation. I have a thought about your words and the state of your mind as you are producing them. My ability to metarepresent through several orders, and to retain the relationship of those orders, is critical to getting a joke, picking up on irony, guessing at ulterior motives—and understanding metaphor.84 In this section I will review seven insights metarepresentation gives into whether and how the metaphor argument is war operates in Revelation. As examples of each point, I will use one of the seven wars85—the seals (6:1–8:1), the trumpets (8:2–11:19), the harvests (14:1–20), the bowls (15:1–16:21), the adulteress (17:1–19:10), the first last battle (19:11–21), and the second last battle (20:1–10). They will be demonstrating, respectively, that metaphors that are meant to be metarepresented as metaphors show 1) high effort and literal activation levels; 2) a mix of literally and metaphorically used words; 3) extension, novelty, and/ or an evocative nature; 4) the use of both propositions and non-propositional images and image schemas; 5) simulation; 6) images as the contextual basis for new implicatures; and 7) a lack of a metarepresentational layer of intentionattribution when they fail. 6.2.1 High Effort and Literal Activation Levels Metaphors loosen lexical concepts (see section 6.1). In the commonly-used example, “my lawyer is a shark,”86 it is manifest that the speaker does not intend to be taken literally. The signal that she wishes her statement to be interpreted metaphorically is the non-relevant nature of the literal reading. Sharks don’t have jobs. The pragmatic difficulty signals for the construction of an ad hoc concept shark*, by which the lexical concept is broadened to include human beings (with shark-like qualities). This relevance-led comprehension procedure works for metaphors that operate at the smaller level of one or two words, but some metaphors operate at higher levels of discourse. It isn’t just a word or two that produces a difficult 83  Ibid., 623–25. 84  Sperber and Wilson, “Pragmatics, Modularity, and Mindreading,” 261–62. 85  Where repeating things seven times has cleansing and atoning effects; see Lev 16:14, 19; Num 19:4; 2 Kgs 5:10. 86  E.g., Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 196.

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literal reading. An entire communication can demonstrate that difficulty. In these cases, there is another strategy for comprehending metaphor. The story is visualized literally, and that entire unit is then metarepresented as a metaphor. Carston and Wearing use as an example a quote from Macbeth:87 Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. Shakespeare, Macbeth 5.5.23–27

It would be unusual for a reader to interpret this extended metaphor life is a theater production by creating many sequential ad hoc concepts (poor*, player*, struts*, etc.) for two reasons. One is that the amount of processing effort it would require is high. The other is that it actually does read literally. The literal reading of poor, player, struts, frets, etc. is easier because each of them cooperates in a literal way. There is a mentally-representable story that “pops out,”88 and whose literal interpretation (in the first instance) is reinforced word by word by the literal story they tell together and collectively reinforce. Carston and Wearing argue then that the reader rather imagines the story on the whole and then metarepresents it in its entirety as a metaphor (for life).89 This not only saves processing effort, it also keeps the mental picture in play so that the reader or hearer can continue to consider it, draw new implications, and derive ever new cognitive effects.90 In other words, it makes it more relevant. For extended metaphors, the metarepresentational route has a higher payoff and at a lower cost. In this way, the creation of ad hoc concepts is deferred. It is not online and word-by-word but after the communication is over (or at some moment of pause, such as an interlude) and all at once. Where this intersects Revelation studies is that larger metaphors—of the type that John employs—must make use of Carston’s metarepresentation strategy. And that means that Revelation should have a literal sense.91 I am 87  Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole, and Simile,” 305–6. 88  Ibid., 309. 89  Ibid., 306. 90  In this, one may recognize Steen’s insight that deliberate (including extended) metaphors provide the opportunity for just such “post-comprehension processes.” See Steen, “Developing, Testing and Interpreting,” 69. 91  Caveats to avoid just such a reading strategy abound. Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 209: “Revelation’s images are flexible, theologically significant and not intended to be pieced

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arguing that that literal sense is war, as Macbeth’s literal sense was the theater production. When John is telling the story of the seals, for example, the material is very literal-sounding. It reads like a war. Heavenly cavalry bring swords, fear, and death. It’s also very rapid-fire. Jesus kills a quarter of the earth’s population (6:8) and just moves on to the next seal (6:9). There really isn’t opportunity to process each individual war-framed lexeme for metaphoricity as one is reading (and even less if one is hearing; 1:3). But John gives us interludes. As soon as we are done passing through the first six seals, the 144,000 sealed are shown with the great multitude in heaven. This pause not only allows us the narrative space to make sense of the (rather abrupt) beginning of the war, but it also gives us clues as to how to make sense of it. In other sections, we’ve considered how the interludes are explanations of the war material (see sections 3.1 and 5.1.1). The literal reading of the seals (and, indeed, all of the seven battles) is that Christ is mounting a war against creation.92 The 144,000 are John’s metarepresentation of the ones that are killed in that first battle. This reveals to the reader that the war Christ is fighting in the story is for the righteous (or perhaps for those willing to be made righteous), and his means of saving them is by (metaphorically) killing them. Again, the seals “seal” the 144,000, as seems obvious from the wordplay (σφραγίς / σφραγίζω).93 As the “poor player” becomes life at the end of Shakespeare’s stanza, the dead become the righteous 144,000 at the end of John’s seals—by metarepresentation. What has not helped that metarepresentational process is that metaphors have been historically considered at the level of the word and phrase rather than at the level of discourse.94 It is perhaps understandable then that Revelation would have been hard to comprehend. For the most part, the book together into a single literal picture of what will happen at the End.” Hays and Alkier, “Introduction,” 7: “Revelation’s visions are to be read as poetic symbolism rather than literal description or prediction; literalistic interpretation can lead to disastrous misinterpretation” (and they say this as representatives of all nine scholars that contributed to the book). Mounce, Revelation, 12: “The vivid and often bizarre symbolism of Revelation has led many contemporary writers into either an indefensible literalism or a highly imaginative subjectivism.” Etc. 92  Beale, Revelation, 64, 486 (“de-creation”). 93  Aune recognizes the possible connection but does not do anything with it. See Aune, Revelation 6–16, 452. 94  Recalling Aristotle’s definitions quoted in section 2.1. For a modern expression of the bias see, e.g., Paul Ricœur, Rule of Metaphor, 1, on the opening page of his Introduction: “Metaphor, therefore, is classed among the single-word figures of speech and is defined as a trope of resemblance. As figure, metaphor constitutes a displacement and an extension of the meaning of words” (emphases mine).

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isn’t metaphorical at the level of words and phrases. Much of the story of the war is written literally (see section 5.2.1) and is meant, in the first instance, to be represented in the mind literally and imagistically. The metarepresentative comprehension of the metaphor is a subsequent or intermittent process, not a running one. The 144,000 are thus a product of the entirety of seals—the seals as a unified story and image—not just one or two verses; much less one or two words. Another dynamic that has not helped this second-stage process is that Revelation is religious literature. People of a devotional mindset would be sympathetic to God, and would want to present him sympathetically. It is likely that many of them did not want to form in their minds the first stage of Carston and Wearing’s two-stage process: the literal one.95 Christ (or God or the Spirit) are killing (6:8), burning (8:7), and torturing (9:5) “great multitudes which no one could count” (7:9), even righteous people (as the 144,000 are presented to be, 7:3, 14). When readers didn’t perceive the metaphor right away, they seemingly began to disassociate the violence of the Apocalypse from God and Christ, attributing it instead to the dragon and beast.96 And so a whole literature and tradition grew up looking for an especially violent Caesar97 when we should have been wondering why John would have us mentally picture an especially violent God. But the fact of the matter is—and this is true whether Revelation is a metaphor or not, and commentators need to deal with this honestly and openly— God, Christ, or the Spirit are the main (and often only) aggressors in each one of the seven battles.98 The Lamb opens the seals (16:1), God sends the seven angels of the trumpets (8:2) and bowls (16:1), the harvests are reaped by the Son of Man (14:14), God explicitly judges and kills the adulteress (18:8), Jesus 95  Gorman, Reading Revelation Responsibly, 152: “the idea of such literal violent destruction, whether executed by God or by divinely approved cosmic forces or by humans, actually ‘ridding the world of evil’ is—upon serious contemplation—preposterous.” 96  Even Neufeld, who does not shy away from critically assessing the book for its use of violence (p. 129), has to ask “Is this the lamb that was slain? Or has this Lamb been doing the slaying?” If the language were not so violent, the question would not be so difficult to answer. See Neufeld, Killing Enmity, 126. 97  Yarbro Collins’ 1984 critique of this practice has been one of the more important developments in Revelation studies, indicated not least by how often Crisis and Catharsis is cited. See Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis, 14; also Thomson, Apocalypse and Empire, 15–17. 98  Beale, Revelation, 172, states the theological problem well (though I do not agree with his punitive resolution): “how can the righteousness, goodness, and holiness of Christ and God be maintained if they are so directly linked as the ultimate cause behind all the judgments and behind the demonic agents who carry out many of the destructive judgments under ultimate divine supervision?” Italics original.

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fights the first of the two last battles (19:11) and God himself sends the fire that ends the second (20:9). The only battles that the dragon or the beast even seem to take part in are lost so completely that it’s an open question whether they even struck a blow (19:20, 20:9). As much as God and Jesus are presented as violent in this story, we are encouraged to metarepresent them as having a good and a strong witness; as much as the dragon and the beasts are presented as unsuccessful, we are meant to metarepresent the dragon’s own testimony as evil and weak. A massively unsuccessful beast, who nevertheless rules the whole world (13:3), seemingly serves no other narratival purpose. 6.2.2 A Mix of Literally and Metaphorically Used Words The metaphor in the Macbeth quote is initially signaled by “life is …” The reader will then go on to visualize a literal actor strutting and fretting his hour upon the stage, apply that whole scene to “life,” and then understand that Macbeth takes existence to be short, pretentious, and inglorious. John uses the same strategy.99 He begins by saying that he is telling a story about Jesus (1:1), how this story will “bless” us (1:3), and how its main character “loves us,” “releases us from our sins” (1:5), and “makes us a kingdom and priests” (1:6). This is the equivalent of Shakespeare writing “life is …” The war narrative then seems to deliver a literal and crushing war in which no one survives. That narrative is meant to be visualized literally, as the player on the stage is in Macbeth. And then, at its conclusion, Revelation returns to the original themes of blessedness (19:9, 22:14), love (20:9, 21:2–4), cleansing from sin (19:8), kingdom (22:1, 3), and priesthood (20:6, 22:3), just to make sure his readers don’t get stuck in the literal nature of the story. But of course neither story is truly over until the readers have metarepresented the literal story as a metaphor. In that sense, John’s story never actually came to its appointed conclusion. And it is in that sense that it never achieved relevance. Because the authors were thus effectively living in two thought worlds at once (the literal and the metaphorical), their choices of words will reflect 99  This visualization-cum-metarepresentation process inherent to extended metaphor comprehension may in fact be the cognitive origin to the vision-cum-explanation phenomenon popular within apocalyptic literature. See section 3.1. “Otherworldly mediation” is one of the few truly universal characteristics within that genre (if indeed it does represent a genre); for which, see for example Collins, Apocalypse, 9: “A few elements are constant in every work we have designated as an apocalypse. These elements pertain to both the framework and the content. There is always a narrative framework in which the manner of revelation is described. This always involves an otherworldly mediator and a human recipient—it is never simply a direct oracular utterance by either heavenly being or human.”

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that ambivalence. Some will seem to be perhaps both, and some will seem purely literal. Carston and Wearing quote, approvingly, Paul Henle: “[an extended] metaphor contains some terms which have both literal and figurative meaning … and others which have a literal sense only.”100 Both he and those citing him are making the argument that extended metaphor and allegory differ from one another in this way. The allegory is happy to remain entirely in the literal world. The responsibility for metarepresenting the story as another, allegorical one is entirely the reader’s. An extended metaphor however forces the issue by putting some words in literal garb (for us, the war) and some words in both literal and metaphorical outfits at once (the interludes). This can be seen in John’s use of “torture” (βασανίζω). After the deaths of the two witnesses, their enemies celebrate because of the “torture” the two prophets had visited upon them (11:10). This is commonly taken figuratively (though perhaps more hyperbolically than metaphorically). True, the witnesses had consumed many with fire (11:5) and brought plagues on many others (11:6),101 but the goal of the witnesses’ prophetic ministry is assumed to be repentance (11:3).102 And they are presented as sympathetic characters, at least to God’s interests. So their practice of “torture” came to be taken loosely to mean something more like “astringency” or “confrontationality.” The locust army however is taken a lot more literally to be “torturing” (9:5). And so the locusts and their king are most often openly considered wicked or demonic,103 though the text never says that. This is one of many examples of words (in this case, even the same word—βασανίζω) seeming both literal and metaphorical, just as Henle anticipated. Consider also the seemingly metaphorical bloodying of only a third of the water in the second trumpet (water and blood would normally mix; 8:8–9) versus the literal-sounding blood flowing from the winepress in the second harvest (blood would flow if people really were trampled; 14:20). Sometimes words seem literal and sometimes they seem both literal and metaphorical. This discourse feature is diagnostic for extended metaphors.

100  Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole, and Simile,” 308. 101  Akira Satake, Die Gemeindeordnung in der Johannesapokalypse (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1966), 121–22. Satake does not feel they have any positive role to play, but take the two witnesses clearly to be prophets. 102  Bauckham, Theology, 122. Bauckham feels that the two witnesses have only a positive role to play. 103  So Aune, Revelation 6–16, 546; Beale, Revelation, 492; Boxall, Revelation, 144; Caird, Revelation, 120; etc.

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6.2.3 Extension, Novelty, and/or an Evocative Nature It seems utterly intuitive and unnecessary to say that, if violence is a metaphor at all in Revelation, it is an extended one. Violence is everywhere. And yet extendedness is a proof of the metaphor, and so should be at least pointed out. The examples that I have used thus far from the literature, by comparison, are quite small. Shakespeare’s metaphor for life was only five short lines. Steen’s example from Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire” (see section 5.2.1) was one sentence. By comparison, even the shortest of the seven battles (the story of the two reapings, 14:14–20), and even excluding the prefatory material at the beginning of the chapter, is seven verses and 186 Greek words. That is considerably longer than either example from Steen or Carston. But the metaphor is also extended in the sense that it is continually developed and redeveloped. It is regularly brought back into service, as if part of an ongoing conversation. Carston and Wearing begin their section on the metarepresentational mode of metaphor interpretation with the quite short and playful example:104 [Discussion between two detectives, A and B, about an old criminal enquiry]: A: Do you remember the Jackson twins case from the 1980s? B: Yeah, that one’s a dead duck. A: Well, it just quacked. They argue that examples such as these prove that the literal meaning of metaphors remains available even after the metaphor has been comprehended and the metaphorical lexemes resolved. In that way, detective A extends or develops detective B’s rather normal metaphor into something new and humorous. When Babylon is first declared—quite early compared to when it eventuates (18:2)—“fallen” as a result of “her adulteries” (14:8), John is establishing the “fall of Babylon” metaphor so that when he rejoins it in chapters seventeen through nineteen, it is already known that a) Babylon falls and that b) they will be a subject of the harvest (though maybe a less willing one than the wheat.) He makes a statement, and then rejoins and develops it. This is an “extension” of the restoration is death metaphor. On the return of the adulteress (17:1), the author spends quite a while on the literal story of her fall before resolving her, as he promised, back into the bride (19:7–9). It doesn’t just happen by means of word count that metaphorical items become subjects of metarepresentation rather than (simply) ad hoc formation. 104  Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole, and Simile,” 304.

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Anything that causes the need to represent the literal meaning of a metaphorically used word or phrase—extension, novelty, or even just the picturesque nature of the words105—can trigger a metarepresentational interpretation. The fall of Babylon is likely intended to be metarepresented (pictured) both by the fact that it is extended (by means of recurrence) and because the mental image of the fall of a city would have been a gripping and bracing one (particularly to people who understand themselves to be inhabitants—even if only spiritually—of that same city; 2:21). 6.2.4 The Use of Both Propositions and Non-Propositional Mental Images Metaphor can make use of that particular kind of metarepresentation, the mental image.106 When I wrote about the Grand Canyon at the beginning of this section, you may have produced an image of a canyon in your own mind. The awareness of others’ ability to do that is a type of metarepresentative ability that metaphors exploit. One of the things that happens when someone communicates, “my lawyer is a shark” is that the word “shark” gets lexically disambiguated to mean shark* (an ad hoc concept of a person with sharklike qualities). But the generalized concept “shark-like qualities” does not fully capture all of what can be achieved by the metaphor. It can also prompt the hearer to mentally picture a shark (which might create sympathetic feelings of fear and loathing). Many metaphors rely on the creation of just such mental images.107 Metaphors are not purely propositional. Robyn Carston has made a strong argument over the last decade and a half that even simple and standard metaphors make use of metarepresentation generally108 and mental imaging specifically.109 To use the old Sperber and Wilson example, if someone were to say “Robert is a bulldozer” there is much that goes on in the mind of the hearer other than just constructing bulldozer*, including actually mentally picturing a bulldozer.110 That mental image can then become the ground or basis upon which new representations and propositions can be built, as with mentally

105  Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole, and Simile,” 303. 106  Kövecses, Metaphor, 42–44. 107  For other examples, see L. David Ritchie, “Relevance and Simulation in Metaphor,” Metaphor & Symbol 24.4 (2009): 249–62. 108   Her “second route to metaphor understanding”; Carton and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole and Simile,” 304–10. The “first route” is ad hoc formation (286–89). 109  Robyn Carston, “Metaphor: Ad Hoc Concepts, Literal Meaning and Mental Images,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 110.3 (2010): 295–321. 110  Carston, Thoughts and Utterances, 356.

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picturing one’s self hiking the Grand Canyon in order to decide whether one wants to do it in reality. Nearly the entire Apocalypse is based on a vision, or a series of them (1:2, 12, 17; 4:1; etc.). Not all visions are metaphors of course, but metaphors (especially extended ones) have a visual component, and it is commonly the visual component that carries the intended rhetorical effect. The shark only evokes fear and loathing because we’ve pictured one. The adulteress likewise (18:10–19). Most of the metaphors that John uses stir the will by igniting the imagination, our mental imaging of what he himself has “seen.” And in fact several of the conclusions we are intended to come to rely on actually picturing the events and making sense of their implications metarepresentationally. Take for instance once again how John fills all the available water sources with blood during the bowls (16:3–4). He draws out his own implication from that—there’s no water left to drink (16:6). This image of blood covering the land is also a reverse of the earlier image of water coming from the mouth of the dragon (12:15). The last time somebody had a drink of water, it was the land. And it drank it to preserve God’s people (in the form of the celestial woman, 12:16). Water was apparently dangerous to them, so God has (finally) taken it away completely and replaced it with something in the story that is purifying (7:14), freeing (1:5), and redemptive (5:9). The land covered in blood is visually stark and perhaps frightening, until one realizes that being covered in blood is the means of atonement (of the mercy seat on the Day of Atonement, Lev 16:14–15; of the doorframes at the Passover, Exod 12:7, 13, 22–23).111 One won’t likely arrive at that conclusion propositionally. The text doesn’t allude to those passages directly. But a person imagining the blood literally is led to metarepresent it metaphorically, and the mental image of the blood-covered land can prompt for the image of a blood-covered altar (and therefore blood-covered, or atoned-for, people; Lev 1:4–5, cf. Rev 1:5). 6.2.5 Simulation Simulation is a more specific claim that some make on metaphor than just imagining or envisioning.112 Seeing a mental picture of a shark doesn’t carry the same emotional weight as imagining one’s self out in the open sea being approached by one. It’s the full simulation that yields the full pragmatic benefits of fear and loathing. In the same way, one really can’t appreciate the distaste John feels for the moral and spiritual decisions of the adulteress unless 111  Johns, Lamb Christology, 128–33. 112  Dancygier and Sweetser, Figurative Language, 2; Ritchie, “Relevance and Simulation,” 249 (passim).

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one simulates “drinking the wine of her adulteries.” Like the simulation of the shark was meant to induce a quickened pulse and a desire to escape, the simulation of drinking adultery-wine is meant to produce something like the gag response and a desire that the adulteress would stop being “gross” (βδέλυγμα, 17:4–5). Simulation is an effective (if not always salubrious) rhetorical tool. The adultery-wine isn’t of course the only simulation. The adulteress is betrayed and killed (17:16). As 17:1 implies, the death of the adulteress gives us an opportunity to process the bowls. The sufferers therein seem to (perhaps frustratingly) undergo no change (16:9, 11), unlike their counterparts in the seals (6:8) and trumpets (8:7). The reader is now frustrated by her recalcitrance, made to feel “gross” by her adulteries, and probably not a little angry at her treatment of the saints (17:6). Her protracted death, the moral failings that prefaced it, the woes and mourning that attend it, and the celebrations that follow it surely constitute the largest single simulation in the book. John is leading us to experience disgust, death, and celebration over the span of more than two chapters. John cares about this character in a way that he does no other.113 These are experiences he wishes his readers to feel. What is interesting is that God never seems to get over her. The smoke rises forever (19:3). It’s one thing for John to celebrate, or to have his characters celebrate, her death in the moment of their victory (18:20), but why have it last for eternity? If war is war, God hates her (them) completely, so does John, and they never get over that. And that is not only a plausible reading, it’s the standard one.114 But if argument is war, her literally-pictured death (17:16, 18:8) is her metaphorical “salvation” (σωτηρία, 19:1), and the smoke rising forever is a memorial to God’s (ultimately successful) attempts to restore her—an eternal testimony, one might say, of his “love” for his bride (20:9). The heavenly courtiers praise God for the smoke itself (19:3), as if the smoke itself were a reason to worship (19:4), so it in itself should be something eminently praiseworthy (as love might be; cf. 1:5–6). And it would be an odd and illicit celebration if the sacrifice were blameworthy in some way at the time of its burning (Lev 1:3). John is picturing praise, having us picture praise, and even having us join in and simulate it, using the smoke of sacrifice as the experiential center point—an experience his readers are likely to have shared (Rev 8:3–5).

113  deSilva, Seeing Things, 141, puts her at the center-point of attention, though he seems to think the one-sided treatment of her (them) “dehumanizing.” Most (though not all) commentators take the adulteress to be an irreconcilably negative character. 114  E.g., Beale, Revelation, 415: “the eternal wrath of God.”

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The character he cares most about—the celestial woman, the great adulteress, the bride of Christ, Israel—seems to be fully and finally restored here. And the celebration of her return, and the evidences of God’s love that worked so hard throughout the narrative (and one might say “history,” 12:1) to secure it, will never be forgotten because the ever-rising smoke won’t allow it (19:3). John is leading in that worship chorus, or wanting to (19:7, 9), and the appropriate tool to use in that situation is “simulation.” 6.2.6 Images as the Contextual Basis for New Implicatures This has already been touched on to some degree, but as metarepresentations have degrees or orders, implications do as well, like premises leading to conclusions that become new premises (or blends that become inputs to new blends; see section 4.1.3). And because metarepresentations can be images, the bases for new implicated conclusions can be images. At the beginning of the first of the two last battles (or perhaps the first of two expressions of the same last battle; see section 4.1.4.10), Jesus returns with a heavenly army in tow (19:14). It isn’t immediately apparent whence the cavalry (ἵππος) comes narratively, but John helpfully puts them in dress (βύσσινον λευκὸν καθαρόν)—the same dress, as it happens, with which he has just adorned his bride (βύσσινον λαμπρὸν καθαρόν, 19:8).115 The purpose of clothing the bride was to “prepare” her (ἑτοιμάζω, 19:7) for the wedding “supper” (δεῖπνον, 19:9). As it happens, the heavenly armies—symbolized by the birds— are likewise called to a “supper” on the corpses of the world’s slain (δεῖπνον, 19:17). The word is only used in these two places. John is repeating both the supper and the dress that allows one access to it. The army was thus “prepared” for their supper just as the bride was, and as previous “cavalries” (ἵππος, 9:7, 9, 17, 19) had been “prepared” (ἑτοιμάζω, 9:7, 15) to kill with their own “mouths” (στόμα, 9:17–19). It is maybe not a coincidence that one group of them at least looks like “women” or “wives” (γυνή, 9:8). John is metarepresentationally layering image upon image, causing one implication to become the premise for another, and that for another, and so on, like a snowball turning into an avalanche. The locust army in chapter 9 is layered with the implication of their being women or wives. The woman returns again as the celestial bride, who again is at war, in chapter 12—another metarepresentational layer. Some in God’s military had turned sides, the image for

115  Beale, Revelation, 961, notes the connection only very briefly and makes nothing of it (but makes quite a lot of the dress of the bride as relates to other passages; see pp. 934–46). Aune, Revelation 17–22, 1059–60, doesn’t mention the connection at all.

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which John chooses the adulteress of chapters 17 and 18. But their commissions are restored, the image for which John chooses the bride of chapter 19. They then return to the battle as the armies of heaven (another layer). It is in fact the interplay of women characters and military characters that carry nearly the entire narrative forward, and both of those image-aggregates are standing in for, roughly, the same group: Israel. The now “heavenly” army that assists Jesus in the conversion of the gentiles (19:17–18, 21) is the fully, finally restored Jewish people (19:7–9) whose restoration had just been achieved by the preceding seals, trumpets, and bowls. It wasn’t until she had died fully that she was fully “outfitted” to take part in that feast.116 These layers are difficult to navigate to be sure, but they are just layers of the same thing, like a cake of the same batter. Seven times God’s army is Israel, or commonly some portion of Israel; and these occur all the way through the narrative: – the earliest “slayers” of the second seal (6:4, possibly the disciples), – the 144,000 (7:3–8, possibly the nascent—and still thoroughly Jewish— church at Pentecost), – the locust army (9:3, the church of early Acts, before gentile inclusion), – the fire-breathing cavalry (9:15–19, as the church begins to convert the gentiles), – John himself (10:10–11),117 – the two witnesses (11:3, possibly the Zugot and the Pharisees more generally),118 and finally – the heavenly army (19:14, 20:9), which is inclusive of all Israel.119 But God’s (or Christ’s) wife is also Israel, four times, and all the way through: – the locusts (9:8, that looked like wives), – the celestial bride (12:1, possibly an historical review of Israel in antiquity),120

116  That God’s army needed to be sanctified thus to take part in the great eschatological war, see Collins, Apocalyptic Imagination, 166–72; Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 210–37 (though he takes the eschatological army of saints to be Christian). Also John W. Marshall, Parables of War: Reading John’s Jewish Apocalypse, Studies in Christianity and Judaism 10 (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2009), 162: “a properly pure camp is crucial to the practice of holy war.” 117  Mazzaferri, Genre, 265–79. 118  The Zugot, including Hillel and Shammai during the biblical period, were the (always two) pharisaical leaders of Israel during the period named for them (the “Zugot”); for which, see Schürer, History, 2:215. 119  Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 218. 120  At least as “allusive symbol.” See Humphrey, Ladies and the Cities, 164, 166, 168, 170.

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– the adulteress (17:1, those of Israel who had turned to Roman religion, and possibly specifically the illegitimate Sadducean priesthood),121 and finally – the bride (19:7, noting that the gentiles enter the New Jerusalem separately from her in 21:24). Each layer gives a different part of the picture, a different historical period, and insight into different socio-political and religious groups. Because these are propositions built upon propositions, they become weaker with each layer; but the proposition that there are layers is strong. Images of war and of women abound and are repeating, and why that is and how it works in John’s thought needs to be explained. I have chosen to explain those layers as metarepresentational images of the metaphor of argument is war, with the related Israel is God’s (Christ’s) bride. But if there are images, and if they are metarepresentationally related, then there is a metaphor of some kind at work. The layered images are evidence for metaphor. 6.2.7 Intention-Attribution and Pragmatic Failure The literal meaning of extended metaphors is foregrounded. It is constructed first, and at some point during or after the communication event it is metarepresented as the metaphorical topic. But the player never leaves the stage. The literal reading never departs the mind of the reader or hearer. Even in very short and standard metaphors, the literal meaning persists in the mind.122 The literal shark in the metaphor “my lawyer is a shark” remains available for metarepresentation (inviting simulated experiences with the frightening animals). This is very much in keeping with our treatment of the metaphor argument is war to this point. As John is designing and delivering the contents of his “war,” it would take too much processing on the part of the reader to consider every word and concept separately for ad hoc implications. The reader is instead meant to construct the entire, literal story of the war and then metarepresent it as a global argument. It is then that death becomes restoration, torture becomes lack of conversion, sword becomes testimony, etc. The process of metarepresentation predicts for us how and when the metaphor was supposed to be actually mapped during the online processing of the discourse—during the interludes and at the conclusion. In terms of blending theory, the mental space war is constructed first and then the target space argument and blend witness are constructed afterward. The reader would then have an actual experience of “revelation”—a new perception would bud out of the literal stem of the war-story, based on the metarepresentation of war as argument. 121  Schürer, History, 1:148–50, 304–5, 312–13. 122  Carston and Wearing, “Metaphor, Hyperbole, and Simile,” 304.

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This experience seems close to what Fauconnier and Turner term the “flash of comprehension”123 or what Gerard Steen calls the “click of comprehension.”124 The entire unit of literal meaning suddenly resolves into a unit of metaphorical meaning, just like the “poor player” becomes “life” in Macbeth. The operation of metarepresentation also helps explain at what point the communication failed. Readers have taken Revelation literally or metonymically, and left the pragmatic processing of the story there. It (and we) seem to have never undergone the “flash of comprehension” as intended. Its literal story seems never to have made it to the stage where it was metarepresented as a metaphorical one. It’s as if Macbeth were still talking about a literal actor. In this way, the communication did not fail during the writing of the book, or even the initial reading, but subsequently during the comprehension phase. Readers were always meant to construct the war mental space, and so having the literal story in mind was a goal of the communication. It just wasn’t the ultimate goal. The ultimate goal was to metarepresentationally re-envision the shark as a lawyer, the actor as life, and the war as argument. They had to be comprehended literally to be metarepresented metaphorically. That second discourse-level broadening never happened. And that is likely why Revelation could never achieve relevance. The decision not to map war to argument was made metarepresentationally. Readers—all of us apparently—decided that John meant to imply violence, however nuanced by his use of hyperbole125 and our use of rhetorical and ideological deconstruction.126 Our “theory of mind”127 regarding John was that he foresaw suffering and destruction during the seals, trumpets, and bowls; and the New Jerusalem was a phoenix that rose from those ashes. One of the problems with our reading of John’s mind has always been heaven’s responses. It doesn’t seem to view the “plagues” as evils, or even necessary ones. It calls for violence and “rejoices” (18:20) in it. The altar souls cry for “vengeance” and are rewarded for it (6:10–11). The angels and four living beings celebrate the recently-killed 144,000 and multitude (7:11–12). The eagle announces, or promises, or threatens “woe” upon the earth-dwellers (8:13). The four angels had to be held back, for years, from crossing the Euphrates and killing a large portion of humanity (9:14–15). The mighty angel authoritatively announces the coming of the seventh trumpet (10:7) and John’s “bitter” commissioning to the gentiles 123  Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 44. 124  Steen, “Paradox,” 223. 125  Witherington, Revelation, 16; Bauckham, Theology, 155–56. 126  Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis, 13–23; Schüssler Fiorenza, Justice and Judgment, 9. 127  Discussed, e.g., in Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 175–180.

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(10:8–11). The murderous witnesses are called to heaven with their enemies looking on (11:12) and God’s wrath is celebrated openly after the earthquake (11:18). And so on. Every major event of God-initiated violence (including and especially the destruction of Babylon; 18:2–8, 18:20–19:5) is a happy one to heaven. If we take violence to be violence, that seems sadistic. But that attribution of intent is our (the readers’) attribution.128 It is our interpretive decision (and has been). It is a metarepresentative strategy, a “theory” of John’s “mind,” just like the metaphorical one of violence-as-redemption is. And I think it is reasonable and responsible to put those two attributions side-by-side and ask which the reader will now choose. Do we believe John’s intent (or, more specifically, John’s own metarepresentative theory of God’s intent) is to celebrate and rejoice in human suffering or to celebrate and rejoice in human salvation? The decision is the readers’; and that metarepresentative, interpretive decision will color ever other thing one thinks about the possible range of meanings of this story. If John’s God likes violence, this story is going to be about violence. If John’s God likes people, this story is—somehow—going to be about their redemption. My purpose has been to explain how that latter reading is possible. Imagine a re-telling of the story of Santa Claus. He’s living in Boston. He’s a taxi driver. His cab is a red Cadillac with whitewall tires. One day a woman needs a ride to an important appointment—say a long-sought job interview— but she’s lost her purse and has no way to pay him. What happens in the next scene? He gives her a ride anyway, of course. He’s Santa Claus. He gives away things all the time. We attribute a generally giving and jolly and gracious nature to the character because we feel like we know him already. If we put him in a new situation, he is still granted the same constellation of attitudes and intents. Those intent-attributions are part of the cognitive environment we share with the hypothesized writer and each other. Attributing joy and celebration at human suffering to John’s God is part of the cognitive environment that scholars of the Apocalypse have shared.129 It is an assumption we have made about the nature of that character—a “theory of his mind.” The nearly universal strategy to interpret war as war and violence as violence (even though the book has seemed surpassingly figurative in other 128  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 623–24. 129  Johns, Lamb Christology, 187, does not need to cite anyone when he says “And what about the terrible violence of the book? The Apocalypse virtually seethes with images of blood and violence. To make matters worse, God and the Lamb are often envisioned as the source of the violence, sometimes to the accompaniment of cries of vengeance on the part of the saints.” He takes it for granted (and rightly) that other commentators recognize this theory-of-John’s-mind.

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ways) has to have an explanation. It is rare for books to enjoy such a completely uniform set of interpretive assumptions. Our estimation of others’ estimation of John’s estimation of God’s innate character—leaving aside any redactors or serious textual issues—represents many orders of metarepresentation. Nevertheless, it has been essential that we make some assumption as to the nature of God’s projected character in the story; otherwise, we would not be able to attribute intent or interact with the character at all. And so we made the same assumption that everybody else historically has. Because some person or group in the very early church decided that John’s God would rejoice in suffering,130 subsequent readers were led to make the same assumption. Once that assumption started to be made regularly, like the story of Santa was always going to end with the woman getting a lift to her interview, the story of Revelation was ever afterward only going to end in violence. That assumption became a canonical part of our interpretive heritage, and the narrative could no longer operate metaphorically. It was our—the entire, historical, interpretive community’s—metarepresentative attribution of intent that changed the meaning of Revelation from the positive one John intended. I am arguing that we should change it back. We have now reviewed seven features of Carston’s metarepresentational strategy of metaphor comprehension. Each is manifest in the narrative of the war. It is hard to read (high effort and literal activation), it employs both literallyand metaphorically-used words, it covers larger levels of discourse, it uses mental images, it uses simulation, it asks those images to become the basis for new implicatures, and it further asks its readers to make some guess as to how loving and generous God’s intentions are. It was purely arbitrary, of course, employing the seven battles to make these seven points. Revelation is never not hard; it never avoids being evocative and imagistic; it contains an absolute treasure-trove of simulacra. Any of the battles, in other words, exhibit all of these features, because every part of John’s war was supposed to be comprehended literally and (then) metarepresentationally, as metaphor. The pragmatic failure brought on by the non-metarepresentational, metonymic reading then should be nearly as complete.

130  See, e.g., Irenaeus, Haer, 4.30.4; Pieter G. R. de Villiers, “The Understanding of Violence in Oecumenius’ Greek Commentary on Revelation,” Acta Patristica Et Byzantina 20 (2009): 232–45; Weinrich, Latin, 12.

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For communication to serve its purpose and be relevant, it needs to imply something or several possible things. And, on the other side of the communication, the intended meaning of the author/speaker needs to be retrievable by means of inference. The speaker acts in an ostensive manner and the hearer responds by constructing an inference (which is why in RT, such intent-driven communication is coined “ostensive-inferential”).131 Commonly, the speaker will have one meaning in her utterance, which may be partly encoded by her linguistically. She will labor to make that one meaning the first and clearest meaning retrievable by inference. It is this that makes an implicature “strong.”132 If her collocutor does not successfully pragmatically derive the one necessary conclusion, her communicative goal will fail. To return to Tendahl’s example (section 5.1.1.2), “Ruud is a tree” has as its strong implicature that Ruud (the soccer player) is an unusually tall athlete, which enables him to compete successfully for the high ball. In a conversation about heading skills, the speaker may feel that she need not carefully explain the metaphorical relationship between unusually tall plants (trees) and unusually tall soccer players (Ruud). She will likely feel that her hearer will be able to make the contextual assumption that she is staying on the topic of heading skills, consider how Ruud’s tree-likeness may contribute to that conversation, and derive the (strong) contextual implication that Ruud is able to compete for the ball so well because of his great height. Thus, the strong implicature “tall” is derivable partly from the linguistic information available (“tree”) and partly from available contextual assumptions (the subject of their conversation up to that point). The meaning of an utterance can also make use of weak implicatures. Such implicatures are “weak” because, though they potentially add to the relevance of the communication, they are not necessary to it.133 Ruud being tall like a tree generates relevance for the hearer. But there may be other sympathetic ways in which Ruud is like a tree that might generate greater effect for the hearer; and, because they are in-line with Ruud being tall, cause little or no extra processing. Trees, for example, are solid. In an instance of physical competition, Ruud being a solidly-built athlete is also a boon for him. Trees are also immovable. Ruud being solid and immovable are possible (though not necessary, and therefore “weak”) implicatures of “Ruud is a tree.” They work 131  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 50–54, 163–71. 132  Ibid., 197–200, 272. 133  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 235.

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together as cooperating (non-competing)134 conclusions and make utterances more relevant. Sometimes however a communication will not have one strong implicature.135 Instead, it will make use of such a web of several weak implicatures alone. No one implicature is necessary (which is why they are all weak), but the hearer will have to choose one of the weak implicatures for the communication to achieve relevance. Which one will be a matter of choice and accessibility to the hearer. Such a situation is common in poetic use of language.136 When Romeo says, “Juliet is the sun,” there isn’t one single implicature that is necessary to derive from that statement without which the sentence yields no cognitive effect. But there are several possible ones from which to choose. Juliet is bright or radiant, she is life-giving, she is warm, she is fierce, etc. Some of these implicatures cooperate with one another (she can be both radiant and warm), but some of them compete (fierce and life-giving). The hearer will infer—lightly for the moment, awaiting further clues—which of the myriad possible implicatures fit the context. Thus, communication can make use of weak implicatures alone, without need for one, necessary, strong implicature. Extended metaphors make use of weak implicatures. The writer who does not wish to interrupt her narrative with constant explanations of her metaphorical targets (“and by A I mean B … and by C I mean D …” etc.) will rely instead on the reader taking greater responsibility in ascertaining individual and cumulative meanings implied by the text and context. They are an invitation to imagine with the writer what the text is “doing.” And, as long as the meanings derived revolve around an organizing and co-operating center (as “radiant” and “warm,” above), the reader is free to spend as long as he might wish deriving further and further weak implicatures.137 John uses an awful lot of weak implicatures. Whether there is a metaphor underlying them or not, the meanings behind many things in the text seem to be unclear. They are weakly implicated. The problem in the history of interpretation is that they have also seemed unrelated and un-“cooperative.” Weapons act in seemingly prescribed ways (sword in the seals, fire in the trumpets, blood in the bowls, etc.), but it hasn’t been clear if they had an organizing principle. The use of several unknown but explicitly named characters (Death and Hades, Wormwood, Abaddon or Apollyon, etc.) seemed to have a narrative 134  For the de-relevant-izing effects of competing interpretations, see Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 614. 135  See Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 236, and their discussion of “Robert is a bulldozer.” 136  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 217–24. 137  Ibid., 221.

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function, but not necessarily one related to each other. And the interludes have consistently been a trial for outlining the book. How do the 144,000 relate to the rest of the seals? How do the two witnesses relate to the trumpets and to the dragon? These are sometimes considered unrelated visions.138 The problem is that a “series of unrelated statements” can’t produce as relevant a communication as several related ones can.139 Utterances, when they are mutually interpreted, give context to each other—ground upon which new and better implications can be derived. If we see several seemingly unrelated weak implicatures, we need a reading strategy—in order to render the communication relevant—that is apt to tie together and unify several weak implicatures. The metarepresentational, relevance-guided, metaphorical strategy is capable of doing that. That is the great strength of metaphor, that is not true in the same way of the metonymic strategy. Metonymies can of course have weak implicatures,140 but they make use primarily of strongly implicated references. They point. They rely on salience.141 In other words, they rely primarily on strong implicatures. For those who believe Revelation to be “difficult” or “confusing” or “obscure,” they should be applying a metaphorical strategy, not a metonymic one. To return to our conclusions from the beginning of this chapter, metaphors are “loose” and metonymies are the opposite of that—referentially decodable and salient. It has generally been recognized that Revelation was semantically and pragmatically multivalent, but for some reason there has been a strong disinclination to interpret that as a signal for metaphor. The problem with that is that a host of weak implicatures is a pragmatic signal for metaphor. Juliet is not the sun. That literal interpretation should be discounted, not just because of the senselessness of it, but because of all the weak implications that are available once it is discounted (she is beautiful, she is life-giving, she is Romeo’s center of gravity, etc.). If the communication were to remain literal (Shakespeare thinks the Sun’s name is “Juliet”) or metonymic is some way (say, if she belonged to some group named “Sun”), none of those weak implicatures would apply any longer. There is a real semantic gain from words and concepts being used metaphorically.

138  Morris, Revelation, 155: “In between comes another series of visions, which we may call ‘seven significant signs’. In them there is no common factor like seals or trumpets or bowls. But there are seven of them and it seems that John means us to take them as another of his series.” 139  Carston, Thoughts, 235–42; quote from 238. 140  Papafragou, “On Metonymy,” 187–88. 141  Ibid., 177, 181–82; based on “a highly accessible assumption,” 182.

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John’s God is not violent. That interpretation is not only based on the very real theodicy issues that it solves, but also on all the weak implicatures that are available once the strong implicature of violence is discounted. God being violent, really or metonymically, flattens the text and decodes all the many weak implicatures to yield the same thing (judgment or just violence without regard to justice), like making Shakespeare’s Juliet literally a ball of celestial gas. Weak implicatures are a feature of those texts, however. The writer himself does not appear to be thinking of his material flatly or reductively. People are dying in different ways and at different times, by different means, with differing degrees of suffering involved, with differing degrees of success, in differently named battles, and by differently named characters. That topology actually exists in the narrative. The literal or metonymic strategy, reductively, is removing material from the text that is actually there—and that makes it relevant. If the metaphorical strategy can yield a more relevant interpretation than the metonymic or literal one (as it likely can, being able to tie together and explain those loose strands of weak implicatures), RT predicts that it is the one that John intended.142 6.3.1 The Weak Implicatures of Death This reliance on weak implicatures rather than strong ones makes the discussion of metaphorical targets more complex. For example, within the conceptual metaphor argument is war, death in the war frame has several possible implicatures in the argument frame. Death is a goal in war and so, as a goal, it is likely something like capitulation in an argument. Normally the goal in an argument is to win over the interlocutor. But the nature of that testimonial “win” never gets fully spelled out in Revelation. It could be a matter of bare concession (where the opponent merely concedes failure) or more active conversion (where the opponent now becomes a proponent for the other side), or perhaps something in-between. Also, that is taken from the goal-focused nature of war, but there are other ways of viewing it within the argument frame. There’s an ontological change at death, for example. This change from life to death could be metaphorically reversed by the argument frame to a change from (spiritual) death to (spiritual) life, as sides are changed from one to another. This seems at least to be happening in the case of the two witnesses (11:11–12), the 144,000 (7:9–10; 14:1), and the millennialists (20:4), each of whom are resurrected to take further part in the war.143 As shown in section 4.1.1.4, if “second death” is actual death, the first resurrection is likely not a literal 142  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 612. 143  And possibly the locust army as well, as they arise from the abyss (9:1–3).

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resurrection. It is more likely a “new life” schema, based on the metaphorical inversion of death by witness, as appears at several other points in the NT (e.g., Rom 6:4, Gal 2:20).144 A person is witnessed to in the seeming war, metaphorically “dies” (capitulates or converts), and then is returned to the confessional “battlefield” by means of a spiritual resurrection to take part in the war of witness on God’s side. As discussed in sections 4.1.1.4 and 4.1.4.5, Christian initiation in the first century was by baptism—a type of symbolized “death.” Death is also a metaphorical description of repentance (cf. Mark 1:4// Luke 3:3; Acts 2:38).145 During the bowls series, nobody dies and they are all also unwilling to “repent” (16:9, 11). Many of those left un-killed at the end of the trumpets are likewise said to be unrepentant (9:20–21). Those two ideas are being set in metaphorical parallel. To repent in the argument frame is to die in the story of the war. The people during the bowls series don’t die, so they don’t repent. In fact, all of the classic antagonists avoid death, except the adulteress alone. The dragon, beast, and false prophet never die. They are thrown “alive” into the lake of fire (19:20, 20:10), where also their recalcitrant followers are thrown (20:15). People who remain unrepentant remain alive, and nobody who repents avoids death. But death perhaps most importantly is a means by which someone enters the heavenly temple. Souls are under the temple’s altar (6:9). The 144,000 slain by the Lamb during the seals are next found in heaven’s temple (7:15). Likewise the white-robed multitude. The two witnesses ascend to heaven after their “deaths” (11:12). During the bowls, no one is allowed to enter the temple (15:8), and consequently nobody dies. When God kills, he restores (in the sense of the covenantal restoration of relationship with, and proximity to, God). Metaphorical death-by-witness is the means by which the restoration of Israel takes place. It is also the means by which the restoration of the rest of the world takes place. The thing that happens immediately subsequent to the final battle (in which seemingly everybody dies; 20:9) is that everybody is standing before the throne of God in heaven (20:12). And this time, gentiles are included (21:24). As has been noted elsewhere in section 4.1.3.3, the deaths at the battle of Armageddon and that of the great adulteress are the same event, envisioned first in chapter 16 and then explained in chapters 17 and 18. These “deaths” are 144  See section 5.2.2.10. See also Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 213. 145  The metonymic reading forces interpreters to conclude that those who die are being judged, and are therefore among the unrepentant. See, e.g., Bauckham, Climax of Prophecy, 278. The problem this poses is that the living never repent in this story (2:21; 9:20–21; 16:9, 11), and so nobody repents.

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restorations—the full restoration of Israel. Israel is restored before the final battle with the gentiles so that she can take part fully in the final war of witness with the gentiles.146 In this final feast, the gentile nations are “consumed” by her (19:21) and included in the kingdom of God. And so there are several weak implicatures for the metaphorical target of “death”: capitulation, spiritual life, conversion, repentance, and restoration at least. Some of these ideas and terms work better in some situations while others are more apt in others. For example, the 144,000 move immediately from relatively easy and quick deaths during the seals to presence with God in chapter 7. There, death seems more equivalent to simple restoration. No post-processing consumption of conversion seems to be in view. But in cases where there is a great deal of work engaged to “kill” the subjects—the treading of the winepress, the burning and consumption of the great adulteress, the consumption of the nations by heaven-fire, etc.—something more like conversion (or perhaps re-conversion) seems to be intended. The presumption is that they needed to be changed in a more fulsome way than the 144,000. They took more work because they were further away from “death” (and therefore God) to begin with, whereas the wheat in the first reaping or the 144,000 in the early seals were much closer. The 144,000 were ready for Christ’s arrival but the adulteress was not. This is likely why John (as Jesus) recommends keeping one’s clothes nearby (16:15) and clean (3:3). The adulteress has not done so (17:4), and is unprepared to be restored (exclusion for judgment), which is why she doesn’t get clean robes until near the end (19:8). The use of weak implicatures enables this nuanced idea of “death.” If John had employed a single strong implicature, the reader would have made that quicker, easier association and probably not bothered considering other possible implications of death. Processing a broad range of weak implicatures only becomes necessary when one strong implicature is not given. Because John wanted death to be able to mean capitulation, life, conversion, repentance, and restoration, he left death underdetermined, as a web of weak implicatures. This is one of the pragmatic dynamics that has rendered the interpretation of Revelation difficult. Underdeterminacy serves an important purpose in narrative however—broad application. But that broadness comes at a price. It is harder to disambiguate. “Death” had to be hard to understand, though, for it to be useful to the narrative.

146  McNicol, Conversion of the Nations, 97–104.

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6.3.2 The Weak Implicatures of Righteousness Oddly, the metaphorical target of “victory” rarely gets clearly spelled out for us in this book, though it is certainly prominent.147 Jesus’ call to the seven congregations to be “overcomers” (2:7, 11, 17, 26; 3:5, 12, 21) collocates with an equally urgent call to righteousness (e.g., 2:2, 5–6, 14–16, 20–25; 3:2–5, 8, 15–19). He may, in fact, be equating those two terms (which would constitute a metaphor). A third term he is interested in is faithful “witness” (1:2, 5, 9; 2:2, 13, 25; 3:9, 11, 14). Witness in the argument frame is equivalent to right and faithful prosecution of the war in the war frame (the “good fight,” as it were; 1 Tim 1:18, 6:12; 2 Tim 4:7). In a war frame, righteous deeds would be ones that help God’s side achieve victory; likewise, faithfulness in witness. The two witnesses stand in as exemplars of both—they are faithful (11:4) and are also good “fighters” (their mouths consume every one of their enemies; 11:5). Their faithfulness and deadliness are set in parallel in the story because both of those things are “righteousness” or right and appropriate behavior within their respective frames—the former within the argument frame and the latter within the war. A righteous witness would be faithful and unswerving in testimonial conviction. A righteous warrior would be Achilles-like, destructive and indestructible. The 144,000 being “sealed” achieves this very indestructibility (7:3–8); and though the text never explains how the two witnesses cannot be harmed, they share that indestructibility for a time as well (11:5). The indestructibility of the wicked also points to their faithfulness, just (John would say) to the wrong god (13:4). That is likely why John puts such great emphasis on not being “branded” by the beast (14:9–11). Whatever the nature of the branding is in the metaphor, it is a decision that, once made, will be very difficult to unmake. The result of this decision is indestructibility and deathlessness in the war frame (14:11), the inability to repent and be restored in the witness frame (16:9, 11), and a threat of eternal judgment in the judgment frame (14:11). Both branding by the beast and sealing by the Lamb achieve indestructibility. The issue is which side one is on when one’s fate has been cast.

147  Beale names the victory one of overcoming the “sin of not testifying about Christ to the outside world” (Beale, Revelation, 235). Aune calls it “a military or an athletic metaphor” without further explanation (Aune, Revelation 1–5, 151). Smalley sees it as “spiritual conquest: victory over doctrinal error and imperial persecution” though he does not explain how those two (rather different) types of “victory” relate (Smalley, Revelation, 64). My point is not that one definition is better than another, but simply that there are so many definitions (of perhaps the single most important concept in the book). The Apocalypse itself is creating this confusion (if that is the right word) by its unwillingness to spell out—at least in explicit, truth-conditional form—what it means by “victory.”

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Righteousness is also the subject—perhaps the main subject—of the sexual metaphors that John uses.148 The 144,000 are virginal (14:4), but the adulteress of course is not (17:1–2). Sexual faithfulness is easily mapped to religious faithfulness, as is commonly done in prophetic writing.149 The 144,000 being righteous then is a blend of three inputs: war (they are arrayed as an army), sexuality (they are virgins), and witness (they take part in the restoration). Purity then could also be mapped to righteousness by means of the sexual metaphor. The 144,000 wear washed and whitened robes (7:14), but the adulteress’ robes are purple and scarlet (17:4), though she will get new and purified robes by the end (19:8). It is worth noting also that those who have white robes (6:11, 7:14, 19:8) have been given them. Those garments have been washed in the blood of the Lamb (7:14). This speaks to an imputed righteousness, from Christ, that is the cleansing of the faithful.150 As argued above, death is being reversed to mean “life” by argument is war. A person metaphorically dying by Christ’s witness is being restored to fellowship with God (cf. Rom 6:8–11), and this restoration has no endpoint. These restored people will live eternally in the New Jerusalem, which is the sense in which they “will not be harmed at all by the second death” (2:11, 20:6). They will actually die (2:13), but that death will not have a lasting effect on them, whose names are in the book of life and who are slated for the second (real) resurrection (20:15). To “harm” someone may have the same kind of reverse effect. The alpha privative is removed and ἀδικέω (“to harm”) becomes δικαιόω (“to justify”). It is most often God and the Lamb who are doing the “harming” (6:6; 7:2, 3; 9:4, 10, 19), to “cleansing” effect (6:11, 7:14). As noted in section 4.1.4.2, “harm” in the war frame is being set opposite “purchase” or “redemption” in the commerce frame in the third seal (6:6). The implication is that the outcome of “harming” is “redemption.” The Lamb who, in the preceding chapter, wrought redemption by the harm he suffered is the model for this association (5:9). Harming someone becomes redeeming them by Christ’s blood, a redemption that results in their being made righteous or clean by that same blood (7:14). Like death is turned 148  deSilva, Seeing Things, 59–60 (note 106): “discourse about sexual intercourse, about partnerships, whether with a whore or as a bride, and the like, is used throughout Revelation in ways that suggest a metaphorical significance. ‘Sexual immorality’ functions as a label for all improper intercourse with Roman society and its gods; sexual purity or fidelity represents loyalty to the one God and God’s Messiah.” 149  Duff, Who Rides the Beast?, 55–57: “On the basis of the metaphorical notion that the covenant represents a marriage between God and Israel, πορνεία/πορνεύω came to carry the metaphorical meaning ‘unfaithfulness to God’” (55). 150  Beale, Revelation, 943.

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to life by the metaphor, “harming” is turned to “making righteous.” That is likely why the Lamb is so often associated with harm. If this proposed reversal is not the case, it would need to be explained why Jesus is so often taking part in the “harm” of so many throughout the seals and trumpets.151 That particular ministry is appropriate for a “righteous” Lamb (15:3) under the metaphorical reading, but otherwise seems an ill-chosen word group to (regularly) associate with a self-sacrificing and atoning character. And so “righteousness” is the blend of many inputs. It is faithfulness in witness, indestructibility in war, fidelity and purity in sexuality, and a sign of redemption and atonement within the temple cult. Again, some are more apt in certain situations, but none has overriding status above the others. They are all, at least within the narrative as a whole, weak implicatures. And it is largely left to the reader to assign one or several of them as the need arises and context demands. This is a normal process within utterance comprehension. Contextual assumptions are used to derive contextual conclusions,152 and John apparently wishes to keep the ideas of “death” and of “righteousness” weak enough to be useful in several different contexts. Death and righteousness can do more and be more in the story the more weakly implicit they are (which is likely why John chose a metaphorical strategy to tell his story to begin with). 6.3.3 The Strong Implicature of Judgment The difficulty that has plagued Revelation scholarship has in part been this very issue. If war really is being mapped to judgment, that is a metonymy and so the implicature is a strong one. It is a controlling one. Death has to mean literal death—or spiritual “death”—or both. But it must mean “death” in a negative sense because it has a negative sense in both of those spaces (see section 3.3.1.1.3). Judgment is now the interpretive key that is used to understand the Lamb’s violent activity (6:4, 8, 16–17; 14:16, 19–20; 19:11–21). In this way, it has been treated as a strong implicature—the single, overriding contextual implication that gives unity and meaning to the story.153 And as a strong implicature or interpretive key, every other weaker implicature has had to be subservient to it. Weak implicatures are not allowed to overcome strong ones, in the same way that “Ruud is a tree” precludes Ruud from being leafy or green, 151  It is true that the enemies of the witnesses attempt to “harm” them as well (11:5), but this is in keeping with the metaphor. “Harming” does not have to result in righteousness. It does under Christ because Christ’s harm is a purchase by his blood. That idea of purchase or redemption is not extended to the operations of the beast. 152  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 620–21. 153  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 199.

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but not from being solid or immovable. Consonant weak implicatures are allowed and contradictory ones are not.154 The result of this has been that we could never be free of violence or the negative emotions projected upon Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. God’s character cannot be very gracious under this schema. Judgment was the strong implicature that rejected any weak implicatures that might make God seem loving, peaceful, or gracious. The various heavenly celebrations at the beginning (7:10–13), middle (11:16–18), and end (19:1–9) of Israel’s long-awaited restoration became savage and vindictive celebrations of the death of potentially millions of people. They had to because they were weak implicatures under the strong implicature of judgment. As long as the war was mapped to judgment, death had to be destructive and so the heavenly worship had to be celebrations of that destruction. That is how strong implicatures work. But if war is mapped to argument, then death becomes restoration and the heavenly celebrations become perfectly un-ironic blessings of God for his long-awaited demonstration of love for his people. Weak implicatures work together. We have followed war for judgment as an organizing strong implicature, even though the book said that was not the story it was telling (see section 3.3.1.1.3). When argument is war organizes the narrative, all of the weak implicatures—of death, burning, torture, fire, sword, beasts, blood, and all the rest—have to be re-set to become consonant with the new organizing principle, witness. Death becomes restoration, burning becomes conversion, and so on. And in that new contest and context, “death gets swallowed up in victory.” God can be loving, peaceful, and gracious again. 6.4

Backwards Inference

This final section will establish my methodology for deriving conclusions in the next (and concluding) chapter, but it will also help explain one final gift that RT gives to our understanding of metaphor and how it operates in this chapter. Relevance-theoretic pragmatics is Gricean; that is to say, it is inferential.155 Meanings are not arrived at merely by decoding language, but rather by using the codes of language as only one input among many other contextual assumptions to infer speaker meaning.156 Inputs to the inferential process can be objects visible during a conversation, cultural standards, current events, room 154  Ibid., 236. 155  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 21. 156  Ibid., 27.

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temperature, the knowledge of a recent illness, etc. Anything that can be represented by the mind—memories, sensory input, processes of the mind such as reasoning—can also become an input that will shade and influence the code of the language in a certain situation to a more precise and contextuallyguided meaning. An example might be someone raising a glass. In the context of an anniversary celebration, such an action might be taken as offering a toast. In a situation where a friend is getting up to get a glass of water, it could mean something like, “can you refill my glass as well?” Inference is directional. One proceeds from the explicated premises (those things in the code of the text) and implicated premises (those things outside of the code) to the derivation of implicated conclusions (and, thereby, speaker meaning).157 Let us use as a simple example the equation a + b = c, where “a” is the set of explicatures, “b” is the set of implicatures, and “c” is variable we are solving for—our inferred conclusions as to speaker meaning. But that directionality can be reversed. If we know “c” and “a” we can solve for “b,” if that is our variable, just as easily. If we have a good sense of what the speaker might mean (c) and have heard her clearly (a), we can guess what implicated premises she would have us derive (b). Wilson and Carston use as an example “Caroline is a princess.”158 This hypothetical statement is uttered in response to the question, “Will Caroline help us clear up the flood damage?” The question creates the contextual presumption that any answer will mean either “yes” or “no.” That is an implicated conclusion on the basis of which “Caroline is a princess” can be inferred (in reverse) to mean “Caroline won’t help us clear up the flood damage.” Using our earlier schema, a = will she help?, c = she will not help (the contextual conclusion), and b = Caroline is a princess* (an ad hoc concept in which princess has taken the new meaning “a type of person who would not aid in flood cleanup”). The implicated conclusions influence the range of implicated premises that could have given them rise.159 This process is termed “backwards inference,”160 and we do it all the time. “Juliet is the sun” constitutes a novel meaning for sun. In order to derive the ad 157  For the goal of communication being specifically “speaker meaning,” see Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 23; for the interplay of explicatures, implicatures, and implicated conclusions, see Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 615. There is a controversy over where the line might be drawn between explicatures and implicatures (what counts as “code” and what counts as implication), but it is not within the bounds of this study to pursue it. See instead Tendahl’s full treatment in Tendahl, Hybrid Theory, 49–110. 158  Wilson and Carston, “Metaphor, Relevance,” 422. 159  Ibid., 421. 160  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 615; Wilson and Sperber, “Truthfulness and Relevance,” 73–76.

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hoc concept sun*, we need to make some assumptions about Romeo’s attitude toward Juliet which will act as our provisional contextual conclusion (that he is enamored of her), and allow that to help us disambiguate what “sun” might mean in context (bright, warm, central, life-giving, etc.). If Romeo hated Juliet, we would interpret sun in very different ways. And so, ad hoc concepts (including metaphors) are the products of backwards inference in cases where they cannot be lexically disambiguated.161 The (Backwards) Implication for Argument Is War: the New Jerusalem One of the reasons reverse-implicatable conclusions are turned around to derive premises is that the process increases the predictability of the reader’s arrival at the intended conclusion.162 They assume the end-goal so that the means of getting to that goal can be anticipated and explained. In the example “Robert is a bulldozer,” calling Robert a “bulldozer” achieves a dissociative and perhaps derogatory goal before it ever begins to yield the ad hoc formation of the many possible meanings of bulldozer* (pushy, thoughtless, brash, etc.). The creative “fuzziness”163 is felt in the enrichment of bulldozer rather than in whether or not the speaker approves of Robert’s activities and demeanor. Many insults work this way. Backwards inference also increases relevance. When the hypothetical person asked, “Will Caroline help us clear up the flood damage?” the interlocutor was able to take the narrowed goal of the communication and turn the response into something more relevant than just “yes” or “no.” It anticipates the follow-up question, “why will she not help?” and answers it before it is asked. Calling Caroline a “princess” achieves the goal of explaining why Caroline will not help, thus adding to cognitive effect, thus adding to relevance. John provides the end goal of his communication: the New Jerusalem.164 It presupposes the question, “how did God achieve this?” The answer to that question is the story of the war. For the war narrative to be the premise upon 6.4.1

161  Dead metaphors are not ad hoc constructions and so don’t require reverse inferential procedures; for which, see Wilson and Carston, “Metaphor, Relevance,” 416n7. 162  Ibid., 421: “speeds up the interpretation process and increases the predictability of the results.” 163  Wilson and Sperber, “Relevance Theory,” 620, explain metaphorical “fuzziness.” 164  Caird, Revelation, 261: “All through the long story of God’s assault on the old corrupt order there have been intimations of immortality: the promises to the Conquerors, the whiterobed multitude, the triumph song of Moses and the Lamb, the wedding feast of the Lamb and his bride. The clouds of glory have hung low over the camp of the true Israel in their wilderness wanderings. Now at last John stands on Pisgah and surveys the promised land. In some ways this is the most important part of his book …”

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which the New Jerusalem is built, the readers are supposed to 1) understand John’s associative and approving attitude to God’s means of constructing the New Jerusalem, and 2) disambiguate war (and all the scores of other lexical items that make up the war domain) metaphorically to mean witness—the process by which people are made into “a kingdom and priests” (1:6, 5:10). The thing that John didn’t want us to miss was that God was restoring Israel (19:6–8), the gentiles (20:9, 21:24), and all of creation (22:1–5). The thing that he allowed to be interpreted loosely, by means of ad hoc concept formation, was war* (like bulldozer* was for Robert). Swords, blood, death, and torture wanted that level of “fuzziness” that come by reverse implication because they needed to serve John’s many theological categories of restoration, redemption, atonement, and salvation. The goal (New Jerusalem) needed to be clear, the means (“restoration” in its many forms) needed to be fuzzy, and backwards inference was the means of achieving both at once. Pragmatically, the problem came when a disjuncture was placed between the war and the one waging it. When Jesus (or God, or the Holy Spirit) stopped being the one fighting the several wars, the divinely-constructed New Jerusalem was no longer guiding the interpretation of those wars, as if Caroline being a “princess” had nothing to do with her not helping or Robert being a bulldozer no longer had anything to do with him being pushy. The wars were no longer the means to the end of New Jerusalem’s formation, even though the text at several points indicates that they are (2:10; 6:9; 7:14–17; 12:10–11; 14:1–5; 20:4–6). They became one long interlude in the story between the throne room scene in chapter five and the descent of the city in chapter twenty-one. And John’s “associative and approving” feelings about God loving and restoring Israel and the gentiles became John’s “associative and approving” feelings about God killing millions of people. The war metaphor is, in RT terms, an “emergent property” of the text.165 It isn’t there in just the bare words, like Robert’s qualities of being pushy and thoughtless aren’t encoded in the word “bulldozer.” They spring out of the interaction of the purpose or goal of someone saying, “Robert is a bulldozer,” and the words themselves. God living with humanity is the stated narratival goal of the Apocalypse (21:3). The words themselves say that he kills nearly everyone (19:18, 20:9). The solution to these conundrums is that the bulldozer becomes a pushy person and the war becomes eschatological witness unto restoration. Anything else is guilty of a lack of full processing (including reverse inferencing) of the communications, which is grounds for a communication not achieving relevance. 165  Wilson and Carston, “Metaphor, Relevance,” 415–18.

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One further point on backwards inferencing that is worthy of note for our purposes is that it can, and often does, make use of mental images.166 Images can give the necessary “backwards pressure” to turn the comprehension procedure on its head. Bulldozers aren’t mean and pushy. Under normal circumstances, they are helpful and valuable tools. One has to picture a person acting like a bulldozer to imagine Robert in negative terms. It is the image or the simulation, not the proposition, that reverses the procedure. Likewise, the sun has very few human characteristics. But when Shakespeare asks us to picture Juliet as the sun—perhaps a warm summer’s day, or the thing which awakens us and starts our day—it is the picture, not the proposition, that fills our mind with the various ad hoc concepts (bright, warm, pleasing, etc.). John is picturing for us how the building is fashioned and the bride prepared (21:2) using the imagistic language of the war. Like Juliet is simulated in a person’s imagination to “look like” the sun or Robert like the bulldozer, the city of God is made to “look like” those fallen in battle. It’s only those so “killed” that constitute it (20:4). The war narrative provides image after image, simulation after simulation, with which to answer the implied question, “How is God going to build his kingdom?” The answer (restoration is death) is in images, not just (or even mainly) in propositions. John thinks this “revelatory” or “visionary” argument is substantial, detailed, and rhetorically powerful enough to be a contributing part of the restoration of creation (1:1–3; 10:8–11; 22:10, 18–19). If the war is just a war, or metonymically a series of jaded judgments (death is death), it is unclear how those images would encourage anyone to walk joyfully into the New Jerusalem (21:24), or how there would be anybody left to do so. The images of withering war and of happy kingdom are not compatible, except by loosening. One has to overthrow the other, like Robert’s or Juliet’s humanity has to overthrow the bulldozer and the sun, or they have to remain separate. When the schism was introduced between war and kingdom,167 the metaphor could no longer be comprehended, the kingdom was now built on violence and death, and most positive calls to come be a part of a “beloved city” (20:9) became dark warnings of unending pain (14:10–11; 20:15; 21:8). 6.4.2 Inference and the Hermeneutical Task(s) Modern scholarship did not receive the Apocalypse like it did the Dead Sea Scrolls, untouched and dormant. It has had a long history of translation and interpretation, and that history told us that John was angry and so was his 166  The majority of Wilson and Carston’s examples do so (see Wilson and Carston, “Metaphor, Relevance,” 415). 167  See section 1.4 in the introduction.

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God.168 Uncritically,169 we seem to have allowed that presupposition to become the “theory of mind” with which we approached the text. Because of that, the code switch from violence (6:15–17; 14:20) to love (1:5, 3:19, 20:9) never got flipped, the book remained literally or metonymically interpreted, and John’s angry God set about destroying the earth. But the supposition that John’s God, or that John himself, was angry is just that: a supposition. It needs to be shown. It needs to be proven, like any other assertion. The cognitive-linguistic evidence has pointed rather to a metaphor; and, in that metaphor, God is fighting for people, not against them (3:19). The story is being optimized for a group of people who need to know that they are “loved” by God (1:5, 3:9, 20:9), but who are not always faithful in reciprocating that “love” (2:4, 2:19), though some are (12:11), and that he will soon be active in the world again (1:1, 19; 2:16; 3:3, 11; 22:6–7, 12, 20). It was never a helpful strategy to separate God, even if by agency, from the activity in the seals, trumpets, and bowls. John does not want that separation (6:16–17), and it is not a terribly sympathetic or reasonable reading of the text to pit John’s intent against God’s (as if John’s God is not John’s construct). I am suggesting that we use a theory of John’s mind in which God’s character is (as John seems to want to portray him) loving, selfless, irenic, and utterly committed to Israel. That theory leads to metaphor, which leads to relevance. And here is, roughly, how. Relevance is the first implicated conclusion.170 Whatever else is communicated in conversation or in writing, the principles of relevance are communicated (both temporally and logically) first. What that means is that, for someone to form a reliable theory of mind for John from his story, they first have to establish the story as reliable (relevant) itself. Using backwards inference on an “bewildering,” “bizarre,” or “difficult”171 text is going to produce “bewildering,” “bizarre,” and “difficult” ideas about who wrote it. In other words, we can’t be critical of John until we’ve substantially understood him. Backwards inference is a (the?) critical faculty. It looks to motives and intents. Instead of assuming the premise and interrogating the conclusion (which is what interpretation does) it assumes the conclusion and interrogates the premise (which is what criticism does). If the conclusion is faulty, our ideas 168  On the relationship between John’s supposed anger and his narrative framing of God in Revelation, see especially Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis, 160–61: “By projecting the tension and the feelings experienced by the hearers into cosmic categories, the Apocalypse made it possible for the hearers to gain some distance from their experience.” 169  I don’t mean this pejoratively, but simply to point out that the thesis of John’s God’s anger hasn’t been sufficiently questioned and that the question is a critical one. 170  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 33. 171  See section 1.2, notes 14, 15, and 16.

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derived from it are going to be faulty as well. And because the premises and conclusions are mutually reinforcing, this creates a tight and potentially “vicious circle”172—unending and unbreakable and, unfortunately, in this case— of anger and death. Where the spiral can be broken is under the influence of forensically-applied linguistics. Writer and context (at least as it is usually conceived) are not the only inputs to the inferential process. The mind is as well. As a phenomenon of thought, language has “codes” beyond the standard grammatical rules.173 Some exist at higher levels of discourse. Some are cognitive. Some are universal. We have reviewed now dozens of individual, cognitive-linguistic rules by which the reader could have known that John was using a metaphor. And, because the spiral is still in place, when the story becomes good and gracious, John’s God becomes good and gracious, which makes the story again good and gracious, and so on. It can turn the spiral backwards on itself. 6.4.2.1 The Father And this new spiral is giving us new insight into John’s theology. The Father is not being separated from the seeming evils of the seals, trumpets, bowls, and battles174 because they are not evils. They are, in fact, John’s evidence for his claim that God loves Israel. Compare the seemingly garish celebration of the burning of the adulteress (19:1–4) with the perfectly heartfelt celebration of the preparation of the bride (19:5–9)—or two visions of the same celebration, compressed to identity. The war was ultimately for her. And her judgment (which brought her death) was also and at the same time her cleansing (which brought her preparedness for the wedding banquet). That is why the Father is being made the ultimate cause of the first six battles (5:1; 8:2; 14:15, 18; 15:1; 18:8; 172  Unbreakable in this case because we have not been willing to question our own “presuppositions”; for which, see Heidegger, Being and Time, 194–95. For Grant Osborne’s adaptation of the idea into a “hermeneutical spiral,” see Grant R. Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral: A Comprehensive Introduction to Biblical Interpretation (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1991), 6, 266, 269–270. 173  Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 74: “The human internal representation system is clearly rich enough to allow for second-order representations of representations. In other words, the language of thought acts as its own meta-language.” 174  The classic theodicy issue. To quote Craig R. Koester, Revelation and the End of All Things (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 85: “Where is God in all of this [the seven seals]? In one sense God does not exactly inflict these plagues on the world, since the four horsemen are the powers that are directly responsible for the threat. Yet it is also clear that these threatening powers do not operate independently of God … There are, to be sure, indications of divine restraint … Nevertheless, God constitutes a threat.”

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19:17), and even the direct cause of the seventh (20:9). John wants God to fight this war. He is holding off God’s direct involvement, not because he wants to disassociate God from violence, but because—when God finally steps in personally, and so is present personally—the story is over. The goal is achieved. The mission is completed. And the only people who will be left rejecting his testimony are those who clearly can never be convinced (a number which John expects will be small; 20:15). God’s own witness in the last battle is John’s narratival ace up his sleeve. He is having us envision God trying every trick that he knows to convince people to return to him. The fire from heaven is the last salvo (20:11). Everything up to that point is an incursion into a captive world—by God, by witness, on behalf of Israel and the nations—to redeem them and bring them home to the heavenly city while he might. It was his plan all along (5:1), it has been waged by him since the beginning (12:1, 7–9), its gratuitously many stages are being fought in a recurring attempt to give people maximal time to respond (2:21), and its closure only comes when he knows that there isn’t anybody left who is willing to (20:9). People’s names are written in the (roll) book because they were citizens of the city (20:15), not vice-versa. The city was being built long before the book was read (3:12; 6:9; 7:9, 15; 11:12). God’s scroll is his argument; it is the gospel that he feels (John feels; 5:4) will effect the salvation (eventually) of nearly every human being on earth (7:9–10; 19:1, 6). And so, heaven celebrates each stage of God’s enacted plan because, at each stage, more and more people are entering the heavenly tabernacle or temple—by their deaths (3:12, 7:15, 15:8). That is how he is building the New Jerusalem, sight unseen. It’s a heavenly tabernacle (14:17). It is being invisibly constructed through God’s series of battle-fashioned debates, in the end to descend and demonstrate to all of future creation (and, by John’s vision, to present humanity) that his work only seems to be failing during the rule of the beast. His kingdom is not of this world. It is being built in the unassailable heavens, even now, by his own war of witness. And in this war of restoration— and especially on behalf of his bride—he is tireless and he is merciless. 6.4.2.2 The Son It is impossible to tell the story of God’s redemptive plan of witness without talking about the first witness, the first one to receive the scroll (1:1, 5:7). We have considered how the witness-waged seals are the special province of the Lamb (6.1.3.2), and how they are carried out by him in person (5.2.3) and by his tools (3.3.1.5.4), such that the seals can be seen as the material of the Gospels, Christ’s ministry on earth (3.3.1.5.3). The people sealed by Christ’s ministrations,

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the 144,000, are thus the disciples (6.2.6). The sixth seal is Christ’s own death (3.3.1.5.3), the seventh is his ascension (5.2.3), and so it is he who sends the Holy Spirit at the beginning of the trumpets, as he promised (3.3.1.5.4, 5.2.2.5). Though the Lamb departs the scene as such until his bodily return in the final battle (or else that return has little meaning; 19:11), he is nonetheless involved in many of the subsequent struggles from a heavenly (one might say exalted, general-like, or “kingly”; 9:11, 16:12) position (8:10, 9:1, 10:1, 14:14, 15:7). He is the wielder of the iron rod, the locust army (a weapon only the Messiah should have; 9:9). He is the bitterer of the waters (8:11), as Christ is of John’s stomach (10:9–10). And of course he is the eschatological (if still spiritual) harvester (14:14). He gathers the souls that make the New Jerusalem. Christ’s heavenly ministry is important to John because Christ authorizes. He (in concert with the Father) sends out the trumpets (7:1, 8:3–5) and the bowls (15:7) messages. Jesus specially authorizes John himself to be his scribe (1:11, 19; 10:4; 22:9) and to now go and bear witness to the gentiles (10:11). Just before then, it was Christ who authorized the inclusion of the gentiles in the first place (9:14–15). Most of John’s important events involve the Christ, but it isn’t until he returns that they begin to come to their appointed conclusion. John feels that a testimonial army led by a resurrected and returned messiah is unlikely to lose the final eschatological argument with the nations (19:11–21). Jesus does not lose, the gentiles are finally converted, and the new age is just about ready to begin. All that is needed is for the Father himself to return (20:9). 6.4.2.3 The Holy Spirit And so the Spirit (8:6) descends at the beginning of the trumpets. This is the start of the Spirit’s ministry, the time of the book of Acts (see sections 3.3.1.5.4, 5.2.2.5, and 5.2.3). Pentecost comes to pass (8:5). The gospel begins to spread out from the relatively narrow confines of Israel (“the earth,” 8:7)—that space religiously and exclusively occupied by the seals. And, as it spreads, it (for our readers, “woefully”; 8:13) begins to involve the restoration of the gentiles as well (9;4, 18). John himself is not entirely pleased to be given a commission for their inclusion (10:10), but recognizes that their defeat in witness is coterminous with the return of Christ (19:11) and the end of the age (20:7–11; cf. Matt 24:14, Acts 1:8–11). After the relative success of the Spirit’s witness during the trumpets (8:7, 9, 11; 9:18), the faithful begin to receive opposition (11:5, 10)—particularly, opposition in the form of contrary witness from leaders in Jerusalem (13:11–17). But they are prepared for that because God and Christ have already claimed ownership (14:1) by having sealed the faithful by the blood of Christ (7:3, 14). The battle gets more difficult in the bowls. The rest of Israel stop being restored or

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converted for a time (exclusion for judgment; 15:8). They can’t be “burned up” (16:9). They have received their own ironically-styled seal in the form of a “mark” (16:2), and that mark has taken the place of their ancestral religion, and of the Spirit. The bowls-sufferers are not re-convertible. They are blasphemous in that way (16:9, 11). They have given themselves to another (16:2), and that “adulterous” behavior (16:19, cf. 17:5) has left them insensible and unreturnable to God for a time (the time of “judgment”; 16:5, 7; 17:1). They have lost every connection they had to him (which is what constitutes their judgment; 15:8). Fortunately for the story, Rome is not so wise as to maintain its relationship with Israel. It turns on her (17:16), she turns away (17:17), is finally consumed by the Spirit (18:8), and is able to come—now purified by that fire as her compatriots had been (19:7–8)—back to God. The Spirit’s work is largely completed in the world. Christ returns to wage the final battle of testimony himself and with his restored, eschatological, and full Israelite army. The fire descends from heaven, looking a lot like it did on the day of Pentecost (18:5); only, this time, the fire consumes everything and everyone, including the gentiles (20:9, cf. 8:7). Thus is explained the size of the New Jerusalem (21:16), and thus is demonstrated the presence of the metaphor argument is war. And so, RT predicts that the Apocalypse is using one massively extended metaphor—argument is war—to tell its story. This has been demonstrated by its loose use of lexical units (which metonymies such as war for judgment do not use); the use of metarepresentational strategies (such as literality, extension, and especially imagery); the use of weak implicatures (rather than the strong implicature of judgment); and by backwards inference (and the implication of the New Jerusalem). In the conclusion, I will continue to draw out backwards implications (because that is part of what conclusions are). But, to conclude this chapter, it is important to note that RT is delivering the same predictions that CMT, DMT, and blending theory did. And not just within one aspect of the theory. Broadly within the pragmatic framework of “relevance,” John is acting metaphorically towards violence and not metonymically. For those who wish to maintain that God is violent in his supposed “judgments” in this book, they will need to deny—with proof—that John’s word-usage is loose, that his language is literalistic and imagistic, that concepts are “fuzzy” and weakly implicated, and that there is a New Jerusalem. Or, alternatively, they will have to disprove RT.

Chapter 7

Implications and Conclusions 7.1

Summary of Evidence for Argument Is War

This book began in an uncontroversial place. The Apocalypse is hard (1.1, 1.2). It has not enjoyed the same level of popularity as the other books of the NT. This has likely been for two reasons: it is difficult to understand (1.2), and it is violent (1.3). I have attempted to show that one conceptual metaphor underlies and informs the entire war narrative—the central section, from chapters six to twenty—and that this metaphor (argument is war) makes sense of the narrative (insofar as it turns the war story into the gospel story), and makes sense of the Lamb’s use of violence (turning it rather into his saving witness). It need scarcely be said that this is an innovative reading of the Apocalypse. But something needed to be made of the story. God is killing the righteous (3.3.1.1.3, 4.2.2), and something must be done with that (1.3). The seals are prosecuted expressly by Christ (6.1.3.2), as those undergoing them lament (6:16); and their outcome is the “sealing” (death) of the righteous multitude (7:14), as their presence in heaven demonstrates (7:9, 15–17). In a story in which God and Christ are presented as righteous themselves (5:9, 15:4), it is inconsistent (to say nothing of immoral) that they should be murdering innocents (3.3.1.1.3). Some commentators have resolved this dilemma by making the beast the prosecutor of the war (4.1.4.1). That is problematic, not just because the Lamb is the named aggressor (and that is certainly problematic), but because the beast isn’t (4.1.4.7). He doesn’t appear even proleptically until chapter 11 (3.3.1.7)— five chapters after the kings of the earth are found hiding from Christ. When the beast does finally appear for battle, he is quickly and unceremoniously defeated (6.2.1). In fact, he and the dragon are responsible for very few deaths in this book (3.3.1.1.2.3, 4.1.4.7, 5.2.3, 6.1.3.2, 6.2.1)—far fewer certainly than God and the Lamb are (4.1.4.11, 5.2.3, 6.1.3.2). Other commentators keep God as the main operator, but name those killed by him “wicked” (3.3.1.1.3). This is the fundamental turn in the history of interpretation that created the assumption that Revelation was telling a story of judgment (1.4, 2.2.1, 3.3.1.1.3). That intended resolution is also unsustainable because the text, itself and expressly, says it isn’t telling the story of judgment during the seals (6:10) and trumpets (11:18, 14:7); and, when it finally does ask us to view its actions as “judgments” in the bowls (16:5, 7), nobody dies

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004435773_008

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(3.3.1.1.3). Death is simply not judgment here. Judgment is in fact the withholding of death, the tool of the restoration (exclusion for judgment; 3.3.1.5.4, 4.1.4.9, 3.3.1.1.3, 6.4.1). If the fundamental problem of Revelation is that God is killing the righteous (6.1.3.2), and if the first and last propositions (that God and the Lamb are the primary actors and that the righteous are the ones receiving that action) are demonstrated, perhaps the idea of “killing” is the one that should be interrogated. “Death” does sometimes mean something positive—something that isn’t literal “death” or metonymical “judgment”—in other parts of the NT. In particular, “death” has been mapped to “restoration” in the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Romans, 2 Corinthians, Galatians, Ephesians, and Colossians (5.2.2.10). The dilemma can be resolved and the writing can achieve relevance if one simply allows “death” to be re-metarepresented (reinterpreted) to metaphorically mean “restoration” here as well (6.3.1). It strains belief that, in the multi-centenary, multi-cultural, multi-linguistic reception history of this—surely one of the most famous stories ever written, and the last book in the canon of a major world religion—nobody has ever thought to do that (1.4). That is confounding. If 1) God is doing something, and if 2) he’s doing it to the righteous, should we not at some point have suspected that—whatever terms, whatever images, whatever narratival schemes John used to define that activity—3) it might just be something positive? Death is positive in this book (4.1.4.9). That much was always known. Christ’s death effected the redemption of the tribes and the gentiles (5.1.1.2) and the righteous multitude (4.1.4.1). The martyrs are in the blessed realm only because they have “died” (3.3.1.4), and the bowls sufferers are excluded from it because they have not (4.1.4.8). Why have we never applied that positive understanding of death to God’s waging of the war? Even if the hypothesis is wrong— even if argument is war was never in John’s mind—why did nobody even mistakenly apply that normal, every-day, and culturally universal metaphor (4.1.4.11, 5.1.1, 6.2.7, 6.3.3) to a book in which both wars and arguments are regularly taking place, even side by side (3.3.1.2.2.1)? We are human beings. We “play” with language and meaning all the time (2.5), trying out this inference or that (6.3). But we never did try making God’s actions in Revelation good, gracious, or loving, even as a thought experiment (6.3.3). That is a strange consensus, especially given that the result of the “war” is a massive New Jerusalem (4.1, 3.3.1.4, 5.2.1) filled with happy people (4.2.2), including the dead and defeated gentiles (3.3.1.2.2.3, 3.3.1.4, 4.1.4.11). I have implied at points throughout (6.4.2, 1.2.2, 1.4, 2, 2.1, 2.3, 2.4, 5.1.1) that one of the reasons for this unfortunate and almost inexplicable consensus

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may have to do with the core methodologies biblical and religious scholars have relied on. Historical and literary criticism may not be sufficiently forensic (2, 2.5, 3.3.1.5.3). They are subject to, or are in danger of being subject to, circular reasoning. The so-called “hermeneutical spiral” (to quote Osborne; 6.4.2) that is the dialog between text and context may in fact be nothing more than a “vicious circle” (to ironically quote Heidegger; 6.4.2) in which presuppositions as to meaning create presuppositions as to context, which then reinforce suppositions of meaning, which then reinforce suppositions of context, and so on, and so on (6.3.2). We have needed methodologies that come from “outside the text” (to ironically quote Derrida; 2.5)—and outside the hermeneutical circle. That is the space into which step the natural categories provided by cognitive linguistics (2.1, 2.2, 2.3). Minds work how they work, regardless of how we theorize or recognize them working. In other words, the function of the mind is an independent witness—independent, most importantly, from how we think it works. It functions in some ways (by blending, mapping, inferring, etc.) and not in others (unembodiedly, non-relevantly, etc.), and those modes of operation make the products of the mind predictable to a degree (2, 2.2.3, 2.3.3, 3.3.1.2, 3.3.1.3, 3.3.1.5.3). If John was thinking metaphorically, and if we know what a mind operating metaphorically looks like, we should be able to recognize those operations in the product of John’s thinking. And so we have relied on the natural terms and operations provided us by blending theory (chapters three and four), conceptual and deliberate metaphor theory (chapter five), and relevance theory (chapter six). The phenomenologies of the mind and its products that they have established (e.g., compression, systematic mapping, backwards inference, etc.) have formed the basis by which we have judged the presence and operation of argument is war. The following then is the new, “outside” evidence that points to the presence of the metaphor argument is war. Those items which are asterisked (*) are also evidence against the alternative (and much more popular) metonymy war for judgment: From the introduction (chapter 1): 1. The earliest commentators used the metonymic war for judgment hermeneutic and showed signs, sometimes explicitly, of failing to comprehend the book.* 2. Every modern commentator has used that hermeneutic, and there is a perception that we still do not understand it on a general (structural, interpretive) level.* 3. Naming God’s activity “judgment” has not resolved the problem of violence in the narrative for many commentators.*

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From the methodology (chapter 2): 4. Aristotelian rhetoric did not make a distinction between metaphor and metonymy, so people trained in that style would not be able to distinguish them (which reasonably could have resulted in the misapprehension of the metaphor). 5. In terms of natural (cognitive) categories, they are not the same trope. 6. Revelation has a broad interpretive problem, which metonymies are not equipped to resolve and metaphors are, because metaphors are interpretive and explanatory and metonymies are not.* From blending theory’s composition of metaphors (chapter 3): 7. The standard, apocalyptic, vision-plus-explanation feature is inherently metaphoric (again, because metaphors are explanatory and metonymies are not), and that feature is prominent in Revelation.* 8. John appeals to Daniel 2, which uses a cognitive metaphor, for the “explanation” of his own work.* 9. That metaphor has the same network structure I am claiming for Revelation.* 10. That network structure is present in several of John’s other metaphors as well.* 11. War exists as a mental space in Revelation. 12. Argument also exists as a mental space. 13. Judgment exists as a mental space within argument rather than war.* 14. Argument and war relate by analogy rather than disanalogy.* 15. Several systematic compressions between argument and war are outer-space (metaphorical) compressions: especially of causeeffect, analogy and disanalogy, and intentionality.* 16. John’s alternative space to violence on one side is violence on the other, indicating that we have opposing metaphors, not opposing strategies (as with witness versus violence).* From blending theory’s elaboration and completion of metaphors (chapter 4): 17. Several emergent structures in the blend indicate for metaphor (mouth-originations, cannibalism, multiple resurrections and deaths).* 18. The operation of selective projection indicates for metaphor (surrender, defense, peace, mercy, etc. are not present in the war story).* 19. The recursive use of the two alternative blends as inputs indicates for metaphor (the bride, feasts, judgments, and beasts, as well as agency in general).*

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20. Reverse projection and unpacking indicate for metaphor (eleven different aporias are resolvable by argument is war that classically haven’t been within the war for judgment rubric.)* 21. The available pattern completion of debate indicates for metaphor.* 22. The parallel use of other metaphors (cities, brides, redemption, etc.) points to war being a metaphor.* From DMT (chapter 5): 23. The increased attention that war receives in the narrative is evidence that it is a deliberate metaphor. 24. Revelation makes use of several kinds of deliberate metaphorical signals (such as the form A is B).* 25. It makes use of these in such a way that they predict the generallyagreed-upon presence of the interludes.* 26. The frequency of the appearance of metaphorical flags (m-flags) in corpus studies is less than one in a thousand, while in Revelation it is one in one hundred (or 1,231% more often).* 27. The indirectness of the violent language of Revelation points to metaphor.* 28. The ability to map several war and argument concepts systematically points to metaphor.* 29. The main entailment of argument is war—restoration is death—occurs at several other points in the NT (Romans 6:1–11; Gal 2:20; 6:14–15; Col 2:12, 20; 3:1, 3; 2 Cor 5:14–17; Luke 14:26–27; and Mark 8:35 parr.) 30. The several post-comprehension processes (recognition, interpretation, appreciation) that the narrative itself demonstrates point to metaphor.* From RT (chapter 6): 31. The loosening or broadening of lexical units to form ad hoc concepts points to metaphor.* 32. The author’s signals for metarepresentation (literality, extension, novelty, imagery, etc.) are signals for metaphor.* 33. The weakness of implicatures points to metaphor.* 34. Backwards inference (especially in the form of the New Jerusalem) points to metaphor.* Many of these are classes of evidence, which is to say they are headings for several, individual proofs that constitute them, such that there is considerably more evidence in the body of the work than is (or can be reasonably) recalled

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in this summary. It is also worth noting that the majority of this evidence does not point to figurative language in general (metonymy, hyperbole, irony, etc.), but to metaphor alone. If a commentator would wish to controvert this present work, it will not easily be done by appeal to simply another trope. 7.2

Summary of Implications

Imagine you had just had a party in your home. Afterward, while cleaning up, you found a letter lying in your living room that wasn’t known to you. It had no names or other identifying insignia or features. The people that came were your friends, so of course you would want to return it. You might read the letter and try to ascertain from whom or to whom it was written, or at least narrow the possibilities so that you wouldn’t have to call every single person who came that night. The process of discovering the writer or recipient from what has been written is a type of backwards inference (6.4)—using one’s knowledge of the conversation to reconstruct who might have created it, who was meant to receive it, and perhaps something of the context in which it was written. The implicated conclusion is the letter itself, and the implicated premises you are solving for are its author, owner, and context. This of course is a staple activity in biblical studies. We use the text to formulate a “theory of mind” for our writers (and through them, the mind of the readers). The better we understand the communication, the better our guess will be as to who could reasonably have written it, who could reasonably have been meant to receive it, and under what conditions. I have attempted a new reading of Revelation; and not just in part, but the whole. The old story of wrath and destruction has largely been unwritten by the metaphor, and a new story of restoration has been put in its place. If this proposition is correct, our implicated conclusion has changed fairly drastically. And that means our implicated premises need to change fairly drastically. I want to point (and only point) to five areas that may need to be reconsidered in light of this new proposed conclusion. The first is the identity of the letter’s first recipients. I have made the argument that Revelation is telling the story of the restoration of Israel through the coming of Christ (4.1.3, 5.2.2.7, 5.2.2.10, 6.3.1). It seems unlikely that John would tell such a story to people who were not Israel. It centers on their ancestral land (3.3.1.5.6), is associative toward the Jewish people (3.3.1.1.2.5), is dissociative towards gentiles (6.2.7), uses restoration passages specific to Israel for Israel (3.3.1.2, 3.3.1.5.4) and to the gentiles for the gentiles (3.3.1.5.4, 4.1.1.2),

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has a rather strong interest in intra-Jewish debates (6.2.6), and puts them at the crux of history and God’s eschatological plans (6.4.2). The argument here is not just that Israel is very important in John’s mind; it’s that Asia Minor really is not. Much work has been done on the situatedness of the seven congregations as disclosed in the seven letters, but tying that material to what goes on in the later narrative has been largely unsuccessful. Starting in chapter four and to the end of the book, you would never know that John was writing to congregations one thousand miles away (by foot) from Israel, because “land” other than the land of Israel amounts to only “islands” and “mountains” on John’s cognitive map (6:14, 16:20). The only reason John cares about where these people live is their relative proximity to pagan shrines (2:13) and influences (13:15), which he holds in disregard (2:24). He wishes for them to become (“Come out of her”; 18:4), and to remain (“Hold on to what you have”; 2:24–25), separate within those lands but to remain oriented toward Jerusalem in particular (“Mount Zion,” 14:1) in a way that he clearly does not expect of gentiles (16:14–16; 20:8). Speech reveals speaker attitudes, and those attitudes can be either associative (endorsing, corroborative) or dissociative. John is acting in an associative manner toward Israel and especially Jerusalem (“the beloved city”; 20:9), and dissociatively toward the actual land he is in and writing to (e.g., “where Satan dwells”; 2:13). What is more, he is expecting his readers to share those separatist, minority attitudes (1:9; 2:2, 6; passim), in hope of their future “reign” (1:6, 9; 5:10; 11:15; 20:4). Associative attitudes toward Israel and dissociative attitudes toward one’s own (gentile) home are indicative of Israel in the diaspora (4.2.3, 5.2.2.8, 5.2.3). John may be called to the gentiles (10:11), but he is uncomfortable with them (6.2.7). Dissociative attitudes—as is commonly displayed in the use of irony—distance a person from a concept (or another person). That is part of their pragmatic function. Though John has eschatological concern for gentiles (22:2), he is not worried about dissociating himself from them (22:15). He is not worried about establishing ethos with them (9:20–21). This is either because he really doesn’t care about making a strong argument (which is unlikely, 22:18– 19) or, more likely, because he does not suspect that any gentiles will be reading his letter. You don’t have to establish ethos with a group you aren’t communicating with. There are several instances of John distancing himself (usually unnecessarily) from gentiles in the text: 1. The earliest conversions among generalized humanity (ἄνθρωπος, 8:11) are in the third trumpet, which is “bitter” (πικραίνω). The only other time something is “bitter” is when John is told to give the gospel message to generalized humanity himself (ἔθνος, 10:11). Both prospects are “bitter” (πικραίνω,10:9–10) and unpleasant.

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2.

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The gentiles (ἄνθρωπος, 9:4) are shown to not be ready to receive the gospel as of the fifth trumpet (9:5–6). 3. The writer feels comfortable using “torture” (βασανίζω/βασανισμός, 9:5) in that part of the story, even for gentiles friendly to the gospel message—a fate he normally reserves for the unrighteous and blasphemous (11:10; 14:10–11; 18:7, 10, 15; 20:10). 4. The number of the beast is the number of a gentile (ἄνθρωπος, 13:18), and it is one of the most offensive things to John in the story (14:9–11). 5. The gentiles (ἄνθρωπος, 16:21) made it through the bowls (we find out later, alone; 17:16, 18:8) without converting and still blaspheming. 6. The gentiles are converted last (20:8), within a schema in which John’s favorites are converted first (7:3, cf. 14:3). 7. They are converted generally, all at once, and as an undifferentiated whole. By comparison, Israel is given seven full opportunities to return to God (the seven wars, many of which have seven iterations of their own; see section 6.2). God is fighting harder, or at least more often, for Israel than for the gentiles. 8. He respects the Jewish ancestral religion very highly (2:20; 4:4, 6; 10:7; 12:1; 16:6; 18:24), while he seems to consider gentile religion ridiculous and demonic (9:20–21; 13:15). 9. Beyond just theological misgivings, he seems to take Greco-Roman culture as ridiculous. For example, the sins of the adulteress are spiritual in nature, but he seems to find even her dress and demeanor generally lascivious and crude (3:17–18; 17:4, 6; 18:7, 11–17). 10. In reverse fashion to all of John’s good characters being Jewish, most of his bad characters are gentiles: the “kings of the earth” (6:15; 16:14; 17:2, 18; 18:3, 9; 19:19), the idolatrous resisters of the cavalry (9:20–21), the tramplers of the temple (11:2), the celebrators of the witnesses’ deaths (11:9), the beast from the “sea” (13:1, 7; 17:9), the “merchants of the earth” (18:11, 15), and the nations gathered at the battle of Magog (20:8). 11. And John gives Jews and gentiles somewhat separate fates. He sees an eternal differentiation between the bride (19:6–9) and the kings she defeats by her witness (19:14, 21). Later in the story, the bride becomes the city (21:2) while the gentiles merely enter the city (21:24, 26). And the tree stands in the garden to “heal the gentiles” (22:2), while the bride’s healing came long before (19:8, 20:4). The dwelling of the gentiles with God is in the future (21:3), whereas certain among the Jewish people have been in that presence for some time (6:9–11, 7:3–8). The two-trees-intoone schema (22:2) perhaps doesn’t favor the Jewish people exactly, but it would be hard to understand why John would want to coin it in a communication to gentiles (when no other NT book feels that need).

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John could reasonably be thought to write associatively of Israel without his actually writing to them. Perhaps he just especially likes them. But he is largely dismissing gentiles. One would not do that in a letter to gentiles. Their part in the narrative is small and almost one-dimensional. If John is using his letter as a call-to-arms, he’s leaving almost nothing for the gentiles to do. They are the objects of rescue. It is the bride, in her many forms, that is the human rescuer (2:26–27; 9:3–4, 15–16; 10:11; 19:14–15; 20:9). And that makes her testimonial faithfulness the critical issue to John (2:2, 6, 13–15, 20–25; 3:9, 17, 19). Some in Sardis aren’t prepared for the restoration, which has yet to come for them (3:3–4). They are not yet clothed in the white garments of the disciples (3:5), while others in the story are (cf. 7:14). There is an “open door” for the Philadelphians (θύραν ἠνεῳγμένην, 3:8), which elsewhere leads into heaven (cf. θύρα ἠνεῳγμένη, 4:1), but they haven’t entered it yet. Certainly, those in their congregation who reject the “love” of Christ have not done so (3:9), and some have yet to be incorporated into the heavenly temple and New Jerusalem (3:12) as others have been (6:9). Perhaps all of the Laodiceans stand in danger of being vomited out (3:16) and have not themselves purchased the refined or cleaned gold of the New Jerusalem (3:18: cf. 21:18, 21) or the white garments (3:18) of the 144,000 (7:9, 13) and the bride (19:8). Jesus is still standing outside their door (3:20). Unlike the doors of the Philadelphians and John, this one isn’t even “open.” And just generally, “overcoming” in the war narrative is achieved only by dying (3:21; 7:14–15; 12:11; 20:4), which is the metaphorical equivalent of converting to Christ or being restored by him. That means that all the congregations being called to “overcome” (which is all of them—2:7, 11, 17, 26; 3:5, 12, 21) have not yet made that faith commitment, at least not as whole groups. The supposed “churches” aren’t even Christian (yet), much less gentile. Otherwise, why put in the future for the seven congregations what is a past experience for so many in the narrative (3:21; 5:5; 6:9; 7:14–15; 12:11)? John is writing to faith communities who have very well-developed theological ideas (2:24), their own religious teachers (many of whom he disagrees with; 2:14–15, 20), and a long religious history (2:4, 13), but who seem to lack a basic awareness of who Jesus is (1:5–7) or what his advent means for them (1:3). The first and fifth chapters of Revelation especially read like introductions to Jesus (1:12–16; 5:5–6, 9–10). This is exactly the position that faithful synagogues would be in who are just now considering Christian claims. They are the ones to whom the relationship of Jesus to Father and Spirit has to be theologically justified (which is perhaps why Revelation’s Christology seems rather advanced). These are the kind of people that would need a basic “revelation” of who Jesus is, when the dense web of OT allusions needs no such introduction or explanation. They knew about the structure of heaven—the throne

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(4:2), the twenty-four elders (4:4), and the cherubim (4:6). They knew about the temple cult—Israel’s priestly practices (8:3–5), garments (15:6), and equipment (21:19–20). They knew about Israelite culture—festivals (8:2–6), eating habits (2:20), and Sabbath practices (1:10). They even have a pre-conceived notion of what a “Messiah” is and does (6:2, 11:15, 12:10, 16:12, 17:14, 19:16, 20:4). They know Ps 2:9, Dan 7:13, Isa 11:1, and Zech 12:10; and they know them without explanation, and recognize them given just a word or two. What they don’t know is who Jesus is. John treats the story of the Lamb as a revelation in the story—even to himself (5:4–6). He weeps until the Christ appears. That story of redemption by Christ’s blood was a “new song” (5:9) that only the redeemed disciples had learned (14:3). For the seven congregations, the “Lamb” was not yet a part of their gestalt concept of “Messiah,” which is perhaps why the moniker is repeated so often. Only one group would have a cultural notion of what a “Christ” is without knowing who “Jesus” is: the people who came up with the idea of “Christ” in the first place. This leads to the second area that deserves a reconsideration (which we will only consider quickly): the range of possible dates for the writing. This book does not know that “churches” have gentiles in them. These supposed “churches” don’t even clearly know who Jesus is yet. The inclusion of the gentiles is a completely new concept to them, the last trumpet before the end. These postulates seem to indicate a fairly early date. Furthermore, the book’s second beast is “from the land.” He is homegrown, and no Roman procurator. Herod Agrippa I died in the summer of 44 CE. If “land” means “Israel,” Agrippa I is a plausible terminus ad quem for the writing of the book. I have already shown that Nero is not the terminus a quo (3.3.1.5.2, 5.2.2.6, 6.1.3.1). The beast that was, is not, and is coming is more likely Satan than Nero. Thirdly, authorship: John seems to be appropriating Paul’s historical character. Why that might be is not something I want to explore here because authorship—and proving authorship—is a much larger question than a few paragraphs could cover. And yet it seems agreeable to at least enumerate some of the Pauline markers that John gives us. As I have argued above, people create theories of mind for their authors, and the authors know that their readers do that. John may be asking us to use “Paul” as part of that theory (as is commonly argued of the deutero-Pauline epistles), and so I am happy to follow that thread inductively. Also, because the metaphor argument is war changes the narrative of the Apocalypse considerably, it also potentially changes the textual evidence that we use to reconstruct the character of the author (by backwards inference). If the story is really about sharing the gospel and not violence, the role of the earliest Christian missionaries becomes much more relatable to it. They might make sense within this story in a way they did not before.

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The author receives a unique call to the gentiles (Rev 10:11). This of course matches Paul’s call to the gentiles in Acts (9:15, 26:17–18, etc.). John, and only he, receives it by a special revelation of Jesus (Rev 10:1), which matches those accounts (Acts 9:3–7). It involves a special call to be the scribe of Christ (Rev 1:11, 19; 10:4), which seems to fit Paul’s signature practice of writing to churches (Rom 15:15–16; 1 Cor 4:14–15, 5:9–11; Gal 1:20, 6:11; etc.). And the meeting happens well after the start of the spread of the gospel (Acts 9:1). John does not claim to have met Jesus bodily during his ministry on earth, as many had (during the seals; Rev 6:8); that honor-of-place goes to the 144,000 (Rev 7:14). John’s authority rests, rather, on his having met the living Christ by means of heavenly revelation (Rev 1:1–3, 10:11, 22:18–19; cf. Gal 1:11–17). It is the latter part of the trumpets, by far, that receive the most attention in Revelation, the fifth through the seventh trumpets having almost as many verses (8:2–11:19–63 verses) as all other trumpets (8:2–13), seals (6:1–8:1), and bowls (16:1–21) combined (68 verses). That is the part of the story that John knows personally (the part where the gentiles are just being invited into the churches), as Paul might (Acts 13:46–49). John is also very well educated. He’s a student of the scriptures, and with a substantial amount of authority among the synagogues that does not come from being an apostle (at least not yet; 21:14).1 If he also sides with the Pharisees over the Sadducees (6.2.6), even in a religious document recommending Christianity, it is hard not to imagine that he might have studied as a Pharisee (which would explain his authority among not-yet-evangelized, diaspora synagogues). He recognizes the authority of the Zugot (11:3), has a well-developed theology of resurrection (20:4), uses rabbinical exegetical styles (19:15; see 3.1, 3.3.1.5.4), recognizes the full twenty-four books of the Hebrew Bible (as is clear from his innumerable allusions; 3.3.1.5.3, cf. 4:4), and has studied Hebrew (9:11, 16:16). Paul, of course, claims to be just such a Pharisee (Acts 26:5, Phil 3:5) and learned man (1:14). And it always has been odd that John would write to Paul’s “churches” with an assumed authority, even using Paul’s own signature introduction (χάρις ὑμῖν καὶ εἰρήνη, 1:4; cf. Rom 1:7, 1 Cor 1:3, 2 Cor 1:2, etc.) and conclusion (ἡ χάρις τοῦ κυρίου Ἰησοῦ, 22:21; cf. 1 Cor 16:23, 2 Cor 13:13, Phil 4:23, Phlm 25), but with never a mention of the apostle—or even that such an apostle exists. He mentions the twelve (21:14). He knows them, even if only in an ideal and abstract way. But he seems to not know who Paul is. That is either because he really does not know him, he knows and dismisses him, or he’s claiming to be him. I argue the latter. 1  The apostles don’t even have unmitigated authority in these “churches” yet (2:2)—another sign that we are dealing with an early date.

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Backwards inference is a second-order inference. It is only as justified, and is potentially less justified, than the inferential conclusions upon which it is based. It is not my goal here to say that Paul wrote Revelation. I only want to point out that John puts himself, in several ways and uncomfortably, in the role of Paul with Paul’s own congregations, as has been noticed before by others. John may want us to see him that way, which might be why the metaphor tells the story of the salvation of all of Israel (Rom 11:26) and of a new heavens and a new earth (2 Pet 3:13–15). Even if that self-claim is never demonstrable, reading “John” and thinking “Paul” is being made a part of the interpretive process by the (metaphorical) claim of gentile apostleship, and so it must be dealt with. Fourthly, apocalyptic is acting like a style of rhetoric in this book2—the rule by which John constructs his argument. The word ἀποκάλυψις itself backwardsimplicates a Jewish audience. Judaism in the first century was apocalyptic. That is not true of gentile cultures. Some very few apocalyptically-analogous Greek writings came out of the early centuries, but the number is small, in only one of them does apocalyptic span the whole book, and almost none of them can be decisively shown to not have been influenced by Christian tradition.3 On the other hand, apocalyptic influenced how the Jewish people formed communities, how they approached political and military engagements (especially with the Romans), their messianic expectations, and—to one degree or another—nearly every writing that comes out of that period. Apocalyptic is characteristically Jewish by the time of Christ (which is presumably why he used it so heavily). It is for this reason interesting that recent rhetorical approaches to Revelation have taken Greek rhetoric as the point of departure. If there is a “Jewish rhetoric,”4 one would think that apocalyptic would be the place to begin. Apocalyptic is rhetoric. It has its own style, its own rules, and its own settings. It is used in the scope of one or just a few words (John 19:30), one or two sentences (Mark 1:15 parr.), chapters (Mark 13 parr.), and to structure entire narratives (Revelation)—which makes it operate less like a genre and more like a form of rhetoric. And it comes from communities dedicated to its study (synagogues, pharisaical schools) and gives those communities a sense of identity. It establishes ethos through heavenly-guided, prophetic visions. It establishes pathos through its gripping and sometimes outlandish imagery. And its logos-styled 2  As does the metaphor; see S. Oswald and A. Rihs, “Metaphor as Argument: Rhetorical and Epistemic Advantages of Extended Metaphors,” Argumentation 28 (2014): 133–59. 3  Harold W. Attridge, “Greek and Latin Apocalypses,” Semeia 14 (1979): 159–60. 4  I owe the posing of this question to Craig Keener, in private conversation. Any answers I give, including and especially any deficiencies therein, are my own.

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arguments can be found in its circumspect knowledge of chronology (the past, present, and future) and topology (heaven and earth and under the earth). These are different sources than a Greek rhetorician would use. Almost all of the characteristics of apocalyptic from Semeia 14 meet rhetorical needs better than they do generic ones.5 It was always a presupposition of theirs and a fait accompli that apocalyptic was a genre (as they recognize), coming as it did out of the SBL Genres group; and it was useful up to a point. But “genre” was never a preferred way of talking about, say, parables or the apocalyptic “Son of Man” title or the “kingdom” language of the gospels. And it doesn’t explain why apocalyptic material exists within other genres—including the gospels, the epistles, the Hebrews sermon, and of course Revelation (which actually names its genre as “prophecy” in 1:3; 10:11; 22:7, 10, 18, 19). Apocalyptic is Jewish rhetoric. When a first-century Israelite would argue with another Israelite, they would use parable (e.g., Mark 3:23, 4:2), apocalyptic narrative (Mark 13), and vision experience (Luke 10:18). When an Israelite would argue with a Greek, they would use Greek rhetorical styles of invention instead (e.g., Rom 3:5). They are two different and competing modes of rhetoric (though they can be used together; e.g., Mark 4:30). Apocalyptic was a part of first-century Jewish religion, literature, and political activity; and those cultural touchstones were often at variance with Greco-Roman culture. This is especially so concerning matters of unwanted persuasion or influence (i.e., Hellenism). The Apocalypse is a salient example of just such a reaction to Greco-Roman syncretism. If John, a Jewish teacher, was writing to seven congregations on the topic of non-conformity to Hellenism (which is a rare matter of consensus for this book), it was never likely that he would use a Greek style of rhetoric to make his point. The style he chose, and that they understood (and that this book has argued the later, largely Greco-Roman and gentile church did not understand), is apocalyptic. The meaning of the book may not have been recognized specifically because the rhetorical style wasn’t recognized. It may be for this reason that Greek-rhetorical approaches to Revelation have been less successful (or even attempted) than with other NT books.6 The Apocalypse is using rhetoric. It is attempting to persuade. It is simply using a different form and style than Cicero or Quintilian are, which is perhaps why Revelation has struggled to achieve the same level of relevance that other NT books have. The West was a major and influential heir of the NT, and that culture grew up on a different style of rhetoric. Greek rhetorical translators of Jewish apocalyptic thought (like, say, Paul) died out fairly quickly, and the 5  Collins, “Introduction,” 6–8. 6  deSilva, Seeing Things, 15.

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Hellenized church was left with several untranslated apocalyptic works that caused it great interpretive and canonical struggles over the centuries (including and especially the Apocalypse). I would argue that part of the reason for that may be the early “parting of the ways.” The church removed from its number the only people trained and acculturated to read and interpret apocalyptic Jewish rhetoric, and that left the Apocalypse largely unreadable. And lastly, there are certain theological implications to a metaphorical reading of the Apocalypse. Certainly, any theology of hell needs to deal with the destruction—rather than eternal conscious suffering—of those in the lake of fire. The only “torture” that happens in the book is testimonial and conversational in nature. The soteriology of this book focuses strongly on restoration to a real, immediate, and heavenly presence with God subsequent to faith. It has an intricate system of entailments for “death” (see above), which may provide a detailed explanation of John’s theology of “salvation.” It also, and again, focuses on the restoration of Israel in particular as the army of witnesses by which God will then fight the larger battle for the rest of creation. And it isn’t mean. God isn’t angry. He loves his people, Jew and gentile, and his creation. His overthrow of the world is non-violent, and comes through discussion and willing change-of-heart. That is a new theological implication of this book. The eschaton was not supposed to be a descent into apocalyptic horrors; it was supposed to be an ascent into the apocalyptic New Jerusalem, in stages, with progressive and real testimonial successes on God’s side. Things were supposed to get better. These are things we should have seen—God’s love working itself out for the good of those who love him. But we lost the message, very early on. Some group in the early church thought that a message of hope and leadership for Israel was not a story worth preserving. If this central proposition is correct, the original story was suppressed, either actively or passively. Somebody, at some opening stage in the life of the church, thought that it would be better to burn the whole world than let Israel take part in God’s eschatological blessing. And that part of the story is not so easy to unwrite.

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Index 1,000 times 78, 142–44, 152–53, 168 See also millennium 144,000 78, 102, 107, 121, 123–24, 130, 143, 146, 158, 168–69, 174–75, 177–79, 182, 187–88, 190, 198–99, 204, 219, 222, 226, 231–32, 236, 240–43, 249–50, 261, 265, 269, 281, 289–90, 295–96, 304, 306, 311–16, 326, 336, 338 3.5 times (1,260 days; 3.5 days; 42 months; time, times, and half a time) 121, 142–45, 152–53, 182, 205 7,000 (seven thousand) 149, 205–7, 256 Abaddon 131–32, 136, 266, 310 abyss 59, 95, 126–27, 238, 259–61, 266, 282, 312 ad hoc constructions 31, 39–41, 63, 69, 81, 116–17, 217, 272–74, 276, 293–94, 299–300, 305, 319–22, 332 adulteress 54–55, 74, 77, 90–92, 95, 98, 104, 121, 151–52, 158, 175, 177–78, 180–93, 208–11, 218–21, 224, 227, 232, 238, 240–42, 249–50, 256–57, 259, 265, 274, 290, 293, 296, 299, 301–5, 313–14, 316, 324, 327, 335 See also bride agency 10, 81, 83–84, 89, 93–94, 97n142, 106–9, 124–26, 129–31, 134, 136, 151, 153, 158, 165–66, 169, 175, 187–93, 210, 219–20, 238n42, 40, 251–52, 257, 282, 289, 296n98, 323, 331 altar-souls 77–78, 93–94, 96, 101, 104n168, 107, 111, 113, 123n227, 135, 148, 168–69, 179, 183, 201–2, 205, 281, 306, 313 alternative space 65–66, 73–74, 77, 80, 89, 119, 152–53, 155–59, 161, 179, 200, 202–3, 234, 239, 242, 331 annihilationism 170, 255n84 apocalyptic 4–5, 8– 10, 58–59, 69, 87, 297n99, 331, 339–41 Apollyon 131–32, 136, 259–60, 266–67, 310 aporias 184n67, 194–95, 197, 204, 206, 212–13, 217, 332 See also incongruencies

architecture (mental) 24, 52, 60–61, 70, 72, 80, 89, 167 argument, see frames: argument; frames: reasoning argument is war, see metaphors (conceptual): argument is war Aristotle 18–20, 23–24, 27, 29, 37, 41, 44–47, 295, 300, 331 Armageddon 83, 85–86, 92, 98, 174n40, 187–88, 192, 256–57, 288, 313 atonement 105, 198, 205, 208n135, 211n142, 258, 293n85, 301, 317, 321 axes (hewing) 135, 137, 165–66, 191, 200n120, 218, 260 Babylon 54, 56, 63–64, 69, 71, 73–74, 85, 113n199, 151–52, 181, 185–88, 208, 218n170, 225n197, 256, 274, 299–300, 307 battles 21n26, 81–86, 92–94, 99, 103–4, 107–8, 146, 167, 176, 184, 186–88, 192, 212, 226, 259, 268, 281, 284, 288, 295–97, 299, 304, 308, 312–14, 322, 324–27, 328, 341 See also last battles beasts 54, 58–59, 77n82, 78, 84, 89–91, 93–96, 98–99, 121, 124–27, 131, 135, 137n276, 139–44, 146–48, 151–52, 154, 156–58, 164–66, 173–74, 176–79, 181, 183, 185, 187–90, 192–93, 206–10, 213, 217, 219, 221, 225–26, 232–34, 236–38, 240–42, 252–54, 257, 265, 272–74, 278, 281–83, 285, 288–89, 296–97, 313, 315–18, 325, 328, 331, 335, 337 blending theory 16n4, 17n14, 23, 29, 32–33, 42, 52, 60–61, 64, 86n112, 106, 131, 161n1, 171, 173, 179, 196–97, 215, 267, 305, 327, 330 blends (conceptual) 33, 63–69, 71n66, 74, 80, 81, 86n112, 88–89, 99, 109–10, 116–21, 123–24, 126, 129, 133, 143, 150, 152, 153, 160–65, 172, 178–79, 184, 188, 192–94, 197, 199–201, 213, 217, 219, 222, 260, 264, 285, 303, 305, 316–17, 330–31

360 blood 3, 10, 113–14, 135, 175, 198–99, 206, 209n139, 219–20, 225, 234, 236, 242, 250, 258–61, 263, 266, 269, 284–85, 298, 301, 307n129, 310, 316–18, 321, 326, 337 bowls 3, 5, 54–56, 76, 78, 84–86, 91–93, 96, 98–99, 101–6, 108–9, 114–15, 118, 123–24, 132, 139, 141, 146–47, 149–50, 158, 162, 166, 169–70, 175, 178, 184–86, 188, 191–92, 206–7, 209–11, 214, 219–20, 225–26, 233–34, 238–39, 241–43, 246–47, 250, 253, 255–56, 258, 261, 265, 267–69, 284–85, 289–90, 293, 296, 301–2, 304, 306, 310–11, 313, 323–24, 326–29, 335, 338 breastplates 82, 84, 135–36, 174, 234, 251, 260 bride 1, 14, 54, 74–75, 77, 90, 105n169, 110–11, 118, 129, 145n300, 151–52, 163–64, 179–84, 187, 189, 192–93, 210–13, 227, 255n86, 257, 261, 270, 299, 302–5, 316n148, 320n164, 322, 324–25, 331–32, 335–36 See also adulteress broadening (lexical), see loosening (lexical) burning 30, 96, 99, 108, 112, 115, 117, 122–24, 131, 138–41, 150, 162, 176, 186, 189, 191, 193–94, 202–8, 218, 233, 242, 246–47, 252–55, 257, 261, 266, 272, 276, 286, 289, 296, 302, 314, 318, 324, 327, 341 See also fire; πῦρ Caesar 78, 208, 217, 237, 296 See also Nero cannibalism 162–65, 172, 212, 331 canonicity 2, 12, 270, 329, 341 cavalries 82–83, 111, 136n274, 141, 162–63, 174, 191, 251–52, 260, 266, 268, 284, 288n60, 295, 303–4, 335 celestial woman 56n21, 75n76, 90, 143, 145, 163, 174, 182, 234, 242, 259, 261, 265, 274, 301, 303–4 church 1, 78, 90–91, 94n136, 145, 147, 169, 174n40, 190, 222n182, 262, 268, 270–71, 304, 308, 336–38, 340–41 seven churches, see seven congregations cleanness (and uncleanness) 74, 77–78, 102, 105n169, 111–14, 116, 120, 160, 179–81, 183–84, 198, 211, 213, 234, 236, 240–41, 249–50, 257–59, 269, 289, 293n85, 297, 314, 316, 319, 324, 336

Index clothing 54–55, 59, 74, 77–78, 91, 107, 112–13, 123n227, 143–44, 179–84, 186, 188, 198, 206, 211, 220–21, 226, 232, 236, 241, 249, 261, 266, 289, 303, 313–14, 316, 335–37 See also white robes coactivation 110–11, 115 coding and decoding 28, 36–37, 39, 46, 50n152, 215, 228, 240, 272, 284, 309, 311–12, 318–19, 321, 324 cognitive linguistics 16–18, 20n22, 23, 42–45, 47–48, 59–60, 63n44, 72n69, 117, 156, 323–24, 330 collocation 109–14, 123, 148, 162, 164, 181, 184, 204, 219, 250–81, 265, 315 competition 38–39, 66, 79, 108, 153–56, 159, 172–73, 179, 196, 285–86, 289, 310 comprehension (pragmatic) 1–10, 14, 16–17, 20, 27, 33–35, 37–44, 49, 52, 57, 59, 62, 80, 108, 110, 115, 131, 153, 193–96, 214–16, 223–24, 227, 228–29, 241n45, 244, 247, 263–65, 270–71, 278–79, 292–97, 299–300, 306, 308, 317, 322–23, 328–30, 332–33, 340 compression 33, 62–64, 66–69, 71–72, 80, 110, 113–14, 119–34, 136–37, 139–41, 143–47, 150–53, 160, 179, 181, 185, 191, 193–94, 229, 238, 281, 285, 324, 330–31 decompression 129–30, 132–33, 150, 153, 179, 193 concepts (lexical) 30, 243, 272–73, 275–79, 293 conceptual integration theory, see blending theory conceptual metaphor theory (CMT) 16–19, 22–23, 28–29, 32–33, 41–44, 47, 52, 60n34, 74, 80n85, 109, 117, 196, 208n135, 218n167, 228, 231n19, 243, 247, 327 conceptual networks, see networks (conceptual) conditionalism 170, 255n84 consumption 84, 113, 123–24, 140–41, 164, 182, 184, 191, 198, 212–13, 249, 252–55, 258, 261, 266, 282, 289, 298, 314–15, 327 See also eating; (κατ)εσθίω context 3, 9, 33–37, 39–40, 43n111, 49, 52n3, 58–60, 87–88, 103, 111, 130n252, 144, 148–49, 168, 180n55, 183n65, 187–88, 194, 212, 224, 235, 244, 250, 262, 277, 279–80, 290–91, 293, 303, 309–11, 317–20, 324, 330, 333

Index contextual assumptions 39, 103, 194, 309, 317–19 contextual implications 34–35, 39, 111, 134, 277, 309, 317 See also mutual cognitive environment conversion 78, 99, 115, 118, 121–24, 137, 140–41, 143–44, 152, 157, 164–67, 169, 171, 177, 181–84, 187, 189, 192, 194, 196, 208–10, 212–13, 218, 223, 226–27, 236–38, 249–50, 252–55, 257, 269–70, 281, 289, 304–5, 312–14, 318, 326–27, 334–36 of the nations 56n21, 78, 117, 152n317, 183–84, 192, 212–13, 226, 250n74, 270, 290n72, 304, 314 cost-benefit analysis 38–39, 59, 301 See also effects (cognitive); effort (cognitive) deception 90–91, 94–97, 125–27, 135, 141, 146, 152, 158, 163, 172–73, 186–87, 194n103, 207–8, 210, 213, 227, 234, 252, 254, 257–59, 261, 267, 269, 274, 281, 287–89, 313 deliberate metaphor theory (DMT) 23, 28–32, 38, 41–42, 195, 228–31, 233, 239–43, 245, 263–65, 267–68, 270, 294n90, 327, 330, 332 denotation 31, 40, 272, 279 destruction 10–11, 14, 58, 71n66, 77, 83–85, 99, 101–2, 107n179, 113n199, 118, 121–22, 126–27, 131, 174, 184, 189, 216, 218, 223, 246–47, 251, 255–57, 259, 262, 267, 281–82, 289–90, 296n95, 306–7, 315, 317–18, 323, 333, 341 devil 84, 88, 94, 96, 129, 141, 213, 233, 241, 261 diaspora 226, 258, 268–69, 334, 338 disambiguation 38–39, 228, 230, 264, 277–78, 280, 286, 300, 314, 320–21 discourse 8n30, 21n26, 27, 30, 32, 40, 42, 71, 86, 153, 214n154, 231n19, 244–45, 270, 277, 293, 295, 298, 305–6, 308, 316n148, 324 domains 15n1, 23–33, 41n107, 56–57, 61–62, 67–68, 71–72, 77, 85, 88–89, 102, 109–10, 112, 114, 118–20, 122, 124, 145, 147–50, 152–3, 161, 163, 167, 172, 174, 194–96, 200, 204–5, 220–23, 227, 228–31, 233, 235–40, 243–49, 263–64, 270, 273, 278–80, 289–90, 321

361 double-sidedness 135–36, 260, 280 dragon 77n82, 78, 89–90, 93, 95, 98–99, 106–7, 111, 121, 126–27, 131, 134–35, 142– 43, 148–49, 151, 158, 163, 166, 173–76, 187, 192, 206–7, 217, 226–27, 233–34, 241–42, 252, 254, 259, 265n104, 274, 280–83, 288–89, 296–97, 301, 311, 313, 328 dwellers (of the earth), see earth-dwellers earth 57, 67, 69, 71, 73, 78, 84, 94, 96, 102–3, 112, 122–23, 126–27, 130–32, 134, 137–40, 145–47, 167, 169, 173–74, 176, 181, 185, 189–91, 202, 210, 213, 219, 223, 238–39, 247, 249, 251–52, 255–59, 261, 268, 282, 290, 323, 325–26, 328, 335, 338–40 earth-dwellers 105, 118, 124, 132, 135, 144, 146, 191, 201–4, 206–8, 255–58, 261, 274, 282, 306 earthquakes 89, 92, 130, 143, 146, 205–6, 255–57, 259, 263, 269, 307 eating 81, 112, 115, 122, 124, 131, 155, 164–65, 172, 183, 213, 249, 257, 337 See also consumption; (κατ)εσθίω effects (cognitive) 4, 34–35, 37–38, 120, 195n105, 197, 214, 230, 235, 284, 286, 294, 309–10, 320 positive cognitive effects 4n13, 35, 38, 230, 235 See also cost-benefit analysis (pragmatic) effort (cognitive) 4, 37–39, 59, 106, 116, 149, 197, 214, 229–30, 284–86, 293–94, 308 See also cost-benefit analysis (pragmatic) embodiment 21, 28, 36n86, 47, 59n32, 196, 330 emergence 33, 66–68, 70, 72, 160, 161–67, 170–72, 262, 331 enrichment (pragmatic) 39, 264, 278, 320 entailments (metaphorical) 25, 71n66, 78, 140, 144, 167, 175, 209, 235, 237, 253, 259–60, 262, 267, 277, 332, 341 Ephesus 175, 207n134, 329 eschatology 14, 51, 58, 85–87, 99, 103–4, 106, 118, 122–23, 129n250, 132, 140n285, 142, 155–56, 158–60, 169, 183, 190, 211n144, 220, 224–27, 239n42, 246n57, 257, 268, 282, 304n116, 321, 326–27, 334, 341 explicatures 39, 80, 103, 116, 131, 200, 319 fire 30, 82–84, 92–93, 98n150, 100, 103n164, 105, 107, 111, 116, 121, 123, 127, 137–41,

362 151–54, 159, 162–64, 168–71, 191, 194–95, 203–4, 206, 212–14, 218, 232, 234, 238, 242–43, 245, 248–56, 258, 263, 266, 269–70, 272, 274, 276, 278–80, 284–89, 297–99, 304, 310, 313–14, 318, 325, 327, 341 See also burning; πῦρ forensic linguistics 15–17, 20n22, 46–48, 50, 91, 109n189, 132, 324, 330 four horsemen 55–56, 77n82, 83, 128–32, 138–39, 148, 199, 219, 251, 256, 260, 265–69, 275, 282–83, 285, 324n174 See also white horse four living beings 56, 93, 130, 132, 138–39, 146n303, 187, 199, 219, 233–34, 242, 275, 306 FrameNet 15n1, 26, 31n65, 82, 87–88, 92n130, 95n137, 97n143, 249n69 frame elements 24–27, 33, 63–64, 67–69, 71–72, 82–84, 89, 92, 97, 100, 109–10, 113, 117, 124, 150–51, 153, 160–61, 172–73, 178, 193, 196–97, 208, 224, 247–28, 270 frames 24–26, 31–32, 42, 72, 78, 81–84, 86–90, 92, 94–95, 97, 100, 102, 104, 110, 113, 116, 120–22, 136n275, 148, 152, 156, 160, 164, 170, 172–73, 176, 199–200, 217, 222–23, 230, 241–42, 249, 312–13, 315–16 argument 87–100, 121–22, 152, 156, 164, 170, 242, 312–13, 315 hostile_encounter 26n47, 30–31, 82–83, 97, 102, 136n275, 222–23, 249n69 judgment 11–14, 22, 34, 50, 54, 56, 76, 78n83, 90–94, 99, 100–106, 107–8, 114–16, 120, 140, 149, 154–55, 158, 161–63, 165, 167–68, 171–72, 178, 182, 185–88, 191–92, 195, 201–2, 205, 209–11, 214–17, 220, 222–24, 226–27, 238, 252, 254, 259, 261, 281–86, 288–90, 312, 315, 317–18, 324, 327–32 reasoning 87–88, 90, 92, 94, 97, 116, 222 war 28, 78, 81–87, 88, 95, 121–22, 148, 152, 164, 170, 172–73, 176, 199, 200n120, 230, 241–42, 295, 312, 315–16 witness 91, 95, 97, 106–9, 112–13, 115, 117–19, 121, 125, 128, 131, 141, 144–45, 148, 150, 156–58, 160, 161, 166–67, 172, 174n40, 176, 178–79, 183, 186, 188, 190–92, 194–96, 204, 208, 213, 226,

Index 241–42, 251–52, 255, 259–61, 269–70, 274, 281, 289–90, 297, 305, 313–18, 321, 325–26, 328, 330–31, 335 See also domains frame theory 26n47, 42, 82, 90, 95, 218 frogs 54, 111, 163, 187, 225, 231–32, 234, 254, 288–89 Gehenna 98n150, 254–55 generic spaces 64–66, 74, 80, 153–56 genitives 234, 237–39, 242–43, 270 genre 87, 93–94, 297n99, 339–40 gentiles 58, 65, 70–71, 98–99, 104, 124–26, 134, 136, 141, 145, 147, 164, 171n32, 182–84, 188, 190–92, 194, 197–98, 200n120, 203–4, 211–13, 222, 224, 226, 249–50, 256–57, 259, 268–69, 283, 304–6, 313–14, 321, 326–27, 329, 333–41 inclusion of 70–71, 104, 124, 203–4, 213, 224, 304, 326, 337 gestalt theory 23–26, 42, 129, 132, 136, 337 gezerah shavah 57n23, 134 Gog and Magog 83, 85–86, 99, 141, 147, 164, 187, 212, 224, 226 See also last battles gospel (good news) 72, 78, 89, 104–5, 132, 150, 167, 186, 209–10, 224, 254, 268–69, 325–26, 328, 334–35, 337–38, 340 grapes 75–77, 122–24, 134, 187, 207, 210, 258 Grice, H. P. 17n14, 36–38, 46n129, 59n32, 318 Hades 103n164, 128, 136n275, 165, 189, 238, 255, 260, 310 harm 14, 28, 121, 137, 148, 171, 175, 198–200, 202–3, 210, 223, 233–34, 249–50, 255, 260, 269, 315–17 harvests, see two reapings Hebrew 62, 65, 69n60, 181n57, 188, 199, 338 hell 98n150, 170n31, 341 Hellenism 140, 183, 238n41, 257, 340–41 hyperbole 36, 101, 275–76, 298, 306, 333 implicatures 29, 34–35, 38–39, 41, 66, 102–3, 130–31, 161n1, 172–73, 178, 180, 195, 200, 205, 211–12, 222, 227, 272, 284, 287, 293–94, 301, 303, 305, 308–19, 327–28, 333, 341

Index strong implicatures 68, 70–71, 105, 114, 169, 193, 204, 223, 235, 287, 309–12, 314, 317–18, 327 implicated conclusions 39, 177, 303, 319, 323, 333 implicated premises 39, 319, 333 scalar implicatures 235 weak implicatures 30n60, 70, 77, 193, 264, 287, 309–11, 314, 317, 327, 317–18, 327, 332 incongruencies 108–9, 111, 157, 160, 194–95, 198–204, 206, 208–9, 211, 213–15, 235 See also aporias indirectness 235, 243–47, 270, 279, 332 inferences 27–28, 34–38, 42, 46, 49–50, 65, 68, 70, 106, 116, 119–20, 127, 161n1, 165, 195n105, 214, 235, 244, 264, 280, 292–93, 309–10, 318–19, 322–24, 329–30 backwards inferences 318–24, 327, 330, 332–33, 337, 339 input spaces 25n44, 63–64, 67–69, 80, 86n112, 89n121, 109, 115–17, 153, 155, 161–62, 164, 166, 172, 179, 193–94, 197, 199, 215, 285, 303, 316–19, 331 intent attribution 7, 20, 39, 41n107, 44, 64, 70–71, 82, 87, 90, 109, 113, 118, 120, 128, 145, 151, 160, 188–90, 193, 202, 204, 212n147, 214, 215–16, 222, 229, 231–32, 235–37, 253, 271, 282–83, 288n62, 293–94, 300–301, 305–9, 312, 314, 320, 323, 328 authorial intent 47–51 communicative intent 195, 214, 229–30, 240, 243, 246, 280, 292 informative intent 195, 229, 293 interludes 55–57, 104–5, 146–47, 149, 179, 185, 206, 209–10, 218–19, 232, 234, 239, 241–43, 245–47, 256, 261, 268, 294–95, 298, 305, 311, 321, 332 iron 57, 67, 133–39, 141, 152–53, 160, 164–66, 169, 173–74, 191, 231, 234, 251–52, 260, 263, 266–67, 270, 279–81, 287, 326 Israel 14, 51, 57, 64–65, 75n78, 98, 124–25, 132, 134, 142, 145–47, 179, 181–84, 186, 188, 190, 193, 199–200, 202–5, 207–8, 211n144, 218–19, 224–27, 239, 249, 251–52, 255–58, 268–69, 274, 303–5, 313–14, 316n149, 318, 320–21, 323–27, 333–37, 339–41

363 Jerusalem (ancient) 73–74, 85, 98, 144, 146–47, 153, 184, 192, 205–6, 221, 240, 256, 269, 326, 334 See also New Jerusalem Jewish people and background 55, 59n30, 98, 104n166, 126n237, 145n301, 178n53, 197–98, 204, 207, 210, 237, 257, 259, 269, 304, 333–35, 339–41  Jezebel 91, 95, 158, 173, 175, 182, 186n76, 252 judgment, see frames: judgment kings of the earth 71, 96, 112, 117, 146, 173, 181, 213, 249, 256, 290, 328, 335 knowledge (encyclopedic) 41, 292 knowledge structures 24, 26, 30–32, 63, 81, 194, 215 lake of fire 93, 96, 105, 121, 127, 137n276, 139–41, 151–52, 159, 168, 170–71, 213, 218, 232–33, 238, 250, 253–55, 276, 287, 313, 341 lamb 10–11, 14, 21–22, 51, 53, 93, 96, 98n150, 105, 107, 113–14, 116, 123, 125, 129–33, 135, 138–40, 143, 156, 163–64, 181, 183n65, 187n80, 197–200, 205, 211, 213, 219, 223, 225–27, 232, 234–37, 239–40, 242, 247, 252, 259, 265–66, 269, 288, 290–91, 296, 307n129, 313, 315–17, 320n164, 325–26, 328–29, 337 Laodicea 219, 231, 336 last battles 56n21, 78, 81, 86, 92, 99, 104n168, 107–8, 113, 118, 126, 132, 137, 141, 147, 163–64, 166, 168, 174, 183–88, 190–92, 207, 211, 218, 234, 236, 242–43, 246, 249, 251–52, 256–57, 259–61, 265, 267–68, 290, 293, 297, 303, 313–14, 324–27 See also Gog and Magog levels of language 28–29, 42, 108, 114, 214n154, 243–45, 270, 293–96, 306, 308, 324 lexemes 40, 82, 277, 280, 295, 299 lexical concepts, see concepts (lexical) lion 21n26, 38, 83, 94n135, 107, 113–14, 116, 136, 197–200, 205, 234, 242, 274 locusts 3, 77n82, 85–86, 100, 135–36, 191, 202, 224–25, 233, 259, 266, 284–85, 298, 303–4, 312n143, 326

364 loosening (lexical) 40–41, 272–80, 285, 287–91, 293, 298, 306, 311, 321–22, 327, 332 qualitative 273–76, 278–79 quantitative 275–76, 278 love 22–23, 30–31, 36–37, 78, 88, 98, 109–10, 119–20, 143–44, 166, 172, 221, 223, 244, 265, 273, 290–91, 297, 302–3, 308, 318, 321, 323–24, 329, 336, 341 mapping 23–25, 27–31, 34–35, 61, 68, 71–72, 82, 92n131, 94, 100–103, 106, 109–10, 112–15, 117–20, 122, 132–33, 136, 140, 147, 149–50, 152–53, 161–64, 172, 178–79, 182–83, 186, 189, 193, 203, 217–23, 227–28, 230–31, 233, 235–40, 242–43, 245–55, 258–60, 263–64, 267, 271–73, 279–80, 305–6, 316–18, 329–30, 332 cross-domain 23, 25n44, 27, 29, 30–32, 41, 62, 67, 72, 136n275, 228, 233, 235n27, 237, 240, 243, 245, 273, 279  intra-domain 24–25, 71, 120, 223, 273, 279 mark (of the beast) 75, 98n150, 125, 135, 137n276, 139, 152, 154, 157, 159, 174, 177, 208–9, 238, 262, 274, 327 martyrdom 78, 97n142, 107, 113, 135n272, 137n276, 165, 183, 201, 259, 329 material anchors 65, 184, 260 mental architecture, see architecture (mental) mental spaces, see spaces (mental) mercy 11, 144, 177–78, 216, 301, 325, 331 messiah 83, 86n111, 92n131, 107n179, 129, 132–35, 137, 190, 197, 210–11, 223, 250n74, 257, 266–67, 269, 274n9, 280–81, 287, 316n148, 326, 337, 339 metaphor (conceptual) 1–2, 11, 14–43, 45, 47–49, 51, 52–53, 55–62, 64–81, 86–90, 93–95, 97, 99–100, 103–6, 109–11, 113–14, 116–21, 124, 133–35, 137, 140, 144, 147, 150 152–3, 160, 161–73, 175–79, 181–86, 188–91, 193–98, 200–205, 207–8, 212–24, 227, 228–50, 253–55, 257, 260, 262–5, 267–68, 270–71, 272–85, 287–91, 293–302, 305–24, 327, 328–33, 336–37, 339, 341 comparison theory 18–19, 23–24, 42, 45n124

Index contemporary theory 23, 47n134, 52n1, 270n118 See also conceptual metaphor theory  death of 30–32 extended (megametaphor) 28–29, 34, 40, 51–52, 241, 244n54, 246–48, 268, 283–84, 294, 297–301, 305, 310, 327, 339n2 flags (m-flags) 32, 62n40, 228–31, 233, 235, 237, 239–40, 243, 270, 332 metaphors (conceptual)  agreement is death 78 a is b 60, 137, 193, 229–43, 270, 332 argument is war 21–22, 24, 27, 32, 34, 41n107, 51, 52, 55, 58, 78–80, 88, 104n166, 106, 109, 117, 119, 122, 129, 131, 133, 140, 144, 155, 160, 161, 166–67, 175, 180–81, 184, 188–90, 195–96, 204–6, 209, 212–13, 215–16, 223, 225–26, 228, 230, 240, 242, 248, 255, 257–59, 263, 265, 267–68, 270–71, 272, 293, 302, 305, 312, 316, 318, 320, 327, 328–30, 332, 337 conversion is consumption 212, 249, 263 conversion is death 121, 144, 152, 236 deeds are clothing 77, 179–83 happy is up 22 honor is a crown 77 knowing is seeing 219, 239 life is a journey 40–41 love is a journey 22, 31, 109, 120, 244, 273 love is war 119, 172 moral purity is cleanliness 77 people are cities 72–73, 78 people are mountains 69, 73 people are plants 75, 78 people groups are women 74, 78 restoration is death 131, 188, 205, 299, 322, 332 space is time 30 surrender is death 174–76 theories are buildings 110 witness is killing 78 metarepresentation 35–37, 39–42, 50, 64, 168, 229, 263, 291–301, 303, 305–8, 311, 327, 329, 332

Index metonymies (conceptual)  exclusion for judgment 103, 210, 314, 327, 329 war for judgment 34, 51, 120, 161, 189, 195, 215, 222, 227, 318, 327, 330, 332 metonymy (conceptual) 14–15, 19–22, 24–30, 32–34, 36, 39, 42, 50–51, 71, 101–3, 110, 120, 124, 141, 150, 161–62, 165, 170–72, 175, 178, 182, 184, 189, 191, 193, 195, 203, 212–15, 220–23, 227, 236–37, 246–47, 235, 267, 273, 275–79, 281–91, 306, 308, 311–13, 317, 322–23, 327, 329–31, 333 millennium 126, 135, 137n276, 142–43, 165–69, 185–86, 251, 259–61, 266, 281, 312 See also 1,000 times mind-reading 68n57, 293 See also theory-of-mind mirroring 50n154, 68n57, 77, 110 mouths 54, 83, 92–95, 100, 107, 110–11, 114–17, 121, 134, 137, 141, 151, 160, 162–65, 172, 187, 191, 194–95, 204, 214, 234, 237–38, 242–43, 246, 252, 272, 274, 278–80, 282, 288–89, 301, 303, 315, 331 mutual cognitive environment 33–34, 36, 291, 307 See also context Nero 126–27, 177, 253, 281, 337 networks (conceptual) 52n2, 60–61, 63–64, 66–69, 71–76, 80–81, 103, 106, 117, 119, 129, 133, 160, 161, 173, 179–80, 193–98, 212, 214, 216–17, 223–24, 331 completion of 66–67, 71–72, 80, 161, 215–17, 223–24, 226–27, 247–48, 264, 331–32 composition of 52, 60, 70, 72, 80, 93, 160, 161, 195, 331 elaboration of 28, 66–68, 70, 72, 80, 94, 119, 161, 172, 195–96, 217, 331 New Jerusalem 54, 56n21, 71–73, 75n75, 90, 98–99, 101, 110–13, 117–18, 135, 141, 143, 147, 151–52, 157–58, 171, 173, 179, 184, 187, 194, 199, 208–9, 213, 218, 220, 222–23, 227, 242–43, 246–47, 249–50, 254, 260–61, 268–70, 289–91, 305–6, 316, 320–22, 325–27, 329, 332, 336, 341

365 optimality principles 67, 147 integration principle 33, 67, 77, 80, 117, 129, 133, 147, 172–73, 193, 223, 227, 285 topology principle 67–68, 70, 77, 86n112, 88–89, 92, 94, 109, 172–73, 175, 197, 285, 312 unpacking principle 68, 72, 161, 193–95, 198, 212, 332 See also projection: reverse ostension 7, 36–38, 49–50, 216, 292–93, 309 overcoming 90, 93, 107, 113, 135–36, 147, 154–56, 159, 165, 192–93, 222–23, 251, 315, 317, 336 parousia 92n131, 130, 132, 184, 222n182, 261 Passover 113, 225, 301 Paul 2, 72n70, 83, 176, 236n34, 244, 262, 337–40 peace 156–57, 175–79, 224, 227, 318, 331 Pentecost 138, 252, 256, 269, 304, 326–27 Pharisees 304, 338–39 Philadelphia 336 plagues 11, 85–86, 90, 94, 96, 99, 108, 111–12, 189, 190, 206, 210, 225–26, 253, 281n33, 298, 306, 324n174 post-comprehension procedures 9, 241n45, 263–64, 270–71, 294n90, 332  pragmatics 3–9, 16–17, 21, 27–28, 30, 32, 34–40, 42–44, 48–51, 59–63, 65, 68, 70, 72, 80, 82, 89, 110, 115, 120–21, 131, 138, 147, 172, 194–96, 200–201, 204, 214–15, 229, 235, 241, 244, 263, 272–74, 276–80, 283–84, 286, 286, 289, 291, 293, 301, 305–6, 308–9, 311, 314, 318, 321, 327, 334 prayer 54, 91, 93–94, 97, 104n168, 107, 111, 114, 148, 233, 242 priests 17, 125–26, 140–41, 167, 186, 218, 220, 289, 297, 305, 321, 337 priming (lexical) 71, 74, 85, 93, 110–11, 201, 244 prisons 167, 223, 259, 266 projection 63, 67, 68–69, 86n112, 88–89, 112, 117, 140, 143n295, 144, 147, 161, 318, 323n168 reverse 33, 68–70, 125n233, 160, 161, 193, 195–201, 203, 209–11, 213–15, 332 selective 33, 67, 160, 161, 172–73, 175–76, 178–79, 219, 235–36, 331

366 prolepsis 56n18–19, 76, 103–4, 158, 170, 174n42, 185n70, 198, 206, 212, 256, 258, 328 prophecy 65, 85–86, 91–96, 99–100, 111–12, 125–27, 132, 134, 137, 141, 143–44, 146, 150, 152, 172–75, 187–89, 191, 213, 222n182, 224–27, 232, 234, 249, 252, 259, 272, 281, 287, 289, 298, 313, 316, 339–40 prostitute, see adulteress purity 71, 77, 98, 101, 179 182–84, 220n177, 261, 304n116, 316–17, 327 See also cleanness (and uncleanness) recruitment 24, 32–33, 62, 80–82, 86, 89, 106, 110, 116, 194–95, 197, 200, 217, 230 recursion 33, 69–71, 77, 79, 113, 119, 160, 161, 167, 179, 181, 184, 186, 188, 190, 192–93, 207, 211, 267, 331 redemption (purchase) 57n23, 75n78–79, 78, 82, 102n163, 113–15, 120, 123, 128–29, 132, 153, 170, 197–203, 205, 207–8, 219, 223 to 25–27, 232n22, 234, 236, 249–50, 258, 290–91, 301, 307, 316–17, 321, 325, 329, 332, 337 relevance 3–4, 6, 8–9, 14, 22, 27–28, 30n60, 34–43, 46, 49–50, 57, 59, 61–63, 68, 72, 82, 86, 106, 115–16, 130n252, 133, 147, 153, 158, 165, 175, 193–95, 197, 204, 214–17, 227, 228–30, 248, 263–64, 271, 273, 280, 285–87, 291–94, 297, 306, 309–12, 320–24, 327, 329–30, 340 relevance-theoretic comprehension procedure (RTCP) 38–39, 59, 195 relevance theory (RT) 16–18, 21n24, 33n75, 35n85, 37n93, 39, 42–43, 52, 59, 64, 80n85, 86, 106, 116, 134n268, 149, 161n1, 165, 195n105–106, 197, 200, 229–30, 235–36, 271, 276, 278, 291n73, 293, 309, 312, 318, 321, 327, 330, 332 restoration 14, 29, 51, 57n23, 75, 103, 105, 115, 117, 119, 123–24, 129, 131–32, 134–35, 137, 140, 143–44, 160, 166–58, 176, 178–79, 181–84, 186–90, 192–93, 196, 198–200, 202–11, 218–19, 222–24, 226–27, 249–50, 255–57, 260–61, 267–70, 299, 302–5, 313–16, 318, 321–22, 325–27, 329, 332–33, 336, 341

Index resurrection 103n165, 118, 130, 137, 143–44, 146, 162, 165–72, 185–86, 205–6, 243, 247, 255–6, 262, 269, 312–13, 316, 326, 331, 338 revelation (phenomena) 1, 53–54, 58–60, 65, 80, 85, 87, 90, 99, 111, 128, 170, 178, 219, 234, 239–41, 245–46, 265, 269, 287, 297n99, 305, 336–38 rhetoric 8–9, 42–43, 84, 87, 91, 96, 99, 151, 155, 196, 214n153, 289, 301–2, 306, 322, 331, 339–41 riders 55, 82, 128, 132, 176, 213, 259, 260, 266–68 righteousness 10, 55, 73, 75, 77, 97, 102–3, 105–8, 113n199, 120–21, 124, 144, 162–65, 168, 170–73, 175–76, 179, 185n70, 190–92, 199–201, 203, 206, 209–11, 216, 218, 220, 232, 249, 251, 254, 268, 281, 283, 290, 295–96, 315–17, 328–29, 335 rivers 3, 84, 90, 99, 131, 146, 234, 239, 258, 269, 288 rod 55, 133–37, 164, 169, 173, 191, 234, 242, 281, 326 Rome 1, 125–26, 147 175–76, 192, 208–10, 221, 226–27, 237, 242, 257, 262, 269, 273–74, 305, 316n148, 327, 335, 337, 340 imperialism of 9, 126, 174, 176–78, 207n134, 220n177, 242, 315n147 sacrifices 107, 113, 136, 140, 197–98, 201, 205, 211n142, 223, 234, 280, 302, 317 Sadducees 305, 338 saints 54–55, 91, 94–95, 107n179, 111, 130, 135, 144, 165–66, 183–84, 191n91, 208, 212, 222, 232–33, 252, 259, 302, 304n116, 307n129 salience 277–79, 282, 286, 311 salvation 14, 29, 56n21, 101–2, 104, 108n182, 113–14, 117–18, 129n249, 163, 168–69, 172, 182–84, 188, 190, 199, 201, 205–6, 210, 222–23, 225, 246, 254n81, 262, 265, 267, 290–91, 295, 302, 307, 321, 325, 328, 339, 341 Sardis 173, 231, 336 Satan 81, 83, 93, 95, 104n166, 126–27, 129n249, 131n257, 151–52, 154, 156–58, 163, 166–67, 179, 186–87, 190, 217, 259, 266, 280, 334, 337

Index satisfaction (pragmatic) 4, 6, 38, 60, 130n252, 172, 195n105, 210, 235n30 scopes (network) 86, 88, 223–24, 226 scrolls 53–54, 56n21, 61, 86, 93–94, 114, 131, 138, 175, 232–33, 242, 246, 266, 325 sea 3, 84, 103n164, 125–26, 137, 145–47, 165, 233–34, 242, 254, 258–59, 269, 284, 335 seals (sealing) 3, 5, 10, 55–56, 61, 78, 81, 83–86, 91–93, 96–99, 101–3, 105, 107–9, 113–15, 118, 121, 123–24, 130, 132, 136–39, 143–44, 146–47, 149–50, 154, 157–59, 162, 164, 166, 168–70, 173–76, 178–79, 184–85, 187–88, 191–92, 197–203, 205, 207–8, 211, 214, 218–20, 223, 225–27, 233–34, 238–39, 241–43, 246–47, 249–50, 255 –, 265–69, 281, 284, 289–90, 293, 295–96, 302, 304, 306, 310–11, 313–17, 323–28, 338 semantics 26n45, 32, 49, 82, 88n118, 196, 208n135, 243, 249, 272–73, 275, 277–79, 282, 287–89, 291, 311 semiotics 43n113, 46–47, 49 seven congregations 54, 92–93, 96–98, 104n166, 106–7, 145, 147, 154–55, 158–60, 173, 175, 192, 222, 231, 236, 240–41, 250, 268, 315, 334, 336–40 sickles 134, 136, 169, 251, 260, 280 signals (metalinguistic) 29n57, 228–29, 232, 239–40 similarity 19, 27–28, 235–36, 243, 279 simile 233n24, 235, 245 simulation 81, 230, 238, 291, 293, 300–303, 305, 308, 322 slaying 77, 105, 107, 113, 123n227, 130, 132, 135–37, 176, 197–202, 225–26, 234–37, 242, 247, 253, 265, 280, 283, 286–87, 296n96, 303–4, 313 smoke 93, 98n150, 111, 139, 141, 161–62, 170, 181, 238, 255, 260, 302–3 Smyrna 59, 138 Son of Man 54, 59, 93, 99, 131–32, 134, 137, 234, 251, 266–67, 296, 340 spaces (mental) 15n1, 31–34, 40, 42, 61–62, 64–67, 80–82, 85–89, 96, 100–103, 106, 115–17, 119, 150, 152, 155–57, 160, 167n20, 173, 180, 194–95, 200–201, 203, 215, 222–23, 227, 305–6, 331 suffering 78, 84, 101, 103–5, 124, 126, 133n262, 140, 142, 144–45, 160, 168, 174n40, 176,

367 182, 186, 188, 198, 201, 203n125, 206, 212, 222, 227, 236, 249, 251, 253–55, 281–83, 285, 290, 302, 306–8, 312, 316, 327, 329, 341 sulfur 93, 98n150, 103n164, 111, 139, 141, 260 sword 54, 82–83, 92, 100, 109–11, 114, 116, 123, 128, 133–38, 154, 162–65, 169, 176, 189, 191, 194, 201, 237–38, 242–43, 246, 248, 251–53, 260–61, 266–67, 278–90, 295, 305, 310, 318, 321 synagogues 104n166, 186n76, 336, 338–39 syncretism 97–98, 140, 176, 340 synecdoche 19–21, 71n68, 255n86 systematicity 63, 247–48, 260, 263, 270–71, 330–32 tabernacle 166n16, 325 temple 55n15, 75, 98, 105, 135, 143, 146n303, 157, 187, 206, 210–11, 220n177, 232, 247, 261, 313, 317, 325, 335–37 theory-of-mind 50, 68n57, 306–7, 323, 333 See also mind-reading Thyatira 136, 164, 173, 175 Torah 97, 140, 252, 287–88 torture 3, 10, 83–84, 102, 104n166, 108, 115, 121, 123–24, 136, 139, 175, 183, 196, 203–4, 206, 216, 222, 250, 255, 259–60, 267, 270, 283, 296, 298, 305, 318, 321, 335, 341 tribes 113, 143, 146, 197–98, 209, 211n144, 219, 236, 329 tribulation 78, 82, 85–86, 113, 142, 198, 211, 232, 241, 247, 249–50, 289 tropes 19–21, 28, 34n80, 36, 45n124, 71n68, 182, 278, 295n94, 331, 333 trumpets 3, 5, 55–56, 78, 84–86, 91–94, 96–99, 101–5, 108–9, 111, 114–15, 118, 123–24, 132, 135–36, 139, 141, 143, 146–47, 149–50, 158, 162, 166, 168–70, 173–75, 178, 184–85, 187–88, 191–92, 202–4, 207, 209, 211, 214, 220, 225–26, 233–34, 238–43, 246–47, 249–50, 253, 255–58, 260–61, 265–68, 281, 283, 285n50, 287–88, 290, 293, 296, 298, 302, 304, 306, 310–11, 313, 317, 323–24, 326, 328, 334–35, 337–38 two reapings 56, 75–77, 122–24, 131–32, 134, 178, 182, 186–88, 194, 207, 209–10, 220,

368 242, 258, 261, 265–67, 284, 290, 293, 296, 298–99, 314, 326  two ways 69, 75, 77–80, 160, 207 two witnesses 56n21, 89–92, 94–95, 98, 107–8, 111–12, 114–17, 121, 141, 143–46, 148, 150, 157, 160, 162–63, 166, 168–69, 171n32, 173–74, 176, 191, 194–95, 203–6, 213, 221–22, 232, 236, 241–43, 246–47, 249–50, 252, 255–6, 258, 261, 274, 280, 284, 287–90, 298, 304, 307, 311–13, 315, 317n151, 335 utterances 4, 9, 20, 34–35, 37, 41n107, 49, 52, 59n31, 130n252, 180n55, 228, 264, 297n99, 309–11, 317, 319 violence 2–3, 5, 10–14, 21n26, 29, 34n80, 50–51, 58, 76n78, 81, 83–84, 86, 89, 101–4, 106, 109, 111–14, 116, 120, 132–33, 148, 155, 157, 160, 162, 167, 173, 190, 192, 196–98, 203–5, 208–9, 212, 214, 222, 224, 227, 236n34, 246–47, 252n79, 254, 258, 265, 267–58, 276, 283–84, 290–91, 296–97, 299, 306–8, 312, 317–18, 322–23, 325, 327, 328, 330–32, 337, 341 vital relations 33, 62–64, 66, 69, 71, 80, 82, 106, 109–10, 112, 115–16, 118–20, 150, 160 analogy 33, 64, 66–67, 71, 99, 106–16, 118–19, 124–28, 130–38, 141, 150–52, 154–55, 160, 164, 181, 184n66, 186, 197–98, 237, 248, 255, 331 category 119, 124–25, 127, 152, 160 cause-effect 28, 64, 68, 103, 112, 115, 118–22, 124, 152, 160, 191, 194, 238, 331 disanalogy 64, 66, 69, 106–8, 119, 125, 150–53, 179, 181, 331 identity 28, 69, 71, 119, 126–31, 150–52, 160, 181, 184–85, 324 intentionality 119, 147–50, 152, 160, 331 part-whole 19, 71, 112, 248 property 68, 120, 141, 143–45, 152 space 25–26, 30, 119, 145–46, 152 time 25–26, 30, 119, 126–27, 141–45, 152, 160 uniqueness 64, 66–68, 71, 113–15, 117, 119, 127–31, 137, 150, 152, 160, 185, 197 war, see frames: hostile_encounter; frames: war

Index water 90, 111, 145–46, 149, 163, 166, 174, 206, 225, 234, 239, 242, 254, 258, 263, 274–75, 280, 289, 298, 301 weapons 82–83, 110, 133–36, 160, 162–63, 166, 174–75, 191, 208, 251, 268, 279, 281, 283–85, 287, 289, 310, 326 wheat 75–77, 122, 124, 182, 187, 199–200, 205, 207, 219, 249–50, 258, 299, 314 white horse 55, 77n82, 128–29, 131, 148, 260, 265–68 See also four horsemen white robes 54, 97, 107, 113, 144, 179, 181–83, 198, 211, 226, 232, 241, 249, 261, 313, 316, 320n164, 336 See also clothing wine 55, 122–23, 149, 180, 199–200, 203, 238, 302 winepress 75, 122, 134, 238, 258, 266–67, 298, 314 witness, see frames: witness woe 3, 92, 96, 101, 259, 302, 306, 326 wormwood 131–32, 266–67, 284, 310 wrath 3, 11, 51, 55–56, 76, 91, 96, 114, 122, 147–49, 153, 162, 185, 209, 238, 256, 266, 290, 302n114, 307, 333 Zion 65–66, 146n303, 147, 255n86, 334 Zugot 304, 338 ἀδικέω 199–200, 202, 249, 316 ἄνθρωπος 103, 123–24, 146, 173, 175, 200n120, 203–5, 257, 267–69, 283, 334–35 δεῖπνον 113, 163, 211–12, 303 διά (+ acc.) 135, 165, 201, 259 ἔθνη 164, 184, 197, 212, 259, 334 θυμός 147–50 (κατ)εσθίω 123, 184, 212, 249 μάχαιρα 82, 251, 280–82 νικάω 82, 107, 113, 144, 155, 198 ὀργή 147–50

369

Index πέλεκυς (πελεκίζω) 118, 135–37, 165, 169, 200n120, 251, 260, 280 πόλεμος (πολεμέω) 82, 88, 208, 266 προφητεία (προφητεύω, etc.) 91–93, 100 πῦρ 82, 137–38, 249, 266, 276, 288 ῥάβδος 133–34, 280 ῥομφαία 82, 238, 251, 279, 280

σημαίνω 52–53, 56–60, 72, 75, 90, 92, 100, 231, 240 χοῖνιξ 199–200, 249